NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE Read online

  Unfortunately, Margery Lawrence and her Hutchinson editor were not at all consistent with prologues, epilogues, and inverted commas for each story. The first story, ‘Vlasto’s Doll’, is narrated by Hellier within inverted commas, between the introductory prologue and final epilogue; whereas the second story, ‘Robin’s Rath’, begins with a prologue, but the story itself has no inverted commas, and no epilogue. In all, nine stories begin with a prologue, but only five end with an epilogue and brief discussion. Six are narrated within, and the remaining six without, inverted commas. It was tempting for me to uniform this situation throughout, and even create new dialogue for added prologues and epilogues myself, but I have finally resisted the impulse to alter (or augment) the text in any way, apart from the correction of obvious misprints in the first edition. The slightly erratic presentation of inverted commas (or their disappearance) should not spoil readers’ enjoyment of these twelve excellent tales.

  Nights of the Round Table was published in June 1926 by Hutchinson, in their usual 7/6 crown octavo novel format. It is highly unlikely that any collector will ever see the first edition in its original bright blue cloth outside the Bodleian and British Library. Twenty-five years ago I acquired a rebound ex-library copy from a Dublin bookseller, but have never been able to upgrade it. This was the only title conspicuous by its absence in lot 479, which contained all four of Lawrence’s later key collections (from 1932 to 1959), at the memorable Sotheby’s auction on 17 December 1996.

  Nights of the Round Table, together with Margery Lawrence’s other pre-war collections, were all reprinted in small, cheap paperback format (in much reduced typeface on poor quality paper) in 1947. Due to their very fragile and ephemeral nature, these reprints are almost as rare and unobtainable as the first editions, and I am extremely grateful to both David Rowlands and David Tibet for finding me copies.

  Nights of the Round Table (like its two successors, The Terraces of Night and The Floating Café) was never published in America; and none of the stories ever found their way into Weird Tales, unlike a select few by E. F. Benson and H. R. Wakefield. When Margery Lawrence became both a regular subscriber to Arkham House publications and a good friend of August Derleth, she was invited to contribute a story for his Rinehart anthology, The Night Side (1947). I’m convinced that Derleth never actually saw Nights of the Round Table, otherwise he would have most probably reprinted the Lovecraftian ‘Morag-of-the-Cave’, rather than the lighter ‘Mr Minchin’s Midsummer’ (a.k.a. ‘How Pan Came to Little Ingleton’). This was almost certainly personally selected and despatched by Margery Lawrence to Derleth on its own. Like each of the other stories in this excellent anthology, ‘Mr Minchin’s Midsummer’ was accompanied by a stunning Lee Brown Coye illustration.

  In the subsequent half-century, Nights of the Round Table has been completely ignored and unused by all British anthologists except for my own reprinting of three of her best stories: ‘The Haunted Saucepan’ (The Virago Book of Ghost Stories, 1987), ‘Robin’s Rath’ (The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories, 1990), and ‘The Curse of the Stillborn’ (The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories: 2, 1991).

  I’m delighted to see the remaining eight long-forgotten and unreprinted jewels from this mega-rare collection back in print for the first time in fifty years, and hope other readers will share my appreciation of these vintage supernatural stories.

  Nights of the Round Table is the first of a series comprising the occult and ghost stories of Margery Lawrence. With these new editions, I’m sure Margery Lawrence’s reputation will continue to grow, and even outshine her fellow writers Charles Garvice and Ethel M. Dell, whose fame and magnitude so overawed her way back in 1923!

  Richard Dalby

  Scarborough

  August 1998

  Foreword

  This is a brief note to tell how these stories came to be. Saunderson—all blessings be upon his genial head—is a real person; his monthly dinners as real as they are good; these stories taken down as they were told, in the dancing firelight that mocked the chill gloom of autumn and winter, or under the cool searchlight of the summer moon, blinking through the red curtains of the cosy little flat, high-perched above London roofs; warm with the amber glow of the lamps, and fragrant with the scent of good tobacco.

  With his wealth and leisure, Saunderson combines in a supreme degree the qualities that make the perfect host. Genuine love of his fellow-men, pleasure in giving pleasure, joy in good cheer and good company—these companioned an insatiable love of listening to the strange and rare and wonderful; the one unspoken rule, the Open Sesame to dine at fat Frank Saunderson’s, was to come armed with a story worth hearing, and ready to tell it. The rarer and more curious the better, the more eager the company to hear—and indeed the fame had spread wide of the strange tales that were told after dinner round the great, shining mahogany table, so that an invitation to one of these monthly dinners was a thing greatly sought after and fished for . . . therefore when one by chance came my way I was not a little proud, and peacocked about it shamelessly to my less fortunate fellow-scribblers. For some reason Saunderson took a fancy to me, that first time, and bade me come again and yet again—thereafter for many amazing evenings I sat in my corner by the wide hearth listening, while men of every type and profession and calling told each the most stirring tale he knew, the most curious adventure; and treasuring them in my eager memory, I set them down, some just as they were told, some rewritten, or reshaped a little, and at the year’s end, shyly and diffidently enough, begged permission at the December meeting of the ‘Round Table’ to publish them. They were charming to me, my Knights Of the Round Table! Swore there was nothing there worth publishing, but consented, wishing me luck and patting me on the back—so herewith my thanks to Those Charming Men who herein are disguised under the names of Frith, Hellier, Creighton, Lutyens, Ponting, Dennison, Otway, Pring, Vesey, Connor, and Saunderson! My Knights who, now scattered up and down the world, will recognise under the signature of the ‘Margery H. Lawrence’ of today, ‘Laurie’, the youngest member of the ‘Round Table’.

  January

  The Occultist’s Story

  Vlasto’s Doll

  It was a bitter night in early January. Outside, the hurrying people and the searing blast made the warmth and friendliness of Saunderson’s more than ever pleasant as we sat over our smokes and liqueurs and congratulated ourselves on being indoors. It was Hellier’s turn to entertain us tonight, and he sat, the firelight gleaming in his deep-set, spiritual eyes, intent on the red heart of the glow: Saunderson, with his fat chuckle, jogged his elbow remindingly as he refilled his coffee-cup. Hellier, true to his precepts that forbade alcohol to a student of the occult, drank no wine or spirits. Coming out of his reverie with a jerk, Hellier smiled round at him.

  ‘All right, Saunderson. . . . I’m merely arranging my memories. It happened in Bavaria some time ago—and it’s true. A very strange thing. A very terrible thing. I shall call my story “Vlasto’s Doll”. Turn the lights low, and don’t interrupt me, you fellows. I’m going to try and show you a little of a real horror that has haunted me ever since I saw it.

  ‘His name was Karl Vlasto, and he was a conjurer. At least, this was his description on the billheads as he travelled the country with his “turn”—and a marvellous turn it was, too. I shouldn’t myself have called him a conjurer, exactly: I don’t know what description really fitted him. No, he was something a great deal cleverer and more sinister than a mere conjurer!

  ‘I was staying at a little wayside town, Rugenhöf, near Satz, with another fellow. We were on a walking tour, and having done ourselves rather well in the shape of dinner, we wandered out to find anything amusing in the shape of adventure. You must bear in mind that this happened when I was quite a youngster of not more than twenty-four or -five. I was dreamy and a student, but had not then definitely taken up the study of the occult as I have done since. Indeed, I think it was largely this extraordinary experience that turned my interest towards things of
the Unseen. . . .

  ‘Well, we found the little town boasted but one theatre, a gaudy little music-hall with a variety show of sorts on. We paid our marks and sauntered in, and buying a programme, studied the joys to come. The usual string of fat soubrettes and throaty comedians, a balancing act, the usual turn with performing animals, and in large letters “Karl Vlasto and his Doll”.

  ‘The place was packed, and the quality of the turns, when the show did start at last, so amazingly bad that we were in two minds to go out; but we were so securely wedged into our places by a solid phalanx of fat German fraus and their husbands that we remained where we were, hoping that the poor quality of the first half of the programme argued that the management had spent its little all in the way of salary-paying upon “Vlasto”, whoever he was, and that he would at least provide a passably amusing ten minutes.

  ‘There was a very long delay before Vlasto deigned to appear. The turn before his, an immense lady in black velvet, looking like an amiable seal as she heaved on to the stage to sing a sentimental ballad, had heaved into the wings at least eight minutes before the curtain went up again, and when it did, I was at first disappointed. A great clumsy doll occupied the centre of the stage; rather more than lifesize, she was sitting stiffly in a straight chair, dressed in a dreadful tawdry dress of red velvet with gold fringes and embroideries. She had gilt boots on her wooden legs, which were painted red above to represent red stockings. The dress had ruffles of none-too-clean lace at the low neck and short sleeves, and an immense medallion on a fat gold chain hung round her neck. Clumsy rings ornamented the wooden fingers, which I noticed were cleverly jointed. The staring square face with its immobile grin and wide-open blue glass eyes was crowned by a much-curled wig of painfully yellow hair. She sat staring over the audience, a gaunt, ugly lump of decorated wood; the only unusual thing about her was her great size, as compared with the smallness of the usual ventriloquist’s doll, and at first I thought impatiently, “Good God, let’s go; this is too dull for words! . . .” Then, do you know, I noticed something that arrested my attention! The doll was breathing! Softly, regularly, that great clumsy locket rose and fell with the gentle swell of some mechanical device within the square wooden body, and I sat back again, interested. As I did so, from the wings appeared Karl Vlasto, breathing rather hard and hurriedly, as if he had hastened to his place. He was small and rather hunched, about forty-five, clean-shaven, with a long and crooked nose, very dark, with wild hair and a pair of narrow light eyes, very steady and cold. He was dressed in a shabby old dress suit, and his hands were dirty, yet when he spoke I had to admit there was something—something oddly arresting—about the man. He spoke very ugly German—I should say he was Greek or Armenian by birth—but his voice was intensely vital, very deep, guttural rather, and throaty, with a curiously dominant, intense note in it. He began with a brief apology for his lateness, couched somehow rather oddly, I thought.

  ‘“My friends, you will forgive me that I am late. Fraulein Minna here, she was wilful and I could not manage her at all. You know how it is, with the ladies, . . .” His light magnetic eyes roved over the audience nudging each other and tittering, rather impressed but not quite sure whether they were intended to laugh or not. He went on in the same detached tone. “You know me—some of you—and you know I tell the truth when I introduce my Minna to you as the One and Only Living Doll in the World. To those others who see her here for the first time tonight, I say now the same thing . . . look at her well. Come up to me here, gentlemen. . . .” His quick eye had obviously seized upon us and our English clothes in the crowd of Germans. . . . “I say always to my new audiences, come up and see! There are many who say my Minna is no doll at all, but a live woman—but they lie. With my own hands did I make her, from every tiny joint in her wonderful body to the last hair on her head . . . yet she is alive! It is true—the Only Living Doll in the World. Hey, Minna!”

  ‘I admit, I jumped! The doll rose, stiffly, but quite of her own accord. Vlasto was standing at the left of the stage a good ten feet away from her, and certainly I could see no wires. She advanced, walking mechanically but steadily, and came to the side of the man. . . . She towered above him nearly a foot, and the blank painted face and staring eyes were somehow very unpleasant to see so close—we were right under the lee of the stage. Leaning idly back against the pillar of the proscenium, Vlasto addressed the doll.

  “‘Well, Minna—bow to the ladies and gentlemen, and say good evening to them!”

  ‘His lean hand was caressing his chin, but his lips were firmly shut, and closely as I looked, I could see no muscles working, as is usual in any ventriloquist’s cheek. The doll answered, as I stared, in a hard but definitely feminine voice.

  ‘“Good evening, my friends! I am glad to see you.”

  ‘The wooden mouth opened, the lips parted, the words came forth, yet I could see no perceptible crack in the face!

  ‘I sat forward, aroused to real interest. This was certainly clever. . . . As I sat up, Vlasto addressed me personally, in fluent but execrable English.

  ‘“Good efening, mister gentlemans. You come up on der stage and see der iss no lie in what I say—that my Minna she is chust a doll and no woman hidden unter paindt and moch cleferness. I will be pleasst if you kom. Dere are many English gentlemans who say I lie, bot I do not lie. Kom, see der Doll dat lives and iss yet a Doll only!”

  ‘I found myself and Barrington, my chum, eagerly scrambling up on to the dusty, draughty stage. The wings, I noticed, were crowded with other artistes in various stages of undress, cloaks huddled over their make-up, watching Vlasto with a breathless interest that certainly argued well for the position he held in the Bavarian theatrical world.

  ‘As we stood each side the figure—awkwardly, as does every Englishman under the fire of a thousand eyes—Vlasto took the Doll, and with a quick touch at her neck, lo, she “fell apart”, splitting open down the back, dress and all, like the inside of an immense and complicated watch. Barrington, who is a mechanical engineer by profession, was absorbed in interest; as for me, I understood nothing of the technicalities of what I saw, but I had to abandon my first impression, which was that the Doll was simply a cleverly made-up woman. She was, really, a Doll. . . .

  ‘Vlasto was watching Barrington’s face as he pattered his glib speeches to the audience, watching us as we poked and pried among the mechanism, then, just as Barrington bent to examine closer, he twisted the Doll cleverly to face the audience and bowed to us in dismissal.

  ‘“Chentlemans, you are fery good. You haf seen my Minna iss a Doll in truth, and no dressed-up womans to deceive. Now, my good friends, you have seen how she works, my wonderful Doll. Now she shall work really to amuse us all. Minna!” ‘With a click something shot into place, and the Doll, whole once more, rose to her feet and faced her master. The orchestra struck up, and, opening her mouth, she began to sing!

  ‘Now, I can assure you I was not in the least a nervy sort of lad, though I had, of course, the very delicate “sixth sense” that all occultists have more developed than most people . . . but that singing made me shiver! How, I really cannot tell you—but it was so—so beastly inhuman! It was a loud, harsh, metallic voice, such as you might well imagine would issue from a doll’s throat, if a doll could ever sing, yet there was something quite horribly feminine about it, something like a human streak hiding under the mechanical, if you know what I mean! It was a gay marching song, with a lot about “Deutschland” and “Der Kaiser”, and so on . . . and it was applauded to the echo, of course, but somehow I sat and shivered and simply loathed it, as that steely voice rang on through the silent theatre, and that flat, expressionless wooden face stared straight ahead into space over our heads. At the finish, under cover of the crashing applause, I turned to Barrington, and found his brow creased by a faint frown. I hesitated to speak, dreading his laughter, as a sensitive fellow will, and he spoke, to my astonished relief.

  ‘“Hellier—this is—queer. And rather beast
ly, somehow. Don’t know why—but don’t you feel it?”

  ‘I nodded eagerly. “Of course, it’s simply hateful. He’s damnably clever . . . but I feel like you, only more so. Have ever since he came on the stage . . . what is it, do you think?”

  ‘Barrington was frowningly intent upon the stage.

  ‘“I can’t say, but I noticed one very odd thing when we saw that doll’s inside. Hush, I’ll tell you afterwards. Something else is on.”

  ‘As the applause died down, Vlasto nodded casually to the audience, and, stepping forward, with a wave of his hand commanded the Doll to dance. If the song was extraordinary, the dance was more so. I promptly gave up any idea of wires as I watched the clumsy figure, galvanized into amazing agility, pick up its grotesque velvet skirts and perform a skirt-dance in perfect time and rhythm! It was the old-fashioned sort of dance, with much waving of frilly underskirts and high-kicking, and in itself a most amazing thing to watch, as the great clumsy thing clumped and cavorted about the stage, its staring eyes expressionless, the set smile rigid on its painted face; the gilt boots jigged and capered solemnly, the dusty velvet skirts flapped and flounced in the jointed hands—it was utterly ridiculous, horribly, uncannily clever, and quite indescribably nasty! I can’t begin to make you see how nasty, but my back crept more and more, and my hands felt clammy, as that grotesque thing went on prancing and capering, and Vlasto watched it with that faint grin of triumph. . . . Then suddenly the band struck up a loud and violent polka, and stepping to the footlights, Vlasto called above the noise to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . you have seen Minna dance alone! Now you shall see her dance with me, her Maker! Strike up! Now!”