University of Toronto Schools - Twig Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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THE TWIG Kruger backed away until he clutched the edge of the table with his hands and steadied himself. It seemed that the paste of his face had become clammy and was running into lumps. Pouches of cringing flesh bulged under his staring eyes. His skin hung loosely. His whole figure drooped, for when he looked into those eyes that were clamped on his own, he saw something so terrible that his face was transparent with fear. He gasped. The upright old man spoke again, You have carried unhappiness into many homes. You have wrecked the lives of good people for too long. The misfortune you brought to others is now visiting you. You deserve to be squelched as a snake, but l am giving you an equal chance. When the speaker brought a revolver from his pocket, Kruger broke down. He mumbled hysterically. Cartridges had been placed in three of the six chambers of the gun. l-ie spun the cylinder several times and held the weapon. I Pull the trigger-if you can. The shaking, claw-like hands of the slumped criminal could scarcely hold the pistol whose weight seemed increased ten- fold. The intruder silently withdrew. The lock clicked audibly. The tortured soul sagged in a chair by the window, firelight glowing on his limp form. A5 36 35 -Hi 95 -15 An hour later a corpulent man fussed with his spectacles as he questioned the sleepy night-clerk. mls there a Mr. Anthony Kruger regis- tered here? There was, sir, but Mr. Kruger left a while ago. l-le didn't say where he was going. The other seemed disturbed. Alright, thank you, he mumbled. l-le walked to the doorway and lighted a cigar. As he passed the sandstand he tore up a cheque made out for five thousand dollars, and went out into the rainy night, shaking his head in perplexity. Dinner with Borgia MAURICE. CARELESS ERNANDO GUIZANTE, secret emissary of the Republic of Venice, was well pleased. That night, Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentois and Romagna, pre-eminent power in ltaly and deadly enemy of Venice, was to dine at his house. For ten years Guizante had lived as a rich merchant of lVlantria. Now the enemy of his country came to borrow money from him-to obtain funds for an army to be used against Venice. Guizante smiled. He was attired in his richest garments. His gown was of thick velvet, trimmed with fur. An emerald from Tartary gleamed. cool and lustrous, on his hand. About his neck hung a thick gold chain bearing an ivory pendant, carved in Byzantine manner. As he smiled, he toyed with the ivory. ln the tessellated banquet hall, servants were preparing the dinner. Candles shed a soft radiance on the walls hung with Syrian arras. The warm light was reflected from golden plates, embossed and chased with the finest arts of the goldsmiths. It glintecl in dark fiagons of wine. touching them amber, crimson, purple. The oranges, sent by the Moslem lands of Egypt to Guizante at his special order, glowed with golden colour till they seemed part of the precious dish in which they lay. Guizante, looking down from the gallery on the preparations, smiled again. Now, to make certain other oreparations-of a verv different kind. Unlocking a heavy oak chest, he took out a golden cuo, a master- piece of Renaissance art. Chips of moss agate decorated its rim, delicately carved figures moved in life-like procession about the bowl. But that was not all. The pres- sure of a thumbnail in an indentation in the carving by one who knew the secret, would open a false bottom, allowing a virulent poison to mix with the wine that the goblet would contain. No man might drink from the poison cup, and live-Borgia would not. Guizante descended to the banquet hall and

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THE T WIC the internal fear of evil and the vivid, reali- ties of a time to which he does not belong. The victor is apparent. It is because we see that Macbeth is fighting a losing battle that we can find some sympathy fand we doll for a man who is a hypocrite, traitor and regicidef' colcl to all suffering but his own. This earthly terror, as distinct from the supernatural, was accentuated in the per- formance of Samuel Phelps in 1847, who even went so far as to accept literally the stage direction at the end of the play, and introduce the gory, dripping head of Mac- beth stuck on the end of a pike. The fear which drives Macbeth to final desperation and insane fury is the last and most overwhelming. The Thane was a powerful man physically, or he could not, when fighting Macdonwald, have . . . . unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And f1x'd his head upon our battlementsf' Although his frame was somewhat worn down by events, at the end of the play he is still powerful enough to overcome several assailants before he tackles Macduff. This strong physique combined with a mind nearly mad with fear produces an individual who little thinks what he does, but struggles blindly and frantically in a last effort to de- feat the fate which has so cunningly de- ceived him. This frantic, drowning, desper- ately pathetic wreck of a man is the last pic- ture we behold of Macbeth. It was so beautifully illustrated in the performances of particularly Carrick, Kean and Booth, that the audiences are said to have wept at the death of Hmad Macbeth. He was broad and sincere, superstitious and imaginative, strong yet weak: suscept- ible to flattery, because he was poetic: of average intelligence, leaning heavily on his wife's ability: vigorous, hopelessly romantic, -don't you recognize him? He is you or I. He is the infinite every- body. He is the most complex and yet the 50 most simple of human beings. He is mor- ally weak faren't we all?J, and circum- stances combined to make him the object of Fate's ironic whim. He is the pitiful result of internal struggle lost to the enemy. His only hope is despair. His courage is com- pact of fears. He is alone. He will be alone, The Pay-Off M. FINN NTHONY KRUGER practiced black- mail. He possessed a certain cold, pasty perfection of features that might be taken for handsomeness. This rather doubt- ful attribute, an expensive wardrobe, and a railroad ticket constituted the elegant gentleman's entire substance. Until now he had enjoyed a certain smug safety, but the inevitable slip had occurred, a determined father was after him, and five thousand dol- lars had automatically been subtracted from Kruger's income. ln the second room of his cheap hotel suite he was busily packing his apparel, his only claim to membership in the social world that had been his hunting-ground. The feverish haste of this operation betrayed the shallow bravado in the creature who cowed women but could not face a man. He was pale, his hands trembled. The small amount of poor blood in his veins would not flow freely. When danger came, he was not a stag at bay, but a hyena trapped against a wall. Kruger crammed the last shirt into a shabby portmanteau, and glanced about the place that had served as lodgings for the past two months. He switched off the lights in the bedroom, and, picking up his hat and coat, turned to leave. As his hand reached for the handle of the door, the knob was slowly moved from without. A quiet and dignified old man stepped into the room. His words were almost whispered- lVlr. Kruger?

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THE WIG placed his cup beside the wines. He ordered his servants from the room and sat down to await his guest's arnival at the lonely banquet. 'AlVlaster, your guest comes. With a start, Guizante arose. A tall man in a dark, muffling cloak was descending the stairs. As he neared Guizante, he threw open his con- cealing mantle. It was Cesare Borgia. As ever, he was dressed in striking fashion: an aquamarine blue doublet with a mantlet of silver cloth swinging at his shoulders. ln his cap a single great sapphire blazed. His sword hilt was encrusted with jewels set by Persian craftsmen of another age. At his wrists and throat were sulphur-coloured silksg Borgia, the incarnation of the Renais- sance stood forth. The face of the man was pale, delicately handsome but with a firmness about the lips and chin that was masculine. His hair shone softly bright in the candle-glow. His eyes -his eyes were those of one born to rule, ruthless, but bold and just. They smoul- dered with ominous fire in the countenance of Borgia, duke and poisoner, warrior and statesman. Guizante spoke, Your Highness arrives in excellent time. All is prepared for our quiet supper. Borgia's lips smiled. Splendid, noble merchant-let us begin. l require food for my body-as l also require money for my troops. lf your Highness permits, we will discuss that later. With a wave of his hand, Guizante indicated the table. Borgia nodded. They sat down and Guwizante ordered the ritual of banqueting begun. For some time there was but little con- versation. The savoury courses passedg the pheasant stuffed with fine herbs, the capons broiled in wine, the sheep's head, the jellied squabs. Then said Guizante, ul have here a most excellent wine, sealed twenty years. If l may recommend .... All night Guizante, l shall try it. Cuizante took up the poison cup. A noble wine requires a noble goblet, he re- marked. He filled the cup to the brim with the sparkling wine. It glittered in the light like imprisoned sunshine. He began to pass it to the Duke, but Borgia arrested the motion. Drink, he commanded. With a slight smile Guizante complied. He had been expecting this-a precaution always taken by Borgia-and had therefore not yet allowed the poison he had placed in the cup's false bottom to mix with the wine. Now he passed it to the Duke, but first, first his thumbnail found the catch. One sudden imperceptible pressure, and the drink was charged with deadly poison. Borgia accepted the goblet, then set it down before him. He laughed. A needless precaution, Guizante, but it is a little habit of mine. You know, a host will not drink his own poison cup. But what if servants should poison the win unknown to the host? asked Guizante. He forced his glance away from the cup. Ten thousand gold crowns for him from Venice if Borgia died! Cesare's lips tightened, Honly the great attempt my death. Cnlv the great hate me -because they are afraid. He leaned back in his chair. His long fingers rested on the edge of the table, by the base of the cup. You bring to my mind the latest plot against my life. Yes? said Guizante. Ten thousand crowns! A plot by the Venetians, engineed by a clever traitor-my dear Guizante you have spilled your wine! Yes, a plot by Venice-- but no more of that now. Here, l drink to your health. ' Picking up the goblet, Borgia half emptied its contents. At once Guizante's doubts and fears were allayed. He recovered his com- posure. How could the Duke have sus- suspected?-and it was all over now! Borgia replaced the cup. ul have a story to relate, Guizantef' he announced, and you as host must listen.