From Curves and Twists

Copyright 2024 Ray Gregory

 

Gentleman's Doll

Thaddeus Grandtower walked to his foyer to collect the mail that had fallen through the letter slot. It had lain neglected on the foyer carpet all day as he laboured in his basement laboratory. As he lifted it, he happened to glance out of the leaded glass sidelight. Madam Radzukova’s carriage sitting at the curb? The old bat was stepping out of it that instant! He lurched backward. Anything to deny her the sight of him. To his relief, she crossed the sidewalk and bustled into her next-door townhouse.

“Practitioner of poppycock!” he spat. How the old Russian émigré, the self-proclaimed “mistress of the Hermetic arts,” could ply her parlor tricks in his respectable neighborhood beggared belief. Tarot cards, palm readings, even séances? In the name of all that was rational, he rolled his eyes. He peeked out the sidelight again, exhaled leisurely. Her carriage was lumbering off down Carrington Street, back to its stable. The old bag would soon be retiring for the evening. “Good riddance!”

The Tsar himself, whom she claimed was her cousin, had probably booted the old charlatan from her homeland. Now the shameless old busybody had her prying tendrils entwined around every inch of this proper English neighborhood’s grapevine. She seemed privy to every scrap of gossip about Beatrice and him. Had Beatrice herself, his now erstwhile betrothed, shared the particulars of their discord with the meddlesome old faker? Lady Beatrice Moore, so prim of ardour, so unbridled in her vengeance.

“Women!” He gritted his teeth. “Hell indeed hath no fury.” Why else would Madam Radzukova have proffered her ready counsel? The horrid crone even offered to lecture him on “conjugal harmony.” He clenched his jaws even tighter. As if a man of science and reason would countenance such a mountebank. Why, save sheer spite, would Beatrice disclose even his tiniest impropriety to such a hideous harridan?

As he leafed through the mail, a missive from the Society for Scientific and Engineering Enterprise caught his eye. Forget Beatrice and the vexatious old bat! He ripped the envelope open, devoured the contents of the letter it had borne.

“Marvelous!” He broke into a jig. The Society had agreed to honor his extraordinary request. He was invited to the club a fortnight hence to unveil his latest invention to the assembled membership.

His lips curled into a satisfied smile. How had he doubted the Society’s wisdom? Of course it would accede to the wishes of its youngest, yet so precociously accomplished, member. And with a fortnight to perfect things, all would be ready at the appointed time. He would forego his dinner and return straightway to his basement laboratory.

But Madam Radzukova’s wizened visage rematerialized in his mind. The histrionic old witch! Did she fancy herself his saviour or his nemesis? Last month, when she got wind of his experiments — voluble Beatrice again! — the old troublemaker banged at his door. An automaton in the guise of human flesh? she demanded. A veritable golem? What did a modern young man blinded by his gullible faith in science know? Had he an inkling of the cosmic repercussions of his unnatural tampering? An animate creature must be given a soul, she insisted, with a conscience, or there would be hell to pay. In her devious machinations, had Madam Radzukova conceived of the magnitude of his accomplishment?  Of course, she would have to perform the rite of ensoulment to mollify fate — no doubt followed by the presentation of her bill for services rendered.

He shook his head. A soul indeed! Would the silly old fraud prescribe for his creation a soul as passionless and unforgiving as Lady Beatrice Moore’s? As great Erasmus said, Women, can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Well, he, Thaddeus Grandtower, inventor extraordinaire, would see about that....