By There is not in all London a quieter spot, or one, apparently,
more withdrawn from the heat and bustle of life than Newsome Terrace.
It is a cul-de-sac, for at the upper end the roadway between its two
lines of square, compact little residences is brought to an end by a
high brick wall, while at the lower end, the only access to it is
through Newsome Square, that small discreet oblong of Georgian houses,
a relic of the time when Kensington was a suburban village sundered
from the metropolis by a stretch of pastures stretching to the river.
Both square and terrace are most inconveniently situated for those
whose ideal environment includes a rank of taxicabs immediately
opposite their door, a spate of 'buses roaring down the street, and a
procession of underground trains, accessible by a station a few yards
away, shaking and rattling the cutlery and silver on their dining
tables. In consequence Newsome Terrace had come, two years ago, to be
inhabited by leisurely and retired folk or by those who wished to
pursue their work in quiet and tranquillity. Children with hoops and
scooters are phenomena rarely encountered in the Terrace and dogs are
In front of each of the couple of dozen houses of which the Terrace
is composed lies a little square of railinged garden, in which you may
often see the middle-aged or elderly mistress of the residence
horticulturally employed. By five o'clock of a winter's evening the
pavements will generally be empty of all passengers except the
policeman, who with felted step, at intervals throughout the night,
peers with his bull's-eye into these small front gardens, and never
finds anything more suspicious there than an early crocus or an
aconite. For by the time it is dark the inhabitants of the Terrace
have got themselves home, where behind drawn curtains and bolted
shutters they will pass a domestic and uninterrupted evening. No
funeral (up to the time I speak of) had I ever seen leave the Terrace,
no marriage party had strewed its pavements with confetti, and
perambulators were unknown. It and its inhabitants seemed to be quietly
mellowing like bottles of sound wine. No doubt there was stored within
them the sunshine and summer of youth long past, and now, dozing in a
cool place, they waited for the turn of the key in the cellar door,
and the entry of one who would draw them forth and see what they were
Yet, after the time of which I shall now speak, I have never passed
down its pavement without wondering whether each house, so
seemingly-tranquil, is not, like some dynamo, softly and smoothly
bringing into being vast and terrible forces, such as those I once saw
at work in the last house at the upper end of the Terrace, the
quietest, you would have said, of all the row. Had you observed it
with continuous scrutiny, for all the length of a summer day, it is
quite possible that you might have only seen issue from it in the
morning an elderly woman whom you would have rightly conjectured to be
the housekeeper, with her basket for marketing on her arm, who
returned an hour later. Except for her the entire day might often pass
without there being either ingress or egress from the door.
Occasionally a middle-aged man, lean and wiry, came swiftly down the
pavement, but his exit was by no means a daily occurrence, and indeed
when he did emerge, he broke the almost universal usage of the
Terrace, for his appearances took place, when such there were, between
nine and ten in the evening. At that hour sometimes he would come
round to my house in Newsome Square to see if I was at home and
inclined for a talk a little later on. For the sake of air and
exercise he would then have an hour's tramp through the lit and noisy
streets, and return about ten, still pale and unflushed, for one of
those talks which grew to have.an absorbing fascination for me. More
rarely through the telephone I proposed that I should drop in on him:
this I did not often do, since I found that if he did not come out
himself, it implied that he was busy with some investigation, and
though he made me welcome, I could easily see that he burned for my
departure, so that he might get busy with his batteries and pieces of
tissue, hot on the track of discoveries that never yet had presented
themselves to the mind of man as coming within the horizon of
My last sentence may have led the reader to guess that I am indeed
speaking of none other than that recluse and mysterious physicist Sir
James Horton, with whose death a hundred half-hewn avenues into the
dark forest from which life comes must wait completion till another
pioneer as bold as he takes up the axe which hitherto none but himself
has been able to wield.
Probably there was never a man to whom humanity owed more, and of
whom humanity knew less. He seemed utterly independent of the race to
whom (though indeed with no service of love) he devoted himself: for
years he lived aloof and apart in his house at the end of the Terrace.
Men and women were to him like fossils to the geologist, things to
be tapped and hammered and dissected and studied with a view not only
to the reconstruction of past ages, but to construction in the future.
It is known, for instance, that he made an artificial being formed of
the tissue, still living, of animals lately killed, with the brain of
an ape and the heart of a bullock, and a sheep's thyroid, and so
forth. Of that I can give no first-hand account; Horton, it is true,
told me something about it, and in his will directed that certain
memoranda on the subject should on his death be sent to me. But on the
bulky envelope there is the direction, 'Not to be opened till January,
1925.' He spoke with some reserve and, so I think, with slight horror
at the strange things which had happened on the completion of this
creature. It evidently made him uncomfortable to talk about it, and
for that reason I fancy he put what was then a rather remote date to
the day when his record should reach my eye. Finally, in these
preliminaries, for the last five years before the war, he had scarcely
entered, for the sake of companionship, any house other than his own
and mine. Ours was a friendship dating from school-days, which he had
never suffered to drop entirely, but I doubt if in those years he
spoke except on matters of business to half a dozen other people. He
had already retired from surgical practice in which his skill was
unapproached, and most completely now did he avoid the slightest
intercourse with his colleagues, whom he regarded as ignorant pedants
without courage or the rudiments of knowledge. Now and then he would
write an epochmaking little monograph, which he flung to them like a
bone to a starving dog, but for the most part, utterly absorbed in his
own investigations, he left them to grope along unaided. He frankly
told me that he enjoyed talking to me about such subjects, since I was
utterly unacquainted with them. It clarified his mind to be obliged to
put his theories and guesses and confirmations with such simplicity
that anyone could understand them.
I well remember his coming in to see me on the evening of the 4th
of August, 1914.
"So the war has broken out," he said, "and the streets are
impassable with excited crowds.
Odd, isn't it? Just as if each of us already was not a far more
murderous battlefield than any which can be conceived between warring
"How's that?" said I.
"Let me try to put it plainly, though it isn't that I want to talk
about. Your blood is one eternal battlefield. It is full of armies
eternally marching and counter-marching. As long as the armies
friendly to you are in a superior position, you remain in good health;
if a detachment of microbes that, if suffered to establish themselves,
would give you a cold in the head, entrench themselves in your mucous
membrane, the commander-in-chief sends a regiment down and.drives them
out. He doesn't give his orders from your brain, mind you — those
aren't his headquarters, for your brain knows nothing about the
landing of the enemy till they have made good their position and given
you a cold."
He paused a moment.
"There isn't one headquarters inside you," he said, "there are
many. For instance, I killed a frog this morning; at least most people
would say I killed it. But had I killed it, though its head lay in one
place and its severed body in another? Not a bit: I had only killed a
piece of it. For I opened the body afterwards and took out the heart,
which I put in a sterilised chamber of suitable temperature, so that
it wouldn't get cold or be infected by any microbe. That was about
twelve o'clock to-day. And when I came out just now, the heart was
beating still. It was alive, in fact.
That's full of suggestions, you know. Come and see it."
The Terrace had been stirred into volcanic activity by the news of
war: the vendor of some late edition had penetrated into its quietude,
and there were half a dozen parlour-maids fluttering about like black
and white moths. But once inside Horton's door isolation as of an
Arctic night seemed to close round me. He had forgotten his latch-key,
but his housekeeper, then newly come to him, who became so regular and
familiar a figure in the Terrace, must have heard his step, for before
he rang the bell she had opened the door, and stood with his forgotten
latch-key in her hand.
"Thanks, Mrs. Gabriel," said he, and without a sound the door shut
behind us. Both her name and face, as reproduced in some illustrated
daily paper, seemed familiar, rather terribly familiar, but before I
had time to grope for the association, Horton supplied it.
"Tried for the murder of her husband six months ago," he said. "Odd
case. The point is that she is the one and perfect housekeeper. I once
had four servants, and everything was all mucky, as we used to say at
school. Now I live in amazing comfort and propriety with one. She does
everything. She is cook, valet, housemaid, butler, and won't have
anyone to help her. No doubt she killed her husband, but she planned
it so well that she could not be convicted. She told me quite frankly
who she was when I engaged her."
Of course I remembered the whole trial vividly now. Her husband, a
morose, quarrelsome fellow, tipsy as often as sober, had, according to
the defence cut his own throat while shaving; according to the
prosecution, she had done that for him. There was the usual discrepancy
of evidence as to whether the wound could have been self-inflicted,
and the prosecution tried to prove that the face had been lathered
after his throat had been cut. So singular an exhibition of
forethought and nerve had hurt rather than helped their case, and
after prolonged deliberation on the part of the jury, she had been
acquitted. Yet not less singular was Horton's selection of a probable
murderess, however efficient, as housekeeper.
He anticipated this reflection.
"Apart from the wonderful comfort of having a perfectly appointed
and absolutely silent house," he said, "I regard Mrs. Gabriel as a
sort of insurance against my being murdered. If you had been tried for
your life, you would take very especial care not to find yourself in
suspicious proximity to a murdered body again: no more deaths in your
house, if you could help it. Come through to my laboratory, and look
at my little instance of life after death."
Certainly it was amazing to see that little piece of tissue still
pulsating with what must be called life; it contracted and expanded
faintly indeed but perceptibly, though for nine hours now it had been
severed from the rest of the organisation. All by itself it went on
living, and if the heart could go on living with nothing, you would
say, to feed and stimulate its energy, there must also, so reasoned
Horton, reside in all the other vital organs of the body other
independent.focuses of life.
"Of course a severed organ like that," he said, "will run down
quicker than if it had the co-operation of the others, and presently I
shall apply a gentle electric stimulus to it. If I can keep that glass
bowl under which it beats at the temperature of a frog's body, in
sterilised air, I don't see why it should not go on living. Food — of
course there's the question of feeding it. Do you see what that opens
up in the way of surgery? Imagine a shop with glass cases containing
healthy organs taken from the dead. Say a man dies of pneumonia. He
should, as soon as ever the breath is out of his body, be dissected,
and though they would, of course, destroy his lungs, as they will he
full of pneumococci, his liver and digestive organs are probably
healthy. Take them out, keep them in a sterilised atmosphere with the
temperature at 98.4, and sell the liver, let us say, to another poor
devil who has cancer there. Fit him with a new healthy liver, eh?"
"And insert the brain of someone who has died of heart disease into
the skull of a congenital idiot?" I asked.
"Yes, perhaps; but the brain's tiresomely complicated in its
connections and the joining up of the nerves, you know. Surgery will
have to learn a lot before it fits new brains in. And the brain has
got such a lot of functions. All thinking, all inventing seem to belong
to it, though, as you have seen, the heart can get on quite well
without it. But there are other functions of the brain I want to study
first. I've been trying some experiments already."
He made some little readjustment to the flame of the spirit lamp
which kept at the right temperature the water that surrounded the
sterilised receptacle in which the frog's heart was beating.
"Start with the more simple and mechanical uses of the brain," he
said. "Primarily it is a sort of record office, a diary. Say that I
rap your knuckles with that ruler. What happens? The nerves there send
a message to the brain, of course, saying — how can I put it most
simply — saying, 'Somebody is hurting me.' And the eye sends another,
saying 'I perceive a ruler hitting my knuckles,' and the ear sends
another, saying 'I hear the rap of it.' But leaving all that alone,
what else happens? Why, the brain records it. It makes a note of your
knuckles having been hit."
He had been moving about the room as he spoke, taking off his coat
and waistcoat and putting on in their place a thin black
dressing-gown, and by now he was seated in his favourite attitude
cross-legged on the hearth-rug, looking like some magician or perhaps
the afrit which a magician of black arts had caused to appear. He was
thinking intently now, passing through his fingers his string of amber
beads, and talking more to himself than to me.
"And how does it make that note?" he went on. "Why, in the manner
in which phonograph records are made. There are millions of minute
dots, depressions, pockmarks on your brain which certainly record what
you remember, what you have enjoyed or disliked, or done or said.
The surface of the brain anyhow is large enough to furnish
writing-paper for the record of all these things, of all your
memories. If the impression of an experience has not been acute, the
dot is not sharply impressed, and the record fades: in other words,
you come to forget it. But if it has been vividly impressed, the
record is never obliterated. Mrs. Gabriel, for instance, won't lose the
impression of how she lathered her husband's face after she had cut
his throat. That's to say, if she did it.
"Now do you see what I'm driving at? Of course you do. There is
stored within a man's head the complete record of all the memorable
things he has done and said: there are all his thoughts there, and all
his speeches, and, most well-marked of all, his habitual thoughts and
the things he has often said; for habit, there is reason to believe,
wears a sort of rut in the brain, so that the life principle, whatever
it is, as it gropes and steals about the brain, is continually
stumbling into it..There's your record, your gramophone plate all
ready. What we want, and what I'm trying to arrive at, is a needle
which, as it traces its minute way over these dots, will come across
words or sentences which the dead have uttered, and will reproduce
them. My word, what Judgment Books! What a resurrection!"
Here in this withdrawn situation no remotest echo of the excitement
which was seething through the streets penetrated; through the open
window there came in only the tide of the midnight silence. But from
somewhere closer at hand, through the wall surely of the laboratory,
there came a low, somewhat persistent murmur.
"Perhaps our needle — unhappily not yet invented — as it passed
over the record of speech in the brain, might induce even facial
expression," he said. "Enjoyment or horror might even pass over dead
features. There might be gestures and movements even, as the words were
reproduced in our gramophone of the dead. Some people when they want
to think intensely walk about: some, there's an instance of it audible
now, talk to themselves aloud."
He held up his finger for silence.
"Yes, that's Mrs. Gabriel," he said. "She talks to herself by the
hour together. She's always done that, she tells me. I shouldn't
wonder if she has plenty to talk about."
It was that night when, first of all, the notion of intense
activity going on below the placid house-fronts of the Terrace
occurred to me. None looked more quiet than this, and yet there was
seething here a volcanic activity and intensity of living, both in the
man who sat cross-legged on the floor and behind that voice just
audible through the partition wall. But I thought of that no more, for
Horton began speaking of the brain-gramophone again ... Were it
possible to trace those infinitesimal dots and pock-marks in the brain
by some needle exquisitely fine, it might follow that by the aid of
some such contrivance as translated the pock-marks on a gramophone
record into sound, some audible rendering of speech might be recovered
from the brain of a dead man. It was necessary, so he pointed out to
me, that this strange gramophone record should be new; it must be that
of one lately dead, for corruption and decay would soon obliterate
these infinitesimal markings. He was not of opinion that unspoken
thought could be thus recovered:
the utmost he hoped for from his pioneering work was to be able to
recapture actual speech, especially when such speech had habitually
dwelt on one subject, and thus had worn a rut on that part of the
brain known the speech-centre.
"Let me get, for instance," he said, "the brain of a railway
porter, newly dead, who has been accustomed for years to call out the
name of a station, and I do not despair of hearing his voice through
my gramophone trumpet. Or again, given that Mrs. Gabriel, in all her
interminable conversations with herself, talks about one subject, I
might, in similar circumstances, recapture what she had been
constantly saying. Of course my instrument must be of a power and
delicacy still unknown, one of which the needle can trace the minutest
irregularities of surface, and of which the trumpet must be of immense
magnifying power, able to translate the smallest whisper into a shout.
But just as a microscope will show you the details of an object
invisible to the eye, so there are instruments which act in the same
way on sound. Here, for instance, is one of remarkable magnifying
power. Try it if you like."
He took me over to a table on which was standing an electric
battery connected with a round steel globe, out of the side of which
sprang a gramophone trumpet of curious construction. He adjusted the
battery, and directed me to click my fingers quite gently opposite an
aperture in the globe, and the noise, ordinarily scarcely audible,
resounded through the room like a thunderclap.
"Something of that sort might permit us to hear the record on a
brain," he said..After this night my visits to Horton became far more
common than they had hitherto been.
Having once admitted me into the region of his strange
explorations, he seemed to welcome me there. Partly, as he had said,
it clarified his own thought to put it into simple language, partly, as
he subsequently admitted, he was beginning to penetrate into such
lonely fields of knowledge by paths so utterly untrodden, that even
he, the most aloof and independent of mankind, wanted some human
presence near him. Despite his utter indifference to the issues of the
war — for, in his regard, issues far more crucial demanded his
energies — he offered himself as surgeon to a London hospital for
operations on the brain, and his services, naturally, were welcomed,
for none brought knowledge or skill like his to such work. Occupied
all day, he performed miracles of healing, with bold and dexterous
excisions which none but he would have dared to attempt. He would
operate, often successfully, for lesions that seemed certainly fatal,
and all the time he was learning. He refused to accept any salary; he
only asked, in cases where he had removed pieces of brain matter, to
take these away, in order by further examination and dissection, to add
to the knowledge and manipulative skill which he devoted to the
wounded. He wrapped these morsels in sterilised lint, and took them
back to the Terrace in a box, electrically heated to maintain the
normal temperature of a man's blood. His fragment might then, so he
reasoned, keep some sort of independent life of its own, even as the
severed heart of a frog had continued to beat for hours without
connection with the rest of the body. Then for half the night he would
continue to work on these sundered pieces of tissue scarcely dead,
which his operations during the day had given him. Simultaneously, he
was busy over the needle that must be of such infinite delicacy.
One evening, fatigued with a long day's work, I had just heard with
a certain tremor of uneasy anticipation the whistles of warning which
heralded an air-raid, when my telephone bell rang. My servants,
according to custom, had already betaken themselves to the cellar, and
I went to see what the summons was, determined in any case not to go
out into the streets. I recognised Horton's voice. "I want you at
once," he said.
"But the warning whistles have gone," said I. "And I don't like
showers of shrapnel."
"Oh, never mind that," said he. "You must come. I'm so excited that
I distrust the evidence of my own ears. I want a witness. Just come."
He did not pause for my reply, for I heard the click of his
receiver going back into its place.
Clearly he assumed that I was coming, and that I suppose had the
effect of suggestion on my mind. I told myself that I would not go,
but in a couple of minutes his certainty that I was coming, coupled
with the prospect of being interested in something else than air-raids,
made me fidget in my chair and eventually go to the street door and
look out. The moon was brilliantly bright, the square quite empty, and
far away the coughings of very distant guns. Next moment, almost
against my will, I was running down the deserted pavements of Newsome
Terrace. My ring at his bell was answered by Horton, before Mrs.
Gabriel could come to the door, and he positively dragged me in.
"I shan't tell you a word of what I am doing," he said. "I want you
to tell me what you hear.
Come into the laboratory."
The remote guns were silent again as I sat myself, as directed, in
a chair close to the gramophone trumpet, but suddenly through the wall
I heard the familiar mutter of Mrs. Gabriel's voice. Horton, already
busy with his battery, sprang to his feet.
"That won't do," he said. "I want absolute silence."
He went out of the room, and I heard him calling to her. While he
was gone I observed more closely what was on the table. Battery, round
steel globe, and gramophone trumpet were there, and some sort of a
needle on a spiral steel spring linked up with the battery and the
glass vessel,.in which I had seen the frog's heart beat. In it now
there lay a fragment of grey matter.
Horton came back in a minute or two, and stood in the middle of the
"That's better," he said. "Now I want you to listen at the mouth of
the trumpet. I'll answer any questions afterwards."
With my ear turned to the trumpet, I could see nothing of what he
was doing, and I listened till the silence became a rustling in my
ears. Then suddenly that rustling ceased, for it was overscored by a
whisper which undoubtedly came from the aperture on which my aural
attention was fixed. It was no more than the faintest murmur, and
though no words were audible, it had the timbre of a human voice.
"Well, do you hear anything?" asked Horton.
"Yes, something very faint, scarcely audible."
"Describe it," said he.
"I'll try a fresh place," said he.
The silence descended again; the mutter of the distant guns was
still mute, and some slight creaking from my shirt front, as I
breathed, alone broke it. And then the whispering from the gramophone
trumpet began again, this time much louder than it had been before —
it was as if the speaker (still whispering) had advanced a dozen yards
— but still blurred and indistinct.
More unmistakable, too, was it that the whisper was that of a human
voice, and every now and then, whether fancifully or not, I thought I
caught a word or two. For a moment it was silent altogether, and then
with a sudden inkling of what I was listening to I heard something
begin to sing. Though the words were still inaudible there was melody,
and the tune was "Tipperary."
From that convolvulus-shaped trumpet there came two bars of it.
"And what do you hear now?" cried Horton with a crack of exultation
in his voice. "Singing, singing! That's the tune they all sang. Fine
music that from a dead man. Encore! you say? Yes, wait a second, and
he'll sing it again for you. Confound it, I can't get on to the place.
Ah! I've got it: listen again."
Surely that was the strangest manner of song ever yet heard on the
earth, this melody from the brain of the dead. Horror and fascination
strove within me, and I suppose the first for the moment prevailed,
for with a shudder I jumped up.
"Stop it!" I said. "It's terrible."
His face, thin and eager, gleamed in the strong ray of the lamp
which he had placed close to him. His hand was on the metal rod from
which depended the spiral spring and the needle, which just rested on
that fragment of grey stuff which I had seen in the glass vessel.
"Yes, I'm going to stop it now," he said, "or the germs will be
getting at my gramophone record, or the record will get cold. See, I
spray it with carbolic vapour, I put it back into its nice warm bed.
It will sing to us again. But terrible? What do you mean by terrible?"
Indeed, when he asked that I scarcely knew myself what I meant. I
had been witness to a new marvel of science as wonderful perhaps as
any that had ever astounded the beholder, and my nerves —these
childish whimperers — had cried out at the darkness and the
But the horror diminished, the fascination increased as he quite
shortly told me the history of this phenomenon. He had attended that
day and operated upon a young soldier in whose brain was embedded a
piece of shrapnel. The boy was in extremis, but Horton had hoped for
the possibility of saving him. To extract the shrapnel was the only
chance, and this involved the cutting away of a piece of brain known
as the speech-centre, and taking from it what was embedded there. But
the hope was not realised, and two hours later the boy died. It was to
this fragment of brain that,.when Horton returned home, he had applied
the needle of his gramophone, and had obtained the faint whisperings
which had caused him to ring me up, so that he might have a witness of
this wonder. Witness I had been, not to these whisperings alone, but
to the fragment of singing.
"And this is but the first step on the new road," said he. "Who
knows where it may lead, or to what new temple of knowledge it may not
be the avenue? Well, it is late: I shall do no more to-night.
What about the raid, by the way?"
To my amazement I saw that the time was verging on midnight. Two
hours had elapsed since he let me in at his door; they had passed like
a couple of minutes. Next morning some neighbours spoke of the
prolonged firing that had gone on, of which I had been wholly
Week after week Horton worked on this new road of research,
perfecting the sensitiveness and subtlety of the needle, and, by
vastly Increasing the power of his batteries, enlarging the magnifying
power of his trumpet. Many and many an evening during the next year did
I listen to voices that were dumb in death, and the sounds which had
been blurred and unintelligible mutterings in the earlier experiments,
developed, as the delicacy of his mechanical devices increased, into
coherence and clear articulation. It was no longer necessary to Impose
silence on Mrs. Gabriel when the gramophone was at work, (or now the
voice we listened to had risen to the pitch of ordinary human
utterance, while as for the faithfulness and individuality of these
records, striking testimony was given more than once by some living
friend of the dead, who, without knowing what he was about to hear,
recognised the tones of the speaker. More than once also, Mrs.
Gabriel, bringing in syphons and whisky, provided us with three
glasses, for she had heard, so she told us, three different voices in
talk. But for the present no fresh phenomenon occurred; Horton was but
perfecting the mechanism of his previous discovery and, rather
grudging the time, was scribbling at a monograph, which presently he
would toss to his colleagues, concerning the results he had already
obtained. And then, even while Horton was on he threshold of new
wonders, which he had already foreseen and spoken of as theoretically
possible, there came an evening of marvel and of swift catastrophe.
I had dined with him that day, Mrs. Gabriel deftly serving the meal
that she had so daintily prepared, and towards the end, as she was
clearing the table for our dessert, she stumbled, I supposed, on a
loose edge of carpet, quickly recovering herself. But instantly Horton
checked some half-finished sentence, and turned to her.
"You're all right, Mrs. Gabriel?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, sir, thank you," said she, and went on with her serving.
"As I was saying," began Horton again, but his attention clearly
wandered, and without concluding his narrative, he relapsed into
silence, till Mrs. Gabriel had given us our coffee and left the room.
"I'm sadly afraid my domestic felicity may be disturbed," he said.
"Mrs. Gabriel had an epileptic fit yesterday, and she confessed when
she recovered that she had been subject to them when a child, and
since then had occasionally experienced them."
"Dangerous, then?" I asked.
"In themselves not in the least," said he. "If she was sitting in
her chair or lying in bed when one occurred, there would be nothing to
trouble about. But if one occurred while she was cooking my dinner or
beginning to come downstairs, she might fall into the fire or tumble
down the whole flight. We'll hope no such deplorable calamity will
happen. Now, if you've finished your coffee, let us go into the
laboratory. Not that I've got anything very interesting in the way of
new records. But I've introduced a second battery with a very strong
induction coil into my.apparatus. I find that if I link it up with my
record, given that the record is a — a fresh one, it stimulates
certain nerve centres. It's odd, isn't it, that the same forces which
so encourage the dead to live would certainly encourage the living to
die, if a man received the full current. One has to be careful in
handling it. Yes, and what then? you ask."
The night was very hot, and he threw the windows wide before he
settled himself cross-legged on the floor.
"I'll answer your question for you," he said, "though I believe
we've talked of it before.
Supposing I had not a fragment of brain-tissue only, but a whole
head, let us say, or best of all, a complete corpse, I think I could
expect to produce more than mere speech through the gramophone. The
dead lips themselves perhaps might utter — God! what's that?"
From close outside, at the bottom of the stairs leading from the
dining room which we had just quitted to the laboratory where we now
sat, there came a crash of glass followed by the fall as of something
heavy which bumped from step to step, and was finally flung on the
threshold against the door with the sound as of knuckles rapping at
it, and demanding admittance. Horton sprang up and threw the door
open, and there lay, half inside the room and half on the landing
outside, the body of Mrs. Gabriel. Round her were splinters of broken
bottles and glasses, and from a cut in her forehead, as she lay
ghastly with face upturned, the blood trickled into her thick grey
Horton was on his knees beside her, dabbing his handkerchief on her
"Ah! that's not serious," he said; "there's neither vein nor artery
cut. I'll just bind that up first."
He tore his handkerchief into strips which he tied together, and
made a dexterous bandage covering the lower part of her forehead, but
leaving her eyes unobscured. They stared with a fixed meaningless
steadiness, and he scrutinised them closely.
"But there's worse yet," he said. "There's been some severe blow on
the head. Help me to carry her into the laboratory. Get round to her
feet and lift underneath the knees when I am ready. There! Now put
your arm right under her and carry her."
Her head swung limply back as he lifted her shoulders, and he
propped it up against his knee, where it mutely nodded and bowed, as
his leg moved, as if in silent assent to what we were doing, and the
mouth, at the extremity of which there had gathered a little lather,
lolled open. He still supported her shoulders as I fetched a cushion
on which to place her head, and presently she was lying close to the
low table on which stood the gramophone of the dead. Then with light
deft fingers he passed his hands over her skull, pausing as he came to
the spot just above and behind her right ear. Twice and again his
fingers groped and lightly pressed, while with shut eyes and
concentrated attention he interpreted what his trained touch revealed.
"Her skull is broken to fragments just here," he said. "In the
middle there is a piece completely severed from the rest, and the
edges of the cracked pieces must be pressing on her brain."
Her right arm was lying palm upwards on the floor, and with one
hand he felt her wrist with fingertips.
"Not a sign of pulse," he said. "She's dead in the ordinary sense
of the word. But life persists in an extraordinary manner, you may
remember. She can't be wholly dead: no one is wholly dead in a moment,
unless every organ is blown to bits. But she soon will be dead, if we
don't relieve the pressure on the brain. That's the first thing to be
done. While I'm busy at that, shut the window, will you, and make up
the fire. In this sort of case the vital heat, whatever that is,
leaves the body very quickly. Make the room as hot as you can —fetch
an oil-stove, and turn on.the electric radiator, and stoke up a roaring
fire. The hotter the room is the more slowly will the heat of life
Already he had opened his cabinet of surgical instruments, and
taken out of it two drawers full of bright steel which he laid on the
floor beside her. I heard the grating chink of scissors severing her
long grey hair, and as I busied myself with laying and lighting the
fire in the hearth, and kindling the oil-stove, which I found, by
Horton's directions, in the pantry, I saw that his lancet was busy on
the exposed skin. He had placed some vaporising spray, heated by a
spirit lamp close to her head, and as he worked its fizzing nozzle
filled the air with some clean and aromatic odour. Now and then he
threw out an order.
"Bring me that electric lamp on the long cord," he said. "I haven't
got enough light. Don't look at what I'm doing if you're squeamish,
for if it makes you feel faint, I shan't be able to attend to you."
I suppose that violent interest in what he was doing overcame any
qualm that I might have had, for I looked quite unflinching over his
shoulder as I moved the lamp about till it was in such a place that it
threw its beam directly into a dark hole at the edge of which depended
a flap of skin. Into this he put his forceps, and as he withdrew them
they grasped a piece of blood-stained bone.
"That's better," he said, "and the room's warming up well. But
there's no sign of pulse yet.
Go on stoking, will you, till the thermometer on the wall there
registers a hundred degrees."
When next, on my journey from the coal-cellar, I looked, two more
pieces of bone lay beside the one I had seen extracted, and presently
referring to the thermometer, I saw, that between the oil-stove and
the roaring fire and the electric radiator, I had raised the room to
the temperature he wanted. Soon, peering fixedly at the seat of his
operation, he felt for her pulse again.
"Not a sign of returning vitality," he said, "and I've done all I
can. There's nothing more possible that can be devised to restore
As he spoke the zeal of the unrivalled surgeon relaxed, and with a
sigh and a shrug he rose to his feet and mopped his face. Then
suddenly the fire and eagerness blazed there again. "The gramophone!"
he said. "The speech centre is close to where I've been working, and it
is quite uninjured. Good heavens, what a wonderful opportunity. She
served me well living, and she shall serve me dead. And I can
stimulate the motor nerve-centre, too, with the second battery. We may
see a new wonder tonight."
Some qualm of horror shook me.
"No, don't!" I said. "It's terrible: she's just dead. I shall go if
"But I've got exactly all the conditions I have long been wanting,"
said he. "And I simply can't spare you. You must be witness: I must
have a witness. Why, man, there's not a surgeon or a physiologist in
the kingdom who would not give an eye or an ear to be in your place
She's dead. I pledge you my honour on that, and it's grand to be
dead if you can help the living."
Once again, in a far fiercer struggle, horror and the intensest
curiosity strove together in me.
"Be quick, then," said I.
"Ha!. That's right," exclaimed Horton. "Help me to lift her on to
the table by the gramophone. The cushion too; I can get at the place
more easily with her head a little raised."
He turned on the battery and with the movable light close beside
him, brilliantly illuminating what he sought, he inserted the needle
of the gramophone into the jagged aperture in her skull.
For a few minutes, as he groped and explored there, there was
silence, and then quite suddenly Mrs. Gabriel's voice, clear and
unmistakable and of the normal loudness of human speech, issued from
the trumpet.."Yes, I always said that I'd be even with him," came the
articulated syllables. "He used to knock me about, he did, when he
came home drunk, and often I was black and blue with bruises.
But I'll give him a redness for the black and blue."
The record grew blurred; instead of articulate words there came
from it a gobbling noise. By degrees that cleared, and we were
listening to some dreadful suppressed sort of laughter, hideous to
hear. On and on it went.
"I've got into some sort of rut," said Horton. "She must have
laughed a lot to herself."
For a long time we got nothing more except the repetition of the
words we had already heard and the sound of that suppressed laughter.
Then Horton drew towards him the second battery.
"I'll try a stimulation of the motor nerve-centres," he said.
"Watch her face."
He propped the gramophone needle in position, and inserted into the
fractured skull the two poles of the second battery, moving them about
there very carefully. And as I watched her face, I saw with a freezing
horror that her lips were beginning to move.
"Her mouth's moving," I cried. "She can't be dead."
He peered into her face.
"Nonsense," he said. "That's only the stimulus from the current.
She's been dead half an hour. Ah! what's coming now?"
The lips lengthened into a smile, the lower jaw dropped, and from
her mouth came the laughter we had heard just now through the
gramophone. And then the dead mouth spoke, with a mumble of
unintelligible words, a bubbling torrent of incoherent syllables.
"I'll turn the full current on," he said.
The head jerked and raised itself, the lips struggled for
utterance, and suddenly she spoke swiftly and distinctly.
"Just when he'd got his razor out," she said, "I came up behind
him, and put my hand over his face, and bent his neck back over his
chair with all my strength. And I picked up his razor and with one
slit — ha, ha, that was the way to pay him out. And I didn't lose my
head, but I lathered his chin well, and put the razor in his hand, and
left him there, and went downstairs and cooked his dinner for him, and
then an hour afterwards, as he didn't come down, up I went to see what
kept him. It was a nasty cut in his neck that had kept him—"
Horton suddenly withdrew the two poles of the battery from her
head, and even in the middle of her word the mouth ceased working, and
lay rigid and open.
"By God!" he said. "There's a tale for dead lips to tell. But we'll
get more yet."
Exactly what happened then I never knew. It appeared to me that as
he still leaned over the table with the two poles of the battery in
his hand, his foot slipped, and he fell forward across it.
There came a sharp crack, and a flash of blue dazzling light, and
there he lay face downwards, with arms that just stirred and quivered.
With his fall the two poles that must momentarily have come into
contact with his hand were jerked away again, and I lifted him and laid
him on the floor. But his lips as well as those of the dead woman had
spoken for the last time.