The Vitagraphoscope

by O. Henry

　　

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Vaudeville is intrinsically episodic and discontinuous. Its audiencesdo not demand denouements. Sufficient unto each "turn" is the evilthereof. No one cares how many romances the singing comedienne mayhave had if she can capably sustain the limelight and a high note ortwo. The audiences reck not if the performing dogs get to the poundthe moment they have jumped through their last hoop. They do notdesire bulletins about the possible injuries received by the comiccyclist who retires head-first from the stage in a crash of (property)china-ware. Neither do they consider that their seat coupons entitlethem to be instructed whether or no there is a sentiment between thelady solo banjoist and the Irish monologist.Therefore let us have no lifting of the curtain upon a tableau ofthe united lovers, backgrounded by defeated villainy and derogatedby the comic, osculating maid and butler, thrown in as a sop tothe Cerberi of the fifty-cent seats.But our program ends with a brief "turn" or two; and then to theexits. Whoever sits the show out may find, if he will, the slenderthread that binds together, though ever so slightly, the story that,perhaps, only the Walrus will understand.~Extracts from a letter from the first vice-president of the RepublicInsurance Company, of New York City, to Frank Goodwin, of Coralio,Republic of Anchuria.~~My Dear Mr. Goodwin:~--Your communication per Messrs. Howland andFourchet, of New Orleans, has reached us. Also their draft on N.Y.for $100,000, the amount abstracted from the funds of this companyby the late J. Churchill Wahrfield, its former president.... Theofficers and directors unite in requesting me to express to you theirsincere esteem and thanks for your prompt and much appreciated returnof the entire missing sum within two weeks from the time of itsdisappearance.... Can assure you that the matter will not be allowedto receive the least publicity.... Regret exceedingly the distressingdeath of Mr. Wahrfield by his own hand, but... Congratulations on yourmarriage to Miss Wahrfield... many charms, winning manners, noble andwomanly nature and envied position in the best metropolitansociety....~Cordially yours,

　　Lucius E. Applegate,~

　　FIRST VICE-PRESIDENT THE REPUBLIC INSURANCECOMPANY.~The Vitagraphoscope~

　　(Moving Pictures)

　　~The Last Sausage~SCENE--An Artist's Studio. The artist, a young man of prepossessingappearance, sits in a dejected attitude, amid a litter of sketches,with his head resting upon his hand. An oil stove stands on a pinebox in the center of the studio. The artist rises, tightens his waistbelt to another hole, and lights the stove. He goes to a tin breadbox, half-hidden by a screen, takes out a solitary link of sausage,turns the box upside-down to show that there is no more, and chucksthe sausage into a frying-pan, which he sets upon the stove.The flame of the stove goes out, showing that there is no more oil.The artist, in evident despair, seizes the sausage, in a sudden accessof rage, and hurls it violently from him. At the same time a dooropens, and a man who enters receives the sausage forcibly againsthis nose. He seems to cry out; and is observed to make a dance stepor two, vigorously. The newcomer is a ruddy-faced, active, keen-looking man, apparently of Irish ancestry. Next he is observedto laugh immoderately; he kicks over the stove; he claps the artist(who is vainly striving to grasp his hand) vehemently upon the back.Then he goes through a pantomime which to the sufficiently intelligentspectator reveals that he has acquired large sums of money by tradingpot-metal hatchets and razors to the Indians of the CordilleraMountains for gold dust. He draws a roll of money as large asa small loaf of bread from his pocket, and waves it above his head,while at the same time he makes pantomime of drinking from a glass.The artist hurriedly secures his hat, and the two leave the studiotogether.~The Writing on the Sands~SCENE--The Beach at Nice. A woman, beautiful, still young,exquisitely clothed, complacent, poised, reclines near the water,idly scrawling letters in the sand with the staff of her silkenparasol. The beauty of her face is audacious; her languid poseis one that you feel to be impermanent--you wait, expectant, for herto spring or glide or crawl, like a panther that has unaccountablybecome stock-still. She idly scrawls in the sand; and the word thatshe always writes is "Isabel." A man sits a few yards away. You cansee that they are companions, ever if no longer comrades. His faceis dark and smooth, and almost inscrutable--but not quite. The twospeak little together. The man also scratches on the sand with hiscane. And the word that he writes is "Anchuria." And then he looksout where the Mediterranean and the sky intermingle with death inhis gaze.~The Wilderness and Thou~SCENE--~The Borders of a Gentleman's Estate in a Tropical Land.~An old Indian, with a mahogany-colored face, is trimming the grasson a grave by a mangrove swamp. Presently he rises to his feet andwalks slowly toward a grove that is shaded by the gathering, brieftwilight. In the edge of the grove stands a man who is stalwart,with a kind and courteous air, and a woman of a serene and clear-cutloveliness. When the old Indian comes up to them the man drops moneyin his hand. The grave-tender, with the stolid pride of his race,takes it as his due, and goes his way. The two in the edge ofthe grove turn back along the dim pathway, and walk close, close--for, after all, what is the world at its best but a little roundfield of the moving pictures with two walking together in it?

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