On the sound track «Give me detumescence» modulates into Liebestod from Tristan.
Suddenly Loola stiffens into a shuddering rigidity. Pushing him away, she stares up wildly into his face; then turns and glances over her shoulder with an expression of guilty terror.
«Loola!»
He tries to draw her close again, but she breaks away from him and starts to run along the narrow path.
NO NO, NO NO, NO NO. . . .
We dissolve to the corner of Fifth Street and Pershing Square. As of old, the Square is the hub and centre of the city’s cultural life. From a shallow well in front of the Philharmonic Auditorium two women are drawing water in a goatskin, which they empty into earthenware jars for other women to carry away. From a bar slung between two rusty lamp posts hangs the carcass of a newly slaughtered ox. Standing in a cloud of flies, a man with a knife is cleaning out the entrails.
«That looks good,» says the Chief genially.
The butcher grins and, with bloody fingers, makes the sign of the horns.
A few yards away stand the communal ovens. The Chief orders a halt, and graciously accepts a piece of the newly baked bread. While he is eating, ten or twelve small boys enter the shot, staggering under inordinate loads of fuel from the nearby Public Library. They tumble their burdens onto the ground and, stimulated by the blows and curses of their elders, hurry back for more. One of the bakers opens a furnace door and starts to shovel the books into the flames.
All the scholar in Dr. Poole, all the bibliophile, is outraged by the spectacle.
«But this is frightful!» he protests.
The Chief only laughs.
«In goes The Phenomenology of Spirit, out comes the corn bread. And damned good bread it is.»
He takes another bite.
Meanwhile Dr. Poole has bent down and, from the very brink of destruction, has snatched to safety a charming little duodecimo Shelley.
«Thank G—» he begins, but fortunately remembers where he is and manages to check himself in time.
He slips the volume into his pocket and, turning to the Chief, «But what about culture?» he asks. «What about the social inheritance of humanity’s painfully acquired wisdom? What about the best that has been thought and. . .»
«They can’t read,» the Chief answers with his mouth full. «No, that’s not quite true. We teach all of them to read that.»
He points. Medium shot from his viewpoint of Loola — Loola with dimples and all the rest, but also with the large red NO on her apron, the two smaller NO’S on her shirt front.
«That’s all the book learning they need. And now,» he commands his bearers, «move on.»
Trucking shot of the litter as it is carried through the doorless entrance of what was once the Biltmore Coffee Shop. Here, in the malodorous twilight, twenty or thirty women, some middle-aged, some young, some mere girls, are busily weaving on primitive looms of the kind used by the Indians of Central America.
«None of these vessels had a baby this season,» the Chief explains to Dr. Poole. He frowns and shakes his head. «When they’re not producing monsters, they’re sterile. What we’re going to do for manpower, Belial only knows. . .»
They advance further into the Coffee Shop, pass a group of three- and four-year-old children under the supervision of an aged vessel with a cleft palate and fourteen fingers and come to a halt under an archway giving access to a second dining room only slightly smaller than the first
Over the shot we hear the sound of a chorus of youthful voices reciting in unison the opening phrases of the Shorter Catechism.
«Question: What is the chief end of Man? Answer: The chief end of Man is to propitiate Belial, deprecate His enmity and avoid destruction for as long as possible.»
Cut to a close shot of Dr. Poole’s face, on which we see an expression of amazement mingled with a growing horror. Then a long long shot from his viewpoint. In five rows of twelve, sixty boys and girls between the ages of thirteen and fifteen stand rigidly at attention, gabbling as fast as they can in a shrill harsh monotone. Facing them, on a dais, sits a small, fat man wearing a long robe of black and white goatskins and a fur cap with a stiff leather edging, to which are attached two medium-sized horns. Beardless and sallow, his face shines with a profuse perspiration, which he is forever wiping away with the hairy sleeve of his cassock.
Cut back to the Chief, as he leans down and touches Dr. Poole on the shoulder.
«That,» he whispers, «is our leading Satanic Science Practitioner. I tell you, he’s an absolute whizz at Malicious Animal Magnetism.»
Over the shot we hear the mindless gabble of the children.
«Question: To what fate is Man predestined? Answer: Belial has, out of his mere good pleasure, from all eternity elected all now living to everlasting perdition.»
«Why does he wear horns?» asks Dr. Poole.
«He’s an Archimandrite,» the Chief explains. «Due for his third horn any time now.»
Cut to a medium shot of the dais.
«Excellent,» the Satanic Science Practitioner is saying in a high piping voice, like the voice of an extraordinarily priggish and self-satisfied small boy. «Excellent!» He wipes his forehead. «And now tell me why you deserve everlasting perdition.»
There is a moment’s silence. Then, in a chorus that starts a little raggedly, but soon swells to a loud unanimity, the children answer.
«Belial has perverted and corrupted us in all the parts of our being. Therefore, we are, merely on account of that corruption, deservedly condemned by Belial.»
Their teacher nods approvingly.
«Such,» he squeaks unctuously, «is the inscrutable justice of the Lord of Flies.»
«Amen,» respond the children.
All make the sign of the horns.
«And what about your duty towards your neighbour?»
«My duty towards my neighbour,» comes the choral answer, «is to do my best to prevent him from doing unto me what I should like to do unto him; to subject myself to all my governors; to keep my body in absolute chastity, except during the two weeks following Belial Day; and to do my duty in that state of life to which it hath pleased Belial to condemn me.»
«What is the Church?»
«The Church is the body of which Belial is the head and all possessed people are the members.»
«Very good,» says the Practitioner, wiping his face yet once more. «And now I need a young vessel.»
He runs his eyes over the ranks of his pupils, then points a finger.
«You there. Third from the left in the second row. . . The vessel with the yellow hair. Come here.»
Cut back to the group around the litter.
The bearers are grinning with happy anticipation and, looking intensely red and moist and fleshy among the black curls of the moustache and beard, even the Chiefs full lips are curved into a smile. But there is no smile on Loola’s face. Pale, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and staring, she is watching the proceedings with the horror of one who has been through this kind of ordeal herself. Dr. Poole glances at her, then back at the victim, whom we now see, from his viewpoint, slowly advancing toward the dais.
«Up here,» squeaks the almost babyish voice in a tone of authority. «Stand by me. Now face the class.»
The child does as she is told.
Medium close shot of a tall slender girl of fifteen with the face of a Nordic madonna. NO, proclaims the apron attached to the waistband of her ragged pedal pushers; NO, NO, the patches over her budding breasts.
The Practitioner points at her accusingly.
«Look at it,» he says, wrinkling up his face into a grimace of disgust. «Did you ever see anything so revolting?»
He turns to the class.
«Boys,» he squeaks. «Any of you who feels any Malicious Animal Magnetism coming out of this vessel, hold up your hand.»
Cut to a long shot of the class. Without exception, all the boys are holding up their hands. Their faces wear that expression of lustful and malevolent amusement, with which the orthodox have always looked on, while their spiritual pastors torment the hereditary scapegoats or still more severely punish the heretics who threaten the interest of the Establishment.
Cut back to the Practitioner. He sighs hypocritically and shakes his head.
«I feared as much,» he says. Then he turns to the girl beside him on the dais. «Now tell me,» he says, «what is the Nature of Woman?»
«The Nature of Woman?» the child repeats unsteadily.
«Yes, the Nature of Woman. Hurry up!»
She glances at him with an expression of terror in her blue eyes, then turns away. Her face becomes deathly pale. Her lips tremble; she swallows hard.
«Woman,» she begins, «woman. . .»
Her voice breaks, her eyes overflow with tears; in a desperate effort to control her feelings she clenches her fists and bites her lip.
«Go on!» the Practitioner shrilly shouts. And picking up a willow switch from the floor, he gives the child a sharp cut across the calves of her bare legs. «Go on!»
«Woman,» the girl begins once more, «is the vessel of the Unholy Spirit, the source of all deformity, the. . . the. . . Ow!»
She winces under another blow.
The Science Practitioner laughs and the whole class follows suit.
«The enemy. . .» he prompts.
«Oh, yes — the enemy of the race, punished by Belial and calling down punishment on all those who succumb to Belial in her.»
There is a long silence.
«Well,» says the Practitioner at last, «that’s what you are. That’s what all vessels are. And now go, go!» he squeals and with sudden
