The Complete Stories_ Volume 1 - Isaac Asimov [339]
Nitely sighed. "I feared that. As a matter of fact, between ourselves, it was a very poor ending for the play, perhaps the poorest in the canon," and he looked up briefly in mute apology to the spirit of William S. Gilbert. "It was pulled out of a hat. It had not been properly foreshadowed earlier in the play. It punished an individual who did not deserve the punishment. In short, it was, alas, completely unworthy of Gilbert's powerful genius." Professor Johns said, "Perhaps it was not Gilbert. Perhaps some bungler had interfered and botched the job."
"There is no record of that."
But Professor Johns, his scientific mind keenly aroused by an unsolved puzzle, said at once, "We can test this. Let us study the mind of this—this Gilbert. He wrote other plays, did he?"
"Fourteen, in collaboration with Sullivan."
"Were there endings that resolved analogous situations in ways which were more appropriate?" Nitely nodded. "One, certainly. There was Ruddigore."
"Who was he?"
"Ruddigore is a place. The main character is revealed as the true bad baronet of Ruddigore and is, of course, under a curse."
"To be sure," muttered Professor Johns, who realized that such an eventuality frequently befell bad baronets and was even inclined to think it served them right.
Nitely said, "The curse compelled him to commit one crime or more each day. Were one day to pass without a crime, he would inevitably die in agonizing torture."
"How horrible," murmured the soft-hearted Alice.
"Naturally," said Nitely, "no one can think up a crime each day, so our hero was forced to use his ingenuity to circumvent the curse."
"How?"
"He reasoned thus: If he deliberately refused to commit a crime, he was courting death by his own act. In other words, he was attempting suicide, and attempting suicide is, of course, a crime—and so he fulfills the conditions of the curse."
"I see. I see," said Professor Johns. "Gilbert obviously believes in solving matters by carrying them forward to their logical conclusions." He closed his eyes, and his noble brow clearly bulged with the numerous intense thought waves it contained. He opened them. "Nitely, old chap, when was The Sorcerer first produced?"
"In eighteen hundred and seventy-seven."
"Then that is it, my dear fellow. In eighteen seventy-seven, we were faced with the Victorian age. The institution of marriage was not to be made sport of on the stage. It could not be made a comic matter for the sake of the plot. Marriage was holy, spiritual, a sacrament—"
"Enough," said Nitely, "of this apostrophe. What is in your mind?"
"Marriage. Marry the girl, Nitely. Have all your couples marry, and that at once. I'm sure that was Gilbert's original intention."
"But that," said Nitely, who was strangely attracted by the notion, "is precisely what we are trying to avoid."
"I am not," said Alice, stoutly (though she was not stout, but, on the contrary, enchantingly lithe and slender). Professor Johns said, "Don't you see? Once each couple is married, the amatogenic principle—which does not affect married people—loses its power over them. Those who would have been in love without the aid of the principle remain in love; those who would not are no longer in love—and consequently apply for an annulment."
"Good heavens," said Nitely. "How admirably simple. Of course! Gilbert must have intended that until a shocked producer or theater manager—a bungler, as you say—forced the change."
"And did it work?" I asked. "After all, you said quite distinctly that the professor had said its effect on married couples was only to inhibit extramarital re—"
"It worked," said Nitely, ignoring my comment. A tear trembled on his eyelid, but whether it was induced by memories or by the fact that he was on his fourth gin and tonic, I could not tell.
"It worked,"