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Updated: June 8, 2025
You see, when one of us marries a woman of his own class 'Prinzessen, Comtessen, Serene English Altessen, as Svengali called them he usually gets a partner more ah hidebound, I think you call it than himself a greater stickler for precedent and tradition and position and etiquette and elegant leisure, and all that sort of thing.
And she said you had studied in the East, and had learned how to make people do your will, even when they were far away from you. Is it true?" "Some say so," he answered. "It is not hypnotism?" she questioned. "I'm no Svengali, if that's what you mean," he responded, grimly. "I'll watch you, Katrine Dulany, and, if I find you worthy, some day I may tell you more."
Wilton Lackaye, then appearing as that white-eyed, hairy, awful Svengali everybody so loathed and applauded, dramatically recited a remarkable and original poem called the "Song of Broadway." Many a time since have I remembered the scene, the song, the company; the long, wine-stained tables, the eddying cigarette smoke, the acute, lively faces.
It was a time when George Du Maurier's "Trilby" was in the full swing of its great popularity, when the name of the sinister Svengali was on every lip, and certain young eccentrics found huge delight in attracting attention to themselves by parading the Avenue attired as "Taffy," the "Laird," and "Little Billee."
Svengali hypnotizes her, and, beneath his magic spell she becomes the greatest cantatrice in Europe. Hypnotism is a power but little understood; so we must permit Du Maurier to make such Jules Verne's excursions into that unknown realm as may please him. Had Svengali made a contortionist of the stiff old Devonshire vicar we could not cry "impossible."
If he applies to a parent for permission to use it he probably runs his head against a blank wall of ignorance; for hypnotism, to most people, means a dangerous power by which an unscrupulous, strong-willed Svengali dominates an abnormally weak-willed Trilby whose will continues to grow weaker until the subject becomes a mere automaton; and most of us would rightly prefer that a boy should be his own master even if he were rushing to headlong ruin than that he should be the mere puppet of the most saintly man living.
There was power in the poise of her head and in the rhythmic swaying of her body, but her playing was curiously unfeminine. There was no touch of girlish grace, of sentiment, in her performance, and with a sudden enlightenment Serviss inwardly exclaimed: "Aha! A clerical Svengali! This musical preacher has trained his pupil till she plays as he would play if he had the digital facility.
As weak intellects yield readily to hypnotic power, Svengali had an easy victim. I have no word of criticism for the poor creature.
Well, Jack, you certainly have got a powerful eye, but you've been trying to Svengali this out-fit out of the mud for an hour, and I haven't seen it move an inch, so far. Let's just try something else." "A prayer outa your prayer book, maybe," her husband retorted, not troubling to move or turn his head. Casey blinked and looked again.
"I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society," went on the girl. "It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from walking about without shoes or stockings." "Don't tell me any more," was Furneaux's surprising comment. "I'll do the rest.
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