by C. L. Moore
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Forty Years of C. L. Moore
Edited by Lester Del Rey
Back in the fall of 1933, I opened the November issue of Weird Tales to find a story with the provocative but meaningless title, “Shambleau,” by an unknown writer named C. L. Moore—and life was never quite the same afterward. Up to that time, science-fiction readers had accepted the mechanistic and unemotional stories of other worlds and future times without question. After the publication of Moore’s story, however, the bleakness of such writing would never again be satisfactory.
Almost forty years later, I sat in the audience at a World Science Fiction Convention banquet, listening to Forrest J. Ackerman announce a special award that was about to be presented to a writer. As is customary, Ackerman was saving the name of the recipient for the climax. But he mentioned a story called “Shambleau” and never got to finish his speech. As one, the 2,000 people in the audience came instantly to their feet in unanimous tribute—clapping, shouting, and craning to see a gracious and lovely lady blushingly accept the applause.
Many in that audience had never read the story. But everyone knew about it. And everyone knew that Catherine Moore was one of the finest writers of all time in the field of science fiction.
It is probably impossible to explain to modem readers how great an impact that first C. L. Moore story had. Science fiction has learned a great deal from her many examples. But if you could go back to the old science-fiction magazines of the time and read a few issues, and then turn to “Shambleau” for the first time, you might begin to understand. The influences of that story were and are tremendous.
Here, for the first time in the field, we find mood, feeling, and color. Here is an alien who is truly alien—far different from the crude monsters and slightly-altered humans found in other stories. Here are rounded and well-developed characters. Northwest Smith, for in-
stance, is neither a good guy nor a bad guy—he may be slightly larger than life, but he displays all aspects of humanity. In “Shambleau” we also experience as never before both the horror at what we may find in space and the romance of space itself. And—certainly for the first time that I can remember in the field—this story presents the sexual drive of humanity in some of its complexity.
“Black Thirst” was Moore’s next story, and it continued the exploits of Northwest Smith. In this story, something new was brought to our tales of the far planets: a quality of beauty as a thing a man must strive for, even when it is perverted to wrong ends. There were other stories of Northwest Smith, but these first two stand out as the most moving and original.
Many of Moore’s early stories appeared in Weird Tales, though they were basically science fiction. Apparently, some of the editors of the sf magazines of the day were afraid of such extreme deviation from the more standard stories. But in October, 1934, Astounding Stories published her “Bright Illusion.” Now in those days, as countless letters to the editor indicated, the one thing readers of the science-fiction magazines did not want was a love story. Yet here was a tale of the pure quintessence of love that transcended all limits! Nevertheless, the readers raved about it arid clamored for more.
A few years ago, Larry Janifer was putting together an anthology of the favorite stories of a number of leading writers in the field. I sent him three titles, including “Bright Illusion.” He wrote back to say that he’d never read it before, that he was deeply grateful to me for suggesting it, and that it was an absolute must for the book. Somehow, in spite of advances and changes in our writing, the stories of C. L. Moore remain as fresh and powerful now as they were back when the field was groping through its beginnings.
Meanwhile, in Weird Tales, Moore was beginning a new series of stories about Jirel, the warrior maid of the mythical kingdom of Joiry. In those days, the sf magazines were all intensely male oriented. Most of the readers were male, and the idea of sexual equality had never been considered—certainly not for the protagonist of an adventure story. For such fiction, it followed axiomatically, one used a male hero. But in “Black God’s Kiss” the intensely feminine Jirel was a woman equal in battle to any swashbuckling male hero who ever ruled over the knights of ancient valor.
Jirel of Joiry was no imperturbable battler, however. She loved and hated, feared desperately to the core of her superstitious heart—and yet dared to take risks that no man had ever faced. Every male reader loved the story, forgot his chauvinism, and demanded more stories
about Jirel. More were quickly forthcoming, though to my mind, the first one remained marginally the best and most original. “Black God’s Kiss” was simply too good to be surpassed in later episodes of the series.
“Tryst in Time” was another love story that greatly pleased the readers of Astounding Stories. Once again Moore captured the ultimate sense of romance that could be accepted only in a world of fantasy. Here was a love that swept through time—roving among the ages and building slowly to a climax of full realization. Yet “Tryst in Time” was more than a love story—it was also an exposition of both the fallibility and the glory of man.
During these early years, C. L. Moore had been a fairly prolific writer of stories which dealt almost exclusively with the most emotional elements of fiction. But after 1938, changes came about that may or may not have been caused by a change in her personal life. Her biographers disagree, and she makes few comments that provide us with any real answer. My own suspicion is that the changes occurred because of greater maturity on the part of the writer. Certainly, however, the alteration of her fictional interests coincide with a major event in her life.
When her first story was published, she was just twenty-two years old and was employed as a secretary in a bank in Indianapolis. By all accounts, she was a lovely and very popular young lady. But there had been many years of ill health before, during which she had turned to fiction as an escape. She says that she had been writing for fifteen years before submitting anything for publication. That would explain the “escapist” nature of her early fiction, though hardly the vigor of the stories.
In 1938, Catherine Moore met Henry Kuttner, a young writer of great promise, who was then just becoming recognized. She gave up her job in Indianapolis and moved to New York, where she and Kuttner were married in 1940. From then until 1958, when Kuttner died of a heart attack, after becoming one of the leading writers of science fiction, her interests were strongly focused on writing as a way of life.
Kuttner and Moore were an unusual mating of talents. Her fiction was noted for its sensitivity and emotional coloration. His was essentially intellectual in its creation, based upon a firm understanding of plot structure and, initially, often more clever than moving in its developments. Somehow, the couple managed to merge their talents, so that a story by either one would display both an intellectual base and a richly colored background.
They often worked together upon a single story; indeed, few stories produced during their marriage seem to be the work of either one alone. They used a great number of pseudonyms, some of which they seemed to share or exchange. And generally, the authorship of many of the stories is something of a puzzle, even today. A tale credited to Kuttner in one compiler’s list may be ascribed to Moore in another list. Internal evidence isn’t always much help, either. I’m told that the novel Fury was written by Kuttner, based upon a novelette entitled “Clash by Night,” by Moore; yet of the two, the novel seems to have more of the richness of emotional tone one might expect from Moore.
The change in Moore’s fiction began before her marriage, however. “Greater Than Gods” appeared in the July, 1939 issue of Astounding Science Fiction (the magazine having changed its title slightly). In this story, love again plays a key role—but hardly in its old, rom
antic fashion. Here love is no longer some unbreakable tie between man and woman that can defy time and the gods. Now the conflict lies in a choice between duty and a man’s desire for love. The problem and the resolution of the story are clearly intellectual in their development. Only the power of the writing remains unchanged from the preceding “Tryst in Time.”
Moore’s next story also must have been written before her marriage, though it appeared afterward, in the October, 1940 issue of Unknown. “Fruit of Knowledge” is straight fantasy with ‘none of the trappings of science fiction. And here it is difficult to determine whether emotion or intellect is the stronger element. The basic idea
—the ancient myth of Lilith—is one that almost forces a writer to fall back on the emotionalism usually associated with this strangely undying bit of folklore. Moore’s refusal to accept the obvious in telling of this conflict of love and Divine Power indicates clearly the deeper insight she was gaining in the handling of the elements of fiction.
Unfortunately, the years of marriage resulted in very few stories that can be credited with any certainty to C. L. Moore alone. As time went on, her stories became increasingly more rare in the magazines. Yet when one did appear, it was generally so outstanding that the quality of this later work almost makes up for the lack in number.
Of these later stories, my favorite is “No Woman Born,” which appeared in the December issue of Astounding Science Fiction. This is a nearly perfect blend of emotion and intellect. The conflict of the story lies in the problem of discovering what the basis of true humanity may really be—a problem that has baffled philosophers for centuries. Quite rightly, Moore sees the problem also as encompassing the need to know the basis and nature of human emotions. The
resulting portrait of a great artist and marvelously feminine woman struggling to be true to her inner self is unforgettable.
Perhaps the least typical Moore story included here is “Daemon,” which appeared in the October, 1946 issue of Famous Fantastic Fiction. This is a straight fantasy about a “simpleton” with a strange gift. The idea seems slight, and it could easily lead to an excess of sentimentality. Yet the story is told simply and calmly—but very effectively. It’s an excellent example of Moore’s developed craftsmanship as a writer.
At about the same time, in the September, 1946 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, “Vintage Season” appeared. This is the story which most seem to consider Moore’s masterpiece. Certainly it has been included in more of the great anthologies than her other stories. C. L. Moore seems to have posed a problem for most anthologists; her stories are never less than 10.000 words in length, and most are much longer. The editor of an anthology is usually compelled to include as many stories as possible, which means that novelettes tend to be passed up in favor of shorter stories. But “Vintage Season” proved to be so good that it could hardly be left out!
Certainly the story is a showpiece for all the talents of C. L. Moore. It blends the disparate elements of horror and beauty, alien culture and human feelings, and progress and decadence. And it has the sense of inevitability needed for great fiction, skillfully combined with the uncertainty of a fine suspense story. I refuse to describe the story further, since it must be read to be truly appreciated.
During the following years, C. L. Moore wrote a few stories and a novel, Doomsday Morning. But most of her time seems to have been spent in collaborating with her husband and in finishing her college education, which was interrupted by financial difficulties during the Depression.
After the tragic death of Henry Kuttner, she remained in California, where she turned to the lucrative field of television writing. She has married again, this time to Thomas Reggie, who is not a writer.
There have been no new science-fiction or fantasy stories from C. L. Moore for almost twenty years now. But her reputation among readers and editors has never diminished. She remains preeminent in the field. And recently she has begun to talk about trying her hand again at science fiction. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!
—Lester del Rey
New York
1993
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Black God’s Kiss
They brought in Joiry’s tall commander, struggling between two men-at-arms who tightly gripped the ropes which bound their captive’s mailed arms. They picked their way between mounds of dead as they crossed the great hall toward the dais where the conqueror sat, and twice they slipped a little in the blood that spattered the flags. When they came to a halt before the mailed figure on the dais, Joiry’s commander was breathing hard, and the voice that echoed hollowly under the helmet’s confines was hoarse with fury and despair.
Guillaume the conqueror leaned on his mighty sword, hands crossed on its hilt, grinning down from his height upon the furious captive before him. He was a big man, Guillaume, and he looked bigger still in his spattered armor. There was blood on his hard, scarred face, and he was grinning a white grin that split his short, curly beard glitteringly. Very splendid and very dangerous he looked, leaning on his great sword and smiling down upon fallen Joiry’s lord, struggling between the stolid men-at-arms.
“Unshell me this lobster,” said Guillaume in his deep, lazy voice. “We’ll see what sort of face the fellow has who gave us such a battle. Off with his helmet, you.”
But a third man had to come up and slash the straps which held the iron helmet on, for the struggles of Joiry’s commander were too fierce, even with bound arms, for either of the guards to release their hold. There was a moment of sharp struggle; then the straps parted and the helmet rolled loudly across the flagstones.
Guillaume’s white teeth clicked on a startled oath. He stared. Joiry’s lady glared back at him from between her captors, wild red hair tousled, wild lion-yellow eyes ablaze.
“God curse you!” snarled the lady of Joiry between clenched teeth. “God blast your black heart!”
Guillaume scarcely heard her. He was still staring, as most men stared when they first set eyes upon Jirel of Joiry. She was tall as most men, and as savage as the wildest of them, and the fall of Joiry was
bitter enough to break her heart as she stood snarling curses up at her tall conqueror. The face above her mail might not have been fair in a woman’s head-dress, but in the steel setting of her armor it had a biting, sword-edge beauty as• keen as the flash of blades. The red hair was short upon her high, defiant head, and the yellow blaze of her eyes held fury as a crucible holds fire.
Guillaume’s stare melted into a slow smile. A little light kindled behind his eyes as he swept the long, strong lines of her with a practised gaze. The smile broadened, and suddenly he burst into fullthroated laughter, a deep bull bellow of amusement and delight.
“By the Nails!” he roared. “Here’s welcome for the warrior! And what forfeit d’ye offer, pretty one, for your life?”
She blazed a curse at him.
“So? Naughty words for a mouth so fair, my lady. Well, we’ll not deny you put up a gallant battle. No man could have done better, and many have done worse. But against Guillaume—” He inflated his splendid chest and grinned down at her from the depths of his jutting beard. “Come to me, pretty one,” he commanded. “I’ll wager your mouth is sweeter than your words.”
Jirel drove a spurred heel into the shin of one guard and twisted from his grip as he howled, bringing up an iron knee into the abdomen of the other. She had writhed from their grip and made three long strides toward the door before Guillaume caught her. She felt his arms closing about her from behind, and lashed out with both spiked heels in a futile assault upon his leg armor, twisting like a maniac, fighting with her knees and spurs, straining hopelessly at the ropes which bound her arms. Guillaume laughed and whirled her round, grinning down into the blaze of her yellow eyes. Then deliberately he set a fist under her chin and tilted her mouth up to his. There was a cessation of her hoarse curses.
“By Heaven, that’s like kissing a sword-blade,” said Guillaume, lifting his lips at last.
Jirel choked something that was mercifully muffled as she darted her head sidewise, like a serpent striking, and sank her teeth into his neck. She missed the jugular by a fraction of an inch.
Guillaume said nothing, then. He sought her head with a steady hand, found it despite her wild writhing, sank iron fingers deep into the hinges of her jaw, forcing her teeth relentlessly apart. When he had her free he glared down into the yellow hell of her eyes for an instant. The blaze of them was hot enough to scorch his scarred face. He grinned and lifted his ungauntleted hand, and with one heavy
blow in the face he knocked her halfway across the room. She lay still upon the flags.
Jirel opened her yellow eyes upon darkness. She lay quiet for a while, collecting her scattered thoughts. By degrees it came back to her, and she muffled upon her arm a sound that was half curse and half sob. Joiry had fallen. For a time she lay rigid in the dark, forcing herself to the realization.
The sound of feet shifting on stone near by brought her out of that particular misery. She sat up cautiously, feeling about her to determine in what part of Joiry its liege lady was imprisoned. She knew that the sound she had heard must be a sentry, and by the dank smell of the darkness that she was underground. In one of the little dungeon cells, of course. With careful quietness she got to her feet, muttering a curse as her head reeled for an instant and then began to throb. In the utter dark she felt around the cell. Presently she came to a little wooden stool in a corner, and was satisfied. She gripped one leg of it with firm fingers and made her soundless way around the wall until she had located the door.
The sentry remembered, afterward, that he had heard the wildest shriek for help which had ever rung in his ears, and he remembered unbolting the door. Afterward, until they found him lying inside the locked cell with a cracked skull, he remembered nothing.