13: [1842] JEREMIAS GOTTHELF - The Black Spider
In an attempt to save her neighbours from the violence threatened by a band of tyrannical knights who rule the valley, Swiss midwife Christine strikes a bargain with the Devil. The Devil’s kiss on her cheek seals the agreement and the people are spared. However, the price — a newborn child — is too much for the woman to pay, and when the Devil is denied his due, he extracts a grisly revenge. A burning mark develops on Christine’s cheek where she was kissed. It grows, swelling frightfully, taking the shape of a black spider. Finally, it erupts, unleashing masses of spiders that carry plague and hideous death throughout the valley. The horrid climax of the novel is strikingly similar to a sequence in John Schlesinger’s film The Believers (1987), in which a spider-disgorging boil appears on the heroine’s cheek. Die Schwarze Spinne was turned into operas in 1936 and 1949, and filmed by Mark R. Rissi in Switzerland in 1983.
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First published in 1842, The Black Spider was largely ignored and forgotten until 1949, when Thomas Mann wrote about it with the highest praise. English translations soon followed and today readers can enjoy it as one of those relatively rare examples of an outstanding horror novel that deservedly ranks among the best of world literature. The author, Albert Bitzius, was a Swiss pastor who chose to use a pseudonym and gained a measure of success with several lengthy novels of regional life written in a realistic manner. The Black Spider is quite different, and very special. Although it’s a short novel it combines the plague tale, the historical legend and the religious parable with a quirky, personal style. The result is a work of both epic scope and driving immediacy, and even now it reads as a thoroughly modern piece of fiction. That the midwife, motivated only by a desire to help, should be forced to act the mother in a bestial travesty of natural birth is one of the more disturbing ironies in this remarkable story. It is also one of the best early examples in literature of the human body being invaded by alien or demonic forces. The devil is eventually trapped, but it is a stalemate rather than a simple victory. Evil remains at hand, a constant threat and a dangerous temptation, as we are shown when there is a reprise of the terror two hundred years later. There’s much more to it than that, of course. The Black Spider is actually an artful, highly involved twofold narrative couched in the kind of literary framework that Henry James used more than fifty years later in The Turn of the Screw, one that would become routine in countless tales of terror. At times the writing is so casual as to appear slapdash, but any minor infelicities have the cunning effect of heightening tension and atmosphere, and the story never lets up, even though it ranges over a period of nearly six centuries. Gotthelf was not a craftsman but he was a spontaneous, intuitive writer who had a sure sense of what he was doing. When The Black Spider first appeared its transparent religious lesson was no doubt taken as the whole point of the novel, and there’s no denying it has an almost Biblical quality. That may be the least important side of it, however. The Black Spider is a richly suggestive work with clear political and even environmental overtones; it rewards attention at several different levels. But perhaps its greatest strength can be found in its very real, human characters and the emotional intensity of their terrible situation. The Black Spider is a macabre, darkly glittering classic. — THOMAS TESSIER
14: [1844-5] EUGENE SUE - The Wandering Jew
Marie-Joseph Eugene Sue’s Le Juif Errant is perhaps the most sustained literary treatment of the legend of the Jew cursed by Jesus Christ to remain alive until the Second Coming. The Wandering Jew has cameo appearances in novels as diverse as Lewis’ The Monk (1796) and Walter M. Miller Jr’s A Canticle for Leibowitz (1960). Sue’s Jew, influenced perhaps by Maturin’s Melmoth, travels a degraded modern world, spreading cholera wherever he goes, and is used by the author to expose various contemporary evils. As in many late Gothics, the perfidious Jesuits come in for a particular bashing. The novel was filmed several times in the early days of the cinema, by French film pioneer Georges Melies in 1904, and by Italian studios in 1913 (as L’Ebreo errante) and 1918 (as Morok). Later movies under the same title — including a “lost” 1933 Conrad Veidt vehicle — are adaptations of a play by E. Temple Thurston. Sue was also the author of the grisly melodramatic novels Les Mysteres de Paris (The Mysteries of Paris, 1842-3), Les Septs Peches Capitaux (The Seven Cardinal Sins, 1847-9) and Les Mysteres du Peuple (The Mysteries of the People, 1849-56). The Wandering Jew has recently been brought back into print by UK publisher Dedalus, also responsible for the anthology Tales of the Wandering Jew, edited by Brian Stableford, and featuring stories by Stableford, Steve Rasnic Tern, David Longford and Kim Newman, amongst others.
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Publishers call them blockbusters; critics dismiss them as potboilers; in their own time and place — Paris of the 1840s — they were romans-feuilletons, or “newspaper-novels” — and the greatest of them all was Eugene Sue’s The Wandering Jew (unless that honor belongs to The Count of Monte Cristo, which was being serialized at exactly the same time in a rival Paris newspaper). The Wandering Jew has got, as the form demands, everything: an heiress falsely accused of madness and incarcerated in a lunatic asylum; a destitute hunchbacked seamstress of the highest moral character hopelessly in love with a blacksmith (who is a patriotic poet on the side); bloodthirsty panthers, telepathic twins, debauchery, murder, suicide, duels, supernatural manifestations, blazing passions, wild mobs, a plague of cholera, scenes in Java and the Arctic, the two best Reading-of-the-Will scenes that ever were, and towering over all these attractions, the nastiest crew of villains ever brought together in one book, presided over by the fiendish, the insidious, the wholly diabolic Jesuit priest and arch-hypocrite, Pere Rodin, who is hell-bent on becoming the next Pope. My first acquaintance with Sue’s genius came at about age 10 when, like stout Cortez upon his peak in Darien, I stared in wild surmize at the Classics Illustrated comicbook of The Mysteries of Paris, wherein the hero had been trapped, among frantic rats, in a cellar rapidly being flooded to the rafters. Here was an absolutely Basic Truth about human destiny that no other Classics Illustrated author had ever revealed to me. It was to be another ten years before I found the Modern Library Giant of The Wandering Jew (no longer in print, alas) and consumed its 1,337 pages of faded purple prose like so many kilograms of popcorn, since when I have remembered its main outlines and best scenes with the seared after-image recall that some few paintings of the same era achieve — Gericault’s Raft of the Medusa or Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, paintings that could be dismissed as cliches if they had not established themselves as archetypes. While that part of the novel-reading public that includes some classics as a staple in their diet can usually enjoy the glorious excesses of painter and composers, they tend to shy away from books that purvey the equivalent pleasures of Too Much and Far Out. Melodrama and an eye peeled for box office success are accounted mortal sins by academics, and it is academia that has been left in charge of which books of the past are to be accounted classics, taught, and kept in print. Yet I doubt the neglect of Sue’s novel can be ascribed entirely to highbrow snobbery, since any number of comparable novels by Scott Hugo, Dumas, and Wilkie Collins have managed to stay in print without much assistance from academia. Nor need the book’s length tell against it, for in the great pageturners, from Clarissa to The Godfather, length becomes a positive virtue: no one wants the fun to stop. I suspect that the root of the problem may be that The Wandering Jew is a vehemently anticlerical parable (“vituperative”, one reference book calls it), while the tenor of the last forty years has been towards that brand of genteel ecumenicism whose first article of faith is that religion and politics should not be discussed — or if they are, every effort must be made to be fair and impartial. But melodrama is seldom fair: fair isn’t fun. Besides, Sue wasn’t writing in the age of Bing Crosby but at a time when the Roman church was in the vanguard of political repression. Which is not to say he doesn’t stack the deck. Besides the Machiavellian Pere Rodin and his Jesuit
minions, the book’s crew of Catholic villains includes a venal Mother Superior whose convent is a prison in disguise, a gluttonous bishop who is regaled by an ultramontane (i.e., rich and right wing) dowager with a lenten repast that includes “little Calvaries of apricot tartlets”, and “a superb crucifix of angelica with a crown of preserved barbaries”, together with such lay assistants as sweat-shop operators, wild animal tamers, and Indian thugees. There is not, this side of Melmoth the Wanderer (the most lurid of the Gothic novels and my second choice for an anthology of favorite horror novels; it was one of Sue’s prime sources), another work of literature better calculated to drive a Catholic Anti-Defamation League into paroxysms of denunciation. To return such a book to print is obviously asking for trouble. And that’s a pity, because despite its glorious excesses (or in addition to them) The Wandering Jew represents a considerable literary achievement, especially for the way that Sue is able to weave his many characters into a plot of monolithic unity. To wit: seven descendants of one Marius de Rennespont stand to inherit that gentleman’s fortune, which has mounted at 5% interest over 150 years to a sum of 212,175,000 francs (or 8,487,000 pounds sterling). These seven, whom the Jesuits are determined to despoil of this fortune, represent a cross-section of all that is sexy, virtuous, and left-wing: Blanche and Rose Simon, twin daughters of one of Napoleon’s marshals, lately escaped from Siberia; a utopian-minded industrialist; the dashing Prince Djalma; an 18-year-old heiress of exquisite refinement; a debauched but good-hearted workman called Couche-tout-Nud; and the saintly young priest Gabriel, whom the Jesuits have tricked into making over his share of the fortune as a deed of gift. For the first half of the novel the bad guys conspire to see that only Gabriel will be present at the reading of the will, thus becoming sole legatee. Just as their scheme seems to have succeeded, the female counterpart of the Wandering Jew of the title appears as dea ex machina to uncover a hidden codicil that sets the plot in motion for another 600+ pages. I am sworn not to reveal how it all ends, but take my word, the final tableau is a lulu, and anything but vivante. For some readers that synopsis may suggest that the book is no more than a classic of camp humour, and indeed there are chapters when the extravagance of the plot can be discombobulating, especially if they have been bullied by the schoolmarms of Serious Literature into believing that grand gestures and bold colours are necessarily in bad taste. However, anyone who can enjoy Griffith’s Birth of a Nation or a well-sung Il Trovatore should have no trouble achieving total immersion in Sue’s story, while readers on friendly terms with Dickens and Balzac will feel a kindred sympathy for Sue. More to the point, perhaps, in terms of resurrecting this book from the limbo of used book stores, readers of such current melodramatists as Stephen King or Anne Rice ought to be highly receptive to Sue’s grand excesses (especially if his novel were to appear in a slightly condensed version). With just a bit of spit-and-polish the old warhorse could be a bestseller all over again. — THOMAS M. DISCH
15: [1857] HERMAN MELVILLE - The Confidence Man: His Masquerade
The Mississippi steamer Fid departs from St. Louis for New Orleans, bearing a wide cross-section of mid-19th-century American society. Among the passengers is an individual who appears and reappears in a variety of disguises — a crippled black, a charity fund-raiser, a stock speculator, an employment agent, a bogus philosopher — and rooks the venal and gullible of much more than their money. Neither a piece of Mark Twain-style Americana nor a simple tale of a cunning criminal, The Confidence Man is a masterpiece of misanthropy, in which Melville takes swipes at a wide variety of Americans, including figures like Emerson, Thoreau and Fenimore Cooper. The Confidence Man himself is a diabolic, perhaps supernatural, being whose methods of disguise are never rationally explained: his modus operandi has been reworked in novels as different as Grant Allen’s An African Millionaire (1898) and Steve Gallagher’s Valley of Lights (1987). The poor reception of the book convinced the 38-year-old Melville to give up writing and devote the rest of his working life to a solid job as a customs inspector. Many of his works, most famously Moby Dick (1851), contain horrific, bizarre or semi-supernatural incidents; his relatively few overt tales of horror — which touch upon vampirism, robots and ghosts — appear in The Piazza Tales (coll. 1966).
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The Confidence Man is not generally regarded as a novel of horror or fantasy, but I say without hesitation that it is the most fundamentally unsettling, powerful, and influential book I have ever opened. Melville’s narrative was born of a cynicism so profound and twisted his storytelling makes Kafka seem a bliss ninny in comparison. The book — what is in it and what I was taught by it — became then, and remains, the catechism of my irreligion. Perhaps, if I’d never read the book, I’d have become a writer anyway — but by no means would I be the same writer. I still find it astonishing how many crucial lessons The Confidence Man taught me. The instruction was bleak but invaluable. First, I realized that the most potentially dangerous and subversive of fictional characters is the narrator who speaks in a confiding, authoritative, and supposedly neutral third-person voice. It is unsettling enough to read a book written in first-person, where we come to mistrust the truth, the motives, and the candour of the narrator. But what happens when the anonymous third-person narrator of a novel is untrustworthy? It seemed to me, reading in awe, that not Melville, but the God of Lies himself had written the book. A narrator, I understood then, was every bit as much a creation of the writer as were the characters whose stories the narrator told us. This lesson I took to heart. Now I find myself frequently asked how it is possible I write books that seem totally different from one another: Southern Gothic Horror, Historical Thriller, Boy-Girl Romantic Adventure, Gay Detective Novels, Right-Wing Men’s Adventure. I’m told it appears as if wholly different people had composed and told stories in the various genres. That is essentially correct — I don’t so much create characters and a story as create a particular narrator who creates characters and a story. My narrators are variously cold, close, indulgent, condescending, admiring, jolly, warm-hearted, caustic, and clinical. The Confidence Man bears a subtitle: His Masquerade — but no one in the story wears so many costumes as he who tells the story. The second lesson I got from Melville’s book is contained in the three chapters with disconcertingly circular titles: [Ch. 14: “Worth the consideration of those to whom it may prove worth considering”; Ch.33: “Which may pass for whatever it may prove to be worth”; and Ch. 44: “In which the last three words of the last chapter are made the text of the discourse, which will be sure of receiving more or less attention from those readers who do not skip it”]. These ironic discourses — ironically dedicated to readers — are coded messages with meaning only to other writers. I write and I work by the observations contained in these cold yet scalding passages. One single dictum propels my typing fingers: “… in books of fiction, [readers] look not only for more entertainment, but, at bottom, even for more reality, than real life itself can show.” If there were ever harsher, crueler, more demanding, but finally more comforting words for a novelist, I have never read them. Finally, what The Confidence Man gave me was a straight-walled definition for what I had always felt about life and existence. It is my philosophy today, and I mean this in a straightforward plebeian manner — it is the basis on which I speak, and act, and feel. According to Melville (and now according to me, too), the universe and existence are only a joke but dimly discerned. The punchline is garbled and all we know, while the cosmos’ laughter clamours in our fevered brains, is that we are the butt of that joke. The Confidence Man is a book about deception, lies, obscure jests, undeserved misery, gratuitous fortune, connivance, philistine victories, and off-the-cuff evil. I felt after reading it that the lids of my eyes had been ripped away. Thereafter I saw existence and humanity and my own life with a galling amused embarrassing clarity, perceiving in dark unambiguous outline its doomed unpitied helplessness. This is the horror — finally — which prompts and imbues every tale I have ever put to paper. It is why
I always write with humour, because we are the confused victims of this obscure impractical joke we call life. And the laughter will echo when neither we nor those we love are around to hear it. — MICHAEL MCDOWELL
16: [1864] J. SHERIDAN LE FANU - Uncle Silas: A Tale of Bertram-Haugh
Austin Ruthyn, father of the seventeen-year-old narrator Maud, firmly believes that his disgraced brother Silas is innocent of the crimes everyone else attributes to him. On Silas’ recommendation, he takes into his house Madame de la Rougierre, a sinister governess who terrorizes Maud and is expelled when Austin finds her prying into his private papers. Austin realizes that Silas is plotting to gain the fortune he intends to leave to Maud, but succumbs to a stroke just as he is about to strike out of his will the clause that gives Maud over into her uncle’s care until she reaches her majority. Maud goes to live at Bertram-Hough, Silas’ gloomy pile, and soon realizes that Silas, his reprobate son Dudley and the wicked governess are scheming against her. Although not one of the ghost stories for which its author was famous, Uncle Silas is a prime example of mid-Victorian post-Gothic melodrama. Unlike Jane Eyre, with which it shares many elements, it does not finally resolve into a romance between the put-upon heroine and the saturnine master of the crumbling house but piles on the horrors and reveals Silas to be a villain considerably worse than the world thinks him. In 1947, it was filmed twice, in England as Uncle Silas (a.k.a. The Inheritance) with Jean Simmons as the heroine, and in Argentina by Carlos Schliepper as El Mysterioso Tio Silas. A BBC-TV serial, The Dark Angel, starring Peter O’Toole, faithfully retold the story in 1989.
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This masterpiece of its kind first appeared in its present form in the Dublin University Magazine in 1864 under the title of Uncle Silas and Maud Ruthyn. This serial publication was followed by a three-volume edition by Bentley, and one-volume issues since then have been frequent. When he wrote Uncle Silas Le Fanu had already produced four long stories. Two of these, “The Cock and Anchor” and “Torlogh O’Brien”, were early works, separated by an interval of fourteen or fifteen years from the long series which he began in 1861. In that year he brought out The House by the Churchyard, and in 1863 Wylder’s Hand. I have always thought that in some ways The House by the Churchyard is the best of all his books: but it cannot be denied that Uncle Silas is the better known and has elisted more suffrages. It is indeed more compact and clearer in plot; its population is more easily grasped; there is not the multiplicity of threads which make the earlier book — some would say confusing, I say rich and attractive. And it does possess very great excellences. Let me reckon up some of the features which I remember to have caught my fancy when I first read the book, some time in the early eighties, I suppose. There was Maud Ruthyn herself. Surely that character is well kept up throughout? Of course there is always the improbability of the recollection of long dialogues spoken many years before they were written down, but that is a convention in which one can very easily acquiesce. What matters is that the girl should write as a sensible pleasant woman would write in later years, when she was able to detach herself enough from her girlish self to be amused at it and critical of it. That I think Le Fanu has made her do, and he has made her sensible and pleasant. It was a role, by the way, which he rather liked: in his last novel, Willing to Die, the pen is held by a lady very like Maud Ruthyn, and so it is in the admirable story of “Carmilla”. Monica Knollys: I do not know if the wise sharp-tongued humorous lady of mature age has often been better drawn. What good language she uses! How well she tells the story of Charke’s murder! For Dr. Bryerly too I have a particular respect. His talk to the housekeeper when he comes at dead of night to watch by Austin Ruthyn’s body is one of those outbursts in which I think Le Fanu reaches a great height of eloquence, and shows the poet that was in him. But naturally, among the characters, my chief admiration was centred on Uncle Silas himself and yet more on Madame de la Rougierre. The horrid veneer of French culture combined with pietism that appears in Silas’s talk and letters is inimitable: “Chaulieu and the evangelists” as Lady Knollys puts it. It is she too who drops a hint about Silas which I think was, in the back of Le Fanu’s mind, the key to the situation, though, true to his artistic instinct, he does not dwell on it. “Perhaps,” she says, “Other souls than human are sometimes born into the world and clothed in flesh.” “Venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed,” Uncle Silas is a figure who stamps himself on the memory. “On a sudden, on the grass before me, stood an odd figure — a very tall woman in grey draperies, nearly white under the moon, courtesying extraordinarily low, and rather fantastically.” That is the way in which Madame de la Rougierre is introduced, and from that moment whenever she is on the scene she rivets the attention. It is a most careful study; the language she speaks is but one of many successes in the portrait. What a hideous atmosphere she carries with her! The hints of a dreadful past, the growing certainty that she is an accomplice in an obscure plot, the relief when she vanishes from Knowl, the ghastly shock when she is discovered in the attic at Bertram-Haugh — to me all these episodes seem to be really masterly in the working out. Throughout the story many little scenes are managed which serve to put us in the right frame of mind, expectant of tragedy. There is the talk of the Swedenborgian in the third chapter, there is the account of the family ghosts of Knowl, the fortune-telling gipsy, the mysterious “Fly the fangs of Belsarius”: but of course it is the march of the main story with its short glimpses of light followed by increasing darkness, the gradual withdrawal of friends and closing up of avenues of escape, that ought to enlist and does enlist our terrified interest. The climax, I have always thought, is in every way worthy of what has gone before, and the swift ending of the book is artistically right, I am sure. Vulgar Victorian curiosity, I confess, always makes me wish to know exactly what Uncle Silas and Dudley said to each other when they discovered their mistake: but this is more than we could reasonably expect to be told; even if Dickon Hawkes heard it and repeated it, years after, Lady Ilbury might well have hesitated to write it down. There are not many stories which succeed in creating and in sustaining with the right intensity the atmosphere of mystery and the crescendo of impending doom, and whose dramatis personae are at the same time so unremote and so easily realized. I wish the book many readers, and I wish that all of them may find in it the same delight that it has often brought to me. — M. R. JAMES
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