Part Ten

(Copyright 1927 by W. Paul Cook)

"Melmoth" contains scenes which even now have not lost their power to evoke dread. It begins with a death-bed--the old miser is dying of sheer fright because of something he has seen, coupled with a manuscript he has read and a family portrait which hangs in an obscure closet of his centuried home in County Wicklow. He sends to Trinity College, Dublin, for his nephew John; and the latter upon arriving notes many uncanny things. The eyes of the portrait in the closet glow horribly, and twice a figure strangely resembling the portrait appears momentarily at the door. Dread hangs over the house of the Melmoths, one of whose ancestors, "J. Melmoth, 1646," the portrait represents. The dying miser declares that this man--at a date slightly before 1800--is still alive. Finally the miser dies, and the nephew is told in the will to destroy both the portrait and a manuscript to be found in a certain drawer. Reading the manuscript, which was written late in the seventeenth century by an Englishman named Stanton, young John learns of a terrible incident in Spain in 1677, when the writer met a horrible fellow-countryman and was told of how he had stared to death a priest who tried to denounce him as one filled with fearsome evil. Later, after meeting the man again in London, Stanton is cast into a madhouse and visited by the stranger, whose approach is heralded by spectral music and whose eyes have more than mortal glare. Melmoth the Wanderer--for such is the malign visitor--offers the captive freedom if he will take over his bargain with the Devil; but like all others whom Melmoth has approached, Stanton is proof against temptation. Melmoth's description of the horrors of a life in a madhouse, used to tempt Stanton, is one of the most potent passages of the book. Stanton is at length liberated, and spends the rest of his life tracking down Melmoth, whose family and ancestral abode he discovers. With the family he leaves the manuscript, which by young John's time is sadly ruinous and fragmentary. John destroys both portrait and manuscript, but in sleep is visited by his horrible ancestor, who leaves a black and blue mark on his wrist.

Young John soon afterward receives as a visitor a shipwrecked Spaniard, Alonzo de Moncada, who has escaped from compulsory monasticism and from the perils of the Inquisition. He has suffered horribly--and the descriptions of his experiences under torment and in the vaults through which he once essays escape are classic--but had the strength to resist Melmoth the Wanderer when approached at this darkest hour in prison. At the house of a Jew who sheltered him after his escape, he discovers a wealth of manuscript relating other exploits of Melmoth, including his wooing of an Indian island maiden, Immalee, who later comes to her birthright in Spain and is known as the Donna Isidora; and of his horrible marriage to her by the corpse of a dead anchorite at midnight in the ruined chapel of a shunned and abhorred monastery. Moncada's narrative to young John takes up the bulk of Maturin's four-volume book; this disproportion being considered one of the chief technical faults of the composition.

At last the colloquies of John and Moncada are interrupted by the entrance of Melmoth the Wanderer himself, his piercing eyes now fading, and decrepitude swiftly overtaking him. The term of his bargain has approached its end, and he has come home after a century and a half to meet his fate. Warning all others from the room, no matter what sounds they may hear in the night, he awaits the end alone. Young John and Moncada hear frightful ululations, but do not intrude till silence comes toward morning. They then find the room empty. Clayey footprints lead out a rear door to a cliff overlooking the sea, and near the edge of the precipice is a track indicating the forcible dragging of some heavy body. The Wanderer's scarf is found on a crag some distance below the brink, but nothing further is ever seen or heard of him. Such is the story, and none can fail to notice the difference between this modulated, suggestive, and artistically moulded horror and--to use the words of Professor George Saintsbury--"the artful but rather jejune rationalism of Mrs. Radcliffe, and the too often puerile extravagance, the bad taste, and the sometimes slipshod style of Lewis." Maturin's style in itself deserves particular praise, for its forcible directness and vitality lift it altogether above the pompous artificialities of which his predecessors are guilty. Professor Edith Birkhead, in her history of the Gothic novel, justly observes that "with all his faults, Maturin was the greatest as well as the last of the Goths." "Melmoth" was widely read and eventually dramatised, but its late date in the evolution of the Gothic tale deprived it of the tumultuous popularity of "Udolpho" and "The Monk."

(_Next month Mr. Lovecraft takes up "The Aftermath of Gothic Fiction."_)

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DREAMS of YITH

DUANE W. RIMEL

I

In distant Yith past crested, ragged peaks; On far-flung islands lost to worldly years, A shadow from the ancient star-void seeks Some being which in caverns shrilly cries A challenge; and the hairy dweller speaks From that deep hole where slimy Sotho lies. But when those night-winds crept about the place, They fled--for Sotho had no human face!

II

Beyond the valleys of the sun which lie In misty chaos past the reach of time; And brood beneath the ice as aeons fly, Long waiting for some brighter, warmer clime; There is a vision, as I vainly try To glimpse the madness that must some day climb From age-old tombs in dim dimensions hid, And push all angles back--unseal the lid!

III

Beside the city that once lived there wound A stream of putrefaction writhing black; Reflecting crumbling spires stuck in the ground That glow through hov'ring mist whence no stray track Can lead to those dead gates, where once was found The secret that would bring the dwellers back. And still that pitch-black current eddies by Those silver gates of Yith to sea-beds dry.

IV

On rounded turrets rising through the visne Of cloud-veiled aeons that the Old Ones knew: On tablets deeply worn and fingered clean By tentacles that dreamers seldom view; In space-hung Yith, on clammy walls obscene That writhe and crumble and are built anew; There is a figure carved; but God! those eyes, That sway on fungoid stems at leaden skies!

V

Around the place of ancient, waiting blight; On walls of sheerest opal rearing high, That move as planets beckon in the night To faded realms where nothing sane can lie; A deathless guard tramps by in feeble light, Emitting to the stars a sobbing cry. But on that path where footsteps should have led There rolled an eyeless, huge and bloated head.

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SCIENCE FICTION IN ENGLISH MAGAZINES

by Bob Tucker

(Series Seven)

A late May issue of TRIUMPH carried "Invisible Charlie" by Tom Stirling. (No reflections on you, Editor). However, the story was of juvenile character, and the most terrible thing Invisible Charlie did was to make a ball do funny tricks on its way from the pitcher to the batter, Invisible Charlie himself carrying it, of course.

Vol. 1, numbers 15 and 16 of SCOOPS presented: Two chapters of Doyle's "Poison Belt," two of "Devilman of the Deep," and two of "Black Vultures," leaving very little short story space.

Number 15 had "Fighting Gas" which is self explanatory, and "The March of the Beserks," mentioned previously. Number 16, besides the serials already mentioned, had "The Accelerator Ray" which speeds up life, and "Temple of Doom" which is a sort of "suspended animation" tale, with its usual Man from the past waking in the future twist.

The cover of 16 is "Mails by Rocket" and portrays two rockets flying over London with the mail.

Incidentally, although not a part of this dept., I would like to mention that there are 'Rocket Mail' stamps on sale over there! Regular rocket mail service is carried on in parts of Europe, and special stamps have been issued for it. The two I have seen portray huge rockets taking off, with long streamers of fire behind. Price is 1 mark and 10 Groschen.

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FAMOUS FANTASY FICTION

by Emil Petaja

The Supernatural Omnibus, edited by Montague Summers; Doubleday Doran Co. This remarkable collection contains thirty-six stories of the best fantasy fiction. It is of particular interest to American readers as most of its stories are taken from English magazines and out-of-print books which most of us would find difficult to obtain. The introduction is especially interesting.

A. Conan Doyle has written several books of a scientific and weird nature. Perhaps the best of these is "The Maracot Deep." In this story the scientific theme predominates, until the very last chapter, in which we find a typical _Jules de Grandin_ finis. Among the other stories in this book, "When the Earth Screamed" is easily the best. This book can now be had in the 75 cent reprint list.

"Famous Mystery Stories" and "Famous Ghost Stories" both edited by J. W. McSpadden contain many old favorites, such as O'Brien's "The Diamond Lens," Crawford's "The Upper Berth," and de Maupassant's "Horla." You can get these books at any public library.

Ghosts, Grim and Gentle, edited by L. C. French; Dodd, Mead & Co. Although many of the stories in this volume have been reprinted very often, it is well worth reading. One of its best is "The Tractate Middoth," by Dr. M. R. James; mentioned by Clark Ashton Smith in his article in the February _Fantasy Fan_.

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Rider By Night

by David H. Keller

I asked one of the small boys playing around the schoolhouse.

"Does Miss Belle Flowers teach here?"

She did, and two minutes later I was in her class room, our conversation being listened to with much interest by the twenty-odd little boys and girls in the room. It seemed that she was expecting me, and that I could make the examination in twenty minutes after school was closed. So I decided to wait outside.

It was a modern eight room consolidated country school, which seemed to be built miles from everywhere. On one side, an old Ford car, three buggies, and at least fifteen saddle-horses were parked. A few shabby shrubs shivered silently in the sallow sunshine of spring. Here and there remnants of building material told the story of the building's recent construction.

Walking along, I turned the corner of the building and looked toward the west. What I saw made me walk away from the schoolhouse to a white-haired darkey sitting on the ground propped against a wire fence. He seemed asleep, but when I came near him, he turned to me a weasened face with two eyes circled with the arcus senilis of the aged.

I asked him to have a cigarette, and lit it for him; then sat down by his side.

"Queer place for a schoolhouse, Uncle," I said.

"Worsen queer. Poor and hard on us."

"How come?"

"Quality folks put it heayr, whar land was cheap. Peers like they didn't know about Massa."

"Your Master?"

"None but."

I looked over at the tombstone. Just one stone, and at the back of it a cypress tree. Four fence posts around the tree and the stone, and then were connected by a wire fence. The posts were newly placed, the wire made up of odds and ends tied together and nailed in place with every kind of nail imaginable.

I handed the old man another cigarette and a silver dollar.

"Tell me about it," I asked.

It was a short story. The Colonel had gone to war in '61 and his servant had gone with him. In '62 the negro had brought his Master back blind. Years later he had died, and was buried on the knoll, and a cypress was planted at the head of the grave. Now he was forgotten by all except the whitened slave. The land had been sold and a school house built on it. Today was the first day of school. The old man, afraid that the grave would be desecrated by the cheap white trash, had dug four holes, put in four posts, wired them and was now sitting guard till school was out and the children gone.

"The Colonel shure wouldn't like it. Gwine to bother him riding."

"Does he ride?" I asked.

"Bound to. That air man was almost borned in saddle. He rid to the war and he rid back, blind tho he war, and he rides ever since. He done told me, 'Sam, I am bound to ride till Miss Belle Flowers marries me.' Corse, he done gone to Heaven years ago, but every night he rides on his white mare, and I done kiver me head with the blanket when Ise hear her hoofs go pounding up and down the road."

"He was going to marry Miss Belle Flowers?" I asked.

It appeared so. They were engaged when he rode away and when he came back blind, she was married to another. Every night he had the white mare saddled and would gallop up and down the road in front of her house. He and the mare died the same day, and according to his will, the Colonel and the Colonel's horse were buried in the same grave.

School was dismissed. The children piled into the old Ford, into the old buggies, on top of the saddle-horses, one, two and even three to the horse. The school teachers, young and old, seven of them, left the building. It was time for my examination of Miss Belle Flowers.

I threw the rest of my cigarettes to the old negro.

"You have fixed the Colonel," I laughed. "With that fence around the grave, he cannot get the mare out for his ride tonight."

He looked at me with puzzled eyes.

"Massa's gwine ter ride. Just bound to ride till he marries Miss Belle. Come sundown, Ise gwine to open the fence to let him and the mare out. Warm tonight, and I'll sleep heyr. Massa may need me."

After talking to Miss Flowers, I told her that I was rather doubtful of her obtaining the life insurance; after I listened to her lungs, I was sure that she was a bad risk. A history of two yeaas in bed fighting tuberculosis made me hesitate. She looked strong and as pretty as a rose, but today, at the end of school, she had fever.

We talked it over outside the schoolhouse. We said goodbye twice. Somehow it was difficult to say goodbye and leave her. To gain time, I asked her about Sam. It seemed that Sam went insane when the Colonel died. There was a long story about it. Eventually I said goodbye again at her front gate and promised to call that night and hear the story.

There was a full moon that night.

She was waiting for me on the gallery, dressed in a riding habit of the sixties, when ladies rode a side saddle.

"My Grandmother's," she explained laughingly. "Yes, you have guessed it, especially if Sam talked to you. In 1860 Belle Flowers, pride of western Kentucky was engaged to the Colonel. They rode together, each on a white horse. She wore the dress I have on. I thought it would make the story more real to you if I wore her dress tonight. The Colonel went to war and Sam went with him. My Grandmother was fickle and married her cousin, another Flowers, and when the Colonel came back stone blind, it was too late. He swore that he would night-ride past her house till she married him. Grandmother used to tell me what a sight it was to see him go galloping by on his white mare, and no one able to tell by the way he rode that he couldn't see. She died years before he did, but he kept riding on, just as though he didn't know she was dead. Then one night he and the white mare died, and that was the end of the Colonel. Of course, Sam says he still rides."

"He does indeed, but of course that is just his insanity."

"Yes, just his insanity," Miss Flowers agreed. "I talked to him today about the patchwork fence he built around the grave, but he explained that he would take a piece down to let his Master out on the horse. In summer, he sleeps up there; says he never can tell when the Colenel will want him. It all seems so real to him."

She laughed, as though tense with suppressed excitement.

"It is good to have you call on me tonight," she whispered. "I hardly ever see anyone except Father, and he is moody. Don't want me to leave the house at night. Made me promise not to leave the gallery unless you went too."

"He knows about me?"

"Oh, yes, everyone knows about the new doctor. Let's walk down to the gate. In full moonlight, you can see the white of the Colonel's tombstone."

Picking up the trail of her riding habit, she went before me, down to the gate and opened it. She showed me a spot of white through the trees. I took her hand. It was cold.

"Night-riders," she said suddenly. "Two of them! Hear them come galloping down the road."

I heard nothing but a hoot owl in the bottoms.

Then something lashed me across the face, striking me to the ground. When I stood up, I was alone. Running into the house, I found Mr. Flowers.

"You are hurt!" he cried. "Slashed across the face with a riding whip. But you should have stayed on the gallery. Belle ought to have known better than to wear that dress. I told her not to, but you know how headstrong those girls are."

"That is not getting her back. Get a lantern. We have got to find her."

"We will go through the fields. There is a short cut. You light the lantern while I get a shawl for her. God, but it's cold and there's a black cloud over the moon."

I carried the shawl and almost had to run behind him as he carried the lantern over the hill. We came to the corner of the schoolhouse at last. Halfway to the tombstone, we stumbled over a body. It was Sam, still alive but gasping for breath.

"They done come back. Colonel and his lady. I'se gwine home now, case the Colonel won't call fer me no more."

Hand on wrist, I look at the white face of the man holding the lantern.

"He is dead!" I whispered.

"We have to find Belle," he cried, and went toward the grave.

There we found her sleeping, one hand on the stone, at rest.

Sitting on the ground he held her in his arms, crying.

I took the lantern and examined the clay earth outside the fence. Hoofprints of two shod horses, side by side.

"She ran up here to tease you, Doctor. It was too much for her heart. She slashed you across the face in play, and then ran here, thinking you would follow her. That explains everything, doesn't it, Doctor?"

"It should," I said gently, trying to unlock his arms from the lovely thing he held. "It should, but the Colonel will ride no more."

* * * * *

CELEBRITIES I'VE MET

by Mortimer Weisinger

Donald Wandrei, who frankly considers his stories "just so much junk" from an artistic viewpoint.

Nathan Schachner, who admits that he is a slow writer at best, one thousand words each night being his maximum output.

David Lasser, who profoundly apologized to the old Scienceers one night for concealing the fact that Gawain Edwards was only a pen name.

A perfunctory search through that register of eminent Americans, "Who's Who," reveals the following science fiction celebrities as listed: Edgar Rice Burroughs, J. U. Guiesy, Stanton A. Coblentz, George Allan England, Dr. T. O'Conor Sloane, Hugo Gernsback, Edwin Balmer, William MacHarg, T. S. Stribling, J. S. Haldane, A. Hyatt Verrill, Fred MacIsaac, Ellis Parker Butler, Eric Temple Bell.

What other fiction field can boast as many distinguished contributors?

* * * * *

ADVERTISEMENTS Rates: one cent per word Minimum Charge, 25 cents

Back Numbers of _The Fantasy Fan_: September, 20 cents (only a few left), October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, 10 cents each.

* * * * *

CLARK ASHTON SMITH presents THE DOUBLE SHADOW AND OTHER FANTASIES--a booklet containing a half-dozen imaginative and atmospheric tales--stories of exotic beauty, horror, terror, strangeness, irony and satire. Price: 25 cents each (coin or stamps). Also a small remainder of EBONY AND CRYSTAL--a book of prose-poems published at $2.00, reduced to $1.00 per copy. Everything sent postpaid. Clark Ashton Smith, Auburn, California.

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IMPORTANT! Many subscriptions to THE FANTASY FAN expire this fall. Yours is probably one of them. DON'T forget to send in your new subscription if you want THE FANTASY FAN to continue publication. EVERY DOLLAR COUNTS!

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Fantasy Magazine

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