The Fantasy Fan, Volume 1, Number 12, August 1934 The Fan's Own Magazine

Part Eleven

Chapter 23,038 wordsPublic domain

V. The Aftermath of Gothic Fiction

Meanwhile, other hands had not been idle, so that above the dreary plethora of trash like Marquis von Gross's "Horrid Mysteries," (1796) Mrs. Roche's "Children of the Abbey," (1798) Mrs. Dacre's "Zofloya; Or, the Moor," (1806) and the poet Shelley's schoolboy effusions "Zastrozzi" (1810) and "St. Irvyne" (1811) (both imitations of "Zofloya") there arose many memorable weird works both in English and German. Classic in merit, and markedly different from its fellows because of its foundation in the Oriental tale rather than the Walpolesque Gothic novel, is the celebrated "History of the Caliph Vathek" by the wealthy dilettante William Beckford, first written in the French language but published in English translation before the appearance of the original. Eastern tales, introduced to European literature early in the eighteenth century through Galland's French translation of the inexhaustibly opulent "Arabian Nights," had become a reigning fashion; being used both for allegory and amusement. The sly humour which only the Eastern mind knows how to mix with weirdness had captivated a sophisticated generation, till Bagdad and Damascus names became as freely strewn through popular literature as dashing Italian and Spanish ones were soon to be. Beckford, well read in Eastern romance, caught the atmosphere with unusual receptivity; and in his fantastic volume reflected very potently the haughty luxury, sly disillusion, bland cruelty, urbane treachery, and shadowy spectral horror of the Saracen spirit. His seasoning of the ridiculous seldom mars the force of his sinister theme, and the tale marches onward with a phantasmagoric pomp in which the laughter is that of skeletons feasting under Arabesque domes. "Vathek" is a tale of the grandson of the Caliph Haroun, who, tormented by that ambition for super-terrestrial power, pleasure, and learning which animates the average Gothic villain or Byronic hero, (essentially cognate types) is lured by an evil genius to seek the subterranean throne of the mighty and fabulous pre-Adamite sultans in the fiery halls of Eblis, the Mahomedan Devil. The descriptions of Vathek's palaces and diversions, of his scheming sorceress-mother Carathis and her witch-tower with the fifty one-eyed negresses, of his pilgrimage to the haunted ruins of Istakhar (Persepolis) and of the impish bride Nouronihar whom he treacherously acquired on the way, of Istakhar's primordial towers, and terraces in the burning moonlight of the waste, and of the terrible Cyclopean halls of Eblis, where, lured, by glittering promises, each victim is compelled to wander in anguish for ever, his right hand upon his blazingly ignited and eternally burning heart, are triumphs of weird colouring which raise the book to a permanent place in English letters. No less notable are the three "Episodes of Vathek," intended for insertion in the tale as narratives of Vathek's fellow-victims in Eblis' infernal halls, which remained unpublished throughout the author's lifetime and were discovered as recently as 1909 by the scholar Lewis Melville whilst collecting material for his "Life and Letters of William Beckford." Beckford, however, lacks the essential mysticism which marks the acutest form of the weird; so that his tales have a certain knowing Latin hardness and clearness preclusive of sheer panic fright.

But Beckford remained alone In his devotion to the Orient. Other writers, closer to the Gothic tradition and to European life in general, were content to follow more faithfully in the lead of Walpole. Among the countless producers of terror-literature in these times may be mentioned the Utopian economic theorist William Godwin, who followed his famous but non-supernatural "Caleb Williams" (1794) with the intendedly weird "St. Leon" (1799) in which the theme of the elixir of life, as developed by the imaginary secret order of "Roticrucians," is handled with ingeniousness if not with atmospheric convincingness. This element of Rosicrucianism, fostered by a wave of popular magical interest exemplified in the vogue of the charlatan Cagliostro and the publication of Francis Barrett's "The Magus" (1801), a curious and compendius treatise on occult principles and ceremonies, of which a reprint was made as lately as 1896, figures in Bulwer-Lytton and in many late Gothic novels, especially that remote and enfeebled posterity which straggled far down into the nineteenth century and was represented by George W.M. Reynolds' "Faust and the Demon" and "Wagner and the Wehr-Wolf." "Caleb Williams," though non-supernatural, has many authentic touches of terror. It is the tale of a servant persecuted by a master whom he has found guilty of a murder, and displays an invention and skill which have kept it alive in a fashion of this day. It was dramatised as "The Iron Chest," and in that form was almost equally celebrated. Godwin, however, was too much the conscious teacher and prosaic man of thought to create a genuine weird masterpiece.

His daughter, the wife of Shelley, was much more successful; and her inimitable "Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus" (1817) is one of the horror-classics of all time. Composed in competition with her husband, Lord Byron, and Dr. John William Polidori in an effort to prove supremacy in horror-making, Mrs. Shelley's "Frankenstein" was the only one of the rival narratives to be brought to an elaborate completion; and criticism has failed to prove that the best parts are due to Shelley rather than to her. The novel, somewhat tinged but scarcely marred by moral didacticism, tells of the artificial human being moulded from charnel fragments by Victor Frankenstein, a young Swiss medical student. Created by its designer "in the mad pride of intellectuality," the monster possesses full intelligence but owns a hideously loathsome form. It is rejected by mankind, becomes embittered, and at length begins the successive murder of all whom young Frankenstein loves best, friends and family. It demands that Frankenstein create a wife for it; and when the student finally refuses in horror lest the world be populated with such monsters, it departs with a hideous threat 'to be with him on his wedding night.' Upon that night the bride is strangled, and from that time on Frankenstein hunts down the monster, even into the wastes of the Arctic. In the end, whilst seeking shelter on the ship of the man who tells the story, Frankenstein himself is killed by the shocking object of the search and creation of his presumptous pride. Some of the scenes in "Frankenstein" are unforgettable, as when the newly animated monster enters its creator's room, parts the curtains of his bed, and gazes at him in the yellow moonlight with watery eyes--"if eyes they may be called." Mrs. Shelley wrote other novels, including the fairly notable "Last Man;" but never duplicated the success of her first effort. It has the true touch of cosmic fear, no matter how much the movement may lag in places. Dr. Polidori developed his competing idea as a long short story, "The Vampyre;" in which we behold a suave villain of the true Gothic or Byronic type, and encounter some excellent passages of stark fright, including a terrible nocturnal experience in a shunned Grecian wood.

(_Continued next month_)

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BOOK REVIEW

by Bob Tucker

Black Moon by Thomas Ripley is a thrilling, weird book of voodoo worship and adventure that should please any weird fan. The author knows voodoo, and voodoo worshipers, and he most ably presents it in this story.

The story concerns a young man of New York City, who is called to San Cristobal, an island off the coast of Haiti, by a mysteriously worded message, to the effect that the life of his sweetheart depends on his coming. Of course he goes, and is immediately plunged up to his neck in mystery and adventure.

His skirmishes with the voodoo'ers and his eventual discovery that his own is the virgin queen of the voodoo worshipers prove thrilling. He is beset by two villains, so to speak. Both his sweetheart, and her father make several attempts upon his life, after he makes the discovery.

The only criticisms of the book, are two, which even the most casual readers will notice at once. The story, and one of the characters, are altogether too "silvery" and too "cool".

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NECROMANCY

by Clark Ashton Smith

My heart is made a necromancer's glass, Where homeless forms and exile phantoms teem; Where faces of forgotten sorrows gleam, And dead despairs archaic peer and pass: Grey longings of some weary heart that was. Possess me, and the multiple, supreme, Unwildered hope and star-emblazoned dream Of questing armies.... Ancient queen and lass, Risen vampire-like from out the wormy mold, Deep in the magic mirror of my heart Behold their perished beauty, and depart. And now, from black aphelions far and cold, Swimming in deathly light on charnel skies, The enormous ghosts of bygone worlds arise.

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THE UNREMEMBERED REALM

by Robert Nelson

Nameless: that unremembered realm of the temporal universe Which the sundry gods have slighted to complete: These azure ice-peaks thrive and wane in wild exult, And shift their freezing heights in tremulous tumult; The wan ice-forms are vanished creatures lost in time.

Nameless: that unremembered realm of the temporal universe Which the sundry gods have slighted to complete: There the youthful moon is like a fount of living flame; The eldern sun moves in a clique of pallid, dying mist; Dark birds flow endlessly to turn the dawn to amethyst; When moon and sun and birds are gone the dead make fires In reeking, foul-swept skies above the great ice-spires, And view the cold-fraught land with last and mad proclaim.

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Ebony and Ash

(A Tale of Three Wishes)

by Richard Ely Morse

The city lay stricken, in those streets where once the carnival had passed to the sound of lute and hautboy, now masquers of another sort held reign, gray Pestilence, and livid Fever, and black-hooded Death. The houses, so short a time ago bedecked with sweet-scented garlands and precious stuffs, stood bleak and shuttered above the echoing streets. Inside the people crouched, with staring eyes and hands that trembled. No more did song or dance fantastic make bright their chambers; prayer and fasting rather, penance for their sins. "Sackcloth and ashes," had the gray-robed friars thundered for many a year, and now were their warnings proved indeed.

But there were those who, having made a jest of life, would mock even at Death himself. In tall painted chambers they feasted, where peacocks stalked emerald and amethyst on marble floors, while the banished flute and hautboy murmured softly, and great candles guttered away into perfumed ruin. Wine and jewels and the white breasts of women against the pall of darkness outside. When the feast was ended the guests departed each to his home, hiding his face in a cloak nor looking to right or to left.

But there were three, greatly favored by fortune, who left the feast boldly and unafraid. Florian, Marius, and Leon, friends from childhood, scoffers who feared nothing of the dank and noisome streets. With lanterns of hammered brass in their hands and swords girded at waist they set out, singing a love song, a sugared trifle more befitting to some pleached alley than to this seething night. They had gone but a short way before they came upon an aged crone who feebly leaned beside an empty pedestal. A thousand years seemed lined within the wrinkles of her face, but her eyes were young.

Bidding them stop she cried that she, who ever loved bold youth, would grant to each one wish if such he should choose to ask of her. Believing her mad, yet willing to humor the fancies of a disordered mind, they wished. Florian spoke first and begged that all the wealth within the teeming world be his. Marius next bespoke the fairest of women for his love. Leon last, and hesitating--sought happiness to be his boon. Then laughing they passed on, and coming to the square, parted, each for his home.

Florian went swiftly, for now the moon lay hidden from the earth and darkness rode upon the air. But soon he needst must stop--some vast bulk stopped his pace. Holding his lantern high its gleam came back a thousandfold; from gold and silver and gems heaped high until they seemed to threaten Heaven itself. Falling upon his knees Florian bathed his hands and arms within this precious flood, and threw bright handfuls against the crouching night. But now there was within his grasp something which seemed to whisper of sinister import, and as the dancing rays fell clear upon it he shrieked and threw it far away--a skull. With stricken face he fled, but as he ran, through every vein a swifter racer sped, while shuddering pain was in every member. And the lips of Fever twisted in a jagged grin.

Now the moon tore from her web of shadows and drew strange patterns over rooftops and cobbled ways. Marius stopped short, beholding at an open window a face of beauty such is found in dreams only, and then but seldom. Leaping from the street, Marius grasped the sill. She made no outcry nor murmur even when he caught her in his arms and kissed her curving mouth. She smiled ever, while from between her lips there crawled a bloated worm. And Pestilence laughed aloud.

But Leon lay quiet and forever still in the great square, with two curs worrying at his feet.

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A DISEMBODIED SHADOW

(A True Experience)

by Kenneth B. Pritchard

Everyone has seen shadows, but I'll wager that there are exceedingly few who have seen the kind I did, beside those who were with me at the time it happened.

You have read weird stories of shadows, or of people who cast none. What I am about to relate is true; I have witnesses to prove it.

It was twilight of a summer day in the year '27 or '28. Our little group was gathered in the rear of our homes--we called it the backyard, though it was composed of roadways. We were talking and the stars began to peep out of the skies. The street lamps began to glow, and the windows of the surrounding houses began to show lights. And thus, the stage was set.

Our eyes wandered. About fifteen feet away lay a large shadow.

It was mainly because of its size that I thought it might have been caused by a friend of mine sitting by a window in a nearby building. I became curious; thinking I could attract his attention so he would come and join us, I walked to a point of vantage. There was no one by the window, yet the shadow persisted in remaining!

Upon looking further, being fully aroused, I could find no cause for its existence. There was no possible, or probable source of blocked light. I did not forget the sun, the stars, or the sky itself. I found no flaw; the heavens and all ordinary light were normal. But there was a shadow covering an area of from 100 to 150 square feet.

The others gave it up. We could draw no satisfactory conclusion. I can tell you that it was an eerie feeling I had in observing a disembodied shadow. My mind went riot with thoughts of time travellers, visitors from space, etc.

Since then, I have tried to think of it as being caused by a kink in an otherwise clear atmosphere; but my reason seems to tell me differently. What was it? What strange thing had occurred that evening? Was this planet of ours visited by some half-seen beings from another world?

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FAMOUS FANTASY FANS

No. 3 Raymond A. Palmer

An indomitable will and courage has carried Raymond A. Palmer, or Rap as he signs his well-liked column in _Fantasy Magazine_, through trials and tribulations that would have sapped the strength of ordinary men. It was the organizing genius of Rap that started the Science Correspondence Club, and it was his guiding hand that brought it to a success. When he was confirmed at a sanitarium he was forced to give up his activities, and found the organization run down during his absence, when he returned. It is he who is again building the International Scientific Association to a position it once held.

He is the chairman for the Jules Verne Prize Club, and President of the International Scientific Association and his free hours are filled with the details of managing these two organizations. His working has been confined, by the depression, to writing stories.

Now, at the beginning of his writing career, he is already recognized as an author who will reach the highest pinnacles of the field. His work has been praised by leading science fiction critics as being among the outstanding stories appearing today.

Recently, he seems destined to achieve additional success in the field of radio continuity writing. He is now working on a Western skit on a year's contract.

He is active as a member of the "Fictioneers," an organized group of authors in Milwaukee, South Milwaukee, Wauwatosa, and other Wisconsin cities.

Counts among his friends members of every race and every country of the world. His letters fill many large packing boxes.

Is the author of "The Time Ray of Jandra," "The Symphony of Death," "The Man Who Invaded Time," "Dimension Doom," "Escape from Antarctica," "The Vortex World," and "The Range Rid-Riders" (radio skit), besides many unsubmitted stories. He has submitted nothing for a year because of the condition of the markets.

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