Toward the end of the nineteenth century, especially in England, the paths are blazed that will be followed by the fantastic genre in the twentieth century. In England there appears a kind of refined writer who likes to disguise himself as a popular writer. The disguise works because he doesn’t use it condescendingly but with ease and professional zeal, something possible only when we recognize that without professional technique artistic wisdom is powerless. Robert Louis Stevenson is the happiest example of this spiritual disposition, but along with him we should consider two extraordinary cases of inventive brilliance as well as complete control of craft: Kipling and Wells.
The fantastic in Kipling’s Hindu tales is exotic, not in the aestheticist, decadent sense but because it derives from the contrast between the religious, moral, and social world of India and the English world. Often the supernatural is an invisible presence, even if it is terrifying, as in “The Mark of the Beast”; other times, the workaday setting, as in “The Bridge-Builders,” is torn open and, in a visionary apparition, the ancient divinities of Hindu mythology are revealed. Kipling also wrote many fantastic tales with an English setting where the supernatural is almost always invisible (as in “They”) and where the anguish of death dominates.
With Wells, science fiction makes its debut, a new horizon for the imagination, one that will undergo a huge development in the second half of our century. But Wells’s genius is not limited to the formulation of marvelous hypotheses and terrors of the future, or to vexing us with apocalyptic visions. His extraordinary tales are always based on a discovery made by the intelligence that can be very simple. “The Case of the Deceased Mr. Evelsham,” for instance, is the case of a young man who will be named sole heir of an unknown old man on condition that he take on the old man’s name. He accepts; he wakes up in the old man’s house and looks at his hands: they are wrinkled. He looks in the mirror: he is the old man. Only then does he realize that the old man has taken his identity and his person and is living his youth. Externally, everything is identical to the normal appearance of before, but reality is a horror without limits.
An author with great facility in combining the refinements of the literary man of quality with the brio of the popular narrator (among his favorite authors he always mentioned Dumas) was Robert Louis Stevenson. In his short, invalid’s life, he managed to create many perfect works, from adventure novels to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, as well as numerous fantastic narratives that were very short: “Olalla,” a story of female vampires in Spain during the Napoleonic era (the same setting used by Potocki, though I do not know if Stevenson ever read him); “Thrown Janet,” a Scottish tale of witchcraft; the Island Nights Entertainments, where with a light touch he shows the magic of the exotic (and also exports Scottish motifs by adapting them to Polynesian settings); “Markheim,” which follows the path of the interiorized fantastic like Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart” with a more marked presence of the Puritan conscience.
One of Stevenson’s staunchest followers has nothing of the popular to him: Henry James. With James—we don’t know whether to call him American, English, or European—the fantastic genre of the nineteenth century has its final incarnation. Better put, its disincarnation, since it becomes more invisible and impalpable than ever: a psychological emanation or vibration. We must take into account the intellectual environment in which Henry James’s work is born, especially the theories of his brother, the philosopher William James, about the psychic reality of experience. We can say that at the end of the century, the fantastic tale again becomes a philosophic tale, as it was at the beginning of the century.
The ghosts in Henry James’s ghost stories are very evasive: they can be incarnations of an evil with no face or form, like the diabolical servants in The Turn of the Screw, or very visible apparitions that give sensible form to a dominant thought, like “Sir Edmund Orme,” or illusions that unleash the true presence of the supernatural, as in “The Ghostly Rental.” In one of his most suggestive and moving stories, “The Jolly Corner,” the ghost the protagonist barely glimpses is the very person he would have been if his life had taken another road; in “The Private Life” there is one man who exists only when other people look at him (when they do not, he vanishes), while there is another who exists twice, because he has a double who writes the books he would never know how to write.
This essay ends with James, chronologically of the nineteenth century, but a writer who belongs to our century because of his literary taste. I’ve left out Italian authors because I did not like the idea of having to include them merely out of obligation: the fantastic is minor element in nineteenth-century Italian literature. Special anthologies (The Poetry and Tales of Arrigo Boito and Racconti neri della scapigliatura (Dark tales of the Bohemian life), as well as a few texts by writers better known for other aspects of their work, from De Marchi to Capuana, provide precious discoveries as well as interesting documentation concerning the taste of the era. Among the other national literatures I’ve omitted, Spanish writing has one very well known author of fantastic tales, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer. But this anthology does not pretend to be exhaustive. What I’ve wanted to present is a panorama based on a few examples and, above all, book that would be easy to read.
AUTHORS CITED IN THE INTRODUCTION
Arnim, Achim von (1781–1831). German Romantic.
Austin, William (1718–1841). American.
Balzac, Honoré de (1788–1850). French.
Baudelaire, Charles (1821–1867). French.
Bécquer, Gustavo Adolfo (1836–1870). Spanish.
Bierce, Ambrose (1842–?1914). American.
Boito, Arrigo (1842–1918). Italian.
Capuana, Luigi (1839–1915). Italian.
Chamisso, Adelbert von (1781–1838). German.
Collins, William Wilkie (1824–1889). English.
De Marchi, Attilio (1855–1915). Italian.
Dickens, Charles (1812–1870). English.
Dostoevski, Fyodor Mikhailovich (1821–1881). Russian.
Dumas, Alexandre (“Dumas père”) (1802–1870). French.
Eichendorff, Joseph, Freiherr von (1788–1857). German.
Gautier, Théophile (1811–1872). French.
Gogol, Nikolai Vasilyevich (1809–1852). Russian.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel (1804–1864). American.
Hoffmann, Ernst Theodor Amadeus (1776–1822). German.
Irving, Washington (1783–1859). American.
James, Henry (1843–1916). Anglo-American.
Kafka, Franz (1883–1924). Czechoslovakian.
Kipling, Rudyard (1865–1936). English.
Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan (1814–1873). Irish.
Leskov, Nikolai Semyonovich (1831–1895). Russian.
Mérimée, Prosper (1803–1870). French.
Nerval, Gerard de (1808–1855). French.
Nodier, Charles (1780–1844). French.
Poe, Edgar Allan (1809–1849). American.
Potocki, Jan Hrabia (1761–1815). Polish.
Pushkin, Alexandr Sergeyevich (1799–1837). Russian.
Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (1797–1851). English.
Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894). Scottish.
Stoker, Bram (Abraham) (1847–1912). English.
Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Jean Marie Mathias Philippe Auguste, Comte de (1828–1889). French.
Wells, Herbert George (1866–1946). English.
I
The Visionary Fantastic of the Nineteenth Century
JAN POTOCKI
The Story of the Demoniac Pacheco
(Histoire du démoniaque Pacheco, 1803)
The macabre, the spectral, the demonic, the vampiric, the erotic, and the perverse: all the ingredients (hidden or manifest) of visionary Romanticism appear in this extraordinary book, the Manuscrit trouvé a Saragosse, published in French by the Polish count Jan Potocki (1761–1815). Mysterious in origin and literary fortune and just as mysterious in terms of its content, this book disappeared for more than
a century (it was, of course, too scandalous to circulate freely), and only in 1958 was it reprinted in its original form, for which thanks must be given to Roger Callois, a great connoisseur of the fantastic no matter what its historical period or country of origin.
An ideal prelude to the century of Hoffmann and Poe, Potocki could not be left out of this anthology: but since his is a book in which stories are interpolated into each other (a bit like The Thousand and One Nights,) to form a long novel from which it is difficult to separate one tale from another, I was forced to make—and right at the outset—an exception to the rule the rest of this anthology tries to respect. I am including here a chapter from Potocki’s book, while the norm will be to offer complete and independent stories.
The text starts just after the beginning of the novel (the second chapter). Alphonse van Worden, an officer in Napoleon’s army, is in Spain, where he sees a gallows and two hanged men (the de Zoto brothers). Then he finds two extremely beautiful Arabian sisters who tell him their story, which is replete with a disturbing eroticism. Alphonse makes love to both, but during the night he has strange visions, and at dawn finds himself embracing the cadavers of the two hanged men.
This theme of the embrace of two sisters (and occasionally with their mother) is repeated in the book several times in the stories of different characters, and it always happens that the man who thinks himself the luckiest of lovers wakes up in the morning under the gallows amid corpses and vultures. A charm linked to the constellation Gemini is the key to the novel.
Still in the early phase of the development of a new literary genre, Potocki knows exactly where to go: the fantastic is the exploration of the obscure zone where the most unrestrained passions of desire and the terrors of guilt mix together. It is an evocation of ghosts that change form just as they do in dreams—with ambiguity and perversion.
EVENTUALLY I REALLY did awaken. The sun was burning my eyelids. I opened them with difficulty. I saw the sky. I saw that I was out in the open. But my eyes were still heavy with sleep. I was no longer sleeping, but I was not yet awake. A succession of images of torture passed through my mind. I was appalled by them. Jerked out of my slumber, I sat up …
How shall I find words to express the horror that seized me? I was lying under the gallows of Los Hermanos. The bodies of Zoto’s two brothers were not strung up, they were lying by my side. I had apparently spent the night with them. I was lying on pieces of rope, bits of wheels, the remains of human carcasses and on the dreadful shreds of flesh that had fallen away through decay.
I thought I was still not properly awake and was having a bad dream. I closed my eyes again and searched my memory, trying to recall where I had been the day before … Then I felt claws sinking into my sides. I saw that a vulture had settled on me and was devouring one of my bedmates. The pain of its grip awakened me fully. I saw that my clothes were by me, and I hurriedly put them on. When I was dressed, I tried to leave the gallows enclosure, but found the door nailed shut and made vain attempts to break it open. So I had to climb those grim walls. I succeeded in doing so, and clinging to one of the gallows posts, I began to survey the surrounding countryside. I easily got my bearings. I was actually at the entrance to the Los Hermanos valley, and not far from the banks of the Guadalquivir.
While I continued to look around, I saw two travellers near the river, one of whom was preparing a meal and the other holding the reins of two horses. I was so delighted to see these men that my first reaction was to call out to them, “Agour, agour,” which means “Good-day,” or “Greetings,” in Spanish.
The two travellers, who saw the courtesies being extended to them from the top of the gallows, seemed undecided for a moment; but suddenly they mounted their horses, urged them to the fastest gallop, and took the road to Alcornoques.
I shouted at them to stop, to no avail. The more I shouted, the more they spurred on their mounts. When I lost sight of them, it occurred to me to quit my position. I jumped to the ground, hurting myself a little.
Hunched low and limping, I reached the banks of the Guadalquivir and found there the meal that the two travellers had abandoned. Nothing could have been more welcome, for I felt very exhausted. There was some chocolate that was still cooking, some sponhao steeped in Alicante wine, some bread and eggs. I set about restoring my strength, after which I began to reflect on what had happened to me during the night. My memories were very confused, but what I well recalled was having given my word of honour to keep it secret, and I was strongly resolved to abide by my promise. Once having decided on this, it only remained for me to consider what I needed to do for the moment—in other words, which road I should take—and it seemed to me that the laws of honour obliged me more than ever to go via the Sierra Morena.
People will perhaps be surprised to find me so concerned with my reputation, and so little concerned with the events of the previous day, but this way of thinking was again a result of the education I had received; this will be seen from the continuation of my story. For now, I return to the account of my journey.
I was extremely curious to know what the evil spirits had done with my horse, which I had left at Venta Quemada, and since in any case it was on my way, I determined to go by there. I had to walk the whole length of the Los Hermanos valley and that of the Venta, which did not fail to tire me and to make me greatly wish to find my horse. I did indeed find it; it was in the same stable where I had left it and seemed groomed, well cared for, and well fed. I did not know who could have taken this trouble, but I had seen so many extraordinary things that this in addition did not for long detain me. I would have set off straight away, had I not had the curiosity to visit the inside of the tavern once more. I relocated the bedroom where I had slept, but no matter how hard I looked, I could not find the room where I had seen the beautiful African women. I tired then of looking for it any longer. I mounted my horse and continued on my way.
When I woke up under the Los Hermanos gallows, the sun was already half-way through its course. It took me two hours to reach the Venta. So when I had covered another couple of leagues, I had to think of a shelter for the night, but seeing none, I rode on. Eventually I saw in the distance a Gothic chapel, with a hut that appeared to be the home of a hermit. All this was off the main road, but since I was beginning to feel hungry, I did not hesitate to make this detour in order to come by some food. When I arrived, I tied my horse to a tree. Then I knocked at the door of the hermitage and saw a monk with the most venerable face emerge from it. He embraced me with fatherly tenderness, then he said to me:
“Come in, my son. Quickly. Do not spend the night outside. Fear the temptor. The Lord has withdrawn his hand from above us.”
I thanked the hermit for his goodness towards me, and I told him that I was in dire need of something to eat.
He replied: “O my son, think of your soul! Go to the chapel. Prostrate yourself before the Cross. I will see to the needs of your body. But you will have a frugal meal, such as one would expect from a hermit.”
I went to the chapel and prayed sincerely, for I was not a freethinker and was even unaware there were any; this again was a result of my education.
The hermit came to fetch me after a quarter of an hour and led me to the hut, where I found a place laid for me (everything was reasonably clean). There were some excellent olives, chards preserved in vinegar, sweet onions in a sauce, and rusks instead of bread. There was also a small bottle of wine. The hermit told me that he never drank any, but that he kept some in the house to celebrate the Mass. So I drank no more wine than the hermit, but the rest of the supper gave me great pleasure. While I was doing justice to it, I saw a figure, more terrifying than anything I had yet seen, come into the hut. It was a man. He looked young, but was hideously thin. His hair stood on end, one of his eyes was gouged out, and there was blood issuing from it. His tongue hung out of his mouth and dripped a frothy spittle. His body was clad in a fairly good black habit, but this was his only garment; he wore neither stockings
nor shirt.
This hideous individual said not a word, and went and crouched in a corner, where he remained as still as a statue, his one eye fixed on a crucifix he held in his hand. When I had finished my meal, I asked the hermit who this man was.
The hermit replied: “My son, this man is possessed of the devil, and I am exorcising him. His terrible story is good evidence of the fatal power that the Angel of Darkness is usurping in this unhappy land. His experience might be helpful to your salvation, and I am going to instruct him to give an account of it.”
Then, turning towards the possessed man, he said to him: “Pacheco, Pacheco, in the name of your Redeemer, I command you to tell your story.”
Pacheco gave a horrible cry and began with these words:
THE STORY OF THE DEMONIAC PACHECO
I was born in Córdoba, where my father lived in more than comfortable circumstances. My mother died three years ago. My father seemed at first to miss her a great deal, but after a few months, having had occasion to make a trip to Seville, he fell in love with a young widow, called Camille de Tormes. This person did not enjoy a very good reputation, and several of my father’s friends tried to stop him from seeing her, but despite the trouble they were prepared to go to, the wedding took place two years after the death of my mother. The ceremony took place in Seville, and a few days later my father returned to Cordoba with Camille, his new wife, and a sister of Camille, whose name was Inesille.
My new stepmother answered perfectly to the poor opinion in which she was held, and started out in my father’s house by trying to win my love. She did not succeed in this. Yet I did fall in love, but with her sister Inesille. Indeed, my passion soon became so great that I went and threw myself at my father’s feet and asked him for the hand of his sister-in-law.
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