The Dedalus Book of French Horror E-Book

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

100 hundred years of the best of French 19th-century literary horror. "Hale's inspired selection - he includes little-known pieces by Sade, Baudelaire, Dumas and Maupassant, as well as stories by unjustly forgotten writers such as Catulle Mendes, Jean Pichepin, Charles Nodier and Petrus Borel - not only makes this an invigorating collection to read, it virtually redefines the boundaries of the French horror genre." Brendan King in The Times Literary Supplement

Leseprobe

THE EDITOR

Terry Hale has been an avid reader, collector and researcher of French nineteenth century horror fiction since reading Mario Praz’s The Romantic Agony as a student. From 1978 until 1989 he lived and taught in France, amassing a considerable amount of material on the French horror stories of the 1830s which later became the subject of his Ph.D. thesis at Liverpool University.

Between 1994 and 1997 he combined a career as a translator, editor and publisher of French fiction with the role of director of the British Centre for Literary Translation. He is now the British Academy Research Fellow at the Translation Performance Centre in the Drama Department of Hull University.

Terry Hale has edited for Dedalus Huysmans’ The Oblate of St Benedict and the Gaston Leroux novels The Mystery of the Yellow Room and The Perfume of the Lady in Black.

THE TRANSLATOR

Liz Heron was born in Glasgow and read Modern Languages at Glasgow University. She settled in London in 1976 and is a freelance writer and translator. She is the author of one non-fiction book, Changes of Heart (1986) and the editor of a collection of childhood autobiographies: Truth, Dare or Promise (1985). She edited Streets of Desire: Women’s Fiction of the Twentieth Century (1993).

Her many translations from French and Italian include for Dedalus the Rachilde novels Monsieur Venus (1992) and The Marquise de Sade (1994).

Contents

Title Page

The Editor

Introduction

Frédéric Soulié The Lamp of Saint Just

Eugène Sue The Travels of Claude Belissan

Alexandre Dumas Solange

Pétrus Borel Monsieur de l’Argentière, Public Prosecutor

Alphonse Royer The Covetous Clerk

Xavier Forneret One Eye Between Two

Marquis de Sade Dorci, or The Vagaries of Chance

Charles Baudelaire Mademoiselle Scalpel

Catulle Mendès The Penitent

Villiers de l’Isle-Adam The Astonishing Moutonnet Couple

Jean Richepin Constant Guignard

Charles Cros The Hanged Man

Jules Lermina Monsieur Mathias

Leon Bloy A Burnt Offering

J.K. Huysmans A Family Treat

Edmund Haraucourt The Prisoner of his Own Masterpiece

La Harpe Jacques Cazotte’s Prophecy

Charles Nodier The Story of Hélène Gillet$

Gérard de Nerval The Green Monster

Erckman-Chatrian The Invisible Eye

Henri Rivière The Reincarnation of Doctor Roger

Guy de Maupassant The Head of Hair

Théophile Gautier Mademoiselle Dafné

Jean Lorrain One Possessed

Sources/Translators

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Anthologies of nineteenth-century French horror fiction – of which there have been two or three in recent years – tend to follow a well-beaten track. Théophile Gautier’s vampire story La Morte amoureuse of 1836 (translated variously as The Dead in Love and as Clarimonde) is almost sure to figure, as is Prosper Mérimée’s tale of an animated statue, The Venus of Ille, of the following year. From the fin-de-siècle, Guy de Maupassant’s tales of ‘psychic’ vampirism, The Horla (1886), and demonic possession, Who Knows (1890), are perennial favourites, as are two stories equally favourably disposed to the supernatural by Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, The Sign and Véra (collected by the author in 1883). A couple of other titles could be added to this list such as Gérard de Nerval’s magnificent tale of hallucination and madness, Aurélia (1855).

The present anthology has no intention of pursuing a similar course. Indeed, of the twenty-four stories collected here, some nineteen have never been published before in English (including tales by the Marquis de Sade, Théophile Gautier, Gérard de Nerval, and Villiers de l’Isle-Adam). Of the other five stories – namely, those by Alexandre Dumas, Erckmann- Chatrian, Charles Baudelaire, Guy de Maupassant, and J.-K. Huysmans – every attempt has been made to present material with which the reader may not be immediately familiar.

This is not to pursue a policy of novelty for the sake of novelty – it is simply intended to demonstrate the breadth and range of French writing in relation to the strange and macabre. Indeed, if horror fiction is a vehicle for exploring forbidden themes – a claim which will be put forward here – then it would not be untrue to claim that French writers in the nineteenth century proved themselves every bit as inventive as their British and American counterparts of the same period.

One should not, of course, necessarily expect them to explore precisely the same themes though. Indeed, it might be legitimate to enquire whether such perennial favourites – with their clear insistence on the supernatural – as Gautier’s The Dead in Love or Maupassant’s The Horla are as representative of French horror writing as we like to imagine they are. As dramatic and successful as these tales may be, they represent but one strand of horror fiction – that which came to be known in the 1830s as the conte fantastique – in nineteenth-century France. There are at least two other strands of equal if not greater significance which we ignore at our peril: the frénétique (or frenetic) story, with its strong melodramatic appeal, of the 1820s and 1830s (against which in a sense the conte fantastique was directly competing); and the conte cruel (what we might think of in English as grim little moral fables) which came to the fore half-a-century later (though the tradition is much older). As we shall see, neither of these two other strands are reliant on the supernatural to quite the same extent.

The first clearly recognisable development in the history of the nineteenth-century French horror story occurred in the early 1820s. Indeed, it was in 1821 that Charles Nodier coined the term ‘école frénétique’ – or ‘frenetic school’ – in order to designate the kind of writers who, in his words, ‘flaunt their atheism, madness and despair among the tombstones, exhume the dead in order to terrify the living, and torment the imagination with scenes of such horror that it is necessary to look to the terror-ridden dreams of the sick to find a model.’1

The sort of works he had in mind at the moment he wrote those words were mainly British: stories such as John Polidori’s The Vampyre of 1819, which was translated almost immediately into French (Nodier himself co-authored a successful French stage adaptation the following year) and novels such as Charles Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer of 1820 (of which two French translations appeared simultaneously in 1821). The enduring taste in France for reading material of this kind is clearly demonstrated by the fact that Nodier was reviewing a new French translation of a German horror novel about a murderous dwarf – Christian Spiess’s Das Petermännchen – which had first seen the light of day in 1791.

The French are not renowned for letting the grass grow under their feet though and, in the course of the two decades after the invention of the term frénétique, a great many authors tried their hand – with varying degrees of success – at writing novels and stories of the kind condemned (somewhat tongue-in-cheek) by Nodier. By and large, the more successful attempts soon owed but little, either in style or content, to their English or German counterparts.

Victor Hugo’s Han d’Islande (1823; tr. Han of Iceland, 1825), one of the best examples of the genre, is a complex tale of murder, betrayal and insurrection set in late medieval Iceland. Although the title refers to a mysterious dwarf (clearly modelled on that of Christian Spiess) of immense physical strength and capable of appearing at a moment’s notice, the most distinctive feature of the novel – and one which would clearly be of tremendous importance in the future development of the frénétique in France – was the author’s lugubrious humour.

This is nowhere better to be seen than in the chapter in which the cowardly Benignus Spaigudry, carrying in a sack the severed head of a drowned fisherman, takes refuge during a storm in the house of the Nychol Orugix, the public executioner. Much to the former’s discomfort, the conversation takes a predictable turn under the prompting of another stranded traveller:2

‘Master Nychol, what is the punishment for sacrilege?’ […]

‘That depends upon the nature of the sacrilege.’

‘If it should consist in the mutilation of the dead?’

The trembling Benignus expected at that moment the strange hermit would pronounce his name.

‘Formerly,’ answered Orugix, coldly, ‘they buried the criminal alive with the polluted body.’

‘And now?’

‘Now the punishment’s milder.’

‘Milder?’ said Spiagudry, scarcely breathing.

‘Yes,’ answered the executioner, with the satisfied air of an artist who knows his work. ‘First an S is branded with a hot iron on the fleshy part of his legs.’

‘And then?’ interrupted Spiagudry, painfully uttering the words.

‘Then they content themselves with hanging him.’

‘Mercy upon us!’ cried Spiagudry, ‘hang him.’

‘Why, what is the matter with you? You look at me as a criminal does the gibbet.’

‘I see with pleasure,’ said the hermit, ‘that people are now guided by principles of humanity.’

Following Hugo’s example, and quite unlike British or German horror writing from this period (which is largely incapable of self-irony), gallows’ humour of this kind would become one of the benchmarks of frénétique writing. Another excellent example is provided by Jules Janin in L’Ane mort et la femme guillotinée (1829; tr. The Dead Donkey and the Guillotined Woman, 1851). Indeed, Janin is said to have commenced the novel – which includes descriptions of a brutal animal fight, a macabre attempt to reanimate a body which has been submerged in the Seine for three days (an arm falls off), some form of horrendous treatment for syphilis which involves branding, and the guillotining of the heroine after she has murdered the man responsible for luring her into a life of prostitution (though not before she has been raped by her hideously deformed jailer) – as a spoof of the fashionable frénétique novel but finished by falling in love with his subject matter. If anything though the author was trumped by Honoré de Balzac (another writer, incidentally, whose literary career, like that of Victor Hugo, was closely associated at the outset with the frénétique) who, in a hilarious book-review, followed the dead heroine into the makeshift dissection-room of a group of medical students.3 But many equally striking examples of French gallows’ humour will be found in the stories in the opening section of this collection.

Behind the macabre laughter, these authors were exploring important issues though. During the course of the 1820s and early 1830s, there were many causes for anxiety – some of which are far from irrelevant even today. There was, for example, the controversial question of the death penalty, which Victor Hugo’s novel Le Dernier jour d’un condamné (1829; tr. The Last Day of a Condemned, 1840) deliberately set out to address. The rise in the student population led to questions being asked, not least by the students themselves, over the sacrilegious use to which corpses were put in the dissection theatres of the medical schools. There were more localised panics, such as that caused by the cholera epidemic of 1832.

More generally, there was the uncertain political climate – indeed, the entire period might be thought of as marked by fears of conspiracy, the threat of insurrection, and the various counter-measures taken by the authorities. The French Revolution of 1789 was by no means merely a distant historical memory (and, not surprisingly, many frénétique novels do deal directly with that period), it was also a defining event in people’s minds. When the relatively anodyne revolution of July 1830 broke out, there were those who feared a return to the Terror and those, such as the writer Pétrus Borel, who would have welcomed such a development. And, needless to say, in the world of popular literature, as elsewhere, all these various issues and events were quite capable of being kaleidoscoped together. Thus, the question of the abolition of the death penalty could easily shade into a consideration of the ethics of the French Revolution when, of course, the guillotine, intended initially as a humanitarian measure, was introduced. Indeed, if there is one defining image of horror writing throughout the nineteenth century in France it is that of the bloody head severed from the human trunk.

Three of the most prolific authors from the early 1830s onwards were Eugène Sue (1804–1857), Frédéric Soulié (1800–1847) and Alexandre Dumas (1802–1870). Of these, the first two started out primarily as frénétique writers while Dumas, now generally remembered as a historical novelist, began as a Romantic playwright. (The relationship between the frénétique and French Romanticism is by no means unproblematic – in many respects the former might be thought of the unacceptable face of the latter.) As the popularity of the frénétique began to wane in the late 1830s, all three directed their talents with considerable success to the new phenomenon of publishing novels, sometimes extremely lengthy ones, by instalment in the daily press.

The biographies of these writers tend to mirror many of the fears and anxieties of the time. Eugène Sue, who came from a family which had a long medical tradition, exemplifies this. His father, Dr Jean-Joseph Sue, had even conducted research during the French Revolution suggesting that the head – and not only the head but the arms, legs and inner organs of the body as well – continued to suffer pain for some time after the victim’s head and trunk have been separated by the guillotine. Nearly fifty years later, he would refer in passing to his father’s research in the pages of his best-known work: Les Mystères de Paris (1842–43; tr. The Mysteries of Paris).

Despite beginning his medical training – first under his father’s instruction, then during military service in Spain and, finally, as assistant surgeon in the French navy where he was sent to the Middle East and the West Indies – Sue immediately gave up the profession when his father died in 1830. Instead, he settled in Paris, in a state of some luxury, and devoted himself to writing. Over the course of the next eight years, Sue would make a major contribution to the development of the frénétique novel through his particular knowledge of mutinies, shipwrecks, sea warfare and the slave-trade. Indeed, it would not be wide of the mark to say that he was unrivalled in his description of maritime horrors. In Kernok le pirate (1831), for example, the captain of L’Epervier, having run short of cannon balls, blows his enemy to pieces by blasting them with a charge of silver coins; while El Gitano (also 1831) concludes with a pirate revenging the execution of his captain by infecting the whole of Cadiz with cholera by flooding the city with tainted cashmere shawls.

Any number of such episodes may be found in Sue’s principal works from this period: Atar-Gull (1831; tr. The Negro’s Revenge; or, Brulart the Black Pirate, 1841); La Salamandre (1832; tr. The Salamander, 1845); La Coucaratcha (1832–34), the author’s only collection of short stories; and Latréaumont (1837; tr. De Rohan; or; The Court Conspirator, 1845), a bloody historical novel whose title is said to have inspired the pseudonym of the author of Les Chants de Maldoror.

What may be less evident to readers more than a century-and-a-half later is that Sue’s tremendous cynicism and pessimism – particularly with regard to materialistic science, the myth of the noble savage, and the notion that all men are born equal – represents an ideologically motivated attack on the principal tenets of the Enlightenment, tenets which were later adopted by the adherents of the French Revolution. But it is for The Mysteries of Paris – a vast proto-detective novel largely set in the slums of Paris which took the whole of Europe by storm (six different English translations were at one time being published simultaneously) – that Eugène Sue is nowadays principally remembered.4 Apparently, it was during the writing of this immense work that he was converted, almost overnight, to socialism (not all of his critics were convinced of his sincerity – indeed, Karl Marx was responsible for a scathing attack in 1844) such that his later writing implicitly serves as a refutation of his earlier works (though he never publicly disowned them).

In his day, Frédéric Soulié enjoyed the same level of popularity as Sue or Dumas. His first major prose work – and also his most frénétique – was a historical novel, called Les Deux Cadavres (1832), dealing with the English Civil War. The two corpses of the title are those of Charles I and Oliver Cromwell and the plot itself revolves round an obscure legend (known to Samuel Pepys and others but generally ignored by academic historians) that the latter issued secret instructions that he should be buried at Naseby. In Soulié’s novel matters are taken a step further and the bodies of the King and the Protector are switched – such that the Royalists, when they finally manage to locate what they believe to be Cromwell’s place of rest, desecrate the body of their own former master. It is this action, according to the author, which is responsible for causing the Plague of London.

Before his untimely death in 1847, Soulié went on to write more than two dozen plays and a similar number of novels – including a remarkable serial novel, entitled Les Mémoires du Diable (1837–38), which virtually invented the tradition of publishing fiction by instalments in the popular press. The story translated for the present anthology is taken from his first collection of short fiction, published in 1833.

The third musketeer of this opening section, Alexandre Dumas, is far too well-known to require more than the briefest of introductions here. So prolific was Dumas that by the early 1840s rumours had started to circulate that he bought up complete manuscripts from impoverished hacks toiling in garrets which he published under his own name. Although there was some truth to such stories, he was also an extremely versatile writer whose work was by no means limited to prose fiction: besides his dramatic contribution (in recent years both Kean and The Tower of Nesle have enjoyed successful revivals), he also wrote a considerable number of travel books (his adventurous life took him as far afield as the remoter provinces of the Russian Empire and the semi-barbarous kingdoms of North Africa). Perhaps it was this versatility which prevented Dumas from doing much more than occasionally toying with frénétique themes – though his 1849 collection of inter-locking short stories, Les Mille et un Fantômes (1849; tr. The Thousand and One Phantoms, 1849), clearly belongs to the genre. Appropriately enough, several of the stories deal with French revolutionary history – including the famous urban myth that Charlotte Corday, after being guillotined for the murder of Marat, blushed when the public executioner held up her decapitated head and slapped her face. (The same narrator, Monsieur Ledru, said to be the son of the physician to Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, tells the story of Solange in this collection.)

The other three writers gathered together under the frénétique heading, though much less prolific, are no less worthy of interest. If they are discussed at all in literary histories, however, it is generally as part of a miscellaneous group labelled ‘minor Romantics.’ This is perhaps a fair description of Alphonse Royer, who penned half-a-dozen or so novels and collections of stories in the 1830s and early 1840s as well as writing librettos (his career as a novelist would seem to have come to an end with his appointment as director of the French opera following the coup d’état of 1851). At least two of these novels deserve rescuing from the obscurity into which they have fallen: Les mauvais garçons (1829), from which a short self-contained extract is included here, is remarkable for its macabre humour; while Venezia la Bella (1834), in its depiction of the city as a living agent exercising control over the destinies of those who live there, seems astonishingly modern.

Among the many strange or bizarre writers who contributed to the development of the French horror story in the first half of the century (indeed, the appellation ‘minor Romantic’ seems to be almost a synonym for eccentricity), two in particular stand out: Pétrus Borel and Xavier Forneret. Borel (1809–1859), the twelfth of some fourteen children born in modest circumstances, came to Paris in the mid-1820s in order to study as an architect but, like many young men of the epoch, was immediately drawn to literature. By 1830, he was the leader of his own small circle of impoverished fellow writers and artists, including Théophile Gautier and Gérard de Nerval (both of whom have left fascinating accounts of these happy days of penury and struggle). This group came to the attention of Victor Hugo, who enlisted Borel as the leader of the ‘claque’ – i.e. those member of the audience paid by the author or the cast to applaud at suitable moments and so create the illusion of popularity – on the opening night of his play Hernani. The fighting and confusion that ensued has taken on the proportions of a legend in French theatrical history.

Unlike Gautier and Nerval, both of whom over the course of the last half-a-century or so have been promoted from the ranks of ‘minor Romantics’ to the status of ‘major Romantics’, Borel has remained very much a writer’s writer. Baudelaire much admired him, for example, as did André Breton fifty years later. Indeed, Breton considered Pétrus Borel – whom he described as ‘Surrealist in Liberty’ – as a major precursor of the movement he founded in the 1920s. Yet, as both Baudelaire and Breton acknowledged, Borel’s name seems to have a curse on it. He did produce three fascinating books during the course of his short writing career though (Borel eventually died in poverty in Algeria): Rhapsodies, a volume of poetry published in 1832; Champavert. Contes immoraux (i.e. Champavert. Immoral Stories), a collection of horror stories published in 1833; and Madame Putiphar (1839), a compelling novel of sexual persecution under the ancien régime. Despite his relative neglect (possibly caused by his extreme left-wing opinions), Pétrus Borel is in many respects the most representative author of the frénétique tendency of the 1830s.

Whether Pétrus Borel and Xavier Forneret (1809–1884) ever met is not known. Perhaps their paths crossed in 1834 when Forneret came to Paris to commission a frontispiece by Tony Johannot (another member of Borel’s circle) for his play Deux Destinées. The circumstances of Borel and Forneret could hardly have been more different: Borel, scratching around for a living, despairing of finding another publisher following the financial fiasco of Champavert; Forneret, the only son of wealthy Dijon merchants (he was reputed to inhabit a Gothic tower and to play the violin into the small hours of the night), able to finance the publication of his own works in luxurious editions.

In fact, over the course of the following years, Forneret’s self-financed publications would become not only more luxurious but increasingly eccentric. Encore un an de Sans titre, a collection of short aphorisms published in 1840 (the most remarkable being: ‘I saw a letter-box at a cemetery …’), often has scarcely a couple lines of text on each page while Pièce de pièces, Temps perdu (also 1840), a collection of seven short stories, is printed on one side of the page only. But it is this latter collection which is also Forneret’s masterpiece, including as it does not only the wilfully bizarre One Eye Between Two but also The Diamond of Grass – a story which was much appreciated by the Surrealists, who reprinted it, with illustrations by the Austrian artist Wolfgang Paalen, in the review Minotaure in 1937.5 Writing in 1940, Breton was amazed not so much by the obscurity into which Forneret had fallen – he never enjoyed the slightest popularity during his own lifetime – but by the disconcerting juxtaposition to be found in his work of breath-taking originality and the utterly banal.

On 22 October, 1800 – or rather, since the revolutionary calendar was still in force at this date, 30 vendémaire an IX – a weekly magazine devoted to the arts and sciences published an uncompromising review of the latest book by an author who was just then enjoying a brief respite between periods of incarceration. ‘A loathsome work’ – opined the reviewer – ‘by a man reputed to have published one more horrible still.’ The author in question was one whom no anthology of nineteenth-century horror fiction can ignore: the Marquis de Sade

Appropriately enough, the new book under review was, in fact, Les Crimes de l’amour – a collection of eleven stories by the ‘divine’ Marquis with a preliminary ‘Essay on the Novel’. Like the first Justine, the Cent vingt Journées de Sodome (tr. The 120 Days of Sodom) and Aline et Valcour, most of these stories had been written during the eleven years that the author had spent in the dungeons of Vincennes and the Bastille between 1778 and 1789.6

Sade, probably intending to publish another collection at a later date, would seem to have kept back a couple of stories though. It is possible that Dorci, or The Vagaries of Luck was among this number – though it is also conceivable, given that Sade did not die until 1814, that it was composed during the early years of the nineteenth-century, perhaps during his stay in the Charenton asylum. In any event, Dorci did not see the light of day until 1881, when it was published under the aegis of Anatole France.

Although Sade’s shorter fiction tends to eschew the psycho-pathological elements of his ‘great’ works, the underlying philosophy is very much the same. As the author writes elsewhere:7

[…] It is not always by making virtue triumph that one arouses the reader’s interest. [This rule] is in no wise essential to the novel, nor is it even the one most likely to awaken the reader’s interest; for when virtue triumphs, this is how things should be, our tears run dry even before they begin to flow; but if, after severe trials and tribulations, we finally witness virtue being overwhelmed by vice, our hearts are inevitably rent asunder and the work in question, having moved us profoundly […], must inevitably give rise to that interest which alone can bring acclaim.

The earlier work attributed to him by the reviewer of Les Crimes de l’amour does not make the same concessions to the reader as Sade’s short fiction since it is presumably the final and definitive version of the adventures of the long-suffering Justine, La nouvelle Justine ou les Malheurs de la Virtu, published clandestinely in 1797. This, of course, is not only the most celebrated of the novels of the Marquis de Sade but might also be rightly considered one of the most horrific novels ever written. As in the two earlier versions Justine passes from the hands of one extraordinary tormentor to those of another, experiencing every imaginable suffering and degradation. Unlike the earlier versions, however, in the 1797 edition the author no longer leaves the reader in any doubt as to the precise nature of horrors to which Justine is subjected.8

If Sade’s writing was merely a catalogue of atrocities, a compendium of psychopathia sexualis, it might still be lacking in literary distinction. What makes it worthy of our attention is the economic, philosophical and political thought which informs it. Indeed, it is this intellectual framework – frequently paradoxical and always far from consistent with the author’s own behaviour in real life – which makes Sade’s fiction so compelling. The extent of his impact on French horror fiction – particularly on the roman frénétique – is difficult to determine though. Pétrus Borel describes Sade’s liberation from the Bastille with approval in the pages of Madame Putiphar, Jules Janin and P. L. Jacob wrote damning essays about him in the pages of La Revue de Paris. In a sense Sade’s profound misanthropy and misogyny are encountered everywhere in the nineteenth century, though the author himself remains elusive – an invisible presence.

Thus it was that as the fashion for frénétique tales published in the literary reviews gave way to the new fashion for immense serial novels published in the newspapers, the short tale of horror (excluding the conte fantastique) experienced a hiatus until it was reborn (as the conte cruet) as a result of a new literary impetus which, once again, came from abroad.

The sense of excitement which greeted the publication of the first volume of Charles Baudelaire’s translations of Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories is captured by the entry for July 16, 1856 in the Journal des Goncourt: ‘Left with a feeling that the critics have missed something after reading Poe. This is a new way of writing; a new literature for the twentieth century. Scientific miracles, plots woven out of A + B, writing which is at the same time obsessive and mathematical. […] The subject of love is displaced by other sources of interest. In short, the novel of the future will be forced to deal more with what passes through the head of humanity than that which passes through the heart.’ In his introduction to the Histoires extraordinaires, Baudelaire is even more categorical: not only is there no love interest but, ‘despite Poe’s remarkable talent for the grotesque and the horrible, there is not a single lewd passage, or one which deals with sensual pleasures, in his entire oeuvre.’9 Such would not be the case with Poe’s French imitators.

Indeed, many of the authors grouped together here under the heading conte cruel would seem to have sought to have the best of both worlds. On one hand, they share not only Sade’s misanthropy but also his fascination with every form of sexual ‘aberration’; on the other hand, they quickly mastered from Poe the lessons of conciseness, psychological insight, and the appeal of the scientific macabre. The French reading of Poe would be radically different from that which occurred in Britain and America.

Jean Richepin (1849–1926), for example, refers to Poe on several occasions in his collection of tales Les Morts bizarres (1876). (He also later lectured on him.) Indeed, Poe’s story The Tell-Tale Heart (1843) – about a man who confesses to a murder even though there is not the slightest chance of detection – would seem to inspire (this is perhaps not quite the right word since Poe’s original intentions are entirely subverted) two different stories by Richepin. Firstly, Le chef-d’oeuvre du crime recounts not so much the confession of the murderer (which is not believed by the authorities, even when the criminal publishes a short story to the effect which is quickly turned into a popular play) but the adroit manner in which the crime was committed. Like Poe’s narrator, Richepin’s criminal is driven to insanity by the end of the story – not from remorse though, but from his failure to prove how he cleverly escaped conviction. Secondly, in Deshoulières, Richepin invents an eccentric individual whose crime is not only a masterpiece but also totally macabre: he plans not only to murder his mistress but, after having had her body embalmed, continue to remain her lover afterwards. Even after he is sentenced to be guillotined, his restless imagination seeks out new sensations. Twisting round during execution, he manages to have the top of his head sliced off like a boiled egg.

Richepin was by no means the only French author behind whom one can detect the somewhat distorted shadow of Edgar Allan Poe. Baudelaire’s relationship with Poe is the subject for a book in its own right (included here is one of the short prose poems he wrote just before his premature death, aged 46, in 1867). Léon Bloy (1846–1917) and J.-K. Huysmans (1848–1907), two of the most interesting writers of what has sometimes been called the Catholic reaction, on occasion make use of some of the more macabre scientific developments of the epoch in their writings. Moreover, it might be worth recalling that Des Esseintes, the principal character of A Rebours (1884; tr. Against Nature, 1959), is described as preferring Poe above all other writers. Villiers de l’Isle-Adam (1838–1889), like Huysmans a committed Catholic and an impeccable stylist, also came under the spell of Poe – though he was also prey to all the fashionable isms of the day (which included not only Wagnerism but also occultism and spiritualism). A fitful genius, the slender collection of stories assembled in 1883 under the title Contes cruels took him more than fifteen years to compose, during which time he lived in Paris, often in conditions of atrocious poverty.

Catulle Mendès (1842–1909), whom Mario Praz describes as the belated purveyor of the more ‘succulent morsels from the Baudelairean table’, wrote about little else other than sex (though literary historians tend to stress his youthful involvement with the Parnassian poets).10 Author of some fifteen novels and several dozen collections of short stories, Mendès was one of the most prolific decadent writers. His first collection of stories – Histoires d’amour (1868) – set the tone of what would follow. The longest story in the book is a dramatic study of precocious adolescent sexuality caused by prolonged illness; another story concerns the adroit scheme of an ageing society belle to take a younger lover (Mèndes would quickly establish himself as a master of this sort of Gauloiserie); while a third features a young dandy who attracts a string of mistresses by affecting such a sense of ennui that he is always on the point of committing suicide. Generally speaking, Mendès’ novels take a more pessimistic approach to the activities of the bedroom. La première maîtresse (1887), for example, concerns a young woman with some ill-defined sexual proclivity (though a form of vampirism is inferred) which causes her lovers to fall into a rapid decline and die of exhaustion. Given Mendès’ reputation for being charming, thoroughly corrupt and a born philanderer (one contemporary said of him that he looked like a Christ who had caught the clap), it is perhaps not surprising that when, in 1863, he proposed to Judith Gautier, her father, Théophile, was horrified. The marriage was not a success, the couple soon separated, and for the next forty or so years Mendès sought to live up to his reputation as a man about town.

The three other authors included under the heading conte cruel are all very different from one another. Charles Cros (1842–1888) is primarily remembered as a poet though, at the time, he was better known as the inventor of the monologue (of which an example is given here). Jules Lermina (1839–1915), who would seem to have been involved with the occult group around Papus in the late 1880s, also found time to write two curious collections of short fiction (Histoires incroyables, 1885; Nouvelles histoires incroyables, 1888) as well as popular pot-boilers such as Le Fils de Monte-Christo (1885). Finally, Edmund Haraucourt (1857–1941), whose literary career began with a sulphurous collection of poems (La Légende des sexes, 1883), several of which deal with the theme of necrophilia, published a single collection of horror stories early in the new century.

Just as the original impetus for the roman frénétique was provided by the English Gothic novel and that for the conte cruel by the psychological insight of the American writer Edgar Allan Poe, the conte fantastique also had a foreign source: the work of the German author E. T. A. Hoffmann (1776–1822).

In all three cases, the receptivity of French literary culture to new ideas and narrative techniques imported from abroad resulted in the creation of fresh and innovative genres which ultimately bore but little resemblance to the works which had inspired them. In a sense, this is always the fate of new ideas: the very act of translation is a selective process, individual texts or entire oeuvres are deliberately or accidentally distorted to answer the needs of the host culture, while local authors borrow just as much or as little as they require for their own particular purposes, rewriting their own literary history as they do so. Moreover, a certain amount of common ground is essential before any form of cultural dialogue is possible. Thus it is that a writer who is seminal in his own country (Hoffmann provides an excellent example) and widely translated in another (several different editions of his complete works are still commonly available to this day in France) may be largely neglected elsewhere (Britain and America have never exhibited more than a cursory interest in his work).

The French reception of Hoffmann is seen in certain quarters to have been aided by the existence of an earlier work – the only one for which the author is today remembered – by Jacques Cazotte (1719–1792): Le Diable amoureux (1772; tr. The Devil in Love, 1793). This fine tale, which concerns an abortive pact with the devil, is even considered by certain commentators to have been partially recycled by authors as diverse as M. G. Lewis (in The Monk, 1796) and Friedrich Schiller (in Der Geistersehr, 1789; tr. The Ghost-Seer, or Apparitionist, 1795). Whatever the truth of this, it was certainly a work which enjoyed some currency in the late eighteenth century and may be read with pleasure even today.11

Charles Nodier and Gérard de Nerval both wrote curious essays on Cazotte – though, significantly, not until 1836 and 1845 respectively, well after the French vogue for the conte fantastique was under way. More significant still is the adroit manner in which both essayists continually establish the link between Cazotte’s reputed gift of second sight and the bloodshed of the French Revolution. Indeed, it might be said that each of these essays resembles a short tale of terror in which Cazotte’s main function is to provide a background – the real point being to demonstrate that some form of supernatural agency is watching over mankind. This is achieved in a particularly deft manner by Nodier who begins by proclaiming that he has no intention of discussing Cazotte’s famous prediction concerning the French Revolution (which he then in a sense proceeds to discuss by not discussing it), continues by relating a childhood memory of an evening spent in the company of Cazotte (who was a close friend of his father) in the early 1790s, and concludes with the statement that Cazotte was beheaded four months later. As if to emphasise the point, the anecdote which Nodier has Cazotte relate is left unfinished.

Neither essay represents a biographical sketch in any real sense, though Nerval does at least deal in passing with one or two incidents from Cazotte’s early manhood. In fact, Cazotte’s life is of far greater interest than one might expect from reading Nodier or Nerval. As a young man he penned a number of ballads and satirical pieces which earned him admittance to Parisian literary circles; entering the Marine Department of the civil service, he was involved in various naval campaigns; this was followed by two stints as an administrator on the island of Martinique, postings which left his health broken; on his return to France in 1759, he lived in some reclusion, writing and pursuing his interests in occult philosophy. Fascinating though such material may be, it does not suit the rhetorical purpose of either Nodier or Nerval to reveal much of it – both authors largely ignoring the first seventy years or so of their subject’s existence in order to concentrate on the final few months.

The ideological appropriation of Cazotte began some years earlier however with the publication of the posthumous fragment, claimed to be a prophecy uttered by Cazotte in 1788, by Jean-François La Harpe (1739–1803) which is included in this volume. Indeed, La Harpe – who was a dramatist, journalist and literary critic – probably contributed more to keeping Cazotte’s reputation alive than anything he actually wrote or said. The story itself shows every indication of being an example of what are called today urban myths, though there is no reason to suspect that La Harpe did not believe every word of it. But this is the manner of urban myths – the story is always passed on by narrators who are convinced of the truth of what they relate. Just as importantly, urban myths also contain a strong moral message – in this case one expressing a warning about the consequences of political upheaval.12 Given the turmoil of France throughout the nineteenth century, the continued relevance of this warning hardly needs stating.

But the story also suggests the extent to which late eighteenth-century occult beliefs (Cazotte, as has already been hinted, was himself involved with various sects and apparently allowed séances to take place in his house) provided a suitable terrain for the conte fantastique to take root in early nineteenth-century France. Indeed, it is as if some fifty years were required for such notions (which were formerly the preserve of economic and intellectual elites) to percolate through the social system, the process aided and abetted by the innumerable writers who contributed to the development of the fantastique as a literary genre. In fact, there was no shortage of stories and novels dealing with fantastique themes prior to the publication, accompanied by an extremely adroit publicity campaign, of Hoffmann’s works in the late 1820s and early 1830s. A certain vicomte d’Arlincourt, for example, had an unlikely best-seller in 1821 with a novel about a monster who turns out to be Charles the Bold returned from the dead. But in 1830, it was the late E. T. A. Hoffmann who was the literary lion of the moment.

Hoffmann introduced a range of themes, ideas and narrative techniques which served to renew the conte fantastique (the murderer who is unmasked at the end of Madame de Scudery, for example, must surely be one of the first psychopaths in European literature outside the works of de Sade), which then remained in vogue in France, in one form or another, for the next seventy years. Charles Nodier himself led the way with the bloody story of Hélène Gillet, published in 1832 – a work which also serves to demonstrate the fragility of literary taxonomies. Notwithstanding the author’s insistence in the opening paragraphs that Hélène Gillet belongs to the tradition of the fantastique, this story might be classified with equal legitimacy (like the story by Frédéric Soulié which opens this collection) under the frénétique heading. This is hardly surprising perhaps since, as we have already suggested, the frénétique was one of the dominant literary modes of the period.13 Genres also develop by the deliberate blurring of boundaries.

Despite their friendship with Pétrus Borel, Théophile Gautier (1811–1872) and Gérard de Nerval (1808–1855) always remained somewhat sceptical of the frénétique. In the case of Gautier this is exemplified by his ironical remarks about horror writing in the preface to Mademoiselle de Maupin (1835), which remains one of his best loved works to this day, and by the psychedelic stories he wrote under the influence of opium over the course of the next decade or so. Indeed, even The Dead in Love is as much a testimony to his belief in art for art’s sake as a celebration of vampirism. A similar remark would hold true for his last conte fantastique – Mademoiselle Dafné (1866) – which, despite (or because of) its stylistic brilliance, never quite seems to take the Gothic elements entirely seriously.

Gérard de Nerval equally eschewed crude horror in favour of the fantastical. Indeed, even more than in the case of his friend Théophile Gautier, the fantastic was for him not so much a literary convention but a part of everyday reality – so much so that it seems as if the dream world finally crowded out his sanity. Nerval’s first serious mental crisis occurred in 1841 (though, as Gautier noted later, it is probable he was mentally unbalanced long before anyone consciously noted it), followed by renewed attacks in the years leading up to his suicide in 1855. Paradoxically, these final years – including as they do not only such works as Aurélia, which explores the author’s visions, dreams and hallucinations (the final episodes are set in the clinic of Dr Emile Blanche at Passy where Nerval himself was treated), but also a remarkable sonnet sequence, Les chimères – were among his most productive. The Green Devil, which dates from this period, is included here not so much because it is successful as a story in its own terms but for what it reveals about the frightening mental condition of its author.

Perhaps the closest in spirit to E. T. A. Hoffmann, however, was the writing team Erckmann-Chatrian. Celebrated at the time as the authors of a long sequence of historical novels set during the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, Emile Erckmann (1822–1899) and Alexandre Chatrian (1826–1890) also regularly contributed fantastic tales to the popular press of the epoch. Among the first, and perhaps the most famous, of these is The Burgomaster in the Bottle (1856), in which the authors explore the possibility that the soul of a man buried beneath a vine may be transfused into the wine which it produces.14 Other stories deal with bizarre forms of reverse anthropomorphism (a particularly memorable tale concerns a man who is a reincarnation of a cat and, when in a state of somnambulism, kills for the sake of killing) or seem to anticipate the sort of sensational inventions which would shortly be encountered in the novels of Jules Verne.

The best of Erckmann-Chatrian’s tales also indicate the renewal of interest in the mid-century in such occult phenomenon as reincarnation, hypnosis and spirit communication. The tomb of the man responsible for this, the French spiritualist Allan Kardec (1804–1869), whose seminal work Le Livre des esprits (1856) was an immediate success, still attracts throngs of visitors to the Père-Lachaise cemetery at weekends. Essentially, Kardec believed that the spiritual essence was continuously incarnated in human form until finally perfected, at which time it is released from the wheel of karma. Although Kardec did not approve of attempts to physically materialise spirits (though he did encourage automatic writing), a small number of mediums were already active in France by this time. These ideas, or variants upon them, were quickly picked up by other writers, notably Henri Rivière (1827–1883).

Henri Rivière is a somewhat elusive figure. After what appears to be an adventurous life, which possibly included a spell as a mercenary, he settled down and began to turn out fiction, only a small proportion of which is of interest to us here – indeed, just the four collections of stories he produced in a short spell between 1862 and 1866. The Reincarnation of Dr Roger, which is by far his most compelling work, was published in the second of these. The impact of Kardec is apparent in several other works though, notably a story entitled Cain (1866) in which the central character is haunted, mentally and physically, by the memory of a dead man. By the end of the story, the latter has more or less completely possessed him.

The final two writers included under the heading conte fantastique – Guy de Maupassant (1850–1893) and Jean Lorrain (1855–1906) – move us forward to the fin-de-siècle. Of the two, Maupassant is far too well-known to require more than the briefest of remarks here. His contemporaries found the ease with which he seemed to compose his fictions disconcerting (he published more than thirty horror stories alone), and predicted that his reputation would not survive. We now know, of course, that this was not the case – indeed, Maupassant is without doubt the most famous writer of short fiction France has ever produced (though in addition to his sixteen volumes of short stories he also wrote six novels and three collections of travel sketches). His horror stories demonstrate the same qualities of simplicity and economy as his other works.

Beneath his robust exterior, Maupassant’s mental and physical health was being slowly eroded by overwork and a dissolute life-style – the last eighteen months of his life were spent in a mental asylum. Some hint of what dissolute living in end-of-the-century Paris involved is given in Jean Lorrain’s second novel, Très Russe (1886), in which the beautiful but extraordinarily sadistic Russian heroine so arranges matters that two men – one of whom rumoured to be based on Maupassant; the other said to be the author – fight a duel to the death for her sexual delectation. Though the story is unlikely to be true (not least because Lorrain’s sexual preferences lay elsewhere), Sonia Livitinof typifies Lorrain’s delight – perhaps encouraged by his addiction to ether – in the creation of bizarre central characters. These include not only Monsieur de Burdhe, the main focal point of One Possessed (1895), a story which celebrates the vampirism of connoiseurship at the same time as running through almost the entire gamut of the fin-de-siècle macabre, but also the remarkable Monsieur de Phocas (1901), the hero of which is clearly based on the author himself.15 Mario Praz said of this last work that although imitative of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, it ‘surpasses its model in the intensity of the obsessions it displays.’16 But the same might be said of all Lorrain’s writing – for Lorrain, together with Baudelaire, Catulle Mendès, J.-K. Huysmans and one or two others, was among the principal architects of the fin-de-siècle imagination.

Though the French horror story of the nineteenth century may have freely requisitioned ideas gleaned from British, German and American authors, it also adapted and altered those ideas in unpredictable ways. This is the way genres always develop and renew themselves (the debt of the English Gothic novel to eighteenth-century French writing was no less important, for example). Born in the aftermath of the French Revolution, the Romantic writers of the 1820s and 30s brought to the genre narrative sophistication and their own set of macabre fears and anxieties concerning such matters as the death penalty, anatomical research, the cholera epidemic, infanticide, and man’s inhumanity to man; the rise of spiritualism in the mid-century presented a fresh collection of moral problematics; finally, the end of the century, especially under the impact of pioneering work in the discipline later to become known as psychology, witnessed a renewed fascination in diabolicism and morbid sexuality. Although the most recent of the stories included in this anthology was written more than ninety years ago, it is hoped that none of them have lost their macabre charm even today.

– Terry Hale

1 Charles Nodier: ‘Critique Littéraire. Le Petit Pierre, traduit de l’allemand, de Spiess’ (1), Annales de la Littérature et des Arts, 1821, No. 16, pp. 77–83, at p. 81.

2 Victor Hugo: Han of Iceland, tr. John Chesterfield, 2 vols (Edinburgh: John Grant, 1903), I, pp. 171–172. (The translation has been slightly modified.)

3 An English translation of this short piece by Balzac is published in Jules Janin: The Dead Donkey and the Guillotined Woman, ed. Terry Hale (London: The Gothic Society, 1993).

4 An English edition was published by Dedalus in 1988.

5 Translated by Terry Hale (London: Atlas Press, 1991).

6 The best of these stories have recently been made available elsewhere. The Marquis de Sade: The Gothic Tales (London: Peter Owen, 1965; reissued 1990); Crimes of Love (London: Peter Owen, 1996). In both cases the translator is Margaret Crossland.

7 ‘Idée sur les romans’ (1800), in Oeuvres complètes du Marquis de Sade (Paris: Pauvert, 1988), Vol. X, pp. 70–71. This same passage is quoted by Sade’s critic, Villeterque, in his 1800 review mentioned above.

8The New Justine concerns two sisters, Justine and Juliette, who are expelled from their convent school on the bankruptcy and death of their father. Whereas Juliette employs her natural charms to become wealthy and powerful, Justine’s profound reluctance to engage in vice leads to her unrelenting persecution. For reader’s unfamiliar with Sade, it was tempting to include an extract from The New Justine here – the episode, for example, in which Justine is mechanically tortured, a passage which surely receives greater emphasis in the 1797 edition following the widespread guillotinings during the Terror, is particularly grisly. However, although strict censorship laws in Britain prevented the importation even of severely bowdlerised American translations of Sade’s work until 1983, Richard Seaver and Austryn Wainhouse’s excellent 1965 translation is now commonly available: Justine (London: Arrow, 1991).

9 Charles Baudelaire: Edgar Allan Poe: Histoires extraordinaires (1856; rept. Paris: Bookking International, 1996), p. 29.

10 Mario Praz, The Romantic Agony, tr. Angus Davidson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), p. 153.

11 A modern translation, by Judith Lantry, was published by Dedalus in 1991.

12 Another example of a conte fantastique which almost certainly started out as an urban myth is that of the German student who befriends the woman of his dreams by the side of the guillotine (the story occurs during the Terror), takes her home, and in the morning goes out to find a larger apartment. When he returns, she is dead. The officer who investigates the case recognises her as one of the victims of the guillotine from the previous day, which is confirmed when he undoes the velvet band she wears round her neck. Washington Irving, the first to recount this tale in 1824, no doubt acquired it during his travels; Pétrus Borel, who took it from Irving, published a version in 1843; while Alexandre Dumas, who turned it into a novel in 1850, wrongly credited Hoffmann, who did indeed visit Paris during the Terror, as his source.

13 Although Charles Nodier (1780–1844) was one of the major figures of French Romanticism, as the number of occasions on which his name has occurred in this introduction might suggest, he tends to remain an unfamiliar figure to British and American readers. Two of his finest stories, Smarra and Trilby, were published in a new translation by Judith Landry by Dedalus in 1993.

14 A fascinating account of how this story was appropriated by the Italian writer I. U. Tarchetti is given by Lawrence Venuti in his introduction to the former’s Fantastic Tales (San Francisco: Mercury House, 1992).

15 A translation by Francis Amery of Monsieur de Phocas was published by Dedalus in 1994.

16 Mario Praz, p. 354.

Frenetic Tales

The Lamp of Saint Just

Frédéric Soulié

No more than a century ago, in the church of Saint Just at Narbonne, in the centre of the chapel situated to the right of the tomb of Philip the Bold, there burned night and day a magnificent silver lamp. This lamp was perpetually fuelled with aromatic oil, which must have been of pure olive. The care of this lamp was not entrusted to the coarse hands of the vergers and their servants; a young abbot was usually appointed to the task of keeping it clean and bright. This magnificent lamp was stolen about the year 1734, and was replaced by a candle that had similarly to be kept continuously lit; but the candle did not compel the adoration of the faithful as did the precious lamp, and it disappeared completely about the year 1750. There are however still some old men who recall having seen it, and who have spoken to me of it. This is what I have been able to ascertain about the origin and the establishment of this lamp.

On 12 February 1347, around midnight, a young knight of no more than nineteen, escorted by four men at arms on horseback bearing broadswords, stopped at the door of Lubiano Marrechi, a Lombardy Italian who was a merchant trading in the town of Narbonne. Since the door did not open at the first knock, the men at arms made ready to break it down, but without further ado the key turned in the lock, and the knight and his men entered a dimly-lit room. The door had been opened to them by a little old man of a not unusual aspect, having, like all those of his profession, a pair of keen, mistrustful eyes. It was as if he wanted to study at one and the same time every face and every hand in order to see deep into the former and keep check on the latter. Just as the men at arms came in through the street door, a young girl en déshabille rushed out of the door opposite and ran up to the knight, throwing herself upon his neck with a cry of joy as she said:

‘It is you, then, my Joëz! Oh! I was waiting for you, and I recognised from far off the sound of your horse and of your mules.’

She had scarcely uttered these words when she stepped back in fright, for the burnished steel of the knight’s breastplate had chilled her warm young breast, bruising her delicate white skin. She regarded the stranger then let herself fall onto a narrow seat of black leather, saying with astonishment:

‘What! It is not Joëz!’

‘No,’ answered the knight. ‘I am not Joëz de Cordoue, the handsome merchant of purple-dyed wools, and I bring no magnificent gifts to my fiancée Diana Marrechi. I am Jean de Lille-Jourdain, and I come to carry out the orders of the King of France.’

‘It is well!’ the old merchant intervened. ‘Return to your chamber, Diana; I can manage by myself to make our house welcome to the lord of Lille-Jourdain.’

‘There is no need,’ the former interjected, ‘for from this moment neither you nor any of your family possess either house or chamber. All those of your household are seized and all of your goods are confiscated.’

‘You are mad,’ Marrechi exclaimed, bringing his lamp close to Jean’s face, ‘or else you are only a child playing some vile game. Take care, we are under the protection of the consuls of the town, and their sergeants at arms have punished more than one knight-banneret for having failed to acknowledge their seal. It stands here at the foot of the licence which, for payment of ten gold écus, is granted to me to buy and sell all manner of objects as I will. So get thee hence, unless you wish me to call the burghers and you will come off the worse.’

‘Take him, lads,’ said the young man to his soldiers, ‘make this Lombard understand that it is King Philip’s pleasure to take possession of all his goods as indemnity for the help refused him by the states of Langue d’Oc.’ The soldiers obeyed and held the old man down. He could not conceive that what was happening was a reality, so secretly had this action been prepared, coming unannounced like a lightning bolt. Diana, as unmoving as her father, her body scarcely covered with a flimsy linen shift, felt neither the biting wind that whipped this garment against the pure, slim contours of her body, nor the chill of the flagstones cold beneath her feet. She did not think of how she was exposed, almost naked, to the eyes of a stranger; she looked at Jean with a gaze so piercing it was almost wild, and as she did, her father cried out in despair:

Oh! God have mercy! What is to become of us?’

‘I shall tell you,’ answered the knight; ‘you yourself, as head of the family, will be locked up with all the Lombards in the district, in a very deep dungeon, where you will rot until it shall please my lord the King to let you out.’

‘And what of my house!’ said the old man, ‘What will become of my house? My treasures, my merchandise, left untended by me what will become of them?’