Tonight I’m reading…

Late Victorian Gothic Tales, ed. Roger Luckhurst; published by Oxford World’s Classics in 2005

It is quite wonderful. The introduction identifies the beginning of the Gothic era (late 18th to early 19th century–Mysteries of Udolpho, and Otranto, and Frankenstein) and then links that to a resurgence in the genre at the end of the nineteenth century. Works such as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886), The Picture of Dorian Grey (1891), The Island of Dr. Moreau (1896), and Dracula (1897) are examples of the fin de siecle expressions of the Gothic mode.

“The hybrid, bastard form of the Gothic records the undamming of dark forces that rush into and insidiously undermine the order of everyday life. This prospect is a terror but also, of course, a delightful promise. The genre appears to inflict exorbitant punishments on those who step outside the norm, but at the same time it is in the business of lasciviously imagining these transgressions. It invokes the law by breaking it; it insists on sexual continence by dreaming up all manner of ingenious perversity. It is difficult sometimes to decide of a Gothic text is conservative or subversive for it is often both, simutaneously.” (Luckhurst xi)

 Roger Luckhurst’s introduction suggests that the changing world of the late Victorian found expression in the supernatural excesses of the Gothic tale. What sort of changes, you ask? Gender stuff was all kinds of complicated, what with Oscar’s trial and the New Woman and all. The empire was bigger than ever, and so more fragile and more troubling than ever. Science and religion and spiritualism competed for primary place in the public mind. All of this makes for some uneasy times and for some uneasy tales.  

I’m loving the intersection of the Victorian era and modernity. Tropp’s Images of Fear (which I reviewed here) suggests that the framework with which we view the modern age is informed–created by, even–the horror stories of the Victorian era. This collection seems to allow for further interrogation of that thesis –instead of looking at all the stories, we’re just looking at a few, from a very specific time (the 1890’s), and looking at how they dealt with the very modern terrors of the late Victorian era.

Here’s what’s in the anthology:

Vernon Lee’s Dionea
Oscar Wilde’s Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime
Henry James’s Sir Edmund Orme
Rudyard Kipling’s The Mark of the Beast
B. M. Croker’s The Dak Bungalow at Dakor
Arthur Conan Doyle’s Lot No. 249
Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Case of Lady Sannox
Grant Allen’s Pallinghurst Barrow
Jean Lorrain’s Magic Lantern
Jean Lorrain’s The Spectral Hand
Arthur Machen’s  The Great God Pan
M. P. Shiel’s Vaila

The book also includes some 40 pages of introductory notes, including an extensive bibliography and chronology of the era, as well as some 20 pages of explanatory notes. So lots of extra goodies. 

Highly recommended–whether you’re busily researching or just needing something spooky to curl up with on this late October evening. 

Plot Junkie: Horror, at home and abroad

This week hasn’t left  lot of time for non-academic reading, between… well, everything (I won’t go through the list of pending projects again. It just stresses me out. And I’m quite enjoying this rainy Tuesday morning, with my coffee and cuddly dog, and would prefer not to add a heapin’ helpin’ of stress.) So here’s what I’ve been reading for school: a bit about World War I and a little more about Victorian ghosties. Love ‘em both. Wish I had more time–all I want to do is read. (I want that on my tombstone. Local papers please copy.)

Deliver us from Evil: A Southern Belle in Europe at the Outbreak of World War I, Mary W. Schaller

Nancy Johnson arrived in Naples on June 8, 1914, with twenty-seven pieces of luggage, a letter of introduction from Woodrow Wilson and assurances that her congressman father would wire her more money whenever it was needed. She had been sent to Europe to forget an unapproved beau—one Roscoe Campbell Crawford, a working class Protestant of Irish descent… definitely not what Ben Johnson, Kentucky Catholic, had planned for his last single daughter. (Nancy married Roscoe in 1915. Either her father was just so thrilled to have her back that he stopped objecting, or she just didn’t care any more. The author of this book was their granddaughter.)

Nancy was one of thousands of Americans holidaying on the continent during that last summer before the war: the Vanderbilts (Frederick and Louise); Nicholas Butler,the president of Columbia University; and “an estimated thirty thousand midwestern schoolteachers” taking guided tours of the places about which they taught were all caught unawares and unprepared for the European conflict. Letters of credit—many which drew on vast fortunes—were denied by banks stockpiling gold, trains were commandeered by the army, sailing schedules were cancelled. As the open boarders of the nations were slammed shut, thousands of wealthy Americans swarmed the U. S. Counsel, demanding to be taken care of.

To deal with the situation that they so unexpectedly found themselves in, four American businessmen trapped in Europe chartered a ship, the Principe di Udine, and sent a few of the wealthy Americans home, Nancy (and all twenty-seven pieces of luggage) included.

Much of my opinion about the events this book seems to be about what/who wasn’t included. The book doesn’t actually state that the less-advantaged American travelers in Europe were neglected, but there were certainly a lot of people left standing on the dock when the Principe pulled out. “Though the little ship could pack over a thousand people in its steerage, the committee realized that the American refugees, many traveling with a great deal of baggage, expected much better accommodations.” If that doesn’t make you see red (ha), I don’t know what will. Of course, just in the way the book was written—the inclusion of the information, however slight, about the other travelers in Europe–obviously provides a space for this type of frustration with the inequalities of the modern world. So kudos to the author for stitching their story so firmly into the weft and weave of this one. I was much more interested in the background story—that of the people who managed to take care of all of these entitled people—than the story of the entitled people. And I want to read the story of those thirty thousand school teachers!

Anyway, the book only very obliquely  address the economic disparity of the modern world. It’s mostly about Miss Nancy Johnson, debutante daughter of the senator, and her escape from Europe. Honestly, I was so expecting some grand trek over the Alps or hidden in a boxcar or something—this is what happens when you only read fiction!—that I was a little surprised when her path was so smooth. She is coddled, from the moment she initially lands in Europe to the moment she is shuffled back on board another ship, by men who fear the temper and power of her father. But she makes it out alive. And that’s important.

The book was well written—could have been a done a little better (why do biographies always start with the birth? Give me a bang-up intro—tell me why I’m reading this book—then skip back to where her people come from.) and I actually enjoyed it quite a bit more than I’m expressing in this review. Yes, the assumption of privilege made my blood boil. But the experiences of the privileged are a legitimate part of our history and our world, as are the experiences of the thirty thousand school teachers. Beyond giving me quite a good view of the early days World War I (which I need, as I’ve yet to make it beyond the fourth page of Tuchman’s Guns of August) it gave me several ideas for future research into the plight of the not-so-privileged.

Images of Fear: How Horror Stories Helped Shape Modern Culture (1818-1918), Martin Tropp

And from the horror abroad, I moved on to horror a little closer to home. Martin Tropp’s Images of Fear: How Horror Stories Helped Shape Modern Culture (1818-1918) is proving a fantastic read. His argument is that the most enduring images of fear (Dracula, Frankenstein, Mr. Hyde) gave “form and meaning to the frightening events that have come to mark modern culture.” You can see from the dates included in the subtitle just what frightening events he refers to—from  the beginning of the Industrial age  (fears of machines), to the urbanization of the country (poverty, contamination and over-population of major cities); to Jack the Ripper and the Great War—he argues that the popular conception of these real nightmares was framed and formed by these modern myths. He quotes biologist Peter Medawar in his introduction:” We cannot make sense of the world around us without some structure which gives it meaning—there is no such thing as pure observation.” Tropp argues that the structure that allowed people in the nineteenth and early twentieth century to understand the huge changes in their world was literature—and specifically, horror literature.

I absolutely love how this book connects my two major interests right now—the Victorian Gothic and World War I. I’m not sure if this will prove immediately useful (beyond the absolutely fascinating chapter on Northanger Abbey, which I’m using for my independent study), but it’s definitely going in the file!

And that’s what has been occupying my time this week. Anybody read something fabulous lately? I love book suggestions!