IV. THE APEX OF GOTHIC ROMANCE
HORROR in literature attains a new malignity in the work
of Matthew Gregory Lewis (1773-1818), whose novel The Monk (1796)
achieved marvelous popularity and earned him the nickname "Monk" Lewis.
This young author, educated in Germany and saturated with a body of wild
Teuton lore unknown to Mrs. Radcliffe, turned to terror in forms more violent
than his gentle predecessor had ever dared to think of; and produced as
a result a masterpiece of active nightmare whose general Gothic cast is
spiced with added stores of ghoulishness. The story is one of a Spanish
monk, Ambrosio, who from a state of over-proud virtue is tempted to the
very nadir of evil by a fiend in the guise of the maiden Matilda; and who
is finally, when awaiting death at the Inquisition's hands, induced to
purchase escape at the price of his soul from the Devil, because he deems
both body and soul already lost. Forthwith the mocking Fiend snatches him
to a lonely place, tells him he has sold his soul in vain since both pardon
and a chance for salvation were approaching at the moment of his hideous
bargain, and completes the sardonic betrayal by rebuking him for his unnatural
crimes, and casting his body down a precipice whilst his soul is borne
off for ever to perdition. The novel contains some appalling descriptions
such as the incantation in the vaults beneath the convent cemetery, the
burning of the convent, and the final end of the wretched abbot. In the
sub-plot where the Marquis de las Cisternas meets the spectre of his erring
ancestress, The Bleeding Nun, there are many enormously potent strokes;
notably the visit of the animated corpse to the Marquis's bedside, and
the cabalistic ritual whereby the Wandering Jew helps him to fathom and
banish his dead tormentor. Nevertheless The Monk drags sadly when
read as a whole. It is too long and too diffuse, and much of its potency
is marred by flippancy and by an awkwardly excessive reaction against those
canons of decorum which Lewis at first despised as prudish. One great thing
may be said of the author; that he never ruined his ghostly visions with
a natural explanation. He succeeded in breaking up the Radcliffian tradition
and expanding the field of the Gothic novel. Lewis wrote much more than
The
Monk. His drama, The Castle Spectre, was produced in 1798, and
he later found time to pen other fictions in ballad form -- Tales of
Terror (1799), The Tales of Wonder (1801), and a succession
of translations from the German. Gothic romances, both English and German,
now appeared in multitudinous and mediocre profusion. Most of them were
merely ridiculous in the light of mature taste, and Miss Austen's famous
satire Northanger Abbey was by no means an unmerited rebuke to a
school which had sunk far toward absurdity. This particular school was
petering out, but before its final subordination there arose its last and
greatest figure in the person of Charles Robert Maturin (1782-1824), an
obscure and eccentric Irish clergyman. Out of an ample body of miscellaneous
writing which includes one confused Radcliffian imitation called The
Fatal Revenge; or, the Family of Montorio (1807), Maturin at length
envolved the vivid horror-masterpiece of Melmoth, the Wanderer (1820),
in which the Gothic tale climbed to altitudes of sheer spiritual fright
which it had never known before.
Melmoth is the tale of an Irish Gentleman who,
in the seventeenth century, obtained a preternaturally extended life from
the Devil at the price of his soul. If he can persuade another to take
the bargain off his hands, and assume his existing state, he can be saved;
but this he can never manage to effect, no matter how assiduously he haunts
those whom despair has made reckless and frantic. The framework of the
story is very clumsy; involving tedious length, digressive episodes, narratives
within narratives, and labored dovetailing and coincidence; but at various
points in the endless rambling there is felt a pulse of power undiscoverable
in any previous work of this kind -- a kinship to the essential truth of
human nature, an understanding of the profoundest sources of actual cosmic
fear, and a white heat of sympathetic passion on the writer's part which
makes the book a true document of æsthetic self-expression rather
than a mere clever compound of artifice. No unbiased reader can doubt that
with
Melmoth an enormous stride in the evolution of the horror-tale
is represented. Fear is taken out of the realm of the conventional and
exalted into a hideous cloud over mankind's very destiny. Maturin's shudders,
the work of one capable of shuddering himself, are of the sort that convince,
Mrs. Radcliffe and Lewis are fair game for the parodist, but it would be
difficult to find a false note in the feverishly intensified action and
high atmospheric tension of the Irishman whose less sophisticated emotions
and strain of Celtic mysticism gave him the finest possible natural equipment
for his task. Without a doubt Maturin is a man of authentic genius, and
he was so recognized by Balzac, who grouped Melmoth with Molière's
Don
Juan, Gœthe's Faust, and Byron's Manfred as the supreme
allegorical figures of modern European literature, and wrote a whimsical
piece called Melmoth Reconciled, in which the Wanderer succeeds
in passing his infernal bargain on to a Parisian bank defaulter, who in
turn hands it along a chain of victims until a reveling gambler dies with
it in his possession, and by his damnation ends the curse. Scott, Rossetti,
Thackeray and Baudelaire are the other titans who gave Maturin their unqualified
admiration, and there is much significance in the fact that Oscar Wilde,
after his disgrace and exile, chose for his last days in Paris the assumed
name of "Sebastian Melmoth."
Melmoth contains scenes which even now have not
lost their power to evoke dread. It begins with a deathbed -- an old miser
is dying of sheer fright because of something he has seen, coupled with
a manuscript he has read and a family portrait which hangs in an obscure
closet of his centuried home in County Wicklow. He sends to Trinity College,
Dublin, for his nephew John; and the latter upon arriving notes many uncanny
things. The eyes of the portrait in the closet glow horribly, and twice
a figure strangely resembling the portrait appears momentarily at the door.
Dread hangs over that house of the Melmoths, one of whose ancestors, "J.
Melmoth, 1646," the portrait represents. The dying miser declares that
this man -- at a date slightly before 1800 -- is alive. Finally the miser
dies, and the nephew is told in the will to destroy both the portrait and
a manuscript to be found in a certain drawer. Reading the manuscript, which
was written late in the seventeenth century by an Englishman named Stanton,
young John learns of a terrible incident in Spain in 1677, when the writer
met a horrible fellow-countryman and was told of how he had stared to death
a priest who tried to denounce him as one filled with fearsome evil. Later,
after meeting the man again in London, Stanton is cast into a madhouse
and visited by the stranger, whose approach is heralded by spectral music
and whose eyes have a more than mortal glare. Melmoth the Wanderer -- for
such is the malign visitor -- offers the captive freedom if he will take
over his bargain with the Devil; but like all others whom Melmoth has approached,
Stanton is proof against temptation. Melmoth's description of the horrors
of a life in a madhouse, used to tempt Stanton, is one of the most potent
passages of the book. Stanton is at length liberated, and spends the rest
of his life tracking down Melmoth, whose family and ancestral abode he
discovers. With the family he leaves the manuscript, which by young John's
time is badly ruinous and fragmentary. John destroys both portrait and
manuscript, but in sleep is visited by his horrible ancestor, who leaves
a black and blue mark on his wrist.
Young John soon afterward receives as a visitor a shipwrecked
Spaniard, Alonzo de Moncada, who has escaped from compulsory monasticism
and from the perils of the Inquisition. He has suffered horribly -- and
the descriptions of his experiences under torment and in the vaults through
which he once essays escape are classic -- but had the strength to resist
Melmoth the Wanderer when approached at his darkest hour in prison. At
the house of a Jew who sheltered him after his escape he discovers a wealth
of manuscript relating other exploits of Melmoth, including his wooing
of an Indian island maiden, Immalee, who later comes into her birthright
in Spain and is known as Donna Isidora; and of his horrible marriage to
her by the corpse of a dead anchorite at midnight in the ruined chapel
of a shunned and abhorred monastery. Moncada's narrative to young John
takes up the bulk of Maturin's four-volume book; this disproportion being
considered one of the chief technical faults of the composition.
At last the colloquies of John and Moncada are interrupted
by the entrance of Melmoth the Wanderer himself, his piercing eyes now
fading, and decrepitude swiftly overtaking him. The term of his bargain
has approached its end, and he has come home after a century and a half
to meet his fate. Warning all others from the room, no matter what sounds
they may hear in the night, he awaits the end alone. Young John and Moncada
hear frightful ululations, but do not intrude till silence comes toward
morning. They then find the room empty. Clayey footprints lead out a rear
door to a cliff overlooking the sea, and near the edge of the precipice
is a track indicating the forcible dragging of some heavy body. The Wanderer's
scarf is found on a crag some distance below the brink, but nothing further
is ever seen or heard of him.
Such is the story, and none can fail to notice the difference
between this modulated, suggestive, and artistically moulded horror and
-- to use the words of Professor George Saintsbury -- "the artful but rather
jejune rationalism of Mrs. Radcliffe, and the too often puerile extravagance,
the bad taste, and the sometimes slipshod style of Lewis." Maturin's style
in itself deserves particular praise, for its forcible directness and vitality
lift it altogether above the pompous artificialities of which his predecessors
are guilty. Professor Edith Birkhead, in her history of the Gothic novel,
justly observes that "with all his faults Maturin was the greatest as well
as the last of the Goths." Melmoth was widely read and eventually
dramatized, but its late date in the evolution of the Gothic tale deprived
it of the tumultuous popularity of Udolpho and The Monk.
.....
