Insidious Mechanisms: A New Anthology from Egaeus Press

  

Egaeus Press have just announced publication of a new anthology, Insidious Mechanisms, Tales of Cursed Clockwork and Cyclical Anomalies, “presenting fifteen previously unpublished short stories, set against the ticks and whirs of unfathomable devices, synchronised, in apparent mockery of the true cycles of nature and human desire.” Contributors include Charles Wilkinson, D.P. Watt, R. Ostermeier, John Gale and Colin Insole. 

 My own story, ‘Seven Clocks and a Music Box’ was inspired by a music box I bought in a curio shop in Holt, Norfolk, whose proprietor said he could not identify the tune, though it seemed familiar. I like the idea of just such an elusive melody. Then, in the back streets of a Westmorland town, I chanced upon a closed clock museum, and in a nearby antiques shop, what looked like some of its discarded books. These things began to mesh, and I then recalled I had used a clock-worker character before, in two Connoisseur stories, who could make a return. She and the narrator encounter a gallery of strange and singular clocks and discover the secret of the music box.

(Mark Valentine)

'Sound Wood': Aldous Huxley's 'Two or Three Graces'

  

On 16 January 1928, Mary Butts recorded in her journal that her mind was full of ‘the worst book ever written on a superb theme, [John] Buchan’s The Dancing Floor, but as if it was illustrated, in a kind of lovely light.’ By contrast, a few weeks later, on 6 February 1928, she gave qualified praise to Two or Three Graces and Other Stories by Aldous Huxley (1926): ‘Blessed man: not a master of form or language—magical language—but clear, hard, witty, observant, pitiful, aseptic—like the sound wood of a Chippendale chair . . . I finished it with the words ringing: “it’s the truth, it’s the truth, it’s the truth.”

I think quite highly of Buchan’s book, and its theme of surviving paganism on a Greek island, despite some creaky plot mechanics. It seems to me that Buchan does have the ‘magical language’ she was seeking. I was interested in her contrasting praise of the Huxley. This year marks the centenary of its first publication. It is not one of his better-known works, so I thought it worth a look, and got hold of a copy which proved to have a history.  At least three previous owners had each left their mark on the book. 

On the fixed rear endpaper was a subscription lending library label printed in green ink, but the library is not named. There were erratically placed date stamps in violet ink for 29 May 1926, 9 Feb 1927, 23 Feb 1927, [?] Jun 1927 and 1 Jul 1927. The label had been over-stamped in red ink capitals: PURCHASED [F]ROM THE LIBRARY”. There was also the ghost of a shield shaped label on the blue front boards.

On the front free endpaper was the pencil signature of Mansfield D. Forbes, Clare College, Cambridge, and the note: ‘Rec’d Dec ‘27’. There was copious pencil marginalia and, on the verso of the rear free endpaper, notes on page numbers and key words, eg ‘Classical’, ‘Romance’, ‘Love falsified’. Cambridge University Archives have a brief note on him: ‘Mansfield Duval Forbes (1889-1936) became a fellow of Clare College, Cambridge in 1913. He belonged to a circle which included the musicologist E.J. Dent and others such as Siegfried Sassoon and Rupert Brooke’. There was a biography, Mansfield Forbes and His Cambridge by Hugh Carey (1984).

Forbes evidently enjoyed being in the know while reading Huxley’s book. In the title story there is a brief passage about a boy who climbed the Gothic pinnacle of his school and placed a chamber pot upon it: a pencil note in the margin identifies him as ‘D.R.P.’ Against the description of a character, ‘even her clumsiness was somehow graceful’, there is the note ‘Lady Caithness’, and when she is again described as having ‘graceful ineptitude’, the further note, ‘Lady C’. The modern artist in the book, Rodney Clegg, unflatteringly depicted, is annotated on page 61 as ‘C.R.W. Nev?’, presumably Christopher R.W. Nevinson.

On the fixed front endpaper there was also a rubber stamp ex libris in blue ink of a pot of flowers, signed underneath in ballpoint, E F Mawsley, Mansley or perhaps Hansley, but I have been unable to find out anything about anyone with these variant names.

These marks and marginalia I found more interesting, I am sorry to report, than the book itself, that so enthused Mary Butts. The title story has some astute and witty aphorisms, but embedded in a rather over-extended and somewhat ponderous plot, like shreds of orange zest in a suet pudding. An artist and an essayist in turn have a passion for a provocative woman, with a dull husband. She becomes drawn to bohemian circles. The essayist sees her abundant glee at this racy new world as ‘devilish’ and vampiric. Despite these epithets, there is not the slightest hint of the mysterious or supernatural. This is no femme fatale: in fact, she is merely gauche.

Moreover, Huxley often deploys the omniscient author mode to pontificate about his characters, and at times it is rather like reading a psychology case study. I can imagine that Mary Butts liked the tempestuous undercurrents, the frankness about modern love affairs, and the rather jaded worldliness of the narrator, but it all seems rather futile. Perhaps that was the intended point.

The other three stories, about minor ironies, are no more than magazine-filler fare. They include rather condescending, smirking sketches of a youth with a Lancashire accent and a stammer, and the son of a Midlands boot manufacturer, who affects a monocle. These caricatures, by the Eton and Balliol educated Huxley, are trite and snobbish, and they appear to be authorial attitudes, not merely those of his characters.

The collection followed on from Huxley’s success with Crome Yellow (1921) and Antic Hay (1923), witty satires that had won him a reputation as a bright young  author. But this volume does not match their brilliance or verve, and seems to be something of a stop-gap between better work, the author or publisher making the best of some miscellaneous products.

I can understand why the title does not stand high among Huxley’s work, and it does reveal a different side to the author later all-but-sainted for his interest in mysticism. But perhaps we might charitably credit him with at least trying, when older and wiser, to surpass his upbringing. And the book as an object, as its own miniature history, at least offered some unexpected interest. 

(Mark Valentine) 

Black Cat in The House of Anubis

The poet Anthony Etherin is noted for his interest in wordplay, devising pieces that have limitations in the letters used, or particular structures, to provoke high ingenuity while retaining meaning. He has recently launched a new journal, Elementary Penguin, 'devoted to the pleasures of language', which is seeking 'essays on linguistic curiosities, formal and experimental poetry, constraint-based writing, nonsense literature, original language puzzles, and other pieces of verbal mischief'.

Anthony Etherin is also a musician, and has just released 'Black Cat in The House of Anubis' , "a composition for two rubber-string acoustic basses and an Egyptian basalt sistrum." Who could possibly resist either the title or the instrumentation? And indeed the piece itself, which beautifully conjures up the stealthy stalking of the audacious feline in the temple of the dog-headed god. 

(Mark Valentine) 

 

A Thirties Grail Thriller: 'Secret Sceptre' by Francis Gerard

  

Francis Gerard was the author of about twenty-two thrillers in the period 1936-52, many featuring his series detective Sir John Meredith. He also wrote continuations of Edgar Wallace’s ‘Sanders of the River’ stories. He published first with Rich & Cowan, then later with Macdonald. His books are vivid, extravagant, rather headlong, and favour pace over atmosphere.

The work in some ways belongs to the trend in interwar fiction for tumultuous novels deploying aspects of ritual magic, folklore and the uncanny, such as those by Charles Williams, Gladys Mitchell and Dion Fortune, though he is probably closest in plot and politics to the occult thrillers of Dennis Wheatley, such as The Devil Rides Out (1934).

His publisher noted that though Gerard wrote in the Edgar Wallace tradition, ‘he also had a romantic imagination, a deep interest in history and legend.’ This is well-illustrated by his seventh novel, Secret Sceptre (1937), which has already been the subject of an appreciation at the excellent Pretty Sinister blog in August, 2019. There is an opening scene in the Black Mountains of Wales at a ruined abbey clearly modelled on remote Llanthony. In his dedication, Gerard thanks the Cowans (presumably of the publishing firm) for accompanying him to a vantage in the Black Mountains while researching the book. This landscape has attracted other writers, including Leslie Reid in his timeslip fantasy Cauldron Bubble (1934), L.T.C. Rolt in his story ‘Cwm Garon’ (Sleep No More, 1948), and P.M. Hubbard in his macabre thriller The Dancing Man (1971). 

In Gerard’s opening, a tramp making himself scarce after a burglary takes shelter from the rain at the ruined abbey and sees to his dismay two monks conferring in the ruins. He soon flees. The scene switches to a more conventional detective story, when Meredith is called to investigate a jewel robbery from a junior government minister’s house. There follows a most remarkable scene involving knights in armour. The trick in both cases is soon revealed: what appear to be medieval spectres are in fact contemporary figures dressed in historic costume. But what do the two incidents mean?

The ‘history and legend’ at the centre of the novel is that of the Holy Grail, and specifically the legend that the sacred cup was brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea, what the author calls ‘the Glastonbury story’. The legends of the Somerset town had been revived by the composer Rutland Boughton in his Glastonbury festivals using Arthurian themes, and visionaries and artists had been drawn to settle there or to celebrate it in their work. 

There had been several earlier novels using the Grail as a key symbol, including Arthur Machen’s The Great Return (1915) and The Secret Glory (1922), Mary Butts’ Armed With Madness (1928), Sherard Vines’ Return, Belphegor! (1932) and John Cowper Powys’ A Glastonbury Romance (1933), not to mention those using the tradition of a Luck or ancestral cup such as E.F. Benson’s The Luck of the Vails (1928) and Margery Allingham’s Look to the Lady (1931). The context was the revived interest in Arthurian symbols which emerged from the Celtic Twilight of the Eighteen Nineties and, from the same period onwards, the celebration of the Western Mystery Tradition by the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and its successors. Unlike most of these other Grail novels, however, Gerard’s work does not include a strong mystical element. It is implicit, but not evoked: his drive is action and violence. Of course, the medieval Arthurian romances are full of combat too.

Gerard’s plot supposes that a secret chivalric order has preserved and defended the Grail throughout British history and used their power and its supernatural influence to guide the country, particularly in times of peril. The order includes aristocrats and leading figures of state, and is utterly ruthless in its perpetuation of its stewardship. Now, however, it is faced with an enemy driven by implacable hatred. As with the thrillers of John Buchan, Sapper and Sax Rohmer, the enemy is foreign, and described in distinctly unflattering terms. 

Francis Edward Marie Gérard (1906-1966), who sometimes used the accent in his surname, and sometimes not, was the son of a French father but was born in Chiswick. His biographical notice in Secret Sceptre says he first dealt in gemstones, then took to writing. He served as a Major in the Essex Regiment in the Second World War. He and his family moved to South Africa in the early Nineteen Forties, not liking the new post-war Britain, and eventually he largely ceased novel-writing in favour of politics. His trajectory is in some ways similar to that of another interwar thriller writer, Dornford Yates.  

Secret Sceptre was reprinted by Tom Stacey in 1971 as part of their series of “old favourites”, which also included such titles as Brood of the Witch-Queen by Sax Rohmer, The Rising of the Moon by Gladys Mitchell and Enter Sir John by Clemence Dane and Helen Simpson. However, his work has otherwise been rather lost to view in recent years, and it has not been revived yet in the various series of Golden Age crime fiction reprints. Quite a few of his other novels seem to have fantastical themes. It is still possible to chance upon a few of his books in those second-hand bookshops with a decent stock of vintage hardback fiction.

(Mark Valentine)

Mary Durham, author of 'Castle Mandragora'

  

In a post in November, 2020, I wrote about Castle Mandragora, a thriller with uncanny elements by Mary Durham, and I noted that nothing seemed to be known about the author, who published eleven novels in the Nineteen Forties and Fifties.

Now, however,  crime fiction expert Jamie Sturgeon has uncovered important biographical details about her and reveals these at the Mystery*File blog. This establishes that the name is not a pseudonym, as might have been supposed, and that the author had a Suffolk background, which helps account for the atmospheric setting of Castle Mandragora in the lonely Breckland heaths of that county. His researches provide a very useful framework to understanding the context of her work. 

Mary Durham lived until 1972, but her last known book appeared in 1952. We don't know why nothing further was published in those last twenty years: whether she wrote no more, or did but could not get it published.  But, as Jamie Sturgeon comments, "if you want to try a new author who wrote in the Golden Age of Detection tradition Mary Durham is well worth seeking out." 

(Mark Valentine) 

The Centenary of 'The World of William Clissold' by H.G. Wells: A Guest Post by John Howard

H.G. Wells’ novel The World of William Clissold opens with precision set in time: ‘Yesterday I was fifty-nine, and in a year I shall be sixty.’ First published one hundred years ago, appearing in three volumes over three months from August 1926, both author and his protagonist-author celebrated their sixtieth birthdays that year. It was an appropriate time for Wells to make his most determined – and certainly longest – attempt through fiction to create and portray – to embrace – a world.

During his long career Wells was many things – and certainly a ‘novelist of ideas’. Colin Wilson – who was another – discussed some of them in the long preface to his novel Man Without a Shadow (1963). He made the case that Wells was the ‘finest – and most underestimated’ novelist of ideas. This was because of the ‘characteristic that distinguished all his later work: a desire to write with urgency about real problems – the problems he felt at the time of writing – as well as telling a story. Sometimes the result was superb […] Sometimes it was indifferent […] In The World of William Clissold he tries to make the novel as big as life, and fails.’ This was not due to Wells’ want of ambition or willingness to experiment: ‘As a novelist, Wells lacked what [Henry] James possessed – the desire to give his books reality, even if it took a thousand fine brush strokes. He can write well only about his own life and experiences, but not about other people’s. Still, what he wanted to do to the novel was in no way as old-fashioned as the followers of Joyce and Eliot pretended.’

Wells felt the need to justify ‘what he wanted to do to the novel’. In ‘A Note Before the Title Page’ (five pages in my edition) he asserted: ‘Novels with prefaces are like pictures with inscriptions below them; there is a confession that something was left over and had to be expressed by an addendum. This book […] is claimed to be a complete dress-novel, that and nothing more. William Clissold is a fictitious character, and his thoughts and ideas throughout are the thoughts and ideas natural to his mental and social type. He is (to the best of the author’s ability) his own self and not his author’s self, in his emotional reactions, in his hard wilfulness, in his faith, in his political ideas, in his judgements. He is a specimen of modern liberalism, using liberalism in its broadest sense. He is a study of a modern type seeking modes of self-realisation. […] If you are the sort of person who will not accept it as a novel, then please leave it alone. You are not getting sly peeps at something more than the reality of art, and your attempts to squint through will only make you squint very unbecomingly.’

When we get there, squinting or not, it is William Clissold who must justify himself: ‘It is not exactly an autobiography I want to write, and not exactly a book of confessions. […] I should say that a description of my world best expresses what I have in view; my world and my will. I want it to be a picture of everything as it is reflected in my brain. I want it to be a comprehensive picture.’ Clissold describes how he sees the world and human life, including the loss of his religious faith. He goes on to recount his early life and that of his brother Richard (usually referred to as Dickon). Dickon marries, raises a family and becomes successful in advertising, and is awarded a knighthood. William puts his scientific training to good use as a researcher and inventor, so that his employers ‘came to realise that they had to pay fairly for the science and initiative I could give them’. He runs a profitable subsidiary, the Clissold Mineral Paint Company. Unlike his brother’s, Clissold’s love-life is intense and fraught. But after a failed marriage and several affairs, he meets Clementina. Their relationship, while not conventional, is loving and provides the stability both desire.

Much space in the later part of the novel is devoted to the ‘Open Conspiracy’. (Wells went on to publish an entire book on his scheme, The Open Conspiracy: Blue Prints for a World Revolution, in 1928.) Clissold describes it as the belief that humanity is on the brink of ‘complete metamorphosis’ and those who are able perceive it must work to ensure it succeeds. Otherwise it could only proceed ‘against such increasing resistances that it may even fail to achieve itself, and end in the failure and death of the species.’ Clissold declares that ‘we can build up the monetary and economic world republic in full daylight under the noses of those who represent the old system. For the most part I believe that to understand us will be to be with us… It is not a project to overthrow existing governments by insurrectionary attacks, but to supersede them by disregard.’

Clissold also writes about his personal plans – but his intentions are to be unrealised. An epilogue by Dickon explains that his brother and Clementina were killed in a car accident, and his work left unfinished. Dickon closes the book with the Greek phrase: ‘Panta rhei [Everything flows]. He has passed. These words, and they are wonderful words and come like a refrain throughout his book, shall be put as his sole epitaph upon his grave.’

Having informed the reader about his intentions with an introductory note, Wells also gave a hint through the subtitle: ‘A Novel at a New Angle’. As Adam Roberts stated in H.G. Wells: A Literary Life (2019): the ‘“new angle” is more than simply the fitting together of equal parts narrative and disquisition to form one complete novel. It’s also that this novel includes among its fictional characters a great many real 1920s people, most of them friends of Wells’s… It is the admixture of the two modes, one fictional and one non-fictional, that had characterised Wells’s entire career, here worked more closely than ever before into a lamination.’

Wells bonded his layers so well and firmly that they cannot easily be prised apart – but had Colin Wilson still been right to believe that The World of William Clissold failed in its objective? Perhaps it could never have been otherwise. Yet: ‘Where William Clissold is good, it is […] electric with feeling, with personal intensity.’ That is where Wells truly succeeded – and still does. Wells made Clissold share the gifts he had. Everything flows. If Wells had been the one to die in 1926, his book completed by another hand, its last words would have still been accurate.

(John Howard)

Image: H.G. Wells by Walter Stoneman 1925

 © National Portrait Gallery, London