Thus Far (1925) by J.C. Snaith, which celebrates its centenary this month, is an uncanny SF thriller written in a vigorous and vivid style by this versatile writer of popular fiction and eccentric fantasies. Snaith was 49 years old and already the author of about 28 novels from 1895 onwards.
I wrote about him in my essay 'Possible Masterpieces: The Novels of J.C. Snaith’ (Haunted By Books, 2015). In this I noted that several critics thought he had almost written a masterpiece, but did not agree which of his books that was. They include Willow the King (1899), a Pickwickian cricketing yarn, Henry Northcote (1906), about the sensational defence at a seemingly hopeless capital trial, and William Jordan Junior (1907), about a mystical young scholar completely innocent of the modern world.
Thus Far is not in that category: it is unaffectedly commercial fiction which uses some very familiar devices but which the reader can still rather relish. The narrator receives an urgent summons from an old friend, an eminent but erratic scientist, who feels he is in ‘terrible danger’ but does not say why. He hastens to his friend’s remote house, The Hermitage, in the New Forest, Hampshire. (The ‘New’ Forest is 900 years old and not a forest in the usual sense but mostly heath. It was new when the Normans designated it as a royal hunting estate).
He arrives too late. A gruesome discovery is soon made and, because of the intricate, delicate nature of the case, Scotland Yard sends in a semi-official amateur detective, complete with monocle and rowing club silk tie, who proves to be a Cambridge varsity chum of the narrator. A romance interest is offered through the young niece and ward of the doomed scholar, who seems to be holding back a secret. Later, an Aunt in the tradition of Bertie Wooster’s redoubtable relations, ‘as English as an east wind’ and with ‘the astringency of home-grown apples or cranberries’, enlivens the scene.
A few clues emerge about the scientist’s work in his private laboratory: he had brought back from deepest Africa a new species of ape that might be the Darwinian ‘missing link’; he was on the verge of discovering a new element; he was studying the stars; he thought science might be about to make disastrous discoveries and should hold back (‘thus far shall ye go and no farther’). But which of these contributed to his fate?
There are some distinctly Conan Doyle-like aspects to the novel in its combination of keen-eyed detection with a macabre theme, and the plot in particular might appear to suggest ‘The Adventure of the Creeping Man’, first published in The Strand Magazine in March 1923, two and half years earlier. Whether Snaith was inspired by this to try an even wilder, stranger version, or made his own way to a similar theme is not clear. There are two literary allusions in the text, one to Poe’s ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, with its Borneo ape, and the other to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Both may shed light on what has happened. I’d add that there is a third literary predecessor in Arthur Machen’s The Great God Pan, also about a scientist’s unwise experiment and its monstrous outcome. Indeed, some aspects seem to echo the figure of Helen Vaughan.
It will not, I hope, be giving too much away to say that Snaith’s book, while drawing on all these tales, also reflects his own particular preoccupation. The theme of the individual set far apart from his fellows by extraordinary powers or eccentric perspectives clearly interested Snaith greatly, since he returns to it often in his fiction. But whereas his protagonists are often benevolent, albeit ill at ease with the rest of humanity, in this plot the prodigy is an intensely disturbing figure. He has hypnotic powers, including through thought projection at a distance, preternatural physical strength, merciless cunning and an utterly amoral outlook. This egoistic mastermind foresees that Nature will find it necessary to eliminate humanity before it wreaks too much damage, and is not averse to giving it a helping hand.
A criticism that might be made of the book is that some of the plot mechanics are a bit creaky: characters behaving in ways that seems improbable but which are needed for the plot to work. Indeed, Snaith was evidently uneasy about this himself, as he has his narrator say several times that his actions must in retrospect seem unlikely, but he puts this down to the high tension of the situation or the need to honour competing allegiances. It’s a good try, but it doesn’t quite convince. However, if every character in a thriller always acted entirely cautiously and prudently the genre would lose quite a few classics ('Whatever you do, sir, don't go across that there moor at night!' 'Oh, all right then, I won't. Thanks for the advice'). The reader will just have to indulge this aspect.
And the book does have some effective qualities. It is pacy, the prose is brisk, succinct, even curt, and the atmosphere of brooding menace is well-established. The debonair detective is attractive, in the Lord Peter Wimsey mode, and the fantastical elements are deftly handled. It is a bit of a pot-boiler, but the stew is savoury and sharply-seasoned. It would have made a splendid black and white science fiction B movie with wobbling sets, gloomy lighting, extravagant make-up and ham acting. Perhaps some moody avant-gardeist might still discover it.
(Mark Valentine)
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