The Interface with Fantasy in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. 3: The Pevensies

[This is the third part of a three-part blog post. The first part dealt with Lucy’s journey through the wardrobe, the second with Edmund’s, and this third part deals with the toings and froings of all four Pevensie children between our world and Narnia.]

The next interface between our world and Narnia involves all four children, and is this time triggered by the apparent segregation of child time – play time, so to speak – from the ‘official’ adult work schedule. The children enter the wardrobe together to avoid Mrs Macready, the housekeeper, as she entertains visitors – part of her duties as the Professor’s employee; she has told them to ‘keep out of the way whenever I’m taking a party over the house’, and they are in any case keen to avoid the fate of ‘trailing round with a crowd of strange grown-ups’. It seems to escape their attention that the ‘strange’ grown-ups in question are already bound up with the Pevensies – aligned with them, that is, in certain crucial ways. The adults have come to the house in quest of the ‘strange stories’ associated with the building: stories at least as strange, Lewis claims, as the chronicles of Narnia. In addition, two of the four children have already spent some time trailing around after extremely ‘strange grown-ups’ (both of them keen to show off their houses) in previous chapters, while the other two have sought out a more or less strange grown-up in this one: the Professor himself, who showed such unexpected (not to say ‘strange’) willingness to believe the unbelievable. Despite the emerging ‘rule’ in the later Narnia books that only children can enter Narnia, and that their visits will cease when they reach a certain age, Lewis is quite deliberately clear in this first volume about the continuities between their ‘impossible’ Narnian experiences and the ostensibly serious business of adulthood.

The ingenuity of Lewis’s account of this third entrance into Narnia lies in the apparently ‘collective’ point of view it adopts. The first two entrances were narrated from the perspective of two different individuals, and the radical difference between these two perspectives – as well as the way each perspective of the country in the wardrobe changed as it went along – may have led the reader to expect a considerable disparity between the experiences of all four children when they finally found themselves, in Lucy’s words, ‘all in it together’. Instead Lewis narrates the chapter as if from a consensual position – as if all four of the Pevensies were in agreement about what is happening to them and their attitude to it. Lewis repeatedly uses the term ‘everyone’ and its analogues to imply this solidarity among the siblings: ‘everyone asked her what was the matter’; ‘Everyone stopped; everyone stared at him’; ‘Everyone agreed to this’; ‘They were all still, wondering what to do next’, and so on. But it quickly emerges that this apparent consensus excludes Edmund. For one thing, the sentence ‘Everyone stopped; everyone stared at him’ marks the moment when Edmund’s brother and sisters realize he has been lying about not having been in Narnia before: three of the children are looking at the fourth with surprise and loathing. For another, this moment is followed by a muttered comment from Edmund that signals his exclusion of himself from what he sees as the intolerable smugness of their collectivity: ‘I’ll pay you all out for this, you pack of stuck-up, self-satisfied prigs’. Both before and after this moment of revelation, Edmund’s voice repeatedly sets itself in opposition to those of his siblings, reminding the reader in the process that he has good reason (as he thinks) to see things very differently from the way they do. As a result, the tendency of the other children to read their experience first as a game and then as a thrilling adventure is given an added dimension of seriousness, generated by the reader’s mounting sense of how easily the younger brother’s petty nastiness and contrariety might turn to something more destructive (we can hardly have forgotten Mr Tumnus’s fear of being turned into stone, or how near Edmund himself came to suffering the same fate).

From the beginning of chapter six, Edmund’s dissent is conveyed with admirable precision. When the children first find that there’s something physically ‘strange’ about the cupboard (it’s cold and damp and bristly) Edmund is the only one to suggest they simply leave it: ‘“Let’s get out,” said Edmund, “they’ve gone.”’ When they reach Mr Tumnus’s cave and find it trashed, it’s Edmund who has the first word: ‘This is a pretty good wash-out,’ he comments, ‘not much good coming here’ (and his disagreement with Lucy on what constitutes ‘goodness’ in Narnia lends an uneasy moral weight to the observation). It’s Edmund who spurns Lucy’s suggestion that they try to rescue the captured Tumnus: ‘A lot we could do […] when we haven’t even got anything to eat!’ And it’s Edmund who draws Peter aside at the end of the chapter to express his doubts about the robin they’re following: ‘We’re following a guide we know nothing about. […] Why shouldn’t it be leading us into a trap?’ Peter’s response is to call on his knowledge of stories as a guide to the behaviour of intelligent animals in magic adventures: ‘They’re good birds in all the stories I’ve ever read’ – and Lewis would have known very well that robins have been associated with Christ (the red breast was traditionally stained by the blood of Christ) and with fairies (James Stephens identifies the robin as under the protection of leprechauns in The Crock of Gold, which Lewis liked well enough to replicate its ending in Prince Caspian). But Edmund again represents the contrary or resistant reader – much as Eustace does in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, where he is the only one of the visitors to Narnia who has no knowledge of or interest in imaginative fiction. Edmund tells Peter, as he told Lucy, that the children have no idea whether they are taking the right ‘side’ in the Narnian conflict: ‘How do we know that the fauns are in the right and the Queen […] is in the wrong? We don’t really know anything about either.’ This is not wholly true, of course: the note they found at Tumnus’s vandalized cave was signed by one ‘Maugrim, Captain of the Secret Police’, and the mere existence of a Secret Police in the Second World War would for English readers have linked their employer, the Queen, to the Nazis and hence to ‘wrongness’. But Edmund backs up his claim with a couple of statements that can’t be denied, whatever Peter’s views on Narnian politics: that the children are lost, and that they still have nothing to eat (‘no chance of dinner either’ are the last words in the chapter). A chapter that opened, then, with Edmund as the sole dissenting voice amid a strong consensus ends with his voice as dominant. In the same way, his isolation, which was emphasized shortly after the children entered Narnia when he inadvertently revealed his knowledge of the country, ends with all the children isolated in a country none of them knows well at all – and where Lucy’s closest friend has just been arrested for ‘High Treason’. At the end, in fact, Edmund is in the strongest position of the four, since he at least knows where to find his only ally in Narnia, the woman who had Tumnus arrested. The chapter, then, performs yet again the reversal, or change of tone and emphasis, the reader experienced between the first two entries into Narnia, as well as within them. And in the process it demonstrates, better than any of the previous chapters, that the act we are engaged in as we follow the chapter – reading itself – is a serious business.

Chapter six, in fact, contains several points at which the act of reading is foregrounded; in particular, the act of reading in relation to the ‘real’ world of the reader. When the Pevensies decide, at Susan’s suggestion, to put on some of the fur coats in the wardrobe to protect themselves against the Narnian cold (after all, Susan points out, ‘it isn’t as if we wanted to take them out of the house; we shan’t even take them out of the wardrobe’), they at once take on a look of storybook heroes – kings and queens – in the oversized garments: ‘The coats were rather too big for them so that they came down to their heels and looked more like royal robes than coats when they put them on’. The robes anticipate, of course, their future status as ‘real’ kings and queens of Narnia; and they soon sense that the sort of make believe that in our world would be merely playful – such as dressing up – here takes on a new significance; that fictions here harbour truths or realities, just as the apparently fictional Narnia turned out to be an actual country. Noting their resemblance to Scott and Amundsen in their furs, as depicted in films and books, Lucy suggests they play at being Arctic explorers, but Peter at once rejects the suggestion because ‘This is going to be exciting enough without pretending’. Despite this, he proposes that they appoint Lucy their ‘leader’ as if in a game (‘follow my leader’ comes to mind) – another decision about which there is a general consensus which must exclude Edmund – and she at once suggests they visit Mr Tumnus. At this point the children are still in playful mood, not fully aware that they have left the territory of petty fabrications and small pleasures, of tea and cake and enchanting stories; and even their encounter with the Faun’s ruined cave doesn’t fully alert them to the seriousness of their situation. It’s only the discovery of a piece of written text among the ruins – the sinister note left by ‘Maugrim, Captain of the Secret Police’ – that alters their reading of Narnia, leaving them more susceptible to Edmund’s gloomy perspective on its beauties.

The formal language of the note is carefully calculated to effect this alteration. In a single sentence it declares that Tumnus has been arrested for crimes against ‘her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia, Chatelaine of Cair Paravel, Empress of the Lone Islands, etc.’; and the location of the note – nailed to the carpet in the middle of Tumnus’s sitting room – gives these words additional weight. It was in this room, after all, that Tumnus first told Lucy about ‘Queen’ Jadis, challenging the Witch’s right to the titles listed here and stressing the danger he was in from informants and spies. The note, then, provides additional evidence that stories come true in Narnia, even nasty ones (and one might again think of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, where the island where dreams come true also harbours nightmares). And it is Lucy – to whom the Faun told these Narnian stories – who first identifies the link between the note and the children who read it. The Pevensies’ first reaction to the text is a collective one: ‘The children stared at each other’, seeking support in their efforts to process the information it contains. Susan then proposes that they all go home, since Narnia no longer seems ‘fun’ or ‘particularly safe’ – language better suited to a game gone out of control than a land ruled over by a fascistic dictator. But Lucy vetoes the proposal on the strength of her recognition that they themselves are referred to in Maugrim’s message, and that they are therefore intertwined or bound up with the politics of Narnia, just as they were previously caught up in the politics of wartime Europe:

‘Oh, but we can’t, we can’t,’ said Lucy suddenly; ‘don’t you see? We can’t go home, not after this. It’s all on my account that the poor Faun has got into this trouble. He hid me from the Witch and showed me the way back. That’s what it means by comforting the Queen’s enemies and fraternizing with Humans. We simply must try to rescue him.’

What Lucy has seen, as Susan has not, is that Maugrim’s note contains direct references to Lucy herself, and that these textual references entail real-life consequences. Because he helped Lucy, and because helping her led to his arrest, the children owe the Faun a debt of gratitude by virtue of the rules of the very serious game called obligation.

At this point Lucy doesn’t know, of course, that the children are yet more deeply implicated in the arrest than they are through her debt to Tumnus. It was Edmund who revealed the Faun’s act of ‘High Treason’ to the Witch; and the reader is reminded of this fact by the scornful response of Edmund himself to Lucy’s insistence that they help her friend (‘A lot we could do’). Lucy’s reading of the note is countered by Edmund’s rejection of her proposal – and hence of her supposed leadership of the siblings – as unrealistic – that is, as still locked in the fantastic mode of a childish game. But by this time in the book we are well aware that Edmund has a shaky hold on the relationship between the ‘real’ and the imagined, the possible and the impossible, playfulness and bullying or abuse. Despite her misgivings, Susan accedes to Lucy’s plan a few lines later precisely because she finally recognizes they are no longer pretending: ‘I’ve a horrid feeling that Lu is right,’ she comments, invoking an attitude of reluctant and fearful acquiescence which is the very opposite of playful. And she agrees because she is following the rules of the kinds of stories in which obligations must be repaid – fairy tales, romances – as against the ‘realistic’ fiction to which Edmund’s comment appeals. The children continue to follow the rules of fairy tale and romance when they choose to follow a robin as the first step on the road to rescue. For them, the rules of games and stories are no different in kind – only in scale – from the rules that govern a decent person’s conduct in ‘real’ life, and they carry over their expertise in reading and game-playing into the task of achieving the impossible – of rescuing their friend against dreadful odds. It is Edmund’s unwillingness to commit to these rules – an unwillingness he has displayed since the book began – that makes him an unsatisfactory reader of the ‘real’ world of Narnia.

Clearly, then, the interface between our world and the secondary world that contains Narnia is something more complex than a series of entrances and exits through the portal of the wardrobe. The difference in attitude of those who pass through the portal is what drives the action of this first of the Narnia chronicles, and these attitudes are carried over from their attitudes to our own world – and in particular by their attitudes to games, which include the games of reading fiction and telling stories. Those who are willing to participate in games and stories as collective and active processes find themselves able to ‘read’ the land of Narnia positively; to seize the opportunities it affords, to revel in its pleasures, to interact with its friendly inhabitants, and to participate actively in liberating it from the despotism that suppresses its best identity. Those who refuse to participate in collective games, including stories, find themselves rapidly enlisted by the despotic self-styled Queen, and consequently read the landscape and every other Narnian they encounter as hostile. An enjoyment of playfulness, which embraces playful or imaginative fictions – fairy tales, romance and fantasy – has a serious role in preparing the enjoyer for what Lewis convincingly represents as resistance against a Nazi-like occupying government. Hostility to playfulness of this kind, on the other hand, is both symptomatic of and likely to reinforce an attraction to power games aimed at personal advancement, and to oppressive authority figures who adopt the same philosophy. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, in other words, amounts to a defence of reading and writing fantasy, the most playful literary mode of all, in that it demands the most active imaginative engagement from its readers. Those who can believe ten impossible things before breakfast are better suited to placing themselves in ‘strange’ mindsets, and of resisting the temptation to empathize only with those who share their narrow view of what is ‘realistic’ or ‘real’, than those who mock imaginative games or fables.

The games played by the Pevensie children after their third and final entry to the country underscore the book’s commitment to the concept of playfulness, in both its good and bad manifestations. The most striking example of the difference between these forms of playfulness can be found in Edmund’s and his siblings’ responses to Aslan. The first mention of the lion’s name – in chapter seven, long before they meet him face to face – strikes each of them in different ways: Edmund feels only ‘a sensation of mysterious horror’, as if alone and unsupported, while the other three children respond as if to a game, a story or a work of art. Peter feels ‘brave and adventurous’, sensations suitable to the hero of a romance or to one of its readers. Susan responds like a listener to ‘some delightful strain of music’. Lucy gets ‘the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays’, a period of unrestricted play. Once again, Edmund is the outsider, and his next encounter with Aslan – or what he thinks is Aslan – confirms his continued resistance to collaborative play, as indicated by his horror. On seeing a stone lion in the Witch’s courtyard he assumes that it’s the beast whose name disturbed him earlier, petrified, as he hoped it would be, by the Witch’s wand. At once he does ‘something very silly and childish’ in revenge for the horror it inspired in him: he draws a moustache on its upper lip and a pair of spectacles on its eyes. What’s ‘childish’ for Lewis here is the assumption that you can make yourself feel big at another person’s expense by putting them down – that is, by mocking them. This isn’t real play, the novel insists, but the kind of bullying Edmund had earlier practised on his sister; and accordingly he discovers that he doesn’t ‘really get any fun’ out of it, because of the lion’s continuing look of dignity and power in the face of his unimaginative scrawlings. The wrongness of Edmund’s view of playing is underscored, of course, by the fact that the lion is not in fact Aslan; the boy continues to have little grasp of the distinction between what is real and what is imagined, despite – or rather because of – his by now well established tendency to scepticism.

‘Real’ playfulness, so to speak, is the province of Aslan, and is first figured in the unlikely person of Father Christmas. Mr Tumnus had told Lucy when he first met her that the Witch had banished Christmas, so that the arrival of its most familiar symbol in chapter ten is clearly Aslan’s doing; and while in our world Father Christmas has become a measure of the distinction between adults and children (children believe in him, adults don’t), in Narnia he is ‘so big, and so glad, and so real’ (my emphasis) that any ‘childish’ associations he may have are banished completely. To confirm his new connection with maturity he dispenses gifts which are emphatically real: ‘tools not toys’, as he puts it, a sword for Peter, a bow and an ivory hunting horn for Susan, a flask of magic potion for Lucy. All four items would be toys in twentieth-century England, but in Narnia they are in fact what in our world they only mimic: the practical means of active resistance against oppression. When the children first meet Aslan he encourages them to use two of these tools against the chief of the Secret Police who wrote the note they found in Tumnus’s cave, and in doing so they take another of the many steps from fiction and play to practical engagement with a tyrant. One of the first such steps, as we have seen, was the discovery and reading of Maugrim’s note; so that reading, too, progresses in this book from a pleasant pastime to a stimulus for action.

Aslan doesn’t lose his connection with play, however ‘real’ or ‘terrible’ he might seem in person; though he only fully manifests this connection after he has sacrificed his life for the traitor Edmund. Appropriately enough, the act of self-sacrifice begins with a display of bullying playfulness on the part of the Queen and her hideous entourage, as they subject the lion to a succession of humiliations designed to point up their triumph over him, their climactic victory in the long war game that has been going on between them. The awakening of Aslan from the sleep of death, however, brings a new form of playfulness of Narnia: the collaborative sort that enacts the terms of mutuality and egalitarianism by which it must be conducted. The lion’s first wakening is at once attached to the notion of realness: ‘Oh, you’re real, you’re real! Oh Aslan!’, cry the girls as they feel the evidence of his materiality in the warmth of his breath and the touch of his tongue. And the lion’s conquest of death quickly becomes what Lewis calls a ‘romp’ (there’s another at the end of Prince Caspian, modeled on the romp in the final chapter of The Crock of Gold). ‘Oh children, catch me if you can!’ Aslan calls, and the challenge triggers a delightful yet somewhat dangerous playground chase, which connects the large and the small, the potent and the petty in a sentence that quite deliberately links childishness with maturity and power: ‘It was such a romp as no one has ever had except in Narnia; and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind’. The three interfaces between our world and Narnia were all building up to this moment, when an imaginary enactment of a deadly game – that of hunting – succeeds in articulating the gigantic joke or trick the lion has played on his power-hungry enemies. Aslan returned from the dead because he knew old stories, and believed in them, better than the Witch did; and the celebration of his return is appropriately conducted in a communal, rule-bound activity (keep your paws velveted at all times and don’t outrun the weakest player), since play of this kind is the best model for the proper conduct of social practices.

The final interface with Narnia in the book comes at the end – as it does in all the Narnian chronicles but one – with the return to our world, in this case through the familiar medium of the wardrobe. In this case, too, the return reenacts the game played by the girls and Aslan on the lion’s revival. We have already heard from Tumnus about the ‘White Stag who would give you wishes if you caught him’, and since Narnia is the place where fantastic stories come true, it seems fitting that the subject of this particular story should enter the ‘real world’ of the narrative in its closing stages. The four children, now grown up, decide to hunt the Stag ‘with horns and hounds in the Western Woods’, in the process pointing you the continuity between childish games, fairy stories told to children, and the more dangerous games and equally challenging stories enjoyed by adults. By this stage in the story the adult protagonists also talk in the language of the literature three of them loved as children; even Edmund speaks as they do, having been naturalized to romance thanks to his reconciliation with his siblings. The effect is literally charming. A Victorian lamppost becomes for him ‘a pillar of iron with a lantern set on the top thereof’; and in the process an everyday object from Britain’s city streets is estranged or enchanted into a wonder – much as it was from the other direction when Lucy first saw it improbably planted in the middle of a snowy wood. The sight of the lamppost triggers memories in all four siblings, though for these heroes and heroines of romance it is our world rather than theirs that is the stuff of the fantastic imagination: ‘It runs in my mind’ Edmund tells the others, ‘that I have seen the like before; as it were in a dream, or in the dream of a dream’. Not only does this make our own world fantastic, but it also gives a seriousness to dreams and the imagination that they aren’t often accorded: we, the readers, know this ‘dream of a dream’ to have a solid foundation, and can also predict that Lucy will be right when she tells her brothers and sister that going beyond the lamppost will lead to ‘strange adventures’. By this point in the story, too, ‘strangeness’ itself has become something to be treasured for the sake of its very unfamiliarity, the surprises it entails. The search for strange things is a ‘quest’, as Peter points out, and a quest is a ‘high matter’, like ‘feats of arms’ or ‘acts of justice’. The link between the imaginary and the important, the fantastic and the real, the playful and the deeply serious, has become central to the philosophy the children live by, a founding principal of the culture they inhabit and the language they speak. And the reader, by following the children on their journey from this world to the next and back again, have become acculturated to the same perspective, the same reading of ordinary and extraordinary people and objects.

The book ends by bequeathing this climate or culture to the world beyond its pages. The four children pass the lamppost and find themselves tumbling out of the wardrobe – in their old clothes, children once again, at the very moment when Mrs Macready and the visitors are moving past the doorway of the room where the wardrobe stands. The Professor, when they tell him his adventures, accepts the story readily as potential ‘fact’ – just as he accepted Lucy’s when nobody else did; and he proceeds to lay down the rules of the game they must play in future, the game of having been acculturated to Narnian mores while living in a world where the very existence of that land is an impossibility. They must not tell many other people about their adventures – must not even discuss them much among themselves – for fear (we might suppose) of disenchanting what they have experienced by the inadequacy of their verbal descriptions of it, or else perhaps of being ostracized, ridiculed, bullied, like immigrants from a despised community. It will be clear to them who can be told about Narnia without courting mockery: people who have undergone ‘adventures of the same sort themselves’. As with the ‘strange stories’ about the Professor’s house, the Professor’s confidence that there are indeed other people in our world who have had experiences as strange and wonderful as visiting Narnia suggests that the interface between the real and the fantastic is well established in the world of the reader, as well as in the book we are coming to the end of. And Lewis makes sure he casts the spell of this confidence into the environment beyond the book in the final sentence. ‘And that is the very end of the adventure of the wardrobe’, he tells us; ‘But if the Professor was right it was only the beginning of the adventures of Narnia’. The challenge of this final sentence lies in the potent word ‘if’. The conditional indicates that Lewis is affirming or asserting nothing, like the poets in Sir Philip Sidney’s Apology for Poetry; instead he is inviting us to consider the implications of accepting that what we have been imagining may have some sort of substance, some direct and quantifiable impact on us and on the mental and physical places we occupy. The challenge is a bold one, and its boldness marks the remarkable contribution Lewis makes in the Narnian chronicles to the evolution of children’s fiction in the postwar years.

The term ‘if’ also points up the extent to which Lewis is reliant on his reader to construct his ambitious new bridge between the possible and the impossible, the real and the fantastic. One of the most astounding things about the Narnian chronicles, for an adult reader returning to it after long absence, is its sheer economy: the simple, crystalline and not-so-numerous sentences with which Lewis brings his imagined country to life. When I asked students in a class on The Silver Chair what had surprised and interested them about their re-reading of Narnia, many replied that they remembered the book as much longer and denser than they now found it: packed with material details, colour, and diverse incident, where on re-reading it seemed remarkably, even disappointingly slim and succinct. This is because Lewis asks us in his fantasy series to do the major legwork of world-building ourselves, as readers – to make Narnia our own. As I suggested earlier, we never really see the ‘real’ Narnia described by Tumnus in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe – it’s the Witch’s version we spend most of our time in – except in the final chapter, whose title, ‘The Hunting of the White Stag’, indicates its focus on the exit from Narnia, not on its construction. The fullest description of the country comes in the brief account of the children’s coronation, which wittily invites the reader to participate in its imaginative composition:

The castle of Cair Paravel on its little hill towered up above them; before them were the sands, with rocks and little pools of salt water, and seaweed, and the smell of the sea and long miles of bluish-green waves breaking for ever and ever on the beach. And, oh, the cry of the sea-gulls! Have you heard it? Can you remember?

There’s nothing fantastic in this passage; instead it invokes what many of Lewis’s readers will be familiar with, a Northern seaside, and in the process calls on their collective memory to collaborate in composing the coronation scene. Having deftly sketched a place we may remember well, Lewis proceeds to enchant it by introducing the impossible, the things we can’t remember because they never happened: ‘And through the eastern door, which was wide open, came the voices of the mermen and mermaids swimming close to the shore and singing in honour of their new Kings and Queens’. Because these mer-voices are inserted into a real context so expertly conjured up, they are utterly convincing; and it’s perhaps inevitable (if we paused to reflect, on being asked to do so, at the end of the previous passage) that we will associate them with the ‘cry of the sea-gulls’, or at least allow the sea-gull voices imaginatively to mingle with the quasi-human ones, producing a new and strange combination that might well have a genuine impact on our next encounter with the sea. We are dignified with the status of co-authors; we participate fully in Lewis’s fictive game.

It’s perhaps worth pointing out something else about the Chronicles, which relates to gender – always a contentious subject in commentaries on Lewis’s writing. Another experience a modern reader will undergo when reading these books is that of discomfort, rising at times to real distaste, at the segregation of the sexes in Lewis’s universe; the most striking example in this first novel being Father Christmas’s paternalistic refusal to let Susan and Lucy take part in the final battle against the Witch. As he hands Susan her bow and hunting horn with one hand, the gift-giver takes them back, or restricts their use, with the other: ‘You must use the bow only in great need,’ he says, ‘for I do not mean you to fight in the battle’; and shortly afterwards he tells Lucy with infuriating glibness that ‘battles are ugly when women fight’. Women, then, have one set of roles in Narnia, and men another, and there would seem to be no interface between them; indeed, part of what marks out Jadis as evil may well be her readiness to take on masculine traits such as fighting, commanding, and political manoeuvring against her enemies. At the same time, it seems to me that there is a real attempt in this novel to achieve a kind of parity between the status of boys and girls as protagonists, and that this was something Lewis thought of as central to the fantasy tradition – however inadequately he may have succeeded in bringing it about.

The clue to this belief of Lewis’s about gender equality in fantasy lies in a statement he makes in his essay ‘On Three Ways of Writing for Children’, written soon after the publication of the first Narnia book in 1952.[1] Here he makes a clear distinction between fantasy fiction for children – he carefully chooses the genderless term – and realistic fiction specifically aimed at boys and girls – segregating the sexes much as the school system it so often describes segregated them in the 1950s. Admittedly, like most writers of his generation Lewis proceeds to refer to the reader of fantasy as if she were male (‘the boy reading the fairy tale desires and is happy in the very fact of desiring’, while the boy reading the school story is unhappy because he cannot have what he desires – sporting prowess and universal popularity). But elsewhere he sets the ungendered fantasy reader against the boy who reads about, and yearns for, a success often specifically gendered as male in the 1950s: ‘In a sense a child does not long for fairy land as a boy longs to be the hero of the first eleven’. And once one has noticed this, it’s hard not to notice how scrupulously he divides his Narnian adventures between boys and girls. In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, two boys and two girls enter Narnia, and it’s Lucy’s perspective that may well seem privileged to a reader thinking about the book in retrospect, since she’s the one who finds Narnia and whose understanding of Narnian politics is vindicated by the actions of the Witch. As a boy who grew up at a time when ‘boys’ books’ and ‘girls’ books’ were often very clearly demarcated – to my shame, I have to admit my youthful tendency to avoid reading books whose protagonists were female, perhaps as a result of having been educated in largely single-sex schools – it seems to me that the Narnia books may have had an important impact on my ability to empathize with girls, at least in fiction. Lewis’s efforts to treat boys and girls equally may have been flawed, and may also have been strongly influenced by the mixture of genders in earlier children’s fantasy – especially that of his favourite practitioner of the genre, Edith Nesbit. But his willingness to have his girls participate fully in the physical dangers and metaphysical wonders of high fantasy seems to me to have made a crucial contribution to the genre’s emergence in later years as a fruitful space for imagining gender parity.

I hesitate to suggest this, but I wonder too if Lewis’s decision to exclude Susan from the number of the Pevensies who are reunited in Narnia in the final book of the series may be explained by her excessive attachment to desires and activities gendered specifically female? The girls who do re-enter Narnia in The Last Battle are represented as capable of what might be called an interface between the genders – of wearing armour and fighting alongside the Narnian resistance, as Jill does with the aid of a bow and arrows much like Susan’s. By this stage in the series Father Christmas’s prohibition against women fighting in battles seems to have been forgotten; Jill kills several Calormene invaders without demur. Again, the girls from our world in all the Narnia books share a literary background with the boys; they don’t read exclusively male or female texts, but like Lucy know the ‘rules’ of fairy tale and fantasy just as well, or are just as ignorant of them (in Jill’s case), as any of the male protagonists. Lewis doesn’t offer us, I think, a boy protagonist with an equally flexible gender identity – unless it’s Shasta in The Horse and his Boy, a fisherman’s adopted son whose ignorance of all traditions of male heroics is problematically aligned with his upbringing among an Orientalized people – and this is unfortunate, to say the least. But he clearly means the fantasy tradition to be an ungendered one (it’s Prince Caspian’s nurse, for instance, who first tells him stories of the old ‘fantastic’ Narnia); and it’s this, I think, that makes Susan’s wholesale commitment to desires conventionally gendered as female a bar to her continued inclusion in the mixed company of Narnian adventurers. That’s hardly an excuse for her banishment from Lewis’s land of heart’s desire, of course; but it makes it, I think, just a little more interesting.

To conclude: I think its fascination with what I’ve called the interface between our world and the secondary world of the imagination is what distinguishes Lewis’s Narnia series from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Where Tolkien’s work is founded on an elaborate and continuing process of world-building, which has an existence independent of the books set in Middle Earth, Lewis is concerned instead with the collaborative process of imagining the impossible as it is necessarily shared between writers and readers of fantasy. This concern extends itself to other forms of interface: between childhood and adulthood, between male and female, between past, present and future, between human and animal, between Nordic and classical mythologies, even between good and evil, which he is so often said to set too simplistically at odds – the list could go on. I hope my over-detailed analysis will have shown that his apparently simple stylistic and narrative structures mask a really considerable moral and philosophical complexity. I hope, too, that it may prove a bit of an intellectual springboard to thinking about interfaces more widely in relation to fantastic fiction.

And with this wish, desiring reader, I bid you farewell.

NOTE

[1] C. S. Lewis, Of This and Other Worlds, ed. Walter Hooper (London: Fount Paperbacks, 1984), pp. 56-70.

 

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The Interface with Fantasy in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. 2: Edmund

[This is the second part of a three-part blog post. The first part dealt with Lucy’s journey through the wardrobe, the second deals with Edmund’s, and the third will deal with the toings and froings of all four Pevensie children between our world and Narnia.]

The question of the reality of Lucy’s visit to Narnia – whether or not it ‘really’ happened – underpins the next interface with fantasy in Lewis’s narrative: Edmund’s visit. Partly as a result, this interface involves an exact reversal of Lucy’s experiences. Things happen back to front, as if in a mirror; and one reason for the reversal is that Edmund has already made up his mind before he enters the wardrobe that Lucy fabricated all her adventures. As a result, the world he finds on the other side is disturbing to him because it violates his sense of what is real, or perhaps of his own capacity to distinguish what is real from what is imagined. In addition, he feels as unable or unwilling to reverse his mental position in response to this disruption of his world view as Lucy earlier found it to pretend she was ‘playing at’ Narnia when she was not. Edmund necessarily sees Narnia through different eyes because the mind behind those eyes has different priorities, a different philosophy.

Another reason for Edmund’s different experience can be found in his mood when he enters the wardrobe: that is, in the kind of pleasure he is seeking as he passes through the mirrored door. Where Lucy was driven by Alice-like curiosity and a sensuous delight in the feel of fur, Edmund is driven by the desire to mock his sister for her inventions: ‘he wanted to go on teasing her about her imaginary country’. For him, this is a continuation of the power game he has been playing since Lucy first made her claims about entering Narnia; not a collaborative game, played by an agreed set of rules for a certain time, but a competition for supremacy in which there can only be one winner, whose victory isn’t temporary but permanent, establishing the victor once and for all as wholly superior to the defeated players. So it’s not surprising that Edmund is deeply disturbed by the loss of control he feels when he leaves his comfort zone. The discovery that the wardrobe does not in fact contain Lucy, that it is larger than he expected, that it sounds and feels unlike the interior of a piece of furniture, makes Edmund shiver – and, one presumes, not just with cold. There are two possible reasons for the fear suggested by his shivering. One is that he has been ‘unpleasant’ to Lucy about the things she seemed to have invented – so that she would have every right (according to his understanding as a player of power games) to be equally ‘unpleasant’ in response. The other, related reason is that the country he finds himself in is definitely not his. Lucy found it first, which makes it effectively hers from a colonialist perspective – from the perspective, that is, of a person who likes to stamp his authority on other people. It represents, in effect, a contest between them which she has won in emphatic fashion, thanks to his having been forced into the position of primary witness to her truthfulness. For both these reasons, Narnia can be taken as inimical to him. His state of mind is neatly summed up in the following sentence: ‘though he did not like to admit that he had been wrong, he also did not much like being alone in this strange, cold, quiet place’. The place is ‘strange’ because it once seemed impossible, and because its existence proves that he was mistaken in his assumptions about what was possible, which means he should logically rearrange his perceptions of the laws that govern the universe (as Todorov points out in his book on the fantastic). Both these things contribute to make Edmund ‘not much like’ the woods, and he seeks his sister’s company not so much to apologize as to make himself feel safer by getting together with someone who knows the ‘strange […] place’ better than he does.

It’s perhaps as a result of these selfish motives, in a kind of fairy tale logic of moral rather than scientific cause and effect, that when Edmund calls out for his sister what he gets instead is the self-styled Queen of Narnia, the White Witch. The Witch is the polar opposite (no pun intended) of Lucy’s Faun, and hence, to some extent at least, of Lucy herself. She is powerful, tall and arrogant, and she reacts to her meeting with a human stranger not with friendliness but sudden violence (‘she rose from her seat and looked Edmund full in the face, her eyes flaming; at the same moment she raised her wand’). Ironically, her physical appearance also ticks a number of boxes in the iconography of goodness. She arrives on a sledge with bells on it, drawn by reindeers, which invokes Christmas as inevitably as Tumnus’s packages. She is associated with whiteness, the colour of ‘good’ in conventional Western narratives: her reindeers and furs are white, and so is her face, which is ‘not merely pale, but white like snow or paper or icing-sugar, except for her very red mouth’ (and here the rapid shift from snow to paper to icing-sugar has a wonderfully disconcerting effect, making her sound like an artificial confection, a spun-sugar sculpture or a table decoration for a high-class banquet). Tumnus, by contrast, was shaped and coloured like a conventional devil (red, with hooves, horns and a very un-goat-like tail); so that if we accept Lucy’s reading of the Faun as accurate (and her now evident ‘truthfulness’ invites us to do so) then the Witch’s reverse iconography should mean she must stand for something devilish.

The trajectory of Edmund’s meeting with the Witch, too, reverses that of Lucy’s meeting with Tumnus. As with the Faun, her mood undergoes a sudden change, but this time from rage to cunning, from violence to seduction, from command to conversation. She offers the boy food and drink after her change in mood – not before it, as Tumnus did – and the provisions she offers are yet further removed than those of Tumnus from the dreariness of wartime rationing: a hot drink magically made from snow; a box of that unobtainable sweetmeat, Turkish Delight. With food comes talk, as it did with Tumnus and Lucy; but the communication between Edmund and the Witch is all one way (‘she got him to tell her’ all about himself, and he never thinks to inquire about her habits and adventures – when she describes her house to him it is solely as a place he would take pleasure in). The Witch may promise to adopt Edmund as her son, and hence eventually as her equal, but the imbalance of their relationship is obvious from their verbal exchanges.

The most intriguing aspect of their conversation is the way it ends. The White Witch finishes not with a discussion of the speakers’ ‘real’ identity (Tumnus ended his talk with Lucy by revealing his status as the Witch’s spy) but a return to the world of children’s games – that is, of transient fictions – which has by this time been rendered problematic by the fact that Narnia was not a game or fiction, as well as by Edmund’s preference for power games or competitions over consensual playfulness. The Witch suggests that ‘it would be fun’ for Edmund to pretend he has never met her, and that he should save the information he has about the Witch’s house ‘as a surprise’ for his siblings when he brings them back to Narnia. The reason for this ‘game’, however, is a serious one; if Edmund mentions the Queen alarm bells might be rung in Lucy’s mind, because she will have heard ‘strange stories’ from Tumnus about her. Strange stories here are implied to be fictions, and unpleasant ones at that; but Edmund’s experience with the strange story of Narnia should suggest to him there is substance behind them. He might also have noticed that what the Witch is suggesting to him is not a bit of transient ‘fun’, a ‘surprise’ which is pleasurable for its own sake, but a functional lie, a verbal trap; if he does not play this particular game his siblings are unlikely to approach the Witch’s domicile. Edmund’s mind, however, is too preoccupied with another kind of pleasure (also a trap) – the enchanted Turkish Delight he craves to have more of – for him to notice the inconsistency between her claims that what he will be promulgating is a harmless fiction and the suggestion that this fiction is being devised to suppress another ‘fiction’, the possibly well-founded rumours that the Queen is harmful.

Edmund’s encounter with the Witch, then, raises questions not just about the borders between fiction and reality but about the function of games. A game that is not participated in by all its players with a similar purpose – to spend a set period of time in consensual, rule-bound activity – is not a game; Lucy’s experience showed this, as did Edmund’s teasing, which was a game for him but perceived as bullying by his sister. Gradually, in fact, Lewis is building up a sophisticated dialogue between terms that are often carelessly used, especially in the context of children’s activities. The notion that there is a clear dividing line between fiction and fact, the game world and the ‘serious’ world, is itself a convenient fiction; after all, games must of necessity make use of otherwise functional spaces and materials (including time), just as fictions must make use of words and concepts which are in other contexts ‘factual’. And Lewis is suggesting that the relationship goes further than this; that the conventions that govern games (everyone who plays them agrees to abide by the rules) and the conventions that govern fictions (the recipients of any story agree to take it to some degree as ‘fact’ for as long as it lasts) are directly connected to, and serve as serious preparation for, certain essential life skills. Edmund is not an accomplished player of consensual games, as his treatment of Lucy shows, so he is ill equipped to see when he is being played with against his consent; that is, when he is being manipulated. He isn’t clearly aware of the distinction between stories and lies – his teasing assumes that Lucy is lying rather than telling a story (though in fact she is telling the truth) – and so agrees to tell the Witch’s lies as if they were a story. Further: since he has been discomfited and (in his eyes) diminished by the revelation that Lucy’s story or ‘lie’ was in fact the truth, he chooses to adopt lies as his personal mode of discourse, instead of gaining a new alertness to the possibility of truths underlying apparent fictions (such as the strange stories about the Queen). The success of a story, as of a game, depends on a collective act of imaginative complicity between the teller and the listener; a lie depends instead on the consciousness of the liar that she or he possesses information unknown to his or her audience. The imbalance of power between the Witch and Edmund reflects Edmund’s preference for power imbalance in the world beyond the wardrobe, and the exchange between them is designed in all its details to perpetuate and intensify this imbalance of power.

Shortly after Edmund’s encounter with the Witch he meets Lucy on her way back from a second tea with Tumnus, and his sister at once anticipates the pleasure of shared storytelling as they tell their elder siblings about their visit to Narnia. ‘What fun it will be!’ she exclaims, and concludes that from now on ‘we’re all in it together’. True to his nature, however, Edmund at once sees an imbalance in the collective pleasure she anticipates. He ‘secretly thought it would not be as good fun for him as for her’, partly because he will have to admit he was wrong and thus publicly acknowledge his ‘loss’ of the earlier competition between himself and Lucy, and partly because he assumes the others will be on a different ‘side’ in the politics of Narnia than the one he has taken – that is, they will be against the Witch, making it more urgent and possibly harder for him to keep the secret of having met her. Games, then, have turned into something different for both children; a real-life companionate ‘adventure’ for Lucy (the word still has a smack of storytelling about it), and a competition for unprecedentedly high stakes for her brother.

When they re-emerge from the wardrobe, Edmund and Lucy find that the ‘game of hide-and-seek’ they had been playing before entering Narnia is still in full swing. But their attitude to the game has changed entirely, since they now know that there is something genuinely strange hidden in the wardrobe which was one of the hiding places in the game. The real is secreted in the playful, just as forms of truth are secreted in fiction; on this, at least, both the younger siblings should be able to agree, whatever their contradictory readings of the place they’ve just returned from. This makes it all the more shocking when Edmund decides that his best tactic both for preserving his self-esteem and hurting his sister is to pretend that he and Lucy have been playing a different game instead of experiencing a different reality: a game-within-a-game, so to speak, rather than an unsuspected truth-within-a-fiction. ‘Oh yes,’ he tells Peter and Susan, ‘Lucy and I have been playing – pretending that all her story about a country in the wardrobe is true. Just for fun, of course. There’s nothing there really’. The cruelty here is compounded by his redeployment of Lucy’s word ‘fun’, which for her involved collective pleasure in an astonishing discovery (‘What fun it will be!’). Peter improves things a little by coming to Lucy’s defence: he suggests that Edmund’s ‘game’ with Lucy is merely a continuation of his bullying, a malpractice rendered more serious by Peter’s increasing suspicion that his younger sister is ‘queer in the head’. Lucy, meanwhile, remains true to her insistence that her ‘story’ is real: she ‘stuck to her story’, as Lewis puts it, and it’s this development of the concept of story beyond the invented or imaginary – this seeming conviction of hers that stories can be true – that induces Peter and Susan to consult Professor Kirk on the matter.

The Professor’s response to their question (has Lucy gone bad or mad? Is she suffering from mental illness?) is to apply a kind of logic to it which Lewis particularly associates with the Scottish enlightenment tradition (think of the Scottish sceptic MacPhee in his unfinished novel The Dark Tower, who becomes an equally sceptical Irishman in That Hideous Strength; Professor Kirk’s name, like that of Mrs MacReady, helps to link him with Scotland). ‘There are only three possibilities,’ he tells them. ‘Either your sister is telling lies, or she is mad, or she is telling the truth. You know she doesn’t tell lies and it is obvious she is not mad. For the moment then and unless any further evidence turns up, we must assume that she is telling the truth.’ The ‘logical’ position he takes here is unusual, in that it assumes that a known truth-teller should be believed even when the scenario she describes would seem to be ‘impossible’ by any conventional standards of assessment. In other words, the Professor is more concerned with the psychology of human beings than with the empirical evidence of the senses. For him, the question of Lucy’s personality – her attested tendency to tell the truth – is vastly more important than questions of precedent (such as: have countries ever been found in items of furniture in the past? Do fauns exist? etc.). From this point of view Narnia would seem to be a country of the mind, whose capacities, like those of the house he inhabits, are vastly more spacious – and vastly more interesting – than conventional empiricism or logic would tend to assume.

Lewis associates logic with Scottish culture, but Scotland also produced the visionary writer whose work Lewis most admired, George MacDonald. MacDonald’s books are full of no-nonsense characters – most of them old women – who treat encounters with the fantastic with the same intellectual rigour as any other aspect of human experience. Edmund’s attitude to games and fictions when he first enters Narnia indicates, among other things, his muddled thinking – his lack of the sort of intellectual and moral rigour cultivated by Professor Kirk and George MacDonald’s formidable grandmothers. By the end of the novel, by contrast, Edmund has become an exemplary thinker, someone who judges the evidence of the mind and senses with such rigour that he comes to be known as ‘Edmund the Just’. Edmund, then, is a complex, changeable character in a way that Lucy is not; and his name confirms his potential for opposite ways of thinking, and for undergoing opposite destinies or endings, just as Lucy’s confirms her singularity as a custodian of the singular light of truth.

Sam Troughton as Edmund in the 2014 National Theatre production dir. Sam Mendes

There was a real, historical Edmund the Just, a tenth-century King of England who obviously suggested the sobriquet to Lewis (among other things, this Edmund I made peace with the Scots: quite an achievement for an English king in the tenth century). But the other Edmund invoked by the name of Lewis’s child-traitor is the antagonist in King Lear, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Gloucester who betrays his brother in a fit of murderous playfulness, a betrayal that leads to the deaths of his father, his king, the king’s three daughters, and Edmund himself. Where Lucy’s name suggests a singular truth – a light shining in darkness – Edmund’s has several competing associations, and can be read in different lights depending on the situation he finds himself in. There could hardly be a better way of signaling Lewis’s conviction, everywhere apparent in the Narnian chronicles, of the urgent need for his readers to cultivate the skill of reading well.

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The Interface with Fantasy in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. 1: Lucy

[This is the first part of a three-part blog post. The first part deals with Lucy’s journey through the wardrobe, the second with Edmund’s, and the third with the toings and froings of all four Pevensie children between our world and Narnia.]

Dust jacket of First Edition

The interface with fantasy in any narrative – the moment when the reader first encounters the particular version of the impossible with which the story will concern itself – both defines a text as fantasy and indicates the kind of fantasy it will be. It’s also frequently the most exhilarating moment in any fantastic story: the most surprising, the most idiosyncratic, the most memorable. Alice spotting a rabbit as it runs by pulling a watch out of its waistcoat pocket – and the burning curiosity with which she responds to this impossible action – sets the perversely logical tone of Carroll’s book of dreams. The moment when Nesbit’s five very ordinary children dig a fairy out of the sand in an abandoned gravel pit, only to discover that the fairy is precisely the opposite of the ones in books (wingless, hairy, with apelike hands, a spidery body and the retractable antennae of a snail), perfectly sums up the many reversals of the children’s expectations that will follow this discovery. The morning when young Will wakes up to find the world blanketed in snow and all his numerous family asleep and impossible to rouse – this is the essence of Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising, where magic brings solitude and coldly impersonal decisions as well as beauty and wonder. As I thought over the last few weeks about the phenomenon of the Narnia books, which compete with The Lord of the Rings for the title of most influential works of fantasy in the postwar years, it struck me that what sets Lewis’s work apart – not just the novel but the series as a whole – is its fascination with this moment of interface, the point at which the protagonist recognizes that they have left behind the physical and social rules of the fields they know. So exciting does Lewis find this moment of first encounter that he re-enacts it over and over again in the course of his series: most notably, perhaps, in the multiple pools that offer entrance to innumerable worlds in The Magician’s Nephew; in the door in the air at the end of Prince Caspian; in the picture that comes alive in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader – followed by the many disembarkations on unknown island-worlds with which that book is filled; and in the plural encounters with successive layers of the Narnian universe in The Silver Chair, beginning with an entrance through a door in a wall reminiscent of Lewis’s favourite short story by H G Wells. The interface with fantasy is Lewis’s theme, and his abiding fascination with it is what makes his work distinctive.

If Lewis’s Narnian sequence is a fantasy of interfaces, then The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is the most characteristic of the Narnia books, since it consists almost entirely of a series of entrances into and encounters with the impossible, the magical, the strange. The first of these entrances, I would suggest, is by way of the book’s title. I can still remember quite distinctly a time before I first read the novel, when I knew only what it said on the cover of the Puffin paperback edition, above a picture of two girls dancing with a lion (I suspect I was told the title instead of reading it; I was a late-ish reader and remain a slow one). The bizarre combination of a beast, a quasi-human figure of horror (I found witches terrifying throughout my childhood) and a grown-up item of furniture (I wasn’t sure what a ‘wardrobe’ was until someone explained) surprised me by its fusion of the exotically powerful, the supernatural and the mundane. No story I knew contained just these elements, or any combination like them, and I couldn’t wait to learn how the three mismatched terms were linked. Tolkien talks in his essay ‘On Fairy Stories’ about how the deployment of unexpected combinations of words can serve as an act of imaginative conjuration, and I think Lewis achieved this in his title (which owes something of its effect to Nesbit’s titles: Five Children and It, The Phoenix and the Carpet).

The second entrance, encounter or interface is by way of the house to which the four children of the opening sentence are evacuated in the book’s first chapter. In Five Children and It Nesbit’s titular children arrive at a rural house from the city of London, and the building seems magical to them because it’s isolated from other buildings and because its grounds have no clear boundaries or enclosures. Their previous experience of domestic space has been urban and rule-bound (they’re not allowed to roam the city streets unsupervised), and the sudden emergence from urban regulation suggests that their new life will be governed by new criteria. We don’t know much about Lewis’s Pevensie children apart from the facts that they, too, live in London, and have been sent to the country (somewhere in Dorset, scholars tell us, though the description of the area, with its mountains, stags and eagles, makes it sound like Scotland) to escape the Blitz. They, too, relish the house because of the unaccustomed freedom of movement it offers (‘That old chap will let us do anything we like’ Peter enthuses); but whereas for Nesbit’s children this freedom takes them out and about (only one of their adventures is housebound), the Pevensies have their adventures inside the house, which Lewis transforms into quasi-magical terrain by making its topography both vast and mysterious. In the first chapter Peter points out that ‘It’s about ten minutes’ walk’ from their bedrooms to the dining-room with ‘any amount of stairs and passages between’, the vague terms ‘about’ and ‘any amount’ underscoring his unfamiliarity with the building’s layout. The youngest child Lucy finds this sense of vague expansiveness intimidating (‘the thought of all those long passages and rows of doors leading into empty rooms was beginning to make her feel a little creepy’). And closer acquaintance with the house only makes it more mysterious. While the first few doors the children open lead only into ‘spare bedrooms, as everyone had expected’, the later rooms they find prove more suggestive: ‘a very long room full of pictures’ with a suit of armour in it; ‘a room all hung with green, with a harp in the corner’, evoking the Irish legends from Lewis’s Belfast childhood; rooms lined with books, ‘most of them very old […] and some bigger than a Bible in a church’; a room containing only a wardrobe. Lewis carefully builds up the impression that the house is too large to know well, and that its rooms have stories in them, some of them written down or printed (and the comparison of some of these books to ‘a Bible in a church’ suggests that the words inside are in some sense potent). Later we learn that the house is so famous that sightseers come ‘from all over England’ to visit it, drawn by its association with different kinds of narratives:

It was the sort of house that is mentioned in guide books and even in histories; and well it might be, for all manner of stories were told about it, some of them even stranger than the one I am telling you now.

With extraordinary economy this sentence extends the building’s mystery in several directions. First, we learn that it’s connected with history – no mystery there, many ancient buildings have ancient origins. But in the next part of the sentence history segues into story, which implies fiction; and some of the ‘stories’ it conjures up are ‘even stranger’ than the story of four children entering a world of talking animals through a wardrobe. One begins to wonder if the Bible-sized books in its library may contain some of those other, ambiguously-fictional narratives; or if Edmund’s teasing questions to Lucy about whether she’s found any new countries in other cupboards around the building might have a grain of truth in them; or whether the suit of armour may have been used in the English Civil Wars, or in an Arthurian romance.

Shortly afterwards the narrator again implies that the house may have something literally magical about it. As all four children approach the wardrobe together for the first time he wonders whether ‘some magic in the house had come to life and was chasing them into Narnia’ – and though he never commits himself to this explanation it marks the continued growth of the building into something organic, something more than architectural. In fact, by this point in the novel the house has acquired a vitality that makes it seem like an extension of its owner, the hairy, rational, courteous and unexpectedly open-minded Professor Kirk. Like the Professor, it is full of possibilities, rendered more diverse by the fact that none of them are particularised or confirmed.[1] These possibilities are extended further still when Susan points out, on entering the wardrobe, that anything they find inside it might be said to be inside the house; and by the Faun Tumnus’s assumption that the place Lucy has come from is another country inside the room where she found the wardrobe. ‘Daughter of Eve’ he calls her, investing her in the process with a mythical status as exotic as his own, ‘from the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe’. By these means Lewis brings our imaginations ‘to life’ through a series of hints relating to the house, preparing them like a good gardener for the more flamboyant impossibilities he introduces as the book goes on.

Pauline Baynes’s wardrobe, which has two doors and no mirror

The next three interfaces, of course, are the three entrances into Narnia by way of the wardrobe. First Lucy on her own, then Edmund and Lucy – though they effectively go separately – and finally all four Pevensie children step through the door with a looking-glass in it (a nod to Carroll?) and find themselves in another landscape, in another season, which turns out to be located in another world. So imaginatively potent, for Lewis, is this moment of transition from this world to the next that he makes us go through it three times, each time from a new perspective, which imbues each entrance with a different mood and meaning. One of the side effects of this threefold interface is that it leaves the young reader with the conviction that such encounters may not be unique – that they might in fact occur from time to time, though rarely, in ‘real’, non-literary life. This view is corroborated by the Professor’s logic, when he asks Peter and Susan whether they find Lucy a more credible witness than Edmund and goes on to suggest that if so, they should believe what she has told them about finding Narnia, no matter how incredible. An adult’s championing of the youngest Pevensie – especially when the adult has the grand title of ‘Professor’ – renders her and Edmund’s impossible experiences of Narnia distinctly plausible; and it’s perhaps for this reason that I worked so hard to convince myself as a boy that I, too, could find an entrance to Lewis’s invented country – though I suspect there were other elements to this desire for conviction, among others the strong association of Narnia with desire itself.

Lucy’s experience of the interface with Narnia can be understood as a series of mirrorings (remember the mirror in the wardrobe door, which Pauline Baynes doesn’t include in her illustrations). These mirrorings ensure that the transition between ‘our’ world and the ‘other’ one isn’t too sudden to feel convincing, and that the two worlds in some sense interpenetrate each other: there are things in one that occur in the other, though in a new relationship and with different connotations. One might think of George MacDonald’s observation in his novel Phantastes about how a room is rendered magical when seen in a mirror; it’s identical to the one you live in, but the reversal of the relations between the objects in it suggest the possibility that in the reflected world there has been a fundamental realignment of all the regulations that govern our quotidian existence.

Lucy’s entrance into Narnia is partly impelled, like Alice’s decision to follow the rabbit, by curiosity: first the modest curiosity as to whether or not the wardrobe door is locked, which is what makes Lucy stay behind when her siblings leave the room; and later the excited inquisitiveness as to the nature of the snowy wood to which the wardrobe leads her. The other impulse that takes her into the wardrobe is that of pleasure. In the wardrobe she finds fur coats, and since ‘There was nothing Lucy liked so much as the smell and feel of fur’ she at once steps in and rubs her face against them, going ‘further in’ (a phrase that acquires particular resonance in the final Narnia book, The Last Battle) to indulge her senses of touch and smell more fully. As she goes forward into the dark she first loses one of her senses – that of sight – quite naturally, because it’s dark; and she then fails to sense something she expects, which is the rough woodwork at the back of the wardrobe. Afterwards her sense of touch conveys to her something she expects – the crunching of mothballs under her feet – only to surprise her when she reaches down to touch them, since the crunchy substance is ‘soft and powdery and extremely cold’. Next the texture of the coats changes, to be replaced not with the expected wooden planks but with wood in another form, the prickly ‘branches of trees’. Her sense of sight returns to her, but as often happens when one has been in the dark her understanding of distance has been affected, and the light she sees appears to be much further away than ‘where the back of the wardrobe ought to have been’. As a result of these incremental alterations, it seems perfectly natural as well as surprising when Lucy finally realizes that she is standing ‘in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet and snowflakes falling through the air’. The stress on many senses, not just one – and the stress on familiar, precisely-evoked sensations – is what makes the transition so utterly convincing.

Alongside sensation, Lewis also uses wordplay to link the new land Lucy discovers with the house she’s left. The first things she finds in Narnia – a wood full of fir trees, the whiteness of snow, the darkness of nighttime – are all perfectly consonant with the experience of playing, or falling asleep, in a dark wooden wardrobe full of fur coats and snow-white mothballs. Lewis has already shown us that Lucy is a little timid – she disliked the large unknown spaces of the Professor’s house – so it’s a stroke of genius to have her look back over her shoulder when she reaches the wood and see not only ‘the open doorway of the wardrobe’ between the trees behind her but even ‘a glimpse of the empty room from which she had set out’. The empty rooms of Professor Kirk’s house had earlier frightened her, so it should come as no surprise that she quickly summons up courage to move forward through the much more crowded space of the Narnian wood in which she finds herself. Her discovery of an ordinary lamppost a few steps later – in the middle of wood, far from any discernible path – reassures her still further: it suggests modern industrial civilization, perhaps even the urban environment she knows best, where some helpful authority has made provision for the needs of citizens to find their way about at night. So again it’s hardly surprising that when a ‘very strange person’ steps out into the light of the lamppost Lucy should react not with fear but only intensified curiosity: especially since the ‘very strange person’ is much the same height as her, carries an umbrella, wears a ‘red woollen muffler’ that matches his skin, and is weighed down with what looks like his ‘Christmas shopping’. Umbrellas and mufflers are designed for protection, not assault, and anyone who has the generosity to buy Christmas presents for his friends can pose no threat (or so one might reason); and though this assumption may be simplistic (as indeed it proves to be) it seems to be corroborated by the faun’s exclamation of surprise when he first sees Lucy. ‘Goodness gracious me’ is hardly the phrase a devil might use, despite the stranger’s possession of horns and reddish skin, and serves to justify Lucy’s confidence in talking to him in the next chapter.

The series of mirrorings I mentioned earlier refers to the fact that the room can be seen behind Lucy after she’s moved out of it – a space rendered as magical as Narnia by its unexplained presence ‘between the dark tree-trunks’ – and by the Faun’s perfect equivalence to Lucy in terms of size. It continues with the rapid-fire questions the Faun poses to her, which suggests he is just as curious as she is, and by his readiness to take Spare Oom and War Drobe as geographical locations as exotic for him as Narnia is for her. Soon afterwards, Lucy’s belief that she should be getting ‘home’ to the Professor’s house is mirrored by the ‘homely’ picture painted by the Faun of its own habitation, where there is ‘a roaring fire – and toast – and sardines – and cake’. And the ‘dry, clean cave’ to which he takes her is much more child-sized and child-friendly – much more ‘homely’, in fact – than the rambling, many-doored mansion Lucy has left behind (there is only one door in the cave, which ‘must lead to Mr Tumnus’s bedroom’ – there is really nowhere else it can lead to). The Faun’s home is also better stocked with provisions than England is, given that Lucy’s England is at war and therefore subject to rationing (cakes would have been a rarity because of the shortage of eggs). Again, Mr Tumnus’s cave mirrors the world she’s left in its fondness for books and stories, especially strange ones: the books on its shelves refer to humanity as a possible fiction (Is Man a Myth? is one of the titles), and Tumnus himself is a fount of strange tales like the ones that have accumulated around the Professor’s house. Strangeness and familiarity are blended in the Faun’s cave, in fact, exactly as they were in the mansion, although in slightly different proportions.

At this point in Lucy’s adventure Lewis engineers a sudden change of mood. After telling his tales of midnight parties where Fauns dance with Nymphs, of milk-white stags which grant your wishes and of summer visits from the god Silenus, who makes the rivers run with wine instead of water, Tumnus abruptly reveals that such seasonal delights no longer take place and that Narnia itself has receded into the past, to be replaced by the perpetually snowbound country Lucy has discovered. The Faun then drops the bombshell (the wartime metaphor seems appropriate) that he himself is not what he appears to be – that he is a bad Faun, not a good one, and that his entertainment of Lucy has a hidden agenda: to lull her into a false sense of security and then hand her over to his paymistress, the wicked White Witch. This is a mirror-style reversal more extreme than any we’ve encountered so far, whereby apparent acts of friendliness become a mask for treason, a pleasant wood becomes suddenly sinister, snow becomes oppressive – it is now the sign of the Witch’s power – and the return journey to the lamppost becomes as full of anxiety (‘The whole wood is full of her spies,’ Tumnus tells Lucy) as before it was full of wonder. Even this reversal, however, mirrors a similar reversal in the world that Lucy has left. It might be said to resemble something we never actually witness in the novel: the sudden, unlooked-for recollection that the world is at war, which transforms the loveliness of the countryside into a fragile refuge from violence and forces one’s idealized imaginary homeland to recede into the distance – into the past and perhaps, though not certainly, the distant future – while the present becomes discoloured or warped by suspicion and fear.

Lucy’s experience of the interface with Narnia, then, contains in itself the possibility that the country can be read in different ways. But the change of mood also affirms that a ‘true’ reading of the evidence provided by the country is possible. By the time it takes place, a bond has been forged between Lucy and Mr Tumnus, a bond founded on a shared pleasure in food and stories and curiosity about strange cultures – pleasures it’s difficult to fake. So when Tumnus breaks down in tears and tells the girl that he is wicked she assumes that he is talking about some past misdemeanour on his part, and assures him that he cannot possibly be bad now because he is so sorry for what he has done. The revelation that his misdemeanour is in fact taking place now, at this very moment, and that the child he has been telling her about is not an element in a finished tale but Lucy herself, who is currently in danger from the Faun to whom she is speaking – this revelation shocks Lucy into terror (she turns ‘very white’). But her conviction that Tumnus is what he appears to be – a friend – helps to change the direction of the narrative once again. By being certain that he is ‘a very good Faun’ Lucy ensures that he behaves as one; while, conversely, Lucy’s own behaviour ensures that Tumnus realizes he could never betray an actual human child, no matter how easy such a betrayal might seem when the child was imaginary. There’s a sense here that behind the hall of mirrors that enabled the transition between the Professor’s house and Narnia – and between the possible and the impossible, which have been so richly twined together in the description of that transition – there is a common set of values, a shared recognition of the appropriate way to behave towards strangers, whether children or adults, migrants or evacuees, that transcends any fleeting consent one has given to other sorts of behaviour on the basis of fear or wilful self-delusion.

In other words, by this stage in the novel the question of what is real has come under scrutiny. The country Lucy comes from, England, is a land in crisis. So is the country she arrives in, Narnia. Both places, then, are in one sense not themselves – the ‘real’ England and the ‘real’ Narnia lie elsewhere, in a time of peace and prosperity that has long been absent and might not come again. Any hope that this double crisis will be resolved lies in behaving as though the moral values of the ‘real’ country remain intact during this period of absence. Lucy behaves in this way quite naturally, by assuming Tumnus is ‘good’ whatever crimes he may have committed in the Witch’s name. Tumnus’s ‘badness’, meanwhile, is the result of an act of imagination: he agreed to betray, in theory, what he thought of as an imaginary person – a human being, at a time when human beings have not been seen in Narnia for many centuries (hence the title of his book, Is Man a Myth?). But as soon as that imagined person proved to be real Tumnus realized he could never betray her without also betraying his sense of his own real self as (first and foremost) a decent person. In addition, his agreement to serve as the Witch’s spy was based on the threat she posed to his identity, his faunness, so to speak. If he fails to do her bidding she will cut off his horns, pluck out his beard, fuse his ‘beautiful cloven hoofs […] into horrid solid hoofs like a wretched horse’s’ – or worse still she will turn him to stone, a simulacrum of a living goat-man. On meeting the real girl Lucy, however, Tumnus realizes that his ‘real self’ is not the physical one with horns and beard and cloven hooves but the one who refuses to hurt children, who treats strangers with respect, and who seeks to help them at great risk to his own life. In doing these things Tumnus identifies himself as a ‘real’ Narnian, and brings closer the possibility of the ‘real’ Narnia being restored. If all of the White Witch’s spies go through the same process of self-realization her power will be diminished, and Narnia will re-emerge in some form at least from its long quiescence.

When Lucy returns to the Professor’s house after her time with Tumnus, the question of what’s real continues to trouble her. She tells her siblings about the visit to Narnia, and they at once assume that her story is impossible. This gives rise to three alternative interpretations of her narrative: first, that it’s a lie; secondly, that it’s a game – an activity with rules which we take part in for a certain period of time for the sake of a transient feeling of pleasure; and thirdly, that it’s a joke. All three siblings also decide that whichever one of these interpretations or readings of the story is correct, the lie or game or joke has gone on far beyond what is acceptable. Convention dictates that at one point a fiction be acknowledged for what it is – that the book be closed and ordinary life begin again – but Lucy stubbornly refuses to obey this convention even for the sake of a quiet life (she was a ‘very truthful girl and knew that she was really in the right’). On person’s game or joke or fiction, then, is another person’s reality; the dividing line between the imagined and the actual is permeable, and ‘realness’, as well as the conventions that determine its parameters, is a contested concept. Later, the older siblings Peter and Susan begin to wonder whether there is a fourth explanation for Lucy’s insistence on the truthfulness of her impossible story – not that it’s a game (her unhappiness puts paid to that idea) but that she believes she is telling the truth even though she is not; in other words, that she is suffering from some kind of mental illness. This is what drives them to discuss the problem with the Professor. But the fact that the reader has already been convinced, within the framework of the story, that Lucy has ‘really’ undergone the experiences she describes suggests that the limits of the possible are vastly greater than Peter and Susan are aware; and this suggestion is later corroborated both by the references to the even stranger stories associated with the house and by the Professor’s ready acceptance that Lucy is sane, and that therefore – in the absence of any evidence against it – her story should be believed. The game abruptly becomes potential fact, and the relationship between the elder siblings and the youngest shifts in consequence. Objects and people – Lucy, Susan, Peter, the mysterious wardrobe – subtly change places, in the process changing their signification.

It might be at this point in the story that the knowledgeable reader brings to mind the mythical connotations of Lucy’s name. Lucy comes from lux, the Latin for light, and the saint who originally owned the name became associated by the Catholic Church with the longest night in the year, a time when the memory of light, and the current location of its source, must have seemed (in the days before artificial lighting) as far away and inaccessible as an imaginary country. But even in the longest night of the year the sun is real, and the conviction that its light and warmth will at last return can be sustained by stories as well as memory. That’s the promise Lucy’s name brings with it, in conjunction with her story: that things unseen may be as real as things we can smell and touch, and that the impossible may perhaps be made possible through a concerted effort of the desiring imagination.

 

NOTE

[1] This is an effect that gets destroyed, I would imagine, or at least altered, if you read The Magician’s Nephew first in the Narnia sequence. Lewis seems in fact to have written it last.

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Top Ten Fantasy Titles

[Last semester my colleague Matt Sangster challenged me to list my top ten fantasy titles (or, to be precise, my top ten works of fantasy literature written in the English language in the twentieth century). I’ve tried this exercise before, and the list has radically changed each time I’ve compiled it in my head. Call this a snapshot, then, of my preferences at the time of asking (October 2016). If he’d asked me the same question this month the list would have been quite different…]

Hope Mirrlees, Lud-in-the-Mist (1926)

The oddest of fairy tales, in which the bourgeois citizens of a prosperous town express their fear of sex, death, the working classes, unruly women and disobedient children, by banishing all talk of such things from polite society. They also banish a hallucinogenic drug called Fairy Fruit. Forbidden things (which also include the priesthood and the aristocracy) are confined to a place they call ‘Fairyland’, beyond the country’s borders. Inevitably the borders can’t be policed, and all efforts at containing illegal people and objects fail. Gorgeous descriptions, extravagant names, and a murder mystery complete the picture. A snapshot of English life in the immediate aftermath of the First World War.

 

Flann O’Brien, The Third Policeman (c. 1940, published 1966)

Written in a language like no other, this bizarre trip into the tormented interior of 1930s Ireland – which is a miniature working model of 1930s Europe – is so packed with invention, so chock-full of gags, so musical in its rhythms and so disturbing in its vision of the way the world ticks that there’s no describing it. The nameless narrator finds himself caught up in the clockwork mechanisms of the universe. Although from one point of view his experiences are hell, they are punctuated by moments of such heartbreaking beauty and hilarity that the book is like a piece of shot silk, as dark or light as your mood at the time of reading. Boxes within boxes have never seemed so explosively complicated. Bicycles have never seemed so erotic.

 

Mervyn Peake, Gormenghast (1950)

An architectural fantasy, whose chief character is a labyrinthine castle governed by rituals whose origins and purpose have been lost in the dusty corridors of time. At first the castle’s denizens are as isolated from each other as the castle is from the outside world. Gradually they come together in the face of the threat posed by Steerpike, an ambitious former kitchen boy who seeks to transform the building into a totalitarian state, or a playground, or a madhouse, depending on his mood. A matchless commentary on the various forms of dictatorship, internal and external, that dominated the middle years of the twentieth century.

 

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (1954-5)

I love this for the subtlety of the transition from the world of the hobbits – the comfortable Shire – to the world of the ancient epic heroes; for the effortless interplay between telling details (mushrooms, pocket handkerchiefs, Longbottom Leaf, stewed rabbit) and the sweep of a grand narrative; for the sense of increasing danger it generates from the first chapter; for Tolkien’s obvious delight in bringing the remote past into vibrant life. The book perfectly captures the precariousness of the mid-twentieth century, in which war and imperialist expansionism threatened to obliterate the past altogether.

 

Ursula K. Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea (1968)

A perfectly constructed story, about a boy whose abusive and lonely childhood gives him a problem with women that almost turns him into a monster. The world he lives in, made up of islands, encourages an isolationism in its inhabitants that only adds to his loneliness. The dragons here are the best in fiction, with the possible exception of Tolkien’s Smaug. Le Guin’s delight in the sea that both separates and links her islands is as palpable as her fascination with the social and political causes of psychological damage, and the strange roads that lead to healing.

 

Doris Lessing, The Memoirs of a Survivor (1974)

Lessing called this an experiment in autobiography, and it’s the perfect example of how fantasy can force us to rethink the terms by which we understand the world we live in. A city is undergoing radical changes, a breakdown in the social order which the protagonist observes uneasily through the window of her ground floor apartment. The causes of the breakdown are unclear, but it’s implied that they have their roots in the breakdown of relationships between men, women and children in the domestic environment, which the protagonist also sees played out in a kind of looking-glass world on the other side of her living room wall. The style has a magnificent awkwardness that admirably conveys the difficulty of making sense of things, and the inadequacy of conventional forms of expression as a means of doing so. The ending is as ambiguous as it is exhilarating.

 

Gene Wolfe, The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories (1980)

The best collection of fantastic stories of the twentieth century. Though many of these are science fiction rather than fantasy, Wolfe’s refusal to authorize any single version of the strange events he presents us with invests the whole collection with a magical atmosphere, as if we are witnessing successive acts in a ghost circus. You’ll have to read these stories again and again in an effort to work out what happens in them, and each reading will give you a different answer. Just like living through the 60s and 70s, those decades of change when the stories were written.

 

John Crowley, Little, Big (1981)

Another architectural fantasy, set in a house whose many facades make it seem like several houses occupying the same space. Over three or four generations, an American family struggles to come to terms with its close relationship with a supernatural community of half-seen beings – perhaps the fairies – who have made their homes in the house’s environs. The fairies become a metaphor for the many forms of estrangement and misunderstanding that afflict the small community called the family, as well as the larger communities of the city, the nation and the world. Re-reading it now I think of it as the ultimate threnody for the political and social possibilities of the 60s and 70s. The prose sings.

 

Diana Wynne Jones, Fire and Hemlock (1984)

A children’s book for grown ups. A neglected young girl makes friends with a man who seems in thrall to the mysterious head of an extensive and powerful family. The girl and the man tell each other stories and the stories come true in unexpected ways. Based on two old Scottish ballads, ‘Tam Lin’ and ‘Thomas the Rhymer’, this novel is remarkable for the way it traces the changing relationship between girl and man until both are adults and equals. It is also an extended commentary on the complex relationship between the life of the imagination and ‘real life’ – whatever that is – and how the former changes as we change, adapting itself to our needs at different stages of our development. And it has much to say about our false assumptions concerning the natures of adulthood and childishness.

 

China Miéville, Perdido Street Station (2000)

A disgraced scientist sets himself up as the champion of justice and the saviour of a city. In fact he is the one who put the city in danger by releasing the Slake Moths, monstrous yet strangely attractive insects that feed on the dreams and memories of men and women, leaving them helpless, barely sentient. A brilliant meditation on the problem of mounting an effective resistance to global capitalism in an age when everything you eat, wear, study, think and dream is in some sense an integral part of the capitalist machine. Full of astounding composite creatures (cactus-people, insect-people, machine-people) whose awkward hybridity confirms the fact that we are all of us bizarre from other people’s perspectives, and that we are all of us to some extent implicated in other people’s atrocities (which means we are also honour bound to work against them).

 

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Café Culture

No, please – sit down. This place gets so crowded at this time of day, and I always feel a little embarrassed to be tucked away here in the corner with my small black coffee when everyone else is doing justice to the substantial and expensive lunches on the menu. The staff are kind about it, of course – they always make me feel most welcome – but I can see they notice. There’s plenty of room at the table. Be my guest.

Oh dear oh dear. Would you mind? I must just help my poor old friend at the next table, who has dropped his cup again. Coffee all over his nice clean trousers. Could you pass me some of those napkins? Thanks so much. Really, the poor old fellow shouldn’t be out on his own – but he insists on maintaining his independence, even at the cost of his personal dignity. And who can blame him? It’s quite touching to see him struggle to maintain control over his bodily functions, especially in view of his – well – what can only be called his steep decline over the last few months. That’s better, he’s drier now and looks more cheerful. Of course, he nearly always looks cheerful nowadays; that’s one of the better side effects of a decaying mind. Last August, though – you should have seen him only last August. Sharp as a razor, sparkling as cut glass. People used to come here almost every morning to consult him on affairs of real importance – not just your ordinary mugginses but community leaders, company directors, sometimes even (better whisper it) members of the cabinet…

And now – well – look at him. The poor old boy can barely focus on his spoon as it lifts a precarious portion of soup to his drooling lips. Do I sound heartless? Believe me, I’m speaking from the bottom of my heart; his condition affects me deeply. He’s been a friend of mind for over sixty years, and here he is –

I beg your pardon? You can’t believe I’ve even been alive for sixty years? You flatter me, my dear. I’m seventy-nine.

Yes, yes, you heard me correctly. Seventy-nine years and eleven months, to be precise. It’ll soon be my birthday. I’m effectively an octogenarian. It’s kind of you to say so; people often tell me I look younger than my age, though I’m never completely sure if they’re being serious. Of course, my friend over there, he’s only three weeks older than I am – I know, I know, it’s hard to believe we’re the same generation – but just a few months ago you’d have said he was decades younger than me, not decades my senior. It’s true, it’s true. At sixty he looked like a man in his mid-thirties. At seventy he looked no older than forty-five. His neck was firm, his hands unwrinkled, his eyes flashed as he shot you down with spontaneous wisecracks, or delivered his verdict on current affairs in elegant sentences and exquisitely crafted paragraphs… You say I’m well preserved, but only last August you’d have said he was my younger brother, perhaps even my son. And now, I say again: look at him! It’s a warning to us all. Don’t get complacent. Time tarries for no man – and no woman either, if you don’t mind my saying so. Do forgive my bluntness. I get so philosophical when I think about what happened to my friend.

What did happen, I hear you ask in your quiet voice. Did he fall ill? Well no, not ill exactly. He ate something that disagreed with him. I find that ironic. After all, if you listen to a dietician just about everything we eat disagrees with us in one way or another. Every morsel we place in our mouths is wearing us down, grinding away our teeth, eating at our organs, consuming our digestive tracts, laying waste to our wastepipes, so to speak – I mean our rectal passages… Again, I apologize for speaking bluntly, but I know what I’m talking about – know it better, indeed, than anyone else. What happened to him wasn’t unexpected, at least not to me. But dramatic, yes. Far more dramatic, indeed, than I had dared to hope…

I can see from your expression that you’d like to know more. My hints have intrigued you. Well, you’ve got a hearty sandwich to consume in the next few minutes, so if you’re sure I’m not intruding on your lunch break – I’ll tell you what happened to my poor old friend with the tremulous hands, the wattled neck, the mottled skin and the bleary vision. (Did you notice his hair, by the way? Only in August he had hair right down to his shoulders – it put this mane of mine to shame, I can assure you. And now, he should really be wearing a wig to cover up those clumps of shriveled vegetation that so egregiously fail to conceal his flaking scalp…)

Let me see, now. Where to begin? Tell me, my dear; have you heard of the Elixir of Youth? Of course you’ve heard of it – I’m sorry, my question must have sounded patronizing – and of course you’ve never believed in its existence. No more have I. Oh ho! You’re not the first to assume I must have found it, the Well at the World’s End, the Fountain of Eternal Replenishment, the Restorative Fruit from the Tree of Life. But no, I haven’t. To arrest the process of decay one needs three things: a measure of luck, a great deal of effort (eat well, live well, take plenty of exercise), and excellent genes. There are no other ways to hold back old age, and never will be, if you ask me. But I mention the Elixir of Youth for a very good reason, and will return to it in time.

My old friend there – now he was someone you’d have said had found it, if you’d seen him in August. He used to joke about it, you know – tempting fate, I tended to think in my superstitious way. ‘I can’t help it,’ he would tell strangers in his forceful voice (do you hear how it whistles now as he calls for a drink of water to help him swallow the final crumbs of his frugal meal?). ‘I just can’t help it,’ he would bellow. ‘Everything I eat makes me stronger and younger. Everything I drink revives my flesh. My grandmother was the same, and her mother before her. They both of them lived to a hundred and twelve. I expect I’ll outlast them, God willing’ (he was always throwing in those religious references, though he wasn’t a believer). ‘Come back in forty years and I’ll be sitting here at this table, as I am now, regaling the company with stories of the days when we used to drink coffee instead of kale and grapefruit smoothies. Here, feel my biceps. Impressive, no, for a man over sixty? What would you say if I told you I was over seventy? Surprised? I’m surprised myself. But I can’t help it – can I, Freddy? I’m simply the youngest octogenarian in the world.’ He exaggerated his age, of course, for dramatic effect, but he didn’t need to – he really was a wonder of nature.

That’s my name, Freddy. You’re Patricia? Pleased to meet you. It’s such a pleasure to meet a young woman with a good attention span, who isn’t always fiddling with her smartphone in the middle of a conversation.

No, no, of course I don’t mind if you answer that text. Finished? Jolly good. Now then: where was I?

Oh yes: the decline. Well, I have to say I thought he was asking for it with all his boasting about the lifespan of his family, his own good health, the astonishing weights he lifted daily in the gym. Tempting Providence, I thought, though like him I’m not religious. Almost as if he was daring the world to prove him wrong. Well, what could I do but take up the challenge? After all, he himself acknowledged me as his closest rival. The second youngest octogenarian on the planet, he would call me, and he’d buy me coffee from time to time – full fat lattes with plenty of sugar, though he knew I always drink mine black. But then, he wanted me to put on weight, just as he has now, poor devil (just look at that belly).

So I took it up. The challenge, I mean. I took up the challenge, and I took up chemistry. Not conventional chemistry, of course – GlaxoSmithKline and all that jazz. What I wanted was a nice quick fix for one small problem: the Fountain of Youth which he seemed to have tapped. I needed something to combat his natural fortitude. I needed – well, I’ll be blunt, since I’ve been blunt before. I needed a spell. Nothing else would do. I wanted fast results, and quite specific ones, and nothing in the way of regular science quite fitted the bill. A spell, my dear. By my age you don’t discount such things. Or rather, perhaps, you’re prepared to try them out because you’ve nothing to lose, not if you’re an unbeliever and you’ve witnessed the failings of conventional chemistry too many times in your life to number. Why not? After all, what’s a spell but a wish expressed in substances and gestures as well as in words? We all wish for things, I think, and every now and then we’re lucky enough to see a wish come true.

I found one, of course. A spell. Where else but on the internet – isn’t that where we find everything these days? The Dark Net, of course, not the Light One, if there’s any such thing. Not just any old Dark Net, either. This one needs to be accessed using HTMLs you can only obtain from certain individuals not to be named in respectable company. How do I know such individuals? I didn’t at the time – my life up till that point had been a relatively clean one – but I knew full well how to get in touch. How does Marlowe put it?

For when we hear one rack the name of God,
Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ,
We fly in hope to get his glorious soul;
Nor will we come, unless he use such means
Whereby he is in danger to be damned.
Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring
Is stoutly to abjure the Trinity,
And pray devoutly to the Prince of Hell.

Isn’t Kit sublime? I want to cry every time I speak those lines. And I’m not even a believer! I can attest, though, to the efficacy of the method. You don’t do your abjuring out loud, of course, if you want a cyber solution; you do it on Google. But it works. My old friend there is proof of that.

One way or another, then, I got my spell. I can tell you what was in it if you like. Have you finished your meal? I ask, because – well, some of the contents were a little disgusting. Bitter aloes was the least of them. The central nervous system of a traumatized orphan. A migrant’s tearducts. Infected blood. Bile, spleen, a dysfunctional liver, a malignant tumour – all of them human, I’m sorry to say. Lots of saturated fat, mixed with glucose, fructose – any kind of sugar, the more the merrier. Petrol. Ash. Bat’s wings, of course, Pipistrellus pipistrellus being the preferred variety, the bird of evening as the Romans called it. Eye of newt. Those last two items can be found in all the most efficacious spells, and I have to tell you the eye of newt was by far the hardest thing to get hold of – everything else is readily available on the world wide web, but you have no idea how rare a great crested newt is these days, or how fiercely the conservationists protect them. A pinch of salt – no, make that a fistful. There’s more, of course, but you get the picture. Hardly palatable, you’ll agree; and of course it took me months to get it all together.

There were words, too, as there always are, but you can’t have those – I don’t want to get you into trouble, not at your age. (At my age, on the other hand, trouble should be actively sought out. Keeps you young, so my seniors tell me.) And then of course I had to get the timing right. Leave the noxious mixture to brew for several weeks, chanting charms over it at appointed times, when the planets were properly aligned etc. – wearisome stuff. Consult the usual star charts to ascertain the optimum moment to administer the concoction. And then…

Then came the difficult part, or so you’d imagine. How to make him drink the potion? Funnily enough, that was the simplest thing of all. I just had to tell him everyone was doing it – that the tincture I’d cooked up was the dernier cri in holistic wellness therapy – and he took it like a man. After all, he’d been inured to foul concoctions for many decades; you don’t get a physique of the sort he had without downing vitamins and proteins by the bucketful, mostly in the foulest form imaginable. He made a wry face as he tossed it down, but he kept it down, as I’d known he would, and even managed to drink a mug of green tea afterwards to wash away the aftertaste. Impressive.

The effects didn’t begin to show for over a week – I was on tenterhooks till I finally spotted the first telltale change in his complexion. He must have been as strong as an ox. I knew that, of course, but I’m sure you’ll agree that knowing something isn’t the same as seeing it empirically demonstrated. When he came in here looking yellow – well, I was in clover. I settled down, then, to watch the changes day by day as they swarmed across him like a plague of locusts across healthy farmland. An outbreak of boils, which made him waddle like a pregnant duck. Scurf and scabies, which quickly led to hair loss. Sudden tooth decay, so that between one week and the next he’d gone from a full set of gleaming gnashers without one filling to a full set of dentures, which didn’t properly fit his mouth (the shape of his jaw was in constant flux). A case of palsy in the hands, whose cause could never be traced. Wasting of the muscles. Chronic indigestion. Distortion of the bones; incontinence; a number of strokes. His conversation changed, becoming a litany of complaints which drove away even his oldest friends – apart from myself, to whom they were music, a driveling ode to the success of my necromantic efforts. Then he more or less stopped talking altogether. It was too painful at first, what with all those abscesses, and later on he simply forgot how to govern his tongue. These days he can only manage the simplest requests for a glass of water or a bowl of soup, and to be honest we can only understand him because we know his habits.

Must you go? Have I driven you off? Of course not, it’s just that your lunch break is almost over, you need to get back, your time is precious as mine is not. Well well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, and I say it sincerely – I who say very little sincerely (there is so much enjoyment to be had from pulling the leg of an attractive stranger). Remember, I’m here every morning with my small black coffee; I’d be pleased to tell you more about my friend’s career and its unfortunate end. Or if you prefer I can tell you about my other friend, the one who gave me the spell and helped me work it. Don’t worry, my dear, you’d never find him in this café. He prefers the swanky places near Piccadilly Circus and Holland Park; he has expensive tastes. Just visiting, were you? Off home tomorrow? Never mind. But before you go, let me say one more thing. I think you’ll find it useful.

A young woman of your age doesn’t think about ageing, or if you do, you think of it as far away, a distant prospect, the tiniest blot on life’s horizon. As you get older, though, I assure you it starts to loom. Every time you look in the mirror it looms larger. You start to cast envious glances at other people, guessing their ages, making notes on the stealthy meddling of Father Time with their faces and bodies as compared with yours. There will come a day, I guarantee, when you start to think: how can I look younger? Can I afford to dress like a twenty-year-old any more, or will it simply bring out the grotesque disparity between my sense of style and the wrinkled, bespeckled texture of my skin? That woman there – she’s older than me, yet she looks much younger. How does she do it? What’s her secret? Will she tell me honestly, or will she fob me off with a bit of folklore, a fat red herring, a downright lie?

There will come a moment, believe me, when you’ll even start to find yourself half believing that it may exist: the Elixir of Youth. Wishful thinking, of course – but as I said, we all wish for things, and now and then we’re lucky enough to see a wish come true.

My advice to you is this: the Elixir of Youth is a waste of time. There’s no such thing. Forget it. You could waste years in search of it, and one day you may even find that you’ve sold your soul for it, given up your happiness – what there is of it left – for a piece of nonsense in a crystal flask which does nothing at all but give you stomach cramps or a temporary, painful high, swiftly followed by half a year’s worth of deep depression. Believe me, I know this from bitter experience. It doesn’t work. Put it out of your mind.

But there’s something else, in my view, that’s much, much better. One day, in a few decades, you’ll remember our meeting and what I said as you left the café, determined never to darken its door again (what a horrible man! What a dreadful story!). You’ll remember that I told you how to get hold of it, and who to call on when you want to find it. You’ll start to believe what I’m telling you now: that it’s the only potion worth possessing, the only spell worth seeking out. And you’ll go looking for it, as I did, with beating heart and a welcome warmth spreading through the normally chilly joints of your hands and feet. You’ll go wandering through the mazes of the Dark Dark Net until it comes to you at last, in one form or another, with the ghastly inevitability of death itself.

What am I talking about, you ask? Oh, I think you know.

The Elixir of Age, young woman. The Elixir of Age.

 

 

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Utopia, Laughter and Reformation: Erasmus, More and Rastell

For some time now I’ve been thinking about writing a book about English comic fiction and the Reformation – no doubt one of those many lost books that will never get finished. It’s an odd combination, certainly: a religious crisis that provoked violent conflict throughout Europe and a mode of writing that tends to get lost in literary history, largely because it’s thought of as light, a form of ‘popular’ and often crude entertainment that has nothing significant to tell us about the culture that produced it. James Simpson’s brilliant volume of the Oxford English Literary History, for instance (1350-1547: Reform and Cultural Revolution), has no comic fiction in it at all, and there has never been a monograph on early modern comic fiction in English. What has comic prose fiction to do with religious and political controversy? Very little, this neglect seems to say. But my view is that it has a great deal to tell us about reformation of one sort or another, and here I’m going to try to show this through a peculiarly rich case study.

Early 17th-century illustration of The Praise of Folly

The comic is about obliqueness: disrupting patterns of expectation, twisting familiar narratives, social customs and verbal conventions out of shape, taking people by surprise in such a way as to shock them into laughter. It depends for its effects on the assumption that there is a direction in which things usually go: a social or cultural pattern or norm that gets transgressed by the comic incident or comment, though in such a way as not to disturb the reader too radically. For this reason the comic, like satire, is sometimes taken to be a basically conservative medium; the status quo gets asserted rather than undermined by comic disruption. Even when the laughter it induces is uncomfortable or nervous, the fact that we laugh at all confirms that the object of our laughter is not serious – that in the end it has no power to alter things. If it did, we wouldn’t laugh at it; we would weep, gasp, rage, or shout. The medieval church’s ready accommodation of carnival periods into its religious cycle attests to laughter’s power of containing the emotions it releases, and to the inevitability of the return to sober normality after the period of laughter is over.

Illustration for Sebastian Brant’s Ship of Fools

Not all laughter, though, is so easily contained by the authorities. All three of the writers I want to write about here share a tendency to cross the line between the comic and the unacceptably transgressive, the forbidden, even the treacherous. There’s a time and a place for laughter, the Bible tells us, and even if fools have a degree of licence or legal protection there are subjects even a fool doesn’t breach with impunity. One of the most famous fools in history, Scoggin – who became the hero of his own collection of comic stories which went on being published into the eighteenth century – got himself sentenced to death by the king he served, and only saved himself by asking to be allowed to choose the tree from which he would be hanged – a choice he of course never made. All three of my writers were famous for their humour; and all three fell foul of the authorities of church and state, two dying for the doctrinal positions they took up in the early years of the Lutheran controversy, while the third lived largely in exile, and had his works placed on the papal index of prohibited books after his death. These writers didn’t get into trouble specifically for their humour; but their comic writings do have something to tell us about how and why they crossed the nebulous borders between the permissible and the illicit, and perhaps also about why each of them ended up on different sides of the religious conflict. Their eventual differences are all the more remarkable because the three of them started out with such similar convictions. What, then, does their comic fiction tell us about the different directions in which these convictions took them?

From the early days of their friendship the Dutch scholar Desiderius Erasmus, the English lawyer Thomas More, and More’s brother-in-law, the printer John Rastell, shared a very humanist passion for social and ecclesiastical reform achieved through letters: above all, through the process of making words perspicuous; of clarifying their meanings with the help of translation, etymology (tracing the history of words) and exegesis or explanatory commentary. Erasmus sought a return to the first principles of Christianity through a return to correct texts – especially, of course, accurate texts of the Bible. For him, the accurate use of words and grammar, in translations of the scriptures but also in the secular scripture of classical literature, could lead to a reformation of society and the Church. His quest for perspicuous or lucid wisdom expressed itself in the successive editions of his Adagia: collections of proverbs or adages drawn from ancient Greek and Latin authors, which he saw as embedded in and indeed springing from a collective popular culture, since many have close affinities with old Dutch sayings he had known since childhood. His aim was to reintroduce the sort of lucid wisdom expressed in these proverbs into a church and secular government that had lost sight of the common people, and so of Christ’s original message, which embraced the powerless and disenfranchised.

Erasmus by Hans Holbein

Erasmus’ friends Thomas More and John Rastell shared his view of the redemptive power of words properly used in grammar, rhetoric and reasoning; but their focus at the beginning of their careers was on the secular letter of the law. More famously depicted in Utopia a land where the law is reduced to a few simple precepts understood by all citizens, in token of the common responsibility for government which is the founding principle of his invented society. John Rastell sought to realize this vision in his own country, England, by printing the first translations of English law into the English language, thus removing the mystique that had woven itself around legal processes by virtue of the erudite language in which they were couched. Rastell’s translations proved so popular that they went on being reprinted into the eighteenth century; and the global success of More’s Utopia is well known. But it’s also well known that the dreams of these humanists were just that: idealistic dreams, which never stood a chance of achieving a proper reformation of church and state in any country. We know this now, of course, with the advantage of hindsight; and it’s clear that all three writers knew it then, since they chose to convey their dreams, in part at least, through comic fiction. But I would suggest that they knew it in different degrees. Rastell really seems to have thought he could effect some sort of change in English society, since he converted to Protestantism in old age and set about furthering the cause with all his resources – in fact, he bankrupted himself in the end as he worked to establish radical Protestantism in England. Erasmus, too, truly believed that he could change the world with his words – or rather with God’s words freshly presented to readers alongside his commentaries – though he had few illusions about how radical the change must be or how hard to effect. More, on the other hand, knew full well that his utopianism was utopian; that however ‘good’ it was, it existed nowhere, and that there was little hope that any of its precepts would be accepted in Europe any time soon. As I said, with the advantage of hindsight it could be said that these writers’ comic fictions represent these positions with startling accuracy. It’s time, then, to turn to those fictions to see if they bear out this contention.

The theme of Erasmus’s Praise of Folly is inversion. The goddess Folly distinguishes a vast variety of foolishnesses as she argues for her own centrality to human experience, first by showing how she dominates each individual’s life from birth to death, then by schematically illustrating the foolishness of each estate or class in European society, with special emphasis on the people who regard themselves as least ridiculous, the ruling classes of church and state. But two special kinds of folly are pitted against each other throughout her discourse. The first is the folly of simplicity, which states openly and plainly in the most lucid words what is and what (in Christian terms) should be – and hence attracts derision from the powerful, who have a vested interest in keeping things obscure an incomprehensible. The second is the folly of sophistication, which aims to complicate the simple tenets of Christianity through verbal obfuscation in the interests of underpropping tyranny. As Folly’s mock sermon unfolds, we learn that the dominant folly of sophisticated people is the pretence of following Christ’s simple philosophy, as Erasmus calls it elsewhere, while actually following the fool-osophy of self-interest – which means that what’s called folly by the world is in God’s eyes wisdom, and vice versa. Folly’s constant switching between these two brands of folly produces a vertiginous effect on the reader, so that we find ourselves constantly wrong-footed, repeatedly enmeshed in one folly or another until the sermon’s final section, when the ecstatic foolishness of Christ’s followers emerges triumphant as the one stance worth cultivating. Erasmus’s constant comic violation of the reader’s expectations in this discourse leaves us without stability except in Christ, whose perspicuousness or simplicity of phrase and purpose is confirmed at last as the only certain ground in a world turned inside out by the Fall. The radically disturbing effect of the sermon preached by Erasmus’s Folly, with all its comic volatility, was confirmed by the condemnations to which it became subject; including, of course, the famous statement by More, at the height of the Lutheran controversy, that he would rather have it burnt with his own Utopia than add its fuel to the mounting flames of religious revolution.

Roman mask of Silenus

It’s ironic that the celebration of simplicity should have been so central to a text that delights in its own complexity, its cunning play of one form of absurd behaviour against another. One might say the same for Erasmus’s Adagia, where simple proverbs open out like boxes to disclose the wealth of ideas they can accommodate. But in the Fallen world we have lived in since the exile of Adam and Eve from the first utopia, Eden, the relationship between simplicity and sophistication has been drastically reversed or inverted, so Erasmus believed. As a result, the simple playfulness of verbal punning (like the pun of his book’s title) has been transformed by unscrupulous authorities into self-serving trickery, lies and fraud. This is best illustrated by comparing two of the metaphors he uses in The Praise of Folly. The first is the ‘Silenus of Alcibiades’, a grotesque statue that opens up like a container to reveal the figure of a god concealed inside. Erasmus sees words themselves, when properly used, as such a container, and he repeatedly returns in his pedagogic writings to the idea of words and phrases as boxes that can be endlessly unpacked. The other metaphor, which is the reverse of the Silenus, is the theatre, where a resplendent show conceals the physical and moral turpitude or sickness of the actors. A prince resembles an actor, Folly tells us, when he seems ‘bothe riche, and a great lorde’ but has ‘no good qualitees of the mynde’; and she pursues this analogy by imagining ‘one at a solemne stage plaie’ who decides ‘to plucke of the plaiers garmentes, whiles they were saiyng of theyr partes, and so disciphre unto the lokers on, the true and native faces of the plaiers’. Under these conditions ‘who before plaied the woman, shoulde than appeare to be a man: who seemed a youth, should shew his hore heares: who countrefaited the kynge, shulde tourne to a rascall, and who plaied god almightie, shulde become a cobler as he was before’ (37-8). The person who removes the players’ costumes in mid-performance exposes the absurd illusion that allows the play to function, just as the analyst who exposes the disparity between a prince’s splendid appearance and his sordid personality reveals the absurd illusion that sustains monarchic authority in contemporary Europe.

At the same time, the costume remover exposes his own folly by his actions. Doesn’t such a man ‘marre all the mattier,’ Folly asks, ‘and well deserve for a madman to be pelted out of the place with stones’? Elsewhere she describes the pagan gods as looking down on the unruly ‘Theatre’ of the world and laughing at all mortals without exception. To see oneself as planted somehow outside this universal theatre – as spectator rather than actor – is delusional; so that the critic who strips the actors of their costumes discloses his own inability to see that he is one of them. Even those few men or women who glimpse the truth make themselves foolish by their efforts to describe it: ‘thei doo speake certaine thynges not hangyng one with an other, nor after any earthly facion, but rather dooe put foorth a voice they wote never what, much lesse to be understode of others’. In the process they too become actors: clowns or fools who entertain the rest of the world with their incoherent jabbering. The quest for the simplicity of truth, then, is as much a form of folly in the fallen world as the sophistication that seeks to conceal the true nature of things for personal advantage. No one is free from Folly’s influence; so it hardly seems surprising that Erasmus never took a hard line in the reformation struggles that broke out after his book was published. He was not arrogant enough to suppose he was exceptional; and The Praise of Folly illustrates this wittily self-conscious humility on every page. His book is utopian in that the ideal Christian exists nowhere – that is, he or she is an exile in a world that has dedicated itself to something very different from the Christian ideal. The hope Folly’s sermon offers us is that ideal Christianity nevertheless exists, not just in Heaven but hidden away in the nooks and crannies and strange containers of the human mind, and of the mind’s preferred mode of communication, the art of words.

Thomas More by Hans Holbein

More’s most celebrated work, Utopia, adopts a different perspective. If Erasmus is concerned with inversions and reversals, More dwells on separations, dividing his text into two parts as if to confirm the eternal division between the knotty complexities of Tudor England, as described in the first book, and the rationality of the communist state described in the second. The man who brings news of Utopia to Europe is Raphael Hythloday, the angelic messenger (as his Christian name suggests) who is also a purveyor of nonsense (as his surname indicates). Hythloday tells More that he lived in Utopia for several years, and that he would never have left it except to spread word of its achievements – to serve as a secular evangelist for the ideal society. Yet Hythloday refuses to offer his services to kings for fear of being contaminated by the corruption of courts. As a result, news of Utopia is confined to More’s comic fiction, which can be dismissed by kings and their advisors as a toy, a tissue of impossibilities fit only for leisure-time perusal by the small band of erudite readers who know Greek and Latin. This superior attitude of kings and the aristocracy towards Utopia exactly mirrors the superior attitude of the discoverer of Utopia, Raphael Hythloday, who sees himself as self-evidently more intelligent than any adviser currently serving a European prince. And More’s persona in the book seems to share this superior attitude, to judge, at least, by his use of the theatrical metaphor, which is so very different from the use of it made by Folly.

In an effort to persuade Hythloday that philosophers should serve as counsellors to kings, More makes a famous distinction between the philosopher who gives the same advice to every audience and the philosopher who adapts his words to the needs and whims of each recipient. The former, More contends, may be compared to the man who interrupts one theatrical performance with another, obtruding a solemn speech from a Senecan tragedy into the buzz and burley of a Plautine comedy so that he ‘must needs mar and pervert the play that is in hand, though the stuff that you bring be much better’. In the same way, when serving in a prince’s court one must not ‘labour to drive into their heads new and strange information which you know well shall be nothing regarded with them that be of clean contrary minds. But you must with a crafty wile and a subtle train study and endeavour yourself, as much as in you lieth, to handle the matter wittily and handsomely for the purpose; and that which you cannot turn to good, so to order it that it be not very bad’. Throughout this account More assumes, like Hythloday, that the philosopher – he himself – is wiser than the men he deals with, and guileful enough to insinuate part of his advice into ‘contrary minds’ through a clever performance. Hythloday points out that such a performance runs the risk of propping up corrupt regimes, since how can one persuade a monarch to do anything except by flattery? But even this objection continues to imply a sharp distinction between the principled humanist counselor and the ignorant men he seeks to influence. This distinction corresponds to the difference between the carefully rationalized order of Utopia, described in the second book, and the chaotic social and legal practices of Europe; and the narrative concludes with the acknowledgment that it is unlikely Europe will ever be influenced by even the best Utopian ideas: ‘so must I needs confess and grant that many things be in the Utopian weal public which in our cities I may rather wish for than hope for’. Hythloday and More cannot agree on the philosopher’s role in a modern state; but they do agree that in the end no modern state will accommodate any good principles he may put forward, however ingeniously. Utopia, then, anticipates More’s final performance at the court of Henry VIII, when he played out his own dissent from the king’s agenda by cracking jokes on his way to the tragic scaffold. The book’s ostensible topic is communism, but its effect is to reinforce the isolation of the tiny community of humanist thinkers from everyone else in Europe.

More was inclined to preserve this isolation as far as possible; an ambition that runs counter to his famous pleasure in taking part in stage performances and cracking jokes. In his works More often expresses particular anxiety about the new medium of print and its capacity for slipping out of the author’s control, putting sensitive political and religious ideas in the hands of the malicious or the uninformed. His persona Morus, for instance, tells Peter Gillis that he is unsure whether to print Utopia:

For the natures of men be so diverse, the phantasies of some so wayward, their minds so unkind, their judgments so corrupt, that they which lead a merry and jocund life, following their own sensual pleasures and carnal lusts, may seem to be in a much better state or case than they that vex and unquiet themselves with cares and study for the putting forth and publishing to others, which others will disdainfully, scornfully, and unkindly accept the same.

Where his brother-in-law the printer John Rastell tends to note with amazement the multitude of alternative points of view in the commonwealth, and the enthusiasm with which they’re being disseminated in print, More is concerned that many of these different points of view proceed from ‘corrupt judgments’ – a phrase that testifies to his lifelong concern with religious and political orthodoxy. Merriment, in this passage, is both a private affair and in this case a corrupt one, since the ‘merry and jocund life’ he represents as easier than a hard-working one dedicates itself exclusively to ‘sensual pleasures and carnal lusts’. At the same time, More has no time for people who don’t appreciate a good joke (and merriness and jocundity are both words associated with jokes and funny stories). The worst reader of his book, he insists, would be ‘One [who] is so sour, so crabbed, and so unpleasant, that he can away with no mirth or sport’, or ‘so narrow between the shoulders, that he can bear no jests or taunts’. The clash between these two positions – both in favour of and antagonistic to jokes and merry-making – is what makes More such a fascinating figure, despite his later propensity for torturing and burning people who didn’t agree with his religious position.

As I’ve mentioned already, More limited the number of hostile or perverse readings of Utopia by printing it in Latin, and in later life he famously expressed the view that it should be burned along with the Praise of Folly rather than set forth in English, for fear of corrupting the ‘wayward phantasies’ of its unlearned readers even further than they had been already. Merry-making became an increasingly serious matter as the religious controversies of the 1520s got under way. More’s most significant intervention in the Lutheran controversy, the Dialogue Concerning Heresies, places most of its ‘merry tales’ or funny stories in the mouth of a youthful ‘Messenger’ with whom More disputes concerning Luther’s doctrines. At one point, More warns the young man against the comic anti-clerical anecdotes that were so popular in the period – and to which More himself had contributed more than once – because they lay undue emphasis on laughable members of the clergy rather than on those who set good examples. The Dialogue Concerning Heresies also presents itself as a testament to the dangers of the printing press. More worries about printing it because it contains eloquent accounts of so many of the heresies he seeks to refute. He decides to do so, in the end, because of the fear that the Messenger may misrepresent More’s arguments, printing them in a version that gives greater weight to the young man’s own ‘corrupt judgment’ as a Lutheran sympathizer than to the authoritative judgment of the church as articulated by the older man. By the time of his Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation, which he wrote in prison under the shadow of execution, More was even more ambivalent about the value of wit at a time of religious controversy. The first book alludes to two biblical texts on the delicate problem of comic timing: ‘Woe may you be that laugh now, for you shall wail and weep’, ‘There is time of weeping and there is time of laughing’. More goes so far as to assert that in both passages Christ ‘setteth the weeping time before; for that is the time of this wretched world, and the laughing time shall come after in heaven’. By this reasoning, well-timed mirth can only occur after death. Fortunately in the second book of the Dialogue More chooses to ignore this perception and tells a string of funny stories designed to lift the reader’s mood. But there’s an indication in much of his work that the merry tales he tells, and the kind of merry-making in which he participates, is an essentially private affair that can only be safely enjoyed by the learned and their carefully vetted employees. Part of what makes the Messenger in the Dialogue Concerning Heresy susceptible to Lutheran influences is his impatience with learning, despite his evident intelligence; and More is inclined to put this position down to sheer laziness, asserting that the Lutheran insistence on an unmediated reading of the Bible arises from the fact that he is simply too lazy to read the commentaries of the Church Fathers. For More, both printing and laughter can get out of hand, and he circumscribes his enterprises in both areas with warnings and provisos.

Utopia itself is isolated from the rest of the world, both geographically and conceptually speaking. More tells Peter Giles in the letter at the beginning that he only managed to write it in snatches: ‘I therefore do win and get only that time which I steal from meat and sleep’. We eventually reach Raphael Hythloday’s account of Utopia through a thicket of debates about England: the effects of enclosure, the punishment of criminals, the value of advising monarchs, the operation of the law, all these things get in the way of the perfect commonwealth and no consensus is reached about them. Utopia, on the other hand, is one universal consensus. Nothing is hidden there, all thoughts and ideas are open, the laws are readily comprehensible to all citizens, there even seems to be general agreement about which books are most interesting – and the Utopian taste in books corresponds very closely with More’s (they love the Greek satirist Lucian, for instance, whose work More translated into Latin with his friend Erasmus). At the same time, the consensus is reached by a remorseless logic that protects itself with threats of violence; as Hythloday’s narrative goes on, in Ralph Robinson’s translation, the word ‘death’ gets repeated with alarming frequency, as the agreements among the Utopians are defended against those who might object to them with the ultimate sanction of capital punishment. If you don’t agree with our logic, the implication is, no matter how we talk and explain and reason, you must die. It would seem that reaching consensus is a costly business. Meanwhile, the lack of consensus between the Utopians and the rest of the world means that communication between them is not only difficult but more or less impossible. The famous story of the ambassadors from a neighbouring country who bedeck themselves in gold to impress the Utopians and instead find themselves to be objects of derision – Utopians only dress children and fools in gold, since it’s a useless metal for any practical purposes – suggests that the opposite values held by outsiders and Utopian insiders make dialogue profoundly problematic. A similar verbal impasse is suggested when Hythloday tells his listeners ironically that the Utopian logicians – scholars of logic or reason – are much inferior to European ones, since ‘they have not devised one of all those rules of restrictions, amplifications, and suppositions, very wittily invented in the small logicals (logical textbooks) which her our children in every place do learn’. Utopian logic is simple and readily comprehensible to all, and this makes it incomprehensible to non-Utopian specialists in logic. The basic values of this society in terms of gold – the staple content of European treasuries – and the use of reason are entirely different; which means that only a few eccentric Europeans who can appreciate their point of view are able to talk to the Utopians at all.

It’s not surprising, then, that while the Utopians have welcomed and absorbed a great deal of knowledge from the outside world, the rest of the world has learned nothing from Utopia. They inhabit different conceptual spheres, speak different languages, cleave to different values, which explains the shutting down of possibilities with which the second part concludes, when More speaks of the ‘many things […] in the Utopian weal-public which in our cities I may rather wish for than hope for’. Laughter separates the Utopians from ourselves – the derision of the Utopians for the foreign ambassadors, the derision of foreign logicians for Utopian logic. Perhaps More’s simultaneous approval and disapproval of jokes and humour springs from this: that there are different kinds of laughter, some of which draws people together, others of which drive a wedge between them, and the difficult business of knowing the difference between them is a matter of life and death.

John Rastell’s comic fiction is almost unknown in the twentieth century; it’s utopian in the sense that it’s nowhere now, but I also want to suggest that it’s utopian in the political sense, aiming to establish an egalitarian commonwealth in the land of its publication. It can be found in a small collection called A Hundred Merry Tales, which he published in 1526 and was still well enough known in Shakespeare’s time to earn a mention in Much Ado About Nothing. If More’s and Erasmus’s fictions crossed borders throughout Europe, Rastell’s collection is stubbornly English: it’s the first collection of comic fiction to locate itself firmly in England through the names and places it contains, and it doesn’t seem to have won fame outside its country of origin. Unlike the works of Erasmus and More it is anonymous; Rastell’s authorship can only be deduced from internal evidence, mainly its similarity to his excellent play The Four Elements. And it doesn’t claim any kind of authority, either through the humanist credentials of its author (since the writer is unnamed) or by the ease of scholarly reference that characterizes More’s and Erasmus’s writings. The men and women whose adventures Rastell relates come from all classes, trades and callings, so that the few critics who have written about his book tend to treat it as a sociological document, an anthology of popular anecdotes that were common currency in Rastell’s lifetime. The book stems, in fact, from an acceptance of popular or collective wisdom which is yet more radical, by implication, than Erasmus’s Adagia. And it also displays a determination to add a few grains to this collective wisdom. A couple of examples will give a flavour of its contents.

In tale 52, a ‘rude and unlerned’ young man is instructed by his priest to learn the Lord’s Prayer, and asks his friend to teach it to him in exchange for something more valuable: ‘a songe of Robyn Hode that shall be worth xx of it’. The humour here arises from the incompatible value systems held by the church and the ‘rude’ young man: in Tudor culture stories of Robin Hood were used as synonyms for worthlessness, because of their popularity, their simplicity, their self-conscious opposition to the ‘high’ matter of chivalric romance. But Rastell’s tale doesn’t pass judgment on the young man’s valuation of such songs and stories. In the course of getting to the punchline we are given a detailed ‘exposicyon’ of the ‘vii peticyons’ contained in the Lord’s Prayer; and the moral of the story merely makes mention of what we have learned while we were reading it: ‘By thys tale ye may lerne to knowe the effecte of the holy prayer of the Pater noster’. One could add that the tale instructs the clergy in their duty to their parishioners, since the young man has not reaped much benefit from clerical tuition. The worth of the Lord’s Prayer has been declared to the reader of this story by way of a reference to Robin Hood, and these two very different forms of discourse work together to a worthwhile end.

The same could be said, in fact, of all the ‘merry tales’ in Rastell’s collection. The story of the pater noster occurs in a part of the book that is given over to religious instruction. Embedded among the comic narratives, this sequence of four stories – from 52 to 55 – explain certain key texts of the Christian liturgy: the pater noster, the Ave Maria, the creed and the ten commandments. The sequence might remind us that many medieval collections of merry tales claim to have been assembled for the use of the clergy, who liked to inject comic anecdotes into their sermons. But it also confirms Rastell’s commitment to the project of making knowledge common. Tale 53, for instance, the story of a friar who preaches in rhyme, sets the good intentions of the preacher against the snobbery of the courtiers in his congregation. The friar explains the Ave Maria, the narrator tells us, ‘in suche fonde ryme, that dyvers and many gentlemen of the court that were there began to smyle and laughe’, whereupon the friar rebukes them for mocking a man who seeks to ‘preche to you the worde of God’. The tale ends with a moral that seems to side with the courtiers: ‘the most holyest matter that is, by fond pronuncyacion and otterauns, may be marryd nor shall not edyfye to the audyence’. But this conclusion is followed by a second moral or summary: ‘by thys tale they that be unlearnyd in the laten tonge may knowe the sentence of the Ave Maria’. For the courtiers, then, the sermon was marred by the manner of its ‘otterauns’ or delivery; but for the unlearned it was rendered more effective by being conveyed in memorable verse. The courtiers in the tale are clearly uninterested in the edification of the unlearned; and it seems that many priests share their indifference, since the friar’s lesson is only necessary to his non-courtly hearers because they have not been properly taught by previous preachers. A reformist perspective can be detected in this story, making it consistent with Rastell’s lifelong concern for making things common: from his translations of the English law for the use of all readers, to his publication of the first popular history of England, The Pastime of People, in 1530, to his conversion to reformed religion a year or so later, won over by its commitment to making the scriptures available to all Christians.

Rastell’s philosophy may again be best summed up by his attitude to theatre. Tale 54, on the ‘artycles of the Crede’, urges its readers to go to Coventry ‘for a more […] suffycyent auctoryte’ of its doctrines, where ‘ye shall se them all playe in Corpus Cristi playe’. Rastell was a member of the Coventry Gild of Corpus Christi, so it’s pleasing to hear him ascribe ‘auctoryte’ to his gild’s productions of the popular religious plays known as mysteries. Tale 3 tells the story of a man called John Adroyns who played the devil in a Suffolk mystery play; his failure to remove his costume after a performance leads to a succession of terrifying encounters, which culminate with a gentleman coming to the door of his house with a chaplain, armed with holy water, to prevent the supposed devil from collecting his immortal soul. In this tale, an illusion or fantasy begins in ‘feare’ and ends in ‘myrthe and dysporte’, as everyone finally disentangles the confusions that caused such chaos. So too in tale 16, a thieving miller and his accomplice get mistaken for a ghost and a devil, in the process becoming inadvertent actors like John Adroyns and spreading havoc throughout the community. Here, too, the moral or exegesis alludes to the defusing of tensions and the pointlessness of paranoia: ‘it is foly for any man to fere a thing to moche, tyll that he se some profe or cause’. In these last two cases, entire communities are deceived by accident, a situation that is resolved by a collective agreement as to the interpretation of events which restores ‘myrthe and dysporte’ without resort to clerical intervention. No social class or religious order is exempt from folly; and the ease with which a collective resolution is reached reflects the optimistic outlook that led the ageing Rastell to adopt the Lutheran confession, and to devote the remainder of his days – along with his printing press and the whole of his fortune – to the furtherance of the Lutheran cause in England.

Rastell was jailed in 1536 for arguing against the payment of tithes to the church, and died in prison without a trial; an ironic ending for a man who had devoted so much time to making the law accessible to ordinary people. He is not remembered as a martyr; but even this oblivion is not inappropriate for a man who repeatedly insisted that his objective was not self-promotion but to benefit the English commonwealth, working quietly behind the scenes for its reformation. All three of our writers claimed to serve the commonwealth, and did so in part through the common currency of laughter; but only Rastell chose to do so in the common language, which perhaps explains why he was so susceptible to conversion. The other texts we’ve discussed today – Erasmus’s Praise of Folly and More’s Utopia – were first translated into English in the radical religious climate of the reign of Edward VI. Protestant readers of these texts would have received them in a very different light from their early Catholic readers. And it’s this difference, I would contend – the variety of readings to which these texts have been subjected, so that they are very far from the restricted documents More wanted to them to be – that makes the story of English comic fiction and reformation so well worth telling.

 

 

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Mervyn Peake and the Poetics of Piracy

[This is the text of a keynote I gave recently at a terrific conference in Edinburgh, ‘Deeper than Swords: Fear and Loathing in Fantasy and Folklore’. It’s also a rough sketch, I hope, for something larger. Warm thanks to Anahit Behrooz and Harriet MacMillan for inviting me to give it!]

I’d like here to consider the work of Mervyn Peake as an extended exercise in what I’m calling the ‘poetics of piracy’. Peake had a lifelong obsession with pirates, born in part from his boyhood obsession with Robert Louis Stevenson: he is said to have known Treasure Island by heart, and his illustrated edition of that text, published in 1949, confirmed its continuing centrality to his imaginative life and artistic practice. The first book he wrote and published was a pirate story, Captain Slaughterboard Drops Anchor (1939). One of his earliest surviving experiments in prose fiction, the unfinished Mr Slaughterboard (c. 1933-6), links piracy to the work of the artist in disturbing ways. His early verse is filled with the vocabulary of piracy, and pirates continue to emblazon and trouble his visual and verbal art throughout his career. It seems to me that thinking about what piracy meant to Peake can help us map out his peculiar relationship to what has come to be known as fantasy literature; to pin down its elusiveness, much as the map in Stevenson’s novel pins down the whereabouts of Captain Flint’s buried treasure – though it’s worth remembering that in the novel the chart obtained by Jim Hawkins proves an untrustworthy guide to the current location of the treasure in question. But then, that’s the point of the poetics of piracy; it’s all about the elusive, the illegal, the unsettling and the endlessly alluring, as seen in relation to the seemingly fixed and inviolable rules that govern the authoritative discourses of society, religion and science. I don’t promise, then, that I’ll be able to offer a conclusive account of Peake as a writer of fantasy; but his fascination with buccaneering literature and folklore can certainly explain why he so exasperatingly refuses to locate himself at the epicentre of any genre, which is itself, I think, a crucial quality of good fantasy fiction.

Peake’s most celebrated works of fiction, the Titus novels, have always had a vexed relationship to the fantastic. Nothing explicitly impossible takes place in them; they contain no magic; and indeed one of Peake’s few uses of the term ‘fantasy’ in the texts – when Titus encounters a wild girl known as the Thing – seems firmly to differentiate the physical environs of the titanic castle of Gormenghast from the immaterial fabrications of the human mind:

He was propelled forward by his imagination having been stirred to its depths by the sight of her. He had not seen her face. He had not heard her speak. But that which over the years had become a fantasy, a fantasy of dreaming trees and moss, of golden acorns and a sprig in flight, was fantasy no longer. It was here. It was now. He was running through heat and darkness towards it; to the verity of it all. (673)

 For Peake, then, the imagination is stimulated by what exists, by the rich evidence of the senses which forms the basis of the visual artist’s training, as he or she scrutinizes live or inanimate models with the aim of populating the mind with the precise proportions, textures, contours and colours of the real. At the same time the Thing, as represented to Titus’s imagination from his first sighting of her at the age of seven, has come to represent a range of qualities with associations to the pirate stories Titus loves as much as Peake does. A thief, a rebel and an outcast, the Thing’s opposition to the monumental authority of the boy’s ancestral home is embodied in the free-ranging agility of her frame, its seeming ability to defy the laws of gravity as well as of the books of ritual that restrict the daily movements of the castle’s denizens. Rooted or earthed in the real, despite her airiness, she represents the liberty to spin dazzling new structures from the materials afforded by empirical observation. And she is also deeply disturbing to him, as pirates are, even to lovers of pirate stories. In both these associations – with liberty and with inward disturbance – she has affinities with the faculty of fantasy which has been placed at the heart of a peculiarly modern literary genre.

Fantasy has always been a disreputable object. Its ancient Greek roots meant ‘making visible’, an exposure of that which has been hidden, perhaps for good reason; while in later Greek the word associated itself with the concept of having visions, as well as with the less alarming process of showing, demonstrating, pointing out. When used to refer to the imaginative faculty, the source of its disreputability comes to the fore. For early modern English speakers the Imagination or Fantasy was the part of your brain that received the evidence of the senses; but it was also capable of representing to your mind the images of things not actually present, which would seem to ally it with the faculty of Memory. The difference was that Memory was an orderly faculty full of shelves and files labeled in alphabetical and chronological order, grouped under headings and carefully connected with one another through a range of logical associations. The business of organizing mental images was that of the Understanding, which interposed itself between the unruly space of the Fantasy or Imagination and the storehouse of the Memory. Understanding, then, was a kind of sorting office staffed by efficient functionaries; while there was a wildness about the Fantasy before the Understanding got hold of it, an innate tendency to disconnect the mental image from all association with its original contexts, or to link images together which had never been conjoined in reality: tacking a fish’s tail or a horse’s body onto a human torso; assembling elaborate fusions of elements from different life forms to create griffins, dragons, and chimeras of all kinds. Memory was associated with maturity, with a settled awareness of one’s intellectual, social and moral responsibilities. Fantasy was associated with the playful, sometimes destructive or self-destructive exuberance of youth.

Some thinkers, like the Elizabethan poetic theorist George Puttenham, have always warned against inventing fictions altogether, since this could permanently distort one’s judgement of what is real. He split the fantasy into two kinds: the good sort, which conveyed things to the understanding ‘right as they be indeed’, and the bad sort that filled the analytical parts of the mind with false impressions. Poets, he said, should confine themselves to drawing on authentic memories or accurate representations of extant things when composing their verses; they should be historians. Writing about what never happened or could happen distorts not only the past but the efficient functioning of the present. Lawcourts could have their findings compromised by made-up testimony. Religions could become corrupted, as Plato said had happened in ancient Greece when poets allowed themselves to reimagine the gods. Governments could find their policies determined by non-existent threats or possibilities. For Puttenham as for Plato, irresponsible poetic fictions can proliferate like viruses, spawning insurrections, illusions and errors as they spread.

For the modern poet Jeffrey Robinson, Puttenham’s distinction between responsible and irresponsible fantasy – between the practice of poetic and intellectual realism and what we now call ‘making things up’ – endured in a subtly different form into the age of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment and the revolutionary movements that arose from it. Robinson identifies the famous distinction between the Imagination and the Fancy in Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria (1817) as a struggle to distinguish between the orderly functioning of the imaginative faculty as, in effect, a tool of authority, imposing its unified vision on everything it comes in contact with, and its deployment as an instrument of exploration or discovery, a light skiff or launch capable of skimming from image to image, from one idea to the next, irrespective of the accepted relations between the various objects of its attention. The Fancy, which is etymologically linked with Fantasy, is for Robinson the precursor of twentieth-century modernist poetic experiment; but his list of its qualities could also serve as a description of how the genre of Fantasy Literature has often been perceived in modern times:

A faculty that acknowledges ‘the referent’ through the playful, unpredictable, erotically engaged, unregulated mind of the subject, without a ruling regard for the socially acceptable […] The Fancy […] begins to emerge as whimsical, playful, trivial, physical, sexual, and popular, more than enough reasons for the poetry of the Fancy to trouble the cultural police. […] Indeed, its triviality and whimsicality is precisely what keeps it from remaining a polite ornament of the literary aristocracy. […] Poetry of the Fancy isn’t about ‘work’ or ‘usefulness’ but about play. As do children, poems of the Fancy play seriously.

The qualities of ‘fancy’ as Robinson describes them here have survived from the early modern period to the present day in attitudes to the word fantasy, which is now a term of opprobrium in ordinary discourse, no longer dignified by association with a necessary mental function but used to denounce the childish failure to take proper account of the material conditions that govern our economic, social, political or even physical circumstances. Fantasy is irresponsible, fleeting, flippant, self-indulgent, infantile, wayward. As a result it’s also dangerous, especially when used as a guide in our daily actions. Too much fantasy can make you go blind.

The poetics of piracy are not the same as Robinson’s poetics of fancy, and they aren’t necessarily connected to the fantasy genre as we now understand it, since the folklore of piracy springs from what are deemed to be real people and real social practices, rooted in history. The origins of modern pirate folklore lie in an early eighteenth-century book, Captain Charles Johnson’s A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates (1725), which recounts the purportedly factual adventures of a number of buccaneers whose names have passed into common currency: Bartholomew Roberts (better known as ‘the Dread’); Blackbeard; Calico Jack; William Kidd; and Israel Hands, who lent his name to the man shot dead by Jim Hawkins on the rigging of the Hispaniola. I don’t know if Peake was familiar with Johnson’s book, but all three of the principal texts he drew on for his boyhood dreams of piracy certainly were. Treasure Island is the first and foremost. The second, mentioned in Peake’s short story ‘I Bought a Palm Tree’ (1948), is that classic account of survival, piracy, and the healing powers of missionary work, R M Ballantyne’s The Coral Island; while the third is J M Barrie’s Peter and Wendy. To look at Peake’s work through the prism of these three novels is to recognize the dominant role played by buccaneers not just in his plots and images but in his aesthetic philosophy, not just in his early years but throughout his life. His poetry, prose and pictures owe an incalculable debt to the figure of the sea-wolf as imagined by Ballantyne, Stevenson and Barrie, and a full understanding of the development of his most celebrated creation, Gormenghast Castle, can only be achieved by asking oneself why the notion of piracy should have proved so endlessly suggestive to this quintessential mid-twentieth-century artist.

What, then, do the pirates of legend and literature bring with them? First of all, they’re associated with boyhood and youth, as Peake knew very well. Captain Slaughterboard Drops Anchor was a pirate book for children, and he drew dozens of pirate pictures for his sons in the Sunday Books – exercise books in which he sketched for them on Sundays – to such an extent that Michael Moorcock’s recent novelization of that document was more or less forced to take pirates as its subject. Like children, pirates have no sense of responsibility, breaking laws freely, abandoning families, friends and partners whenever they feel like it, killing each other on the slightest of pretexts without a qualm (children do this in play). Their resistance to convention is given physical expression by their mobility: pirate ships sail the seas at the whim of the crew, not in obedience to instructions from outside authorities as is the case with most seagoing vessels. At the same time there are severe constraints on a pirate’s freedom, the chief of these being the ship itself, which confines its crew within a narrow circuit more effectively than any building or institution. Pirates are also often subject to tyranny. The imposition of the captain’s will by force, widely practised on other vessels, takes its most extreme form in the spontaneous and inventive acts of cruelty practised by certain legendary leaders among the buccaneers – though there’s also a folkloric tradition of more or less democratic practices under the sign of the Jolly Roger. Rituals govern them: the necessary rituals associated with the everyday running of the ship, supplemented by additional oaths, codes, rules or agreements enforced with threats of appalling violence. Pirate ships are often represented as all-male communities, and this too imposes constraints: certain forms of behaviour are associated with masculinity in any given culture or period, and the lack of any alternative gender perspective can mean that notions of ‘manhood’ govern the pirate’s thoughts, desires and actions. Same-sex desire is perhaps more widespread under these conditions than in mixed-sex communities, and though this has traditionally tended to be eschewed in children’s fiction, it’s worth noting how central it is to Peake’s own children’s book, Captain Slaughterboard, which is one of the few narratives of the period to place what is clearly a homoerotic romance at its centre. Other piratical concerns are economic (they indulge in plunder – a word Peake uses repeatedly in his verse to describe the process of absorbing the physical wonders of the world through the eye – and conceal their treasure, which clearly works against the principles of capitalism); geographic and artistic (treasure maps are as inseparable from pirate culture as their icon, the Jolly Roger); and dramatic (pirates like to dress up and make theatrical speeches, and everyone else likes to dress up as pirates). To sum up: breaking national, international, moral and sartorial laws is what pirates do – sometimes by imposing laws of their own – and they do it as flamboyantly as possible. That, at least, is the folklore, and it’s from folklore as conveyed through literature that piracy derives its energy.

In the literary folklore there’s another association with pirates that hasn’t been much discussed, which is their complicated relationship with the middle classes. It’s Stevenson, I think, who’s responsible for this link. The young hero of Treasure Island, Jim Hawkins, is the son of an innkeeper – the kind of job in the service industry that a retired pirate might well choose for himself, as in effect Long John Silver has done when Jim first meets him; but when mutiny breaks out he decides to throw in his lot with the ‘gentry’ rather than the sea dogs. Jim’s allies in the book are the local landowner, Squire Trelawney, a physician called Doctor Livesey, and Captain Smollett, and his adventures see him make the transition from servant (he is employed before the cruise alongside the squire’s gamekeeper, and serves as cabin boy on board the squire’s ship) to junior partner in the economic enterprise of seeking the titular treasure. At the same time Jim is strongly drawn to the charismatic ship’s cook, Silver, who has an astonishing ability to make himself equally attractive to the working men of the crew and to their masters, and who switches sides between them at a moment’s notice when it suits his interests. Silver, in fact, represents another aspect of pirates: their ability to merge with other communities, springing spontaneously out of the disciplined ranks of a legitimate crew and melting away into anonymity as soon as they disembark at the end of a voyage. Whatever his class origins, Silver’s easy relations with all classes, his predatory focus on economic self-interest, his insouciant pleasure in legal and economic risk-taking, his constant reinvention of himself as innkeeper, cook, friend, conspirator, captain, rebel, trusty servant and eventually fugitive, all stand to endear him to the guilty bourgeoisie who secretly share many of his values and even some of his techniques. The ease with which Jim might find himself on Silver’s side can be measured by the speed of Ralph’s capture and impression as a pirate in The Coral Island; but where Ralph never feels at home aboard the pirate ship – at least until he acquires it for himself – one can imagine Jim feeling thoroughly at home with Silver once committed to his cause.

Piracy, in fact, can represent the middle classes’ flirtation with working class culture; and this is confirmed by the personality of that most middle-class of pirates, Captain Hook, who is haunted by his failures during his schooldays at Eton, and who shares his persona in crucial ways with Peter Pan: both feel the lack of a mother, both enjoy a little swordplay, and both tyrannize over their social inferiors, giving vent to their moods whenever they feel like it and indulging in occasional bouts of disloyalty or outright betrayal. Both, too, thrive on having enemies, to the extent that Peter’s bereavement of Hook at the end of the novel compounds the sense of desolation generated by his effectual marooning on his island by Wendy and the Lost Boys. Hook and Peter represent the middle-class view of piracy – a temporary game in a contained alien space which arouses forbidden lusts (for blood, dictatorship, extreme risk-taking, imaginative self-indulgence) only to suppress them as the book draws to a close, allowing its young reader to return, perhaps a little embittered, to his or her preordained role in polite society.

Mervyn Peake’s attachment to piracy is everywhere apparent in his poems. Pirates and the poetics of piracy as I’ve sketched it out enable him to articulate his fierce resistance to the economic and social pressures that threaten to curtail his practices as an artist, and to acknowledge the link he sees between the destructive energy of violence and the creative stimulus he derives from the natural world. The earliest verses in the Collected Poems figure the dawn as a potentially piratical act of murder: ‘The’invisible scimitar of Morn, / Again had passionately torn / And slashed the Sky’s pale neck’, which culminates unexpectedly in a birth: ‘And in that welter of living fire / Be-jewelled and robed to his heart’s desire / Was born – young Day’. This three-way link between blood, fire and new life continued to resonate in Peake’s mind into the 1940s, finding its most startling expression in the encounter between a decidedly piratical sailor and a newborn baby in the fires of the Blitz in his 1947 ballad, ‘The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb’. An equally troubling association between beauty and violence emerges from Peake’s frequent references to the artist’s absorption of information through his senses as a process of piratical looting. In ‘If I Could See, Not Surfaces’ (1937), for instance, he speaks of his desire to ‘plunder splendor / At the womb’, and of how this activity promises to feminize him so that he can ‘give bold birth / To long / Rivers of song’ (so birth comes into the equation here too). These are neither of them specifically buccaneering references, but there are plenty of those, from the description of the artist Mané Katz’s Paris studio as ‘a pirate’s glutted locker’ (1937) to the account of unemployed young men in ‘The Cocky Walkers’ (c. 1937) as skidding ‘Their careless privateer’ down the ‘seas’ of London streets ‘Agog for a gold island / Or a war / With penny pirates on a silver sand’. In 1942, when Peake suffered a nervous breakdown in the army, he pictured himself and his fellow patients at Southport Hospital as sickly sea-dogs, ‘The swashbucklers / Who have to be in bed by half past nine […] The unconvincing pirates of the ward’. And if in his last known poems pirates aren’t mentioned by name, the imagery of the sea and its devastations lingers on, as in ‘Great Hulk down the Astonished Waters Drifting’ (c. 1958), which records what could well be the aftermath of a life of piracy:

Where is her captain and the golden shore
Where danced the golden sailors? Where’s the sea
That sang of water when the heart was free
And mermaids sang where mermaids swim no more?

In all these verses, creativity and the artist’s receptiveness to beauty have an intimate connection to wandering, illicit adventures, flamboyant masculinity, playfulness, mutiny, pain and bloodshed – a potent and disturbing fusion that testifies to Peake’s sense that there is no officially sanctioned place for his kind of art (imaginative, grotesque, inflected by the influences of romanticism and popular culture) in the mid-twentieth century, any more than there is a place for psychiatric patients in the military machine.

For Peake as for Barrie and Stevenson, piracy is both at odds with and strangely attuned to the values of the middle classes. His most elaborate working-out of his buccaneering aesthetics was the eccentric prose narrative Mr Slaughterboard, whose titular pirate captain sails the oceans with a cargo of books lovingly preserved in a seaborne library, where he spends his days discussing literature with his manservant Smear, ‘An eyeless deformed creature dressed as if about to catch a train to London Bridge’. The narrative culminates in a massacre, Mr Slaughterboard having been assailed by an attack of creativity (‘the Captain was becoming aesthetic. Always dangerous’) which makes him command his crew to swim repeatedly under his vessel in a series of ever more demanding competitions until they are all wiped out. The captain claims to have a conscience, but it’s the kind that favours his leather-covered volumes of Dickens above human lives, that celebrates the aesthetic at the expense of his crewmembers, and that privileges the accumulation of an ever-increasing and diverse plunder of beauty – literary and visual – over everything else. Self-centred, murderous and godless, Mr Slaughterboard nonetheless shares the tastes of the bourgeoisie for all the components of conspicuous consumption – high culture, good clothes, congenial company and attractive surroundings – with a bourgeois disregard for the material processes by which they fall into his hands.

If the link between beauty and death lay at the heart of Peake’s aesthetics, then the outbreak of war must have come as a shock for him – not least because what it represented for him was a drastic extension of aesthetic ‘plunder’ for his inward piratical treasure chest or locker. As war swept over Europe he wrote two fine sonnets which responded with simultaneous horror and exhilaration to the beauty of warplanes: ‘The Metal Bird’ (c. 1937) and ‘Where Skidded Only in the Upper Air’ (c. 1939). During the Spanish Civil War he wrote a sonnet on the Spanish mannerist painter El Greco (1938), which reads his strangely elongated and brightly-coloured saints as premonitory visions of the bombing of Guernica: ‘Their beauty, ice-like, shrills – and everywhere / A metal music sounds, cold spirit shriven’. When World War 2 broke out Peake responded with a series of drawings in the style of Goya, showing works purportedly painted by ‘the Artist Adolf Hitler’ using the fields and towns of Europe as his canvas, in which standard studio subjects – ‘Family Group’, ‘Reclining Figure’, ‘Study of a Young Girl’ – are reconceived as images of atrocity, modeled on the real atrocities Hitler had sanctioned in his quest for power. Peake’s poetics of piracy had found a rival in the irresponsible, lawless, plunder-loving artist figure from Austria, who reproduced in actuality, using human material, the aesthetics of piracy as practised by Mr Slaughterboard. The collision between one version of piracy and another – between the buccaneering spirit of the lonely heart and the cold privateering of a would-be pirate dictator – provides the plot of the first two Titus books, Titus Groan (1946) and Gormenghast (1950). The books delineate an epic struggle over Peake’s imaginative territory, embodied in a monstrous post-medieval castle which doubles as a middle class household, its seemingly interminable rooms occupied by doctors, teachers, poets, and lonely children who might have been modeled on the inmates of British boarding schools. And it’s suffused from beginning to end with the poetics of piracy, shared freely between the youthful upstart Steerpike and the rest of the castle’s denizens, as if Peake is concerned to find a way to rescue his beloved buccaneering from its enforced association with the aesthetics of Nazism.

As G Peter Winnington has shown us, Gormenghast is an island full of natural wonders, prowled by bizarre creatures (all its denizens get linked to beasts at one point) and subject to violent natural forces, some of them as awe-inspiring as the tidal wave in The Coral Island (a calamitous snowfall, a period of scorching heat, a flood). As the novels proceed it becomes a territory ripe for exploring, inhabited by various tribes, each with its own exotic customs and cultural practices: the teachers of Gormenghast school, for instance, who can be seen ‘squatting like aboriginals upon their haunches’, or lurking in the shadows ‘like bandits in a bad light’. Despite being made of stone, it also resembles a ship by virtue of its creaking timbers, its cargo of unexpected treasures, the piratical manners of its crew. Like a ship the place is full of hammocks, from Rottcodd’s in the Hall of the Bright Carvings to the hammock Steerpike slings under the table at the Dark Breakfast, or the hammocks occupied by Bellgrove and Irma when the flood waters rise in the second volume. Even authority there has a piratical aura. The Master of Ceremonies, Barquentine, is named after a ship – the kind Captain Cook used when he sailed to Australia – and stumps around on a wooden leg like an elderly Silver, cursing and threatening violence wherever he goes. Lady Gertrude is a giant pirate with a booming voice, who has a horde of affectionate birds instead of a parrot, a bevy of white ship’s cats and an utter disregard for any authority besides her duty to what is effectively her ship – the castle itself. She is constantly being compared to a vessel, and her language is a pirate’s, as when she swears to track down the killer of her husband at the end of Titus Groan: ‘Let them rear their ugly hands, and by the Doom, we’ll crack ’em chine-ways’ (p. 347). Her daughter Fuchsia, meanwhile, is sometimes one of the natives of the territory colonized by the sea-wolves, sometimes the sea-wolves’ young accomplice, a female Jim Hawkins. She enters her private attic like a pearl diver entering the sea, ‘his world of wavering light’, and moves through it with the confidence of a Cherokee or a Sioux, knowing every inch of it ‘as an Indian knows his green and secret trail’. One of the items she keeps in the attic is a pirate portrait of ‘the twenty-second Earl of Groan’, who has ‘pure white hair and a face the colour of smoke as a result of immoderate tattooing’ (p. 57). Once ensconced in her lair beneath the rafters, she reads a nonsense poem about a seaborne cake who is pursued by an amorous and deadly piratical knife; and the poem proves prophetic, since it’s there that she encounters Steerpike, who presents himself (after reading her books and guessing at her tastes) as a bold adventurer, a rebel and a dangerous would-be lover – a kind of landlocked pirate.

The servant classes of Gormenghast, too, have piratical aspects. The grotesque physical appearances of Flay and Swelter recall the bizarre bodies and outlandish manners of Mr Slaughterboard’s crew, and its inspiration, Captain Hook’s crew in Peter and Wendy (‘Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed […] Gentleman Starkey, once an usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing […] Noodler, whose hands were fixed on backwards’). The climactic battle between Flay and Swelter in the Hall of Spiders evokes the random duels to the death between grappling pirates in Treasure Island. They turn the Hall into a feverish nocturnal tropical island, full of ‘lianas’ of trailing thread, oppressive heat and reflections from water:

As pirates in the hot brine-shallows wading, make, face to face, their comber-hindered lunges, sun-blind, fly-agonied, and browned with pearls, so here the timbers leaned, moonlight misled and the rank webs impeded.

In this context Swelter comes into his own, moving ‘more and more like something from the deeps where the grey twine-weed coils the sidling sea-cow’. He also acquires a distinct resemblance to Long John Silver, who had, if you remember, ‘a face as big as a ham ’; so too, as Swelter stalks Flay we learn that he has a ‘great ham of a face’, which seems at odds with its earlier representation as a place of opening and closing cavities of fat. At the climax of the battle Swelter moves yet further into pirate territory. His freshly-slain corpse becomes a vessel, with Flay’s sword sticking out of it ‘like a mast of steel’ (p. 318). Flay’s own piratical apotheosis has to wait till he becomes marooned, transforming himself into a ragged and hairy Ben Gunn whose cave contains not treasure but – in the end – the Thing – for it’s in Flay’s cave that Titus finally catches hold of her, acquiring in the process the sort of imaginative ‘plunder’ Peake recorded in his poems.

The central form piracy takes in the Titus books is its embodiment in two boys: the upstart Steerpike and Titus himself. Both are rebels who dream of taking charge of their own destiny; both rove freely across the landscape of the castle; both detest the oppressive weight of authority, and both trigger acts of treason and rebellion again and again throughout the two novels. Steerpike, at the beginning, is the one who discovers the castle’s potential as a setting for romance, scaling its precipitous walls like a young adventurer scaling cliffs, unveiling its hidden wonders such as the terrace open to the sky, and spinning exotic yarns to Fuchsia like the old sea-cook Silver in his galley (and of course Steerpike begins the book in the galley or kitchen too). But Steerpike is also a thief, who steals other people’s romances – notably Fuchsia’s – and uses them to further his own ends, thereby destroying their imaginative landscapes as he destroys Lord Sepulchrave’s library. In the second book he seeks to supplant young Titus as the protagonist – and it’s striking how he seems if anything to get younger in that book, as if to make this possible: playing games such as walking on his hands for no good reason, tormenting the Twins like a bullying schoolboy, cutting off Barquentine’s hair in clumps with a pair of scissors as he walks behind him, acquiring a catapult which he uses to deadly effect. The analogy to Peter Pan grows increasingly obvious. As he approaches Barquentine’s bedroom, planning to murder him, his shadow gains an independent life of its own in one of Peake’s most astonishing virtuoso passages (the shadow grows and shrinks until it becomes a ‘thick and stunted thing – a malformation, intangible, terrible, that led the way towards those rooms where its immediate journey could, for a while, be ended’, p. 567). Later Steerpike learns the pipe, Peter Pan’s instrument; and before the end of the book he has started to crow like a cock, Peter’s trademark cry of triumph: first over the corpses of the Twins he murdered – then, fatally, as Titus plunges towards him through the ivy in the final showdown between the two young men.

Meanwhile, he retains both the adaptability of Long John Silver – able to speak to any denizen of the castle in his or her own language whenever he chooses – and his casual murderousness. When Steerpike kills Flay, he does it in much the same way as Silver kills the young sailor, Tom, who refuses to join his mutiny. In Treasure Island Jim watches in horror as John ‘whipped the crutch out of his armpit, and sent that uncouth missile hurtling through the air. It struck poor Tom, point foremost, and with stunning violence, right between the shoulders in the middle of his back’; and Silver follows the missile ‘agile as a monkey’ and ‘twice buried his knife up to the hilt in that defenceless body’ (p. 97). In the same way Steerpike flings a knife at Flay, watched by the horrified Titus, and ‘while the blade […] still quivered in his heart […] following the path of the flung knife, as though he were tied behind it, sped over their shoulders and was in the upper room before they could recover’. Once a fugitive after the killing, Steerpike seems to come into his own; he finds his Satanic solitude in the deserted places of the castle utterly congenial, and embraces it so completely that he generates a Silver- or Pan-like aura around himself even as the manhunt closes in, convincing his pursuers that he could ‘hide in a rudder’, as the Countess puts it.

Titus too is a rebel, an explorer of the castle, a congenital loner, and a player of games (though his game is marbles, not theatrical posturing). His imagination, much more than Steerpike’s, is possessed by pirates. As he muses in a sun-drenched classroom, one of his marbles spawns another astonishing flight of fancy – sunny and colourful, in marked contrast to the passage about Steerpike’s shadow:

Wading towards him, dilating as they neared until they pressed out and broke the frame of fancy, was a posse of pirates. They were as tall as towers, their great brows beetling over their sunken eyes, like shelves of overhanging rocks. In their mouths were hoops of red gold, and in their mouths scythe-edged cutlasses a-drip. […] And still they came on, until there was only room enough for the smouldering head of the central buccaneer, a great salt-water lord, every inch of whose face was scabbed and scarred like a boy’s knee, whose teeth were carved into the shapes of skulls, whose throat was circled by the tattooing of a scaled snake.

Following the pirates’ example, Titus breaks out of the ‘frame of fancy’ – making his daydreams real by playing hooky on Gormenghast Mountain, seeking out the castaway Flay in his cave, evading the rituals that are meant to define his days, and finally tracking down his rival Steerpike in a feverish daze, as if infected by the marshes of Treasure Island, to engage him in single combat. In the process of pursuing his piratical dreams, Titus sees the castle fulfil its potential as the stronghold of liberating romance, as against the authoritarian prison of the policed imagination – or the grim playground of a dictator, which is what Steerpike seeks to make it. At the beginning of the second novel, Peake points out how the castle holds all the ingredients of an adventure story, a boy’s own thriller: ‘Here all about him the raw material burned: the properties and settings of romance. Romance that is passionate; obscure and sexless: that is dangerous and arrogant’. By the end of the book the potentialities of that material, which lay dormant at the beginning, have been activated by the twin energies of Titus and Steerpike. As the floodwaters rise around it, making of it a fitting stage for the conclusive fight between them, Gormenghast becomes a true island, not just the copy of one; the morose Bright Carvers become pirates or Indians, skimming about the castle’s perimeters in the canoes they have carved; the Professors take to the water, steering their dilapidated boats through corridors in fulfillment of their own daydreams of liberation from their sun-drenched classrooms; Bellgrove and Irma take to their hammocks and find new contentment in their marriage; and the Countess becomes the pirate captain she was always meant to be, issuing orders for the summary execution of the traitor she has vowed to gut.

The interesting part about all this is that Titus, too, is a traitor, who proclaims his hatred for the castle’s ritual to his mother at the very moment when he brings her news about the whereabouts of the traitor Steerpike. If Steerpike was Fuchsia’s would-be seducer, Titus is the Thing’s, and both the women they covet end up dead. If Steerpike is a bundle of contradictions – cold and calculating yet whimsical, murderous yet capable of astonishing empathy, treacherous yet ready to master every detail of the pointless rituals he despises – Titus is full of contradictions too, in his love and hate for Gormenghast, his pride at and disgust with his inheritance as the Earl of Groan. This ‘terrible antithesis within him – the tearing in two directions of his heart and head’ – is made up of a ‘growing and feverish longing’, an ‘ineradicable, irrational pride’ in himself and his lineage, and ‘the love, as deep as the hate, which he felt, unwittingly, for the least of the stones of his loveless home’. The antithesis brings him so close to his enemy Steerpike that before long the other young man has stolen his boat – the light canoe or skiff he associates in his mind with the Thing – and paddled off in it as if to take his place at the centre of the narrative. Antitheses are the stuff of the poetics of piracy, as I hope I have shown. In placing them at the centre of his narrative, Peake made an enduring statement about the state of things – especially, perhaps, about the state of England in and after the Second World War – which he could have articulated in no other way.

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Vortex

IMG_4208Bob went up close to the screen, scowling as if this would change the weatherwoman’s mind and improve the forecast. The blue-green pixelated blot representing the Vortex remained clearly visible over the North Atlantic, edging its way coastwards as the woman talked her viewers through the next twenty-four hours. By the time she reached midnight the shapeless icon was pulsating over the city, venting weather warnings, stylized snowflakes and numbers representing wind speeds of up to one hundred and fifteen miles an hour. Bob continued to scowl, convinced as usual that it was her personal malice that had brought on the unprecedented storms of the last few months. ‘I’d better fetch in more wood,’ he muttered, flexing his shoulders. Instead he stayed put, toying with his glass and jigging one of his legs up and down to ease off cramp.

Anne was setting out candles in all available holders: church candles, household candles, tea lights, hurricane lamps, a paper lantern. ‘Quit bustling around,’ Bob snarled. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’ Anne shot him one of her looks. ‘You know very well, Bob Carlin,’ she snapped, ‘that every time the Vortex comes round we get power cuts all over the city. They sometimes last for days. You’d best get in that wood before it hits us.’

‘I’ll fetch it in when I’m good and ready,’ Bob muttered, and took another sip of his whisky. The slug went down the wrong way and he started to cough, lungs and gullet burning. The truth was he felt a deep reluctance to leave the flat. The storm hadn’t even struck and the wind was howling along the street like a CG bomb blast, tossing the branches of the trees so that they cast enormous shadows across the fronts of the tenements opposite. A year or two back they would have called this a storm; but the recent worsening of global weather conditions had changed the definition of a storm to something much more drastic. ‘When I’m good and ready,’ he repeated, glancing at the window. A spatter of raindrops rattled the glass as if in answer. You’ll never be ready, it seemed to say, not for the likes of this. He shuddered and shuffled off in his worn-down slippers to pour himself another dram at the kitchen sideboard.

The odd thing was that he usually loved the job of getting in wood. It gave him the feeling of being the provider, direct descendant of the Neolithic hunter-gatherers of Ice Age Europe, snotty-nosed mammoth-wranglers who would have sneered through their cavernous nostrils at the thought of cowering indoors on account of a bout of inclement weather. His actual resemblance to such a hunter-gatherer was of course minimal; it was mainly based on the fact that he had chopped the wood himself, then stacked it in the first and only woodpile he had ever built from scratch. Well, to be exact, he and Jurek had built it – and Jurek was a better stacker of logs than Bob. But it was Bob, not Jurek, who had watched as the huge Leylandia tree next door was dismantled piece by piece by chainsaw-wielding contractors. It was Bob who had seen the pieces carried out one by one into the weed-choked lane that ran between the high brick walls that separated the back yards of the tenements; and it was Bob who had kept an eye on them month by month as nettles and dock leaves sprang up between the chunks like a miniature forest. It was Bob, too, who had finally decided that they’d been forgotten, and that the time had come when he could reasonably claim the wood as fuel. He had planned to drag the pieces home alone, but the first chunk was such a weight that it jarred his shoulder when he tried to lift it. So he’d called in Jurek to help; Jurek, who could carry a washing machine up the stairs on his own without breaking a sweat; Jurek, who cycled thirty miles to work each morning on a bike like a sleek metal greyhound. But it was Bob, again, who supplied the axe: a logging axe nearly four foot long with a wedge-shaped head freshly sharpened by his close-mouthed brother-in-law, from whom he’d borrowed it. By the time he and Jurek had split all the logs the axe was blunt, and he’d had to ask Jurek to sharpen it again with his Belgian whetstone. As a consequence the wood from the huge Leylandia had to be shared between Bob’s family and Jurek’s; but you couldn’t resent the man his portion, not after he’d worked so hard for it. And Jurek’s wife had brought out beers as they’d chopped and sweated in the summer sun. Winter had seemed far off in those days of comradeship, when all the kids in the street had scampered up and down the lane to each other’s houses and a cold beer had been as pleasant pressed to the forehead as poured down the throat. Hard to imagine days like that in winter, after all the storms that had intervened since August.

He’d had plenty of occasions to be thankful for his foresight in the months that followed. The stack of wood, built up against the back wall of the close and covered with an old tarpaulin, had provided him and Jurek with all the fuel they needed to last them through the days and weeks when the power failed and the radiators cooled into lifeless slabs of moulded metal. Both men had been wise enough to keep the Victorian fireplaces in their front rooms, and though the cast iron inserts were really meant for coal you could get a good wood fire going with a bit of patience and some twists of newspaper. That was Anne’s job, of course; patience wasn’t one of the virtues Bob claimed to have mastered.

When he got back from the kitchen, glass refreshed, the weatherwoman had vanished from the TV screen. In her place, worried-looking cops were stalking down a corridor clutching handguns, casting suspicious glances left and right as if expecting the weatherwoman to spring out at them from behind a door. Bob settled in his chair to see what would happen next, nursing the tumbler in his hand to release the fragrance. But the tension on screen was mounting, and after a while he put the glass down on the coal box and leaned forward, running his fingers across the ten-o-clock stubble on his chin. Anne mentioned the wood again and he snorted, studying the cops like a private detective searching for clues.

Bob’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he swore as he struggled to pull it free before he missed the call. He didn’t recognize the number and almost put it away again, but something made him tap the green icon and raise it to his ear. An accented voice, Polish or Rumanian: ‘Bob? It’s Jurek. Have you heard wind? It sounds bad, doesn’t it? Worse than usual, I think – much worse. Listen, can I ask a favour? Do you mind if we come upstairs and sit in your flat, just till storm is over? We ran out of fuel, and Magda – well, she gets nervous. She don’t want me going outside to fetch in more wood. She says… well, she don’t want me to, that’s all. What you say, man? Can we come up?’

Bob swore again silently, placing his palm across the receiver in case the force of his feelings should somehow communicate itself to Jurek without the help of sound. Just what he could do without – a bunch of lousy Polacks jabbering away in his front room while he was trying to chill. They’d probably want some whisky, and there wasn’t much left. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said with a dry mouth. ‘We’re out of wood too. I was just heading out the back to fetch another load. You want me to get you a couple of logs?’

‘No no, it don’t matter. We’ll just come up and bring duvets. We’ll all be warmer if we sit in same room, don’t you agree?’

Bob was casting about in his mind for a good excuse to say no and hang up when Anne butted in. For her, phonecalls weren’t a private matter: anyone could take part in them from any part of the flat, with often chaotic consequences. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked. ‘Is it Jurek? Magda’s been texting me all evening. They’d like to come up till the storm’s gone by. Says she saw something in the back court – really put her out, she’s a bag of nerves. Tell them to bring their duvets and some nice warm clothes and I’ll make a few hot water bottles while the kettle’s still working. The Vortex never lasts long, and it’ll be nice to have some company to keep our minds off it.’

Bob gritted his teeth and gave what he hoped was a convincing smile. ‘No problem, hon,’ he said. ‘Jurek, come on up. It’ll be good to see you. I’ll fetch in the wood and we’ll make ourselves comfortable.’

‘No need for wood.’ There was an urgency now to Jurek’s voice, as if he really meant what he was saying. ‘You stay put, Bob. We’ll be up in a minute. We bring duvets. We’ll be fine.’

Why, I do believe the man’s afraid, Bob thought in surprise. Magda’s got nothing to do with it; Jurek’s afraid to go outside. Who would have thought it? Big strong Jurek, put off by a bit of wind and sleet. Maybe they don’t get this sort of weather in Rumania. He smiled to himself and flexed his muscles unconsciously, testing his strength before he stood up and went into action. He relished the thought that he’d pass Jurek on the stairs. He would nod kindly, he decided, as he stumped past him, with his refuse-collector’s gloves and his sleeves rolled back to expose his impressive forearms. Bob’s forearms were his best feature, and he liked to expose them on every opportunity; he fancied he had caught even Jurek casting glances at them last summer as they sipped beer sitting at the table on the unkempt lawn. When body parts were handed out, Jurek got the biceps and Bob the forearms. Unfortunately he also got the belly, but he could lose that in two or three weeks if he put his mind to it…

The lights went out. The TV went blank. Darkness overwhelmed them.

Anne let out a small involuntary noise, a sort of gasp from where she lay stretched out on the sofa. Even Bob made a noise of some kind, though he covered it up a moment later by scuffing his slippers on the polished parquet. ‘Christ, not again,’ he swore as he heaved himself to his feet. ‘That’s the third time this week. We’re claiming compensation, I don’t care how long it lasts. I’m paying for power, not a string of blackouts.’

A battery of blows at the double front doors made him swear again. ‘Christ, Jurek, do you have to try and smash it down? Keep your hair on, will you? I’m on my way.’ As he pulled open the inner door and reached for the bolt that fastened the double doors – the portcullis, so to speak, which sealed off the flat from the communal staircase – he heard a high-pitched whimper from the other side and cursed for a third time under his breath. The Polack kids were awake, then. That was the end of any dreams he might have had of a pleasant evening in adult company. Kids never slept in a storm, in his experience. And Anne would insist he make up a bed for them in the second bedroom. He hated making up beds.

Jurek, Magda and the kids blew in through the doors, bringing with them a gust of cold air and a babble of voices. Light spilled in too: the phosphorescent glow Bob had earlier seen from the living room window turning the sky behind the streetlamps into a pallid screen. He contrived to twist his face into what he hoped was a welcoming grin.

‘Go on through, folks,’ he urged them heartily, waving his arm towards the sitting room. ‘Get yourselves warm. Anne’ll make some tea.’

Jurek hovered in the hallway, arms full of duvet, as Bob slipped his feet into his boots. Perhaps the big man wanted to urge him once more to stay inside, keep safe and warm till the storm blew over. But Jurek said nothing. No doubt he could see the resolution in Bob’s face, the determination to provide for his wife and neighbours whatever the weather, whatever the time. Bob shrugged on his coat and reached for the work-gloves, relishing the scrape of untreated canvas against his forearms as he tugged them on.

‘Back in a sec,’ he said with studied casualness, and walked out of the door.

A moment later he walked back in. Jurek was still standing in the hallway, looking lost. ‘Forgot the keys,’ Bob explained brusquely, and unhooked them from inside the little cupboard beside the door. His second exit was quieter, though no less resolute.

There was a peculiar atmosphere on the communal staircase. The wan light leaked in through the windows, illuminating the anatomically dubious birds painted on the panes whose mournful eyes stared down at him on every landing. Unexpected draughts kept buffeting his body, making him sway as he descended the stairs. By the time he reached the bottom he felt a little lightheaded, and had to pause to gather strength before approaching the back door. The key turned easily, the handle too, but when he tried to tug it open the door wouldn’t budge, held shut, he supposed, by the force of the gale outside – though surely the wind should be pushing it open, not keeping it shut. He tugged again, harder, to no avail. It’s an omen, his mind informed him, drawing on the lore from all those movies he liked to watch when Anne was in bed. It’s telling me I shouldn’t go out. Magda warned me, and so did Jurek. That’s three omens so far, if you don’t count the weird light in the close, or me forgetting the keys, or the nasty feeling in the pit of my belly. If I open this door I’m doomed – all the movies say so. I better go back upstairs and say I couldn’t get out. No one would blame me –

The door flew open, as if some prankster on the other side had let go of the handle. It banged against the wall of the close and a shower of dust rained down from the dent where the inside handle always hit the plaster. Bob stood in the doorframe with his jaw hanging open.

He looked out into the storm – or rather, into the void where the storm should have been.

The yard was eerily still, bathed in the greenish glow that wasn’t quite moonlight. Every blade of grass in the lawn had its clearcut shadow. The hedge that ran down the left hand side of the lawn stood rigid as sculpture, branch and twig and thorn immobile in the eerie light, deep darkness behind them. Even the washing lines didn’t stir, their nylon cords stretched out stiff and stark between the iron poles planted in the lawn. The garden furniture looked implacable, a set of standing stones on the spiky grass. Only the hectic flight of the clouds gave any indication that a storm was raging somewhere above this moonlit bubble of perfect silence.

The whole thing looked like one of those wee glass snowstorms you hold in your hand and shake till the blizzard whirls – only here the blizzard lay outside, and the globe held a tiny world cut off from motion.

It was painfully cold. Bob’s coat didn’t touch it; the cold cut through the triple fabric and lanced his flesh with surgical precision. His hands beneath the work gloves began to burn. His eyes went watery. He shuddered once, a titanic shudder, and stepped across the threshold into the night.

Not another sound, not another movement in the empty garden: just the crunch of his boots as they sank through the perished rubber of the doormat. He had never seen it so still. This is a bit of luck, he told himself firmly as he turned to his right, towards the woodpile. This must be a lull in the storm: a brief break in the relentless pounding that’s being meted out by the Arctic wind and the polar rain. If I hurry I might get the wood inside before it starts again.

The wood was piled under the green tarpaulin against the back wall of the tenement, beside the door. Like the garden furniture the logs looked stony, and Bob half expected them to resist his strength, cementing themselves to one another in solidarity with the frozen landscape of the yard. Instead, the first log lifted up so easily he almost lost his balance, staggering a little on the crunchy grass as he fought to stay upright. Once safely stable, Bob settled the recalcitrant log in the crook of his arm where it nestled like a changeling baby, prematurely aged and stiffened by long exposure to the winter nights. He stooped for a second log, then a third, working swiftly to pick out the best wood for the fireplace: small, dense pieces that would fit in the narrow Victorian grate. He had to turn his back on the lawn to lift them. He didn’t want to, but there was no other way, despite the nagging sensation between his shoulders which told him against all reason that someone was standing close behind him as he worked.

Absurd, of course. There had been no noise in the yard – in the city as a whole, for all he could hear – since he stepped through the door, apart from the puffing of his whisky-tainted breath and the creaking of his knees. Still, there it was: that sensation of being watched by an unseen stranger – and he couldn’t shake it off no matter how he puffed and creaked and stamped in an effort to fill the void with movement, stave off the oppressive silence till the job was done. Instead of retreating, the sensation grew and spread cold fingers across his skin. Only one way to get rid of it, he knew: stand up, turn round, take a long slow look at the empty lawn. But not before he had lifted as many logs as his arms would carry. He refused to be spooked by a draught of wind. There were people depending on him tonight – women, children, friends – and he wouldn’t go letting them down on account of a feeling.

Then the voices began.

They started out as what could best be described as a kind of muttering: a stream of consonants linked together by a faint semi-musical hum, coming at him from several directions, and closer than he would have liked – no more than a yard or two from where he was leaning over the woodpile. Under any other circumstances he’d have assumed he was hearing a radio, but how likely was it that there’d be three or four radios close behind him at the dead of night? He straightened slowly, clutching the logs, and stood there listening, one hand rested on the topmost log, fingertips slowly tracing the grain as if for anchorage. The voices got louder; he began to hear words. The tone of the voices wasn’t threatening, but there was an urgency about them, a quiet desperation that raised the hairs on the back of his neck like an uneasy army getting to its feet.

He didn’t turn round slowly. He turned in a rush of impatience, almost letting the logs spill out of his arms – he had to clutch at them to prevent them scattering across the lawn. The impatience came from his sense that this was all too childish; he hadn’t felt this way since he’d been a nipper of ten, and he didn’t like it, wouldn’t let the sensation last a second longer. The lawn, he knew, was empty, and he was much too old to let a trick of acoustics set his heart racing and fill his palms with sweat in the middle of winter.

There were people standing on the lawn.

Five of them altogether. A man dressed in some sort of tight rubber suit and an orange life vest. A woman in shorts, clutching a mobile phone against her chest. A couple standing side by side in climbing gear, helmeted and harnessed, hands tightly linked. A child. They were none of them looking at him, though all of them faced in his direction. No, not quite in his direction – they faced west, which meant they were angled slightly away from him, unseeing eyes directed a little to his right. The effect was that of looking at a flock of turbines on a level pasture, all positioned at the optimum angle to take advantage of the prevailing wind. The difference, of course, was that flocks of turbines look identical – clean and white with elegant blades – while these figures were a motley crew, all of different body shapes and colours and with different clothes. The child was wearing pyjamas, pink with some sort of grinning cartoon creature printed all over. Her brownish hair was plastered flat across her cheeks and forehead. Her face, like those of the adults, were unsettlingly colourful: bluish lips, a bluish tinge to the cheeks, wide open bloodshot eyes set in hollow recesses and staring sightlessly towards the place where the sun had set not long before.

All five of the figures were talking, a steady noise like a running brook. His ears weren’t what they used to be, and he had to tilt his head at exactly the right angle to catch the words as they trickled by.

His left ear was the best, and he found himself turning it towards the man in the rubber suit. The man stood bolt upright, hands hanging at his hips, fingers twitching from time to time with involuntary convulsions. ‘Okay,’ he was saying to himself in an urgent whisper. ‘In a minute I’ll have got my legs out, Jim’ll help me, current’s not so strong. I been in worse, Christ it’s cold but not so bad really, I’m pretty much numb, almost warm in fact, just need to hold out a few more seconds, just a few seconds and I’ll be okay. My lungs are bursting, my chest hurts, my head hurts, I can’t see anything in this water, things have been worse, can’t get hold of the catch, I know it’s here somewhere, things have been worse, this isn’t how it ends, this isn’t how it ends…’

Bob’s head moved away from the man and towards the young woman, whose shorts and T-shirt were obviously sodden, clinging to her skin in icy folds. Her eyes were wide open – they looked as if the lids had been stretched apart with clamps – and her hair lay in weedy strands along her jawline. ‘No signal,’ she was saying. ‘So dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I thought that only happened in books, didn’t think it could get that dark once your eyes adjusted, not so dark you couldn’t see your hands right in front of your eyes. Tread carefully, don’t go too fast, there are cliffs nearby, I saw them when I was running through the glen, shouldn’t go too slow though, it’s much too cold, I could freeze to death. Someone knows where I am, I must have said where I was going, I never told them, why didn’t I tell them, why did I change direction and head up the mountain, what an idiot, what an idiot, still can’t get a signal, I’ll get one in a minute, this isn’t how it ends, this isn’t how it ends…’

Relentlessly Bob’s head kept turning, though he already had a premonition of what he would hear from the climbers, whose hands were locked together so fiercely they must have been crushing one another’s joints. ‘I’ve got you, honey,’ the man was saying. ‘Thank God, thank God I got hold of you when you slipped, just need to get a better grip on the rock with my other hand, sliding a bit but I won’t let go, nothing on earth would make me let go, we’ve done this before, we’re prepared for this, I’m strong, you’re strong, we’ve both got the training. The weather turned so suddenly but we’ve got the gear, my shoulder hurts, my elbow hurts, my hands are slipping, I won’t let go, this isn’t how it ends, this isn’t how it ends…’

The woman was speaking too, but he couldn’t hear her; and the child, when his ear was turned in her direction, was speaking nonsense, a rhyme repeated over and over: ‘Christopher Robin went hoppity hoppity hoppity hoppity hop. Whenever I ask him politely to stop it he says he can’t possibly stop. Christopher Robin went hoppity hoppity, hoppity hoppity hoppity hoppity, hoppity hoppity, hoppity hoppity, hoppity hoppity hop.’ She had some furry creature in her hands, clutched against her chest exactly as the older girl was clutching her mobile. There was a stain in her hair, and now he looked he could see a gash, well, more like a hole, and he looked away rather than peer any closer to see how deep it was, how obviously fatal. He wondered what had made it – then steered his mind away from the subject with another huge shudder.

He was shuddering all over now, legs, arms and belly. The wind was getting up, puffs of it driving across the yard and disrupting the unnatural stillness, shaking the thorny branches of the hedge, bending the frosty grass stems. The cold cut through his body, parting fat and muscle and bone, making his legs and shoulders leap with the pain of it. One of the shudders sent the logs flying across the lawn, and a piece of wood struck the boot of the woman climber with a hollow thunk. Bob crouched and stretched out his hand to pick it up again, keeping his face down to avoid another glimpse of her vacant stare. But the wind was driving fiercely at him now, burning his face, burning his hands inside their canvas gloves, burning the bones inside his face, his hands, his feet. He remained crouched and locked his arms around his chest in an effort to get some warmth before he tried again. He wouldn’t go inside without that wood. He was the hunter gatherer, the father provider, and nothing could blow him into submission, not even the Vortex.

The wind buffeted him where he crouched, but the figures on the lawn seemed unaffected. Their bluish lips were moving still, but he could no longer hear any sound from them – the howling in his ears was too intense. A metal dustbin lid rolled away from the bin area, clashing as it bounced. The wind howled louder, and the lid was lifted into the air, spinning high up over the hedge and away to join other spinning objects in the yard next door. A plastic crate crashed against the tenement wall, scattering chunks of dust and stone into the rising storm. Flowerpots, branches, polythene bags whirled around in a kind of dance just above the heads of the murmuring figures. A piece of cardboard struck the canoeist’s helmet, but the man didn’t move; all his attention was focused on the stream of desperate words spilling out of his mouth.

And now Bob was swaying in a kind of dance beneath the mauling fingers of the puppeteer wind. Like a marionette he staggered to and fro across the grass, all balance lost. He bumped against the older girl and gasped a kind of apology before staggering on. He straightened in an effort to gain control, spreading his arms and fingers wide, lifting his chin. His feet left the ground for a moment, then landed again in a scuffling dance on the concrete slabs of the garden path. Another gust took him, and this time he was lifted into the air like the metal lid. His legs struck the hedge and he felt the cuffs of his trousers tear on the thorns. He spun head over heels, head over heels, whirling always upwards, hurtling with terrible speed towards a slanting frost-covered roof. Dimly he could see more figures beneath him in other yards, all facing westwards, all standing stiff and upright like ivory chessmen, all muttering still, no doubt, if he could have heard them. But the wind plucked him up and away, and his eyes grew dimmer, and he gritted his teeth in a furious effort to stop the words from spilling out.

Squeezing his lids together he could see the lights of the city spread out below him in a kind of cobweb. He was hundreds of feet above them and rising swiftly. His stomach lurched in terror, but he kept his eyes open, staring down, just to prove to himself he was still alive. So high, so cold, his body on fire, his lungs expanding to fill his chest in a last-ditch effort to catch enough air to feed his blood…

The words pounded through his skull in a driving rhythm, and after a while he knew he was saying them over and over. He couldn’t breathe, his chest was bursting, sight almost gone – but still his lips moved as he flew towards the clouds, and he heard the words, though not with his ears, a steady noise like a running brook in the upper air: it can’t end like this, it can’t end like this, it can’t end like this…

 

 

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Marlowe’s Ghost: The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus (1592)

[This essay was first published in Airy Nothings: Imagining the Otherworld of Faerie from the Middle Ages to the Age of Reason: Essays in Honour of Alasdair A. MacDonald, eds. Karin E. Olsen & Jan R. Veenstra (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 1-24. I’m republishing it here, with permission, because it’s about a lost book, because the book in question is clearly fantastic, and because… well, because Kit Marlowe.]

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  1. Afterlives in fact and fiction

Our story begins with two bad deaths. In September 1592 the poet, author and playwright Robert Greene succumbed to a sickness brought on by a surfeit of pickled herrings and Rhenish wine – or so his enemy Gabriel Harvey asserted. Eight months later, in May 1593, the poet and playwright Christopher Marlowe was murdered by Ingram Frizer at a boarding house in Deptford, stabbed through the eye in a quarrel over a bill or ‘reckoning’. Greene and Marlowe were hostile to each other; Greene, at least, did his best to make them so. But they had much in common, from their relatively humble origins to a university education and a life of mixing with, but never quite profiting by, some of the most powerful men and women in England.[1] They shared, too, a fascination with magic, metamorphoses and desire, as well as a mutual obsession with bad death and the possibility of averting it or putting it off. And immediately after Marlowe’s death their fates became entwined to an extent that neither could have predicted. From tellers of stories they found themselves transformed into the stories’ protagonists, and their ghosts continued to haunt the stage, the bookstalls and the streets of late Elizabethan London as if linked in a diabolic pact. This essay concerns the ghost of Marlowe; but ghosts are notoriously difficult to see clearly, and Greene’s frequent and prominent posthumous appearances will help bring Marlowe’s more elusive spirit into better focus.

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Robert Greene in his Shroud

The details of Greene’s afterlife have long been familiar to us.[2] Besides the posthumous, quasi-autobiographical pamphlets attributed to Greene himself, such as The Repentance of Robert Greene and Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit (both 1592), he returns from the grave in Greene’s News Both from Heaven and Hell (1593), by Barnaby Rich, which contains tales purportedly collected by Greene’s spirit on a trip to Purgatory; Henry Chettle’s Kind-Heart’s Dream (1593), where Greene’s ghost urges the satirist Thomas Nashe to avenge him on his detractor, Harvey; and John Dickenson’s Greene in Conceit, New Raised from His Grave to Write the Tragic History of Valeria (1598), whose title page shows him vigorously scribbling fiction in his grave-clothes. Until recently, by contrast, the afterlife of Marlowe has been confined to some passing allusions, such as Peele’s proto-Dickensian reference to him as ‘Marley, the Muses darling for thy verse, / Fit to write passions for the souls below, / If any wretched souls in passion speak’ in his poem The Honour of the Garter, published only a month after his death;[3] William Webbe’s critical assessment of him in 1598 as ‘our best for Tragedie’; and Nashe’s eulogy in Lenten Stuff (1599), where he is a ‘rarer muse’ than the mythic poet Musaeus, whose tale of Hero and Leander he made his own.[4] On the stage, of course, he lived on in his plays, and could be said to have gone on writing well into the seventeenth century, as new scenes for Doctor Faustus kept appearing as if by magic in new productions of the tragedy.[5] In this essay, however, I shall suggest that Marlowe’s ghost also achieved a substantial presence (so to speak) on paper, in the form of an anonymous narrative printed less than a year after his murder, The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus (1594).[6] The publication of this pamphlet coincided with a revival of his most popular plays on the London stage.[7] It would seem that some of the details in it got mixed up with the theatrical legends surrounding his most scandalous play, Doctor Faustus, so that boundaries between truth and fiction, the theatre and the written page became blurred in a way that the author of the Second Report would no doubt have found deeply satisfying.

To return for a while, though, to the relationship between Greene and Marlowe, the story of their lifetime enmity comes to us largely through Greene’s references to it in print. Soon after the success of Marlowe’s first play for the public theatre, Tamburlaine the Great (1587), and the failure of Greene’s clumsy imitation of it, Alphonsus King of Aragon, Greene inaugurated what was to become a familiar rumour concerning Marlowe: that he shared his Scythian hero’s contempt for religion – that Tamburlaine was, in fact, an avatar of Marlowe himself. In the epistle to his romance Perimedes the Blacksmith (1588) Greene refers bitterly to two gentleman poets who had scoffed at Alphonsus because

I could not make my verses jet upon the stage in tragicall buskins […] daring God out of heaven with that Atheist Tamburlan, or blaspheming with the mad preest of the sonne [i.e. Giordano Bruno]: but let me rather openly pocket up the Asse at Diogenes hand [i.e. ignore the scholars’ insults] then wantonlye set out such impious instances of intolerable poetrie[.][8] Such mad and scoffing poets, that have propheticall spirits, as bred of Merlins race, if there be anye in England that set the end of scollarisme in an English blanck verse, I thinke either it is the humor of a novice that tickles them with self-love, or to much frequenting the hot house …[9]

The reference to ‘Merlins race’ here alongside Tamburlaine identifies one of Greene’s targets as Marlowe, who was known in his Cambridge days as Marlen,[10] a name that links him with the Arthurian prophet-magician – an apt connection for the playwright who dramatized the life of Faustus. Prophets had as bad a press as atheists in Tudor times – all the major insurrections in The Mirror for Magistrates, for instance, are supported by false prophesies – and the term ‘intolerable’ might well have been taken by Greene’s readers as a plea for the censorship of Marlowe’s ‘impious’ verse. After this Greene took to needling Marlowe whenever he had the chance, referring to him as ‘the cobbler’ who teaches actors to spout speeches like Julius Caesar, asserting that the ‘unsavorie papers’ of the first edition of Tamburlaine were used by pedlars to wrap their powders in, and most notoriously upbraiding him along with Shakespeare in his posthumously-published pamphlet Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit Bought With a Million of Repentance (1592):[11]

Wonder not […] thou famous gracer of Tragedians, that Greene, who hath said with thee like the foole in his heart, There is no God, should now give glorie unto his greatnesse: for […] his hand lies heavie upon me […] and I have felt he is a God that can punish enimies. Why should thy excellent wit, his gift, be so blinded, that thou shouldst give no glory to the giver? […] Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremitie; for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be visited.[12]

Printed so shortly after Greene’s death, and followed so soon by the death of Marlowe, these words would no doubt have had a major impact on any reader who recalled them in the aftermath of Marlowe’s assassination. Scholars now largely agree that they were not written by Greene but by Henry Chettle, who had a habit of ascribing his work to other people.[13] More interestingly, though, they tie Greene to Marlowe as an atheist, while separating him from his fellow playwright by stressing his repentance. In the process Marlowe becomes a second Faustus, just as Greene had identified him with his earlier protagonist Tamburlaine in the 1580s. Marlowe’s gift of ‘excellent wit’ is dangerously allied with the folly of religious blindness, and his fate is prophetically hinted at by the reference to an unexpected, and possibly ‘extreme’ end: ‘Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremitie; little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be visited’. The process of fusing Marlowe with his characters was well advanced by the time this passage was composed, and anticipates the inventive fusion of allusions to his plays with some seeds of truth and much malicious gossip that constitutes the infamous Baines Note.

GroatsworthIf Chettle did write Greene’s Groatsworth, he had a firm grasp of one of Greene’s most disarming characteristics: his tendency to put things off, which is referred to in the title of one of his ‘autobiographies’, Greene’s Never Too Late (1590).[14] One of the texts whose publication Greene deferred till after his death was an entertaining pamphlet called Greene’s Vision, written in 1590 but not published till 1592. In it, the spirit of the biblical King Solomon finally persuades the prolific author to give up his practice of penning romances – though not before Geoffrey Chaucer has warmly congratulated him on their literary quality – and take up theology instead. Greene’s motive for putting off the publication of this Chaucerian retraction seems clear enough: he was not yet ready to take up religious studies full time. But when it did appear, the pamphlet included a wonderfully desperate piece of prose that brings Greene as close to Faustus as Marlowe seemed in the Groatsworth:

When with a strict insight, I […] take a straight accompt what the deedes of my youth have beene […] oh then what a fearefull terror dooth torture my minde, what a dungeon of dollours lyes open to swallow me? As the Scorpion stings deadly, and the Vipers bites [sic] mortally, so dooth the worme of my conscience grype without ceasing. And yet O Lord, a deeper miserie, for when with a foreseeing consideration I looke into the time to come, wherein the secret conjecture of my faults and offences, shall be manifested and laid to my charge, and that I know Stipendium peccati mors, Oh then whether shall I flie from thy presence? shall I take the wings of the morning and absent my selfe? can the hideous mountaines hide me, can wealth redeeme sinne, can beautie countervaile my faults, or the whole world counterpoyse the ballance of mine offences? oh no, and therefore am I at my wits end, wishing for death, and the end of my miserable dayes, and yet then the remembrance of hell, and the torments thereof drive me to wish the contrarie.[15]

Here the first and last speeches of Marlowe’s protagonist – whose adventures may well have been staged a year or so before this passage was written, in 1589[16] – run together, as the curtailed reference to St Paul’s letter to the Romans from Doctor Faustus I.i.39 (‘Stipendium, etc. / The reward of sin is death’) collides with the wild desire for escape, metamorphosis or oblivion from V.ii.104-23. Greene does not identify himself here with Faustus/Marlowe’s supposed atheism – he is guilty only of ‘vanitie, and fond conceited fancies’ – and once again his repentance is implied at the end of the pamphlet. But his willingness to mimic Faustus indicates Greene’s keen perception that the drama of his own life might profitably (and indeed daringly) be made the subject of his fiction, just as Marlowe’s life had got mixed up with his dramatic fabrications. Greene worked out this perception in his cony-catching pamphlets as well as his autobiographies. In these pamphlets his bad behaviour in London – the reason for his need for repentance – supplies him with the raw material for an exposition of the seamier side of London life; while the very act of exposition puts him in danger of retaliation from the men and women whose crimes he exposes, so that each new cony-catching pamphlet becomes an instalment in an ongoing game of cat-and-mouse, played out (Greene would have us believe) between the London mafia and the intrepid pamphleteer. Paper becomes a kind of theatre, implicitly stirring up frantic action in the underworld each time it leaves the press, and whipping its audience into frenzied anticipation of the next instalment as each pamphlet ends. One wonders how far Greene’s brilliant staging of this drama in his final publications was inspired by his inclination to link Marlowe with his own quasi-historical overreachers, Tamburlaine and Faustus?

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Eugene Delacroix, Mephistopheles

Characteristically, Greene deferred the last instalment of his cony-catching pamphlets – the Black Book, which he announced in two pamphlets published in 1592 – until it was too late, advertising it as forthcoming when he was already in the grip of his final illness. The Black Book was to have been the climax of his one-man war on the London underworld, naming and shaming all the principal criminals operating in the capital. Greene’s death cut short this climax; and when at last a Black Book came out in 1604, it was written by Thomas Middleton, and took the form of a sequel to Tom Nashe’s celebrated satire Pierce Penniless his Supplication to the Devil (1592) rather than to anything written by Greene – though the title clearly links it with Greene’s promised pamphlet. The book was printed in a black letter font that associated it with the early 1590s, when Nashe and Greene were active, and is full of references to the stage, including two to Marlowe.[17] When the devil visits Pierce Penniless in the pamphlet he finds him in a bed surrounded by cobwebs, spun by ‘spindle-shank spiders’ which ‘went stalking over his head as if they had been conning of Tamburlaine’ (p. 213). And a pimp is described as having a head of hair ‘like one of my devils in Doctor Faustus when the old Theatre cracked and frighted the audience’ (p. 209). The Oxford Middleton glosses this line as an allusion to the supernatural events that were rumoured to attend productions of Marlowe’s tragedy, as performed, perhaps, in the old Theatre playhouse in Shoreditch before its demolition in 1597. But Eric Rasmussen sees it instead as a reference to an incident in the Second Report of Doctor Faustus, when Faustus’s tragedy is re-enacted by his ghost and a cast of devils in an ‘excellent faire Theator’ (sig. E2v) in the sky above Wittenberg.[18] This supernatural spectacle ends when the stage collapses into the river ‘with a most monstrous thundering crack’ (sig. F1r), to the horror of the watching citizens. Rasmussen strengthens his case by pointing out that the chief actor-devil in the Second Report is remarkable for his haircut: he makes his subordinate devils tremble by stamping his foot and ‘shaking his great bushe of hair’ (sig. C3r), which helps explain the reference to the pimp’s ‘head of hair’ in Middleton’s Black Book. The difficulty with Rasmussen’s argument is the reference to the ‘old Theatre’, since ‘old’ seems an inappropriate epithet for a temporary aerial playhouse. Could it be, then, that the incident in the Second Report has been elided in Middleton’s mind with an actual incident that took place in the Shoreditch Theatre? As Rasmussen points out, the London stages were always creaking, cracking, even collapsing, and Middleton need not have had in mind the collapse of a stage during a performance of Doctor Faustus in particular; after all, for the theatre-haters all dramatic performances were devilish. In the Black Book, fact and fiction merge – rather as the appearance of the book itself, with its old-fashioned typeface, links it both physically and fictitiously, as it were, with the satiric fictions of the early 1590s.

Middleton’s Black Book poses as a kind of literary ghost, recalling its readers to a decade when the supernatural stalked the streets of London, both in the shape of pamphlets about Purgatory, dead writers and the devil, such as Pierce Penniless, and in the form of necromantic plays such as Doctor Faustus (performed in September 1594) and Greene’s Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (performed in February 1592 and April 1594). The two plays were also linked to successful works of prose fiction: The History of the Damned Life and Deserved Death of Doctor John Faustus, translated from the German Faustbuch in about 1588, and The Famous History of Friar Bacon, an English imitation of the former.[19] The cross-fertilization of fact and fiction, prose and drama at this time coincided with a special interest among writers and their audiences or readers in the interaction between spirits and ordinary mortals; an interest testified to by the revival of the ghosts of Robert Greene and the clown Dick Tarleton in prose narratives written after their deaths (the latter featured in Tarleton’s News Out of Purgatory, 1590, and the popular jestbook Tarleton’s Jests).[20] The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus shares many features with the other supernatural narratives of the early 1590s; but the games it plays with the relationship between fact and fiction, page and stage, and the living and the dead are very much more sophisticated than those of its rivals – a fact which, together with its anonymity, may have contributed to its relative obscurity in the annals of English fiction. The book may simply have been too clever to be readily assimilated into any of the categories by which scholars have sought to taxonomize Tudor prose fiction. The games begin in the preface or prologue of the first edition, and a close analysis of this prologue will give a good indication of the pamphlet’s unique relationship to the interwoven legends of Dr Faustus and Christopher Marlowe.

 

2. Authenticity and charlatanism in the prologue to the Second Report

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Faust’s house in Wittenberg

The first game with ‘fact’ played in the prologue is the notion that the Second Report is a translation from the German. Although a German sequel to the original Faustbuch was in print by 1594 – the so-called Wagner Book – the Second Report has nothing to do with it, as Harold Jantz pointed out in the 1950s.[21] Instead, it purports to be based on information translated from second-hand testimony by an English gentleman student in Faustus’s hometown of Wittenberg; and it boosts its claims to authenticity by questioning the accuracy of the English translation of the original Faustbuch. ‘I have talked with the man that first wrote [it]’, claims the student, ‘wherein he saith manie thinges are corrupted [in the translation], some added de novo, some canceld and taken awaie, and many were augmented’ (sig. A4r). In recent years John Henry Jones has demonstrated the extent to which these accusations would hold true of P.F., the Faustbuch’s translator, who inserted passages freely, enlarged the sections that interested him and omitted offensive material; and anyone who knew this would have been impressed by the Second Report’s apparent concern for textual accuracy.[22] This pose of scholarly scrupulousness is reinforced by a meticulous description of three tourist sites in Wittenberg offering physical evidence that Faustus existed, ‘which is generally a thing not beleeved’ (sig. A4r). The ruins of Faustus’s house, says the student, can still be seen, as can the tree where he ‘used to reade Nigromancy to his Scholers’, and his tomb, marked by a stone on which his epitaph is roughly carved ‘by his owne hand’ (sig. A4v). The first two sites were seen by the traveller Fynes Morrison in 1591, which lends force to the student’s statement that ‘Germany [is not] so unknowen but that the trueth of these thinges… may be founde if any suspect’ (sig. A4r).[23] Later, when the gentleman student reveals his view of the Germans as a nation of fantasizing drunkards, the ambiguity of this last sentence becomes apparent; but on first reading one could take it as a firm assurance that the remains give material proof of Faustus’s existence.

Having erected his imaginative stage, as it were, and implied the identity of one of his sources – a man who got his facts ‘from Wagner’s very friend’ (sig. A4r) – the student ends his prologue with some tantalizing snippets on Faustus from a well-known work of scholarship. Dr Johann Weyer, he tells us, gives an account of one of Faustus’s ‘knaveries’ in his book on witchcraft, De praestigiis daemonum (1563), where­by the magician promised to depilate a grown man permanently, but succeeded only in scorching off his victim’s skin ‘causing such inflammations in his face that it burned all over cruelly’ (sig. B1r). Dr Weyer gives a gruesome account, too, of Faustus’s end, in which he is found ‘by his bed side starke dead, and his face turnde backewards’ (sig. B1r). But if the painfully physical nature of both accounts seems to drive home their authenticity – who, after all, would invent such lurid details if they were not true? – they cast serious doubt on the credibility of the Faustbuch. Dr Weyer may support the notion that Faustus existed, but he also insists that he was a charlatan ‘who could doe nothing’ (sig. B1r). Indeed, Weyer’s chief fame rests on his scepticism concerning magic and witchcraft, which made him an invaluable source for the English sceptic Reginald Scot, whose refutation of the myths concerning witches, The Discovery of Witchcraft (1584), cites Weyer frequently, as the student points out (sig. B1v). Every detail Weyer gives of Faustus’s life, in fact, from the place of his birth to the manner of his death, contradicts a detail in the Faustbuch. Not only was the translation ‘meere lies’ (sig. A4r), then, but so was the original. The legend of Doctor Faustus is an artificial fog of rumour, gossip and brazen fabrication, and the book that follows proceeds to document the means by which that fog was generated.

800px-Faustus-tragedyIf the prologue of the first edition of the Second Report presents the book as a kind of litmus test of its readers’ intelligence, the second (published in the same year) presents it as a playful intellectual exchange between young scholars in England and Germany. Two prefatory letters were added to this second edition: ‘To the Reader’ and ‘Unto the Christian Reader’. Both imply that the first edition had disturbed the ‘bitter natures’ of some of its less intelligent readers (sig. A3r) – in part because of its stylistic plainness (‘Here is wanting the great Chaos of Similes, which build themselves over a Booke like Colosses’, sig. A3r); and in part because it had been taken literally. ‘This is a Booke’, the writer insists, ‘and so take it, and if you take it otherwise you are to blame, and if you trie your worst, you can term it but wast paper’ (sig. A3r). It would seem, then, that some readers had taken it as more than a book – that is, as a report of actual devilish goings-on in early modern Germany, and as capable perhaps of stimulating similar incidents in its adoptive country. And when the writer goes on to state that ‘I have delivered it to you from them of whome I took it for truth’, and that ‘if you could be as credulous as some are newfangled, I know this might serve to be the recorded [recorde?] of Faustus’ (sig. A3r-A3v), the impression that some credulous readers have been taken in by the seeming ‘realism’ of the first edition is confirmed. The writer goes on to imply that the text was delivered to the press against his will by the Oxford friends to whom he sent it; that he penned the two new epistles to explain this; and that ‘my vaine in this booke, is nothing’, since it is ‘but a bare translation of as bare mater of the gestes and actes of one Faustus a great Magitian’, a subject of such ‘unworthynes’ that no-one should read it (sig. A3v). The first of the new epistles, then, presents the Second Report as a double prank played by two sets of scholars: the gentleman student, who sent the manuscript to his Oxford friends as a humanist jeu d’esprit; and the ‘injurious’ Oxford friends themselves, who gave it uncorrected to the printer, so that other men might ‘laugh at the rude phrase’ – that is, mock its crude style – and thus embarrass their Wittenberg correspondent (sig. A3v). Those who detract from the book for something more than its stylistic defects expose themselves as ‘fools’ like the common players, since they make themselves what they wish to make others: the butt of laughter.

2017665,2ZszRrdlkp7knRVmpJlEf6Rsa6WvealzJUF0yOC831AtcAt+Fsvlg6ONLfyZMTzjSXWrTFvr7eQHr2OVvq3ulg==

Richard Burton as Faustus

This account of the book’s genesis is supported by the second epistle, ‘Unto the Christian Reader’. The letter purports to have been written by the friends of the gentleman student, and confirms the origins of this ‘novel’ or ‘news’ (think of the news Tarlton brought from Purgatory, which were ‘novels’ – literally ‘new things’ – or short stories) in a private game among the educated gentry. ‘These newes here raised out of auncient copies’, it declares, ‘a Gentleman friend of ours translated for our private intelligence amongest our selves, and sent them from Wittenberge to Oxenford’ (sig. A4r). The playfulness of the supposed translation is evident in the notion of something new being generated from ancient copies – a seemingly absurd proposition which is in any case undermined by the gentleman student’s statement that he ‘acquired these pages piecemeal from students at Wittenberg’ (Accepi ego has chartulas sparsim a studiosis Wittenbergensibus), a source that scarcely guarantees their antiquity.[24] And the playfulness continues in the penultimate sentence of the second epistle. ‘The truth is’, it concludes, ‘that these [new stories or ancient copies] are commonly carried about for very certainty, yea and some are secretly laide up in grave men’s studyes for great reliques’ (sig. A4r). The balance here implied between ‘very certainty’ – incontrovertible truths – and ‘great reliques’, the hallmark of papist superstition, tells us exactly what we should think about the grave men who take such nonsense literally. The narrative to follow is no ‘truthe’ but a fiction, and should be read as nothing more. Those who accept it as fact and denounce it as dangerous are merely adding to its entertainment value by making a spectacle, for cleverer readers, of their own gullibility.

An intriguing aspect of the two new epistles is the dates appended to them. The first, from the gentleman student, is dated May 1590. The second incorporates a Latin letter from the same student, dated July 1589, in which he commends his ‘trivial’ translation of Wagner’s adventures to the attention of his Oxford colleagues. The implication is that the Second Report was first printed between these dates. There is no evidence of a first edition of the Second Report before 1594, though of course it could well have been lost, like the first edition of the Damnable History. But it is equally possible that the dates in the epistles were fabricated, for some special purpose of the writer or printer. The Second Report was entered in the Stationers’ Register for November 16, 1593; and the fact that the first known edition of 1594 does not contain the two epistles, while the second contains them, suggests that they were composed between the two editions as a means of defusing the controversy to which the first gave rise. In support of this hypothesis is the fact that the printer of both editions, Abel Jeffes, had been in trouble with the authorities in 1592 for printing books whose copyright belonged to another printer; and that he continued to court controversy till it ended his career (in 1595 he published Giovanni Cipriano’s ‘lewd’ book A Wonderful Prophecy upon this Troublesome World, which led to the destruction of his press and letters by the Stationers’ Company).[25] He therefore had a motive both for reassuring the authorities that the Second Report was not another blot on his publishing record – that is, for adding the explanatory letters to the second edition when the first proved scandalous – and for continuing to excite the frisson in his readers that the Wonderful Prophecy later provided, in such unfortunate measure that it ruined him.

DoctorFaustus_New2_smallFurther indications that the dates were fabricated might be cited. The German sequel to the Faustbuch, the Wagnerbuch – which may well have inspired the Second Report, despite the fact that the book is no translation – was not published until 1593. And Chapter Nine of the Second Report contains a few verses in ‘Ari[o]stos vein’ (sig. F2r) that form a prologue to the Ariosto-esque second half, a link with Orlando Furioso which could have been suggested by the success of Sir John Harington’s translation, first published in 1591. Neither piece of evidence is conclusive, of course, but they lend additional weight to my conjecture. Why, then, would the claim that the Second Report had been first published in 1589-90 make things easier for its printer and author than the admission that it was new in 1594? The answer may lie in the perceived connection between the text and that playful scholar Christopher Marlowe, whose death in 1593 may have prompted Jeffes to register the Second Report a few months later. The Second Report is a ghost story, like the posthumous adventures of Greene and Tarleton. In it, the most famous creation of the notorious ‘atheist’ Marlowe (as Greene called him) returns from the dead to lend his services to the Doctor’s former houseboy, Wagner; and we have already seen how Faustus had been linked with his creator by Greene. In this book, too, the houseboy Wagner (whose nickname here is the same as Marlowe’s, Kit – in the Famous History he is always Christopher), takes on his master’s mantle not just as conjurer but playwright: it is he who stages the production of Faustus’s trial in the sky above Wittenberg. And in it – unlike the Faustbuch – neither Faustus nor Wagner gets punished for meddling with magic. If this narrative had been taken on its first appearance as a half-blasphemous vindication of the notorious atheist playwright, and if this is what made it controversial, then both writer and printer may have deemed it prudent to claim that it originated several years before the playwright’s murder. It remains to be seen, then, how far the text can be read as I’ve suggested; how far, in fact, the Second Report of Doctor John Faustus might have given its early readers a second report on Marlowe, to set alongside the infamous calumnies of the Baines Note.

 

3. Fictions of fiction in the Second Report

The narrative of the Second Report is divided into two neat halves, each of which derives its tone and content from one of Marlowe’s plays. The first half takes place in Wittenberg, and tells the story of Faustus’s former houseboy Wagner as he takes on his master’s mantle as a great magician. This part culminates in the supernatural performance of the Tragedy of Doctor Faustus in the air above the town, which ends with the thunderous collapse of the stage into the river Elbe. The second half takes place at a fictionalized Siege of Vienna (1529), and derives its delight in spectacular conflict both from the Orlando Furioso and from Marlowe’s first stage triumph, Tamburlaine the Great. In this section Wagner uses magic to assist the Duke of Austria in his wars against the Turks, executing a series of practical jokes on the Great Turk himself designed to humiliate and baffle the unfortunate sultan. The jokes resemble the tricks Faustus plays both in the Faustbuch and in Marlowe’s play, but being directed against a monarch they also recall the humiliating practices of Tamburlaine, who liked to cage his royal captives and use them as entertainment at mealtimes, as well as forcing a team of kings to draw his chariot like ‘pampered jades’.

Mephisto_by_Mark_Antokolski,_marble_(GTG,_after_1883)_by_shakko_08The amoral tone of the narrative, too, may owe something to Marlowe. P. F., the translator of the Faustbuch, toned down the moral comments of the German original, but retained enough didactic touches to soothe the consciences of his Christian readers. The conclusion, for example, exhorts them to ‘fear God and to be careful of their vocation and to be at defiance with all devilish works, as God hath most precisely forbidden’.[26] The Second Report follows a quite different moral trajectory. The first half pays careful lip service to the qualms about pacts with the devil – even imagined ones – which get articulated both in the Damnable History and in Doctor Faustus. But the second half abandons these qualms altogether, and permits Wagner to enlist the help of the devil in the ongoing Christian struggle against the heathen. The first half takes care to establish the historical and geographical context of Wagner’s adventures in his hometown of Wittenberg. The second throws historical accuracy to the winds and represents the Siege of Vienna as an orientalist extravaganza, with giant horses and elephants. The narrative, then, journeys from a state of profound uncertainty regarding the relationship between the imagination and real life – implying the very real dangers of succumbing to the allure of imagined power – to an unabashed celebration of fiction, unalloyed by any fear about confusing the factual and the fantastic. The book looks like a conscious effort to move prose fiction forward from the old-fashioned view of it as a form of pedagogy, in tune with the agendas of religious reformers, to a proto-modern celebration of imaginative writing for its own sake. In this it shares its attitude with the books that narrate the afterlives of Greene and Tarleton, tracing the paths of the two celebrities through such controversial posthumous environments as Purgatory and the Shades of classical myth, and transforming these spaces in the process from sites of religious controversy into treasuries of narrative: inexhaustible repositories of gossip, tale, secret history and anecdote. Like Marlowe’s drama, these ghostly texts (Tarleton’s News out of Purgatory, Greene’s News Both from Heaven and Hell, Greene in Conceit) mark a major step on the road from post-medieval didactic literature to ‘pure’ literature as it is understood today; and the Second Report seems to be particularly frank about its ambition to take part in the contemporary reinvention of theatrical and literary fiction.[27]

Within the two-part structure sketched out above, the Second Report is organized into a varied sequence of chapters, each of which constitutes a rhetorical tour de force, an exuberant experiment in some new style or generic convention. These include a philosophical-theological disquisition by Mephistopheles; the theatrical performance by devils in the sky; a disastrous incident involving some Wittenberg students, Faustus’ stolen books of magic, and a bunch of sadistic devils; and a spectacular single combat between the Duke of Austria, mounted on a giant horse, and the Great Turk, mounted on an elephant. Each set piece is treated in a quasi-theatrical manner, and repeatedly has recourse to the language of the theatre – a tendency that distinguishes the Second Report from the Damnable Life. Even the epistle ‘To the Reader’ in the second edition adopts this language, describing the gentleman student as going ‘personate’ (i.e. masked, anonymous) like a Roman actor and as fearful for his reputation ‘if my maske shall fall’ – that is, if his identity should be unveiled (sig. A3v). In response to these theatrical touches, one nineteenth-century critic went so far as to conjecture that the Second Report might be based on a German play about the life of Wagner.[28] The book is a kind of comedy on paper, pervaded by the spirit of the experimental mid-Elizabethan drama of which Marlowe was the leading exponent.

Harlequin Doctor Faustus, 18th Century Pantomime

Harlequin Doctor Faustus, 18th Century Pantomime

The link with the theatre is established in the opening chapter. Wagner strays into the hall where ‘his Maisters latest Tragedy was perfourmed’ (sig. B2v) – that is, where he died – while thinking about the great magician’s ‘former meriments, sports and delights’ (all terms connected with plays in early modern England) and the various ‘comicall journeis’ he accomplished with the devil’s assistance (sig. B2r). This inspires the young man to think about calling up Faustus’s ghost to act as his familiar. At this point the doors fly open and a pageant enters, like a version of the pageant of the Seven Deadly Sins in Marlowe’s Faustus. First ‘entred as it were the prologue of a Comedy, a fellow so short and litle as if hee should be of one year, and yet not so briefe as ill favored’ (sig. B2v). He is followed by a boy with rusty metal wings ‘like an Angell of Hell’; a king dressed in rags; Lucifer ‘king of the Orient’; and Faustus himself, drawn in a cart by a pair of giant spaniels. The doctor is crowned by the spirits, accompanied by a ‘huge tumult and ecchoing of trumpets’ (sig. B3r). Then the performers vanish. Impressed by this ‘merry Enterlude’ (sig. B3r), Wagner decides that he merits crowning even more than Faustus; a reaction that would have confirmed the fears of any devout reader concerning the pernicious effects of Marlovian drama on the minds of its spectators. But such fears are undermined by the style of the narrative, which makes use of a quasi-Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt to emphasize the fictional status of the reported performance, and the correspondingly fictional status of Wagner’s reaction to it. The doors of the hall fly open ‘Sodainly’, we are told, because ‘alwaies such haps are sodain’ – a phrase that reduces the dramatic entrance to a well-worn cliché (sig. B2v). The winged boy holds in his hands a flaming torch like an extra in a play ‘to give light to the after-commers and beholders’; and one beholder, Wagner, is intensely conscious that the person he takes for Faustus is not the man himself, despite the impulse he has to greet him as his former master (‘so naturall was his semblaunce, so lively his countenaunce, as if it had eyther beene a new Faustus, or not the olde murthered Faustus’). Finally, after the pageant is over Wagner is quick to dismiss it as a baseless mirage: ‘an illusion[,] dream, or a temptation, or else some conceite proceeding from his moiste and melancholicke fantasie, overprest with too many vapors, raised up by continuall thought into his Pores’ (sig. B3r). He looks back on the ‘comicall jest’ as ‘meere fansie’ (sig. B3r), and tells it to his companions as ‘a matter of great truth and litle moment’ (i.e. small importance) (sig. B3v). In doing so he implicitly dismisses the fears of the student’s own readers as to the damaging effect on their minds of the devilish book they are perusing.

This section of the narrative, then, partakes of the playful interweaving of mimetic realism and reflexive fictionality that characterizes the prologue of the first edition and the two epistles of the second. And the rest of the narrative is filled with a similar blend of realism and self-conscious fictionality. The next chapter, for instance, tells of a similar ‘illusion’ involving a group of travelling merchants who come across a dance of ‘countrey maids servants, and other of the female sexe’, known as ‘Phogels’, in a place called the ‘Phogelwald’ not far from Wittenberg (sig. B3v-B4r). The dance assumes a supernatural dimension when they see Faustus’s ghost dancing cheerfully among the women. He greets them and leads them away to a Land of Cockaigne full of beer-mugs that grow like flowers, ‘wherin as they seemed they dwelt many daies with great mirth and pleasure’ (sig. B4r-B4v), till devils shatter their idyll and they wake to find themselves half-buried in mud by the river. Once again, however, the veracity of the story is undermined – not this time by the possible ‘melancholy’ of the witnesses, but by their habitual drunkenness, a condition that afflicts all Germans, the student tells us. The beer of Germany is so thick, he claims, that the vapour rising from it ‘clambering up and spreading it selfe so universally in the fantasie, maketh it to conceave no other impression, but that which the minde afore it came to be overpressed was conversant about’ (sig. B4v). The subject of the merchants’ conversation when they met the Phogels was ‘Faustus merriments’; so it is scarcely surprising when they started to drink that a brand new ‘merriment’ should have been the result. In this way the student suggests that every appearance of Faustus’s ghost since his tragic demise was engendered by the addled imaginations of a beer-swilling nation – though the inclusion of two English merchants in the Phogelwald episode suggests that the English, too, are quite capable of having lascivious visions of their own through excessive drinking.

Doctor-Faustus-with-the-DevilThe third chapter describes an encounter between Wagner and Faustus, which takes up the theme of Faustus’s posthumous existence from the pageant episode in Chapter One. Faustus appears to Wagner (‘sodainely like as all such chaunces happe’) in a secluded grove, suspended (as the ensuing conversation reveals) in mid-air, yet seemingly flesh and blood like Wagner himself (sig. C1r). There ensues a lengthy dispute between master and student concerning the possibility or otherwise of a material body hovering above the earth without succumbing to the force of gravity. The dispute culminates in Faustus filling a cup with his own hot blood to prove his body substantial. He invites Wagner to inspect the cup, then grabs the youth by the hand and beats him ‘miserably’ to clinch his point, leaving him ‘halfe dead’ on the ground, with the final injunction ‘hereafter… either to be more wary or lesse mistrustfull’ (sig. C3r). Once again the episode is intensely self-reflexive. In addition to the comment on the cliché of Faustus’s ‘sodaine’ appearance, the translator notes the long-windedness of Wagner’s part in the disputation (‘I wondred when I read this discourse, with what patience the Doctor could endure so long an argument’, sig. C2r), and concludes with a brusque dismissal of the chapter’s quality as fiction. It is typical, he observes, of the gross ‘lies’ that the Germans like to ‘father’ on Faustus, ‘new children’ (in the form of stories) who ‘cost very litle nursing and bringing uppe’ (sig. C3r). In this chapter, then, a discussion between Wagner and Faustus concerning substance and insubstantiality is identified as a thing of no substance – which is no surprise, the narrator adds, when you ‘consider from whose braines [it] proceede[s]’, since ‘witte for the most part [the Germans] have very little’ (sig. C3v). By this stage in the narrative, the relationship between substance and the insubstantial, nature and the supernatural, has been identified as a matter of psychology. The brain conceives as real what it wishes to conceive as real, and lends it substance through the force of its own credulity. Magic is a product of the imagination, and can do no harm to those who recognize its fanciful nature. And the point is underlined by the role played in the disputation by a cup full of blood.

Presented to Wagner by Faustus as proof of his corporeality, the blood in the cup undergoes a perverse transubstantiation after the doctor’s disappearance: it changes into a ‘Cap full of pisse’, a filthy item from his own wardrobe. This is only the first of a series of gibes linking magic to papist superstition throughout the text. In Chapter Ten, for instance, ‘A lamentable history of the death of sundry students of Wittenberg’, the students’ doom is sealed when they seek to protect themselves while working magic with the useless clutter of Catholicism: ‘the surplesses, the stoles, pall, miters, holy water pots broken, their periapts, seats, signes of the Angels of the seaven daies, with infinite like trash and damnable rogg[u]ery, the fruites of the Divels rancke fansie’ (sig. F4v). The inefficacy of these Catholic symbols, like the revolting transformation of a cup to a piss-filled cap, reminds the readers of the Second Report that they inhabit a world where ‘fansie’ has long run rampant in the form of mistaken or perverse religions. But it also affirms the readers’ capacity, as responsible and intelligent adults, to appreciate the obvious differences between reality and illusion, substance and shadow, true faith and false; a skill that permits them to see fictions like the Second Report for what they are, harmless ‘merriments’ of the sort that made Marlowe famous.

The third episode that concerns itself with illusory posthumous presences occurs in Chapter Six, which contains ‘A long discourse betwixt the Divell and Wagner’ on the question of whether the spirits of the damned may return to life in corporeal form. Resurrection of this kind is regularly practised by writers and actors, of course, so that mimetically speaking, at least, it is perfectly possible; and although the discussion that follows engages with the theology of resurrection – in particular, the controversy over Purgatory which had been humorously taken up in the ‘posthumous’ prose fiction of the early 1590s (think of Tarleton’s News Out of Purgatory) – it is equally preoccupied with the question of fictional representations both of resurrection and of theology. The discussion begins uneasily, with Wagner drawing attention to a problematic aspect of the Faustbuch and Marlowe’s Faustus. Both these narratives affirm that the devils became enraged when the doctor tried to ask them questions about theology; and Wagner begs Mephistopheles to have patience if he does the same, ‘for what hurt can redound to you’, he asks reasonably, ‘by aunswering of a question?’ The point could also apply, of course, to those severe Elizabethans who objected to the presence of theological questions in light fiction; and the reasonable response to Wagner’s inquiry – that engaging with such questions, in itself, can do no harm – is pointed up by the self-evidently fantastic context of the disputation that follows.

Mephistopheles reacts to Wagner’s cautious inquiry by flying into a rage, rushing in and out of the room and striking the table (in another anti-Catholic touch, the mark he leaves in the wood is later made into a relic). After that ‘he takes me one booke and hurls it against a Cupboorde, and then he takes the Cupboord and hurls it against the wall, and then he takes the wall and throwes it against the house, and the house out at the Window’ (sig. D1r). Only then does he calm down, at which point he ‘sate down further off, and thus quietly spake with a lowde voice’ (sig. D1r). This sequence of impossible reactions, culminating in a house being flung out of its own window and a loud voice speaking quietly, confirms the ironic spirit in which the ensuing disputation should be received. Mephistopheles lends his support to orthodox Calvinist doctrine, insisting that there are only two states following death, salvation and damnation, with ‘no place left for a third’ – that is, for Purgatory (sig. D2v); but the gentleman student clearly anticipates Protestant as well as Catholic objections to this section of the narrative. He observes that Puritans or ‘precisians’ – ‘they that have their consciences of the more precise cut’ – will be horrified by Mephistopheles’s intervention in a matter of divinity, but that ‘they which have right mindes’ will remain immune to the devil’s influence, or, by extension, to anything written about him (sig. D3r). On the contrary, he insists, it is the ‘precise’ Puritans who lead the more feeble-minded Christian astray with ‘vayn reasonings and questions’ (sig. D3r). Like Milton in Areopagitica, the student assumes that his readers are grown-up enough to distinguish between sense and nonsense, good and bad arguments – that is, until some Puritan succeeds in confusing them. The problem lies not in fiction but its recipients; it is a position thoroughly familiar from defences of poetry. Once again, stories and plays come across as a kind of intelligence test, and also as a measure of orthodoxy, distinguishing Catholic and Protestant extremists from the more moderate adherents of the Elizabethan religious settlement.

doctor-faustus-mephistophelesMephistopheles reinforces this implicit defence of fiction by acknowledging the ultimate uselessness of his own rhetoric. ‘I can’, he admits, ‘largely discourse of al divine and humaine propositions, but as the unlearned Parrat who speaketh oft and much, and understandeth never any thing to profite himselfe’ (sig. D3v). In other words, his ability to talk theology has no effect on his own damned condition; and by extension, it should have no effect on those who hear it. Mephistopheles urges Wagner, too, to dismiss the devil’s discourse as empty noise: ‘Knowest thou not (quoth he) that all the Rhetorickes are the servaunts of my tongue, or that we can move pitty or hatred when we please[?] Foole as thou art forget these vaine conferences, perswade thy selfe that they are but the effect of speach’ (sig. D4r). Instead he encourages the boy to immerse himself in pleasures of the flesh; and the chapter closes with a passage of sheer self-indulgence. Mephistopheles summons an Italian lady into Wagner’s chamber; she is described in lascivious detail (though the description is ‘farre more copious in the Dutch Coppy’, the student informs us), and Wagner himself is given the appearance of ‘Armisverio the Ladies Lorde’ so that he can have his way with her (sig. D4v). The rest of the night, we are told, passed for Wagner ‘in such pleasure as I could find in my heart to enjoy or any man (unless an Euenuch) beside’ (sig. E1r). And this sentence marks the beginning of the end of moralising in this cheeky narrative. By encouraging the male reader to join him in imaginative complicity with his youthful protagonist, the student adds the final touch to his case for the relative harmlessness of taking pleasure in fiction. This is a book for men who acknowledge that they are no eunuchs, who can see no sin in indulging in imaginative pleasures, who know they have both souls and bodies, both hearts and minds (‘I could find it in my heart’, the student admits, to share Wagner’s enjoyment). The discussion of Faustus’s corporeality in Chapter Three takes on a new significance: precisians ask more of the flesh than it can very well deliver. Human bodies contain blood, and blood demands the satisfaction of its sexual as well as its nutritional requirements. The position seems far more compatible with Marlowe’s sympathetic treatment of Faustus than with the moralistic stance of the Faustbuch, or even the Damnable History.

Conventional morality continues to assert itself from time to time in the chapters that follow – without it, after all, where would be the frisson in composing a satanic narrative? – but it gets increasingly overshadowed by the delights experienced by Wagner, and vicariously by narrator and reader, as he plunges ever more exuberantly into the practice of necromancy. In Chapter Seven, for instance, the narrator praises Wagner’s good looks, and the moral note is sounded with seeming reluctance at the end of the eulogy: ‘ther was nothing wanting in the man but a godly minde’ (sig. E1v). In Chapter Eight, the ‘Tragedy of Doctor Faustus seene in the Ayre’ shows how the doctor’s overthrow is accomplished after he has rejected the assistance of a ‘Legion of bright Angels ridinge uppon milke white Chariots’ in his final fight against the forces of darkness – a clear statement of Faustus’s guilt in rejecting God’s aid (E3r). But the fictiveness of the narrative is again stressed when the student refuses to describe the devilish theatre in detail, since this would run contrary ‘to the nature of the whole History’, with its fast pace and impish tone (sig. E2v); and he goes on to quote from the ultimate Renaissance text on writing fiction, the first seven lines of the Art of Poetry by Horace (sig. E2r), in support of his decision to use a plain rhetorical style for a modest subject. The stress in this chapter, then, is on artistry, both in the devils’ production of ‘The Tragedy of Doctor Faustus’ and in the narrator’s skilful description of it. The moral lesson is decidedly secondary. And in case we haven’t got the point, the chapter soon veers away from the performance altogether, to describe a physician’s fantastic voyage to Arabia Felix on a winged horse in search of a cure for one of the performance’s traumatized spectators, a young girl. The digression has a similar tone to the satirical digression concerning Mercury and the maid in Marlowe’s Hero and Leander; and like that digression it serves to underline the philosophy that informs the work as a whole. The physician’s journey represents a wholly benign use of magic – deployed for the purpose of curing an innocent patient; and it ends by demonstrating the fictional nature of the performance in the air, and its consequent harmlessness. The parents of the traumatized girl healed by the physician decide to erase all traces of the satanic performance that induced her trauma. They ‘for ever after caused the place wherein their daughter was thus scared’ (that is, the meadow above which the tragedy of Faustus was performed) ‘to bee unaccessable for man or beast, compassing it in with a high wall, and overthrowing the banckes, so that now there is no mention of the medow nor of the wall’ (sig. E4v). In other words, not only has the location of the aerial tragedy been removed from public sight, but so has the means of its removal – the high wall that blocked it from view. It would be as easy to overlook this piece of chop-logic (how could a wall be the cause of its own disappearance from the historical record?) as to miss the illogicality of the earlier statement that Mephistopheles ‘quietly spake with a lowde voice’. But to do so would be to confirm that one is not sophisticated enough to read comic prose in the proper spirit; that one is, in fact, an incompetent reader, incapable of appreciating the ironic, slippery tone of contemporary fiction.

German basse Rene Pape (R) as Mephistopheles and French tenor Roberto Alagna as Faust perform, on July 31, 2008, in Gounod's Opera "Faust" directed by Nicolas Joel and assisted by musical director Michel Plasson, at the "Theatre antique" in Orange, southern France, during the Choregies of Orange. AFP PHOTO ANNE-CHRISTINE POUJOULAT (Photo credit should read ANNE-CHRISTINE POUJOULAT/AFP/Getty Images)

Rene Pape and Roberto Alagna in Gounod’s Opera Faust

The mockery of didacticism, and of Elizabethan paranoia concerning the ill effects of fiction on its readers, reaches its climax in the story’s second half. Here Wagner is assisted by damned spirits, including the ghost of his former master, in the laudable business of playing a string of cruel tricks on the Sultan of Turkey, thus helping to foil his plot to overthrow Christendom. The notion of devils defending Christendom may be unexpected, but it builds on Mephistopheles’s staunch defence of Protestant orthodoxy in Chapter Six. And it could also be taken as a robust defence of the most celebrated English chronicler of Faustus’s adventures, the late Kit Marlowe, against charges of atheism based on his work. If Marlowe could conjure up devils this did not make him a devil; if he could imagine Tamburlaine this did not make him a heathen. As many have pointed out, nothing happens to Faustus – or Tamburlaine, Barabas, Edward II or the Guise – that contravenes Calvinist doctrine; all come to a sticky end (with the notable exception of Tamburlaine in Part One) which ought to satisfy the fiercest of moralists. And the point is driven home in the Report by Mephistopheles’s orthodoxy. His behaviour is in many ways impeccable, his theology sound, his defence of Christendom resolute; and the student author could have pointed this out to any would-be detractors. At the same time, his Mephistopheles, like Marlowe’s, is immensely sympathetic – in fact the Second Report elicits more sympathy for its damned characters, and grants them a happier ending, than any play by Marlowe. It is composed of the same explosive mixture of conformity and controversy, humour and horror, that made the dead man’s work so attractive.

Throughout the second half, for instance, the tone of the narrative continues to veer from solemnity to silliness, from the didactic to the daft, until it becomes effectively impossible to paint a coherent picture of the writer’s moral outlook. A portrayal of the Christian leader, Duke Alphonsus of Vienna, as the ideal prince and defender of the faith, is followed by the lurid account of an orgy thrown by Wagner before he sets off to fight on the Duke’s behalf. The tricks Wagner plays on the Great Turk end with the poor man’s death – swiftly followed by a magical resurrection, as if to underline the peculiar fusion of the comic and the serious that make this narrative so hard to pin down – after which he is soundly buffeted and plastered with mud, a treatment that might well have delighted the book’s more aggressive Christian readers. But the chivalrous Duke expresses his horror that so great a monarch should be treated so shamefully, thus rebuking any reader who took pleasure in the man’s humiliation. And Wagner’s response is to restore the Great Turk to his former condition, and to wipe from his mind all remembrance of his ordeal. Resurrection, restoration, the eradication of unhappy memories – all these imply that there is nothing to be feared from playing the devil in fiction. The temptation to see this as a justification of Marlowe’s treatment of the Turkish Emperor Bajazeth in Tamburlaine the Great is irresistible; Tamburlaine’s cruelty on stage, it implies, has no more serious consequences than Wagner’s cruelty to the Great Turk, and takes no more permanent purchase on the viewer’s brain. And Wagner’s obedience to the Christian Duke recalls Faustus’s service to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, in Doctor Faustus. Tamburlaine, Faustus, the Duke, Wagner, even Mephistopheles, are all made champions of the new mimesis in this narrative, which represents the strangeness of the human mind in all its complexity, liberated from the need to conform to the simplistic patterns of cause and effect laid down by the moralists. And the point would seem to be clinched in the final section, when Wagner and Faustus are made honorary Englishmen.

MarloweThe last battle against the Great Turk sees the German magicians and their team of familiars take their places among the ‘English archers’ in the Christian army (sig. K1r). Here they show an expertise in the tactical uses of the ‘eughen bow’ (sig. K1v) – instrumental in the English victories at Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt – to match their skills in necromancy. And in return for their patriotism, their inevitable fate as damned spirits is replaced by celebration, a triumphal party that embraces the whole of continental Europe. The concluding sentence of the book tells how the Duke and his fellow Christian princes ‘with great joy caused generall feasts and triumphs to be performed in all theyr kingdomes, provinces, and territories whatsoever’ (sig. K2r). And this lapse into the language of official proclamations seems to cast a retrospective benison on the man who brought Faustus to the English stage. If Faustus could be reinvented as an English hero, then Marlowe could be a hero too, and his ghost re-imagined as a vigorous participant in the retrospective celebration of his achievements that took place, on stage and in print, in the wake of his murder. Clearly The Second Report must be seen as among the wittiest and most inventive contributions to this celebration.

 

Notes

[1] See Park Honan, Christopher Marlowe: Poet and Spy (Oxford, 2005), and Lori Humphrey Newcomb, ‘Robert Greene’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/11418, accessed 2.8.2011).

[2] See e.g. Lori Humphrey Newcomb, ‘Ghosts’, Reading Popular Romance in Early Modern England (New York, 2002), pp. 70-76.

[3]The Works of George Peele, ed. A. H. Bullen, 2 (London, 1888), p. 320.

[4] For literary responses to Marlowe’s death, see Honan, Christopher Marlowe (see above, n. 1), pp. 355-67.

[5] See David Bevington and Eric Rasmussen, eds., Doctor Faustus: A- and B-Texts, The Revels Plays (Manchester and New York, 1993), ‘The B-text’, pp. 72-77. All references to Doctor Faustus are to this edition.

[6] STC 10715; 2nd ed. STC 10715.3 (online available through EEBO).

[7] See Honan, Christopher Marlowe, p. 361.

[8] Greene explains his reference to Diogenes more fully in his Farewell to Folly (1591): ‘Diogenes hath taught me, that to kicke an asse when he strikes, were to smell of the asse for meddling with the asse’; Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. A. B. Grosart (London and Aylesbury, 1881-83), 9, p. 230.

[9]Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart, 7, pp. 7-8.

[10] Honan, Christopher Marlowe (see above, n. 1), p. 184.

[11] For these attacks, see Honan, Christopher Marlowe (see above, n. 1), pp. 184-85.

[12]Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart (see above, n. 8), 12, pp. 141-43.

[13] See John Jowett, ‘Notes on Henry Chettle [pt 1]’, Review of English Studies, n.s., 45 (1994), 384-88.

[14] On Greene’s habit of deferral, see R. W. Maslen, ‘Robert Greene and the Uses of Time’, Writing Robert Greene, ed. Kirk Melnikoff and Edward Gieskes (Aldershot and Burlington, VT, 2008), pp. 157-88.

[15]Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart (see above, n. 8), 12, p. 207.

[16] See ‘Faust in England: Dating the English Faust Book and Doctor Faustus’, The English Faust Book, ed. John Henry Jones (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 52-72.

[17] See The Black Book, ed. G. B. Shand, Thomas Middleton: The Collected Works, ed. Gary Taylor and John Lavagnino (Oxford, 2007), pp. 204-6. All references are to this edition.

[18] Eric Rasmussen, ‘The Black Book and the Date of Doctor Faustus’, Notes and Queries 235, n.s., 37 (1990), pp. 168-70.

[19] For the dates of both texts see The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), pp. 52-72.

[20] See R. W. Maslen, ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech, and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’, Journal of the Northern Renaissance, Issue 1.1 (March, 2009), pp. 129-44. (http://northernrenaissance.org/articles/Robin-GoodfellowbrRobert-Maslen/13, accessed 2.8.2011).

[21] Harold Jantz, ‘An Elizabethan Statement on the Origin of the German Faust Book’, Journal of English and German Philology, vol. 15, no. 2 (April, 1952), pp. 137-53.

[22] See The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), p. 10 ff. Interestingly, Jantz proposes that the translation referred to in the passage is the German translation (the Faustbuch) from a lost Latin original, whose existence was surmised by Robert Petsch in his edition of the Faustbuch, Das Volksbuch vom Doktor Faust (Halle, 1911). See Jantz, ‘An Elizabethan Statement’ (see above, n. 21).

[23] See Fynes Morison, An Itinerary Containing His Ten Years’ Travel (1617), 4 (Glasgow, 1907-8), p. 16.

[24] My thanks to Robert Cummings for furnishing me with a translation of the Latin in the second epistle.

[25] For a summary of Jeffes’s career, see The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), pp. 45-50.

[26]The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), p. 181.

[27] This passage builds on arguments I developed (in relation to other texts) in Elizabethan Fictions (Oxford, 1997), and ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech, and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’ (see above, n. 20).

[28] Richard Stralik, ‘Doktor Faust und die erste Türkenbelagerung Wiens’, Zeit­schrift für Allgemeine Geschichte, ed. Hans von Zwiedineck-Südenhorst, 1 (Stutt­gart, 1884), pp. 401-6.

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The Goblin Basements

3453163-dump-yard-full-of-dust-mess-and-garbageThe first time he visited the Goblin Basements he was very nearly unprepared. It was Christmas Eve, and the toys had been rioting all day, refusing to obey the simplest orders and breaking each other at the slightest excuse. He had given his laser to two members of the Imperial Guard so they could keep a couple of recalcitrant roboshifters at bay on the bedside table. His bodyguard ‘Thug’ Thorson was under interrogation in the kitchen cupboard, having been arrested the day before by the Bear Police for suspected dealings with a criminal gang on the True Crime channel. Gran had opened the flap of the garbage chute and a little vampire bat had escaped from inside, fluttering around and spraying noxious fumes all over the kitchen till Jenny flattened it with a spatula. ‘Bottom flap must be jammed open,’ said Gran. ‘Go down and fix it, would you, Ben? Quick as you can, tea’s almost ready. I’d go myself if it wasn’t for my gammy leg.’

Showering curses on elderly grandmothers and their gammy legs, Ben left the bears to grill ‘Thug’ Thorson and stumped out of the flat without so much as strapping on a light sabre. ‘Don’t be long, now, Ben,’ Gran called after him. ‘Don’t talk to strangers and don’t turn aside. If you see something useful in the basement bring it up – but never stray from the path whatever happens. You know the rules.’

‘I’m not a kid,’ Ben muttered under his breath, too softly for Gran to hear. He pressed the button for the lift and heard the distant clunk as it came to life in the depths of the building.

Then the lights went out.

The lights in all the public areas of the apartment block were governed by timing devices to save electricity. You switched them on by hand and after so many seconds they switched themselves off, usually at the most inconvenient moment possible. If you needed to switch them on again you could locate the switches because they had little red lights behind them like the eyes of Morlocks – those underground cannibals in the movie Ben had watched when he was eight, whose white fur and yellow teeth he could never forget when darkness took him. He thought of them now and shrugged his shoulders to shake off the shivers. He was older now; if he met a Morlock he would punch out its teeth with a blow of his fist. Still, he wished ‘Thug’ Thorson was with him. Thug wasn’t that big, and his left arm was missing, but he could talk Ben out of his fears with his Texas drawl and his cheerful grin. Maybe he should go back and get him now, before the lift doors opened –

The lift doors opened with a pneumatic hiss.

The cage of the lift was as dark as the corridor, though the light wasn’t governed by a timer. The bulb must be broken again. Ben stepped inside and felt for the button marked ‘Basement’. It would be the bottom button, wouldn’t it? He punched that. The lift gave an angry jerk and began its descent.

This was one of those old-fashioned lifts with open sides shielded with wire mesh to prevent you falling out into the lift shaft. When there was light you could see the concrete walls with their girders moving slowly past you. You could see other things as well: scribblings where, through one of the gaps in the mesh, someone had managed to scrawl his name as the lift went by; and other, more elaborate scribblings which could only have been done with time and patience. Ben had often wondered how they got there. Gran said it was when the lift got stuck, as it often did – then told him not to think about such horrible things, what was wrong with him, he should know better at his age. He thought the scribblings must have been made by the vampire bats or their leather-clad riders, who moved about the shaft independent of elevators.

Down the lift went, and down and down. Surely we should be there by now, Ben thought, tapping his teeth with one of his thumbnails as he always did when nervous. At least it was getting lighter. A pale green glow filtered up from below, and the usual groan and hum of the elevator was accompanied by other noises: a tapping as of distant hammers, a scraping as of shuffling feet. Must be workers in the basement, he told himself, though why they should be clearing sewage pipes or collecting refuse at midnight was beyond his comprehension. They would probably be strangers. When he got there he’d better keep shtum and stay close to the walls. Strangers meant trouble, and he didn’t want trouble so close to Christmas. You never knew what Santa would make of it if a brawl broke out and someone got hurt.

As the pale green light grew stronger he began to notice things. There were no longer doors at intervals in the concrete sides of the shaft; the last one had passed many seconds ago. And the drawings on the cracked grey surface were getting more ornate. They were mostly done in black and red: sharp, ugly little drawings that bore a family resemblance to the sharp, ugly little tap-tap-tapping noises in the depths of the building, which grew louder by the minute. Mostly they seemed to be of little black and scarlet figures, all spikes and jags, torturing each other with a range of complicated instruments. Under some of them slogans were painted in a childish scrawl: THE END IS NIGH, YOU’RE GOING DOWN, or simply DEATH. Ben loosened an imaginary pistol in its holster, acutely feeling his own defencelessness. His anger with Gran was still too hot for the cold to have entered him yet. If he was shivering it wasn’t with fear but with irritation; he would almost welcome, he thought, the chance to work off his feelings in a decent brawl. Deep down, though, he knew it wouldn’t be long before fear took hold, and he hoped against hope that he would have reached the bottom and stepped out of the lift before it did. If not, he would find it hard to leave the shelter of the cramped steel cage.

Now the lift was moving more slowly. Soon it stopped. The green light, as if governed by a timing device, went out. With another sharp hiss the doors slid open – he could tell by the gust of putrescent air that hit his face. Ben squared his shoulders and waited till his breathing was steadier. Then he stepped through.

Blackness swathed him, thick and breathless, muffling his ears so that the scuff of his boots on the concrete floor sounded far away and timeworn. His nose, too, was plugged by a stench that turned the air to acrid tar. He looked around for the small red glow that would mark a light switch. There were several, none close by. As he edged towards one of them along the wall, the distance turned out to be far greater than he had imagined, and was made to seem further still by the jumble of oddments that covered the floor. He kept treading on brittle sticks that snapped or crunched beneath his heels, or kicking aside hard hollow objects that clattered and rolled. The darkness, too, kept changing texture, sometimes stifling him like a pelt, sometimes clinging to his skin like plastic sheeting or trailing sticky cobweb-threads across his face. The journey to the light became a trek and then a nightmare, extending itself beyond all probability until the space he moved through seemed as vast as the vaults of hell and as full of torment.

Just as he reached the little red light – and by this time he had become uncomfortable with its shape – it suddenly vanished. He found himself utterly without coordinates, unsure where he had come from or what lay ahead. He had lost the wall; when he stretched out his hand to find it he felt only the brush of tepid air against his fingertips. Ben turned full circle in a desperate effort to locate another switch, the rubberized heels of his boots letting out small fearful squeals as they ground against concrete.

A squeal rang out to his left.

He stopped dead and stood unmoving, holding his breath, ears pricked to detect any further sounds. There were none.

After what seemed several minutes he could stand it no longer and broke the silence. ‘Anyone there?’ he whispered hoarsely. Then louder: ‘Anyone there?’

At once an echo seized his words and whipped them away into the cavernous blackness, making them rise and rise in pitch as they moved higher and circled faster, until the air was filled with squeaks and the frantic flutter of tiny wings. That was when Ben realized where he was. Everyone knew about the Goblin Basement – the yawning gulf that lay beneath the lowest level of the building, the abode of vampire bats and other things best left unnamed – and though the knowledge made his knees melt under him, it meant that he wasn’t wholly unprepared for what he saw when the light returned, flooding the unwholesome chamber with its luminescence.

The room was vast, as he had guessed, and half filled with rubbish. Parts of the ceiling had fallen in, dropping chunks of plaster on mouldering heaps of rusty cans, old stoves and fridges, twisted hub-caps, plastic bags, crushed cardboard boxes, broken bottles, the arms and heads of dismembered robots, the shattered shells of ancient visiscreens with sense-o-listic sense-stimulators trailing limply from their sides like the tentacles of long-dead octopods. From the holes in the broken ceiling, tubes and chutes stuck out at haphazard angles like severed limbs. Oily liquid drooled from the pipes, slavering the refuse underneath with yellow slime. As Ben crouched in the middle of the room, his features bathed in the uncertain glow from the globe above his head, he heard something crashing as it bounced against the sides of a nearby chute: down, down, down, louder and louder, till it whizzed from the open mouth and smashed to pieces on the rubbish beneath. He knew what the object was when a uniformed leg bounced against his foot: one of the guardsmen he’d left on duty on his bedside table. The leg gave a feeble jerk and then lay still.

The globe flickered bright and dim and dim and bright as if in time to some sickly heartbeat. By it, you couldn’t tell if there was anything else besides the rubbish in the Goblin Basements. But Ben knew there was something else; he’d heard the stories. He looked wildly around for the lift. There it was, impossibly far away to his right across the desert of the concrete floor. Between him and it the concrete stretched, a dusty plain marked with tiny ripples like the ocean bed and littered with overspill from the tip. He swiftly turned to face the rubbish and started to back towards the elevator doors. Always face your enemy, Gran had warned him, unless you fancy the thought of something long and sharp and rusty between your shoulderblades. Not tonight, he didn’t. Not on Christmas Eve, alone and weaponless in an underground dump.

A tap-tap-tapping broke out behind him: the same noise that had sounded in the lift shaft. He glanced over his shoulder, one swift glance, then returned his gaze to the mountain of refuse. The glance had been enough to show him a tall thin figure with an oily cockscomb of black spiked hair, a torn leather jacket, a T shirt asking DO YOU FEEL LUCKY, chains on its chest. Where the face should have been the figure wore a mask made from the front panel of an old-fashioned vacuum cleaner, with a vacant ‘O’ in the middle for dust to be sucked through. The legs were jointed metal lampstands, terminating in high leather boots without soles or toecaps. He could see through the gaps that there were no feet inside them. Strapped to the boots was a pair of rollerblades, a wheel missing from one axle.

The tapping came from a monkey-wrench being gently swung against the elevator doors.

‘Look alive, lads,’ a whistling voice called through the mask. ‘We have a guest to share our midnight frolics!’

Piece by piece the refuse stirred. Each piece turned out to be connected to another piece and moved by a will. The plastic face of a cabbage-patch doll, grotesquely small, attached to the barrel-chest of a boiler, rose on frail mop-o-matic legs and blinked its lashes as it looked Ben over. A small green rubberized monster with lightswitch eyes uncurled itself from under an unsprung armchair, which itself unfolded arms made of copper wire and peered at Ben from bloodshot eyes embedded in the upholstery. Kicking jars and cans aside, the Goblins lurched from their putrescent hiding-places and gathered in a semicircle about ten feet from where Ben stood. Ben went on retreating, right hand held out in the defensive posture favoured by ‘Thug’ Thorson. The thumb of his other hand – the one Thug didn’t have – knocked against his teeth, tapping out a nervous tattoo in time to the tapping of the monkey-wrench against the metal panels.

‘A big fellow, this,’ the whistling voice remarked, close by his shoulder. There was a rumbling sound as the rollerblades changed position on the concrete floor. Ben stopped dead, acutely aware that another step or two would bring him within range of the tool in Cockscomb’s fist. ‘Big enough to do the Jinglebells Waltz, I should imagine,’ the voice whistled on. ‘Or the Crimbo Caper, or the Krampus Can Can. Which will it be?’

‘The Krampus Can Can! The Krampus Can Can!’ ground out a waste disposal unit with iron teeth. ‘There’s so much more leftover waste in the Krampus Can Can.’

‘Can you dance, friend?’ Cockscomb whispered in Ben’s left ear, touching his elbow with the tip of its wrench. Ben swung round suddenly and smashed the panel from its crested head with a blow of his fist, sending it scuttering across the floor like a wrecked toboggan. In the space where the panel had been, a confusion of wires and fuses spat out sparks as if in outrage.

Ben broke into a run. ‘He’s dancing, he’s dancing,’ shrieked the Goblins, scampering to plant themselves between him and the liftshaft. A serve-o-bot mounted on a set of twisted pramwheels screeched past on his right. The faceless rollerblader passed him on his left, trailing sparks and smoke. Ben stopped dead and kicked out backwards with his steel-capped boot, felt the rubber monster bounce away at the impact, dodged around doll-face, then wheeled abruptly and started to run back the way he’d come, towards the mountain of waste. Wrong-footed, the Goblins didn’t recover quickly, which gave him hope. They careened into each other, cursing and laughing hysterically and spinning in circles to see which way he’d gone. He plunged straight into the garbage, driving forward with all his force until he reached the guardsman’s torso and snatched at the pouch he’d seen on its belt.

‘He’s meddling with our property!’ Cockscomb vented in a stream-train shriek. ‘He wants to play rough! Stop hedging, boys, and grapple him! Let him feel us!’

Ben had just managed to unfasten the pouch and get his hand inside when a hubcap, hurled discus-fashion, struck the side of his head. He fell sprawling into a pile of rotting vegetables and the rubber monster landed on his chest. Luckily his hold on the pouch never loosened; he clung to it like death as he rose to his feet. And now the Goblins began to shove him from one to another like a broken puppet. One pushed him in the small of the back so that he stumbled forwards; a second struck him on the cheek so he spun to his left; a third stamped on his boot so hard that he shrieked in pain, despite the steel toecaps. ‘He’s dancing the Krampus Can Can!’ the Goblins screamed, and clapped their hands, claws, gloves, or drill bits in a rising cacophony of wild applause.

In a lull between the punches, shoves and gouges, he managed to grasp the thing in the pouch, the thing he had stolen from Gran last week for just such emergencies. ‘Stop, all of you!’ he bellowed, holding it aloft. So loud he bellowed that even the bat-echoes forgot to transform his words into metallic shrieks. So loud that the Goblins did indeed stop for a moment, stunned into silence by his urgent tone.

The silence lasted only a moment, but it was long enough for him to shout again: ‘I’ve got the thimble! Don’t any of you move! I’ve got the thimble!

A hundred eyes fixed fearful gazes on the tiny thing he held above his head. Red eyes, hole eyes, single eyes, composite eyes, glittering or midnight black in the verdigris light that kept up its flickering from bright to dim, from dim to bright in uneasy response to the irregular current. The waste disposal unit took a step backwards on chickenbone legs, grinding metal teeth. A visiscreen retracted its sense-o-listic tentacles, which had been fully extended to deliver stabs of electric pain to Ben’s face and hands. A stove with lion’s-claw feet lost its balance and fell, crushing a sentient cardboard box that had been standing behind it. Still holding high the thimble, Ben stepped between the Goblins, taking care to hold their eyes with his fierce black stare. For a horrible moment he thought that Cockscomb and Pramwheels would not shrink away from him like the rest. But as he came closer the serve-o-bot trundled off into a corner and Cockscomb skated aside to let him pass. A whispering and murmuring followed him and he turned to face it, because, Gran said, you must never turn your back.

‘The thimble,’ Cockscomb was muttering. ‘He’s got the thimble. What does it do?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ Pramwheels hissed back. ‘I never felt it and I never want to feel it. See how it shines!’

‘Anyone here ever felt the thimble?’ Cockscomb called, and Ben knew his time was short. He picked up the monkey-wrench from where Cockscomb had dropped it and weighed it in his hand. Then he hurled it with all his strength at the glowing green globe in the middle of the ceiling. He had practised throws like this for many months on the roof of the building, hurling spanners, bricks and pool balls at a range of targets, until he could throw almost anything of any size and shape with pinpoint accuracy across a distance of up to fifty feet. The globe exploded, spraying the nearby Goblins with luminous goo. Screams rang out as the affected Goblins began to melt like plastic soldiers on a red-hot stovetop. Ben lunged for the elevator doors and punched the button. The doors began to open. Tires, claws, boots, pincers and caterpillar tracks clashed, rumbled, screeched or squealed as the Goblins rushed him. He flung the wrench at Cockscomb’s head and threw himself backwards, twisting round to punch a button, any button, as he landed inside. The doors hissed together with maddening slowness. A leather glove encasing steel pistons jammed itself between them. Ben gripped it and gave it a yank, the mightiest yank he had ever given; he’d practised for many months to perfect that yank, pulling rivets from twisted girders with bleeding fingers, ripping wheels and accelerator pedals from the wrecks of cars. It came off in his hand. The doors hissed shut. Outside a Goblin howled, a steam-whistle shriek of pain and fury that hurt his ears. Bleeding from head and sides, Ben sank down in a corner, clutching the glove.

As the lift ascended, the lights went on.

At Ben’s floor it stopped with a jolt and the doors hissed open. ‘Thug’ Thorson stood there, his one thumb hooked in his tooled leather belt with the snake’s head buckle, his Stetson tipped at a rakish angle on his shaven skull. With him were two or three members of the Imperial Guard, their uniforms still blackened from the famous battle in the attic a few weeks previously. They lifted Ben to his feet and half led, half carried him along the corridor towards Gran’s flat. ‘Thug’ Thorson stayed behind to cover their retreat with a rapid-fire crossbow.

Gran was at the kitchen sink, peeling tatties for their Christmas dinner. Carols drifted faint and shaky from the ancient wireless. ‘Did you manage to fix the chute?’ she asked without turning. Then, catching sight of his reflection in the kitchen window, she swung round and let out a cry of concern and anger.

‘Oh you poor dear foolish boy!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve got yourself thrashed by them boys that live in the rough parts of the building, haven’t you? You turned aside when I told you not to. You spoke to strangers when you should have kept shtum. I’ve told you over and over, but do you listen? Do you heck. Oh, whatever am I going to do with this mindless idiot?’

‘Lock him in the loony bin,’ Jemima suggested, cramming a fistful of tortilla chips between her jaws. She and Jerry were watching a horror film on the visiscreen, surrounded by the usual litter that accompanies such viewings: magazines to hide behind, armchairs likewise, screwed-up crisp packets, popcorn, plates. But Jerry took one swift glance at Ben’s bleeding wounds and let out a shriek fit to wake the dead, then buried his head beneath a pile of cushions.

‘Jemima, mind your wicked tongue!’ Gran snapped. ‘Ben can’t help his intellect. And Jerry, stop that awful racket. It’s bad enough having one fool in the family without you making it two.’

‘I saw a f-f-face at the window!’ Jerry stammered from under the cushions. ‘It was green, and it had red eyes like the lights in the c-c-corridor!’

‘Oh, hold your noise!’ Gran snarled as she steered Ben towards the bathroom. ‘You should be in bed. I always said them sorts of films was bad for young minds.’

But when Ben’s head had been bandaged up and his other wounds seen to, he went straight back to work, despite Gran’s weary demands that he go to bed. He did the rounds of the flat with extra care, stationing a guardsman at every window, a space platoon under every table, a laser-wielding bear on top of the tree. Far into the night he sat with ‘Thug’ Thorson in the living room, making his plans. Now and then he heard Gran muttering in her sleep, or one of the kids crying out in terror at some vivid nightmare: a monster remembered from the movie maybe, or a vision at the kitchen window, or something worse. Tonight, though, Ben didn’t go and comfort them as usual with a story or a wordless song. He was far too busy. Ben was plotting the Battle of the Goblin Basements; and as he plotted he paused now and then to raise his head, listening intently to the tap-tap-tapping that echoed up the waste-chute from the depths of the building.

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