Horror and decadence : A review of "The King in Yellow" by Robert W. Chambers

Horror and Decadence

A review of "The King in Yellow" by Robert W. Chambers

I cannot forget Carcosa where black stars hang in the heavens; where the shadows of men’s thoughts lengthen in the afternoon...

The term "weird fiction" could have been coined to describe “The King in Yellow”. First published in 1895, and reissued in a deluxe "gift edition” by Pushkin Press, it features elements of horror and the supernatural and even a touch of science fiction and yet fits uncomfortably under any of these categories. It is frankly, just plain “weird”. 

The book consists of four short stories which are linked by some common characters and, more importantly, by a recurring leitmotiv, a mysterious play called “The King in Yellow”. This play is, purportedly, a work of such evil genius that whoever reads its second act descends into madness and despair. Chambers uses a technique which would later greatly inspire H.P. Lovecraft (he applies it to great effect in his Cthulhu stories) – we are never actually told what the play is all about, the narrators in each story merely make vague references to its contents, leaving us to surmise what evil horrors this banned work might hold within its pages. 

The first story – “The Repairer of Reputations” – is set (like the fourth) in an imagined future America of the 1920s and sets the macabre tone of the work. It is narrated by a young man just out of a mental institution, who has delusions about ruling America in allegiance with the powerful “King in Yellow”. This story recalls Poe in its portrayal of obsession and madness, leading to a bloody denouement. The second tale, "The Mask", is a sort of “Pygmalion” in reverse. Set in France, it tells of a sculptor who discovers a chemical solution which can turn live beings into statues. This story introduces a new ingredient to the mix – the bohemian milieu beloved of fin-de-siecle, decadent literature. It is not uncommon in such works to encounter a fascination with the Catholic faith, or at least, its cultural trappings. This is the case with “In the Court of the Dragon”, in which the protagonist seems to be pursued by a demonic church organist. This sinister predator is likely just a tired musician escaping to the loo during a longish sermon, but to the narrator, fresh from reading that abominable play, he comes across as a malign figure sent by the King in Yellow to claim his soul. “The Yellow Sign” takes us back to 1920s America, but we are again in a world of artists and their models. There is also the presence of a Catholic church, such that at first, the atmosphere is not far removed from that of the previous story. This time round, however, the haunting is not done by an organist but by a “worm-like” churchyard watchman who, it seems, is possessed by the King in Yellow and is after the Yellow Sign, a curious gold clasp found by the narrator’s model.

Chambers’ short story collection originally contained six other stories, but it is only the first four which are linked by the “King of Yellow” theme. So it makes sense for this edition to be limited to these four tales which, partly thanks to Lovecraft, have achieved cult status amongst lovers of weird fiction.

Cover of the first 1895 edition

Hardcover, 160 pages

Published October 26th 2017 by Pushkin Press

Although Chambers was an American author who lived and worked in New York, in his youth – precisely between 1886 and 1903 – he had studied art in Paris, which might explain why his weird tales seem to breathe a decadent French air.  That curious mix of horror and sentimentality, fixation with Catholic motifs alongside a penchant for esoterism, has the slightly overpowering fragrance of fin-de-siecle Paris.  When one thinks of France and decadent literature, one of the first composers who come to mind is Debussy, with his settings of Baudelaire and Verlaine, and his languourous works inspired by Mourey (Syrinx) and Mallarmé (Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune).    

Less known are his unfinished attempts at operas based on Edgar Allan Poe – The Devil in the Belfry and The Fall of the House of Usher.  Of the latter, all that remains is an incomplete libretto and piano sketches for some of the scenes.   What Debussy could have made of Poe’s masterpiece is an intriguing question.

André Caplet (1878 – 1925) is best known for his orchestrations of piano works by Debussy.  He was also a composer in his own right, especially of vocal and choral music. His Mass for 3 voices has the type of French sentimentality would would have been familiar to the demon organist of In the Court of the Dragon.  Caplet was also a fan of Poe, composing two works inspired by The Masque of the Red Death.  Here’s Conte Fantastique, for harp and string quartet:

If esoterism is your cup of tea, some of the works of Erik Satie (1866 – 1925) can strike a chord, even though his ventures into the otherworldly should be taken with a generous pinch of salt.  By 1891, Satie was the official composer and “chapel-master” of the Rosicrucian "Ordre de la Rose-Croix Catholique, du Temple et du Graal".  This led to “ritual” compositions such as Sonneries de la Rose+Croix. These rythmically fluid, chant-like piano pieces can, with hindsight be considered ground-breaking avant-garde works.

Zoom forward to 21st Century America, and a work based directly by Chambers’ The King in Yellow. Melody Eötvös (born 1984) is an Australian-born composer now based in the US, some of whose compositions are inspired by literature of the dark sort by the likes of Neil Gaiman and James De Mille.  “The King in Yellow : Three pieces for Six Instruments” won the Soundstream Collective National Young Composers Award.

Melody Eötvös has now written a follow-up in the shape of an opera:

For a more filmic experience a hugely enjoyable track by Graham Plowman which would work brilliantly as a soundtrack to an imagined horror movie...

Stockholm, 1793 - a review of "The Wolf and the Watchman" by Niklas Natt och Dag

Stockholm, 1793 

"The Wolf and the Watchman" by Niklas Natt och Dag

(translated by Ebba Segerberg)

A book review

James Vella-Bardon, Maltese author of “The Sheriff’s Catch” (which I review here) has publicly declared that he does not like his novel described as a work of “historical fiction”, despite the fact that it is set in the 16th Century.  According to him, the term historical fiction could have negative connotations for some readers, who might be led to expect a soporific period piece, rather than a vibrant and engaging story.  And so, “The Sheriff’s Catch” should be called a historical thriller, thank you very much.

Whether one agrees with Vella-Bardon or not, it is certainly true that one of the greatest challenges faced by writers inspired by the past, is how to give that historical context an immediacy and authenticity which can grip the imagination of the contemporary reader.  “The Sheriff’s Catch” succeeded brilliantly in this.  The same can be said of “The Wolf and the Watchman”, a wonderful historical mystery which ended my 2018 reading year with a bang. 

Originally published in Swedish as “1793”, Niklas Natt och Dag’s debut novel will soon be available in English in an idiomatic translation by Ebba Segerberg.   And it has all the makings of a literary bestseller.   The story is set in Stockholm in the late 18th Century.  Europe is still in awe of the revolutionary goings-on in France and, following the assassination of Gustav III, revolutionary fervour in the Swedish city is tempered by a sense of fear and dread as to what might happen if matters get out of hand.  In this incendiary environment,  Mickell Cardell, a one-armed ex-soldier and night watchman, makes a grisly find.  Somebody has disposed of a body in the city’s lake – and it is a body with excised limbs and gouged eyes, testifying to a slow and painful death.  This is the type of crime whose investigation the Head of the Stockholm Police can only assign to a trusted person – and that’s Cecil Winge, a lawyer with progressive ideals who is battling the last stages of consumption.  Winge teams up with Cardell and together they attempt to crack the case.  Their fraught journey will take them through all layers of Stockholm society, from the lowest classes to the supposed elite of the city, who also have their dark and base secrets.

In a virtuoso feat of storytelling, Niklas Natt och Dag introduces two further strands in his tale, which are presented to the reader in reverse chronological order.  First there is the epistolary account of Kristofer Blix, a handsome young man who moves to Stockholm with the dream of becoming a doctor.  Then there is the story of Anna-Stina, sent to a dreary workhouse after being wrongly accused of working as a prostitute.  In the final chapters, these three threads combine to create a satisfying finale.  Some plot twists are rather too convenient, but the momentum is such that one gladly suspends disbelief.   

View of Stockholm, late 18th Century

So why is The Wolf and the Watchman good “historical fiction”?   First of all, the setting is no mere “appendage” to the story – the beliefs, ideals and way of life of the period fuel both the plot and the characters’ motivations and thought processes. Secondly, the historical context is authentic, not simply in the sense of being well-researched (though it seems to be that as well), but more importantly in that the novel places us soundly in the period it is describing.  Indeed, the descriptions do not shy away from the revolting – whether stench, disease or bodily fluids.  In this respect, a warning to the fainthearted is in order – the novel can be very graphic and I must admit to skipping a couple of paragraphs and reading others whilst peeping between my fingers. It can be dark, it can be bleak, but it certainly cannot be accused of presenting the past with nostalgic, rose-tinted hues.   

At the same time, I liked the fact that the author plays around with the genre.  The Wolf and the Watchman presents elements of the “police procedural” and, in its use of an investigating duo combining brain and brawn, it pays tribute to classic detective fiction.  There is also a strong noir element – the customers of smokey nightclubs and striptease joints replaced by the tobacco-chewing patrons of Stockholm pubs and coffee-houses.  And, to the great pleasure of yours truly, there is more than a whiff of Gothic in some of the darker pages of the text.

   

1793 was voted best debut novel of 2017 by the Swedish Academy of Crime Writers.  It's a deserved win and, hopefully, its English translation will bring it to the attention of a wider audience. 

Expected publication: February 7th 2019 by John Murray 

***

Although set in Stockholm, The Wolf and the Watchman is largely by the events of the French Revolution.   Winge upholds the Enlightenment ideals supposedly reflected in the insurrection but has his reservations about the bloodbath which followed.  In France, the Revolution had an impact on the arts, not least on music.  It was a catalyst in the rise of revolutionary “street music”, of which the most lasting legacy is La Marseillaise, later adopted as the French national anthem. 

The violence unleashed by the Revolution however cast a pall over its legacy (although, perhaps, not as much as one would have expected).  The guillotine, in particular, became a potent symbol of the Reign of Terror and seemed to haunt the psyche of the nation.  This is particularly evident Alexandre Dumas’s relatively little-known collection of supernatural tales – A Thousand and One Ghosts.  Musically, it finds a parallel in March to the Scaffold the fourth movement of Hector Berlioz’s Gothic extravaganza Symphonie Fantastique. (about which you can read more here).  

The guillotine makes another famous appearance in classical music in the final scene of Francis Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmelites which presents a fictionalised account of the execution by guillotine of the “Martyrs of Compiègne” during the closing days of the Reign of Terror. 

Revolutionary trends were rife in other countries, leading to the disenchantment with Gustav III of Sweden and his eventual assassination.  Whatever faults Gustav had, he is deservedly lauded as a patron of the arts.  The Royal Theatre was built under his auspices, and his support of opera composers led to a school of opera still referred to as Gustavian opera.  Johann Gottlieb Naumann was one of these composers – he is known amongst others for his “lyric tragedy” Gustaf Wasa, written to a libretto by Johan Kellgren based on a concept of Gustav III himself.

It is therefore ironic that the assassination of Gustav III should itself become the subject of opera – and more than one at that.  Daniel Auber’s Gustave III appeared in 1833.  It was followed, more famously, by Giuseppe Verdi’s  Un Ballo in Maschera.  Composed in 1859, censorship requirements in Rome and Naples forced Verdi to change the setting several times, amidst the censors’ fears that a royal assassination relatively close to home was an unsavoury subject for a theatre piece.  Clearly, Gustav III was not the only royal to live in the grip of paranoia...