Watching, Waiting: Sarah Perry's Melmoth

Melmoth 

by Sarah Perry

A book review

At their Catholic catechism lessons, my daughters learn that God loves them, that they are special in His eyes and that with a little help from above they can take on the world. 

How times change.  When I was growing up, barely two decades after Vatican II, it felt as if the Almighty had a much dimmer view of mankind. I remember, in particular, a catechism book (admittedly published before I was born, but still running around at my Grandma’s) featuring a rather disturbing illustration.  In a bright, clear sky shines an All-Seeing Eye encased in a triangular shape. In the foreground, behind a high wall, a little boy is climbing up a tree in an orchard, presumably to steal an apple or two. I might have got it all wrong, but to the child I was at the time, the message was clear:  we may try to hide our trespasses, but we cannot run away from God.

This long-forgotten picture kept resurfacing in my mind as I read Melmoth, Sarah Perry’s third novel.  This is hardly surprising, considering that her brand of Gothic is an existential one, where theological concepts of sin, guilt and redemption are writ large.  Perry has never made a secret of her strict religious upbringing and the impact which it has had on her writing. In this case, however, the religious elements also betray the influence of Charles Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer, an 1820 novel which serves as the inspiration and model for Perry’s book.

Melmoth, or Interior of a Dominican Convent in Madrid, illustrating Alonzo Monçada's story from the novel. Eugène Delacroix

Maturin’s protagonist is a Faustian character who strikes a deal with the Devil, selling his soul for a new lease of life. As the end of his extended term approaches, Melmoth searches the world for someone desperate enough to take his place.  This turns out to be a surprisingly challenging task.  There’s a moral behind this.  Maturin, an Irish Protestant clergyman who, when not writing novels and plays, applied his skills to composing fiery sermons, stated in the preface to Melmoth that the germ of “this Romance (or Tale)” was to be found in one of his homilies:

'At this moment is there one of us present, however we may have departed from the Lord, disobeyed his will, and disregarded his word–is there one of us who would, at this moment, accept all that man could bestow, or earth afford, to resign the hope of his salvation?–No, there is not one–not such a fool on earth, were the enemy of mankind to traverse it with the offer!'

Sarah Perry recasts Melmoth as a black-clad woman, damned to roam the Earth after denying the Resurrection of Jesus, feet bloody from her lonely travels.  This has echoes of the tale of the Wandering Jew, one of several myths and legends subtly evoked by Perry for added resonance.  Rather than merely a temptress or wanderer, however, Perry’s Melmoth is, first and foremost, a “witness”: ever waiting, ever watching, listening and remembering the darkest and guiltiest secrets, ‘lest we forget’.  Like Maturin’s Melmoth, she also seeks individuals as desperate as she is – except that rather than wanting them to replace her, she tries to lure them to accompany her on her guilt trip. 

Structure-wise, Perry takes a leaf from Maturin’s book and from other Gothic classics such as Potocki’s Manuscript found in Saragossa.  Thus the novel is a matryoshka doll of stories within stories, most which are based on “found” documents or related by unreliable narrators.   Melmoth’s character provides a link between the different episodes, but there is also an overarching frame story featuring one Helen Franklin, an Englishwoman working as a translator in Prague.  Lonely and melancholic, not unlike Melmoth herself, Helen finds some warmth in her friendship with academic Karel and his English lawyer wife Thea. It is Karel who introduces Helen to the mythical figure of “Melmoth”, about whom he is becoming obsessed.  After Karel disappears, Helen learns, through documents he leaves behind, of other people who, over the centuries appear to have been haunted by Melmoth. In a brilliant narrative move, Perry uses each episode to portray examples of individual guilt which also represent some of the worst instances of Man’s inhumanity to Man.  We witness burnings of heretics in 16th Century England, lowly Turkish officials facilitating the Armenian genocide and, in one of the lengthier parts of the book, the confession of an elderly German regarding his small, but no less heinous role in the Holocaust.  Throughout, Melmoth glides, accompanied by an entourage of crows, terrifying in appearance, but more harrowing still in the guilty memories she evokes.  We ultimately discover that even Helen has her secrets, prompting a final showdown between her and Melmoth. 

Perry’s monster is deliciously ambiguous. At times, her presence seems almost benevolent, righteous – even necessary.  But Melmoth is frightening chiefly because she wants to deny her victims the chance to start again.  The novel’s ultimate message is not one of guilt but of redemption.  Remembering, it seems to suggest, is vital.   Evil should be recognised and not forgotten.  And yet, it is often easier and sweeter to succumb to self-pity or, worse, desperation, rather than to accept the possibility – and gift – of redemption.    One should embrace this challenge, and live.

If it all sounds heavy and philosophical, it’s because it is. But Perry manages to package these complex ideas into a gripping novel.  In this respect, she’s certainly better than Maturin.  At its best, his Melmoth the Wanderer is exciting, brilliant and visionary.  But, too often, it feels interminable, not just because of its sheer length (over 600 pages) but also because of its verbose asides, its obsession with irrelevant detail, and its haughty religious (and generally anti-Catholic) rhetoric.  Perry’s novel is meant for less patient readers, packing more punch in hardly half the length. 

Some find her writing style rather too ornate – frankly, Calvinist as her theology might be, Perry’s voluptuous prose reminds me more of Catholic baroque.  And that’s fine by me.  I loved her atmospheric, poetic descriptions of Prague; I loved the ease with which she slips into the second person narrative, as though she is placing us behind a movie camera; I loved the way she evokes the presence of her wraith-like creation, horribly real and yet undefined … a woman in dark clothes seen just at the very corner of your eye, slipping from view… she’ll follow you down paths and alleys in the dark, or come in the night and sit waiting at the end of your bed.  Doesn’t it send shivers down your spine?

Hardcover, 288 pages

Published October 2nd 2018 by Serpent's Tail

***

Racked by guilt, Helen punishes herself by living an ascetic existence bereft of any luxuries. Music is one of the pleasures she deprives herself of.  Yet there are two musical themes which run as a leitmotiv throughout the novel. One is the aria I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, which Helen often finds herself singing to herself. Some will know the piece in the version sung by Enya, but it is in fact taken from a ballad opera by Irish composer Michael William Balfe.  Why Perry references this aria is not immediately clear. Perhaps it is because of its lyrics (referring to memories of an innocent childhood) or as a tribute to Maturin’s Irishness – the opera was written by an Irish composer not long after the publication of Melmoth.     

The other melody which hovers in the background is Song to the Moon from Dvorak’s opera Rusalka.  As a choice, this is rather more obvious given the Prague setting – Dvorak, is after all, the leading Czech composer.  In one particular scene, Helen, her landlady, Thea and her nurse Adaya go to the theatre to watch a performance of this specific opera.  The work taps into Slavic folklore and fairytales, the rusalka being a sort of water sprite.  Perry’s reference to other supernatural female beings (which the reader will unwittingly associate with Melmoth) is a clever way of heightening the otherworldly aura surrounding the protagonist.    

If I were to build a playlist for the novel, however, I’d certainly include also some penitential music linked to the historical periods portrayed in the novel.  So here goes:  William Byrd (1540 – 1623) was a Catholic under Elizabethan rule, but thanks to his talents, was protected by the Queen despite clinging on to the Old Faith.  Have Mercy Upon Me is an example of music he wrote for the new Protestant worship.

The leading jazz and classical music record label ECM has issued a number of albums by Tigran Mansurian (b. 1939), one of Armenia’s leading contemporary composers.   His Requiem (2015) – ‘Dedicated to the memory of the victims of the Armenian Genocide’ – is scored for choir and strings, and achieves a timeless quality through its use of archaic modes.  Here’s the Kyrie (Lord Have Mercy):

American composer Max Stern (b. 1947) has written several works drawing on his Jewish roots. His Three Songs of Terezin set lyrics written by children at Theresienstadt concentration camp. Knowing that is enough to heighten the bleakness factor, even before one listens to the music.

Melmoth is, ultimately, a novel about redemption and love.  And so, to end, here’s the final chorus from Gustav Mahler’s Eighth Symphony.  The symphony is in two parts:  the first is a gargantuan setting of the Veni Creator hymn whilst the second sets text from the conclusion of Goethe’s Faust emphasizing the theme of redemption through love...The Eternal Feminine draws us on high. If, as some would have it, Perry’s prose is somewhat too ornate, Mahler is definitely OTT and he makes no apologies for it. Neither do I.