Clark Ashton Smith: "The Beast Of Averoigne"

Good writers are their own best editors. When "The Beast Of Averoigne" was rejected by WEIRD TALES, Clark Ashton Smith revised the story by cutting out entire sections to make it leaner and more focused; he also added significant details to make the story more fantastic. The result, for me, is a great fantasy tale that can easily rival the best work of E. T. A. Hoffmann, Lord Dunsany, or Bruno Schulz. It astonished me when I first read it at the age of ten, and now, five decades later, it remains one of my favourite stories.

The revised version was published in the May, 1933 issue of WEIRD TALES, and begins rapidly with a short prologue:

"Old age, like a moth in some fading arras, will gnaw my memories oversoon, as it gnaws the memories of all men. Therefore I write this record of the true origin and slaying of that creature known as the Beast of Averoigne. And when I have ended the writing, the record shall be sealed in a brazen box, and that box be set in a secret chamber of my house at Ximes, so that no man shall learn the dreadful verity of this matter till many years and decades have gone by. Indeed, it were not well for such evil prodigies to be divulged while any who took part in the happening are still on the earthward side of Purgatory. And at present the truth is known only to me and to certain others who are sworn to maintain secrecy."

This revised version can be found here.

Those who need nothing more than a happy recommendation might want to stop reading this and move on to the story itself, but those interested in the methods used by Smith to make the story great are welcome to continue.

After the prologue, the story runs at a steady pace. The descriptions are brief and conveyed through motion:

"As all men know, the advent of the Beast was coeval with the coming of that red comet which rose behind the Dragon in the early summer of 1369. Like Satan's rutilant hair, trailing on the wind of Gehenna as he hastens worldward, the comet streamed nightly above Averoigne, bringing the fear of bale and pestilence in its train. And soon the rumor of a strange evil, a foulness unheard of in any legend, passed among the people.

"To Brother Gerome of the Benedictine Abbey of Perigon it was given to behold this evil ere the horror thereof became manifest to others. Returning late to the monastery from an errand in Ste. Zenobie, Gerome was overtaken by darkness. No moon arose to lantern his way through the forest; but, between the gnarled boughs of antic oaks, he saw the vengefully streaming fire of the comet, which seemed to pursue him as he went. And Gerome felt an eery fear of the pit-deep shadows, and he made haste toward the abbey postern.

"Passing among the ancient trees that towered thickly behind Perigon, he thought that he discerned a light from the windows, and was much cheered thereby. But, going on, he saw that the light was near at hand, beneath a lowering bough. It moved as with the flitting of a fen-fire, and was of changeable color, being pale as a corposant, or ruddy as new-spilled blood, or green as the poisonous distillation that surrounds the moon.

"Then, with terror ineffable, Gerome beheld the thing to which the light clung like a hellish nimbus, moving as it moved, and revealing dimly the black abomination of head and limbs that were not those of any creature wrought by God. The horror stood erect, rising to more than the height of a tall man; and it swayed like a great serpent, and its members undulated, bending like heated wax. The flat black head was thrust forward on a snakish neck. The eyes, small and lidless, glowing like coals from a wizard's brazier, were set low and near together in a noseless face above the serrate gleaming of such teeth as might belong to a giant bat.

"This much, and no more, Gerome saw, ere the thing went past him with its nimbus flaring from venomous green to a wrathful red. Of its actual shape, and the number of its limbs, he could form no just notion. Running and slithering rapidly, it disappeared among the antique oaks, and he saw the hellish light no more."

The story's vocabulary, physical details, images, metaphors and similes function not only to support the story, but to reinforce the setting and moods of medieval France. They fit the locale and create it simultaneously, all through the magic of carefully-selected words.

Too many stories are written as if the primary unit of information were the paragraph, but as a poet who worked in traditional forms, Clark Ashton Smith understood the need for a tighter focus, not only on the sentence, not only on the clause, but on the word. To this end, he let bare statements do all the work of implication he needed.

"So, on the forenoon of that same day, Theophile, together with Gerome and six others chosen for their hardihood, sallied forth and made search of the forest for miles around. They entered with torches and lifted crosses the deep caves to which they came, but found no fiercer thing than wolf or badger. Also, they searched the crumbling vaults of the deserted castle of Faussesflammes, which was said to be haunted by vampires. But nowhere could they trace the monster or find any sign of its lairing."

This technique let him put the reader into a scene without needless elaboration.

"On the night following the desecration of the graves, two charcoal-burners who plied their trade in the forest not far from Perigon, were slain in their hut. Other charcoal-burners, dwelling near by, heard the shrill screams that fell to sudden silence; and peering fearfully through the chinks of their bolted doors, they saw anon in the starlight the departure of a black, obscenely glowing shape that issued from the hut."

"Peering fearfully through the chinks of their bolted doors" is just enough physical detail to give the scene a sense of place. Smith provided the detail, and then moved on.

His trust in the magic of words made him state briefly what others might feel compelled to spell out in detail.

"Vainly I consulted the stars and made use of geomancy and necromancy; and the familiars whom I interrogated professed themselves ignorant, saying that the Beast was altogether alien and beyond the ken of sublunar spirits."

To bring his medieval setting to life, and to convey the sense of a world beyond this world, Smith relied on down-to-Earth, everyday nouns.

"Once, by full moonlight, a brother peering from his window descried it in the abbey garden, as it glided between the rows of peas and turnips....

"From a rarely opened casket, I brought out the ring of Eibon and made such preparations as were needful for the questioning of the demon. And when the purple stone was held inverted above a small brazier filled with hotly burning amber, the demon made answer, speaking in a voice that was like the shrill singing of fire."

Smith matched his everyday details with touches of pure fantasy. To this end, he solved the problem of his beast with a magical solution that is both carefully-established and justified: not a rabbit from a hat, not a god from the machine, but a Chekhov's gun that, in the context of the story, remains believable as it shoots.

Anyone who needs to write good fantasy, anyone who needs to write good short fiction in general, will gain something from "The Beast Of Averoigne." Many stories that I read when I was ten years old have not survived the passage of time, but this one lives on. It thrives.

The Worst And Best Of H. R. Wakefield

H. R. Wakefield has never been a favourite of mine. For me, he lacks the descriptive clarity of M. R. James or L. P. Hartley, the imaginative power of Sheridan Le Fanu, the dreamlike atmosphere of Walter de la Mare. If I had to use one sentence to describe his work, I would say, "It lacks conviction." If I had to use one word: "Hasty."

For years, I wondered if I was being unfair in my assessment, and so I went back to give several stories another try. The result? I still don't think much of H. R. Wakefield, with the exception of one story that has always impressed me.

The stories that seemed pale and thin years ago seem even duller today. For example, "The Cairn" fails because of needless shifts in point of view, because of the needless introduction of characters who offer little and then vanish, because of a needless insistence on keeping its monster out of sight and out of mind.

"Welland watched the little dark speck climbing steadily towards the cairn till it was but a hundred yards or so from it and then once again put the telescope to his eye. A few minutes later he saw Seebright reach the cairn, slap it with his hand and then turn and face towards the inn and wave his right arm above his head. And then he began rapidly to descend. Welland had started instinctively to wave back and then had smiled at his stupidity. He was just about to put the glass down again when he suddenly became tense and intent. He put the telescope down sharply and rubbed both lenses with his handkerchief, and then he put it to his eye again. For a moment he remained taut and rigid, and then he began to tremble, and then he dropped the telescope to the floor, and then he rushed from the room, out through the front door and down the village street. As it happened there was only one person who saw him pass, old Mrs Elm, who was beating a rug outside her cottage door. When she saw a hatless figure dash hobbling past, and that queer look on his face too, her mouth fell open and the rug dropped from her hands. A moment later she saw this figure turn up the lane and disappear, and then for several minutes she remained staring open-mouthed.

"Now Mrs Elm's brain never exceeded largo in its tempo, and seldom reached it. At the same time she had a sense for the unusual. She went back to her kitchen and wrestled with the problem of what to do. So presently she put her shawl around her head and trotted up to the Hare and Form, where she found Mr Reddle squeezing the digestive apparatus from a chicken.

"'Mr Reddle,' she began, and fiddled with her shawl.

"'Yes, what is it?' asked the landlord, pausing in the midst of his culinary business.

"'Well,' said Mrs Elm. 'I sees one of those young chaps who's putting up here, and I sees him running by in his slippers and without his hat and he turned up Dim Lane. I thought I ought to tell you.'"

But what does Wakefield tell us? Nothing.

As a contrast, consider E. F. Benson's "The Horror Horn": garish, perhaps, but a better development of a similar idea -- better, because it relies on images, a vivid setting, and action:

"Sliding and slipping, with the toes of my skis tripping in the obstacles below the snow, I plunged forward down the hill between the pine-trunks. The low sun already sinking behind some rampart of mountain in the west reddened the snow and the pines with its ultimate rays. My knapsack with the skates in it swung to and fro on my back, one ski-stick had already been twitched out of my hand by a fallen branch of pine, but not a second’s pause could I allow myself to recover it. I gave no glance behind, and I knew not at what pace my pursuer was on my track, or indeed whether any pursued at all, for my whole mind and energy, now working at full power again under the stress of my panic, was devoted to getting away down the hill and out of the wood as swiftly as my limbs could bear me. For a little while I heard nothing but the hissing snow of my headlong passage, and the rustle of the covered undergrowth beneath my feet, and then, from close at hand behind me, once more the wolf-howl sounded and I heard the plunging of footsteps other than my own."

Here, Benson is writing; Wakefield merely puts down words on paper. In story after story, in craftsmanship, in vision, Wakefield falls apart for me.

Another story I tried again was "Lucky's Grove," but after a few pages, I gave up: the prose limped and fumbled, brought nothing to eyes, ears, or skin, and shifted viewpoints from one suddenly-introduced character to another, which kept the story at arm's length and out of focus.

Hours later, I went back to the story, but found no change in its weaknesses. End-rhymes littered the paragraphs. One vague person after another took centre-stage, and then vanished into gloom. Above all, Wakefield strove to give nothing firm, nothing physical, nothing tangible for my imagination to seize.

"Their dreams were harsh and unhallowed, yet oddly related, being concerned with dim, uncertain, and yet somehow urgent happenings in and around the house, as though some thing or things were stirring while they slept and communicated their motions to their dreaming consciousness. They awoke tired with a sense of unaccountable malaise."

Unaccountable. Sounds right to me.

As in too many of his other stories, Wakefield, here, seemed unable to describe events on the page. Instead, he withdrew into his turtle-shell of abstraction.

"If on the preceding night the rest of the sleepers had been broken by influences which had insinuated themselves into their dreams, that which caused the night of that Christmas Eve to be unforgettable was the demoniacal violence of the elements. The north-easter had been waxing steadily all the evening and by midnight reached hurricane force, driving before it an almost impenetrable wall of snow. Not only so, but continually all through the night the wall was enflamed, and the roar of the hurricane silenced, by fearful flashes of lightning and rattles of thunder. The combination was almost intolerably menacing."

Almost? Almost.

"As the great house shook from the gale and trembled at the blasts and the windows blazed with strange polychromatic balls of flame, all were tense and troubled. The children fought or succumbed to their terror according to their natures; their parents soothed and reassured them."

What I miss, here, is any sense of living inside the story as a participant, as a dreamer. Wakefield offered nothing for my imagination; he offered lectures. Instead of making me feel events, he told me how I should feel about them.

Even during the few passages where he did offer something vaguely tangible, he hurried past the moment as if any hint of sensory detail embarrassed him.

"He went to the windows and flung another open, and as he did so he glanced out. His room looked over the rock garden and down the path to the maze. Something moving just outside it caught his eye. He thought he knew what it was, that big Alsatian which had been sheep-worrying in the neighbourhood. What an enormous brute. Or was it just because it was outlined against the snow? It vanished suddenly, apparently into the maze."

======

"The last scene was meant as an appropriate prelude to the climax of the festivities. It showed Curtis and his crew digging up the tree from Lucky's Grove. Out they came from the holm-oaks straining under their load, but close observers noticed there was one who remained behind, standing menacing and motionless, a very tall, dark, brooding figure."

This is dull, dead prose, and the result, for me, is yet another dull, dead story. When someone writes as if he had no interest in writing, how can I take interest in reading him?

Still, few writers can be lousy every time, and even H. R. Wakefield actually wrote something worth revisiting: "Look Up There!"

Like "The Cairn," like too many of his other stories, "Look Up There!" refuses to confront its nightmares. Yet here, to my surprise, the effect works. "Look Up There!" takes the old concept of indescribable horror, and makes it lively on the page.

"I do not remember whether I spoke a word throughout that meal, but I do know that I was under such a strain that I had to grip my chair to stop myself running from the room. The women were on the verge of hysteria, the men drank feverishly and, as time went on, a dreadful vague, inane babble came from all of them. The woman on my right -- she had a high, thin voice -- suddenly gulped down a full glass of champagne, some of which swilled over her chin and neck, and shouted, 'Well, when does it begin?' and then went off into peals of hysterical laughter. We did not move from the table, and from half-past ten onwards, Relf kept getting up to ring the bell, but no servant appeared. 'Where are those bloody slaves?' he cried each time, and staggered back to the table and filled his glass again. From half-past eleven I was no longer master of myself. The room was thick with smoke which wreathed itself into fantastic patterns. The pressure grew unendurable, and suddenly my resistance broke, and I ran from the Great Hall up to my room and lay cowering on my bed. I could still hear the crazy, chaotic babble from those I had left, and then a great bell crashed out. One-two-three -- and each mighty stroke followed so hard on its predecessor that the vile jangle almost seemed an undivided sound. It was as if a murderer was hammering in my brain. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard no sound from below, and then came one high, piercing scream from a woman: 'Look up there!', and then every light in the house went out."

"Look Up There!" is that rarest of things, a story by H. R. Wakefield that unsettled me. If you find his work unimpressive, unconvincing, or just plain dull, I recommend this one for its unexpectedly powerful use of evasion.

E. F. Benson, "The Face"

Although he wrote too many stories too quickly, E. F. Benson showed undeniable skill in four strong works of horror: "The Horror Horn," "The Room in the Tower," "Caterpillars," and "The Face."

Having read Jim Rockhill's book on Sheridan Le Fanu, and having begun to re-read Le Fanu's novellas and stories, I now recognize that Benson's "The Face" is, in effect, his version of a Le Fanu theme.

In Number 5356 of THE SPECTATOR (Saturday, February 21, 1931), Benson wrote:

"There is one author, far too little known by those in search of creepy lore, who seldom fails in his high mission: his name is Sheridan Le Fanu. He produces, page for page, a far higher percentage of terror than the more widely read Edgar Allan Poe, and whether he deals in ghosts direct or in more material horrors, his success in making his readers very uneasy is amazing. Though we may already know the story we select to give us some insupportable moments on a lonely evening, there is a quality about most of his tales which seldom fails to alarm: familiarity with them does not breed comfort. Many ghost stories are efficacious for a first reading, but few, when we already know the worst that the author has to tell us, preserve untainted the atmosphere of horror as do the tales in IN A GLASS DARKLY. The best of these... are instinct with an awfulness which custom cannot stale, and this quality is due... to Le Fanu’s admirably artistic methods in setting and narration....

"As a story-teller, his best work is of the first rank, while as a flesh-creeper he is unrivalled. No one else has so sure a touch in mixing the mysterious atmosphere in which horror darkly breeds."

One motif that appears in Le Fanu is the innocent, faultless woman who suddenly falls prey to a dead man. In "Ultor de Lacey," the innocent woman is victimized as part of an old curse against her family, but in "Schalken the Painter," no reason is given for the innocent woman's fate. She was chosen by a corpse, and he will take her.

In "The Face," Benson develops his own version of this idea. Again, the woman is innocent. Again, no explanation, no connection, no reason is offered for this catastrophe. Again, the story can be read and re-read with no loss of its power.

Benson was rarely a stylist. In passages like this one, he could be tone-deaf. Notice the end-rhymes:

"Her heart hammered in her throat, and then seemed to stand still altogether. A qualm, as of some mental sickness of the soul overcame her, for there in front of her was he who would soon come for her. There was the reddish hair, the projecting ears, the greedy eyes set close together...."

Where Benson excelled was in capturing a sense of place:

"The warning dream, the curtain that was drawn up on the succeeding night, and disclosed the vision she dreaded, was simple and harmless enough in itself. She seemed to be walking on a high sandy cliff covered with short down-grass; twenty yards to the left came the edge of this cliff, which sloped steeply down to the sea that lay at its foot. The path she followed led through fields bounded by low hedges, and mounted gradually upwards. She went through some half-dozen of these, climbing over the wooden stiles that gave communication; sheep grazed there, but she never saw another human being, and always it was dusk, as if evening was falling, and she had to hurry on, because someone (she knew not whom) was waiting for her, and had been waiting not a few minutes only, but for many years. Presently, as she mounted this slope, she saw in front of her a copse of stunted trees, growing crookedly under the continual pressure of the wind that blew from the sea, and when she saw those she knew her journey was nearly done, and that the nameless one, who had been waiting for her so long was somewhere close at hand. The path she followed was cut through this wood, and the slanting boughs of the trees on the sea-ward side almost roofed it in; it was like walking through a tunnel. Soon the trees in front began to grow thin, and she saw through them the grey tower of a lonely church. It stood in a graveyard, apparently long disused, and the body of the church, which lay between the tower and the edge of the cliff, was in ruins, roofless, and with gaping windows, round which ivy grew thickly."

Often with Benson, scenery drives the plot. In "The Face," it fuels anxiety, a sense of dread, of something waiting to strike. Each repetition of that walk up the sandy cliff becomes a step into a trap.

When this trap closes, "The Face" reveals the true skills of E. F. Benson.

The Non-Productive Toilet Of AI

Why flush billions of dollars down the non-productive toilet of AI, when that money could be invested productively: in public schools that create readers and thinkers instead of screen junkies; in free community colleges that train engineers and scientists instead of corporate drones; in universities that study and learn from great minds and great achievements of the past, instead of working hard to erase them from the nation's memory; in a thriving middle class instead of an increasingly-impoverished crowd of digital slaves?

Wait -- you say that Americans once developed a strong and educated middle class, and that this class gave the country unprecedented intellectual achievements and technological innovations? But also that this middle class was perceived by America's plantation-owners as a political and financial threat to their own dreams of oligarchy? And so they destroyed it, to make themselves richer?

Oh, well. Countries go from periods of greatness to declines and falls, and America seems no different. Its collapse will be studied by Iranian, Russian, and Chinese historians of tomorrow. I hope they learn from it. Good luck to them!

Read to Keep the Past Alive

This is how the life of yesterday endures.

You read a book that mentions other, older books. You read those books, too, and they also mention other, older books. And so your steps take you back, to Montaigne, to Francis Bacon, to Thomas Browne, to the Elizabethan and Jacobean playwrights, to Seneca, and then back even further to Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides.

This is a normal process that keeps the past alive, but it requires you to pick up that first book and to damned well read it.

It also requires you to follow your own interests, and not the recommendations of book clubs or online book-fetish commodity sites. The steps you take into the past will be your own steps. They will certainly take you to different books than the books I found. You might walk past Virginia Woolf to the Bronte sisters, and then to Sappho. Your neighbour might step from George Orwell to Thomas Carlyle, and then to Thomas Hobbes, and then to Cicero. There are no incorrect pathways.

All of these recoveries and survivals depend on the willingness of people to take their initial steps, on the willingness of people to read. When people stop reading, everything known by the past, everything treasured by the past, will die.

If you want to see the septic wounds of its dying, just look around.