Hugh Lamb - Stories In The Dark

[dem]

Feb 7, 2014 14:36:06 GMT pulphack said:

Indeed they do - having just finished WA Darlington's 'Wishes Limited' from 1922, there was much in there about the nature of the press, celebrity, and those who goggle at it to remind me that when we bemoan reality TV culture we would do well to remember it was just the same a hundred years ago, only then it was the narcissists in the landed gentry who were the celebs, not narcissistic chavs and wannabes. Plus ca change, indeed.

The "chav" is hardly a new concept either. The terms of endearment may change, but the scapegoats - those scrabbling about at the bottom of the heap - remain the same. Fave example, the Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould's A Dead Finger from 1904 - the "chav" as vampire.

'What are you all?' asked Square. 'Anarchists out of employ?'

'Some of us go by that name, some by other designations, but we are all one, and own allegiance to but one monarch -- Sovereign discontent. We are bred to have a distaste for manual work; and we grow up loafers, grumbling at everything and quarrelling with Society that is around us and the Providence that is above us.'

'And what do you call yourselves now?'

'Call ourselves? Nothing; we are the same, in another condition, that is all. Folk once called us Anarchists, Nihilists, Socialists, Levellers, now they call us the Influenza. The learned talk of microbes, and bacilli, and bacteria. Microbes, bacilli, and bacteria be blowed! We are the Influenza; we the social failures, the generally discontented, coming up out of our cheap and nasty graves in the form of physical disease We are the Influenza.'

Feb 7, 2014 14:36:06 GMT pulphack said:

Anyway, Barry Pain - The One Before has been fast tracked to read after Darlington, so will hopefully report back in a week or so. .... In fact, a quick google reveals this is from 1902, just two years after the Eliza volume of collected stories that sealed his reputation for future generations. This puts it slap bang in the middle of the new humour movement's peak, as mentioned by the good Doctor Strange. In light of this, I'm looking forward to it even more than previously.

The new humour movement is something i'd not heard of before Dr. Strange mentioned it. Other than Jerome. Jacobs, Barr & Pain, which other authors - if any - were involved?

[dem]

TO THE GENTLE READER; also TO THE GENTLE CRITIC.

Once upon a time, I wrote a little story of a woman who was crushed to death by a python. A day or two after its publication, a friend stopped me in the street. “Charming little story of yours,” he said, “that about the woman and the snake; but it’s not as funny as some of your things!” The next week, a newspaper, referring to the tale, remarked, “We have heard the incident related before with infinitely greater humour.”


With this — and many similar experiences — in mind, I wish distinctly to state that “John Ingerfield,” “The Woman of the Sæter,” and “Silhouettes,” are not intended to be amusing. The two other items—“Variety Patter,” and “The Lease of the Cross Keys”— I give over to the critics of the new humour to rend as they will; but “John Ingerfield,” “The Woman of the Sæter,” and “Silhouettes,” I repeat, I should be glad if they would judge from some other standpoint than that of humour, new or old.

Jerome K. Jerome, foreword to John Ingerfield & Other Stories (Henry Holt, 1894). Free download, Project Gutenberg

The Woman of the Sæter: I doubt there was ever much danger of the gentle reader requiring a dry pair of plus fours on Silhouettes' account, and this wonderful traditional supernatural horror story is no bundle of laughs either. Jerome, chum Michael and a local guide are hunting reindeer in the Norwegian Alps when they discover the perennial remote, derelict house. The Brits are all for exploring, but their guide turns tail, runs off into the snow shrieking some nonsense about "The Woman of the Sæter! The Woman of the Sæter!," and that's the last any of us see of the poor chap.

Whoever once lived here cleared out in a hurry as they left behind all their possessions, among these, a chest full up with letters, addressed to a Mr.Joyce in London but never sent. This a hardly the occasion for minding one's business, and the hunters settle down to read them; and so the grim story emerges of a man driven to madness, murder and suicide by the beautiful, silent phantom of the mountains.

I reckon JKJ comes out of this collection particularly well, but there's no need to take my word for it. For those who've not yet had the pleasure, here's a taster.

Attachments:

Jerome K Jerome - The Snake.pdf (101.42 KB)

[dem]

Found the following in a bound volume of Pearson's for Jan-June 1897. Other participants include Conan-Doyle, Rider-Haggard, William Le Queux, Cutcliffe Hyne, W. L. Alden, Hall Caine, 'John Oliver Hobbs' (Mrs. Craigie),Walter Besant, H. G. Wells (whose War Of The Worlds was among Pearson's current series on the go), Max Pemberton and Allen Upward.

The output of Authors. Some Interesting Confessions of Popular Writers. Pearsons April 1897

Mr. Robert Barr is perhaps even funnier than his friend Mr. Alden :

" Above all things, don't take advice," said the President of Princetown College to the assembled students.If the Editor of PEARSON'S wishes to know about the methods of authors. so that younger writers may learn something therefrom, his intention is laudable, but, he comes to the wrong man when he approaches me. I can serve no useful purpose but that of an 'orrid example. " Look at this," he may say, pointing to me, " and strive to be as unlike it as possible.”

I have no industry, no regular hours at work, no average number of words, no sane methods. no anything that a reputable man should have. If I could average a thousand words at day l would be rich. Some days I can do three or four thousand words, if it is not necessary that I should write that number; but if an editor is waiting for me or depending on me, l can’t do a line. The moment I make I contract, that moment I want to go off on my bicycle, and generally go.

Duty is abhorrent to me, and I often wonder that any respectable editor will sully his purity by having any business relations with me. A year or two ago l nearly worried one estimable magazine editor of London into an untimely grave. I had nine Revenge stories written and he contracted for the lot, with the proviso that as many others were to be furnished him. A must notable publisher arranged for the book and paid cash down.

There was, therefore, every incentive to write the other nine stories, and I had them all in my mind. It was so obviously the right thing to put these stories on paper that I could not induce myself to touch a pen. I got letters from that unfortunate editor (whom I sincerely pitied, although I have never been able to get him to appreciate that fact} in Spain, in Switzerland, and in various other quarters of the globe where I shouldn't have been, first beseeching and pleading; appealing to my better nature — as if I had any! - then gradually rising to good sound cursing, but all in vain.

At last he wrote to me (in Ireland) that he had cancelled the contract, and that he would be obliged, if on meeting him hereafter, I should expect no recognition from him. I replied, bitterly, that I never expected to meet him hereafter, as I hoped to go to heaven.

Now that there was no reason why I should write the remaining Revenge stories, for I had forgotten all about the book publisher, l wrote them one after another with the greatest facility until twenty were finished. They appeared in various magazines -- one or two in PEARSON'S .

Then the wily publisher, who all the while had never stirred me up to do my duty, announced that the book was ready, with two more stories than I had promised him.

And thus, as many noted persons have said on the scaffold, I hope you will all take warning from my fate and lead a virtuous 6000-words-a-day life. I write these solemn lines merely because I am in the midst of a thrilling novel which I had resolved to let nothing on earth interrupt."

[pulphack]

Hmm, when I mentioned chavs and wannabes I wasn't planning on straying into Baring Gould territory. In truth, the underclass is always the scapegoat, which is pretty ironic as they are a pre-requisite of aggressive capitalism working: keep 'em down by slagging them even as you create them. This coming from someone who was born working class, whose cultural aspirations smack of pompous Edwardian middle-class (see below) and who is, in a strict Marxist sense, petit bourgeoise. Actually, when I use those terms chav and wannabe, I'm thinking of those particular portions of the underclass who want to ape their 'betters' without understanding that they're NOT actually their betters... hence the need for mindless celebrity, the universal panacea. Come to that, the kind of upper classes Darlington guyed in 'Wishes Limited' are still with us - Made In Chelsea, for God's sakes!

The new humour movement - well, to be honest I'm not that up on it as most of the humour from that particular period leaves me cold - I wasn't fond of Three Men In A Boat, and other names that seem to be bandied about have also, in anthologies, seemed sometimes little more than interesting rather than amusing - Israel Zangwill, Stacey Aumonier, W Pett Ridge (though he is a very distinctive writer, just not funny for me), Eden Philpotts, JM Barrie even! And Max bloody Beerbohm! I had two collections of essays that I struggled with, having read many people bang on about what a great wit he was: no doubt, but it's lost on me. All I got was a collection of immaculately written but empty sentences that said nowt. New humour? What was it they used to say about alternative comedy? It's alternative 'cos it's not funny: I guess it's time and place a lot of the time.

In truth, a little bit of googling has left me even more confused about who was actually a part of the movement! Dr S needs to help us out here. Barry Pain was the only one who I found vaguely amusing, though that was confined to a few antholopgy appearances, and this was my first punt at a novel or collection. Of which more in a moment...

To be honest, the only Edwardians I find really funny are George and Weedon Grossmith - Dairy Of A Nobody pokes fun at everyone and everything, but Mr Pooter, who is satirical terms should be put to the sword, actually emerges as quite endearing as he's a pompous old fool just trying to do the 'right' thing and make sense of a changing world. His aspirations and ambitions are small and pointless but seem to define 'something' about bettering yourself. Which is probably why I like him (hence what I said above). This doesn't seem to be included in the 'new humour' movement as far as I could see, maybe because it's not satirical or high brow enough. I guess I prefer more dumb or absurd jokes - WA Darlington appealed as it was the book equivalent of a musical comedy, and although The Encyclopaedia Of Science Fiction (on-line version) mentions him and disparagingly at that, comparing him to F Anstey because of his use of 'magical' deus ex-machina plot devices, I don't see them as anything significant and whoever wrote that entry misses the point - in truth, he has more in common with the comedies of manners writers from the same publishing house - Wodehouse, AA Thompson (now remembered for his cricket writing) and Herbert Jenkins (publisher and author, whose Patricia Brent Spinster is like Darlington without genies or fairy godmothers).

Which brings me to Barry Pain and The Other One (finally!)... Anstey's Vice Versa is an obvious reference point for this novel, and like Anstey, Pain uses his magical plot device to point the finger at a number of targets. In fact, in what appears at first to be a gentle novel, you realise by the time you've got to the end that there are NO truly sympathetic characters, and they're all fools to one degree or another.

The Other One of the title is a ring of ancient and unexplained origin that imparts its wearer with the personality of the last person to wear it. Ernest Saunders Barley is a pompous, parsimonious fool who leads his wife Mary a dull suburban life. When he has had one fit of pique too many in front of her brother-in-law James Havern, Havern's uncle Nathaniel elects to send Barley the ring - which he procured on his travels - to teach him a lesson. There are two problems with this - Nathaniel is a dolt who cannot remember who had the ring last and is also a meddler and idle rich idiot, and Barley disdains the ring, giving it to his wife instead. Ironically, she adopts the personality of a lion tamer - who had the ring last - and tames her husband, cowing him and converting him to golf at the hands of his neighbour, whose daughter Havern wishes to woo. He gets this wish when he asked to paint her portrait. Considering he appear at first to be the hero, he then appears very little until the end, and the romantic subplot is summarily dismissed in a few pages. Meanwhile, Nathaniel dismisses his equally pompous and meddlesome secretary, who then strikes a drunken and temporary alliance (curtailed when Nathaniel finds out in a ridiculous piece of coincidence) with a thief whose brother in law is a trader and smuggler intent of getting the ring - it transpires that the cult from whom it was stolen many years before have had feelers and a reward out for its return. Not that we find out much about them at all. We do see the two brothers in law scrap, join forces and fail to gain the ring by a number of methods, including robbery, bribery and attempted assault - thwarted by Mary's mastery over animals and a vicious bulldog called Peter. Eventually, Nathaniel purloins the ring and puts it out of harms way. Not before Mary has given it to her friend, affianced to Havern, who is influenced by the suffragette maid who sneakily wore it between times and thus puts doubts about marriage into her mind (if briefly). Mary returns to her old meek self, but - and here it all comes round to the original plan - is saved from a return to her old life as Barley is now concentrating his pettifogging ways on becoming the scourge of local golf courses and is never seen!

197 pages, and despite the convoluted plot it proceeds at a serene and stately pace, with some very biting and still funny observations. Pain strikes me as the most modern and accessible of all those writers mentioned to a modern audience. He gets all this in without it seeming rushed, and despite the apparent direction of the story changing horse mid-stream several times, it doesn't seem disjointed, which is some feat of skill. It makes me want to (after all these years of having him in anthologies almost ignored!) read more.

As an aside, it's also interesting to note that the plot devices - stolen ring, Eastern cult, thieves and vagabonds in search of treasure - would have made an equally good supernatural thriller. I wonder if he was tempted? Of if there is that version out there too, and it just needs to be rediscovered?

[dem]

Thanks ever so for the review, Mr. Hack!

Feb 10, 2014 6:41:37 GMT pulphack said:

197 pages, and despite the convoluted plot it proceeds at a serene and stately pace, with some very biting and still funny observations. Pain strikes me as the most modern and accessible of all those writers mentioned to a modern audience. He gets all this in without it seeming rushed, and despite the apparent direction of the story changing horse mid-stream several times, it doesn't seem disjointed, which is some feat of skill. It makes me want to (after all these years of having him in anthologies almost ignored!) read more.

Hugh Lamb is also of a mind that, of the three authors featured in Stories In The Dark, it's Barry Pain whose work has the most appeal for a modern audience. Given the fantasy trappings, am very surprised that The Other One has been overlooked by whoever compiled the Pain listing for the Supernatural Fiction Database. E. F. Bleiler is quite kind to the novel in The Guide To Supernatural Fiction, if not for the "somewhat slight" plot, then the "amusing character grotesques, outstanding of whom are a pair of gossiping young housewives. '

Feb 10, 2014 6:41:37 GMT pulphack said:

The new humour movement - well, to be honest I'm not that up on it as most of the humour from that particular period leaves me cold - I wasn't fond of Three Men In A Boat, and other names that seem to be bandied about have also, in anthologies, seemed sometimes little more than interesting rather than amusing - Israel Zangwill, Stacey Aumonier, W Pett Ridge (though he is a very distinctive writer, just not funny for me), Eden Philpotts, JM Barrie even! And Max bloody Beerbohm! I had two collections of essays that I struggled with, having read many people bang on about what a great wit he was: no doubt, but it's lost on me. All I got was a collection of immaculately written but empty sentences that said nowt.

All of the above would be a void to me, were it not for the fact that at least three of those name occasionally crossed over to the dark arts. In fact Beerbohm is arguably best remembered for his 'deal with the devil' ripping yawn Enoch Soames, and the once regularly anthologised shaggy 'supernatural' story A. V. Laider (which I just re-read. Put me in mind a whimsical and extremely garrulous Saki, minus the all-important spiteful edge. Coincidentally, Beerbohm first meets Laider when both are convalescing by the coast after a run in with Influenza). Dorothy L. Sayers' three volume Great Stories of Detection, Mystery & horror (Gollancz, 1928-1950) includes macabre and/ or supernatural tales by Jerome (The Dancing Partner), Pain (At The End Of A Show, Rose, Rose), Stacey Aumonier (Miss Bracegirdle Does Her Duty, Beerbohm (A. V. Laider, Phillpots (The Iron Pineapple, and, grisliest of all, W.W. Jacobs with a three-pronged attack (The Monkey's Paw, The Interruption, The Well).


If you're up for sampling one of Mr. Pain's shorter supernatural pieces, this one is pretty decent ....

Attachments:

ROSE ROSE.pdf (107.49 KB)

[Dr Strange]

Feb 10, 2014 20:21:43 GMT dem said:

Feb 10, 2014 6:41:37 GMT pulphack said:

The new humour movement - well, to be honest I'm not that up on it as most of the humour from that particular period leaves me cold - I wasn't fond of Three Men In A Boat, and other names that seem to be bandied about have also, in anthologies, seemed sometimes little more than interesting rather than amusing - Israel Zangwill, Stacey Aumonier, W Pett Ridge (though he is a very distinctive writer, just not funny for me), Eden Philpotts, JM Barrie even! And Max bloody Beerbohm! I had two collections of essays that I struggled with, having read many people bang on about what a great wit he was: no doubt, but it's lost on me. All I got was a collection of immaculately written but empty sentences that said nowt. New humour? What was it they used to say about alternative comedy? It's alternative 'cos it's not funny: I guess it's time and place a lot of the time.

In truth, a little bit of googling has left me even more confused about who was actually a part of the movement! Dr S needs to help us out here. Barry Pain was the only one who I found vaguely amusing, though that was confined to a few antholopgy appearances, and this was my first punt at a novel or collection. Of which more in a moment...

All of the above would be a void to me, were it not for the fact that at least three of those name occasionally crossed over to the dark arts. In fact Beerbohm is arguably best remembered for his 'deal with the devil' ripping yawn Enoch Soames, and the once regularly anthologised shaggy 'supernatural' story A. V. Laider (which I just re-read. Put me in mind a whimsical and extremely garrulous Saki, minus the all-important spiteful edge. Coincidentally, Beerbohm first meets Laider when both are convalescing by the coast after a run in with Influenza). Dorothy L. Sayers' three volume Great Stories of Detection, Mystery & horror (Gollancz, 1928-1950) includes macabre and/ or supernatural tales by Jerome (The Dancing Partner), Pain (At The End Of A Show, Rose, Rose), Stacey Aumonier (Miss Bracegirdle Does Her Duty, Beerbohm (A. V. Laider, Phillpots (The Iron Pineapple, and, grisliest of all, W.W. Jacobs with a three-pronged attack (The Monkey's Paw, The Interruption, The Well).

Sorry, I've already exhausted my meagre knowledge about this "New Humour" thing. I've read Three Men In A Boat, Diary of a Nobody, and one or two others that might fit the category, but they didn't do much for me either. (I've also come across Enoch Soames & AV Laider in some anthology or other.) I once saw an old collection of WW Jacobs short stories in a second hand bookshop, but didn't buy it when I realised they were "humour" - seem to remember that they were on a nautical theme.

[dem]

Feb 11, 2014 11:27:33 GMT Dr Strange said:

Sorry, I've already exhausted my meagre knowledge about this "New Humour" thing. I've read Three Men In A Boat, Diary of a Nobody, and one or two others that might fit the category, but they didn't do much for me either. (I've also come across Enoch Soames & AV Laider in some anthology or other.)

Hugh Lamb's informative introduction makes no mention of any movement as such, but he lists several of the contributors to Barr & Jerome's periodical, The Idler, including Rudyard Kipling, Rider-Haggard, Marie Corelli, Eden Phillpotts, Conan-Doyle, G.B.S., Hall Caine and G. R. Sims. Barr had intended to offer the editorship to Kipling, but he didn't like the man's jaw.

Feb 11, 2014 11:27:33 GMT Dr Strange said:

I once saw an old collection of WW Jacobs short stories in a second hand bookshop, but didn't buy it when I realised they were "humour" - seem to remember that they were on a nautical theme.[/quote]

That is almost certainly the case. The thing is, Jacobs' horror & supernatural stories are sprinkled throughout his several volumes chronicling the comic doings of Wapping sea-dawgs. Have accumulated several individual stories via issues of The Strand, but, despite the local setting, have not yet been tempted. Must admit, whenever I see a book unashamedly advertised as "humour," it tends to scare me off.

[dem]

Another winning double from the impressive Barry Pain. Our humorist seems to have had quite a thing about suicide.

Linda: Hubert Escourt, successful painter is invited to spend some time at his estranged brother Lorrimer's country retrreat. Lorrimer recently lost his wife and, as was Mrs. Escort's dying wish, has taken over the guardianship of her sixteen year old sister, Linda, the last of the line. Tradition has it that some centuries ago, a witch made a pact with Satan. In return for saving her from a lynch mob, the Devil would claim the soul of a female descendent, so this is his last opportunity. Linda's only hope of cheating eternal damnation is either to marry or die very soon. As a confirmed misanthrope, the former is out of the question though Lorrimer, who loathes the sight of her, gallantly proposes. Which leaves only one desperate alternative.

The Tower: Edward Vyse, occultist, invites/ bribes young Sir William Orsley to spend Christmas at his cottage on the marshes. Adjoining the property, a gloomy tower built on the site of a witch burning. The land lay undisturbed for centuries until a scientist foolishly erected the tower to use as his observatory. Naturally enough it is haunted - by phantom pigs! Vyse explains to his guest that eventually the swine became too much for the scientist, who leapt into the local quarry to escape them. Some Christmas this is going to be!

[monker]

Thanks for all the work, guys. I wonder why 'Rose Rose' was left out of The Undying Thing & Others (which purports to be Pain's complete supernatural stories)? Anyway, I must get a copy - supernatural pigs are always good value.