Author Jean Lorraine was responsible for one of the most nightmarish scenes of horror I have encountered--his own death. It wasn't quick. It wasn't pretty. The details I will spare you here, and you'll just have to research it yourself if you are that interested. But the cause of his death? Well, the title of this book says it all.
I think my own soul came second-hand from some dandy who once lived in the 19th and early 20th Centuries. I wish I could travel back in time and hang out in old London and Paris of that era. But I am quite sure I would not want to live there for any extended period. This must have been one of the unhealthiest and most poisonous environments ever. Of course, I'm not sure that our current situation is much better. But with rising industrialism and the dismantling of "ancien regime" zoning mechanisms, France was just as poisonous as Victorian England during the years when Lorraine lived and worked. Let's examine what Europeans were exposed to every day. Mercury in their hats. Alum in their bread. Arsenic in their clothes and in their favorite shade of green. Lead in their paint and even in their cheese. Antinomy in their eye shadow and belladonna in their actual eyes. Carbon monoxide, methane, and sulfides in their air. So people didn't feel very good most of the time, and as a result, they were sucking down patent medicines full of every deadly chemical you could imagine. On top of that, the recreational drugs of choice were things like absinthe, laudanum, hashish, and cocaine which were easy to procure and affordable. No wonder they had chronic headaches, weird Iillnesses, digestion problems, and died of the vapors when they got rained on or stressed out. It was also probably why ghosts, like oysters, were in season around the holidays. Lorraine added to these insults when he decided to experiment with the effects of ether on the human psyche in an attempt to mimic the psychedelic experiments of fantasy authors of the Symbolist/Decadent period.
Before Lorraine began adding a dash of ether to his wine, he had already made a name for himself writing scathing literary critiques and books about perversions most had never imagined. He liked being a provacateur, especially when it paid the bills, since he wasn't a trust fund baby like he had hoped to be after his father died. He was a frail and sickly fellow, which may have been in fashion for the misunderstood literary avant garde, but Lorraine actually needed to work for a living and didn't have time to be down for the count. Ether was reputed to have stimulating effects, so he took to it like an exhausted young single parent undergrad with ADHD who needed to be back in class after sucking on a binki all night at a rave.
If you are interested further in a psychological and sociocultural exploration of Lorraine and his reasons for drug use, I would recommend you check out Brian Stableford's foreword to his English translation of this collection. Stableford is arguably one of the greatest living geniuses in science fiction and horror, and certainly the most important scholar for the preservation of almost forgotten French fantasy literature. Check out his extensive catalogue of adapted French gems from Black Coat Press and thank me later.
But what about the actual content of this book? The original title is "Contes d’un buveur d’éther," which translated literally means "tales of an ether-drinker." Therefore, this is a collection, and consists of ghost stories, nightmares, hallucinations, and just plain dreariness. Several stories contain recurring characters and themes. They were inspired by his days of ether experiments while living in a spooky and oppressive apartment in the Rue de Courty, which he called his "haunted house." The author himself did not believe in ghosts, but you can imagine just what kind of tales may have been inspired from such an environment. Here is an excerpt from "An Undesirable Residence" that captures the general feel of this discomfiting collection:
"...no one was out and about in that part of Saint-Germain on that particular night. It was so dismally deserted that as I arrived at the sinister little square, with the wind rustling the leafless branches in the park and the high black houses all around, I couldn’t resist a certain feeling of malaise."
Mouldy odors, oozing walls, morphing faces, dark hallways, masked figures, despairing drunks, blood-red lips, creaking floors, haunted harpsichords, beating rain, lamplit streets. The daring reader will absolutely bathe in the atmosphere of classic horror chills.
Perhaps the most traditional ghost story in the collection is "The Locked Room," about a man invited to a hunting party who arrives to find that all the rooms of the chateau are full with other guests. So he spends the night in an ancient cottage on the grounds of the estate. His room smells strangely of ether. In the middle of the night, he hears strange noises in the next room that scare the piss out of him, but when he tries to leave, he finds he is locked in. This is an incredibly eerie masterpiece that is perfect for reading alone in the dark.
Another creepy story of note is "A Posthumous Protest." At first, I thought Lorraine had ripped this idea directly off from a horror short by Theophile Gautier called "The Mummy's Foot," but I was wrong. There was a second story called "The Mummy's Foot" which had been published in 1912 by Jessie Adelaide Middleton, and this is the one I remembered for the chilling scene of a man finding a female figure hiding behind a heavy tapestry, revealed only by her foot showing beneath the drape. So I thought maybe that Lorraine was tributing Gautier, since he was definitely mimicking Gautier's drug use for literary inspiration, but it looks like in this case Lorraine's story is the original, and one that will be sure to give you goosebumps.
Two of his stories have Dostoevskian titles: "The Possessed" and "The Double." The first is the account of a man's post-acute psychosis after two years of ether use, and the message seems to be "Don't do drugs, kids. Drugs are bad, m'kay?" Now, I have no idea what kind of high ether was supposed to impart, but this story, like all of this book, doesn't make it sound pleasant at all. It doesn't seem like you'd want to noodle-dance to Phish or the Grateful Dead. Instead, ether intoxication seems like the worst of being heavily stoned or on a bad acid trip. All the imperfections in a person are enhanced when you look at them, like the tint of their skin or the mottling of their network of veins, which then leads to paranoid conclusions. You focus on the paleness of the people sitting next to you on the bus and they look like mannequins... or vampires. You start to fancy that maybe everyone has been replaced by simulacra, and then you notice one of them giving you the side eye, and you suddenly realize that they are all on to you. And even if you don't get that delusional, you can't help but at least obsess over how sickly everyone looks and how this is an indictment of the superficial ratrace of modern urban living. Sounds like a good time!
As a Looney Tunes fan, my only concept of the effects of ether were from a scene where Bugs Bunny is "tripping" with an evil scientist: "Come... back... heeerrre... you... rab... bit!" After reading this book, I'll now forever associate the drug with nightmare fuel.
As a side note, the Brian Stableford adaptation is missing one story due to copyright issues, since it appeared in the 1994 Andrew Mangravite collection "The Book of Masks." This is not to be confused with the 1921 essay of the same name, which I have also reviewed for Goodreads, but both "books of masks" serve as excellent further reading for those interested in Symbolist and Decadent writings.
Overall, you horror readers who like your literature on the side of the intellectual, the psychological, the bizarre, and the macabre will really want to read this, if not have it on your shelf. Do you dream like an Ed Gorey sketch? Does your dinner begin or end with a glass of Chartreuse, Herbsaint, or a sugar cube over a slotted spoon? Is at least one room in your house adorned in deep burgundy paisley wallpaper that you find yourself staring at for far too long on blustery nights? Have you ever uttered the name of Toulouse-Lautrec freely and fondly in conversation? Do you think masque balls are magical, and spend months preparing your yearly costume for Mardi Gras or Halloween? If you answered yes to any of these inquiries, you need to read this book.
WORD OF THE DAY: Egregore