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Stories: Alchemy and Others
A Novella; 2. Jerricho, Jericho, Jericho; 3. The Mahogany Frame; 4. Mr. MacGregor; 5. Ortie's Mass.
192 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1984
11 people want to read
About the author
Andrew Lytle
48 books12 followersAndrew Nelson Lytle (December 26, 1902 – December 12, 1995) was an American novelist, dramatist, essayist and professor of literature. He was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and early in his life planned to be an actor and playwright. He studied acting at Yale University and performed on Broadway when he was in his 20s.
Unlike other Southern intellectuals who left the region never to return, Lytle went home after the death of a kinsman. Except for brief sojourns elsewhere, he remained in the South for the rest of his life.
(wikipedia)
Unlike other Southern intellectuals who left the region never to return, Lytle went home after the death of a kinsman. Except for brief sojourns elsewhere, he remained in the South for the rest of his life.
(wikipedia)
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
August 14, 2023
This novella by the criminally under-read novelist and critic, Andrew Lytle, is a companion piece to his outstanding novel about de Soto, At the Moon’s Inn. It was originally written as a flashback section to it. Another shorter flashback, “Ortiz’s Mass” is also included as one of the stories in this volume, all of which are excellent. Being fascinated with the Incas from childhood I read several narratives the Conquest; however, despite all the action, they never came alive for me.
What Lytle sets out to do is to distinguish between “the simple art of narrative and the comprehensive art of fiction,” as he once wrote. What distinguishes the two is the role of the reader in the latter. Lytle points out that “the critical reader becomes an artist, too. He must recreate what has been done, a greater reward always than some sensational impression of it. The pleasure of illusion is small beside the pleasure of creation, and knowledge better than simple entertainment.” If successful good fiction can transcend history writing.
Lytle clearly succeeds because in reading just the 90 pages of Alchemy, he helped me create the world of the Inca and Conquistador, and feel I gained more knowledge of them than from the several histories I’d read.
The story is narrated years later by a member of the Entrada looking back after Pizarro and de Soto and most of the men have died and with the perspective and wisdom only given to those who know how things will turn out. It’s also told in a straightforward modern tone, unlike the faux archaic style At the Moon’s Inn, and so we don’t sense any ironic distance between narrator and author. Among other things, this short novella is a case study in the craft of how to write historical fiction.
What we are shown are two peoples, the Spaniards and the Incas, who fundamentally cannot understand each other. The tale begins, “We landed in Peru in ignorance. We advanced in uncertainty.” They prematurely think the Indians are savages when they come across ruined fort on the beach:
“And then de Soto spoke. ‘I’ve gone over the fort. It is a fine piece of engineering.’ All turned to him respectfully, as the captain of the men from Nicaragua. Pizarro grew attentive. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘It has three walls, or rather one wall which winds three times about its central keep. The foundation stones weigh tons.’ He paused to make sure this was understood. … ‘How,’ he asked, ‘were these stones brought here without beasts and how put together with so much skill?’”
They find a long straight stone road, “I asked myself what must these heathen be to outdo Christendom and bind their provinces so well together.”
For his part, Atahualpa, the Sapa Inca, ruler of the largest empire on earth at the time sees so little a threat that he chooses to hang out at his steam bath and allow Pizarro and his men to wind their way up to him unmolested along a mountain trail that’s literally one long continuous ambush opportunity.
The study of alchemy is most associated as an attempt to change so-called “base metals” into “noble” ones, and indeed the Spaniards do transform the dross of their hard Toledo steel into soft Incan gold on the day of their miraculous battle when less than 200 Spaniards defeated 6,000 Incas and captured the Inca emperor.
However, Spain and the Pope also wants to transform these base heathens into noble Christians, but this seems little more than a pretext or license for Pizarro. Thus there is darker side to alchemy, and Lytle shows us this at the novella’s end after battle just as Pizarro and his men are about to realize their wildest dreams. The narrator realizes years later that though they had come to do God’s work, they were really doing the Devil’s:
“Amen,” I murmured or thought I spoke. Now I am unsure. . . .now the word sounds across the long past like the sign of an alchemical charm. That day a kind of alchemy was done. So it seems to me, now that I can see better the end. . . Yet whatever it was which on that day of triumph filled the eyes of those two captains, it seemed to them a thing of radiance, in white robes and most beautiful. But beside them there was in attendance a companion clad in very different guise. As they reached out their hands to clasp their desires, that other — the dark thing — stepped forward to receive them.”
What Lytle sets out to do is to distinguish between “the simple art of narrative and the comprehensive art of fiction,” as he once wrote. What distinguishes the two is the role of the reader in the latter. Lytle points out that “the critical reader becomes an artist, too. He must recreate what has been done, a greater reward always than some sensational impression of it. The pleasure of illusion is small beside the pleasure of creation, and knowledge better than simple entertainment.” If successful good fiction can transcend history writing.
Lytle clearly succeeds because in reading just the 90 pages of Alchemy, he helped me create the world of the Inca and Conquistador, and feel I gained more knowledge of them than from the several histories I’d read.
The story is narrated years later by a member of the Entrada looking back after Pizarro and de Soto and most of the men have died and with the perspective and wisdom only given to those who know how things will turn out. It’s also told in a straightforward modern tone, unlike the faux archaic style At the Moon’s Inn, and so we don’t sense any ironic distance between narrator and author. Among other things, this short novella is a case study in the craft of how to write historical fiction.
What we are shown are two peoples, the Spaniards and the Incas, who fundamentally cannot understand each other. The tale begins, “We landed in Peru in ignorance. We advanced in uncertainty.” They prematurely think the Indians are savages when they come across ruined fort on the beach:
“And then de Soto spoke. ‘I’ve gone over the fort. It is a fine piece of engineering.’ All turned to him respectfully, as the captain of the men from Nicaragua. Pizarro grew attentive. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘It has three walls, or rather one wall which winds three times about its central keep. The foundation stones weigh tons.’ He paused to make sure this was understood. … ‘How,’ he asked, ‘were these stones brought here without beasts and how put together with so much skill?’”
They find a long straight stone road, “I asked myself what must these heathen be to outdo Christendom and bind their provinces so well together.”
For his part, Atahualpa, the Sapa Inca, ruler of the largest empire on earth at the time sees so little a threat that he chooses to hang out at his steam bath and allow Pizarro and his men to wind their way up to him unmolested along a mountain trail that’s literally one long continuous ambush opportunity.
The study of alchemy is most associated as an attempt to change so-called “base metals” into “noble” ones, and indeed the Spaniards do transform the dross of their hard Toledo steel into soft Incan gold on the day of their miraculous battle when less than 200 Spaniards defeated 6,000 Incas and captured the Inca emperor.
However, Spain and the Pope also wants to transform these base heathens into noble Christians, but this seems little more than a pretext or license for Pizarro. Thus there is darker side to alchemy, and Lytle shows us this at the novella’s end after battle just as Pizarro and his men are about to realize their wildest dreams. The narrator realizes years later that though they had come to do God’s work, they were really doing the Devil’s:
“Amen,” I murmured or thought I spoke. Now I am unsure. . . .now the word sounds across the long past like the sign of an alchemical charm. That day a kind of alchemy was done. So it seems to me, now that I can see better the end. . . Yet whatever it was which on that day of triumph filled the eyes of those two captains, it seemed to them a thing of radiance, in white robes and most beautiful. But beside them there was in attendance a companion clad in very different guise. As they reached out their hands to clasp their desires, that other — the dark thing — stepped forward to receive them.”
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