Horror stories fall mostly into two forms. In one, the horror is perpetrated by the Other – an often hideous, slimy dweller from distant or unknowable regions driven by unrelenting cruelty and hatred of humanity. It includes those pointlessly nasty ghosts who resent the living for being alive.
In the other approach, the horror dwells Within, an emanation from or reflection of the basic hideousness of a human soul. Bowen is one of the best of these writers, which, in my fading adulthood I find far more horrifying that the boogeyman of my childhood. She is also a master (mistress) of misdirection, especially of ephemeral confusion, which remains once her tale is complete – a crawling attenuation of eeriness.
This collection includes one novel, "Black Magic," and some superb visits to the deepest regions of human degradation. Like The Shadow, Bowen knows "what evil lurks in the hearts of men" – and women. She is convincing because she so well illuminates the truth of the disordered mind. She is also a superb stylist, with her special wickedness directed at the empty arrogance of the powerful who use the world as their dinner plate.
Bowen was intrigued by Italian history, and several of the stories take place in 16th or 17th century Italy, during or surrounding the time of the Medici. "Black Magic" shifts its direction as it moves along, but returns from each side journey to a central focus on Dirk, a young sculptor and would-be disciple of the devil, and Theirry, drawn to, yet often repulsed by, Dirk's darkness. Their adventure starts in Flanders, ends in Rome, traversing major religious and political upheavals (and sordid deaths) over roughly a decade. The story seems to lean, at first, toward a highly unusual look at gay attraction for the time it was written (1909), but unfolds into something far more intricate and convoluted. At many turns, Bowen seems to prefigure the ending, yet it's not clear if she intends to do so or if her approach was so unusual at that time that finish would still have caught the reader unaware.
But it's the shorter pieces that remain with me most solidly, three especially. "Petronilla of the Laurel Trees," telling of two young hopeful lovers tied (willingly) to the genealogical ambitions of an old man, is as deeply sad a tale as I've ever read, because their downfall is the result of that noble yet misdirected willingness. There's no evil here, beyond that of life's unfolding.
"The Sign-Painter and the Crystal Fishes" leaves both life and death in their unfinished states, to the point where it's not clear where one leaves off and the other begins, or which comes first. The characters are all victims, all perpetrators. The story is superbly balanced, it's sense of incompleteness maybe its strongest point.
But "Scoured Silk," which I first read in general horror collection – in fact, the story that made me hunt down Bowen, whom I'd never read before – will live with me for through my life. It is horrific at the most basic level because, though its evil is numbing, it is believable, almost a solidification of of the worst we could imagine of a malicious obsession with vengeance. It's a story I would not dare outline, but one I recommend without restraint – so horrendous in its telling I could not read it a second time here. And perhaps never again. It's already inside me.