"The life of the happy is all hopes--that of the unfortunate all memory."
This beast of a book has been applauded as being right up there with "Frankenstein" as the pinnacle of the gothic era. I might agree.
Now, I've tried and tried to give Gothic romances a fair shake, especially considering that "Frankenstein" is one of my favorite books of all time. But I just don't like the vast majority of this genre. The hysterics and swooning and melodrama. The romance that lacks any chemistry. The unnecessary secrets to create a very lackluster mystery. The Scooby Doo endings. The endless meandering prose to tell some of the simplest stories in literature.
"Melmoth the Wanderer" is actually everything I THOUGHT Gothic romance would be, but typically isn't. Let me paint you a picture of what to expect.
An autumn evening, rain and wind rattling the window panes of an ancient family estate. Elderly Irish servants are bustling about with smoking pipes in their toothless mouths, talking of headless ghosts and faerie folk. A crowd of aristocrats are gathered in the parlor, snacking on salted salmon and growing tipsy from potcheen. Everyone is preparing for the imminent death of "the master," who lays heaped in blankets upstairs while his nephew, John, holds vigil. With a trembling hand, the old miserly invalid gives John a rusty key to a secret closet. "Fetch me a cordial. Madeira," he says. Inside the small room, a spooky painting of "Melmoth," a family ancestor, hangs in the dark. As John passes with the wine, the eyes on the portrait follow him. Thunder claps overhead as John's uncle gives his dying wish. The portrait in that room, and a manuscript beneath, must be burned. For the portrait was painted 150 years ago, but the man in that painting is still alive, ageless, and only appears on the nights that an ancestor lays on his deathbed. In fact, he is already here, watching them right now... standing in the doorway.
Oooo...! Now that's what I'm talking about!
What ensues is less of a novel and more of a collection of episodes all tied together with this traveling villain who seems to be able to teleport across the world, trying to find a vulnerable victim who, in a time of desperate need, would be willing to change places with the cursed Melmoth. These layers of stories within stories have been called by "The Guardian" as "a Gothic matryoshka," and can be frustrating for the reader. However, the disorienting feel of being lost in the "narrative" is apropos to the titular character being able to transcend space and even time.
Imbedded in these stories is quite a lot of anti-Catholic themes, which I suppose was unusual coming from a writer out of Ireland, as the inhumanity and hypocrisy of the Inquisition features as the real horror throughout. The first side-story, "The Tale of the Spaniard," is perhaps the most blatant in this regard, a heart-pumping suspense yarn of a man named Alfonso who is forced to become a monk due to politics and religious manipulation. Alfonso finds that a monastery is really a prison, a place where distinguished families try to lock away their embarrassments--grown children who had been born out of wedlock or who have had the audacity to fall in love with a woman beneath their station. Alfonso is not allowed to renounce his vows or to leave the campus. The monks and their Superior resort to very unchristian and increasingly sadistic acts to subdue him, leading to a daring escape attempt through the secret catacombs of the monsatery. This is one of the most memorable scenes of the book, with Alfonso crawling through ever-narrowing underground spaces in complete blackness while, overhead, the sounds of chanting monks echo through the maze of passages. Claustrophobic, eerie, and suspenseful. Great stuff!
If the Tale of the Spaniard was anti-Catholic, the Tale of the Indian is anti-everything. Here, Melmoth himself gives a scathing critique of all of society, pointing out the hypocrisies of the everyday life of all religious peoples who profess "love one another" despite constantly engaging in wars while kings grow rich and the poor starve. In this section, Melmoth clearly harbors acrimony towards his fellow human beings, saying things like the only parents who truly show any kindness towards their children are those who abort them before they can be born in this horrible world. He also actually shows a bit of tenderness towards a young woman who is infatuated with him, though he also delights in torturing her psychologically. I found this section to be a bit ridiculous, as it concerns a love affair between the tainted Melmoth and an innocent soul named Isidore who was shipwrecked on an island as a baby, growing up knowing no human beings. She then is discovered and brought back to her parents in Spain. We are supposed to believe that this toddler was able to survive on an uninhabited island until the bloom of her womanhood without being feral, or at least difficult to adjust to the stodgy life of manners and Catholic dogma. But no, within three years she is as cultured as if she had always lived among the upper crust of Spanish society. I know the book is all allegory and fairy tale, not realism, but this is the kind of thing that takes me out of romances.
There are several more separate story sections embedded in the narrative that is supposed to show how all the characters throughout time are linked by Melmoth "like beads on a string." But this leads to my main obvious issue--the length. Not that long books are themselves a problem. Look how many people love "The Stand." I too have loved many a Russian door-stopper and enjoyed the 1200+ pages of "Jean-Christophe." But a book really needs to earn its length. Let's compare "Melmoth" to "Frankenstein." Mary Shelley was able to say so much in such a short book, while Charles Maturin never misses the chance to expand what could be said in one sentence into an entire page or more. The result is a book as artificially inflated as a newly promoted middle manager at a car repair shop. On top of that, each of the interrelated tales are at least novella-length in themselves, and so added together with the general setup of the wandering Melmoth character, you have yourself one brick of a book which traditionally had to be published in four volumes.
Still, I can't complain too badly. I enjoyed the long ride, and I think most readers, especially scholars of the horror genre, will enjoy it too.
So dim the lights, burn some incense, put on some ambient Gregorian chants, and settle in for a truly classic literary experience.
WORD OF THE DAY: Today, I don't have so much as one interesting word to share from the book, but I do have several examples of how quickly language evolves. When this novel was published in 1820, the English spelling of "show" was "shew," "gulf" was "gulph," "choke" was "choak," "skulls" and "ankles" were "sculls" and "ancles," "tonight" was "to-night," "monkeys" was "monkies." And somehow, the old spellings make more sense. English is weird.