Crime and Horror in Victorian Literature and Culture - Volume II · 2016. 10. 24. · Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803–1873) Monos and Daimonos 9 Christina Rossetti (1830–1894) Goblin

Crime and Horror in Victorian Literature and Culture - Volume IIEdited by Matthew Kaiser

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CRIME AND HORROR IN

VICTORIAN LITERATURE AND CULTURE

VOLUME II

Edited by

MATTHEW KAISER

HARVARD UNIVERSITY

Copyright © 2010 by Matthew Kaiser. All rights reserved. No part of this publica-tion may be reprinted, reproduced, transmitted, or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereaft er invented, including photocopying, microfi lming, and recording, or in any information retrieval system without the written permission of University Readers, Inc. First published in the United States of America in 2010 by University Readers, Inc.

Trademark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identifi cation and explanation without intent to infringe.

14 13 12 11 10 1 2 3 4 5

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-935551-54-6

CONTENTS

Introduction 1

Part V: Monstrosity

Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803–1873)Monos and Daimonos 9

Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)Goblin Market 17

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde 37

Frederick Treves (1853–1923)Th e Elephant Man 95

“Jack the Ripper”Letter to Central News Offi ce 103

John Barlas (1860–1914)Terrible Love 105

Stanislaus Eric Stenbock (1860–1895)Th e True Story of a Vampire 107

Part VI: Hauntings

Leopold Lewis (1828–1890)Th e Bells 117

Margaret Oliphant (1828–1897)A Beleaguered City 151

Vernon Lee (1856–1935)A Phantom Lover 247

Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)A Chilly Night 291Cobwebs 293

Lafcadio Hearn (1850–1904)Furisodé 295

Part VII: Chaos

Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881)From Th e French Revolution 301

Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803–1873)From Th e Last Days of Pompeii 307

Alfred Tennyson (1809–1892)Th e Kraken 311

Bithia Mary Croker (ca.1849–1920)Jack Straw’s Castle 313

Max Nordau (1849–1923)From Degeneration 319

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909)Hermaphroditus 329

Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)Hap 333

A. Mary F. Robinson (1857–1944)Neurasthenia 335

Émile Durkheim (1858–1917)From Suicide: A Study in Sociology 337

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)Th e Suicide Club 355

Part VIII: Death

Robert Browning (1812–1889)Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came 421

Alfred Tennyson (1809–1892)Tithonus 433Rizpah 437

Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)Aft er Death 443

Florence Marryat (1837–1899)My First Séance 445

Alexander William Kinglake (1809–1891)Cairo and the Plague 453

Emily Brontë (1818–1848)Death 469

Acknowledgments 471

INTRODUCTION 1

INTRODUCTION

horr•ĕō –ēre –ŭī vt to dread; to shudder at, shrink from; to be amazed at; vi to stand on end, stand up straight; to get goosefl esh; to shiver, tremble, quake, shake; to look frightful, be rough.

T O tremble, to get goosefl esh, to feel the hair on one’s neck stand on end: these are some of the physical symptoms of the psychological condition called being horrifi ed. From the Latin verb horrere, “horror” is more than

“fear” or “dread.” Horror is a painful awareness of—and acute sensitivity to—the penetrability and thus fragility of our skin: the realization of just how breachable that thin membrane is between the inside and outside of our bodies. We do not typically think about our pulsing hearts, or the quivering pinkness of our glistening viscera. We repress these images, tuck them away in our minds. We stroll cheerfully through daily life—or plod cluelessly, depending on who we are—forgetting to the best of our ability the fl eshy world beneath our skin. Horror shatters this forgetful-ness. Whether it comes in the form of a violent fi lm, or the evening news, or a grisly car accident we pass in slow motion on our evening commute, horror reminds us that we are, in the end, meat.

Not all horror is so bodily. Even the most abstract or metaphysical experiences of horror, however, communicate a sense of crossed or unstable boundaries, a feel-ing of disorientation or uncanniness, a sense that what was once far away is now close by, or what was once up is now down, or what was once seemingly dead is now all-too-alive, all-too-present. Horror undermines our ease and complacency. It discombobulates us. We feel tense and defensive. Sometimes we turn and run. So terribly deformed was Joseph Merrick, for instance, the Victorian man who was known commonly as the “Elephant Man,” and so unrecognizable as human was his face, that trained nurses who had seen it all in their long careers dropped their trays, screamed, and fl ed when they entered his hospital room for the fi rst time. Merrick was in his mid-twenties when someone, for the fi rst time in his life, smiled at him

2 CRIME AND HORROR IN VICTORIAN LITERATURE AND CULTURE

upon meeting him. So unprepared was he for this smile, for a gesture of kindness that most of us take for granted, that he began sobbing uncontrollably.

*Th at so many Victorian writers and thinkers were fascinated by sensations of

spatial and temporal disorientation, by a creeping of the fl esh, is due to the fact that the nineteenth century in Great Britain was a time of political, demographic, scientifi c, cultural, and economic change. Opportunities for horror abounded. Old boundaries blurred and were redrawn. Ancient orders collapsed. Customs died. Th e world seemed to many to be spinning toward an unfamiliar future. Th e population of Great Britain, the fi rst industrialized nation on earth, grew at an unprecedented rate; millions of people moved to crowded, unsanitary cities to work in the new manufacturing sector. Extreme poverty, exacerbated by periods of high unemploy-ment and political unrest, existed in proximity to fl ourishing wealth, to a politically and culturally ascendant middle class, with its disposable income, its moralism and materialism, anxiety and ease. Having fully recovered from the loss of its American colonies in the eighteenth century, Great Britain became, in the wake of its victory over Napoleonic France, the world’s foremost military and economic power, trans-forming itself, by century’s end, into the largest and most powerful empire the world had ever seen. By the 1890s, one in every four acres of land on earth was under the British fl ag; one in every four people on the planet was a British subject. Scientifi c discoveries and technological innovations—the railroad, photography, telegraphy, for instance, or Darwin’s theory of evolution—transformed the country’s physical landscape and the geography of the mind, jolting the Victorians into a new world of possibilities and threats. Th e old narratives—those binding agents that once held society together—seemed to dissolve before their eyes.

Th e disenchanting and exhilarating sensation of modernity is comparable to feeling out of place. Th e ground has shift ed—and is shift ing still—beneath one’s feet. Karl Marx described life in the nineteenth century as a queasy state in which “all that is solid melts into air.” Looking around in the mid-1880s at an England he barely recognized, so unlike the “old days,” Victorian cultural critic John Ruskin likened the modern world to a monstrous, unnatural “storm-cloud” on the hori-zon, a meteorological phenomenon he had never seen before. Writing in the early twentieth century, E. F. Benson described this storm from the inside. He compares

INTRODUCTION 3

memories of his Victorian childhood to “glimpses seen through the window by night when lightning is about”: “Th e fl ash leaps out without visible cause or warning, and the blackness lift s for a second revealing the scene, the criss-cross of the rods of rain, the trees shining with moisture, the colours in the fl ower-beds, and then darkness like a lid snapped down hides all till the next fl ash fl ickers.” Th e monsters that creep through Victorian literature are metaphors for the deformities wrought on the Victorian psyche by modernity: misfi t thoughts, a lost sense of community, insatiable new capitalist appetites. Likewise, the myriad ghosts that haunt Victorian literature suggest a state of cultural and psychological fl ux, a porous border between past and present, between this world and the next.

If the Victorians mourned the loss of the old, looked with trepidation upon the rapid approach of the unknown, they also found their footing on the undulant surface of modern life. Th ey survived and fl ourished. Victorian modernity is an unlikely confection of optimism and anxiety. Masters of the seas and the earth, the Victorians set a tone that persists to this day, shaping in important ways our own globalized world. Th ey saw themselves as reformers, as fi xers of a broken world. Th e idea of “fi xing” is a particularly Victorian idea. It suggests repair and renovation, a can-do attitude: world-historical confi dence in one’s ability to save the world. It also suggests, however, a desire to arrest or control, to regulate or lay down the law, to chase that upstart spirit, chaos, into the shadows. On an increasingly discordant and complex planet, the Victorians sought—with good intentions and with bad—to produce a stabilizing sense of the normal. If they seem to strive a bit too earnestly at times for truth, for epistemological and philosophical certainty, that is because the truths on which they once relied had turned to dust before their eyes, like a corpse in an unsealed tomb.

Th e Victorians are famous for policing themselves and everyone else, for policing culture and desire, for policing the world. Th ey sought to put everything in its rightful place. Th ey are credited by some with inventing, popularizing, and disseminating—through education, popular culture, political and scientifi c discourse, and though commonsense—the concept of the normal. Whereas order was once maintained in society through violence or through the unspoken threat of violence, the Victorian middle class attempted to stabilize society, philosopher Michel Foucault suggests, with a far more eff ective instrument of control: the imperative that one be normal. Socialization became synonymous with normalization. A normalized individual polices herself, measures herself against a norm, conforms. In normalization, we internalize the norm, take it to heart, and make it a cherished part of ourselves. Th e criminal, the misfi t, the oddball, and the freak: the Victorians did not punish


or ostracize these people. Th ey used them to defi ne, refi ne, and ultimately to codify the normal. Th ese people became the exceptions that proved the rule. Just as a disease teaches doctors the nature of health and the workings of the body, so crimi-nal behavior taught Victorian criminologists how successful socialization works. Th e normalizing impulse in modern culture, then, can be traced to a political and emotional need on our part to fi nd our footing, to orient ourselves, in a world in which “all that is solid melts into air.” If the normal is a reassuring concept, it is also a paranoid one. At the root of all horror is a hunger for normality, for the reassurance it provides, for the stability it promises.

*Th e two volumes that comprise Crime and Horror in Victorian Literature and

Culture off er readers a chance to gaze at the Victorian psyche, at that mixture of paranoia and confi dence with which English, Scottish, and Irish writers faced the nineteenth century, made sense of the horror they could not fully repress, the normality they could not quite achieve. Together, these volumes contain one novel, two plays, three novellas, nine short stories, twenty-two poems, and numer-ous contextualizing examples of nineteenth-century journalism, social criticism, criminology, memoirs, excerpts, and government reports. In a project of this scope, one must abandon the fantasy of a comprehensive account of crime and horror in Victorian literature and culture. For every text included, four or fi ve had to be excluded. Instead, I have opted to provide readers with eight “footholds” in the pe-riod, entry points into themes or topics that captivated the Victorian imagination, triggered the sensation of horror, an unsettling awareness of porous or transgressed boundaries. Th ese include: the slum, the criminal essence, the heavy hand of the law, prostitution, monstrosity, hauntedness, chaos, and death. Crime and Horror in Victorian Literature and Culture contains numerous voices. Some are familiar: Charles Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson, Christina Rossetti, and Arthur Conan Doyle. Other voices, however, have been forgotten or neglected in recent years, and are collected here and annotated for the fi rst time in a long time, in some cases, for the fi rst time ever: Octavia Hill, Stanislaus Eric Stenbock, Bithia Mary Croker, among others. I invite readers to explore the varied landscape of Victorian fear. Plunge into its forgotten valleys; scale its daunting heights. For in the twenty-fi rst

INTRODUCTION 5

century, a century shaped in so many ways by the nineteenth, their fear is now our fear.

*A project of this size cannot be accomplished alone. I owe a debt of gratitude to

many people. First, I’d like to thank my research assistant Kelly Haigh, who collected biographical data on many of the authors included in this anthology, and who wrote some of the author biographies that follow, as well as portions of others. I am grate-ful to the staff at University Readers for their commitment to this project and for helping me to complete it expeditiously, especially Mieka Hemesath, Monica Hui, Jessica Knott, Jennifer Bowen, and Toni Villalas. At Harvard University, Rebecca Curtin worked with me to organize and digitize an enormous amount of material, and a Faculty Research Assistance Grant provided the necessary funds. I’d also like to express gratitude to Carol Dell’Amico, Jim Engell, Molly Clark Hillard, Elaine Scarry, Carolyn Williams, Sybil Kaiser, and Ken Urban, for their feedback, assis-tance, and support.

PART V

MONSTROSITY

MONOS AND DAIMONOS 9

MONOS AND DAIMONOS

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

A popular novelist in his day, Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803–1873) is neglect-ed today. Born in London to a dysfunctional family of means, the debonair Bulwer-Lytton received his education at Cambridge, where he transformed himself into a Byronic playboy, immersing himself in high society, having an affair, at one point, with one of Byron’s former mistresses. At twenty-four he married Rosina Doyle Wheeler, a penniless belle. To fi nance their lavish lifestyle, an increasingly irritable Bulwer-Lytton turned writer, trying his hand, with considerable success, at a variety of novelistic subgenres: the novel of manners, Pelham (1828); the Newgate novel, Paul Clifford (1830); the historical novel, The Last Days of Pompeii (1834); and the domestic idyll, The Caxtons (1849). In addition to eleven volumes of poetry and some highly successful plays, Bulwer-Lytton dabbled in science fi ction and occult fi ction, which led to rumors of his involvement in various secret societies. By the time he embarked on his long career in parliamentary politics, serving fi rst as a Radical and then as a Conservative, eventually becoming Secretary of the Colonies in 1858, Bulwer-Lytton was embroiled in open warfare with his estranged wife, who bitterly attacked him in print, and even heckled him at a campaign rally in 1858, which led to her incarceration in a madhouse for several weeks at his insistence. Plagued by a chronic ear infection contracted earlier in life, from which he gradually became deaf, Bulwer-Lytton died when the infection spread to his brain. The following tale appeared in May 1830 in the New Monthly Magazine. In Greek, monos means “single”; a daimon is an attendant spirit or lesser deity.

I AM English by birth, and my early years were passed in ——; I had neither brothers nor sisters; my mother died when I was in the cradle; and I found my sole companion, tutor, and playmate in my father. He was a younger brother

of a noble and ancient house: what induced him to forsake his country and his


friends, to abjure all society, and to live in a rock, is a story in itself, which has nothing to do with mine.

As the Lord liveth, I believe the tale that I shall tell you will have suffi cient claim on your attention, without calling in the history of another to preface its most ex-quisite1 details, or to give interest to its most amusing events. I said my father lived on a rock—the whole country round seemed nothing but rock!—wastes, bleak, blank, dreary; trees stunted, herbage blasted; caverns, through which some black and wild stream (that never knew star or sunlight, but through rare and hideous chasms of the huge stones above it) went dashing and howling on its blessed course; vast cliff s, covered with eternal snows, where the birds of prey lived, and sent, in screams and discordance, a grateful and meet2 music to the heavens, which seemed too cold and barren to wear even clouds upon their wan, grey, comfortless expanse: these made the characters of that country where the spring of my life sickened itself away. Th e climate which, in the milder parts of —— relieves the nine months of winter with three months of an abrupt and autumnless summer, never seemed to vary in the gentle and sweet region in which my home was placed. Perhaps, for a brief interval, the snow in the valleys melted, and the streams swelled, and a blue, ghastly, unnatural kind of vegetation, seemed here and there to mix with the rude lichen, or scatter a grim smile over minute particles of the universal rock; but to these witnesses of the changing season were the summers of my boyhood confi ned. My father was addicted to the sciences—the physical sciences—and possessed but a moderate share of learning in any thing else; he taught me all he knew; and the rest of my education, Nature, in a savage and stern guise, instilled in my heart by silent but deep lessons. She taught my feet to bound, and my arm to smite; she breathed life into my passions, and shed darkness over my temper; she taught me to cling to her, even in her most rugged and unalluring form, and to shrink from all else—from the companionship of man, and the soft smiles of woman, and the shrill voice of childhood; and the ties, and hopes, and socialities, and objects of human existence, as from a torture and a curse. Even in that sullen rock, and beneath that ungenial sky, I had luxuries unknown to the palled tastes of cities, or to those who woo delight in an air of odours and in a land of roses! What were those luxuries? Th ey had a myriad varieties and shades of enjoyment—they had but a common name. What were those luxuries? Solitude!

1 Far-fetched.2 Fitting.


My father died when I was eighteen; I was transferred to my uncle’s protection, and I repaired to London. I arrived there, gaunt and stern, a giant in limbs and strength, and to the tastes of those about me, a savage in bearing and in mood. Th ey would have laughed, but I awed them; they would have altered me, but I changed them; I threw a damp over their enjoyment and a cloud over their meetings. Th ough I said little, though I sat with them, estranged and silent, and passive, they seemed to wither beneath my presence. Nobody could live with me and be happy, or at ease! I felt it, and I hated them that they could love not me. Th ree years passed—I was of age—I demanded my fortune—and scorning social life, and pining once more for loneliness, I resolved to journey into those unpeopled and far lands, which if any have pierced, none have returned to describe. So I took my leave of them all, cousin and aunt—and when I came to my old uncle, who had liked me less than any, I grasped his hand with so friendly a gripe,1 that, well I ween,2 the dainty and nice member was but little inclined to its ordinary functions in future.

I commenced my pilgrimage—I pierced the burning sands—I traversed the vast deserts—I came into the enormous woods of Africa, where human step never trod, nor human voice ever started the thrilling and intense solemnity that broods over the great solitudes, as it brooded over chaos before the world was! Th ere the primeval nature springs and perishes; undisturbed and unvaried by the convulsions of the surrounding world; the leaf becomes the tree, lives through its uncounted ages, falls and moulders, and rots and vanishes, unwitnessed in its mighty and mute changes, save by the wandering lion, or the wild ostrich, or that huge serpent—a hundred times more vast than the puny boa that the cold limners of Europe have painted, and whose bones the vain student has preserved, as a miracle and marvel. Th ere, too, as beneath the heavy and dense shade I couched in the scorching noon, I heard the trampling as of an army, and the crush and fall of the strong trees, and beheld through the matted boughs the behemoth3 pass on its terrible way, with its eyes burning as a sun, and its white teeth arched and glistening in the rabid jaw, as pillars of spar glitter in a cavern; the monster, to whom only those wastes are a home, and who never, since the waters rolled from the Dædal4 earth, has been given to human gaze and wonder but my own! Seasons glided on, but I counted them not; they were not doled to me by the tokens of man, nor made sick to me by the changes of his base life, and the evidence of his sordid labour. Seasons glided on,

1 Grip.2 Th ink.3 An enormous monstrous animal.4 Intricately designed.


and my youth ripened into manhood, and manhood grew grey with the fi rst frost of age; and then a vague and restless spirit fell upon me, and I said in my foolish heart, “I will look upon the countenances of my race once more!” I retraced my steps—I recrossed the wastes—I re-entered the cities—I took again the garb of man; for I had been hitherto naked in the wilderness, and hair had grown over me as a garment. I repaired to a sea-port, and took ship for England.

In the vessel there was one man, and only one, who neither avoided my com-panionship nor recoiled at my frown. He was an idle and curious being, full of the frivolities, and egotisms, and importance of them to whom towns are homes, and talk has become a mental aliment.1 He was one pervading, irritating, off ensive tissue of little and low thoughts. Th e only meanness he had not was fear. It was impossible to awe, to silence, or to shun him. He sought me for ever; he was as a blister to me, which no force could tear away; my soul grew faint when my eyes met him. He was to my sight as those creatures which from their very loathsomeness are fearful as well as despicable to us. I longed and yearned to strangle him when he addressed me! Oft en I would have laid my hand on him, and hurled him into the sea to the sharks, which, lynx-eyed and eager-jawed, swam night and day around our ship; but the gaze of many was on us, and I curbed myself, and turned away, and shut my eyes in very sickness; and when I opened them again, lo! He was by my side, and his sharp quick voice grated, in its prying, and asking, and torturing accents, on my loathing and repugnant2 ear! One night I was roused from my sleep by the screams and oaths of men, and I hastened on deck: we had struck upon a rock. It was a ghastly, but, oh Christ! how glorious a sight! Moonlight still and calm—the sea sleeping in sapphires; and in the midst of the silent and soft repose of all things, three hundred and fi ft y souls were to perish from the world! I sat apart, and looked on, and aided not. A voice crept like an adder’s hiss upon my ear; I turned, and saw my tormentor; the moonlight fell on his face, and it grinned with the maudlin grin of intoxication, and his pale blue eye glistened and he said, “We will not part even here!” My blood ran coldly through my veins, and I would have thrown him into the sea, which now came fast and fast upon us; but the moonlight was on him, and I did not dare to kill him. But I would not stay to perish with the herd, and I threw myself alone from the vessel and swam towards a rock. I saw a shark dart aft er me, but I shunned him, and the moment aft er he had plenty to sate his maw. I heard a crash, and a mingled and wild burst of anguish, the anguish of three hundred and

1 Sustenance.2 Resistant.


fi ft y hearts that a minute aft erwards were stilled, and I said in my own heart, with a deep joy, “His voice is with the rest, and we have parted!” I gained the shore, and lay down to sleep.

Th e next morning my eyes opened upon a land more beautiful than a Grecian’s dreams. Th e sun had just risen, and laughed over streams of silver, and trees bending with golden and purple fruits, and the diamond dew sparkled from a sod covered with fl owers, whose faintest breath was a delight. Ten thousand birds, with all the hues of a northern rainbow blended in their glorious and glowing wings, rose from turf and tree, and loaded the air with melody and gladness; the sea, without a vestige of the past destruction upon its glassy brow, murmured at my feet; the heavens without a cloud, and bathed in a liquid and radiant light, sent their breezes as a blessing to my cheek. I rose with a refreshed and light heart; I traversed the new home I had found; I climbed upon a high mountain, and saw that I was in a small island—it had no trace of man—and my heart swelled as I gazed around and cried loud in my exultation, “I shall be alone again!” I descended the hill: I had not yet reached its foot, when I saw the fi gure of a man approaching towards me. I looked at him, and my heart misgave me. He drew nearer, and I saw that my despicable persecutor had escaped the waters, and now stood before me. He came up with his hideous grin, and his twinkling eye; and he fl ung his arms round me,—I would sooner have felt the slimy folds of the serpent—and said, with his grating and harsh voice, “Ha! ha! my friend, we shall be together still!” I looked at him with a grim brow, but I said not a word. Th ere was a great cave by the shore, and I walked down and entered it, and the man followed me. “We shall live so happily here,” said he; “we will never separate!” And my lip trembled, and my hand clenched of its own accord. It was now noon, and hunger came upon me; I went forth and killed a deer, and I brought it home and broiled part of it on a fi re of fragrant wood; and the man eat, and crunched, and laughed, and I wished that the bones had choked him; and he said, when we had done, “We shall have rare cheer here!” But I still held my peace. At last he stretched himself in a corner of the cave and slept. I looked at him, and saw that the slumber was heavy, and I went out and rolled a huge stone to the mouth of the cavern, and took my way to the opposite part of the island; it was my turn to laugh then! I found out another cavern; and I made a bed of moss and of leaves, and I wrought a table of wood, and I looked out from the mouth of the cavern and saw the wide seas before me, and I said, “Now I shall be alone!”

When the next day came, I again went out and caught a kid, and brought it in, and prepared it as before, but I was not hungered, and I could not eat, so I roamed forth and wandered over the island: the sun had nearly set when I returned. I entered the


cavern, and sitting on my bed and by my table was that man whom I thought I had left buried alive in the other cave. He laughed when he saw me, and laid down the bone he was gnawing.

“Ha, ha!” said he, “you would have served me a rare trick, but there was a hole in the cave which you did not see, and I got out to seek you. It was not a diffi cult matter, for the island is so small; and now we have met, and we will part no more!”

I said to the man, “Rise, and follow me!” So he rose, and I saw that of all my food he had left only the bones. “Shall this thing reap and I sow?” thought I, and my heart felt to me like iron.

I ascended a tall cliff : “Look round, said I; “you see that stream which divides the island; you shall dwell on one side, and I on the other; but the same spot shall not hold us, nor the same feast supply!”

“Th at may never be!” quoth the man; “for I cannot catch the deer, not spring upon the mountain kid; and if you feed me not, I shall starve!”

“Are there not fruits,” said I, “and birds that you may snare, and fi shes which the sea throws up?”

“But I like them not,” quoth the man, and laughed, “so well as the fl esh of kids and deer!”

“Look, then,” said I, “look: by that grey stone, upon the opposite side of the stream, I will lay a deer or a kid daily, so that you may have the food you covet; but if ever you cross the stream and come into my kingdom, so sure as the sea murmurs, and the bird fl ies, I will kill you!”

I descended the cliff , and led the man to the side of the stream. “I cannot swim,” said he; so I took him on my shoulders and crossed the brook, and I found him out a cave, and I made him a bed and a table like my own, and left him. When I was on my own side of the stream again, I bounded with joy, and lift ed up my voice; “I shall be alone now!” said I.

So two days passed, and I was alone. On the third I went aft er my prey; the noon was hot, and I was wearied when I returned. I entered my cavern, and behold the man lay stretched upon my bed. “Ha, ha!” said he, “here I am; I was so lonely at home that I have come to live with you again!”

I frowned on the man with a dark brow, and I said, “So sure as the sea murmurs, and the bird fl ies, I will kill you!” I seized him in my arms; I plucked him from my bed; I took him out into the open air, and we stood together on the smooth sand, and by the great sea. A fear came suddenly upon me; I was struck with the awe of the still Spirit which reigns over solitude. Had a thousand been round us, I would have slain him before them all. I feared now because we were alone in the desert,


with silence and GOD! I relaxed my hold. “Swear,” I said, “never to molest me again: swear to preserve unpassed the boundary of our several homes, and I will not kill you!” “I cannot swear,” answered the man; “I would sooner die than forswear the blessed human face—even though that face be my enemy’s!”

At these words my rage returned; I dashed the man to the ground, and I put my foot upon his breast, and my hand upon his neck, and he struggled for a moment—and was dead! I was startled; and as I looked upon his face I thought it seemed to revive; I thought the cold blue eye fi xed upon me, and the vile grin returned to the livid mouth, and the hands which in the death-pang had grasped the sand, stretched themselves out to me. So I stamped on the breast again, and I dug a hole in the shore, and I buried the body. “And now,” said I, “I am alone at last!” And then the sense of loneliness, the vague, vast, comfortless, objectless sense of desolation passed into me. And I shook—shook in every limb of my giant frame, as if I had been a child that trembles in the dark; and my hair rose, and my blood crept, and I would not have stayed in that spot a moment more if I had been made young again for it. I turned away and fl ed—fl ed round the whole island; and gnashed my teeth when I came to the sea, and longed to be cast into some illimitable desert, that I might fl ee on for ever. At sunset I returned to my cave—I sat myself down on one corner of the bed, and covered my face with my hands—I thought I heard a noise; I raised my eyes, and, as I live, I saw on the other end of the bed the man whom I had slain and buried. Th ere he sat, six feet from me, and nodded to me, and looked at me with his wan eyes, and laughed. I rushed from the cave—I entered a wood—I threw myself down—there opposite to me, six feet from my face, was the face of that man again! And my courage rose, and I spoke, but he answered not. I attempted to seize him, he glided from my grasp, and was still opposite, six feet from me as before. I fl ung myself on the ground, and pressed my face to the sod, and would not look up till the night came on and darkness was over the earth. I then rose and returned to the cave; I laid down on my bed, and the man lay down by me; and I frowned and tried to seize him as before, but I could not, and I closed my eyes, and the man lay by me. Day passed on day and it was the same. At board, at bed, at home and abroad, in my uprising and my down-sitting, by day and at night, there, by my bed-side, six feet from me, and no more, was that ghastly and dead thing. And I said, as I looked upon the beautiful land and the still heavens, and then turned to that fearful comrade, “I shall never be alone again!” And the man laughed.

At last a ship came, and I hailed it—it took me up, and I thought, as I put my foot on the deck, “I shall escape from my tormentor!” As I thought so, I saw him climb the deck too, and I strove to push him down into the sea, but in vain; he was by my


side, and he fed and slept with me as before! I came home to my native land! I forced myself into crowds—I went to the feast, and I heard music—and I made thirty men sit with me, and watch by day and by night. So I had thirty-one companions, and one was more social than all the rest.

At last I said to myself, “Th is is a delusion, and a cheat1 of the external senses, and the thing is not, save in my mind. I with consult those skilled in such disorders, and I will be—alone again!”

I summoned one celebrated in purging from the mind’s eye its fi lms and deceits—I bound him by an oath to secrecy—and I told him my tale. He was a bold man and a learned, and he promised me relief and release.

“Where is the fi gure now?” said he, smiling; “I see it not.”And I answered, “It is six feet from us!”“I see it not,” said he again; “and if it were real, my senses would not receive the

image less palpably than yours.” And he spoke to me as schoolmen speak. I did not argue nor reply, but I ordered the servants to prepare a room, and to cover the fl oor with a thick layer of sand. When it was done, I bade the Leech2 follow me into the room, and I barred the door. “Where is the fi gure now?” repeated he; and I said, “Six feet from us as before!” And the Leech smiled. “Look on the fl oor,” said I, and I pointed to the spot; “what see you?” And the Leech shuddered, and clung to me that he might not fall. “Th e sand,” said he, “was smooth when we entered, and now I see on that spot the print of human feet!”

And I laughed, and dragged my living companion on; “See,” said I, “where we move what follows us!”

Th e Leech gasped for breath; “Th e print,” said he, “of those human feet!”“Can you not minister to me then?” cried I, in a sudden and fi erce agony, “and

must I never be alone again?”And I saw the feet of the dead thing trace one word upon the sand; and the word

was—NEVER.

1 Trick.2 Physician.

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GOBLIN MARKET

Christina Rossetti

The youngest child of an Italian political exile living in England, Christina Rossetti (1830–1894) and her three siblings grew up in a bilingual household steeped in art, culture, and politics. The creative energy and excitement that illuminated Rossetti’s childhood was subdued in her adolescence, however, when her father’s health declined and the fam-ily faced fi nancial diffi culties. Rossetti devoted herself increasingly to religion—she broke off two marriage engagements due to irreconcilable religious differences—and became involved in the Anglo-Catholic move-ment within the Church of England. Her fi rst volume of poetry, Goblin Market and Other Poems (1862) refl ects both her early artistic exuberance and her spiritual gravity. “Goblin Market” presents itself as a vigorous children’s fable but also expresses Rossetti’s sober preoccupation with the problems of temptation, sin, and salvation. Other collections followed, including The Prince’s Progress and Other Poems (1866), Sing-Song (1879), and A Pageant and Other Poems (1881), which included her fa-mous sonnet sequence, “Monna Innominata.” In the fi nal years of her life, Rossetti focused her creative energies, for the most part, on devotional poetry. Throughout her career, however, she explored issues of gender and the sexual exploitation of women, working for a time with “fallen women” at the Highgate Penitentiary. She also criticized members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, which her notoriously sensual brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, co-founded, for the stagnant conventionality of their depictions of women in art. With a grim lack of confi dence in her own prospects for salvation, Rossetti, who contracted Graves’ disease in 1871, succumbed to breast cancer at the age of sixty-four.


Morning and eveningMaids heard the goblins cry:“Come buy our orchard fruits,Come buy, come buy:Apples and quinces,Lemons and oranges,Plump unpecked1 cherries,Melons and raspberries,Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,Swart-headed2 mulberries, 10Wild free-born cranberries,Crab-apples, dewberries,3Pine-apples, blackberries,Apricots, strawberries;—All ripe togetherIn summer weather,—Morns that pass by,Fair eves that fl y;Come buy, come buy;Our grapes fresh from the vine, 20Pomegranates full and fi ne,Dates and sharp bullaces,4Rare pears and greengages,5Damsons and bilberries,6Taste them and try:Currants and gooseberries,Bright-fi re-like barberries,7Figs to fi ll your mouth,

1 Unpitted.2 Black-headed.3 Similar to the blackberry.4 Wild plums.5 Green plums.6 Similar to blueberries.7 Similar to boysenberries.

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Citrons1 from the South,Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; 30Come buy, come buy.”

Evening by eveningAmong the brookside rushes,2Laura bowed her head to hear,Lizzie veiled her blushes:Crouching close togetherIn the cooling weather,With clasping arms and cautioning lips,With tingling cheeks and fi nger tips.“Lie close,” Laura said, 40Pricking up her golden head:“We must not look at goblin men,We must not buy their fruits:Who knows upon what soil they fedTh eir hungry thirsty roots?”“Come buy,” call the goblinsHobbling down the glen.“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,You should not peep at goblin men.”Lizzie covered up her eyes, 50Covered close lest they should look;Laura reared her glossy head,And whispered like the restless brook:“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,Down the glen tramp little men.One hauls a basket,One bears a plate,One lugs a golden dishOf many pounds weight.How fair the vine must grow 60Whose grapes are so luscious;

1 Sweet, lemonlike fruits.2 Bulrushes or cattails.


How warm the wind must blowTh ro’ those fruit bushes.”“No,” said Lizzie: “No, no, no;Th eir off ers should not charm us,Th eir evil gift s would harm us.”She thrust a dimpled fi ngerIn each ear, shut eyes and ran:Curious Laura chose to lingerWondering at each merchant man, 70One had a cat’s face,One whisked a tail,One tramped at a rat’s pace,One crawled like a snail,One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,One like a ratel1 tumbled hurry skurry.She heard a voice like voice of dovesCooing all together:Th ey sounded kind and full of lovesIn the pleasant weather. 80

Laura stretched her gleaming neckLike a rush-imbedded swan,Like a lily from the beck,2Like a moonlit poplar branch,Like a vessel at the launchWhen its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glenTurned and trooped the goblin men,With their shrill repeated cry,“Come buy, come buy.” 90When they reached where Laura wasTh ey stood stock still upon the moss,Leering at each other,

1 Badgerlike animal.2 Stream.

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Brother and queer brother;Signalling each other,Brother with sly brother.One set his basket down,One reared his plate;One began to weave a crownOf tendrils, leaves and rough nuts brown 100(Men sell not such in any town);One heaved the golden weightOf dish and fruit to off er her:“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.Laura stared but did not stir,Longed but had no money:Th e whisk-tailed merchant bade her tasteIn tones as smooth as honey,Th e cat-faced purr’d,Th e rat-paced spoke a word 110Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;One parrot-voiced and jollyCried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:“Good folk, I have no coin;To take were to purloin:I have no copper in my purse,I have no silver either,And all my gold is on the furze1 120Th at shakes in windy weatherAbove the rusty heather.”“You have much gold upon your head,”Th ey answered all together:“Buy from us with a golden curl.”She clipped a precious golden lock,She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,

1 Yellow-fl owered shrub.


Th en sucked their fruit globes fair or red:Sweeter than honey from the rock.1Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, 130Clearer than water fl owed that juice;She never tasted such before,How should it cloy with length of use?She sucked and sucked and sucked the moreFruits which that unknown orchard bore;She sucked until her lips were sore;Th en fl ung the emptied rinds awayBut gathered up one kernel-stone,And knew not was it night or dayAs she turned home alone. 140

Lizzie met her at the gateFull of wise upbraidings:“Dear, you should not stay so late,Twilight is not good for maidens;Should not loiter in the glenIn the haunts of goblin men.Do you not remember Jeanie,2How she met them in the moonlight,Took their gift s both choice and many,Ate their fruits and wore their fl owers 150Plucked from bowersWhere summer ripens at all hours?But ever in the noonlightShe pined and pined away;Sought them by night and day,Found them no more but dwindled and grew grey;Th en fell with the fi rst snow,While to this day no grass will growWhere she lies low:

1 “He made him ride on the high places of the earth, that he might eat the increase of the fi elds; and he made him to suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the fl inty rock” (Deuteronomy 32:13).2 Pronounced “Jenny.”

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I planted daisies1 there a year ago 160Th at never blow.You should not loiter so.”“Nay, hush,” said Laura:“Nay, hush, my sister:I ate and ate my fi ll,Yet my mouth waters still;Tomorrow night I willBuy more:” and kissed her:“Have done with sorrow;I’ll bring you plums tomorrow 170Fresh on their mother twigs,Cherries worth getting;You cannot think what fi gsMy teeth have met in,What melons icy-coldPiled on a dish of goldToo huge for me to hold,What peaches with a velvet nap,2Pellucid grapes without one seed:Odorous indeed must be the mead3 180Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drinkWith lilies at the brink,And sugar-sweet their sap.”

Golden head by golden head,Like two pigeons in one nestFolded in each other’s wings,Th ey lay down in their curtained bed:Like two blossoms on one stem,Like two fl akes of new-fall’n snow,Like two wands of ivory 190Tipped with gold for awful4 kings.

1 Th e daisy is a traditional symbol of innocence.2 Fuzzy surface.3 Meadow.4 Commanding awe.


Moon and stars gazed in at them,Wind sang to them lullaby,Lumbering owls forbore to fl y,Not a bat fl apped to and froRound their rest:Cheek to cheek and breast to breastLocked together in one nest.

Early in the morningWhen the fi rst cock crowed his warning, 200Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,Laura rose with Lizzie:Fetched in honey, milked the cows,Aired and set to rights the house,Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,Next churned butter, whipped up cream,Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;Talked as modest maidens should:Lizzie with an open heart, 210Laura in an absent dream,One content, one sick in part;One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came:Th ey went with pitchers to the reedy brook;Lizzie most placid in her look,Laura most like a leaping fl ame.Th ey drew the gurgling water from its deep;Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden fl ags,1 220Th en turning homewards said: “Th e sunset fl ushesTh ose furthest loft iest crags;Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,No willful squirrel wags,

1 Irises.

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Th e beasts and birds are fast asleep.”But Laura loitered still among the rushesAnd said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still,Th e dew not fall’n, the wind not chill:Listening ever, but not catching 230Th e customary cry,“Come buy, come buy,”With its iterated jingleOf sugar-baited words:Not for all her watchingOnce discerning even one goblinRacing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;Let alone the herdsTh at used to tramp along the glen,In groups or single, 240Of brisk fruit-merchant men.Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:You should not loiter longer at this brook:Come with me home.Th e stars rise, the moon bends her arc,Each glowworm winks her spark,Let us get home before the night grows dark:For clouds may gatherTh o’ this is summer weather, 250Put out the lights and drench us thro’;Th en if we lost our way what should we do?”

Laura turned cold as stoneTo fi nd her sister heard that cry alone,Th at goblin cry,“Come buy our fruits, come buy.”Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?


Must she no more such succous1 pasture fi nd,Gone deaf and blind?Her tree of life drooped from the root: 260She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;So crept to bed, and laySilent till Lizzie slept;Th en sat up in a passionate yearning,And gnashed her teeth for baulked2 desire, and weptAs if her heart would break.

Day aft er day, night aft er night,Laura kept watch in vain 270In sullen silence of exceeding pain.She never caught again the goblin cry:“Come buy, come buy;”—She never spied the goblin menHawking their fruits along the glen:But when the noon waxed brightHer hair grew thin and grey;She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turnTo swift decay and burnHer fi re away. 280

One day remembering her kernel-stoneShe set it by a wall that faced the south;Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,Watched for a waxing shoot,But there came none;It never saw the sun,It never felt the trickling moisture run:While with sunk eyes and faded mouthShe dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees

1 Succulent.2 Balked.

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False waves in desert drouth 290With shade of leaf-crowned trees,And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house,Tended the fowls or cows,Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,Brought water from the brook:But sat down listless in the chimney-nookAnd would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bearTo watch her sister’s cankerous care 300Yet not to share.She night and morningCaught the goblins’ cry:“Come buy our orchard fruits,Come buy, come buy:”—Beside the brook, along the glen,She heard the tramp of goblin men,Th e voice and stirPoor Laura could not hear;Longed to buy fruit to comfort her, 310But feared to pay too dear.She thought of Jeanie in her grave,Who should have been a bride;But who for joys brides hope to haveFell sick and diedIn her gay prime,In earliest Winter time,With the fi rst glazing rime,1With the fi rst snow-fall of crisp Winter time.

Till Laura dwindling 320Seemed knocking at Death’s door:

1 Coating of ice.


Th en Lizzie weighed no moreBetter and worse;But put a silver penny in her purse,Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furzeAt twilight, halted by the brook:And for the fi rst time in her lifeBegan to listen and look.

Laughed every goblinWhen they spied her peeping: 330Came towards her hobbling,Flying, running, leaping,Puffi ng and blowing,Chuckling, clapping, crowing,Clucking and gobbling,Mopping and mowing,Full of airs and graces,Pulling wry faces,Demure grimaces,Cat-like and rat-like, 340Ratel- and wombat-like,Snail-paced in a hurry,Parrot-voiced and whistler,Helter skelter, hurry skurry,Chattering like magpies,Fluttering like pigeons,Gliding like fi shes,—Hugged her and kissed her,Squeezed and caressed her:Stretched up their dishes, 350Panniers, and plates:“Look at our applesRusset and dun,Bob at our cherries,Bite at our peaches,Citrons and dates,Grapes for the asking,

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Pears red with baskingOut in the sun,Plums on their twigs; 360Pluck them and suck them,Pomegranates, fi gs.”—

“Good folk,” said Lizzie,Mindful of Jeanie:“Give me much and many:”—Held out her apron,Tossed them her penny.“Nay, take a seat with us,Honour and eat with us,”Th ey answered grinning: 370“Our feast is but beginning.Night yet is early,Warm and dew-pearly,Wakeful and starry:Such fruits as theseNo man can carry;Half their bloom would fl y,Half their dew would dry,Half their fl avour would pass by.Sit down and feast with us, 380Be welcome guest with us,Cheer you and rest with us.”—“Th ank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waitsAt home alone for me:So without further parleying,If you will not sell me anyOf your fruits tho’ much and many,Give me back my silver pennyI tossed you for a fee.”—Th ey began to scratch their pates, 390No longer wagging, purring,But visibly demurring,Grunting and snarling.


One called her proud,Cross-grained, uncivil;Th eir tones waxed loud,Th eir looks were evil.Lashing their tailsTh ey trod and hustled her,Elbowed and jostled her, 400Clawed with their nails,Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,Twitched her hair out by the roots,Stamped upon her tender feet,Held her hands and squeezed their fruitsAgainst her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood,Like a lily in a fl ood,—Like a rock of blue-veined stone 410Lashed by tides obstreperously,—Like a beacon left aloneIn a hoary roaring sea,Sending up a golden fi re,—Like a fruit-crowned orange-treeWhite with blossoms honey-sweetSore beset by wasp and bee,—Like a royal virgin townTopped with gilded dome and spireClose beleaguered by a fl eet 420Mad to tug her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water,Twenty cannot make him drink.Th o’ the goblins cuff ed and caught her,Coaxed and fought her,Bullied and besought her,Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,Kicked and knocked her,

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Mauled and mocked her,Lizzie uttered nor a word; 430Would not open lip from lipLest they should cram a mouthful in:But laughed in heart to feel the dripOf juice that syruped all her face,And lodged in dimples of her chin,And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.At last the evil peopleWorn out by her resistanceFlung back her penny, kicked their fruitAlong whichever road they took, 440Not leaving root or stone or shoot;Some writhed into the ground,Some dived into the brookWith ring and ripple,Some scudded on the gale without a sound,Some vanished in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle,Lizzie went her way;Knew not was it night or day;Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, 450Th readed copse and dingle,1And heard her penny jingleBouncing in her purse,Its bounce was music to her ear.She ran and ranAs is she feared some goblin manDogged her with gibe or curseOr something worse:But not one goblin scurried aft er,Nor was she pricked by fear; 460Th e kind heart made her windy-paced

1 A wooded valley.


Th at urged her home quite out of breath with hasteAnd inward laughter.

She cried “Laura,” up the garden,“Did you miss me?Come and kiss me.Never mind my bruises,Hug me, kiss me, suck my juicesSqueezed from goblin fruits for you,Goblin pulp and goblin dew. 470Eat me, drink me, love me;1Laura, make much of me:For your sake I have braved the glenAnd had to do with goblin merchant men.”

Laura started from her chair,Flung her arms up in the air,Clutched her hair:“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tastedFor my sake the fruit forbidden?Must your light like mine be hidden, 480Your young life like mine be wasted,Undone in mine undoingAnd ruined in my ruin,Th irsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?”—She clung about her sister,Kissed and kissed and kissed her:Tears once againRefreshed her shrunken eyes,Dropping like rainAft er long sultry drouth; 490Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.

1 “Whoso eateth my fl esh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day” (John 6:54).

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Her lips began to scorch,Th at juice was wormwood1 to her tongue,She loathed the feast:Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,Rent all her robe, and wrungHer hands in lamentable haste,And beat her breast.Her locks streamed like the torch 500Borne by a racer at full speed,Or like the mane of horses in their fl ight,Or like an eagle when she stems2 the lightStraight toward the sun,Or like a caged thing freed,Or like a fl ying fl ag when armies run.

Swift fi re spread thro’ her veins, knocked at her heart,Met the fi re smouldering thereAnd overbore its lesser fl ame;She gorged on bitterness without a name: 510Ah! fool, to choose such partOf soul-consuming care!Sense failed in the mortal strife:Like the watch-tower of a townWhich an earthquake shatters down,Like a lightning-stricken mast,Like a wind-uprooted treeSpun about,Like a foam-topped waterspoutCast down headlong in the sea, 520She fell at last;Pleasure past and anguish past,Is it death or is it life?

1 A poisonous plant with a bitter oil from which the alcoholic beverage absinthe is made.2 Makes headway against.


Life out of death.Th at night long Lizzie watched by her,Counted her pulse’s fl agging stir,Felt for her breath,Held water to her lips, and cooled her faceWith tears and fanning leaves:But when the fi rst birds chirped about their eaves, 530And early reapers plodded to the placeOf golden sheaves,And dew-wet grassBowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,And new buds with new dayOpened of cup-like lilies on the stream,Laura awoke as from a dream,Laughed in the innocent old way,Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of grey 540Her breath was sweet as MayAnd light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months, yearsAft erwards, when both were wivesWith children of their own;Th eir mother-hearts beset with fears,Th eir lives bound up in tender lives;Laura would call the little onesAnd tell them of her early prime,Th ose pleasant days long gone 550Of not-returning time:Would talk about the haunted glen,Th e wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,Th eir fruits like honey to the throatBut poison in the blood;(Men sell not such in any town:)Would tell them how her sister stood,In deadly peril to do her good,And win the fi ery antidote:

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Th en joining hands to little hands 560Would bid them cling together,“For there is no friend like a sisterIn calm or stormy weather;To cheer one on the tedious way,To fetch one if one goes astray,To lift one if one totters down,To strengthen whilst one stands.”

1859

Documents

Crime and Horror in Victorian Literature and Culture - Volume II · 2016. 10. 24. · Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803–1873) Monos and Daimonos 9 Christina Rossetti (1830–1894) Goblin