S. R. Crockett (1860–1914)

Literature, it seems, is as subject to the quirks of fashion as just about every other area of human activity. S.R. Crockett was a tremendously popular novelist back in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; now, barely a hundred years later, he’s much less widely known. However, that might perhaps be about to change, due to Authors Electric’s very own Cally Phillips, who has been working flat-out to republish Crockett’s works, and hopefully introduce them to a whole new show more generation. (Go to the Ayton Publishing website (http://www.aytonpublishing.co.uk/) to see the entire collection.)

The Black Douglas revolves around a cast of actual historical figures, including William Sixth Earl of Douglas (“The Black Douglas” of the title), and Gilles de Retz, the loopy French nobleman who fought alongside Joan of Arc before (allegedly) embarking on a life of occult rituals and murder most vile. The story unfolds against a backdrop of mediaeval Scotland (in particular, Crockett’s native Galloway) and France, and is frequently told through the eyes of the Earl’s sidekick and knight, Sholto MacKim.

And what a story it is, involving murder, blood-drinking, witchcraft and werewolves, no less. The Black Douglas was published in 1899, two years after Dracula first appeared, and I’d be surprised if it hadn’t been influenced by that novel to some extent. Many of the elements of Dracula are also present here: a sinister, intriguing nobleman who lives in a castle with such a blood-curdling reputation that very few people dare go there; the curious command that said nobleman has over animals, and in particular wolves; and the significance of human blood, particularly as a means of prolonging life. Indeed, anyone who has read Dracula may experience a strange sense of déjà vu when reading a particular passage in The Black Douglas, in which a woman whose child has been abducted hammers, screaming, at the castle door, pleading for his return: “Give me my boy, murderer! Restore me my son!” All that is missing is Stoker’s curious psychosexual take on his material – that, and the vampirism.

For de Retz is not actually a vampire, though his physical appearance brings Stoker’s Count to mind: “The upper lip was retracted, and a set of long white teeth gleamed like those of a wild beast.” Indeed, it may be that he’s simply a deluded madman, though Crockett himself suggests that there’s something genuinely supernatural underlying the story. De Retz is a curious, complex figure: unashamedly villainous, yet given to moments of charm, and even of tenderness. At times he seems to be driven by a desire for knowledge: “I have in secret pushed my researches beyond the very confines of knowledge . . . Evil and good alike shall be mine.” Despite worshipping a demon, and carrying out blood sacrifices in its honour, he is also strangely devout, to the extent of allowing a community of monks to live in his castle and spending hours at his devotions. Crockett describes him as a “good Catholic and ardent religionary.” (This, interestingly, is a feature of much Gothic fiction: a deep suspicion and dislike of Catholicism. More on this in my contribution posts for the Edinburgh Ebook Festival (http://edinburghebookfestival2014.wordpress.com/) this summer. . .)

The Black Douglas also tells two love stories: the happy one between Sholto and the mischievous but ultimately sweet-natured Maud, and the altogether less happy one between William and Sybilla, the niece of Gilles de Retz, and an integral part of de Retz’s plan to ensnare William. There are traces of La Belle Dame Sans Merci in Crockett’s description of Sybilla. However, there’s also a robust streak of humour in the novel. During a tournament in which Sholto has performed well, a spectator (an armourer by trade) cries: “Well done, Sholto MacKim – well done, lad! . . . Ye shall hae a silken doublet for that! . . . At little mair than cost price!”

I suppose there is a sense in which it is unsurprising that The Black Douglas is less well-known these days. It’s not due to any lack of ability on the part of the author: Crockett was clearly a talented writer. It’s just that fare such as The Black Douglas is perhaps more morally earnest and melodramatic than is currently fashionable. The Black Douglas portrays a world of fair maidens, foul fiends, and unblemished heroes; but you shouldn’t let that put you off reading it. It struck me as being a little like the literary equivalent of a Pre-Raphaelite painting: a little sentimental, perhaps, but ultimately a colourful, adroit, and highly entertaining creation. show less

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City was written in 1896 by Samuel Rutherford Crockett.

Being 120 years old, it's showing its age, most prominently the title itself 'Arab' now refers to the panethnic group primarily inhabiting Western Asia and North Africa however at the time of writing 'Arab' actually means street urchin (aka tramp).

The other way the book shows it's age is the rather (at times) complicated dialogue between characters. Set in Edinburgh, Scotland the speech is relayed to the reader show more in a somewhat phonetic bastardisation of English. Such as the following exchange between Vara Kavannah and Cleg Kelly;
"Cleg, gang awa' like a guid lad. Dinna come here ony mair--"
"Vara, what's wrang? What for will ye no open the door?"
"I canna, Cleg; she's here, lyin' on the floor in the corner. I canna turn the key, for she has tied me to the bed-foot"

So whilst it's not indecipherable it certainly breaks the reading experience when you need to pause and establish what exact has been said, but then it's also somewhat quaint to have to do so.

The story itself is interesting and follows Cleg Kelly from being tossed out of boarding school to establishing himself as a young gentleman and being both a troublemaker and a saviour to the young Vara Kavannah.

I quite liked the ending.

I also found reading the c1920 Nelson edition, which is blue cloth with a black swastika on it, when travelling on public transport gets you strange looks. show less

An unusual novel, one of very few which I know addressing the Paris Commune. To his credit, the author doesnn't regurgitate the usual taedious reactionary myths, but to his discredit, the story-telling is plodding, with a strange imbalance of emphasis among the characters.

Charming book full of Scottish short stories, dedicated to Robert Louis Stevenson. In the foreword to the second edition, dated 1893, the author tells how a chance remark of Stevenson's (promising to read every word) inspired him to write this book.