Maurice Level (1875–1926)

This book contains 26 tales of the macabre from French author Maurice Level (1875-1926), short tales, each 4 pages in length, written in the distinctively French ‘conte cruel’ tradition. Black Mask is the publisher, which is most appropriate since any of these stories could easily be included in one of those old Black Mask mystery magazines a reader could buy at the corner drug store years ago.

Similar to French fin-de-siècle decadent literature, the setting for the stories is usually show more Paris, and similar to 19th century romanticism, we are usually reading about the unfolding of a life-and-death issue. Level writes his stories with a particular flair – there is always a distinctive pop or twist at the end, the type of ironic twist made famous by O. Henry. With this in mind, I wouldn’t want to spoil the reader’s experience by saying too much about too many tales, so I will focus on one of the real gems in this collection, a story entitled ‘A Maniac’, which I’ve seen translated elsewhere as ‘A Madman’.

This tale opens with the lines, “He was neither malicious nor bloodthirsty. It was only that he had conceived a very special idea of the pleasures of existence. Perhaps it was that, having tried them all, he no longer found the thrill of the unexpected in any of them.” We read along as the tale fleshes-out what is meant by “a very special idea of the pleasure of existence” The unnamed main character attends the theater not to watch the play but in the hope a fire will break out; visits a fair in the hope beasts will attack their trainer; attends bullfights but is disappointed since the violence is too predictable. What he is after is the unexpected thrill. But when he experiences exactly what he is after, in the aftermath of these unexpected thrills, he becoming depressed, thinking there is no more reason to continue living.

Let’s pause here to ask: does this 19th century thrill-seeker anticipate an entire culture of thrill-seekers, people putting themselves or watching other people put themselves at risk on the edge for the sheer thrill of it? German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer judged our human life as an alternating between frustration and boredom. Is this seeking of thrills a radical attempt to transcend frustration and boredom? If so, this is hardly a flattering commentary on our natural capacity for joy and harmonious living.

The tale continues. Our thrill-seeker sees a poster displaying a daredevil event. We read, “It seemed that the cyclist dashed down the narrow path at full speed, went up round the loop, then down to the bottom. For a second during this fantastic performance, he was head downwards, his feet up in the air.” Inspired, our thrill-seeker buys an entire box of seats at the end of the track so he can watch the daredevil cyclist night after night without distraction. But then one night after the performance the cyclist approaches him and, in the course of conversation, explains how he can accomplish his extraordinary feat by focusing on a fixed point, the fixed point being the man sitting by himself in a box at the end of the track.

The next night monsieur thrill-seeker takes his usual seat. The cyclist pushes off, heading for his death-defying loop. We read, “Just at that moment, in the most natural way possible, the maniac rose, pushed back his seat, and went to one at the other side of the box. Then a terrible thing happened. The cyclist was thrown violently up in the air. His machine rushed forwards, flew up, and lurched out into the midst of the shrieks of terror that filled the hall, fell among the crowd. With a methodical gesture the maniac put on his overcoat, smoothed his hat on the cuff of his sleeve, and went out.”

Like the cyclist’s daredevil full circle, the end of the tale brings readers full circle to the tale’s opening line where the main character is described as “neither malicious nor bloodthirsty”. Really? How would we characterize someone who would intentionally act in a way causing the death of others merely to have a thrill? Wicked and cruel? Malicious and bloodthirsty? Any of these words seem to fit. So, we may ask if the tale’s narrator shares in the same madness as the man he is describing; or, to put it another way, is this tale-telling the product of a diseased mind, yet again another sick flower of decadent 19th century Baudelarean evil?

Max Nordau wrote an essay in 1894 where he used the term ‘decadent’ and judged many French writers and artists and a large sector of the French population as having diseased minds, that is, minds that are confused, discouraged and despairing. Perhaps, on some level, Maurice Level would agree with the confused, discouraged and despairing part, since his stories are filled with such people. Fortunately, reading his finely crafted tales is just the opposite experience: sheer enjoyment, like popping a box of expensive French chocolates in your mouth, one by one. show less

Detail from The Gates of Hell by the great French sculptor, Auguste Rodin. Maurice Level and Auguste Rodin were contemporaries. Jessica Sequeira thinks there is a good chance Level's collection is linked directly to the sculptor's work.

The Gates of Hell - Twenty-six tales of the macabre from French author Maurice Level (1875-1926), short tales, each one six or seven or eight pages in length, adapted and translated into clear, accessible English by Jessica Sequeira. Also included in this show more Black Coat Press edition is an informative introductory essay by Ms. Sequeira providing the cultural and literary context for Level's writing. Similar to French fin-de-siècle decadent literature, the setting for these stories is usually Paris and frequently presents men and women in the grip of extreme psychic states such as agony, terror, dread, fear or panic.

Level writes his stories with a particular economy and flair – in keeping within the French contre cruel tradition, the unfolding drama is based on human behavior and the mind rather than the supernatural and there is always a distinctive pop or twist at the end. No wonder Maurice Level has often been compared to Guy de Maupassant and Edgar Allen Poe. With all this in mind, I wouldn’t want to spoil a reader’s experience by saying too much about too many tales; however, as a way of providing a taste of the unmistakable power of Level's writing and how these tales raise many philosophical and psychological questions, I offer the following more detailed reflections on two of my personal favorites from the collection:

FASCINATION
Released after three months in prison, a jury having acquitted him of a woman's murder, the narrator sits alone in a hotel room writing down his reflections on the truth: how he, in fact, pointed his revolver and with full intention murdered his victim. Why? The judge and jury could not detect any real motive thus clearing him of the crime. But that’s just the point! For a man such as himself, as he tells us, there will never be any clear-cut motive.

For Fascination is a study of the murky hidden depths of the mind. Reading the narrator’s confession, we see how we can be taken over by a force beyond our control, a force described in Norse mythology as the giant, the destructive shadow-side of our personality. Or, alternately, how we can create chaos while remaining calm, cool and collected, for no other reason than to prove to the universe we don’t give a fig for its so called harmony. What? Is this sheer madness?

As Jessica Sequeira notes in her introduction: “It is significant that although these pieces were performed onstage at the Grand Guignol, they began as stories, for the psychological detail they accrue surpasses what can be acted out in physical gestures. This is the tragedy of the theater: even the most complex psychological subtleties must be depicted through movement of the body, props and sets. In the tales of Level, a sensitive writer who also knew how to entertain his rowdy audiences, this tension between theatrical outer events and inner understanding proved to be fertile territory, for it drew on the real philosophical source of terror: the possibility of meaninglessness.”

I can just imagine the theater set: a bare stage with the actor sitting in a chair with a revolver on a side table, relating via monologue the reasons he murdered and what he might do now with the revolver. Actually, better than theater, his inner states are revealed in the tale as when we read these lines from the first page: "I’d known the terrified sleep full of nightmares of the guillotine. With terror I’d passed sweating hands over my cold neck, guessing the narrow path the blade would trace there. I’d shuddered at the hostile murmurs of the crowd. In my ears, I’d heard the shout: “To death!”" And what does our brooding narrator do at the end with the revolver? You will have to read for yourself.

A MANIAC
This tale opens, “He was neither wicked nor bloodthirsty. He simply had a very special understanding of the pleasures of existence. Perhaps it was that having practiced them all, he no longer found anything unexpected.” We read along as the tale fleshes-out what is meant by “a very special understanding of the pleasures of existence” The unnamed main character attends the theater not to watch the play but in the hope a fire will break out; visits a fair in the hope beasts will attack their trainer; attends bullfights but is disappointed since the violence is too predictable. What he is after is the unexpected thrill. But when he experiences exactly what he is after, in the aftermath of these unexpected thrills, he becomes depressed, thinking there is no more reason to continue living.

Let’s pause here to ask: does this nineteenth century thrill-seeker anticipate an entire culture of thrill-seekers, people putting themselves or watching other people put themselves at risk on the edge for the sheer thrill of it? German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer judged our human life as an alternating between frustration and boredom. Is this seeking of thrills a radical attempt to transcend frustration and boredom? If so, this is hardly a flattering commentary on our natural capacity for joy and harmonious living.

The tale continues. Our thrill-seeker sees a poster displaying a daredevil event. We read, “The man needed to hurtle down the narrow track at full speed, climb the loop and descend again. During this fantastic feat, for a second the acrobat would find himself with his head down and feet in the air.” Inspired, our thrill-seeker buys an entire box of seats at the end of the track so he can watch the daredevil cyclist night after night without distraction. But then one night after the performance the cyclist approaches him and, in the course of conversation, explains how he can accomplish his extraordinary feat by focusing on a fixed point, the fixed point being the man sitting by himself in a box at the end of the track.

The next night monsieur thrill-seeker takes his usual seat. The cyclist pushes off, heading for his death-defying loop. We read, “But at the same time, with the most natural movement in the world, the maniac stood up and sat on the other side of his box. A gruesome thing then happened. The acrobat gave a violent jump. His bike, which shot forward, gave a tremendous lurch, leaped off the track and crashed to the ground in the midst of terrified shrieks. With a businesslike gesture, the maniac put on his overcoat, smoothed his hat with the back of his sleeve and made his exit.”

Like the cyclist’s daredevil full circle death-defying stunt, the end of the tale brings readers full circle to the tale’s opening line where the main character is described as “neither wicked nor bloodthirsty”. Really? How would we characterize someone who would intentionally act in a way causing the death of others merely to have a thrill? Wicked? Cruel? Malicious? Bloodthirsty? Any of these words seem to fit. So, we may ask, does the tale’s narrator shares in the same madness as the man he is describing; or, to put it another way, is this tale-telling the product of a diseased mind, yet again another sick flower of decadent nineteenth century Baudelarean evil?

Max Nordau, a leading cultural and literary critic at the time, wrote an essay in 1894 where he used the term “decadent” and judged many French writers and artists and a large sector of the French population as having diseased minds, that is, minds that are confused, discouraged and despairing. Perhaps, on some level, Maurice Level would agree with the confused, discouraged and despairing part, since his stories are filled with such people. Fortunately, reading his finely crafted tales is just the opposite experience: sheer enjoyment, like popping a box of expensive French chocolates in your mouth, one by one.


"Their brains went empty with fear, as they knew that every tick-tock was a note that drew a drop of their blood. Then, losing their heads, with that remnant of instinct that makes the condemn cling for existence to the foot of the scaffold, they’d wanted to take advantage of what time remained to them to live." from The Clock, one of riveting tales in this Maurice Level collection. show less

The Gates of Hell - Twenty-six tales of the macabre from French author Maurice Level (1875-1926), short tales, each one six or seven or eight pages in length, adapted and translated into clear, accessible English by Jessica Sequeira. Also included in this Black Coat Press edition is an informative introductory essay by Ms. Sequeira providing the cultural and literary context for Level's writing. Similar to French fin-de-siècle decadent literature, the setting for these stories is usually show more Paris and frequently presents men and women in the grip of extreme psychic states such as agony, terror, dread, fear or panic.

Level writes his stories with a particular economy and flair – in keeping within the French contre cruel tradition, the unfolding drama is based on human behavior and the mind rather than the supernatural and there is always a distinctive pop or twist at the end. No wonder Maurice Level has often been compared to Guy de Maupassant and Edgar Allen Poe. With all this in mind, I wouldn’t want to spoil a reader’s experience by saying too much about too many tales; however, as a way of providing a taste of the unmistakable power of Level's writing and how these tales raise many philosophical and psychological questions, I offer the following more detailed reflections on two of my personal favorites from the collection:

FASCINATION
Released after three months in prison, a jury having acquitted him of a woman's murder, the narrator sits alone in a hotel room writing down his reflections on the truth: how he, in fact, pointed his revolver and with full intention murdered his victim. Why? The judge and jury could not detect any real motive thus clearing him of the crime. But that’s just the point! For a man such as himself, as he tells us, there will never be any clear-cut motive.

For Fascination is a study of the murky hidden depths of the mind. Reading the narrator’s confession, we see how we can be taken over by a force beyond our control, a force described in Norse mythology as the giant, the destructive shadow-side of our personality. Or, alternately, how we can create chaos while remaining calm, cool and collected, for no other reason than to prove to the universe we don’t give a fig for its so called harmony. What? Is this sheer madness?

As Jessica Sequeira notes in her introduction: “It is significant that although these pieces were performed onstage at the Grand Guignol, they began as stories, for the psychological detail they accrue surpasses what can be acted out in physical gestures. This is the tragedy of the theater: even the most complex psychological subtleties must be depicted through movement of the body, props and sets. In the tales of Level, a sensitive writer who also knew how to entertain his rowdy audiences, this tension between theatrical outer events and inner understanding proved to be fertile territory, for it drew on the real philosophical source of terror: the possibility of meaninglessness.”

I can just imagine the theater set: a bare stage with the actor sitting in a chair with a revolver on a side table, relating via monologue the reasons he murdered and what he might do now with the revolver. Actually, better than theater, his inner states are revealed in the tale as when we read these lines from the first page: "I’d known the terrified sleep full of nightmares of the guillotine. With terror I’d passed sweating hands over my cold neck, guessing the narrow path the blade would trace there. I’d shuddered at the hostile murmurs of the crowd. In my ears, I’d heard the shout: “To death!”" And what does our brooding narrator do at the end with the revolver? You will have to read for yourself.

A MANIAC
This tale opens, “He was neither wicked nor bloodthirsty. He simply had a very special understanding of the pleasures of existence. Perhaps it was that having practiced them all, he no longer found anything unexpected.” We read along as the tale fleshes-out what is meant by “a very special understanding of the pleasures of existence” The unnamed main character attends the theater not to watch the play but in the hope a fire will break out; visits a fair in the hope beasts will attack their trainer; attends bullfights but is disappointed since the violence is too predictable. What he is after is the unexpected thrill. But when he experiences exactly what he is after, in the aftermath of these unexpected thrills, he becomes depressed, thinking there is no more reason to continue living.

Let’s pause here to ask: does this nineteenth century thrill-seeker anticipate an entire culture of thrill-seekers, people putting themselves or watching other people put themselves at risk on the edge for the sheer thrill of it? German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer judged our human life as an alternating between frustration and boredom. Is this seeking of thrills a radical attempt to transcend frustration and boredom? If so, this is hardly a flattering commentary on our natural capacity for joy and harmonious living.

The tale continues. Our thrill-seeker sees a poster displaying a daredevil event. We read, “The man needed to hurtle down the narrow track at full speed, climb the loop and descend again. During this fantastic feat, for a second the acrobat would find himself with his head down and feet in the air.” Inspired, our thrill-seeker buys an entire box of seats at the end of the track so he can watch the daredevil cyclist night after night without distraction. But then one night after the performance the cyclist approaches him and, in the course of conversation, explains how he can accomplish his extraordinary feat by focusing on a fixed point, the fixed point being the man sitting by himself in a box at the end of the track.

The next night monsieur thrill-seeker takes his usual seat. The cyclist pushes off, heading for his death-defying loop. We read, “But at the same time, with the most natural movement in the world, the maniac stood up and sat on the other side of his box. A gruesome thing then happened. The acrobat gave a violent jump. His bike, which shot forward, gave a tremendous lurch, leaped off the track and crashed to the ground in the midst of terrified shrieks. With a businesslike gesture, the maniac put on his overcoat, smoothed his hat with the back of his sleeve and made his exit.”

Like the cyclist’s daredevil full circle death-defying stunt , the end of the tale brings readers full circle to the tale’s opening line where the main character is described as “neither wicked nor bloodthirsty”. Really? How would we characterize someone who would intentionally act in a way causing the death of others merely to have a thrill? Wicked? Cruel? Malicious. Bloodthirsty? Any of these words seem to fit. So, we may ask, does the tale’s narrator shares in the same madness as the man he is describing; or, to put it another way, is this tale-telling the product of a diseased mind, yet again another sick flower of decadent nineteenth century Baudelarean evil?

Max Nordau, a leading cultural and literary critic at the time, wrote an essay in 1894 where he used the term “decadent” and judged many French writers and artists and a large sector of the French population as having diseased minds, that is, minds that are confused, discouraged and despairing. Perhaps, on some level, Maurice Level would agree with the confused, discouraged and despairing part, since his stories are filled with such people. Fortunately, reading his finely crafted tales is just the opposite experience: sheer enjoyment, like popping a box of expensive French chocolates in your mouth, one by one.

"Their brains went empty with fear, as they knew that every tick-tock was a note that drew a drop of their blood. Then, losing their heads, with that remnant of instinct that makes the condemn cling for existence to the foot of the scaffold, they’d wanted to take advantage of what time remained to them to live." from The Clock, one of riveting tales in this Maurice Level collection. show less

Maurice Level (1875-1926) - French novelist and short story writer connected with the theater of the Grand Guignol

Those Who Return by Maurice Level (1875 - 1926) is a psychological thriller, a gripping page-turner, a tale of hysteria, madness, revenge and bizarre deaths in the contes cruel tradition of nineteenth century French literature. This short novel is told in crisp, sparse language yet contains elements of romanticism (the feelings and sensitivity of a passionate, poetic main show more character), decadence (the decay, the unclean, the unnatural), the tension between reason and science on the one hand and magic and ghosts on the other, and is a curious cross between, if you can believe it, James M. Cain hard boiled and Edgar Allan Poe macabre.

I wouldn’t want to say too much about the specifics of the plot since there are many unexpected twists and turns, especially toward the end. To provide a sampling of the writing style and literary themes, below are several quotes from the first two chapters coupled with my brief comments.

In the course of conversation with a doctor, the twenty-seven year old main character, Claude de Marbois, conveys the following brooding observations on his own character, “I am neither a roué nor a degenerate; yet there are days when certain visions rise so definitely before me and I am prey to such violent desires, that if, hitherto, I have been able to resist their attraction, it is impossible for me to say whether, an hour hence, I shall be able to do so. At other times, I feel strangely weary, as though I had just accomplished some gigantic task.” Claude is a true romantic: volatile, moody, imaginative, emotional, intense. And the visions Claude alludes to here build as the story unfolds, build like furious waves in a stormy sea; it is as if one can hear Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique in the background.

After a turbulent, gut-wrenching confrontation with his father, Claude retires to his room and, pen in hand, reflects on committing suicide, “He would first write down the tortures of his childhood, the sorrows of his manhood, so that people would know why he had preferred death to a life without love or pity. The thought that the blame would fall on his father, that the scandal would cause that hard proud being to tremble, filed him with joy:” What stronger emotion and feelings are there than a child’s emotionally-charged relationship with his or her father and mother, particularly if the mothers death is shroud in mystery? Maurice Level’s tale contains a number of elements one would find in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex.

The following morning, Claude has yet again another confrontation with his father. We read, “You are trying to force me into a nursing home, in other words, into a madhouse! Oh do not let the word upset you, when the intention leaves you calm. Well, however much you may wish it, I am not mad, and have no desire to become so.“ Ah, what is romantic nineteenth century fiction without the ever-present threat of the label of madman? Many are the tales and novels following Poe’s The Black Cat that begin with a disclaimer from the narrator that he is not mad. The novel fleshes out the power struggle when people attempt to exercise control over others by labeling them as mad and packing them off to a padded cell in the madhouse.

Revenge is certainly one of the most intriguing themes of the novel. How deep is the revenge Claude seeks? What is he willing to sacrifice to extract not only some revenge, but, in his own mind, a revenge that is nothing less than total? With this short novel, in the spirit of Faust or Heathcliff, we witness a true romantic in action. show less