It was, I suppose, during the closing months of the First World War
that an urbane and witty gentleman, writing in the Confederate city of
Richmond, set down these words in the course of one of his interminable,
and witty and urbane, monologues: “I wonder if you are familiar with that
uncanny genius whom the London directory prosaically lists as Arthur
Machen?”
Since there was no reply, as indeed none was expected, the amiable
Charteris chatted on about Arthur Machen and, oddly enough, Robert W.
Chambers, for some moments, and then he concluded with this statement....
“But here in a secluded library is no place to speak of the thirty years’
neglect that has been accorded Mr. Arthur Machen; it is the sort of crime
that ought to be discussed in the Biblical manner, from the house-top....”
That thirty years’ neglect has almost doubled—and indeed one might say
with perfect truth that Arthur Machen has suffered a lifetime of neglect,
_and_, in perfect truth, it must be added that the loss has been the
world’s which so blindly accorded neglect to the uncanny genius of Arthur
Machen.
This is the sort of crime, as Mr. James Branch Cabell suggested back in
1918, that ought to be discussed in the Biblical manner—and it is my
intention to do so.
At this point there will be voices raised in protest ... dim voices
trained to the librarian’s whisper, voices that echo in the vaults of
university libraries and in the reading rooms of Memorial Collections.
There will be other voices—the amiable, all-inclusive voice of the
anthologist and the rasping roar of the reprint editor. There will be
the excited exclamations of the cultists and the happy burblings of the
bibliographers as they pounce upon another Machen item. And of course we
may expect to hear the calm and cultured tones of the collectors, the
excavators and the discoverers, who have pointed with smug satisfaction
to their rows of faded bindings and their “obscure little pamphlets.” As
for the horror boys, happy with their harpies and hieroglyphs and wild
hallucinations, they will probably croak and sibilate in unholy glee and
rush down to start their presses—reprinting madly all they can find of
the magical tales of that wonderful Welshman, Arthur Machen.
It will appear that I anticipate a renewed interest in the works of
Arthur Machen. I do. It may even become apparent that I expect the
publication of this book to work the miracle—to right the wrong of sixty
years of neglect. I do. Nor is this to be attributed to egotism, nor to
a vast respect for my powers of persuasion. A number of literary men, of
small stature and great, have written well and passionately of Arthur
Machen, only to have their effusions produce a magnificent calm. It
is simply that there are signs and portents (of which more anon) that
the time is now. And then of course there is always the bare hope that
my admiration for Arthur Machen and my enthusiasm for his work may be
contagious enough to result in another Arthurian revival. That would be
an event to rival a genuine miracle at Glastonbury itself.
I spoke of the voices that will be raised in praise and recognition
of Arthur Machen. It may occur to some that there was bitterness in
what I said, and in the way I spoke of collectors and cultists, and of
bibliographers and bibliophiles, and of anthologists and of the zealots
of the pulp press. I daresay it is true that I am inclined to be bitter
over the neglect accorded Arthur Machen. Of course the blame for that
neglect cannot be fixed or fastened—but it must rest somewhere between
the publishers of limited editions and the reprinters of almost unlimited
editions, between the alpha and the omega, and the buying and reading
public. That covers a lot of territory. One cannot indict the publishing
world from top, literally, to bottom, literally. One cannot indict, to
paraphrase a much quoted statement of Edmund Burke’s, an entire reading
public. One can, to make a concrete proposal, attempt to do something
about it.
The interest shown in the prospectus announcing this book has been
gratifying, but it does not, to my mind at least, dismiss the charge of
neglect. It merely indicates that there are others who bear witness to
the crime and who wish to see justice done.
The book has been announced as a critical survey—and it will be that.
Many of the stories, written in that decade of the delicate decadents,
will be re-examined and re-evaluated. Mr. Machen will sometimes be spoken
of as a “Gothick novelist”—a thing he has said he is not. The stories
of the “Great War,” as he called it, are seen in a new perspective, as
anyone must know who has re-read them, especially _The Terror_, in the
past few years.
Many of Machen’s articles and essays, and such works as _Hieroglyphics_
and _Doctor Stiggins_, offer food for thought to those who may think,
for example, that Mr. James Farrell has settled literary criteria, once
and for all, in his book, of a few years ago, _The League of Frightened
Philistines_.
This book is, then, the result of some twenty years preparation; at least
half of them spent in planning to “do something about it.” The book has
grown slowly, with many interruptions before, during and since the war.
The opening chapter or Prologue, called “Conversation Piece,” was written
a dozen or so years ago. It was scheduled for publication in one of the
ephemeral magazines of the day. This particular one proved to be more
ephemeral than most ... to paraphrase a rather famous line, “it sank from
sight before it was set.” However, the piece is here presented as it was
written some twelve years back. I believe now, as I did then, that there
was need for a book about Arthur Machen. I hope this book will fill that
need.
At least one chapter, the ninth, may seem to some a philippic, a
potpourri of purely personal preferences and prejudices, having little
to do with Arthur Machen and his works. Needless to say, I believe it
extremely relevant.
—W.F.G.