The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy E-Book

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Beginning in 1804 with Nathan Drake's 'Henry Fitzowen', The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy traces the development of the genre through the stories and poems of Coleridge, Keats, Dickens, Disraeli, William Morris, Christina Rossetti, Tennyson and Vernon Lee, until the end of the century and Richard Garnett's 'Alexander the Ratcatcher'. Each text has been chosen to illustrate the development of the various aspects of fantasy in British Literature - the comic, the sentimental, the erotic and the allegorical - and the contribution that these authors made to the emergence of the genre.

Leseprobe

THE EDITOR

Brian Stableford is one of Britain’s leading writers of science fiction and fantasy. He is the editor of The Dedalus Book of Decadence, The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy and Tales of the Wandering Jew. He has translated for Dedalus, under the pseudonym of Francis Amery, Monsieur de Phocas by Jean Lorrain and The Angels of Perversity by Remy de Gourmont.

LIST OF CONTENTS

Title

The Editor

1. Introduction

2. Nathan Drake

Henry Fitzowen

3. Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Kubla Khan

4. John Keats

Lamia

5. Edward Bulwer-Lytton

The Nymph of Lurleiberg

6. Benjamin Disraeli

Ixion in Heaven

7. Charles Dickens

The Story of The Goblins Who Stole a Sexton

8. John Sterling

A Chronicle of England

9. Dinah Maria Murdoch (Mrs Craik)

Erotion

10. Alfred Tennyson

Morte d’Arthur

11. Lewis Carrol

The Walking Stick of Destiny

12. William Morris

A Dream

13. George MacDonald

The Woman in the Mirror

14. Christina Rossetti

Goblin Market

15. William Gilbert

The Sacristan of St. Botolph

16. Edward Lear

The Dong With The Luminous Nose

17. Walter Besant & Walter Herries Pollock

Sir Jocelyn’s Cap

18. F. Anstey

The Siren

19. Andrew Lang

In The Wrong Paradise

20. Oscar Wilde

The House of Judgement

21. Vernon Lee

St Eudaemon and His Orange Tree

22. Richard Garnett

Alexander the Ratcatcher

23. Appendix

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Modern publishers and booksellers recognise three genres of fantastic fiction, and label their produce accordingly as science fiction, horror or fantasy. Although the world’s best-selling contemporary author, Stephen King, is marketed under the second label the genre which has the largest following is fantasy.

This is slightly surprising, given that fantasy was not demarcated as a publishing category until the late 1960’s, in the wake of the astonishing success of the paperback editions of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Before that date, paperback books which would now be labelled fantasy had sometimes been published on the ragged edge of publishers’ science fiction lists, often under the heading “sword and sorcery”, but the sub-genre was not reckoned to have much profit making potential. Fantasy novels were regarded, by readers as well as by publishers, as perfectly appropriate reading for children but not for adults. The elevation to fashionability of Tolkien’s trilogy changed that dramatically, restoring the respectability of the fantasy novel as something that adults might read without being deemed childish. Once granted this licence, millions of readers queued up for more.

The Lord of the Rings is the parent of the modern publishing category, but Tolkien’s work has a long and complicated ancestry of its own. The wave of fashionability which snatched up The Lord of the Rings was largely an American phenomenon - it began on American campuses during the brief heyday of flower power and the counter culture - and it has been American writers who have supplied the publishing category it inspired with most of its best-sellers: Stephen R. Donaldson, David Eddings, Terry Brooks, Katherine Kurtz, Tad Williams, Melanie Rawn, and many others; but the tradition of fantastic fiction from which The Lord of the Rings descends, and which provided Tolkien with his inspiration, is a distinctly British one.

Other nations, including America, have their own fantasy traditions, but these tend to be distinct and markedly different. It is inevitable that this should be the case; because they are rooted in particular folkloristic resources the fantasy traditions of different nations lend themselves rather more readily to treatment in isolation than traditions of science fiction and horror, whose inspirational roots are universal. It is true, of course, that fantasy writers frequently borrow from alien folkloristic traditions, and that some folkloristic materials have themselves been transmitted from one oral culture to another in days long gone by, but each nation does tend to have some essential kernel of uniqueness within its popular mythology, embodied not only by a particular fondness for certain tales but also by a more general attitude of mind.

This book traces the development of the British fantasy tradition through a period of great importance: the nineteenth century. This was a key phase in the evolution of fantasy in all nations. The century began with an upheaval of attitudes associated with a general revival of interest in the imaginary and the supernatural associated with the Romantic Movement. The Romantics renewed the respectability of the fantastic and stimulated a good deal of discussion about the possible artistic uses of fantastic material. In Britain, however, the cultural environment to which that renewed interest had to adapt came to be determined and defined by the unique and specific conditions of Victorian publishing and Victorian moralising.

British writers of fantasy did not find it comfortable to labour under the stresses and strains of Victorian attitudes. Fantasy is by its nature subversive of “common sense”, and the more rigid the moral attitudes which pass for common sense become, the more anarchic and dangerous fantasy may seem. The new interest in the fantastic inspired by the Romantics faded somewhat as the moral climate shifted and esoteric poetry gradually ceded its cultural centrality to exoteric prose. Fantasy was largely banished to the margins of the literary landscape as the realistic novel moved into the foreground, but it did not disappear and it continues to play an important if subsidiary role.

Whatever is deemed unsuitable for discussion in “realistic” fiction tends to become the subject matter of supernatural fiction, albeit in disguised form. The fierce moralists of Victorian Britain were uniquely extravagant in deeming topics unsuitable, and it was inevitable that their repression would call forth some uniquely extravagant, and sometimes rather peculiar, responses. Some of these responses were apologetic; some writers of fantasies took care deferentially to excuse what they were doing and to demonstrate that fantasy could be placed in the service of Victorian morality. Others were, in various ways, subversive: some writers did what they did unrepentantly, cleverly challenging and undermining the moral order of Victorianism. As the end of the century approached, and a second upheaval of values swept away the Victorian verities, the advent of a new liberalism was reflected more clearly in fantasy than in any other kind of writing.

The philosophic and scientific revolution of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was a triumph of wisdom over superstition, and of tolerant scepticism over mean-spirited dogma. It brought about a new confidence in the power of the human mind, and fully deserved to be reckoned an Age of Enlightenment. The new power of the mind was reflected in a far better understanding and control of the environment than men had ever enjoyed before. A new science fed a nascent industrial and technological revolution, and the effects of this intellectual and material progress were nowhere more evident than in Britain. But any increase in power is always accompanied by a certain sense of frustration: progress in one arena always increases awareness of its absence in others.

The Enlightenment had the effect of lighting a lantern in the twilight; as well as adding to the sum of illumination it also separated out light and darkness, throwing that which was not bright-lit into a deeper and more threatening gloom. It created opposition where before there had been permeation. This is clearly reflected in the literary produce of the aftermath of the Enlightenment, where we find the gradual emergence of a new Realism in dialectical opposition to a new Romanticism. It is evident, too, in the paradoxes of Victorianism, which was the culmination of a peculiar amalgam of moral confidence and moral anxiety.

The uneasy and fearful aspect of Romanticism was exhibited in the Gothic horror stories which were so popular in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, but horror is not the only expression which anxiety can find and Romanticism also had a celebratory element which took a certain comfort in the failure of Realism to secure its dominion absolutely. It is in fiction much more reminiscent of the modern fantasy genre than the modern horror story that we find this second aspect of Romantic dissent: the comic, the sentimental and the mystical.

Because these aspects are several, fantasy - considered as a genre - is less easy to define than the other two genres of imaginative fiction. Horror fiction can be characterised by its ambition to frighten and disturb the reader; science fiction by its attempt (or at lease its pretence) to remain within the bounds of hypothetical possibility. Fantasy seems to be more easily characterised, at least in the first instance, by means of a series of negatives: it is that fiction which is not mundane, yet does not belong to either of the other two genres of supramundane fiction.

It is incorrect, however, simply to consider fantasy as a kind of residual category. Hindsight does allow us to perceive a fantasy genre emerging in the nineteenth century, possessed of some degree of coherency in spite of its hybrid nature. The writers and critics of the day did not think in terms of literary genres - not, at any rate, in terms of the genre categories we recognise today - but that did not prevent writers of fantastic fiction being influenced by one another and recognising a degree of common cause in what they were doing. The later writers included in this anthology would all have been familiar with the work of the earlier ones, and would have recognised some degree of kinship between their own works and those previously issued. Although they did not call themselves “fantasy writers” - and only a handful of them specialised in fantasy - their fantasy works were part of a developing tradition of discourse. What we see when we look back at the fantasies of the period is not an amorphous mass but an assembly of texts grouped around certain key themes, which evolves certain characteristic methods in the course of its progress.

Most of the stories which are nowadays written for publication under the modern fantasy label belong to a sub-class which J. R. R. Tolkien, in his classic essay “On Fairy-Stories” describes as “Secondary World” fantasies. These are stories set in imaginary worlds whose spatial and temporal connection with the real world are frankly mysterious, but whose nature and contents are intelligibly related to it. Lin Carter, who became the most ardent champion of adult fantasy in the world of American publishing after the success of The Lord of the Rings, argues in his book Imaginary Worlds that Secondary World stories constitute the hard core of the fantasy genre.

The “purest” fantasy, for both Tolkien and Carter, consists of stories set entirely within a Secondary World. In many stories of a closely related kind, however, the characters must move from our mundane world into the Secondary World, and may move back and forth across the boundary between the two. Any reasonable definition of Fantasy must obviously accommodate these works. A broader definition, though must also take in stories in which a part of the mundane world is briefly infected or transformed by a limited incursion from a Secondary World, even if the Secondary World is not formally allotted a space of its own. Such incursions are frequently likened to (or “explained” as) dreams and hallucinations; many actual examples are concerned with the displacement from a hypothetical Secondary Word of a single magical character or object. Horror stories typically deal with similar disruptions of the normal course of world affairs, but in horror stories the intrusions are necessarily threatening; where the effect of the temporary incursion is at least partly enlivening or life-enhancing then the work is usually better classified as a fantasy.

Carter alleges in Imaginary Worlds that what differentiates Secondary Worlds from the mundane one can be adequately summed up in a single word: magic. This serves well enough, but there are certain other characteristics worth pointing out. Secondary Worlds usually resemble our own world in very basic ways (atmosphere, gravity etc.) but the details of their geography may be very different. Their flora and fauna are usually augmented by an assortment of creatures borrowed from ancient mythologies. They are usually technologically primitive, and their social organization is likely to be feudal, supported by some notion of the divine right of kings.

Secondary Worlds of this general kind are essentially composite versions of the world that our remote ancestors once believed in, but which has been displaced by modern knowledge. Other Secondary Worlds whose existence is either featured or implied by fantasy stories tend to be worlds which our ancestors believed to exist in parallel with our own: the Underworld, the land of Faerie, Heaven, the Land of Dreams. Fantasy is deliberately archaic and anachronistic: its central feature is that it deals with that in which we have ceased to believe. For this reason, fantasy often seems nostalgic, and is often redolent with sentimental regret for lost illusions.

It has always seemed pointless to some critics that anyone should be interested in reading stories about the power of magic in an era when mature and reasonable adults have ceased to believe in its workability. Some nineteenth century educationalists were, in fact, sternly opposed to fairy stories and other tales traditionally told to children on the grounds that such fictions could only mislead and confuse, and would handicap intellectual development. This puzzle sometimes invites a simplistically uncharitable solution; the argument that a taste for fantasy is symptomatic of a failure to cope with the rigours of real life was largely responsible for the pre-1970 notion that fantasy was only fit reading material for children.

The idea that fantasy is essentially “childish” tacitly assumes that our remote and ignorant ancestors believed in the efficacy of magic because they were simple-minded, and that only people who are similarly simple-minded can take stories about magic seriously. Its adherents reason from this supposition that we may grant a tacit licence to children, permitting them to believe in magic until they are old enough to “know better”, but holds that modern adults ought to have “grown out of” such silly fancies.

The first tacit assumption on which this line of argument is based is dubious; the second is clearly ridiculous. It is a grotesque misunderstanding to assume that in order to read and enjoy fantastic fiction one must be prepared to believe in the actual workability of magic. Most commentators follow Coleridge in referring to what is actually required as a temporary and limited “willing suspension of disbelief”, but Tolkien goes further than this, characterising the contact between writer and reader in more positive terms, as a demand for a distinct species of “Secondary Beliefs”. Using this observation as a prelude to explanation, Tolkien opens the way to a more sensible discussion of the psychological utility of fantasy.

Tolkien’s essay refers to three functions of fantasy, which he calls Recovery, Escape and Consolation. It is an essential part of his thesis that fantasy is the natural partner of reason, neither “insulting” nor undermining it, and that our sense of what is necessarily has as its logical counterpart a sense of that which is not. He argues that the ability to take up a fantastic viewpoint for the sake of comparison helps us to put real things in a better perspective; what we “recover” in fantasy is a clearer sight than we normally employ in viewing the world, because it is a less narrow sight - a sight which does not take for granted the limitations of mundanity.

To argue thus is to assert that we cannot see reality clearly enough if we are trapped within it, and that it is only when we can perform the imaginative trick of moving outside the actual that we can properly appreciate its bounds. This is the fundamental task of the literature of fantasy, and in the nineteenth century evolution of the genre we can see the principal contributors of the genre developing a series of literary devices adapted to this purpose.

Seen from this viewpoint, offering fantasies to children is not at all a matter of granting them temporary licence to believe absurdities. It is instead an entirely appropriate means of helping them to arrive at a sensible distinction of the real and the unreal. It is not surprising, therefore, that one of the motive forces which we see at work in the evolution of nineteenth century fantasy is a campaign to rehabilitate and revitalise those fictions useful (perhaps even essential) to the education of the developing mind.

The function of Escape is seen by Tolkien in much the same light as the function of Recovery. He asserts unhesitatingly that the escapism of fantasy is to be evaluated as if it were the escape of a prisoner rather than the desertion of a soldier; it is a liberation, not a moral failure. This statement is not without qualification, however, because Tolkien proposes that if it is to be genuinely rewarding, the escapism of Fantasy cannot be content simply with drawing the reader away from oppression; it must also lead to some kind of goal. This is where the third function of fantasy - that of consolation - emerges.

Tolkien calls the consolatory goal which he believes a fantasy story should have a “eucatastrophe”. By this he means a climactic affirmation of both joy and right: pleasure alloyed with moral confidence. This does not mean that fantasy cannot or ought not to be tragic, but it does mean that in Tolkien’s view fantasy should not be despairing (as speculative fiction and horror fiction sometimes are); according to this argument, the work of fantasy is essentially committed to the cause of moral rearmament.

There is nothing surprising in the intimate alliance between fantasy and moral fabulation; such an alliance is already implicit in the idea of magic, whose workability is the central premise of fantasy.

In preliterate societies, where belief in magic is still sustained there is always an intimate connection between magic and morality. Magical explanations and magical practices are invoked on precisely those occasions when the real world fails to measure up to the ideal. The hunter in search of meat makes magic against the possibility of failure, but he may fail if he has broken a taboo. The crop-grower makes magic to bring the rain which he needs, and magic to fertilise the soil, but if the tribal ancestors have been offended by the wickedness of their children the rain will not come and the soil will not bear fruit. The medicine-man makes magic to fight illness and oppose the evil of witches who would bring all manner of misfortune upon the tribe. Magic is an expression of desire; it is the attempt to create, at least in the imagination, a world where the human will is the master of fate. But desire without moral responsibility is itself an evil, and magic of that kind is black magic. Institutionalised magic is intimately bound up with the question of whether men truly deserve to succeed in their endeavours.

Magic does not, in fact, work - but that does not mean that it is not useful to those societies which practice and believe in it. The real utility of magic does not lie in the practical arena of human endeavour but in the theatre of the psyche, but it does have a real utility, and that is why it is wrong to regard belief in magic as though it were simply a silly mistake. Institutionalised magic builds confidence and morale; its operations are of purely symbolic value, but it nevertheless opposes defeatism and despair, and conserves hope. Magic - or some psychological substitute - is vital to all human endeavour at a causal level, because confidence may be a necessary condition of success, and despair is generally a guarantee of failure. In all societies where belief in magic is sustained (and ours has by no means been entirely purged of such ways of thinking) forms of magical practice and magical belief are largely defined by moral priorities, dependent upon notions of reward and punishment.

The characterisation of magic as an expression of desire is ironically inverted in Jean-Paul Sartre’s theory of the emotions, which attempts to characterise emotion as a “magical” form of sensation. How we feel about an object, Sartre suggests, reflects the relationship we would have with that object if the world were indeed magical, and the emotions fill a spectrum which extends from a conviction of our own omnipotence to a sensation of utter helplessness - from megalomania to paranoia. The emotions, of course, have a moral gravity of their own whenever passion moves us, there is a moral danger.

If we look at supernatural fiction in general from this perspective, we will recognise that horror fiction exemplifies the negative end of the emotional spectrum, while fantasy exemplifies the positive. Horror stories characteristically deal with the frustration of desire, or with temptation leading to destruction; fantasy characteristically deals with the measured victory of desire, or with constructive temptation. Horror stories frequently built to a climax which involves the escape of the characters from whatever has threatened them, but such an ending is a matter of relief rather than achievement. By the same token, fantasy stories often contain a partial negation of their own logic, which shows not only in occasional tragic resolutions but also - more frequently - in a bittersweet undercurrent of irony. The lovely sadness of knowing that fantasy is, after all, fantasy, supplies a characteristic savour to the masterpieces of the genre.

In all supernatural fiction matters of morality are at stake. Good and evil are in the balance, and the question at issue is whether and how the characters will be delivered from evil. Horror fiction tends to emphasize the threat, and to build suspense upon the question of whether deliverance is possible; a happy ending, in a horror story, is a restoration of normality. Fantasy, although it is often comical and calculatedly quaint, conceals beneath its relative lightness of tone a greater ambition; in fantasy, normality is never enough, and though the preferable ideal may in the end turn out to be unattainable - or attainable only at a terrible price - fantasy nevertheless moves in search of eucatastrophe, in the hope of improving the quality of life. Horror stories comprise the fiction of fear; fantasy stories comprise the fiction of hope.

Nineteenth century fantasy is so various that it is not a simple matter to isolate its key themes or point out the coherent undercurrents guiding its evolution. However, Tolkien’s identification of the three key features of Secondary World fantasy does offer a set of analytic instruments which help to make these unifying themes and methods a little clearer.

Tolkien is clearly right to argue that recovery of a clear view of the world is something which requires imaginative effort. Such an effort is required to make us look beyond and through the triteness of the taken-for granted, and to discover new perspectives from which the familiar looks odd. Tolkien, borrowing from G. K. Chesterton, calls this kind of effect “Mooreeffoc”, after an odd thrill reportedly felt by Charles Dickens upon observing from the wrong side the phrase “Coffee Room” inscribed on a glass door.

We have all experienced similar thrills and fascinations. It is not only words spelled backwards which sometimes acquire this mysterious aesthetic appeal; most other kinds of wordplay can do it, whether they consist of sophisticated exercises in rhyming and punning or the malapropisms and naive misunderstandings of children. Language, as a map of the world, is mutable in all sorts of ways which introduce happy absurdities and discontinuities into its work of reference. The same is true of fiction, which maps human experience in a fashion analogous to the way in which language maps reality, and which generates many of its happy absurdities and discontinuities in the form of fantasy.

A large number of nineteenth century fantasies work in this fashion, creating new viewpoints which administer a series of shocks to our conventional assumptions about the way our world works. The characters which Alice meets in her odysseys underground and through the looking glass use the instruments of wordplay to do this, but there are other ways in which the trick can be worked. There are, for instance, wonderful visits paid to our world by the ambassadors of others ways of thought: more-or-less amiable demons, or angels, or various creatures and characters borrowed from pagan belief. Then again, fantasy provides the opportunity for personalities to be displaced by trading places. All such stories serve the function of showing their characters and their readers the world’s stage lit from an unconventional angle.

The daydream fantasies which we make up for ourselves in order to escape temporarily from everyday life are often described as “idle fancies”, mainly because they come to us in moments of idleness and may be used to distract us from burdensome matters of duty. But our everyday fantasies are often idle in another way too: they fall readily into stereotyped patterns, and we rarely elaborate them beyond the point of enjoying their vicarious satisfactions. For the most part, we obtain gratification from our fantasies quite easily; we usually do not put a great deal of effort into their formation. We may, of course, enter into collaboration with writers in the construction of our fantasies, appropriating their efforts to make our daydreams more detailed and more lively, but the best writers inevitably do this kind of job more thoroughly and more artfully than the vast majority of their readers, and if we draw too heavily on their resources we may find our daydreams reduced in value because they are not specifically tailored to link up with our particular feelings and frustrations.

There are some kinds of fiction which apparently exist largely to fulfil this kind of daydream-fuelling purpose; pornography is the most obvious example. Those who despise fantasy as a genre often speak of it as if it had no other functions, but that is an obviously mistaken view, and fantasy stories which do deal with the theme of wish-fulfillment usually do so in order to issue cautionary warnings against the perils of idle daydreaming. This can most easily be seen in parables which inform us that wishes which are granted (such wishes traditionally come in sets of three) will always, perversely, lead us to disaster. Nineteenth century fantasy contains many examples of such stories, which show us ill-advised wishes going absurdly or tragically wrong; it is also rich in accounts of dream-worlds where characters are educated in the folly of their fancies.

Where writers are more generous in their treatment of daydreaming - as they often are in childrens’ stories - they remain very conscious of the temporary nature of such fantasies, careful to emphasise that daydreamers must always return from their fantasies to deal with the world from which they fled. Usually, fantasy stories which are sympathetic to the stuff of daydreams make their apology on the grounds that a daydreamer may return to the vexing problems of real life refreshed, or having learned some lesson which will make those problems more tractable.

When nineteenth century fantasy writers lead us into Secondary Worlds they are facilitating an escape from our imprisonment by mundanity, and we may often feel ourselves to be tourists out for enjoyment rather than earnest seekers after knowledge avid for instruction. Nevertheless, the authors invariably have some didactic purpose in escorting us upon such odysseys. Even when they boldly declare that they are peddling pure nonsense they unobtrusively guide us towards an entirely proper irreverence for the sordid habit of taking things for granted.

The most significant of the nineteenth century journeys into the land of Faerie and its many analogues were authentic voyages of exploration and discovery, undertaken by writers who were concerned to learn as well as to teach. The authors too were trying to escape, and though they were usually uncertain where their destination truly lay they were nevertheless eager to make progress in their journey towards it. The writing of many of the most effective fantasies must have been acts of catharsis on the part of their authors: attempts to purge confusion.

Inevitably, the purgation can only have been half-effective. Allegory, though it can be a valuable instrument of thought, can produce no real solutions to the the moral problems which it brings into sharper focus; but we must not underestimate the value of that half -effect simply because it is, in functional terms, entirely magical.

The magical worlds devised by fantasy writers, whether they lie in a hypothetical past or in some parallel dimension, often seem to lie closer to the world of Platonic Archetypes than to the real world of the nineteenth century. They are dramatically purified worlds, where good and evil are more clearly polarised and whose characters very often embody single virtues and vices. They are worlds where rewards and punishments are more extreme, where social roles are generally very distinct. For the heroes who move through them, though, they remain problematic, and no matter what success the heroes attain in material and spiritual terms those problematic features can never be entirely resolved. Often, the conclusion of the story is a dissolution of the dream which leaves the protagonist with mixed feelings - richer in experience and understanding, but no more certain than before what the answer is to the question of how men and women should live.

For this reason, even the most positive and constructive of nineteenth century fantasies do retain a darker and more anxious side. The quest for eucatastrophe is haunted by the awareness that success rests on compromise. Fantasy is by no means as simple-minded or ritualistic as its opponents sometimes claim, and serious fantasies inevitably bear adequate testimony to the moral doubts as well as the moral determination of their authors.

Given all this, there can be no doubt that the Tolkienian function of Consolation, as served by nineteenth century fantasy, is by no means to be dismissed as a mere literary equivalent of the compensatory consolations of private daydreams. The Escape which it offers is by no means a cushioned refuge which simply insulates its readers from the stresses of confrontation with the real and the weariness of social conformity. Both these functions remain associated with (and perhaps subservient to) the function of Recovery, in which we are allowed to regain a proper reverence for the strangeness of our own world by confrontation and intercourse with imaginary ones which, because they are magical, are less strange to the emotional aspects of perception.

Like any other genre, fantasy derived its instruments largely from pre-existing forms. Writers throughout Europe borrowed from the folkloristic material which had been adapted into fiction, and moulded to the cause of bourgeois moralising for the purpose of “civilising” young minds, by the likes of Perrault and the Grimms. Fantasy writers of all nations also borrowed from the chivalric romances of the late Middle Ages, which had in the latter part of their history begun to escape (albeit rather halfheartedly) from the straitjacket of moralistic and pietistic allegory into which they had earlier been crammed by the monks who controlled the distribution of literacy in Medieval Europe. Other rich sources of material were provided by the Oriental fantasies which (aided by a less rigorous style of moralising) had become popular in the wake of translations of the Thousand-and-One Nights, and by the ancient religious systems of Europe, especially the Greek and Roman mythology which was so richly interwoven into the texture of Classical literature, and thus into the ideological heritage of Western Europe.

When we look at British fantasy in isolation, we can easily identify several distinctive strands which are of cardinal importance. These are, of course, the contributions made to it by native British folklore and legendary. These are complicated, first because Scottish and Celtic folklore are in many ways distinct from English folklore, and secondly because of the legacy of Norman invasion of 1066. The Normans imported a strong Gallic element into the reporting of English folkloristic materials, which were mostly committed to paper for the first time by Anglo-Norman chroniclers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, although Scottish and Celtic materials were less-heavily polluted.

Gallic intrusions are evident to a fairly limited extent in the mythology of Faerie which provides one of the principal fountainheads of British fantasy, but they are glaringly obvious in the pseudohistorical legends deployed in one of the first and most enduringly popular English printed books, Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. Although Arthurian legend may reasonably be reckoned specifically British, in that it refers to a pre-Norman king already recognised in British legend, Malory’s “Arthurian Bible” is cast in the form of French chivalric romance, and borrows several of the central themes of that genre, including the chivalric code and the quest for the Holy Grail.

It is important that while we recognise the importance in British fantasy of folkloristic materials which are specifically British, we also recognise that works by British writers which use Oriental or Classical sources are no less authentic or significant as participants in the evolution of British fantasy. The uniqueness of British fantasy is a matter of attitude rather than choice of materials, and part of the delight of fantasy is its readiness to deal with the strange and the alien. The native folkloristic tradition is a major contributor to the distinctive flavour of British fantasy, but it was never a straitjacket setting boundaries of parochiality.

In nineteenth century Britain, Victorian morality came to exercise a powerful dominion over the written work, and this dominion has very clear effects on the development of British fantasy. Early in the century one can find Shelley attempting to claim for the poets the privilege of being the world’s true legislators, and Keats proclaiming the equivalence of truth and beauty. Both writers practised what they preached, and their work is replete with fantastic themes whose exoticism is openly celebrated, and which champion a liberal morality. But British fantasy - especially prose fantasy - was quickly and conspicuously chilled by the icy winds of moral oppression. By the time Victoria came to the throne in 1837 fantasy stories were already becoming prim and conservatively moralistic, and this primness became exaggerated almost to the point of grotesquerie in the work of the most ardent disciples of Victorianism.

Victorian painters were able to use fantasy motifs as a means of sidestepping moral restraint. There was a mid-century fashion for fairy painting, occasioned in part by the fact that one way to present images of female nudity while insulating the artist from accusations of indecency was to add a pair of gossamer wings to the figures in question (a similar exception was made for female figures in paintings illustrating scenes from Classical myth). Writers found no such parallel move available; verbal indecencies and indelicacies could not be excused by context. Thus, the most obvious response to Victorianism in supramundane fiction was the development of a highly stylized and carefully chastened school of fantasy best exemplified by the works of Mrs Craik, George MacDonald and William Morris. This was not, however, the only response.

The anarchic spirit which remains submerged in Victorian fantasy tended to sidestep confrontation with official morality by displacing its energies into a more radical confrontation with logic and reason, best exemplified by the nonsense poetry of Edward Lear and the works of Lewis Carroll. It was not until the 1880’s that this kind of deliberate trafficking with absurdity began to confront issues of behavioural morality in a less elliptical fashion - very cautiously in the works of Walter Besant and F. Anstey, more calculatedly in the deceptively light fantasies of Richard Garnett and Oscar Wilde. Even then the forces of repression remained sufficiently powerful to destroy Wilde for his temerity. Beneath the surface of all the classic Victorian fantasies, though - usually hidden by a veil of grotesquerie or humour - bitter responses to the pressure of Victorian moral extremism can be discovered; a sensitive decoding of the allegories of Charles Dickens and John Sterling, and even those of George MacDonald, reveals a full measure of confusion and pain.

As might be expected, this history contrasts strongly with the development of fantasy in other nations. The contrast is most obvious in the case of France, which had been the first European nation to develop an elaborate supernatural literature which had relatively little horror in it. Long before the revolutionary period, France had been the home of the chivalric romance, and in the eighteenth century French writers - aided in their inspiration by the examples of Perrault and the Galland translation of the Arabian Nights - produced dozens of exotic romances which combined the whimsicality of fairy tales or the lushness of Arabian mythology with the politesse of French courtly manners.

The nineteenth century French Romantics continued to carry these themes forward, and never doubted the respectability of producing fantastic fictions. Charles Nodier, Théophile Gautier and Anatole France became the leading producers of prose fantasy, but French poets were also extraordinarily fond of the exotic, and they continue to celebrate and explore it throughout the century. French writers were fascinated by “the Orient”, and with the interface between Classical antiquity and mythology. It was France which produced, in the work of the forefathers of the Decadent Movement - Baudelaire, Lautréamont and Rimbaud - the most explicit challenges to the oppressive “official” morality of Christianity. This challenge overflowed into prose fantasies to such an extent that many of the leading examples of French fantasy were considered far too indecent for early translation into English. Fantasy in France became an extravagantly eloquent champion of a warm and humane liberalism, frequently celebrating the power of erotic attraction.

American supramundane fiction was rather more heterogeneous than that of France or Britain, and that heterogeneity could be found within the work of all its major writers, In the works of Washington Irving, Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Fitz-James O’Brien we find the comic rubbing shoulders with the horrific and the sentimental, and though the authors pull in different directions - Irving towards the grotesque, Poe the paranoid, Hawthorne the moralistic - their canons each present the appearance of a mélange with less internal consistency than is exhibited by any European author.

To some extent this variety reflects the fact that America had only the most meagre resources to draw upon in terms of a native folklore, and its writers tended to take their pick from a wide spectrum of European sources. One could argue with reasonable conviction that American fantasy stood in a similar imaginative relationship to Europe as the relationship which existed between French fantasy and “the Orient”. Europe was, from the American viewpoint, a kind of Antiquity, and when American fantasists came to mine its resources they tended to adopt the same Open Door philosophy which was subsequently to be formally articulated as an item of immigration policy. The distanced haphazardness of American borrowings from folkloristic sources, coupled with a marked irreverence in the invention of “new” folklore by writers like Irving (which seemed entirely appropriate to authors working in the thoroughly disenchanted milieu of the newborn nation), gave early American fantasy a heavily ironic flavour. Writers of madcap comic fantasy, including Mark Twain, Frank R. Stockton and John Kendrick Bangs, had gained ascendancy within the American genre by the end of the century.

German fantasy began to crystallize out in the theoretically-supported kunstmärchen (“art fairy-tales”) of Goethe, Novalis and Fouqué, but German Romanticism always leaned so far toward the anxious pole of the magical spectrum that the greater part of its prose fiction belongs to the horror genre. If one can judge the matter accurately from the relatively sparse translations which exist, it seems to be the case that writers in Germany did not make much of the opportunity to construct moralistic fantasies either uneasily to support (as in Britain) or flamboyantly to oppose (as in France) the dominant morality of the day. Nor were German writers drawn to the kind of humorously sceptical fantasy which came to be produced in some quantity in America.

All of these rival traditions - even the weak German tradition - had some slight influence on the evolution of British fantasy in the latter part of the century; but in the main it is the differences of attitude which stand out. Even when it draws on the folklore of other nations British fantasy usually stands in stark contrast to the nineteenth century fantasy of those nations. Tales of terror from France, Germany and America exerted a far greater influence on British horror stories, and have far more in common with them, than foreign fantasies have on and with British fantasies.

The intellectual environment in which nineteenth century fantasy developed was by no means constant in its scepticism. The Romantic rebellion against the empire of Reason gave birth to some strange progeny, and certain kinds of magical beliefs - refined and refashioned by the processes of ideative natural selection - made a considerable comeback in the latter part of the century, when there was a remarkable resurgence of credulity with respect to the occult.

The manifestations of this resurgence were many and varied, but they included Baron von Reichenbach’s championship of the healing powers of magnetism and the subsequent clinical uses of hypnotism; the cult of Spiritualism associated with those dishonest conjurors who set up in business as mediators between the human and spirit worlds; the Theosophy of Madame Blavatsky and Annie Besant; and the neo-Rosicrucianism of such would-be ceremonial magicians as “Eliphas Levi” and the founders of the Order of Golden Dawn.

The scholarly fantasies inspired by these overlappping cults attracted the interest and involvement of a good many notable persons, including both scientists and literary men. Many writers began to import the ideative flotsam and jetsam of these cults into superstitious didactic fantasies which took their place within the nascent tradition of moralistic fantasy. Their influence can clearly be seen in dozens of mawkishly optimistic literary accounts of the afterlife, which were mostly devoid of any merit whatsoever, but did help to open up imaginative space in Britain for the later development of a more philosophically-inclined subgenre of posthumous fantasy.

Almost all occult fiction is awful; the missionary zeal of its authors frequently leads them to set matters of literary competence firmly aside. There were, however, some good writers among the credulous, and there were other writers who were prepared to borrow the vocabulary of ideas popularised by the credulous, without necessarily committing their own faith. There is little point in quibbling over such questions of definition as whether a credulous occult romance really qualifies as fantasy if its author believes religiously in the possibility of all that he (or, more often, she) has set forth. It is certainly true, though, that the literary interest of such works tends to stand in inverse proportion to the degree of conviction which the author has.

This is not to say that credulous occult romance was not popular - the author who out-sold all others in Britain during the last few years of the century was Marie Corelli, who was by far and away the most fervent and most earnest of such writers - but its writers occupy a curious position in literary history. We can only try to account for their popularity in psychological terms; any estimation of their literary merits is bound to be confused and compromised by the knowledge that the items of faith which they sincerely and strenuously assert are irredeemably stupid.

Credulity is not incompatible with the ability to tell a convincing horror story, but it does not lend itself effectively to the construction of a story whose ultimate intention is to be consolatory or uplifting. We know only too well that we are being paid in false coin when an author asks us not only to recognise the moral propriety of what he or she is saying, but also to believe that the world really is like that. Life in Heaven is a eucatastrophe in which many people try to preserve real belief, but such real belief is likely to be threatened and undermined by attempts at literary description, which inevitably raise more questions than they answer.

The most effective moral allegories are produced by sceptics who need not be confused or weighed down by matters of dogma. Nowhere is the difficulty of writing fantasies based in sincerely held faith more obvious than in the “new legends” produced by devout Christians attempting to elaborate a mythos which is still, for them, sacred. Works in this vein offer clear evidence that serious and efficient literary investigation of the moral tenets of a sincerely held faith cannot leave that faith unaltered, and when the believer resists the loss of his belief he is inevitably led towards an uncomfortable heterodoxy. The mid-nineteenth century fantasies of George MacDonald offer clear evidence of this kind, as do later works by Laurence Housman.

Having said all this, though, it must also be said that any straightforward attempt to separate out the attitudes displayed to the motifs deployed in nineteenth century fantasy into the credulous and the incredulous is bound to fail. The “secondary belief” required of readers is required of writers too, and may become for more serious fantasy writers a matter of considerable importance. They may acquire a strong proprietary interest in their own inventions, or in the borrowings which they deploy. The relationship between fantasy writers and their folkloristic sources is far too complex to be reduced to a mere matter of belief or unbelief.

A “conservationist” regard for the value of folklore is frequently to be found in cultures which have come to fear their own erosion, as can be seen in those parts of the British Isles whose language and folkways were reduced to marginality by virtue of the economic and political dominion of the English. Several Scottish writers of the nineteenth century used fantastic fiction in a way calculated to capture and preserve something of the spirit of their eroded mythos. Yeats and others did the same for Ireland, and the Welsh mythology of the Mabinogion has similarly been redeployed in more recent times.

Nostalgia generated by the erosion of mythos and mystery is correlated in much nineteenth century fantasy with the notion of the banishment of superstition by the march of reason and the corollary feeling that there is something to be regretted in this banishment. There is a depth of tragic consciousness in parables which describe the exile of the fairy folk from England, or the sad fate of other outdated objects of worship. Nostalgia is also a key component of one of the more popular sub-genres which lie on the margins of nineteenth century fantasy: the lost race story. Lost race stories rarely give a prominent role to the supernatural, but their internal dynamic takes them beyond the map into those exotic regions of the Earth where men may seek a romantic destiny outside the possibilities of actual society. Like the more admirable Secondary World fantasies, the best lost race fantasies offer no easy solutions by this route, and the eccentric masterpiece of the sub-genre - Rider Haggard’s She - is paradoxically determined in its uneasy ambivalence.

The uneasy play of nineteenth century secondary belief is also complicated by a burgeoning of interest in the altered states of consciousness associated with hallucination and delusion. This has its straightforwardly clinical side, but its more interesting exhibitions are to be found in hallucinatory grotesques moving in the direction of surrealism and absurdism. Such themes are historically linked to ideas associated with mesmerism, animal magnetism and hypnotism, which are staples of credulous occult romance, but they are by no means imprisoned by the constraints of pseudoscholarly fantasy.

Consideration of the relationships which exist between fantasy and the fashionable ideas of the nineteenth century should not be concluded without amplifying the observation that, with very few exceptions, nineteenth century fantasy existed on the periphery of the Victorian literary world. It never became fashionable in its own right.

If we leave aside children’s books, which compete in a specialised marketplace, the best-selling novels of nineteenth century fantasy are very few in number, and they all appeared at the end of the century when the long reign of the three-decker novel came to its end; they are She, the romances of Marie Corelli, and Anstey’s Vice Versa. On the other hand, there were a few nineteenth century fantasies of a briefer kind which were spectacularly successful because they created - or at least colonised - their own market niches. Dickens’ Christmas Books helped to create a norm by which the Christmas annuals issued by British publishers in association with their periodicals were licensed to indulge in supernatural whimsy and other fanciful tales. This licence was shared by many of the annual volumes which were issued to take advantage of the Christmas present buying season: The Keepsake; The Continental Annual and Romantic Cabinet; Friendship’s Offering and many others.

Periodicals were vital to the promulgation of all kinds of imaginative fiction in the nineteenth century, because so much imaginative fiction works best in short fiction forms. Despite the fact that literacy spread more slowly in Britain than in France or America, the relatively large population of Britain - and especially of London - meant that British writers were at least as well supplied with outlets as their French and American counterparts. Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, which was consistently hospitable to all kinds of imaginative fiction was a vital outlet for many English writers as well as Scottish ones.

The more downmarket a mid-nineteenth century journal was, the more space it was likely to give to supernatural fiction. Popular British magazines like The Olio, or Museum of Entertainment (founded in 1828) and Vickers’ London Journal (founded in 1845) are replete with stories of the supernatural, though almost all of them were either reprinted from familiar sources or of negligible quality. Penny fiction periodicals often featured fantastic tales and “legends” based in or masquerading as items of authentic folklore. Writers with higher literary ambitions usually had a hard time finding markets for their more enterprising and unusual work, and many of them obtained a significant start by publishing their works in their own periodicals. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, John Sterling and William Morris all contrived to publish their early fantasy work by such means, as did the notable Irish writer of horror stories J. Sheridan LeFanu. Had there been a recognised publishing category of the kind which now exists, the tradition of nineteenth century fantasy would undoubtedly be far richer and far more coherent.

The end of the nineteenth century was an important watershed in the history of fantasy, whose importance can hardly be overstressed. In 1900 Sigmund Freud published The Interpretation of Dreams, a book which was to bring about a dramatic change in attitudes to the activity (whether private or literary) of fantasizing. Whether Freud’s account of the logic of dreams was actually true, or how widely it was believed, were matters of little significance in bringing about this change. The point was that a set of ideas had been produced which could not be entirely ignored, and whose attempt to penetrate the symbolism of fantasy - even if it was to be deemed entirely fatuous - could not help but make writers and readers more self-conscious in their fantasizing.

The Interpretation of Dreams was the first of a series of highly significant works in which Freud worked out his theory of the unconscious and his ideas regarding the process of repression. It argued strongly that dreaming operates as a means of vicarious wish-fulfillment, in which the wishes and the means of their fulfillment are often disguised even from the fantasist by their encryption in a pattern of symbols. It went on to link the fountainhead of fantasy, and its internal symbolism, to the libido. In Freud’s view, literary fantasy could be treated in much the same way as dream-fantasy. Once literary fantasists had heard of this theory, therefore - even if they heard of it only in its popular extensions as rumour and jest - it was unforgettable. Its central theses might be rejected, but they could not be disregarded.

It was, of course, well known to many literary fantasists of the nineteenth century that their creative work might involve symbolism and that symbols could be used to convey sexual meanings whose direct expression was taboo. When Christina Rossetti wrote in “Goblin Market” about “forbidden fruit” she used the euphemism quite deliberately, and it may have been in her mind when she wrote of the goblins trying to force their fruit past Lizzie’s resistant lips that the word “lips” is susceptible of more than one meaning. But in making such symbolic wordplay, the poet was not referring her practice to any theoretical context which spoke of the intrinsic nature of fantasy; she was simply making a fantasy of one particular kind. The way that twentieth century writers came to handle sexual symbolism in their fiction could not help but be different.

Freud’s theory changed the way in which nineteenth century works were henceforth read, as well as the way in which subsequent works were composed. Many nineteenth century fantasies have erotic themes, subtly veiled by humour and sentimentality, but those themes tend to be treated innocently and reverently; it is nowadays difficult to read them with a similarly reverent eye. Thanks to Freud all twentieth century innocence has come to seem like shallowness where it is not mere pretence, and reverence a stylistic affectation. Just as dirty jokes came to be accompanied by a ritual nudge and wink, and sentimental displays with a mime of mournful violins, fantasies began to be packaged with token acknowledgements of their own particular artificiality; naive literary dreaming was very largely replaced by a form of “lucid dreaming” whose lucidity was supplied by theories of natural symbolism.

We now know, of course, that Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams is not true in any strong sense; as a whole and coherent scientific theory it is quite exploded, although its remaining adherents still nurture the hope that its bare bones might yet be fleshed out into a theory which, though falling short of a general explanation of the phenomenon of dreaming, might still have some relevance to the business of thinking seriously about the psychological utility of fantasy. Freudian theory is itself, therefore, no more than a fantasy about fantasies, exactly on a par with many of the literary works whose composition and substance it overshadows. Freudian theory cannot explain fantasies any more than it can really explain dreams, even though it has altered forever the terms in which we think about fantasy, and the way in which writers go about the business of creating a fantasy.

It is worth noting that Freud’s theory is itself merely the latest in a long series of images which represent the human psyche in terms of a crucial division and opposition. In Freud’s terminology, the ego must somehow negotiate between, and if possible reconcile, two sets of contradictory pressures: the anarchic and amoral bundle of appetites which is the id; and the censorious and orderly superego. In the conflict between these forces we can see one more version of the battle between passion and reason which has been recognised since the birth of philosophy.

Plato, one of the first great champions of reason, imagined the human soul to be purely rational, but when embedded in its material shell it had perforce to be associated with irrational impulses. Even in Plato’s view this was not entirely unfortunate, for there were some impulses which were noble ones - ambition; the desire for power; righteous wrath - but the rest of these passionate forces were “lower” in kind, to be feared, despised and disciplined. Their temptations ought, in Plato’s view, to be subject to a ruthless tyranny of the intellect. From the ideal society outlined (without irony) in the Republic, poets were to be cast out, because their work “nourished the well of the emotions” while the true aim of a civilised society should be to dry it up.

Few of Plato’s successors were as ruthless as this in their opposition to the emotions, but their more moderate views were usually aligned on the same side. Aristotle felt that emotions and the vulgar passions connected with basic bodily processes, which constituted the “animal part” of man. Among later Greek philosophers the Stoics shared Plato’s suspicions to the full, regarding the passions as perturbations of the mind, almost as a kind of mental disease. Their rivals the Epicureans took a different view, insisting on the naturalness of pleasure and preaching a kind of hedonism but their search was for a purified, rather cerebral species of joy, fit for connoisseurs, and one of their mottoes was “Nothing to Excess”.

For Christian philosophers of a later period the passions were temptations of the devil, and giving way to them was the very essence of sin. True godliness was based in asceticism, and those emotions suited to life in Heaven would be very stringently purified, consisting mainly of love of God and a joyful knowledge of that Divine Love which would be returned. When rationalist philosophers set to work again within the Christian tradition they tended to do little more than secularise this view. Descartes considered the passions as excitations of the soul caused by the movement of “animal spirits”; Spinoza, in laying down the foundation stones of his system of Ethics, accepted it as axiomatic that human freedom was based in the rational power of the intellect, while the opposing power of the emotions must be reckoned a burdensome kind of servitude.

Many writers of the nineteenth century proposed new terminologies which pretended to be more scientific, but the dualistic story which most of them told was much the same. Darwin, meditating upon The Expression of the Emotions inMan and Animals (1872), considered our appetites and passions to be part of our evolutionary heritage, operating independently of the will, as an “undirected flow of nerve-force”. The psychologist Havelock Ellis, in Studies in the Psychology of Sex (1897), identified two “great fundamental impulses” supplying the “dynamic energy” of all behaviour: hunger and sexual desire; like Freud he was to become preoccupied with the idea that the latter might easily be transformed by “sublimation” into other kinds of creative endeavour, including literary work.

Some other nineteenth century writers tried to make fundamental connections between the divided nature of man and the exercise of artistic creativity. Notable among them was Nietzsche, whose account of The Birth of Tragedy (1872) contrasted the “Apollonian” and “Dionysian” elements which, in fusion, formulated the world-view of tragedy (whose subsequent death was procured by the victory of rationalism). Later writers were to borrow this dialectical pair to describe phases throughout which whole cultures might pass, in the one striving for the rule of calm reason, in the other for the wild abandonment of ecstasy.

Throughout the history of these dualistic accounts of human being there emerged only a handful of true champions of the passions. The most prestigious was probably the eighteenth century French philosopher Rousseau, who firmly believed in the nobility of savagery, and became the father figure of the cult of sensibilité. In his later writings, though, Nietzsche remade his image of Dionysus, making him a symbol of a healthy reconciliation of the Apollonian and the Dionysian: passion sublimated into creative endeavour. In this view reason is a counterpart to rather than an enemy of the passions, and the real contrast is between the harshly repressive dominion of ascetiscism and a benevolent quasi-Epicurean acceptance of passionate purpose and rational method.

The principal process of ideological evolution which is visible in the fantasy genre as it moves from the nineteenth into the twentieth century is perhaps best summed up (though any summing up is bound to be an oversimplification) as the discovery and championship of an essentially Nietzschean position. We can find the earliest evidence of this evolution in the lushness of nineteenth century French fantasy, but we can see its emergency in some of the British fin de siecle writers - most notably Richard Garnett, Oscar Wilde and Vernon Lee.

In the Sartrean theory of emotion - which is itself an unmistakable product of twentieth century thought, and might well be reckoned another of its scholarly fantasies - passion ceases to be defined in quasi-mechanical terms. The ideas of “animal spirits” and “nerve-force” are consigned to the same dustbin. Sartre urges us instead to view emotional experience as a kind of perception, characterised by a “magical” world view which contrasts with, but also complements, the “instrumental” world-view which underlies our scientific understanding.