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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Set against the backdrop of 19th-century Europe, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's "The Room in the Dragon Volant" masterfully weaves a tale of mystery, romance, and the supernatural. The narrative unfolds through the lens of a first-person protagonist whose journey through a turbulent landscape of intrigue and danger reflects the gothic style characteristic of Le Fanu's oeuvre. Richly atmospheric and steeped in psychological depth, the novel explores themes of obsession, desire, and the inexplicable, effectively situating itself within the broader tradition of gothic literature that questions reality and identity. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, an eminent figure of Victorian literature, drew upon his own Irish heritage and personal experiences to infuse his narratives with a sense of the uncanny. Known for his contributions to the ghost story genre, Le Fanu's interest in the supernatural was shaped by the cultural and societal changes of his time, as well as by his connections to the Irish literary movement. This novel exemplifies his skillful blending of gothic motifs with complex characters, revealing the psychological intricacies of love and fear. "The Room in the Dragon Volant" is a compelling read for both enthusiasts of gothic fiction and modern readers alike. Le Fanu's blend of romance, suspense, and the mysterious will captivate your imagination, inviting you into a world where the boundaries between love and danger blur. This novel is not just a tale of intrigue; it is a profound exploration of the human psyche, making it a must-read for those seeking depth in their literary pursuits. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Room in the Dragon Volant
Table of Contents
Introduction
A heady blend of desire and deception draws a naïve traveler into a perilous maze where every courtesy, glance, and room promises sanctuary yet conceals snares, urging the reader to question appearances, motives, and the comforts of polite society as swiftly shifting lights and shadows expose how longing can blind judgment, how strangers can choreograph our choices, and how the very thresholds we cross in pursuit of romance or adventure may become the stage on which trust falters and danger advances with the elegance of a welcoming smile.
The Room in the Dragon Volant is a Gothic-tinged tale by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, the Irish master of Victorian mystery and suspense. First published in 1872 within his collection In a Glass Darkly, it occupies a distinctive place in his oeuvre for steering away from overt supernatural effects while sustaining a potent atmosphere of unease. Set in early nineteenth-century France, the narrative fuses elements of the sensation novel, the crime romance, and the travel adventure. Le Fanu’s interest in perception, doubt, and social performance animates a world where elegant manners coexist with hidden schemes and the past casts suggestive, rather than spectral, shadows.
At its outset, the book follows a young English gentleman abroad, recounting in the first person how an impulsive journey leads him to an inn known as the Dragon Volant. There he becomes fascinated by a beautiful and seemingly imperiled aristocrat whose situation appears both alluring and opaque. His chivalric impulse to intervene draws him into a network of ambiguous allies and elegant adversaries. The inn, local estates, and the roads between them become charged settings for meetings, confidences, and misdirections. What begins as romantic curiosity quickly becomes an education in caution, as favors and invitations open doors that do not always lead where they promise.
Le Fanu’s voice here is urbane and measured, shaped by a reflective narrator whose candor allows readers to feel both the seduction and the danger of events as they unfold. The pacing is patient and exact, with scenes arranged like stages on which details accumulate and small irregularities grow significant. While the story rarely resorts to the supernatural, it retains the Gothic’s sensory richness: murmured conversations, lamplight, locked spaces, and the subtle choreography of entrances and exits. The style privileges psychological tension over spectacle, relying on foreshadowing, social nuance, and carefully placed revelations to keep the reader alert to the fissures beneath polished surfaces.
Themes of appearance versus reality, credulity, and the ethics of rescue animate the book. Le Fanu probes how desire shapes perception, how wealth and status can become theatrical props, and how an outsider’s gaze may misread rituals of courtesy as signals of safety. The inn’s architecture, private rooms, and thresholds function almost as characters, framing choices and amplifying risk. The narrative also examines the allure of cosmopolitan travel—its freedoms and its traps—while asking when intervention is brave, when it is presumptuous, and how easily noble intentions can be repurposed by those who understand the grammar of temptation.
For modern readers, the novel’s concerns feel strikingly current: it dissects how persuasive performances manufacture trust, how longing accelerates risk, and how environments curated for hospitality can conceal asymmetries of knowledge and power. Fans of psychological suspense and historical mystery will recognize the slow-burn pleasures of incremental discovery and carefully managed doubt. The book’s restraint—its preference for implication over spectacle—invites a reflective reading practice that rewards attention to tone, gesture, and timing. As an example of Victorian narrative craft, it also shows how Gothic atmospherics can illuminate worldly forms of menace without relying on the supernatural to produce dread.
Approached on its own terms, The Room in the Dragon Volant offers a taut, civilized nightmare: an elegant itinerary that becomes a study in misplaced confidence. Expect courtly exchanges edged with risk, rooms that change meaning as knowledge deepens, and a protagonist whose education in caution is as compelling as any chase. Readers who enjoy paying close attention to small anomalies—the stray remark, the convenient coincidence, the slightly misaligned explanation—will find the experience rich and unsettling. It is a compact, atmospheric journey that lingers, not for shocks, but for the uneasy recognition that danger often wears a welcoming face.
Synopsis
Set in Restoration-era France, The Room in the Dragon Volant follows Richard Beckett, a young English traveler eager for adventure, fashion, and romance. Crossing from Calais toward Paris and Versailles, he narrates his impressions of postwar society, where soldiers, officials, and aristocrats jostle in newly settled streets. The tone combines curiosity with unease as strangers offer advice and warning in equal measure. Beckett's lighthearted expectations give way to interest in local rumors and the subtle etiquette of salons and inns. From the outset, the story promises a passage from sightseeing to intrigue, anchoring its suspense in everyday places rather than distant ruins.
On the road near Versailles, Beckett witnesses a carriage mishap that introduces him to the Count and Countess de St. Alyre. He assists courteously and is struck by the countess's beauty and apparent distress, while her older husband remains watchful and reserved. The encounter is brief, but it plants a fascination that directs Beckett's choices. Local talk paints the couple as wealthy, secretive, and frequently attended by servants and physicians. Hints of illness, jealous temperament, and family complexity surround them. Beckett, inexperienced yet resolute, decides he must see the countess again, imagining chivalry and discretion can manage what prudence would avoid.
Arriving at Versailles, Beckett establishes himself at a fashionable roadside inn called the Dragon Volant, famed for good service, lively company, and a room with a curious reputation. He befriends the Marquis d'Harmonville, an urbane guide to French manners who offers practical counsel and veiled cautions. An excitable retired colonel contributes war stories and gossip about duels, police surveillance, and crimes in the vicinity. Amid these voices, the innkeeper hints at oddities in the building's plan and at nocturnal sounds that keep timid guests awake. Beckett listens, amused but intrigued, and chooses comfortable rooms that place him near the social hub.
Through the marquis's introductions, Beckett enters refined gatherings in and around the gardens of Versailles, where music, masks, and fireworks provide anonymity. He glimpses the countess again, exchanges subtle courtesies, and receives a note suggesting a private interview. The older count's vigilance becomes more pronounced, and Beckett hears that jealousy and legal entanglements complicate the household. The marquis advises discreet patience and outlines safe procedures for correspondence and meetings. Meanwhile, isolated warnings imply that the Englishman is being watched. Beckett weighs caution against desire, continuing to believe that a gallant rescue, if undertaken with tact, might right hidden wrongs.
Back at the Dragon Volant, small irregularities sharpen Beckett's attention. Servants appear and disappear with unusual timing; a door resists and then swings too freely; footsteps seem to travel within walls. The celebrated room's proportions prove slightly deceptive, and its window looks over a deep hollow that serves as both prospect and barrier. Old tales of vanishings hover at the edges of conversations, never confirmed, always discouraging questions. Despite misgivings, Beckett clings to the convenience the inn affords for passing letters and arranging signals. He interprets ambiguities as manageable risks, convinced that discretion, money, and courage will cover every contingency.
The clandestine understanding with the countess advances by increments. Instructions arrive describing paths, hours, and passwords, sketching a carefully timed escape from a stifling life. Beckett secures a carriage, readies funds and disguises, and rehearses routes through lanes, woods, and garden walls. His advisers urge him to trust a narrow circle and to ignore last-minute objections. The room in the Dragon Volant, with its seclusion and commanding view, becomes the staging ground. Each detail augments suspense: a lamp at a window, a handkerchief at a grille, a slight delay that feels deliberate. Beckett commits fully, certain he is acting nobly.
A sudden announcement overturns expectations: word spreads of a death within the noble household, and a hushed nighttime procession is planned. Convinced that appearances conceal design, Beckett accelerates his plan, determined to counter a ruse with daring. The appointed night brings masks, closed carriages, and shifting shadows, blurring boundaries between public ceremony and private scheme. He navigates by signs and whispers until landmarks lose meaning. At the threshold of success, the surroundings change character; familiar doors yield to darkness and silence replaces guidance. The episode culminates in isolation and alarm, as Beckett discovers that his confidence has outpaced his control.
The consequences unfold with measured precision. Investigators, confidants, and documents assemble a complete account of the machinery that drew Beckett to the brink: false identities, rehearsed signals, hidden compartments, and the exploitation of fashion and sentiment. The notorious room's peculiarities acquire a practical explanation, and long-standing rumors about disappearances find rational cause. Without dwelling on sensation, the narrative describes how legal authority and the persistence of ordinary observers expose the scheme. Beckett survives chastened but intact, reflecting on the ease with which vanity and impulse can be directed. The principal actors meet appropriate fates, and public confidence slowly returns.
By concluding on clarity rather than mystery, the novella emphasizes its principal idea: in a society devoted to display, perception is a tool that crime can shape. The Dragon Volant becomes emblem and instrument of this lesson, a hospitable front that hides careful engineering. Following Beckett from curiosity to peril to comprehension, Le Fanu presents a case study in credulity tested by artifice. The story remains grounded in plausible contrivance, favoring procedure and observation over the supernatural. Its message is cautionary but brisk: admire the glitter of pageants and salons, but respect the unseen arrangements that make such glitter convincing.
Historical Context
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu sets The Room in the Dragon Volant in the Île-de-France, moving between Paris, Versailles, and the wooded roads and villages west of the capital. The implied timeframe is the early Bourbon Restoration, shortly after the fall of Napoleon, around 1815 to the early 1820s. This was a landscape of posting inns, toll gates, and gendarmerie patrols, where aristocratic chateaux stood beside newly regulated cemeteries. The proximity to Versailles, a symbol of the ancien regime revived under Louis XVIII, anchors the tale in a world negotiating between revolutionary memory and royalist revival. An English traveler’s passage through this region frames the drama of intrigue and disguise.
The defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo on 18 June 1815 and the Second Treaty of Paris (November 1815) ushered in Allied occupation and the Bourbon Restoration (1814 to 1830). Paris briefly hosted British troops and sightseers, while Louis XVIII reestablished court ritual and sought legitimacy through the Charter of 1814. Postwar dislocations, indemnities, and the return of emigrant nobles created social strain and opportunities for deception. The novel reflects this unsettled aftermath: a cosmopolitan mix of veterans, aristocrats, and foreign visitors moves through salons, inns, and highways where loyalties are ambiguous, fortunes precarious, and rumor and surveillance shape every encounter.
The policing environment of Restoration France forms the story’s most decisive historical backdrop. Bonaparte created the Prefecture of Police of Paris in 1800, centralizing urban surveillance; by 1812 the Surete, organized by Eugene-Francois Vidocq, pioneered undercover techniques, criminal informants, and systematic dossiers. After 1815 the Ministry of Police briefly returned (1815 to 1818) before being folded into the Interior, but the Prefecture endured, refining passport checks, alien registration, and road controls through the national gendarmerie. Parisian authorities monitored inns, carriage hire, and burial practices; administrative paperwork was ubiquitous, from travel permits to mortuary certificates. Figures like Joseph Fouche (minister in 1799 to 1810 and again briefly in 1815) and, later, conservative prefects under Louis XVIII and Charles X, cultivated networks of spies and provocateurs. Vidocq’s memoirs, widely discussed in the 1820s, publicized decoy stings, staged arrests, and criminal masquerades. Against this institutional landscape, clandestine rooms, trapdoors, and false identities gain plausibility as instruments of both criminals and police. The novel’s conspirators exploit the very bureaucratic routines meant to guarantee order, manipulating funerary documentation and the spatial logic of inns and roadside houses. Conversely, characters resembling discreet officials or aristocratic patrons deploy the period’s covert methods to surveil, entrap, and rescue. The setting near Versailles, close to garrison towns and administrative hubs, intensifies the sense that every carriage, passport, and coffin might be inspected or suborned. Le Fanu channels this apparatus to dramatize how modern policing, while taming brigandage, also breeds a culture of secrecy where legality and deception blur.
The return of emigres and the rehabilitation of noble titles under the Charter of 1814 reshaped Parisian and court society. The Faubourg Saint-Germain revived as a royalist stronghold, while disputes over biens nationaux and restitution ran through the 1810s. The White Terror of 1815 punished Bonapartists and republicans, deepening factionalism. Marriage, dowry, and guardianship under the Code Civil (1804) structured wealth and control within aristocratic households. The novel’s aging nobleman and his young countess embody these tensions: property, status, and reputational fragility bind their fate, and schemes around inheritance and reputation echo real Restoration anxieties about lineage and legal possession.
Peace reopened the roads to British travelers. After 1814, routes from Calais to Paris via Amiens or Beauvais bustled with post chaises and diligences, and Versailles resumed its allure as a day trip and courtly spectacle. Guidebooks, currency exchanges, and passport controls framed the experience, but swindlers and organized cheats also tracked naive visitors. English accounts from the 1810s describe crowded inns, touts at city gates, and the need for caution with luggage and bills. The novel mirrors this milieu: an inexperienced Englishman, navigating inns like the Dragon Volant, becomes the ideal mark for cosmopolitan conspirators who exploit linguistic gaps, etiquette, and postwar curiosity.
Early nineteenth century medical and mortuary reforms fuel the story’s preoccupation with death’s ambiguity. The 1804 imperial decree expelled burials from churchyards, creating cemeteries such as Pere Lachaise (1804), and the Paris Morgue (established 1804) institutionalized identification and medico-legal scrutiny. Yet public fear of premature burial persisted, and proposals for waiting mortuaries and safety coffins circulated widely between the 1790s and 1830s. Mathieu Orfila’s toxicology (first major treatise 1814 to 1815) signaled a new forensic rigor, though popular rumor outran science. The novel’s feigned death, sealed rooms, and nocturnal funerary rites draw on these debates, staging the collision between bureaucratic certainties and corporeal uncertainty.
Political conspiracy marked the Restoration. The assassination of the Duc de Berry on 13 February 1820 at the Paris Opera by Louis-Pierre Louvel spurred a conservative backlash, censorship, and enhanced police powers. Liberal and nationalist secret societies, notably the French Carbonari, formed cells from 1821 to 1823; the Four Sergeants of La Rochelle were executed in 1822 for a Carbonari plot. Royalist ultras operated their own networks and salons. Such clandestinity normalized masks, passwords, and double lives. The novel’s masked encounters, hidden chambers, and coded signals resonate with this climate, using private spaces near Versailles as theaters for intrigue that could be political, criminal, or both.
By entwining aristocratic duplicity, administrative surveillance, and mortuary ambiguity, the book offers a critique of Restoration society’s moral economy. It exposes how rank and wealth shield predation, how marriage can entrap rather than protect, and how official power polices appearances without securing justice. The English outsider’s vulnerability underscores the transactional nature of status in postwar France, while the exploitation of medical and legal formalities reveals a bureaucracy more concerned with order than truth. In its portrait of salons, inns, and corridors of power, the narrative condemns a social order where secrecy is currency, and where the weak are sacrificed to preserve reputation and privilege.
