Today we cast our gimlet eyes on a 1897 mystery about scarabs, hypnotism, crispy white women, and the Worst Politician Ever. I’m talking about Richard Marsh’s “The Beetle,” which the Penguin paperback edition boasts was initially more popular than Dracula when the two were published in the same year. How does “The Beetle” stack up against our favorite ex-sanguinary aristocrat? Let’s see.
WARNING: This review contains spoilers. Read on at your peril.
The book opens with a young man named Robert Holt tramping around in the rain looking for work. He’s rejected by the last workhouse in the area, and in desperation he shimmies through an open window into a seemingly abandoned house. Here he meets the villain:
“I saw someone lying in front of me in a bed. I could not decide if it were a man or a woman. Indeed at first I doubted if it were anything human. . . His age I could not guess; such a look of age I had never imagined . . .
There was not a hair upon his face or head, but, to make up for it, the skin, which was a saffron yellow, was an amazing mass of wrinkles. The cranium, and, indeed, the whole skull, was so small as to be disagreeably suggestive of something animal. The nose, on the other hand, was abnormally large; so extravagant were its dimensions, and so peculiar its shape, it resembled the beak of some bird of prey. . . The mouth, with its blubber lips, came immediately underneath the nose, and chin, to all intents and purposes, there was none . . .
His eyes ran, literally, across the whole of the upper portion of his face- remember, the face was unwontedly small, and the columna of the nose was razor-edged. They were long, and they looked out of narrow windows, and they seemed to be lighted by some internal radiance, for they shone out like lamps in a lighthouse tower. Escape them I could not, while, as I endeavoured to meet them, it was as if I shrivelled into nothingness. Never before had I realised what was meant by the power of the eye. They held me enchained, helpless, spellbound. I felt that they could do with me as they would; and they did.”
Our villain puts the young man in a trance, and makes him undress:
“‘Undress!’
When he spoke again that was what he said, in those guttural tones of his in which there was a reminiscence of some foreign land. I obeyed, letting my sodden, shabby clothes fall anyhow upon the floor. A look came on his face, as I stood naked in front of him, which, if it was meant for a smile, was a satyr’s smile, and which filled me with a sensation of shuddering repulsion.
‘What a white skin you have- how white! What should I not give for a skin as white as that- ah yes!’”
Hoo boy. Yellow skin, a foreign accent, and an appreciation for pasty Englishmen? Why, he must be the villain! And now, a thirty second recap:
The Beetle puts the whammy on Mr. Holt and makes him steal some letters from Statesman Paul Lessingham’s desk. (Why the Beetle makes Mr. Holt commit the burglary stark naked except for a cloak is unclear, but we’ll chalk it up to artistic direction.) Reading the letters, the Beetle discovers Paul is in love with Miss Majorie Lindon; the Beetle professes hatred for them both. Inventor Sydney Atherton is a rival suitor for Marjorie’s hand, and mostly hangs around for people to explain the plot to him. The Beetle kidnaps Miss Majorie, and Paul and Sydney hire a private detective to track her down. Then the book ends in the most anti-climactic ten pages I’ve ever read.
*Spoilers!* *Spoilers!*
How do our heroes get rid of the hypnotic, undead menace of the Beetle and rescue the girl? They don’t. The bad guys get on a train that promptly crashes, squashing the villains while sparing Miss Marjorie. A detached narrator, for whom we care nothing, informs us that various people marry other people. To say that this is unsatisfying is an understatement– my reaction was to yell: “Whaaaat? That’s the ending?”and throw the book at the wall. Your mileage may vary.
If Other Books Used Random Accidents for an Ending:
- Frankenstein’s monster stomps his way into a sinkhole.
- Dr. Fu Manchu poisons himself with the wrong syringe.
- The Wolfman blunders into a barber shop and is never heard from again.
- Captain Nemo gets a fatal case of the bends.
- Professor Moriarity is jailed for non-payment of income tax, gets shivved by a random guy in the lunch line, and dies of Hep C.
Are these events more realistic than a mano-a-mano duel with our heroes? Maybe– but when you have heroes in a story, you expect them to do something to thwart the villains. “Waiting around for bad karma to, like, kick in” does not count as doing something. Plus, now you have characters that can’t change or evolve, since they never get a chance to confront their fears, confess their love, etc. Let’s run down the cast of characters, shall we?
Our Heroes: Or, People Who Don’t Fight the Villain or Save the Girl
1. Robert Holt
He’s hypnotised by the Beetle, steals papers from Paul Lessingham, and dies in the same state we met him: poor, cold, starving, and miserable. He never truly escapes from the Beetle’s influence. And since he’s the first character the readers meet, we have a vested interest in his health and well-being– only to be disappointed when the author drops his narrative (and character) like a brick half-way through the book. His whole arc seems like it’s going to be how he can resist the Beetle’s unholy influence, as seen in this paragraph from page 28:
“‘For you are my slave- at my beck and call- my familiar spirit, to do with as I will- you know this- eh?’
I did know it, and the knowledge of my impotence was terrible. I felt that if I could only get away from him; only release myself from the bonds with which he had bound me about; only remove myself from the horrible glamour of his near neighborhood; only get one or two square meals and have an opportunity of recovering from the enervating stress of mental and bodily fatigue; – I felt that then I might be something like his match, and that, a second time, he would endeavour in vain to bring me within the compass of his magic. But, as it was, I was conscious that I was helpless, and the consciousness was agony.”
And then the poor guy dies of starvation a few pages from the end of the book. What a waste.
2. Paul Lessingham
Paul Lessingham is a master orator and statesman in Parliament, where he is branded a ‘Radical’ (something about wanting to help unfortunate peoples, but that’s never really spelled out). He wants to marry Marjorie Lindon over her father’s objections. In the end, after the villains are squished by the Convenient Train of Doom, Lessingham marries the girl and continues on his promising political path. So why do I hate him so much? Possibly because he is one of the greatest tools I’ve ever encountered in Victorian fiction.
When he was 18, Paul went to Cairo instead of college. This was a mistake, since he was promptly kidnapped, roofied, and raped for over two months by the cult of Isis. And you thought your summer vacation was rough. It gets worse:
“I saw, on more than one occasion, a human sacrifice offered on that stone altar, presumably to the grim image which looked down on it. And unless I err, in each case the sacrificial object was a woman, stripped to the skin, as white as you or I- and before they burned her they subjected her to every variety of outrage of which even the minds of demons could conceive.”
Young Paul escapes from his prison and wanders around with aphasia in a ‘semi-imbecilic state’, gets mental counseling for a few years, and promptly goes into politics. The attentive reader will note the “find and destroy murderous cult” step is missing. Paul defends this rather obvious omission like so:
“I wish to point out, and to emphasise the fact, that I am not prepare to positively affirm what portion of my adventures in that extraordinary and horrible place, was actuality, and what the product of a feverish imagination. Had I been persuaded that all I thought I saw, I really did see, I should have opened my lips long ago, let the consequences to myself have been what they might. But there is the crux. The happenings were of such an incredible character, and my condition was such an abnormal one- I was never really myself from the first moment to the last- that I have hesitated, and still do hesitate, to assert where, precisely, fiction ended and fact began.”
In other words: “I can’t be sure I remembered everything correctly, so I’m going to do absolutely nothing.” Let’s do the math: Paul was held for over two months and saw human sacrifice on ‘more than one’ occasion. So lets say the cult kills at least a woman a month– that’s 12 missing white girls each year. Are we expected to believe no zealous Cairo constable looked around and said: “Where the white women at?” Even if Paul isn’t quite sure what he saw, don’t you think he should go back to Cairo and find some people to investigate whether women are being kidnapped and set on fire on a regular basis? Anyone? Anyone?
Paul doesn’t tell his fiancee’ about this little escapade, either. I know that even in these modern times it’s unwise to go into gory details about your past relationships– but when your past involves ritual sacrifice and years of mental illness, perhaps the gentlemanly thing would be to give the woman a head’s up.
Then there’s his blatant hypocrisy when his fiancee’ Miss Marjorie Lind0n is kidnapped. Here his friend Sydney is trying to buck him up; note that Sydney is the narrator:
‘Let us hope that, with the exception of being a trifle scared, she [Marjorie] will be as sound and hale and hearty as ever in her life.’
‘Do you yourself believe that she’ll be like that- untouched, unchanged, unstained?’
Then I lied right out- it seemed to me necessary to calm his growing excitement.
‘I do.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Mr Lessingham!’
‘Do you think that I can’t see your face and read in it the same thoughts which trouble me? As a man of honour do you care to deny that when Marjorie Lindon is restored to me- if she ever is! – you fear she will be but the mere soiled husk of the Marjorie whom I knew and loved?’
Unstained? Mere soiled husk? And get a load of the ‘loved’– in the past tense! Paul Lessingham: What. A. Prize. Especially since he himself was ‘outraged’ and driven mad and still considers himself worthy of her hand. If he can recover from his soiled huskitude, why not Marjorie? I wish someone would set *him* on fire. Paul also suffers from PTSD any time anyone says the phrase: “The Beetle!” and spends most of his time cringing in the corner and dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief. He never overcomes this reaction, never challenges the villain, and doesn’t rescue the girl. What a guy.
3. Sydney Atherton
Sydney Atherton is an inventor, snappy dresser, childhood friend of Marjorie Lindon, and rival for her hand. Marjorie rejects him in favor of the odious Paul Lessingham (see above).
Sydney is a completely wasted character. For one thing, he professes his undying love for Marjorie up to the end of the book:
‘You are hard on me, Lessingham, harder than I deserve- I had rather have thrown away my own life than have suffered misadventure to have come to her.’
‘Yours are idle words. Had you not meddled this would not have happened. A fool works more mischief with his folly than of malice purpose. If hurt has befallen Marjorie Lindon you shall account for it to me with your life’s blood.’
‘Let it be so,’ said Sydney. ‘I am content. If hurt has come to Marjorie, God knows that I am willing enough that death should come to me.’ (p. 274)
So you can imagine my surprise when he marries someone else at the end. We find out about this on the last page in the hilarious sentence: “By-the-bye, Sydney Atherton has married Miss Dora Grayling.” Well, okay then! But why? “Her wealth has made him one of the richest men in England.” Oh, I see. But are they happy? “She began, the story goes, by loving him immensely; I can answer for the fact that he has ended by loving her as much.” Thanks for clearing that up, random narrator guy. It would have been nice to, you know, see some of this complete change in affection in the actual novel.
The second reason Sydney Atherton is a waste of space is because he’s an inventor whose current research involves poisonous gases and explosives. He uses his scientific prowess to . . . kill a cat. The context is worth quoting in full. Note that Sydney speaks first, his friend second:
‘Then the cat shall have it.’
‘Let the poor brute go!’
‘The poor brute’s going- to the land which is so near, and yet so far. Once more, if you please, attention. Notice what I do with this toy gun. I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass pellet; I thrust the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the glass box which contains the Apostle’s cat- you’ll observe it fits quite close, which, on the whole, is perhaps as well for us. – I am about to release the spring. – Close attention, please. -Notice the effect.’
‘Atherton, let the brute go!’
‘The brute’s gone! I’ve released the spring- the pellet has been discharged- it has struck against the roof of the glass box- it has been broken by the contact- and, hey presto! the cat lies dead- and that in face of its nine lives. You perceive how still it is- how still! Let’s hope that, now, it’s really happy . . . -Reflect! think of a huge bomb, filled with what we’ll call Atherton’s Magic Vapour, fired, say, from a hundred and twenty ton gun, bursting at a given elevation over the heads of an opposing force. Properly managed, in less than an instant of time, a hundred thousand men- quite possibly more! – would drop down dead, as if smitten by the lightning of the skies. Isn’t that something like a weapon, sir?” (p. 117)
This guy is the hero? But what’s a little animal cruelty and lust for mass murder among friends? What’s even worse is that the poison and explosives are never mentioned again, even though they would be somewhat useful in, say, killing the villain. What is the point of having one of your heroes be a mad inventor if he never uses his inventions? Say it with me, now: What a waste!
4. Marjorie Lindon
Miss Marjorie Lindon is a fine character and the epitome of a spirited female, right up until she’s kidnapped by the Beetle, when she leaves the narrative almost completely. At the end, the narrator states:
“Her restoration was, however, not merely an affair of weeks or months, it was a matter of years. I believe that, even after her physical powers were completely restored- in itself a tedious task- she was for something like three years under medical supervision as a lunatic. But all that skill and money could do was done, and in course of time- the great healer- the results were entirely satisfactory.”
Let’s recap what exactly happened to her post-kidnapping: the Beetle cut her hair short, dressed her in men’s clothing, and put her on the train in a hypnotic state. I do that every day: it’s called commuting. You don’t see NJTransit customers under medical supervision as lunatics (although you could make a case for it). Marjorie does absolutely nothing to try to escape, and in fact her narrative completely disappears for the last third of the book, leaving her only as The Potential Soiled Husk. What a waste! Now, if she were actually brought to Cairo and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey on an altar, about to be sacrificed– then I could understand her needing an apartment with padded walls to recover. But as it is? Weak sauce, Miss Marjorie.
5. Miss Dora Grayling
Miss Dora Grayling is rich, pretty, and head over heels in love with whack-job Sydney Atherton. She offers to fund his expensive research in mass murder, but he plays coy with her (remember: this is still part of the 99% of the book when he’s professing his love for Marjorie). And then she disappears for the rest of the book, only to pop-up at the end and marry Sydney. At the risk of repeating myself: What a waste!
The Villains
1. The Beetle
Oh, the Beetle. The Beetle starts off saffron yellow, wrinkly, with an enormous nose and no chin, but over the course of the book loses most of the wrinkles, some of his nose, and gains a chin. I guess plastic surgeons will take anybody. Each narrator makes a big deal about not being sure whether the creature is male or female– although Sydney sees it naked, and confirms ‘it’ is actually a woman. The Beetle’s powers involve amazing hypnotism and the ability to transmogrify into a, well, beetle and back again. The Beetle might not actually do much in the course of the novel, but at least she brings us the following exchange between Sydney and Paul; Sydney goes first:
‘Are you not aware that at present there is in London an individual who claims to have had a very close, and a very curious, acquaintance with you in the East?’
‘I am not.’
‘That you swear?’
‘That I do swear.’
‘That is singular.’
‘Why is it singular?’
‘Because I fancy that that individual haunts you.’
‘Haunts me?’
‘Haunts you.’
‘You jest.’
‘You think so?’
Tonight the roles of Abbot and Costello will be played by a cowardly politician and a mad scientist. Keep your day jobs, guys.
Where the Beetle loses me is with her motivation. It turns out that before Paul Lessingham fled the cult of Isis, he choked the living daylights out of his tormentor, a young mesmerist with some generic title like ‘Woman of the Songs.’ Apparently Ms. Song survived, and instead of using her hypnotism for petty things like money, power, or fame, she chose to wait twenty years and then run around London giving Paul Lessingham the frights. This seems a waste of ability. At least try to take over England while you’re at it, no?
What’s so special about Paul Lessingham, anyway? According to Sydney, Paul is:
‘The fellow’s lithe and active; not hasty, yet agile; clean built, well hung – the sort of man who might be relied upon to make a good recovery.’
Wait, ‘well hung’? In context I’m assuming Sydney means . . . actually, I’m at a loss for a non-dirty explanation. Honestly, Beetle– there are plenty of fish in the sea, and all that. If pale young men are what you’re after, why not take the hypnotism show on the road? That way you get fame, money, invitations to some nice parties, and you can always put the whammy on any pretty boys who want you to sign their autograph. Heck, if you get famous enough, you won’t have to put the whammy on anyone– the boys will be lining up at your dressing room asking for a piece of that hot, hot scarab action. Sigh. Villains these days. No vision.
An interesting fact is that the Beetle and Paul Lessingham never meet face-to-face. Of course, it’s not necessary for your heroes and villains to meet at all if you’re going to dispatch the villains off stage. Why are we reading this book again?
2. The Cult of Isis
Is blown up off stage under unknown circumstances. No, really:
“During the recent expeditionary advance towards Dongola, a body of native troops which was encamped at a remote spot in the desert was aroused one night by what seemed to be the sound of a loud explosion. The next morning, at a distance of about a couple of miles from the camp, a huge hole was discovered in the ground . . . in the hole itself, and round about it, were found fragments of what seemed bodies; credible witnesses have assured me that they were bodies neither of men nor women, but of creatures of some monstrous growth. . .
That the den of demons described by Paul Lessingham, had, that night, at last come to an end, and that these things which lay scattered, here and there, on that treeless plain, where the evidences of its final destruction, is not a hypothesis which I should care to advance with any degree of certainty. . . “
This is unsatisfying, to say the least; although it does cement Paul Lessingham’s status as Most Useless Politician Ever.
What Should Have Happened
It should be obvious by now that Richard Marsh suffered from the dreaded Please God Let This End disease, which afflicts writers of popular fiction when they reach the 300-page mark (or, in Stephen King’s case, when he’s unable to lift the manuscript above his head). Writers suffering from this ailment reach for whatever plot device will wrap everything up the quickest, regardless of realism or emotional satisfaction; like, say, having a train crash kill the villains off stage while a mysterious explosion destroys the cult, also off stage.
What should have happened is this:
- The Beetle kidnaps Marjorie, disguises her as a boy, and takes her to Cairo. Robert Holt (remember him?) is also along for the ride, hypnotised and hating it.
- Paul Lessingham, Sydney, and Miss Dora Grayling go to Cairo in hot pursuit. (Miss Dora may or may not be a stowaway. I don’t insist either way.)
- Dora offers herself as bait, and, being a white woman and all, the cult members promptly kidnap her from her hotel.
- Sydney and Paul follow in a thrilling chase, aided by some locals who are unhappy about the human sacrifice bringing down property values (not to mention the smell)
- They discover the underground cavern where the cult is busy tying up Miss Marjorie and Miss Dora in preparation for their transformation into soiled husks.
- Sydney uses a small smoke bomb as a distraction, and Robert Holt snaps out of his trance long enough to stab the Beetle with the nearest pointy object.
- In the struggle with the cult members another bomb goes off by accident, and Sydney only has time to save one of the girls from the deadly fumes– but which one? He looks into Doras’ ‘dove-gray eyes’ and realizes what he felt for Marjorie was but a shadow of what he feels for good old Dora, and rescues her.
- Paul Lessingham is hit on the head and is as useless as ever, but recovers just in time to save Marjorie.
- But wait! The Beetle’s not dead! Robert Holt dies a heroes’ death by flinging himself and the Beetle into the sacrificial flames.
- The cavern decides that now would be a good time to self-destruct.
- Our heroes drag the girls out into the sun with the help of some locals.
- The cavern explodes, killing all the cult members and burying the evidence forever.
- The End.
Of course, this would probably take at least another hundred pages, maybe two hundred if you stop to describe what everybody’s wearing. But it’s a darn sight better than the way things are now.
In short (too late!), avoid The Beetle. If you really want to learn about the cult of Isis, try Bram Stroker’s Jewel of the Seven Stars.
