Throughout
the course of his career, H.P. Lovecraft collaborated with a number of other
authors of variable talent, for which he received modest compensation for his
trouble. There were about 24 of these
collaborations, appearing from the beginning of the 1920s through the
mid-1930s. Results were mixed, although here
and there Lovecraft and a collaborator were able to create memorable fiction. One example is The Mound (1930), an imaginative and disturbing novelette that he
wrote with Zealia Bishop. However, the
majority of these joint efforts are interesting primarily because of what they
reveal of Lovecraft and his career as an author.
An
example of the latter type of collaboration is The Electric Executioner. According
to S.T. Joshi, Lovecraft rewrote an earlier version of the story that had been
published in an 1893 collection by Adolphe de Castro. The story had originally been called The Automatic Executioner, and Lovecraft
renamed it The Electric Executioner. It was published in Weird Tales in 1930. De
Castro evidently had paid him in advance for this revision work, which created somewhat
of an obligation for Lovecraft. Joshi
suggests that Lovecraft made the work more tolerable and less of a drudgery by
adding some comic elements to the text.
That
H.P. Lovecraft had a sense of humor may come as a surprise to some
readers. However, there are several
examples of his wit in some of his lesser known stories. These include A Reminiscence of Dr. Samuel Johnson (1917), and Ibid (1938), which is a personal
favorite. These are intentionally humorous
pieces, but there are also droll remarks scattered throughout some of his more
familiar work. Almost certainly there are
additional examples in his voluminous correspondence. It is unfortunate that his sense of humor was
not displayed more frequently in his work.
(See also 1.
H.P. Lovecraft as Humorist and 2.
‘Shou’d My Present Recollections Meet With Fav... ).
The Electric Executioner is not as funny or entertaining as
the two stories mentioned earlier—the plot is preposterous and the prose is
very stilted. It is nearly a parody of
turgid literature, though unintentionally so.
This story may remind some readers of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest put on by the English Department at
San Jose State University—an entertaining competition where participants submit
deliberately awful opening lines to imaginary novels. De Castro was such a terrible writer that he
would probably have won such a contest effortlessly.
An
earlier collaboration with Lovecraft, The
Last Test (1927) is equally atrocious and unintentionally funny. (See also The
Curse of ‘Chuckle-Head’) Aspiring horror writers may want to look at both
of these stories for examples of how not
to write. Here is one of my favorite
passages:
“Even
if I shot him once or twice he might have enough remaining strength to get the
gun from me and deal with me in his own way; or if he were armed himself he
might shoot or stab without trying to disarm me. One can cow a sane man by covering him with a
pistol, but an insane man’s complete indifference to consequences gives him a strength
and menace quite superhuman for the time being.
Even in those pre-Freudian days I had a common-sense realization of the dangerous
power of a person without normal inhibitions.”
The
narrator, who is a caricature of Lovecraft himself, is asked by his boss to
track down a rogue employee who has absconded with important company papers. He is wildly mismatched for this potentially
dangerous assignment. His nerves are
constantly on edge and he is prone to fainting.
Like one of the co-authors, he has “…always been rather frail, and was
then almost worn out with anxiety, sleeplessness and nervous tension.” On a slow train to Mexico City he discovers that
he is alone in his car with an eccentric and dangerously insane inventor. The man has a contraption he has fashioned, a
portable means of execution by electricity that he wants to try out on him.
“You’re
the subject I’ve chosen, and you’ll thank me for the honour in the other world,
just as the sacrificial victim thanks the priest for transferring him to
eternal glory.”
The
narrator tries to buy time by asking if he can write his last will and
testament, offering to get the inventor some publicity, and finally asking if
he might sketch the device while the inventor models it by slipping it over his
head. This is the most entertaining part
of the story, the almost cartoon like manipulations of the narrator to delay
use of the device until the train arrives at the station.
After
some mythos-like chanting of the names of some of the Old Ones, the inventor is
simultaneously fried and teleported to a nearby cave, “full of hideous old
Aztec idols and altars; the latter covered with the charred bones of recent
burnt-offerings of doubtful nature.” The
reader at this point will no longer be expecting any of this to make sense. Joshi mentions that there may have been a
third Lovecraft-DeCastro collaboration, one that involved mention of Tsathoggua,
but this story has mercifully never been found.
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