Reviewed by V.J. WAKS on 12 27 14

M.R. James came from a religious background; few better to explore the darker realms of faith’s borders – damnation, ghosts, recurring entities – all inexplicable, all eternal. Truly, James’ stories can be said to epitomize a study of the extents of eternity – of spirit, of malevolence, of simple existence. Thankfully his work is available on line, in full, free to all whose hearts are not timid, whose own spirits and faith are solid, for Montague Rhodes James is a writer of horror not to be easily dismissed.

This despite his era – that of the last part of the 19th, and early 20th centuries, when the definitions of horror and its reception were undergoing vast changes from year to year, skittering away from the monoliths of scientific enquiry like frightened rats. The Scrapbook of Canon Alberic is classic James. Published in 1895, it precedes Stoker’s grand masterwork Dracula by a weighty two years. In its exquisite brevity, James displays his profound understanding of how horror must build – even in the short story format – and build it does despite our anticipation and foreboding, to an ending terrifying in the extreme.

What James does is spin a tale mightily; there are many writers of short horror and many sites to sample them. What is refreshingly unique about James is his Austen-like command of language, of depth allied to simple, knife-like clarity, deep, and rich and satisfying. We always suspect where he is taking us. It won’t matter, we will be helpless against the simple, powerful onslaught of mounting fear.

He is a master of setting. The town and commune of Comminges in the Midi-Pyrenees of France is real, one of the most beautiful villages in the country. The church of St. Bertrand is a minor jewel of architecture, its foundations ancient, dating from the time of The Counts of Toulouse in the 11th century. This is not the only time this author reaches into a real past, thick with Knights, Templars, and evocative mysticism. It is ironical or perhaps not – the word comminges is derived from the Latin – ‘those who come together’ – for this is a nightmare vision of alliances brought into the not so bright light of day. The real cathedral spans all three major periods of Romanesque, Gothic and Renaissance and all are touched upon. Many of James’ stories have this sense of sweeping history, of period and setting, and the author is a master of atmospheric setting. James does this in his most powerful stories (Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You my Lad, The Treasure of Abbot Thomas) by compressing down and personalizing the action – there are few characters, and they walk that path into the dark in tight, highly detailed places. There is no way to escape; the author confines his narrators – who invariably relay stories told to them by someone else – and with them, we are held tight, forced to watch, to experience something terrible unfolding.

This something unfolds when an art historian – a collector – decides to visit Comminges and its cathedral – there he meets the Canon who oversees the place. Stunning is this place, as beautiful as any church. But it hides a horrifying secret, one ancient, relentless – undying – and, as the story unfolds – inescapable. There is indeed a scrapbook; it is a record of the infernal. For the church is not empty once the last visitors have left, and the Canon is only the last of the line of helpless witnesses – and keepers, of a dark and terrible force.

Read any description of the real cathedral; you will see nowhere what James puts on the page. James must have stood there once himself, where our protagonist does in the tale. Our author looked past the light – to see an eternal, everlasting evil. He looked past the reverence to see damnation.

A warning, then, to all who collect.

Explore with caution; proceed with care.

Do so in the light of day.

What seems to be the best of deals might be the one made with the Devil.