The Casebook Of
Jules de Grandin
by Seabury Quinn
TELLER OF TALES
by Robert A. W. Lowndes
Among the masterful tellers of tales who appeared in the pulp magazines in the 20's, 30's, and 40's, Seabury Grandin Quinn remains, for me, one of the finest. (He never used his middle name in his byline.) Since I have never seen any general definition of the phrase, "teller of tales", I'd better explain what that means to me: How do I distinguish between the teller of tales and the writer?
Both are writers, of course (aside from the story-teller whose output is entirely oral—a dying race"); but I consider the "writer" of fiction as a person who carefully plots and plans his fiction out in advance, before resorting to a first draft either in pen or at typewriter. (I'm always astonished to learn that some writers still do work out first drafts in pen or pencil.) The writer will then resort to secondary elaboration when he or she sits down to write the story, and that process may alter the initial outline considerably. But the teller of tales starts out at once with nothing more than an idea, and sometimes not so much as that.
In his "By Way of Explanation", in the Arkham House collection of de Grandin stories, The Phantom Fighter, Quinn reveals that the tales of Jules de Grandin sprang entirely from inspiration: "One evening in the spring of 1925 I was in that state that every writer knows and dreads; a story was due my publisher, and there didn't seem to be a plot in the world. Accordingly, with nothing particular in mind, I picked up my pen and—literally making it up as I went along—wrote the first story that appears in this book." That story was The Horror on the Links (WEIRD TALES, October 1925); the word "horror" was changed to "terror" in the Arkham House edition for reasons apnarentlv good to August Derleth and acceptable to the author, though obscure to me. And, Quinn continues, all the other 92 stories in the series were written in the same manner. "From the first to last Jules de Grandin has seemed to sav, 'Friend Quinn, je suis present, write me!' Perhans there's something to the So-cratic theorv of the dapmon within, after all."
indeed. There have been many writers who were teHer* of •»'«* >~ fhnno*i all have not been
.-■ ••- j — - , t i,,,.. nn colM evidence, but I
ceru - • susrec: that much of Robert E. Howard's stories were done this wav.) It depends upon the person and the variety of the person's conscious experience, as well as wli 2: lies in the subconscious to be picked up. When there has been a richness of experience, as in the case of Dr. David H. Keller as well as Seabury Quinn, the material has shown that richness in nlot. characters, backgrounds, and events; where the writer has had a good command of English and a distinctly personal style, we've seen stories where only occasionally has it appeared as if the tale had not been clear in the author's conscious mind before he or she started to write (For examole. The White Lady of the Orphanage is one of the few de Grandin tales which might have benefitted from restructuring after the initial draft had been completed; the action comes to an end, and then we have some pages of necessary explanation. But as I've noted earlier, the same fault can be found with Edgar Allan Poe's The Purloined Letter. Neat structure, then, isn't everything; the Poe tale is a still-acknowledged masterpiece, and that particular de Grandin story can be read with enjoyment—but a beginning writer should still be warned against trying to make do with this method).
Seabury Quinn was by no means a beginner at the time he wrote that first de Grandin story; he was already among WEIRD TALES's most popular contributors. The success of that first story led him to continue the series and there would be 62 more between 1925 and 1936 before we saw a non-de Grandin story in WEIRD TALES (aside from two earlier reprints).
One reason, perhaps, why the teller of tales can reach and hold so devoted an audience—particularly in short magazine fiction—is that his method positively requires him to put himself into his stories: his own experiences, thoughts, feeling „„,v,„„:„.™„ ^;^iives loves, hates, are going to come out to a far greater extent than in the case of the writer who ca^fuHv works out characters and plots, etc., in advance. The writer can put on many more masks and more successfully conceal who he is.
I think it goes without savina that the well-loved teller of tales is one who comes through as a warm, lovable person. Certainly this was the case with Seabury Quinn. One of my few regrets is that my acquaintanceship with him was not only brief, but also onlv through brief letters, starting in 1964 whpn T wanted to rpnrint The Phantom Farmhouse in MAGAZINE OF HORROR. I would have loved to have met him and listened to him talk, for I'm sure he had the <*ift of ron^^^qtion.
At that time, I also wanted to try some of the de Grandin stories to see if readers of the 1960's would be fascinated with them. I had re-rpa^ t^°^n and found they still retained their appeal to me, after 30 years. But I could not help but notice that they did contain elements—such as ethnic dialects long out of fashion, a writing style which, to contemporary young readers might seem more appropriate to the Edwardian era, and an underlying affirmation of patriotic and moral values which the younger
- -. rot angrily condemning. I - :: try a few: and then continue ijorrty of the readers' letters indicated i or worse.
There were some complaints along the lines T~t ~d:oa:ec above, but even these were mixed—that is, —z readers noticed these elements bat said that they stiH enjoyed the stories; please give us more. Only a few wanted me to stop; and the majority loved the tales and wrote letters of praise very similar to those that Farns-worth Wright published in "The Eyrie" in WEIRD TALES.
Quinn's brief letters frequently gave me background material for my introductory blurbs. He was good-natured about an occasional error, such as my repeating the report that he had once been a mortician in my blurb for the final installments of The Devil's Bride. He wrote me, "... I have been many things but not a mortician. From 1918 to 1926, I taught mortuary law at the Renouard School for Embalmers in New York; however that is my nearest approach to being a practitioner." And far from being touchy about editorial alterations in his tales (of which I made very few) he gave me carte-blanche to cut the novel or take out matters which made it sound too old-fashioned. I cut only a few things which, seemingly harmless to readers of the time, would have been needlessly offensive to readers of the 1960's; and I consistently introduced a date when I reprinted a story ("in 192- or 193-") so that the reader would know from the start that the tale is not contemporary.
His sprightly humor came through even in the last days, when a cerebral vascular accident severely afflicted him. "The doctors haven't given me much encouragement. CVA cases do not yield readily to treatment, I'm told, but as long as my blood pressure and general health hold up, I'm advised to live with it and try not to fall down too often. Doctors, it seems to me, are able to bear their patients5 infirmities with a considerable degree of fortitude...."
He was indeed the last gentleman of the WEIRD TALES school, and it's heart-warming to see that his tales are being revived. Many of us oldtimers remember him with love; I predict that the revival of the de Grandin series will swell the number.
CHILDREN OF UBASTI
Jules de Grandin regarded the big red-headed man entering the breakfast room with a quick, affectionate smile. "Is it truly thou, mon sergent?" he asked. "I have joy in this meeting!"
Detective Sergeant Jeremiah Costello grinned somewhat ruefully as he seated himself and accepted a cup of steaming, well-creamed coffee. "It's me, all right, sir," he admitted, "an' in a peck o' trouble, as I usually am when I come botherin' you an' Dr. Trowbridge at your breakfast."
"Ah, I am glad—I mean I grieve—no, pardieu, I mean I sorrow at your trouble, but rejoice at your visit!" the little Frenchman returned. "What is it causes you unhap-piness?"
The big Irishman emptied his cup at a gigantic gulp and wrinkled his forehead like a puzzled mastiff. "I dunno," he confessed. "Maybe it's not a case at all, an' then again, maybe it is. Have you been readin' the newspaper accounts of the accident that kilt young Tom Ca-bleson last night?"
De Grandin spread a bit of butter on his broiled weak-fish and watched it dissolve. "You refer to the mishap which occurred on the Albemarle Pike—the unfortunate young man who died when he collided with a tree and thrust his face through his windshield?"
"That's what they say, sir."
"Eh? They say?9 Who are they?"
"The coroner's jury, when they returned a verdict of death by misadventure. Strictly speaking, it wasn't any of my business, but bein' on the homicide squad I thought I'd just drop round to the morgue and have a look at the body, an' when I'd seen it I came over here hot-foot."
"And what was it you saw that roused your suspicions, mon vieux?"
"Well, sir, I've seen lots of bodies of folks killed in motor accidents, but never one quite like young Cableson's. The only wound on him was a big, jagged gash in the throat—-just one, d'ye mind—an' some funny-lookin' scratches on his neck—" He paused apologetically, as if debating the wisdom of continuing.
"Cordieu, is it a game of patience we play here?" de Grandin demanded testily. "Get on with thy story, great stupid one, or I must twist your neck!"
I laughed outright at this threat of the sparrow to chastise the turkey cock, and even Costello's gravity gave way to a grin, but he sobered quickly as he answered. "Well sir, I did part of me hitch in China, you know, and once one of our men was picked up by some bandits. When we finally came to him we found they'd hung him up like a steer for th' slaughter—cut his throat an' left him danglin' by th' heels from a tree-limb. There wasn't a tm-crrpful o' blood left in his pore carcass.
That's th' way young Cableson looked to me—all errrry-like. if v; - re: I mean."
"Parfmtement. And—"
"Yes, sir, I was coTmif to that I...
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