The Machine in Tartarus: Melville's Inferno

Abstract

T HE of Bachelors and the Tartarus of is Melville's title.1 He could have got separate if unequal pieces out of the material. Perhaps he should have, since relationship between the parts rests chiefly in dissimilarity, even opposition. Opposites attract, but here neither side is drawn to the other; sex is unexercised or atrophied. It is true that overfed or unfed Bachelors and Maids are equally sterile and that the segments do share an unnamed narrator. Melville is attempting what is called a diptych, after an ancient writing tablet having two hinged panels. Of his three tries with the form this is the best, though the hinge might be better oiled. And Tartarus of might command more attention if it stood alone. Paradise is set in the stony heart of stunning London, where a cool, deep shady glen is monastically cloistered from the careworn world. To appreciate the place you would have to dine there at the invitation of Templar. Templar? Knights Templars? We know indeed . . . that a moral blight tainted at last this sacred Brotherhood. . . . The genuine Templar is long since departed. But the ancient buildings and grounds and the nominal society remain. The Templar is a lawyer-also a bachelor and capital diner. The narrator's host is such. Nine men sat at dinner, which was hearty and heady with innumerable dishes, wines, and silver flagons of humming ale. State bumpers, impromptu glasses between, elaborate courtesies, convivial if formalized conversation, pleasant stories told betimes. No wives or children. At the end arrives an immense horn containing some choice Rappee . . . a mull of snuff.