Poisoned Pen Press, $14.99, ISBN 978-1464215285
Sci-fi, 2020 (Reissue)
There are some classics that leave you marveling at their brilliance, and then there are classics that leave you scratching your head, muttering, “Wait, what?” The Mummy! A Tale of the Twenty-Second Century by Jane Loudon is firmly in the latter camp.
Often hailed as one of the earliest science fiction novels, it’s less of a spine-tingling horror story and more of a sci-fi fever dream where the titular mummy, Cheops, is less an ancient menace and more the world’s most underwhelming life coach.
Fun fact: Cheops, despite being the title character, is about as significant to the story as a cameo appearance in a Marvel movie. He pops up occasionally, doles out some advice that’s about as profound as a fortune cookie, and then disappears, presumably to ponder why he even bothered to come back to life.
To be fair, Ms Loudon was just 17 when she wrote this, so it’s more a testament to her precociousness than her literary prowess. Unfortunately, precociousness doesn’t make up for the fact that the story is an overstuffed mess.
Set in the “futuristic” 21st century (which now feels quaintly retro-futuristic), the novel imagines a world where England is ruled by a benevolent queen, society teeters on the edge of anarchy because equality is apparently the worst, and the postal service has been replaced by steam-powered cannonballs that deliver your letters, possibly by smashing through your neighbor’s windows. Forget “You’ve got mail!”—it’s “Duck, you’ve got shrapnel!”
The plot, if we can call it that, is a meandering drama about the socio-political struggles of Ms Loudon’s make-believe England. There’s a search for a prince, a queen who fixes everything with her infinite wisdom, and some love triangles that are about as compelling as watching paint dry. The characters are so thinly sketched they might as well be paper dolls, existing solely to spout Loudon’s endless opinions on society, religion, xenophobia, and gender roles.
And oh, does she have opinions. Unfortunately, many of them are either hilariously off the mark or so muddled you’ll find yourself wondering if even she knew what she was trying to say.
The story lurches from one plot point to another with all the grace of a steam-powered pogo stick. It’s clear Ms Loudon was aiming for something profound, but what we get is more a patchwork of half-baked ideas than a cohesive narrative. Sure, there are moments of creativity—her steampunk-esque inventions are amusingly ahead of their time—but they’re buried under layers of melodrama and muddled philosophy.
And let’s not forget that for all its lofty ambitions, the novel can’t seem to decide what it wants to be. A horror story? A political treatise? A romantic drama? Whatever it is, it’s certainly not coherent.
In the end, The Mummy! A Tale of the Twenty-Second Century is less a literary masterpiece and more a historical curiosity. It’s fascinating as an artifact of early science fiction, but as a novel, let’s just say the author’s later career as a botany author and artist was probably her true calling. For readers, this one is best approached with low expectations and a high tolerance for absurdity.
Better yet just skip it and go read the story that inspired the author to write this drivel: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. At least Victor’s monster had the decency to be interesting.
