Publisher's Synopsis
A truly dreadful book in so many ways - theatrical, sentimental, nonsensical, militaristic, imperialist, patronising (to women and to the peoples of the Balkans) and often leaden. Two reasons make this worth the read (though only for the dedicated): the psychological insight into the fantasy world of an aging Edwardian male; and an insight into the attitudes behind Edwardian imperialism. Neither make particularly pleasant reading although the former is harmless enough, simply not engaging us sufficiently to justify publication rather than a private notebook. But the latter is quite startling and disturbing and makes one realise how much of what is good and true can differ over a hundred years - and how much may change again in another century. What this book is really about is a conservative Anglo-Irishman's opinion about the Balkan Question and presumably indirectly the Irish Question. Less developed peasant countries just need a wealthy Anglo-Celt Briton as King, one who can invest in industrialisation and air power and create a reliable ally to check the Germans for the British Empire. These 'free' nations are to be federated (depressingly like the current European Union) and buttressed by the Church, an obsequious Germanic democracy and strong women who serve their men. For students of British Imperial culture, there is a lot of great material here on snobbery, white superiority, class, nobility, the role of women and the industrialised arms race of the period. But the weirdest aspect of the plot is the determinedly creepy (and not in the best sense) plot line that switches us from failed Gothic novel to dull novel (or rather assertion) of politics. Imagine someone creating a pastiche of Sheridan Le Fanu in order to segue into one of the duller works of the late polemic and bombastic political HG Wells and you are on the right track. To tell more of what the Lady of the Shroud represents would be a spoiler but do not buy or read this book expecting a sequel to the great 'Dracula' - it is nothing of the kind. When Stoker is minded to and is not dragged into conventional theatrics, idiotic character development and political tract, he can actually write and the moments when he does, keeps one going. But it is depressing to think that his imaginative abilities had reached this low by 1909. A book only for social, cultural and literary historians and students of middle aged male frustration.
