“Wine of the Sabbat” (Weird Tales, November 1940)

Bloch, Robert. “Wine of the Sabbat.” Weird Tales, November 1940, pp. 31-41.
archive.org/details/Weird_Tales_v35n06_1940-11/page/n31/mode/2up

A California writer working on the “Great American Novel” hopes for fame and fortune, so he frequents the home of a California neighbor who tends to attract a variety of semi-notable people who work in the entertainment industry. It is a tawdry scene filled with drinking, shallow conversation, and debauchery. Mabel Fiske, the owner of the house whom the narrator “cultivates” for access to the powers that be in Hollywood and the publishing industry. One night, Mable is unexpectedly not present; she is picking up several dignitaries for the party—a highly unusual occurrence. The narrator remembers what day it is: “Tonight was April 30th. Tomorrow was May Day, then — maypoles and Communist parades, all that sort of thing. But this was not the point. Tonight was Walpurgis Eve. Walpurgis Eve, the immemorial night of the Sabbat — the Witch’s Sabbat. Black Mass Eve. On Walpurgis Eve the demon stars formed in a black conjunction. On Walpurgis Eve things walked that were meant to crawl; things crawled that were meant to lie and rot. On Walpurgis Eve the covens assembled and drank in honor of the Master of all Mystery. On Walpurgis Eve all ancient evil became reanimate. Christians kept their holy days, and Diabolists kept their unholy nights” (34). She returns with three men, each of whom are stranger and more frightening than the next. 

Mabel shoos out about half of the party attendees and then invites the rest to be seated for dinner—both of which startle the narrator, whose name has been revealed to be “Bob.” One of the strange men brings wine to the table, a special concoction: “It was bitter, yet alluring. It did not appeal to the physical senses, but to the imagination. It was the kiss of a cold woman named Mystery; it was the chill caress of a serpent; it was the enflamed embrace of a stone Sphinx. I shook myself out of that. Where the devil did such thoughts come from?” (37). The narrator resists drinking the wine, and he soon sees that his fellows at the table are being transformed into animals and begin saying strange, disturbing things. The three men announce that it is time for the ritual, and the organ music begins from the room next door. The narrator understands that the sacrifices will be the transformed partygoers, and he and another man get a gun to attempt to break it up. The narrator succeeds in shooting through a portiere, and fire spreads quickly through the house. the three men turn their attention toward Bob and hypnotize him to drink the wine. Fleeing the house, he makes it back home. In the morning, he tries to convince himself it was all a dream, but he discovers wolf tracks that lead to the bed where he slept.

This story has one of Bloch’s best party scenes to date. Mabel’s house is at the same time a disgusting pit of despair and also incredibly fun. The hangers-on the house attracts—including Bob—make the whole scene seem preposterous and yet very human. The surviving narrator has an incredible story that he is reluctant to tell, and so he leavens it with humor. Even the self-effacing description of himself and his work is a joy to read: “I had a little room in a flophouse where I ate graham crackers and drank milk and wrote the Great American Novel. It dealt, as I recall it, with the life of a young man who lived in a flophouse, ate graham crackers and drank milk, and was writing the Great American Novel” (32). I didn’t know much about Walpurgis Eve, and so off into the internet I traipsed. St. Walpurga was an 8th Century abbess who fought against rabies, whooping cough, and witchcraft. Her feast day is, indeed, April 30, and people throughout northern Europe continue to celebrate the evening with bonfires to ward off evil spirits. Wikipedia makes several fascinating connections to other uses of this day in art. First, Goethe’s poem, “Die erste Walpurgisnacht” (1799?) tells of druids trying to maintain their traditions as Christians, intent on erasing the old ways, increasingly dominate all aspects of life. Felix Mendelssohn composed music for the poem, which is an interesting choice given Mendelssohn’s Protestant upbringing by Jewish parents, a heritage that left him conflicted about organized religion. One of my favorite novels, Jurgen (1919), by James Branch Cabell, is set on this date, a detail I have never before paid attention to. “War Pigs” (1970) by Black Sabbath was originally titled “Walpurgis.” Of the song, Sabbath bassist Geezer Butler said: “The song was written as ‘Walpurgis,’ which sounds a little like ‘War Pigs.’ But ‘Walpurgis’ is sort of like Christmas for Satanists. And to me, war was the big Satan. It wasn’t about politics or government or anything. It was evil. So, I was saying ‘generals gathered in the masses/just like witches at black masses’ to make an analogy. But when we brought it to the record company, they thought ‘Walpurgis’ sounded too Satanic. And that’s when we turned it into ‘War Pigs.’ But we didn't change the lyrics, because they were already finished” (Wiederhorn). I’ll finish with those lyrics just because 😊

War Pigs
Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerer of death's construction
In the fields the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to Mankind
Poisoning their brainwashed minds...
Oh Lord yeah!
 
Politicians hide themselves away
They only started the war
Why should they go out to fight?
They leave that role to the poor
 
Time will tell on their power minds
Making war just for fun
Treating people just like pawns in chess
Wait 'till their judgment day comes, yeah!
 
Now in darkness, world stops turning
Ashes where the bodies burning
No more war pigs have the power
Hand of God has struck the hour
Day of Judgment, God is calling
On their knees the war pigs crawling
Begging mercy for their sins
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...
Oh Lord, yeah!