t 
C, 
UNIVERSITY 
OF 
STIRLING 
ALEXANDER 
B. CLUNAS 
"OUT OF 
MY COUNTRY 
AND 
MYSELF 
I GO": 
A 
CRITICAL. 
EXAMINATION 
OF 
THE 
FICTION 
OF 
ROBERT 
LOUIS STEVENSON 
Submitted 
for 
the 
degree 
of 
Doctor 
of 
Philosophy 
August, 
1983 
?? 
'\, 
CONTENTS 
Page_ 
INTRODUCTION 
1 
CHAPTER 
1 
6 
CHAPTER 
II 
38 
CHAPTER 
III 
80 
CHAPTER 
IV 
104 
CHAPTER 
V 
146 
CHAPTER 
VI 
191 
CHAPTER 
VII 
209 
CHAPTER VIII 
238 
APPENDIX 
258 
FOOTNOTES: 
281-328 
Introduction 
281 
Chapter 
I 
282 
Chapter 
II 
288 
Chapter 
III 
294 
Chapter 
IV 
301 
Chapter 
V 
307 
Chapter 
VI 
314 
Chapter 
VII 
317 
Chapter 
VIII 
321 
Appendix 
326 
BIBLIOGRAPHY: 
329-346 
Section 
1: Primary 
Sources 330 
Section 
II: 
Books 
and 
Articles 
in 
Books 332 
Section 
III: Articles 
in 
Periodicals 344 
NOTE 
ON 
TEXT 
The 
quotations 
in 
this 
thesis 
are 
not 
presented 
in 
an 
orthodox 
manner. 
Most 
of 
them, 
no matter 
how 
short, are 
separated 
from 
the 
main 
body 
of 
the 
text. 
Some, 
however, 
are 
incorporated 
into 
the 
main 
text. 
All 
the 
quotations which 
appear 
in 
the 
text 
are 
of 
less 
than 
sixty 
words. 
But 
not 
all of 
the 
isolated 
quotations 
are 
over sixty words. 
This 
is 
not 
done in ignorance 
of 
the 
conventions 
of quoting. 
Those 
which 
appear 
on 
their 
own, 
so 
to 
speak, 
do 
so 
that they 
may 
be 
seen 
clearly 
and 
easily 
recognised as quotes even 
in 
a 
quick scan of 
the 
page. 
Those 
which run 
in 
the text 
are 
less 
important. 
Single 
quotation marks 
indicate 
that 
a 
text 
is 
being 
quoted 
and 
mark 
the titles 
of short 
stories, essays and poems. 
Double 
ones 
signal 
'a 
word 
or phrase 
is 
being 
used 
quizzically 
or 
uncertainly. 
Chapter 
VIII 
of 
this 
thesis 
is 
an expanded and 
substantially 
altered version of 
a piece which 
has 
already 
been 
published 
under 
the title 
' 
RLS 
: 
Precursor 
of 
the 
Post-Moderns? 
', 
in 
Cencrastus 
(Autumn, 
1981), 
No. 
6, 
pp. 
9-11. 
-1- 
INTRODUCTION 
The 
idea 
we 
have 
of a 
literary 
tradition 
is 
not 
a 
matter 
of 
fixity. 
In 
a 
living language 
the 
canon 
is 
continually 
being 
added 
to 
and 
therefore, to the 
extent 
that 
the 
tradition 
is 
present 
to 
us and 
simultaneous with us, 
liable 
to 
be 
changed 
by 
new 
work. 
Fresh 
contributions, 
innovative 
of 
necessity, 
realign 
our 
picture 
of 
the 
past 
and, above all, redefine 
it. 
Writers, to 
paraphrase 
Jorge Luis 
Borges, 
create 
their 
own ancestors. 
So 
it 
is 
that 
a 
hitherto 
peripheral writer 
or a 
form 
considered 
"low" 
may 
be 
reassessed 
and enlisted 
in 
the 
perpetual 
struggle 
with 
narrative 
forms. 
Just 
this 
is 
the 
case of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
(1850-94) 
whose experimental 
transformations 
of a 
number 
of 
genres of 
fiction 
have 
an 
almost 
exemplary 
status at 
the 
present 
time. 
Meanwhile, 
Vladimir Nabokov's 
lectures 
on 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde 
and 
Borges' 
ubiquitous remarks on 
the 
Scots 
writers 
illuminate 
both 
his 
work and 
theirs. 
' 
He 
is 
now an ancestor 
and 
requires 
the 
consideration of all 
who 
are 
interested 
in 
the 
continuing 
life 
of storytelling. 
From 
the 
point 
of 
view 
of 
literary 
criticism, 
the 
shifting 
tradition 
consists 
first 
and 
foremost 
only 
of 
literary 
works 
and 
not 
of a 
philosophy 
of 
literary 
form 
or 
of 
any 
ideas 
originating 
outside 
the 
realm 
of 
literature 
itself. 
The 
language 
which criticism 
uses 
to 
speak about 
the 
novel, 
for 
example, will 
derive from 
specific 
novels. 
At 
the 
same 
time 
it is 
engaged 
in 
selecting 
those 
very 
novels 
which 
will constitute 
its 
values. 
The 
language 
the 
critic 
uses 
to 
describe 
some 
kinds 
of 
fiction 
can 
seem 
absolute, 
when 
in 
actual 
fact 
it 
is 
simply 
the 
case 
that 
his language 
is 
suitable 
for 
describing 
one 
kind 
and 
is inappropriate 
to 
another. 
The 
knowledge 
of 
a 
genre, 
an 
author 
or 
a 
specific 
work 
is 
susceptible 
to 
the 
particular 
instruments 
of 
literary 
speculation. 
Take 
one 
example 
of 
this 
sort 
of exclusiveness: 
the 
totemistic 
value 
attached 
for 
too 
long 
to 
the 
notion of 
the 
well-rounded 
-2- 
character. 
For 
many 
this 
became 
a 
requisite 
quality 
and 
any 
narrative 
lacking 
such 
de 
nse 
registration 
of 
individuality 
was 
devalued 
in 
consequence. 
An 
illegitimate 
demand 
had 
been 
made 
of 
fiction. 
The 
historical 
genre 
of 
the 
Novel 
had 
usurped 
the 
broader 
category 
of prose 
narrative, 
and whole 
areas 
of 
the 
latter 
were 
relegated 
to the 
realms 
of 
the 
sub-literary. 
In 
recent 
years 
the 
resurgence of 
interest 
in 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
has 
been handicapped, 
so 
far 
as 
literary 
criticism 
goes, 
by 
prejudice 
against 
the 
genres 
in 
which 
he 
so 
often 
worked. 
It has been 
felt, 
even 
by 
conspicuously 
sympathetic 
critics 
like 
Robert Kiely, 
that 
Stevenson's 
commitment 
to 
the 
adventure 
story, 
for 
example, 
drastically limited 
his 
achievement. 
This 
very 
genre 
is 
seen 
by Kiely 
as 
a 
form 
which 
has 
not 
grown 
up: 
Both 
Kidnapped 
and 
David Balfour 
(Catriona 
in 
Britain) 
are essentially amoral novels, 
aimless, 
hectic, 
and almost 
totally 
devoid 
of 
characters 
complex enough 
to 
experience 
the 
pleasures 
or pains 
of maturity. 
2 
There 
are 
a number 
of 
unexamined 
assumptions 
about 
what 
a 
fiction 
should 
be 
in 
that 
statement, 
and 
it is 
a pertinent sample 
of 
that 
demand for fullness 
of 
character 
in 
fiction 
which 
makes 
the 
critic's 
language 
so often 
inappropriate. 
In 
Kiely's 
view 
Stevenson developed, 
with 
interruptions, 
away 
from 
adventure stories populated 
by 
unreal 
figures 
towards 
an 
adult 
version 
which 
he 
was on 
the 
point 
of 
realising only 
in 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston 
(1894), 
when 
his 
untimely 
death 
prevented 
its 
completion. 
Edwin 
Muir 
advanced 
a similar 
argument 
for 
the 
miraculous 
primacy 
of 
Weir 
in 
his 
essay on 
Stevenson. 
Muir, 
however, 
attributes 
Stevenson's failure 
to 
become 
a 
"serious" 
writer 
to 
his 
Scottish 
background; 
a 
cultural 
milieu which 
was, 
he 
claims, 
immature 
itself 
and 
one 
which could 
only countenance 
writing 
as 
an 
idleness. 
In 
this 
script, 
Weir 
blazed 
through 
the 
frivolity 
of 
the 
previous 
fiction 
and 
the 
Kailyard 
banalities 
of 
Stevenson's 
contemporaries. 
-3- 
Both 
of 
these 
descriptions 
of 
Stevenson's 
immaturity 
imply that 
he 
could 
only 
have 
come 
to 
a comprehensive 
and 
open-eyed 
vision 
of 
reality 
by 
abandoning 
the 
forms 
in 
which 
he 
wrote 
for 
most 
of 
his 
career. 
Consequently, 
they 
miss 
the 
point 
that 
it 
is 
the 
nature 
of 
that 
reality 
which 
is in 
dispute 
for 
Stevenson. 
That 
inadequate 
understanding 
of 
the 
development 
of 
his 
fiction 
will 
be 
challenged 
in 
the 
following 
pages. 
Instead 
there 
will 
be 
proffered 
the 
close 
critical examination 
of 
a 
theme 
which 
constitutes 
the 
bedrock 
of 
Stevenson's 
way 
of 
seeing 
and which 
undergoes 
modification 
or 
transformation 
but is 
never completely 
overthrown: 
it 
is 
the 
theme 
of 
the 
self. 
Put 
thus 
baldly, 
there 
is 
nothing new 
in 
such an 
enterprise. 
However, 
it is 
an area of 
thoroughgoing 
suggestiveness 
and no 
study 
has 
as 
yet 
presented 
an adequate 
profile 
of 
this theme 
in 
relation 
to 
Stevenson's 
fiction 
as a self-determining 
entity. 
Therefore, 
this 
study 
will 
always 
begin 
w 
ith 
the 
texts themselves. 
Texts, 
it 
must 
be 
conceded, 
may 
exist at various 
levels 
of 
generality. 
They 
may 
be 
treated 
as unique productions 
different 
from 
anything else; or 
they 
may 
be 
examples, say, of 
the 
lyrical 
realist 
novel; 
or 
as 
a part 
of 
the tradition 
that 
is 
the 
Scottish 
novel; or as 
a 
piece of writing 
displaying 
the 
characteristic 
of 
the 
genus 
' 
novel'. 
None 
of 
these 
levels 
of 
generality 
is 
incompatible 
with 
the 
other. 
They 
are 
simply 
alternative 
ways 
of 
limiting 
the 
subject under 
discussion, 
of 
dividing 
the 
continuum 
that 
runs 
through 
from 
the 
particular 
event 
that 
is 
a 
literary 
text 
to the 
system 
of 
literature 
as 
a whole. 
If 
temporary 
privileges 
have been 
granted 
to the 
particular 
in 
the 
ensuing 
discussion, 
this 
does 
not exclude 
higher 
levels 
of 
generality 
from being 
admitted. 
Indeed 
one 
could 
not 
begin 
to 
describe 
a story without 
some 
prior 
sense of 
its integrity 
or 
without 
having 
expectations of 
it. 
We 
are 
aware, 
then, 
that 
Stevenson is 
a 
Scottish 
writer; 
that 
he is 
a 
late 
Victorian 
novelist, 
poet 
and essayist; 
we also 
admit 
that 
he belonged 
to 
a 
distinct 
literary 
tradition 
of 
secular 
romance. 
Always 
this 
knowledge 
contributes 
to 
an opening 
up 
of 
the 
fiction 
itself. 
-4- 
Likewise, Stevenson's 
life 
will 
have 
little 
place 
in 
this 
study. 
The 
emphasis 
placed 
by 
so 
many studies 
of 
Stevenson 
on 
the 
Figure 
(the 
term 
is 
Henry 
James') 
has 
had 
deplorable 
consequences 
for 
the 
appreciation 
of 
his 
fiction 
and 
his 
essays; 
and 
so 
any 
impression 
of 
the 
Scots 
writer's 
personality 
which 
emerges 
is 
derived 
from 
the 
study 
of 
his 
works. 
Thus, 
the 
first 
chapter 
is 
devoted 
to 
his 
travel 
writing and 
not 
to 
his 
travelling. 
As 
he 
knew himself, 
writing 
is 
a 
kind 
of reality 
that 
is 
absolutely 
distinct 
from 
living. 
Indeed, 
it 
drives 
out 
life 
and 
replaces 
it 
with something 
else. 
Writing 
is 
a convention 
and 
comes 
out of 
previous 
writing, 
no 
matter 
how 
much 
it 
may 
transform 
its 
antecedents. 
Nevertheless, 
I 
shall attempt 
to 
trace 
the 
curve 
of 
a 
personality, 
to 
cut 
out 
of 
the 
continuum of 
literature 
the 
particular 
impact 
of 
Stevenson's 
way of seeing, 
while remaining aware 
that this 
way 
of seeing 
was 
itself 
composed out of 
literary form, 
and 
especially 
by 
the 
genre of adventure. 
The 
seven chapters 
of 
the 
ensuing study are 
developed 
so as 
to 
locate 
the 
progressive 
reworkings 
of 
Stevenson' 
s main 
theme 
not 
as 
they 
occurred chronologically 
but 
as 
they 
may 
be best 
accounted. 
Some 
of 
the 
chapters cover 
a 
mode employed 
throughout 
his 
writing 
life: 
the 
chapter on 
the 
short stories would 
fall 
into 
this 
category, 
and 
it 
covers 
late 
stories as 
well 
as 
early 
ones. 
Both 
this 
section and 
the 
first, 
on 
travel 
writing, could 
be 
seen 
as preliminary 
forays 
to 
establish 
the terms 
of 
the 
approach 
to 
Stevenson. 
The 
next 
chapter 
is 
short, 
a 
close 
textual 
analysis 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. It 
refines 
and extends 
the 
previous 
remarks 
while conceding 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde's 
distinct 
status 
within 
the 
canon. 
Chapter 
Four 
groups 
together 
Kidnapped 
and 
Catriona. 
The 
last 
two 
logically 
have 
to 
be 
considered 
alongside 
each 
other 
as 
the 
one 
narrative, 
although 
they 
are very 
different 
in 
scope, 
and 
their 
dates 
of publication 
are separated 
by 
seven 
years. 
The 
fifth 
chapter 
demarcates 
some 
of 
the 
later 
fiction, 
which 
was 
written 
in 
Samoa, 
in 
order 
to 
define 
adventure 
in 
relation 
to 
empire 
and 
the 
colonial 
urge. 
The 
next part 
discusses 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae. 
This 
novel 
comes, 
in 
time, 
before 
much of 
the 
fiction 
-5- 
dealt 
with 
earlier; 
but 
as 
the 
most 
inclusive 
and 
refined 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
stories 
it is 
recognised 
as a culmination- 
Finally, 
a 
summatory 
chapter 
says what 
little 
it 
can 
about 
the 
truncated 
?Veir, 
and 
the 
next and 
last 
o?i- 
arcues 
th 
cas 
for 
recognis=ris 
in 
Stevenson 
a 
significant 
force 
in 
the 
shaping of 
more 
recent 
fiction. 
At 
the 
end 
of 
each chapter 
the 
themes 
and 
motifs 
which 
were 
identified 
in 
the 
works 
under 
discussion 
in 
that 
section 
are 
given 
a 
more 
abstract 
description 
than 
in 
the 
body 
of 
the 
chapter, 
in 
order 
to 
relate 
certain 
ideal 
oppositions 
which 
lie behind 
the 
literature 
to 
the 
fundamental duality 
which 
this 
essay 
observes 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
work: 
the 
duality 
of moi 
("I") 
and 
lui 
("he"). 
These 
terms 
have been 
derived from 
Le 
neveu 
de Rameau 
(Rameau's 
Nephew) 
(written 
circa 
1761). 
3 
However, 
only 
the 
words 
have 
been 
recruited, not 
Diderot's 
exact 
conception 
of 
their 
meanings. 
As 
the 
words are not 
formally defined 
in 
the text, 
I 
will offer 
the 
following 
rough 
explanation of 
their 
use. 
Moi 
("I") 
corresponds 
to 
the 
sense 
of 
identity 
which 
arises 
from 
the 
existential 
-ategory 
"Being-for-myself"; 
l. 
ul 
("he") 
corresponds 
to 
a 
conflation of 
the 
categories 
"Being-for-others" 
and 
"Being- 
towards-others". 
They 
are not 
used 
dogmatically, 
but because 
of 
their 
explanatory 
convenience, and 
their 
meaning 
should 
be 
elucidated 
by 
the 
context 
in 
which 
they 
are 
used. 
Moi 
and 
"I" 
and 
lui 
and 
"he" 
mean precisely 
the 
same 
things. 
So 
they 
are 
used 
interchangeably. 
The 
only 
other 
frequently 
used 
terms 
which may 
be 
unclear 
are 
"adventure" 
and 
"romance". 
"Romance" 
refers 
to 
any 
story 
in 
which 
events 
are not 
tied 
to 
probability 
and which 
does 
not 
describe 
'real 
life 
and 
manners'. 
4 
"Adventure" 
is 
a 
special 
kind 
of 
"romance" 
(that 
is, 
all adventures 
are 
"romances", 
but 
not 
all 
"romances" 
are adventures). 
As 
it 
is 
defined 
through 
examination 
of 
Stevenson's 
work, 
it 
is 
unnecessary 
to 
define 
it 
here. 
CHAPTER 
I 
'Out 
of 
my 
country 
and 
myself 
%1 
go': 
Travel 
'It 
is 
great 
to 
shake 
off 
the trammels 
of 
the 
world 
and 
of 
public 
opinion 
- 
to 
lose 
our 
importunate, 
tormenting, 
everlasting 
personal 
identity in 
the 
elements 
of 
nature. 
' 
(William 
Hazlitt, 
'On 
Going 
on a 
journey') 
' The 
traveller 
is 
a 
loner lookir 
chance 
meetings, 
brilliant 
glimpses. 
social, 
more 
likely 
its 
opposite, 
consummate escape artist' 
for 
temporary 
company, 
It 
is 
not 
his 
wish 
to 
be 
for 
the 
traveller 
is 
the 
(Paul 
Theroux, 
review of 
A Traveller's Life 
by 
Eric 
Newby, 
Sunday Times) 
-6- 
CHAPTER 
I 
Stevenson 
left 
us 
he 
quit 
the 
ship 
commanding 
phras 
Then, 
with 
his 
dark 
sparrowlike 
sha 
at a 
gallop 
Oriental 
town. 
' 
at 
Penang. 
I 
saw 
him 
again 
as 
and 
called 
to 
the 
shore 
with 
a 
e 
half English 
and 
half 
Malayan. 
tattered 
tropical 
helmet 
on 
his 
head, he disappeared in 
a rick- 
down 
the 
winding 
streets 
of 
the 
This 
is 
a 
description 
of a 
fictional 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
from 
a 
short 
sketch 
by Hermann Hesse 
which presents 
Stevenson 
as 
an 
explorer and 
traveller. 
Hesse 
intends 
his 
characterisation 
to 
be 
taken 
metaphorically, 
and 
he 
has 
in 
mind 
certain qualit- 
ies 
of 
the 
Scots 
writer's 
imagination. 
Nevertheless, 
the 
image 
of 
traveller 
is 
a very appropriate one. 
Stevenson 
spent 
much 
of 
his life 
on 
journeys, 
both for 
their 
own 
sake and 
in 
order 
to 
reach specific 
destinations; 
and 
since 
he 
gave a 
literary 
form 
to 
even 
the 
least 
intrepid 
of adventures, 
a considerable 
1 rtion of 
his literary 
output can 
be 
termed travel 
literature. 
However, 
the 
importance 
of 
travelling 
in 
his 
work extends 
far 
beyond 
his 
accounts 
of 
actual 
journeys 
and, 
as a 
metaphor, 
permeates 
his 
whole 
imagination; 
becomes 
one 
of 
those 
crucial 
points 
from 
which 
that 
imagination 
could 
begin. 
For 
Stevenson 
travelling 
is 
not an 
extra-curricular 
activity. 
Rather, 
it 
is 
sub- 
sumed 
into 
his 
way 
of seeing 
the 
world 
and 
himself. 
Therefore, 
in 
future 
chapters 
I 
will 
examine 
the 
role 
of 
journeys 
in 
his 
fiction. 
In 
this 
present chapter 
I 
will 
discuss 
the 
attitudes 
lying 
behind his 
impetus 
to travel, 
as 
they 
appear 
in 
texts 
which 
can 
be 
classed under 
the 
heading 
of 
travel 
literature. 
Stevenson's 
attitude 
to 
travel 
developed 
over 
the 
years, 
as 
did 
his 
literary 
treatment 
of 
it. 
To begin 
with, 
his 
appreciation 
of 
-7- 
it 
was 
subject 
to 
overt 
influences 
from 
predecessors 
and 
con- 
temporaries 
- 
particularly 
through 
the 
essay 
form, 
which 
could 
easily 
be 
extended 
to 
descriptions 
of 
short walking 
tours 
or 
the 
like. 
Among 
those 
writers whom 
he 
admired 
was 
George 
Borrow. 
But 
perhaps 
the 
greatest 
influence 
on 
his 
conscious 
attraction 
to 
travel 
was 
William 
Hazlitt, 
whose 
words 
preface 
this 
chapter 
because 
they 
offer 
a 
succinct 
presentation 
of 
Stev- 
enson's 
early 
belief 
in 
the 
liberty 
which 
travelling 
offered. 
In 
that 
same 
essay, 
'On Going 
on 
a 
journey', Hazlitt 
writes: 
We 
are 
not 
the 
same 
but 
another, and perhaps 
more 
enviable 
individual, 
all 
the 
time 
we are 
out 
of 
our own 
country. 
We 
are 
lost 
to 
ourselves 
as 
well 
as 
our 
friends. 
So 
the 
poet somewhat quaintly 
sings, 
'Out 
of my 
country 
and myself 
I 
go. 
' 
2 
As 
a 
mark of 
the 
impression 
which 
Hazlitt's 
essay must 
have 
made 
on 
Stevenson, 
it is 
worth 
relating 
this 
notion and 
its 
expression 
to 
something 
which 
Stevenson 
wrote 
in 
Amateur Emig- 
rant, which echoes 
both: 
Travel 
is 
of 
two 
kinds; 
and 
this 
voyage 
of 
mine 
across 
the 
ocean 
combined 
both. ' 
Out 
of 
my coun- 
try 
and 
myself 
I 
go', sings 
the 
old poet: 
and 
I 
was not 
only 
travelling 
out 
of 
my 
country 
in 
lati- 
tude 
and 
longitude, 
but 
out 
of myself 
in 
diet, 
associates 
and 
consideration. 
Part 
of 
the 
in 
terest 
and a great 
deal 
of 
the 
amuse 
ment 
flowed, 
at 
least 
to 
me, 
from 
this 
novel 
situation 
in 
the 
world. 
3 
Stevenson, here, 
recapitulates 
Hazlitt's 
belief 
that 
the 
traveller 
escapes 
from 
those 
necessarily 
recurrent 
aspects of 
experience 
which 
promote 
a 
social 
identity, into 
novelty 
and anonymity. 
With 
change 
of 
place 
we change 
our 
ideas; 
nay, 
our opinions 
and 
feelings. 
' 
writes 
Hazlitt. Underlying 
these 
thoughts 
is 
the 
proposition 
that 
our 
social 
identity 
is 
superficial 
and 
provincial, 
social 
-8- 
manners 
being 
various 
and 
always 
limited; 
so 
that 
travel 
hum- 
anises 
us 
by 
making 
us 
strangers, 
insofar 
as 
it 
steeps 
our 
'personal 
identity 
in 
the 
elements of 
nature'. 
Instead 
of 
'stran- 
gers', 
we 
might 
write 
unidentifiable, 
which 
is 
to 
say, 
without 
a 
fixed 
identity. 
Travel 
then, 
in 
Hazlitt's 
view, 
is 
a mode 
of 
release 
from 
the 
accidental 
reality 
of 
birth 
and 
environment; 
and 
it 
can 
proffer 
a 
discovery 
of 
the 
natural, 
as opposed 
to 
the 
social, 
affections. 
(The 
dependant 
distinction 
between 
soc- 
ial 
and 
natural 
will 
be 
a 
relevant 
discussion 
and 
will 
receive 
a 
fuller 
airing 
later 
in 
this 
chapter. 
) 
The 
appeal 
of such 
thinking 
to 
Stevenson 
was 
strong, 
and 
his 
social 
experiments 
as a 
young 
man 
bear 
witness 
to 
his living 
involvement 
with 
it. 
He frequently 
wandered 
through the 
Scot- 
tish 
capital 
dressed 
as 
a 
rag and 
bone 
man; 
and 
later, 
in 
London, 
he 
got up as a 
workman 
to 
discover 
at 
what 
point 
he 
would 
become 
'invisible 
to the 
well-regulated 
female 
eye'. 
Even 
his habitual dress 
was 
a self-conscious exercise 
in 
social 
anon- 
ymity and personal 
flamboyance; 
although 
J. 
C. 
Furnas, 
in 
re- 
porting 
Sidney Colvin, fails 
to 
notice 
the 
significance 
of 
this: 
He 
told 
people 
that 
he 
wore 
such an 
outfit 
'partly 
for 
a 
hankering 
after social experiment 
and adven- 
ture 
and a 
dislike 
of 
being, 
identified 
with any 
special class or caste' which 
is 
more 
ingenuous 
than 
convincing. 
We 
observe 
not 
what 
has 
often 
been 
described 
as 
adolescent 
egoism, 
but 
a 
desire 
to 
find 
a more 
common 
personal 
attitude 
than 
the 
social 
organism normally 
permits, 
and 
the 
need 
to 
live 
out such 
an 
impulse 
so 
that 
it 
is 
not 
an 
abstraction, 
so 
that 
it 
is 
felt 
through 
the 
senses. 
It is 
not 
difficult 
to 
understand 
how 
Stevenson 
arrived 
at 
the 
position 
where 
he 
needed 
a 
flexible 
life-philosophy, 
capable 
of 
development 
and 
change, 
rooted 
in 
experience. 
For, he 
was 
born 
into 
a 
schismatic 
religious 
tradition; 
he 
had 
a childhood 
-9- 
filled 
with 
God. 
He 
lost 
his belief 
in 
this 
religion, 
without 
ever 
being 
able 
to 
deny 
affection 
for 
those 
who 
most 
clearly 
represented 
it 
to 
him, 
his 
parents. 
Subsequently, 
and 
perhaps 
as 
a 
result 
of 
this, 
Stevenson distrusted 
abstract 
systems 
as 
a 
whole. 
Natural 
affections and antipathies 
formed 
one 
sort 
of 
substitute 
for 
faith 
in 
the 
face 
of 
this 
mistrust, 
since 
religion 
had 
lost 
its 
rootedness 
in 
the 
experience 
of men. 
Mrs 
McRan- 
kine, 
the 
landlady 
of 
the 
eponymous 
hero 
of 
St Ives, is 
a 
comic 
instance 
of a character 
in 
whom 
there 
is 
dissonance 
be- 
tween 
religious 
beliefs 
and 
actual 
feelings. 
" 
Her 
theology, 
with 
its 
antinomian residue, 
is 
smaller 
than the 
humanity 
of 
the 
woman 
herself, 
so 
that 
she 
is incapable 
of 
living 
through 
the 
abstract 
prescriptions 
of 
her 
religion 
(and 
her 
country 
for 
that 
matter: she 
knowingly 
gives shelter 
to 
a prisoner-of-war). 
Open 
acceptance was 
the 
means 
by 
which 
a 
man could 
overcome such 
reductions 
and refuse 
to 
accept 
a narrowly circumscribed relat- 
ion 
to 
the 
world or 
the 
authority of merely sectarian 
truths. 
Thus 
his life-long 
enthusiasm 
for Walt Whitman, 
whom 
he 
praised 
in 
an essay 
for his 
openness 
to 
life. 
" 
Thus 
he 
writes 
that 
: 
I 
find 
that the 
rule 
which 
applied 
for 
me 
last 
week, will 
not 
apply 
today; 
my 
right 
and wrong 
are variable 
and vacillating; 
and 
yet 
I 
must con- 
tinue 
to 
follow 
the 
present 
impulse. 
' 
Here 
is 
an 
evident 
dedication 
to 
surmounting 
the 
limits 
of self 
and 
province. 
Travel 
was 
one of 
the 
most 
obvious 
means 
by 
which 
Stevenson 
could 
extend 
his 
experience, 
broaden 
his 
tabulation 
of 
human 
beings, 
and 
it 
was precious 
enough 
for him 
to 
write 
about 
it 
from 
the 
very start 
of 
his 
career. 
Amongst 
his 
earliest 
published works 
are 
accounts 
of walking 
tours 
in 
Galloway 
and 
in 
the 
Lake 
District, 
and a composite 
picture 
of 
his 
stays 
in 
Fontainebleau 
called 
'Forest 
Notes' 
(all 
- 
10 
- 
l876). 
9 
These 
and 
a 
number 
of other similar 
essays came 
out 
prior 
to, 
or 
contemporary 
with, 
the 
books 
which 
brought 
him 
to 
extensive 
public 
notice: 
An Inland 
Voyage 
(1878) 
and 
Travels 
with 
a 
Donkey 
(1879). 
There 
is 
no 
doubt 
that 
these 
early 
pieces 
are 
autobiographical 
exercises. 
For 
example, 
in 'Walking 
Tours' 
(1876) 
an 
intimate 
style 
records 
the 
interaction 
of 
personality 
and environment, 
leaving 
no 
room 
to 
question 
the 
writer's 
greater 
interest in 
the 
former. 
He 
writes 
that: 
Landscape 
on 
a 
walking 
tour 
is 
quite 
accessory. 
He 
who 
is indeed 
of 
the 
brotherhood 
does 
not 
voy- 
age 
in 
quest 
of 
the 
picturesque, 
but 
of 
certain 
jolly 
humours. 
lo 
An 
important 
thing 
to 
note 
about 
these 
works 
is 
that they 
re- 
count 
trips 
which 
are essentially 
undirected. 
Their 
aimlessness 
was 
part 
of a 
deliberate 
rejection 
of 
purposeful, 
earnest and 
useful 
activity. 
They 
are self-exploratory, 
in 
that 
Stevenson' 
s 
interest 
lies 
in 
his 
own 
responses 
to 
places and 
events. 
The 
writer 
is in 
the 
process of 
constructing a self 
from 
its 
sources 
in 
new 
experience, 
a self 
which will 
be 
free 
from 
the 
demands 
of 
the 
old 
life 
and 
its 
duties. 
As he 
sets 
out 
to 
welcome 
the 
random occurrence 
and 
the 
chance 
encounter, 
this 
Victorian 
Bohemian 
mimics 
the 
desire 
of 
the 
knights 
of 
Arthurian 
romance 
for 
'adventures', 
while 
the 
low 
comic 
nature of 
the 
adventures 
reveals 
them 
as 
Quixotic. 
It 
is in 
the 
uncertain and 
experimental 
composition 
of 
that 
self, 
the 
nonchalant 
spirit, 
that 
the 
distinctively 
aimless 
char- 
acter 
of 
the 
resultant 
essays 
lies. By 
undirected, 
I 
mean 
that 
they 
are 
not 
written 
in 
the 
light 
of 
a 
theory 
or 
to 
give 
an 
account 
of 
a particular 
part of 
the 
world. 
The 
journey 
is 
all; 
it 
does 
not 
matter 
where 
it 
leads 
the 
writer. 
In 
Travels 
with 
a 
Donkey 
he 
states 
concisely 
this 
lack 
of regard 
for 
destinat- 
ions: 
- 
11 
- 
Why 
anyone 
should wish 
to 
visit 
Luc 
or 
Cheylard 
is 
more 
than 
my 
much-inventing 
spirit 
can 
sup- 
pose. 
For 
my 
part, 
I 
travel 
not 
to 
go 
anywhere, 
but 
to 
go. 
I 
travel 
for 
travel's 
sake. 
The 
great 
affair 
is 
to 
move 
.ll 
The 
movement 
is in itself 
a 
guarantee 
of anonymity, 
a condit- 
ion 
which 
the 
traveller 
actively 
seeks 
and promotes 
through 
what 
he 
imagines 
to 
be 
the 
caste 
neutrality 
of 
his 
Bohemian 
style 
of 
dress. 
In Inland 
Voyage 
and 
Travels 
with 
a 
Donkey 
it is 
apparent 
that 
one 
of 
Stevenson's 
greatest 
satisfactions 
in 
travelling 
was 
to 
be found 
in 
the 
casting 
off 
of 
assigned 
social roles which 
his foreignness 
and 
nondescript appearance 
entailed. 
In 
the 
course of 
his 
canoe 
trip 
through 
Belgium 
and 
France, he 
is 
happy 
to 
allow 
an 
onlooker 
to 
imagine 
that 
he 
is 
the 
valet of 
his 
travelling 
companion, 
Walter Simpson. 
He 
allows 
himself 
to 
be 
mistaken 
for 
a 
Plymouth Brother by 
an old 
Camisard 
in 
the 
Cevennes. 
This 
tendency 
to 
impersonation 
was 
seen 
earlier 
in 
his 
wandering 
around 
Edinburgh dressed 
as 
a 
rag and 
bone 
man. 
In 
that they 
realise 
a 
form 
of 
detachment 
from 
customary 
social existence 
the 
impersonations 
are exemplary, 
if 
minor, 
adventures. 
Near 
the 
outset of 
the 
canoe 
trip 
described 
in 
Inland Voyage, 
he 
and 
Simpson 
come 
to 
a 
small and 
unfriendly 
Belgian 
village 
which provokes 
this 
reflection 
on 
his 
desire 
for detachment: 
It 
is 
an odd 
thing, 
how 
happily 
two 
people, 
if 
there 
are 
two, 
can 
live 
in 
a 
place 
where 
they 
have 
no acquaintance. 
I 
think 
the 
spectacle 
of a 
whole 
life 
in 
which 
you 
have 
no part paralyses 
personal 
desire. You 
are content 
to 
become 
a 
mere 
spectator. 
12 
But 
the 
wish 
to 
secede 
from 
his 
normal 
identity 
is 
often 
more 
active. 
He 
repeatedly 
fails 
to 
disabuse 
the 
people 
they 
meet 
of 
the 
assumption 
that 
he 
is 
a 
pedlar. 
This 
last 
impersonation 
- 
12 
- 
leads 
to 
one 
of 
the 
liveliest 
episodes 
of 
which 
he 
and 
Simpson 
are 
denied 
entrance 
grounds 
of 
their 
disreputable 
appearance. 
related 
simply, 
the 
necessary 
details 
are 
comment 
which 
Stevenson 
appends 
to the 
st 
been 
genuinely 
provoked 
by 
the 
experience of 
Inland 
Voyage, in 
to 
an 
inn 
on 
the 
This 
escapade 
is 
observed, 
and 
the 
ory 
seems 
to 
have 
rejection: 
It 
is 
all 
very 
fine 
to talk 
about 
tramps 
and 
moral- 
ity. Six 
hours 
of police 
surveillance 
(such 
as 
I 
have 
had), 
or 
one 
brutal 
rejection 
from 
an 
inn 
door, 
change 
your views 
on 
the 
subject 
like 
a 
course 
of 
lectures. 
As long 
as you 
keep 
in 
the 
upper 
regions, 
with all 
the 
world 
bowing 
to 
you 
as 
you go, 
social 
arrangements 
have 
a very 
hand- 
some 
air; 
but 
once 
get under 
the 
wheels, 
and 
you 
wish 
society 
were at 
the 
devil. I 
will give most 
respectable 
men a 
fortnight 
of such a 
life, 
and 
then 
I 
will offer 
them twopence 
for 
what 
remains 
of 
their 
morality. 
13 
The 
underlying 
proposition 
here 
is 
a 
radical, 
though 
not 
a 
novel, 
one: 
that 
social 
life 
is 
the 
matrix 
of 
ethical 
behaviour. 
An 
identical 
belief 
is 
to 
be 
found 
in 
a 
different 
context 
in 
a 
passage 
from his fragmentary 
notebook: 
The 
harm 
of prostitution 
lies 
not 
in 
itself, 
but 
in 
the 
disastrous 
moral 
influence 
of 
ostracism. 
This 
decivilisation, 
this 
rejection 
of 
individuals 
or soc- 
ial 
classes 
from 
the 
commonwealth, would 
have 
its 
own natural result, 
whosoever was 
the 
individual 
or 
the 
class upon 
which 
it 
was 
brought 
to 
bear. 
Hunted 
religionists 
become 
cruel and 
inhuman, 
just 
as ostracised 
harlots 
do. 
l" 
What I 
wish 
to 
suggest 
is 
that the 
experience 
at 
the 
inn 
mod- 
ulates 
into 
an 
integrated 
and conscious 
perception; 
and 
then 
becomes 
of great 
importance in 
Stevenson's 
art 
as a 
conflict 
between 
the 
variously 
detrimental 
and 
liberating 
effects of 
'de- 
civilisation'. 
It 
is 
the 
latter 
which 
Stevenson 
emphasises 
in 
Inland 
Voyage 
and 
Travels 
with 
a 
Donkey, 
and a 
deepened 
sense 
of 
the 
complex 
altercations 
of 
law 
and 
freedom 
only 
comes 
later, 
in 
his 
fiction. 
Meantime 
he 
can 
write 
in 
Inland 
Voyage: 
- 
13 
- 
This 
is 
a 
fashion 
I 
love: 
to 
kiss 
the 
hand 
or wave 
a 
handkerchief 
to 
people 
I 
shall 
never see 
again, 
to 
play 
with 
possibility, 
and 
knock 
in 
a 
peg 
for 
fancy 
to 
hang 
upon. 
1s 
thus 
pre-empting 
lightheartedly 
apropos 
travel 
what 
he 
was 
later 
to 
write 
with 
respect 
to 
literature 
- 
that 
freedom 
from 
a 
fixed 
social 
identity 
is 
a 
value 
and 
a spur 
to 
invention. 
It 
is 
an 
anti-bourgeois 
sensibility 
and 
it 
continues 
over 
from 
the 
two 
early 
travel 
books 
into 
short 
stories 
like 
Providence 
and 
the 
Guitar, 
where 
the 
itinerant 
musician 
embodies 
the 
free 
spirit 
which 
finds 
an 
authentic 
identity 
outwith 
the 
quotidian 
life 
of 
the 
burghers 
whom 
he 
tries to 
entertain. 
Stevenson 
could 
use 
travel, 
in 
this 
sense, 
as a 
metaphor of 
the 
individual 
searching 
for 
worth and 
happiness 
on 
his 
own 
terms 
and 
in 
con- 
flict 
with 
the 
commonplace 
demands 
of society. 
He 
is 
groping 
towards 
a satisfactory 
image 
for 
the 
life 
of 
the 
artist who 
owes 
allegiance only 
to the 
community of artists. 
Stevenson's 
attract- 
ion 
to 
being 
'a 
mere spectator' of 
'a 
whole 
life 
in 
which 
you 
have 
no part' anticipates 
his 
view 
that the 
writer 
should 
ideal- 
ly 
be free from 
all provinciality 
of 
thought 
and 
thus, 
by 
im- 
plication, an outsider. 
His high 
valuation of 
this 
free 
perspec- 
tive 
has 
often 
been 
mistakenly 
identified 
with 
an 
immature 
appreciation of 
the 
child's 
view of 
things. 
But 
it is 
more 
accurate 
to 
call 
it 
an 
unsocialised, 
or 
naive, point of view, 
of 
which 
the 
mental 
life 
of 
the 
child offers 
only one manifest- 
ation. 
"6 
The 
importance 
of childhood 
for 
Stevenson 
was 
twofold: 
in 
the 
first 
place 
it is 
a 
universal 
experience; 
and 
secondly, 
the 
child's 
imagination 
has 
not 
succumbed 
to the 
commonplace 
vision 
of 
his 
elders. 
Childhood is 
prior 
to 
adult 
assimilation 
of 
a 
fixed 
social 
identity 
and, 
therefore, 
the 
child 
can whole- 
heartedly 
immerse himself 
in 
play. 
He 
can 
be 
a 
pirate 
or a 
Covenanter. 
J. C. 
Furnas 
tells 
a very 
revealing 
anecdote about 
Stevenson, 
which 
he 
confesses 
may 
be 
apocryphal, 
but 
which 
nevertheless 
ought 
to 
be 
true: 
- 
14 
- 
Louis 
is 
watching 
a child 
play 
boat 
and, 
wearying 
of 
it, 
climb 
out 
of 
the 
armchair 
that 
had 
been 
act- 
ing 
as 
boat, 
and 
walk 
away, 
'For heaven's 
sake, 
Louis 
calls 
after 
him, 
'at 
least 
Swim! 
1 
17 
The 
unimpeachable 
solidity 
of 
illusion 
as 
evinced 
in 
the 
life 
of 
the 
child 
was 
central 
to 
Stevenson's 
conception 
of 
romance 
and 
we 
shall 
explore 
this 
more 
fully 
in 
later 
chapters. 
What 
has 
the 
above 
digression 
to 
do 
with 
travel? 
Travel 
was 
Stevenson' 
s 
preliminary 
outsidership. 
This feeling 
is 
to 
be 
found 
in 
several 
incidents 
related 
in 
Inland 
Voyage 
and 
Trav- 
els 
with a 
Donkey. 
In 
the 
epilogue 
to the 
former he 
tells 
the 
story 
of 
how 
he 
was 
imprisoned 
as a 
German 
spy 
because 
he 
lacked 
his 
passport 
- 
in 
other 
words, 
he 
was 
without 
ident- 
ity 
!" Travel 
allows 
him 
a social anonymity, 
the 
privilege 
of 
being 
a stranger. 
In 
the 
same 
way 
that 
Mark Twain 
would 
travel 
as a 
tramp, 
or use 
the 
unsocialised 
eyes 
of 
Huck, 
to 
criticise 
society, 
Stevenson 
counted on 
his 
intermittent 
tramp- 
hood 
to 
preserve 
a 
freedom from 
social conventions which 
would, 
he hoped, 
stand 
him 
in 
good 
stead 
as a writer who was 
anxious 
to 
avoid 
provinciality. 
Travel 
could expose 
purely 
superficial 
cultural 
differences 
to 
a perception 
of common 
values, and 
could extend 
the 
natural sympathies 
of 
the 
writer. 
In 
Amateur 
Emigrant 
(1893) 
many 
of 
these 
intuitions 
are 
devel- 
oped 
further 
and more 
clearly 
than 
in 
his 
two 
books 
of 
Euro- 
pean 
travel, 
and 
I 
propose 
to 
look 
at 
this 
interesting 
work 
now. 
Stevenson 
embarked 
on 
the 
S. S. Devonia 
on 
August 
7, 
1879, 
under 
the 
name 
of 
Robert 
Stephenson 
(impersonation 
again 
- 
this 
time 
only 
a mild pseudonym). 
He 
arrived 
in New Yor k 
ten 
days 
later, 
then 
travelled 
across 
the 
continent. 
He 
wrote 
Amateur 
Emigrant 
in 
California, 
basing 
it 
on 
notes 
ta 
ken 
while 
he 
was 
at 
sea 
. 
19 
During 
most 
of 
the 
period 
in 
which 
the 
book 
was 
written 
he 
was 
very 
ill, 
and on occasions 
at 
death's 
door. 
- 
15 
- 
He 
had 
no 
money. 
At 
the 
same 
time, 
Fanny Osbourne 
was 
hav- 
ing 
difficulty 
in 
getting 
her divorce, 
and she 
herself 
was 
suffering 
spells 
of a mental or nervous 
illness. 
It 
was 
a 
grim 
time. 
These 
are 
the 
barest 
of 
biographical 
bones, 
but 
they 
give some 
idea 
of 
what 
must 
have 
been 
the 
emotional 
background 
to 
the 
writing 
of 
Amateur 
Emigrant. 
The 
letters 
which 
he 
sent 
to 
his 
London 
friends 
about 
the 
book 
reveal 
that 
the 
crisis and 
the 
immin- 
ent 
change 
in 
his 
life 
had 
some 
effect 
on 
Stevenson' 
s 
attitude 
to 
his 
vocation. 
He 
writes 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin 
from 
Monterey: 
The 
business 
of 
my 
life 
stands 
pretty 
nigh 
still. 
I 
work 
at 
the 
notes 
of 
my voyage. 
It 
will 
not 
be 
very 
like 
a 
book 
of 
mine; 
but 
perhaps 
none 
the 
less 
successful 
for 
that. 
20 
In 
another 
letter 
to 
Colvin 
he 
is 
more specific about 
the 
sub- 
stance 
of 
this 
hinted 
change: 
It 
is 
not a 
monument 
of 
eloquence; 
indeed 
I 
have 
sought 
to 
be 
prosaic 
in 
view of 
the 
nature 
of 
the 
subject; 
but I 
almost 
think 
it 
is interesting. 
21 
Inspection 
of 
Amateur Emigrant 
confirms a 
turning 
away 
from 
the 
more 
image-strewn 
prose of 
his 
earlier 
essays 
in 
order 
to 
adapt 
the 
style 
to the 
subject-matter and 
to 
his 
new 
expressive 
needs. 
But, 
in 
yet another communication with 
Sidn 
ey 
Colvin, 
Stevenson 
is 
conscious of a more 
fundamental 
change, 
involving 
a recognition 
that 
he has done 
all 
he 
can 
in 
the 
travel 
medium: 
The 
Emigrant 
shall 
be 
finished 
and 
leave 
in 
the 
cour 
se 
of 
nex 
t 
week. 
And 
then, 
I'll 
stick 
to 
stor- 
ies. 
I 
am 
not 
frightened. I 
know 
my mind 
is 
chang- 
ing; 
I 
have 
been 
telling 
you 
so 
for 
long; 
and 
I 
suppose 
I 
am 
fumbling 
for 
the 
new 
vein. 
Well, 
I'll 
find 
it. 
22 
- 
16 
- 
A 
new 
determination 
arid 
freedom 
from 
his 
here. 
Stevenson 
has 
obviously 
gone 
through 
body 
and 
mind 
in 
California. 
He 
is 
much 
mo 
his 
artistic 
intentions, 
more 
anxious 
to 
do 
value 
and 
permanence. 
The 
apprenticeship 
is 
in 
the 
same 
letter: 
friends is 
evident 
a 
great 
crisis 
of 
re 
in 
earnest 
about 
work 
of 
aesthetic 
over. 
He 
continues 
I 
know I 
shall 
do 
better 
work 
than 
ever 
I have 
done 
before; 
but, 
mind you, 
it 
will not 
be 
like 
it. My 
sympathies 
and 
interests 
are 
changed. 
There 
shall 
be 
no 
more 
books 
of 
travel 
for 
me. 
I 
care 
for 
nothing 
but 
the 
moral 
and 
dramatic, 
not 
a 
jot 
for 
the 
picturesque or 
the 
beautiful, 
other 
than 
about 
people. 
It 
bored 
me 
hellishly 
to 
write 
the 
Emigrant; 
well, 
its 
going 
to 
bore 
others 
to 
read 
it; 
that's 
only 
fair. 
23 
(He 
later 
revised 
this 
rather 
peevish 
opinion 
of 
Amateur 
Emig- 
rant, giving 
it 
a more 
optimistic 
appraisal when 
his 
health 
im- 
proved). 
A 
further 
letter, 
this 
time 
to 
Edmund 
Gosse, 
re- 
inforces 
the 
impression 
that 
Stevenson 
has 
recognised 
that 
his 
reputation 
is 
as a writer of 
frivolous 
occasional 
pieces 
and 
that 
he has 
resolved 
to 
change 
that 
state 
of 
affairs: 
I believe 
the 
class 
of work 
I 
might 
yet give 
out 
is 
better 
and more 
real and 
solid 
than 
people 
fancy. 
24 
Two 
general 
points 
emerge 
from 
the 
above. 
Firstly, 
that 
Amateur 
Emigrant 
embodied 
an 
idiom 
distinct 
from Stevenson's 
earlier 
work. 
Secondly, 
that 
it 
marked 
a culmination 
of 
his 
travel 
writing, 
as 
he 
had 
resolved 
to 
devote 
himself 
only 
to 
fiction 
and 
drama 
in 
the 
future. 
(This 
is 
the 
period of 
the 
birth 
of 
Prince 
Otto 
- 
then 
called 
A Forest 
Romance 
- 
which, 
interestingly, 
deals 
with 
a young 
man 
who 
has 
frivolously 
wasted 
his 
time 
in 
activities 
which 
do 
not 
do 
justice 
to 
his 
talents. 
I 
cannot 
help 
seeing 
it 
as 
a 
self-dramatisation. 
) 
What, 
then, 
makes 
Amateur 
Emigrant 
so 
different 
from 
previous 
- 
17 
- 
efforts? 
To 
begin 
with, 
it 
seems 
a 
much more 
purposeful 
book 
than, 
say, 
Inland Voyage. 
The 
voyage 
to 
America 
gives 
it 
some 
form, 
because 
it 
unites 
the 
characters 
on 
the 
boat 
as 
pilgrims 
to 
a 
new 
land; 
more 
importantly, this 
is 
a conceptual 
unity 
rather 
than 
the 
semblant 
coherence 
of a canoe 
trip. 
The 
notion 
of 
a 
voyage 
to 
a new 
country 
has 
overtones 
which 
Stevenson 
is 
not 
slow 
to 
exploit, 
and which 
we shall 
discuss 
in 
due 
course. 
But 
above 
all, 
Amateur 
Emigrant has 
an 
ideal 
motif, 
a 
persist- 
ent 
concern: 
provinciality. 
Time 
and again 
he 
returns 
to 
quest- 
ions 
of cultural 
boundaries 
and superficial 
distinctions 
between 
men 
with a 
tenacity 
which 
suggests not 
that 
he 
is 
entertaining 
certain 
ideas 
but 
that 
a 
definite 
way 
of 
seeing 
has him 
in its 
grip. 
Stevenson 
hoped 
right 
from 
the 
- 
start 
to 
make 
a virtue out of 
necessity and, 
by 
taking 
a cabin 
in 
the 
steerage 
section 
of 
the 
ship, 
'to 
see 
the 
worst of emigrant 
life. Of 
course, 
he 
is 
open 
to the 
charge 
that 
he 
is 
slumming, and some of 
his 
more 
patronising comments can 
be 
irritating. 
But 
on 
the 
whole 
he 
lets 
the 
reality 
of 
the 
life 
of 
the 
people 
among whom 
he 
finds 
himself 
speak 
for 
itself; 
and 
he 
notes with obvious 
pleasure 
that, 
despite his 
polite 
speech, 
he 
is 
not 
treated 
as an out- 
sider 
by 
the 
steerage 
passengers, 
but 
as one of 
themselves. 
He 
is 
ironic 
at 
the 
expense 
of exterior cultural 
markings 
such as 
caste: 
For 
some 
time 
after 
I 
came 
aboard 
I 
thought 
I 
was 
only 
a male; 
but in 
the 
course 
of a voyage 
of 
dis- 
covery 
between 
decks, 
I 
came 
on a 
brass 
plate, 
and 
learned 
that 
I 
was 
still 
a gentleman. 
Nobody 
knew 
25 
it, 
of course. 
And 
he 
continues 
in 
a way 
which 
reminds 
us of 
his Hazlittean 
ancestry: 
Everywhere 
else 
I 
was 
incognito, 
moving 
among 
my 
inferiors 
with simplicity, 
not 
so much 
as a swa 
- 
ger 
to 
indicate 
that 
I 
was 
a gentleman 
after all. 
6 
- 
18 
- 
Nevertheless, 
the 
stratified 
nature 
of 
the 
ship 
- 
there 
is 
absol- 
ute 
division 
between 
the 
cabin 
and 
the 
steerage 
passengers 
- 
impinges 
upon 
Stevenson 
and 
his 
companions. 
When 
it 
does, 
his 
reaction 
is 
very strong, 
almost 
virulent: 
Through 
this 
merry 
and good-hearted 
scence 
there 
came 
three 
cabin 
passengers, 
a 
gentleman and 
two 
young 
ladies, 
picking 
their 
way 
with 
little 
grac- 
ious 
titters 
of 
indulgence, 
and 
a 
Lady Bountiful 
air 
about 
nothing, which 
galled 
me 
to the 
quick. 
I 
have little 
of 
the 
radical 
in 
social 
questions, 
and 
have 
always nourished 
an 
idea 
that 
one 
person 
was as 
good 
as another. 
But I began 
to 
be 
troubled 
by 
this 
episode. 
It 
was astonishing what 
insults 
these 
people managed 
to 
convey 
by 
their 
presence. 
They 
seemed 
to throw their 
clothes 
in 
our 
faces. Their 
eyes 
searched us all over 
for 
tatters 
and 
incongruities. 
A laugh 
was 
ready 
at 
their 
lips; but 
they 
were 
too 
well-mannered 
to 
in- 
dulge 
it in 
our 
hearing. Wait 
a 
bit 
till they 
were 
all 
back 
in 
the 
saloon, 
and 
then 
how 
wittily 
they 
would 
depict 
the 
manners of 
the 
steerage. 
We 
were 
in 
truth 
very 
innocently, 
cheerfully, 
and 
sensibly 
engaged, and 
there 
was no shadow 
of 
excuse 
for 
the 
swaying elegant 
superiority with which 
these 
damsels 
passed among 
us, 
or 
for 
the 
stiff and wag- 
gish glances of 
their 
squire. 
Not 
a word was 
said; 
only when 
they 
were gone 
MacKay 
sullenly 
damned 
their 
impudence 
under 
his breath; but 
we 
were 
all 
conscious of 
an 
icy 
influence 
and a 
dead break 
in 
the 
course of our 
enjoyment. 
27 
Such 
angry 
testimony 
to 
the 
injury 
caused 
by 
a 
diseased 
snob- 
bery 
comes all 
the 
more 
forcefully from 
one 
whose 
social 
posit- 
ion 
would normally 
have 
placed 
him 
among 
the 
cabin 
passen- 
gers. 
At 
the 
back 
of 
this 
little 
episode 
lurks 
a 
metaphor 
which 
occasionally 
surfaces 
throughout the 
text 
- 
that the 
steerage 
is 
a 
den 
of 
animals. 
Above, 
we 
are reminded 
of 
people 
observ- 
ing 
strange 
creatures 
in 
the 
zoo. 
Elsewhere 
he describes 
the 
sleeping 
quarters 
in 
the 
steerage 
as 
the 
stalls 
of a 
byre. 
When 
a 
passenger, 
found 
ill 
on 
deck, 
is 
carried 
below, he 
is 
taken 
to 
the 
den 
allotted 
him'. 
25 
The 
point 
is 
that the 
metaphoric 
becomes 
the 
existential; 
for, 
the 
steerage 
passengers are 
forced 
to 
live 
like 
animals 
and 
Stevenson 
is 
merely recording 
the 
- 
19 
- 
details 
of 
this 
squalor, 
trying 
to 
be 
true to the 
reality 
as 
he 
experienced 
it. 
One 
suspects 
that 
in 
his 
honesty 
in 
reportage 
was 
largely 
responsible 
for 
the 
dislike 
which 
his 
London 
cron- 
ies 
expressed 
for Amateur 
Emigrant. 
They 
took 
exception 
to, 
and 
censored 
from 
the 
first 
edition, such 
descriptions 
as 
this: 
He 
had 
been 
sick 
and 
his 
head 
was 
in 
his 
vomit. 
2 9 
And 
this 
was 
also 
omitted: 
all, 
who stewed 
here 
together 
in 
their 
own exhal- 
ations, 
were 
uncompromisingly 
unclean. 
3 
0 
Yet, 
with 
filth 
there 
was chivalry, 
and courtesy 
existed along- 
side 
the 
v omit; 
not 
only 
that, 
but kindliness 
and 
arrogance co- 
existed 
in 
one 
man, 
a 
bosun 
to 
whom 
Stevenson 
appealed 
for 
help. 
This deliberate 
effort 
to 
hold 
the 
poles of experience 
in 
some 
sort 
of 
balance 
is 
continuous wit 
h 
structu res 
of 
feeling 
which 
' 
are 
in 
his 
fiction 
and 
which 
will 
be dealt 
with 
in 
future 
chapters. 
Stevenson 
manages 
to 
sustain a 
dual 
vision 
through 
the 
worst 
horrors 
of 
the 
emigrant 
train: 
Without 
fresh 
air, 
you 
only require a 
bad heart, 
and a remarkable 
command 
of 
the 
Queen's English, 
to 
become 
such another 
as 
Dean Swift; 
a 
kind 
of 
leering human 
goat, 
leaping 
and 
wagging 
your 
scut on mountains 
of 
offence. 
I 
do 
my 
best 
to 
keep 
my 
head 
the 
other 
way, 
and 
look 
for 
the 
human 
rather 
than 
the 
bestial 
in 
this 
Yahoo-like business 
of 
the 
emigrant 
train. 
But 
one 
thing 
I 
must say: 
the 
car of 
the 
Chinese 
was 
notably 
the 
least 
offens- 
ive 
[, 
and 
that 
of 
the 
women 
and children 
by 
a 
good 
way 
the 
worst. 
A 
stroke 
of 
nature's 
satire. 
]31 
Stevenson 
is 
recognising 
the 
disgusting, 
and 
his 
own 
disgust 
in 
the 
face 
of 
it, 
while 
he 
is 
still 
anx 
ious 
to 
'look 
for 
the 
human 
rather 
than 
the 
bestial' 
. 
These 
sorts 
of 
observations are 
fairly 
straightforward; 
but 
their 
validity 
and 
worth 
rests upon 
the 
fact 
that they 
issue 
- 
20 
- 
from 
Stevenson's 
experience 
on 
ship 
and 
emigrant 
train; 
they 
are 
responses, 
uncluttered 
by 
theory, 
to 
real 
life; 
and 
they 
have 
a 
certain 
deliberate 
simplicity, 
which 
is 
evident 
in 
this 
section 
where 
he 
is 
discussing 
the 
relative 
refinements 
of 
the 
two 
classes 
of passenger: 
Some 
of our 
finest 
behaviour, 
though 
it 
looks 
well 
enough 
from 
the 
boxes, 
may seem even 
brutal 
to 
the 
gallery. 
We 
boast 
too 
often 
manners 
that 
are 
parochial 
rather 
than 
universal... 
To be 
gentle- 
man 
is 
to 
be 
one 
the 
world 
over, and 
in 
every 
relation 
and 
grade 
of society. 
It 
is 
a 
high 
calling. 
... 
And, 
unhappily, 
the 
manners 
of 
a 
so-called 
upper 
grade 
have 
a 
kind 
of 
currency, and meet 
with 
a 
certain 
external 
acceptation 
throughout 
all 
the 
others, 
and 
this 
tends to 
keep 
us well 
satis- 
fied 
with slight 
acquirements and 
the 
amateurish 
accomplishments 
of a clique. 
But 
manners, 
like 
art, 
should 
be human 
and central. 
32 
Stevenson 
does 
not wish 
to 
make 
the 
point 
complex. 
He 
estab- 
lishes for 
himself 
the 
ideal 
value 
of 
things, 
relates 
it 
to 
his 
own 
experience and 
summarises 
in 
the 
epigram 
which 
is 
the 
last 
sentence. 
Some 
interesting 
propositions underlie 
the 
passage, 
however. We 
observe 
two 
sets 
of opposites: 
the 
inner 
and 
the 
external; 
the 
provincial, 
or 
'parochial', 
and 
the 
universal. 
These 
are 
two 
contrary 
facets 
of 
the 
one 
thing. 
What 
is 
exter- 
nal 
is 
bound 
to 
be 
provincial and 
only 
inner, 
native qualities 
can 
be 
universal. 
At 
another 
point 
of 
Amateur 
Emigrant 
he 
extends 
these 
observations, especially 
the 
idea 
of provincial- 
ism: 
Sedentary, 
respectable people seem 
to 
leave 
some 
vital 
qualities 
behind 
them 
when 
they travel: 
non 
omnia 
sua 
secum; 
they 
are 
not 
themselves, 
and 
with 
all 
that 
mass 
of 
baggage, 
have forgotte 
n 
to 
put 
up 
their 
human 
virtues. 
A 
Bohemian 
may 
not 
have 
much 
to 
recommend 
him, but 
what 
he 
has, 
is 
at 
least 
his 
own and 
indefeasible. 
You 
may 
rely 
as 
surely 
upon 
his 
virtues as upon 
his 
vices, 
for 
they 
are 
both 
bred 
in 
the 
bone. 
Neither 
have been 
assumed 
to 
suit 
the temper 
of society, 
or 
depend 
in 
any 
degree 
on 
the 
vicinity 
of 
Portman 
Square. But 
- 
21 
- 
respectable 
people, 
transplanted 
from 
their 
own 
particular 
zone 
of 
respectability, 
too 
often 
lose 
their 
manners, 
their 
good 
sense, 
and 
a 
consider- 
able 
part 
of 
their 
religion. 
33 
There 
is 
the 
core: 
the 
universal 
human 
traits 
are 
'bred in 
the 
bone' 
, 
and 
are not subject 
to the 
vagaries of 
custom. 
It 
i 
s 
an 
old 
discussion 
this, 
about 
nature and 
nurture, 
and 
Stevenson 
has 
nothing 
new 
to 
contribute 
to 
it; 
he 
merely 
expresses 
his 
view 
extremely 
well. 
But, 
years 
later 
Mackellar 
makes 
the 
same 
trip 
from 
Glasgow 
to 
New York 
in 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
and 
there the 
perceptual 
basis 
of 
these 
observations which 
I have 
quoted 
at 
length 
is 
embodied 
in 
character and 
dramatic 
con- 
flict, 
compelling 
an 
aesthetic 
recognition 
because 
a work of 
art 
has deepened 
and 
transmuted 
experience and conscious 
be- 
lief 
into 
something 
capable 
of 
inspiring 
horror. By 
that 
time 
Stevenson 
has 
a very 
different 
idea 
of 
what 
is 
bred 
in 
the 
bone. 
It 
is 
the 
case 
that 
Stevenson 
realised 
that 
he 
could go no 
fur- 
ther 
with 
the 
travel 
essay as 
he 
was writing 
Amateur 
Emig- 
rant, 
his 
most 
directed 
exercise 
in 
that 
mode. 
I 
say 
that 
it is 
a 
directed 
work 
because 
the 
whole 
idea 
of 
a voyage 
from 
the 
custom-ridden 
Old 
World 
to 
a new country which 
has 
a 
fluid 
society, 
thought 
to 
be 
free from 
a 
host 
of 
traditional 
sanctions, 
fits his 
preoccupation with 
province 
and 
custom. 
Stevenson 
imagined 
that 
to 
young 
Europeans America 
represented 
freedom: 
It 
seems 
to 
them 
as 
if, 
out west, 
the 
war of 
life 
was still 
conducted 
in 
the 
open 
air, and 
on 
free 
barbaric 
terms; 
as 
if it 
had 
not yet 
been 
nar- 
rowed 
into 
parlours, 
nor 
begun 
to 
be 
conducted, 
like 
some 
unjust 
and 
dreary 
arbitration, 
by 
com- 
promise, 
costume, 
forms 
of procedure, 
and 
sad, 
senseless 
self-denial. 
3 
4 
He 
finds 
a 
purpose 
for 
the 
voyage 
which 
is 
not 
his 
own 
reason 
for 
going, 
but 
which 
gives 
the 
whole 
trip the 
nature 
of 
a 
quest. 
It 
is, 
in 
this 
respect, 
more 
directed 
than 
his 
descrip- 
- 
22 
- 
tion 
of 
earlier 
travels; 
and 
the 
fact 
that 
he 
was 
eventually 
disillusioned 
of 
the 
America 
which 
was 
to 
him 'a 
sort 
of 
pro- 
mised 
land', 
' 
full 
of 
dark 
possibilities' 
;5 
does 
not cause 
us 
to 
modify 
our 
recognition 
of an 
hitherto 
suppressed 
tendency 
to 
think 
in 
terms 
of 
ends. 
The 
whole 
westward project 
of 
Amateur 
Emigrant has 
a 
signifi- 
cance 
for 
this 
process 
of 
discarding 
European 
class 
conscious- 
ness; 
because Stevenson 
had 
conceived 
America 
as 
a continent 
full 
of 
dark 
possibilities, 
less 
constrictingly 
civilised. 
He 
was 
soon aware 
of some 
discrepancy 
between 
the 
dream 
and 
the 
actuality. 
At 
first 
he 
notes 
that 
his 
fellow 
pilgrims 
seem 
to 
be 
fleeing 
failure 
rather 
than 
setting 
out 
boldly 
to 
conquer 
the 
wilderness. 
And disillusionment 
is 
realised 
thoroughly 
in 
what 
was 
planned 
to 
be 
the 
second 
half 
of 
the 
book, 
' 
Across 
the 
Plains 
' 
(1883). 
A 
downbeat 
set 
of 
impressions 
of 
the 
train 
journey 
from 
New 
York 
to 
San Francisco, 
'Across 
the 
Plains' 
obliterates any 
expectations 
Stevenson had 
of 
America 
in 
the 
individual 
and collective 
misery of 
the train. 
This 
is 
not 
to 
say 
that 
Stevenson 
did 
not 
like America. It 
is 
simply 
that 
the 
framework 
of 
his 
anticipations seems 
to 
be 
thrown 
away 
when 
he 
makes 
the transition 
from 
perceiving 
it 
as a set of cultural 
values 
to 
first hand 
experience. 
Something 
similar 
happened 
in 
the 
Pacific, 
when 
he 
eventually 
visited 
that 
part of 
the 
world. 
Between Amateur Emigrant 
and 
his 
book 
on 
the 
South Seas, 
Stevenson 
wrote 
The 
Silverado Squatters 
(1883) 
and a 
set 
of 
essays 
about 
California. 
3 
6 
The 
former 
is 
an 
intimate 
record 
of 
frontier 
life, 
which 
he 
experienced 
when 
he 
and 
his 
new wife 
spent 
their 
honeymoon 
in 
a 
disused 
silver mine near 
Napa 
Valley. 
Of 
the 
latter, 
the 
sketch 
of 
San Francisco 
is 
unusual 
because 
it is 
the 
first 
article of any substance 
that 
he 
pro- 
duced 
about 
any 
city 
other 
than 
Edinburgh. 
San 
Francisco 
embodied 
qualities 
which 
strongly attracted 
Stevenson. 
It 
was 
a 
changing, 
polyglot society 
of 
varied 
-23- 
cultures, 
in 
which 
variety 
of race, 
dress 
and 
architecture 
com- 
bined 
to 
form 
a 
fascination. 
He 
makes 
the 
point 
that 
San 
Francisco 
is 
incomplete; 
its 
streets 
do 
not 
end, 
they 
peter 
out. 
He 
also 
notes 
that 
its infinite 
variety 
is 
compressed, 
topograph- 
ically 
intermingled: 
The 
same 
street 
in its 
career 
visits 
and unites 
so 
many 
different 
classes 
of 
society. 
37 
It 
therefore 
offered 
an 
appealing 
contrast 
to the 
Victorian 
Brit- 
ish 
cities, 
which 
were 
stratified 
on a 
class 
basis 
and 
built 
solidly 
on stone. 
San 
Francisco 
was 
as unlike 
Edinburgh 
as 
could 
be. Stevenson's 
apprehension 
of what 
is 
important 
to 
him 
in 
the 
city 
is 
like 
an act 
of 
the 
imagination, 
although 
it 
is 
only 
the 
art of 
judicious 
selection. 
He 
reads 
it, 
as 
Ruskin 
would 
have done, 
as 
a 
set of signs 
which 
point 
to 
the 
sort of 
life 
the 
city creates 
and 
offers. 
But Stevenson 
is 
capable 
of 
hauling 
the 
cityscape 
towards 
his 
own 
mentality. 
The 
most strik- 
ing instance 
of 
this 
process occurs when 
he describes 
China- 
town. 
He 
gives a short 
impression 
of pavement 
life 
- 
colourful, 
various, public; 
then 
he 
writes: 
And 
the 
interest is 
heightened 
with a chill 
of 
horror. Below, 
you 
hear, 
the 
cellars are 
alive 
with 
mystery; opium 
dens, 
where 
the 
smokers 
lie 
one 
above another, shelf upon shelf, close-packed 
and grovelling 
in 
deadly 
stupor; 
the 
seats of un- 
known 
vices 
and 
cruelties, 
the 
prisons of unacknow- 
ledged 
slaves 
and 
the 
secret 
lazarettos 
of 
dis- 
ease. 
3 
8 
This 
is 
as effective 
an 
image 
of 
the two-storeyed 
human 
psyche 
as 
Deacon 
Brodie 
or 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
The 
pattern 
of 
Steven- 
son' 
s 
mind 
is 
reproduced 
in 
front 
of 
him 
and 
there 
is 
an 
alliance 
between his 
interest 
in 
closeted 
evil 
and 
what 
is 
act- 
ually 
there. 
In 
the 
South 
Seas 
(1890) 
is 
a 
much more 
ambitious 
undertaking 
-24- 
than 
Silverado 
Squatters 
and 
Stevenson 
rated 
it 
highly 
enough 
for 
him 
to 
write 
this 
to 
Charles Baxter: 
I 
shall 
have 
a 
fine book 
of 
travels, 
I 
feel 
sure; 
and 
will 
tell 
you more of 
the 
South 
Seas 
after 
very 
few 
months 
than 
any 
other writer 
has 
done 
- 
except 
Herman Melville, 
perhaps. 
39 
This 
is 
perhaps 
over-confident. 
But 
it 
is 
certainly 
true 
to 
say 
that 
his 
book 
is 
more 
justly 
appreciated now 
than 
it 
was 
in 
1890 
when 
it 
was 
first 
published 
- 
possibly as 
the 
result 
of 
the 
development 
of a 
less 
European-centred 
anthropology. 
In- 
deed, 
one 
of 
the 
merits of 
In 
the 
South Seas 
is 
that 
it is 
not 
bound 
by 
the 
predominant 
attitudes of 
its 
time 
in 
offering 
a 
sympathetic 
account 
of a primitive 
culture 
- 
or, more 
properly, 
a set of 
cultures; 
because Stevenson 
was 
aware 
that 
native 
mores 
were various, not monolithic; 
he 
was 
conscious of 
both 
obvious and subtle 
distinctions 
in 
custom 
from 
place 
to 
place. 
We 
recall an 
interesting 
piece 
of 
syntax 
from Amateur Emigrant: 
Those, 
then, 
with whom 
I found 
myself 
in 
sym- 
pathy, and of whom 
I 
may 
therefore 
hope 
to 
write 
with a greater 
measure of 
truth 
. 
The 
point made 
with 
this 
causal 
link 
is 
a very 
obvious 
one, 
but 
nevertheless well-founded 
and 
to 
be 
insisted 
upon. 
A 
certain 
consistent 
and 
lucid 
relation 
to the 
variety of 
the 
world's pro- 
vinces 
is 
clearly 
indebted 
to to 
such sympathy. 
It 
succinctly 
recommends 
itself 
to 
us 
in 
this 
observation 
from 
Silverado 
Squatters: 
There is 
no 
foreign 
land; 
it is 
the traveller 
only 
that 
is 
foreign. 
"' 
This 
receptive, 
open 
attitude 
to 
travel 
helps 
Stevenson 
to 
avoid 
making 
the 
sort of statement which 
characterises 
Arthur 
Johnstone' 
s 
defence 
of 
the 
white 
settlers against 
his 
attacks 
in 
In 
the 
South 
Seas. 
At 
one point 
in 
his 
book, 
Johnstone 
writes: 
- 
25 
- 
Crimes 
and 
misdemeanors 
do 
not 
affect 
Polynesians 
as 
their 
commission 
does 
civilised men. 
42 
Several 
points 
are 
raised 
here. 
It 
is 
the 
value 
of 
that 
iseci' 
which 
raises radical 
doubts 
in 
Stevenson's 
mind, 
confirmed 
by 
these 
words 
from 
a 
letter 
to 
Will 
Low: 
I 
love 
the 
Polynesian. This 
civilisation 
of ours 
is 
a 
dingy 
ungentlemanly 
business; 
it 
drops 
too 
much 
out 
of man. 
43 
I 
civil- 
as 
is 
Without 
enquiring 
too 
much 
into 
what 
Stevenson 
actually means 
at 
this 
stage, 
we can 
record 
his 
scepticism 
about 
the 
"civilis- 
ing 
mission". 
He 
realised 
that 
crime 
could 
be 
a relative 
mat- 
ter, 
and 
that 
in 
the 
South Seas 
imperialism 
had 
imposed 
alien 
laws 
on a 
culture 
which 
had 
its 
own, 
different 
ones. 
As he 
wrote 
in 
'Pulvis 
et 
Umbra': 
The 
canting 
moralist 
tells 
us of right and wrong; 
and 
we 
look 
abroad, 
even on 
the 
face 
of our 
small 
earth, and 
find 
them 
change 
with 
every climate, 
and no coun 
try 
where some a 
ction 
is 
not 
honoured, 
for 
a virtue and 
none where 
it is 
not 
branded for 
a vice. 
`' 
Right 
and wrong, 
in 
other 
words, 
are not 
'bred 
in 
the 
bone' 
of 
the 
conquerors. 
However, 
despite his 
obvious 
sympathies 
with 
the 
islanders' 
political cause, 
he 
tried 
to 
avoid 
that 
issue 
and 
give a reason- 
ably objective 
account of 
Polynesian 
history 
and 
legend, 
some- 
thing 
which would 
be 
more 
like 
reportage 
than 
any previous 
Stevenson book, 
with 
the 
possible exception 
of 
Amateur 
Emig- 
rant. 
"S 
The 
basis 
of 
the 
book 
is 
fragmentary, 
being 
around 
seventy 
articles, 
or 
letters, 
which 
Stevenson 
was 
to 
write 
for 
McLure's 
magazine 
in 
the 
United 
States. In 
fact, 
only 
thirty- 
four 
were 
published, 
as 
they 
were 
thought 
to 
be 
too 
dull 
to 
achieve 
any 
quickening 
in 
the 
circulation 
of 
the 
magazine. 
The 
- 
26 
- 
book, 
therefore, 
is 
scarcely 
a unit. 
It 
is 
without 
a motif 
or 
structure. 
There 
is 
some 
reference 
across 
from 
various parts 
of 
the 
text, 
especially 
when 
he 
is 
discussing Polynesian 
customs 
in 
general 
- 
but 
the-se 
are minimal. 
Stevenson 
himself 
was 
aware 
of 
the 
problem, 
as 
this 
strange plaint 
to 
Henry James 
shows: 
The 
time 
it 
took 
me 
to 
design 
this 
volume, 
before 
I 
could 
dream 
of 
putting 
pen 
to 
paper was 
excess- 
ive; 
and 
then 
think 
of 
writing 
a 
book 
of 
travels 
on 
the 
spot, 
when 
I 
am 
continually 
extending my 
information, 
revising 
my 
opinions, 
and seeing 
the 
most 
finely 
finished 
portions 
of 
my work 
come part 
by 
part 
in 
pieces. 
Very 
soon 
I 
shall 
have 
no 
opin- 
ions 
left. 
And 
without 
an opinion, 
how 
to 
string 
artistically 
vast 
accumulations of 
fact? Darwin 
said 
no one 
could 
observe 
without 
a 
theory; 
I 
suppose 
he 
was 
right... my 
theories 
melt, 
melt, 
melt, and as 
they 
melt 
the thaw-waters 
wash 
down 
my writing 
and 
leave 
unideal 
tracts. 
"" 
Why Stevenson 
felt 
the 
need 
to 
rush 
into 
print 
is 
beyond 
full 
explanation; 
but 
it is 
possible 
that 
the 
impact 
upon 
his 
think- 
ing 
was 
strong enough 
to 
account 
for his 
eagerness 
to 
write 
up 
the 
experience of 
the 
voyage 
in 
the 
South Seas, 
which, 
in 
his 
own words, 
contained 
'so 
incredible 
a 
mixture 
of 
the 
beautiful 
and 
horrible, 
the 
savage 
and civilised'. 
Stevenson's fascinat- 
ion 
with 
such a macabre 
fusion 
of opposite conditions, a 
radi- 
cal ambivalence, 
cannot 
be 
exaggerated. 
Its 
pursuit 
from 
sect- 
ion 
to 
section of 
In 
the 
South Seas 
is 
the 
common 
factor; 
for, 
although 
Stevenson 
had 
no 
theory, 
he 
did 
have 
a 
consistent 
way 
of seeing 
the 
world, 
his 
mind 
was naturally 
predisposed 
to 
go 
in 
certain 
directions, 
and 
these 
traits 
surface 
in 
the 
South 
Seas 
book. 
The 
trip 
to, 
and 
sojourn 
in, 
the 
South 
Seas had 
a special 
mean- 
ing 
for 
Stevenson, 
because 
it 
was, 
for him, 
a 
journey 
not 
only 
in 
space 
but 
also 
in 
time. 
As he 
had 
enjoyed proximity 
to 
banditry 
in 
California, 
so 
the 
recent 
death 
of 
cannibalism 
in 
some 
parts 
of 
the 
South Seas, 
and 
the 
persistence of 
many 
so- 
- 
27 
- 
called 
savage 
customs, 
held 
out 
the 
prospect of 
a 
kind 
of 
soc- 
iety 
which 
had long been 
dead 
in 
Europe. Of 
course, 
when 
his 
knowledge 
of 
the 
islands increased 
with 
first-hand 
experience, 
he 
had 
to 
change 
many 
preconceptions 
about 
them 
and 
recognise, 
for 
example, 
that 
native 
life 
was 
not 
without 
its 
own 
'compro- 
mise, 
costume, 
forms 
of 
procedure. 
However, 
he 
retained 
the 
desire 
to 
live 
in 
a part 
of 
the 
South 
Seas 
which 
still 
followed 
many 
of 
the 
old customs, 
as 
this 
letter 
to 
an enquiring 
journal- 
ist 
indicates: 
I 
chose 
Samoa 
instead 
of 
Honolulu, 
for 
instance, 
for 
the 
simple 
and 
eminently 
satisfactory reason 
that 
it 
was 
less 
civilised. 
"e 
Stevenson 
knew 
that 
the tide 
of 
this 
less 
civilised world 
was 
ebbing, and 
he 
recorded 
the 
tawdry 
intersections 
of 
old and 
new 
when 
he 
came across 
them. 
49 
But he 
concentrated 
his 
atten- 
tion 
in 
three 
main 
areas: 
the 
history 
and 
legends 
of 
Oceania; 
the 
customs 
he 
came 
across 
which 
seemed 
to 
be 
the 
most 
strik- 
ing; 
and 
the 
physical 
aspect 
of 
the 
islands. 
In 
the 
first 
two 
cases 
he 
was 
trying to 
preserve 
things 
which 
were 
dying. In 
the 
latter 
instance 
he 
was 
dealing 
with a con- 
stant 
factor, 
and 
he 
worked 
hard 
to try 
to 
convey 
to 
his 
readers 
a sense of 
the 
strangeness 
and occasional 
beauty 
of 
the 
islands. 
He 
succeeds 
on some occasions, 
fails 
on others, 
be- 
cause 
the 
attempt 
to 
capture 
the 
lineaments 
of 
a scene 
in 
self- 
advertising passages 
of 
conscious 
poetry 
- 
or 
highlights 
- 
can 
often 
result 
only 
in 
one of 
those 
purple 
passages 
which 
expres- 
ses rapture 
and 
little 
else. 
But 
a 
piece 
of 
writing, such 
as 
graces 
the 
latter 
part 
of 
the 
following, 
has 
the 
quality 
of 
an 
epiphany, 
though 
its 
vocabulary 
is 
common 
and eventless: 
Once 
more 
we 
traversed 
a silent 
town; 
many 
were 
yet 
abed and 
asleep; 
s ome sat 
drowsily in 
their 
open 
houses; 
there 
was 
no sound 
of 
intercourse 
or 
business. 
In 
that 
hour 
before 
the 
shadows, 
the 
quarter 
of 
the 
palace 
and 
canal 
seemed 
like 
a 
- 
28 
- 
landing-place 
in 
the 
Arabian 
Nights 
or 
from 
the 
classic 
poets; 
here 
were 
the 
fit 
destination 
of 
some 
' 
faery 
frigot', 
here 
some 
adventurous 
prince 
might 
step 
ashore among 
new 
characters 
and 
incidents; 
and 
the 
island 
prison, 
where 
it 
floated 
on 
the 
luminous 
face 
of 
the 
lagoon, 
might 
have 
passed 
for 
the 
repository 
of 
the 
Grail. 
In 
such a 
scene, 
and 
at 
such 
an 
hour, 
the 
impression 
received was 
not 
so 
much of 
foreign 
travel 
- 
rather of past 
ages; 
it 
seemed not so much 
degrees 
of 
latitude 
that 
we 
had 
crossed, 
as 
centuries 
of 
time that 
we 
had 
re- 
ascended; 
leaving, by 
the 
same steps, 
home 
and 
today. 
A few 
children 
followed 
us, 
mostly 
nude, 
all 
silent; 
in 
the 
clear, 
weedy waters of 
the 
canal 
some 
silent 
damsels 
waded, 
baring 
their 
brown 
thighs. 
50 
This 
is 
an 
admirable 
example 
of what 
Stevenson 
understood 
to 
be 
a 
romantic picture, 
having 
. 
the 
quality 
which 
makes 
an 
image 
flash 
into 
the 
mind's 
eye and 
stay 
there. 
Here, 
the 
com- 
parison 
with 
Arabian 
Nights 
is 
not 
facile, 
as 
it 
so often 
is 
with 
Stevenson; 
it 
expresses 
the 
sense of another, 
past 
world 
which 
he felt, 
and 
it is 
not mocked 
by 
the 
ordinariness 
of 
the 
romantic objects: 
the 
silence, 
the 
absence of shadows, 
the 
mute 
children, 
the 
brown 
thighs 
of 
the 
wading 
women; 
above all 
the 
silence, which 
does 
not 
have 
an abstract quality 
but 
seems 
the 
essence 
of 
the 
other 
contingent 
details. 
The 
past 
becomes 
present 
in 
more 
shocking 
ways, 
too, 
as 
when 
he 
meets 
a number of 
charming 
cannibals. 
On 
another occasion 
he 
is 
moved 
to 
comment 
by 
the 
sight of 
two 
Gilbertine 
women 
fighting: 
The 
return 
to these 
primeval 
weapons, 
the 
vision 
of man's 
beastlines, 
of 
his 
ferality, 
shocked me 
in 
a 
deeper 
sense 
than 
that 
with 
which we count 
the 
cost 
of 
battles... 
Crime, 
pestilence, and 
death 
are 
in 
the 
day's 
work; 
the 
imagination 
readily 
accepts 
them. 
It 
instinctively 
rejects, on 
the 
con- 
trary, 
whatever 
shall 
call up 
the 
image 
of 
our 
race 
upon 
its 
lowest 
terms, 
as 
the 
partner 
of 
beasts. 
- 
29 
- 
But 
he 
goes 
on 
to 
extend 
the 
observation: 
And 
yet 
to 
be 
just to 
barbarous 
islanders 
we 
must 
not 
forget 
the 
slums 
and 
dens 
of 
our 
cities; 
I 
must 
not 
forget 
that 
I have 
passed 
dinnerward 
through 
Soho 
and seen 
that 
which cured 
me 
of 
my 
dinner. 
si 
He 
is 
unwilling 
to 
confine 
his 
perception 
of 
the 
existence 
of 
feral 
instinct 
to 
the 
savage 
mind. 
This 
'ferality' 
is 
not 
histor- 
ical 
or 
geographically 
restricted; 
it 
'is 
universal. 
Even 
so, 
he 
prevaricates. 
He 
might 
have 
written: 
'the 
slums and 
dens 
of 
our 
minds. 
And 
he 
was certainly 
disingenious 
in 
claiming 
that 
the 
imagination 
rejected 
ferality; 
his 
own 
was 
fascinated 
by 
it, 
as 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
shows. 
52 
We 
will, eventually, 
have 
to 
attempt 
to 
explain 
and 
assess 
the 
quality 
of 
vision 
inherent 
in 
such statements as 
the 
above. 
But 
I 
wish 
to 
do 
that 
in 
the 
context of a 
discussion 
of 
Stevenson's 
imaginative 
works. 
I do 
want 
to 
record 
it, 
though, 
and 
juxta- 
pose 
it 
with a similar 
feeling. 
Ferality 
is 
not 
the 
only 
phenom- 
enon 
in 
which 
Stevenson 
recognised previous 
patterns of mind 
persisting 
in 
'civilised' 
man. 
In 
fact, 
it 
is 
the 
most 
common- 
place, 
if 
we consider 
the 
influence 
of 
Darwinism 
on contempor- 
ary 
thought. 
53 
He 
was 
interested in 
other, perhaps 
more sub- 
tle, 
atavisms, as 
is 
apparent 
in 
the 
following 
words 
from 
'Pastoral' 
: 
A 
trade 
that touches 
nature 
[shepherding] 
, 
one 
that 
lies 
at 
the 
foundations 
of 
life, 
in 
which 
we 
have 
all 
had 
ancestors 
employed, so 
that 
on 
a 
hint 
of 
it 
ancestral memories 
revive, 
lends 
itself 
to 
literary 
use, 
vocal or written. 
The 
fortune 
of 
a 
tale 
lies 
not 
alone 
in 
the 
skill of 
him 
who 
writes, 
but 
as 
much, 
perhaps, 
in 
the 
inherited 
ex- 
perience 
of 
him 
who reads 
... 
Thus 
novels 
begin 
to 
touch 
not 
the 
fine 
dilettanti but 
the 
gross 
mass 
of 
man- 
kind, 
when 
they 
leave 
off 
to 
speak of 
parlours 
and 
shades 
of 
manner 
and 
still-born 
niceties 
of 
motive, 
and 
begin 
to 
deal 
with 
fighting, 
sailoring, 
adventure, 
death 
or 
childbirth... 
These 
things 
have 
on 
them 
the 
dew 
of 
man's morning. 
s" 
_30_ 
This 
is 
as 
lucid 
a statement 
as 
one 
could wish 
of 
Carl Jung's 
belief 
that, 
as 
the 
body 
retains 
many of 
the 
forms 
of 
its 
ear- 
lier 
development, 
so 
does 
the 
mind, 
giving 
it 
the 
capacity 
to 
throw 
up 
primordial 
images, 
or archetypes. 
Stevenson 
felt 
that 
romance 
should 
appeal 
to this 
level 
of 
consciousness. 
To 
this 
end, 
some 
of 
his 
fiction 
scorns 
ideation 
and moral questions 
in 
order 
to 
appeal 
directly 
to the 
senses 
through 
pictorial 
lang- 
uage. 
The 
extreme 
feelings 
of 
fear 
and 
horror 
could 
be 
aroused 
in 
this 
way. 
But Stevenson 
was conscious 
that 
behind 
fantasy 
lay, 
in 
Chesterton' 
s 
words, a 
'real 
spiritual 
mystery' 
.S5 
The 
mystery 
lies 
in 
the 
shared 
imagery 
of 
the 
artist and 
his 
aud- 
ience, 
or 
rather 
'the 
inherited 
experience 
of 
him 
who reads. 
Children 
have 
the 
power 
to 
participate almost mystically 
in 
the 
unreal; 
and 
it 
was 
to 
them that 
Stevenson 
primarily addressed 
Treasure 
Island. 
But 
the 
ability 
to 
dissolve 
the 
boundary 
be- 
tween 
fantasy 
and 
reality 
is 
also 
characteristic 
of 
the 
primit- 
ive 
mind. 
We 
are 
reminded of 
the 
story of 
the 
boy 
playing 
boat, 
whom 
Stevenson 
reprimanded 
for 
not 
swimming away, 
when 
we 
hear 
that 
his 
native 
audience 
for 'The Bottle Imp' 
and 
'Isle 
of 
Voices' 
disdained 
to 
distinguish 
between 
which was 
invented 
and 
reality 
- 
they took those 
stories 
to 
be factual 
accounts, 
histories. 
56 
Elsie 
Noble 
Caldwell 
wrote 
a 
book 
about 
Stevenson 
in 
the 
South 
Seas, based 
upon 
the 
memories 
of 
the 
author's step-daughter 
and 
her 
own experience 
as an anthropologist 
in 
the 
islands. 
She 
remarks 
the 
prevalence 
of one 
form 
of psychic 
identity: 
The 
aitu, 
or 
disembodied 
spirit, 
is 
very 
real 
to 
the 
Samoans, 
as 
it 
is 
to 
all 
Polynesians. 
As 
with all 
primitive 
people, 
and especially 
the 
island 
dwellers 
restricted 
to 
a 
relatively 
small 
area, 
the 
void 
is 
not 
wide 
between 
the 
physical 
and 
spiritual. 
The 
aitu 
bridges 
the 
empty 
space 
and 
creates 
a 
definitive 
though 
eerie 
element 
in 
daily 
living, 
and 
in 
man' cases 
wields 
a power- 
ful 
disciplinary 
influence. 
' 
- 
31 
- 
Two 
of 
Stevenson's 
stories, 
'The 
Bottle Imp' 
and 
'The 
Isle 
of 
Voices 
'- 
both 
written 
in 
the 
South Seas 
- 
mix 
the 
physical 
and 
the 
spirit 
world 
using 
the 
demons 
of 
Polynesian 
mythology. 
An 
informal 
interview 
which 
Stevenson 
conducted 
with 
the 
editor 
of 
the Pacific 
Commercial 
Advertiser 
contains 
some 
matter 
pertinent 
to 
the 
literary 
treatment 
of 
Polynesian 
subjects: 
He 
then 
began 
speaking 
of 
the 
facility 
with which 
some 
of 
the 
South Sea 
legends 
could 
be 
turned to 
account 
as 
the 
basis 
for 
short 
sketches, 
and often 
for 
weird 
fables, 
if 
placed 
in 
antithesis 
against 
our 
modern 
beliefs. 
At 
the 
same 
time 
he 
took 
occas- 
ion 
to 
point 
out 
that 
many of 
these 
legends, 
as 
he 
expressed 
it, 
'seemed 
to 
be 
without 
bottom, 
al- 
though 
they 
certainly 
contained 
the 
salt and rhyme 
of 
reason 
among 
the 
crudest. 
of savage 
superstit- 
ions'. 
s8 
Stevenson' 
s sojourn 
in 
the 
South 
Seas faced 
him 
with 
discover- 
ies 
of 
this 
sort, which 
could 
be 
useful 
to 
him 
in 
his 
vocation. 
In 
the 
South Seas, 
then, 
is 
a 
very 
different 
kind 
of 
travel 
book 
from 
those 
early ones 
in 
which 
he 
claimed 
that 
he 
trav- 
elled 
only 
for 
the 
sake of 
the 
journey. 
He 
found 
there 
a 
cul- 
ture 
in 
which 
the 
spiritual 
world 
was 
said 
to 
have 
an 
object- 
ive 
existence, 
and 
in 
which 
there 
was 
mediation 
between 
the 
world 
of 
the 
gods and 
that 
of men. 
One 
of 
the 
most 
striking aspects of 
In 
the 
South 
Seas 
is 
the 
impression 
made 
upon 
Stevenson by 
the 
important 
role 
which 
symbols 
played 
in 
the 
natural 
life 
of 
the 
islanders. 
A 
large 
portion of 
his 
text 
discusses 
the 
demons, 
tapus, 
religious 
cus- 
toms 
and mythology 
of 
the 
Polynesians. 
His 
method of 
eliciting 
information 
about 
native 
legends 
is intriguing, 
and 
is 
relevant 
here: 
Points 
of similarity 
between 
a 
South Sea 
people 
and 
some 
of 
my 
own 
folk 
at 
home 
ran much 
in 
my 
head 
in 
the 
islands; 
and not only 
inclined 
me 
to 
view 
my 
fresh 
acquaintances with 
favour, 
but 
con- 
tinually 
modified 
my 
judgement. 
A 
polite 
English- 
_32_ 
man 
comes 
today 
to 
the 
Marquesans 
and 
is 
amazed 
to 
find 
the 
men 
tattooed; 
polite 
Italians 
came 
not 
long 
ago 
to 
England 
and 
found 
our 
fathers 
stained 
with 
woad... 
so 
insecure 
is 
the 
preeminence 
of 
race. 
It 
was 
so 
that 
I hit 
upon 
a 
means of 
commun- 
ication 
which 
I 
recommend 
to 
travellers. 
When 
I 
desired 
any 
detail 
of 
savage 
custom, 
or of 
super- 
stitious 
belief, 
I 
cast 
back 
in 
the 
story 
of my 
fathers, 
and 
fished 
for 
what 
I 
wanted with 
some 
trait 
of equal 
barbarism: 
Michael 
Scott, Lord 
Derwentwater's 
head, 
the 
second 
sight, 
the 
Water 
Kelpie. 
59 
Stevenson 
is 
far from 
suggesting 
that 
there 
is 
a common, 
univ- 
ersal 
mythology. 
He 
merely 
makes 
the 
comparison with 
Scotland. 
But he 
does 
so 
on 
many 
occasions 
throughout the 
book, in 
an 
attempt 
to 
establish 
'a 
sense 
of 
kinship' 
with 
the 
Polynes- 
ians, illustrating 
the 
persistence 
of 
his 
efforts 
to 
surmount 
his 
own provinciality. 
This kinship 
extends 
backwards 
into 
the 
his- 
tory 
of 
his 
own 
province. 
He 
writes, with. a 
very 
human 
sense 
of responsibility, 
of 
the 
customs of 
'my 
fathers, 
indicating 
his 
interest 
in 
the 
wizards and 
brownies 
of 
Scotland's 
past. 
It 
would not 
be 
too 
contentious 
to 
say 
that 
Stevenson did 
not 
feel 
alienated 
from 
the 
past, 
including its 
survival 
in 
the 
form 
of 
primitive 
cultures, 
in 
the 
same way 
that 
he felt 
himself 
a 
stranger 
in 
his 
own 
time 
and place. 
As 
a 
result of 
this, 
we 
can observe 
in 
his 
writings 
two 
sorts of 
humility, 
which are 
really 
two 
sides 
of 
the 
same 
coin: 
he 
does 
not 
look 
upon 
the 
past 
as 
a process 
which 
leads 
to 
the 
present 
in 
any 
progress- 
ive 
sense; 
and, 
secondly, 
he 
fails 
to 
see 
the 
supposed 
inferior- 
ity 
of primitive 
culture 
to the 
imperial 
power 
of nineteenth 
century 
Europe. 
60 
(We 
might note 
how 
this 
points 
forward 
to 
some 
literary 
tendencies 
of 
the twentieth 
century: 
I have 
in 
mind 
Joyce's 
cyclic 
theory 
of 
history; Yeats' 
interest 
in 
folk- 
lore; 
Lawrence's 
desperate 
global 
search 
for 
a 
savage 
commun- 
ity. 
) 
In 
the 
above 
passage, 
Stevenson 
points 
out 
that 
his 
own 
country 
was 
once 
on 
the 
perimeter 
of 
"civilisation". 
I 
cannot 
help 
but 
notice 
the 
similarity 
of 
the 
notion 
expressed 
here 
to 
that 
of 
the 
opening section 
of 
Joseph 
Conrad's 
novella 
Heart 
of 
-33- 
Darkness. 
"' 
There, 
too, the 
world of 
the 
Roman 
Empire 
symbol- 
ises 
one 
thing 
- 
Law. 
To 
go 
beyond 
the 
boundaries 
of civilis- 
ation, 
in 
European 
term 
s, 
was 
to 
go 
beyond human 
law. 
Steven- 
son 
was 
aware 
of 
the 
applicability 
of 
the 
Roman 
Empire 
as a 
symbol 
of 
law, 
and 
he 
used 
it 
in 
In 
the 
South 
Seas. 
In his 
first 
confrontation 
with 
dumb, 
uncom 
prehending 
Marquesans, 
he 
wrote: 
I 
was 
now 
escaped 
out 
of 
the 
shadow 
of 
the 
Roman 
Empire, 
under 
whose 
toppling 
monuments 
we 
were 
all 
cradled, 
whose 
laws 
and 
letters 
are on every 
hand 
of 
us, 
constraining 
and 
preventing. 
I 
was 
now 
to 
see 
what 
men 
might 
be 
whose 
fathers 
had 
never 
studied 
Virgil, had 
never 
been 
conquered 
by 
Caesar, 
and 
never 
been 
ruled 
by 
the 
wisdom 
of 
Gaius 
or 
Papinian. 
62 
(In 
this 
context, 
the 
copy 
of 
Virgil 
which 
Herrick, 
in 
Ebb- 
Tide, 
carries, assumes 
the 
status 
of 
a 
symbol of 
his 
continuing 
lawfulness 
in 
the 
midst of unlawfulness). 
The 
sense of 
the 
coll- 
apse of 
the 
great 
Empire dramatises 
a 
feeling 
which was 
com- 
mon 
to 
many of 
the 
artists 
and 
intellectuals 
of 
the 
l 
ate 
nineteenth century: 
that they 
stood at 
the 
end of 
an 
era; 
that 
the 
evangelistic and self-confident spirit of 
the 
age which 
had 
produced 
another empire was coming 
to 
an end. 
Its 
very energy 
came 
from 
frequent 
appeals 
to 
its 
own 
righteousness 
and a 
belief 
in 
the 
evil 
savagery of 
those 
lesser breeds beyond 
its 
law. 
A 
philosophy 
goes with 
this 
Roman 
ideal. 
It 
is 
most 
explicitly 
pro- 
moted 
in 
the 
view 
which sees man 
as 
being 
a citizen above all 
else; 
he has 
his 
being 
as 
the 
subject 
of 
the 
authority of 
the 
state 
and 
its 
laws 
- 
thus 
man 
is 
civilised, 
belongs 
to 
the 
'civis'. 
(The 
concern 
with 
distant, 
and more 
Dionysian, 
cul- 
tures 
was 
not confined 
to 
fin 
de 
siecle exotics. 
Beatrice Webb's 
My 
Apprenticeship 
gives 
a good account 
of 
the 
general 
taste 
for 
Eastern 
art 
and 
primitive 
artefacts63 
). 
Stevenson 
was 
concerned 
with 
this 
whole 
question, as 
he 
saw 
the 
assured 
priorities of 
white civilisation 
in 
conflict 
with 
- 
34 
- 
native 
culture, 
and 
trying 
to 
impose 
its 
own sense 
of right 
and 
wrong 
upon 
the 
islanders. 
He 
observes 
that 
the 
natives 
do 
not 
reciprocate 
this 
attitude, 
and 
he 
sums 
it 
up 
in 
this 
way: 
A 
white 
is 
a 
white: 
the 
servant 
(so 
other 
and more 
liberal 
gods; 
and 
not 
if 
he 
profit 
by his liberty. 
The 
Jews 
the 
first 
to 
interrupt 
this 
ancient 
con 
and 
the 
Jewish 
virus 
is 
still 
strong 
ity. 
6a 
to 
speak) 
of 
to 
be 
blamed 
were 
perhaps 
city 
of 
faiths; 
in 
Christian- 
Stevenson 
recognises, 
in 
qualification, 
that the 
missionaries 
were 
less 
reprehensible 
than those 
who 
had 
purely 
commercial 
motives and 
exploited 
the 
people 
economically. 
But 
it 
is inter- 
esting 
to 
note 
that 
in 
Ebb-Tide 
the 
character 
Attwater 
combines 
the 
roles of religious 
law-giver 
and 
economic 
exploiter, 
and 
he 
actually 
brings 
a 
feeling 
of 
holy 
zeal 
to the 
accumulation 
of 
pearls. 
He 
represents 
two 
kinds 
of 
Election, 
as a superior 
white 
man 
and as one 
chosen 
by God for 
salvation. 
65 
Again 
we 
see 
Stevenson' 
s 
concern with 
forms 
of 
self-righteous 
provincial- 
ity. 
We 
have 
observed 
in 
In 
the 
South Seas 
a 
conflict 
which only 
surfaces occasionally 
in 
the 
book 
itself: 
between 
the 
self- 
conscious, 
procedural 
order 
of 
Europe 
and 
the 
primary 
instinct- 
ive 
loyalties 
of 
the 
Polynesians 
to 
clan chiefs 
(another 
parallel 
Stevenson 
draws 
with 
Scotland), 
family, 
ancestors and gods. 
Just 
such 
an 
opposition 
is 
to 
be 
found 
in 
Kidnapped 
and 
Cat- 
riona, 
both 
written 
before 
ever 
he 
saw 
the 
South 
Seas. 
He 
was 
so responsive 
to 
conflict 
in 
these 
terms 
precisely 
because 
they 
answered 
to 
warring 
tendencies 
in 
his 
own 
mind, 
for 
which 
he 
found 
a 
variety 
of 
literary 
means 
of 
expression. 
Hermann 
Melville, 
in 
his Typee, 
represents 
the 
Pacific 
island 
onto 
which 
he 
deserts 
as 
an 
Eden. But 
it is 
an 
Eden 
which 
he 
cannot 
inhabit 
comfortably. 
His 
memories of 
his 
previous 
life 
intrude. 
into 
his 
near 
idyllic 
existence 
and 
make 
him 
an 
-35- 
observer 
who 
is 
askew 
his 
arcadian 
surroundings. 
Eventually, 
he 
has 
to 
escape. 
Stevenson, 
on 
the 
contrary, 
does 
not 
allow 
himself 
to 
be 
swallowed 
up 
by 
the 
islanders. 
He 
composes 
himself 
and 
his 
entourage 
into 
a 
lairdship 
in 
a 
large 
house 
and 
estate 
above 
the town 
of 
Upolu; 
and 
thus 
he 
maintains 
a 
distance 
between 
island 
existence 
and 
his 
own. 
While 
he 
sympathises 
with 
the 
native peoples, 
(particularly 
on 
Samoa, 
where 
he 
backs 
the 
cause of political 
independence 
and 
argues 
for 
the 
restitution of 
the 
native monarchy), 
he 
does 
not seek 
identity 
with 
them 
as a 
true 
primitivist 
would 
have done. 
66 
Encumbered 
by 
a 
family, 
Stevenson' 
s 
primitivism 
turns 
out. 
to 
be 
severely 
qualified. 
The 
lucidity 
of 
his desire 
for 
the 
exotic 
struggled 
to 
survive 
the 
reality, 
and eventually 
converted 
itself 
into 
a 
longing for 
what 
he had left, 
as 
though 
absence 
was a necessary 
condition of 
his 
writing. 
This 
perhaps 
explains 
the 
difficulty he had 
in 
writing 
In 
the 
South 
Seas. 
More 
than 
that, 
it 
reveals 
that 
the true 
aspect of 
Stevenson' 
s 
primitivism was as a 
form 
of 
desire. 
I 
would 
submit 
that 
Stevenson' 
s 
travelling 
has 
this 
in 
common with 
the 
desire 
to 
recreate 
childhood, 
the 
other 
version of 
primitivism which 
we 
discover 
in 
his 
life: 
that 
its 
destination 
is 
irrecoverable, 
and 
fated 
always 
to 
be 
at 
a 
distance. 
Both 
were paradigms of 
freedom 
from 
that 
self promoted 
by 
adult society. 
It 
can 
be 
seen 
from 
this 
attitude 
that 
there 
was 
no 
transcendent 
"home" 
for Stevenson. There 
is 
a 
possible 
freedom, 
and 
it 
is 
measured 
by 
the 
power which 
the 
interior 
has 
over 
the 
object 
world. 
One 
might say 
that 
the 
categories 
of 
the 
exterior 
world 
are 
forms 
projected 
by 
the 
interior; 
they 
are 
longings. 
That 
is 
why 
Stevenson 
rejects 
the 
conventional and 
the 
local. 
These 
are 
the 
forms 
taken 
by 
the 
exterior world 
and, 
unfortunately, 
they 
offer 
no authority 
which 
he 
can 
accept 
as 
being 
authentic. 
He 
is, 
therefore, 
forced 
back 
on 
his 
own 
identity, 
which 
is in 
opposition 
to 
social 
convention 
and 
to 
province. 
_36_ 
This 
particular 
opposition of self 
and exterior social 
convention 
and 
parish 
is 
summed 
up 
for 
us 
in 
a 
fable 
which 
Stevenson 
wrote. 
It 
is 
short 
and may 
be 
given 
here 
in 
toto: 
The Citizen 
and 
the 
Traveller 
'Look 
around 
you, 
' 
said 
the 
citizen. 
'This is 
the 
largest 
market 
in 
the 
world. 
' 
'Oh, 
surely 
not, 
' 
said 
the 
traveller. 
'Well, 
perhaps 
not 
the 
largest, 
' 
said 
the 
citizen, 
'but 
much 
the 
best. 
' 
'You 
are certainly 
wrong 
there, 
' 
said 
the 
traveller. 
'I 
can 
tell 
you... 
' 
They 
buried 
the 
stranger at 
dusk. 
67 
The fable describes 
a 
hostility. 
It has been 
the 
argument 
of 
this 
chapter 
that 
the 
opposition of 
the 
Traveller 
and 
the 
Citizen 
is 
most 
instructively 
viewed 
as a 
duality. 
Understanding 
the 
vital 
hostility 
of 
the 
Citizen 
and 
the 
Traveller 
as a 
duality 
means 
that 
we 
have 
to 
comprehend 
that 
Stevenson 
could 
take 
up 
the 
attitude 
of 
the 
Citizen 
and 
the 
attitude of 
the 
Traveller. 
In 
the travel 
literature he 
has 
more 
frequently 
taken 
the 
latter 
role; 
but 
we 
shall 
see 
how 
a 
more 
balanced 
relation 
of 
Traveller 
and 
Citizen 
is 
often achieved 
in 
his 
fiction. 
Such 
a 
duality 
is 
only one 
component, 
albeit an 
important 
one, 
of 
the 
rift 
between interior 
and 
exterior, 
between 
the 
moi 
(1) 
and 
the 
lui 
(he). 
The "he" is 
at 
home 
in 
the 
external 
world; 
he 
feels 
there 
to 
be 
no conflict 
between 
the 
self 
given 
to 
him 
and 
that 
which 
he desires; 
whereas 
the 
Traveller 
is 
at 
home 
nowhere 
and 
is 
aware, 
above 
all 
else, of 
the 
dissonance 
between 
the 
self 
he 
desires 
and 
the 
given 
self. 
The 
traveller, 
then, 
is in 
a 
permanent 
state 
of 
longing 
and, 
therefore, 
is 
forever 
turning 
away, 
as well as 
turning 
towards. 
- 
37 
- 
When 
we 
say 
that the traveller 
is 
turning 
towards, 
we 
also 
say 
that 
he 
is 
an 
adventurer: 
the 
etymology 
of 
adventure 
tells 
us 
so. 
It 
is 
natural 
that 
Stevenson 
should 
use 
a 
form 
which 
abrogates 
citizenship 
and 
gives 
form 
to 
longing: 
the 
adventure 
novel. 
Before 
examining 
the 
novels 
which 
more obviously 
fall 
into 
the 
adventure 
category, 
I 
will 
explore 
the 
connections 
between 
the 
subjective/objective 
split 
and 
Stevenson' 
s rhetoric 
in 
his 
short 
stories 
and 
in 
one 
longer 
tale, 
The 
Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde. 
The 
next 
chapter 
is 
devoted 
to 
the 
short stories, 
and 
the 
subsequent 
one 
to 
Dr 
Jekyll. 
Each 
of 
these 
chapters 
and 
the 
ones 
following 
will 
bring 
to 
light 
a 
number of 
other 
ideal 
opposites 
which exist 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
fiction. 
These 
oppositions 
all 
derive from 
the 
fundamental duality 
of 
moi 
(1) 
and 
lui 
(he). 
These 
aspects of 
self represent 
the 
points 
between 
which 
the 
Stevensonian 
hero 
is 
forced 
to 
gaze 
in 
order 
to 
see 
himself: 
David Balfour 
squinting at 
Alan Breck 
in 
Kidnapped; 
Jekyll looking 
in 
horror 
at 
Hyde, 
who 
is 
himself; 
Herrick 
struggling 
to 
dissociate himself from his 
companions 
in 
Ebb-Tide; Archie Weir 
recognising 
that 
his 
rebellion against 
his 
father 
reproduces 
his 
father's 
strength 
in 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston. 
All 
of 
these 
characters 
face 
a 
divide 
in 
their 
being, 
a separation 
within 
themselves 
and 
between 
themselves 
and 
the 
world. 
For 
Stevenson, 
those 
divides 
are 
the 
same 
divides. 
CHAPTER 
II 
The 
Subjective Vision: 
The Short 
Stories 
' 
L' homme 
est un 
animal 
mechant. 
' 
(Joseph 
Conrad, 
Letter 
to 
R. 
B. 
Cunninghame-Graham 
) 
'There 
are 
two 
antithetical 
ways 
of 
becoming 
conscious of one's 
own 
existence: 
firstly, 
by 
empirical 
perception, 
by 
seeing 
it 
as 
it 
appears 
from 
without, an evanescently 
small 
existence 
in 
a 
world 
boundless 
in 
space 
and 
time 
... 
Secondly, however, 
by 
plunging 
into 
one's own 
inner 
self 
and 
realizing 
that 
it 
is 
all-in-all 
and actually 
the 
only real 
being 
which, 
as 
an 
addition, sees 
itself 
reflected 
in 
its 
outward 
form 
as 
if 
in 
a 
mirror. 
' 
(Arthur 
Schopenhauer, 'On 
Ethics') 
_38_ 
CHAPTER 
II 
Stevenson 
did 
not 
write 
his first 
complete 
novel, 
Treasure 
Island, 
until 
he 
was 
thirty-one 
years of age. 
In 
fact, 
Arthur 
Conan 
Doyle, 
writing as 
late 
as 
1889, 
put 
forward 
the 
view 
that 
Stevenson's 
eminence 
should 
be 
based 
on 
his 
skill as 
a 
short 
story 
writer 
and not 
on 
his 
achievements 
as a novelist: 
He 
can 
claim 
to 
have 
mastered 
the 
whole gamut of 
fiction. 
His 
short 
stories are 
good, and 
his 
long 
ones 
are 
good. 
On 
the 
whole, 
however, 
the 
short 
ones are 
the 
more characteristic, 
and 
the 
more 
certain 
to 
retain 
their 
position 
in 
English liter- 
ature... 
Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
Stevenson: 
those 
are 
the 
three, 
put 
them 
in 
what 
order you 
will, 
who are 
the 
greatest 
exponents 
of 
the 
short 
story 
in 
our 
language. 
Not 
every 
critic 
might now agree 
with 
Doyle's 
confident placing 
of 
Stevenson 
alongside 
Poe 
and 
Hawthorne. In 
addition, 
the 
pic- 
ture 
of 
the 
writer 
turning 
with casual 
mastery 
from 
one 
form 
of 
fiction 
to the 
other 
is 
rather a 
false 
one. 
Discussing 
the 
genesis of 
Treasure 
Island, Stevenson 
wrote 
that 
I 
anybody can 
write 
a 
short story 
-a 
bad 
one, 
I 
mean 
- 
who 
has 
industry 
and paper and 
time 
enough; 
but 
not 
everyone may 
hope 
to 
write even a 
bad 
novel' 
.2 
And he 
then 
records 
the 
dismay 
with 
which 
the 
very 
idea 
of a 
full-length 
novel 
filled him: 
I 
remember 
I 
used 
to 
look, 
in 
those 
days, 
upon 
every 
three-volume 
novel with a sort 
of veneration, 
as a 
feat 
- 
not possibly of 
literature 
- 
but 
at 
least 
of physical and 
moral 
endurance 
and 
the 
courage 
of 
Ajax. 
3 
And 
indeed 
many of 
Stevenson's 
novels 
do have 
faults 
of con- 
struction, 
indicating 
that 
his 
preliminary 
fears had, 
perhaps, 
some 
justification. 
Marcel 
Schwob 
is 
suggestive 
in 
this 
respect 
when 
he 
remarks 
that 
Stevenson 
habitually had 
a symbolic 
or 
0 
- 
39 
- 
imagistic 
point 
of 
departure 
for his 
stories 
and 
that 
he 
often 
had 
difficulty 
in integrating this 
basic 
material 
with 
the 
move- 
ment 
of 
plot 
in 
time. 
" 
Insofar 
as 
this 
criticism 
has 
any 
valid- 
ity, 
it 
might 
elucidate 
Doyle's 
proposal 
that 
Stevenson's 
most 
characteristic 
fiction 
was 
short 
- 
the 
point 
being 
that 
imagism 
begets 
concision. 
However, 
even 
if 
one 
concludes 
that 
Steven- 
son's 
forte 
was 
the 
novel, 
his 
short 
stories cannot 
be 
written 
off 
as 
diversions, because 
his 
commitment 
to the 
form 
was 
life- 
long 
and 
intense. 
Therefore, I 
shall examine 
Stevenson's 
short 
fiction, 
to try to 
establish 
what 
kind 
of 
stories 
he 
wrote, 
what 
their 
themes 
are 
and 
how 
these thematic 
preoccupations 
relate 
to the 
rest 
of 
his 
work. 
One 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
most 
highly 
praised short stories 
is, 
oddly 
enough, 
set 
into 
the 
novel 
Catriona. It 
is 
'The Tale 
of 
Tod 
Lapraik' 
(first 
published 
1892-3), 
-recounted 
by 
Black 
Andie 
during 
David 
Balfour's 
imprisonment 
on 
the 
Bass Rock. 
Catriona 
is 
Stevenson's 
most 
Scottean 
novel and 
it 
may 
be 
that 
he 
intended 
'The Tale 
of 
Tod 
Lapraik' 
as an acknowledgement of 
the 
earlier 
writer's 
influ- 
ence. 
In Redgauntlet 
there 
is 
a story within 
the 
story 
- 
'Wandering 
Willie's Tale' 
- 
and 
in 
it, 
the 
reader of 
Catriona 
might remember, 
Willie's 
Grandfather borrows 
money 
from 
a 
'neighbour 
they 
ca' 
d Laurie Lapraik 
-a 
sly 
tod'. 
5 
Unlike 
'Wandering 
Willie's Tale', 
however, 
Tod 
Lapraik's 
contributes 
nothing 
to the 
overall 
significance 
of 
the 
novel 
in 
which 
it is 
found 
- 
except, 
perhaps, 
to 
add 
interest 
to 
a 
potentially 
dull 
part of 
it. 
The 
parasitic 
stature 
of 
the tale 
is 
apparently 
acknowledged 
in 
Stevenson's 
description 
of 
it 
as 
'an 
episodical 
bogie 
story about 
the 
Bass 
Rock 
'. 
6 
On 
the 
other 
hand 
the term 
'episodical' 
could refer 
to 
the 
fact 
that 
it 
falls 
into 
two 
parts. 
Either 
way, one 
can 
imagine 
that 
Henry James's hair 
stood 
on 
end 
not 
only at 
the 
horror in 
the 
story, 
but 
also 
at 
his 
friend's 
placing an 
independent 
fiction 
within a novel. 
Indeed, 
it 
contradicts 
what 
Stevenson himself 
wrote 
about 
the 
making 
of 
a 
novel. 
The 
writer, 
he 
said, should 
- 
40 
- 
carefully 
construct 
his 
plot 
so 
that 
every 
incident 
is 
an 
illustration 
of 
the 
motive, 
and 
every 
prop- 
erty 
employed 
shall 
bear 
to 
it 
a 
near 
relation 
of 
congruity 
or 
contrast. 
7 
Aside 
from 
warning 
us 
to 
be 
wary 
of 
assuming 
too 
close 
a rel- 
ationship 
between 
Stevenson' 
s 
theory 
and 
his 
practice, 
the 
dis- 
parity 
forces 
us 
to 
ask 
why 
Stevenson 
countenanced 
such 
an 
abuse 
of 
his 
critical 
principles. 
'Tod 
Lapraik' 
obtrudes 
so 
noticeably 
into 
Catriona 
because 
it 
has 
its 
source 
in 
a 
different 
part 
of 
Stevenson's 
imagination 
from 
the 
rest 
of 
his 
novel. 
The 
clue 
is 
given 
to 
us after 
Andie 
has 
finished 
his 
tale, 
which 
is 
ostensibly 
about 
his 
own 
father: 
Neil, 
as 
I have 
said, 
was 
himself 
a 
great 
narrat- 
or. 
I have 
heard 
since 
that 
he 
knew 
all 
the 
stor- 
ies 
in 
the 
Highlands; 
and 
thought 
much 
of 
himself, 
and 
was 
thought 
much of 
by 
others, on 
the 
strength 
of 
it. Now 
Andie's 
tale 
reminded 
him 
of 
one 
he had 
already 
heard. 
'She 
would 
ken 
that 
story 
afore, 
' 
he 
said. 
'She 
was 
the 
story 
of 
Uistean 
More 
M'Gillie 
Phadrig 
and 
the 
Gavar 
Vore. 
' 
Neil's 
outburst 
suggests 
to 
us 
that 
the 
tale 
is 
a 
folk, 
or 
quasi- 
folk, 
tale, 
describing 
not a unique set 
of 
events 
but 
incorpor- 
ating 
images 
out 
of 
the 
common 
lore. 
(Stevenson 
often used 
folk 
legends 
as 
the 
basis 
of 
art short stories 
and poems 
- 
'The 
Isle 
of 
Voices' 
and 
'Ticonderoga' 
are 
examples 
- 
and 
'The 
Bottle Imp' 
was 
a 
European 
folk 
tale 
which 
he 
translated 
into 
a 
Polynesian 
background. 
) 
'Tod 
Lapraik', 
then, 
is 
not 
to 
be 
taken 
as an 
historical 
narrat- 
ive, 
but 
as 
a 
typical 
nightmare, 
common 
in 
this 
case 
to 
both 
the 
Lowlander 
and 
the 
Gael. This 
outcrop of supernatural 
and, 
as 
I 
hope 
to 
argue, at 
least 
partially 
symbolic 
material, 
is 
at 
- 
41 
- 
odds 
with 
the 
rest 
of 
Catriona. 
David Balfour 
acts with and 
through 
other 
characters, 
Alan, Miss Grant, 
Catriona 
herself; 
the 
demands 
of 
the 
State 
and 
the 
law 
are 
influential 
on 
the 
course 
of 
the 
narrative. 
But 'Tod Lapraik' 
is in 
essence 
about 
a 
man 
alone. 
This 
quality 
is 
best 
appreciated 
in 
the 
terrifying 
scene 
on 
the 
precipice, where 
he 
is 
beset 
by 
a 
demonic 
solan 
(and 
the 
use 
of 
the 
Scots 
word 
is 
wise; 
gannet would 
have 
had 
an effect 
of 
bathos), 
an 
incarnation 
of 
Tod 
Lapraik. The 
scene 
shows 
that 
ability 
to 
focus 
sharply 
which 
distinguishes 
the 
whole 
story, 
and 
it is helped 
in 
this 
by 
the 
use 
of 
Scots, 
which 
forces 
the 
reader 
to 
take the 
measure 
of 
the 
words 
and 
pay 
them 
the 
respect 
that 
is 
due 
to the 
unfamiliar. 
General des- 
cription 
of 
Tam's 
insouciance 
gives 
way 
to 
a closely visualised 
account 
of 
the 
source 
of 
his 
growing 
terror, 
seen, as 
if 
with 
his 
own eyes, 
in 
very 
particular 
fashion: 
The 
solan 
keekit doun 
into 
Tam's face, 
and 
there 
was something 
unco 
in 
the 
creature's ee. 
Just 
the 
ae 
keek 
it 
gied, and 
back 
to 
the 
rope... 
There 
never 
was 
the 
solan made 
that 
wroucht 
as 
that 
solan 
wroucht: and 
it 
seemed 
to 
understand 
its 
em- 
ploy 
brawly, birzing 
the 
saft 
rope 
between 
the 
neb 
of 
it 
and a 
crunkled 
jag 
o' 
stane. 
9 
This 
almost subjective perception makes 
the 
passage more 
terri- 
fying. But 
it 
also emphasises 
Tam's 
isolation: 
'whaur 
Tam 
hung 
there 
was 
naething 
but 
the 
Craig and 
the 
sea 
belaw, 
and 
the 
solans skirling and 
flying' 
.i? 
In 
fact, 
none of 
his 
compan- 
ions 
has 
seen 
the 
bizarre behaviour 
of 
the 
bird 
or can under- 
stand 
his 
terror. 
Both 
are 
eventually 
explained 
when 
it is 
re- 
vealed 
that 
Tod 
was 
a 
warlock 
who, we 
assume, 
turned 
himself 
into 
a 
bird 
in 
order 
to 
kill Tam, 
who was 
his 
rival 
for 
the 
guardianship 
of 
the 
rock. 
The 
culmination 
of 
the 
story, 
the 
killing 
of 
Lapraik, 
and 
the 
complete 
contradiction 
of 
the 
ordin- 
ary 
laws 
of 
nature 
which 
it implies, 
may 
reconcile 
many 
read- 
ers 
to 
leaving 
the 
story as a straightforward 
tale 
of 
the 
super- 
natural 
- 
and 
so 
it 
is, 
at 
the 
very 
least. 
However, 
we also 
have to 
take 
into 
consideration 
the 
earlier section 
of 
the 
_42_ 
narrative 
which 
deals 
with 
Tam 
Dale's 
youth 
when 
he 
was 
a 
soldier 
on 
the 
rock, 
his 
pleasures 
and 
his 
subsequent 
mortificat- 
ion 
when 
Black 
shame was on 
his 
saul; 
his 
sins 
hove 
up 
be- 
fore 
him 
muckte 
as 
the 
Bass, 
and 
above 
a', 
that 
chief 
sin, 
that 
he 
should 
have 
a 
hand 
in 
hagging 
and 
hashing 
at 
Christ's 
Kirk. 
t 
When 
he 
is 
cursed 
by 
Peden 
the 
Prophet 
(an 
historical 
figure 
who 
resembles 
Habbakuk 
Mucklewrath 
of 
Old 
Mortality), 
'conviction 
of 
guilt and 
grace cam 
in 
on 
Tam 
like 
the 
deep 
sea' 
. 
12 
The 
assoc- 
iation, 
made 
in 
this 
first 
part 
of 
the 
story, 
between 
the 
Bass 
and 
Tam's 
'black 
shame 
', 
between 
Peden's 
curse and 
his 
'con- 
viction 
of guilt 
and 
grace' 
, 
creates 
a 
psychological 
dimension 
to 
the 
narrative 
which 
is 
not sustained 
by 
its 
explicitly super- 
natural 
conclusion. 
What 
does link 
the two 
parts of 
the 
story 
is 
a 
thematic 
parallelism; 
a young girl 
is 
killed, 
in 
exactly 
the 
way 
he 
predicted, 
by Peden's 
hate; he 
also prophesies 
that 
Tam Dale 
will 
suffer 
from 
the 
attentions of 
the 
devil 
in 
one 
form 
or another, 
and 
this 
comes 
to 
pass 
through the 
hate 
which 
Tod Lapraik has 
for 
his 
rival. 
The 
parallel 
lies 
in 
the 
fact 
that 
in 
each case reality 
conforms 
to 
desire. 
I do 
not 
want 
to 
go 
any 
further 
in 
this 
direction 
without a 
more 
detailed 
consideration 
of some of 
Stevenson's 
other stories. 
In 
particular, 
we must 
ask 
if 
exterior, 
physical 
actions 
and 
images 
can 
be 
intended 
to 
have 
interior 
values. 
Th. 
subjective 
cast 
of 
Stevenson's 
short 
stories will 
be 
related 
to 
the theme 
of 
the 
self 
and 
to 
the 
moral 
difficulties 
posed 
by 
discontinuities 
of 
the 
self. 
'The 
Merry 
Men' 
(1881) 
is 
a 
story of 
moral 
and 
spiritual 
crisis. 
Stevenson 
wrote 
to 
W. E. Hen1`y in 
1881, 
the 
year 
of 
writing, 
that 
'The 
Merry 
Men' 
was 
'a 
fantastic 
sonata 
about 
the 
sea 
and 
wrecks'. 
13 
And 
indeed 
this 
emphasis 
on 
the 
- 
43 
- 
element 
of 
impressionistic 
description 
of 
nature 
has 
been 
accepted 
by 
most 
critics, who 
have 
tended 
to 
see 
the 
tale 
as 
a 
virtuoso 
feat 
of 
pure writing. 
This 
fails 
to 
take 
account 
of 
the 
moral 
and 
spiritual 
struggle 
which 
the 
sea 
embodies. 
Gordon 
Darnaway's 
extreme 
spiritual 
and 
psychological 
confus- 
ions 
are 
projected 
onto 
the 
sea, 
the 
qualities 
of 
which 
are 
al- 
ways 
informed 
by 
a perceiving 
human 
consciousness. 
Crime, 
Hawthorne 
never 
tired 
of saying, 
isolates. 
Witness 
Miriam 
and 
Donatello 
caught 
up 
in 
their 
private 
horror, 
the 
knowledge 
of 
their 
crime. 
i'' 
Stevenson 
had 
a similar religious 
background 
to 
Hawthorne 
(there 
are 
also 
artistic 
affinities, as 
we 
shall 
see 
in 
due 
course), 
and 
this 
may 
account 
for his 
stressing 
the 
isolation 
of 
Gordon 
Darnaway, 
where 
a 
writer 
with- 
in 
a 
different 
religious 
tradition, 
like Dostoievsky, 
would 
imag- 
inatively 
grasp 
the 
common 
humanising force 
of sin 
in 
the 
possibility 
of 
redemption. 
But 
Gordon Darnaway's 
Cameronian- 
ism 
produces a 
fatalism 
bordering 
on 
madness, 
a 
perception 
of 
the 
great gulf 
between 
sinful man and 
God, 
and man 
and 
host- 
ile 
nature, which 
marks 
him 
off 
from 
the 
other 
God- 
and 
sea- 
fearing 
characters 
in 
the 
story 
by 
its 
very 
intensity. 
At 
a point 
in 
the 
narrative where 
his 
crime 
has 
only 
been 
hinted 
at, 
he 
move 
s 
from 
a perverse 
sardonicism 
which 
is 
the 
opposite of 
humour 
- 
'there's 
dells 
in 
the 
deep 
sea would yoke 
on a communicant! 
' 
- 
to 
a 
deranged 
soliloquy which 
is 
an 
un- 
rivalled 
expression 
of 
intense 
revulsion 
at nature: 
'If 
ye 
had 
but 
used 
the 
een 
God 
gave 
ye, ye would 
hae learned 
the 
wickedness 
o' 
that 
fause, 
saut, 
cauld, 
bullering 
creature, 
and of 
a' 
that's 
in it 
by 
the 
Lord's 
permission: 
labsters 
an' partans, 
an' 
sic 
like, 
howking 
in 
the 
deid; 
muckle, gutsy, 
blawing 
whales; 
an' 
fish 
- 
the 
hale 
clan o' 
them 
- 
cauld-wamed, 
blind-eed 
uncanny 
ferlies. 
' 
And 
he 
finishes, 
anticipating 
Kurtz 
in 
Heart 
of 
Darkness: 
-44- 
, 
the 
horror 
- 
the 
horror 
o' 
the 
sea! 
''5 
Now, 
I 
do 
not 
find 
this 
stylised 
writing, 
despite 
the 
accumul- 
ation 
of 
adjectives 
and 
the 
intensity 
of 
the 
alliteration, 
be- 
cause 
it 
successfully captures 
the 
rhythms 
of a violent 
and an 
obsessive 
voice; 
and 
the 
particularity 
of what 
has 
gone 
before 
gives 
that 
final declaration 
of 
horror 
its 
justification. 
The 
sea 
and 
its 
contents 
are seen 
through 
the 
mind of 
a 
de- 
ranged 
man. 
Of 
course, 
Gordon 
Darnaway's fear 
of 
the 
ocean's 
violence 
is 
not 
unique 
to 
him. 
The 
water around 
Aros Jay 
is 
the 
source 
of a 
multitude 
of 
legends. 
'There 
was some 
tale 
of 
any 
unlucky 
creature, 
a sea-kelpie, 
that 
dwelt 
and 
did busi- 
ness 
in 
some 
fearful 
manner of 
his 
own 
among 
the 
boiling 
breakers 
of 
the 
Roost', 
reports 
Charles, 
1' 
Darnaway's 
student 
nephew 
and 
the 
narrator of 
the 
story. 
This 
is 
only one 
of 
many such superstitions, 
readily 
believed 
by 
Rorie 
the 
servant 
and 
his 
master. 
Even 
Mary 
and 
Charles 
are, 
to 
some 
extent, 
intimidated 
by 
the 
sea; and 
the 
latter 
acknowledges 
the 
accur- 
acy of 
the 
legendary 
personification 
of 
the 
Roost 
into 
the 
danc- 
ing, 
laughing 
characters 
of 
their 
popular name. 
He 
can 
say 
that 
the 
noise the 
- 
antaue when 
turbulent 
`seers= 
r. 
' 
even 
As 
when 
savage men 
have 
drunk 
away 
their 
reason, and, 
dis- 
cardina 
speech, 
bawl 
together 
in 
their 
madness 
by 
the 
hour. 
The 
narrator 
experiences 
a sense 
of 
menance when a 
dive 
into 
the 
water 
brings 
him 
up 
against 
some 
human 
bones. But 
despite 
all 
this, 
no one shares 
Gordon 
Darnaway's 
obsessive attraction 
to the 
destructive 
aspect of 
the 
sea. 
And 
it is 
this 
interaction 
of 
his 
psyche with 
storm and wreck 
which 
forms 
the 
basis 
of 
the 
story 
. 
Uncle 
Gordon, 
writes 
Charles, 
was 
a man 
'whose 
mind was 
set 
upon 
a 
damnatory 
creed 
and 
haunted by 
the 
darkest 
superstit- 
ions' 
and 
he 'had 
his black fits 
when 
he 
was afraid 
of 
hell' 
. 
18 
He 
had 
been 
a sailor at 
one 
time 
and 
many of 
his 
fears 
were 
concentrated 
on 
the 
sea 
which 
he 
regarded as scarce- 
- 
45 
- 
ly 
God's 
creation at all; 
he 
says 
that 
'it's 
an 
unco 
wanchancy 
life. 
the 
great 
deep; 
thou 
unco water 
understand 
.' 
He 
goes 
on: 
life 
to 
be 
a_ 
sailor 
-a 
cauld, 
Mony's 
the 
gliff 
I 
got 
mysel' 
in 
and why 
the 
Lord 
should 
hae 
made 
is 
mair 
then 
ever 
I 
could 
win 
to 
, 
But, 
troth, 
if 
it 
wasnae 
prentit 
in 
the 
Bible, I 
wad 
whiles 
be 
temp' it 
to think 
it 
wasnae 
the 
Lord, 
but 
the 
muckle, 
black 
deil 
that 
made 
the 
sea... 
The 
sea 
-a 
muckle 
yett 
to 
hell! 
'19 
In 
this 
way 
the 
man 
identifies his 
own religious 
fears 
of 
damn- 
ation 
with 
the 
sea. 
His 
moods 
mimi c 
the 
state 
of 
the 
ocean 
and 
animate 
his 
descriptions 
of 
it, 
his 
attributions 
of 
consciousness 
to 
it. 
On 
the 
day 
after 
the 
storm 
which 
wrecks 
the 
treasure- 
hunters' 
ship, 
Charles 
reproaches 
his 
uncle 
for 
his 
drinking, 
and 
Darnaway's 
response 
gives 
us a 
clearer 
idea 
of 
the 
psych- 
ic 
participation 
in 
the 
storm 
which we 
witnessed 
the 
previous 
night: 
' Ou' 
, 
he 
returned, 
'if 
it 
wasnae sin, 
I 
dinnae 
ken 
that 
I 
would 
care 
for't. 
Ye 
see, 
man, 
it's 
de- 
fiance. 
T here's 
a 
sair spang 
o' 
the 
auld 
sin 
o' 
the 
warld 
in 
yon sea: 
it's 
an unchristian 
business 
at 
the 
best 
o't; an' 
whiles when 
it 
gets 
up, 
an' 
the 
wind skreighs... 
an' 
thae 
Merry 
Men, 
the 
daft 
callants, 
blawin' 
and 
lauchin' 
, 
and 
puir souls 
in 
the 
deid 
thraws 
warstling 
the 
leelang 
nicht 
wi' 
their 
bit 
ships 
- 
weel, 
it 
comes 
ower 
me 
like 
a 
glamour. 
I'm 
a 
deil, 
I 
ken't. 
But 
I 
think 
nae- 
thing 
o' 
the 
puir 
sailor 
lads; 
I'm 
wi' 
the 
sea. 
I'm 
just 
like 
ain 
o' 
her 
ain 
Merry 
Men'. 
20 
In 
fact, 
the 
storm 
of 
the 
previous 
night 
is 
described, 
at 
least 
in 
part, 
through 
Darnaway's 
reactions 
to 
it, 
thus 
achieving 
a 
close 
association of 
the 
two. 
- 
46 
- 
In 
these 
soliliquies of 
Gordon 
Darnaway's 
from 
which 
I 
have 
quoted 
so 
heavily, Stevenson 
seems 
to 
be 
exploring 
the 
meta- 
phor 
on 
which 
the 
story 
is 
grounded 
- 
the 
exteriorisation 
in 
sea 
scape 
and 
wreck 
of 
the 
interior 
psychological 
state 
of 
the 
central 
protagonist's 
mind. 
The 
latter 
is, 
in 
slightly 
different 
terms, 
like 
Baudelaire's 
speaker 
in 
'Obsession': 
Je 
to 
hais, 
Ocean! 
tes 
bonds 
et 
tes 
tumultes, 
Mon 
esprit 
les 
retrouve 
en 
lui. 
21 
The 
tale 
takes 
a 
mind 
just 
at 
that 
point 
where 
it 
constructs 
its 
own 
world, 
where 
it 
half 
creates and 
half 
perceives; and 
it 
makes 
dramatic 
capital 
out 
of 
its 
power of realising 
that 
mind 
in 
natural 
terms. 
The 
climax 
of 
this 
process 
is 
the 
appearance 
of 
the 
black 
man, 
finally 
tipping 
Darnaway 
over 
into 
self- 
destruction: 
metaphor 
becomes 
real 
as a 
fantasy 
from his 
guilty 
imagination 
becomes 
material. 
(Process 
is 
the 
accurate word 
be- 
cause 
the 
story 
follows 
its 
retributory 
course 
subsequent 
to 
the 
actual 
crime. 
The 
crucial event 
is 
not narrated 
but 
remem- 
bered, 
and 
so 
the tale 
lacks 
a 
set 
of consequences. 
In 
other 
words, 
it 
finds 
its 
dramatic 
interest 
in 
scene 
and speech, not 
through 
a strong 
and active plot. 
) 
Handled 
differently, 
this 
story 
could 
have been 
one of 
those 
le- 
gends which 
are so abundant 
in 
the 
part of 
the 
world where 
it is 
set. 
Such 
a 
legend 
would 
take 
the 
appearance of 
the 
black 
man 
literally 
as a 
devil 
and 
deal, 
as 
supernatural 
tales 
tend 
to 
do, 
with 
the 
facts 
of 
the 
case. 
What 
makes 
'The 
Merry 
Men' 
an art story 
is 
that 
Stevenson has 
taken 
the 
psycholog- 
ical 
and 
the 
cultural aspects 
of 
his 
material 
into 
greater 
account 
than 
the 
supernatural 
- 
rather, 
he 
has 
presented 
the 
psychological 
and 
cultural 
conditions 
under which 
superstitions 
retain 
their 
persuasiveness. 
For 
example, 
the 
appearance 
of 
the 
black 
man, 
precipitating 
the 
catastrophe, 
is 
an ambivalent 
phenomenon; 
he 
is 
certainly 
real, 
because Rorie 
and 
Charles 
recognise 
him 
as 
such; 
but 
the 
function 
of 
metaphor 
in 
the 
- 
47 
- 
story 
- 
that 
is, 
the 
metaphor of 
Darnaway' 
s 
mind 
being 
like 
the 
sea 
- 
suggests 
to 
us 
that 
he 
also 
has 
a more 
fantastic 
status 
as 
an 
emanation 
of 
Gordon 
Darnaway's 
guilt. 
We 
under- 
stand 
the 
final 
stage 
of 
the 
latter's 
disintegration 
through 
the 
black 
man, 
a 
traditional 
personation 
of 
the 
devil. 
This indi- 
cates 
to 
us 
another 
dimension 
of 
the 
story. 
All 
the 
characters 
take 
for 
granted 
the 
existence 
in 
the 
world 
of 
God 
and 
the 
d 
evil 
batting 
for 
men's 
souls 
and 
bringing 
retribution 
for 
sins 
committed. 
Charles 
Darnaway's 
pious summing 
up of 
the 
whole 
episode 
reminds 
the 
reader 
of 
this: 
They 
[ 
i. 
e. 
the 
Merry 
Men 
I 
seemed, 
indeed, 
to 
be 
a 
part 
of 
the 
world's 
evil and 
the 
tragic 
side of 
life. 
And 
through 
the 
contemplation 
of 
this, 
he 
goes 
on, 
'a 
great 
fear fell 
upon 
me of 
God's 
judgements 
and 
the 
evil 
in 
the 
world' 
22 
Gordon 
Darnaway 
is 
a 
Cameronian, 
and 
his 
talk 
is 
of 
heaven 
and 
hell, 
the 
wrath of 
God 
and 
the 
power of 
Satan; 
and 
to 
that 
extent 
he 
would concur 
in 
Charles's 
moral conclus- 
ion. 
But his 
madness 
involves 
the 
foreboding 
that 
God is 
ab- 
sent 
from 
the 
sea, 
that 
it is 
'an 
unchristian 
business 
at 
the 
best 
o't' 
. 
23 
It 
is 
precisely 
the 
fact 
that the 
ocean 
is 
aii, 
or 
ol 
in its 
destructiveness 
that 
his black 
and white sense 
of 
moral- 
ity 
cannot 
cope 
with, 
and when 
the 
Merry Men 
are at 
their 
wildest 
he 
mirrors 
their 
savagery. 
In his 
alteration of moods 
we can 
observe 
the 
emergence of a 
typically 
Stevensionian 
way 
of seeing 
men 
as 
dual beings, 
part of 
them 
accepting 
ethical 
imperatives 
and part 
of 
them 
struggling with 
an unconstrained 
will-power. 
The 
religious 
background 
to the 
story, 
in 
Darnaway's 
Calvin- 
ism, 
is 
used 
by 
Stevenson 
to 
make 
explicit 
the 
spiritual 
signi- 
ficance 
of 
his 
protagonist's 
madness. 
He 
can, 
in 
this 
way, 
utilise 
a 
set 
of 
beliefs 
about 
the 
nature 
and 
ends of 
life 
which 
he 
did 
not 
have himself. 
We 
shall 
see 
in 
a 
future 
chapter 
how 
- 
48 
- 
Stevenson 
frequently 
set 
his 
fiction 
in 
historical 
or 
fantastic 
milieux 
(the 
supernatural 
story, 
the 
historical 
novel) where 
there 
were 
living 
systems 
of 
belief, 
effective 
notions 
of 
honour 
and 
faith. 
But 
the 
only 
point 
which 
I 
wish 
to 
make 
at 
the 
pres- 
ent 
is 
that 
most of 
his 
fiction 
makes 
its 
way 
outside 
the 
nine- 
teenth 
century; 
it 
escapes 
from 
the 
capitalist/technological age 
which 
many 
of 
his 
fellow-novelists 
were attempting 
to 
engage 
formally 
and 
philosophically. 
In 
its 
most 
trivial 
definition, 
romance 
literature 
involves 
this 
sort 
of sublimation; 
an exotic 
background 
is integral 
to 
any 
description 
of 
the 
Gothic 
in 
liter- 
ature. 
And 
this 
is 
no 
less 
true 
of 
the 
supernatural 
story, 
which 
seems 
to 
require 
exotic 
properties 
of plot 
or scene. 
In 
fact, 
scene 
has 
a 
signifying 
function 
in 
mature romance, 
being 
expressive 
of 
inner 
states 
of mind. 
It 
is 
plastic. 
Coleridge 
gis, 
in 
this 
respect, 
not 
only an 
influential 
theorist, 
but 
also 
an 
interesting 
practitioner. 
Think, for 
example, of 
the 
Ancient 
Mariner 
travelling 
through 
fields 
of 
ice, 
wasting 
away 
under 
the 
equatorial 
sun, and 
remember 
the 
capacity of such 
descript- 
ions 
for 
making 
us 
feel 
the 
value 
of certain 
spiritual 
condit- 
ions. 
There 
is 
one aspect 
of 
this 
which 
I 
wish 
to 
emphasise. 
In 
the 
plastic 
treatment 
of 
scene, 
exterior 
objects are given 
a 
subjective 
cast 
because 
they 
are 
treated 
as 
the 
creation 
of 
perceiving 
ego. 
In Confessions 
of 
a 
Justified Sinner, 
a notable 
romantic 
novel, 
the 
same 
set 
of events 
is 
described 
twice; 
once 
in 
a 
factual, foregrounded 
manner 
by 
a 
third 
person narrator; 
and a second 
time 
in 
the 
first 
person, when our understanding 
of 
inner 
motivations 
transforms 
and 
illuminates 
the 
first 
narra- 
tive 
. 
2'' 
In 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, Stevenson 
does 
something 
very similar, 
taking 
us, 
in 
Jekyll's 
confession, 
inside 
the 
green 
room which 
we 
have 
only 
seen 
from 
the 
outside 
in 
the 
main 
part 
of 
the 
tale. 
Now, 
this 
subjectivism 
is 
a 
commonplace 
of 
the 
poetic 
theory 
and 
pract- 
ice 
of 
the 
Romantic 
period 
in 
European 
literature, 
and 
its 
rele- 
vance 
to 
what 
I have 
been 
trying to 
say 
about 
the 
relationship 
of 
sea 
and 
mind 
in 
'The 
Merry 
Men' 
indicates 
one aspect 
of 
Stevenson's 
literary 
roots. 
We 
know 
that 
in 
1881, 
the 
year 
in 
which 
'The Merry 
Men' 
was 
_49_ 
written, 
Stevenson 
projected 
a 
life 
of 
Hazlitt, 
and 
it 
is 
diff- 
icult 
to 
avoid 
the 
conclusion 
that 
his 
artistic 
aims 
were 
in- 
fluenced 
by 
the 
English 
writer, 
and 
through 
him 
by 
general 
Romantic 
accounts 
of 
the 
imagination. 
Hazlitt 
writes, 
in 
'On 
Poetry 
in 
General': 
The 
imagination 
is 
that 
faculty 
which 
represents 
objects, 
not as 
they 
are 
in 
themselves, 
but 
as 
they 
are moulded 
by 
other 
thoughts 
and 
feelings, 
into 
an 
infinite 
variety 
of shapes 
and 
combinations 
of 
power. 
25 
This 
emphasis 
on 
the 
creative 
power of 
mind 
seems 
to 
me 
to 
help 
explain 
the 
plastic 
relation of nature and perception 
in 
'The Merry Men'. 
In fact, 
in 
'A 
Gossip 
on 
Romance', 
also 
written 
in 
1881, 
Stevenson 
attempts 
to 
define 
this 
central qual- 
ity 
of romance: 
Situation 
is 
animated 
with 
passion, passion 
clothed 
upon 
situation. 
Neither 
exists 
for 
itself, 
but 
each 
inheres indissolubly 
with 
the 
other. 
26 
Stevenson 
is 
commenting 
on 
his 
actual practice 
here, 
because 
he 
is 
d--scrib 
ing 
the 
unity 
,, 
Th 
ch 
I 
have 
been 
claimin3 
'The 
Merry 
Men' 
achieves 
through 
its 
fusion 
of 
subject and 
object, 
of 
scene 
(' 
situation') 
and 
feeling 
('Passion). 
Stevenson, 
by 
using 
a 
narrator 
who 
is 
not 
the 
main 
protagonist, 
lends 
this 
procedure 
a 
certain 
flexibility: 
witness 
the 
dispassionate, 
al- 
most 
stark, 
terms 
in 
which 
Darnaway's 
death 
is 
described; 
he 
drowns 
in 
a placid 
sea, 
and 
subject 
and 
object are 
finally 
sep- 
arated. 
Another, 
perhaps 
sovereign, 
determinant 
of 
the 
unity 
of 
this 
tale, 
and 
of many of 
the 
others 
we 
will 
be 
considering, 
is 
their 
very 
shortness. 
One 
of 
the 
leading 
exponents of 
the 
value 
of 
brevity 
in 
an 
age 
of 
loose 
and 
baggy 
monsters was 
the 
writ- 
er 
of 
these 
words: 
- 
50 
The 
novel 
cannot 
be 
read 
at 
one 
sitting, 
it 
cannot 
avail 
itself 
of 
the 
immense 
benefit 
of 
totality... 
In 
the 
brief 
tale, 
however, 
the 
author 
is 
enabled 
2' 
to 
carry 
out 
his 
full design 
without 
interruption. 
The 
writer 
is 
Edgar 
Allan 
Poe. 
He 
goes on: 
A 
skilful artist 
has 
not 
fashioned his 
thoughts 
to 
accomodate 
his 
incidents, 
but having 
deliberately 
conceived 
a 
certain 
single effect 
to 
be 
wrought, 
he 
then 
invents 
such 
incidents, 
he 
then 
combines such 
events, 
and 
discusses 
them 
in 
such 
time 
as may 
best 
serve 
him 
in 
establishing 
this 
preconceived 
effect. 
"' 
The 
point 
to 
focus 
on 
is 
the 
demand 
for 
totality, 
for 
the 
'sin- 
gle effect. 
In 
a 
letter 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, 
concerning 
his 
tech- 
nical problems 
with 
the 
ending 
to 
'The High Woods 
of 
Ulan 
anua' 
(which 
was 
to 
become 
known 
as 
'The Beach 
of 
Falesd'), 
Steven- 
son 
describes 
his 
own aims as a short story writer 
in 
terms 
very similar 
to 
Poe's. 
Should he 
'make 
another end 
to 
it?, 
he 
asks: 
Ah, 
yes, 
but 
that' 
s not 
the 
way 
I 
write; 
the 
whole 
tale 
is implied; 
I 
never use an effect 
when 
I 
can 
help 
it, 
unless 
it 
prepares 
the 
effects 
that 
are 
to 
follow; 
that's 
what 
a story consists 
in. 
To 
make 
another end, 
that 
is 
to 
make 
the 
beginning 
all 
wrong. 
The 
denoue 
ment 
of a 
long 
story 
is 
nothing; 
it is just 
a 
'full 
close, which you may 
approach 
and accompany 
as 
you 
please... 
but 
the 
body 
and 
end of a 
short sto ry 
is 
bone 
of 
the 
bone 
and 
blood 
of 
the 
blood 
of 
the 
beginning. 
2 9 
These 
demands 
for 
rigorous consistency 
were 
not so 
commonplace 
either 
in 
1842, 
when 
Poe 
wrote 
his 
article, 
or 
in 
the 
1870s 
and 
80s 
when 
Stevenson 
was producing 
the 
majority 
of 
his 
short 
stories. 
However, Stevenson's 
indebtedness 
to 
Poe 
was 
much 
more 
thoroughgoing 
before 
he 
got 
into 
his 
stride 
as 
a 
nov- 
elist 
in the 
mid-80s 
and 
it is 
closely related 
to 
Poe's 
request 
for 
totality 
. 
/ 
_.. 
- 
51 
- 
As 
we 
saw 
in 
'The 
Merry 
Men', 
although 
the 
story 
is 
not 
told 
by 
Gordon, 
there 
is 
occasionally 
an 
implicit 
subjectivity 
in 
the 
treatment 
of 
scene 
as 
though it 
had 
been 
perceived 
by 
the 
re- 
morse-stricken 
Gordon 
himself. 
A 
similar 
method 
is 
more 
exhaust- 
ively 
followed 
in 
'The 
Fall 
of 
the 
House 
of 
Usher', 
where 
appar- 
ently 
objective 
matter 
begins 
to 
conform 
to 
the 
obsessive 
halluc- 
inations 
of 
Roderick 
Usher, 
the 
house 
of 
the 
title 
ultimately 
dis- 
integrating 
as 
he 
completely 
loses 
his 
reason. 
3 
? 
This 
sort 
of 
fiction 
does 
not 
look 
outwards 
to 
men 
and 
social manners, 
but 
into 
a 
man's 
heart 
and 
mind. 
It deals 
with 
the 
individual; 
or, 
as 
Frank 
O'Connor 
calls 
it, 
'the 
lonely 
voice'. 
History 
and 
manners 
are 
suppressed 
from 
the 
work 
as 
much 
as 
is 
possible. 
It 
neither 
needs 
nor 
wants 
to 
portray 
a society 
at any 
level 
because 
its 
main area 
of 
interest is 
the 
self. 
For 
this 
reason, 
the 
short 
prose piece 
has long 
been 
considered 
the 
most 
suit- 
able 
vehicle 
for 
stories of 
the 
supernatural, 
for dealing 
with 
the 
introverted 
personality or 
the 
social outcast. 
In 
the 
most 
characteristic 
of 
Poe' 
s 
tales, 
the 
public self which men present 
to the 
world 
is ignored 
and 
all 
manner 
of subconscious 
horrors 
become 
real. 
Stevenson, I feel, had 
one 
foot 
in 
the 
camp 
of 
fantastic literature 
of 
this 
kind; 
the 
other main 
influence, 
esp- 
; 
2: 
?ially 
on 
'The ',, 
Terry 
T, `en' 
,' 
Thrawn Ja 
? 
t' 
and 
' 
To., a. Lap- 
raik' 
, 
was 
the 
native 
'bogey 
tale', 
which 
Stevenson 
had 
heard 
in 
childhood. 
31 
A 
writer 
who 
shared 
a 
Puritan 
religious 
background 
with 
Stev- 
enson was 
Nathaniel 
Hawthorne. 
Interestingly 
for 
the 
critic, 
Stevenson 
wrote 
a 
review 
a 
Poe' 
s collected 
tales 
in 
which 
he 
regrets 
not 
having 
space 
in 
his 
article 
to 
discuss 
the 
relation 
between Poe 
and 
his far 
greater and 
better 
compatriot, 
Hawthorne. 
That 
there 
is 
a 
con- 
sanguinity, 
that 
the 
two 
saw 
the 
world 
in 
a 
fash- 
ion 
not 
altogether 
dissimilar, 
that 
some 
of 
the 
short 
stories 
of 
Hawthorne 
seem 
inspired 
by 
Poe, 
and 
some 
of 
Poe' 
s short stories seem 
to 
be 
an 
echo 
of 
Hawthorne 
- 
all 
this 
is 
beyond 
question. 
32 
_52_ 
That 
these 
two 
writers 
exercised a 
literary 
influence 
on 
Steven- 
son 
also 
seems 
beyond 
doubt. 
Take 
the theme 
of 
man's 
duality 
alone. 
In 
'William 
Wilson', 
Poe 
wrote 
the 
classic 
tale 
of 
the 
D'?ppleganger; 
Hawthorne's 'Young 
Goodman 
Brown' imagines 
a 
night 
journey 
by 
the 
protagonist, 
in 
which 
he finds 
all 
the 
vir- 
tuous 
members 
of 
the 
community 
taking 
part 
in 
a 
Satanic 
orgy. 
33 
The 
inside 
of 
a 
man's 
head 
is 
folded 
out and 
placed 
before 
us 
as a 
riot 
of 
evil 
intentions, 
a 
welling 
up 
of sin 
through 
the 
Puritan 
exterior. 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde 
treats 
the 
same 
D?ppleganger 
theme 
in 
a 
different 
way. 
Whatever 
the 
pro- 
found 
variations 
in 
their 
imaginative 
worlds, 
all 
three 
of 
these 
writers 
produced 
fantasies 
concerned 
with 
man 
as 
an 
asocial 
animal; 
they 
explore 
the 
self 
at a point 
before 
it is 
determined 
by 
its 
relation 
to 
other selves, 
when 
it is 
radically 
lonely. 
Poe' 
s 
brcc 
d 
maniacs 
and 
Ha-, 
vthorn 
's 
melancholy 
sinners 
can 
he 
recognised 
in 
Gordon Darnaway, Henry Jekyll 
and 
Murdoch 
Soulis. 
The last 
is 
the 
main 
character 
in 'Thrawn Janet' 
(; 
_8S1) 
. 
The 
story 
is introduced in 
the 
first 
person 
by 
an un-identified 
narrator 
(the 
'author') 
who 
sets 
the tale 
in 
a village 
in 
rural 
Scotland 
and 
identifies 
the 
Reverend Murdoch Soulis 
as 
a 
fire 
and 
brim 
stone 
preacher 
whose 
sermons and 
wild 
demeanour 
frigh- 
ten 
his 
parishioners, 
to their 
great 
delight. But he 
was not al- 
ways so, and 
the 
perspective shifts, 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
story 
be- 
ing 
told 
by 
'one 
of 
the 
older 
folk' 
of 
the 
parish, 
who 
tells 
how 
Soulis, 
when 
he 
first 
arrived 
at 
Balweary, 
was 
fresh 
from 
college, a 
bookish 
man 
and 
contemptuous of 
the 
superstitions 
to 
which 
his flock 
adhered. 
In 
the 
modern world, 
he 
used 
to 
tell them, 
'the 
deil 
was 
mercifully restrained' 
. 
3'' 
This 
sceptic- 
ism 
brings 
the 
distrust 
of 
his 
parishioners upon 
him, 
a 
dis- 
trust 
enhanced 
when 
he 
saves 
Janet McLour from being 
drowned 
as 
a 
trial 
of 
whether she 
is 
a witch or 
not. 
The 
villagers' 
hostility 
is 
further 
intensified 
when 
Janet becomes 
his 
house- 
keeper. 
Gradually, 
the 
minister 
acquires some 
of 
the 
commun- 
ity's 
suspicion 
of 
Janet. 
However, his 
compassion 
retains 
the 
upper 
hand 
until, 
in 
the 
denouement, 
he 
is 
confronted 
with 
a 
- 
53 
- 
startling 
proof 
of 
her 
demonic 
possession. 
It 
would 
be 
a mistake 
to 
ignore 
the 
fact 
that 
Stevenson 
in- 
tended 
'Thrawn 
Janet' 
to 
be 
a story 
which would 
induce 
terror 
in 
the 
reader, 
or 
to 
deny 
his 
success 
in 
that 
aim. 
All 
the 
pro- 
perties 
of 
atmosphere, 
or 
tone, 
and 
situation 
are 
directed 
to- 
wards 
creating 
a sombre 
mood. 
There 
are 
disturbing, 
but 
inex- 
plicable, 
omens, 
which 
are 
essential 
to the 
tale 
of 
terror. 
Names 
play 
their 
part 
in 
this: 
Murdoch Soulis 
is 
minister 
of 
Bal 
weary 
in 
the 
vale 
of 
Dule 
(dole? 
) 
; 
he lives beneath 
the 
Hanging 
Shaw, 
near 
the 
cemetery 
on 
Black Hill. 
It 
is, indeed, 
a 
monochrome 
picture; 
everything 
is 
black, 
mirk, 
dark. The 
manse 
is 
surrounded 
by 
'cold, 
moorish 
hill-tops' 
;35 
Stevenson 
chooses 
to 
emphasise 
their 
coldness 
because 
it 
contributes 
to 
the 
effect 
of 
unmitigated 
bleakness 
which 
he 
wishes 
to 
achieve 
at 
that 
stage 
of 
the 
story. 
The 
tale 
itself 
(that 
is, 
the 
matter) 
is 
told 
through 
a 
sequence 
of 
scenes, almost 
totally 
lacking 
dialogue, 
which are constructed on a simple crescendo 
pattern: 
when 
Soulis 
saves 
Janet 
from her 
accusers, 
there 
is 
some 
doubt 
over 
her 
witch-hood, 
the 
scales 
being 
tipped 
against 
her by 
her 
appearing 
deformed 
on 
the 
day 
after 
her 
exorcism; 
then 
there 
is 
a more radical 
time-shift to the 
Black flill, 
where 
Soulis 
sees seven 
crows 
(considered 
an evil omen) 
and 
then 
the 
black 
man, whose 
subsequent 
disappearance 
cannot 
be 
ex- 
plained naturally; 
that 
night, 
an 
unnaturally 
sultry one, 
Soul- 
is is 
roused 
from 
nightmare 
by 
a noise and 
finds Janet hung 
by 
a single 
thread 
in 
her 
room. 
This forms 
a 
preliminary 
clim- 
ax, 
eliminating 
all 
possible 
natural explanations of 
the 
prev- 
ious 
events; 
the 
climax 
proper 
quickly 
follows 
on 
from 
this, 
al- 
though 
the 
narrator 
slows 
his 
tale 
slightly, 
breaking 
off 
to 
make 
an 
aside 
at 
the 
moment 
when 
Janet 
confronts 
the 
minister 
in the 
garden. 
Then 
Soulis 
exorcises 
Janet 
and, after 
the 
Goth- 
ic 
fashion, 
the 
Lord 'struck 
the 
Horror 
whaur 
it 
stood' and 
she 
'fell 
in 
ashes 
to the 
grund' 
.36 
Poe 
would 
have 
ended 
the 
story 
on 
that 
luridly dramatic 
note; 
but Stevenson 
has 
his 
tell- 
er 
contribute 
a 
short epilogue 
on sightings of 
the 
devil's 
flight 
-54- 
from 
Balweary 
and a conventional 
summing 
up: 
'and 
frae 
that 
hour 
to 
this, 
he 
was 
the 
man ye 
ken 
the 
day'. 
37 
'Thrawn 
Janet' 
is, 
without 
doubt, 
a well-made 
story. 
But is 
it 
only 
a mec 
-ianical 
wondzr, 
an 
engine 
for 
frightening 
its 
read- 
ers? 
I 
want 
to 
suggest 
that 
there 
are aspects 
to the tale 
which 
are 
worth 
discussing. 
Firstly, 
we 
notice 
that, 
as 
in 
'The 
Merry Men', 
the 
central 
character 
is 
alone; 
Soulis 
stands 
apart 
from 
the 
rest of 
the 
com- 
munity; 
he 
is 
consistently 
seen 
in 
introspective 
poses 
and 
only 
has 
contact 
with 
Janet, 
who 
is 
herself 
ostracised. 
Soulis 
is 
apparently 
seen 
from 
the 
point 
of 
view 
of 
the 
second 
narrat- 
or, who acts as 
the 
voice 
of 
the 
community; 
he 
or she 
is 
only 
'one 
of 
the 
older 
folk' 
, 
and 
a 
part 
of 
the telling 
is 
more chor- 
al 
than 
individual. However, 
certain 
parts 
of 
the 
narration 
could 
only 
have been 
conveyed 
by 
the 
minister 
himself, 
and 
thus 
the 
story 
acquires 
insights 
to 
Soulis' feelings 
which are 
unwarranted 
by 
the 
notion 
of 
a 
specific, 
limited 
narrator. 
Take 
this 
example: 
He 
gaed 
to the 
window an' stood giowrin' at 
Dule 
T, 
Vater. 
The 
trees 
are unco 
thick 
an' 
the 
water 
lies 
deep 
an' 
black 
under 
the 
manse; an' 
there 
was 
Janet 
washin' 
the 
cla'es wi' 
her 
coats 
kilted. She 
had her back 
to 
the 
minister, an' 
he, for 
his 
pairt, 
hardly 
kenned 
what 
he 
was 
lookin' 
at. 
Syne 
she 
turned 
round, 
an' shawed 
her face; 
Mr 
Soulis 
had 
the 
same cauld 
grue 
as 
twice that 
day 
afore. 
3 
8 
The 
story-teller 
is 
recreating 
here 
an 
individual 
perception, 
an 
emotionally 
loaded 
image 
which 
suggests 
a 
consciousness 
active 
within 
the 
choral 
narrative. 
On 
the 
night 
of 
the 
17th 
August, 
Soulis' 
sleep 
is 
disturbed; 
he 
sees 
'spunkies' 
and 
'bogies' 
: 
He 
behoved, 
he 
judged, to 
be 
sick: an' 
sick 
he 
was 
- 
little 
he 
jaloosed 
the 
sickness. 
3 
9 
- 
55 
- 
This 
last 
phrase 
is 
a 
linguistically 
unmarked 
but 
nevertheless 
definite 
shift 
- 
not 
in 
point 
of 
view; 
rather 
from 
description 
to 
commentary; 
it 
indicates 
a 
drawing 
back, 
a sign 
that 
reflect- 
ion 
on 
the 
events of 
the 
story 
has 
occurred. 
Again, 
in 
that 
same 
paragraph 
there 
is 
a similar 
shift 
in 
perspective; 
'it 
was 
gey 
and 
unlikely 
Mr Soulis 
wad 
get muckle sleep' 
is 
comment- 
ary, 
while 
'he lay 
an' 
he 
tummled' 
"? 
is 
unreflective 
narrat- 
ion. 
I 
suggest 
that 
in 
the 
first 
instance 
the 
narrator 
is 
speak- 
ing in 
his 
own 
voice, 
as 
he 
is 
at 
the 
time 
of 
telling 
the 
story, 
armed with 
his knowledge 
of what 
is 
going 
to 
happen 
('little 
he 
jaloosed 
the 
sickness') 
; 
in 
the 
second, 
he 
is 
relating 
matter 
which 
he 
must 
either 
have 
heard from 
Soulis 
or 
is inventing. 
In 
a 
well 
known 
passage 
from 
'A 
Humble Remonstrance', 
Steven- 
son 
has been 
arguing 
that 
literature has 
a 
'creative' 
aim, not 
a 
mimetic one; 
he 
continues: 
So 
far 
as 
it 
imitates 
at all, 
it imitates 
not 
life 
but 
speech: not 
the 
facts 
of 
human 
destiny, but 
the 
emphasis and 
the 
suppressions with 
which 
the 
human 
actor 
tells 
of 
them. 
4 
The 
exterior object receives 
it 
valuation 
from 
the 
perceiver. 
But 
who, 
then, 
is 
the 
'human 
actor' whose 
seeing 
is 
signifi- 
cant 
for 
us 
in 
'Thrawn Janet': 
the 
old story-teller 
or 
the 
Rev. 
Murdoch 
Soulis? It becomes 
apparent, 
as 
I have 
tried to 
argue 
above, 
that 
both 'voices' 
are 
present. 
On 
the 
one 
hand, 
the 
teller 
is ironic 
towards 
Soulis; 
the 
tale, 
after 
all, 
concerns 
the 
comeuppance 
of a sceptic. 
On 
the 
other, 
he 
enters 
into 
his 
story 
and 
acts 
out 
the 
part of 
Soulis. If 
that 
is 
so, 
then the 
story 
moves 
between 
the 
personal 
terrors 
of 
Soulis 
and 
the 
communal- 
ised 
view 
of 
the 
story-teller, 
a shift 
from 
the 
horror 
of 
the 
self 
to 
the 
ritual 
objectification 
of 
the 
devil. The 
narrator 
moves 
flexibly 
between 
these two 
modes: 
all 
the 
passages 
involv- 
ing 
Soulis 
and 
Janet 
are 
psychologically 
interesting, 
increase 
our 
knowledge 
of 
and 
response 
to 
the 
minister's 
character; 
but 
they 
are 
at 
their 
most 
terrifying 
when 
the 
story 
teller 
uses 
a 
_56_ 
a 
free 
indirect 
speech 
to 
capture 
Soulis' 
thought 
and 
feeling. 
There 
are 
mythical 
elements underlying 
the 
whole 
story 
(under- 
standing 
myth 
as 
the 
speaking 
out 
of ritual). 
Janet 
was 
the 
village 
outcast, 
hated 
insofar 
as 
she could 
return 
twicefold 
the 
accusations 
of 
the 
good-wives 
of 
the 
community. 
Soulis 
took 
her 
in 
on 
rational 
terms 
and 
he 
too 
became 
the 
object 
of 
dark 
sus- 
picion, 
as 
a 
result of 
this 
compassion. 
As 
the 
priestly 
repres- 
entative 
of 
the 
society, 
he 
underwent 
the 
spiritual 
terrors 
atten- 
dant 
on 
his 
attempt 
to 
remove 
the 
scapegoat; 
the 
evil 
could 
not 
be 
averted 
until 
he 
had 
gone 
through 
the 
cathartic 
confrontat- 
ion 
with 
the 
devil 
from 
the 
other side 
of 
the 
grave, 
in 
his 
own 
person. 
And 
then 
having 
turned 
away 
the 
evil 
by 
experiencing 
it 
and 
confronting 
it 
with 
the 
power of 
God, 
the 
whole 
commun- 
ity 
was 
free; 
as 
the 
narrator concludes: 
Sinsyne 
the 
dell has 
never 
fashed 
us 
in 
Balweary. 
42 
The 
expiation 
is 
complete 
and 
recorded ritually 
by Soulis' 
ser- 
mon on 
'The devil 
as a 
roaring 
lion' 
on 
the 
Sunday 
after ev- 
ery 
17th 
of 
August. His 
very 
loneliness 
and perturbation are 
a symbol of 
the 
sacrificial nature of 
the 
priestly 
function. 
(One 
is 
reminded 
strongly of 
Hawthorne' 
s 
'The 
Minister's 
Black 
Veil', 
where a 
minister 
takes 
all 
the 
sins 
of 
the 
parish upon 
himself 
and sacrifices 
all 
personal 
happiness 
to the 
dark 
vis- 
ion 
which 
is 
represented 
by 
the 
black 
veil 
that 
he 
always 
wears. 
) 
The 
other 
angle 
from 
which 
it 
is 
possible 
to 
look 
at 
'Thrawn 
Janet' is 
to 
see 
it 
as 
an allegory 
of 
Soulis' 
personal 
psycho- 
logical 
crisis. 
Stevenson 
himself 
testifies 
to the 
fact 
that 
even 
his 
unconscious 
story 
making 
often 
had 
a peculiar allegorical 
tendency, 
although 
he 
qualified 
the 
claim: 
Sometimes 
a 
parabolic 
sense 
is 
still. more undenia- 
bly 
present 
in 
a 
dream; 
sometimes 
I 
cannot 
but 
- 
57 
- 
suppose 
my 
Brownies 
have been 
aping 
Bunyan, 
and 
yet 
in 
no case 
with what could 
possibly 
be 
called 
a 
moral 
in 
a 
tract; 
never 
with 
the 
ethical 
narrow- 
ness. 
43 
What 
I 
wish 
to 
suggest, 
bearing 
in 
mind 
what 
I 
have 
tried 
to 
argue 
about 
the 
other 
short 
stories 
we 
have 
treated, 
is 
that 
the 
horrors 
which confront 
Murdoch Soulis 
are correlatives 
of 
his 
own 
fears, 
a 
projection 
of 
his 
own 
unseen 
life, 
just 
as 
Goodman 
Brown's 
journey 
through 
the 
woods 
is 
his 
own 
night- 
mare. 
This 
in itself 
is 
a sort 
of open 
allegory; 
but 
it 
is inex- 
plicable, 
mysterious, 
unlike 
religious allegory, 
which 
has 
to 
be 
closed 
or clear 
in its 
correlations. 
We 
argue, 
therefore, 
that 
Janet's 
increasing 
repulsiveness 
(she 
only slowly 
becomes 
the 
disgusting 
figure 
of 
the 
climax) 
corresponds 
to the 
growing 
sense 
of 
evil which 
the 
minister undergoes; 
that 
his 
struggle 
to 
decide 
whether 
Janet 
is indeed 
a witch 
or, as 
he 
tries 
to 
convince 
himself, 
'a 
puir afflicted 
wife', 
is 
a 
conflict 
of 
two 
tendencies 
within 
himself 
- 
one scornful of superstition, 
the 
other 
the 
victim of 
passions 
which 
he 
cannot 
suppress. 
Take, 
for 
example of 
this 
expressionism, a piece of 
text 
which 
I 
have 
already 
quoted: 
He 
gaed 
to 
the 
window an' 
stood 
glowrin' 
at 
Dule 
Water. The 
trees 
are 
unco 
thick, 
an' 
the 
water 
lies deep 
an' 
black 
under 
the 
manse; 
an' 
there 
was 
Janet 
washin' 
the 
claes wi' 
her 
coats 
kilted. 
'" 
Now, 
there 
the text 
says 
that 
Soulis 
is 
'glowrin' 
'into 
the 
water 
and 
trees 
(both, 
incidentally, 
occasional 
literary 
symbols 
of 
the 
unconscious) 
before 
he 
is 
aware 
of 
Janet 
or who she 
is. 
In 
other 
words, 
his 
melancholy 
finds 
objective 
expression 
in 
Janet, 
because 
he 
'hardly 
kenned 
what 
he 
was 
lookin' 
at'. 
His 
dis- 
turbed 
state 
of mind 
only 
confirms 
what 
the 
narrator 
has 
al- 
ready 
suggested: 
that 
there 
is 
something 
far 
wrong with 
Soulis. 
He 
remarks: 
' 
a' 
body 
could 
see 
that 
he 
was 
dwining'. 
During 
the 
long 
spell 
of 
'uncanny 
weather, 
Soulis 
is 
found 
'stra- 
vaugin' 
ower 
a' 
the 
countryside 
like 
a 
man 
possessed'. 
His 
un- 
_5g_ 
ease 
forces 
him 
back 
to think 
of 
his 
childhood, 
'when 
he 
was 
a 
bairn 
an' 
ran 
daffin' 
on 
the 
braes' 
.s 
These 
memories 
of 
innocence 
are 
interrupted 
by 
thoughts 
of 
the 
black 
man 
'at 
his 
oxter'. 
So, 
the 
minister's 
thoughts 
admit a 
possible 
correspond- 
ence 
to 
the 
supernatural events 
which 
follow. 
However, 
while 
this 
subjective 
psychological 
element 
has 
to 
be 
taken 
into 
con- 
sideration, 
it 
is 
never 
used 
with 
enough 
subtlety 
in 
'Thrawn 
Janet' 
because 
Soulis 
is 
not 
a complex 
enough 
figure 
to 
engage 
with 
its 
possibilities 
for 
realising 
an 
inner 
moral 
struggle. 
Ultimately, 
'Thrawn 
Janet' 
is 
one of 
the 
best 
of 
'bogey 
stor- 
ies', 
containing 
images 
which 
impress 
themselves 
on 
the 
mind 
and 
are not 
easily 
forgotten. 
Stevenson 
ought 
to 
have 
written 
'Thrawn 
Janet' 
in 
the 
first 
per- 
son. 
He 
himself 
confessed 
that 
he 
wrote 
most naturally 
in 
that 
mode, which, 
he 
said, 
'set better 
wi' my genius' 
. 
N6 
This 
is 
not 
just 
a 
matter 
of 
temperamental 
preference,. 
but 
the 
most 
illuminating 
approach 
to the 
area of 
life 
which most 
interested 
him: 
the 
secret 
or ego 
life. 
One 
of 
the 
most 
persistent 
themes 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
fiction 
is 
the 
phenomenon of 
the 
disparity be- 
tween 
how 
men see 
themselves 
and 
how 
they 
are seen 
by 
others. 
Perhaps 
the 
classic 
instance 
of 
this 
is 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
where 
the 
outwardly 
chaste and pious 
Jekyll harbours 
a 
riot 
of 
desires 
and 
passions which 
his 
neighbours 
cannot 
guess 
at and which 
he 
refuses 
to 
acknowledge 
as part 
of 
him- 
self. 
(The 
simplification 
will 
be 
corrected 
in 
the 
next chapter). 
To 
make 
the transition 
from 
the 
public 
life 
of 
Dr. 
Jekyll 
to the 
account 
of 
Hyde's 
existence, 
Stevenson 
shifts 
the 
narrative 
into 
the 
personal 
document 
that 
forms 
the 
Doctor's 
confession. 
Thus 
the 
subjective 
perception 
has 
an 
explicit 
and 
formal 
embodiment 
in 
the 
first 
person 
document. 
Jekyll's 
public 
life 
is 
witnessed; 
his inner 
life 
is 
unwitnessed. 
These 
terms 
will 
be 
retained 
in 
our 
continuing 
discussion. 
To 
extend 
this 
distinction 
between 
cultures 
which 
W. 
H. 
Auden 
has 
put 
very 
clearly: 
-59- 
The 
first 
significant 
difference 
between 
the 
concept- 
ion 
of 
man 
held 
by 
a shame-culture 
and 
that 
of 
a 
guilt-culture 
is 
that 
a 
guilt-culture 
distin- 
guishes 
between 
what a 
! -n 
is 
to 
other 
men, 
the 
self 
he 
manifests 
in 
his 
body, 
his 
actions, 
his 
words, 
and 
what 
he 
is 
to 
himself, 
a unique 
ego 
which 
is 
unchanged 
by 
anything 
he 
does 
or 
suff- 
ers. 
In 
a 
shame-culture, 
there 
is 
no 
real 
differ- 
ence 
between 
statements 
in 
the third 
person 
and 
statements 
in 
the 
first; 
in 
a 
guilt-culture 
they 
are 
totally 
distinct. 
''' 
The 
distinction 
is 
pertinent 
to 
Stevenson 
if 
we apply 
its 
terms 
to 
a 
description 
of 
a 
radical 
schizophrenia 
in individual 
lives, 
instead 
of 
to 
cultures 
as a 
whole. 
Stevenson 
was one 
writer 
who 
was preternaturally 
alive 
to this 
duality 
in 
man's 
nature. 
Joseph Conrad 
was another. 
In his 
Lord Jim, 
Marlow 
latches 
on- 
to the 
idealised 
self-image 
which 
Jim 
has 
and which prevents 
him 
from 
understanding 
himself. 
When Jim flees 
the 
eyes 
of men 
after 
his 
trial 
for desertion, 
Marlow 
says: 
He 
made so 
much 
of 
his disgrace 
while 
it is 
the 
guilt 
alone 
that 
matters. 
" 
Exactly 
the 
same words 
could 
be 
applied 
to 
Markheim 
in 
the 
story 
of 
that 
name. 
'Markheim' 
(1885) 
dramatises 
the 
conflict 
between 
the 
witnessed 
and 
the 
unwitnessed 
life, 
which 
is 
to 
say 
between 
the 
self-image 
and 
the 
image 
of 
the 
self 
that 
is 
constituted 
by 
social 
definit- 
ions. 
Although 
told 
in 
the third 
person, 
it 
constructs 
itself 
out 
of 
Markheim's 
point 
of view. 
Stevenson 
achieves 
this 
effect 
most 
successfully 
in 
the 
near-hallucinatory 
first 
section 
of 
the 
story 
leading 
up 
to 
and 
immediately 
following 
the 
murder, 
where 
the 
dealer's 
house 
is 
described 
as 
it 
is 
imbued 
by 
Markheim' 
s 
fear: 
the 
palpitating shadows 
that 
assume 
various 
forms, 
the 
open 
doors 
'like 
three 
ambushes', 
the 
daylight 
coming 
through 
another 
door 
'like 
a 
pointing 
figure'; 
a 
set 
of 
images 
which 
run 
in 
procession 
through 
Markheim' 
s 
brain 
.49 
Whenever 
he 
is 
- 
60 
- 
seen 
clearly, 
it is 
to 
his 
horror. 
The 
dealer 
raises 
his 
candle 
to 
see 
him 
better, 
when 
he 
enters 
the 
shop, and 
Markheim 
'blinked 
painfully 
and 
looked 
aside'. 
S? 
More 
obviously, 
when 
the 
man 
offers 
him 
a 
mirror, 
Ni 
arkheim' s 
outburst 
is 
vehement: 
'Why, 
look here 
- 
look 
in it 
- 
look 
at 
yourself! 
Do 
you 
like 
to 
see 
it? No! 
nor 
I 
nor any 
man's' 
'This hand 
conscience', 
he 
calls 
it. 
He 
cannot 
bear 
to 
see 
him- 
self 
as 
he 
is 
seen 
by 
others. 
After 
he has 
committed 
the 
mur- 
der, 
his hallucinations, 
auditory 
as 
well as 
visual, 
increase. 
He hears 
another 
footstep: 
'brute 
terrors, 
like 
the 
scurrying 
of 
rats 
in 
a 
deserted 
attic, 
filled 
the 
more remote chambers 
of 
his 
brain 
with riot'. 
52 
Every 
emotion 
is 
heightened: 
objects are 
related 
by 
an 
impressive 
set 
of 
dislocatory 
and 
menacing 
sim- 
iles 
to 
his 
fear: 
'his 
nerves 
would 
jerk 
like 
a 
hooked 
fish'; 
in 
the 
numerous 
mirrors 
in 
the 
shop, 
his face 
is 
thrown 
back 
at 
him 
' 
as 
it 
were 
an army of spies'. 
53 
One 
could go on 
listing 
these 
images. 
But 
it is 
enough 
to 
remark 
that the 
similes 
and 
metaphors 
which 
throng 
'Markheim' 
function 
to 
unpack 
the 
mur- 
derer's 
state 
of 
mind; 
the 
'as 
it 
were' 
of 
the 
similes 
imply 
'as 
it 
were 
to 
Markheim' 
s 
excited 
conscioua 
sness' 
. 
Thus 
potent- 
ially 
objective 
circumstances 
are subjectivised 
through 
meta- 
phor. 
Perhaps 
the 
most 
significant 
fear 
which 
Markheim 
entertains 
is 
that 
'the 
solid 
walls 
might 
become 
transparent 
and 
reveal 
his 
doings like 
those 
of 
bees 
in 
a 
glass 
hive'. 
5 
"' 
It 
is 
this 
sense 
of 
being 
witnessed 
that 
Markheim 
dreads 
above all else, 
be- 
cause, 
like 
the 
mirror, 
it is 
a 
threat to 
his 
ego's 
dream 
of 
himself. 
(As 
a succinct 
image 
of 
guilt, 
it is 
comparible 
to 
Vill- 
on's 
mental 
picture of 
his 
footsteps in 
the 
snow 
leading 
back, 
damningly, to the 
house 
containing 
his 
murdered 
companion 
in 
-et 
ing 
Pic 
tu 
- 
is 
'A 
Lodging 
for 
the 
Night' 
(1877). 
) 
The 
stril, 
elaborated, 
and 
Stevenson 
is 
possibly 
recalling 
his 
own 
childhood: 
- 
61 
- 
He 
could 
never 
again, 
he felt, 
be 
sufficiently 
im- 
ured 
and 
fortified from 
men's 
observing 
eyes; 
he 
longed 
to 
be 
home, 
girt 
in 
by 
walls, 
buried 
among 
bed-clothes, 
and 
invisible 
to 
all 
but 
God. 
55 
He 
wants 
to 
burrow 
back 
into 
that 
part of 
his 
self where 
des- 
ire 
and 
reality 
are 
consubstantial, 
where 
he 
can 
be 
redeemed 
by 
the 
grace 
of 
God. 
We 
are 
reminded of a 
dialogue 
which 
Herrick 
and 
Attwater 
have 
in 
Ebb-Tide 
-_ 
'I 
thought 
we all 
wanted 
a 
dress 
to 
go 
down 
into 
the 
world 
in, 
and 
come 
up 
scatheless. 
What do 
you 
think 
the 
name 
was? 
' 
'Self-conceit', 
said 
Herrick. 
'Ah, 
but I 
mean 
seriously! 
' 
said 
Attwater. 
'Call 
it 
self-respect, 
then! 
' 
corrected 
Herrick... 
'And 
why not 
Grace? 
Why 
not 
God's Grace? 156 
Henry Jekyll, 
too, 
wants 
to 
go 
down 
into 
the 
world and 
come 
up 
'scatheless'. What 
these 
characters share with 
Markheim 
is 
a 
type 
of antinomianism: 
'Know 
me: 
' 
cried 
Markheim. 'Who 
can 
do 
so? 
My 
life 
is 
but 
a 
travesty 
and 
slander on myself. 
I 
have 
lived 
to 
belie 
my 
nature. 
All 
men 
do; 
all 
men are 
better 
than this 
disguise 
that 
grows 
about 
and 
stifles 
them. 
57 
This 
is 
not 
the 
historical 
antinomianism 
of 
IIogg's 
Confessions 
of a 
justified 
Sinner, 
but 
an archetypal 
division 
of 
the 
self 
: 
he 
is, 
in 
reality, 
innocent. 
But his 
very 
claims of 
innocence 
imply 
his 
power 
of 
apprehending 
its 
opposite, guilt. 
The 
stran- 
ger who 
enters 
the 
apartment 
resembles 
Markheim 
and, 
there- 
fore, 
does 
not represent 
any outside moral 
imperative. 
In fact, 
he 
appears 
at 
first 
as a 
tempter. 
He 
is 
the 
inner 
witness, 
who 
allows 
Markheim 
to 
pass 
a moral 
judgement 
on 
his 
own crime. 
However, 
I feel 
that 
Stevenson's 
imagination 
has let him 
down 
in 
the 
second 
part 
of 
the 
story, 
the 
dialogue 
of 
the two 
selves. 
Although 
the 
dialogue 
engages 
the 
reader's 
intellect, 
it 
lacks 
-62- 
the 
imagistic 
quality 
of 
the 
earlier section 
of 
the 
tale, 
and 
is, 
therefore, 
a 
different 
sort 
of 
text 
aitogether. 
Comparison 
with 
a 
similar tale 
about 
a 
murderer's 
conscience, 
Poe' 
s 
'The Tell- 
Tale 
Heart', 
is 
revealing. 
Poe 
uses 
the 
first 
person 
and 
never 
moves 
outside 
the 
point of view 
of 
his 
pathological 
narrator. 
He 
would, 
as 
a result, 
never 
have 
written, 
as 
Stevenson 
does, 
that 
Markheim's 
bed 
was a 
haven 
of 
'apparent 
innocence' 
.5B 
Above 
all 
though, 
'The 
Tell-Tale 
Heart' 
has 
an 
imaginative 
centre 
- 
the 
loud 
beating 
of 
the 
victim's 
heart, 
even 
after 
he 
is 
dead 
- 
which 
recurs 
throughout 
the tale 
and 
is 
responsible 
for 
its 
unity. 
'Markheim' has 
no such 
unifying 
symbol; 
it is 
broken-backed. 
The first 
part of 
the 
story 
is 
by 
far 
the 
more 
imaginative, 
and 
in 
it 
the 
interior 
of 
the 
dealer's 
house 
prov- 
ides 
a 
set 
of 
images 
which effectively represent, 
in 
visual 
terms, 
the 
protagonist's 
consciousness. 
The house 
is 
a 
construct- 
ion 
of signs, 
each pointing 
back 
to 
Markheim's 
perceiving 
ego; 
they 
signify 
his 
'present' 
state 
of mind, or 
revive 
related 
im- 
ages 
of past 
events 
- 
situation 
is imbued 
with 
passion. 
These 
signs 
do 
not, 
like 
a 
Jane Austen house, 
point outwards 
as sym- 
bols 
of social position, verifiable 
by 
others, creating 
some sort 
of 
world. 
The 
clocks and 
the 
mirrors and 
the 
half 
open 
doors 
belong 
to 
a 
world 
of 
appearances. 
They 
have 
no 
meaningful ex- 
istence 
outside 
of 
their 
function 
as expressions 
of 
Markheim' 
s 
sense of crisis; 
the 
interior 
of 
the 
house 
is 
realised 
only 
in- 
side 
Markheim's 
head, 
It 
is 
this 
subjectivisation of 
'reality' 
that 
leads Stevenson 
into 
the 
famous bloomer 
which supposedly 
disfigures 
'Markheim' 
: 
the 
stranger 
knows, 
without 
factual 
warranty, 
that 
the 
maid 
is 
returning. 
early 
from 
her 
outing. 
From 
our 
way 
of 
seeing 
the 
text, the 
error 
is 
less 
than 
hein- 
ous; 
it 
simply 
dramatises Markheim's 
realisation 
than 
an 
immed- 
moral 
decision has 
to 
be 
made. 
Strictly 
speaking, 
the 
maid 
iate 
has 
no 
more 
existence 
independent 
of 
Markheim's 
thought 
and 
feeling 
than 
does 
the 
house 
or 
the 
stranger. 
The 
real 
failure 
of 
'Markheim' 
is 
Stevenson's 
inability 
fully 
to 
imagine his 
pro- 
tagonist's 
redemption. 
Stevenson 
accepts 
a 
fragmented 
and 
un- 
stable 
reality 
and 
he 
can 
illuminate 
parts 
of 
it 
by 
projecting 
- 
63 
- 
himself 
into 
some 
eccentric 
vision 
- 
of a 
murderer, 
a wrecker; 
a 
set 
of 
melancholy, 
lonely figures. 
But, 
as yet, 
nothing 
to 
which 
the 
whole 
self 
can respond. 
For 
that, 
we 
have 
to 
wait 
until 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae 
and 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
in 
which 
the 
problematic 
relations 
of 
subject 
and 
object, of 
perceived 
and 
perceiver, 
are 
treated 
with 
new 
found 
equanimity. 
All 
of 
the 
above 
brings 
us 
back 
to 
'Tod 
Lapraik'. 
It 
is 
pre- 
cisely 
Stevenson's 
failure 
to 
reconcile 
two 
different 
areas 
of 
experience 
which 
makes 
that 
story 
obtrude 
so 
noticeably 
into 
Catriona, 
a 
novel 
about 
the 
world 
impressing 
itself 
on 
a 
young 
man. 
In 
an age 
of 
belief, 
inner 
and outer, personal 
demons 
and 
kings, 
are 
equally 
real 
because both 
originate 
in 
an 
exist- 
ence 
outside 
of 
time. 
But for 
Stevenson, 
and 
the 
time 
he lived 
in, 
it 
was very 
difficult 
to 
reconcile 
the two 
authentically. 
For 
hint,. 
the 
supernatural 
has 
poetic 
value, as 
it 
can 
illuminate 
its 
cultural 
or 
psychological 
origins; 
as 
giving 
an 
immediacy 
to 
the 
more 
mysterious elements 
of existence. 
But 
it 
must 
be 
de- 
marcated 
from 
the 
daylight 
world of 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
novel. 
Stevenson' 
s 
short stories act, 
I 
would argue, 
as 
repositories 
for 
this 
kind 
of 
irrational 
material 
- 
D?pplegangers, 
black 
men 
- 
which 
he 
could not 
synthesise 
with 
his 
imagination 
as 
it 
worked 
in 
his long fictions. 
Both 
the 
short 
stories 
and 
the 
longer fictions 
are 
rooted 
in 
the 
same epistemology, 
as 
will 
become 
evident. 
At 
present, 
we can 
note 
that 
the 
lyric 
utterance 
of 
the 
supernatural 
stories 
is 
modified 
by 
another, 
saner 
voice 
('The 
Merry Men'), 
by 
a 
contrasting 
double 
('Markheim') 
or 
by 
a context 
which makes 
explicit 
its 
status 
as a yarn 
('The 
Tale 
of 
Tod 
Lapraik'). 
Gordon 
Darnaway 
lives 
on 
what 
is 
an 
island 
for 
most 
of 
the 
year, 
only 
tenuously 
connected 
to the 
mainland. 
Murdoch 
Soulis 
is 
an 
introvert, 
dwelling 
alone 
in 
his 
manse. 
Henry 
Jekyll 
is 
trapped 
alone 
inside 
his 
laboratory 
with 
the 
green 
door. 
Mark- 
- 
64 
- 
heim 
is 
a 
murderer, 
an outsider who avoids 
society 
for 
the 
safety 
of 
his 
lonely, 
unwitnessed 
life. 
One 
could expand 
the 
list. 
What 
emerges 
is 
that 
people 
were 
at 
their 
most 
real 
to 
Stevenson 
in 
their 
individuality, 
not 
as 
members 
of society. 
Con- 
sequently 
his 
fiction 
explores 
two 
related 
aspects 
of 
this 
asoc- 
ial 
animal: 
the 
position of 
the 
outsider 
and 
the 
moi. 
(the 
"I") 
. 
The 
former 
often 
has 
a 
metaphoric 
connection 
with 
the 
latter: 
for 
example, 
James, 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
may 
be 
seen as sym- 
bolising 
a 
subconscious 
wilfulness 
which 
some 
of 
the 
other 
char- 
acters 
in 
the 
novel 
possess 
but 
do 
not 
recognise 
in 
themselves. 
The 
point 
is 
that 
Stevenson 
could 
not, 
at 
least 
up 
until 
his 
years 
in 
Samoa, 
imagine 
a 
deep-feeling 
and 
deep-thinking 
com- 
munity. 
For 
him, 
as 
for 
Lawrence, 
the 
only 
social relation 
which 
did 
not 
inhibit 
being 
(and 
he did 
not 
altogether 
despise 
inhibitions 
- 
far 
from 
it) 
was 
the 
sexual 
one. 
In 
fact, 
in 
a 
sense 
love 
was 
not a social 
relation 
at 
all, 
but 
a 
transcendent 
force. 
As he 
wrote 
of 
the 
nian who 
falls 
in 
love: 
He has 
to 
deal 
with commanding 
emotions 
instead 
of 
the 
easy 
dislikes 
and 
preferences 
in 
which 
he 
has hitherto 
passed 
his days; 
and 
he 
recognises 
capabilities 
for 
pain and 
pleasure 
of which 
he 
had 
not yet suspected 
the 
existence. 
Falling 
in 
love 
is 
the 
one 
illogical 
adventure, 
the 
one 
thing 
of 
which 
we are 
tempted to 
think 
as 
supernatural, 
in 
our 
trite 
and 
reasonable world. 
' 
Love, 
he 
argues 
in 
this 
essay, 
is 
a gay 
illusion. 
It 
is 
the 
one 
surrender 
to 
another 
which 
does 
not 
deaden 
a 
n, 
--an, 
because 
one 
wishes 
to 
be 
wholly oneself 
to 
a 
lover; 
the 
usual 
sense 
of 
pro- 
portion 
and utilitarian 
considerations are absent 
from 
the 
sex- 
ual 
relationship. 
Only 
the 
life 
of 
the 
artist 
in 
modern 
times, 
argues 
Stevenson, has 
the 
same 
transcendent 
quality: 
The 
book, 
the 
statue, 
the 
sonata, 
must 
be 
gone 
upon 
with 
the 
unreasoning 
good 
faith 
and 
the 
un- 
flagging 
spirit 
of children 
at 
their 
play. 
Is 
it 
- 
65 
- 
worth 
doing? 
- 
when 
it 
shall 
have 
occurred 
to 
any 
artist 
to 
ask 
himself 
that 
question, 
it is 
implicitly 
answered 
in 
the 
negative. 
60 
Leon 
Berthelini, 
the 
travelling 
musician 
of 
'Providence 
and 
the 
Guitar' 
(1878), 
is 
a 
lover 
and 
an 
artist 
of 
sorts; 
he 
lives 
a 
life 
which 
is 
a gay 
illusion. 
He 
'walked 
through 
life like 
a child 
in 
a 
perpetual 
dramatic 
performance'. 
The 
narrator 
says: 
I 
have 
seen 
him, 
at 
moments 
when 
he had 
fancied 
himself 
alone 
with 
his 
Maker, 
adopt 
so gay 
and 
chivalrous 
a 
bearing, 
and 
represent 
his 
own part 
with 
so 
much 
warmth 
and 
conscience, 
that the 
illus- 
ion become 
catching, 
and 
I believed 
implicitly 
in 
the 
Great 
Creature's 
pose. 
61 
Leon. 
is 
proof 
to 
the 
world's 
definition 
of 
him. The 
very 
power 
of 
his 
Quixotry 
wins 
him 
an, albeit 
tawdry, 
existential 
freedom. 
He 
is 
not 
playing 
a part 
for 
others 
because 
he 
per- 
forms 
when 
he 
is 
alone; 
he 
believes 
in 
himself, 
and 
his 
egoism 
heals 
- 
and 
restores 
to 
harmony 
the 
rupture 
between 
the 
painter 
and 
his 
wife. 
Leon 
never asks 
himself, 
'Is 
it 
worth 
doing? 
'. 
It 
seems a 
long 
way 
indeed 
from 
'Providence 
and 
the 
Guitar' 
to 
Herrick 
in 
Ebb-Tide: 
'I 
have 
nothing 
left 
that 
I 
believe 
in 
except 
my 
living horror 
of myself. 
' 
52 
But 
the 
way of 
seeing people, 
the 
process 
of 
imagining 
cha. 
ract- 
ers 
is 
essentially 
the 
same. 
Consistently, 
the 
problem 
of 
individ- 
ual 
identity is 
seen a sa moral one: 
that 
is 
to 
say, 
that 
how 
a man 
sees 
himself 
is inextricably 
bound 
up with 
his 
capacity 
for 
good 
and 
evil. 
I 
want 
now 
to 
turn 
to two 
of 
Stevenson' 
s most underrated stor- 
ies: 
'The 
Treasure 
of 
Franchard' 
and 
' Olalla' 
. 
'The 
Treasure 
of 
Franchard' 
(1883) 
is 
an 
intricate 
and 
enigmatic 
- 
66 
- 
tale, 
and 
is, I believe, 
worthy 
of 
greater 
scrutiny 
than 
it 
has 
generally 
undergone. 
The 
story 
is 
based 
on 
a 
set 
of 
ideal 
dich- 
otomies, 
which 
are 
presented 
through 
character 
and 
imagery. 
City 
and 
country, 
animal 
and angel, 
flesh 
and 
spirit, 
nature 
and 
nurture, 
language 
and 
silence: 
these 
are 
the 
main, 
some- 
times 
overlapping, 
opposites which 
form 
the 
basic 
conflicts 
of 
the 
story. 
Dr 
Desprez 
has 
a 
'scientific' 
view 
of 
human 
nature, 
very 
French 
and 
perhaps 
deriving from 
the 
more 
materialistic Philo- 
sophes. 
He 
sees 
in 
Jean-Marie, 
the 
abandoned 
boy, 
a chance 
to 
educate 
what 
he 
takes 
to 
be 
"un 
enfant sauvage"; and also 
the 
son 
that 
he does 
not 
have. But 
his 
relationship with 
jean- 
Marie 
is 
from 
the 
first 
a 
more 
ambiguous one 
than that. 
His 
eyes 
disturb 
the 
Doctor: 
There 
was 
a 
look 
in 
them, 
besides, 
which 
thrilled 
the 
doctor 
and 
made 
him half 
uneasy. 
He 
was sure 
he had 
seen such a 
look 
before, 
and 
yet 
he 
could 
not 
remember 
how 
or where. 
It 
was as 
if 
this 
boy 
... 
had 
the 
eyes 
of 
an 
old 
friend 
or 
an old 
en- 
emy. 
And 
the 
boy 
would 
give 
him 
no 
peace; 
he 
seemed 
profoundly 
indifferent 
to 
what was going 
on, or rather 
abstracted 
from 
it 
in 
a 
superior con- 
templation 
3 
At 
once 
Jean-Marie is 
mysterious, 
as 
is 
his 
effect upon 
the 
doc- 
tor. 
But 
Desprez 
finds 
a 
theory 
for 
his bizarre 
attraction 
when 
he 
surmises 
that 
the 
boy 
'had 
the 
eyes 
that 
go usually with 
a 
crooked 
back', 
although 
'he 
was not at all 
deformed'. 
"' 
In 
the 
words 
of 
the 
narrator, 
he 
thus 
manages 
'to 
explain 
away 
his 
interest', 
the 
very 
terms 
suggesting 
that 
Desprez's 
theory 
is 
inadequate. 
Indeed, 
we shall see 
how 
it is 
characteristic 
of 
the 
doctor 
to 
explain 
the 
inexplicable in 
terms 
of 
the 
body, 
as 
though 
physical 
order 
glas 
the 
basis 
of all 
life. 
In 
a 
subtle 
process 
of 
interweaving, Stevenson 
builds 
up 
Des- 
prez's 
character 
and, 
alternately, a set 
of 
observations on 
jean- 
- 
67 
- 
Marie. 
The 
latter's 
attributes 
are never 
specific. 
For 
example, 
the 
landlady 
of 
the 
local 
inn 
says 
of 
him: 
'He 
is 
a 
little 
pagan... 
For 
that 
matter, 
they 
are 
all 
the 
same, 
these 
mountebanks, 
tumblers, 
artists, 
and 
what 
not. 
They 
have 
no 
interior. 
65 
The 
last 
word 
is 
odd; 
it 
draws 
quizzical 
attention 
to 
itself. 
In 
French, 
' 
interieur' 
can 
mean, 
as an adjective, 
domestic, 
as 
a 
noun, 
home 
or 
house. 
And 
surely 
Stevenson 
is 
thinking 
of 
this: 
that 
Jean-Marie 
is 
homeless, 
undomesticated, not 
a respectable 
member 
of 
society. 
In 
fact, 
the 
idea 
of 
homes 
and 
homelessness 
reverberates 
throughout 
the 
story. 
Deprez's 
house 
is 
the 
source 
of great 
pleasure 
to 
him 
and, 
after 
his 
adoption, of 
discomfort 
to 
Jean-Marie. 
It 
was 
the 
first 
house 
to 
be 
built 
in 
the 
hamlet 
after 
the 
English 
had destroyed 
the 
previous 
town 
of 
Gretz, 
and 
is 
thus 
symbolic of 
civic renewal. 
It 
is 
also, claims 
Deprez, 
the 
fount 
of 
'the humbler 
virtues. 
So 
that, 
to 
see 
Jean- 
Marie 
as 
houseless 
is 
a pointer 
to 
Stevenson's 
conception 
of 
him. 
The 
only occasion on which 
we 
see 
him 
clearly, 
finds 
the 
orphan 
seated 
in 
the 
mouth 
of a cave. 
Before he became 
a 
tumbler, 
the 
boy 
'used 
to 
steal', 
and 
his 
honesty 
in 
confessing 
this 
would 
seem 
to 
suggest 
that 
he 
is 
a 
natural. 
But 
the 
supposition 
would 
be 
at 
least 
partially 
false; 
as 
he 
himself 
says: 
'I 
was 
not 
ignorant 
of right 
and 
wrong; 
for before 
that 
I 
had 
been 
well 
taught 
by 
a priest. 
' 
66 
But 
if 
Jean-Marie 
is 
not a 
"natural", 
neither 
is 
he 
a 
citizen. 
Like 
Huck 
Finn, 
he 
is 
in 
some 
intermediate 
position; 
aware 
of 
right 
and 
wrong 
in 
broad 
terms, 
but 
not 
to the 
extent 
of 
accepting 
time- 
and place-bound 
definitions 
of virtue and 
sin. 
In 
fact, 
it 
is 
a quality 
of 
direct, 
unpolite 
appraisal 
which 
attracts 
Desprez 
to the 
orphan; 
what 
he 
calls 
his 
'pitiless 
innocence'. 
When 
the 
doctor 
accuses 
Jean-Marie 
of 
being 
a 
- 
68 
- 
'monster' 
because 
he 
is 
unusual, 
('I 
am 
an 
observer 
of 
plain 
and 
temperate 
nature', 
he 
says), 
the 
boy 
points out 
that 
he, 
Desprez, 
is 
rather 
odd 
himself. 
The 
old 
man 
embraces 
him 
joy- 
fully: 
'I 
did 
not 
know 
such 
boys 
existed; 
I 
was 
ignorant 
they 
made 
them 
so; 
I 
had 
doubted 
my race; and 
now! 
It 
is 
like, 
' 
he 
added... 
'like 
a 
lovers' 
meting. 
' 
67 
Again, 
the 
term 
'lovers' 
meeting' 
provokes 
a 
puzzled 
response. 
But 
it 
does become 
clearer 
when 
we are acquainted 
with 
Ma- 
dame 
Desprez: 
'Anastasie 
was of a very 
mundane nature 
:68 
She 
likes 
oysters 
(an 
aphrodisiac? 
), 
wine, risque 
jokes, 
'racy 
novels'. 
Apparently, 
Doctor 
Desprez' 
egoistic philosophy 
owes 
much 
to 
his 
wife: 
It 
was 
her brute 
enjoyment 
that 
he 
rationalised 
and 
perhaps 
vainly 
imitated. 
69 
In 
justifying 
his 
adoption of 
Jean-Marie 
to 
this 
woman 
who 
'was 
greatly an animal', 
Desprez 
makes 
explicit 
the 
basis 
of 
his love for 
the 
boy. 
'You 
married 
the 
animal side 
of my nature, my 
dear; 
and 
it is 
on 
the 
spiritual side 
that 
I 
find 
my 
affinity 
for Jean-Marie. 
" 
The love, 
therefore, 
is 
of 
the 
incomplete 
nature which 
wishes 
to 
make 
itself 
whole 
by 
joining 
itself 
with 
its 
opposite, 
of 
the 
animal 
for 
the 
angel. 
Certainly, 
this 
attraction 
of 
opposites 
is 
typical 
of 
Stevenson's 
way 
of 
seeing. 
The 
doctor imagines 
that 
he has 
a 
tabula 
rasa 
to teach 
and 
civilise 
in 
Jean-Marie. 
But 
his 
attempts 
at 
formal 
education 
are 
not 
wholly 
successful. 
Philosophically, 
what 
he 
preaches 
is 
a 
sort 
of 
banal 
Rousseauism: 
that 
Law 
reinforces 
Nature; 
that 
freedom 
lies 
in 
living 
in 
harmony 
with 
nature, 
in 
accept- 
-69- 
ing 
necessity. 
However, 
his 
particular 
beliefs 
and 
satisfactions 
are 
obviously 
only 
rationalisations 
of 
his 
own 
situation. 
He 
is 
a 
creature 
of 
circumstances. 
He 
lives 
in Gretz, 
so 
Gretz 
is 
the 
healthiest 
place 
in 
the 
world. 
He 
abhors 
dirt 
and 
disease, 
therefore 
hygiene 
is 
the true 
foundation 
of 
human 
life: 
The 
Doctor's 
system 
of 
hygiene 
strikingly 
coincided 
with 
his 
tastes; 
and 
his 
picture 
of 
the 
perfect 
life 
was 
a 
faithful 
description 
of 
the 
life 
he 
was 
lead- 
ing 
at 
the 
time. 
71 
In 
Jungian 
terms, 
Desprez 
is 
an 
extrovert; 
he 
relates 
to 
the 
world 
through 
sensation 
and, 
secondarily, 
thought. 
His 
sensual 
appreciation 
of 
the 
tangible 
world 
of sight, 
smell and 
touch 
is 
well 
conveyed 
by 
short 
descriptions 
of 
the 
doctor's 
life: 
he 
tastes 
a 
peach, 
he 
eulogises 
the 
blue 
of 
the 
sky. 
On 
the 
con- 
trary, 
Jean-Marie's 
life 
and 
appearance are 
unvisualised, 
indic- 
ating 
in 
this 
way 
his 
curiously 
intangible 
nature. 
When 
the 
doctor 
and 
his 
wife 
attempt 
to 
dress 
him 
in 
a 
uniform, 
the 
guise 
only conceals 
him 
the 
more, 
as 
though 
he 
retained 
a soc- 
ially 
indefinable 
pa rt of 
himself. 
Doctor Desprez' 
great 
bugbear 
is 
Paris, 
where 
he 
originally 
lost his fortune. 
This 'personal 
devil' 
is 
treated 
with 
the 
gentle 
irony 
with 
which 
his 
foibles 
are undercut 
throughout 
the 
story. 
However, his 
longings for 'my 
wallowings 
in 
the 
mire' 
are real. 
The 
evil 
of 
the 
city 
is 
the 
source 
of a 
delicate 
hum- 
our; 
for Desprez 
it 
would 
be like 
the 
expulsion 
from 
Eden. 
Paris 
and 
Paradise 
are 
not 
convertible 
terms. 
This 
pleasing noise 
of 
the 
wind 
streaming among 
leaves 
changed 
into 
the 
grinding 
Babel 
of 
the 
street, 
the 
stupid 
glare 
of plaster 
substituted 
for 
this 
quiet 
pattern 
of greens 
and 
greys, 
the 
nerves 
shattered, 
the 
digestion 
falsified 
- 
picture 
the 
fall!.. 
the 
man 
is 
himself 
no 
longer. 
72 
If 
Paris 
is 
his devil, he 
asks 
Jean-Marie 
to 
be 
his 
saving 
angel 
and 
to 
wreck 
the 
train 
if 
he 
attempts 
to 
return 
to 
the 
- 
70 
- 
city. 
In 
fact, 
Jean-Marie 
does 
fulfil, 
metaphorically, 
just 
this 
role, 
when 
his benefactor, 
having 
become 
suddenly 
wealthy, 
is 
about 
to 
destroy himself 
by 
returning 
to 
Paris. The boy 
contem- 
plates 
the 
consequences 
of 
the 
proposed 
move with 
foreboding 
: 
He 
was 
to 
leave 
this 
familiar 
hamlet, 
this 
green, 
rustling 
country, 
this 
bright 
and 
quiet stream; 
he 
was 
to 
pass 
into 
the 
great 
city; 
his dear 
lady 
mis- 
tress 
was 
to 
move 
bedizened 
in 
saloons; 
his 
good 
garrulous, 
kind-hearted 
master 
to 
become 
a 
brawl- 
ing 
deputy; 
and 
both be 
lost forever 
to 
Jean-Marie 
and 
their 
better 
selves. 
He 
knew 
his 
own 
defects; 
he 
knew 
he 
must 
sink 
into 
less 
and 
less 
consider- 
ation 
in 
the 
turmoil 
of a city 
life, 
sink 
more 
and 
more 
from 
the 
child 
into 
the 
servant. 
73 
The 
orphan 
sees 
that 
if 
he 
ceases 
to 
be 
a 
child, 
Desprez 
will 
also 
lose 
his 
innocence; 
he 
is 
the 
unchangeable element of 
the 
doctor's 
nature, 
and 
in 
the 
city 
that 
free 
spirit 
will 
become 
a 
flunkey 
of 
des 
ire. 
(It 
is 
a common 
device 
of 
Stevenson's 
to 
characterise 
one 
figure 
through 
association 
with 
another, 
to 
convey 
the 
active 
qualitie s of 
the 
character's attributes. 
) 
The 
city 
is, 
to 
an extent, 
symbolic. 
It 
sums 
up 
the 
world 
of 
high 
society, 
of 
institutions, 
of civic endeavour, of organised 
pleasures 
- 
and 
of words. 
Doctor 
Desprez 
is 
a words-fiend. 
His 
eloquence 
is immense 
and 
absurd, redeemed only 
by his 
infinite 
gusto. 
He 
gossips 
with 
his 
wife, 
he lectures 
Jean-Marie, he 
talks to 
himself 
- 
he 
is 
the 
source 
of 
a constant 
flow 
of 
often 
elaborate 
rhetoric. 
Jean-Marie 
seldom 
speaks; 
seldom, 
it 
seems, 
thinks. 
In 
a vitally 
important 
part 
of 
the 
story 
- 
not 
of 
the 
plot, which 
could 
be 
contained 
in 
a 
few 
pages 
- 
he 
is 
given 
the 
angelic 
properties 
which 
have 
only 
been hinted 
at 
before. 
He 
sits 
in 
a wordless 
trance: 
The 
Doctor 
thoroughly 
possessed 
his heart, but 
per- 
haps 
he 
exaggerated 
his 
influence 
over 
his 
mind. 
Certainly 
Jean-Marie 
adopted 
some 
of 
his 
master's 
opinions, 
but 
I have 
yet 
to 
learn 
that 
he 
surrend- 
ered 
one 
of 
his 
own. 
Convictions 
existed 
in 
him 
by 
- 
71 
- 
divine 
right; 
they 
were virgin, 
unwrought, 
the 
brute 
metal of 
decision. 
He 
could 
add others 
in- 
deed, 
but 
he 
could 
not 
put 
away; 
neither 
did 
he 
care 
if 
they 
were perfectly agreed among 
them- 
selves: 
and 
his 
spiritual 
pleasures 
had 
nothing 
to 
do 
with 
turning 
them 
over 
or 
justifying them 
in 
words. 
Words 
were 
with 
him 
a 
mere 
accomplish- 
ment, 
like 
dancing. 
When 
he 
was 
by himself, 
his 
pleasures 
were 
almost 
vegetable. 
He 
would 
slip 
into 
the 
woods 
towards 
Acheres, 
and sit 
in 
the 
mouth 
of 
a cave 
among 
grey 
birches. 
His 
soul 
stared 
straight 
out 
of 
his 
eyes; 
he did 
not 
move 
or 
think; 
sunlight, 
thin 
shadows 
moving 
in 
the 
wind, 
the 
edge 
of 
firs 
against 
the 
sky, occupied 
and 
bound 
his faculties. 
He 
was pure 
unity, 
a 
spirit 
wholly 
abstracted. 
A 
single 
mood 
filled 
him, 
to 
which 
all 
the 
objects 
of 
sense contributed, 
as 
the 
colours 
of 
the 
spectrum merge 
and 
disappear 
in 
white 
light. 
So 
while 
the 
Doctor 
made 
himself 
drunk 
with 
words, 
the 
adopted 
stable-boy 
bemused 
himself 
with 
silence. 
Jean-Marie 
does 
not 
have 
the 
self-consciousness of 
civilised 
men, nor 
their 
ability 
to 
convince 
themselves. 
that 
what 
they 
thought 
wrong 
is 
right. 
He 
sits, 
notice, 
in 
a cave, 
as 
if 
to 
imply 
the 
asocial nature of 
his being. 
What 
he 
has 
is 
'bred 
in 
the 
bone' 
; 
it 
owes 
nothing 
to 
anyone 
else, 
is 
thus 
transcendent 
(see 
my 
travel 
chapter). 
The 
whole passage 
is 
a 
fascinating 
clueto 
the 
way 
S-tevenson's 
mitad 
was working 
at 
the ti-me; 
thinking, 
as 
he 
was, 
of 
the 
dichotomy 
between 
words 
and 
silence, 
between 
soc- 
ial 
and natural 
man. 
(At 
the 
period 
of writing, 
he 
was 
for 
a 
spell rendered 
silent 
by his 
illness. 
) 
Words 
are 
casuistical, 
they 
distort; 
they 
are used 
to 
justify 
and 
to 
rationalise. 
Where- 
as 
Jean-Marie's 
sight 
is 
'pure'. 
Desprez is 
a great wordsmith, 
a 
theatrical 
poet, 
convincing, 
teaching 
- 
and ultimately 
living 
a 
falsehood, 
though 
a 
minor 
one 
for 
which 
we 
are 
likely 
to 
have 
every 
sympathy. 
Desprez 
is, 
very 
humanly, 
a 
creature 
of 
circumstance, 
and 
it 
is 
only 
Jean-Marie's 
consistency 
of 
vision 
which 
saves 
him 
frone 
ruin. 
In 
this 
respect, 
Jean-Marie 
as a 
creature 
of 
'pure 
spirit', 
is 
an 
angel 
- 
in 
fact, 
at 
the 
very 
end 
of 
the 
story 
Desprez 
calls 
him 
'that 
angel 
boy. 
He has 
to 
remain 
a 
child 
to 
save 
the 
doctor; 
therefore, 
he 
is 
out 
of 
- 
72 
_ 
time, 
and 
out 
of 
the 
mundane world which 
Anastasie 
inhabits 
totally. He 
is 
not 
trapped 
within 
the 
self-justifying casuitry 
of 
words 
for 
this 
reason. 
It 
is 
not 
that 
Jean-Marie 
holds 
spirit- 
uality 
to 
be 
valuable 
(words) 
; 
he 
is 
spiritual 
(silence). 
Steven- 
son 
has 
borrowed 
the 
simile of 
the 
white 
light, 
probably 
from 
Shelley, 
to 
suggest 
that 
Jean-Marie 
is 
part 
of 
the 
absolute, 
negatively 
perceived 
as 
the 
absence 
of 
mutability. 
In 
real 
human 
terms, 
he 
is 
constant. 
Desprez 
is 
able 
to 
see with 
the 
same 
clarity 
and 
lack 
of 
hypocrisy, 
only 
after 
his 
house 
is 
destroyed 
and 
he becomes, 
like 
his 
adopted 
son, 
homeless. 
76 
In 
the 
epilogue 
to 
The 
Marble Faun, Hawthorne 
wrote 
that 
Romance 
tried 
to 
present 
fictional figures 
which 
lay 
somewhere 
'between 
the 
Real 
and 
the 
Fantastic' 
"- 
that 
is, 
the 
romantic 
figure 
is, 
often, 
not 
true to 
the 
observable reality, 
but, 
in 
Stevenson's 
term, 
'typical' 
of some 
persistent 
tendency 
of 
hum- 
an nature. 
These 
attributes 
are applicable 
to 
Jean-Marie. 
He 
does 
not conform 
to the 
naturalistic 
conception 
of a character 
in 
a 
story at all, 
lacking, 
as 
he does, 
all 
density 
of 
definit- 
ion. 
He 
is 
not completely 
Platonic, 
because 
he 
has 
a mundane 
form; 
but 
as a symbol 
he 
is 
informed 
by 
the 
Platonic 
notion 
of 
changelessness. 
In 
this 
way, 
he 
reveals certain 
intuitions 
of 
the 
doctor's. 
Insofar 
as 
this 
is 
the 
case, 
he 
is 
a memory 
in 
Desprez' 
mind; remember 
that 
he 
felt he had 
seen 
Jean-MMriarie' 
s 
look before but 
could 
not 
understand 
it, 
and 
that 
later 
in 
the 
story we are 
told that 
Jean-Marie's 
soul 
'stared 
straight 
out 
hip; 
eyes' 
.78 
Jean-Marie, 
we might say 
then, 
is 
Desprez's 
intimation 
of 
immut- 
ability, 
the 
spiritual 
complement 
to the 
animal 
pleasures 
that 
he both 
enjoys 
and 
fears. Like 
Wordsworth's 
adult, 
the 
doctor 
cannot 
turn 
time 
back 
or 
fully 
comprehend 
the 
nature 
of 
his 
adopted 
son. 
But 
his 
love 
of 
the 
boy 
and 
his 
soulfulness 
save 
him in 
the 
end: 
when 
Casimir, 
who 
is 
the 
true 
materialist 
in 
the 
tale 
because 
he bears 
love 
to 
no one, 
points 
out 
that 
Jean- 
Marie 
must 
have 
been 
the thief, 
both 
Desprez 
and 
his 
wife 
- 
73 
- 
deny 
the 
evidence 
of 
their 
senses and 
refuse 
even 
to 
consider 
his 
possible 
guilt. 
A 
tender 
wit conceived 
that 
scene. 
As 
a 
res- 
ult, 
we 
are 
prepared 
to 
give 
some 
credence 
to 
the 
Doctor's 
claim, 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
story, 
that 
he 
owes 
his 
deliverance 
to 
his 
own 
teaching. 
Much 
of 
the 
subtlety 
of 
'The 
Treasure 
of 
Franchard' 
lies 
in 
that 
final 
ambiguity, 
whether 
Desprez 
was 
saved 
because 
of 
his 
teaching 
or 
despite himself. 
'The Treasure 
of 
Franchard' 
a 
number 
of minor 
infelicities, 
implied 
by 
this 
sentence: 
not a 
faultless 
story. 
It 
has 
such as 
the 
sloppy construction 
The Doctor's 
house has 
not yet 
received 
the 
compli- 
ment 
of 
a 
description, 
and 
it is 
now. 
high 
time the 
omission 
were supplied. 
79 
In 
addition, 
the 
discovery 
of 
the treasure 
is 
perfunctory 
and 
too 
obviously a 
mere 
device. There 
is 
no 
narrative 
impulse 
run- 
ning 
through 
the 
story at 
all; 
the 
plot 
is 
static 
and 
the 
action 
theatrical, 
consisting 
of set pieces, 
tableaux 
vivants. 
But 
these 
latter 
are very well 
written, 
and 
it is 
the 
writing 
which 
carries 
the 
witty 
play of 
ideas 
that 
I have 
tried to 
bring 
out. 
There 
is 
no aesthetic 
engagement 
with 
these 
ideas; 
they 
are 
treated 
with 
an 
irony 
which 
accounts 
for 
much of 
Stevenson' 
s 
famous 
charm: 
the 
mock-heroic 
tone 
of 
Desprez's 
injunction 
to 
wreck 
the train 
if 
necessary presides over 
the 
whole 
tale. 
'Olalla' 
(1885) 
is 
concerned with 
a renuncia 
. 
ion 
occasioned 
by 
'That 
subtle 
knot 
which makes 
us 
man', 
the 
intertwining 
of 
the 
ani- 
mal and 
the 
divine. Therefore, it 
seems 
just 
to 
consider 
it 
alongside 
'The 
Treasure 
of 
Franchard'. 
The 
narrator 
is 
an 
English 
soldier 
convalescing 
on 
the 
estate 
of 
a once-grand 
Spanish family brought, 
by 
in-breeding, 
to 
a 
dilapidated 
condition. 
The 
family has 
a 
horrible 
secret, 
which 
the 
story-teller 
can only guess 
at, and 
this 
mystery 
forms 
the 
- 
74 
- 
main 
centre 
of 
interest, 
until 
the 
soldier 
meets 
and 
falls 
in 
love 
with 
Olalla, 
the 
daughter 
of 
the 
family. 
The 
werewolf 
ele- 
ment 
in 
the 
tale 
(it 
turns 
out 
that 
the 
mo _her 
is just 
that) 
frames 
and 
provides 
the 
conditions under 
which 
the 
love. 
stork, 
works 
itself 
out. 
The 
whole 
tale 
is 
heavily 
influenced 
by Poe. 
The 
very 
name 
Olalla 
points 
to the 
American 
writer's 
love 
of 
exotic 
combinations 
of vowels 
and 
1-sounds. 
And 
the 
house 
acts 
as 
a 
symbol 
of 
the 
family's 
decay 
in 
the 
same 
way 
that the 
House 
of 
Usher 
does 
in 
the 
story 
of 
the 
name; 
here 
it 
is 
embod- 
ied 
in 
a 
Poe-like language, 
elevated 
and 
rich, 
full 
of metaphor 
and 
alliteration: 
It 
was 
a 
rich 
house, 
on 
which 
Time had 
breathed 
his 
tarnish 
and 
dust 
had 
scattered 
disillusion. The 
spider 
swung 
there; the 
bloated 
tarantula 
scamp- 
ered 
on 
the 
cornices; 
ants 
had 
their 
crowded 
high- 
ways 
on 
the 
floor 
of 
halls 
of audience; 
the 
big 
and 
foul 
fly, 
that 
lives 
on carrion 
and 
is 
often 
the 
messenger 
of 
death, 
had 
set 
up 
his 
nest 
in 
the 
rotten 
woodwork 
and 
buzzed heavily 
about 
the 
rooms. 
80 
The degeneration 
which 
has 
afflicted 
the 
family 
is 
evinced 
in 
Felipe 
the 
young 
boy, 
who 
is 
little 
more 
than 
an animal, and 
his 
mother, who 
seems 
to 
lack 
all 
intellectual 
capacity 
- 
al- 
though 
the 
full 
extent 
of 
her 
ferality does 
not emerge until, at 
a climax 
of 
the 
story, 
she 
is 
aroused 
by 
the 
narrator's 
bleed- 
ing 
hand 
and 
throws 
herself 
on 
him. Otherwise, 
she appears 
to 
exist 
in 
a placid 
vacancy 
of 
mind: 
She lived 
in 
her body; 
and 
her 
consciousness 
was 
all 
sunk 
into 
and 
disseminated 
through 
her 
mem- 
bers, 
where 
it 
luxuriously 
dwelt. 
"' 
The 
reader's 
suspicions 
as 
to the 
source 
of 
the 
terrifying 
cries 
which 
the 
soldier 
hears in 
the 
night 
are, 
in 
fact, directed 
more 
onto 
the 
absent 
Olalla 
or 
the 
cruel 
and 
moody 
Felipe, 
than 
the 
mother. 
- 
75 
- 
The 
narrator 
is 
led 
to 
consider 
the 
question of 
heredity, 
and 
of 
the 
effect 
of 
the 
ancestral 
indentity 
on 
the 
mysterious 
Olalla, 
by 
the 
many 
portraits 
on 
the 
walls of 
the 
residencia. 
(The 
painting 
as a story 
in itself 
is 
used 
by Poe in 
'The 
Oval 
Portrait', 
which 
is 
also 
set 
in Spain 
and 
has 
a narrator 
who 
is 
a 
wounded 
soldier). 
82 
He 
finds 
an 
indefinable 
evil 
in 
the 
features 
repeated 
around 
him. 
When 
he 
eventually meets 
Olaila, 
then, 
he 
is 
quite 
prepared 
for 
her 
beauty 
and 
her 
asceticism 
(mirrored 
in 
her 
room, 
which 
he 
has 
explored), 
but 
not 
for 
the 
complete 
absence 
of 
evil 
of 
degeneration 
from her 
bearing. 
Their 
encounter 
is, 
for 
him, 
like 
a 
'wedding 
of 
souls' 
. 
B3 
He 
is 
thrust 
into 
this 
metaphor 
by 
a 
Poe-like, 
and 
high 
Romantic, 
moment 
of 
transfixion 
which changes 
the 
whole 
aspect of 
the 
world 
for 
the 
lover. 
In fact, 
her 
love, 
once 
declared, 
reconn- 
ects 
the 
soldier 
to 
a 
world of 
feeling 
which 
he 
had lost: 
Something 
elemental, something rude, violent, 
and 
savage, 
in 
the 
love 
that 
sang 
in 
my 
heart, 
was 
like 
a 
key 
to 
nature's secrets... 
Her 
touch 
had 
quickened, and 
renewed, and 
strung 
me 
up 
to the 
old 
pitch of concert with 
the 
rugged 
earth, 
to 
a 
swelling 
of 
the 
soul 
that 
men 
learned 
to 
forget 
in 
their 
polite 
assemblies... 
She 
seemed 
the 
link 
that 
bound 
me 
in 
with 
dead 
things 
on 
the 
one 
hand, 
and 
with 
our 
pure 
and pitying 
God 
upon 
the 
other: 
a 
thing 
brutal 
and 
divine, 
and akin 
at 
once 
to 
the 
innocence 
and unbridled 
forces 
of 
the 
earth. 
" 
Love has 
the 
power of 
reconciling 
the 
animal 
and 
the 
divine, 
because 
unlike 
the 
divine 
it 
is 
concrete, 
and unlike 
the 
animal 
it 
is 
creative, 
it 
can 
transcend 
its 
circumstances. 
In 'Olalla', 
the 
theme 
of 
the 
mixed 
nature of 
human 
beings 
is 
handled 
more 
forcefully 
and 
less 
playfully 
than 
it 
is in 
'The Treasure 
of 
Franchard'. 
The 
true 
knottiness 
of 
human 
life 
- 
Olalla 
re- 
nounces 
her 
lover 
in 
the 
name 
of 
her 
love 
for him 
- 
is 
faced 
in 
this 
story; 
and 
the 
fact 
that 
Stevenson 
manages 
to 
convince 
us 
of 
the 
grand 
passion 
of 
the 
lovers 
makes 
the 
loss 
all 
the 
more 
poignant. 
Olalla is 
persuasive 
both 
as 
an erotic 
figure 
and 
as 
an 
emblem 
of renunciation. 
It 
is 
she who 
points 
out 
the 
_76_ 
meaning 
of 
the 
parable, 
which 
is 
what 
the 
story 
is, 
in 
her 
farewell 
spe 
ech 
about m en 
being 
the 
'inheri 
tors 
of 
sin' and 
each 
having 
a 
'sparkle 
of 
the 
divine'. 
85 
Her 
grand 
gesture 
of 
renunciation 
is 
a 
transcendence 
of 
her 
own 
feral 
inheritance. 
At 
the 
end 
she 
becomes 
one 
with 
the 
crucifix 
beside 
her; but 
the 
Christ 
figure 
is 
a 
mere 
abstraction 
of 
suffering, 
while 
Olalla 
is 
the 
real 
thing: 
I 
stood 
by 
and 
looked 
now at 
her 
and 
now 
at 
the 
object 
of 
her 
adoration, 
now 
at 
the 
living figure 
of 
the 
penitent, 
and 
now at 
the 
ghastly 
daubed 
countenance. 
66 
Unfortunately, 
Olalla 
then 
gives 
her 
'speech. 
It 
is 
too 
explic- 
it. 
Olalla 
should 
not, 
I 
think, 
have 
spoken 
the 
words, al- 
though 
they 
might 
have 
been 
acceptable as 
thoughts 
going 
through 
the 
narrator's 
mind. 
As 
it is, 
the 
lecture 
represents 
a 
failure 
of 
Stevenson's 
aesthetic sense and a crudity of 
feel- 
ing 
absent 
from 
the 
rest of 
the 
story. 
Besides, 
the 
moral 
is 
made sufficiently clear 
by 
the 
following 
paragraph, which con- 
sists 
of 
the 
writer's 
sad 
assessment 
of 
the 
meaning 
of 
Olalla 
as 
an 
experience 
as 
well 
as an emblem. 
Olalla 
is 
able 
to 
make 
her 
sacrifice 
because 
she can appeal 
to 
a 
set of absolutes wh 
ich 
recognise 
her 
inheritance 
of sin 
not 
as an aberration of 
nature, 
but 
as part of 
the 
nature 
of 
thin 
s. 
S'r?e 
is 
able 
to 
draw 
on 
the 
archetypal 
image 
of 
the 
vol- 
untary 
sufferer. 
There is 
a 
fable by 
Stevenson 
called 
'The 
Touchstone'. 
87 
In 
the 
allegory 
two 
brothers, 
sons of 
a 
king, 
are 
in 
competition 
for 
the 
hand 
of 
the 
beautiful 
daughter 
of 
another 
king. 
The 
girl's 
father 
requests 
that 
before 
deciding 
which 
of 
the 
brothers 
is 
to 
marry 
his 
daughter, 
they 
find 
and 
bring 
to 
him 
the 
touchstone 
which will 
reveal 
truth. 
The 
younger 
brother 
rides 
home 
and returns with 
a 
piece 
of mirror which reflects 
the 
splendour 
of 
the 
second 
king's 
castle, 
whereupon 
the 
king 
_77_ 
a 
%iards 
his 
daughter 
to 
this 
brother. 
The 
other 
prince 
takes 
the 
quest 
more 
seriously 
and searches 
throughout 
the 
world 
for 
the 
stone. 
'{`en 
are 
eager 
to 
offer 
him 
what 
they 
claim 
to 
be 
the 
touchstone. 
He 
receives and 
rejects 
in 
turn 
a mirror, 
saying 
'there 
should 
be 
more 
than 
seeming'; 
and 
cla 
rnins 
that 
'at 
least 
there 
is 
the 
seeming', 
he 
refuses 
a 
lump 
of coal; 
88 
he finds 
beauty 
in 
a 
large 
number 
of 
coloured 
stones, 
but 
each 
has 
only 
a 
partial 
truth, 
being 
discretely 
blue 
or green 
or 
red. 
Finally 
a 
man 
gives 
him 
a 
clear 
pebble, 
which 
has 
no 
beauty 
and 
no 
colour. 
The 
elder 
son 
is 
not 
impressed 
by 
the 
final 
offering 
of 
the 
clear 
pebble, 
but 
next 
morning 
as 
he 
rides 
on 
his 
way 
he 
decides 
to 
look 
at 
it 
again: 
[ 
He 
J 
got 
down 
from his 
horse, 
and 
emptied 
forth 
his 
wallet 
by 
the 
side 
of 
the 
way. 
Now, 
in 
the 
light 
of 
each other, 
all 
the touchstones 
lost 
their 
hue 
and 
fire, 
and 
withered 
like 
stars 
at 
morning; 
only 
the 
pebble 
was 
the 
most 
bright. 
And 
the 
elder 
son 
smote 
upon 
his 
brow. 'How 
if 
this 
be 
the 
truth? 
' 
he 
cried, 
'that 
all are 
a 
little 
true? 
' 
And 
he 
took 
the 
pebble, and 
turned 
its 
light 
upon 
the 
heavens, 
and 
they 
deepened 
about 
him 
like 
the 
pit; 
and 
he 
turned 
it 
upon 
the 
hills, 
and 
the 
hills 
were 
cold and rugged, 
but life 
ran 
in 
their 
sides 
so 
that 
his 
own 
life 
bounded; 
and 
he 
turned 
it 
on 
the 
dust, 
and 
he beheld 
the 
dust 
with 
joy 
and 
terror; 
and 
he 
turned 
it 
upon 
himself, 
and 
he 
kneeled 
down 
and 
prayed. 
89 
It 
will 
be 
seen 
that 
this 
is 
a 
crude 
parable. 
Its 
meaning 
has 
t-, 
v, o 
elements. 
The 
first 
element 
is 
aesthetic: 
the 
story 
implies 
that 
straightforward 
naturalism 
only 
reflects 
the 
surface 
of 
things. 
The 
o-her 
element, 
which 
bears 
on 
the 
argument 
of 
this 
chapter, 
expresses 
the 
idea 
that 
reality 
is 
a 
dialectical 
relationship 
of 
subject 
and 
object; 
but 
that 
the 
subjective 
is 
elective. 
In 
the 
absence of 
transcendent 
truths, 
then 
one must 
accept 
the 
variety of 
possible 
truths. 
The 
elder 
brother is 
turned 
away 
by 
the 
younger 
brother, 
who 
has 
married 
the 
girl, 
and 
says of 
their 
family 
that they 
are 
'sedentary 
folk 
and 
known 
in 
the 
land', 
while 
the 
elder 
- 
78 
- 
brother 
is 
'a 
restless 
man'. 
9' 
Th-- 
elder 
becomes 
a 
wanderer. 
We 
are 
dealing 
he 
The 
Traveller', 
elaborately 
to 
the 
We 
have 
also 
seen 
to 
be 
found 
in 
th 
City 
and 
Country, 
as opposites. 
The 
from 
the 
at-homer 
element 
of 
the 
pE 
Merry 
Men' 
we 
h 
Highland 
(which 
b 
Ego 
and 
Id; 
I 
Immanence. 
Flesh 
-e 
with 
another 
version 
of 
'The 
Citizen 
and 
but 
this 
time 
the 
opposition 
is 
linked 
question 
of 
subjective 
and 
objective 
truth. 
that 
another 
group 
of 
ideal 
oppositions 
are. 
short 
stories. 
In 
'Treasure 
of 
Franchard', 
Speech 
and 
Silence, 
Flesh 
and 
Spirit, 
appear 
first 
element 
of each 
pair 
can 
be 
abstracted 
ess 
of 
Dr 
Desprez 
in 
society. 
The 
second 
irs 
is 
represented 
by 
Jean-Marie. In 
'The 
. 
ve 
another 
set 
of opposites: 
Lowland 
and 
, 
come 
important 
in 
Kidnapped 
and 
Catriona) 
; 
aw 
and 
Lawlessness; 
Transcendence 
and 
end 
Spirit 
and 
Immanence 
and 
Transcendence 
are 
again 
evident 
in 
' Ullala' 
; 
as 
they 
are 
in 'Markheim', 
where 
we 
can 
add 
to these 
oppositions 
Self 
and 
Other, 
and 
Lawlessness 
and 
Law. 
In 
'Markheim' 
we get 
the 
clearest 
demonstration 
of 
Stevenson's 
idea 
of 
the 
gap, and 
the 
hostility, 
between "I" 
and 
"him" 
-- 
because 
the 
guilty-feeling 
part of 
Markheim 
is imagined by 
Stevenson 
as a 
separate 
entity who appears 
before 
the thief. 
'Markheim' 
must 
also 
be 
seen 
in 
conjunction with 
the 
other 
short 
stories which 
have 
supernatural elements: 
'Tod 
Lapraik' 
, 
'Merry Men', 
'Thrawn Janet', 
'Will 
o' 
the 
Mill'. 
In 
the 
last 
of 
these 
tales, 
'Will 
o' 
the 
Mill', 
Death, 
which 
comes 
to take 
WW; ill 
away at 
the 
end, 
is 
an objectively 
represented 
personification. 
The 
function 
of 
this 
figure 
is 
overtly 
allegorical. 
In 
the 
other 
stories 
which 
I 
have 
cited, 
the 
objective 
existence 
and 
the 
allegorical 
significance of 
the 
various 
apparitions 
are 
problematical, 
not 
taken 
for 
granted. 
To 
explain 
their 
possible 
parabolic 
significance 
we must 
refer 
to 
the 
subjectively 
presented consciousness 
which 
dominate 
these 
tales. 
The 
problem 
of whether 
to 
take 
them 
as objectively 
presented 
supernatural apparitions 
or 
as 
projections 
is 
solved 
_7g_ 
by 
reference to 
their 
psychological 
significance. 
This 
psychological 
dimension is 
brought before 
the 
reader 
by 
narrative 
techniques 
which 
cast 
doubt 
upon, 
but 
do 
not wholly 
deny, 
the 
objective reality 
of 
the 
supernatural 
figures. The 
tactic 
works 
in 
several 
different 
ways 
in 
the 
various 
stories. 
This 
chapter 
has 
attempted 
to 
explain 
how 
the 
narratives 
are 
devised 
in 
order 
to 
subjectivise 
their 
supernatural components. 
Nevertheless, 
the 
demons 
and 
devils 
and angels 
are not 
presented 
as 
pure 
phantasms. 
In 'Merry 
Men', 
and 
'Tod 
Lapraik', 
the 
demon 
characters 
are recognised 
by 
more 
than 
one 
person. 
Thus 
we 
are 
left 
with 
doubt 
and ambiguity. 
Yet 
it is 
possible 
to 
suggest a 
framework 
which will 
explain, 
though 
not resolve, 
the 
doubt 
and 
which 
will 
replace 
the 
ambiguity with 
ambivalence. 
To 
do 
so, 
we need 
only recognise 
that 
for 
Stevenson 
objective reality 
is 
merely 
the 
sum of subjective 
realities; 
and 
that truth, 
therefore, 
consists 
of 
the 
dialectical 
interaction 
of 
these two 
categories. 
Consequently, 
it is 
of 
particular 
interest 
to 
examine 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde because in 
this 
work 
Stevenson 
gives 
to 
the 
supernatural 
lore 
of 
the 
tale 
a quasi-scientific 
explanation. 
The 
events 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
are not 
set 
in 
the 
past 
to 
lend 
plausibility 
to 
the 
superstitious 
explanation; 
they 
are set 
in 
the 
present. 
And 
a 
highly 
sceptical 
doctor is 
witness 
to the transformation. 
It 
is 
the 
task 
of 
the 
next 
brief 
chapter 
to 
describe 
how Stevenson 
handles 
the 
essentially 
supernatural 
doings 
in 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde. 
CHAPTER 
III 
The 
Double 
Prometheus: 
The Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde 
'All 
art 
is 
at 
once 
surface 
and 
symbol. 
' 
(Oscar 
Wilde, Preface 
to 
The 
Portrait 
of 
Dorian Gray) 
... 
there 
is 
a 
fire 
And 
motion 
of 
the 
soul which 
will 
not 
dwell 
In 
its 
own narrow 
being, 
but 
aspire 
Beyond 
the 
fitting 
medium 
of 
desire. 
(Byron, 
Child 
Harold's 
Pilgrimage, 
Canto 
III 
) 
- 
80 
- 
CHAPTER III 
As 
the 
American 
literary 
critic 
Leslie 
Fiedler 
has 
remarked, 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
along 
with some 
other 
Stevenson 
characters 
such 
as 
Long 
John 
Silver, 
have 
passed 
from 
their 
original 
realm 
to 
become 
the 
stuff 
of 
common 
English 
proverb and 
Holl- 
wood 
myth-making. 
' 
For 
many people 
these 
characters 
have 
been 
wrested 
from 
their 
immediate 
context, 
and 
have 
thus taken 
on an 
existence 
which 
is independent 
of 
the 
artistic surface 
which 
Stevenson 
created. 
In his 
introduction 
to the 
Everyman 
edition 
of 
The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
2 
M. R. Ridley has 
allowed a 
simplist- 
ic 
conception of 
the 
symbolism of 
the 
tale to 
obscure 
the 
fact 
that the text 
will 
not 
permit 
a 
bald 
statement of 
the 
moral 
which 
is 
to 
be 
extracted 
frone 
it. 
According 
to 
Ridley, 
the 
story 
is 
about 
the 
irreconcilability 
of good 
and evil 
and 
this 
is 
the 
message which 
it 
'hammers 
home'. 
It 
is 
true to 
say 
that 
a 
tLan's 
dual 
being 
is 
the 
most striking 
feature 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
But 
I 
shall argue 
in 
this 
chapter 
that 
it 
is 
not 
legitim- 
ate 
to 
claim 
that 
the 
elements 
of 
this 
duality 
correspond 
to 
good 
and evil. 
Nor is it 
licit 
to 
equate 
such 
a 
moral 
view 
with 
a 
didactic 
intention 
attributable 
to the 
author 
when 
it 
is 
espoused 
by 
Dr Jekyll, 
a character 
in 
the 
story. 
Another 
recent 
critic 
of 
Stevenson, 
Robert 
Kiely, 
has 
asserted 
that 
the 
'moral' 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
was 
introduced 
ab extra, 
and 
that 
it 
does 
not 
inhere in 
the 
narrative. 
Kiely 
writes 
that 
'the 
emphasis 
in 
narration 
and 
tone 
is 
on 
gruesome effect 
rather 
than 
on motivation. 
3 
The 
moral 
dimension 
was added, 
he 
claims 
, 
when 
she 
story was rewritten 
on 
the 
advice of 
the 
author's 
wife, 
Fanny Stevenson. 
(The 
latter 
has 
described 
how 
the 
first 
draft 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
was 
destroyed 
and 
the 
story 
- 
81 
- 
recast 
so 
as 
to 
emphasise 
'the 
allegory' 
. 
") 
In 
a 
more 
general 
comment 
on 
Stevenson' 
s 
'Gothic 
tales', 
a category 
in 
which 
he 
includes 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
Kiely 
remarks: 
'In 
the 
best 
of 
his 
Gothic 
tales 
we 
feel 
some 
pity and 
a. good 
deal 
of 
fear. But 
the 
morality 
... 
remains 
curiously 
irrelevant. 
' 
5 
Peter 
Penzoldt, 
a 
theorist 
of 
fantastic 
fiction, 
confirms 
Kiely's 
view 
that 
a 
morality 
has 
been 
grafted 
onto 
a straightforward 
horror 
story. 
Unlike 
Kiely, he 
disapproves 
of 
there 
being 
any 
moral 
dimension 
at all 
to 
the tale 
of 
horror. 
6 
It 
is 
clear 
that 
each of 
these 
critics classifies 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
as an 
allegory. 
They discern 
a 
moral 
scheme 
which can 
be 
detached 
from 
the 
story and stated separately 
from 
it. 
It 
is 
not 
my 
intention 
to 
deny 
that 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
exhibits 
allegor- 
ical 
characteristics. 
One 
scholar 
has 
convincingly argued 
that 
the 
names 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
denote 
other 
meanings, 
and 
this 
is 
an 
allegorical 
procedure. 
7 
Instead, I 
want 
to 
postulate 
that 
surface and symbol 
in 
this 
tale 
are 
indissoluble. 
In 
effect, 
I 
wish 
to 
demote 
the 
allegorical 
element 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
and 
to 
examine 
the 
themes 
of 
the 
self which 
are present 
in 
it in 
the 
context 
of 
the 
complex 
of 
documents 
which make up 
the 
story. 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
begins 
with 
a 
character 
sketch of 
Mr Utterson 
the 
lawyer, 
who 
is 
a 
friend 
of 
Henry 
Jekyll' 
s. 
Some 
aspects 
of 
this 
description 
are 
enriched 
by 
subsequent 
developments 
in 
the 
tale. 
Despite 
a 
'rugged 
countenance' 
and 
'cold, 
scanty' speech 
Utterson 
is 
'somehow 
lovable' 
and 
occasionally 
'something 
eminently 
human beaconed 
from 
his 
eye. 
'8 
Stevenson 
thus 
intro- 
duces 
a 
contradictory 
relation 
between 
Utterson's 
external 
appearance 
and 
his 
essential 
nature 
which 
prefigures 
a 
more 
fundamental 
disharmony 
in 
Jekyll. 
An 
ascetic 
man, 
Utterson 
proclaims 
a certain 
amount 
of 
indifference 
to 
his 
fellow beings, 
saying: 
'I 
let 
my 
brother 
go 
to the 
devil in 
his 
own 
way. 
The 
word 
'devil' 
has, 
in 
this 
context, 
minimal 
reverberations. 
- 
82 
- 
But 
it 
will 
be 
repeated 
many 
times 
in 
the 
course 
of 
the 
narrat- 
ive; 
and 
in 
retrospect we 
can 
see 
that 
its 
use 
here 
is 
not 
without 
irony, 
because 
Utterson does 
not 
stand 
by 
and 
let 
his 
brother 
go 
to 
the 
devil. Instead, 
he becomes 
the 
main 
enquirer 
into 
the 
mysterious 
Hyde's 
influence 
over 
his 
friend Jekyll. 
It 
is 
also 
significant 
that 
Utterson 
is 
a 
lawyer. 
Later in 
the 
story 
we are 
told 
that 
the 
will 
in 
which 
Jekyll 
leaves 
all 
his 
property 
and 
money 
to 
Hyde 
'offended 
him both 
as a 
lawyer 
and 
as 
a 
lover 
of 
the 
sane 
and 
customary 
sides 
of 
life, 
to 
whom 
the 
fanciful 
was 
immodest. 
'I? 
With 
that 
associative 
'and', Stevenson 
unites 
respect 
for 
custom 
with 
the 
profession 
of 
the 
law. 
Utterson, 
we 
know from 
the 
first, 
serves 
not 
only 
the 
law 
of statute 
and 
case. 
He 
also 
observes 
a set 
of regulations 
governing 
his 
own 
behaviour 
in 
the 
strictest 
way. 
He has 
a code 
to 
live 
by, 
and 
he foregoes 
certain 
pleasures 
in 
the 
observance of 
that 
code. 
This 
symbolic association 
of 
the 
law 
with an 
ethical code 
is 
a 
typical 
habit 
of 
Stevenson's 
mind. 
Consider 
Lord 
Weir 
eschew- 
ing 
the 
dangers 
of 
the 
imagination 
and 
committing 
his 
whole 
self 
to 
his duty 
as a 
lawgiver. On 
the 
other side of 
the 
coin, 
Herrick, 
in 
The 
Ebb-Tide, 
struggles 
to 
preserve 
his 
sense of 
right 
and wrong when 
he finds himself 
outside 
of 
Europe 
and 
its 
tradition 
of coded 
law. 
1 
The 
implication 
that 
men obey 
an ethical 
code 
in 
the 
same way 
that they 
obey 
the 
law 
indicates 
the 
presence 
of a strain 
of 
religious 
thought 
and 
feeling 
which 
emphasised 
the 
prohibitory 
laws 
of 
the 
Old 
Testament. 
It 
can 
be 
said 
that 
the 
Mosaic 
in- 
heritance 
of 
Lowland Scotland 
(as 
evidenced 
in, 
for 
example, 
the 
theocratic 
ideas 
of 
Knox 
and 
Melville) 
persisted 
in 
Steven- 
son 
beyond 
his disavowal 
of 
the 
main 
tenets 
of 
his father's 
religion. 
It 
was 
a 
yeast continually working 
in 
his 
mind 
and 
imagination. 
- 
83 
- 
Returning 
to the text, 
we 
will note 
that 
Jekyll, 
in 
the 
guise 
of 
Hyde, 
breaks 
the 
law. He does 
so at 
first 
in 
outrages 
which 
are 
implied, 
rather 
than 
directly 
observed; 
and 
then 
by 
a 
murder. 
Jekyll 
does 
not 
thereby 
transgress 
the 
law 
in 
a 
literal 
sense 
only. 
He 
also 
frees 
himself 
from 
that 
self-regulation, 
that 
taking 
the 
law 
into 
oneself 
as 
a 
rooted 
part of 
one's 
being, 
which 
we 
identified 
as 
an 
important 
part 
of 
Utterson's 
profile. 
The doctor 
speaks 
of 
himself 
in 
the 
third 
person 
to 
describe 
the 
fracture 
of 
moral 
self 
control 
which occurs 
in 
the 
extraordinary 
circumstances 
of 
his 
transformations: 
Henry 
Jekyll 
stood 
at 
times 
aghast 
before 
the 
acts 
of 
Edward 
Hyde; 
but 
the 
situation 
was 
apart 
from 
ordinary 
laws, 
and 
insidiously 
relaxed 
the 
grasp 
of 
conscience. 
' 
Thus 
Utterson 
is, 
diagrammatically 
rather 
than 
dramatically, 
placed 
in 
a 
contrast 
to 
Jekyll, 
since 
he 
is 
a 
keeper 
of 
the 
law 
in 
the 
twin 
sense 
we 
have 
been 
discussing, 
where 
Jekyll 
is 
a 
law-breaker. 
Although 
Utterson 
is 
himself 
austere, 
his 
asceticism 
does 
not 
extend 
to 
his 
judgement 
of others. 
Thus 
the 
narrator 
can observe 
that 
'his 
affections 
implied 
no aptness 
in 
the 
object'. 
13 
His 
tolerance 
permits 
him 
to 
set a 
high 
value 
on 
his friendship 
with 
Richard Enfield, 
a 
'kinsman' 
who 
is 
temperamentally 
his 
opposite. 
This 
attraction 
introduces 
unobtrusively 
- 
indeed 
surreptitiously 
on a 
first 
reading 
- 
what 
is 
to 
be dilated 
into 
the 
main 
theme 
of 
this 
story: 
the 
possibility 
of 
one 
disposition 
being 
attracted 
to 
its 
opposite. 
Their 
mutual 
respect parallels, 
in 
everyday 
terms, the 
extreme 
duality 
which 
Jekyll 
cannot 
countenance; 
and 
Utterson's 
tolerance 
can 
be 
seen as 
a 
positive, 
if 
banal, 
value 
when related 
to 
Jekyll's 
self-recrimination 
and 
his 
inability 
to 
tolerate 
what 
he 
identifies 
as 
his lower 
self. 
It 
must 
be 
remembered 
that 
the 
creation 
of 
Hyde does 
not 
arise 
out 
of 
the 
monstrosity of 
Jekyll' 
s 
indiscretions, 
but from 
the 
- 
84 
- 
rigour 
with 
which 
he 
judges 
himself. In his 
confession 
he 
con- 
cedes 
that: 
The 
worst of 
my 
faults 
was 
gaiety 
of 
disposition, 
such 
happiness 
of many, 
but 
such 
reconcile 
with 
my 
imperious 
head 
high, 
and 
wear 
a 
more 
countenance 
before 
the 
public. 
a 
certain 
impatient 
as 
has 
ma 
di-- 
the 
as 
I found 
hard 
to 
desire 
to 
carry my 
than 
commonly 
grave 
And 
as 
if 
that 
is 
not 
clear 
enough, 
he 
goes on: 
Many 
a 
man 
would 
have 
even 
blazoned 
such 
irreg- 
ularities 
as 
I 
was 
guilty 
of; 
but from 
the 
high 
views 
I 
had 
set 
before 
me, 
I 
regarded 
and 
hid 
them 
with 
an 
almost 
morbid 
sense of shame. 
It 
was 
thus 
rather 
the 
exacting 
nature 
of my aspirations, 
than 
any 
particular 
degradation 
in 
my 
faults, 
that 
made 
what 
I 
was, and, 
with even a 
deeper 
trench 
than 
in 
the 
majority 
of men, severed 
in 
me 
those 
provinces 
of 
good and 
ill 
which 
divide 
and 
compound 
man's 
dual 
nature. 
" 
The 
evil 
is 
engendered 
by 
Jekyll's 
aspiration 
to 
be 
unmixedly, 
irreproachably 
good. 
(Throughout, 
the 
story 
suffers 
from 
its 
inability 
to 
suggest what goodness could 
possibly 
be, 
if 
any- 
thing 
at all other 
than 
the 
fear 
of society 
which 
Wilde 
suggests 
it is 
in 
The Portrait 
of 
Dorian 
Gray"). The 
arrogance 
of 
Jekyll' 
s 
demands 
('my 
imperious 
desire 
to 
carry 
my 
head 
high') 
come 
through 
only as an undertone. 
The 
imagery 
of 
concealment 
in 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
is 
extensive. 
Hyde's 
very 
name 
is 
suggestive 
in 
this 
respect. 
The first 
chap- 
ter 
of 
the 
story 
brings before 
us 
the 
mystery 
of who or 
what 
lies 
behind 
a 
door, 
the 
only entrance 
to the 
sordid and 
'sinis- 
ter 
block' 
which 
protrudes 
into 
a 
bright 
mercantile 
thorough- 
fare. 
16 
This 
contiguity 
of 
menace 
and 
everyday 
life 
is 
sus- 
tained 
throughout 
the 
story, and 
it 
is 
a 
device 
which 
Steven- 
son 
had 
exploited 
elsewhere. 
In New 
Arabian Nights 
(1882), 
doors 
are 
exits 
from 
the 
ordinary 
world 
into 
one 
of 
crime, 
- 
85 
- 
adventure, 
disguise 
and 
danger 
- 
into 
a 
dream 
or 
nightmare 
world. 
In 
those 
stories, 
featuring 
the 
Prince 
of 
Bohemia, 
Florizel 
(the 
prince) 
returns 
from 
his 
adventures 
in 
disguise 
through 
the 
'postern 
door' 
to 
resume 
his 
official 
identity. 
Walled 
gardens 
to 
which 
a gate gives 
entrance 
are 
frequently 
the 
scene 
of 
strange 
happenings. One 
of 
the 
character, 
Rolles, 
discovers 
a 
heap 
of 
diamonds 
in 
just 
such 
a setting, 
and 
subsequently 
an 
attempt 
is 
made 
to 
murder 
him 
in 
a 
similar 
walled 
garden. 
In 
another 
story, 
'The Sire de 
Maletroit's 
Door', 
the 
young 
hero 
falls 
through 
an 
apparently 
closed 
door 
into 
a 
nightmarish 
trap. 
" 
In 
each 
instance, 
going 
through 
a 
door brings 
about a change 
in 
the 
very conditions 
of existence. 
Life becomes 
more melo- 
dra: 
-vatic, 
more 
dangerous, 
more 
adventurous. 
The 
procedures 
of 
the 
"real" 
world 
are 
never 
far 
away; often, 
in 
fact, 
we can 
hear 
this 
"real" 
world outside, since 
it is 
not more 
than the 
thickness 
of a wall away. 
1B 
So 
it is 
in 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
In 
this 
story, 
doors 
represent a 
transition 
from 
one 
sort of reality 
to 
another. 
They 
are 
the 
route 
by 
which 
fantasy 
enters 
the 
objective world. 
(As 
was 
observed 
in 
the 
previous 
chapter, 
the 
possibility 
of 
a 
transaction 
between 
an 
interior, 
psychological 
reality 
and 
the 
world 
of 
objects was 
one of 
the 
characteristics 
of romance. 
) 
We 
can 
say 
that the transformation 
of 
Jekyll 
into 
Hyde 
and 
the 
reverse 
process 
indicate 
a 
fracture 
of 
the 
mem- 
brane 
dividing 
the 
real 
and 
the 
fantastic. 
In 
the 
story 
of 
Enfield, 
the 
young 
relation 
of 
Utterson, 
the 
sor- 
did 
rear 
door 
of 
Jekyll's 
laboratory 
is 
associated 
with 
the 
vic- 
ious 
and 
fantastic figure 
of 
Hyde. 
It is 
the 
entrance 
to 
and 
exit 
from 
a subterranean 
world 
of 
vice. 
This 
actual 
underworld 
of 
the 
metropolis 
is 
occupied, 
in 
the 
form 
of 
Hyde, 
by 
the 
in- 
dividual 
consciousness 
of 
Jekyll. 
Enfield's 
story 
begins 
when 
he 
describes 
himself 
returning 
from 
'some 
place 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
world'. 
He 
is 
in 
that 
state 
- 
86 
- 
'when 
a 
man 
listens 
and 
listens 
and 
begins 
to 
long 
for 
the 
sight 
of 
a 
policeman. 
'9 It 
is in 
this 
atmosphere 
of urban 
law- 
lessness 
that 
he 
sees 
Hyde brutally 
trampling 
a young 
girl. 
The 
same 
strange 
feeling 
is 
present 
when 
IJtterson 
and 
a 
police- 
man 
visit 
Hyde's 
Soho lodgings 
after 
the 
murder 
of 
Carew: 
The 
dismal 
quarter 
of 
Soho 
seen 
under 
these 
chang- 
ing 
glimpses, 
with 
its 
muddy 
ways, 
and slatternly 
passengers, 
and 
its 
lamps, 
which 
had 
never 
been 
extinguished 
or 
had 
been 
kindled 
afresh 
to 
combat 
this 
mournful 
reinvasion 
of 
darkness, 
seemed 
in 
the 
lawyer's 
eyes, 
like 
a 
district 
of some 
city 
in 
a 
nightmare. 
2? 
Looking 
at 
the 
policeman 
beside him, 
Utterson 
'was 
conscious 
of some 
touch 
of 
that 
terror 
of 
the 
law 
and 
the 
law's 
officers 
which 
may 
at 
times 
assail 
the 
most 
honest. 
' 
22 
The 
city 
has 
a 
dual 
aspect, 
embracing 
both 
the 
respectable squares 
of 
lawful- 
ness 
and 
the 
dingy lanes 
of 
crime. 
Scenes 
are 
invested 
with 
the 
human 
emotions 
of 
fear 
and 
loneliness. 
In Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
mind and city correspond, as 
did 
mind 
and sea 
in 
'The 
Merry Men'. With Kensington 
its 
front door, 
and 
Soho 
its 
back door, 
the 
city 
itself is 
unable 
to 
achieve 
wholeness; 
and so 
it 
reflects 
the 
duality 
of 
being 
which 
afflicts 
Henry Jekyll. 
The 
city 
is 
also 
the 
domain 
of crowds, of men 
in 
the 
mass. 
Yet, 
within 
it 
an 
individual 
can still 
feel frighteningly 
alone. 
When Utterson is 
hurrying 
to 
Jekyll' 
s 
house 
on 
the 
last 
night 
of 
the 
doctor's 
life, 
he 
is 
aware of 
an atmosphere 
of 
menace 
and 
thinks 
that 
'he 
had 
never 
seen 
that 
part of 
London 
so 
deserted': 
He 
could 
have 
wished 
it 
otherwise; 
never 
in 
his 
life 
had he 
been 
so conscious of 
so sharp 
a 
wish 
2 
to 
see 
and 
touch 
his 
fellow-creatures. 
2 
This 
need 
to 
be 
reassured 
that 
one 
is 
part 
of 
humanity 
is 
not 
87 
shared 
by 
Hyde. 
When 
the 
latter 
is 
exiled 
from 
the 
safety 
of 
Jekyll's 
cabinet 
after 
the 
murder, 
he 
prowls 
'the 
less 
fre- 
quented 
thorough-fares', 
'an 
object 
marked 
out 
for 
observat- 
ion' 
in 
the 
crowds 
which 
he 
cannot 
wholly avoid. 
23 
It 
is 
not 
the 
case 
that 
Hyde 
is 
made an 
outsider 
by 
his 
crime. 
It 
is 
more 
accurately 
responsive 
to 
Stevenson' 
s 
intentions 
to 
say 
that 
Hyde's 
crime 
crystallises 
his 
status 
as an outsider. 
He 
kills 
Carew 
because 
the 
very 
existence 
of 
others 
is 
a 
threat 
to 
him. 
The description 
of 
Hyde, 
therefore, 
contrasts 
with 
Utterson' 
s 
need 
to 
feel 
that 
he 
is 
a 
part 
of a social 
bond, 
which 
was 
pointed 
out above. 
Hyde 
is 
hostile 
to 
this 
whole way 
of 
being 
in 
the 
world: 
'his 
every 
act and 
thought 
centred on 
self', 
2'' 
in 
antithesis 
to 
Jekyll's 
overweening 
desire 'to 
wear 
a more 
than 
commonly 
grave 
countenance 
before 
the 
public'. 
2 
5 
To 
re- 
emphasise 
here 
an 
earlier 
distinction 
that 
I 
made 
between 
the 
moi and 
the 
lui, 
we may say 
that 
Hyde 
cannot see 
himself 
as 
"him"; 
he 
can only recongnise 
himself 
as 
the 
first 
person, 
as 
"me 
He 
is 
antagonistic 
to 
the 
sense of 
being 
witnessed 
which 
mediates 
between 
self and society 
and 
which 
manifests 
itself 
in 
individual 
consciousness 
as 
"him". 
Insofar 
as 
Hyde 
is 
an 
element of 
Jekyll' 
s nature 
- 
and 
Jekyll 
says 
that 
he 
is 
'pro- 
jected' 
from 
him2 
6- 
the 
doctor 
is 
confronted 
with 
this 
unwit- 
nessed appetite 
in 
himself, 
upon which 
the 
law 
is 
not 
imperat- 
ive 
and which 
is 
not 
familiar 
with 
itself 
as 
a social 
being 
at 
all. 
These 
two 
categories 
of 
being, 
"him" 
and 
"me", 
form 
the 
basic 
dialectic 
within 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. They imply 
each 
other 
in 
the 
limited 
sense 
that 
Hyde 
is 
the 
shadow 
of 
Jekyll's 
public 
de- 
meanour 
and, 
as was 
indicated 
above, 
is 
created 
by 
the 
rigour 
of 
his 
self-image. 
In 
a 
letter 
to 
his father 
of 
1883, 
Stevenson 
wrote 
that: 
Hegel the 
German 
got 
the 
best 
word 
of all 
philos- 
- 
88 
- 
ophy 
with 
his 
antinomies: 
the 
contrary 
of 
every- 
thing 
is 
its 
postulate. 
2 7 
This 
intuition 
of 
a 
dialectic 
well 
describes 
the 
relation 
of 
Jekyll 
to 
Hyd 
. 
However, it 
must 
be 
noted 
that 
it is 
an 
asym- 
metrical 
relation: 
Hyde 
is 
present 
in Jekyll 
and as a 
figure is 
incomprehensible 
without 
the 
presence 
of 
the 
doctor; 
while 
the 
reverse 
is 
not 
the 
case. 
Hyde, 
therefore, 
is 
intended 
to 
exist 
on a 
different 
level 
of 
reality 
from 
Jekyll. At 
the 
same 
time, 
he 
has 
an 
apparently 
objective 
existence 
because 
he 
enters 
the 
lives 
of 
others 
and 
is 
observed 
by 
Utterson 
and 
Enfield. 
It 
is 
what 
one critic 
has 
called 
the 
symbolic 
topography 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
which 
allows 
these 
two 
orders. 
of reality 
(the 
level 
of 
fantasy 
and 
the 
level 
of 
the 
everyday) 
to 
intersect 
in 
the 
symbolic 
domain 
of 
the 
city. 
The 
text 
itself 
recognises 
these 
disparate 
yet connecting 
orders, 
for 
it 
is 
not a 
uniform narrative. 
We have 
to 
ask 
how 
it 
organ- 
ises 
the transition 
from 
the 
sphere of 
the 
subjective 
to that 
of 
the 
objective while preserving a 
distinction 
between 
them. 
Be- 
fore doing 
so, 
I 
wish 
to 
comment on 
the 
isolation 
of 
Jekyll/ 
Hyde. 
The 
feeling 
that 
he 
is 
a 
part of 
humanity 
is 
not 
available 
to 
Jekyll 
after 
he 
loses 
his 
power of 
changing 
his 
appearance at 
will. 
(Finely 
dramatised in 
the 
scene 
in 
the 
park, 
where 
he 
looks 
down 
to 
find his 
own 
hand 
gone sinewy and 
hairy. As 
Marcel 
Schwob 
has 
observed, 
this 
sort 
of 
contradiction of 
the 
laws 
of 
nature 
is 
of 
the 
very 
essence 
of 
the 
horror 
genre. 
2 8) 
At 
the 
end 
of 
the 
story, 
Jekyll/Hyde 
is 
trapped 
within 
his 
cabinet 
and 
forced 
to 
a 
horrifying 
consciousness 
of 
his 
divided 
self 
by 
the 
mirror 
in 
his 
room. 
Jekyll 
acquired 
the 
mirror 
'for 
the 
very 
purpose 
of 
those 
transformations'. 
29 
Thus it 
objectifies 
his 
self-consciousness 
in its 
isolation. 
When 
Utterson 
and 
Poole 
break 
into 
the 
cabinet 
and 
find 
Hyde 
dead 
on 
the 
floor, 
they 
look 
into 
the 
mirror, 
which 
presents 
to them 
an enigmatic 
depth 
- 
89 
- 
in 
which 
they 
see 
their 
own 
frightened 
countenances. 
The 
mirror 
adds 
to the 
sense 
of 
introversion 
which 
inheres 
in 
the 
secret 
enclosure 
of 
the 
cabinet. 
That 
Jekyll/Hyde 
is 
trapped 
and 
alone 
by 
the 
end of 
the 
story 
is 
conveyed 
by 
the 
structure 
of 
the 
narrative. 
Its 
varied 
rhetoric 
confirms 
the 
ontological 
cleavages 
between 
the 
inner 
and 
outer, 
between 
rnoi and 
lui. The 
different 
voices 
and 
perspectives 
in 
the 
text 
make 
it 
a collection 
of narratives 
and 
not 
a 
uniform 
one. 
The 
rhetorically 
distinct 
narratives 
are 
four 
in 
number. 
There 
is 
the 
main, 
third 
person one. 
It 
is 
centred 
around 
Utterson's 
thoughts 
and 
feelings, 
and 
these 
act 
to 
sift 
and 
order 
the 
action. 
Even 
so, 
the 
third 
person 
narrator 
may 
draw 
back 
and examine 
Utterson from 
the 
outside, comment on 
his 
life, his 
taste 
in 
wine or whatever. 
A further 
function 
of 
Utterson 
is 
that 
he 
is 
the 
eyes 
and 
ears of 
the 
author, since 
he 
is 
given 
good reasons 
for 
being 
involved 
in 
most, 
though 
not 
all 
aspects of 
the 
case. 
Finally, being 
a 
dry, 
commonsensical 
man, 
he 
also makes 
the 
outlandish components 
of 
the tale 
more credible. 
Into 
this third 
person 
narration 
is 
inserted 
Enfield's 
tale. 
This 
report 
tells, 
in 
the 
first 
person, 
how Enfield 
saw a strange man 
trample 
a 
young 
girl 
in 
a 
poor 
part of 
the 
city. 
Dr. 
Lanyon's 
testament 
follows 
after 
the third 
person 
narrative. 
The 
final 
document 
is 
Jekyll's 
confession. 
3 
? 
These 
narratives 
are arranged 
in 
such a way 
that 
the 
story 
is 
not 
told 
in 
a 
linear, 
chronological 
manner. 
The Utterson 
narrative 
begins, 
although 
the 
reader 
cannot 
fully 
realise 
this 
until 
the 
end of 
the 
book, 
in 
the 
midst 
of 
things. 
Enfield's 
tale 
refers 
back 
to 
a 
period 
before 
his 
walk 
with 
Utterson, 
which 
is 
the 
scene 
which opens 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
Dr 
Lanyon's 
statement 
takes 
us, 
albeit 
discursively, 
back 
to 
a 
time 
before 
that 
again, 
to the 
beginnings 
of 
Jekyll's 
chemical 
experiments 
with 
identity 
and 
up 
to 
the 
point of 
Jekyll's 
suicide. 
Jekyll's 
confession 
covers most of 
what we 
could 
call 
the total time- 
span 
of 
the 
story up 
to 
the 
point where 
it 
converges with 
the 
- 
90 
- 
end 
of 
the 
third 
person 
narrative. 
31 
At 
several 
points 
the 
same events 
occur 
in 
both 
Utterson's 
(that 
is, 
the third 
person) 
narrative 
and 
in 
Jekyll' 
s 
confession, 
told 
in 
a 
different 
way 
and 
from 
a 
different 
point 
of 
view. 
The 
confession 
thus 
illuminates 
what 
has 
been 
mysterious 
in 
the 
earlier 
narrative. 
One 
could 
draw 
a 
comparison 
with 
a 
certain 
kind 
of 
detective 
story 
in 
which 
a 
series 
of 
actions 
run parallel 
to 
the 
reported 
action, 
but 
are 
only 
revealed 
in 
the 
denouement. 
An 
example 
of 
this 
in 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
is 
the 
second 
occasion 
on 
which 
Utterson 
and 
Enfield 
are 
described 
taking 
their 
walk. 
They 
enter 
Jekyll. 
's 
courtyard 
and 
spot 
him 
at 
his laboratory 
window; 
he 
seems 
ill, 
unconvincingly cheerful, 
and when 
they 
invite 
him 
to 
stroll 
with 
them 
he 
undergoes a startling change 
of manner; 
a 
look 
of 
'abject 
terror 
and 
despair 
i 
32 
appears on 
his 
face, 
and 
he 
disappears 
into 
his 
cabinet. 
Only 
in 
the 
light 
of 
Jekyll' 
s 
final 
revelations 
is 
this 
explicable; 
for, 
it 
must 
be 
at 
this time 
that 
the 
Doctor 
is 
regularly and 
involuntarily 
transformed 
into 
Hyde. Lanyon's 
death 
is 
explained 
in 
the 
same 
way, 
though 
more 
fully, 
in 
both 
his 
own 
account of 
the 
midnight 
appearance 
and 
transformation, 
and 
in 
Jekyll's. 
The 
latter 
acquaints 
the 
reader 
with 
the 
reasons 
for 
this 
bizarre 
episode. 
Our 
awareness 
of 
action running 
parallel 
to the 
main 
narrative, 
but kept 
beyond 
the 
knowledge 
available 
to 
us 
from 
the 
text, 
contributes 
enormously 
to 
the 
mystery element 
of 
the 
thriller. 
Quite 
simp 
ly 
and 
obviously, 
because 
it 
keeps 
us 
guessing 
about 
the 
connection 
between 
the 
respectable 
doctor 
and 
the 
unusual 
figure 
in 
black. But 
its 
significance 
is 
wider 
than 
that. 
It 
organises 
the 
reader's 
perception 
of 
events 
in 
such 
a 
way 
that 
he 
is 
on 
the 
outside, with 
Utterson, 
and 
thus 
is 
unable 
to 
get 
at 
the 
solution 
to the 
mystery. 
With 
Utterson, 
he 
can 
stand 
outside 
that 
sordid 
door, look into 
the 
window 
of 
the 
laboratory, 
wait 
in 
Jekyll's 
hallway; 
but 
he 
cannot get 
inside. 
Only 
Jekyll's 
confession 
allows 
us 
to 
do 
that. 
Thus 
the 
- 
91 
- 
story 
does 
not 
take 
us along, 
in 
and 
through 
time; 
but 
it 
penetrates 
deeper 
into Jekyll' 
s 
secret, 
thereby 
drawing 
attention 
to 
the 
simultaneity 
of 
his 
two 
lives 
through 
the 
sly 
ordering 
of 
limited 
narrators. 
The 
form 
of 
the 
story 
is 
strikingly 
appropriate 
to 
its 
theme 
of 
duality. 
33 
The 
tale 
presents 
this 
double 
life 
in 
the 
most 
lurid 
and obvious 
terms; 
but 
it 
does 
make 
us 
feel 
it, 
de 
facto 
as 
it 
were, 
because 
in 
reading 
we 
enact 
the 
puzzlement 
of 
the 
exterior observer, 
Utterson, 
and 
to 
a 
lesser 
extent 
Enfield; 
and 
we 
achieve 
full 
understanding 
only 
through 
confession. 
The 
secrets of 
the 
self, 
the 
text 
cries 
out, 
can 
only 
be 
told 
by 
the 
self. 
The 
organisation 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
into 
a 
bundle 
of 
documents 
has 
a 
number 
of 
consequences. 
One 
of 
these 
effects 
is 
to 
suggest 
to 
us 
two 
kinds 
of reality 
in 
the 
book: 
a 
subjective 
perception 
and an 
objective one. 
Objective knowing, 
or 
seeing 
from 
the 
outside, 
i 
s shown 
to 
be limited. 
This 
effect 
is 
supported 
by 
two 
other 
factors 
in 
the 
story. 
The 
most 
immediate 
factor 
is 
on 
the 
surface, 
i 
n 
Stevenson's 
dual 
working of 
language 
to 
distinguish 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. Jekyll 
is 
there 
described 
straightforwardly; 
whereas 
Hyde 
is 
almost 
always 
described 
metaphorically 
or as 
if 
he 
was 
not quite real. 
He 
is 
called 
'Juggernaut', 
3'' 
' 
Satan', 
35 
'devil' 
,36' 
child 
of 
Hell' 
, 
37 
'ape' 
,38' 
animal' 
. 
39 
His 
unreality consists of 
the terrible 
impression 
he 
makes 
without any of 
his 
observers 
being 
able 
to 
say precisely why 
his 
physiognomy 
has 
this 
impression. 
Enfield 
makes 
this 
point: 
'He 
is 
not easy 
to 
describe. There is 
something 
wrong 
with 
his 
appearance; 
something 
displeasing, 
something 
downright 
detestable. 
I 
never 
saw 
a 
man 
so 
disliked, 
and 
yet 
I 
scarce 
know 
why. 
He 
must 
be 
deformed 
somewhere; 
he 
gives 
a strong 
feeling 
of 
deformity, 
although 
I 
couldn't 
specify 
the 
point. 
He's 
an 
extraordinary-looking man, 
and 
yet 
I 
really 
can 
name nothing 
out 
of 
the 
way. 
No, 
sir; 
I 
can 
make 
no 
hand 
of 
it; I 
can't 
describe him. 
And 
it's 
not 
want 
of 
memory; 
for I declare 
I 
can 
see 
him 
this 
moment. 
"t 0 
_92_ 
Utterson's 
disquieting 
curiosity 
lead 
him 
to 
haunt 
the 
squalid 
back 
street 
to 
get 
a view 
of 
Hyde. 
When he 
finally 
does, 
his 
sighting 
confirms 
Enfield's 
words: 
Mr 
Hyde 
was 
pale 
and 
dwarfish; 
he 
gave 
an 
impression 
of 
deformity 
without 
any namable 
malformation, 
he 
had 
a 
displeasing 
smile, 
he had 
borne 
himself 
to the 
lawyer 
with 
a sort 
of 
murderous 
mixture 
of 
timidity 
and 
boldness, 
and 
he 
spoke 
with 
a 
husky, 
whispering 
and 
somewhat 
broken 
voice, 
- 
all 
these 
points 
were against 
him; 
but 
net 
all 
of 
these 
together 
could 
explain 
the 
hitherto 
unknown 
disgust, 
loathing 
and 
fear 
with 
which 
Mr 
Utterson 
regarded 
him. 
"' 
Lanyon, 
too, 
comments 
on 
the 
'odd 
subjective 
disturbance 
caused 
by 
his 
neighbourhood. 
'42 
Thus, Jekyll 
is 
delineated 
by 
what 
he 
is, Hyde 
by 
the 
effect 
he has 
on others. 
The 
inward 
status 
of 
Hyde 
is 
thereby 
stressed. 
He belongs 
to 
a 
different 
v 
order 
of 
reality, 
a 
metaphorical 
order. 
If 
Hyde 
is 
subjectivised, 
it 
is 
also 
the 
case 
that the 
process 
of 
discovery 
in 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde falls 
short 
of what 
is 
finally 
revealed. 
I 
mean 
that the 
investigative 
and 
forensic 
elements 
of 
the 
story 
- 
for 
example, 
the 
search 
of 
Hyde's 
room 
in 
Soho, 
the 
comparison 
of 
Hyde's 
and 
the 
Doctor's handwriting, 
the 
discovery 
of 
the 
broken key 
- 
lead 
to 
the 
mistaken, or at 
least 
insufficiently 
accurate, 
conclusions 
that 
Hyde 
is 
guilty 
of 
murder, 
that 
he has 
great 
influence 
over 
Jekyll. 
Dr 
Jekyll 
is 
not 
unmasked, 
like Deacon Brodie. Moreover, his 
confession 
is 
in 
no 
way 
tacked 
on 
to the 
tale. 
The 
interplay 
of 
a 
consciousness with 
its 
guilt 
and 
its 
past 
is 
integral 
to 
the 
impact 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
upon 
us; 
and 
the 
distinctive 
narrative 
voices expose 
the 
difference 
between 
a 
statement 
in 
the 
third 
person and 
one 
in 
the 
first. The 
subjective 
perspective 
of 
the 
confession 
is 
thrown 
over 
some 
of 
the 
events 
covered 
by 
the 
dispassionate 
third 
person 
narrative, 
animating 
it 
by 
dramatising 
it 
with 
a 
voice. 
This 
is 
more 
than 
a 
technicality. 
The 
epistemological 
importance 
of 
the 
first 
person 
- 
93 
- 
to 
Stevenson 
Notebook: 
is 
revealed 
in 
something 
which 
he 
wrote 
in 
his 
It 
may 
be 
more 
than 
a 
mere 
truism 
-I 
think 
it 
is 
- 
it has 
rather 
to 
me 
the 
appearance of 
being 
very 
significant 
- 
that 
'all 
human 
reasoning 
is 
simply 
declaratory'. 
43 
The 
implication 
of 
this 
jotting 
- 
that 
a 
statement 
is 
'true 
for' 
and 
not 
'true 
of' 
- 
illuminates 
what 
we 
have been 
saying 
about 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
and some 
of 
Stevenson' 
s other 
short 
stories. 
The 
first 
person 
was 
a 
way 
of 
achieving 
an 
authenticity 
which 
lay 
in 
the truth 
with which 
the 
'emphasis 
and 
suppressions' 
of 
the 
'speech' 
of 
the 
'human 
actor' were 
narrated. 
Thus, 
truth 
is 
not 
to 
be fc, 
_lnd 
in 
any object 
of 
contemplation; 
it 
consists 
in 
achieving an 
authentic 
relationship 
of 
the 
self 
and 
the 
object 
of 
its 
activity. 
If, 
as 
I have 
argued, 
Hyde 
is 
of 
a 
different 
order 
from 
the 
other 
characters 
in 
the 
story, 
if 
he 
is 
a 
being 
who 
is 
half 
perceived 
and 
half 
perceiver, 
then 
can 
we 
be 
more 
particular 
about what 
kind 
of 
figure he 
is? 
It 
has been 
put 
forward 
above 
in 
this 
chapter 
that the 
descriptions 
of 
Hyde 
are 
very metaphorical. 
We 
have 
seen 
how 
Hyde 
is 
repulsive 
to 
all 
the 
characters 
in 
the 
book 
except 
Jekyll. While Lanyon 
and 
the 
others 
experience 
him 
as 
a 
subjective 
disturbance, 
Jekyll 
experiences 
him 
as a 
longing. 
The 
longing 
is 
desire 
for freedom, 
as 
is 
revealed 
in 
Jekyll's 
confession. 
There, 
we 
learn 
that 
the 
transformation 
'shook 
the 
doors 
of 
the 
prison-house 
of my 
disposition; 
and, 
like 
the 
captives 
of 
Philippi, 
that 
which stood 
within 
ran 
forth. 
"'*5 
The 
double 
identity 
allows 
him 
to 
'strip 
off 
these 
lendings' 
of 
' 
genial 
respectability' 
, 
'and 
spring 
headlong 
into 
the 
sea 
of 
liberty-146 
When 
he first 
takes the 
drug, 
he 
experiences 
'a 
solution 
of 
the 
bonds 
of 
obligation, 
an 
unknown 
but 
not 
an 
innocent 
freedom 
of 
the 
soul. 
"" 
Jekyll' 
s 
'second 
self"" 
$ 
is 
an 
- 
94 
- 
asocial 
self, 
and 
the 
freedom 
which 
he 
desires 
parallels, 
though 
it 
corrupts, 
the traveller's 
longing 
for freedom 
from 
the 
burdens 
of 
social 
identity. 
It 
is 
indeed 
the 
very strength 
of 
his 
sense 
of social 
obligations 
whlcr? 
leads 
him 
to 
create 
a 
being 
in 
whose 
form 
he 
could 
conduct 
his 
unrespectable 
' 
adventures'. 
49 
It 
may 
be, 
though 
it is 
not 
explained 
by 
Stevenson, 
that 
when 
Lanyon 
notes 
that 
Hyde 
is 
not 
purely 
personified 
hatred 
but 
that 
there 
is 
something 
'noble' 
about 
him 
he 
is 
recognising 
the 
impulse 
to 
freedom 
in 
Hyde. 
5? 
Hyde's 
resentments 
are, 
we are 
told, 
'causeless'; 
-51 
but 
surely 
they 
arise 
from 
his 
imprisonment. 
He 
is 
a 
rebel. 
Two 
themes 
emerge 
from 
the text 
to 
embody 
Hyde's 
rebelliousness. 
The first 
is 
what 
could 
be 
named 
the 
ape motif. 
Hyde 
is 
an 
ape 
in 
two 
senses 
of 
the 
word. 
He 
is identified 
as 
a 
monkey 
in 
various 
places. 
Poole, Jekyll's 
servant, calls 
him 
'that 
masked 
thing 
like 
a 
monkey'. 
52 
The 
maid who witnesses 
Carew's 
murder speaks of 
'the 
apelike spite' of 
the 
assassin. 
53 
Jekyll 
also attempts 
to 
capture 
the 
destructiveness 
of 
Hyde 
when 
he 
too 
refers 
to 
'the 
action 
of 
his 
apelike 
spi_te'; 
5 
but 
in 
a 
different 
sense of 
the 
word ape 
he 
remarks 
'the 
apelike 
tricks 
he 
would 
play me'. 
55 
While Hyde 
is 
the 
primate 
from 
whom 
man 
is 
descended, he 
is 
also 
the 
mocking 
imitator 
of 
Jekyll. 
He 
wears 
the 
doctor's 
clothes, mimics 
his handwriting 
('scrawling 
in 
my 
own 
hand blasphemies 
on 
the 
pages of my 
books""), 
and 
worst 
of 
all 
from Jekyll's 
point 
of view 
he 
apes 
his 
creator's 
desires, 
magnifying and 
intensifying 
the 
doctor's 
transgressions. 
57 
In 
that 
word 
ape, 
the 
idea 
of 
the 
beast 
within 
and 
the 
notion of satirical mimicry 
are 
conflated. 
The 
second 
and 
more 
significant 
theme 
concerns 
the 
underlying 
conflict 
of 
fathers 
and 
sons. 
It 
is 
a 
theme 
of rebellion 
against 
authority. 
As it 
extends 
out 
in 
Stevenson's 
work 
to 
both 
finer 
and 
more 
imperfect 
fictions 
than 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
description 
of 
this 
theme 
will 
only 
be begun 
here 
and 
will 
be 
continued 
through 
the 
following 
chapters. 
- 
95 
- 
Hyde, 
we 
are 
told, 
was 
born 
out 
of 
'the 
agonised 
womb 
of 
consciousness' 
.58 
Hi 
s 
birth 
causes 
Jekyll 
the 
'most 
racking 
pains' 
;59 
and 
his first 
appearance 
in 
the 
world 
is 
described 
as 
'the 
first 
breath 
of 
this 
new 
life' 
.sa 
He 
is 
'much 
smaller, 
slighter, 
and 
younger 
than 
Henry 
Jekyll' 
. 
61 
We 
also 
learn 
that 
he 
stands 
to 
inherit 
Jekyll's 
whole 
estate 
in 
the 
event 
of 
the 
Doctor's 
death 
or 
disappearance, 
as 
an only son 
should. 
In 
fact, 
Jekyll' 
s 
'protege' 
is 
metaphorically 
a 
son of 
Jekyll' 
s. 
At 
one 
point 
in 
his 
confession 
the 
Doctor 
says 
that, 
'Jekyll 
had 
more 
than 
a 
father's 
interest; 
Hyde had 
more 
than 
a 
son's 
indifference' 
.62 
This 
comparison 
achieves 
interest 
for 
us, 
not 
as 
an 
integral 
part 
of 
the 
conception 
of 
the 
story, 
but 
as 
a 
simile, consciously 
or unconsciously 
executed, which 
is 
typical 
of one 
Stevensonian 
pattern 
of 
thought. 
The 
association 
of 
law- 
abiding elder 
and rebellious 
son may 
be 
traced 
back 
to 
Stevenson' 
s 
own youth, 
to 
the 
very minor 
transgressions 
of 
his 
father's 
law 
and 
his 
subsequent guilt 
for 
the 
pain caused. 
63 
Hyde 
is 
certainly associated with 
disrespect for 
the 
father. 
He 
plays 
his 'apelike 
tricks' 
on 
Jekyll, 
scrawling 
in 
my 
own 
hand blasphemies 
on 
the 
pages of my 
books, 
burning 
the 
letters 
and 
destroying 
the 
portrait 
of my 
father. 
When, 
after 
Hyde 
has 
murdered 
Carew he 
is 
subsumed 
again 
into 
the 
body 
of 
Jekyll, 
Jekyll's 
memory 
is involuntarily 
cast 
back 
to 
childhood, 
a 
period 
of 
innocence 
and 
moral security 
as 
contrasted 
with 
his 
present 
horrific 
fix: 
I 
saw my 
life 
as 
a 
whole: 
I 
followed 
it 
up 
from 
the 
days 
of 
childhood, 
when 
I 
had 
walked 
with 
my 
father's 
hand, 
and 
through 
the 
self-denying 
toils 
of 
my 
professional 
life, 
to 
arrive again 
and 
again, 
with 
the 
same 
sense 
of unreality, 
at 
the 
damned 
horrors 
of 
the 
evening. 
65 
Hyde 
has 
no memories 
of 
this 
past 
time 
and, 
therefore, 
no 
- 
96 
- 
memories 
of 
the 
fall from 
innocence. 
In 
fact, 
he has 
no 
sense 
of 
time 
at 
all; 
he lives 
in 
a 
continuous 
present. 
His 
main 
characteristic 
is 
resentment 
of 
anything 
which 
threatens 
his 
moral 
autonomy. 
Thus, 
he 
despises 
Jekyll's 
desire 
for 
the 
good 
opinion 
of 
the 
v: 
orld 
at 
large 
and 
his 
respect 
for his 
father. 
Hyde 
is 
also 
being 
identified 
as 
a 
rebellious 
son 
in 
a 
broader 
sense. 
As 
Satan, 
he 
embodies 
a 
vital 
principle 
of 
disobedience; 
and 
by 
using 
the 
analogy 
Stevenson 
introduces 
an 
echo of 
that 
cosmic 
rebellion. 
This 
echo 
is 
not 
without significance since 
Stevenson 
frequently 
associated paternal 
authority 
with 
a 
more 
absolute 
moral 
authority. 
Paternal 
authority 
connects 
with 
the theme 
of 
the 
self 
through 
identity 
because 
the 
relation 
of 
father 
to 
son 
is 
seen as 
being 
one 
of 
genetic 
determination. 
It 
is 
understandable, 
th 
en, 
that 
Hyde 
should 
be 
patricidal sinc 
e 
he 
is 
a 
being 
who 
desires 
freedom 
and autonomy 
and who 
resents 
all 
abnegation of self. 
Indeed, he 
resents 
all 
that 
is 
not 
"I'". 
The 
father, 
through 
genetic 
identity, 
enters 
the 
self 
as 
"he" 
and 
becomes 
in 
this 
way 
Hyde's 
enemy. 
In his 
notebook 
Stevenson 
wrote 
down 
a 
thought 
which 
is 
worth 
quoting 
in 
the 
discussion 
of 
the theme 
of 
fathers 
and 
sons: 
Nothing 
so 
thoroughly 
brings 
back 
to 
us 
the 
unthinkable 
moralities 
of 
the 
past, as 
the 
story 
of 
Abraham 
and 
Isaac. 
It 
is 
strange 
enough 
that 
this 
grown 
man 
should 
have 
consented 
to 
follow his 
father 
on 
such 
a 
fool's 
errand 
and, 
when 
he 
learned 
at 
last 
of 
the 
object of 
the 
journey, 
should 
have 
meekly 
suffered 
himself 
to 
be bound 
for 
the 
sacrifice; 
but 
it is 
far 
stranger 
to 
think 
that, 
while 
we 
have 
plenty of 
praise 
of 
Abraham's 
faith, 
we 
hear 
not 
a syllable 
of comment 
on 
Isaac's 
obedience, 
that the 
whole 
of 
his 
conduct 
in 
the 
matter 
was 
too 
much 
matter 
of 
course 
for 
commendation. 
This 
comparison 
gives 
us 
an 
apercu 
at 
the 
same 
time 
into 
the 
contemporaneous 
theology. 
A 
man 
was 
evidently 
expected 
to 
do 
much 
more 
for his 
parents 
than 
for 
his God; 
and 
this 
_97_ 
is 
natural 
enough; 
for 
there 
was a 
large 
choice 
of 
deities 
out 
of 
which 
a 
man could 
make 
his 
selection, 
but he 
never 
could 
have 
another 
father. 
All 
through 
the 
earlier 
part 
of 
the 
Old 
Testament 
there 
are 
incidents 
and 
expressions 
that 
can 
only 
be 
understood 
in 
th 
- 
light 
c 
this 
competition 
of 
Godheads. 
66 
He 
is 
surely 
being 
disingenuous 
here 
in 
distancing 
the 
image 
of 
paternal 
authority 
by 
placing 
it 
amongst 
'the 
unthinkable 
moralities 
of 
the 
past'. 
In his 
fiction 
physical or 
moral 
peril 
are 
almost 
absolutely 
the 
consequence 
of 
the 
death 
of 
the 
father 
or 
the 
transgression 
of 
the 
father's 
law. 
Each 
of 
the 
subsequent 
chapters 
of 
this 
thesis 
will 
provide evidence 
of 
that 
fact. 
To 
confirm 
the 
connection provisionally, 
we 
need only 
mention 
a 
few 
of 
the 
stories 
in 
which 
the 
father 
is 
a 
figure 
of 
moral 
authority 
and 
the 
son 
a 
rebel. 
'The House 
of 
Eld' 
(first 
published, 
1895) 
is 
a 
familiacidal 
fable. 
The 
son 
kills father, 
mother, and catechist 
uncle, 
to 
rid 
himself 
of sin 
and guilt; 
only 
to 
find 
that the 
burden 
is 
still 
there. 
67 
In 
The 
Misadventures 
of 
John 
Nicholson 
(1887), 
the 
story 
of 
the 
Prodigal Son 
is 
re-enacted. 
The 
son's expulsion 
from 
the 
father's house 
puts 
him 
beyond 
the 
law, 
and 
he 
is 
hunted 
for 
a murder 
that 
he did 
not 
commit. 
The 
pay 
ernal 
rejection and 
the 
state 
of 
being 
outwith 
the 
law 
expose 
the 
habitual 
association 
in 
Stevenson' 
s mind which 
I have been 
trying to 
describe. 
68 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston is 
both 
law-giver 
and 
father; he banishes 
his 
son 
from 
the 
city 
for 
rebelling against 
him 
in 
each of 
these 
capacities. 
Weir 
makes 
it 
clear 
in 
his lengthy 
and 
sarcastic 
rebuke 
to 
Archie 
- 
it is 
like 
a 
summing 
up of 
the 
case 
to 
be 
answered 
- 
that 
he has 
offended 
him 
as 
judge 
and 
father. 
"" 
Likewise, 
insofar 
as 
Jekyll 
is 
father, 
the 
law 
is 
an 
imperative 
he 
feels 
is 
laid 
upon 
him; 
and 
insofar 
as 
Hyde 
is 
a son, 
he 
is 
a 
rebel 
and 
outlaw. 
The 
longing 
of 
the 
moi 
to 
be 
free 
and 
to throw 
over 
social 
and 
paternal 
determinations 
leads, 
in 
Dr Jek 
yll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
to 
despair 
and 
to 
death. 
However, 
it 
does 
not always 
have 
_98_ 
these 
results 
in 
Stevenson's 
tales. 
Chapter 
one 
of 
this 
thesis 
argued 
that 
the 
longing 
of 
the 
moi 
for 
this 
autonomy 
represented 
a 
desire for 
authenticity, 
and 
that 
it 
was 
a 
positive 
and 
'iberatin 
impulse 
which 
was essential 
to 
the 
independence 
of 
the 
artist; 
while 
the 
self 
control and 
obedience 
of 
the 
lui 
was a 
falling 
into 
deadness 
and convention. 
A 
further 
recognition 
of 
the 
ambiguousness 
of 
the 
longing 
of one 
part 
of 
the 
self 
to transcend 
the 
quotidian 
social 
self can 
best 
be 
achieved 
by 
further 
examining 
the 
idea 
of antinomianism 
in 
its 
more 
positive 
aspect 
and 
contrasting 
this 
with 
the 
dark 
resume 
of 
the 
theme 
of 
the 
self 
in 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde. 
As 
a 
postscript 
to this 
discussion 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
I 
would 
like 
to 
gloss 
the 
use 
of 
the 
notion 
of antinomianism 
in 
this 
short 
chapter. 
Generally 
this 
word 
denotes 
the theological 
view 
that 
Grace 
is 
not 
dependent 
on 
Works but 
is 
predestined. 
Beyond 
this, the 
psychology 
of 
the 
antinomian 
personality 
has 
a 
specific place as an 
important 
theme 
in 
Scottish literature. 
Robert Burns' 'Holy 
Willie's Prayer' 
(1789), 
John 
Galt' 
s 
Ringan 
Gilhaize 
(1823) 
and 
James Hogg's 
Confessions 
of a 
Justified 
Sinner 
(1824), 
all 
deal 
with 
the 
psychology 
(and 
in 
the 
case 
of 
the 
last 
two, 
with 
the theology) 
of 
antinomianism. 
7? 
The 
tenets 
of 
Calvinism 
which pertain 
to 
antinomianism are as 
follows: 
predestination; 
irresistable 
grace; 
the 
utter 
depravity 
of 
natural 
man, 
which 
deprives 
him 
of 
free 
will; 
particular 
redemption. 
Gordon 
Darnaway 
of 
'The Merry Men' 
belongs 
to 
a 
strict 
Calvinist 
sect, 
the 
Carneronians, 
and we 
have 
noticed 
how 
his 
spiritual 
despair 
is 
described 
as owing a great 
deal 
to 
this 
kind 
of 
fatalism 
about 
salvation. 
However, 
it 
may 
be 
that 
commentators 
on 
Scottish 
culture 
and 
literature 
since 
the 
Reformation 
have 
ascribed 
too 
much 
importance 
to 
zealous and 
sectarian 
Calvinism 
and 
too 
little 
to 
the 
psychological 
and 
cultural 
effects 
of 
the 
severe 
behavioural 
discipline 
which 
characterised 
the 
reformed 
Scottish Kirk 
as a whole. 
From 
the 
Book 
of 
Discipline 
compiled 
by 
Knox. 
and 
other 
Reformers 
in 
1561 
through 
at 
least 
the 
next 
two 
centuries, 
the 
Kirk 
_99_ 
demanded 
of 
its 
adherents 
no 
less 
than 
moral 
and 
spiritual 
perfection. 
The 
reason 
for 
this 
is 
not 
hard 
to 
find, 
if 
we 
confine 
ourselves 
to 
the 
broadest 
terms. 
By 
removing 
the 
institution 
of confession 
and 
the 
ritual 
of 
the 
Catholic 
church, 
the 
Protestants 
had 
also 
destroyed 
the 
principal 
instruments 
of 
mediation 
between 
man and 
God 
and 
had 
blocked 
off 
the 
means 
by 
which 
imperfect 
and sinning 
man 
could 
be 
redeemed. 
In 
these 
circumstances 
even 
the 
most 
minor 
sin 
constituted 
a 
falling 
from 
grace, a 
fracture 
of 
discipline 
from 
which 
there 
was 
no 
immediate, 
visible 
possibility 
of 
redemption. 
71 
Gordon 
Darnaway's 
impulse 
to 
seek 
out 
damnation 
rather 
than 
look 
for 
redemption shows 
Stevenson's 
awareness of 
the 
consequences 
of 
the 
religious 
beliefs 
which 
I have been 
outlining. 
In 
'The 
Merry Men' Stevenson 
placed 
the 
action 
in 
historical 
and geographical 
circumstances which 
warrant 
Darnaway's 
outlook. 
He 
is 
a 
Cameronian 
at a 
time, 
in 
the 
latter half 
of 
the 
eighteenth 
century, 
when 
it 
would 
actually 
have been 
possible 
for 
him 
to 
be 
so. 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
is 
a 
different 
case. 
The 
doctor 
acts 
and 
thinks 
in 
a similar way 
to 
Gordon 
Darnaway. 
The 
commission 
of minor 
sins convinces 
him 
of 
his 
own 
depravity. But 
by 
setting 
his 
story 
in 
Victorian 
London 
Stevenson 
has 
broken 
the 
link 
between 
Scotland 
and zealous 
puritanism. 
He 
has, 
thereby, 
made 
the 
import 
of 
his 
parable 
more universal 
and 
has brought 
the 
regional 
contours 
of 
his 
perception 
of 
antinomianism 
into 
line 
with 
a 
more 
general 
understanding of 
that 
notion. 
This 
broader 
conception 
derived 
from 
a 
literary 
source, 
and 
I 
want 
to 
outline 
that 
source 
and 
its 
impact 
upon 
Stevenson 
now. 
Writing 
to 
a 
friend, 
Cosmo 
Monkhouse, in 
1884, 
Stevenson 
had 
this 
to 
say: 
After 
all 
boyhood's 
aspirations 
and 
youth's 
immoral 
daydreams, 
you 
are 
condemned 
to 
sit 
- 
100 
- 
down, 
grossly 
draw 
in 
your 
chair 
to 
the 
fat 
board, 
and 
be 
a 
beastly 
Burgess 
till 
you 
die. 
Can 
it 
be? 
Is 
there 
not 
some 
escape, 
some 
Furlough 
from 
the 
Moral Law, 
some 
holiday 
jaunt 
contrivable 
to 
a 
Better 
Land. 
72 
After 
this 
semi-humourous 
and 
therefore 
defused 
complaint 
against 
bourgeois 
life, 
he 
remarks 
that: 
Heaven 
is 
- 
must 
be 
- 
that 
great 
Kingdom 
of 
Antinomia, 
which 
Lamb 
dimly 
adumbrated 
in 
the 
Country 
Wife, 
where 
the 
worm 
which never 
dies 
(the 
conscience) 
peacefully 
expires, 
and 
the 
sinner 
lies 
down 
beside 
the 
Ten 
Commandments. 
73 
The 
work 
by Charles 
Lamb 
to 
which 
he 
refers 
in 
the 
letter 
is 
'On 
the 
Artificial 
Comedy 
of 
the 
Last 
Century' 
(1822) 
." 
In 
it 
Lamb 
undertakes 
a 
defence 
of 
Restoration 
comic 
dramas 
against 
the 
charge 
that 
they 
are 
immoral. Why 
are 
they 
so unpopular? 
he 
asks. 
Then 
he begins 
to 
answer 
that 
question 
by 
laying 
out 
the 
view 
of 
the 
moralistic 
critics: 
The 
business 
of 
their 
dramatic 
characters will 
not 
stand 
the 
moral 
test. 
We 
screw everything up 
to 
that. 
Idle 
gallantry 
in 
a 
fiction, 
,a 
dream 
... 
startles us 
in 
the 
same 
way 
as 
the 
alarming 
indications 
of 
profligacy 
in 
a son 
or 
ward 
in 
real 
life 
should 
startle a parent 
or guardian. 
And 
he 
continues: 
We 
carry out 
fireside 
concerns 
to the theatre 
with 
us. 
We 
do 
not go 
thither 
... 
to 
escape 
from 
the 
pressure 
of reality, 
so much 
as 
to 
confirm 
our 
experience 
of 
it. 
75 
Then 
Lamb 
presents 
the 
argument 
which 
Stevenson 
remembered 
in 
his 
letter 
to 
Cosmo 
Monkhouse: 
I 
am 
glad 
for 
a season 
to 
take 
an airing 
beyond 
the 
diocese 
of 
the 
strict 
conscience 
- 
not 
to 
live 
always 
in 
the 
precincts of 
the 
law-courts 
- 
but 
- 
101 
- 
now 
and 
then, 
for 
a 
dream-while 
or 
so, 
to 
imagine 
a 
world 
with. 
no 
meddling 
restrictions. 
The 
Fainalls 
and 
the 
Mirabells 
... 
in 
their 
own 
sphere, 
do 
not offend 
my 
moral 
sense; 
in 
fact 
they 
do 
not appeal 
to 
it 
at 
all. 
They 
seem 
engaged 
in 
their 
proper 
element. 
They 
break 
through 
no 
laws, 
or 
conscientious 
restraints. 
They 
know 
of 
none 
... 
It 
is 
altogether 
a 
speculative 
scene 
of 
things, 
which 
has 
no 
reference 
whatever 
to the 
world 
that 
it 
is. 
76 
Stevenson 
exactly 
parallels 
this 
sentiment 
when 
he 
writes 
in 
'A 
Gossip 
on 
Romance' 
that 
a 
great 
deal 
in 
both life 
and 
letters 
is 
'not 
immoral, 
. 
but 
simply 
non-moral. 
17 
Finally, 
Lamb 
concludes 
the 
main 
thrust 
of 
his 
argument 
with 
the 
following 
words 
: 
We dare 
not 
contemplate 
an 
Atlantis, 
a 
scheme 
out 
of 
which 
our coxcombical 
moral 
sense 
is 
for 
a 
little 
transitory 
ease excluded. 
We 
have 
not 
the 
courage 
to 
imagine 
a state 
of 
things 
for 
which 
there 
is 
neither reward or 
punishment. 
We 
cling 
to the 
painful necessities 
of shame and 
blame. 
We 
would 
indict 
our very 
dreams. 
$ 
' 
Lamb's 
plea 
corresponds materially with 
Stevenson' 
s 
view, 
noted above, 
that 
literature 
could 
be 
amoral 
playing, 
and 
with 
Oscar Wilde' 
s anti-naturalistic aesthetic. 
It 
prefigures 
the 
general 
reaction 
against earnestness 
in 
literature 
which 
we can 
discern 
starting 
in 
the 
1880s. 
For 
the 
reading and 
theatre- 
going public, 
Wilde 
was 
the 
most visible and shocking example 
of 
that 
process. 
His 
play 
The Importance 
of 
Being 
Earnest 
(1895) 
might 
have 
been 
written 
to 
illustrate 
Lamb's 
essay. 
Nevertheless, 
Treasure 
Island, 
published 
in 
1883, 
and 
H. 
Rider 
Haggard's 
King 
Solomon's 
Mines, 
which was 
directly 
provoked 
by 
Stevenson' 
s 
pirate 
story, 
mark 
a. 
decisive 
point 
in 
that 
shift 
of 
cultural 
tone. 
79 
There 
was 
a 
certain 
amount 
of 
pressure 
on 
Stevenson 
to 
inject 
- 
102 
- 
some 
moral 
significance 
into 
Treasure 
Island. 
This 
came 
from 
his 
father 
who 
wrote 
to 
him 
with 
the 
following 
suggestion: 
The 
character 
painting 
which 
is 
so 
well 
done 
in 
the 
early 
chapters 
drops 
a 
good 
deal 
after 
getting 
to 
the island 
... 
But 
I 
think 
you 
should 
intermit 
this 
tragic 
work 
if 
possible 
and 
I 
think 
you 
have 
a 
good 
opportunity 
with 
Ben 
Gunn. 
I 
would 
interject 
a 
long 
passage 
then 
of a religious 
character. 
I 
would 
have 
him 
ask 
if Jim had 
ever 
been 
at 
some 
little 
port[? 
] 
village, 
say 
Mousehole 
near 
Penzance 
P1 
and 
whether 
he 
had 
ever seen 
or 
heard 
of 
his 
father 
or 
mother. 
The 
want of such 
an 
enquiry 
strikes 
me 
as 
unnatural. 
Then 
I 
would 
have 
him 
regret 
the 
fatal 
day 
on which 
he 
had 
run 
away 
from 
his 
home 
and 
some 
pathetic 
passages 
should 
follow 
as 
to 
what 
he had 
lost 
... 
and 
something 
about 
his 
misspending 
of 
Sundays 
and 
something 
about 
the 
Minister 
of 
the 
place and 
the 
sayings 
of 
his 
father 
or 
his 
mother and so 
forth. 
So 
far 
as 
I 
can 
see 
this 
is 
the 
only 
way 
of 
harking 
back 
to 
something 
higher 
than 
mere 
incident 
... 
I 
want 
you 
to 
make a 
real point of 
his 
breaking 
away 
from home 
and 
this 
should 
be 
a 
kind 
of 
religious 
tract 
and 
should 
be 
fully done 
but 
all 
in 
the 
Defoe 
style. 
8? 
Stevenson 
resisted 
this 
suggestion 
without 
refusing 
to 
do 
so. 
He 
merely 
omitted 
to 
make 
the 
requested 
insertion. 
The 
exclusion of 
didacticism from 
Treasure Island 
accorded with 
the 
author's 
aim 
of achieving a 
deliberate 
simplicity 
in 
the 
characters 
- 
the 
action 
of 
this 
masterpiece of 
the 
adventure 
genre 
occurs 
in 
an arena of 
lucid 
and 
guiltless gestures. 
In 
writing 
such a 
story 
he 
was 
hoping 
to 
appeal 
to 
an audience 
of 
boys. 
But he 
was aware 
that the 
deliberate 
naivety of 
Treasure 
Island 
would 
find 
a 
response 
outside 
the 
world 
of 
children's 
fiction 
because, 
as 
he 
argued 
to 
Henry 
James, 
all 
men 
have 
been 
children 
once. 
81 
Thus G. K. 
Chesterton 
is 
in 
Stevenson's 
camp when 
he 
writes 
in 
defence 
of 
boys' 
fiction 
of 
the 
blood 
and 
thunder 
type: 
The 
simple 
need 
for 
some 
kind 
of 
ideal 
world 
- 
103 
- 
in 
which 
fictitious 
persons 
play 
an unhampered 
part 
is 
infinitely 
deeper 
and older 
than tht 
rules 
of 
good 
art, 
and 
much 
more 
important. 
82 
Stevenson's 
qualification 
of 
this 
statement 
tiiould 
have 
been 
to 
the 
effect 
that 
ideal 
simplicity 
was 
compatible 
with 
good art. 
Trusting 
to 
an 
analysis 
of 
his 
own 
personality, 
he felt 
that 
such 
a 
desire for 
a 
guiltless 
Eden 
was not confined 
to 
children; 
that 
it 
was 
a 
basic 
and 
natural 
human 
need. 
In 
this 
guise 
the 
antinomian 
idea 
had 
a power 
close 
to the 
roots 
of 
Stevenson's 
imagination 
and 
to 
his 
very 
desire 
to 
write. 
It 
represented 
a 
secret subversion 
of moral authority and a return 
to 
the 
Edenic 
condition 
of childhood 
where 
the 
brightness 
and 
joyousness 
of 
things 
(what 
he 
called 
the 
'romance 
of 
facts' 
83 
) 
stood 
unmediated 
by 
moral evaluation and 
in 
a state of 
original 
freshness. 
Fathers, 
those 
symbols of moral authority 
in 
the 
Victorian 
age, are 
banished from his 
early adventure 
stories; 
Jim Hawkins 
and 
David Balfour 
are orphans. 
It 
is 
possible 
that this 
symbolic elimination of 
the 
father, 
allowed 
him 
to 
write 
about 
the 
Kingdom 
of 
Antinomia. 
Stevenson 
represents 
this 
antinomian 
freedom 
as 
desire, 
or 
as 
a 
dream 
which 
is 
a 
form 
of 
desire. The 
adve nture 
in 
its 
purest 
form 
- 
in 
Treasure 
Island 
- 
fulfils desire 
wi 
thin the 
framework 
of 
genre 
expectations 
set up 
by 
the 
story. 
But he 
recognised 
that 
this 
desire 
could 
be 
dependent 
upon 
its 
opposite: 
the 
submission 
to 
some 
form 
of 
moral 
authority. 
It 
is 
this 
duality 
which 
is 
given parabolic 
expression 
in 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
CHAPTER IV 
Escape 
to 
tm 
Past: Two Historical Novels 
' You 
think 
that 
a 
wall as 
solid 
civilization 
from 
barbarism. 
I 
tell 
thread, 
a pane 
of glass. 
' 
(John 
Buchan, The 
Power-House) 
as 
the 
earth separates 
you 
the 
division 
is 
a 
No, he discovers 
nothing: 
he does 
not 
want 
to 
arrive. 
His 
journey 
is 
false, his 
unreal 
excitement really 
an 
illness 
On 
a 
false 
island 
where 
the 
heart 
cannot act 
and will not 
suffer: 
He 
condones 
his fever; 
he 
is 
weaker 
than 
he 
thought; 
his 
weakness 
is 
real. 
(W. 
H. 
Auden, 
A Voyage) 
- 
104 
- 
CHAPTER 
IV 
In 
Stevenson's 
comic 
novel 
The 
Wrong 
Box 
a 
number 
of 
the 
characters 
successively 
find 
themselves 
with a problem: 
' flow 
does 
a 
gentleman 
dispose 
of 
a 
body, 
honestly 
come 
by? ' 
The 
machinations 
in 
which 
they 
become 
involved 
as a result, 
are 
not 
of 
their 
own 
initiation, 
but 
are 
completely 
out 
of 
their 
hands, 
as 
though 
they 
were 
victims 
of a 
gremlin 
and mechanic- 
al 
providence 
which 
worked, 
all 
the 
same, 
by 
chance. 
Various 
people 
find 
themselves 
with 
a 
body 
on 
their 
hands. 
They 
are 
incriminated, 
caught 
up 
in 
a 
process 
from 
which 
it is 
very 
difficult 
to 
withdraw. 
' 
In 
one 
sense, 
the 
quandary 
in 
which 
these 
characters 
from 
The 
Wrong Box 
find 
themselves, 
is 
comparable 
to 
David 
Balfour's 
situation 
when, after 
the 
murder of 
Colin 
Campbell, 
he 
becomes 
an 
involuntary 
criminal. 
David 
becomes 
enmeshed, 
through 
his 
presence 
in 
the 
wood of 
Lettermore 
at 
the time 
of 
the 
assassin- 
ation, 
in 
a process 
which 
is 
not simply 
a 
criminal 
matter; 
he 
is 
also 
thereby 
involved 
with powerful political 
forces 
and 
the 
movement of 
history. 
Although Stevenson 
took 
liberties 
with minor 
details 
and 
David 
himself 
is 
a wholly 
fictitious 
character, 
many 
of 
the 
events 
and characters of 
the 
duology 
correspond 
to 
actual 
historical 
ones. 
Stevenson 
researched 
this 
period of 
Scottish history for 
a 
book 
which 
he 
had 
planned 
to 
write, 
a non-fictional work 
on 
the 
period 
from 
the 
rebellion of 
1745 
up 
to 
his 
own 
time; 
and 
also 
for 
an 
article 
that 
he 
had 
intended 
to 
produce 
to 
prove 
his 
fitness 
for 
a chair of 
history 
at 
the 
University 
of 
Edin- 
burgh. 
Consequently, 
his 
grasp of 
the 
socio-political character 
of 
Scotland 
immediately 
after 
1745 
was 
very 
sound, within 
the 
limits 
of 
nineteenth 
century 
historiography. 
Nonetheless, 
neither 
Kidnapped 
nor 
Catriona 
is 
a genuinely 
historical 
novel. 
The 
- 
105 
- 
specifics 
of 
the 
milieu, such as 
dress, 
are 
authentically 
des- 
cribed; 
but 
the 
spirit 
behind 
the 
novels 
is 
profoundly unhistor- 
ical, 
even 
anti-historical. 
David 
becomes 
enmeshed with 
histor- 
ical 
forces 
just 
as 
the 
protagonists 
of 
The 
Wrong Box 
are 
involuntarily 
caught up 
in 
"murder". He 
i? 
not 
of 
history 
but 
in 
it. 
Some 
of 
the 
principal 
and 
most 
colourful 
events 
of eighteenth 
century 
Scottish 
history 
are 
described 
in 
Sir 
Walter 
Scott's 
lengthy 
introduction 
to 
Rob 
Roy. 
2 
In 
this 
Stevenson 
would 
have 
read 
of 
the 
assassination 
of 
Colin 
Campbell, 
as 
well as 
of 
the 
careers 
of 
Rob 
Roy' 
s 
sons 
and 
the 
political 
intrigues 
of 
post- 
1745 
Scotland. 
Scott's 
introduction 
deals 
with 
the 
basic 
mater- 
ial 
on 
which 
Kidnapped 
and 
Catriona 
are 
built. 
Robin Oig 
Mac- 
Gregor, 
Alan 
Breck, 
James 
Drummond 
and 
his daughter, 
are 
mentioned 
by Scott 
and 
they 
all appear 
in 
Stevenson' 
s novels. 
Since 
Stevenson's 
works 
overlap 
in 
this 
way 
with an area 
of 
which 
it 
may 
be 
said 
that 
Scott 
was 
in imaginative 
and 
intell- 
ectual 
possession, 
then 
I 
want 
to touch 
fleetingly 
on 
the 
relat- 
ionship between 
Scott 
and 
Stevenson. 
In 
a 
letter 
to 
Mrs. Sitwell, 
Stevenson 
mentioned 
his 
plan 
for 
a 
book 
on 
four 
notable 
Scotsmen: 
Knox, Hume, Burns 
and 
Scott. 
The book 
was never 
written, 
but 
his 
remarks 
on 
Scott 
are 
pert- 
inent: 
Scott 
again, 
the 
ever 
delightful 
man, sane, 
cour- 
ageous, admirable; 
the 
birth 
of 
Romance, 
in 
a 
dawn 
that 
was 
a 
sunset; 
snobbery, 
conservatism, 
the 
wrong 
thread 
in 
history, 
and 
notably 
in 
that 
! lT 
klC 
! '1W T 
17 
TA 
These 
strictures are 
so vague 
as 
to 
be 
almost meaningless. 
They 
are 
the 
more 
enigmatic 
because 
Ste 
venson at no point 
indicated 
a 
different 
thread 
in 
Scottish history. 
Whereas, 
Scott's 
introduction 
to 
Rob Roy 
preferred 
to 
him 
a conception 
of 
the 
Lowland/Highland 
divide 
which was 
a 
fertile 
source 
of 
- 
106 
- 
ideas 
for 
Stevenson. 
Scott 
writes 
of 
Rob 
Roy: 
It 
is 
this 
strong contrast 
betwixt 
this 
civilised 
and 
cultivated mode of 
life 
on 
the 
one side of 
the 
Highland 
line, 
and 
the 
wild 
and 
lawless 
advent- 
ures 
which 
were 
habitually 
undertaken 
and 
achieved 
by 
one who 
dwelt 
on 
the 
opposite 
side of 
that 
ideal 
boundary, 
which creates 
the 
interest 
attached 
to 
his 
name. 
' 
Scott's 
conception 
of 
the 
divide 
is 
echoed 
by Stevenson: 
Now Scotch 
is 
the 
only 
history 
I 
know; 
it 
is 
the 
only 
history 
reasonably 
represented 
in 
my 
library; 
it 
is 
a 
very 
good 
one 
for 
my purpose, 
owing 
to 
two 
civilisations 
having 
been 
face 
to 
face 
through- 
out 
- 
or 
rather 
Roman 
civilisation 
face 
to 
face 
with 
our 
ancient 
barbaric life 
and government, 
down 
to 
yesterday, 
to 
1750 
anyway. 
*5 
Stevenson 
embodied 
that 
divide 
in 
the 
figures 
of 
Alan 
Breck 
and 
David 
Balfour. 
Like Scott, he 
envisages 
the 
Highlands 
as 
a 
lawless 
wilderness. 
But 
in 
the 
shape 
of 
Alan Breck 
the 
reader 
is 
presented 
with 
a 
fugitive 
adventurer 
who 
does 
not 
represent 
a 
threat to the 
new civil 
order. 
Whereas 
Rob Roy 
and 
Redgauntlet 
were 
serious, 
if 
doomed, 
characters: 
the 
former 
was 
attached 
to 
a 
clan society 
fighting for 
its 
life; 
the 
latter 
was 
a genuine 
political 
rebel. 
The 
adventures of 
Alan 
and 
David 
are entirely 
incidental 
to 
the 
course of 
Scottish 
history; 
and 
the 
stories 
which 
they 
appear 
in 
are 
intimate 
and psycholog- 
ical. 
In 
view 
of 
E. 
M. 
Eigner's 
assertion 
that 
Scott 
belonged 
to 
a 
'bad' 
romance 
tradition 
and 
Stevenson 
to. 
a 
'good' 
one and 
of 
Bradford 
Booth's 
claim 
that 
both 
were 
engaged 
in 
writing 
the 
same 
sort 
of 
historical 
novel 
(at 
least, 
he 
does 
not 
distinguish 
between 
one 
kind 
of 
historical 
novel 
and 
another), 
it 
may 
be 
worthwhile 
to 
make a 
brief 
attempt 
to 
clarify 
the 
issue. 
" 
Simply 
to 
call 
Scott 
a romancer 
is 
to 
fail 
to take 
account 
of 
- 
107 
- 
the 
powerful 
description 
of 
his 
novels 
associated 
with 
Lukacs, 
which 
places 
Scott 
at 
the 
beginning 
of 
a 
tradition 
of 
historical 
realism 
and 
within 
the 
context 
of 
the 
growth of 
historiography 
which 
was 
taking 
place at 
the time. 
As Lukacs 
says, 
the 
main 
characters 
and 
the 
conflicts of 
Scott's 
novels sum up, 
in 
them- 
selves, 
a 
whole 
historical 
motive. 
For 
example, 
Redgauntlet, 
in 
the 
novel 
of 
that 
name, 
has 
a 
desperate 
and 
bold 
character; 
but 
we 
do 
not 
just 
receive 
in 
this 
way 
an 
impression 
of 
a 
part- 
icular 
temperament; 
his desperation 
and 
boldness 
are 
indivis- 
ible 
from 
the 
background 
of 
the 
failure 
of 
his 
whole 
cause and 
his 
own 
refusal 
to 
recognise 
that 
the 
Stuart 
restoration 
is 
no 
longer 
possible. 
Or, 
take 
Bailie 
Nicol 
Jarvie: 
he 
is 
a 
man com- 
ing into 
his 
own, 
because 
the 
world 
in 
which 
he feels 
at 
home 
- 
of 
capital, 
of accounts, 
or 
merchandise 
- 
will 
be 
the 
great 
social 
power 
of 
the 
near 
future; his 
inability 
to 
use 
a sword 
and 
his dislike 
of 
shows 
of violence, 
his 
self-confidence and 
astuteness 
in 
his 
natural, 
urban setting, all point 
forward 
to 
the time 
when 
the 
burgess 
will 
be 
the 
dominant 
force 
in 
Scott- 
ish 
society. 
Scott's 
method 
is 
to 
create 
individual 
characters 
with 
the 
material 
of 
typical 
social-historical 
forces. 
This 
con- 
ception 
is 
touched 
on 
in 
the 
introductory 
chapter 
to 
Waverley, 
where 
he 
writes: 
Society 
and 
example 
... 
more 
than 
any other 
mot- 
ives, 
master 
and sway 
the 
natural 
bent 
of our 
passions. 
7 
While 
this 
description 
does 
not 
tell 
the 
whole 
story 
about 
Scott, 
it 
helps 
to 
explain 
his 
massive 
contribution 
to the 
development 
of 
the 
novel. 
Stevenson 
recognised 
that 
his 
compatriot 
had 
ad- 
vanced 
the 
flexibility 
of 
prose 
narrative 
and 
broadened 
its 
power 
of 
realising 
the 
conditions 
of men's 
lives: 
Fielding' 
s characters 
were always 
great 
to 
the 
full 
stature 
of 
a 
perfectly 
arbitrary 
will. 
Already 
in 
Scott 
we 
begin 
to 
have 
a sense 
of 
the 
subtle 
in- 
fluences that 
moderate 
and 
qualify 
a 
man's 
person- 
ality; 
that 
personality 
is 
no 
longer 
thrown 
out 
in 
- 
108 
- 
unnatural 
isolation, 
but 
is 
resumed 
into 
its 
place 
in 
the 
constitution of 
things. 
It 
is 
this 
change 
in 
the 
manner 
of 
regarding 
men 
and 
their 
actions 
first 
exhibited 
in 
romance 
that 
has 
since 
renewed 
and vivified 
history. 
In 
using 
the 
word 
'romance', 
Stevenson 
is 
distinguishing 
be- 
tween 
the 
fiction 
of 
Scott 
and 
Hugo 
and 
the 
eighteenth 
century 
novel. 
Although 
Stevenson 
recognised 
Scott's 
achievement, 
he did 
not 
see 
in 
Scott's 
epic 
and 
panoramic 
novels 
a possible 
course 
for 
his 
own 
fiction 
to 
follow. 
When 
he 
turned 
to 
Scott 
''territory" 
in 
Kidnapped 
and 
Catriona, 
the 
result 
is 
more 
intimate 
than 
any 
of 
Scott's 
novels. 
The 
focus 
is 
on a smaller 
range 
of 
char- 
acters; 
his 
approach 
to 
history 
is 
more oblique and personal, 
in 
that 
the 
action 
takes 
place seven 
years 
after 
the 
rebellion 
and 
tangentially to 
the 
decisive 
social conflicts 
of 
the 
period. 
(This 
is 
not 
to 
sav 
that 
Tames Stewart's 
trial, 
for 
example. 
was unimportant 
or 
insignificant. 
But 
its 
significance 
is 
dependent 
on what went 
before, 
and 
in 
Stevenson's 
books 
that 
context 
is 
a given 
factor. 
) 
Furthermore, 
Stevenson' 
s 
duology 
has 
an active 
first 
person narrator who subjectivises 
the 
action, 
which 
therefore 
happens 
for him 
as 
well 
as 
before him. 
Through 
this 
teller, 
a 
psychological 
focus 
emerges 
and action 
is 
distilled 
through 
an 
intervening 
consciousness, 
that 
of 
David 
Balfour. 
The 
particular 
angle 
of vision 
is 
not only more 
clear- 
ly defined 
than 
it 
is 
in 
Scott, 
but 
is, in 
a sense, 
the 
object 
of 
which 
we 
are most 
continually 
aware. 
Waverley 
also 
has 
a 
first 
person 
narrator. 
Although 
his 
role, as an 
individual 
caught 
between 
two 
warring 
causes 
and 
two 
distinct 
forms 
of 
social 
organisation, 
is 
similar 
to that 
of 
David 
Balfour, he 
is 
perceptually 
a 
much more 
neutral 
figure. The 
distinctive 
idiom 
and 
order 
which 
his 
narration 
brings 
to 
events 
is 
doubly 
miti- 
gat: 
-d 
: 
firstly, 
by 
his 
retrospective glosses 
on 
the 
point 
of 
view 
he 
had 
at 
the time 
of 
the 
story, 
which 
he 
is 
writing up 
- 
109 
- 
much 
later; 
secondly, 
by 
what 
David 
Daiches 
has 
identified 
as 
the 
omnipresence 
of 
Scott's 
own voice. 
9 
This 
brings before 
us 
a 
vital 
difference 
between 
the 
fictional 
worlds of 
Scott 
and 
Stevenson. 
In 
Waverley 
(and 
this 
is 
true 
of 
Scott's 
novels 
as 
a 
whole) 
characters 
may 
be 
concealing 
things: 
but 
ultimately 
their 
motives 
will out, 
because 
they 
are 
the 
great 
historical 
motives. 
The 
world 
is 
as 
transparent 
to 
Scott 
as 
history 
or 
as 
folklore 
because 
it 
has 
objective 
existence. 
There 
is 
nothing 
in- 
ward 
or 
paradoxical 
about, 
say, 
Vich 
Ian 
Vohr; 
where 
he 
is 
politic 
or 
deceptive, 
we 
see 
that 
he 
is 
being 
so 
and 
his 
per- 
sonality 
is 
coextensive 
with 
his 
public 
commitment so 
that 
it 
must 
emerge 
through the 
narrative 
of 
historic 
events. 
To 
com- 
pare 
him 
with 
Prestongrange, 
of 
Catriona, 
is 
instructive. 
The 
latter 
is 
a 
political 
and 
devious 
character 
whom 
David Balfour 
cannot 
fathom. 
The 
ambivalence 
of 
Grant's 
character 
is 
sus- 
tained 
by 
the 
interiority 
of 
the 
narration. 
David 
says: 
He 
was 
kind 
to 
me as any 
father 
Yet 
I 
ever 
thought 
him 
as 
false 
as a cracked 
bell. 
Even 
more 
interestingly, 
Stevenson himself 
was 
puzzled 
and 
in 
the 
dark 
about 
Grant's 
motives. 
So, 
personality 
is 
not 
easily 
inferred 
from 
appearance. 
It 
may 
be 
inaccessible 
to the 
point 
of view 
of 
the 
first 
person narrator, 
permeated 
by 
a 
bedrock 
ambiguity; 
it 
is 
framed 
within 
the 
subjective 
perspective. 
This 
indicates 
to 
us 
that 
the 
world 
is 
far 
more 
opaque 
for Stevenson 
than 
for 
Scott. 
It has 
been 
pointed 
out 
before 
that 
Kidnapped 
has 
many of 
the 
qualities 
of 
the 
pre-Romantic 
picaresque 
novel. 
Ignoring 
the 
deliberately 
archaic 
elements 
of style 
in 
the 
book 
(it 
purports 
to 
be 
an eighteenth 
century 
text; 
but is 
not so 
heavily 
marked, 
for 
instance 
lexically, 
as a 
pastiche 
would 
be), 
we 
can 
still 
observe 
that 
the 
story 
has 
many 
features 
which 
we 
could 
relate 
to 
Fielding 
or 
Smollett 
or 
early 
Dickens. The 
sub- 
title 
itself 
is 
'Memoirs 
of 
the 
Adventures 
of 
David 
Balfour', 
- 
110 
- 
and 
the 
title 
page goes on 
to 
list 
these: 
'How 
he 
was 
kid- 
napped 
... 
his 
sufferings 
... 
his 
acquaintance with 
... 
' 
etc. 
It 
all 
suggests a 
tale 
which will 
be 
episodic 
(note 
the 
plural, 
'adventures'), 
a succession of 
discrete 
encounters. 
The 
plot 
is 
put 
together 
like 
a necklace, one 
pearl after 
another. 
It 
is 
not 
like 
the 
well-wrought, 
involuted 
brooch 
which we 
expect 
from 
the 
mainstream 
nineteenth-century 
novel; where 
we 
usually 
also 
demand 
to 
find 
great 
import 
in 
the 
sequence 
of 
action, 
instead 
of 
seriality, 
and 
the 
attribution 
of value 
to 
scenes 
and 
ob- 
jects, 
instead 
of 
their 
use 
as 
stage properties. 
John 
Barth 
says 
something 
which, 
if 
it is 
not 
the 
whole 
truth 
about 
eighteenth 
century 
picaresque 
fiction, 
is 
nevertheless 
illuminating, 
when 
he 
writes 
that 
'Roderick 
Random 
is 
par 
excellence 
a novel 
of 
non-significant 
surfaces' 
1 
So 
we 
have 
two 
factors, 
the 
valueless 
surface and 
the 
serial plot, 
which 
we might 
expect 
to 
find 
in 
a 
recreation 
of 
the 
picaresque novel. 
Certainly 
the 
composition 
of 
Kidnapped 
shows 
signs of 
its 
rather 
haphazard 
conception. 
This 
point 
was 
conceded 
by 
Steven- 
son 
to 
Theodore 
Watts-Dunton: 
What 
you 
say 
of 
the two 
parts 
in 
Kidnapped 
was 
felt by 
no 
one 
more 
painfully 
than 
by 
myself. 
I 
began 
it 
partly 
as 
a 
lark, 
partly 
as 
a pot-boiler; 
and 
suddenly 
it 
moved, 
David 
and 
Alan 
stepped 
out 
from 
the 
canvas, 
and 
I found 
I 
was 
in 
another 
world. 
But 
there 
was 
the 
cursed 
beginning, 
and 
a 
cursed 
end 
must 
be 
appended 
... 
So 
it 
had 
to 
go 
into 
the 
world, 
one 
part 
... 
alive, 
one 
part 
merely 
galvanised. 
12 
(Watts-Dunton 
had 
remarked 
that 
the 
parts 
dealing 
with 
David's 
inheritance 
and 
Ebenezer 
really 
had 
nothing 
to 
do 
with 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
story). 
We 
need 
not 
here 
go 
into 
the 
state 
of 
Stevenson's 
health 
or 
his 
bank 
balance, 
both in 
bad 
shape 
and, 
in 
the 
writer's 
eyes, 
dictating 
that 
Kidnapped 
had 
to 
be 
guillotined 
and 
published 
- 
111 
- 
in 
mid-course. 
However, 
it 
is 
clear 
enough 
that 
the 
episodic 
structure 
of 
Kidnapped 
allowed 
him 
to 
do 
that 
without 
damaging 
the 
novel 
as a 
whole. 
Now, 
this 
seriality 
which 
Kidnapped 
di-s- 
plays 
is, 
artistically 
speaking, 
neither 
a 
vice nor 
a virtue, 
even 
for 
a contemporary 
of 
Henry 
James. 
It 
merely suggests 
to 
us 
that 
in 
this 
fiction 
plot 
is 
subordinated 
to 
some 
other 
form 
of 
organisation 
- 
such 
as 
myth, 
for 
example. 
But 
that 
'cursed 
end' 
is 
a problem. 
It 
is 
a 
failure 
of 
thought 
as much 
as 
craftmanship 
because 
its 
contrived 
nature 
results 
from 
a need 
to 
bring 
the 
novel 
to 
a 
close 
with 
David 
reconciled 
to 
his 
essen- 
tially 
benign 
fate, 
a 
tying 
up 
of one 
of 
the 
strands 
of narrat- 
ive 
which 
was 
by 
no 
means 
incumbent 
on 
the 
author. 
This 
is 
a 
failure 
which 
is 
found 
in 
other 
Stevenson 
stories. 
For 
example, 
in 
The 
Misadventures 
of 
John 
Nicholson 
(1887) 
the 
'hero' 
is 
outlawed 
and 
banished 
from 
the 
family 
home, 
and 
eventually 
trapped 
into 
a ppearing 
to 
be 
a 
murderer. 
The 
end- 
ing 
however, 
finds 
him 
accepted 
back 
into 
the 
bosom 
of 
his 
family, 
and 
then 
all 
his 
other problems 
disappear 
simultaneous- 
ly. The 
ending 
is 
totally 
out 
of 
harmony 
with 
the 
very convinc- 
ing impression 
of 
John's 
insurmountable 
outsidership, given 
to 
the 
reader 
in 
the 
middle 
section of 
the 
story. 
This 
is 
a 
failure 
in 
thought 
as well 
as 
in 
art, 
because 
Stevenson has 
not really 
fixed 
and 
worked 
through 
in 
his 
mind 
the 
relationship 
of 
the 
asocial 
tendency 
of 
the 
individual 
to the 
social and 
domestic 
one. 
We know 
that 
on 
this 
question, 
he 
was ambivalent, 
saying 
on 
one occasion: 
I 
defend 
civilisation 
for 
the 
thing 
it is, 
for 
the 
thing 
it 
has 
come 
to 
be, 
the 
standpoint 
of 
a 
real 
old 
Tory. 
'3 
and 
on 
another: 
This 
civilisation 
of ours 
is 
a 
dingy, 
ungentleman- 
ly 
business; 
it 
drops 
out 
too 
much of 
man. 
l" 
- 
112 
- 
The 
ambivalence 
is 
quite 
just 
and 
is 
not 
to 
be 
held 
responsible 
for 
the 
lamentably 
automatic 
'happy 
ending' 
to 
John Nicholson. 
The 
latter 
fails 
to 
answer 
our 
sense 
of 
the 
knottiness 
of 
the 
conflict 
that 
it 
has 
set 
up 
so 
well: 
the 
feeling, 
central 
to 
all 
good 
literature, 
that 
a 
character 
cannot 
just 
clamber 
out 
of 
the 
fate 
inherent 
in 
every 
story 
as 
one 
would out of 
a river 
onto 
dry land. 
At 
the 
end 
of 
Ebb-Tide, 
Stevenson 
solved 
the 
problem 
by 
leaving 
Herrick 
in 
limbo, 
again 
aloof 
from 
what 
is 
before 
him, 
but 
with 
both 
his 
exile 
and 
his 
memories 
of 
dom- 
esticity 
persisting, 
his 
ambiguity 
in 
this 
respect 
preserved. 
I 
make 
this 
digression 
to 
elucidate 
the 
fact 
that the 
problem 
of 
cursed 
ends 
is 
not 
confined 
to 
one 
book 
- 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae 
provides 
another 
example 
of a 
much-criticised 
de- 
nouement 
- 
but 
is 
a 
'Stevensonian' 
difficulty. 
The 
ending 
of 
Kidnapped 
is 
cursed 
because 
Stevenson 
was, again, unsure of 
David's 
relationship 
to 
domesticity 
and 
social 
position. 
As 
a 
result, 
at 
the 
end 
of 
Kidnapped 
David 
is 
both 
an outlaw 
and 
a 
potentially 
well-off 
bourgeois. Stevenson 
has 
failed 
to 
integ- 
rate 
the 
abduction 
narrative 
with 
the 
part 
of 
the 
story 
centred round 
the 
murder of 
Colin 
Campbell. 
(It 
thus 
resembles 
John Nicholson 
where a murder 
dilemma 
is 
surrounded 
by 
a 
separate 
narrative of 
a prodigal 
son). 
I 
think 
it 
is 
evident 
that, 
given what we 
have been 
calling 
the 
episodic 
structure 
of 
Kidnapped, 
Stevenson 
had 
to 
guard against an abrupt and 
contrived ending. 
He 
did 
not 
do 
this 
adequately. 
The 
novel's 
composition 
as a 
succession of events 
is 
not, 
as 
I have 
pre- 
viously 
indicated. 
alone 
responsible 
for 
the 
fla 
, 
red end. 
The 
other 
aspect 
of 
eighteenth 
century 
picaresque 
which 
we 
have 
identified 
as 
being descriptively 
decisive 
is 
the 
present- 
ation 
of 
nature 
generally 
as a 
valueless surface. 
Stevenson 
him- 
self 
thought 
that 
Defoe's Robinson 
Crusoe 
exhibited 
something 
of 
this 
perspective: 
Crusoe 
was 
one 
sole 
centre 
of 
interest 
in 
the 
midst 
- 
113 
- 
of 
a 
nature 
dead 
and utterly 
unrealised 
by 
the 
artist. 
15 
Indubitably 
Stevenson 
is 
again 
thinking 
of 
the 
unenvironed 
appetite 
that 
he 
observed 
in 
the 
characters 
of 
Fielding. 
In 
the 
article 
on 
Hugo 
from 
which 
the 
above 
comes, 
he 
argues 
that 
Romanticism 
became 
concerned, 
through 
the 
novel, with 
actual- 
ising 
the 
hitherto 
abstract 
depiction 
of 
men's 
relationships 
to 
each 
other 
and 
to 
nature. 
Stevenson 
never 
treated 
nature 
neu- 
trally. 
Take, 
as 
just 
one example, 
the 
point 
where 
David 
and 
Alan's 
flight 
is 
almost 
at 
an end and 
they 
look 
over 
from 
one 
side of 
the 
Firth 
of 
Forth 
to the 
other; 
they 
are 
in 
Limekilns, 
which 
sits 
near 
in 
by 
the 
waterside, 
and 
. 
looks 
across 
the 
Hope 
to the 
town 
of 
Queensferry. 
Smoke 
went 
up 
from 
both 
of 
these, 
and 
from 
other. villages and 
farms 
upon all 
hands. 
The fields 
were 
being 
reaped; 
two 
ships 
lay 
anchored 
and ships were com- 
ing 
and 
going on 
the 
Hope. It 
was altogether 
a 
right 
pleasant 
sight 
to 
me; 
and 
I 
could 
not 
take 
my 
fill 
of gazing 
at 
these 
comfortable, 
green, 
cultivated 
hills 
and 
the 
busy 
people 
both 
of 
the 
field 
and 
sea. 
1s 
This 
is 
a 
very straightforward 
piece 
of writing; 
but 
it 
is 
evocative, 
leads 
us 
to 
look behind 
it. 
We 
have 
communities 
here; 
we 
get 
from 
the 
description 
an 
impression 
of activity 
('The 
fields 
were 
being 
reaped', 
'the 
boats 
come and 
go') 
; 
David's 
three 
adjectives 
- 
comfortable, 
green, cultivated 
- 
form 
a 
set 
of 
antitheses 
to the 
Highlands 
they 
have 
just 
come 
through. 
In 
fact, David 
is 
also 
describing 
himself; 
he 
is 
identifying 
himself, 
in 
sensuous 
rather 
than 
factual 
terms 
as 
a 
Lowlander, 
as 
a 
man 
who 
feels 
at 
home 
in 
a 
world 
of 
busi- 
ness, of 
the 
careful 
discipline 
of 
people's 
time, 
of 
economy 
(the 
farm), 
of 
trading 
(the 
ships). 
The hills 
are 
'comfortable' 
, 
an adjective which 
evokes 
a 
memory 
of 
and 
relation 
to 
them. 
It 
is 
a scene 
where 
the 
author 
is 
aware 
of 
the 
symbolic 
weight 
of 
the 
details; 
a weight 
gathered 
not 
just 
from 
David's 
apprec- 
- 
114 
- 
Tation 
but 
as 
much 
from 
an 
unstated contrast 
with 
the 
bare, 
uncultivated 
and 
unproductive 
territory 
of 
the 
Highlands. 
Each 
area 
is 
home 
to 
one of 
the 
two 
characters and 
says 
something 
about 
their 
respective 
consciousnesses. 
The 
precision 
of 
this 
recognition 
is 
aided 
by 
the 
author's 
focusing 
upon 
the 
new 
territory 
in 
this 
scene, 
by his 
narrative 
economy; 
for, Alan 
has 
already 
noted 
that 
David 
is 
now 
in 
his 
own 
land 
(after 
they 
pass 
Stirling), 
and 
Stevenson 
has foregone 
earlier possibil- 
ities in 
order 
to 
gather 
its, 
admittedly 
minor, 
significance 
into 
the 
one picture, 
which acts as 
bridge 
into 
the 
social 
world 
of 
Edinburgh. 
These 
narrative activities 
are not peculiar- 
ly Stevensonian. 
However, 
they 
do distinguish 
his 
procedures 
from 
the 
eighteenth 
century 
tag 
which 
has 
often 
been 
loosely 
attached 
to 
them. 
Kidnapped 
is 
dominated by 
one 
consciousness; 
psychologically 
active, evaluating 
and ordering, 
it 
puts actions 
and 
objects 
into 
perspective. 
This 
perspective 
on 
the 
action, 
the 
construct- 
ion 
of a 
persona 
for 
the 
teller, 
severely 
limits 
any 
relation- 
ship 
to 
epic 
which we 
might want 
to 
see 
in 
Kidnapped. Perhaps 
in 
Alan 
Breck 
we 
find 
that 
identity 
of self and action 
which 
is 
one 
of 
the 
most 
distinctive 
characteristics of 
the 
heroes 
of 
the 
Iliad 
and 
the 
Odyssey. This 
is 
what 
Lukacs 
calls, 
in 
Hegel- 
ian 
terms 
'directness 
of 
social 
life,. 
its 
public 
spontaneity'. 
i' 
Alan 
is 
a warrior 
and a 
member 
of a 
clan; 
his 
name and reput- 
ation are 
the 
foundations 
of 
his 
personality, as 
is 
neatly 
con- 
veyed 
through 
his 
discomfort 
at 
having 
to 
adopt an 
alias 
be- 
fore 
Rankeillor 
and, earlier, 
in 
his 
immediate impulse 
to 
com- 
pose a song 
to 
commemorate 
the 
battle 
in 
the 
Roundhouse. 
Alan's 
piping 
contest with 
Robin 
Oig Mcgregor 
(the 
son 
of 
Rob 
Roy) 
is 
a ritual 
confrontation 
which 
does 
justice 
to the 
legend- 
ary 
status of 
both 
of 
them. 
However, 
Alan's 
epic 
largeness 
is 
limited. 
It 
is 
limited 
by 
history, 
which 
is 
quickly making 
him 
a 
fish 
out 
of water. 
His 
virtues 
of 
bravery 
and swordmanship 
belong 
to 
an epoch 
which 
- 
115 
- 
is 
clearly 
coming 
to 
an 
end, 
and 
his 
eventual exile 
represents 
the 
extinction 
of a united 
brutality 
and 
chivalry 
that 
were 
never 
to 
be 
joined 
again. 
What 
takes 
its 
place 
is 
law 
- 
which 
insists 
on abstract 
and 
ideal 
loyalties, 
as 
opposed 
to 
those 
of 
the 
clan. 
His 
system 
of 
honour, 
while 
Stevenson 
hoped 
that 
it 
could 
be 
partially 
recaptured, 
exists 
only 
as 
a 
human 
possibil- 
ity 
and not 
as a 
social reality. 
(It 
is 
pertinent 
to 
record 
that 
Alan 
effectively 
disappears 
from Catriona, 
which 
creates 
a 
world 
in 
which 
he 
would 
be 
out 
of place). 
The 
failure 
of 
Jacob- 
itism 
does 
not 
demean 
Alan 
existentially, 
but 
distinguishes 
his 
existential 
weight 
from 
its 
historical background; 
the 
Stewart 
cause 
in 
Catriona 
is 
prosecuted 
by lawyers 
who 
are 
as place 
seeking and as 
bourgeois 
as 
their 
Whig 
counterparts. 
Alan's heroic 
profile 
is 
circumscribed 
by 
David Balfour's 
more 
downbeat, Whiggish 
view of 
his 
character 
and 
deeds, 
as 
the 
irony in 
this 
well-known 
description 
shows: 
For his 
faults, 
they 
were on 
his 
face, 
and 
I knew 
them 
all. 
But 
the 
worst 
of 
them, 
his 
childish prop- 
ensity 
to 
take 
offence 
and 
to 
pick quarrels, 
he 
greatly 
laid 
aside 
in 
my 
case, out 
of 
regard 
for 
the 
battle 
in 
the 
roundhouse. 
But 
whether 
it 
was 
because 
I 
had 
done 
well myself, 
or 
because I had 
been 
a witness 
of 
his 
own 
much greater 
prowess, 
is 
more 
than 
I 
can 
tell. 
For 
though 
he had 
a 
great 
taste 
for 
courage 
in 
other men, yet 
he 
ad- 
mired 
it 
most 
in 
Alan 
Breck. 
l 
What Stevenson 
valued 
in 
the 
Breck 
persona 
was 
a spontaneity 
and clarity 
of gesture 
that 
the 
plastic 
power 
of 
literature 
was 
well 
placed 
to 
realise 
memorably. 
It 
is 
this 
literary 
capability 
for 
the 
irreducible image 
that 
Stevenson 
called 
' 
epical' 
.1 
David 
is 
presented 
to 
us 
at 
first 
as 
innocent 
and 
immature 
orphan who 
has 
never 
been 
outside 
his 
village of 
Essendean 
before 
his 
adventures 
begin; 
and 
his 
subsequent adventures 
form 
his 
worldly 
education. 
However, 
in 
Kidnapped 
these 
are 
confined 
to 
a certain 
area of experience, 
largely 
to 
his 
encount- 
- 
116 
- 
ers 
with 
various 
sorts of 
lawlessness 
and wickedness. 
David's 
ill-treatment 
at 
the 
hands 
of 
his 
uncle 
is 
the 
first 
of 
these 
confrontations 
and 
is 
a 
fairly 
straightforward one 
because 
he 
retains 
his 
self-assured 
righteousness, 
looking down 
on 
Uncle 
Ebenezer 
from 
what 
he 
calls 
'the heights 
of my sufficiency' 
.20 
Far 
more 
interesting, 
because 
relevant 
to 
his 
relationship 
with 
Alan, 
is 
David's 
experience 
with 
the 
sailors. 
His 
primary reac- 
tion 
had been 
to 
draw 
back 
in 
disgust 
to 
the 
heights 
of 
his 
sufficiency. 
However, 
after 
he 
has been 
on 
the 
ship 
for 
some 
time, 
in 
close 
contact 
with 
his 
abductors, 
he develops 
a 
more 
ambivalent and 
tolerant 
attitude 
towards 
them: 
Yet I had 
not 
been 
many 
days 
shut up with 
them 
before 
I began 
to 
be 
ashamed 
of my 
first 
judge- 
ment, 
when 
I had drawn 
away 
from 
them 
at 
the 
Ferry 
pier, as 
though they 
had 
been 
unclean 
beasts. 
No 
class 
of man 
is 
altogether 
bad; but 
each 
has 
its 
own 
faults 
and virtues; and 
these 
shipmates of 
mine 
were 
no 
exception 
to 
the 
rule. 
Rough 
they 
were, sure enough; and 
bad, 
I 
supp- 
ose; 
but 
they 
had 
many virtues. 
They 
were 
kind 
when 
it 
occurred 
to them, 
simple 
even 
beyond 
the 
simplicity 
of a country 
lad 
like 
me, and 
had 
some 
glimmerings 
of 
honesty. 
Z 
David 
here fits his 
experience 
into 
a previously 
formed 
per- 
cept. 
But he 
does 
become 
aware, 
though 
not 
in 
any 
intense 
way, 
that 
judgements 
are not resolveable 
into 
black 
and white. 
There 
is 
now 
on 
his 
part 
an attempt 
to 
understand 
wider poles 
of experience, an effort we 
saw 
Stevenson 
himself 
make on 
the 
emigrant 
train 
to 
America. 
This 
is 
further 
emphasised 
in 
the 
affair 
of 
the 
murder of 
the 
cabin 
boy Ransome 
by 
Shuan. 
Ransome 
is 
potentially one of 
the 
most 
fascinating 
figures in 
Kidnapped; Conrad, 
perhaps, 
could 
have 
developed 
this 
half-animal 
boy 
further 
than 
Stevenson, 
who 
disfigures 
his 
chilling 
remoteness 
from 
the 
ordinary 
by 
a 
Victorian 
pathos 
that 
diminishes 
his 
sinister 
qualities. 
Ransome 
- 
117 
- 
echoes 
David 
in 
that 
he 
is 
also 
an 
orphan. 
The 
doubleness 
is 
an 
undeveloped 
one, 
as 
it 
often 
is 
in 
Kidnapped 
because 
of 
David's 
moral 
superiority; 
doubleness 
expresses 
between 
charact- 
ers what 
is 
also 
going 
on within an 
individual 
personality. 
He 
is 
cut 
off 
from 
a 
previous 
domestic 
existence 
and 
is, 
as 
it 
were, 
locked 
into 
squalor 
and 
hardship 
so 
that 
he has 
diffi- 
culty 
imagining 
any 
other sort 
of 
life: 'He 
could 
remember 
noth- 
ing 
of 
the 
time 
before 
he 
came 
to 
sea. 
' But 
he 
does 
carry 
dim 
images 
of 
innocence 
and 
d 
omesticity 
from before 
his 
involuntary 
corruption; 
he 
remembers 
'a 
starling 
in 
the 
parlour, which 
could 
whistle 
'The 
North 
Countrie'. ' 
Like 
some young 
Calibarr 
'he had 
a 
strange 
notion 
of 
the 
dry land' 
as 
a sort of 
hell. 
2 z 
The 
autism 
of 
this 
'creatu 
re, 
to 
whom 
civil society 
and. 
ethical 
considerations 
of 
the 
kind 
that 
bother 
David 
are outlandish, 
brings 
home 
to the 
hero his 
transition to 
a 
world 
where 
the 
safety 
nets of civil society are absent. 
This 
is 
most 
horrifyingly done 
when 
Mr 
Shuan 
drunkenly 
tries 
to 
explain why 
he killed 
the 
boy 
'Well... he brought 
me 
a 
dirty 
pannikin 
! i2 
3 
The 
casual violence 
that this 
so economically suggests 
is 
David's 
first 
encounter 
with 
irrational 
brutality; 
and we 
there- 
fore 
recognise a 
suppleness 
in 
his 
comment: 
You 
may 
think 
it 
strange, 
but 
for 
all 
the 
horror 
I had, 
I 
was 
still sorry 
for 
him. 
2 4 
David 
now reaches 
a 
new stage of 
his 
initiation 
into 
an 
al- 
together 
more 
perilous 
exi stence 
than 
he has 
known hitherto. 
He 
could 
capably 
fend 
off 
his 
uncle; 
but 
to 
defeat 
the 
sailors, 
he 
needs other 
life 
skills 
- 
not 
only 
a sword arm, 
but 
a 
wholly 
different 
kind 
of personality. 
And 
this 
personality 
appears 
in 
Alan 
Br_ 
eck who, 
significantly, 
is 
both 
the 
cause 
of 
danger 
to 
David 
and 
the 
solution 
to 
it. 
This 
simultaneity 
is 
118 
interesting 
because 
it 
illustrates 
how 
the 
stages 
of 
the 
story 
do 
not 
arise 
consequentially 
out 
of what 
went 
before, 
but 
are 
added 
on 
to the 
earlier 
narrative. 
Alan's 
arrival 
on 
the 
scene 
brings 
a new 
complexity 
to 
David's 
dealings 
with 
lawlessness; 
because 
this 
friendship 
with 
one 
who 
represents 
what 
he 
had 
hitherto 
looked 
upon 
as 
beyond 
the 
pale, 
forces 
him 
to 
recognise 
his 
own 
incompleteness 
and 
pro- 
vinciality. 
Alan 
Breck 
complements 
David 
and 
is 
his 
shadow. 
Thus, 
any 
wholeness 
to 
which 
David 
may aspire 
will 
be 
based 
on 
his 
acceptance 
not 
only 
of 
the 
specific 
Highlander, 
but 
of 
what we 
might call 
Breckism: 
a 
bundle 
of qualities 
associated 
with unselfconsciousness, 
wilfulness, 
chivalry 
and violence. 
David 
Balfour 
must 
learn 
to 
value 
these 
modes 
of existence, 
albeit 
that they 
constitute 
much 
of what 
his 
own 
ego rejects 
and 
represses. 
Indeed 
we 
can 
observe 
here 
a recurrence 
of 
that 
old 
distinction 
of 
witnessed 
and 
unwitnessed, 
in 
as 
much 
as 
it 
is 
through 
Alan 
that 
David 
becomes 
aware 
that 
how he 
would 
like 
to 
be 
seen 
by 
others 
does 
not 
form 
the 
absolute 
limit 
to 
morality, 
that 
his 
witnessed existence 
(the 
presentational 
ego) 
is 
a 
provincial 
and partial 
one. 
Thus 
it is 
appropriate 
that 
David 
should 
feel 
some of 
the 
force 
of 
Captain Hoseason's 
re- 
buke 
when 
he decides 
to 
stand with 
Alan 
in 
the 
round-house: 
he has had 
to 
choose 
the 
lesser 
evil, which 
is 
another 
way of 
saying 
that 
he has had 
to 
adopt an unsatisfactory 
image 
of 
himself. 
The fight 
in 
the 
round-house 
is 
an 
initiation 
into 
purely 
mater- 
ial 
conflict; 
for, he 
kills 
for 
the 
first 
time, 
in 
a situation 
which 
will 
not admit 
of moral qualms 
that 
would 
get 
in 
the 
way 
of 
action and 
inhibit 
his 
chances 
of 
survival. 
(The 
fight, 
it 
should 
be 
noted, 
is 
very 
brutal 
and 
bloody 
indeed. 
) 
In 
the 
scene of 
the 
battle in 
the 
round-house, 
Stevenson' 
s 
style 
eschews 
the 
adjectival 
and concentrates on 
the transitive 
verb 
and 
on 
straightforward 
description 
of 
the 
action, 
uncluttered 
by 
reflection 
on 
the 
part of 
the 
narrator 
David 
or 
the 
- 
119 
- 
protagonist 
David. 
2 
5 
When 
the 
battle 
is 
over, 
David's habitual 
conscience 
is 
reawak- 
ened 
and 
'the 
thought 
of 
the two 
men 
I had 
shot 
sat 
upon 
me 
like 
nightmare'. 
6 
And 
the 
simile 
there 
is 
apposite, 
if 
a night- 
mare 
is 
what 
threatens 
out picture 
of 
ourselves. 
David 
has 
had 
to 
reach 
a 
compromise 
with what 
he 
is 
not as 
it 
is 
represented 
by Alan 
Breck; 
for, Alan 
is 
not 
just 
a character, 
but 
also 
a 
set 
of circumstances 
which 
face 
David 
with an unexpected 
sit- 
uation 
in 
which 
he 
must act. 
The dualism 
makes sense 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
claim 
that 
romance 
should 
'satisfy 
the 
nameless 
longings 
of 
the 
reader, 
and... 
obey 
the 
ideal 
laws 
of 
the 
day-dream. ' 
27 
The 
romance, 
in 
this 
case 
the 
adventure, 
achieves 
an 
integrity, 
a 
reconciliation 
of 
apparently 
incompatible 
ways of experiencing 
life; 
and 
this 
integration 
offers a 
temporary 
transcendence 
of 
the 
provincial- 
ity 
which 
living 
itself imposes 
on 
us. 
It 
might 
be 
noted 
at 
this 
stage 
that 
romance 
tales 
commonly 
involve 
pairs of charact- 
ers: 
Don 
Quixote 
and 
Sancho 
Panza; Holmes 
and 
Watson; 
Linton 
and 
Heathcliff; 
the 
Lone 
Ranger 
and 
Tonto. 
The 
companion 
can 
have 
various 
functions; but, 
generally 
he fills 
out and 
extends 
the 
personality of 
the 
hero. 
The 
effect 
is 
that the 
completion 
is 
dependent 
on 
the 
separateness. 
In 
Kidnapped 
also, 
we 
find 
that this 
is 
so 
and 
that 
neither, 
therefore, 
is 
changed 
by 
the 
other. 
The 
interaction 
of 
David 
and 
Alan has 
another effect 
that 
is 
dear 
to 
modern 
adventure 
fiction 
as a whole; 
it 
promotes 
an 
awareness 
of 
the 
relativity 
of ethics. 
For 
example, 
Rider 
Haggard' 
s 
exotic 
adventures questioned 
superficial, 
and 
there- 
fore 
provincial, notions of virtue. 
In King 
Solomon's 
Mines 
(1885), 
Allan 
Quartermain 
writes: 
What is 
a 
gentleman? 
I don't 
quite 
know, 
and 
yet 
I 
have 
had 
to 
do 
with niggers 
- 
no, 
I'll 
scratch 
- 
120 
- 
that 
word 
'niggers' 
out, 
for 
I don't like it. 
I've 
known 
natives 
who 
are 
... 
and 
I 
have known 
mean 
whites 
with 
lots 
of money 
and 
fresh 
out 
from 
home, 
too, 
who ain't. 
28 
And 
again 
in 
She 
his 
narrator 
echoes 
a 
relativist 
sentiment 
which 
we 
have 
come across 
in 
Stevenson' 
s essays: 
It 
is 
very 
curious 
to 
observe 
how 
the 
customs 
of 
mankind 
on 
this 
question 
vary 
in 
different 
coun- 
tries, 
making 
morality an 
affair of 
latitude 
and 
religion, 
and what 
is 
right 
in 
one place wrong 
and 
improper in 
another. 
2 
9 
This 
kind 
of 
relativism questions, 
in 
effect, 
the 
dynamic 
basis 
of 
imperialism. 
Empire 
expresses 
itself, 
morally, 
in 
the 
notion 
of a centre 
of 
virtue and 
law 
which 
can 
justify 
its 
colonialism 
in 
terms 
of 
bringing 
enlightenment 
to 
peripheral 
areas of 
law- 
lessness. 
Now, 
the 
imperial idea 
was 
also metaphorically 
com- 
petent 
to 
externalise, 
in 
space, 
in 
action, 
internal 
divisions 
V 
of 
the 
self. 
Stevenson' 
s response 
to 
the 
imperial 
temper 
was 
always quizzical 
because he 
was 
sceptical about 
the 
concept 
of a central 
virtue. 
Stevenson's distrust 
of 
Judaic 
exclusiveness 
began 
with 
observation of 
the 
psychology of 
his 
own country. 
Lowland 
and 
Highland 
represented 
a quarrel 
between Order 
and 
Adventure 
which 
was 
an 
inner 
conflict 
and not merely an 
historical 
one. 
Stevenson 
was 
later 
to 
explore 
the 
correlation 
between 
empire 
and psyche 
in 
Ebb-Tide 
and 
The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa. 
In 
Kid- 
napped 
we 
can 
see 
the 
partial 
emergence, 
in 
the 
Highland/Low- 
land distinction, 
of 
a colonial 
situation 
capable of 
acting 
as 
a 
realisation 
of multiple 
moral 
and psychological 
values. 
In 
Kidnapped integrity 
is 
measured 
by 
competence 
in 
valuing 
both 
Highland 
and 
Lowland 
cultures; so 
that 
Mr 
Henderland 
is 
seen 
as 
wholesome 
when 
he 
balances his 
judgement 
of 
Alan 
Breck's 
'bold, 
desperate' 
character 
and 
of 
the 
Stewart's 
resistance 
to 
the 
forfeitures: 
/ 
- 
121 
- 
There's 
love 
too, 
and 
self-denial 
that 
should 
put 
the 
like 
of 
you 
and 
me 
to 
shame. 
There's 
some- 
thing 
fine 
about 
it; 
no 
perhaps 
Christian, 
but 
humanly 
fine. 
Even 
Alan 
Breck, 
by 
all 
that 
I 
hear, 
is 
a 
chield 
to 
be 
respected. 
There's 
many 
a 
lying 
sneck-draw 
sits 
close 
in 
the 
kirk 
in 
our 
own 
part 
of 
the 
country, 
and 
stands 
well 
in 
the 
world's 
eye, 
and 
maybe 
is 
a 
far 
worse man, 
Mr 
Balfour, 
than 
you 
misguided 
shedder 
of 
man's 
blood. 
Ay, 
ay, 
we 
might 
take 
a 
lesson 
by 
them. 
30 
There 
is 
an 
association 
of 
a superficial 
virtue 
founded 
upon 
witness 
- 
'in 
the 
world's 
eye' 
- 
with 
'our 
own 
part 
of 
the 
country'. 
There 
is 
an 
implied 
comparison 
with a 
more 
spontan- 
eous 
life 
to 
be 
found 
in 
the 
more 
'primitive' 
society 
north 
of 
the 
Highland 
line. 
It 
is 
even 
suggested 
that 
Alan 
Breck 
is 
closer 
to 
the 
natural 
world 
than 
any 
Low 
Countryman 
could 
be, 
because 
of 
his 
ability 
to 
live 
off and 
find 
refuge 
in 
what 
to 
David 
appears 
an 
inhospitable 
wilderness. 
Other 
Highlanders 
have 
similar skills. 
Cluny 
MacPherson's 
men 
come on 
David 
and 
Alan 
out of 
the 
heather 
with 
the 
stealth 
of one of 
J. F. 
Cooper's 
Red 
Indians. 
It 
will 
be 
remembered 
that 
Stevenson 
wrote 
Kidnapped 
after 
he 
had 
been 
to 
America, 
after 
he had 
travelled 
right 
across 
the 
continent, 
heard 
about 
the 
aboriginal 
Americans, 
and 
himself 
made 
a 
serious 
attempt 
to 
write a 
Western, 
never completed, 
called 
Vendetta 
in 
the 
West. 
31 
The 
importance 
of 
the 
Western 
frontier 
to the 
development 
of 
American 
consciousness 
has been 
stated 
by Frederick 
Jackson 
Turner 
in 
his 'The 
Significance 
of 
the 
Frontier 
in 
American 
History' 
(1893). 
Turner 
makes 
one point of 
interest 
to 
us: 
that the 
frontier 
was 
'the 
meeting 
point 
between 
savagery 
and 
civilisation' 
.32 
As 
the 
frontier 
was 
pushed ever 
westward, 
he 
argues, 
Americans 
were 
renewed 
by 
contact with 
the 
primitive 
and with 
the 
spontaneity 
to 
be found 
in 
earlier, 
less 
complex 
forms 
of 
social 
organisation. 
While 
the 
parallel 
is 
not 
exact 
in 
all 
particulars, 
one 
can 
see 
how 
the 
idea 
of 
the 
frontier 
might 
- 
122 
- 
have 
influenced 
Stevenson' 
s 
partially 
symbolic 
treatment 
of 
the 
Highland/Lowland 
divide 
in Kidnapped. 
In 
the 
scene 
in 
Cluny' 
s 
cave 
David 
witnesses 
older 
forms 
of 
loyalty, 
among 
them 
a 
fugitive 
warrior 
culture, 
which 
is 
on 
the 
point of 
extinction. 
(Later, 
Stevenson 
was 
to 
compare, 
in 
In 
Je 
South 
Seas, 
the 
kinship 
system 
of 
the 
Polynesians 
with 
the 
clan 
system 
of 
Cel- 
tic 
Scotland. 
His 
primitivism 
was always 
highly 
qualified, 
never 
so 
desperate 
or 
vital 
as 
that 
of 
Lawrence 
or 
Melville; 
but 
his 
respect 
for 
the 
'lesser 
breeds 
beyond 
the 
Law' 
was 
per- 
sistent 
and 
authentic 
33) 
The 
Highland 
line 
divides 
a 
soon 
to 
be 
dominant 
society, 
whose 
values 
are 
dependent 
on 
law 
and 
ab- 
stract 
moral 
categories, 
from 
one 
whose virtues 
and 
vices 
are 
'bred 
in 
the 
bone' 
34 
This 
is 
the 
nearest 
that 
Kidnapped 
comes 
to 
being 
a' 
national 
epic': 
35 
that 
is, 
in its 
apparent 
identific- 
ation 
of 
a peculiarly 
Scottish 
dissociation 
of sensibility, con- 
sisting 
of 
a 
breaking-off 
of moral 
categories 
from 
experience, 
a 
lack 
of 
intercourse between 
moral self-discipline and 
spont- 
aneous 
action. 
The division 
is 
de-historicised 
in 
Jekyll 
- 
persistent 
instincts 
co-exist 
in 
the 
Doctor 
with moral 
self-disci- 
pline. 
(J. 
G. 
Lockhart, 
in 
his 
Adam 
Blair 
and 
James Hogg, 
in 
his Confessions, 
are 
both 
perceptive on 
this 
aspect of 
Scottish 
character. 
36) 
David's 
conscientiousness and 
Alan's 
gay 
ferocity 
individualise 
these 
respective 
tendencies. 
The 
companionship 
of 
Alan 
and 
David 
points 
to 
a possible resolution 
of 
the 
conflict 
in 
a surrender of 
the 
motivation 
to 
universalise any 
given 
moral 
framework. David 
says admiringly of 
his friend: 
Alan's 
morals 
were 
all 
tail-first; 
but 
he 
was 
ready3 
7 
to 
give 
his 
life for 
them, 
such 
as 
they 
were. 
And 
later, 
Alan 
observes: 
I 
have 
often 
observed 
... 
that 
you 
Low-country 
- 
123 
- 
bodies 
have 
no 
clear 
idea 
of 
what's right 
and 
wrong. 
38 
We 
notice 
here 
that the 
Whig/Tory 
alternatives 
are not 
mistaken 
for 
moral 
ones. 
From 
the 
perspective 
of 
the 
narrator, 
David 
and 
Alan's 
separate outlooks 
and 
purposes are 
less important 
than 
their 
honourable 
commitment 
to these 
outlooks 
and 
pur- 
poses. 
This honour 
is 
a 
given 
factor. In 
his 
frequent 
moral 
stock 
takings 
David 
is 
analytically 
moral; 
the 
definitive 
and 
larger 
moral 
issues 
are 
not 
at 
stake. 
That 
is 
to 
say, 
he 
is 
concerned 
to 
act 
in 
accord 
with 
his honour 
and 
not 
with 
whether 
that 
honour 
is 
worth 
anything 
in 
itself. 
But 
we 
cannot 
assert 
much 
more 
about 
this 
until we 
have looked 
again 
at 
the 
character, 
David. 
After 
the 
murder 
of 
Colin Campbell, 
Alan 
suggests 
flight, 
a 
course 
of action 
which 
David 
opposes: 
.' 
Oh 
!' 
says 
I, 
willing 
to 
give 
him 
a 
little lesson, 
'I h&ve 
no 
fear 
of 
the 
justice 
of my own coun- 
try. 
'39 
His 
naivety 
is 
doused by his 
rebel 
friend: 'as 
if 
this 
was 
your country! 
'4o However 
much 
the 
above, and similar 
lessons 
given 
to 
David, 
may 
resemble a romance version of 
the 
novel 
of sentimental education, 
the 
comparison would 
be 
of 
little 
value. 
(In 
Catriona 
the 
initiation 
pattern 
is 
more strongly 
in 
evidence; 
there 
David has 
his 
first 
sexual encounters, 
learns 
some of 
the 
social 
graces, 
and 
sees political 
life. 
) 
Stevenson 
has 
taken 
only 
the 
form, 
or 
shell, 
of 
an 
initiation 
process. 
David 
simply 
acquires 
experience 
and gets 
larger 
through 
the 
episodic 
accretions; 
he 
is 
never penetrated 
by 
experience, 
never changed 
by 
it in 
the 
sense 
of some 
particular adventure 
altering 
his 
fundamental 
perceptions about 
anything. 
He 
is 
such 
perfectly 
consistent 
material 
because 
he 
is 
a 
bedrock 
per- 
sonality. 
By 
the 
latter, I 
mean 
several 
things, 
which 
I 
shall 
try 
to 
outline. 
- 
124 
- 
David 
is 
not a multi-faceted 
figure; 
he 
exemplifies 
the 
'sig- 
nificant 
simplification' 
that 
Stevenson 
argued 
for 
in 
essays on 
fiction 
which 
are 
roughly 
contemporary 
with 
the 
making of 
Kidnapped. 
"' 
In Kidnapped, 
he 
is 
in 
transit 
between 
periods 
of 
his 
life 
where 
he has 
a social 
identity, 
and 
the 
of 
ect 
of 
this 
transition 
is 
to 
strip 
his 
gestures 
of 
their 
social 
back- 
ground 
and 
significance 
because 
his 
position 
as 
an outlaw 
deprives 
him 
of 
the 
possibility 
of 
adopting 
civic 
roles. 
Indeed, 
even 
in 
Catriona 
he finds 
it 
difficult 
to 
understand 
how 
Grant 
can 
reconcile 
his 
graceful 
domestic 
behaviour 
with 
his 
hard- 
nosed attitudes 
in 
the 
role 
of 
Lord Advocate. David's 
persona 
is 
presented 
to 
us 
in 
such 
a way 
that 
his 
qualities 
are seen 
to 
be 
innate 
and, 
therefore, 
immutable. 
The 
sum of 
his 
gest- 
ures 
displays 
few 
characteristics 
which 
could 
be 
seen 
to 
have 
been 
formed 
prior 
to 
and 
independently 
of 
the 
core of 
his 
own 
personality. 
It 
seems 
that the 
character 
is 
confined 
to the 
limits 
of an unchanging self 
which 
is 
resistant 
to the 
demands 
of 
flowing 
history; 
it 
becomes 
even 
more 
apparent 
in 
Catriona 
that 
David 
is 
trying 
to 
escape 
history 
into 
an 
integrated 
pri- 
vate existence. 
It 
is 
this 
asocial conception 
of character 
that 
places 
Kidnapped 
as a 
kind, 
within 
the 
category 
of adventure 
romance. 
Adventure 
romance 
becomes 
interested in 
men at 
the 
point where 
they 
are stripped 
of 
their 
lendings, 
where 
they 
cease 
to 
be fully 
working 
social 
beings but 
are 
thrown 
back 
on 
their 
basic 
selves. 
One 
can see 
how 
it 
would 
be 
inaccurate 
to 
call 
fiction 
with 
that 
emphasis 
historical. 
The 
above 
does 
not necessarily 
dictate 
that 
David 
be 
an 
un- 
changing 
character. 
But 
the 
absence 
of motivation 
and 
of 
civic 
roles, 
which could 
lead 
the 
critic 
to 
call 
David 
a child, 
com- 
bined 
with 
the 
short 
time-span 
of 
the 
tale, 
effectively 
inhibits 
any 
change 
or 
decay in 
David's 
self. 
I 
pointed 
earlier 
to 
the 
successiveness 
of 
the 
episodes 
in 
Kid- 
napped; 
' 
and' 
is 
the 
hidden 
copula 
between 
each 
chapter. 
Just 
such 
successiveness 
is 
a 
concomitant 
of 
Stevenson's 
concept- 
- 
125 
- 
ion 
of 
David; 
if 
he 
were 
to 
develop, 
an 
analogical 
procedure 
would 
be 
required 
- 
time, that 
is, 
would 
have 
to 
become 
more 
important 
than 
it 
actually 
is in 
this 
most spatial 
of 
novels. 
That 
is 
why 
Stevenson' 
s envoi 
to 
the 
duology 
is 
so 
false 
in 
its 
irony. 
He 
writes: 
But 
you 
[ 
i. 
e. 
David's 
children 
I 
will 
find 
as you 
grow 
up 
that 
even 
th 
e 
artful 
Miss Barbara, 
and 
even 
the 
valiant 
Mr_ 
Alan, 
will 
not 
be 
so very 
much 
wiser 
than 
their 
parents. 
For 
the 
life 
of man 
upon 
this 
world 
of 
ours 
is 
a 
funny 
business. 
42 
The 
idea 
of 
a 
different 
David, 
promoted 
by 
the 
irony 
here, 
is 
an 
absurd 
one. 
Note how 
even 
his 
children are given not 
only 
the 
names 
but 
also 
the 
qualities 
of 
two 
of 
the 
main 
characters 
in 
the 
books 
- 
'artful' 
and 
'valiant: 
as 
though 
to 
suggest 
that 
little 
changes 
in 
the 
non-historical world 
of 
the 
stories 
. 
His 
narration never 
displays 
an 
irony 
towards 
his 
then 
char- 
acter 
which 
he 
would 
have been 
incapable 
of 
expressing 
then. 
The 
notion 
that 
age, 
wealth or 
fatherhood 
would 
have 
conse- 
quences 
for 
David 
is 
unacceptable 
because 
the 
objectivity and 
force 
of 
these 
properties 
has 
never 
been 
established 
in 
the 
permanent world 
in 
which 
we 
have 
seen 
him. Bertie Wooster, 
Tom 
Sawyer, 
Sherlock Holmes, 
are all 
characters 
who 
may 
be 
compared 
to 
David 
in 
this 
quality 
of permanence; as 
witness 
the 
fact 
that 
they 
all 
appear well 
nigh 
unchanged 
in 
more 
than 
one 
book. They 
are movable 
because 
they 
are mythic creat- 
ions. 
At 
this 
stage, 
we 
can attribute 
to 
myth, a 
term 
which 
I 
want 
to 
define 
more 
fully 
as 
we 
go 
on, 
two 
properties. 
The 
first 
is 
that 
it is 
distrustful 
of 
history; 
setting a 
fiction 
in 
the 
past 
does 
not 
inhibit 
Stevenson's 
contention 
that 
'truth 
to 
the 
conditions 
of 
man's 
nature 
and 
the 
condition of 
man's 
life, 
the 
truth 
of 
literary 
art, 
is 
free 
of 
the 
ages. 
' 
43 
Secondly, 
myth 
is 
hostile 
to 
the 
idea 
that 
a narrative 
can 
depict 
object- 
ive 
existence 
that 
is independent 
of 
any 
perception of 
it. 
We 
have 
looked 
at 
this 
last 
element 
of 
myth 
in 
previous 
chapters, 
where 
we 
saw 
that 
story 
did 
not 
relate 
veritable events 
but 
an 
- 
126 
- 
attitude 
to 
events. 
That is 
why 
the 
various 
circumstances 
in 
which 
DM d 
finds 
himself 
are 
expressive 
of 
his 
personality, 
except where 
the 
historical 
world 
impinges 
on 
him 
and 
falsifies 
his 
charact- 
er. 
This 
happens 
when 
he 
is 
wrongly 
accused of 
complicity 
in 
the 
murder 
of 
Colin Campbell. 
(Stevenson 
was 
more 
thoroughly 
concerned 
with 
the 
way 
that 
a community 
could 
be 
ar 
false 
wit- 
ness 
in 
other 
books: for 
example, 
in 
The Master 
of 
Ballantrae 
Henry Durie 
slowly 
becomes 
the 
mean 
and 
twisted 
man 
that 
the 
local 
folk 
would 
have 
him; 
while 
the 
secret 
of 
James' 
power 
over 
him, Stevenson 
tells 
us, 
is 
his 
indifference 
to 
others). 
Adventure, 
therefore, 
focuses 
on 
that 
freedom from 
social 
defin- 
itions 
which we saw 
Stevenson 
pursuing 
in 
his 
travels. 
We 
might 
say 
that 
Kidnapped 
is 
an 
unsceptical 
adventure 
because 
it 
does 
not question 
the 
benign 
moral 
implications 
of 
that 
free- 
dom. 
One 
would 
Kidnapped 
ciousness 
expect, 
in 
view of 
the 
above, 
would 
confirm 
the 
nature of 
the 
n 
its 
overall 
direction 
as well 
parts. 
But 
what 
a 
story 
which 
end'. 
is 
this 
direction? 
Surely 
it 
the 
author 
has 
described 
as 
that the 
action of 
hero' 
s self-cons- 
as 
in its 
separate 
is 
problematic 
in 
having 
a 
'cursed 
I 
would 
suggest 
that 
it 
is 
the 
controlling 
myth of 
the 
journey 
that 
gives 
Kidnapped 
direction. 
(In 
Catriona, 
it 
is 
rather 
clumsily 
continued 
in 
the 
trek 
through 
Holland 
- 
by 
then, 
plot 
considerations 
have 
diminished 
its 
simplicity. 
) 
Journeys have 
been 
divided into 
two 
broad 
categories 
by 
Homeric 
scholars: 
the 
centrifugal 
and 
the 
centripetal. 
The 
Ulysses 
of 
Dante 
and 
of 
Tennyson 
are 
examples 
of 
the 
former; 
they 
are 
forever 
going 
west, 
seeking 
new 
lands 
and new 
experiences. 
44 
David 
Bal- 
four's journey 
in 
Kidnapped is 
of 
the 
latter 
type. 
At 
one 
stage 
of 
their 
journey, 
he 
consults 
Alan 
about 
their 
destination: 
/ 
I 
asked 
him 
whither we should 
flee; 
and as 
he 
- 
127 
- 
told 
me 
'to 
the 
Lowlands' 
,I 
was a 
little 
better 
inclined 
to 
go with 
him. 
4S 
As 
this 
shows, 
he 
does 
not will 
lawlessness 
and 
adventure. 
He 
is 
a 
passive 
traveller 
and 
his 
journey 
is, 
like 
Stevenson's 
own 
early 
travels, 
an 
interlude 
between 
domesticities. 
The 
centri- 
petal 
journey 
ends 
- 
prematurely, 
but 
appropriately 
- 
in 
the 
modern 
Scotland, 
at 
the 
doors 
of 
the 
British Linen 
Company's 
bank. 
And 
then 
again, 
in 
Catriona, 
with 
David 
marrying 
the 
girl 
that 
he 
has 
rescued, 
and 
for 
whom 
his 
adventures 
have 
made 
him 
worthy. 
In 
psychological 
terms, 
the 
endings 
of 
both 
novels 
point 
to 
a 
reintegration 
with 
the 
social 
and 
domestic, 
which 
he 
wants, and 
which 
is indeed 
the 
destiny 
owing 
to 
his 
character. 
If 
this 
seems 
an 
unusual quality 
in 
an adventure 
hero, 
then 
we must 
recognise 
that 
Stevenson 
has 
split 
the 
Hero 
of 
his 
tale 
into 
two 
figures. 
Alan 
is 
the 
active 
and restless 
principle. 
He 
completes 
the 
persona 
of 
the 
adventure 
hero. 
Alan Breck has 
only 
a peripheral 
role 
in 
the 
second 
novel. 
Catriona 
is 
both 
a 
continuation of 
Kidnapped 
and 
a 
distinct 
piece 
of 
fiction; 
and 
it 
is 
to this 
novel 
that 
i 
want 
to 
turn 
in 
the 
second part 
of 
this 
chapter. 
128 
PART 2 
Kidnapped 
had 
many 
of 
game, 
the 
'thrice-royal 
I 
the 
Highlands 
derived 
in 
hood 
activity. 
The 
simple 
characters 
were 
properly 
background 
which 
seemed 
fiction. 
the 
virtues of 
Stevenson' 
s 
favourite 
tide and 
seek'. 
116 
The 
chase 
through 
part 
from 
his 
memories 
of 
this 
child- 
action 
and 
the 
clear 
gestures 
of 
the 
located 
in 
the 
kind 
of 
uncivilised 
essential 
to the 
adventure 
genre 
of 
The 
second 
part of 
the 
adventures of 
David Balfour, 
Catriona, 
was not published until 
seven years 
after 
the 
first. 
Initially, 
it 
shifts 
the 
action 
to 
Edinburgh 
in 
the 
middle 
of 
the 
eight- 
eenth century; 
from 
the 
country 
to 
the 
city. 
This 
alteration 
of 
locales 
could 
be described 
in 
the 
words 
of 
Rousseau's 
account of 
the 
decisive 
change 
in 
man's 
conditions: 
The 
passing 
from 
the 
state of nature 
to the 
civil 
society produces 
a 
remarkable 
change 
in 
man; 
it 
puts 
justice 
as a rule of 
conduct 
in 
the 
place 
of 
instinct, 
and 
gives 
his 
actions 
the 
moral quality 
they 
previously 
lacked. 
'' 
We 
saw 
earlier 
that 
it 
was 
precisely 
the 
lawless 
and 
the 
in- 
stinctual which 
were 
brought 
before David by 
adventure. 
The 
shift 
to 
the 
city 
indicates 
that 
we may expect 
an altered 
idiom, 
and 
this 
is 
the 
case. 
In 
the 
urban 
context 
of 
Catriona, 
the 
characters 
are registered 
more 
densely 
than 
in 
the 
first 
part of 
the 
duology. I 
want, 
therefore, 
to 
begin 
this 
discussion 
of 
Catriona by 
recording 
the 
development 
- 
in 
the 
early 
stages 
of 
the 
novel 
- 
of 
moral 
perplexities, 
evasions 
and political opacities, 
insofar 
as 
they 
build 
up 
an 
atmosphere 
of uncertainty and menace. 
- 
129 
- 
David's 
position 
as 
a 
hunted 
man 
causes 
him 
to 
be 
wary 
in 
his 
proceedings 
from 
the 
start. 
He has 
to 
forgo 
the 
help 
of 
the 
'caddies' 
to 
guide 
him 
about 
the 
labyrinths 
of 
old 
Edinburgh, 
because 
these 
men 
often 
acted 
as 
informers 
for 
the 
authorities. 
His 
meeting 
with 
Catriona Drummond 
arises out 
of 
her 
suspicion 
that 
his 
naive 
curiosity 
is 
an attempt 
to 
overhear 
what 
she 
is 
saying 
to 
her 
retainers. 
Edinburgh's 
dangers 
are 
less 
straight- 
forward 
than those 
of 
the 
Highlands: 
Such 
danger 
as 
I 
had 
seen 
the 
face 
of 
but 
that 
morning, 
in 
the 
midst 
of what 
they 
call 
the 
safety 
of 
the town, 
shook 
me 
beyond 
experience. 
8 
New 
dangers 
are 
introduced 
by 
the 
veiled and problematic 
nat- 
ure of personal and 
political 
loyalties 
found 
in 
the 
city. 
When 
David 
goes 
to 
see 
Stewart 
the 
lawyer, 
the 
latter 
assumes 
that 
he 
is 
an adherent 
to 
the 
Cause: 
'I 
needn't 
ask your politics, 
' 
said 
he. 
'Ye 
need 
not' said 
1, 
smiling, 
'for I'm 
as 
big 
a 
Whig 
as grows. 
' 
49 
Stewart 
is 
surprised. 
But 
the 
position 
is 
further 
confused 
by 
his 
own 
confession: 
'See, 
sir, ye 
tell 
me 
ye're 
a 
Whig: 
I 
wonder what 
I 
am. 
No 
Whig 
to 
be 
sure; 
I 
couldnae 
be 
just 
that. 
But 
- 
laigh 
in 
your ear, 
man 
- 
I'm 
maybe 
S? 
no very 
keen 
on 
the 
other 
side. 
' 
This 
is 
the 
very 
voice 
of evasion, 
using 
the 
vocabulary 
of 
politic strategy 
('I 
would 
not 
have 
you 
judge 
me 
over-sorely'). 
And 
that 
phrase 
'I 
wonder 
what 
I 
am' 
insists 
upon 
uncertain- 
ty. 
Stewart' 
s 
whole 
presentation 
of 
his 
position 
- 
'My 
case 
is 
dooms 
hard', 
a phrase 
he 
repeats 
later 
- 
gives 
the 
impress- 
ion 
of 
a man 
worrying 
his 
own 
dilemma! 
' 
It 
shows resentment 
of 
being 
forced 
into 
public 
commitment, 
into 
an 
historical 
role 
in 
which 
he is 
uncomfortable. 
Speaking 
of 
a case 
he has 
been 
- 
130 
- 
given 
on 
behalf 
of 
'young 
Ardshiel', 
he 
makes 
us aware 
that 
it 
is 
this 
public 
recognition 
that 
makes 
him 
squirm: 
'And 
there 
was 
I 
liked 
the 
busines 
fair 
ruin 
to 
the 
affected, 
branded 
upon 
their 
kye! 
Stewart, 
ye see, 
family. 
' 
52 
cocking 
behind 
a yadvocate 
that 
s 
as 
little 
as 
myself, 
for 
it 
was 
pair 
of us 
-a 
black 
mark, 
dis- 
on our 
hurdles 
like 
folk's 
names 
And 
what 
can 
I 
do? I'm 
a 
and 
must 
fend for 
my clan 
and 
This 
reminds 
us of 
the 
feeling 
behind 
Nlarkheim' 
s 
scream 
against 
the 
'giants 
of 
circumstance' 
which 
make 
him 
act 
against 
his 
will. 
53 
Juxtaposed 
to 
Stewart's 
canniness 
is 
David's 
stiff-necked 
loyal- 
ty, 
which 
leaves 
the 
lawyer 
puzzled 
and admiring: 
'That's 
what 
makes 
me 
think 
so much 
of 
ye 
- 
you 
that's 
no 
Stewart 
- 
to 
stick 
your 
head 
so 
deep 
in 
Stewart 
business. 
And 
for 
what, 
I do 
not 
know; 
unless 
it 
was 
the 
sense of 
duty. ' 
'I 
hope 
it 
will 
be 
that, 
' 
said 
I. 
5" 
But 
Stewart' 
s 
final 
perfunctory 
qualify 
the 
admiration: 
comment 
seems, 
by 
its 
tone, to 
' Well' 
, 
says 
he, 'it's 
a 
grand quality. 
'S5 
There 
are a number 
of shifting 
perpectives 
here 
which obfus- 
cate 
David's 
moral 
judgement. 
The 
imprecision 
of 
such 
judge- 
ments 
is 
concisely 
summed 
up 
near 
the 
end 
of 
David's 
rich 
dia- 
logue 
with 
the 
Writer. 
When Stewart 
and 
his 
clerk 
tell 
him 
that 
one 
of 
the 
most 
trustworthy 
of 
skippers 
is 
the 
Captain 
Hoseason 
who 
had 
abducted 
him 
earlier, 
the 
information 
pro- 
vokes 
a 
lapidary 
banality 
from 
David: 
'Well, it 
seems 
hard 
to 
ken folk 
rightly. 
'56 
- 
131 
- 
Viewed 
from 
another 
angle, 
Hosea 
son was 
emphatically 
untrust- 
worthy. 
So 
this 
contradiction 
casts 
a 
dense 
and 
opaque 
shadow 
over 
reality 
as 
David 
encounters 
it. 
He 
exists 
in 
a social 
milieu 
to 
a 
far 
greater 
extent 
in 
Catriona 
than 
he 
did 
in 
Kid- 
napped: 
and 
he 
recognises 
this 
himself, 
saying 
that 
h 
'dwelt 
in 
politics'. 
57 
The 
essence 
of 
a man 
or 
situation 
is 
not re- 
vealed 
to 
David 
in 
any 
clear 
way 
at all. 
One 
of 
the 
few 
ob- 
vious 
exceptions 
to this 
is 
in 
his first 
encounter 
with 
Catriona, 
where a pious meeting 
of eyes 
flashes 
a 
mutual 
realisation of 
attraction 
between 
them. 
Initially 
it 
contrasts, 
as an authentic 
relation, with 
David's 
'perplexed 
and 
dangerous 
fortunes' 
in 
the 
sphere 
of political 
intrigue. 
5 
B 
Without Alan Breck, 
in 
fact, 
David's desire 
is 
for 
a 
historyless domestic 
existence 
not an 
adventurous one: 
I 
had 
had 
my 
view of 
that 
detestable business 
they 
call politics 
-I 
had 
seen 
it 
from behind, 
when 
it is 
all 
bones 
and 
blackness; 
and 
I 
was 
cured 
for life 
of 
any 
temptations 
to 
take 
part 
in 
it 
again. 
A 
plain, 
quiet, 
private path was 
that 
which 
I 
was 
ambitious 
to 
walk 
in, 
where 
I 
might 
keep 
my 
head 
out 
of 
the 
ways of 
dangers 
and my 
conscience out of 
the 
road. 
of 
temptation. 
'59 
On 
the 
one 
hand, 
there 
are 
the 
complexities of 
politics 
and 
the 
'course 
of events' 
which 
proceed 
'like 
a 
marching 
army'. 
60 
On 
the 
other 
are 
the 
perils 
of adventure; 
and 
David likes 
them 
no 
more 
than the 
politics. 
He 
imagines 
being 
able 
to 
win 
free: 
So, 
in 
a 
moment, 
I 
could 
lay 
all 
these troubles 
by, 
which 
were 
after 
all and 
truly 
none of 
mine; 
swim clear of 
the 
Appin 
murder; 
get 
forth 
out of 
hand-stroke 
of all 
the 
Stewarts 
and 
Campbells, 
all 
the 
Whigs 
and 
Tories, 
in 
the 
land; 
and 
live 
thence- 
forth 
to 
my 
own 
mind, 
and 
to 
be 
able 
to 
enjoy and 
improve 
my 
fortunes, 
and 
devote 
some 
hours 
of my 
youth 
to 
courting 
Catriona, 
which would 
be 
surely 
a more 
suitable 
occupation 
than to 
hide 
and run 
and 
be 
followed 
like 
a 
hunted 
thief, 
and 
begin 
over 
again 
the 
dreadful 
miseries 
of my 
escape with 
Alan. 
61 
- 
132 
- 
The 
corruption 
of 
the 
city 
and 
the 
disorder 
of adventure 
are 
both 
seen 
by 
David 
as 
threats 
to 
his 
puritan 
conscience. 
The 
uncomfortable 
relationship 
of 
social role 
and essential 
char- 
acter, 
was, 
as 
I have 
suggested, 
most 
economically captured 
in 
David's 
dialogue 
with 
the 
evasive 
Stewart. 
The 
concomitants 
of 
that 
relationship 
are extended 
by 
the 
introduction 
of 
Lord- 
Advocate 
Grant, 
Prestongrange. 
David 
Balfour 
perceives 
in 
Prestongrange 
various personas; 
for 
example, 
kind father, 
solicitous 
friend, 
severe 
lawgiver, 
cunn- 
ing 
politician. 
None 
of 
these 
various 
- 
and, 
on 
the 
surface, 
in- 
compatible 
- 
perceptions 
impairs 
any 
of 
the 
others. 
The 
variety 
of 
the 
Lord Advocate's 
faces 
confounds 
any 
possible 
essentialist 
description 
of 
his 
character. 
His 
attitudes 
do, 
however, 
congeal 
in 
an especially 
piquant 
way. 
He 
is 
a 
figure 
of authority 
in 
two 
distinct 
ways: 
naturally, 
through 
his 
paternity; 
and con- 
ventionally, 
through 
his 
position 
as 
an 
administrator of 
the 
Law. 
Both 
of 
these 
are 
a 
kind 
of 
trusteeship: the 
first 
of 
his 
three 
'braw 
daughters'; 
the 
second of, as 
David 
would 
idealist- 
ically 
have 
it, 
justice. 
(David 
says 
that 
'the 
main 
thing 
of all 
must still 
be 
justice, 
and 
the 
death 
of any 
innocent 
man a 
wound upon 
the 
whole 
community. 
')62 
However, 
a 
far 
more com- 
plex activity with 
regard 
to 
fatherhood, 
trust, 
loyalty, 
and 
authority, 
is 
being 
carried on 
in 
this 
novel 
and 
I 
want 
to 
turn, 
now, 
to 
these themes. 
Catriona 
marks 
a new stage 
in 
Stevenson's 
struggle 
with 
the 
relationship 
of 
fatherhood 
to 
moral 
authority. 
More 
specifically, 
the 
quality of 
the 
fatherhood, 
as 
trusteeship 
of 
another 
fate, 
comes 
near 
to 
being 
used 
as a yardstick 
of moral 
worth. 
In 
Catriona, Stevenson 
takes 
this 
theme 
and repeats 
it in 
a 
var- 
iety 
of 
situations 
which 
clash 
with 
and 
echo each 
other, 
re- 
fining 
and 
making 
more 
complex 
the 
overall 
picture. 
To begin 
with, 
there 
is 
David's 
deceased 
father 
who 
seems 
to 
have 
been 
responsible 
for 
the 
continuity 
of 
what 
can 
only 
be 
called 
recti- 
- 
13 3- 
tude 
in 
the 
'hero' 
- 
that 
is 
to 
say, 
the 
impulse 
to 
do 
right 
or, 
in Orwellian 
terms, 
the 
decent 
thing, 
even 
at 
his 
own 
ex- 
pense. 
When 
Stewart 
the 
Writer 
expresses amazement 
that 
he 
is 
going 
to 
throw 
himself 
on 
the 
mercy of 
the 
vengeful 
Campbells 
and 
adds 
that 
he, 
a 
Stewart, 
would 
do 
it 
for 
no man, 
David 
says 
'It's 
a 
different 
way of 
thinking, 
I 
suppose 
... 
I 
was 
brought 
up 
to this 
one 
by 
my 
father before 
me. 
1 
'Glory be 
to 
his 
bones! 
he has 
left 
a 
decent 
son 
to 
his 
name' 
63 
replies 
the 
lawyer. 
David 
is 
less 
certain of 
his 
rectitude 
than 
this 
would suggest. 
Indeed his fatherless 
condition seems 
to 
be 
the 
major contributor 
to 
his 
vulnerability. 
Coincidentally 
with 
being 
thrown 
back 
on 
his 
own resources 
at 
the 
start of 
Catriona 
he 
takes 
off 
the 
clothes 
of 
Rankeillor's 
son. 
Yet he 
does 
not 
see 
himself 
as 
being 
ready 
to take 
on 
the 
role of 
father 
and 
find, by 
implication, 
she 
principle 
of 
moral 
imperat- 
ive 
within 
himself: 
'I 
was 
never 
brought 
up 
on sugar 
biscuits, but 
on 
the 
hard fo 
od 
of 
the 
truth. 
I knew 
that 
he 
was 
qui 
te 
unfit 
to 
be 
a 
husband 
who was 
not 
prepared 
to 
be 
a 
father 
also; and 
for 
a 
boy like 
me 
to 
play 
the 
father 
was 
mere 
derision. 
164 
He 
is 
thinking 
here 
of 
his 
connection with 
Catriona, 
of course; 
and at 
this 
point she, whose 
father he has 
met at 
the 
Lord 
Advocate's 
house, 
appears and 
speaks 
to 
him. 
The 
scene 
which 
follows 
introduces 
another 
dimension 
to 
the 
conflation of patern- 
ity 
and 
authority. 
James More has betrayed 
Catriona's 
blind, 
or 
short-sighted, 
trust 
('those 
that 
do 
not 
love 
and 
cherish 
him 
I 
will 
not 
know' 
she says 
to 
David"' 
5 
), 
as 
well as 
his 
friends 
and 
fellow 
prisoners. 
This disloyalty 
is 
apparent 
throughout 
the 
story. 
James More 
abandons 
Catriona 
in 
Holland 
and 
discloses 
Alan 
Breck 
to the 
authorities. 
His 
disloyalty 
is 
- 
13 
4- 
paralleled 
by 
"i-;: 
on 
Fraser's 
betrayal 
of what 
are 
seen 
as 
the 
heroic 
and 
honourable 
principles 
of 
his father, 
Lovat. 
Import- 
antly, 
this 
dispersal 
prevents 
the 
complete 
association of 
dis- 
loyalty 
with 
James 
and 
promotes. 
it 
to 
a 
full 
grown 
theme 
prev- 
alent 
throughout 
the 
book. 
Character 
is 
subordinate 
to 
situat- 
ion. 
The 
possibility 
of 
betrayal 
appears 
again 
in 
the 
character 
of 
the 
Lord 
Advocate 
who 
was, says 
David, 
'kind 
to 
me as 
any 
father'. 
Despite 
his kindness David 
says 
'I 
ever 
thought 
him 
6 
as 
false 
as a 
cracked 
bell' 
.s 
The 
theme 
of 
fathers 
and 
sons 
is 
central 
to 
Stevenson's fiction, 
and 
I 
shall 
return 
to 
it in 
future 
chapters. 
What 
is 
more 
immediately 
important 
about 
the 
fathers 
and 
sons 
in 
Catriona 
is 
that 
they 
afford us 
the 
opportunity 
to 
observe 
Stevenson 
striving 
to 
preserve 
his fiction 
as a gestalt 
picture. 
This 
gestalt configuration 
marked 
the 
stories 
which we 
looked 
at 
in 
earlier chapters. 
It 
was what 
made 
doubles 
possible, 
that 
everything 
flowed 
from 
the 
one consciousness, and 
it 
distin- 
guished 
his fiction 
from 
the 
linear, 
uniform and objective 
{ 
reality of 
the 
mainstream 
novel. 
But 
in 
Catriona, 
he 
has 
moved 
further 
into 
civil society 
(and 
into 
history; 
it 
is 
his 
most 
Scottean 
novel) and, 
therefore, 
into 
a 
world where 
a certain 
solidity 
of 
specification 
is 
requisite. 
Characters, 
with 
their 
own 
discrete, 
acted-upon 
space, 
part- 
ially 
emerge; a 
distinct 
social world 
surfaces 
in 
the 
Edinburgh 
section 
of 
Catriona. 
(Such 
a condition 
raises 
the 
whole question 
of 
location 
with 
respect 
to 
the 
adventure novel: 
its 
peripheral, 
exotic, extra-communal 
milieux 
are not accidental 
but 
implied 
by 
the 
metaphysical 
concerns 
of 
the 
genre 
itself. 
6 
7) 
One 
of 
the 
ways 
in 
which 
this 
tendency 
of 
his 
novel 
is 
subsumed 
under 
a 
more generalised 
(or 
typical) 
pattern 
is 
through the 
repertoire 
of 
fathers 
and 
pseudofathers 
that 
is 
woven 
into 
the 
adventures 
of 
David. 
That 
is 
to 
say 
that the 
mosaic-like 
construction 
and 
typicality 
of 
the 
normal 
Stevenson 
narrative 
is 
in 
tension 
with 
plot 
- 
and 
the 
result 
is 
that 
he has 
to 
remove 
the 
action 
from 
- 
135 
- 
the 
city 
(Lhe 
isolation 
on 
the 
Bass, 
the trek 
which 
Catriona 
and 
David 
make 
through 
Holland) 
or render 
the 
substance 
of 
the 
plot 
a mystery 
and eventually an 
irrelevance. 
There 
are 
latent 
in 
the 
narrative 
a 
set of actions 
that 
would 
be 
of 
interest 
to 
a 
different 
sort 
of 
writer 
from 
Stevenson: 
the 
business 
of 
James' 
imprisonment, 
framing 
and 
trial, 
for 
exam- 
ple, 
which all 
happen 
behind 
closed 
doors. For 
Stevenson, 
how- 
ever, 
these 
possibilities 
are 
subordinated 
to 
the 
need 
to 
define 
and variously 
work 
through 
the 
naturalness 
and 
innocence 
of 
David 
Balfour. 
For 
instance, 
the 
fathers 
that 
David 
comes 
into 
contact 
with 
both 
create 
and 
define 
a 
moral 
dilemma 
for 
him 
- 
what 
they 
seek 
is 
to 
trap 
him 
in 
social and 
historical 
exist- 
ence; 
but 
the 
social 
existence 
is 
seen as 
inherently 
false. What 
David 
represents 
is 
the 
capacity 
to 
retain 
consistent 
ethical 
intentions 
in 
the 
face 
of 
falsity. 
This 
is 
why 
we 
define 
him 
as 
natural: 
his 
intentions 
are 
pure 
because 
they 
do 
not 
have 
to 
be 
shared and 
this 
in 
turn 
gives meaning 
to 
his freedom 
which 
is 
always constituted, 
in 
him, by 
incorruptible 
intentions 
towards 
the 
world. 
The 
two 
most 
traumatic 
moments 
in 
Catriona for 
David 
Balfour 
involve 
the 
attribution 
to 
him 
of 
motives 
which 
he 
never 
had. 
I 
am referring 
to 
Simon Fraser's 
accusation 
that 
he 
was 
acting 
as a 
decoy 
in 
the 
assassination 
of 
Campbell; 
and 
to 
James 
More's 
attempt 
to 
blackmail 
him 
on 
the 
grounds 
of 
his 
circum- 
stantially 
incriminating 
stay 
in 
the 
same 
room 
with 
Catriona. 
In 
each case 
David 
is 
horrified 
- 
and 
horror 
is, 
as 
Francis 
Hart 
has 
pointed 
out, 
a 
sentiment which 
he 
expresses 
very 
freely 
- 
at 
the 
thought 
of 
what will 
become 
of 
his 
reputation 
if 
the 
ch 
arges 
stick: 
'I 
am 
to 
be killed 
and shamed' 
he 
tells 
Catriona, 
'my 
name 
is 
to 
be 
nothing 
but 
a 
by-word'. 
6 
y-word' 
.6B 
And 
there 
is 
little 
doubt 
tha 
t the 
prospect of 
the 
shame 
is 
harder 
to 
bear 
than 
the 
possible 
hanging. 
- 
1"5 
- 
Stevenson 
disturbs 
our 
earlier 
impression 
of 
David 
as 
a 
figure 
of 
absolute 
and 
innate 
rectitude. 
This 
returns us 
to 
an 
observ- 
ation 
we 
made 
about 
witnessed and 
unwitnessed modes 
of 
self- 
consciousness. 
This 
exemplary 
social 
consciousness 
of 
shame 
has 
a 
paradoxical 
relation 
to the 
inner, 
guilt 
driven 
figure 
who 
was 
socially 
innocent. The 
contradiction 
can 
be 
explained 
if 
we 
take 
due 
account 
of 
the 
discontinuity 
of 
narrative 
which 
becomes 
increasingly 
prominent 
in 
Stevenson's 
fictions. 
That is 
to 
say, 
we 
must 
not 
expect 
a 
fully 
motivated, 
continuous 
devel- 
opment 
of character 
in 
his 
stories. 
Just 
as 
there 
was 
no 
attempt 
on 
the 
writer's 
part 
to 
fuse 
the 
disparate 
impressions 
of 
Prestongrange; 
so, 
David 
himself 
is 
seen 
in 
different 
lights, 
is 
subordinate 
to the 
thematic 
possibilities 
of 
the 
narrative. 
The 
ambivalent 
status of 
David 
Balfour 
consists 
of 
the 
poss- 
ibility 
of 
the 
moral 
imperatives 
which 
appear 
to 
dictate 
his 
actions 
being 
either ethical 
intentions 
formed 
prior 
to 
and 
dir- 
ected 
towards the 
world or 
flowing from 
conventional 
immersion 
in 
the 
world 
(e. 
g. 
fear 
of witnessed 
dishonour). David 
debates 
these 
very possibilities with 
himself 
as 
he 
attempts 
to 
come 
to 
terms 
with 
his 
motivations 
for 
intervening in 
the 
trial 
of 
James 
Stewart. 
This 
situation, 
in 
which 
a character's motivations 
for 
an part- 
icular 
act are 
seen 
to 
be 
irrecoverable, 
becomes 
increasingly 
prevalent 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
fiction. It 
is 
vital 
to 
Catriona's 
sub- 
versive relation 
to 
the 
mechanics 
of 
adventure 
stories; 
so 
vital 
that 
Robert Kiely's 
belief 
that 
Catriona displays 
the 
same sim- 
ple 
boys' 
daydream 
morality 
as 
Treasure 
Island 
and 
Kidnapped 
is 
mystifying. 
6 
9 
Perhaps 
Kiely does 
not 
share 
the 
unease which 
I 
feel 
in 
response 
to 
the 
second 
episode 
referred 
to 
above 
- 
the 
menage 
in 
Leyden. 
Once 
again 
he 
is 
trapped 
by 
circum- 
stances 
(those 
giants 
that 
haul 
Markheim into 
the 
world) 
in 
a 
position 
which 
by 
his 
own 
puritannical 
standards reflects 
rather 
badly 
upon 
him. David 
reads 
Heineccius, 
a 
dry 
old 
law 
- 
137 
- 
writer, 
to 
cool 
t_is 
ardor. 
However 
he 
is 
more 
threatened 
than 
he 
is 
threatening 
in 
the 
sexual 
sense 
- 
and 
in 
a very paradox- 
ical 
way: 
'The 
base 
of 
my 
trouble 
was 
Catriona's 
extraordin- 
ary 
innocence. 
... 
She 
seemed 
to 
have 
no 
thought 
of 
our 
position. 
' 
70 
The 
position 
is 
in 
its 
overall 
shape 
a 
familiar 
one 
in 
melo- 
drama: 
an 
innocent 
virgin 
and 
a 
possible 
seducer 
who 
is 
foiled 
by 
the 
arrival 
on 
the 
scene 
of a pursuing 
father. 
However, in 
Catriona 
the 
father 
's 
appearance 
saves 
David 
from 
his 
fix 
and 
that 
father 
is 
one 
of 
the 
most unscrupulous 
characters 
in 
the 
novel. 
We 
observe 
Stevenson 
deploying 
romance conventions, 
yet 
manipulating 
them 
in 
such 
a 
way 
as 
to 
evince 
dissatisfaction 
with 
their 
normally 
triumphal 
mechanism. 
(Increasingly, 
Steven- 
son 
was 
to 
go 
this 
way: 
playing 
off 
his 
own peculiar percept- 
ion 
against 
various 
non-realistic 
forms, like 
the 
fable, 
the 
saga, 
the 
exotic and 
historical 
romances). 
There 
is 
here 
the 
potential 
of 
satire on 
the 
subjective 
adaptation of action 
to 
the 
intentions 
of 
the 
hero 
whereby 
the 
plot marshals 
the 
phenomen- 
al world 
to 
realise 
those 
intentions. 
We 
can 
best 
see 
Stevenson 
using 
the 
conventions of 
historical 
romance 
in 
the 
middle section of 
Catriona. 
David 
has 
again 
been kidnapped 
to 
silence 
his 
testimony; 
he 
is 
to 
be 
released 
just 
too 
late 
to 
bear 
witness. 
He 
makes 
a 
superhuman 
effort 
to 
get 
to 
the trial, 
reminding one 
of 
Valjean's 
ride 
in 
Les Miser- 
ables, 
in 
that 
he 
goes 
reluctantly 
to the 
rescue; 
Valjean 
is 
guiltily relieved 
when 
his 
carriage 
breaks down 
and 
David 
is 
equally gratified 
to 
be 
able 
to 
retain 
his 
'honourable' 
intent- 
ions 
without 
those 
intentions 
having 
effective 
consequences 
for 
himself 
or 
for 
others. 
71 
David's 
relation 
to the 
historical 
`, 
world of 
Grant, James 
Stewart 
and 
the 
rest 
is 
implicit 
in 
the 
uneasy coexistence of 
romance 
- 
138 
- 
mode 
and 
historical 
mode 
within 
Catriona. 
David, 
we 
have 
sug- 
gested 
in 
discussing 
Kidnapped, 
was 
not 
a 
fully 
integrated, 
socially 
and 
historically 
placed 
character; 
and 
he 
therefore 
is 
of 
that 
romance 
world 
(even 
when 
it 
is 
a 
parody 
of 
rom- 
ance) 
and 
not 
of 
the 
historical 
world 
within 
which 
he 
finds 
himself 
temporarily 
trapped. 
The 
problematic, 
ambiguous 
and 
changing 
order 
of 
the 
socio- 
political 
sphere 
(an 
aspect 
of 
Catriona 
which 
distinguishes it 
very clearly 
from 
the 
earlier 
novel) 
is 
a 
continual 
surprise 
to 
David 
who 
finds 
himself 
not 
of 
it, 
but 
in it 
- 
that 
is 
why 
he 
can 
have 
intentions 
towards 
that 
sphere 
which 
have 
no effect 
upon 
it. 
David's 
destiny 
is 
himself 
and 
cannot work 
through 
the 
historical 
process. 
W. 
H. Auden has 
written 
that 
'in 
the 
fairy-tale 
world, what appear 
to 
be 
the 
personal choices 
of 
the 
characters 
are really 
the 
strategic choices of 
the 
storyteller. 
172 
Auden' 
s 
insight 
holds 
good 
for 
romance, 
too; 
and 
it is in 
this 
sense 
that 
David 
is 
his 
destiny. In 
adventure 
fiction, 
freedom 
is 
a state, not 
an act or choice. 
Hence 
when 
he 
comes 
up 
ag- 
ainst actual 
history 
(the 
trial) 
David 
can 
have 
no 
effect 
upon 
it. 
The 
actual 
historical 
verifiability 
of 
James' 
execution 
miti- 
gates 
the 
adventurous 
excitement 
of 
David's 
exaggerated 
ride 
cross-country 
(exaggerated 
in 
that 
it 
employs an 
impossible 
timetable, 
as 
John Buchan 
has 
pointed 
out. 
73) 
The 
result 
is 
predestined, 
so 
his 
choice 
has 
no significance except 
in 
the 
ritualistic 
sense of 
David 
himself 
being 
tested 
for 
manhood. 
What I 
wish 
to 
suggest 
by 
the 
above 
is 
that 
there 
is 
a para- 
dox 
or confusion 
at 
the 
centre 
of 
Catriona. 
It 
is 
partially 
ex- 
hibited 
in 
the 
uncertainty 
of 
mode 
which 
I 
have 
tried 
to 
indicate 
and 
which 
is 
not 
necessarily 
reprehensible; 
and 
par- 
tially 
in 
the 
conflict 
in 
the 
narrative 
economy 
between 
a 
back- 
ground 
of 
civility 
(the 
City) 
and 
one 
of 
adventure 
(the 
topo- 
graphic 
neutrality 
of 
Kidnapped, 
haltingly 
continued 
in 
the 
episode 
on 
the 
Bass, 
David 
and 
Catriona's 
hike 
to 
Leyden, 
the 
last 
section 
of 
the 
novel 
involving James 
More 
and 
Alan 
Breck). 
- 
139 
- 
In 
order 
to 
explain 
the 
discordance 
of 
civility 
and adventure, 
we 
may 
compare 
the 
persona 
of 
David 
Balfour 
in 
Kidnapped 
to 
his 
representation 
in 
Catriona. 
In 
the 
former 
he 
exists 
in 
a 
state 
of 
freedom. This 
freedom 
consists 
not 
of 
liberty 
of action, 
but 
of 
apparently unconditioned 
action. 
The 
sudden 
turns 
and 
intrusions 
in 
the tale 
are, 
to 
all 
intents 
and 
purposes, ran- 
dom. 
This 
aspect of 
adventure 
was affectionately 
satirised 
by 
Stevenson 
in 
his 
New 
Arabian 
Nights, 
where 
the 
utter contin- 
gency 
of 
the 
connections 
between 
the 
episodes advertises 
the 
randomness 
of 
the 
action 
of 
the 
stories. 
Returning 
to 
Kid- 
napped, 
we 
can say 
that 
it is 
only 
the 
arbitrary 
fact 
of 
Steven- 
son's 
knowledge 
of 
Earrid 
that 
leads 
to 
David 
being 
marooned 
there. 
This 
turn 
of events 
is 
not a consequence 
of anything 
which 
has happened 
to 
David 
previously 
and 
it is 
not required 
to 
explain 
any 
of 
the 
action 
to 
come. 
So 
it 
is 
with 
David's 
meetings 
with 
the 
blind beggar 
and with 
Mr Henderland 
the 
missionary. 
No 
attempt 
is 
made 
by 
Stevenson 
to 
simulate necess- 
ity 
or 
to 
imply 
a 
teleology. 
The 
sequence of 
David's 
perils 
is 
accidental 
in 
a way 
that those 
of 
Pip 
of 
Great Expectations, 
and 
those 
of 
Madame Bovary 
or 
Anna Karenin, 
are not. 
In 
the 
case of each of 
these 
novels 
the 
fate 
of 
the 
main protagonist 
is 
their 
character. 
David's destiny 
is 
arbitrary and 
hinges 
on 
the 
chance 
that the 
ship 
he 
is 
on runs 
down Alan Breck's 
dinghy, 
or 
that 
he 
happens 
to 
be 
in 
the 
wood 
of 
Lettermore 
at 
the 
time 
Colin 
Campbell is 
killed. 
It 
is 
possible 
to 
say 
that 
in 
Kidnapped 
the 
reader 
is intro- 
duced 
to 
a world 
of 
chance. 
This 
is 
one 
aspect of 
the 
freedom 
which 
we 
perceive 
in 
the 
adventure. 
The 
other 
element 
of 
free- 
dom 
displayed 
by 
the 
novel 
is 
formed by 
the 
hero's 
isolation. 
He 
is 
not 
represented 
as 
belonging 
to 
any social milieu. 
We 
know 
that 
he 
did 
belong 
to 
a 
community. 
But it 
is 
a 
community 
which 
exists 
in 
the 
novel 
only 
as 
a 
set 
of moral exhortations 
from 
the 
local 
minister; 
it is 
not 
realised. 
Because 
he does 
not 
exist 
in 
any 
society, 
he does 
not 
derive 
his 
sense 
of 
his 
own 
existence 
from 
the 
opinions of others; 
and since 
his 
piety 
is 
- 
140 
- 
in 
no 
way 
diminished by 
dangers 
and 
temptations, 
his 
ethics 
appear 
to 
be 
spontaneous 
and 
his 
goodness 
natural.. 
Against 
the 
operation 
of 
chance 
and 
the 
Adamic 
conception 
of 
David, 
we 
can 
place 
two 
other 
phenomena: 
firstly, 
the 
guiding 
hand 
of 
Providence, 
which 
is 
evident 
in 
Kidnapped 
as 
well 
as 
in 
the 
sequel; 
and, 
secondly, 
the 
existence 
in 
Catriona 
of 
others. 
The former 
is 
a compact 
between 
David's 
piety and virtue, 
and 
his 
fortune 
or 
fate, 
an agreement which 
is 
underwritten 
by 
the 
author 
at 
the 
very end 
of 
Kidnapped: 
The hand 
of 
Providence brought 
me 
in 
my 
drifting 
to the 
very 
doors 
of 
the 
British Linen 
Company's 
bank. 
7' 
That David has 
more 
trials to 
endure 
in 
the 
second volume of 
his 
adventures 
does 
not 
mitigate 
the 
Defoe-like dependence 
of 
piety and 
good 
fortune. 
In 
a postscript, 
the 
author 
confirms 
what we 
have 
expected 
all along 
when 
he 
hastens 
to 
protest 
that 
all went well with 
both, 
in 
the 
limited 
and 
human 
sense 
of 
the 
word 
'well'; 
that 
whatever 
befell 
them, 
it 
was 
not 
dishonour; 
and whatever 
failed 
them, 
they 
were 
not 
found 
wanting 
to themselves 
. 
's 
If 
this 
is 
found 
a 
little 
ambiguous 
as an assurance 
of provid- 
ential 
benignity, 
then 
there 
is 
Stevenson's 
significant 
defence 
of 
the 
realism 
o 
f 
the 
fight in 
the 
roundhouse. 
This 
had 
been 
criticised 
in 
a review 
of 
the 
book 
by Theodore 
Watts-Dunton, 
on 
the 
grounds 
that 
it 
was 
incredible 
that 
an 
unwarlike 
boy 
and 
on e 
soldier 
would 
have been 
able 
to 
fend 
off 
the 
whole 
crew 
of 
the 
Cove 
nant. 
In his 
reply, 
Stevenson 
cites 
a 
most 
un- 
usual 
weapon: 
David 
and 
Alan 
had 
every 
advantage 
on 
their 
side 
- 
141 
- 
- 
position, 
arms, 
training, 
a 
good 
conscience. 
76 
Here 
Alan 
and 
David 
are 
united 
this is 
not 
the 
case 
throughout 
sense 
of 
virtue 
is 
not 
all 
alike, i 
Alan 
Breck 
who 
introduces 
to thf 
action 
and 
the 
eager 
acceptance 
Ballantrae, 
Alan 
is 
a gambler; 
approves 
of 
his friend 
's 
card-pla 
in 
their 
righteousness. 
But 
iidnapped. 
More 
often 
their 
we 
have 
seen 
above. 
It 
is 
adventure 
its 
properties 
of 
chance. 
Like 
the 
Master 
of 
avid, 
on 
the 
contrary, 
dis- 
ng and 
gambling 
activities. 
While 
Alan 
can 
kill 
without 
remorse, 
David 
is 
a self-conscious, 
morally 
querulous and 
inefficient 
fighter. 
On 
the 
basis 
of 
these 
observations, we 
can propose 
that the 
adventurous 
ma. 
ter 
of 
Kidnapped 
conforms 
to 
the 
dual 
meaning 
of 
the 
word 
'aventure' 
as employed 
by 
the 
Arthurian 
roman- 
cers; 
that 
is 
to 
say, 
it includes 
the 
notion of 
random 
encoun- 
ters 
and 
of providence, 
which 
is 
the 
manifestation 
of 
God's 
will 
in 
the 
physical world. 
Yet 
it 
must 
be 
said 
that 
in 
Kid- 
napped 
this 
Providence is 
merely 
a 
shadow of 
the 
vital 
func- 
tion 
of 
God's 
will 
in 
either 
the 
mediaeval 
romances 
or 
in 
later 
Protestant 
stories 
of adventure. 
In 
The 
Quest 
of 
the 
Holy Grail, 
Lancelot's 
knightly 
grace 
is insufficient 
to 
vouchsafe 
him 
the 
ultimate 
vision 
of 
the 
Holy Grail. 
There 
is 
no 
hint 
of 
such 
spiritual 
disbarment 
for 
the 
chivalric 
Alan because Stevenson's 
adventure 
is 
purely 
physical, 
a secular 
romance, 
and 
it 
has 
no spiritual 
ends. 
In 
one 
prototypical 
Protestant 
exemplum, 
Robinson 
Crusoe, 
the 
castaway 
learns 
to 
trust 
and 
submit 
to 
a 
providential 
God. The 
transgression 
which 
has 
caused 
Robinson' 
s 
hazardous 
isolation 
is 
that 
of 
adventurousness. 
He 
has 
thrown 
himself 
upon chance, 
ignoring 
the 
authority 
of 
his 
father. 
When he discovers 
some 
barley 
growing 
on 
the 
island, 
he begins 
to 
perceive 
this 
so 
helpful 
distinction 
between the 
random 
and 
the 
providential: 
It is 
impossible 
to 
express 
the 
astonishment and 
- 
142 
- 
confusion 
of my 
thoughts 
on 
this 
occasion. 
I had 
hitherto 
acted 
upon 
no 
religious 
foundation 
at 
all; 
indeed 
I 
had 
very 
few 
notions 
of 
religion 
in 
rr. 
y 
head, 
or 
had 
entertained 
any 
s ense 
of what 
had 
befallen 
me, 
otherwise 
than 
as 
a chance... 
without 
so 
rauch 
as 
enquiring 
into 
the 
end 
of 
Providence 
in 
these 
things, 
or 
his 
order 
in 
governing 
events 
in 
the 
world. 
77 
Compare 
this 
with 
the 
episode of 
David's 
temporary 
marooning 
on 
Earrid. 
It 
is 
an accident 
borne 
of 
his 
own 
impercipience, 
not of any substantial 
transgression 
of 
moral 
or spiritual 
auth- 
ority: 
I 
have 
seen 
wicked 
men 
and 
fools, 
a great 
many 
of 
both; 
and 
I believe 
they 
both 
get paid 
in 
the 
end; 
but 
the 
fools 
first. 
' 
8 
David 
remains a 
respectful son, an 
involuntary 
adventurer, 
and guilty 
of no 
transgression. 
In 
Catriona 
the 
simplicity of 
David's 
character 
is 
deranged 
because 
the 
opinions and actions of others 
come 
more 
solidly 
between 
his 
thoughts 
and. 
his 
actions 
than they 
do 
in 
the 
first 
volume. 
This 
complication 
of 
David's 
identity 
is 
perhaps 
best 
explained 
by 
referring 
to 
a 
distinction 
that 
is 
made 
by Rous- 
seau, 
between 
amour 
de 
soi 
and 
amour protii r?. 
The 
former 
is 
a property 
of natural 
man, 
the 
latter 
of 
social man: 
One 
must 
not confuse 
amour 
propre with 
amour 
de 
soi... 
Amour 
de 
soi 
is 
a 
natural 
sentiment 
which 
inclines 
every 
animal 
to 
watch 
over 
his 
own 
pres- 
ervation... 
Amour 
propre 
is 
only 
a 
relative 
and 
artificial 
sentiment, 
which 
is 
born 
in 
society 
and 
which 
leads 
every 
individual 
to 
make 
more 
of 
him- 
self 
than 
any 
other. 
If 
this 
is 
well 
understood, 
I 
maintain 
that 
in 
our 
primitive 
condition, 
which 
is 
the 
true 
state 
of 
nature, amour 
propre 
does 
not 
7 
exist 
.9 
And 
in 
that 
same 
text 
Rousseau 
addresses 
himself 
to 
the 
dis- 
tinction which 
Ih 
ave 
been 
making 
in 
terms 
of 
the 
lui 
and 
the 
- 
143 
-- 
moi: 
There 
is 
a 
sort 
of men who 
value 
the 
opinion 
of 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
world, 
who are 
happy 
and content 
with 
th 
mselves 
on 
th-_ testimony 
of 
others rather 
than 
on 
their 
own... 
The 
savage 
lives 
within 
him- 
self; 
social 
man, 
always 
outside 
himself, 
knows 
how 
to 
live 
only 
in 
the 
opinions 
of 
others; 
and 
it 
is, 
so 
to 
speak, 
from 
their 
judgement 
alone 
that 
he 
derives 
the 
sense 
of 
his 
own existence. 
" 
In 
Kidnapped David's 
consciousness 
functioned 
spontaneously 
and 
without 
reference 
to 
others, and 
he 
therefore 
corresponded 
to 
this 
Rousseauistic 
view of 
natural man. 
Whereas 
in 
Catriona 
it 
is 
a 
problem 
whether 
David 
can remain 
true 
to 
himself 
and 
yet 
still 
be 
compatible 
with 
the 
social 
order 
of 
things. 
As 
it 
turns 
out, 
David 
the 
natural 
man 
is 
composed 
into 
a socially 
satisfactory 
position 
by 
the 
end of 
the 
book, 
and 
his 
sense of 
honour 
does 
not need 
to 
surmount 
his 
sense 
of 
legality. 
When David, 
in 
his 
stiff-necked 
fashion, 
suggests 
to 
Catriona 
that 
h 
er 
father, 
James 
More, 
may 
be less 
than 
perfect, 
she 
is 
angry and 
shuns 
him. 
David, 
whose 
intention 
to testify 
on 
behalf 
of 
James 
Stewart has 
already made 
him 
unpopular with 
the 
au 
thorities, 
cannot 
endure 
the 
breaking 
of 
this 
last 
friend- 
ship, 
exclaims, 
'I 
am 
alone 
in 
this 
world 
... 
', 
and 
then 
goes 
on: 
'0, 
let 
me 
have 
one 
to 
believe 
in 
me 
! 
... 
I 
cannae 
bear 
it 
else. 
The 
whole 
world 
is 
clanned 
against 
me. 
How 
am 
I 
to 
go 
through 
with my 
dreadful 
fate? 
If 
there's 
none 
to 
believe 
in 
me 
I 
cannot 
do 
it. 
' 
81 
This 
consciousness 
of 
David 
Balfour's, 
which 
has 
a 
primarily 
ethical 
cast, 
begins 
to 
take 
account 
of 
the 
opinions of others; 
he 
becomes, 
in 
other 
words, 
a 
social 
being: 
I 
should 
trifle 
with my conscience 
if 
I 
pretended 
- 
144 
- 
rimy 
stay 
upon 
the 
Bass 
was wholly 
disagreeable. 
It 
seemed 
to 
me 
a 
safe place, as 
though 
I 
was 
escaped 
there 
out 
of my 
troubles. 
No harm 
was 
to 
be 
offered 
me; 
a material 
impossibility, 
rock 
and 
deep 
sea, 
prevented 
me 
from fresh 
attempts; 
I felt 
I 
had 
pry 
'_4, 
fe 
safe 
and my 
honour 
seife, 
and 
there 
were 
times 
when 
I 
allowed 
myself 
to 
gloat 
upon 
them 
like 
stolen 
waters. 
At 
other 
times 
my 
thoughts 
were 
very 
different. 
I 
recalled 
how 
strong 
I 
had 
expressed 
myself 
both 
to 
Rankeillor 
and 
to 
Stewart; 
I 
reflected 
that 
my captivity 
upon 
the 
Bass, 
in 
view 
of 
a great 
part 
of 
the 
coasts 
of 
Fife 
and 
Lothian, 
was 
a 
thing 
I 
should 
be 
thought 
more 
likely 
to 
have 
invented 
than 
endured; 
and 
in 
the 
eyes 
of 
these two 
gentlemen, 
at 
least, 
I 
must pass 
for 
a 
boaster 
and a 
coward. 
Now 
I 
would 
take this 
lightly 
enough; 
tell 
myself 
that 
so 
long 
as 
I 
stood 
well 
with 
Catriona 
Drummond, 
the 
opinion of 
the 
rest 
of 
man was 
but 
moonshine and spilled 
water.. 
But 
anon 
the 
fear 
would 
take 
me otherwise; 
I 
would 
be 
shaken 
with a perfect panic 
of 
self- 
esteem, 
and 
these 
supposed 
hard 
judgements 
appear 
an 
injustice impossible 
to 
be 
supported 
. 
82 
So, David 
has 
these two 
aspects: 
the 
natural man, 
who 
stands 
out 
from 
the 
strategic 
thinking 
of 
the 
political men around 
him; 
and, on 
the 
other 
hand, 
the 
social 
being 
whose 
shame 
is 
disg 
uised 
as guilt 
and w 
ho 
exhibits 
in 
his 
extensive reflections 
the 
disease 
of civilisation called 
by Rousseau 
amour-pro-pre. 
David's isolation 
on 
the 
Bass 
rock, 
yet 
'in 
view of 
a great 
part of 
the 
coasts 
of 
Fife 
and 
Lothian' 
is 
emblematic 
of 
the 
concordance 
of 
self-determination 
and social 
being 
which 
Steven- 
son effects 
in 
this 
book. 
The 
socially 
disruptive 
elements 
of 
chance 
and 
adventure, 
in 
the 
form 
of 
Alan Breck, 
are pushed 
to 
the 
periphery 
of 
the 
story. 
Providence 
turns 
out 
to 
be fund- 
amentally 
just 
this 
reconciliation 
of 
self and society. 
In Chap- 
ter 
VI 
I 
shall 
examine 
The Master 
of 
Baliantrae, 
in 
which 
a 
more 
antagonistic 
relation 
of 
self and society 
is 
evident. 
Of 
the 
hero 
of 
these 
two 
novels we might say, 
inverting 
Henry 
James's 
formula, 
that 
he 
is 
a 
duteous 
son 
haunted 
by 
a 
Bohemian 
in 
the 
shape of 
Alan 
Breck. 
The 
latter 
appears 
as 
- 
145 
- 
a 
Dcherrian 
to 
David, 
because he 
is 
a 
free 
spirit, with no 
home 
and 
hearth, 
and 
with 
no 
stake 
in 
the 
existing 
order of 
things; 
and 
he 
ends 
up as an exile, at 
home 
nowhere. 
For 
David, 
submission 
of 
the 
self 
to 
society 
is 
sweet 
because 
he 
is 
predisposed 
to 
be 
subsumed 
into 
a 
domestic 
role, 
and 
his 
period 
of 
fretful 
play 
becomes 
t 
olerable 
because 
it 
lies 
in 
the 
past. 
Like 
Frank 
Osbaldistone, 
he 
can 
tolerate 
chance 
and 
wildness 
only 
as 
a 
memory. 
82 
In 
what 
does 
this 
predisposition 
of 
David's 
consist? 
In 
the 
first 
place, 
it 
is 
a consequence 
of race. 
David 
is 
seen as a 
distinct 
Lowland 
type, 
and 
Stevenson 
remarks 
that 
he 
is 
an 
Angle, 
where 
Alan 
is 
a 
pure 
Celt. 
In 
the 
second place, 
we 
are 
told 
that 
David 
was 
his 
father's 
son. 
In Chapter 
VII 
I 
will 
take 
up 
this 
line 
of 
thought 
about 
a very 
important 
motif 
in 
Stevenson's 
work: 
the 
romance 
of 
heredity. 
In 
this 
chapter 
we 
have 
noted 
a number of oppositions 
which 
show 
different 
aspects of 
the 
"I"/"he" 
split: 
Lowland 
and 
Highland; 
law 
and 
lawlessness; 
city and country; community 
and 
hero 
(Alan), 
with 
the 
distance between 
them 
mediated 
by 
Hero 
(David). 
The 
first 
of each pair 
is 
compatible 
with 
the 
"he", 
the 
second of each pair with 
the 
"I". 
CHAPTER 
V 
Exotic 
Places: 
The Self 
and 
Oceania 
'The 
world 
is 
disenchanted; 
over 
soon 
Shall 
Europe 
send 
her 
spies 
through 
all 
the 
land. ' 
(Andrew 
Lang, 'She') 
- 
146 
- 
CHAPTER 
V 
In 
this 
chapter 
I 
want 
to 
discuss 
some 
of 
Stevenson's 
later 
fict- 
ion, 
to 
relate 
its 
themes 
to 
the 
generic 
qualities of 
romance 
and 
place 
them 
within a constellation 
of 
motifs, 
images 
and 
ideas, 
which 
recur 
throughout 
the texts 
of exotic 
literature. 
Specifically, 
I 
shall 
examine 
several 
fictions 
which 
were writt- 
en 
between 
his 
departure 
from 
San 
Francisco 
in 1888 
and 
his 
death 
in 
Samoa 
in 1894. 
It 
is 
reasonable 
to 
suggest 
that the 
decisive 
personal 
experience 
of 
this 
period 
was 
Stevenson' 
s con- 
tact 
with 
the 
cultures 
of 
the 
Southern 
Pacific. His 
professional 
existence 
as 
a 
writer 
also 
was not 
immune 
to the 
impact 
of 
a 
part 
of 
the 
world 
which 
had been 
present 
in 
his 
imagination 
for 
some 
time. 
Ballantyne 
was a childhood 
favourite; later, he 
read 
Melville's 
Pacific 
books 
on 
the 
advice 
of 
Charles 
Warren 
Stoddard, 
an 
American 
who 
had 
travelled 
extensively 
in 
the 
South Seas. 
It 
was 
Oscar Wilde's 
intriguing 
contention 
that 
Stevenson 
would 
have 
written 
far 
more coloured and 
imaginative 
romances 
in 
those 
last five 
years 
had he 
never 
left 
London: 
that the 
South 
Seas became far 
too 
real 
for him 
to 
idealise. 
' 
However, 
we saw 
that 
one of 
the 
virtues 
of 
Stevenson's 
response 
to 
Oceania 
was 
that, 
uncommonly 
for 
the time, 
it 
was not entirely 
an ethno- 
centric 
fantasy 
about 
noble 
savages or man-eating 
barbarians; 
which 
is 
to 
say 
that 
he 
tempered 
what 
he 
wanted 
to 
see with 
what was 
there 
and, moreover, gave 
full 
recognition 
to 
the 
var- 
iety 
of 
those 
cultural 
patterns 
that 
he 
encountered. 
It 
is 
exact- 
ly 
in 
the 
tension 
between 
the 
Pacific 
as 
a complex of 
signs 
which 
were 
a 
product 
of 
the 
European 
imagination 
(a 
mythology 
of 
primitivism 
and/or 
imperialism) 
and 
the 
Pacific 
islands 
as 
they 
actually 
were, 
that 
Stevenson's 
perceptions were 
most 
act- 
ive. 
This 
collision 
of 
literary 
convention 
and 
observed 
reality 
had 
some 
significant 
effects 
on 
subsequent 
fiction. 
_ 
147 
- 
Since 
he 
was 
exposed 
to 
a range 
of 
literary 
attitudes 
to 
the 
Pacific 
before 
he 
ever 
saw 
a 
South 
Sea 
island, 
I 
want 
to 
refer 
in 
the 
first 
place 
to 
several 
literary 
views of 
Oceania. 
These 
form 
a 
very 
small 
sample 
from 
a massive 
literature 
on exotic 
places. 
It 
is 
not 
intended 
to 
argue 
that 
these 
texts 
had 
a 
direct 
influence 
on 
Stevenson ?s 
conception of 
Oceania. They 
sim- 
ply 
represent 
perceptions of primitive 
life 
which 
elucidate 
his 
expectations 
of 
Polynesia 
and 
Melanesia. In 
the 
course of 
the 
nineteenth 
century 
that 
area 
of 
the 
world, 
along with 
Africa, 
became 
the 
object 
of ever more 
intense 
yearnings on 
the 
part 
of 
Europeans 
for 
exotic 
diversity 
and adventure. 
Therefore, 
we 
shall 
also 
consider 
how 
these 
desires 
impinged 
on 
the 
practice 
of 
fiction 
in 
the 
last 
part 
of 
the 
century. 
(For 
related material 
on contemporary 
or 
near contemporary 
developments 
in 
the 
stat- 
us of 
exotic 
milieux 
in 
British fiction, 
see 
the 
Appendix. 
) 
Perhaps 
one 
of 
the 
most sustained pieces 
of 
writing 
on 
the 
South Seas 
from 
a 
distance 
is 
Lord Byron's 
The Island 
(1823). 
It 
is 
an account 
of 
those 
of 
the 
mutineers 
from 
H. M. 
S. Bounty 
who 
went 
from Tahiti 
to 
settle on 
Pitcairn 
Island 
in 
1789. 
This 
narrative 
poem 
describes 
the 
sailors' 
desire 
to 
remain 
on 
the 
'happy 
shores without a 
law' 
which 
is 
their 
'guilt-won 
para- 
dise'. 
' 
In Byron' 
s 
hands, 
the 
island 
becomes 
an exotically col- 
oured 
dream 
of 
Eden: 
The 
goldless 
age, 
where gold 
disturbs 
no 
dreams, 
Inhabits 
or 
inhabited 
the 
shore, 
Till 
Europe 
taught 
them 
better 
than 
before. 
Bestowed her 
customs, 
and amended 
theirs, 
But 
left her 
vices 
also 
to their 
heirs. 
3 
Oddly 
and 
significantly, 
Byron 
applies 
the 
word 
'age' 
to 
the 
island. 
Thus 
space 
has 
been 
transmuted 
into 
time; 
the 
island 
has 
become 
of 
the 
past, 
although 
it is 
not 
in 
the 
past: 
or rath- 
er, 
the 
specific 
milieu 
is 
absorbed 
into 
timelessness. 
Byron 
extends 
the 
typology 
of 
his 
description 
in 
the 
Edenic 
- 
148 
- 
direction: 
Thus 
rose 
a song 
- 
the 
harmony 
of 
times 
Before 
the 
winds 
blew 
Europe 
o'er 
these 
climes. 
True, 
they 
had 
vices 
- 
such 
arg 
nature's growth 
- 
But 
only 
the 
barbarian's 
- 
we 
have 
both: 
The 
sordor 
of 
civilisation, 
mix' 
d 
With 
all 
the 
savage 
which 
man's 
fall 
hath fix'd. 
" 
He 
is 
mythologising 
furiously, 
constituting 
the 
Fall 
as 
a 
lapse 
from 
nature. 
To 
this 
mixing 
of 
the 
historical 
and 
the 
mythical, 
he 
adds 
another 
temporal 
configuration. 
He describes 
Neuha, 
the 
native 
lover 
of 
Torquil, 
as a 
ripe child; 
she 
is 
'the 
infant 
of 
an 
infant 
world's: 
that 
is 
to 
say, childhood 
is 
elevated 
into 
a state 
of 
innocence 
which 
is 
free 
of 
both law 
and guilt. 
Byron, 
then, 
utilises 
two 
different 
kinds 
of 
primitivism: 
chron- 
ological and 
cultural 
primitivism. 
The first 
refers 
to 
a 
felicit- 
ous past, 
and 
human 
history 
as 
a 
long 
decline 
from 
some 
abor- 
iginal 
purity 
to 
corruption; 
the 
passages 
in 
which 
he laments 
the 
inevitability 
of 
European domination 
of 
Oceania 
would come 
under 
this 
dispensation. 
Whereas 
the 
relation 
of childhood 
to 
innocence 
refers us 
to 
a 
cultural primitivism 
which 
is 
recapit- 
ulated 
in 
each 
individual 
biogravhv. 
These 
two 
versions 
of 
primitivism were 
not 
incompatible. 
In fact, 
it 
was common 
for 
the 
savage and 
the 
child 
to 
be linked 
together 
as 
inhabitants 
of a pre-logical 
life 
of 
instinct. 
Even Darwin 
-- 
in 
the 
The 
Voyage 
of 
the 
'Beagle' 
- 
makes 
the 
connection, and 
he 
was 
by 
no means 
a primitivist. 
A 
more radical evaluation emerged 
from 
German 
Romantic 
thought. 
Schiller, for 
instance, 
conceives 
of 
the 
child, and 
the 
savage as 
leading 
the 
same sort 
of 
mental 
life 
as 
the 
creative 
artist: 
to 
each 
he 
attributes 
the 
character- 
istics 
of 
animistic 
perception, 
a 
breaking 
down 
of 
the 
cognitive 
barriers 
between 
subject 
and 
object. 
In 
the 
child and 
in 
the 
savage, 
according 
to 
Schiller, 
we should 
find 
an 
ideal 
model 
of 
the 
self 
in 
harmony 
with 
the 
world. 
He 
parallels 
Byron 
in 
proposing 
this 
twin 
conception 
of 
a 
Golden Age, 
or 
Eden, 
in 
- 
149 
- 
which 
men 
long 
to 
transcend 
their 
alienation 
from 
the 
sphere 
of 
the 
given. 
" 
If 
we 
add 
to 
these 
configurations 
tn? 
imagery 
and 
language 
of 
Bohemianism, 
then 
we 
have 
outlined 
the 
complex 
of 
primitivisms 
to 
which 
the 
late 
nineteenth 
century 
romance 
responded, 
around 
which 
it 
attempted 
to 
adapt 
its 
own 
special 
historical 
world 
view. 
Bohemianism 
crystallised 
the 
quarrel 
between 
the 
Artist 
and 
the 
Bourgeois 
in 
terms 
that 
were 
more 
carefree and 
mun- 
dane 
than 
those 
of 
Byron 
and 
Schiller. 
Nevertheless, 
the 
Bo- 
hemian 
sought 
to 
place 
himself 
outside 
civil society 
in 
much 
the 
same 
alienated 
spirit 
as 
found 
satisfaction 
in 
the 
asocial 
condition 
of 
the 
child 
or 
savage. 
Beranger 
(who 
was 
the 
sub- 
ject 
of a short 
article 
by Stevenson) 
made gypsydom 
a 
gener- 
alised vocation 
in 
his 
'Les 
Bohemians': 
Sans 
pays, sans 
prince 
et sans 
lois, 
Notre 
vie 
Doit 
faire 
envie, 
Sans 
pays, sans prince et 
sans 
lois, 
L'homme 
est 
heureux 
un 
jour 
sur 
trois. 
G 
The first 
line 
of 
the 
above 
verse 
indicates 
that 
another version 
of 
primitivism 
is 
present. 
Each 
of 
these 
three 
expressions 
of 
dissatisfaction 
with 
European 
civilisation 
was of 
considerable 
importance 
to 
Stevenson, 
as 
they 
were 
to 
nineteenth 
and 
twen- 
tieth 
century 
culture 
in 
general. 
However, before 
identifying 
the 
connections 
between Romanticism 
and 
Stevenson's 
art 
we 
shall return 
to the 
specific 
question of attitudes 
to the 
South 
Seas. 
The 
reason 
for 
examining 
The 
Island 
was 
to 
give prominence 
to 
one 
representative 
way 
of 
seeing 
Oceania. 
For Byron, 
who 
had 
never 
been 
there, 
it 
was a mythical place 
like 
the 
Hesper- 
ides. 
It 
acted 
as 
a 
counter 
image 
to 
European 
civility 
and 
was 
a 
product 
of 
a radical 
discontent 
with 
European 
civilisation. 
The 
South 
Seas 
was 
an 
Eden 
constructed out of 
the 
collective 
- 
150 
- 
wistfulness 
of 
European 
culture. 
Byron's 
primary 
sources 
for The 
Island 
were 
the 
iJ 
which 
Captain 
Bligh 
produced 
and 
William 
of 
the 
Tonga 
Islands 
(1817). 
The 
latter, 
a 
stay 
with 
the 
natives of 
those 
islands, had 
on 
the 
primitivist 
aspects 
of 
Byron's 
poem. 
8 
narrative 
`Mariner's 
Account 
record 
of 
a 
long 
the 
most 
bearing 
That 
this 
also 
formed 
a quarry 
for 
R. 
M. Ballantyne's 
Coral 
Island 
is 
made 
clear 
by 
the 
various 
points at 
which 
his 
text 
corresponds 
to 
Mariner's, 
most 
especially 
in 
the 
latter's des- 
cription 
of 
a 
peculiar 
cavern... 
the 
entrance 
to 
which 
is 
at 
least 
a 
fathom 
beneath 
the 
surface of 
the 
sea. 
Mariner 
dived 
into 
the 
water... and, 
guided 
by 
the 
light 
reflected 
from 
his 
heels, 
entered 
the 
opening 
in 
the 
rock, and rose 
into 
the 
cavern. 
9 
This 
whole episode, 
down 
to 
details 
as 
to 
how 
the. 
swimmers, 
transported 
into 
the 
cave 
flints 
wrapped 
in 
plantain 
leaves, 
is 
faithfully 
reflected 
in 
that 
section 
of 
Coral Island 
where 
lack, 
Ralph 
and 
Peterkin 
escape 
from 
the 
pirates 
into 
a similar 
cave. 
- 
Ballantyne's 
story relies on 
Mariner's 
Account 
at 
many 
other 
points. 
But 
how different 
in 
tone 
and perspective 
is 
Ball- 
antyne 
from 
either 
Mariner 
or 
Byron. Here 
is 
what 
Peterkin has 
to 
say 
of 
the 
prospect which 
their 
South Sea 
island 
opens 
up: 
I have 
made 
up my 
mind 
that 
it's 
capital 
- 
first 
rate 
- 
the 
best 
thing 
that 
ever 
happened 
to 
us, 
and 
the 
most 
splendid prospect 
that 
ever 
lay 
be- 
fore 
three 
jolly 
young 
tars. 
We've 
got 
an 
island 
all 
to 
ourselves. 
We'll 
take 
possession 
in 
the 
name 
of 
the 
king; 
we'll 
go 
and 
enter 
the 
service of 
its 
black 
inhabitants. 
Of 
course, 
we'll rise, 
natur- 
ally, 
to 
the 
top 
of affairs. 
White 
men 
always 
do 
- 
151 
- 
in 
savage 
countries. 
' 
? 
And 
he 
goes 
on 
to 
elaborate a 
vision 
of 
paradise 
in 
their 
new 
dominion: 
We'll 
build 
a charming villa, 
and plant a 
lovely 
garden 
round 
it, 
stuck all 
full 
of 
the 
most 
splend- 
iferous 
tropical 
flowers, 
and we'll 
farm 
the 
land. 
'' 
( 
(I 
cite 
Peterkin's 
rather 
suburban 
picture 
for 
two 
reasons: 
to 
indicate 
the 
new colonising 
energy 
which 
appeared more promin- 
ently 
in 
exotic 
literature 
from 
mid-century 
onwards 
than 
it 
had 
previously; and 
to 
remark 
how 
it 
corresponds 
to 
Stevenson's 
life 
at 
Vailima). 
Ballantyne's depiction 
of 
the 
natives, 
in 
the 
latter 
part of 
the 
book, 
as 
brutal 
and 
infantile, 
merely 
confirms what we 
would 
deduce 
from 
the 
above: 
that there 
has been 
a 
decisive 
shift 
in 
the 
way 
of seeing 
the 
same 
material 
from 
Byron' 
s 
Rousseauism 
to 
Ballantyne's 
adventure. 
One 
of 
the 
factors 
contributing 
to 
the 
change was 
the 
development 
of 
a nineteenth century 
ideol- 
ogy of 
imperialism, 
underpinned 
by 
a 
racial 
theory 
and charact- 
erised 
by 
the 
sense of a 
civilising 
destiny. 
Ballantyne' 
s miss- 
ionary 
outlook, 
however, 
does 
not 
have 
solely contemporaneous 
origins. 
As 
his 
indebtedness 
to 
Defoe's Robinson 
Crusoe 
indic- 
ates, 
the 
dependent 
relationship 
of 
black 
to 
white 
and 
the 
col- 
onising 
energy 
had 
appeared 
in 
earlier adventure. 
Stevenson 
was 
well 
acquainted 
from 
an 
early 
age with 
the 
writ- 
ing 
of 
both 
Ballantyne 
and 
Defoe. 
He 
met 
R. M. Ballantyne 
in 
1886; 
and 
in 
the 
conversation 
that 
followed 
the. 
older 
writer's 
refusal 
of 
a 
dinner invitation, 
Stevenson 
confessed 
that 
he 
ad- 
mired 
Coral 
Island 
above 
all 
Ballantyne's 
other 
stories. 
12 
His 
intimate 
connection 
with 
Robinson Crusoe 
does 
not 
have 
to 
be 
rehearsed 
at 
this 
stage. 
Along 
with 
Coral 
Island, 
it 
formed 
a 
local 
climate 
which 
was 
persistently 
present 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
- 
152 
- 
imagination. 
The fantasy 
of 
the 
South Sea 
island 
was, 
in 
each 
case, 
adjacent 
to 
and 
involved 
with a conception 
of 
the 
savage 
or 
primitive. 
Stevenson 
had 
literary 
acquaintance 
with 
European 
attitudes 
to 
aboriginal 
people. 
In 
particular, 
he 
must 
have 
read 
Mon- 
taigne' 
s 
essay 
'Cannibals', 
which 
puts 
forward 
a 
relativist 
view 
that 
is 
sceptical 
of 
Judeo-Roman 
centrism. 
Montaigne 
begins 
by 
noting 
the 
Greek 
habit 
of 
labelling 
all 
foreigners 
barbarians, 
a 
case of 
Hellenic 
ethnocentrism. 
Then 
he 
moves 
on 
to 
discuss 
the 
reports of 
Brazil 
brought 
back 
to 
France 
by 
a 
recent 
expedition, 
and 
remarks: 
From 
what 
I have 
heard 
of 
that 
nation, 
I 
can 
see 
nothing 
barbarous 
or 
uncivilized about 
it, 
except 
that 
we call 
barbarian 
that 
which 
does 
not 
fit 
in 
with 
our usages. 
13 
From 
this 
recognition of provincialism, 
also 
familiar 
to 
us 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
travel-writing 
and 
essays, 
Montaigne 
goes on 
to 
ar- 
gue 
that 
European 
civility 
produces 
a 
'corrupt 
taste' 
which 
is 
unable 
to 
recognise 
its 
own 
prehistory 
in 
a primitive 
society 
where 
men 
'are 
still ruled 
by 
the 
laws 
of 
Nature'. 
They 
are 
still 
in 
that 
happy 
state of not 
desiring 
more 
than 
their 
natural 
needs 
demand. 
"' 
There 
in 
the 
sense of 
the 
previousness of -the natural state 
is 
the 
origin 
of a 
line 
of 
European 
perceptions 
about 
primitive 
people 
that 
was 
bolstered 
by 
its 
analogcus relation 
to 
the 
Christian 
doctrine 
of 
the 
Fall, 
and 
which we 
saw 
in 
The 
Island. 
(The 
Utopian 
nature 
of 
Montaigne's description 
of 
Brazil 
was 
reproduced, 
virtually 
verbatim 
from Florio' 
s 
translation, 
by 
Gonzalo 
in 
The 
Tempest. 
Shakespeare's 
play 
is 
pertinent 
to 
Stevenson's 
fiction, 
in 
that 
the 
archetypal 
figures 
of 
Prospero 
- 
153 
- 
and 
Caliban 
resurface 
in 
some 
of 
his 
stories. 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
enact 
a 
drama 
of 
disowned 
bestiality 
which 
can 
be 
usefully 
com- 
pared 
to 
Prospero's 
relation 
to 
Caliban; 
Attwat 
r, 
in 
Ebb-Tide, 
is 
a 
god-like 
island 
ruler 
of 
the 
Prospero 
sort. 
This 
last 
is 
a 
matter 
we 
shall 
return 
to 
in 
this 
chapter). 
We 
have 
taken 
note 
of several examples 
of a 
massive 
literature 
on 
faraway 
places 
and primitive 
people: a 
literature 
so 
exten- 
sive 
and powerful 
that 
its, 
admittedly 
various, significations 
could substitute 
direct 
observation 
of 
'native' 
cultures, 
reveal- 
ing 
that 
primitive 
life 
was a 
subjective 
need 
and 
a recurrent 
part of 
the 
existence 
of 
Europe 
itself. 
In 
the 
nineteenth cent- 
ury, 
the 
confrontation 
of 
Caliban 
and 
Prospero 
was given 
a 
new 
force 
by 
two 
phenomena: 
Darwinism 
and 
its 
related racial 
theories; 
and 
second, 
by 
the 
emergence of an explicit 
imperialist 
ideology. 
Both had 
a 
bearing 
on 
the 
fiction 
of 
the 
late 
nine- 
teenth 
century 
in 
Britain. 
The 
Congress 
of 
Berlin, 
which 
culminated 
the 
scramble 
for 
Africa- by 
dividing 
that 
continent and 
Oceania 
amongst 
the 
Great Powers, 
took 
place 
in 
1884-5. 
Treasure Island 
was pub- 
lished 
in 
1884. 
Rider Haggard 
claimed 
to 
his brother 
that 
he 
could 
write 
an exotic romance at 
least 
as 
good, 
and 
King 
Solomon's 
Mines 
duly 
appeared 
in 
1885. Both 
Kidnapped 
and 
She 
came 
out 
in 
1886. 
There 
is 
no causal 
relation 
between 
that 
pol- 
itical 
event and 
these 
literary 
ones. 
However, 
the 
expansion of 
the 
new 
Empire brought 
about, 
at 
the 
very 
least, 
a 
public 
int- 
erest 
in 
distant 
lands 
which 
was 
contemporary with a 
demand 
for 
exotic 
romances. 
(Stevenson's 
Kidnapped 
may 
seem 
an odd 
citation 
in 
this 
context. 
But 
although 
it is 
not set 
in 
a 
distant 
land, its 
central 
conflict 
of an 
old 
clan society 
and 
a 
modern 
civil 
state 
is 
indirectly 
bound 
up with 
the 
imperial 
project). 
Romance 
fiction 
was 
seen 
by 
many critics 
as opposed 
to the 
'realistic" 
novel 
and 
it 
had 
no 
lack 
of 
distinguished 
supporters 
amongst 
the 
reviewing 
establishment. 
Saintsbury, Henley 
and 
k 
?t. 
_ 
-_ 
f 
- 
154 
- 
Lana 
(all 
friends 
of 
Stevenson) 
were 
prominent 
propagandists 
and 
the 
latter 
made 
an explicit 
connection 
between 
the 
roman- 
cers 
and 
an 
earlier generation 
of 
imperialists: 
There 
has, 
indeed, 
arisen 
a 
taste 
for 
exotic 
liter- 
ature: 
people 
have become 
alive 
to the 
strangeness 
and 
fascination 
of 
the 
world 
beyond 
the 
bounds 
of 
Europe 
and 
the 
United States. 
But 
that 
is 
only 
be- 
cause 
men of 
imagination 
and 
literary 
skill 
have 
been 
the 
new 
conquerors, 
the 
Cortezes 
and 
Balboas 
of 
India, 
Africa, 
Australia, 
Japan 
and 
the 
isles 
of 
the 
southern 
seas. 
All 
such 
writers... 
have, 
at 
least, 
seen 
new 
worlds 
for 
themselves... 
... 
they 
are 
rather 
to 
be 
counted among romantic- 
ists 
than 
realists, 
however 
real 
is 
the 
essential 
truth 
of 
their 
books. 
" 
Lana 
was an anthropologist 
as 
well 
as a critic, 
and 
an under- 
lying 
awareness of 
the 
presence 
in 
romance 
of 
a 
mythical 
appeal comes 
through 
his 
writing: 
Romance 
is 
permanent. 
It 
satisfies 
a 
normal 
and 
permanent 
human 
taste, 
a 
taste 
that 
survives 
through 
all 
the 
changing 
likes 
and 
dislikes 
of 
critics. 
6 
He 
consistently 
championed 
Stevenson 
and 
Haggard 
in 
his 
wide- 
ly 
read 
'At 
the 
Sign 
of 
the 
Ship' 
column 
in 
Longman's, 
Magaz- 
ine. 
Saintsbury 
was 
a 
less 
facile 
proponent 
of 
romance. 
He 
shared 
with 
Lang 
certain 
conceptions 
and misconceptions, which 
come 
out most 
strongly 
in 
a piece which 
he 
wrote on 
'The 
Present 
State 
of 
the 
Novel'. 
There, 
Saintsbury 
pictures 
a 
war 
between 
Realism 
and 
Romance 
which 
he 
confuses 
with 
a struggle 
between 
pessimism 
and 
optimism. 
His 
views are 
historically 
interesting, 
nevertheless. 
He 
conceives 
of 
Stevenson 
and 
Haggard 
as 
the 
leading 
practitioners 
of 
'the 
pure romance', 
representing 
a 
Wordsworthian 
return 
to 
a simpler natural 
world. 
Indeed, 
Saintsbury 
is 
at 
one 
with 
Lang 
in 
assuming 
Romance 
to 
be 
a 
- 
ID-5 
- 
reactionary 
tendency 
and 
a 
return 
to 
fundamentals; 
it 
will 
not 
be 
'a 
mere 
passing 
phenomenon' 
17 
like 
the 
analytic 
novel 
of 
character 
and 
manners. 
The 
latter, 
he 
says, 
anticipating 
Held- 
egger's 
objection 
to 
science, 
is 
so 
tied 
to 
observation 
that 
it 
will 
even-Lually 
only 
be 
able 
to 
repeat 
what 
has been 
said 
be- 
fore; 
whereas 
the 
writer 
of 
romances 
is 
in 
'no 
danger 
of 
repet- 
ition' because 
he 
'is 
only 
drawing 
deeper 
on a perennial 
source' 
.18 
Thus 
the 
reaction 
is 
a 
neo-Romantic 
impulse. 
It 
approves 
the 
power 
of 
the 
aboriginal 
tales 
and 
recommends 
dis- 
pensing 
with close 
psychological 
analysis 
and 
dealing 
with 
act- 
ion. 
Stevenson 
himself 
echoed 
this 
notion 
in 
his 
advocacy 
of 
the 
adventure 
story 
which 
turned 
on a 
purely material 
interest, 
'problems 
of 
the 
body 
and 
of 
the 
practical 
intelligence, 
in 
clean, 
open-air 
adventure, 
the 
shock 
of arms 
or 
the 
diplomacy 
of 
life'. 
19 
Stevenson' 
s writing 
on 
romance 
in 
no way 
constitutes 
a pro- 
gramme. 
It 
is 
rather 
in 
the 
nature of a 
self-administered vacc- 
ination 
against 
current 
orthodoxies. 
He 
often promotes notions 
for 
which 
he 
himself found 
no use 
in 
the 
exact 
form 
in 
which 
they 
were 
articulated 
in 
his 
essays. 
Indeed, 
chronologically 
they 
are preliminary 
formulations, 
antedating 
as 
they 
do 
most 
of 
his 
actual 
fiction. However, 
their 
melange of aims, 
roots, 
antecedents 
and 
methods, made 
the 
act of 
writing possible 
for 
him. Further 
that they 
were put 
forward 
as 
part 
of 
a 
revival 
of 
romance 
fiction 
is 
clear. 
I 
want 
to 
take 
just 
one 
point 
that 
Stevenson 
made 
in 'Humble 
Remonstrance'. 
It 
is 
a 
criticism of 
William 
Dean 
Howell's 
theory 
of 
fiction, 
and 
thus 
an 
attack on 
one 
branch 
of 
Realism: 
He 
dreams 
of 
an 
advance 
in 
art 
like 
what 
there 
is 
in 
science, 
he 
thinks 
of 
past 
things 
as 
radic- 
all 
y 
dead; 
he 
thinks 
a 
form 
can 
be 
outlived: a 
strange 
immers 
ion 
in 
his 
own 
history; 
a 
strange 
for 
getfulness 
of 
the 
history 
of 
the 
race. 
2 0 
- 
156 
- 
This 
is 
worth 
remarking 
because 
it 
implicitly 
connects 
the 
per- 
sistence 
of archaic, 
or 
past, 
forms 
in 
the 
race 
with 
the 
living 
presence 
of 
the 
old 
forms 
of 
art. 
The 
existence 
of 
a 
transper- 
sonal 
instinctual 
life, 
he 
insists, 
ensures 
that 
we 
cannot 
dis- 
own 
the 
old 
tales: 
A 
trade 
that 
touches 
nature, 
one 
that 
lies 
at 
the 
foundations 
of 
life, 
in 
which 
we 
have 
all 
had 
an- 
cestors 
employed, so 
that 
on 
a 
hint 
of 
it 
ancestral 
memories 
revive, 
lends 
itself 
to 
literary 
use, vocal 
or 
written. 
The fortune 
of a 
tale 
lies 
not alone 
in 
the 
skill of 
him 
that 
writes, 
but 
as 
much 
in 
the 
inherited 
experience 
of 
him 
who reads; and 
when 
I 
hear 
with a particular 
thrill 
of 
things 
that 
I 
have 
never 
done 
or seen, 
it is 
one of 
that 
innumer- 
able 
army 
of 
my ancestors 
rejoicing 
in 
past 
deeds. 
21 
Compare 
this 
with 
Andrew 
Lang: 
The 
natural people, 
the 
folk, 
has 
supplied us, 
in 
its 
unconscious 
way, with 
the 
stuff of all our 
poetry, 
law, 
ritual: and genius 
has 
selected 
from 
the 
mass, 
has 
turned 
customs 
into 
codes, 
nursery 
tales 
into 
romance, 
myth 
into 
science... 
The 
stud- 
ent of 
this 
lore 
can 
look 
back 
and see 
the 
long- 
trodden 
way 
behind 
him... 
He 
sees 
the 
caves, 
the 
camps, 
the 
villages... where 
the 
race 
has 
tarr- 
ied. 
22 
Much 
of 
the 
feeling 
is 
similar; 
so vital 
to 
Stevenson, 
that the 
the 
archaeology 
of 
the 
self. 
but Lang lacks 
the 
recognition, 
archaeology 
of 
culture 
is 
also 
The 
presence 
of 
archaic 
physical 
forms 
is 
associated 
by Steven- 
son 
almost wholly 
with 
instincts; 
and 
they 
are antithetical 
to 
men 
as 
social 
beings. 
Stevenson 
was 
sceptical 
of 
the 
explanat- 
ory 
breadth 
of 
the 
principle of 
natural 
selection, 
but 
the 
gen- 
eral 
evolutionary 
perspective 
was 
not 
one 
that 
he 
tried 
to 
flee, 
and 
the 
assumption 
of post-Darwinian 
anthropology 
that 
contem- 
porary 
primitive 
people 
represented 
an 
earlier 
stage 
of 
the 
races 
on 
his 
own 
continent, 
is 
confirmed 
in 
much of 
his 
writing 
- 
157 
- 
-, 
bout 
Oceania. 
Hence 
his 
Seas 
was 
a step 
back 
in 
opportunity 
to 
observe 
the 
not 
to 
a 
race 
of 
Hydes, 
fo 
tain 
kind 
of 
civilisation, 
Loudon 
Dodd 
like 
this: 
conviction 
time 
(see 
earlier 
cor 
r 
he 
is 
the 
but 
to 
a 
that 
going 
to 
the 
South 
Travel Chapter) 
and an 
editions 
of 
his 
race; 
back 
distorted 
result 
of a cer- 
happy 
land 
pictured 
by 
'Man 
moving 
in 
these 
scenes 
scarce 
fallen, 
and 
woman 
lovelier 
than 
Eve; 
the 
primal 
curse abrog- 
ated, 
the 
bed 
made 
ready 
for 
the 
stranger, 
life 
set 
to 
perpetual 
music. 
23 
His 
image, 
which 
is 
prior 
to 
any 
actual experience of 
the 
Pac- 
ific islands, 
is 
akin 
to 
that 
of 
Byron 
and 
Montaigne 
in its 
espousal 
of 
the 
potent conception 
of 
the 
noble savage 
in 
an 
Edenic 
setting. 
We 
shall 
see 
shortly what 
becomes 
of 
that 
dream 
in 
Stevenson's 
hands. 
At 
the 
moment, 
it is 
enough 
to 
note 
its 
unreal quality, 
its 
origin 
in 
desire 
and 
in 
the 
liter- 
ary 
imagination 
(Dodd 
has 
just 
been 
reading 
Melville's 
Omoo) 
of 
a 
Western 
man. 
The 
imputed 
power of 
the 
islands 
to trans- 
form 
the 
degrading 
condition 
of men, 
to 
recover 
their 
lost feli- 
city, 
is 
going 
to 
be 
of 
interest 
to 
Stevenson 
and 
evidence of 
his 
involvement 
with 
Oceania 
as 
a 
literary 
myth. 
Before 
discussing The Wrecker 
(1892), 
I 
would 
like 
to touch 
on 
the 
other 
factor 
that 
I 
mentioned 
as 
being 
concomitant with 
an 
opening 
up of 
the 
world 
to 
late 
nineteenth 
century 
fiction: 
the 
new 
Empire. 
The 
Empire 
as 
a 
fulfilment 
of 
the 
dreams 
of 
Europ- 
ean 
man 
proved 
a 
very marketable 
quality 
from 
the 
1880s 
on. 
I 
put 
it 
that 
way 
because 
I 
wish 
to 
suggest 
that 
the 
imperial 
psychology 
could 
precede 
any 
colonial 
experience, a 
point 
which 
is 
made 
ably 
by 
0. 
Mannoni: 
What 
the 
colonial 
in 
common 
with 
Prospero 
lacks, 
is 
aw 
areness 
of 
the 
world of others... 
This 
is 
the 
world 
from 
which 
the 
colonial 
has 
fled... 
It 
is 
al- 
ways 
a 
question 
of compromising 
with 
the 
desire 
for 
a 
world 
without 
m en. 
24 
- 
X53 
- 
Hannah 
Arendt 
would 
seem 
to 
support 
this 
rather 
sweeping 
state- 
ment 
when 
she 
calls 
the 
first 
colonists 
of 
the 
'new' 
Empire 
'the 
superfuous 
men; spat 
out 
by 
Europe, 
they 
speak 
through 
Kipling's 
poem: 
Ship 
me somewheres 
east 
of 
Suez 
where 
the 
best 
is 
like 
the 
worst, 
Where 
there 
aren't 
no 
Ten 
Commandments, 
an' a 
man 
can 
raise a 
thirst. 
25 
These 
dispossessed 
men 
achieve 
their 
most 
distinguished 
and 
complex 
representation 
in 
the 
fiction 
of 
Joseph 
Conrad. But 
Stevenson' 
s 
South Seas 
Stories 
abound 
with men with 
'pasts' 
and 
dreams 
of 
transforming 
wealth. 
Indeed, 
the 
connection 
be- 
tween 
exotic 
adventure 
and 
money 
is 
dimly 
adumbrated 
in 
Treasure Island. 
However, 
it 
only achieves explicit recognition 
in 
Wrecker 
and 
Ebb-Tide. 
Many 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
tropical 
charac- 
ters 
remind 
one 
of 
Markheim 
trying 
to 
make 
himself 
invisible 
to 
God, hiding 
in 
his bed, 
unwitnessed. 
(Interestingly, 
Marlowe 
in 
Conrad's 
Lord Jim 
reckons 
that 
Jim 
is 
saveable 
because 
of 
his 
anxiety 
to 
be 
witnessed, which 
is 
what 
makes 
him 
one 
of 
'us'). 
The 
colonial 
in 
Stevenson's 
Pacific 
projects 
his 
own 
black 
heart 
onto 
a 
dependent 
native 
race. 
In fact, 
as 
we shall 
see, 
the 
dream 
of 
the 
Prosperos 
is 
comparable 
to 
Jekyll's 
antinomian 
invention 
Hyde, 
a 
desire 
for 
existential 
freedom. 
Stevenson's 
unwillingness 
to 
endorse 
the 
imperial idea 
was, 
typically, 
rooted 
in 
his 
conception of 
identity. 
Imperialism 
re- 
quired 
an 
assumption of 
a political 
centre 
which 
could 
be 
the 
source 
of moral 
and spiritual 
authority 
for 
its 
dominions, 
a 
latter-day 
Rome. 
His 
distrust 
of 
that 
is 
not 
simply 
based 
on 
the 
observation 
that 
'some 
of 
the 
majesty of 
the 
British Empire 
dwells 
in 
the 
constable's 
truncheon' 
26, 
but 
on 
a 
distinct 
diffi- 
culty 
in 
recognising 
an 
authentic centre 
of moral 
and. 
spiritual 
authority 
anywhere. 
To 
illustrate 
the 
decentred 
nature 
of 
the 
world, 
he 
turned 
to 
the 
metaphor 
of 
the 
maze 
or 
labyrinth 
as an 
image 
of 
confusion: 
- 
159 
- 
How 
if 
there 
was 
no centre at 
all, 
but 
just 
one 
alley 
after 
another, 
and 
the 
whole 
world 
a 
laby- 
rinth 
without 
end 
or 
issue? 
And 
then to 
Pascal's 
anguished 
conception: 
There 
is 
no 
centre 
to 
the 
maze 
because, like 
the 
famous 
sphere, 
its 
centre 
is 
everywhere. 
What 
is 
more, 
the 
labyrinth 
is 
in 
constant 
Darwinian 
movement: 
, 
tie 
cannot 
even 
regard 
ourselves 
as 
a constant; 
in 
this 
flux 
of 
things, 
our 
identity 
itself 
seems 
in 
a 
perpetual 
variation. 
27 
The 
above 
is 
a commonplace 
of 
the 
post-Darwinian 
generation, 
and 
perhaps 
even 
frivolous 
in 
a sense. 
However, Stevenson's 
friend 
J. A. Symonds 
identified 
this 
loss 
of 
fixity 
as 
being 
one 
of 
the 
key 
effects 
of 
Darwin's 
researches 
on 
his 
contemporaries 
By 
penetrating our minds with 
the 
conviction 
that 
all 
things 
are 
in 
process, 
that 
the 
whole universe 
is 
literally 
Becoming, 
it 
has 
rendered 
it impossible 
for 
us 
to 
believe 
that 
any 
one creed or 
set 
of 
opinions possesses 
finality. 
2 
We 
can see 
that this 
uncertainty, 
where 
the 
subject and 
object 
of 
cognition 
are 
in 
flux, 
can make 
things 
awkward 
for 
a 
writer. 
As Edward 
Said 
put 
it, 
it is 
hard 
to 
author a 
text 
when 
the 
origins of 
the 
world 
into 
which 
the text 
is 
born 
are 
in 
doubt. 
29 
Stevenson' 
s 
fiction 
exemplifies 
the 
problems of 
auth- 
ority 
not 
just 
in 
being 
peopled 
by 
orphans 
and 
outcasts, 
but 
also 
in 
the tentativeness 
with which 
texts themselves 
are 
prof- 
fered. 
Sometimes 
this 
is 
done lightly. 
Nevertheless, 
look 
at 
the 
multiplication 
of 
authors 
in 
Dr Jekyll, 
everyone 
starting 
again 
to 
tell 
a 
story; 
not only 
is 
the 
identity 
of 
the 
main 
protagonist 
fragmented, 
the 
story 
is 
also 
fragmented. A 
similar 
fertility 
of 
sources 
distinguishes 
Master. There, 
the 
main 
narrator 
does 
not 
appear 
anonymous 
and godlike. 
Instead, 
we see 
the 
inter- 
- 
160 
- 
action 
of 
teller 
and 
tale; 
a 
dynamic 
structure 
is 
given 
to 
the 
novel, 
so 
that 
it 
becomes 
difficult for 
Stevenson 
to 
conclude. 
The 
Wrecker 
is 
a 
loose 
scan 
of 
Stevenson's 
own past, 
a 
dis- 
illusioned 
commentary 
on 
treasure 
islands 
and 
a multiplex 
bun- 
dle 
of 
narratives. 
It 
seems, 
therefore, 
a 
good 
place 
to 
continue 
the 
preceding 
remarks 
and 
take 
us 
to 
the 
edge of 
Stevenson' 
s 
Oceania. 
It 
is 
ironic 
that the 
The Wrecker 
is 
the 
result of a 
collabor- 
ation 
between Stevenson 
and 
his 
stepson, 
between 
a 
pseudo- 
father 
and 
his 
pseudo-child. 
The 
irony 
exists 
because 
the 
story 
is 
suffused 
with 
intimations 
of sterility 
and 
littered 
with 
in- 
stances 
of 
the 
failure 
of continuity 
between father 
and 
son. 
Loudon Dodd 
and 
his father 
misunderstand 
each 
other 
complete- 
ly; 
Jim Pinkerton 
is 
an 
orphan; 
Captain 
Nares 
ran away 
from 
home: 
'his 
temper 
had 
been 
ungovernable 
from 
the 
first; 
and 
it is 
likely 
the 
defect 
was 
inherited, 
and 
the 
blame 
of 
the 
rupture 
not 
entirely 
his' 
30; 
Carthew 
is 
banished by 
his 
father 
to 
Australia, 
where 
he 
eventually 
severs 
even 
the 
slim 
connect- 
ion 
with 
his family 
which was provided 
by 
a regular 
and min- 
uscule allowance. 
On 
a slightly 
different 
tack, 
Bellairs 
has 
been 
deserted 
by his 
wife, which 
further 
establishes 
the 
ab- 
scence of 
domestic family 
existence 
from 
this 
novel. 
This 
is 
just 
what we 
would 
expect 
from 
an adventure 
novel, 
the 
dropping 
of 
typical 
social 
relations 
which 
we 
have 
noted 
elsewhere. 
But 
the 
disintegration 
of 
families is 
accompanied 
by fractures in 
the 
narrative 
itself. 
There 
is 
more 
than 
one 
narrator; 
the 
story 
is 
stopped 
and 
restarted elsewhere, 
filled 
out 
by 
someone 
else 
- 
and 
these 
restarts 
are never 
balanced 
at 
the 
other 
end. 
Let 
us 
look 
at 
how 
eccentrically 
structured 
the 
narrative 
is. 
It 
begins 
with 
a 
segment of anonymous 
first 
person 
narrative, 
set 
in the 
South 
Seas 
and 
introducing 
us 
to 
Loudon Dodd. 
Then 
there 
is the 
longest 
section of 
the 
story, 
Dodd' 
s 
first 
person 
- 
161 
- 
narrative, 
closely 
paralleling 
Stevenson's 
own 
life. Another 
fair- 
ly 
lengthy 
part 
consists 
of 
Carthew's 
own 
narrativ`. 
It 
overlaps 
temporally 
with 
Dodd' 
s narrative 
and represents 
some 
of 
the 
events 
in 
it 
from 
a 
different 
angle. 
Finally, 
the 
story 
is 
rounded 
off 
by 
the 
epilogue 
in 
which 
stray 
ends of 
the 
tale 
are 
rounded 
up and 
the 
authors 
offer 
an apology 
for 
their 
meth- 
od 
and 
a 
dedication. Each 
section 
of 
the 
novel 
finishes 
in 
an 
open 
ended 
way, 
due 
to 
the 
almost 
circular 
structure 
of 
the 
text 
as 
it keeps 
moving 
back 
in 
time. 
The 
authors connect 
this 
circularity 
to Dickens' 
late 
novels and 
to 
the 
mystery story: 
We had long 
been 
at 
once 
attracted 
and 
repelled 
by 
that 
very 
modern 
form 
of 
the 
police novel or 
mystery 
story, 
which consists 
in 
beginning 
your 
yarn anywhere 
but 
at 
the 
beginning, 
and 
finishing 
it 
anywhere 
but 
at 
the 
end; attracted 
by 
i 
ts 
pecul- 
iar interest 
when 
done, 
and 
the 
peculiar 
difficult- 
ies 
that 
attend 
its 
execution; repelled 
by 
that 
appearance 
of 
insincerity 
and shallowness 
of 
tone, 
which 
seems 
its inevitable 
drawback. 
For 
the 
mind 
of 
the 
reader, 
always 
bent 
to 
pick up 
the 
clues, 
receives no 
impression 
of reality or 
life, 
rather 
of 
an 
airless 
elaborate 
mechanism; 
and 
the 
book 
re- 
mains 
enthralling, 
but 
insignificant, 
like 
a game 
of 
chess, 
not a 
work 
of 
human 
art. 
31 
These 
objections 
to the 
mechanical 
nature of 
the 
mystery 
story 
come unexpectedly 
from 
a man who, 
not 
ten 
years 
earlier, was 
insisting 
upon 
art 
being 
an 
autonomous set 
of 
media 
like 
a 
work 
of geometry 
- 
or, 
it 
might 
be 
said, a game of 
chess. 
That 
aside, 
however, 
the 
above objections 
decided 
the 
authors 
to 
approach 
the 
mystery 
element of 
the 
novel 
obliquely 
and 
start 
the 
book 
'in 
the 
tone 
of 
a novel 
of manners 
and 
exper- 
ience 
briefly 
treated. 
'32 
Hence, 
the 
first 
section of 
The Wrecker 
relates 
the 
early 
life 
of 
Loudon 
Dodd 
in 
an 
attempt 
to 
give 
characterological 
substance 
and 
'life' 
to 
his 
subsequent advent- 
ures. 
But 
this 
is 
not 
quite 
an 
adequate 
or 
the 
most 
fitting 
des- 
cription 
of 
the 
function 
of 
the 
Paris 
section of 
the 
novel. 
Dodd 
is 
not 
more 
rooted 
in 
a 
living 
community 
then 
than 
he 
is 
after- 
wards; 
and 
it 
is 
this 
displaced 
condition, 
this 
lack 
of 
belong- 
- 
162 
- 
ing, 
which 
is 
everywhere 
throughout 
The 
Wrecker 
and connects 
Dodd' 
s 
narrative 
with 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
tale. 
The 
epilogue 
says 
that 
the 
authors 
intended 
the 
novel 
to 
be 
'full 
of 
details 
of our 
barbaric 
manners 
and unstable 
. 
mor- 
als' 
33 
; 
and 
one 
is 
struck 
by 
the 
revelatory strength 
of 
that 
'unstable'. 
For 
it 
is 
the 
lack 
of continuity 
and of 
a 
robust 
social 
identity 
that 
form 
the theme 
of 
The Wrecker 
and 
which 
we 
have 
seen 
to 
be 
realised 
in 
the 
instability 
of 
the text 
it- 
self. 
Discontinuity 
and 
aridity 
attend 
every enterprise 
of 
the 
book's 
orphans; 
so 
that 
when 
Loudon Dodd finally 
admits 
de- 
feat 
in 
Paris, he 
declares 
he 
is 
'no longer 
an. artist, no 
longer, 
myself' 
3 
be 
, 
co 
nfirming 
in 
these 
words 
that 
his 
very 
exist- 
ence 
was a 
dream 
which 
he 
could 
not sustain; 
or again, 
Car- 
thew 
brings 
to 
an end 
the 
ancient 
gracious paternalism 
of 
his 
family, 
becoming 
at 
the 
end a prince-in-exile 
to 
his 
retainers 
and 
tenants 
and 
unable 
to 
have 
an 
heir. 
The disintegration 
of 
the 
family, 
and 
especially 
the 
son's 
alien- 
ation 
from 
the 
father, 
signify 
an absence of moral authority 
which 
we 
have 
remarked 
before 
and 
which 
is 
concomitant 
with 
a 
shifting 
presentation of 
personality. 
Ballairs, 
the 
ineffect- 
ually 
vicious 
lawyer 
(like 
Nares, 
officially 
barred 
from 
his 
profession) 
turns 
out 
to 
be 
acquainted 
with someone called 
'Go-ethe' 
and 
a sentimentalist; 
he 
also supports an 
unfaithful 
and alcoholic 
wife 
who 
nowise 
appreciates 
his 
aid. 
Nares 
him- 
self 
is 
a strange mixture 
of cruelty 
and selfless 
dedication. 
Jim 
Pinkerton is, 
to 
Dodd, 
the 
most 
interesting 
of 
these 
moral 
chameleons. 
Loudon 
calls 
him 
a 
'benignant 
monster' 
35 
to 
his 
own 
Frankenstein. 
And 
while 
this 
is 
not 
a very evocative anal- 
ogy, 
it 
does 
give 
the 
reader 
a clue 
to 
Pinkerton's 
comic 
basis 
in 
his 
innocent 
enthusiasm 
for 
criminal 
ventures, 
in 
his 
un- 
educated 
naivety. 
Pinkerton's 
character 
forms 
an antithetical 
counterpart 
to 
Loudon 
Dodd's, 
particularly 
in 
respect 
of 
the 
interaction 
of 
art 
and 
commerce. 
(Actually, 
The 
Wrecker 
has 
a 
good 
deal 
to 
say 
about art and artists). 
But 
it is 
Dodd's 
own 
- 
163 
- 
disillusion 
that 
facilitates his 
understanding 
of 
Jim. 
In Paris, 
Loudon 
is 
reduced 
to 
a 
level 
of existence 
from 
which 
his 
fath- 
er's 
wealth 
had 
previously protected 
him. 
The 
lesson is 
brought 
home 
in 
one 
episode. 
He 
goes, 
absolutely 
destitute, 
to 
borrow 
money 
from 
the 
successful 
English 
artist 
Myner 
and 
he 
is 
refused. 
Myner 
outrages 
him 
by 
asking 
him 
to 
keep his 
pro- 
jects 
for 
continued 
survival 
in Paris 
within 
the 
bounds 
of 
honesty 
: 
'Honest? 
honest? 
' I 
cried. 
'What do 
you 
mean 
by 
calling 
my 
honesty 
into 
question? 
' 
'I 
won' 
t, 
if 
you 
don't 
like 
it, 
' he 
replied. 
'You 
seem 
to 
think 
honesty 
as easy as 
Blind Man's 
Bluff. 
I 
don't. 
It' 
s some 
difference 
of 
definition'. 
36 
And 
the 
difficulty 
of 
being 
honest, both 
morally 
and artist- 
ically, 
is 
crushingly 
borne 
in 
upon 
Dodd 
throughout 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
story. 
The 
old 
French 
maestro 
tells 
him 
that 
he 
has 
some 
talent: 
'enough 
for 
a son of a 
reech man 
- 
not 
enough 
for 
an orphan'. 
37 
(The 
psychology 
of 
Dodd' 
s 
situation 
had 
a 
counterpart 
in 
Stevenson' 
s own 
life. 
He 
became 
uncomfortably 
conscious 
that 
his 
youthful 
contempt 
for 
the 
bourgeois 
and 
for 
commercialism was only 
possible 
through 
his father's 
wealth. 
v 
A1_5o, 
at 
the 
time 
of 
writing 
The Wrecker his doubts 
about 
his 
own capabilities 
were very 
strong. 
) 
The 
irony 
in 
this 
becomes 
explicit 
through 
Jim 
Pinkerton, 
whose 
passion 
for 
making 
money 
is 
as 
single-minded and 
contemptuous 
of all other 
commitments 
as was 
Dodd's 
to 
his 
sculpture. 
Jim 
resembles 
his 
father, 
too. 
Pinkerton 
certainly 
brings 
him 
a 
new, 
if 
bemused, 
tolerance 
of 
his 
late father 
who 
'laid 
out, 
upon 
some 
deal... 
which 
was 
little 
better 
than 
highway 
robb- 
ery, 
treasures 
of 
conscientiousness 
and self-denial' 
.38 
This 
is 
a 
good 
example 
of 
the 
local 
and 
schematic 
wit of 
the 
novel. 
The 
comic 
incongruity 
of 
the 
elder 
Dodd' 
s greed and 
asceticism 
broadens 
into 
a 
wider, 
still 
humorous but 
bitter, 
comedy 
of 
reversal 
- 
for, 
Loudon 
exercises 
a 
magnificently conscientious 
- 
164 
- 
rapaciousness 
in 
order 
to 
obtain 
the 
opium 
in 
the 
grim 
central 
adventure 
of 
The 
Wrecker. 
What 
makes 
the 
comedy 
in 
the 
novel 
ultimately 
so 
acerbic 
is 
the 
barren 
nature 
of all 
the 
activity 
in 
it. 
Throughout 
the 
work 
dreams 
are 
blighted; 
and 
this 
is 
emphasised 
by 
the 
order 
in 
which 
events 
are 
told, 
beginning 
as 
the 
novel 
does 
in 
the 
downbeat 
atmosphere of 
the 
Marquesas 
Islands. 
Dodd 
is 
content, 
but 
has declined 
into 
contentment, 
so 
that 
even 
the 
narrator's 
attempt 
to 
evoke a magical 
South 
Sea 
island is 
placed against 
Dodd's 
blase 
acceptance 
of 
his 
surroundings: 
To 
Dodd 
and 
his 
entertainer, 
all 
this 
amenity 
of 
the 
tropic 
night, 
and 
all 
these 
dainties 
of 
the 
island 
table, 
were 
grown 
things 
of 
custom. 
3 
9 
Thus 
a 
tone 
of 
disillusionment has been 
established 
at 
the 
beginning; 
Dodd 
has 
settled 
for 
what 
is 
and abandoned 
his 
dreams 
of 
being 
a sculptor. 
Indeed, 
in 
diagrammatic 
terms this 
is 
the 
most 
typical 
movement 
in 
The 
Wrecker, 
this 
falling 
into 
things 
as 
they 
are. 
As 
such, 
The Wrecker 
constitutes 
an 
in- 
direct 
critique of 
the 
idea 
of romance 
itself. 
I 
want 
to 
examine 
that 
notion now. 
Secular 
romance 
is 
relatively 
unconcerned with 
the 
object 
world. 
In fact, 
it is 
precisely a narrative strategy required 
by 
the 
author 
that 
dictates 
the 
pace, 
direction 
and 
matter of 
the 
tale, 
because 
he 
is 
not 
tied 
to 
a 
direct 
trust 
of physical 
nature 
but 
to the 
unknown. 
The 
sudden revocable 
transformat- 
ions 
of consciousness 
and matter 
can 
be 
seen 
in 
the 
fairy 
tale 
(for 
example, 
'The Bottle 
Imp', 
'The Snow 
Queen') 
or 
in 
some 
fantastic 
stories 
(for 
example, 
Frankenstein, 
Metamorphoses, 
Dr 
Jekyll). 
More 
exactly, 
romance 
confronts 
the 
reader 
with 
the 
strange, 
which 
is 
as 
often 
as not 
a 
definition 
of 
the 
natural 
world 
quite 
familiar 
to 
us 
from dreams. As far 
as 
Stevenson's 
personal 
experience 
of 
creation was concerned, 
the 
imaginat- 
ion's 
plastic 
power 
to 
transform 
was 
a 
dreaming 
quality. 
We 
- 
165 
- 
are 
offered 
freedom 
in 
relation 
to 
the 
external 
world, 
not 
in 
relation 
to 
ourselves; 
yet 
this 
reduced 
area 
of 
freedom 
cannot 
be 
found 
elsew. 
ti 
here. In 
literature 
it is 
language 
that 
gives 
the 
writer 
and 
reader 
their 
power over 
the 
object world; 
for, 
lang- 
uage 
can 
abolish 
the 
resistance 
to thought 
which 
is 
encountered 
in 
the 
world 
of objects; 
it is 
a 
shaping and 
transforming 
med- 
ium. Romance, 
in its 
purest 
form, 
recognises 
that 
it 
cannot 
sub- 
stitute 
language 
for 
the 
real 
world. 
Life, 
it is 
suggested 
in 
those 
early 
essays 
'Gossip 
on 
Romance' 
and 
'Humble 
Remon- 
strance', 
is 
externally so 
full 
and 
rich 
and, 
in 
variety 
and 
mobility, 
so 
beyond 
our powers 
of synthesising 
and 
represent- 
ing, 
that 
art 
must 
be 
an arbitrary 
imposition, 
an 
eidetic 
form 
bearing 
an, at 
the 
most, oblique 
relation 
to 
life. 
It 
is 
this 
eidetic quality, 
the 
inherited 
conventions of 
form 
and 
ideas, 
that 
becomes 
more 
problematic 
for Stevenson 
in 
some 
of 
his 
later 
stories. 
We 
observe 
in 
The Wrecker 
and 
Ebb-Tide 
a 
greater 
distrust 
of 
the 
romantic moment of 
delightful 
quiddity 
and 
enlargement 
of spirit, 
the 
convention 
of 
transformation. 
Those 
two 
stories 
and 
Master 
do 
not 
dispense 
entirely 
with 
romance 
conventions; rather, 
they 
re-write 
them 
and 
in 
so 
do- 
ing 
extend 
to them 
a subtlety and capacity 
for 
negating 
their 
own vision which 
appoints 
a 
sceptical 
dimension 
to 
these tales. 
One 
of 
the 
tasks 
of exotic 
romance was 
to 
discover 
a 
strange 
beauty. 
For 
Stevenson, 
as 
for 
many other artists, 
the 
idea 
of 
the 
Golden 
Isle 
was 
a particularly 
potent source 
of strange 
beauty. 
In Ballantyne's 
Coral 
Island, 
a relatively 
impoverished 
text 
at most 
times, 
the 
lagoon 
is 
registered 
lyrically 
and 
the 
reader's 
generic 
expectations 
are 
the 
target. 
In 
the 
South 
Seas 
has 
a 
comparable 
passage, 
describing 
the 
Casco's 
arrival 
at 
an 
island 
in 
the 
Paumotus 
Archipelago: 
The 
water, 
shoaling 
under 
our 
board, 
became 
changed 
in 
a 
moment 
to 
surprising 
hues 
of 
blue 
and 
grey; 
and 
in 
its 
transparency 
the 
coral 
branched 
and 
blossomed, 
and 
the 
fish 
of 
the 
in- 
- 
loo 
- 
land 
sea 
cruised 
visibly 
below 
us, 
stained 
and 
striped, 
and 
even 
beaked 
like 
parrots 
... 
I 
have 
since 
entered, 
I 
suppose, 
some 
dozen 
atolls 
in 
different 
parts 
of 
the 
Pacific, 
and 
the 
experience 
has 
never 
been 
repeated. 
That 
exquisite 
hue 
and 
transparency 
of submarine 
day, 
and 
these 
shoals 
of 
rainbow 
fish, 
have 
not 
enraptured me 
again. 
" 
Notice 
that 
here 
the 
exotic 
moment 
is 
captured, 
but 
then 
comes 
the 
significantly 
emphatic 
statement, 
it 
is 
made 
twice, that 
the 
magical 
sight 
has 
never 
recurred; and 
so 
it 
ceases 
to 
be 
cap- 
able 
of 
permanence. 
A 
similar 
reduction occurs 
in 
Ebb-Tide, 
as 
the 
Farallone 
enters 
the 
lagoon 
of 
Zacynthos: 
She 
floated 
on 
the 
bosom 
of 
the 
lagoon, 
and 
below, 
in 
the transparent 
chamber of waters, 
a 
myriad of 
many-coloured 
fishes 
were sporting, a 
myriad 
pale 
`lowers 
of 
coral 
diversified 
the 
floor. 
Herrick 
stood 
transported. 
In 
the 
gratified 
lust 
of 
his 
eye, 
he forgot 
the 
past and 
the 
present; 
forgot 
that 
he 
was 
menaced 
by 
a prison on 
the 
one 
hand 
and 
starvation 
on 
the 
other; 
forgot 
that 
he 
was 
come 
to 
that 
island, 
desperately 
foraging, 
clutch- 
ing 
at expedients. 
A 
drove 
of 
fishes, 
painted 
like 
the 
rainbow and 
billed like 
parrots, 
hovered 
up 
in 
the 
shadow 
of 
the 
schooner, 
and passed clear 
of 
it, 
and 
glinted 
in 
the 
submarine sun. 
They 
were 
beautiful like 
birds, 
and 
their 
silent 
passage 
impressed 
him 
like 
a strain 
of song. 
?? 
Once 
again 
the 
rapturous moment 
is 
fenced 
in 
by bathos, 
the 
vivid 
language 
is 
located 
alongside 
matter 
of a 
contradictory 
tone. 
Effectively, 
the 
relationship 
of reader 
and 
text 
has 
been 
altered 
from 
what 
it 
is in 
the 
conventional 
picture 
of exotic 
beauty, 
because 
the 
reader 
has been 
offered a qualified 
image 
and 
cannot participate 
in 
the 
picture 
to the 
extent 
that 
Steven- 
son 
demanded 
in 
Treasure 
Island 
or 
Ballantyne 
in 
Coral 
Island. 
In 
the 
Ebb-Tide 
passage, 
Herrick's 
position 
- 
the 
move- 
ment 
out 
of 
time: 
'he 
forgot 
past 
and 
present' 
- 
is 
that 
of 
the 
reader 
of 
naive 
romance; 
he 
is 
transported. 
But 
the 
ecstatic 
experience, 
for 
the 
reader 
and 
Herrick, 
comes up against 
a 
broader 
awareness 
of 
the 
actual 
desperation 
of 
Herrick' 
s posit- 
- 
167 
- 
ion. 
A 
fracture 
of 
the 
continuity 
of perspective 
and 
tone 
at 
'expedients/A 
drove 
of 
fishes' 
prevents 
the 
epiphany 
from being 
in harmony 
with 
the 
rest 
of 
that 
passage. 
The disparity is 
also 
hinted 
at 
grammatically: 
the 
repetition 
of 
'forgot', 
the 
simple 
adjacency 
of 
'foraging', 
'clutching' 
- 
another repetition 
- 
replay 
a 
nervous 
insistence 
which 
stands 
in 
contrast 
to 
the 
expansiveness 
of 
the 
surrounding 
description 
with 
its 
pleni- 
tude 
of 
metaphors. 
As 
the 
narrative 
develops 
this 
disharmony 
broadens 
and 
Zacynthos 
emerges 
as 
beautiful 
and 
dangerous, 
a 
topographical 
femme 
fatale. 
In 
that 
passage 
from 
Ebb-Tide, 
the 
romance of 
the 
lagoon, 
for 
Herrick, 
lies 
in its 
power 
of 
inducing 
absence. 
(The 
presiding 
image 
of 
romance 
in 
the 
novel 
is 
the 
magic carpet of 
Arabian 
ghts, 
a 
false 
hope). 
It 
is 
precisely 
this 
absence 
that 
sur- 
rounds 
Loudon Dodd's 
every 
thought 
and 
which 
he 
mistakes 
for 
imagination. 
And 
when 
Dodd, 
retracing 
Stevenson's 
own move- 
ments, 
fetches 
up 
in 
San Francisco, he, like Stevenson, 
finds 
it 
above 
all 
evocative of other places. 
He 
remarks 
of 
the 
city: 
She keeps... 
the 
doors 
of 
the 
Pacific 
and 
is 
the 
port 
of 
entry 
to 
another world and 
an earlier 
epoch 
in 
man's 
history. 
(Notice 
the 
returning 
in 
time 
metaphor which 
was 
touched 
on 
in 
Chapter 
One 
and 
in 
the 
remarks 
on 
Byron). 
The 
prominence 
given 
in 
Dodd's 
conception of 
the 
South Seas 
to 
its 
being 
"a 
world 
elsewhere" 
is 
further 
emphasised when 
he 
meets a certain 
San Francisco 
character who 
had 
travelled 
all over 
Polynesia. 
This 
figure 
corresponds 
to 
Charles Warren 
Stoddard, 
the 
author 
of 
South 
Sea Idylls 
(1873), 
whom 
Stevenson 
met 
in 
San Fran- 
cisco 
in 
1880. 
In 
Stoddard's 
house Dodd 
is 
surrounded 
by 
Pac- 
ific 
artefacts, 
evidences 
and 
samples 
of another 
earth, 
another 
climate, 
another 
race, 
and 
another 
(if 
a 
ruder) 
culture. 
a3 
- 
168 
- 
"Stoddard" 
gives 
Dodd 
copies 
of 
his 
own 
book 
(South 
Sea 
Idyls, 
presumably) 
and 
Melville' 
s 
Omoo. 
The literary 
exper- 
ience, 
for 
Dodd 
as 
for 
Stevenson, 
preceded 
acquaintance 
with 
the 
South 
Pacific 
islands. 
Dodd 
touches 
on 
this 
gap: 
One 
thing 
I 
am sure: 
it 
was 
before 
I had 
ever 
seen 
an 
island 
worthy 
of 
the 
name 
that 
I 
must 
date 
my 
loyalty 
to the 
South 
Seas. 
"" 
The 
dream 
is 
of 
a 
freer 
world, 
a primitivist 
fantasy 
of 
a 
self- 
sufficient 
existence 
denied 
by 
contemporary 
civilisation. 
It 
is 
one 
of 
the 
ironies 
of 
The Wrecker 
that 
money 
is 
the 
basis 
of 
transformation in 
the 
modern 
world, which 
is 
where 
Jim 
Pink- 
erton 
finds 
his 
romance. 
Money 
is 
characterised 
as 
a 
fecund 
and 
pioneering 
force; 
for 
Jim 
every 
dollar 
gained 
was 
like 
something 
brought 
ashore 
from 
a mysterious 
deep; 
every 
venture 
made 
was 
like 
a 
diver's 
plunge-45 
And 
when 
he 
invests Loudon' 
s cash: 
Dollars 
of 
mine were 
tacking 
off 
the 
shores 
of 
Mexico, 
in 
peril of 
the 
deep 
and 
the 
guarda- 
costas; 
they 
rang on 
saloon counters 
in... 
Ariz- 
ona, 
they 
shone 
in 
faro-tents 
among 
the 
mountain 
diggings; 
the 
imagination 
flagged 
in 
following 
them. 
' 
Money 
is 
an adventurer. 
A 
novel 
should 
be 
able 
to 
create 
it3 
context, 
testify to 
its 
own 
antecedents 
and 
the 
nature 
of 
its 
relationship 
to them. 
The 
Wrecker 
is 
not 
a rich 
enough 
text to 
realise 
its 
simultaneous 
adoption 
and 
criticism 
of 
its 
own 
antecedents 
in 
a very 
coher- 
ent 
way. 
However, 
it is 
best 
understood 
within 
the 
context 
of 
earlier 
exotic 
romances 
and 
Stevenson's 
own 
previous 
work; 
it 
is a 
critical 
gloss 
on 
them. 
For 
example, 
the 
quest 
for 
gold 
in 
- 
169 
- 
Treasure 
island left Jim 
and 
his 
friends 
untainted; whereas 
in 
The 
the 
Wrecker 
the 
quest 
for 
wealth 
corrupts 
the 
searchers. 
As 
for 
pore 
general 
conception 
of a 
Pacific 
Eden, 
a condition 
of 
innocence 
and 
happiness into 
which 
the 
dreamer 
may 
be 
changed 
- 
this 
has 
been deformed 
in 
a critical 
fashion 
to 
suggest 
that 
its 
Circean 
attractiveness 
is 
dependent 
on 
its 
being 
a 
place 
elsewhere, a condition 
to 
which 
one 
is 
directed 
by desire 
. 
Stevenson 
had 
become 
more 
interested 
in 
the 
failure 
of 
Eden 
than 
he 
was 
before. In 
fact, 
the 
Pacific 
island 
which 
Dodd 
eventually 
makes 
is 
Midway, 
a 
scrub-covered sandbar, 
and 
his 
boat 
is 
a 
'vulture' 
come 
to 
pick 
the 
bones 
of 
the 
Flying 
Scud; 
the 
object 
of 
his 
quest 
is 
not 
even 
there 
to 
be 
found. 
The 
moral ugliness of 
the 
whole 
episode 
is 
sensationally 
dramatised 
in 
the 
frantic 
search 
amongst 
the 
rice 
that 
is 
soaked 
in 
the 
blood 
of 
the 
sea-gulls 
the 
sailors 
have killed. 
47 
But 
it is in 
Carthew's 
account of 
his 
sojourn 
on 
Midway 
that the 
"desert 
island" 
theme 
is 
most 
thoroughly 
deromanticised. 
Having 'Landed 
safely, 
Carthew 
invited 
his fellow 
adventurers 
to 
look 
around: 
They 
did, 
and 
saw 
the 
hollow 
of 
the 
night, 
the 
bare bright 
face 
of 
the 
sea, 
and 
the 
stars regard- 
ing 
them... 
In 
that 
huge 
isolation, 
it 
seemed 
they 
must 
be 
visible 
from China 
on 
the 
one 
hand 
and 
California 
on 
the 
other. 
" 3 
It 
is, 
in 
fact, 
a 
desolate 
emptiness 
in 
which 
their 
"treasure' 
(the 
trading 
profit) 
is 
of 
no use 
to 
them, 
is incapable 
of 
trans- 
forming 
their 
conditions. 
Furthermore, 
the 
consciousness 
Dodd 
had 
of 
'zones 
unromanised' 
is 
given 
a new 
dimension 
by 
the 
violence which 
emerges 
amongst 
Carthew' 
s 
party: 
In 
that 
sava 
e, 
houseless isle, 
the 
passions 
of 
man 
had 
sounded, 
if 
only 
for 
the 
moment, 
and 
all 
men 
trembled 
at 
the 
possibilities 
of 
horror. 
49 
The 
Wrecker, 
in 
this 
respect, 
anticipates 
another revision 
of 
- 
170 
- 
the 
theme 
of 
the 
island 
idyll, 
William 
Golding 's Lord 
of 
the 
Flies. 
S? 
The 
characters 
assembled 
in 
The Wrecker 
are 
almost all 
discont- 
ents 
of 
civilisation. 
They 
have, 
to 
a 
greater 
or 
leiser degree, 
been 
ejected 
by Europe 
or 
America 
and 
swallowed 
up 
into 
a 
peripheral 
existence 
characterised 
by 
a 
moral 
instability. 
Like 
the 
tattooed 
white man of 
Tai-o-hae, 
they 
go 
through 
a 
form 
of 
cultural 
ingestion 
that 
is inseparable 
from 
moral alienation. 
Stevenson 
shares 
Bishop 
Blougram's 
concern: 
Our 
interest's 
on 
the 
dangerous 
edge 
of 
things, 
The 
honest 
thief, 
the tender 
murderer. 
" 
This 
is 
undoubtedly a generic phenomenon 
to 
some 
extent, a 
characteristic 
target 
of 
adventure 
stories. 
However, 
it 
is 
also 
a consistent 
theme 
in 
Stevenson's 
moral world. 
As 
a 
result, 
the 
demoralised 
adventures 
and 
traders 
he 
met 
in 
the 
Pacific 
could 
not 
fail 
confirm 
the 
crucial status 
he habitually 
gave 
to 
the 
outcast and provide 
new 
material 
for his 
art. 
Just 
as, 
in 
Amateur 
Emigrant, Stevenson 
had 
apprehended 
that the 
pilgrims 
were 
not sturdy pioneers 
optimistically setting out 
for 
the 
land 
of 
opportunity, 
but 
defeated 
men and women 
escaping 
their 
old 
lives; 
so 
he 
perceived 
that the 
most 
interesting 
whites 
he 
met 
had been 
spat out 
by Europe 
and 
America 
and 
had 
come 
to 
the 
South Pacific 
to 
hide 
or 
to 
make 
a 
last, 
desperate 
attempt 
to 
garner 
a 
fortune. 
It 
was, with 
central 
Africa, 
the 
last 
place 
of 
hope 
in 
a world 
being 
colonised 
by 
the 
railways, 
the 
tele- 
graph, 
the 
bureaucratic 
empires. 
As Stevenson 
knew, Oceania 
was 
changing, 
even 
then; 
he lent his 
weight 
to the 
resistance 
of 
colonial 
assimilation. 
It 
was 
becoming 
harder, 
nevertheless, 
for 
the 
'evergreen 
old 
salt' who 
was 
'still 
qualified... 
to 
adorn 
another 
quarter-deck 
and 
lose 
another 
ship' 
to 
find 
'an 
owner 
unacquainted 
with 
his 
story' 
. 
52 
For 
the 
cosmopolitan 
group 
evoked 
at 
the 
beginning 
of 
The Wrecker 
freedom 
was something 
- 
171 
- 
which 
one 
might 
be 
fortunate 
enough 
to 
come 
across 
-a 
sharp 
deal, 
a 
deserted 
pearl 
island. 
But, 
they 
are 
consumed 
by 
their 
life 
and 
only 
the 
dull 
and 
unimaginative 
survive, 
in 
a moral 
sense, 
with 
any comfort. 
For 
example, 
Wiltshire in 
'The 
Beach 
of 
Falesd' 
manages 
to 
do 
the 
right 
thing 
by 
a 
sort 
of 
instinct, 
for 
he 
cannot 
understand 
the 
implications 
of 
his 
situation. 
In 
this 
Stevenson 
prefigures one of 
Conrad' 
s prominent 
themes: 
the 
man 
who 
is 
saved 
by his lack 
of 
imagination 
and 
lack 
of self- 
consciousness, 
like 
McWhirr 
in 
Typhoon. 
It 
is 
this 
squalid 
background 
that 
Stevenson deals 
with 
direct- 
ly 
in 
Ebb-Tide, 
and 
its 
opening passage 
invites 
comparison 
with 
that 
first 
section 
of 
The Wrecker. 
We 
observe 
the 
under- 
lying 
suggestion 
that 
the 
European 
presence 
is 
far from benefic- 
ial; 
the 
sense, 
also, 
of 
the 
erosion of cultural 
identity 
under 
the 
conditions 
of 
exile: 
Throughout 
the 
island 
world of 
the 
Pacific, 
scatt- 
ered 
men of many 
European 
races 
and 
from 
almost 
every grade of 
society 
carry activity 
and 
dissemin- 
ate 
disease. Some 
prosper, 
some 
vegetate. 
Some 
have 
mounted 
the 
steps 
of 
thrones 
and 
owned 
island 
and navies. 
Others 
again... 
dressed 
like 
a native... entertain an 
island 
audience 
with 
mem- 
oirs 
of 
the 
music-hall. 
And 
there 
are still 
others, 
less 
pliable, 
less fortunate, 
perhaps 
less base, 
who 
continue, 
even 
in 
these 
isles 
of plenty, 
to 
lack bread. 
At 
the 
far 
end of 
Papeete, 
three 
such 
men were 
seated on 
the 
beach 
under 
a purao 
tree. 
53 
'The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa' 
deals 
with 
the 
more official 
drama 
of 
trader, 
missionary 
and 
native; 
yet 
it is 
still 
set 
prior 
to 
bur- 
eaucratic 
assimilation. 
Samoa, 
at 
the time 
Stevenson 
lived 
there, 
was 
still 
ostensibly 
an 
independent 
kingdom. 
He 
chose 
to 
settle 
on 
Upolu 
because it 
was 
less 
civilised 
than 
Hawaii 
or 
Honolulu. 
However, 
in 
addition 
to the 
similarity of 
milieux, 
these 
stories 
ought 
to 
be 
taken 
together 
as maps of 
the 
condit- 
ion 
of 
exile, 
a 
state 
with 
which 
Stevenson 
was 
struggling 
to 
- 
172 
- 
come 
to 
terms 
at 
the time 
he 
was 
writing 
them. 
(Ebb- 
Tide 
'. 
bias 
planned 
and 
drafted 
in 
1891, 
then 
dropped; 
The 
Wrecker, 
started 
afterwards, 
w 
as 
finished 
in 
'92, 
the 
same 
year 
as 
'Beach' 
was 
written; 
and 
Ebb-Tide 
was resumed and 
finished 
in 
the 
next 
year 
at 
the 
instigation 
of 
Graham 
Balf 
our, 
the 
writer's 
cousin 
.) 
5" 
In 
these 
stories 
Stevenson 
is 
handling 
various 
possibilities 
for 
the 
exile, 
not 
offering 
definitive 
representations. 
Nevertheless, 
certain 
preoccupations 
are 
carried 
over 
from his 
earlier work 
into 
these 
new 
settings. 
In 
particular, 
exile 
from 
the 
homeland 
is 
still 
closely 
associated 
with alienation 
from 
the 
self: 
'Out 
of 
my country 
and 
myself 
I 
go', 
Stevenson 
quoted 
in 
Amateur 
Emigrant. 
The South Seas 
novels are 
axial 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
devel- 
opment 
from 
Hazlittean 
joy in 
the 
loss 
of 
self 
to 
a 
more 
com- 
plex 
assessment 
of 
the 
gains and 
losses 
involved in 
such anon- 
ymity. 
The Pacific 
islands 
formed 
a plausible 
context 
for 
obser- 
ving 
transgression, 
particularly 
violence, against a 
back- 
ground 
of exile. 
Ebb-Tide 
(1893), 
in 
two 
sections callied 
'Trio' 
and 
'Quartette' 
, 
could also 
be 
seen 
as 
falling 
into 
three 
parts: 
the 
first deal- 
ing 
with 
Herrick, Davis 
and 
Huish 
"on 
the 
beach" 
in 
Papeete 
(Tahiti) 
; 
the 
second 
describing 
their 
escape on 
the 
Farallone; 
and 
the 
third 
taking 
place on 
Zacynthos, 
the 
pearl 
island 
and 
bringing 
in 
the 
fourth figure, Attwater. 
Each 
of 
these 
parts 
provides a 
distinct 
set 
of 
conditions 
within which 
the 
charact- 
ers operate, 
like 
three 
scenes of a play. 
There 
is 
no progress- 
ion in 
this 
triad. 
Each 
stage 
of 
the 
novel 
is 
a more or 
less 
radical 
redefinition 
of 
the 
original 
conditions which give 
body 
to the 
moral 
anatomy 
of 
decivilisation 
or exile. 
The 
three 
sections 
move 
the trio 
of 
characters 
from 
an 
initial, 
trapped 
situation, 
to 
a voyage, 
then 
to 
a perilous 
and 
beauti- 
ful 
destination. 
They 
have 
been 
brought 
down 
to 
beggary 
and 
are 
ne' 
er-do-wells 
on 
the 
verge 
of 
imprisonment. 
(They 
actually 
- 
173 
- 
take 
shelter 
from 
rough 
weather 
in 
Papeete's 
former 
prison. 
) 
Each 
has 
a 
different 
response 
to 
his decivilised 
stage; 
the 
per- 
ceptions 
of 
exile 
are 
dispersed 
amongst 
them, 
so 
that 
for 
the 
reader 
these 
various reactions modify each other 
- 
although 
it 
must 
be 
noted 
that 
Herrick's 
point 
of view 
has 
an 
authority 
and 
fullness 
which 
derives 
from 
his 
position 
as 
a 
'reflector' 
within 
the 
narrative 
scheme 
of 
the 
novel. 
His 
thoughts 
are 
ex- 
pressed 
in 
a 
free 
indirect 
speech 
which 
is 
largely 
denied 
the 
other 
characters. 
It 
is 
Herrick 
who carries 
the 
freight 
of 
the 
moral 
problem 
of 
decivilisation, 
and 
the 
others 
realise 
further 
facets 
of 
that 
dilemma 
of existence. 
Even 
when 
Herrick 
is 
talk- 
ing 
to 
another, 
he 
is 
essentially 
talking to 
himself. 
(Stevenson 
always 
imagines 
from 
the 
subjective 
outwards 
to the 
other; 
that 
is, 
the 
other appears 
through 
the 
individual 
consciousness. 
In 
contrast, 
one 
might 
compare 
his 
friend Henry 
James. 
In James 
the 
characters speak 
to 
each 
other! 
) 
. 
In 
the 
dialogue 
Herrick 
presents a 
fluid, 
as 
it 
were 
ranked, 
definition 
of 
his loyalties. One 
example 
will 
suffice. 
The 
trio 
are 
on 
the 
ship 
which 
they 
have 
stolen. 
Through Davis' 
drunk- 
enness 
the 
stores 
have 
been 
severely 
depleted 
and are 
insuffi- 
cient 
to take 
them to 
either 
Samoa 
or 
Peru. 
Davis, forgetting 
that 
he 
was 
to 
blame 
for 
the 
situation, 
threatens to 
punish 
the 
native cook. 
At 
that 
point 
Herrick 
intervenes: 
'You 
will 
not 
lay 
a 
finger 
on 
that 
man... 
The 
fault 
is 
yours 
and 
you 
know 
it. 
' 
Then 
Huish 
adds 
a 
further 
assault on 
the 
American: 
'Well! 
' 
drawled 
Hu 
ish 
, 
'you're 
a plummy 
captain, 
ain't 
you? 
You're 
a 
blooming 
captain! 
' 
Whereupon 
Herrick 
shifts 
ground: 
'That 
will 
do, 
Huish, 
' 
said 
Herrick... 
'I 
stand 
- 
174 
- 
by 
the 
Captain... 
That 
makes 
us 
two 
to 
one, 
both 
good 
men. 
'55 
Just 
at 
that 
point, 
as 
the 
conflict comes 
to 
a 
head, 
land 
is 
sighted, 
and 
the 
fourth 
figure 
is 
about 
to 
enter 
the 
story. 
I 
wish 
to 
focus 
attention on 
the 
shift 
in 
Herrick's 
allegiance; 
when 
Huish 
gives 
his 
view 
the 
whole 
equation 
changes. 
The 
shifting 
strategies 
of 
the 
speakers 
in 
the 
above 
scene, 
typical 
of 
this 
story, 
fully 
justify 
the 
musical 
analogy 
in 
the 
titles 
of 
the 
two 
main sections 
of 
the 
novel. 
We 
shall 
see 
how 
the 
inter- 
play 
of 
the 
characters 
deepens 
in 
the 
Zacynthos 
passages. 
The flow 
of attraction 
and repulsion 
amongst 
the 
figures 
comes 
from 
their 
various 
reactions 
to 
exile. 
Herrick 
'had broken 
the 
last 
bonds 
of self--respect' 
56 
by 
coming 
anonymously 
to 
the 
South Seas. 
(Compare 
the 
change 
of names 
in 
this 
case 
with 
the 
similar 
disguise 
in 
The 
Wrecker. 
In 
each case a 
loss 
of 
prev- 
ious 
normative 
identity is implied. 
) 
Herrick 
is 
a 
man 
running 
away 
from failure 
and 
his. Western 
trajectory 
- 
Europe, 
Amer- 
ica, 
Pacific 
- 
follows Stevenson's 
movements and 
bathetically 
mimics 
the 
optimistic 
plea 
to 
'Go 
west, 
young 
man! 
'. Herrick 
is 
distinguished 
from his 
companions 
by 
a 
heightened 
sense of 
shame 
as well 
as 
by 
his 
copy 
of 
Virgil, 
the 
imperial 
poet par- 
excellence. 
Shame 
produces 
in 
him 
a 
feeling 
of personal crisis, 
of 
his 
latest 
failure 
impelling 
him 
towards 
suicide or a 
last 
desperate 
act. 
As 
he 
later 
tells 
Davis 
'Another 
week 
[ 
i. 
e. 
on 
the 
beach] 
and 
I'd have 
murdered 
someone 
for 
a 
dollar! 
God! 
and 
I 
know 
that? 
And 
I'm 
still 
living? 
It' 
s 
some 
beastly 
dream. ' 
5' 
In 
fact, 
he 
is 
nearer 
murdering 
himself. 
He 
invites 
Davis 
to 
commit 
suicide 
with 
him 
to 
avoid 
the 
shame 
of 
stealing 
the 
Farallone. 
His 
awareness 
of 
crisis 
is 
dramatised 
when 
he 
scrawls 
the 
first 
bars 
of 
Beethoven's 
Fifth 
Symphony 
on 
the 
prison 
wall. 
This 
melodramatic 
gesture 
shows 
the 
connection 
of 
- 
175 
- 
his 
threadbare 
self-esteem 
to 
the 
culture 
of 
Europe. 
Indeed, 
it 
is 
Europe, 
and 
his 
memories 
of 
domesticity 
most vividly, 
which 
live 
in 
him 
and constitute 
both 
his 
sense 
of a 
witnessed 
exist- 
ence 
and 
his 
shame. 
Thus, 
he 
also 
writes 
on 
the 
wall: 
'terque 
quaterque 
beati 
Queis 
ante 
ora 
patrum' 
. 
('three 
and 
four 
times 
blessed 
those/Who 
fell before 
their 
fathers' 
eyes'. 
Aeneid 
1,15- 
16)5 
8. 
Herrick's 
destiny 
will 
be far less 
decisive 
than 
Aeneas', 
just 
as 
the 
imperium 
of 
his 
whole 
race 
is 
less 
glorious. 
The 
appeal 
to the 
father 
as 
a 
witness 
('ora 
patrum') 
shows 
Herrick 
turning 
to 
a 
lost 
moral 
authority. 
Davis 
and 
Attwater 
will 
be 
pertinent 
to 
this 
need: 
'sinful 
father', 
Attwater 
calls 
the 
former; 
and 
it 
emerges 
that 
Davis' 
favourite 
daughter does 
not 
exist, 
she 
is 
dead. 
Attwater 
is 
a 
more convincing 
substitute 
father 
than 
Davis. 
But 
in 
this 
decentred 
world, what else 
could 
fathers 
be but false? 
- 
and 
he 
turns 
out 
to 
be 
so 
too. 
The Father 
- 
God 
- 
also echoes 
behind 
the 
use 
of 
'father. The 
name 
of 
God 
reverberates 
throughout 
Ebb-Tide, 
a repetition 
which 
must 
be 
the 
deliberate 
strategy of 
the 
novelist. 
Davis 
pleads 
with 
Herrick 
to 
make 
the 
escape 
from 
Papeete 
on 
the 
grounds 
that 
he 
is 
a 
father 
and 
it 
would. 
be 
morally wrong 
to 
destroy himself by 
staying on: 
'Say 
no, and 
God 
pity me! 
Say 
yes, 
and 
his 
children will 
pray 
for 
you every night 
on 
their 
bended knees. "God 
bless 
Mr Herrick ! 
"' 
59. 
However, 
the 
moral 
credibility of 
this 
exhortation 
is 
evanescent. 
In 
that 
same 
plea 
Davis has 
urged 
Herrick 
to 
put aside 
his 
scruples: 
' What 
matter 
laws, 
and 
God, 
and 
that? 
' 
Herrick 
accedes: 
'I'll 
do 
it: 
a 
strange 
thing 
for 
my 
father's 
son.. 
. 
I'll 
stand 
by 
you, 
man, 
for 
good or evil. 
' 
I 
shall 
follow 
this 
one 
word 
'God' 
through the text. 
It 
is 
used 
so 
frequently 
that 
it 
is impossible 
to 
note 
its 
every 
appear- 
- 
176 
ance; 
but 
we 
can 
get 
some 
i 
ea 
of 
the 
rep 
etitions 
it 
undergoes 
and 
the 
variety 
of emphases 
and 
meanings 
which 
accompany 
it. 
We 
have 
seen 
Davis 
employing 
it 
both 
as a curse 
and 
as 
a 
sentimental 
appeal 
to 
Herrick. 
This 
may alert us 
to the 
fact 
that 
it 
is 
as 
variable 
as everything else 
in 
Davis' life, in- 
cluding 
his 
non-existent 
daughter. His 
references 
to 
God 
cannot 
be 
given 
more 
than 
an 
emotional 
locus 
until 
we place 
them 
alongside 
the 
consciousness 
of 
fate 
and 
of 
witness, which 
cons- 
titute 
Herrick's 
idea 
of 
God. 
As 
was previously noted, 
the 
char- 
acters 
are 
interdependent, 
and 
the 
one 
unit 
of 
language like 
this 
is 
modulated as 
it 
occurs 
in 
the 
discourse 
of each 
charac- 
ter. 
Huish 
also 
takes 
it 
up and 
modifies 
our 
perception 
of 
God, 
and 
must 
be 
considered 
in 
this 
connection, 
too. 
These 
strands 
aggregate 
to 
become 
a 
dominant 
theme 
in 
the 
second part of 
Ebb-Tide 
('Quartette') 
when 
Attwater 
appears; 
but 
he bears 
a 
privileged 
relationship 
to the 
word 
'God', 
as 
we 
shall see. 
We 
must 
note, preliminarily, 
that 
'God' 
is 
never 
allowed 
to 
develop 
into 
an 
abstract 
and/or 
delimited 
concept. 
'God' 
is 
given a vital 
role 
in 
the 
language 
of 
the 
novel; often 
in 
an 
exclamatory, 
non-referential 
function 
-a 
reflex which 
is 
simply 
the 
shell 
of an 
older, 
more 
significant 
usage. 
Noting 
this, 
we 
shall 
turn 
our attention 
to 
instances 
where 
it 
occurs 
more 
cons- 
ciously. 
It 
is 
Attwater 
who 
increases 
the 
richness of 
reference. 
In 
him 
are concentrated 
a number of 
features 
of 
imperialistic 
advent- 
ure: 
the 
search 
for 
wealth, 
the 
sense of missionary 
destiny 
(business 
and 
religion 
went 
hand 
in 
hand 
on 
Zacynthos), 
and 
the 
notion 
that 
the 
'black 
man' represented 
a 
more authentic 
form 
of 
humanity 
than 
did law 
bound Europeans. 
He 
is 
a 
Pros- 
pero. 
Attwater's 
religion 
is 
a 
savage 
thing, 
like 
the 
universe 
it illuminates; 
savage, 
cold 
and 
bare, but 
infinitely 
strong. 
61 
- 
177 
- 
He 
has 
brought 
a savagery 
of 
law 
to 
the 
island: 
I 
gave 
these 
beggars 
what 
they 
wanted: 
a 
judge 
in 
Israel, 
the 
bearer 
of 
the 
sword and 
the 
scourge; 
I 
was 
making a 
new people 
here; 
and 
behold, 
the 
angel 
of 
the 
Lord 
smote 
them 
and 
they 
were not 
!62 
As 
we 
shall 
see, 
Attwater 
is 
a god 
of sorts. 
Clearly 
the 
for- 
bidding 
Old 
Testament 
Jehovah 
is 
his 
model. 
The figure 
of 
the 
imperialist-missionary 
is 
put 
in 
perspective 
not 
only 
by 
his 
own 
extravagance, 
but 
also 
by 
the 
negative 
response 
of 
Herrick. 
The 
following 
words, although 
in 
the 
third 
person, 
indicate 
Herrick' 
s 
perception: 
To 
find 
the 
whole 
machine 
thus 
glow with 
the 
re- 
verberation 
of 
religious 
zeal, 
surprised 
him beyond 
words. 
63 
Attwater 
is, 
like 
Hyde, 
a 
machine, a 
rigid will untainted 
by 
self-doubt. 
The 
metaphor 
is 
extended: 
All 
around, with an air of 
imperfect 
wooden 
things 
inspired 
with wicked 
activity, 
the 
crabs 
trundled 
and scuttled 
into 
holes. 
6? 
This 
mere 
hint 
of 
a 
flaw 
in 
nature reinforces 
Herrick's 
percept- 
ion 
and provides 
an appropriate association 
for 
the 
figure 
of 
Attwater. 
Standing 
in 
the 
centre of 
Zacynthos, both 
men 
turn 
round and see 
the 
cemetery where most of 
the 
islanders, 
who 
have been killed 
by 
typhoid, 
are 
buried. 
It 
contains 
a 
field 
of 
broken 
stones 
from 
the 
bigness 
of 
a 
child's 
hand 
to 
that 
of 
his 
head... 
Nothing 
grew 
there 
but 
a 
shrub 
or 
two 
with 
some 
white 
flowers. 
s5 
The 
heart 
of 
Attwater's 
paradise 
is 
death, 
a 
wasteland. 
It 
is 
perhaps 
too 
tendentious 
to 
claim 
that 
the 
white 
flowers 
are 
- 
178 
- 
related to 
the 
pearls 
which 
Attwater 
has 
in 
such 
profusion 
- 
but 
if 
it 
were 
so, 
it 
would 
remind 
us of 
a 
similar 
imagistic 
fusion 
in Heart 
of 
Darkness 
where 
Kurtz, 
near 
the 
end 
of 
his 
life, 
is described 
as 
' 
an animated 
image 
of 
death 
carved 
out 
of 
old 
ivory"' 
so 
that the 
material motive 
and 
its 
outcome 
are 
combined. 
Herrick's 
distaste 
for him 
in 
no 
way 
inhibits 
Attwater's 
charis- 
ma. 
Herrick 
senses 
that 
the 
lives 
and 
characters of 
the three 
adventurers 
are 
transparent 
to 
Attwater, 
which 
is indeed 
so. 
(Remember 
Markheim's 
fear 
that 
the 
house 
of 
his 
identity 
may 
be 
a 
glass one, 
his 
inner 
being 
witnessed. 
) 
The 
pearl-fisher's 
power 
over 
them 
is 
like 
his 
own 
omniscient 
God's 
over 
human- 
ity. 
Seated 
at 
dinner 
with 
Huish, 
Herrick 
and 
Davis, he 
rings 
a 
bell: 
'Empty 
houses, 
empty 
sea, 
solitary 
beaches! 
... 
And 
yet 
God hears 
the 
bell! And 
yet 
we sit 
in 
this 
ver- 
andah 
on 
a 
lighted 
stage 
with 
all 
heaven for 
spectators! 
And 
you call 
that 
solitude? 
' 
67 
Attwater's 
overwhelming 
certainty of grace 
makes 
him 
another 
of 
Stevenson's 
antinomians; 
he 
conceives 
of 
his 
own 
will 
as 
Law; 
God's 
will 
and 
his 
coincide. 
The 
assumed 
identities 
of 
the three 
adventurers 
is 
an 
attempt 
to 
deny 
their 
own sense of 
transgression 
- 
like 
Jekyll 
pro- 
jecting 
his 
unwished-for 
desires 
onto 
Hyde 
or 
Markheim's 
revul- 
sion 
on 
seeing 
himself 
in 
the 
mirror. 
Herrick 
is 
the 
first 
to 
perceive 
that 
they 
are 
transparent 
to 
Attwater, 
who seems 
to 
have 
a mysteriously 
thorough 
knowledge 
of 
their 
characters. 
Herrick 
tries 
to 
communicate 
this 
to 
Davis: 
'There 
is 
nothing 
to 
do 
here, 
when 
he knows 
all. 
That 
man 
there 
with 
the 
cat 
knows 
all; 
can't you 
8 
take 
it 
in? 
"' 
- 
179 
- 
And 
again 
Herrick- 
after 
his 
attempted 
suicide, 
when 
he 
emerges 
from 
the 
lagoon 
broken 
('I 
have 
nothing 
left 
that 
i 
be- 
lieve 
in, 
except my 
living 
horror 
of myself. 
'6 
9) 
- 
says 
to 
Att- 
water: 
'But 
you 
know 
all. 
Y7 ? 
This is 
precisely 
how 
Stevenson 
understood 
spiritual 
authority: 
as a 
transparency 
of 
soul and 
the 
judgement 
passed 
upon 
it, 
when 
one exists 
as 
him 
(the 
lui) 
to 
an 
omniscient 
being. 
These 
spiritual 
insinuations 
are 
worked 
finely 
into 
the 
'grimy' 
texture 
of 
the 
dialogue. 
7' 
For 
example, 
from 
the 
moment 
when 
Attwater 
first 
comes on 
board 
the 
Farallone 
and 
casually 
asks 
Herrick, 
'University 
man? 
' 
72, 
he 
becomes 
the 
'man... 
with 
the 
cat' 
who 
'knows 
all' 
. 
73 
His knowingness 
shifts 
from 
the 
ordin- 
ary 
to 
something 
full 
of 
possibilities 
in 
the 
same way 
as 
the 
word 
'God' 
is 
modulated 
through 
repetition 
into 
a 
significant 
factor 
in 
the 
symbolism 
of 
the 
novel. 
Attwater, 
through 
metaphor, 
acquires 
the 
status 
of a 
god 
in 
the text 
- 
that 
is 
an 
explicitly symbolic 
status 
- 
for Herrick, 
and eventually 
for Davis, 
too. 
So 
that 
when 
the 
latter 
says 
to 
him, 
'By 
God, but 
you must 
be 
a 
holy 
terror! 
''' 
the 
phrase 
is 
a pun, 
the 
full force 
of 
which will 
be 
revealed 
to 
Davis 
at 
the 
denouement 
of 
the 
story. 
It 
is 
as a witness 
to 
Herrick 
and 
Davis 
that 
Attwater 
is 
god- 
like 
and 
through 
their 
reactions 
to 
him 
the 
analogy 
is 
given 
its 
various 
facets. 
Herrick's 
perception 
of 
the 
pearl-fisher 
is 
pertinent. 
As 
he 
explains 
to 
Davis: 
'He 
knows 
all, 
he 
sees 
through 
all... 
he 
looks 
at 
us 
and 
laughs 
like 
God! 
iT3 
- 
180 
- 
Davis 
himself 
responds 
to 
this 
by 
eliding 
the 
simile 
and 
taking 
up 
the 
iconoclastic 
attitude which 
will characterise 
Huish 
at 
the 
end: 
Herrick 
thought 
him 
a 
god; 
give 
him 
a second 
to 
aim 
in 
and 
the 
god 
was 
overthrown. 
"' 
But 
this 
Caliban 
is 
outwitted 
and 
judged by Attwater: 
I have 
nothing 
to 
do 
with 
the 
Sea 
Ranger 
and 
the 
people 
you 
drowned, 
or 
the 
Farallone 
and 
the 
cham- 
pagne 
that 
you stole. 
That 
is 
your 
account with 
God; He keeps 
it, 
and 
He 
will 
settle 
it 
when 
the 
clock 
strikes. 
"' 
This 
initiates 
a process 
whereby 
Davis 
is, 
like 
Herrick, 
stripped 
of 
what 
the 
latter 
calls 
his 
`apologetic 
mythology. 
'' 
9 
When 
he 
has 
returned 
to the 
ship, 
having 
been 
humiliated by 
Attwater 
and 
believing himself deserted 
by Herrick, 
Davis has 
intimations 
of an 
intelligence 
directing his 
fate: 
Then 
came over 
Davis, 
from 
deep down 
in 
the 
roots 
of 
his 
being, 
or 
at 
least from far back 
among 
his 
memories 
of childhood and 
innocence, 
a wave of 
superstition. 
This 
run of 
ill 
luck 
was 
something 
beyond 
natural; 
the 
chances of 
the 
game were 
in 
themselves 
more 
various; 
it 
seemed as 
if 
the 
devil 
must serve 
the 
pieces. 
The 
devil? He heard 
again 
the 
clear note of 
Attwater's bell 
ringing 
abroad 
into 
the 
night, and 
dying 
away. 
How 
if 
God...? 
Briskly, 
he 
averted 
his 
mind. 
79 
It 
is 
when 
Huish 
proposes 
vitriol as 
a 
means of 
solving 
their 
dilemma 
that 
Davis's 
sentimental 
conscience 
emerges, 
again 
illustrating 
the 
mobile 
relationships of 
the 
characters. 
His 
outburst 
against 
his 
own 
acquiescence 
in 
Huish's 
plans 
seems 
to 
suggest 
that 
there 
is 
a 
limit 
beyond 
which 
he 
will not 
step; 
although 
Huish 
points 
out 
to 
him 
that 
he 
was 
planning 
to 
shoot 
Attwater 
not 
long before: 
- 
181 
- 
'No! 
it 
can't 
be! 
It's 
too 
much; 
it's 
damnation. 
God 
would never 
forgive 
it. 
' 
He 
seemed 
to 
himself 
to 
be 
parting 
the 
last 
strands 
that 
united 
him 
to 
God. 
"' 
Davis 
has 
dreamed 
of returning 
to 
domesticity 
- 
and 
his 
chance 
of 
achieving 
that 
lies 
in 
killing 
the 
pearl-fisher 
and 
taking 
his 
pearls. 
The 
old 
dream 
of 
romance 
is 
placed 
in 
a sordid 
light. 
Earlier, 
Herrick had had 
a vision of returning 
home 
to 
London 
on 
a 
magic carpet. 
Transformation 
does 
not work 
in 
this 
disillusioned 
novel. 
Irony 
is 
present 
when 
Davis 
chides 
Huish 
for blasphemy 
and 
then 
prays 
- 
'Prayer, 
for 
what? 
God knows. 'el- 
while 
they 
are 
on 
their 
way 
to 
murder 
Attwater. What Huish 
actually 
says 
in 
this 
context 
is 
noteworthy. 
He 
acquires 
in 
the 
last 
stage 
of 
the 
novel 
a stature, a 
boldness, 
not 
present 
before. 
Associated 
with 
it is 
an 
inversion 
of 
the 
sense of 
witness: 
'Gawd 
strike 
me 
dead 
if 
I 
don't 
back 
you 
up' 
he 
tells 
Davis32 The 
latter's 
rebuke 
is 
called 
forth 
by 
Huish's 
defiant 
invocation 
of 
the 
deity, 
which 
is 
blasphemous 
because 
it 
used 
sacred 
form 
in 
a 
profane 
and, 
it is 
suggested, 
hellish 
way: 
'Thou 
Gawd 
seest 
me! 
' 
continued 
Huish. ' 
I 
remem- 
ber I had 
that 
written 
in 
my 
Bible. 
I 
remember 
that 
Bible 
too, 
all about 
Abinadab 
and parties. 
Well, 
Gawd ! ' 
apostrophising 
the 
meridian, 
'you're 
goin' 
to 
see 
a 
rum 
start 
presently, 
I 
pro 
mise 
you 
that. 
' 
83 
Huish's 
malignancy 
is 
too 
comic 
to 
be 
sublime, 
but 
he brings 
us 
back 
to 
the 
seeing 
metaphor 
and 
mimics 
in 
a 
different 
key 
the 
action 
of 
Attwater's 
Mind. 
With 
Davis's 
conversion 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
book, 
the 
moral and 
spiritual 
uncertainty 
which 
it 
moves 
through 
is 
not concluded 
- 
it 
is 
confirmed. 
Herrick 
retains 
his 
uncertainty 
and 
his 
scepticism 
about 
Attwater 
who was a 
god 
of 
his 
own 
making. 
- 
182 
- 
Another 
story 
which 
examines 
the 
white 
adventurers 
is 
The 
Beach 
briefer, 
more 
compact 
and 
more 
Tide. 
It 
has 
been 
admired 
for 
first 
person 
voice of 
the 
narrat 
judged 
ambiguity. 
moral effect 
of 
the 
Pacific 
on 
of 
Falesa 
(1893). 
"" 
It 
is 
a 
realistic 
narrative 
than 
Ebb- 
its 
delicate 
control 
over 
the 
or, 
its 
irony, 
and 
its 
finely 
In 
view 
of 
its 
ironic 
ambiguity, 
this 
story 
has frequently 
drawn 
from 
those 
writing 
about 
it, 
comparisons 
with 
Conrad's 
fiction. 
These 
comparisons 
are 
entirely 
just; 
Stevenson 
and 
the 
Anglo-Polish 
writer 
are 
connected 
by 
their 
use of 
irony 
to 
control 
and 
give 
form 
to 
material 
which 
had been 
used 
by 
many previous 
writers 
in 
a 
chivalric, 
naive 
and 
heroic 
mode. 
Stevenson 
was 
quite 
deliberate 
in 
his 
intention 
to 
debunk 
previous 
work 
which 
gave 
an unreal 
picture 
of 
the 
Pacific 
islands, 
as 
his 
well 
known boast 
about 
the 
story shows. 
He 
claimed 
that 
it 
would 
be 
the 
first 
realistic 
South 
Seas 
story 
... 
with real 
South 
Seas 
characters 
... 
Everybody 
else 
has 
got 
carried 
away 
by 
the 
romance, and 
ended 
in 
a 
kind 
of sham 
sugar-candy 
epic 
... 
no etching, 
no 
human 
grin, consequently no conviction. 
Now 
I 
have 
got 
the 
smell 
and 
the 
look 
of 
the 
thing. 
You 
will 
know 
more 
about 
the 
South Seas 
after 
having 
read 
my 
little 
tale than 
if 
you 
had 
read 
a 
library. 
85 
This 
is 
an 
optimistic assessment 
of 
his 
story 
by 
no 
means 
common with 
Stevenson 
immediately 
after 
the 
completion of 
a 
\York. 
But 
we 
find 
him 
confirming 
his 
view 
to 
Henry 
James 
and 
telling 
E. 
L. Burlinghame 
that 
'I believe it is 
good; 
indeed, 
to 
be 
honest, 
very 
good. 
Good 
gear 
that 
pleases 
the 
merchant'. 
86 
The 
mood 
in 
which 
he 
writes 
of 
The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa 
refers 
us 
back 
to 
Amateur 
Emigrant. 
There 
is 
evident 
the 
same 
desire 
as 
in 
that 
work 
to 
unmask 
and 
debunk 
the 
heroic 
myth 
- 
in 
the 
183 
- 
former 
case 
the 
myth of 
bold 
westward 
emigration; 
in 
the 
latter, 
that 
of 
the 
adventurous 
Pacific 
idyll. 
In Amateur 
Emigrant 
Stevenson 
linked 
emigration 
with 
empire 
and a 
dventure 
and 
reported 
that 
the 
actual 
experience 
of 
emigration was 
not 
a 
bold 
turning 
towards 
new 
lands 
at all, 
but 
a 
dismal 
retreat: 
Emigration, 
from 
a word 
of 
the 
most 
cheerful 
import, 
came 
to 
sound 
most 
dismally 
in 
my ear. 
There 
is 
nothing 
more 
agreeable 
to 
picture and 
nothing 
more 
pathetic 
to 
behold. 
The 
abstract 
idea, 
as 
conceived 
at 
home, 
is 
hopeful 
and 
adventurous. 
A 
young 
man, you 
fancy, 
scorning 
restraints 
and 
helpers 
issues 
forth 
into 
life, 
that 
great 
battle, 
to 
fight 
for 
his 
own 
hand. 
The 
most 
pleasant 
stories 
of 
ambition, 
of 
difficulties 
overcome, 
and 
of 
ultimate 
success, 
are 
but 
episodes 
to this 
great 
epic 
of self-help. 
The 
epic 
is 
composed 
of 
individual 
heroisms; 
it 
stands 
to 
them 
as 
the 
victorious 
war 
which subdued 
an 
empire stands 
to 
the 
personal 
act of 
bravery 
which 
spiked 
a 
single cannon 
... 
For 
in 
emigration 
the 
young 
men enter 
direct 
and 
by 
the 
shipload 
on 
their 
heritage 
of 
work; empty 
continents 
swarm, as 
at 
the 
bosun's 
whistle, 
with 
industrious 
hands 
and 
whole 
new empires 
are 
domesticated 
to the 
service 
of 
man. 
87 
After 
elaborately 
building 
up 
the triumvirate 
of work, 
adventure, 
and 
empire, 
there 
comes 
the 
bathos 
of reality: 
This 
is 
the 
closest picture, 
and 
is 
found, 
on 
trial, 
to 
consist 
mostly of embellishments. 
The 
more 
I 
saw of my 
fellow 
passengers, 
the 
less 
I 
was 
tempted 
to 
the 
lyric 
note. 
" 
I have. 
already 
remarked 
how 
anticipation and 
nostalgia 
(the 
two 
forms 
of 
longing) 
usually made 
for 
a 
more 
positive view 
of 
a 
place 
for 
Stevenson 
than 
the 
actuality: 
Loudon 
Dodd' 
s 
rose- 
tinted 
dream 
of 
the 
South 
Seas 
is 
not 
confirmed 
in 
reality; 
for 
Stevenson 
himself 
Edinburgh 
only 
becomes 
bearable 
in 
retrospect. 
This 
does 
not mean 
that 
the 
lyric 
note 
is 
always 
abandoned. 
In The 
Wrecker 
it 
is; 
Ebb-Tide, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
does 
contain 
a 
lyric beauty 
and 
a mood of 
marvellous 
- 
13! 
- 
discovery, 
existing 
beside 
a 
feeling 
of 
corruption 
in 
the 
'lovely 
but fatil' 
island. 
99 
However, 
in 
both 
these 
novels, 
the 
heroic 
epic 
of 
adventure 
is 
questioned. 
At 
the 
same 
time 
as 
he 
was writing 
his 
sceptical adventures, 
Stevenson 
wa s also 
producing 
In 
the 
South 
Seas 
and 
A Footnote 
to 
History. 
9? 
We know 
that 
the 
former 
records 
his 
response 
to 
the 
beauty 
of 
Polynesia. Of 
the 
latter 
he 
wrote 
to 
E. L. 
Burlinghame, his 
publisher 
in 
New York, 
and 
sounde 
d 
the 
lyric 
(or, 
more 
correctly, 
the 
epic) note: 
Here 
is, 
for 
the 
first 
time, 
a 
tale 
of 
Greeks 
- 
Homeric Greeks 
- 
mingled 
with 
moderns, 
and all 
true; 
Odysseus 
alongside 
of 
Rajah Brooke, 
proportion a?dee; and 
all 
true. 
91 
Here 
is 
present once again 
the 
notion 
of 
Polynesians 
being 
a 
survival of 
what 
European 
men 
were 
in 
the 
past. 
But 
these 
modern 
Greeks 
(the 
Polynesians) 'fold 
to their 
bosoms 
all 
the 
vipers 
whose 
sting 
is 
destined 
to 
poison all 
their 
joys', 
as 
says 
Herman 
Melville 
of 
the 
Hapar. 
92 
Melville 
speaks, 
in 
explicitly 
prirnitivist accents, 
of 
the 
Polynesian's 
'contaminating 
contact 
with 
the 
white 
man'. 
93 
Stevenson 
also 
recorded 
the 
decimation 
of 
the 
population 
by 
influenza 
and 
other 
"white" 
diseases 
brought 
by 
the 
sailor 
and 
the 
trader 
and 
the 
beachcomber, 
and 
the 
destruction 
of 
Polynesian 
customs 
by 
missionaries. 
9* 
Death 
is 
easy 
to 
understand as 
a 
disaster. 
The 
cultural 
impact 
seems 
to 
have 
been 
so 
because 
it 
destroyed 
the 
at-homeness 
of 
the 
Polynesian in 
his 
realm: a 
realm 
in 
which, 
like 
the 
ancient epic 
world, 
inside 
and outside 
were 
at 
peace. 
The 
missionaries 
had, 
in 
many 
cases, 
changed 
island 
cultures 
from 
shame 
cultures 
to 
guilt 
cultures. 
The 
individual 
agents 
of 
Western 
civilisation 
in 
the 
part 
of 
Polynesia 
which 
Stevenson 
knew 
best 
(Samoan 
Islands) 
were 
the 
trader 
and 
the 
missionary: 
no satisfactory 
colonial 
administration 
had 
been 
set 
up, and 
Samoa 
was still ostensibly 
- 
185 
- 
an 
independent 
kingdom. 
In 
trying 
to 
distill 
the 
essence 
of 
the 
modern 
South Seas into 
his 
short 
novel, 
The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa, 
it is 
understandable, 
therefore, 
that 
Stevenson 
should 
base 
the 
characters on 
three 
types: 
the 
native, 
the trader, 
and 
the 
missionary. 
But 
it 
is 
noteworthy 
that 
when 
he 
comes 
to the 
aesthetic arrangement 
of 
a 
yarn, 
the 
heroic 
Greeks 
are entirely absent and 
his 
story 
strives 
to 
be 
"real". 
The 
action 
is 
foregrounded, 
given 
perspective 
by 
the 
first 
person narration of 
Wiltshire, 
a 
very 
ordinary 
trader 
in 
copra. 
Wiltshire 
often 
dreams 
of going 
home 
to 
England; 
but 
it 
seems 
that 
he 
is 
waiting 
to 
make 
his fortune. He 
is 
moving 
from 
a 
'low 
island 
near 
the 
line' 
to 
Fales?; 
95 
and, as 
in 
Ebb-Tide, 
landfall 
is 
once again 
inspiriting; 
although 
as 
befits 
the 
mediocrity of 
the teller, 
it is 
less 
lyrically 
dreamlike 
and 
the 
land 
wind carrying 
the 
scent of 
lime 
and vanilla, 
makes 
him 
sneeze. 
From 
the 
beginning 
we encounter 
a 
limited 
and 
slangy 
lexis: 
the 
adverbs 
lack 
their 
suffices, 
the 
' 
aints' are 
frequent. 
Language 
registers 
the 
limited 
point of 
view, as 
in 
many of 
Kipling's 
stories, 
and 
'frames' 
the 
action of 
the 
story. 
s6 
Wiltshire 
is 
accoutred 
with many of 
the 
attitudes of 
the 
white 
supremacist. 
When 
he 
is 
negotiating with 
the 
chiefs of 
the 
island 
about why 
he has 
been 
tapued, 
he 
tells 
Case, 
his 
interpreter, 
'I've 
come 
here 
to 
do 
them 
good, and 
bring 
them 
97 
civilisation'. 
He 
claims 
I know 
how 
to 
deal 
with 
Kanakas: 
give 
them 
plain 
sense 
and 
fair 
dealing, 
and 
- 
I'll do 
them 
that 
much 
justice 
- 
they 
knuckle 
under 
every 
time 
.98 
his 
sense 
of 
fair 
dealing 
is 
clearly 
limited by 
the 
mores 
of 
his 
kind. 
When 
he is 
blowing 
up 
Case' 
s 
'shrine' he distrusts 
the 
- 
186 
- 
efficacy 
of 
the 
matches which 
he 
sells 
in 
the 
store: 
Who 
was 
going 
to trust 
the 
match? 
You know 
what 
trade 
is. 
The 
stuff was 
good enough 
for 
Kanakas 
to 
go 
fishing 
with 
... 
and 
the 
most 
they 
risk 
is 
only 
to 
have 
their 
hand 
blown 
off. 
99 
In 
addition 
to 
this 
mercantile 
callousness, 
we 
know 
that 
he 
is 
a violent 
and 
choleric 
man. 
However, 
he 
is 
distinguished 
from 
the 
other white 
traders, 
notably 
in 
his 
attitude 
to 
Uma, 
the 
half-caste 
girl 
whom 
he 
marries. 
Stevenson 
remarks 
in 
In 
the 
South Seas 
that 
'the 
trader 
must 
be 
credited 
with 
a virtue: 
he 
often makes 
a 
kind 
and 
loyal 
husband'. 
1 
?? 
Wiltshire 
eventually rejects 
the 
cynical 
marriage 
which 
Case 
draws 
up 
for him 
and 
gets 
a 
missionary 
to 
wed 
him 
to 
Uma 
properly. 
This 
action 
is 
a moral 
test 
and 
confirms 
Wiltshire's 
moral 
difference from 
Case. Above 
all, 
it 
indicates 
to 
us 
what 
we might call 
his 
morale: 
his decision 
is 
his 
own; 
he 
does 
not sink 
into 
the 
expedient 
morality 
of 
other 
traders. 
His dignity 
is 
his 
own. 
It 
is 
through 
Uma 
that 
he 
has 
the 
opportunity 
to 
approach a 
more 
sympathetic 
understanding 
of 
the 
Kanakas. But 
this 
is 
what 
he fails 
to 
do. Indeed 
the 
tale 
finishes 
on a 
fine 
irony 
which 
depends 
on 
this 
curious 
conflict 
between 
the 
choleric 
and racist opinions 
of 
Wiltshire 
and 
his love for 
Uma: 
'My 
public 
house? 
Not 
a 
bit 
of 
it, 
nor 
ever 
likely. 
I'm 
stuck 
here, I 
fancy. 
I don't like 
to 
leave 
the 
kids, 
you 
see: and 
- 
there's 
no use 
talking 
- 
they're 
better 
here 
than 
what 
they 
would 
be 
in 
a 
white 
man's country, 
though 
Ben 
took the 
eldest 
up 
to 
Auckland, 
where 
he's 
schooled with 
the 
best. 
But 
what 
bothers 
me 
is 
the 
girls. 
They're 
only 
half-castes, 
of 
course; 
I 
know 
that 
as well as 
you 
do, 
and 
there's 
nobody 
thinks 
less 
of 
half-castes 
than 
I do; 
but 
they're 
mine, 
and about all 
I've 
got. 
I 
can't 
reconcile 
my mind 
to their taking 
up 
with 
Kanakas, 
and 
I'd 
like 
to 
know 
where 
I'm 
to 
find 
the 
whites? 
' 
10' 
- 
187 
- 
Wiltshire 
is 
essentially 
a 
very 
simple 
character 
who 
is 
more 
extensive 
than 
he 
is 
able 
to 
report 
himself 
to 
be. 
Ultimately 
we 
judge 
him 
by 
the 
ironic 
discordances 
between 
what 
he 
says 
and 
what 
he does. 
(For 
example, 
he 
is 
prepared 
to 
discard 
his 
normal 
hatred 
of missionaries 
when 
met with 
Mr 
Tarleton, 
the 
sympathetically 
presented 
pastor. 
) 
His 
ethics 
are 
not 
situational; 
they 
are 
'bred 
in 
the 
bone', 
which 
is 
why 
he 
is 
immune 
to 
the 
worst 
possibilities 
for 
corruption 
on 
the 
island. 
It 
is 
when we 
turn 
from 
the 
naturalistic 
and 
vivid 
narrative 
to the 
setting 
that 
certain 
symbolic possibilities 
appear 
in 
The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa. Those 
who 
live 
on 
the 
island 
are 
confined 
to 
the 
beach 
and 
fear 
to 
go 
into 
the 
high, 
dark forests 
which 
clothe 
the 
volcano. 
These 
are 
said 
to 
be 
inhabited 
by 
demons 
all 
overseen 
by 
a 
chief 
demon, Tiapolo. 
As death 
was 
at 
the 
centre 
of 
Zacynthos, 
so 
it 
seems 
the 
devil 
is 
at 
the 
centre 
of 
Falesa. Even Wiltshire 
is 
frightened 
when 
he 
enters 
the 
forest"", 
although 
he 
knows 
that 
Case 
has 
rigged 
up 
the 
demons by 
an elaborate 
trickery. 
This 
last 
is 
an 
important 
point. 
Wiltshire's 
fear legitimises 
Polynesian 
animistic 
belief, 
while preserving 
the 
essential 
fact 
that 
Case's 
power 
lies 
in 
his 
immunity 
to 
native 
magical 
beliefs 
and 
his 
ability 
to 
manipulate 
them to 
his 
material 
advantage. 
(Only 
he 
can gather 
copra 
in 
that 
part 
of 
the 
island. 
) 
Ironically 
it 
is 
Wiltshire's 
very 
limitations, his 
Mc 
shirr-like 
lack 
of 
imagination 
and 
his 
unwavering attention 
to the 
thing 
in 
front 
of 
his 
nose, 
which make 
him 
able 
to 
overcome 
Case's 
devices. 
103 
The 
use of 
an 
island 
setting 
assists 
in 
the 
emergence 
of 
this 
topographic 
symbolism. 
An island 
has 
a meaning 
before 
we 
give 
it 
one: 
it 
is 
an 
isola, 
something 
around which 
a 
barrier 
has 
been 
drawn. 
It 
seems 
possible 
to 
argue 
that 
islands 
are 
form 
giving 
devices 
in 
themselves, 
because 
they 
draw 
a 
circle 
(or 
frame) 
around 
experience: 
and 
where 
experience 
is 
delimited 
it 
- 
188 
- 
begins 
to 
acquire 
the 
rudiments 
of 
form. 
I?4A 
novel 
does 
precisely 
that. 
An 
analogy 
might 
be 
verse: 
if 
you 
divide 
language 
into lines 
of 
equal 
length it 
becomes 
metric. 
An 
island 
removes 
human 
action 
from 
the 
contingencies 
of 
actual 
existence, 
and 
so 
it 
becomes 
significant. 
A 
small 
island 
is 
particularly useful, and 
even 
more 
so one 
from 
which 
it 
is impossible 
to 
escape 
-- 
like 
Zacynthos, Fales?, 
Molokai, 
Earrid, 
Treasure Island 
- 
or 
for 
that 
matter, 
Defoe's 
Juan 
Fernandez 
or 
Muriel 
Spark's 
Robinson. In 
that 
situation, 
each 
action 
becomes 
reflexive, 
witnessed. 
Neither 
the 
action, 
nor 
the 
consequences, 
can 
be 
escaped. 
They 
are 
witnessed. 
They 
come 
home 
to the 
self and enforce existential 
isolation. 
(Unlike 
the 
city 
where men can 
be 
lost 
in 
the 
Other. 
) 
On 
some of 
the 
Pacific 
islands 
of confrontation 
with self 
was 
the 
absence 
of society 
in 
any 
white colonists 
in 
the 
Congo, 
'faithless 
pilgrims 
bewitched 
Conrad 
the 
isolation 
of 
the 
Afric 
that 
Stevenson 
knew, 
this 
sense 
made all 
the 
more 
dangerous 
by 
inhibitory 
guise. 
Like 
Conrad's 
Case 
and 
Captain 
Randall 
are 
inside 
a rotting 
fence. 
i?5 
For 
-an 
jungle is 
a 
test 
You 
can't understand. 
How 
could 
you? 
- 
with solid 
pavement 
under your 
feet, 
surrounded 
by kind 
neighbors ready 
to 
cheer 
you or 
fall 
on 
you, 
stepping 
delicately between 
the 
butcher 
and 
the 
policeman, 
in 
the 
holy 
terror 
of scandal and 
gallows 
and 
lunatic 
asylums 
- 
how 
can 
you 
imagine 
what 
particular region of 
the 
first 
ages 
a 
man's untrammelled 
feet 
may 
take 
him 
into 
by 
the 
way 
of 
solitude 
- 
utter 
solitude 
without 
a 
policeman 
- 
by 
the 
way of silence 
- 
utter silence, 
where 
no warning 
voice of 
a 
kind 
neighbor 
can 
be 
heard 
whispering 
of public opinion? 
These 
little 
things 
make 
all 
the 
difference. When 
they 
are gone 
you must 
fall 
back 
on 
your own 
innate 
strength, 
upon 
your 
own 
capacity 
for 
faithfulness. 
1?6 
This 
is 
Conrad' 
s 
description 
of 
the 
dangers 
of 
unwitness-d 
existence. 
It 
is 
a condition 
of a white man 
in 
a 
far 
flung 
island: 
on 
Fales?, 
Wiltshire's 
capacity 
for 
faithfulness 
is 
- 
189 
- 
thoroughly 
tested. 
We 
are, 
in 
fact, 
offered 
in 
The 
Beach 
of 
Fales? 
a 
version 
of what 
can 
happen if 
that test 
is 
failed, in 
the 
character 
of 
Captain 
Randall. 
A 
moral 
definition 
and 
a 
history 
of 
this 
man's 
corruption 
come 
out of 
Stevenson's 
physical 
description 
of 
Randall: 
In 
the 
back 
room 
was old 
Captain 
Randall, 
squatting 
on 
the 
floor 
native 
fashion, fat 
and 
pale, 
naked 
to the 
waist, grey as 
a 
badger, 
and 
his 
eyes 
set with 
drink. His body 
was 
covered 
with 
grey 
hair 
and crawled over 
by flies; 
one was 
in 
the 
corner of 
his 
eye 
- 
he 
never 
heeded; 
and 
the 
mosquitoes 
hummed 
about 
the 
man 
like 
bees. 
10 
7 
How 
right 
it is 
that 
the 
symbolism should 
be 
found 
in 
the 
physical 
detail, 
from 
a 
part of 
the 
composed, natural picture: 
the 
fly 
in 
the 
corner 
of 
Rand 
all's eye 
is 
a quite 
iconic 
representation 
of 
corruption 
and 
perhaps 
death. 
It 
might 
be 
argued 
that 
Wiltshire 
is 
by 
no 
means 
isolated 
on 
Fales?, 
that 
a 
weight of moral 
vision 
is 
here being foisted 
on 
a straightforward 
Maughamesciue 
tale 
of exotic manners. 
The 
second 
objection may 
be 
valid; my 
argument 
either 
convinces 
or 
it 
does 
not. 
The first 
point 
must 
be 
considered. 
Wiltshire 
is 
faced 
with 
the 
possibility of 
isolation. 
He does 
not 
speak 
the 
island 
language; he hates 
the 
priest; 
and 
he 
is 
the 
enemy of 
Case 
and 
Randall 
and 
the 
black 
man. 
The 
wonderfully 
subtle 
irony 
of 
The Beach 
of 
Falesa 
is 
that 
he 
does 
have 
witnesses 
who 
have 
faith 
and 
an 
instinctive 
trust 
in 
him: 
Uma 
and 
Tarleton. 
Both 
belong 
to 
groups 
(Kanakas 
and 
missionaries) 
which 
he 
professes 
to 
despise, 
and 
who 
cannot 
be 
said 
to 
have 
moral 
influence 
over 
hirn. But 
the 
origin 
of 
that 
faith 
is 
himself. 
All 
the 
possibilities 
for 
evil 
in 
the 
island 
are 
presented 
to 
his 
self. 
'My 
friend', 
he 
thinks 
when 
confronted 
with 
the 
drunk 
Randall, 
'you 
must 
not come 
to 
be 
an 
old 
gentleman 
like 
this'. 
' 
?8 
In 
the 
situation on 
the 
island, 
then, 
there 
are 
choices 
for 
Wiltshire; 
he does 
see 
the 
possibility 
of 
- 
190 
- 
himself 
becoming 
like Randall, 
or any 
other 
down-at-heel 
trader 
with 
an 
abused 
Polynesian 
wife. 
What 
we 
do 
not 
know 
is 
whether 
the 
faith 
of 
Uma 
and, 
to 
a 
lesser 
degree, 
Tarleton, 
is 
what 
saves 
Wiltshire, 
or 
if it is his 
own 
instinctive 
response. 
The 
ambiguity 
of 
this 
situation 
is 
preserved 
by 
the 
dramatic 
irony 
of 
the 
narrative: 
the 
reader 
knows 
more 
about 
Wiltshire 
than 
Wiltshire, 
and 
can, 
therefore, 
accept 
his, 
the 
narrator's, 
point of view and a conflicting 
understanding 
which we 
derive 
from 
being 
able 
to 
see 
beyond 
that 
limited 
point 
of view. 
We 
are sure 
that 
Wiltshire 
has 
no 
transcendent 
values. 
His 
moral certainty 
differs fr 
om 
Attwater's because 
it 
does 
not 
justify itself 
by 
reference 
to 
God 
or 
any 
such 
transcendent 
source. 
Therefore, for 
all 
that 
it 
moves 
dangerously 
close 
to 
the 
sentimental 
conception of a naturally good man, 
we 
can 
take 
up 
Alisdair 
Fowler' 
s 
hint 
that 
Stevenson 
was an 
'ur- 
existentialist' and submit 
that 
in The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa 
ethics 
are existence, 
not 
belief 
or 
dogma. 
i09 
We 
begin 
in 
Stevenson's 
own words, 
to 
'approach 
the 
fact'. 
l1 
In The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa, 
the 
physical man 
is 
real; 
the 
moral 
man 
is 
problematical. 
This idea 
will 
be 
developed 
further 
in 
the 
next 
chapter. 
CHAPTER VI 
The 
Culmination: 
The '-(aster 
of 
Baliantrae 
Sans 
pere, 
il 
n' a personne entre 
1ui-meme 
et 
Dieu, 
comment 
s' 
etonner 
de 
la 
confusion 
naive 
qu'il 
entre 
Dieu 
et 
le 
demon 
qui 
Porte 
son masque. 
Au 
lieu 
et 
place 
de 
ce 
pere absent, 
partout 
il 
pourrait 
le 
trouver, 
il 
est 
present, 
lui, 
dandy, 
revendicateur 
desabuse. 
Par 
sa 
prestance 
ii 
defie 
tous 
les 
hommes, 
c'est 
le 
societe 
des 
hommes 
et 
ses 
institutions 
b?tardes dont 
il 
attaque 
les 
machoires 
broyeuses. 
(Francoise 
Dolto: 'Le dandyisme 
et 
l' 
absence 
du 
pre'. 
) 
It 
is 
probable 
that 
we 
too 
still 
have 
our 
virtues, 
although 
naturally 
they 
will not 
be 
those 
square 
and 
simple 
virtues on whose account we 
hold 
our 
grandfathers 
in 
high 
esteem 
but 
also 
hold 
them 
off 
a 
little. We 
Europeans 
of 
the 
day 
after 
tomorrow, 
we 
first-born 
of 
the twentieth 
century 
- 
with all 
our 
dangerous 
curiosity, our multiplicity 
and 
art 
of 
disguise, 
our mellow 
and as 
it 
were 
sugared 
cruelty 
in 
spirit and 
senses 
- 
if 
we are 
to 
have 
virtues 
we 
shall 
presumably 
have 
only such 
virtues 
as 
have 
learned 
to 
get along 
with 
our 
most 
secret 
and 
heartfelt 
inclinations, 
with 
our most 
fervent 
needs: 
very 
well, 
let 
us 
look for 
them 
within 
our 
labyrinths! 
(Nietzsche, 
Beyond Good 
a 
ind 
Evil) 
- 
191 
- 
CHAPTER 
VI 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae 
(1889) 
is 
Sty. 
venson' 
s most 
remarkable 
attempt 
to 
ally 
the 
genre 
of 
adventure with 
a 
deft 
unravelling 
of 
the 
'most 
secret 
and 
heartfelt 
inclinations' 
of 
the 
self 
1 
As 
a 
precise 
ordering, seriatim, 
of 
layers 
of consciousness, 
Master 
represents 
the 
summation of 
Stevenson's fiction 
up 
to that 
point. 
In 
Master 
the 
elements 
of previous adventure 
stories 
appear 
in 
a 
new 
light. 
They 
are 
placed 
in 
a 
context 
which 
we 
may 
call critical, 
given 
the 
absurdity 
and 
futility 
of 
the 
gener- 
ic 
parts of 
the 
tale. 
In fact, 
it is 
the 
generic 
confusion 
of 
Master, 
arising 
from 
the 
interpenetration 
of 
the 
real 
and 
the 
fantastic 
in 
its 
multiple narratives, 
which 
forms 
the 
problem 
of 
evaluation 
for 
most critics 
of 
this 
novel. 
This 
chapter. 
will 
anal- 
yse 
the 
rhetoric 
of 
Master 
and 
explain 
the 
plurality 
of 
its 
narrative 
documents 
as 
Stevenson' 
s most complex attempt 
to 
rep- 
resent 
the 
dynamics 
of 
that 
struggle 
between 
the 
mot 
and 
lui 
which underlines all 
his best fiction. Then, 
it 
will 
be 
possible 
to 
make 
a 
proper evaluation of 
Master. 
Andre Gide 
noticed 
the 
lack 
of 
uniformity 
in 
this 
long-matured 
story: 
I 
have 
great 
trouble 
finishing The Master 
of 
Ballantrae. 
Odd book 
in 
which everything 
is 
excell- 
ent, 
but 
heterogeneous 
to 
such 
a 
degree 
that 
it 
seems 
the 
sample 
card of everything 
in 
which 
Stevenson 
excels. 
2 
The 
author 
too 
remarked a 
different 
sort of 
variety 
displayed 
by 
the 
book 
when 
he 
spoke of 
his 'design 
of 
a 
tale 
of many 
lands'. 
3 
ands' 
.3 
The 
action 
certainly 
shifts 
a great 
deal. 
There 
are 
scenes 
in 
Scotland, 
India, 
aboard 
a pirate 
ship, and 
in 
up- 
state 
New 
York. 
However, 
ant, 
but 
tween 
the 
and 
the 
it 
is 
not 
the 
territorial 
fluidity 
itself 
that 
is import- 
rather 
the 
shifting 
tone 
and mode 
of 
narration 
be- 
summary 
accounts 
of 
domestic 
relations 
at 
Durrisdeer 
exotic 
adventures 
of 
the 
Master. 
This 
novel, 
like 
- 
192 
- 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
and 
The 
rather, 
it 
is 
a 
collection 
the 
exotic 
and 
fantastic 
domestic. 
Wrecker, 
is 
not 
a 
uniform 
narrative; 
of 
documents 
ordered so 
as 
to 
bring 
nto a revealing 
connection 
with 
the 
The 
various 
parts 
of 
the 
story 
are 
held 
together 
by 
the 
cons- 
ciousness 
of 
Ephraim 
Mackellar, 
the 
narrator 
of 
the 
story and 
editor 
of 
the 
inserted 
narratives. 
His 
function 
in 
Master is 
com- 
parable 
to 
that 
of 
Marlow 
in 
Joseph 
Conrad's 
novel 
Lord Jim. 
Marlow 
confesses 
that 
one of 
the 
causes 
of 
his fascination 
with 
Jim 
is 
his 
desire 
to 
find 
in 
the 
sources 
of 
the 
young 
sai 
lor's 
guilt 
a 
likeness 
to 
his 
own 
unacknowledged 
motives: 
If 
he had 
not enlisted 
my sympathies 
he 
had 
done 
better for 
himself 
- 
he 
had 
gone 
to 
the 
very 
fount 
and 
origin 
of 
that 
sentiment, 
he 
had 
reached 
the 
secret 
sensibility 
of 
my egoism. 
" 
In 
Lord Jim 
the 
technical 
status 
of 
the 
narrator 
is 
inseparable 
from 
the 
meaning of 
the 
novel, and 
so 
it is 
with 
Mackellar. 
Stevenson 
`s 
motivation 
for 
using 
such a 
first 
person 
narrator 
in 
his 
manuscript 
notes: 
The 
need 
for 
a 
confidant 
for 
Mr 
Henry led 
to the 
introduction 
of 
Mackellar, 
for 
it 
was 
only 
to 
a 
servant 
that 
a 
man such as 
I 
conceived 
Mr Henry, 
could 
unbosom; 
and no 
sooner 
had he begun 
to 
take 
on 
lineament, 
than 
I 
perceived 
the 
uses 
of 
the 
character, 
and 
was 
tempted 
to 
intrust 
to 
him 
the 
part 
of 
spokeman. 
s 
Stevenson 
goes 
on 
to 
say 
that 
Mackellar 
would provide 
humour 
in 
an 
otherwise 
grim 
tale. 
In 
the 
event, 
Mackellar 
is 
not 
light 
relief 
at 
all; 
and 
he 
is, indeed, 
far 
more 
than 
an adjunct 
to 
the 
story, 
a 
'spokesman' 
who merely 
narrates 
the 
incontrovert- 
ible 
history 
of 
the 
house 
of 
Durrisdeer. 
Although 
the 
first 
chapter 
of 
Master 
is 
a 
summary 
of 
events 
-193- 
which 
took 
place prior 
to 
his 
arrival 
at 
Durrisdeer, Niackellar 
announces 
his 
involvement 
with 
the 
tale 
from 
the 
start. 
He 
testifies 
thus: 
It 
so 
befell 
that 
I 
was 
intimately 
mingled 
with 
the 
last 
years and 
history 
of 
the 
house; 
there 
does 
not 
live 
one 
man 
so able 
as 
myself 
to 
make 
these 
matters 
plain, 
or 
so 
desirous 
to 
narrate 
them 
faith- 
fully. 
And 
he 
adds: 
The 
truth 
is 
I 
owe 
a 
debt 
to 
my 
lord's 
memory; 
and 
I 
think 
my 
old years 
will 
flow 
more 
smoothly, 
and 
my 
white 
hair 
lie 
quieter on 
the 
pillow, when 
the 
debt 
is 
paid. 
6 
The 
steward uses 
hindsight 
to 
sift and select 
the 
events 
he 
reports, 
and 
to 
provide 
a certain anticipatory excitement at 
some 
points 
in 
the 
story. 
When 
Mackellar 
himself becomes 
a 
protagonist 
in 
the 
novel, a 
dimension 
of uncertainty 
is 
brought before 
the 
reader, 
because 
Mackellar 
is 
not wholly 
objective 
and 
his 
own 
state of 
mind 
and 
his 
judgement 
obtrude 
into 
the 
story 
from 
that 
point 
on- 
wards. 
For 
example, 
noting. 
the 
estrangement 
of 
Henry 
and 
his 
wife 
(who 
is 
preoccupied 
with 
the 
memory 
of 
the 
"dead' 
brother, 
James), 
Mackellar 
remarks 
that 
'the 
fault, 
to 
be 
very 
blunt, 
lay 
all 
in 
Mrs 
Henry. ' 
Henry 
is 
excluded 
from 
the 
mut- 
ual 
commiseration 
of 
Alison 
and 
Lord Durrisdeer, 
and 
the 
new 
servant 
is 
not pleased: 
I 
was 
too 
much 
of 
a partisan 
of 
Mr 
Henry's 
to 
be 
anything 
but 
wroth 
at 
his 
exclusion. 
' 
This 
is 
not 
to 
say 
that 
Mackellar 
is 
an 
unreliable narrator. 
But 
we 
do 
feel 
that 
we 
learn 
as 
much 
about 
the 
dour 'old 
maid' 
- 
so 
Mrs 
Henry 
calls 
him 
- 
as 
we 
do 
about 
the 
events 
- 
194 
- 
and 
characters 
on which 
he 
reports. 
His intrusive 
subjectivity 
continually 
brings 
his 
assessing 
consciousness 
before 
us 
and, 
as 
with 
a 
dramatic 
monologue, 
his 
words 
about 
others 
create 
an 
impression 
of 
his 
own 
personality 
which 
allows 
the 
reader 
to 
perceive 
the 
particular 
angle 
of vision 
from 
which 
+ 
Li. 
-- 
action 
of 
the 
novel 
is 
being 
viewed. 
Mackellar's 
association 
with 
Henry 
begins by 
being 
simply 
a 
case 
of 
the 
steward 
sharing 
in 
a 
desire 
to 
protect 
the 
pro- 
priety 
of 
the 
house 
from 
the 
threat 
posed 
by 
its 
black 
sheep, 
James. 
He 
works 
to 
keep 
within 
the 
family 
the 
fact 
of 
James' 
continued 
existence. 
He 
becomes 
indispensable, 
and all 
the 
more 
so 
with 
the 
first 
arrival 
of 
James 
at 
Durrisdeer 
after 
his 
disappearance 
during 
the 
rebellion. 
He had 
previously 
been 
the 
means of communication 
between 
the 
brothers, 
and 
indeed 
has 
provided 
the 
link 
between 
all 
the 
main 
characters, 
such 
is 
the 
domestic 
frigidity 
at 
Durrisdeer. 
When 
James 
appears 
to 
have been 
murdered 
in 
a 
duel 
with 
his 
brother, 
it is 
Mackellar 
who prepares 
Lord 
Durrisdeer 
and 
Alison for 
the 
news, and 
reports 
to them 
'as 
a 
partisan'. 
" 
He 
is, 
furthermore, 
in 
charge of 
the 
cover-up of 
the 
night's 
events. 
Noting 
the 
vulnerability of 
the 
family, 
he 
reveals 
his 
own 
involvement 
and willingness 
to 
see 
himself 
as an 
accom- 
plice: 
True, 
we still 
lay 
at 
the 
discretion 
of 
the traders 
[i. 
e. 
the 
smugglers 
who 
take 
James 
away! 
; 
but 
that 
was 
the 
incurable 
weakness of our 
guilt. 
5 
The 
switch 
to 
the 
plural 
of 
the 
pronoun subtly 
marks 
the 
responsibility 
that 
we 
should 
attribute 
to 
the 
steward. 
Earlier, 
when 
Miackellar 
had 
threatened 
to 
leave 
his 
position 
because 
he 
disagreed 
with 
Henry's 
way 
of 
handling 
the 
problem of 
James, 
Henry 
had 
pleaded, 
'Would 
you 
leave 
me quite 
alone? 
' 
After 
the 
duel, 
Henry 
suffers 
a 
severe 
illness 
which 
burns 
out 
his 
- 
195 
- 
sense 
of 
shame, 
leaving 
Mackellar 
alone 
to 
uphold 
the 
burden 
of 
'our 
guilt'. 
(Similarly, 
the 
phase 
of childishness 
which 
en- 
sues 
from 
Henry's 
illness 
is 
described by Mackellar 
as 
'our 
)1 
? 
Mackellar 
Paradise'; 
James, 
of 
course, 
is 
the 
' 
serpent'. 
has, 
in 
fact, 
identity 
with 
Henry; 
it 
is he 
who, as 
is 
acknow- 
ledged 
at 
the 
start of 
Master, 
brings Henry 
into 
history 
and 
is 
his 
witness; 
and 
it is in 
the 
nature of 
Henry 
that 
he 
re- 
quires 
witness. 
'Well, 
you 
shall 
see, 
and 
he 
shall 
see, and 
God 
shall see', 
he 
11 
says, 
speaking 
of 
his 
determination 
to 
send 
the 
money 
which 
James demands 
as 
his 
price 
for 
staying away 
from 
his home 
and 
thus 
maintaining 
the 
good 
name of 
the 
house 
of 
Durrisdeer. 
We 
shall 
see 
how 
in 
the 
symbolic 
pattern 
of 
the 
novel 
Mackell- 
ar recreates 
Henry 
as 
himself 
and 
comes 
to 
represent a 
part of 
himself. 
At 
present 
it 
can 
be 
said 
that 
in Mackellar's 
mind 
the two 
brothers 
are 
polarised. 
James, 
as 
presented 
by 
Mac'keliar, 
is 
an 
evil 
treat 
to 
Henry's 
moral 
worth; and 
it is 
only after 
Henry's 
departure for America 
that 
earlier 
hints 
of 
ambivalence 
in 
this 
view 
of 
the 
fraternal hatred 
are 
developed. 
Mackellar's 
relation 
to the 
brothers 
is 
revised, 
becomes 
incompatible 
with 
this 
initial 
Manichaeism. 
But 
what 
Mackellar 
had done 
by 
nam- 
ing 
this 
duality 
is 
that 
he 
had 
made 
himself 
responsible 
for 
it; 
he has 
authored" 
Henry 
and 
James. He 
is 
also 
a reader 
- 
a 
reader 
of 
letters, 
and, 
in 
the 
case 
of 
the 
narratives 
of 
the 
Chevalier de Burke, 
of 
adventure 
stories. 
In 
both 
of 
these 
roles 
his 
is 
the 
consciousness 
through 
which 
all 
the 
action 
directly 
and 
vicariously 
reported 
is 
passed. 
The 
steward's 
black 
and 
white 
conception 
is 
confused 
by 
the 
slow 
adaptation 
of 
the 
good 
and 
the 
evil 
, 
which 
in 
Steven- 
sonian 
terms 
consists, 
as was 
rioted 
in 
the 
discussion 
of 
Ebb- 
Tide, 
of 
the 
perversion 
of 
the 
sense 
of 
witness. 
As 
an 
example, 
we 
might 
note 
a meeting 
which 
the 
now 
childish 
Henry has 
with 
- 
196 
- 
Mackellar 
on 
the 
very 
spot 
on 
which 
the 
duel 
took 
place 
years 
before. 
Henry 
offers 
up 
a 
prayer 
which 
concludes with 
an 
appeal 
to 
God 
to 
witness 
his 
own righteousness: 
' 
Defend 
us 
from 
the 
evil 
man. 
Smite 
him, 0 lord, 
upon 
the 
lying 
mouth! 
'12 
This 
incident 
is 
important 
because 
it 
anticipates 
and 
parallels 
Mackellar's 
prayer 
on 
the 
voyage 
to 
America, 
identifying 
Mac- 
kellar 
and 
Henry 
in 
a solipsitic repudiation of an 
evil 
to 
which 
they 
are 
both 
irretrievably 
tied. 
Mackellar's 
responds 
to 
Henry's 
tirade: 
'It 
[i. 
e. 
forgiveness 
] 
is 
a 
duty 
laid 
upon 
us 
strictly. 
' 
13 
Here 
the 
reference 
is 
to that 
old 
form 
of virtue, 
mentioned 
. 
by 
Nietzsche, 
which consists 
in 
obedience 
to 
an out- 
side 
imperative. It 
is 
the 
Master's 
defiance 
of all obedience 
that 
makes 
him 
so 
dangerous 
to 
Henry 
and 
Mackellar 
- 
he 
is 
a 
threat to 
their 
conception of 
themselves 
as 
moral 
beings, 
a 
provoker 
of 
that 
which 
they 
have disowned 
in 
the 
name of mor- 
ality. 
Mackellar 
is 
horrified by Henry's declaration; 
yet 
he 
himself 
will say and 
do 
much worse, 
- 
when 
he 
attempts 
to 
mur- 
der 
the 
Master. 
A high level 
of 
symbolic 
art 
is 
in 
evidence 
in 
effecting 
that transition, 
in 
binding 
the 
fates 
of 
the 
various 
characters 
together. 
For 
example, 
while 
Henry 
is 
lying 
ill 
he 
feverishly 
recalls 
an 
incident 
in 
childhood 
(or 
what 
Mackellar 
. 
imagines 
as such) 
when 
he 
was 
playing with 
his 
brother: 
'Oh! 
James 
will 
be drowned 
- 
Oh, 
save 
James! 
' 
which 
he 
came 
over and 
over with a 
great 
deal 
of 
passion. 
' 
That 
this 
incident 
should 
be 
remembered 
at 
the 
height 
of 
Henry' 
s 
resentment 
of 
James 
is 
no 
more 
than 
the 
dialectic 
of 
Master 
requires. 
It 
is 
perhaps 
more 
interesting 
in 
relation 
to 
the 
parallelisms 
of 
the 
novel as 
a 
whole 
that 
Mackellar 
event- 
ually 
does 
try 
to 
drown 
James. 
This 
occurs 
when 
Mackellar 
- 
197 
- 
finds 
himself 
in 
that 
conditic 
cribed 
in 
Amateur 
Emigrant: 
go. 
' 
He 
was 
describing 
that 
associated 
with 
the 
journey 
noted, 
a 
transformation 
which 
ure 
story. 
What 
I 
wish 
to 
Master 
Mackellar 
moves 
from 
s of 
exile 
which 
Stevenson des- 
)ut 
of 
my 
country 
and 
myself 
I 
loss 
of 
customary self 
which 
is 
rom 
home. It 
is, 
as 
we 
have 
is 
a precondition 
of 
the 
advent- 
Lrgue 
is 
that 
in 
the 
course 
of 
customary 
social existence 
into 
an 
adventure 
story, 
passing 
from 
a reader of adventure 
stories 
(the 
memoirs 
of 
Burke, 
safe 
on 
the 
printed 
page where 
Mackell- 
ar 
can 
put 
a scornful 
footnote 
correcting 
the 
Irishman's 
willing- 
ness 
to 
accept 
coincidence) 
and 
into 
real 
danger. 
He 
thus 
carries 
through 
Henry's 
desire 
to 
escape 
respectability which 
was summed 
up 
when 
he 
remarked 
of 
the 
smugglers: 
'I 
was 
thinking 
I 
would 
be 
a 
happier 
man 
if 
I 
could 
ride and 
run 
the 
danger 
of my 
life, 
with 
these 
lawless 
companions. 
"' 
In 
a grand structural 
zeugma 
Stevenson 
brings 
the 
secret 
life 
of 
the 
self 
into 
contact 
with 
its 
witnessed 
element. 
We 
can 
now 
look 
more closely at 
this 
process. 
As 
James 
and 
Mackellar 
set out 
from Durrisdeer 
in 
pursuit of 
Henry 
and 
his 
family, 
the 
steward 
has 
a nightmare which 
is 
to 
recur 
throughout 
their 
journey: 
It 
showed 
me my 
lord 
seated 
at a 
table 
in 
a small 
room; 
his 
head 
which 
was at 
first 
buried 
in 
his 
hands, 
he 
slowly 
raised, and 
turned 
upon 
me a 
countenance 
from 
which 
hope 
had fled. 
I 
saw 
it 
first 
on 
the 
black 
window-panes, 
my 
last 
night 
in 
Durrisdeer; 
it 
haunted 
and 
returned upon 
me 
half 
the 
voyage 
through. 
" 
The 
dream is 
not 
a 
pathological 
hallucination, 
nor 
yet 
does 
it 
turn 
out 
to 
be 
a 
prophecy. 
What 
are 
we 
to 
make 
of 
it? 
If 
we 
look 
back 
to 
Mackellar's 
'last 
night 
in 
Durrisdeer', 
we 
find 
the 
following: 
- 
198 
- 
When 
I 
got 
to 
my 
chamber, 
I 
sat 
painful 
excitation, 
hearkening to 
the 
gale 
... 
I 
sat 
by 
my 
taper, 
black 
panes of 
the 
window, 
wl 
appeared 
continually 
on 
the 
point 
its 
entrance; 
and upon 
that 
empty 
a 
perspective 
of 
consequences 
that 
to 
rise 
upon my 
scalp 
. 
17 
there 
under 
a 
the 
turmoil 
of 
looking 
in 
the 
sere 
the 
storm 
of 
bursting in 
field 
I beheld 
made 
the 
hair 
In fact, 
Mackellar's 
dream 
recalls 
him looking 
at 
his 
own 
re- 
flection; 
it 
is 
his 
own 
black despair 
that 
he 
identifies 
in 
the 
countenance 
of 
Henry. This 
twist 
in 
the 
conventional 
imagery 
of 
self-consciousness 
further 
ties 
Henry 
and 
Mackellar 
together. 
With 
Henry 
gone, 
Mackellar's 
very 
being 
changes. 
The 
journey 
out 
of 
himself 
begins before 
his 
journey 
to 
America, 
so 
that 
the 
voyage 
is 
the 
elaboration and 
fulfilment 
of 
his 
condition. 
A 
part of 
his 
identity 
has 
gone 
to 
America 
with 
the 
Dur 
ie 
family: 
The 
sense of 
isolation 
burned 
in 
my 
bowels like 
a 
fire. It 
seemed 
that 
we who remained 
at 
home 
were 
the 
true 
exiles and 
that 
Durrisdeer 
and 
Solway- 
side, and all 
that 
made my country 
native, 
its 
air 
good 
to 
me, and 
its 
language 
welcome, 
had 
gone 
over 
the 
sea with my old masters 
.1e 
With Henry, 
the 
steward 
loses 
the 
customary 
influences 
of 
his 
life. 
He 
sits 
up 
late, 
he 
plays 
at cards. 
And 
as 
his 
absolute 
rectitude 
eases, 
so 
his hostility 
to the 
Master 
is 
lessened. 
The 
voyage 
to 
America is 
the 
culmination 
of 
the 
relationship of 
Mackellar 
and 
James. 
It 
is 
told 
baldly 
and 
in 
general 
terms, 
with 
very 
few 
details. 
19 
Nothing, in 
other words, 
deflects 
the 
reader's 
attention 
from 
the 
symbolic values of 
ship, 
storm and 
voyage. 
Mackellar's 
earlier 
premonition 
of 
despair 
is 
borne 
out: 
I 
suffered 
from 
a 
blackness 
of 
spirit 
and a 
pain- 
ful 
strain 
upon 
my 
temper 
... 
never 
before, 
or 
after, 
have 
I 
been 
so poisoned 
through 
in 
soul 
2 
and 
body. 
? 
- 
199 
This 
disturbed 
state 
is 
accompanied 
by 
con . 
ending 
feelings 
of 
attraction to 
and 
repulsion 
from James: 
This 
frame 
of 
mind 
was 
doubtless 
helped 
by 
shame, 
because 
I had 
dropped 
during; 
our 
lagt 
days 
at 
Durrisdeer 
into 
a certain 
toleration 
of 
the 
man. 
21 
In 
the 
beauty, 
vitality and strength 
of 
the 
Master, 
Stevenson 
is 
returning 
to 
an 
old 
theme 
of 
the 
attractiveness 
of evil 
and 
dullness 
of conventional 
virtue. 
(Henry 
says, 
'I 
am not one 
who 
en- 
gaaes 
lova. 
'2 
2) 
MacKellar has 
passed 
into 
the 
world of 
low 
advent- 
ure. 
For 
example, 
he 
bears 
arms 
for 
the 
first 
time, 
in 
order 
to 
hold 
off 
a 
mutiny. 
Meanwhile, 
the 
Master 
becomes 
less 
and 
less 
real 
to 
him, 
as 
though 
he had fallen 
into 
a 
dream, 
(and 
lack 
of 
particularity 
in 
the 
narrative allows 
Stevenson 
to 
intro- 
duce 
this 
element 
of 
the 
surreal) 
: 
Sometimes 
I 
would 
draw 
thing 
partly 
spectral. 
thought 
of 
him 
as a 
though, 
if 
one 
should 
buckram 
of 
his 
counter 
mere 
vacuity 
within. 
23 
away 
I ri 
man 
strike 
lance, 
as 
though 
from 
some- 
ad 
moments when 
I 
of 
pasteboard 
- 
as 
smartly 
through the 
there 
would 
found 
a 
We find 
that 
with 
his 
exile 
Mackellar 
ingests 
the 
dream 
of 
simplicity of gesture and unselfconsciousness 
and 
finds himself 
unable 
to 
deny 
its 
attractions. 
In 
fact, 
he 
acquires 
some of 
the 
wit 
and sharpness 
of 
James, 
as 
well as 
the 
power of 
hat- 
red; as 
though 
the 
energy of 
the 
Master 
were 
flowing 
out of 
rim 
into 
Mackellar. 
The 
general 
irony 
of 
this 
reversal 
is 
rein- 
forced by 
the 
remarkable 
local 
irony 
that 
emerged 
from 
the 
steward's 
attempts 
to 
repress 
back 
into 
the 
subconscious 
that 
which 
he has 
to 
disavow. 
His 
resentment, 
worthy 
of 
the 
Master 
himself, leads 
him 
to 
pray 
for 
the 
ship 
to 
sink. 
The 
appeal 
to 
God 
is 
blasphemous, 
like 
Huish's 
in 
Ebb-Tide: 
If 
the 
Nonesuch 
foundered, 
she 
would 
carry with 
her 
into 
the 
deeps 
of 
that 
unsounded 
sea 
the 
creat- 
ure 
whom 
we 
all 
so 
feared 
and 
hated; 
there 
would 
- 
200 
- 
be 
no 
more 
`. `aster 
of 
Ballantrae. 
2 
And 
so 
he 
prays 
for 
the 
destruction 
of 
the 
ship. 
The 
irony 
lies 
L 
in 
this: 
that 
once 
the 
storm 
is 
over, 
the 
captain 
of 
the 
ship, 
who 
has 
overheard 
Mackellar's 
prayers, 
con` ratulates 
him 
on 
having 
saved 
them 
all 
by 
his 
intercession 
with 
Providence 
- 
the 
disparity 
between 
the 
black 
dream 
and appearance 
is 
never 
wider 
in 
this 
book. 
James 
remarks 
on 
the 
inconsistency: 
'Ah! Mackellar, 
said 
he, 
'not 
every 
man 
is 
so 
great 
a coward 
as 
he 
thinks 
he 
is 
- 
nor yet so 
good 
a 
Christian. 
i25 
The 
steward 
rises 
further 
in 
his 
esteem when 
he 
tries to 
kill 
him, 
pushed 
into 
that 
action 
by 
'the 
vision of my 
lord 
at 
the 
table, 
with 
his 
head 
upon 
his hands. 
' 
26 
At 
the 
point 
of 
full 
communion 
with 
Henry 
he becomes 
most 
like 
James 
anal. 
the 
inter- 
dependence 
of 
the 
three 
figures 
is 
realised 
in 
this 
peripety at 
the 
heart 
of 
Master: 
the 
method 
- 
though 
not moral, 
for 
there 
is 
none 
- 
is 
summed 
up 
in 
the 
fable 
which 
James 
tells 
Mackell- 
ar; 
it is 
a 
Blak: 
an 
parable 
in 
which 
desire becomes 
narrative, 
as 
the 
subsequent 
narrative of 
Master 
realises 
the 
secret 
dreams 
of 
James 
and 
Henry. 
The 
narratives 
of 
Burke 
are 
also 
in 
this 
sense a 
key 
to 
Master. They 
consist of 
the 
most 
fantas- 
tic 
wish 
fulfilment: Teach 
the 
pirate 
is 
an 
histrionic 
shape 
from 
a 
dream, 
easily 
disarmed 
at a 
word 
from James. It 
gives 
form 
to the 
real 
dream 
of 
adventure 
which 
is 
the 
desire for 
a 
world 
without 
others; 
James 
is 
like 
Attwater in 
this, that 
he 
must 
have 
utter 
mastery 
over 
other 
men; 
he 
must 
dissolve 
their 
stubborn 
otherness 
and 
make 
them 
his 
own 
instruments, 
just 
as 
he 
uses 
Secundra 
Dass, 
the 
Indian 
servant, 
who 
would 
commit 
murder 
for 
him. 
(His 
audacity 
in 
wishing 
this 
freedom 
is 
a 
direct 
challenge 
to 
God 
and 
Providence. 
He 
allows 
chance 
to 
rule 
his 
existence 
and 
to 
decide 
any course 
of action 
James 
tosses 
a 
coin). 
'Had 
I been Alexander' 
he 
says. 
And 
again: 
'I 
was 
born 
for 
a good 
tyrant! 
12 
7 
That 
others 
are 
a 
matter 
of 
- 
201 
- 
indifference 
to 
him leads 
to 
his 
mercurial 
ability 
to 
be 
at 
home 
in 
the 
army, 
in 
the 
salons of 
Paris, 
on 
board 
the 
pirate ship. 
His 
complete 
hostility 
to 
social 
institutions 
allows 
him 
to 
be 
all 
things 
to 
all 
men; 
it is, 
after 
all, 
the 
virtuous 
who care what 
others 
think 
of 
them. 
He has 
contempt 
for 
the 
self-conscious, 
moral 
side 
of 
man as 
it 
appears 
in 
social 
institutions, 
and 
forces 
Burke 
to 
promise 
that 
they 
will 
'dare 
to 
be 
ourselves 
like 
savages' 
.28 
He 
murders 
with all 
the 
insouciance 
of 
a 
dreaming 
child. 
29 
In 
the 
section 
of 
Master 
set 
in 
America, 
James' 
invulnerability 
is 
finally 
betrayed. 
It 
is 
as 
though 
Stevenson 
was 
refusing 
the 
seductively 
plastic 
power 
of 
language, 
challenging 
its 
credulity 
and 
yet 
not 
denying 
it. The 
Master 
makes 
the 
point 
about 
language 
to 
Mackellar: 
'Oh! 
there 
are 
double 
words 
for 
everything: 
the 
word 
that 
swells, 
the 
word 
that 
belittles; 
you 
cannot 
fig ht 
me with 
a word! 
You 
said 
the 
other 
day 
that 
I 
relied on 
your conscience: 
were 
I 
in 
your 
humour 
of 
detra 
ction, 
I 
might 
say 
I 
built 
upon 
your 
vanity. 
It 
is 
your 
intention 
to 
be 
" 
un 
homm 
e 
de 
parole"; 
'tis 
mine 
not 
to 
accept 
defe 
at. 
0 
0 
Mackellar 
is 
a 
man 
of 
his 
word, 
but 
also a 
man 
of words, of 
lanaua 
ce 
: 
and 
it is 
this 
doubleness 
of 
language 
that 
led 
Stevenson 
to 
create 
the 
multiple perspectives 
and 
moralities of 
Master. The 
very 
ending elucidates only 
a 
final 
ambiguity. 
When 
James 
is 
dug 
out of 
the 
ground, 
Henry's deach 
is 
confirmation 
of 
his 
own earlier 
prophecy 
that 
they 
were 
bound 
together 
unto 
death; 
what 
actually 
happened 
can 
only 
be 
reported 
by 
Mackellar 
as 
a 
legend: 'This 
may 
have 
been. 
I 
know 
not'. 
31 
Even 
the 
plain 
frontiersman 
Mountain's 
narrative 
requires 
intensive 
corrobation, 
for 
'he 
could 
scarce 
be 
certain 
whether 
he 
had 
dreamed 
or 
whether 
it 
was 
a 
fact. 
2 
The 
strangeness 
of 
that 
episode 
in 
the 
wilderness 
is 
a 
proper 
working 
out 
of 
conformation 
of 
dream 
to 
desire, 
and 
is 
thus 
- 
202 
- 
both 
a 
celebration 
and a 
criticism 
of 
adventure. 
Stevenson 
was 
aware 
of 
a problem 
in 
connection 
with 
the 
last, 
American 
section 
of 
the 
Master 
primarily 
in 
stylistic 
terms. 
He 
records 
that 
Mackellar is 
forced 
to 
abandon 
his dry, 
factual 
manner. 
However, 
it 
is 
doubtful 
if 
Mackellar 
was 
ever 
so 
dry 
and 
factual 
as all 
that. 
The 
real 
loss 
is 
not 
one 
of 
stylistic 
consistency. 
It 
is, 
instead, 
the 
loss 
of 
Mackellar 
as an active 
consciousness 
awakening 
to 
all 
its 
capacity 
for 
good 
and 
for 
evil: 
and 
so 
the 
uneasy 
resolution 
of 
the 
conflict 
between 
the 
brothers 
finds 
no answering 
response 
in 
the 
narrator 
of 
the 
story 
of 
the 
House 
of 
Durrisdeer. 
The 
important 
thing 
is 
that 
an 
understanding 
of 
MacKellar's 
function 
is 
essential 
for 
a 
clear understanding 
of 
the 
novel. 
To 
understand 
Mackellar, 
we 
must recognise 
that the 
Master 
is 
a potential of 
Mackellar's 
self, 
in 
a 
symbolic way; 
just 
as 
Henry 
is 
another version. 
That 
is 
what 
the 
dialogue 
with 
James 
on 
board 
the 
Nonesuch 
is 
about. 
James's 
taunts 
to 
Mackellar 
all 
take the 
form 
of an 
insistence 
that 
virtue 
is 
meaningless 
unless 
it 
has been 
tested. 
Otherwise 
it 
is 
merely a 
matter 
of 
empty words, 
'the 
word 
that 
swells, 
the 
word 
that 
belittles'. 
33 
The 
intimacy 
of 
the 
two 
has been 
developed 
to 
a 
point which 
allows 
the 
reader 
to 
believe 
that the 
steward and 
the 
adventurer could 
speak 
honestly 
to 
each other, and 
that 
Mackellar's 
Manichaean 
view of 
the 
war 
between 
the 
brothers 
could 
be 
shaken. 
In fact, 
that 
section 
of 
Master 
can 
be 
placed 
alongside 
a 
similar 
episode 
in 
Joseph 
Conrad's 
Lord 
Jim. Jim 
is 
ensconced 
on 
his 
Malaysian 
island 
as 
virtual 
king 
and 
lawgiver. 
He 
tells 
Marlow: 
'I 
have 
got 
back 
my confidence 
in 
myself 
-a 
good 
name. 
- 
203 
- 
... 
I 
must 
go 
on 
forever 
holding 
up 
ray 
end, 
to 
feel 
sure 
that 
nothing 
can 
touch 
me. 
I 
must stick 
to 
their 
belief 
in 
me 
to 
feel 
safe. 
' 
34 
Into 
this 
situation 
enters 
Gentleman Brown, 
who 
has 
both 
a 
functional 
and 
a symbolic 
role 
in 
the 
novel. 
He 
exposes 
Jim's 
vulnerabili 
ty 
almost 
as 
though 
he 
is 
from 
a 
subterranean 
part 
of 
Jim's 
own 
mind, 
from 
that 
part 
of 
the 
self 
which 
is 
without 
conscience, 
because 
Conrad 
establi shes 
him 
for 
the 
reader 
as 
an 
inner, 
corrupting 
phenomenon. 
When he 
i 
s 
talking 
to 
Jim, 
suggesting 
that 
they 
loot 
Patusan 
and escape 
together, 
we 
are 
told that 
There 
ran 
through 
the 
rough 
talk 
a vein of subtle 
reference 
to their 
common 
blood, 
an assumption 
of 
common 
experience; 
a sickening 
suggestion of 
common 
guilt, of secret 
knowledge 
that 
was 
like 
the 
bond 
of 
their 
minds and 
hearts. 
3 
5 
The 
response 
which 
Brown's 
rapacious 
egoism 
brings 
from 
Jim 
is 
all 
the 
more 
destructive because 
he 
ruerceives 
it 
from 
his 
position 
of es 
1 
teem 
and res-Donsibi 
lity 
as 
a 
law-maker: 
and 
he 
sees 
that 
that 
egoism 
between Jim's 
egoism 
destructive 
because 
his 
things. 
L  
part 
of 
himself 
too. 
The 
relationship 
and 
his 
need 
for 
public esteem 
is 
existence 
is 
predicated upon 
both 
these 
James 
Durie 
appears 
in 
the 
same 
light 
to 
Mackellar. He leads 
the 
righteous 
man 
to 
a recognition 
which 
has 
been 
stated 
by 
Nietzsche: 
It 
is 
probable 
that 
we 
too 
still 
have 
our 
virtues, 
although 
naturally 
they 
will not 
be 
those 
square 
and 
simple 
virtues 
on whose 
account 
we 
hold 
our 
grandfathers 
in 
high 
esteem 
but 
also 
hold 
them 
off 
a 
little. 
We Europeans 
of 
the 
day 
after 
tomorrow, 
we 
first-born 
of 
the twentieth 
century 
- 
with 
all 
our 
dangerous 
curiosity, our multiplicity 
and art 
of 
disguise, 
our 
mellow and as 
it 
were 
sugared 
cruelty 
in 
spirit 
and 
senses 
- 
if 
we 
are 
to 
have 
virtues 
we 
shall presumably 
have 
only 
such 
- 
204- 
virtues 
as 
have 
learned 
to 
get along 
with 
our 
most 
secret 
and 
heartfelt 
inclinations, 
with 
our 
most 
fervent 
needs: 
very 
well, 
let 
us 
look 
for 
them 
within 
our 
labyrinths 
!36 
The 
Master 
represents 
this 
sugared cruelty 
in 
spirit 
and 
senses: 
sugared 
because 
he 
is 
so 
attractive a 
figure in 
many 
ways; 
Master 
of 
the 
'art 
of 
disguise' 
certainly 
since we 
never 
really 
know 
whether 
he 
is 
what 
Mackellar 
sees, 
or 
what 
Secundra 
Dass 
loves, 
what 
Henry 
comes 
to 
hate., 
what 
Burke 
alternately 
condemns 
and admires, or 
what 
he 
claims 
to 
be 
himself; 
and 
cruel, 
for his 
persecution of 
Henry. Ultimately 
he 
is 
some 
aspect 
of 
each 
of 
these, 
a 
part 
of 
whatever 
they 
deny 
to 
their 
image 
of 
themselves. 
It 
is in 
respect of 
that that 
the 
Master 
is 
naughty, or 
nothing. 
He 
is 
evil 
because 
he 
is 
nothing. 
He 
embodies 
the 
recognition 
that there 
is 
nothing 
in 
the 
world 
but 
self, 
in 
that 
he 
is 
pure 
will 
and sensuous 
appetite, a 
distorting 
mirror 
for 
virtuous men. 
He 
is 
the 
part 
of themselves 
with which 
they 
have 
come 
to 
terms 
in 
order 
to 
be 
whole. 
But 
there 
is 
no 
wholeness 
in 
Master. 
It depicts 
a 
world 
without 
harmony 
or 
homogeneity. 
No 
act 
in it 
is 
necessary or 
sufficient 
unto 
itself; 
no one 
is 
at 
home 
in 
this 
world. 
At least, 
if 
Mackellar 
and 
the 
other 
members 
of 
the 
family 
are at 
home 
in 
their 
Scottish Eden 
during 
the 
Master's 
second 
absence, 
then 
they 
are 
soon expelled. 
In 
this 
respect 
Master 
is 
a 
story of 
beginnings. 
The 
Book 
of 
Genesis 
is 
a constant point 
of 
reference 
in 
the 
narration. 
The 
enmity 
of 
the 
two 
brothers 
recalls 
the 
story 
of 
Cain 
and 
Abel; 
the 
Master 
is 
referred 
to 
by 
Mackellar 
as 
Eve 
(! 
) 
, 
as 
Satan, 
and 
as 
Lucifer; 
37 
James 
casts 
himself 
in 
the 
role 
of 
Esau 
to 
Henry's 
Jacob. 
3 
8 
James 
has 
a very 
different 
set 
of 
references 
for 
himself 
which 
reinforces 
the 
idea 
that 
a 
number 
of 
perspectives 
exist 
in 
the 
novel 
despite 
Mackellar's 
'partisanship'. 
He 
wishes 
he 
had been 
Alexander 
the 
Great 
and 
he 
describes 
- 
205 
- 
bims 
Jlf 
as 
Aeneas 
in 
his 
escape 
from 
India. 
The 
antique 
strain 
is 
kept 
up 
by 
Burke 
when 
he 
says 
at one point 
in 
his 
account 
of 
his 
and 
the 
Master' 
s 
wanderings: 
A 
more 
romantic 
circumstance 
can rarely 
have 
occurred; 
and 
it 
is 
one 
of 
those 
points 
in 
my 
memoirs, 
by 
which we 
may 
see 
the 
old 
tales 
of 
Homer 
and 
the 
poets 
are equally 
true today 
- 
at 
least, 
of 
the 
noble 
and 
genteel. 
39 
Burke' 
s 
pretensions 
are unintentionally 
ironic; 
but 
they 
preserve- 
-the 
bifocal 
vision of 
the 
novel 
by 
keeping 
open 
the 
possibility 
of viewing 
their 
adventures 
as 
heroic. 
) 
The 
event 
which 
has 
led 
to the 
fall 
is in 
the 
past as 
Mackellar's 
story 
begins. 
That 
event 
was 
the 
decision 
to 
divide 
the 
commitment 
of 
the 
family 
by 
sendi ng one son out 
in 
the 
'45 
and 
having 
one 
son stay 
home. 
The 
expulsion 
is 
repeated 
in 
the 
course 
of 
the 
novel, 
with each of 
James's 
unlooked-for 
returns. 
Nevertheless, 
the 
aboriginal 
event 
splitting 
the 
family 
belongs 
to 
the 
past, and 
they 
are condemned 
to the 
consequences 
of 
that 
split. 
This 
perception 
leads 
us 
to 
consider 
Mackellar's 
narration 
again, 
this time 
from 
a 
slightly 
different 
point 
of view. 
Like 
the 
epic poet, 
he 
begins 
in 
the 
midst" 
and 
informs 
us 
on 
the 
very 
first 
page 
that 
he 
is 
going 
to 
tell 
the 
story of 
the 
' last 
years 
and 
history 
of 
the 
house' 
of 
Durrisdeer. 
"? 
As far 
as 
MMIackellar 
is 
concerned 
this 
is 
true, 
since 
although 
the 
line 
does 
not 
die 
out until 
the 
death 
of 
Alexander, 
Mackellar 
is 
dismissed 
by 
Alexander 
and as 
far 
as 
he, 
the 
author, 
is 
concerned 
the 
story 
of 
the 
Durrisdeers 
does 
end with 
the 
extinction 
of 
the 
brothers. 
Master 
is 
also 
conceivably, 
in 
that 
case, 
a 
story 
of 
ends: 
the 
last 
of 
the 
many 
documents 
in 
the 
novel 
is, 
after 
all, 
the 
double 
epitaph 
of 
the 
brothers. 
The 
truth 
is 
that 
it is 
a 
tale 
of 
both 
ending 
and 
beginning 
; 
- 
206 
- 
and 
this 
fact 
adds 
weight 
to the 
proposal 
to 
see 
Master 
as 
a 
layered 
narrative of multiple 
perspectives. 
These 
multiple 
perspectives 
prevent 
Master from 
establishing 
a 
mythic 
pattern, 
which 
th-- 
persistent 
metaphoric 
references 
to 
Genesis 
might 
lead 
the 
reader 
to 
believe 
was 
being 
established. 
The 
pattern 
of 
Eden, 
transgression, 
Fall, 
dividedness, 
exists 
as a possibility 
in 
the 
novel, 
as a potential 
shaping 
myth 
which 
is 
never 
fulfilled. 
Likewise, 
the 
Cain 
and 
Abel 
comparison, which 
comes 
to 
mind 
after 
the 
duel 
in 
which 
Henry 
"kills" 
James, 
has 
to 
be 
scrapped 
when 
we realise 
that 
the 
Master 
is 
not 
dead. Nor 
can 
we 
trust 
James's 
own 
characterisation 
of 
Henry 
as 
Jacob; 
it is 
partly 
just, 
but 
James looks 
far 
more 
like 
the 
brother 
who 
fools 
his 
father- 
in 
the 
first 
part 
of 
the 
novel 
up 
to 
the 
flight 
to 
America, 
at 
least. 
The failure 
to 
achieve 
mythic 
patterning, which so clearly 
is 
an aspiration 
of 
the 
novel, 
may 
be 
taken 
as a 
comment on 
the 
difficulty 
of writing 
anything 
which could 
be 
seen as 
the 
truth, 
and not 
merely 
a 
reflection of 
a 
subjective 
reality. 
Stevenson's 
distrust 
of 
fiction 
as 
an objective 
recorder of 
verifiable reality 
has been 
evident 
from 
the 
works 
considered 
in 
the 
second chapter of 
this thesis 
through 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
to the 
present 
discussion 
of 
Master. By 
attributing 
the 
'bald' 
narrative of most of 
Master 
to 
his 
eighteenth 
century 
puritan, 
and 
by 
multiplying 
the 
authors within 
the 
novel, 
Stevenson 
is 
recording 
the 
uncertainty with which 
narrative 
speaks of 
reality. 
"' 
If 
Mackellar, 
the 
moral 
man, 
is 
problematic, and 
if, 
as 
the 
Master 
predicts 
and as we must 
think 
as 
readers, 
Mackellar's 'prejudices' 
thoroughly 
revive; 
then, the 
tale 
which 
the 
problematic 
man 
tells 
must 
itself 
be 
in 
question. 
We 
have 
seen 
how 
Mackellar's 
narrative 
is 
sincere 
(that 
is, 
not 
unreliable), 
but 
limited. 
Therefore, his 
protestations 
that 
he 
will 
tell 
the 
'full 
truth', 
'make 
these 
matters 
plain' 
and 
'narrate 
them 
faithfully', 
42 
are 
framed 
by 
what 
we come 
to 
know 
of 
his 
limitations, 
and 
may 
be 
subject 
to 
the 
same 
editorial 
scepticism 
with 
which 
he 
treats 
Burke' 
s 
'Memoirs'. 
- 
207 
- 
By 
the 
end 
of 
the 
novel, we 
can 
see 
beyond 
Mackeilar's 
representation 
of events 
to 
other 
possible 
interpretations. 
This 
is 
evident 
in 
the 
last 
words 
of which 
he 
is 
author 
in 
the 
novel, 
the 
epitaphs 
of 
the 
two 
brothers: 
J. 
D. 
HEIR 
TO 
A SCOTTISH 
TITLE 
A 
MASTER OF THE ARTS AND 
GRACES 
ADMIRED 
IN EUROPE, ASIA, AMERICA, 
IN 
WAR AND 
PEACE, 
IN 
THE TENTS OF 
SAVAGE 
HUNTERS AND 
THE 
CITADELS 
OF 
KINGS, AFTER SO 
MUCH 
ACQUIRED, 
ACCOMPLISHED, AND 
ENDURED 
LIES 
HERE FOR- 
GOTTEN 
H. D. 
HIS 
BROTHER, 
AFTER A 
LIFE 
OF 
UNMERITED 
DISTRESS, 
BRAVELY SUPPORTED, 
DIED ALMOST 
IN THE SAME HOUR, 
AND SLEEPS 
IN 
THE SAME GRAVE 
WITH HIS 
FRATERNAL 
ENEMY. 
?3 
It 
is, 
we 
know, 
not 
true that 
James 
is 
forgotten. 
Mackellar's 
story 
memorialises 
James, 
as 
does 
the 
epitaph 
which, 
ironically, 
is 
more 
fulsome 
(though 
qualifiedly 
so) 
than 
Henry's. 
Also, 
that 
Henry's 
distress 
was 
'bravely 
supported' 
does 
not 
quite 
seem 
to 
be 
as sincere 
a statement 
as 
is 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
narrative. 
Indeed, 
the 
epitaphs 
might 
be 
a 
fable 
of 
the 
whole 
novel's 
relation 
to truth 
and 
historical 
record: 
Mackellar 
tells 
the 
truth 
despite his 
avowed 
intention 
to 
write 
an 
apologia 
for Henry; 
""but 
it is 
about 
himself 
that 
he 
tells 
the 
truth 
. 
In 
his 
attack 
on 
Naturalism 
(and 
it 
is 
an attack 
on 
Naturalism 
rather 
than 
one 
on 
Realism), 
'A 
Note 
on 
Realism', 
Stevenson 
wrote 
approvingly 
of 
'works 
of art 
that 
have 
been 
conceived 
from 
within 
outwards' 
. 
45 
Master 
is 
a 
novel 
that 
has 
been 
- 
208 
- 
composed 
from 
within 
outwards, 
disguised 
though 
it 
is 
as 
authentic, 
footnoted history. 
It 
is 
also 
a novel 
which 
struggles, 
through 
its 
use 
of metaphor, 
towards 
myth; 
to 
being 
a 
story 
of 
the 
Fall. 
But it 
has 
too 
many authors, 
and 
those 
too 
limited 
and 
subjective, 
to 
have 
the 
authority 
of 
either 
myth 
or 
history. 
What 
is 
certain 
is 
that 
its 
uncertainty 
makes 
it 
a 
very 
modern work, pointing 
forward 
in its 
technique 
and 
its 
distrust 
of reality, 
to 
many 
works of more recent 
genesis. 
Some 
of 
these 
works are 
discussed 
in 
the 
final 
chapter, 
after 
due 
attention 
has 
been 
paid 
to 
Stevenson' 
s most authoritative 
story: 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston. 
CHAPTER 
VII 
The Romance 
of 
T 
dentity 
: 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston 
'Try 
as 
I 
please, 
I 
cannot 
join 
myself on 
with 
the 
reverend 
doctor; 
and all 
the 
while, 
no 
doubt, 
and 
even as 
I 
write 
the 
phrase, 
he 
moves 
in 
my 
blood, 
and 
whispers 
words 
to 
and 
sits efficient 
in 
the 
very 
knot 
and 
centre of 
my 
being. ' 
(R. 
L. Stevenson, 
of 
his 
grandfather 
Balfour, 
in 
'The Manse) 
'I 
am 
killing 
my 
father 
... 
If 
only 
I 
could 
cease 
to 
like him, 
I 
could pull 
through 
with 
a good 
heart. 
' 
(Stevenson, 
Letter 
to 
Mrs Sitwell, 
September 
22,1873) 
- 
209 
- 
CHAPTER 
VII 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston 
was 
the 
novel on 
which 
Stevenson 
was work- 
ing 
when 
he died. It 
is 
unfinished. 
It 
places 
before 
us, 
there- 
fore, 
the 
problem of evaluation 
which 
one would 
expect 
a 
truncated text 
to 
present. 
There has 
been 
a great 
deal 
of 
speculation 
about 
the 
future 
narrative 
direction 
of 
Weir, 
usually 
based 
on 
the 
summary 
of 
the 
complete 
plot which 
Steven- 
son 
gave 
to 
Isobel 
Strong, his 
step-daughter and, at 
this time, 
his 
secretary. 
This 
version 
of 
how 
the 
story 
would 
continue 
goes 
as 
follows: 
young 
Kirsty, 
Archie' 
s 
lover, 
was 
to 
be 
seduced 
by Frank Innes 
who would 
be 
murdered 
by Archie; 
crim- 
inal 
proceedings 
against 
Archie 
would 
be 
started 
by his 
father, 
the 
Chief 
justice-Clerk; 
the 
four Rutherford 
brothers 
were 
to 
release 
Archie 
from 
the 
prison where 
he 
would 
have been 
await- 
ing 
trial, 
and 
Archie 
and 
Kirsty 
would 
then 
escape 
to 
America. 
It 
will 
be 
obvious 
that 
even 
if 
Stevenson had 
stuck 
to 
this 
out- 
line 
of 
the 
plot 
(by 
no means 
a certainty), 
any 
judgement 
of 
Weir based 
on 
such a rough 
storyline 
is 
worthless 
because 
the 
tone 
and 
local 
modulations 
which 
belong 
to 
an actual 
text 
are 
absent 
from 
such a 
bare 
account 
of 
the 
matter, as 
is 
the 
sig- 
nificance 
which resides 
in 
style. 
Furthermore, 
it 
is 
clear 
that 
in 
a 
novel such 
as 
Weir, 
which 
is 
linguistically 
complex 
and 
in 
which 
the 
action 
is 
intensively 
registered, 
the 
further 
devel- 
opments 
in 
the 
story 
are 
likely 
to 
modify 
the 
meaning 
of 
those 
earlier 
episodes 
which 
Stevenson 
had drafted. 
If 
we 
add 
to the 
above 
the 
fact 
that 
Stevenson 
may 
have 
made 
alterations 
to 
that 
section 
of 
Weir 
which 
we 
do have, 
then 
it 
will 
be 
seen 
that 
it 
behoves 
the 
critic 
to 
approach 
this 
frag- 
- 
210 
- 
ment 
with 
caution and 
to 
refrain 
fron, 
making any 
appraisal 
of 
a 
potential, 
but 
unrealised, 
full-length 
novel 
which 
he 
has 
completed 
in 
his 
own 
imagination. 
Consequently, 
I 
do 
not 
intend 
to 
essay 
a 
comprehensive 
apprais- 
al 
of 
the 
unfinished work. 
Instead, I 
will 
discuss 
two 
salient 
features 
of 
the 
text 
which 
does 
exist. 
Firstly, 
I 
will 
examine 
the 
implications 
of 
the 
historical 
features 
of 
the 
novel. 
Then 
secondly, 
I 
want 
to 
look 
at 
the theme 
of 
the 
relationship 
be- 
tween 
fathers 
and 
sons which 
figures 
so 
greatly 
in 
Stevenson's 
writings. 
It 
is 
well 
known 
that 
from 
his 
exile 
in 
Samoa Stevenson 
return- 
ed 
nostalgically 
to 
Scotland 
in 
a series 
of 
fictions, 
Catriona, 
St. Ives, 
'The Young Chevalier', 
and 
Weir. Henry James 
has 
well 
described 
this 
imaginative 
recapturing 
of 
his 
native 
land: 
The 
Pacific, 
in 
which 
he 
materially 
delighted, 
made 
him, 
'descriptively', 
serious and 
rather 
dry; 
with 
his 
own 
country, on 
the 
other 
hand, 
mater- 
ially impossible, 
he 
was 
ready 
infinitely 
to 
play. 
' 
What James 
says 
would also apply 
during 
those 
last 
was 
authenticated 
ence and 
an 
inten 
of 
Stevenson's 
preoccupation with 
Edinburgh 
to 
his 
relationship with 
Scotland 
as a 
whole 
four 
years 
in 
the 
Pacific. This 
relationship 
'in 
virtue of a constant 
imaginative 
refer- 
se, 
intellectual 
possession. 
12 
This 
intellectual 
and 
imaginative 
possession 
of a 
native 
land 
from 
which 
he 
was 
exiled 
is 
explicitly 
referred 
to 
in 
the 
dedic- 
atory 
verses 
of 
Weir: 
I 
saw 
rain 
falling 
and 
the 
rainbow 
drawn 
On Lammermuir. 
Hearkening 
I heard 
again 
In 
my 
precipitous 
city 
beaten 
bells 
Winnow 
the 
keen 
sea 
wind. 
And 
here 
afar, 
Intent 
on my 
own 
race 
and 
place, 
I 
wrote. 
3 
- 
211 
- 
However, 
Weir 
does 
not 
recreate 
the 
Edinburgh 
and 
the 
Bord`,,, 
-s 
which 
Stevenson 
knew, 
and 
which 
are so 
recurrently 
evoked 
in 
his 
letters 
to 
Charles 
Baxter. 
It 
is 
set 
in 
the 
period of 
Sir 
Walter 
Scott, 
in 
the 
latter 
half 
of 
the 
eighteenth 
century 
and 
up 
to 
1814. The 
last 
date is 
the 
year of 
Archie's 
rebellion 
against 
his father, 
and 
of 
the 
publication of 
Waverley. 
It 
is 
a striking 
fact 
that 
almost 
all 
of 
Stevenson's historical 
novels 
which 
are 
set 
in 
Scotland 
at all are 
located 
in 
the 
per- 
iod 
between 
1745 
and 
the 
end of 
the 
French 
wars 
in 
1815. 
This 
was an 
era which saw 
the 
final 
assimilation 
of 
Scotland into 
the 
United 
Kingdom 
and a quite 
remarkable 
efflorescence 
of art- 
istic 
and 
scientific 
endeavour 
in 
Lowland Scotland. Kidnapped, 
Master, Catriona, St. Ives, 
Weir, 
all 
occur 
in 
that 
span of 
time. 
It 
is 
no 
matter 
of chance 
that 
Weir 
is 
historically 
placed 
in 
this 
era. 
The 
period 
1745-1814 
is 
exactly 
that 
between 
the time in 
which 
Waverley 
is 
set 
and 
its 
publication 
date. In his 
postscript 
to 
that 
novel, 
Scott 
touches 
on 
the 
radical changes which 
Scotland 
has 
undergone 
in 
those 
sixty years: 
There 
is 
no 
European 
nation 
which, within 
the 
course 
of 
half 
a 
century, or 
little 
more 
has 
under- 
gone so complete a 
change as 
this 
kingdom 
of 
Scot- 
land 
. 
The 
effects of 
the 
insurrection 
of 
1'/ 
? 
... 
com- 
mence 
this 
innovation. 
The 
gradual 
influx 
of 
wealth and 
extension 
of 
commerce 
have 
since united 
to 
render 
the 
present people of 
Scotland 
a class 
of 
beings 
as 
different 
from 
their 
grandfathers 
as 
the 
existing 
English 
are 
from 
those 
of 
Queen 
Elizabeth's 
time. 
Scott 
was 
typical 
of many 
Scottish 
intellectuals 
of 
this 
time in 
being 
sentimentally 
committed 
to 
Scotland's 
nationhood 
and 
its 
past, while 
seeing 
no 
political 
alternative 
to 
the 
Union 
and 
welcoming 
the 
economic 
prosperity 
it 
seemed 
to 
bring. 
He 
is 
ambivalent, 
facing 
back 
into 
the 
Scottish 
past 
and 
forward 
into 
the 
British 
future. 
He 
stands 
at a 
fracture 
in 
Scottish 
culture. 
- 
212 
- 
Although 
Scott 
refers 
to the 
process 
of 
change 
primarily 
in 
economic 
terms, 
many 
alterations 
in 
Scotland's 
mores, 
language 
and 
literature 
were 
also 
affected. 
In 
Edinburgh, 
for 
example, 
the 
plan 
for 
the 
Ne,, 
v 
To-. 
yn 
-- 
symbolising 
as 
it 
did 
the 
new 
gentility 
and class-consciousness 
of 
Lowland 
Scotland's 
mer- 
chant 
and 
landowning 
estate 
- 
was 
adopted 
by 
the 
Town 
Coun- 
cil 
in 1767; 
and 
its 
construction 
gathered 
a momentum 
at 
the 
latter 
end of 
that 
century which 
lasted 
well 
into 
the 
next. 
Its 
street 
names 
identified 
the 
city's 
incorporation 
to the 
Hanover- 
ian 
regime. 
Georgian 
Edinburgh did 
not only expand northwards. 
George 
Square 
was 
a 
development 
on 
the 
south 
side 
of 
the 
city. 
Scott's 
family lived here 
for 
a 
time, 
and 
one 
of 
their 
distinguished 
neighbours 
was 
Robert 
McQueen, Lord 
Braxfield, 
who 
formed 
the 
model 
for 
Weir 
in 
Stevenson's 
novel. 
In 
fact, Scott dedicated 
his 
admission 
thesis 
for 
the 
law faculty 
at 
Edinburgh 
to 
Brax- 
field. 
As 
well 
as 
Scott's 
actual 
connection 
with 
Bra 
: 
field, 
the 
writ- 
er's 
ghost 
is 
evoked 
in 
Weir 
in 
other 
ways. 
In his 
preface, 
Stevenson 
tells the 
reader 
that 
'the 
chisel 
of 
Old 
Mortality has 
clinked' on 
the 
gravestone 
of 
the 
Praying 
Weaver 
of 
Baiweary; 
s 
and 
the 
mention 
of 
the 
Cameronian 
mason 
cannot 
fail 
to 
call 
to 
mind 
Scott's 
novel. 
Weir's 
wife 
is 
a 
Rutherford; 
that 
is 
to 
say, she 
bears 
the 
same 
name 
and comes 
from 
the 
same 
part 
of 
Scotland 
as 
Scott's 
mother's 
family. 
Scott 
also 
figures 
as 
the 
collector 
of 
Border 
ballads 
whom 
we 
find 
in 
Weir. 
6 
My 
reason 
for 
thus 
connecting 
Scott 
with 
Brax. 
field 
and 
Weir 
is 
to 
implicate 
the 
imaginative 
historical 
realm of 
Stevenson's 
novel 
with 
the 
ambivalence 
of one of 
the 
leading 
characters 
of 
Scotland's 
Golden 
Age. 
A 
perception 
of 
a 
fracture 
between 
an 
older, 
wilder, 
more 
distinctively 
ethnic 
Scotland 
and 
the 
legal- 
istic 
civility 
of 
Hanoverian 
Scotland forms, 
culturally, 
an 
ob- 
jective 
correlative 
of 
the 
psychological 
tensions 
of 
Weir. 
This 
- 
213 
- 
is 
most 
apparent 
in 
the 
dialogue. 
Wir 
speaks 
broadish 
Low- 
land 
Sco 
ts, 
while 
his 
son 
Archie 
talks 
a regionally 
unmarked 
English, 
with 
the 
exceptions 
of 
a 
few 
significant 
occasions 
when 
he 
speaks 
Scots. 
By 
going 
back 
to 
the 
Scotland 
of 
this 
period, 
Stevenson 
gives 
a 
social-historical resonance 
to 
the 
personal 
conflict 
of 
father 
and son. 
Weir, 
and 
behind 
him Braxfield, 
stands at 
the 
centre 
of 
the 
novel. 
Robert 
MacQueen, Lord 
Braxfield 
(1722-1799; 
Stevenson 
extends 
his life by 
fifteen 
years), 
was 
a renowned 
Scottish 
law- 
yer 
who 
became 
Lord Advocate 
and 
the 
Chief justice 
on 
the 
Scottish 
Bench. He 
was 
the 
principal 
judge 
in 
the 
criminal 
court 
for 
many years, 
and 
is 
perhaps 
best 
known 
to 
history 
for 
his 
savage 
conduct of 
the 
Radical 
trials 
of 
1793 
and 
1794. 
T. 
C. 
Smout describes 
the trial 
of 
Thomas Muir, 
chairman of 
the 
radical 
and 
pro-French 
'Friends 
of 
the 
People' 
Convention, 
as 
a 
travesty' 
.7 
His 
strong 
Tory 
principles 
are 
believed 
to 
have 
prejudiced 
the 
conduct 
of 
the trial, 
and 
they 
resemble 
Steven- 
son's 
father's Toryism. The 
elder 
Stevenson 
changed 
his 
son's 
middle name 
from 
Lewis 
to 
Louis 
because 
a 
local 
radical 
bore 
the 
former. 
We 
can 
first 
record 
Stevenson's 
reaction 
to 
Braxfield 
in 
a 
re- 
view 
which 
he 
wrote 
on 
the 
Raeburn 
exhibition 
held 
in 
the 
Scottish 
Academy in 
1876. 
In his 
general remarks 
on 
the 
exhib- 
ition, 
he 
notes 
the 
fact 
that 
Raeburn's 
portraits connect 
the 
Scots 
of 
his 
own 
day 
with 
a past 
which 
is 
not 
yet completely 
historical. 
In 
other 
words, 
he 
affirms 
a 
personal connection 
with 
the 
famous 
sitters: 
The 
people 
who 
sat 
for 
these 
pictures 
are not 
yet 
ancestors, 
they 
are 
still 
relations. 
They 
are 
not 
yet 
altogether 
a 
part 
of 
the 
dusty 
past, 
but 
occupy 
a 
middle 
distance 
within cry 
of 
our 
affect- 
ions. 
8 
When 
he 
comes 
to 
describe 
individual 
paintings, 
it 
is 
to 
- 
Li4 
- 
Raeburn's 
portrait 
of 
Braxfield 
that 
he 
devotes 
the 
most 
space. 
While 
he 
was 
working 
on 
Weir, 
Andrew 
Lang 
sent 
him 
an en- 
graving 
from 
the 
Raeburn 
picture; 
and 
Stevenson 
recorded 
in 
reply 
that 
ever since 
seeing 
the 
portrait eighteen 
years 
before 
he 
had 
been 
'Braxfield's 
humble 
servant'. 
9 
In 
the 
review 
paper 
he 
goes 
into 
some 
biographical 
detail 
about 
Braxfield, 
recording 
that 
he 
was 
'the 
last 
judge 
on 
the 
Scotch bench 
to 
employ 
the 
pure 
Scotch 
idiom. 
' 
And 
he 
then 
relates 
dialect 
and 
character: 
'His 
opinions, 
thus 
given 
in 
Doric, 
and 
conceived 
in 
a 
lively, 
rugged, conversational style, 
were 
full 
of point 
and 
authority. 
' 
10 
But 
the 
admiration 
is 
not 
entirely 
straightforward, and 
this 
has 
a 
bearing 
on 
the 
complexity and ambiguity of 
his 
imaginat- 
ive 
recreation of 
MacQueen 
in 
Weir. He 
says 
that: 
It 
is 
probably 
more 
instructive 
to 
entertain a 
sneaking 
kindness 
for 
any unpopular person, and, 
among 
the 
rest, 
for Lord Braxfield, 
than to 
give 
way 
to 
perfect 
raptures of moral 
indignation 
against 
his 
abstract vices. 
" 
And 
the 
ambiguity 
is 
further 
apparent 
in 
his 
representation 
of 
the 
judge's 
behaviour 
at 
the 
political 
trials 
of 
the 
1790s: 
vor 
if 
he 
was 
an 
inhumane 
old gentleman 
(and 
I 
am afraid 
it 
is 
a 
fact 
that 
he 
was 
inhumane), 
he 
was 
also perfectly 
intrepid. 
You 
may 
look 
into 
the 
queer 
face 
of 
that 
portrait 
for 
as 
long 
as 
you 
will, 
but 
you will 
not see 
any 
hole 
or 
corner 
for 
timidity 
to 
enter 
in. 
12 
This is 
precisely 
the 
confusing perception 
of 
his 
father 
at 
which 
Archie 
arrives 
in 
the 
novel, 
once 
his 
indignation 
at 
the 
treatment 
of 
an 
accused 
man 
at a 
murder 
trial, 
has 
subsided. 
Stevenson 
once 
again 
is 
placing 
himself 
in 
the 
position 
of 
the 
son 
of 
a 
powerful 
and 
authoritative 
father. 
In 
his 
Raeburn 
paper 
he 
describes 
Braxfield's 
"'growling 
black- 
- 
215 
- 
smith's 
voice"' 
. 
This 
description 
of 
the 
judge's 
mode 
of 
speech 
comes 
from 
Lord 
Cockburn' 
s 
Memorials 
(1856) 
. 
13 
Stevenson 
wrote 
to 
Charles 
Baxter 
in 
1892, 
when 
? 4eir 
was 
already under 
way, 
asking 
him 
to 
send 
the 
Memorials, 
which 
he 
obviously 
intended 
to 
mine 
for 
background 
to 
the 
novel 
which 
at 
this 
stage 
is 
called 
'The 
justice-Clerk': 
It 
is 
pretty 
Scotch, 
the 
Grand 
Premier 
is 
taken 
from 
Braxfield... 
My 
Braxfield 
is 
already 
a 
thing 
of 
beauty 
and 
joy 
for 
ever, and 
so 
far 
as 
he 
has 
gone, 
far 
my 
best 
character. 
1" 
Cockburn's 
book 
is 
the 
most 
intimate 
record 
that 
we 
have 
of 
upper and 
middle class 
Edinburgh 
public 
life 
between 
the 
1790s 
and 
1830, 
and 
it includes 
a 
verbal 
sketch 
of 
Braxfield 
as 
one 
of 
the 
giants 
of 
the 
previous generation. 
Cockburn's 
portrait 
begins 
by 
noting 
that 
he 
was 
indeed 'the 
giant of 
the 
Bench' 
at 
the 
latter 
end 
of 
the 
eighteenth 
century, 
and 
he 
acknowled- 
ges 
his 
considerable 
powers of 
judicial 
reason-ing. 
"' 
He 
is, 
how- 
ever, 
hostile 
to 
Braxfield's 
illiberalism, 
his 
coarseness 
in 
con- 
versation and 
his 
biassed 
conduct of criminal 
trials. 
Most 
per- 
tinently 
from 
our point 
of 
view 
are 
the 
terms 
in 
which 
he 
con- 
derrins his 
predecessor on 
the 
bench: 
, 
With 
this 
intellectual 
force, 
as applied 
to 
law, 
v, 
Braxfield's 
merits, 
I fear, 
cease. 
Illiterate 
and 
without 
any 
taste 
for 
refined enjoyment, 
strength 
of 
understanding 
only encouraged 
him 
to 
a 
more 
contemptuous 
disdain 
of all 
natures 
less 
coarse 
than 
his 
own. 
Despising 
the 
growing 
improvement 
of 
manners, 
he 
shocked 
the 
feelings 
of an age, 
which, 
with 
more 
of 
the 
formality, 
had far less 
of 
the 
substance 
of 
decorum 
than 
our 
own. 
' 6 
So, 
Cockburn is 
aware 
that 
his 
is 
the 
judgement 
of 
the 
old 
Scotland 
by 
the 
new. 
It 
is 
a 
matter 
of 
both 
pride and 
distaste 
to 
Cockburn 
that 
Braxfield's 
'accent 
and 
his 
dialect 
were 
exaggerated 
Scotch' 
. 
17 
And 
he 
is 
anticipating 
Archie's 
revul- 
sion 
when 
he 
remarks 
that 
'Thousands 
of 
his 
sayings 
have 
- 
216 
- 
been 
preserved, 
and 
the 
staple 
of 
them 
is 
indecency. 
'18 
In 
the 
novel, 
Archie 
is 
described 
as 
having inherited 
from 
his 
mother 
'a 
shivering 
delicacy 
unequally ; 
rated 
with 
potential 
J 
violence' 
13 
which 
draws back 
from Vleir 
in 
his 
grosser 
moods: 
Hermiston 
was not all 
-of 
one piece. 
He 
was 
... 
a 
mighty 
toper; 
he 
could 
sit at wine until 
the 
day 
dawned, 
and 
pass 
directly from 
the table 
to 
the 
bench 
with 
a steady 
hand 
and 
a 
clear 
head. 
Beyond 
the 
third 
bottle, 
he 
showed 
the 
plebiean 
in 
a 
larger 
print; 
the 
low, 
gross 
accent, 
the 
low, 
foul 
mirth, 
grew 
broader 
and 
commoner; 
he became 
less 
formidable, 
and 
infinitely 
more 
disgusting. 
2 0 
Stevenson 
follows 
Cockburn 
in 
viewing 
Braxfield 
as 
the 
last 
of 
a 
breed 
of 
beings 
who 
have been 
extinguished 
as 
Scotland 
has 
been 
brought 
into 
the 
polite 
modern era, 
the 
symbol of 
this 
being 
the 
language 
which 
he 
speaks. 
In 
this 
perception 
Brax- 
field 
acts as 
larger-than-life 
representative 
of an older 
Scot- 
land 
surviving 
into 
the 
new polity. 
However, 
the 
case 
is 
not so 
simple as 
would 
be 
suggested 
by 
the 
idea 
that 
Stevenson 
was 
employing 
Archie 
and 
Hermiston 
to 
represent a 
discontinuity 
in 
Scottish 
culture 
and 
sensibility. 
In fact, 
when 
we examine 
Weir 
more closely, 
we will 
see 
that 
Stevenson 
has 
taken 
some 
pains 
to 
dehistoricise 
the 
significance 
of 
the 
antagonism of 
Archie 
and 
his 
father. 
He 
does 
so 
by dev- 
eloping 
a 
romance 
theme 
of genetic 
identity. 
When Stevenson 
wrote 
in 
his 
essay 
'The 
', 
larise' 
, 
'I have 
shak- 
en a spear 
in 
the 
Debateable 
Land 
and 
shouted 
the 
slogan 
of 
the 
Elliots', 
he 
was 
affirming 
identity 
with 
his 
ancestral 
and 
racial 
past. 
21 
In Weir 
he 
goes so 
far 
as 
to 
designate 
this 
feeling 
of consanguinity 
a national 
characteristic: 
For 
that 
is 
the 
mark 
of 
the 
Scot 
of 
all 
classes: 
that 
he 
stands 
in 
an 
attitude 
towards the 
past un- 
thinkable 
to 
an 
Englishman, 
and remembers 
and 
- 
217 
- 
cherishes 
the 
memory 
of 
his 
forebears, 
good 
or 
bad; 
and 
there 
burns 
alive 
in 
him 
a sense 
of 
identity 
with 
the 
dead 
even 
to 
the 
twentieth 
gener- 
ation. 
22 
This 
concern 
with 
identity 
is 
indifferent 
to the 
historical 
inter- 
est 
in difference, 
in 
the 
distance 
between 
then 
and 
now. 
It 
can 
be 
said 
that 
Stevenson 
has 
most often 
dealt 
in 
his 
fiction 
with 
aspects 
of 
human 
nature 
which are 
not 
altered 
by 
the 
movement 
of 
history. 
He 
claims 
to 
have found 
permanent 
human 
traits 
which 
are 
merely 
disguised by 
changing 
social 
customs, 
and 
which 
are 
formative, fundamental 
and continuous. 
The 
kind 
of 
mind 
which 
imagines its 
tales 
in 
such a 
radically 
psychological 
and 
existential 
manner 
is 
not 
incompatible 
with 
the 
historical 
imagination. But 
it 
does 
coexist 
uneasily 
with 
it; 
and 
it 
may 
be 
said 
to 
be 
hostile 
to 
it in 
the 
sense 
that 
it 
finds 
the 
decis- 
ive 
things 
to 
be 
permanent and 
unchanging, 
where 
the 
histor- 
ical 
imagination 
discovers 
the 
typicality 
of 
change 
in 
specific 
and 
individuated 
formations. In 
this 
instance, 
the 
historical 
dimension 
of 
Weir 
has 
to 
be 
placed 
beside 
its 
ambition 
to 
create a 
level 
of 
being 
that 
is 
to 
be found beyond 
the 
verifi- 
able events of civilisation. 
We 
can 
begin 
to 
observe 
both 
strata 
of 
Weir 
by 
examining 
the 
relationship 
of 
Hermiston 
and 
his 
son. 
In 
the 
novel 
the 
enmity 
of 
father 
and son 
is 
registered 
in 
tone 
linguistically, 
and 
nowhere more 
directly 
than 
in 
the 
scene 
where 
Weir 
confronts 
his 
son after 
Archie 
has 
condemned 
his 
conduct of 
the trial 
of 
Duncan 
Jopp. 
Archie 
is 
stiff, 
formal, 
Anglicised in 
speech: 
'You 
have 
taken 
this 
so 
calmly, 
sir, 
that 
I 
cannot 
but 
stand 
ashamed. 
3 
While 
the 
judge's 
language is 
strong 
and expressive 
by 
virtue 
of 
the 
Scots idiom: 
- 
218 
-- 
'I'm 
nearer 
voamiting, 
though, 
than 
you 
would 
fancy. 
' 
24 
In 
that 
whole 
scene 
Stevenson 
displays 
more 
dramatic 
acuity 
than in 
all 
his 
plays. 
The 
explosive 
consonantal 
vocabulary 
- 
' 
splairgers' 
,' 
cuddies' 
,' 
hirstle' 
- 
and 
the 
flattened 
/ee/ 
of 
' 
eediot' 
,' 
exhibeetion' 
,' 
heedious' 
, 
lead 
the 
reader 
directly 
to 
Weir's 
suppressed 
anger and 
contempt. 
They 
encode and pattern 
the 
rise 
and 
fall 
of 
that 
anger, 
and 
dramatically 
set 
off 
the 
colourless 
neutrality 
of 
Archie's 
speech. 
However, 
this 
difference 
in 
language 
is 
not absolute. 
At 
moments 
of 
high 
tension 
Archie 
shifts 
into 
Scots, 
as when 
replying 
to 
the 
elder 
Kirstie, 
who 
has 
implored 
him 
to 
conduct 
his 
affair 
with 
her 
cousin 
with caution: 
' 
Ay, 
but 
Kirstie, 
my 
woman, you're 
asking 
me 
ower 
much at 
last, 
' 
said 
Archie, 
profoundly 
moved, 
and 
lapsing 
into 
the 
broad Scots. 
25 
Kirstie 
herself 
talks 
a 
highly 
rhetorical 
dialect Scots, like 
Elspeth 
of 
the 
Craigburnfoot 
in 
The Antiquary. 
So 
Archie, 
by 
responding 
in 
kind, 
proves 
his 
ability 
to 
enter 
the 
realm of 
regional 
tragedy, 
a 
balladic 
realm, which 
Kirstie 
inhabits 
as 
a storyteller 
and as one 
who 
is 
prescient 
of 
disaster. 
Archie 
also speaks 
Scots 
in 
an 
earlier 
scene. 
This 
needs 
to 
be 
placed more 
completely within 
the 
context of 
his 
relations with 
his 
father 
and 
his 
mother. 
The 
first 
chapter of 
Weir 
economically 
resumes 
the 
history 
of 
Mrs 
Weir's 
family, 
the 
courtship of 
her by 
the 
judge, 
the 
child- 
hood 
and 
adolescence 
of 
Archie. 
The 
education 
of 
Archie 
Weir 
by 
his 
mother 
has 
been 
limited 
by 
that 
woman's 
commitment 
to 
the 
Calvinist 
creed. 
She 
has 
imbued 
in 
her 
son 
as a sensibility 
which 
does 
not 
prepare 
him 
for 
the 
often 
ugly 
face 
which 
real- 
ity, 
and 
his 
father 
included, 
wears. 
They 
enter 
into 
a 
confed- 
- 
219 
- 
eracy 
which 
excludes 
Hermiston 
because 
he 
is 
a 
threat 
to 
their 
simplified 
black 
and 
white 
view 
of 
the 
world. 
The 
nar. 
rat- 
or' 
s 
own 
flexibility 
in 
treating 
with 
some 
sympathy an 
osten- 
sibly 
unplea, 
an-, 
_ 
character 
like 
Hermiston, distances 
hi?ri 
from 
the 
provinciality 
of 
their 
outlook. 
In 
these 
early passages 
describing Archie's 
childhood, 
the 
author 
is 
always 
one 
jump 
ahead 
of 
his 
developing 
conscious- 
ness, 
placing 
before 
him 
new complexities 
and 
ironies. 
The 
narrator 
intervenes 
in 
this 
way 
when 
he 
summarises 
Archie's 
disapproval 
of 
his 
father: 
Tenderness 
was 
the 
first duty, 
and my 
lord 
was 
invariably 
harsh. 
God 
was 
love; 
the 
name 
of 
my 
lord 
(to 
all 
who 
knew him) 
was 
fear. 
In 
the 
world, 
as schematised 
for 
Archie 
by his 
mother, 
the 
place 
was 
marked 
for 
such a creature. 
At 
seven 
years 
of 
age, 
'the little Rabbi', 
as 
the 
narrator calls 
him 
questions 
his father' 
s vocation: 
If 
judging 
were sinful 
and 
forbidden, how 
came 
papa 
to 
be 
a 
judge? 
to 
have 
that 
sin 
for 
a 
trade? 
to 
bear 
the 
name of 
it 
for 
a 
distinction? ' 
27 
Then: 
'No, 
I 
canna see 
it, 
' 
reiterated 
Archie. 'And 
I'll 
tell 
you what mamma, 
I don't 
think 
you 
and me's 
justified 
in 
staying 
with 
him. 
' 
28 
It 
is 
notable 
that 
young 
Archie 
moment 
he 
judges, 
his father: 
'It 
a 
milestone 
were 
bound 
upon 
his 
deepestmost 
paints 
of 
the 
sea. 
' 
29 
son 
at 
the 
point 
where 
the 
latter 
ited 
vision 
in 
the 
same way 
that 
The 
similarity 
of 
father 
and son, 
employs 
Scots 
at 
the 
very 
were 
better 
for 
that 
man 
if 
back 
and 
him 
flung 
into 
the 
Language 
unites 
father 
and 
applies 
his dogmatically 
lim- 
his 
father 
applies 
the 
law. 
here 
insinuated 
obliquely, 
is 
- 
220 
- 
more 
directly 
announced 
later 
in 
the 
crisis 
of 
his 
revolt 
against 
his 
father's 
treatment 
of 
Duncan 
Jopp. 
Archie 
has 
attended 
the 
trial 
where 
Weir 
has 
taunted 
the 
accused, 
a path- 
etic 
and 
obviously 
guilty 
figure. 
He 
also 
goes 
to the 
hanging 
of 
this 
criminal, 
where 
he 
declares 
against 
his 
father: 
'I 
denounce 
this 
God-defying 
murder, 
' 
he 
shouted; 
and 
his 
father, 
if 
he 
must 
have disclaimed 
the 
sentiment, 
might 
have 
owned 
the 
stentorian 
voice 
with 
which 
it 
was 
uttered. 
3 
0 
He 
continues 
this 
defiance 
that 
same evening at a 
meeting 
of 
the 
Speculative 
Society 
(the 
same. 
society 
which 
Stevenson 
was 
so proud 
of 
having belonged 
to). 
That 
night 
he 
is 
president of 
the 
meeting. 
In his 
'energy 
and 
determination' 
he 
little 
thought 
... 
how he 
resembled 
his father, but 
his 
friends 
remarked 
upon 
it, 
chuckling. 
3 
So, 
at 
those 
points where 
he 
is 
most 
directly 
opposed 
to 
his 
father, he 
is 
perceived 
as resembling 
him 
in 
force 
of char. ac- 
ter; 
and we 
are 
invited 
to 
take 
note of 
this 
identity in 
a 
manner 
that 
need not 
be 
fastidious, for 
the 
similarity 
lies 
in 
a crude 
congruity 
of 
force. 
It 
is 
the 
force 
of 
Weir 
that 
is 
al- 
ways 
in 
the 
foreground, 
his 
power 
over 
others, 
and we observe 
flashes 
of 
this 
force 
in 
Archie. 
It 
is 
a 
feature 
of 
Weir 
that the 
simultaneous 
contrast 
and sim- 
ilarity 
of parent 
and 
child 
becomes 
attached 
to 
a 
broader 
theme, 
and 
is 
modified 
thereby 
into 
a 
more 
subtle comparison 
than 
may 
at 
first 
seem 
evident. 
We 
might say 
that 
Archie 
and 
Weir 
find 
themselves 
in 
a 
field 
which, 
through 
speech 
and 
nar- 
rative, puts 
them 
in 
proximity. 
The 
intensity 
of suppressed 
feeling 
between 
them 
is 
a 
bond 
which 
means 
that, 
for 
the 
reader, 
each 
is 
implicated 
with 
the 
other; 
they 
are 
mutually 
determining 
existences. 
We 
become 
aware 
of 
their 
common 
fate 
through 
the 
suppressed 
feeling: 
Weir 
has 
denied 
his 
love 
of 
- 
221 
- 
his 
son, 
while 
Archie 
has denied 
his 
rebellion 
against 
auth- 
ority 
in 
the 
guise of 
his 
father. 
Their 
position when 
Archie 
leaves 
Edinburgh 
for 
Hermiston 
is, 
therefore, 
like 
that 
of 
two 
assailants 
who 
have 
begun 
strokes 
directed 
at 
each other 
but 
which 
have 
been 
frozen 
- 
we can complete 
the 
gestures 
because 
we 
know 
their 
direction. Weir 
and 
Archie 
can only 
complete 
themselves 
through 
each other. 
Thus, 
in 
the 
sphere 
of 
domestic 
relations 
Stevenson 
lays down 
a 
theme 
of 
genetic 
identity 
in 
tandem 
with 
his 
theme 
of racial 
identity. 
The father 
lives in 
the 
son, 
as 
the 
ancestors 
live 
in 
the 
blood 
of 
the 
modern 
Scot. 
Father 
and 
son, 
then, 
are paired as characters 
as well 
as 
being 
contrasted as 
historical 
motives. 
But 
there 
is 
another 
distance 
between 
them 
across 
which 
they 
converge and 
come 
to 
resemble 
each 
other, and 
that 
is in 
the 
act 
of 
judging. 
That distance 
can 
be 
represented as 
the 
gap 
between 
a 
legalistic 
and a personal 
meaning 
of 
what 
it is 
to 
judge. 
The 
episode 
from Archie' 
s childhood 
in 
which 
the 
'little 
Rabbi' 
expatiates on 
the 
wickedness of 
judging 
and 
deduces 
his father's 
sinfulness, enshrines 
the 
paradox 
in 
his 
response 
to 
his father: 
namely, 
that 
he 
himself 
is 
judging 
the 
judge. 
This 
is 
brought 
home 
to 
him by 
a 
friend 
of 
his 
father's, 
a 
fellow 
judge, 
who 
befriends 
and 
is 
befriended 
by 
the 
young 
man. 
To 
this 
alternative 
father 
(' 
I love 
you 
like 
a son', 
says 
the 
old 
man 
to 
Archie3 
2- 
significantly, 
he 
is 
a 
bachelor 
and, 
although 
an 
instrument 
of 
justice 
like 
Hermiston, 
he 
is 
at 
least 
free 
from 
the 
sin 
of 
possessing 
Archie' 
s 
mother), 
he 
can 
take 
many 
of 
his 
woes. 
In 
the 
battle 
between 
Archie 
and 
Weir, 
the 
tolerant 
Glenalmond 
remains agnostic. 
When 
he 
is 
visited 
by 
Archie 
after 
the 
latter's 
momentous 
interview 
with 
his 
father, 
his 
young 
friend 
asks: 
'Do 
you 
judge 
between 
us 
- 
judge between 
a 
father 
and 
a 
son. 
I 
can 
speak 
to 
you; 
it 
is 
not 
like 
... 
I 
will 
tell 
you 
what 
I 
feel 
and 
what 
I 
mean 
to 
do; 
and 
you 
shall 
be 
the 
judge. 
' 
33 
222 
Glenalmond 
replies 
that 
he 
will 
'decline 
jurisdiction' 
, 
and 
later 
brings 
home 
to 
Archie 
the 
possibility 
that 
he 
has 
made 
a 
judgement 
on 
the 
basis 
of 
too 
shallow, 
too 
provincial, 
an 
enquiry: 
'There 
was a 
word 
of 
yours 
just 
now 
that 
im- 
pressed 
me 
a 
little 
when 
you 
asked 
me who we 
were 
to 
know 
all 
the 
springs 
of 
God's 
unfortunate 
creatures. 
You 
applied 
that, 
as 
I 
understood, 
to 
capital 
cases 
only. 
But 
does 
it 
-I 
ask 
myself 
- 
does 
it 
not 
apply 
all 
through? 
Is 
it 
any 
less 
difficult 
to 
judge 
of 
a 
good 
man 
or a 
half-gcod 
man, 
than 
of 
the 
worst 
criminal 
at 
the 
bar? And 
may 
not 
each 
have 
relevant 
excuses? 
' 
3a 
Archie 
protests: 
'Ah, 
but 
we 
do 
not 
talk 
of 
punishing 
the 
good. 
. 
'No, 
we 
do 
not 
talk 
of 
it, 
' 
said 
Glenalmond.. 
'But 
I 
think 
we 
do 
it. 
Your father, 
for 
instance. 
' 
35 
Archie 
concedes 
that 
he has 
judged 
too 
soon and 
from 
too 
narrow 
an outlook. 
The 
question 
of 
judging, 
and concomitant 
matters of 
mercy, 
forgiveness 
and summary 
justice, 
attach 
the 
father/son 
engage- 
ment 
to 
other characters 
and events 
in 
the 
novel. 
It 
will 
be 
readily 
appreciated 
that 
the 
Four Black Elliott brothers, 
in 
their 
guise as 
the 
horsemen 
of 
the 
Apocalypse, 
administer 
a 
terrible 
rough 
justice. 
In 
the 
name of 
blood 
and 
clan 
loyalty 
they 
ride 
down 
one 
of 
the 
robbers 
who 
has 
attacked 
and 
killed 
their 
father. 
It 
is 
worth 
noting 
the 
incident 
in 
which 
Steven- 
son encapsulates 
the 
savagery of 
this 
vengeance, 
which 
is 
so 
reminiscent 
of 
the 
death 
of 
Blind 
Pew 
in 
Treasure 
Island. 
The brothers 
come 
upon 
one of 
the 
footpads, 
half-dead 
by 
a 
ford, 
who 
asks 
for 
mercy: 
It 
was 
at 
a graceless 
face 
that 
he 
asked 
for 
223 
mercy. 
As 
soon 
as 
Hob 
saw, 
by 
the 
glint of 
the 
lantern, 
the 
eyes 
shining 
and 
the 
whiteness 
of 
the 
teeth 
in 
the 
man's 
face, 'Damn 
you! 
' 
says 
he; 'ye 
hae 
your 
teeth, 
hae 
ye? 
' 
and 
rode 
his 
horse 
to 
and 
fro 
upon 
that 
human 
remnant. 
3 
6 
The 
demoniac 
violence 
is 
gathered 
into 
that 
strikingly 
odd 
sentence 
of 
Hob's: he destroys 
the 
whiteness 
of 
the teeth, 
as 
though 
it 
was 
a crime 
against 
their 
own 
blackness 
of 
temper 
and 
that 
of 
the 
surrounding 
night; and 
it is 
also 
a quite 
pre- 
cise 
revenge, 
because 
old 
Elliott 
had 
arrived 
home 
toothless. 
Absurdity 
is 
not 
far 
away. 
But Stevenson 
has 
judged 
well 
the 
tone 
of 
his 
writing, 
so 
that 
the 
bizarre focus 
on 
the 
victim's 
teeth 
affirms 
the 
derangement 
of 
the 
brothers. 
In 
this 
act, 
the 
Elliott's 
have 
judged 
and 
have 
executed a 
rough 
justice 
which seems 
little different from Weir's 
successful 
determination 
to 
be 'a dreid 
to 
evil-doers': 
Honest 
all 
through, 
he did 
not affect 
the 
virtue of 
impartiality, 
this 
was 
no 
case 
for 
refinement; 
there 
was a 
man 
to 
be hanged, he 
would 
have 
said, 
and 
he 
was 
hanging 
him. 
37 
(Incidentally, 
the 
above 
is 
a 
succinct statement 
of what 
was, 
even 
in 
Braxfield's 
time, 
a 
fast-disappearing 
concept 
of 
the 
ad- 
ministration 
of 
justice: 
namely 
that 
the 
authority 
of 
the 
judge 
was paramount; 
against 
this there 
was ranged 
the 
Whiggish, 
and 
now accepted, 
view 
that 
the 
judge 
is 
only 
the 
interpreter 
of 
statute, 
precedent 
and social 
concensus. 
Weir's 
legal 
author- 
itarianism 
reinforces 
his 
image 
as 
a paternal 
authoritarian, 
of 
3 
course. 
81 
Weir's 
conduct 
of 
Duncan 
Jopp's 
trial, 
described 
in 
the 
last 
quotation, 
unites 
natural 
force 
with 
symbolic 
power. 
An 
element 
of 
physical 
compulsion 
appears 
in 
the 
use 
of 
the 
active 
mood 
of 
the 
verb 
'to 
hang'. 
It 
is 
as 
though 
Weir 
would 
actually 
carry 
out 
the 
execution 
in 
person. 
At 
the 
same 
time 
he 
is 
sim- 
- 
224 
- 
ply 
a 
neutral 
agent 
of 
justice; 
and, 
as 
such, 
his 
power 
is 
sym- 
bolic 
and 
not 
attached 
to 
the 
man 
himself. This 
latter 
fact 
is 
remarked 
upon 
in 
the 
text: 
My 
Lord justice-Clerk 
was 
known 
to 
many; 
the 
man 
Adam 
Weir 
perhaps 
to 
none. 
He 
had 
nothing 
to 
ex- 
plain 
or 
to 
conceal; 
he 
sufficed 
wholly 
and silent- 
ly 
to 
himself. 
39 
Archie 
recognises 
this 
and 
is 
conscious of 
'a bloomless 
nobil- 
ity, 
an 
ungracious 
abnegation of 
the 
man's 
self 
in 
the 
man's 
office. 
' His 
refusal 
to 
allow 
his Stoic 
euroia 
to 
be 
disturbed 
by 
the 
loss 
of 
his 
wife 
or 
the 
emnity of 
his 
son 
make 
him 
an 
awesome 
and almost 
inhuman 
figure. 
40 
The Elliott's 
vengeance 
is 
a 
different 
case, since 
it is 
an un- 
sanctioned 
retribution and, 
therefore, 
is 
seen as a suspension 
of 
the 
conditions of civilised 
life. However, 
they too 
partake 
of a 
legendary 
status 
temporarily. 
Stevenson's 
portrayal 
of 
Hob, 
the 
eldest 
brother 
and 
the 
laird 
of 
Cauldstaneslap, 
foll- 
ows 
a 
transition 
from 
the 
legendary 
world 
of 
the 
ballads 
to 
the 
historical 
one of 
early nineteenth century 
Scotland: 
Hob 
the 
laird 
was, 
indeed, 
essentially 
a 
decent 
man. 
An 
elder of 
the 
kirk, 
nobody 
had heard 
an 
oath 
upon 
his lips, 
save, 
perhaps, 
thrice 
or 
so at 
the 
sheep-washing, 
since 
the 
chase 
of 
his father's 
murderers. 
The 
figure 
he had 
shown 
on 
that 
event- 
ful 
night 
had 
disappeared 
as 
if 
swallowed up 
by 
a 
trap. 
He 
who 
had 
ecstatically 
dipped 
his hand 
in 
the 
red 
blood, 
he 
who 
had 
ridden 
down Dickie- 
son, 
became, 
from 
that 
moment 
on, a stiff and 
rather 
graceless 
model 
of 
the 
rustic proprieties... 
The 
transfiguration 
had 
been 
for 
the 
moment 
only; 
some 
Barbarossa, 
some 
old 
Adam 
of 
our 
ancestors, 
sleeps 
in 
all 
of 
us 
till 
the 
fit 
circumstance 
shall 
call 
it 
into 
action; and, 
for 
as sober as 
he 
now 
seemed, 
Hob 
had 
given 
once 
for 
all 
the 
measure 
of 
the 
devil 
that 
haunted 
him. 
" 1 
There 
follows 
this 
account 
some 
regional 
historical 
colour, 
which 
exposes 
the 
kailyard 
element 
of 
Weir, 
and 
the 
passage 
- 
225 
- 
concludes: 
In 
short, 
Hob 
moved 
through 
life 
in 
a great peace 
- 
the 
reward of anyone 
who shall 
have killed 
his 
man, 
with 
any 
formidable 
and 
figurative 
circum- 
stance, 
in 
the 
midst 
of a country 
gagged 
and swad- 
dled 
with 
civilisation. 
2 
The 
intrusion 
of 
impulse, 
and 
of 
violence 
in 
particular, 
into 
everyday 
life, 
is 
a 
familiar 
one 
to 
us 
from 
the 
rest 
of 
Steven- 
son's 
work. 
In 
Weir 
the 
trenchant 
contrast 
of 
the 
'prim-, 
polite 
face' 
of 
life 
and 
the 
'maenadic 
foundations' 
is 
worked 
through- 
out 
the 
narrative. 
43 
We find 
it 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
description 
of 
Archie' 
s 
view 
of 
the 
congregation 
in 
the 
Hermiston 
church. 
They 'oppressed 
him 
with a sense of 
hob-nailed 
routine, 
day 
following 
day'. 
He 
'marvelled 
that 
among 
all 
those 
faces 
there 
should 
be 
no 
face 
of expectation, 
none 
that 
was 
mobile, none 
into 
which 
the 
rhythm and poetry 
of 
life had 
entered. 
` 
Despite 
the 
stolidity and puritan exteriors 
of 
the 
parishioners, 
'they 
were 
like 
other men; 
below 
the 
crust of custom, rapture 
found. 
a way'. 
45 
Stevenson's 
Pan-ism 
controls 
this 
picture of 
fevered blood 
being 
smoothed over 
by 
rustic 
dullness. 
The frac- 
ture 
of 
the 
dead 
exterior 
is 
most completely symbolised when, 
during 
the 
service, 
Archie' 
s eyes meet 
the 
younger 
Kirstie' 
s 
A 
charge 
as 
of electricity passed 
through 
Christ- 
ina, 
and 
behold! 
the 
leaf 
of 
her 
psalm-book 
was 
torn 
across. 
46 
lt 
is 
proper 
that 
it 
is 
Christina's 
psalm-book 
that 
is 
ripped 
by 
her 
sudden 
emotion. 
Earlier, 
Archie had 
been 
loitering 
out- 
side 
the 
church, 
feeling 
that 
'his heart 
perhaps 
beat 
in 
time 
to 
some 
vast 
indwelling 
rhythm 
of 
the 
universe' 
and 
savouring 
the 
upsurge 
of 
spring; 
while 
inside he 
hears 
the 
'nasal 
psalm- 
ody, 
full 
of 
turns 
and 
trills 
and 
--aceless 
graces. 
4' 
Sexual 
passion 
tears 
across 
the 
dead 
and 
poetryless 
life 
of 
the 
commun- 
ity. 
We 
are 
also 
pointed 
forward 
to 
the 
tryst 
of 
the 
lovers, 
- 
226 
- 
when 
Kirstie 
sings 
Dand's 
ballad 
about 
the 
Elliotts 
with 
a 
feel- 
ing 
that 
is 
not given 
to 
the 
psalms. 
Song 
occupies 
a vital 
place 
in 
the 
novel. 
We 
are 
told 
that 
the 
legendary 
ride of 
the 
Elliott brothers had 
a special 
place 
in 
the 
life 
and 
mind 
of 
the 
Border 
community. 
But 
it 
seems 
that 
the 
modern 
forms 
of expression 
are 
inadequate 
to 
describe it: 
Some 
centuries 
earlier 
the 
last 
of 
the 
minstrels 
might 
have fashioned. 
the 
last 
of 
the 
ballads 
out 
of 
that 
Homeric 
fight 
and chase; 
but 
the 
spirit 
was 
dead, 
or 
had 
been 
reincarnated 
already 
in 
Mr 
Sheriff Scott, 
and 
the 
degenerate 
moorsmen 
must 
be 
content 
to tell 
the 
tale 
in 
prose 
.48 
Yet 
again, 
Stevenson 
indicates 
a 
fracture 
in 
Scottish 
culture 
between 
the 
past and 
the 
present. 
In 
this 
respect, 
Scott 
is 
an 
important 
background 
figure; 
since 
he 
faces 
back 
into 
the 
old 
Scotland 
as 
a 
recorder 
of 
the 
oral 
tradition 
and 
the 
author of 
'The Lay 
of 
the 
Last Minstrel' 
(explicitly 
referred 
to 
in 
that 
passage), 
while 
the 
very 
fact 
that 
he 
records 
and 
imitates 
verifies 
his disjunction 
from 
that 
past. 
Scott, 
we are 
told, 
got 
the 
text 
of a song, 
the 
'Raid 
of 
Wearie', 
from 
Kirstie's 
brother 
Dand 
and put 
it in 
his Minstrelsy 
of 
the 
Scottish Border. ' 
9 
The 
consignment 
of 
the 
ballads 
to 
a compartment 
of 
antiquarian 
cul- 
ture 
is 
meant 
to 
be 
seen as 
a 
reduction; 
and we 
are 
to 
under- 
stand 
that the 
progress 
of 
Scotland 
to 
a 
polite 
civilisation 
involves 
a 
loss. And 
what 
has 
been lost 
is 
Pan, 
who conflates 
in 
himself 
force, 
sex 
and music: 
the 
very 
things 
which 
have 
become 
deadened 
and 
hidden 
away. 
The 
ballad Kirstie 
sings 
breaks 
through 
the 
Kailyardism 
of 
a 
rural 
courtship 
into 
an arena 
of unhistorical 
Fate, 
the 
fate 
which 
Stevenson 
refers 
to 
as 
the 
'pagan' 
force 
manipulating 
the 
'dark 
drama' 
to 
come. 
S? 
The 
narrator assumes 
a 
choral 
role 
here, 
commenting 
on 
what 
has been 
and 
on 
what 
is 
to 
be. 
The 
elder 
Kirstie 
exercises 
a 
prescient sense 
of 
the 
doom 
which 
- 
227 
- 
attends 
the 
lovers: 
What 
was 
to 
be 
the 
end 
of 
it? 
Over 
a 
maze 
of 
diff- 
iculties 
she glanced, 
and 
saw, 
at 
the 
end of every 
passage, 
the 
flinty 
countenance of 
Hermiston. 
And 
a 
kind 
of 
horror 
fell 
upon 
her 
at 
what 
she 
had 
done. 
She 
wore 
a 
tragic 
mask. 
5z 
The 
references 
to 
tragedy 
need 
forwardly. 
They 
merely prepai 
guise 
of 
necessity. 
not 
be 
understood 
too 
straight- 
misfortune 
to 
appear 
in 
the 
The 
conclusion cannot 
be 
avoided 
the 
balladic 
prescience 
of 
Kirstie 
poem 
'Ticonderoga' 
5 
2) 
to 
confirm 
and 
his father. 
Weir 
is 
different 
in 
that the 
dynamic 
relations 
of 
within a 
framework 
that 
is 
st. 
that 
Stevenson 
has 
recruited. 
(as 
he 
uses 
prescience 
in 
his 
the 
fated 
collision 
of 
Archie 
from 
other 
Stevenson 
novels 
the 
characters 
are contained 
atic, 
insofar 
as 
the 
future 
announces 
itself, 
at 
every 
point of 
the 
narrative, 
to 
be 
inevitable. 
This 
fatefulness 
stands 
. 
at 
the 
opposite pole 
to 
adventure, 
which 
moves continually 
towards the 
unknown. 
Archie 
cannot 
be 
an adventurer 
because he has 
capitulated 
to 
his father 
so quickly 
and 
he has, 
thereby, 
psychologically 
absorbed 
the 
authority 
of 
the 
other: 
contravention 
of 
his 
father's 
wishes 
becomes 
co-extensive 
with 
a 
denial 
of self- 
restraint 
and 
a 
threat 
to 
his 
public 
reputation, 
the 
respectable 
self 
that 
is 
exactly 
what 
the 
adventurer 
rejects. 
He 
comes 
to 
fear his 
impulses 
and 
exhibits 
a 
doubleness 
of mind. 
Nowhere 
is 
this 
doubleness 
more 
apparent 
than 
in 
his 
conduct 
of 
the 
love 
affair 
with 
young 
Kirstie. 
Timid 
about 
their 
secret 
meetings 
becoming 
generally 
known 
and 
about 
his 
father's 
reaction, 
he 
tells 
her 
that 
'the 
great 
affair 
is 
that 
there 
are 
people 
talking', 
and 
he 
warns 
her 
that 
they 
must 
be 
cautious: 
'My 
dear 
girl, 
we 
have 
to 
be 
wise. 
We 
must 
not 
wreck 
our 
lives 
at 
the 
outset 
... 
The 
first 
thing 
that 
we 
must 
see 
to, 
is 
that 
there 
shall 
be 
no 
scandal 
about 
for 
my 
father's 
sake. 
' 
53 
- 
228 
- 
The 
jud 
?e 
is 
riot 
only 
a genuinely 
terrifying 
obstacle 
to their 
marrying, 
he 
is 
also 
directly 
linked 
to 
the 
secrecy of 
their 
affair 
and 
becomes 
the 
very 
image 
of 
their 
guilt: 
At 
the 
mere mention 
of 
his 
father's 
name 
- 
who 
might 
seem 
indeed 
to 
have 
accompanied 
them 
in 
their 
whole 
moorland 
courtship, 
an awful 
figure 
in 
a wig 
with 
an 
ironical 
and 
bitter 
smile, present 
to 
guilty 
consciousness 
- 
she 
fled from 
it 
head 
down. 
5a 
Stevenson 
writes 
in 
'Pan's 
Pipes' 
that 
'to distrust 
one's 
impulses 
is 
to 
be 
recreant 
to 
Pan. '55 
The 
intervention 
of 
Hermiston' 
s, 
sardonic 
ghost 
in 
the 
scene on 
the 
moor 
disjoins 
impulse 
and action, as 
far 
as 
Archie 
is 
concerned, and reveals 
the 
shaky 
foundations 
of 
the 
pastoral 
idyll 
which 
he 
and 
Kirstie have 
been 
conducting. 
As 
the 
quotation 
indicates, 
the 
judge's 
presence 
signals an end 
to the 
innocence 
of 
their 
love. 
It 
brings 
guilt; and 
it 
complicates 
their 
feelings, 
so 
that 
Archie 
can 
no 
longer 
pretend 
that 
he 
is 
prosecuting an 
adolescent 
amour: 
There 
arose 
before 
him 
the 
curtains 
of 
boyhood, 
and 
he 
saw 
for 
the 
first 
time the 
ambiguous 
face 
of 
woman 
as 
she 
is. 
In 
vain 
he looked back 
over 
the 
interview; 
he 
saw not 
where 
he had 
offended. 
It 
seemed 
unprovoked, 
a 
wilful convulsion of 
brute 
nature 
... 
56 
The 
announcement 
of 
their 
fall 
has 
been 
made 
by 
the 
arrival 
of 
Frank 
Innes 
from 
the 
city, 
who 
is 
as 
much a 
hissing 
snake 
entering 
their 
rural 
paradise as 
James 
Durie 
in 
The Master 
of 
Ballantrae 
is 
a serpent 
that 
intrudes 
into 
the 
domestic 
paradise 
of 
Durrisdeer. 
The 
expulsion 
is 
by 
no 
means 
complete 
when 
the 
manuscript 
breaks, 
but 
we 
are 
told 
enough 
to 
see 
the 
direction 
in 
which 
things 
are 
going. 
The 
image 
of 
Weir 
which 
the 
lovers 
conjure 
up 
to 
frighten 
themselves 
is 
the 
form 
which 
their 
judgement 
of 
themselves 
takes. 
It 
is 
typical 
of 
Stevenson's 
chronological 
primitivism 
that the 
recognition 
of 
guilt coincides 
- 
229 
- 
with 
the 
lifting 
of 
the 
curtains 
of 
boyhood'. 
It is 
a 
connection 
that 
is 
well 
worth 
following 
a 
little further, 
and 
I 
shall 
do 
that 
now. 
Weir 
has 
a 
great 
deal 
to 
say about 
the 
pleasures and 
pains 
of 
coming 
to 
maturity. 
As 
well as 
being 
the 
grand master of 
the 
condition of 
childhood, 
he 
also 
understood 
much 
about 
the 
loss 
of 
that 
condition. 
Indeed, 
it 
might 
be 
said 
that, 
as with 
his 
compatriot 
and 
correspondent 
J. M. Barrie, 
his 
comprehension 
of 
childhood and 
youth 
is 
so 
wistful and 
approving 
by 
virtue 
of 
being 
retrospective. 
In 
part 
we are 
back 
with 
fathers 
and 
sons 
once again. 
The David 
Balfour 
of 
Catriona 
is 
a son 
who 
has 
to 
contemplate 
the 
possibility of 
being 
a 
father, 
and 
he 
is 
the 
first 
of 
Stevenson' 
s adolescent 
heroes 
to 
be 
thus 
rudely 
awakened 
from 
father-subverting 
romances; although 
it 
must 
be 
said 
that 
his filial 
piety 
is 
a 
help 
here. Weir 
is 
a 
curtailed 
exploration of 
the 
same 
territory. 
But 
there 
is 
another aspect 
of 
the transition to 
manhood which 
struck 
him 
as 
a 
decisive 
stage 
in 
this 
process. 
It 
shows 
forth 
as 
the 
Bohemian's 
dread 
of 
the 
self 
being 
absorbed 
by 
society, 
of 
the 
loss 
of 
the 
boy's 
egoism. 
Many 
of 
his 
essays mention 
this 
as 
a 
disreputable 
defeat 
of self 
by 
society: 
'The Lantern 
Bearers', 
'Letter 
to 
a 
Young 
Gentleman Who Proposes 
to 
Embrace 
the 
Career 
of 
Art' 
and 
'Child's 
Play, 
are among 
them. 
57 
But 
nowhere 
is 
the 
condition 
to 
which 
youth 
succumbs more 
pithily stated 
than 
in 
'Old 
Mortality', 
a short piece 
published 
in 
1Longman's 
{i 
azine 
in 
1884. 
The 
passage 
could 
have 
stood 
as 
a motto 
for 
this 
thesis: 
The 
tumultuary 
and 
gray 
tide 
of 
life, 
the 
empire 
of 
routine, 
the 
unrejoicing 
faces 
of 
his 
elders, 
fill 
him 
with 
contemptuous 
surprise 
... 
and 
it is 
only 
in 
the 
course 
of 
years, 
and 
after 
much rubbing 
with 
his 
fellow-men, 
that 
he begins 
by 
glimpses 
to 
see 
himself 
from 
without and 
his 
fellows 
from 
within. 
Sometimes 
Stevenson 
sees 
this 
experience 
as a 
fall 
into 
dullness 
- 
230 
- 
and 
conformity; 
men 
surrender 
free 
moral 
choice 
for 
the 
ethical 
status 
of 
autor: 
iatons, 
in 
a 
Rousseauistic 
progress 
from 
amour 
de 
soi 
to 
amour 
propre. 
At 
other 
times, 
though 
less 
often, 
the 
solipsism 
of 
childhood 
and 
youth seem 
reprehensible. 
This, 
his 
last 
novel, 
is 
-: 
ore 
sceptical 
of 
romantic 
egoism 
than 
any 
other 
of 
his 
fictions, 
and 
it 
could 
be 
claimed 
that 
Weir 
marks 
a new 
outlook, 
a 
greater 
sympathy 
for 
fathers. 
To 
so claim 
would 
falsify 
the 
fact 
that 
Stevenson 
was always, 
in 
Henry 
James' 
formulation, 
a 
Bohemian 
haunted 
by 
duty. 
S9 
But 
of 
two 
things 
there 
is 
no 
doubt. 
A 
great 
deal 
of sympathy 
is 
shown 
towards 
Hermiston's 
stoic submersion 
in 
his 
public role. 
And, 
Stevenson 
briefly 
satirises 
the 
Sturm 
und 
Drang 
aspects of 
Archie's 
behaviour. 
If 
the 
semi-admiring portrayal 
of 
Lord Weir 
reinstates 
fathers 
(or, 
more specifcally, 
Stevenson' 
s 
father) 
and revises 
the 
latently 
patricidal 
tendencies 
of earlier novels, 
then 
it 
can 
also 
be 
said 
that 
the 
author's admiration 
for 
the 
Braxfield 
figure 
goes 
back 
to 
1876 
and 
that 
we 
have 
seen patriarchy 
being 
presented 
in 
a 
kind 
light 
in 
The Misadventure 
of 
John 
Nicholson. 
So, 
there 
is 
nothing 
new 
about 
filial 
respect. 
It 
is 
the 
equilibrium 
evinced 
by 
Stevenson's 
rendition of 
the 
father- 
figure 
that 
is 
novel. 
In 
this 
regard, 
his 
choice of a 
personage 
with 
such a grim 
public 
reputation as 
Braxfield 
was 
an 
important 
one. 
This 
allowed 
him 
to 
combine 
in 
the 
one 
character 
repellent 
and 
sympathetic qualities, and 
thus 
to 
make 
judgement 
of 
Braxfield/Weir 
difficult. It 
is 
the 
equilibrium 
evinced 
by 
Stevenson's 
rendition 
of 
father 
and 
son 
that 
is 
novel. 
The 
cause 
of 
this 
balance 
may 
be 
the 
detachment 
of 
the 
narrator. 
We 
have 
had 
occasion 
to 
notice 
Stevenson's 
penchant 
for 
the 
first 
person. 
Even 
when using 
third, 
he 
has 
tended 
to 
employ 
a 
free indirect 
speech 
which 
ties 
the 
narration 
to 
one 
character. 
The 
latter 
is 
the 
technique 
in 
Weir, 
but it 
is 
modified 
by 
irony 
in 
this 
case 
as 
it 
was 
not 
in 
Ebb- 
Tide, 
for 
example. 
We 
have 
already seen 
the 
lightly 
ironic 
tone 
which 
attended 
the 
words 
of 
the 
little 
Rabbi. 
- 
231 
- 
A 
similarly 
ironic 
treatment 
is 
made 
of 
the 
episode 
in 
which 
Archie 
reacts 
to 
his 
father's 
conduct 
of 
the 
Duncan 
Jopp 
trial. 
Weir 
mocks 
the 
defendant 
on 
the 
way 
to the 
gallows, and 
the 
capital 
sentence 
is 
pronounced 
with 
heat 
and 
contempt. 
He 
makes 
no 
attempt 
to 
disguise 
the 
force 
which 
lies 
behind. 
the 
power 
of 
the 
Law: 
'I 
have 
been 
the 
means, under 
God, 
of 
haanging 
a great number, 
but 
never such 
a 
disjaskit 
rascal 
as 
yourself. 
160 
After 
the 
trial, 
'Archie 
came 
forth 
again 
into 
a 
changed 
world' 
.61 
In 
the 
despair 
precipitated 
by 
the 
hanging, 
the 
state 
of 
the 
universe 
is 
brought 
to 
correspond 
remarkably with 
the 
state 
of 
Archie' 
s 
mind: 
'was 
there 
any 
life 
worth 
living 
in 
this 
den 
of 
savag 
e and 
jeering 
animals? 
' he 
asks. 
62 
Perhaps 
he 
can save 
Jopp 
: 
It 
seemed 
to 
him, from 
the top 
of 
his 
nineteen 
years experience, as 
if 
he 
were 
marked 
at 
birth 
to 
be 
the 
perpetrator 
of some signal action, 
to 
set 
back 
fallen 
Mercy, 
to 
overthrow 
the 
usurping 
devil 
that 
sat, 
horned 
and 
hoofed, 
on 
her 
throne. 
Seductive Jacobin figments, 
which 
he had 
refuted 
often 
at 
the 
Speculative, 
swam 
up 
in 
his 
mind and 
startled 
him 
as 
with 
voices. 
" 
The 
narrator emphatically 
distances 
himself 
from 
Archie' 
s 
sentiments. 
The 
words 
'It 
seemed 
to 
hire' 
do 
that, 
as 
does 
the 
irony 
of 
' from 
the 
top 
of 
his 
nineteen 
years' experience'. 
His 
melodramatic 
hopes 
of 
overthrowing 
the 
weight 
of civil 
authority, 
the 
appealing 
Jacobinism, 
are also 
judged 
by 
the 
narrator: 
they 
are 
'figments'. 
The 
truth 
is 
that 
Archie is 
made 
to 
seem 
more 
than 
a 
little 
absurd. 
His 
rebellion 
is 
shortened 
into 
the 
space 
of a 
day. 
The 
night 
after 
the 
hanging, 
he fails 
to 
get 
the 
question 
"'Whether 
capital 
punishment 
be 
consistent 
with 
God's 
will 
or 
- 
232 
- 
man's 
policy? 
"' 
6? 
onto 
the 
agenda 
at 
the 
Speculative Society 
. 
He 
meets 
Dr 
Gregory, 
the 
family 
physician, 
w'. 
io 
tells 
Archie 
that 
once 
when 
he 
was 
a child 
his father had 
expressed some 
Einxiety 
over 
his 
condition. 
This 
mere 
hint 
of 
feelir_? 
(' 
I 
distinctly 
heard 
him 
take 
his 
breath'), 
65 
is 
enough 
to 
send 
Archie 
scurrying 
back 
home 
contritely. 
These factors 
give 
the 
novel 
a 
far 
more 
sympathic 
view of 
fathers 
than 
any previous 
fiction 
of 
Stevenson's, 
apart 
from 
The Misadventures 
of 
John 
Nicholson. 
It 
may 
be 
that this 
shift 
signals 
a related 
realignment 
of self 
and 
society. 
The 
predicament 
of 
Archie 
is 
exactly 
that 
of so 
many 
Stevensonian 
heroes. 
There 
is 
no 
fit 
social role, no community 
which 
he 
feels 
able 
to 
enter. 
There 
seems 
to 
exist 
only an 
unsatisfactory 
set of obligations against which 
he 
struggles 
like 
the 
'man 
of 
feeling' 
that 
he 
is 
.66 
When 
the 
individual 
becomes 
self 
-conscious - 
that 
is, 
when 
he leaves 
childhood, 
in 
St; 
venson' 
s view 
- 
he 
finds 
himself 
in 
the 
State, 
harnessed 
by 
Law 
and 
Family. Archie 
finds himself 
up 
against 
both 
of 
these 
terrible 
powers 
in 
the 
form 
of 
his father. Both 
they 
and 
his 
father 
form 
a 
contract 
which was 
drawn 
up 
for Archie 
before 
he 
was 
born. 
It 
is 
not 
chosen, 
but 
imposed. 
That 
is 
why 
fatherhood 
is 
such a 
powerful 
symbol 
of authority 
for Stevenson. It, 
too, 
is 
imposed; 
and 
it 
goes, 
as 
he 
liked 
to 
believe 
race 
did, 
to the 
very root 
of 
identity. 
Archie 
recognises 
that 
he 
is 
authored 
and, 
therefore, 
not autonomous: 
'This is 
my 
father, ' 
he 
said, 
'I 
draw 
my 
life from 
him; 
the 
flesh 
upon my 
bones 
is 
his'. 
67 
It 
is 
through 
the 
father 
that the 
individual 
becomes 
aware 
of 
the 
otherness 
of 
his 
own 
self. 
Without 
doubt 
Weir 
is 
a 
potent 
and 
actual 
originator. 
We 
are 
told that 
he 
is 
an 
'aboriginal 
antique' 
,a 
'savage', 
a 
'wild beast', 
and an 
'adamantine 
-233- 
Adam' 
68 
(surely 
also 
a 
Rhadamantine 
Adam). 
He has 
no 
amour 
propre. 
Against 
the 
actuality 
of 
Weir, 
Archie 
can 
only 
place 
the 
'schematic' 
morality 
of 
his 
mother. 
We 
know 
that 
this 
schematic 
morality 
is 
weak, 
because 
in 
the 
Stevensonian 
world 
the 
physical 
man 
is 
actual, 
whereas 
the 
moral 
man 
is 
problematical. 
Thus, 
when 
Archie 
denounces 
the 
'God-defying 
murder' 
69 
committed 
by Weir 
in 
the 
name of 
Law, 
we 
can 
be 
sure 
enough 
of 
the 
future 
course 
of 
the 
narrative 
to 
predict 
that the 
full 
black 
irony 
in 
the 
novel will 
be 
fulfilled 
when 
he 
himself 
murders 
Frank 
Innes. 
The 
attitude 
of 
Archie 
was 
described 
by Stevenson 
long before, 
in 
a 
fable 
called 
'The 
House 
of 
Eld'. 
70 
In 
it 
there 
is 
a society 
in 
which 
everyone 
has 
a 
manacle painfully 
affixed 
to 
their 
right 
leg: 
'as 
soon as 
the 
child 
began 
to 
speak, 
the 
gyve was 
riveted' 
. 
71 
A boy 
born 
into 
this 
society 
is 
curious about 
this 
custom and 
resentful of 
the 
pain. 
He 
is 
told 
by 
'his 
uncle, 
the 
catechist': 
'None 
are 
happy, 
none are good, none are 
respectable, 
that 
are not 
gyved 
like 
US., 
72 
The boy 
notices 
that 
strangers 
from 
another 
country 
do 
not 
have 
the 
gyves. 
These 
travellers 
seem 
to 
be 
happy 
and tell 
the 
boy 
that 
the 
need 
for 
wearing 
of 
the 
manacles 
is 
a 
myth 
put 
about 
by 
a wizard 
to 
keep his 
power 
over 
the 
populace. 
73 
We 
would 
appear at 
this 
point 
to 
be back 
with 
the 
Citizen 
and 
the 
Traveller, 
in 
the 
midst 
of a satire on provincialism. 
But, 
then 
the 
fable 
twists 
away 
from 
that 
meaning. 
The boy 
takes 
a 
sword and 
goes 
to 
kill 
the 
sorcerer. 
The 
sorcerer 
appears 
to 
him 
successively 
in 
the 
shape 
of 
his 
uncle, 
his 
father 
and 
his 
mother. 
He kills 
each, 
thinking 
that 
they 
are 
delusive 
forms 
taken 
by 
the 
wiza 
rd 
to 
trick 
him. 
When 
he 
returns 
home 
free 
from 
his 
gyve, 
he finds 
his 
uncle, 
- 
234 
- 
his 
father, 
and 
his 
mother 
dead. Furthermore, 
each member 
of 
the 
community, 
including 
himself, 
now 
has 
a manacle 
on 
the 
left 
leg, 
and 
he 
is 
told 
that 
'that 
was 
the 
new wear, 
for 
the 
old 
was 
found 
to 
be 
a 
superstition'. 
The fable 
concludes 
with 
a 
well-known 
verse: 
Old 
is 
the 
tree 
and 
the 
fruit 
good, 
Very 
old and 
thick 
the 
wood, 
Woodman, 
is 
your 
courage 
stout? 
Beware! 
the 
root 
is 
wrapped about 
Your 
mother's 
heart, 
your 
father's 
bones; 
And like 
the 
mandrake 
comes 
with 
groans. 
74 
The 
meaning of 
this 
fable 
corresponds closely with 
what 
we 
have 
of 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston. It 
seems 
that 
conformity and 
rebellion 
each 
lead 
to 
unbearable results 
in 
both 
narratives. 
Above 
all, 
the 
fable 
describes 
a situation where 
the 
individual 
becomes 
conscious of obligations as 
he becomes 
conscious of 
the 
self. 
These 
obligations 
form 
no superficial sense of 
duty; 
they 
reach 
out 
into 
the 
identity 
itself. 
As 
a consequence of 
his 
failure 
as 
a citizen, 
Archie 
is 
banished from 
the 
City 
to the 
Country. 
There he 
is 
cut 
off 
from 
civil society: 
Hermiston 
is 
an 
anagram 
of 
hermit-son. Once 
again 
transgressing the 
paternal 
discipline leads 
the 
young 
protagonist 
into 
a 
dangerous 
realm. 
On 
this 
occasion 
it 
is 
not 
a realm 
of chance, 
or even of 
Christian 
providence; 
and 
therefore 
not an adventurous 
realm. 
Indeed, 
the 
motif of 
genetic 
identity is 
deterministic in 
the 
extreme; and 
determination 
pervades 
the 
rhetoric 
of 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston 
thoroughly. 
Stevenson 
has 
abandoned 
the 
limited, 
subjective 
method 
of 
narration 
in 
favour 
of 
omniscient authorship. 
We 
are 
told that 
when 
Frank 
Innes 
plans 
his 
revenge 
on 
Archie, 
he 
'brooded 
like 
a 
deity 
over 
the 
strands 
of 
that 
intrigue. 
So 
it 
is 
with 
Stevenson 
with 
the 
last 
fiction he 
fathered. 
God-like, 
he 
moves 
easily 
into 
the 
minds 
of 
all 
his 
characters, 
and 
back 
out 
again 
to 
comment 
on 
their 
state 
of 
mind or 
to 
philosophise 
- 
235 
in 
a 
general 
way, 
or, 
as 
we 
have 
seen 
in 
connection 
with 
Archie, 
to judge 
his 
characters. 
In 
the 
Venus 
de 
Milo 
which 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston 
is, 
we 
have 
sufficient warning 
that 
with 
the 
shift 
towards 
narrative 
objectivity 
would come a 
different 
way 
of 
seeing 
the 
contretemps 
between 
self and 
society. 
It 
cannot 
be 
too 
only 
one version 
culmination 
or 
a 
he 
was going 
to 
was 
not given 
'consistency', 
he 
was ever 
an expe 
much 
insisted 
upon 
that 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston is 
of 
the 
conflict of 
moi and 
lui. It 
is 
not 
a 
final 
statement. 
Stevenson 
did 
not 
know 
that 
die 
before he 
fathered 
more 
books. 
Also, he 
to 
final 
statements 
or absolute 
truths: 
said, 
' 
is 
another 
name 
for dishonesty. i 
76 
He 
rimenter 
in 
form 
and vision. 
We 
must also remember 
those 
other works 
in 
which we 
find 
the 
romantic 
postulate 
that 
the 
self 
could 
find 
authenticity without 
God 
and 
freedom 
outwith 
society. 
In 
my 
chapter 
on 
travel 
literature 
I 
argued 
that 
he 
posited such 
a 
relatively 
optimistic 
view of 
the 
disjunction between 
self 
and society. 
The 
traveller 
was, up 
to 
a 
point, 
able 
to 
disown 
the 
conditioned 
"he 
". 
In Chapters 11 
and 
III, 
we observed 
the 
emergence 
of 
a 
subjective vision. 
The 
short stories 
indicated 
that 
Stevenson's 
art 
was 
a 
first-person 
art. 
In 
these 
stories, 
I 
argued, society 
is 
presented 
to 
us 
as an aspect 
of 
the 
self. 
All 
the 
oppositions 
and 
conflicts within 
the 
narratives 
(speech 
and silence, self 
and others, 
fathers 
and 
sons, 
law 
and 
lawfulness, flesh 
and 
spirit) were 
imaginative 
and symbolic versions of 
the 
basic 
conflict 
between 
moi 
and 
lui. 
Then, 
in 
Kidnapped 
and 
in 
Catriona 
the theme 
of 
decivilisation 
was 
continued 
through 
the 
genre 
of adventure, 
a 
mode which 
Stevenson 
had 
already 
mastered 
in Treasure 
Island. Clear 
and 
exciting 
narration, 
it 
was 
seen, 
did 
not 
prevent 
the 
emergence 
of 
subtle 
symbolic 
possibilities. 
Stevenson, 
to the 
extent 
that 
he 
was 
a primitivist, 
was 
directed 
to 
find 
an 
epic 
harmony 
of 
-236 
- 
inside 
and 
outside, 
of 
thought 
and 
action, 
beyond 
the 
Highland 
line. 
But 
this 
primitivism 
remained 
severely 
qualified. 
In 
the 
next section, 
the 
new 
material 
for his 
art 
which 
Stevenson 
found 
in 
Oceania 
introduced 
another 
dimension 
to 
the 
conflict 
of 
self and society. 
In 
common 
with 
many other writers 
he 
discovered 
that 
the 
outposts of empire 
provided a 
locale 
both 
seductive 
and 
perilous 
in 
which 
to 
study 
the 
self. 
His 
primitivism 
remained clear-eyed 
enough 
to 
recognise 
that the 
Pacific 
was an 
Eden 
which could 
not 
be 
entered 
by 
the 
civilised 
European. 
Chapter 
VI dealt 
with 
a 
many 
layered 
narrative, 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae. 
This 
novel, 
the 
peak of 
Stevenson's 
art, 
showed 
how 
the 
schizophrenia 
of 
, 
I,, 
and 
"he', 
radically 
threatened 
the 
existence 
of 
the 
moral 
man. 
That 
potential 
moral 
man 
was 
a 
secret sharer 
in 
a 
less 
righteous 
life. 
Finally, 
the 
present chapter 
indicates 
that 
Stevenson 
was 
in 
the 
process of 
treating 
his 
root 
theme 
in 
a wholly 
different 
manner when 
he died. It 
argues 
that 
he 
was moving 
away 
from 
his 
subjective vision 
to 
a 
more objective 
and 
authoritative 
mode 
of 
narration. 
The 
factor 
common 
to 
all 
dedication 
to 
a 
scrupt 
himself. 
It 
is 
not 
in 
z 
finds freedom but 
in 
cr 
testify to 
the 
independe 
and 
art was 
the 
one 
tr 
Art became 
a 
test 
of 
hi! 
these 
versions of 
human 
duality 
is 
the 
ous 
and gracious 
art of 
Stevenson 
3-son 
or 
in 
revolution 
that 
Stevenson 
sting 
art, 
in 
telling 
stories. 
Fictions 
form-making 
powers of 
the 
hurmian; 
ascendent 
home 
that 
man might 
have. 
honour, 
his 
supreme witness. 
We 
find 
a 
clue 
to this 
supreme 
place which 
fictive 
orders 
had 
in 
his 
life 
in 
an 
essay 
on 
Dumas: 
There 
are many 
spiritual eyes 
that 
seem 
to 
spy 
upon 
our 
actions 
- 
eyes 
of 
the 
dead 
and 
absent, 
- 
237 
- 
whom 
we 
imagine 
to 
behold 
us 
in 
our 
private 
hours, 
and 
whom 
we 
fear 
and 
scruple 
to 
offend: 
our 
witnesses 
and 
judges. 
And 
among 
these, 
even 
if 
you 
should 
think 
me 
childish, 
I 
must 
count 
my 
d'Artagnan 
... 
not 
d'Artagnan 
of 
flesh 
and 
blood, 
but 
him 
of 
the 
ink 
and paper; 
not 
Nature's, 
but 
Dumas's. 
7 7 
As he 
read, 
so 
he 
wanted 
to 
be 
read. 
And 
we must 
remember 
to 
read 
him 
not 
solely 
as a 
maker 
of 
patterns 
which 
conceal 
the 
intractable 
disorder 
of 
reality. 
We 
find 
in 
him, 
too, 
the 
plangent, 
insignificant 
detail 
observed 
with remarkable 
clarity, and without which 
pattern 
would 
be 
mere arabesque 
doodling. He knew 
that 
if 
Jerusalem is 
the 
City 
of 
God, 
the 
home 
of 
the 
Holy 
Spirit, 
it 
is 
also 
a 
town 
in 
Palestine. 
CHAPTER 
VIII 
'The 
Day 
After Tomorrow': 
Stevenson 
and 
Riviere, Borges, 
Nabokov 
'The 
most 
influential 
books, 
and 
the truest 
in 
their 
influence, 
are 
works 
of 
fiction. 
They do 
not pin 
the 
reader 
to 
a 
dogma 
which 
he 
must afterwards 
discover 
to 
be 
inexact; 
they 
do 
not 
teach 
him 
a 
lesson 
which 
he 
must 
afterwards unlearn. 
' 
(Stevenson, 
'Books 
Which Have 
Influenced Me') 
- 
238 
- 
CHAPTER 
VIII 
In 
this 
chapter 
I 
wish 
to 
argue 
positively 
for 
the 
continuing 
pertinence 
to 
storytelling 
of 
Stevenson' 
s writing and 
to 
look 
at 
the 
influence 
of 
his 
fiction 
upon some 
later 
writers 
in 
order 
to 
evaluate 
his 
own 
status as predecessor. 
Since 
it 
is 
undesirable 
for 
this 
thesis to 
develop 
in 
a 
wholly 
different direction, 
which 
would 
be 
necessary 
if 
a 
full 
accounting 
for 
the 
effects of 
Stevenson' 
s 
writing 
on others was 
to 
be 
made, 
I 
will confine 
myself 
to 
some general 
remarks 
and 
hints 
as 
to 
its 
nature 
and 
extent. 
I 
trust that these 
suggestions 
will 
be 
of use 
to 
anyone 
who 
thinks that 
an 
interest in 
Stevenson 
is 
archaeology. 
The 
term 
influence is 
a 
vague one 
at 
best. 
It denotes 
a 
great 
range 
of 
activities, 
from 
the 
general 
inspiration 
of 
one 
writer 
by 
another 
(in 
a number of possible 
fields from 
literary 
style 
to 
life 
style) 
to 
particular 
and 
precise 
borrowings. 
It 
is 
-also 
very 
difficult 
to 
prove 
influence, 
except 
in 
cases where 
there 
is 
explicit 
acknowledgement 
that 
it 
has 
occurred; 
and even 
here 
there 
can 
be 
contention 
as 
to 
the 
extent of 
this 
influence. 
This 
section, 
therefore, 
will confine 
itself 
to 
outlining 
some 
possible 
areas 
of 
impact 
where 
we can see 
that there 
has been 
a 
conscious response 
to 
his fictional 
and 
critical 
oeuvre; and 
it 
will undertake 
to 
place 
aspects of 
Stevenson's 
aesthetic 
alongside 
some more recent 
tendencies 
in 
fiction. 
The 
kinds 
of 
literature 
at 
which 
Stevenson 
excelled 
would 
appear 
to 
prohibit 
his 
having 
had 
a 
great effect on 
modern 
literature. 
"Romance" 
fiction 
and 
the 
literary 
essay 
were 
considered 
by 
many 
to 
be 
low 
and 
illegitimate 
forms; 
and 
the 
writer 
or 
critic 
who 
derived 
his 
aesthetic 
values 
from 
the 
Flaubert-Joyce 
axis 
or 
the 
English 
Great 
Tradition 
was 
unlikely 
to 
find 
Stevenson's 
supreme 
achievements 
within 
the 
- 
239 
- 
mode 
of 
adventure 
story 
an 
important 
or 
imitable 
element 
of 
the 
prose 
heritage. 
In 
addition, 
the 
fact 
that 
Stevenson's 
books 
were 
as 
well-thumbed 
as 
any 
in 
the 
language 
was 
not 
a 
recommendation 
to the 
Modernist 
sensibility, 
which was 
suspicious 
of 
popularity. 
So, 
Stevenson 
was 
ignored 
or 
banished 
to the 
periphery 
of 
the 
canon 
by 
the 
native critics. 
However, 
outside 
Britain 
a 
discriminating 
enthusiasm 
for Stevenson's 
fiction 
and 
his 
views 
on 
literature 
always 
existed; 
and certain 
strands 
of 
the 
ideas 
lying 
behind 
that 
admiration 
have 
emerged as 
characteristic 
tendencies 
of 
what 
is 
often 
called 
post-Modernist 
literature. 
For 
example, 
the 
rekindling of 
interest 
from 
??riters 
and 
critics 
alike 
in 
"pure" 
storytelling, 
what 
is 
often called 
fabulation 
, 
is 
a 
phenomenon which 
can 
licitly 
be 
located 
alongside 
some of 
Stevenson' 
s 
ideas 
on narrative. 
Furthermore, 
it 
may 
be 
that 
we 
can 
discern 
a 
heightened 
interest 
in 
minor writers 
such as 
Stevenson. 
If 
the 
Modernist 
giants 
like 
Joyce 
and 
Proust 
had 
so 
thoroughly 
explored 
the 
possibilities 
of 
their 
rhetoric, 
then 
it is 
no wonder 
that 
contemporary 
writers 
could 
find 
them 
baffling 
as antecedents 
and 
turn to 
less 
complete 
creators. 
It 
may 
be 
that 
Stevenson's 
precision and narrative 
economy, 
and 
even 
the 
incompleteness 
of 
his 
achievement, 
invite 
us 
to 
reinvent 
him, 
to 
discover 
values 
required 
by 
our 
own novels 
in 
the 
present. 
One 
very 
influential 
critic who 
found 
Stevenson' 
s practice 
useful 
was 
Jacques Riviere. 
His 
essay 
'Le 
roman 
d'aventure' 
first 
came out 
in 
three 
successive 
numbers of 
the 
Nouvelle 
Revue Francaise 
in 
1913. 
' 
The 
essay 
began 
by 
arguing 
that 
symbolism 
was a 
literary 
force 
that 
had 
become 
decadent, 
and 
that 
a new 
kind 
of 
fiction 
was 
required. 
This 
new 
direction 
would 
involve 
a 
break 
with 
the 
immediate 
symbolist 
past. 
It 
would 
require a 
new 
kind 
of 
novel, 
and 
he 
envisaged 
a writer 
and 
a 
reader 
with 
- 
240 
- 
sensibilities 
which would 
also represent 
a 
break 
with 
what 
had 
gone 
before. 
What 
kind 
of 
novel 
does Riviere 
demand, 
then? 
These 
innovations 
will 
not 
be 
completely 
fresh. Poussi. 
n 
and 
Descartes 
furnish him 
with 
models 
of precision 
and 
an 
exemplary 
completeness 
of 
detail. 
'We 
want 
to 
fasten 
our 
gaze', 
he 
writes, 
' 
upon 
nothing 
but 
clear, 
lively, 
clean, 
exact 
things, 
pure and 
decisive, 
each 
of which 
looks 
like 
itself 
.'2 
To 
support 
his 
case, 
Riviere 
quotes a 
letter from 
Stevenson 
to 
Marcel Schwob: 
Vous 
avez 
encore 
a 
noes 
donner 
... 
queique 
chose 
d' 
une plus 
large 
ouverture 
... 
quelque chose 
qui 
sera 
dit 
avec 
toutes 
les 
clartes, 
toutes 
les 
triviali 
es 
du langage, 
et 
non chante' 
ainsi 
qu'un 
berceuse 
a 
peine articulee. 
Cela, 
quand vous 
en 
serez 
a 
nous 
1' 
offrir, ne vous 
causera 
pas 
a 
vous- 
meme autant 
de 
plaisir, 
mais satisfera 
les 
autres 
davantage. 
3 
Riviere 
approves 
Stevenson's 
suggested 
repudiation 
of 
the 
poetic, 
and 
demands 
the 
simplicity 
of 
deeds, 
which 
is 
to 
say, 
a 
novel 
of action. 
This bears 
a vague enough relation 
to the 
work of our author. 
But, 
as 
Riviere 
turns 
to 
define 
adventure, 
then 
so 
does 
his definition 
come 
to 
resemble 
certain 
important 
aspects of my own 
account of 
Stevenson's 
mind 
and 
technique. 
Riviere 
again 
contrasts 
his 
new writer with 
the 
symbolist 
writer of 
the 
previous 
generation: 
The 
symbolist writer was 
in 
a state of memory; 
ours 
will 
be 
in 
a 
state 
of adventure. 
' 
And 
in 
elaborating 
the 
qualities of 
his 
adventure 
novelist, 
he 
employs 
the 
travel 
metaphor 
which 
was 
so 
characteristic 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
mind: 
Here 
we 
have 
a 
creator 
who 
walks 
among 
his 
- 
241- 
creations 
as 
a 
traveller 
goes 
through 
thickets; 
he 
sees 
no 
more 
than 
four 
steps 
ahead; 
all 
is 
closed 
in 
front 
of 
him 
... 
He 
faces 
his 
work 
as 
he 
faces 
the 
world. 
The 
point 
where 
he is 
in 
his 
work 
is 
always 
as 
far 
as 
he 
has 
gone; 
all 
the 
rest 
is 
still 
in 
the 
future 
for 
Min. " 
This 
describes 
the 
uncertainty 
as 
to 
ends 
which 
we 
have 
discerned 
in 
Stevenson. 
The 
movement 
is 
not 
a 
lack 
of clarity 
in 
the 
objects 
which 
appear 
in 
the 
novel, 
but 
is 
instead 
a 
movement 
from 
one 
clarity 
to 
another, with 
each episode 
complete 
in 
itself. 
The 
adventure 
novel, 
as a result 
of 
its 
author's 
lack 
of 
insight 
to the 
future direction 
of 
the 
novel, 
presents 
its 
episodes successively, 
as 
must all 
literature 
since 
it 
must 
accept 
the 
linear 
authority of 
print; 
but 
the 
adventure 
novel 
does 
so 
without compunction, 
and 
it 
delights 
in 
the 
distinctness 
of 
its 
parts. 
Rivi 
re's 
demands 
correspond exactly with my own 
definition 
of 
successiveness 
in 
Stevenson's 
plots. 
At 
the 
same 
time 
they 
give 
a radical meaning 
to 
the 
notion 
of 
adventure: 
Adventure 
is 
what occurs, 
in 
other words, what 
is 
a 
deed, 
what 
happens 
in 
addition 
to the 
bargain, 
what 
one 
did 
not 
expect, what 
one could 
have done 
without. 
Un 
roman 
d' 
aventure 
is 
the tale 
of events 
that 
are not 
contained 
the 
one 
within 
the 
other. 
" 
So, 
adventure 
consists 
of 
the 
continual 
turning 
towards the 
unknown: 
At 
no 
time 
does 
the 
present 
come 
entirely 
out of 
the 
past 
nor 
is 
the 
progress 
of 
the 
work 
a 
deduction. 
7 
Riviere 
thus 
states, 
in 
different 
words, 
an 
earlier contention 
of 
this 
work: 
that 
whether 
we 
take 
the 
parts of 
Stevenson's 
novels 
on 
the 
level 
of 
the 
episode 
or 
the 
chapter 
or 
the 
composite 
event, 
these 
parts 
do 
not 
have 
a relationship 
of 
- 
242 
- 
consequence; 
they 
have 
a 
relationship 
of 
subsequence 
or 
adjacency. 
B 
When 
nivi 
re re 
:: 
asks 
that 
the 
present 
does 
not 
come 
out 
of 
the 
past, 
he 
illuminates 
the 
whole 
question 
of 
time 
in 
the 
romance 
genre. 
What 
he 
says could 
be 
put 
in 
another 
way: 
that 
there 
is 
no 
need 
to 
portray 
the 
passing 
of 
time 
in 
the 
adventure 
novel. 
We have 
simply 
the 
duration 
of actions. 
What 
matters 
is 
their 
order or sequence 
in 
space, not 
in 
time. 
For 
example, 
in 
Kidnapped 
many 
of 
the 
episodes could 
be 
swapped 
around 
without 
substantially 
altering 
the 
pattern 
of 
kidnapping, 
journey, 
return. 
The 
metaphysical or 
ideal 
order of 
the 
novel 
would not 
be damaged 
if 
the 
incident 
with 
the 
blind 
catechist 
happened 
after 
David 
meets 
Mr 
Henderland, 
or 
if 
that 
encounter 
followed 
the 
events 
in 
Cluny's 
Cave. They 
occur 
in 
their 
actual 
order 
because 
that 
order corresponds 
to 
the 
rhythm of peril 
and 
safety, and 
the 
proportions 
of 
background 
information 
and 
action, 
which 
Stevenson 
required. 
It 
is 
space and not 
time 
which 
decisively 
orders 
action. 
9 
Henry James 
intuited 
this 
lack 
of 
interest in 
the 
process of 
gradual 
change and 
in 
characterological 
substance when 
he 
described 
Stevenson's 
method of 
laying 
out 
his 
fiction: 
The 
form, 
the 
envelope, 
is 
there 
with 
him, 
headforemost, 
as 
the 
idea; 
titles, 
names, 
that 
is, 
chapters, 
sequences, 
orders. 
There is 
no 
doubt 
that 
Riviere' 
s writing off 
the 
symbolist 
literary 
tradi 
tion 
was 
premature. 
The 
writer 
whom 
he 
eventually 
cam 
e 
to 
champion 
was 
Marcel Proust, 
a romancer 
certainly, 
and a 
symbolist 
writer 
if 
ever 
there 
was 
one. 
I 
have 
tried 
to 
argue 
that 
Stevenson himself 
has 
some claim 
to 
be 
treated 
as a 
symbolist 
writer. 
Nevertheless, 
Riviere found 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
work 
three 
qualities 
which 
could 
be 
used 
to 
combat 
what 
he 
saw 
as 
the 
excesses 
of 
the 
symbolist novel 
of 
- 
243 
- 
psychology; 
and 
he 
legitimately 
found 
these 
properties 
in 
Stevenson, 
even 
if 
they 
do 
not 
tell the 
whole 
story 
about 
Stevenson' 
s 
fiction. 
These 
qualities 
were: 
a 
sense 
of 
the 
world 
as an 
unexpected 
place, 
still 
capable of 
springing 
surprises 
(and 
it 
may 
be 
that 
Riviere, 
like 
that 
other 
Stevensonian 
G. 
K. 
Chesterton, is 
warring 
against 
"decadent" 
pessimism, 
rather 
than 
symbolism 
as 
such) 
; clarity 
of 
image 
and/or 
narrative 
voice; 
the 
elevation 
in 
importance 
of story over 
psychological 
detail. 
One 
writer 
of supreme 
importance in 
the 
history 
of 
twentieth 
century 
literature 
who valued exactly 
these 
features 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
writing and adapted 
them 
for 
his 
own purposes was 
Jorge 
Luis Borges. 
This Argentinian 
writer 
was acquainted with 
Stevenson's 
tales 
from 
his 
boyhood, 
which, 
according 
to 
his 
own account, 
would appear 
to 
have been 
filled 
with 
English 
(that 
is, 
British) literature. 
Borges 
relates 
that 
he 
was 
'raised 
in 
a 
garden 
[with 
a 
Stevensonian 
swing 
in 
it? 
] 
, 
behind 
a 
wrought 
iron 
gate, 
and 
in 
a 
library 
of unlimited 
English 
books'. He 
continues: 
Palermo 
[a 
district 
of 
Buenos 
Aires 
] 
with 
knives 
and guitars 
(they 
assure me) gathered at 
the 
corners, 
but 
those 
who populated my mornings 
and 
gave 
agreeable 
horror 
to 
my nights 
were 
the 
b 
lind 
buccaneer 
of 
Stevenson, 
agonizing 
under 
the 
horses' hooves, 
and 
the 
traitor 
who 
abandoned 
his 
friend 
in 
the 
moon, and 
the 
time 
traveller 
who 
brought 
a withered 
flower from 
the 
future, 
and 
the 
genii 
imprisoned 
for 
centuries 
in 
a 
salomonic 
jar 
and 
the 
veiled 
prophet 
of 
Jorasan, 
who 
hid 
his 
leprosy behind 
stones 
and silk. 
i? 
This 
early 
familiarity 
with 
Stevenson (and 
Wells 
and 
the 
Arabian 
Nights, 
which 
Stevenson 
himself 
parodied) 
was 
continued 
and was 
acknowledged 
by 
Borges 
in 
his 
preface 
to 
A Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
his 
first 
collection 
of stories: 
- 
244 
- 
The 
exercises 
in 
narrative 
prose 
that 
make 
up 
this 
book 
were written 
in 
1933 
and 
1934. 
They 
stem, 
I 
believe, 
from 
my 
rereadings 
of 
Stevenson 
and 
Chesterton, 
and 
also 
from Sternberg's 
early 
films, 
and 
perhaps 
from 
a certain 
biography 
of 
Evaristo 
Carriego. 
.- 
One 
of 
the 
most striking 
features 
of 
the 
stories 
in 
A Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy 
is 
that 
they 
are 
essentially retellings, 
in 
Borges' 
idiomatic 
fashion, 
of well-known 
legends 
or other 
writers' stories. 
Such 
a course 
was 
deliberately 
chosen 
by 
Borges, for 
reasons 
that 
are 
most 
clearly revealed 
in 
a 
later 
work 
Dr Brodie's 
Report, 
where 
he 
claimed 
that 
'to 
me 
the 
writing 
of a 
story 
has 
more of 
discovery 
about 
it 
than 
of 
deliberate 
invention. ' 
12 
There 
is 
no 
doubt 
that 
among 
the 
predecessors whom 
he 
used 
in 
this 
way 
was 
Stevenson. One 
of 
the 
most 
obvious 
borrowings 
is 
found 
in 
his 
'The 
Insulting 
Master 
of 
Etiquette 
K?tsuke 
no 
Suke' 
13 
It 
corresponds 
to 
a 
review article of 
Stevenson's, 
'Byways 
of 
Book Illustration'. 
" 
Both 
narrate 
the 
story 
of 
the 
forty 
seven 
R?nin 
clan members 
in 
seventeenth 
century 
Japan, 
who revenge 
their 
lord's death 
in 
the 
most 
roundabout and 
honourable 
way. 
They 
fake 
indifference 
to 
the 
vengeance 
which 
clan 
loyalty demands 
of 
them, 
and endure 
the 
contempt 
of 
everyone 
who 
hears 
of 
their 
failure 
to 
retaliate, 
until 
they 
have 
rested 
the 
suspicions of 
their 
enemy, who 
is 
carefully 
watching 
their 
every move. 
When 
this 
ruse 
has 
worked, 
they 
storm 
his 
castle, 
kill him 
(when 
he dishonourably fails 
to 
commit 
hara-kiri) 
and 
give 
themselves 
up 
to 
the 
authorities, 
when 
they 
kill 
themselves 
as 
they 
are 
bound 
to 
do 
as warriors 
in 
such 
circumstances. 
Borges 
emphasises 
different 
aspects 
of 
the 
story 
from Stevenson, 
and 
has 
clearly 
gone 
back 
to 
its 
original 
telling 
in 
English 
- 
in 
Mitford's 
Tales 
of 
Old 
Japan 
- 
for his 
account. 
But, 
given 
his 
stated 
indebtedness 
to 
Stevenson, 
the 
latter 
seems 
a 
likely 
initial 
source. 
They 
were 
both, 
besides, 
interested 
in 
such 
"extreme" 
cases 
of 
honour. 
15 
- 
245 
- 
The 
reader 
of 
Borges 
can 
find 
many 
such 
specific 
echoes 
of 
Stevenson 
as 
the 
above. 
The 
death 
of 
Bogle 
in 
'Tom 
Castro, 
the 
Implausible 
Imposter', 
for 
example, recalls 
the 
crushing 
of 
Blind 
Pew 
under 
the 
horses 
of 
the 
excisemen 
in 
Treasure 
Island. 
Here 
is 
Borges: 
Shortly 
before 
reaching 
Primrose Hill, 
there 
loomed 
out 
of 
the 
dark 
the 
dreaded 
vehicle 
that 
had 
been 
in 
pursuit of 
him 
down 
through the 
years. 
Bogle 
saw 
it 
coming, 
he 
cried 
out, 
but 
salvation 
eluded 
him. Dashed 
violently 
against 
the 
stone pavement, 
his 
skull was split 
by 
the 
dizzying hoofs. 
lb 
And 
this 
is 
the 
death 
of 
Pew, 
described 
with 
the 
same 
forthright, 
nightmarish 
illumination 
of violence, 
but 
without 
the 
metaphysical aura 
invoked 
by Borges' 
'down 
through the 
years' 
and 
'salvation': 
At 
this 
Pew 
saw 
his 
error, 
turned 
with 
a scream, 
and ran straight 
for 
the 
ditch, into 
which 
he 
rolled. 
But 
he 
was 
on 
his 
feet 
again 
in 
a 
second, 
and made another 
dash, 
now utterly 
bewildered, 
right under 
the 
nearest of 
the 
coming 
horses. 
The 
rider 
tried 
to 
save 
him, 
but 
in 
vain. 
Down 
went 
Pew 
with 
a 
cry 
that 
rang 
high 
into 
the 
night; 
and 
the 
four hoofs 
trampled 
and 
spurned 
him 
and 
passed 
by. 
He fell 
on 
his 
side, 
then 
gently 
collapsed upon 
his 
face 
and 
moved 
no 
more. 
17 
We have 
here 
in 
each 
instance 
the 
same 
fascination 
with 
the 
deed, broken 
down 
into 
its 
components 
and starkly 
rendered 
without 
an 
intervening 
consciousness 
to 
react 
to the 
event. 
Borges 
had 
announced 
that 
the tales 
in 
A 
Universal History 
of 
Infam 'are 
not, 
they 
do 
not 
try to 
be, 
psychological' 
.1' 
It 
is 
comprehensible, 
given 
this 
aim, 
that 
he 
would 
have found 
action 
most 
economically 
rendered 
in. 
a number of 
Stevenson' 
s 
more 
straightforward 
adventure 
stories. 
The 
same 
sense 
of 
nightmare 
violence 
exists 
in 
both 
writers. 
When 
Borges 
cites 
as 
an 
example 
of 
'that 
very 
lucid 
nightmare' 
known 
to 
history 
(he 
/ 
I- 
2. 
o 
- 
means 
to 
'universal 
history, 
of 
course), 
'the 
tricky, 
dangling 
descent 
on 
rope 
ladders', 
he 
is 
mapping 
the 
terrain 
of 
adventure 
for 
himself 
. 
14 
He 
could well 
also 
be 
remembering 
the 
escape 
of 
St Ives from Edinburgh 
Castle, 
when 
he finds 
himself 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
rope 
which 
has 
been 
lowered 
over 
the 
castle 
wall 
and 
unsure, 
in 
the 
dark, 
of 
the 
distance 
to the 
ground. 
2 0 
In 
other stories 
or 
fables, 
Borges' 
magpie 
intellect 
picks up 
a 
hint from 
Stevenson 
and 
incorporates it 
to 
his 
own 
mythology. 
Two key 
components 
of 
the 
Borgesian 
mythology, 
mirrors 
and 
labyrinths, 
can 
be 
compared 
to 
Stevensonian 
tropes. 
The 
mirrors 
Borges 
could, and 
did, 
find 
all 
through 
world 
literature; 
although 
his 
remark 
that 
'mirrors 
have 
something 
monstrous 
about 
them' 
2 
is 
reminiscent of 
Markheim' 
s 
revulsion 
when 
he 
is 
offered a mirror 
by 
the 
dealer: 
'this 
damned 
reminder of 
years, 
sins and 
follies 
- 
this 
hand- 
conscience! 
'22 Of 
greater 
interest is 
the 
labyrinth 
metaphor, 
and examination 
of 
that 
should 
lead 
us 
to 
a 
more 
general 
comparison 
of 
the two 
writers. 
In 
describing 
how 
in 
Stevenson's 
thought there 
is 
no 
philosophy of 
ends, 
I 
cited 
a 
complex 
image 
which 
he 
used 
to 
present 
this 
sense of 
disorder, 
the 
image 
of 
the 
maze. 
'How' 
Stevenson 
speculated, 
if 
there 
was 
no 
centre at 
all, 
but 
just 
one alley 
after 
another, 
and 
the 
whole 
world a 
labyrinth 
without 
end 
or 
issue? 
He 
then 
developed 
this 
idea 
and 
suggested 
that 
There is 
no centre 
to 
the 
maze 
because, 
like 
the 
famous 
sphere, 
its 
centre 
is 
everywhere. 
23 
The 
metaphor 
is 
an 
intuition 
of 
disorder, 
as 
well as 
being 
part 
of 
his 
argument 
against 
the 
possibility 
of 
final 
and 
authoritative 
knowledge. 
It 
is 
possible 
to 
go 
through 
this 
maze 
- 
247 
- 
in 
a 
spirit 
of 
adventure, with each 
turning 
as 
valid 
as 
the 
last, 
and 
the 
whole 
enterprise 
a continuous 
journey 
into 
the 
surprising 
new. 
But, 
as 
I 
indicated, 
the 
dependent 
reverse 
of 
such optimistic 
travelling 
is 
dislocation, 
a 
decentred 
world 
to 
which 
the 
fictional 
order 
made 
by 
the 
storyteller can 
have 
only a 
willful 
connection. 
Stevenson 
was quite 
happy 
to 
accept 
this 
implication, 
that 
fiction 
does 
not 
describe 
the 
world, 
and 
to 
turn 
away 
from 
art 
which claimed 
to 
be 
representational 
to 
an 
art 
of a more 
ideal 
cast: 
The 
whole 
secret 
is 
that 
no art 
does 
compete 
with 
life. 
Man's 
one 
method, 
whether 
he 
reason s or 
creates, 
is 
to 
half-shut his 
eyes against 
the 
dazzle 
and 
confusion 
of 
reality. 
The 
arts, 
like 
arithmetic and 
geometry, 
t 
urn 
away 
their 
eyes 
from 
the 
gross, 
coloured 
and mobile nature at 
our 
feet, 
and 
regard 
instead 
a certain 
figmentary 
abstraction. 
24 
This 
is 
precisely 
description 
of 
his 
real world 
around 
patterns 
in 
books. 
adult storyteller, 
worlds out of 
his 
o 
what 
we 
observed 
Borges doing 
in 
his 
Palermo 
childhood: 
turning 
away 
from 
the 
him 
to 
contemplate 
the 
formal 
and 
fantastic 
And 
this 
is 
also 
what 
Borges 
does 
as 
an 
when 
he 
creates 
those 
fantastic, 
ordered 
wn 
intelligence 
. 
One 
Borges 
piece, 
'The 
Fearful 
Sphere 
of 
Pascal', 
is 
a 
meditation 
on 
the 
modulations 
throughout 
history 
of 
the 
metaphor 
of 
the 
universe 
as a sphere: at 
times 
of 
belief, 
with 
a 
centre; 
latterly 
Pascal's 
anguished 
conception 
of a 
sphere 
whose 
centre 
is 
everywhere. 
25 
While 
there 
is 
clearly 
a 
resonance 
from 
Stevenson 
here, 
this 
well 
known 
and 
frequently 
used 
image 
would 
not 
link 
Stevenson 
and 
Borges, did 
not 
the 
image 
of 
the 
labyrinth 
used 
by 
Stevenson 
also permeate 
Borges' 
fiction 
to 
such 
an 
extent. 
- 
248 
- 
It 
appears 
most 
obviously, 
though 
not 
only, 
in 
'The 
Library 
of 
Babel' 
and 
'The 
Garden 
of 
the 
Forking 
Paths; 
both 
fables 
belong 
to 
the 
English 
volume 
appropriately 
called 
Labyrinths. 
In 
them 
Borges 
has 
taken 
Stevenson's 
casual 
use 
of 
the 
image 
and 
elevated 
it 
to 
a 
symptom of 
a universal 
perplexity 
and 
disorder 
out 
of 
which abstract 
and 
mystical 
orders 
can 
be 
authored 
by himself. 
However, 
there 
are 
two 
respects 
in 
which 
Borges' 
and 
Stevenson' 
s 
methods 
can 
be 
said 
to 
illuminate 
each 
other. 
One, 
is 
the 
idea 
that 
the 
artist 
playfully 
and 
willfully 
creates 
his forms 
from 
the 
inside 
out, and 
thus 
imposes 
form 
where 
it 
does 
not 
exist 
in 
the 
real 
world. 
Second, 
is 
the 
closely 
related 
idea 
of 
using genre 
forms 
to 
make 
his 
dream 
typical 
and 
communicable 
to 
the 
reader. 
(Stevenson 
was 
much 
more 
concerned 
about 
his 
readers 
than 
Borges. 
2 6) 
In 'The 
Garden 
of 
the 
Forking 
Paths', Borges 
uses 
the 
spy/murder 
story, 
much as 
Stevenson 
used 
the 
murder 
thriller 
in 
'Markheim', 
to 
structure 
and clarify a 
tale 
with 
a 
set of 
meanings, 
by 
no means absolutely 
clear, 
which 
lie beyond 
the 
genre 
signals 
of 
the 
narrative. 
Also, 
Borges 
-- 
especially 
in 
A 
Universal History 
of 
infamy 
- 
reduces 
the 
pirate 
story, 
the 
Western, 
the 
Gangster 
movie, 
to 
a 
mininal set of gestures; and 
this 
procedure 
cannot 
fail 
to 
remind us of 
Stevenson' 
s 
deformations 
of 
the 
adventure 
genre 
in 
The Wrecker, 
Ebb-Tide 
and 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae. 
Borges' 
are 
the 
more radical 
and profound 
reductions 
of 
the 
conventions, 
the 
eidetic 
images, 
of 
genre 
fiction. 
But, 
it is 
still 
possible 
to 
see connections 
between 
the 
stylised 
Defoe 
of 
'The 
Widow 
Ching' 
and 
the 
absurd 
and 
stylised 
Defoe 
of 
Teach's 
pirate ship 
in 
Maste, 
l- 
27 
One 
final 
respect 
in 
which 
Borges 
and 
Stevenson 
may 
be 
compared 
is 
in 
their 
sense of 
doubleness 
and 
its 
connection 
with 
literary 
inspiration. 
In 'Borges 
and 
I' Borges 
repeats 
the 
Stevensonian 
distinction 
between 
"I" 
and 
"he"; 
and, 
perhaps, 
also 
reprieves 
the 
notion 
put 
forward 
by 
Stevenson 
in 
'A 
Chapter 
on 
Dreams, 
that 
his 
stories 
are written 
by his 
Brownies, 
imps 
of 
inspiration 
who 
do his 
creative 
work 
while 
- 
249 
- 
he 
sleeps. 
Borges 
the 
social 
being 
similarly 
only 
transcribes 
the 
inventions 
of 
' 
I' 
, 
the 
dreaming, 
unconditioned 
Borges: 
The 
other 
one, 
the 
one 
called 
Borges, is 
the 
one 
things 
happen 
to. 
I 
walk 
through the 
streets 
of 
Buenos 
Aires 
and 
stop 
for 
a 
moment 
... 
I know 
of 
Borges 
from 
the 
mail and 
see 
his 
name 
on 
a 
list 
of 
professors or 
in 
a 
biographical 
dictionary. 
I 
like 
hourglasses, 
maps, 
eighteenth 
century 
typography, 
the taste 
of coffee 
and 
the 
prose 
of 
Stevenson; 
and 
he 
shares 
these 
preferences, 
but 
in 
a vain 
way 
that 
turns 
them 
into 
the 
attributes 
of 
an 
actor. 
28 
To Borges, 
then, the 
private 
self 
is 
the 
creative 
part of 
his 
dual 
identity. 
It 
is 
'free 
of 
the 
ages', as 
Stevenson 
remarks 
in 
an essay; 
29 
that 
is, it 
is 
free from 
the 
contingencies 
and 
accidents 
which 
form 
the 
everyday social 
identity, 
and 
it is 
sufficient 
unto 
itself. This 
is 
the 
attitude of 
the 
romancer 
who 
because 
he 
prefers 
(or 
finds 
truer) 
his dream 
world 
to 
the 
real 
world, must 
keep his 
imaginings 
free 
of 
purely provincial 
concerns 
in 
order 
to 
make 
his 
art 
typical 
and universal. 
We 
have 
seen 
Stevenson 
working 
hard 
to 
avoid parochialism 
in 
a 
markedly 
similar 
fashion. He, 
too, 
put 
forward 
a 
dualistic 
model of 
the 
creative 
process, 
which owes 
more 
than 
a 
slight 
allegiance 
to 
Shelley's 
view of 
artistic creation, as advanced 
in 
'A 
Defence 
of 
Poetry' 
.3? 
This 
is 
Stevenson: 
A 
work 
of 
art 
is 
first 
cloudily 
conceived 
in 
the 
mind; 
during 
the 
period of 
gestation 
it 
stands 
more 
clearly 
forward 
from 
these 
swaddling mists, 
puts 
on 
expressive 
lineaments, 
and 
becomes 
at 
length 
that 
most 
faultless, but 
also, alas! 
that 
incommunicable 
product 
of 
the 
human 
mind, a 
perfected 
design. 
On 
the 
approach 
to 
execution all 
is 
changed. 
The 
artist 
must 
now 
step 
down, 
don 
his 
working 
clothes, 
and 
become 
the 
artisan. 
He 
now 
resolutely 
commits 
his 
airy 
conception, 
his 
delicate 
Ariel, 
to 
the 
touch 
of 
matter. 
3 
1 
Borges, too, 
recognises, 
in 
less 
flowery 
and 
more 
precise 
language than 
Stevenson, 
that 
the 
everyday 
being 
has 
to 
be 
- 
250 
- 
the 
executor 
of 
the 
ideal 
conception. 
Another 
twentieth 
century 
writer 
who 
was 
absorbed 
by 
the 
multiplication 
of 
the 
personality 
and 
its 
relation 
to 
creativity: 
is Vladimir 
Nabokov. 
Nabokov 
has been 
related 
to 
Borges 
by 
many 
authors 
and critics; 
but 
never, 
as 
far 
as. 
I know, 
to 
Stevenson. 
Yet, 
there 
are 
strong 
factors 
which 
link 
them 
in 
a 
discernible 
literary 
line: 
that 
of 
the. 
secular 
romance. 
However, 
in 
more 
particular 
terms the 
connection 
between 
them 
is 
more 
tenuous. 
Nabokov 
rated 
highly 
only 
one of 
Stevenson' 
s 
books, 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde. 
He 
wrote 
to 
Edmund Wilson 
of 
Stevenson, 
giving 
the 
view 
that: 
'The 
one masterpiece 
he 
wrote 
is 
the 
first-rate 
and 
permanent 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. ' 
32 
Nabokov 
could 
have 
encountered 
Stevenson' 
s 
work at a number 
of 
points 
in 
his 
career. 
As 
a voracious 
reader 
of 
all 
European 
literatures, 
including 
that 
in 
English, 
he 
might well 
have 
read 
it 
before 
ever 
leaving Russia. The 
theme 
of 
the 
double 
is 
a 
popular one 
in 
Russian 
literature, 
and 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
would 
not 
have been 
out of place 
in 
any 
discussion 
of 
this 
motif. 
Equally, 
it is 
possible 
that 
Nabokov 
met 
the tale 
in 
the 
form 
of 
an 
Expressionist 
film 
which 
was made 
of 
it in 
Germany 
in 
the 
1920s, 
when 
he 
was 
living 
in 
Berlin. 
This 
is 
speculation. 
What 
we 
do know is 
that 
Nabokov 
used 
to 
preface 
his 
course 
on 
European 
literature 
at 
Cornell 
University 
by 
lecturing 
on 
three 
of 
his favourite 
tales 
of 
transformation: 
Gogol' 
s 
The 
Overcoat, 
Kafka' 
s 
Metamorphosis, 
and 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
33 
It 
would 
be 
a 
mistake 
to 
suggest 
that 
Nabokov 
(or 
Borges, 
for 
that 
matter) 
would 
have 
written 
fiction 
of a 
different 
cast 
had 
they 
been 
unacquainted with 
Stevenson. 
Nabokov 
may, 
nonetheless, 
draw 
our attention 
to 
less 
obvious 
elements 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
fiction 
than 
we 
have 
hitherto 
noticed. 
Nabokov's 
lecture 
on 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
is 
a 
matter of 
fact 
examination 
of 
plot, 
setting 
and 
characters. 
He 
observes, 
for 
--- 
251 
- 
example, that 
the 
division 
into 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde is 
not 
an 
absolute 
split 
into 
good 
and 
evil: 
Still, 
if 
you 
look 
closely 
at 
Hyde, 
you will 
notice 
that 
above 
him 
floats 
aghast, 
but 
dominating, 
a 
residue 
of 
Jekyll, 
a 
kind 
of 
smoke 
ring, 
or 
halo, 
as 
if 
this 
black 
concentrated 
evil 
had 
fallen 
out 
of 
the 
remaining ring 
of 
good, 
but 
this 
ring 
of 
good 
still remains: 
Hyde 
still wants 
to 
change 
back 
to 
Jekyll. This 
is 
the 
significant point. 
It 
follows 
that 
Jekyll's 
transformation 
implies 
a 
concentration 
of evil 
that 
already 
inhabited 
him 
rather 
than 
a 
complete 
metamorphosis. 
Jekyll 
is 
not 
pure good, 
and 
Hyde 
(Jekyll's 
statement 
to the 
contrary) 
is 
not pure evil, 
for 
just 
as parts 
of 
unacceptable 
Hyde dwell 
within acceptable 
Jekyll, 
so 
over 
Hyde hovers 
a 
halo 
of 
Jekyll, 
horrified 
at 
his 
worser 
half's 
iniquity. 
34 
Nabokov 
develops 
this 
view of 
the 
split personality 
in 
the 
story 
with 
extensive quotation. 
But his 
most 
interesting 
remarks 
occur when 
he looks 
at 
how 
Stevenson 
solved 
the 
problem of 
describing Hyde 
and 
the 
whole 
business 
of 
the 
transformation. 
He 
argues 
that 
Stevenson 
wished 
to 
'have 
it 
pass 
through 
the 
minds 
of 
matter-of-fact 
persons, 
Utterson 
and 
Enfield'. 
35 
However, 
these 
'stolid 
souls 
... 
cannot 
be 
allowed 
by 
the 
author 
to 
notice 
details. '36 
Therefore, 
Dr 
Lanyon 
is introduced 
as 
external 
narrator 
of 
the 
transformation 
scene. 
The 
problem 
for Stevenson, 
according 
to 
Nabokov, 
is 
how 
to 
have 
Hyde 
'described 
by 
Enfield 
or 
Utterson in 
some 
oblique, 
imaginative, 
suggestive 
way, 
which, 
however, 
would 
not 
be 
a 
likely 
manner 
of 
expression 
on 
the 
part 
of 
these 
stolid 
souls. 
'3 
Then 
it 
is 
that 
Nabokov 
introduces 
his 
illuminating 
proposal: 
I 
suggest 
that 
given 
the 
situation 
and 
the 
characters, 
the 
only 
way 
to 
solve 
the 
problem 
is 
to 
have 
the 
aspect 
of 
Hyde 
cause 
in 
Enfield 
and 
Utterson 
not only 
a 
shudder of repulsion 
but 
also 
something 
else. 
I 
suggest 
that 
the 
shock of 
Hyde's 
presence 
brings 
out 
the 
hidden 
artist 
in 
Enfield 
and 
the 
hidden 
artist 
in 
Utterson. Otherwise 
the 
bright 
perceptions 
that 
illuminate 
Enfield's 
story 
- 
2JL 
- 
of 
his 
journey 
through 
the 
lighted, 
empty 
streets 
before 
he 
witnessed 
Mr 
Hyde's 
assault 
on 
the 
child, 
and 
the 
colourful 
imaginings 
of 
Utterson's 
dreams 
after 
he 
has 
heard 
the 
story can 
only 
be 
explained 
by 
the 
abrupt 
intrusion 
of 
the 
author 
with 
his 
own 
set of 
artistic 
values and 
his 
own 
diction 
and 
intonation. 
3 
8 
Nabokov 
does 
not 
follow 
through 
the 
hint 
here 
thrown 
out. 
But 
he 
does 
cast 
light 
because 
he 
opens 
to 
us 
the 
possibility 
of 
treating 
Stevenson's 
novella 
as, 
amongst 
other 
things, 
an 
almost 
hermetically 
coded 
parable 
of artistic creation. 
Some 
substance 
for 
the 
argument 
that 
Nabokov 
would 
thus 
aestheticise 
the 
story 
comes 
not 
from 
the 
lecture but 
from 
a 
short 
novel 
that 
he 
wrote, called 
The Eye. 
3 
9 
In 
this 
early 
story 
Nabokov 
uses 
a 
double 
to 
carry 
just 
that 
sort of 
meditation 
on 
the 
art 
of 
writing 
fiction. 
In 
the 
introduction 
to 
The 
Eye, 
. 
Nabokov 
says 
that 
he 
wished 
to 
write 
about 
'a 
world of soul 
dissolution 
where poor 
Smurov 
[ 
the 
main character 
] 
only exists 
insofar 
as 
he 
is 
reflected 
in 
other 
brains, 
which 
in 
their 
turn 
are 
placed 
in 
the 
same 
strange spectacular 
predicament 
as 
his' 
. 
"Q 
Smurov 
is 
the 
main 
protagonist, a 
Russian 
emigre 
in 
Berlin. He 
is 
also 
the 
narrator, 
although 
this 
is 
not confirmed 
until 
the 
end 
of 
the 
tale. 
Society 
(the 
world 
of others) 
in 
The 
Eye 
is 
not 
Lr. 
?,, 
gin 
d 
objectively as a set 
of relations 
between 
rounded 
characters. 
It 
is, 
rather, 
a 
'hell 
of 
mirrors' 
" 
in 
which 
the 
third 
person 
Smurov 
(spoken 
of 
as 
'he') 
is 
the 
distorted 
reflection 
of 
these 
others. 
His 
character 
is 
built 
up 
through 
the 
things 
other 
characters 
say 
and write 
about 
him. The 
narrator 
(who 
turns 
out 
finally 
to 
be 
Smurov, 
too) 
speaks of 
Smurov 
in 
the 
third 
person, 
a 
form, 
we 
come 
to 
realise, 
of self-consciousness 
which 
is 
inconsistent 
with 
the 
proud 
and 
secret 
'1' 
which 
emerges 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
story. 
To 
put 
a rather 
complicated 
situation 
in 
another 
way, 
the 
narrator 
Smurov 
authors 
himself 
as 
'him' 
and 
as 
'I' 
. 
The 
'I' 
- 
253 
- 
is 
immune 
to 
the 
social 
world 
of mirrors, 
whereas 
the 
'he' 
consists 
only 
of 
these 
mirrors 
and can, 
therefore, 
only 
survive 
in 
the 
eyes 
of 
others. 
In 
this 
representation 
of 
the 
social 
self 
as 
a 
discontinuous 
aspect 
of 
the 
self, 
The Eye 
evokes 
J?kyll's 
belief 
that 
'man 
will 
be 
ultimately 
known 
for 
a mere 
polity 
of 
multifarious, 
incongruous 
and 
independent denizens' 
42 
and 
also 
his 
recognition 
that 
'of 
the two 
natures 
that 
contended 
in 
the 
field 
of 
my 
consciousness, 
even 
if 
I 
could rightly 
be 
said 
to 
be 
either, 
it 
was only 
because 
I 
was 
radically 
both. 
143 
It 
will 
be 
remembered 
that 
Hyde 
was 
Jekyll's 
haven from 
the 
reflecting 
eyes of others. 
It 
would 
be 
wrong 
to 
deny 
that 
Stevenson 
and 
Nabokov 
elaborate 
their 
treatment 
of 
the 
theme 
of 
the 
discontinuous 
self 
in 
different 
ways. 
But 
there 
is, 
nonetheless, 
a striking 
congruence 
in 
the 
original 
theme 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
and 
The 
Eye. 
In 
both Nabokov's 
story and 
Stevenson' 
s an 
inner 
world 
of 
self 
is 
projected onto a recognisable 
setting, 
so 
that 
the 
fantastic 
results. 
In 
each case 
the 
narrative 
is 
in 
the 
form 
of 
a 
mystery 
thriller 
in 
which 
the 
'solution' is 
the 
identity 
of 
the 
"I" 
and 
the 
"he". 
In 
each 
case 
the 
narrative 
is 
broken, 
so 
that 
we 
have 
an 
impersonal 
and a subjective 
view of 
the 
same 
being. 
There 
is 
another 
dimension 
to 
Nabokov's 
strange 
case; 
and 
this, too, 
bears 
on 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. Both 
Smurovs 
are 
novelists; 
they 
are 
creators 
and artists. 
The 
impersonal 
Smurov 
is 
a 
bad 
novelist. 
But, 
another 
novelist 
(Nabokov) 
has 
created 
his 
creator 
(the 
first 
person 
Smurov, 
who 
is 
the 
other 
Sinurov's 
creator). 
Thus, 
we 
are 
privy 
to 
the 
interactions 
of creator 
and 
created. 
This 
is 
exactly 
what 
the 
discontinuous 
narratives 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
allow 
the 
reader 
to 
do. The 
real 
novelist, 
the 
cunning 
Stevenson, 
hides 
behind 
an 
array 
of 
first 
person 
narrators 
in 
order 
to 
reveal 
the true 
connection 
between 
tellers 
and 
tales. 
And 
it 
is 
in 
this 
context 
that 
we might 
legitimately 
speak 
of 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
as 
a 
parable 
of aesthetic 
production. 
- 
254 
- 
It 
reveals 
the 
indirection 
of 
the 
novelist. 
It 
above 
all 
indirectly 
shows 
how 
the 
good 
story-teller 
creates 
evil 
in 
his 
imagination; 
Jek 
yll, 
who 
is 
a 
bad 
novelist, 
actually 
creates 
Hyde; 
Stevenson, 
the 
good novelist, 
has 
responsibility 
to 
both 
good 
and 
evil; 
he 
withdraws 
behind 
them, 
however; 
he 
is 
not 
r 
a 
participant. 
Nabokov's 
lecture, 
and 
his 
novella, 
lead 
to 
quite 
legitimate 
and enlightening 
speculation 
on 
Stevenson's 
well 
known 
story. 
Stevenson' 
s 
imagination 
obviously 
finds 
answering 
echoes 
in 
modern 
fiction. 
These 
echoes carry on 
into 
even 
more 
recent 
works 
by 
Nabokov, 
though 
in 
a 
less 
clear 
way. 
Despair is 
about 
a 
Russian-born 
German 
businessman 
who 
meets a 
tramp 
whom 
he 
thinks 
is 
his 
absolute 
double. 
" 
The 
businessman is 
in 
some 
financial 
trouble, 
so 
he 
murders 
the 
tramp 
and 
takes 
his 
identity. 
The 
extreme 
twist 
in 
the 
midst of 
this 
story 
of 
doubles 
is 
that the 
tramp 
looks 
not 
at all 
like Hermann, 
the 
businessman. 
This 
turn 
makes 
the 
doubling 
of 
Hermann 
and 
Felix 
(the 
tramp) 
follow Stevenson' 
s method: 
one 
double 
is 
the 
complement 
of 
the 
other; 
he 
is 
the 
being 
which 
he 
cannot 
be 
himself, 
through 
which 
he 
completes 
himself. Again, 
we can 
only 
draw 
comparisons with 
Jekyll 
Tand 
Hyde, 
and possibly even 
with 
'Markheim'. 
4S 
In 
each of 
these 
stories, 
Stevenson 
creates 
a 
double 
who 
is 
not 
the 
reflection 
of 
the 
"original", 
but 
a 
completion of 
him. 
(This 
completion 
does 
not 
represent 
wholeness. 
The 
split 
is 
still a split and 
a 
divided 
self- 
consciousness. 
) 
Other 
Nabokov 
novels 
contain mirrors or 
doubles; but 
none 
quite so emphatically 
recall 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
as 
Lolita. 
"6 
The 
narrator, 
Humbert 
Humbert, 
has 
(as 
his 
name might suggest) 
a 
problem 
with 
doubleness 
very 
like 
that 
of 
Jekyll's, 
although 
Humbert' 
s riotous 
fancy 
is 
much 
more 
clearly 
described 
than 
are 
the 
doctor's 
nameless 
crimes: 
No 
wonder, 
then, 
that 
my 
adult 
life 
during 
the 
- 
255 
- 
European 
period 
of 
my 
existence 
proved 
monstrously 
twofold. 
Overtly, 
I 
had 
so-called 
normal 
relationships 
with 
a 
number 
of 
terrestrial 
women 
having 
pumpkins 
or 
pears 
for breasts; inside, 
I 
was 
consumed 
by 
a 
hell 
furnace 
of 
localized 
lust 
for 
every passing 
nymphet 
whom 
as 
a 
law-abiding 
poltroon 
I 
never 
dared 
approach 
." 
Humbert, 
like 
Jekyll, 
tries 
to 
keep his 'degrading 
and 
dangerous 
desires' 
under 
control. 
" 
Yet 
his 
baser 
desires 
continually 
assert 
themselves, 
and 
these 
show 
themselves 
in 
his 
features 
in 
a way 
that 
reminds us 
of 
Hyde's 
'ape-like' 
appearance. 
' 
9 
He 
refers, punningly, 
to 
his 'brutal 
good 
looks' 
50 
and speaks 
of 
himself 
as 
being ' 
attractively 
simian'. 
51 
Another 
lover, 
Rita, first 
touches 
him by 
placing 
'her 
trembling 
little hand 
on my 
ape paw. 
'52 
As 
Humbert's 
lust 
for 
Lolita, 
the 
girl child 
whom 
he 
eventually 
captures, 
turns 
to 
love, 
his 
'base 
self' 
53 
becomes 
projected 
onto another 
figure, 
Quilty 
(Guilty? 
), 
whom 
he describes 
as 
his 
'brother'. 
54 
Quilty 
is 
more clearly ape-like, as 
Hyde 
is 
a concentration of 
what 
Jekyll 
considers 
to 
be his baser. 
self 
bearing 'the 
stamp, 
of 
lower 
elements 
in 
my soul 
.'55 
Here 
is 
Humbert' 
s 
description 
of 
Quilty: 
There 
he 
stood, 
in 
the 
camouflage 
of 
sun and 
shade, 
disfigured 
by 
them 
and 
masked 
by 
his 
of 
n 
nakedness, 
his damp black hair 
or 
what was 
left 
of 
it, 
glued 
to 
his 
round 
head, his 
little 
moustache, a 
humid 
smear, 
the 
wool 
on 
his 
chest 
spread 
like 
a symmetrical 
trophy, 
his 
navel 
pulsating, 
his hirsute 
thighs 
dripping 
with 
bright 
droplets, his 
tight 
wet 
black bathing 
trunks 
bloated 
and 
bursting 
with vigour 
where 
his 
great 
fat 
bullybag 
was 
pulled up and 
back 
like 
a 
padded shield 
over 
his 
reversed 
beasthood. 
5s 
This 
is 
also 
a 
description 
of 
the 
'simian' Humbert 
himself. 
And, 
in 
fact, 
Humbert 
admits 
of 
Quilty 
that 
his 
mind 
'had 
affinities 
with 
my own. 
' 
57 
Once 
again 
as 
in 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
Quilty 
is 
unable 
to 
disguise his 
handwriting, 
a 
fact 
which 
- 
256 
- 
helps 
Humbert 
follow 
him. 
58 
Eventually, 
Humbert 
catches up with 
his 
double, 
whom 
he 
wish, 
?s 
to 
kill 
for having 
corrupted 
his Lolita. 
He 
notices 
again 
the 
Hydean 
features 
of 
his 
adversary: 
To 
have 
him 
trapped, 
after 
those 
years 
of 
repentance 
and 
rage 
... 
To 
look 
at 
the 
black 
hairs 
on 
the 
back 
of 
his 
pudgy 
hands 
... 
To 
wander with 
a 
hundred 
eyes 
over 
his 
purple silks 
and 
hirsute 
chest 
foreglimpsing 
the 
punctures, 
and 
mess, and 
music 
of 
pain. 
59 
Quilty, 
cornered 
by 
the 
armed 
Humbert, 
turns 
the 
accusation 
back 
on 
his 
pursuer: 
'You're 
all 
wet. 
I 
saved 
her 
from 
a 
beastly 
pervert. 
Show 
me 
your 
badge 
instead 
of shooting 
at my 
foot, 
you ape, you. 
' 
60 
They 
become 
one at 
that 
point: 
We 
fell 
to 
wrestling 
again. 
We 
rolled 
all over 
the 
floor, 
in 
each other's arms, 
like 
two 
huge 
helpless 
children. 
He 
was naked and 
goatish 
under 
his 
robe, 
and 
I 
felt 
suffocated 
as 
he 
rolled 
over me. 
I 
rolled 
over 
him. We 
rolled over me. 
They 
rolled 
over 
him. 
We 
rolled 
over us 
.5 
Humbert 
manages 
to 
kill 
Quilty, 
and 
in 
that 
way 
becomes 
free 
of 
his 
perversion. 
In 
its 
confessional 
style, 
in 
an 
important 
part of 
its 
symbolism, 
in 
its 
use 
of 
fantastic 
projection 
(in 
a 
'realistic' 
setting) 
to 
body 
forth 'the horror 
of 
my 
other self' 
42 
Lolita 
has 
a 
clear 
and 
fundamental 
affinity 
with 
Stevenson's Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
This 
is 
the 
sum 
of 
the 
substantive, 
as 
opposed 
to 
entirely 
speculative, 
connections 
which can 
be 
made with 
Nabokov. 
- 
257 
- 
Taken 
with 
my 
remarks 
on 
Borges, I 
think 
that 
even 
these 
few 
observations 
indicate 
that 
Stevenson's 
fiction 
does 
point 
forward 
to 
an 
important 
strand of 
twentieth 
century 
fiction. 
This 
can 
be 
said without 
beginning 
to 
consider 
his 
influence 
on 
popular 
literature 
(which 
is 
not 
to 
say 
inconsiderable 
literature). 
We 
know, for 
example, 
that 
Raymond 
Chandler kept 
a small 
core 
library 
of 
books 
to 
which 
he 
always returned 
for 
inspiration; 
and 
that, 
among 
these 
precious 
books 
was 
Stevenson's 
New Arabian 
Nights. 
63 
In 
fact, 
when you 
consider 
the 
burlesque 
elements 
and 
the 
ironic 
use of 
chance 
and 
coincidence 
in 
the 
Marlowe 
novels, 
this 
choice 
is 
not 
so 
surprising. 
It 
has 
already 
been 
noted 
in 
this thesis 
how 
Graham 
Greene 
learned 
his 
initial lesson 
in 
how 
to 
write action 
purely and 
simply and 
adjectivelessly 
from 
Kidnapped. 
" 
It 
would 
not surprise 
me 
if 
some of. 
his 
ironic 
deformations 
of 
adventure 
plots 
(such 
as 
Burnt-Out 
Case) 
also owed a 
lot 
to 
Stevenson' 
s 
later 
adventure 
stories. 
Louis 
l' 
Amour, 
the 
writer 
of 
- 
Westerns, 
has 
acknowledged 
that 
he feels 
more 
indebted 
to 
Stevenson 
than 
any other writer 
living 
or 
dead. 
65 
The 
list 
of 
those 
who 
are 
willing 
to 
acknowledge 
Stevenson' 
s mastery goes 
right 
down 
to 
Dennis Judd's 
uninspired remake, 
The Return 
to 
Treasure Island. 
66 
Many 
thriller 
and adventure story 
writers 
see 
in 
Stevenson 
an exemplary 
predecessor, 
someone 
who was 
able 
to 
ride 
two 
horses 
at 
the 
one 
time: that 
is, 
as a 
writer 
who managed 
to 
combine 
often 
hackneyed 
and 
conventional 
genre 
forms 
with subtle 
analysis 
of what 
human 
beings 
are 
and 
desire. 
- 
258 
- 
APPENDIX 
Adventure 
and 
Empire: 
It 
is 
my 
intention in 
this 
appendix 
to 
gather 
some critical 
observations on contemporary 
or 
near-contemporary writers 
whose 
use of adventure 
fiction 
can 
be 
related 
to 
Stevenson' 
s. 
My discussion 
will 
focus 
mainly 
on 
Joseph 
Conrad, 
and 
particularly 
on 
two 
of 
his 
novels 
(Lord 
Jim 
and 
Victory} 
, 
because 
in 
his 
use 
of exotic 
settings 
to 
examine questions of 
selfhood 
this 
novelist 
resembles 
Stevenson 
in 
a number of 
important 
ways. 
John 
Buchan's 
epigraph 
to 
The 
Runagates 
Club 
is 
taken 
from 
an 
essay 
by Sir 
Thomas 
Browne. It 
runs 
thus: 
We 
carry with us 
the 
wonders we seek without us; 
there 
is 
all 
Africa 
and 
her 
prodigies 
in 
us. 
' 
There 
could 
be 
no 
better 
expression of 
the 
way 
in 
which 
many of 
the 
more 
subtle 
and ambitious adventure 
writers 
used exotic 
settings which 
the 
renewal of 
interest in 
the 
British 
Empire had 
opened up 
to them. 
This 
idea 
was 
that 
adventure 
in 
far-fl 
ung places 
represented a 
test 
of 
the 
self. 
It 
was 
an 
idea 
that 
would 
be 
addressed 
i 
n 
many 
different 
ways 
by 
various writers: 
for 
example, 
R. B. Cunninghame-Graham, 
an 
anti-imperialist, 
stressed 
the 
unequal 
encounter of 
savage 
and 
civilised men; 
7 
whereas 
Kipling, 
an 
imperialist, 
more 
often 
found 
a 
saving grace 
in 
the 
Law 
which 
was 
carried 
by 
the 
white 
man. 
In 
another 
direction, 
Joseph 
Conrad 
is 
clearly 
more 
aware 
of 
the 
symbolic 
possibilities of 
the 
colonial encounter 
than, 
say, 
Rider 
Haggard. 
Nonetheless, 
each 
of 
the 
writers 
I 
have 
mentioned 
(including 
Buchani) 
is 
concerned 
to 
find 
in 
adventures, 
correlatives 
of 
an 
inner 
reality. 
- 
259 
- 
Grant 
Allen 
suggested 
what 
one 
of 
the 
roots 
of 
this 
connection 
of 
exotic 
adventure 
and 
the 
self 
might 
be 
when 
he 
linked 
Stevenson, 
Rider 
Haggard 
and 
Andrew 
Lang 
together 
as 
celebrants 
of 
'the 
romance 
of anthropology'. 
`' 
This 
label 
reminds 
us 
that 
Lang 
was one 
of 
the 
foremost 
exponents 
of 
anthropology 
as 
a 
distinct discipline, 
with 
its 
own 
procedures. 
Amongst 
his 
anthropological 
works were 
Custom 
and 
Myth 
(1884), 
Myth, 
Ritual 
and 
Religion 
(1887). 
One 
of 
the 
ideas 
which 
Lang 
popularised, 
a 
notion 
most 
notoriously propounded 
by 
Tylor 
in 
The Principles 
of 
Culture 
-a 
book 
which 
we 
know 
Stevenson 
had 
read 
- 
was 
the 
concept 
of 
"survivals". 
,5 
Briefly 
summarised, 
this 
idea 
consisted of 
the 
belief 
that 
contemporary 
primitive 
cultures 
exhibited 
features 
of 
the 
past of civilised 
Europe. 
We have 
already 
seen 
how 
important 
a role 
survivalism 
played 
in 
Stevenson' 
s response 
to 
Oceania: how he 
represented 
his 
experience 
as 
a 
discovery 
of 
his 
own ancestral 
past; 
it 
might 
even 
be 
seen 
in 
Kidnapped, 
where 
Alan 
Breck's 
mythologising 
his 
own 
deeds 
would 
suggest 
primitive 
modes 
of 
behaviour. 
H. Rider 
Haggard 
(1856-1925) 
certainly 
cast many 
of 
his 
adventure 
stories as 
explorations 
in 
space which were 
also a 
discovery 
of 
past 
time. 
Haggard 
left England 
in 
1875, 
when 
he 
was 
nineteen 
years 
old, 
arriving 
in 
Cape Town 
that 
same year. 
From 
there 
he 
went 
to 
Durban 
and 
overland 
to 
Pietermaritzburg 
in 
Natal. 
He 
worked 
for 
a 
number 
of years 
thereafter 
as 
a 
law 
court 
official 
in 
the 
Transvaal. 
He 
returned 
to 
England 
in 
1881 
to 
become 
a 
barrister, 
and 
soon 
after 
began 
writing 
novels. 
Both 
of 
his 
early 
novels 
were 
set 
in 
England. 
But 
in 
1885 
he 
was 
in 
a 
train 
with 
his 
brother, 
who 
had 
just 
been 
reading 
Treasure 
Island 
and 
had 
remarked 
what a 
good 
adventure 
story 
it 
was. 
Haggard 
claimed 
that 
he 
could 
do 
as well. 
Within 
six 
weeks 
he 
had 
written 
King 
Solomon's 
Mines, 
which came 
out 
later 
that 
year 
and 
was 
immediately 
a 
best-seller. Its 
narrative economy 
- 
260 
- 
and 
sense 
of 
the 
marvellous 
clearly 
distinguished 
it 
from 
all 
earlier 
fiction 
about 
Africa 
and 
set 
various 
patterns 
for 
adventure/romance 
stories 
in 
the 
future 
of 
mass 
consumed 
fiction. 
It 
was 
understandable 
that 
Haggard 
should 
return 
to 
his 
own 
adventurous colonial 
experience 
for 
a 
tale 
of 
adventure; 
and 
the 
landscape 
of 
King 
Solomon's 
Mines 
is 
that 
of 
the 
parts 
of 
Southern Africa 
which 
he 
knew. 
King Solomon's 
Mines had 
the 
simple 
structure 
of 
a 
fairy 
tale. 
It 
involved 
a quest 
for 
hidden 
treasure 
(like 
Treasure 
Island, 
4which 
had 
sparked 
Haggard's 
interest in 
writing an 
adventure 
story) ; 
so 
it 
had 
a 
very simple, 
archetypal 
structure. 
It 
was 
told 
straightforwardly 
in 
the 
first 
person 
by 
the 
hunter, 
Allan 
Quatermain, 
who 
was 
the 
perfect 
blunt 
instrument 
for 
telling 
this 
kind 
of story. 
Haggard, 
through the 
Quatermain 
persona, 
can 
forego 
interesting 
possibilities 
- 
of, 
for 
example, character 
- 
to 
keep 
the 
main narrative 
line 
of 
the 
story. 
The 
motivation 
to 
adventure of 
the 
three 
main white characters 
is 
mixed. 
Sir 
Henry 
is 
trying 
to 
find his 
brother, 
with 
the 
assistance of 
Good, 
the 
naval officer. 
Quatermain 
is 
ostensibly 
leading 
the 
party 
in 
the 
hope 
of 
locating 
the 
fabulous 
treasure 
of 
diamonds 
b 
eyond 
the 
mountains. 
But 
all -three could also 
be 
described 
as responding 
to the 
spirit 
of 
adventure which 
is 
summed up 
by Umbopa: 
Umbopa, 
who 
was marching 
in 
front, 
broke 
into 
a 
Zulu 
chant about 
how 
some 
brave 
men, 
tired 
of 
life 
and 
the 
tameness 
of 
things, 
started off 
into 
a great wilderness 
to 
find 
new 
things 
or 
die, 
and 
how, 
lo, 
and 
behold! 
when 
they 
had 
got 
far 
into 
they 
wilderness, 
they 
found 
it 
was 
not 
a 
wilderness 
at 
all, 
but 
a 
beautiful 
place 
full 
of 
young 
wives 
and 
fat 
cattle, 
of game 
to 
hunt 
and 
enemies 
to 
kill. 
6 
Now, 
this 
is 
a 
much 
more 
positive 
and morally carefree 
attitude 
to 
adventure 
than 
we 
find 
in 
any 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
fiction 
bar 
R 
- 
261 
- 
Treasure 
Island. 
David 
Balfour 
is 
an 
unwilling 
adventurer, 
as 
are 
Loudon 
Dodd 
and 
Herrick. 
In Haggard' 
s 
novels, 
as 
in 
those 
of 
John 
Buchan, 
' 
the 
adventure 
is 
sought 
by 
the 
hero 
or 
heroes 
in 
order 
to 
escape 
the 
accidie 
which everyday 
life 
induces 
in 
them. 
They 
are 
not 
colonists, 
but 
explorers 
charting and 
putting 
themselves 
up against 
the 
perils 
of 
Terra Incognita. 
The 
adventurer 
lets 
go 
his 
control 
of 
existence 
to 
test 
himself: 
There 
is 
no 
journey 
upon 
this 
earth 
that 
a 
man 
may not 
make 
if 
he 
sets 
his heart 
to 
it. 
There 
is 
nothing, 
Umbopa, 
that 
he 
cannot 
do, 
there 
are no 
mountains 
he 
may 
not 
climb, 
there 
are 
no 
deserts 
he 
cannot 
cross, 
save a 
mountain and 
desert 
of 
which 
you 
are 
spared 
the 
knowledge, 
if 
love leads 
him 
and 
he 
holds 
his 
life 
in 
his hand 
counting 
it 
as 
nothing, 
ready 
to 
keep 
it 
or 
to 
lose 
it 
as 
Providence 
may 
order. 
8 
Empire, 
then, 
simply 
becomes 
the 
field 
in 
which 
the 
marvellous 
and 
the 
adventurous 
can occur. 
It 
allows 
men 
to 
cross 
the 
frontier; 
but 
the 
crossing 
of 
the 
frontier has 
no 
moral 
implications 
or 
dangers 
as 
it 
does 
in 
Kidnapped. 
A 
more 
definite 
picture 
of 
the 
significance of empire 
is 
to 
be 
found 
in 
the 
work of 
Rudyard 
Kipling. 
It 
often 
seems 
that 
for 
both Kipling 
and 
Stevenson, 
empire 
was 
important 
as 
a 
transcendent 
idea, 
not as a 
political/historical reality. 
Up 
to 
a point, 
they 
saw 
empire 
as a 
system of values which provided 
a 
moral 
and spiritual centre 
to the 
world. 
The 
great, 
inaugural 
poet of 
the 
imperial 
theme 
in 
Western 
literature 
is 
Virgil, 
in 
the 
Aeneid 
and 
the 
Fourth Eclogue, 
where 
he 
foreshadows 
Rome 
as 
the 
father 
and centre 
of an 
empire 
which. 
will 
bring 
peace, 
justice 
and 
prosperity. 
9 
Graham 
Balfour 
has 
suggested 
something 
of 
the 
importance 
to 
Stevenson 
of 
Virgil 
and 
the 
Roman 
Empire: 
I 
am 
not 
sure 
that 
Virgil 
was 
not more 
important 
to 
him 
than 
any 
other 
poet, 
ancient 
or 
modern 
... 
- 
262 
Rome 
counted 
to 
him 
as 
something 
very 
much more 
than 
a 
literature 
-a 
whole 
system 
of 
law 
and 
empire. 
10 
In 
In 
the 
South Seas, Stevenson 
makes continual 
reference 
to 
the 
fact 
that 
he 
is 
amongst 
a people 
who 
have 
never 
been 
ruled 
by 
Roman 
statute, 
and 
that 
understanding 
them 
will 
entail 
an 
immense leap 
of 
the 
moral 
imagination. 
In 
Ebb-Tide, 
Herrick 
carries 
a 
copy of 
Virgil 
with 
him, 
his last 
possession 
and one 
which 
represents 
his 
ties 
with 
Europe 
and 
civility. 
The 
Virgil 
is, 
in 
fact, 
associated 
with 
a 
morally 
secure past 
which 
is 'irrevocable': 
He 
would 
pause 
on 
random 
country 
walks; sit on 
the 
path 
side, 
gazing 
over 
the 
sea 
on 
the 
mountains 
of 
Eimeo; 
and 
dip 
into 
the 
Aeneid, 
seeking 
sortes. 
And 
if 
the 
oracle 
(as 
is 
the 
way 
of 
oracles) 
replied 
with no very 
certain 
or 
encouraging 
voice, 
visions 
of 
England 
at 
least 
would 
throng 
upon 
the 
exile's 
memory: 
the 
busy 
schoolroom, 
the 
green playing-fields, 
holidays 
at 
home, 
and 
the 
perennial 
roar 
of 
London, 
and 
the 
fireside, 
and 
the 
white 
head 
of 
his father. 
For 
it 
is 
the 
destiny 
of 
those 
grave, 
restrained and 
classic 
writers 
... 
to 
pass 
into 
the 
blood 
and 
become 
native 
in 
the 
memory; 
so 
that 
a 
phrase of 
Virgil 
speaks not so 
much of 
Mantua 
or 
Augustus, 
but 
of 
English 
places and 
the 
student's own 
irrevocable 
youth. 
" 
The 
mention 
of 
the 
venerable 
father 
here 
establishes 
the 
link 
of empire 
and 
moral 
authority 
(in 
Stevensonian 
mythology). 
But 
the 
moral security, 
the 
Golden 
Age 
as 
the 
wistful 
nostalgia 
of 
the 
exile's 
thoughts 
indicate, is in 
the 
past 
and 
is 
not 
recoverable. 
The 
student of 
Scots 
law 
respected 
the 
Roman 
institutes 
on which 
it 
was 
based 
and 
the 
system 
of 
empire 
which 
spread 
that 
law. 
But 
the 
Victorian 
writer 
experienced 
imperialism, 
in 
the 
South Pacific, 
as material 
exploitation. 
London 
did 
not 
represent 
the 
moral 
centre 
of 
the 
universe 
to 
him. 
- 
263 
- 
The 
Roman 
Empire 
was 
a 
constant 
source 
of 
inspiration 
to 
nineteenth 
century 
imperialists. 
Palmerston 
made 
the 
link 
explicit 
as 
early as 
1850: 
As 
the 
Roman, in 
the 
days 
of 
Rome, 
held himself 
free 
from 
indignity, 
when 
he 
could 
say 
'Civis 
Romanus 
Sum', 
so 
also 
a 
British 
subject, 
in 
whatever 
land he 
may 
be, 
shall 
feel 
confident 
that 
the 
watchful eye 
and strong 
arm 
of 
England 
will 
protect 
him 
against 
injustice 
and 
wrong. 
" 
Kipling 
himself 
compared 
Cecil 
Rhodes 
to 
a 
'Roman Emperor' 
. 
13 
Nevertheless, 
it 
is 
not 
to the 
bureaucratic 
codes 
of empire 
that 
Kipling 
is 
attracted. 
It 
is 
to 
the 
idea 
of 
empire as a 
transcendent 
and 
authoritative 
home 
which 
can 
command 
the 
respect 
and, above 
all, 
the 
obedience 
of 
men: 
Now 
these 
are 
the 
Laws 
of 
the 
jungle, 
and many 
and 
mighty 
are 
they; 
But 
the 
head 
and 
the 
hoof 
of 
the 
Law 
and 
the 
haunch 
and 
the 
hump 
is 
- 
Obey. 
' 
4 
Kipling 
also, 
then, 
recognises 
with 
Stevenson 
the 
individual's 
need 
for 
a 
form 
of 
moral authority, 
without which 
he 
will 
become like Kurtz 
or 
the 
Baal 
figure 
sitting 
immobile 
in 
his 
hut 
in 
'The 
Beach 
of 
Falesd 
.1s 
The 
short story 
' 
The 
Church 
that 
was at 
Antioch' 
gives 
us a 
good 
idea 
of 
Kipling's 
sense 
of 
the 
transcendent 
function 
of 
empire. 
In 
it 
a young 
Roman 
soldier 
is 
stationed 
at 
Antioch during 
civil 
disturbances 
arising 
from 
religious 
differences between 
the 
Jews 
and 
Christians. 
The 
young soldier, 
a 
tolerant 
Mithraist, 
gives 
his 
life 
to 
restore 
civil order 
and 
law, 
which 
are 
seen 
as 
being 
more 
important 
than the 
substantial 
ideologies 
of 
the 
warring 
religionists. 
16 
The 
other 
side 
of 
Kipling's 
vehement 
respect 
for 
Law 
can 
be 
observed 
in 
his 
interest 
in 
outsiders, 
those 
characters 
who 
have 
put 
themselves 
outside 
the 
system 
of 
Law. 
The 
two 
- 
264 
- 
adventurers 
in 
'The 
Man 
Who 
Would 
Be 
King' 
go 
beyond 
the 
frontier 
of 
the 
Empire 
to 
find 
treasure 
in 
a 
remote 
mountain 
kingdom. 
' 
7 
They 
fail, 
although 
they 
nearly 
succeed, 
because 
they 
have 
no redeeming 
idea 
higher 
than themselves; 
they 
are 
like 
Conrad's 
'faithless 
pilgrims' 
. 
Nevertheless 
these 
outsiders 
are 
of 
immense 
interest to 
the 
narrators of 
Kipling' 
s 
better 
stories, 
because 
they 
signal 
a 
moral, 
possibility and we 
are 
often 
- 
as 
'Love 
o' 
Women' 
and 
'Mrs 
Bathurst' 
- 
left 
with 
the 
feeling 
of 
"There, but for 
the 
grace of 
God, 
go 
P. 
However, 
the 
significant 
point 
about 
the 
narrator 
is 
that 
he 
provides 
a 
frame 
for 
the 
often 
incredible 
events 
of 
the 
adventure 
story. 
In 
'The Man 
Who 
Would Be King' 
the 
narrator's 
journalistic 
life 
is 
closely 
described, 
and 
his 
sceptical, 
matter-of-fact 
persona 
lends 
credibility 
to the 
tale 
of 
Dravit 
and 
Carnehan, 
the 
two 
adventurers; 
it 
licenses 
the 
far-fetched 
history. 
This framing 
of 
a 
story 
which marches 
near 
the 
borders 
of 
probability 
is 
a 
technique 
used 
by 
Stevenson 
too. 
One 
of 
the 
functions 
of 
the 
matter-of-fact 
Mackellar 
in 
Master 
is 
to 
authenticate an 
improbable 
tale. 
Utterson 
and 
Lanyon 
are 
hard-headed 
men of sense 
because 
they 
also 
have 
to 
witness and make 
acceptable a 
fanciful 
set 
of events 
. 
Conrad 
is 
another novelist 
who 
uses 
the 
same 
method 
of 
framing 
adventure yarns: 
his 
Heart 
of 
Darkness 
and 
Lord Jim 
are examples of 
fictions 
which use 
the 
sailor 
Marlow 
thus 
(although 
Marlow has 
a more extensive 
and 
flexible 
function 
than this). 
Each 
of 
these 
framing 
narrators 
stress 
the 
connection 
between 
the 
insider 
and 
the 
outsider, 
because 
they 
have, 
or 
are 
forced 
to 
recognise 
they 
have, 
a 
degree 
of 
sympathy with 
the 
outsiders. 
They 
prevent 
the 
outsiders 
becoming 
monstrously 
other 
and 
emphasise 
the 
extent 
to 
which 
they 
represent 
a 
moral 
possibility 
of 
the 
observing 
self; 
they 
make 
them 
less 
strange. 
The 
Kipling 
story 
which 
is 
most 
cunningly 
framed 
in 
this 
wise 
is 
'Mrs 
Bathurst. 
In 
'Mrs 
Bathurst', 
the 
obsession 
of 
Vickery, 
- 
265 
- 
a sailor, 
with 
the 
woman 
of 
the 
title 
leads 
them 
both 
to 
a 
death 
as 
outcasts 
in 
the 
interior 
of 
Africa. 
A 
part 
of 
Vickery's 
story 
is 
told 
by 
several 
men 
who 
each 
know 
a 
part 
of 
it. 
The 
"truth" 
about 
what 
has happened 
to 
Vickery 
and 
Mrs 
Bathurst 
is 
never 
revealed; 
but 
each 
of 
the 
narrators 
is 
able 
to 
contribute 
a 
little bit 
towards 
a 
possible 
view 
of 
Vickery' 
s 
conduct, and 
the 
story 
ends on 
a note of 
extreme 
moral 
unease 
felt 
by 
the 
narrators 
themselves 
.8 
The Stevenson 
character with whom 
Kipling' 
s 
outsiders 
could 
be 
most nearly 
compared 
is 
Villon 
in 
'A 
Lodging 
for 
the 
Night. 
Villon, locked 
out, penniless 
and alone, on 
a cold winter 
night, gets shelter 
from 
an old 
man, 
an 
aristocrat 
and 
a 
soldier. 
Villon's 
obvious 
intention 
to 
rob 
the 
man 
leads 
to 
an 
argument about 
honour between 
the two. 
The Lord 
argues 
for 
the 
huge 
moral 
difference between 
them: 
'I 
am old, 
strong 
and 
honoured. If I 
were 
turned 
from 
my 
house 
tomorrow, 
hundreds 
would 
be 
proud 
to 
shelter 
me. 
' 
19 
Villon 
does 
not 
dispute 
the 
fact 
of 
the 
difference, he 
does 
argue 
that 
it 
arises 
not 
from 
the 
inherent 
virtue 
of 
the 
soldier, 
but 
only 
from 
the 
purely 
accidental 
difference 
in 
the 
circumstances of 
their 
birth. 
If 
things 
had been 
reversed, 
he 
enquires, 
'Should 
not 
I 
have 
been 
the 
soldier, and you 
the 
thief? 
'. 
20 
Still, 
it is 
not 
in 
this 
dialogue 
that the 
force 
of 
'A 
Lodging 
for 
the 
Night' 
lies, but 
in 
the 
evocative 
detail: 
the 
'galloping 
black 
things 
on 
the 
snow'; 
21 
the 
corpse of 
the 
prostitute with 
'her 
cheeks' 
that 
'had been 
heavily 
rouged 
that 
same 
afterncon' 
.22 
And 
it 
is 
with 
charged 
detail 
of 
this 
kind 
that 
Kipling 
too 
intimates 
the 
closeness of violence, 
the 
speed 
with 
which 
the 
mathematical 
plus 
can 
become 
a negative 
sign. 
The 
well-known 
opening 
to 
'Love 
o' 
Women' does 
just 
that: 
The 
horror, 
the 
confusion, 
and 
the 
separation 
of 
the 
murderer 
from 
his 
comrades 
were 
all 
over 
before 
I 
came. 
There 
remained 
only 
on 
the 
barrack- 
square 
the 
blood 
of 
man 
calling 
from 
the 
ground. 
The 
hot 
sun 
had 
dried 
it 
to 
a 
dusky 
goldbeater- 
- 
266 
- 
skin 
film, 
cracked 
lozenge-wise 
by 
the 
heat; 
and 
as 
the 
wind 
rose, 
each 
lozenge, 
rising a 
little, 
curled 
up at 
the 
edges 
as 
if 
it 
were 
a 
dumb 
tongue. 
23 
The 
point about 
the 
detail 
in 
the 
case 
of 
the 
Kipling 
story 
is 
that 
it is 
observed 
by 
a narrator 
trying to 
understand 
something which 
is 
difficult 
to 
understand 
because 
this 
observer 
does 
not 
have 
entry 
to the 
inner 
motivations 
of 
those 
he 
is 
observing 
(in 
'Love 
o' 
Women', 
a soldier who 
murders 
his 
comrade). 
The 
"I" 
is 
again 
inaccessible. 
The 
other 
soldiers 
assist 
the 
accused 
man. 
They 
concede 
that the 
moral 
difference 
between 
themselves 
and 
the 
homicide 
is 
next 
to 
nothing. 
This 
is 
precisely 
the 
recognition 
that 
Mackellar 
forgets 
and 
Herrick 
is 
all 
too 
conscious 
of. 
Despite 
Kipling's 
claim 
that 
he 
was 
'Eminent Past 
Master 
R. 
L. 
S. 
' 
91 
2" 
it 
would 
be 
misguided 
to 
argue 
for 
a very 
strong 
influence 
of 
Stevenson 
on 
the 
writer 
whom 
he 
thought 
would 
take 
his 
place 
as 
the 
literary lion 
of 
a 
generation. 
Nonetheless 
there 
are continuities of method and outlook which 
deserve 
to 
be 
examined. 
Conrad's 
exotic settings 
and 
the 
rather 
desparate 
characters 
who 
are 
hiding 
there 
reminded 
many 
contemporary critics 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
later 
tales. 
One 
reviewer mentions 
this 
in 
terns 
of 
their 
similar 
interest 
in 
outsiders: 
Mr 
Conrad has 
Stevenson's 
power 
of 
interesting 
us 
even 
sympathetically 
in 
the 
fortunes 
of 
unredeemed 
scoundrels 
." 
Before 
looking 
at 
this 
possible 
identification 
of 
Conrad 
with 
Stevenson, 
I 
want 
to 
look 
at 
Conrad's 
Heart 
of 
Darkness 
(1902). 
267 
- 
Conrad 
and 
Stevenson: 
In 
his 
essay 
'Geography 
and 
Some 
Explorers', 
Joseph 
Conrad 
recalls 
that 
as a 
boy 
immersed 
in 
the 
adventures 
of 
Columbus, 
Cook, 
Tasman, 
Park 
and 
Livingstone, 
he had 
once 
indicated 
the 
blank 
white 
space 
in 
the 
centre of 
the 
map 
of 
Africa 
to 
his 
schoolmates 
and 
'declared 
that 
some 
day I 
would 
go 
there'. 
26 
Twenty 
years 
later 
he 
was 
in 
command 
of 
a small 
river 
steamboat 
at 
Stanley 
Falls 
in 
the 
Upper 
Congo, 
only a short 
distance 
from 
the 
small 
empire of 
Tibbu 
Tib, 
the 
Arab 
trader, 
and 
the 
whole 
'idealized 
reality' 
of 
his 
early 
daydreams had 
become 
unsustainable. 
`7 
The heroic 'militant 
geography' which 
had 
so 
excited 
him 
as a 
boy 
had become 
caught up with a 
very 
sordid 
imperial 
enterprise 
indeed: 
Yes, 
this 
was 
the 
very 
spot. 
But 
there 
was no 
shadowy 
friend 
to 
stand 
by 
my side 
in 
the 
night 
of 
the 
enormous 
wilderness, no 
great 
haunting 
memory, 
but 
only 
the 
unholy recollection 
of a 
prosaic newspaper 
'stunt' 
and 
the 
distasteful 
knowledge 
of 
the 
vilest 
scramble 
for 
loot 
that 
ever 
disfigured 
the 
history 
of 
human 
conscience 
and 
geographical exploration. 
2 
a 
The 
newspaper stunt 
to 
which 
Conrad 
refers 
was probably 
one 
of 
H. M. Stanley's 
three 
big 
missions 
in 
West Africa: 
1) 
the 
discovery 
of 
Livingstone 
(1871). 
2) 
the 
exploratory 
trip 
from 
Zanzibar 
to 
the 
mouth 
of 
the 
Congo 
(1874-7). 
3) 
the 
expedition 
to 
relieve 
Emin 
Pasha 
(1887-1889). 
The Emin Pasha 
expedition, 
the 
most 
likely 
candidate 
for 
the 
newspaper 
stunt' 
, 
was 
the 
most 
controversial 
of 
Stanley' 
s 
undertakings 
and 
probably 
the 
most 
important 
for 
the 
basic 
background 
to 
Heart 
of 
Darkness, 
the 
novella 
which 
eventually 
came out 
of 
Conrad' 
s 
Congo 
experiences. 
Conrad 
arrived 
in 
Brussels in 
1890 
to 
take 
up 
his 
new 
appointment 
less 
than 
a 
year 
after 
Stanley's 
gaudy, 
triumphant 
-268 
- 
return. 
He 
must 
have 
known 
at 
least 
the 
basic 
circumstances. 
When 
he 
arrived 
in 
the 
Belgian 
Congo, 
he 
met 
Roger 
Casement 
at 
Matadi. 
Casement 
was 
a 
consul 
in 
West 
Africa, 
and was 
officially 
involved 
in 
the 
investigation 
and 
exposure 
of 
State 
atrocities 
in 
the 
Congo. 
In 
addition, 
he 
was 
a 
friend 
of 
Herbert 
Ward, 
who 
had 
been 
a 
member of 
Stanley's 
rear 
column 
on 
the 
relief expedition; 
and 
Ward 
knew 
the 
other 
four 
whites 
involved, 
including 
Barttelot, 
the 
commander 
of 
the 
rear column 
who 
went mad 
and 
who, 
was guilty of astounding 
cruelty 
in 
his 
treatment 
of 
their 
bearers, hundreds 
of whom 
died. 
Casement 
was, 
therefore, 
in 
a position 
to 
tell 
Conrad 
about 
the 
savage 
treatment 
of natives 
by 
traders 
and state 
officials 
in 
general, and about 
Stanley' 
s 
Emin Pasha Relief 
in 
particular. 
Presumably, Conrad found 
Barttelot's 
decline 
into 
bizarre 
savagery 
helpful 
in 
his 
creation of 
the 
character 
of 
Kurtz 
in 
Heart 
of 
Darkness. 
Certainly, Conrad 
himself 
experienced 
very 
little 
of 
the 
conditions which are so savagely 
attacked 
in 
the 
first 
part 
of 
Heart 
of 
Darkness. 
Most 
of 
his 
material was gathered 
from 
hearsay 
and 
books; 
and 
this 
indirect 
source 
for 
the tale 
is 
possibly 
responsible 
for 
the 
nebulous 
and overtly symbolic 
figure 
of 
Kurtz. Of 
the 
life 
of 
the 
various peoples of 
the 
Congo 
he knew 
virtually nothing. 
He 
is 
as 
a 
result 
extremely 
melodrama 
tic 
in 
his 
treatment 
of 
the 
native people. 
In 
fact, 
in 
Heart 
of 
Darkness, 
Conrad' 
s symbolic 
and autobiographical 
concerns 
override 
the 
claims of 
history 
and 
the 
cultural 
relativism 
of 
the 
early part of 
the 
story 
to 
become 
an 
ethnocentr 
ic 
European 
nightmare. 
The 
jungle is 
primitive, 
trackless. 
Marlow 
has 
come 
to the 
primitive 
heart 
of a 
world 
without 
any 
restraints. 
In 
what 
sense 
can 
we 
compare 
Stevenson 
and 
Joseph 
Conrad? 
In 
a 
letter 
to 
Cunninghame-Graham, 
Conrad 
wrote 
the 
following: 
- 
269 
- 
What 
makes mankind 
tragic 
is 
not 
that 
they 
are 
the 
victims of 
nature, 
it 
is 
that 
they 
are conscious 
of 
it. 
29 
T, v'e 
cannot 
positively 
compare 
Conrad 
and 
Stevenson 
in 
term-, 
of 
this 
predication 
of 
mankind's 
tragic 
destiny, 
because 
Stevenson 
did 
not share 
Conrad's 
perception 
of 
the 
inevitable 
failure 
of 
great 
intentions. 
There 
are, 
however, 
significant 
similarities 
between 
their 
respective representations 
of 
consciousness. 
I 
will 
bring 
out some of 
the 
points 
of comparison 
between 
Stevenson 
and 
Conrad 
by 
examining 
two 
of 
the 
latter's 
novels: 
Lord 
Jim, 
because 
in its 
examination of 
a moral problem 
raised 
by 
a 
weak 
man whose 
honour 
is 
put 
to the 
test 
it 
has 
affinities with 
Ebb-Tide; 
and 
Victory, 
because 
it 
too 
raises 
questions of moral 
autonomy 
in 
an 
isolated, 
exotic setting. 
The 
story 
of 
Jim, 
the 
character 
of 
the title 
of 
the 
first 
of 
these 
novels, 
is 
told 
by Marlow, 
a sailor. 
Marlow 
first 
meets 
Jim 
when 
he 
is 
on 
trial 
for having, 
with 
the 
other 
white 
officers, 
abandoned 
a 
sinking 
ship 
full 
of 
Muslim 
pilgrims 
to 
Mecca. 
Their dereliction 
of 
their 
duty 
has been found 
out, 
because 
the 
ship 
did 
not sink. 
Marlow 
is 
driven 
by 
curiosity 
to 
attend 
the 
inquest into 
the 
incident, 
which 
only 
Jim, 
of 
the 
ship's 
officers, 
has 
attended. 
During 
the 
inquest 
into 
the 
Patna 
case, 
the 
sympathetic 
Marlow 
senses 
in 
Jim's features 
the 
intense 
shame which 
he feels; 
and 
that 
intuition 
is 
established 
as a 
true 
one 
by 
the 
incident 
at 
the 
court-room 
door, 
where 
Jim 
mistakenly assumes 
the 
word 
'cur' 
to 
have been 
applied 
to 
himself 
by Marlow. The 
latter 
was 
puzzled, 
but 
he 
is 
made even 
more 
curious 
by 
this 
incident. 
As Jim 
makes 
him his 
confidant 
Marlow 
slowly 
learns 
more 
about 
the 
nature 
of 
that 
shame, 
so 
that 
later 
on 
he 
can 
make 
the 
following 
very 
interesting 
discrimination: 
I 
don't 
mean 
to 
say 
I 
regret 
my action, nor 
will 
- 
270- 
I 
pretend 
that 
I 
can't 
sleep 
o' 
nights 
as 
a 
consequence; 
still 
the 
idea 
obtrudes 
itself 
that 
he 
made 
so 
much 
of 
his 
disgrace 
while 
it 
is 
the 
guilt 
alone 
that 
matters. 
Jim 
feels 
his 'disgrace' 
all 
the 
more 
because 
of 
his 
'sublimated' 
, 
idealised 
selfishness. 
But 
what 
Marlow 
was 
driving 
at 
in 
making 
the 
distinction 
between 
'disgrace' 
and 
'guilt' 
was 
that 
Jim's 
temperament 
led 
him 
to 
imagine 
that 
his 
shame 
was 
a 
public 
thing 
only 
(Marlow 
makes clear 
that 
this 
is 
an 
element 
of 
his 
lack 
of self-understanding). 
Thus 
Jim 
feels 
that 
by 
removing 
himself from 
the 
public 
knowledge 
he 
will 
escape 
his 
shame. 
Accordingly, 
he 
moves 
from 
job 
to 
job 
whenever 
this 
public 
knowledge 
of 
his 
'crime' 
is 
made 
known 
to 
him. 
However, 
we, 
the 
readers, 
and 
Marlow 
are 
aware 
that, 
after a 
time, 
no-one 
really cares 
to 
judge 
Jim 
at 
all. 
This 
is 
indicated 
in 
the 
vivid passage 
where 
Marlow 
comes across 
one 
of 
Jim's 
ex-employers, 
Egstr?m, 
who asks 
'And 
where 
might 
you 
have 
come across 
him, 
captain, 
if it's 
fair 
to 
ask? 
' 
' He 
was 
the 
mate 
of 
the 
Patna 
that 
voyage, 
`I 
said, 
feeling 
that 
I 
owed some 
explanation. 
For 
a 
time 
Egstr?m 
remained 
very still, 
with 
his fingers 
plunged 
in 
the 
hair 
at 
the 
side 
of 
his 
face, 
and 
then 
exploded. 
'And 
who 
the 
devil 
cares 
about 
1 
that? 
' 'I dares 
ay no 
one, 
' 
I began 
... 
'And 
what 
the 
devil 
is 
he 
- 
anyhow 
- 
for 
to 
go 
on 
like 
this? 
... 
I 
told 
him 
the 
earth 
wouldn't 
be big 
enough 
to 
hold 
his 
caper. 
' 
31 
In 
other words, 
Jim's 
guilt 
persists 
beyond 
public 
indifference. 
It 
is 
an 
inner, 
spiritual 
disturbance 
which 
cannot 
be 
quieted 
by 
running 
away. 
This is in 
keeping 
with, 
and 
follows 
naturally 
upon, 
the 
description 
of 
his 
jump 
from 
the 
Patna. 
That 
occurred 
away 
from 
human 
eyes 
that 
were 
capable 
of 
distinguishing 
right 
and 
wrong. 
Jim's 
inner 
resources 
were 
not 
great 
enough 
to 
sustain 
him 
in 
his 
duty 
when 
he 
was 
beyond 
the 
matrix 
of 
ethics, 
which 
is 
the 
observing 
social 
world. 
Hence 
his 
act 
of 
desertion 
was, 
for 
him, 
an unreal 
act. 
In 
the 
- 
271 
- 
same 
way, 
he 
can only 
see 
the 
reality 
of 
his 
guilt 
in 
terms 
of 
public 
condemnation. 
(Beyond 
the 
social 
context 
of 
right 
and 
wrong 
is 
a void where 
conduct 
is 
not 
governed 
by 
ethical 
considerations, 
because 
God 
is 
dead; 
this 
realm 
of pure 
will 
is inhabited 
by 
Kurtz 
and, 
more 
pertinently 
because 
appealing 
to 
Jim's 
experience, 
by 
Brown. 
)3 
2 
Conrad 
extends 
the 
significance 
of 
Jim's 
guilt 
by 
introducing 
Brierly, 
the 
perfect sailor, 
and 
by 
means of 
Brierly's 
suicide 
dissuades 
the 
reader 
from falling 
into 
easy condemnation 
of 
Jim's 
"cowardice". 
Brierly 
had 
a 
clean 
record, 
a spotless 
reputation. 
But his 
role at 
the 
inquest 
brings 
him 
to 
the 
realisation 
that 
he 
has 
judged 
and 
condemned a man who was 
in 
a situation 
which 
he, 
himself, 
had 
never experienced. 
Marlow 
remarks 
that 
Brierly' 
s 
bored look 
at 
the trial 
must 
have 
resulted 
from 
introspection: 
He 
was 
probably 
holding 
silent enquiry 
into 
his 
own case. 
The 
verdict must 
have been 
of 
unmitigated 
guilt. 
33 
Brierly's 
offer 
to 
help 
Jim 
escape, 
Marlow 
perceives, 
is 
provoked 
by 
personal 
motives 
and 
he has 
come 
to 
suspect 
it 
was strictly 
in 
character: at 
bottom 
poor 
Brierly 
must 
have been 
thinking 
of 
himself. 
34 
Brierly 
has 
become 
aware 
that 
something 
in 
his 
interior 
existence contradicts 
his 
exterior 
success 
or 
perfection. 
Jim's 
case 
has brought 
about 
an epiphany, 
making 
him 
aware 
of 
some mysterious 
truth 
about 
himself 
which was previously 
concealed 
to 
him 
by 
his 
commitment 
to 
absolute order, 
by his 
public 
achievement. 
Throughout 
the 
novel 
there 
is 
a 
peculiarly 
Conradian 
rhetoric 
which 
distinguishes 
two 
spheres of 
existence 
- 
the 
inner 
and 
the 
outer, 
the 
mysterious and 
the 
public 
- 
echoing 
Marlow's 
distinction 
between 
guilt and 
disgrace. 
Like 
Brierly, 
one 
may 
lead 
an 
impeccable 
life, 
adhering 
to 
the 
law 
- 
272 
- 
(here 
symbolised 
in 
the 
code 
of 
the 
sailor 
community), 
and 
yet 
be, 
at 
times, 
conscious 
of 
crimes 
deeper 
down 
. 
and 
further 
back 
in 
oneself. 
Marlow 
himself 
confesses 
that 
one 
of 
the 
causes 
of 
his 
fascination 
with 
Jim 
is 
the 
desire 
to 
know 
and 
understand 
the 
roots 
of 
his 
guilt 
not 
as 
something 
"out 
there", 
a unique 
case, 
but 
as an element 
of 
human 
nature 
which 
finds 
its 
likeness 
in 
his 
own mind: 
If 
he had 
not 
enlisted 
my 
sympathies 
he had 
done 
better 
for himself 
- 
he had 
gone 
to the 
very 
fount 
and 
origin 
of 
that 
sentiment, 
he had 
reached 
the 
secret 
sensibility 
of 
my egoism. 
3 
5 
The last 
clause 
is 
unfortunately 
fuzzy 
in its 
denotation, but 
the 
full 
meaning of 
the 
word 
'egoism' 
is 
clear enough 
in 
the 
context 
of 
the 
re st of 
the 
novel where 
it 
is 
used 
to 
refer 
to the 
point 
at which 
one 
is 
forced 
to 
define 
oneself, 
beyond 
the 
dictates 
of ethics 
reified 
to 
law 
and posing as 
reason. 
In 
'The Secret 
Sharer' Conrad dramatised 
this 
perception 
in 
two 
selves which existed within 
the 
one 
personality, one 
being 
a social self subject 
to the 
law, 
and 
the 
other 
pure 
ego, 
its 
characteristics secret and mysterious, and 
free 
of 
guilt. 
3 
? 
In 
Marlow 
there 
is 
consonance of 
these two 
selves; 
in 
Jim 
there 
is 
not, 
although 
the 
split 
is 
not so clearly 
dramatised 
as 
in 
'The 
Secret 
Sharer'. 
Jim 
has 
many 
of 
the 
symptoms of schizophrenia. 
In 
this 
respect 
we may 
note 
the 
horrific 
invasion 
of 
his 
self 
by 
the 
alien on 
board 
the 
Patna before 
it 
sinks 
- 
he 
has 
a 
terrible 
sense 
of 
being 
defined, 
made, 
by 
some 
force 
which 
is 
other; 
he 
says, 
'I 
jumped 
... 
it 
seems'. 
37 
Or 
again, 
Marlow 
observes of 
him: 
He 
was 
not speaking 
to 
me, 
he 
was 
only speaking 
before 
me, 
in 
a 
dispute 
with 
an 
invisible 
personality, 
an 
antagonistic 
and 
inseparable 
partner 
of 
his 
existence 
- 
another possessor 
of 
his 
soul. 
38 
-27, 
)- 
The 
feeling 
of 
dissociation 
which 
Jim 
feels 
here 
is 
directly 
comparable 
with 
%lackellar's 
sense of 
being 
'in 
a 
dreary? 
' 
when 
he 
tries 
to 
kill 
James 
in 
Master. 
3 
9 
Neither Jim 
nor 
Mackellar 
can 
accept 
the 
reality 
of 
what 
they 
are 
doing 
because 
it 
is 
incompatible 
with 
their 
inward 
picture 
of 
themselves. 
In Jim's 
case, 
the 
inward 
picture 
is 
a 
romantic, 
a 
heroic 
one; 
while 
Mackellar 
sees 
himself 
as 
the 
upright 
man. 
To 
speak 
of 
the 
unreality 
of 
both 
these 
scenes 
is 
only 
to 
recognise 
them 
as 
notations of an 
inner 
condition. 
They 
become 
so, 
partly 
through 
Stevenson's 
and 
Conrad's 
care 
in 
creating 
atmosphere 
(the 
Patna 
scene 
takes 
place at night, 
everything 
is 
unclear, 
indefinable; 
Stevenson 
withholds 
the 
visual 
details 
which would 
establish 
the 
scene as 
real); 
partly 
by 
the 
subjective 
resonance 
of 
the 
scenes 
(Jim 
is 
telling the 
story 
to 
Marlow, Mackellar 
is 
writing 
in 
the 
first 
person). 
Atmosphere, 
in 
fact, 
can 
truly 
be 
said 
to 
be 
subjective, since 
the 
aura 
of 
the 
scenes comes 
from 
the 
immediate 
perceiving 
consciousness, 
just 
as a 
footprint 
in 
mud 
is 
not 
a mirror 
image 
of 
the 
foot but 
a sign 
which 
leads 
you 
indirectly 
to the 
foot. 
It 
is 
this 
aura which 
is 
loaded 
with 
possible meanings, 
moral patterns, which are 
never 
made clear. 
The 
real 
meaning 
is 
in 
the 
process 
of understanding, 
or 
failure 
to 
understand. 
Throughout 
Lord 
Jim 
- 
and much of 
Marlow's fascination 
with 
him 
as a 
"case" 
stems 
from 
this 
- 
Jim 
oscillat es 
between 
abject 
guilt 
and 
a 
buoyant, 
though 
uneasy, 
innocence. 
These 
two 
states of mind 
are associated, respectively, 
with 
Jim's 
two 
selves: 
the 
witnessed 
self 
(the 
experience of 
himself 
as others 
experience 
him) 
and 
the 
unwitnessed self 
(ego). 
The latter 
is 
the 
mysterious 
and 
unknowable 
aspect 
of 
Jim's 
personality. 
The 
mystery 
is 
essential 
to 
Conrad's 
conception 
of 
human 
character 
and 
is 
set 
forth 
in 
the 
rhetoric of 
the 
novel. 
Conrad 
does 
not 
write 
about 
Jim 
directly, impersonating 
omniscience; 
he 
describes 
Marlow' 
s experience 
of 
Jim, 
and 
it 
is 
repeatedly 
stated 
that 
Jim 
as 
Jim 
lies behind 
a 
mist or 
veil, 
through 
which 
Marlow 
has 
mere 
glimpses. 
Hence 
Marlow's 
desire 
not 
to 
- 
274 
- 
make 
of 
Jim 
something 
which 
he 
is 
not, 
and 
his 
awareness 
of 
the 
near 
impossibility 
of 
doing 
otherwise. 
At 
the 
end 
of 
Lord 
Jim 
Marlow 
is 
not 
sure 
whether 
his 
record 
of 
Jim 
penetrates 
to 
anything 
like 
the 
essence 
of 
the 
man. 
In 
Patusan, 
Jim 
achieves 
a 
kind 
of 
minor 
greatness 
by 
virtue 
of 
being 
the 
only white 
in 
the 
community: 
His loneliness 
added 
to 
his 
stature. 
For 
in 
Patusan, 'his 
word 
was 
the 
one 
truth 
of every passing 
day'. 
40 
So 
easily, 
by 
dint 
of 
being 
a 
hero 
and a 
mythological 
figure 
in 
the 
community, 
he 
could 
have 
become 
a small-scale 
despot. 
. 
Jim 
avoids 
the 
challenge 
by 
transforming 
the 
people 
he 
rules 
into 
witnesses of 
his 
rectitude; 
his 
pride 
is 
sustained 
by 
the 
value 
which 
they 
set on 
him 
- 
and 
more 
especially 
by 
the 
faith 
which 
jewel has 
in 
him. So 
strong 
is 
her 
belief 
in 
Jim's 
goodness 
that 
when 
Marlow 
tells 
her 
the 
truth 
about 
him, 
she 
declares 
'You 
lie. 
41 
In his last 
conversation 
with 
Marlow, Jim 
puts 
this 
faith 
in 
his 
own 
terms: 
I 
have 
got 
back 
my confidence 
in 
myself 
-a 
good 
name 
... 
... 
1 
must 
go 
on, go 
on 
forever 
holding 
up 
my 
end, 
to 
feel 
sure 
that 
nothing can 
touch 
me. 
I 
must 
stick 
to 
their 
belief 
in 
me 
to 
feel 
safe. 
"2 
Acain 
we 
see 
Jim's 
need 
for 
public condemnation, 
name', 
As 
Marlow 
is 
rowing 
away 
from 
the 
shore 
Jim 
"'Tell 
them... 
"' 
, 
'`3 
and 
although 
he 
does 
not 
give 
a 
we 
can 
recognise 
his 
temperamental 
impulse 
to 
justify 
I 
good 
shouts, 
message, 
himself 
-275- 
to 
the 
world. 
In 
Patusan, 
Jim has 
created order 
and 
Law 
and 
is 
accountable 
to 
humanity 
at 
large, 
or 
to 
put 
it 
more precisely, 
humanity 
has 
entered 
into 
him 
and 
constitutes part of 
his 
response 
to 
the 
world. 
This 
is 
what 
I 
think 
Marlow 
means 
when 
he 
says 
that 
Jim 
was essentially 
'one 
of us'. 
There 
are 
two 
characters 
of note 
in 
the 
novel 
who 
do 
not 
feel 
such 
accountability, 
Robertson 
and 
Gentleman 
Brown. 
A 
great 
hullaballoo is 
created 
around 
Robertson's 
reputed cannibalism. 
He 
is, 
however, 
unworried; 
because 
he does 
not 
care 
for 
opinion, 
he 
is 
without 
a 
sense of 
guilt, 
he 
makes 
his 
own 
law. More 
relevant 
to 
Jim 
is 
Brown, 
a 
figure 
who 
has 
a 
functional 
and symbolic role 
in 
the 
story. 
He 
enters 
to 
expose 
Jim's 
vulnerability almost 
as 
though 
he 
is 
from 
a 
subterranean 
part of 
Jim's 
own mind 
- 
that 
part of 
the 
self which 
is 
conscienceless 
and 
totally 
alone. 
In 
this 
sense 
Brown 
is 
unmitigatedly real 
and 
his 
evil 
turns 
out 
to 
be 
a 
more potent 
force 
than 
Jim's 
power 
for 
good. 
But 
it is 
established 
that 
Brown 
is 
not outside, 
is 
not a 
force 
which can 
be fought 
in 
a 
Manichaean 
struggle 
between 
good 
and evil; 
he 
is 
an 
inner, 
corrupting phenomenon: 
And 
there 
ran 
though 
the 
rough 
talk 
a 
vein of 
subtle 
reference 
to their 
common 
blood, 
-in 
assumption of common experience; a 
sickening 
suggestion 
of 
common guilt, of secret 
knowledge 
that 
was 
like 
the 
bond 
of 
their 
minds 
and 
hearts. 
" 
Brown 
represents 
a 
particular 
evil, which 
is 
resentment. 
All 
of 
Brown's 
murderous 
activities 
have 
an element of 
revenge, 
as 
though 
he had 
revised 
the 
notion 
of 
original 
sin 
to 
an 
action 
committed 
against 
and 
not 
willed 
, 
so 
that 
the 
world 
owes 
him 
reparation. 
This 
aspect 
of 
Brown 
constitutes 
his 
appeal 
to 
Jim, 
who 
never 
seems 
to 
have 
lost 
the 
feeling 
that 
his 
guilt 
is 
the 
result 
of 
an 
outrageous quip made 
by 
Fate 
at 
his 
expense. 
Resentment 
is 
an 
energy 
and 
logically 
prior 
to 
- 
276 
- 
socialisation, 
which 
latter 
process 
brings 
guilt 
and complicity 
with 
it. 
The 
response 
which 
Brown's 
vibrant 
egoism 
calls 
out 
in Jim 
is 
all 
the 
more 
destructive 
because he 
perceives 
it 
from 
his 
position 
of esteem 
and 
responsibility 
as a 
law-maker. 
Thus 
we 
can 
see 
how 
cunningly 
Brierly's 
apparently motiveless 
suicide 
anticipates 
Jim's 
feelings 
when 
confronted 
by Brown 
and 
his 
own 
virtual 
suicide; 
how 
the 
earlier 
event 
functions 
to 
generalise 
the 
significance 
of 
Jim's 
particular case. 
The 
relationship 
between 
Jim's 
egoism 
and 
his 
need 
for 
public 
esteem 
is 
a 
destructive 
one 
because Jim 
is 
in 
both 
these 
ways. 
Thus 
both 
Marlow 
and 
Stein 
are 
right: 
he 
is 
"one 
of us" 
and 
a 
romantic overreacher. 
Stein's 
words 
have 
general 
reference 
but 
they 
might apply 
to 
Jim: 
'How 
to 
be! 
Ach! How 
to 
be 
... 
He 
wants 
to 
be 
a 
saint, 
and 
he 
wants 
to 
be 
a 
devil 
- 
and every 
time 
he 
shuts 
his 
eyes 
he 
sees 
himself 
as a 
very 
fine 
fellow 
- 
so 
fine 
as 
he 
can 
never 
be. 
'45 
Jim's 
schizophrenia 
is 
not 
a 
disorder 
of 
his behaviour, but 
an 
extreme case 
of existence, where 
one mode of 
being does 
not 
know 
the 
other, where 
the two 
modes 
of 
being 
are 
in 
destructive 
relationship. 
Yet, 
in 
qualification, 
it 
must 
be 
noted 
that 
at 
the 
end of 
the 
novel 
Jim 
. 
looks 
around 
him, 
ensuring 
that 
his 
act of 
responsibility, 
his 
punishment, 
is 
witnessed 
- 
as 
though 
he had finally 
achieved 
a resolution 
of 
his 
romantic 
egoism and 
his 
social responsibility. 
However, 
the 
picture 
is 
ambiguous; 
perhaps 
deliberately 
so. 
The 
mise en scene of 
the 
second 
half 
of 
Lord 
im 
has 
some 
resemblance 
to 
that 
of 
Ebb-Tide. 
Three 
adventurers 
arrive 
at 
a place which 
is 
off 
the 
beaten 
track 
and 
which 
is 
ruled 
by 
a 
Rajah 
Brooke-like 
white 
man. 
It 
is 
not 
Attwater 
who 
resembles 
Jim, 
however, 
but Herrick. 
Jim 
and 
Herrick 
present 
the 
same 
kind 
of moral 
problem, seen 
in 
an 
existential 
light. 
They 
each 
demonstrate 
that 
the 
moral 
man 
is 
problematic. 
because 
he 
is 
so 
tied 
to 
others. 
Hence 
the 
deep 
need 
of 
both 
-277- 
for 
witness, 
and 
their 
dark 
awareness 
of 
how 
easy 
it 
can 
be 
to 
desert 
previously 
held 
notions 
of 
honour 
and 
duty. 
The 
paradox 
at 
the 
core of 
both 
novels 
(and 
it 
is 
from 
this 
paradox 
that 
the 
shaping 
irony 
of 
the 
stories 
comes) 
is 
that 
it 
is 
man's 
separation 
from 
nature 
that 
makes 
honour, 
duty, 
morality 
and 
law, 
possible; 
they 
are 
legal fictions 
with which 
men 
bewitch 
themselves; 
but 
which require obedience 
to 
some 
higher 
law 
or 
rule of 
conduct. 
For 
those 
- 
like James 
Durie, 
Huish, 
Gentleman 
Brown 
- 
who 
do 
not recognise 
the 
higher 
law, 
and 
to 
whom, 
therefore, 
obedience 
is 
anathema, 
there 
is 
a 
consonance 
of 
inner 
and 
outer, 
the 
world 
falls 
into 
a si 
mpler 
and 
more complacent 
relationship 
with 
the 
self, 
because 
that 
relationship 
is 
dictated 
only 
by 
will and 
by 
chance. 
The 
iconography 
of 
the 
adventure 
mode 
recommends 
itself 
to 
both Conrad 
and 
Stevenson because 
it 
constructs a myth of 
the 
harmony 
of 
the 
inner 
self, 
its impulses 
and 
desires, 
and 
the 
external 
world. 
For 
Jim, 
the 
inner 
and outer are 
linked 
by 
a 
dream 
of 
heroic 
activism; 
it 
is in 
the 
act 
or 
gesture 
that 
this 
concord 
is 
established, 
and 
therefore 
his failure 
to 
act 
on 
board 
the 
Patna 
is 
a significant 
destruction 
of 
his 
romantic 
dream. Herrick does 
not 
have 
a 
dream 
of 
adventure, 
but he 
too 
has 'a 
mind 
divided' 
and 
flies from 
other men when 
his 
failure 
is 
recognised. 
Like Jim, 
he breaks 
all 
ties 
with 
his 
family 
and, after 
his 
attempted 
suicide, 
looks 
to 
reconstruct 
his life from 
the 
beginning 
as 
Jim 
remakes 
his 
life. 
Again, 
both Stevenson 
and 
Conrad leave 
open 
the 
question of whether 
Jim 
and 
Herrick 
have 
successfully 
recovered 
their 
self-respect. 
Another 
novel 
of 
Conrad's 
which pertains 
to 
this 
comparison 
of 
his 
treatment 
of 
the 
self 
with 
Stevenso 
n' s 
is 
Victory. 
Many 
critics 
consi 
der 
that 
Victory 
is 
a 
flawed 
novel 
and, 
superficially, 
it 
seems 
that the 
shift 
in 
narrative 
method 
between 
Part 
1 
(told 
in 
the 
first 
person, 
from 
the 
outside) 
and 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
novel 
(related 
in 
the third 
person, 
and 
almost 
omnisciently), 
barring 
the 
last 
chapter, 
is 
an 
uncomfortable 
- 
278 
- 
one. 
46 
It 
has 
been 
said 
that 
these 
shifts 
in 
perspective 
are 
unwarranted 
and 
that 
they 
adversely 
affect 
the 
unity 
of 
the 
novel. 
However, 
by 
stressing 
the 
continuity 
of 
Victory 
with 
Lord 
Jim, 
I 
hope 
to 
show 
that 
these 
shifts 
in 
point of 
view 
are 
not 
entirely 
gratuitous 
but 
are, 
in 
fact, 
integral to the 
meaning 
of 
the 
novel 
and 
to 
the 
connection 
between 
Conrad 
and 
Stevenson. 
The 
central character, 
Heyst, 
is 
presented 
to 
the 
reader 
indirectly 
in 
the 
first 
section, 
which 
is 
narrated 
by 
a member 
of 
the 
white 
South-East 
Asian 
community. 
He 
is 
'the 
Enchanted', 
'Facts 
Heyst', 
'the Enemy'; 
perhaps 
he 
is 
a 
Swedish 
baron 
." 
Whatever 
he 
is in 
truth, 
Heyst 
is 
an object 
of 
intense 
gossip 
and speculation, 
he has 
a reputation 
(or 
reputations) 
in 
the 
island 
community 
about which 
he 
is. 
ostensibly 
unconcerned. 
Heyst disappears 
for 
a 
time 
after 
the 
T. $. C. 
fiasco 
(the 
collapse 
of a 
commercial 
venture 
in 
which 
he 
is 
involved), 
when, 
in 
the 
words of 
the 
narrator, 
he 
'became 
invisible'. 
The 
importance 
of 
all 
this 
is 
that 
Heyst's 
very 
existence 
is 
being 
tied 
in 
a 
quite complete way 
to 
the 
eyes 
and ears of 
the 
slightly 
dead-beat, 
yellowing-at-the-edges 
white 
brotherhood. The 
phrase 
'became 
invisible' 
points 
forward 
to 
something 
which 
Lena 
says 
to 
Heyst 
when 
they 
are 
on 
the 
island 
alone, 
together: 
'It 
seems 
to 
me, 
somehow, 
that 
if 
you 
were 
to 
stop 
thinking 
of me 
I 
shouldn't 
be 
in 
the 
world 
at 
all. 
"8 
Behind 
this 
apparently 
sentimental 
love-talk 
lies 
a 
Conradian 
perception, 
radically challenging 
the 
existential 
freedom 
which 
Heyst 
desired 
to 
achieve. 
In 
the 
course 
of 
the 
novel 
Heyst's 
illusion 
of 
freedom 
is 
destroyed because 
human 
predicaments 
bring 
human 
responses 
of sympathy 
and 
empathy 
from 
him; 
or, 
to 
put 
it 
otherwise, 
his 
experience 
of 
himself 
is 
penetrated 
by 
his 
experience 
of others' 
experience 
of 
him. 
Hence 
the 
importance 
of 
gossip 
and 
reputation. 
For 
the 
rhetoric 
of 
the 
- 
279 
- 
novel 
organises 
the 
readers' 
knowledge 
of 
Heyst 
and 
shepherds 
us 
towards 
the 
perception 
that 
what 
observers, 
such 
as 
Schomberg, 
make 
of 
him 
is 
part 
of 
his 
real 
existence, 
and 
ultimately 
of 
his fate. 
It is 
Schomberg's 
spite 
which 
creates 
Heyst's 
and 
Lena's 
fated 
end 
and 
the 
implications 
of 
this 
are 
such 
as could 
perhaps 
be best 
appreciated 
by 
a novelist: 
Schomberg 
believed 
firmly 
in 
the 
reality 
of 
Hegst 
as created 
by his 
own powers of 
false 
inferences, 
of 
his 
hate, 
of 
his love 
of scandal 
." 
(It 
is 
notable 
that 
Conrad 
uses 
the 
word 
'create', 
and 
it 
reminds us 
that 
he 
could 
here have 
in 
; 
rand 
- 
the 
potential 
tyranny 
of 
the 
novelist over 
his 
creations. 
) 
Schomberg's 
'false 
inferenc 
es' 
, 
then, 
constitute 
the 
catalyst which 
releases 
Heyst's 
fate 
in 
the 
form 
of 
Jones 
and 
his 
accomplices. 
Jones 
says 
'I 
am 
the 
world 
itself, 
come 
to 
pay you 
a visit 
... 
I 
am a sort 
of 
fate. 
'So 
In 
the 
light 
of 
this 
pronouncement, we 
can more 
fully 
appreciate 
the 
irony 
attendant upon an earlier 
claim of 
Axel's: 
'As 
if it 
could matter 
to 
me 
what 
anybody 
had 
ever said or 
believed, 
from 
the 
beginning 
of 
the 
world 
till 
the 
crack 
of 
doom. 
'52 
It 
is 
Heyst's 
affection 
for Lena 
which causes 
him 
to 
abandon 
his 
concern. 
He 
internalises 
her 
responses 
to 
the 
rumour 
that 
he 
was responsible 
for 
Morrison' 
s 
death, 
so 
that 
he feels 
guilt 
about 
it. 
As 
in 
Lord 
Jim, 
complete 
freedom 
is 
the 
preserve 
of 
evil 
which 
denies 
humanity 
(note 
that 
Jones 
and 
his 
comrades 
are 
described, 
perhaps 
too 
obviously, 
in 
the 
imagery 
of 
animal 
life) 
.52 
Therefore, 
Axel 
finds 
it 
impossible 
to 
achieve 
freedom 
within 
his 
essentially 
humane 
character 
and 
through 
the 
peripety 
brought 
about 
at 
the 
end comes 
to 
recognise 
that 
his 
I'D 
own unfreedom 
existed 
all 
along; 
he 
realises 
the 
extent 
to 
- 
280 
- 
which 
his 
character 
had 
been 
determined 
by 
his 
father 
the 
influence 
of 
the 
dead 
- 
and 
he 
says: 
'Woe 
to 
the 
man who 
has 
not 
learned 
while 
young 
to 
hope, 
to 
love. '53 
I 
think 
that this 
struggle 
between 
the 
' 
moi' 
and 
the 
' 
lui' 
, 
between 
law 
and 
lawlessness, 
is 
central 
to 
Lord 
Jim 
and 
Victory both 
morally and 
aesthetically. 
In both 
novels 
the 
fragility 
of 
civilised 
life 
is 
made 
clear: 
in 
Heart 
of 
Darkness, 
Marlow 
tells the 
saving 
lie; but 
Heyst 
is 
unable 
to 
do 
so 
and 
only 
Lena's 
faith 
preserves 
their 
connection. 
Faith, 
guilt 
and 
love 
acquire 
their 
value 
from 
their 
vulnerability. 
They 
would 
merely 
be 
s entimental 
balderdash 
if 
Conrad did 
not 
see 
the 
other 
side of 
the 
picture so clearly 
and communicate 
his horror 
so 
vividly. 
There 
is 
a 
broader 
and more 
humanistic 
vision 
here 
than 
in 
any of 
Stevenson' 
s novels. 
Yet 
it is 
still possible 
to 
see 
that 
both 
writers 
use 
the 
trappings 
of adventure 
to 
bring 
every 
action and 
detail 
into 
a significant relation with 
the 
identity 
of 
a single, 
central 
character. 
Conrad's 
use of 
the 
island in 
Victory 
resembles, 
in 
this 
respect, 
Stevenson's 
manipulation 
of 
the 
insular image 
in 
Ebb-Tide, 
The 
Beach 
of 
Faleszf, 
and, 
in 
a minor 
.. 
gay, 
The 
Wrecker. They 
are also connected 
by 
their 
employment 
of 
the 
adventure 
genre 
to 
examine 
critically 
the 
dangerous 
moral 
implications 
of 
adventure. 
(These 
comparisons 
can 
only 
be 
made 
with 
Stevenson' 
s 
later 
stories: 
not 
with 
Treasure 
Island 
and 
Kidnapped, 
for 
example. 
) 
However 
the 
most 
striking 
continuity 
between 
Stevenson 
and 
Conrad 
is found 
in 
their 
portrayal 
of 
characters 
ostensibly 
fleeing 
the 
social 
condition 
when 
in 
fact 
they 
are 
trying to 
escape 
from 
their 
selves; 
and 
in 
the 
increasing 
tentativeness 
with 
which 
they 
sought 
a rhetoric 
appropriate 
to 
their 
bicameral 
view of 
human 
identity. 

- 
281 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Introduction 
1. 
A discussion 
of 
Borges' 
and 
Nabokov's 
indebtedness 
to 
Stevenson 
occurs 
in 
Chapter VIII 
of 
this 
thesis. 
Borges' 
paradox 
about 
a writer's 
predecessors 
runs 
thus: 
'The 
fact 
is 
that 
every writer 
creates 
his 
own 
precursors. 
' 
(His 
italics. 
) 
It 
is 
from 
'Kafka 
and 
his 
Precursors', 
in 
Labyrinths, 
Harmondsworth, 
1976, 
p. 
236. 
2. 
Robert 
Kiely, Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
and 
the 
Fiction 
of 
Adventure, 
Cambridge 
Mass., 
1964, 
p. 
82. 
3. 
D' 
Alembert' 
s 
Dream 
and 
Rameau' 
s 
Nephew 
(1782) 
, 
Harmondsworth, 
1966, 
pp. 
36-125. 
4. Clara 
Reeve, Progress 
of 
Romance, 
London, 
1785. 
Quoted 
in 
Rene Wellek 
and 
Austin 
Warren, Theory 
of 
Literature, 
Harmondsworth, 
1973, 
p. 
216. 
- 
282 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter I 
1. 
Hermann 
Hesse, 'A 
Journey 
with 
Stevenson', 
Living 
AQ 
(November 
1,1927), 
p. 
814. 
This 
short work 
is 
in 
the 
form 
of 
a 
fable 
in 
which 
Stevenson 
is 
cast 
in 
the 
role 
of 
spiritual 
adviser 
to 
the 
writer, 
who 
is 
recounting 
his 
meetings 
with 
Stevenson 
in 
far flung 
parts of 
the 
globe. 
2. 
William 
Hazlitt, 
'On 
Going 
on 
a 
journey'.. 
Table 
Talk, 
Works 
(21 
Vols., Centenary 
edition), 
London, 
1930-34, 
P. P. 
Howe, 
ed., 
Vol. 
VIII, 
p. 
189. See 
also 
Stevenson's 
Inland 
Voyage, Tusitala 
XVII, 
p. 
88; 
here he 
too 
quotes 
'out 
of my country 
and myself 
I 
got. 
3. James D. Hart, 
ed., 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson: From Scotland 
to 
Silverado, 
Cambridge, 
Mass., 
1966. 
This 
is 
a 
collection 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
writings about 
his 
journey 
to 
San 
Francisco 
and 
places 
in 
California. 
4. Hazlitt, 
op. cit., p. 
187. 
5. 
J. C. 
Furnas, image 
to 
Windward: 
The 
Life 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
London, 
1952, 
p. 
69. 
6. 
St. Ives: 
reins 
the 
Adventures 
of a 
French 
Prisoner 
in 
England, 
Tusitala 
XV, 
Ch. 
31, 
pp. 
290-293. IArs 
MacRankine's 
magnanimity 
is 
demonstrated in 
this 
chapter. 
7. 
'Walt 
Whitman, 
Familiar 
Studies 
of 
Men 
and 
Books, 
Tusitala 
XXVI 
I, 
pp 
. 
b5- 
8. 
'Selections 
from His 
Notebook', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
188. 
9. 'Cockermouth 
and 
Keswick' 
(1896), 
'An 
Autumn 
Effect' 
(1875). 
'Fount 
ainebleau' 
(1876), 
'Forest Notes' 
(1876). 
All 
in 
Further Memories, 
Tusitala 
XXX.. 
10. 
'Walking 
Tours', 
Virginibus 
Puerisque, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
p. 
117. 
11. 
An 
Inland Voyage, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
p. 
178. 
12. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
18-19. 
13. 
Ibid., 
p. 
74. 
14. 'Selections 
from 
His 
Notebook', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
172. 
(My 
italics). 
15. 
An 
Inland 
Voyage, 
Tusitala 
XVI 
I, 
p. 
97. 
16. 
Another 
Scottish 
writer 
who 
worked 
with 
the 
impulse 
to 
free 
the 
self 
from 
its 
status 
as 
an object 
and 
who 
found 
the 
realisation 
of 
this 
adult 
idea 
in 
the 
happy 
condition 
of 
his 
childhood, 
was 
Neil 
Gunn. In 
an 
autobiographical 
book 
he 
recalls 
'the 
experience of 
racing 
away 
from 
certain 
family 
or 
social 
entanglements 
into 
the 
freedom 
of 
the 
Strath, 
from 
that 
first 
self 
into 
this 
second 
self' 
. 
- 
283 
-I 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter I 
Gunn 
's 
conception 
of 
the 
self 
is 
more 
complex 
than 
a 
straightforward 
dualism. 
Nevertheless 
the 
notion 
that 
the 
social 
self 
is 
an 
object 
and 
does 
not 
subsume 
a 
free, 
subjective 
self 
does 
correspond 
to 
Stevenson's 
view as 
outlined 
in 
this 
chapter and 
subsequently. 
The 
Atom 
of 
Delight, 
London, 
1956, 
p. 
158. 
17. J. 
C. Furnas, 
Voyage 
to 
Windward, 
London, 
1.952, 
p. 
69. 
18. 
An Inland 
Voyage, Tusitala XVI 
I, 
pp. 
112-124. 
19. 
The first 
part 
of 
Amateur Emigrant 
was 
based 
on notes 
taken 
during 
the 
voyage. 
The 
second part 
(titled 
'Across 
the 
Plains') 
was 
published separately 
in 
Longman's 
Ma-azine 
(July 
and 
August 1883), 
and was 
reunited 
with 
the 
first 
part only 
in 
the 
Edinburgh 
Edition. 
Title 
to 
the 
first 
part 
was 
bought 
back 
from 
the 
publisher 
by 
Stevenson' 
s 
father because 
the 
circumstances 
of 
the 
trip 
were considered 
to 
be 
embarrassing 
to the 
family. 
20. 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, September, 
1879. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
2, Tusitala XXXII, 
p. 
76. 
21. 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, 
December, 1879. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
2, 
Tusitala 
XXXII, 
p. 
85. 
22. 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney Colvin, January, 
1880. 
Letters, Vol. 
2, Tusitala XXXIi, 
p. 
99. 
(His 
underlining). 
23. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
99-100. 
(My 
italics). 
24. 
Stevenson 
to 
Edmund Gosse, 
December 
8,1879. 
Letters, 
Vol. 2, Tusitala 
XXXII, 
p. 
88. (His 
italics). 
25. Hart, 
op. 
cit. 
, 
p. 
5. 
26. 
Ibid., 
p. 
6. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
30. 
31. 
32. 
33. 
34. 
35. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
27-28. 
'The 
pens, 
stalls, 
pews 
... 
were 
by 
their 
beyond 
the 
reach 
of 
bucket 
and swab. 
' 
'When 
the 
pen 
was 
fully 
occupied, 
with 
human 
animals 
... 
the 
merest 
possibility 
cleanliness were 
absent. 
' 
Ibid., 
p. 
22. 
Ibid., 
p. 
46. 
Ibid., 
p. 
23. 
Ibid., 
p. 
133. 
Ibid., 
p. 
78. 
Ibid., 
p. 
92. 
Ibid., 
p. 
90. 
(My 
italics). 
(My 
italics). 
very 
design, 
Ibid., 
p. 
50. 
sixteen 
live 
of 
health 
or 
Ibid., 
p. 
89. Compare 
this 
with 
his 
comment 
on 
Walt 
Whitman, 
whom 
he 
sees 
as 
'a 
man 
born 
into 
a 
society 
comparatively 
new, 
full 
of conflicting 
elements 
and 
interests'. 
'Walt 
Whitman, Familiar 
Studies 
of 
Men 
and 
- 
284 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
I 
Books, 
Tusitala 
XXVI 
I, 
P. 
57. 
36. 
The 
essays 
which 
appear under 
the 
collective 
title 
'The 
Old 
and 
New 
Pacific 
Capitals' 
are as 
follows: 
'Monterey' 
(1880). 
'San 
Carlos 
Day' 
(1879), 
' Simoneau' 
s 
at 
Monterey' 
(first 
published 
in 
Hart, 
op. 
cit. 
) 
, 
'San 
Francisco' 
(1883). 
37. Hart, 
op. 
cit. 
, 
p. 
185. 
38. 
Ibid., 
p. 
184. 
39. Stevenson 
to 
Charles Baxter, September, 
1888. 
Letters, 
Vol. 3, Tusitala 
XXXIII, 
p. 
203. 
40. Hart, 
op. 
cit.,, 
pp. 
79-80. 
41. Ibid., 
pp. 
229-230. 
42. 
Arthur Johnstone, Recollections 
of 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson 
in 
the 
Pacific, 
London, 1905, 
p. 
37. 
(My 
italics 
. 
Johnstone 
adds 
that 
'a 
misbehaviour 
that 
would 
cause a 
white man 
to 
be 
shunned 
by his 
friends 
and 
brethren 
does 
not convey 
to 
the 
minds of 
these 
simple children of 
nature 
the 
first hint 
that 
moral obloquy 
is 
attached 
to 
evil actions'. 
(My 
italics). 
Thus 
he 
indicates 
that the 
"noble 
savage" viewpoint 
was 
not 
necessarily 
accompanied 
by 
a 
relativistic awareness of 
cultures. 
43. 
Stevenson 
to 
Will Low, May 
20,1889. Letters, Vol. 
3, 
Tusitala XXX III, 
p. 
252. 
Low 
was 
an 
American 
painter 
and 
sculptor and 
a 
friend 
of 
Stevenson's from 
the 
days 
of 
the 
artist's 
colony at 
Barbizon. 
(Loudon 
Dodd, 
the 
American 
sculptor 
in 
The Wrecker, 
may 
be 
partly 
based 
on 
Low. 
Certainly, 
The Wrecker 
is 
dedicated 
to 
him. 
) 
See 
also, 
Xill 
Low, 
A Chronicle 
of 
Frie-rzdships, New York, 
1908, 
the 
chapter 
entitled 
'Enter 
R. 
L. 
S. '. 
44. 
'Pulvis 
et 
Umbra', 
Ethical 
Studies, Tusitala 
XXVI, 
p. 
60. 
45. 'The Pentland 
Rising, 
Essays Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVIII, 
pp. 
93-110. 
Perhaps 
'Pentland 
Rising' 
might 
be 
considered 
a 
piece of 
juvenile 
historical 
reporting. 
46. Stevenson 
to 
Henry 
James, 
December 29,1890. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
4, 
Tusitala 
XXXIV, 
pp. 
44-45 
47. 
Hart, 
op. 
cit. 
, 
p. 
90. 
48. 
From 
an 
interview 
with 
Stevenson 
conducted 
by 
a 
New 
Zealand 
journalist 
and entitled 
'Mr. 
R. L. Stevenson 
as 
a 
Samoan 
Chief' 
!. 
In 
J. A. Hammerton, 
ed., 
Stevensoniana: 
An 
Anecdotal Life 
and 
Appreciation 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
(revised 
edition 
, Edinburgh 
19079 
p- 
103. 
- 
285- 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
I 
49. 
Which 
was more 
frequently 
in 
Tahiti 
or 
Honolulu. 
A 
good 
description 
of 
Papeete 
in 
the 
1880s 
is 
to 
be 
found in 
Elsie 
Noble 
Cauldwell, 
Last Witness for Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
Norman, 
1960, 
pp. 
65-66. 
Stevenson 
has 
nothing 
to 
say about 
Tahiti 
or 
Hawaii 
in 
In 
the 
South 
Seas, 
Tusitala 
XX. However, 
the 
opening 
chapters of 
Ebb-Tide 
are set 
in 
Papeete 
and 
evoke 
this 
feeling 
of 
tawdriness. 
(See 
this 
thesis, 
Chapter 
V. 
) 
50. 
In 
the 
South Seas, 
Tusitala XX, 
p. 
236. 
(. 
y 
italics. 
) 
51. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
242-243. 
52. 
Hyde's 
hairiness 
and ape-like 
body 
connect 
him 
with 
the 
animals and 
also 
with 
the 
hominid, 
the 
transition 
form 
between 
the 
higher 
primates 
and 
homo 
sapiens. 
His 
short 
story 
'Ollala' 
(1885) 
features 
a 
partly 
feral 
boy. 
Stevenson 
remarks 
on 
this 
character 
in 
In 
the 
South 
Seas 
when 
he 
is 
speaking 
of an acquaintance 
in 
the 
Gilbert 
Islands: 
' 
My 
friend 
showed 
himself 
very sensible of 
the 
beauty 
and amenity of 
the 
hour. "Good 
night! 
Good 
wind! 
" he 
kept 
exclaiming, and 
as 
he 
said 
the 
words 
he 
seemed 
to 
hug 
himself. I 
had 
long before 
invented 
such 
reiterated expressions 
of 
delight for 
a 
character 
(Felipe, 
in 
the 
story of 
011ala) 
intended 
to 
be 
partly 
bestial. 
But 
there 
was 
nothing 
bestial 
in 
Te Kop; 
only a childish 
pleasure 
in 
the 
moment'. 
Tusitala XX, 
p. 
310. 
Here 
Stevenson 
is 
making a 
distinction between 
two 
kinds 
of 
perception of primitivism: 
the 
childish and 
the 
bestial; 
but 
he 
does 
not always 
distinguish 
so closely. 
This 
subject 
is 
followed 
up 
in 
Chapters III 
and 
IV 
of 
this 
thesis. 
53. 
Stevenson 
was certainly 
very 
familiar 
with 
Darwin's 
work, 
as 
the 
following 
note 
in 
his 
Notebook 
indicates 
'I 
never 
know 
whether 
to 
be 
more 
surprised at 
Darwin 
himself 
for 
making 
so 
much 
of 
Natural 
Selection, 
or at 
his 
opponents 
for 
making 
so 
little 
of 
it. 
One 
would 
have 
thought that 
its 
action was on 
the 
face 
of 
things; 
but 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
one would 
have 
thought 
that 
the 
presence 
of other 
modificative 
... 
principles 
in 
all 
the 
phenomena 
to 
be 
explained, 
was equally 
patent 
and 
unmistakable. 
And 
accordingly 
Darwin 
is 
reminding 
us 
every 
page 
that 
he 
postulates 
"spontaneous 
variations" 
or 
"compensations 
of 
growth" 
or 
"correlated 
variations" 
... 
as 
the 
material 
which 
his 
selection 
is 
to 
weigh 
in 
the 
balance 
and 
cast 
away 
as 
useless'. 
'From 
His 
Notebook', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
1.84. 
In 
a 
letter 
6-f-1-874 
to 
firs 
Sitwell, 
Stevenson 
mentions entertaining 
some 
schoolchildren 
on 
a 
train 
with 
the 
illustrations 
to 
'Darwin's 
Latest', 
NLS 
MS 
99. This 
could 
have 
been 
the 
second 
edition 
of 
The Descent 
of 
Man 
(1874) 
or 
The 
Expression 
of 
Emotions 
in Man 
and 
the 
Animals 
(1872) 
. 
For 
accounts 
of 
the 
impact 
of 
Darwinism 
on 
Victorian 
society, 
see: 
W. 
Irvine, 
Apes, 
Angels 
and 
Victorians, 
- 
286 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
I 
London, 
1956, 
especially 
Chs. 
8 
and 
17; 
J. W. 
Burrow, 
Evolution 
and 
Society, 
London, 
1966, 
Introduction; 
Leo 
J. 
Henkin, 
Darwinism 
in 
the 
English 
Novel: 
1860-1910, 
'_'iew 
York, 
1940, 
passim. 
54. 
'Pastoral' 
, 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
pp 
" 
49-50- 
55. 
G. 
K. Chesterton, Robert Louis Stevenson, 
London, 
1928, 
p P. 
97. 
56. 
Reported 
in 
Furnas, Voyage 
to 
Windward, 
p. 
238. 
This 
information is 
also 
to 
be 
found 
in 
Joseph 
W. 
Ellison, 
Tusitala 
of 
the 
South 
Seas, New York, 
1953, 
pp. 
175-176. 
57. 
Elsie 
Noble 
Caldwell, 
Last 
Witness for Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
Norman, 
Oklahoma, 
1960, 
p. 
231. 
58. 
Quoted 
in 
Arthur 
Johnstone, 
Recollections 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
. 
in 
the 
Pacific, 
London, 
1905, 
pp. 
101-102. 
59. 
In 
the 
South 
Seas, Tusitala XX, 
p. 
13. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
60. 
He 
recognised 
its 
inferiority in 
power, 
particularly 
military 
power. 
European domination 
of 
Samoa 
provided 
plenty 
of 
evidence of 
that. 
His 
case 
is 
stated very 
clearly 
in 
A Footnote 
to 
Histor 
: 
'The huge 
majority of 
Samoans, like 
other god-fearing 
folk 
in 
other countries, 
are 
perfectly content 
in 
their 
own manners. 
And 
upon one 
condition, 
it is 
plain 
they 
might 
enjoy 
themselves 
far 
beyond 
the 
average man. 
But 
the 
condition 
- 
that 
they 
should 
be let 
alone 
- 
is 
now no 
longer 
possible. 
More 
than 
a 
hundred 
years ago, and 
following 
closely 
on 
the 
heels 
of 
Cook, 
an 
irregular invasion 
of adventurers 
began 
to 
swarm about 
the 
isles 
of 
the 
Pacific. 
The 
seven 
sleepers 
cf 
Polynesia 
stand., still 
but r 
alf aroused, 
in 
the 
midst 
of 
the 
century of competition. 
And 
the 
island 
races, comparable 
to 
a 
shop 
full 
of crockery 
launched 
upon 
the 
stream 
of 
time, 
now 
fall 
to 
make 
their 
desperate 
voyage 
among pots 
of 
brass 
and adamant. 
' 
A Footnote 
to 
History, 
Tusitala 
XXI, 
p. 
81. 
The 
imagery is 
rather 
strange 
and strained; 
but 
it 
does 
convey 
the 
sense 
which 
Stevenson 
had 
of 
violence 
being 
done 
to the 
Polynesians 
and 
their 
weakness 
in 
the 
face 
of 
European 
depradations. 
His 
picture 
of 
the 
warships 
jostling 
each 
other 
in 
Apia 
harbour 
is 
only 
one of many 
other 
images 
of 
imperial 
strength, 
ibid., 
pp. 
138-141,199-202. 
For 
a 
comparable 
image 
in 
a 
different 
colonial 
setting, 
see 
Joseph 
Conrad, 
Heart 
of 
Darkness 
(1902), 
Harmondsworth, 
1974, 
p. 
20. 
61. 
Conrad, 
Heart 
of 
Darkness 
(190-9), 
Harmondsworth, 
1974? 
pp. 
8-10. 
62. 
In 
the 
South 
Seas, 
Tusitala XX, 
p. 
8. 
63. 
Beatrice 
Webb, 
My 
Apprenticeship, 
London, 
1926, 
pp. 
83- 
84. 
64. 
In 
the 
South 
Seas, 
Tusitala XX, 
p. 
47. 
- 
287 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter I 
65. 
See 
this 
thesis, 
Ch. 
V, 
for 
further discussion 
of 
this 
point. 
Stevenson' 
s awareness 
of cultural superiority 
as 
a 
deceit 
is 
demonstrated 
in 
his 
fable 
'The 
Carthorses 
and 
the 
Saddle-Horse', 
Fables, 
Tusitala 
V 
(The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde 
and 
Other Stories 
and 
Fragments), 
p. 
96. See 
also 
'The Beach 
of 
Falesa' 
, 
Island 
lights 
Entertainments, 
Tusitala X111, 
pp. 
1-75. 
66. 
See 
this 
thesis, 
Ch. V, 
for 
comments on 
Melville's 
failed 
attempt 
to 
achieve 
integration. 
67. 
'The 
Citizen 
and 
the 
Traveller, 
Fables, Tusitala 
V 
(The 
Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde 
and 
Other Stories 
and 
Fragments), 
p. 
96. 
- 
283 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
II 
1. 
Arthur 
Conan 
Doyle, 
'Mr 
Stevenson' 
s 
Methods 
in 
Fiction', 
National 
Review 
(1889-1890), 
p. 
. 
649. 
2. 
'My 
First Book: 
Treasure 
Island', 
Tusitala 11, 
p. 
xxiv. 
Stevenson 
projected, 
wrote 
and 
destroyed 
novels 
from 
an 
early age. 
But 
for 
a 
long 
time 
he did 
not 
think 
of 
himself 
even 
as 
a 
short 
story 
writer; and 
he 
calls 
himself 
an 
'essayist 
and 
reviewer' 
in 
a 
letter 
to 
Henley 
of 
September, 
1876. NLS 
MS 26.8.2. 
3" 
'My 
First Book: Treasure Island', 
Tusitala 
II, 
p. 
xxiv. 
4. 
Marcel 
Schwob, 
'R. L. 
S. 
', The 
New 
Review 
(February, 
1895)9, XI 
I, 
PP. 
153-170. 
In 
this 
article 
Schwob 
uses 
the 
term 
'realistic 
romance' 
to 
describe 
the 
mixture 
of 
the 
ordinary 
and 
the 
extraordinary 
in 
Stevenson's 
fiction. 
It 
is 
interesting 
to 
note 
that 
Schwob 
argues 
that 
Stevenson 
made 
stories 
aetiologically: 
that 
is, 
he 
invented 
a 
narrative 
to 
explain 
some 
image 
that 
had 
entered 
his 
mind. 
Stevenson 
himself 
attributed a similar 
process 
of composition 
to 
Poe: 
see 
'The 
Works 
of 
Edgar 
Allan 
Poe', Tusitala 
XXVI 1I, 
pp. 
178-185. 
Schwob himself 
was 
influenced 
by 
Poe's 
stories; and, at 
least 
in 
subject- 
matter, 
by Stevenson: 
his 
MIM. 
Burke 
et 
Hare, 
assassins 
takes 
over a 
Stevensonian 
subject 
and 
theme. 
Mario Praz 
identifies 
Schwab 
as 
one of 
the 
most 
artistically capable 
of 
the 
Decadents, 
The Romantic 
Agony, 
Oxford, 
1951, 
pp 
. 
368-373. 
5. 
Sir Walter Scott, Redgauntlet 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
Border 
Edition, 
edited 
Andrew Lang, London, 
1892-1894,1, 
p. 
154. 
6. 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, 
February, 
1892. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
4, Tusitala XXXIV, 
p. 
158. 
7. 
'A 
Humble Remonstrance' 
, 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
141; 
ibid., 
p. 
136. 
See 
in 
addition 
'A 
Note 
on 
Realism, 
Essays Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVII, 
p. 
69. 
The 
problem 
facing 
Stevenson 
was 
to 
retain 
David 
as 
the 
central 
consciousness 
in 
the 
novel 
at 
a point 
in 
the 
action 
where 
he 
is 
doing 
nothing. 
An 
attempted 
escape 
down 
the 
sheer 
cliffs 
of 
the 
Bass 
Rock 
might 
have been 
a 
less 
intrusive 
way of 
filling 
in 
this 
time. 
On 
the 
other 
hand, 
a 
kind 
reader 
might 
find 
that 
the 
recollection 
of 
imprisonment 
of 
the 
saints 
of 
the 
Scottish 
Church 
on 
the 
rock echoes 
the 
unfair 
trial 
of 
James 
Stewart 
which 
is 
occurring 
on 
the 
mainland. 
For 
an 
account 
of 
the 
fate 
of 
the 
martyrs, 
see 
Thomas 
M'Crie, 
ed., 
The 
Bass 
Rock, Edinburgh, 
1848, Part 
2, 
esp. 
pp 
" 
36-37. 
8. Catriona, 
Tusitala 
VII, 
p. 
137. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
The 
story 
told 
by 
based 
Black 
Andie 
is 
on a 
Celtic folk 
-tale 
' 
Uisdean 
_ 
Mor 
Mac 
Gille Phadruig 
and 
the 
Hornless 
Yellow 
Goat'. 
This 
Gaelic 
tale 
is 
to 
be found 
translated 
into 
English 
and 
under 
that title 
in 
John 
G. 
MacKay 
et. 
al., 
More 
West 
Highland 
Tales 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
Edinburgh 
and 
- 
289 
- 
FOOTNOTES- Chapter 
II 
London, 
1940,1, 
pp 
- 
454-461. 
9. 
Catriona, 
Tusitala 
VII, 
p. 
137- 
10. 
Ibid., 
p. 
132. 
11. 
Ibid., 
p. 
129. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
12. Ibid., 
p. 
130. 
13. 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, 
July, 
1881. Letters, 
Vol. 2, 
Tusitala XXXII, 
p. 
158. 
14. See 
esp. 
The 
Marble 
Faun 
(1860), 
London, 
1906, 
pp. 
138- 
139, 
Ch. 
20 
passim; 
also 
The 
Scarlet 
Letter 
(1850), 
in 
F. 
C. Crews, 
ed., 
Great Short Works 
of 
Hawthorne, New 
York, 
1967, 
p. 
136- Poe's 
tale 
'The 
Man 
of 
the 
Crowd' 
deals 
with 
the 
theme 
of crime 
and 
isolation, 
too. 
15. 'The 
Merry Mien' 
, 
The 
Merry Men 
and 
Other Tales, 
Tusitala VIII, 
p. 
16. 
16. 
Ibid., 
p. 
7. 
17. Ibid., 
p. 
40. 
18. 
Ibid., 
p. 
12. 
19. 
Ibid., 
p. 
14. 
20. Ibid., 
p. 
46. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
21. 
'Obsession' 
, 
Les 
fleurs du 
mal 
et autres 
poemes, 
Paris, 
1964, 
pp. 
96-97. 
hiy 
italics. 
22. 'The 
Merry Men', The Merry 
Men 
and 
Other Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
pp. 
54-55. 
23. Ibid., 
p. 
Z, 
6- 
24. James 
Hogg, The Private Memoirs 
and 
Confessions 
of a 
Justified 
Sinner 
(1924), 
edited and with 
an 
introduction 
by 
John 
Carey, 
Oxford, 
1969. That Stevenson 
had 
read 
Confessions has been 
confirmed 
to 
me 
by 
Mr Ernest 
Mehew, 
the 
current 
editor 
of 
Stevenson's 
letters. 
25. William 
Hazlitt, 
'On Poetry 
in 
General', Works 
(21 
Vols., 
Centenary 
Ed. 
), 
ed. 
P. P. 
Howe, 
London, 1930-1934, 
Vol. 
V, 
p. 
4. 
26. 
'A 
Gossip 
on 
Romance', Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
125. 
27. 
Edgar 
Allan 
Poe, 
Selected 
Writings, 
edited and 
with 
an 
introduction 
by 
David Galloway, 
Harmondsworth, 
1967, 
p. 
446. 
(His 
italics 
.) 
28. 
Idem. 
(His 
italics. 
) 
29. 
Stevenson to 
Sidney 
Colvin, 
September 
5,1891. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
4, 
Tusitala 
XXXIV, 
p. 
95. 
30. 
Poe' 
s 
method 
of 
personifying 
guilt 
is 
demonstrated 
in 
'The 
Fall 
of 
the 
House 
of 
Usher', 
where 
the 
'dead' 
sister 
of 
Roderick 
Usher 
actually appears. 
Compare 
this 
with 
- 
290 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
II 
the 
realisation 
of 
the 
'black 
man' 
in 
'The 
Merry 
Men, 
or 
the 
personification 
of 
Jekyll's 
desires in 
the 
shape 
of 
Hyde. 
In 
this 
method 
the 
supernatural 
functions 
to 
embody 
inner 
emotions. 
31. 
See 
M. 
Lawson, 
On 
the 
Bat's Back, London, 
1950, 
p. 
18: 
' 
Cummy 
also 
had 
Foxe's Book 
of 
Martyrs, 
full 
of 
stories 
of 
men and 
women 
who 
had 
suffered 
for 
their 
beliefs 
and 
died 
for 
what 
they 
believed 
to 
be 
true. 
It had 
gruesome 
pictures 
of men and 
women stretched on 
rocks 
in 
dark 
dungeons, 
with 
the 
cowled 
figures 
of 
their 
torturers 
bending 
over 
them 
... 
She 
had 
stories 
too 
of 
old 
women 
who were 
witches and could call 
up 
the 
dead, 
of 
folk 
with 
second 
sight 
who 
could peer 
through 
the 
dark 
veils 
which 
hid 
the 
future 
and 
tell 
you what 
was 
coming 
to 
you 
... 
of men and 
women who 
had 
sold 
themselves 
to the 
devil, 
and 
of 
the 
pallid 
faces 
of 
the 
dead 
who 
looked 
over 
churchyard 
walls on moonlit 
nights. 
' 
See 
also 
Furnas, Voyage 
to 
Windward, 
pp. 
29-30; 
John 
A. Steuart, 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson: 
Man 
and 
Writer, 
2 Vols., 
London, 
1924, 
I, 
p. 
41, 
pp. 
43-44. 
32. 'The Works 
of 
Edgar 
Allan 
Poe', 
Essays 
Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala XXVIII, 
p. 
184. 
33. Edgar Allan 
Poe, 'William 
Wilson', 
Selected 
Writings, 
ed. 
Galloway, 
pp. 
158-178. 
Nathaniel 
Hawthorne, 'Young 
Goodman Brown', 
Great Short Works 
of 
Hawthorne, 
ed. 
Crews, 
pp. 
271-284. 
The 
allegorical element of 
this 
last 
tale 
appears 
in 
Stevenson' 
s 
'Markheim' 
and 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
to 
name only 
two 
stories. 
Again, 
as 
with 
Poe, 
the 
personifications 
represent 
an 
inner 
dialogue. 
34. 
'T 
=a?%n 
Janet', 
The Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, Tusi,, 
__a 
VIII, 
p. 
112. 
35. 
Ibid., 
p. 
109. 
36. 
Ibid., 
p. 
119. 
37. 
Ibid., 
p. 
120. 
38. 
Ibid., 
p. 
116. 
39. 
Ibid., 
p. 
117. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
40. 
Idem. 
41. 'A 
Humble 
Remonstrance, 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
136. 
42. 'Thrawn 
Janet', 
The 
Merry Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
120. 
43. 
'A 
Chapter 
on 
Dreams', 
Random 
Memories, 
Tusitala 
XXX 
(Further 
Memories), 
pp. 
52-53. 
44. 
'Thrawn 
Janet', 
The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
116. 
- 
291 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
11 
45. 
'like 
a 
man 
possessed, 
ibid., 
p. 
114. 
' 
when 
he 
was 
a 
bairn', 
ibid.,. 
p. 
116. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
46. 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, 
September 28,1891. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
4, Tusitala 
XXXIV, 
p. 
100. 
47. 
W. 
H. Auden, 
'Dingley 
Dell 
and 
the 
Fleet', 
Selected 
Essays, 
London, 
1964. 
p. 
171. 
48. 
Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim 
(1900), 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
1932, 
p. 
178. 
49. 
'Markheim', The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
- 
pp. 
97-98. 
. 
50. 
Ibid., 
p. 
89. 
51. 
Ibid., 
p. 
90. 
52. 
Ibid., 
p. 
94. 
53. 
Ibid., 
p. 
93. 
54. 
Ibid., 
p. 
98. 
55. 
Idem. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
56. 
The Ebb-Tide, 
Tusitala XIV, 
p. 
88. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
David 
Balfour 
also 
hopes 
to 
'come 
up scatheless' 
from 
the 
world, 
Catriona, 
Tusitala VII, 
p. 
22. 
57. 
'Markheim 
`, 
The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other Tales, Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
101. 
58. 
Ibid., 
p. 
95. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
59. 
'On 
Falling 
in 
Love', 
Virginibus 
Pueriscue, 
Tusitala XXV, 
p. 
22. 
(tiny 
italics. 
) 
60. 
'Letter 
to 
a 
Young Gentleman Who 
'dishes 
to 
Em 
i 
rL,. 
ce 
the 
Career 
of 
Art', 
Essays 
Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVIII, 
p. 
5. 
61. 
'Providence 
and 
the 
Guitar, 
New 
Arabian 
Nights, 
Tusitala 
1, 
p. 
268. 
62. 
The Ebb-Tide, 
Tusitala 
XIV, 
p. 
118. 
63. 
'The 
Treasure 
of 
Franchard', 
The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
172. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
64. 
Ibid., 
p. 
173. 
65. 
Ibid., 
p. 
174. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
66. 
Ibid., 
p. 
178. 
67. 
Ibid., 
p. 
179. 
68. 
Ibid., 
p. 
182. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
69. 
Idem. 
70. 
'The 
Treasure 
of 
Franchard', 
The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
184. 
71. 
Ibid., 
p. 
196. 
- 
292 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
II 
72. 
Idem. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
73. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
211-212. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
74. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
198-199. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
75. 
Ibid., 
p. 
236. 
76. 
That 
Desprez's 
disaster 
renders 
him 
a comic 
Lear, 
may 
indicate 
that 
there 
is 
a 
Christian 
pattern 
to 
Stevenson's 
story. 
But 
the 
iconography 
of 
the tale 
is 
only 
partly 
Christian. 
Although Jean-Marie 
was 
taught 
by 
a 
priest, 
he 
is 
also 
a 
pagan, a child 
of 
nature. 
Also, 
the 
atheistic 
Doctor 
is 
quite capable 
of 
forgiveness 
and 
charity 
without 
the 
aid 
of 
doctrine. 
77. Hawthorne, 
The 
Marble Faun, 
pp. 
370-371. 
In 
that 
same 
place 
Hawthorne 
briefly 
writes 
of 
the 
idea 
of 
Romance 
which 
lay behind 
his 
method 
in 
The Marble Faun: 'He 
[ 
Hawthorne 
] 
designed 
the 
story and 
the 
characters 
to 
bear, 
of course, 
a certain relation 
to 
human 
nature and 
human life, 
but 
still 
to 
be 
so 
artfully 
and airily 
removed 
from 
our 
mundane sphere, 
that 
some 
laws 
and properties 
of 
their 
own 
should 
be 
implicitly 
and 
insensibly 
acknowledged. 
' The 
character 
of 
Jean-Marie 
and 
the 
family 
members 
in 
'Ollala' 
could 
have 
been 
created 
according 
to 
these 
aims. 
The 
allegorical 
element 
in 
these 
stories 
arises 
mainly 
from 
these 
lightly 
registered 
characters, 
who 
exist mainly as 
ideas. 
78. 
'The Treasure 
of 
Franchard', 
The Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tu 
sitala 
VIII, 
p. 
199. 
79. 
Ibid., 
p. 
224. 
(It 
may 
be 
noted 
here 
that 
this 
chapter 
is 
called 
'The Fall 
of 
the 
House 
of 
Desprez'. 
It 
is 
a 
good ex ample of 
Stevenson' 
s 
tendency to 
burlesque 
previous 
literature, 
especially 
works which 
had 
an 
influence 
upon 
him. In 
this 
case 
Poe's 
story 
about 
Roderick 
Usher is 
d 
iscernible 
behind Stevenson's 
chapter 
heading. 
) 
80. 
' Ollala' 
, 
The Merry Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
142. 
81. 
Ibid., 
p. 
149. 
82. 
'The 
Oval 
Portrait', 
Selected 
Writings, 
ed. 
Galloway, 
pp. 
250-253. 
There 
are other 
possible 
models 
for 
the 
theme 
of 
the 
haunted 
portrait: 
for 
example 
Hawthorne' 
s 
The 
House 
of 
the 
Seven Gables 
(1851) 
; 
or 
Scott's 
short 
story 
'The Tapestried 
Chamber' 
(1 
828). 
83. 
' 
Ollala' 
, 
The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
146. 
84. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
153 
-154. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
85. Ibid., 
p. 
167. 
86. Ibid., 
p. 
166. 
(His 
italics. 
) 
-293- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter II 
87. 
'The 
Touchstone', Fables, 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
F 
ragments 
i, 
pp. 
102-108. 
88. 
Ibid., 
p. 
105. 
89. 
Ibid., 
p. 
107. 
90. 
Ibid., 
p. 
108. 
Tusitala 
V 
(The 
Strange 
Case 
Hvde 
and 
Other 
Stories 
and 
- 
294 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
III 
1. 
Leslie Fiedler, 
' 
R. 
L. 
S. 
Revisited', 
in 
No! 
in 
Thunder, 
London, 
1963, 
p. 
78. 
2. 
M. 
R. Ridley, 
Introduction, 
The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
Everyman, 
London, 
1955, 
pp. 
vi-viii. 
3. 
R. 
Kiely, 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson 
and 
the 
Fiction 
of 
Adventure, Cambridge, 
Mass., 
1964, 
p. 
209. 
4. 
Preface 
to 
The 
Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
it 
Tusitala 
V, 
p. xvii. 
5. 
Kiely, 
Robert Louis Stevenson 
and 
the 
Fiction 
of 
Adventure, 
p. 
210. 
6. 
Peter Penzoldt, The Supernatural 
in 
Fiction, 
1952, 
Ch. 
2, 
'The Ghost Story 
with a 
Moral: 
Dickens 
and 
Stevenson'. 
7. 
J. J. 
Egan, 
'The 
Relationship 
of 
Theme 
and 
Art 
in 
The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde', 
in 
English 
Literature 
in 
Transition 
(1966), 
IX, 
p. 
131. 
8. 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
Tusitala V, 
p. 
1. 
9. Idem. 
10. Ibid., 
p. 
8. 
11. 
See 
this thesis 
Ch. V, 
n. 
58. 
12. 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala 
V, 
p. 
63. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
13. 
Ibid., 
p. 
2. 
14. Ibid., 
p. 
57. 
15. Oscar Wilde, 
The 
Picture 
of 
Dorian 
Gray 
(1891), 
Harmondsworth, 197, 
p. 
25. 
'The 
terror 
of 
society, 
which 
is 
the 
basis 
of morals, 
the terror 
of 
God, 
which 
is 
the 
secret of religion 
- 
these 
are 
the 
two 
things 
that 
govern us. 
' 
16. 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala V, 
p. 
2. 
17. 
'The 
Sire 
de Maletroit' 
s 
Door', 
in 
New 
Arabian 
Nights, 
Tusitala 1, 
pp. 
243-264. 
18. 
As 
indeed is 
entering 
a 
cave 
or palace 
or secret 
doorway 
or 
garden 
in 
the 
original 
Arabian 
Nights. 
See, 
for 
example, 
The Thousand 
and 
One 
Nights, 
translated 
and 
edited 
by 
E. 
W. 
Lane 
(3 
Vols. 
, 
London, 
1912, 
Vol. 
III, 
p. 
160. 
This 
is just 
one of 
hundreds 
of 
examples 
of 
similar 
transformations. 
Nearer 
his 
own 
time, 
Stevenson 
had 
the 
model 
of 
Lewis Carroll' 
s 
books, 
Alice 
in 
Wonderland 
(1865) 
and 
Alice 
Through 
the 
Looking-Glass 
(1871). 
Stevenson 
mentions 
some 
of 
the 
mental 
associations 
of 
different 
kinds 
of 
houses 
in 
a 
letter 
to 
Mrs 
Sitwell from 
Chester: 
'I 
like 
this 
place much; 
but 
somehow 
I feel 
glad 
when 
I 
get 
among 
the 
quiet 
eighteenth 
century 
buildings, 
in 
cosy 
places 
with 
some 
elbow 
room 
about 
them, 
after 
the 
older architecture. 
This 
other 
is 
bedevilled 
and 
furtive; 
it 
seems 
to 
stoop; 
I 
am 
- 
295 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
III 
afraid 
of 
trap-doors, 
and 
could not go 
pleasantly 
into 
such 
houses. 
' 
This 
explains 
the 
personal 
import 
of 
the 
contrast 
between the 
front 
and 
back 
of 
Jekyll's 
house. 
In 
the 
same 
letter, 
he 
expands 
on 
the 
feeling 
of moral 
and 
social 
security 
which 
he 
gets 
from 
the 
eighteenth 
century 
mansion 
(the 
kind 
of 
high bourgeois 
dwelling 
place 
in 
which 
he 
was 
brought 
up), 
and again 
he 
contrasts 
its 
ample 
civility 
with 
less 
ordered architecture: 
'I 
do 
not 
know 
if 
I 
have 
yet 
explained 
to 
you 
the 
sort 
of 
loyalty, 
of 
urbanity, 
that 
there 
is 
about 
the 
one 
to 
my mind; 
the 
spirit 
of 
a 
country 
orderly 
and 
prosperous, a 
flavour 
of 
the 
presence 
of magistrates 
[note 
the 
association with 
the 
reign 
of 
law] 
and well-to-do merchants 
in 
bag-wigs 
... 
something 
certain 
and 
civic and 
domestic, 
is 
all 
about 
these 
quiet, staid, shapely 
houses, 
with no character 
but 
their 
exceeding 
shapeliness, 
and 
the 
comely 
external 
utterance 
that they 
make 
of 
their 
internal 
comfort. 
Now 
the 
others are 
... 
both furtive 
and 
bedevilled; 
they 
are 
sly and 
grotesque; 
they 
combine 
their 
sort 
of 
feverish 
grandeur with 
their 
sort of 
secretive 
baseness 
... 
They 
are 
peopled 
for 
me with persons of 
the 
same 
fashion. 
11 
Dwarfs 
and 
sinister 
L 
people 
[ 
like Hyde 
] 
in 
cloaks are 
about 
them; 
and 
I 
se em 
to 
divine 
crypts, 
an 
d 
... 
trap-- 
doors. ' Stevenson 
to 
Mrs 
Sitwell, August 
8, 
1874. NLS 
MS 
99. 
The 
anxiety about 
trap-doors 
in 
old 
houses 
may 
well 
have 
contributed 
to 
the 
genesis of 
the 
short story 
'The Sire de 
Ma 
lc 
troit' 
s 
Door' 
. 
19. 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala V, 
p. 
3. 
20. Ibid., 
p. 
22. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
21. Idem. 
22. Ibid., 
p. 
37. 
23. Ibid., 
p. 
71. 
24. 
Ibid., 
p. 
63. 
25. 
Ibid., 
p. 
57. 
26. Ibid., 
p. 
61. 
27. 
Stevenson 
to 
Thomas 
Stevenson, 
December 20,1883. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
2, 
Tusitala 
XXXI I, 
p. 
287. 
28. 
Marcel 
Schwob 
,'R. 
L. 
S. 
', 
in 
The 
New 
Review 
(February 
1895), 
XII, 
pp. 
154-156. 
29. Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala 
V, 
p. 
60. 
30. 
The 
third 
person 
narrative 
runs 
Enfield's 
on 
pp. 
3-7; Lanyon's 
and 
p. 
56; Jekyll's 
confession 
confession 
is 
largely 
discursive, 
more 
dramatic. 
pp. 
1-48, 
surrounding 
is 
found 
between 
p. 
49 
is 
pp 
. 
57-74. 
Jekyll' 
s 
whereas. 
the 
others 
are 
- 
296 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
III 
31. 
The 
question 
of 
time 
in 
the 
novella 
is 
an 
interesting 
one. 
Utterson, 
Lanyon 
and 
Jekyll, 
all 
remark 
on 
how 
they 
are 
aging. 
So, 
. 
the 
temporal 
dimension 
is 
not 
entirely 
absent. 
However, 
there 
is 
no uniform 
time 
in 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde. 
The 
overlapping 
and 
"circular" 
structure 
of 
the 
narrative 
prevents 
that. 
They 
effectively 
frustrate the 
emergence 
of 
causation 
by 
thus 
breaking 
up 
the 
flow 
of 
time. 
The 
subjective 
perspective 
of 
Jekyll' 
s 
confession 
tends to 
site 
the 
story 
in 
a continuous present. 
It 
is 
always 
to the 
present 
that 
"I" 
belongs 
as 
a 
voice 
(as 
opposed 
to 
"I" 
as 
a 
character) : you 
cannot 
speak 
of 
11111 
as 
dead, 
only of 
"he"; "I" 
is 
always 
rooted 
in 
now. 
The 
novella, 
Jekyll' 
s narration 
and 
Jekyll' 
s consciousness 
all 
end 
together 
in 
a 
"now", 
so 
to 
speak. 
32. The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala 
V, 
p. 
35. 
33. Jekyll 
and 
Hyde 
is 
an 
intensively 
formed fiction 
and 
not, 
as 
has 
often 
been 
suggested, 
a 
nightmare 
dashed 
brain- 
hot 
onto 
the 
page. 
34. The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala 
V, 
p. 
3. 
35. Ibid., 
p. 
4. 
Utterson 
says 
to 
himself, 
on 
first 
encountering 
Hyde, 
"'Jekyll, 
if 
ever 
i 
read 
Satan's 
signature upon 
a 
face, 
it is 
on 
that 
of 
your 
new 
friend. "' 
p. 
4. 
36. 
37. 
38. 
39. 
40. 
41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 
45. 
46. 
47. 
Hyde 
is 
'devilish', 
Ibid., 
p. 
71. 
ibid., 
p. 
70. 
Ibid., 
p. 
21, 
p. 
73, 
p. 
74; 
Ibid., 
p. 
44; 
'the 
brute 
'the 
creature', 
P. 
71; 
wonderfully 
described 
as 
p. 
69; 
his 
'bestial 
avidity' 
Ibid., 
pp. 
6-7. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
13-14 
Ibid. 
, 
p. 
53. 
he 
is 
'like 
a 
monkey', 
p. 
42. 
that 
slept within me', 
p. 
71; 
'the 
animal 
within 
me' 
is 
'licking 
the 
chops of memory', 
is 
remarked p. 
63. 
Selections 
From 
His 
Notebook, 
Tusitala XXIX 
(Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Memoirs 
of 
Himself, Selections 
From 
His 
Notebook), 
p. 
17 
See 
this 
thesis, 
Ch. 
II, 
p. 
55. 
The 
Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
Tusitala 
V, 
p. 
61. 
Ibid., 
p. 
62. 
Ibid., 
p. 
60. 
- 
297 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
III 
48. 
Ibid., 
p. 
65; 
Jekyll 
also 
calls 
him 
his 
'other 
self', 
p. 
72; 
'my 
second 
character', 
p. 
62; 
'my 
double', 
p. 
64. 
49. 
'Jekyll 
(who 
was 
composite) 
now 
with 
the 
most 
sensitive 
apprehensions, 
now 
with 
a 
greedy gusto, 
projected 
and 
shared 
in 
the 
pleasures 
and adventures of 
Hyde. 
' 
Ibid., 
p. 
66. 
They 
can 
be 
seen as adventures 
because 
he 
does 
not 
lure his 
'pleasures' 
to 
the 
cabinet. 
We 
always 
have 
a sense 
of 
his 
going 
out 
into 
the 
'labyrinths' 
of 
the 
city. 
London 
is 
described 
as 
labyrinthine in 
the 
depiction 
of 
Utterson's 
nightmare 
of 
Hyde's 
nocturnal 
adventures: 
'The figure 
.... 
haunted 
the 
lawyer 
all 
night; and 
if 
at 
any 
time 
he 
dozed 
over, 
it 
was 
but 
to 
see 
it 
glide more steathily 
through 
sleeping 
houses, 
or move 
the 
more swiftly, and still 
more 
swiftly, 
even 
to 
dizziness, 
through 
wider 
labyrinths 
of 
lamp-lighted 
city, and 
at 
every street 
corner 
crush a 
child 
and 
leave 
her 
screaming. 
' Ibid., 
p. 
11. For 
further 
discussion 
of maze 
imagery in 
Stevenson 
and 
Jorge 
Luis 
Borges, 
see 
this thesis, 
Ch. 
VIII, 
pp. 
246-248. 
50. 
The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala V, 
p. 
53. 
51. 
Jekyll 
identifies 
the 
'causeless 
hatreds' 
which 
inhabit 
his double, 
ibid., 
p. 
72. 
52. 
Ibid., 
p. 
42. 
53. 
Ibid., 
p. 
21. 
54. 
Ibid., 
p. 
74. 
55. 
Ibid., 
p. 
73. 
56. 
Idem. 
57. 
'There 
was something strange 
in 
my sensations, 
something 
indescribably 
new, 
and 
from 
its 
very 
novelty, 
incredibly 
sweet. 
I felt 
younger, 
lighter, 
happier 
in 
body; 
within 
I 
was 
conscious 
of a 
heady 
recklessness, 
a current of 
disordered 
sensual 
images 
running 
like 
a 
mill 
race 
in 
my 
fancy 
... 
I 
knew 
myself, 
at 
the 
first 
breath 
of 
this 
new 
life, 
to 
be 
more 
wicked, 
tenfold 
more wicked. 
' Ibid., 
p. 
60. 
'The 
pleasures 
which 
I 
made 
haste 
to 
seek 
in 
my 
disguise 
were, 
as 
I have 
said, 
indignified; 
I 
would scarce 
use 
a 
harder 
term. 
But 
in 
the 
hands 
of 
Edward. 
Hyde, 
they 
soon 
began 
to 
turn towards the 
monstrous. 
' 
Ibid., 
p. 
63. 
- 
298 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
III 
58. 
Ibid., 
p. 
58. 
59. 
Ibid., 
p. 
59. 
60. 
Ibid., 
p. 
60. 
61. 
Ibid., 
p. 
61. 
62. 
Ibid., 
p. 
66. 
63. 
See 
Jenni Calder, 
R. L. S.: A 
Life 
Study, 
London, 1980, 
Ch. 
3; 
J. C. 
Furnas, 
_ 
Voyage 
to 
Windward: A Life 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
London, 
1952, 
pp. 
48-49,72-79; 
James 
Pope 
Hennessy, Robert 
Louis Stevenson, 
London, 
1974, 
pp. 
58-59,62-, 
121-122; 
David 
Daiches, 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
and 
his World, 
London, 1973, 
pp 
. 
23- 28. 
64. 
The Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, Tusitala 
V, 
p. 
73. 
65. 
Ibid., 
p. 
68. 
66. 
Selections 
From 
His 
Notebook, 
Tusitala XXIX 
(Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
1vIemoirs 
of 
Himself, Selections From 
i-? 
is 
Notebook), 
p. 
160. 
M 
is 
-italics 
throughout. 
) 
67. 
'The House 
of 
Eld', 
Fables, Tusitala V 
(The 
Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr Jek 
1? 1 
and 
Mr Hyde, Fables 
and 
Other 
Stories 
and 
Fragrnentsy, 
pp. 
bb-92. 
For 
a 
discussion 
of 
this 
fab 
l: 
, 
see 
this thesis 
Ch. VII, 
pp. 
225 
-226. 
68. 
The 
Misadventures 
of 
John 
Nicholson, Tusitala 
XI 
II 
(Island 
Ni 
nis' 
Entertainments 
The Misadventures 
of 
John 
Nicholson), 
pp 
. 
135-203 
. 
69_ 
For 
a 
discussion 
of 
this 
father/son 
conflict, 
see 
thi 
s 
thesis 
Ch. VII, 
passim, 
but 
especially p. 
208, 
pp. 
211- 
214. 
70. 
That 
Stevenson 
had 
read 
Confessions 
has 
been 
confirmed 
to 
me 
by 
Ernest 
Mehew, 
present 
editor of 
Stevenson's 
letters. 
A 
recent 
article 
which 
bears 
on 
the 
antinomian 
question 
is 
J. 
MacQueen, 'Ringan 
Gilhaize 
and 
Particular 
Providence', 
in 
C. 
A. 
Whatley, 
ed., 
John 
Galt 
1779-1979, 
Edinburgh, 
1979, 
pp. 
107-119. 
- 
299 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
III 
71. Calvinist 
doctrine 
gave 
great 
powers 
of punishment 
to 
the 
Kirk. 
'20. 
The 
civil magistrat 
cravis 
and 
Bettis 
obedience 
be 
the 
sword 
and 
uther 
externall 
means, 
but 
the 
ministrie 
be 
the 
spirituall 
sword 
and 
spirituall 
means. 
' The 
job 
of 
the 
magistrate 
is 
to 
'minister 
justice 
and 
punishe 
vice'. 
The Second Book 
of 
Discipline, 
ed. 
James 
Kirk, 
Edinburgh, 1980, 
p. 
171. 
See 
also 
The 
First 
Book 
of 
Discipline, 
ed. 
Cameron, 
Edinburgh, 1972, 
pp. 
165- 
173. 
'But drunkenesse, 
excesse 
be 
it in 
apparel, 
or 
be 
it in 
eating and 
drinking, 
fornication, 
oppressing 
of 
the 
poore 
by 
exactions 
... 
wanton words and 
licentious 
living 
tending to 
slander, 
doe 
openly appertaine 
to 
the 
Kirk 
of 
God 
to 
punish 
them, 
as 
God's 
word commands. 
' 
(p. 
167. 
) 
72. 
Stevenson 
to 
Cosmo 
Nflonkhouse, 
March 
16,1884. 
Letters, 
Vol. 2, 
Tusitala XXXII, 
pp. 
298-299. 
73. 
Ibid., 
p. 
299. 
74. 
Charles Lamb, 'On 
the 
Artificial 
Comedy 
of 
the 
Last 
Century', 
Essays 
of 
Elia, Works, Enfield 
Edition, 
(6 
Vols. 
), 
London, 1924, Vol. 
Ill 
, 
pp. 
361-371. 
75. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
361-362. 
76.. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
363-364- 
77. 
'A Gossip 
on 
Romance', Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XX 
IX, 
p. 
120. 
78. 
Lamb, 'On 
the 
Artificial Comedy 
of 
the 
Last 
Century, 
p. 
366. 
79. 
Wilde' 
s 
The 
Importance 
of 
Bein Earnest 
was 
first 
put 
on 
at 
the 
St. James's Theatre, London, 
on 
February 
14, 
1895. 
It 
would 
be 
wrong 
to 
suggest 
that 
a 
clean 
break 
with 
the 
past occurred 
in 
the 
1.880s. The 
historical 
romances 
of 
G. P. 
R. James 
and 
the 
fantasies 
of 
Lewis 
Carroll 
were 
scarcely 
tracts. 
But Captain Marryat, 
Mayne 
Reid 
and 
J. M. Ballantyne 
all wrote 
adventure 
stories 
in 
which 
they 
liked 
to 
point 
up 
a 
moral, 
and 
the 
adventures 
their 
heroes 
undergo 
are always 
improving 
in 
the 
way 
of 
a 
narrow 
conception 
of manliness. 
In 
Stevenson 
and 
Haggard 
and 
Lang 
(and 
later, Buchan) 
we 
have 
adventure-for-adventure's-sake. 
And 
the 
children's 
books 
of 
E. Nesbit 
or 
Kenneth 
Grahame 
scarcely 
take 
such 
a 
high 
tone 
as 
we 
find 
in, 
say, 
Eric 
or 
Little 
by 
Little 
or 
The 
Water 
Babies. 
See 
E. S. 
Turner, 
Boys 
Will be 
Boys, 
London, 
1946, 
pp. 
13-16. 
Also 
G. 
K. 
Chesterton, 
'A 
Defence 
of 
Penny 
Dreadfuls', 
in 
W. E. Williams, 
ed., 
A 
Book 
of 
English 
Essays, 
London, 
1951, 
p. 
220. 
80. Mr 
Thomas 
Stevenson 
to 
Stevenson, 
February 
26,1882. 
(His 
italics. 
) 
Quoted 
in 
Paul 
Maixner, 
ed., 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson: 
The 
Critical 
Heritag?, 
London, 1981, 
p. 
127. 
He 
only 
got 
what 
he 
deserved, 
since 
he 
wrote 
to 
his 
father 
asking 
for 
help 
with 
Treasure 
Island. Stevenson 
to 
Thomas 
Stevenson, 
January 
6,1 882. 
NLS 
MS 19638. 
- 
300 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
III 
81. 'A 
Humble Remonstrance', 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
pp. 
137-138. 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
82. 
V. K. Chesterton, 
op. 
cit. 
, 
p. 
220. 
-301- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
IV 
1. 
Stevenson 
and 
Osbourne, The 
Wrong 
Box, 
Tusitala 
XI, 
pp 
. 
1-179. 
2. 
Sir 
Walter 
Scott, Rob 
Ro 
y 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
Border 
Edition, 
ed. 
and 
with 
an 
introduction 
by 
A. 
Lang, 
Vol. 
I. 
The 
story 
of 
Alan 
Breck Stewart, 
Campell 
of 
Glenure 
and 
James 
MacGregor 
is 
told 
in 
pp. xciii-xcix. 
3. 
Stevenson 
to 
Mrs. 
Sitwell, 
January 26,1874. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
1, 
Tusitala 
XXXI, 
p. 
136. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
4. 
Scott, 
Rob Roy, 
Border Edition, 
Vol. 
1, 
p. xxviii. 
5. 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, October 
24,1891. 
Letters, 
Vol. 4, 
Tusitala 
XXXIV, 
p. 
114. 
6. 
E. M. 
Eigner, 
Robert Louis Stevenson 
and 
Romantic 
Tradition, 
Princeton, 
1966. 
Chapter 
1 
deals 
with 
the 
"good" 
and 
"bad" 
traditions. 
Eigner 
identifies 
Scott 
with 
the 
bad 
tradition,. 
which 
is 
heroic 
adventure. 
The 
good 
tradition 
is 
represented, 
for him, 
by Godwin, 
Mary 
Shelley, 
Bulwer-Lytton, 
Dickens, 
the 
Br?ntes 
: 
these 
embody 
a more philosophical 
strain. 
7. Scott, 
Waverley, 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
Border Edition, Vol. 1, 
p. 
25. 
8. 
'Victor 
Hugo' 
s 
Romances', 
Familiar 
Studies 
of 
Men 
and 
Books, Tusitala 
XXVII, 
p. 
6. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
9. See 
D. Daiches 'Scott's 
Waveriey: 
The 
Presence 
of 
the 
Author' 
in 
Campbell, 
ed., 
ineteenth 
Century 
Scottish 
Fiction, Manchester, 1979, 
pp. 
6-177 
10. 
Catriona, Tusitala VII, 
p. 
169. 
11. Quoted 
in 
Philip Stevick, 
'Scheherezade 
runs out of 
plots, 
goes on 
talking; 
the 
king, 
puzzled, 
listens: 
an 
Essay 
on 
New Fiction', 
in 
Malcolm 
Bradbury, 
ed., 
The 
Novel 
Today, 
London, 1977, 
p. 
211. 
12. 
Stevenson 
to 
T. 
Watts--Dunton, 
September, 1886. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
3, Tusitala XXXIII, 
pp. 
104-105. 
(M. 
y 
italics. 
)' 
13. Stevenson 
to 
R. 
A. M. 
(Bob) 
Stevenson, 
September, 
1894. 
Letters, Vol. 
5, 
Tusitala 
XXXV, 
p. 
165. 
(His 
italics. 
) 
14. 
Stevenson 
to 
Will 
Low, 
May, 1889. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
3, 
Tusitala 
XXX 
III, 
p. 
252. 
15. 'Victor Hugo' 
s 
Romances', 
Familiar Studies 
of 
Men 
and 
Books, 
Tusitala 
XXVII, 
p. 
14. 
16. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
pp. 
189-190. 
17. 
George 
Lukacs, 
The 
Historical Novel, London, 
1962, 
p. 
35. 
18. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
p. 
83. 
19. 
'The 
artistic 
result 
of 
a 
romance 
... 
is 
something 
so 
complicated 
and refined 
that 
it 
is 
difficult 
to 
put 
a 
name 
- 
302 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
IV 
upon 
it; 
and 
yet 
something 
as 
simple 
as 
nature. 
These 
two 
propositions 
may 
seem 
mutually 
destructive, 
but 
they 
are 
so 
only 
in 
appearance. 
The 
fact 
is 
that 
art 
is 
working 
far 
ahead 
of 
language 
as 
well 
as of 
science, 
realising 
for 
us, 
by 
all mariner_ of 
suggestions 
and 
exaggerations, 
effects 
for 
which we 
have 
as 
yet 
no 
direct 
name 
... 
Hence 
alone 
is 
that 
suspicion 
of 
vagueness 
that 
often 
hangs 
about 
the 
purpose of 
a romance: 
it 
is 
clear 
enough 
to 
us 
in 
thought; 
but 
we are not 
used 
to 
considering 
anything clear 
until 
we are 
able 
to 
formulate 
it 
in 
words, 
and analytical 
language 
has 
not 
been 
sufficiently shaped 
to 
that 
end 
... 
It 
is 
not 
that there 
is 
anything 
blurred 
or 
indefinite in 
the 
impression 
left 
with 
us, 
it is 
just 
because 
the 
impression 
is 
so 
very 
definite 
after 
its 
own 
kind 
that 
we 
find 
it 
hard 
to 
fit 
it 
exactly 
with 
the 
expressions of 
our philosophical 
speech. 
It 
is 
this 
idea 
which 
underlies 
and 
issues 
from 
a 
romance, 
this 
is 
something which 
it is 
the 
function 
of 
that 
form 
of 
art 
to 
create, 
this 
e 
ical 
value 
that 
I 
propose 
chiefly 
to 
seek. 
' 
(My 
italics. 
'Victor Hugo' 
s 
Romances', 
Familiar 
Studies 
of 
Men 
and 
Books, 
Tusitala 
XXVII, 
pp. 
7-8. 
Stevenson's 
elaboration of 
the 
idea 
of 
the 
epical makes 
it 
clear 
that 
it 
refers 
to 
an 
unanalysable 
element of 
the 
verbal 
image; 
perhaps 
an 
iconic 
quality 
is 
what 
he 
means 
to 
define. The 
image is 
itself 
('after 
its 
own 
kind') 
and 
cannot 
be 
translated. 
This 
is 
epic. 
20. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
p. 
29. 
21. Ibid., 
p. 
45. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
22. Ibid., 
p. 
46. 
23. Ibid., 
p. 
51. 
24. 
Ibid., 
p. 
53. 
25. 
The following i 
sa good 
example 
of 
the 
violence and 
the 
style: 
'I 
snatched 
another pistol 
and shot 
this 
one 
through 
the 
thigh 
... 
There 
was no 
talk 
of 
missing, 
any 
more 
than 
there 
was 
time 
to 
aim; 
I 
clapped 
the 
muzzle 
to 
the 
very 
place 
and 
fired 
... 
The 
round-ho 
use was 
like 
a 
shamble: 
three 
were 
dead 
inside, 
another 
lay 
in 
his death 
agony 
across 
the 
threshold; 
and 
there 
were 
Alan 
and 
I 
victorious 
and 
unhurt. 
He 
came 
up 
with open 
arms 
... 
"0, 
man 
... 
am 
I 
no 
bonny 
fighter? 
" 
Thereupon 
he 
turned 
to 
the 
four 
enemies, 
passed 
his 
sword 
clean 
through 
each 
of 
them, 
and 
tumbled 
them 
out 
of 
doors 
one 
after 
the 
other. 
' 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
V1, 
pp. 
66-67. 
Graham 
Greene 
comments 
on 
Stevenson' 
s 
virtues 
as 
an 
action 
writer: 
'Action 
can 
only 
be 
expressed 
by 
a 
subject, 
a 
verb 
and 
an 
object, 
perhaps 
a 
rhythm 
- 
little 
else. 
Even 
ar, 
adjective 
slows 
the 
pace 
or 
tranquillizes 
the 
nerve. 
I 
- 
303 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
IV 
should 
have 
turned 
to 
Stevenson 
to 
learn 
my 
lesson: 
"It 
came 
all of 
a sudden 
when 
it 
did, 
with a 
rush 
of 
feet 
and 
a 
roar, 
and 
then 
a shout 
from 
Alan, 
and 
a 
sound 
of 
blows 
and someone 
crying 
out as 
if 
hurt. I looked 
back 
over 
my shoulder, 
and saw 
Mr 
Shuan 
in 
the 
doorway, 
crossing 
blades 
with 
Alan. 
" 
No 
similes or metaphors 
there, 
not 
even 
an 
adjective. 
' 
Graham 
Greene, 
A Sort 
of 
Life, 
London, 
1971, 
pp. 
198-199. 
26. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
p. 
69. 
27. 'A 
Gossip 
on 
Romance', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
23. 
28. 
H. Rider 
Haggard, 
Harmondsworth, 
1958, 
of ethical relativity 
Daiches, Some 
Late 
passim. 
King 
Solomon's 
Mines 
(1885), 
p. 
12. 
(His 
italics. 
For 
a survey 
in 
the 
comtemporary 
culture, see 
D. 
Victorian Attitudes, 
London, 1969, 
29. 
H. 
Rider Haggard, She 
(1887), 
London, 
1913, 
p. 
89. 
For 
a comparable 
Stevensonian 
attitude see 
'On 
the 
Choice 
of 
a 
Profession' 
, 
Essays 
Literary 
and 
Critical, Tusitala_ 
XXVIII, 
p. 
16. 
30. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
pp. 
111-112 
31. 
There 
is 
no extant 
MS 
of 
this 
book. But Stevenson does 
refer 
to 
it in 
a 
letter 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin 
from 
Monterey 
written 
October 21st, 1879. 
He 
says 
that 
he has 'more 
than 
seventy 
pages of 
a novel 
... 
to 
be 
called 
either 
A 
Chapter 
in 
the 
Experience 
of 
Arizona Breckonridge 
or 
A 
Vendetta 
in 
the 
West, 
or 
a combination 
of 
the two. 
The 
scene 
fror; 
Chapter 
IV 
to 
the 
end 
lies 
in 
Monterey 
and 
tha 
adjacent 
country. 
' Letters, 
Vol. 
2, 
Tusitala 
XXX 
II, 
p. 
82. 
See 
also 
his 
remarks 
in 
a 
letter 
of 
the 
same 
month 
to 
W. E. Henley, Ibid., 
p. 
80. 
32. 
F. J. Turner, The 
Significance 
of 
the 
Frontier 
in 
American 
History, 
New York, 
1893, 
p. 
7. 
33. 'Recessional' 
(1897), 
in 
A 
Choice 
of 
Ki_plin 
g's 
Verse, 
made 
by 
T. S. Eliot, 
London, 1941, 
pp. 
139-140. 
34. See 
my 
footnote 
to 
Chapter 
I, 
n. 
33. 
35. 
E. 
M. Eigner in 
his Robert 
Louis Stevenson 
and 
Romantic 
Tradition, 
Princeton, 
1966, 
pp. 
81-85 
discusses 
nationalist 
aspects 
of 
Kidnapped. 
36. 
J. G. 
Lockhart, 
Some 
Passages 
in 
the 
Life 
of 
Adam 
Blair, 
Minister 
of 
the 
Gospel 
at 
Cross-Meikle, 
Edinburgh, 
1 22. 
The 
main 
theme 
of 
this 
interesting 
novel 
is 
the 
discrepancy 
between 
a strict 
morality 
and sexual 
passion 
in 
a 
Presbyterian 
minister. 
James 
Hogg, 
The 
Private 
Memoirs 
and 
Confessions 
of 
a 
justified 
Sinner 
F19-22-4T, 
edited 
and 
with 
an 
introduction by 
John 
Carey, 
London, 
1969. 
- 
30! 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
IV 
37. 
Kidnaped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
p. 
124. 
38. 
Ibid., 
p. 
125. 
39. 
Ibid., 
p. 
124. 
40. 
Idem. 
41. The 
phrase 
'significant 
simplification' 
is 
from 'A Humble 
Remonstrance', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
142; 
it 
forms 
a 
part 
of 
his 
advice 
to 
would-be 
novelists: 
'In 
this 
age 
of 
the 
particular, 
let 
him 
remember 
the 
ages of 
the 
abstract, 
the 
great 
books 
of 
the 
past, 
the 
brave 
men 
that 
lived before Shakespeare 
and 
before Balzac. 
And 
as 
the 
root 
of 
the 
whole 
matter, 
let 
him 
bear 
in 
mind 
that 
his 
novel 
is 
not a 
transcript 
of 
life, 
to 
be 
judged 
by 
its 
exactitude; 
but 
a. simplification 
of 
some 
side 
or 
point of 
life, 
to 
stand or 
fall 
by 
its 
significant simplicity. 
' 
42. Catriona, Tusitala 
VII, 
p. 
292. 
43. 'A Note 
on 
Realism', 
Essays 
Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVII, 
p. 
70. 
44. The 
terms 
centrifugal and centripetal 
refer 
to 
two 
interpretations 
of 
Odysseus' 
journey. 
Dante, in 
The 
Divine 
Comedy, 
has Odysseus 
in 
Hell, having 
in 
his 
old 
age set 
out 
again 
on new 
travels. 
Tennyson's 
'Ulysses' 
is 
a 
dramatic 
monologue spoken 
by 
Odysseus, 
who, 
though 
old, remains 
a 
restless adventurer. 
He 
says: 
'I 
am 
a 
part 
of 
all 
that 
I 
have 
met; 
Yet 
all experience 
is 
an arch where 
through 
Gleams 
that 
untravelled 
world whose 
margin 
fades 
Forever 
and 
forever 
when 
I 
move. 
' C. 
Ricks, 
ed., 
The 
Poems 
of 
Tennyson, 
London, 1969, 
pp. 
560-566. 
The last 
two 
lines 
express 
an 
idea 
which 
finds 
counterparts 
in 
Baudelaire's 
'Le 
voyage', 
Chapter 
I 
of 
the 
present study, 
and 
in 
Stevenson's 
notion 
of 
travelling 
for 
the 
sake 
of 
travelling. 
The 
concept of 
Odysseus 
in 
Dante 
and 
Tennyson, 
of 
the 
adventurer moving 
towards 
an 
infinitely 
receding 
perimeter, 
poses 
the 
adventurous 
figure 
as 
the 
enemy of 
domestic 
virtues. 
45. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
p. 
125. 
46. 'Crabbed 
Age 
and 
Youth', 
Virginibus Puerisque, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
p. 
44. 
The 
journey 
across 
country 
resembles 
a 
game 
of 
hide 
and seek. 
47. 
J. 
J. 
Rousseau, 
The 
Social 
Contract 
(1782), 
translated 
and 
with 
an 
introduction 
by 
M. Cranston, 
Harmondsworth, 
1968, 
P. 
64. 
My 
reference 
to 
Rousseau 
is intended 
to 
remain 
a 
comparison. 
Social 
life 
in 
eighteenth 
century 
Highland 
Scotland 
was 
not 
the 
French 
philosopher's 
primitive 
nature, 
nor 
its 
inhabitants 
primitive 
men 
in 
the 
Rousseauistic 
sense. 
Alan's 
and 
David's 
flight 
and 
the 
existence 
of 
the 
hunted Jacobites, 
and 
the 
civili: 
?ing 
of 
-3 
05 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
IV 
David 
in 
Catriona, 
suggest 
parallels 
only. 
48. 
Catriona, 
Tusitala 
VII, 
p. 
54. 
49. 
Ibid., 
p. 
13. 
50. 
Ibid., 
p. 
17. 
51. 
'1 
would 
not 
have 
you 
judge 
me 
over 
sorely. 
My 
case 
is 
dooms hard. 
' 
Ibid., 
p. 
17. 
52. 
Ibid., 
p. 
18. 
(His 
italics. 
) 
53. 
'Markheim', 
The Merry Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
101. 
54. 
Catriona, Tusitala VII, 
p. 
19. 
55. 
Ibid., 
p. 
19. 
56. 
Ibid., 
p. 
20. 
57. 
Ibid., 
p. 
22. 
58. 
Ibid., 
p. 
94. 
59. 
Ibid., 
p. 
188. 
60. 
Ibid., 
p. 
187. 
61. 
Ibid., 
p. 
94. 
62. 
Ibid., 
p. 
22. 
63. 
Ibid., 
p. 
17. 
64. 
Ibid., 
p. 
60. 
65. 
Ibid., 
p. 
61. 
66. 
Ibid., 
p. 
169. 
67. 
Scott did 
not 
invent 
the 
wild 
Highlands 
singlehanded, 
but 
it 
became 
an adventurous 
terrain 
in 
his Waverley 
novels; 
just 
as 
we 
have Conrad' 
s 
East, 
Haggard' 
s 
Africa, 
Ballantyne's 
Canada, 
Cooper's 
Backwoods. 
68. 
Catriona, Tusitala 
VII, 
p. 
228. 
69. 
Robert 
Kiely, 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
and 
the 
Fiction 
of 
Adventure, 
Cambridge, 
Mass., 
1964, 
p. 
81. 
70. Catriona, 
Tusitala 
VII, 
p. 
228. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
71. This 
suggestion 
is 
made 
in 
E. M. 
Eigner, 
Stevenson 
and 
Romantic 
Tradition, 
pp 
. 
87-88. 
72. 
W. 
H. 
Auden, 
'Brothers 
and 
Others', Selected 
Essays, 
London, 
1964, 
p. 
75. 
73. 
John 
Buchan, 
Homilies 
and 
Recreations, 
London, 
1926, 
pp. 
204-205. 
74. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
VI, 
p. 
223. 
75. 
This 
epilogue 
appears 
in 
the 
last 
installment 
of 
the 
serialised 
version 
of 
Kidnapped: 
Young 
Folks 
Paper9 
- 
306 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter IV 
No. 
818, 
Vol. 
XXIX 
(July 
31,1886), 
p. 
68. 
It 
is in 
the 
first 
edition produced 
by 
Cassell, London, 
1886. But 
it 
is 
not 
in 
Skerryvore 
or 
Tusitala. 
76. 
Stevenson 
to 
T. 
Watts-Dunton, 
Sidney 
Colvin 
guesses 
September, 
1886. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
3, Tusitala 
XXXIII, 
p. 
105. 
77. 
Daniel 
Defoe, The 
Life 
and 
Adventures 
of 
Robinson Crusoe 
(1719), 
Harmondsworth, 
1970, 
p. 
94. 
78. 
Kidnapped, 
Tusitala 
V1, 
p. 
98. 
79. 
Quoted 
in 
John 
Charvet, 
'Individual 
Identity 
and 
Social 
Consciousness 
in 
Rousseau's 
Philosophy', 
in 
Cranston 
and 
Peters, 
eds., 
Hobbes 
and 
Rousseau: 
A Collection 
of 
Critical 
Essays, 
New 
York, 
1972, 
P. 
464. 
80. 
Ibid., 
p. 
470. 
81. 
Catriona, 
Tusitala 
VII, 
p. 
62. 
82. 
Ibid., 
p. 
123. 
- 
307 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
V 
1. See 
Rupert Hart-Davis, 
ed., 
Selected 
Letters 
of 
Oscar 
Wilde, 
1979, 
p. 
246. 
2. All 
references 
to 
'The 
Island' 
in 
this 
chapter 
are 
to the 
text 
in 
Page 
and 
jump, 
eds., 
Byron: 
Poetical 
Works, 
Oxford, 
1945, 
pp. 
349-366. The 
citations 
are 
of 
canto 
number 
(upper 
case 
Roman), 
stanza number 
(lower 
case 
Roman) 
and 
line 
number 
(Arabic), 
in 
that 
order. 
'happy 
shores': 
I, 
x, 
209. 
'guilt-won 
paradise': 
III 
, 
ii, 
39. 
3. Byron, 'The 
Island', 
I, 
x, 
216-220. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
4. Ibid., II, 
iv, 
65-70. 
5. 
Ibid., 
II, 
vii, 
127. 
6. 
See Charles 
Darwin, The 
Voyage 
of 
the 
Beagle 
(1842-1845). 
London, 
1959, Ch. 
10; 
J. F. C. Schiller, Uber Naiv 
und 
Sentimental Dichtung, 
Werke, 
1946-1967, Vol. 
XX 
(1962) 
, 
esp. 
pp. 
415-422,474-475. 
7. 
Beranger, 
Oeuvres 
completes, 
Paris, 1847, 
'Chansons', 
p. 
418. 
8. 
Byron 
could 
have 
referred 
to 
a number 
of 
editions, 
of 
which 
the 
earliest 
is 
William 
Bligh, 
A 
Narrative 
of 
the 
Mutiny, 
on 
Board His Majesty's Ship 
Bounty, London, 
1790. 
William Mariner. 
An 
Account 
of 
the 
Natives 
of 
the 
Tonia 
Islands 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
compiled 
by 
J. Martin, London, 
1b17. 
R. M. 
Ballantyne 
may 
have been familiar 
with 
a 
later 
edition of 
this 
book 
which 
was published 
in 
1827 by 
Constable, 
who was 
related 
to 
his father's 
publishing 
firm, 
Ballantyne. 
) 
Mariner's 
Tongan 
island, 
Hapai, 
is 
to 
be distinguished 
from Herman 
Melville's Hapar 
(T 
pee), 
who 
were 
Marquesans. 
9. William 
Mariner, 
An Account 
of 
the 
Natives 
of 
the 
Tonoma 
Islands, 1, 
pp. 
268-269. 
10. 
R. M. Ballantyne, 
The Coral Island 
(1857), 
London, 
1953, 
pp 
" 
35-36 
. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
11. 
Ibid., 
p. 
36. 
12. 
Reported 
in 
Eric 
Quayle, 
Ballantyne 
the 
Brave, 
London, 
1967, 
p. 
216 ff. 
13. 
Montaigne 
, 
'Cannibals', 
Essays 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
trans. 
Trechmann, 
Oxford, 
n. 
d., 
I, 
p. 
205. 
14. 
Ibid., 
p. 
210. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
15. 
A. 
Lang, 
Essays 
in 
Little, London, 
1891, 
p. 
198. 
(M[y 
italics 
.) 
16. 
A. 
Lang, 
'At 
the 
Sign 
of 
the 
Ship', 
Longman' 
s 
Magazine 
(November, 
1904), 
Vol. 
XLV, 
p. 
91. 
17. 
George 
Saintsbury, 
'The 
Present 
S 
tate 
of 
the 
Novel', 
Fortnightly 
Review 
(July-December, 
1897), XL 
T I, 
p. 
412. 
- 
308 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
V 
18. 
Ibid., 
p. 
416. 
19. 
'A 
Gossip 
on 
XXIX, 
p. 
121. 
20. 
'A 
Humble 
Tusitala 
f 
XIX, 
21. 
'pastoral' 
, 
Me 
22. 
23. 
24. 
25. 
26. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
30. 
31. 
32. 
33. 
34. 
35. 
36. 
37. 
38. 
39. 
40. 
Romance', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitaia 
(My 
italics. 
Remonstrance' 
, 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
p. 
142. 
(My 
italics. 
! 
mories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
49. 
A. 
Lang, Adventures 
amon 
g 
Books, London, 
1905, 
p. 
37. 
Stevenson 
and 
Osbourne, 
Thhe Wrecker, 
Tusitala 
XI I, 
p. 
124. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
0. 
Mannoni, Prospero 
and 
Caliban: 
The Psychology 
of 
Colonisation, 
London, 195, 
p" 
53 
" 
Hannah Arendt, The Origi 
ns of 
Totalitarianism 
(revised 
edition), 
Cleveland, 
1958, 
p. 
189. 
She 
quotes 
from 
Kipling's 
'Mandalay'. 
'Crabbed Age 
and 
Youth, Virginibus 
Puerisque, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
p. 
41. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
49-50. 
Quoted 
in 
Alan 
Sandison, 
The 
Wheel 
of 
Empire, 
London, 
1967, 
p. 
29. 
Edward 
Said, 
Beginnings, New York, 1975, 
esp. 
Ch. 1. 
The Wrecker, 
Tusitala XI I, 
p. 
181. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
404-405. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Ibid., 
p. 
405. 
Ibid., 
p. 
404. 
Ibid., 
p. 
75. 
Ibid., 
p. 
86. 
Ibid., 
p. 
69. 
Ibid., 
p. 
70. 
Ibid., 
p. 
15. 
(My 
italics 
.) 
Ibid., 
p. 
13. 
In 
the 
South 
Seas, 
Tusitala 
XX, 
p. 
131. 
Compare 
Stevenson' 
s 
description 
with 
the 
following, by his 
Pacific 
mentor, 
C. 
W. 
Stoddard: 
'I 
skirted, with 
loitering 
steps, 
a 
placid 
sea 
whose 
crystalline 
depths 
sheltered 
leagues 
and 
leagues 
of 
sun-painted 
corals, 
where 
a myriad 
fish, 
dyed 
like 
the 
rainbow, 
sported 
unceasingly. 
' 
Charles 
in 
Best 
South 
Warren 
Stoddard, 
'A 
Prodigal in 
Tahiti. 
Sea 
Stories, 
ed. 
Day 
and 
Stroven, 
London, 
1974, 
p. 
230. 
The 
influence 
of 
'A 
Prodigal 
in 
Tahiti' 
on 
Ebb-Tide 
was 
immense. 
Like 
Herrick, 
the 
narrator 
of 
the 
story 
is 
aware 
of 
the 
moral 
dangers 
of 
his 
Pacific 
vagabondage: 
'In 
a 
week 
I 
was 
desperate, 
with 
poverty 
and 
disgrace 
brooding 
like 
evil 
spirits 
on either 
hand. 
' 
(p. 
229). 
- 
309 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
V 
41. 
The 
Ebb-Tide, Tusitala 
XIV, 
p. 
73. 
42. 
The 
Wrecker, 
Tusi. 
tala 
XII, 
p. 
117. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Stevenson 
expands 
this 
image 
into 
a more 
detailed 
analogy: 
'I 
stood 
there 
on 
the 
extreme 
shore 
of 
the 
West 
and of 
today. 
Seventeen 
hundred 
years 
ago, and 
seven 
thousand 
miles 
to the 
east, 
a 
legionary 
stood, 
perhaps, 
upon 
the 
wall of 
Antonius, 
and 
looked 
northward 
towards 
the 
mountains of 
the 
Picts. 
For 
all 
the 
interval 
of 
time 
and space, 
I, 
when 
I 
looked 
from 
the 
cliff-house 
on 
the 
broad 
Pacific, 
was 
that 
man's 
heir 
and analogue: 
each 
of us 
standing 
on 
the 
verge 
of 
the 
Roman Empire 
(or, 
as 
we now 
call 
it, 
Western 
civilisation), 
each 
of us 
gazing 
onward 
into 
zones un-romanised. 
' 
For 
a 
similar 
perception, see 
Joseph Conrad, 
Heart 
of 
Darkness 
(1902) 
, 
Harmondsworth, 
1973, 
pp. 
7-9. 
43. 
The Wrecker, 
Tusitala 
XI 
I, 
p. 
119. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
44. 
Ibid., 
p. 
180. 
45. 
Ibid., 
p. 
92. 
46. Ibid., 
pp. 
110-111. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
47. Compare 
the 
frantic 
scrabble 
of 
this 
scene 
with a similar 
situation 
in 
Poe's 
'The 
Gold Bug', Selected 
Writings, 
ed. 
Galloway, 
1967, 
pp. 
300-301. 
See 
also 
Treasure Island, 
Tusitala 119 
pp. 
204-208; 
and 
'The Treasure 
of 
Franchard', 
The Merry 
Men 
and 
Other Tales, Tusitala 
VIII, 
pp. 
200-213. 
48. 
The Wrecker, Tusitala XI 
I, 
p. 
358. 
49. Ibid., 
p. 
360. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
50. 
Like 
most 
revisionists, 
Golding 
refers 
back 
ironically 
to 
the 
classics of 
the 
genre: 
"'While 
we're 
waiting we can 
have 
a good 
time 
on 
this 
island. 
" 
He 
gesticulated widely. 
"It's like 
in 
a 
book. " 
At 
once 
there 
was 
a clamour. 
"Treasure 
Island------" 
"Swallows 
and 
Amazons-----" 
"Coral 
Island----" 
Ralph 
waved 
the 
conch. 
"This 
is 
our 
island. 
It's 
a good 
island. Until 
the 
grown-ups 
come 
to 
fetch 
us we'll 
have fun. 
"' William 
Golding, 
Lord 
of 
the 
Flies 
(1954), 
London, 
1962 
, 
p. 
38. 
Immediately 
after 
this 
one of 
the 
boys 
claims 
to 
have 
seen 
a' 
beastie' 
, 
'a 
snake-thing, and 
the 
natural 
depravity 
of 
the 
boys 
leads 
the 
spiral 
down 
into 
violence 
and 
savagery. 
Other 
interesting 
revisionist 
island 
novels 
ar 
e 
Muriel 
Spark's 
Robinson, 
London, 
1958; 
and 
Michel 
Tournier, 
or 
the 
Other 
Island 
(Vendredi, 
ou 
les 
limbes 
du 
Friday 
, 
- 
310 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
V 
51. 
52. 
53. 
54. 
55. 
56. 
57. 
58. 
59. 
60. 
61. 
62. 
63. 
64. 
65. 
66. 
67. 
68. 
69. 
70. 
71. 
72. 
73. 
74. 
75. 
76. 
77. 
Pacifique), Harrnondsworth, 
1974. 
A 
good account 
of 
the 
topographical 
symbolism 
used 
by Spark, 
and so 
similar 
to 
Stevenson's 
nearly 
allegorical 
use of 
landscape, 
can 
be 
read 
in 
Carol 
Ohmann, 'Muriel 
Spark's 
Robinson', 
Modern 
Fiction 
(Au 
Lumn, 
19653), 
VIII 
9pp. 
70-84. 
Robert 
Browning, 
'Bishop Blougram' 
s 
Apology', 
in 
The 
Poetical Works 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
London, 
1897, I, 
pp. 
5333-534- 
The 
Wrecker, 
Tusitala 
X11, 
p. 
5. 
The 
Ebb-Tide, Tusitala 
XIV, 
p. 
1. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Graham 
Balfour, The Life 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
London, 
1901, 
II, 
p. 
143. 
The Ebb-Tide, 
Tusitala XIV, 
p. 
65. 
Ibid., 
p. 
4. 
Ibid., 
p. 
41. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Ibid., 
p. 
23. Graham 
Balfour 
says: 
'I 
am not 
sure 
that 
Virgil 
was 
not 
more 
important 
to 
him 
than 
any 
other 
poet, ancient or modern. 
' 
But, his biographer 
adds: 
'Rome 
counted 
to 
him 
as 
something very much more 
than 
a 
literature 
-a 
whole system 
of 
law 
and 
empire. 
' 
Balfour, Life, 
II, 
p. 
102. 
The Ebb-Tide, Tusitala 
XIV, 
p. 
29. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
29-30. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Ibid., 
p. 
89. 
Ideen. 
Ibid., 
p. 
88. (My 
italics. 
) 
Ibid., 
p. 
89. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Ibid., 
pp. 
89-90. 
Conrad, 
Heart 
of 
Darkness, 
p. 
85. 
The Ebb-Tide, Tusitala 
XIV, 
pp. 
100-101. 
Ibid., 
p. 
108. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Ibid., 
p. 
118. 
Ideen. 
Ebb-Tide is 
described 
as 
'grimy' 
in 
a 
letter 
from 
Stevenson 
to 
Edmund 
Gosse, 
June 10,1893. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
5, 
Tusitala 
XXXV, 
p. 
39. 
The 
Ebb-Tide, 
Tusitala 
XIV, 
p. 
77. 
Ibid., 
Ibid., 
Ibid., 
Ibid., 
Ibid., 
p. 
108. 
p. 
102. 
p. 
109. 
p. 
110. 
p. 
112. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
(My 
italics. 
) 
- 
311 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
V 
79. Ibid., 
p. 
120. 
80. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
129-130. 
81. 
Ibid., 
p. 
131. 
82. 
Ibid., 
p. 
122. 
83. 
Ibid., 
p. 
131. 
84. 
'The 
Beach 
of 
Fales?', 
Island 
Nights' 
Entertainments, 
Tusitala, XI 
II, 
pp. 
1-76. 
85. 
Stevenson 
to 
Colvin, 
September 28,1891. Letters, 
Vol. 
4, 
Tusitala XXXIV, 
p. 
101. 
86. 
Stevenson 
to 
E. 
L. 
Burlinghame, 
January 
2,1892. 
Letters, Vol. 
'4, 
Tusitala 
XXXIV, 
pp. 
143-144. 
87. 
The 
Amateur 
Emigrant, 
in 
Hart, 
From 
Scotland 
to 
Silverado, 
pp. 
10-11. 
88. 
Ibid., 
p. 
11. 
89. 
Stevenson 
to 
E. L. Burlinghame, 
December, 
1891. 
Letters, 
Vol. 4, Tusitala XXXIV, 
p. 
126. 
90. In 
the 
South Seas, Tusitala XX; 
A Footnote 
to 
History, 
Tusitala XX I (7I: 
ilima 
Papers), 
pp. 
71-240. 
Originally, 
the 
book 
on 
Samoa 
was 
-intended 
to 
be 
part of 
the 
larger 
book 
on 
the 
South Seas. Eventually, Stevenson decided 
that 
'Speed 
was 
essential' 
in 
getting 
out 
the 
Samoan 
history, 
if 
the 
book 
was 
to 
make 
any 
political 
impact 
for 
the 
good. 
See 
the 
preface 
to 
Footnote, 
Tusitala 
XXI, 
p. 
69. 
91. 
Stevenson 
to 
E. L. 
Burlinghame, December, 
1891. 
Letters, 
Vol. 4, Tusitala 
XXXIV, 
p. 
126. 
92. 
Herman Melville, 
Ty 
pee, 
or 
A 
Peep 
at 
Polynesian 
Life, 
London, 
1958, 
p. 
24. 
93. 
Ibid., 
p. 
14. 
94. See 
In 
the 
South 
Seas, 
Tusitala XX, 
pp. 
25-27,36-39. 
95. 
D. L. 
Oliver, 
writing 
about 
Oceania 
towards. 
the 
end 
of 
the 
century, 
notes 
that 
super-power 
domination 
of 
the 
Pacific 
had 
wrought 
changes 
in 
the 
relative significance 
of 
the 
old 
triumvirate 
of 
trader, 
missionary 
and 
native 
(to 
which 
he 
adds 
the 
common 
category 
of 
beachcomber) 
: 
'The 
most 
important 
effect of 
all 
these 
outside 
influences 
was 
to 
introduce 
upon 
the 
Oceanic 
scene 
the 
planter, 
the 
blackbirder, 
and 
the 
big 
trading 
company. 
Of 
these, 
the 
planter 
was 
perhaps 
the 
star 
actor, supplanting 
the 
whaler, 
itinerant 
trader, 
beachcomber, 
and 
missionary 
of 
the 
preceding 
half-century. 
' D. L. Oliver, 
The 
Pacific 
Islands, 
Cambridge, 
Mass., 
1951, 
p. 
89. 
96. 
'The 
Beach 
of 
Falesd', 
Tusitala XIII, 
p. 
1. 
97. 
Idem. 
- 
312 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
V 
98. 
For 
comment 
on 
Stevenson' 
s 
and 
Conrad' 
s 
use 
of 
the 
point 
of 
view, 
see 
the 
Appendix. 
99. 
'The 
Beach 
of 
Fales?', 
Tusitala 
XI II, 
p. 
23. 
100. 
Ibid., 
p. 
24. 
101. Ibid., 
p. 
68. 
102. In 
the 
South Seas, Tusitala XX, 
p. 
266. 
The 
story 
of 
the 
false 
marriage 
certificate, which 
Stevenson 
uses 
in 
Beach, 
is 
reported 
by him 
in 
that 
same chapter, p. 
267. 
It 
is 
worth 
noting 
that 
Lloyd Osbourne, 
in 
his 
story 
'The 
Renegade', 
makes 
a 
correct marriage 
to 
a 
Kanaka 
the test 
of 
the 
worthiness 
of a 
beachcomber 
in 
Samoa. His 
story 
is 
an 
over-melodramatic 
one; 
but 
it is interesting 
because 
it 
is 
set 
at 
the 
time 
of 
the 
civil war, 
in 
the 
midst 
of 
which 
the 
Stevenson 
entourage 
lived. 
'The 
Renegade' 
is 
the 
first 
tale 
in 
Osbourne's 
collection, 
Wild 
Justice, 
London, 
1906. 
103. 'The 
Beach 
of 
Falesa', 
Tusitala XI 
II, 
p. 
75. 
104. Ibid., 
pp. 
54-55. 
105. 
Captain 
McWhirr 
is 
the 
hero 
of 
Joseph 
Conrad' 
s 
Typhoon. 
The 
narrator 
of 
the 
story attributes 
his 
calm 
attention 
to 
detail 
and 
duty, 
in 
the 
midst 
of a 
storm and riot, 
to 
his 
lack 
of 
imagination. 
For Conrad 
imagination 
which 
is 
not 
allied 
to 
duty 
is 
a 
source 
of great 
danger 
to 
the 
individual. Wiltshire, 
too, 
has 
a 
very 
limited 
moral 
imagination; 
and, as 
with 
Mctivhirr, his 
very 
limitation 
is 
his 
strength 
in 
the 
situation 
in 
which 
he finds himself 
in 
Falesd. 
106. 
Every fiction, 
of 
course, 
has 
to 
have 
limits. 
In 
the 
novels cf 
a 
Henry James 
or a 
George 
Eliot 
- 
spacious, 
with 
socially 
distinguished 
characters 
- 
that 
limit 
tends 
to 
be 
a 
purely 
convenient 
circle; we still 
have 
from 
their 
novels 
the 
sense of a social 
existence stretching 
out 
beyond 
the 
confines of 
the 
plot; we 
feel 
that 
the 
relationships 
between 
the 
characters are 
socially 
typical. 
The 
romance, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
likes 
to 
use enclosed 
settings, 
when 
it is 
not 
in 
the 
adventure 
mode. 
107. 
Joseph 
Conrad, Heart 
of 
Darkness, 
Harmondsworth, 
1974. 
108. 
Ibid., 
p. 
70. 
109. 
'The 
Beach 
of 
Fales?', 
Tusitala XIII, 
pp. 
6-7. 
110. 
Ibid., 
p. 
7. 
111. 
'Stevenson 
may 
perhaps 
be 
regarded 
as an 
ur-existentialist 
and 
early modern 
writer. 
' 
Alistair 
Fowler, 
'Parables 
of 
Adventure: 
The 
Debateable 
Novels 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
in 
Nineteenth 
Century 
Scottish 
Fiction, 
ed. 
Ian 
Campbell, Manchester, 
1979, 
p. 
105. 
It 
will 
be 
evident 
that this 
thesis 
argues 
that 
the 
'may 
perhaps' 
should 
be deleted from 
that 
statement. 
- 
313 
- 
FOOTNOTES Chapter 
V 
112. 
' Scott 
[ 
i. 
e. 
Sir 
Walter 
] 
talks 
moderately 
of 
looking 
forward 
to 
a 
time 
of 
fighting "with 
a 
feeling 
that 
resembled 
pleasure". 
The 
resemblance 
seems 
rather 
an 
identity. In 
modern 
life, 
contact 
is 
ended; 
man grows 
impatient 
of endless 
manoeuvres; and 
to 
approach 
the 
fact, 
to 
find 
ourselves 
where we 
can 
push 
our advantage 
home, 
and stand a 
fair 
risk, and 
see 
at 
last 
what 
we 
are 
made 
of, stirs 
the 
blood. ' 
In 
the 
South 
Seas, 
Tusitala 
XX, 
pp. 
251-252. Compare 
this 
sentiment 
with 
the 
letter 
to 
Cosmo Monkhouse, 
quoted 
in 
Ch. 
III 
of 
this 
thesis, 
where 
a 
notably similar 
sentiment 
is 
expressed. 
- 
314 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VI 
1. Francoise 
Dolto, 
'Dandy 
- 
solitaire et 
singulier', 
Dandies 
and 
Dandyism, 
Paris, 
1962, 
p. 
309. 
Friedrich 
Nietzsche, 
Beyond 
Good 
and 
Evil: 
Prelude 
to 
a 
Philosophy 
of 
the 
Future 
(1$$6) 
Harmondsworth, 
1973, 
p. 
128. 
2. 
The 
Journals 
of 
Andre 
Gide 
(3 
Vols. 
), 
translated, 
edit: 
d 
and 
with an 
introduction 
by 
J. 
O'Brien, 
London, 
1947, 
Vol 
. 
III, 
P. 
393. 
3. 'Genesis 
of 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae', 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
xxiv. 
4. 
Joseph 
Conrad, 
Lord Jim, A Tale 
(1904), 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
1932, 
p. 
153. 
5. 
'Note 
to 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae', 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
238. 
6. 
The Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
1. 
7. 
Ibid., 
p. 
21. 
8. 
'A 
partisan 
I 
am; 
partisans 
have 
we all 
been; 
it is 
as 
partisan 
that 
I 
am 
here 
in 
the 
middle of 
the 
night 
to 
plead 
before 
you. 
' Ibid., 
p. 
102. MacKellar's 
story 
is 
even 
believed by 
Miss 
Alison. 
In 
other 
words 
he 
is 
seen 
as a 
partisan who 
is 
likely 
to tell the 
truth, 
however 
unpleasant 
it 
may 
be. 
Therefore, 
he 
cannot 
be 
seen as 
an unreliable narrator 
- 
controlling 
irony 
sees 
to 
that. 
9. 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
Tusitala X, 
p. 
109. 
('M 
Y 
italics. 
) 
10. 'Note 
to 
The Master 
of 
Ballantrae', 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
238. 
11. 
The Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
61. 
12. 
Ibid., 
p. 
126. 
13. 
Ibid., 
p. 
127. 
14. Ibid., 
p. 
114. 
Compare 
with 
Murdoch 
Soulis' 
memories 
of childhood 
during 
his 
great 
distress 
in 
'Thrawn 
Janet', 
The Merry 
Men 
and 
Other Stories, 
Tusitala VIII, 
p. 
96. 
'It 
carried 
him back, 
upon 
the 
instant 
... 
a 
grey 
day, 
a 
piping 
wind, 
a 
crowd upon 
the 
street 
... 
the 
booming 
of 
drums 
... 
and 
a 
boy 
going 
to 
and 
fro, buried 
over 
head in 
the 
crowd 
... 
until, coming out 
upon 
the 
chief 
place 
of 
concourse, 
he beheld 
a 
booth 
and 
a 
great 
scene 
with 
pictures, 
dismally 
designed, 
garishly 
coloured 
... 
a score 
of 
famous 
crimes. 
The 
thing 
was 
as 
clear 
as 
an 
illusion; 
he 
was 
once 
again 
that 
little 
boy. ' 
And 
with 
Markheim' 
s 
similar 
recollections 
in 
the 
story of 
that 
name 
in 
The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Stories, 
Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
116. 
15. 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
15. 
- 
315 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter VI 
16. 
Ibid., 
p. 
160. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
17. 
Ibid., 
p. 
158. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
18. Ibid., 
p. 
151. 
19. 
In 
'The 
Genesis 
of 
The Master 
of 
Ballantrae' 
, 
Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
xxiii, 
Stevenson 
describes how 
he 
decided 
to 
adopt 
a 
' 
summary 
elliptic 
method. 
'My 
pen 
is 
clear 
enough 
to 
tell 
a 
plain 
tale; 
but 
to 
render 
the 
effect of 
an 
infinity 
of small 
things, 
not 
one great enough 
in 
itself 
to 
be 
narrated; and 
to 
translate the 
story of 
looks, 
and 
the 
message 
of voices when 
they 
are saying no great 
matter; 
and 
to 
put 
in 
half 
a 
page 
the 
essence 
of 
near 
eighteen 
months 
- 
this 
is 
what 
I despair 
to 
accomplish. 
' 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
Tusitala X, 
p. 
21. 
20. The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusitala X, 
p. 
162. 
21. 
Ibid., 
p. 
163. 
22. 
Ibid., 
p. 
90. 
23. Ibid., 
pp. 
162-163. 
24. 
Ibid., 
p. 
164. 
25. Ibid., 
pp. 
165-166. 
26. Ibid., 
p. 
171. 
27. 
Ibid., 
p. 
174. 
28. Ibid., 
p. 
30. 
29. 
James 
argues 
to 
MacKellar 
that 
his 
violence 
belongs 
to 
an 
earlier, more 
heroic 
era, which 
only seems corrupt 
to the 
petty 
scruples 
of 
the 
modern 
age. 
30. The Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusitala X, 
p. 
175. 
31. 
Ibid., 
p. 
232. 
32. 
Ibid., 
p. 
219. 
33. Ibid., 
p. 
175. 
34. 
Joseph Conrad, 
Lord 
Jim, 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
1932, 
p. 
j39- 
35. 
Ibid., 
p. 
396. 
36. 
Friedrich 
Nietzsche, 
Beyond Good 
and 
Evil: Prelude 
to 
a 
Philosophy 
of 
the 
Future 
(1886) 
, 
Harmondsworth, 
1973, 
p. 
129. 
37. The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, 
Tusitala 
X, 
pp. 
125,149. 
38. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
5,60. 
39. 
Ibid., 
p. 
31. 
40. 
Ibid., 
p. 
I. 
41. 
In 
the 
preface, 
in 
which 
he 
recounts 
the 
discovery 
of 
Mackellar's 
manuscript 
in 
the 
person 
of 
R. 
L. S., 
novelist, 
he 
states 
his 
preference 
for 
unadorned 
prose: 
"'I 
believe 
- 
316 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VI 
there is 
nothing 
so noble 
as 
baldness, 
" I 
replied, 
"and 
I 
am 
sure 
there 
is 
nothing 
so 
interesting. 
I 
would 
have 
all 
literature bald, 
and 
all 
authors 
(if 
you 
like) 
buc 
one. 
"' 
In 
writing 
to 
Henry 
James, 
an 
author 
bald 
of 
pate 
but 
certainly not 
in 
style, 
Stevenson, 
in 
a mood 
of 
'wholesale 
impatience' 
with 
fiction, 
bemoans 
the 
'besotting 
particularity' of 
fiction: 
"'Roland 
approached 
the 
house; 
it 
had 
green 
doors 
and window 
blinds; 
and 
there 
was a 
scraper on 
the 
upper 
step. 
" 
To 
hell 
with 
Roland 
and 
the 
scraper! 
' 
Stevenson 
to 
Henry 
James, 
July, 
1893. Letters, Vol. 
V, 
Tusitala 
XXXV, 
pp. 
67-68. 
The baldness, 
I 
would 
suggest, 
has 
more 
to 
do 
with 
abstract 
telling than 
with stylistic simplicity. 
42. 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusitala X, 
p. 
1. 
43. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
233-234. 
44. 'As 
for 
my 
late 
Lord Durrisdeer, 
I 
served 
him 
and 
loved 
near 
twenty 
years; and 
thought 
more 
of 
him 
the 
more 
I 
knew 
of 
him. Altogether, 
I 
think 
it 
not 
fit 
that 
so 
much 
evidence 
should 
perish; 
the 
truth 
is 
a 
debt I 
owe my 
Lord's 
memory; and 
I 
think 
my 
old 
years 
will 
flow 
more 
smoothly, and my white 
hair lie 
quieter on 
the 
pillow, 
when 
the 
debt 
is 
paid. 
' Ibid., 
p. 
1. 
This 
announces 
the 
apologetic 
intent 
of 
the 
document. Note 
that 
it 
also 
ties 
MacKellar's 
own conscience 
to the 
story 
he 
is 
going 
to 
tell. 
45. 'A Note 
on 
Realism', 
Essays Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVIII, 
p. 
72. 
- 
317 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VII 
1. 
Janet 
Adam 
Smith, 
ed., 
Henry James 
and 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson: 
A 
Record 
of 
Friendship 
and 
Criticism, 
London, 
15L 
,p. 
271. 
2. Ibid., 
p. 
255. 
3. Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XV I, 
preceding p. 
1. 
4. Scott, Waverle 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
Border Edition, Vol. 
11, 
pp 
" 
36,51--3--64. 
5. 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XVI, 
p. 
1. 
6. 
Ibid., 
p. 
64. 
A 
neighbour 
of 
Braxfield 
in 
George 
Square 
was one 
John Rutherford, 
a 
military man. 
It 
is 
interesting 
to 
note 
that 
Rutherford 
took 
part 
in 
the 
Battle 
of 
Ticonderoga 
(see 
this 
chapter 
n. 
52). 
Book 
of 
the 
Old Edinburgh Club, Vol. XLV 
I, 
Edinburgh, 194&, 
p. 
1?5- 
1U 
. 
7. 
T. 
C. Smout, A History 
of 
the 
Scottish 
People 
1560-1830, 
Glasgow, 
1972, 
p. 
415. A 
more 
sympathetic view of 
Braxfield 
is 
presented 
by 
William 
Ferguson 
in 
his 
Scotland: 1689 
to 
the 
Present, 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
1970 
, 
8. 
See 
pp. 
258-25.9, 
which 
deal 
with 
Sedition Trials 
of 
the 
1790s. 
Although Bra_xfield 
was 
the 
main 
model 
for 
Weir, Stevenson' 
s 
paternal 
grandfather receives 
a 
description 
in 
A Family 
of 
Engineers 
which 
corresponds 
closely with 
a 
similar 
one 
of 
Hermiston in 
the 
novel. 
He 
describes 
his 
grandfather 
as 
being 
married 
to 
a pious, 
scatterbrained woman who 
cannot quite order 
the 
affairs 
of 
the 
household, 
and 
he 
records 
him 
rejecting 
a 
particularly 
poor 
meal as 
Hermiston 
does 
in 
the 
novel. 
See Records 
of 
a 
Family 
of 
Engineers, 
Tusitala. XIX 
(Memoir 
of 
Eleeming Jenki Records 
of a 
Family 
of 
Engineers), 
p. 
174; 
and compare with 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XVI, 
pp. 
5-8. 
8. 
'Some Portraits 
by Raeburn' 
, 
Virginibus 
Puerisq, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
p. 
98. 
9. Stevenson 
to 
A. Lang, 
December 1,1884. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
5, 
Tusitala 
XXXV, 
p. 
182. 
10. 'Some Portraits 
by Raeburn', 
Virginibus Puerisque, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
p. 
102. 
11. Idem. 
12. 
Ibid., 
p. 
103. 
13. 
Ibid., 
p. 
102. 
Cockburn 
actually 
describes 
Braxfield 
as 
having 
'a 
low 
growling voice' 
and 
being 
'like 
a 
formidable 
blacksmith'. 
Henry 
Cockburn, 
Memorials 
of 
his 
Time 
(1856) 
, 
New 
edition 
with an 
introduction by 
H. 
A. 
Cockburn, 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
1910, 
p. 
104. 
14. 
Stevenson 
to 
Charles 
Baxter, 
December 
1,1892. 
Letters, 
Vol. 
4, 
Tusitala 
XXXIV, 
p. 
270. 
(His 
italics. 
) 
- 
318 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VII 
15. 
Cockburn, 
Memorials 
of 
his 
Time, 
p. 
104. 
16. 
Ibid., 
p. 
105. 
17. 
Ibid., 
p. 
104. 
18. 
Ibid., 
p. 
105. 
19. Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XVI, 
p. 
19. 
20. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
18-19. 
21. 'The Manse', Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p P. 
57. 
22. Weir 
of 
Hermiston, Tusitala 
XV I, 
p. 
54. 
23. 
Ibid., 
p. 
35. 
24. Idem. 
25. Ibid., 
p.. 
117. 
26. Ibid., 
p. 
11. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
27. Idem. 
28. 
Ibid., 
p. 
12. 
29. 
Ideen. 
30. Ibid., 
p. 
26. 
31. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
27-28. 
32. 
Ibid., 
p. 
40. 
33. 
Idem. 
34. 
Ibid., 
p. 
43. 
35. 
Iden. 
36. 
Ibid., 
p. 
58. 
37. 
Ibid., 
p. 
23. 
38. 
An 
account of 
the 
conflict 
between 
authority 
and 
procedure 
in 
Scots 
law 
in 
the 
eighteenth 
century 
is 
to 
be 
found 
in 
Peter 
Stein, 'Law 
and 
Society 
in 
Eighteenth 
Century 
Scottish Thought' 
, 
in 
Phillipson 
and 
Mitchison, 
eds., 
Scotland 
in 
the 
Age 
of 
Im 
rovement: 
Essays 
in 
Scottish 
History 
in 
the 
Eighteenth 
Century, 
Edinburgh, 
1970, 
pp. 
148-4167-- 
30. Weir 
of 
Hermiston, Tusitala XVI, 
p. 
17. 
40. 
Ibid., 
p. 
36. 
Lord 
Glenalmond 
says 
of 
Hermiston: 
'He has 
all 
the 
Roman 
virtues: 
Cato 
and 
Brutus 
were such; 
I 
think 
a 
son's 
heart 
might 
well 
be 
proud 
of such 
an ancestry 
of 
one. 
' 
Ibid., 
p. 
20. 
Of 
these 
two 
stoics, 
Cato 
most 
resembles 
the 
character 
of 
Hermiston 
as 
presented 
in 
the 
novel. 
Cato 
is 
said 
to 
have 
been 
indifferent 
to 
popular 
opinion, 
to 
have 
had 
an 
extremely 
severe 
sense 
of 
duty 
and 
to 
- 
319 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VII 
have 
been 
reluctant 
to 
allow 
emotions 
to 
determine 
his 
actions. 
Seneca 
gives a 
character of 
Cato 
in 
Letters 
From 
a 
Stoic, 
selected, 
translated 
ai 
d. 
with 
an 
introduction, 
by Robin 
Campbell, 
Harmondsworth, 
1969, 
pp 
" 
192-194. 
41. Ibid., 
p. 
60. 
42. Idem. 
(My 
italics. 
) 
43. Stevenson 
to 
R. 
A. 
M. 
(Bob) 
Stevenson, September, 1894. 
Letters, 
Vol. 5, 
Tusitala 
XXXV, 
p. 
165. 
44. 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XVI, 
pp. 
70-71. 
45. 
Ibid., 
p. 
71. 
46. 
Ibid., 
p. 
78. 
47. Ibid., 
p. 
72. 
48. Ibid., 
p. 
59. 
49. 
Ibid., 
p. 
64. 
50. 
Ibid., 
p. 
92. 
51. 
Ibid., 
p. 
117. 
52. 
'Ticonderoga', 
("Ballads", 
Poems, 
Vol. 2), Tusitala 
XX 
III, 
pp. 
53-61. 
This 
ballad 
records 
a 
story of a 
roan 
who 
kills 
another, escapes 
by 
getting 
protection 
from 
the 
dead 
man's 
brother, 
serves 
in 
the 
army 
(in 
India 
amongst other places) and 
finally 
confronts 
an 
Indian 
in 
Albany 
(present 
day 
New 
York State) 
who 
speaks 
the 
fatal 
word 
- 
Ticonderoga 
- 
which 
he has been 
told 
will 
signal 
his death. 
At 
the 
Battle 
of 
Ticonderoga 
the 
following 
day he 
is 
killed. 
The 
ballad 
is 
particularly 
interesting 
to 
the 
critic 
because 
it 
echoes 
at almost 
every 
point 
the 
movements of 
The Master 
of 
Baliantrae 
(murder, 
brother, Scotland, 
India, 
Albany). 
A 
good 
example 
of extraneous 
choral comment 
in 
the 
novel 
occurs 
at 
the 
beginning 
of 
Chapter VII: 'More 
and more as 
we 
grow 
old 
- 
and 
yet 
more 
and 
more as we 
grow old 
and 
are women,. 
frozen by 
the 
fear 
of age 
- 
we come 
to 
rely 
on 
the 
voice 
as 
the 
single 
outlet of 
the 
soul. 
' Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala XVI, 
p. 
111. 
The 
generalisation 
is 
directly 
related 
to the 
character 
of 
the 
elder 
Kirstie. A 
more 
significant 
rhetorical 
feature 
of 
the 
text 
is 
the 
generalisation 
which 
deliberately 
reveals 
the 
omniscience, 
or 
future 
knowledge, 
of 
the 
author, 
as 
we see 
in 
the 
ending 
of 
the 
previous 
chapter. 
Frank Innes 
has 
been 
contemplating 
his 
revenge 
on 
Archie 
for 
snubbing 
him 
when 
the 
author 
opens 
up 
his fate 
for 
the 
reader: 
'Poor 
cork 
upon 
a 
torrent, 
he 
tasted 
that 
night 
the 
sweets 
of 
omnipotence, 
and 
brooded 
like 
a 
deity 
[ 
or 
like 
an 
author? 
] 
over 
the 
strands 
of 
that 
intrigue 
which was 
to 
shatter 
him 
before 
the 
summer waned. 
' Ibid., 
p. 
110. 
- 
320 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VII 
53. 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XV I, 
p. 
121. 
54. 
Ibid., 
p. 
122. 
55. 
'Pan's 
Pipes', 
Virginibus 
Puerisque, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
p. 
128. 
56. 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XV 
I, 
p. 
124. 
57. 
'Child's 
Play', Virginibus Puerisque, 
Tusitala 
XXV, 
pp. 
106-116; 
'Letter 
to 
a 
Young Gentleman 
Who 
Proposes 
to 
Embrace 
the 
Career 
of 
Art', 
Essays 
Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVI II, 
pp. 
3-11; 'Lantern 
Bearers', 
Further 
Memories, 
Tusitala XXX, 
pp. 
29-46. 
58. 
'Old 
Mortality', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
20. 
(My 
italics. 
59. 
Henry 
James, 
in 
Janet 
Adam Smith, 
Record 
of 
Friendship, 
p. 
257. 
60. 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala XVI, 
p. 
24. 
61. 
Idem. 
62. 
Ibid., 
p. 
25. 
63. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
25-26. 
64. 
Ibid., 
p. 
28. 
65. 
Ibid., 
p. 
31. 
66. 
The 
description 
of 
the 
emergence of a 
new 
sensibility 
in 
the 
Scotland 
in 
which 
Weir 
is 
set 
is 
to 
be found 
in 
Henry 
Mackenzie' 
s proto-Romantic novel 
The 
Man 
of 
Feeling. 
See 
esp. 
Chs. 
11-13, 
which account 
for Harley' 
s early 
life 
and 
loves. 
. 
67. 
Weir 
of 
Hermiston, Tusitala 
XV I, 
p. 
25. 
68. 
Ibid., 
p. 
31. 
69. 
Ibid., 
p. 
26. 
70. Fables, Tusitala 
V 
(The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
H 
dy 
e 
Fables, 
and 
Other Stories 
and 
Fragments)-, 
- 
ragments 
, 
pp. 
92. 
71. 
Ibid., 
p. 
86. 
72. 
Idem. 
73. 
Ibid., 
p. 
88. 
74. 
Ibid., 
p. 
92. 
75. Weir 
of 
Hermiston, 
Tusitala 
XVI, 
p. 
110. 
76. 
'Selections 
from 
his 
Notebook', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
188. 
77. 
'A 
Gossip 
on 
a 
Novel 
of 
Dumas's', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala 
XXIX, 
p. 
117. 
- 
321 
-- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VIII 
1. 
Reprinted 
in 
Jacques 
Riviere, 
The 
Ideal 
Reader, 
ed. and 
tr. 
B. A. 
Price, 
London, 
1962. 
2. 
Jacques 
Ri 
viere, 
The Ideal 
Reader, 
p. 
59. 
3. 
Ibid., 
p. 
63. 
4. 
Ibid., 
p. 
64. 
5. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
64-65. 
6. 
Ibid., 
pp. 
71-72. 
7. 
Ibid., 
p. 
72. 
8. 
See 
this thesis, 
Ch. 
IV. 
9. 
Henry 
James 
perceived 
this 
bloodless 
method of composition 
of 
Stevenson's. 
See his 'The 
Letters 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson', 
in 
Janet Adam Smith, 
ed., 
Record 
of 
a 
Friendship: 
_ _Henry 
James 
and 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson, 
London, 1948, 
p. 
2 
7: 
'The form, 
the 
envelope, 
headforemost, 
as 
the 
idea; 
chapters, sequences, 
orders. 
' 
A 
guide 
to 
planned stories 
frequently 
are represented 
by 
characters 
or 
chapter 
titles, 
is 
Swearingen, The 
Prose Writings 
of 
A 
Guide, London, 
1980, 
passim. 
10. 
From Borges' 
preface 
to 
his 
biography 
of 
Evaristo 
Carriego. Quoted 
in 
Ronald Christ, 
The 
Narrow Act: 
Bornes' Art 
of 
Illusion, New York 
and 
London, 1_969, 
p. 
57. 
11. 
Preface 
to 
the 
First 
Edition, 
A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
Harmondsworth, 
1975, 
p. 
IS-. 
- 
12. 
Jorge Luis Borges, 
Dr Brodie's Report, 
London, 1974, 
p. 
123. 
13. 
A 
Universal History 
of 
Infam 
, 
Harmondsworth, 
1975, 
pp 
" 
69-76. 
14. 
'Byways 
of 
Book 
Illustration' 
, 
Essays literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVIII, 
pp. 
197-207. 
15. 
Both 
Stevenson 
and 
Borges 
take 
as 
the 
main 
point of 
the 
story 
of 
the 
R?nin 
that 
such a 
sense 
of 
honour 
is 
difficult, 
or 
unimaginable, 
in 
their 
own 
times. 
Borges 
examines 
an 
extreme 
case of 
honour 
in 
'Streetcorner 
Man', 
A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
pp. 
87-100; 
and 
in 
'Emma 
Zunz', 
Labyrinths, 
Harmondsworth, 
1976, 
pp. 
164- 
169. 
Stevenson' 
s 
interest 
in 
honour 
is 
reflected 
in 
the 
characters 
of 
David 
Balfour 
(when 
put under pressure 
by 
Prestongrange 
and 
Lovat) 
and 
Alan 
Breck 
in 
Kidnapped. 
16. 
'Tom 
Castro, the 
Implausible 
Imposter' 
,A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
Harmondsworth, 
1975, 
p. 
38. 
is 
there 
with 
him, 
titles, 
names, 
that 
is, 
(His 
italics. 
) 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
which 
no more 
than 
lists 
of 
to 
be 
found 
in 
Roger 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
- 
'1 
022 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VIII 
17. 
Treasure 
Island, 
Tusitala 
II, 
p. 
31. 
18. 
Pre F. 
-ice 
to 
the 
First 
Edition, 
A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
p. 
15. 
19. A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
p. 
74. 
20. St 
Ives: The 
Adventures 
of 
a 
French Prisoner 
in 
England, 
Tusitala 
Xv, 
pp. 
53-54. 
21. ' 
Tl?n, 
Uqbar, 
Orbis 
Tertius', 
Labyrinths, 
Harmondsworth, 
p. 
27; 
see also 
'The Masked 
Dyer, Hakim 
of 
Merv', 
A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
p. 
83. 
22. 'Markheim', 
The 
Merry 
Men 
and 
Other 
Tales, Tusitala 
VIII, 
p. 
91. 
23. 
'Crabbed Age 
and 
Youth', 
Virginibus. Puerisque 
and 
Other 
Essays 
in 
Belle 
Lettres, 
pp. 
49-50 
. 
24. 'A 
Humble 
Remonstrance', 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, 
Tusitala XXIX, 
p. 
135. 
25. 
'The Fearful 
Sphere 
of 
Pascal' 
, 
Labyrinths, 
Harmondsworth, 
pp. 
224 
-227. 
It 
is 
an 
'anguished' 
conception 
because Borges 
speculates 
that 
Pascal 
did 
not 
write 
that the 
universe 
is 
an 
'infinite 
sphere', 
as 
is 
usually 
printed, 
but 
that 
he 
wrote 
that 
it 
was 
' 
effroyable' 
. 
26. Stevenson' 
s attitude 
to 
his 
audience 
is 
too 
complicated 
to 
be 
gone 
into 
here. 
He 
writes 
in 
one 
place 
of 
the 
arts as 
'these 
trades 
of pleasing' ; 
it is 
'the bourgeois 
who 
carries 
the 
purse'. 
'Letter 
to 
a 
Young 
Gentleman 
who 
Proposes 
to 
Embrace 
the 
Career 
of 
Art' 
, 
Essays Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXV 
III, 
p. 
8. 
On 
other occasions) 
, 
he 
is 
unqualifiedly 
scathing about 
the 
beastly Burgess 
who 
makes 
up 
the 
public. 
See 
his 
letter 
to 
Henry James, 
December 
8,1884. 
Letters, 
Vol. 3, Tusitala 
XXXIII, 
p. 
24. 
Borges 
appeals 
to 
a 
less 
precise readership, 
and 
is 
quite 
capable 
of 
teasing 
and 
deceiving 
his 
readers: 
as 
he 
was 
doing 
above when 
he 
mentioned 
the 
influence 
upon 
him 
of 
'a 
certain 
biography 
of 
Evaristo 
Carriego': 
the 
biography 
was 
written 
by 
Borges 
himself. One 
of 
the 
ways 
in 
which 
we could 
define 
the 
changes 
in 
literature 
between 
the 
'Late 
Victorian 
period 
and 
the 
Modern 
would. 
be 
in 
terms 
of 
an 
altered 
relationship 
between 
writer 
and 
reader. 
Reading 
a writer 
like 
Stevenson 
(or 
Wilde) 
is 
easy; 
understanding 
them 
is 
difficult. 
In 
the 
case 
of 
a 
James 
Joyce, 
both 
reading 
and 
understanding 
are 
exercises 
that 
require 
no 
little 
commitment. 
27. 
'The Widow 
Ching, 
Lady Pirate', A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
Harmondsworth, 
1975, 
pp. 
41-49. 
It 
uses 
an 
P11 
i 
ntical 
style. 
rather 
like 
Defoe' 
s 
Captain 
Singleton. 
T 
have 
been 
unable 
to 
get 
a 
copy 
of 
Captain 
Johnson's 
History 
of 
the 
Pirates; 
but, 
a. 
detailed 
and 
convincing 
explanation 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
indebtedness 
to 
Defoe 
in 
- 
323 
Treasure 
Island 
and 
Master 
'Defoe, 
Stevenson. 
and 
the 
History 
(. 
[arch, 
1943), 
X, 
p. 
28. 
'Borges 
and 
1, 
Labyrintlhs, 
FOOTNOTES Chapter VIII 
is 
to 
be found 
in 
J. R. 
Moore, 
Pirates', 
in 
English 
Literary 
50 
ff. 
Harrnondsworth, 1976, 
p. 
282. 
29. 'A 
Note 
on 
Realism', 
Essays 
Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala 
XXVIII, 
p. 
70.. 
30. 
Shelley 
argues 
that: 
'the 
mind of 
creation 
is 
as 
a 
falling 
coal 
... 
When 
composition 
begins, 
inspiration 
is 
already 
on 
the 
decline 
and 
the 
most glorious 
poetry 
that 
has 
ever 
been 
communicated 
to the 
world 
is 
probably 
a 
feeble 
shadow of 
the 
original conceptions 
of 
the 
poet. 
' See 
Shelley, 
'A 
Defence 
of 
Poetry, 
in 
Selections 
from 
Shelley's Poetry 
and 
Prose, 
ed. 
Welland, London, 
196 
pp. 
236-237. 
31. 
'A 
Note 
on 
Realism', 
Essays Literary 
and 
Critical, 
Tusitala XXVIII, 
p. 
71. 
32. The 
Nabokov-Wilson 
Letters, 
ed. 
Simon Karlinsky, 
London, 
1979, 
p. 
246. 
33. 
He 
mentions 
this 
in 
Strong 
Opinions, London, 1973, 
p. 
62. 
The 
lecture 
has 
now 
been 
published 
in 
the 
volume 
Lectures 
on 
European LiEerature, London-, 
1983, 
where 
he 
says 
of 
it 
that 
it 
'belongs 
to the 
same order of 
art 
as, 
for 
instance, 
Madame 13ovar 
or 
Dead Souls. ' 
(p. 
130) 
. 
34. 
Vladimir Nabokov, 
Lectures 
on 
European Literature, 
London, 
1983, 
p. 
184. 
35. Ibid., 
p. 
192. 
36. 
Idem. 
37. 
Idem. 
38. Ibid., 
p. 
193 
39. Vladimir 
Nabokov, 
The Eye, London, 1966. 
The 
title 
punningly 
announces 
that 
this 
novel will, 
like 
Jekyll 
and 
Hyde, 
be 
about personal 
identity 
and 
witness. 
40. 
Ibid., 
p. 
9. 
41. 'The 
theme 
of 
The Eye 
is 
the 
pursuit of 
an 
investigation 
which 
leads 
the 
protagonist 
through 
a 
hell 
of 
mirrors 
and 
ends 
in 
the 
merging 
of 
twin 
images. 
' 
Idem. 
42. The 
Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, Tusitala 
V, 
P. 
58. 
43. 
Idem. 
44. 
' He 
appeared 
to 
my 
eyes as my 
double, 
that is, 
as 
a 
creature 
bodily identical 
to 
me. 
It 
was 
this 
absolute 
sameness 
which 
gave 
me so 
piercing 
a 
thrill. 
" 
Vladimir 
Nabokov, 
Despair, 
Harmondsworth, 
1981, 
p. 
21. 
Compare 
Hermann' 
s sensation 
with 
Jekyll' 
s 
'leap 
of 
welcome' 
to 
Hyde, 
when 
he 
sees 
him 
in 
the 
mirror 
for 
the 
- 
324 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VIII 
first 
time. 
Op. 
cit. 
, 
Tusitala V, 
p. 
61. 
45. 
Hermann 
also resembles 
Markheim. 
in 
his 
hat 
red 
of 
mirrors. 
He 
notices 
his 
wife 
catching 
site 
of 
herself 
'in 
the 
mirror' and 
inveighs 
against 
these 
treacherous 
witnesses: 
'Now 
that 
is 
a word 
I 
loathe, 
the 
ghastly 
thing! 
I 
have had 
none of 
the 
article 
since 
I 
stopped 
shaving. 
' 
He 
especially 
dislikes 'crooked 
ones, 
monsters 
among mirrors: 
a 
neck 
bared, 
no 
matter 
how 
sightly, 
draws 
out suddenly 
into 
a 
downward 
yawn of 
flesh 
... 
a 
crooked mirror 
strips 
its 
man or starts 
to 
squash 
him, 
and 
lo! 
there 
is 
produced 
a man-bull, 
a man-toad, 
under 
the 
pressure 
of countless 
glass atmospheres;. or 
else, 
one 
is 
pulled 
out 
like 
dough 
and 
then torn 
into 
two. 
' 
(My 
italics. 
) 
Hermann's 
hatred 
of witness, 
his feeling 
that 
it 
distorts, 
connects 
his 
terror 
of 
self-consciousness 
with 
Borges' 
Gnostic 
gleanings as well as with 
'Markheim': 
see 
this 
chapter, 
p. 
246. 
46. 
Vladimir 
Nabokov, 
Lolita, 
Harmondsworth, 
1980. 
This 
novel was written 
by 
Nabokov 
in 
the 
mid-1950s: 
that 
is, 
while 
he 
was 
lecturing 
on 
Jekyll 
and 
! lyqe 
every 
year at 
Cornell. For 
an 
account 
of 
its 
genesis 
and writing, 
see 
Andrew 
Field, 
Nabokov: 
His Life 
in 
Art,. London, 
1967, 
Ch. 11, 
passim. 
47. 
Lolita, 
p. 
18. 
48. 
Ibid., 
p. 
25. 
49. 
'Hence 
the 
apelike 
tricks that 
he 
would 
play me. 
' The 
Strange Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
Tusitala V, 
p. 
73. Hyde's 'apelike 
spite' 
is 
recognised 
by 
the 
doctor, 
p" 
74. 
50. 
Lolita, 
p. 
25. Brutal 
meaning 
both 
vicious 
and 
animal- 
like. 
51. 
Ibid., 
p. 
103. 
52. 
Ibid., 
p. 
256. Compare 
with 
the 
point 
in 
his 
confession 
where 
Jekyll 
describes 
being 
in 
a 
London 
park when 
one 
of 
his 
transformations 
occurs: 
'I 
looked down 
... 
the 
hand 
that 
lay 
on my 
knee 
was 
corded 
and 
hairy. 
' Op. 
cit., 
p. 
69; 
also, 
p. 
64. 
53. 
Lolita, 
p. 
285. 
54. 
'To 
myself 
I 
whispered 
that 
I 
still 
had 
my 
gun, and 
was 
still 
a 
free 
man 
- 
free 
to 
trace 
the 
fugitive, 
free 
to 
destroy 
my 
brother. 
' Ibid., 
p. 
245. 
55. The 
Strange 
Case 
of 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala_ 
V, 
p. 
59. 
56. 
Lolita, 
p. 
23-5. 
57. 
Ibid., 
p. 
248. 
58. 
'Fie 
could 
change 
his 
name 
but 
he 
could 
not 
disguise, 
no 
matter 
how 
he 
slanted 
them, 
his 
very 
peculiar 
t' 
s, w' 
s 
- 
325 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Chapter 
VIII 
and 
l' 
s. 
' 
Idem. 
See Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr 
Hyde, 
Tusitala 
V, 
pp 
" 
28-29. 
59. 
Lolita, 
p. 
294. 
60. 
Ibid., 
p. 
296. 
61. 
Ibid., 
p. 
297. 
62. 
's'he 
Str 
an e 
Case 
of 
Dr 
Jek 
yll 
and 
Mr Hyde, 
Tusitala 
V, 
p. 
72. 
63. 
See 
Frank 
MacShane, The 
Life 
of 
Raymond 
Chandler, 
London, 1976, 
p. 
63. 
64. 
See 
this 
thesis, 
Ch. 
IV, 
n 
. 
25. 
65. 
The 
Guardian, November 26, 
1980, 
p. 
11. 
66. 
Dennis Judd, 
The 
Return 
to 
Treasure 
Island, 
London, 
1978. 
- 
326 
- 
1. 
2. 
FOOTNOTES 
Appendix 
In 
John Buchan, 
The 
Runagates 
Club, 
London, 
1974, 
preceding 
p. 
1. 
Cunninghame 
Graham is 
a complex and 
exotic 
figure, 
whose 
career 
is 
too 
involved 
to 
go 
into 
here. 
See 
Cedric 
Watts 
and 
Lawrence 
Davies, 
Cunninghame 
Graham: 
A 
Critical 
Biography, 
Cambridge, 
1979; 
Herbert 
Faulkner 
West, 
A 
Modern 
Conquistador: 
Robert Bontine 
Cunningha. 
me 
His 
Life 
and 
Wor 
ks, 
London, 
1932. 
Graham's 
literary 
methods 
are generally very 
different 
from 
Stevenson's. 
However, 
mention 
must 
be 
made 
here 
of 
his 
allegorical 
tale 
' Higginson' 
s 
Dream. Polynesia 
was 
one 
of 
the 
few places 
in 
the 
world where 
'he 
had 
not 
been. 
But 
this 
tale 
is 
a parable 
of 
the 
mixed 
motives 
involved 
in 
a 
European's 
infatuation 
with 
Oceania. 
The 
story 
parallels 
many 
of 
Stevenson's 
observations 
in 
In 
the 
South 
Seas 
and 
A 
Footnote 
to 
History. 
For Graham's 
story, 
see 
Thirteen 
Stories, 
London, 
1900, 
pp. 
85-93. 
3. 
The 
connections 
between 
Buchan 
and 
Stevenson 
are so 
strong 
that 
they 
might well 
have been 
fully discussed 
in 
this 
appendix, 
had 
not 
Janet Adam Smith, 
in 
her 
biography 
of 
Buchan, 
covered 
those 
connections 
so 
thoroughly. 
The 
reader can, 
then, 
be. 
referred 
to 
J. 
A. 
Smith, 
John Buchan, 
London, 
1965, 
pp. 
36-37,86-96,102., 
141,234-235,254-255. 
4. 
Quoted 
in 
R. L. Green, 
Andrew 
Lang, 
Leicester, 
1946, 
p. 
213. 
5. 
A discussion 
of 
Tylor's 
theory 
of 
survivals can 
be 
found 
in 
J. 
W. Burrow, Evolution 
and 
Society, Cambridge, 
1970, 
pp. 
140-141. Stevenson 
summarises an 
argument 
about 
language 
in 
his 
notebook, 
attributing 
it 
to 
' Tzlai' 
s 
Prin. 
Cult. 
11.79. 
'Selections 
from 
his 
Notebook, 
in 
Memories 
and 
Portraits, Tusitala XXIX, 
p. 
176. This 
book 
is 
almost 
certainly 
Tylor's 
Principles 
of 
Culture, 
which 
has 
been 
wrongly 
transcribed 
by 
Colvin 
for 
the 
Tusitala 
edition. 
Stevenson kept 
up 
with 
Lang' 
s 
folklore 
studies, 
too. 
We 
find 
him 
writing 
to 
request 
'Lang's Folk-Lore'. 
Stevenson 
to 
Mr 
and 
Tv frs Thomas 
Stevenson, 
December 
9, 
1884. 
Letters, 
Vol. 3, Tusitala XXXIII, 
p. 
26. The 
book 
referred 
to 
could 
have 
been 
Custom 
and 
Myth 
(1884) 
or 
Lang's 
introductions 
to 
a 
new edition of 
Grimm 
which 
also 
came 
out 
in 
that 
year. 
6. 
H. 
Rider 
Haggard, King Solomon's 
Mines 
(1.885) 
, 
Harmondsworth, 
1970, 
p. 
46. 
7. 
Boredom 
afflicts 
Richard Hannay 
at 
the 
beginning 
of 
The 
Thirty-Nine 
Steps, 
and 
this 
makes 
him 
more receptive 
to 
the 
possibility 
of adventure 
when 
it 
occurs. 
See 
John 
Buchan, 
The 
Thirty-Nine 
Steps, 
London, 
1922, 
pp. 
1-2. 
8. 
Haggard, 
op. 
cit. 
, 
p. 
59. 
- 
327 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Appendix 
9. 
'Curs 
is 
the 
crowning 
era 
foretold 
in 
prophecy: 
Born 
of 
Time, 
a 
great 
new 
cycle 
of centuries 
Begins, 
justice 
returns 
to 
earth, 
the 
Golden Age 
Returns, 
and 
its 
first-born 
comes 
down 
from 
heaven 
above. 
' 
The 
Eclogues, Geor ics 
and 
Aeneid 
of 
V__i_r_ 
il, 
trans. 
C. 
Day 
Lewis, 
London, 
1966, Eclogue 
IV, ii. 4-?3. 
See 
the 
rest of 
that 
poem also. 
10. 
Graham 
Balfour, 
The 
Life 
of 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
London, 
1901,11, 
p. 
102. 
11. The 
Ebb-Tide, 
Tusitala 
XIV, 
pp. 
2-3. 
12. 
Quoted 
in 
Richard 
Faber, The 
Vision 
and 
the 
Need, 
London, 
1966, 
p. 
42. See 
also p. 
120, 
where 
he 
cites 
Lugard 
using 
the 
same analogy. 
13. Rudyard 
Kiplin 
;, 
Something 
of 
Myself 
(1937), 
Harmondsworth, 
1977, 
p. 
112. 
14. 
'The 
Law 
of 
the 
jungle', 
11.38-40, in 
A 
Choice 
of 
Kipling's 
Verse, 
made 
by T. 
S. Eliot, London, 1949, 
p. 
267. 
15. 
Baal 
means 
'Lord 
of 
the 
flies'. Randall 
in 
'The Beach 
of 
Fales?' 
it is 
who sits 
in 
an 
idol-like 
attitude, 
covered 
by 
flies. 
16. 
Rudyard 
Kipling, 
'The 
Church 
that 
was at 
Antioch', 
Limits 
and 
Renewals, London, 
1932, 
pp. 
87-114. 
17. 
Rudyard 
Kipling, 
'The Man 
who 
would 
be 
King', The 
Phantom 
Rickshaw, 
London, 
: 
1895, 
pp. 
213-245. 
18. 
Rudyard Kipling, 
'Mrs 
Bathurst' 
(1900, 
Short Stories: 
Volume 
1, 
Harmondsworth, 
1971, 
pp. 
73-92. 
19.. New Arabian 
Nights, 
Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
236. 
20. Idea,. 
21. 
Ibid., 
p. 
230. 
22. 
Ibid., 
p. 
226. 
23. Many 
Inventions, 
London, 
1939, 
p. 
261. 
24. Something 
of 
Myself. 
(1937), 
Harmondsworth, 
1977, 
P. 
77. 
25. 
Anonymous 
Review 
of 
An 
Outcast 
of 
the 
Islands, 
Sketch, 
May 
6,1896, 
p. 
62. 
See 
also 
Anonymous 
Review 
of 
Lord 
Jim, 
Pall' 
Mall 
Gazette, 
December 
5,1900, 
Dent, 
p. 
4; 
Anonymous 
Review, 
The 
Saturday 
Review, February 
12, 
1898, 
LXXXI, 
p. 
211 
- 
quoted 
in 
Joseph 
Conrad': 
Letters 
to 
Cunnin 
name 
Graham, 
ed. 
Watts, 
Cambridge, 
1964, 
p. 
80. 
26. 
Joseph 
Conrad, 
'Geography 
and 
Some Explorers', 
Last 
Essa 
s, 
London 
and 
Toronto, 
1926, 
p. 
24. 
27. 
Ibid., 
p. 
25. 
- 
328 
- 
FOOTNOTES 
Appendix 
28. 
Idem. 
29. 
Joseph 
Conrad's 
Letters 
to 
Cinn-Inghame-Graham, 
ed. 
C. 
F. 
Watts, 
Cambridge, 
Cambridge 
University 
Press, 
1969, 
p" 
70. 
30. Joseph 
Conrad, 
Lord Jim, 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
1932, 
p. 
178. 
31. Ibid., 
p. 
197. 
32. 
Compare 
Gentleman 
Brown, 
the 
adventurer 
who 
comes 
to 
Patusan 
with 
Jones 
in Victory; 
see 
the 
discussion 
of 
Victory 
in 
this 
appendix, 
pp. 
277-280. 
33. 
Op. 
cit. 
, 
p. 
58. 
34. 
Ibid., 
p. 
66. 
35. Ibid., 
p. 
153. 
36. 
Joseph 
Conrad, 
'The 
Secret 
Sharer', 
Twixt Land 
and 
Sea 
(1912), 
Harmondsworth, 
1978, 
pp. 
85-130. 
37. 
Op. 
cit., 
p. 
111. 
38. 
Ibid., 
p. 
93. 
39. 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
171. 
40. 
Lord Jim, 
pp. 
275-276. 
41. 
Ibid., 
p. 
324. 
42. Ibid., 
pp. 
339-340. 
43. Ibid., 
p. 
341. 
44. Ibid., 
p. 
396. 
45. Ibid., 
pp. 
214-215. 
46. 
Victory 
(1915), 
Harmond 
sworth 
, 
1976. 
47. 
See Victory, 
Chapters 
1,11, III 
, 
where 
these 
nicknames 
recur 
frequently. 
48. 
Ibid., 
p. 
159. 
49. Ibid., 
p. 
139. 
50. 
Ibid., 
p. 
303. 
51. 
Ibid., 
p. 
177. 
52. 
Ibid., 
esp 
. 
pp 
. 
193,199. 
53. 
Ibid., 
p. 
326. 
- 
329 
- 
SELECT 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
This 
is 
a 
select 
list 
of materials 
which 
directly 
assisted 
in 
the 
preparation of 
this 
thesis 
and 
not 
a 
complete 
list 
of 
works consulted. 
There 
are 
three 
parts. 
Part 1 
lists 
primary 
materials 
and 
bibliographic 
works. 
Part 2 lists 
printed 
books 
and 
articles 
in 
books 
which were 
found 
to 
be 
especially 
helpful. Part 
3 
lists 
articles 
in 
periodicals 
which, again, were 
particularly useful. 
- 
330 
- 
SECTION 
1: 
PRIMARY 
SOURCES 
A. TEXTS 
The 
text 
of 
Stevenson 
which 
I 
have 
cited 
is: 
The 
(collected) 
Works 
in 
The 
Tusitala Edition, 
35 
vols. 
, 
London, 
William 
Heinemann, 
1924. 
Where 
Tusitala 
has 
in 
one 
volume 
more 
than 
one 
collection 
of, say, 
essays, 
which 
had 
already 
been 
published 
as 
essays, 
the 
reference 
is 
to the 
original 
collection, 
and 
the 
title 
of 
the 
Tusitala 
volume 
appears 
in 
parentheses 
after 
the 
Tusitala 
volume 
number. 
However, 
a number 
of references 
to 
Stevenson's 
published 
works 
are 
not 
to 
Tusitala. 
The 
exceptions 
are 
where 
I 
have 
cited 
James 
D. 
Hart, 
ed., 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson: 
From 
Scotland 
to 
Silverado, 
Cambridge, 
Mass. 
, 
Harvard University 
Press, 
1966. 
This 
useful 
work 
contains 
more complete 
and 
authoritative 
texts 
than 
does 
Tusitala 
of 
the 
following: The 
Amateur 
Emigrant, 
'Across 
the 
Plains' 
(ie. 
The Amateur 
Emigrant 
part 
2), 
Silverado 
Squatters, 
'Monterey' 
, 
'San Carlos 
Day', 'San 
Francisco' 
, 
' Simoneau' 
s 
at 
Monterey' 
. 
(This 
last 
was 
unpublished 
prior 
to 
Hart's 
collection. 
) 
Therefore, 
all 
references 
to these 
works 
are 
to 
Hart. 
B. 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
Edinburgh Public 
Libraries, 
Catalogue 
of 
the 
Stevenson 
Collection 
in 
the 
Edinburgh 
Room, 
Edinburgh, 
Public 
Libraries 
Committee, 
1950. 
Edinburgh 
City Libraries, 
Supplementary Catalogue 
of 
the 
Stevenson 
Collection 
i 
n 
the 
Edinburgh 
Room 
with 
a 
Select 
List 
of 
Books 
and 
Manuscripts 
in 
Lady 
Stair' 
s 
House 
Museum, 
prepared 
by Andrew 
Bethune 
and 
Ronald 
Davies, 
Edinburgh, 
1978. 
_331_ 
McKay, 
G. 
L., 
Collection 
of 
formed 
by E 
1951. 
SECTION 
1: PRIMARY 
SOURCES 
ed., 
A Stevenson 
Writings by 
and 
about 
J. 
Beinecke, 
New 
raven, 
Prideaux, 
W. 
F., A Bibliograph 
Stevenson, 
revised 
by F. 
1917 
Library: 
Robert 
Yale 
Univ--r, 
ity 
Pr`ss 
of 
the 
Works 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Livingston, London, 
Batson, 
Swearingen, Roger, The 
Prose 
Writings 
of 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson: 
A Guide, 
London, 
Macmillan, 
1980. 
C. OTHER PRIMARY 
SOURCES 
i) 
Manuscripts 
I 
have 
consulted 
the 
collection of 
manuscript 
material 
in 
the 
National 
Library 
of 
Scotland. My 
citations are 
to 
NLS 
_4IS, 
followed 
by 
a manuscript number, and, where applicable, a 
folio 
number. 
ii) 
Printed Books 
Ferguson, 
De Launcey, 
and 
Waingrow, 
Marshall, 
eds., 
Letters 
of 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
to 
Charles 
Baxter, New 
Haven, 
Yale University Press, 
1956. 
Hart, 
James 
D., 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson: 
From Scotland 
to 
Silverado, Cambridge, 
Mass., 
Harvard 
University Press, 
1966. 
Smith, 
Janet 
Adam, 
ed., 
The 
Record 
of 
a 
Friendship: 
Henry 
James 
and 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson, 
London, 
Rupert Hart- 
Davis, 
1946. 
Stevenson, Fanny, 
The 
Cruise 
of 
the 
'Janet 
Nichol' 
among 
the 
South 
Sea Islands, 
London, 
Chatto 
and 
Windus, 
1915. 
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 
and 
Stevenson, 
Fanny, 
Our Samoan 
Adventure, 
ed., 
Charles 
Neider, London, 
Weidenfeld 
and 
lc` 
lson, 1956. 
Catalogue 
of 
a 
Louis Stevenson 
- 
332 
- 
SECTION 
2: 
BOOKS AND ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Abrams, 
M. 
H., 
The Mirror 
and 
the 
Lamp: Romantic Theory 
and 
Literary Tradition, London, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 
1900. 
Alain, 
The 
Gods, London, 
John Lane, 
1975. 
Arendt, 
Hannah, The Origins 
of 
Totalitarianism, 
Cleveland 
and 
New York, Meridian, 
rev. ed., 
1969. 
Baird, 
James, 
Ishmael, 
Baltimore, 
John 
Hopkins Press, 
1956. 
Balfour, Graham, 
The Life 
of 
Stevenson, 2 
vols., 
London, 
Cassell, 1901. 
Ballantyne, 
R. 
M., 
The 
Coral Island 
(1857), 
London, Nelson, 
n. 
d. 
----------, 
See 
under 
Quayle. 
- 
Barrie, J. M., An 
Edinburgh 
Eleven, London, British Weekly, 
1889. 
Barth, John, 
'The 
Literature 
of 
Exhaustion', 
in 
The 
Novel 
Today, 
ed. 
M. 
Bradbury, 
London, Fontana, 1977. 
Baudelaire, 
Charles, 
Les fleurs du 
mal et autres poemes, 
Paris, 
Gallimard, 
1964. 
Baudet, 
Henri, Paradise 
on 
Earth: Some 
Thoughts 
on 
European 
Images 
of 
Non-European 
Man, 
tr. 
E. 
Wentholdt, New 
Haven 
and 
London, Yale 
University 
Press, 1965. 
Beachcroft T. 
0., 
The 
Modest 
Art, 
London, John 
Lane, 
1968. 
Beaglehole, 
J. C., The 
Exploration 
of 
the 
Pacific, London, 
A. 
and 
C. Black, 3rd 
Edition, 
1966. 
Beckson, 
Karl, 
ed., 
Oscar 
Wilde: 
The 
Critical Hlerita?e, London, 
Routledge, Kegan 
and 
Paul, 
1970. 
Berthoff, 
Warner, 'Fiction, 
History, Myth: Notes 
Toward 
the 
Discrimination 
of 
Narrative 
Forms', 
in 
The Interpretation 
of 
Narrative, Cambridge, 
Mass., Harvard University 
Press, 
1970. 
Boas, 
George, 
The Cult 
of 
Childhood, London, 
Warburg 
Institute, 
1966. 
Bookman, 
The, Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson: 
The Man 
and 
his 
Work, 
Extra Number, 
London, 
Hodder 
and 
Stoughton, 
1913. 
Borges, Jorge Luis, 
Dr. 
Brodie's 
Rep 
ort, 
London, 
Allen 
Lane, 
1974. 
------ ---, 
Labyrinths, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1970. 
-----_-_' 
A 
Universal 
History 
of 
Infamy, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1975. 
Bowman, 
James, 
The 
Island 
Home; 
or 
the 
Young 
Castaways, 
London, 
V. 
F. 
Bowman, 
1652. 
Briggs, 
Julia, 
Night 
Visitors: 
The 
Rise 
and 
Fall 
of 
the 
British 
Ghost 
Story, 
London, 
Faber, 
1977. 
Brown, 
George 
Douglas, 
The 
House 
with 
the 
Green 
Shutters 
(1901), Edinburgh, 
Holmes 
MacDougall, 
1974. 
Browning, 
Robert, 
The 
Poetical 
Works 
(2 
Vols. 
), 
London, Smith 
Elder 
& 
Co.. 
1897. 
a 
?i1 
lxn 
- 
333 
- 
SECTION 
2: 
BOOKS 
AND ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Brugmans, 
L. 
F., 
ed., 
The 
Correspondence 
of 
Andre 
Gide 
and 
Edmund Gosse 
1904-1928, 
London, 
Peter 
Owen, 
1960. 
Buchan, John, 
Homilies 
and 
Recreations, 
London, Hodder 
and 
Stoughton, 
192b? 
----------, 
Midwinter, 
London, 
Hodder 
and 
Stoughton, 1923. 
--------- 
' 
The 
Novel 
and 
the 
Fairytale, 
Pamphlet 
No. 
79, 
London, 
English 
Association, 1931. 
----------, 
The Runagates 
Club, 
London, Nelson, 
1974. 
--------- 
, 
Sir Walter 
Scott, 
London, Cassell, 
1932. 
--------- 
, 
The 
Thirty-Nine 
Steps 
(includes 
The Power 
House), 
London, 
Nelson, 1922. 
Buckley, Jerome Hamilton, 
W. 
E. 
Henley: 
A 
Study 
in 
the 
Counter 
Decadence 
of 
the 
'Nineties', 
New 
Haven, 
Yale 
University 
Press, 
1945. 
Bulwer-Lytton, 
Edward, 
A 
Strange Story, 
(1862), 
Berkeley 
and 
London, 
Shambala, 1973. 
Burrow, J. 
W., Evolution 
and 
Society-.. 
A 
Study 
in 
Victorian 
Social 
Theory, 
Cambridge, 
Cambridge 
University Press, 1970. 
Calder, 
Jenni, 
Heroes: 
From Byron 
to 
Guevara, London, Hamnish 
Hamilton, 1977 
-------- 
-, 
R. L. S.: A 
Life 
Study, 
London, 
Hamish 
Hamilton, 
1980. 
------, 
ed., 
The 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
Con 
anion, 
Edinburgh, Paul Harris, 1980. 
-----, 
ed., 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson 
and 
Victorian 
Fictfon, 
Edinburgh, Edinburgh 
University Press, 
1981. 
Caldwell, 
Elsie Noble, Last Witness 
for 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
Norman Oklahoma, 
University 
of 
Oklahoma 
Press, 1960. 
Cameron, 
J., 
ed., 
The First Book 
of 
Discipline, 
Edinburgh, St. 
Andrews 
Press, 1972. 
Campbell, 
1, 
ed., 
Nineteenth 
Centum Scottish 
anthology, 
Manchester, 
Carcanet New 
Press, 1979. 
Carassus, 
Emilien, 
Le 
mytne 
du 
dand 
, 
Paris, United States 
Lines, 1971. 
Carre, Jean Marie, Robert 
Louis Stevenson: 
The 
Frail 
Warrior, 
London, 
Noel Douglas, 
1931. 
Carrington, Charles, 
Rud! 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
and 
Kling: 
His Life 
and 
Work, 
Chambers, Robert, 
Traditions 
of 
Edinburgh, 
(1824), 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
Chambers, 
1967. 
Chandler, 
Raymond, 
Letters, 
ed. 
Frank MacShane, 
London, 
Jonathan 
Cape, 
1981. 
Chapman, 
Malcolm, 
The 
Gaelic Vision 
in 
Scottish 
Culture, 
London, 
Croom--Helm, 
1977 
Fiction: 
a 
critical 
- 
334 
- 
SECTION 
2: BOOKS AND 
ARTICLES 
IN BOOKS 
Charvet, 
John, 
' 
Individual 
Identity 
and 
Social 
Consciousness 
in 
Rousseau's 
Philosophy', 
in Hobbes 
and 
Rousseau, 
eds. 
Maurice 
Cranston 
and 
Richard 
S. 
Peters, Jew 
York, 
Doubleday 
Anchor, 
1972 
Chesterton, 
G. 
K. 
, 
'A Defence 
of 
Nonsense', 
in 
The 
Defendant, 
London, 
1901. 
----------, 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
London, 
Hodder 
and 
Stoughton, 
1923. 
----------, 
The 
Man 
Who 
was 
Thursday, 
Bristol, 
Arrowsmith, 
1908. 
Christ, 
Ronald, 
The 
Narrow 
Act: 
Borges' 
Art 
of 
Illusion, New 
York 
and 
London, 
New 
York 
University 
Press, 
1969. 
Cockburn, 
Henry, 
Memorials 
of 
His 
Time 
(18-56), 
rev. ed. 
with 
intro. by 
H. 
A. 
Cockburn, 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
Constable, 
1910. 
Cohen, 
Morton, 
Rider 
Haggard, 
London, 
Hutchinson, 
1965. 
---------, 
ed., 
Rudyard 
Kipling 
to 
H. 
Rider Haggard: 
The 
Record 
of a 
Friendship, 
London, 
Hutchinson, 
1965. 
Coleridge, 
Samuel 
Taylor, 
Biographia 
Literaria, 
(1817), 
London, 
Everyman, 
1975. 
Connell, 
John, 
W. 
E. 
?enley, 
London, Constable, 
1949. 
Conrad, 
Joseph, 
Heart 
of 
Darkness, 
(1902), 
Harmond 
sworth 
, 
Penguin, 
1974. 
---------, 
Last 
Essays, 
London 
and 
Toronto, 
Dent, 
1926. 
----------, 
Lord 
Jim, 
(1900), 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
Blackwood, 
1932. 
----, 
Tales 
of 
Unrest, 
(1896), 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1977. 
----------, 
Twixt Land 
and 
Sea, 
(1912), 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1978. 
------ 
--, 
'The 
Nigger 
of 
the 
Narcissus' 
and 
Other 
Stories, 
(1897), 
London, Dent 
Everyman, 
1964. 
--------- 
, 
Victory, 
(1915), 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1976. 
See 
under 
Watts. 
Craig, 
David, 
Scottish 
Literature 
and 
1830, 
London, 
Chatto 
and 
Windus, 1 
the 
Scottish 
People 
1680- 
1. 
Crane, Stephen, Letters, 
eds. 
Stallman 
and 
Gilkes, 
London, 
Peter 
Owen, 
1960. 
Cruse, 
Amy, The Victorians 
and 
their 
Books, 
London, 
Allen 
and 
Unwin, 1962. 
Daiches, 
David, 
The Paradox 
of 
Scottish 
Culture: 
The 
Eichteent'n 
Century 
Experience, London, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 
1964. 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
and 
his 
World, 
London, 
Thames 
and 
Hudson, 1973. 
---------, 
Some Late Victorian 
Attitudes, 
London, 
Deutsch, 
1969. 
_-___-_--' 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, Glasgow, 
William 
MacLellan, 
1947. 
- 
335 
- 
SECTION 2: 
BOOKS AND ARTICLES 
IN BOOKS 
Daws, 
G., 
A Dream 
of 
Islands, 
New York, 
Norton, 
1980. 
Day, 
A. 
G., 
and 
Stroven, Carl, 
eds., 
Best 
South 
Sea 
Stories, 
London, 
Corgi 
Books, 
1966. 
Defoe, 
Daniel, 
The Life, 
Adventures 
and 
Piracies 
of 
the 
Famous 
Captain 
Singleton, 
(1720), 
London, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 
1906 
-----------, 
Robinson 
Crusoe, 
(17/19), 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1965. 
Diderot, 
Denis, 
Rameau's 
neveu 
de 
Rameau, 
1966. 
_Nephew 
175--" 
and 
D'Alembert's 
Dream, 
(Le 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
Dumas, 
Alexandre, 
The 
Three 
Musketeers, 
(1844), 
London, 
Collins, 
n. 
d. 
---------- 
9 
Le 
Vicomte de 
Bragelonne, 
(1848-1850), 
3 
Vols., 
London, 
Toronto 
and 
New 
York, 
Dent/Dutton, 
1912. 
Edwards, 
Owen 
Dudley, 
Dr 
Jekyll 
and 
Mr Holmes, 
Edinburgh, 
Lothian 
Region 
Leisure 
Department, 
1980. 
Eigner, 
E. 
M., 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson 
and 
Romantic Tradition, 
Princeton, 
Princeton 
University 
Press, 
1966. 
Ellison., 
Joseph 
W., 
Tusitala 
of 
the 
South 
Seas, 
New York, 
Hastings 
House, 
1954. 
Elwin, 
Malcolm, 
The Strange Case 
of 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson, 
London, 
MacDonald, 
1950. 
Faber, 
Richard, 
The 
Vision 
and 
the 
Need, London, 
Faber, 
1966. 
Ferguson, 
De Launcey, 
and 
Waingrow, 
M., 
eds., 
Letters 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
to 
Charles 
Baxter, 
New Haven, 
Yale 
University 
Press, 
1956. 
Ferguson, 
William, Scotland: 1689 
to the 
Present, Edinburgh 
and 
London, Oliver 
and 
Boyd, 196T. 
- 
Fiedler, 
Leslie, 'R. L. 
S. 
Revisited', 
in No! 
in Thunder, 
London, 
Eyre 
and 
Spottiswoocde, 1963. 
Fowler, 
Alistair, 
'Parables 
of 
Adventure: The 
Debateable 
Novels 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson', 
in 
Nineteenth Century 
Scottish 
Fiction, 
ed. 
Ian Campbell, Manchester, 
Carcanet 
New 
Press, 
1979. 
Fournier, Alain, 
1928. 
Le 
Grand Meaulnes, 
(1913) 
, 
Paris, 
Emile-Paul, 
Freud, 
Sigmund, 
Totem 
and 
Taboo, 
London, 
Penguin, 
1960. 
Frye, Northrop, 
The 
Stubborn 
Structure, 
London, 
Methuen, 
University 
Press, 
1970. 
-336- 
SECTION 2: BOOKS 
AND ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Furnas, 
. 
J. 
C., 
Voyage 
to 
Windward: 
A 
Life 
Stevenson, 
London, 
Faber 
and 
Faber, 
1952. 
---------, 
Anatomy 
of 
Paradise, 
London, 
Gollancz, 
1950. 
Gide, 
Andre, 
The 
Journals 
of 
Andre 
Gide, 3 
vols., 
ed. 
with 
intro. 
by 
J. O'Brien, 
London, 
Secker 
and 
Warburg, 
1947. 
----------, 
See 
under 
Brugmanns. 
Golding, 
William, Lord 
of 
the 
Flies, 
(1954), 
London, 
Faber, 
1962. 
Gosse, 
Edmund, Critical 
Kit-kats, 
London, 
Heinemann, 1896. 
-----------, 
Father 
and 
Son, 
London, 
Heinemann, 
1907. 
---------, 
Questions 
at 
Issue, 
London, Heinemann, 
1893. 
--------- 
See 
also 
under 
Brugmanns. 
Graham, R. B. 
Cunninghame, 
Thirteen Stories, 
London, 
Duckworth, 
1900. 
Grattan, 
C. 
Hartley, 
The Southwest 
Pacific 
to 
1900, 
Ann 
Arbor, 
University 
of 
Michigan 
Press, 19 
Green, 
Martin, Dreams 
Routledge, 
Kegan 
an 
of 
Adventure, 
Deeds 
of 
Empire, London, 
Paul, 
1980. 
Green, 
Roger Lancelyn, Andrew 
Lang, 
Leicester, 
E. 
Ward, 
1946. 
Greene, Graham, Collected Essays, Harmondsworth, Penguin, 
1970. 
---------, 
A 
Sort 
of 
Liese, London, 
Bodiey Head, 
1971. 
Gross, 
John, The Rise 
and 
Fall 
of 
the 
Man 
of 
Letters, London, 
Penguin, 1969. 
Gunn, 
Neil, 
The 
Atom 
of 
Delight, 
London, 
Faber 
and 
Faber, 
1956. 
Haggard, 
H. Rider, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
_______ 
, 
She, 
(1887), 
Sevenpenny Library, 
1913. 
Hammerton, 
J. 
A. 
, 
Appreciation 
Grant, 
1907. 
Hannah, 
Barbara, 
Striving 
Towards 
Wholeness, London, 
Readers' 
Union, 
1972. 
Hart, 
F. R., 
The 
Scottish 
Novel: A 
Critical 
Survey, 
Cambridge, 
Mass. 
and 
London, 
Harvard 
University 
Press, 
1978. 
Hart, J. D., 
ed., 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson: 
From 
Scotland 
to 
Silverado, 
Cambridge, 
Mass., 
Harvard 
University 
Press, 
1966. 
King, 
Solomon's 
Mines, 
(1885) 
, 
1970. 
London, Hodder 
and 
Stoughton' 
s 
ed., 
Stevensoniana: An Anecdotal 
Life 
and 
of 
Robert_ 
_Louis 
__Stevenson, 
Edinburgh, 
John 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
- 
337 
- 
SECTION 
2: 
BOOKS 
AND 
ARTICLES 
IN BOOKS 
Hawthorne, 
Nathaniel, 
Great 
Short 
Works 
of 
Nathaniel 
Hawthorne, 
ed. 
Frederick 
C. Crews, New 
York, Harper 
and 
Row, 
19 
7. 
(Centenary 
Text). 
---------, 
The 
Marble 
Faun, London, 
Bell, 1906. 
Hazlitt, 
William, 
The Complete Works 
of 
William 
Hazlitt, 
21 
vols., 
Centenary 
Edition, 
ed. 
P. P. 
Howe, 
London 
and 
Toronto, Dent 
and 
Sons, 
1930-1934. 
Hendricks, 
King, 
and 
Shephard, 
Irving, 
eds., 
Letters from 
jack 
London, 
New 
York, 
Odyssey 
Press, 
1965. 
Hennessy, 
James 
Pope, 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, London, Jonathan 
Cape, 
1974. 
Hogg, 
James, 
The Confessions 
of 
a 
Justified 
Sinner, 
London, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 
1969. 
Howells, 
William 
Dean, 
Life 
in 
Letters 
of 
William. Dean 
Howells, 
2 
vols., ed. 
Mildred. Howells, 
New 
York, Harper, 
1928. 
Irvine, 
William, 
As, 
Angels 
and 
Victorians, 
London, Readers' 
Union, 
1956. 
Jablow, 
Dorothy, 
and 
Jablow, Alta, The Africa 
That Never 
Was, 
New York, 
Twayne, 
1970. 
Jackson, 
Rosemary, Fantasy: 
The Literature 
of 
Subversion, 
London, Methuen 
New 
Accents, 
1981. 
James, G. 
P. 
R., The King's High: 
vay, 
London, Routledge, 
n. 
d. 
James, 
Henry, Notes 
on 
Novelists, 
London, 
Dent, 
' 
1914. 
----------, 
Partial Portraits, 
London, Mac 
iillan, 
1888. 
--_------, -, 
The 
Golden 
Bowl, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1966. 
--------, 
See 
also under 
Smith, 
Janet 
Adam. 
Johnstone, Arthur, 
Recollections 
of 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson 
in 
the 
Pacific, 
London, 
Chatto 
and 
Windus, 
1905. 
Judd, Dennis, 
The 
Return 
to 
Treasure 
Island, 
London, 
Michael 
Joseph, 
1978. 
Jung, 
Carl, 
et. 
al., 
Man 
and 
His 
Symbols, London, 
Aldus/ 
Jupiter, 
1964. 
Karlinsky, 
Simon, 
ed., 
The 
Nabokov-Wilson 
Letters, 
London, 
Harper 
and 
Row, 
1979. 
Kennedy, 
Gavin, 
Bligh, 
London, 
Duckworth, 
1978. 
Kiely, 
Robert, 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
and 
the 
Fiction 
of 
Adventure, 
Cambridge, 
Mass., 
Harvard 
University 
Press, 
19 
4. 
- 
338 
- 
SECTION 
2: BOOKS 
AND ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Kipling, 
Rudyard, 
Actions 
and 
Reactions, 
London, 
Macmillan, 
1909. 
------- 
--, 
Captains Courai 
eeous, 
London, 
Macmillan, 1897. 
---------, 
A Choice 
of 
Kipling's Verse, 
ed. 
with 
intro. 
by 
T. 
S. 
Eliot, 
London, Faber, 
1942. 
--------- 
, 
The Day's 
Work, 
London, Macmillan, 
1904. 
------ ---, 
The Jungle 
Book, 
Macmillan, 
1894. 
Jungle 
Kim, 
London, 
Macmillan, 
1901. 
--- 
- 
---, 
Limits 
and 
Renewals, 
London, 
Macmillan, 
1932. 
-------_. 
--, 
Many Inventions, 
London, 
Macmillan, 
1939. 
-------- -' 
A 
Phantom Rickshaw/Wee 
Willie 
Winkie, London, 
Macmillan, 
1895. 
----------, 
Rewards 
and 
Fairies, 
London, Macmillan, 
1910. 
------ 
---, 
Short 
Stories: 
Volume 1, 
ed. 
Andrew 
Rutherford, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1971. 
---------, 
Short 
Stories: 
Volume 2, 
ed. 
Andrew 
Rutherford, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1971. 
-----------, 
Something 
of 
Myself, Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1977. 
9 
Stalky 
and 
Co., 
London, 
Macmillan, 
1899. 
Kirk, James, 
ed., 
The Second 
Book 
of 
Discipline, Edinburgh, 
St. Andrews 
Press, 
1W0. 
Laing, 
R. 
D., The Divided 
Self, Harmcndsworth, 
Penguin, 
1965. 
Lamb, Charles, 
Life, 
Letters, 
and 
Writings 
of 
Charles 
Lamb, 
6 
vols. 
, 
Enfield Edition, 
ed. 
P. Fitzgerald, 
London, 
Constable, 
1924. 
Lang, Andrew, 
Adventures 
Among 
Books, 
London, 
Cassell, 
1905. 
--------, 
Grass 
and 
New 
York, 
of 
Parnassus: 
First 
and 
Last 
Rhymes, 
London 
Langbaum, 
Robert, 
Monologue in 
Windus, 
1972. 
on?umans, 
1b92. 
The 
Poetry 
of 
Experience: 
The 
Dramatic 
Modern. 
_ 
Literar 
Tradition, 
London, 
Chatto 
and 
Lawrence, 
D. H., 
Studies 
in 
Classic American 
Literature 
(1924) 
, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1971. 
Lawson, 
M. 
, 
On 
the 
Bat's 
Back, 
London, 
Lutterworth 
Press, 
1950. 
Lockhart, 
J. 
G., 
Adam 
Blair, 
Edinburgh, 
Blackwood, 
1822. 
London, 
Jack, 
The 
Cruise 
of 
the 
Snark, 
London, 
Mills 
and 
Boon, 
n. 
d. 
--------, 
Letters, 
see 
under 
Hendricks. 
Lucas, 
E. 
V., 
The 
Colvins 
and 
their 
Friends, 
London, 
?i; 
{ethuen, 
1928. 
-339- 
SECTION 
2: BOOKS 
AND 
ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Lukacs, 
Georg, 
The 
Historical 
Novel, 
tr. 
H. 
and 
S. Mitchell, 
London, Merlin 
Press, 19'62. 
McCrie, 
Thomas, 
et. 
al., 
The 
Bass 
Rock, Edinburgh, 
Constable, 
1848. 
MacKay, 
D. 
N. 
,' 
ed., 
The 
Trial 
of 
James Stewart, 
Glasgow 
and 
London, 
James 
Grant, 
10.07. 
MacKay, 
George, 
Some 
Notes 
on 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson, 
His 
Finances, 
and 
His Agents 
and 
His 
Publishers, 
New 
Haven, 
Yale 
University 
Press, 
1958. 
MacKay, 
John 
G., 
et. 
al., 
More 
West Highland Stories, 
2 
vols., 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
Oliver 
and 
Boyd, 
1940. 
MacKay, 
1"yiargaret, 
The 
Violent Friend: 
The Story 
of 
Mrs 
Louis Stevenson 
1840-1914, 
London, Readers Union, 1970 
MacKenzie, 
Compton, 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson, 
Grampian, 
1968. 
London, 
Morgan- 
MacKenzie, 
Henry, Anecdotes 
and 
Egotisms 1745-1831, 
ed. 
Thomson, 
London, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 1927. 
----------, 
The 
Man 
of 
Feeling, 
(1771), 
ed. 
and 
with 
an 
by B. 
Vickers, London, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 
1967. 
Macpherson, 
H. D., 
R. 
L. 
Stevenson: A 
Study 
in 
Influence, New 
York, Institute 
of 
French 
Studies, 
1930. 
MacQueen, 
J., 'Ringan 
Gilhaize 
and 
Particular 
Providence', 
in 
John Galt 
1779-1979, 
ed. with 
intro. 
by 
C. A. 
Whatley, 
Edinburgh, 
The 
Ramsay Head 
Press, 
1979. 
NlacShane, 
Frank, The 
Life 
Jonathan Cape, 
1976 
------- 
-, 
See 
under 
Chandler. 
Maixner, 
Pau? 
, 
ed. 
, 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson: The 
Critical 
Heritage, 
London, 
Routledge, 
Kegan 
and 
Paul, 1981. 
Manguel, Alberto, 
and 
Guadalupe, 
Gianni, 
The 
Dictionary 
of 
Imaginary 
Places, New York, 
Macmillan, 19 0. 
Mannoni, 
0., Prospero 
and 
Caliban: The 
Psychologv 
of 
Colonization. 
New York 
, 
Praeger, 
1964. 
Mariner, 
William, An 
Account 
of 
the 
Natives 
of 
The 
Ton 
a 
Islands, 2 
vols. 
, 
compiled 
by 
J. Martin, 
London, 
Printed 
for Author, 
1817. 
Mason, 
Philip, 
Kipling: 
The 
Glass, 
the 
Shadow, 
and 
the 
Fire, 
London, 
Jonathan 
Cape, 
1975. 
Masson, 
Flora, 
ed., 
I 
Can 
Remember 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
Chambers, 
1922. 
__----------, 
Victorians 
All, Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
Chambers, 
1931. 
of 
Raymond Chandler, 
London, 
Robert 
H. 
VT. 
intro. 
French 
Matthews, 
Brander, 
The 
Philosophy 
of 
the 
Short 
Story, 
New 
York, 
Longmans, 
Green, 
1901. 
- 
340 
- 
SECTION 
2: 
BOOKS 
AND 
ARTICLES IN 
BOOKS 
Melville, 
Herman, 
Typee: 
A 
Peep 
at 
Polynesia, 
(1846), 
London, 
Penguin, 
1958. 
Meredith, 
George, 
The 
Ordeal 
of 
Richard 
Feverel 
(1859), 
London, 
Penguin, 
1967. 
Merivale, 
Patricia, 
Pan 
the 
Goat-God: His 
Myth in 
Modern 
Times, 
Cam 
bridge, 
Mass., 
Harvard 
University 
Press, 
1969. 
Miller, 
Karl, 
Cockburn's 
Millenium, London, Duckworth, 1975. 
Miyoshi, 
Masao, 
The 
Divided 
Self: 
A 
Perspective 
on 
the 
Literature 
of 
the 
Victorians, 
New York 
and 
London, 
New 
York 
University 
Press, 
19 9. 
Montaigne, 
Michel 
de, 
Essays, 
2 
vols., 
tr. 
Trenchman, 
Oxford, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 
n. 
d. 
Moorehead, 
Alan, 
The Fatal 
Impact: 
An Account 
of 
the 
Invasion 
of 
the 
South 
Pacific 
1707-1840, Harmondsworth, Penguin, 
1979. 
Morris, David 
B., 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson 
and 
the 
Scottish 
Highlanders, 
Stirling, Aneas 
MacKay, 
1929. 
Muir, Edwin, Scott 
and 
Scotland: 
The Predicament 
of 
the 
Scottish 
Writer, 
London, 
Routledge, 
1936. 
Nabokov, 
Vladimir, The Eye, 
London, 
Weidenfeld 
and 
Nicolson,. 
1966. 
----------, 
Despair, 
Harmondsworth, Penguin, 
1981. 
----_---' 
Lolita, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1981. 
----------, 
Pale 
Fire, 
Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1973. 
-------- 
The Real Life 
of 
Sebastian 
Knight, Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1971. 
--------- 
, 
Strong Opinions, 
Weidenfeld 
and 
Nicoison, 
London, 
1973. 
------- 
--, 
See 
under 
Karlinsky. 
Neider, 
Charles, 
ed., 
Our Samoan Adventure, by 
R. 
L. 
and 
Fanny 
Stevenson, 
London, 
WIeidenfeld 
and 
Nicolson, 1956. 
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 
Beyond Good 
and 
Evil, 
(1886) 
, 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1976. 
O'Connor, Frank, 
The 
Lonely 
Voice, London, 
Macmillan, 
1964. 
Old 
Edinburgh 
Club, 
Book 
of 
the 
Old 
Edinburgh 
Club, 
Edinburgh, 
Constable, 1908-Present. 
Oliver, D. L., 
The Pacific 
Islands, 
Cambridge, 
Mass., 
Harvard 
University 
Press, 
1951. 
Osbourne, 
Lloyd, 
An Intimate 
Portrait 
of 
R. 
L. 
S., 
New 
York, 
Scribners, 
1924. 
-------- 
, 
Wild Justice, 
London, 
Heinemann, 
1906. 
Parsons, 
C. 
0. 
) 
Witchcraft 
and 
Demonology 
in Scott's 
Fiction, 
London, 
Oliver 
and 
Boyd, 
1964. 
Penzoldt, 
Peter, 
The 
Supernatural 
in 
Fiction, 
London, 
Peter 
Nevill, 
1952. 
- 
341 
- 
SECTION 
2: 
BOOKS 
AND ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Phelps, 
Gilbert, 
The 
Russian Novel 
in 
English 
Fiction, 
London, 
Hutchinson, 
1956. 
Philipson, 
N. 
T., 
and 
Mitchison, 
Rosalind, 
eds., 
Scotland 
in 
the 
Age 
of 
Improvement: 
Essays 
in 
Scottish History 
in 
the 
Eighteenth Century, 
Edinburgh, 
Edinburgh University 
Press, 
1970. 
Poe, 
Edgar 
Allan, 
Selected 
Writings, 
ed. 
D. 
Galloway, 
Harmondsworth, Penguin, 
1967. 
Poster, 
Mark, Critical 
Theory 
of 
the 
Family, 
London, 
Routledge, 
Kegan 
and 
Paul, 
1978. 
Praz, 
Mario, The 
Romantic Agony, 
Oxford, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 1951. 
Pullin, 
Faith, 
' Melville' 
s yRee: 
The 
Failure 
of 
Eden', in 
New 
Perspectives 
on 
Melville, 
ed. 
Faith Pullin, 
Edinburgh, 
Edinburgh University Press, 1978. 
Quayle, Eric, 
Ballantyne 
the 
Brave: 
A 
Victorian 
Family, 
London, 
Hart-Davis, 1967. 
Rickett, 
Arthur, The 
Vagabond 
in 
Literature, 
Washington, 
New York, Kennikat Reprint, 
1968. 
Port 
Rieff, Philip, 
Freud: The Mind 
of 
the 
Moralist, 
London, 
Victor 
Gollancz, 19 0. 
Riviere, Jacques, 
The 
Ideal 
Reader, 
ed. and 
tr. 
by 
B. 
A. 
Price, 
London, 
Harvili 
Press, 1962. 
Robson, W. 
W., 
'The Sea-Cook: 
A 
Study 
in 
the 
Art 
of 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson', 
in 
On 
the 
Novel., 
ed. 
B. S. 
Benedikz, 
London, 
Dent, 
1971. 
Roughead, 
'"'illiam, 
ed., 
Trial 
of 
Deacon 
Brodie, 
Glasgow 
and 
Edinburgh, 
Hodge, 
1906. 
Rousseau, 
J. 
J., 
The 
Social 
Contract, 
tr. 
with 
intro. 
by 
M. 
Cranston, 
Harr_: 
ondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1968. 
Royle, 
Trevor, 
Precipitous 
Cthe 
Story 
of 
Literary 
Edinbi 
h, 
Edinburgh, 
Mainstream, 
1980. 
Said, Edward, 
Beginnings, 
New 
York, 
Basic 
Books, 1975. 
Sandison, 
Alan, 
The 
Idea 
in 
some 
L 
Century 
Fiction, 
San 
Juan, 
Epifanio, 
University 
Press, 
Saposnik, 
Irving 
S., 
1971. 
Wheel 
of 
Empire: 
A 
Study 
of 
the 
ate 
Nineteenth 
Centu 
and 
Early 
Imperial 
wentieth 
London, 
Macmillan, 13b'/. 
The 
Art 
of 
Oscar Wilde, 
New 
Haven, 
Yale 
19 
7- 
Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson, New 
York, 
Twayne, 
Writer 
and 
his 
- 
342 
- 
SECTION 
2: 
BOOKS AND ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Schiller, 
Friedrich 
von, 
On 
the 
Aesthetic 
Education 
of 
Man, 
tr. 
with 
intro. 
by R. 
Snell, 
London, 
L; 
'outi 
d 
e, 
Keg- 
n 
and 
Paul, 
1954. 
--------, 
Werke, 
Weimar, Nationalausgabe, 
1943-1967. 
Schwab, 
Marcel, 
R. L. 
S., Portland, 
Maine, 1920. 
(Reprinted 
from The 
New 
Review, 
X11, 
(February, 
1895). 
) 
Scott, Sir 
Walter, Complete 
Works, 
ed. 
A. 
Lang, 
Border 
Edition, 
London, 
Nimmo, 
1892-1894. 
Shelley, 
Mary, 
Frankenstein, 
or 
the 
Modern 
Prometheus, 
(1816) 
, 
New 
York 
and 
Toronto, 
Signet 
Classics, 
1965. 
Shelley, 
Percy Bysshe, 
'A Defence 
of 
Poetry', 
in 
Selections 
from 
Shelle 
's 
Poetr 
and 
Prose, 
ed. 
Welland, 
London, 
Hutchinson 
Educational, 
1961. 
Simpson, 
E. 
B., 
Robert 
Louis Stevenson' 
s 
Early 
Days, London, 
Hodder 
and 
Stoughton, 
1898. 
Skene, 
W. 
F., Celtic Scotland: 
A History 
of 
Ancient 
Alban, 
3 
vols., 
Edinburgh, Edmonston 
and 
Douglas, Edinburgh, 
rev. 
ed., 
1886. 
Smith, 
Janet Adam, 
John Buchan: 
A Biofra. h 
', 
London, 
Rupert 
Hart-Davis, 
1965. 
--------- 
, 
ed., 
The 
Record 
of 
a 
Friendship: 
Hence 
James 
and 
Robert Louis Stevenson, London, Rupert 
Hart-Davis, 
1940. 
Stark, Freya, 'Travel', 
in 
Great English Essays, 
ed. 
James 
Reeves, 
London, 
Cassell, 
n. 
d.. 
Sternberger, Dolf, 
Panorama 
of 
the 
Nineteenth Century, 
trans. 
J. 
Neugroschel, 
Oxford, 
Basil 
Black, 
ell, 
1977. 
Steuart, J. 
A., Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson: 
Man 
and 
Writer, 
2 
vols., 
London, 
S. 
-Low and. 
Marston, 
1924. 
Stevenson, Lionel, 
The 
Ordeal 
of 
George 
Meredith, 
London, 
Peter 
Owen, 1954. 
Stoddard, 
Charles 
Warren, 
The Island 
of 
Tranquil Delights: 
A 
South 
Sea 
Idyl 
and 
Other,;, 
London, 
Grant Richards, 
1904. 
Storr, 
Antony, 
Jung, London, 
Collins/Fontana, 
1973. 
Street, 
Brian 
V., 
The Savage 
in 
Literature., 
Representations-of 
. 
'Primitive' 
Society 
in 
English 
Fiction 
1858-1920, 
London, 
Routledge 
and 
Kegan 
Paul, 1975. 
Strong, 
Isobel 
and 
Osbourne, 
Lloyd., 
Memories 
of 
Vailima, 
London, 
Constable, 
1903. 
Swinnerton, 
Frank, 
R. 
L. 
Stevenson: 
A 
Critical Stucly, 
London, 
Martin 
Secker, 
1924. 
Todorov, 
Tzvetan, 
The 
Fantastic: 
A Structural Approach 
to 
a 
Literary 
Genre, 
Cleveland 
and 
London, 
The 
Press 
of 
Case 
Western 
Reserve 
University, 
1973 
- 
343 
- 
SECTION 2: 
BOOKS 
AND 
ARTICLES 
IN 
BOOKS 
Tournier, 
Michel, 
Friday, 
or 
the 
Other 
Island 
[ 
Vendredi, 
ou 
les 
limbes 
du 
Pacifigue 
J, 
Harrr, 
ondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1974. 
Twain, 
Mark, 
The Adventures 
of 
Huckleberry 
Finn, 
(1884), 
New 
York, 
Washington 
Press, 
1964. 
---------- 
The Adventures 
of 
Tom 
Sawyer, 
(1876), 
New 
York, 
Dell, 
1972. 
-----------, 
Pudd'nhead 
Wilson, 
(1894), 
New 
York, 
New 
American 
Library, 
1966. 
Tymms, Ralph, Doubles 
in 
Literary 
Psychology, 
Cambridge, 
Cambridge 
University 
Press, 1949. 
Usborne, 
Richard, 
Clubland 
Heroes, 
London, 
Constable, 
1953. 
Virgil, The 
Eclo 
ues, 
Georgics 
and 
Aeneid, 
London, 
Oxford 
University 
Press, 
? 
90 
. 
Watts, 
Cedric, 
and 
Davies, 
Lawrence, Cunninghame--Graham: 
A 
Critical 
Biography, 
Cambridge, 
Cambridge 
University Press, 
1979. 
Watts, C. F., 
ed., 
Joseph 
Conrad's 
Letters 
to 
Cunninghame 
Graham, 
Cambridge, 
Cambridge 
University Press, 
19 
9. 
Webb, 
Beatrice, 
Ay Apprenticeship, 
London, 
Longman, 
1926. 
West, Herbert Faulkner, A fodern Conquistador: 
Robert Bontine 
Cunninghame 
Graham, His Life 
and 
Works, 
London, 
Cranley 
and 
Day, 
1932. 
Wilde, 
Oscar, 
The Artist 
as 
Critic: Critical 
Writings 
of 
Oscar 
Wilde, 
ed. 
Richard. 
Ellman, 
London, 
----------, 
The 
Portrait 
of 
Dorian 
Gray, 
(1891), 
Harmondsworth, 
Penguin, 
1978. 
"k, 
ittij, 
Kurt, 
'Neil 
Gunn's Animistic 
Vision', 
in 
Neil 
M. 
Gunn: 
A. Scott 
andlD. 
vlir?JL 
d, 
the 
Man 
and 
the 
Writer, 
eds. 
Edinburgh 
and 
London, 
Blackwood, 
1973, 
pp. 
316-343.. 
of 
Reason, 
Edinburgh, 
Young,, 
D. 
, 
et. 
al., 
Edinburgh in 
the 
Age 
Edinburgh University 
Press, 19b7. 
Ziolkowski, T., 
Disenchanted 
Images, New 
Haven, 
Yale 
University 
Press, 
1977. 
- 
344 
- 
SECTION 
3: 
ARTICLES 
IN 
PERIODICALS 
Anonymous, 
Review 
of 
Kidnapped, 
Athenaeum, 
September 
16,1893, 
375-377. 
Anonymous, 
Review 
of 
Lord Jim, 
WC_ 
Pall 
Mall 
Gazette, December 
5, 
1900,4. 
Anonymous, 
Review 
of 
An 
Outcast 
of 
the 
Islands, Sketch, 
May 
6, 
1896,62. 
Archer, 
William, 
'R 
. 
L. S.: 
His 
Style 
and 
Thought', Time, 
Second 
Series, 
11, 
November, 
1885,581-591. 
Beach, 
Joseph 
Warren: 
'The 
Sources 
of 
Stevenson' 
s 
"Bottle 
Imp"', 
Modern 
Language 
Notes, 
XXXV, 
January, 
1910,12-18. 
Benson, 
E. 
F. 
, 
'The 
Myth 
of 
Robert Louis Stevenson', The 
London 
Mercury, 
X11, 
July, 
1925,258-263, 
and 
August, 1925, 
372-384. 
Bevington, 
M. 
M. 
, 
'Locke 
and 
Stevenson 
on 
Comparative 
Miorality', 
Notes 
and 
Queries, 
CCV, 
February, 
1960,73. 
Campbell, 
Gillies, 
'Poe, 
Stevenson 
and 
Beranger', 
The Dial, 
XLVII, 
374-375. 
Carpenter, 
K. 
, 
'R. 
L. Stevenson 
on 
the 
Treasure Island 
Illustrations', 
Notes 
and 
Queries, 
XXIX, August, 
192322- 
355. 
Champion, 
P. 'Marcel 
Schwob 
et 
Stevenson', 
XXV II, December 
1,1926,528-541. 
Revue 
tiniverselle, 
Craig, 
Cairns, 
'The Body 
in 
the 
Kitbag: 
History 
and 
the 
Scottish 
Novel', 
Cencrastus, 
1, 
August, 
1979,18-22. 
D., 
F., 'Treasure Island 
and 
Captain 
Singleton, 
Notes 
and 
Queries, CLXXXVI, 
January 
15,1.944,51. 
Egan, 
J. J. 
'From 
History 
to 
Myth: 
A 
Symbolic 
Reading 
of 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae', Studies 
in English Literature, 
V111, 
Autu-, 
rn, 
1968,699-710. 
----------- 
"'Markheim": A Drama 
of 
Moral 
Psychology', 
Nineteenth 
Century Fiction, XX, March, 
1966,3-37-384- 
- ------, 
'The 
Relationship 
of 
Theme 
and 
Art 
in The 
Stranue 
Case 
of 
Dr Jekyll 
and 
Mr Hyde', 
English 
Literature 
in 
Transition, 
IX, 
1966,2b- 
2. 
Elliott, 
N., 
'Robert 
Louis 
Stevenson 
and 
Scottish 
Literature', 
English Literature 
in 
Transition, 
XI 
I, 
No. 2,79-85. 
Etherington, 
Norman 
E., 
'Rider 
Haggard, 
Imperialism 
and 
the 
Layered Personality', 
Victorian 
Studies, 
XXII, 
Autumn, 
1978, 
71-87. 
Faurot, Ruth M., 
'From 
Records 
to 
Romance 
: 
Stevenson's 
Black 
Arrow 
and 
"The Paston 
Letters"' 
, 
Studies 
in 
En 
lisp 
Literature, 
Autumn, 1965,677-690- 
Gosse, 
Edmund, 
'Stevenson's 
Relations 
with 
Children', 
Chambers's 
Journal, 
June 
17,1899,449-451. 
- 
345 
- 
SECTION 
3: 
ARTICLES 
IN PERIODICALS 
Gossman, 
A. 
, 
'On 
the 
Knocking 
at 
the 
Gate in 
"Markheim"' 
, 
Nineteenth 
Century. 
Fiction, 
XVII, 
June, 
1.963,73-76. 
Green, 
Roger 
Lancelyn, 
"'Dear 
Andrew" 
and 
"Dear 
Louis"' 
, 
Scots 
Magazine, 
New 
Series, Vol. 
43, Number 
5, 
August, 
1945,375- 
381. 
Hellman, 
G. S., 
"'Cue" 
Stories 
of 
Stevenson', Bookman, 
October, 
1925,158-164. 
----------, 
'Stevenson 
and 
Henry James', Century 
Magazine, 
- 
CXI, 
January, 
1926,336-345. 
Herries, J. W., 
'R. 
L. 
S. 
as 
Psychic Researcher: Spiritualism 
in 
Edinburgh 
in 
the 
Nineteenth 
Century', 
Scots 
azine, 
June, 
1938,209-216. 
Hesse, 
Hermann, 
'A 
Journey 
with 
Stevenson, 
Living Age, 
November 
1,1927,812-814. 
Keating, 
P. J., 
'The 
Fortunes 
of 
R. L. S. 
', Times 
Literary 
Supplement, 
June 
26,1981,715-716. 
Knowlton, 
E. C., 
'A Russian Influence 
on 
Stevenson', 
Modern 
Philology, 
XIV, 
1916,65-70,449-454. 
Monteiro, 
George, 
'R. 
L. Stevenson 
to 
a 
Book Owner: 
A 
New 
Letter', 
Notes 
and 
Queries, 
XXVI 
I, 
June, 
1980,217. 
Moore, 
J. 
R., 
'Defoe, Stevenson 
and 
the 
Pirates', English 
Literary 
Histo 
, 
X, March, 
1943,35-60. 
---------- 
, 
'Stevenson 's Source for 
"The 
Merry 
Men"' 
, 
Philolo 
ical Quarterly, XXI 
I, 
April, 
1944,135-140. 
----- 
------, 
' 
Stevenson' 
s 
Catriona', Notes 
and 
Queries, CLXXXI 
II, 
July 
18,1942,36-38. 
Muir, 
Edwin, 
'Robert 
Louis Stevenson', 
Modern Scot, 
Autumn, 
1931,196-204. 
Munro, 
Neil, 
'The Life 
and 
Work 
of 
R. 
L. S. 
', 
The 
Living 
Age, 
CC/XXI II, 
May 
1912,399-405. 
Parsons, 
Coleman 0., 
' 
Stevenson' 
s 
Interest 
in 
Tableau, 
Notes 
and 
Queries, 
CXC, 
July, 
1949,134-135. 
-----------, 
'Stevenson's 
Use 
of 
Witchcraft 
in "Thrawn 
Janet"', 
Studies 
in 
Philology, 
XLI 
II, July, 1946,551-571. 
Poston, L., "'Markheim" 
and 
Chesterton' 
s 
"The 
Hammer 
of 
God"'. 
Nineteenth 
Century 
Fiction, 
XI I, 1958,146-153. 
Saintsbury, George, 
'The 
Present 
State 
of 
the 
Novel', 
Fortnightly 
Review, XLII, 
July-December, 
1887,410-416. 
Saposnik, 
Irving, 'Stevenson's 
"Markheim": A 
Fictional 
Christmas 
Sermon', 
Nineteenth 
Century 
Fiction, 
XXI, 
December, 
1966, 
277-282. 
Scott, 
J. 
D., 'R. 
L. 
Stevenson 
and 
G. 
D. 
Brown: 
The 
Myth 
of 
Lord 
Braxfield', 
Horizon, 
Vol. 
XII, 
No. 
77, 
May, 
1946. 
Sharp, 
Robert 
L. 
, 
'Stevenson 
and 
James's 
Childhood', 
Nineteenth 
Century 
Fiction, 
LXVIII, 
December, 
1953,943-960. 
- 
346 
- 
SECTION 
3: 
ARTICLES 
IN 
PERIODICALS 
Snyder, 
A. D., 
'Paradox 
and 
Antithesis 
in 
Stevenson's 
Essays', 
Journal 
of 
English 
and 
Germanic 
Philology, 
XIX, 
October, 
L920,540-555 
. 
------ ---, 
'Stevenson's 
Conception 
of 
the 
Fable', 
journal 
of 
English 
and 
Germanic Philology, 
XXI, 
January, 
1922,160- 
- 
. 
Warner, 
Fred 
B., 
'Stevenson's 
First Scottish 
Story', 
Nineteenth 
Century 
Fiction, XXIV, December, 
1969,335-354. 
ERRATA 
The 
following 
footnotes 
were 
omitted 
and 
the 
footnotes 
re- 
numbered 
wrongly* 
They 
should 
be 
added 
as 
follows: 
- 
Chanter 
II 
9 
p. 
51' 
'the lonely 
voice'. 
Add 
n. 
30b 
-L 
See 
Frank O'Connor, 
The 
Lonely 
Voice, Cleveland, 
Ohio, 
1965, 
esp. 
Ch. 
1. 
p. 
62, 
'from her 
outing'. 
Add 
no 
58b 
- 
See 
A. 
Gossman, 
'On 
the Knocking 
at 
the Gate 
in 
"Markheim". Nineteenth Century Fiction, 
XVIL 
June, 1963, 
pp* 
73-76. 
Cha 
te' 
p. 
log, 
'Grant's 
motives. 
' 
Add 
n. 
1Ob 
- 
'Ay, 
and 
that 
is 
one of 
the 
pigments with 
which 
I 
am 
trying to 
draw 
the 
character of 
Prestongrange. 
'Tis 
a most curious 
thing 
to 
render 
that 
kind, 
insignificant 
mask. 
To 
make anything 
precise 
is 
to 
risk nkr 
effect. 
And 
till 
the 
day 
he 
died, 
Davie 
was 
never 
sure 
of 
what 
P. 
was after. 
Not 
only so; v 
er. 
- 
often 
P. 
didn't 
know 
himself. There 
was 
en 
element 
of mere 
liking 
for Davie; there 
07ae 
an 
element of 
being determined, 
in 
case 
of 
accidents, 
to keep 
well with 
him. He hoped 
his 
Barbara 
would 
bring 
him to her 
feet) 
besides, 
and make 
him 
manageable. 
That 
was 
why 
he 
sent 
him 
to 
Hope Park 
with 
them. 
But Davie 
cannot 
know 
Phis 
italics, 
;I 
ire 
kn 
you 
the 
inside 
of 
Davie, 
and 
my method con- 
demns 
me 
to 
give 
only 
the 
outside 
both 
of 
Prestongrange 
and 
his 
policy. 
' 
Stevenson 
to 
Sidney 
Colvin, 
April, 
1893, 
Letters, 
Vol, 5. 
Tusitala XXXV, 
p. 
17o 
p. 
135, 
'as 
Francis Hart 
has 
pointed 
out'. 
Add 
n. 
67b 
"- 
See 
F. R. Harts The Scottish 
Novel 
:A 
Critical 
Surve, 
London. 1978,, 
p, 
158? 
P, 
141, 
'Holy 
Grail. ' 
Add 
no 
76b 
- 
For 
a 
satisfying 
definition 
of 
the dual 
meaning 
of 
adventure 
in the 
nest 
see 
The 
Quest 
of 
WT?1?Oi.::. 
f 
the 
Holy Grails trans. 
and 
with an 
intro, 
by 
P. 
M. Matarasso, 
Harmondsworth, 
1969, 
ne, 
44.;, 
pe 
2930 
Chapter 
V, 
p. 
170, 
'the 
tattooed 
white 
marl 
of 
Tai--o-. 
hae, 
Add 
n? 
50b 
- 
The 
tattooed 
white 
man 
is 
ropean 
who 
had 
married 
an 
' 
isia*?d 
pr. 
inoeen 
ER_ATg 
cent 
for 
the 
love 
of 
whom 
he 
had 
submitted 
his 
body 
to 
the 
cruel 
hands 
of 
the 
tattooer'. 
The 
Wrecker, 
Tusitala 
XII, 
p. 
4. 
He is 
an 
image 
of 
cultural 
absorption, 
and 
is 
a sign 
of 
how 
white 
men can 
become 
nativised. 
P. 
171, 
Like 
N% 
:c 
in 
Typhoon. 
1 
Add 
n. 
52b 
- 
Captain 
New, 
dhirr 
is the 
anima 
ine 
tiia 
sailor 
who 
guides 
his 
ship successfully 
through 
a storm. 
Joseph 
Conrad, 
ZUhoon,, 
in 
The 
Ni 
r 
of 
the Narcissus 
and 
Other 
Stories, 
London, 
1964, 
p. 
175' 
'sinful 
father'. 
Add 
no 
58b 
The Ebb-Tide, 
Tusitala 
XIV, 
p. 
137. 
Cha 
teuer 
VI, 
p. 
193, 
'The fault 
to be 
very 
blunt 
1cV1 
all 
in 
Mrs Henry. Add 
ne 
6b 
i 
I' 
ter 
of 
Ballantrae, 
Tusitala 
X, 
p. 
21. 
pM 
193, 'the 
dour 
old 
maid'. 
Add 
no 
7t-; 
The 
Master 
of 
Ballantrae, Tusital: 
a 
X, 
p. 
13"A 
Chapter VII, 
p. 
209, 
'escape 
to 
America. 
' 
Add 
n. 
la 
-- 
Sidney 
Colvin 
outlines 
the 
continuation 
of 
the 
plot as 
told 
to 
Isobel Strong 
and 
this 
outline 
sensibly 
in his 
'Editorial 
:v 
ote 
l, 
Weir 
of 
Eermiston Some 
Unfinished 
Stories', 
Tusitala XT., 
pp. 
125136, 
E 
p. 
211, 'letters 
to Charles 
Baxter. 
$ 
Add 
no 
3b 
? 
For 
some of 
these 
nostalgic 
epistles, 
see 
Letters 
of 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 
to 
Charles 
Baxter, 
ed. 
De 
Launcey Ferguson 
and 
Marshall Waingrow, 
New Haven, 1956: 
esp. 
letters 
of 
April 
189, 
p. 
244-2551 
Fe%r4 
3,1890, 
pp. 
256-257; 
April 
27,18922 
pp. 
296-297; 
and atessim. 
See 
also 
Stevenson 
to 
S. R. 
Crockett, 
May 17,1893. 
Letters. 
Vol,, 
5, 
Tusitala 
XXYV, 
pp. 
28-30. 
p. 
225, 
'Stevenson's 
Pan-ism 
controls 
this 
picture'. 
Add 
nr 
45b 
- 
Stevenson 
gives 
?: 
4. 
s 
own 
version 
of 
Pates-ism 
in 
'Pan's 
Pipes 
ts 
Virginibus 
Pueris 
g 
Tusitala 
XXV,, 
pp. 
125 
128. An 
excellent 
discussion 
of 
?teven 
rar s 
Pan--ism 
and 
one which 
relates 
it to 
others, 
contemporaneous 
uses of 
the 
Pan 
myth 
is 
to 
be 
found 
in Patricia 
Merivale, 
Pan the Coat. 
God: 
His 
Mirth 
in 
Modern Times, Cambridge. 
Hass, 
'_?` 
pp, 
113.125 134 
i 
?5 
A 
168 
a5Q` 
:. 
* * 
**