Harold Bloom - Robert Louis Stevenson (Bloom's Modern Critical Views) (2005)

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ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON
Edited and with an introduction by

Harold Bloom
Sterling Professor of the Humanities
Yale University
©2005 by Chelsea House Publishers, a subsidiary of
Haights Cross Communications.
http://www.chelseahouse.com
Introduction © 2005 by Harold Bloom.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any
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Printed and bound in the United States of America.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Robert Louis Stevenson / Harold Bloom, ed.
p. cm. — (Modern critical views)
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
ISBN 0-7910-8128-1 (alk. paper)
1. Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894—Criticism and interpretation. I. Bloom, Harold. II.
Series.
PR5496.R568 2004
828’.809—dc22
2004013050
Contributing Editor: Jesse Zuba

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acknowledgments sections of this volume.
Contents
Editor’s Note vii
Introduction 1
Harold Bloom
The Style of Stevenson 5

G.K. Chesterton
R.L.S. Revisited 13
Leslie A. Fiedler
The Aesthetics of Adventure 25
Robert Kiely
Stevenson and Scottish Fiction:
The Importance of The Master of Ballantrae 53
Douglas Gifford
Author and Narrator in Weir of Hermiston 79
K.G. Simpson
Children of the Night: Stevenson and Patriarchy 103
William Veeder
James and Stevenson:

The Mixed Current of Realism and Romance 159
George Dekker
The Sedulous Ape: Atavism,

Professionalism, and Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde 185
Stephen Arata
vi Contents
Treasure Island: The Parrot’s Tale 211

Alan Sandison
On A Child’s Garden of Verses 245
John Hollander
Piracy and Exchange:
Stevenson’s Pacific Fiction 261
Vanessa Smith
Chronology 307
Contributors 311
Bibliography 313
Acknowledgments 317
Index 319
Editor’s Note
My introduction attempts an evaluative overview of Robert Louis Stevenson,

drawing some of its material from his letters, while touching upon such
varied achievements as his short fiction, his poetry, and his major novelistic
romance, The Master of Ballantrae.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton, sublimely Falstaffian poet-critic-prose
romancer and Catholic polemicist, surveys Stevenson’s style, acutely finding
in it “a sort of fastidiousness that has still something of the fighting spirit”.
The late Leslie Fiedler centers upon Stevenson’s lifelong Jekyll-Hyde
split, which he sees as culminating in The Master of Ballantrae, while Robert
Kiely emphasizes the writer’s retention of a child’s imagination. Douglas
Gifford then shows the place of The Master of Ballantrae in the history of
Scottish fiction.
The unfinished Weir of Hermiston is analyzed by K.G. Simpson, while
William Veeder interprets Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as a hidden study in the
resentment of patriarchy.
Henry James and Stevenson are juxtaposed by George Dekker, after
which Stephen Arata confronts Jekyll and Hyde as a “dissociation of writing
from selfhood”, and Alan Sandison provides a very useful account of Treasure
Island.
The poet-critic John Hollander movingly illuminates A Child’s Garden
of Verses, while Vanessa Smith concludes this volume by a incisive analysis of
Stevenson’s tales of “the island world of the Pacific”.
vii
HAROLD BLOOM
Introduction
There is no single clue or formula that will enable readers to hold together
the varied literary achievements of Robert Louis Stevenson, born in
Edinburgh, Scotland in 1850 and dying in Samoa in December, 1894. Like
the very different but equally tragic D.H. Lawrence, also dead at forty-four
from the consequences of hereditary tuberculosis, Stevenson searched
incessantly for a climate to sustain him, while composing profusely in nearly
every literary genre. Lawrence, however was a nonconformist prophet, in
the tradition of Milton and Blake, while Stevenson was essentially a
Romantic storyteller. Their one common element was the influence of Walt
Whitman, subtly muted in Stevenson, but triumphantly transformative in
Lawrence.
It is no kindness to Stevenson to juxtapose him with Lawrence, a writer
now eclipsed by political correctness, but certain to become canonical, when
authentic aesthetic and cognitive standards return, as eventually they will,
though perhaps not in my own lifetime. Lawrence’s shorter fiction, his
poems and prophecies, and his finest novels have major reverberation.
Stevenson is far more than an entertainer, but his scope and substance are of
the eminence of Rudyard Kipling’s rather than of Thomas Hardy’s and
D.H. Lawrence’s.
The best introduction the common reader can have to Stevenson is the
volume of his Selected Letters, edited by Ernest Mehew (New Haven, 1997).
The humor, endurance, and narrative genius figure constantly. As a letter-
writer, Stevenson sustains comparison with Henry James, a friend and
frequent correspondent, if not quite with John Keats and Lord Byron. The
1
2 Harold Bloom
daemonic genius of Stevenson does not however inform his letters, or his
essays and travel-writings. Unfortunately, it is also absent from his poetry,
which in consequence is minor though accomplished. The immensely and
perpetually popular fictions have achieved the status of myth, because they
were composed by his daemon: Treasure Island, Kidnapped, The Master of
Ballantrae, and above all Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde. These always
will be the essential Stevenson, works that seem to have been there even
before first he wrote them.
Stevenson married a motherly woman a decade older than himself, and

became a kind of elder brother to her young son, who eventually was to be co-
author, with Stevenson, of The Wrong Box. Rather deliberately, Stevenson resisted
growing up. Three months before dying, Stevenson wrote an extraordinary letter
to his cousin Bob. An only child, Stevenson first found a brother in Bob, who led
him into a break with his Calvinist parents. Musing on their common ancestors,
the author confessed his inability to get beyond first childhood:
What a singular thing is this undistinguished perpetuation of a

family throughout the centuries, and the sudden bursting forth of
character and capacity that began with our grandfather! But as I
go on in life, day by day, I become more of a bewildered child: I
cannot get used to this world, to procreation, to heredity, to sight,
to hearing; the commonest things are a burthen; the sight of Belle
and her twelve-year-old boy, already taller than herself, is enough
to turn my hair grey; for as Fanny and her brood, it is insane to
think of. The prim obliterated polite face of life, and the broad,
bawdy, and orgiastic—or maenadic—foundations, form a
spectacle to which no habit reconciles me; and ‘I could wish my
days to be bound to each’ by the same open-mouthed wonder.
They are anyway, and whether I wish it or not.
The quotation from Wordsworth’s “My heart leaps up” is exactly

relevant to Stevenson’s dilemmas. He suffered not only the bewilderments of
a dying child, but a longing for continuity with an earlier self that evaded
him. This is the burden of one of his last and most famous poems:
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

Say, could that lad be I?
Introduction 3
Merry of soul he sailed on a day

Over the sea to Skye.
Mull was astern, Rum on the port,

Eigg on the starboard bow;
Glory of youth glowed in his soul:
Where is that glory now?

Give me again all that was there,

Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that’s gone!

Billow and breeze, islands and seas,

Mountains of rains and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was is gone.
Memorably poignant and rather deliberately slight, this is almost self-

elegy. Contrast the opening of the “Preface” to The Master of Ballantrae:
Although an old, consistent exile, the editor of the following

pages revisits now and again the city of which he exults to be a
native; and there are few things more strange, more painful, or
more salutary, than such revisitations. Outside, in foreign spots,
he comes by surprise and awakens more attention than he had
expected; in his own city, the relation is reversed, and he stands
amazed to be so little recollected. Elsewhere he is refreshed to see
attractive faces, to remark possible friends; there he scouts the
long streets, with a pang at heart, for the faces and friends that are
4 Harold Bloom
no more. Elsewhere he is delighted with the presence of what is

new, there tormented by the absence of what is old. Elsewhere he
is content to be his present self; there he is smitten with an equal
regret for what he once was and for what he once hoped to be.
That “regret” is persuasive in Stevenson, including the best of his

shorter fictions: “The Bottle Imp”, “The Merry Men”, and properly the
most famous, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde. Conceived in a
Stevensonian nightmare, this story might be even more effective had he not
allowed his wife to talk him out of a now destroyed first version, in which Dr.
Jekyll had been a wicked genius who outered the persona of Mr. Hyde as a
mere disguise. A lapsed Calvinist, Stevenson always entertained the doctrine
of Predestination in his inmost being.
Critical opinion remains divided upon the eternally popular R.L.S.

Borges, in his veneration for Stevenson, converted many who had become
skeptical. Unlike the equally popular Poe, Stevenson was a superb stylist, and
I continue to reread him with pleasure; if also with a certain reserve,
wondering at his selfsameness (to employ a Shakespearean term). I am
content to allow Italo Calvino the last word here:
There are those who think him a minor writer and those who
recognize greatness in him. I agree with the latter, because of the
clean, light clarity of his style, but also because of the moral
nucleus of all his narratives.
G . K . C H E S T E RT O N
The Style of Stevenson
B efore writing this chapter I ought to explain that I am quite incapable of

writing it; at least as many serious literary authorities think it ought to be
written. I am one of those humble characters for whom the main matter of
style is concerned with making a statement; and generally, in the case of
Stevenson, with telling a story. Style takes its own most living and therefore
most fitting form from within; as the narrative quickens and leaps, or the
statement becomes warm or weighty, by being either authoritative or
argumentative. The sentence takes its shape from motion; as it takes its
motion from motive. And the motive (for us outcasts) is what the man has to
say. But there is a technical treatment of style for which I have a profound
respect, but it is a respect for the unknown, not to say the unintelligible. I
will not say it is Greek to me, for I know the Greek alphabet and I do not
know the alphabet of these grammars of cadence and sequence; I can still
even read the Greek Testament, but the gospel of pure and abstract English
brings me no news. I salute it from afar as I do musical harmony or the
higher mathematics; but I shall not introduce into this book a chapter on any
of these three topics. When I speak of the style of Stevenson I mean the
manner in which he could express himself in plain English, even if it were in
some ways peculiar English; and I have nothing but the most elementary
English with which to criticise it. I cannot use the terms of any science of
language, or even any science of literature.
From Robert Louis Stevenson in The Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton, volume XVIII. © 1991 by
the Ignatius Press.
5
6 G.K. Chesterton
Mr. Max Beerbohm, whose fine and classic criticism is full of those
shining depths that many mistake for shallowness, has remarked truly
enough on the rather wearisome repetitions in the newspapers, which did
great harm to the Stevensonian fame at the time of the Stevensonian fashion.
He notices especially that a certain phrase used by Stevenson about his early
experiments in writing, that he has ‘played the sedulous ape’ to Hazlitt or to
Lamb, must be permanently kept in type in the journalistic offices, so
frequently do the journalists quote it. There are about a thousand things in
Stevenson much more worth quoting, and much more really enlightening
about his education in letters. Every young writer, however original, does
begin by imitating other people, consciously or unconsciously, and nearly
every old writer should be quite as willing to admit it. The real irony in the
incident seems never to have been noticed. The real reason why this
confession of plagiarism, out of a hundred such confessions, is always quoted,
is because the confession itself has the stamp not of plagiarism but of
personal originality. In the very act of claiming to have copied other styles,
Stevenson writes most unmistakably in his own style. I think I could have
guessed amid a hundred authors who had used the expression ‘played the
sedulous ape.’ I do not think that Hazlitt would have added that word
‘sedulous.’ Some might say he was the better because the simpler without it;
some would say that the word is in the strict sense too recherché; some might
say it can be recognised because it is strained or affected. All that is matter
for argument; but it is rather a joke when so individual a trick is made a proof
of being merely imitative. Anyhow, that sort of trick, the rather curious
combination of two such words, is the thing I mean by the style of Stevenson.
In the case of Stevenson, criticism has always tended to be hyper-
criticism. It is as if the critic were strung up to be as strict with the artist as
the artist was with himself. But they are not very consistent or considerate in
the matter. They blame him for being fastidious; and so become more
fastidious themselves. They condemn him for wasting time in trying to find
the right word; and then waste more time in not very successful attempts to
prove it is the wrong word. I remember that Mr. George Moore42 (who at
least led the attack when Stevenson was alive and at the height of his
popularity) professed in a somewhat mysterious manner to have exposed or
exploded the whole trick of Stevenson, by dwelling at length on the word
‘interjected’: in the passage which describes a man stopping a clock with
interjected finger. There seemed to be some notion that because the word is
unusual in that use, it showed that there was nothing but artificial verbalism
in the whole tragedy of Jekyll and Hyde or the fun of The Wrong Box. I think
it is time that this sort of fastidiousness about fastidiousness should be
corrected with a little common sense. The obvious question to ask Mr.
Moore, if he objects to the word ‘interjected,’ is, ‘what word would you use?’
He would immediately discover that any word would be much weaker and
even much less exact. To say ‘interposed finger’ would suggest by its very
sound a much clumsier and less precise action; ‘interjected’ suggests by its
very sound a sort of jerk of neatness; a mechanical neatness correcting
mechanism. In other words, it suggests what it was meant to suggest.
Stevenson used the word because it was the right word. Nobody else used it,
because nobody else thought of it. And that is the whole story of
Stevensonian style.
Literature is but a language; it is only a rare and amazing miracle by
which a man really says what he means. It is inevitable that most conversation
should be convention; as when we cover a myriad beautiful contrasts or
comedies of opposites by calling any number of different people ‘nice.’ Some
writers, including Stevenson, desired (in the old and proper sense) to be
more nice in their discrimination of niceness. Now whether we like such
fastidious felicities or no, whether we are individually soothed or irritated by
a style like that of Stevenson, whether we have any personal or impersonal
reason for impatience with the style or the man, we ought really to have
enough critical impartiality and justice to see what is the literary test. The
test is whether the words are well or ill chosen, not for the purpose of fitting
our own taste in words, but for the purpose of satisfying everybody’s sense of
the realities of things. Now it is nonsense for anybody who pretends to like
literature not to see the excellence of Stevenson’s expression in this way. He
does pick the words that make that picture that he particularly wants to
make. They do fix a particular thing, and not some general thing of the same
sort; yet the thing is often one very difficult to distinguish from other things
of the same sort. That is the craft of letters; and the craftsman made a vast
multitude of such images in all sorts of materials. In this matter we may say
of Stevenson very much what he said of Burns. He remarked that Burns
surprised the polite world, with its aesthetes and antiquarians, by never
writing poems on waterfalls, ruined castles or other recognised places of
interest; the very fact, of course, which showed Burns to be a poet and not a
tourist. It is always the prosaic person who demands poetic subjects. They
are the only subjects about which he can possibly be poetic. But Burns, as
Stevenson said, had a natural gift of lively and flexible comment that could
play as easily upon one thing as another; a kirk or a tavern or a group going
to market or a pair of dogs in the street. This gift must be judged by its
aptness, its vividness and its range; and anybody who suggests that
Stevenson’s talent was only one piece of thin silver polished perpetually in its
8 G.K. Chesterton
napkin does not, in the most exact and emphatic sense, know what he is
talking about. Stevenson had exactly the talent he attributes to Burns of
touching nothing that he did not animate. And so far from hiding one talent
in one napkin, it would be truer to say that he became ruler over ten cities;
set in the ends of the earth. Indeed the last phrase alone suggests an example
or a text.
I will take the case of one of his books; I deliberately refrain from
taking one of his best books. I will take The Wrecker, a book which many
would call a failure and which nobody would call a faultless artistic success,
least of all the artist. The picture breaks out of the frame; indeed it is rather
a panorama than a picture. The story sprawls over three continents; and the
climax has too much the air of being only the last of a long string of
disconnected passages. It has the look of a scrap-book; indeed it is very
exactly a sketch-book. It is merely the sketch-book of Loudon Dodd, the
wandering art student never allowed to be fully an artist; just as his story is
never allowed to be fully a work of art. He sketches people with the pen as
he does with the pencil, in four or five incongruous societies, in the
commercial school of Muskegon or the art school of Paris, in the east wind
of Edinburgh or the black squall of the South Seas; just as he sketched the
four fugitive murderers gesticulating and lying in the Californian saloon.
The point is (on the strict principles of l’art pour l’art, so dear to Mr. Dodd)
that he sketched devilish well. We can take the portraits of twenty social
types in turn, taken from six social worlds utterly shut out from each other,
and find in every case that the strokes are at once few and final; that is, that
the word is well chosen out of a hundred words and that one word does the
work of twenty. The story starts: ‘The beginning of this yarn is my poor
father’s character’; and the character is compact in one paragraph. When Jim
Pinkerton first strides into the story and is described as a young man ‘with
cordial, agitated manners,’ we walk through the rest of the narrative with a
living man; and listen not merely to words, but to a voice. No other two
adjectives could have done the trick. When the shabby and shady lawyer,
with his cockney culture and underbred refinement, is first introduced as
handling a big piece of business beyond his metier, he bears himself ‘with a
sort of shrinking assumption.’ The reader, especially if he is not a writer, may
imagine that such words matter little; but if he supposes that it might just as
well have been ‘flinching pride’ or ‘quailing arrogance’ he knows nothing
about writing and perhaps not much about reading. The whole point is in
that hitting of the right nail on the head; and rather more so when the nail is
such a very battered little tintack as Mr. Harry D. Bellairs of San Francisco.
When Loudon Dodd merely has to meet a naval officer and record that he
got next to nothing out of him, that very negation has a touch of chilly life
like a fish. ‘I judged he was suffering torments of alarm lest I should prove an
undesirable acquaintance; diagnosed him for a shy, dull, vain, unamiable
animal, without adequate defence—a sort of dishoused snail.’ The visit to an
English village, under the shadow of an English country house, is equally
aptly appreciated; from the green framework of the little town, ‘a domino of
tiled houses and walled gardens,’ to the reminiscences of the ex-butler about
the exiled younger son; ‘near four generations of Carthews were touched
upon without eliciting one point of interest; and we had killed Mr. Henry in
the hunting field with a vast elaboration of painful circumstance and buried
him in the midst of a whole sorrowing county, before I could so much as
manage to bring upon the stage my intimate friend, Mr. Norris.... He was the
only person of the whole featureless series who seemed to have accomplished
anything worth mentioning; and his achievements, poor dog, seemed to have
been confined to going to the devil and leaving some regrets.... He had no
pride about him, I was told; he would sit down with any man; and it was
somewhat woundingly implied that I was indebted to this peculiarity for my
own acquaintance with the hero.’ But I must not be led away by the large
temptation of quoting examples of the cool and collected and sustained irony,
with which Loudon Dodd tells his whole story. I am only giving random
examples of his rapid sketches of very different sorts of societies and
personalities; and the point is that he can describe them rapidly and yet
describe them rightly. In other words the author does possess a quite
exceptional power of putting what he really means into the words that really
convey it. And to show that this was a matter of genius in the man, and not
(as some of his critics would imply) a matter of laborious technical treatment
applied to two or three prize specimens, I have taken all these examples from
one of the less known works, one of the least admired and perhaps of the least
admirable. Whole tracts of it run almost as casually as his private
correspondence; and his private correspondence is full of the same lively and
animated neatness. In this one neglected volume of The Wrecker there are
thousands of such things; and everything to show that he could have written
twenty more volumes, equally full of these felicities. A man who does this is
not only an artist doing what most men cannot do, but he is certainly doing
what most novelists do not do. Even very good novelists have not this
particular knack of putting a whole human figure together with a few
unforgettable words. By the end of a novel by Mr. Arnold Bennett or Mr. E.F.
Benson I have the sense that Lord Raingo or Lord Chesham is a real man,
very rightly understood; but I never have at the beginning that feeling of
magic; that a man has been brought to life by three words of an incantation.
10 G.K. Chesterton
This was the genius of Stevenson; and it is simply silly to complain of

it because it was Stevensonian. I do not blame either of the other two
novelists for not being somebody else. But I do venture to blame them a little
for grumbling because Stevenson was himself. I do not quite see why he
should be covered with cold depreciation merely because he could put into a
line what other men put into a page; why he should be regarded as superficial
because he saw more in a man’s walk or profile than the moderns can dig out
of his complexes and his subconsciousness; why he should be called artificial
because he sought (and found) the right word for a real object; why he should
be thought shallow because he went straight for what was significant, without
wading towards it through wordy seas of insignificance; or why he should be
treated as a liar because he was not ashamed to be a story-teller.
Of course there are many other vivid marks of Stevenson’s style,
besides this particular element of picked and pointed phrase, or rather
especially the combination of picked and pointed phrases. I might make
much more than I have made out of something in his rapidly stepping
sentences, especially in narrative, which corresponds to his philosophy of the
militant attitude and the active virtues. That word angular, which I have been
driven to use too often, belongs to the sharpness of his verbal gestures as
much as to the cutlasses and choppers of his pasteboard pirates. Those early
theatrical figures, from the sketch-book of Skelt, were all of them in their
nature like snapshots of people in swift action. Three-Fingered Jack could
not have remained permanently with the cudgel or the sabre swung about his
head nor Robin Hood with the arrow drawn to his ear; and the descriptions
of Stevenson’s characters are seldom static but rather dynamic descriptions;
and deal rather with how a man did or said something than with what he was
like. The sharp and shrewd Scottish style of Ephraim Mackellar or David
Balfour seems by its very sound exactly fitted to describe a man snapping his
fingers or rapping with his stick. Doubtless so careful an artist as Stevenson
varied his style to suit the subject and the speaker; we should not look for
these dry or abrupt brevities in the dilettante deliberations of Loudon Dodd;
but I know very few of the writer’s works in which there are not, at the crisis,
phrases as short and sharp as the knife that Captain Wicks rammed through
his own hand. Something should also have been said, of course, of the
passages in which Stevenson deliberately plays on a somewhat different
musical instrument; as when he exercised upon Pan’s Pipes in respectful
imitation of Meredith upon a penny whistle. Something should have been
said of the style of his poems; which are perhaps more successful in their
phraseology than their poetry. But these again teem with these taut and
trenchant separate phrases; the description of the interlacing branches like
crossed sword in battle; the men upholding the falling skies like unfrowning
caryatids; the loud stairs of honour and the bright eyes of danger. But I have
already explained that I profess no scientific thoroughness about these
problems of execution; and can only speak of the style of Stevenson as it
specially affects my own taste and fancy. And the thing that strikes me most
is still this sense of somebody being pinked with a rapier in a particular
button; of a sort of fastidiousness that has still something of the fighting
spirit; that aims at a mark and makes a point, and is certainly not merely an
idle trifling with words for the sake of their external elegance or intrinsic
melody. As a part of the present criticism, such a statement is only another
way of saying, in the old phrase, that the style is the man; and that the man
was certainly a man and not only a man of letters. I find everywhere, even in
his mere diction and syntax, that theme that is the whole philosophy of fairy-
tales, of the old romances and even of the absurd libretto of the little
theatre—the conception that man is born with hope and courage indeed, but
born outside that which he was meant to attain; that there is a quest, a test,
a trial by combat or pilgrimage of discovery; or, in other words, that
whatever else man is he is not sufficient to himself, either through peace or
through despair. The very movement of the sentence is the movement of a
man going somewhere and generally fighting something; and that is where
optimism and pessimism are alike opposed to that ultimate or potential
peace, which the violent take by storm.
NOTE
42. George Moore (1852–1933) was an Irish novelist and critic.
LESLIE A. FIEDLER
R.L.S. Revisited
Originally the Introduction to The Master of Ballantrae

by Robert Louis Stevenson, Rinehart, 1954
“That angel was a devil ...”
O ne hundred years after the birth of Stevenson, the question of his worth
as a writer remains still very much at issue. Unless we are willing to surrender
him completely to children or to indulge a sneaking fondness for him as
unanalytically as if we were ourselves children, we must make a really critical
assessment of his work. We must meet the question: Is a liking for Treasure
Island, a literary enthusiasm or a minor subliterary vice, like reading detective
stories? The enthusiasm of the first generation of Stevensonians found a
critical approach to what seemed to them all charm and magic impertinent,
but today we are inclined to be suspicious of the easy triumphs of the R.L.S.
style; and the genre of Romance to which Stevenson’s reputation is tied has
been relegated among us to the shelves of the circulating library. David
Daiches has recently attempted to redeem Stevenson for our time by
showing him progressing from the lesser form of the Romance to the Novel
proper; but this approach concedes too much by assuming a derogatory
evaluation of the Romance as such (to which I am not prepared to subscribe),
and leads to a failure to understand the intent of the conclusion of The Master
of Ballantrae and of the proposed ending to the Weir of Hermiston.
From No! in Thunder. © 1960 by Leslie A. Fiedler.
13
14 Leslie A. Fiedler
If we remember that Long John Silver appeared for years in the

“Katzenjammer Kids,” we will, I think, begin to see the possibilities of a quite
different approach. Imagine Anna Karenina or Stephen Dedalus
appropriated by the comic strips! It could be done only in vulgar burlesque;
but the Sea-Cook can be kidnapped without impertinence. Like other
Stevensonian characters (Jekyll and Hyde, for instance), he exists, as it were,
in the public domain—along with Thor and Loki, Hansel and Gretel. The
characters of Stevenson seem to have an objective existence, a being prior to
and independent of any particular formal realization. They are, in short, not
merely literary creations, but also embodiments of archetypal themes—and
it is in the realm of myth, which sometimes overlaps but is not identical with
literature, that we must look for clues to the meaning and unity of
Stevenson’s work.
Modern prose fiction has handled the myth in two quite different ways,
one sophisticated, one naïve; the former, that of James Joyce, for instance,
leads from the inward novel of character, through psychological naturalism,
to symbolism and beyond to the conscious manipulation of the mythic; the
latter begins with the outward Romance of incident, the boys’ story or
thriller, and moves through allegory, often elusive, to the naïve or
unconscious evocation of myth. To the latter group belong such varied
writers as Melville, Arthur Conan Doyle, Graham Greene—and Robert
Louis Stevenson. They are possessed of a double ambiguity: on the one
hand, they are likely to deny point-blank the symbolic intent which the critic
can not help seeing in them; and on the other, they tend to define a wavering
line between literature, and subliterature—falling sometimes to the side of
achieved formal statement and sometimes to that of a shoddy and cheaply
popular evocation of archetypal themes.
Sophisticated exploiters of the mythic (Joyce, Mann) are inevitably
limited in their appeal, and in their work the traditional “story” plotted in
time tends to be replaced by the timeless movement of archetypes in the
psyche. Such naïve exploiters of the mythic as Greene and Stevenson, on the
contrary, preserve the “story” and its appeal intact; in them the picturesque
never yields completely to the metaphysical—and they can always be read on
one level as boys’ books or circulating—library thrillers.
To understand and examine Stevenson as a writer of this kind is at once
to take him seriously and to preserve the integrity of his Romances qua
Romances. More than that, such an understanding may lead to the more
general appreciation of an honorable alternative to realism, somewhat out of
fashion but by no means exhausted in its possibilities, a genre in which the
serious contemporary fictionist may find a strategy for closing the distance
R.L.S. Revisited 15
between himself and the large audience of novel readers ordinarily immune
to serious literature. It is well to realize, however, the difficulties inherent in
such a strategy; and when we have come to see Stevenson’s development as a
writer of fiction, in terms of a struggle to exploit ever more deeply the
universal meanings of his fables, with the least possible surrender of their
structure and appeal as “howling good tales,” we shall be able to understand,
perhaps better than their author ever did, certain contradictions of tone and
intent in the later books.
Over and over again since his reputation was first questioned, critics
have asked: Is there in Stevenson’s work a single motivating force, beyond
the obvious desire to be charming, to please, to exact admiration—that seems
to us now a little shallow and more than a little coquettish? Frank
Swinnerton, who led the first reaction against the uncritical adulation of
R.L.S. found in only one book, Jekyll and Hyde, a “unifying idea.” But “idea”
is a misleading word; a single felt myth gives coherence, individually and as
a group, to several of Stevenson’s long fictions—and it is the very myth
explicitly stated in Jekyll and Hyde. The books besides the latter are Treasure
Island, Kidnapped, The Master of Ballantrae and the Weir of Hermiston; the
organizing mythic concept might be called the Beloved Scoundrel or the
Devil as Angel, and the books make a series of variations of the theme of the
beauty of evil—and conversely the unloveliness of good. The Beloved
Scoundrel makes his debut as Long John Silver in Treasure Island, a tale first
printed, it is worth noticing, in a boys’ magazine, and written to explain
circumstantially a treasure map drawn for a child’s game that Stevenson had
been playing with his young stepson.
There can be little doubt that one of Stevenson’s motives in marrying
was to become a child—and finding himself at the age of thirty at long last a
child enabled him unexpectedly to become for the first time a real creative
writer; that is, to sustain a successful long fiction. All of Stevenson’s major
loves had been older, once-married women—which is to say, mothers. There
was his “Madonna,” Mrs. Sitwell, who in the end married his friend Sidney
Colvin, and to whom he used to sign his letters of passionate loneliness “Your
Son”; there was the agreeably alien and mature Mme. Garischine, whom he
assured “what I want is a mother”; and there was, at last, the woman he
actually wed, Fanny Osbourne, some eleven years older than himself, the
mother of three children.
His marriage to Mrs. Osbourne not only gave him a mother to replace
his own, from whom he felt estranged and to whom he could not utterly
commit himself without feelings of guilt toward his father, but provided him
for the first time with a brother in the form of his twelve-year-old stepson,
Lloyd. An only child and one isolated by illness, Stevenson had never been
able to feel himself anything but a small adult (his parents observed him,
noted down his most chance remarks with awful seriousness); against the boy
Lloyd he was able to define himself as a boy. Together they played at many
things; toy soldiers, printing (they founded the Davos Press to publish
accounts of their mock warfare)—even writing. Before Lloyd had fully
matured, he and Stevenson had begun their collaboration with The Wrong
Box. Writing to R.L.S. seemed always a kind of childish sport; “to play at
home with paper like a child,” he once described his life’s work, a glance over
his shoulder at his disapproving forebears, good engineers and unequivocal
adults. But there is in such a concept of art, not only the troubled touch of
guilt, but the naïve surge of joy; and Stevenson’s abandonment to childhood
meant his first release as an artist—produced Treasure Island, Kidnapped and
A Child’s Garden of Verses.
Long John Silver is described through a boy’s eye, the first of those
fictional first-person-singulars who are a detached aspect of the author. It is
Jim Hawkins who is the chief narrator of the tale, as it is Jim who saves the
Sea-Cook from the gallows. For the boy, the scoundrel par excellence is the
Pirate: an elemental ferocity belonging to the unfamiliar sea and uncharted
islands hiding bloodstained gold. And yet there is an astonishing innocence
about it all—a world without sex and without business—where the source of
wealth is buried treasure, clean gold in sand, for which only murder has been
clone, but which implies no grimy sweat in offices, no manipulating of stock,
none of the quiet betrayals of capitalist competition. The very embodiment
of this world, vain, cruel, but astonishingly courageous and immune to self-
deprecation, able to compel respect, obedience—and even love—is John
Silver; and set against him for a foil is Captain Smollett, in whom virtue is
joined to a certain dourness, an immediate unattractiveness. Not only Jim,
but Stevenson, too, finds the Pirate more lovable than the good Captain. In
one of his Fables written afterwards, he sets before us Alexander Smollett and
John Silver, debating with each other while their author rests between
Chapters XXXII and XXXIII; and Captain Smollett” is embarrassed by the
Sea-Cook’s boast that their common creator loves him more, keeps him in
the center of the scene, but keeps the virtuous Captain “measling in the
hold.”
Kidnapped, like Treasure Island, was written for a boys’ magazine, and in
both all important relationships are between males. In Kidnapped, however,
the relation of the Boy and the Scoundrel, treated as a flirtation in the earlier
book, becomes almost a full-fledged love affair, a pre-sexual romance; the
antagonists fall into lovers’ quarrels and make up, swear to part forever, and
R.L.S. Revisited 17
remain together. The Rogue this time is Alan Breck Stewart, a rebel, a
deserter, perhaps a murderer, certainly vain beyond forgiveness and without a
shred of Christian morality. The narrator and the foil in this book (certainly,
technically the most economical—perhaps, in that respect, the best of
Stevenson) are one: David Balfour is Jim Hawkins and Captain Smollett fused
into a single person. David must measure the Scoundrel against himself, and
the more unwillingly comes to love that of which he must disapprove. Here
good and evil are more subtly defined, more ambiguous: pious Presbyterian
and irreverent Catholic, solid defender of the status quo and fantastic dreamer
of the Restoration—in short, Highlander and Lowlander, Scotland divided
against itself. It is the Lowlander that Stevenson was who looks longingly and
disapprovingly at the alien dash, the Highland fecklessness of Alan through
the eyes of David (was not Stevenson’s own mother a Balfour?); but it is the
Highlander he dreamed himself (all his life he tried vainly to prove his father’s
family were descended from the banned Clan MacGregor) that looks back.
The somber good man and the glittering rascal are both two and one; they
war within Stevenson’s single country and in his single soul.
In Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which Stevenson himself called a “fable”—
that is, a dream allegorized into a morality—the point is made explicit: “I saw
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.”
It is the respectable and lonely Dr. Jekyll who gives life to the monstrous Mr.
Hyde; and once good has given form to the ecstasy of evil, the good can only
destroy what it has shaped by destroying itself. The death of evil requires the
death of good. Jekyll and Hyde is a tragedy, one of the only two tragedies that
Stevenson ever wrote; but its allegory is too schematic, too slightly realized in
terms of fiction and character, and too obviously colored with easy terror to
be completely convincing; while its explicit morality demands that evil be
portrayed finally as an obvious monster.
In The Master of Ballantrae, Stevenson once more splits in two for
dramatic purposes what is in life one: unlovely good and lovely evil, restoring
to the latter the glitter and allure proper to his first vision. The Master is a
splendid book, Stevenson’s only truly embodied tragedy—and the wittiest of
his works, in its device of placing the narration of the tragic action in the
mouths of comic characters, a story told turn and turn about by the comic
alter ego of the graceless good man and that of the winning scoundrel, the
burlesque Scotsman and the burlesque Irishman, MacKellar and the
Chevalier Burke—comic both of them, it is worth noticing, by virtue of their
cowardice. To Stevenson, as to all small boys, cowardice is the laughable
vice—as courage is the unimpeachable virtue. And yet for this book, the boys’
scoundrel, one-legged Pirate or Kilted Highland Rebel will not do; there
must be an adult villain, though he must live and die in terms of a “howling
good tale.” That villain is James Durrisdeer, the Master of Ballantrae.
He is, like John Silver or Alan Breck, absolutely brave and immediately
lovable, though unscrupulous and without mercy, two-faced and treacherous,
inordinately proud and selfish. But he is all these conventionally villainous
things in an absolute sense; he is the very maturity, the quintessence of evil.
He is for a time like Long John a Pirate, like Alan a Rebel (and like the later
Frank Innes a Seducer), but these are for him mere shadowy forms of what
he is ideally. Stevenson, as if to make sure we understand, brings the Master
face to face first with the protagonist of Kidnapped, “Alan Black Stewart or
some such name,” and next with Teach himself, the infamous Blackbeard—
surely a fit surrogate for Silver and all his crew—and shows each of these in
turn shamefully outwitted by the Master. Alan’s conduct in their encounter
is described as “childish,” and Teach, called first “a wicked child,” meets his
defeat at the Master’s hand “like a wicked baby.” Beside ultimate villainy, the
Pirate and the Highland Rebel seem scarcely adult; theirs is the rascality of
the nursery, laughable rather than terrible—and they serve at last only to
define the Master’s “deadly, causeless duplicity,” that final malevolence which
must be called “beautiful,” the “nobility of hell.”
In a letter in which he first discusses his plans for the book, Stevenson
writes, “The Master is all I know of the devil,” and later to Henry James, “The
elder brother is an INCUBUS!” One of the happiest strokes of invention in
The Master is the presentation of elemental good and evil as brothers: Esau
and Jacob in their early contention, Cain and Abel in their bloody ending. It
is an apt metaphor of their singleness and division.
Henry, the younger brother of the Master, James, is patient, loyal, kind
though not generous, at first more than reasonably pious and humble. He
has, however, the essential flaw of Stevenson’s virtuous men: the flaw of
Alexander Smollett, who was “not popular at home,” perhaps even of R.L.S.
himself appealing to his “Madonna” to assure him that he is not “such cold
poison to everybody.” Henry does not compel love, not his father’s nor that
of Alison, the woman who marries him believing that her real beloved, his
malefic brother, is dead. He feels his lack of appeal as a kind of guilt, and
when his wife is morally unfaithful to him (he is, like the hero of Prince Otto,
in everything but physical fact a cuckold), he can reproach only himself.
Ephraim Mackellar, called “Squaretoes,” the Steward of Durrisdeer
and the loyal supporter of Henry, is everything that his Lord is—exaggerated
toward the comic—and a pedant and a coward to boot. It is through his dry,
finicky prose (with the exception of two interpolated narratives by the
R.L.S. Revisited 19
Chevalier Burke, the comic alter ego of James) that the story unfolds, and it
is in his mind that the conflict of feeling—repulsion and attraction—toward
the Master is played out.
There is no question of James Durrisdeer having some good qualities
and some bad; it is his essential quality, his absolute evil, that is at once
repellent and attractive. The Master is evil, that imagined ultimate evil which
the student Stevenson naïvely sought in the taverns and brothels of
Edinburgh, another Mackellar, his notebook in hand! It is the quality that,
Stevenson found, women and unlettered people instinctively love—the
dandiacal splendor of damnation that even a Mackellar must call at one point
“beautiful!” The study of such double feeling is not common in the
nineteenth century, which preferred melodrama to ambivalence; and it is the
special merit of Stevenson to have dealt with a mode of feeling so out of the
main stream of his time.
From the beginning of the book, the diabolical nature of the Master is
suggested, at first obliquely and almost as if by inadvertence. “I think you are
a devil of a son to me,” the old father cries to James; it is merely a
commonplace, a figure of speech, but later it becomes more explicit. Henry,
veiledly telling his young son of his duel with the Master, speaks of “a man
whom the devil tried to kill, and how near he came to kill the devil instead.”
They are the words of one already half-mad with grief and torment, but the
eminently sane Mackellar is driven to concur in part: “But so much is true,
that I have met the devil in these woods and have seen him foiled here.” All
leads up to the moment of recognition and unwilling praise, when Mackellar
says of James: “He had all the gravity and something of the splendor of Satan
in the ‘Paradise Lost.’ I could not help but see the man with admiration....”
But if James is in any real sense the Devil, he must be immortal; his
defeats and deaths can be only shows—and this, indeed, the younger brother
comes to believe: “Nothing can kill that man. He is not mortal. He is bound
upon my back to all eternity—to all God’s eternity!” Actually—which is to
say according to the account of Mackellar—at the point where Henry breaks
forth into near hysteria at the news of yet another presumed death the
Master has been falsely thought dead twice. “I have struck my sword
throughout his vitals,” he cried. “I have felt the hilt dirl on his breastbone,
and the hot blood spirt in my very face, time and again, time and again! But
he was never dead for that.... Why should I think he was dead now!” And
truly, he is to rise once more. Which account is then true? Mackellar’s dry
literal report, or the younger brother’s hallucinated sense of the moment of
strife, the unreal death repeated again and again through all time—James and
Henry, Esau and Jacob, Cain and Abel?
It is Stevenson’s difficult task to juggle both truths: to contain in a single

tale the eternally re-enacted myth and the human story, the historical event—
and to do it in “Mackellarese”! Small wonder if he felt his problem almost
impossible, and if, to some degree, he failed. I do not think he understood the
precise nature of his difficulty ever (there is a price to pay for choosing to be a
child), but he sensed its presence. “My novel is a tragedy ...,” he wrote to Henry
James. “Five parts of it are bound [sound?], human tragedy; the last one or two,
I regret to say, not so soundly designed; I almost hesitate to write them; they are
very picturesque, but they are fantastic; they shame, perhaps degrade, the
beginning. I wish I knew; that was how the tale came to me however.... Then
the devil and Saranac suggested this dénouement, and I joined the two ends in a
day or two of feverish thought, and began to write. And now—I wonder if I
have not gone too far with the fantastic? ... the third supposed death and the
manner of the third re-appearance is steep; steep, sir. It is even very steep, and
I fear it shames the honest stuff so far....”
The “honest stuff,” the “sound, human tragedy” is the story of the
hatred of two brothers and its genesis: the love of Alison for the Master; his
supposed death at Culloden; her marriage to Henry, who has all the while
loved her; and the Master’s reappearance. It is an episode doubtless suggested
in part by the actual experience of Stevenson’s wife, whose first husband,
presumed dead, had reappeared to his supposed widow. Indeed, Samual
Osbourne seems to have been in his own right a scoundrel worthy of sitting
for James Durrisdeer. This aspect of his novel Stevenson has handled with
great psychological accuracy: the Master’s reappearance causing the
disconcerting transformation of what had been a touching loyalty to the dead
into a living infidelity; the Master’s two faces, graceful charm for Alison and
his father, careless scorn for Henry and the Steward; the timid rage of
Mackellar mounting toward the climactic moment at sea when he discovers
he is not quite the coward—or the Christian—he has thought himself, and
prays blasphemously in the midst of a storm for a shipwreck that will destroy
him and the Master together.
But the “steep” denouement that joined itself to the soundly human
story, one freezing night at Saranac, impelled the original material toward
allegory, in the direction of the mythical. In that remote place, Stevenson had
remembered a story told him by an uncle many years before: a tall tale of an
Indian fakir who could, by swallowing his tongue, put himself into a state of
suspended animation that would permit his being buried alive and later
exhumed without any permanent ill effects. The last presumed death of the
Master was to be such a deliberate East Indian sham, translated to the
Province of Albany. To justify so “fantastic” a conclusion in terms other than
R.L.S. Revisited 21
the merely picturesque, Stevenson would have had frankly to abandon

ordinary standards of credibility, to make the Master really a devil, and to risk
the absurdity of a myth of the deathlessness of evil. But that would have
impugned the human tragedy he had already blocked out, and he dared be in
the end only fantastic enough for a yarn; that is to say—far from too
fantastic—not fantastic enough. Even in Jekyll Stevenson had felt bound to
explain the transformation to Hyde in the “scientific” terms of a graduated
glass and a compound of salts—and that story he considered an outright
“Fable”—immune to the human limitations of the novel.
Stevenson will have the fabulous, but he will have it rationally
explicable too. The Master must be provided with an Indian servant, must
indeed have been in India himself; and there must even be an interpolated
narrative to give us a glimpse of him there. The voice which frankly terms
him supernatural, which asserts, “He’s not of this world.... He was never
canny!” must be that of a man nearly mad. If The Master seems to pull apart
a little at the seams, it is this timidity on the part of its author that is the
cause, rather than the fact, customarily insisted upon, that the book was
begun in upstate New York and only completed after a lapse of inspiration in
Honolulu. After all, the beginning and the end, whenever actually written,
were conceived together. Perhaps the real trouble was that Stevenson, unlike
his characters, did not really believe in Hell.
And yet the ending is effective all the same. The Master, who had
seemed to die at Culloden, and had turned up again only to be apparently
killed in a duel with his younger brother, is carried off by smugglers, healed,
and returns once more to pursue his brother on two continents; but Henry,
finally tormented out of humility and reason, turns on James, who, at last
trapped by the cutthroats his younger brother has hired to kill him, “dies”
and is buried in the midwinter American wilderness. Dug up by his Hindu
servant under the eyes of his brother, the Master revives for a moment, just
long enough to cause the death by heart failure of the onlooking Henry, and
to ensure their burial under a single marker in that remote waste.
The point is the point of Jekyll: evil will not die until it has corrupted the
good to its own image and brought it down by its side to a common grave. “He
is bound upon my back to all eternity—to all God’s eternity!” Henry had
prophetically cried; and Mackellar, noting the universal meaning of his
degeneration, its relevance to that struggle of us all—in which combating evil
we come to resemble it—said, “I was overborne with a pity almost approaching
the passionate, not for my master alone but for all the sons of man.”
Toward the end of his life, Stevenson seems to have lost faith in the
worth of The Master, though the book had received great critical acclaim, and
he had begun with a sense of its being “top chop,” “a sure card!” One of his
last recorded remarks about the book is that lacking “all pleasureableness,” it
was “imperfect in essence”—a strange judgment surely, for it is precisely a
pleasurable story, a work of real wit: a tragedy seen through the eyes of a
comic character. Much more just seems to us the comment of Henry James,
written out of his first enthusiasm: “A pure hard crystal, my boy, a work of
ineffable and exquisite art.” The word “crystal” is peculiarly apt; it is a
winter’s tale throughout, crystalline as frost, both in scene, from the wintry
Scottish uplands to the icy, Indian-haunted Albanian forest; and in style, the
dry, cold elegance of “Old Squaretoes”—preserved in a subzero piety in
which nothing melts. The quality of the writing alone—the sustained tour de
force of “Mackellarese,” that merciless parody of the old maid at the heart of
all goodness and of Stevenson himself, which makes style and theme
astonishingly one in this book—is the greatest triumph of Stevenson’s art.
In the unfinished Weir of Hermiston, alone among his important novels,
R.L.S. attempts to write in the third person, in his own voice—and
consequently, there is in that book, as there is never in The Master, downright
bad writing. Stevenson’s instinctive bent was for first-person narrative; and
when in his last book he attempts to speak from outside about his fiction, his
style betrays him to self-pity (we know Archie is really the author, and the
third-person singular affects us like a transparent hoax), sentimentality and
the sort of “fine” writing he had avoided since Prince Otto.
The Weir is the first of Stevenson’s books to deal at all adequately with
a woman and with sexual love. (Alison in The Master becomes quickly a
background figure; and the earlier efforts along these lines in Catriona and
Prince Otto were failures, sickly or wooden); but even here the most
successfully realized character is not the Ingenue, young Kirstie, but Old
Kirstie, the epitome of all Stevenson’s foster mothers from his nurse,
Cummy, to his wife. The division of the desired sexual object into two, the
blonde and the dark, the young and the old, joined with a single name: a
relatively frank mother-projection and the more conventional image of the
young virgin is an intriguing example of what the psychologists like to call
“splitting”—but in the Weir, despite this unconscious camouflage, sex is at
last openly touched upon and a further meaning of Stevenson’s sexually
immature or impotent heroes is revealed. To possess the desired woman can
be for Stevenson only to possess the Mother, to offend the Father and court
death. He desires to be a father, for to inherit a son is harmlessly to emulate
his own admired begettor, but himself to beget a son is to become his father’s
rival, to commit symbolic incest. I do not think it is an accident that R.L.S.
had no children of his own, was in fact a foster father.
R.L.S. Revisited 23
In his books, Stevenson’s protagonists are often foster sons, orphans in

search of a spiritual father: Jim looking to Long John, David leaning on Alan,
Loudon Dodd turning from Jim Pinkerton to Captain Nares. In one sense,
all the Beloved Villains are Fathers, physically prepossessing, obviously
strong, sexually vigorous—but by the same token they are bad sons, betrayers
of their own fathers, possessors of the Mother—those who have, as in
Stevenson’s harrowing fable, The House of Eld, cast off the gyve that is loosed
only by patricide. They are almost always shown as murderers, but in the
earlier books and the books written in collaboration they themselves are
spared by the pseudo-son who feebly contemplates their death (Herrick of
Attwater, Jim of John Silver). The unloved virtuous are dutiful sons, sexless
or impotent, because they had flinched before the killing of the Father, but
they are racked by guilt, for the Beloved Villain is an externalization of what
they have dreamed but not dared; and the Father, seeing deep, is offended
none the less.
Parallel to the series of books I have been chiefly describing are the
books written by Stevenson in collaboration with his stepson, especially The
Wrecker, in which the father–son relationship is more openly treated, in the
surprisingly contemporary terms of the relationship between the son as the
insecure artist and the father as the assured bourgeois. The pursuit of the
muse is felt as a device of Oedipus; and the making of fictions as a prolonged
betrayal.
In the Weir the two themes at last coalesce, in what might have been, if
Stevenson had lived to overcome the stylistic difficulties of its opening
portion, the most complex and adult of his fables. Even in the fragment we
have, read with the projected conclusion, we can assess Stevenson’s
achievement, his realization of a solution to the archetypal plight of sonship,
placed between the alternatives of murder–incest and impotence–cowardice.
Once R.L.S. had dared to confront face-to-face the sexual crisis underlying
his fictions, that crisis ceased to be an ultimate explanation, became merely
another symbolic level from which he could push on toward more ultimate
and more metaphysical explications of the problem with which he had
begun: the grace of evil and the unloveliness of good. In the Weir, the
Lovable Rogue makes a final appearance, this time as the Seducer, Frank
Innes, a school friend of, and foil to, the protagonist Archie Weir, the
prototype of all those “good” Stevensonian characters who are somehow
unworthy of love. The Master, who contains in himself all of Stevenson’s
lesser scoundrels, had already foreshadowed the Seducer, is intent upon his
brother’s wife, and in fact upon the village girl Jessie Broun, casually
abandoned after a brief and brutal amour by the older brother, but provided
for by the kindness of the younger. Young Kirstie in the Weir is something of
Alison and something of Jessie, a Cressida at heart, neither untouchable nor
yet a harlot.
In the book as originally planned, Young Kirstie, baffled by the
principled coldness of Archie, who loves her but whom she cannot
understand, was to be got with child by Frank Innes, who would then be
killed by Archie, and Archie in turn would be condemned to die on the
gallows by his own father, a hanging judge of terrible integrity. It is the
ending of Jekyll and The Master all over again—good destroying itself in the
very act of destroying evil—but Stevenson relented. In the projected ending
reported by his amanuensis and much deplored by most of his critics, Archie
was to have broken prison just before the day of his execution and to have
escaped with Kirstie to America, making her his wife and taking as his own
the child she was carrying, the by-blow of the Scoundrel he has killed.
It was to be a complete merging of good and evil, not as before in
mutual destruction and the common grave, but in the possession of a single
woman able to love—though in different senses—both; and in the seed
which virile evil is able casually to sow, but which only impotent virtue can
patiently foster. To cavil at this as an unmotivated “Happy Ending,” and to
wish that Stevenson had survived once more to change his mind, is to miss
utterly the mythic meaning of the event: a final resolution of man’s moral
duality this side of the grave.
R O B E R T K I E LY
The Aesthetics of Adventure
F or many years Robert Louis Stevenson was a man to be dealt with, both
while he lived and after he died. “It has been his fortune,” wrote Henry
James in 1900, “... to have had to consent to become, by a process not purely
mystic and not wholly untraceable—what shall we call it?—a Figure.”1
Whether you liked him or not, whether you read him or not, his personality
and his books somehow demanded attention and definition. He seemed
bound to remain a kind of literary enigma, changing his style, his face, his
habitation, his genre, taunting his readers and daring his critics to give him
a name that would cover all situations. Of course the critics took him up on
it. They called Robert Louis Stevenson a child.
As might be expected, Stevenson’s close friend and correspondent,
Henry James, gave the consensus its most graceful and intelligent expression.
In an article which Stevenson read in proof in 1887 and approved, James
wrote:
The part of life that he cares for most is youth ... Mingled with
his almost equal love of a literary surface it represents a real
originality ... The feeling of one’s teens, and even of an earlier
period ... and the feeling for happy turns—these, in the last
analysis ... are the corresponding halves of his character .. In a
From Robert Louis Stevenson and the Fiction of Adventure. © 1964 by the President and Fellows of
Harvard College.
25
26 Robert Kiely
word, he is an artist accomplished even to sophistication, whose

constant theme is the unsophisticated.2
Apt as James’ statement is—and his two essays on Stevenson remain the
finest criticism written about that author—there is the tendency already in
1887, when Stevenson had seven of his most productive years still ahead of
him, to come to “the last analysis,” to put his literary character “in a word,”
to label and have done. Perhaps now, seventy years after his death, it would
be worthwhile to investigate again the nature of his “real originality,” to
pursue the man who, Chesterton said, had “barricaded himself in the nursery
... [because there] dwelt definite pleasures which the Puritan could not forbid
nor the pessimist deny.”3
The most consistent characteristics of Stevenson’s elusive and quixotic

disposition are, as James suggests, his devotion to the art of letters and to the
less sophisticated, though not necessarily childish, life of adventure. The two
do not seem to go together, but if we are to take him as he was and if we are
to avoid the invariably awkward acrobatics of juggling form in one hand and
matter in the other, we shall have as often as possible to talk about both
simultaneously. Stevenson, it is true, was capable of taking the adventure
story in its conventional, almost sub-literary, sense as a mode in which
change for its own sake was uppermost; motion counted more than direction,
physical action overshadowed interior motivation—a concatenation of
faraway places, bizarre characters, sea voyages, mysterious benefactors,
abductions, duels, endless flights from hostile pursuers, and seemingly
endless quests for unattainable goals.
But to stop here is to stop short of Stevenson’s full understanding of
adventure. He spent much of his life thinking about outlandish enterprises,
writing about them, and occasionally succeeding in embarking upon them.
In a very real sense, adventure was the material of his mind, and it is unlikely
that over a period of forty-four years it would not have taken on some of the
peculiar shape and coloring of that mind. Of course, this might be said of the
material of even the most indifferent writer if he spent long enough at his
business, but Stevenson’s concept of adventure was also part of a highly
serious and carefully developed theory of fiction.
In the early 1880s, when Stevenson rose to the defense of the romantic
novel in three of his most famous critical essays, Scott, Marryat, and Kingsley
were dead, and Charles Reade was an old man. The novel of romance had all
but gone out of vogue, and what George Saintsbury called the “domestic and
usual novel” had taken its place. “It is certain that for about a quarter of a
century, from 1845 to 1870, not merely the historical novel, but romance
generally, did lose general practice and general attention ... Those who are
old enough ... will remember that for many years the advent of a historical
novel was greeted in reviews with a note not exactly of contempt, but of the
sort of surprise with which men greet something out of the way and old
fashioned.”4 It was the period when Anthony Trollope and George Eliot
were at their height in England and Émile Zola was clamoring that
naturalism was “the intellectual movement of the century.”5
But in the decade of the 1880’s there were signs of a small but vigorous
countermovement in Great Britain. Treasure Island (1883) and H. Rider
Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines (1885) were received with a popular acclaim
and serious critical attention which neither their authors nor publishers
could have predicted. William Ernest Henley, who was instrumental in
getting both books published, served the “revival” as poet, critic, and, on
occasion, as agent. Another even more versatile defender of romance was
Andrew Lang, the Scottish classicist, poet, folklorist, literary critic, and
journalist. His graceful praises of Scott, Dumas, Mrs. Radcliffe, and later of
Stevenson and Haggard, gave wit and authority to the small current which
was running steadily against the tide of literary realism. In an essay entitled
“The Supernatural in Fiction,” he wrote:
As the visible world is measured, mapped, tested, weighed, we

seem to hope more and more that a world of invisible romance
may not be far from us ... I can believe that an impossible
romance, if the right man wrote it in the right mood, might still
win us from the newspapers, and the stories of shabby love, and
cheap remorses, and commonplace failure.6
It is thoroughly characteristic of Stevenson that, in the midst of a

general enthusiasm for literary domestication and realism, he should join the
dissenters and raise his voice in behalf of romance. In 1882 he wrote a
sentence in “A Gossip on Romance” which has been quoted so often that its
meaning has worn thin: “Drama is the poetry of conduct, romance the
poetry of circumstance” (XIII, 329). Stevenson always associated drama with
drawing-room realism, partly because of the kind of play being written in the
seventies and eighties, but also because properties, costumes, and stage sets
could duplicate the concrete paraphernalia of everyday life in a way that the
novel obviously could not. But Stevenson also meant to emphasize
28 Robert Kiely
something much more serious and general than this obvious distinction
between dramatic and narrative literature.
He was using aesthetic armament to fight a philosophical and moral
battle against an epoch which seemed to him to be making an idol out of the
scientific method. Émile Zola was the most persuasive and vociferous
evangelist of the new gospel as it applied to literature. For him, conduct and
circumstance needed no longer to be regarded as separate because, through
experimentation, man would eventually learn how to control circumstance
and make of it a predictable consequence of conduct.
This, then, is the end, this is the purpose in physiology and in

experimental medicine: to make one’s self master of life in order to
be able to direct it ... Their object is ours; we also desire to master
certain phenomena of an intellectual and personal order, to be able
to direct them. We are, in a word, experimental moralists, showing
by experiment in what way a passion acts in a certain social
condition. The day in which we gain control of the mechanism of
this passion we can treat it and reduce it, or at least make it as
inoffensive as possible. And in this consists the practical utility and
high morality of our naturalistic works, which experiment on man,
and which dissect piece by piece this human machinery in order to
set it going through the influence of the environment.7
It is in juxtaposition to a statement like this that Stevenson’s attitude

toward all art, particularly the art of writing, becomes clear. He neither
believed nor hoped that man would discover the mystery of his existence by
regarding himself as a machine to be dismantled and analyzed. Zola had said,
“The metaphysical man is dead; our whole territory is transformed by the
advent of the physiological man.” And again later: “I insist upon [the] fall of
the imagination.”8
But Stevenson, too, was capable of stinging and memorable phrases: “I
would not give a chapter of old Dumas ... for the whole boiling of the Zolas”
(Letters, II, 85). And in 1883 he wrote to Will H. Low: “Continue to testify
boldly against realism. Down with Dagon, the fish god! All art swings down
toward imitation, in these days, fatally. But the man who loves art with
wisdom sees the joke ... The honest and romantic lover of the Muse can see
a joke and sit down to laugh with Apollo” (Letters, II, 171).
Although Stevenson’s concept of the imagination was more limited
than that of the earlier English Romantics, he spent his life trying to prove
to himself and a skeptical age that every man possessed a creative power of
mind which science could not (and should not) reach. (It was not until later
in his career that he began seriously to probe the possibility that the source
of nonrational mental activity might produce destructive as well as creative
effects.) It was this instinctive and unself-conscious element in man which
Stevenson saw as participating in and responding to the rhythm of natural
circumstances without being able to “regulate” or “direct” them like a
machine. The language he uses, in contrast to that of Zola, is deliberately
nonscientific. He repeatedly emphasizes the pleasure and value of mood,
emotion, atmosphere, intuition, coincidence.
Stevenson passionately believed that the greater part of life was chance!
And although his own published statements on the subject usually came as
unsystematic responses to the pronouncements of his contemporaries, they
arose from a consistent, even tenacious, conception of art. Stevenson has
been accused of frivolity in his criticism and fiction—and, in a sense,
justifiably so. He often resorted to frivolity—an impulse he regarded as more
purely artistic than that of “practical utility”—in order to liberate fiction
from the impingement of sociology, genetics, and political science. In doing
this, Stevenson may not at first have been able to avoid the hazards of
aesthetic indulgence, but that should not obscure his salutary efforts to
distinguish art from propaganda.
The concept of chance seemed to provide some of the mystery and
imaginative range found by artists of other periods in revelation or inspiration.
Chance, as Joseph Conrad’s Marlow was to argue, might be the one remaining
escape hatch in a modern and closed universe. It was also a byword for a young
Edinburgh writer who was convinced that so long as art was treated primarily
as an instrument of reform, it was incapable of fulfilling its highest function.
Chance and frivolity were Stevenson’s ammunition against the stultifying
threat which determinism and utility posed to literature. Those artists who I
shared his fears—however different they were from Stevenson in other
respects—responded to his essays with surprising fervor.
Gerard Manley Hopkins found an almost Shakespearian freedom from
prevailing biases in Stevenson’s definition of romance, and rallied to its
defense as to an ally newly discovered:
[Stevenson’s] doctrine, if I apprehend him, is something like

this. The essence of Romance is incident and that only ... no
moral, no character-drawing ... As history consists essentially of
events likely or unlikely, consequences of causes chronicled
before or what may be called chance, just retributions or nothing
of the sort, so Romance, which is fictitious history, consists of
30 Robert Kiely
event, of incident. His own stories are written on this principle:

they are very good and he has all the gifts a writer of fiction
should have, including those he holds unessential.9
In the great century of biography and character portrayal, Stevenson

stressed the importance of event. And at the dawn of science’s confident
claim that it could predict and perhaps form behavior, he emphasized the
random nature of the human adventure. Neither Hopkins nor Stevenson
thought of man as a puppet totally manipulated by unknown forces, but they
also did not like to think of him as the plaything of his own scientific and
political “schools.” The unpredictability of incident, if nothing else, could
save him from that, and it became paradoxically a kind of protective talisman.
Stevenson uses the words “active” and “passive” in “A Gossip on Romance”
not to indicate the degree of physical and mental participation in an event,
but the degree to which the individual willingly brings about or controls the
circumstances in which he finds himself. In this sense, much of Jim Hawkins’
experience in Treasure Island is “passive” since things keep happening to him
which he cannot foresee or prevent; whereas a character like Madam Merle,
who exerts little physical energy, plays a relatively “active” role in the events
of James’s Portrait of a Lady. Since Stevenson believed that much of life is
ungovernable circumstance, he would argue that Hawkins is the more
representative of the two characters.
In 1883 Stevenson continued his defense and definition of romance in
“A Note on Realism.” He rejects the claim that the French naturalists have
found a way of representing a larger truth than that possible in a stylized
romance. He argues that all art which is “conceived with honesty and
executed with communicative ardour” has a claim to veracity. The
disagreement is rather one of method. “The question of realism, let it be
clearly understood, regards not in the least degree the fundamental truth, but
only the technical method, of a work of art.”10 The realist has made the
mistake of confusing detail with truth, while the romantic novelist
persistently keeps his eye on the whole and admits detail into his narrative
only as it contributes to a total vision.
Over thirty years later, Joseph Conrad wrote to Stevenson’s friend
Sidney Colvin that although he (Conrad) had been called a “writer of the sea,
of the tropics, a descriptive writer, a romantic writer,” his real concern had
always been “with the ‘ideal’ value of things, events, and people.”11 In 1883,
Stevenson anticipated Conrad’s claim by making a similar one for himself
and for all serious writers of romance:
The idealist, his eye singly fixed upon the greater outlines,
loves ... to fill up the interval with detail of the conventional
order, briefly touched, soberly suppressed in tone, courting
neglect. But the realist, with a fine intemperance, will not suffer
the presence of anything so dead as convention; he shall have all
fiery, all hot-pressed from nature, all charactered and notable,
seizing the eye ... The immediate danger of the realist is to
sacrifice the beauty and significance of the whole to local
dexterity, or ... to immolate his readers under facts ... The danger
of the idealist is, of course, to become merely null and lose all
grip of fact, particularity, or passion ... But though on neither side
is dogmatism fitting ... yet one thing may be generally said, that
we of the last quarter of the nineteenth century, breathing as we
do the intellectual atmosphere of our age, are most apt to err
upon the side of realism than to sin in quest of the ideal.12
Significantly enough, Stevenson’s most important single piece of

criticism is an essay in response to James’s “The Art of Fiction,” in which
truth to life was emphasized as the essential criterion for judging a novel’s
value. James’s emphasis is clearly very different from that of Zola, yet he too
upholds a method which Stevenson rejects:
As people feel life, so they will feel the art that is most closely
related to it. This closeness of relation is what we should never
forget in talking of the effort of the novel. Many people speak of
it as a factitious, artificial form, a product of ingenuity, the
business of which is to alter and arrange the things which
surround us, to translate them into conventional, traditional
moulds ... Catching the very note and trick, the strange irregular
rhythm of life, that is the attempt whose strenuous force keeps
Fiction upon her feet. In proportion as in what she offers us we
see life without rearrangement do we feel that we are touching
the truth; in proportion as we see it with rearrangement do we
feel that we are being put off with a substitute, a compromise and
convention.13
In his reply, “A Humble Remonstrance,” published in Longman’s

Magazine in 1884, Stevenson praises much that James has to say, but
32 Robert Kiely
disagrees with his basic premise that the function of art is to come as close as
possible to resembling life. Stevenson takes a directly opposite position:
No art—to use the daring phrase of Mr. James—can

successfully “compete with life”; ... To “compete with life,” whose
sun we cannot look upon, whose passions and diseases waste and
slay us—to compete with the flavour of wine, the beauty of the
dawn, the scorching of fire, the bitterness of death and
separation—here is, indeed, a projected escalade of heaven ... Life
is monstrous, infinite, illogical, abrupt, and poignant; a work of
art, in comparison, is neat, finite, self-contained, rational, flowing
and emasculate. (XIII, 347–350)
Stevenson argues that art should not try too hard to be like life because
the copy is bound to appear pale and spurious beside the real thing. At first
glance, he would seem to be working from Coleridge’s famous distinction
between “imitation” and “copy.” Imitation, according to Coleridge, is always
the more beautiful and successful in its own terms because, unlike the
detailed waxwork copy, it begins by acknowledging the essential difference
between it and the object being imitated.
In all imitations two elements must coexist, and not only.

coexist, but must be perceived as coexisting. These two
constituent elements are likeness and unlikeness ... If there be
likeness to nature without any check or difference, the result is
disgusting.14
Stevenson, early a reader of Romantic prose, particularly Coleridge,

Hazlitt, and Wordsworth, evidently has the general argument, if not this precise
statement of it, in mind. But he carries the point to a rather un-Romantic
conclusion by stressing that aspect of art which is most unlike nature, rather
than seeking, as Coleridge did, a balance between sameness and difference. If
art cannot hope to compete with life, then, suggests Stevenson, let it cease the
effort, and accentuate instead those characteristics in which it is most obviously
and peculiarly itself. In content as well as form, let it be openly and
unashamedly “neat, finite, self-contained, rational, flowing, and emasculate.”
The ultimate implications of this aesthetic for fiction are extreme; yet
on and off, until the later years of his life, he reiterated his position and
attempted in his creative work to put the theory into practice. As a doctrine
it is worth exploring, partly because it is in itself a unique and refreshing
combination of familiar critical assumptions; moreover, it provides an insight

into aspects of Stevenson’s intelligence which we are not normally aware of
in his fiction and poetry. Eventually, in his increasing inability or
unwillingness to follow his own literary rules, we discover a mind in rebellion
against itself—a philosophy, a morality, and a way of writing undergoing
change in spite of early and earnest attempts to establish a permanent
orthodoxy.
The tenets of that orthodoxy as set forth in “A Humble Remonstrance”
must be understood before we can discover, through analyzing the fiction,
how and why he gradually came to modify his own “dogmas,” and to
disregard some of them altogether. First, the novel or story is to be “neat”
and “finite,” that is to say, without loose ends—no unexplained mysteries or
ambiguous characters left for the reader to wonder about after the last
chapter. Life puzzles and mystifies enough; that is not the task of art.
Nothing in the shape or the matter of the work should be extraneous; he
agrees with Poe that every word and phrase must contribute to a common
effect or purpose; otherwise, the story would do better without it.
Conclusions must be appropriate and consistent with the whole. If they can
be inevitable in the Aristotelian sense, well and good, but they must never be
shocking or morbid if the plot presents any alternative:
It is the blot on Richard Feverel, for instance, that it begins to

end well; and then tricks you and ends ill ... the ill ending does
not inherently issue from the plot ... It might have so happened;
it needed not; and unless needs must, we have no right to pain
our readers. (Letters, IV, 144)
A work of art is neat and finite because it is fully comprehensible in its

sum. The novelist may deal, if he likes, with unclear subtleties of psychology,
with the vagaries of philosophy, and the complexities of human conflict, but
if he is wise he will sharpen his focus somewhere before the end. He will
clarify distinctions, and give his creation a simplicity life does not have. The
novel, Stevenson asserts, “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” (XIII, 357).
Thirdly, art should be “self-contained.” In Stevenson’s opinion,
narrative fiction has an advantage over drama because in drama “the action
is developed in great measure by means of things that remain outside of the
art,” that is, by real people as actors, properties, costumes, heard voices, and
actual movements and gestures. If the best art is that which depends as little
34 Robert Kiely
as possible upon the world outside itself, then the novelist can make up his
own rules of logic and morality, or, if he likes, dispense with them altogether.
Stevenson is fairly adept, especially in his early fiction, at sidestepping moral
questions. As for logic, he had a properly Romantic contempt for it in a
formal sense. “The heart,” he wrote, “is trustier than any syllogism”; and he
praised the novel of adventure for making its appeal “to certain almost
sensual and quite illogical tendencies in man.”
When he goes on to call art “rational,” then, he does not mean it in a
strictly philosophical sense. Nor does he so much refer to reason as it operates
in daily life—sorting out existing possibilities and selecting real alternatives—
but rather as it might operate in a fanciful world beginning with unlikely, even
preposterous, assumptions, and moving from them to other more or less
unlikely positions in an orderly and systematic way. In saying that art is
rational, Stevenson is also reminding us that its realm is the mind. It is not only
conceived and created in the mind of the artist, but its appeal, however simple
or sensational, is through the senses to the intelligence:
We admire splendid views and great pictures; and yet what is

truly admirable is the mind within us, that gathers together these
scattered details for its delight, and makes ... that intelligible
whole. (XIII, 88)
The next adjective Stevenson uses to define art is “flowing,” a word

with which Hazlitt liked to describe the “warm, moving mass” of a painting
or the vitality of a poem. In a way, Stevenson means much the same thing.
What is wanted in fiction is coherence and movement, not only a reasonable
connection between episodes and an observable relationship among
characters, but motion, which for a writer of romance invariably means
physical action on the part of the characters and its imaginative counterpart
in the reaction of the reader:
In anything fit to be called by the name of reading, the process

itself should be absorbing and voluptuous; we should gloat over a
book, be rapt clean out of ourselves ... This, then, is the plastic
part of literature: to embody character, thought, or emotion in
some act or attitude that shall be remarkably striking to the
mind’s eye. (XIII, 327–333)
For Stevenson, then, although he recognizes that he lives in an age in

which “it is thought clever to write a novel with no story at all,” one of the
cardinal sins the novelist can commit is to arrest the flow of action, to allow
his story to fall into a “kind of monotonous fitness,”—in other words, from
his point of view, to be static and dull. This interpretation of “flow” veers
from Hazlitt in much the same way Stevenson’s aesthetic differs from that of
Coleridge and James—that is, with regard to art as an imitation of life. When
Hazlitt says that poetry “describes the flowing, not the fixed,” he introduces
that statement by asserting art’s essential commitment to vitality. “Poetry,”
he says, “puts a spirit of life and motion into the universe.”15 Stevenson
accepts the principle and necessity of motion in art, but to an extreme which
seems deliberately to avoid the “spirit of life.”
It is true that life is in a state of continuous flux, but the modes of
change are various, uneven, and at times almost imperceptible. What is
physiologically necessary in human nature is dramatically essential in
narrative art: that periods of near-stasis precede and follow moments of
extreme agitation. As an invalid Stevenson knew the corporeal validity of this
better than most men, and perhaps it is as an invalid that he rejected it as a
principle of fiction. “Seriously, do you like repose?” he asked Cosmo
Monkhouse in a letter written in 1884. “Ye Gods, I hate it. I never rest with
any acceptation ... Shall we never shed blood? This prospect is too grey”
(Letters, II, 204–205). If life must now and then slow down almost to a stop,
give in to inertia and to the tedium of rest and impotent anticipation, art
need not succumb to the same limitation. The novel, particularly the
romance, can spin out an endless series of hectic and exhausting episodes
with rarely a pause between. When Stevenson wrote this kind of book, he
achieved more or less what he wanted. The result is not very much like life;
it is an invention of perpetual motion which, because of its relentlessly
consistent rate, resembles the mechanical much more than it does the
organic.
It is partly the realization of this lack of what Hazlitt calls “the living
principle” in art which brings Stevenson to his final and most telling
adjective, “emasculate.” True, art has neither organic life nor gender; it
cannot generate itself and it cannot die. But considering the chasteness of
Stevenson’s early experiments in adventure fiction, the choice of this strong
metaphor evokes, deliberately or not, literal substantive connotations as well
as figurative and formal ones. It has often been noted that, except in a few
isolated instances, mostly found in the work of his later years, he avoided sex
in his fiction. He did not simply avoid realistic treatment of physical sexuality
(which is true of most Victorian novelists), but he shunned dealing with any
but the most superficial relationships between the sexes, and often excluded
women from his fictional world altogether. “This is a poison bad world for
36 Robert Kiely
the romancer, this Anglo-Saxon world; I usually get out of it by not having
any women in it at all” (Letters, IV, 12).
He sounds here as though he is lamenting the prudish morality of the
age which prevented artists from dealing honestly with sex, and since this
letter was written in 1892 (by which time he had begun bringing women
more often into his fiction), the complaint is probably in earnest. But long
before this, Stevenson, without the trace of a complaint, regularly avoided
romantic love, even of that delicate, sentimental, and social variety
permitted, indeed encouraged, by his age. As his definition suggests,
sexlessness, in theory if not always in practice, is essential to his early concept
of fiction.
It can be argued that Stevenson’s prejudice is not strictly directed
against women, but that he discriminates against matured masculinity as
well. Not only are many of his heroes young boys and adolescents, but even
his grown men lack potency and aggressiveness in their relations with other
characters in the story and in the impression they leave upon the reader. His
adult heroes, including Harry Hartley, Robert Herrick, Loudon Dodd,
Henry Durie, and St. Ives, think of themselves as children not quite at home
in the adult world. Neither their personality nor their gender has been fully
developed. And this is precisely as Stevenson would have it. He wants no
hero of his to be so carefully and elaborately described that his personality or
his sex comes between the reader and narrative incident. “When the reader
consciously plays at being the hero, the scene is a good scene” (XII, 339).
Therefore, the disposition of every protagonist must be generalized and
vaguely enough realized so that, at the appropriate moment of crisis, the
reader can ignore him and “enter” the plot himself.
Hopkins, once again, provides a sympathetic and cogent interpretation
of Stevenson’s intention: “The persons illustrate the incident or strain of
incidents, the plot, the story, not the story and incidents the persons.”16 Until
later in his life Stevenson was so committed to this idea of characterization
that he wrote a letter to Henry James in 1884 making a request which strikes
the modern reader—and must have struck James—as curious indeed: “Could
you not, in one novel, to oblige a sincere admirer ... cast your characters in a
mould a little more abstract and academic ... and pitch the incidents, I do not
say in any stronger, but in a slightly more emphatic key—as it were an
episode from one of the old (so-called) novels of adventure? I fear you will
not” (Letters, II, 256).
We hear again and again in Stevenson’s remarks on the form and
function of art, echoes of earlier critics and anticipatory murmurings of those
who followed him. There is nothing noteworthy about that; it happens in
criticism all the time. It is the peculiar, almost cavalier, combination of

familiar critical concepts which constantly surprises us, and makes us pause
before attaching a simple label to Stevenson.17 He will chastise Fielding for
writing novels in the spirit of the playwright, for being ignorant of the
“capabilities which the novel possesses over the drama,” and at the same time
plead for necessary causation of incident, the ascendancy of action over
character, and the inevitability of conclusion, all of which bear striking
resemblance to Aristotle’s first principles of drama.
He can agree with Coleridge on the futility and artlessness of
attempting to reproduce life by means of an “exact” copy, and even borrow
his words in praising Hugo for achieving “unity out of multitude” in his
romances. But if we expect him to agree with Coleridge on the organic
principle of art, the forma informans, we are disappointed. While Coleridge
speaks of works of art in terms of natural metaphor, as “the loveliest plants,”
“of living power as contrasted with lifeless mechanism,”18 Stevenson makes
a comparison which abruptly and unexpectedly abbreviates the association
with Romanticism, and casts out new lines of speculation toward the early
twentieth-century formalism of T. E. Hulme: “A proposition of geometry
does not compete with life,” asserts Stevenson; “and a proposition of
geometry is a fair and luminous parallel for a work of art” (XIII, 350).
In an essay entitled “Victor Hugo’s Romances” he writes that one of
the greatest advantages narrative fiction has over drama is the tremendous
expanse it provides for the writer to cram with details of local color and
historical background. “Continuous narration is the flat board on to which
the novelist throws everything ... He can now subordinate one thing to
another in importance, and introduce all manner of very subtle detail, to a
degree that was before impossible” (XIV, 21). He goes on in the same vein to
comment on what to him is the inexplicable absence of historical particulars
in the novels of Fielding: “... It is curious ... to think that Tom Jones is laid in
the year forty-five, and that the only use he makes of the rebellion is to throw
a troop of soldiers into his hero’s way” (XIV, 22). In this mood of attachment
to historical incident and picturesque detail Stevenson sounds like the kind
of Romantic that has prompted the familiar comparisons with Scott. Yet only
eight years later, in “A Humble Remonstrance,” he strikes a remarkably
neoclassical, in fact Johnsonian, note while arguing in favor of generalized
treatment of subject matter: “Our art is occupied, and bound to be occupied,
not so much in making stories true as in making them typical; not so much
in capturing the lineaments of each fact, as in marshalling all of them towards
a common end” (XIII, 349).
It would seem, on the basis of these scattered quotations, that
38 Robert Kiely
Stevenson could not make up his mind about art, that he was slowly
undergoing a change, or that some of these apparently inconsistent critical
opinions are not in fact as contradictory as they at first appear. Each
explanation has some truth in it. Stevenson, for example, did try his hand at
the more expansive novel. Most notably in Kidnapped and The Wrecker there
is a proliferation of detail, a reliance on digression, a looseness of structure,
which, like the romantic works of Dumas and Scott, make some concessions
to the untidiness of life. But his dominant tendency—from Treasure Island to
The Ebb Tide and Weir of Hermiston—was to subordinate incidental detail to
more general considerations of thematic pattern and narrative economy.
Stevenson had his own troubles with structural integrity, but his better
judgment usually told him that he was not the kind of writer who could cope
successfully with massive quantities of fact. Though he may have looked with
admiration—and occasional envy—upon the sprawling works of some of his
Romantic predecessors, his restless temperament usually had little patience
with art when it became too heavily encumbered with the minuteness of life.
Stevenson was in accord with Lang’s approval of Hawthorne for not
choosing to “compete with life,” that is, for not making “the effort—the
proverbially tedious effort—to say everything.”19
It should be remembered that Stevenson’s ventures into aesthetic
theory, looked at in the context of his whole career, were exploratory rather
than definitive. Even when he sounds most doctrinaire, one discovers a
tendency, not uncommon among artist-critics, to state with special emphasis
ideas still very much in the formative stage. Perhaps what is most remarkable
is that in spite of the occasional and diffuse quality of his critical statements
between 1874 and 1887, there emerges a surprisingly coherent rationale for
his profession in the art of adventure.
In Stevenson’s eyes a physically active and exciting existence bears to

everyday life, especially the everyday life of a semi-invalid, something of the
same relationship art bears to nature. Participation in a hazardous
enterprise—climbing a mountain, fighting a duel, exploring an island—is a
way of simplifying reality and therefore a way of pretending. Intense physical
activity can induce an uncomplicated state of mind or an absence of mind; it
is capable temporarily of abstracting a man from his ego. Stevenson employs
curiously ornate and static diction throughout An Inland Voyage to describe a
moderately rugged canoe trip he took down the Oise River in France during
a period of good health. He reserves the vocabulary of adventure, not for
rapids or storms or mysterious innkeepers, but for the serene mental state
induced by the bodily fatigue which is the result of coping with these
“hazards.” “This frame of mind was the great exploit of our voyage ... the
farthest piece of travel” (XII, 114).
But though it may provide unexpected moments of harmony,
adventure, like art, is doomed to fail in its attempt to achieve a permanent
ideal goal. Insofar as adventure is the active search for a state of perfect
happiness, supposedly achieved through the attainment of limitless treasure,
the discovery of utopian kingdoms, or union with a flawless woman, it is
fated, as is art in its reaching out after ideal beauty, to fall short of its ultimate
aim. The pleasure and value of both may more often than not be found in
the process rather than in a clear perception of the end. In “Providence and
the Guitar,” first published in 1878, the strolling player’s wife says of her
husband and his friend the painter: “They are people with a mission—which
they cannot carry out” (I, 384). And in “Precy and the Marionettes,” from An
Inland Voyage, Stevenson says that even the poorest actor has the stature and
the dignity of an artist because “he has gone upon a pilgrimage that will last
him his life long, because there is no end to it short of perfection.” And a few
sentences later: “Although the moon should have nothing to say to
Endymion ... do you not think he would move with a better grace and cherish
higher thoughts to the end?” (XII, 127)
It is the venture itself—the “mission,” the “pilgrimage,” the graceful
movement—which is stressed in these statements and throughout so much
of Stevenson’s work, with little thought and less hope of achieving the distant
ideal that draws the artist and adventurer on. One inevitable result of this
attitude is that process becomes its own goal. Particular moral aims, political
causes, and social crusades are swept under by the timeless and
overwhelming wave of human energy. Because it cuts across the limitations
of historical period and regional custom, gathering strength and momentum
by virtue of the sheer sameness of its manifestations, bold physical exertion
addresses man with a simple immensity which can make it appear glorious
for its own sake. Like those of his contemporaries who found art to be its
own justification, Stevenson defends the appeal of adventure as immutable
and universal, transcending the historical accidents which make the manners
and morals of one century or of one country different from those of another.
“Thus novels begin to touch not the fine dilettanti but the gross mass of
mankind, when they leave off to speak of parlours ... and begin to deal with
fighting, sailoring, adventure, death or child-birth ... These aged things have
on them the dew of man’s morning; they lie near, not so much to us, the
semi-artificial flowerets, as to the trunk and aboriginal taproot of the race”
40 Robert Kiely
(XIII, 238). Adventure, for Stevenson, like art for the aesthetes, has a kind of
sacred purity about it which ought not to be tainted with moral or
psychological convention: “... To start the hare of moral or intellectual
interest while we are running the fox of material interest, is not to enrich but
to stultify your tale. The stupid reader will only be offended, and the clever
reader lose the scent” (XIII, 352). We would seem to be leading to the
inevitable conclusion that Stevenson, like most “action” novelists, regards
fiction, and therefore adventure, which is the material of his fiction, as an
escape—an escape from the self and from time, a rejection of the present, of
mortality, and of the responsibility of making moral judgments. There is an
undeniable truth in this, and no one could assert it more clearly than
Stevenson himself in a letter written to John Meiklejohn in February of
1880:
When I suffer in mind, stories are my refuge; I take them like

opium; and I consider one who writes them as a sort of doctor of
the mind. And frankly, Meiklejohn, it is not Shakespeare we take
to, when we are in a hot corner; nor, certainly, George Eliot—no,
nor even Balzac. It is Charles Reade, or old Dumas, or the Arabian
Nights, or the best of Walter Scott; it is stories we want, not the
high poetic function which represents the world ... We want
incident, interest, action: to the devil with your philosophy. When
we are well again, and have an easy mind, we shall peruse your
important work; but what we want now is a drug. (Letters, I, 322)
There is a tone in this statement that brings one of the various moods
of Keats to mind, and perhaps it is a good thing that it does. Because,
although we have already learned that we cannot always depend upon
Stevenson to fulfill his Romantic promises, there should be a warning to us
in the parallel, not to make the mistake so many critics once made with
Keats—to take a few references to hemlock, Asian poppy, and poetry as a
“friend to man,” and with them to conclude that Keats is a poet of escape,
and that is all that needs to be said about him.
If, in periods of mental suffering, Stevenson escapes by reading tales
of adventure, it is safe to assume that much of his writing is done either in
that state of mind or in anticipation of its advent in himself or in his
readers. But the word “escape” is not finally very helpful in the description
of a literary form. All art, inasmuch as it is selective and exclusive, is an
escape from something whether it means to be or not. It is only fair, before
we label a writer an “escape artist,” as though that were a kind of
charlatanism not worthy of serious literature, to determine first what he

selects and what he excludes, what he is escaping from and what he is
escaping to. Otherwise we risk falling into Zola’s misconception that the
novelistic school of realism, as opposed to the school of romance,
necessarily comes closer to the whole truth and complexity of life. In some
ways it obviously does, but it is salutary to remind ourselves that both are
bound to the limits of fiction.
Much more typical than his references to art as doctor, drug, or
medicine, are Stevenson’s descriptions of it in terms of physical exercise and
endless exploration, a bracing and healthful activity, stimulating to the body
and purifying for the mind:
O the height and depth of novelty and worth in any art! and O
that I am privileged to swim and shoulder through such oceans!
Could one get out of sight of land—all in the blue! Alas not,
being anchored here in flesh, and the bonds of logic being still
about us. But what a great space and a great air there is in these
small shallows where alone we venture! (II, 146)
This too may be regarded as a kind of escapist view of art, especially for
a semi-invalid, but it is not an absolute avoidance of life so much as it is a
simplification, a trimming down to what is clean, fresh, and controllable.
There is much of the latter-day classicist about Stevenson, particularly in his
reverence for the general, the categorical, and the formal. His first impulse
may be Romantic, but his second thought is almost always classical. We find
him again and again in his criticism beginning with Coleridge, concluding
with Aristotle; promising Hazlitt, delivering Johnson. The same tendency is
visible in much of his fiction as well. How often his novels and short stories
open in Romantic suggestiveness with inviting scenes of rustic nature or in
dark corners of Gothic kirk-yards, with hints of vague mysteries or
unspeakable passions, only to develop the clear outlines, in his early career,
of a child’s game and later on, of moral fable.
Where Stevenson differs most notably from the Romantics, especially

Keats, is in his almost total inability to exist in uncertainty. This may seem a
peculiar conclusion to draw about a man who spent most of his professional
life experimenting in literary form and substance, theologically a skeptic, a
supporter of liberal and often unpopular political and social causes. And yet
42 Robert Kiely
limitation, boundary, explanation, is what he repeatedly seeks in his early and

middle fiction as well as in his moral and aesthetic theory. His letters have
been compared with Keats’s and it is true that in his correspondence he may
begin like Keats, probing the possibilities of the creative imagination, but he
does not end like him, in uncertainty.
The metaphorical terms Stevenson uses to convey his idea of the poetic
provide an interesting contrast with earlier Romantic images and reveal his
tendency to circumscribe. In “A Chapter on Dreams,” published in January
1888, he describes the unconscious activity of the imagination during sleep
as accomplished by “Little People”: “... what shall I say they are but just my
Brownies, God bless them! who do one-half my work for me while I am fast
asleep” (XV, 262).
In “The Lantern-Bearers,” February 1888, he compares the inner
poetic faculty of every man to a child’s oil lantern hidden under a cloak: “...
and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool’s heart, to know you
had a bull’s-eye [lantern] at your belt, and to exult and sing over the
knowledge” (XV, 241).
In the same essay Stevenson introduces the familiar symbol of a singing
bird as a sign of the poetic essence of romance:
There is one fable ... of the monk who passed into the woods,
heard a bird break into song, hearkened for a trill or two, and
found himself on his return a stranger at his convent gates; for he
had been absent fifty years ... It is not only in the woods that this
enchanter carols ... He sings in the most doleful places. The
miser hears him and chuckles, and the days are moments. With
no more apparatus than an ill-smelling lantern I have evoked him
on the naked links ... A remembrance of those fortunate hours in
which the bird has sung to us ... fills us with ... wonder when we
turn the pages of the realist. There, to be sure, we find a picture
of life in so far as it consists of mud and of old iron, cheap desires
and cheap fears ... but of the note of that time-devouring
nightingale we hear no news. (XV, 243–244)
Dream, flame, and a singing bird, have been used not only by the
Romantics (though they were particularly common among them) but by
writers of all periods as means to suggest the poetic, either at its creative
source or in its ideal state of perfection. But Stevenson’s treatment of these
familiar images is unique. There is the obvious diminution of dream into the
work of “Little People” and of the poetic flame into a flicker inside a boy’s
tin lantern, but there are other modifications and peculiarities as well.
The attempt, for example, to determine who the “Little People” are
and how they go about their work is half-playful, but Stevenson is serious
enough about establishing the relationship between dream and conscious
artistry to conclude the essay with a fairly precise account of contributions
from his world of sleep to his world of written fiction: “I can but give you an
instance or so of what part is done sleeping and what part awake”; and then
he goes on to explain how he dreamt part of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “All the
rest was made awake, and consciously, although I think I can trace in much
of it the manner of my Brownies. The meaning of the tale is therefore mine
... indeed I do most of the morality.... Mine, too, is the setting, mine the
characters. All that was given me was the matter of three scenes, and the
central idea of a voluntary change becoming involuntary.”
Stevenson is careful to show exactly how much dream has gone into his
story, to describe its quality, and to distinguish between it and the moral and
stylistic additions of his conscious mind. The tendency, however whimsical,
is not like that of Coleridge in Kubla Khan or Keats in Sleep and Poetry, to
enlarge the concept of the imagination by associating it with the dark realm
of dream, but rather to clarify and confine it by dutifully acknowledging
which elements in his stories come from the unconscious rand which do not.
Even in his most playful mood, he cannot ask with Keats, “Surely, I dreamt
today, or did I see?” Stevenson insists upon noticing the difference between
waking and dreaming. Even symbolically, Keats’s question seems to have no
relevance for him. Dream is not a challenge to his rational life or a symbol
of the infinite possibilities of art; it is a contributor to his fiction—
diminutive, quaint, and controllable, “some Brownie, some Familiar, some
unseen collaborator, whom I keep locked in a back garret.”
That Stevenson’s image of the poetic flame should be confined within
the narrow tin walls of a child’s lantern is by itself characteristic. But he goes
even further in his reaching out after certainty by assigning specific qualities
and functions to his fire. He speaks of simple men without external signs of
virtue or talent, “but heaven knows in what they pride themselves! heaven
knows where they have set their treasure!” Interpreted cynically, this sounds
like a justification for delusions of grandeur; taken sentimentally, we find in
it some of the pathos of Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard; but,
reduced to essentials, it seems a fairly reasonable description of the
psychology of self-respect.
The poetic flame becomes associated with each man’s ability to retain
the youthful conviction that his ego is the center of the universe. Since this
comforting assumption is neatly caged, there is no chance that it might prove
44 Robert Kiely
a serious threat to the rational mind by coming into disenchanting contact

with the “outside” world and growing uncontrollably from the pleasant into
the painful. At the first signs that it might, Stevenson clangs shut the lantern
gate or the garret door, and arrests his imagination with an excess of rhetoric
and rationalization.
Perhaps the most interesting of the three images which Stevenson
associates with the poetic is the bird. Here the metaphor itself does not
undergo the external changes of the tampering toymaker, but remains a
respectable Keatsian nightingale singing in the trees. It is the nature of the
song and its effect on the listener that has changed. Stevenson recalls “those
fortunate hours in which the bird has sung to us,” tells how the “miser hears
him and chuckles,” and names him the “delight of each” who has fallen under
his spell. The sense of coming momentarily in contact with death and
eternity, which is so strongly sensed throughout Keats’s ode, has vanished.
The bird is no longer an obscured symbol, now seductive, now threatening,
a perfect sign of immortal life or a cold reminder of death. Stevenson wants
to say exactly what his nightingale is. It is an entertainer. It cheers and
amuses. It does not draw us out of life, but takes us more quickly through it
than a clock or a calendar.
Insofar as Stevenson’s symbol, like Keats’s, promises a release from the
tedium and oppressiveness of daily life, it, too, is an emblem of escape. But
whereas Keats pursues his restless search for ideal beauty to the edge of death
and immortality, Stevenson pursues instead the more immediate pleasure of
“love, and the fields, and the bright face of danger.” While Keats’s “escapism”
sometimes seems the longing for eternity of a poet already “half in love with
easeful Death,” Stevenson’s “escapism” is more often the life-wish of a man
who thought himself only half-acquainted with the world of the living.
Throughout much of his adulthood, Stevenson was sickly and
melancholy and subject to long periods of morbid depression. In the
correspondence of over twenty-five years he refers continually to death;
sometimes with irritation, as after recovering from a serious fever and
wishing “a thousandfold” that he had “died and been done with the whole
damned show forever” (Letters, I, 231); sometimes with whimsical
resignation, as when he compared his body to a badly made jar, “and to make
every allowance for the potter (I beg pardon; Potter with a capital P.) on his
ill-success, [I] rather wish he would reduce [me] as soon as possible to
potsherds” (Letters, I, 242); but most often, Stevenson’s attitude toward death
is one of pathetic fatigue and boredom: “For fourteen years I have not had a
day’s real health,” he wrote in 1893. “I have wakened sick and gone to bed
weary ... I was made for a contest, and the Powers have so willed that my
battlefield should be this dingy, inglorious one of the bed and the physic
bottle ... I would have preferred a place of trumpetings and the open air over
my head” (Letters, IV, 243).
In 1894, less than three months before he died, he wrote to Charles
Baxter: “I have been so long waiting for death, I have unwrapped my
thoughts from about life so long, that I have not a filament left to hold by”
(Letters, IV, 351).
Stevenson frequently contemplated death fondly as a comfort and a
release from suffering, but he hesitated to reject life without ever having
been physically strong enough to live it like other human beings. A healthy
body was in its own way as much of a lure for him as easeful death. And
though he broods over mortality in his letters and essays, he does not let it
enter his fiction in a serious way until quite late in his career. His art, as he
willingly admits, is to be an antidote to his life, not an image of it. Still, as
Stevenson himself gradually came to realize, the peculiar nature of a
medicine has its own way of reflecting and defining the disease for which it
is prescribed.
Nonetheless, with the exception of an occasional poem or tale,
Stevenson’s artistic treatment of death in his early years has very little in
common with that of the Romantic poets. The idea of death attracted and
repelled Keats as dangerous and cold, but perfect and unchanging, like an
exquisite urn or an unseen bird. Contemplation of it led him out of himself;
it was his lure, and to put it in terms of the romancer rather than the
Romantic, it was his intrigue and his adventure. For Stevenson, in the great
bulk of his early fiction, what was mysterious, unknown, enchanting, was the
idea of life. And he did not at first intend it in a very complicated or elevated
sense. Just walking about with a good appetite, normal digestion, a strong leg
and a clear head—that was what was wanted. In the years of young manhood
when his health was particularly poor, he wrote yearningly of the simple
pleasures of physical well-being:
O for the good fleshly stupidity of the woods, the body

conscious of itself all over and the mind forgotten, the clean air
nestling next your skin ... the eye filled and content, the whole
MAN HAPPY! Whereas here it takes a pull to hold yourself
together; it needs both hands and a book of stoical maxims, and a
sort of bitterness at the heart by way of armour. (Letters, I, 213)
To be able to stay out in the rain without catching a fever or to work

hard enough at manual labor to get blisters—these things take on positively
46 Robert Kiely
exotic overtones for Stevenson. And it is at this point that he takes leave of
the Romantics and joins hands with Fielding and Defoe. Shamelessly he will
steal from the Romantics their exuberance and exaltation (which do show
signs of wear in Stevenson); he will snatch Shelley’s flame and Keats’s
nightingale, but only on his own terms. At the first signs of morbidity, he is
off to play with Robinson Crusoe and Joseph Andrews. As already
mentioned, his early adventures contain the same curious combination of
Romantic suggestiveness with neoclassical formalism that his critical essays
do. The emotional quality of natural settings has importance even in
Stevenson’s earliest fiction; yet peopling his mysterious and incompletely
perceived world are robust heroes with good and simple hearts, and dark-
complexioned villains who have no particular motive for villainy other than
that they happen to be “ornery.”
As Stevenson’s career progresses, we find works in which the walls of

separation are weakened, and the weird and beautiful powers of nature
encroach on the sturdy and mechanical characters, seeping into their blood,
weakening their “type” and complicating their singularity. It would make life
simpler for critics if novelists would change their creative habits more
smoothly and consecutively than they do, but that is rare. In Stevenson’s
fiction, for example, we discover tentative signs of the integration of
character, incident, and locale, as early as 1878, 1881, and 1882, which are
the respective publication dates of “Will o’ the Mill,” “Thrawn Janet,” and
“The Merry Men.” But it is not until 1888 and the publication of The Master
of Ballantrae that Stevenson is able to sustain “unity out of multitude” at any
length.
Without constructing a series of artificial stages through which he
never passed in a systematic way, we might usefully select that year as the
most significant turning point in his literary career. Aside from The Master of
Ballantrae, it is the year of publication of several of his finest essays, including
“Pulvis et Umbra,” as well as the time when his health improved sufficiently
for him to embark on the expedition to the South Seas from which he never
returned. The justification of art and idea of adventure as described and
interpreted thus far have come almost exclusively from letters, essays, and
fiction written in the decade between 1878 and 1888. It is the period of An
Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey; of Virginibus Puerisque, Memories and
Portraits, and Familiar Studies; of Treasure Island, New Arabian Nights, Prince
Otto, The Merry Men, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and Kidnapped. It is, in fact, the
period of Stevenson’s most popular juvenile works, and still the ones the
modern reader is most likely to remember.
During this decade the elaborate style of the essays and the simplified
accumulation of unlikely dangers in the fiction had become Stevenson’s way
of fending off the ordinary and the ugly. The language of the expository
pieces is rich with metaphor, inversion, hyperbole, balanced phrases, and
interior rhyme. Words become above all the media of a gorgeously
decorative abstract art, like the figures in a Persian carpet, meaningful
primarily as design, and appealing in their almost unearthly ability not to
suggest nature. Simultaneously, the hazardous incidents of the early fiction
are presented in terms so direct and simple as to suggest the comfortable
monotony of ritual, the limited intensity of a child’s game, and the lifeless
validity of a mathematical proposition. The theory and the practice of this
period are full of optimism and bravado, of carefree self-confidence, and
perhaps a slightly excessive and artificial élan, which seems particularly
strained when in reading the letters we realize it comes from a man with such
slight reserves of physical and nervous energy.
The tone of Stevenson’s work does gradually change and deepen,
however, until in “Pulvis et Umbra,” first published in April of 1888, it
becomes evident upon close reading that he has admitted much to his
judgments of life and art that we have not found earlier. The trouble is that
he constructed the childish image of himself so well that people continue to
read the Stevenson of 1888 as they read the Stevenson of 1881, in the same
patronizing albeit affectionate way they would listen to a child of ten,
extracting “cute” phrases and optimistic tidbits, and ignoring the rest. One
can find reasons even in “Pulvis et Umbra” for Stevenson’s admirers to
regard him as an infant phenomenon rather than as a full-fledged adult
professional. He does have a way of sounding like one schoolboy exclaiming
to another, even when his subject is human misery:
Ah! if I could show you this! if I could show you these men and
women, all the world over, in every stage of history, under every
abuse of error, under every circumstance of failure, without hope,
without help, without thanks, still obscurely fighting the lost fight
of virtue, still clinging, in the brothel or on the scaffold, to some
rag of honour, the poor jewel of their souls! (XV, 295–296)
It is this almost frenzied expression of felicity in the face of disaster that

has endeared Stevenson, and especially “Pulvis et Umbra,” to generations of
schoolmarms and their victims. But if we read the essay without a mind for
48 Robert Kiely
extracting moral slogans to live by, if we read it as a whole piece without

predetermination, it becomes evident that it is anything but one salvo of
addle-brained optimism after another. (I do not mean to imply that it is
unintelligent to be optimistic, but rather that one’s reasons for being
optimistic and the expression of those reasons can very easily be foolish.
These charming follies unfortunately have been what Stevensonians have too
often singled out of Stevenson.)
But one becomes aware on a careful reading of “Pulvis et Umbra” that
the good cheer comes precariously close to hysteria; that the gay celebration
of life in the midst of catastrophe, which has become a Stevenson stereotype,
is mingled with an unfamiliar admission of ugliness and disenchantment. His
description of the origins of life on earth might have pleased even Zola:
This stuff, when not purified by the lustration of fire, rots

uncleanly into something we call life; seized through all its atoms
with a pediculous malady; swelling in tumours that become
independent, sometimes even (by an abhorrent prodigy)
locomotory; one splitting into millions, millions cohering into
one, as the malady proceeds through varying stages. The vital
putrescence of the dust, used as we are to it, yet strikes us with
occasional disgust, and the profusion of worms in a piece of
ancient turf, or the air of a marsh darkened with insects, will
sometimes check our breathing so that we aspire for cleaner
places. But none is clean: the moving sand is infected with lice;
the pure spring ... is a mere issue of worms; even in the hard rock
the crystal is forming. (XV, 291–292)
Certain parts of Stevenson’s surprisingly repulsive description of

organic life suggest that he, like the poet laureate, was forcing himself to
come to terms with Darwin:
All these prey upon each other, lives tearing other lives in
pieces, cramming them inside themselves, and by that summary
process, growing fat: the vegetarian, the whale, perhaps the tree,
not less than the lion of the desert; for the vegetarian is only the
eater of the dumb. Meanwhile our rotatory island loaded with
predatory life, and more drenched with blood, both animal and
vegetable, than ever mutinied ship, scuds through space with
unimaginable speed. (XV, 292–293)
But Stevenson reserves his keenest disgust for man himself, and presses his
point with a Swiftian energy unprecedented in his earlier works:
What a monstrous spectre is this man, the disease of the

agglutinated dust, lifting alternate feet or lying drugged with
slumber; killing, feeding, growing, bringing forth small copies of
himself; grown upon with hair like grass, fitted with eyes that
move and glitter in his face; a thing to set children screaming;—
and yet looked at nearlier, known as his fellows know him, how
surprising are his attributes! (XV, 293)
Of course, the final sentence turns off Swift and brings back the
undespairing and familiar Stevenson. But the words of revulsion have been
uttered, and with a force which cannot adequately be halted by a dash, an
optimistic cry, and an exclamation mark. Stevenson’s distaste for physical life
extends not only to what we ordinarily think of as the immediate causes of
bodily suffering—sickness, hunger, decay—but to all the creative life
processes, including reproduction, nourishment, and growth. In its
combination of disgust and fascination, it is a response comparable to that of
an adolescent to the first signs of his own puberty. Even the terminology of
the essay suggests this in its references to simple organisms “swelling in
tumours that become independent”; to reproduction “with its imperious
desires and staggering consequences”; to man “grown upon with hair like
grass”; and to the general notion that life in its most advanced stages is so
filthy “that we aspire for cleaner places.”
It is significant that Stevenson treats this “dying into life” much more
clinically and grotesquely than his Romantic predecessors did. It suggests not
simply a different and perhaps less powerful imagination, but, more importantly,
it indicates a diminished faith in the power of the mature imagination to
transcend the burden of natural life, a skepticism as well as a view of nature which
Stevenson shared with his age. He is describing, and in a sense enacting in
nineteenth century post—Romantic terms, the perennial fall from the childhood
state of angelic innocence—golden, sexless, clean, and beautiful—to the mature
state of manhood—unexpectedly brutish and knowing.
Stevenson explains in an early essay on “Child’s Play” that what most
distinguishes the child from the adult is his ability to exist in a tidy, make-
believe world which has almost no reference to concrete reality:
Children are content to forego what we call the realities, and

prefer the shadow to the substance ... Whatever we are to expect
50 Robert Kiely
at the hands of children, it should not be any peddling exactitude

about matters of fact. They walk in vain show, and among mists
and rainbows; they are passionate after dreams and unconcerned
about realities. (XIII, 144–147)
As many have been quick to point out, Stevenson’s descriptions of

children invariably serve equally well as descriptions of himself—at least of
that part of him that was most in evidence before 1888. But what has not so
often been noted is that the child’s talent for disregarding or simplifying
“matters of fact” had been, according to Stevenson’s earliest aesthetic theory,
an essential trait for all artists. Without Wordsworth’s and Keats’s faith in the
powers of the mature imagination, Stevenson thought his choice was either
to grow up (and therefore out of art) or to remain a child, deliberately,
stubbornly, and as he half-suspected all along, unsuccessfully. One of the
obvious difficulties is that the refusal to age, especially for a man past twenty-
five, is a pure act of will which can be realized only in the imagination.
We are accustomed to a great many nineteenth-century authors—
including Dickens, Mark Twain, Kipling, and J. M. Barrie—who, like
Stevenson, created child-heroes with whom, in one way or another, they
identified themselves. The enormous popularity of J. D. Salinger’s The
Catcher in the Rye and William Golding’s Lord of the Flies suggests that modern
sympathies may extend more readily to the older child undergoing
disenchantment—that is, to the adolescent in crisis. Whereas Stevenson’s Jim
Hawkins can effectively don and shed exotic roles at will, Holden Caulfield’s
insecurities are only heightened by his comic-pathetic impersonations. The
boys on Golding’s island may be successful at assuming new roles by smearing
their faces and rearranging their clothes, but then most of them are unable to
change out of their disguises again. Going in search of buried treasure, Jim
Hawkins becomes engaged in an invigorating and harmless adventure, but
Salinger’s adolescent hero finds the “great wide world,” like his own efforts at
changing personality, “phoney.” And Golding’s English schoolboys discover
not pieces-of-eight but the devil on their island paradise. For the
contemporary adolescent hero the treasure chest is either empty or harboring
a serpent.
But Stevenson would have it otherwise. He fought like one struggling
for life to keep evil, confusion, sorrow, and mutability out of his art. He built
a literary theory like a fortress, constructed plots which he himself called
“machines,” and sharpened his style like a weapon on the masters of English
prose. But by reading only his early works we have tended too readily to
assume that his defenses were impregnable. On the contrary, there is a time
when, even for Stevenson, the child has to let in the man. He writes of it
sadly as late as the fall of 1894:
As I go on in life, day by day, I become more of a bewildered child;

I cannot get used to this world, to procreation, to heredity, to sight,
to hearing; the commonest things are a burthen. (Letters, IV, 353)
The key word here is “bewildered,” because, as Stevenson realized from the
beginning, the moment the child is sufficiently intruded upon by the world to
become bewildered by it, he has begun to yield up his innocence and his youth.
The history of Stevenson’s gradual and painful maturing as an artist is
a narrative of conflicting tendencies—practice rebelling against theory, the
increasing encroachment of the “monstrous, infinite, illogical, abrupt, and
poignant” upon the “neat, finite, self-contained, rational, flowing, and
emasculate.” It is not until the novel fragment, Weir of Hermiston, interrupted
by his death in 1894, that we have a work which for complexity, integrity, and
range, for narrative interest and sheer lyrical beauty, may be called a mature
masterpiece. And still the old love of adventure remains—deepened and
enlarged—but recognizable nonetheless. It is not, as some critics have
implied, this imaginative devotion to the active life which is the source of his
immaturity, but rather his prolonged failure to find an artistic harmony
between the externals of action and the intangible truths of human morality
and psychology. The early stories like Markheim and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
which do make moral and psychological claims are as schizophrenic as their
protagonists. The “meaning” does not inhere to the action. It is introduced
ab extra and, as a result, is not only detachable but disposable.
The child in Stevenson—that quality of mind which allowed him to
close “the dazzle and confusion of reality” out of his art—was a long time
dying. But it did die. And Stevenson was never so unaware of himself as to
doubt seriously that it would:
So in youth, like Moses from the mountain, we have sights of

that House Beautiful of art which we shall never enter. They are
dreams and insubstantial; visions of style that repose upon no
base of human meaning; the last heart-throbs of that excited
amateur who has to die in all of us before the artist can be born
... But ... though these dreams of youth fall by their own
baselessness, others succeed, graver and more substantial; the
symptoms change, the amiable malady endures. (XV, 184–185)
52 Robert Kiely
To understand the nature and increase of that “malady” we must begin

where it does, in the “dreams of youth.”
NOTES
1. Janet Adam Smith, Henry James and Robert Louis Stevenson, A Record of Friendship
and Criticism (London, 1948), p. 277.
2. Ibid., pp. 130–132.
3. G. K. Chesterton, Robert Louis Stevenson (New York, 1928), pp. 190–191.
4. George Saintsbury, A History of Nineteenth Century Literature (London, 1896), p.
337.
5. Émile Zola, The Experimental Novel and Other Essays, trans. Belle M. Sherman
(New York, 1893), p. 43. The essays in this volume originally appeared in Russian and
French reviews between 1875 and 1880. They were collected and published in a single
volume for the first time in France in 1880, and it is in this form that they were probably
available to Stevenson. For a further discussion of the chronology and influence of Zola’s
critical works, see Fernand Doucet, L’Esthètique d’Émile Zola et son application à la critique
(The Hague, 1923), pp. 231–243.
6. Adventures Among Books, pp. 279–280. For a more complete exposition of Lang’s
part in “the battle between the crocodile of Realism and the catawampus of Romance,” see
his “Realism and Romance,” The Contemporary Review, November 1887; “Romance and
the Reverse,” St. James’s Gazette, November 1888; and Roger Lancelyn Green’s Andrew
Lang, A Critical Biography (Leicester, 1946), pp. 109–123.
7. Zola, The Experimental Novel, pp. 25–26.
8. Ibid., pp. 54, 209.
9. The Correspondence of Gerard Manley Hopkins and Richard Watson Dixon, ed. Claude
Colleer Abbott (Oxford, 1935), p. 114.
10. “A Note on Realism,” The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, 25 vols. (London, 1912),
XVI, 236.
11. As quoted in Gérard Jean-Aubry, The Sea Dreamer: A Definitive Biography of Joseph
Conrad (New York, 1957), p. 273.
12. “A Note on Realism,” Swanston Edition, XVI, 239–240.
13. “The Art of Fiction,” Henry James and Robert Louis Stevenson, ed. Smith, p. 75.
14. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “On Poesy or Art,” Literary Remains, ed. H. N.
Coleridge, 4 vols. (London, 1836), I, 220.
15. William Hazlitt, “On Poetry in General,” The Complete Works of William Hazlitt,
ed. P. P. Howe, 21 vols. (London, 1934), V, 1–18.
16. Hopkins and Dixon, p. 114.
17. In a great number of the books written about Stevenson during the twenty-year
period following his death, it was generally assumed that, on the basis of his interest in
childhood and nature, he was clearly and indisputably a Romantic. A characteristic
example of this opinion may be found in L. Cope Cornford’s Robert Louis Stevenson
(Edinburgh, 1899), chap. vi.
18. Coleridge, “Shakespeare’s Judgment Equal to His Genius,” Literary Remains, II,
66–67.
19. Lang, Adventures Among Books, p. 213.
DOUGLAS GIFFORD
Stevenson and Scottish Fiction:

The Importance of The Master of Ballantrae
T his essay argues the case for three main propositions. These
propositions are interconnected; and if tenable, I think that their combined
meanings allow The Master of Ballantrae to emerge as a fine and neglected
Romantic and symbolic novel in the tradition of Wuthering Heights and Moby
Dick; and the finest expression of Scottish fiction’s deepest concerns in the
nineteenth century.
My first proposition is that there existed from 1814 till 1914 a school
of Scottish fiction with its own recurrent themes, and its own distinguishable
symbolism. My second is that nearly all of Stevenson’s Scottish fiction (and
much of his total output of fiction) is mainly unsuccessful exploration of the
almost obsessional material of his relations with his family and with
Edinburgh bourgeois society and Scotland. The Master of Ballantrae, I
suggest, is the clearest and most symbolic expression of his deepest tensions
in these areas and thus of major importance in his output. The rest of the
Scottish fiction is to be considered as ‘trial runs’ for it. Consequently I
propose a reconsideration of the novel, defending its structure and
contrasting and varied settings against previous attack, and emphasising the
crucial and highly subtle use of the ‘unreliable narrator’, the prejudiced
family retainer Mackellar. If, for example, we compare his function with that
of Nellie Dean in Wuthering Heights, we can see that Stevenson’s creation has
From Stevenson and Victorian Scotland, ed. Jenni Calder. © 1981 by Edinburgh University Press
and Douglas Gifford.
53
54 Douglas Gifford
the more complex and profound role. As a result, the novel can be seen as
sharing in what amounts to a tendency in the Presbyterian and ‘Puritan’
novel towards mutually exclusive interpretations and sharp ambivalence. The
Master of Ballantrae bears comparison with The Scarlet Letter or Moby Dick or
The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner in this respect.
The first area of discussion concerns that school of Scottish fiction of
1814–1914. I choose these dates, those of Scott’s Waverley and John
Macdougall Hay’s Gillespie respectively, because these novels seem to me to
enclose both the comparatively unbroken century of continuity in Scottish
social and cultural life (a continuity to be shattered by the effects of the First
World War) and the major Scottish novels which satirise what they see as the
destructive and divisive social stereotypes that the century of continuity
brings about, especially in nineteenth-century Scottish attitudes to self and
family.
But within the century 1814–1914 there existed not just one but at least
three schools of Scottish fiction, with the possibility of a fourth. There were
two schools of ‘escape’ from the dreary realities which were transforming
Scotland from a broadly rural and peasant nation to one of the most
industrialised in the world; and it is worth recalling that hardly any novelist
worthy of the name till Grassic Gibbon (in Grey Granite in 1934) thought fit
to take as a subject the effects of massive industrial urbanisation on people
from such very different previous backgrounds. Edwin Muir called our first
school of Scottish fiction ‘escape to Scottland’. This describes what we all
recognise as a kind of fiction which survives even now. We need only work
back from Nigel Tranter and Dorothy Dunnett, through Neil Munro and
the more robust action novels of S. R. Crockett, past the work of James
Grant and William Black and—to his discredit let it be said—the Stevenson
of The Black Arrow and St. Ives—to the more mechanical moving about of
historical furniture of Walter Scott in The Antiquary, Guy Mannering, Ivanhoe
and The Talisman, to realise the strength of a Scottish fiction which prefers to
dress up what E. M. Forster called the ‘And then... And then’ type of
narrative in historical guise.1 The aim of such ‘historical’ fiction is in fact the
opposite of historical, in that its central characters are familiar, ideal, and
attractive to the modern reader, with the purpose of entertaining rather than
illuminating the forces of real social change and their effect on society.
Our second kind of fiction of the period is often referred to as the
Kailyard School of Scottish fiction. Here one enters more controversial
ground—not as to what the school comprises, since most would accept that
it has its hey-day in the work of J. M. Barrie, S. R. Crockett, Ian Maclaren
and the like at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth
century. Controversy arises concerning two points: where the school begins
and its final worth. Does the Kailyard originate with impulses to
simplification and cliché which ante-date the novel, especially in poetry like
that of Burns’s ‘Cottar’s Saturday Night’ and Hogg’s ‘Kilmeny’? Has Henry
Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling (1771) a hand in the shaping of such
surrogate mythology? Has even Jeannie Deans, that ‘cow-feeder’s daughter’
of indubitable virtue, some charge to answer here? These are scurrilous
charges to many Scots; and they may find me even more scurrilous when I
suggest that the Stevenson of Weir of Hermiston, in correspondence with S.
R. Crockett as he wrote the novel, was already tainted with the Kailyard
tendency to excessive sentimentality and distortion of the psychologically
true. Had I time enough I would enjoy trying to prove that Weir is a novel
marred beyond redemption by the maudlin scenes of young Archie and
Kirstie, a poor pair of children, ‘playing the old game of falling in love’. ‘Will
I have met my fate?’ wonders a Kirstie who seems to belong more to
Crockett’s The Lilac Sunbonnet than here, swallowing her sugar bool sweeties
in church, and throughout chapter six making so many pretty little People’s
Friend changes of mood that shepherd-poet Dandie is driven to remark that
‘at denner you were all sunshine and flowers and laughter, and now you’re
like the star of evening on a lake’!2 Weir has magnificent things in it,
especially in the depiction of its demonic hanging judge jesting as he destroys
the rags of self-respect of miserable Duncan Jopp. But it was becoming a
Kailyard novel, and was besides far too mechanical in its laboured and
anachronistic symbolism of the four black brothers who represent the hidden
fire of Scottish peasantry, religion, poetry, and mechanical genius. Again, the
Kailyard novel—and Stevenson’s contribution to it, here and in novels like
the nauseating piece of father-worship The Misadventures of John Nicholson or
the indulgent pieces set in France like The Treasure of Franchard or The Story
of a Lie—need not detain us long. Again, what we must acknowledge in
leaving is that no less a critic than Francis Hart in his The Scottish Novel
would take issue with all I have said, on the score that Scots are the last critics
able to understand the true Edenic vision lying behind such redemptive
fictions.3 I accept the difference of opinion and pass on to our third, and
most important, school of Scottish fiction.
We are left with two kinds of Scottish fiction to engage our serious
critical attention. They are respectively a negative and satiric tradition of
Romantic fiction and an affirmative, regenerative type which is only
occasionally attempted by the major novelists—within our period, namely
Scott, Stevenson and, less coherently, George Macdonald. And since, within
our period, the attempts by these writers to portray in fiction the
56 Douglas Gifford
transcendence of Scottish limitations to social and personal development are

less successful than their stronger and clearer satiric pictures of stagnating
Scotland, we shall discuss their partial failure now, before considering the
most significant recurrent type of Scottish fiction.
If I am granted for the moment what I have just suggested—that the
strongest tradition is negative and satiric—then the fourth kind of Scottish
fiction is the occasional attempt to create within such a framework a symbolic
situation and eponymous hero within this situation representing Scotland
regenerative. Scott tried this outstandingly in Old Mortality and The Heart of
Midlothian, when in each case he created a situation where the sick forces of
Scottish history in each novel were confronted by protagonists who drew
their symbolic force from the fact that they represented ‘nature’s voice’, and
spoke for instinctive goodness of the heart such as Francis Hutcheson had
argued for when he made the first utterances of the sentimental school of
Scottish philosophy. My own liking and respect for Scott’s work indeed
relates to the extent to which he conscientiously tried from Waverley to The
Heart of Midlothian to find the ideal figure to represent his case for liberal
compromise and historical tolerance. Flora MacIvor, Henry Morton, and
outstandingly, Jeannie Deans the cowfeeder’s daughter, are the results in
chronological and ascending order of that quest; and the fact that Flora fails
because she is the reasonable woman identified with the unreasonable cause,
that Morton fails because he cannot challenge the fact that it is not his
idealism that wins the day but rather the Hanoverian and pragmatic
settlement of 1689, and that Jeannie fails because her symbolic meaning as
Heart of Midlothian and Pilgrim’s Progress Mercy outweighs her naturalistic
credibility, should not allow us to belittle Scott’s genuine attempt to create a
symbolic ‘Condition of Scotland’ novel. One admits his failure, as I think one
must admit, for very different reasons, that of George Macdonald—and
more important for our purposes, the failure in this respect of Stevenson.
And where does Stevenson ever attempt a novel of extended social
comment on Scotland, with such a symbolic protagonist? I contend that this
is to be found, broken-backed and inconclusive, but recognisable as such a
transcendental attempt, in Kidnapped (1886) and Catriona (1893). The
continuation of the adventures of David Balfour has long puzzled me. Indeed
sustained length of treatment was always a problem for Stevenson—witness
his penchant for the short tale, the series of related adventures, the novelette,
and the number of unfinished tales. Sustained control of a large symbolic
structure is not found often in his work, so it is all the more surprising that
he should have felt, even after some time, that there was something
unfinished, demanding resolution, in the matter of David Balfour. The
questions this poses to us are three. First, what was there about David, of all
his adolescent victim-heroes from the inept bourgeoisie of The New Arabian
Nights and The Dynamiter to Jim Hawkins and Gordon Darnaway and John
Nicholson, that made his actions different and worthy of further
examination? Secondly, why suddenly decide to be ambitious of the long
form when all previous work shows him happiest in the short story and
novelette? And thirdly, what is there in Catriona which carries on, and relates
to, the business of Kidnapped? It is true that David at the outset of Kidnapped
seems to be another of those adolescents whose lives are to be ravaged by
Chance, a recurrent and significant theme of the Stevenson who must
frequently have felt that Chance was indeed the only factor which could
liberate him from the suffocating restrictions of parental love and
disapproval. Chance saves David’s life at the top of the stairs of the House of
Shaws; Chance steers Alan Breck, his alter ego, into his life. But—as we know
from the letters—Stevenson’s problems with David grew, and the character
deepened and changed. Indeed, David and Alan Breck moved towards the
positions of Henry and James Ballantrae, as they evolved towards a
juxtaposition of dour Calvinist-derived commonsense and rigid moral
earnestness and extrovert romantic-Celtic waywardness of imagination and
emotion. But more important than this shadowy anticipation of the
oppositions of Ballantrae and Weir of Hermiston is the fact that David is not to
be contained within adolescent guidelines or within limits as foil to Alan
Breck. He rapidly becomes the moral agent of the book, haunted by the tears
of James of the Glen’s wife, perceptive to the good (in a manner reminiscent
of Jeannie Deans) even in his captors Hoseason and the ship’s doctor. I
suggest that in David, Stevenson makes the change from protagonist as
adolescent victim of Chance adventure to protagonist as moral agent and
witness in the manner of Henry Morton and Jeannie Deans. Why then
continue his adventures into Catriona, especially when the major business of
Kidnapped seems to be settled? His inheritance is assured, Alan Breck has
escaped. What remains unsettled is an issue raised half-way through
Kidnapped, an issue which I suggest is the first to engage David’s new moral
awareness, and an issue which—quite apart from Catriona herself—will form
the major part of the novel Catriona. David witnessed the murder of the Red
Fox, Campbell of Glenure. The second part of Kidnapped and the first part of
Catriona are Stevenson’s attempts to create a Heart of Midlothian novel of
Scottish social regeneration. The fact that he fails should not blind us to the
epic scale of his attempt. David, like Jeannie or Morton, is ‘nature’s voice’,
the suffering conscience of a ‘grass roots’ Scotland who, like them, sees about
him in Prestongrange, in the corrupt legal system, in the ubiquitous
58 Douglas Gifford
expediency and social hypocrisy, a debased modern Scotland. Against this,

like them, he pits his honesty, courage, instinctive sense of right. Alan refers
to him as the queerest and most unique creature in Scotland; and, in a
manner significantly close to that of Jeannie Deans, his journeys have
symbolic force. (It is also significant that Catriona makes mention of the
Porteous affair of The Heart, as well as the Wildfire Rocks and a strangely un-
Stevensonian and prophetic hag who foresees the gallows beneath
blackening bodies.) Like Jeannie, David comes from the country and humble
background of Scotland. His journey, from Leith to the Orkneys to the West,
surrounds Scotland, sampling Highland and Lowland culture, winning, like
Jeannie, strange allies from whom he elicits reluctant goodness. Unlike
Jeannie, he fails. His Bass Rock captivity represents the difference between
Scott and Stevenson. James of the Glens is hung, and the first part of
Catriona ends with what I read as a crucial abdication on Stevenson’s part
from involvement in ‘the condition of Scotland’.
So there was the final upshot of my politics! Innocent men have

perished before James, and are like to keep on perishing (in spite
of all our wisdom) till the end of time. And till the end of time
young folk (who are not yet used with the duplicity of life or men)
will struggle as I did, and make heroical resolves, and take long
risks; and the course of events will push them upon the one side
and go on like a marching army. James was hanged; and here was
I dwelling in the house of Prestongrange, and grateful to him for
his fatherly attention ... and the villains of that plot were decent,
kind, respectable fathers of families, who went to kirk and took
the sacrament!
But 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 ... A plain, quiet path, was that
which I was ambitious to walk in, when I might keep my head out
of the way of dangers and my conscience out of the road of
temptation. For, upon a retrospect, it appeared I had not done so
grandly, after all; but with the greatest possible amount of big
speech and preparation, had accomplished nothing.4
The quote is long, because it is so important. Once again I discover, in

part two, in the overdone and often maudlin relations of the shy lovers David
and Catriona in Holland, that unfortunate later tendency of Stevenson
towards Crockett and Barrie and the Kailyard which I suggest would have
spoiled even Weir of Hermiston. The quote above marks his typical
unwillingness to confront and his inability to defeat the bourgeois values of
father (that ‘fatherly attention’ of Prestongrange is so revealing!) and
respectable Edinburgh. It’s significant that his most bitter remarks on
‘decent, kind, respectable ... families’ has to be distanced and disguised in this
and other fiction like Weir or Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
Stevenson avoided the full task of evaluating his Scottish background.
Does it then follow that we must position his work beneath that of Hogg or
Scott, or in the present, Gunn or Gibbon? I think not. There still existed one
tradition of Scottish fiction which could help him to genuine and full
creativity—that of Scott’s Waverley or Redgauntlet, of Galt’s The Entail, and,
to a lesser extent, of Hogg’s The Justified Sinner. In The Master of Ballantrae
Stevenson was to take this tradition and create its archetype.
What is this tradition and how is it recognisably different from, say,
that of Wuthering Heights, or, at the end of the century, The Mayor of
Casterbridge, both of which, in respect of use of landscape, or demonic local
tyrants, resemble the Scottish novels?
Francis Hart in The Scottish Novel prefers other types of classification,
which have their own validity but seem to me to avoid the outstanding
tradition, which one critic, writing of George Douglas Brown’s The House
with the Green Shutters, described in poetry as having as its object the desire
to
Paint village hell where sadist monster mutters

Till Scotland’s one mad House with the Green Shutters
Depict the lust that lurks in hall and hovel
And build thereon a Scottish national novel.5
But the emphasis here on a kind of crude realism, endorsed by Angus

McDonald when he quoted the poem, should not blind us to the fact that the
tradition is essentially Romantic and symbolic. David Daiches went some
way in identifying the polarities and their significance in his pioneer essay on
‘Scott’s achievement as a novelist’, when he stressed that Scott’s typical
pattern of opposition placed Past against Present, Order against Disorder,
and—very broadly—a cause of the Heart against a cause of the Head. Scott
nearly always in his Scottish fiction chooses a period of civil disruption which
presents such a possible pattern; but I would allege that the pattern of Scott
is the base pattern for the serious and satiric Scottish novelist of the next
century following Waverley in 1814.
The recurrent themes of nineteenth-century Scottish fiction of this
60 Douglas Gifford
kind are those of the divided self; the divided family which contains the
broken self; the divided nation behind the fragmented family. Morbid states
of psychology as frequent focal points of the fiction were recognised as early
as 1933 by Kitchin;6 and the converse of this, the use of a ‘transitional devil
simile’, as Coleman Parsons calls it,7 which is related to but not at all
identical with the demonic and Byronic element in the work of the Brontës,
becomes something of a sine qua non of the tradition. And here I would go
further than Daiches or Kitchin and tentatively suggest that, taking the
conclusions of Muir in his study Scott and Scotland (of the first part) one can
derive a meaning from the recurrent pattern which is in its intensity and kind
unique to the Scottish novel. Muir argued his ‘dissociation of sensibility’
theory in the first part of that study.8 He suggested that the organic and
whole culture of pre-1560 and the Reformation suffered separation into
mutually exclusive parts; that emotion, as linked with the older Scottish
language, was separated from thought, and consequently, when emotion and
thought were thus separated, emotion became irresponsible and thought
became arid; and if one felt in Scots and thought in English, one’s feelings
and expression of feeling in Scots would be likely to be self-indulgent and
one’s thoughts and expression of them somewhat arid.
I find it poignant and regrettable that Muir failed to apply the
implications of this theory to the matter of his study, to Scott. Possibly
dissociated by this time from Scotland himself, Muir failed to see that Scott
did not always suffer a failure of creative and critical awareness. He further
failed to see that Hogg, Galt, Stevenson, Brown and MacDougall Hay—to
leave out Muir’s contemporaries, Gibbon, Gunn and MacColla—did not fall
victim to the divisive and degenerative forces of Scottish Materialism,
Grundyism, and sentimental Romanticisation, but rather used them as
materials for satire and exposure, albeit in apparently anachronistic guise.
Thus Waverley satirises a central mentality which suffers ‘tartan fever’; its
central motif is that of the delusive dream, its reductive image of the
highlands the ‘bra’ Highlander tat’s painted on the board afore the change-
house they ca ‘Lucky Middlemass’s’. Waverley is caught between
irresponsible and yet obsessively greedy Highlanders, disorderly and
deluded, and excessively mechanistic, depressingly orderly bourgeois systems
represented by the merchants of Dundee and the unimaginative disciplines
of the Hanoverian army, which Waverley finds impossibly stifling. The
pattern is that of Rob Roy; and Rob Roy, cause of the Past, representative of
the Scottish Outlaw Myth, Jacobite sympathiser, is blood cousin to Baillie
Nicol Jarvie, canny merchant who welcomes the road ‘West awa’ yonder’ to
sugar, tea and tobacco from the American colonies, basis of Glasgow’s
flourishing. Scott tells us that Scotland has become the battlefield of the
Heart and the Head. We may dislike his compromise solutions, but his satiric
vision outstrips his rational suggestion for regeneration, just as his wonderful
picture of the sick heart of Midlothian outstrips his naive pictures of Jeannie
Deans making all well on the island (sic!) of Roseneath.
Hogg’s Sinner does not fit so easily into this pattern, although related.
Hogg’s opposition there is of older, healthier, tougher Scotland as
represented by the laird of Dalcastle against a sick modern evangelical
religious consciousness. The Shepherd of Ettrick mourned in all his fiction
a simpler Scottish transition, that of rural community with oral tradition of
ballad and story giving way to a Scotland sick either through religion or
social snobbery. But his Robert Wringhim looks forward to Henry Jekyll
and, above all, Ephraim Mackellar, who destroys his firstborn son in pursuit
of his materialist dream, anticipates Weir and more especially the brutal
merchant figures John Gourlay and Gillespie Strang. John Speirs noted that
Douglas Brown had put ‘the nineteenth century in allegory’ in Green
Shutters.9 Again, I’d go further, and suggest that the novel, like its relatives,
is symbolic; that Gourlay represents Scottish greed, Scottish elimination of
the gentler virtues and arts from its educational and social systems, that his
devilish nature and stature represent the degeneration of wholeness and
goodness in Scottish life. And the pattern is borne out in the placing, in all
these novels, of a son (usually of the very same name as the father, in order
to suggest that they are the parts of what should be a whole) who has,
possibly to excess, the gentler virtues. Archie Weir’s ‘shivering delicacy’ and
‘splurging’ are close to young John Gourlay’s ‘splurging’ and
hypersensitivity; Eochan Strang is their descendent and stands in exactly the
same relation to his brutal father Gillespie.
Indeed, father–son opposition became the standard opposition of
symbolic forces in the Scottish novel, with Gibbon and Gunn and even A. J.
Cronin in Hatter’s Castle using it occasionally as stereotype. What is
fascinating is that Muir did not see that a novel such as The Green Shutters
perfectly substantiated his theory of dissociation. If this be doubted, read the
crucial central episode of the novel, when young John Gourlay tries for the
Raeburn essay prize at Edinburgh University. Gaspy little sentences, vivid
fragments of sense-impressions of an Arctic Night, are all he can manage.
His professor makes extensive comment on both the talent, which captures
the feeling of the thing, and its dangers. With thought, he says, and hard
work, such a talent for pure feeling may become higher and consecrative—
but without thought, dissociated from it, it would simply be a curse. Gourlay
ignores the advice, and the House of Gourlay is destroyed. In Latitudes Muir
62 Douglas Gifford
discussed the novel—and failed to remember and to apply to it the very

theory which lay at the heart of Scott and Scotland.10 And if a critic like Muir
could miss the deeper meanings of Brown’s novel, it is not surprising that he
and critics of Stevenson should miss the deeper meanings of The Master of
Ballantrae.
I come now to my second proposition, that nearly all of Stevenson’s
Scottish fiction is mainly unsuccessful exploration of his personal relations
with family, Edinburgh, and Scotland. No-one now would dispute that
Stevenson’s relations with his family, especially his father, produced deep
tensions and guilts throughout his life. But it is not the finer points of
biographical truth that matter too much. We need not explore too far the
extent to which Stevenson took his youthful rebellions. This is less important
than the evidence of the range of the stories that, out of this area of confused
values, ‘sad little mutinies’, love and hate, came equally confused statements
of ever-changing moral stance.
Simplifying Edwin Eigner’s more ambitious and far more subtle
groupings of Stevenson’s stories,11 it seems to me that the most useful
starting point for an understanding of most of Stevenson’s fiction is that of
his moral ambivalence. Nearly all his stories, with the exception of the more
straightforward tales of supernatural tradition such as ‘The Bodysnatcher’ or
‘Tod Lapraik’ move between two opposite poles of morality. Up till David
Balfour nearly all his protagonists are adolescents confused about moral
value. Although the earliest of these, the rather helpless middle class youths
of The New Arabian Nights and The Dynamiter (1885) seem to move in the
singularly amoral world of the exotic Prince Florizel (Mr T. Godall), that
device of escape to adventure land is quickly ended. The later adolescents,
from François Villon in ‘A Lodging for the Night’, to ‘Will o’ the Mill’ to
Denis de Boileau in ‘The Sire de Malatroit’s Door’ live in a confused but
singularly moral world. They have choices to make, values to declare. And
what is outstanding is that they all choose differently. Stevenson can make
none of them speak authoritatively and confidently for a fixed moral vision.
Villon is the demonic adolescent who spares the kindly father figure; Denis
is the innocent adolescent who is coerced into marriage by the devilish
aristocrat Malatroit. Two youngsters, two father-figures; and their crossover
of positions represents what happens in all Stevenson’s fiction. In The
Misadventures of John Nicholson a relationship between son and father repeats,
with variation, the polarisation of ‘A Lodging for the Night’, with the settled
middle-class father this time accepting (with nauseating Goodness) the
capitulation of his prodigal son. One juxtaposes this with the transposed
situation of Weir of Hermiston, where the student freethinking of Archie leads
to a real compassion for his fellow humans which is revolted by the demonic
and jesting insensitivity of his respectable Edinburgh father.
But, as Eigner noticed, Stevenson didn’t often use an actual father–son
confrontation.12 Instead that confrontation is expressed in dualisms and
pairings of contrasted characters. Frequently there is an adolescent witness
to this, as with Jim Hawkins and his positioning between the world of the
Liveseys and Trelawneys, Doctor and Squire, and the world of Long John
Silver. The earlier part of Kidnapped shows this situation. Or, moving on to
the point of respectable maturity as starting point, Dr Jekyll is shown as
deliberately separating and indulging those parts of his nature which he
regards as evil, in a personality akin to Villon or Silver. I do not say that
Stevenson always rings such changes. Sometimes both kinds of
protagonists—and the element of demonism—are rigidly controlled, as in
‘Will o’ the Mill’, where Will is neither son or father, but evader of all
struggle—and the Devil is thus watered down to a kindly Death Figure, who
peacefully takes the aging but unaged Will (literally an uncommitted Will?)
from a strangely unreal Neverland. Alternatively, Stevenson presents a story
within a traditional type, such as the Gothic-Christian ‘Markheim’, or as in
the Scottish traditional supernatural tales like ‘Thrawn Janet’ or ‘The Merry
Men’. The latter owes something too to Melville in its use of Puritan
ambivalence and sea symbolism. But even in these stories one can detect a
developing trait of Stevenson’s work which The Master of Ballantrae will bring
to fruition; namely that ambiguity which had, admittedly, been the hallmark
of the traditional Burns-Hogg-Scott supernatural tale—but which was in
Stevenson’s hands to become a metaphor for something much deeper.
Thus, by the time he came to write The Master of Ballantrae, Stevenson
had exhibited throughout his fiction two traits which were closely connected
to his tortuous relations with his father and family background. The first trait
led him to create perpetually in pairings or opposites—Prince Florizel and
his dependant simple young men, Villon and his fatherly burgher, Frank
Cassilis and his dour friend Northmour in A Pavilion on the Links, Jekyll and
Hyde, Balfour and Breck. The second trait led him increasingly to deal with
these or his other worlds with ambivalence, allowing neither of the groups,
their values, or even the worlds of rationalism or the supernatural to have a
final indubitable value.
Tentatively I suggest that two dominating concepts for Stevenson in
the years around his father’s death (1887) emerged in the ideas of
‘Providence’ and ‘Chance’. ‘Chance’ had always played a significant role in
his creations, dropping his inexperienced young men into worlds completely
different from the settled, traditionally structured worlds of their parental
64 Douglas Gifford
background, amongst mad bombers, suicide clubs, exiled Bohemian princes

of supernatural capabilities, treasure islands, lonely Hebridean bays with
sunken galleons, and marriages with the beautiful daughters of devilish
French aristocrats. Understandably it attracted Stevenson as an amoral ‘way
out’ of his own dilemma of values, and thus became a fictional device for
releasing himself and his protagonists from the weight of moral choice. But
I feel that to the maturing Stevenson ‘Chance’ as a concept became
something deeper, truer to the life of the later nineteenth century. By the
time of The Master of Ballantrae it had become the sign of a way of life
opposite to that represented by ‘Providence’, the force behind the world of
Thomas Stevenson and Presbyterian Edinburgh. More clearly than ever
before, Stevenson bases one Master of Ballantrae, Henry, in a world of
‘Providence’; and the other Master of Ballantrae, James, in a secular, and, as
one critic has called it, ‘ur-existential’, world of ‘Chance’ where his making
of decisions on the basis of coin-tossing reflects his ‘belief ’ in a random
universe—and his disbelief in conventional morality or Mackellar’s
‘Providence’.13
It is crucial to my reconsideration of The Master of Ballantrae that we
consider and continue to accept what most readers would initially agree is a
fair reading of the novel. Such a reading would accept that in Mackellar we
have a reliable witness to the fortunes of the house of Durrisdeer. He may be
a somewhat pernickety, spinsterish Presbyterian of the old school, but in
many ways such dry traits supply that very credibility which the reader so
instinctively seeks in tracing the rights and wrongs of the various
Durrisdeers. It is part of Stevenson’s great skill that Mackellar supplies,
effortlessly, this reader’s need—in something resembling the way Nellie
Dean answers a need in Wuthering Heights. Incredible and unnatural events
are made palatable in both by being anchored to acceptable and reassuring
figures of social certainty.
In this reading Henry becomes victim of history and James. Time has
placed him in an inferior role; fate has given him less obvious gifts than
James, less attractive to the neighbourhood and to Alison and his father. And
what more likely than that the quieter brother to a charismatic and subtle
extrovert should retreat somewhat within himself, repressing and denying
through mingled stubbornness and jealousy the qualities which might rival
those of his brother? Read like this, Henry’s story is a painful tracing of
misunderstanding and deliberate misdirection by James, whereby Alison’s,
their father’s, and the world’s view of Henry is belittled by Henry’s reticence,
bad luck, and James’s guileful Art. In this reading the kinship of Henry to
David Balfour stands out clearly, their mutual reserve actually adding to our
liking for them, the underdogs of a world which prefers the superficial charm
of a Breck or James Ballantrae.
Clearly, too, in this interpretation, James’s is a study of evil. Black is his
colour in dress and in image or association, from that ‘very black mark’
against him in the opening pages to the night settings that surround his most
mysterious episodes. The transition from this motif of blackness to the
imputation of demonic traits is effortless, from his childhood exploits when
he masquerades against Wullie White the Wabster as Auld Hornie, or his
father cries ‘I think you are a devil of a son to me’, to when he takes
command of pirate Teach’s ship ‘little Hell’, or later, when he appears as
Satan in Milton’s epic, a fallen angel. (We recall that Stevenson’s ‘editor’ in
his Preface remembered that a Durrisdeer ‘had some strange passages with
the devil’.) Most important is James’s artfulness; one recalls that the Devil
himself was Father of Lies, and James is in this respect very much a disciple,
since he is utter master of the lie unstated, the contrived situation where he
will affect a person or company with a gesture, an argument, or a song,
theatrically and consummately presented. ‘I never yet failed to charm a
person when I wanted’, he says to Mackellar at the end of the voyage on the
Nonesuch, when even Mackellar admitted that James and he had come to live
together on excellent terms. Taken this way, James is the incubus, the
descendant of Hogg’s Gilmartin, who haunts his brother as George Dalcastle
was haunted in The Justified Sinner.
And taken this way the novel is a tragedy, whereby Henry, having been
all but destroyed by this malevolent quasi-devil, completes his own and his
family’s destruction by descending to the dark levels of his brother; so much
so that the running devil-motif comes in the closing stages to apply to Henry,
and Henry’s dealings become every bit as immoral and with even nastier
people than James’s or his ‘colleagues’.
But I can never remember being happy with this reading. Even as
youthful reader I could never understand how James, that supernaturally
quick athlete of catlike reflexes and endless experience in the world’s wildest
scenes of action, could ever have lost the duel with his brother. For all the
argument of ‘contained and glowing fury’, for all I had sympathy for Henry
and anger against James for what he had done to him, it seemed even then
too ‘Boy’s Own’ a solution to suggest that sheer right welled up in depressed,
cheated, deprived Henry at just the necessary moment. And, as I came to
later Stevenson criticism, these feelings grew more acute. The narrators of
the action, Mackellar and Chevalier Burke, changed too awkwardly, with
little point; the locations changed too arbitrarily, too wildly from rain-
gloomy Scotland to swamp-dank Albany or strange sea-voyages; poetic
66 Douglas Gifford
justice had been lost by reducing Henry’s goodness to something so

inconsequential that he was allowed to share the same grave as his devil-
brother. Most damning consideration of all was that Stevenson committed
the final artistic sin of changing his vision in mid-stream, having Henry
reborn after the duel as a malevolent adult-child, crippled by guilt and
warped into a new shape which increasingly rivalled the degradation of
James.
I now argue that Stevenson wished only to allow this reading to exist as
a possibility. With the example of Hogg’s Sinner before him of ‘reversible
interpretation’, with indeed the tendency of the Presbyterian and Puritan
traditions in poetry and fiction towards alternative meanings familiar to him
from examples as diverse as Burns’s ‘Tam o’ Shanter’ to Hawthorne’s ‘Young
Goodman Brown’ and The Scarlet Letter, Melville’s Moby-Dick, and even his
friend James’s The Portrait of a Lady published some eight years earlier, there
were many attractions towards a fiction of mutually exclusive interpretations.
And the greatest of these attractions, I submit, would lie in the fact that such
ambiguity would release Stevenson from all his previous need to struggle
confusedly with emblems of a shifting moral consciousness. The Master of
Ballantrae derives its greatness from the fact that it is the only novel of
Stevenson’s successfully to resolve—even although it is by sidestep and
sleight of creative hand—the dilemma of values so manifest in the other
fiction. This is not all. In solving his own problem of values by creating a
novel which in effect has no definitive value structure at all, Stevenson
created the classic version of the Scottish ‘dissociation of sensibility’ novel.
This, however, is to beg the question of Stevenson’s other meaning for
the novel. There are, after all, two Masters of Ballantrae. The very title poses
a question similar to that of James in The Portrait of a Lady. It warns us, since
it does not name the identity of the Master, of a struggle of brothers and
opposed ‘moralities’. And in this struggle, sensitive reading will show that
from the very beginning Henry is not that symbol of undoubted worth that
the first reading presupposes. From that first unnecessary ‘You know very
well that you are the favourite’ when quarrelling with James, there is revealed
something petulant and small in his personality. He is ‘strangely obstinate’ in
silence when his true nature is misunderstood, and early we are told that he’s
‘neither very bad nor very able, but an honest, solid sort of lad’. Whatever
else, he is certainly a dogged stay-at-home, emotionally—at least to the
observer—a rather arid fellow, willing in the end to marry for the pity of the
lady who loves his brother, ‘by nature inclining to the parsimonious’. ‘The
weakness of my ground’, he tells Mackellar, ‘lies in myself, that I am not one
who engages love’. When he is ill his instinctive preference for business
emerges, ‘mortifying’ even Mackellar with ‘affairs, cyphering figures, and

holding disputation with the tenantry’.
But Stevenson is far too subtle to underdraw Henry to the point of
symbolic simplicity. One of the most moving glimpses of the novel is of
Henry, early on, doing the accounts of Durrisdeer with Mackellar, and falling
into a deep muse, staring straight west into the sun over the long sands,
where the freetraders, with a great force of men and horses, were scouring
on the beach. Mackellar marvels that Henry is not blinded; Henry frowns,
rubs his brow, smiles and says: ‘You would not guess what I was thinking ... I
was thinking I would be a happier man if I could ride and run the danger of
my life, with these lawless companions.’ Like James? Henry’s tragedy is
deepened by the fact that he knows his own malformation, and he knows that
he cannot be what he is not. His trade is far from free, he recognises, as he
tells Mackellar ‘and with that we may get back to our accounts’.
The episode has however made us early aware of depths of rebellious
feeling in Henry. Foreshortened emotions have their revenges, and
Stevenson most effectively will show Henry’s emerging in catastrophic
fashion at the duel, and then, since guilt will refashion the man anew,
emerging in yet more poisoned manner. After the duel, ‘something of the
child he exhibited; a cheerfulness quite foreign to his previous character’.
This good humour is false, based as it is on brain-damaged forgetfulness,
implying that Henry cannot face the reality of his actions. He beats the
groom, which is ‘out of all his former practice’; has ‘a singular furtive smile’;
and utters his black curse on James—‘I wish he was in hell’, in front of his
son—which reveals how far the disease has gone in de-Christianising him.
Out of dissociation of personality comes what looks very like evil, as he
poisons his son’s mind, and insists on his title as Master—‘the which he was
punctilious in exacting’. Need I follow his further deterioration? His
psychosomatic degradation, as his body grows slack, stooping, walking with
a running motion? By the end, in his employment of the dregs of Albany cut-
throats to do away with James, he has paralleled if not outdone James’s most
suspect deeds.
If further evidence is needed that Stevenson early warns us to be on our
guard against too facile moral appraisal of the brothers, consider how subtly
he arranges their background and support. At first only Mackellar supports
Henry, with one crucial exception. In chapter one, beyond the family, ‘there
was never a good word for Mr Henry’, except for Macconochie, ‘an old, ill-
spoken, swearing, ranting, drunken dog’. On James’s side, John Paul, ‘a little,
bald, solemn, stomachy man, a great professor of piety ...’; and, says
Mackellar, ‘I have often thought it an odd circumstance in human nature that
68 Douglas Gifford
these two serving men should each have been the champion of his contrary,
and made light of their own virtues when they beheld them in a master’.
Here is dissociation with a vengeance! Here is warning that strange
compensations must be paid when whole critical and emotional awareness is
lost. For beyond this lies a pattern of similar waywardness. The country
opinion is never reliable. James becomes a false hero after the presumption
of his death in the Rebellion, Jessie Broun unnaturally swinging against her
former helper, Henry, and crying up her betrayer James as a saint. Can we
then trust the picture when, in mirror image, James is isolated with Secundra
Dass against a hostile Albany?
We come to the question at the heart of my discussion. And it is a
question of pattern. Were we to give visual expression to the shape of our
novel, it would resemble that of Vanity Fair, in that the fortunes of the
principal pair of characters would complete two opposed rising and falling
movements. Like the opposed nadirs and zeniths of Becky and Amelia, those
of Henry and James would appear so
The comparison with Thackeray breaks down on closer inspection,

however. The first movement, up to the duel, has as its theme (in this
interpretation) the temporary triumph of Henry’s appearance over his reality,
while the second movement is not in fact a reversal of this so much as the
restatement of a further riddle. And the answer to this riddle is dependant on
the fulcrum of the entire novel, and the most brilliant device Stevenson ever
employed. The answer to this novel’s meaning lies with the character of
Mackellar, who has influenced his changing pattern, at times decisively, as
when he translates Alison from James’s camp to Henry’s with his carefully
prepared dossier of letters which tell against James.
Why, virtually alone amongst his adolescent raconteurs, did Mackellar
emerge as Stevenson’s ‘mouthpiece’ now? Why did he decide to tell the tale
through such an ‘unrelated’ persona? Was it simply to give him the
credibility of Utterson the lawyer or Dr Lanyon of Jekyll, the reliability of
Rankeillor in Kidnapped? If this is the reason, why then include so many

examples of Mackellar’s own prejudices and defects of character? Not only is
he ‘squaretoes’ to the exuberant free-traders, he is an ‘old maid’ to Alison,
who accuses him of never ceasing to meddle in the House affairs. He is a
‘devil of a soldier in the steward’s room at Durrisdeer’, by the tenants’ report,
and he, like Henry, has never attracted love—far less risked marriage. He
actively dislikes women.14
I suggest that Stevenson was working in the tradition of the dramatic
monologue; and this is a genre with a very strong set of Scottish roots which
would be known to Stevenson. From Alan Ramsay’s ‘Last Words of Lucky
Spence’ to Burns’s ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer’; from Hogg’s ‘Sinner’s Account’ in
The Justified Sinner to Galt’s fictional monologues of minister, provost, and
Covenanting Avenger (in Ringan Gilhaize), the Scottish tradition of self-
revealing, unintentionally self-satiric monologue is as strong as any
Stevenson could find, say, in contemporary work like Browning’s ‘My Last
Duchess’. Indeed, Mackellar springs into vivid black-and-white relief if one
envisages him as a later Holy Willie or Robert Wringhim.
As basis then for my second interpretation, let us examine Mackellar in
a little depth. And, as he is always insisting on chapter and verse, ‘like a
witness in a court’ (a favourite device of Mackellar’s, this presentation of
apparently inconfutable detail, as though he is presenting a meticulous case)
let us insist on examining his evidence as though it were being submitted to
strict lawyerly scrutiny. For example, just what exactly is that ‘very black
mark’ against James’s name which Mackellar brings up in the opening pages?
Mackellar, after mentioning the accusation, as we decide our basic loyalties,
goes on, ‘but the matter was hushed up at the time, and so defaced by legends
before I came into these parts, that I scruple to set it down. If it was true, it
was a horrid fact in one so young; and if false, it was a horrid calumny’.15
Indeed, Mackellar lists as one of the Master’s crimes that of his treatment of
Jessie Broun. Are we to hear Stevenson endorsing this? Would more liberal
questioning establish a picture of wild oats and stuffy disapproval? And as to
the opening wilfulness of James’s insistence on going out in the Rebellion—
does not the blame finally rest with the weak father, the Master of Ballantrae
of the time, who failed to act with authority? Mackellar displays his prejudice
at every turn. One remembers his disapproval of James’s reading matter (and
his lace); ‘Caesar’s “Commentaries”, ... Hobbes ... Voltaire, a book upon the
Indies, one on the mathematics, far beyond where I have studied.’
But once suspected, examples of Mackellar’s unreliability abound. I
want to focus on four issues as crucial to the development of our acceptance
or not of his word. They are the matters of the duel, of the dossier of spy
70 Douglas Gifford
papers concocted for Alison, the Nonesuch Voyage, and James’s reception at
Albany.
I have already indicated my unease concerning the outcome of the
duel. We must remember that the most serious allegations of cowardly
treachery are about to be made concerning James. All we have to go on is
Mackellar’s account. But if this is so, must we not take the account in all its
parts? Including the preparations for the duel, when Mackellar told the
brothers that he would prevent it?
And now here is a blot upon my life. At these words of mine the
Master turned his blade against my bosom; I saw the light run
along the steel; and I threw up my arms and fell to my knees
before him on the floor. ‘No, no,’ I cried, like a baby.
‘We shall have no more trouble with him,’ said the Master. ‘It
is a good thing to have a coward in the house.’16
Mackellar’s reliability would seem at the very least to be impaired by his

emotional instability. And now we have the duel itself.
I am no judge of the play; my head, besides, was gone with cold

and fear and horror; but it seems that Mr Henry took and kept
the upper hand from the engagement, crowding in upon his foe
with a contained and glowing fury. Nearer and nearer he crept
upon the man, till of a sudden the Master leaped back with a little
sobbing oath; and I believe the movement brought the light once
more against his eyes. To it they went again on the fresh ground;
but now methought closer, Mr Henry pressing more
outrageously, the Master beyond doubt with shaken confidence.
For it is beyond doubt he now recognised himself for lost, and
had some taste of the cold agony of fear; or he had never
attempted the foul stroke. I cannot say I followed it, my untrained
eye was never quick enough to seize details, but it appears he
caught his brother’s blade ....17
I submit this long quote as a superb example of Stevenson’s crafty duplicity

of intention. Notice especially the arrangement of ‘I am no judge’, ‘I believe’,
‘it seems’, ‘methought’ and the like in contrast to the more typical Mackellar
factual terseness, ‘for it is beyond doubt’ (twice), ‘certainly Mr Henry only
saved himself by leaping’. Would not any defence lawyer for James demolish
the credibility of this account in very little time, on the basis that it argued
first for essential limitations of subjectivity, and then proceeded to assert the
validity of these subjective (and prejudiced) impressions?
Moving to the later business of the spy dossier we are yet again
presented by Stevenson with crafty duplicity of purpose. On the face of it the
four types of letter submitted to Alison in 1757 appear a fair and damning
‘schedule’, as Mackellar imposingly calls them, especially in the fourth type,
the letters between James and the British Under-Secretary of State, which
most effectively show James to have run with the hare and the hounds. There
are two qualifying factors, however. The first is Mackellar’s unholy glee at his
find in raiding the Master’s papers—‘I rubbed my hands, I sang aloud in my
glee. Day found me at the pleasing task’. One realises, too, that Alison,
affected as she is by the dossier’s toppling of James from his romantic
pedestal, perceives what Mackellar does not, that the dossier is ‘a sword of
paper’ against him. ‘Papers or no papers, the door of this house stands open
for him; he is the rightful heir.’ Even more important is the question of
James’s guilt and treachery. I would now re-emphasize that the entire novel
is based on a piece of duplicity; namely, the fact that the house of Ballantrae
(like many others of the day) chose to solve the delicate problem of sending
one son out with the Jacobites and keeping another at home as loyal to the
established Crown. All were privy to this; Mackellar censures it not. Now
recall the date of the submission of the dossier: 1757. The ‘spy’ letters ran
from three years previously; that is, from 1754, almost ten years after the
collapse of Charles’s cause. By 1754, and with Charles increasingly the
hopeless toper of Europe, are we to blame James for doing what his family
had in 1745 condoned? It surely is a bit premature to ostracise James because
Mackellar tells us he wrote to the ‘English Secretary’ (elsewhere Under-
secretary) concerning what we are not in a position to know.
I must at this point, before being accused of overprotest concerning
Mackellar, remind the reader that I also completely allow that James is a spy,
that—according to another interpretation—Mackellar is utterly reliable. But,
whatever his reliability in that interpretation, there is no question that, given
greater exposure to James, his entire tone and relationship with James changes.
Can this not be read as showing that, when the conditions for prejudice are
changed, Mackellar also changes his judgements? Once again his credibility is
in doubt, and nothing so damages his case as the Nonesuch voyage.
Warnings reminiscent of those surrounding Melville’s Pequod abound;
the ship is as rotten as a cheese, she is on what should be her last voyage. As
these accumulate, we become aware that the ship is correlative to Mackellar’s
own strange guilty feelings. He suffers from ‘a blackness of spirit’; he is
poisoned as never before in soul and body, although he freely confesses that
72 Douglas Gifford
the master shows him a fair example of forbearance. Mackellar again

denounces the Master’s taste and style in reading (Richardson’s Clarissa); and
excels himself when he prays during the storm for the foundering and loss of
the ship and all her crew, as long as the Master should thus be destroyed.
Again the language indicates the disease within Mackellar. ‘The thought of
the man’s death... took possession of my mind. I hugged it, I found it sweet
in my belly’, he tells us in a tone exactly like Robert Wringhim’s. Ironically,
the captain thanks him for saving the ship through prayer! Then follows his
murder attempt on the Master, who (with that uncanny reflex swiftness that
was his at all points but that of the duel) both escapes and pardons, in the
fullest fashion, his would-be assassin. We must return briefly to the Nonesuch
in a moment. Let me round off my four issues concerning Mackellar by
pointing out that when James does arrive in Albany, he is accused of murder.
In fact James is in this case guilty of nothing more than trying to cure his
‘victim’, young Chew. Mackellar will later learn of his innocence in this
matter from the Chevalier Burke; but Mackellar refuses to correct the
record, allowing yet another ‘very black mark’ to be stacked against his
enemy. And in the closing sequences we see Mackellar condemning the
fratricidal plans of Henry, but destroying his own moral validity by refusing
to separate himself from Henry’s cause.
We are left, in this interpretation, with a startling thought. Allowing
that Secundra Dass, the mysterious Indian, is James’s personal ‘familiar’, must
we not begin to suspect that Henry is accompanied by his? One remembers
that Mackellar is ‘a devil of a steward’; he too dresses in black; and goes on
board the Nonesuch ‘as the devil would have it’. Once again our Devil
metaphor makes a transition, and we look upon events in a different light.
After all, James, as Alison pointed out, is the rightful heir. What young
man of spirit would not identify with the romantic cause of Prince Charles? Is
it so improbable that a young man (James was not yet 24 in 1745) of
imagination and passion should go the way in Paris of the aristocratic youth
Burns describes in ‘The Twa Dogs’ as parading at operas and stews? That is, we
admit that he was indeed a wild young man, but to deny that there was anything
so devilish in his conduct? No-one doubts his courage or resourcefulness. And
it is important to distinguish between James the younger and James on his
return after the duel. James the younger was a spendthrift. The greatest amount
of sympathy we can accord him then relates to the fact that when he returns he
finds Mackellar and Henry organised against him, and that the woman who
loves him is unavailable to him. But his second return is different. Even
Mackellar admits this. In contrast to Henry, fattening and bitter,
The Master still bore himself erect ... perhaps with effort.... He
had all the gravity and something of the splendour of Satan in the
‘Paradise Lost’. I could not help but see the man with admiration,
and was only surprised I saw him with so little fear.
But indeed ... it seemed as if his authority were quite vanished
and his teeth all drawn. We had known him a magician that
controlled the elements; and here he was, transformed into an
ordinary gentleman, chatting like his neighbours at the breakfast
board....18
James now wants enough of a reasonable settlement to go his own

way, and it is now Henry who denies this and leaves him in the intolerable
position of having to answer to Mackellar for bed and board. It is
outstanding how James now adapts himself through a saving sardonicism to
his demeaning role. He almost—and deliberately—parodies himself in his
relation with Mackellar, as he draws himself up in anger in the halls of his
ancestors when Mackellar tells him that he has only to keep in with him for
his needs to be supplied, then deliberately deflates the situation by wryly
commenting that this is a pleasing return to the principles of childhood.
He, not Mackellar, creates that peculiarly intimate love–hate tolerance
between them, and he tries on the Nonesuch to explain in metaphor to
Mackellar what the difference is between their values and what may be the
reality of Henry’s attitude towards him. Just as Hogg’s Justified Sinner
summed itself up in the Auchtermuchty folk tale, so James crystallises his
case in the tale of the Count and the Baron. Briefly and allegorically the
tale told of long-standing enmity between the two. The ground does not
matter, says James; but in the most subtle way possible the Count brings
about the Baron’s destruction, without blame attaching to himself in any
way. This story goes to the heart of the novel. Reading it for the moment
in the light of an interpretation sympathetic to James, we are reminded that
throughout the novel James has continuously made use of the bible story
of Jacob and Esau, with Henry always cast in the role of deceiving Jacob. Is
he now trying to tell Mackellar that Henry is far more devious than
Mackellar could ever realise? That he, James, has suffered from a subtlety
beyond his own? I submit that the very lack of identification of either
Henry or James with Count or Baron allows this possibility; and further,
that the sequel, Mackellar’s murder attempt and James’s responses to it,
take us as close as we are allowed to the essence of James. James tries to
explain himself to Mackellar.
74 Douglas Gifford
‘Life is a singular thing.... You suppose yourself to love my

brother. I assure you, it is merely custom.... Had you instead
fallen in with me, you would today be as strong upon my side.’
Mackellar has no time for this attempt, and typically casts his description of
it in reductive and prejudicial terms.
But he was now fairly started in his new course of justification,

with which he wearied me throughout the remainder of the
passage.... ‘But now that I know you are a human being,’ he
would say, ‘I can take the trouble to explain myself. For I assure
you I am human too, and have my virtues, like my neighbours.’19
And James realises that Mackellar will once more return to his former
prejudices when he is again with Henry.
In all their exchanges, there gradually develops a sense that we are
observing diametrically opposed human types; types that are related to
Stevenson’s ideas of ‘Providence’ and ‘Chance’. I suggest that Mackellar,
however black or white we read him, speaks for Stevenson of that world of
conventional and revealed religious orthodoxy. He becomes Stevenson’s
most subtle expression of his mingled feelings for pious respectability, family
solidarity, Bible-based moral values; and conversely, that James, however we
decide on his lack or possession of residual morality, represents a move by
Stevenson towards a modern world of disillusion, scepticism, lack of faith in
benevolent determinism. Thus James relies on Chance to decide his destiny,
and thus he is compelled to be the outsider, the stoic rebel, the causeless
hero. Their plight, that of traditional Scottish Conservatism locked in
misunderstanding with rootless Disbelief, is summed up in a telling exchange
as they leave Durrisdeer.
‘Ah, Mackellar,’ said he, ‘do you think I have never a regret?’
‘I do not think you could be so bad a man,’ said I, ‘if you had
not all the machinery to be a good one.’
‘No, not all,’ says he: ‘not all. You are there in error. The
malady of not wanting, my evangelist.’20
I now leave my two interpretations; or rather, back off from them to

look at the significance of their sitting beside one another in uneasy relation.
My final claim for this novel is that it is the finest expression of what
Stevenson, like Hogg, Scott, Douglas Brown, MacDougall Hay, and even
later writers like Gibbon, exemplified in their own crises of identity, and what
they successfully managed to objectify into fictional vision. The Durrisdeer
family and estate represents the estate of Scotland, like Gibbon’s Kinraddie in
Sunset Song or Brown’s Barbie. Their history, going back to Thomas of
Ercildoune’s prophecy that there would be an ill day for them when one tied
and one rode (Henry tied and James rode), back to the Reformation, and back
to the wise old Lord that we meet as existing Master, can be taken as
eponymous, and symbolic of deleterious change in the nature of Scotland.
The fragmenting effect of the Jacobite Rebellion ruins the integrity of the
wise Master; and, leaving as he does such opposite and dissociated types as
Henry and James, mirror images of each other and inheritors each of only a
part of his wholeness, he himself becomes both literally and figuratively an
anachronism in the novel, destroyed by the family division into Head and
Heart. Henry and Mackellar are of course those forces of sober and arid
Head; account-watching, love-repelling, feeling-repressing. James and Burke
are their polar twins: romantic, self-indulgent, adept in the manipulation of
feeling to the point of irresponsibility. ‘Gnatique, patrisque, alma, precor,
miserere’, says the old Lord on his death bed; and he is weeping for the two
sons, the hostile children of a divided country, who have as their badge the
stained glass window bearing the family crest which Mackellar notices has an
empty, clear lozenge of glass at its heart where their quarrel took the heart out
of their identity, when the coin was flung through the window.
What makes this novel superior to others that have employed the same
symbolic opposition is the way it rises above taking sides. Neither of these
forces, brothers, opposing sets of qualities, have Right as their monopoly.
The devil metaphor here, as opposed to Scott’s usage, is flexible and
destructive of either claim to rightness. The brothers thus rightly and
symbolically share the same grave, having symbolically exiled themselves
from their native and interior land.
Thus, briefly, but I hope effectively, I now justify the changing
narrators, and the changing locations. If the meaning of the novel is in
polarisation of values and human qualities, then the telling and location of
the novel echoes that polarisation. Mackellar tells us much in his dry,
domestic manner; but the manner of Burke, his chevalier style, reminds us
that Mackellar too has his opposite, in its excessively flowery, self-indulgent
apologia for the picaresque. Similarly, and echoing the theme of the brotherly
opposition, there are domestic scenes and exotically placed foreign scenes.
There is Henry’s landscape of grey buildings and rain, and there is James’s
landscape of pirate deck and swamp. What is important is the final
movement to a frozen wilderness, which worried Stevenson but does not at
76 Douglas Gifford
all worry the reader who has seen his instinctive skill in displacing both
brothers from their humdrum or exotic backgrounds. If the results of history
upon Scottish psyche were not just polarisation, but repression within each
polarised part of its opposite, then the parts destroy each other with an
unrealised and sterile longing for each other. This was Hogg’s ‘love–hate’
relationship of Sinner and Devil; but for Stevenson the psychological
fragmentation was even more complex, and more thoroughly tragic. Thus
his brothers share the same grave, with balanced inscriptions which reflect
the no-man’s-land between them.
Stevenson thus rose above his own personal divisions on this one
occasion, transforming what, on the whole, was a confused and immature
vision into a remarkably modern and widely applicable comment on the
difficulty of arriving in a Godless age at moral conclusion. He thus objectifies
his own troubled mind, his relations with family and Scotland, the relations
of any creative and troubled mind with Scotland as a whole, and a kind of
spiritual fragmentation which is universal. There is Mackellar and James in
many of us, Scots or not; and their goodness or otherwise is almost
impossible to ascertain. I am left always, after reading the Master, with one
of Stevenson’s exotic descriptions of a physically arresting situation which
symbolically says so much more; in this case, the scene where, on the
Nonesuch, Mackellar, fascinated as a bird by a snake, watches the Master
change position, endlessly.
It was here we were sitting: our feet hanging down, the Master
betwixt me and the side, and I holding on with both hands to the
grating of the cabin skylight; for it struck me it was a dangerous
position, the more so as I had before my eyes a measure of our
evolutions in the person of the Master, which stood out in the
break of the bulwarks against the sun. Now his head would be in
the zenith and his shadow fall quite beyond the Nonesuch on the
further side; and now he would swing down till he was
underneath my feet, and the line of the sea leaped high above him
like the ceiling of a room.21
If Mackellar had thought, he would have realised that he too was

changing perspective for the Master, albeit his head was not in sunlight. I
suppose, in the end, that what makes James more attractive, if not morally
superior, to Mackellar or Henry, is that he has perspectives which Stevenson
managed finally to give him, which we share, and which are denied to the
Ephraim Mackellars or Henry Ballantraes.
NOTES
1. E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (London 1962: Pelican Edition) 45.
2. R.L. Stevenson, Weir of Hermiston (Chatto and Windus 1922) 112.
3. Francis Hart, The Scottish Novel: a Critical Survey (London 1978) 114–30.
4. R.L. Stevenson, Kidnapped and Catriona (Collins) 411–12.
5. Angus Macdonald, ‘Modern Scots Novelists,’ in Edinburgh Essays on Scots Literature
(Edinburgh 1933).
6. George Kitchin, ‘John Galt,’ ibid., 113.
7. Coleman O. Parsons, Witchcraft and Demonology in Scott’s Fiction (Edinburgh and
London 1964) 296.
8. Edwin Muir, Scott and Scotland; the Predicament of the Scottish Writer (London 1936)
passim and p.115.
9. John Speirs, The Scots Literary Tradition (London 1962) 142–51.
10. Edwin Muir, Latitudes (London, n.d.) 31–47.
11. Edwin Eigner, Robert Louis Stevenson and Romantic Tradition (Princeton 1966).
12. ibid., 212–13.
13. Alastair Fowler, ‘Parables of Adventure: the debateable novels of Robert Louis
Stevenson’ in Nineteenth-Century Scottish Fiction, ed. Ian Campbell (Manchester 1979) 105.
14. Robert Louis Stevenson, The Master of Ballantrae and Weir of Hermiston
(Everyman, 55) ‘... but I have never had much toleration for the female sex, possibly not
much understanding; and ... I have even shunned their company. Not only do I see no
cause to regret this diffidence in myself, but have invariably remarked that most unhappy
consequences follow those who were less wise.’
15. ibid., 2.
16. ibid., 78.
17. ibid., 79.
18. ibid., 117.
19. ibid., 140–1.
20. ibid., 129.
21. ibid., 135.
K.G. SIMPSON
Author and Narrator in

Weir of Hermiston
From all its chapters, from all its pages, from all its sentences, the
well-written novel echoes and re-echoes its one creative and
controlling thought; to this must every incident and character
contribute; the style must have been pitched in unison with this; and
if there is anywhere a word that looks another way, the book would
be stronger, clearer, and (I had almost said) fuller without it.1
T his is one of several important statements on the practice of fiction

made by Stevenson in the course of his debate with Henry James. It is
characteristic of the concern with technical and stylistic expertise which so
engaged Stevenson.
In Weir of Hermiston the ‘one creative and controlling thought’ is the
concept of judgement. Judgement, and the cognate concerns of duty,
conscience, and authority, are thematically central to the father–son conflict.
While it is recognized that Archie is the principal exemplar of these themes,
the point of this essay is to argue that Stevenson attempts to distance himself
from his narrator; and in deliberately raising the question of the reliability of
his narrator, he offers yet another instance of the limitations of individual
human judgement.
Stevenson’s concern with judgement in Weir may be considered in
three respects: in relation to the writer’s own personality and values; in
From Robert Louis Stevenson, ed. Andrew Noble. © 1983 by Vision Press, Ltd.
79
80 K.G. Simpson
relation to Stevenson as a representative of identifiably Scottish values; and

in the context of the movement in the practice of fiction away from
authoritative statement on the part of the author-narrator (as in George
Eliot, Thackeray, and Trollope) towards the twentieth-century novel’s
reflection, in its form, of the breakdown of absolute values, and the
concomitant decline in the status and conviction of the narrator (the process
sometimes referred to as ‘Exit author/narrator’).
According to Edwin Muir, ‘had it been finished Weir of Hermiston
would have been something unique in fiction, a modern saga, a novel
combining two elements which are almost always disjoined: a modern
sensibility and a heroic spirit’.2 The point at issue is the degree of success
achieved in uniting modern sensibility and heroic spirit. This leads one to a
consideration which repays effort in much greater measure than hypothesis
about the conclusion of Weir ever could: on the evidence available, what is
the relationship between values and technique in Weir and, in particular,
what consonance is there between the nature of the material and the
technique of narration? Does Weir exemplify its author’s contention that in
prose ‘idea and stylistic pattern proceed hand in hand’?3 Does Weir
substantiate James’s claim that with Stevenson ‘the form, the envelope, is
there ... headforemost, as the idea’?4
Any attempt at an answer to this must first take account of the weight
placed by Stevenson, in his theoretical writing, on narrative technique. ‘A
Humble Remonstrance’ offers the fullest and clearest statement of
Stevenson’s views on this. In response to James‘s claims in ’The Art of
Fiction’, Stevenson wrote:
What then is the object, what the method, of an art, and what the
source of its power? The whole secret is that no art does ‘compete
with life’. Man’s one method, whether he reasons or creates, is to
half-shut his eyes against the dazzle and confusion of reality.5
Stevenson proceeds to the following pronouncement, which has the utmost

significance for his fiction:
So far as [literature] 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. The real
art that dealt with life directly was that of the first men who told
their stories round the savage camp-fire. Our art is occupied, and
bound to be occupied, not so much in making stories true as in
making them typical; not so much in capturing the lineaments of

each fact, as in marshalling all of them towards a common end....
The novel, which is a work of art, exists, not by its resemblances
to life, which are forced and material, as a shoe must still consist
of leather, but by its immeasurable difference from life, which is
designed and significant, and is both the method and the meaning
of the work.
Several aspects of this are noteworthy: the timely warning against excessive
reliance on James’s ‘illusion of reality’; the primitivist nostalgia, that
hankering after an earlier age when life and art were one, which has affected
many modern writers but which may be related in Scotland to the post-
Union insecurity, precisely the crisis of values and subsequent nostalgia out
of which Macpherson’s Ossian poems were born;, the emphasis on
‘marshalling [facts] towards a common end’, which, in Weir, is the author’s
concern with destiny and judgement (compare Stevenson’s definition of the
novel as ‘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’,6 about which there is more than a tinge of a characteristically
Scottish reductionism); the recognition of the interinvolvement of ‘method’
and ‘meaning’; and, above all, the importance of narrative voice as the basis
of the version of ‘human destiny’.
On another occasion Stevenson described the process whereby the
writer selects and shapes the material of his fiction as ‘the sentiment
assimilating the facts of natural congruity’.7 For Stevenson, the artist ‘must
suppress much and omit more’.8 His annoyance with the readiness of the
public to regard fiction as ‘slice of life’ is reflected in his protest to James:
‘They think that striking situations, or good dialogue, are got by studying
life; they will not rise to understand that they are prepared by deliberate
artifice and set off by painful suppressions.’9 For Stevenson this capacity for
modulation and subordination is one of the particular strengths of fiction:
one of the advantages of continuous narration over drama is that the writer
‘can now subordinate one thing to another in importance, and introduce all
manner of very subtle detail, to a degree that was before impossible’.10
Hugo is praised by Stevenson for setting before himself ‘the task of
realizing, in the language of romance, much of the involution of our
complicated lives’, and, in contrast with the ‘unity, the unwavering creative
purpose’ of some of Hawthorne’s romances, Hugo achieves ‘unity out of
multitude’; and ‘it is the wonderful power of subordination and synthesis
thus displayed that gives us the measure of his talent.’ Stevenson
82 K.G. Simpson
distinguishes between Hugo’s romances and ‘the novel with a purpose’, in

that ‘the moral significance, with Hugo, is of the essence of the romance; it
is the organizing principle.’11
One side of Stevenson was striving for precisely this, but he was never
to achieve it entirely satisfactorily. The imaginative expression of such moral
purpose was perhaps incompatible with the Calvinist emphasis on
predetermination. Underlying this judgement on Hugo is a compound of
feelings: Hugo ‘learned to subordinate his story to an idea, to make his art
speak’. The aim of the artist is, for Stevenson, configuration; the writer is the
source of a pattern, an alternative to the pattern of life which is the provision
of Fate. ‘The motive and end of any art whatever is to make a pattern’, wrote
Stevenson. Hence,
That style is therefore the most perfect, not, as fools say, which is
the most natural, for the most natural is the disjointed babble of
the chronicler; but which attains the highest degree of elegant
and pregnant implication unobtrusively; or, if obtrusively, then
with the greatest gain to sense and vigour.12
Assessment of the degree of implication accomplished by Stevenson in

Weir involves examination of the narrative technique employed in the novel.
It is essential to consider not only the attitude of the narrator to his subject
but also the attitude of the novelist to his narrator. Why did Stevenson
choose the particular narrative mode employed in Weir, and why did he
choose this particular narrator? How reliable is the narrator of Weir? Can it
be that he is the object of authorial irony?
In Weir Stevenson uses first-person narration, as he did in many of his
books. Percy Lubbock, noting that Stevenson may not have seen how
logically his preference for first-person narration followed from the subjects
that most attracted him, observed that Stevenson never had any occasion to
use the first-person for enhancement of plain narrative as his subjects were
‘strongly romantic, vividly dramatic’.13 Hence the value of the use of
Mackellar in The Master of Ballantrae: the fantasy of much of the material is
contained within the form of Mackellar’s doggedly realist account.
In Weir the narrator is similarly personalized by his style (though it is
not that of Mackellar), but he is not identified specifically. This fact has given
rise to some divergence of opinion as to the identity of the narrator. For
instance, Leslie Fiedler goes so far as to comment on the deleterious effects
of the choice of third-person narration, adding,
Stevenson’s instinctive bent was for first-person narrative; and

when ... he attempts to speak from outside about his fiction, his
style betrays him to self-pity (we know Archie is really the author,
and the third-person singular affects us like a transparent hoax),
sentimentality and the sort of ‘fine’ writing he had avoided since
Prince Otto.14
The answer to this must be that though Stevenson has not identified his
narrator he has personalized him quite distinctly, and that instances of ‘fine’
writing have to be attributed to him and not to Stevenson. Thus such
passages are further exemplification of human limitation, and in particular
limitation of judgement; and as such they are entirely consonant with the
central thematic concern of the book.
In Weir the narrator is soon present in the first chapter as a source of
opinion and judgement. He states that ‘chance cast [Jean Rutherford] in the
path of Adam Weir’; volunteers the view that ‘it seems profane to call [the
acquaintance] a courtship’; and recounts that ‘on the very eve of their
engagement, it was related that one had drawn near to the tender couple, and
had overheard the lady cry out, with the tones of one who talked for the sake
of talking, “Keep me, Mr. Weir, and what became of him?” and the profound
accents of the suitor reply, “Haangit, mem, haangit”’ (195).15 Fairly rapidly
the narratorial omniscience is personalized, though not identified, with the
narrator appearing thus in his own voice: ‘The heresy about foolish women
is always punished, I have said, and Lord Hermiston began to pay the penalty
at once’ (196). Such comment inevitably leads the reader to ponder the
identity of the narrative voice; and the tension between apparent
omniscience and personalization creates problems for Stevenson the further
the narrative advances.
Stevenson’s recognition of the importance of narrative voice leads to
the elevation of the narrator of Weir to the status of sophisticated and
conscious artist. The skill with which the material of the narrative is
structured betokens a refined intelligence, and this might be held to
strengthen the case for identifying the narrator with the author.
Juxtaposition is used to considerable effect: witness the juxtaposing of the
exchange between Hermiston and Kirstie on the death of his wife, and the
ensuing account by the narrator entitled ‘Father and Son’ (204); the report
of the conversation between Archie and Dr. Gregory and the effect thereof
on Archie’s feelings for his father reveals a fine sense of ironic ordering (215);
Archie’s impassioned plea (with which Chapter Four ends) is deliberately
juxtaposed with the reductive account of Hermiston parish which follows it
84 K.G. Simpson
(227); Archie’s restraint and ‘Roman sense of duty’ are contrasted with the
ensuing depiction of the restraint which life has imposed upon Kirstie’s
innately passionate nature (230–31); and, perhaps most tellingly, Chapter Six
ends with Christina’s romantic dreams while Chapter Seven, ‘Enter
Mephistopheles’, begins with the arrival which is to prove their undoing. All
of this suggests a fairly high level of conscious artistry. So, too, do the
manifest ability to render character by means of distinctive style, and the
capacity to use language in a way that reveals awareness of the symbolic or
mythical dimension of the events of the novel. For instance, the exchange
between Archie and Frank after Archie’s denunciation of the hanging of
Duncan Jopp occasions the following comment:
And the one young man carried his tortured spirit forth of the
city and all the day long, by one road and another, in an endless
pilgrimage of misery; while the other hastened smilingly to
spread the news of Weir’s access of insanity, and to drum up for
that night a full attendance at the Speculative, where further
eccentric developments might certainly be looked for. (212)
The narrator is aware of the action on one level as peregrinatio threatened by

Satanic temptation, while at the same time, with characteristic Scottish
reductionism, he presents the devil-figure as basely and pettily human.
Frequently, too, the tone and the demeanour of the narrator are such as
to encourage identification of narrator with author. Early in the first chapter
the narrator offers himself as a source of authoritative comment, not just on
the behaviour of the characters but on the extent to which it is typical of
various classes or categories of human beings. He wishes to appear as
someone who knows the ways of the world and the responses of men and
women. At the same time he knows the Weirs and those with whom they
come in contact. Of Archie’s refusal, after the conversation with Glenalmond,
to express further his feelings for his father, the narrator comments:
With the infinitely delicate sense of youth, Archie avoided the

subject from that hour. It was perhaps a pity. Had he but talked—
talked freely—let himself gush out in words (the way youth loves
to do and should), there might have been no tale to write upon
the Weirs of Hermiston. But the shadow of a threat of ridicule
sufficed; in the slight tartness of these words he read a
prohibition; and it is likely that Glenalmond meant it so. (207)
The narrator is sufficiently confident to account for Archie’s solitariness as

follows: ‘... something that was in part the delicacy of his mother, in part the
austerity of his father, held him aloof from all’; and to direct thus the reader’s
response to Hermiston: ‘Sympathy is not due to these steadfast iron natures.
If he failed to gain his son’s friendship, or even his son’s toleration, on he
went up the great, bare stair-case of his duty, uncheered and undepressed.’
And consideration of Archie’s situation leads him to this generalization:
‘Parsimony of pain, glut of pleasure, these are the two alternating ends of
youth; and Archie was of the parsimonious.’ The narrator never loses this
readiness to relate the particular behaviour of his subjects to general human
patterns. Of the final encounter between Archie and Christine the narrator
observes that ‘the schoolmaster that there is in all men, to the despair of all
girls and most women, was now completely in possession of Archie’ (283).
In such comment it is difficult not to hear the voice of Stevenson
himself, and the same may be said of those passages where the narrator
widens the range of his authority, discoursing on the distinctive attitude of
the Scot to the past (233), or observing: ‘not even the most acute political
heads are guided through the steps of life with unerring directness. That
would require a gift of prophecy which has been denied to man’ (264–65).
Noteworthy too is the narrator’s readiness to formulate or interpret the
response or behaviour of his characters. Of Hermiston’s atmosphere of
industry the narrator remarks that ‘it was still present, unobserved like the
ticking of a clock, an arid ideal, a tasteless stimulant in the boy’s life’ (206).
In the following description of the attempts at converse between Archie and
his father the choice of analogy is, quite deliberately, not to Archie’s
advantage:
The father, with a grand simplicity, either spoke of what

interested himself, or maintained an unaffected silence. The son
turned in his head for some topic that should be quite safe, that
would spare him fresh evidences either of my lord’s inherent
grossness or of the innocence of his inhumanity; treading
gingerly the ways of intercourse, like a lady gathering up her
skirts in a by-path. (209)
This fondness for analogy persists throughout Weir. Early in the final
chapter comes this account of Christina’s appearing before Archie: ‘His first
sight of her was thus excruciatingly sad, like a glimpse of a world from which
all light, comfort, and society were on the point of vanishing’ (283).
It is significant that, in his essay on Burns, Stevenson noted the
86 K.G. Simpson
importance of style to Burns, and claimed that ‘it was by his style, and not by
his matter, that he affected Wordsworth and the world.’16 Almost
immediately, however, he recognized another major quality in the poet,
exclaiming ‘What a gust of sympathy there is in him sometimes.’ Precisely
this combination of qualities is exemplified in Stevenson himself. James was
to see the union of the sympathetic and the ironical in Stevenson as an
essentially Scottish characteristic, finding in the Scottish background ‘a
certain process of detachment, of extreme secularization’, and claiming: ‘Mr.
Stevenson is ... a Scotchman of the world. None other ... could have drawn
with such a mixture of sympathetic and ironical observation the character of
the canny young Lowlander, David Balfour.’ James wrote of Stevenson’s
‘talent for seeing the familiar in the heroic, and reducing the extravagant to
plausible detail’, and the character, Alan Breck, he found ‘a genuine study,
and nothing can be more charming than the way Mr. Stevenson both sees
through and admires it’. Parts of The Silverado Squatters James referred to as
‘this half-humorous, half-tragical recital’.17
Such ambivalence of attitude, such ‘compassionate irony’ (the term is
Furnas’s),18 is frequently the response of the narrator of Weir. This is
exemplified in the account of the marriage of Jean Rutherford and
Hermiston, and in that of the relationship between mother and son in such
comments as ‘The sight of the little man at her skirt intoxicated her with the
sense of power, and froze her with the consciousness of her responsibility’
(198). The union of sympathy and irony informs the description of the trial
of Duncan Jopp. Here a meticulous realism of presentation is accompanied,
without strain, by a compassion that is reminiscent of Dickens. But, in a way
that Dickens was not always able to do, Stevenson has his narrator relate thus
the particular to general human traits:
There was pinned about his throat a piece of dingy flannel; and
this it was perhaps that turned the scale in Archie’s mind between
disgust and pity. The creature stood in a vanishing point; yet a
little while, and he was still a man, and had eyes and
apprehension; yet a little longer, and with a last sordid piece of
pageantry, he would cease to be. And here, in the meantime, with
a trait of human nature that caught at the beholder’s breath, he
was tending a sore throat. (209)
It is essential to note here that the compassionate irony encompasses the

account of Archie’s response to the trial.
In Chapter Six, ‘A Leaf from Christina’s Psalm-Book’, the same
applies: common to the description of the Hermiston congregation and

Archie’s response to it is the same compassionate irony. This is precisely the
attitude that is evinced towards the whole episode of the romantic
involvement of Archie and Christina. Here is the description of Christina’s
awaiting Archie near the Weaver’s Stone on the Sunday evening:
By the time the sun was down and all the easterly braes lay
plunged in clear shadow, she was aware of another figure coming
up the path at a most unequal rate of approach, now half running,
now pausing and seeming to hesitate. She watched him at first
with a total suspension of thought. She held her thought as a
person holds his breathing. Then she consented to recognise
him. ‘He’ll no be coming here, he canna be; it’s no possible.’ And
there began to grow upon her a subdued choking response. (259)
It is not only Christina’s attitude that is in flux here: the narrator’s own
attitude is a composite one, as the fluctuation between amusement and
sympathy indicates. The treatment of the romance between Archie and
Christina is not Kailyard. Stevenson’s narrator does not suppress the ‘sugar
bool’ incident: he chooses to present it (when he could have omitted it)
because it enables him to demonstrate his amused sympathy. And, to a large
extent, Weir is about the narrator’s attitude to his subject.
For all the apparent omniscience of the narrator, for all his readiness to
pronounce with what seems to be authority, Stevenson is able to demonstrate
that his narrator is far from being infallible; indeed he represents further
exemplification of the central thematic concern of Weir—the limitation of
human judgement. Despite the appearance of conviction, the word,
‘perhaps’, recurs with remarkable frequency in the narrative, as, for instance,
in this comment on Archie and his father: ‘there were not, perhaps, in
Christendom two men more radically strangers’ (208). A characteristic of the
narrator is to embark upon an authoritative judgement, only to have to
retreat into tentativeness. Of Archie’s disinclination to socialize in the
country the narrator writes: ‘The habit of solitude tends to perpetuate itself,
and an austerity of which he was quite unconscious, and a pride which
seemed arrogance, and perhaps was chiefly shyness, discouraged and
offended his new companions’ (229). The narrator has, too, a tendency to
beg the crucial question (Archie, who had just defied—was it God or
Satan?—would not listen (212)); and he is, at times, made to say things which
are simply silly. He remarks, for instance, of Archie’s setting fines at the
Speculative: ‘He little thought, as he did so, how he resembled his father, but
88 K.G. Simpson
his friends remarked upon it, chuckling’ (213); to which the reader is entitled
to ask if it is likely that he would think such a thing. Similarly, the narrator
says of Archie: ‘He hated to be inhospitable, but in one thing he was his
father’s son. He had a strong sense that his house was his own and no man
else’s’ (272). If the narrator has failed to observe the various other points of
resemblance between father and son, then his vision is truly blinkered.
It should be noted too that on several occasions the narrator
acknowledges his own inadequacy of judgement. In the course of the
exchange between father and son his narrator remarks of Archie that ‘he had
a strong impression, besides, of the essential valour of the old gentleman
before him, how conveyed it would be hard to say’ (219). The narrator
interrupts Kirstie’s account of the death of Gilbert Elliott with a joke at both
his expense and that of his source, Kirstie, ‘whom I but haltingly follow, for
she told this tale like one inspired’ (236). The most telling admission, and
subsequent demonstration of the circumscription of the narrator’s judgement
occurs in the midst of the account of young Kirstie’s romanticizing. The
narrator comments:
Had a doctor of medicine come into that loft, he would have

diagnosed a healthy, well-developed, eminently vivacious lass
lying on her face in a fit of the sulks; not one who had just
contracted, or was just contracting a mortal sickness of the mind
which should yet carry her towards death and despair. Had it
been a doctor of psychology, he might have been pardoned for
divining in the girl a passion of childish vanity, self-love in excelsis,
and no more. It is to be understood that I have been painting
chaos and describing the inarticulate. Every lineament that
appears is too precise, almost every word too strong. Take a
finger-post in the mountains on a day of rolling mists; I have but
copied the names that appear on the pointers, the names of
definite and famous cities far distant, and now perhaps basking in
sunshine; but Christina remained all these hours, as it were, at the
foot of the post itself, not moving and enveloped in mutable and
blinding wreaths of haze. (255–56)
Here the narrator is the target of a strong authorial irony. What is meant by
‘a mortal sickness of the mind which should yet carry her towards death and
despair’? Is the narrator ignorant of subsequent events and the nature of the
revised ending? And, after the admission that ‘every word is too strong’, the
narrative lapses into the stylistic excesses to which it is prone. Such ‘fine
writing’ as appears in Weir is to be attributed to the narrator and further

exemplifies his subjection to the ironic overview of the author. Likewise,
sentimental excess in the writing (e.g. the description of Kirstie (281)) should
be regarded as the response of the narrator.
Stevenson allows his narrator to reveal—and at times acknowledge—
his fallibility. ‘I have said she was no hypocrite’, he writes of young Kirstie,
‘but here I am at fault ... the steps of love in the young, and especially in girls,
are instinctive and unconscious’ (259). The account, which follows soon
after, of the lovers’ tentative approaches to one another (‘He was sounding
her ... a thrill of emotion’ (261)) is self-consciously weighty and florid. From
such obvious excesses Stevenson has taken care to distance himself. The
following, also, has to be read as the comment of the narrator, from which
the author has distanced himself:
Tantaene irae? Has the reader perceived the reason? Since Frank’s
coming there were no more hours of gossip over the supper tray!
All his blandishments were in vain; he started handicapped on the
race for Mrs. Elliott’s favour. (267)
When the narrator strikes this note he is being set up quite deliberately by
the author. Adopting his authoritative ‘public’ voice, for instance, the
narrator expounds upon the futility of condescension towards the Scots
peasantry (269). All unwittingly he is made to sound more than a little
patronizing himself.
The narrator both recognizes his own limitation of understanding and
draws attention to the limited effectiveness of language in rendering
experience when he offers the following account of Frank’s discovery of the
romance between Archie and young Kirstie:
Here was Archie’s secret, here was the woman, and more than
that—though I have need here of every manageable attenuation
of language—with the first look, he had already entered himself
as a rival. It was a good deal in pique, it was a little in revenge, it
was much in genuine admiration: the devil may decide the
proportions! I cannot, and it is very likely that Frank could not.
(274)
The manner in which this chapter ends is significant. The triumph of

Frank’s discovery leads to the comment that ‘there was nothing vindictive in
his nature; but, if revenge came in his way, it might as well be good, and the
90 K.G. Simpson
thought of Archie’s pillow reflections that night was indescribably sweet to

him’ (276). It is difficult to reconcile the claim that ‘there was nothing
vindictive in his nature’ with the evidence that the narrator has presented or,
for that matter, with his entitling Frank’s appearance ‘Enter Mephistopheles’.
How is the judgement of the narrator to be viewed? Is this simply one of his
blind spots? Or is he, in the manner adopted intermittently by Fielding’s
narrator in Tom Jones, feigning fallibility? This latter possibility makes Weir
into an even more complex work of irony, and at the same time it exacerbates
the problem of comprehension for the reader: when is the narrator genuinely
fallible, and when is he, as participant in Stevenson’s ironic schema, obliged to
simulate fallibility? On the occasion under consideration, after the apparent
proof of his fallibility, the narrator—ironically—attempts to reassert his
authority by resuming his omniscient Olympian manner as follows:
Poor cork upon a torrent, he tasted that night the sweets of

omnipotence, and brooded like a deity over the strands of that
intrigue which was to shatter him before the summer waned.
(277)
The effect of such ‘fine writing’ and flaunting of narratorial authority

is counter-productive: it merely re-emphasizes the limitations of the
narrator. Thus, one of the most potent ironies in Weir is that often when the
narrator believes he has accomplished a particular effect, he has in fact
achieved something quite different. Generally when he speaks with his
authoritative voice the true omniscience is not his but Stevenson’s. Not only
his attitude to the characters, but also his attitude to himself and his narrative
function, is in constant flux. The irony is that the narrator does not share in
the author’s and readers’ awareness of this.
All of this would combine to suggest that Weir is a masterpiece of irony;
that Stevenson, sublimely detached, leaves his narrator to over-reach and so
demonstrate his limitations. This view of the novel is tempting, but there are
major objections to it and it requires some qualification. Paradoxically, the
difficulties arise principally from precisely that narrative energy and flux
already identified, and in particular from Stevenson’s use in Weir of the
technique that has come to be known as Free Indirect Speech.19 Intermittent
rendering of the character’s thought-processes by means of F.I.S. permits of
identification and evaluation. As Spitzer pointed out, mimicry implies a
mimic as well as a person mimicked.20 With F.I.S., where mimicry is at the
heart of the technique, this applies equally; and it should be added that
mimicry implies not just the presence of a mimic but the presence of a mimic
with an attitude towards his subject. Here once again irony may be critical or
sympathetic (or a compound of these constituents in varying proportions),
and irony again functions as a means of directing response. Perhaps the least
complex instance of this in Weir is the occasion when the narrator adopts the
voice of genteel society in order to subject it to irony. The response to
Frank’s tales about Archie is presented thus:
He had done something disgraceful, my dear. What, was not

precisely known, and that good kind young man, Mr. Innes, did
his best to make light of it. But there it was. And Mr. Innes was
very anxious about him now; he was really uneasy, my dear; he
was positively wrecking his own prospects because he dared not
leave him alone. (271)
As a passage of ironic writing, that could stand comparison with Jane Austen.
The irony is compounded by the fact that the voice of genteel society relays the
view of things—a totally inaccurate one—which Frank has been circulating.
Roy Pascal has noted that F.I.S. both evokes a particular character and
places him in a context of judgement by the narrator.21 This is true of each
of the principals in Weir. In the early stages the use of F.I.S. is concise and
economical. Here, for a moment, the narrator enters the mind of Mrs. Weir,
both rendering her terms and evoking an attitude of compassionate irony:
It was only with the child that she had conceived and managed to
pursue a scheme of conduct. Archie was to be a great man and a
good; a minister if possible, a.saint for certain. (198)
There is comparable access to her mind and her terms in the ensuing account
of her philosophy of tenderness and in her defence of Hermiston to Archie.
In the case of Hermiston sympathy is rather less a constituent of the attitude
evinced, but there is the same concision in the use of F.I.S., as here, for
instance:
There might have been more pleasure in his relations with

Archie, so much he may have recognised at moments; but
pleasure was a by-product of the singular chemistry of life, which
only fools expected. (208)
Where there is more extensive use of F.I.S. it is in the case of Frank that
it is most readily identified and consistently understood, possibly because the
92 K.G. Simpson
narrator’s attitude to Frank is in the main unequivocal. Here is Frank’s

version of his enforced departure from Edinburgh society:
Any port in a storm! He was manfully turning his back on the

Parliament House and its gay babble, on port and oysters, the
racecourse and the ring; and manfully prepared, until these
clouds should have blown by, to share a living grave with Archie
Weir at Hermiston. (265)
Such masterly ironic self-revelation is reminiscent of Jane Austen and, in the

Scottish tradition, of Burns and Galt; and there is a potential for it in St. Ives
which Stevenson chose not to exploit. It is sustained through Chapter Seven
of Weir. The narrator presents thus Frank’s reaction to his desertion by
Archie:
Innes groaned under these desertions; it required all his

philosophy to sit down to a solitary breakfast with composure,
and all his unaffected good-nature to be able to greet Archie with
friendliness on the more rare occasions when he came home late
for dinner. (266)
And this is his response to the Hermiston household: ‘For the others, they
were beyond hope and beyond endurance. Never had a young Apollo been
cast among such rustic barbarians’ (268). The mastery of this mode here is
accomplished not because Frank is a shallow fool who lends himself readily
to this sort of treatment; rather, it is because the narrator’s attitude to Frank
does not fluctuate.
With some of the characters, and Archie most conspicuously, the
narrator’s attitude does fluctuate, and it is here that Stevenson encounters
some difficulties. For instance, the account of Archie’s reactions during the
trial of Duncan Jopp has passages of F.I.S., such as
He thought of flight, and where was he to flee to? of other lives,

but was there any life worth living in this den of savage and
jeering animals? .... 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.... He saw the fleering rabble, the flinching wretch
produced. He looked on for a while at a certain parody of
devotion, which seemed to strip the wretch of his last claim to

manhood. (211)
Part of the difficulty in differentiating Archie’s thoughts, rendered in F.I.S.,

from those of the narrator derives from the frequent similarity between their
respective styles. This may be at least in part a result of the origin, as Lorck
pointed out, of some instances of F.I.S. in the intense imaginative
identification of narrator with character.22
In the lengthy sixth chapter, ‘From Christina’s Psalm-Book’, there is
sustained interplaying of external narration and F.I.S. Here F.I.S. is used to
reflect character and to convey narratorial irony, while at the same time it
participates in expressing the flux of the narrator’s own response. In the
account of Archie’s reaction to the Hermiston congregation the use of
Archie’s own terms, the mimicking of his way of seeing, is used to reflect less
than entirely favourably on him. In this, for instance, Archie appears as
civilized urban man in whom the natural origins are concealed beneath a
veneer of patronizing sophistication:
The rest of the congregation, like so many sheep, oppressed him

with a sense of hob-nailed routine, day following day—of physical
labour in the open air, oatmeal porridge, peas bannock, the
somnolent fireside in the evening, and the night-long nasal
slumbers in a box-bed. Yet he knew many of them to be shrewd and
humorous, men of character, notable women, making a bustle in
the world and radiating an influence from their low-browed doors.
He knew besides they were like other men; below the crust of
custom, rapture found a way; he had heard them beat the timbrel
before Bacchus—had heard them shout and carouse over their
whisky-toddy; and not the most Dutch-bottomed and severe faces
among them all, not even the solemn elders themselves, but were
capable of singular gambols at the voice of love. (246)
Again the use of the individual’s (inflated) terms against him is redolent of
Jane Austen.
Especially in the scenes at Hermiston the appearance of inflated language
often indicates the return of the narrative to Archie’s viewpoint, Archie being
thus represented as the urbane or unnatural in an otherwise predominantly
natural world. Here Archie’s strong but unfocused romantic mood is conveyed
through its own terms, only to be undermined by reductive detail:
94 K.G. Simpson
Vagrant scents of the earth arrested Archie by the way with

moments of ethereal intoxication. The grey, Quakerish dale was
still only awakened in places and patches from the sobriety of its
winter colouring; and he wondered at its beauty; an essential
beauty of the old earth it seemed to him, not resident in
particulars but breathing to him from the whole. He surprised
himself by a sudden impulse to write poetry—he did so
sometimes, loose, galloping octosyllabics in the vein of Scott—
and when he had taken his place on a boulder, near some fairy
falls and shaded by a whip of a tree that was already radiant with
new leaves, it still more surprised him that he should find nothing
to write. (246–67)
The echoes of Edward Waverley in the Highlands are more than accidental.
The irony is further compounded by the narrator’s immediate uncertainty:
‘His heart perhaps beat in time to some vast indwelling rhythm of the
universe.’
Throughout the record of the romance between Archie and young
Kirstie the narrator’s attitude is a composite one, alternating between
amused observation and sympathetic identification. Here fluctuation of
narrative perspective, a feature throughout Weir, reaches its most
pronounced. The narrator offers this skilful mimicry of Archie’s highly
romantic view of things:
Brightness of azure, clouds of fragrance, a tinkle of falling water

and singing birds, rose like exhalations from some deeper,
aboriginal memory, that was not his, but belonged to the flesh on
his bones. His body remembered; and it seemed to him that his
body was in no way gross, but ethereal and perishable like a strain
of music; and he felt for it an exquisite tenderness as for a child,
an innocent, full of instincts and destined to an early death. And
he felt for old Torrance—of the many supplications, of the few
days—a pity that was near to tears. (247)
The centre of interest then shifts to young Kirstie, and in the representation
of her response F.I.S. is used intermittently (e.g. ‘If he spared a glance in her
direction, he should know she was a well-behaved young lady who had been
to Glasgow.... Even then, she was far too well-bred to gratify her curiosity
with any impatience’ (248)). Equally, the narrator adopts from time to time
the persona of the detached and amused observer of the enduring social
comedy (‘Presently he leaned nonchalantly back; and that deadly instrument,

the maiden, was suddenly unmasked in profile’ (249)). In the same tone the
particular is related to the general (‘According to the pretty fashion in which
our grandmothers did not hesitate to appear, and our great-aunts went forth
armed for the pursuit and capture of our great-uncles, the dress was drawn
up so as to mould the contours of both breasts, and in the nook between, a
cairngorm brooch maintained it’ (250)).
There follows this quite remarkable passage in which narrator’s
observation and F.I.S. are so fused that it is difficult to differentiate them:
Archie was attracted by the bright thing like a child. He looked at

her again and yet again, and their looks crossed. The lip was lifted
from her little teeth. He saw the red blood work vividly under her
tawny skin. Her eye, which was great as a stag’s, struck and held
his gaze. He knew who she must be—Kirstie, she of the harsh
diminutive, his housekeeper’s niece, the sister of the rustic
prophet, Gib—and he found in her the answer to his wishes.
(250)
The preposterous nature of these analogies leads one to wonder if they are
Archie’s or the narrator’s. Similarly, in the ensuing comment it is not easy for
the reader to ascertain whether the narrator is distancing himself by means
of irony from young Kirstie’s romantic illusions or is, to an extent,
identifying with them (‘Christina felt the shock of their encountering
glances, and seemed to rise, clothed in smiles, into a region of the vague and
bright’).
From Kirstie’s viewpoint the narrative perspective moves on into this
sequence where it fluctuates markedly:
She took to reading in the metrical psalms, and then remembered

it was sermon-time. Last she put a sugarbool in her mouth, and
the next moment repented of the step. It was such a homely-like
thing! Mr. Archie would never be eating sweeties in kirk; and,
with a palpable effort, she swallowed it whole, and her colour
flamed high. At this signal of distress Archie awoke to a sense of
his ill-behaviour. What had he been doing? He had been
exquisitely rude in church to the niece of his housekeeper; he had
stared like a lackey and a libertine at a beautiful and modest girl.
It was possible, it was even likely, he would be presented to her
after service in the kirk-yard, and then how was he to look? And
96 K.G. Simpson
there was no excuse. He had marked the tokens of her shame, of

her increasing indignation, and he was such a fool that he had not
understood them. Shame bowed him down, and he looked
resolutely at Mr. Torrance; who little supposed, good worthy
man, as he continued to expound justification by faith, what was
his true business: to play the part of derivative to a pair of
children at the old game of falling in love. (251)
Here the narrative has moved from F.I.S. rendering of Kirstie’s viewpoint,
through a comparable rendering of Archie’s, to a characteristic narratorial
interpretation of Torrance’s feelings. The section that follows shows a
fluctuation between narratorial comment and recurrent F.I.S. such as ‘All
would have been right if she had not blushed, a silly fool! There was nothing
to blush at, if she had taken a sugarbool. Mrs. MacTaggart, the elder’s wife in
St. Enoch’s, took them often. And if he had looked at her, what was more
natural than that a young gentleman should look at the best-dressed girl in
church’ (F.I.S.). ‘And at the same time, she knew far otherwise, she knew
there was nothing casual or ordinary in the look, and valued herself on its
memory like a decoration’ (Narrator). ‘Well, it was a blessing he had found
something else to look at!’ (F.I.S.). Thereafter there are passages of F.I.S.
(‘Here was a piece of nicety for that upland parish, where the matrons
marched with their coats kilted in the rain, and the lasses walked barefoot to
kirk through the dust of summer, and went bravely down by the burn-side,
and sat on stones to make a public toilet before entering!’) which are
succeeded by narratorial interpretation (‘It was perhaps an air wafted from
Glasgow; or perhaps it marked a stage of that dizziness of gratified vanity, in
which the instinctive act passed unperceived’). The brief return to F.I.S. (‘He
was looking after!’) gives way in turn to the narrator’s comment (‘She
unloaded herself of a prodigious sigh that was all pleasure, and betook herself
to a run’ (253)).
Throughout this chapter irony informs the flux of the individual vision.
When Archie climbs the hill and enters the hollow of the Deil’s Hag, he sees
before him ‘like an answer to his wishes, the little womanly figure in the grey
dress and the pink kerchief sitting little, and low, and lost, and acutely
solitary, in these desolate surroundings and on the weather-beaten stone of
the dead weaver’ (259–60). These terms, this way of seeing, are his. The
narrative takes account of the flux of his response in that soon his thoughts
are shown to have become quite different: ‘This was a grown woman he was
approaching, endowed with her mysterious potencies and attractions, the
treasury of the continued race, and he was neither better nor worse than the
average of his sex and age’ (260). Within one sentence here F.I.S. has merged
into narratorial judgement. While, in all of this, the views of the characters
are demonstrably in flux, this is equally true of the view of the narrator.
In Weir Stevenson often fails to achieve F.I.S. in its purest form. At times
the nature of the language used to reflect the activities of the mind is at odds
with the nature of that mind as it is revealed through dialogue. Because of the
narrator’s readiness to interpret, F.I.S. is rarely sustained for long, and there is
often a stylistic fusion between the rendering of the character’s thought-
processes and the narrator’s subsequent commentary. Roy Pascal has noted that
‘Lerch maintained that in S.I.L. (style indirect libre) passages the narrator
disappears from the scene to be replaced by the character, whose self-expression
borrows the narratorial form only in order to assume the full authoritativeness
of narratorial statements.’23 The situation in Weir is an unusual one: narratorial
authority is shown to be suspect, but, paradoxically, the narrator is reluctant to
absent himself for long from the process of narration. Here, for instance, the
narrator comes close to rendering Archie’s response from Archie’s own
viewpoint, but he is unwilling or unable to suppress his own attitude:
He hated to seem harsh. But that was Frank’s look-out. If Frank had
been commonly discreet, he would have been decently courteous.
And there was another consideration. The secret he was protecting
was not his own merely; it was hers: it belonged to that inexpressible
she who was fast taking possession of his soul, and whom he would
soon have defended at the cost of burning cities. (273)
The following exemplifies the constant shifting of the narrative

perspective:
He met Archie at dinner without resentment, almost with

cordiality. You must take your friends as you find them, he would
have said. Archie couldn’t help being his father’s son, or his
grandfather’s, the hypothetical weaver’s grandson. The son of a
hunks, he was still a hunks at heart, incapable of true generosity
and consideration; but he had other qualities with which Frank
could divert himself in the meanwhile, and to enjoy which it was
necessary that Frank should keep his temper. (273)
Of this, the first two sentences are the narrator’s; the third would be F.I.S. but
for the term, ‘hypothetical’; of the last sentence, the first part is F.I.S., and
‘but he had other qualities ... ff.’ is the narrator’s view.
98 K.G. Simpson
Such flux of the narrative perspective in Weir reflects the complexity of,
and indeed the deep divisions within, Stevenson’s own values. Stevenson’s
own restlessness, for instance, finds expression in the constant shifting of
narratorial stance. With justification Edwin M. Eigner has noted the extent
of the opposition between activism and scepticism in Stevenson himself,
suggesting that the problem of The Great North Road is that of Hamlet in the
nineteenth century.24
In part, the fluctuation of the narrative in Weir can be seen as a
manifestation of Stevenson’s dramatic capacity: through his narrator he
becomes, momentarily, the particular character. Thus the narrative of Weir
fuses static and fluid, fixed points of reference and the flow of the mind,
reality and version of reality. Rightly Kurt Wittig noted that ‘in his
determination to enter into his characters, Stevenson seizes on, and
recreates, the sensuous impressions which they receive, together with the
images, metaphors and comparisons which the impressions themselves evoke
in their minds’; hence, ‘as it exists only in the mind, it is not a static picture,
but one that changes with the character’s prevailing mood.’25 To this one has
to add that in Weir the effect is compounded by the fact that the picture
changes too with the changing attitude of the narrator.
This practice is very much in line with Stevenson’s theoretical writing
on the subject of narration. He wrote of Balzac: ‘I wish I had his fist—for I
have already a better method—the kinetic—whereas he continually allowed
himself to be led into the static.’26 And he drew the following contrast
between his theory and practice of fiction and those of James:
[James] spoke of the finished picture and its worth when done; I,
of the brushes, the palette, and the north light. He uttered his
views in the tone and for the ear of good society; I, with the
emphasis and the technicalities of the obtrusive student.27
In various weightings of emphasis, however, there was a characteristic degree

of conflict or contradiction. Stevenson could exclaim: ‘Vital—that’s what I
am at; first, wholly vital, with a buoyancy of life. The lyrical, if it may be, and
picturesque, always with an epic value of scenes, so that the figures remain in
the mind’s eye forever.’ But this claim has to be set alongside the following:
‘Unconscious thought, there is the only method ... the will is only to be
brought in the field for study and again for revision. The essential part of the
work is not an act, it is a state.’28
Such complexities and contradictions are reflected in Weir in the
fluctuating attitude of the narrator to his subject, and in the fluctuating
relationship between Stevenson and his narrator. And the source is in the
personality and values of the author. His letters record the flux of Stevenson’s
moods and feelings while he was at work on Weir. On 27 December 1893 he
wrote: ‘I am worked out and can no more at all’, while the following day
found him rejoicing: ‘I have got unexpectedly to work again and feel quite
dandy.’29 The rootlessness and restlessness cannot be explained simply in
terms of a reaction against a life of ill-health. They originate in the deeper
psychological recesses of Stevenson the man and Stevenson the Scot. Muir
noted that the expression on photographs of Stevenson is ‘continually on the
point of changing ... flying away perhaps to some place so absurdly childish
or romantic that even its owner is not quite prepared to countenance it’.30
Various factors account for this: the expressive energy innate within the older
Scottish literary tradition endured but found itself allied uneasily to a
rootlessness which the Union fostered; and the need to escape to a fluid
world of the imagination is a reaction against the Calvinist legacy. In this
context one can appreciate James’s comments on Stevenson’s ‘sort of ironic,
desperate gallantry, burning away, with a finer and finer fire’, and the
‘beautiful golden thread [which] he spins ... in alternate doubt and elation’.31
If Stevenson is something of a paradox, it is not just the case, as G.
Gregory Smith suggested, that ‘his is the paradox of the Scot’32: his is the
paradox of the Scot as imaginative writer. Scotland, by virtue of both the
cultural disorientation which followed the Union and the effects of the
Calvinist influence, failed to experience Romantic idealism (or at least
Scottish literature failed to reflect any such experience). From the eighteenth
century onwards Scottish writers have known and expressed that alienation
and that rootlessness which have emerged in European literatures only after
the phenomenon of Romantic individualism’s turning inward in the face of
the pressures of mass society. It is in this respect that Stevenson is an embryo
twentieth-century writer.
In a curious way the deleterious effect of Scottish values on Scottish
literature (which Muir noted)33 anticipates, in a specific cultural context, the
general crisis of the novel in recent times, wherein the order, configuration,
and authority inseparable from the traditional novel are regarded as suspect,
since they are so much at variance with the chaotic flux of life. In this light
the following comment of Furnas becomes acutely relevant: ‘The more that
miniature politics apparently distracted [Stevenson], the less sure he grew
that art is the supreme human activity, the better he wrote, the more skilfully
he sought such compassionate irony as Hermiston shows.’34 As well as being
the exponent of such irony, Stevenson is also, unwittingly, its subject.
If, as is often claimed, there is much of Stevenson in Archie, so there is
100 K.G. Simpson
much of him in the narrator of Weir. But as Archie is not Stevenson, so the
narrator is not Stevenson. The use of the narrative persona in Weir
represents Stevenson’s attempt at self-confrontation and self-objectification.
Was it inevitable that it would be less than entirely successful? It would seem
so, in that the personalized narrator that Stevenson creates cannot credibly
be omniscient; equally the choice of narrative method serves to restrict the
role of the author-substitute to that of fallible observer. In Weir Stevenson
encounters the difficulties which result from the combination of intermittent
F.I.S. with personalized narration. F.I.S. is scarcely appropriate to
personalized narration: the capacity to use F.I.S. implies considerable
authority, if not omniscience, whereas personalization implies the individual
view with all its natural limitations. In Weir the shifting of focus, the
fluctuation between personal impression and authoritative statement, may
occasion doubts as to the degree of control exercised by the author over both
the intricate and often-ironic shifts of perspective and the concomitant
direction of the reader’s response.
The problem is largely explicable in terms of the incompatibility of the
Calvinist legacy and art (which finds expression in the father–son conflict). In
the writing of Weir Stevenson seems at last to have purged himself of his
need to objectify himself as a limited being (this in itself is a manifestation of
the Calvinist influence, and it is reflected in the almost-obsessive need for
self-denunciation). Thus the use of F.I.S. in Weir reveals, ambivalently, a
potential capacity for empathy and a highly reductive view of human
limitation. The example of Weir shows that Stevenson could not permit the
author-substitute to surrender completely the authorial right to authority.
That Stevenson found it impossible to relinquish narratorial authority
and delegate it to his characters is more than accidental in the light of the
author’s own personality, values, and nationality, and the way in which these
find expression in Weir in a concern with authority and judgement. Roy
Pascal has commented that the ‘hidden, omniscient narrator is the aesthetic
counterpart of a now discredited providential God’.35 This illuminates very
clearly the central problem of Stevenson: Stevenson longed to discredit such
a God but found it impossible so to do. Of his works, Weir in particular
reflects the resultant tension between the impulse towards technical and
narratorial experimentation and the awe of authority with which Calvinism
endowed him. If Weir is an ironic study of human limitation, exemplified by
both characters and narrator, perhaps the final irony is that it also
demonstrates the extent to which Stevenson’s own judgement succumbed
(perhaps had to succumb) to racial and cultural pressures.
NOTES
1. ‘A Humble Remonstrance’, Memories and Portraits (London, 1924), Tusitala

Edition, Vol. XXIX, p. 136.
2. ‘Robert Louis Stevenson’, Edwin Muir: Uncollected Scottish Criticism, edited and
introduced by Andrew Noble (London and Totowa, NJ., 1982), p. 235.
3. ‘On Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature’, The Works of Robert Louis
Stevenson (London, 1912), XVI, p. 247.
4. Henry James and Robert Louis Stevenson: A Record of Friendship and Criticism, edited
with an introduction by Janet Adam Smith (London, 1948), p. 267.
5. Memories and Portraits, p. 135.
6. Ibid., p. 142.
7. Cited G. Gregory Smith, Scottish Literature: Character and Influence (London,
1919), p. 18.
8. ‘A Note on Realism’, Works, XVI, p. 238.
9. The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, edited by Sidney Colvin (New York, 1969), II,
pp. 216–17.
10. ‘Victor Hugo’s Romances’, Familiar Studies of Men and Books (London, 1924), p.
30.
11. Ibid., pp. 35, 48.
12. ‘On Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature’, Works, XVI, p. 245.
13. Percy Lubbock, The Craft of Fiction (London, 1921), p. 218.
14. Leslie Fiedler, ‘RLS Revisited’, No! In Thunder (London, 1963), p. 88. J. C. Furnas,
Voyage to Windward: The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson (New York, 1951), p. 427, also praises
the use of ‘third-person narration’ in Heathercat and Weir. In contrast, Kurt Wittig, The
Scottish Tradition in Literature (Edinburgh, 1978), p. 263, notes that ‘though the word “I”
occurs rarely, it is told in the first-person singular’.
15. References are to the Everyman edition of The Master of Ballantrae and Weir of
Hermiston (London and New York, 1925), with an introduction by M. R. Ridley.
16. Familiar Studies, p. 85.
17. The House of Fiction: Essays on the Novel by Henry James edited with an introduction
by Leon Edel (London, 1957), pp. 125, 137, 130.
18. Op. cit., p. 429.
19. Hereafter referred to as F.I.S. See Roy Pascal, The Dual Voice (Manchester, 1977)
for an excellent account of the characteristics and the development of the technique.
20. Cited Pascal, p. 18.
21. Ibid., pp. 79–5.
22. Ibid., p. 22.
23. Ibid., p. 22.
24. Edwin M. Eigner, Robert Louis Stevenson and Romantic Tradition (Princeton, 1966),
pp. 52, 64.
25. Op. cit., p. 259.
26. Cited Janet Adam Smith, p. 267.
27. ‘A Humble Remonstrance’, Memories and Portraits, p. 141.
28. Cited Janet Adam Smith, pp. 41, 42.
29. Cited Furnas, p. 425.
30. Op. cit., p. 236.
31. Cited Janet Adam Smith, pp. 268, 269.
32. Op. cit., p. 288.
102 K.G. Simpson
33. Op. cit., p. 229.

34. Op. cit., p. 429.
35. Op. cit., p. 139.
WILLIAM VEEDER
Children of the Night:

Stevenson and Patriarchy
So I sidled up to the old gentleman, got into conversation with him and
so with the damsel; and thereupon, having used the patriarch as a ladder,
I kicked him down behind me.
—Stevenson
I wonder why my stories are

—Stevenson
The psychoanalytic critic is a literary historian.

—William Kerrigan
M y study of Jekyll and Hyde began as an attempt to answer two questions.

Why are there, for all practical purposes, no women in Stevenson’s novella?
And why are the major characters, Jekyll, Utterson, and Lanyon, all
professional men as well as celibates? These specific questions lead me
toward the larger concerns, the enduring power, of Jekyll and Hyde. Since
defining this power has become my project—in which answering the two
questions about gender and profession plays a part—I should begin with
what I take to be the overall concern of the novella. Jekyll and Hyde
dramatizes the inherent weakness of late-Victorian social organization, a
weakness that derives from unresolved pre-oedipal and oedipal emotions and
that threatens the very possibility of community. Since these emotions
From Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: After One Hundred Years, eds. William Veeder and Gordon Hirsch.
© 1988 by the University of Chicago.
103
104 William Veeder
appear in Stevenson’s life, as well as in his novella and his culture, I will
examine all three nodes in my study of the power of Jekyll and Hyde.
I will first set forth the social, psychological, and critical elements
deployed in this study.
It seems to me that the story of Jekyll and Hyde, which is

presumably presented as happening in London, is all the time
very unmistakably happening in Edinburgh. [Chesterton 51]
The most important focus in the story, as we might expect, will

be on Jekyll’s attitude toward his double. [Eigner 145]
What these two sensible observations do not account for is what I want to
explore. The site of Jekyll and Hyde is, I feel, not simply London or
Edinburgh but the larger milieu of late-Victorian patriarchy; the focus of the
story is less on Jekyll’s attitude toward Hyde than on the way that the
Jekyll/Hyde relationship is replicated throughout Jekyll’s circle. Lanyon,
Enfield, and Utterson participate so thoroughly in Jekyll/Hyde that they
constitute an emblematic community, a relational network, which reflects—
and thus allows us readers a perspective on—the network of male bonds in
late-Victorian Britain.1 This network marks a psychological condition as a
cultural phenomenon. The cultural and psychological come together in
Stevenson’s famous statement of theme: that damned old business of the war
in the members” (L2, 323). Because members of the psyche are at war, other
members must be—family members, members of society, genital members.
The resulting casualty is not simply Jekyll/Hyde but culture itself.
Focusing on society might seem to ally me with the many critics who
interpret Jekyll and Hyde as an indictment of Victorian repressiveness, a tale
of decorum and desire. “[Jekyll’s] society ... refuses to recognize or accept the
place of pleasure in identity” (Day 92).2 Repression is indeed important in
Jekyll and Hyde, but what is being repressed is not pleasure. Victorian culture
fosters as well as represses pleasure in Jekyll and Hyde. To call Stevenson’s men
“joyless” (Miyoshi 471) is to overstate. “All intelligent, respectable men, and
all judges of good wine” (43), Utterson and his peers are capable of genuine
friendship (the word “friend” appears at least thirty-three times)3 that
expresses itself in “pleasant dinners” (43), particularly those hosted by Henry
Jekyll, who entertains “five or six old cronies” early in the story (43),
celebrates his return from reclusion by becoming “once more their familiar
guest and entertainer” (56), and sees Utterson for the last time at “the
doctor’s ... small party” on January 8 (56). The pleasure of these gatherings
Children of the Night: Stevenson and Partriarchy 105
is enhanced by their domestic nature. Rather than entertaining at clubs, old

friends invite one another home. Again Jekyll is the model. His entrance hall
is called by Utterson “the pleasantest room in London” (41).
Especially considering how much of Robert Louis Stevenson is
invested in these companionable pleasures—his love of wine and boon
fellowship—why does he include such pleasures in what I will argue is an
ultimately damning presentation of Jekyll’s circle? He could easily have
satirized this group as he did other bourgeois males who “had at first a
human air / In coats and flannel underwear. / They rose and walked upon
their feet / And filled their bellies full of meat. / They wiped their lips when
they had done, / But they were Ogres every one” (Calder 152). Stevenson
foregoes so complete an indictment because society is not completely odious,
pleasure not entirely interdicted. Of course, Stevenson wishes in his life and
in Jekyll and Hyde that society were less hypocritical about pleasures natural
and healthy, and even pleasures unnatural and unhealthy. But the
companionable pleasures in Jekyll and Hyde function less by implicit contrast
with outré desires than as emblems of promise tragically unfulfilled. Though
boon fellowship should combine with public service to constitute the rewards
of a professional life, the combination in fact constitutes a threat to society
itself.
This threat cannot be explained by an interpretation that locates the
novella’s paramount tension between decorum and desire. Jekyll himself
points to such a tension, and surely it is an awkward one: men who officially
embody and articulate orthodoxy incline to violate it. This awkwardness is,
however, not sufficient to account for Jekyll’s anguish or Stevenson’s novella.
Established men have long since discovered how to mediate between
decorum and desire. The old boys cover for one another. Lanyon will get
Jekyll the chemicals regardless of what the night and secrecy may be hiding;
Enfield will handle Hyde’s trampling of the child without calling in the
police. If, however, the repression of pleasure is not the principal dilemma in
Jekyll and Hyde, another sort of repression is at work. Males use traditionally
sanctioned social “forms”—friendship and professionalism—to screen
subversive drives directed at one another. The dual roles of friend and
attorney allow Utterson to express his own private anxiety about Jekyll’s will;
Lanyon uses his professional “services” to excuse his curiosity about Edward
Hyde. “Under the seal of our profession” (80) rage what I will argue are the
regressive emotions of oedipal sons and sibling rivals.
At stake in Jekyll and Hyde is nothing less than patriarchy itself, the
social organization whose ideals and customs, transmissions of property and
title, and locations of power privilege the male. Understanding the Fathers
106 William Veeder
in Jekyll and Hyde is helped by seeing patriarchy both traditionally and

locally: first in terms of its age-old obligations, then in terms of its immediate
configuration in late-Victorian Britain. Traditionally the obligations of
patriarchs are three: to maintain the distinctions (master–servant,
proper–improper) that ground patriarchy; to sustain the male ties
(father–son, brother–brother) that constitute it; and to enter the wedlock
(foregoing homosexuality) that perpetuates it.4 Exclusion and inclusion are
the operative principles. Men must distinguish the patriarchal self from
enemies, pretenders, competitors, corruptors; and they must affiliate
through proper bonds at appropriate times. What Stevenson devastatingly
demonstrates is that patriarchy behaves exactly counter to its obligations.
Distinctions that should be maintained are elided, so that bonds occur where
divisions should obtain; and affiliations that should be sustained are
sundered, so that males war with one another and refuse to wed.5
As his love of boon fellowship indicates, Robert Louis Stevenson
respects the bonds traditional with patriarchy even as he rages against the
failures of patriarchs. He faults established men not only for being Fathers
(dictatorial, repressed, hypocritical) but also for not being Fathers (rigorous,
supportive, procreative). The author who within seven years of Jekyll and
Hyde ensconced himself firmly, if wryly, as the patriarch of Vailima, who put
the Athenaeum on his calling cards and was called by Gosse “the most
clubbable of men” (Furnas 99), who quipped sincerely, “Let us hope I shall
never be such a cad any more as to be ashamed of being a gentleman” (L2,
131), and who was increasingly moved by Thomas Carlyle (“the old man’s
style is stronger on me than it ever was” [L2, 28]), this author is finally closer
in social vision to Carlyle than to, say, J. S. Mill. Despite fashionable nods to
socialism, Stevenson inclines not to a Mill-like reorganization of society but
to a Carlylean nostalgia for earlier probities.6 Stevenson hates for the Fathers
to be overbearing, but he hates still more for the Fathers to be weak. He
criticizes his own father’s presidential address to the Royal Society of
Edinburgh for being “so modest as to suggest a whine”; he calls Thomas
Stevenson’s gloominess “plaguey peevishness”; and he adds, “My Dear
Father,—Allow me to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, that you are a silly
fellow” (L2, 243, 244).
Breakdowns in the three traditional obligations of patriarchy are so
important to Jekyll and Hyde that I will structure my analysis of the novella
in terms of them. But before undertaking that analysis, I must set forth the
equally important role of patriarchy as an immediate presence in late-
Victorian Britain. In the household of Thomas Stevenson, the patriarchal
was inseparable from the professional. Engineering and medicine were, like
law, “eminently respectable and had contributed much to Edinburgh’s wealth

and status” (Calder 2). The emergence of the professions as one of the major
forces in social organization had occurred in Stevenson’s own century.
“Before the Industrial revolution,” Larson establishes,
even the profession of law ... had not yet developed the stable and
intimate connection with training and examination that came to
be associated with the professional model in the nineteenth
century.... Professions are, therefore, relatively recent social
products.... In England, of the thirteen contemporary professions
... ten acquired an association of national scope between 1825 and
1880.7
Upper-middle-class professional men are for Robert Louis Stevenson the

principal expression of the patriarchal tradition in the Victorian period,
despite the lingering presence of a landed, titled aristocracy and Stevenson’s
nostalgia for the gentry Balfours of his mother’s line. Patriarchy, as Stevenson
considers it, is essentially bourgeois. These men are not the products of
ancient families and land tenure. Their bonds are formed through the
educational process (“old mates both at school and college” [36]), which
prepares men not for the aristocratic pleasures of leisure and sport but for the
middle-class ideals of hard work and public service. “Name” is important
because it constitutes not continuity of title but hard-earned respect.
As a third-generation professional, Robert Louis Stevenson has a rare
perspective on patriarchy. In addition to the Fathers’ egregious hypocrisies—
leading citizens who go wenching on Saturday night and show up at church
hungover provoke Stevenson to rage—there are subtler, finally more
threatening disparities between roles and realities. Professions can function
as empty forms that Fathers deploy to make sons conform to paternal wills
and dreams. Stevenson feels particularly threatened because he is in part
recoiling from the impact of professionalism upon his own father who
wanted so intensely to place him in engineering or law. Thomas himself was
coerced by his father into a profession for which he had no special aptitude.
He admitted that he never mastered the formulae basic to structural
engineering. Despite his dedicated scrutiny of nature, Thomas’s mind
proceeded by intuitive leaps; his true gifts were, like Louis’s, literary and
existential. He was a gifted storyteller, a sincere lover of reading, and a man
graced with a tremendous if inhibited capacity for sensuous experience. In
indicting the professions, Louis is thus doing more than striking back against
paternal domination. He is trying to save himself from his father’s fate.
108 William Veeder
The professions have additional moment for Robert Louis Stevenson

because they relate to father in a second way. To explain this, I must posit
what I will argue for in detail in section 2: Stevenson is, as Kanzer and
Fiedler have maintained, a man torn by oedipal emotions. Although such
emotions may seem a long way from Stevenson’s concern with the
professions in late-Victorian Britain, the two relate directly. Freud argues
that desire, which is directed toward mother initially and is interdicted at the
oedipal moment, can reappear under the pressures of adolescence—in its
initial triangular configuration. Mother is again the object of desire, and
father again the rival. Now, however, desire can be managed outside strictly
domestic confines, in the realm of public action and career choice. (Work is
the one outlet of human energy that Freud ranks along with sex.) Father–son
quarrels over careers are thus often restagings of childhood antagonisms.
Even a biographer as wary of Freudianism as Furnas attests that Louis’s
famous battles with Thomas over profession (and religion) are inseparable
from the men’s fierce possessiveness toward Margaret. In turn, a resolution
of oedipal antagonisms through professional achievement becomes possible.
The very fact that the Fathers’ professional inadequacies are so present to
Stevenson means that he is characterized by an adult awareness denied to
patriarchs hypocritical or complacent. If Louis can go on to express this
awareness in fiction, if he can indict fathers as Fathers by revealing the
inadequacy of their professionalism, he will write the book that constitutes
him professionally. By revealing in the fathers an unresolved oedipal rage
that he himself is resolving in the revelation, Stevenson will extend the old
war among the members from the domestic to the professional front and will
thus have a chance for victory. But things, alas, are not this simple.
For one thing, awareness of patriarchal failure threatens the son. If he
cannot respect the father’s masculinity and achievement, the son cannot
negotiate either the pre- or the post-latency stages of oedipal conflict; he
cannot effect that bonding with the father that will confirm his own sense of
sexual adequacy and will encourage him to contribute to society’s welfare.
Worse still, Stevenson knows that most of his indictment of patriarchal
inadequacy can be turned back on himself. Not only is he too racked by
unresolved oedipal rages, but he has not achieved by 1885 what he respects
professionally—the writing of great books, which alone, despite the puffs of
his friends, constitutes true professionalism in letters. Even hypocrisy can
also be charged against Stevenson, too. His terrible quarrels with Thomas do
not prevent him from continuing to accept his father’s money.
Another problem for Louis is that fighting on two fronts—the
professional as well as the domestic—has not shaped his art up through the
middle of 1885. He has tended to configure himself as only, as still, a son.

Besides the Garden of Verses, there is “Markheim,” where the “war in the
members” ends with the son surrendering to the (bad) father. Jekyll and Hyde
was apparently conceived in the same spirit, but, quite astonishingly,
Stevenson effects—between the Notebook Draft and the Printer’s Copy—a
change that enables him to fight both the domestic and the professional wars
in his life. Discussing the novella’s genesis, Stevenson lists first among the
incorporated dream episodes “the scene at the window” (“A Chapter on
Dreams”). Killing, in other words. Who is killing whom? In the Notebook
Draft, Hyde’s victim is “Lemsome.” Lemsome incorporates Stevenson’s
worst fears about himself as a weak, grown-up son. “A youngish man of about
twenty-eight, with a fine forehead and good features; anoemically pale;
shielding a pair of suffering eyes under blue spectacles,” Lemsome is called
“an incurable cad” by the young author whom we have seen promise never
to be “a cad any more.” In killing Lemsome/Stevenson, Hyde/Stevenson is
only visiting once more upon himself the anger that psychic health and
maturity require him to direct outward at the fathers. By belaboring himself
as failed son, Louis remains a failure; by not waiting for confrontation with
the father, he precludes a therapeutic working through of oedipal emotions;
by not directing anger at a patriarch, he prevents his feelings about
professionalism from becoming central.
Stevenson escapes sonship by changing the character of Hyde’s victim.
Lemsome, the paradigm failed son of the Notebook Draft, becomes in the
Printer’s Copy the paradigm patriarch, Sir Danvers Carew. Carew, the only
“Sir” in a novel filled with “sir”s, is essentially bourgeois: he is affiliated with
the House of Commons, not the House of Lords; he lives in a London
square, not a country house. Killing Carew means that Stevenson’s self-hate
is turned outward in an act of violence therapeutic both domestically and
professionally. Carew is both a father surrogate and a Father. Since Carew as
“an aged beautiful gentleman with white hair” (46) can stand in for the aging
but still strikingly handsome Thomas Stevenson, Louis can deploy literary
patricide to murder his “father” rather than himself. He can, moreover, enlist
Carew in the other war in his life—the professional. Carew points
Stevenson’s rage toward the Fathers as well as toward father. Lemsome,
whose suit “implied both a lack of means and a defect of taste,” is “a bad
fellow” of the lower middle class, whereas Carew is a distinguished man who
contributes the professional initials “M.P.” (53) to the long list set forth with
Jekyll: “M.D., D.C.L., LL.D., F.R.S., &c.” (35). Carew focuses Stevenson’s
rage at the patriarchs as professionals.
Stevenson’s capacity to see what the fathers overlook and to announce
110 William Veeder
what they hide does not, of course, result in any overnight change in him
psychologically. But Jekyll and Hyde does constitute a milestone. The novella
brings professional presence to Stevenson for the first time. The fame and
the revenue that he needs so desperately begin to flow in, and they remain
with him until death. He can, in turn, especially after the death of his father
(“I almost begin to feel as if I should care to live; I would, by God! and so I
begin to believe I shall” [Furnas 263]), take a less hostile stance against the
patriarchy, a stance more in keeping with his essentially conservative nature.
What happens is not that Stevenson comes to countenance all that he had
once indicted in contemporary professionalism. Rather, with the passing
years and increasing successes, Stevenson, like Carlyle, exercises a nostalgic
return to an earlier, more feudal type of patriarchy that, in Louis’s case, can
mediate between the rigorous professionalism of the Stevensons and his
historical fascination with the Balfours. I agree with Harvie that “we must see
Weir of Hermiston ... as a conservative parable of law and duty.... Weir towers
over every other character in the book.... Climbing ‘the great staircase of his
duty’ he, in a social context, is a figure ... powerfully and sympathetically
symbolic” (122, 123). Harvie is equally persuasive when he finds in
Stevenson’s own life a comparable move to nostalgic patriarchy. “Ultimately
Stevenson’s political creed is authoritarian but—unlike Kipling’s—feudal and
familial rather than technocratic. Weir is an image of the power of the legal
system which underlay the Scots enlightenment, yet which was drawn from
a pre-existent social state not unlike that which Stevenson himself tried to
recreate in Samoa: a charismatic authority now being sapped by imperialist
bureaucrats as much as by socialistic bureaucrats at home” (124).
Stevenson’s involvement in Jekyll and Hyde means that the very psyche
I am examining is not easy to define. On the one hand, the childhood into
which the patriarchs of the novella regress can be seen as ultimately
Stevenson’s own. The “brown” fog that enwraps Utterson’s world (48) is the
farthest emanation of Louis’s terrors, which emerged first as a childhood
nightmare about the color brown, then reemerged as a boyhood nightmare
about a brown dog, and eventually shaped itself into the Brownies who
personified for him the unconscious processes themselves.8 Likewise, the
nighttime in which every violent event of Jekyll and Hyde occurs is a
protraction of the long nights of fear that Louis endured as a sickly boy. “All
night long in the dark and wet, / A man goes riding by. / Late in the night
when the fires are out, / Why does he gallop and gallop about?” (“Windy
Nights,” 3–6).
On the other hand, my title for this essay is children of the night, not
child, because Jekyll and Hyde cannot be reduced to the life of Robert Louis
Stevenson. He transforms biographical materials and emotions into a critical

portrait of his times. He does so not by attempting a “realistic” fiction but by
representing male anxiety itself. “Characters” are the occasion of this
revelation. They act out patterns rather than express personal histories. They
cannot be psychoanalyzed, but their actions can. My approach to the psyches
of Stevenson’s characters is basically through the insights of Stevenson’s
contemporary, Sigmund Freud.
Not only are Freud and Stevenson both products of late-nineteenth-
century European culture; they share the more particular fact of personal
concern with and anxiety about professionalism, fathers, and Fathers. Still
more important, they envision the psyche, experience, and art as each
multileveled and occlusive. “After all, what one wants to know is not what
people did, but why they did it—or rather, why they thought they did it.” This
fascination with the workings of the psyche is eminently characteristic of
Freud, but the words here are Stevenson’s (L1, 35). Equally Freudian is
Stevenson’s insistence that “everything is true; only the opposite is true too:
you must believe both equally or be damned” (Furnas 412). This recognition of
experience as self-contradictory attunes Stevenson to the self-deceptive
workings of the psyche in others and in himself.
You [Henley] were not quite sincere with yourself; you were
seeking arguments to make me devote myself to plays,
unbeknown, of course, to yourself. [L1, 304]
[l am a person who is] a hater, indeed, of rudeness in others,

but too often rude in all unconsciousness himself.... we [he and
Fanny] had a dreadful over-hauling of my conduct as a son the
other night; and my wife stripped me of my illusions and made
me admit I had been a detestable bad one. [L2, 275, 295
Stevenson sees art itself deriving from the same hidden sources of meaning
and motive. Jekyll and Hyde “came out of a deep mine” (L2, 309). Stevenson’s
definition of art constitutes a Freudian challenge. “There is but one art—to
omit” (Ll, 173).
Jekyll and Hyde represents psychological experiences multilayered and
repressed, and I will read it accordingly. As Dr. Jekyll hides beneath his
distinguished professionalism the murderous Mr. Hyde, so the name “Jekyll”
hides—as several critics have noted—the homicidal “je kyll.”9 Other names
in the story work the same way. Dr. Lanyon, who dies because his
professional judgment succumbs to his precipitate curiosity, is named
112 William Veeder
“Hastie”; Utterson, despite his years of dour legalism, is the utter son in
several senses, as I will show later. Names, in turn, are emblematic of the
multilayered workings of virtually every feature of Jekyll and Hyde. In terms
of plot: as we wonder what Hyde is doing on his late-night excursions, we
wonder why Carew is mailing a letter (47) late at night in what may be an
unsavory neighborhood down by the river (46). In terms of characterization:
as we are unsatisfied by Jekyll’s rationalization of his desire for the potion, we
question whether Utterson’s concern for Jekyll’s safety accounts adequately
for his obsession with Edward Hyde. In terms of setting: as we experience
the horrific last hour of Jekyll/Hyde, we ask why the laboratory is presented
as so benignly domestic. And, emblem of all these emblems, why is Jekyll’s
chemist named, “Maw”?
In attempting to answer these and many other questions about the
overdetermined narrative of Jekyll and Hyde, I make no claim that Robert
Louis Stevenson is conscious of all their significances. Obviously he is not.
What I do claim is that diverse elements coherently support Stevenson’s
thoroughly conscious indictment of late-Victorian patriarchy. The
overdetermined nature of this indictment requires a comparable intricacy of
response from readers. I see male emotions ranging from friendship to
rivalry to homoerotic desire to homicidal rage; individual characters enact
various roles, with Jekyll, for example; functioning as model bourgeois and
oedipal son and oedipal father and sibling rival and homosexual lover; scenes
are shaped by diverse forces, from the biographical, to the contexts of
Western patriarchy and its late-Victorian manifestations, to patterns of
consciousness based on Freudian models which help illuminate both the
traditional and the immediate dilemmas of patriarchal culture.
My historical interest is where I want to end this introduction, because
such an interest helps emphasize a fact about Jekyll and Hyde that has
remained largely unrecognized by critics. Stevenson’s novella expresses the
malaise of late-Victorian Britain. Stevenson shares the belief of his
apparently more representative colleagues—Gissing, Moore, James,
Hardy—that Mrs. Grundy and Mr. Mudie must be extirpated and that
British fiction must become an adult representation of adult realities. (This
revulsion at hypocrisy is part of what Stevenson’s biographers have
repeatedly pointed to—his participation in his generation’s disaffiliation
from organized religion and enthusiasm for Darwin and other secular
thinkers.) What makes Jekyll and Hyde particularly late-Victorian becomes
clear in light of the novella’s most relevant High Victorian predecessors, the
paradigm novels of oedipal conflict—David Copperfield, Great Expectations,
and The Ordeal of Richard Feverel. Dickens and Meredith here focus on the
son and present the professional characters as largely incidental. By focusing

on patriarchy and professionalism, Stevenson is reflecting the widely
recognized “autumnal” quality of late-Victorian life, the sense that
something was the matter not simply at home but in society itself. Oedipal
antagonism functions in Stevenson not as the private drama of Pip and
Richard Feverel but as the latent cause of cultural decline.
I. PROPER DISTINCTIONS AND ILLICIT ELISIONS
My analysis of Stevenson’s patriarchs is structured in terms of their

traditional obligations. Studying “proper” distinctions and male ties will
bring me to wedlock, and thus to the causes and the consequences of
woman’s exclusion from Jekyll and Hyde. Making distinctions presupposes
recognizing similarities. “I see you feel as I do,” Enfield’s words to Utterson
after Hyde’s first outrage (32), echo Enfield’s earlier empathy with the doctor
at the scene of the outrage. “He was like the rest of us.... I knew what was in
his mind” (31). Utterson is comparably bound to Poole during Hyde’s
subsequent atrocities. “I felt something of what you describe” (68), the
lawyer admits, after the two men have turned “both pale ... [with] an
answering horror in their eyes” (61) and before “the two men looked at each
other with a scare” (71). Such ideal solidarity between patriarchs and servants
and among patriarchs is the context for distinctions that damn outsiders. The
chief object of exclusion is of course Edward Hyde, whose absolute
disjunction is insisted on by terms drawn from religion (“Satan ... devilish ...
child of Hell ... Evil” [32, 36, 94, 68]), from zoology (“like a monkey ... ape-
like” [69, 101]), and from mythology (“Juggernaut ... fiend ... troglodytic”
[31, 36, 40]). These exclusionary terms express the patriarchy’s need to
confirm Hyde as a usurper. Utterson’s fear that Hyde would “step into the
said Henry Jekyll’s shoes” (35) seems allayed by Lanyon’s description of
Hyde’s “laughable” appearance. “His clothes ... although they were of rich
and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement”
(77–78). Here is a patent pretender to a position that he literally cannot
treasure up to.
Or so the patriarchs want to believe. To establish that traditional
distinctions are breaking down in late-Victorian society, Jekyll and Hyde
dramatizes the thorough implication of patriarchy in Edward Hyde. A
wonderful pun bonds Lanyon with Hyde when the doctor is called “hide-
hound ... hide-hound” (43). The cane that Hyde uses to kill Carew belongs
ultimately to Utterson; the name that replaces Hyde’s in the will of Jekyll is
Utterson’s own; and the expression that seems to confirm Hyde’s alterity—
114 William Veeder
“the other” (40)—is soon applied to Utterson (41). Enfield shares Hyde’s
propensity for night stalking and for bringing along a cane (in the context of
Cain [29, 30]). Hyde’s caning of Carew has no counterpart in Enfield’s
conduct, of course,10 but in his role as narrator, Enfield reveals a complicity
in Hyde’s first act of night violence that colors the scene significantly and
thus warrants our close attention.
Take, for example, the epithets which Enfield applies to the child
trampler. “My gentleman ... my gentleman ... my prisoner ... gentleman ...
my man” (31, 32, 33). Even allowing both for the slightly more formal
British usage of “my” in such expressions and for a touch of irony in Enfield’s
tone, these phrases certainly involve him more personally with Hyde than
judgmental phrases like “this monster ... this demon ... this blackguard ... this
beast” would have. Especially cued by “gentleman,” we recognize in the
outcome of the confrontation something closer to gentlemanly fellowship
than we would expect. “So we all set off, the doctor and the child’s father, and
our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and
next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank” (32). How
odd the interpolated—and thus ostensibly unnecessary—clause “when we
had breakfasted.” There is a civility, an instinct for form, that seems out of
place if Hyde is really a fiend or troglodyte or ape. That “we all set off” is,
moreover, inaccurate. All the women who partook so vigorously in the
confrontation with Hyde are left behind. Of course, ladies could not enter a
bachelor’s flat at 4:00 A.M., but propriety is not the chief issue. Exclusion
from Enfield’s sentence and from the narrative’s subsequent events occurs
because “we” simply cannot mean “all.” In Enfield’s world, “we all” are all
male. The old boys “in a body” exclude anybody else. Notice that the “all”
includes the physician. Someone on this night was so ill that a doctor had to
be called at 3:00 A.M., yet that doctor leaves the scene without ever seeing
his patient. For the first of many times in Jekyll and Hyde, professionalism
functions as a screen. The physician’s night journey toward the patient has
led to a very different goal—the presence of Hyde and the chambers of
Enfield. “Chamber,” which has already meant legal chambers in the novella
(29), has its more private connotation here because the patriarchs will resolve
this awkward matter privately. Even the law is an outsider when it does not
foster the more absolute force of patriarchal will.
Exculpation of Hyde has marked Enfield’s narration from the start.
Though he expresses sincere outrage at Hyde behaving “like some damned
Juggernaut” (31), Enfield makes our crucial first experience of Hyde quite
benign. “I saw two figures; one a little man who was stumping along eastward
at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running
as hard as she was able” (31). Note that “the other” here is not Hyde. “Little
... stumping along ... good walk” present him quite innocuously, whereas the
other is the violent one running hard. We are then told that the two collided
“naturally enough” (31). Why “naturally”? Since the streets have been
established as absolutely quiet at 3:00 A.M., why didn’t Hyde hear the
furiously clattering feet of the girl and avoid her? Our suspicion is soon
confirmed. “The rumour of the approach of any passenger preceded him by
a longtime .... the footfalls of a single person, while he is still a great way off,
suddenly spring out distinct from the vast hunt and clatter of the city” (38).
Hyde’s collision with the child is not inevitable, so why does an inveterate
nightwalker like Enfield call it natural? At best, Hyde is socially insouciant if
he is too preoccupied to hear the child’s ringing footfall. At worst, Hyde did
hear her coming, and collided with her intentionally. Either possibility is
glossed over by Enfield’s word “naturally.”
Even with the aftermath of Hyde’s outrage, Enfield reacts less
wholeheartedly than his most indignant statements would warrant. He seems
initially to respond like St. George when his fox-hunting expression “I gave
a view hallow” (31) suggests he will run the malefactor to earth. Though he
does indeed catch and collar Hyde, Enfield describes the pursuit with the
idiom “I ... took to my heels” (31). He says, in other words, that he fled from,
not after, Hyde. (The meaning “to flee from” is confirmed not only by the
OED11 but by Hyde himself, who apologizes to Lanyon with the words “my
impatience has shown its heels to my politeness” [78]). An unconscious
inclination to free Hyde, as well as the conscious determination to capture
him, marks the patriarchy’s uncomfortable implication in what it officially
condemns. Enfield may call Hyde “a fellow that nobody would have to do
with” (33), but he himself has already called Hyde “our friend” (32). The
ironical edge to this expression in this context does not mitigate entirely the
patriarchy’s investment in the expression. Rather than nobody having
anything to do with Hyde, everybody who counts has already had breakfast
with him.
Hyde’s stalking the London streets at 3:00 A.M. shows him up to no
good, but Enfield is out at the same hour. What has he been doing? As a
“well-known man about town” (29), Enfield explains himself with the glib “I
was coming home from some place at the end of the world” (31). The name
En(d)-field suggests that the patriarch is as much an extremist as the
juggernaut. I even find myself wondering about that other nightwalker
whom Hyde encounters, Sir Danvers Carew. What is he doing out? The
official version is that he was “only inquiring his way.... he had been probably
carrying [a letter] to the post” (46, 47). But I wonder. How could Carew not
116 William Veeder
know his way to the mailbox if he were simply stepping out of his house to
post a letter? Moreover, are we sure that Carew lives in this neighborhood?
“Not far from the river” (46) could be a respectable place like Pimlico or
Chelsea, but it could also be the rundown and dangerous docksides of
Dickens, especially since a servant maid can apparently rent a whole house
here (46).12 And why does Carew carry no identification? Established men
who leave their wallets behind but take their money and wander riverfront
areas and engage young men in conversation—such men are recognizable
types, particularly in light both of the prostitute who approaches Hyde at
about the same hour (94) and of the verb “accosted” (“the old man bowed
and accosted the other” [46]), which can mean “to solicit for immoral
purposes.” My point is not that Carew is such a man, but that Stevenson need
not have set the situation up this way if he did not want to suggest the
possibility of Carew’s implication in Hyde. Stevenson need only establish
unambiguously that Carew was mailing a letter at a postbox in his own
square, that the servant maid was looking from her attic room in her master’s
own house, and that Hyde was trespassing into the neighborhood removed
safely from Soho. The sheep would be distinct from the wolves. Instead,
“man about town” is a term appropriate to Hyde and to Enfield and Carew.
What all these men are “about” is unclear.
Distinctions blur so thoroughly that even an admirable servant of the
patriarchy like Poole is implicated in Hyde. Poole speaks to Utterson
“hoarsely” in a “broken” voice (62, 63), just as Hyde has addressed Utterson
“hoarsely .... with a somewhat broken voice” (39, 40). What we take to be a
sign of venality in Hyde—that he “did not look the lawyer in the face” (39)
during their meeting in the bystreet—recurs with Poole who “had not once
looked the lawyer in the face” (62) during their meeting in Utterson’s home.
Hyde’s gesture of “stamping with his foot” (47) before Carew’s murder is
repeated by Poole who “stamped on the flags” (70) after Hyde’s death. These
associations of Poole with Hyde do not call seriously into question the
servant’s probity (context distinguishes each of his actions from Hyde’s), but
they do suggest that any male associated with patriarchy harbors a capacity
for otherness.
Poole in this regard is aptly named. Watery depths belie the apparently
taut surface of patriarchy. That Jekyll “is in deep waters” is recognized by
Utterson (41), but the lawyer cannot see that the rest of the patriarchy is
swamped, too. “The drowned city” of London (53) is their foggy common
ground. Utterson and Poole entering “the deep well” of Jekyll’s courtyard as
“the scud had banked over the moon” (68) are in over their heads. They feel
safer when they reach “the shelter of the theatre,” but they cannot escape the
depths simply by exchanging inside for outside. “Even in the houses the fog
had begun to lie thickly” (51). Distinctions dissolve. Beneath the theater’s
“foggy cupola” (33), Utterson is particularly at risk because this realm that
seems so ostensibly other is in fact close to home. The theater is called
“gaunt” (51), the lawyer lives on “Gaunt Street” (39). Thus his home, which
seemed safely apart from the scientific theater, is in fact associated with it.
The reassuring distinctions and resolute differentiations essential to
Utterson’s repression of otherness are dissolved by the elision of inner and
outer. All the world becomes a stage, as the drama of the unconscious is
enacted in the “anatomical theatre” (88). Utterson, “though he enjoyed the
theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years” (29). Nor does he
realize that he has done so when he visits the anatomical theater for “the first
time” (51). What Utterson has done is to bring together aspects of his life
and personality carefully segregated and repressed. He has moved back
through time, not only to his theater days but, since the anatomical theater
is in effect a classroom, to his school days. What he will learn about now is
body, the gross anatomy precluded by his celibate life. What he will be
subjected to, what he will have an opportunity to learn (at last) about, is the
animal in Jekyll and in all patriarchs, the Hyde in the doctor’s laboratory.
Whether Utterson—and Lanyon, who is “theatrical” (36)—will indeed learn
from the opportunity is a question that cannot be answered until the end of
Stevenson’s novella.
What can be established now is that the blurring of distinctions extends
outward to involve professionalism itself. Medicine and pharmacology,
which seem so oriented to the cerebral and rational, are in fact a springboard
into humanity’s common pool of the unconscious. “Watery green” (79) is the
ultimate color of Jekyll’s potion because a sea change rife and strange has
occurred within him. The watery potion is his “sea of liberty” (86). When he
enters this realm, “a current of disordered sensual images running like a
millrace” in his fancy carries Jekyll to “freedom of the soul” (83). The
resulting “solution of the bonds of obligation” (83) indicates how the
unconscious threatens all distinctions. “Solution,” especially in the rationalist
context of lawyers and doctors, suggests conscious cerebration with its chains
of logical thinking; but in the watery pool of the unconscious, “solution”
means the opposite. It means dissolution, and indicates the dissolute.
The underwater realm beneath the theater’s cupola is in effect this
watery green potion of Jekyll. Everyone swims in the same fantasy, because
everyone shares the same unconscious. Merging or dissolving of oppositions
characterizes all of befogged London, where “nine in the morning” can
resemble “twilight” (48), where “this mournful reinvasion of darkness”
118 William Veeder
inverts our most basic categories so that daytime London becomes “some
city in a nightmare.” The dissolution of distinctions in the solution of the
unconscious finds its ultimate emblem in the home of Henry Jekyll. Critics
have noted how the very different faces of the house—patrician entrance hall
and ratty back door—reflect Jekyll’s two roles of patriarch and nightstalker.
As these are the two roles of one man, however, Stevenson cannot allow even
an architectural dichotomy to remain intact. Front and back, which seem so
different, are also alike. The entrance hall and the laboratory each features
oak presses (41, 70); the presses in the hall are called by the name applied to
the lab, “cabinet” (41); and the flooring at both ends of the house is flagstone
(41, 71).
The impossibility of keeping the laboratory’s antisocial experiments
distinct from the foyer’s hospitable welcome is emphasized by another
feature of Jekyll’s house. The “anatomical theatre” (88) is also known as “old
Dr. Denman’s surgical theatre” (76). Denman is the primal father, the absent
origin.13 Henry Jekyll may not seem to derive from him, Jekyll’s “tastes being
rather chemical than anatomical” (51). But the very word that jekyll applies
to his laboratory, “cabinet,” can mean “a den of a beast” (Jefford 69). That
Jekyll’s chemical tastes liberate Hyde’s animality (beast as ape, den man as
troglodyte) is revelatory not only of the doctor and the patriarchy but of late-
Victorian society as well. In this period arise the sciences of anthropology
and psychology. Darwin’s tracing of human anatomy back to animal origins
is complemented by anthropological and psychological attributions of social
practices and emotional states to comparably archaic sources. The den is the
origin of society.
Not only does patriarchal man derive from the den man, but patriarchy
in its late-Victorian manifestation derives expressly from Denman. Dr. Jekyll
inhabits the older doctor’s house. Patrilineal succession—in keeping with
Stevenson’s view of the essentially bourgeois character of patriarchy in the
nineteenth century—is not hereditary. It is professional. Jekyll effects
succession through purchase rather than primogeniture, establishing a
continuity of disciplines rather than of blood. As the professional son of
Denman, Jekyll is the immediate heir to the primal den. Denman’s “theatre”
is also called “the dissecting rooms” (51) because what Stevenson dissects is
the archaic nature of the life transferred from every father to every child, our
residual savagery. The patricidal and fraternal rage that I will argue for in
Jekyll and Hyde find their origin here. Freud posited the origin of civilization
in the sons’ slaughter of the father and their subsequent slaughter of
themselves. Only then was the father exhumed as law and incorporated as
conscience. And only then was patriarchy possible. Stevenson might
subscribe to some such myth about the origins of society, but he would stress
how inadequate conscience, patriarchal laws, and professional etiquette are
in controlling the deepest antagonisms still raging in all us children of the
night.
II. MALE TIES AND MEMBERS’ WARS
The men of Jekyll and Hyde do not recognize the blurring of distinctions that
implicates them in the other and that constitutes the general context of their
lives. We readers are thus in a position of relative superiority to Jekyll’s circle.
What we see in particular is that the patriarchy’s unconscious participation in
Hyde threatens society itself because rage is directed not outward—through,
say, imperialistic ventures—but back into communal life. In turn, communal
safeguards, especially professionalism and friendship, function not to
channel and contain but to screen and foster these destructive emotions.
Males who should bond with fathers and brothers participate unconsciously
in the oedipal anger and the sibling rivalry enacted by Edward Hyde. It is in
light of the failure of male bonds that I will interpret the patriarchs’ failure
to marry—and thus the absence of women—in section 3.
Oedipal conflict and sibling rivalry are not obvious on the plot level of
Jekyll and Hyde, where no fathers or brothers appear. Nor have scholars
tended to see the novella in these terms.14 Focusing first on the oedipal, I will
begin with two passages that seem to me central to Stevenson’s view of
parent–child relations.
Today in Glasgow my father went off on some business, and my

mother and I wandered about for two hours. We had lunch
together, and were very merry over what people at the restaurant
would think of us—mother and son they could not have supposed
us to be. [L1, 76]
[Aboard a steamer] mine eye lighted on two girls, one of whom

was sweet and pretty, talking to an old gentleman.... So I sidled
up to the old gentleman, got into conversation with him and so
with the damsel; and thereupon, having used the patriarch as a
ladder, I kicked him down behind me. [L1, 30]
Louis is thus capable of seeing mother as object of desire, and of imagining

himself dispatching a rival “patriarch.” Desire proclaims itself in the
Dedication to A Child’s Garden of Verses, where Louis’s beloved nurse,
120 William Veeder
Cummy, is called “my second mother, my first wife.” Rivalry with older men
appears also in print, as Stevenson recounts (in the third person) his dream
of the son of a very rich and wicked man, the owner of broad
acres and the most damnable temper. The dreamer (and that was
the son) had lived much abroad, on purpose to avoid his parent;
and when at length he returned to England, it was to find him
married again to a young wife, who was supposed to have suffered
cruelly and to loathe her yoke.... Meet they [father and son] did
accordingly.... they quarrelled, and the son, stung by some
intolerable insult, struck down the father dead. No suspicion was
aroused; the dead man was found and buried, and the dreamer
succeeding to the broad estates, and found himself installed
under the same roof with the father’s widow, for whom no
provision had been made. (“A Chapter on Dreams”)
Homicidal antagonism cannot be contained within the dream world or the

essay’s pages. Louis and Thomas Stevenson depict hostility in shockingly
lethal terms. Thomas, who informs Louis that “you have rendered my whole
life a failure.... I would ten times sooner see you lying in your grave than that
you should be shaking the faith of other young men” (Furnas 66; Calder 69),
goes on to lament to Margaret, “I see nothing but destruction to himself—
as well as to us .... Is it fair that we should be half murdered by his conduct?”
(Calder 134). Louis reciprocates. “I say, my dear friend [Fanny Sitwell], I am
killing my father—he told me tonight (by the way) that I have alienated
utterly my mother” (L1, 80). The last half of this sentence is as important as
the first. Killing the father is counterproductive because the more the son
fights for mother, the more she sides against him. Louis recognizes both the
inevitability of father–son conflict (“a first child is a rival,” he tells Gosse [L1,
277]) and the inevitable defeat of children of happy marriages. “The children
of lovers are orphans,” he says sadly enough (Calder 21).
What seems to me most telling about Louis’s recognition of his inevitable
defeat is that the recognition makes no difference—and that he knows this. Louis
persists in the damned old war among the family members regardless of its
outcome. Compulsion, the repeatedly repressed but inexorable recurrence of
desire, is what oedipal conflict teaches him about the human psyche. Guilt and
shame and resignation and love for the father whose love for him Louis never
seriously doubted: all these forces cannot keep back an antagonism that surfaces
in ways as diverse as the surfacings of oedipal rage in Jekyll and Hyde. For example,
unable to appropriate Thomas’s woman, Louis shifts to the professional level and
takes what he can get. Editing his father’s presidential address to the Royal Society
of Edinburgh leaves Louis “feeling quite proud of the paper, as if it had been
mine” (L2, 263). At other times, Louis uses the profession of writer to appropriate
the father figure himself, turning the patriarch into the son whom Louis can then
dominate. “When I have beaten Burns, I am driven at once, by my parental
feelings, to console him with a sugar plum” (L1, 274).
To assume professionally the role of adult is more difficult for Stevenson
in his fiction and poetry before Jekyll and Hyde. The patricidal protagonist of
“Markheim” cannot escape sonship. And in the Garden of Verses, desire and
antagonism are expressed through a persona perennially filial.
We built a ship upon the stairs

All made of back-bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of sofa pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.
....
We sailed along for days and days,
And had the very best of plays;
But Tom fell out and hurt his knee,

So there was no one left but me.
[“A Good Play” 1–4, 11–14]15
The poet with the father named Tom can throw his rival out, but he knows
that isolation, not mother, is the reward. Is she in the front bedroom, the
master(’s) bedroom, where the real father sails real billows on softer pillows?
And my papa’s a banker and as rich as he can be;

But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I’m to do,
O Leerie, I’ll go round at night and light lamps with you!
[“The Lamplighter” 6–8]
For though father denies it, I’m sure it [a stone] is gold.
But of all my treasures the last is the king.

There’s very few children possess such a thing;
And that is a chisel, both handle and blade,
Which a man who is really a carpenter made.
[“My Treasures” 12–16]
122 William Veeder
Wealth, the ultimate source of power in bourgeois patriarchy, is what the

father as banker possesses and what the father as debunker of the stone
denies to his son. In both cases the son rebels not by taking wealth directly
from the father (such an emasculation would be too daunting) but by
discovering alternative, superior values. “When I am stronger” means on the
manifest level “stronger than I am now,” but it suggests “stronger than
father.” Meanwhile, the son must be satisfied with Family Romance. Father
is replaced by “real” men who do things rather than simply possess or
debunk. The lamplighter illuminates for the boy the night where the father
has hitherto held sway; the carpenter provides for the boy the tool to
penetrate what has hitherto been barred. Reversed here is the usual pattern
of the Family Romance where the child fantasizes moving up the social scale
(my real parents are the King and Queen). Stevenson as upper-middle-class
son envisions a move down to proletarian surrogates who (like D. H.
Lawrence’s gamekeepers) are capable of genuine puissance. The profession
of the father is associated with impotence by the son who aspires to but
obviously has not yet achieved professional status himself.
In both poems, the poet who is speaking through the boy has a wry
distance that he shares with the adult reader. We know that the stone is not
gold, that the boy will not become a lamplighter. This adult perspective
could lead to what I defined in my introduction as essential to professional
maturation for Stevenson: a comparable realization of the persistence and
consequences of unresolved oedipal emotions in adult life. Wryness does not
function this way in the Garden, however. Distancing effects proximity. As
the verses are less about childhood than about an adult musing on childhood,
so wryness acts to reinforce the fiction of our superiority to “childish”
perceptions. Stevenson and we can then reexperience “childhood” realities.
By indulging both in the desire/rage of oedipal emotions and in the guilt
consequent on them, Stevenson allows himself and his readers to remain in
thrall to the immaturity that we do not really want to escape.
Such regressiveness is not entirely harmful for Stevenson, however. His
very sense that his regressive inclinations are shared by his adult readers
means he has a critical perspective on adulthood as well as on childhood. He
has defined the basic fact upon which Freud founded psychoanalysis—that
adult difficulties derive from childhood traumas. Stevenson told William
Archer: “The house [of life] is, indeed, a great thing, and should be
rearranged on sanitary principles; but my heart and all my interest are with
the dweller, that ancient of days and day-old infant man” (L2, 294). To dwell
on this dweller is what Stevenson must do after the Garden and “Markheim.”
He must avoid self-defeating self-indulgence and must present the regressive
desires of adulthood in terms of their deleterious consequences for society

and self.
Oedipal rage seethes beneath the professional surface of Jekyll and

Hyde. I will first discuss Henry Jekyll and the way Hyde expresses his pre-
and postlatency rage against two “father”s—Carew and Lanyon. I will then
show how Jekyll’s anger is replicated throughout patriarchy, in the persons of
Richard Enfield and Gabriel John Utterson.
When Henry Jekyll says of his first drinking of the potion, “that night
I had come to the fatal crossroads” (85), he is saying more than that he had
crossed the Rubicon. Readers who hear echoes of Oedipus’s famous
crossroads here can find confirmation throughout Jekyll and Hyde. “Hence
the apelike tricks he [Hyde] would play on me ... burning the letters and
destroying the portrait of my father” (96). Like so many statements by
patriarchs in the novella, this one implies a strong disjunction—he ruined my
father’s portrait. In fact, Hyde is expressing Jekyll. As a “child of Hell” (94),
Hyde is not only hellish but childish.
I was the first that could plod in the public eye with a load of
genial respectability, and in a moment, like a schoolboy, strip off
these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of liberty. [86]
Jekyll intends his metaphor to express liberation into a freer future, but “like
a schoolboy” confirms the regressive nature of his transformation into Hyde.
Hyde’s physical littleness (“little” is the first adjective applied to him [30])
serves in part to indicate immaturity. His “little room in Soho” (87) suggests
a nursery, especially in contrast with the “tall proportions” of Jekyll’s
“[bed]room in the square” (87). Hyde’s ludicrous appearance in Jekyll’s too-
large suit suggests a little boy dressing up in daddy’s clothes. And so, when
we read that “Jekyll had more than a father’s interest; Hyde had more than a
son’s indifference” (89), we can interpret the “more”s as Jekyll cannot. Hyde
has more than a son’s indifference because he has a son’s rage; Jekyll has more
than a father’s interest because he has a son’s interest. As oedipal conflict
appears first in childhood and then reappears after latency, Jekyll’s oedipal
conflicts are dramatized in two successive events separated by an interval of
quiescence. Regressive rage erupts when Hyde “in no more reasonable spirit
than that in which a sick child may break a plaything” (90) kills Sir Danvers
Carew; this rage, recathected in postlatency terms of professionalism and
friendship, then strikes down Dr. Lanyon.
Carew is, as we have seen, a model patriarch who radiates “an innocent
124 William Veeder
and old-world kindness of disposition” (46). What fiend could kill so

exemplary a gentleman? “There is of course no motive,” Jefford maintains
(70–71). Since every act is motivated, the apparent absence of provocation by
Carew and the patent excessiveness of Hyde’s reaction encourage us to look
to the unconscious. What we see is a dramatization of the son’s psyche, a
playing out of oedipal, patricidal fantasy. Though “madman” and “ape-like”
are applied to Hyde (47), these conventional explanations mask the true
nature of a rage articulated initially by “stamping with his foot” (47). This is
a gesture of petulant immaturity. In this context, Carew’s exemplary nature
marks him as the enemy whose slightest provocation will set Hyde off. And
provocations do appear amid Carew’s politenesses. Compare Stevenson’s
presentation of the men meeting—“the older man bowed and accosted the
other” (46)—and an alternative version. “The older man bowed and greeted
the small gentleman [this is Stevenson’s epithet from the previous sentence].”
My version is consistently benign. Stevenson’s verb “accosted,” which can
mean to assault as well as to greet and to proposition, introduces the
possibility of some aggressiveness from Sir Danvers. Stevenson’s noun, “the
other,” suggests the alienation that would make Hyde hypersensitive to such
aggressiveness. Or to condescension. “Something high too, as of a well-
founded self content” (46) characterizes this man of “high position” (46) who
towers above the “very small” Hyde (46). Does Carew seem high-handed to
the embattled other?
The older man bowed and’ accosted the other .... from his
pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his
way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was
pleased to watch it. [46]
In his commentary on this scene, Jekyll exclaims, “I declare, at least,

before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime ...” So
far, Jekyll seems singlemindedly orthodox, but his sentence is not over. “...
guilty of that crime upon so pitiful a provocation” (90). For all his
abhorrence of Hyde, Jekyll will not indict him unilaterally, will not absolve
the fathers completely. “So pitiful a provocation” establishes that there was
some provocation. The maid’s narrative, with its “sometimes,” “only,” and
“but,” suggests that something more than “inquiring his way” must have
occurred. For help in understanding what this is, we can look to the maid
herself.
Why is the viewpoint in the murder scene female? Why is she
positioned in the setting as she is? Why does she act (and not act) as she
does? Answers in terms of mimesis do not account for the specifics of the
scene as effectively as a reading in terms of fantasy projection. The viewpoint
is female in part to assure the reader’s sympathy for Carew through our
empathetic response to her sympathy for him, but the maid’s sympathy is
complicated. Since woman’s traditional association with sensitivity and pity
would warrant her (and our) deeply emotional response to homicidal
horrors, why does Stevenson go on and make this particular maid
“romantic”? In addition to the answer that Peter K. Garrett has offered,
another is suggested by the maid’s positioning in the scene. With the woman
up at the second floor window, the two men approach from opposite ends of
the street and stop “within speech (just under the maid’s eyes)” (46). The
three figures form a triangle. The woman at the apex, the contending males
squared off along the base: it is the classic oedipal configuration. Set in the
place of the mother, the maid belongs to a patriarch, “her master” (46), and
yet she is available to filial fantasy since she lives “alone” (46). Thus, although
she is “romantically given” (46), she is not given to the patriarchy in any
expressly sexual way that would preclude appropriation by the son.
Positioning her “upon her box” (46) at the open window emphasizes her
sexuality and availability.
Her actions and nonactions are, in turn, appropriate to her fantasy role.
Why does she not cry out for help for Sir Danvers, and why does she faint
for nearly three hours (47)? If she were positioned where Hyde could hurt her
for crying out, fear would explain her silence and preclude any explanation
in terms of oedipal fantasy. But situated safely above, the maid cannot be
attacked by Hyde. We can therefore view her conduct in terms of the son’s
wish fulfillment. Silence implies consent. Mother does not cry out because
she is captivated by the son’s puissant attack on the weak father. Her fainting
then functions as the next stage of the fantasy. Like the “little death” of
orgasm, fainting attests to the son’s adequacy as replacement for the father.
Fainting also constitutes maternal complicity in the son’s subversive assertion
of himself, since she cannot call the police until Hyde has safely vanished
from both the neighborhood and his Soho flat.
Since any situation of Hyde reflects an unconscious emotion of Jekyll’s,
we can suspect in the doctor an obsession with mother, too. With Jekyll, this
link between the patricidal and the oedipal is more obliquely placed for
several reasons, one of which is that he has on the conscious level repressed
mother so completely that no female counterpart to the maid is possible.
There is neither a picture of mother nor saved letters from her, as with
father. There are, however, textual details that evoke questions. Why does
Stevenson choose for Jekyll’s chemist the bizarre name “Maw” (65)? Orality
126 William Veeder
is stressed throughout the novel in the patriarchs’ consumption of wine and

in Jekyll’s drinking of the potion. Orality enters the murder scene at the
moment of death. “Tasting delight in every blow,” Jekyll/Hyde “mauled the
unresisting body” (90). Especially in light of “mauled,” “Maw,” which
literally means mouth, suggests the ultimate source of oral satisfaction, Ma.
The basically regressive nature of Jekyll’s orality is expressed agonizingly in
his cry, “find me some of the old” (66). Jekyll yearns to return to the old
source of oral satisfaction. But he cannot. His biological mother is apparently
dead, and, worse still, Jekyll is not dealing with her at Maw’s. Men are in
charge of Maw’s, the “Messrs. Maw.” Moreover, “the man at Maw’s was main
angry” (66). Why?
Jekyll has accused him of impurity. Jekyll’s assumption that the new salt
is “impure” (65) prompts him to demand “some of the old,” purer substance.
Later he realizes that it was the old which was tainted by some “unknown
impurity” (96). This problem with the salt is of course essential to the
eventual failure of Jekyll’s pharmacological “experiment” as a scientific
endeavor, but the psychological forces that impel him to experiment in the
first place are also illuminated by the salt. On this level we have what Freud
defines as characteristic of the son’s response to parental sexuality
(particularly primal scene fantasies).16 Mother’s possession by father is seen
as violent and unclean. In Jekyll and Hyde what is presented in narrative
terms—the man at Maws is very angry because he will not admit to impurity
in his products—can be read in psychoanalytic terms as the father denying
the son’s interpretation of marital relations as impure. The angry father
wants the son to both remove his interrupting presence and restrain his rival
passion. The son must banish mother as an object of desire. Jekyll does this
so absolutely that mother appears nowhere in the novella. Desire for her
lingers, however, and reappears in Jekyll’s initial desire for pure chemicals
from the old times. “A return to the old days before I had made my discovery”
is how Jekyll describes his reaction to his first public transformation into
Hyde (92; my italics). Finally, however, Jekyll must accept the fact that desire
is impure from the first. Does this acceptance, which every boy undergoes,
lead in Jekyll’s case to a sense that all subsequent relations with women are
impure? Certainly the man who mentions no mother marries no wife.
Another death follows Sir Danvers’s. To what extent is Lanyon a victim
of murder? Critics have recognized an increasing violence in Hyde—ten
years without incident, then the trampling of the girl, then the murder of
Carew. Does Hyde’s post-Carew career extend this trajectory of violence?
Carew as a legislator, a lawmaker, can be seen as representing the Law to the
son in the familial context. Like the Lacanian Absent Father, Carew
represents interdiction to the son whose immaturity is manifest in the

petulant rage with which he kills the father. Hyde takes the cane out with
him on the night of father killing, as he did not on the night of the girl’s
trampling, because only now—with the Father—is the Phallus at stake.
Lanyon, on the other hand, is not a legislator, but a professional peer. His
association with the law comes through his role as articulator of the ethical
standards appropriate to a profession in late-Victorian Britain. Hyde must, in
turn, articulate antagonism in this postlatency situation in terms other than
childish rage. To understand how murder is effected here, we should pause
at the latency period between the two deaths.
Jekyll after Carew’s death does not simply resume his former existence.
He expressly returns to clinical medicine as opposed to the pharmacological
“research” that has marked his career over the last dozen years and that has—
crucially—alienated him from his friend Dr. Lanyon. As a clinician once
more, Jekyll “laboured to relieve suffering ... much was done for others” (92).
Others are also served by Jekyll’s return to his friends as “once more their
familiar guest and entertainer” (56). We are told explicitly that at Jekyll’s
January 8 dinner “Lanyon had been there” along with Utterson and that “the
face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the
trio had been inseparable friends” (56). Returning to friendship and to
clinical medicine constitutes a patching up of Jekyll’s dual rupture with
Lanyon. “The great Dr. Lanyon” is exclusively a clinician who “received his
crowding patients” in his house on “Cavendish Square, that citadel of
medicine” (36). Thus Lanyon—despite the fact that he is Jekyll’s peer in age
and distinction—stands forth as the patriarch when he speaks for medical
orthodoxy in denouncing Jekyll’s deviation into pharmacological
experimentation.
... it’s been more than ten years since Henry Jekyll became too
fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind.... I have
seen devilish little of the man. Such unscientific balderdash,”
added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, “would have
estranged Damon and Pythias.” [36]
Jekyll’s angry response to Lanyon’s oft-expressed strictures can, in turn, be

seen in terms of the professional disagreements which shaped the
development of Robert Louis Stevenson and of all too many sons.
“I never saw a man so distressed as you [Utterson] were about my

will; unless it was that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he
128 William Veeder
called my scientific heresies. O, I know he’s a good fellow—you

needn’t frown—an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see
more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant,
blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than
Lanyon.” [43]
Jekyll’s patching up of both his personal estrangement from Lanyon and his
professional disengagement from orthodox medicine fares like most patch
jobs. Pressure builds to the point of explosion.
“Lanyon, you remember your vows: what follows is under the

seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been
bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have
denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have
derided your superiors—behold!” [80]
That the speaker here is not Jekyll but Hyde establishes powerfully the
nonmimetic, fantasy quality of the scene. Hyde, we are told, “was indifferent
to Jekyll” (89); Hyde is, moreover, not a doctor. Thus in terms of mimesis
there is no “our” profession that binds Hyde with Lanyon, as there is no
reason for Hyde to care about either Lanyon’s “material views” or Jekyll’s
“transcendental medicine.” The scene of Lanyon’s death makes sense as
fantasy, however. Hyde expresses that professional rebellion against
repressive authority that is no more resolved within patriarchy than the
earlier physical rage was. The “you who have derided your superiors” is the
patriarch who in the son’s eyes pretends to a professional adequacy he
patently lacks. At issue is again, still, mastery. Hyde murders Lanyon, as he
did Carew, by preying on the victim’s weakness. As Carew had no defense
against Hyde’s cane, Lanyon is helpless before verbal assault.
“And now,” said he, “to settle what remains. Will you be wise?
will you be guided? ... Think before you answer, for it shall be
done as you decide .... if you shall prefer to choose, a new
province of knowledge and new avenues of fame and power shall
be laid open to you ... and your sight will be blasted by a prodigy
to stagger the unbelief of Satan.” [79]
In this rhetorical masterpiece, Hyde makes diverse appeals—to professional

advancement (“new avenues to fame and power”), wonder (“a prodigy to
stagger the unbelief of Satan”), free will (“if you prefer to choose”)—which
Lanyon cannot possibly resist. “I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable
services to pause before I see the end” (80). By getting Lanyon to—in
effect—commit suicide, to die in response to stimuli embraced rather than
thrust on him, Jekyll/Hyde gets patriarchal professionalism to confirm its
own inadequacy. Lanyon, so the son’s logic goes, deserves to die because his
own weakness is what does him in. “Your superiors” are thus both Jekyll as
transcendental scientist and Jekyll as rhetorical son. More violent than the
killing of Carew insofar as it exploits human weakness more fiendishly, the
oedipal murder of Lanyon is linked directly with Carew by Lanyon’s last
words—“the murder of Carew” (80).
Mother for the postlatency Jekyll/Hyde is represented by Hyde’s
housekeeper. Her materialization after the Carew killing indicates how
desire for mother is recathected and played out in the ongoing fantasy, the
accelerating trajectory of violence. That the housekeeper functions primarily
on the level of fantasy is emphasized by her relative superfluity on the level
of narrative, where she does only two things—admit Utterson and
Newcomen to Hyde’s flat and announce Hyde’s doings on the previous night.
Utterson/Newcomen as the law could readily have gotten a search warrant
to enter the flat; and its ransacked state testifies eloquently to Hyde’s
previous doings there. Moreover, nothing about either the housekeeper’s
actions in the narrative or her more general domestic chores requires the
text’s stress on her age as “old ... old” (49). Seen in light of her first
incarnation in the oedipal fantasy as the maid, mother as housekeeper has
aged dramatically. Why? Mother’s principal role in the postlatency son’s
fantasy is no longer expressly erotic. She must now believe in his adult
adequacy in the face of patriarchal disapproval. Margaret Stevenson
wounded Louis deeply by siding consistently with Thomas in the battles over
profession and religion. As Louis put it, “you were persuaded [that I] was
born to disgrace you” (L2, 193). Hyde’s housekeeper has a similar conviction
of filial failure.
A flash of odious joy appeared on the woman’s face. “All!” said

she, “he is in trouble. What has he done?”
Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t
seem a very popular character,” observed the latter. “And now my
good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about
us.” [49]
The housekeeper who initially presented “an evil face” (49) is now “my good
woman” because she shows that her allegiance is ultimately with the law, with
130 William Veeder
patriarchy. However intensely the son fantasizes his appropriation of mother

and her approval of himself, he knows deep down that her heart belongs to
daddy. The housekeeper’s “smoothed” face (49) recalls the “smooth-faced
man of fifty” who is the idol of patriarchy, Henry Jekyll (43); her “silvery hair”
(49) resembles the “white hair” of both Lanyon and Carew (36, 46); and her
“manners” are “excellent” (49) in accord with patriarchal practice and
preference. As Jekyll’s smooth professional surface is betrayed by “something
of a slyish cast perhaps” (43), the housekeeper’s face is smoothed “by
hypocrisy” (49). Hypocritical mother has never really, the son knows, been
part of his patricidal project, any more than that project can effect true
emancipation from oedipal anxiety. Not only does patricide preclude the son’s
transition from mother to father, but anger at mother taints his continued tie
to her. Misogyny, celibacy, and homosexuality are tangled in this tie to
mother, as we will soon see. First, however, I must establish that the oedipal
dilemma itself is endemic to all of patriarchy, that Stevenson’s indictment of
oedipal regressiveness has full cultural force because Hyde enacts the anger
and desire of not only Henry Jekyll but all men in Victorian society.
With Richard Enfield, oedipal antagonism surfaces suddenly in a

sentence that begins innocuously enough. “I feel very strongly about putting
questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. You start
a question and it’s like ...” (33). So far, Enfield has simply stated his dislike of
prying. His point is clear, and sufficiently orthodox that nothing more need
be said. When more is said, therefore, it speaks to another issue altogether.
“... it’s like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and
away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland
old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the
head in his own back garden and the family have to change their
name. No sir ...”
This eruption is as peculiar as the unconscious itself. Striking down the

father here presages the Carew killing. Since there is no essential, inevitable
link between prying and killing, Enfield’s apparently irrelevant simile must
be powerfully relevant to him. As Jekyll is safe from prosecution after the
Carew murder because his dirty work against the old man is done by his
other, so the agent in Enfield’s simile is safely removed (“you sit quietly”)
from an act that destroys an “old bird” and that is done by “others.” Enfield’s
simile thus achieves the same result as Jekyll’s potion. “No sir.” Father is
extirpated.
Moreover, “the family have to change their name.” Why? Preserving

one’s good name is an obsession in Jekyll and Hyde, but the only real threat
to one’s name is perpetration of or complicity in disgraceful acts. Since the
family in Enfield’s metaphor is patently victimized by a freak accident, why
would their name be endangered? Where is their complicity? Enfield
obliterates the family—renders it nameless and therefore nonexistent as a
family—at the moment of the father’s extirpation because the extinction of
genealogy itself is the ultimate aim of oedipal rage. The universality of this
antidomestic anger is established by the “you.” Enfield’s interlocutor, his
immediate “you,” is Utterson, whose patricidal anger we will soon study, but
the generalizing force of Enfield’s simile extends “you” out to all of us
complicitous children. The victimized father is “the last you would have
thought of” because you cannot examine the simile closely enough to
recognize whom you are in fact thinking of killing off. “You” is Enfield too,
of course, any son as metaphor maker. “The day of judgment” is indeed at
hand, and the son “on the top of a hill” is looking down like God the Father
on the doomed father. The son is doubly safe—because he now is “high” and
because the whole thing has been only a metaphor, a mere figure of speech.
The oedipal antagonism of Jekyll’s fellow patriarchs is announced
through Richard Enfield, but the ultimately maternal orientation of
patriarchy requires for its presentation the ampler occasion of Gabriel John
Utterson. He, unlike Enfield, is implicated directly—as opposed to
metaphorically—in patricidal rage. Hyde, having killed Carew with the
lawyer’s stick (48), behaves bizarrely afterward in ways that confirm his link
with Utterson. Why does Hyde not dispose of the obviously incriminating
“other half” of the murder weapon, and why does he leave it specifically
“behind the door” (49)? “The other,” the phrase common to Hyde, Jekyll,
and Utterson, appears here because Hyde as other has expressed the
patricidal desire of the other owners of the cane, Jekyll and Utterson. The
stick is not disposed of, is waiting for Utterson to find it, because it is (still)
his stick, his weapon, the expression of his unconscious desires. The stick left
“behind the door,” rather than, say, flung into the fireplace with the
checkbook, emphasizes Utterson’s parallel with Jekyll who changes into
Hyde—thus achieving the transformation that Utterson can only partake in
projectively—behind the door of his laboratory.
Also like the regressive Jekyll, Utterson is characterized by orality. On
the first page of the novel, we learn that Utterson is sociable “when the wine
was to his taste” and that he drinks gin when “alone, to mortify his taste for
vintages.” Since Utterson does not drink to excess, why does mortification
occur to him at all? His dour religiosity is an obvious answer, but I think
132 William Veeder
there is a deeper reason, a tension reflected in Utterson’s name. As the utter

son, the devoted heir of patriarchy, he utters the truths of the fathers (as
solicitor and as editor-narrator); but as udder son he remains regressively
oriented to the breast.17 His orality is a trait that Nabokov has stressed
(“everything is very appetizingly put. Gabriel John Utterson mouths his
words most roundly” [180]). Jefford rightly finds wine associated in the novel
with domesticity and warmth, but whereas Jefford concludes that wine
represents Stevenson’s social ideal (52–54), I find this ideal undercut by the
compensatory aspect of Utterson’s drinking. For example, the Printer’s Copy
of Jekyll and Hyde offers the following revelatory moment:
He [Utterson watching Jekyll’s back door] made long stages on

the pavement opposite, studying the bills of fare stuck on the
sweating windows of the cookshop, reading the labels on various
lotions or watching the bust of the proud lady swing stonily
round upon him on her velvet pedestal at the perfumers; but all
the time still with one eye over his shoulder, spying at the door.
Utterson’s unconscious is imaged forth here. That a son is barred from

mother—thus creating feelings of oral deprivation—is represented by the
window glass that bars Utterson’s way to oral gratification. The “sweating ...
cookshop” associates warmth (and physicality) with food, while the “bill of
fare” on the window indicates that Utterson cannot reach either. As a man
literally out in the cold, he cannot get beyond the perceptual and verbal to
the sensual and nutritious. “Bust,” which of course means “statuette” on the
manifest level, locates the maternal focus of Utterson’s latent desires.
That preoedipal oral desire for mother coexists in the patriarchal
psyche with oedipal anxieties about father is reflected in the two-directional
nature of Utterson’s gaze in the street scene. He is not only looking directly
at the bust but also “spying” on Jekyll’s door “with one eye over his
shoulder.” That Jekyll can be the oedipal father to Utterson as well as the
oedipal son in his own fantasy life is facilitated by Stevenson’s presentation
of the doctor as the very embodiment of patriarchy—“M.D., D.C.L., LL.D.,
F.R.S., &c.” (35). With professional degrees in law as well as medicine and
with a loyal Society fellowship as well as a thriving practice, Jekyll as “a tall,
fine build of a man” (66–67) stands forth impressively to speak for the
fathers. “I was born ... to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent
parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of the wise and good
among my fellowmen” (81). Against so representative a patriarch Utterson
directs the patricidal antagonism characteristic of the oedipal son. Though
he can only spy furtively on the domestic door of Henry Jekyll the sleeping
patriarch, Utterson can breach with impunity the professional door of Dr.
Jekyll the errant scientist. What the breach reveals is what we have seen
throughout Jekyll and Hyde—that the professional is a screen for the
domestic.
The candle was set upon the nearest table to light them [Utterson
and Poole] to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath to
where the patient foot was still going up and down, up and down
in the quiet of the night.
“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see
you .... if not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your own
consent, then by brute force!” .... The besiegers, appalled by their
own riot and the stillness that had succeeded, stood back a little
and peered in. There lay the cabinet before their eyes in the quiet
lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on the hearth, the
kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, pages neatly
set forth on the business table, and nearer the fire, the things laid
out for tea; the quietest room you would have said.... [69–70]
Of the many odd aspects of this scene, the one I want to begin with is
its domesticity. Nothing about a professional laboratory requires the quiet
lamp and good fire, the kettle and tea. What we have bodied forth here, as
we did with the bust in the perfumer’s window, is the subconscious of Gabriel
John Utterson. For him, Jekyll/Hyde is father/mother in cozy domesticity.
Only by seeing the break-in as a kind of parlor primal scene can I explain why
Utterson is “appalled.” The scene seems, morally speaking, a simple case of
sheep versus goat; the forces of order bring into containment the force of
disorder. Yet Stevenson reverses the polarities. Utterson is the “loud” one,
Hyde the “patient.” The echoed words “quiet ... quietest” link Jekyll/Hyde’s
domestic harmony with nature’s evening. Since right is apparently on
Utterson’s side, why is he the one associated with “riot”? An answer lies in
Utterson’s cry, “let our name be vengeance” (68). Ostensibly Utterson is
responding with righteous indignation. “I believe poor Harry is killed, and I
believe his murderer ... is still lurking in his victim’s room” (68). But the
scene works more complicatedly than this. The very word “vengeance” in so
allusive a novella evokes the biblical warning, “Vengeance is mine, saith the
Lord” (Romans 12:15). Prohibitions against taking matters into one’s own
hands are, in this case, equally strong on the legal side. Utterson is justified
in breaking down the door only if he is saving Jekyll’s life. If poor Harry is
134 William Veeder
dead already and Edward Hyde is still in the room, Utterson must call the
police. Hyde cannot escape in the interim because the room’s only windows
are barred and its only doors are blocked by Poole, Utterson, Bradshaw, and
the knifeboy. The riot that “appalled” Utterson is instigated by more than
anger at Hyde killing Jekyll. Utterson through his surrogate Poole is
directing against Jekyll the oedipal “vengeance” that Jekyll directed against
Carew through Hyde. For Utterson, Jekyll is father at this moment.
Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the
building, and the red baize door leaped against the lock and
hinges. A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the
cabinet. Up went the axe again, and again the panels crashed and
the frame bounded; four times the blow fell; but the wood was
tough and the fittings were of excellent workmanship; and it was
not until the fifth, that the lock burst in sunder, and the wreck of
the door fell inwards upon the carpet. [69]
This moment echoes the murder of Carew. As the murder weapon was of
“tough and heavy wood” (47), the door’s “wood was tough”; as Carew’s
beaten “body jumped upon the roadway” (47), the beaten “frame bounded”;
as Carew’s “bones were audibly shattered,” the “panels crashed.” Utterson is
acting out that oedipal rage which Stevenson in “The House of Eld” figured
so graphically in terms of wood and axes. “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.”
To understand a second way in which traditional male bonds are

sundered, in which regressive violence is directed within the patriarchy, we
should consider Utterson’s antagonism toward Jekyll’s other self, Edward
Hyde. Fratricidal, not patricidal, rage is at work here, as another of the
sacred ties of patriarchy is snapped. Stevenson, though an only child, knew
sibling rivalry as well as oedipal rage. His sentence to Gosse from which I
excerpted earlier reads in full: “A first son is a rival [of the father], a second
is a rival of the first.” Sibling rivalry is hard for Stevenson to avoid because,
as his biographers have detailed, he cannot avoid falling in love with older
married women who have children. What I want to stress is the consequence
of this tendency to make the beloved into mother and thus the lover into son:
other sons become rivals. Having told Fanny Sitwell expressly that “you have
another son” in himself (Calder 74), Louis goes on to establish his sonship in
and through the extirpation of Fanny’s own son, Bertie. “And now I think of
you reading it [my letter] in bed behind the little curtain, and no Bertie there,
I do not know what longing comes over me to go to you for two hours”
(Calder 74). With Fanny Stevenson, matters are much the same, as she
realizes. “I love ... to see my two boys so happy” (Furnas 342). Louis and
Lloyd were devoted to one another (even to the point of collaborating on
fiction), but given Louis’s insatiable demands for affection and attention, how
could he not know moments of resentment at Fanny’s devotion to the
biological son who never ceased depending on her for financial as well as
emotional support? “The war in the members” involves all family members.
Sibling rivalry characterizes patriarchal behavior in Jekyll and Hyde
through what critics have never discussed—Stevenson’s manifold allusions to
Genesis. The biblical tales of Cain and Abel and of Esau and Jacob feature
sons fighting for paternal approbation. Cain’s desire to win the “respect” of
God the Father (5:4) leads to the murder of Abel; Jacob’s determination to
win the “blessing” of Isaac (27:16) results in the disaffiliation of Esau. Alerted
to fraternal rivalry on page 1 of Jekyll and Hyde when Utterson expresses
approval of “Cain’s heresy .... I let my brother go the devil in his own way,”
we soon encounter allusions to Esau and Jacob. (These rival brothers are
expressly established by Stevenson as the prototypes of the sibling rivals, in
The Master of Ballantrae.) Jacob’s famous dichotomy—“my brother is a hairy
man, and I am a smooth man” (27:11)—is replicated in Jekyll and Hyde. Like
smooth Jacob, Jekyll is “smooth-faced” (43). Like Esau, whose “hands were
hairy” (27:23), Hyde’s hands are “thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair”
(88). Esau from birth is Hyde-like, since he comes forth “hairy all over like
a hair-cloak” or hide (25:25). As Jacob appropriates this cloak (in effect) by
putting animal hides onto his hands and neck (27:16), Jekyll can “assume, like
a thick cloak, that [body] of Edward Hyde” (86). Jekyll’s “red” potion (79),
which transforms him into Hyde, recalls the “red pottage” (25:30) that
achieves a comparable effect for Jacob, who is in effect transformed into
Esau—by being made heir—once the elder brother consumes the red
substance.
The very fact that Esau is the elder brother, however, indicates that
Stevenson has dealt complexly with his source. He has reversed the whole
biblical situation, insofar as the relative ages of his characters should require
the pairing of Jekyll with Esau and Hyde with Jacob. And there are ways in
which Jekyll is Esau and Hyde Jacob. Jekyll is linked to the hirsute Esau by
his nickname “Harry” (68). Like Esau’s “good raiment” (27:15) which is
appropriated by Jacob, Jekyll’s “rich and sober” suit bedecks Hyde. Finally
the elder, homicidal Cain of the biblical story is paired in Stevenson’s story
136 William Veeder
not only with the younger Hyde who murders with a cane, but also with the
elder doctor who owns the cane and is named “je kyll.”
Complicating the parallels between fictional characters and their
biblical counterparts enables Jekyll and Hyde to avoid the simple dichotomy
of the biblical parables. Genesis’s message of “two separate nations”
(25:23)—Abel versus Cain, Jacob versus Esau—confirms that myth of the
chosen people and thus that exclusion of the other, which is the basic myth
of patriarchy. Stevenson insists that the other is the only nation. Patriarchs
in Jekyll and Hyde harbor toward one another the same fraternal rivalry that
we see in Genesis. Jekyll, for example, intends to express devotion to his
lifelong friend Lanyon by saying, “there never was a day when ... I would not
have sacrificed ... my left hand for you” (74). The idiom is “my right hand.”
Jekyll’s compliment is left-handed because patriarchs, despite their ostensible
unity, put self before brotherhood, make brother into other. Utterson is
sincerely shocked at Carew’s death and sincerely concerned for Jekyll’s
welfare, but on a deeper level his conduct reflects Cain’s question, “Am I my
brother’s keeper?” (4:9). Utterson considers “the death of Sir Danvers ...
more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde” (56). Utterson enacts
Cain’s heresy and lets his brother Carew go to the devil (or to St. Peter) in
his own way—provided that Hyde goes to hell, too.
Hyde, though considerably younger, is Utterson’s sibling rival. As the
younger brother Jacob appropriated Esau’s birthright, Hyde poses a
comparable threat to Utterson, who returns obsessively to the spectre of
Hyde as “heir to a quarter-million pounds sterling” (48). Like Cain, who
expresses his fear of disaffiliation in Hyde-like terms—“from Thy face shall
I be hid” (4:14)—Utterson fears that he will be hidden by the younger man
inheriting. (“Agents of obscure enterprises,” as well as “shady lawyers” [40],
are taking over Jekyll’s neighborhood.) Lawyer Utterson is thus not simply
being his brother’s keeper (or attorney) when he admonishes Jekyll about the
will. Obsessed with the possibility that Hyde will inherit, Utterson uses
professional concerns to screen his refusal to participate in disinheriting
himself. The Printer’s Copy indicates how friendship as well as
professionalism screens his obsession. “He made up his mind to even stretch
friendship in so good a cause.” The Notebook Draft emphasizes how
emotional the discovery of the codicil is for the supposedly “cold, scanty”
(29) lawyer.
On the desk of the business table [in Jekyll’s laboratory], among

a neat array of papers, a very large envelope was uppermost, and
bore, in Dr. Jekyll’s hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer
tore it open and as his hands were shaking with emotion, the
enclosures fell to the floor. The first was a will, ...
That Utterson replaces Hyde in the codicil to the will (72) proves to be an expensive
triumph. Jekyll, as well as Carew, must pay for the disappearance of Mr. Hyde.
III. MISOGYNY AND HOMOSEXUALITY
We have seen so far that patriarchs in Jekyll and Hyde fail to live up to their
traditional obligations of maintaining proper distinctions and of effecting
filial and fraternal bonds. Their third failure—to marry—involves a
misogyny that derives, like the other patriarchal failures, from unresolved
ambivalences toward mother. Here again Stevenson manages to transform
materials from his own life into a critical portrait of his times.
Robert Louis Stevenson has been widely and quite properly acclaimed
for his “chivalry” toward women—his tenderness to Cummy, his deference
toward the fair sex generally and his defense of prostitutes in particular, his
devotion to Fanny Sitwell as “Madonna,” his concern for the reputation of
the precariously poised Mrs. Fanny Vandegrift Osbourne. There are,
however, darker emotions as well. Antagonism toward woman is particularly
surprising in Stevenson when it strikes the much cooed over Cummy.
Having assured her that “God will make good to you all the good you have
done,” Louis cannot end his sentence without adding, “and mercifully
forgive you all the evil” (L1, 37). Resentment here, like oedipal rage, carries
over into Stevenson’s fiction. “John Knox goes on, and a horrible story of a
nurse which I think almost too cruel to go on with: I wonder why my stories
are always so nasty” (L1, 177). The two-pronged attack on the spiritual
father of Scotland and the surrogate mother of Louis continues for more
than a month. “I have been working hard at John Knox, and at the horrid
story I have in hand, and walking in the rain. Do you know this story of mine
is horrible; I only work at it by fits and starts, because I feel as if it were a sort
of crime against humanity—it is so cruel” (L1, 178).
That the crime is not against “humanity” is probably what prompts
Stevenson to eventually destroy the nurse story. Repression operates even
more powerfully on anger at mother herself. When Thomas lashes Louis
with having “utterly alienated” Margaret, the father is not only indicting the
son for unnatural cruelty. He is also reconfirming his own conjugal bond
with Margaret—and thus her “betrayal” of her son. Louis feels the pain of
mother’s preference no less than the power of father’s possession.
138 William Veeder
My Dear Mother,—I give my father up. I give him a parable....

And he takes it backside foremost, and shakes his head, and is
gloomier than ever. Tell him that I give him up. I don’t want such
a parent. This is not the man for my money.... Here I am on the
threshold of another year, when, according to all human
foresight, I should long ago have been. resolved into my
elements; here am 1, who you were persuaded was born to
disgrace you—and, I will do you the justice to add, on no
insufficient grounds—no very burning discredit when all is
done.... There is he [Thomas], at his not first youth, able to take
more exercise than I at thirty-three, and gaining a stone’s weight,
a thing of which I am incapable. There are you: has the man no
gratitude? There is Smeoroch [the dog]: is he blind? Tell him for
me that all this is
NOT THE TRUE BLUE! [L2, 193–94]
How symptomatic it is—Louis sincerely desiring to relieve paternal gloom,

and then capitalizing on his failure in order to attack Thomas. But more is
being expressed here than oedipal rage. Mother too is attacked. “You were
persuaded [I] was born to disgrace you.” The alienating force of maternal
doubt (Margaret stuck by Thomas in all the battles with Louis) is
compounded by Mother’s status as father’s possession. “There are you: has the
man no gratitude? There is Smeoroch: is he blind?” Especially highlighted by
the syntactic parallelism, the equation of mother with dog reduces marriage
to a master–pet and even to an animal relationship. Biological maternity is
rejected outright when Louis tells his Madonna, Mrs. Sitwell, that “nobody
loves a mere mother as much as I love you” (Calder 76).
The virtual exclusion of woman from Stevenson’s pre-1890s fiction is at
times explained away by him. Treasure Island, for example: “no women in the
story, Lloyd’s orders; and who so blithe to obey? It’s awful fun boy’s stories; you
just indulge the pleasures of your heart, that’s all” (L1, 61). This explanation
opens itself to some nice objections, but there is a more direct line to take.
When Lloyd Osbourne’s peers are not the readership of a novel and yet the
novelist continues to exclude women, there is obviously a continuity between
the children’s and the adult enterprises. The violence inherent in such exclusion
of woman bursts forth in 1886 when Edward Hyde is roaming the night streets.
Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box of lights. He

smote her in the face, and she fled. [94]
Since Jekyll remembers all the other particulars of his day as Hyde (the hotel
was in Portland Street, the letters were sent registered, etc.), why is he
unsure what the woman offered Hyde? A woman who walks the streets late
at night asking men if they need a light is offering quite another type of
box.18 And Jekyll (and Stevenson’s readers) know it. Jekyll does not want to
admit that the violence of Hyde’s response is directed against female
sexuality, for such an admission would confirm misogyny too starkly.
Hyde’s first act of violence partakes of misogyny, since Stevenson
makes the trampled child female. Though we know she is on the streets
because she is on an errand of mercy, Hyde’s violence to her presages his
treatment of the streetwalker. Patriarchy is implicated in the girl’s injury
because Enfield’s response to her and to her female partisans emphasizes the
complicity of his narration in Hyde’s violence. “Then [after the collision]
came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the
child’s body and left her screaming on the ground” (31). Is any reader of this
sentence prepared for Enfield’s next remark? “It sounds nothing to hear.”
That Enfield goes on to add “but it was hellish to see” does not unring the
bell. Enfield’s first sentence has been horrible to hear. Although modesty at
his storytelling prowess is probably Enfield’s rationale for the disclaimer “it
sounds nothing to hear,” he nowhere else apologizes for narrative skills that
are obviously first rate. “... her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing
to hear....” Enfield’s sequence of words turns a deaf ear to the girl’s screams.
Downplaying her suffering mitigates Hyde’s offense in the same way that
Enfield did earlier when he presented the girl as the violent “other” and
made Hyde the one proceeding “at a good walk.”
Adult females fare still worse in Enfield’s subsequent narration.
We told the man we could and would make such a scandal out of
this.... And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were
keeping the women off him as best we could, for they were wild
as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces. [32]
No wonder the women were not invited to breakfast. What we do wonder is

whether the women are actually more violent than the men. “Harpies”
suggests a different order of virulence from “pitching it in red hot.” Is Hyde
actually more endangered by the women than by the men? Or are the men
“keeping the women off” him in order to keep him to themselves in Enfield’s
chamber? “They were as wild as harpies. I never saw such a circle of hateful
faces.” Enfield might defend himself from charges of misogyny by insisting
that the “circle” here is a sweeping indictment of red-hot men as well as
140 William Veeder
women harpies. But Enfield’s syntax prompts a more exclusive reading.

“They ... harpies ... hateful faces.” Our equation of women with hateful is
particularly likely once Stevenson deletes from the Printer’s Copy the next
clause of the sentence: “I declare we looked like fiends.”
Comparable doubts about Utterson’s attitude toward women surface
when another night woman appears. “It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of
March, with a pale moon lying on her back ...” (63). Sexual innuendo would be
precluded if Stevenson did here what he does in his letters—keep gender out
of the description altogether. “There was a half-moon lying over on its back ...
a very inartistic moon that would have damned a picture” (L1, 194). Instead,
the Jekyll and Hyde sentence emphasizes gender by associating “her” with
clouds “of the most diaphanous and lawny texture” (63). The erotic evocation
of diaphanous nightwear is complicated by the violence of describing clouds as
a “flying wrack”—evoking the meaning of “wrack” as “wreck/destruction” and
recalling the other violent night flights in the novella.
Whose description, whose perception, is all this? Since Utterson is the
ostensible point of view in the chapter, is he the source of the bizarre image
of the moon on her back? Certainly Utterson has already projected on reality
a vision of commercialized sexuality.
The inhabitants [of Jekyll’s bystreet] were all doing well ... laying
out the surplus of their gains in coquetry, so that the shop fronts
stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows
of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more
florid charms ... the street shone out in contrast to its dingy
neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest. [30; my italics]
This description ends with the conventional, Chamber of Commerce notion

that “with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general
cleanliness and gaiety of note [the street] instantly caught and pleased the eye
of the passenger.” Why, then, does Stevenson introduce language so
unconventional with chamber of commerce descriptions, so redolent of
female sexuality and so suggestive of prostitution and rampant passion? Since
Enfield and Utterson are walking down the street, are we to assume that the
description of it reflects the tendency of men professional and misogynistic
to associate commerce with whoring? Since this street is the site in the
Notebook Draft of “the bust of the proud lady ... at the perfumer’s,” does
bust in the service of commerce show woman as whore? Lloyd Osbourne
spoke for the patriarchy: no women.
That patriarchs in Jekyll and Hyde are too misogynistic to wed may
explain why there are so few women in the novella, but it does not explain
why patriarchs are misogynistic. To begin to answer this question, I must
complicate things further. Men antagonistic to women are attracted to men.
Jekyll and Hyde fit quite obviously into a long tradition of male doubles—
from Caleb Williams and Falkland, Frankenstein and the Monster, and
Robert Wringhim Cowan and Gil Martin, to Eugene Wrayburn and Bradley
Headstone, and on to Dorian Gray and his picture. Jekyll and Hyde draws on
this tradition for both structural and psychological components. Structurally,
the interchange between a pair of men—as in the Cain/Abel and
Damon/Pythias stories foreground by Stevenson—shapes the staging of or
constitutes subject matter in every scene in the novella:
Cain and Abel (29), Utterson and Enfield (29), Enfield and Hyde
(31–32), Utterson and Lanyon (36), Damon and Pythias (36),
Utterson and Hyde (37), Mr. Hyde and Mr. Seek (38), Utterson
and Poole (41), Utterson and Jekyll (43), Hyde and Carew (46),
Hyde and the servant Maid’s master (46), Carew and Utterson
(47), Utterson and Newcomen (49), Utterson and Jekyll (51),
Utterson and Guest (53), Utterson and Enfield (60), Utterson
and Poole (62–73), Utterson and Lanyon (74), Lanyon and
Jekyll/Hyde (77–80).
In terms of psychology, the homoerotic element so prominent in the

tradition of the male double recurs in Jekyll and Hyde. “There was
something queer about that gentleman,” Poole says of Hyde (68).
Homosexual inclinations areas occluded as they are intense in Jekyll and
Hyde, because patriarchs contribute to their culture’s repressions of
inversion, even as they incline toward it. “The more it looks like Queer
Street, the less I ask,” Enfield admits (33). But repression cannot thwart
desire absolutely. What happens to language in Enfield’s and Poole’s
sentences—the traditional Victorian connotation of “queer” as “odd”
shading into its later connotation of “homoerotic”19—occurs also in the
psyches of patriarchs and in the plot of the novella, as celibate men replace
women with one another. Take, for example, the fact that Hyde is called
Jekyll’s “favorite” (48). Would Utterson be so worried about a blackmail
threat to Jekyll, would the doctor be so vulnerable to disgrace, if his secret
related only to women? Especially in light of other features—both the
general context of public school friendships (“old mates at school and
college”) and the specific situation of Hyde entering Jekyll’s domain from
142 William Veeder
the rear, and from a “by-street”20—Nabokov’s response to “favorite” is

appropriate.
Favorite ... sounds almost like minion. The all-male patterns that
Gwynne has mentioned may suggest by a twist of thought that
Jekyll’s secret adventures were homosexual practices so common
in London behind the Victorian veil. Utterson’s first supposition
is that Hyde blackmails the good doctor—and it is hard to
imagine what special grounds for blackmailing would there have
been in a bachelor’s consorting with ladies of light morals. Or do
Utterson and Enfield suspect that Hyde is Jekyll’s illegitimate
son? ... But the difference in age as implied by the difference in
their appearance does not seem to be quite sufficient for Hyde to
be Jekyll’s son. Moreover, in his will Jekyll calls Hyde his “friend
and benefactor,” a curious choice of words perhaps bitterly ironic
but hardly referring to a son. [194]
The point as I see it is not that patriarchs “really are” homosexual, as

though this were one state, but that late-Victorian professional men feel
emotions that they can neither express nor comprehend. An aura of
homosexuality serves to signal both the homoerotic nature of many male
bonds and the lethal consequences of them.
He [Utterson] sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest,
his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between them, at a
nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old
wine .... the room was gay with firelight. In the bottom the acids
were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time,
as the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of
hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set
free and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer
melted. [53–54]
Granted that on one level a tender human friendship exists between these
men: friendship cannot account for all the details, the agents of affect, that
appear in the scene. Why, for example, in a scene that ostensibly is pure plot
contrivance—a handwriting expert is brought in to examine Hyde’s script
and, with supreme convenience, is presented with Jekyll’s as well—are there
so many layers of literary materials? “The melting mood” is one of Victorian
fiction’s conventional expressions for emotional surrender, but I have never

seen the expression applied to a man. Utterson melts in a scene almost
parodic of conventional seduction—the irresistible male guest, the cozy
warmth of the evening privacy, the lubricating bottle of wine. Sensuousity in
Utterson’s scene is intensified by the infusion of Keats. As Utterson’s bottle
has “long dwelt unsunned in the foundations,” Keats’s wine in the “Ode to a
Nightingale” “hath been / Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth”
(11–12). Wine that radiates “the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside
vineyards” in Utterson’s passage tastes, in Keats’s, of “the country green, / ...
and sunburnt myrth! / O for a beaker of the warm south” (13, 14–15). Keats
wants to “drink, and leave the world unseen” (19) because a world so
redolent of death makes mockery of the body’s warm sensuality. Utterson too
is “ready to be set free,” but what shackles him is not mortality. “The room
was gay.” Homophobia is the shackle that his body’s deep-buried sensuality
seeks to slip.21
Mr. Guest is not Utterson’s chief object of desire, however. “Familiar
guest” is Utterson’s term for Henry Jekyll (56). Utterson’s scene with Guest
has its counterpart with Jekyll “[who] now sat on the opposite side of the fire
... you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and
warm affection” (43). Genuine friendship obtains between these men, as it
did between Utterson and Guest. But as the word “gay” in the first fireside
scene is echoed by “gaily” in the second (43), so professional concerns mask
personal obsessions in the second scene as they did in the first. Then the
relation of lawyer to clerk screened Utterson’s attraction to this house guest;
now the relation of lawyer to (quasi)client allows Utterson to discuss Jekyll’s
choice of Edward Hyde as his heir. Utterson here is not only dealing with his
sense of Cain—like exclusion from the will but also exploring the reason for
his exclusion—Jekyll’s mysterious “intimacy” with Hyde. Help in defining
this intimacy is provided by another scene where professionalism acts as a
screen in Utterson’s relationship with Jekyll. “The hand of Henry Jekyll (as
you [Utterson] have often remarked) was professional in shape and size; it
was large, firm, white and comely” (87–88). To descant on the beauty of the
beloved’s hands is conventional enough for a lover, but what heterosexual
man speaks, let alone often, about the hands of a man? The Notebook Draft
version sentence reads, “The hand of Henry Jekyll, as we have often jocularly
said, was eminently professional in shape and size; it was large, firm, white
and comely, the hand of a lady’s doctor in a word.” The revisions of the
sentence focus attention on Utterson. He rather than “we” discussed the
hand; no jocularity is admitted; and deletion of the dig at lady’s doctors
precludes any heterosexual link of Jekyll and ladies. What we are left with is
144 William Veeder
Utterson’s sensual and obsessive attention to Jekyll, and the “professional” as

a screen for the obsessional.
Jekyll’s role in the psychology of the novella is thus as overdetermined
as desire itself. The oedipal father and the regressive son is also the male
lover.
... [Utterson] would see a room in a rich house, where his friend
lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door
of that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked
apart, the sleeper recalled, and, lo? There would stand by his side
a figure to whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he
must rise and do its bidding. [37]
This scene, we should note immediately, is not happening, it is being

imagined. We focus less upon the Jekyll–Hyde relationship than upon
Utterson’s relation to it. Although Utterson insists that his friend’s safety is
the issue, there is a deeper concern with his friend’s bondage. The “power”
of Hyde, more than the danger to Jekyll, obsesses Utterson here. This
obsession has the force of duration. The will “had long been the lawyer’s
eyesore.... out of the shifting, insubstantial mists, that had so long baffled his
eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment of a fiend” (35–36; my
italics). In making his will, Jekyll has lost his will.
Utterson’s long obsession with Hyde’s power is brought into violent
focus on this particular night by the revelation of Hyde’s key: “... whipped
out a key, went in ... ‘You are sure he used a key?’ ... drew a key from his
pocket like one approaching home ... blowing in the key ... ‘Mr. Hyde has a
key.’ ... ‘he still had his key with him’” (32, 34, 39, 41, 67). Beyond the
obviously erotic aspects of whipping out and going in, there is the
possessiveness that these acts signify for Utterson. “His friend’s strange
preference or bondage (call it what you please)” (38). We can call it what we
please because preference and bondage are interchangeable in light of Jekyll’s
will, or rather Hyde’s. Identities merge. “As he [Utterson] lay and tossed in
the gross darkness of the night and the curtained room” (37), he imagines
“the curtains of the bed plucked apart.” The connection between “curtained”
and “curtains” links Utterson’s bed with Jekyll’s, and thus associates Utterson
with Jekyll’s intimacy with Hyde. “The figure ... haunted the lawyer all night;
and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily
through the sleeping houses” (37). The conversion of Jekyll’s house into
houses signals that Utterson is unconsciously imagining Hyde’s entry into
other night places. Is one of these the “gross darkness” of Utterson’s own
repressed desire? His reference to Jekyll’s “strange preference or bondage”

occurs after we learn that the lawyer’s own “imagination ... was engaged, or
rather enslaved” (37).
Utterson is thus attracted to, as well as emulous of, Edward Hyde.
Once Hyde gets Jekyll’s will, he becomes that will. He becomes in effect what
has always attracted Utterson to Jekyll. That Hyde can be seen as the penis
of Jekyll was proposed years ago by Dr. Mark Kanzer. Though I believe
Kanzer is close to the mark, his argument—that Hyde is small and
deformed—seems weak. Kanzer describes as anatomical what is symbolic.22
Hyde is Jekyll’s phallus. Or rather, Hyde represents two contradictory
perceptions of patriarchy: the patriarchal claim to phallic presence, to power,
control, will; and (as we will see in section 4) the opposite, the patriarchal
sense of itself as absent, the reality of impotence and dysfunction. Hyde is the
phallus insofar as Utterson sees him as “the figure to whom power is given.”
Hyde’s possession of the key to Jekyll’s place (in every sense) puts into his
hands the perquisites of patriarchy—ownership, access, ultimately the power
to reify the nonself. Status as Jekyll’s heir in the legal will assures the lawyer
that Hyde can exercise his will over the future as well as the present.
Utterson fosters this power, for he preserves the will in “the inmost private
part of his safe” (35). This detail is so odd that it warrants explanation. Since
Utterson did not draw up the will, since Jekyll’s inheritance is in fact the
responsibility of some other attorney, why does the novella emphasize
Utterson’s role in preserving the document? He must have a symbolic,
psychological relationship with it. However repressive Utterson’s act of
shutting away the will is, and however the document assures his
disinheritance from Jekyll, Utterson’s “private” is the receptacle that keeps
“safe” the will/phallus of the next patriarch. Utterson has no comparable will
of his own.
Why are there no women in Jekyll and Hyde? Because patriarchs seek
men. Why, then, is there the aura of homosexuality and not the fact of genital
intercourse? Because what patriarchs seek in men is mirroring.
Professionalism allows relations to seem “mature” and yet to remain at a
postlatency “adolescent” stage, which in turn replicates the preoedipal stage
of mother–child mirroring. Why patriarchs crave such mirroring, why they
fear truly mature relationships with peer-aged women, becomes clear when
we see what Jekyll sees in his mirror. Edward Hyde. Experiencing “new life
... the raging energies of life ... all his energy of life” (84, 95), Jekyll testifies
that Hyde’s “love of life is wonderful” (96). Jekyll makes evident the most
elemental desires of patriarchy—to thwart death and to effect immortality.
146 William Veeder
“The bonds of obligation ... the dryness of a life of study ... plod[ding] in the
public eye with a load of genial respectability ... the self-denying toils of my
professional life” (83, 85, 86, 91). Jekyll is indisputably bored with
conventional probity and intensely alive to outré pleasures, but he cannot be
explained in terms of any vulgar hedonism. A finer explanation offers itself if
we take another of Jekyll’s self-characterizations—“the elderly and
discontented doctor” (90)—and provide the explanatory causality that
Jekyll’s coordinate syntax cannot acknowledge. “Discontented” because
“elderly,” Jekyll once again uses professionalism to screen his emotional
state. This time what he is repressing is not oedipal rage and regressive desire
but the fear of death that lies behind them both. By saying that he is tired of
being a dutiful doctor, Jekyll expresses his anxiety about tiring, aging.
Jekyll is waging war against time itself. This war involves patriarchy not
only in its specifically late-Victorian, professional manifestation, but also in
its traditional form. Patriarchy presupposes time, constitutes an
accommodation with mortality. Patrilineal succession envisions the
endurance not of an individual but of the tradition. A son gets to become a
father because he accepts the next stage: the handing on of his status to a
younger successor and the going on to death. Jekyll in effect goes back on the
bargain: “... that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices
of life ...” (95). Jekyll fears the inanimate taking over the animate, process
being returned to stasis. “The restrictions of natural life” (91) are what obsess
him. Since body allows for the fragmentation that leads to dissolution (as
opposed to mere dissoluteness), what Jekyll seeks is wholeness. Hyde is the
“idol in the glass” because he is the mirror reversal of life’s very sequence, the
integration sought by the “imperfect and divided” doctor (84). Thus “Hyde
struggling after freedom” seeks the “liberty” (90) of timelessness.
That this “liberty” is called a “sea” links Jekyll’s escape from mortality
to the fluidity images that mark his transformation into Hyde—the “current
of disordered sensual images” that runs “like a millrace” in his fancy (83)—
and thus to his obsession with orality. The Jekyll who “swallowed the
transforming draught” compared himself with a “drunkard” (90). In drink, as
in “the sea of liberty,” Jekyll seeks the ultimate oneness, amnoetic, maternal.
To “spring headlong into the sea” (86) suggests reverse birth, as the
“impenetrable mantle” of Hyde suggests the womb where Jekyll’s “safety was
complete.” The “pangs of dissolution” (85) involve nothing less than the
dissolution of identity itself as a way to dissolve time. In the mirror of mother
is oneness.
Against the attraction of maternal security, woman as wife cannot
prevail. Misogyny, Hyde’s punching the face of the prostitute, is the
inevitable response to peer-aged women whose desires draw the son on to

adulthood and thus to death. The prostitute offers fire, and Jekyll seeks
water. She offers light, and he desires darkness.
IV. CONSEQUENCES AND CONCLUSIONS
Immortality through regression is a doomed dream, and Jekyll knows it.

Notice that he keeps saying “younger” (83, 84; my italics), not young. He
speaks of Hyde’s “comparative youth” (90) because he knows that you cannot
unring a bell. “Lighter, happier in body .... more express and single ...” (83,
84). Jekyll senses the comparative nature of any change in nature. However
restrictive “natural life” is, the struggle against those restrictions is unnatural.
And doomed. The consequences of regression are manifest in Jekyll and Hyde
both immediately (as impotence and dysfunction) and more generally (as
solipsism and nonbeing).
First, impotence. The murder of Carew leaves Hyde “trembling ... and
still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger” (91). Any violent
victory is chimerical. Killing Carew snaps “the stick ... in the middle under
the stress” (47). One half of the stick ending up in “the neighbouring gutter”
(47) suggests that the self-hate which caused the son to assault the father has
only increased, since murder confirms the filial impotence that prompted the
assault in the first place. “Neighbouring” reaffirms the social nature of all
human actions. Hyde may disregard the bonds of patriarchy and strike out
self-aggrandizingly, but he remains in a neighborhood. There are neighbors
to witness his crime; there is within himself the abiding sense of community,
which guiltily directs his broken stick to the appropriate gutter.
The association of guilt with impotence persists as the homicidal
narrative proceeds. Hyde’s apprehensive state soon after the murder of
Carew—“still harkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger” (91)—
reappears months later as he encounters his next victim. Lanyon “bid him
enter, [but] he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the
darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with his
bull’s eye open” (77). Here, as with Utterson, the son’s basic anxieties are
projected onto experience. The association of “bull” with the authoritative
male—and with the law he embodies and enforces—confirms the son’s belief
in the father’s phallic superiority. Castration cannot harm the father because
his superiority neither resides in a specific organ nor abides in a particular
man. Superior by virtue of the son’s perception of his superiority, the father
bull returns still more puissant when filial inadequacy is compounded by filial
guilt.
148 William Veeder
Emasculation, in turn, characterizes Hyde himself. He ultimately

represents less the phallus than patriarchal pretensions to it. Despite all his
“masculine” traits of preternatural strength and animal agility, Hyde is prey
to what the late nineteenth century associated particularly with women.
“Wrestling against the approaches of hysteria” (78), Hyde resembles Jekyll’s
“hysterical whimpering” housemaid (64), just as Jekyll himself (who calls his
fears “unmanning” [58]) is repeatedly characterized by the conventional
feminine trait that marked the maid at the window—“faintness ... half
fainting ... faint ... faintness” (53, 80, 92). Hyde, the erstwhile phallic
predator, is heard “weeping like a woman” (69). Effeminacy marks his “steps
[that] fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing ... different indeed from the
heavy creaking tread of Henry Jekyll” in his patriarchal role (69). How
reminiscent of the moon “lying on her back” is Hyde’s corpse as Utterson
“turned it on its back” (70).
The other half of the shattered cane goes to Utterson because his
association with the subconscious rage expressed through Hyde requires his
association, too, with the guilty impotence of filial failure. Utterson, like
Hyde (and like all “honest” men, the lawyer attests), feels “terror of the law”
when police are near (48). The broken stick that he shares with Hyde
indicates their common guilt and prepares us for Utterson’s version of
Hyde’s impotence–patriarchal dysfunction. Utterson and his peers fail to
assume the leadership that is the responsibility and the glory of patriarchy. In
Jekyll’s absence, his servants are “like a flock of sheep” (63). That they are
looking to the patriarch as Good Shepherd is confirmed when a grateful
servant cried out, “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson” (64). Can Utterson fulfill
this role? Attestations to his decisiveness in the break-in scene (“‘my
shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame’ ... [he] led the way” [68]) are
undercut by moments almost comically indecisive. After announcing to
Poole with a seriousness appropriate to his patriarchal station, “if you say
that [Jekyll is murdered] ... I shall consider it my duty to break in that door,”
and after receiving from Poole the apparently appropriate response of, “Ah,
Mr. Utterson, that’s talking,” the lawyer goes on.
“And now comes the second question.... Who is going to do

it?” ...
“Why, you and me, sir,” was the undaunted reply.
“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer. [67]
Who else would do the breaking in once Utterson announces it as his duty?
“Undaunted” characterizes the servant rather than the lawyer because
Utterson is daunted and daunting. “That’s talking” becomes ironical in light

of the subsequent exchange; Utterson is all talk, whereas Poole’s words are
genuinely “well said” because they bespeak action. Two pages later, Utterson
seems at last galvanized to action and utters the cry, “let our name be
vengeance,” but his very next sentence is, “Call Bradshaw” (68). That the
lawyer actually has a task for Bradshaw does not prevent us from feeling an
immediate drop in intensity here. Even the act of reading is beyond
Utterson. “He caught up the next paper; it was a note in the doctor’s hand
and dated at the top. ‘O Poole,’ the lawyer cried, ‘he was alive and here this
very day. He ...’” (72). After listening to Utterson go on for seven more lines,
Poole speaks for the reader when he intervenes. “Why don’t you read it, sir?”
Utterson’s answer—“Because I fear”—is quite moving as an admission of
what all human beings feel at times. But we cannot be overly impressed with
Utterson here because we recognize that he does not fight back determinedly
against the fear that, unacknowledged, undermines most of what typifies the
patriarchy.
Gentlemanly manners, for instance. Ostensibly one of patriarchy’s
principal tools for handling experience, manners function like professional
etiquette in Jekyll and Hyde, less as a mode of action than as a screen for fears
and rages. In the break-in scene, Poole provides Utterson with the crucial
letter to Maw’s: “‘This is a strange note,’ said Mr. Utterson; and then
sharply, ‘How do you come to have it open?’” (66). At a moment of peril, the
lawyer quibbles about etiquette—and with a servant of unimpeachable
probity who subsequently answers Utterson’s question resoundingly (the note
was opened by the man at Maw’s). What is not answered is why Utterson
asked the question in the first place. He is afraid at every level, and uses
manners and superior rank to turn aside from the crucial, threatening issues.
Earlier in the scene when he confronted the servants huddled sheeplike,
“Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very irregular, very
unseemly: your master would be far from pleased.”
“They’re all afraid,” said Poole. [64]
The servants share Utterson’s “fear,” but rather than admit the common plight
of them all, the lawyer focuses on decorum as a way of venting anxiety while
maintaining superiority. “Peevishly” contrasts with “master” to stress both how
trivial manners are at so dire a moment and how far Utterson is from the
mastery appropriate to patriarchy. A still more invidious contrast establishes
the moral issue involved in manners. Utterson makes a bargain with Hyde:
150 William Veeder
“How did you [Utterson] know me?” he [Hyde] asked.

“On your side,” said Mr. Utterson, “will you do me a favour?”
“With pleasure,” replied the other. “What shall it be?”
“Will you let me see your face?” asked the lawyer. [39]
After Hyde masters his disinclination to comply, he insists on the other half
of the bargain.
“And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?”
“By description,” was the reply.
“Whose description?”
“We have common friends,” said Mr. Utterson.
“Common friends!” echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. “Who
are they?”
“Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer.
“He never told you,” cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. “I
did not think you would have lied.”
“Come,” said Mr. Utterson, “that is not fitting language.”
The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh. [39–40]
Hyde is three times called “the other” here, but the liar is Utterson. Hyde
does the gentlemanly thing and keeps his bargain; Utterson not only fails to
keep his part but resorts to manners when caught red-handed. “Fitting
language” is what the liar insists on. No wonder Hyde laughs.
Utterson with the lie, like Enfield with the breakfast, shows that
patriarchs will do whatever they wish, and then insist on a veneer of “proper”
conduct. That such self-indulgence is not only inherently weak and morally
wrong but potentially fatal is attested to by Lanyon during Hyde’s midnight
visit. Besides giving Hyde a lesson in manners—“‘You forget that I have not
yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated.’ And I showed him an
example, and sat down in my customary seat” (78)—Lanyon seeks to control
the situation by other traditional guarantors of order. “As I followed him into
the bright light of the consulting room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon.
Here, at last, I had a chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him
before” (77). Lanyon has never seen anything like Hyde, yet the doctor is
relying on traditional defenses. “The bright light of the consulting room”
represents the light of reason that this positivist clinician trusts in to
illuminate life’s mysteries. And if reason should fail, there is always force.
Lanyon’s weapon being “old” (77) suggests both that violence is an age-old
patriarchal solution to problems and that this solution is old-fashioned,
outmoded. “Self-defense” Lanyon indeed needs, but what he needs defense

against is his self. Hyde is a threat only to the extent that Lanyon cannot
resist his own curiosity. Though the doctor maintains his gentlemanly
facade, “affecting coolness that I was far from truly possessing” (79), he has
no more self-control than the rest of the patriarchs. “I have gone too far in
the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end” (80). What he
sees is Jekyll, and it ends him. Why?
Professionalism functions here to screen the same homoerotic
attractions and ultimate impotence that characterize other patriarchs.
“Under the seal of our profession” (80) occurs most unprofessional behavior
because Lanyon’s “curiosity” and “services” (80) go far beyond clinical
medicine. As little Hyde grows into large Jekyll, Lanyon sees the
transformation as expressly erectile: “there came, I thought, a change—he
seemed to swell” (80). The aura of phallic presence here parodies the fact of
patriarchal impotence. With his life “shaken to its roots” (80), Lanyon soon
dies. Especially in light of Otto Rank’s insight that the return of the double
is the advent of death,23 Lanyon seems doubly doomed because Jekyll and
Hyde are both his doubles. Jekyll the patriarch/scientist is Lanyon’s
reflection in the cultural mirror, so that when Jekyll is also Hyde, Dr. Lanyon
cannot accept his own alterity, cannot accept himself as Hyde too. When the
man named “Hastie” (80) meets a man entering with “haste” (77), he is in
effect confronting his mirror image. And it kills him. Hasty Lanyon is unable
to resist the knowledge proffered by Hyde because that knowledge is already
hidden in the doctor’s unconscious. Characterized before the Hyde scene by
“a shock of hair prematurely white” (36), Lanyon is already shocked by his
unconscious sense of participation in Jekyll’s other side (this is why Lanyon
has inveighed so ferociously against Jekyll’s transcendental medicine). But
Lanyon has never advanced to the maturity of a self-control based on self-
knowledge. Defended only by manners, bright lights, gun, and “the seal of
our profession”—the old weapons of traditional responses—Lanyon, who
has never had to face the Hyde hidden within us all, succumbs to the
epiphany which is self-revelation.
Death does not eliminate all the patriarchs of Jekyll’s circle, but the
consequences of regressive desire do ultimately mark all of patriarchy with a
kind of solipsistic nonbeing.
Next, in the course of their [Utterson’s and Poole’s] review of the

chamber, the searchers came to the cheval glass, into whose
depths they looked with an involuntary horror. But it was so
152 William Veeder
turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow playing on the
roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along the glazed
front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances
stooping to look in.
“This glass has seen some strange things, sir,” whispered
Poole.
“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer, in
the same tone. [71]
Both the staging and the style of this scene are revelatory. Why is the mirror
turned up? How it might have become turned this way—Jekyll/Hyde hit it
as he fell—does not mean that it must be so turned. The odds are better that
a small man falling in a large room would not have hit the mirror. Once
again, setting functions to reveal psyche. The upturned mirror cannot reflect
the dead Hyde on the floor. Utterson and Poole are looking down, bent over
staring into the mirror, but they do not see into “depths.” They see
upward—the “rosy” glow and “sparkling” light of domestic bliss. They are
too frightened, too “pale and fearful,” for their “involuntary” glance to
recognize the reality they want to ignore. Patriarchs who have wanted to
overlook Hyde and death manage to overlook both at this moment of
supposed “depth” perception.
The consequences of rejecting the other are reflected stylistically in
Stevenson’s passage. Compare
But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy

glow ...
and
But it was so turned as to show them only the rosy glow ...
Syntax in Stevenson’s sentence makes us make a mistake. Providing a direct

object to “show” completes a basic syntactic unit. We read: “it was so turned
as to show them nothing.” The construction “nothing but” then carries us on
to the opposite meaning, to what the mirror does show, but the syntax of the
sentence’s initial ten words has given no hint that the “nothing but”
construction will appear. What is the effect of the syntax making us assume
that the mirror showed nothing when in fact it shows to the patriarchs their
very faces?
The “strange things” that the mirror has seen are principally Jekyll and
Hyde, who are each direct reflections and mirrored reversals of one another
as doubles. The mirror is their solipsistic world. Utterson and his double, his
reflecting Poole, are in that world in every sense. Their faces appear in the
mirror because their lives are inseparable from the lives of Jekyll and Hyde,
from the plot of Jekyll and Hyde. Diction emphasizes the reflected and self-
reflexive relation of Utterson and Poole when the lawyer “echoed” the
servant “in the same tone.” Utterson as the uttering son who replicates the
values of the fathers mirrors in his upright life the professional probity of
Jekyll, Lanyon, and Carew; Utterson as the repressed son who cannot find
utterance for anger and oral deprivation is reflected in the rages of Hyde,
who dies by drinking poison.
The conjunction of orality and the cheval glass marks the men of Jekyll
and Hyde as caught in the Lacanian mirror stage. The failure to resolve
oedipal tensions and to unite with peer-aged women leaves patriarchs in
diadic relations (Damon–Pythias, Utterson–Enfield, Utterson–Poole), which
screen the persistence of the mother–child bond. The “imaginary” nature of
homosocial harmony is reflected in the other intimation of Stevenson’s
syntactically ambiguous sentence—that there is nothing in the mirror.
Utterson demonstrates—and indeed constitutes—himself as “nothing” by
his very denial of the mirror. When Poole says, “this glass has seen some
strange things,” and the lawyer replies, “and surely none stranger than itself,”
Utterson singles out the mirror itself as odd. What he is saying on the literal
level—that a cheval glass is unusual in a laboratory—is an evasion on the
psychological level. At this dire moment, many things are stranger than the
mirror. By not in effect accepting his image in the glass, Utterson can deny
his membership in the Jekyll–Hyde group of mirror gazers, the solipsistic,
narcissistic men who see in other men the workings of their own desires.
Utterson’s very verb “echoed” confirms him, however, as a rearticulation of
others. His rejection of the self as other is the ultimate solipsism, the absolute
mirror. As the diadic mirroring with the mother constitutes a denial of
everything outside the relationship, including death, so Utterson’s denial of
his relationship with the mirror as external object confirms his own
imaginary status, his essential nonbeing.
This brings me to one last, epitomizing—because mirroring and
irreflective—quotation from Henry Jekyll. “He, I say—I cannot say, I” (94).
Identity is doubly isolating because Jekyll can think of himself as other when
he should not, and cannot think of himself as other when he should. He is
not Hyde, thus Hyde must be a “he” rather than an “I.” But Jekyll is also not
really I “the elderly and discontented doctor” (90). Because Jekyll cannot
bring together his two selves, his conscious and unconscious, he is neither
self. Thus “I cannot say, I” means more than Jekyll’s inability to call himself
Hyde. Jekyll cannot call himself anything. A patriarchal system that sets out
154 William Veeder
to assure self-definition by excluding undesirables ends up by excluding

itself, through the exclusion of half of every self. If you cannot call the other
“I,” you cannot name yourself.
Stevenson would thus agree with Lacan and others that identity is
mirrored alienation, though he would insist that alienation can become
community if we can accept the alienated and alienating other as the self.
The novella’s patriarchs cannot do this, however. Jekyll, who imagines that
he can banish Hyde “like the stain of a breath upon a mirror” (86), proves as
transitory as his mirror image whose death coincides with his own. The
images of Utterson and Poole are comparable stains on the cheval glass.
They lack depth and permanence because they do not know themselves as
absence. They suffer—on the level of narrative—the fate of Jekyll, who
thinks that the potion which can distinguish him from Hyde means that “my
troubles will roll away like a story that is told” (75). In the end, Jekyll realizes
that his life coincides with his story, that he will die not twitching on the floor
but putting down his pen. “This is the true hour of my death” (96). Utterson
and Enfield do not realize even this. Utterson reads the narratives of Lanyon
and Jekyll in the assumption that meaning and thus being will result, but
what happens is that Utterson fades from the narration, becoming only a
character in Jekyll’s narrative. Enfield is not even named here. He has been
absorbed in the novel’s last word, “end.” What could be conventional—and
thus reassuring and patriarchal—if it were “the end,” becomes an unsettling
reassertion of continuity as “an end.” This end is both final and one of many.
Patriarchy remains a fiction that is over and is still going on.
NOTES
I would like to express my gratitude to colleagues who, as they have done so generously
in the past, gave time and ideas to my work: Richard D. Altick, Lawrence Buell, Frederick
Crews, Paul J. Emmett, Jr., Robert A. Ferguson, Susan M. Griffin, Gordon D. Hirsch,
Lawrence Rothfield, Ronald Thomas, Mark Turner; particularly Lauren Berlant, Lisa
Ruddick, Jeffrey Stern, and Richard Strier. I would also like to thank the seminar on
literature and psychoanalysis at the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis for the help with
a draft of this essay; and the students in my Anglo-American Gothic classes and seminars,
especially Timothy Child, Douglas Jones, and Karen Rosenthal.
1. Though critics have not given detailed attention to any of Jekyll’s peers, they have
at times mentioned ambiguities of characters on which I will focus. Eigner, who calls
Enfield “a sturdy young business man” (188), also lists him among “the ‘down-going
men’” (146). Hennelly, recognizing that Enfield blackmails Hyde as Enfield supposes
Hyde is doing to Jekyll, says, “even Enfield ... is symbolically returning from some Hyde-
like, dark quest beyond civilization and consciousness” (13). See also Nabokov (189) and
Saposnik (111). With Lanyon, the “hasty” aspect has been rioted by Egan (31), the “hide-
bound” by Hennelly (11) and Fraustino (236). Fraustino goes on to attribute Lanyon’s
dilemma to a “society [which] purposely cultivates self-deceit in obscuring from its

Lanyons the truth about themselves” (236). Saposnik concentrates on Lanyon himself as
one who “abandoned Jekyll because he was afraid of the temptation to which he finally
succumbed” (111). Utterson has, expectably, generated the widest range of interpretation.
Most complimentary are Block’s crediting of Utterson with “the acquisition of knowledge
through intense sympathy” (448), Saposnik’s calling him “a partisan in the best sense of the
term” (110), Hennelly’s saying that “only Utterson seems to be finally ‘free’ within such a
cultural straight-jacket [Victorian repressiveness].... Only he achieves, in the tale’s idiom,
the ‘balanced’ ideal” (10, 11), and Heath’s listing Utterson along with Enfield as a man
with a “shaken but healthy identity” (104). Most critical are Miyoshi’s contention that
“there is something furtive and suppressed about him .... [his tolerance] looks suspiciously
like the result not of charity but of indifference” (471); Egan’s, that Utterson “remains to
the end only the bewildered onlooker” (31); and Fraustino’s, that Utterson fails because he
“attempts to articulate reality by means of language” (237).
2. Besides Day and Miyoshi, see Eigner, Fraustino, Hennelly, Saposnik, and Welsch.
3. “Friend” and its derivatives occur on pages 29 (three times), 30, 32 (twice), 35, 36
(four times), 37, 38, 39 (three times), 40, 41, 51, 52 (twice), 53, 56 (three times), 57, 58
(four times), 59 (twice), 66, 72, 74, 75, and 90.
4. Among numerous discussions of patriarchy recently, those particularly helpful to
me have been: Veronica Beechey, “On Patriarchy,” Feminist Review 1 (1979): 66–82;
Christine Delphy, “Patriarchy, Feminism, and Their Intellectuals,” Close to Home, tr. and
ed. by Diana Leonard (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1984), 138–53;
George B. Forgie, Patricide in the House Divided (New York: W. W. Norton and Co., 1979);
Annette Kuhn, “Structures of Patriarchy and Capital in the Family,” in Feminism and
Materialism, ed. Annette Kuhn and Ann Marie Wolpe (London: Routledge and Kegan
Paul, 1978), 42–67; Gerda Lerner, The Creation of Patriarchy (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1986); Catharine A. MacKinnon, “Feminism, Marxism, Method, and the
State: An Agenda for Theory,” Signs 7(1982): 515–44; Roisin McDonough and Rachel
Harrison, “Patriarchy and Relations of Production,” in Feminism and Materialism, 11–41;
Janice A. Radway, Reading the Romance (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press,
1984); Michael Paul Rogin, Subversive Genealogy (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1983); Gayle Rubin, “The Traffic in Women: Notes on the ‘Political Economy’ of Sex,”
in Toward an Anthropology of Women, ed. Rayna R. Reiter (New York: Monthly Review
Press, 1975), 157–210; and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1985).
5. Henry James a century ago noted the absence of women in Stevenson’s work
(Maixner 292). In 1939, Gwynn, calling Jekyll’s circle “a community of monks” (130),
concluded that “a sure instinct guided him [Stevenson]. Insistence on the sexual would
have brought colours into the story alien to its pattern; what he desired was to convey the
presence of evil wholly divorced from good” (131). Stevenson’s “instinct” is defended by
Saposnik with a different argument. “The Victorian era was male-centered; and a story so
directed at the essence of its moral behavior is best seen from a male perspective.... [also]
a peculiarly masculine breed of asceticism” pervades the tale (110). Even Nabokov says
that “a certain amiable, jovial, and lighthearted strain running through the pleasures of a
gayblade would then have been difficult to reconcile with the medieval rising as a black
scarecrow against a livid sky in the guise of Hyde” (194). Day has much more usefully
connected the “striking” absence of women with the sickness of Victorian relations as
156 William Veeder
Stevenson sees them. “In their search for pleasure, Henry Jekyll and Dorian Gray throw
off the feminine world of respectability and thus their pursuit takes on a purely masculine,
sadistic form, finally transformed into the masochism of suicide” (92). Recently Heath has
included the absence of women in his extensive discussion of sexuality in Jekyll and Hyde.
6. Harvie makes an excellent case for Stevenson’s fundamental conservatism. First
locating Stevenson in the general swing to the right that characterized the 1870s and
1880s, Harvie then concentrates on the man himself. Though “Stevenson, fundamentally
always a Tory, did his bit for journalistic Unionism when in 1887 he dreamed up a crazy
scheme of moving his whole family to Ireland.... Stevenson is much more logically
conservative than we generally credit him with being.... Stevenson was, by birth, a Scottish
Tory” (112–13). This group, however establishment-oriented, shared Louis’s “hatred of
pharasaism and humbug” (113). Retaining from his early socialist days “his religious belief,
and an imaginative sympathy—not so much with the poor per se, as with their attitude to
the rich,” Stevenson fairly quickly “became a solidly anti-Gladstonian Tory whose hostility
to Liberalism while less rancid than, say, Rudyard Kipling’s, far pre-dated the split of
1886” (115).
7. Magali Sarfatti Larson, The Rise of Professionalism (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1977), 4, 5.
8. Stevenson mentions these instances of “brown” in “A Chapter on Dreams”;
Kanzer connects them in his interpretation of Stevenson’s psychological life.
9. For critics who discuss “je kyll,” see Egan (30), Miyoshi (473), Saposnik (note 11).
10. Violence also colors Enfield through his name. “Enfield” is both the Sussex site of
the Royal Small Arms Factory founded in the eighteenth century and the weapons
produced there. “Enfield riflemen” and “Enfield skirmishers” were important components
of the British infantry. Stevenson’s fascination with the military was lifelong and is well
documented by his biographers (Furnas 22, 198, 201, 202, 208, 387; Calder 38, 41, 47,
120, 159). Ordnance, in particular, recurs often in Stevenson’s correspondence up through
1886. “Grenades and torpedoes ... artillery range ... big short ... minute guns ... ‘a red
canon-ball’ ... platoon firing ... fire a gun to leaward” (L1, 41, 227, 300; L2, 20, 28, 151).
In addition, there is, of course, Ben Gunn. Enfield’s genealogy is, therefore, long and
violent; what is unique about him is his placement in the ostensibly genteel world of
Victorian patriarchy.
11. From its first entry in 1547 to its most recent, the OED records as the meaning of
“to take to one’s heels” only “to run away.”
12. The maid could be house-sitting for her master during his absence, but the month
of October (46) seems too late for any seasonal vacation and the expression “living alone”
seems inappropriate to house-sitting. The possibility of homosexual innuendo in the
Carew/Hyde encounter is raised by Charyn in his “Afterword” to the Bantam edition of
the novella (New York: 1981), 113.
13. For devolution in Stevenson, see Block and Lawler.
14. Kanzer and Fiedler examine oedipal features of Stevenson’s personality and various
works but do almost nothing with Jekyll and Hyde. Hennelly sees the link to Oedipus but
discusses it only in terms of “self-actualizing choice.... [Jekyll] like Oedipus, chooses his
own fate” (12). Calder is willing to recognize “oedipal jealousy” in Stevenson’s “cry of
exclusion ‘my mother is my father’s wife’” (75), but she resolutely denies Stevenson’s “need
for a mother figure” (70). Why? Because Stevenson desired Mrs. Sitwell sexually. Calder
is unquestionably correct about the nature of Stevenson’s desire for Fanny Sitwell, but
Calder does not allow for the fact that sexual desire can indicate precisely an attraction to
mother, if the son has indeed found a woman who evokes his lingering oedipal and pre-
oedipal desires. Calling Mrs. Sitwell “mother” can both be “part of his later
rationalization” after Fanny declined any sexual liaison (70) and still reveal the reality of
Louis’s initial oedipal/sexual desire for her.
15. In A Child’s Garden of Verses, illustrated by Charles Robinson (Boulder, Colo.:
Shambhala Publications, 1979). Subsequent poems are cited from this edition, with line
references included in the text.
16. Freud’s fullest description of the primal scene is in his analysis of the wolfman
(from the History of an Infantile Neurosis, in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological
Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. 17, tr. James Strachey [London: Hogarth Press, 1964],
particularly “The Dream and Primal Scene,” 29–47). Among critics of Stevenson, Kanzer
is by far the most perceptive about primal scene materials in Louis’s life and work.
17. Critics who concentrate on the lawyer’s first and second names draw
understandably benign conclusions about his character. Hennelly discusses “Gabriel
Utterson’s prophetic narrative like that of his angel namesake” (12); Saposnik finds in him
“a combination of justice and mercy (as his names Gabriel John suggest)” (10). In my
reading of Jekyll and Hyde, the benign potential of Utterson’s first names is undercut by the
nature of his utterances. His story is prophetic in the ironic sense that his inability to see
augers the decline of Victorian patriarchy; justice and mercy are just what he cannot
articulate when the stakes are highest and the threats most immediate. No annunciation is
voiced by this Gabriel who generates neither progeny nor ample insight; little light is
divided from darkness by this John for whom the notion of “in the beginning was the
word” signifies an ironic imprisonment of language.
18. In addition to the tradition that extends from Pandora’s box to Portia’s caskets,
there is the slang association of “box” with the female genital, which Spears calls
“widespread” by the 1900s.
19. “Queer” meaning “male homosexual” has entered “general slang” by the early
1900s, according to Spears; Partridge (8th edition) locates the same meaning “since ca.
1900.”
20. “By-street” occurs repeatedly in the novella where “side street” or even “street”
would have sufficed mimetically. The OED lists “bisexual” as early as 1824, when
Coleridge uses it in Aids to Reflection.
21. Establishing that “no scholarly work has been done on the origins of ‘gay’ in the
sense under discussion [meaning male homosexual, and an embarrassment of riches
complicates its history,” John Boswell locates “gai” meaning “a openly homosexual person”
as early as fourteenth-century France (Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality
[Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983], 43). Stevenson’s excellent knowledge of
French and his presence in the artistic communities of Paris and Barbizon, make his
knowledge of the French usage of gai probable. By “the early 20th century,” Boswell adds,
“‘gay’ was common in the English homosexual subculture.” Stevenson’s acceptance into
Bohemia and into the literary inner circle of Britain, where Pater and Wilde moved with
their followers, where the Yellow Book group and other London aesthetes would flourish by
the early 1890s, and where close friends like Gosse revealed homosexual inclinations,
means that Stevenson’s hearing by 1886 a password common a few years later is highly
likely. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick makes a forceful case for the homoerotic connotations of
the words “gay” and “queer” in Henry James’s turn-of-the-century story “The Beast in the
158 William Veeder
Jungle” (“The Beast in the Closet: James and the Writing of Homosexual Panic” in Sex,
Politics, and Science, Selected Papers for the English Institute, 1983–84, ed. Ruth Bernard
Yeazell [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1984], 148–86). James was of course
in close contact with The Yellow Book and Gosse, as well as with homosexual young men
such as Jocelyn Perse. From my recent immersion in Anglo-American gothic fiction
between 1885 and 1914, I have little doubt that the use of “gay” and “queer” in the
homoerotic sense was widespread in the years before 1900.
Furnas establishes quite properly that Stevenson’s “times allowed friend a significant
warmth greater than ours now permit.... in the 1870’s, particularly in intellectual-aesthetic
circles, ‘friends’ were gloatingly added up and acknowledged claims not dissimilar to,
though less formal than, those of blood-brothers in preliterate cultures” (39). Furnas then
goes on, “let no fool try to read perversion into the above. It is difficult to comprehend
Louis’s relations with Bob Stevenson or Henley or Henry James without understanding
precisely what was meant or not meant by his ability frankly to write, ‘I love you, Henley,
from my soul’” (39–40). Furnas’s defensiveness here highlights the questions that his
rhetoric wants to repress. Calder is less anxious: “It is noticeable again and again, in men
who may well have had no hidden homosexual tendencies (and also in men who did—
Edmund Gosse, for instance) that the male appreciation of Stevenson was often intensely
physical” (65). For me the issue is not whether Stevenson’s friends were latently or actively
homosexual but whether his sensibility and his experience allowed for perception of the
homoerotic bonds that characterize the men of Jekyll and Hyde. Compare, for example,
Stevenson’s response to seeing Henley and Jekyll’s response to becoming Hyde: “the look
of his face was like wine to me” (Furnas 106); “the thought ... delighted me like wine” (91).
Henley’s conflicts with Fanny quite obviously involve rivalry. “Henley was jealous of the
love and time Louis gave to his wife. For it is clear that Henley was, in a sense, in love with
him.... Henley’s jealousy rivaled Fanny’s.... like many others, Henley loved Louis” (Calder
95, 164). Among these others was Sidney Colvin. “(Fanny) believed Louis’s love for Colvin
to equal his love for her. Colvin himself was not above jealousy” (Calder 155). Triangles
were complicated by Louis’s penchant for role reversal. He often configured the maternal
Fanny in startlingly masculine terms. Calling her “my dear fellow” and “My dearest little
man,” he sounds, as Furnas recognizes, an “unusual note ... his letters to her sound almost
like Damon writing to Pythias” (256, 257). In turn, personalities as strong as Fanny’s and
Henley’s draw out the feminine side of Louis, which Henley stressed in the early version
of his famous poem on Stevenson. “With a subtle trace / Of feminine force.... a streak of
Puck, / More Cleopatra, of Hamlet most of all.” That Henley later changed these lines to
“With trace on trace / Of passion, impudence, and energy.... a streak of Puck, / Much
Antony ...” confirms in the very act of repression the “feminine” appeal that Louis
exercised. Stevenson was conscious of this feminine component. He admits to giving
Seraphina “a trait taken from myself” (L2, 338); he recognizes in Alexander’s portrait of
hire “a mixture of aztec idol, a lion, an Indian Rajah, and a woman” (L2, 342–43).
Stevenson’s capacity to envision various roles for himself and others and to evoke and
reciprocate strong emotions in persons of both sexes are for me marks of his exceptional
interest as a human being and sources of his psychological penetration as a writer.
22. Kanzer uses the word phallus but clearly he means penis (“Hyde is small and
possessed of some nameless deformity” [Geduld 122]).
23. Otto Rank, The Double, tr. and ed. Harry Tucker, Jr. (Chapel Hill: University of
North Carolina Press, 1971).
GEORGE DEKKER
James and Stevenson:

The Mixed Current of
Realism and Romance
I n “The Art of Fiction” (1884), Henry James celebrates the novel’s

“immense and exquisite correspondence with life” (79).1 He asserts the
primary claims of observation, firsthand and adult; hence of contemporary
experience and the example of the French realist novelists; of the “work” of
art. In “A Humble Remonstrance” (1884), written in “genial rejoinder” (101)
to Jones’s essay, Robert Louis Stevenson protests that there is a radical
disjuncture between art and life as we normally experience it. He argues for
the priority of imagination and the child’s perspective; for universal
experience and the models provided by romancers of all times and places; for
the “play” of art. If the pattern of oppositions sounds familiar, so it should.
This debate of the 1880’s clearly updates a controversy about the nature and
merits of fictional realism and romance that “novelists” and “romancers” had
been carrying on for nearly a century and a half.2 In turn, James’s
contributions to the controversy have probably done more than anybody
else’s to make it seem worth continuing and to shape its terms for modern
criticism. Although Stevenson’s critical writings have not survived their
occasions, the examples of his bravest romances and braver life challenged
James to move beyond the realist canons of “The Art of Fiction” and work
toward a synthesis that would incorporate the romance values of play,
imaginative freedom, and what he was latex to call “the finest feelings.”
From Critical Reconstructions: The Relationship of Fiction and Life, eds. Robert M. Polhemus and
Roger B. Henkle. © 1994 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University.
159
160 George Dekker
To understand Stevenson’s role in the development of James’s fictional

theory, we must try to see him as James saw him rather than as he appears
from the diminishing perspective of the 1990’s. Few interpreters of James’s
criticism appear to have made this imaginative effort or to have reflected
much on the rich trove that survives from the James–Stevenson
relationship.3 Besides the two manifestoes of 1884, there are over forty
letters written between 1884 and 1894, two long essays on Stevenson that
James published in 1888 and 1900, and numerous allusions demonstrating
that Stevenson’s ideas and example haunted and influenced him to the end.
My aim here is not to survey these materials in any detail but rather to
explain more fully how James and Stevenson differ in “The Art of Fiction”
and “A Humble Remonstrance”; to isolate from James’s writings to and
about Stevenson that special duality which, for James, made him so deeply
appealing and significant—so “great” as a man and author; and to contend
that the preface to The American (1907), James’s most influential and
controversial statement about the realism–romance polarity, is itself best
read as a Romantic ode in prose, with distinct Stevensonian reverberations.
James replied to “A Humble Remonstrance” with a warm personal

letter in which he expressed his appreciation of Stevenson’s “suggestive and
felicitous” remarks and his conviction that “we agree ... much more than we
disagree.” Disclaiming complex or covert aims, James assured Stevenson that
“The Art of Fiction” was “simply a plea for liberty.” While we may be sure
that rather more was involved and that Stevenson was not taken in by this
disarming encapsulation, the frequent appearance both of the words
“liberty” and “freedom” and of their opposites (“proscription,” “a priori,”
“prescription,” “suppression,” “dogma,” etc.) suggests that James’s plea for
liberty is both important in itself and at the root of much else in the essay.
Indeed, as Leo Bersani and others have argued, it is at the root of nearly
everything James wrote.4
The first of the two major liberties James claims for the novelist is
freedom from the restrictive and trivializing expectations of the Anglo-
American reading public. Against the popular conception of the novel as a
form of entertainment dedicated to supplying predictably cheerful endings
and matter suitable for “young people,” he argues that the novelist’s high
artistic “cause” is the same as that of the painter, while the novelist’s
commitment to finding and telling the truth about life is as uncompromising
as the historian’s or philosopher’s (56). “Experiment,” which links the
novelist’s with the scientist’s investigations of life, is another key word. But
the one that echoes through the essay almost as persistently as “freedom” and
its cognates is “serious.”
James probably intended this array of lofty analogies and verbal
repetitions not so much to browbeat squeamish or philistine readers as to
brace fellow novelists against their pressures—and also, of course, against
those of compromising editors. He had often experienced these pressures
himself, as in 1877 when Atlantic Monthly editor William Dean Howells
protested against the unhappy ending of The American. James’s response was
very much in the spirit of “The Art of Fiction” and, as we shall see, the more
interesting because he was later obliged to eat his brave words. If he had
ended his novel with the marriage of Christopher Newman and Madame de
Cintre, he wrote Howells, “I should have made a prettier ending, certainly;
but I should have felt as if I were throwing a rather vulgar sop to readers who
don’t really know the world and who don’t measure the merit of a novel by
its correspondence to the same.”5
Allusions to the once-powerful “Evangelical hostility” to fiction help us
to place “The Art of Fiction” with other passionate (and rhetorically
cunning) “defenses” of the seriousness and moral value of literature, such as
Sidney’s “An Apology for Poetry” or Shelley’s “A Defense of Poetry.” It
belongs as well to another familiar nonfictional genre, the romantic
manifesto, in the claims it makes for a second major liberty for the novelist:
freedom from the restrictive artistic formulas devised by critics on the basis
of past performances by other writers. As Ian Watt explains in The Rise of the
Novel, romanticism and novelistic discourse were intimately related through
their emphasis on individualism and originality, and their resistance to “those
elements in classical critical theory which were inimical to formal realism.”6
The polemic of “The Art of Fiction” is squarely in this tradition.
The immediate occasion of James’s essay was a public lecture, delivered
earlier in 1884 and also entitled “The Art of Fiction,” by the popular novelist
Walter Besant. Although Besant expressed a suitably elevated sense of the
greatness of the novel form, his lecture’s approach to questions of “art,” like
that of other briskly professional progeny of Horace’s Ars Poetica, was
predominantly commonsensical and prescriptive: keep a notebook; young
ladies brought up in quiet country villages should not write about garrison
life; “If you have tried the half-dozen best publishers, and been refused by all,
realize that the work will not do.’” 7 James’s approach is so different that we
may wonder why he recycled Besant’s title. In his opening remarks, James
displays some uneasiness about “so comprehensive a title” (53), but claims to
find a “pretext for my temerity” in Besant’s usage—a deferential gesture that
162 George Dekker
is itself an ironic pretext. So far from a timid following of example, James’s

“copying” is a decisive act of appropriation that says, in effect, that the entire
job must be done over again. It says, too, that the well-meaning Besant did
not understand the meaning of the words—“Art” especially—that he had had
the temerity to use.
For James, “Art” principally means that which cannot be reduced to
practical tips or generic axioms to be passed on from the elder to the rising
generation. Starting from the radically individualistic premise that the ways
novels can be “interesting” (the only “general responsibility” to which they
can be held) are “as various as the temperament of man, and ... successful in
proportion as they reveal a particular mind, different from others,” he
defines the novel as “a personal impression of life” (62). This definition
accords precisely with Ian Watt’s dictum that the “primary criterion” of the
novel is “truth to individual experience.”8 On this showing, traditional
generic distinctions, such as that between the novel and romance, can have
“little reality or interest” (71) or are positively misleading, since each novel
must be a new beginning with its own laws of development. Lest this
privileging of the unique personal impression seem less a liberation from the
dead hand of the past than a crippling limitation for writers who have seen
little of the world, James explains that the direct experience that both he and
Besant call for includes, indeed is inseparable from, imaginative experience.
“When the mind is imaginative—much more when it happens to be that of
a man of genius—it takes to itself the faintest hints of life, it converts the very
pulses of the air into revelations” (66). No less “Romantic” in thought and
vocabulary is his corollary claim that the product of this imaginative
extension of experience is “a living thing, all one and continuous, like every
other organism, and in proportion as it lives will it be found, I think, that in
each of its parts there is something of each of the other parts” (69). Thus
understood, the novelistic work of art might well be said to “compete with
life” (55, 68). James’s plea for artistic liberty culminates in a celebration of the
“splendid privilege” of the novelist to work with a form that has “so few
restrictions” that “the other arts, in comparison, appear confined and
hampered” (84). Such is the plenitude of novelistic fiction, open to all
manner of seeing and rendering life, that “talents so dissimilar as those of
Alexandre Dumas and Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Gustave Flaubert,
have worked in this field with equal glory.”
Very much in the same pluralistic spirit is James’s judgment earlier in
the essay that Treasure Island is “delightful ... it appears to me to have
succeeded wonderfully in what it attempts” (80). However, a thoughtful
reader would be hard pressed to find firm ground in “The Art of Fiction” for
judging Dumas or even Dickens or Austen equal to the author of Madame

Bovary, or for taking the author of Treasure Island seriously. Despite James’s
paean to the imagination and the catholicity of taste he displays, his essay
consists mainly of an eloquent restatement of the doctrines of contemporary
French and American exponents of novelistic realism. It is out of their
window in the House of Fiction that he is looking when he maintains that
the measure of success for novelistic fiction is its “closeness of relation” (75)
to life, its ability to let us “see life without rearrangement,” and when he
ventures that “the air of reality (solidity of specification) seems ... the
supreme virtue of a novel” (67). Wishing to steer clear of the implication that
the novelist is a mere transcriber or copier of life’s surfaces, he allows that
“Art is essentially selection” (75); but wary on the other hand lest selection
be construed to legitimize censorship, he insists that “it is a selection whose
main care is to be typical, to be inclusive.” In sum, a work of fiction is most
a novel, and better for being so, when it is a novel in the tradition of Balzac.
To this tradition Treasure Island obviously did not belong, but the novel
with which James chose to compare it, Edmond de Goncourt’s Chérie (1884),
just as obviously did. Chérie invited the comparison inasmuch as it too
featured a child protagonist, but it was written for an exclusively adult
audience and in fact carried the documentary procedures of French realism
to an unprecedented extreme. Conceiving his role as a novelist to be that of
“a historian of those who have no history,”9 Goncourt had announced in the
preface to La Faustin (1882) that his next novel would be a study of a young
girl’s psychological and physiological development, and appealed to his
female readers to become his collaborators by writing to him anonymously
about their intimate experiences in growing up. Rightly seeing himself
among “the bringers of the new,”10 Goncourt claimed in the preface to
Chérie that the result of this collaboration was a novel lacking in incidents,
reversals, and intrigue, but abounding in interior drama and having its
destined place in the evolution of the novel from the adventure romances of
the early nineteenth century to what would eventually supersede the novel
form itself, “a book of pure analysis.”11
Although James saw the evolution of the novel somewhat differently
and believed that Chérie, like other Goncourt experiments, was more
interesting in theory than practice, he had assimilated much of that theory
and, as Ezra Pound in his generation also would, wished to honor the elderly
French novelist as a major spokesman for the Make-It-New approach to
writing. In juxtaposing Chérie with Treasure Island, then, James was implicitly
invoking a historical and critical schema that left scant room for Stevenson’s
“delightful” little novel. Explicitly, however, he only expressed the
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reservation that in the case of Chérie he could appeal to his own experience
to say “Yes” or “No” (80). “I have been a child, but I have never been on a
quest for a buried treasure, and it is a simple accident that with M. de
Goncourt I should have for the most part to say No.”
To which Stevenson promptly rejoined: “If he has never been on a
quest for buried treasure, it can be demonstrated that he has never been a
child. There never was a child (unless Master James) but has hunted gold,
and been a pirate.... Elsewhere in his essay Mr. James has protested with
excellent reason against too narrow a conception of experience; for the born
artist, he contends, the ‘faintest hints of life’ are converted into revelations”
(94). Both here in “A Humble Remonstrance” and in other essays Stevenson
contends that the imaginative child, trailing clouds of glory, is a primitive
literary artist (“the born artist” precisely) and therefore a proper touchstone
for literary theorists.
This thesis is stated more vulnerably in “A Gossip on Romance,”
written before “A Humble Remonstrance” but published as its preliminary
and companion piece in Stevenson’s 1887 collection of essays, Memories and
Portraits: “The dullest of clowns tells, or tries to tell, himself a story, as the
feeblest of children uses invention in his play; and even as the imaginative
grown person, joining in the game, at once enriches it with many delightful
circumstances, the great creative writer shows us the realisation and the
apotheosis of the day-dreams of common men. His stories may be nourished
with the realities of life, but their true mark is to satisfy the nameless longings
of the reader, and to obey the ideal laws of the day-dream.”12 Thus broadly
and unqualifiedly formulated, Stevenson’s theory of fiction is undeniably
escapist. Nor can it help to explain why one writer, perhaps Stevenson
himself, fits the category of “great creative writer” whereas another, say, a
scriptwriter for Dallas, does not. However, our immediate concern is not
with the adequacy of Stevenson’s theory but simply with what it was and how
it differed from James’s. How are the fundamental relationships between
writer, reader, narrative form, and “the realities of life” reconstituted when
James’s model of the novelist as a specialty imaginative adult observer is
replaced by a daydreamer who combines a child’s capacity for shared
imaginative play with an adult’s awareness of tine “realities of life”?
“Shared” may be the key word. James stresses a novelist’s freedom to
differ in his view of life and art not only from other novelists but from readers
as well, conceding readers the same freedom to differ but not one iota more.
Indeed, the readers posited in “The Art of Fiction” are mainly characterized
as obtuse, sentimental, and interfering, more likely to be satisfied consumers
of Besant’s All Sorts and Conditions of Men than of The Portrait of a Lady. As
might be expected of a writer who reached a far wider audience than either
Besant or James, Stevenson’s emphasis falls on the bond of experience that
reader and author share as people who have learned to read and write, who
have become aware of some of the realities of life, but who have not outgrown
a basic human need to play roles and make up stories.
This bond being granted, the art of fiction becomes (at least at one
level) very practically rhetorical. Counting upon the reader, like himself, to
have “ardently desired and fondly imagined” a life of adventure in youthful
daydreams, the “cunning and low-minded” author of Treasure Island
“addressed himself throughout to the building up and circumstantiation of
this boyish dream. Character to the boy is a sealed book; for him, a pirate is
a beard in wide trousers and literally bristling with pistols. The author ...
himself more or less grown up, admitted character, within certain limits, into
his design; but only within certain limits” (94). To be more or less grown up”
is, for Stevenson, to strike the right balance between survival of the child’s
expansive imaginative faculty and acquisition of the adult’s understanding of
limits and character. As James was later to emphasize, this balance is crucial
to Stevenson’s limited but distinguished achievement as a fictionalist. A
mature moralist and literary technician, he was also one of the preeminent
Victorian mythmakers, and had a profound intuitive understanding of the
contending forces central to the Freudian scheme of human development.
Like Mark Twain, he conducts his boy heroes, Jim Hawkins and David
Balfour, on journeys of adventure such as they (and all children) might have
vaguely imagined for themselves; but he is always aware, and always makes
his adult readers aware, of ranges of experience beyond the boys’ ken—of the
drives, motives, and designs that lie behind a beard in wide trousers.
But the balance achieved in his practice depends in his theory on
qualifiers grudgingly conceded or hastily tacked on. Shorn of these qualifiers,
Stevenson’s is a projective theory of fiction, a sort of nursery version of
Northrop Frye’s. For him, the great fictionalist is the writer who does the best
job of reimagining and retelling what are, at bottom, the same old stories—in
short, and in traditional terms, a “finder” rather than a “maker.” This is the
underlying reason why, at the outset of “A Humble Remonstrance,” he
(misleadingly) maintains that “what both Mr. James and Mr. Besant had in
view” was not the art of fiction but rather “the art of narrative” (87). Since the
stories being narrated anew in novels (as likewise in narrative poems or prose
romances such as Morte D’Arthur) are known to everybody, James’s
individualistic definition of the novel as “a personal impression of life” (62) is
far wide of the mark. In some ways far more old-fashioned than James, in
others he strikes us as much more modern—even modernist. Thus he deals
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with James’s mimeticism by allowing that “circumstantiation” (what Frye

would call realistic displacement) is necessary, but he is scornful of James’s
contention that the novelist can or should try to “compete with life.” Life, he
rejoins, “is monstrous, infinite, illogical, abrupt, and poignant; a work of art,
in comparison, is neat, finite, self-contained, rational, flowing, and
emasculate” (92). At points where he implicitly concedes that novelistic
fiction has a correspondence with the life we wakefully experience rather than
the one we dream, his emphasis falls on the principles of rigorous selection,
abstraction, and simplification—principles common to all the arts, and readily
endorsed by James, but scarcely the hallmark of the novels James most
admired or that he wrote himself.
Although pointedly eschewing any organic analogy, Stevenson agrees
with James that after his own fashion the novelist can compete with life by
creating a work of art with its own wholeness and unity: “For the welter of
impressions, all forcible but discrete, which life presents, it substitutes a
certain artificial series of impressions ... all aiming at the same effect, all
eloquent of the same idea, all chiming together like consonant notes in
music” (91). The analogy with music appears likewise in “A Gossip on
Romance”: “The right kind of thing should fall out in the right kind of place;
the right kind of thing should follow; and not only the characters talk aptly
and think naturally, but all the circumstances in a tale answer to one another
like notes in music.”13 Stevenson was a poet as well as a prose writer, and had
a wonderful ear for the variety and music of English. James, whose ear was
more limited, took little pleasure in vocal or instrumental music but was
deeply responsive to the visual arts. In Stevenson’s fiction, characters are
likely to overhear; in James’s, they always see.
When, years later, James complained that Catriona “subjects my visual
sense, my seeing imagination, to an almost painful underfeeding” (239),
Stevenson responded:
I hear people talking, and I feel them acting, and that seems to me
to be fiction. My two aims may be described as—
1st. War to the adjective.
2nd. Death to the optic nerve.
Admitted we live in an age of the optic nerve in literature. For
how many centuries did literature get along without a sign of it?
(241)
This pithy manifesto of 1893 seems to recall the advice to the novice
fictionalist with which he concluded “A Humble Remonstrance”: “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”
(100). Of course he was right that, in fiction, the nineteenth century was to
an unprecedented degree the age of the particular and the optic nerve; the
massing of visual details was essential to novelistic realism in the tradition of
Balzac. His reasons for mistrusting this development were similar to
Wordsworth’s for deploring the “tyranny” of the eye, “most despotic of our
senses.”14 The eye, riveted on a host of distinct external particulars, had the
power to hold in thrall both the heart that bonded human to human and the
imagination that unified both natural scenes and works of art. Stevenson had
what James called the “hearing imagination” (239) and, for many conscious
and unconscious reasons, he preferred to analogize fiction with music, of all
arts the least directly mimetic and most dedicated to making the right things
fall out in the right places and “answer to one another” like ideal writer to
ideal reader and dream to dream.
How was it, then, that writers so opposed in background,
temperament, theory, and fictional practice soon became fast friends and
mutual admirers? Part of the answer has to be that, although they had less in
common than James wished to acknowledge, they were probably further
apart in their aims and methods when they wrote “The Art of Fiction” and
“A Humble Remonstrance” than at any other point in their careers.
Although we tend to think of the later Stevenson principally as the romantic
rover of the South Seas, his tendency in fiction after Kidnapped (1885) was to
move gradually in die direction of more realistic treatment and more adult
subject matter—to become increasingly preoccupied with what lay behind “a
beard in wide trousers.”15 Adult sexuality, although handled discreetly and
sometimes even coyly in The Master of Ballantrae and Catriona, achieves a
new importance in those novels and becomes central in The Beach of Falesa
and the great fragment Weir of Hermiston. Whereas the author of Treasure
Island had no need of James’s “plea for liberty” and did not mention it once
in “A Humble Remonstrance,” he was forced to permit his candid treatment
of relations between natives and white traders in The Beach of Falesa to be
bowdlerized. Now he lamented: “This is a poison bad world for the
romancer, this Anglo-Saxon world; I usually get out of it by not having any
women in it at all” (266). As for James, neither before nor after 1883–86 was
he nearly so committed to the precepts and procedures of post-Balzacian
realism. Never after The Bostonians and The Princess Casamassima (both 1886)
did he write a novel that smacked so strongly, if intermittently, of Daudet,
the Goncourts, and even Zola.
James once declared that Stevenson was “the sole and single Anglo-
168 George Dekker
Saxon capable of perceiving ... how well [James’s fiction was] written” (188).
Although doubtless a sincere expression of the admiration they felt for each
other as literary craftsmen, this praise probably says more about James’s low
opinion of contemporary critics than about his confidence in Stevenson’s
overall judgment of fiction. In letters to James, Stevenson expressed keen if
usually vague appreciation for many of his works, but clearly preferred
Roderick Hudson (1875) above the rest. In truth, greatly though he admired
James’s technical skills and moral insights, Stevenson sometimes found his
fiction hard going, and succeeded in liking it only by misreading it. James
must have been baffled by some of his friend’s enthusiastic preferences. What
did he make of Stevenson’s “falling in love” with Olive Chancellor (The
Bostonians) and Adela Chart (“The Marriages”), two of his most astringent
studies of female psychology?16 He was obviously distressed by Stevenson’s
impatient judgment that The Portrait of a Lady—so rich in visual detail, so
subtle in its leisurely exposure of motive and relation—was “BELOW YOU to
write and me to read” (166). This outburst was singular, however, in all
senses of the word, and Stevenson was generally able to cope by recalling the
romantic novels of James’s youth, by misreading the later ones, or by
transferring his disapproval to other targets.
A fascinating example of the transference strategy is the short section
he added to the Memories and Portraits version of “A Humble
Remonstrance.” Shifting attention from James, Stevenson identifies Howells
as “the bondslave, the zealot” of the “school” of realist fiction who “thinks of
past things as radically dead” and also “thinks a form can be outlived.”
Summing up his objections to realist doctrine, he contends that “the danger
is lest, in seeking to draw the normal, a lean should draw the null, and write
the novel of society instead of the romance of man.” Sadly, claims Stevenson,
Howells was “of an originally strong romantic bent—a certain glow of
romance still resides in many of his books, and lends them their
distinction.”17
Stevenson’s remarks about Howells’s unfortunate development away
from romance partly repeat and partly reverse ones Howells himself had
made in 1882 about James’s development. In a major midcareer assessment
of the James oeuvre, Howells commented that the early stories had
a richness of poetic effect which he has since never equalled....

Looking back to those early stories, where Mr. James stood at the
dividing ways of the novel and the romance, I am sometimes
sorry that he declared even superficially for the former. His best
efforts seem to me those of romance; his best types have an ideal
development, like Claire Belgarde and Bessy Alden and poor

Daisy and even Newman. But, doubtless, he has chosen wisely;
perhaps the romance is an outworn form, and would not lend
itself to the reproduction of even the ideality of modern life. I
myself waver somewhat in my preference—if it is a preference.18
Regarded as literary criticism, Howells’s performance here is comically

indecisive and inept; and it is easy to see why James soon responded by firmly
rejecting the distinction between novel and romance, and why Stevenson just
as firmly redrew it as a distinction between the “romance of man” and the
mere “novel of society.” But Howells’s images of dividing ways and wavering,
besides suggestively recalling major tropes of Scott and Hawthorne,
accurately register the tensions experienced by the many nineteenth-century
readers and fictionalists who wanted, please, more of both—more of realism
and more of romance—and got them, too.
Instructed as much by Stevenson’s life as by anything he or Howells
wrote, James began to think more deeply about the meaning and value of
romance, in life, in fiction, than ever before. From Stevenson too he learned,
or relearned, that play could be “serious” as well as “delightful” and was
essential to creative work.
II
In his final delirium, after suffering two strokes, James supposed

himself to be one of the favorite subjects of his recreational reading—
Napoleon Bonaparte—and dictated letters concerning the decoration of
imperial apartments in the Louvre and Tuileries. So far from being ravings,
these letters are coherent, dignified, commanding: the assumption of the
Emperor’s persona is complete. We naturally wonder how far they disclose
unconscious longings for power and status on the grandest possible scale,
and also how they are linked with other, much less connected utterances
recorded near the end:
Individual souls, great ... of [word lost] on which great perfections

are If one does ... in the fulfillment with the neat and pure and
perfect—to the success or as he or she moves through life,
following admiration unfailing [word lost] in the highway—
problems are very sordid.
One of the earliest of the consumers of the great globe in the
interest of the attraction exercised by the great R.L.S. [Robert
170 George Dekker
Louis Stevenson] of those days, comes in, afterwards, a visitor at

Vailima and [word lost] there and pious antiquities to his
domestic annals.19
The fitful outcroppings of a broken mind can prove almost nothing and are
cited here only because the occasion and the seeming lack of connection
between Napoleon, Stevenson, and Henry Adams (the “visitor at Vailima”)
make even more striking the connections they actually would have had for
James in his right mind. For him, Napoleon and Stevenson were alike
“great” inasmuch as each turned his life into a romance by making reality
conform to the requirements of his imagination. Adams and Stevenson, on
the other hand, typified temperamental opposites: il penseroso with a
debilitating streak of morbidity, who left James depressed and dispirited;
l’allegro with a strengthening admixture of sanity, who restored his sense of
fun and play and braced hum for living and working.
When Adams passed through London in 1891 after visiting Stevenson in
Samoa, James wrote to a mutual friend that “I like him, but suffer from his
monotonous disappointed pessimism.”20 His experience with Steven son was
as different as possible. Words he uses recurrently to characterize his friend are
“romantic,” “charm,” “boy,” “fun,” “happy,” and “genial.” In his first letter to
Stevenson, he writes: “The native gaiety of all that you write is delightful to me,
and when I reflect that it proceeds from a man whom life has laid much of the
time on his back ... I find you a genius indeed” (102). The conjunction of
“gaiety” and “genius” confirms our hunch that when James refers earlier in the
letter to Stevenson’s “genial rejoinder,” he is using “genial” as Coleridge and
Wordsworth did to suggest that the true spring of creative activity was “Joy”—
the “genial spirits” of “Tintern Abbey” and “Dejection: An Ode.”
The other word he applies to Stevenson with consistently double
significance is “happy,” meaning both cheerful and felicitous. In a passage
describing Stevenson’s peculiar combination of “jauntiness” and care for
style, he comments that Stevenson’s “sense of a happy turn [of phrase] is of
the subtlest” (131). Other examples are “his happiest [= best] work” (140) and
the “impression ... of deepening talent, of happier and richer expression”
(268). But surely the most moving and revealing usage occurs in the letter
James wrote to Edmund Gosse immediately after they learned of Stevenson’s
death: “I’m not sure that it’s not for him a great and happy fate; but for us the
loss of charm, of suspense, of ‘fun’ is unutterable.”21
From “happy” and “fun” it is but a short hop back to “boy” and “play.”
James was fond of children and their games, and made them the subject of
some of his finest later fiction. But throughout his career and, as we have
seen, especially during the 1880’s, he reacted strongly to the trivializing

forces of the literary marketplace and its audience of “young people” by
insisting the writing and reading of fiction were or should be deeply serious
adult activities. Therefore, however much he liked children or his friend
Louis, he was never entirely at ease with the writings Stevenson addressed
partly or mainly to children, much less with any suggestion that authors were
all children at heart.
In his first full-length essay on Stevenson’s writings, James emphasizes
the balance Stevenson claimed for himself: “He describes credulity with all
the resources of experience, and represents a crude stage with infinite
ripeness.... Sometimes, as in Kidnapped, the art is so ripe that it lifts even the
subject into the general air; the execution is so serious that the idea (the idea
of a boy’s romantic adventures) becomes a matter of universal relations”
(132). This is all very handsome, but phrases such as “crude stage” and “lifts
even the subject” suggest that although the “execution” is serious the “idea”
or “subject” is not. Again, to say of Treasure Island that “it is all as perfect as
a well-played boy’s game” (154) and that it is “in its way a classic” may strike
us as a very just summation and one with which Stevenson would have been
well satisfied, but the qualifications implicit in his phrasing suggest that
James continued to have doubts about the ultimate seriousness of an art so
frankly and happily committed to the value of “make-believe.”
Those doubts he retained to the end. Meanwhile, distinguishing
between the art of fiction and the art of living, he rejoiced in Stevenson’s
refusal to accept the limiting “reality” of an invalid condition. In his long
review essay on Letters to His Family and Friends (1899), James remarks that
Stevenson “was so fond of the sense of youth and the idea of play that he saw
whatever happened to him in images and figures, in the terms, almost, of the
sports of childhood” and then quotes Stevenson on the subject of his near-
encounters with death: “I keep returning, and now hand over fist, from the
realms of Hades. I saw that gentleman between the eyes, and fear him less
after each visit. Only Charon and his rough boatmanship I somewhat fear”
(259). This is but one example of Stevenson’s “imagination always at play, for
drollery or philosophy, with his circumstances.” In turn, Stevenson’s
“desperate larks” (184) in the remote South Seas inspired James to draw
playful metaphors of his own out of the diverse realms of erotic play and the
big top: “You are indeed ... the wandering Wanton of the Pacific. You swim
into our ken with every provocation and prospect—and we have only time to
open our arms to receive you when your immortal back is turned to us in the
act of still more provoking flight” (187). In a later letter, James refers to his
friend’s “projects—and gyrations! Trapezist in the Pacific void!” (241).
172 George Dekker
In James’s eyes, Stevenson’s greatest game was to convert “that splendid

life, that beautiful, bountiful thing ... into a fable as strange and romantic as
one of his own” (248). From 1887 onwards James recurs again and again to
the idea that, at great risk and against great odds, Stevenson “in a singular
degree, got what he wanted, the life absolutely discockneyfied, the situation
as romantically ‘swagger’ as if it had been an imagination made real” (269).
As James well knew, Stevenson’s actual “situation” was nearly as full of
hardships, deprivations, and indignities as the one experienced by David
Balfour in Kidnapped. And yet, like David’s adventure in the Scottish
Highlands, Stevenson’s in Samoa was “romantically ‘swagger,’” too. The
crucial difference was that David neither imagined boldly nor sought his
great adventure, whereas Stevenson did both, taking charge of his life in a
way that compelled James’s admiration. It is perhaps worth remarking that
James’s own “escape” to Europe had been similarly purposeful and
productive—and, while outwardly deficient in “swagger,” was also a romantic
adventure.
Was it James’s conclusion, then, that Stevenson lived a greater
romance than any he ever wrote? Yes; but to say so is rather to affirm the
greatness of the life as James saw it than to imply that he had major
reservations about Stevenson’s talent and achievement as a fictionalist. For
while James was growing in appreciation of the function and value of
Stevensonian play, Stevenson was maturing as a man and writer, until in
Weir of Hermiston, left unfinished at his death, he became the sort of
fictionalist James could unreservedly admire. Weir, so completely adult and
“serious” and yet so inventive and “romantic,” left nothing at odds between
Stevenson the writer and James the reader, between play and work. “The
Pacific,” wrote James,
made him, ‘descriptively,’ serious and even rather dry; with his
own country ... he was ready infinitely to play.... In Weir
especially, like an improvising pianist, he superabounds and
revels, and his own sense, by a happy stroke, appeared likely
never more fully and brightly to justify him; to have become even
in some degree a new sense, with new chords and possibilities. It
is the ‘old game,’ but it is the old game that he exquisitely
understands. (274)
In this moment of enthusiasm for the “happy” way Stevenson plays “the old
game,” James seems ready even to reverse the valence of “serious.”
Stevenson—or Stevenson much more than any other “influence”—
made James understand that to be homo sapiens, or even homo faber very
successfully, a person had likewise to be homo ludens. As Johann Huizinga’s
classic study Homo Ludens explains, play enters constitutively into a range of
central human activities—recreational, erotic, artistic, religious; enters,
indeed, into the very creation of a human order. “First and foremost,” says
Huizinga, “all play is a voluntary activity.... By this quality of freedom alone,
play marks itself off from the course of the natural process. It is something
added thereto and spread out over it like a flowering, an ornament.... Play
casts a spell over us, it is ‘enchanting,’ ‘captivating.’” 22 These extracts distill
the essence of Stevenson’s significance for James and have an important
bearing on his efforts after “The Art of Fiction” to reconsider the
relationship between realism and romance. The “quality of freedom” in play
and by extension in romance is also a quality essential to moral and artistic
action. Perhaps the charge should not be that romance is escapist but that
realism is defeatist?
James’s first essay on Stevenson is a crucial document in the history of
his rethinking the relationship between realism and romance. In it he
restates the generic premise of “The Art of Fiction”: “The breath of the
novelist’s being is his liberty; and the incomparable virtue of the form he
uses is that it lends itself to views innumerable and diverse” (149). Although
he doesn’t say so, it is obvious that he would still resist any attempt to
“separate” the novel from the modern prose romance. The novel form as he
envisages it can subsume both the “novel of society” and the “romance of
man”—and more. Now, however, James’s plea for liberty works in favor of
that elusive quality (as distinct from fictional genre), “romance”: “The
doctrine of M. Zola himself, so meagre if literally taken, is fruitful,
inasmuch as in practice he romantically departs from it.” James’s point about
Zola is the point that Stevenson had made earlier about Howells. Now
James’s emphasis falls on the leavening effect of romance rather than on the
“truth of detail” and “solidity of specification” (67) likewise so abundantly
present in Zola and so resoundingly endorsed as “the supreme virtue of a
novel” in “The Art of Fiction.” James is beginning to associate romance in
fiction positively with imaginative freedom and play: here it is the genie in
the Naturalist machine.
Stevenson, James dryly remarks, “does not need to depart” from a
theory in order “to pursue the romantic.” What he doesn’t remark, but
clearly means, is that Stevenson’s theory is in its way just as meager as Zola’s
and equally fruitful when he departs realistically from it. On several occasions
later in the essay James explains how Stevenson creates an “indescribable
mixture of the prodigious and the human, of surprising coincidences and
174 George Dekker
familiar feelings” (155). In Kidnapped especially we find “the author’s talent

for seeing the actual in the marvellous, and reducing the extravagant to
plausible detail” (158). Over “the whole business,” James says, is the “charm
of the most romantic episode in the world—though perhaps it would be hard
to say why it is the most romantic, when it was intermingled with so much
stupidity.” As for Stevenson’s enthusiasm for romances of adventure in the
tradition of Alexandre Dumas, James comments: “He makes us say, Let the
tradition live, by all means, since it was delightful; but at the same time he is
the cause of our perceiving afresh that a tradition is kept alive only by
something being added to it. In this particular case—in Doctor Jekyll and
Kidnapped—Mr. Stevenson has added psychology” (152). Since James’s
generosity to R.L.S. the novelist is at the expense of R.L.S the theorist, it is
but fair to note that Stevenson himself had previously claimed that “true
romantic art ... makes a romance of all things.... Robinson Crusoe is as realistic
as it is romantic; both qualities are pushed to an extreme, and neither
suffers.”23
James offers a patch of ground for romance in realist fiction when he
argues that the novelist “who leaves the extraordinary out of his account is
liable to awkward confrontations” in an “age of newspapers,” for the “next
report of the next divorce case ... shall offer us a picture of astounding
combinations of circumstance and behaviour.” While Stevenson doubtless
would have agreed with this argument, he patently had something more in
mind when he contrasted the romance of man with the novel of society. For
him, as James well knew, the “extraordinary” also meant things of rare value
and importance. James explains: “even if he did not wave so gallantly the flag
of the imaginary and contend that the improbable is what has most character,
he would still insist that we ought to snake believe. He would say we ought
to make believe that the extraordinary is the best part of life, even if it were
not, and to do so because the finest feelings—suspense, daring, decision,
passion, curiosity, gallantry, eloquence, friendship—are involved in it, and it
is of infinite importance that the tradition of these precious things should not
perish.”24
This inward paraphrase of Stevenson’s credo as a romancer also lists
many of the personal qualities James associated with his friend. They were
qualities, too, that he celebrated in his own bravest heroes and heroines, and
the reference to precious things perishing inevitably makes us look ahead to
the doomed heroine of The Wings of the Dove and back to the “finest” people
in James’s life who contributed to his conception of Milly Theale—
preeminently Minny Temple but also Alice James and “the great R.L.S.”
III
When he returned to The American in the course of revising and

prefacing his fictions for the New York Edition, James also returned to ideas
and motifs that belong especially to his dialogue with Stevenson. The
rambling, elliptical, and yet wonderfully resourceful argument of the preface
to The American is an extension of that dialogue. At first glance, these
reminiscences are surprising, since The American antedates the friendship
and apparently was not among the novels by James that Stevenson most
appreciated. But it was reworking this novel, reflecting on the nature and
origins of its chief strengths and weaknesses, that inspired James to rejoin the
romance versus realism debate. Other fictionalists—notably Balzac, George
Sand, and Hawthorne—contributed to his reflections on the subject, but it
was Stevenson’s life and writings that had most directly and movingly
exemplified romance for him and prompted his own deepest thinking about
it. So it was almost a matter of course that the principal negative and positive
qualities associated with romance in his writings to and about Stevenson
should reappear in this preface: the jejeune, escapist, and potentially
dangerous nature of romantic make-believe; the creative freedom of play; the
case for the extraordinary (or the “finest feelings”); the “fruitful” mingling of
realism and romance.
But if the qualities James associates with romance remain essentially
the same, the form he now employs to define and relate those qualities is
quite different from that of a manifesto such as “The Art of Fiction” or a
midcareer assessment such as his 1888 essay on Stevenson, All of the New
York Edition prefaces combine personal reminiscence, theoretical
pronouncement, and more particularized analysis of fable and treatment in
the novel under discussion. However, they vary fairly widely in tone,
length, and focus; as might be expected, analysis tends increasingly to
displace reminiscence as James comes to deal with more recent works. The
prefaces to the early novels—Roderick Hudson, The American, The Portrait of
a Lady, and The Princess Casamassima are all romantically rich in nostalgic
recollections of the settings and personal circumstances in which the novels
were written. But the preface to The American is “Romantic” likewise in a
more historically specific and revealing sense. Because of its fluid
associative shifts between past and present and its complex, ambivalent
weighing of the gains and losses involved in the transition from innocence
to experience, it is, of all the prefaces, closest in structure and feeling to a
Romantic ode such as Coleridge’s “Dejection: An Ode,” Wordsworth’s
“Ode: Intimations of Immortality” or “Tintern Abbey.” Indeed, when
176 George Dekker
James refers to “Gray’s beautiful Ode” (1057), that is, “Ode on a Distant
Prospect of Eton College,” he invokes the chief eighteenth-century
prototype of such odes.25
James delighted in the poetry of his century; on Daniel Mark Fogel’s
reckoning, “by far the greatest number of explicit allusions in James are to
the English Romantic poets.”26 Questions of direct influence aside, the main
topic of the preface is a twofold “Wordsworthian” antithesis between the
claims of realism and romance (particularly in The American but more
generally, too) and between a remembered younger self who supposed he was
practicing realism and an elder self who recognizes that it was romance all
along. The second, then versus now, antithesis dominates the beginning of
the preface as, in images reminiscent both of “Tintern Abbey” and
“Resolution and Independence,” James summons up scenes where the
“story” came to him and the novel itself was written: “the long pole of
memory stirs and rummages the bottom, and we fish up such fragments and
relics of the submerged life and extinct consciousness as tempt us to piece
them together” (1058). Portraying his 33-year-old self as an “artless” babe in
the woods, he recalls “the habit of confidence that ... a special Providence ...
despite the sad warning of Thackeray’s “Denis Duval” and of Mrs. Gaskell’s
“Wives and Daughters” (that of Stevenson’s “Weir of Hermiston” was yet to
come) watches over anxious novelists condemned to the economy of
serialisation.... And yet as the faded interest of the whole episode becomes
again mildly vivid what I seem most to recover is, in its pale spectrality, a
degree of joy, an eagerness on behalf of my recital” (1053).
Reminiscences at once nostalgic and ironic lead to a richly nuanced
contrast between “the free play of ... unchallenged instinct” (1057) in his
youthful “surrender to the ... projected fable” of The American, and the “free
difficulty” which he now perceives to be inseparable from the “free
selection—which is the beautiful, terrible whole of art” (1061). The idea that
selection is the whole of art is distinctively Stevensonian, and, sure enough,
James’s meditation on it prompts recollection of Stevenson’s dictum on a
related topic: “Robert Louis Stevenson has, in an admirable passage and as
in so many other connexions, said the right word: that the partaker of the ‘life
of art’ who repines at the absence of the rewards ... might surely be better
occupied.” In the passage James apparently has in mind, Stevenson explains
why “the lights seem a little turned down” in some of his later, less popular
writings dealing with social injustices in America and the South Pacific:
“What I wish to fight is best fought by a rather cheerless presentation of the
truth. The world must return some day to the word duty, and be done with
the word reward. There are no rewards, and plenty duties.”27
The then-versus-now scheme of the preface can be reduced to the

following key words and phrases:
THEN NOW
bliss of ignorance awakened critical sense
rewards duties
free play labor
bondage of ease free difficulty
Providence/muse/surrender free selection
romance realism
Although this abstract seems overly schematic, it accords with James’s dictum in
the preface to Roderick Hudson (1907) apropos the antithetical heroines of that
novel: “One is ridden by the law that antitheses, to be efficient, shall be direct
and complete” (1052). Clearly, we are dealing with a Jamesean version of the
Fortunate Fall in which the artist protagonist, graduating from a passive state of
delusive ease and freedom, takes charge of his own destiny. He then experiences
a fate resembling that of the heroes and heroines of many of James’s own novels,
including Christopher Newman—except in the crucial particular that at the end
of the day they have their “duties” while he has his “rewards” in the form of the
novels themselves and the power to write more of them. For him the fall is
fortunate indeed, and it cannot matter much if there is an untrespassable chasm
between his present and his former self. Or so we might suppose, reading James
rhapsodize about the “constant nameless felicity” of the mature writer of
fiction, “with the toil and trouble a mere sun-cast shadow that falls, shifts and
vanishes” (1061). James’s triumphant progress over the years from romance to
realism is mainly a matter of growing up. Thus far, the Stevenson who figures
positively in the preface to The American is the later, “grown-up” Stevenson,
author of Weir and realistic critic of Anglo-American imperialism.
The famous definition of romance James gives in this preface is
couched in the familiar terms of freedom and constraint:
The only general attribute of ... romance that I can see ... is the
fact of the kind of experience with which it deals—experience
liberated, ... disengaged, disembroiled, disencumbered, exempt
from the conditions that we usually know to attach to it and ...
drag upon it, and operating in a medium which relieves it, in a
particular interest, of the inconvenience of a related, a measurable
state, a state subject to all our vulgar communities. (1064)
178 George Dekker
James’s argument is developed by means of an extended metaphor whose

vehicle is not fully revealed until, like a magician, he suddenly produces a toy:
The balloon of experience is ... tied to the earth, and under that
necessity we swing, thanks to a rope of remarkable length, in the
more or less commodious car of the imagination; but it is by the
rope we know where we are, and from the moment that cable is
cut we are at large and unrelated: we only swing apart from the
globe—though remaining as exhilarated, naturally, as we like,
especially when all goes well. The art of the romancer is “for the
fun of it,” insidiously to cut the cable, to cut it without our
detecting him. What I have recognized then in “The American”
... is that the experience here represented is the disconnected and
uncontrolled experience—uncontrolled by our general sense of
“the way things happen”—which romance ... palms off on us.
(1064)
“Disconnected,” “uncontrolled,” and “palms off” make romance sound

irresponsible, escapist, and deceitful. Small wonder that Michael Davitt Bell,
commenting on the same passage, says that “for James, then, the essence of
romance lies in its moral irresponsibility.”28
Clearly, James still harbors some of the suspicions of romance that,
with varying degrees of sophistication and intelligence, realists and moralists
have always had. The irony here is that the novel whose unhappy ending he
had defended against Howells as realistic now fails on precisely those
grounds. Although he obviously exaggerates the extent of his ingenuousness
at the time he wrote The American, it is true that his acquaintance with the
European aristocracy was then comparatively superficial and that his picture
of the haughty Bellgarde family disdaining rich Christopher Newman is
largely a projection of democratic myth. From the later and more worldly
perspective of the author of The Golden Bowl, the representation of the
Bellegardes’ behavior is so patently “uncontrolled by our general sense of
‘the way things happen’” that it appears false and immature. If The American
is the product of such guileless “surrender to ... the projected fable,” and if it
is also an example of romance, what adult interest can the book or the genre
have?
Yet despite his misgivings about romance and about The American in
particular, James in his old age found a place in the New York Edition canon
for the novel and also a place in his scheme of good things for “fun” and
“play” and, above all, “freedom.” He obviously feels some nostalgic good will
toward his prelapsarian self and finds he can experience “the joy of living
over ... the particular intellectual adventure” of writing that romance. If this
return to his former self is possible, perhaps travel in the opposite direction
is, too. Perhaps, after all, the child is the father of the man.
Which brings us back to Stevenson. When James referred to the habit
of confidence” that a serializing novelist persists in feeling “despite the sad
warning” of Thackeray’s, Gaskell’s, and Stevenson’s last works, he cannot
have forgotten the questions Stevenson himself asked in “AEs Triplex”:
“Who, if he were wisely considerate of things at large, would ever embark
upon any work much more considerable than a halfpenny post card? Who
would project a serial novel, after Thackeray and Dickens had each fallen in
mid-course?”29 If Stevenson had been more “wisely considerate” than
romantically aspiring, he would have achieved far less and would not have
left the great fragment of Weir. So the Arcadian innocence of the “confident”
young romancer who wrote The American may have been practical wisdom
on at least one count.
Upon reexamination, many of the negative qualities James associates
with childhood and romance can be seen to have a strong positive valence as
well. The exhilarating balloon ride is a “genial” experience; the sense of
“fun,” expansion, and gravity overcome is psychologically refreshing and
valuable. This ride through space may remind us of his earlier image of
Stevenson’s “gyrations” as the “Trapezist in the Pacific void!”—an image of
soaring, of performance for sheer joy in the exercise of skill and energy and
freedom. And of course James’s playful metaphors are themselves supreme
examples of such performance. No doubt about it, among the many things
he is doing in this preface James is reaffirming the Stevensonian message that
to be homo sapiens one must also be homo ludens.
And play has a moral as well as a recreational dimension. Huizinga
explains that “play only becomes possible, thinkable and understandable
when an influx of mind breaks down the absolute determinism of the cosmos.
The very existence of play continually confirms the supra-logical nature of
the human situation.”30 Stevenson was the player extraordinaire whose
writings and life (for a time) defied all the determinisms of his age, including
those of Henry Adams and “the School of Balzac.” James, although a friend
of Adams and one of the most persistent champions of the French realists,
could never accept their pessimistic determinism.31 Therefore, while
heeding the threatening sound of “uncontrolled” and “disconnected,” we do
well to remember that “liberty,” “liberated,” and “freedom” usually have the
most positive connotations in James’s moral/aesthetic vocabulary. Moreover,
as Peter Brooks has recently argued, The American is centrally and at many
180 George Dekker
levels—generic as well as moral and psychological—about the quest for

freedom.32
Positive connotations are surely present when James speaks of
“experience liberated ... from the conditions that we usually know to ... drag
upon it.” Happily for the novelist, the “life of art,” of the genial creative
imagination, confers a power of “free selection” rarely available in ordinary
life. To be sure, for the artist as for others freedom entails risks and labor and
the paradoxical necessity of either using or forfeiting it. But without a larger
measure of freedom than is usually present in life or represented in realistic
fiction, there can be little scope for artistic creation or for moral action—or
for what James calls “the finest feelings.”
There is no clearer instance of such feelings being realized in fiction
than the “last view” James gives us of the hero of The American turning from
the perfidious Bellegardes and, despite his power to do them harm without
danger to himself, acting with “practical, but quite unappreciated,
magnanimity ... a strong man indifferent to his strength and too wrapped in
fine, too wrapped above all in other and intenser reflexions for the assertion
of his ‘rights’” (1055). According to James, it was at the moment he imagined
Newman’s unconstrained magnanimity that his “conception unfurled ... the
emblazoned flag of romance” (1057). It is impossible to say whether James at
this point recalled his figure of Stevenson waving “so gallantly the flag of the
imaginary,” but his account of Newman’s “extraordinary” behavior makes no
apology for the experience represented being “uncontrolled” but seems
rather to endorse Stevensonian romantic principle. What we recognize here
is the moral, the supremely responsible face of romance.33
Perhaps it was, finally, as a moral rather than as an aesthetic exemplar
that James prized Stevenson above all. When he names the novelists of
“largest responding imagination before the human scene” (1062), he does
not mention Stevenson, even though his ghost may be said to haunt this
preface. His ghost is present not least when James explains that the interest
of such a novelist is greatest “when he commits himself” in the directions
both of romance and realism “by some need of performing his whole possible
revolution, by the law of some rich passion in him for extremes ... of Scott,
of Balzac, even of the coarse, comprehensive, prodigious Zola, we feel ... that
the deflexion toward either quarter has never taken place.... His current
remains therefore extraordinarily rich and mixed, washing us successively
with the warm wave of the near and familiar and the tonic shock ... of the far
and strange.” Here James seems to be echoing and brilliantly elaborating
Stevenson’s contention that “true romantic art ... makes a romance of all
things.... Robinson Crusoe is as realistic as it is romantic; both qualities are
pushed to an extreme, and neither suffers.” Although James himself had

emphasized the admixture of realism in Stevenson’s fictions, it is obvious that
there was a marked “deflexion” toward romance in most of them and that, in
James’s eyes, this made Stevenson a lesser novelist than one whose current
remained extraordinarily rich and mixed.
In life, however, the “deflexion” meant a career that exemplified “the
finest feelings” and bravely repudiated the deterministic certainties of the
age. Far better than most of their contemporaries, James was able to see
beyond the surface glamor and “swagger” to the essential fineness and moral
achievement of Stevenson’s life. But because James was as much of as apart
from his time, he was also able to join wholeheartedly in the general
apotheosizing of a man who, in defiance of “that gentleman” Hades and of
gravity itself, had raised, levitated, himself from his invalid’s couch to shine
as the romantic literary hero for the era. Stevenson himself anticipated this
fate in his figure of the man who “reckons his life as a thing to be dashingly
used and cheerfully hazarded ... keeps all his pulses going true and fast, and
gathers impetus as he runs, until, if he be running towards anything better
than wildfire, he may shoot up and become a constellation in the end.”34
“There he is—” wrote James in 1899, “he has passed ineffaceably into happy
legend” (277).
NOTES
1. For convenience and brevity of documentation, I draw as many quotations as
possible from Janet Adam Smith’s compilation of James’s and Stevenson’s writings to and
about each other, Henry James and Robert Louis Stevenson: A Record of Friendship and
Criticism (London: Rupert Hart-Davis, 1948), cited hereafter in these notes as Smith. Page
references for quotations from Smith are given parenthetically in the text. When
immediately succeeding quotations come from the same or adjacent pages in Smith, no
page references are given.
2. For a recent concise account of the origins and progress of the novel-versus
romance controversy, see George Dekker, The American Historical Romance (Cambridge,
Eng., and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 14–28. The most influential
modern reemployments of the novel/romance polarity are Richard Chase, The American
Novel and Its Tradition (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1957), and Northrop Frye, Anatomy
of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957). Chase’s contention
that the romance form of the novel dominates the American novel tradition has spawned
a voluminous critical literature, a current summary of which is given in the end notes to
Emily Miller Budick, “Sacvan Bercovitch, Stanley Cavell, and the Romance Theory of
American Fiction,” PMLA 107 (1992): 78–91. A good account of James’s relation to the
romance tradition is Elsa Nettles, James and Conrad (Athens: University of Georgia Press,
1977), pp. 80–109.
3. All of James’s and Stevenson’s biographers pay some attention to what was, after
all, a very famous literary friendship. The fullest and most thoughtful account of their
182 George Dekker
literary relations is in Smith, pp. 9–47. Especially pertinent to the issue of the
James/Stevenson debate about realism and romance is Sarah B. Daugherty, The Literary
Criticism of Henry James (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1981), pp. 121–22, 162–64.
4. Leo Bersani, A Future for Astyanax (Boston: Little, Brown, 1976), p. 132: “the
recurrent Jamesian subject ... is freedom.”
5. Letter to William Dean Howells, dated March 30, 1877, Henry James Letters. Vol.
2: 1875–1883, ed. Leon Edel (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University
Press, 1975), p. 105.
6. Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding (1957; rpt.,
Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1963), p. 313.
7. Walter Besant, The Art of Fiction: A Lecture Delivered at the Royal Institution
(London: Chatto and Windus, 1884.), p. 38.
8. Watt, Rise, p. 13.
9. Edmond de Goncourt, Préfaces et manifestes littéraires (Paris: G. Charpentier,
1888), p. 59.
10. Ibid., p. 67.
11. Ibid., p. 66.
12. Robert Louis Stevenson, “A Gossip on Romance,” Memories and Portraits (New
York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1887), p. 255.
13. Ibid., pp. 255–56.
14. William Wordsworth, The Prelude (1850), XII: 88–207.
15. When Stevenson revised “A Humble Remonstrance” for inclusion in Memoties and
Portraits, he changed “a pirate is a beard in wide trousers and literally bristling with pistols”
to “a pirate is a beard, a pair of wide trousers and a liberal complement of pistols” (p. 289).
The cleaned-up version is less vivid and suggestive, and also less open to objection.
16. For Stevenson’s oddest judgments on James’s fiction, see Smith, pp. 108, 165–66,
and 207–8.
17. Stevenson, “A Humble Remonstrance,” pp. 298–99.
18. “Henry James, Jr.,” rpt. in Discovery of a Genius: William Dean Howells and Henry
James, ed. Albert Mordell (New York: Twayne, 1961), pp. 117–18.
19. The Complete Notebooks of Henry James, ed. Leon Edel and Lyall H. Powers (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 584.
20. Letter to Sir John Clark dated December 13, 1891, Henry James Letters, Vol. 3:
1883–1895, ed. Leon Edel (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press,
1980), p. 367.
21. Letter to Edmund Gosse, December 17, 1894., Henry James Letters, vol. 3, p. 495.
22. Johann Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study ofthe Play-Element in Culture (Boston:
Beacon Press, 1955 [1938]), pp. 7, 10. More recent theorists of play, such as Roger Caillois
and Herbert Marcuse, offer insights pertinent to the argument of the present essay, but
Huizinga’s cultural perspective and vocabulary are closer to those of James and Stevenson.
23. Stevenson, “A Gossip on Romance,” p. 264.
24. When he revised “Robert Louis Stevenson” for publication in Partial Portraits
(1888), James changed “imaginary” to “imaginative.” See Henry James: Lilerary Criticism,
ed. Leon Edel (The Library of America; Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press,
1989), p. 1249.
25. Preface to The American (1907), rpt. in French Writers, Other European Writers, The
Prefaces to the New York Edition, ed. Leon Edel (The Library of America; Cambridge, Eng.:
Cambridge University Press, 1984.), p. 1057. Subsequent page references to this edition
of the preface are given parenthetically in the text; they may be readily differentiated from
Smith references because they have four digits. Wordsworth appended a note to “Tintern
Abbey” explaining that, contrary to appearances, it had many of the leading features of an
ode (e.g., rapid transitions and impassioned versification) and suggesting that a flexible
approach to questions of generic identity might serve readers well by highlighting such
features where they might not be expected.
26. Daniel Mark Fogel, Henry James and the Structure of the Romantic Imagination
(Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1981), p. 5.
27. Vailima Letters: Correspondence Addressed to Sidney Colvin, November 1890 to October
1894., in Letters and Miscellanies of Robert Louis Stevenson, vol. 17 (New York: Charles
Scribner’s Sons, 1896), p. 96.
28. Michael Davitt Bell, The Development of American Romance: The Sacrifice of Relation
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), p. 8.
29. Stevenson, “AEs Triplex,” Virginibus Puerisque, in The Travels and Essays of Robert
Louis Stevenson, vol. 13 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1898), p. 104.
30. Huizinga, Homo Ludens, p. 3.
31. For James on the subject of social determinism in Zola and Balzac, see “Honore de
Balzac” (1913), French Writers, p. 151.
32. Peter Brooks, “The Turn of American,” in Martha Banta, ed., New Essays on The
American (Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 43–67. Besides
offering a brilliant reading of the novel, Brooks provides an excellent brief account of its
relation to the French realist tradition.
33. I am not alone in arguing for the positive “liberating” connotations of romance in
James’s fictional theory. Cf. Mark Seltzer, Henry James and the Art of Power (Ithaca, N.Y.:
Cornell University Press, 1984.), p. 138: “Nor does the recourse to romance indicate
merely a desire to escape the real.... His art, James declares, is an attempt to project the
ideal alternative and ‘antidote’ to a limited and limiting social scene.” Martha Banta, Henry
James and the Occult: The Great Extension (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972),
pp. 54–61, explains how romance is the necessary vehicle for treating the “more things in
heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy” of positivistic science and realistic
fiction.
34. Stevenson, “AEs Triplex,” p. 103. James quotes this passage in his 1888 essay on
Stevenson (Smith, p. 143).
S T E P H E N A R AT A
The Sedulous Ape:

Atavism, Professionalism, and
Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde
I n an early review of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886),
Andrew Lang noted the most striking feature of Robert Louis Stevenson’s
tale. “His heroes (surely this is original) are all successful middle-aged
professional men.”1 Indeed, one could hardly miss the novel’s foregrounding
of the stature enjoyed by “Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., LL.D., ER.S., etc.”2
In Lang’s view this interest in professional men defined Stevenson’s novel at
least as much as its portrayal of the grotesque Edward Hyde. If Jekyll and
Hyde articulates in Gothic fiction’s exaggerated tones late-Victorian anxieties
concerning degeneration, atavism, and what Cesare Lombroso called
“criminal man,” it invariably situates those concerns in relation to the
practices and discourses of lawyers like Gabriel Utterson, doctors like Henry
Jekyll and Hastie Lanyon, or even “well-known men about town” (29) like
Richard Enfield. The novel in fact asks us to do more than simply register
the all too apparent marks of Edward Hyde’s “degeneracy.” It compels us also
to examine how those marks come to signify in the first place. As Stevenson
understood, one thing professional men tend to be good at is close reading.
Another is seeing to it that their interpretations have consequences in the
real world. Jekyll and Hyde proves to be an uncannily self-conscious
exploration of the relation between professional interpretation and the
construction of criminal deviance. The novel is also a displaced meditation
From Fictions of Loss in the Victorian Fin de Siecle. © 1996 by Cambridge University Press.
185
186 Stephen Arata
on what Stevenson considered the decline of authorship itself into

“professionalism.”
THE ATAVIST AND THE PROFESSIONAL
In Edward Hyde, Stevenson’s first readers could easily discern the lineaments
of Lombroso’s atavistic criminal. In one of degeneration theory’s defining
moments, Lombroso had “discovered” that criminals were throwbacks to
humanity’s savage past. While contemplating the skull of the notorious
Italian bandit Vilella, Lombroso suddenly saw history open up before him,
illumined as if by lightning.
This was not merely an idea [he wrote many years later], but a
revelation. At the sight of that skull, I seemed to see all of a
sudden, lighted up as a vast plain under a flaming sky, the
problem of the nature of the criminal—an atavistic being who
reproduces in his person the ferocious instincts of primitive
humanity and the inferior animals.3
“Thus were explained anatomically,” Lombroso continues, such diverse

attributes as the “enormous jaws, high cheek bones, prominent superciliary
arches, solitary lines in the palms, extreme size of the orbits, [and] handle-
shaped ears” of the criminal, as well as various moral deformities like the
propensity for “excessive idleness, love of orgies, and the irresponsible
craving of evil for its own sake.” These features were all signs of a form of
primitive existence which normal men and women had transcended but
which the criminal was condemned to relive. In his physiognomy as in his
psyche, the atavistic criminal bore the traces of humanity’s history and
development.4
From the first publication of Stevenson’s novel, readers have noted the
similarities between Lombroso’s criminal and the atavistic Mr. Hyde.5
Lombroso’s descriptions of criminal deviance fit snugly with longstanding
discourses of class in Great Britain. Lombroso’s work first reached a wide
audience in England thanks to Havelock-Ellis’s The Criminal (1891); the
combined influence of Ellis and Lombroso was in part due to the ease with
which the new “scientific” categories mapped onto older, more familiar
accounts of the urban poor from Mayhew onward. As we saw in Chapter 1,
much of the “legitimacy” of degeneration theory derived from the way it
reproduced the class ideologies of the bourgeoisie. Equating the criminal
with atavism, and both with the lower classes, was a familiar gesture by the
Atavism, Professionalism, and Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde 187
1880s, as was the claim that deviance expressed itself most markedly through
physical deformity.6 Stevenson’s middle-class readers would have had as little
trouble deciphering the features of the “abnormal and misbegotten” Hyde,
his “body an imprint of deformity and decay,” as Stevenson’s middle-class
characters do (78, 84). “God bless me,” exclaims Utterson, “the man seems
hardly human. Something troglodytic, shall we say? ... or is it the mere
radiance of a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay
continent?” (40). Utterson’s remark, moreover, nicely demonstrates how old
and new paradigms can overlap. He at once draws on familiar Christian
imagery—Hyde’s foul soul transfiguring its clay continent—and a
Lombrosan vocabulary of atavism, with Hyde-as-troglodyte reproducing in
his person the infancy of the human species.
In considering degenerationism as a class discourse, however, we need
to look up as well as down. Both Lombroso and Nordau argue that
degeneration was as endemic to a decadent aristocracy as to a troglodytic
proletariat. And, indeed, Hyde can be read as a figure of leisured dissipation.
While his impulsiveness and savagery, his violent temper, and his appearance
all mark Hyde as lower class and atavistic, his vices are clearly those of a
monied gentleman. This aspect of Hyde’s portrayal has gone largely
unnoticed, but for Stevenson’s contemporaries the conflation of upper and
lower classes into a single figure of degeneracy would not have seemed
unusual. Lombroso’s criminal may have been primitive in appearance, but his
moral shortcomings—“excessive idleness, love of orgies, the irresponsible
craving of evil”—make him a companion of Jean Floressas des Esseintes and
Dorian Gray, not Vilella. Nordau took pains to insist that the degenerate
population “consists chiefly of rich educated people” who, with too much
time and means at their disposal, succumb to decadence and depravity.7
Lombroso and Nordau have in mind not only the titled aristocracy but
also a stratum of cultured aesthetes considered dangerously subversive of
conventional morality. That Stevenson meant us to place Hyde among their
number is suggested by the description of his surprisingly well-appointed
Soho rooms, “furnished with luxury and good taste” (49). Hyde’s palate for
wine is discriminating, his plate is of silver, his “napery elegant.” Art adorns
his walls, while carpets “of many plies and agreeable in colour” cover his
floors. This is not a savage’s den but the retreat of a cultivated gentleman.
Utterson supposes that Jekyll bought the art for Hyde (49), but Stevenson in
a letter went out of his way to say that the lawyer is mistaken. The purchases
were Hyde’s alone.8
In Edward Hyde, then, Stevenson created a figure who embodies a
bourgeois readership’s worst fears about both a marauding and immoral
188 Stephen Arata
underclass and a dissipated and immoral leisure class.9 Yet Stevenson also
shows how such figures are not so much “recognized” as created by middle-
class discourse. He does this by foregrounding the interpretive acts through
which his characters situate and define Hyde. Despite the confident
assertions of the novel’s professional men that Hyde is “degenerate,” his
“stigmata” turn out to be troublingly difficult to specify. In fact, no one can
accurately describe him. “He must be deformed somewhere,” asserts Enfield.
“He gives a strong feeling of deformity, though 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’t describe him” (34). Enfield’s puzzled response finds
its counterparts in the nearly identical statements of Utterson (40), Poole
(68), and Lanyon (77–78). In Utterson’s dream Hyde “had no face, or one
that baffled him and melted before his eyes” (36–37). “The few who could
describe him differed widely,” agreeing only that some “unexpressed
deformity” lurked in his countenance (50). That last, nearly oxymoronic
formulation—“unexpressed deformity”—nicely captures the troubled
relation between the “text” of Hyde’s body and the interpretive practices
used to decipher it. Hyde’s stigmata are everywhere asserted and nowhere
named. The novel continually turns the question of Hyde back on his
interlocutors so that their interpretive procedures become the object of our
attention. “There is my explanation,” Utterson claims. “It is plain and
natural, hangs well together and delivers us from all exorbitant alarms” (66).
It is also, we are immediately given to understand, wrong, though its
delusions differ only in degree from other “plain and natural” explanations
brought forward in the tale.10
Indeed, what makes Jekyll and Hyde compelling is the way it turns the
class discourses of atavism and criminality back on the bourgeoisie itself. As
Lang recognized, Stevenson’s novel is finally more concerned with its
middle-class professional “heroes” than it is with the figure of Edward Hyde.
Among the story’s first readers, F. W. H. Myers felt this aspect acutely, and it
prompted him to protest in a remarkable series of letters which suggest that
he interpreted Hyde as a figure not of degenerate depravity but of bourgeois
“virtue.”11
Shortly after its publication Myers wrote to Stevenson, whom he did
not know, enthusiastically praising Jekyll and Hyde but suggesting that certain
minor revisions would improve the novel. After noting some infelicities of
phrasing and gaps in plotting, Myers came to what he considered the story’s
“weakest point,” the murder of Sir Danvers Carew. Hyde’s mauling of
Carew’s “unresisting body” offended the decorous Myers (“no, not an elderly
MP’s!”), but his primary objection was that such an act was untrue to Hyde’s
nature. Because “Jekyll was thoroughly civilized ... his degeneration must
needs take certain lines only.” Hyde should be portrayed as “not a
generalized but a specialized fiend,” whose cruelty would never take the form
Stevenson gave it. At most “Hyde would, I think, have brushed the baronet
aside with a curse.”
Stevenson’s reply was polite, passing over the bulk of Myers’s
suggestions in silence. He did pause to correct him on one subject, though,
that of a painting in Hyde’s lodgings. Myers had questioned whether the
doctor would have acquired artwork for his alter ego. Stevenson answered
that Hyde purchased the painting, not Jekyll. Myers’s response was
disproportionately vehement. “Would Hyde have bought a picture? I
think—and friends of weight support my view—that such an act would have
been altogether unworthy of him.” Unworthy? Myers and his weighty
friends appear to feel that Hyde’s character is being impugned, that his good
name must be defended against some implied insult. Asking “what are the
motives which would prompt a person in [Hyde’s] situation” to buy artwork,
Myers suggests three, none of which, he argues, applies to Hyde’s case.
1. There are jaded voluptuaries who seek in a special class of

art a substitute or reinforcement for the default of primary
stimuli. Mr. Hyde’s whole career forbids us to insult him by
classing him with these men.
2. There are those who wish for elegant surroundings to allure
or overawe the minds of certain persons unaccustomed to luxury
or splendour. But does not all we know of Hyde teach us that he
disdained those modes of adventitious attractions?...
3. There are those, again, who surround their more
concentrated enjoyments with a halo of mixed estheticism ...
Such, no doubt, was Dr. Jekyll; such, no doubt, he expected that
Mr. Hyde would be. But was he not deceived? Was there not
something unlooked for, something Napoleonic, in Hyde’s way
of pushing aside the aesthetic as well as the moral superfluities of
life? ... We do not imagine the young Napoleon as going to
concerts or taking a walk in a garden.... I cannot fancy Hyde
looking in at picture shops. I cannot think he ever left his rooms,
except on business. (17 March 1886)
This is a most unfamiliar Hyde! On the evidence of Myers’s letter we would

have to pronounce him an upstanding citizen. Myers clearly perceives how
easily Stevenson’s Hyde could be taken not for a brute but for a dandy. At no
190 Stephen Arata
point is Myers worried that Hyde might be considered atavistic. Instead, he

is concerned that Hyde’s reputation not be smeared by association with
“jaded voluptuaries” and aesthetes. In attempting to clear him of such
charges, Myers presents Jekyll’s alter ego as the very image of sobriety and
industry, manfully disdainful of the shop window, the art gallery, the concert
hall—of anything that might savor of the aesthetic or the frivolous. Myers
praises Hyde’s simplicity of dress: he is not a fop but a “man aiming only at
simple convenience, direct sufficiency.” Unconcerned with personal
adornment, he is “not anxious to present himself as personally attractive, but
[relies] frankly on the cash nexus, and on that decision of character that
would startle” those less forceful than himself.
We might dismiss Myers’s reading as eccentric, especially given the
absence of any irony in his references to Hyde’s “business,” freedom from
personal vanity, or reliance on the cash nexus (blackmail and prostitution
appear to be the primary drags on his resources). Yet Myers’s admittedly
exaggerated response illuminates an important aspect of Stevenson’s novel.
Edward Hyde may not be an image of the upright bourgeois male, but he is
decidedly an image of the bourgeois male. While Hyde can be read as the
embodiment of the degenerate prole, the decadent aristocrat, or the
dissipated aesthete, it is also the case that his violence is largely directed at
those same classes. Of the three acts of violence we see Hyde commit, two—
his trampling of the little girl and his striking of the prostitute—involve
lower-class women. Hyde’s third victim is the novel’s only titled character,
Sir Danvers Carew. That Hyde shares Myers’s disdain for aesthetes is made
plainer in Stevenson’s manuscript draft of the novel. There, Hyde murders
not Sir Danvers but a character who appears to be a caricature of the
aesthetic stereotype, the “anoemically pale” Mr. Lemsome. Constantly
“shielding a pair of suffering eyes under blue spectacles,” Lemsome is
considered by the respectable Utterson as both “a bad fellow” and “an
incurable cad.”12 “The substitution of Carew for Lemsome suggests that the
two characters were connected in Stevenson’s mind, just as for Nordau
aesthetes like Oscar Wilde are grouped with troubling aristocrats like Lord
Byron as disruptive of middle-class mores.
Mr. Hyde thus acts not just as a magnet for middle-class fears of various
“Others” but also as an agent of vengeance. He is the scourge of (a
bourgeois) God, punishing those who threaten patriarchal code and custom.
Indeed, the noun used most often in the story to describe Hyde is not
“monster” or “villain” but—“gentleman.” This novel portrays a world
peopled almost exclusively by middle-class professional men, yet instead of
attacking Hyde, these gentlemen more often close ranks around him.13
Enfield’s “Story of the Door,” though it begins with Hyde trampling a little
girl until she is left “screaming on the ground” (31), concludes with Enfield,
the doctor, and the girl’s father breakfasting with Hyde in his chambers (32).
Recognizing him as one of their own, the men literally encircle Hyde to
protect him from harm. “And all the time ... we were keeping the women off
him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of
such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, ... frightened too, I
could see that” (32). The homosocial bonding that occurs in this scene is
only intensified by its overt misogyny. Though both he and the doctor
profess to feel a profound loathing for Hyde, Enfield refers to him with the
politeness due a social equal, consistently calling him “my gentleman” or
“my man.” Indeed, Enfield derives vicarious pleasure from watching Hyde
maul the girl.14 Though he could easily have prevented their collision,
Enfield allows them to run into one another “naturally enough” (31).
Neglecting to intervene until Hyde has finished his assault, Enfield describes
the incident with some relish, nonchalantly admitting to Utterson that the
beating “sounds nothing to hear” (31). (Though he goes on to say that it “was
hellish to see,” that does not unring the bell.) That Hyde acts out the
aggressions of timid bourgeois gentlemen is emphasized once again in the
beating of Sir Danvers. That gesture of “insensate cruelty” is performed with
a cane “of some rare and very tough and heavy wood” (47), which was
originally in the possession of Gabriel Utterson. The stick breaks in two, and
Stevenson takes care to let us know that both halves make their way back into
the lawyer’s hands after the murder (47, 49).
It is Edward Hyde’s covert affinities with professional men that
prompted Myers to describe him as a kind of bourgeois Napoleon. Myers
recognized that Stevenson had created a figure whose rage is the rage of a
threatened patriarchy. It is only a seeming paradox to say that Hyde is most
like himself when he behaves like a gentleman. Yet to leave matters here
would do an injustice to the complexity of Stevenson’s vision, an injustice
Myers himself is guilty of. While Jekyll and Hyde is a compelling expression
of middle-class anger directed at various forms of the Other, the novel also
turns that anger back on the burgesses themselves, Stevenson included.
It does this in part by taking as one of its themes the education of a
gentleman, in this case Mr. Hyde. Most critical accounts of the novel have
with good reason focussed on the social and psychological pressures that led
Jekyll to become Hyde. Yet Stevenson is also concerned with the reverse
transformation. That is, the novel details the pressures which move Hyde
closer to Jekyll.15 It is one thing to say that Hyde acts out the aggressive
fantasies of repressed Victorian men, another altogether to say that he comes
192 Stephen Arata
eventually to embody the very repressions Jekyll struggles to throw off. Yet
this is in fact a prime source of horror in the tale: not that. the professional
man is transformed into an atavistic criminal, but that the atavist learns to
pass as a gentleman. Hyde unquestionably develops over the course of the
novel, which is to say he becomes more like the “respectable” Jekyll, which
in turn is to say he “degenerates.” Degeneration becomes a function not of
lower-class depravity or aristocratic dissipation but of middle-class “virtue.”
Needless to say, Mr. Hyde’s education into gentlemanliness exacts a
considerable cost. The Hyde who ends his life weeping and crying for mercy
(69) is not the same man whose original “raging energies” and “love of life”
Jekyll found “wonderful” (95–96). By the time he is confined to the doctor’s
laboratory, Hyde is no longer Jekyll’s opposite but his mirror image. Where
earlier the transitions between Jekyll and Hyde were clean and sharp (and
painful), later the two personalities develop a mutual fluidity. By the end the
doctor’s body metamorphoses continually from Jekyll to Hyde and back
again, as if to indicate that we need no longer distinguish between them.
How does one become a gentleman? If born into a good family, by
imitating one’s father. That Jekyll and Hyde stand in a father–son
relationship is suggested by Jekyll himself (89) as well as by Utterson (37,
41–42), who suspects that Hyde is the doctor’s illegitimate offspring. After
“gentleman,” the words used most often to describe Hyde are “little” and
“young.”16 The idea that Hyde is being groomed, as Utterson says, “to step
into the said Henry Jekyll’s shoes” (35), is reinforced by the doctor’s will
naming him sole heir, as well as by the lawyer’s description of this “small
gentleman” (46) as Jekyll’s “protége” (37). Indeed, when Jekyll assures
Utterson that “I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young
man” (4) he sounds like a mentor sheltering a promising disciple.
If Hyde is to assume his mentor-father’s position, he must be
indoctrinated in the codes of his class. As Jekyll repeatedly insists, Hyde
indulges no vices that Jekyll himself did not enjoy. What differs is the
manner in which they enjoy them: Hyde openly and vulgarly, Jekyll
discretely and with an eye to maintaining his good name. As Hyde learns
from his encounter with Enfield, gentlemen may sin so long as appearances
are preserved. Having collared Hyde after his trampling of the little girl,
Enfield and the doctor are “sick ... with the desire to kill him” (thus
replicating Hyde’s own homicidal rage), but “killing being out of the
question” they do “the next best”: they threaten to “make such a scandal... as
should make his name stink” (31–32). They extort money as the price of their
silence, in the process teaching Hyde the value of a good reputation. “No
gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,” Hyde acknowledges. “Name your
figure” (32). When Enfield winds up his narration of this incident by telling
Utterson that “my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with” (33)
he seems to be describing not a violent criminal but a man who cannot be
trusted to respect club rules.
A commitment to protecting the good names of oneself and one’s
colleagues binds professional men together. Utterson, remarkably
unconcerned with the fates of Hyde’s victims, directs all his energies toward
shielding Jekyll from “the cancer of some concealed disgrace” (41). Sir
Danvers’ death awakens fears that the doctor’s “good name ... [will] be sucked
down in the eddy of the scandal” (53). After the murder Jekyll himself
admits, “I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has
rather exposed” (52). As Enfield’s actions indicate, blackmail is an acceptable
way to prevent such exposure. Utterson mistakenly believes that Hyde is
blackmailing Jekyll, but rather than going to the police he hits on the happier
and more gentlemanly idea of blackmailing Hyde in turn (42). By far the
most potent weapon these men possess, however, is silence. Closing ranks,
they protect their own by stifling the spread not of crime or sin but of
indecorous talk.17 In turn, the commitment to silence ultimately extends to
self-censorship, a pledge not to know. Utterson’s motto—“I let my brother
go to the devil in his own way” (29)—finds its counterpart in Enfield’s
unvarying rule of thumb: “The more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask”
(33). (“A very good rule, too,” Utterson agrees.) Enfield explicitly equates
knowledge with scandal when he says that asking a question is like rolling a
stone down a hill: “presently some bland old bird ... is knocked on the head
... and the family have to change their name” (33). Knowledge’s harm is
suffered most acutely by Dr. Lanyon, whose Christian name of Hastie nicely
indicates his fatal character flaw. Warned by Hyde that it is always wiser not
to know, Lanyon nevertheless succumbs to that “greed of curiosity” (79)
which leads directly deathward.
By means of Mr. Hyde, Jekyll seeks of course to slough off these same
burdens of respectability, reticence, decorum, self-censorship—of
gentlemanliness—and “spring headlong into the sea of liberty” (86). In
tracing the arc of Hyde’s brief career, however, Stevenson shows how quickly
he becomes simply one of the boys. Over the last half of the novel Stevenson
links Hyde, through a series of verbal echoes and structural rhymes, to
various bourgeois “virtues” and practices. Not only do we discover Hyde
beginning to exercise remarkable self-control—that most middle-class of
virtues and seemingly the furthest from his nature—but we hear him
speaking confidently in Jekyll’s tones to Lanyon concerning the benefits of
science and the sanctity of “the seal of our profession” (80; my emphasis).18
194 Stephen Arata
The kind of structural rhyming I refer to is most noticeable during

Hyde’s death-scene, when Utterson and Poole, having violently burst in the
door of the rooms above Jekyll’s laboratory, are startled by what they find.
The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had
succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet
before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and
chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its strain, a drawer or
two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer
the fire, the things laid out for tea; the quietest room, you would
have said, and except for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the
most commonplace that night in London. (69–70)
We are apt to share their bewilderment at first, since this is the last tableau
we might expect Stevenson to offer us at this juncture in the story.19 Yet it
has been carefully prepared for. The novel is full of similar domestic
tableaux, invariably occupied by solitary gentlemen. When they are not
walking or dining, it seems, these men sit at their hearths, usually alone. It is
Utterson’s “custom of a Sunday ... to sit close by the fire, a volume of some
dry divinity on his reading-desk” (35). When the lawyer visits Lanyon, he
finds the doctor sitting alone over his wine after dinner (36). Later he finds
Jekyll in nearly the same position (51). Utterson shares a friendly fireside
bottle of wine with Mr. Guest, though their conversation leaves him
singularly unhappy (54–55). It is one of Stevenson’s triumphs that he
transforms the hearth—that too-familiar image of cozy Victorian
domesticity—into a symbol of these men’s isolation and repression. In turn,
the most notable thing about the scene Utterson and Poole stumble upon is
that it is empty of life. The lamplight soothes, the kettle sings, the chairs
beckon—but no one is home. Recognizing this, we recognize too the subtle
irony of calling it “the most commonplace” sight to be seen in London.
We next discover that the lifeless Hyde’s “contorted and still twitching”
body lay “right in the midst” of this scene (70). On the one hand, it is a fit
setting for Hyde’s last agony and suicide. The terrors suffered by Hyde
during his final days arise in part from his surroundings: the very symbols of
bourgeois respectability that he exists to repudiate do him in. On the other
hand, he seems to feel bizarrely at home in these surroundings. If for
instance we ask who set the table for tea on this final night, the answer has
to be Hyde and not Jekyll, since Utterson and Poole, prior to breaking in the
door, agree that they have heard only Hyde’s voice and Hyde’s “patient”
footsteps from within the room that evening (69). (Poole insists that his
master “was made away with eight days ago” [65].) Beside the tea things is “a
copy of a pious work for which, Jekyll had ... expressed a great esteem,
annotated, in his own hand, with startling blasphemies” (71). We may be
tempted to think that Hyde is responsible for those annotations, but that is
not what the sentence says.20 These are not fussy or pedantic quibbles, but
rather indicate how carefully Stevenson has blurred the boundary between
the two identities. It is Jekyll who is now blasphemous and who violently
berates the man at Maw’s (66), Hyde who sets a quiet tea table and cries to
heaven for mercy.21 On adjacent tables Utterson and Poole discover two
cups, one containing the white salt used in jekyll’s potion, the other
containing the white sugar used in Hyde’s tea (71). Both are magic elixirs: the
first transforms a gentleman into a savage while the second performs the
reverse operation. Having found his place by the hearth, Mr. Hyde knows
what posture to assume: “Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in the
private room, gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with his fears”
(94). If this sounds more like Utterson or Lanyon than the Hyde we first met,
it is meant to. Bitter, lonely, frightened, nervous, chewing his nails (we recall
that Utterson bites his finger when agitated [65]), and contemplating
violence: Edward Hyde is now a gentleman.
THE SEDULOUS APE
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is an angry book, its venom
directed against what Stevenson contemptuously referred to as that “fatuous
rabble of burgesses called the public.”22 The novel turns the discourses
centering on degeneration, atavism, and criminality back on the professional
classes that produced them, linking gentlemanliness and bourgeois virtue to
various forms of depravity. At the same time the novel plumbs deep pools of
patriarchal anxiety about its continued viability. Indeed, Jekyll and Hyde can
be read as a meditation on the pathology of late-Victorian masculinity.
Jekyll’s case is “strange,” Stevenson suggests, only in the sense that it is so
common among men of the doctor’s standing and beliefs.
Yet if Jekyll and Hyde is a consummate critique of the professional men
who formed the bulk of its readership, the novel was also self-consciously
written to please, which it did. In no respect is Stevenson more of his age
than in the tortuous acts of self-definition and self-positioning that allowed
him at once to dismiss and to court the fatuous rabble.23 Ironically, the
publication of Jekyll and Hyde marked the emergence of Robert Louis
Stevenson as a “professional” author in the narrow sense of being able, for
the first time, to support himself solely by means of his trade. No longer a
196 Stephen Arata
coterie writer relying on his father for financial help, Stevenson now enjoyed
a popular acclaim that would last until his death. He professed to find such
acclaim distressing, a mark of artistic failure and an indication that he had
become, in his stepson’s words, “the ‘burgess’ of his former jeers.”24 “I am
now a salaried party,” Stevenson wrote to William Archer after the success of
Jekyll and Hyde led to a lucrative commission from an American magazine. “I
am a bourgeois now; I am to write a weekly paper for Scribners’, at a scale of
payment which makes my teeth ache for shame and diffidence ... I am like to
be ... publicly hanged at the social revolution.”25 “There must be something
wrong in me,” he confided to Edmund Gosse, “or I would not be popular.”26
Stevenson’s critique of professional discourses in Jekyll and Hyde turns
out also to be a displaced critique of his own profession. The 1880s and 90s,
like the 1830s and 40s, constitute a key moment in the professionalization of
authorship over the course of the nineteenth century. The founding of The
Society of Authors, the revision of international copyright laws, the
widespread adoption of the full royalty system, and the appearance of full-
time professional literary agents like A. P. Watt and William Morris Colles
were only the most visible among many signs of this process.27 In the early
stages of his career Stevenson took little interest in (and little care of) his
finances. Like many writers, he usually sold his copyrights for a lump
payment instead of negotiating for royalties. Moreover, as Peter Keating
points out, even when Stevenson did not sell his books outright, as in the case
of Treasure Island, he thought he had.28
After 1884, following the founding of The Society of Authors and the
vigorous consciousness-raising campaign led by its first president, Walter
Besant, such financial naiveté was no longer possible. Yet Stevenson still
ambivalently resisted the idea that imaginative writing constituted a
professional discourse. His resistance was based on two factors. First, he saw
professionalism as inseparable from the middle classes, that fatuous rabble he
preferred to jest at rather than join. Second, he associated professional
writing with a functionalist “realism” which he in theory opposed. As we saw
in Chapter 1, it was precisely this kind of realist prose that was invariably
held up as the norm against which “deviant” writing was measured. Nordau
linked traditional notions of mimesis—“every word ... connotes a concrete
presentation or a concept”—both with “healthy” art and with his own critical
writing. This linkage was made not just by pathologists but also by many of
those who, like Besant, were most interested in professionalizing the author’s
trade. With realism designated as the language of professionals, Stevenson in
opposition turned to what he (often vaguely) called “style” as the mark of the
truly imaginative writer.
Thus, for Stevenson, to be professional was to be bourgeois, and to be

bourgeois was to embrace the very blindnesses, evasions, and immoralities
delineated in Jekyll and Hyde. Indeed, the salient biographical fact to recall
here is that the novel was composed during Stevenson’s three-year
“imprisonment” at Skerryvore, the Bournemouth house purchased by
Thomas Stevenson for his son and daughter-in-law.29 This was a period of
personal crisis and transition for the writer. Prior to it were years of self-
styled bohemianism, fashionable dabblings in socialism, and occasionally
self-indulgent nose-thumbings at “the fathers,” his own included. Until he
took possession of Skerryvore, Stevenson had never had a permanent
address. In his letters he repeatedly refers to his occupancy of the house as a
capitulation to bourgeois convention, a “revolt into respectability.”30 To
Gosse he complained: “I am now a beastly householder,” and when Archer
came to visit he found his friend ensconced in the heart of “British
Philistinism.”31 Stevenson’s always-fragile health was never worse than
during these years, nor were his always-difficult relations with Thomas ever
pricklier. When Thomas died in mid-1887 Stevenson immediately fled
house and country, not returning to England during the seven remaining
years of his life.
The biographical context throws some light on the motivations
underlying Jekyll and Hyde. Writing it was in part an expression of self-
loathing for what Stevenson perceived as his betrayal of former ideals.32 Yet,
as his letters and essays indicate, Stevenson was also intensely engaged at this
time with the question of what it meant to be a professional author. For him,
the normative definition of professionalism came, as it did for most writers
of the period, from Besant, whose lecture “The Art of Fiction,” delivered in
April 1884 to the Royal Institution, prompted lengthy replies first from
Henry James and then from Stevenson. Besant, having recently helped
organize The Society of Authors, was explicitly interested in redefining
fiction-writing as a profession analogous to the law, medicine, certain
sciences, and other of the arts. If the “fine arts” like painting or sculpture
enjoy a status denied to writers, he contends in the lecture, that is because
they are organized into culturally sanctioned professional institutions. Besant
correctly perceived that the painter who was permitted to append “R.A.” to
his name was accorded a respect no novelist could win.33
Throughout the essay, however, Besant’s implicit model for the fiction-
writer is not the painter or sculptor but the professional scientist.34 Wedded
to the twin gods of positivism and empiricism, the Besantian novelist
recognizes that fiction is “of this world, wholly of this world” and therefore
seeks to reproduce the surfaces of life exactly as he finds them. Like the
198 Stephen Arata
scientist too, the novelist reports his findings in a “transparent” prose, one
that refuses to call attention to itself as writing. For Besant such transparency
is the mark of professional writing in all disciplines. It at once vouches for
the truth of the information conveyed while also ensuring that the
professional’s “products” will find the widest possible market. In the view of
his detractors, however, Besant had succeeded primarily in degrading fiction-
writing from a sacrament into a trade. He urges novelists to look after their
self-interest by considering their products first as marketable commodities
and only secondarily as art. For many writers Besant’s position was
scandalous, akin to the mercenary views confessed by Anthony Trollope in
his recently published autobiography (1882).35 James eloquently objected to
Besant’s rules for successful novel-writing, rules which Besant offered as
analogs to the procedural protocols that governed professional activity in
other disciplines but which James considered as forming a risible do-it-
yourself manual.36
In their replies James and Stevenson self-consciously distance
themselves from Besant’s professional author. They reject his implicit claim
that the novel’s function is to reproduce middle-class ideology by means of a
facile mimesis. Both men were uncomfortable with the idea that the interests
of the professional author ought to be at one with what Stevenson refers to
elsewhere as “that well-known character, the general reader.”37 Of the two
men, Stevenson took the more radical position by embracing a non-
functionalist “style” as a kind of anti-mimesis. He argues that literature has
nothing to do with reproducing reality but “pursues instead an independent
and creative aim.” Fiction, “like arithmetic and geometry” (two sciences,
significantly, whose practitioners were not considered professionals in the
nineteenth century), looks away from “the gross, coloured, and mobile
nature at our feet, and regard[s] instead a certain figmentary abstraction.”
The novel in particular lives “by its immeasurable difference from life.38
That difference is achieved only through a painstaking attention to what
Stevenson terms the “technical elements of style.” According to him, this
craft so long to learn, unlike Besant’s easily mastered rules, is precisely what
separates true writers from the general public, making the former unpopular
with all but the blessed few who cultivate “the gift of reading.”39 Affirming
that “the subject makes but a trifling part of any piece of literature” and that
“the motive and end of any art whatever is to make a pattern” and not to
reproduce “life,” Stevenson situates himself in opposition to dominant
notions of realism, and thus also in opposition to the model of professional
authorship proposed by Besant.40
It can be argued that, in rejecting Besant, Stevenson simply embraces a
different model of professionalism, one that would become increasingly

familiar in the modernist period. Certainly, in his hauteur regarding the
reading public, as well as in his commitment to the values of craft, of style,
of culture and taste, Stevenson participates in that reshaping of authorial
self-presentation that Jonathan Freedman has identified most notably in
James, Pater, and Wilde. As Freedman suggests, rejecting the middle-class
marketplace could be a highly marketable strategy, just as distancing oneself
from both the Besantian professional and the general reader could be a way
of asserting one’s own more authentic professionalism.41
Yet while James, Pater, and Wilde—all consummate modernist
professionals by Freedman’s standards—have been assimilated into the
modernist canon, Stevenson has not. “There are doubtless many reasons for
this exclusion, but one has to do with Stevenson’s conspicuously split
allegiances, his dual commitment to aestheticism and “style” on the one hand
and to what George Saintsbury called “the pure romance of adventure” on
the other.42 A feuilletonist who wrote pirate stories, Stevenson combined a
Paterian attention to the intricacies of style and form with blood-and-
thunder celebrations of male adventure. While aestheticism in turn became
a key component of much Modernist writing, adventure did not. Stevenson’s
champions in the twentieth century have almost always been those who, like
Proust and Nabokov, recognize in him a fellow dandy. Critical
considerations of his adventure stories have, by contrast, tended to thrust
him firmly back into the nineteenth century. I will take up the late-Victorian
“male romance” more fully in Chapter 4; here I note only that the male
romance was itself a rejection of both realism and professionalism. Unlike
aestheticism, however, it rejected them in the name of a reimagined male
bourgeois identity. It was thus a form of critique—occluded, self-interested,
contradictory—arising from within the patriarchy itself. Stevenson’s
simultaneous embrace of aestheticism and adventure thus possesses a certain
coherence, yet it was also the source of significant incoherences. Like Oscar
Wilde, Stevenson cultivated a style both aesthetic and personal that carried
within it an implicit critique of conventional middle-class mores. Yet like
Andrew Lang, Rider Haggard, Arthur Conan Doyle, and other votaries of
the male romance, Stevenson used the conventions of “adventure” (and
again, those conventions could be said to structure both his work and,
especially after the move to Vailima, his life) in an attempt to reshape his
male middle-class readership and ultimately to affirm his ties to them.
That Stevenson felt this split in his allegiances with special acuteness
while writing Jekyll and Hyde is suggested by his account of the story’s genesis
offered in “A Chapter on Dreams” (1892). In this essay Stevenson writes that
200 Stephen Arata
Jekyll and Hyde, like many of his tales, originated in a dream which he simply
transcribed and elaborated. Indeed “I am sometimes tempted to suppose ...
[that] the whole of my published fiction ... [is] the single-handed product of
some Brownie, some Familiar, some unseen collaborator, whom I keep
locked in aback garret” of the mind “while I get all the praise.”43 Stevenson’s
conscious self—“what I call I, my conscience ego, the denizen of the pineal
gland”—is left merely to bring some order to the Brownies’ ideas and then
to “dress the whole in the best words and sentences that I can find and make”
(XVI, 187). For post-Freudian readers this account of creativity’s sources in
the unconscious will sound familiar. Like Freud, Stevenson is deeply
indebted to Romantic paradigms of the artist: “A Chapter on Dreams” in
effect reimagines Shelley’s Cave of Prometheus in proto-psychoanalytic
language. Like Freud, too, Stevenson distinguishes between dream and
waking world in terms of a series of productive contrasts: energy and order,
licentiousness and morality (“my Brownies have not a rudiment of what we
call a conscience” [XVI, 188]), spontaneity and craft, and so on. It seems
especially appropriate that Edward Hyde should spring from a dream, since
like the Brownies he is so easily identified with the raging energies of the id.
Yet Stevenson’s unconscious is distinctly un-Freudian in one respect,
for it has developed what can only be called a business sense. Over the years,
Stevenson writes, he has come to dream only marketable stories, for the
denizen of the pineal gland has no use for any other. Where once the
Brownies told tales that, though powerful, were “almost formless” (XVI, 178),
now “they have plainly learned ... to build the scheme of a considerate story
and to arrange emotion in progressive order” (XVI, 186–87). They now
“dream in sequence” and “tell ... a story piece by piece, like a serial” (XVI,
187). This new-found restraint arises not from any intrinsic love of aesthetic
form but because the Brownies “have an eye to the bankbook” and “share in
[Stevenson’s] financial worries” (XVI, 186). “When the bank begins to send
letters and the butcher to linger at the back gate ... at once the little people
begin to stir themselves” (XVI, 183).44
Despite its comic tone, the essay’s point is a radical one: in what
Stevenson called “the days of professional literature”45 even the ostensibly
unbridled play of the unconscious has come to be determined by the
exigencies of the pocketbook. Stevenson has become a professional author
whether he would or no. In “A Chapter on Dreams” the creative unconscious
is not, as it sometimes was for the Romantics or for Freud, a place elsewhere,
freed from the disabling pressures of history. Instead it is decisively shaped
by those pressures. To survive, an author must not only write to order but
also dream to order. So well trained have the Brownies become, the essay
ironically concludes, that they have begun to fantasize potentially marketable

stories in styles entirely unlike Stevenson’s own. “Who would have supposed
that a Brownie of mine should invent a tale for Mr. Howells?” (XVI, 189). In
learning to write like William Dean Howells, that champion of sturdy realist
prose, the Brownies demonstrate that they know better than Stevenson
himself what goes down best with the reading public. Increasingly dissevered
from any individual ego, the Brownies place themselves in willing bondage
to the demands of the marketplace. Stevenson, thought by the world to be
the “author” of his tales, is only an amanuensis—“I hold the pen ... and I do
the sitting at the table ... and when all is done, I make up the manuscript and
pay for the registration” (XVI, 187–88)—transcribing tales he can claim no
credit for, since they come not from some deep authentic self but from the
culture itself. If Stevenson succeeds in giving his middle-class readers what
they want, the essay concludes, that is because they have manufactured his
stories for him.46 “A Chapter on Dreams” is in essence an elegy for
Romantic paradigms of creativity. The Romantic visionary genius has
become the Besantian purveyor of goods, a kind of literary shopkeeper.
“A Chapter on Dreams” also gives further weight to the claim that
Jekyll and Hyde traces the gradual taming of Edward Hyde into a parody of
bourgeois respectability. Like Hyde, the Brownies find that lawlessness and,
licentiousness simply do not pay, and that they must adjust accordingly. As in
the novel, Stevenson concludes that there is no place elsewhere, no human
activity not already saturated with ideology. The creative unconscious is
shown to be wholly acculturated: not in opposition to bourgeois morality but
unavoidably pledging fealty to it.47 In a striking and bitter letter to Gosse,
Stevenson called this servicing of the public: a form of prostitution. “We are
whores,” he wrote, “some of us pretty whores, some of us not: whores of the
mind, selling to the public the amusements of our fire side as the whore sells
the pleasures of her bed.”48 His further point is that under modern
conditions whoredom is the writer’s only option. In another letter he
returned to this same metaphor: “like prostitutes” professional authors “live
by a pleasure. We should be paid if we give the pleasure we pretend to give;
but why should we be honoured?”49
What begins to emerge is a cluster of veiled equivalences, with threads
linking Stevenson, his creative Brownies, Edward Hyde, and the prostitute-
writer within a larger web comprising middle-class ideology, commerce, and
the ethics of professionalism. Jekyll and Hyde, I would argue, is in part a
symbolic working through of these linkages. We recall for instance that
bourgeois commerce is implicitly associated with whoring in Stevenson’s
description of the “thriving” commercial street which Jekyll’s house backs on
202 Stephen Arata
to, its “florid charms,” “freshly painted shutters,” and “well polished brasses”
giving luster to goods displayed “in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood
along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation” (30). The doctor’s house
fronts on to “a square of ancient, handsome houses, now for the most part
decayed from their high estate” and given over to vaguely disreputable
trades, “shady lawyers, and the agents of obscure enterprises”: the once-fine
homes are “let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men” (40).
Readers who hear in this last passage a covert reference to Besant’s popular
1882 novel, All Sorts and Conditions of Men, might speculate that Stevenson is
indirectly including professional authorship among the shady and obscure
trades of modern life. Even without the specific connection to Besant, we
note that Jekyll’s house is surrounded front and back by the trappings of
bourgeois life, a life described in terms of the seedy, the disreputable, the
garish, the decayed. Such linkages—commerce and prostitution, prostitution
and authorship, authorship and professionalism, professionalism and
bourgeois ideology, and so on—suggest that we might usefully approach
Jekyll and Hyde as an indirect attempt by Stevenson to size up his situation as
a professional writer at the close of the nineteenth century.
The novel in fact turns out to be obsessively concerned with writing of
various kinds: wills, letters, chemical formulae, bank drafts, “full statements,”
and the like. Like “A Chapter on Dreams,” Jekyll and Hyde worries over the
question of authenticity. Just as in the essay Stevenson feared that his writing
originated not in some genuine self but in a market-driven unconscious, so
in the novel he continually links writing with forgery and other kinds of
“inauthentic” production. Enfield first discovers Hyde’s identity when he
reads his name written on a cheque that Enfield “had every reason to believe
... was a forgery.” That in fact “the cheque was genuine” only convinces
Enfield that the deception runs deeper than he had imagined (32). Hyde was
known even earlier to Utterson through Jekyll’s will, which the lawyer
considers an affront to “the sane and customary sides of life” (35) and whose
irregularities he “never approved of” (43). Even before he makes his first
appearance in the present of the novel, then, Hyde is associated with writing
that is at once “professional”—bank drafts and legal testaments—and yet also
somehow irregular and thus troubling. In both instances, moreover, Hyde
stands to benefit financially, just as in “A Chapter on Dreams” Stevenson says
his own “irregular” writings proved to be the most lucrative.
Jekyll too is implicated in the production of questionable writing.
Utterson, after hearing Mr. Guest’s analysis of Jekyll’s letters, is driven to
conclude that the doctor has begun to “forge for a murderer” (55). We
also recall that, Jekyll’s downfall results from the “impurity” of his original
chemical formulae, and that it is precisely out of that impurity that Hyde
originally springs (96).50 We cannot finally separate Jekyll’s writing from
Hyde’s, however, since a central conceit of the story is that they write
identical hands. “Of my original character,” the doctor notes, “one part
remained to me: I could write my own hand” (93). Hyde can sign Jekyll’s
cheques and Jekyll can write Hyde’s letters because their “characters” (in
both senses of that word) are the same. Ever vigilant, F. W. H. Myers
objected to this conceit, saying that it showed a “want of familiarity” on
Stevenson’s part “with recent psycho-physical discussions” concerning the
individuality of handwriting.51 Once again fingering a pressure point in
the novel, Myers argued that no two hands could be identical, since each
individual’s unique and authentic character is reproduced via the
characters on the page. In a parallel vein, both Rider Haggard and E. T.
Cook took exception to Jekyll’s will, claiming that the law would never
recognize such a document because it could not be securely attributed to
Jekyll himself.52
Jekyll and Hyde of course takes as its explicit theme the possibility that
the self is not unique and inviolable. Yet Myers, Haggard, and Cook seem
relatively untroubled by the novel’s “revelation” that two distinct
subjectivities inhabit the same “self.” All three men instead attest to the
anxiety that arises from the suspicion that writing itself might be entangled
in this same indeterminacy. As their appeals to science and the law further
suggest, vast realms of social discourse operate on the assumption that
writing and selfhood are interchangeable. Yet it is precisely this faith that
both “A Chapter on Dreams” and Jekyll and Hyde undermine. In this context
it is worth noting that Stevenson himself has often been criticized for not
being sufficiently “present” in his own writings. In 1927, at the nadir of
Stevenson’s reputation, Leonard Woolf dismissed him as having “no style of
his own.” His writing is “false,” Woolf contended; at best he was a mimic, “a
good imitator.”53 The “no style” argument is common in Stevenson
criticism, and interestingly finds its complement in the equally common
claim that Stevenson is merely a stylist. During his lifetime both William
Archer and George Moore criticized Stevenson for being all style and no
substance.54 What links these seemingly contradictory assessments is their
shared suspicion that there may be no “self” visible in Stevenson’s writing,
no discernible subjectivity expressed there. Rather than style being the man,
it seems that in Stevenson’s case style—whether his own or borrowed—
replaces the man. Stevenson occasionally critiqued himself along these same
lines, claiming that as a writer he was merely “a sedulous ape” who did no
more than mimic the styles of the writers who came before him.55 This self-
204 Stephen Arata
characterization links Stevenson back to Edward Hyde, himself a “sedulous

ape” who learns to his great cost how to mimic his “betters.”
Given this context, we can readily agree with Ronald Thomas’s claim
that Jekyll and Hyde enacts the modernist “disappearance of the author.”
Thomas notes, for instance, how often in the story writing is tied to
vanishing.56 “When this shall fall into your hands,” Jekyll predicts in his last
letter to Utterson, “I shall have disappeared” (72). Earlier, the lawyer’s
apprehensions concerning Jekyll’s will centered on the provision that it come
into effect upon the doctor’s “disappearance or unexplained absence” (35).
Hastie Lanyon likewise pens his narrative (also “not to be opened until the
death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll” [58]) knowing that it will not be
read until after his decease. It is thus only fitting that the novel concludes by
foregrounding this link between the act of writing and the death of selfhood:
“as I lay down my pen,” reads the book’s final sentence, “I bring the life of
that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end” (97).
That last sentence points the problem with particular sharpness, since
it leaves unclear to whom “I” refers. Though the document is labelled
“Henry Jekyll’s Full Statement of the Case,” within the statement the first
person shifts referents with notorious frequency. The final few paragraphs
contain sentences in which “I” means Jekyll, sentences in which “I” means
Hyde, and sentences in which both Jekyll and Hyde are referred to in the
third person, leaving an authorial “I” unattached to any self. The oft-cited
confession of ontological anxiety—“He, I say—I cannot say, I” (84)—is in
one sense misleading, since the “Full Statement” says “I” all the time. We
merely do not always know who “I” is. Like the conscious self posited in “A
Chapter on Dreams,” the “I” of the “Full Statement” holds the pen and sits
at the desk yet cannot unequivocally claim to be author of the document.
This dissociation of writing from selfhood is especially conspicuous in
what is after all meant to be an autobiographical narrative. When Jekyll
begins his confession in properly Victorian fashion (“I was born in the year
18— to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by
nature to industry,” and so on [81]), we might expect him to at last write
himself into the kind of coherence ostensibly promised by the
autobiographical form.57 What he finds instead is a self increasingly
fragmented and estranged from “his” own writing. “Think of it—I did not
even exist!” (86).
Jekyll and Hyde covertly enacts, then, a crisis in realist writing alongside
its more overt thematizing of a crisis in bourgeois subjectivity. That these
crises find expression in a story “about” criminal degeneracy should not
surprise us, since traditional humanist notions of both realism and identity
were deeply embedded in the normative categories deployed by

degenerationists. Jekyll and Hyde self-consciously dismantles those
categories, though it does not offer any to replace them, since Stevenson too
felt himself estranged both from his “professional” self and from his writing.
It is easy to see his subsequent flight to Samoa as a finally futile attempt to
reclaim the possibility of pure Romantic expression. The irony, of course, is
that exile made him more popular than ever with the middle-class reading
public in Britain.
NOTES
1. See Robert Louis Stevenson: The Critical Heritage, ed. Paul Maixner (London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981), 200–01.
2. Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886; rpt.
Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1979), 35. Further page references to this novel are given
parenthetically in the text.
3. Criminal Man According to the Classification of Cesare Lombroso, briefly summarized
by his daughter Gina Lombroso Ferrero, with an introduction by Cesare Lombroso (New
York and London: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1911), xiv. The following quotations can be found
on xiv–xv.
4. Daniel Pick usefully situates Lombroso’s work both in the context of Italian class
politics and in relation to opposing theories of criminality developed in mid-century Prance.
See Faces of Degeneration, 109–52. On Lombroso’s reception and influence in England, see
176–89, and William Greenslade, Degeneration, Culture and the Novel, 88–102.
5. John Addington Symonds for instance read the story as a parable of atavistic man.
See his March 1886 letter to Stevenson, reprinted in Critical Heritage, ed. Maixner,
210–11. Recent critics who have studied the tale’s indebtedness to theories of criminality,
atavism, and devolution include Ed Block, Jr., “James Sully, Evolutionist Psychology, and
Late Victorian Gothic Fiction,” Victorian Studies 25 (Summer 1982), 443–67; Donald
Lawler, “Refraining Jekyll and Hyde: Robert Louis Stevenson and the Strange Case of
Gothic Science Fiction,” in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde After One Hundred Years, ed. William
Veeder and Gordon Hirsch (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 247–61; Martin
Tropp, “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Schopenhauer, and the Power of the Will,” The Midwest
Quarterly 32 (Winter 1991), 141–55; and Marie-Christine Lepps, Apprehending the
Criminal: The Production of Deviance in Nineteenth-Century Discourse (Durham: Duke
University Press, 1992), 205–20.
6. See Gertrude Himmelfarb, The Idea of Poverty: England in the Early Industrial Age
(London: Faber and Faber, 1984), esp. 312–400, and Gareth Stedman-Jones, Outcast
London: A Study in the Relationship Between Classes in Victorian Society (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1971), esp. 127–51, 281–313. Judith Walkowitz shows how degeneration, atavism,
criminality, and class came together in the social discourses of the 1880s in City of Dreadful
Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late-Victorian London (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1992), ch. 7.
7. Nordau, Degeneration, 7.
8. See Stevenson’s letter of 1 March 1886 to F. W. H. Myers in The Letters of Robert
Louis Stevenson, ed. Sidney Colvin, 4 vols. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1911), III,
206 Stephen Arata
326: “About the picture, I rather meant that Hyde. had bought it himself, and Utterson’s
hypothesis of the gift an error.”
9. Elaine Showalter emphasizes the class dimensions of Stevenson’s tale, though she
sees Hyde simply as a bourgeois fantasy of an eroticized proletariat. She argues that we
should read the novel’s class interests in terms of “the late-nineteenth-century upper-
middle-class eroticization of working-class men as the ideal homosexual objects.” Hyde’s
proletarian status makes him a figure both of fear and desire for Stevenson’s professional
gentlemen. See Showalter, Sexual Anarchy: Gender and Culture at the Fin de Siècle
(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990), 111.
10. Referring to the proliferation of interpretations of Hyde within the novel, Veeder
and Hirsch argue that “Jekyll and Hyde engages ineptly in self-analysis in order to call into
question the very possibility of such analysis and to complicate comparable analytic moves
by the reader.” See “Introduction” to Jekyll and Hyde After One Hundred Years, ed. Veeder
and Hirsch, xii. By arguing for such awareness, they usefully reverse a long-standing
tradition of seeing Stevenson as the most innocent of writers, one whose value was
separate from his intentions. The most powerful articulation of this latter position is still
G. K. Chesterton’s in his Robert Louis Stevenson (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1928): “I am by
no means certain that the thing which he preached was the same as the thing which he
taught. Or, to put it another way, the thing which he could teach was not quite so large as
the thing which we could learn... [Stevenson] had the splendid and ringing sincerity to
testify ... to a truth which he did not understand” (22–23). In other words, as the
professional reader whose learning is needed to make sense of an unself-conscious text,
Chesterton plays Jekyll to Stevenson’s Hyde.
11. Myers wrote four letters to Stevenson on the subject of Jekyll and Hyde (21
February, 28 February, and 17 March 1886, and 17 April 1887), which are reprinted in
Critical Heritage, ed. Maixner, 213–22.
12. See “Collated Fractions of the Manuscript Drafts of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde,” in Jekyll and Hyde After One Hundred Years, ed. Veeder and Hirsch, 24. For a
general discussion of Stevenson’s alterations from manuscript to printer’s copy to first
edition, see William Veeder, “The Texts in Question,” ibid., 3–13.
13. My reading makes few distinctions among Enfield, Utterson, Lanyon, and Jekyll,
whom I take as types of the bourgeois professional rather than as individuals, and thus
largely interchangeable. For readings that do make such distinctions, see Block, “James
Sully,” 448; Mark M. Hennelly, Jr., “Stevenson’s ‘Silent Symbols’ of the ‘Fatal Cross
Roads’ in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Gothic 1 (1979), 10–16; Irving Saposnik, Robert Louis
Stevenson (New York: Twayne, 1974), 10; and Stephen Heath, “Psychopathia Sexualis:
Stevenson’s Strange Case,” Critical Quarterly 28 (1986), 104. Block, Hennelly, and Saposnik
single out Utterson as the novel’s only “healthy” character, while Heath nominates both
Utterson and Enfield for that honor. Closer to the position I take is that of Masao Miyoshi,
The Divided Self: A Perspective, on the Literature of the Victorians (New York: New York
University Press, 1969), who also stresses the interchangeability of the primary male
characters, noting that the “important men of the book ... are all unmarried, intellectually
barren, emotionally joyless, stifling” (297).
14. In “Children of the Night: Stevenson and Patriarchy,” William Veeder argues for
Enfield’s vicarious participation in this scene and notes that “exculpation of Hyde has
marked Enfield’s narrative from the start.” In Jekyll and Hyde After One Hundred Years, ed.
Veeder and Hirsch, 107–60, at 117–18.
15. I owe this idea to a suggestion made by William McKelvy in an unpublished essay
(1993) on Jekyll and Hyde.
16. Veeder suggests that when Hyde appears at Lanyon’s door ludicrously engulfed in
Jekyll’s oversized clothes we are likely to be reminded of a little boy dressing up as daddy;
see “Children of the Night,” 126.
17. “Here is another lesson to say nothing” (34). “Let us make a bargain never to refer
to this again” (34). “This is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep” (44). “I
wouldn’t speak of this” (55). “I cannot tell you” (57). “You can do but one thing ... and that
is to respect my silence” (58). “I daren’t say, sir” (63). “I would say nothing of this” (73).
As Lepps points out regarding the opening conversation between Enfield and Utterson,
“the novel begins with the silent recognition of an unsayable relation between an
unnameable high personage and an indescribable creature” (Apprehending the Criminal,
210).
18. In recounting how Hyde negotiated for Lanyon’s help to retrieve the chemical,
Jekyll emphasizes how Hyde on this occasion “rose to the importance of the moment” and
mastered himself “with a great effort of the will” (93–94). Regarding Hyde’s subsequent
conversation with Lanyon, both Veeder and Peter K. Garrett have noted that Hyde now
speaks in the professional tones of Jekyll. See Veeder, “Children of the Night,” 131, and
Peter K. Garrett, “Cries and Voices: Reading Jekyll and Hyde,” in Jekyll and Hyde After One
Hundred Years, ed. Veeder and Hirsch, 59–72, at 66.
19. Among previous critics of the novel, only Veeder has discussed this scene, coming
to conclusions quite different from mine. He reads the tableau as a projection of Utterson’s
unconscious, a “kind of parlor primal scene,” with “Jekyll/Hyde as father/mother in cozy
domesticity” (“Children of the Night,” 136). Veeder’s reading is richly suggestive, though
it neglects what I take to be an important facet of Stevenson’s description, namely that the
tableau is an empty one: no one is alive to enjoy the cozy domesticity.
20. Later of course Jekyll accuses Hyde of “scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on
the pages of my books” (96), though even this leaves room for doubt as to ultimate
responsibility. Jekyll, had he wished to be conclusive, could have, said “scrawled in his own
hand,” since the two men share the same handwriting.
21. For readings that place Hyde’s weeping in the context of late-Victorian discourses
on femininity, see William Patrick Day, In the Circles of Fire and Desire: A Study of Gothic
Fantasy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985), esp. 91–92; and Janice Doane and
Devon Hodges, “Demonic Disturbances of Sexual Identity: The Strange Case of Dr.
Jekyll and Mr/s Hyde,” Novel 23 (Fall 1989), 63–74.
22. Letter to Edmund Gosse dated 2 January 1886; see Letters, II, 313.
23. For a reading of Jekyll and Hyde as “an unconscious ‘allegory’ about the
commercialization of literature and the emergence of a mass consumer society in the late-
Victorian period,” see Patrick Brantlinger and Richard Boyle, “The Education of Edward
Hyde: Stevenson’s ‘Gothic Gnome’ and the Mass Readership of Late-Victorian England,”
in Jekyll and Hyde After One Hundred Years, ed. Veeder and Hirsch, 265–82.
24. Lloyd Osbourne, An Intimate Portrait of R. L. S. (New York: Charles Scribner’s
Sons, 1924), 59.
25. Letter to Archer dated October 1887; see Letters, III, 19.
26. Letter to Gosse dated 2 January 1886; see Letters, II, 313.
27. See Peter Keating, The Haunted Study: A Social History of the English Novel
1875–1914 (London: Seeker & Warburg, 1989), 9–87; Nigel Cross, The Common Writer:
208 Stephen Arata
Life in Nineteenth-Century Grub Street (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985),

204–23; and N.N. Feltes, Literary Capital and the Late Victorian Novel (Madison: University
of Wisconsin Press, 1993).
28. See Keating, Haunted Study, 16–17. W.E. Henley negotiated with Cassell’s on
Stevenson’s behalf for the book publication of Treasure Island. Cassell’s offered a £100
advance on royalties covering the first 4,000 copies plus £20 for each additional 1,000
copies. Stevenson thought he had sold his copyright for £100.
29. Thomas Stevenson bought the house as a wedding present for Fanny Stevenson.
She and Louis lived there between January 1885 and August 1887. Thomas died in May
1887, and Louis almost immediately insisted on moving, though Fanny by all accounts was
happy at Skerryvore. Ian Bell writes that “in Samoa, Stevenson never spoke of the place.
It was as though he had expunged the memory of imprisonment, despite having written
some of his most famous works while living—like a ‘weevil in a biscuit’—at the house:” See
Bell, Robert Louis Stevenson: Dreams of Exile (Edinburgh: Mainstream, 1992), 179.
30. Quoted in Frank McLynn, Robert Louis Stevenson: A Biography (London:
Hutchinson, 1993), 240.
31. Letter to Gosse dated 12 March 1885; see Letters, II, 271. Archer is quoted in J. A.
Hammerton, ed., Stevensoniana: An Anecdotal Life and Appreciation of Robert Louis Stevenson
(Edinburgh: John Grant, 1907), 75. Jenni Calder quotes an unpublished letter of Fanny’s:
“The tramp days are over, and this poor boy is now, for the rest of his life, to be dressed
like a gentleman.” See Calder, Robert Louis Stevenson: A Life Study (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1980), 152.
32. Stevenson was clearly uneasy at this time about his loss of faith in socialism. Joking
to Gosse that “the social revolution will probably cast me back upon my dung heap” at
Skerryvore, Stevenson said his political change of heart was sure to bring upon him the
wrath of H.M. Hyndman, the socialist politician. “There is a person Hyndman whose eye
is upon me; his step is beHynd me as I go.” (Letter dated 12 March 1885; see Letters, II,
271.) Readers who feel Edward Hyde lurking in that “beHynd” (night also recall the
emphasis given in the tale to Hyde’s sinister footsteps and disconcerting gaze. Equating
Hyde with Hyndman (and thus with socialism) gives additional weight to readings that
focus on the class issues raised in the novel. For an opposing view, see Christopher Harvie’s
argument for Stevenson’s lifelong, thoroughgoing Toryism in “The Politics of Stevenson,”
in Stevenson and Victorian Scotland, ed. Jenni Calder (Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh
Press, 1981), 107–25.
33. See Walter Besant, The Art of Fiction (Boston: Cupples, Upham, 1884), p. 6.
34. Useful discussions of the Besant–James–Stevenson debate can he found in Feltes,
Literary Capital, 65–102; John Goode, “The Art of Fiction: Walter Besant and Henry
James,” in Tradition and Tolerance in Nineteenth-Century Fiction, ed. D. Howard, J. Lucas,
and J. Goode (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1966); and Mark Spilka, “Henry James
and Walter Besant: ‘The Art of Fiction’ Controversy,” Novel 6 (Winter 1973).
35. See Keating, Haunted Study, 9–15, for the furor Trollope caused, particularly by
his insistence that novelists were no different than shoemakers or tallow-chandlers.
36. See Henry James, “The Art of Fiction,” in Essays on Literature; American Writers;
English Writers, ed. Leon Edel and Mark Wilson (New York: Library of America, 1984), esp.
49–53. James had reason to be worried, since the late 1880s and the 90s saw a boom in “how-
to” manuals for writers, many of which were written under the unofficial auspices of The
Society of Authors. See Keating, Haunted Study, 71–73; and Cross, Common Writer, 211–12.
37. “On Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature” (1885), in The Works of
Robert Louis Stevenson, ed. Sidney Colvin, 25 vols. (London: Chatto and Windus, 1911),
XVI, 242.
38. “A Humble Remonstrance” (1885), Works, IX, 152–53.
39. “Books Which Have Influenced Me” (1887), Works, XVI, 274..
40. The first quotation is from “The Morality of the Profession of Letters” (1881),
Works, XVI, 266, the second from “On Some “Technical Elements of Style in Literature,”
Works, XVI, 243.
41. Jonathan Freedman, Professions of Taste: Henry James, British Aestheticism, and
Commodity Culture (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990).
42. George Saintsbury, “The Present State of the English Novel” (1888), in The
Collected Essays and Papers of George Saintsbury 1877–1920, 4 vols. (London: Dent, 1923),
III, 126. On Stevenson and adventure, see Edwin M. Eigner, Robert Louis Stevenson and
Romantic Tradition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966). On Stevenson as an
aesthete and consummate stylist, see Vladimir Nabokov, Lectures on Literature, ed. Fredson
Bowers (New York: HBJ, 1980), 179–205.
43. Works, XVI, 187. Further page references to this essay are given parenthetically in
the text.
44. Stevenson wrote to Myers that Jekyll and Hyde was written to ward off “Bytes the
Butcher.” Letter to Myers dated 1 March 1886; see Letters, II, 325.
45. Letter to T. Watts-Dunton dated September 1886; see Letters, II, 348.
46. Stevenson’s version of the novel’s genesis agrees in outline with the stories told by
Fanny Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne while significantly altering the emotional and
moral valences of their accounts. According to both Fanny and Lloyd, Fanny found Louis’s
first, dream-inspired draft of the novel unsuitable. Louis, she said, “had treated it simply
as a story, whereas it was in reality an allegory.” After a heated argument, Louis burned the
manuscript and started over to produce a version more in keeping with Fanny’s moral
vision of the story. Both Fanny and Lloyd report that Louis agreed that his second, Fanny-
inspired draft of the tale was more marketable. In “A Chapter on Dreams” the two stages
are collapsed together: the Brownies both produce the original tale and simultaneously
revise it into a marketable story. The censor, rather than being outside the author (in this
case in the person of Fanny), is instead thoroughly internalized. For Lloyd’s account of
Jekyll and Hyde’s writing, see Intimate Portrait, 62–67; for Fanny’s, see Nellie van de Grift
Sanchez, The Life of Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1920),
118–19.
47. It can of course be argued with some justice that “A Chapter on Dreams” simply
rationalizes Stevenson’s failure to be the subversive he sometimes claimed he was. As
Veeder points out, the successive drafts of Jekyll and Hyde show him toning down and in
some cases deleting potentially objectionable material. See “The Texts in Question,”
11–12.
48. Unpublished letter quoted in Calder, A Life Study, 291. We might in turn connect
the letter’s invocation of the “amusements of the fireside” to Jekyll and Hyde’s portrayal of
the hearth as the site of bourgeois isolation and solipsism.
49. Letter to Gosse dated 2 January 1886; see Letters, II, 313.
50. Ronald Thomas convincingly argues that Hyde is “the product of Jekyll’s pen.” See
“The Strange Voices in the Strange Case: Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, and the Voices of Modern
Fiction,” in Jekyll and Hyde After One Hundred Years, ed. Veeder and Hirsch, 78.
210 Stephen Arata
51. Critical Heritage, ed. Maixner, 215.

52. The objections of Haggard and Cook are reprinted in Critical Heritage, ed.
Maixner, 202–03.
53. Leonard Woolf, “The Fall of Stevenson,” in Essays on Literature, History, Politics,
Etc. (London: Hogarth, 1927), 41.
54. See William Archer, “Robert Louis Stevenson: His Style and Thought” (1885),
rpt. in Critical Heritage, ed. Maixner, 160–69; and George Moore, Confessions of a Young
Man (1886; rpt. Swan Sonnenschein, 1892), 284–87.
55. “A College Magazine,” Works, IX, 37.
56. Thomas, “Strange Voices,” 79.
57. Most recent studies of the novel have stressed what can be called the heteroglossia
of the “Full Statement,” its deployment of a multitude of conflicting voices and
perspectives. A notable exception to this critical trend is Garrett, who argues for the formal
and ideological conservatism of Jekyll’s narrative while acknowledging the “factors that
resist” the novel’s drive toward monovocality. See Garrett, “Cries and Voices,” 59–61.
ALAN SANDISON
Treasure Island:
The Parrot’s Tale
‘Were you never taught your catechism?’ said the Captain. ‘Don’t you
know there’s such a thing as an Author?’
—‘The Persons of the Tale’
‘You could say that the parrot ... was Pure Word. If you were a French
academic, you might say that he was un symbole du Logos.’
—Julian Barnes, Flaubert’s Parrot
I n Treasure Island a parrot gets the last word, and turns out to be a two-
hundred-year-old deconstructionist. Moreover, these last verbal fragments
uttered by an uncomprehending fowl, while they effortlessly rupture
conventional relations between signifier and signified, are, firstly, the fine but
troublesome summation of a composition which signifies Jim Hawkins’
accession to authority via authorship, and, secondly, the surprising means of
galvanising Jim out of his sleep and having him sit up in bed in fear and
horror of that ‘accursed island’ on which, one might have thought, he had
enjoyed his finest hour.
So we have a problem. Jim tells us at the outset that he has taken up his
pen at the behest of his companions ‘to write down the whole particulars’ of
the treasure-island adventure. Can we now accept the narrative-composition
as proof of his having achieved the estate of Author—of independent, mature
From Robert Louis Stevenson and the Appearance of Modernism: A Future Feeling. © 1996 by Alan
Sandison.
211
212 Alan Sandison
authority—or do we find our expectations confounded by a raucous old

parrot screeching the eviscerated words of a defunct pirate?
One way of reading Treasure Island is as carnivalesque masquerade
where traditional authority, in a variety of categories, is gleefully subverted.
Such an approach would foreground Long John Silver as chief ‘masker’—
appropriately enough for he is a master of (moral) disguise—but it would also
have to include his cherished parrot which is also a dissembler, for ‘Cap’n
Flint’, that cornucopia of naval history and bad language, is, in fact, a lady.
General reversal is almost a standard component in Stevenson’s fiction: we
have only to think of the ‘old maid’ Mackellar, or of Colonel Geraldine in
New Arabian Nights, or of David Balfour playing wife to Alan Breck’s fiddler
in their long and inconclusive march, or Ramsey in ‘The Castaways of
Soledad’ who makes the immodest suggestion that he should become the
official hostess to the oddly-named Captain Crystal, the better to entertain
the crew.
Whatever caprice drove Stevenson to endow his parrot with the female
gender, it is clearly more than a courtesy for her to be given the last word.
Roosting securely in Jim Hawkins’ dreams, with a life-tenure the equal of his,
she declines to be written out of the story; so helping to secure the survival
of her master, who has been. (The awful possibility has to be faced that the
parrot’s gender may have survived from her original and improbable
incarnation as a hen in an earlier version of the tale; but Stevenson’s
characteristically assiduous re-writing would, I am sure, have removed all
accidental vestiges of such an ignoble descent. The trio of females in Treasure
Island are alike in embodying certain contradictions: Jim’s mother is
materialist rather than maternal, Silver’s black wife is, despite the colour-
coding, an accomplice and Cap’n Flint is a female masquerading as a male
parrot.)
So is it Jim’s word against the parrot’s? In a hell devised by French
theorists the parrot can be seen as undeconstructible: an ageless allusion (to
a dead pirate), the language of its discourse can never be at variance with
itself since it signifies nothing to its subject. Howbeit, she is, at the same
time, well-nigh, indestructible: ‘Now that bird’, says Silver ‘is, may be, two
hundred years old, Hawkins—they lives forever mostly; ...’ (63).
Notwithstanding her great age and vast experience, Cap’n Flint appears no
more than a ‘babby’. Moreover, despite having been present at innumerable
naval engagements and learning to speak the language of such events, she is
still Long John’s ‘poor old innocent bird’ protected from contamination by
incomprehension. Is this meant to comfort us as perusers of Jim’s book? Or
is it meant to comfort Jim who may be similarly protected from his exposure
to Long John Silver? Is he still an innocent after witnessing, and in truth

participating in, innumerable gruesome killings and sundry other bad deeds?
Or is he parroting the parrot, so to speak, who/which had learned to scream
‘Pieces of eight!’ on another treasure hunt which had turned up ‘three
hundred and fifty thousand of ‘em’. Jim’s scream is modified into a memoir
but there may be a covert allusion to that first hoard when he dilates on the
contrasting variety of coinage in Flint’s treasure—and on the pleasure it gave
him: ‘It was a strange collection, like Billy Bones’ hoard for the diversity of
the coinage, but so much larger and so much more varied that I think I never
had more pleasure than in sorting them’ (215). At any rate, we can quite
properly think of Jim as No. 2 parrot on the grounds that he is responsible
for sustaining the memory—if not, indeed, the presence—of Silver by his
words. Silver, we are told, ‘can speak like a book when so minded’ (62) and
maybe that is just what he’s doing through Jim, courtesy of ‘Cap’n Flint’.
All the foregoing questions, probing various possibilities, could be
rolled up into one general question: what kind of text is this? Is it, for
example, a ‘mere’ adventure-story, or is it a Bildungsroman with Modernist
anxieties about the problematics of language and textual authority? Should
the carnivalesque option be pursued? That there are carnivalesque elements
is, I believe, undeniable and these, it could be argued, have some
responsibility for the ambiguity in the text towards authority. Thus while
Jim’s gradual acquisition of authority (or Authority, if we are thinking of
Lacan’s symbolic order) is a serious matter and, insofar as it reflects the
dynamic which drives the adolescent adventurer to take the action he does,
constitutes the tale’s bed-rock, Long John Silver frequently comes near to
burlesquing authority—at least in its excessively conventional embodiment
on the Hispaniola in those three archetypes of social hierarchy, the Squire, the
doctor and the ship’s captain.
Nonetheless the carnivalesque does not seem to provide an adequate
focus within which all the story’s parts can be seen to come together, nor does
it make sufficient allowance for the seriousness of Jim’s quest. Before any
attempt to establish one which does, an objection has to be anticipated. It has
been said (by Punch) that to attempt a serious critique of P. G. Wodehouse is
to take a spade to a soufflé. Alastair Fowler at the end of a penetrating
analysis of Treasure Island, and perhaps mindful of Punch’s scorn (and of
Alexander Pope), similarly cautions readers against breaking a butterfly on
the wheel, or making it walk the plank. Yet Stevenson’s attitude to his texts is
a sophisticated one and part of his perfectly evident relish in writing derives
from his gleeful participation in subverting his own text. What he is doing,
however, goes well beyond mere mischievousness or self-indulgence.
214 Alan Sandison
Authority (or authorship) in all its variety is a constant preoccupation with

him: he yearns for its legitimation in him—the blessing, in the biblical sense
even though he knows that it will only come, if it comes at all, by an act of
self-assertion, even usurpation, for which he, unlike Jacob, lacks resolve.
In the excellent essay already referred to, Alastair Fowler is surely right
when he notes that what Jim finds particular pleasure in, in sorting the
coinage, are the figures of authority which are imaged in these coins, for
what he is appreciatively running through his fingers are ‘the pictures of all
the kings of Europe for the last hundred years’. Fowler also notes the Jungian
‘treasure hard to attain’ archetype—‘selfhood, independence, identity’—and,
in suggesting that this is more truly Jim’s objective, describes the book as
being for the most part not really about treasure or the search for it; rather,
it ‘recounts a series of contests for power’.1
In another excellent essay Wallace Robson, pondering the reasons for
the treasure-hunt being somewhat marginalised, discreetly favours Freud
over Jung and advances the argument that ‘[t]he avoidance of the ‘treasure’
theme ... may have something to do with Stevenson’s personal stabilisation at
that time’. He is thinking, of course, of Stevenson’s recent marriage and the
‘degree of resolution’ he had achieved in the difficult relationship with his
father.2 It has, I believe, a great deal to do with this and with Jim’s role in the
‘contests for power’ which together account for the serious theme of the
book and explain why Jim should be frightened by a parrot.
All Stevenson’s major fiction involves some form of tension or conflict

between sons and ‘figures of authority from the class of fathers’.3 Many, if
not indeed most, of these stories have to do with a young man unable to
attain that level of maturity and independence necessary for him to meet the
obligations imposed on him by the adult world. In the most serious cases,
these young men are trapped in a limbo between adolescence and manhood.
Weir of Hermiston, Kidnapped, Prince Otto, The Ebb-Tide all have central
characters who are, in this sense, ‘failures’.
Jim Hawkins, however, is not in this category. Here in Treasure Island
we have one of the few cases where the adolescent does win through to
transcend his condition; so much so that he is invested by his much older
companions with responsibility for ‘authoring’ the text of their adventures, a
charge of some significance from a writer on the threshold of Modernism.
Jim’s development is notable for being the first and very nearly the last such
achievement by someone in his position in Stevenson’s work. If there is the
hint of a shadow lying across it in the closing sentences, it is nothing to the
great question-mark which hangs over the comparable case of David Balfour
in Catriona whose epiphany as a piece of hormone-deficient ivy wrapping

himself round Catriona’s knees is parasitic rather than priapic and carries
little conviction that he has at long last proved himself capable of that
individuation which will allow him to take his place in the adult world.
That Jim succeeds to man’s estate is almost certainly a reflection of
Stevenson’s ‘personal stabilisation’ as Robson calls it. After the agonies of the
1870s where his hopeless infatuation with Mrs Sitwell was compounded by
an apparently endless sequence of shattering rows with his father, Stevenson
had finally married, though the effort to do so nearly cost him his life.
Treasure Island—or the bulk of it—was composed in the bosom of his new
family; Fanny and her son Lloyd Osborne were both there, and the
composition enjoyed the benevolent participation of his father since both
parents were also part of the holiday menage sojourning in the Scottish
Highlands.
In conventional Freudian psychology, Treasure Island is easily seen to be
a locus classicus in the representation of the adolescent confronted by the
castrating father-figure who, however, already bears the marks of the son’s
desire to turn the tables on him by being himself maimed, that is
symbolically emasculated. This extends even to the image of authority in the
effigy of Admiral Benbow (a hero of Stevenson’s incidentally), hanging as a
sign in front of the inn which takes the sabre-cut Bill Bones aims at Black
Dog, a cut so deep that ‘[y]ou may see the notch on the lower side of the
frame to this day’ (12).
Bones, like so many of Stevenson’s father-substitutes, is a man of fine
physique: he is ‘a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man’ with, however, the
mark of a sabre-cut across one cheek, ‘a dirty, livid white’ (3). He exudes
authority, ‘looking as fierce as a commander’ and is recognised by young Jim
as a man ‘accustomed to be obeyed or to strike’. Jim’s response to him might
be described as pleasurably fearful and a sort of intimacy is quickly
established between them. That Bones lives in some dread of visiting
seafarers is soon obvious to the inn-keeper and his family, and Jim becomes
sufficiently partisan to describe himself as ‘a sharer in his alarms’ (5). Already,
it would seem, there is a hint of fluidity in the boundaries between Jim’s and
the pirates’ moral world.
Bones’ domination of the ‘Admiral Benbow’s’ patrons—he ‘tyrannised’
over them, we’re told—is synchronised with the rapid decline in Jim’s father’s
health. In fact, Jim believes his father’s death to have been hastened by his
fear of Billy who effectively displaces him as patron. As the natural father
continues to fade, another substitute, Black Dog, appears. He is
distinguished by a maimed left hand, having lost two ‘talons’, and he, too,
216 Alan Sandison
exerts a menacing degree of authority over Jim. However, he alternates

between threats and attempts at ingratiating himself: ‘“I have a son of my
own”, said he, “as like you as two blocks, and he’s all the pride of my ‘art. But
the great thing for boys is discipline, sonny—discipline”’ (11). Later, Jim is
‘this dear child here, as I’ve took such a liking to’ (12).
The next in this almost phantasmagoric sequence of threatening
authority-figures or bad fathers is Blind Pew, a ‘horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless
creature’ (20) who terrifies Jim much more than the other two. As a result of
his visit, Billy Bones dies, his death occurring on the day after the funeral of
Jim’s father. Jim himself links the two events in a way which begs an
interesting question:
It is a curious thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked

the man ... but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a
flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the
sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart (21).
This contrasts sharply with the prosaic, almost off-hand account Jim gives of
his father’s death:
But as things fell out, my poor father died quite suddenly that
evening, which put all other matters on one side. Our natural
distress, the visits of the neighbours, the arranging of the funeral,
all the work of the inn to be carried on in the meanwhile, kept me
so busy that I had scarcely time to think of the captain, far less to
be afraid of him (18).
There is not much sign of mourning in this matter-of-fact description of his

‘natural distress’; any outburst of grief seemingly, and indeed curiously,
having to wait the expiry of Billy Bones. Yet his tears then are perhaps as
much a sign of his growing maturity as their (apparent) absence at his father’s
death, for what Jim is learning is something about the unreliability of
appearances and the ambiguities of the moral order—as reflected in himself
as well as in others.
Billy Bones has unquestionably perpetrated atrocious acts of
wickedness, but through him Jim makes a number of discoveries about
himself—one being that ‘he was far less afraid of the captain himself than
anybody else who knew him’ (5), and another that he could still feel some
pity for this bloodthirsty old pirate who had so comprehensively offended
against a Christian society’s most cherished values. Jim is even mature
enough already to recognise (unlike his father) that the captain’s presence,
notwithstanding his wickedness, did the inn no harm, that he might even
help to energise the community and at the same time assist it in its self-
definition:
I really believe his presence did us good. People were frightened

at the time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was a fine
excitement in a quiet country life; and there was even a party of
the younger men who pretended to admire him ... (6).
Jim is sharply distinguishing his own from his father’s over-anxious and
imperceptive reaction, as he does again when he tells how his father ‘never
plucked up the heart’ to ask the captain for the money due to him, and
describes him as living in terror of his obstreperous guest (6).
The most notable and powerful of all the surrogate and maimed fathers
does not, of course, make a physical appearance in this sequence. Much more
tellingly, Long John Silver haunts Jim’s dreams. A little later in the book
Smollett sharply criticises Trelawney for telling the secret of their voyage to
the parrot, meaning that everyone knows it. (The Squire thinks he’s referring
to Silver’s parrot and Smollett has to explain that ‘It’s a way of speaking’ [55].)
Here in the account of his dream Jim broadcasts his own secret almost as
promiscuously and with as little comprehension as the parrot—or so we are
led to assume.
How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you.

On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four comers of the
house and the surf pounded along the cove and up the cliffs, I
would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand
diabolical expressions. Now the leg would be cut off at the knee,
now at the hip; now he was a monstrous kind of a creature who
had never had but the one leg, and that in the middle of his body.
To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and ditch was
the worst of my nightmares (5).
There is more here than ‘simply’ the Oedipal castration of the father or the
fear of personal castration: there is also the ambiguous fear on the part of the
son that the potency of the father will be incestuously visited upon him.4
Set over against the collection of threatening ‘fathers’ found among the
pirates, we get a trio of authority-figures in Smollett, Trelawney and Livesey.
Initially, we might assume that Trelawney the Squire, as the social superior
218 Alan Sandison
of the other two, would be the principal of the group and when Jim first visits
him at the Hall this seems about to be confirmed:
The servant led us down a matted passage, and showed us at the

end into a great library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon
the top of them, where the squire and Dr Livesey sat, pipe in
hand, on either side of a bright fire (34).
Nothing, it appears, could be more conspicuously redolent of accepted

hierarchical authority, literary, historical and social, than such a scene. Yet as
the tale unfolds we come to realise (as does Jim) that things are not quite
what they at first seem.
It becomes clear fairly quickly, for example, that Trelawney is sorely
lacking in personal authority. He cannot keep his own or other people’s
counsel—‘you cannot hold your tongue’, Livesey tells him roundly—is
highly irresponsible and gullible to a degree. He gets at odds with his captain
almost immediately and, had it not been for Livesey’s intervention, would
have dismissed him. The contrast between Trelawney and Smollett could
hardly be more marked. Smollett is uncommunicative, authoritarian in all
matters under his command, forthright and decisive. In fact, of the three he
is the only one who truly conforms to the stern, uncompromising,
judgemental father whom we often find the young Stevenson hero pitting
himself against—or perhaps, on occasion, even creating. It is of more than
passing significance, then, that this father-figure is disabled by a wound in
the middle of the adventure and thereafter poses no further threat to Jim’s
freedom of action. Eventually he is made subject (as all the others are) to
Jim’s pen—a highly effective form of subjugation whether we think of him as
Alexander Smollett, captain of the Hispaniola, or Tobias Smollett, precursor-
author.
When Smollett is wounded, the man who takes over the leadership of
the Squire’s party is not Trelawney himself but Dr Livesey. From the start of
the book whether asserting himself over Billy Bones in the ‘Admiral Benbow’
or comfortably sharing in the privileged surroundings of the Squire’s library,
Livesey is a figure of quiet but confident authority. Drawn in sharp contrast
to the unbending, unsympathetic Smollett, he exercises over Jim an influence
grounded on benevolence and—significantly—a generous readiness to
recognise Jim’s deserts.
On several occasions Livesey is brought into conflict with other father-
figures and shown to be their superior. When he refuses to be silenced by
Billy Bones, obstreperously presiding over the ‘Admiral Benbow’s’ parlour,
the beached pirate draws a knife. Livesey orders him to put it away or he will
see that he hangs: ‘Then followed a battle of looks between them; but the
captain soon knuckled under, put up his weapon, and resumed his seat,
grumbling like a beaten dog’ (8). The doctor’s authority is further underlined
by his disclosure in this episode that he is also a magistrate; which,
incidentally, offers another instance of the imbrication of medicine, the
father-figure and the law which is to be found elsewhere in Stevenson’s
fiction (in particular in Jekyll and Hyde).
Livesey is equally undaunted when he confronts the ruthless and
treacherous Long John Silver. In everything the doctor is Silver’s polar
opposite: a man of the utmost integrity, hating deception, steadfast and loyal.
He makes no bones about his abhorrence of all Silver stands for and
cheerfully admits to his willingness to have seen him cut down by his enraged
followers at the empty treasure-site had Jim Hawkins not been in the way.
Again, the contrast between these two authority-figures is brought out when
Livesey’s innate compassion is contrasted with Silver’s inhumanity. The
doctor, hearing the sounds of (as he thinks) delirium coming from the camp
of the few remaining pirates, tells Silver that he is half-inclined to go and
treat the sufferers, and this exchange follows:
‘... if I were sure they were raving ... I should leave this camp, and,
at whatever risk to my own carcase, take them the assistance of
my skill’.
‘Ask your pardon, sir, you would be very wrong,’ quoth Silver.
‘You would lose your own precious life, and you may lay to that
... these men down there, they couldn’t keep their word ... and
what’s more, they couldn’t believe as you could.’
‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re the man to keep your word—we
know that.’ (216–17)
It is, of course, Livesey who brings about Silver’s defeat.

If these confrontations between Livesey and the others might seem to
suggest a contest between good and bad fathers and the kind of authority
they assert, there may be another example in Smollett’s attitude to Jim when
he brusquely orders the latter to the galley with the words ‘I’ll have no
favourites on my ship.’ He, the quintessentially harsh and repressive father,
addresses these words not to Jim but, almost as a challenge, to the doctor,
who is possessed of a rival moral authority based not, perhaps, on showing
favour, but at least on kindness and consideration. Just as he asserts himself
over Bones and Silver, Livesey, in effect, repeats his success with Smollett by
220 Alan Sandison
assuming the direction of the Squire’s party when the captain is disabled. All
the decisions are his and everything is managed with understated self-
confidence: ‘... I did what I thought best ...’ (212).
It could be argued that it is Smollett’s resentment at Jim’s success in
finding in Livesey another ‘father’, an alternative moral authority which will
nurture his (Jim’s) own, which impels him to make his rather gnomic remark
to Jim at the end: ‘You’re a good boy in your line, Jim; but I don’t think you
and me’ll go to sea again. You’re too much of the born favourite for me’
(214). To look with favour on any ‘son’ is more than this autocratic ‘father’
can bring himself to do since it is a step towards his own disempowerment.
Significantly, having dismissed Jim, he immediately turns his attention to
Silver, to whom he reacts quite neutrally: ‘“What brings you here, man?”
“Come back to do my dooty, sir,” returned Silver. “Ah!” said the captain, and
that was all he said.’ The difference in his attitude to Silver is drawn to our
attention by these last few words. Smollett, having cast off or disinherited the
intrepid Jim for being too much of the born favourite, now extends favour to
the reprobate pirate and accepts his return to ‘dooty’ without demur. There
is clearly a sense in which these two surrogate fathers are on the same side.
Livesey’s behaviour suggests a very different paternal model. Even in
the face of Jim’s desertion of their party in the stockade, the doctor
conspicuously refuses to condemn his action out of hand. His criticism is
muted yet very much to the point:
‘Heaven knows I cannot find it in my heart to blame you; but this

much I will say, be it kind or unkind: when Captain Smollett was
well, you dared not have gone off; and when he was ill, and
couldn’t help it, by George, it was downright cowardly!’ (193)
Pinpointing Jim’s lack of scruple as this does, highlights the authenticity of

Stevenson’s portrayal of the adolescent negotiating his rite of passage. In
seeing his opportunity to circumvent the ‘father’s’ authority and taking it,
Jim, does display selfishness; yet his act is a necessary one if he is eventually
to learn to take responsibility for his own decisions and his own life.
Throughout the story Jim’s acceptance of Livesey’s authority is instinctive if
tacit, but at the reproof administered here (not angrily but ‘sadly’), Jim
becomes a boy again—and a repentant one at that—and bursts into tears.
This telling exchange invites comparison with another between a ‘real’
father and son: that of Adam Weir and Archie in Weir of Hermiston. Livesey’s
assertion of authority is of a kind diametrically opposed to Weir’s but is
extremely close kin to Lord Glenalmond’s. These two men exercise great
influence with tact, restraint and affection over a young man growing up.
Each views the young man’s aspirations to an independent position for
himself sympathetically and in doing so is contrasted with a father-figure
who does not.
In Livesey’s case the figure in question is primarily Silver (who, in the
last section of the book, literally ties Jim to himself with a length of rope),
but, as has been implied, shadowed-in behind him is Captain Smollett who
also has a good deal in common with Adam Weir. While Livesey admires the
Captain (as Glenalmond does Weir) he does not share his idea of authority
based on rigorous demarcations uncompromisingly enforced. Smollett, first
described as ‘a sharp-looking man, who seemed angry with everything on
board’, delivers an ultimatum to the Squire’s party before they leave Bristol
requiring that things be done on the Hispaniola exactly according to his
wishes or he will resign his command. His attitude is not an unreasonable
one in his position but it puts him at the extreme of the range and makes him
not just an uncompromising enforcer of the law but something of a martinet.
It is notable that it is only by Livesey’s quietly but effectively interposing his
own kind of authority between Smollett and Trelawney that Smollett is
reconciled to his post.
Dr Livesey is, in fact, a father-figure of a kind we encounter
throughout Stevenson’s fiction. As such he can easily be seen as a son’s
apology for the antagonistic portrayal of the father as harsh, uncaring and
judgemental: for characters like Attwater in The Ebb-Tide, Ebenezer in
Kidnapped, Weir in Weir of Hermiston. It is something of a commonplace of
Freudian analysis to see the representation of the father in these terms as a
sort of parricide for which the ‘oedipal regressive’ must do penance:
An Oedipus, to atone for his crime, must put out the eyes that
have gazed on the mother he has wed and the father he has slain.
An author has other means of propitiation and penance. He can
perform the comforting miracle of restoring his father to life in
the most exalted form; he can re-create the father in the image
that he (the son) loved best; he can call into existence a father-
ideal toward whom no ‘son’ could have the slightest objection.5
Dr Livesey is just such an ideal father whom no son could object to, as are in
varying degrees, Alan Breck in Kidnapped, Davis in The Ebb-Tide and
Glenalmond in Weir of Hermiston. The latter is of particular significance (as
we shall see in a later chapter) for in this book Stevenson exposes quite
clearly the son’s role in creating such an accommodating surrogate. Livesey
222 Alan Sandison
has in full measure what all of these men have to some extent: a protective,
affectionate concern for the ‘son’, a willingness to recognise his merits and
no inclination whatsoever to put obstacles in the way of his development.
‘Every step, it’s you that saves our lives’, he says to Jim, acknowledging the
effect of the latter’s initiatives and so of his progress towards equality of
participation in the responsibilities of adulthood. All that said, a caveat still
needs to be entered when we are marshalling good and bad father-figures: in
Treasure Island there is no clear-cut division allocating the ‘bad’ father-figures
to the pirates and the ‘good’ to the Squire’s party. Jim expresses more grief at
the death of the murderous Billy Bones than he does at that of his own father,
while Smollett’s hostility towards him remains to the end implacable. Silver’s,
as we shall see, is a highly complex case.
Finally, one might note that even Livesey may have a mote in his
compassionate eye for he prides himself on having served with the Duke of
Cumberland at Fontenoy. The year was 1745: in the next year this able
general acquired his notorious sobriquet ‘Butcher’ Cumberland for what
were seen as his brutal tactics in the battle of Culloden which ensured the
decimation of the Jacobite forces and the disfavour of romantic nationalists
like Stevenson. And one truly last point for Freudians: nearly all the ideal
fathers (including Livesey) are bachelors, for which reason alone they are less
challenging to ‘penitent’ sons.
I have said that in Treasure Island we have almost the only example of a young
Stevensonian hero who safely negotiates the shoals of adolescence to the
extent of becoming ‘Captain’ Hawkins (even if only to Israel Hands), and his
own author. Nevertheless there are one or two clues scattered around to
suggest that the carapace of adulthood may not, even by the end of the
composition, be quite complete. One, already referred to, is the allusion to
nightmares about the island in the last sentence of the book, but another,
more significant one resides in the fact that there is one father-figure whom
Jim never quite transcends, and that is, of course, Long John Silver. Hawkins
senior dies, Billy Bones dies and so does Blind Pew, but Silver escapes. When
Jim tells us that ‘the formidable sea-faring man with one leg has gone clean
out of my life’ (219), it is clear that he has not gone clean out of his dreams.
Unless we are to assume an unreasonable fear of psittacosis on Jim’s part, the
fact that the parrot is part of his nightmare testifies to its capacity to revive
memories of Long John and all that he stands for. Telling one’s secrets in
recounting one’s dreams becomes complicated when part of that secret is
conveyed in a few seemingly unimportant words spoken by a parrot.
The relationship between Jim and Long John is at the very heart of the
book and in its sophisticated nature shows us just how remiss it is to think of
Treasure Island as a ‘mere’ adventure-story for children. Adventure there is,
of course, and brilliantly constructed too, but we should never forget that in
this case it feeds into the genre of the Bildungsroman (with which it is far from
being incompatible) where a youth is subjected to a variety of experiences
which will test his capacity and readiness for the sort of responsibilities that
go with adulthood. It is in the hazard of this enterprise that the more
substantial drama is played out and it involves the painful rupturing of
relationships, the confrontation with unsuspected moral ambiguities which
make choosing exceptionally difficult yet crucial to the growth-process, and
the recognition that independence, though a prime objective, will bring with
it loneliness and isolation. This drama begins in the second paragraph of the
book with the arrival of Billy Bones and is so skilfully blended with the
adventure that its existence has even been denied. The concentration of so
many menacing authority-figures does not succeed in crushing the boy’s
growing self-confidence, however, and he emerges with credit from the trial.
He is helped in this by having already begun to distance himself from his
father, clearly seeing himself as more able to cope with their unwelcome
visitors. When his father’s death duly occurs, it is something which he can
then take in his stride.
The final step in this phase is taken when he decides to leave England
with the squire and his companions in search of the treasure, but that
decision is rendered irrevocable when, on returning to the inn after his brief
stay in the squire’s house, he discovers another boy—the new apprentice—in
his place:
It was on seeing that boy that I understood, for the first time, my
situation. I had thought up to that moment of the adventures
before me, not at all of the home that I was leaving; and now, at
sight of this clumsy stranger, who was to stay here in my place
beside my mother, I had my first attack of tears. I am afraid I led
that boy a dog’s life; for as he was new to the work, I had a
hundred opportunities of setting him right and putting him
down, and I was not slow to profit by them (46).
He is therefore already launched upon his voyage even before he reaches

Bristol or sets his foot upon the deck of the Hispaniola.
Once on the ship Jim encounters yet another authority-figure in the
person of Captain Smollett. The captain turns out to be as much a
disciplinarian as Black Dog and declines to modify his authoritarian temper
224 Alan Sandison
in any way in his dealings with Jim. Not only does he order him about very
roughly—‘Here, you ship’s boy ... out of that! Off with you to the cook and
get some work’—he also takes care to make his adjuration (addressed, as I
have said, to Dr Livesey) audible to Jim: ‘I’ll have no favourites on my ship.’
Jim is going to have to earn his passage as well as to accept unequivocally his
subordination to an uncompromising ship’s master.
It is a paradigm which this boy who has already glimpsed what lies
beyond the adolescent’s horizon is going to find it difficult to conform to, so
it is unsurprising that he should tell us here (though in no very serious tone)
that he ‘hated the captain deeply’ (59). In fact neither Jim nor the Captain
gives ground and tension remains between them for the whole of the
expedition. Twice Jim absents himself from the Captain’s command and the
Captain, on his part, makes it clear at the end that he will never permit Jim
any privileges which would diminish his authority over him.
Jim does, however, get the last word—literally, for he becomes the
author of the Captain in writing the account of their travels. Nor is one being
arbitrary in crossing barriers in conflating the world of the book with the act
of its inscription, for Stevenson has already set a precedent. Not only has he
written one of his fables, ‘The Persons of the Tale’, in which the characters
step outside their fictional world in order to talk about the author, but he has
also given his Captain the name of Smollett.
Tobias Smollett was a Scottish writer who could have been predicted to
attract Stevenson’s interest. Having joined the navy at an early age, he rose
to become surgeon’s mate, sailed the Spanish Main and, as a young man of
twenty, took part in an expedition against the Spaniards in the West Indies in
1741. He was a consumptive and because of his poor health and exiguous
means took to spending substantial periods of time travelling in France and
Italy, eventually dying at fifty in his home at Leghorn in 1771. Smollett was
the author of, inter alia, The Adventures of Roderick Random, The Expedition of
Humphry Clinker and The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, and could be
regarded as a contemporary of Long John Silver since the latter tells the
gullible squire that he lost his leg in a naval action under the command of
‘the immortal Hawke’. Hawke (1705–81), having first distinguished himself
in action at Cape Finisterre in 1747, earned his ‘immortality’ by a celebrated
victory at the battle of Quiberon Bay in 1759.6 (Note 6 offers some
speculations on the life and career of Long John Silver.)
It is impossible, therefore, to regard Smollett’s name as accidental any
more than is Herrick’s in The Ebb-Tide or Hoseason’s in Kidnapped.7 Nor is it
simply an example of Stevenson innocently sporting with the idea of
reflexivity so that he can enjoy exposing the fictionality of his fictions
(something which he does enjoy doing). As will become obvious, Stevenson

has all the Modernists’ disdain for the fathers of the tradition, which masks
no small measure of Harold Bloom’s anxiety of influence; so that Jim’s refusal
to knuckle down to ‘Captain’ Smollett and the latter’s strenuous insistence
that he will not abate a jot of Jim’s apprentice-position as ‘ship’s boy’, reflects
a battle of literary generations. It is a battle Jim decisively wins when he has
the privilege of ‘inscribing’ the Captain in his account of their voyage, but,
arguably, the Captain has already lost it when he refuses to admit that Jim is
privileged, whether he likes it or not—privileged, that is, by being the
succeeding generation. Jim, therefore, establishes his maturity by becoming
the author of the ship’s master, thus indirectly affirming that, Kafka-like, one
way his author could gain independence from his father was by becoming a
writer.
If this relationship shows Jim as achieving the independent status
aspired to by the adolescent, that with Silver is a very different matter. From
the start it is more intimate and more physical. Jim’s dream of Silver’s sexual
potency is a mixture of fear and desire: fear of the castrating domination of
this father-figure, desire for his potency (or, possibly, desire to submit to that
potent sexuality). There is nothing outlandish in the suggestion that behind
this particular fictional relationship can be discerned the complex
relationship between Stevenson père et fils. In the last year of the author’s life,
his correspondence shows him as father-haunted as ever: ‘He now haunts me,
strangely enough, in two guises: as a man of fifty, lying on a hill-side and
carving mottoes on a stick, strong and well; and as a younger man, running
down the sands into the sea near North Berwick, myself—aetat 11—
somewhat horrified at finding him so beautiful when stripped!’8
No sooner is Silver mentioned on the third page of Treasure Island than
he realises himself in Jim’s subconscious awareness: ‘How that personage
haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you’; and, despite Jim’s equivocation,
he is there in the dreams of a much older Jim at the end of the tale. In
between, Jim is subjected to the full range of attentions Stevenson allows his
fictional fathers to visit upon their ‘sons’—from assiduous wooing to an overt
threat upon their lives. The first stage—the wooing—is highly successful,
assisted as it is by Jim’s naivety. Having been put on his guard against one-
legged men by Billy Bones, his suspicions are roused at ‘the very first
mention of Long John in Squire Trelawney’s letter’ (48). When he sees him,
however, his fears are at once allayed:
one look at the man before me was enough. I had seen the
captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man Pew, and I thought I
226 Alan Sandison
knew what a buccaneer was like—a very different creature,

according to me, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord
(49).
Clearly Jim has a long way to go before he learns the Stevensonian lesson
implicit in this misreading of signs. Not that he can be blamed unduly, for
Silver is one of the astutest in his class. The speed of his recovery and the
quickness of his invention when Jim recognises Black Dog at the ‘Spy-glass’
is highly impressive, as is the way Stevenson judges the scene’s potential for
comedy to a hairsbreadth. The upshot of the whole incident, however, is that
Silver, after flattering Jim (‘You’re a lad, you are, but you’re smart as paint’)
puts himself on the same level, convincing Jim that ‘here was one of the best
of possible shipmates’ (52). However it is as well to remember that Silver
leaves Dr Livesey and the Squire with the same impression: ‘“The man’s a
perfect trump”, declared the Squire’ (53).
To Jim he is ‘unweariedly kind’, making much of him on his visits to
the galley: ‘Nobody more welcome than yourself, my son’, he tells him and
we see why the crew should respect and obey him as Jim has himself just
observed them to do. When it suits him he can wear his authority very lightly
even while reminding others of it in the most casual expressions—like ‘my
son’ (62). What makes him an attractive figure, at least to Jim, is the way in
which he relishes his own performance. Some of that was evident in the
Black Dog incident, but even in introducing Jim to his parrot he indulges
himself in a way that makes the youth think him ‘the best of men’ (63).
One of the most appealing things about Stevenson’s writing is the
manifest pleasure it gave him—and his almost provocative exposure of the
fact. It is a point of some significance since it gives a fair indication of his
refusal to endorse the established view that the objective of the art of fiction
was to create a moral reality, structured on high principle and discriminating
sensibilities, which would be capable of teaching life a lesson. In his essay, ‘A
Humble Remonstrance’ Stevenson flatly rejects the Jamesean claim that
literature can ‘compete with life’ and identify its essential truths. For him its
product will remain the ‘phantom reproductions of experience’ which have
little to do with factual experience which ‘in the cockpit of life, can torture
or slay’. When we are expressing our admiration of such reproductions what
we are really doing is ‘[commending] the author’s talent’: that is, admiring
artifice rather than ‘real life’.
Though he is highly capable of giving us the illusion that what we are
enjoying is like ‘real life’, Stevenson also enjoys deliberately showing his
hand; he puts on a performance, and frequently has his characters do the
same (James Durie, Alan Breck, as well as Long John Silver, come to mind).
It is a sophisticated process of deconstruction: by all sorts of strategies of the
narrative voice—inflections, wild extravagances (Dr Livesey’s snuff-box full
of parmesan), reflexivities—the text becomes a soi-disant performance.
Stevenson draws our attention to his performance as author and has his
characters frequently draw attention to their performance as characters. The
later fable ‘The Persons in the Tale’ is, in this respect, entirely of a piece with
the book to which it provides a coda.
Silver’s performance in his introduction of ‘Cap’n Flint’ is a bravura
piece of play-acting and Jim is captivated by it. At the conclusion of his
performance ‘John would touch his forelock with a solemn way he had’
which delighted Jim and completely won him over (63). Silver’s defence of
his parrot’s innocence and his respect for a theoretically outraged clergy—
‘Here’s this poor old innocent bird o’ mine swearing blue fire, and none the
wiser, you may lay to that. She would swear the same, in a manner of
speaking, before chaplain’—are alike tongue-in-cheek. Whether Jim
relishes—or even recognises—the play-acting for what it is, is by no means
clear, but achieving maturity has a great deal to do with not suspending one’s
disbelief too easily, and Jim’s inexperience certainly allows him too readily to
believe in Silver.
The degree to which he has read Silver as a man of sincerity, genuinely
fond of him, and willing to talk to him ‘like a man’, comes out unequivocally
in his reaction to his overhearing, Silver’s wooing of another young man in
precisely the same terms:
You may imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable old
rogue addressing another in the very same words of flattery as he
had used to myself. I think, if I had been able, that I would have
killed him through the barrel (67).
Jim’s trust in words has been naive—despite the demolition-job done in his
presence on the sanctity of inherent verbal meaning by a loquacious 200-year
old parrot. As he goes through with the adventure he becomes much more
aware of ambiguities until he can deal verbally in them himself. ‘And now,
Mr Silver,’ he says when he becomes the pirates’ prisoner, ‘I believe you’re
the best man here ...’, and Long John agrees: ‘I’m cap’n here because I’m the
best man by a long sea-mile’ (78, 179). But what does Jim mean by ‘best’ now,
and is it what Silver means? This is the dialogue which ends with Silver’s
famously enigmatic remark ‘Ah you that’s young—you and me might have
done a power of good together!’ Jim is the only one, it seems, who has not
228 Alan Sandison
been surprised or puzzled by the remark for he makes no comment on it.

While the ‘power of good’ will remain a mystery, the reason for Silver’s show
of favour to Jim is at least partly explained by his seeing in the youth a
reflection of his younger self: ‘I’ve always liked you, I have, for a lad of spirit,
and the picter of my own self when I was young and handsome’ (176). Even
allowing for Silver’s characteristically mocking flattery, the allusion merits
attention for it is picked up again in ‘Ah, you that’s young...’ Is this an
expression of a sentiment much quoted by Stevenson—si Jeunesse savait, si
Vieillesse pouvait—that is, the desire of the older man to yoke to his adult
experience the vigour and drive of his youth? If so is it a way of empowering
or emasculating surrogate youth? In exchange for the youth’s potency he
would give him his knowledge—but the ‘power of good’ they might do
together remains Silver’s to define, and that is a sinister degree of
disempowerment.
What I think this shows is how serious a threat to Jim’s freedom and
moral growth Silver has actually been. He has offered him power by talking
to him ‘like a man’ and treating him as an equal, but he was always going to
ensure that that power and that growth remained firmly circumscribed. The
appeal in the offer has been almost dazzling to Jim—on his way to manhood
but not observing the castrating knife in Long John’s sleeve. What the latter
has offered him has been a share in, or access to, his own mature sexual
power as well as that residing in his whole mind and personality and Jim
hasn’t perceived that this is a trap which will, in the event, emasculate rather
than empower him, for Silver is giving nothing up.
The high point of Silver’s fascination for Jim is to be seen in an incident
which seems to exceed the parameters of a boy’s adventure story, though it is
arguably the best piece of description in the whole book. This is that
moment when Silver exerts his powers of seduction on another member of
the crew to persuade him to join the pirates. His approach is the familiar one,
and Jim, concealed close by, can hear it all:
‘Mate’, he was saying, ‘it’s because I thinks gold dust of you—gold

dust, and you may lay to that. If I hadn’t took to you like pitch,
do you think I’d have been here a-warning of you?’ (88)
As they argue, the sound of a scream from across the marsh signalling the
death of another loyal seaman brings Tom to his feet, but Silver ‘had not
winked an eye. He stood where he was, resting lightly on his crutch,
watching his companion like a snake about to spring. “John!” said the sailor,
stretching out his hand.’
The appeal to this figure poised to strike (in the suggestive image of the
snake) is ineffectual and when Tom defies Silver and turns to walk away,
Silver strikes in a manner that is more like a sexual assault:
With a cry, John seized the branch of a tree, whipped the crutch
out of his armpit, and sent that uncouth missile hurtling through
the air. It struck poor Tom, point foremost, and with stunning
violence, right between the shoulders in the middle of his back.
His hands flew up, he gave a sort of gasp, and fell.
Whether he were injured much or little, none could ever tell.
Like enough, to judge from the sound, his back was broken on
the spot. But he had no time given him to recover. Silver, agile as
a monkey, even without leg or crutch, was on top of him next
moment, and had twice buried his knife up to the hilt in that
defenceless body. From my place of ambush, I could hear him
pant aloud as he struck the blows (89).
In many ways the description is a realisation of Jim’s nightmare when he first

dreamed of Silver: ‘a monstrous kind of creature who had never had but the
one leg, and that in the middle of his body’, and who had pursued him ‘over
hedge and ditch’.
At the culmination of Silver’s attack, Jim faints. Wallace Robson, a very
astute (if reticent) commentator, has this to say: ‘What makes this scene
powerful is our intimate closeness to Silver during the murder: he is referred
to twice as ‘John’—unusually for Treasure Island.’ He goes on to note that ‘the
older reader’ will be struck by the moment when Silver twice buries his knife
in Tom’s body, and Jim says, ‘I could hear him pant aloud as he struck the
blows’. And Robson concludes:
The obvious force of this scene lies in Jim’s identification with the
victim, its less obvious force is the secret participation of Jim
(because of his closeness to Silver) and hence the reader.9
Nothing could be clearer than that Silver’s enticement of Jim to share in his
potency exerts an almost irresistible appeal for the adolescent (whose
fainting may not be precisely what it seems). Nor could anything be clearer
than the fact that it is, for this youth’s development, a dead end in every
sense of the term. It is no wonder, then, that Jim is ambiguous in his
attachment to, and admiration of, Silver, even after the latter’s exhibition of
his brutal lust for murder. What he has to do is to escape Silver’s powerful
230 Alan Sandison
temptation and find his own way to the empowerment that goes with
manhood.
In alluding to the saying, si Jeunesse savait, si Vieillesse pouvait, in his
essay ‘Crabbed Age and Youth’, Stevenson takes issue with it for while he
agrees that it is ‘a very pretty sentiment’, he believes that it is not always
right: ‘In five cases out of ten, it is not so much that the young people do not
know, as that they do not choose.’ Jim does choose, however, very publicly
and at great risk to himself. Silver has presented him with an ultimatum to
join the pirates or be killed: ‘I always wanted you to jine and take your share,
and die a gentleman, and now, my cock, you’ve got to ... you can’t go back to
your own lot, for they won’t have you; and without you start a third ship’s
company all by yourself, which might be lonely, you’ll have to jine with
Cap’n Silver’ (176).
Jim has apparently been excluded from ‘the treaty’ as Silver calls the
deal he did with Dr Livesey and the others, so his back is to the wall:
‘And now I am to choose?’

‘And now you are to choose, and you may lay to that’, said
Silver.
Jim, of course, chooses to defy Silver which leads, interestingly, not to his
death but to his life being saved by Silver. As a result they become, for the
time being, genuinely dependent on each other and neither Jim’s sympathy
for Silver nor his appreciation of the clever game he sees him as playing is
diminished. He even admits that his ‘heart was sore for him, wicked as he
was’ when he considered ‘the shameful gibbet that awaited him’ (188)—
which may, or may not, be an excuse for not facing up to the real source of
his sympathy. Yet the completely unprincipled Silver remains an acute threat,
for Jim knows that he cannot be trusted, particularly after having heard him
tell the pirates of his brutal plan should they get the treasure and retake the
Hispaniola. Silver reminds Jim of just how much he is at his mercy by tying
the youth to him with a length of rope. As they approach the hiding-place of
the treasure, Jim, tied to the rope’s end, ‘[f]or all the world ... like a dancing
bear’, finds Silver directing ‘murderous glances’ towards him and is left in no
doubt about his intentions: ‘Certainly he took no pains to hide his thoughts;
and certainly I read them like print’ (207). However, after the discovery that
the treasure has gone, Silver instantly changes sides again and this time,
having no alternative, stays with the Squire’s party until he makes his escape
(presumably confident of making his escape).
Jim’s lesson has been a substantial one. Essentially he has had to come
to terms with the fact that growing up involves some painful and daunting
discoveries—most notably that the world is characterised by the proliferation
of misleading signs whereby duplicity and treachery (particularly from
figures of authority) are initially concealed from the youth seeking access to
the adult male world. He has to learn that moral categories are not clear-cut;
that the same face can bespeak both affection and murder and render
classification of its owner impossible.
As a psychological archetype the island is a lonely place, and those who
venture upon it will either emerge from the trial triumphant against all the forces
that would seek to deny selfhood and sustain the authority of the patriarchy; or,
like David Balfour, be marooned in their sense of existential worthlessness, abject
and malleable before the forces of authority. Jim does triumph—to the point
where he can participate in the marooning of others. As the ship, that symbol of
the resolved self, sails out through the narrows on its way home, its occupants
catch a last sight of the pirates they had made castaways:
we saw all three of them kneeling together on a spit of sand, with

their arms raised in supplication. It went to all our hearts, I think,
to leave them in that wretched state; but we could not risk
another mutiny (217).
The island has been for Jim a challenge to his own nascent self-sufficiency
and he must meet that challenge alone—hence his two desertions from the
comforting support of the ship and the stockade, each of which is, of course,
commanded by Captain Smollett.
In the iconography of Treasure Island knives play a considerable role
making clear the nature of the trial facing Jim. On each occasion of desertion
Jim is threatened by one: the first is wielded by Silver on the prostrate body
of Tom, the second by yet another father-figure, the particularly disreputable
Israel Hands (whom Stevenson also found in Defoe’s A General History of the
Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates). The knife that pins Jim to
the mast is literally almost the last throw of the father-figures and it is
altogether ineffectual. Predictably so, one might say, for Jim’s authority has
grown steadily in this his second desertion from Captain Smollett’s
command. He has himself used a knife to advantage, cutting the Hispaniola’s
cable before taking command of the vessel. And take command he
undoubtedly does: ‘I’ve come aboard to take possession of this ship, Mr
Hands; and you’ll please regard me as your captain until further notice’
(165), and Hands dutifully, if not without some irony, calls him ‘Cap’n
Hawkins’ thenceforth.
232 Alan Sandison
It is easy to agree with Robson that ‘In so far as the book describes the
“growing up” of Jim, this is an important episode’ (91). Jim himself is ‘to the
adult eye more experienced and psychologically secure in his handling of this
new and grim anti-father’. But, as usual, this figure is not so easily disposed
of. Even in Jim’s moment of triumph when he makes his ‘great conquest’ of
the ship, the baleful influence of the hostile father is felt: ‘I should, I think,
have had nothing left me to desire but for the eyes of the coxswain as they
followed me derisively about the deck, and the odd smile that appeared
continually on his face.’ It might have been ‘a haggard, old man’s smile’, but
there was still danger in it: ‘there was, besides that, a grain of derision, a
shadow of treachery, in his expression, as he craftily watched, and watched,
and watched me at my work’ (158). The derision in Hands’ expression is one
of the many strategies of emasculation practised by the old upon the young
in Stevenson, while treachery seems to be second nature to unideal fathers.
Jim wins this confrontation, too, however, though the menace in the
father-figure seems never to be quite extirpated. The ‘quivering’ of the water
above Hands’ body makes him seem to move a little ‘as if he were trying to
rise’ despite the fact that he has been ‘both shot and drowned’ (167). Jim
sends the dead O’Brien over the side to join him and the internecine strife of
fathers and sons is again mirrored in O’Brien—‘still quite a young man’—
finally resting on the bottom with his prematurely bald head ‘across the
knees of the [old] man who had killed him’. And the drama seems set to be
enacted eternally as Jim looks down upon the bodies ‘both wavering with the
tremulous movement of the water’ (168).
Through his integrity and resolution, Jim has vindicated himself

triumphantly, thwarting the pirates by his rock-like steadfastness—‘First and
last we’ve split upon Jim Hawkins’ (179)—and saving his friends: ‘There is a
kind of fate in this’, we may recall Dr Livesey saying. ‘Every step it’s you that
saves our lives’ (194). From the start, however, Jim’s readiness to shoulder
responsibility and to act (or, Stevenson might say, to choose) has been obvious.
Lying hidden in the apple-barrel he had realised after the first words from
the pirates ‘that the lives of all the honest men on board depended on me
alone’ (65). That ‘alone’ has singular force. To Jim, acting responsibly means,
in these circumstances, acting alone, as though he is aware that the challenge
confronting him is a deeply personal trial. Which is one reason why, despite
his achievements, Treasure Island is still to him that ‘accursed island’ rather
than Silver’s ‘sweet spot’.
Jim’s revulsion is, however, evident even before he sets foot on the
island. The sight of it, ‘with its grey, melancholy woods, and wild stone
spires’, discomposes him to the extent that, he tells us, ‘from that first look
onward, I hated the very thought of Treasure Island’ (81–2). It is not the
reaction we expect from this adventurous youth and we won’t find an
explanation in the superficies of a boy’s adventure-story. Stevenson’s islands
are, by and large, traps for the self-tormented where the traveller’s moral
adequacy (usually as that is reflected in his aspirations to manhood) is put
under severe stress with results which are often less than flattering. The truth
of this is obvious in, for example, Kidnapped, The Ebb-Tide, Treasure Island and
even exotic tales like The Isle of Voices.
The active involvement of the sub-conscious is signalled in a number
of such stories by the draining away of colour from the landscape and by the
association of the landscape with dreaming. Jim first sees the island ‘almost
in a dream’ (73) and then describes the ‘grey, melancholy woods’. The
dream-landscape runs strikingly true to psychoanalytical form and is heavily
imbued with Freudian symbolism:
Grey-coloured woods covered a large part of the surface. This

even tint was indeed broken up by streaks of yellow sand-break in
the lower lands, and by many tall trees of the pine family, out-
topping the others—some singly, some in clumps; but the general
colouring was uniform and sad. The hills ran up clear above the
vegetation in spires of naked rock. All were strangely shaped, and
the Spy-glass, which was by three or four hundred feet the tallest
on the island, was likewise the strangest in configuration, running
up sheer from almost every side, and then suddenly cut off at the
top like a pedestal to put a statue on. (81)
In the manuscript draft (clearly a very early one) of the unfinished The
Castaways of Soledad, another youth, the seventeen-year-old Walter Gillingly,
awakes to catch his first glimpse of the Isle of Solitude ‘through the break of
the mist, up a sort of funnel of moonlit clouds’. But he, too, seems scarcely
awake. ‘Next moment a little flying shower had blurred it out, and I laid me
down again to see the same peaks repeated in my dreams’. When the sun
rises and Walter awakens again he finds no great improvement in the
prospect before him. The island
rose out of the sea in formidable cliffs, and it was topped by an

incredible assembly of pinnacles, more like the ruin of some vast
cathedral than the decay of natural hills; and these rocks were no
less singular in colour than in shape; the most part black like coal,
234 Alan Sandison
some grey as ashes and the rest of a dull and yet deep red.
Nowhere was any green spot visible....
It strikes Walter as a ‘quite dead and ruined lump of an island’ and its
‘infinitely dreary, desert and forbidding air’ puts the castaways ‘notably out
of heart’ and the reader in mind of Earraid.
If the sight of such islands as Soledad, Earraid and Treasure Island sends
the hearts of these youths into their boots (which is how Jim puts it), it is
because they instinctively realise that they are a tightly-contained theatre of
action which they must enter if they are to prove their fitness for the adult
world. Treasure Island, however, departs in one important particular from the
accepted archetype. As a number of critics have noticed, there is—in Wallace
Robson’s words—‘an absence of emotional pressure in the winning of the
treasure’10 and very little appearance of the meaning that is often held to
accrue round the search for buried treasure, that is, the desirability of the
mother’s body. Nonetheless it is far from true to say, as Robson does, that ‘its
geography is purely functional, mere stage-setting’.11 The last quoted extract,
with its description of the almost painfully-truncated Spy-glass, suggests that
Jim’s anxiety has everything to do with his psychosexual development and
bespeaks a troubled awareness of a highly vulnerable masculine identity.
Though we should not dismiss out of hand the archetypal equation of buried
treasure with the mother’s body (Ben Gunn’s cave where the treasure has been
reburied accords well with the conventional delineations of the symbol—with
the additional detail of Captain Smollett being already ensconced there), there
is another latent meaning in buried treasure which alludes to ‘selfhood,
independence, identity’.12 Thus while for the pirate-crew ‘the very sight of the
island had relaxed the cords of discipline’ (82) for Jim it signals the need to
establish his own discipline in defiance of that imposed by the father-figures.
Yet their potency—concentrated in Silver—is formidable and Jim’s reaction, as
witnessed at the time of Tom’s murder, for example, is an authentic mixture of
half-pleasurable terror and envy.
The earlier nightmares which had been induced by the description of
Long John Silver have a subterranean link to Jim’s dream-like vision of the
island. In fact, the island is to be the focus of the struggle presaged in the first
dream and one which will be decisive for Jim’s development and
independence. As Fowler notes, ‘Jim chose to face the terrible father.... And
the reward for his boldness was not only that Silver kept him alive, but that
the good father’s party cut the tether of dependence and ratified the free self-
hood that he had stolen.’ Had Jim chosen as Silver wanted, ‘he would indeed
have become the son of a sea-cook’.13
The island thus becomes Jim’s Peniel where he struggles, like Jacob, for
a new identity. It is a life-and-death struggle for selfhood with the youth
having to meet challenge after challenge. Not only does he surmount them,
he also becomes hardened by them so that when the time comes for him to
have to dispose of the dead O’Brien, he does so with some degree of
equanimity:
as the habit of tragical adventures had worn off almost all my

terror for the dead, I took him by the waist as if he had been a
sack of bran, and, with one good heave, tumbled him overboard
(168).
He may well be surrounded by dogs and murderers as the quotation from

Revelations on the back of the ‘black spot’ handed to Silver suggests; but that
he has come safely through their ‘dark and bloody sojourn on the island’
(218) means that he has served out the adolescent’s apprenticeship. As Ben
Gunn promised (95), finding the treasure has made a man of him though his
new status has been earned in the process, not bought by the proceeds.
But always there is a Long John Silver who will not be transcended. He is, if
you like, both the residual self-doubt in Jim’s mind and residual desire;
sentiments which will persist long after the action even to the time when Jim
is himself an author in command of his crew of characters. For though Jim
assures us at the end that Silver has gone ‘clean out of [his] life’, he is
indubitably present as a mocking echo in the voice of the parrot which
invades Jim’s dreams and ends his narrative.
By far the most insidious of the father-figures in Treasure Island, Long
John Silver is also the most seductive. We recognise him as such, in part at
least, because we have come to appreciate that Jim has reached a vulnerable
and decisive stage of growth. His susceptibility to Silver’s ingratiating tactics
is therefore natural as is his response to the latter’s self-command and
command over others. (‘All the crew respected and even obeyed him’ [62].)
What Silver seems to Jim to be offering him through his intimacy and
confidences is a share in his power and a certain enfranchisement which
comes with it. But the degree of freedom he offers is illusory for he is a far
more ruthless defender of his authority than Captain Smollett ever was, with
no scruples about invoking the supreme sanction against recalcitrants.
Smollett will eventually cut Jim adrift, so to speak, in an act which mirrors
Thomas Stevenson’s repeated threat to disinherit his son. Silver would go
about things with less equivocation: he would simply kill him.
236 Alan Sandison
Nonetheless, in Silver, there is unquestionably an appeal. His

persuasive wooing is as confident as Lovelace’s or Richard III’s and for much
the same reason: he knows that there is a response in the object of his
attention. And Jim’s behaviour confirms the accuracy of his perceptions.
Even when he is expressing his ‘horror’ at Silver’s planned treachery, the
terms in which he does so are significant: he had acquired, he tells us, ‘a
horror of his cruelty, duplicity and power’ (73). The third term is a little
surprising and makes us look again at that rather ambiguous word ‘horror’,
which Stevenson uses a lot. It is ambiguous because it often seems not to
mean unalloyed revulsion but to include fascination or even desire as well.
(He was ‘somewhat horrified’, we may recall, at finding his father ‘so
beautiful when stripped’.)
At this stage in the adolescent’s growth, power is going to attract and
Silver’s seductive potency will prove particularly irresistible. Initially Jim,
with a degree of conceit appropriate to his age, is inclined to interpret his
apparent admission into Silver’s confidences as a kind of power-sharing. A
certain disingenuousness might be thought to be present in this, for no son
ever thinks of this sort of access to power as remaining at the level of a mere
share—any more than a father thinks to draw attention to the areas which are
quarantined from such access and sequestrated in the small print of the
patriarchal mind. A very good example of both ‘father’ and ‘son’ playing this
game occurs in Kidnapped when David Balfour prides himself on his ability to
‘smell out [Ebenezer’s] secrets one after another, and grow to be that man’s
king and ruler’, while his uncle, apparently willing to admit David’s claims, is
secretly planning his transportation.
It is not long before Jim realises that any such offer to share power is,
contrary to what it first looks like, a ruse to disarm him. When he re-enters
the stockade and is confronted by Silver instead of his friends, he soon realises
that a crucial choice has to be made. The offer that Silver makes him is not
without its attractions, nor has the affinity he has always felt for Silver lost all
its potency. He would, for one thing, enjoy the Conradian solace of being one
of a crew, particularly comforting when one is beginning to contemplate the
problematics of manhood and the loneliness such an aspiration brings with it.
Long John’s temptation is real because the position it ascribes to Jim is
accurate: he is at a cross-roads in his development, and his dilemma is a
recognisable one for the growing adolescent, though it is not often realised in
such a picturesque way. Silver’s words deserve to be weighed well:
‘the short and the long of the whole story is about here: you can’t
go back to your own lot, for they won’t have you; and, without
you start a whole ship’s company all by yourself, which might be

lonely, you’ll have to jine with Cap’n Silver’ (176).
In some ways the short and the long of the whole story is about here, for it
is Jim’s moment of decision: whether to maroon himself like David Balfour,
in abject submissiveness, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and, in
transcending them, achieve independence and his own authority—or
oblivion. In fact, we have had a very good indication of what is likely to
happen in that Jim has, it could be argued, already started his own ship’s
company and, as ‘Cap’n Hawkins’, put down his first mutiny in so capably
despatching O’Brien and Israel Hands (the latter characterised by his ‘old
man’s smile’ and ‘shadow of treachery’).
It is, however, also true that loneliness is endemic in this situation as so
many of Conrad’s characters found out, and isolation can destroy moral
integrity. So Jim may defy Silver and eventually see him bested—but he will
not be able to lay his ghost. The slightly mocking, paternalistic figure who
flatters him with compliments about his savoir faire as though he were already
a man (‘I never saw a better boy than that. He’s more a man than any pair of
rats of you in this here house ...’ [180]) is a reminder that such a ‘caring’
person (with, of course, an alternative game-plan) is not just a comfort but a
necessity, given that no one’s integrity is quite proof against fears of its own
inadequacy.
Another, more substantial, reason for Silver’s durability is to be found,
paradoxically, in his repeated acts of treachery and duplicity. In them lies
much of the secret of his power, for they are the product of a total and
shameless absence of any firm commitment or principle. Whatever lip-
service he may pay to such notions, it can be no more than this, for he is
prepared to sacrifice any or all of them on the instant should the summum
bonum, his own self-preservation, be threatened. ‘Dooty is dooty’ is a
sentiment he never tires of repeating but it is the stuff of his brazen
effrontery, for he is as far from believing in that fixed standard of conduct
which governs Conrad’s mariners, for example, as it is possible for any man,
seafaring or landlubber, to be.
The net result, however, is that there inheres in him an irreducible
sense of his own being. Others may take seriously notions of duty, loyalty and
honest-dealing and agonise over them, espousing certain ethical and moral
principles in the process—all of which are capable of eroding their self-
certainty. For Silver, no compromise is necessary: struggle and conflict are
simplified and externalised under his Gloucester-like credo: ‘I am myself
alone.’
238 Alan Sandison
The power which derives from the total absence of principle is, as the
foregoing allusion reminds us, the power that animates some of
Shakespeare’s most charismatic villains—Iago, Edmund, Richard III—as well
as Milton’s Satan, to whom James Durie, for example, is frequently compared
in The Master of Ballantrae. What gives this power additional glamour is the
freedom it appears to bring with it, which is, in truth, its justification in the
eyes of its exponents. It may, of course, be freedom to go to the devil as the
penultimate paragraph of Treasure Island suggests (or freedom to be the devil,
as Milton’s Satan portrays it), but it is immensely attractive nonetheless and
perhaps not least to those who believe that there is a higher order of society
than the piratical and are prepared to accept certain constraints on their
freedom in order to sustain it.
An important factor which adds to the charisma of the Shakespearian
and Miltonic villains is their almost demonic energy. Their position demands
it and so, in a similar way, does Silver’s, for his sort of freedom depends on
his mobility, on his repudiation of all fixed principle, even on a fluidity of
personality which amounts to a constant reconstruction of ‘self ’. In the tale,
perhaps the two most striking things about Silver are his remarkable physical
agility, given his missing limb, and a parallel and equally notable mental
agility which allows him to change his position in a flash, as he does when he
discovers the treasure to be gone, or to exploit the unexpected to the full, as
he does with Jim’s return to the stockade. Power and mobility clearly go
together, a nexus which receives its most dramatic rendering in the scene
where Silver kills the loyal seaman, Tom. It is worth a moment’s pause to
reflect on Stevenson’s imaginative achievement in the characterisation of
Silver: to observe how the amputation of a leg and its substitution by a crutch
actually increases the character’s apparent mobility, power and dangerous
unpredictability. Worth noting too, perhaps, is the fact that the most
impressive of recent productions of Richard III had Anthony Sher play
Richard on crutches, giving him a devastating speed of attack at any moment
from the most unexpected quarter, confounding and cowing his opponents
with his protean versatility.
For both these characters, their crippled condition is turned to
advantage: their mobility and their freedom are, it seems, enhanced to a pitch
which makes of their actions a relished performance. Free—indeed,
conditioned by their unrelenting egotism—to manipulate every situation and
to play a multiplicity of roles, however incompatible or extravagant they may
be, they find themselves given natural access to the matter of comedy. So for
Silver in his ‘knowing’ exchange with Jim on the very subject of mobility
when they come in sight of the island. Jim is deeply apprehensive about what
their landfall will mean to him whereas Silver, whose interest in it is very
different, dilates enthusiastically on the attractions of this ‘sweet spot’:
‘You’ll bathe and you’ll climb trees, and you’ll hunt goats, you
will; and you’ll get aloft on them hills like a goat yourself. Why,
it makes me young again. I was going to forget my timber leg, I
was. It’s a pleasant thing to be young, and have ten toes ...’ (734).
Mobility is indeed the key, so that there is much irony in Silver solemnly
telling the crew-member he is attempting to subvert that, with middle-age
looming, he is going to settle down as a pillar of genteel society: ‘I’m fifty,
mark you; once back from this cruise, I set up gentleman in earnest’ (67). For
a middle-aged pirate to put out a prospectus offering superannuated security
in good society as an inducement to recruits to sail under his skull-and-cross-
bones flag adds a Gilbertian touch which everyone (including Silver) enjoys
and no one believes. The fact is that his ethic makes movement essential and
‘settling down’ a fatal contradiction. Shark-like, when he stops swimming, he
drowns. So it is appropriate that he quits the story in a shore boat having
stolen some of the treasure ‘to help him on his further wanderings’ (219).
Stevenson’s scepticism about the capacity of language to sort out moral

categories and define truth (‘words are for communication, not for
judgement’, he says in his essay on Walt Whitman) also gets ventilation in
Treasure Island. For example, Long John’s supposed surname serves too many
functions for it to be taken simply as an inherited patronymic—he is quick-
silver when we think of his agility, silver-tongued when we think of him as a
persuasive talker, unredeemed bar-silver when we think of the treasure.14 He
masks his duplicity by a handling of language so adroit that it makes words
his accomplices in the grossest deceptions. Thus when we hear that he could
‘speak like a book when so minded’ (62) or that Jim could ‘read [his thoughts]
like print’ (207) we recognise Stevenson again indulging a mischievous taste
for sly deconstructive jabs at his own text which, cumulatively, amount to
something significant.
The realisation that words ‘are all coloured and foresworn’, as he says
in the Whitman essay, that they are among the world’s most misleading signs,
is the beginning of wisdom for many a Stevenson character. When Silver lays
outrageous claim to being un homme de parole—brazenly telling Dr Livesey
not to trust the word of the other pirates—the doctor’s sneer is justified: ‘No
... you’re the man to keep your word—we know that’ (217). But Silver is, it
appears, not at all discomfited for he is at one with James Durie and Captain
240 Alan Sandison
Hoseason in deriding the notion of inalienable verbal truth. It is quite fitting,

therefore, that many years later when Jim is frightened out of his sleep, it is
not by a voice which ‘speaks sense’ but by the gabbling of a parrot—un
perroquet des paroles, one might say—whose voice burlesques the
fundamentals of language and meaning yet still succeeds in summoning the
ghost of Long John Silver.
There is no chance that Silver will disappear from Jim’s dreams for he
is bred in the bones of his adolescence. When this figure of the ‘terrible
father’ receives the black spot from his crew, he tosses it derisively to Jim who
reads the word ‘Depposed’ written in wood-ash. But we know that Silver will
never be deposed, as an older Jim now occupied in constructing him anew in
his memoir clearly indicates: ‘I have that curiosity beside me at this moment;
but not a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a man
might make with his thumb-nail’ (188). Texts which vanish are surprisingly
frequent occurrences in Stevenson’s work but on this occasion disappearance
leaves the subject not less but more ‘real’.
After so much evidence of duplicity and treachery, Jim’s total
condemnation of Silver would have been a foregone conclusion in a run-of-
the-mill boy’s adventure story.15 That this doesn’t happen challenges the
reader to develop a more sophisticated explanation of the motivating
psychology. That it has everything to do with the adolescent’s struggle to
escape the circumscribing edicts of paternal authority and arrive at a mature
independence has been the ground of the foregoing argument. Jim has at
first been won over by this, to him, powerful and attractive father-figure who
seems to be there almost as a role-model to help him through the travails of
adolescence. The discovery that even the trusted father-figure is
irredeemably treacherous is something Jim has to learn as part of his own
growth-process. However, though it is a lesson once learned, never
forgotten, Silver will never be completely banished from the young man’s
mental impedimenta, nor even entirely from his affections. Had it been
arranged otherwise, it would have suggested that the developing adolescent
had completely vanquished the ‘terrible father’, whereas the symbolic figure
of the father, with his quiver-full of prohibitions and anathemas, is a
permanent fixture in psychic reality (as Stevenson’s own life reveals all too
clearly).
Stevenson has brilliantly sustained Silver’s authenticity right to the end
by mixing affectionate geniality with plentiful evidence of his capacity even
for murder when his position is seriously under threat. When the ‘son’ defies
him to his face he resorts to the full ferocity of the archetype, humiliating the
rebellious adolescent by leading him on the end of a rope very possibly to his
death. (The incident is a curious one, almost superfluous in fact, yet the
intrinsically powerful image deployed in it graphically illustrates the savage
and repressive discipline visited by the Stevensonian father-figure upon the
son.) The authenticity is, however, further strengthened by having him not
just escape but demonstrate his permanence by invading Jim’s dreams as a
mocking echo in the voice of the parrot.
The attractiveness of Silver’s kind of power and freedom, though
particularly magnetic for the late-adolescent, is universal, and were he to be
extirpated the picture of the world left to us would be a false one. Silver may
be primarily an authority-figure from the class of fathers, but, as has been
shown, he is also an authority-figure from the class of Shakespearian villains.
As such he is the reflection of that human desire for an unconstrained,
amoral freedom coupled with—indeed premised on—an unachievable self-
sufficiency:
‘... I am I, Antonio,
By choice myself alone.’
Though the polychromatic Silver, so full of verbal panache, would never put
the matter as baldly as Auden’s Antonio, this is nonetheless the self-system at
the root of all his actions.
It is a tribute to Jim’s growing maturity that he recognises the
ineradicability of Silver’s appeal. To admit the attraction of such a figure is to
recognise one’s own limitations—or, rather, the limits within which one has
elected to live—and at the same time to acknowledge one’s secret desires. It
is to admit that appearances are essentially deceptive and the drawing of
moral distinctions hazardous. Jim does not seek to disown him, satisfied that
the ‘formidable seafaring man with one leg’ has simply ‘gone clean out of
[his] life’, but honest enough to allow that he has not disappeared from his
dreams. It is the mature Jim, the author of the narrative, who tells us this,
adding that ‘oxen and wain-ropes would not bring [him] back to that
accursed island’. As I said at the beginning such vehemence is initially
surprising, for the island could be thought of as the scene of his most brilliant
success; but then not everyone has Jim’s—or Stevenson’s—difficulty in
escaping the father’s gravitational pull.
NOTES
1. ‘Parables of Adventure: the Debatable Novels of Robert Louis Stevenson’ in
Nineteenth Century Scottish Fiction, ed. Campbell (1979), p. 111.
2. ‘The Sea Cook’ in The Definition of Literature and Other Essays (Cambridge, 1984), p. 95.
242 Alan Sandison
3. The words are Dianne Sadoff ’s in Monsters of Affection: Dickens, Eliot and Brontë on
Fatherhood (Baltimore, 1982), p. 2.
4. In Son and Father: Before and Beyond the Oedipus Complex, Peter Blos examines the
workings of the libidinal attraction between son and father. Discussing the boy’s ‘search for
the loving and loved father’ (so intense at times that it is often described as ‘father-
hunger’), he writes: ‘This facet of the boy’s father–complex assumes in adolescence a
libidinal ascendancy that impinges on every aspect of the son’s emotional life.’ The
resolution of the isogender complex during male adolescence occupies ‘the centre of the
therapeutic stage on which the process of psychic restructuring is played out’ (p. 33). This
is when the adolescent boy faces the task ‘of renouncing the libidinal bond that he had
once formed and experienced in relation to the dyadic and triadic, i.e., preoedipal and
oedipal, father’ (p. 43).
For an acute analysis of ‘the most prohibited of the incest taboos’ see Jean-Michel
Rabat’s excellent essay, ‘A Clown’s Inquest into Paternity: Fathers Dead or Alive, in
Finnegans Wake’ in The Fictional Father, ed. Robert Con Davis, pp. 99ff.
5. Leonard F. Manheim, ‘The Law as “Father”’, American Imago, Vol. 12, 1955.
6. Silver, having lost his own leg, is pulling the Squire’s. Later Jim hears him telling
his co-conspirators that he lost his leg in ‘the same broadside [where] old Pew lost his
dead-lights’. And he adds the circumstantial detail that he was ‘ampytated’ by a surgeon—
‘out of college and all’—who ‘was hanged like a dog, and sun-dried like the rest at Corso
Castle’. The surgeon was one of Roberts’ men, he tells us, and their collective misfortune
was the result of changing their ship’s name (66). Undoubtedly Silver is referring to Peter
Scudamore, surgeon to Bartholomew Roberts, the pirate captain whose ship had been re-
christened the Royal Fortune. After his capture, Scudamore tried to persuade other
members of the crew to attempt an escape, arguing that the alternative was to submit to
being taken to Cape Corso ‘and be hang’d like a dog, and be sun-dry’d’. They declined and
Scudamore was sentenced to death at Corso Castle in March 1722, duly hanged and no
doubt ‘sun-dry’d’. (See Daniel Defoe’s A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the
most Notorious Pyrates, pp. 217ff.) Scudamore had been less than a year with Roberts so
Silver‘s leg was ’ampytated’ between October 1721 and March 1722! Further, unless he
took up piracy at a precociously early age, Silver is also telling lies about his age when he
takes occasion to tell his fellows that he is now fifty. Trelawney is clearly speaking after
Quiberon Bay (1759) which means that Silver should indeed be concerned about his
superannuation.
7. Or even Trelawney’s perhaps: Edward John Trelawny’s Adventures of a Younger Son
(1831, 1835, 1856) had so much to do with piracy that Byron and Shelley took to calling
its author ‘The Pirate’. (I am indebted to Dr Robert Dingley for this reference.) After the
publication of Kidnapped, Edmund Gosse wrote to Stevenson telling him that ‘pages and
pages might have come out of some lost book of Smollett’s’. He adds: ‘You are very close
to the Smollett manner sometimes, but better, because you have none of Smollett’s
violence’ (quoted by Frank McLynn, Robert Louis Stevenson, p. 268).
8. 14 July 1894 to Adelaide Boodle. Once again a parallel with Kafka suggests itself.
Unlike Stevenson Kafka was deeply ashamed of his body, particularly when compared to
his father’s: ‘I was, after all, depressed by your mere physical presence. I remember, for
instance, how we often undressed together in the same bathing-hut. There was I, skinny,
weakly, slight, you strong, tall, broad ... I was proud of my father’s body’. Letter to the
Father, pp. 163, 164.
9. Op. cit., p. 89.

10. Op. cit., p. 94.
11. Op. cit., p. 89.
12. Alastair Fowler, op. cit., p. 111.
13. Ibid., p. 113.
14. Fowler suggests also the ‘reprobate silver’ of Jeremiah 6:30, the wicked being so
called because ‘God hath rejected them’.
15. In an essay published in 1951 but still of great value, David Daiches makes a highly
perceptive remark which admirably pinpoints both the nature of the difference between
Treasure Island and run-of-the-mill adventure stories and the source of the book’s literary
distinction: ‘There are ways of blocking off overtones of meaning which certain kinds of
popular artists use when they are writing mere adventure stories or mere romances; such
writers pose only problems that are soluble, or apparently soluble, and the pretence is kept
up throughout that the final resolution does indeed solve the problem .... How different
from all this is Treasure Island! The characters for whom our sympathies are enlisted go off
after hidden treasure out of casual greed, and when their adventure is over have really
achieved very little except a modicum of self-knowledge. And Silver, magnificent and evil,
disappears into the unknown, the moral ambiguities of his character presented but
unexplained’. (Stevenson and the Art of Fiction, New York, 1951, pp. 10–11).
JOHN HOLLANDER
On A Child’s Garden of Verses
R obert Louis Stevenson is an author who has become newly interesting

for the period of literary sensibility that some like to call postmodern.
Certainly, as a writer of romance rather than novel (although The Master of
Ballantrae is as much a novel—and as much a romance—as Scott’s Guy
Mannering) he could thereby seem more of a neglected precursor; and Jorge
Luis Borges’s profound admiration of Stevenson could itself propound, for
readers of thirty-five years ago, a kind of puzzle in itself.
Except for the marginalized (male juvenile) Treasure Island and
Kidnapped, the short fiction, considered as insufficiently modern thrillers, was
not read much after World War II. But I have been continually surprised to
discover how many college students among those who have taken writing
courses from me at Yale remember the experience of encountering, and
many of the texts themselves, of Stevenson’s Child’s Garden of Verses. It has
remained canonical for three quarters of a century, although in a haunting
sort of way; turning back to it recently has produced some unexpectedly
spooky encounters for me. I had also been reading through Stevenson’s
considerable body of verse generally. This was not only to reacquaint myself
with the few old favorites I had known before—the charming sonnet in
couplets to Henry James, for example, or the fascinating if not wholly
satisfying experiments in vers libre that may have come from his friendship
From The Work of Poetry. © 1997 by Columbia University Press.
245
246 John Hollander
with William Ernest Henley; it was also to explore the entire range of his
verse, within which to consider the poems for children and the remarkable
influence on subsequent writers I feel they have had. The spooky encounters
included coming across such lines as the lovely rondeau-like reworking of
Théodore de Banville’s verses based on a children’s game, “Nous n’irons plus
aux bois” that I had known both in the original and in A.E. Housman’s
adaptation (“We’ll to the woods no more, / The laurels all are cut”). It begins
We’ll walk to the woods no more

But stay beside the fire
To weep for old desire
And things that are no more.
The woods are spoiled and hoar,
The ways are full of mire;
We’ll walk the woods no more
But stay beside the fire.
I had written a poem of my own, with the Banville in mind but diverging
from it, only to find that it had been more traveled by than I had known.
More determinedly spooky was the realization that other moments in my
poetry of the past twenty years may have resounded with some of what I’d
actually remembered from the children’s verses—it now seemed, for
example, that a bit from the rhyme called “The Swing” had certainly crept
into my extended mad-song called “The Seesaw.”
But going through A Child’s Garden of Verses, Stevenson’s remarkable
volume of 1885, has produced some ghostly moments of another sort,
reencounters with verses I had grown up with, some of them well
remembered, some of them perhaps unread even then, some of them half
remembered. And some, undoubtedly, fruitfully repressed under less than
dire pressures, only to return unwittingly in my own writing. Moreover, the
adult reader now reads them not, as the child had, for what in life he or she
recognized, but for what the writer had been doing and, additionally, for
what the reader found in prior reading. (A favorite example of this is
rereading Hans Christian Andersen’s Mermaid after you have known Blake’s
Book of Thel.) Robert Schumann composed his wonderful set of Kinderscenen
(Op. 13) in 1838; they are romantic and thus somewhat ironic evocations of
“scenes from childhood” for adults to play (and too hard for all but a few
advanced children). His Album für die Jugend (Op. 68), published a decade
later, was a much larger collection of pieces written for children to play. If we
put “read” or “comprehendingly hear” for “play,” we have the difference
between the child-speakers in some of Blake’s or Wordsworth’s shorter

poems, and Jane Taylor’s rhymes written for children. I shall among other
things consider here a wonderful Album for the Young reconsidered as the
Scenes from Childhood they had become, and argue that, indeed, this is what
they always were, the later adult poetry speaking in the children’s verses.
My actual return to Stevenson’s poems for children was perhaps
heralded by my hearing one day last summer on my car radio an
unannounced voice on NPR reading an unannounced text:
Whenever the moon and stars are set,

Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the wind and the wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,

And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
I shivered somewhat, having forgotten the poem and the way it haunted me
as a child with the all but erotic excitement that latency period is so full of,
with its puzzling indeterminacy: who is the man? is he driven by the wind?
driving it? I was too young for serious personifications, so the possibility that
man might be the storm wind itself was deferred until, some years later, I
read The King of the Golden River and encountered South-West Wind, Esq. (I
do remember at the time—because my mother when I was quite young liked
to sing, unprofessionally but with some understanding, Schubert Lieder while
my father played them—vaguely associating the wind-rider with the opening
of Erlkönig: Wer reitet so spät / Durch Nacht und Wind?)
The unidentified voice turned out to be that of Robert McNeil, of the
PBS nightly news report, talking about his boyhood in Canada, and
particularly about his reading. He had, both somewhat uncannily and, on
present contemplation, unsurprisingly, wondered about the poem in some of
the same ways I had. I can now recognize the particular moves of ars poetica
that were responsible for some of these effects and the delight one could take
in them without even realizing what one was noticing: the “Whenever ...”
248 John Hollander
quatrain, concluding in the three pounding dactyls of the couplet that

reinforced the opening d’dah da rhythm of “Whenever”; and then, again, in
the initially linked second stanza, the idiomatically innocent passing-move of
“by” in the “riding by” of the first one becomes a major question. To “ride
by” in the absolute (instead of, say, “riding by my house”) is the essence of
this windy spirit, and the “by” keeps coming up (as if the very word were like
a bell to toll you back again outside the house) in insistent anaphoric
repetition, throughout the stanza.
It was interesting to discover that Stevenson himself had previously
dealt poetically with the matter of the storm rider in a more ambitious way.
The first of two free verse poems, “Storm,” is quite Whitmanian in tone—
praising the sublime energies of the tempestuous seashore, and hailing the
“big, strong, bullying, boisterous waves, / That are of all things in nature the
nearest thoughts to human” but not in form (the free verse is of the short-
lined mode, its line breaks marking clear syntactic periods). The second,
“Stormy Nights,” is a precursor of the later children’s poem; it is a
meditation on the gains and losses of maturity that comes right from
Wordsworth’s Immortality ode:
I was then the Indian,

Well and happy and full of glee and pleasure,
Both hands full of life.
And not without divine impulses
Shot into me by the untried non-ego.
And indeed, at the end of the poem, he breaks out, again in the cadences of
Whitman, “Why do you taunt my progress, / O green-spectacled
Wordsworth! in beautiful verses, / You, the elderly poet?”) The central scene
from the childhood that he “Perfectly love[s], and keenly recollect[s]”—but
that he interestingly remembers without wanting to “recall” even if he
could—is the night-riding storm going
... by me like a cloak-wrapt horseman

Stooping over the saddle—
Go by and come again and yet again,
Like some one riding with a pardon,
And ever baffled, ever shut from passage.
The repetition is of import here, as it will be in the less violent and menacing
bys of “Windy Nights,” even as the more menacing storm has been
transformed into the less violent wind, mysterious rather than directly
terrifying.
It is not terror, but rather wonder, that marks A Child’s Garden of
Verses—a pastoral world (et in arcadia vixi, he later wrote of his own
childhood days at Colinton Manse, and near the Water of Leith, whose
remembered stream would emerge from time to time among its flowers). I
myself recall encountering this in “Bed in Summer” the book’s opening
poem. It was my generation’s own introduction, too, to the great
problematics of reading. I didn’t dress by yellow candlelight, but rather,
electric light; on the other hand, in summer, I did indeed “have to go to bed
by day”; and dealing with this puzzle in a very Emersonian sort of ad hoc way,
I think I concluded that the winter part of the paradox covered fictional
experience—from books, and requiring corrective historical adjustments—
whereas the summer part spoke to my own experience in an unmediated way.
I wonder now how it was to function as the introductory poem, with delicate
allegory providing an argument for the book it led off—like Frost’s
“Pasture”—rather than explicitly, like Herrick’s opening catalogue of what
his Hesperides would be about or Ben Jonson’s “Why I Write Not of Love.”
The speaker’s wonder at a paradoxical reversal invites the reader to follow it
into meditative reflection and projective imagination; as a child, I did not
need to be told “you come, too.” The book that follows deals with many
objects of wonder: shadows inside a house at night, the totally different
companion-cast shadow of the child himself; the domestic and the foreign;
the fleeting vignettes through a railway carriage window; the fireplace-
meditation.... Even more, though, the adult reader may see the poem’s
day–night reversal as figuring a complex dialectic of projected adulthood and
recollected childhood that underlies the whole volume.
In the course of gently but firmly contradicting the perplexing
casuistries of her adult interlocutor, the “simple child, / That lightly draws
its breath” of Wordsworth’s “We Are Seven” asserts that her two dead
siblings are indeed pre-sent and accounted for: “Their graves are green, they
may be seen” she says, and goes on to report that
... often after sun-set, Sir

When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
We might feel that no child would say “my little porringer,” any more than
“my little shoes”—this is a normatively large adult talking. Yet in Stevenson’s
250 John Hollander
“Land of Story-Books,” the speaker can speak of his trek of escape from adult
evening pursuits (“They sit at home and talk and sing, / And do not play at
anything”)
Now, with my little gun, I crawl

All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back
and, even more implausibly, can say of the imagined hunter’s camp he
reaches, “These are the hills, these are the woods, / These are my starry
solitudes.” And yet, in the case of this speaker, a post-Wordsworthian poet
whose discourse we shall be examining, we may be less disturbed, partially
because the rhetoric of Victorian adults, of English poets generally, of
elegantly expressed feelings of acutely remembered childhood experiences,
all come together in what I think is a unique poetic language that, I shall
suggest, has had considerable consequence. Another, crucial matter is that
Wordsworth wasn’t writing for children to read and listen to; children
spoken for in these lines respond directly and innocently to the adult
language, and accept it as a representation of what they have noticed or felt.
The imagined voyage or trek is central to many of these poems.
“Travel” has overtones of the imaginative nocturnal activities of “II
Penseroso.” And I must call attention here only to its remarkable little
episode in which the child, imagining his Asian and African travels, comes to
a vision, in some fancied Arabia deserta, of a distant and later condition that
is able to contemplate the realm of childhood only through souvenirs as
images:
Where among the desert sands

Some deserted city stands,
All its children, sweep and prince,
Grown to manhood ages since,
Not a foot in street or house,
Not a stir of child or mouse,
And when kindly falls the night,
In all the town no spark of light.
The child reaches in his journey the house of childhood to find nobody
home. (Whether this poem underlies Frost’s “Directive” might be
interesting to contemplate.)
The “North-West Passage” sequence, with its little journey upstairs to

bed at night being mapped on a little pattern of quest-romance—I always
remembered the stanza from it that I could only decades later come to feel
as almost Marvellian:
Now we behold the embers flee

About the firelit hearth; and see
Our faces painted as we pass,
Like pictures, on the window-glass.
The hearth-meditation, so important in a line that runs from Coleridge

through American poetry of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, is
further exemplified by “Armies in the Fire”; in its second stanza, the relation
of literature to imagination—here, imagined armies moving among burning
cities—is gently touched upon, through the agency of reflected firelight:
Now in the falling of the gloom

The red fire paints the empty room:
And warmly on the roof it looks,
And flickers on the backs of books.
And it is perhaps significant that this poem follows the one called “The Land
of Story-Books.” But it is the final stanza
Blinking embers, tell me true

Where are those armies marching to,
And what the burning city is
That crumbles in your furnaces!
The answer can only come to the adult writer, who has no doubt been
thinking of the last quatrain of Shakespeare’s great autumnal sonnet 73,
“That time of year thou mayst in me behold”
In me thou west the ashes of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie.
If this is childhood itself, slowly being consumed “with that which it was
nourished by,” its name and nature are necessarily enwrapped in veils of the
oracular for the child, who is still, as Ben Jonson would put it, a “spectator”
rather than an “understander.”
252 John Hollander
A variant of the overland trek is the sea voyage, as in “My Ship and I,”
in which the child is
... the captain of a tidy little ship,

Of a ship that goes a-sailing on the pond;
And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about;
But when I’m a little older, I shall find the secret out
How to send my vessel sailing on beyond.
The only sailor aboard is a doll figure; and the speaker resolves, in a
marvelous inversion of growing up and being able to make adult journeys,
one day to shrink to the size of the doll, now quickened to life. The two of
them may then stop sailing around in circles in the narrow confines of the
pond, “to voyage and explore.” Pond-sailing and voyaging, circling and
navigating, seem here to trope play and work—but the work is itself figured
as higher play—the speaker will grow down in order to play better at the
grown-up voyaging. The innocent speaker can’t grasp some of the
complexities of the experienced reading of such poems, but I think the
figurative topoi—such as the voyage of life here—are better learned
obliquely than when parable, proverb, or whatever plainly propound them.
There is also the “Pirate Story,” with its meadow-as-sea, and the bed-
boat, to which I shall return. I think in this connection of “Where Go the
Boats?” with its introduction of the river of time topos
Dark brown is the river,

Golden is the sand,
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand
and the subtle but available music of the syntax itself that takes the young
reader or listener sailing on a voyage accompanying the one made by the
floating leaves construed as boats—
On goes the river

And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.
Away down the river,

A hundred miles or more,
Other little children

Shall bring my boats ashore.
The passage from On through away ... away comes to rest at the final slightly
different away (it is no longer where the river goes, but where it is). In another
poem, “The Cow,” the big hit for me as a child was the third line of stanza 1
“The friendly cow all red and white, / I love with all my heart: She gives me
cream with all her might, / To eat on apple-tart”—all children must know
there’s something wonderfully and benignly strange about putting it that
way, even if they’re city children who don’t know from direct observation
that whatever might is expended in the process is that of the hands and arms
of the milker.
This is not whimsy at all, I think. It marks one rhetorical point along
an interesting range of attitudes and distances implied by what the child-
poet of the book notices and cannot notice about what he is in fact saying.
The poems are neither naive nor sentimental, as it were, but move across a
spectrum of these. They are not arch, although Stevenson had indeed
previously written, and designed some woodcuts for, arch, half self-
mocking moral emblems whose tone prefigures that of Belloc’s cautionary
verses. Aside from instructive moral rhymes by Isaac Watts (and, indeed,
some fine epigraphic poems by Jean Ingelow in her children’s romance
Mopsa the Fairy in 1869), A Child’s Garden of Verses may be the first book of
poems for children by an otherwise accomplished adult writer—in this
sense, a parallel to Andersen, Hawthorne, Ruskin, and Kingsley. Perhaps
James Hogg’s “A Boy’s Song” might be mentioned here; Stevenson echoes
his fellow Scot in “The Dumb Soldier” about a toy soldier buried in a hole
in the grass
When the grass is ripe like grain,

When the scythe is stoned again,
When the lawn is shaven clear,
Then my hole will reappear
(and there are Whitmanian overtones here as well, I think). More

interestingly, as a book, A Child’s Garden of Verses engages not so much the
matter of whimsy, or of the cautionary, but of romance—in this, being akin
to Treasure Island and Kidnapped. The speaker is the child himself
throughout—and here perhaps is to raise the point about how this book is
mostly pueris sed non virginibusque—(although John Bunyan had some two
hundred years earlier produced a collection of moral emblems specifying
254 John Hollander
plainly in its title A Book for Boys and Girls). A sole exception, perhaps, is the
“Marching Song” with its bouncy trochaic rhythm:
Bring the comb and play upon it!

Marching, here we come!
Willie cocks his highland bonnet,
Johnnie beats the drum.
Mary Jane commands the party,

Peter leads the rear.
And, in the last stanza
Here’s enough of fame and pillage,

Great commander Jane!
Now that we’ve been round the village,
Let’s go home again.
But it may be supposed that Jane gets to command by virtue of her age on
the one hand and the extreme youth of her valiant warriors on the other. (In
this regard, by the way, I note that Charles Robinson’s first and canonical
1896 illustrations showed as many girls as possible when the lack of gender
specificity in a particular poem allowed it.)
At least one contemporary reviewer quoted the well-known couplet
called (with some delicate irony, perhaps) “Happy Thought” as instancing
puerile thought and puerile expression. You may remember that it goes “The
world is so full of a number of things, / I’m sure we should all be as happy as
kings.” This is certainly not a simple matter. The pastoral dialectic of
childhood remembered and expressed in adult language breeds strong
ironies. James Thurber used the ultimate line in his own debunking moral to
one of his wonderful, adult fables for our time (“The world is so full of a
number of things, / I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings, and we all
know how happy kings are”)—and, indeed, this is just the point: in an almost
Blakean way, the child of the poem doesn’t know the darker side of what he
is saying; the adult reading it to a listening child does, and indeed may mutter
Thurber’s addition as his or her own afterthought. But the child in the verse-
garden is saying something else as well: the plenitude he beholds is the
demesne of his attentiveness, not a realm over which he wields the kind of
repressive power that is the only sort that may be correctly addressed in
universities today. (I can’t help but recount how my poetic contemporary,
Richard Howard, told me that in his first-grade class—in Cleveland in the

mid-thirties—his teacher, remarking that many residual kings were currently
being shoved into exile or otherwise attended to, asked them to memorize
her emended text—“I’m sure we should all be as happy as birds.” Such a
devout literalist would be at home in most university English departments
today.)
Stevenson’s child is, in fact, as well as in figure, monarch of all he
surveys only because he can notice it with active pleasure and control it
benignly in his imagination. And thus “richer than untempted kings” he can
indeed feel. It is for this inherent sense of the dialectic of childhood pastoral
(which Empson first identifies with Alice, and which continues in another
mode here), with Blake lurking at the borders, that one might recall
Stevenson’s remark in a letter to William Ernest Henley in March 1883, to
the effect that “Poetry is not the strong point of the text, and I shrink from
any title that might seem to claim that quality; otherwise we might have
Nursery Muses or New Songs of Innocence (but that were a blasphemy).” But
Stevenson indeed knew well what true poetry was. He entitles his collection
of 1887 Underwoods, the title Ben Jonson gave to a selected portion of his
oeuvre; in his epigraph to that volume, Stevenson acknowledges the
borrowing, at the same time showing that he is eminently qualified to do so:
Of all my verse, like not a single line;

But like my title for it is not mine.
That title from a better man I stole:
Ah, how much better had I stol’n the whole!
which itself is a perfect pastiche of Ben Jonson. Many of his own poems have
premonitions of Hardy—the Hardy he could probably not have read yet,
Wessex Poems being first published in 1890, and certainly of many Georgian
poets like de la Mare. What keeps surprising the adult reader of the poems
in the Child’s Garden is how full they are of the stuff of true poetry. One quick
instance here: in “Escape at Bedtime,” a poem about being outside one’s
house at night, a brief catalogue of the constellations certainly invites the
young reader’s reminders of his or her own wonder at the stars:
The Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and all,
And the star of the sailor, and Mars,
These shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall
Would be half full of water and stars.
256 John Hollander
But a present delight at the hidden zeugma of the last line, (“of” being literal
in the case of the water, figurative in the case of the stars, reduplicating
another figurative “of” if the water is full of stars too—how we must labor to
represent our intuitions! how free the child is of the need to do so!). And it
is in the first apprehension of such patterns and devices that the young
reader, unknowing of their names and identities—let alone their venerable
literary history—can encounter them as found natural objects, like shells
along a shore, and keep them among other treasured souvenirs.
Suffice it to say these verses have played a remarkable role in the education
of writers in English since they first appeared. (They may even, for a brief while,
continue to. In a Yale College verse-composition class one fall, seven out of sixteen
students had grown up with some or all of them, although only two evinced any
acquaintance whatsoever with either KJV or even the New English Bible.)
Earlier I quoted a line from Cowper’s Alexander Selkirk poem (“I am
monarch of all I survey”). It makes a kind of subliminal return in what is one
of the central poems of the collection, “The Land of Counterpane.” The
child remembers an occasion when he “was sick and lay a-bed,” his head
propped up by pillows, and how he deployed his playthings—toy soldiers,
houses and trees, ships—on the field of his bed’s coverlet. It is, like a very few
others, in the past tense, so that the child-narrator seems almost to double
with the adult speaker (the verbs’ past tense being perfect for the child,
imperfect for the adult poet). It concludes:
I was the giant, great and still

That sits upon the pillow-hill
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
Joan Richardson, in her biography of Wallace Stevens (I:219) suggests

the importance of this poem for the later poet, invoking “land of
counterpane with its little, sick hero fantasizing himself ‘atop a hill.’”
Certainly the topos is a venerable one. The visionary prospect from a height,
of what one cannot literally enter, stems from Moses on Pisgah at least
through Adam on his high hill in Paradise Lost, combines in modernity with
Petrarch’s view of his own world—able to be reentered after having been
seen from above—from the top of Mont Ventoux.
This seems to be one of the two central fables of the Garden, the other
being the solitary trek. Let us consider some of its occasions; for example,
these lines from “The Swing”:
Up in the air and over the wall,

Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside—
or “Foreign Lands,” which begins
Up into the cherry tree

Who should climb but little me?
[and here, the Dorothy Parker (b. 1893) agenda? the smarty-pants send up
of it—we wait for the smartass second couplet]
I held the trunk with both my hands

And looked abroad on foreign lands.
I saw the next door garden lie,

Adorned with flowers, before my eye,
And many pleasant places more
That I had never seen before.
I saw the dimpling river pass

And be the sky’s blue looking-glass;
The dusty roads go up and down
With people tramping in to town.
One of the things this can do for an imaginative child reading it is to

acknowledge and somehow license his or her own private fancy of just such
a kind. The adult world is full of suppressions and restrictions of just such
fancies and discoveries (admittedly, inventing the poetic wheel), as
Wordsworth indeed understood. Poetry is an important bivalent connection
between childhood and maturity, privileging neither, aware of the ways in
which growing up can be a kind of growing down.
In poems presented to children, this link can often run along an axis of
this kind of recognition. And it can talk to children, for themselves and for
the poet’s—or at least, the romantic and later poet’s—reconstruction of his
or her own childhood. What helps to make Stevenson’s verses into true
poetry of a kind is this dark conceit running through them: the book’s child-
poet speaks in the language of English poetry and, reciprocally, introduces
his very young listeners/readers to poetic form and trope and mythology, so
258 John Hollander
that in some way, for many generations of middle-class children (as well as
working-class ones still fortunate enough to have been schooled before 1960
or so), future writers were being secretly educated. It would be amusing to
search the compass of the Garden for subsequent echoes or even topoi, all the
way from Wallace Stevens to the resonant last line of “Singing”: “The organ
with the organ man / Is singing in the rain; in Arthur Freed’s (b. 1894)
celebrated lyric of the popular song of 1929.
In A Child’s Garden of Verses the visionary prospects need not always be
revealed from a literal height. The child conjures up pageants and parades.
One such poem chronicles a visionary parade of “every kind of beast and
man,” when
All night long and every night,

When my mama puts out the light,
I see the people marching by,
As plain as day, before my eye.
They start slowly, gather speed, and are followed by the child “Until we
reach the town of Sleep.” Children acknowledge such an experience—it is
very common—and grasp that final conceit. The title, “Young Night-
Thought,” is half for them, and half—the allusively part-joking, part-serious
half—for the adult, well-read reader, who, while not having gone through
the ten thousand or so lines of Edward Young’s Night Thoughts on Life, Death,
and Immortality, would at least have known of it and its tediously extensive
agenda.
Another actual height is that of “The Hayloft,” with the mown grass
piled up “in mountain tops / For mountaineers to roam”; these are named
with great pleasure and seriousness
Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,

Mount Eagle and Mount High;-
The mice that in these mountains dwell,
No happier are than I!
There is an echo here, incidentally, of Lovelace in “To Althea from

Prison”—“The birds, that wanton in the air / Know no such liberty”; there
lurks in Stevenson’s poem the issue, although not the cadence, of the final
occurrence of Lovelace’s refrain “Angels alone, that soar above, / Enjoy such
liberty.” But indeed, seventeenth-century poetry resounds through A Child’s
Garden of Verses: “Auntie’s Skirts” is Herrick’s “Whenas in silks my Julia
goes,” with the substitution of the excitements of general sensuous wonder

for those of eros:
Whenever Auntie moves around,

Her dresses make a curious sound,
They trail behind her up the floor,
And trundle after through the door.
And in another poem the eponymous gardener himself (“Far in the

plots, I see him dig / Old and serious, brown and big”)—perhaps a secret
surrogate for the poet-gardener of the garden of verses—gets unwittingly
likened to the Aesopian ant being rebuked by the Anacreontic grasshopper
of Richard Lovelace’s poem:
Silly gardener! summer goes,

And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays,

To profit by these garden days
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!
Lovelace’s grasshopper suffers the Aesopian fate in winter (“Poor verdant

fool, and now green ice”); he is a singer, not a provider. But the gardener, a
worker, is for the young speaker—for whom play is serious and labor a
distraction—frivolously improvident. There is perhaps something Blakean
about this dialectic, and it appears in other places in the book. (One might
consider, for example, a phrase in “At the Sea-Side” that seems to govern the
rhetoric of the whole little poem: “When I was down beside the sea / A
wooden spade they gave to me / To dig the sandy shore.” The “they gave to
me” momentarily turns the speaker into a strange kind of figure, half-
emblematic, half a Blakean innocent speaker shadowed by the dark
consciousness of the adult reader.)
I conclude by returning to a personal observation about the importance
of this book for me. Tags and phrases from so many of these poems have
rung in my head since the age of four or five, some as I first heard them, later
as I began to read them. I know how I tried to live for a while myself in my
own Land of Counterpane, even though I’d had to figure out dimly what sort
260 John Hollander
of coverlet constituted it, and even though at first the final lines, “And sees
before him, dale and plain / The pleasant land of counterpane,” puzzled me
in that dale and plain I wanted to hear both dale and plain as somehow
adjectival—a “dale” vision being perhaps a clear or radiant one. My own
night journeys were on shipboard—the “My bed is like, a little boat” was a
very resonant topos for me, and I note the return of it in a prose poem from
a sequence called “In Place”; “The Boat” begins, “It took him away on some
nights, its low engine running silently on even until he was too far out to hear
it himself. It was as dark as the elements of night and water through which it
moved. It was built for one: he was helmsman and supercargo both.” And it
ends with what I now realize is a consideration not just of the bed-boat, but
of the whole scene of childhood, and of the relation between memories of it
and allusions to what was for me one of the great texts of childhood, as seen
with what Wallace Stevens called “a later reason”: “It was out of service for
some years, after which he came to realize that his final ride on it, some
night, would not be unaccompanied, that the boatman on that voyage would
stay aboard, and that he himself would disembark at last.”
VA N E S S A S M I T H
Piracy and Exchange:

Stevenson’s Pacific Fiction
I n a series of unpublished Imaginary Dispatches, probably written in 1885,

Stevenson adopted a variety of roles, including those of the explorer Henry
Morton Stanley, of ‘Banzaboo’ (prime minister of ‘the Cannibal Islands’) and
of a reporter at a meeting of ‘The American Pirates Trades Union’, in order
to parody the hypocrisy of policy. The interleaving of satiric pieces on the
topics of colonialism and copyright establishes a parallel between the ironies
and inconsistencies of imperialist and literary exploitation, while the
‘American Pirates’ dispatch exposes the unstable association of republican
sentiments with free-trade ethics:
The chairman opened the meeting with an address in which he

said ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the liberties of this free and mighty
land are being interfered with. The greedy Britisher envious of
our cuteness wishes to secure our birthright. (hisses and groans.)
He says in a disgusting and insulting manner that if we want
books we must pay for ‘em (groans), but no gentlemen we won’t
stand it (applause). Shall the downtrodden and perfidious Briton
trample on one of our Great Institutions?’1
The ludic dispatches were written some years before Stevenson placed
himself at the periphery of print and of empire in the Pacific, yet they
From Literary Culture and the Pacific: Nineteenth-Century Textual Encounters. © 1998 by Vanessa
Smith.
261
262 Vanessa Smith
anticipate an intermeshing of concerns which is less heavy-handedly present

in his late fiction. The novels and short stories that Stevenson published
from and also set in the Pacific mediate anxieties about the material basis of
literary production through an exploration of the narrative modes and forms
of authority available in this peripheral context. These texts express a
concern about those interconnections between discursive and commercial
exchange that are implicit in their own production.
THE WRECKER AS BEACHCOMBER NARRATIVE
Writing to Will Low, the American painter to whom he dedicated The

Wrecker, some time after the novel’s publication, Stevenson posed a question
about the value of artistic labour:
And then the problem that Pinkerton laid down: why the artist
can do nothing else? is one that continually exercises myself ... I
think of the Renaissance fellows, and their all-round human
sufficiency, and compare it with the ineffable smallness of the
field in which we labour and in which we do so little. I think
David Balfour a nice little book, and very artistic, and just the
thing to occupy the leisure of a busy man; but for the top flower
of a man’s life it seems to me inadequate. Small is the word; it is
a small age, and I am of it. I could have wished to be otherwise
busy in this world. I ought to have been able to build lighthouses
and write David Balfours too.2
Addressed to Low, such sentiments harbour an element of nostalgia. The

pair had been members of the Barbizon artist’s colony for periods during the
years 1875 to 1877, at a time when, Low reminisced later, they ‘were more
intent upon learning our respective trades than in producing finished works
of art’.3 In those days, uncommitted to singularity of artistic endeavour and
less concerned with the benefits of protectionism, they were part of a group
who formed ‘The Barbizon Free-Trading Company, Unlimited’ whose
planned activities included sailing a yacht and trading in sealskins.4 Four of
the company, including Stevenson, also bought shares in a barge, which was
never used.5 In his letter to Low, Stevenson goes on to compare himself
unfavourably with Fielding the ‘active magistrate’ and Richardson the ‘busy
bookseller’, and to wish that his own curriculum did not exclude the work of
his father and grandfather, both engineers, whose lighthouse constructions
guard the coasts of Scotland.6 Yet perhaps more apposite than the activities
Piracy and Exchange: Stevenson’s Pacific Fiction 263
of earlier canonical authors to Stevenson’s ideal of the literary jack of all

trades was the local example of the Pacific beachcomber. As I observed
earlier, the beachcomber author is a figure defined by multiple projects, from
the technical to the performative. In The Wrecker the beachcomber offers an
implicit model for a sustained investigation of the modes of labour that
accompany and define artistic production.
The Wrecker was the second of three novels that Stevenson wrote in
collaboration with his stepson, Lloyd Osbourne.7 Like the collaborative
projects of the novel’s protagonists, Loudon Dodd and Jim Pinkerton,
Stevenson and Osbourne’s joint authorship was a business venture.
Osbourne’s American citizenship gave their writing the protection of United
States copyright laws prior to the International Copyright Act of July 1891.
The profits of The Wrecker were intended to contribute to the purchase of a
trading schooner that Stevenson and his family planned to operate between
the islands of the South Pacific. Where Loudon Dodd’s artistic pursuits are
supported by Pinkerton’s business activities, Stevenson’s art was to finance an
enterprise of trade. In a letter to Henry James he refers to the novel as ‘a
machine’, but also as a piece of, possibly dubious, craftsmanship, in which he
practises ‘the curious (and perhaps unsound) technical manoeuvre of running
the story together to a point as we go along, the narrative becoming more
succinct and the details fining off with every page’.8 Aspiring to a writing that
is one of several ventures, Stevenson produces a text whose labour is a
shifting term, neither simple mechanics nor pure artistry.
The Wrecker tells the story of Loudon Dodd’s various attempts to find
suitable employment on the spectrum between art and labour. His father,
James Dodd, a millionaire businessman who finishes life a bankrupt, sends
his son to Muskegon Commercial Academy. Here, in what amounts to an
education in exchange-value, Dodd participates in gambling games with
‘college paper’ and ledgers, experiencing accelerated shifts of fortune which
serve only to convince him that ‘the whole traffic was illusory’.9 His own
ambitions are unspecifically ‘artistic’. His father is involved in the planning
of the new city of Muskegon, and, in a brief affiliation with paternal
aspirations, Dodd engages in an autodidactic pursuit of architecture. This
phase of the novel has echoes in Stevenson’s biography: Stevenson had
himself initially studied engineering in the tradition of his ‘family of
engineers’, and then completed a law degree as a compromise between his
literary aspirations and his father’s professional ambitions for him. Dodd’s
description of his architectural pursuits could equally describe Stevenson
engaged in the study of engineering: ‘I threw myself headlong into my
father’s work, acquainted myself with all the plans, their merits and defects,
264 Vanessa Smith
read besides in special books, made myself a master of the theory of strains,
studied the current prices of materials.’ (23) (Stevenson acknowledged in a
letter to Edward Burlingame that, although his protagonist was based
primarily on Will Low, ‘Much of the experience of Loudon Dodd is drawn
from my own life.’10)
Dodd’s father agrees to send him to Paris to study sculpting, intending
him to put artistic training to a practical purpose in designing the facades of
public buildings in the city of Muskegon. On his way to the Continent, Dodd
visits his maternal relatives in Edinburgh. He finds favour with his
grandfather, Alexander Loudon, a former stonemason whose shoddy
workmanship is, however, inimical to Dodd’s artistic pretensions. When
Alexander takes him on a tour of some houses he has fabricated, Dodd
comments: ‘I have rarely seen a more shocking exhibition: the brick seemed
to be blushing to the walls, and the slates on the roof to have turned pale with
shame; but I was careful not to communicate these impressions to the aged
artificer at my side.’ (29) After his father’s bankruptcy and death, a gift of
money and later posthumous bequest from his grandfather enable Dodd to
escape the curse of labour in his Uncle Adam’s grocery business. The
paternity of a businessman who can only appreciate art as engineering and
the legacy of an incompetent bricoleur provide an insecure foundation for
Dodd’s artistic pursuits. Jim Pinkerton, the combined businessman-bricoleur
who takes over the burden of Dodd’s maintenance, is in part a reincarnation
of these father-figures.
Pinkerton, Dodd’s closest friend in Paris and erstwhile benefactor, is a
jack of all trades. Pinkerton cannot understand the exclusive devotion which
characterises Dodd’s artistic ambitions, while Dodd defines his singular
pursuit against the multiplicity of Pinkerton’s endeavours: ‘this was not an
artist who had been deprived of the practice of his single art; but only a
business man of very extended interests’ (46). Pinkerton has numerous ‘irons
in the fire’ (98). He has been a ‘tin-typer’, or travelling photographer, with a
sideline in ethnography:
As he tramped the Western States and Territories, taking tintypes

... he was taking stock by the way, of the people, the products, and
the country, with an eye unusually observant and a memory
unusually retentive; and he was collecting for himself a body of
magnanimous and semi-intellectual nonsense, which he supposed
to be the natural thoughts and to contain the whole duty of the
born American. (42–3)
He has found employment as a railroad-scalper, a trade whose essence, Dodd

explains, ‘appears to be to cheat the railroads out of their due fare’ (43), and
while in Paris acts as foreign correspondent for an American newspaper.
Back in San Francisco, his projects multiply: he hawks brandy, keeps an
advertising office, charters a boat for fishing parties, refurbishes condemned
vessels, and has a tenth share in ‘a certain agricultural engine’. (98) He
promotes a public lecture upon Dodd’s return to the United States from
Paris, and organises what become notorious weekend picnics, with Dodd
acting again as showman.
The portrait of Pinkerton, Stevenson’s correspondence attests, was in
fact based upon a figure from the world of metropolitan publishing: his
American literary agent Samuel Sidney McClure.11 Stevenson regarded
McClure as something of a shyster, and worried about the risks he might have
engendered by placing his literary fortunes partly in McClure’s hands. In the
year that The Wrecker was published, he wrote to Charles Baxter from Samoa:
‘I fear the solvency of the Great McClure must be a-totter. This will leave me
in a dreadful hole, for I have no idea my money will have been kept separate
as he proposed; the being is too Pinkertonish for that.’12 However Pinkerton’s
dubious ‘irons in the fire’ range beyond the literary, recalling the projects of
the beachcomber William Diaper, who writes in his autobiography:
I had about fifty irons in the fire at once, and not one of them
burnt. I supplied as many as thirty or forty ships in the season
during the year, with pork and vegetables at quite a thousand per
cent. profit ... Even the red chilli-peppers which grew wild all
round, I employed the boys and girls to gather them in bushels,
and then bottled them up in vinegar which I made myself from
the ripe bananas, and sold hundreds of bottles to the foremast
hands of all these ships ... Another source of wealth or income
was the way I used to receive the officers and crews of the ships
when they came on shore for liberty. I always treated them to a
picnic or ‘al fresco’ meal under the nice shady branches of the tree
which stood on the green where I used to spread the good things
of the whole island.
There are certain immediate dissimilarities between the activities of the

metropolitan and the Pacific bricoleur. Pinkerton’s ventures are purely
entrepreneurial, where Diaper accompanies promotion with manual labour.
Diaper’s profit margin is more arbitrary. Yet both are portrayed as engrossed
in the romance of business venture, rather than in acquisition: in the narrative,
266 Vanessa Smith
rather than the artefacts, of enterprise. Pinkerton is described as ‘representing

to himself a highly coloured part in life’s performance ... Reality was his
romance; he gloried to be thus engaged’ (97), while Diaper claims to have been
absorbed by the process of accumulation rather than the question of profit: ‘I
neglected nothing with which I could make money, not so much for the love
of it—as I did not at that time any more than now worship it—as for the
amusement it gave me in accumulating it.’ Pinkerton’s funds are perpetually in
circulation: ‘No dollar slept in his possession; rather, he kept all simultaneously
flying, like a conjurer with oranges.’ (98–9) Diaper’s profits change shape
within the chameleon economy of barter: ‘if not money, perhaps [payment
was] a “hickery” shirt, worth to me quite two dollars, as I could convert all
these things into pigs, which in the end meant money’.13 Both Pinkerton and
Diaper of course include textual production among their business ventures.
Pinkerton involves Dodd in the purchase of an exorbitantly priced
wreck, the Flying Scud, which has come up for sale in San Francisco under
mysterious circumstances, and which he suspects of containing an illicit
cargo of opiate. Dodd is sent aboard another ship, the Norah Creina, to the
Pacific island of Midway where the wreck lies abandoned, to endeavour to
secure this anticipated treasure. Here, engaged in the anti-aesthetic labours
of ‘wrecker’, taking apart the Flying Scud, Dodd attains manhood. Rather
than single-minded and sedentary artistic pursuits, he comes to celebrate
bricolage, and a masculine world of manual labour:
if things had gone smooth with me, I should be now swollen like
a prize-ox in body, and fallen in mind to a thing perhaps as low as
many types of the bourgeois—the implicit or exclusive artist ...
The dull man is made, not by the nature, but by the degree of his
immersion in a single business ... The eternal life of man, spent
under the sun and rain and in rude physical effort, lies upon one
side, scarce changed since the beginning.
I would I could have carried along to Midway Island with me
all the writers and the prating artists of my time. Day after day of
hope deferred, of heat, of unremitting toil; night after night of
aching limbs, bruised hands, and a mind obscured with the
grateful vacancy of physical fatigue. (232–3)
This speech recalls another eulogy to physical labour, within Stevenson’s

correspondence from Samoa. Writing to Sidney Colvin about his work
weeding and path-breaking on the Vailima estate, he observes of himself:
To come down covered with mud and drenched with sweat and
rain after some hours in the bush, change, rub down, and take a
chair in the verandah, is to taste a quiet conscience. And the
strange thing that I remark is this: if I go out and make sixpence,
bossing my labourers and plying the cutlass or the spade, idiot
conscience applauds me: if I sit in the house and make twenty
pounds, idiot conscience wails over my neglect and the day
wasted.14
In a letter from which I quoted in my introduction, Oscar Wilde comments

acerbically on such relishing descriptions of physical exertion: ‘To chop wood
with any advantage to oneself, or profit to others, one should not be able to
describe the process ... Stevenson merely extended the sphere of the artificial by
taking to digging.’15 He suggests that the elevation of toil is the ultimate literary
illusion. Stevenson’s self-conscious espousal of the benefits of manual labour
transforms the sought escape from literary dilettantism into a literary activity.
The Wrecker’s questions about the material base of aesthetic pursuits and
the value of artistic enterprise as measured against forms of manual activity
surface repeatedly in Stevenson’s meditations, published and private, on the
art of writing. Perhaps because he was conscious of having broken with the
practical tradition of his ‘family of engineers’, and of having been dependent
on his father’s financial support to establish his literary career, Stevenson was
impelled to interrogate the validity of literature as labour. This concern had a
wider frame of reference, however, within later nineteenth-century literary
debate. There was, as Kenneth Graham has observed, a utilitarian emphasis
to Victorian defences of the novelist’s art.16 The image of the novelist as
craftsman, and of writing as technical labour, was a critical commonplace:
Trollope’s An Autobiography famously referred to the novelist as a cobbler,
whose method was mechanical.17 Such metaphors reflect anxieties about the
capacity of literature to function as a means of support for its producers.
Stevenson wrote, less solemnly, in a letter of July 1883:
you will never weary of an art at which you fervently and

superstitiously labour ... Forget the world in a technical trifle ...
Bow your head over technique. Think of technique when you rise
and when you go to bed. Forget purposes in the meanwhile; get
to love technical processes, to glory in technical successes; get to
see the world entirely through technical spectacles, to see it
entirely in terms of what you can do.18
268 Vanessa Smith
The emphasis on the technical here is rhetorical, even incantatory, rather

than a materialist critique. Repetition culminates in the aurally pleasurable
but ludicrous ‘technical spectacles’: this is still playful, rather than laborious,
writing. However Stevenson’s subsequent experiences publishing texts from
the Pacific served to defamiliarise the ‘literature as labour’ commonplace; his
distance from metropolitan centres slowing down and rendering practically
explicit the processes of literary production.
Rather than any materially valuable cargo, Dodd retrieves from the
Flying Scud a wealth of story. He locates evidence that the crew who had been
rescued from the ship was in fact a cast of interlopers. Ascertaining their true
identities, Dodd uncovers the history of a fellow-dilettante, Norris Carthew,
whom he recognises as, effectively, his double. Carthew has early in life been
cast off by his father and sent to Australia as a remittance man. There he is
redeemed, like Dodd, from an emasculated existence by entry into the
communal, physical world of masculine labour. He takes up work on a
railway gang, and then joins a group of friends aboard the ship Currency Lass
on a trading venture in the Pacific. They begin with excellent fortune in
Butaritari, where they are able to make an inflated profit on the sale of their
cargo. However, luck changes when the mast of their ship splits in mid-
ocean, and they are forced to take to the lifeboat and make for Midway. This
island, which they have been misled by their ship’s directory to believe
supports an active coaling station, turns out to be a barren guano deposit.
The appearance of the Flying Scud offers a conditional promise of rescue: the
captain of the ship demands that the group hands over the huge spoils of its
trading venture in return for removal from Midway. In an outbreak of
extreme violence, the crew of the Currency Lass massacres the crew of the
Flying Scud. This explains the substitution of identities which has taken place
upon the ship’s return to San Francisco. Dodd’s attempts to uncover the true
history of the wreck are initially motivated by a plan to blackmail Carthew,
and thus to turn story directly into profit. However a growing sense of
recognition encourages him to refigure his role as that of Carthew’s ally. For
Carthew, the achieved world of masculine activity has tipped over into
violence. Dodd retrieves a balance by in turn converting the destructive
activity of ‘wrecker’ into the reconstructive role of storyteller.
The interdependence of constructive and destructive forms of
masculine physicality is an assumption that informs the collected literature of
the Pacific beachcomber. And there are further echoes to suggest that the
types of labour and alterity explored in The Wrecker are influenced by this
local model. The two vessels upon which Dodd and Carthew achieve
manhood, the Norah Creina and the Currency Lass, are both makeshift
constructions: bricolage. The former has been rushed through overhauling in

San Francisco, and the latter is precariously reassembled from a state of
dilapidation: ‘she sold ... a shade above her value as old junk; and the three
adventurers had scarce been able to afford even the most vital repairs. The
rigging, indeed, had been partly renewed, and the rest set up; [the] old canvas
had been patched together into one decently serviceable suit of sails; [the]
masts still stood, and might have wondered at themselves.’ (357–8) Their
respective crews are similarly cobbled together. The latter’s includes a
genuine bricoleur ‘Richard Hemstead ... had an odd-job-man’s handiness with
tools.’ (357) The crew members of the Currency Lass reappear in San
Francisco like beachcombers returning to metropolitan society: under false
names, telling a duplicitous story, the captain sustaining an injury which
prevents him from signing authorship of his testimony. It is the bricolage
nature of the typical ship’s crew in the Pacific—its members material-to-
hand, occupying a particular function for the space of a journey—which
produces the narrative motivation of The Wrecker, enabling the perplexing
substitution of one crew for another.
Dodd ultimately achieves a patronage less emasculating than those
which he rejects during the course of the novel. In the prologue, he arrives
in the Marquesas as the partner of his double, Carthew. In this role he
continues to represent the supported dilettante: the ship he runs upon
Carthew’s capital is a floating gallery of objets d’art, rather than the
beachcomber’s objets trouvés, and he distinguishes himself from the
beachcomber by its furnishings: ‘“His money, my taste,” said Dodd. “The
black walnut bookshelves are old English; the books all mine—mostly
Renaissance French. You should see how the beachcombers wilt away when
they go round them, looking for a change of seaside library novels. The
mirrors are genuine Venice; that’s a good piece in the corner. The daubs are
mine—and his; the mudding mine.”’ (6) Unlike William Diaper’s swap-
library of refashioned books on handmade shelves, Dodd’s books and
bookshelves are collector’s pieces. Nonetheless, this assemblage retains the
character of bricolage. part the work of his hands, part appropriation, uniting
artefacts from a variety of contexts. In the epilogue, Stevenson enters the
frame of one of Dodd’s projects. Like the editors of the beachcombers’
‘mendicant’ texts, he is represented as using his literary authority to bring
Dodd’s narrative into print. Yet neither Dodd’s associations with Carthew
nor with Stevenson are further instances of straightforward patronage. Once
in possession of the narrative of The Wrecker, Dodd has attained a valuable
item of exchange—Carthew’s secret, and Stevenson’s story—with which he
can negotiate upon his own terms. In fact, Dodd successfully attains what
270 Vanessa Smith
Stevenson and Osbourne hope to earn from the writing of the novel: a vessel
for trade among the islands.
Dodd, like the beachcomber, has pursued a wide range of dubious types
of employment, which provide the material for his narrative: wrecker, opium-
smuggler, blackmailer, ‘“It’s rather singular,” said he, “but I seem to have
practised all these means of livelihood.”’ (10) It is the multiplicity, rather than
singularity, of Dodd’s operations which characterises him as bricoleur rather
than dilettante. His arrival in the prologue is viewed through the eyes of
another type of beachcomber, reminiscent of Jean Cabri or James O’Connell:
‘the famous tattooed white man, the living curiosity of Tai-o-hae’ (2). This
figure is an icon of alterity—tattooed, cannibal: ‘he would hear again the
drums beat for a man-eating festival; perhaps he would summon up the form
of that island princess for the love of whom he had submitted his body to the
cruel hands of the tattooer’. Yet this ‘so strange a figure of a European’ also
defines Stevenson’s authorial practice in The Wrecker. Like the tattooed man,
whose ‘memory would serve him with broken fragments of the past’,
Stevenson draws upon the different contexts of his varied experience—Paris,
San Francisco, the Marquesas—to produce a narrative that is also a bricolage.
In the novel’s epilogue, Stevenson explains to Will Low the ‘genesis
and growth’ (425) of a book which is in fact less an organic production than
an assemblage. In the early 1920s, Low was to develop into a major
composition a sketch he had made of Stevenson while the pair were living in
the artists’ colony of Barbizon. One commentator referred to the painting as
his ‘affectionate answer, perhaps, to Stevenson’s epilogue in “The
Wrecker”’.19 Low also published for private circulation a book describing
the genesis and growth of this artwork. Ambiguously entitled ‘Concerning a
Painting of Robert Louis Stevenson’, this text slips between representing
Stevenson as subject and as implicit author of his portrait. Low’s commentary
is heavily conscious of his sitter’s development from student into renowned
literary figure, preceding the maturation of his sketch into a finished artwork.
His painting is now a posthumous memorial, deriving interest and authority
primarily from its subject, even as it, like Stevenson’s epilogue, draws from a
shared pool of memories that continue to situate the two artists as novices
and equals. Yet Low’s pamphlet also offers an exhaustive description of
artistic composition: of the conceptualisation and realisation of a project of
representation. The distinction between the aesthetics espoused by his text
and The Wrecker’s epilogue is effectively one between composition and
bricolage. The epilogue describes a narrative developed from yarning. The
task of writing is figured as manual craftsmanship: ‘the scaffolding of the tale
had been put together. But the question of treatment was as usual more
obscure.’ (425) Its finished product is a fabricated article, a piece of weaving,

rather than a precious artwork:
The tone of the age, its movement, the mingling of races and
classes in the dollar hunt, the fiery and not quite unromantic
struggle for existence with its changing trades and scenery, and two
types in particular, that of the American handyman of business and
that of the Yankee merchant sailor—we agreed to dwell on at some
length, and make the woof to our not very precious warp. (426)
This plot summary incorporates a range of projects and contexts of activity

familiar from beachcomber accounts. The authors also represent literary
production as oral exchange, a depiction which somewhat belies facts.
Stevenson and Osbourne’s formal collaboration involved sequential writing
and revision: much discussion of the project took place in correspondence
while Lloyd was in Europe settling the family’s affairs, Stevenson complaining
at one time to Lloyd: ‘This is the hell of collaboration half the world away.’20
Commenting later on literary collaboration, Stevenson suggested that this
type of authorship presses at the limits of oral communication: ‘The great
difficulty of collaboration is that you can’t tell what you mean. I know what
kind of an effect I mean a character to give—what kind of tache he is to make;
but how am I to tell my collaborator in words.’21 Nonetheless, in the epilogue
the authors are keen to place the genesis of their story in a productive oral
context. Here the beachcomber narrative offered an implicit answer to the
problems of construction which the novel posed. The authors refer to their
aim of uniting the complex plot of detective fiction with the detail of daily life:
romance with realism. They succeed in creating an aleatory text, in which
disparate narratives build into a story, simultaneously bringing a variety of
contexts into play. As I argued in chapter 1, part of the appeal of the
beachcomber narrative lay in the dubious status of the account, in the
challenge it offered the reader of sifting true story from tall tale. In the
conflicting and yet duplicate histories of Dodd and Carthew, two non-
singular artists, or beachcomber—bricoleurs, Stevenson’s longstanding
preoccupation with the double, the alter ego, is remodelled at the periphery.
THE EBB-TIDE: CONVERTING BEACHCOMBER TO MISSIONARY
With the writing of The Ebb-Tide, the process of collaboration between

Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne broke down. Stevenson’s account, in
correspondence, of the construction of the novella stresses a division of
272 Vanessa Smith
labour. Osbourne drafted the first four chapters in 1889/90. Stevenson

rewrote this section with little emendation, and then set the work aside until
1893, when he completed the story with ‘The Quartet’. After serialisation in
Britain in Today (11 November, 1893–3 February 1894), and in the United
States in McClure’s Magazine (February–July 1894), adverse reviews led
Stevenson to consider deleting Osbourne’s name from the book’s cover:
erasure, rather than signature of authorship seemed in this instance more
likely to serve Osbourne’s literary reputation. Stevenson described the
writing of the novel as a debilitating labour, rather than the playful
construction of a bricolage: ‘it has been such a grind! ... I break down at every
paragraph, I may observe, and lie here, and sweat, and curse over the blame
thing, till I can get one sentence wrung out after another.’22 Both Stevenson
and his reviewers characterised the subject matter of The Ebb-Tide as waste
material, a failed literary transaction: ‘Of grace, virtue, beauty, we get no
glimpse. All we have in exchange is a picture of the fag-ends of certain useless
and degraded lives.’23
The writing of The Ebb-Tide was a failure of bricolage: a grinding labour,
bringing together parts that failed to cohere, producing waste material,
rather than a useful new object. The Ebb-Tide is the tale of the demise of the
beachcomber narrative. Where The Wrecker represented the beachcomber,
implicitly, as a figure of enterprise, The Ebb-Tide portrays the beachcomber
explicitly as a figure of waste. Pinkerton, the archetypal bricoleur of the earlier
novel, is a speculator with the projective energy of the New World citizen,
the American democratic subject. The Ebb-Tide instead depicts the
implication of the Pacific beachcomber within the class values of Old World
society. The novel tells the stories of three beachcombers, each representing
a different tier of the British class system. Robert Herrick is an Oxford-
educated son of the prosperous middle classes, whose family has become
bankrupt; Davis has been a merchant sea captain; and Huish is a Cockney
who was once a clerk. The class origins which I argued earlier were
temporarily suspended for Europeans in the pre-colonial context of the early
nineteenth-century Pacific, are depicted in The Ebb-Tide as returning to
subjugate the beachcomber during the colonial period.
The class status of the three beachcombers is defined, in the absence
of material possessions ‘on the beach’, by the types of narration in which
they engage. They shelter within the ruins of the old calaboose at Papeete
in Tahiti, a building in which Herman Melville had earlier been held on the
charge of mutiny.24 Their context, then, links them to the production of
the canonical beachcomber texts, Typee and Omoo. Yet despite their
proximity to a literary heritage, the types of narration and writing in which
the three beachcombers of The Ebb-Tide engage fail to achieve authority,

and are fragmentary and self-enclosed. Huish, who is ill, demands to be
entertained with a yarn. Herrick responds by invoking an Arabian Nights
scenario, in which a magic carpet transports the beachcombers back to
metropolitan society. As each takes up the tale, the backgrounds of the
three are defined by their fantasies of home yarned at the periphery; by the
metonymies, particularly of food, through which class represents itself as
personal taste. In this version of the Arabian Nights the other is not the
Oriental, but the returned beachcomber, gazing upon British society as
outsider.
Davis remains the closest of the trio to the model of the enterprising
beachcomber, and it is he who instigates the most practical of narrative
activities. He earns breakfast by dancing and singing English musical
favourites to a group of Polynesian sailors, a performance which is the
residue of the beachcomber’s earlier role as cross-cultural translator. He also
engages the other two beachcombers in a letter-writing project, begging
writing implements from the British consul. Inspired by reminiscence, he
suggests that they each write to loved ones at home in England. The letters
that they produce are romanticised accounts of their present life: South Seas
fictions. However only Huish is comfortable with the role of duplicitous
narrator. Davis and Herrick, conscious of the gap between a fictional
romance and the reality of their situation, are reluctant, guilty authors: ‘Now
they would write a word or two, now scribble it out; now they would sit
biting at the pencil end and staring seaward; now their eyes would rest on the
clerk, where he sat propped on the canoe, leering and coughing, his pencil
racing glibly on the paper.’25 Huish produces a generic romance tale in
which he claims to have made his fortune: ‘I wrote to her and told her ‘ow I
had got rich, and married a queen in the Hislands, and lived in a blooming
palace.’ (192) His pronunciation slurs the Pacific islands with the Scottish
Highlands that were the setting of Stevenson’s own romances. Huish’s story
reinvokes those of an earlier generation of beachcombers—of figures such as
William Mariner, whose tale of adoption into the Tongan aristocracy is the
material of romance. However, in the era of Pacific colonialism, romance is
figured as degenerate. Huish’s facility with this type of writing is indicative
of his unredeemed nature, and his text is reviled and destroyed: ‘the clerk
reached out his hand, picked up the letter, which had fallen to the earth, and
tore it into fragments, stamp and all’ (192).
Herrick’s productions, on the other hand, reflect a classical education,
and are the antithesis of the beachcomber’s bricolage. He lacks the ‘gift of
fabrication’, so that his ventures into numerous professions have acquired for
274 Vanessa Smith
him the name of ‘incompetent’ (175). He is distinguished by his library

rather than by his manual productions, carrying ‘a tattered Virgil in his
pocket’ (174). Herrick holds on to this artefact of a ‘dead tongue’, even while
he lives, surrounded by a double oral heritage, among yarning sailors in
Polynesia. Where Cannibal Jack’s library was one of his many successful
enterprises, Herrick’s book is a further testimony to his incompetence—a
text he is able neither to circulate nor to subsist upon:
Certainly, if money could have been raised upon the book,

Robert Herrick would long ago have sacrificed that last
possession; but the demand for literature, which is so marked a
feature in some parts of the South Seas, extends not so far as the
dead tongues; and the Virgil, which he could not exchange
against a meal, had often consoled him in his hunger. (174)
The name Robert Herrick alludes, of course, to the author of Hesperides

(1648), and like the verse of the Carolinean poet, Herrick’s ‘literary’
productions are effete, self-conscious pieces. He inscribes his own epitaph—
the ‘famous phrase’ from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, and a line from the
Aeneid—on the calaboose walls that once housed Melville, and which have
since become decorated with the cave paintings of the other, Polynesian and
European: ‘The crumbling whitewash was all full of them: Tahitian names,
and French, and English, and rude sketches of ships under sail and men at
fisticuffs.’ (193) Where the bricolage productions of the beachcomber were
adaptive to context, Herrick’s chosen form of writing, the epitaph, is static,
expressing a determination to endure, to leave a sign. He takes pleasure in
the incongruity of his inscription, in the social distinction his quotations
imply: ‘“So”, thought he, “they will know that I loved music and had classical
tastes. They? He, I suppose: the unknown, kindred spirit that shall come
some day and read my memor querela. Ha, he shall have Latin too!”’ (194)
The reader he fantasizes is singular, rather than communal: he prides himself
on writing a language of few initiates. But bathetically, his actual audience
turns out to be Davis, who incorporates Herrick’s solipsistic, congealed
quotation into plot. By coincidence, the captain figures, Herrick’s inscription
was made at the very time at which he himself succeeded in securing a new
venture for the three beachcombers: to crew the contaminated ship Farallone,
with its cargo of champagne, to Australia. Davis brings Herrick’s dead
fragments of language into line with active enterprise, invoking the
providential thesis:
‘About how long ago since you wrote up this truck?’ he asked.
‘What does it matter?’ exclaimed Herrick. ‘I daresay half an
hour.’
‘My God, its strange!’ cried Davis. ‘There’s some men would
call that accidental: not me. That...’ and he drew his thick finger
under the music—‘that’s what I call Providence.’ (196)
Herrick’s impotence marks a demise in the figure of the gentleman

beachcomber, of whom Melville is the canonical precedent. Like Herrick,
Melville was the son of a prosperous merchant who went bankrupt, forcing
his son to seek employment on board whaling ships cruising the Pacific. T.
Walter Herbert has argued that Melville’s South Seas fictions betray ‘the
complex psychology of the failed patrician’.26 In Omoo, Melville depicts a
ship’s crew comprised of similar types to the Ebb-Tide’s three protagonists.
The captain, an educated Cockney, is like Herrick, ‘in no wise competent’.
The mate Jermin prefigures Davis: a capable seaman with a weakness for
strong drink. But the most authoritative figure aboard this vessel is Dr Long
Ghost, a character in the model of the gentleman beachcomber, who carries
similar cultural baggage to Herrick: ‘he quoted Virgil, and talked of Hobbes
of Malmsbury, beside repeating poetry by the canto, especially Hudibras’.
Long Ghost converts literary fragment into active narrative, rather than the
dead text of epitaph. He is a teller of stories and a singer of songs: ‘he had
more anecdotes than I can tell of. Then such mellow old songs he sang, in a
voice so round and racy, the real juice of sound. How such notes came forth
from his lank body was a constant marvel. Upon the whole, Long Ghost was
as entertaining a companion as one could wish.’27 For The Ebb-Tide’s trio, by
contrast, a general failure of enterprise is signalled by the exhaustion of
narrative possibility that marks their aleatory or shallow creative endeavours.
Davis’s proposal is an attempt to revive the beachcomber in a project of
active speculation. The authors of The Ebb-Tide turn to the type of plot
which motivated Omoo and The Wrecker, seeking to create a profitable story
from the waste material of the three beached protagonists. In the prologue
to The Wrecker, Loudon Dodd boasts of his involvements in a series of
duplicitous speculations, as wrecker, smuggler, and blackmailer. The
common product of these ventures is narrative. Dodd and Pinkerton gamble
upon the story that lies hidden in the mysterious wreck of the Flying Scud,
and the tale within their tale is the wealth that they eventually recover. In the
first half of The Ebb-Tide, Davis proposes a parallel set of projects: to smuggle
the Farallone’s cargo of champagne, to wreck the ship and claim from the
profits of insurance using blackmail, to intimidate the owner of the pearl
276 Vanessa Smith
island upon which they alight. Yet in this novel such ventures are ill-fated:
the twists of plot offer only a series of dead-ends. As the only men in Papeete
willing to sail the ship Farallone despite a risk of infection, the trio are marked
as doomed subjects, gambling with death. Possibilities recede, like an ebb-
tide, leaving the beachcomber washed up, a useless object rather than a
fabricator. The novel Lloyd Osbourne begins by rewriting the plot of The
Wrecker is laid aside, becomes waste material, exhausted like its protagonists.
When Stevenson takes up the thread of narrative again in ‘The Quartet’,
introducing the character of Attwater, the owner of the pearl island, he
recycles this waste material in a new bricolage. However, it is the figure of the
missionary as represented by Attwater, rather than of the beachcomber, who
provides the authority for continuation: who offers to make something of the
legacy of the beachcomber.
Each of the trio takes up the threads of narrative without success,
grasping and then surrendering the reins of authorship. Herrick’s
‘incompetence’ is indicated by his inability to assume control until the very
conclusion of the story. The more resourceful plotting of Davis, already
mentioned, meets its match in Attwater. He hands authority over to Huish,
who formulates a desperate plan to destroy Attwater using a bottle of acid.
The bottle is a significant image in The Ebb-Tide, emblematising the
emptying out of meaning that accompanies closure of speculation. The cargo
of champagne aboard the Farallone initially represents bounty to the three
beachcombers. These bottles, however, contain wine turned to water.
‘Illo!’ said Huish. ‘Ere’s a bad bottle.’

He poured some of the wine into the mug: it was colourless
and still. He smelt and tasted it ... The mug passed round; each
sipped, each smelt of it; each stared at the bottle in its glory of
gold paper as Crusoe may have stared at the footprint; and their
minds were swift to fix upon a common apprehension. The
difference between a bottle of champagne and a bottle of water is
not great; between a shipload of one or the other lay the whole
scale from riches to ruin.
A second bottle was broached ... Still with the same result: the
contents were still colourless and tasteless, and dead as the rain in
a beached fishing boat. (226–7)
Where Crusoe, the mythical beachcomber hero, encountered the sign of

presence, the footprint on the sand, the three latter-day beachcombers are
confronted by the sign of absence, water, the featurelessness of which is
verified by each of their senses. The bottle of luxury becomes the bottle of
despair, to be substituted by Huish’s bottle of bile. In the stories of castaways
on desert islands, bottles assume significance as bearing final messages;
ultimate authorial statements. Huish’s last-resort bottle of acid, on the other
hand, serves a horrific project of erasure, signalling the expiration of the
beachcomber plot.
Attwater’s pearl island is a space replete with poetic possibilities: an
appropriate setting for the figure who emerges as the dominant authorial
presence within the narrative. Stevenson depicts the atoll landscape as one of
deceptive minimalism and metaphoric abundance, recalling his description
of the Tuamotus in In the South Seas. It exhausts Herrick’s limited poetic
capacities:
He tortured himself to find analogies. The isle was like the rim of
a great vessel sunken in the waters; it was like the embankment of
an annular railway grown upon with wood: so slender it seemed
amidst the outrageous breakers, so frail and pretty, he would
scarce have wondered to see it sink and disappear without a
sound, and the waves close smoothly over its descent. (237)
I suggested earlier that the atoll represents a feminine geography within

Stevenson’s island vocabulary. Herrick’s poetic failure is perhaps due here to
the attempt to impose masculine similes upon a feminine landscape. The
atoll is both fertile, producing a wealth of pearls, and barren, its population
recently annihilated by an epidemic, and it is this ambiguous signification
that Attwater’s own sermonising fails to reconcile. For of course his pearl
island is not simply a physical space: it is also a missionary colony, and an
exegetical text.
If Attwater’s are the ascendent poetics of The Ebb-Tide, this
development reflects a post-contact Pacific historical teleology. The
missionary’s authority and influence defeat the projects of the superseded
beachcomber. Robert Irwin Hillier has compared the character of Attwater
to those missionaries whom Stevenson lionized in his correspondence from
the Pacific: George Brown of Samoa, Shirley Baker of Tonga, and James
Chalmers of New Guinea. Hillier claims that ‘the similarities between
Attwater and actual missionary figures are sufficient to demonstrate that
Stevenson regarded Attwater as heroic’.28 Yet rather than simply endorsing
the missionary as hero, Stevenson represents in the figure of Attwater the
dominance of evangelical discourse: a discourse which, in the later
nineteenth-century Pacific, prospered through association with colonial
278 Vanessa Smith
policy. Attwater’s are the poetics of absolute authority. He is introduced just

as the beachcombers’ fund of invention becomes exhausted: ‘They had no
plan, no story prepared.’ (240) He terrifies Herrick with his godlike
omnipresence: ‘“He knows all, he sees through all; we only make him laugh
with our pretences—he looks at us and laughs like God!”’ (271) He refers to
himself consistently using the indefinite pronoun one, describing his actions
in the third person in a self-consciously writerly fashion. He claims to be ‘a
plain man and very literal’ (259), but his speech is imbued with the classical
education of the later nineteenth-century ‘gentleman’ missionary.
In Attwater’s confrontation with Huish, the aristocrat defeats the
proletarian, and literacy overcomes orality. Attwater prides himself on being
a winnower of souls, on providing in his island colony a context in which
both Polynesian and Western subjects may find an opportunity to prove their
worth. However, his is the touchstone of class: ‘The presence of the
gentleman lighted up like a candle the vulgarity of the clerk.’ (242) During
his first encounter with Attwater, Huish reverts to an oral performance
described as innately ‘savage’, but redolent of Cockney culture, singing ‘a
piece of the chorus of a comic song which he must have heard twenty years
before in London: meaningless gibberish that, in that hour and that place,
seemed hateful as a blasphemy: “Hikey, pikey, crikey, fikey, chillinga-wallaba
dory.”’ (248) Huish’s nonsense is a sound poem, an echo: it is blasphemous
in its very non-literacy. Attwater, in turn, subtly denigrates Huish by reading
rather than speaking his name. He titles Huish ‘Mr Whish’, pronouncing the
Cockney self-nomination Uish as it might be written rather than as it must
be heard. Attwater mimics orality by consciously over-articulating. By
contrast, Huish’s plan to destroy Attwater involves manufacturing a
duplicitous letter of truce which is a piece of transcribed speech. It is
distinguished within Stevenson’s text by its typeface, which is further
fractured by apostrophes marking verbal ellipses: ‘I ‘ave deputed my friend
and partner, Mr J.L. Huish, to l’y before you my proposals, and w’ich by
their moderytion, will, I trust, be found to merit your attention. Mr J.L.
Huish is entirely unarmed, I swear to Gawd! and will ‘old ‘is ‘ands over ‘is
‘ead from the moment he begins to approach you.’ (290) Huish fetishises the
unfamiliar written text: ‘Huish read the letter with the innocent joy of
amateurs, chuckled gustfully to himself, and reopened it more than once
after it was refolded, to repeat the pleasure.’ (290) The contest between
beachcomber and missionary is depicted as one between two discursive
modes: the beachcomber’s linked to British working-class oral traditions, and
the missionary’s to the advent of literacy.
Attwater’s literal-mindedness expresses his commitment to the Old
Testament paradigm of earthly vengeance and reward. However, his

favoured mode of discourse is the New Testament poetics of parable. He
offers the unnerving redemption of a place within sermon. The populace of
his island, decimated by disease, are resurrected as the subjects of story. He
tells the beachcombers a morality fable of opposite types, former inhabitants
of the atoll to whom he refers as Obsequious and Sullens. The pair represent
two colonial caricatures, the mimic and the silent slave. Their public faces
have deceived Attwater: the subservient figure in fact proves duplicitous,
while the silent native is revealed to be loyal in his motives. The discovery of
their true identities comes too late to save the pair from their master’s swift
and destructive judgement. The fable depicts a regime of absolute power
based on insufficient perception; however other aspects of Attwater’s
authority illustrate an alternative model of control, which finds explicit
statement in Stevenson’s public comments on missionary policy.
In the lecture from which I quoted earlier, entitled ‘Missions in the
South Seas’, Stevenson focuses on the necessity of adaptation to context. He
urges missionaries, in their encounters with Pacific cultures, ‘to seek rather
the point of agreement than the points of difference; to proceed rather by
confirmation and extension than by iconoclasm’.29 It is the ability to
negotiate between the culture of his origins and that of his adopted context
which renders Attwater an insurmountable force. At a dinner party for the
beachcombers, he displays his authority through his masterful appropriation
of Polynesian cuisine, serving dishes which utilise the island’s natural
delicacies:
They sat down to an island dinner, remarkable for its variety and
excellence: turtle-soup and steak, fish, fowls, a sucking-pig, a
cocoanut salad, and sprouting cocoanut roasted for dessert. Not
a tin had been opened; and save for the oil and vinegar in the
salad, and some green spears of onion which Attwater cultivated
and plucked with his own hand, not even the condiments were
European. (261)
Attwater is a missionary liberated from dependence on the metropolitan

article. In this context, his ability to manipulate that slippery signifier, the
bottle, is only a supplementary sign of control: ‘Sherry, hock, and claret
succeeded each other, and the Farallone champagne brought up the rear with
the dessert.’ (261)
By appropriating the beachcomber’s strategy of cultural interaction,
once the beachcomber has become an exhausted force, the missionary in turn
280 Vanessa Smith
achieves ascendency in the Pacific. Attwater has stored up a treasure-trove of

material for bricolage in a house on his island
which stood gaping open on the afternoon, seiz[ing] on the mind

of Herrick with its multiplicity and disorder of romantic things.
Therein were cables, windlasses and blocks of every size and
capacity; cabin windows and ladders; rusty tanks, a companion
hatch; a binnacle with its brass mountings and its compass idly
pointing, in the confusion and dusk of that shed, to a forgotten
pole; ropes, anchors, harpoons, a blubber-dipper of copper, green
with years, a steering-wheel, a tool-chest with the vessel’s name
upon the top, the Asia: a whole curiosity shop of sea-curios, gross
and solid, heavy to lift, ill to break, bound with brass and shod
with iron. (250)
Attwater goads Herrick to make metaphor from this material: ‘“only old
junk! And does Mr Hay find a parable?”’ (250) The beachcomber is
conscious, however, of his poetic enervation. When Herrick eventually offers
himself to Attwater it is as another object cast up by the tide, unable to
fashion anything from himself, but hoping to serve as an element in the
missionary’s bricolage. ‘“Can you do anything with me? ... I am broken
crockery; I am a burst drum; the whole of my life is gone to water; I have
nothing left that I believe in, except my living horror of myself ... I put
myself, helpless, in your hands.”’ (279)
The union of the beachcomber and the missionary represents a
powerful force, and was espoused by Stevenson in his lecture on missions.
There he recommends that the missionary attempt to recognise, rather than
antagonise, the beachcomber:
Too many missionaries make a mistake ... when they expect, not
only from their native converts, but from white men (by no
means of the highest class) shipwrecked or stranded at random in
these islands, a standard of conduct which no parish minister in
the world would dare to expect of his parishioners and church-
members. There is here, in these despised whites, a second
reservoir of moral power, which missionaries too often neglect
and render nugatory ... The trader is therefore, at once by
experience and by influence, the superior of the missionary. He is
a person marked out to be made use of by an intelligent mission.
Stevenson’s polemic describes Herrick’s plot: ‘Sometimes a very doubtful

character, sometimes an exceedingly decent gentleman, he will almost
invariably be made the better by some intelligent and kindly attention, for
which he is often burning, and he will almost invariably be made the worse
by neglect, by being ignored or by insult ... The missions and the traders
have to be made more or less in unison.’30
The kind of redemption offered to the beachcomber by the missionary
is not, however, represented within the fictional context of The Ebb-Tide as
unambiguously positive. Davis, who becomes a cipher for Attwater’s
discourse, is an emasculated figure at the close of the novel, prepared to
sacrifice the prospect of a return to wife and family in order to remain in a
childlike role as ‘Attwater’s spoiled darling and pet penitent!’ (301) Attwater’s
theology becomes, upon Davis’s lips, a ‘voluble and incoherent stream of
prayer’ (300): a form of nonsense, akin to the threatening gobbledegook of
Huish’s Cockney verbage. Herrick himself has earlier indicated an aptitude
for Attwater’s brand of redemption, which is discursive rather than ethical.
His storytelling in the calaboose was already termed a ‘parable’ (179). Huish
found it too redolent of sermon, commenting sarcastically: ‘“It’s like the rot
there is in tracts”’ (180); ‘“it’s like Ministering Children!”’ (181) Indeed,
Herrick’s acquired sense of masculine purpose at the end of The Ebb-Tide
reflects his resistance to complete conversion as much as it exemplifies the
beachcomber’s refashioning by the missionary.
‘THE BEACH OF FALESĀ’: TRADE SECRETS
Although Stevenson’s lecture on missions discusses the potentially

redemptive role of beachcombers—‘white men (by no means of the highest
class) shipwrecked or stranded at random in these islands’, his specific
reference is to ‘traders’. This slip, perhaps made for the benefit of an
audience unfamiliar with the term beachcomber (which H. E. Maude claims is
of ‘genuine island coinage’) elides an important distinction between the two
roles, which reflects their potential to serve, as Stevenson advocates, the
missionary cause. According to Maude, ‘what really differentiated the
beachcombers from other immigrants was the fact that they were essentially
integrated into, and dependent for their livelihood on, the indigenous
communities ... To all intents and purposes they had voluntarily or perforce
contracted out of the European monetary economy.’31 Traders, on the other
hand, were representatives of European and American commercial agendas.
They operated at the nexus of Western and Pacific cultures, facilitating the
two-way circulation of goods and produce. Traders manned the outposts of
282 Vanessa Smith
capitalist enterprise, and hence were more realistic candidates for

appropriation to missionary colonialist agendas than the outcast
beachcomber. They were not simply colluders, however; their role retained
a certain ambivalence, falling in the unreliable territory between colonial
representative and maverick entrepreneur.
‘The Beach of Falesā’, Stevenson’s narrative of ‘a South Seas Trader’, is
a story of divided allegiances. The trader, John Wiltshire, pits himself against
and defeats his rival, the gentleman beachcomber Case, and in the process
affirms his loyalty to the island community he has made his own. A text about
the ethics of trade, ‘The Beach of Falesā’ is itself a product of transaction. It
was published in book form in the volume Island Nights’ Entertainments, with
two other tales, ‘The Bottle Imp’ (originally published in the New York
Herald, 8, 15, 22 February, 1 March 1891, and in Black and White, 28 March,
4 April 1891) and ‘The Isle of Voices’ (originally published in the National
Observer, 4, 11, 18, 25 February 1893). Stevenson had wanted ‘The Beach of
Falesā’ to be brought out as a single volume: the stories that came to
accompany it were intended for a differently conceived ‘Island Nights’
Entertainments’. During preparation for printing, the ‘Falesā’ manuscript’s
idiosyncratic spellings and grammar were subject to correction by editors
and proof-readers, and certain passages were censored. In his minutely
documented study of these textual alterations, Barry Menikoff argues that
editorial intervention effectively diluted the story’s radical critique of
colonial practice.32 Menikoff draws attention to the subtle ways in which
editors and publishers, aiming for the production of a smoothly literate text,
ironed out disruptive effects that embodied Stevenson’s attempt to transcribe
the mixed language of his adopted context.
Stevenson’s distance from metropolitan publishing centres slowed
down negotiations over the text. The stages of publication become
foregrounded in a dilatory series of questions, cross-decisions and re-
evaluations, formulated in exchanges of letters across the Pacific. This slow-
motion process provides a counterweight at the level of production to the
readerly acceleration which, Menikoff argues, was edited into Stevenson’s
resistant text. He notes that ‘the compositors and proof-readers ... supplied
substitutes which insured that a reader, when he passed over a sentence,
would not have to pause or give a special ear to sound and meaning because
a familiar word appeared in an unorthodox context. Instead he could glide
gracefully over the page, automatically filling out the words and, on occasion,
the clichés.’ Physical distance acted as an impediment to production. Nor did
this dynamic simply reinforce a familiar opposition between metropolitan
advancement and peripheral obstruction: the urge towards acceleration
coming from technologically advanced publishing centres, and resisted by an

author from the Pacific wishing to preserve, as artefact, an ‘authentic’ piece
of cultural transcription. The ultimate objective of Menikoff ’s study is to
recuperate ‘The Beach of Falesā ’ as a modernist, writerly text, whose
aesthetic of difficulty has been attenuated by the conservative emendations of
the literary establishment. He argues that
Falesā presented [compositors and proof-readers] with a more

complex problem: it substituted ambiguity in language for
certainty ... The ambiguity was not merely that of an occasional
word or syntactical construction but that of method and manner
... It is as if the effort to communicate by mastering a clear style
is contravened by the realisation that the style may not be a
means for discovering any truth at all, except, paradoxically, that
ambiguity and irresolution are the conditions of life.33
Despite his claims for ‘The Beach of Falesā’’s Modernism, Menikoff ’s

project is essentially Romantic in its conception of authorship; motivated by
a belief in the integrity of authorial creation that leads him back to the
original, the signatory hand. His study describes the death of authorship that
occurs when the sanctity of the text is violated by the philistine interventions
of publishers. But while ‘The Beach of Falesā ’ is clearly a product of
transaction, there are alternative ways of interpreting the effects of
negotiation. The editorial changes to Stevenson’s manuscript disrupt a
unified authorial intention, inscribing instead the process of the book’s cross-
cultural production. The negotiated printed text of ‘The Beach of Falesā’
makes manifest the contract implicit in all writing from oral cultural
contexts, which may seek to remain faithful to the ‘voice’ of the exotic, but
which remains financially dependent upon a metropolitan audience. The
publishers’ decision to print ‘The Beach of Falesā’ as part of Island Nights’
Entertainments results in the production of a volume that makes explicit this
dialogical impulse. The two halves of the book (the first story is novella
length, and occupies slightly more than half the pages of the volume)
demonstrate alternative traditions of storytelling. While the dedication of
Island Nights’ Entertainments to ‘Three Old Shipmates Among the Islands’—
friends from Stevenson’s cruise aboard the Janet Nichol—explicitly situates
the volume as a whole within the narrative context of the shipboard yarn,
only ‘The Beach of Falesā’ actually exemplifies this mode of discourse. ‘The
Bottle Imp’ and ‘The Isle of Voices’ have the aggregative format and
rhythmical language of Polynesian oral compositions. Stevenson was an
284 Vanessa Smith
appreciative audience for, and a collector of, both these types of oral
tradition. Graham Balfour observed that ‘Well as Stevenson could himself
tell a story, he was never tired of studying the methods of other men, and
never failed to express his high appreciation of sailors’ yarns.’34
Yet Stevenson opposed the combination of different narrative modes in
a single volume, insisting in correspondence that ‘The B. of F. is simply not to
appear along with ‘The Bottle Imp’, a story of a totally different scope and
intention, to which I have already made one fellow, and which I design for a
substantive volume.’35 A segregation was evident in the corpus of texts he
produced from the Pacific, which can be divided between romances that
retained a Scottish location, betraying only indirectly their context of
production, and works of a local influence and setting. This discernible link
between subject matter and genre reflects the fact that Stevenson’s later
writings were produced according to alternative criteria: on the one hand,
continuing in the romance tradition, and on the other, offering Polynesian
culture to the metropolitan reader as ethnographic artefact, a project which
entailed an espousal of realism. He asserts that ‘[‘The Beach of Falesā’] is the
first realistic South Sea story; I mean with real South Sea character and
details of life; everybody else who has tried, that I have seen, got carried away
by the romance and ended in a kind of sugar candy sham epic, and the whole
effect was lost—there was no etching, no human grin, consequently no
conviction.’36 The contested juxtaposition of European and Polynesian oral
narrative models in Island Nights’ Entertainments, however, foregrounds
implicit tensions and reciprocities between these traditions, reintroducing to
the book as a whole the polyphonic and disjunctive structure that Menikoff
seeks to recover for ‘The Beach of Falesā’.
At the opening of ‘The Beach of Falesā’, Wiltshire arrives at a ‘high
island’, after ‘years on a low island near the line, living for the most part
solitary among natives’.37 The change of topographies offers him the
promise of a cure: ‘Here was a fresh experience; even the tongue would be
quite strange to me; and the look of these woods and mountains, and the rare
smell of them, renewed my blood.’ (3) Like Stevenson making his first ‘island
landfall’ in In the South Seas, Wiltshire has come to the high island in need of
recuperation, but his illness is diagnosed as the lack of white society: ‘I was
sick for white neighbours after my four years at the line’. (5) This
disablement is registered partly as a loss of technological dexterity. He spells
out the effect of looking towards shore through a telescope, implying a
defamiliarised relationship with the instrument: ‘I took the glass; and the
shores leapt nearer, and I saw the tangle of woods and the breach of the surf.’
(3) This acquired technological naivete echoes representations of native
wonderment from early European accounts of the Pacific—compare

Kotzebue’s description of a Samoan chief looking through a telescope for the
first time:
A telescope which I held in my hand attracted the observation of

the chief, who took it for a gun. I directed him to look through
it; but the sudden vision of the distant prospect brought so close
to his eye that he could even distinguish the people on the strand,
so terrified him, that nothing could induce him to touch the
magic instrument again.38
As Wiltshire’s story develops, technological facility is exposed as a force of

exploitation.
The settler community that Wiltshire enters constitutes a
predetermined narrative frame. It is populated by a cast of characters whose
names have onomantic resonances. Wiltshire is not the first mercantile
Adam to occupy this Edenic scene; his predecessor is ‘old Adams’. The devil
is represented by ‘Black Jack’, Case’s accessory. ‘Vigours’, ‘Whistling Jimmie’
and ‘Underhill’ all meet apposite fates. This morality play cast also provides
Stevenson with the opportunity for self-reflexive allusion. The villain of the
piece, the gentleman beachcomber Case, offers an alternative model of the
artist to Wiltshire, the plain-style storyteller. Case is a manipulator of devices
and effects. His name signifies the subject both of detective fiction and, avant
la lettre, of the psychoanalytic session.39 These two discourses are, according
to Walter Ong, typically literate. Ong claims that ‘Detective plots are deeply
interior ... by contrast with the old oral narrative. The oral narrator’s
protagonist, distinguished typically for his external exploits, has been
replaced by the interior consciousness of the typographic protagonist’, while
‘It would appear that the advent of modern depth psychology parallels the
development of the character in drama and the novel, both depending on the
inward turning of the psyche produced by writing and intensified by print.’40
The name Case may also of course allude to the bag of tricks with which he
keeps the population of Falesā in thrall. In the figure of Case, Stevenson
associates malign technological wizardry with literate discourse.
Case’s features are mask-like—‘He was yellow and smallish, had a
hawk’s nose to his face, pale eyes, and his beard trimmed with scissors’ (5)—
and he is a gifted actor and mimic—‘He could speak, when he chose, fit for
a drawing room; and when he chose he could blaspheme worse than a Yankee
boatswain, and talk smart to sicken a Kanaka. The way he thought would pay
best at the moment, that was Case’s way, and it always seemed to come
286 Vanessa Smith
natural, and like as if he was born to it.’ (5–6) His facility reflects Stevenson’s
own capacity to register a multitude of different voices within his tale. As
Menikoff observes:
In Falesā he possessed a subject that allowed him to meld the

array of dialects and idioms that he had absorbed in his travels as
an ‘emigrant’ across the continental United States, and on his
cruises through the Pacific. At his command were American
slang, Samoan, pidgin English (what the professional linguists
call Beach-la-mar), and the ubiquitous sailor’s talk, a range of
terms and expressions that were commonplace at one extreme
and required a glossary at the other.41
Case’s authorship, however, produces a false text. He procures an

attractive Falesān girl, Uma, for Wiltshire, and organises their ‘marriage’,
writing the certificate, ‘signatures and all, in a leaf out of the ledger’. (13)
Case’s document certifies that Uma ‘is illegally married to Mr John Wiltshire
for one week, and Mr John Wiltshire is at liberty to send her to hell when he
pleases’. He manipulates a familiar scenario: the innocent native is duped by
a writing that is fetishized without being comprehended. This section of the
plot raises issues about the ethics of writing within which Stevenson is
himself indirectly implicated. The marriage certificate can be contextualised
by an episode from his travels. At church service in Butaritari, he observed a
group of traders’ wives, noting the ‘unusually enviable’ position they
occupied within their community. He reports, however, that
the certificate of one, when she proudly showed it, proved to run
thus, that she was ‘married for one night’, and her gracious
partner was at liberty to ‘send her to hell’ the next morning; but
she was none the wiser or the worse for the dastardly trick.
Another, I heard, was married on a work of mine in a pirated
edition; it answered the purpose as well as a Hall Bible.42
Stevenson’s own writing, then, had occupied the space of the false text in the
instance of deception on which Case’s document is modelled. He points out,
however, that the book employed was ‘a pirated edition’, from which he
derived no profit; distinguishing his own authorship from self-serving
literate impositions upon Pacific populations, and implying that he and the
trader’s wife are the mutual victims of literary exploitation. Case’s false
document was in turn the focus of censorship by Stevenson’s editors. It was
excised from The Illustrated London News and the 1892 copyright versions of
the tale, and subsequently modified for publication (in the manuscript,
‘week’ had read as ‘night’) in accordance with perceptions of audience
sensibilities.43 The latter tussle of terminology appears so arbitrary as to
represent primarily a contest of authority between writer and editors,
subsumed into an ethical agenda.
The marriage certificates Stevenson mentions in In the South Seas
represent a contract which is mutually beneficial. The trader gains a sexual
partner, and his wife obtains both unlimited access to foreign commodities,
and immunity by association from the tabus and curfews that restrict other
members of her community. The marriage certificate in ‘The Beach of
Falesā’ is similarly mutually binding, but it represents the deception of both
parties. By signing, Wiltshire becomes united with a bride who turns out to
have been tabued by her own community. The morning after his wedding
night, the locals register that the trader’s cynically achieved domesticity is
also a performance in their eyes, by forming an audience outside his house:
‘Some dozen young men and children made a piece of a half-circle, flanking
my house ... and they all sat silent, wrapped in their sheets, and stared at me
and my house as straight as pointer dogs.’ (17) Unable to speak their
language, Wiltshire is at the mercy of Case as interpreter of this silent
message. Case offers to discover from the village chiefs the story behind
Wiltshire’s alienation. The explanation he ‘translates’, however, is one of
which he is in effect the author.
Case is not, then, simply a malign colonial exploiting a small island
community. His success lies in his ability to negotiate between cultures, and
to play upon mutual assumptions. His false certificate may manipulate Uma’s
innocent fetishisation of writing, but equally it plays upon Wiltshire’s faith
that, as a self-nominated ‘British subject’, writing will always be his tool, and,
more broadly, on the trader’s complacent ignorance of the codes and
practices of his new community. Case accompanies his adoption of the role
of Wiltshire’s interpreter with the mimicked rhetoric of imperial duty: ‘I
count it the White Man’s Quarrel.’ (27) Wiltshire uncritically reiterates this
discourse, instructing Case to declare to the chiefs: ‘I’m a white man, and a
British subject, and no end of a big chief at home; and I’ve come here to do
them good, and bring them civilisation.... I demand the reason of this
treatment as a white man and a British subject.’ (29) Before he can overcome
Case’s treacherous influence, Wiltshire must cease to place confidence in
false colonial kinship, and begin to identify with the interests of Falesā’s
indigenous community. In the early part of the story there is a clear division
between the depiction of the Western settlers of Falesā’, whose apposite
288 Vanessa Smith
names fix them, albeit grotesquely, in the mind of the reader, and the
representation of the native population as inscrutably other, ‘like graven
images’ (18), without individuated subjectivity. The exception here is of
course Uma, who initially stands out among the ‘Kanakas’ of Falesā simply
as the object of Wiltshire’s voyeuristic sexual appraisal, but who forces her
husband to recognise the integral humanity which is signalled by her own
name (Uma is the core of the word human; in Samoan the word signifies
wholeness and completeness).
Uma’s affection for Wiltshire is prompted by her fetishisation of the
written document. She believes the false marriage certificate to be
authoritative: its textuality offers her a more substantial sign of her changed
status than empty words. She tells Wiltshire: ‘“White man, he come here, I
marry him all-e-same Kanaka; very well then, he marry me all-e-same white
woman. Suppose he no marry, he go ‘way, woman he stop. All-e-same thief,
empty-hand, Tonga-heart—no can love! Now you come marry me. You big
heart—you no shamed island girl. That thing I love you far too much. I
proud.”’ (39)44 Yet her naive faith in the deceptive document amounts also
to a form of indirect authorship. Implicitly at Uma’s dictation, Wiltshire
transforms the false marriage certificate into the true sign that she believes it
to be, and so begins his own course of redemption. He summons the local
missionary, the Reverend Tarleton, to perform a genuine marriage
ceremony, which is carried out in the language of the Polynesian bride rather
than the English groom: ‘“And I guess you’d better do it in native”’,
Wiltshire orders the missionary, ‘“it’ll please the old lady.”’ (44) Wiltshire
gives way to an outburst of self-denigration that echoes and inverts his
earlier, self-affirming imperialist rhetoric: ‘ “ I’m no missionary, nor
missionary lover; I’m no Kanaka, nor favourer of Kanakas—I’m just a trader;
I’m just a common low God-damned white man and British subject, the sort
you would like to wipe your boots on.”’ (42) His recognition that British
nationality does not guarantee authority coincides with the development of
a more active role for his wife, who takes over the role of interpreter,
becoming Wiltshire’s accessory in unravelling the further plots of the
villainous Case.
Although another Western character, the missionary, is required to
bring the false marriage within the realm of law, his authority as guide and
interpreter is simultaneously undermined. Tarleton, whose name (as well as
being that of the most famous of the Elizabethan clowns), echoes ‘charlatan’,
tells Wiltshire of his betrayal by a most promising convert, the teacher
Namu. Namu’s name signals to the English reader an inverted humanity, the
reverse of Uma’s. Tarleton has placed his faith in Namu as a genuine vessel
of transcendent truth. He claims: ‘All our islanders easily acquire a kind of

eloquence, and can roll out and illustrate, with a great deal of vigour and
fancy, second-hand sermons; but Namu’s sermons are his own, and I cannot
deny that I have found them means of grace.’ (46) However Namu proves to
be a mimic preacher. Under Case’s influence, his discourse evolves into a
pastiche of Protestant, Catholic and Polynesian superstition, undermining
the claims of each religion to the status of absolute truth. Its form remains
indistinguishable from genuine Christian sermon, but its content is
blasphemous, creating a tension that has been well analysed, in another
context, by Homi Bhabha: ‘A discourse at the crossroads of what is known
and permissible and that which though known must be kept concealed; a
discourse uttered between the lines and as such both against the rules and
within them.’45 Namu’s false teaching recalls the destabilising mimicry
practised by those Pacific cult leaders discussed earlier, and similarly
incorporates a self-reflexive turn. In the following speech, reported by
Tarleton, he explicitly professes the relative value of the sign:
‘I reasoned thus: if this sign of the cross were used in a Popey

manner it would be sinful, but when it is used only to protect men
from a devil, which is a thing harmless in itself, the sign too must
be harmless. For the sign is neither good nor bad. But if the
bottle be full of gin, the gin is bad; and if the sign made in idolatry
be bad, so is the idolatry.’ And, very like a native pastor, he had a
text apposite about the casting out of devils. (47)
Tarleton resists for too long the acknowledgement of Namu’s

defection, and with it the provisionality of his own discourse. He thus
becomes implicated in a horror story of economic rivalry. Case has achieved
ascendency as local trader by disposing of his rivals with the collusion of
Namu. Old Adams is suspected of having been poisoned, Vigours survives,
but is driven out, and Underhill is buried alive while paralysed by palsy, with
Namu officiating. Tarleton has nonetheless determined upon a policy of
wilful ignorance: ‘At that moment, with Namu’s failure fresh in my view, the
work of my life appeared a mockery; hope was dead in me ... Right or wrong,
then, I determined on a quiet course.’ (49) He resorts to commentary only in
the indirect and contested language of scriptural allusion: ‘On Sunday I took
the pulpit in the morning, and preached from First Kings, nineteenth, on the
fire, the earthquake and the voice, distinguishing the true spiritual power,
and referring with such plainness as I dared to recent events in Falesā.’ (50)
His textual exegesis is undermined by a performance which purports to
290 Vanessa Smith
expose the complicity between the discourse of the missionary and

commercial profit. After the service, Case practices a simple magic trick,
making believe to pluck a dollar out of Tarleton’s head, and thus providing
his local audience with apparent material evidence that the missionary’s
words are tainted at their source with lucre. Tarleton punningly recognises
his text-bound impotence, in an oral cultural context in which such
performances achieve immediate authority: ‘I wish I had learnt legerdemain
instead of Hebrew, that I might have paid the fellow out with his own coin.’
(51)
Case creates a performance that turns to account the symbolic
imagination of cargo cult. Manipulating Polynesian modes of understanding,
he offers a critique of Western economic motivations: he is a two-faced mimic
of settler and indigenous practices. Earlier, when responding to Wiltshire’s
inquiries as to why the islanders avoided his trade, Case feigned a respect for
the uncanny which gave way to the rhetoric of relativism: ‘ “ In short, I’m
afraid,” says he. “... The Kanakas won’t go near you, that’s all. And who’s to
make ‘em? We traders have a lot of gall, I must say; we make these poor
Kanakas take back their laws, and take up their taboos, and that, whenever it
happens to suit us.”’ (32) In Case, anti-colonialist critique, as well as
imperialist rhetoric, is destabilised. Perhaps the only discourse that is
redeemed within this story is the transcendent discourse of love, as it is
represented in the union between the trader Wiltshire and the Polynesian
woman Uma. Stevenson’s faith in such cross-cultural coupling did not extend,
however, to the production of his own text: he objected to the mismatching
of a sailor’s yarn, ‘The Beach of Falesā’, with his island tales ‘The Bottle Imp’
and ‘The Isle of Voices’ in the Island Nights’ Entertainments volume.
Case’s ‘legerdemain’ goes beyond sleight of hand. He successfully
manipulates the myth of Western technological supremacy, managing a
personal cargo cult as theatre. In the woods behind Falesā he has created a
‘temple’ of special effects with which he keeps the village awed. He moves
between the insider community of the beach and this uncanny peripheral
zone with the confidence of an actor stepping on to and off stage. Wiltshire’s
description of Case returning from a visit to the woods portrays him
emerging from behind curtains into a spotlight, in costume: ‘I saw the
hanging front of the woods pushed suddenly open, and Case, with a gun in
his hand, step forth into the sunshine on the black beach. He was got up in
light pyjamas.’ (56) Wiltshire’s task becomes, in turn, to expose the workings
of Case’s theatre. He identifies Case’s sham effects as they are shown up by
the genuinely uncanny natural landscape. Exploring the woods, Wiltshire
encounters fantastical growth: ‘lots of sensitive ... ropes of liana hanging
down like a ship’s rigging, and nasty orchids growing in the forks like
funguses’ (61–2). Case’s ‘tyrolean harps’, instruments which produce an eerie
whistling sound, stand out among the rank fertility as non-organic in form.
They are makeshift assemblages, incorporating identifiable items of trade: ‘A
box it was, sure enough, and a candle-box at that, with the brand upon the
side of it; and it had banjo strings stretched so as to sound when the wind
blew.’ (64) Wiltshire pays a grudging tribute to Case’s gift of fabrication: ‘I
must say I rather admired the man’s ingenuity. With a box of tools and a few
mighty simple contrivances he had made out to have a devil of a temple.’ (66)
Yet Case’s theatre is also represented as a shoddy imposition. He has set up a
gallery of masks on what appear to be the relics of a real ‘temple’. This
genuinely unearthly construction dwarfs the impact of his trademarked
fright show:
There was a wall in front of me, the path passing it by a gap; it

was tumbledown and plainly very old, but built of big stones very
well laid; and there is no native alive today upon that island that
could dream of such a piece of building! Along all the top of it
was a line of queer figures, idols or scarecrows, or what not ...
And the singular thing was that all these bogies were as fresh as
toys out of a shop. (65)
Local tales have also invested the landscape surrounding Falesā with
uncanny resonances. Unlike Case’s productions, these stories effectively
incorporate the natural, and thus acquire a potency that remains
undiminished at the end of Wiltshire’s narrative. Uma tries to prevent her
husband from entering the woods by recounting traditional superstitions.
She tells of devil women who seduce the most promising Falesān youths, and
of a boar ‘with a man’s thoughts’ (61) that once chased her; two versions of
the erotic turned horrific which invert the trajectory of Wiltshire’s own love
story, where the erotic is redeemed by law. The successful dénouement of
Wiltshire’s narrative depends implicitly upon this suppression, but Uma’s
stories, which reinvoke the threat of the erotic, are an unresolved moment
within that narrative, describing a magic whose workings are never exposed.
Her fantastic tales are incorporated directly into Wiltshire’s narrative, rather
than quoted as Uma’s speech, implying his internalisation of a mode of belief
which he explicitly rejects.
Before he can defeat Case’s wizardry, Wiltshire must perform a task
which gives him a practical insight into labour value. As he explains:
292 Vanessa Smith
Of course we could get no labour, being all as good as tabooed,

and the two women and I turned to and made copra with our own
hands. It was copra to make your mouth water when it was
done—I never understood how much natives cheated me till I
had made that four hundred pounds of my own hand—and it
weighed so light I felt inclined to take and water it myself. (53)
Once he has manufactured the genuine product, he is equipped not only to

recognise ‘native’ duplicity, but to expose Case’s false technologies. He
approaches Case’s sanctuary indirectly, from backstage: ‘Digging off the
earth with my hands, I found underneath tarpaulin stretched on boards, so
that this was plainly the roof of a cellar.... The entrance was on the far side’
(66). Evading the specular logic imposed by the architecture of Case’s
‘museum’, Wiltshire is able to uncover its mode of construction, the
workings by which its magical effects are produced. He exposes the material
base of his rival’s symbolic performance, the tools of his trade.
Having mastered Case’s stagecraft, Wiltshire can declare himself
exempt from the allegorical fate that has determined the histories of his
predecessors. He warns Case: ‘“My name ain’t Adams, and it ain’t Vigours;
and I mean to show you that you’ve met your match.”’ (68) He plans a
nocturnal return visit to Case’s sanctuary in order to explode Case’s special
effects in a triumphant spectacle of his own. When Uma tries to prevent him
departing, he slips strategically into missionary rhetoric, claiming that he will
be protected by the authority of the Bible: ‘I turned to the title-page, where
I thought there would likely be some English, and so there was. “There!”
said I. “Look at that! ‘London: Printed for the British and Foreign Bible Society,
Blackfriars,’ and the date, which I can’t read, owing to its being in three X’s.
There’s no devil in hell can look near the Bible Society, Blackfriars.”’ (73)
Uma responds with a scepticism which Wiltshire interprets as naive
literalism, and he is eventually compelled to substantiate his claims for the
book by carrying it with him as a safeguard: ‘I took to the road, laden like a
donkey. First there was that Bible, a book as big as your head, which I had let
myself in for by my own tomfoolery.’ (74) Uma subsequently learns that Case
has discovered Wiltshire’s plan. She abandons her superstitious qualms to
follow her husband into the woods and warn him of his danger. Wiltshire
mines Case’s temple, transforming the woods into an infernal landscape: ‘the
whole wood was scattered with red coals and brands from the explosion; they
were all round me on the flat, some had fallen below in the valley, and some
stuck and flared in the tree-tops’ (80). In this appropriate setting, the devilish
Case meets his end.
Wiltshire’s narrative concludes in pointed obfuscation. In his sermon at

the burial of Case, the Reverend Tarleton refuses to acknowledge the
incompatibility between practices of exploitation and the discourse of
salvation. Wiltshire complains: ‘what he ought to have done was to up like a
man and tell the Kanakas plainly Case was damned, and a good riddance; but
I never could get him to see it my way.’ (84) Case leaves behind him a simple
account, the pure economic subtext of his symbolic theatre: ‘All they found
was a bit of a diary, kept for a good many years, and all about the price of
copra, and chickens being stolen, and that; and the books of the business and
the will I told you of in the beginning.’ (85) Wiltshire’s grudging conversion
to fair dealing is limited to his interaction with the community of Falesā, and
fails to translate into general practice: ‘I was half glad when the firm moved
me on to another station, where I was under no kind of a pledge and could
look my balances in the face.’ (86) Uma’s physical transformation, from the
seductive feminine slightness which distinguishes her at the opening of the
story, to a figure of bulk, disproportionate by English standards: ‘She’s turned
a powerful big woman, and could throw a London bobby over her shoulder’
(86), marks the successful integration of the erotic. Yet it is the problem
posed by his half-caste daughters, the product of his legal union with Uma,
which converts Wiltshire’s paternalist conclusion into a question:
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?46
‘THE BOTTLE IMP’: DIMINISHING RETURNS
‘The Bottle Imp’ is a tale of fluctuating value. It has a certain mythical status
within Stevenson’s oeuvre, but its originality has also been contested on
several fronts. Biographers and scholars have repeatedly claimed that the
story was first published in Samoan, as ‘O Le Fagu Aitu’, in the missionary
journal O le Sulu Samoa.47 In fact, the translation that came out in the May
to December editions of the Sulu was preceded by the English original that
appeared in the New York Herald and in Black and White. Nonetheless, copies
of the relevant issues of the Samoan journal have subsequently acquired a
greater value than the first English versions, since, as Isobel Strong explained
in a letter to an inquirer, primitive printing conditions in Samoa rendered ‘O
Le Fagu Aitu’ a particularly ephemeral text: ‘I believe there are no copies
294 Vanessa Smith
extant. It was printed on paper of such particular vileness and flimsiness that
we weren’t even able to preserve our own set.’48 The Samoan missionary J.
E. Newell found, when he advertised for copies of the periodical shortly after
Stevenson’s death, that only two sets were forthcoming. He interpreted this
reticence as follows: ‘Apparently the Samoans who are the happy possessors
of the first piece of foreign fiction they ever saw are reluctant to part with
it.’49 This depiction of blithe proprietorship contrasts, of course, with the
anxieties produced by possession of the bottle within Stevenson’s tale.
The confusion over initial publication reflects the tale’s iconic status, as
sign of the author’s happy creative synthesis with Samoan culture. Newell
notes that ‘O Le Fagu Aitu’ has a special status in Samoan literary history, as
the first serial story to become available to a Samoan readership. According
to Albert Lee, Newell’s correspondent, it was the source of Stevenson’s
authorial reputation among the Samoans: ‘as a result of its publication the
natives ever afterwards called Stevenson “Tusitala”—the teller of tales’. In
preparing the translation of the tale, Stevenson was able to test and extend
his knowledge of the Samoan language. He worked with the missionary
Arthur Claxton at drafting of the Samoan text: Claxton recalled that
Stevenson ‘seemed to enjoy the balancing of rival expressions in the Samoan
idiom’.50 The reminiscences of his tutor, the Reverend S. J. Whitmee,
provide a fuller account of the legacies of Stevenson’s ventures into Samoan.
Referring to another of the author’s projects—this time a full composition in
Samoan—Whitmee emphasises Stevenson’s appreciation of the nuances of
the tongue:
Mr Stevenson wished to write a story in Samoan for the natives,

and I suggested that he should bring a portion of his MS. for me to
read. This exactly suited him. Those points in grammar and
idiom, also the appropriateness of words, about which he was
almost fastidious, could be discussed. I found him to be a keen
student; and the peculiarities and niceties of the language greatly
interested him. He thought the language was wonderful, and quite
agreed with me that the Samoans must have descended from a
much higher condition of intellectual culture, to possess such a
tongue. The extent of the vocabulary, the delicate differences of
form and expressive shades of meaning, the wonderful varieties of
the pronouns and particles, astonished him.51
The history of a mutually productive and affirming exchange between

the author and his peripheral literary audience, however, is undermined by
alternative accounts of the tale’s genesis and reception. In a prefatory note,

Stevenson suggests that ‘the fact that the tale has been designed and written
for a Polynesian audience may lend it some extraneous interest nearer home’.
Yet this ‘extraneous interest’ is clearly ethnographic rather than critical.
Stevenson figured his Samoan audience as naively literalist, unable to
distinguish between fantasy and history. In a letter to Arthur Conan Doyle,
he digressed on the type of reception offered to fiction by a Samoan
audience:
You might perhaps think that, were you to come to Samoa, you
might be introduced as the Author of ‘The Engineer’s Thumb’.
Disabuse yourself. They do not know what it is to make up a
story. ‘The Engineer’s Thumb’ (God forgive me) was narrated as
a piece of actual and factual history. Nay, and more, I who write
to you have had the indiscretion to perpetrate a trifling piece of
fiction entitled ‘The Bottle Imp’. Parties who come up to visit my
unpretentious mansion, after having admired the ceilings by
Vanderputty and the tapestry by Gobbling, manifest towards the
end a certain uneasiness which proves them to be fellows of an
infinite delicacy. They may be seen to shrug a brown shoulder, to
roll up a speaking eye, and at last the secret bursts from them:
‘Where is the bottle?’52
Stevenson jests patronisingly about life in a context without connoisseurship.

Yet his acknowledgement of the spirit of delicacy that restrains the ‘secret’
question recognises a connection his Samoan audience has made between the
wealth exhibited within Stevenson’s colonial mansion and the magical bottle
of his fiction. Effectively, the Bottle Imp of the story has been conflated with
the story of ‘The Bottle Imp’. Stevenson’s literary output, the real source of
his fortune, is elided with the immoral exchange represented by the
fantastical bottle.
Attentiveness to sources has led ‘sophisticated’, as well as ‘naive’
readers of ‘The Bottle Imp’ to interrogate the tale. Where Stevenson credits
the source of his story in a deprecating manner—‘Any student of that very
unliterary product, the English drama of the early part of the century, will
here recognise the name and the root idea of a piece once rendered popular
by the redoubtable B. Smith’ (88)—his critics have suggested that a more
substantial literary background informed the writing of ‘The Bottle Imp’. In
an article in Modern Language Notes for January 1910, Joseph Beach traced
the authorship of the original plot, first to a romance drama by the
296 Vanessa Smith
misremembered O. Smith, then to a volume entitled ‘Popular Tales and

Romances of the Northern Nations’, published in 1823, and specifically to
the tale of ‘Das Galgenmännlein’, by the Baron de Lamotte-Fouqué. Beach
is concerned to emphasize, nonetheless, that the circulation of the tale ceases
with Stevenson, who has rendered it all his own: ‘In all details of the
narrative, Stevenson is his own inimitable self.’53 However, a more
aggressive editorial in the New York Sun some years later questioned the
originality of the ‘Bottle Imp’ narrative. This article referred to the same
sources, the volume of northern tales and the tale by Lamotte-Fouqué,
ironically failing to acknowledge the precedence of Beach’s literary
researches. The novelty of the editorial lies rather in the insistent pressure it
places upon the issue of literary debt. The writer claims that Stevenson’s
effective plagiarism raises questions regarding ‘the canons of artistic
conscience, the ethics of appropriation and adaptation, and the equities of
ownership’.54 He is concerned to reclaim the story from its Pacific
adaptation to its northern origin. His comments betray that sense of affront
which recurs in European responses to Pacific appropriations of European
culture, evidencing a comparable slippage between the discourses of
aesthetics and economics. The easy shift from references to ‘canons of
artistic conscience’ to questions of ‘equities of ownership’ suggests that the
metropolitan writer, and not just the purportedly naive Samoan, has
confused real with fictional coinage.
A literalist reader is in fact constructed by the narration of ‘The Bottle
Imp’, which repeatedly alludes to the non-fictional status of events and
characters within the tale. The protagonist, for instance, is introduced under
a pseudonym, as though to protect a living citizen from the imputations of
fiction: ‘There was a man of the island of Hawaii, whom I shall call Keawe;
for the truth is, he still lives, and his name must be kept secret’ (89). As the
story progresses, the narrator continually avoids naming recipients of the
bottle, who are implicated in its cycle of immoral gain: ‘(I must not tell his
name)’; ‘the name of a man, which, again, I had better not repeat.’ (107) It
appears that those who have had dealings with the bottle have magically
attained, in addition to wished-for wealth, a historical, rather than fictional,
status.
The pseudonym Stevenson chooses for his protagonist is ‘Keawe’, a
name resonant within Hawaiian heroic tradition. The story displays the
hallmarks of oral composition. Sentences are rhythmically constructed, with
the aggregative, repetitive, syntactically inverted format of oral discourse:
‘This is a fine town, with a fine harbour, and rich people uncountable; and in
particular, there is one hill which is covered with palaces.’ Similes invoke a
Pacific frame of reference: ‘Keawe could see him as you see a fish in a pool
upon the reef.’ (89) Yet Keawe is also a product of the acquired culture of
literacy: ‘he could read and write like a schoolmaster’. A hero between oral
and literate traditions, he represents the cultural moment at which his story
is produced in the Pacific. He is a traveller between cultures, a sailor who, at
the beginning of the tale, is on furlough in San Francisco. He journeys from
California back to Hawaii and later between Polynesian islands, following
the trajectory of Stevenson’s own Pacific travels. The tale that critics have
attempted to reclaim to northern European origins is shaped in both its form
and content by the historical and geographical context of its production.
Keawe is strolling through the town of San Francisco, enjoying a
tourist’s taste of a foreign culture, when he espies a luxurious mansion, whose
owner looks despondently from the window. The man invites Keawe into his
home, and shows him the bottle which is the source of his enviable fortune.
An imp dwells within the bottle, who will grant all its owner’s wishes. If he
or she dies with it in their possession, however, they are damned. The bottle
can be sold, but only for less than its purchasing price; otherwise, it cannot
be disposed of. The educated Keawe is sceptical of the man’s claims, and is
invited to put them to the test. He is thus tricked into purchasing the bottle.
He attempts to sell it at a profit to a merchant of exotic items, whose wares
include ‘shells from the wild islands, old heathen deities, old coined money,
pictures from China and Japan, and all manner of things that sailors bring in
their sea-chests’. (94) The bottle cannot, of course, be assimilated upon
advantageous terms among those cultural artefacts—themselves the relics of
Pacific trade’s uneven exchange. So Keawe returns to Hawaii with the imp
still in his possession. The Polynesian has acquired a metropolitan article
whose magical powers are not simply a figment of naive imagination.
‘The Bottle Imp’ is in part a commentary on the representation of the
gullible native, duped and over-impressed by foreign material culture,
familiar from the early literature of the Pacific, and even from certain
passages in Stevenson’s own Pacific travel account. In Hawaii, Keawe uses
the bottle to create a house furnished with remarkable objects:
As for the house, it was three stories high, with great chambers
and broad balconies on each. The windows were of glass, so
excellent that it was as clear as water and as bright as day. All
manner of furniture adorned the chambers. Pictures hung upon
the wall in golden frames—pictures of ships, and men fighting,
and of the most beautiful women and singular places; nowhere in
the world are there pictures of so bright a colour as those Keawe
298 Vanessa Smith
found hanging in his house. As for the knick-knacks, they were

extraordinary fine: chiming clocks and musical boxes, little men
with nodding heads, books filled with pictures, weapons of price
from all quarters of the world, and the most elegant puzzles to
entertain the leisure of a solitary man. And as no one would care
to live in such chambers, only to walk through and view them, the
balconies were made so broad that a whole town might have lived
upon them in delight. (98)
The Pacific islander is depicted here, no longer as ethnographic object, but

as the curator of a museum stocked with the artefacts of other cultures.
Fascination with items of imported manufacture has graduated to
connoisseurship. But such magnificence is for display rather than use, and
the reality of Keawe’s domestic existence shifts to the margins (or rather the
balconies). This house recalls the many-windowed ‘eidolon’ on the Kona
coast, which Stevenson described in In the South Seas. Where that mansion
was depicted as epitomising a superficial display of foreign style that proved
empty within, Keawe’s rooms are replete with valuable acquisitions.
Stevenson had felt that his own travels in Hawaii were overshadowed by the
precedent of the deified Cook.55 In ‘The Bottle Imp’, Keawe is told of the
ways in which the bottle has shaped the course of European history:
‘Napoleon had this bottle, and by it he grew to be king of the world; but he
sold it at the last and fell. Captain Cook had this bottle, and by it he found
his way to so many islands; but he, too, sold it, and was slain upon Hawaii.’
(91) In this reconciliation of myth with history, Cook’s achievement becomes
devil-work: he is less an overreacher than a fortunate recipient of magical
assistance.
If the bottle embodies the ambivalent transactions of Western
capitalism, it provides a reflection of other relationships of exchange. Like
the reciprocal contract of Pacific gift-giving, it binds recipients even as it
endows them. And like the object of tabu, it combines blessings with
dangerous powers. The bottle represents a mixed blessing for the narrative
itself. It precipitates action, creating scenarios of accelerated change, but in
its offer of instant gratification, fails to satisfy that desire for the perpetuation
of desire that motivates the act of storytelling. Instead, that particular desire
is accommodated by a romantic plot which is interwoven with, and
eventually transcends, those complex economic relationships motivating the
tale of the bottle. Keawe falls in love with a beautiful woman named Kokua.
Like Uma in ‘The Beach of Falesā’, Kokua is initially perceived
voyeuristically, performing a reverse strip-tease: ‘he was aware of a woman
bathing at the edge of the sea; and she seemed a well-grown girl, but he
thought no more of it. Then he saw her white shift flutter as she put it on,
and then her red holoku, and she was all freshened with the bath, and her
eyes shone and were kind.’ (101) After wooing Kokua, Keawe notices that he
is in the first stage of leprous infection. He decides to seek out the bottle
once again, in order to heal himself, and become a fit husband. He travels to
Honolulu, where he traces the bottle to its current owner, following a trail of
duplicated luxury: ‘“No doubt I am upon the track,” thought Keawe. “These
new clothes and carriages are all the gifts of the little imp, and these glad
faces are the faces of men who have taken their profit and got, rid of the
accursed thing in safety. When I see pale cheeks and hear sighing, I shall
know that I am near the bottle.”’ (107–8) The value of the bottle has
depreciated to a single cent. It lies in the possession of a man whose
damnation is signalled by excessive whiteness: he is ‘white as a corpse’.
Keawe purchases it. believing that further exchange has been precluded;
willingly condemning himself in order to save his love for Kokua. The bottle
thus serves as agent, not of material gain, but of sacrifice, and so begins to be
transformed from a symbol of acquisitiveness into a touchstone of genuine
emotion.
Kokua’s qualities of humanity and intelligence are, like Uma’s, quick to
emerge. Her name signifies helper and comforter in Hawaiian.56 Yet she is
also the modern, literate Pacific islander: ‘I was educated in a school in
Honolulu; I am no common girl.’ (112) Once she becomes aware of Keawe’s
plight, her education enables her to find a way of exploiting those very laws
of circulation that seem to entrap him: ‘“What is this you say about a cent?
But all the world is not America ... Come, Keawe, let us go to the French
islands; let us go to Tahiti, as fast as ships can bear us. There we have four
centimes, three centimes, two centimes, one centime; four possible sales to
come and go; and two of us to push the bargain.”’ Even from within the map
of empire, Kokua is aware, exploitation can be delegated. The couple travel
to Tahiti, equipped with costumes and props, and put on a calculated
performance. Kokua packs ‘the richest of their clothes and the bravest of the
knick-knacks in the house. “For”, said she, “we must seem to be rich folks,
or who would believe in the bottle?”’ (113) Their display is an investment in
advertising, designed to create a market for their product. Yet they are
regarded with suspicion, and fail to dispose of the bottle.
They resort, in turn, to self-sacrifice. Kokua secretly buys the bottle
back from her husband, using as her agent a poor old man. Freed from the
burden of damnation, Keawe succumbs to drunkenness. His companion in
his lapse is a beachcomber: ‘Now there was an old brutal Haole drinking with
300 Vanessa Smith
him, one that had been a boatswain of a whaler—a runaway, a digger in gold
mines, a convict in prisons. He had a low mind and a foul mouth; he loved
to drink and see others drunken; and he pressed the glass upon Keawe.’ (120)
The Haole (white man) encourages Keawe to suspect his wife of infidelity. In
an attempt to prove her false, Keawe spies on Kokua, and finds her alone, not
with a man, but with the feminine bottle, ‘milk-white ..., with a round belly
and a long neck’, now an object of virtue, the touchstone of her loyalty. He
employs the beachcomber to buy the bottle back for him. However, the man
subsequently refuses to return the bottle to Keawe, claiming ‘“I reckon I’m
going anyway ... and this bottle’s the best thing to go with I’ve struck yet.”’
(124) In the beachcomber, the bottle locates its appropriate owner: a figure
inhabiting the space between Western and Pacific systems of exchange; the
unredeemed subject of the narrative.
‘THE ISLE OF VOICES’: COINED PHRASES
In ‘The Isle of Voices’, Hawaiian materialism is once again depicted as

sourced in magic. This is a magician’s nephew story, whose protagonist is
Keola, son-in-law of the wizard Kalamake. Kalamake has legendary stature:
‘It was rumoured that he had the art or the gift of the old heroes. Men had
seen him at night upon the mountains, stepping from one cliff to the next;
they had seen him walking in the high forest, and his head and shoulders
were above the trees.’ (127) He is represented as a figure deeply enshrined
within Hawaiian oral tradition: ‘“Blind as Kalamake that can see across
tomorrow” was a byword in the islands’ (127); ‘“Bright as Kalamake’s
dollars” was another saying in the Eight Isles’ (128). His powers, however,
resemble those of the white settler in Hawaii rather than those of a
Polynesian. He is a figure of civic authority and financial influence: ‘no man
was more consulted in all the Kingdom of Hawaii. Prudent people bought,
sold and married, and laid out their lives by his counsels.’ His enemies suffer
a fate comparable to the genocide that followed European contact with
Pacific societies: ‘of his enemies, some had dwindled in sickness by virtue of
his incantations, and some had been spirited away, the life and the clay both,
so that folk looked in vain for so much as a bone of their bodies.’ His house
is built ‘in the European style’ (129), and he hides his wealth in a locked
writing desk ‘under the print of Kamehameha the fifth, and a portrait of
Queen Victoria with her crown’ (128). He is, indeed, ‘more white to look
upon than any foreigner’. (127)
Keola is fascinated by Kalamake’s wealth, which materialises without
apparent labour: ‘he neither sold, nor planted, nor took hire—only now and
then for his societies—and there was no source conceivable for so much
silver coin’. As the internal rhyme here betrays, sorcery is the source of this
mysterious fortune. Kalamake eventually takes Keola into his confidence. He
requires his son-in-law’s assistance in a magical ritual: a process of minting.
Keola is transported on a woven mat front the high Hawaiian island of
Molokai to a low Pacific atoll. Here he is instructed to burn a fire of leaves
upon the mat’s surface, while Kalamake gathers shells upon the beach. These
transform to coins at the wizard’s touch. As the flame expires, he jumps back
upon the mat, and the pair return home, laden with money. This abundant
production in a reduced and alien landscape perhaps recalls Stevenson’s own
account of his stay on the barren atoll of Fakarava, a setting which yielded
the author a wealth of fantastical narratives. In the transformation of factual
into fictional atoll landscape, the location of subject matter becomes an act
of false coinage.
Kalamake’s magic is, like that of the bottle imp, the apotheosis of cargo
cult: the material object proves self-replicating. Like Keawe, Keola functions
as a Pacific empiricist, submitting to trial a powerful system of circulation.
But where Keawe had the heroic capacity to transform the significance of the
bottle, Keola is an anti-hero, in the mould of the sorcerer’s apprentice. His
usurpation of power reflects merely a desire to occupy the position of his
master, while maintaining an iniquitous structure of production. Keola falls
under the misapprehension that his father-in-law’s authority is transferable,
and can be used to serve himself-a delusion he shares with Hawaiians who
seek a stake in the power of government. His wife Lehua recalls the fates of
apparently influential figures within the Hawaiian administration, which
illustrate the consequences of dissent: ‘“Think of this person and that
person; think of Hua, who was a noble of the House of Representatives, and
went to Honolulu every year; and not a bone or a hair of him was found.
Remember Kamau, and how he wasted to a thread, so that his wife lifted him
with one hand.”’ (134) In this parable of post-contact Hawaii, an imported
mode of civil government is shown to be accompanied by a legacy of physical
decline. The Oedipal interactions of the father-in-law Kalamake and the
son-in-law Keola are paradigmatic of colonial relations. The son is offered a
partial entry into power, but in attempting to usurp authority provokes the
castrating wrath of the father. Kalamake pretends to acquiesce to Keola’s
demand for a share of his power, and invites him on a sea voyage that quickly
becomes a nightmare. Initially Kalamake affects phallic equality: ‘the two sat
in the stern and smoked cigars’ (135), but then, in a horrific tumescence, the
wizard reveals his authoritative stature, swelling to giant-size: ‘behold-as he
drew his finger from the ring, the finger stuck and the ring was burst’ (136),
302 Vanessa Smith
and mocking Keola’s desire to appropriate the phallus: ‘“are you sure you
would not rather have a flute?”’ He looms away across the ocean, and at once
a trading vessel of similar proportions appears, figuring the
interchangeability of the wizard’s castrating power and that of capitalist
venture.
Keola is rescued, and joins the boat’s crew. He absconds at an atoll
which turns out to be that same ‘isle of voices’ where the wizard gathers his
coins. Keola joins a cannibalistic nomadic tribe whose members are making
their annual sojourn upon the island. On his initial trip to the atoll, invisible
and inviolable, he had observed the tribe with the immunity of an
ethnographic field-worker, recording novel practices: ‘“they are not very
particular about dress in this part of the country”’; ‘“these are strange
manners.”’ (131) Now, however, visiting the island as flesh rather than spirit,
he becomes aware that he is under physical threat. The atoll landscape is the
space of the Pacific other: the reverse face of that Westernised Polynesia
which is most successfully represented by Hawaiian civil society. The tribe’s
cannibalism renders its members the objects of a fearful fascination to Keola,
the Hawaiian citizen. They belong to the mythical elsewhere of travellers’
tales: ‘He had heard tell of eaters of men in the South islands, and the thing
had always been a fear to him; and here it was knocking at his door. He had
heard besides, by travellers, of their practices.’ (145) In fact the members of
the tribe are themselves also model colonial subjects, whose annual reversion
to traditional practices upon the atoll constitutes a return of the repressed:
‘to tell you the truth, my people are eaters of men; but this they
keep secret. And the reason they will kill you before we leave is
because in our island ships come, and Donat-Kimiran comes and
talks for the French, and there is a white trader there in a house
with a verandah, and a catechist. Oh, that is a fine place indeed!
The trader has barrels filled with flour; and a French warship
once came in the lagoon and gave everybody wine and biscuit.’
The Eucharist of empire is only the public face of cannibalistic

consumption—its ‘civil’ guise: ‘[Keola] judged they were too civil to be
wholesome’. (142)
As anti-hero, Keola remains, unlike the protagonists of ‘The Beach of
Falesā’ and ‘The Bottle Imp’, unredeemed by a unique love relationship. He
is instead strategically assisted by two wives during the course of the story.
His second wife, chosen for him by the tribe, alerts him to his physical
danger. He departs for the ocean beach of the atoll, the fleshless realm of
voice, where he dwells plagued by the whisperings of the invisible wizards.

The tribe represents corporeal threat, disguised behind an accomplished
discursive façade: ‘The people of the tribe were very civil, as their way was.
They were elegant speakers, and they made beautiful poetry, and jested at
meals, so that a missionary must have died laughing. It was little enough that
Keola cared for their fine ways; all he saw was the white teeth shining in their
months—’ (145) The other side of the atoll is, by contrast, a realm of
disembodied tongues: ‘All tongues of the earth were spoken there: the
French, the Dutch, the Russian, the Tamil, the Chinese. Bodiless voices
called to and fro; unseen hands poured sand upon the flames.’ (146) For
Keola, the Pacific subject, this intangibility represents the ungraspable power
of global economics, to be explained as magical production, according to a
logic of cargo cult: ‘“And to think how they have fooled me with their talk
of mints,” says he, “and that money was made there, when it is clear that all
the new coin in all the world is gathered on these sands.”’ (147) The divided
geography of the atoll landscape maps the split subjectivity of the Pacific
anti-hero: on the one side consumed by a heritage of otherness, with its
discourses of primitivity, cannibalism and savagery, and, on the other,
absorbed within a system of economic circulation whose power and profit lie
in foreign hands. In a final battle, wizards and tribe are left to their mutual
destruction: the binary oppositions of flesh and spirit, savage and civilised,
lock in annihilating contest.
Keola is rescued by his first wife, Lehua, who returns him to Molokai
on the magic mat. Like ‘The Beach of Falesā’, ‘The Isle of Voices’ concludes
with overt recantation. Keola consults the atlas and reassures himself that the
wizard Kalamake has been safely relegated to a distant space: ‘Keola knew by
this time where that island was—and that is to say, in the Low or Dangerous
Archipelago. So they fetched the atlas and looked upon the distance in the
map, and by what they could make of it, it seemed a long way for an old
gentleman to walk.’ (150) He finds his appetite unaffected by recollections of
his brush with cannibalism: ‘he was mighty pleased to be home again in
Molokai and sit down beside a bowl of poi—for ... there was none in the Isle
of Voices.’ (149–50) The couple consult the local missionary, who admits,
punningly, that he ‘could make neither head nor tail’ of the magical coinage.
He willingly implicates his own endeavours, nonetheless, in the tainted
transaction of its production, advising Keola ‘to give some of it to the lepers
and some of it to the missionary fund’ as absolution. At the same time, he
betrays the pair to the Hawaiian civil authorities, on the contradictory
conviction that the money he has accepted is counterfeit: ‘he warned the
police at Honolulu that, by all he could make out, Kalamake and Keola had
304 Vanessa Smith
been coining false money, and it would not be amiss to watch them’. The
coins thus retain their duplicitous status. Ambiguous signifiers, both true and
false, valuable donation and worthless forgery, they expose the missionary’s
divided colonial loyalties.
NOTES
1. Robert Louis Stevenson, Autograph Manuscript of Imaginary Dispatches [1885],
Beinecke Library, ms 5957.
2. Letter to Will H. Low, 15 January [1894], Bradford A. Booth and Finest Mehew
(eds.), The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995, vol.
VIII, p. 235.
3. Will H. Low, Concerning a Painting of Robert Louis Stevenson, Bronxville, New York:
Bronx Valley Press, 1924.
4. Robert Louis Stevenson, ‘The Barbizon Free-Trading Company, unlimited’,
typescript, 3 pp., Beinecke Library, ms 6002.
5. George L. McKay, A Stevenson Library Catalogue of a collection of writings by and
about Robert Louis Stevenson formed by Edwin J. Beinecke, New Haven: Yale University Press,
1961, vol. V, p. 1729.
6. Stevenson pays tribute to his paternal heritage in Records of a Family of Engineers,
London: William Heinemann, 1924.
7. These Were The Wrong Box (1889), The Wrecker (1892), and The Ebb-Tide (1884).
The pair had been involved in ‘literary’ collaboration since Osbourne’s childhood. James
D. Hart, The Private Press Ventures of Samuel Lloyd Osbourne and R. L. S., Los Angeles: Book
Club of California, 1966.
8. ‘It’s a machine, you know; don’t expect aught else: a machine, and a police
machine.’ Letter to Henry James [?25 May 1892], Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters, vol.
VII, p. 292.
9. Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne, The Wrecker, London: Cassell and
Company, 1893, p. 17. Subsequent references are to this edition.
10. Letter to Burlingame, 11 March [1890], Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters, vol. VI,
p. 375.
11. Letter to Lloyd Osbourne, [5 November 1890], ibid., vol. VII, p. 35; compare
Colvin to Baxter, 26 May 1893, Beinecke Library, ms 4247.
12. Letter to Charles Baxter, [30 March 1892], Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters, vol.
VII, p. 258.
13. William Diapea, Cannibal Jack, London: Faber and Gwyer, 1928, pp. 232–3.
14. Letter to Sidney Colvin, [3] November 1890, Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters, vol.
VII, p. 20.
15. Oscar Wilde to Robert Ross, 6 April 1897, Rupert Hart Davis (ed.), Selected Letters
of Oscar Wilde, Oxford University Press, 1979, p. 24.
16. Kenneth Graham, English Criticism of the Novel, 1865–1900, Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1965, pp. 4–5.
17. Peter Keating, The Haunted Study: a social history of the English novel, 1875–1914,
London: Fontana, 1989, pp. 11–12.
18. Letter to A. Trevor Haddon, 5 July 1883, Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters, vol. IV,
pp. 140–1.
19. Christopher Morley, ‘Notes on a Painting’, reprinted from the New York Evening
Post, 18 October 1923, in Low, Concerning a Painting, p. 7.
20. Letter to Lloyd Osbourne, 29 September 1890, Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters,
vol. VII, p. 9.
21. Letter to Robert Alan Mowbray Stevenson, [c. g September 1894], ibid., vol. VIII,
p. 364.
22. Letter to Sidney Colvin, 16 May 1893; compare letter to Colvin, 27 May–18 June
1893; ibid., vol. VIII, pp. 68; 87–94.
23. Review in the Speaker, 29 September 1894, quoted in Paul Maixner (ed.), Robert
Louis Stevenson: the critical heritage, London: Routledge, 1981, p. 450.
24. Alastair Fowler, ‘Parable of Adventure: the debatable novels of Robert Louis
Stevenson’, in Ian Campbell (ed.), Nineteenth-Century Scottish Fiction: critical essays,
Manchester: Carcanet, 1979, p. 116.
25. Robert Louis Stevenson, ‘The Ebb-Tide’, in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and other
stories, London: Penguin, 1987, pp. 188–9. All subsequent references are to this text.
26. T. Walter Herbert, Marquesan Encounters, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1980, p. 155.
27. Herman Melville, Omoo, New York: Library of America, 1982, pp. 334, 336, 337.
28. Robert Hillier, The South Seas Fiction of Robert Louis Stevenson, New York: Peter
Lang, 1989, p. 137.
29. Stevenson, ‘Missions in the South Seas’, Sydney: State Library of N.S.W.,
AS25/19, p. 1.
30. Ibid., p, 4.
31. H.E. Maude, Of Islands and Men, Oxford University Press, 1968, p. 135.
32. Barry Menikoff, Robert Louis Stevenson and ‘The Beach of Falesā ’, Edinburgh
University Press, 1984, p. 59.
33. Ibid., pp. 72, 64–5.
34. Graham Balfour, ‘A South Sea Trader’, Macmillan’s (November 1896), p. 67.
35. Letter to Charles Baxter, 11 August 1892, Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters, vol.
VII, p. 350.
36. Letter to Sidney Colvin, 28 September 1891, ibid., p. 161.
37. Stevenson, Island Nights’ Entertainments, London: Hogarth Press, 1987, p. 3.
Subsequent references are to this edition.
38. Otto von Kotzebue, A New Voyage Round the World in the Years 1823, 24, 25, and
26, London: Colburn and Bentley, 1830, vol. I, pp. 282–3.
39. Stephen Heath, ‘Psychopathic sexualis’: Stevenson’s Strange Case, in Futures for
English (ed. Colin MacCabe), Manchester University Press, 1988, explores the nuances of
the term ‘case’ in Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Recent critics have
focused on the psychology of the narrator in attempting to recuperate ‘The Beach of
Falesā’ for modernity and post-modernity. Menikoff represents Wiltshire’s narrative as a
failed psychoanalytic session: ‘This, of course, is the underlying quest of Wiltshire
throughout the novel—to discover meaning and order, and to find some vindication for his
own life. That he cannot is one of the basic ironies of the story’, while Lisa St Aubin de
Terán claims that: ‘Stevenson is quick to show that he is offering us an adventure story
which is the mask for a case study in neurosis.’ Case is, in a practical sense, Wiltshire’s
object of study. Menikoff, Robert Louis Stevenson and ‘The Beach of Falesā ’, p. 69; Lisa St
Aubin de Terán, introduction to Island Nights’ Entertainments, p. ii.
306 Vanessa Smith
40. Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: the technologizing of the word, London:
Methuen, 1982, pp. 149–50, 154.
41. Menikoff, Robert Louis Stevenson and ‘The Beach of Falesā’, p. 58.
42. Stevenson, In the South Seas, p. 267; compare Menikoff, Robert Louis Stevenson and
‘The Beach of Falesā’, p. 85.
43. Menikoff, Robert. Louis Stevenson and ‘The Beach of Falesā’, pp. 83–90.
44. According to Stevenson’s Samoan vocabulary lists, Fa’alototoga, or ‘to have the
heart of a Tongan’ means ‘to be without love, greedy, revengeful’.
45. Homi Bhabha, ‘Of Mimicry and Man’, The Location of Culture, London: Routledge,
1994, p. 89.
46. The problem of the half-caste daughter is playfully developed in a manuscript of
an unpublished drama written at Vailima. In this fragment, which gestures towards a
reversal of the typical scenario of South Seas seduction, a sailor, Henderson, turns up in
Samoa to claim the adopted baby daughter of his wealthy uncle. The girl, Fanua, who has
reached an attractive puberty, is repelled by the idea of removing to England, where
women are forced to wear stays and spend their time idly making calls. She is only
convinced of the appeal of the idea once Henderson has presented himself as a suitor, with
‘no use for corsets.’ Play (untitled). Portion. New Haven, Beinecke Library, ms 6722, p. 8.
47. For instance Balfour, The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson, vol. II, p. 130; Joseph Beach,
‘The Sources of Stevenson’s “Bottle Imp”’, Modern Language Notes 25 (1910), p. 12.
48. Quoted in Albert Lee, ‘“Black and White” and “O Le Sulu Samoa”’, Black and
While, 6 February 1897, p. 175.
49. Ibid. Original ms in Beinecke Library.
50. Revd A.E. Claxton, ‘Stevenson as I Knew Him in Samoa’, in Rosaline Masson
(ed.), I Can Remember Robert Louis Stevenson, Edinburgh: W. and R. Chambers, 1922, p.
249; reprinted from Chambers’s Journal (October 1922).
51. Revd S.J. Whitmee, ‘Tusitala: A New Reminiscence of R.L.S.’, in Masson (ed.), I
Can Remember Robert Louis Stevenson, p. 232.
52. Letter to Arthur Conan Doyle, 23 August 1893, Booth and Mehew (eds.), Letters,
vol. VIII, p. 155; compare Beach, ‘The Sources of Stevenson’s “Bottle Imp”’, p. 12; H. J.
Moors, With Stevenson in Samoa, London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1911, p. 97.
53. Beach, ‘The Sources of Stevenson’s “Bottle Imp”’, p. 17.
54. The editorial is summarised and quoted under the title ‘Stevenson’s Borrowed
Plot’ in The Literary Digest, 18 July 1914, pp. 105–6.
55. In the South Seas, pp. 191, 183.
56. Mary Kawena Pukui and Samuel H. Elbert (eds.), Hawaiian-English Dictionary,
Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1957.
Chronology
1850 Robert Louis Stevenson is born November 13 in

Edinburgh, Scotland to Thomas and Margaret Isabella
Balfour Stevenson.
1862 Travels with his parents to Europe.
1867 Begins to study engineering at Edinburgh University.
1871 Abandons engineering to study law.
1873 Goes to Suffolk to stay with cousins after a bout of ill health
and arguments with his father over his agnosticism; meets
Frances Sitwell; becomes friends with Sidney Colvin;
travels to France after experiencing more health problems;
1874 returns to Edinburgh and resumes study of law; contributes
to Cornhill Magazine.
1875 Is called to the Bar but does not practice; contributes to
Vanity Fair; meets W.E. Henley; joins his cousin, Bob
Stevenson, in France at the artists’ colony at Barbizon,
Fontainebleau.
1876 Canoes the canals of northern France, a trip which is later
recounted in An Inland Voyage; meets Fanny Osbourne, an
American woman who is married with two children.
1878 Fanny returns to her husband in California and initiates
divorce proceedings; publication of An Inland Voyage and
Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes.
307
308 Chronology
1879 Travels with a Donkey is published; spends time in England,

Scotland, and France; starts on his way to join Fanny in the
United States.
1880 Marries Fanny in San Francisco; publishes Deacon Brodie, a
play written in collaboration with W.E. Henley; Stevenson
and his wife return to Scotland.
1881 Completes Treasure Island, which is serialized in Young Folks;
publishes Virginibus Puerisque.
1882 Moves with Fanny to Hyères, France; publishes Familiar
Studies of Men and Books and New Arabian Nights.
1883 Publication of Treasure Island and The Silverado Squatters.
1884 Suffers ill health throughout winter and spring; the couple
moves to England, to Bournemouth, which will remain
their home until 1887; publishes two collaborations with
W.E. Henley: Austin Guinea and Beau Austin; also publishes
“A Humble Remonstrance” in response to Henry James’
“The Art of Fiction.”
1885 Receives Henry James at Bournemouth; publishes A Child’s
Garden of Verses, Prince Otto, and More New Arabian Nights,
as well as The Dynamiter (in collaboration with Fanny) and
Macaire (in collaboration with W.E. Henley).
1886 Publishes The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,
Stevenson’s first big success, and Kidnapped.
1887 Thomas Stevenson, Robert’s father, dies in May; journeys
to America with his mother, wife, and stepson Lloyd; stays
in Saranac in the Adirondack Mountains; publishes The
Merry Men and Other Tales and Fables, Underwoods, Memories
and Portraits, and A Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin.
1888 Stevenson is commissioned to produce a series of travel
sketches on the South Seas for newspapers; sails with family
on the Casco to the Marquesas, Paumotus, Tahiti, and
Hawaii; publishes The Black Arrow.
1889 Mother returns to Scotland; Stevenson travels with Fanny
and Lloyd from Honolulu to Samoa; starts work on A
Footnote to History.
1890 Buys estate on the island of Upolu in Samoa; Robert’s ill
health leads the family to the conclusion that he will never
be able to leave the tropics.
Chronology 309
1891 Publishes “The Bottle Imp” serially, both in English and

Samoan.
1892 British High Commissioner for the Western Pacific issues
A Regulation for the Maintenance of Peace and Good Order in
Samoa, an attempt to put a stop to Stevenson’s activities in
Samoan politics and affairs.
1893 “The Isle of Voices” appears in the National Observer; war
breaks out in Samoa; publishes Island Nights’ Entertainments
and Catriona; begins to publish The Ebb-Tide serially.
1894 Followers of Mataafa, whom Stevenson had supported
during the war, build “The Road of Loving Hearts” to
thank Stevenson for aiding their cause; publishes The Ebb-
Tide; on December 3, Stevenson dies of cerebral
hemorrhage.
Contributors
HAROLD BLOOM is Sterling Professor of the Humanities at Yale

University. He is the author of over 20 books, including Shelley’s Mythmaking
(1959), The Visionary Company (1961), Blake’s Apocalypse (1963), Yeats (1970),
A Map of Misreading (1975), Kabbalah and Criticism (1975), Agon: Toward a
Theory of Revisionism (1982), The American Religion (1992), The Western Canon
(1994), and Omens of Millennium: The Gnosis of Angels, Dreams, and
Resurrection (1996). The Anxiety of Influence (1973) sets forth Professor
Bloom’s provocative theory of the literary relationships between the great
writers and their predecessors. His most recent books include Shakespeare:
The Invention of the Human (1998), a 1998 National Book Award finalist, How
to Read and Why (2000), Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative
Minds (2002), and Hamlet: Poem Unlimited (2003). In 1999, Professor Bloom
received the prestigious American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal
for Criticism, and in 2002 he received the Catalonia International Prize.
G.K. CHESTERTON (1874–1936), renowned British man of letters, wrote

poetry, novels, criticism and essays. Among his books are studies of Charles
Dickens, Robert Browning, St. Thomas Aquinas, Geoffrey Chaucer, and
William Cobbett.
LESLIE FIEDLER has taught at the State University of New York, Buffalo.
His many books include Love and Death in the American Novel, Waiting for the
End, What Was Literature? and Tyranny of the Normal.
311
312 Contributors
ROBERT KIELY is Professor of English at Harvard University. He is the

author of The Romantic Novel in England, Beyond Egotism: The Fiction of James
Joyce, Virginia Woolf, and D.H. Lawrence, and a memoir entitled Still Learning:
Spiritual Sketches from a Professor’s Life.
DOUGLAS GIFFORD teaches at the University of Glasgow. He is the

author of James Hogg: A Critical Study and editor of the History of Scottish
Literature in the Nineteenth Century.
K.G. SIMPSON is Lecturer in English at Strathclyde University and has

published work on Tobias Smollett, Robert Burns, Laurence Sterne, and
Robert Louis Stevenson.
WILLIAM VEEDER is Professor of English at the University of Chicago.

He is the author of Mary Shelley and Frankenstein: The Fate of Androgyny, and
Henry James, the Lessons of the Master: Popular Fiction and Personal Style in the
Nineteenth Century.
GEORGE DEKKER is Joseph S. Atha Professor in Humanities at Stanford

University. His works include The American Historical Romance, James
Fenimore Cooper: The Novelist, and Sailing After Knowledge: The Cantos of Ezra
Pound.
STEPHEN ARATA is Associate Professor of English at the University of

Virginia. He has edited William Morris’s News From Nowhere and has written
articles on Joseph Conrad, Oscar Wilde, and Walter Scott.
ALAN SANDISON is Emeritus Professor of English at the University of

New England. He is the author of The Wheel of Empire.
JOHN HOLLANDER, poet, editor, and critic, teaches English at Yale

University. He is the author of The Figure of Echo, Melodious Guile, The
Untuning of the Sky, and many collections of poetry, including, most recently,
Figurehead and Picture Window.
VANESSA SMITH is a Research Fellow in the English Department at

University of Sydney. She is co-editor of Exploration and Exchange: a South
Seas Anthology, 1680–1900 and also of Islands in History and Representation.
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Acknowledgments
“The Style of Stevenson” from The Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton XVIII:
Thomas Carlyle, Leo Tolstoy, Robert Louis Stevenson, Chaucer with an
introduction and notes by Russell Kirk. 95–102. © 1991 by Ignatius
Press, San Francisco. Reprinted by permission of A P Watt Ltd. on
behalf of The Royal Literary Fund.
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Leslie A. Fiedler. 77–91. © 1960 by Leslie A. Fiedler. Reprinted by
permission.
“The Aesthetics of Adventure” from Robert Louis Stevenson and the Fiction of
Adventure by Robert Kiely. 19–57. © 1964 by the President and
Fellows of Harvard College. Reprinted by permission.
“Stevenson and Scottish Fiction: The Importance of The Master of

Ballantrae” by Douglas Gifford from Stevenson and Victorian Scotland
edited by Jenni Calder. 62–86. © by Edinburgh University Press and
individual contributors 1981. Reprinted by permission.
“Author and Narrator in Weir of Hermiston” by K.G. Simpson from Robert

Louis Stevenson edited by Andrew Noble. 202–226. © 1983 by Vision
Press Ltd. Reprinted by permission.
“Children of the Night: Stevenson and Patriarchy” by William Veeder from
317
318 Acknowledgments
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: After One Hundred Years edited by William
Veeder and Gordon Hirsch. 107–156. © 1988 by The University of
Chicago. Reprinted by permission.
“James and Stevenson: The Mixed Current of Realism and Romance” by

George Dekker from Critical Recontructions: The Relationship of Fiction
and Life edited by Robert M. Polhemus and Roger B. Henkle.
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Junior University. Reprinted by permission.
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Hyde” from Fictions of Loss in the Victorian Fin de Siecle by Stephen Arata.
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permission.
“Treasure Island: The Parrot’s Tale” from Robert Louis Stevenson and the
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“On A Child’s Garden of Verses” from The Work of Poetry by John Hollander.
129–141. © 1997 by Columbia University Press. Reprinted by
permission.
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the Pacific: Nineteenth-century textual encounters by Vanessa Smith.
145–191. © 1998 by Vanessa Smith. Reprinted by permission.
Index
Adams, Henry, 170, 179 “At the Sea-Side” (Stevenson), 259

Adventure themes, 26, 35, 38–40, Auden, W.H., 241
46, 51, 57, 165, 172, 174, 179, “Auntie’s Skirts” (Stevenson),
199 258–59
in Treasure Island, 211, 213, 218, Austen, Jane, 91–93, 162–63
223, 228, 233, 240 Austin Guinea (Stevenson and
“Adventure of the Engineer’s Henley)
Thumb, The” (Doyle), 295 publication, 308
Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, The Autobiography, An (Trollope), 267
(Smollett), 224
Adventures of Roderick Random, The Balzac, 40, 98, 163, 167, 175,
(Smollett), 224 179–80
All Sorts and Conditions of Men Banville, Théodore de, 246
(Besant), 164, 202 Barrie, J.M., 50, 54, 58
American, The (James), 160–61, Baxter, Charles, 45, 265
175–80 Beach, Joseph, 295
Anderson, Hans Christian, 253 “Beach of Fales?, The” (Stevenson),
Mermaid, 246 167, 281, 303
Antiquary, The (Scott), 54 Black Jack in, 285
Arata, Stephen, 312 Case in, 285–87, 289–93
on dissociation of writing from censorship of, 282
self in The Strange Case of Dr. marriage certificate in, 287–88
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 185–210 Namu in, 288–89
Archer, William, 122, 196–97, 203 Old Adams in, 289, 292
“Armies in the Fire” (Stevenson), publication, 283, 287
251 south seas trader narrative,
Ars Poetica (Horace), 161 282–93
“Art of Fiction, The” (James), 31, Reverend Tarleton in, 288–90,
80, 159–62, 164, 167, 173, 175, 293
308 trade ethics in, 282
319
320 Index
Uma in, 286–88, 290–93, 298–99 Haole in, 299–300

Underhill in, 285, 289 Keawe in, 296–300, 302
Vigours in, 285, 289, 292 Kokua in, 298–300
Whistling Jimmie in, 285 narrative, 283–84, 291, 293–300
John Wiltshire in, 282, 284–88, publication, 282, 294, 309
290–93, 302 regret in, 4
Beau Austin (Stevenson) “Boy’s Song, A” (Hogg), 253
publication, 308 Brontë, Emily, 60
“Bed in Summer” (Stevenson), 249 Wuthering Heights, 53, 59, 64
Beerbohm, Max Brooks, Peter
criticism, 6 criticism, 179
Bell, Michael Davitt, 178 Brown, George Douglas, 60–62, 74
Bennett, Arnold, 9 The House with the Green Shutters,
Benson, E.F., 9 59
Bersani, Leo, 160 Browning, Robert
Besant, Walter, 161–62, 196–98, 201 “My Last Duchess,” 69
All Sorts and Conditions of Men, Bunyan, John, 253
164, 202 A Book for Boys and Girls, 254
Black Arrow, The (Stevenson), 54 Pilgrim’s Progress, 56
publication, 308 Burlingame, Edward, 264
Black, William, 54 Burns, Robert, 7–8, 63, 85–86, 92,
Blake, William, 1, 247, 254, 259 121
Book of Thel, 246 “Cottar’s Saturday Night,” 55
New Songs of Innocence, 255 “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” 69
Bloom, Harold, 225, 311 “Tam O’ Shanter,” 66
introduction, 1–4 Byron, Lord, 1, 190
on Stevenson’s achievements, 1–4
“Bodysnatcher, The” (Stevenson), Calvino, Italo, 4
62 Carlyle, Thomas, 106, 110
Bonaparte, Napoleon, 169–70, 189, Castaways of Soledad, The (Stevenson)
191 general reversal in, 212
Book for Boys and Girls, A (Bunyan), Walter Gillingly in, 233–34
254 Catcher in the Rye, The (Salinger), 50
Book of Thel (Blake), 246 Catriona (Stevenson), 22, 166–67
Borges, Jorge Luis, 245 David Balfour in, 56–58, 62, 64,
Borges, R.L.S. 86, 214–15
on Stevenson, 4 Catriona in, 58, 215
Bostonians, The (James), 167–68 chance theme in, 57
“Bottle Imp, The” (Stevenson), 301 publication, 309
bottle in, 295–300 Chance theme, 63, 83
controversy of, 293–94, 296 in Catriona, 57
Cook in, 298 in Kidnapped, 57
Index 321
in The Master of Ballantrae, 64, 74 Cowper, William, 256

“Chapter on Dreams, A” “Crabbed Age and Youth”
(Stevenson), 42, 200–4 (Stevenson), 230
Characters, Stevenson’s, 30, 34, 46, Criminal, The (Ellis), 186
221, 224, 238 Crockett, S.R., 54, 58
bizarre, 26 The Lilac Sunbonnet, 55
descriptions, 10, 21, 84–85, 90,
96–98, 100, 112–13, 281 Daiches, David, 60
duality of man, 14, 30, 63, 70, criticism, 13, 59
105, 141, 240 Darwin, Charles, 48, 112, 118
“good,” 23, 64 Daudet, Alphonse, 167
heroes, 22–23, 36, 50, 56–57, 68, David Copperfield (Dickens), 112
165, 181, 185, 222, 297 Deacon Brodie (Stevenson and
middle-class, 187–88, 190–94, Henley)
199, 201 publication, 308
performances, 226–27 “Defense of Poetry, A” (Shelley),
psyches of, 111 161
victims, 109, 113–16 Defoe, Daniel, 46, 231
Chérie (Goncourt), 163–64 A General History of the Robberies
Chesterton, G.K., 311 and Murders of the Most Notorious
on Stevenson’s style, 5–11, 26, Pyrates, 231
104 Robinson Crusoe, 174, 180
Child’s Garden of Verses, A “Dejection: An Ode” (Coleridge),
(Stevenson), 245–60 170, 175
childhood tale, 16, 109, 119–22 Dekker, George, 312
poems in, 245–260 on Stevenson compared to James,
publication, 308 159–83
“Child’s Play” (Stevenson), 49–50 “Denis Duval” (Thackeray),
Claxton, Arthur, 294 176
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 251 Dickens, Charles, 50, 116, 162–63,
“Dejection: An Ode,” 170, 175 179
Kubla Khan, 43 David Copperfield, 112
Stevenson’s criticism of, 32, 35, Great Expectations, 112
37, 41 “Directive” (Frost), 250
Colles, William Morris, 196 Doyle, Arthur Conan, 14, 199
Colvin, Sidney, 15, 30, 307, 266 “The Adventure of the
Confessions of a Justified Sinner, The Engineer’s Thumb,” 295
(Hogg), 59, 61, 65–66, 69, 73 Dumas, Alexandre, 27–28, 38, 40,
Conrad, Joseph, 30, 237 162–63, 174
“Cottar’s Saturday Night” (Burns), “Dumb Soldier, The” (Stevenson),
55 253
“Cow, The” (Stevenson), 253 Dunnett, Dorothy, 54
322 Index
Dynamiter, The (Stevenson), 57, 62 in The Wrecker, 23, 264

publication, 308 Faustin, La (Goncourt), 163
Fiedler, Leslie, A., 82, 108311
Ebb-Tide, The (Stevenson), 233, 271 on Stevenson’s good and evil
Attwater in, 23, 36, 221, 276–81 themes, 3–24
bottle imagery in, 276–77 Fielding, Henry, 37, 46, 262
class status in, 272 Tom Jones, 90
criticism, 272 Flaubert, Gustave, 162
Davis in, 221, 272–76, 281 Madame Bovary, 163
Robert Herrick in, 23, 36, 224, Fogel, Daniel Mark, 176
272–78, 280–81 Footnote to History, A (Stevenson)
Huish in, 272–73, 276–78, 281 publication, 308
narrative, 38, 272, 275–76, 279 “Foreign Lands” (Stevenson), 257
publication, 309 Forster, E.M., 54
Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes Fowler, Alastair
(Stevenson) criticism, 213–14, 234
publication, 307 Freedman, Jonathan, 199
Eigner, Edwin, 62, 98, 104 Free indirect speech, 90–97, 100
Elegy Written in a Country Freud, Sigmund, 108, 200, 222
Churchyard (Gray), 43 insights, 111–12, 118, 165
Eliot, George, 27, 40, 80 and psychoanalysis, 122, 215, 221
Ellis, Havelock symbolism, 233
The Criminal, 186 Frost, Robert
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 249 “Directive,” 250
Entail, The (Galt), 59 “Pasture,” 249
“Escape at Bedtime” (Stevenson), Frye, Northrop, 166
255
Expedition of Humphrey Clinker, The Galt, John, 60, 92
(Smollett), 224 The Entail, 59
Gaskell, Elizabeth, 179
Familiar Studies of Men and Books “Wives and Daughters,” 176
(Stevenson), 46 Garrett, Peter K., 125
publication, 308 General History of the Robberies and
Father-son relationship theme Murders of the Most Notorious
in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll Pyrates, A (Defoe), 231
and Mr. Hyde, 106–12, 119–23, Gibbon, Lewis Grassie, 54, 59–61
126, 129–33, 137–38, 144, Sunset Song, 75
146–47, 153, 192, 219 Gifford, Douglas, 312
in Treasure Island, 214–23, 225, on Scottish fiction and The
231–32, 234–36, 241 Master of Ballantrae, 53–77
in Weir of Hermiston, 79, 83, 85, Gillespie (Hay), 54
87–88 Gissing, George, 112
Index 323
Golden Bowl, The ( James), 178 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 38, 53, 81,
Golding, William 175, 253
Lord of the Flies, 50 Scarlet Letter (Hawthorne), 54, 66
Goncort, Edmond de, 167 “Young Goodman Brown,” 66
Chérie, 163–64 Hay, John Macdougall, 60, 74
La Faustin, 163 Gillespie (Hay), 54
Good and evil themes, 13–24 “Hayloft, The” (Stevenson), 258
in Kidnapped, 15–18, 63 Hazlitt, William, 6, 32, 34–35, 41
in The Master of Ballantrae, 15, Heart of Midlothian, The (Scott),
17–22, 24, 63–67 56–58
in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll Henley, W.E., 27, 246, 255, 307–8
and Mr. Hyde, 15, 17, 21, 24, Herbert, Walter, 275
63, 129 Herrick, Robert, 249, 258
in Treasure Island, 15–17, 63, Hesperides (Herrick), 274
228 Hesperides (Herrick), 274
in Weir of Hermiston, 15, 23 Hillier, Robert Irwin, 277
“Good Play, A” (Stevenson), 121 Hoggs, James, 60, 63, 74, 76
Gosse, Edmund, 170, 196–97, 201 “A Boy’s Song,” 253
“Gossip on Romance, A” The Confessions of a Justified
(Stevenson), 27–30, 164, 166 Sinner, 59, 61, 65–66, 69, 73
Graham, Kenneth “Kilmeny,” 55
criticism, 267 The Private Memoirs and
Grant, James, 54 Confessions of a Justified Sinner,
Gray, Thomas 54
Elegy Written in a Country Hollander, John, 312
Churchyard, 43 on A Child’s Garden of Verses,
“Ode on a Distant Prospect of 245–60
Eton College,” 176 “Holy Willie’s Prayer” (Burns), 69
Great Expectations (Dickens), 112 Homo Ludens: A Study of the
Greene, Graham, 14 Play-Element in Culture
Guy Mannering (Scott), 54, 245 (Huizinga), 173
Hopkins, Gerard Manley, 29–30, 36
Haggard, H. Rider, 199 Horace, 168–69
King Solomon’s Mines, 27 Ars Poetica, 161
Hamlet (Shakespeare), 98 House of Eld, The (Stevenson), 23
“Happy Thought, The” oedipal rage in, 134
(Stevenson), 254 House with the Green Shutters, The
Hardy, Thomas, 1, 112 (Brown), 59
The Mayor of Casterbridge, 59 Housman, A.E., 246
Wessex Poems, 255 Howells, William Dean, 161, 173,
Hart, Francis 178
The Scottish Novel, 55, 59 Hugo, Victor, 81–82
324 Index
Huizinga, Johann, 173, 179 “The Art of Fiction,” 31, 80,

Homo Ludens:A Study of the 159–62, 164, 167, 173, 175,
Play-Element in Culture, 173 308
Hulme, T.E., 37 The Bostonians, 167–68
“Humble Remonstrance, A” The Golden Bowl, 178
(Stevenson), 31–33, 37, 80–82, Portrait of a Lady (James), 30, 66,
159–60, 164–68, 308, 226 164, 168, 175
Hutcheson, Francis, 56 The Princess Casamassima, 167,
175
Imagery, Stevenson’s Roderick Hudson (James), 168,
of authority, 212, 215–18, 226 175, 177
birds, 44 compared to Stevenson, 1,
bottle, 276–77, 295–300 159–83
Christian, 187, 216 on Stevenson, 25–26, 160,
of poetic flame, 43 162–63, 167, 170–74, 180–81
snake, 229 The Wings of the Dove, 174
Ingelow, Jean, 253 Johnson, Ben, 41, 251, 255
Mopsa the Fairy, 253 “Why I Write Not of Love,” 249
In the South Seas (Stevenson), 284, Joyce, James, 14
298
marriage certificate in, 287 Kafka, Franz, 225
Tuamotus in, 277 Keating, Peter, 196
Island Nights’ Entertainment Keats, John, 1, 40–46, 50
(Stevenson) “Ode to a Nightingale,” 143
publication, 287, 309 Sleep and Poetry, 43
stories in, 282–84, 290 Kidnapped (Stevenson), 2, 46, 63,
Island Voyage, An (Stevenson), 46 171, 174, 233
adventure theme, 38–39 David Balfour in, 10, 17, 23,
publication, 307 56–57, 62, 64, 86, 165, 172,
Isle of Voices, The (Stevenson), 233, 212, 231, 236–37
309 chance theme in, 57
Kalamake in, 300–1, 303 childhood tale, 16, 167, 245, 253
Keola in, 300–3 Ebenezer in, 221, 236
Lehua in, 301, 303 general reversal in, 212
magic in, 300–3 good and evil theme in, 15–18,
narrative, 282–83, 290, 300–4 63
Ivanhoe (Scott), 54 Hoseason in, 224, 240
publication, 308
James, Henry, 18, 20, 22, 32, 35–36, Rankeillor in, 69
79, 81, 86, 98, 112, 198–99, 226, Scottish style of, 10
245, 263 Alan Breck Stewart in, 17–18, 23,
The American, 160–61, 175–80 57, 63, 65, 96, 212, 221, 227
Index 325
structure of, 38 Mann, Thomas, 14

Kiely, Robert, 312 Man of Feeling, The (Makenzie), 55
on Stevenson’s retention of Markheim (Stevenson), 51, 109
child’s imagination, 25–52 patricidal protagonist of, 121–22
“Kilmeny” (Hogg), 55 Marlow, Joseph Conrad, 29
King of the Golden River, The Master of Ballantrae, The
(Ruskin), 247 (Stevenson), 2, 13, 245
King Solomon’s Mines (Haggard), 27 Alison in, 20, 22, 24, 64, 68–72
Kipling, Rudyard, 1, 50, 110 Jessie Broun in, 23–24, 68–69
Kitchin, George, 60 Chevalier Burke in, 17, 19, 65,
Kubla Khan (Coleridge), 43 72, 75
chance theme, 64, 74–75
“Land of Counterpane, The” cowardice in, 17–18
(Stevenson), 256 criticism, 62
“Land of Story-Books, The” Henry Durie in, 18–21, 36, 57,
(Stevenson), 250–51 64–70, 72–76
Lang, Andrew, 27, 38, 185, 199 James Durie in, 18–21, 57,
“Lantern-Bearers, The” 64–65, 67–76, 227, 238–39
(Stevenson), 42 good and evil theme, 15, 17–22,
“Last Words of Lucky Spence” 24, 63–67, 70–76
(Ramsay), 69 Ephraim Mackellar in, 10, 17–22,
Lawrence, D.H., 1 53, 61, 64–76, 82
Lee, Albert, 294 narration of, 17–18
Letters to His Family and Friends preface, 3–4
(Stevenson), 171 providence theme in, 64, 74
Lilac Sunbonnet, The (Crockett), 55 publication, 46
“Lodging for the Night, A” realism, 167
(Stevenson), 62 Scottish style of, 10, 53–77
Lombroso, Cesare, 185–87 sibling rivals in, 135
Lord of the Flies (Golding), 50 success of, 21
Lovelace, Richard, 259 “Marching Song” (Stevenson), 254
“To Althea from Prison,” 258 Maude, H.E., 281
Low, Will H., 28, 262, 264, 270 Mayor of Casterbridge, The (Hardy),
Lubbock, Percy, 82 59
McClure, Samuel Sidney, 265
Macaire (Stevenson and Henley) McDonald, Angus, 59
publication, 308 McNeil, Robert, 247
Macdonald, George, 55 Mehew, Ernest, 1
Mackenzie, Henry Meiklejohn, John, 40
The Man of Feeling, 55 Melville, Herman, 14, 274
Maclaren, Ian, 54 Moby Dick, 53–54, 66
Madame Bovary (Flaubert), 163 Omoo, 272, 275
326 Index
Pequod, 71 “My Ship and I” (Stevenson), 252

Typee, 272 “My Treasures” (Stevenson), 121
Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin
(Stevenson) Nabokov, Vladimir, 199
publication, 308 Narrative, Stevenson’s, 33, 36
Memories and Portraits (Stevenson), autobiographical, 204
46, 164, 168 of “The Beach of Fales?,” 282–93
publication, 308 of “The Bottle Imp,” 283–84,
Menikoff, Barry 291, 293–300
criticism, 282–84, 286 conflicting tendencies, 51
Meredith, George of The Ebb-Tide, 38, 272, 275–76,
The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, 112 279
Mermaid (Andersen), 246 first-person, 22, 82–83
Merry Men and Other Tales and genius of, 1–2, 10
Fables, The (Stevenson), 46, 63 historical guise, 54
publication, 308 of The Isle of Voices, 282–83, 290,
regret in, 4 300–4
Mill, J.S., 106 moral nucleus of, 4
Milton, John, 1, 65, 238 of romantic fiction, 30–31
Paradise Lost, 256 of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll
Misadventures of John Nicholson, The and Mr. Hyde, 112, 120, 124,
(Stevenson) 126, 139, 154, 193, 204
father-worship in, 55, 62 third-person, 22, 38, 82–83, 120
“Missions in the South Seas” of Treasure Island, 38, 211, 235,
(Stevenson), 279–81 241
Moby Dick (Melville), 53–54, 66 two interpolated, 18
Modernism, 199, 204, 213–14, 225 unreliable, 53
post, 245 of Weir of Hermiston, 79–101
and Stevenson, 283 of The Wrecker, 8, 262–72
Moore, George, 112 Naturalism, 27
criticism, 6–7, 203 New Arabian Nights (Stevenson), 46,
Mopsa the Fairy (Ingelow), 253 57, 62
More New Arabian Nights general reversal in, 212
(Stevenson) Colonel Geraldine in, 212
publication, 308 publication, 308
Muir, Edwin, 54, 61, 80, 99 Newel, J.E., 294
Scott and Scotland, 60, 62 New Songs of Innocence (Blake), 255
Munro, Neil, 54 Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and
“My Bed is a Boat” (Stevenson), 260 Immortality (Young), 258
Myers, F.W.H. Nordau, Max, 187
criticism of, 188–91, 203 “North-West Passage, The”
“My Last Duchess” (Browning), 69 (Stevenson), 251
Index 327
“Note on Realism” (Stevenson), Proust, Marcel, 199

30–31 Providence theme, 63, 275
in The Master of Ballantrae, 64, 74
“Ode: Intimations of Immortality” “Providence and the Guitar”
(Wordsworth), 175 (Stevenson), 39
“Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton “Pulvis et Umbra” (Stevenson),
College” (Gray), 176 46–48
“Ode to a Nightingale” (Keats), 143
Old Mortality (Scott), 56 Radcliffe, Ann, 27
Omoo (Melville), 272, 275 Ramsay, Alan
Ong, Walter, 285 “Last Words of Lucky Spence,”
Ordeal of Richard Feverel, The 69
(Meredith), 112 Reade, Charles, 40
Osbourne, Lloyd, 16, 23, 135, Realism, 14, 27, 30–31, 59, 111, 199
138–39, 215, 263, 270–72, 276 American, 163
and defeat, 173
Paradise Lost (Milton), 256 displacement, 166
Parsons, Coleman, 60 French, 159, 163
“Pasture” (Frost), 249 functionalist, 196
Pater, Walter, 199 and romanticism, 160–61, 175,
Pavilion on the Links, A (Stevenson), 180–81, 204–5, 271
63 and Stevenson, 284
Pequod (Melville), 71 Redgauntlet (Scott), 59
“Persons of the Tale, The” “Resolution and Independence”
(Stevenson), 224, 227 (Wordsworth), 176
Petrarch, 256 Richardson, Joan, 256, 262
Pilgrim’s Progress (Bunyan), 56 Rise of the Novel, The (Watt, I.), 161
“Pirate Story” (Stevenson), 252 Robinson Crusoe (Defoe), 174, 180
Poe, Edgar Allan, 4, 33 Rob Roy (Scott), 60
Portrait of a Lady (James), 30, 66, Robson, Wallace
164, 168, 175 criticism, 214–15, 229, 232
Pond, Ezra, 163 Roderick Hudson (James), 168, 175,
Pope, Alexander 177
criticism of, 213 Romanticism, 1, 5, 10, 13–14,
Prince Otto (Stevenson), 46 26–37, 40–42, 45–46, 49, 53, 55,
hero of, 18 57, 59–60, 81–82, 95, 99, 162,
narrative, 22, 83 246
publication, 308 English, 176
Princess Casamassima, The (James), and escape, 173
167, 175 male, 199–201
Private Memoirs and Confessions of a nostalgia, 175–77, 179–80, 265
Justified Sinner, The (Hogg), 54 and the novel, 169
328 Index
and realism, 160–61, 175, 180, 238, 251

204–5, 271 Hamlet, 98
and Stevenson, 245, 253, 273, villains, 241
283–84, 295 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 46, 200
values, 159 “A Defense of Poetry,” 161
Ruskin, John, 153 Silverado Squatters, The (Stevenson),
The King of the Golden River, 247 86
publication, 308
Saintsbury, George, 27, 199 “Sing me a song of a lad that...”
Salinger, J.D., 50 (Stevenson)
The Catcher in the Rye, 50 self-elegy, 2–3
Sand, George, 175 Simpson, K.G., 312
Sandison, Alan, 312 on the narrator of Weir of
on Treasure Island, 211–43 Hermiston, 79–101
Scarlet Letter (Hawthorne), 54, 66 “Singing” (Stevenson), 258
Schubert, Franz, 247 “Sire de Malatroit’s Door, The”
Schumann, Robert, 246 (Stevenson), 62
Scott and Scotland (Muir), 60, 62 Sitwell, Frances, 307
Scott, Walter, 27, 37–38, 40, 55, 61, Sleep and Poetry (Keats), 43
63, 74–75, 180 Smith, G. Gregory, 99
The Antiquary, 54 Smith, Vanessa, 312
Guy Mannering, 54, 245 on Stevenson’s tales of the island
The Heart of Midlothian, 56–58 world of the pacific, 261–306
Old Mortality, 56 Smollett, Tobias, 218
Redgauntlet, 59 The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle,
Rob Roy, 60 224
The Talisman, 54 The Adventures of Roderick
Waverley, 54, 56, 59–60, 94 Random, 224
Scottish Fiction, 53–77, 69, 75 The Expedition of Humphrey
affirmative, regenerative type, 55 Clinker, 224
escape from realities, 54 Stanley, Henry Morton, 261
Kailyard school of, 54–55, 58, 87 Stevenson, Fanny Osbourne, 15,
materialism, 60 135, 137, 215, 307–8
negative and satiric, 55–56, 66 Stevenson, Robert Louis, 239
self-revealing, 69, 76 achievements, 1–4, 172
social regeneration, 57–58 birth, 1, 13, 307
supernatural, 62–63 and Calvinism, 4
traditional conservatism, 74, criticism, 6–8, 11, 13, 15, 25–27,
80–81, 84, 86, 99 29, 37, 65, 203, 297
Scottish Novel, The (Hart), 55, 59 death, 1, 25–26, 45, 51, 196, 296,
Selected Letters (Stevenson), 1 309
Shakespeare, William, 29, 40, 167, humor, 1, 67
Index 329
imagination, 28, 34, 42, 49–50, Dr. Jekyll in, 4, 14, 21, 61, 63,
57, 166–67 103–5, 111–12, 117–19,
intelligence, 33 123–37, 139, 141–48, 150–54,
compared to James, 1, 159–83 185, 187, 189–90, 192–95,
political creed, 110 201–4
and professionalism, 186, Dr. Hastie Lanyon in, 68, 103,
199–202 105, 111, 113, 115, 117, 123,
relation to family, 53, 59, 62–63, 126–30, 141, 150–54, 185,
69, 104, 106–12, 120–23, 188, 193, 195, 204
129–31, 134–35, 137–38, narrator of, 114, 124, 139, 154,
225–26, 263–64, 267 204
Whitman’s influence on, 1 Poole in, 116, 133–34, 141,
Stevens, Wallace, 256, 258, 260 148–49, 151–52, 154, 188,
St. Ives (Stevenson), 36, 54, 92 194–95
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. publication, 195, 308
Hyde, The (Stevenson), 2, 46, 51 regret in, 4
atavistic class in, 185–95 resentment of patriarchy in,
Danvers Carew in, 113–16, 103–58
123–31, 134, 136–37, 141, sibling rivalry in, 134–36
147, 153, 188, 190–91, 193 structure, 141, 193–94
criticism, 59, 118, 175, 185, 188, Gabriel John Utterson in, 103–5,
196 112–14, 116–17, 123, 127,
dissociation of writing from self 129, 131–37, 140–44, 147–54,
in, 185–210 185, 187–88, 191–95, 202
dream allegory in, 17, 43, 111, verbalism in, 6
120, 147, 200 Victorian society in, 103–7,
emasculation in, 148 112–13, 118–19, 123, 127,
Richard Enfield in, 113–16, 123, 132, 141–42, 146, 185, 191,
130–31, 139–42, 150, 154, 195
185, 188, 191–93, 202 woman’s exclusion from, 113,
father-son relationship in, 119, 124–26, 137–41, 145–46,
106–12, 119–23, 126, 129–33, 153
137–38, 144, 146–47, 153, Strong, Isobel, 293
192, 219 Style, writing of, 6–9, 22–23, 79, 88,
good and evil theme in, 15, 17, 92, 152, 226, 261
21, 24, 63, 129 changing, 25–26, 38, 46–47, 66,
Mr. Guest in, 142–43, 194, 202 68
Mr. Hyde in, 4, 14, 63, 104, 109, criticism, 196, 203
111–19, 123–29, 131, 133–39, light clarity of, 4
141–54, 185–95, 200–4 non-functionalist, 198
impotence in, 147, 151 retention of child’s imagination,
irony in, 142, 190, 195, 205 2, 15–16, 25–52, 247, 253–58
330 Index
romantic storyteller, 1, 5, 10, adventure story, 211, 213, 218,

13–14, 26–37, 40–42, 45–46, 223, 228, 233, 240
49, 53, 167, 169, 174–76, authority image in, 212, 215–18,
179–81, 245, 273, 283–84, 295 226
Sunset Song (Gibbon), 75 Admiral Benbow in, 215, 218
“Supernatural in Fiction, The” Billy Bones in, 215–16, 218–19,
(Henley), 27 222–23, 225
“Swing, The” (Stevenson), 246, Black Dog in, 215, 223, 225–26
256–57 Blind Pew in, 216, 222
Swinnerton, Frank Cap’n Flint in, 211–14, 226–27,
criticism, 15 235, 240–41
Symbolism, 201 childhood tale, 16, 165, 245, 253
Scottish, 53, 56, 59, 61, 66, 84, criticism, 162–63, 213–14
172, 284 dreams in, 212–13, 217, 225, 229,
sea and ship, 63, 167, 171, 231, 233–35, 240–41
282–93 father-son relationship in,
sexual, 145, 167 214–23, 225, 231–32, 234–36,
simplicity, 67 241
general reversal in, 212
Talisman, The (Scott), 54 good and evil theme in, 15–17,
“Tam O’ Shanter” (Burns), 66 63, 228
Taylor, Jane, 247 Israel Hands in, 231–32, 237
Thackeray, William Makepeace, 68, Jim Hawkins in, 16–18, 23, 30,
80, 179 50, 57, 63, 165, 211–31,
“Denis Duval,” 176 234–41
Vanity Fair, 68 Jim’s father in, 215–17, 222
Thomas, Ronald, 204 irony in, 231, 239
“Thrawn Janet” (Stevenson), 46, 63 Livesey in, 217–22, 224, 226–27,
“Tintern Abbey” (Wordsworth), 231–32, 239
170, 175–76 narrative, 38, 211, 235, 241
“To Althea from Prison” (Lovelace), publication, 308
258 ship symbolism, 231
Tom Jones (Fielding), 90 Long John Silver in, 14–16, 23,
Tranter, Nigel, 54 63, 212–13, 217, 219–22,
“Travel” (Stevenson), 250 224–31, 234–40
Travels with a Donkey (Stevenson), snake imagery, 229
46 Alexander Smollett in, 16–18,
publication, 308 217–25, 231, 234
Treasure Island (Stevenson), 2, 13, Tom in, 228–29, 231–32, 234,
27, 46, 167, 171, 211–43 237–38
adolescent rite of passage, Trelawney in, 217–18, 220–21,
220–21, 232, 235–36, 241 225–26, 230
Index 331
woman’s exclusion from, free indirect speech in, 90, 92–97,

138 100
Treasure of Franchard, The irony in, 82, 87–92, 94–96,
(Stevenson), 5 99–100
Trollope, Anthony, 27, 80, 198, 267 Kirstie in, 24, 55, 83–84, 88–89,
An Autobiography, 267 94–96
Twain, Mark, 50, 165 narrator in, 79–101
Typee (Melville), 272 sexual crisis in, 23
style indirect libre, 97
Underwoods (Stevenson), 255 third person narrative in, 22, 38
publication, 308 Adam Weir in, 220–21
Archie Weir in, 23–24, 55,
Vanity Fair (Thackeray), 68 61–62, 79, 83–88, 90–97, 99,
Veeder, William, 312 220–21
on the resentment of patriarchy Wessex Poems (Hardy), 255
in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll “Where Go the Boats?”
and Mr. Hyde, 103–58 (Stevenson), 252
“Victor Hugo’s Romance” Whitman, Walt, 248, 253
(Stevenson), 37 influence on Stevenson, 1
Virgil, 274 Whitmee, S.J., 294
Virginia Puerisque (Stevenson), 46 “Why I Write Not of Love”
publication, 308 ( Johnson), 249
Wilde, Oscar, 190, 199, 267
Waltman, Walt, 239 “Will o’ the Mill” (Stevenson), 46,
Watt, A.P., 196 62–63
Watt, Ian, 162 “Windy Nights” (Stevenson), 248
The Rise of the Novel, 161 Wings of the Dove, The (James), 174
Watts, Isaac, 253 Wittig, Kurt, 98
Waverley (Scott), 54, 56, 59–60, 94 “Wives and Daughters” (Gaskell),
“We Are Seven” (Wordsworth), 249 176
Weir of Hermiston (Stevenson), 13, Wodehouse, P.G.
51, 79–101, 167, 172, 176–77 criticism, 213
Christina in, 84–85, 87 Woolf, Leonard, 203
criticism, 57, 59, 110 Wordsworth, William, 2, 32, 50, 86,
Gilbert Elliot in, 88 167, 247–48, 250
father-son conflict in, 79, 83 “Ode: Intimations of
Glenalmond in, 221 Immortality,” 175
good and evil theme in, 15, 23 “Resolution and Independence,”
Dr. Gregory in, 83 176
Hermiston in, 83, 87, 92–93 “Tintern Abbey,” 170, 175–76
Frank Innes in, 18, 23–24, 84, “We Are Seven,” 249
89–92 Wrecker, The (Stevenson and
332 Index
Osbourne), 276 Wrong Box, The (Stevenson and

beachcomber narrative, 8, Osbourne), 2
262–72 childhood tale, 16
Norris Carthew in, 268–69, 271 fun in, 6
William Diaper in, 265–66, Wuthering Heights (Brontë), 59
269–70 Nellie Dean in, 53, 64
James Dodd in, 263–64
Loudon Dodd in, 8–10, 23, 36, Young, Edward
263–66, 268–71, 275 Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and
father-son relationship, 23, 264 Immortality, 258
Alexander Loudon, 264 “Young Goodman Brown”
nostalgia in, 262 (Hawthorne), 66
Jim Pinkerton in, 8, 23, 263–66, “Young Night-Thought”
275 (Stevenson), 258
publication, 262, 265
structure of, 38 Zola, Émile, 48, 167, 173, 180
Uncle Adam in, 264 Stevenson’s criticism of, 27–29,
Wringhim, Robert, 72, 141 41

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Bloom’s Modern Critical Views

African American Kate Chopin Henry James

Edited and with an introduction by

Introduction © 2005 by Harold Bloom.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Contributing Editor: Jesse Zuba

Editor’s Note vii

The Style of Stevenson 5

James and Stevenson:

The Sedulous Ape: Atavism,

Treasure Island: The Parrot’s Tale 211

My introduction attempts an evaluative overview of Robert Louis Stevenson,

Stevenson married a motherly woman a decade older than himself, and

What a singular thing is this undistinguished perpetuation of a

The quotation from Wordsworth’s “My heart leaps up” is exactly

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

Merry of soul he sailed on a day

Mull was astern, Rum on the port,

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

Give me again all that was there,

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

Billow and breeze, islands and seas,

Memorably poignant and rather deliberately slight, this is almost self-

Although an old, consistent exile, the editor of the following

no more. Elsewhere he is delighted with the presence of what is

That “regret” is persuasive in Stevenson, including the best of his

Critical opinion remains divided upon the eternally popular R.L.S.

The Style of Stevenson

B efore writing this chapter I ought to explain that I am quite incapable of

This was the genius of Stevenson; and it is simply silly to complain of

Originally the Introduction to The Master of Ballantrae

“That angel was a devil ...”

From No! in Thunder. © 1960 by Leslie A. Fiedler.

If we remember that Long John Silver appeared for years in the

It is Stevenson’s difficult task to juggle both truths: to contain in a single

the merely picturesque, Stevenson would have had frankly to abandon

In his books, Stevenson’s protagonists are often foster sons, orphans in

The Aesthetics of Adventure

word, he is an artist accomplished even to sophistication, whose

The most consistent characteristics of Stevenson’s elusive and quixotic

As the visible world is measured, mapped, tested, weighed, we

It is thoroughly characteristic of Stevenson that, in the midst of a

This, then, is the end, this is the purpose in physiology and in

It is in juxtaposition to a statement like this that Stevenson’s attitude

[Stevenson’s] doctrine, if I apprehend him, is something like

event, of incident. His own stories are written on this principle:

In the great century of biography and character portrayal, Stevenson

Signiﬁcantly enough, Stevenson’s most important single piece of

In his reply, “A Humble Remonstrance,” published in Longman’s

No art—to use the daring phrase of Mr. James—can

In all imitations two elements must coexist, and not only.

Stevenson, early a reader of Romantic prose, particularly Coleridge,

combination of familiar critical assumptions; moreover, it provides an insight

It is the blot on Richard Feverel, for instance, that it begins to

A work of art is neat and ﬁnite because it is fully comprehensible in its