VI. RASCALS
BEING A DISCOURSE UPON GOOD, HONEST SCOUNDRELISM AND VILLAINS.
The people that inhabit novels are like other peoples of the earth--ifthey are peaceful, they have no history. So that, therefore, in novels,as in nations, it is the great restless heights of society that are tobe approached with greatest awe and that engage admiration and regard.Everybody is interested in Nero, but not one person in ten thousand cantell you anything definite about Constantine or even Marcus Aurelius. Ifyou should speak off-handedly about Amelia Sedley in the presence of athousand average readers you would probably miss 85 per cent. of effect;if you said Becky Sharp the whole thousand would understand.
There is this to be said of disreputable folk, that they are clever andpicturesque and interesting, at least.
An elderly jeweler in New York City was arrested several years agoupon the charge of receiving stolen gold and silver plate, watches andjewelry from well-known thieves. For forty years he had been arespected merchant, a church officer, a husband, father, and citizen, ofirreproachable reputation, with enduring friendships. He was charitable,liberal and kindly. For decade after decade he was the experienced, wiseand fatherly "fence" of professional burglars and thieves. Why, it wouldbe an education in itself to know that man, to shake his honest hand,fresh from charity or concealment, and smoke a pipe with him andhear him talk about things frankly. When he gave to the missionarycollection, rest assured he gave sincerely; when he "covered swag,"into the melting pot for an industrious burglar, he did so only in theregular course of business.
Strange as it may seem, even criminals have human feelings in commonwith all of us. The old Thug who stepped aside into the bushes andprayed earnestly while his son was throwing his first stranglingcloth around the throat of the English traveler--prayed for that son'shonorable, successful beginning in his life devotion--was a good father.And when he was told that the son had acted with unusual skill, whocan doubt that his tears of joy were sincere and humble tears ofthankfulness? At least Bowanee knew. Can you not imagine a kind-heartedChinese matron saying to her neighbor over the bamboo fence, "Yes,we sent the baby down to the beach (or the river bank or the forest)yesterday. We couldn't afford to keep it. I hope the gods have taken itslittle soul. At any rate it is sure of salvation hereafter."
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Some twenty years ago I took the night train from Pineville toBarbourville, in the Kentucky mountains, reaching the latter placeabout 11 o'clock of a cold, rainy, dark November night. Only one otherpassenger alighted. There was an express wagon to take us to the town,a mile or so distant, and the wagon was already heavy with freightpackages. The road was through a narrow lane, hub-deep with mud, andwhat, with stalling and resting, we were more than half an hour gettingto the hotel. My fellow passenger was about my age, and was a shrewd,well-informed native of the vicinity. He knew the mineral, timber andagricultural resources, was evidently an enterprising business man andan intelligent but not voluble talker. He accepted a cigar, and advisedme to see the house in Barbourville where the late Justice Samuel Millerwas born. At the hotel he registered first, and, as he was going toleave next day and I was to remain several days, he told the clerk togive me the better of the two rooms vacant. It was a very pleasant actof thoughtfulness. The name on the register was "A. Johnson." The nextday I asked the clerk about Mr. Johnson. My fellow passenger was AndyJohnson, whose fame as a feud-fighter and slayer of men has never beenexceeded in the history of mountain feuds. He then had three or four mento his credit, definitely, and several doubtful ascriptions. He added afew more, I believe, before he met the inevitable.
Now, while Mr. Johnson, in all matters where killing seemed to him to beappropriate, was a most prompt and accurate man in accomplishing it, yethe was not the murderer that ignorant and isolated folks conceive suchpersons to be. The cigar I had given him was a very bad, cheap cigar,and, if he had merely wanted murder, he had every reason to kill me forgiving it to him, and he had a perfect night for the deed. But he smokedit to the stub without a complaint or remark and saw that I got the bestroom in the hotel. Johnson was a cautious and considerate fellow-man,whose murders were doubtless private hobbies and exercises growing outof his environment and heredity.
One of the houses I most delight to enter in a certain town is one whereI am always sure to see a devoted and happy wife and beautiful,playful children clustering around the armchair in which sits a man whocommitted one of the most cold-blooded assassinations you can imagine.He is an honored, esteemed and model citizen. His acquittal was amiracle in a million chances. He has justified it. It is beautiful tosee those happy children clinging to the hand that--
Well, dear friends, the dentist is not a cruel man in his socialcapacity, and you can get delicious viands instead of nauseous medicinesat the doctor's private table.
That is why beginning novel readers should take no advice. Strike outalone through the highways and lanes of story, character and experience.The best novelist is the one who fears not to tell you the truth, whichis more wonderful than fiction. It is always the best hearts that bendto mistakes. Absolute virtue is as sterile as granite rock; absolutevice is as poisonous as a stagnant pond. No healthy interest orspeculation can linger about either. Enter into the struggle and knowhuman nature; don't stay outside and try to appear superior.
For, which of us has not his crimes of thought to account for? Thinknot, because Andy Johnson or William Sykes or Dr. Webster actuallykilled his man, that you are guiltless, because you haven't. Have younever wanted to? Answer that, in your conscience and in solitude--not tome. Speak up to yourself and then say whether the difference between youand the recorded criminal is not merely the difference between the overtact and the faltering wish. It is a matter of courage or of custom.Speaking for one gentleman, who knows himself and is not afraid toconfess, I can say that, while he could not kill a mouse with his ownhand, he has often murdered men in his heart. It may have been in fieryyouth over the wrong name on a dancing card, or, later, when a rivalgot the better of him in discussion, or, when the dreary bore came andwouldn't go, or, when misdirected goodness insisted on thrusting uponhim intended kindness that was wormwood and poison to the soul. Arewe not covetous (not confessedly, of course, but actually)? Is notcovetousness the thwarted desire of theft without courage? How manyof us, now--speaking man to man--can open up our veiled thoughts anddesires and then look the Ten Commandments in the eye without blushing?
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The bravest, noblest, gentlest gentleman I have ever known was the Countde la Fere, whom we at the Hotel de Troisville, in old Paris, called"Athos." He was not merely sans peur et sans reproche as Bayard, but waspositive in his virtues. He fought for his friends without even askingthe cause of the fray. Yet, what a prig he seemed to be at first, withhis eternal gentle melancholy, his irreproachable courtesy, unvaryingkindness and complete unselfishness. You cannot--quite--warm--to--a--man--who--is--so--perfectly--right--that--he--embarrasses--everybody--but--the--angels.
But, when he ordered the gloomy and awful death of the treacherousMiladi, woman though she was, and thus as a perfect gentleman took onhuman frailty also, ah! how attractively noble and strong he became I Inthat respect he was the antithetical corollary of William Sykes, who wasa purposeless, useless and uninterestingly regular scoundrel, thief andbrute, until he redeemed himself by becoming the instrument of socialjustice and pounding that unendurable lady, Miss Nancy, of his name,into absence from the world. Perhaps I have remarked before--and even ifI have it is pleasant to repeat it--that Bill Sykes had his faults, asalso have most of us, but it was given to him to earn forgiveness by theaid of a cheap chair and the providential propinquity of Miss Nancy. Inever think of it without regretting that poor Bill Whally is dead. Hedid it--so--much--to--my--taste!
Who shall we say is the most loved and respected criminal in fiction?Not Monsignor Rodin, of "The Wandering Jew;" not Thenardier in "LesMiserables." These a
re really not criminals; they are allegoricalfigures of perfect crime. They are solar centers, so far off and fixedthat one may regard them only with awe, reverence and fear. They aretypes of fate, desire, temptation and chastisement. Let us turn to ourown flesh and blood and speak gratefully of them.
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Who says Count Fosco? Now there is a criminal worthy of affection andconfidence. What an expansive nature, with kindness presented on everyside. Even the dogs fawned upon him and the birds came at his call.An accomplished gentleman, considerately mannered--queer, as becomes aforeigner, yet possessing the touchstone of universal sympathy. Anotherman with crime to commit almost certainly would have dispatched it withruthless coldness; but how kindly and gently Count Fosco administeredthe cord of necessity. With what delicacy he concealed the bowstringand spoke of the Bosphorus only as a place for moonlight excursions. Hecould have presented prussic acid and sherry to a lady in such a manneras to render the results a grateful sacrifice to his courtesy. It wasall due to his corpulence; a "lean and hungry" villain lacks repose,patience and the tact of good humor. In almost every small social andindividual attitude Count Fosco was human. He was exceedingly attentiveto his wife in society and bullied her only in private and whennecessary. He struck no dramatic attitudes. "The world is mine oyster!"is not said by real men bent on terrible deeds. Count Fosco is theperfect villain, and also the perfect criminal, inasmuch as he not onlyacts naturally, but deliberately determines the action instead of beingdrawn into it or having it forced upon him.
He was a highly cultivated type of Andy Johnson, inasmuch as crimewith him was not a life purpose, but what is called in business a"side-line." All of us have our hobbies; the closely confined clerkgoes home and roots up his yard to plant flower bulbs or cabbage plants;another fancies fowls; another man collects pewter pots and old brassand the millionaire takes to priceless horses; others of us turn fromuseful statistics and go broke on novels or poetry or music. Count Foscowas an educated gentleman and the pleasure of life was his purpose;crime and intrigue were his recreations. Andy Johnson was a goodbusiness man and wealth producer; murder was the direction in whichhis private understanding of personal disagreements was exercised andvented. Some men turn to poker playing, which is as wasteful as murderand not half as dignified. Count Fosco is the villain par excellence ofnovels. I do not remember what he did, because "The Woman in White" isthe best novel in the world to read gluttonously at a sitting and thenforget absolutely. It is nearly always a new book if you use it thatway. When the world is dark, the fates bilious, the appetite deadand the infernal twinges of pain or sickness seem beyond reach of thedoctor, "The Woman in White" is a friend indeed.
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But the man of men for villains, not necessarily criminals; but theordinary, every-day, picturesque worthies of good, honest scoundrelismand disreputableness is Sir Robert Louis Stevenson. You can affordconscientiously to stuff ballot boxes in order that his election may besecured as Poet Laureate of Rascals. Leaving out John Silver and BillyBones and Alan Breck, whom every privately shriven rascal of us simplymust honor and revere as giants of courage, cunning and controlled,conscience, Stevenson turned from singles and pairs, and in "The EbbTide," drove, by turns, tandem and abreast, a four-in-hand of scoundrelsso buoyant, natural, strong, and yet each so totally unlike the others,that every honest novel reader may well be excused for shedding tearswhen he reflects that the marvelous hand and heart that created them aregone forever from the haunts of the interestingly wicked. No novelistever exposed the human nature of rascals as Stevenson did.
Now, lago was not a villain; he was a venomous toad, a scorpion, amad-dog, a poisonous plant in a fair meadow. There was nobody lagoloved, no weakness he concealed, no point of contact with any humanbeing. His sister was Pandora, his brother made the shirt of Nessus,himself dealt in Black Plagues and the Leprosy. The old Serpent waspermitted to rise from his belly and walk upright on the tip of his tailwhen he met Iago, as a demonstration of moral superiority. But thinkof those three Babes-in-the-Wood villains, skipper Davis, the Yankeeswashbuckler and ship scuttler; Herrick, the dreamy poet, ruined bycommerce and early love, with his days of remorse and his days ofcompensatary liquor; and Huish, the great-hearted Scotch ruffian, whochafed at the conventional concealments of trade among pals and nevercould--as a true Scotchman--understand why you should wait to use aknife upon a victim when promptness lay in the club right at hand--thinkof them sailing out of Honolulu harbor on the Farallone.
Let who will prefer to have sailed with Jason or Aeneas or Sinbad; butthe Farallone and its precious freight of rascality gets my money everytime. Think of the three incomparable reprobates afloat, with one caseof smallpox and a cargo of champagne, daring to make no port, with overa hundred million square miles of ocean around them, every ten lookoutknots of it containing a possible peril! It was simply grand--notpirates, shipwrecks or mutinies could beat that problem. And the pathosof the sixth day, when, with every man Jack of them looking deliriumtremens in the face and suspecting each the other, Mr. Huish opened anew case of champagne and--found clear spring water under the Frenchlabel! The honest scoundrels had been laid by the heels by a common winemerchant in the regular way of business! Oh, gentlemen, there should behonor in business; so that gallant villains can be free of betrayal.
The keynote of these gentlemen is struck in the second chapter, whereall three of them writing lies home--Davis and Herrick, sentimentalequivocations, Huish the strongest of brag with nobody to send it to.In a burst of weakness Davis tells Herrick what a villain he has been,through rum, and how he can not let his daughter, "little Adar," knowit. "Yes, there was a woman on board," he said, describing the shiphe had scuttled. "Guess I sent her to hell, if there's such a place.I never dared go home again, and I don't know," he added, bitterly,"what's come to them."
"Thank you, Captain," said Herrick, "I never liked you better!"
Is it not in human nature to cuddle to a great sheepish murderer likethat, who groans in secret for his little girl--if even the girl wastruth? I think she turned out a myth, but he had the sentiment.
Was there ever a more melancholy, remorse-stricken wretch than Cap'nDavis? Or a gentler and seedier poet than Herrick? Or a more finelysodden and soaked old rum sport than Huish (not--Whish!) But it was notuntil they fell in with Attwater that their weakness as scoundrels wasexposed. Attwater was so splendidly religious! He was determined to havethings right if he had to have them so by bloodshed; he saved souls bybullets. Things were right when they were as he thought they shouldbe. And believing so, with Torquemada, Alexander Sixtus and other mostreligious brethren, he was ready to set up the stake and fagot andcauterize sin with fire. One thing you can say about the religious folksthat are big with cocksureness and a mission--they may make mistakes,but the mistake doesn't talk and criticise.
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The only rascal worthy to travel in company with Stevenson's rascalsis the Chevalier Balibari, of Castle Barry, in Ireland, whose admirablememoirs have been so well told by Mr. Thackeray. The Baron de la Mottein "Denis Duval," was advantageously born to ornament the purple andfine linen of picturesque unrighteousness--but his was a brief star thatfell unfinished from its place amidst the Pleiades. Thackeray's geniusran more to disreputable men than to actual villains. But he drew twoscoundrels that will serve as beacon lights to any clean-souled youthwith the instinct to take warning. One was Lord Steyne, the other, Dr.George Brand Firmin; one the aristocratic, class-bred, cynical brute,the other the cold, tuft-hunting trained hypocrite. What encouragementof self-respect Judas Iscariot might have received if he had met Dr.Firmin!
Dr. Chadband, Mr. Pecksniff, Bill Sykes, Fagin, Mr. Murdstone, ofDickens' family--they are all strong in impression, but wholly unreal;mere stage villains and caricatures. A villain who has no good traits,no hobbies of kindness and affection, is never born into the world; heis always created by grotesque novel w
riters.
The villains of Dumas, Hugo, Balzac, Daudet are French. There may havebeen, or may be now such prototypes alive in France--because the Dreyfuscase occurred in France, and no doubt much can happen in that fine,fertile country which translators cannot fully convey over thefrontiers; but they have always seemed to me first cousins to myfriends, the ogres, the evil magicians and the werewolves, and, in thatmuch, not quite natural.
For heroes of the genuine cavalleria type, plumed, doubleted, pumpt andmagnificent, give me Dumas; for good folks and true, the great AmericanFenimore Cooper; but for the blessed company of blooming, breathingrascals, Stevenson and Thackeray all the time.