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Elements of the gothic in Melville and Conrad Connell, Penelope Lee 1969

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ELEMENTS OF THE GOTHIC IN MELVILLE AND CONRAD by PENELOPE LEE CONNELL B.A., U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h Columbia, 1968 A THESIS SUBMITTED I N PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF M a s t e r o f A r t s i n t h e Department o f E n g l i s h We a c c e p t t h i s t h e s i s as c o n f o r m i n g t o t h e r e q u i r e d s t a n d a r d THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA August, 1969 In p r e s e n t i n g t h i s t h e s i s in p a r t i a l f u l f i l m e n t o f the r e q u i r e m e n t s f o r an advanced degree at the U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h Co lumb i a , I a g ree t h a t the L i b r a r y s h a l l make i t f r e e l y a v a i l a b l e f o r r e f e r e n c e and s tudy . I f u r t h e r agree that" p e r m i s s i o n f o r e x t e n s i v e c o p y i n g o f t h i s t h e s i s f o r s c h o l a r l y purposes may be g r a n t e d by the Head o f my Department o r by h i s r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s . It i s u n d e r s t o o d tha t c o p y i n g o r p u b l i c a t i o n o f t h i s t h e s i s f o r f i n a n c i a l g a i n s h a l l not be a l l o w e d w i t h o u t my w r i t t e n p e r m i s s i o n . Department o f The U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h Co lumbia Vancouver 8, Canada Date ABSTRACT T h i s t h e s i s has two p u r p o s e s . The f i r s t i s t o t r a c e t h e g r a d u a l t r a n s f o r m a t i o n o f c e r t a i n G o t h i c t r a i t s , p r i m a r -i l y t h o s e o f t h e v e i l and t h e D o p p e l g a n g e r . f r o m t h e i r o r i g i n a l f o r m i n t h e h i s t o r i c a l G o t h i c t o t h e manner o f t h e i r use by J o s e p h C o n r a d . The second i s t o i n t e r p r e t M o b y - D i c k . L o r d J i m . The S e c r e t S h a r e r , and B e n i t o Cereno i n t e r m s o f G o t h i c i s m , and by t h i s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n b o t h t o s t r e n g t h e n some common i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s and t o i n d i c a t e how c e r t a i n o t h e r s have r e s u l t e d f r o m t h e a u t h o r s ' c a r e f u l and s u c c e s s f u l a t t e m p t s t o h i d e f rom t h e i r c r i t i c s t h e m o r a l B e l i e f s and d i lemmas i n t h e i r w o r k s . When C o l e r i d g e w r o t e t h e R i m e , he was i n t r o d u c i n g a new and v e r y i m p o r t a n t s e t t i n g i n t o G o t h i c l i t e r a t u r e : t h e s e a . Because o f t h e f o r m l e s s n e s s o f t h e s e a , because o f t h e suddennes s o f i t s change i n a p p e a r a n c e f rom s e r e n i t y t o m a l -i c i o u s k i l l e r , and because i t s g l a s s y s u r f a c e h i d e s u n -i m a g i n a b l e unknowns , i t i s o b v i o u s l y w e l l - s u i t e d t o M e l v i l l e ' s p u r p o s e s i n M o b y - D i c k . He makes use o f h i s r e a d e r s ' a c -q u a i n t a n c e w i t h G o t h i c t a l e s i n p o r t r a y i n g Ahab and I s h m a e l , who s t r u g g l e f o r s e l f - k n o w l e d g e by f a c i n g t h e sea and i t s t e r r o r s . I n L o r d J i m . C o n r a d u se s t h e same i n i t i a l s i t u a t i o n : t h e unseen agent o f d e s t r u c t i o n w h i c h t a k e s a l l s e c u r i t y f r o m J i m ' s l i f e , and prompt s i n h i m a q u e s t l i k e t h a t o f t h e A n c i e n t M a r i n e r o r t h e Wandering Jew. He e x i s t s b e h i n d a v e i l which r e p r e s e n t s , as i t does i n Moby-Dick, B e n i t o  Cereno. and most G o t h i c n o v e l s , t h e i n a b i l i t y t o c l a r i f y m o r a l i s s u e s and a c t a c c o r d i n g t o p e r s o n a l m o r a l b e l i e f s . T h i s m o r a l a m b i g u i t y i s o f t e n p h r a s e d i n o t h e r t e r m s , namely t h e d u a l i t y o f b e i n g , t h e "good"-"bad" dichotomy, where two a s p e c t s o f t h e same p e r s o n a r e o f t e n s e p a r a t e d by a v e i l o f some s o r t ; t h i s can be seen i n such s t o r i e s as S t e v e n s o n ' s Dr. J e k v l l and Mr. Hyde. W i l d e ' s D o r i a n Gray, and Poe's W i l l i a m W i l s o n . I t i s a l s o t h e c a s e w i t h The  S e c r e t S h a r e r . I n t h i s s t o r y , Conrad makes a p o i n t o f showing how t h e m o r a l dilemma w h i c h L e g g a t t ' s p r e s e n c e evokes i s d e a l t w i t h by t h e c a p t a i n — b u t n o t , I f e e l , t o t h e c a p t a i n ' s c r e d i t . The v e i l and t h e d o u b l e m o t i f s i n t h e s e s t o r i e s r e v e a l an i n t e r e s t i n g t r a n s f o r m a t i o n ; though i n e a r l y G o t h i c t h e y a r e l i t t l e more than p l o t d e v i c e s , t h e y become i n Con-r a d c e n t r a l c o n c e r n s , t h r o u g h w h i c h t h e i n t e r p r e t a t i o n s o f h i s s t o r i e s may be e f f e c t e d . Thus, as I have t r i e d t o show, G o t h i c i s m , f a r from b e i n g a minor and s h o r t — l i v e d t y p e o f f i c t i o n w hich d i e d out i n t h e e a r l y p a r t o f t h e l a s t c e n t u r y , e x e r t s a p o t e n t and c e n t r a l i n f l u e n c e i n such l i t e r a t u r e as M e l v i l l e ' s and Conrad's. "As far back as 1927," says D. P. Varma i n his book The Gothic Flame. Michael S a d l e i r raised a pertinent question: f I t remains to inquire where, when i t s great days were over, the Gothic romance took refuge. 1 This ques-t i o n s t i l l remains unanswered.! Thus raised again, the problem of what happened to Gothic l i t e r a t u r e can now be seen as more important than ever, f o r modern c r i t i c s have awakened to the fact that the Gothic t r a d i t i o n was not born of the whim of Horace Walpole, nor did i t exist merely to g r a t i f y the t r a n s i t o r y pleasure of the unlettered p u b l i c . Writers of Gothic l i t e r a t u r e f o l -lowed a trend, c e r t a i n l y ; but i t was not the trend of pop-ul a r taste; rather i t was the next step i n the evolution of l i t e r a t u r e — a revolt from what had gone before, an ex-p l o r a t i o n of emotion and the senses i n a new way, and the expression of art i n a comparatively new, d i f f e r e n t , and therefore more e f f e c t i v e medium—the novel. The central attribute of the Gothic i s c o n t r a s t — a n obvious statement, but one implying tremendous p o t e n t i a l . The reasons for t h i s dichotomy are f a i r l y straightforward. F i r s t of a l l , the Gothic i s a r e j e c t i o n of the neoclassic t r a d i t i o n , with i t s b e l i e f i n the p e r f e c t i b i l i t y of man, the ultimate truth of reason, the existence of a reasoning God, the h i e r a r c h i c a l structure of the universe, and so f o r t h . In the works of the "graveyard school" of poets, a l l these assumptions begin to be undermined: most important, death acquires a power—-implicit i n i t s "unknown" qua l i t y — w h i c h i s stronger than f a i t h or reason. And as soon as these two abstracts are questioned, the magnitude of man i n r e l a t i o n to the universe i s reversed. This appears to be both a pleasing and a frightening thing, since i t not only frees man of a l l s o c i a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , but also reduces his cap-a c i t y to control h i s own f a t e . The f i r s t Gothic writers, s t i l l of course l i v i n g i n a neoclassic age, imagined s i t u a -t i o n s i n which, although chaos had apparently replaced order, t h e i r characters nevertheless were able to overcome the un-known i n the name of goodness, truth -, etc. The very unknown i t s e l f , i n f a c t , was made to be an agent of r i g h t reason. Moral purpose i s always of great importance i n the Gothic, but nowhere so much as i n the early part of the t r a d i t i o n , where no action or occurrence—down to the very ghost—s»does not operate f o r moral purposes. Thus the dichotomy was at f i r s t very much a super-f i c i a l thing. The presence of a v i l l a i n presupposed that of a hero, the f i r s t embodying a l l vice and the other a l l v i r t u e i n the same way, the haunted c a s t l e and the i d y l l i c landscape existed together, as did the natural and the supernatural, the v e i l and the r e a l i t y behind i t . As the genre developed, however, i t became more d i f f u s e and more subtle. Main themes l i k e the trunks of trees i n a forest, grew branches of which the twigs intertwined inseparably. To take a simple example, 3 the h e r o - v i l l a i n dichotomy became confused, blending into the unsympathetic but righteous man, the pathetic evil-doer, or the man of mystery whose crimes bring himself to ru i n and h i s victims to t h e i r r i g h t f u l place i n society. And, Although the Byronic Hero bears a strong physical resemblance to Mrs. R a d c l i f f e f s Gothic V i l l a i n s , he has been ensouled and humanized, and t h i s i s a c r u c i a l difference.2 These indefinable shadings are also psychological, f o r the figures who emerged were such as the Byronic hero and the Jekyll-Hyde doubles who have abounded i n l i t e r a t u r e ever since. In a sense, the Gothic can be said to have been con-sciously developed as a form, because the various themes and c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s which we think of as Gothic were added, a few at a time, to produce cert a i n s p e c i f i c e f f e c t s . The main ingredients—theme, s e t t i n g , characters, and mood—were established by the f i r s t major writers, Walpole and Ann Rad-c l i f f e . Later, refinements were added to sharpen emotional response. The l a b y r i n t h image, f o r example, suggested at f i r s t the motifs of escape, imprisonment, and fear of the unknown; l a t e r were added the d e t a i l s of s t i n k i n g corpse and oozing walls to further induce horror i n the reader and to imply torture, a f t e r which the motif took on psychological implications (as i n Poe fs The P i t and the Pendulum, where he stresses e x p l i c i t l y the concept of mental torture) and 4 added to i t s canon images of the la b y r i n t h of the mind or soul. This i s not to say that a l a t e r concept i s not em-bodied i n an e a r l i e r work; i t i s simply that when Walpole uses the la b y r i n t h image, he probably does not mean as much as Poe does i n employing the same device; Poe has h i s own imagination as well as the e a r l i e r works to draw upon. A l l t h i s accounts for the s t r u c t u r a l c l e f t i n the Gothic genre from one perspective; there i s , however, another cause, probably more central than the l i t e r a r y revolution which induced the formation of the Gothic. This i s the sim-p l e fact that i t i s the combination of two e n t i r e l y d i f f e r e n t c u l t u r a l influences, one l i t e r a r y and the other not neces-s a r i l y so.^ The f i r s t i s the e x i s t i n g l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n of England, which during the l a s t h a l f of the Eighteenth Century was predominantly the l i t e r a t u r e of s e n s i b i l i t y . S e n s i b i l i t y implies delicacy of emotion as a supreme vi r t u e ; characters embodying t h i s refinement were the heroes—and h e r o i n e s — o f t h i s l i t e r a t u r e . Set against a background of decorum, t h e i r reactions were centered i n the beauty of nature i n i t s gentler moods and i n the minutiae of human existence, that i s , the universal p a r t i c u l a r i z e d and made pertinent to the common man rather than the c l a s s i c a l hero. This background provided ample material f o r Ra d c l i f f e ' s delicacy of treatment; her f i n e addition and handling of suspense combined with her un-derstanding of the methods of Richardson and h i s school made the Gothic i n her hands a powerful form. 5 The other c u l t u r a l influence came from what Eino Railo c a l l s the German Gothic, as opposed to the English Gothic."^ A highly developed f o l k - l o r e , f u l l of mystery and the super-natural, existed on the Continent and especially i n Germany i n the Eighteenth Century; i t was gradually revealed to Eng-l i s h culture during t h i s time, as people began both to t r a v e l extensively i n Europe and to i n t e r e s t themselves i n i t s l i t t -erature and t r a d i t i o n s . Matthew Gregory Lewis, another of the great Gothic writers, translated and transposed many German s t o r i e s into English, both using them i n h i s own works and w r i t i n g i n t h e i r s t y l e . He developed horror-romanticism, the graphic d e t a i l s of the macabre, i n opposition to t e r r o r -romanticism, which employs the power of suggestion rather than description to create i t s e f f e c t s . Lewis introduced something more important than the German s t y l e which, used poorly, soon degenerated; the themes and elements embodied i n his works, many of them new to the English, transformed Eighteenth-century l i t e r a t u r e into true Gothic. Such motifs as the Wandering Jew and the Faust-legend, to name the most obvious, became dominant t r a i t s i n the new genre. English and German Gothic blended e a s i l y simply be-cause they were opposites; one heightened the ef f e c t of the other, and the goal was, a f t e r a l l , t o t a l empathy and f u l l sensuous experience. And the t r a n s i t i o n from melancholy r e c o l l e c t i o n s induced by s t r o l l i n g through a midnight grave-yard to the imagined experience of being locked l i v i n g into 6 a c o f f i n was not a hard one to make. The Gothic mode was u t i l i z e d by the Romantics of the next generation, and proved an excellent one with which to re-evaluate the existence and purpose of man, a study promp-ted by extreme disillusionment on the part of thinkers who f e l t the impulse to search i n two d i r e c t i o n s for happiness: eith e r "back to nature" or forward through s c i e n t i f i c experi-mentation to an i d e a l of s o c i a l existence. Both these im-pulses are mirrored i n the Gothic, especially i n l a t e r Gothic; the e a r l i e r writers, including Lewis and Maturin, however, were more i n c l i n e d to subordinate them to t h e i r main design, which seems to have been to portray the i s o l a t i o n of man from h i s fellows, followed by the thwarting of h i s designs and the f r u s t r a t i o n of h i s future happiness. Though t h i s f r u s t r a t i o n was morally j u s t i f i e d , i t often carried overtones of poetic i n j u s t i c e ; the reader i s given to f e e l that a great man, be he good or bad, should be admired for h i s greatness-and mourned at h i s downfall. This i s the f e e l i n g which 1 believe gave r i s e to the so-called Byronic heroes, and u l t i -mately to the modern heroes, those of Conrad, Osborne, and Camus. Xt has commonly been assumed that the Gothic genre, which does not seem to be blessed by any deathless author, i s an i n f e r i o r though popular and i n t e r e s t i n g type, which quickly l o s t a l l pretentions to greatness and faded out of sight as. a genre. Such a b e l i e f i s based on misapprehension 7 of the meaning of Gothic. In The Stones of Venice. Ruskin discusses t h i s problem: the Gothic character i t s e l f i s made up of many mingled ideas, and can constitute only i n t h e i r union. That i s to say, pointed arches do not constitute Gothic, nor vaulted roofs, nor f l y i n g buttresses, nor grotesque sculptures; but a l l or some of these things, and many other things with them, when they come together so as to have l i f e . 5 Thus, to get back to Sadleir*s and Varma fs statement, we should not be asking where the Gothic romance has gone, but what has become of the Gothic elements which were so care-f u l l y designed to produce controlled emotional e f f e c t s i n the reader.^ In truth, i t i s easy enough to f i n d such motifs as the Wandering Jew and the shadow or dual personality i n most modern and nineteenth-century f i c t i o n . ^ But they are seldom made use of i n a manner which f u l l y exploits the Gothic trad-i t i o n and yet i s subtle enough to j u s t i f y t h e i r study from that point of view. Herman M e l v i l l e , f o r one, used the genre to achieve what could be c a l l e d the masterpiece of Gothic l i t e r a t u r e , Moby-Dick. This book i s a unique combination of semi-transformed motifs, s t i l l v i s i b l y Gothic, but at times transcending any l i t e r a r y l a b e l . He wrote the work i n 1850-51, a f t e r having obtained, i n 1849, Vathek. The Castle of  Otranto. and Frankenstein.9 The f a c t that he obtained these three Gothic works the year before he began Mobv-Dick may possibly have some sig n i f i c a n c e , e s p e c i a l l y coupled with the 8 common knowledge of the eff e c t on M e l v i l l e of Hawthorne's writing, since Hawthorne i s i n many ways as "Gothic" a writer as Radcliffe,jis. I wish then to consider M e l v i l l e as a Gothic writer, e s p e c i a l l y i n connection with Mobv-Dick. Such a study w i l l not, however, f u l l y s a t i s f y the question of the development of the Gothic; M e l v i l l e did not, I f e e l , metamorphose the form i n a l l i t s a s p e c t s — r a t h e r he showed how i t could be done. I believe that the ultimate l i m i t of the Gothic i s myth, that i t s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s seem to be aspects of myth, and that Joseph Conrad i s one writer who c a r r i e s the Gothic to t h i s l i m i t . The distance between early Gothic writers and Conrad i s , however, very great, and cannot be covered without some investi g a t i o n of the intermediate steps by which Gothicism developed. At f i r s t , around the turn of the nineteenth century, the elements of the Gothic were adopted wholesale by the Romantic poets, although they used them f o r various new rea-sons. Rather than catalogue these elements as they appeared i n the age immediately succeeding the Gothic, I think i t would be more valuable to discuss them as they were modulated by t h e i r most important Romantic advocate, Coleridge."*"^ By v i r t u e of both The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and "Kubla Khan," but especially the Rime. Coleridge deserves the d i s -t i n c t i o n of having most t e l l i n g l y influenced the d i r e c t i o n which the Gothic would take. The Rime has exercised immense 9 influence over a l l the l i t e r a t u r e which followed i t . I t also has the virtue, not only of embodying almost every Gothic element, but also of having bound a new one inseparably to the genre; t h i s i s the sea element, which begins i n English l i t e r a t u r e with Robinson Crusoe.^ a work akin to the Gothic i n i t s concern with i s o l a t e d man and moral values. "Trust a boat on the high seas to bring out the I r r a t i o n a l that lurks at the bottom of every thought, sentiment, sensation, emo-t i o n , " says Conrad,^ s t a t i n g s u c c i n c t l y the a r t i s t i c foun-dation Coleridge discerned f o r making h i s t a l e a sea-voyage. Setting i s probably the most important of a l l Gothic c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s ; i t defines the atmosphere, predestines the actions of the characters and even the characters themselves, and forces issues of a cosmic nature by embodying unknown forces. I t represents the r e a l i t y to be understood and i s i t s e l f the obstacle to be overcome before that understanding can be reached; i t i s an enigma suggestive of the existence and absence of God. The sea i s obviously more viable for these purposes than the land. I t i s the inversion of stab-i l i t y , representative of the immediate p o s s i b i l i t y of death from unsuspected or unknown sources. There i s , one knows not what sweet mystery about t h i s sea, whose gently awful s t i r r i n g s seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath . . . . And meet i t i s , that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery p r a i r i e s and Potters 1 F i e l d s of a l l four continents, the waves should r i s e and f a l l , and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, m i l l i o n s of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; 10 a l l that we c a l l l i v e s and souls, l i e dreaming, dreaming, s t i l l . . . . The same waves wash the moles of the new-built C a l i f o r n i a n towns . . . and lave the faded but s t i l l gorgeous s k i r t s of A s i a t i c lands, older than Abraham; while a l l be-tween f l o a t milky-ways of c o r a l i s l e s , and low-l y i n g , endless, unknown Archipelagoes, and im-penetrable Japans. Thus t h i s mysterious, divine P a c i f i c zones the world's whole bulk about; makes a l l coasts one bay to i t ; seems the tide-beating heart of earth.13 Further, the sea can embody both death and the over-coming of death—-the escape into a new l i f e and the chance to expiate old crimes. Almost a l l Gothic heroes are wanderers, deprived of t h e i r p o t e n t i a l f o r happiness and s o c i a l accept-ance, i f not altogether, then at l e a s t u n t i l they perform a redemptive act of some descr i p t i o n . The Ancient Mariner i s the prototype of t h i s man, forced to bear at f i r s t a tangible burden, u n t i l he learns the secret of his r i t u a l expiation and completes the f i r s t act of s e l f - s a l v a t i o n , and thereafter the bearer of an intangible burden, the psychological repre-sentation of h i s o r i g i n a l s i n , which obliges him to period-i c a l l y re-create h i s crime and h i s penance into i n f i n i t y . The Mariner i s lucky, however ( i f i t can be c a l l e d luck), to have escapedithe l u r e of the sea, to be possessed once again of a l i f e - w i s h and to be able to experience some joy i n h i s existence. M e l v i l l e says i n Mobv-Dick that . . . Death i s only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; i t i s but the f i r s t saluta-t i o n to the p o s s i b i l i t i e s of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who s t i l l have 11 l e f t i n them some i n t e r i o r compunctions against suicide, does the all-co n t r i b u t e d and a l l - r e c e p t i v e ocean a l l u r i n g l y spread f o r t h his whole p l a i n of unimaginable, taking t e r r o r s , and wonderful, new-l i f e adventures; and from the hearts of i n f i n i t e P a c i f i e s , the thousand mermaids sing to them— 'Come hither, broken-hearted; here i s another l i f e without the g u i l t of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying f o r them. Come hi t h e r ! bury th y s e l f i n a l i f e which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world, i s more oblivious than death.' (MD402) The Mariner i s able to escape t h i s seduction, but only at great cost to himself. He almost loses h i s soul as do Faust and Melmoth, but not quite; i t i s only "at an uncertain hour," every once i n a while, that he i s possessed by the need of r i t u a l expiation. His crime has not been a p o s i t i v e one—an i n s a t i a b l e desire f o r wealth or power—but a negative o n e — a momentary, unconscious act, unpremeditated and i n -sta n t l y regretted. I t i s a crime against l i f e , but not a d i r e c t attack on God; therefore i t i s not hi s soul he f o r -f e i t s , but h i s r i g h t to innocent o b l i v i o n . The shooting of the albatross i s i d e n t i c a l i n fac t with Lord Jim's leaping from the Patna. and both the Mariner and Jim pay for t h e i r s i n s i n s t r i k i n g l y s i m i l a r ways. In both cases, the reason fo r the act i s unknown, consciously at l e a s t , and no explana-t i o n i s forthcoming. The bald fact i s enough. By introducing the sea element, Coleridge made more subtle the dichotomies already present i n the Gothic. The formlessness of water was more s a t i s f y i n g to him than the shadow of dungeons; h i s aim, the portrayal of the intangible, 12 was greatly aided by even the opportunity to use sea imagery. I t must be noted, however, that h i s aim was s t i l l very close to that which Walpole stated i n h i s second preface to The  Castle of Otranto. where he said "that h i s object i n t h i s t a l e was to make the supernatural appear natural, by the portrayal of characters placed i n unusual circumstances.""^ Coleridge takes t h i s one step further i n deciding with Wordsworth that h i s . . . endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at l e a s t romantic; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human in t e r e s t and a semblance of truth s u f f i c i e n t to procure for these shadows of imagination that w i l l i n g suspension of d i s b e l i e f f o r the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.15 He has begun that process discussed i n the Preface to L y r i c a l  Ballads which accounts for the added impact of a work through the establishment of an entire s e t t i n g by the use of just a few words: I t i s supposed, that by the act of writing [ i n a p a r t i c u l a r way] . . . an author makes a formal engagement that he w i l l g r a t i f y c e r t a i n known habits of association; that he not only thus apprises the Reader that c e r t a i n classes of ideas and expressions w i l l be found i n h i s book, but that others w i l l be c a r e f u l l y excluded. Therefore, Coleridge makes use of Gothic motifs f o r a further purpose than the simple arousal of deep emotion which i s i n i t s e l f also essential to his aim. 13 He wishes, f i r s t of a l l , to give h i s t a l e an aura of u n i v e r s a l i t y and v a l i d i t y . This i s quickly accomplished by suggesting the extreme age of the Mariner, which coupled with the power of h i s gaze and the information derived from the Argument that he has t r a v e l l e d the length and breadth of the earth, indicates to the reader that the Mariner i s prob-ably l i k e Melmoth or Faust. His supernatural attributes ("He holds him with h i s g l i t t e r i n g eye" combined with h i s "strange power of speech") are also stated immediately. The t a l e develops i n a conventionally Gothic manner; i t i s set i n the f a r south and juxtaposed to the wedding-party s e t t i n g which augments the Mariner's i s o l a t i o n and the medieval tone of the narrative.U There are indic a t i o n s of a descent into the underworld ("Merrily did we drop / Below the k i r k . . .") which p a r a l l e l the descent into the grave, dungeon, or cata-comb and the l i f e - j o u r n e y of the accursed wandereii. This descent i s common i n both c l a s s i c a l and Gothic t a l e s . Rad-c l i f f e a n imagery of strange landscapes, f r i g h t f u l sounds, the appearance of the albatross out of mist and fog, and strongly-marked r e l i g i o u s and moral overtones show Cole-ridge's a f f i l i a t i o n with English Gothic; h i s description of l u r i d colours, the graphically represented "slimy things [that] crawl with legs / Upon the slimy sea," the realism of "I b i t my arm, I sucked the blood," the agony of death i n "Each turned his face with ghastly pang, / And cursed me with h i s eye" and "With heavy thump, a l i f e l e s s lump, / They dropped down one by o n e " ~ a l l these reveal the influence of Lewis's German Gothicism. But i t i s what Coleridge makes of a l l these motifs, includ i n g the sun peering "as i f through a dungeon-grate," the a l l e g o r i c a l Life-in-Death, the awful storms,^ and the dream-visions—especially i n Part V I E — t h a t i s the most im-portant. Part VII i s , i n many ways, the calm of awareness af t e r the storm. Within i t , the r e f l e c t i v e part of the poem, the Mariner communicates h i s understanding of what has hap-pened to him; he evaluates h i s experience, but e s s e n t i a l l y from the Hermit's point of view. As soon as he sees the Her-mit, another i s o l a t e d being who i s yet i n communion with both man and God, he f e e l s that the Hermit alone has the power to understand him; l a t e r he r e a l i z e s that the Hermit i s one of a class of people with whom he can and must establish t h i s rapport; another i s the Wedding-Guest. The problem i s that understanding i s not enough: the Mariner needs to be shriven. The phrasing of the Hermit's question, "What manner of man art thou?" leaves no doubt t h a t h e has not t h i s extra a b i l -i t y ; h i s own experience i s not as deep as the Mariner's and he can only learn from him, not teach or cure. (Note the Mariner's words, "To him my t a l e I teach.") The problem of h i s being eternally unshriven arises p a r t l y as a r e s u l t of the Gothic dichotomy of the poem: the Mariner has been put i n a p o s i t i o n where he should have seen "God's foot upon the treadle of the loom," understood to the 15 f u l l e s t extent the workings of the universe and of God i n i t , become aware, not only of the l i t t l e n e s s of man, but also of man's recreative powers to build and ultimately to control the world through knowledge of a l l i t s parts. But unlike Pip's i n Mobv-Dick. the Mariner's soul does not descend into the depths to see i t s mysteries, either of leviathan or the c o r a l insect; he remains on the surface. His experience i s such that he i s enabled to take the f i r s t s t e p — t h e l o v i n g of God's creatures at t h e i r worst—but he cannot r e l a t e the horror of his encounter with truth to the f a c t that people who have not been submitted to h i s experience can s t i l l exist happily i n the world by worshipping an e s s e n t i a l l y dead God. Therefore he i s an outcast, able i n rare moments to achieve union with certain i n d i v i d u a l s , but more eager i n r e a l i t y to forget the deeper knowledge which has i s o l a t e d him forever, to attempt to walk "with a goodly company" and " a l l together pray." He has been a f r a i d that God does not exist, has learned out of h i s despair the need to love, and has made the unfounded assumption that love i s the key to God. The irony i s , f i r s t that he learns by l o v i n g abhorred creatures, and second that he himself can never be loved, being a source of t e r r o r , forced to wander eternally, and only r a r e l y able to f i n d someone who understands him. He states that "the dear God who loveth us, / He made and loveth a l l , " but h i s own existence denies that b e l i e f ; he i s unforgiven by man, and condemned by God to wretched and lonely immortality. 16 The case of Pip i s d i f f e r e n t . He i s said to have gone mad aft e r the revelation of wisdom to him, but "man's insanit y i s heaven's sense," and what Pip comes to i s "that c e l e s t i a l thought, which, to reason, i s absurd and f r a n t i c . " By t h i s " c e l e s t i a l thought" he i s exempted from the Marin-er's burden, and " f e e l s then uncompromised, i n d i f f e r e n t as h i s God" (MD347). Pip can be i n d i f f e r e n t while the Mariner cannot because Pip has seen that the world w i l l work i n a reasonable cause-and-effect way, and has learned as well to love even the most feared of men, Ahab. The Mariner has no such substance for h i s b e l i e f s . I t i s noteworthy, also, that Pip, who was "carried down a l i v e to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and f r o before his passive eyes" (MD347) i s reborn i n a state of p r e - F a l l innocence which i s also wisdom, and h i s communication, from then on, i s a kind of formulaic or r i t u a l speech which the s t i l l -corrupt crew cannot comprehend, but which some of them f e e l nevertheless has sense and import. His only deviation from t h i s i s when he condemns hi s former s e l f , who drowned, as i f he (the former) were an e n t i r e l y separate, e v i l person now i n torment, while h i s present s e l f i s i n a state, of grace. Ahab i s aware of t h i s , as i s Starbuck, who says that "Pip, i n t h i s strange sweetness of h i s lunacy, brings heavenly vouchers of a l l our heavenly homes." Pip becomes a personi-f i c a t i o n of soul a f t e r h i s experience. The Mariner, who 17 does have "strange power of speech," i s yet not i n t h i s s t a t e ; ^ though the same e f f e c t i s achieved because he can be understood by a p a r t i c u l a r person of any language. He has c e r t a i n l y become a d i f f e r e n t person than before, but since he must forever undergo the agony of transformation, he i s forever bound to the knowledge of what he was before and s t i l l l i v e s i n part that former l i f e . Thus the Mariner i s to a great extent a t r u l y Gothic creation. He i s possessed of the burning heart and power of gaze of Schedoni, the urgent necessity and shadow of crimin-a l i t y of Manfredj the tone of the f i r s t part of the poem suggests h i s former character and i s a contrast to h i s appearance to the Wedding-Guest. 2 0 P a r a l l e l to t h i s appear-ance are the contrasts of mist and clear v i s i o n , storm and calm, the ship and the Hermit's dwelling-place (which might be interpreted to suggest the decay of the Church: He kneels at morn, and noon, and e v e -He hath a cushion plump: I t i s the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump).21 With t h i s broad basis from which to work, we can now turn to a close analysis of Mobv-Dick. I w i l l deal f i r s t with se t t i n g , because i t i s the determiner, i n Gothicism, of both mood and character, and from these three a l l Gothic t r a i t s evolve. The a r t i s t i c medium best suited to the portrayal of terror-romanticism i s probably the theatre, i n which the 18 most d e l i c a t e emotions can be brought into play through sen-s i t i v e use of such effects as l i g h t i n g and sound. One i s given the d i s t i n c t impression that M e l v i l l e was aware of t h i s f a c t , and made Mobv-Dick as t h e a t r i c a l as he could within the novel form while s t i l l r e t a i n i n g enough structure to sustain philosophical and psychological exposition. The dramatic potential i n Mobv-Dick heightens the aura of Goth-icism i n s e t t i n g and character. The f i r s t appearance of Moby Dick (which may be, symbolically speaking,lin the chapter "The Spirit-Spout"); the sudden ma t e r i a l i z a t i o n of Fedal-l a h ; 2 2 the interspersing of "The Town-Ho's Story," "The Blacksmith," and the several gams; the storms of "The F i r s t Lowering" and "The Candles"; and of course the "dialogue" chapters ("Dusk" and "Midnight—The Forecastle Bulwarks," f o r example) are obviously dramatic, but they are p e c u l i a r l y Gothic as well. Melmoth the Wanderer and The Monk are not j u s t s t o r i e s ; they are conglomerates of s t o r i e s bound by a loose framework. S i m i l a r l y the sudden switch of mood and s e t t i n g from the Pequod to the Golden Inn i s a r t i s t i c a l l y v a l i d and not incongruous; nor i s the providing of Perth's background a d i s t r a c t i o n , f o r i t gives, as do the glimpses we have of Starbuck's and Ahab's home l i f e , a depth to the i n d i v i d u a l which makes h i s fate more poignant. This depth i n turn gives greater range to theme. In Moby-Dick, charac-t e r background, for example, often seems to reveal a g u i l t motif. Such "scene-shifts" also operate on a purely " i n t e r e s t " l e v e l . Chapter 122, w h i c h can be quoted i n i t s e n t i r e t y i n a few l i n e s and summed up c o m p l e t e l y i n "We don't want t h u n d e r j we want rum" (MD420) comes a t t h e p o i n t where suspense b e g i n s t o b u i l d q u i c k l y f o r t h e f i n a l c a t a -s t r o p h e , j u s t a f t e r t h e p o w e r f u l e f f e c t o f Ahab's g r e a t s o l i l o q u y i n "The C a n d l e s . " T h i s b r o a d d i s c u s s i o n may h e l p t o show, t h e n , t h a t M e l v i l l e employs t h e g e n e r a l a s p e c t s o f s e t t i n g v e r y c a r e -f u l l y , u s i n g a t f i r s t a l o n g , slow b u i l d - u p t o h i s d r a m a t i c moments (t w e n t y - s e v e n c h a p t e r s p r e c e d e t h e appearance o f Ahab; t h i r t y - f i v e t h e n a i l i n g o f t h e doubloon t o t h e mastj and f i f t y t h e s i g h t i n g o f t h e phantom Moby D i c k ) , and f i n -a l l y d e v e l o p i n g t h e a c t i o n so q u i c k l y t h a t an e p i l o g u e i s n e c e s s a r y t o p r o v i d e t h e needed mechanics o f p l o t . How t h e n does he i n t e r w e a v e G o t h i c elements o f s e t t i n g t o h e i g h t e n t h e f o r e b o d i n g atmosphere which p e r v a d e s t h e n o v e l ? Moby-Dick opens w i t h a monologue about s e t t i n g s , r o m a n t i c l a n d s c a p e s , 2 ^ green f i e l d s s e t i n a p i c t u r e - f r a m e , dreamy, e n t r a n c i n g , but t o I s h m a e l , " n o t h i n g p a r t i c u l a r t o i n t e r e s t me," i n d u c i n g o n l y "a damp, d r i z z l y November i n my s o u l . " The R a d c l i f f e a n l a n d s c a p e o f beauty p r o d u c e s a d e a t h -w i s h i n I s h m a e l , and he goes t o sea as t h e f u l f i l m e n t o f t h i s d e a t h - w i s h by a n o t h e r means, 2^ h i s " s u b s t i t u t e f o r p i s t o l and b a l l . W i t h a p h i l o s o p h i c a l f l o u r i s h Cato t h r o w s h i m s e l f upon h i s sword; I q u i e t l y t a k e t o t h e s h i p " (MD12). I f t h e a c t o f g o i n g t o sea i s a s u r r o g a t e s u i c i d e , t h e n t h e s e t t i n g o f 20 Mobv-Dick. i t may be presumed, i s a p a r a l l e l one to the world of the dead i n that i t l i e s beyond h i s ordinary l i f e , and i s a new type of existence. Thus i s one of the dominant Gothic m o t i f s — t h e concern with death as a sensuous experience to be undertaken out of boredom and c u r i o s i t y — e s t a b l i s h e d at once. This c u r i o s i t y i s the motivation behind many Gothic f i g u r e s 1 actions!—the narrator of Poe's "The Man of the Crowd," for example, Stevenson's Dr. J e k y l l or, preeminently, Goethe's Faust. And insofar as the journey of Ishmael i s a journey through a kind of Hades or Purgatory, then the sea as s e t t i n g i n Mobv-Dick represents Purgatory. 2 ^ u ut Mel-v i l l e ' s sea i s a special one, with f a r more aspects than the surface Coleridge reveals i n the Rime. I t contains both the "unearthly, formless, chancelike apparition" of the giant squid (MD237), and "submarine b r i d a l chambers and nurseries" (MD327) and "loveliness unfathomable" (MD406); the delights of a s o l i t a r y , wandering existence and the horror of Pip's extreme lon e l i n e s s . I t i s also personified by M e l v i l l e as a power which " f o r ever and for ever" w i l l " i n s u l t and mur-der" man, and which " i s also a fiend to i t s own o f f s p r i n g . . . sparing not the creatures which i t s e l f hath spawned;" i t i s subtle, and " i t s most dreaded creatures" are described i n terms of " d e v i l i s h b r i l l i a n c e and beauty," "dainty" and "remorseless," "carrying on eternal war since the world be-gan" (MD235-236). The sea i s thus p a r a l l e l to the image of the haunted c a s t l e and i t s surroundings, about which hangs, 2 1 according to Poe, "an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and t h e i r immediate v i c i n i t y — a n atmosphere which [has] no af-f i n i t y with the a i r of heaven, . . . a p e s t i l e n t and mystic vapour." 2 6 I t contains, as does the haunted c a s t l e , a l l the indefinable instruments of fear, including penetrating dark-ness, and supernatural b e i n g s — f o r example, the squid i s c a l l e d a "strange spectre" and a "white ghost" i n Chapter 59; Moby Dick i s a "grand hooded phantom," a "plumed and g l i t -t e r i n g god," "the g l i d i n g great demon of the seas of l i f e " ( M D 1 6 2 ) ; and the creatures of the deep are "strange shapes of the unwarped primal world" (MD347) and " g u i l t y beings transformed into . . . these f i s h . . . condemned to swim everl a s t i n g l y without any haven i n store" ( M D 2 0 1 ) . Also i t suffers from g u i l t : "unrestingly heaved the black sea, as i f i t s vast t i d e s were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were i n anguish and remorse f o r the long s i n and suf-f e r i n g i t had bred" ( M D 2 0 1 ) . I f the sea i s a Gothic persona i n Moby-Dick, then the Pequod i s even more t r u l y so. F i r s t , the ship can more ea s i l y be personified, because, l i k e Conrad's Narcissus. i t must withstand "the abysses of sea and sky" 2? and "the i n v i s -i b l e vxolence of the winds,"''40 and be forever a l e r t to r e -peated attack made with no warning: "A big, foaming sea came out of the mist; i t made f o r the ship, roaring wildly. . . . The ship rose to i t as though she had soared on wings." 2^ There i s not, however, the f u l l measure of p i t y and love 22 given the Fequod by M e l v i l l e as Conrad implies f o r his ships. The Pequod i s c a l l e d "she," but rather for convention's sake than i n terms of endearment; she i s the victim of malign intent from several quarters, but hardly gains i n stature by that. Even the choice by Ishmael, or rather Yojo, of the Pequod i s a matter of chance and i s e n t i r e l y impersonal. She i s not appealing because she i s trim, pretty, or even sturdy; rather she i s a ship of death. She i s ancient and grotesque, with a "claw-footed look about her:" worn and wrinkled . . . apparelled l i k e any bar-baric Ethiopian emperor . . . a thing of trophies. A cannibal of a c r a f t , t r i c k i n g herself f o r t h i n the chased bones of her enemies. . . . her unpanelled, open bulwarks were garnished l i k e one continuous 3aw, with the long sharp teeth of the sperm whale . . . her hereditary foe. . . . A noble c r a f t , but some-how a most melancholyI A l l noble things are touched with that. (MD67-68) The grotesqueness and n o b i l i t y are projections onto the ship of Ahab's character. He has armed h i s inward s e l f and h i s ship f o r the contest he plans, warping the ship's natural grace, though not diminishing i t . The Pequod's n o b i l i t y i s emphasized, however, only i n her connection with Ahab,30 be-cause insofar as he must be a worthy adversary f o r Moby Dick, h i s being i s magnified to encompass the whole ship; the Pequod i s Ahab's body and he i s her s o u l . 3 1 As the agent of destruction, then, and the t o o l of Ahab, the Pequod i s ac-cursed and not to be admired or praised. Even Ahab says that to go to h i s "grave-dug berth," to his cabin, that i s , i s " l i k e going down into one's tomb" ( M D 1 1 2 ) . The bowels of the ship represent the Gothic dungeon, catacombs ( M D 3 9 5 ) > or tomb, a place of close, confined spaces, uncertain l i g h t s — "The cabin lamp . . . was burning f i t f u l l y , and casting f i t f u l shadows upon the old man's bolted door . . . The i s o l a t e d subterraneousness of the cabin made a c e r t a i n hum-ming si l e n c e to reign there . . . " ( M D 4 2 1 ) . Below decks i s also the place f o r mental inquietude; standing before Ahab's door, "Starbuck seemed wrestling with an angel;" even he who represents the power of conventional goodness on the ship f a l l s victim i n v o l u n t a r i l y to e v i l thoughts which he hardly recognizes as such. And within the cabin, Ahab's words "came h u r t l i n g from out the old man's tormented sleep" ( M D 4 2 3 ) ; ^ 2 he seems possessed by demons. The i n t e r i o r of the ship i s l i k e the bowels of h e l l , and from i t seem to. come Fedallah and h i s crew—"Didn't I hear 'em i n the hold?" (MD188) says Stubb—and the " f i e r c e flames" ( M D 3 5 3 ) of the try-works, which transform the Pequod into a t r u l y Gothic ship i n the s t y l e of the F l y i n g Dutchman: "The burning ship drove on, as i f remorselessly commissioned to some vengeful deed" ( M D 3 5 3 ) . When the try-works are i n operation, the ship i s a funeral pyre "burning a corpse," an embodiment of h e l l ; the scene of suggested t o r t u r e — " t h e b o i l i n g o i l . . . seemed a l l eagerness to leap into t h e i r faces;" the agent of the crew's reduction to savagery;33 a n ( j "the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander's soul" ( M D 3 5 4 ) . 24 From t h i s evidence i t seems that the Pequod i s a vehicle carrying the unsuspecting Ishmael from h i s "insular T a h i t i , f u l l of peace and joy" to the "appalling ocean" from which a r i s e " a l l the horrors of the half-known l i f e " ( M D 2 3 6 ) . I t i s a f a m i l i a r t r i c k of Gothicism that the agent of de-s t r u c t i o n comes i n the disguise of a savior. The Monlc pro-vides many good examples: Matilda i s a demon i n disguise,* the d e v i l , o f f e r i n g to take Ambrosio beyond the clutches of the I n q u i s i t i o n , k i l l s him. The coach i n which Raymond f l e e s with the bleeding nun i s a closer p a r a l l e l to the Pequod. They are both supernatural agents; the coach-horses "rush on with astonishing swiftness . . . dashed down the most dangerous precipices, and seemed to viewin swiftness with the r a p i d i t y of the winds."34 i n l i k e manner, the savior of Ishmael fs sanity (or so he says): "the s i l e n t ship, as i f manned by painted s a i l o r s i n wax, day a f t e r day tore on through a l l the swift madness and gladness of the demoniac waves" (MD202).35 Several other passages suggest the connection of the Pequod and some occult element. For example, "the preternaturalness, as i t seemed, which i n many things invested the Pequod" (MD200) leads the mariners to believe that the s p i r i t - s p o u t i s always cast by Moby Dick, who i s l u r i n g them on to destruction i n "savage seas." Also, "strange forms i n the water" and "inscrutable sea-ravens" followeelose to the Pequod. "as though they deemed our ship some d r i f t i n g , uninhabited c r a f t ; a thing appointed to desolation . . . " (MD201). There are also many omens of dis a s t e r . The small f i s h which follow the Pequod leave her "with shuddering f i n s " when she crosses the wake of the homeward bound Gonev. And the Pequod receives a "ghostly baptism" of death when she f a i l s to escape the sound of the corpse dropping from the Delight into the sea, the f l y i n g bubbles from which "might have sprinkled her h u l l " ( M D 4 4 2 ) , so close i s she to i t . I t might be expected that the Pequod would gain sympathy during the times of storm, but M e l v i l l e never actu-a l l y depicts the ship at such times; the focus i s always on man against the elements. The f i r s t storm, indeed, the one with which the book v i r t u a l l y opens, i s over before the Pequod i s even seen. Storm i s , of course, a major Gothic milieu; and i t i s e n t i r e l y f i t t i n g that Ishmael should f i r s t come to New Bedford on "a very dark and dismal night, b i t i n g l y cold and cheerless" (MD17). The wind, the f r o s t , the "blocks of blackness" Ishmael encounters serve two purposes: the estab-lishment of a bleak atmosphere of desolation and the fore-shadowing of the dismal end of the novel. Several Gothic motifs are e f f e c t i v e l y brought in t o play as Ishmael, turned from f i r s t one door, then another, goes "by i n s t i n c t " towards the water past many e v i l omens, and f i n a l l y escapes the gale by entering Peter Coffin*s Spouter-Inn; "Rather ominous i n 26 that p a r t i c u l a r connection, thought I. But i t i s a common name i n Nantucket" (MD18). Ishmael's entry into the inn i s symbolic of more than simply the f u l f i l m e n t of his death-wish; i t helps explain h i s choice of the Pequod. since they are s i m i l a r l y whale-like i n appearance; i t also suggests h i s entry into the whale, thus c l o t h i n g him i n the aura of the B i b l i c a l Jonah; i t c a r r i e s the subconscious implication of acceptance of and submission to the unknown ("in the destructive element immerse"). A l l these are ideas contained i n Gothicism; and M e l v i l l e embodies them a l l i n the " i n d e f i n i t e , half-attained, unimaginable sub-l i m i t y " ( M D 2 0 ) of a t r u l y Gothic symbol—the o i l - p a i n t i n g of "shades and shadows" that hangs i n the entry to the inn. This strange picture reveals the Pequod'.s fate, i f i t can only be properly read. Ishmael, with a vague concept of i t s meaning, f a i l s to interpret i t co r r e c t l y ; instead he passes i t by and becomes naively concerned with describing the hor-r i b l e trophies on the wall and the poison sold from between the jaws of death. Altogether, the Spouter-Inn i s a t y p i c -a l l y o u t f i t t e d outlaws' habitation of the kind found i n S c h i l l e r ' s The Robbers. I t has the dismal aspect of a cave, to the viewing of which the howling of the wind outside i s a f i t t i n g accompaniment. This overture to the two great storms of the novel hardly does more than set the mood and foreshadow further t r i a l s . The next storm, a sudden s q u a l l , appears with a l l 27 the unexpectedness of the two phenomena which accompany i t — the f i r s t sperm whale to be sighted, and Fedallah and h i s crew of "dusky phantoms" (MD187). This squall has a p e c u l i -a r l y Gothic property; i t manifests i t s e l f as a v e i l , through which Ishmael i n Starbuck's boat passes, and having passed, i s resurrected: I survived myself; my death and b u r i a l were locked up i n my chest. I looked around t r a n q u i l l y and contentedly, l i k e a quiet ghost with a clean con-science s i t t i n g i n s i d e the bars of a snug family vault. Now then, thought I, . . . here goes for a cool, c o l l e c t e d dive at death and destruction, and the d e v i l fetch the hindmost. (MD197) The appearance of the water when whales surface to spout, as M e l v i l l e describes i t (MD192-193)* i s s i m i l a r enough to the e f f e c t of the squall for the description of the one to merge imperceptibly into the other; suddenly Ishmael i s no longer i n "the charmed, churned c i r c l e of the hunted sperm whale," but "running through a suffusing wide v e i l of mist; neither ship nor boat to be seen" (MD193). While i n t h i s state of blindness, Ishmael f e e l s the " s q u a l l , whale, and harpoon . . . a l l blended together," the f i r s t two being evidence of the power of natural forces and the l a t t e r evidence of the impotence of man, for the whale es-capes, and the crew are thrown into "the waves c u r l i n g and h i s s i n g around us l i k e the erected crests of enraged ser-pents" (MD194).36 Waiting i n despair for the dawn, s t i l l enveloped i n mist, and of course unaided by the "imbecile 28 candle," the crew are suddenly aware of "a f a i n t creaking. . . . The sound came nearer and nearer* the thick mists were dimly parted by a huge, vague form" (MD195).^ This unknown immensity i s the Pequod. which i s searching not i n hopes of rescue, but f o r some token of the boat *s destruc-t i o n . This experience appears to be a preparation for Ishmael ,s central moment of awareness, the reversal of "The Try-Works." Up u n t i l Chapters 48 and 4 9 , Ishmael i s the detached observer. There are only -two chapters i n which he could not possibly p a r t i c i p a t e , both of which he could e a s i l y be supposed to invent j u s t from the rumor which would a r i s e on board. After he has passed through the v e i l , how-ever, he becomes t o t a l l y assimilated into the crew and into the consciousness of a l l the c h a r a c t e r s . ^ I t i s as i f he does indeed become a ghost, able to understand by placing himself i n the minds of the protagonists. What he loses i n detachment would thus be compensated for by the heightened awareness, which allows for greater emotional involvement and a nearer approach to the indefinable which Ishmael—and M e l v i l l e — s t r u g g l e to communicate throughout the whole of the book. Having submitted himself, however, Ishmael becomes the prisoner of those i n whom he e x i s t s . His r e a l i z a t i o n of t h i s comes i n "The Try-Works," when he views i n horror the savagery of his shipmates, "the redness, the madness, the ghastliness . . . of the fiend shapes before me, capering 29 h a l f i n smoke and half i n f i r e , " and the t e r r i b l e purpose of t h e i r voyaging. Instantly he r e c o i l s : "A stark, bewildered f e e l i n g , as of death, came over me. Convulsively my hands grasped the t i l l e r , but with the crazy conceit that the t i l -l e r was, somehow, i n some enchanted way, inverted." His knowledge t r i g g e r s r e j e c t i o n and immediate r e l i e f : "How glad and how grateful the r e l i e f from t h i s unnatural h a l -l u c i n a t i o n of the night, and the f a t a l contingency of being brought by the l e e ! " (MD354) Ishmael*s moral nature now re-asserts i t s e l f ; he repeats "unchristian Solomon's wisdom": tnthe man that wandereth out of the way of understanding s h a l l remain 1 ( i . e . even while l i v i n g ) *in the congregation of the dead.'" He does not, however, r e j e c t the value of the incomprehensible when i n t u i t i v e l y grasped; he does not curse h i s naive s e l f as Pip curses h i s cowardly s e l f . Ishmael can be said to have p r o f i t e d consciously, while Pip*s p r o f i t i s unconscious, i n that he does not recognize i n his new s e l f the salvation of his soul. Ishmael has learned that he who dodges hospitals and j a i l s , and walks fas t crossing graveyards, . . . c a l l s Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor d e v i l s a l l of sick men | . . not that man i s f i t t e d to s i t down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous Solomon. (MD355) The squall of "The F i r s t Lowering" leads Ishmael to a state of t o t a l empathy; the inversion of "The Try-Works" awakens him to the dangers of h i s enchantment. But by now he i s entrapped, forced by h i s former submission to undergo 30 a l l the events leading to the f i n a l b a t t l e with Moby Dick. His eyes opened to the true nature of his journey, he at-tempts to disassociate himself from the Pequod and i t s inhabitants, f i n a l l y succeeding only at the eleventh hour. The squall i n the middle of the book, then, has the dual e f f e c t of clouding Ishmael Ts reason while allowing him access to philosophical and psychological unknowns, at a time when the elements of mystery and suspense begin to take v i s i b l e shape. I t has even more of fbreshadowing than was contained i n the f i r s t storm; now there are the added i m p l i -cations that demons from the nether world guide Ahab i n h i s purpose, that the Pequod i s a destroyer to those she should protect (note the ambiguity i n "the ivory Pequod bearing down upon.her boats with outstretched s a i l s , l i k e a wild hen a f t e r her screaming brood"-|-MD193), and that the whaling voyage might be unsuccessful. The imagery suggests eternal darkness, damnation, horror i n the white water, unnatural occurrences and presences. Starbuck fs perversion of mind, so that he madly pursues the whale when the other boats have returned to the ship, i s more ominous than the i n a b i l i t y of the crew to make any motion to preserve t h e i r boat, or t h e i r incapacity to see. The absolute dominance of the sea over the human powers of goodness and wisdom (embodied i n Star-buck) i s c l e a r l y manifested here. Thus the squa l l i s proof of the f e e l i n g , adequately developed but never i n s i s t e d upon, that even without the 31 demon-powers invested i n the white whale, even without the guidance of the satanic Fedallah, s t i l l Ahab should not pre-tend to challenge the forces of nature. As Ishmael points out, i t i s by a low t r i c k only that man i s even enabled to see the whale; i f i t was not obliged to expose i t s e l f to breathe, i t would never be caught by such a petty being. There are Faustian overtones i n t h i s recurrent theme. In h i s tremendous egoism, Ahab dares attack the gods, allowing Fedallah, his Mephistopheles, to govern him i n s p i t e of bad omens, i n s p i t e of Starbuck, i n s p i t e of his natural emo-tion s of tenderness. He assumes that he has been tested and prepared for the act of k i l l i n g Moby Dick, that he i s a chosen one, a Prometheus, born of "clear f i r e " to worship i n defiance, not fear. A l l t h i s becomes clear at the time of "the d i r e s t of a l l storms, the Typhoon," during which Ahab gains i n epic stature before h i s crew who are tempted at l a s t to r a i s e "a h a l f mutinous cry" (MD418). Henceforth he rules by t e r r o r , not by love; h i s greater experience enables him to conquer h i s superstitious seamen by using natural occurrences to h i s own ends. The epic s i m i l e which closes Chapter 119, "The Candles," i s an image both of Ahab and of the Gothic pro-tagonist: As i n the hurricane that sweeps the p l a i n , men f l y the neighborhood of some lone, gigantic elm, whose very height and strength but render i t the more unsafe, because so much more a mark for 32 thunderbolts' so at those l a s t words of Ahab's many of the mariners did run from him i n a t e r r o r of dismay. (MD418) Ahab's weakness does indeed l i e i n h i s greatest strength, and i s the very thing to be fearedj he has set himself apart and t a l l e r than a l l other men (note h i s analysis of his pos-i t i o n i n "The Doubloon"), thus marking himself out for the vengeance of God. The thunderbolt i s the very weapon he intimates has caused the jagged scar on h i s body, and t h i s opinion i s shared by the crew, who think i t i s the sign of combat with the gods: Threading i t s way out from among h i s grey ha i r s , and continuing r i g h t down one side of h i s tawny scorched face and neck, t i l l i t disappeared i n h i s clothing, you saw a slender r o d - l i k e mark, l i v i d l y whitish. I t resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made i n the s t r a i g h t , l o f t y trunk of a great tree, when the upper l i g h t n i n g tearingly darts down i t , . . . leaving the tree s t i l l green-l y a l i v e , but branded. Whether that mark was born with him, or whether i t was the scar l e f t by some desperate wound, no one could c e r t a i n l y say. . . . an old Gay-Head Indian among the crew, s u p e r s t i -t i o u s l y asserted that not t i l l he was f u l l y f o r t y years old did Ahab become that way branded, and then i t came upon him, not i n the fury of any mortal fray, but i n an elemental s t r i f e at sea. 39 (MD110) This scar would seem to be a version of the Brand of Cain, a common attr i b u t e among Gothic heroes. I have discussed the storms and the h e l l - s e t t i n g s (as i n "The Try-Works") as being the most obviously Gothic of the scenes i n Mobv-Dick. The pastoral, or at l e a s t peaceful, land- or sea-scapes have as much of the Gothic i n 33 them. To a much greater extent than the storms, however, they serve purposes f a r beyond those established i n the works of R a d c l i f f e and the English school. Generally these purposes involve philosophical e x p l i c a t i o n . Two of these settings are of int e r e s t here. The f i r s t concerns the question of the w r i t i n g of the novel. Most of i t i s implied; very few glimpses are given, jiust as the words "blazing eyes" w i l l conjure up the tortured physiognomy of a Gothic or Byronic hero, so the s t y l e of M e l v i l l e ' s w r i t i n g and his thematic structure place the whole book into a framework, the frame being the image of the conscious a r t i s t s truggling to communicate h i s experi-ence through h i s writing. This i s a common Gothic device, having i t s roots i n the epistolary l i t e r a t u r e of s e n s i b i l i t y and e x i s t i n g i n the Gothic with the variations of confes-s i o n a l , old manuscript, diary, etc. Frankenstein follows i n t h i s t r a d i t i o n , as do Poe's Ms Found i n a Bottle and some of the works of Rider Haggard. The sight of Melville-Ishmael s i t t i n g and dreaming at h i s desk i s continually juxtaposed with the sight of the voyage and the stormy events of i t . And he continually makes us aware of his problems as a r t i s t : "I almost despair of putting i t [ t h i s vagueness] into com-prehensible form . . . yet . . . explain myself I must" (MD163); t h i s i s always M e l v i l l e ' s concern.^° The second pastoral s e t t i n g of intere s t pertains to the Coleridgean passages of Mobv-Dick. These passages occur 34 at three times: when M e l v i l l e i s discussing the past l i v e s of the mariners—the blacksmith's (MD400-402), for example, or Starbuck's and Ahab's (Chapter 132); when he i s speaking p h i l o s o p h i c a l l y (Chapters 47 and 114); and f i n a l l y when the mariners are under some supernatural influence. Of the l a s t , "The Spirit-Spout" o f f e r s the best example: Days, weeks passed, and under easy s a i l , the ivory Pequod had slowly swept across four several cruising-grounds . . . I t was while g l i d i n g through these l a t t e r waters that one serene and moonlight night, when a l l the waves r o l l e d by l i k e s c r o l l s of s i l v e r ; and by t h e i r s s b f t , suffusing seethings, made what seemed a s i l v e r y silence, not a solitude: on such a s i l e n t night a s i l v e r y j e t was seen f a r i n ad-vance of the white bubbles at the bow. L i t up by the moon, i t looked c e l e s t i a l ; seemed some plumed and g l i t t e r i n g god up r i s i n g from the sea. . . . there reigned, too, a sense of peculiar dread at t h i s f l i t t i n g apparition, as i f i t were treacher-ously beckoning us on and on, i n order that the. monster might turn round upon;us, and rend us at l a s t i n the remotest and most savage seas. These temporary apprehensions, so vague but so awful, derived a wondrous potency from the contrast-i n g serenity of the weather, i n which, beneath a l l i t s blue blandness, some thought there lurked a d e v i l i s h charm, as for days and days we voyaged along, through seas so wearily, lonesomely mild, that a l l space, i n repugnance to our vengeful errand, seemed vacating i t s e l f of l i f e before our urn-li k e prow. (MD199-201) In t h i s l a s t paragraph, M e l v i l l e has explicated the Gothic-ism i n hi s method, for i t i s i n great part by such contrasts as these that Moby-Dick grows. Aware that over-excitement d u l l s the senses, as Coleridge knew, M e l v i l l e set the most t e r r i b l e actions i n calms; Moby Dick ar i s e s , l i k e the s p i r i t -spout and the seamen's apprehensions, i n the midst of calm, 35 and changes the serene atmosphere into one of waiting and dread, j u s t as the submerged object which s t r i k e s the Patna reverses the mood of the s e t t i n g there. Swift action i s preceded and followed by languid descriptions and quiet meditation, which do more to rouse suspense than the main— t a i n i n g of h o r r i f i c description could ever do. The contrast r e f i n e s the emotion, as i n t h i s passage the mild weather tempers the mariners 1 fears to a foreboding which, i n i t s uncertainty and seeming lack of j u s t i f i c a t i o n , the better prepares them and the reader for the strangeness of what happens. I have suggested that s e t t i n g determines mood and character i n the Gothic, and that from these three Gothicism develops. I have attempted to deal with s e t t i n g from t h i s point of view. The establishment of mood i s next i n import-ance, especially since i t contains the other two i n i t s e l f . Nothing, as J . M. S. Tompkins says, was so important to Gothic writers as atmosphere: . . . the centre of i n t e r e s t i s impersonal; i t i s the . . . landscape, . . . for complete expression of which we require both the victim and the tyrant. The raison d'etre of her [R a d c l i f f e * s ] books i s not a story, nor a character, nor a moral truth, but a mood, the mood of a sen s i t i v e dreamer before Gothic buildings and picturesque scenery. Story and characters are . . . as i t were, organs through which these grim places speak, placed there to receive and transmit the faint rumours that c l i n g about them . . .41 3 6 Setting developed, then, as an aid to the establishment of mood. We have seen how e f f e c t i v e l y M e l v i l l e ' s settings evoked the Gothic atmosphere—even though h i s primary aim lay i n another d i r e c t i o n . The next step, f o r Walpole and R a d c l i f f e , at l e a s t , was to discover "what sort of incidents suited such imposing scenes," and what kinds of characters would have personal-i t i e s i n accord with the landscapes from which they emerged.^2 The mysterious shadow-types of the unconscious were evolved and blended with the prototypes: Manfred of Otranto, "whose passions wanted l i t t l e f u e l to throw them into a blaze, " 4 3 Ambrosio, "The Man of Holiness," with "a c e r t a i n severity i n h i s look and manner that inspired universal awe;" nor could many "sustain the glance of h i s eye, at once f i e r y and pen-etrating- " 4 4 Schedoni, whose fig u r e was s t r i k i n g , but not so from grace; . . . as he stalked along, wrapt i n the black garments of h i s order, there was something t e r r i b l e i n i t s a i r ; something almost superhuman . . . h i s physiog-nomy . . . bore the traces of many passions.. . . 4 5 This triumvirate combines a l l the major t r a i t s of the hero-v i l l a i n , who i s , as Axton says i n h i s introduction to Melmoth  the Wanderer, "a two-sided personage, a figu r e of great power, latent v i r t u e , and personal magnetism t r a g i c a l l y stained by c r i m i n a l i t y . " 4 ° The other characters, generated at the same time i n a s e n s i t i v e counterpointing of major and secondary themes, grew always from the p r i n c i p l e of opposites: 37 Theodore and Manfred, Matilda and Antonia, Agnes and the bleeding nun; such pairings and contrastings, endlessly r e -peated, exploit the involvement of the imagination and the emotions to the f u l l e s t . V a r i a t i o n i n character and depth of psychological understanding increased as time progressed; Axton fs analysis, implies c l e a r l y the coming of the Byronic hero; and the impulses to wander, to search, etc., common to the Gothic hero, are understandably the r e s u l t of the hero fs restlessness as Axton describes i t . The writers of the Nine-teenth Century had more than j u s t increased knowledge of and i n t e r e s t i n the psychological manifestations i n t h e i r Gothic characters; they had an added r e a l i z a t i o n of philosophical ramifications; and an increased mastery over t h e i r art which allowed f o r more intensive, conscious manipulation of symbol and image patterns. Also, they seem to have f e l t unencumbered by the moral (and r e l i g i o u s ) r e s t r a i n t of t h e i r times because, beyond the mere surface of t h e i r work, they were aware that t h e i r ideas were not generally understood by the reading pub-l i c . As long as they provided the conventional p l o t , there-fore, they could work out symbolic and philosophic meaning with comparative freedom.4-7 Character creation i n Mobv-Dick appears to have been accomplished i n some such convoluted fashion. The book Mel-v i l l e started by writing, part of which appears to be pre-served i n the f i r s t twenty or so chapters, would presumably have been a conventional romance, and Ishmael the "youthful 38 hero" of the Theodore and Pierre t y p e — a moral agent and the recorder of the events of the story. Hawthorne''s symbolism proved the needed catalyst* the complexity of each character i n the f i n a l Mobv-Dick displays a high degree of imaginative development of Gothic character t r a i t s . Because Ahab i s so obviously a Gothic personage, i t may be best to discuss the transmutation of Gothicism i n him f i r s t . His relationship© to the se t t i n g , especially to the Pequod. has already been mentioned, as have other clues to h i s n a t u r e — h i s scar, for example, h i s egoism, and h i s super-mortal combat with the gods. He i s a royal person; " . . . Ahab of old, thou knowest, was a crowned king!" ( 7 7 ) . There are other important t r a i t s , however: h i s i n i t i a l i n v i s -i b i l i t y and sudden unexpected t r a n s i t i o n from presence to l i v i n g being; h i s i s o l a t i o n ; the unusual signs of emaciation, as i f he has been i n f i r e and yet not burned;48 h i s i n v i n c -i b l e appearance—" shaped i n an unalterable mould" (MD110), the " i n f i n i t y of firmest f o r t i t u d e , . . . unsurrenderable wilfulness, i n the fi x e d and f e a r l e s s . . . glance" of his "troubled master-eye," the " c r u c i f i x i o n i n h i s face; i n a l l the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe" — a l l t h i s i s to be expected, being conventionally Gothic. . . . German taste, as represented by the work that found i t s way into England, came to connote wild extravagance of sentiments and incident, passion wound up to the highest p i t c h , horror, grotesqueness, and the expression of a l l these i n i n f l a t e d language. 39 M e l v i l l e ' s treatment of Ahab i s consistent with h i s handling of the "action" chapters, and both show p a r t i c u l a r evidence of the type of Gothicism Tompkins defines here (p. 289). A trace of subtlety appears i n Ahab's body partaking of the body of the whale, and vice versa. Ahab stands "on l i f e and death'f^ (MD200)} i f the whale-bone stands for death, then Ahab's fate, to be bound to death i n the form of the whale, i s made clear from the beginning. This union of man and whale i s also i n t e r e s t i n g l y prefigured i n M e l v i l l e ' s chapter "Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales." Here he speaks of the incarnation of Vishnu, the Preserver, i n h i s Matse Avatar — " h a l f man and half whale, so as only to give the t a i l of the l a t t e r " (MD225). Now M e l v i l l e has made a curious seeming error i n saying that the p o r t r a i t of t h i s Matse Avatar i s found i n the Elephanta temple, because t h i s temple i s actu-a l l y dedicated to Siva, god of destruction and reproduction.49 He appears to have wished to transpose to the whale a l l the authority—mythic and otherwise—he could, to uphold h i s conception of leviathan as p o t e n t i a l l y e v i l . Insofar as Ahab (more, i n a sense, than Moby Dick) resembles the Matse Avatar, he acquires t h i s authority as well, and gains i n stature over the Gothic hero-villain.$® Reasonably considered, however, t h i s union i s secondary to another i n which he i s a partner. This i s h i s rela t i o n s h i p to Fedallah, which i s of major importance as regards h i s character and the motivation (continuing, not i n i t i a l ) be-hind h i s actions. 40 The Parsee i s a d e v i l - f i g u r e , probably more purely Gothic than any other i n the book. His character, appear-ance, a c t i o n s — a l l are described i n terms of h e l l , e v i l , death* but there i s also some complexity i n h i s purpose. According to Stubb, the Parsee has power over Moby Dick: "'the d e v i l there i s t r y i n g to come round him [Ahab] . . . and then h e ' l l surrender Moby Dick'" (MD275). Yet i n h i s capacity as prophet, Fedallah has a bond with the whale, who i s also described as having a "predestinating head" (MD468). To the degree that either has a purpose, i t i s to claim Ahab fo r h e l l ; black and white, they command a spec-trum of e v i l ; from loa t h l y writhing hatred to the spotless flame of pure t e r r o r , they evoke a l l the sufferings of dam-nation. The appearance of the s p i r i t - s p o u t — s y m b o l i c a l l y the f i r s t s i g h t i n g of Moby Dick—comes shortly a f t e r Fedal-lah himself i s introduced, and they disappear together at the end. The interim i s overshadowed by t h e i r j o i n t pre-ternatural influence over Ahab and a l l the ship. The f i r s t i n d i c a t i o n of the Parsee's existence i s Ishmael's glimpse of h i s shadowy body as he goes aboard; h i s e f f e c t here i s to impart an atmosphere of uneasiness, to invest the ship with powerful i n v i s i b l e presences. As Ahab's headsman, hi s purpose i s to guide him to the f u l f i l m e n t of h i s desire, but at the same time to act as middleman i n the working-out of his own prophecy of Ahab's death. ( i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that Ahab i s aware that "he was now both chasing 41 and being chased to h i s deadly end" by "inhuman a t h e i s t i c a l d e v i l s [who] were i n f e r n a l l y cheering him on with t h e i r curses" (MD321).) As f a r as Ishmael i s concerned, the Parsee "remained a muffled mystery to the l a s t " (MD199); neverthe-l e s s there are clues to his raison d ' e t r e . Starbuck c a l l s him Ahab's " e v i l shadow" (MD459), and such he i s — t h e physi-c a l manifestation of Ahab's unholy purpose, the embodiment of the madness which overpowers the rest of Ahab's being. As the climax of the book nears, Fedallah becomes l e s s shadowy and, l i k e Ahab, ever-present. "Though such a potent s p e l l seemed secretly to j o i n the twain; openly, and to the awe-struck crew, they seem p o l e - l i k e asunder'1 (MD437). This i s because Fedallah i s drawing into himself the inhumanity of Ahab, making him a true opposite to Fedallah, i n the same way that Hyde, as he becomes stronger i n e v i l , leaves J e k y l l more purely good, more p i t i a b l e , i n his weakness. This point i s made over and over near the end. . . . even as Ahab's eyes so awed the crew's, the inscrutable Parsee*s glance awed h i s . . . . Such an added, g l i d i n g strangeness began to invest the t h i n Fedallah now; such ceaseless shudderingsfs; shook him; that the men looked dubious at him; h a l f uncertain . . . whether indeed he were a mortal substance, or else a tremulous shadow cast upon the deck by some unseen being's body. And that shadow was always hovering there. (MD438) Again, Ahab and Fedallah stand always f i x e d l y gazing upon each other; as i f i n the Parsee Ahab saw h i s forethrown shadow, i n Ahab the Parsee h i s abandoned substance. 42 And yet, somehow . . . Ahab seemed an inde-pendent lordj the Parsee but h i s slave. S t i l l again both seemed yoked together, and an unseen tyrant d r i v i n g them* the lean shade s i d i n g the s o l i d r i b . (MD439) The "unseen tyrant" appears to r e f e r to Fate, of the power of whose existence Ahab i s too well aware. The seeming lor d - s l a v e r e l a t i o n s h i p M e l v i l l e found i n t e r e s t i n g enough to develop a few years after i n Benito Cereno; with that t a l e before us, we can i n t u i t h i s reason f o r sketching the re-l a t i o n s h i p here, and ascribe some of the horror of the Babo-Cereno a l l i a n c e to Ahab and Fedallah. Note that Ahab gives signs of fearing Fedallah. When he decides to ascend the mast to look for Moby Dick, he eyes h i s crew f o r a t r u s t -worthy s a i l o r , "but shunning Fedallah" ( M D 4 3 9 ) * chooses Starbuck i n whose hands to place h i s l i f e . The s t r a i n of the voyage ennobles Ahab, who sees himself inhumanly pursued "to h i s deadly end." This i s revealed i n a deeply sympathetic and Col eridgean _sim.il e: . . . Ahab's brow was l e f t gaunt and ribbed, l i k e the black sand beach a f t e r some stormy t i d e has been gnawing i t , without being able to drag the fi r m thing from i t s place.51 Thus the Parsee represents the shadow-side, i n Jungian terms, of Ahab's nature, t h i s development being a progression from the "two-sided personage" of early Gothic, and a step beyond the "double" motif of "William Wilson" or The Picture of Dorian Grav.^ 2 Nevertheless i t s t i l l betrays 43 the more pri m i t i v e mode of handling of the e a r l i e r writers, e s p e c i a l l y i n such chapters as "The Needle," which for a l l i t s suspensefulness, has f o r anyone not among the Pequod's crew the value of a cheap t r i c k ; or "The Chart," where the depiction of Ahab as Gothic hero, f o r a l l i t s i n t e r e s t , i s conventional: Often, when forced from h i s hammock by exhausting and i n t o l e r a b l y v i v i d dreams of the night, . . . the very throbbing of h i s l i f e - s p o t became ins u f -ferable anguish; and when, as was sometimes the case, these s p i r i t u a l throes i n him heaved h i s being up from i t s base, and a chasm seemed opening i n him, from which forked flames and lightnings shot up, and accursed fiends beckoned him to leap down among them; when t h i s h e l l i n himself yawned beneath him, a wild cry would be heard through the ship; and with g l a r i n g eyes Ahab would burst from h i s state room, as though escaping from a bed that was on f i r e . . . . crazy Ahab, the scheming, un-appeasedly steadfast hunter of the white whale; t h i s Ahab that had gone to h i s hammock, was not the agent that so caused him to burst from i t i n horror again. The l a t t e r was the eternal, l i v i n g p r i n c i p l e or soul i n him; and i n sleep, being f o r xfe the time dissociated from the characterizing mind, which at other times employed i t f o r i t s outer vehicle or agent, i t spontaneously sought escape from the scorching contiguity of the f r a n t i c thing. . . . that purpose, by i t s own sheer inveteracy of w i l l , forced i t s e l f against gods and d e v i l s into a kind of self-assumed, independent being of i t s own. Nay, could grimly l i v e and burn, while the common v i t a l i t y to which i t was conjoined, f l e d horror-st r i c k e n from the unbidden and unfathered b i r t h . Therefore, the tormented s p i r i t that glared out of bodily eyes, when what seemed Ahab rushed from h i s room, was f o r the time but a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being, a ray of l i v i n g l i g h t , to be sure, but without an object to color, and therefore a blankness i n i t s e l f . God help thee, ol d man, thy thoughts have created a creature i n thee; and he whose intense thinking thus makes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart f o r -ever; that vulture the very creature&he creates. (MD174-175) 44 I have quoted at length from t h i s paragraph because of the s i g n i f i c a n c e of the Gothic d e t a i l i n i t . F i r s t of a l l , the dream-world i s as powerful an influence i n Gothic l i t e r a t u r e as i t i s i n Ahab's l i f e ; also t h i s p a r t i c u l a r dream i s reminiscent of Ishmael's ( M D 3 3 ) , both i n d i c a t i n g submission to nameless, dreadful phantoms. The vividness suggests Poe's heightening of the sensory perception which characterizes Roderick Usher, the narrator of "The T e l l - T a l e Heart," and Dorian Gray. A leap into the p i t of h e l l marks the untimely end of many a h e r o - v i l l a i n ; here i t i s appro-p r i a t e i n that Ahab, born of f i r e and bearing i t s mark, f e e l s that he w i l l ultimately be claimed by i t — t h e f i r e i s h i s father53 (unusual or unknown paternity i s another motif s i g n i f y i n g the Gothic v i l l a i n ; the hero's b i r t h i s generally unknown at f i r s t and the means of his victory at l a s t . Note that Ishmael i s s e l f - s t y l e d an "orphan" and mentions a f a i r y -t a l e - l i k e stepmother i n connection with h i s dream;) and i t s opposite, darkness, the p i t , i s "the unrecognized mother-symbol," the Jungian negative anima, which however much he thinks to f l e e i t , overcomes Ahab at l a s t . 54 The schizophrenic quality of the captain's mind i s the next d e t a i l of i n t e r e s t ; i t indicates that M e l v i l l e i s consciously manipulating the aspects of Ahab's mind from t o t a l unity to t o t a l d i s u n i t y . Here, he i s i n a middle state i n which, while awake, he can control the dark forces; but when he sleeps, they run rampant and drive out the stab-i l i z i n g soul, leaving him possessed by his Purpose, without the " l i v i n g p r i n c i p l e " and therefore "a vacated thing," an animated corpse, a disembodied agent. 5 5 That which posses-ses him must also be i n some measure "a deep sense of g u i l t , " which P. L. Thorslev says i s " l i k e the brand of C a i n , " 5 6 Such a being Id Dorian Gray, haunted by h i s conscience, the p i c t u r e . I t (the picture) i s i n r e a l i t y the good or pure which has been almost e n t i r e l y separated from himself, and which mirrors h i s e v i l nature, as long as he w i l l l e t i t , as a cor r e c t i v e to him.57 Lord Harry occupies roughly the same po s i t i o n i n r e l a t i o n to Dorian as Fedallah does to Ahab, the p i c t u r e being p a r a l l e l e d by Starbuck. The scene as a whole i s also quite Hawthornesque; note e s p e c i a l l y "Egotism, or the Bosom Serpent." When the snake "gnaws" Roderick E l l i s t o n , he hisses h i s words, " t e s t i -f y i n g h i s agony by i n t r i c a t e writhings;" the snake i s here "•a dark fantasy, and what i t t y p i f i e s was as shadowy as itselfft."58 Several of E l l i s t o n 1 s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s are rem-in i s c e n t of Ahab's. They both create the creatures which gnaw them. Nor i s the allegory i n t h i s instance any more marked i n Hawthorne than i n M e l v i l l e . One short quotation w i l l complete the study here of Ahab as Gothic h e r o - v i l l a i n . This concerns his use of the crew to further his own ends, so that they are w i l l i n g to obey him: 4 6 . . . Captain Ahab was by no means unobservant of the paramount forms and usages of the sea. . . . behind those forms and usages, as i t were, he sometimes masked himself; i n c i d e n t a l l y making use of them for other and more private ends than they were leg i t i m a t e l y intended to subserve. . . . For be a man's i n t e l l e c t u a l s u p e r i o r i t y what i t w i l l , i t can never assume the p r a c t i c a l , a v a i l a b l e supremacy over other men, without the aid of some sort of external arts and entrenchments, always, i n themselves, more or l e s s p a l t r y or base. (MD129) This i s another side of the v e i l motif already mentioned i n connection with the sq u a l l , equally Gothic i n e f f e c t , as w i l l be revealed by The Minister's Black V e i l . The Picture  of Dorian Gray. The Monk. The Masque of the Red Death, and many other s t o r i e s . Of those named here, the f i r s t and l a s t have the closest a f f i n i t y with Ahab's psychological v e i l because the masks i n them are de l i b e r a t e l y assumed fo r a purpose not immediately known. Like Manfred, Ahab i s not so concerned—'especially once he gets to sea—over what the crew thinks of him that he f e e l s the need to pro-vide excuses; l i k e Ambrosio, however, he does not wish to excite comment, and i s ever w i l l i n g that a wrong reason f o r h i s behavior be i n f e r r e d , rather than a correct one given. He gives no reason f o r personally preparing a spare whale-boat f o r the hunt, f o r example, and the crew assumes the Pequod's owners were simply not informed of his l u s t f o r personal whaling. They never dream he has shipped h i s own oarsmen, or that his sole i n t e r e s t i n the voyage i s Moby Dick and not p r o f i t . Masked intentions thus serve 47 to i s o l a t e Ahab completely from the rest of mankind and place him among the world of fiends and phantoms, whose ways and reasons are equally mysterious. We can turn now to Ishmael, who i s i n many ways even more mysterious than h i s captain. He i s of course a counter-part to the wandering Jew, and roams, as the Mariner teaches, when he i s compelled to do so. In a l l circumstances, he i s a dreamer, moralizer, and philosopher. I t i s because he, of a l l the characters i n the novel, i s the narrator that we have the c e t o l o g i c a l chapters, the discussions of whiteness, the symbolic inte r p r e t a t i o n of mat-making, and the focus on Ahab as the agent of r e a l i z i n g ( i . e . acting out) Ishmael1's wishes. In fa c t Ishmael cloaks the events and the people i n the p a r t i c u l a r atmosphere of the Gothic romance. The opening scene of the novel, a version of the brook-idyll s e t t i n g which Varma describes as s t a l e without the contrast of terror-romanticism,59 ±s quickly thrust aside by Ishmael, who though "not ignoring what i s good" i s "quick to perceive a horror, and could s t i l l be s o c i a l with i t — w o u l d they l e t me" (MD16); "they" appears to re f e r to the re s t of society, from whose protective taboos Ishmael longs to be free. As hero, Ishmael describes himself more i n terms of psychological than physical appearance. He juxtaposes him-s e l f and the conditions of h i s l i f e with several types of people—Cato, landsmen, a metaphysical professor, an a r t i s t , Narcissus, a Commodore or Cook, a ship's passenger, a con-48 testant f o r the Presidency—and allows h i s own character to emerge through the contrasts. He appears to have an a f f i n i t y with the professor, the a r t i s t , and Narcissus which i s ex-panded during the ensuing chapters to form an i n t e r e s t i n g v a r i a t i o n of the "young hero" figu r e of Gothic romance—the Theodore or Raymond, the young Don Juan—of the novel. There l i n g e r s about Ishmael an uneasy sense ( f o r the reader) of h i s being continually followed by the spectre who sat at h i s bed-side when he was a c h i l d . I t was invoked then by his having cut "some caper or other," probably symbolic of o r i g i n a l s i n ; i n h i s case, the antipathy for h i s step-mother who punishes him, as he considers, inordinately for a s l i g h t misdemeanour. He remembers that she "somehow or other was a l l the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless" (MD32); i n t h i s case, he " f e l t dreadfully . . . a great deal worse than I have ever done since" (MD33) but repentance i s replaced by a " b i t t e r s i g h . " This i s Ishmael's i n i t i a t i o n into "the step-mother world, so long c r u e l — f o r b i d d i n g — " (MD443), which he spends the rest of h i s l i f e r e j e c t i n g and from which he t r i e s to escape. But the g u i l t incurred i s h i s constant companion. J . M. S. Tompkins deals with the r i s i n g importance of g u i l t as Gothicism comes into i t s own: The attitude of the romantic mind towards g u i l t was undergoing an important change of fashion during the l a s t ten years of the eighteenth cen-tury. Whereas the f a v o r i t e subject of contem-pl a t i o n had been repentance and expiation, the 49 i n t e r e s t now s h i f t s to the passionate excesses that precede them, and presently repentance ceases to be the most popular sequel to crime, and y i e l d s to a picturesque defiance. ° 0 "Picturesque defiance" seems too gentle a phrase to apply to Ahab's raving, yet i t implies an active movement which i s too strong for Ishmael's p a s s i v i t y . G u i l t i n M e l v i l l e has, i t seems, come another step along the road to modernity and become, i n Ishmael's case at l e a s t , a Bartleby-like avoid-ance which i s mute, not assertive negativism. A seeming digression may illuminate t h i s point. The i n t e r p r e t a t i o n of Ishmael fs "disappearance" i n the middle of Mobv-Dick which I suggested above can be further expanded; that i s , Ishmael may be, i n one sense, a l l the other major characters, who can be said to represent aspects of h i s personality—Ahab being the "dark side" of his nature, Quee-queg the p r i m i t i v e , Stubb the irresponsible, and so f o r t h . I f t h i s were the case, then as the "voyage" progresses, be-coming more dangerous and the c o n f l i c t s more apparent and desperate, Ishmael's personality would " s p l i t , " much as i t divided under the influence of h i s fear and g u i l t concerning h i s step-mother, u n t i l each of these voices was embodied i n a separate person. Whether or not t h i s i s s t r i c t l y true, i t does seem to further support the idea of a projection onto Ahab of Ishmael's wishes. These two characters are the opposite sides of the same doubloon—the aged, weather-beaten captain, narrow of 50 purpose and c l i n g i n g i r o n - l i k e to his i d e n t i t y , and the "romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded young" Ishmael, "disgusted with the carking cares of earth, and seeking sentiment i n t a r and blubber" (MD139), who by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, . . . loses his i d e n t i t y ; takes the mystic ocean at h i s feet for the v i s i b l e image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, g l i d i n g , b e a u t i f u l thing that eludes him . . . seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually f l i t t i n g through i t . In t h i s enchanted mood, thy s p i r i t ebbs away to whence i t came; becomes d i f f u s e through time and space . . . (MD149) Ishmael i s , i n fact, desirous of l o s i n g h i s i d e n t i t y ; i t i s the purpose of h i s voyage. And he succeeds i n forgoing h i s i n d i v i d u a l i t y i n order to l i v e v i c a r i o u s l y i n the l i v e s of the rest of the crew. In t h i s d i v i s i o n of s e l f , however, he i s made uneasy: f i r s t by Pip's misfortune, immediately af t e r which he extols the benefits of s o c i a l integration: " l e t us squeeze hands a l l round; nay, l e t us a l l squeeze ourselves into each other" (MD349); and second by the mur-derous disunity of Ahab's being, the "nervous step" (MD141) of the man goaded by the demon which leaves " s t i l l stranger f o o t p r i n t s — t h e footprints of his one unsleeping, ever-pacing thought" (MD140). Truly during the course of the novel, Ishmael learns how f o o l i s h he was to attempt to shuck o f f the bonds of society; some r e s t r a i n t and some unity i s nec-essary; the unleashing of emotions, as Ambrosio, Hyde, and 51 Dorian Gray discover, leads only to a n n i h i l a t i o n . What Ishmael appears to desire i s union with nature, with himself being j u s t a small part of that whole, but he i s too inex-perienced to r e a l i z e the treachery of natural forces which w i l l l u r e him on just to k i l l him. The water w i l l not buoy him up, but swallow him, i f he chances to s l i p into i t , and the "half-seen, g l i d i n g , b e a u t i f u l thing" he glimpses i n the sea below may be the shark or squid. In terms of the youthful, i n i t i a t e - h e r o , Ishmael's experience served to awaken h i s capacity f o r self-knowledge as well as to unfold the mysterious night-world before him. My b e l i e f i s that, wishing to make h i s conception of t h i s world as c l e a r as possible under the mask of a conventional sea-voyage such as Typee or Omoo, M e l v i l l e appropriated the Gothic hero convention as the best through which both to v e i l and reveal his intentions. Ishmael i s the one who has to learn what l i e s beyond "the floodgates of the wonder world," as he c a l l s i t — t h e character of the world under the surface. He i s too w i l l i n g to be t r u s t i n g . Ahab, hi s oppo-s i t e , knows the "inscrutable malice" (MD144) that i s there, and sees i t as embodied i n the white whale which maimed him f o r no reason. He i s consciously aware of what Ishmael i n -t u i t s , that man i s i n the grip of nature, to be struck down at w i l l by "some unknown but s t i l l reasoning t h i n g [that] puts f o r t h the mouldings of i t s features from behind the un-reasoning mask." As f a r as Ahab i s concerned, t h i s mask i s 52 Moby Dick's faceless front, and the reasoner behind i t , "be the white whale agent, or be the white whale p r i n c i p a l , " i s what he aims to s t r i k e . I f man w i l l s t r i k e , s t r i k e through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrust-ing through the wall? To me, the white whale i s that wall, shoved near to me. (MD144) Ahab f e e l s himself goaded by the reasoner, which has pushed the shape of Moby Dick close to induce him to attempt to subdue i t . I f man i s ever to rule, he must meet nature on i t s own terms and overcome i t . I t i s not Ahab's desire to do t h i s which renders him insane; i t i s h i s conviction that he w i l l succeed. Starbuck himself f e e l s the desire to triumph over nature, as i s i n d i -cated by h i s continuing to chase the whale i n the s q u a l l , but he knows that everything conspires against the l i k e l i h o o d of k i l l i n g Moby Dick. The very strength of the beast, aside from any supernatural portents, would t e l l him that. However, brave as he might be, i t was that sort of bravery, c h i e f l y v i s i b l e i n some i n t r e p i d men, which, while generally abiding firm i n the c o n f l i c t with seas, or wind, or whales, or any . . . ordinary i r r a -t i o n a l horrors of the world, yet cannot withstand those more t e r r i f i c , because more s p i r i t u a l t e r r o r s . . . (MD104) In other words, he has learned the lessons Ahab has not learned; he has passed the kind of test that t h i s voyage i s to Ishmael. But there i s too much of Ahab i n Ishmael f o r 53 him ever to become l i k e Starbuck; he has not h i s "deep natur-a l reverence" (MD103) but rather Ahab's irreverence ("I'd s t r i k e the sun i f i t insulted me" [MD144]). For j u s t as Ahab's mania f o r vengeance i s based on the i n i t i a l loss of h i s l e g , so Starbuck's strong f a i t h forms the basis for h i s b e l i e f , i n s p i t e of a l l , i n the power of God. "Starbuck i s Stubb reversed," says Ahab, "and StuBb i s Starbuck" (MD452); the two represent the poles of too much f a i t h and caring, and too l i t t l e . In a r e a l sense, then, Starbuck i s the representa-t i v e of conventional society i n the novel. Gothicism deals i n part with the need to escape from binding s o c i a l systems, and insofar as Starbuck extols the virtues of these systems, he i s the representative i n t h i s novel of what i s being re-j e c t e d . His i s an outdated, useless doctrine of avoidance rather than active r e j e c t i o n or resistance. He i s as much an adversary of Ahab's as the whale i s , but i n h i s goodness l i e s h i s weakness; Ahab i s able to overcome Starbuck when the mate confronts him, and i s spared at Starbuck's hands because he cannot condone murder, even for the sake of righteousness. This extremism destroys him as surely as Ahab's does. Gothic writers were f o r the most part aware of the grasp i n which the religious doctrines of d i f f e r e n t f a i t h s held t h e i r society, and were eager to reduce the submission of society to r e l i g i o n . While the Spanish I n q u i s i t i o n and various cruel "secret s o c i e t i e s " lent themselves to adapta-t i o n — a n d adoption—by the writers of the Gothic, because of the subject matter they afforded, i t would be f o o l i s h to suppose, that i n t r y i n g to avoid and protest the bonds of society, they did not see to what extent the power of the Church opposed them. Although condemnation of r e l i g i o u s b e l i e f s and practices gradually became more popular and more widespread, the early Gothic writers, such as Walpole and Lewis, t r i e d to show by contrast and example which C h r i s t i a n doctrines were or were not being followed. They did not advocate the t o t a l r e j e c t i o n of f a i t h , but t h e i r r a t i o n a l i z a -t i o n for accepting i t changed. Their own strongly-rooted b e l i e f s , coming i n opposition to t h e i r desire to oppose hypocrisy and falsehood, resulted i n another of the thematic schisms basic to Gothicism and r e f l e c t e d i n every aspect of the form. Gothic contrast and Gothic moral indetermination are the roots f o r the continuing central importance of theo-l o g i c a l concerns i n Gothic l i t e r a t u r e . As we have seen, Starbuck*s s o c i a l r e s t r i c t i v e n e s s i s r e l i g i o u s i n nature: because of t h i s , and because the r e l i g i o u s i n Gothicism i s pervasive, i t may be well to men-t i o n , before l e a v i n g t h i s topic, the character of Father Mapple. The monk or holy man i n the Gothic i s , as might be expected, one of two types; he i s either the l i v i n g proof of God's s o l i c i t u d e for man as i n Jerome i n The Castle of  Otranto. or the h y p o c r i t i c a l sinner who "protests too much" 55 by cloaking himself i n the vestments of the p r i e s t . Both Ambrosio and Schedoni are the l a t t e r type. Which of these two Father Mapple represents i s d i f f i c u l t to say. M e l v i l l e describes him as p h y s i c a l l y i s o l a t e d and s p i r i t u a l l y with-drawn from h i s congregation, and there i s a touch of the ludicrous i n h i s " t r u l y s a i l o r - l i k e but s t i l l r e v e r e n t i a l d exterity" (MD42) and his "'Starboard gangway, there! . . . larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! Midships!*" (MD44). Nevertheless there i s a sense of loneliness and desolation i n t h i s i s o l a t o which suggests that l i k e Ahab, he has d i s -covered that his God i s uncaring, even malicious. Out of the p i t y of h i s heart, he has dedicated his l i f e to conceal-i n g t h i s truth from h i s fellows so that when they f e e l the unmerciful grip of the storm, they w i l l yet have hope. He claims to be preaching "the Truth to the face of Falsehood." But i s he? The answer indicated here i s no, for Father Map-p l e i s l e f t covering "his face with h i s hands . . . alone i n the place," the very picture of the doom he has just voiced: "Yea, woe to him who, as the great P i l o t Paul has i t , while preaching to others i s himself a castaway!" (MD50). Perhaps he i s speaking of a truth and a falsehood which are not of the conventional church. Certainly M e l v i l l e seems to have wished Father Map-ple *s sermon to be taken seriously, i n part at l e a s t . I t contains as much foreshadowing as other serious incidents d o — t h e picture on the Spouter-Inn*s wall, for example. I t 56 i s dramatically r e a l i z e d as a Gothic t a l e i n i t s e l f , i n c l u d -i n g the poetic interlude common i n Gothic s t o r i e s , descrip-t i o n s of Jonah i n terms of h i s g u i l t , h i s " e v i l eye" (MD46), and h i s taking refuge i n a "contracted hole, sunk, too, be-neath the ship's water-line," f e e l i n g the burden of "ponder-ous misery [which] drags him drowning down to sleep." The storm i s an agent of r e t r i b u t i o n and the sign of h i s g u i l t . I t may be noted further that M e l v i l l e o f f e r s two d e f i n i t e parodies of r e l i g i o n , i n old Fleece's sermon and i n Queequeg's worship of Yojo, and one i n d i c a t i o n of the f a i l u r e of r e l i g i o n i n Starbuck* and i t would seem l o g i c a l to assume that he would also portray the agony which the l o s s of b e l i e f can produce. Father Mapple may be p a r a l l e l to the Hermit i n the Rime, except that he i s f u l l y aware of how rotten i s the oak stump on which he kneels. What i s Gothic about the characters I have discussed here--Ahab, Fedallah, Ishmael, Starbuck, and Father Mapple— i s , broadly speaking, t h e i r r e l a t i o n s h i p with the super-natural, c e r t a i n aspects of t h e i r p e r s o n a l i t i e s ( e v i l eye, wandering nature, etc.), t h e i r i d e n t i f i c a t i o n with t h e i r settings, and t h e i r i s o l a t i o n from mankind* what i s more than Gothic l i e s i n "the way i n which t h e i r fanaticisms are analyzed, i n the detailed attention given to t h e i r hidden impulses." 0 2 M e l v i l l e i s the analyst par excellence j wit-ness, for example, i n what revelatory l i g h t the doubloon throws the people who approach i t . "Untouchable and immacu-l a t e , " i t i s at l e a s t a t r i p a r t i t e symbol, being "the white whale's talisman," "the image of the rounder globe, which, l i k e a magician's glass, to each and every man i n turn but mirrors back h i s own mysterious s e l f " (MD359), and t h i r d , "a sign that things grow desperate" (MD363). Further, i t i s a symbol of both the sun (Fedallah, the Zoroastrian, bows be-fore i t ) and the moon, fo r i t s l i g h t i s a l l r e f l e c t e d , not inwardly generated. I t mirrors sea and land, and though "through the l i v e l o n g nights shrouded with thick darkness" (MD359)> i s mystically preserved i n i t s place. These are but a few of i t s "meanings," yet they reveal that as t a l i s -man, the doubloon serves the same purposes as i t s counter-parts i n other Gothic novels. The p o r t r a i t of the V i r g i n i n The Monk i s a good example. I t achieves a purpose opposite to the one f o r which i t seems to e x i s t j t h i s f a l s i t y p a r a l -l e l s the fact about the doubloon, that whatever i s seen i n i t i s inverted by i t s m i r r o r - l i k e property of r e f l e c t i o n . As the p o r t r a i t expresses Ambrosio*s true nature, so the doubloon r e f l e c t s the inner mental substance of those who read i t ; and as the p o r t r a i t i s an image of the f a l s i t y of religion i n The Monk (and almost a l l the r e l i g i o u s figures here are f a l s e ) , so the doubloon shows the f a l s i t y of mater-i a l values and the d i f f i c u l t y of a t t a i n i n g to s p i r i t u a l ones. Another good example i s Hawthorne's story, "The Great Carbuncle," i n which several people, notably an old man named the Seeker, "condemned to wander among the mountains u n t i l the end of time," 0 , 5 search for a jewel which i s often, l i k e the doubloon, "shrouded with thick darkness," and which changes i t s character—and i t s a c c e s s i b i l i t y — d e -pending on the attitude of the searcher. Thus the success of the Seeker's endeavour i s shown by his death* the Cynic i s blinded by the stone "for the w i l f u l blindness of his former l i f e ; " 0 4 the lovers alone gain the wisdom to reject i t , and are content merely to perpetuate i t s legend. Interested as M e l v i l l e i s i n symbolic representations to reveal truth, he seems to have been aware that the l e s s s p e c i f i c he was, the closer he would enable h i s readers to come to h i s actual meaning. Thus the many examples of the compounded good and e v i l i n whiteness. Thus also his use of contrast rather than explication; and thus h i s a r t i s t i c use of the v e i l motif which he may have taken d i r e c t l y from h i s Gothic sources. I have several times referred to the v e i l image as Gothic, and of i t s use as such i n Mobv-Dick. I t may be well to expand the point somewhat, since the image i s a f a i r l y complex one, and since Conrad also makes p a r t i c u l a r use of i t . I t includes, to begin with, several obviously related images: f i r s t , darkness; the mist or fog, and the cloak or mask, a l l providing d i r e c t concealment. They are protective devices. In Dorian Gray. Dorian no sooner discovers a change i n his p o r t r a i t ' s features than he draws a curtain before i t . His action i s psychologically repressive. I t i s protective 59 f o r the moment, but notsultimately, because i f he had not shielded himself from the f a c t of h i s changing nature, he would possibly not have destroyed himself. Often i n Gothic-ism the mask or v e i l represents society's i n s t i n c t to hide i t s own ugliness; t h i s i s what Dorian's curtain symbolizes. The ugliness increases underneath, but society i s protected from i t ; nevertheless t h i s self-imposed blindness forebodes the inescapable, certain a n n i h i l a t i o n of society. Here we can see the s t r u c t u r a l necessity of the v e i l motif i n Gothicism. Most Gothic writers shape t h e i r s t o r i e s around one central idea: that the unknown must be faced and conquered before the i n d i v i d u a l (who i s often an a r i s t o c r a t by nature and who represents mankind i n general) can use h i s fr e e w i l l to mature and progress i n , with, or f o r the sake of, the s o c i a l framework. The manner i n which the unknown or the v e i l i s pierced, however, i s c r u c i a l . Ishmael pierces the mask of the unknown and emerges i n t a c t , but "a sadder and a wiser man;" Oedipus penetrates the same v e i l and i s de-stroyed. In the former case, the society i s not materially benefited; i n the l a t t e r , i t i s saved i f not redeemed. Early Gothic writers, tending towards the l a t t e r s i t u a t i o n , give way to more pessimistic authors, such as I believe Coleridge and M e l v i l l e are, who seem to f e e l that few people are capable of being saved; to them the rest of society i s knowingly, or at l e a s t uncaringly b l i n d , and therefore doomed. 60 Thus i s the v e i l , which i s sometimes depicted as darkness, a fog, or a mask, a p e c u l i a r l y Gothic device. Many variations on t h i s theme grow around the central con-cept. There are, for example, things which seem to be what they are not: images i n mirror or water, for example, or " l i v i n g " p o r t r a i t s . The p o r t r a i t image i s often given s p e c i a l depth. Who i s to say, f o r example, which (up u n t i l the moment of h i s death) i s the r e a l Dorian—the person or the picture? More of the true Dorian hangs behind the cur-t a i n ; the person i s a sham, a mask, not the r e a l i t y , but the i d e a l i z a t i o n ( i n appearance) of a p o t e n t i a l which i s opera-t i v e extremely r a r e l y . Different types of "double" imagery also provide concealment. One object often represents d i f -ferent things to d i f f e r e n t people: the ghost and the l i v i n g being may be substitutes for each other, as may two i d e n t i -c a l people, such as Poe depicts i n William Wilson. F i n a l l y , the images of the dream-world and the unconscious are some-times depicted as "doubles" of one kind or another. Used as a Gothic motif, the v e i l has as i t s primary purpose the heightening of the atmosphere and the emotions, generally by means of suspense. I t s effectiveness i n doing t h i s i s f a i r l y obvious and f a i r l y p r i m i t i v e . Later, an a u x i l -i a r y purpose emerges, which i s to define r e a l i t y and/or truth. This d e f i n i t i o n i s most successful when stated symbolically so that various interpretations may be inferred; when, i n other words, i t shades black and white into gray, breaking 61 down a l l certainty and establ i s h i n g new c r i t e r i a of f a l s e and true. The v e i l i s the palpable representative of the gr a y — t h e enigma. Thus i t contains both good and bad. I f i t could be pierced, one or the other would emerge, but i n fact the attempt to pierce i t leads to s p i r i t u a l a n n i h i l a -t i o n . The awareness of i t s existence and the acceptance of i t are the safest goals. I t i s not as i f we do not know what l i e s beyond t h i s intangible b a r r i e r . Behind R a d c l i f f e * s v e i l i s death. Later writers put there not death, but the world of the dead. The supernatural l i e s beyond the mist into which Pym d r i f t s . The Minister's black v e i l , i t may be assumed, hides intan-gib l e yet almost palpable s i n ; and s i n as crime i s one mani-fe s t a t i o n of J e k y l l ' s other, dark s e l f , hidden (Hyde?) i n him as s i n i s hidden behind the kindest face. Under Agnes* v e i l (for the bleeding nun i s impersonating Agnes) there i s a soul i n anguish, animated by g u i l t . There are, then, some who go beyond the v e i l and survive i n one form or another. The Ancient Mariner i s , again, the prototype. Just as important are those characters who l i v e the experience v i c a r i o u s l y and gain insight without a n n i h i l a t i o n . The Wedding-Guest, Ishmael, and Marlow are three. What i s true of the major protagonists i s also true of them to a degree. With the Mariner, there are several layers to the v e i l . The i n i t i a l one i s the "mist and snow" through which he enters a s u r r e a l i s t i c world of strange dream-noises and green i c e - f l o e s (surely they contain the es s e n t i a l , unseen threat that the sea contains). While he i s i n t h i s world, "did cross an Albatross, / Thorough the fog i t came." The Mariner k i l l s i t , but aside from the momentary, natural disapproval of h i s fellows, there i s no immediate change. They mistake the sun and breeze f o r good signs, but these manifestations, l i k e the storm which springs up when Jonah i s at sea, symbolize h i s g u i l t and are made concrete i n the albatross when i t i s hung around h i s neck. So far, then, the penetration of the v e i l reveals conventional Gothic themes—death, crime, g u i l t and i t s physical manifestation, and spiritual stagnation. D e f i n i t e i d e n t i f i c a t i o n of the points at which the Mariner passes through subsequent layers of the v e i l would simply i n v i t e disagreement; however, one would seem to be "When that strange ship drove suddenly / Betwixt us and the Sun" ( U . 174-375)» and another where the Mariner f e e l s he has died and become a ghost (11.304-307). The important thing about h i s further penetration into the unknown i s that he becomes l e s s and l e s s able to again be absolutely human. Each step i s l i k e a moment of awareness, and between the moments are dream-sequences which reveal his increasing subconscious a l i e n a t i o n . The ultimate v e i l through which the Mariner must repeatedly go, i s the one which separates h i s searching and h i s trance states. And t h i s i s probably the most mean-i n g f u l one, because i t has something of the character of a 63 web as well as a f o g — e n g u l f i n g and imprisoning those before whom i t spreads. I t blinds the victim Wedding-Guest to h i s own world while i t imparts inner v i s i o n , but when his eyes open again, he i s as old as Rip Van Winkle or Ishmael, as alienated as Bartleby, and more l i k e l y than not, mad. Now, Coleridge's avowed purpose was to "transfer from our inward nature a human in t e r e s t and a semblance of t r u t h , " to f i n d the truth i n f i c t i o n and r e a l i t y i n the un-conscious, to f i n d meaning i n the supposedly f a l s e or dream world. And while Coleridge moved from the supernatural to the natural, "Mr. Wordsworth . . . was to propose to himself as h i s object, to give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a f e e l i n g analogous to the super-natural; " 6 5 i n other words, he was working from the other side of the v e i l , natural to supernatural, to achieve the same union Coleridge worked towards, and the same one ( i n s p i t e of Coleridge's opinion of Gothic l i t e r a t u r e ) Walpole intended: "the marriage of the supernatural with the n a t u r a l . " 6 7 With Moby-Dick. I have attempted to show how t h i s union i s more completely achieved with the t o o l s of Gothic-ism, so that a work delving further into the l a b y r i n t h of the human mind and i t s conception of the reasons for human existence was created. The underlying themes of the Gothic novel, which Coleridge began.to explore and which M e l v i l l e extended, are again broadened and deepened i n the works of 64 Joseph Conrad. Now I have already said that I believe that the Gothic, when taken to the extreme, becomes myth. This tendency hardly e x i s t s at a l l i n The Castle of Otranto. but i t can be discovered i n Melmoth the Wanderer. Mobv-Dick i s 6 8 a leviathan-myth, but has many other concerns as well. Lord Jim, on the other hand, can be la r g e l y interpreted as the myth of the young initiate-hero.°^ Yet i t can also be said to have been handled as a Gothic t a l e of the English s t y l e , suggestive, rather than d e s c r i p t i v e , of beauty and horror a l i k e . Conrad's aims do indeed appear to have been very close to those of Walpole and Coleridge quoted above. "I . . . have never sought i n the written word anything else but a form of the B e a u t i f u l " could as well have been Rad-c l i f f e ' s as Conrad's statement.* 7 0 And i n the "Author's Note" to Within the Tides, he writes further: . . . the mere fac t of dealing with matters out-side the general run of everyday experiences l a i d me under the obliga t i o n of a more scrupulous f i d e l i t y to the truth of my own sensations. The  problem was to make unfamiliar things c r e d i b l e . To do that I had to create f o r them, to reproduce for them, to envelop them i n t h e i r proper atmo-sphere of actuality.71 ( i t a l i c s mine.) Again i t i s the atmosphere as s e t t i n g which i s the f i r s t con-s i d e r a t i o n . Next come the characters, not characters for t h e i r own sake, but now for the sake of t h e i r passions, for the sake of the human truth they reveal. Conrad described himself as a "translator of passions into speech,"''5 confes-s i n g at the same time to what Lewis found too true, that "to render a c r u c i a l point of feelings i n terms of human speech i s r e a l l y an impossible task. Written words can only form a 71 sort of t r a n s l a t i o n . " ' 0 Again we are reminded of Ishmael's words, "explain myself I must, else a l l these chapters might be naught" (MD163). Yet there i s a way for Conrad to imbue hi s " t r a n s l a t i o n " with the emotional i n t e n s i t y necessary f o r understanding of the truth of any s i t u a t i o n ; i t i s Lewis's way: "only a meticulous p r e c i s i o n of statement would bring out the true horror behind the appalling face of things" (LJ24). The difference between Lewis and Conrad here i s that Lewis's statements are i n themselves h o r r i b l e , whereas any one of Conrad's statements of f a c t , taken by i t s e l f , i s not h o r r i b l e . They seem natural and explicable, but i n r e a l -i t y cannot be considered apart from such other " f a c t s " as s e t t i n g and character. "The suspense of external circum-stance i s de-emphasized i n favor of increasing psychological concern with moral ambiguity."74 Conrad's i n s t i n c t i s for Gothic te r r o r , not Gothic horror, because he knows that " r e a l i t y could not be half as bad, not half as anguishing, appalling, and vengeful as the created t e r r o r of . . . imagination" ( L J 8 3 ) . So he turns external circumstance into psychological circumstance. What the unknown consists of, as The Mysteries of Udolpho shows, i s not as bad as what one thinks i t does. I f t h i s were not so, no c r i t i c would have 66 taken R a d c l i f f e to task f o r her n a t u r a l i s t i c explanations. The accomplishment of Conrad's design, l i k e M e l v i l l e ' s , p a r a l l e l e d to some extent that of the Gothic novelists, and his use of Gothic motifs furthered t h e i r design to that ex-tent. In l i t e r a t u r e as much as i n architecture, the quality of Gothicism cannot be rendered into essence, but into con-s t i t u e n t s . (Yet i t i s greater than the sum of i t s m o t i f s -greater because of mood, which i s evoked by the motifs but which i s d i f f e r e n t from them because i t cannot exist apart from them, while they can each exist alone.) Insofar as a Gothic motif i s present inaa work of a r t , that work i s Gothic; the more such elements that are present, the more Gothic i s the work. We should not think, because the evolution of horror-and terror-romanticism has disguised the early Gothic char-a c t e r i s t i c s i n l i t e r a t u r e , that Gothicism no longer excites the same emotions. Sublimity of f e e l i n g , i n which the mind and the senses are united, naturally leaves an i n d e l i b l e impression on the reader, and i s therefore to be attempted by the a r t i s t . Since the mind can j u s t i f y the actions and emotions of the body without being able to verbalize an under-standing of them, there exists a union of mind and body which cannot be explicated f o r the reader without the arousal i n him of l i k e emotions. Conrad was interested i n achieving t h i s e x t r a - l i n g u i s t i c sublimity i n Lord Jim. Lord Jim i s not, as Mobv-Dick i s , a Gothic novel. But elements of Gothicism are strong i n i t . And through examination of these elements we can discern t h e i r gradual metamorphosis into myth. To j u s t i f y my f e e l i n g that Conrad used the Gothic i n h i s f i c t i o n , I wish to consider f o r a moment his short story "The Inn of the Two Witches." I t s central p l o t i s Gothic, and was used as such by Wilkie C o l l i n s i n "A T e r r i b l y Strange Bed." The difference between the two s t o r i e s themselves gives an i n s i g h t into the way the Gothic has been developed. In contrast with C o l l i n s , Conrad concentrates on the psycho-l o g i c a l aspects of the story. The same build-up of fore-shadowing marks each t a l e , but Conrad strengthens that mys-tery and fear by presenting Tom Corbin*s body, so that mere Death i t s e l f i s not to be feared as i t i s i n C o l l i n s * t a l e . Fear controls Byrne; Roderick Usher*s conviction, "I must abandon l i f e and reason together, i n some struggle with the grim phantasm, FEAR," expresses what Byrne f e e l s , that "com-pl e t e t e r r o r had possession of him" and that "he would have to die before the morning." Conrad stresses on the one hand the absolute t r u t h to the f a c t s of the story, while on the other hand conceding that imagination i s potently at work. Thus he e f f e c t s the union of the re a l and the supernatural which i s so important to Gothicism. (One i s reminded of The  Shadow-Line, where Conrad uses the same technique.) The be-ginning of the story establishes an a i r of authority and archaism—though Conrad immediately denies the l a t t e r e f f e c t , 68 thus making the story more contemporary, closer to the reader. The " l o s t manuscript" device i s common i n Gothic t a l e s . For the rest, Conrad establishes a conventional framework, empha-s i z i n g the romanticism and "wild gloomy" atmosphere of the s e t t i n g and the story i t s e l f , the i n v i n c i b i l i t y and goodness of Tom, and notably, the naivete of Edgar Byrne. Byrne i s young, ready to accept at face value whatever he i s t o l d (which c h a r a c t e r i s t i c induces him to believe the Spanish dwarf's two contradictory addresses to him, both times with-out question and both times to Tom's detriment), and e a s i l y l e d to see things as others wish him to. The only depth of human understanding he dis p l a y s ^ r e s u l t s i n h i s i n f e r r i n g petty covetousness i n the Spanish dwarf. There are continual a l l u s i o n s to the presence of the d e v i l and his relationship with the one-eyed wine-seller and h i s witches of aunts which foreshadow the events i n the forest, yet which seem at the same time calculated to reveal the inexperience of Byrne, who i s induced to think imaginatively rather than r a t i o n a l l y , because he half believes i n the supernatural powers of those around him. Thus i t i s that, metaphorically speaking, Byrne walks into the darkness, "the night which f e l l l i k e a band-age over h i s eyes." He allows h i s emotions to govern him— "he f e l t rather than saw"—because h i s mind has become b l i n d -ed to a c t u a l i t y . His subconscious takes him over and pre-sents each sequence of events imaginatively* thus the forest inn "rise[s] from the ground" and comes " g l i d i n g to meet him, dumb and p a l l i d , from some dark recess of the night." His entry into i t and into the forest s i g n i f i e s the assertion of the subconscious mind, into which he must penetrate as a t e s t to prove h i s l o y a l t y and his manliness. Tom's r e l a -tionship to him i s described i n p r e c i s e l y the terms that a f r i e n d l y watchdog's to a c h i l d would be. Only i n t h i s story, the only dog which presents i t s e l f i s an "unclean incarna-t i o n of the E v i l One . . . an unlucky presage." Thus there are several aspects to Byrne's need to secure Tom's safety. F i r s t , he must assert h i s leadership over Tom. Second, he must purge himself of fear of the un-known. Third, he must explore h i s own dark nature to gain knowledge of himself. A l l these are accomplished by h i s entry into the house and h i s search for the coxswain; the t r i a l he undergoes i s a kind of i n i t i a t i o n into manhood. While Byrne i s i n the house, the action continues to follow the conventional Gothic pattern. The f l i c k e r i n g can-dle, by the l i g h t of which Byrne i s led to h i s room, the presence of inexplicable death, "the haunting sound of Tom's voice," the anxiety which "had never taken a d e f i n i t e shape" — a l l these devices are more obviously Gothic i n t h i s story than i n any of Conrad's other works. I t i s as i f he were here using them to disguise some other aspect of the story. I t could be that, although these various devices form an ostensible t e s t for Byrne which he ostensibly passes, he does 70 not actually achieve the maturity the reader i s l e d to be-l i e v e he should. He awakens as i f from a dream to ask Gon-zales why the gypsy wished him deaL though he has had proof of the avarice which prompted Tom's murder. He accepts with h i s usual unthinkingness the assurance "that everything f i t t i n g has been done" even though the murder of Bernardino — a n d probably of h i s two aunts a l s o — c o n t r i b u t e s to t h i s "everything f i t t i n g , " and his conscience i s quelled by the s i m p l i s t i c moral r e f l e c t i o n which closes the a f f a i r : "the passion for gold i s p i t i l e s s i n the very old . . . " I f , however, Conrad did use the conventions of Goth-icism to mask a current of irony i n h i s story, he more often seems to invert t h i s procedure so that i t i s the Gothicism which i s hidden and transformed, and the doubtful morality which appears on the surface. This i s perhaps the case with Lord Jim, written f i f t e e n years before "The Inn of the Two Witches," and a good example of his more customary method of presenting the t e r r o r of the unknown. The two s t o r i e s con-t a i n many of the same elements i n varying combinations, and reveal a remarkable contrast i n e f f e c t . I t i s more important with Lord Jim than with Moby-Dick to discuss f i r s t the well-springs of Gothicism—setting, mood, and character—and s e t t i n g i s again the primary con-si d e r a t i o n . As much as i n any of the early Gothic novels, i t influences the main characters and t h e i r reactions' i t i s also a useful vehicle for revealing the characters to the 71 reader. To a great extent, i t i s psychological landscape, and, as with Moby-Dick, much of the most important imagery i s again connected with the sea. In Coleridge's Rime, the Mariner says We were the f i r s t that ever burst Into that s i l e n t sea. These two l i n e s follow a mad whirl of action, noise, storm, swift movement, and the prime i n i t i a t o r of action, the shoot-in g of the albatross. Coming at t h i s point, they have the same e f f e c t as the loud bang which awakens a sleeper from a tumultuous nightmare to the profound and absolute s i l e n c e of a darkened house. In the Rime, they precede the most v i v i d scene i n the whole poem, the s t i l l sea and ship, l i f e l e s s under the bloody sun. Conrad opens Lord Jim with t h i s same device, and i t has the same v i v i d e f f e c t . After a sudden rush of a c t i v i t y , i n which Jim's person and history are described, some of h i s experiences and f a i l u r e s , the devastating r e s u l t of the sea's anger, h i s accident and recovery, h i s opinion of himself and others, the description of the Patna and her occupants; a f t e r a l l t h i s i s depicted i n a few pages, suddenly Conrad presents the s i l e n t ship "cleaving continuously the great calm of the waters under the inaccessible serenity of the sky" (LJ16), leaving "a white ribbon of foam that vanished at once, l i k e the phantom of a track drawn upon a l i f e l e s s sea by the phantom of a steamer" (LJ14). The re g u l a r i t y of the sun, which "glided past . . . and sank mysteriously into the sea" day a f t e r day, enforces the universal, monotonous quiet of the world, "with the black speck of the moving h u l l remain-i n g everlastingly i n i t s centre" ( L J 1 5 ) . ^ This utter s t i l l n e s s , i n which Jim i s "penetrated by the great certitude of unbounded safety and peace" (LJ15), has f o r him the att r i b u t e of allowing him to enter h i s i d y l -l i c dream-world* i t i s the image of h i s confidence i n him-s e l f and i n h i s environment to provide,fs-ultimately, the "coming event" which w i l l increase h i s stature to the heroic, and for which "his eyes . . . seemed to gaze hungrily" (LJ16). But t h i s certitude which possesses him i s "read on the s i l e n t aspect of nature." Like the p i l g r i m s 1 mistaken trust i n "the i r o n s h e l l of t h e i r f i r e - s h i p , " Jim fs t r u s t i n nature i s naive. He has yet to learn, as Ishmael does, that the sea has a careless and destructive power which i s "not so often made apparent," and that there are many shades i n the danger of adventures and gales, and i t i s only now and then that there appears . . . a s i n i s t e r violence of i n t e n t i o n — that indefinable something which forces i t upon the mind that . . . these elemental f u r i e s are coming at him with a purpose of malice, with a strength beyond control, with an unbridled cruelty . . . (LJ10) The sea as landscape i n Lord Jim, then, has the force of Ishmael fs sea. The unexpected appearance of a destructive element i n i t , be i t submerged deadwood, storm ("the ship 73 quivered . . . as i f the thunder had growled deep down i n 7 A the waterB [LJ22]), or whale,' s h i f t s Jim's world from the romantic to the t e r r o r landscape: "suddenly the calm sea, the sky without a cloud, appeared formidably insecure i n t h e i r immobility, as i t poised on the brow of yawning de-s t r u c t i o n " (LJ21). These very aspects i n which he found hope are the ones he comes to fear. Again, as i n the Gothic novel, the agent of destruction comes i n the disguise of a help-mate. Jim goes to sea to f i n d adventure, and h i s wish i s i r o n i c a l l y f u l f i l l e d . As John Oliver Perry points out, . . . one of the undeniable triumphs of Conrad's work i s the achievement of a profound sense of mystery and oppressive dimness and gloom, whether i t be i n a t o r r e n t i a l downpour at sea, an im-penetrable jungle, or a man's soul.77 Jim's jump i s from the i d y l l i c world of h i s romantic imagina-t i o n "into an everlasting deep hole" ( L J 8 2 ) , the "abyss of u n r e s t " ( L J l l ) which p a r a l l e l s the Gothic prison, labyrinth, or tomb: "We were l i k e men walled up quick i n a roomy grave" _ ( L J 8 8 ) . And as i n "The F i r s t Lowering," the squall h i t s suddenly, and "they were blinded and h a l f drowned with r a i n " ( L J 8 2 ) . In t h i s sequence, the flimsy v e i l which has always sheltered Jim from r e a l i t y assumes the property of a b l i n d i n g mask behind which he l i v e s and through which few can pene-t r a t e , and then only r a r e l y . Marlow c a l l s these moments "those bizarre and e x c i t i n g glimpses through the fog" ( L J 8 3 ) . 74 Jim l i v e s now i n another world. As Zabel says, "The unknown has claimed him. Dream or appearance has become a r e a l i t y to which h i s existence i s now condemned."*7^ "The Patna case," as i t comes to be c a l l e d , i s f o l -lowed by the f r u s t r a t i n g t r i a l and several years of incon-c l u s i v e wandering, p a r a l l e l i n a sense to the Mariner's journeying. I t culminates i n the cool dark atmosphere of Stein's house. To t h i s house Marlow comes fo r what Zabel c a l l s the "higher counsel" with which to guide Jim and him-s e l f when his own resources run dry and he needs Stein's 70 "philosophic v i s i o n . " ' 7 In Lord Jim. Stein i s a kind of f o c a l point i n h i s a b i l i t y to d i s t i l l into pure and simple meaning the confu-sions of Jim's existence. His r d l e i s s i m i l a r to that of the Hermit i n the Rime, and h i s surroundings are the secluded, quiet ones of a p r i e s t - l i k e man, withdrawn from the world but able to pass judgement on i t . Each room seems "imposing but empty," and "very d i m l y - l i t . " "Only one corner" of h i s dining-room, for example, i s v i s i b l e ; "the rest of the spa-cious apartment melted into shapeless gloom l i k e a cavern" (LJ146). The reception-rooms are uninhabited and uninhabitable, clean, f u l l of solitude and of shining things that look as i f never beheld by the eye of man[,] They are cool on the hottest days, and you enter them as you would a scrubbed cave underground. . . . The waxed f l o o r r e f l e c t e d . . . as though i t had been a sheet of frozen water. (LJ249-250) 75 This dwelling-place i s l i k e the Gothic hermit's forest cave, a retreat from l i f e , a symbolic tomb. In "a sombre b e l t " around the walls are "catacombs of beetles" (LJ146), each with i t s i n s c r i p t i o n s to the dead. Glass f a i r y - t a l e cases entomb lovely b u t t e r f l i e s , each insect seemingly about to quiver into exquisite l i f e . These "specimens" appear to represent human l i f e , the be a u t i f u l and the ugly, which Stein, with the s e n s i t i v i t y of a connoisseur, has attempted to separate i n order to render them more e s s e n t i a l l y simple and "true" to study. Because they can be so divided, they hold more of perfection than man can hold. Having mastered the a r t of d i s t i l l a t i o n to essential truth, Stein i s able to define Jim's problem. But unlike Stein's other specimens, Jim i s a l i v e ; hence Stein i s unable to express the ultimate answer, though he seems to f e e l i t . Stein i s something of a spirit-shape, a "shadow." Like Father Mapple, he i s i s o l a t e d , and even more withdrawn, though he has the same deep i n t e r e s t i n mankind. "Sometimes hi s head would disappear completely i n a great eruption of smoke and a sympathetic growl would come out from the cloud" (LJ152). Marlow, i n coming to Stein, has come to the source, the i n d i s c e r n i b l e centre which i s pure knowledge. Stein i s a source of l i g h t i n a dark world, a world symbolized by hi s house: He l i t a two-branched candlestick and l e d the way. We passed through empty dark rooms, escorted by 76 gleams from the l i g h t s Stein c a r r i e d . They glided along the waxed f l o o r s , sweeping here and there over the polished surface of the table, leaped upon a fragmentary curve of a piece of fu r n i t u r e , or flashed perpendicularly i n and out of distant mirrors, while the forms of two men and the f l i c k e r of two flames could be seen for a moment s t e a l i n g s i l e n t l y across the depths of a c r y s t a l -l i n e void. . . . Jim's . . . imperishable r e a l i t y came to me . . .1 saw i t v i v i d l y , as though i n our progress through the l o f t y s i l e n t rooms amongst f l e e t i n g gleams of l i g h t and the sudden revelations of human figures s t e a l i n g with f l i c k -e r i n g flames within unfathomable and p e l l u c i d depths, we had approached nearer to absolute Truth, which, l i k e Beauty i t s e l f , f l o a t s elusive, obscure, half submerged, i n the s i l e n t s t i l l waters of mystery. (LJ155) This description transcends many s i m i l a r ones i n which the Gothic narrator or protagonist i s l e d by lamplight through mysterious vaults; for example, i n The Castle of Otranto. I s a b e l l a f e l t for the door; and . . . entered trembling int o the vault . . . I t gave her a kind of moment-ary joy to perceive an.imperfect nary of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault . . . She advanced eagerly towards t h i s chasm . . . °0 But by Conrad's time, l i g h t has more symbolic meanings than knowledge and safety; he knows that f u l l " l i g h t . . . de-stroyed the assurance which had inspired . . . i n the distant shadows" (LJ154). The Gothic flame has gained an opposite property—•-destruction, as i n Egyptian mythology the sun brings both l i f e and death. As Eino Railo points out, 77 . . . an essential feature of the landscape sur-rounding the haunted c a s t l e i s an i d y l l i c scene, intended to form a contrast to the austere and sublime, to act as a soothing element between the storms of passion. Without i t the pi c t u r e would lack the balance upon which the romanticist sets special value.81 The gardens around Stein's house are more noticeably i d y l l i c than i s the house i t s e l f (which i s , to some extent, a haunted c a s t l e ) , and have, further, an a i r of a r t i f i c i a l i t y which r e c a l l s t h e i r Eastern s e t t i n g : I wandered out . . . into the gardens, those famous gardens of Stein, i n which you can f i n d every plant and tree of t r o p i c a l lowlands. I followed the course of the canalised stream, and sat f o r a long time on a shaded bench near the ornamental pond, where some waterfowl with clipped wings were d i v i n g and splashing n o i s i l y . The branches of casuarine-trees behind me swayed l i g h t l y , incessantly . . . [a] mournful and r e s t -l e s s sound . . . . I was fascinated by the ex-q u i s i t e grace and beauty of that f l u t e d grove, crowned with pointed leaves and feathery heads, the lightness, the vigour, the charm as d i s t i n c t as a voice of that unperplexed l u x u r i a t i n g l i f e . (LJ251-252) This scene conveys the same sense of remoteness and d e l i c a t e beauty that the I t a l i a n settings of Gothicism do. As Varma explains, This longing for the South, f o r an a l i e n and d i s -tant setting, i s t y p i c a l of the romantic attitude, and r e f l e c t s the e f f o r t of the Gothic mind to break away from the f e t t e r s of homely experience. The southern s e t t i n g made possible t r u l y romantic ef f e c t s ; i t was associated with monasteries and mysterious monastic l i f e . . . .82 78 Stein's garden also exhibits great d e t a i l i n i t s arrangement, and t h i s profusion of l i t t l e things, each complete and at-t r a c t i v e i n i t s e l f , i s mirrored i n the Gothic penchant fo r richness of d e t a i l . "Stein" means stone or gem, and Stein i s the kind of gem one would expect to f i n d i n the middle of h i s peaceful, thought- and memory-provoking world. He forms the philosophic centre of the book, capturing the essence of Jim's existence and explaining i t s meaning. He and h i s house are also the gateway to Patusan, where s e t t i n g again expands to encompass another complete w o r l d — f o r each of the landscapes i n Lord Jim i s a d i f f e r e n t and entire world. Of a l l the places described i n Lord Jim. Patusan i s perhaps the closest to early Gothic. I t i s a kingdom set apart from the world where conditions of l i f e are " e n t i r e l y new, e n t i r e l y remarkable" (LJ157) f o r an outsider, but i n i t s e l f , i t i s very old; the rest of the world passes i t by, "leaving i t s p l a i n s and valleys, i t s old trees and i t s old 8 ^  mankind, neglected and i s o l a t e d . . ." (LJ162). J I t i s "one of the l o s t , forgotten, unknown places of the earth; . . . obscure . , ." (LJ232); once a land of glory, l e d by "splen-di d r u l e r s , " i t i s now i n an extreme state of decay; "the glory has departed, the Sultan i s an imbecile youth with two thumbs on h i s l e f t hand and . , . a miserable population" (LJ163). "Utter i n s e c u r i t y " i s the norm, and the country seems l i t e r a l l y r o t t i n g away. I t i s l i k e a prison, and Jim i s , i n Fatusan, equally captive and k i n g . 0 4 Only the moon ever seems able to leave: " g l i d i n g upwards . . . i t flo a t e d away . . . as i f escaping from a yawning grave i n gentle triumph" (LJ159).^ 5 When i t appears f o r a moment to have f a l l e n into the chasm between the h i l l s , i t s rays shine "as i f from a cavern" and make a l l the objects around Marlow death-like, "as i f the earth had been one grave." (LJ231).^ 6 This shadowy, decomposing land exerts i n true Gothic s t y l e a "subtle influence" (LJ191) over Jim, who contains i n himself the only l i g h t i n the s e t t i n g . "A brooding gloom lay over t h i s vast and monotonous landscape; the l i g h t f e l l on i t as i f into an abyss. The land devoured the sunshine . . . " (LJ190). The only l i g h t which does make an impression i s the moonlight, and i t i s not, as Ishmael says, "the only true lamp" (MD354), but one of the " l i a r s , " g i v i n g r e a l i t y only to shadows and robbing a l l else, except Jim, of l i f e . As i n Mobv-Dick. the most important actions of the 87 book often happen i n darkness under the moon's influence. As the moon, l i k e the luminous mist, obscures some shapes and a l t e r s others t i l l they are "foreign to one's memory and colours [are] indefinable to the eye" (LJ231), the moon func-t i o n s i n Lord Jim as a v e i l and as a psychological mirror. When Jewel, f o r example, confronts Marlow by the r i v e r and he begins h i s "exorcism" of the "spectre" which haunts him-s e l f and Jim, they are " i n the dark." Jim goes by "without seeing" and c a l l s out "What? No l i g h t s ! " (LJ230). The moon 80 r i s e s d i r e c t l y a f t e r , with the appearance of having f a l l e n -there i s "a black crack r i g h t across i t s face" and i t gives o f f a "mournful e c l i p s e - l i k e l i g h t " (LJ231). Here i t sym-b o l i z e s t o t a l lack of communication—a psychological state. The unreality described here i s important because i t reveals the t r u t h about the place i t s e l f : i t i s a dream-world, created by Jim Ts great need and communicated to others by i l l u s i o n . Marlow says he " f e l t that when tomorrow I had l e f t i t for ever, i t would s l i p out of existence," and he t r i e s to continue i t s existence by speaking and thus handing on " i t s very existence, i t s r e a l i t y — t h e truth disclosed i n a moment of i l l u s i o n " (LJ232). The Gothicism i n the Patusan passage has undergone a transference from a physical to a mental state. Marlow states t h i s within the story by saying "the whole r e a l t h i n g has l e f t behind the detailed and amazing impression of a dream" (LJ228). Jim's endeavour to make h i s dream r e a l i t y has had ju s t the reverse e f f e c t . He has begun i n reality, but the l a s t episode of h i s l i f e i s reminiscent of Poe, i n that i t i s a dream passing f o r r e a l i t y — a sham, yet one from which, unlike the narrator of "The Premature B u r i a l , " he never awakes. Patusan as Gothic s e t t i n g lacks only one thin g — a n d a haunted ca s t l e i s hardly a necessary addition to what i s already e s s e n t i a l l y a ghost story (the ghost being of the oo l i v i n g , not the dead s e l f ) . But the lack of i t , when the 81 novel i s viewed i n t h i s l i g h t , i s meaningful i n a way. Jim has not the same kind of power as a Gothic h e r o - v i l l a i n , not the kind which can be related to such a physical, man-made e d i f i c e . His dilemma i s too universal, and Jim i s governed more i n s t i n c t i v e l y by the forces of nature. Also, he has no home; he cannot go back to England, and he i s as a l i e n to Patusan and i t s people as i f "he had descended upon them from the clouds" (LJ164 and 175). The f i n a l scene I wish to consider i n Lord Jim i s the framing device which makes i t "a t a l e within a t a l e " i n the same way that many Gothic s t o r i e s are, although not to such a great extent as, say, Melmoth. or even Moby-Dick. Like Heart of Darkness, the f i r s t part of the story ( a f t e r the four introductory chapters) i s related by Marlow to a s e l e c t group of men a f t e r dinner, f o r a purpose which we may assume to be moral revelation. The darkness, the proximity of the sea, the s i t u a t i o n of the l i s t e n e r s outside i n the night, a l l induce the state where the border-line between dream and r e a l i t y fades. This s e t t i n g i s neutral, allowing f o r the quick, unconscious absorption of the l i s t e n e r s into the "story" which p a r a l l e l s the Wedding-Guest's immediate involvement. But with Lord Jim, t h i s i n i t i a l framework seems so sketchy that i t i s hardly more than a convention. M e l v i l l e found the "convention" of the writer of a story a useful p a r a l l e l to depict the a r t i s t struggling to communicate by wr i t i n g out h i s experience. Within t h i s 82 framework, there i s one story inset, narrated by him to "a lounging c i r c l e of my Spanish friends" (MD2G8), which, be-sides the more casual tone and the i n t e r j e c t e d comments of the friends, allows Melville-Ishmael an added advantage. I t i s not about the Pequod. but i t i s about Moby Dick. The difference i n perspective allows for many actions which are l o g i c a l i n connection with the white whale—the mutiny, the planned murder, the heightened supernaturalism e x p l i c i t l y stated, e t c . — y e t which could not happen on board the Pequod simply because Ahab i s captain. E x c i t i n g as a narrative of mutiny i s , mutiny against Ahab would destroy the whole s t r u c -ture of the book. Through use of h i s conventional framework, however, M e l v i l l e could include t h i s and any other action he wished. Yet Conrad, who employs from the s t a r t of the novel the looser, more malleable narrative framework, i n s e r t s the r e s t r i c t i v e l e t t e r device, and by the deliberateness of t h i s step, proves that both devices, l i k e a l l the other aspects of the book, s i g n i f y more than the mere convention. In Heart  of Darkness. Marlow i s t e l l i n g h i s own story; he has person-a l l y undergone the t o t a l experience. In Lord Jim, he gives h i s experience by r e l a t i n g someone e l s e ' s — J i m ' s . Conrad has structured the book so that at the beginning the reader i s at h i s closest to Jim; gradually he i s removed from close sight by several means: by the addition of the second nar-rator, Marlow; by the p a r a l l e l description of B r i e r l y ; by 83 the characters who t e l l Marlow about Jim, and so f o r t h . Ultimately there i s a " p r i v i l e g e d man," the reader, who doubles f o r Conrad's reader. Both are removed i n time ("two years") and space ("the highest f l a t of a l o f t y b u i l d i n g . . . he drew the heavy curtains?' [LJ242]) from Jim, but emotionally, the ef f e c t i s inverse. As Jim recedes from sight, understanding of him grows, and with i t , empathy; ultimately he i s constantly emerging and merging; he i s one with us. Suppose that there i s f o r every man a v i s i b l e and an i n v i s i b l e s e l f ; that generally these two exist i n union, but sometimes a man f e e l s that more of h i s s e l f e x i s t s i n one of these states and alienates him from the o t h e r — t h i s occasional state i s not a permanent, but a f l u i d one. Mar-low, and the reader, f e e l t h i s way about Jim. When "the r e a l i t y of h i s existence comes to me with an immense . . . fo r c e , " Marlow f e e l s himself " l i k e an evoked ghost." Yet Jim i s also at times "a disembodied s p i r i t " leaving behind the r e a l i t y of Marlow's l i f e to wander "amongst the passions of t h i s earth" (LJ300). In terms of Gothicism, they double f o r the contrasting aspects of each other. In the end, then, the reader i s united with bodiless, pure emotion. This i s the f i n a l consequence of the book's structure, as governed by the framework. The arousal of f e e l i n g , explicable or not (but preferably not) i s i n a sense Conrad's aim as much as i t i s the aim of Gothic writers. Neither wants d e f i n i t i o n ; written words are a poor " t r a n s l a -84 t i o n . " There must be rather a transference of unchanged emotion, a transference with which words do not i n t e r f e r e , from the character to the reader. This i s one of Conrad's accomplishments i n Lord Jim; he makes the emotions of charac-t e r and reader interfuse. Thus we not only understand Jim, but also Marlow 1s wish and need not to make a f i n a l state-ment, and Jewel's i n a b i l i t y to understand her husband's fate because she needs words. I f the reader continues the attempt to define what he knows about Jim, he ends up i n Jewel's predicament. °^ Thus f i n a l l y i t can be suggested that s e t t i n g i n Lord Jim i s not so much a matter of place as of state. Stein's world mirrors h i s way of l i f e and h i s attitude; Jim's mirrors the pa i n f u l incertitudes of h i s wandering existence. Both settings are Marlow's i n that they exi s t only when he speaks them, and then they are the image of what Ishmael c a l l s "the ungraspable phantom of l i f e . . . the key to i t a l l " (MD14). Certainly the "phantom of l i f e " i s a key to Jim's character. I have just c a l l e d him a wanderer, but no out-cast was ever so unwilling to roam. He i s acutely conscious of the advantages he leaves behind him. Unlike Heyst, he has no b e l i e f that uninvolvement i s the best code to l i v e by. His constant desire i s to gain by givi n g of himself, but when he s t a r t s out, t h i s desire i s not disinterested; the gain i s the important thing. Because he has not the s e l f -85 lessness he needs, he loses the thing he values most—his good reputation. Ultimately he appears to reach Marlow ts understanding, that from the name to the thing i s but a step. He makes a conscious move to gain back self-esteem by f u l -f i l l i n g h i s t r u s t , regardless of the opinion of others. He atones for the deaths of Dain Waris and the pilgrims by the 90 s a c r i f i c e of that part of himself which has betrayed him. 7 In terms of early Gothicism, the many aspects of Jim that appear to give him a multiple personality would repre-sent the various sides of his n a t u r e — h i s heroism, his desire f o r death, f o r opportunity, for fame, and so f o r t h . But here t h i s i s not the case. The v e i l s , shadowy figures, l i n g e r i n g forms—these represent Jim as he appears to Marlow. And, to Marlow, the meaning of an episode was not in s i d e l i k e a kernel but outside, enveloping the t a l e which brought i t out only as a glow brings out a haze, i n the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made v i s i b l e by the spectral i l l u m i n a t i o n of moonshine.91 The framework around the story narrows for Marlow twice and becomes a picture-frame. Both times Jim i s the central f i g u r e . The f i r s t time, "the mist of his f e e l i n g s " s h i f t s and Jim "appear[s] to my s t a r i n g eyes d i s t i n c t of form and pregnant with vague appeal l i k e a symbolic figure i n a p i c t u r e " (LJ96). Like the picture of the whale i n the Spouter-Inn, and l i k e the symbolic form of Queequeg, the material of meaning, but not the clue to discovering i t , i s 86 apprehensible i n Jim. He i s not t o t a l l y v i s i b l e ; "the mist of h i s f e e l i n g s " i s not s t a t i c and soon closes again before him. As Marlow leaves Patusan for the l a s t time, he again l e t s the s e t t i n g become suspended, "with i t s l i f e arrested," (LJ237) so that he can always recapture the people i n i t as they were to him. But Jim comes part way along the r i v e r with him—steps out of the picture i n which he belongs ( t h i s foreshadows h i s f i n a l act of leaving h i s people and shows hi s yearning to go back to "the world he had renounced"). He i s out of focus; Marlow can never be "c e r t a i n of him." A Gothic p o r t r a i t of a person i s a surrogate for him, e x i s t i n g when he does not, enabling him to "know" what i s happening then he i s absent, and allowing him to influence people and events. The p o r t r a i t i s the " s o u l " — g e n e r a l l y the soul as moral agent—and i t s appearance can be interpreted i n d i f f e r e n t ways, as i s the p i c t u r e of Pierre's father ( i n P i e r r e ) . The fact that Marlow cannot see Jim c l e a r l y i s an image for the inner ambiguity that Jim f e e l s , and also r e -f l e c t s Marlow*s own emotions, for i n accepting him as "one of us" he acknowledges the presence of Jim's heroism and escapism i n himself. "Us" d i f f e r e n t i a t e s the l i v i n g , whose l i v e s include dilemmas l i k e Jim's, from the inanimate, those who do not have and cannot comprehend a complex personality. Their p o r t r a i t s capture them completely. "They exist as i f under an enchanter's wand;" Marlow says of the g i r l that her 87 r e f l e c t i o n on the f l o o r i s "frozen" (LJ250); she i s " i n e r t " (LJ300) by the end, e x i s t i n g but not a l i v e . Jim, however, i s d i f f e r e n t . At f i r s t Marlow gets glimpses of him; at l a s t he can't see him at a l l . Jim does act u a l l y seem to evaporate; he seems to become "the mist i n which he moved and had his being" (LJ93). He i s never able to bind h i s v i s i b l e to his i n v i s i b l e s e l f . Like the native policeman, he acts "as though h i s migrating s p i r i t were suf-f e r i n g exceedingly from that unforeseen . . . a v a t a r — i n c a r -nation" (LJ113). I t i s as i f h i s body i s the albatross to -which h i s s p i r i t i s chained, and i t continually drags at him, f o r c i n g him to actions he would not otherwise perform. When he forgets i t and enters h i s dream-world, i t acts i n s t i n c t -i v e l y ; when he controls i t , he forces i t to stand on t r i a l f o r i t s i n s t i n c t i v e a c t i o n s — b e f o r e B r i e r l y and Doramin, perhaps before Marlow and Jimahimself—and pay the p r i c e of a n n i h i l a t i o n for i t s crimes. In a second sense, Jim's v e i l divides the people of the physical world from those of h i s imaginative l i f e , those whom Marlow c a l l s "the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous f a m i l i a r s of h i s youth" (LJ113). These friends encourage him to stand t r i a l ; Marlow and h i s world i n v i t e him to hide and evade, and are surprised when he i n s i s t s on "eating d i r t , " as B r i e r l y puts i t . Marlow watches Jim gaze "as though he had been haunted." His face r e f l e c t s emotions "as a magic mirror would r e f l e c t the g l i d -88 i n g passage of unearthly shapes. He l i v e d surrounded by d e c e i t f u l ghosts . . . ." His movements "imply disdain" of h i s physical acquaintances. Why? Jim's face i s a window. The "shades" and the " r e a l " people can see each other, and d i s t r u s t each other, through him. S i g n i f i c a n t l y , the v e i l i s on Marlow*s side of Jim. I t i s from the physical world that he needs protection, because he i s unable to cope with i t j he i s not a f u l l member of i t , he i s s t i l l t r a i l i n g the clouds of glory which make him a c h i l d to i t . Unlike the Mariner, Jim i s driven by natural, rather than supernatural agents. He i s driven by those people who spread the Patna case ( i n whatever uncanny way) u n t i l Marlow and Stein e f f e c t the removal from the world that they f e e l Jim desires. In doing so, they i r o n i c a l l y unite him with the people of h i s imagination, including both the inhabitants of Patusan and such figures as h i s attendant Opportunity. "Was i t s t i l l veiled?" (LJ241) Marlow*s l i s t e n e r s ask. Cer-t a i n l y f o r Marlow, but surely not for Jim, who i n Patusan, the land of h i s dreams, sees and accepts h i s opportunity, thereby becoming the hero he always i s i n h i s dreams. He i s also under the influence of the shadowy figures and his own i n v i s i b l e s e l f when he goes to stand before Doramin. At t h i s time i f at no other, Jim i s i n control of his t o t a l s e l f . And accepted Opportunity, alone, l i k e Good Deeds, accompanies him to "his own world of shades" (LJ300) which claims him. 89 I t i s i n t e r e s t i n g to observe several reversals from Jfefae Patna to the Patusan episodes. Nature, as already noted, i s mechanical at f i r s t , and almost malevolent, i n Patusan. Also, vague figures assume r e a l i t y i n Patusan, and physical ones become formless. There i s a "vague white form erect i n the shadow" (LJ85) of the porch on which Jim and Marlow t a l k , which foreshadows "the g i r l , i n a t r a i l i n g white gown, her black hair f a l l i n g as low as her waist . . . . Erect and swaying, she seemed to g l i d e without touching the earth . . ." (LJ217). She i s "an unearthly being, a l l i n white" (LJ212), the f i t companion for Jim who i s always i n white; they are "two white forms very close . . . t h e i r soft murmurs" being " l i k e a self-comunion of one being car r i e d on i n two tones" (LJ204). She i s one of the shades which i s a part of him and a r e a l i t y i n his dream-world. Brown, on the other hand, i s from the physical world and thus appears i n Patusan to be a shadow. He and h i s men, " i n v i s i b l e i n the mist," f l o a t down the r i v e r "fading s p e c t r a l l y without the -slightest sound." (LJ287) They " r e t i r e d as they had come—unseen," but t h e i r experience changes them, as penetration of the v e i l changes Ishmael. They return to c i v i l i z a t i o n "parched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons" (LJ291). The foregoing discussion of Jim includes the aspect which s u p e r f i c i a l l y i s G o t h i c — t h e matter of his double. 7 "I am w i l l i n g to believe each of us has a guardian angel," Marlow o f f e r s , " i f you . . . w i l l concede to me that each of us has a f a m i l i a r d e v i l as w e l l " ( L J 2 7 ) . Which i s i t that he sees past Jim's shoulder? I t i s a presence that Jim him-s e l f i s subconsciously always aware of; i t i s t h i s uncom-fortable sense of the difference between h i s outward and inward appearance that he thinks others can sense ( L J 3 4 ) . ^ But what he thinks i s p r a c t i c a l l y v i s i b l e i s his own Doppel-iganger. as Marlow has the i n s i g h t to r e a l i z e : He was not speaking to me, he was only speaking before me, i n a dispute with an i n v i s i b l e person-a l i t y , an antagonistic and inseparable partner of his existence—another possessor of h i s soul . . . i t was a subtle and momentous quarrel as to the true essence of l i f e . . . (LJ68) Jim i s here t r y i n g to defend himself to h i s i n v i s i b l e shade, to j u s t i f y the weakness of h i s body i n some way.94 "You think me a cur^ 1/* he argues with i t , "but what would you have done?" Forced to l i v e with himself, he must do the best he can. As he paces back and f o r t h , he raises h i s arm "for a gesture that seemed to put out of h i s way an i n v i s i b l e intruder" (LJ92). I t can be said i n h i s favor that Jim does t r y continually to reject the shadow-world and come to terms with the " r e a l " one u n t i l , once i n Patusan, he can act out h i s wishes i n a more congenial s e t t i n g . Jim has many of the c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s of the conven-t i o n a l Gothic hero. The injury to h i s l e g , which lames him s l i g h t l y (LJ11), only manifests i t s e l f once afte r the begin-ning, and that i s when he i s about to enter Patusan and Marlow notices "an i n v i s i b l e halt i n h i s g a i t " (LJ169), the echo of the "subtle unsoundness of the man" (LJ66). He looks p h y s i c a l l y l i k e Walpole's Theodore, and has the same shy politeness of manner. For talisman he has Stein's ring, the symbol of h i s greatness, and the supernatural g i f t s he i s credited with are acquired while he has the r i n g . Among the legends which accompany Jim's r i s e to heroic stature, one of the most Gothic concerns Jewel. She and Jim "came together under the shadow of a l i f e ' s disaster, l i k e knight and maiden meeting to exchange vows amongst haunted ruins" (LJ224). In Jewel, Jim finds a necessary part of himself, what Dr. Gose c a l l s "the warm f i r e of human-i t y " which helps him perform one of the redemptive acts by which he gains h i s stature as mythic hero.^5 With both r i n g and jewel, he can assume his r i g h t f u l p o s i t i o n . There i s , however, a myth which surrounds the jewel i t s e l f : i t i s supposed to be a p r i c e l e s s emerald; i t i s "best concealed about the person of a woman" (LJ201) who has the attributes of a priestess; i t has a long and unfortunate history, being possibly the stone "which i n the old times had brought wars and untold calamities" to the country i n which i t was. In Victo r y. i t was Heyst's involvement with humanity, notably i n the person of Lena, which brought death to him; Jim's t i e s with Patusan are likewise p a r t i c u l a r i z e d i n Jewel. Neither man, when others are involved i n his l i v i n g up to h i s t r u s t , shirks the r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , and both pay the f u l l p r i c e of involvement. In Jim's case, h i s connection with Jewel i s one of the s p e c i f i c things which adds a mythic q u a l i t y to h i s heroism. Even before he reaches Patusan, various clues to his r o l e as Gothic hero emerge. While he i s s t i l l a water-clerk, h i s boat "comes f l y i n g out of the mist" with the speed of the Pequod or RaymondTs coach i n The Monk, and the same mani-f e s t a t i o n accompanies his a r r i v a l i n Patusan: the headman's sons "did not notice the speed of the canoe u n t i l he pointed out to them the amazing phenomenon" (LJ174). When he escapes the palisade, he remarks himself that "the earth seemed f a i r l y to f l y backwards under his f e e t " (LJ182). "He was a f l y i n g t e r r o r " (LJ183) to the v i l l a g e r s , who when he f i r s t comes, shriek with g r i e f and curse him ( L J I 7 5 ) ; i n true Gothic manner, he i s a "blessing . . . heralded by t e r r o r s " (LJ174), the agents of good and bad being i n Gothicism gen-e r a l l y the opposite to what they seem at f i r s t sight. Even Marlow notices that with Jim i n i t , "the boat f a i r l y flew" (LJ238). He has power above that of ordinary men, "the reputation of i n v i n c i b l e , supernatural power . . . a tower of strength i n himself . . . invulnerable" (LJ260), "an i n v i n -c i b l e host i n himself" (LJ244). He has "a stare that . . . seemed to probe the heart of some awful v i s i o n " (LJ74). There i s also i n Jim much of the pathos of the Byronic hero. He i s a nameless and lonely person, t e r r i b l y unimport-ant to the world. "Everyman" i s one meaning of James; no one cares what hi s l a s t name i s . Marlow reports i t as "James 93 So-and-so" (LJ115)• With Engstrom & Blake, he i s c a l l e d either "Mr. James" or "Mister What*s-your-name?" and thus h i s incognito, and h i s u n i v e r s a l i t y , are preserved. The moments of Jim's deepest loneliness are probably when, a f t e r the t r i a l i s over, he accompanies Marlow back to his rooms: He was rooted to the spot, but convulsive shudders ran down h i s back . . . The massive shadows, cast a l l one was from the straight flame of the candle, seemed possessed of gloomy consciousness . . . I heard . . . sounds wrung from a racked body, from a weary soul . . . he stood on the brink of a vast pbscurity, l i k e a lonely f i g u r e by the shore of a sombre and hopeless ocean . . . he stood straight as an arrow, f a i n t l y v i s i b l e and s t i l l ; and the meaning of t h i s s t i l l n e s s sank to the bottom of my soul . . . Even the law had done with him. (LJ124-125) Jim's stance here foreshadows the l a s t glimpse Marlow ever has of him, when again he i s absolutely i s o l a t e d from human-i t y , "only a speck, a t i n y white speck" (LJ242), watching Marlow s a i l out to sea. A sense of utter helplessness i s the most "un-Gothic" qu a l i t y about Jim. The f u t i l i t y of struggling against Fate i s a Gothic motif, but Jim's attempts are more than f u t i l e . Unlike Ahab, he does not declare open war and destroy him-s e l f ; unlike Ishmael, who at the time merely submits himself to events, he never ceases t r y i n g to understand himself and h i s p o s i t i o n i n the world. Only a f t e r he has subdued his enemies i n Patusan does he f e e l somewhat secure, but even then Marlow's v i s i t reminds him that he only e x i s t s i n that 94 t i n y , obscure country; he i s non-existent for the rest of humanity. His death i s hardly even a tragedy, for who knows the cause f o r which he died? His death does not seem to make way f o r the re-establishment of order, moral or other-wise. I t seems t o t a l l y n i h i l i s t i c . Through him, the r i g h t -f u l leader has been murdered, and when Jim dies, youth, hope, security a l l die with him. Patusan as a country ceases to e x i s t . The authority of the white, c i v i l i z e d world i s no longer there to hold i t together, f o r either development or ex p l o i t a t i o n , and Doramin i s too old to reassume c o n t r o l . This apparently useless a n n i h i l i a t i o n has, however, i t s meaning i n Marlow. He only, l i k e Ishmael and the Mari-mer, escapes to t e l l " t h i s amazing Jim-myth" (LJ201). Why? For Jim's s a k e — " f o r the l a y i n g of what i s the most obstin-ate ghost of man's creation, of the uneasy doubt u p r i s i n g l i k e a mist, secret and gnawing l i k e a worm, and more c h i l -l i n g than the certitude of death" ( L J 3 9 ) — t h i s i s only part of the answer. The f a c t of Jim's existence puts Marlow's knowledge of man to the t e s t : "He had no business to look so sound. I thought to m y s e l f — w e l l , i f t h i s sort can go wrong l i k e that . . . " (LJ31). To r e - e s t a b l i s h h i s f a i t h i n himself, Marlow. must know of Jim's l i f e , " i t s secret truth, i t s hidden r e a l i t y " (LJ17). Further, he f e e l s " c u r i o s i t y . . . the most obvious of sentiments . . . i t held me there to see the effect of a f u l l information upon that young fellow" (LJ33). 95 This i s exactly the motivation behind the actions of the narrator of Poe's "The Man of the Crowd": n,How wild a hi s t o r y , * I said to myself, ' i s written within that bosom!* Then came a craving desire to keep the man i n view—to know 96 more of him." What more the narrator wishes to know i s also more about himself, because there i s a subtle bond j o i n i n g them. They are the same lonely man, needing always to be among people. The narrator i s searching to know what h i s own motivations are, and h i s inter p r e t a t i o n implies a criminal t a i n t i n his nature. This i s hardly surprising, since i t i s the element of s i n which man keeps hidden from himself most often. What Marlow i s faced with i n Jim may be j u s t some such element, some undetected flaw i n himself which has, i n Jim, come to the surface. He does repeatedly c a l l Jim "one of us," and he c a r e f u l l y singles him out to follow, for a reason he himself doesn't know: "why? Can't t e l l . . .» ( L J 2 7 ) . This same sort of relat i o n s h i p comes out i n Conrad's foremost D Q P Pelganger t a l e , The Secret Sharer. Both Conrad and M e l v i l l e explore i n t h e i r shorter s t o r i e s the landscape of the mind, andaboth employ, as does Poe, central Gothic motifs with which to do so. The Secret Sharer and Benito  Cereno are prominent examples: i n the former, the dual personality i s as f u l l y displayed as i t i s i n Dostoyevsky's The Double: i n the l a t t e r , the immense destructive power of s o c i a l biases and the near i m p o s s i b i l i t y of approaching 96 t r u t h from within a s o c i a l framework i s a central concern. Both t a l e s are enclosed i n many more of the trappings of Gothicism than just these two main themes, but because of the perception with which these two are handled—a percep-t i o n f a r beyond that found i n merely conventional Gothic t a l e s — t h e y provide excellent material for p a r t i c u l a r analysis. Conrad makes such a point i n The Secret Sharer of Leggatt and the captain's being doubles that i t i s hard to see that they are not doubles to the same extent that, say, J e k y l l and Hyde are doubles, because they are neither i d e n t i -c a l nor opposite. The captain i s an i n d i v i d u a l i s t . He i s used to the bonds of society, but wishes to maintain some freedom from t h e i r r e s t r i c t i v e n e s s now and then. (This same wish i s one of the primary motivations i n Gothicism.) He seems content enough i n the ordered surroundings he describes, but wishes, on the other hand, to be alone with h i s ship ("with a l l that multitude of c e l e s t i a l bodies s t a r i n g down at one, the comfort of quiet communion with her was gone for good. And there were also disturbing sounds by t h i s time \ 07 . . . . " ) 7 and to be absolutely free of the land: "I re-j o i c e d i n the great security of the sea as compared with the 0 8 unrest of the land . . . ."*° He was probably the same sort of man as h i s second mate appears to b e — p e r f e c t l y e f f i c i e n t at a job, but not under any special obligation, free to f o l -low his own whims i n any circumstance ("The matey-observed 97 r e g r e t f u l l y that he 'could not account for that young f e l -low's whims'" (SS22). He says that " a l l the alternatives which were l i k e l y to face me on the high seas" were f a m i l i a r "except the novel r e s p o n s i b i l i t y of command" (SS23). Now, when he wishes to do something unusual, such as keep the watch himself, he i s made to f e e l the e c c e n t r i c i t y of what i s a straight-forward enough thi n g to do—except for a cap-t a i n . Suddenly he i s again under the r e s t r i c t i o n s of s o c i -ety, exercising i t s power now as a group fo r which and to which he i s responsible, and f o r whom an example must be set. I t i s no wonder that he responds p o s i t i v e l y to the s i t u a t i o n on discovering Leggatt, even though i t i s aberrant from the norm; t h i s i s possibly just what he has been seeking. There i s no question but that Leggatt i s a criminal of some sort, fo r he i s at f i r s t hesitant and suspicious (besides being naked i n the middle of the sea), yet h i s presence i s never inquired about. Instead, the captain i d e n t i f i e s with him before he i s even out of the water ("A mysterious communica-t i o n was established already between us two" [SS26J), and rushes to clothe the swimmer as he himself i s clothed, " i n a sleeping s u i t of the . . . gray-stripe pattern" (SS26) which 99 i s the emblem of the criminal. Subconsciously, he f e e l s he can rebel by harbouring Leggatt, and derives vicarious pleasure from the knowledge that Leggatt i s untouched, through him, by the landsmen's law (the captain w i l l not accept the authority of t h i s law when i t i s the land he 98 wishes to be done with). He may also be glad of the oppor-tunity to sublimate h i s worries over handling the ship to h i s concern over Leggatt.^ 0 0 He i s glad f o r the chance to dupe hi s crew and the Sephora's captain: I had been too frightened not to f e e l vengeful; I f e l t I had him on the run, and I meant to keep him on the run. My p o l i t e insistence must have had something menacing i n i t . . . ( S S 4 3 ) The criminal element i n h i s nature (my use of the word "crim-i n a l " w i l l s i g n i f y here only the captain's desire to deviate from the s o c i a l norm) i s manifested when Leggatt comes aboard as the p a r t i c u l a r symbol of his r e j e c t i o n of society. Leg-gatt , s presence brings i t out i n him, j u s t as the second mate's youth induces him to i d e n t i f y with i t i n sneering at the whiskers—an action he manages to suppress. Leggatt, being an unknown just as the captain i s , evokes an overt i d e n t i f i c a t i o n because they two are the only "strangers" on board, whereas the captain and the second mate are a l i e n to each other, and therefore i d e n t i f i c a t i o n between them i s never f u l l y r e a l i z e d . Once he has made the i d e n t i f i c a t i o n of himself as master with Leggatt as operative, successful f l o u t e r of the law, the captain i s i n a d e l i c a t e p o s i t i o n . He cannot be-tray Leggatt without himself becoming an instrument of the society against which he i s r e b e l l i n g . Nor can he think to keep Leggatt i n d e f i n i t e l y ; he wishes to stay within the s o c i a l order to some extent, as h i s early comments show, and 99 keeping Leggatt would therefore be a betrayal of s e l f , both since he would be ostracized and since Leggatt would hence-f o r t h be the dominant aspect of his personality, i n that he would have to consider him f i r s t . Further, disposing of Leggatt would mean that the captain was suppressing i n him-s e l f a l l the impulses towards i n d i v i d u a l i t y . Leggatt,must be preserved, therefore, both as separate entity and as aspect of the captain's nature. G l i d i n g inconceivably close to Koh-ring i s the answer. I t means disregarding for the moment h i s relationship with the society ( t h i s contrast and union of opposite impulses i n one nature being an extension of the same contrast i n the Gothic h e r o - v i l l a i n ) , and thus f u l l y e s t a b l i s h i n g h i s inde-pendence. At the same time, i t s i g n i f i e s saving of the other, the ( i n t h i s case) criminal s e l f i n t a c t j that i s , r e t a i n i n g h i s personality as a whole. The criminal s e l f needs to be saved because the captain, about to succumb to s o c i a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , must f e e l that he can rebel i f he wants to; that he w i l l never be another Captain Archbold. On top of a l l t h i s , he has successfully purged himself of the dark side of his nature, so that henceforth he has every r i g h t to "the perfect communion of a seaman with h i s f i r s t command" (SS61), now that Leggatt i s separated from himself. Here we see, then, an i n t e r e s t i n g v a r i a t i o n on the usual Gothic handling of the theme. Neither acceptance nor re j e c t i o n i s what the captain wants, but the power to accept 100 or r e j e c t . He wants to be captain of himself, but he i s unsure of both himself and h i s new r o l e ; he has to learn to f i t himself into a d i f f e r e n t s l o t i n the s o c i a l scale from the one to which he i s used. As long as he continues to issue orders which do not stem from acceptance of the cor-rect r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , he w i l l be discontented. And since h i s orders come from h i s mistaken sense of himself, he must lear n more of himself before he can be re-accepted by s o c i -ety as captain. Leggatt would seem to represent the part of himself which i s out of j o i n t with h i s being accepted i n hi s new r o l e . I have said that Leggatt and the captain are not doubles of the Jekyll-Hyde type; rather, Leggatt i s an image of part of the captain fs nature. Whichever emotion plays most strongly within a person at a given moment i s the one most l i k e l y to be r e f l e c t e d i n a mirror; the captain, "as though I had been faced by my own r e f l e c t i o n i n the depths of a sombre and immense mirror" ( S S 2 7 ) , sees the "Leggatt" part of himself. The water i n which the swimmer i s f i r s t v i s i b l e i s another such mirror. Looking into "the darkling glassy shimmer" ( S S 2 4 ) , he sees h i s f e e l i n g s of r e j e c t i o n gradually, l i t t l e by l i t t l e , take the form of a man, f i n a l l y complete "to the face upturned exactly under mine'.' ( SS25) . Leggatt i s i n v i s i b l e to everyone but the captain (as i s the double i n Dostoyevsky 1s story), and never speaks above a whisper ( i n which tone of voice William Wilson Ts double also 101 always speaks), nor does he appear, except at the moments of acceptance and separation, above deck; thus h i s subordinate r e l a t i o n to the captain i s maintained. Total i d e n t i t y i s rejected by Leggatt when he gives up the hat, or conversely, when i t f a i l s to f i t h i s head: Had the cap f i t , had i t not f a l l e n o f f Leggatt*s head, had the captain and Leggatt indeed been doubles, the ship would have torn her bottom out on the rocks of Koh-Ring [sic].101 But t h i s r e j e c t i o n i s a p o s i t i v e thing, considered from Leggatt*s point of view. I t i s , as Porter Williams suggests, one step towards h i s redemption. I t i s , l i k e the albatross which f a l l s from the mariner's neck when he blesses the water-snakes, a dual symbol—his i d e n t i f y i n g mark while he wears i t , and the sign of s e l f - s a c r i f i c e or p a r t i a l redemption when he leaves i t behind to help the cap-t a i n . Leggatt i s unlike the Wandering Jew and l i k e the Mariner i n that he i s able to shuck the symbol of h i s g u i l t (the Wandering Jew can only hide i t ) , but a l l three, and Ishmael also, become themselves the symbol of t h e i r crimes. Leggatt swims towards Koh-ring, " l i k e the very gateway of Erebus," " l i k e the gate of the everlasting night," "to take h i s punishment," as the l a s t l i n e says, for he has been won, i n e f f e c t , by a sort of Life-in-Death; he i s a l i v e i n himself but dead to the world (a s u i c i d e ) : ". . . 'The man hath penance done, / And penance more w i l l do.'" 102 In connection with the hat, the captain i s r e a l l y the person to discuss. He, l i k e Jim, has rejected i t (Jim loses h i s and then rejects the canvas covering for his head), and they presumably thus defy the power of the sun. Without the covering for t h e i r heads (symbolic of humility before God), they run the r i s k of madness: " T I suppose you think I was going mad . . . And well you may, i f you remember I had l o s t my cap;'" at the same time the unconcern for t h i s p o s s i b i l i t y - - " * I didn't bother myself at a l l about the sun over my head'" (LJ92)—smacks of egoism: 'And you s h a l l go?' she said, slowly. He bent his head. 'Ah!' she exclaimed, . . . 'you are mad or f a l s e ' . .-. He was f u l l y dressed as f o r every day, but without a hat. . . . 'For the l a s t time,' she c r i e d , menacingly, ' w i l l you defend youself?* 'Nothing can touch me,* he said i n a l a s t f l i c k e r of superb egoism. (LJ297) Of course one cannot out of hand apply a l l t h i s to the cap-t a i n , but there does seem to be some s i m i l a r i t y between the way he and Jim regard t h e i r environment at the beginning of t h e i r respective t a l e s , and there i s something e g o t i s t i c a l about the way the captain evaluates h i s giving the hat to Leggatt—"the expression of my sudden p i t y for h i s mere f l e s h . I t had been meant to save h i s homeless head . . . " (SS60). Coming from the Captain, who i s as weak and uncer-t a i n and as homeless as Leggatt, the person he i s helping, t h i s might seem a condescension; on the other hand, he might naturally r e j o i c e that h i s act of kindness for another had 103 unexpectedly benefitted himself. The hat may represent, then, a moral ambiguity i n keeping with i t s o r i g i n a l owner's. I t stands f o r both a brand (while he has i t ) and a blessing (when he loses i t ) to Leggatt; likewise i t represents for the captain either kindness or a ce r t a i n hypocrisy. This ambiguity gains i t s importance from the fact that the act which produces i t not only saves the captain and h i s present ship, but indicates what type of man he w i l l be i n the future - - f o r h i s r e f l e c t i o n s upon si g h t i n g i t are the f i r s t he makes af t e r h i s fears, and h i s close relationship with Leggatt, have ended. And somehow these r e f l e c t i o n s are equivocal. There i s never a sense of h i s gratefulness to Leggatt; i n -deed, "I hardly thought of my other s e l f ; " the captain never so much as wonders i f Leggatt l e f t the hat on purpose, but simply assumes "he didn't bother" to r e t r i e v e i t . Consider-i n g the bad po s i t i o n the captain knows Leggatt i s i n — " h i d d e n forever from a l l f r i e n d l y faces, to be a f u g i t i v e and a vagabond on the earth, with no brand of the curse to stay a sla y i n g hand"—and that Leggatt f e e l s a need f o r friendship and protection, as he says at the beginning, t h i s assumption i s as odd as the captain's l a s t thought of Leggatt's being "a free man, a proud swimmer," going to meet the "new des-t i n y " which i s "his punishment." The moment when the captain t r i e s to thrust the hat on Leggatt's head i s also ambiguous to some extent. His gesture i s obviously a protective one, but i n view of his preceding thought, may i t not also be that he i s t r y i n g to "brand" Leggatt? ("I wonder what he thought had come to me . . . .") I f so, the action would include the urge to remove the brand of separation from him-, s e l f , so that he could be accepted as one with the crew and the ship. To sum up, then, the hat i s the symbol of moral ambiguity, i t s absence suggests egoism, and i t s presence the outcast or a l i e n person, or the person humbled before God. J Ahab i s stripped of h i s hat by a black eagle which drops i t into the sea, foreshadowing h i s own end and preparing him, as i t were, for the s a c r i f i c e . Ishmael c a l l s the l o s s of the hat an e v i l omen (MD441). And i f we retrace our steps back through Gothic l i t e r a t u r e to i t s ostensible source, The  Castle of Otranto, we f i n d the hat motif i n use also as a moral agent' "the enormous helmet . . . shaded with a pro-portionable quantity of black feathers" takes an active part i n crushing wrong and restoring goodness to the throne.104 The hat i t s e l f , of course, i s unimportant; but what i t sug-g e s t s — t h e existence of moral wrong—needs further consid-eration. I have attempted to show how the changing emphasis on a p a r t i c u l a r Gothic motif shows the development from black-white moral considerations to a deeper study of what i s true, good, r e a l , and what i s not. The v e i l , for example, f i r s t used as a mere di v i d e r between the known and the un-known, becomes a test or unusual state through which the 105 protagonist must pass, and i s f i n a l l y i n i t s e l f the main consideration, since i t palpably a f f e c t s what i s r e a l , or r e a l i z e d , or t r u e — t h i s i s e a s i l y seen i n connection with Lord Jim.and, as I w i l l show, with Benito Cereno. The hat i s a clue to another change of t h i s kind, drawing our atten-t i o n as i t does to the moral ambiguity inherent i n the nature of Leggatt fs double, the captain. I t i s natural to assume that as "good" and "bad" merge into the gray of l a t e r Gothicism, the triumph of one over the other becomes nearly impossible. By h i s r e f l e c t i o n s concerning the hat, the captain reveals that h i s concern i s mainly for himselfj i n f a c t there i s even a touch of smugness i n his unconcerned abandonment of Leggatt once he has what he wants himself. He has done the " r i g h t " thing i n making i t as easy as possible for Leggatt to reach the safety of utter, l i f e l o n g l o n e l i n e s s . I f God were personified i n the Rime. He might f e e l the same way about having saved the Mariner for a roving l i f e of good deeds. Roderick Usher may have so j u s t i f i e d to himself h i s attempt at d i s p e l l i n g fear of the unknown by placing h i s s i s t e r i n the torture-chamber for a grave ( t h i s statement being based on the interpretation that he buries her to learn f o r himself what b u r i a l i s l i k e ) . This kind of moral ambiguity i s given c a r e f u l anal-y s i s by M e l v i l l e i n Benito Cereno, which i s set i n a Gothic waste—at sea near "a small, desert, uninhabited i s l a n d " where the moral ambiguity of Nature i s apparent: 106 The morning was one peculiar to that coast. Everything was mute and calm; everything gray. The sea . . . seemed f i x e d , and was sleeked at the surface l i k e waved lead . . . The sky seemed a gray surtout. F l i g h t s of troubled gray fowl, k i t h and kin with f l i g h t s of troubled gray vapors . . . skimmed low and f i t f u l l y over the waters, as swallows over meadows before storms. Shadows present, foreshadowing deeper shadows to come.105 Into t h i s gray d r i f t s the San Dominick, with "vapors p a r t l y mantling the h u l l " as she enters the harbour which i s likewise "wimpled by the same low, creeping clouds." Delano —whose flaw or wound i s , l i k e Jim's, i n v i s i b l e : "a singu-l a r l y u n d i s t r u s t f u l good n a t u r e " — i s curious to penetrate the v e i l and f i n d out what l i e s beyond on the strange ship. What he sees i s black and white no longer blended into enigma. He senses, indeed sees, i n what the e v i l i s contained: i n the decay and disorder over which the s a i l o r s have no control* i n the symbols of power wielded by the oakum-pickers and the six hatchet-polishers who "clashed t h e i r hat-chets together, l i k e cymbals, with a barbarous din* " and i n the control over Don Benito which Babo obviously has, and which "blunt-thinking" Delano so stupidly misinterprets. But so strong i s the influence of h i s own world over him, the world which covers up what i t does not wish to see, that Delano v e i l s the truth unwittingly i n the d e l i c a c i e s of gen-t i l i t y . When he steps on board, he operates on his own pre-conceptions rather than on the f a c t s : ". . . Captain Delano took to negroes, not p h i l a n t h r o p i c a l l y , but genially, just as other men to Newfoundland dogs." This unthinking response, 107 based on h i s b e l i e f i n the s t u p i d i t y and "blind attachment" of Negroes, f i t as they are " f o r avocations about one's person. . . . natural v a l e t s , " precludes his thinking of the Negroes i n any other way. His opinion of the decay of the Spanish race colors his description of both the San  Dominick and Don Benito: "why wonder at incompetence, i n youth, sickness, and g e n t i l i t y united?" His f i r s t impression of the ship, " l i k e a whitewashed monastery a f t e r a thunderstorm," governs the terms he uses thereafter; i n t e r e s t i n g l y enough, he seems to have always been unconsciously aware of the p o t e n t i a l horror inherent i n r e l i g i o n . His sense of uneasiness i s aroused by the "throngs of dark cowls . . . and other dark moving f i g u r GS • • • dS Ot Black F r i a r s pacing the c l o i s t e r s . " He associates the "mon-astery" with death: "Her keel seemed l a i d , her r i b s put t o -gether, and she launched, from E z e k i e l f s Valley of Dry Bones;" " l i k e mourning weeds, dark festoons of seagrass swept to and fr o . . . with every hearse-like r o l l of the h u l l . " His further association of her i s with the Dark Ages: "Battered and mouldy, the c a s t e l l a t e d f o r e c a s t l e seemed some ancient t u r r e t , long ago taken by assault, and then l e f t to decay." Having constructed i n h i s mind a suitable s e t t i n g f o r the Spanish I n q u i s i t i o n , he furnishes i t with "grotesque engine[s] of torment" which are also compatible with the church-like i n t e r i o r , a wash-stand " l i k e a font," a "claw-footed old t a b l e " under a "meagre c r u c i f i x , " "two long, sharp-ribbed 108 settees . . . uncomfortable to look at as i n q u i s i t o r ' s racks," a basin "scooped out, so as . . . to receive the chin." M e l v i l l e juxtaposes these d e t a i l s , coming from the " r i t u a l murder" scene of Benito's being shaven, with the comfort and serenity of Delano's conscious f e e l i n g s . ^ 0 0 As the shaving begins, he i s "more sociably i n c l i n e d than at any other previous period of the day," "amused" and "play-f u l , " even though Benito's face gradually comes to assume a " t e r r i f i e d aspect," " l i k e as i f , " Delano muses thought-l e s s l y , "he himself were to be done f o r . " Such scenes be-come more and more obvious as the story proceeds, with Delano unconsciously aware of the truths he consciously states, but s t i l l blinded by his preconceptions. The separation of black and white i s s t r i k i n g i n Babo and Benito, who are presented i n tableau fashion with the Spaniard looking down at the black, "who . . . was kneeling at his feet . . . his d i s -engaged face . . . turned openly up into h i s master's down-cast one." In the same manner Leggatt and the captain f i r s t looked at each other. This separation i s the overt p a r a l l e l to a l i k e mental schism i n Delano, where h i s unconscious i s struggling to tear the "scales . . . from his eyes."^°7 The closest i t comes to success i s possibly the moment when " i n the black he saw a headsman, and i n the white a man at the block." He glimpses the tr u t h but i t s l i p s away, as does the spectre from Marlow when he thinks he has "got the spectre by the throat at l a s t " (LJ228) but shortly afterwards 1 0 9 admits he f e l t "the demoralization of my utter defeat" (LJ233). Nor i s there any sign of Delano's ultimate over-coming of h i s weakness; perhaps because he never has actually to undo the knot he i s handed, he does not seem to see that the extermination of e v i l i s not a simple m a t t e r . 1 0 8 In f a c t , the moral decay he imputes to Benito i s i n a sense more present i n himself. His " f l a s h of rev e l a t i o n " pertains only to t h i s one incident; f o r the rest, 'the past i s passed; why moralize upon i t ? Forget i t . See, yon bright sun has forgotten i t a l l , and the blue sea, and the blue sky; these have turned over new leaves.' But Benito cannot so much as look at the outward sign of such intense e v i l ("the black—whose brain, not body, had schemed and l e d the r e v o l t " ) : "When pressed by the judges he f a i n t -ed." The inference would seem to be that the strength of such e v i l makes i t f a t a l . Benito dies of i t . Does Delano, to protect himself from i t , reassume hi s mask? He seems i n other matters to be an astute man, i n command of himself and h i s ship as The Secret Sharer's captain claims at the end to be. Both men appear, i n fact, to be better than the average. The young captain has f e l t the need to separate himself from men, possibly i n order to learn more of himself (a separa-t i o n the Sephora's captain never achieved), and Delano i s kindly and just i n s p i t e of h i s a i r of superiority and a tendency to take needless r i s k s upon himself. Perhaps he 110 has simply, l i k e Jim, never been tested by those events of the sea that show i n the l i g h t of day the inner worth of a man, the edge of h i s temper, and the f i b r e of h i s s t u f f ; that reveal the quality of h i s resistance and the secret truth of h i s pretenses, not only to others but also to himself. (LJ10) And when the test comes, perhaps he simply has not the moral f i b r e of an Ishmael or a Marlow, both of whom know when, f o o l i s h ar not, they must become f u l l y involved i n the l i v e s of people more intensely a l i v e than they are, must accept the i n t e r - i d e n t i f i c a t i o n t o t a l l y , become Ahab and Kurtz and the Ancient Mariner, before they can be said to be a l i v e and freed from the sepulchral c i t y i n which mankind exi s t s . Per-haps he i s l i k e the narrator of Bartlebv. who also leaves the reader with the impression that although he has had the chance to recognize a deep truth about himself and mankind, he has turned aside at the l a s t moment, a f r a i d he cannot support the kind of penetration which he has seen destroy another. This penetration or illumination i s l i k e that supplied by the candle which Kurtz cannot see, but by which he perceives the monstrosity of the night. I f , then, having discovered how easy i t i s to mistake and befriend e v i l more t e r r i b l e than death, he does sublimate the knowledge i n t u i t i v e l y i n h i s i n s t i n c t f o r s u r v i v a l , i t i s hardly s u r p r i s i n g that Delano should welcome again the meta-phoric gray with which nature v e i l s her raw powers. Nor, considering h i s optimistic and kindly bent of mind, i s i t I l l u n u s u a l f o r him t o attempt t o c o e r c e B e n i t o i n t o d o i n g t h e same. But t h e S p a n i a r d has l o o k e d " too l o n g i n t h e f a c e o f f i r e " (MD354) not t o be i n j u r e d . He has no l o n g e r t h e r e -s i l i a n c y o f mind t o r a l l y under Delano's u n c o n s c i o u s cue t o him t o b l o t out h i s new knowledge: "'you a r e saved: what has c a s t such a shadow upon you?' 'The n e g r o . ' " "The h o r r o r , t h e h o r r o r , " i s i n e f f e c t h i s answer. L i k e K u r t z and t h e M a r i n e r , he i s t h e u n w i l l i n g r e c i p i e n t o f a p e r c e p t i o n which d i s a b l e s him f o r l i f e among men, mak-i n g him an o u t c a s t , an I s o l a t o , i n c a p a b l e o f e n d u r i n g i n a s o c i a l framework. Now t h i s i s j u s t t h e c o n d i t i o n t h e p o r -t r a y a l o f which I have s u g g e s t e d e a r l i e r i s t h e main d e s i g n o f such G o t h i c w r i t e r s as Le w i s and M a t u r i n . My q u e s t i o n now i s , t o what e x t e n t i s t h e same theme s t i l l a G o t h i c one i n ConraM? Because t h e theme o f i s o l a t i o n appears t o me t o be most f u l l y e x p l i c a t e d i n Heart o f Dar k n e s s . I w i s h t o d i s c u s s i t f o r a moment i n c o n n e c t i o n w i t h t h a t s t o r y . I t would appear from t h e f o r e g o i n g s t u d y t h a t G o t h i c -i s m i s embodied i n c e r t a i n m o t i f s o r c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s t h r o u g h t h e use o f which a g i v e n s t o r y , theme, o r i d e a i s d e v e l o p e d . These c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s can b r o a d l y be c a l l e d t h e s e t t i n g , s i n c e they c o n t a i n as i n a box t h e g i v e n theme o r i d e a . But does t h a t make t h e g i v e n theme G o t h i c ? I f t h e s e t t i n g i s in@% j u s t t h a t — a s e t t i n g which e x e r t s no i n f l u e n c e , t h e answer i s no. B u t , i n some c a s e s , when t h e s e t t i n g a c t u a l l y i n -f l u e n c e s t h e theme, i t does. Thus J i m , K u r t z , and Ahab a r e 112 Gothic characters both because of the c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s i n -herent i n themselves and because of t h e i r immersion i n t h e i r environments, which govern them, to a s i g n i f i c a n t extent, both mentally and p h y s i c a l l y . Marlow and Ishmael, on the other hand, are Gothic i n themselves, but since t h e i r en-vironments do not sway them u n t i l they submit themselves, they are not Gothic i n that way, as Kurtz and Ahab are. To repeat a related point, s e t t i n g represents the r e a l i t y to be understood i n Gothicism, and i s simultaneously the obstacle to that understanding. Therein l i e s much of the Gothicism of Heart of Darkness. I t i s from Heart of Darkness that we learn that for Marlow "the meaning of an episode was not inside l i k e a kernel but outside." Now i n Lord Jim, we are given (oblique-l y , i t i s true) the kernel as well as the "misty halo" which comprises the rest of the story. In Heart of Darkness even more than i n Benito Cereno. the s e t t i n g (physical and psycho-l o g i c a l ) i s the v e i l , the misty halo, the enigma, where the meaning resides. There i s no kernel given to p a r a l l e l the Mariner's k i l l i n g of the albatross or Jim's jump from the Patna. We simply presume that one exists* most l i k e l y i t i s the culmination of Kurtz's awareness of the poten t i a l i n himself and the opportunity for i t s f u l f i l m e n t at that time i n the forest; but i t might as ea s i l y be some physical act which i s the t r i g g e r for and outward manifestation of t h i s inward i l l u m i n a t i o n . I t s absence from the story betrays 113 i t s unimportance. The meaning i s i n the forest i t s e l f . The sea as Gothic becomes here the forest as Gothic; to Conrad, sea and forest are v i r t u a l l y interchangeable. The Eldorado Expedition goes "into the patient wilderness, that closed upon i t as the sea closed over a d i v e r " (HD33). Marlow 1s entry into i t , then, i s l i k e Ishmael's going to sea. Ishmael sees that nothing can change water: "that same ocean" that "whelmed a whole world" " r o l l s now . . . Noah's flood i s not yet subsided" (MD235). When one i s at sea, time becomes i n f i n i t e . So i t i s with the f o r e s t : "Going up that r i v e r was l i k e t r a v e l l i n g back to the e a r l i e s t be-ginnings of the world, when vegetation r i o t e d on the earth and the b i g trees were kings" (HD34). In t h i s timeless world, Marlow*s past becomes a dream for him. Yet he knows, as Ishmael does of the sea, that the wilderness i s f i e n d i s h and subtle (MD235), that " i t s most dreaded creatures g l i d e under" the apparent surface: t h i s s t i l l n e s s of l i f e did not i n the l e a s t re-semble a peace. I t was the s t i l l n e s s of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. I t looked at you with a vengeful aspect. (HD34) I t i s nolswonder then that Kurtz shares Pip's fate; "the i n -f i n i t e of h i s soul" i s destroyed among the "strange shapes of the unwarped primal world" (MD347): "• • • h i s soul was mad. Being alone i n the wilderness, i t had looked within i t s e l f , and, by Heavens! I t e l l you, i t had gone mad." (HD68). 114 He has come to Pip's state, "to that c e l e s t i a l thought, which, to reason, i s absurd and f r a n t i c ; and weal or woe, f e e l s then uncompromised, i n d i f f e r e n t as his God." The indifference appears to be what induces Kurtz to become h i s own and h i s people's god; Marlow recognizes that there i s no use i n appealing to him i n the name of any-other. He has stepped outside of the "charmed c i r c l e " of both conventional r e l i g i o n and s o c i a l mores. As Gothic hero, Kurtz has some of the properties of Frankenstein's monster. Sent to the wilderness as a conse-quence of r e l i g i o u s zeal for the betterment of mankind—"'By the simple exercise of our w i l l we can exert a power for good p r a c t i c a l l y unbounded'" (HD51)—he becomes distorted by h i s impatience of " c i v i l i z e d " men, and uses his power for pur-poses questionable to those " c i v i l i z e d " men. He i s a sort of Prometheus-Faust who i s damned by his own humanity, which l i m i t s him i n the very act of h i s r i s i n g above i t . Even h i s exaltation i s degradation; he i s a " p i t i f u l J u p i t e r , " coming god-like to the savages "with thunder and l i g h t n i n g " but r i s i n g up "long, pale, i n d i s t i n c t , l i k e a vapour exhaled by the earth" ( H D 6 6 ) before Marlow. He i s "an animated image of death" ( H D 6 0 ) , yet he has learned a l l the secrets of l i f e , " a l l the wisdom, and a l l truth, and a l l s i n c e r i t y " ( H D 7 2 ) . Perhaps t h i s i s one of his most Gothic t r a i t s : he desires l i k e Faust or Dorian Gray to experience a l l things, but h i s c e n t r a l experience i s the awareness of the corruption of 115 society. Along with t h i s understanding, he seems to f e e l that knowledge, at l e a s t , can be salvaged and reapplied, by himself, to the attainment of h i s place as savage god. Ultimately, however, the knowledge he must have used i s the knowledge of the myth with which he invested himself. Kurtz's other Gothic c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s unite many of the themes I have discussed. He e x i s t s at the centre of Marlow's dream-world—his words "had behind them, to my mind, the t e r r i f i c suggestiveness of words heard i n dreams, of phrases spoken i n a nightmare" (HD67). Besides the Gothic contrasts i n h i s nature, he displays the duality of being, which i s common to the Gothic: "the shade of Kurtz frequent-ed the bedside of the hollow sham . . ." (HD69); he i s the ultimate of what others see i n themselves and project onto him (Kurtz's cousin, the organist, for example, pictures Kurtz as a great musician); i n p a r t i c u l a r he i s Marlow's double; he i s also the heart of the forest, e x i s t i n g i n union with "the wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman" (HD61) who i s the mirror-opposite of h i s Intended. Marlow i s so cl o s e l y i d e n t i f i e d with him as to actually pick up Kurtz's existence when he dies before he i s ready, and "dream the nightmare out to the end" (HD71). He i s "numbered with the dead" when Kurtz l i e s dying, and he accepts " t h i s unforeseen partner-ship" (HD69) matter-of-factly. Just as much as are Kurtz's voice and Kurtz's former s e l f , so i s Marlow "the shade of the o r i g i n a l Kurtz" who frequents h i s bedside. Like the 116 captain of The Secret Sharer looking down at Leggatt i n the dark water, Marlow looks "at him as you peer down at a man who i s l y i n g at the bottom of a pr e c i p i c e where the sun never shines." (HD70); and l a t e r , when he i s standing by the Intended*s door, Kurtz "seemed to stare at me out of the glassy p a n e l — s t a r e with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing a l l the universe" (LJ75). His penetrating voice i s henceforth "the whispered cry, The Horror! The Horror!" Indeed, t h i s whisper conveys the es-sence of what the subliminal s e l f , i n the Gothic, generally seems to say. I t i s an exposure of the disgusting and hor-r i b l e — a n d the immoral. The union of "that Shadow" representing the dark side of human nature as moral agent, with " t h i s wandering and tormented thing" (HD67) representing Kurtz as seeker and both i n i t i a t e into and p r i e s t of "abominable t e r r o r s " and "abominable s a t i s f a c t i o n s " (HD72)—this union i n Kurtz s i g n i f i e s the kind of awareness which Ishmael or the Mariner come to possess, and which they pass on to t h e i r l i s t e n e r s . Insofar as he i s these two, he i s claimed, as i t were, by Life-in-Death, hence h i s strong voice i n a deathly body. He seems to Marlow to exist between l i f e and death; at the end, he l i v e s i n Marlow, who i s h i s surrogate and who has come back into l i f e ; but also i n h i s Intended, who i s an image of death, an "eloquent phantom . . . a t r a g i c and f a m i l i a r Shade" (HD78). To the sepulchral c i t y he i s dead, but to the wilderness also he i s l o s t . " He has come back up the r i v e r from the heart of darkness, but not, except i n Marlow, as f a r as "the k n i t t i n g o ld woman . . . at the other end of [the] affairy(HD66). His being l o s t to both worlds actually makes him more of a mythic figure. Marlow assumes he has "made a bargain for his soul with the d e v i l ; " and the d e v i l i s indeed "too much of a d e v i l " to allow him to r e t a i n h i s "high seat amongst the d e v i l s of the land" (HD50). Never-theless, though Kurtz as Kurtz dies, Kurtz as mythic hero does not, and having consciously and successfully achieved h i s own apotheosis, he can be said to unite mythic and Gothic 110 t r a i t s i n hxmself. x This i s a step which M e l v i l l e does not seem to allow h i s characters to take. Ahab i s not t r u l y mythic, though h i s quest i s ; Ishmael i s mythic to a degree, but not so much as i s Jim, who more consciously r e a l i z e s his own heroic p o t e n t i a l , and who, l i k e Kurtz, seems to gain added v i t a l i t y from his expanded r o l e . "The marriage of the natural and the supernatural" i s surely what the j o i n i n g of myth with the Gothic achieves. Can myth, then, be the place where, as Varma puts i t , "the Gothic romance took refuge?" Not, I f e e l , except i n a few unusual cases, but that does not mean that Gothicism does not tend toward i t . Begun as a conglomerate of devices de-signed to produce a cert a i n emotional e f f e c t , i t has again divided into various devices, present i n varying numbers 118 and degrees, used to evoke the o r i g i n a l f e e l i n g they sug-gested, as well as that pertinent to t h e i r new use. M e l v i l l e gains for Ahab a whole character which he need only mould to h i s own devices to f i t him into h i s thematic material. The supernaturalism inherent i n the Gothic h e r o - v i l l a i n , the impatience with death, and the tremendous egotism, add to Ahab's character a realism and a ready acceptance of h i s maniacal designs which M e l v i l l e would, without the Gothic t r a d i t i o n , have to work f a r harder to a t t a i n , even to the point of flawing the rest of the novel. The same i s true of Kurtz; h i s mysterious power over both blacks and whites need never be proven, need hardly be shown, i n f a c t , but i s unquestioningly accepted as the basis on which Conrad b u i l d s . Nor i s i t any more than natural that legends of magical deeds grow around Jim, who seems to speak through a dream-l i k e haze, creating the i l l u s i o n of an untouchable, god-l i k e man. The "staying-power" of the Gothic also has something to do with i t s form. This consists primarily i n setting, without which no story e x i s t s , and, since i t comes with the beginning of the conscious psychological inquiry which the novel form especially encourages, Gothicism makes use of themes which are modern i n that they are enigmatical and f u l l of contrast. (Witness the many manifestations of the v e i l . ) The more the psychological inquiry increased, the more writers were obliged to employ enigma i n order to 1 1 9 include the f u l l range of meaning and manifold aspects which comprise t r u t h . M e l v i l l e and Conrad both were particularly-concerned to make statements about t h e i r moral universe, which they saw changing around them. Empathy, understanding transcending words and expressible only through emotional i d e n t i f i c a t i o n , vicarious but deep emotional experience— these were t h e i r goals. I t i s impossible to make a worth-while d e f i n i t i v e statement about Jim, to understand him by statement of any kind, but i t i s not impossible to f e e l as he f e l t . S i m i l a r l y , no one can know the tru t h of the cap-ta i n ' s emotions i n The Secret Sharer; there are truths, elucidated by the understanding of him and his double which Gothicism can c l a r i f y . The truths a r i s i n g from the same conventions i n Benito Cereno say something d e f i n i t e about Delano, the modern man i n the Gothic setting, but what i t i s depends, as far as I can see, on the degree to which the reader f e e l s h i s s e t t i n g influences him. Perhaps what I imply here i s the one t r a i t which almost a l l Gothic s t o r i e s have i n common: the presence of both a t e l l e r and a l i s t e n e r , the prototypical example being, of course, the Mariner and the Wedding-Guest. There must be an i n i t i a t e into the central experience, who f e e l s the com-pulsion to pass his experience on to the few chosen souls capable of understanding i t . The c r i t e r i o n for judging who these people are l i e s s o l e l y with the t e l l e r , who has been made i n t u i t i v e l y aware of the c r i t e r i o n and of who the 120 l i s t e n e r s must be. A l l the st o r i e s which I have here d i s -cussed show some var i a t i o n of that prerequisite. And i n unfolding t h e i r s t o r i e s from t h i s basis, M e l v i l l e and Conrad demonstrate an imaginative use and reshaping of the Gothic which amounts to a near-transformation of the form; they have selected from i t those concepts which have meaning for them, and which inform t h e i r s t o r i e s with the heightened pertinency and u n i v e r s a l i t y of master-novelists. NOTES 1D. P. Varma, The Gothic Flame (New York, 1966), p. 173. 2Peter L. Thorslev J r . , The Byronic Herot Types and  Prototypes (Minneapolis, 1962), p. 8. ^Eino Railo, f o r one, discusses t h i s at length i n The Haunted Castle (London, 1927). Also see J . M. S. Tomp-kins* The Popular Novel i n England. 1770&1880. pp. 243ff. She f e e l s that the two stages of the development of the Gothic romance were 1) i t s establishment i n popularity by R a d c l i f f e , Walpole, the Lee s i s t e r s , the Elizabethan drama-t i s t s ; and 2) i t s embellishment by the t r a n s l a t i o n of German stories—Herman of Unna (1794), f o r example. Since i t was Walpole who a c t u a l l y did most.of the tra n s l a t i o n s , however; since he never wrote a story or play which was s i m i l a r i n tone to those of R a d c l i f f e and her school; and since t h e i r works, s t r i k i n g l y d i f f e r e n t i n s t y l e , were published about the same time, I think that Tompkins* "stages of development" were not actual stages as such. Walpole and R a d c l i f f e should not i n my opinion be classed together i n t h i s way. ^Railo uses these terms i n discussing the character-i s t i c s of each type of Gothic. 5w. E. Buckley, ed., Prose of the V i c t o r i a n Period (Boston, 1958), p. 362. 6 l t i s important to r e f l e c t , i n connection with t h i s inquiry, that these elements were so often repeated, and so e f f e c t i v e l y used, that even now t h e i r very mention w i l l evoke i n the reader's mind the f u l l aura of mystery and fear, with a l l the accessory trappings of terror-romanticism; t h i s i s a f a c t which the a r t i s t may consciously use to his own advantage. 7 l t seems to me that the e f f e c t of Freud and Jung on Gothicism may possibly have been adverse. °Mobv-Dick was c a l l e d t h i s by R. D. Hume, "Gothic Versus Romantic: A Revaluation of the Gothic Novel," PMLA. Vol.IXKjyNo. 3 (Mar. 1969), pp.. 287 and 290. ^He was also i n possession of the works of Byron, Chatterton, Shelley, Southey, Poe, and Hawthorne; Burke's Essay On the Sublime. Coleridge's Biographia L i t e r a r i a . De Quincey's Confessions, some Goethe, a t r a n s l a t i o n of The  Bravo of Venice by M. G. Lewis, S c h i l l e r ' s Ghost-Seer, a work c a l l e d Lays and Legends of thd Rhine, and some Dickens 122 and Scott. See M. Sealts' M e l v i l l e ' s Reading (Madison, 1 9 6 6 ) . There i s also a comment i n d i c a t i n g his i n t e r e s t : "as M e l v i l l e observed: 'With The Castle of Otranto. Wal-pole struck an unexplored vein of romance.'" Varma, p. 72. (I can't f i n d where M e l v i l l e made t h i s observation.) •^Although "of a l l the Romantic poets Percy Bysshe Shelley was most deeply saturated with Gothic d i a b l e r i e , " he does not enjoy the popularity of Coleridge, and thus has not the influence. See Varma, p. 1 9 7 f f. As f o r Byron, "biographically, he i s p r a c t i c a l l y the archetype of the Gothic-romantic hero, but as a romantic poet he f i t s only uneasily the type delimited by Wordsworth, Keats, and Shel-l e y . " Hume, p. 289. I think Byron added a c h a r a c t e r i s t i c to the Gothic while Coleridge increased i t s scope. This i s quibbling, i n a sense, because of the great importance of the so—called "Byronic" hero, though Hume makes a good case f o r the term's being a misnomer. l ^ I t might also be possible to consider G u l l i v e r ' s  Travels here, since i t was the i n s p i r a t i o n f o r much sea-f i c t i o n even though i t i s also a s a t i r e of that genre. 12 Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, ed. Morton Dauwen Zabel, Riverside Editions (Boston, 1 9 5 8 ) , pp* 8 8 - 8 9 . A l l page num-bers are to t h i s e dition and are c i t e d i n the t e x t . 1 3 H erman M e l v i l l e , Mobv-Dick. eds. Harrison Hayford and Hershel Parker, Norton C r i t i c a l Edition (New York, 1 9 6 7 ) , pp. 3 9 9 - 4 0 0 . A l l page numbers are to t h i s e d i t i o n and are c i t e d i n the text. •^Varma, p. 54. 15samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia L i t e r a r i a . i n The Portable Coleridge. I. A. Richards, ed. (New York, 1 9 6 7 ) , p. 518. l o T h e Poetic a l Works of Wordsworth. Oxford Standard Authors (New York, 1 9 6 5 ) , p. 734. •""•7The marriage motif i s i t s e l f common i n the Gothic, and i s generally emblematic of sexual f r u s t r a t i o n , as i n The Castle of Otranto. Jane Eyre, and even Mobv-Dick. i n which Ahab says of h i s wife that he married and widowed her i n the same moment. In the Rime i t seems to set o f f the Mariner's fr u s t r a t e d attempt at s o c i a l union. 18 A perfect Gothic storm: 123 The upper a i r burst into l i f e ! And a hundred f i r e - f l a g s sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and f r o , and i n and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind d i d roar more loud, And the s a i l s did sigh l i k e sedge; And the r a i n poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at i t s edge. The thick black cloud was c l e f t , and s t i l l The Moon was at i t s side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The l i g h t n i n g f e l l with never a jag, A r i v e r steep and wide. The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the l i g h t n i n g and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. The figure of Life-in-Death may be the one to whom Ahab speaks when he and Ishmael see into and through the Delight. ^ S e e D. W. Harding, "The Theme of the Ancient Marin-er ." The Importance of Scrutiny (New York, 1948). In t h i s a r t i c l e Harding deals with the Mariner's i n a b i l i t y to a t t a i n t o t a l acceptance into society. 2 Q S e e Harding, p. 180. 2^The moss would be r e l i g i o u s doctrine, and the--oak-stump the image of the Church. 2 2 S e e p. 109. J"But here i s an a r t i s t . He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting b i t of romantic landscape i n a l l the valley of the Saco. What i s the chief element he employs? There stand h i s trees, each with a hollow trunk, as i f a hermit and a c r u c i f i x were within; and here sleeps h i s meadow, and there sleep his c a t t l e ; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed i n t h e i r h i l l - s i d e blue. But though the pi c t u r e l i e s thus tranced, and though t h i s pine-tree shakes down i t s sighs l i k e leaves upon t h i s shepherd's head, yet a l l were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were-fixed upon the magic stream before him." (MD13) 124 ^The contrast between land and sea i s one theme of t h i s chapter; also see the end of Chapter 58. Tompkins gives a good example of the "Radcliffean landscape of beauty" i n The Popular Novel i n England i n Appendix IV on pages 379-380. 2^See Mircea Eliade's Myth and Reality (New York, 1963), p. 81. Mobv-Dick may possibly be a myth of the re-b i r t h of man from t h i s viewpoint: that Ishmael reaches a chaos, an "end," enters the Spouter-Inn and the whale-like Pequod—that i s , re-enters the womb or the stomach of the sea-monster which i n mythology i s associated with the womb of Mother Earth—and then undergoes a series of experiences which culminate i n r e b i r t h . When reborn, he i s p u r i f i e d of a l l extremes of emotion; he has exorcised the demons both of world-weariness and of madness. His l i n k with the c o f f i n , both at the beginning (Peter Coffin) and the end, implies that out of l i f e comes death and out of death comes l i f e . Expressed thus, the book can also imply a journey through the underworld, death being the v e i l which Ishmael pierces twice. The underworld i s p a r a l l e l to the womb, and both p a r a l l e l the subconscious. Such re b i r t h s , according to Eliade, are not simple r e p e t i t i o n s of the f i r s t , but mystical, s p i r i t u a l rebirths giving "access to a new mode of existence," and repeated r i t u a l l y . "In other words, we here have acts oriented toward the values of S p i r i t , not behavior from the realm of psycho-physiological ac t i v i t y V (p. 81). His idea i s l i k e Wordsworth's, that "our b i r t h i s but a sleep and a for g e t t i n g " between times of absolute/complete knowledge. 26 ^"E. H. Davidson, ed., Selected Writings of Edgar  A l l a n Poe (Boston, 1956), p. 97. Hereafter c i t e d as Poe. 2 7Joseph Conrad, Three Great Tales (New York, 1962), Nigger of the Narcissus, p. 24. References w i l l be to t h i s e d i t i o n and w i l l be ci t e d as Nigger. 2 8Nigger. p. 38. 2 9Nigger, p. 45. 30ine more common description i s implied i n such words as "the Pequod thrust her v i n d i c t i v e bows into the cold malicious waves" ( M D 9 7 ) . 31»For the t h i r d time my soul's ship s t a r t s up on t h i s voyage, Starbuck" (MD462). 32A1SO see the f i r s t paragraph of Ch. 97, p. 355, and pp. 174-175. 125 33"xheir tawny features, now a l l begrimed with smoke and sweat, t h e i r matted beards, and the contrasting barbaric b r i l l i a n c y of t h e i r teeth, a l l these were strangely revealed i n the capricious emblazonings of the works. As they nar-rated to each other t h e i r unholy adventures, t h e i r t a l e s of t e r r o r t o l d i n words of mirth; as t h e i r u n c i v i l i z e d laughter forked upwards out of them, l i k e the flames from the furnace; as to and f r o , i n t h e i r front, the harpooneers wildly gesticu-l a t e d with t h e i r huge pronged forks . . ." (MD353). 34M. G. Lewis, The Monk. New York, Grove Press, Inc. (1959), p. 167. A l l references are to t h i s e d i t i o n . 3 % o t e the Rime, l i n e s 115-119: Day a f t e r day, day a f t e r day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As i d l e as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean, and l i n e s 422-423: "•But why drives on that ship so fast Without or wave or wind?'" Also note that the l i n e s of Mobv-Dick quoted here come near the end of Chapter 51 and are immediately followed by the chapter c a l l e d "The Albatross," a f t e r a ship of the same name which i s described i n t h i s fashion: "As i f the waves had been f u l l e r s , t h i s c r a f t was bleached l i k e the skeleton of a stranded walrus. A l l down her sides, t h i s spectral appearance was traced with long channels of reddened rust, while a l l her spars and r i g g i n g were l i k e the thick branches of trees furred over with hoar-frost. Only her lower s a i l s were set. A wild sight i t was to see her long-bearded look-outs at those three mast-heads. They seemed clad i n the skins of beasts, so torn and bepatched the raiment that had survived nearly four years of c r u i s i n g . Standing i n i r o n hoops nailed to the mast, they swayed and swung over a f a t h -omless sea; and though, when the ship slowly glided close under our stern, we s i x men i n the a i r came so nigh to each other that we might almost have leaped from the mast-heads of one ship to those of the other; yet, those forlorn-looking fishermen, mildly eyeing us as they passed, said not one word to our own look-outs, while the quarterdeck h a i l was heard from below . . ." (MD203). This description i s strongly reminiscent of the ship of the "Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH," and i s also s t r i k i n g l y close to the episode i n The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pvm i n which the Grampus passes close under the bows of a Dutch b r i g of which a l l the crew are dead. One corpse seems to make grotesque encouraging gestures of patience when a sea-g u l l i s gorging i t s e l f on i t s back. See Poe. pp. 318-319. 126 ^ The whole passage i s l i k e Milton's description of h e l l . Note especially the Gothic tone of: "The wind i n -creased to a howlj the waves dashed t h e i r bucklers together, the whole squall roared, forked, and crackled around us l i k e white f i r e upon the p r a i r i e , i n which, unconsumed, we were burning; immortal i n these jaws of death!" ( 1 9 4 ) 3?This i s possibly another echo of Poe, t h i s time of the very end of Pym. ^"Ishmael's willingness to take t h i s step i s shown i n h i s over-eagerness to p a r t i c i p a t e with the crew i n "Ahab's quenchless feud" (MD155), to make i t h i s own. The "stronger I shouted, and more did I hammer" reveals that he does not want to be an Ishmael; he wants to walk "with a goodly com-pany" and " a l l together pray." "The Mat-Maker" both r e-inforces the reader's knowledge of t h i s desire and shows that i t i s not yet e n t i r e l y r e a l i z e d . 3 9 S e e Paradise Lost. Book I, 1 1 . 5 9 9 - 6 0 8 : . . . Darkened so, yet shone Above them a l l the Archangel: but hi s face Deep scars of thunder had entrenched, and care Sat on hi s faded cheek, but under brows Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride Waiting revenge. Cruel h i s eye, but cast Signs of remorse and passion, to behold The fellows of hi s crime, the followers rather (Far other once beheld i n b l i s s ) , condemned For everanow to have t h e i r l o t i n p a i n — " 4°Also see Feidelson's Symbolism and American L i t e r a -ture (Chicago, 1 9 6 6 ) , pp. 28-35, i n t h i s connection. 4 1Tompkins, p. 2 5 5 . 4 2Tompkins, p. 2 5 4 . ^Horace Walpole, The Castle of Otranto (London, 1 9 5 8 ) , p. 5 8 . Hereafter c i t e d as Walpole. 4 4 T h e Monk, p. 4 5 . 4 5Ann R a d c l i f f e , The I t a l i a n (Dublin, 1 7 9 7 ) , pp. 5 3 - 5 4 . The description i n t h i s passage i s complete with a l l the de-t a i l s of the Gothic v i l l a i n . 4 6 C h a r l es Robert Maturin, Melmoth the Wanderer. Introd. by W. F. Axton (Lincoln, Neb., 1 9 6 1 ) , pp. x - x i . Axton goes on togssay: 127 "He i s de l i b e r a t e l y made larger than l i f e , and his contra-dictory human q u a l i t i e s are exaggerated, perhaps as evidence of a growing romantic f a i t h i n the w i l l and the power of the w i l l to create environment. Ultimately, the t y p i c a l Gothic h e r o - v i l l a i n i s more a psychological projection than a r e a l -i s t i c representation, for he pe r s o n i f i e s the moral r e b e l l i o n of h is times against a s t i f l i n g authoritarian t r a d i t i o n . He i s man alienated from an orthodox society i n which inherited i n s t i t u t i o n s have been corrupted into meaningless c l i c h e s or mechanical codes of outward conformity, or appropriated by the powers-that-be as instruments to preserve a tyrannical and s e l f i s h status quo. As old as the protagonist of Jacob-ean revenge-tragedy, the damnable but admirable h e r o - v i l l a i n of high Gothic f i c t i o n i s a personage whose e v i l i s the r e s u l t of the clash between h i s passionate nature and power-f u l i n d i v i d u a l w i l l and the unnatural r e s t r a i n t s of conven-t i o n , orthodoxy, or t r a d i t i o n . Equally a victim of despotism and an exploiter of i t , he has been perverted by an author-i t a r i a n environment so that he both turns i t to the g r a t i f i -cation of h i s w i l l for power and i s twisted by his e f f o r t to break away from i t or to undermine i t . His i n d i v i d u a l i t y permanently threatened, he t h i r s t s to r e a l i z e himself i n tyranny at the same time that he i s g u i l t i l y aware of h i s e v i l . Thus, i n dramatising the c o n f l i c t i n g elements of the h e r o - v i l l a i n *s nature, the author shapes him into an imple-ment for attacking those ancient r e s t r a i n t s which bind the modern i n d i v i d u a l struggling to make himself i n his own pat-t e r n . " Please note that Schedoni's character i s more pr i m i t i v e than those of the other two, and shows l i t t l e evidence of humanity. ^ M e l v i l l e ' s "depiction of a universe both godless  and purposeless was, and he knew i t , i n e f f e c t a blasphemy from the point of view of orthodoxy and transcendentalism a l i k e . The shock upon his contemporary public ( i f they had widely understood) could be compared to the ef f e c t that Robinson J e f f e r s ' theology might have had upon Queen V i c t o r i a . " John Parke, "Seven Moby-Dicks," i n Interpretations of Amer-ican Literature. Charles Feidelson, J r . , and Paul Brodtkorb, J r . , eds. (New York, 1959), p. 93. "^According to p. 194, where the squa l l "crackled around [Ishmael] l i k e a white f i r e . . . i n which, uncon— sumed, we were burning," t h i s image may imply that Ahab i s "immortal i n these jaws of death." The kind of immortality meant i s probably l i k e that prophesied i n Macbeth, i n d i c a t -i n g that natural forces could not k i l l him. In a symbolic sense Moby Dick i s by no means a natural force. *ySee the Bobbs-Merrill E d i t i o n of Moby-Dick, ed. Charles Feidelson, J r . , p. 347, n. 4. 128 5 ° I f we can also accept that the Pequod i s the body of which Ahab i s the mind or s o u l , then we can strengthen t h i s comparison of Ahab and whale i n a l l the references which l i k e n the Pequod to a whale and v ice versa; for ex-ample, note t h e i r s i m i l a r i t y when "seen through the darkness of the n ight , . . . the two—ship and whale, seemed yoked together l i k e co lo s sa l bul locks . . . " (MD248). 5 1 N o t e the Rime. 11. 226-227: "And thou art long , and lank , and brown, As i s the r ibbed sea-sand." 52The l i t e r a t u r e of the decadents maintains the p e c u l i a r f lavour of the Gothic , as wel l as i t s general themes; t h i s book I be l ieve i s p a r t i c u l a r l y Gothic i n i t s handl ing of the double motif , the boredom with any l i f e but that of heightened senses and experience, and the underlying g u i l t connected with Dor ian ' s "Faust-complex," i f I may so term i t . 53 See page 417. ^ I n t e r p r e t a t i o n s of American L i t e r a t u r e , p . 99. T h i s study of Ahab i s a l together , I th ink , a very penetrat ing one. Parke does not push the "mother-symbol" idea , but one f e e l s the v a l i d i t y of h i s i n t e r p r e t a t i o n i n connection with " the feminine p r i n c i p l e of re latedness" (see p . 90), the wholesome ef fect of which i s denied the Pequod and her crew. 55There i s a more d e t a i l e d analys i s o f t h i s passage i n Brodtkorb's Ishmael's White World (New Haven, 1965), pp. 63-65, which should be noted, because Brodtkorb i s d i scus s ing here the concepts of " s e l f " and "o ther " i n r e l a t i o n to Ahab. r fi. The Bvronic Hero. p . 8. J ' N o t e e spec ia l ly Chapter 20 of the book: "In hypoc-r i s y he had worn the mask of goodness" i s the p i c t u r e ' s judgement of h i s one "good deed . " "For c u r i o s i t y ' s sake he had t r i e d the den ia l of s e l f . He recognized that now . . . . The p ic ture . . . had kept him awake at n ight . . . . I t had brought melancholy across h i s pass ions. I t s mere memory had marred many moments of j oy . I t had been l i k e conscience to him. Yes, i t had been conscience. He would destroy i t . " Oscar Wilde, The P ic ture of Dorian Gray (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, 1965), 246-247. Dor ian ' s ult imate s i n i s h i s f a i l u r e to accept r e s p o n s i b i l i t y for h i s crimes; because he r e j e c t s h i s own e v i l , any p o t e n t i a l goodness, instead of being integrated into h i s own being, i s i n the end outside of him, i n the p i c t u r e on the w a l l . 129 ^Hawthorne: Selected Tales and Sketches, i n t r o d . by H. H. Waggoner (New York, 1967), pp. 201-202. Hereafter c i t e d as Hawthorne. 5 9Varma, pp. 157-158. 6 oTompkins, p. 285. See Ishmael's White World, p. 35 and n. 5 on pp. 155-156. 62 James Justus, "Beyond Gothicism: Wuthering Heights and an American T r a d i t i o n , " Tennessee Studies i n Li t e r a t u r e . V (i960), 28. Justus i s here speaking of development of the Gothic i n America and p a r t i c u l a r l y i n Charles Brockden Brown; but t h i s statement appears to be equally true of any Gothic writer since Brown. ^Hawthorne, p. 151. 6 4Hawthorne, p. 164. 6 5 C o l e r i d g e , p. 518. " . . . the human mind i s capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants . . . The invaluable works of our elder writers . . . are driven into neglect by f r a n t i c novels, s i c k l y and stupid German tragedies, and deluges of i d l e and extravagant s t o r i e s i n v e r s e — . . . t h i s degrading t h i r s t a f t e r outrageous stimu-l a t i o n . . . " Wordsworth, p. 735b. 6 7Walter A l l e n , The English Novel: A Short C r i t i c a l  History (Harmondsworth, 1965), p. 93. 6 8 S e e Northrop Frye, Anatomy of C r i t i c i s m : Four  Essays (NewiYork, 1968), especially pp. 186-206. 6 9 S e e E l l i o t t B. Gose, J r . , "Pure Exercise of Imagin-ation: Archetypal Symbolism i n Lord Jim." PMLA. LXXIX (March, 1964), 140a. 70 From "A Familiar Preface" to A Personal Record: quoted i n G. H.Bantock, "The Two 'Moralities* of Joseph Conrad," Essays i n C r i t i c i s m . I l l ( A p r i l , 1953), p\ 127. 7 1(New York, 1926), p. v i i i . 7 ^ I b i d . , p. x i . 7 3 I b i d . , p. x. 130 74Hume, p. 2 8 5 . •'••'There are many phrases i n Lord Jim, especially i n t h i s passage, strongly reminiscent of both Mobv-Dick and the Rime. Compare, for example: "a s i l v e r y j e t was seen f a r i n advance of the white bubbles at the bow" (MD199) and "[the sun was] preserving the same distance ahead of her advancing bows" (LJ14), where tone and words are sim i l a r ; "the ship . . . black and smouldering i n a luminous i n t e n s i t y " (LJ14) and the f i r e - s h i p (LJ15) with the description of the Pequod i n "The Try-Works" ( M D 3 5 3 - 3 5 4 ) ; " I t seemed to him [ i . e . Jim] he was whirled around" ( L J 8 ) and "The Try-Works" ( M D 3 5 4 ) ; "At f i r s t I t seemed a l i t t l e speck" (Rime. 1. 1 4 9 ) and "the black speck of the moving h u l l " ( L J 1 5 ) ; Marlow's "strange i n a b i l i t y to hold my tongue" ( L J 3 2 ) and the Mariner's compul-sion to speak. W. U. Ober's "Heart of Darkness: The Ancient Mariner a Hundred Years Later" suggests further p a r a l l e l s i n Marlow's and the Mariner's roles which are applicable to Lord Jim. 7 6 T h e typhoon, the whale, and the whirlpool are, mythologically speaking, one and the same. 7 7 "John Oliver Perry, "Action, V i s i o n , or Voice: The Moral Dilemmas i n Conrad's T a l e - T e l l i n g . " JMFS. X (Spring 1964), 11. ^ I n t r o d u c t i o n to Lord Jim, p. xxx. 7 Q L o r d Jim- P- x x i . 8 oWalpole, p. 3 7 . 8 1 P . 157. 8 2 p . 61. 8 ^  °Note that Almayer's house i s "new but already decaying" (quoted by Zabel i n his Introduction to Lord Jim p. x), as i s Heyst's settlement, though just a few years old, a ghostly, decaying place. 8 4 S e e p. 191. D A l s o see p. 176: "we had watched the moon f l o a t away above the chasm between the h i l l s l i k e an ascending s p i r i t out of a grave. . ." The moon i s described as " s i n -i s t e r " and "gloating." Marlow guesses that "once before Patusan had been used as a grave f o r some s i n " (LJ157). 8 6Note the s i m i l a r i t y with "The Wasteland," 11. 3 8 5 - 3 8 9 and 395-405. 131 87 "The moon i s intended to awaken a nocturnal atmo-sphere fraught with mystery and tinged with fantasy, fear, and sadness. I t lends an i n d i s t i n c t and weird shape to each feature." Varma, p. 59. 88 Yelton has i n t e r e s t i n g l y analysed the spectral imagery i n Mimesis and Metaphor pp. 172-174. He c a l l s i t , "together with imagery of the abyss and the related cosmic and meteorological imagery, . . . [an] obsessive metaphoric" motif which helps determine the reader*s response "at the subliminal and suggestive l e v e l . . ."p. 174. 8°Xonrad has much to say about the force of words i n t h i s novel. Like M e l v i l l e ordering his categories of whales, he orders h i s characters: "There i s a weird powa? i n the spoken word. . . . A l l at once, on the blank page, under the very point of the pen, . . . Chester and h i s antique partner . . . would dodge into view with s t r i d e and gesture . . . I would watch them for awhile. No! They were too phantasmal and extravagant to enter into anyone's fate. And a word c a r r i e s f a r — v e r y f a r — d e a l s destruction through time as the b u l l e t s go f l y i n g through space. I said nothing . . ." (LJ125). To Jewel, "each pronounced word had a v i s i b l e shape" (LJ203). "Words also belong to the sheltered conception of l i g h t and order which i s our refuge. I had them ready . . ." (LJ225). sobbing catch of her breath affected him [Jim] beyond the power of words" (LJ214)• Jim taught Jewel how to speak English, the language of her god, and unwittingly allowed words to shape her character by thus giving them a special s i g n i f i c a n c e to her. Words are never the means, but the end, to Jewel. Yet they are dangerous, and inadequate. " I , too," says Marlow, "who a moment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was a f r a i d to speak . . . I t was the fear of l o s i n g him that kept me s i l e n t . . . " (LJ12Q) I t i s the same fear which makes Jewel speak. Note further the Preface to The Nigger of the Nar-cissus i n Three Great Tales. 9°Jim knows, and t e l l s Marlow, that the fact the pilgrims did not die does not obviate h i s g u i l t . 91 Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness. Norton C r i t i c a l Ed. (New York, 1963), p. 5. A l l references are to t h i s e d i t i o n and w i l l hereafter be c i t e d i n the text as HD. 9 2 7 ". . . Conrad employs the f i c t i o n a l strategy of the Doppelganger. o b j e c t i f y i n g the a l t e r ego, the other s e l f that the daytime confronts. But i n adopting the device of the Doppelganger he does not, l i k e the German romantics, 132 venture into the realm of the supernatural, nor l i k e Dos-toyevsky ("The Double") into the realm of mental a l i e n a t i o n , nor l i k e Stevenson or Poe ("William Wilson") into some ambigu-ous realm combining the two. He remains, as always, f a i t h f u l to h i s concept of the humanly possible." Yelton, pp. 272-273. I agree with a l l of t h i s statement except that part concerning the "mental a l i e n a t i o n " and the "ambiguous realm." Jim's a l i e n a t i o n seems to me to be m e n t a l — i n the basic sense that he cannot think as other men do; Marlow, i n order to understand him, has to achieve that same ali e n a t i o n of mind i n himself. And insofar as Marlow sees that Kurtz has aimed f o r godhead and gained i t i n a sense, and as he f e e l s him-s e l f to be Kurtz's a l t e r ego, they both surely dwell par-t i a l l y at l e a s t i n an "ambiguous realm" of that general type. 9 3 A t one point he i s mistaken for "one of them n i g -gers" by the Patna's chief engineer (LJ67). For his part, Jim sees the chief "moving, big, b i g — a s you see a man i n a mist, i n a dream" (LJ87). a A ^"Jim's shocking encounter with himself at the moment of h i s jump from the Patna . . . i s a paradigm of the encounters of the conscious personality with the stranger within, the stranger who i s the very s e l f of the s e l f . . . Dorothy Van Ghent, The English Novel; Form and Function (New York, 1961), p. 229. 9 5Gose, p. 145. 9 6Poe, p. 135. 97 Joseph Conrad, "Heart of Darkness" and "The Secret  Sharer." ed. Albert J . Guerard, Signet Ed. (New York, 1950), p. 20. Hereafter c i t e d as SS i n the text. 98 His b e l i e f i n the security of the sea, of course, i s a token of h i s forthcoming disillusionment. 99 Incid e n t a l l y , no c r i t i c seems to ask why i t might be that Leggatt, while s t i l l i n the water, asks to speak to the captain, the person who would be surely l e a s t l i k e l y to help him escape. -*-00As T. E. Boyle suggests i n Symbol and Meaning i n  the F i c t i o n of Joseph Conrad (The Hague, 1965), p. 135. l 0 1 B o y l e , p. 142. Boyle actually f e e l s that the cap-t a i n i s of better s t u f f than Leggatt. His int e r p r e t a t i o n indicates that the captain "has been pushed as f a r as Leg-gatt was, and though his response i s the same i n kind, i t i s 133 notably d i f f e r e n t i n degree. He i s c l e a r l y a d i f f e r e n t man from Leggatt, c l e a r l y not the kind of man to lose h i s s e l f possession e n t i r e l y i n a c r i s i s . " His conclusion i s that "Conrad has brought him near to insanity, but has permitted him to recognize the paradoxical nature of e v i l and to pass the shadow-line which separates youth from maturity. He has permitted him to r e l a t e himself to humanity and to h i s c r a f t . " While I agree that Leggatt and the captain are r e a l l y not the same at a l l , I f e e l that Leggatt i s not the kind of man to compromise himself and r i s k the l i v e s of h i s crew; i n f a c t , he o f f e r s himself, certain i n the knowledge that the moment has come f o r him to s a c r i f i c e his l i f e f o r the crew, since Archbold i s incapable of making the correct moral decision. Therefore, the captain's decision to sac-r i f i c e the whole crew to his own perverted desire to save himself i n saving Leggatt, seems to me l e s s creditable than Leggatt's more Ch r i s t i a n s e l f - s a c r i f i c e . 1 0 2 P o r t e r Williams, J r . , "The Brand of Cain i n 'The Secret Sharer',» MFS, X (Spring 1964), 28. This a r t i c l e i s h e l p f u l i n connection with my t h e s i s , f o r obvious reasons. Williams stresses that "the t r a d i t i o n a l brand upon Cain's forehead was r e a l l y a mark of God's compassion and not a stigma" (p. 28) and shows how Leggatt i s a Cain figure. Cain, l i k e Ishmael, i s "a f u g i t i v e and a vagabond i n the earth" (Genesis i v , 14). Comparison of Conrad's treatment of Leggatt with Axton's discussion of therprdblems of the Gothic h e r o - v i l l a i n i n r e l a t i o n to h i s society i n the Intro-duction to Melmoth the Wanderer, pp. x - x i , shows just how f a r Conrad has come from the conventional handling of t h i s theme by early Gothic writers. JThe egoism can also be interpreted as a good t h i n g — a s , for example, the self-respect necessary to the healthy development of personality. This fact makes i r o n i c the knowledge that egoism i n v i t e s the wrath of God. Like the k i l l i n g of Laius, which permitted Oedipus to r u l e while being the ultimate reason f o r h i s downfall, the s t r i p p i n g of the hats from Ahab, the captain, and even Jim, should be the sign of t h e i r maturity even while i t i n v i t e s disaster down upon them. 1 04walpole, p. 28. 1 0 % e r m a n M e l v i l l e , " B i l l y Budd" and "The Piazza  Tales" (New York, 1961), p. 154. Hereafter c i t e d as Benito  Cereno. 1 0 oR. H. Fogle, M e l v i l l e ' s Shorter Tales (Norman, Okla., 1960), p. 142. 134 His conscious i s unconscious, and vice versa; t h i s v e i l i s also described as a "mask" to be "torn away." 108 A s Fogle points out, the b l a c k - e v i l , white-good dichotomy i s not so cut-and-dried as a l l that. Babo has on h i s side the argument that his enslavement by the whites i s e v i l , and Benito's extreme d e b i l i t y does suggest a c e r t a i n moral decay present before the mutiny, which i n f a c t may have made the mutiny easier. The explanation enclosed i n Benito's declaration seems to me p r i m i t i v e and po s s i b l y unnecessary, somewhat l i k e R a d c l i f f e ' s attempts to explain away her supernatural e f f e c t s . I t s exclusion might have strengthened depiction of Delano's morality at the end. 1 0 9 0 n e of the things for which the wilderness stands i s Hades; the savage woman, the image of the wilderness's "tenebrous and passionate soul" (HD62) appears i n Marlow's imagination as "bedecked with powerless charms, stretching her brown arms over the g l i t t e r of the i n f e r n a l stream, the stream of darkness" (HD78). 1 1 0 T n e d e f i n i t i o n of myth" which I am using i s that of T h r a l l and Hibbard i n A Handbook to Li t e r a t u r e (New York, I960), revised by C. Hugh Holman for the Odyssey Press: "Myth: Anonymous s t o r i e s having t h e i r roots i n the prim-i t i v e f o l k - b e l i e f s of races or nations and presenting super-natural episodes as a means of i n t e r p r e t i n g natural events i n an e f f o r t to make concrete and p a r t i c u l a r a s p e c i a l per-ception of man or a cosmic view. Myths d i f f e r from LEGENDS i n that they have l e s s of h i s t o r i c a l background and more of the supernatural." Insofar as the Gothic moves away from the h i s t o r i c a l romance, i t seems to me to move from legend towards myth. LIST OF WORKS CONSULTED A l l e n , Walter. The English Novel: A Short C r i t i c a l History. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books Ltd., 1965. Andreas, Osborne. Joseph Conrad: A Study i n Non-Conformity. New York: Philosophical Library, 1959. Arvin, Newton. American Pantheon. New York: D e l l Publish-ing Co., Inc., 1967. . Herman M e l v i l l e . New York: Viking Compass Books, 1957. Baines, Jocelyn. Joseph Conrad: A C r i t i c a l Biography. New York: McGraw-Hill, I960. Bantock, G. H. "The Two 'Moralities' of Joseph Conrad." Essavs i n C r i t i c i s m . I l l ( A p r i l 1953), 125-141. Bate, Walter Jackson. From C l a s s i c to Romantic: Premises of  Taste i n Eighteenth-Century England. New York: Harper and Row, Publishers, 1961. 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