H.G. Wells reviews

Amory threw his coat and hat on the floor, loosened his collar, and took a Wells novel at random from the shelf. ‘Wells is sane,’ he thought…
(young Amory Blaine in This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, page 113)

1890s

1895 The Time Machine – the unnamed inventor and time traveller tells his dinner party guests the story of his adventure among the Eloi and the Morlocks in the year 802,701

1896 The Island of Doctor Moreau – Edward Prendick is stranded on a remote island where he discovers that the ‘owner’, Dr Gustave Moreau, is experimentally creating human-animal hybrids

1897 The Invisible Man – an embittered young scientist, Griffin, makes himself invisible, starting with comic capers in a Sussex village, and ending with demented murders

1898 The War of the Worlds – the Martians invade, landing in Surrey and advancing on London, destroying everything with their Heat Rays and Black Smoke, a gripping account told by a terrified survivor

1899 When The Sleeper Wakes – Graham awakes in the year 2100 to find himself at the centre of a revolution to overthrow the repressive society of the future

1899 A Story of the Days To Come – set in the same London of the future described in The Sleeper Wakes, Denton and Elizabeth fall in love but descend into poverty and so experience life as serfs in the Underground city run by the sinister Labour Corps

1900s

1900 Love and Mr Lewisham – how the promising working class student Lewisham goes off the rails and ruins his life by falling in love with the uneducated pretty young assistant of a fraudulent ‘medium’, ending with them living in a poky flat and she has a baby

1901 The First Men in the Moon – Mr Bedford and Mr Cavor use the invention of ‘Cavorite’ to fly to the moon and discover the underground civilisation of the Selenites who inhabit it

1904 The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth – two scientists invent a compound which makes plants, animals and humans grow to giant size, leading to a giants’ rebellion against the ‘little people’

1905 Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul – long, laboured account of boyhood, teens and twenties of the dim protagonist, Arthur Kipps, who escapes from apprenticeship in a soul-destroying haberdasher shop when he inherits a fortune, only to find himself forced to choose between two lovers, his uneducated childhood sweetheart or his ambitious, arty, wood-carving teacher

1906 In the Days of the Comet – a passing comet trails gasses through earth’s atmosphere which bring about ‘the Great Change’, inaugurating an era of wisdom and fairness, as told by narrator Willie Leadford

1908 The War in the Air – Bert Smallways, a bicycle-repairman from Bun Hill in Kent, manages by accident to be an eye-witness to the outbreak of the war in the air which brings Western civilisation to an end

1909 Tono-Bungay – George Ponderevo’s long account of his boyhood then rise to fortune on the coat tails of his fraudulent huckster uncle Edward, packed with negative analyses of contemporary England and upsetting descriptions of his unhappy marriage and love affairs

1909 Ann Veronica – sympathetic portrait of a young woman rebelling against her conventional father and trying to make her way in London who falls into the clutches of a predatory blackmailer before – disappointingly – falling in love with an intelligent he-man who elopes with her to the continent

1910s

1910 The History of Mr Polly – the funniest of the social comedies, following the mishaps of his cheerful protagonist, Alfred Polly, who, characteristically, marries the wrong woman, endures increasing misery trying to make a go of a small-town haberdashery, until he breaks free and finds happiness with the jolly landlady of a country pub

1911 The New Machiavelli – supposedly a novel about contemporary politics which, in reality, is another defence of free love, a long justification by politician Richard Remington of his decision to abandon his wife and political career in order to run off to the Continent with young graduate Isabel Oliver (transparently based on Wells’s own elopement with the young author Amber Reeves)

1914 The World Set Free – A history of the future in which the devastation of an atomic war leads to the creation of a World Government, told via the stories of a number of characters who are central to events

About Wells

1920s – Selected Essays by Virginia Woolf – 1. Reading and Writing (1) – Virginia Woolf strongly criticised Wells as one of the Edwardian ‘materialists’ who she was reacting against, three famous essays gathered in this selection, namely Modern Fiction (1919), Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown (1923) and Character in Fiction (1924).

1932 – Stamboul Train by Graham Greene where Wells is satirised in the character of Quin Savory, a popular, middle-brow novelist who is depicted as a ‘populist vulgarian’.

1932 – Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, who in letters and notes explained that his dystopia was to some extent a satirical rejection of Wells’s optimistic utopias

1982 The Culminating Ape by Peter Kemp – fascinating, if rather dogged, examination of recurring themes and images in Wells’s writing

2011 A Man of Parts by David Lodge – novel about Wells in old age during the Second World War looking back over his career, focusing mainly on his numerous affairs ,with (as in all Lodge) lots of graphic sex

The Edwardians by Roy Hattersley (2004)

Executive summary

Half-way through this hefty 600-page popular history, author Roy Hattersley gives a handy little summary of the era under discussion. Most historians agree that:

  • ‘the Edwardian period’ stretches from the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 to the outbreak of the First World War in 1914
  • it was named and typified by its obese jolly king, a sociable hunting, shooting and cigar-smoking man known for his numerous affairs and mistresses, ‘Edward the Caresser’ as Henry James nicknamed him
  • its dominant political figures were:
    • Arthur Balfour (Conservative Prime Minister 1902 to 1905)
    • Herbert Asquith (Liberal Prime Minister 1908 to 1916)
    • young radical firebrand David Lloyd George (driving force behind the People’s Budget, the Parliament Act and the National Insurance Act which laid the foundations for the welfare state)
    • Winston Churchill was on his way up
    • while Joe Chamberlain, associated with jingoism, the Boer War and protectionism (‘imperial preference’), was on the way out
  • it was a decade troubled by explosive social issues such as women’s suffrage, Irish independence, trade union rights and the arrival of the Labour Party as a political force, destined to supersede the Liberals after the war
  • society was transformed by scientific and technological inventions, on the theoretical level the discover of atomic and subatomic particles and Einstein’s theory of relativity, on the technology level, the rise of the motor car, the telephone and wireless, and the first manned airplane flights

There you have it, in a snapshot.

Dating the Edwardian era

Strictly speaking the Edwardian period refers to the reign of King Edward VII, king from the day his mother, Queen Victoria, died (22 January 1901) to the day he passed away (6 May 1910) to be replaced by his son, King George V (reigned 6 May 1910 to 20 January 1936).

However, like pretty much all historians of the period Hattersley stretches the definition of ‘Edwardian’ forwards to include the four years leading up to the Great War (commenced August 1914). And also, because he feels obliged to explain the origins and course of the Boer War (11 October 1899 to 31 May 1902), which was still ongoing when Edward came to the throne and which requires a description of the Jameson Raid (December 1895), Hattersley at various points goes back before his theoretical starting date to explain the deeper origins of this or that issue.

In other words, the dating is quite fluid, not only when it comes to politics but to social history as well, Hattersley reaching, in his chapter on poverty, back to the many reports on the subject published during the 1890s (for example, Charles Booth’s Life and Labour of the People of London 1889 to 1903); or going back to early roots of the suffragette movement which can said to have started in the 1880s; or of the Labour movement, which can be dated all the way back to Henry Hyndman founding Britain’s first left-wing political party, the Democratic Federation, in 1881; or, regarding the Irish Question, having to dig back into the 1880s to describe the secession of the Liberal Unionists who disagreed with Gladstone’s ill-fated policy of Home Rule for Ireland. And so on.

Subverting a straw man

On the cover, on the back, in the blurb and repeatedly within the text, Hattersley and his publishers say this book tackles and refutes the notion that Edwardian England was one long summer of boaters, bathers and village pubs, attacking the notion that the period ‘is often seen as a golden sunlit afternoon, personified by its genial and self-indulgent king’, before the Armageddon of the First World War.

The trouble is that this is what absolutely every book about the Edwardian era claims to do, using the same straw man to assert its novelty and originality. In fact not just histories but anyone who’s read the introduction to novels by H.G. Wells or Arnold Bennett or E.M. Foster reads the same ‘golden summer’ straw man being knocked down in the same way as the author sets out to correct our misconceptions to tell us that the period 1901 to 1914 was in fact crammed with scientific, technological and consumer product innovations and packed with fraught social and political issues, some of which I’ve listed above. It’s the standard trope invoked by all historians of the period.

The book announces its tone of superior gossip with a gorgeous description of Queen Victoria’s funeral (Saturday, 2 February 1901) and then a gossipy portrait of King Edward, his biography, personality and the courtiers and advisers who surrounded him. Initially, I thought maybe the whole thing was going to be a gossipy survey of Edwardian people. It was only on reading further that I realised that each of the 20 chapters, despite their vague and sometimes misleading titles (I’ve added clearer indications of their subject matter in brackets), is devoted to a specific social and political issue and examines each one in some detail.

It’s a romp, it’s a guilty pleasure, it’s good popular history packed to the gills with fascinating factoids – but still, coming to this book from the works of professional historians like Richard Shannon or Eric Hobsbawm is like falling off a cliff in terms of intellectual substance, historical authority and serious analysis.

1. A Cloud Across The Sun (Victoria’s funeral)

Detailed description of the immense and impressive procession of the body of Queen Victoria through London en route to her final resting place in Windsor. The total number of soldiers involved in taking part in or policing the procession was larger than the British Expeditionary Force sent to France at the start of the Great War. Most people were stunned for nobody knew any other monarch than Victoria who had reigned for 63 years. Generations had been brought up to associate the very word ‘Victorian’ with Britain’s world leading position. Her death triggered much soul searching. Educated commentators were uneasily aware that Britain was slipping. America and Germany were overtaking her in terms of industrial output (p.67, 467) and Germany’s Navy Law of 1898 set it on a course to match or exceed the Royal Navy’s firepower (p.15). Imperial anxiety as the old era ended.

2. The Spirit of the Age (Edward’s character)

Edward was 60 when he came to the throne and was (surprisingly) badly prepared for the job. Successive prime ministers (Gladstone, Disraeli) tried to suggest useful jobs and opinions where he could get a feel for the nation he was set to rule but either Victoria or the Prince himself vetoed them.

He had a state income of £100,000. The whole country knew about Edward’s louche reputation. He had been named in a number of scandalous court cases and was well known to enjoy gambling, the horses, yachting and the high life. He was addicted to baccarat. The serious and high-minded (the kind of people who leave written texts such as sermons, newspaper articles, writers’ diaries etc) deplored his character and worried about the moral falling off which his rule would bring. The Marlborough House set.

But the thing about the written records is they tend to preserve the opinions of the worthy, high-minded, literate and concerned and ignore or neglect the opinions of the vast mass of the population who left few if any records. And in this respect, I think a key thing to grasp about the English is that they welcomed Charles II with open arms, and that well-known womaniser, gambler, horse and yacht-racing addict has gone down as arguably the most popular British king ever. So, away from the hand-wringing editorials, there might have been a great portion of the fun-loving proletariat who admired a merry monarch. (Compare and contrast the ongoing popularity of Boris Johnson – inexplicable to liberals and worthy Tories – an adulterer, drinker and shambling liar, but still admired by many for being a bloke you could go down the pub and have a laugh with).

And indeed Hattersley goes on to say that Edward’s much higher profile than his reclusive mother – photos in the press and reports of him opening Parliament or at racing meetings or holidaying in the South of France – associated him with the new taste for leisure and relaxation. Edward epitomised a new age of leisure.

Edward was very fat due to overeating. His chest and waist measured 48 inches. Hattersley gives mind boggling details of a typical royal meal, which usually had at least 14 courses. His coronation had to be postponed to a sudden flaring up of appendicitis and the consequent operation and was eventually held on 9 August 1902.

Edward hated to be alone and was an insatiable socialiser. He was liable to descend on the grand country houses of the aristocracy with little warning, an event which entailed huge disruption. After a string of extra-marital liaisons in 1892 he met Alice Keppel, the daughter of an admiral, and she became his official mistress for the rest of his life.

He was a menace in foreign affairs, acting tactlessly with the touchy Kaiser, but was personally involved in the great diplomatic triumph of his reign, the Entente Cordiale with France, which he did a lot to cement by a personal visit to Paris during which he undertook a lot of engagements with great enthusiasm and was eventually cheered by the French crowds.

Edward revived the state opening of Parliament in all its meretricious pomp and hollow ceremonial, which had been allowed to lapse by his reclusive mother, and which continues to this day, televised to the simpering tones of royal commentators.

3. The Powers Behind the Throne (Edward’s advisers)

When Edward came to the throne Britain was an imperial oligarchy, ruled by groups of aristocratic or mercantile families. Hattersley gives an entertaining tour of the political class, starting with the lingering influence of the Liberal ‘Grand Old Man’ Gladstone who had died in 1898, and the Conservative Lord Salisbury, Prime Minister when Edward acceded, who resigned a year later in July 1902, to be succeeded by his nephew, Arthur Balfour.

The Edwardian Prime Ministers

  • Lord Salisbury (Conservative) 1895 to 1902
  • Arthur James Balfour (Conservative) 1902 to 1905
  • Henry Campbell-Bannerman (Liberal) 1905 to 1908
  • Herbert Henry Asquith (Liberal) 1908 to 1916

(See section on ‘Politicians’, below.) This fusty world of faineant plutocrats was to be shaken up by the two firebrands, Winston Churchill and David Lloyd George.

The chapter morphs into a consideration of Edward’s closest personal advisers, being: Arthur Hardinge, Francis Knollys, Reginald Brett, military adviser Admiral Fisher.

4. The Condition of England

Named after the bestselling analysis of British society published in 1909 by Liberal politician and cabinet minister Charles Masterman.

Masterman copied the method of Matthew Arnold’s Victorian tract, ‘Culture and Anarchy’, by assigning the classes and groups of people in Edwardian England new generic names:

  • the Conquerors (the old aristocracy)
  • the Suburbans (the middle middle-class)
  • the Multitude (the masses)

In the event Hattersley doesn’t dwell on Masterman’s analysis but uses it as a jumping off point for statistics about Britain’s economic decline, her stalling industrial growth, the shrinking of productive agriculture, the reliance on the informal economics of empire. He then goes on to summarise a bevy of reports and surveys which came out during the decade giving hard evidence of the dire poverty of about half the population, especially agricultural workers (‘Social surveys proliferated in Edwardian Britain’, p.74).

Lots of detail about the pay and wages of workers in different sectors, in different parts of the country with special attention to women.

5. Unfinished Business (the Boer War)

Hattersley’s account of the Boer War, with as much or more about its impact on domestic politics i.e. its fractious impact on an already split Liberal Party (because some Liberals were imperialists and some were anti-imperial Radicals). Milner’s miscalculation in thinking the Boers could be intimidated into submitting to Britain. The reasonableness of Paul Kruger’s position in not wanting his small culturally homogeneous country swamped by outsiders who, if given the vote, would support Britain’s policies. The chaotic conduct of the war. The concentration camp policy: in the 13 months between January 1901 and February 1902, to Britain’s eternal shame, 20,000 internees died, mostly women and children. Lloyd George was a rare voice fiercely denouncing the war, while the imperialist Liberals set up something called the Liberal Imperial Council.

6. A Preference for Empire (the tariff campaign)

‘Victory’ in the Boer War cost the British Exchequer some £222 million. This money had to be recouped. Of all UK politicians Joseph Chamberlain was most associated with the war, ‘Joe’s War’. Massively popular after the victory, he now launched a campaign for imperial protectionism i.e. to create a free trade zone between Britain and the white dominions (Canada, Australia, New Zealand, post-Boer War South Africa) and impose tariffs on imports from all other countries.

Hattersley gives his interpretation of the wild enthusiasm which greeted Joe’s campaign: it was widely seen as a cure for what an increasing number of people were realising was Britain’s industrial eclipse.

Manufacture was in decline. The Industrial Revolution had, in reality, ended more than half a century earlier. The consequences of failure to innovate and invest were just working their way through into the economy. Declining industries longed to be protected by a tariff. (p.109)

In 1903 Chamberlain made a big speech for ‘imperial preference’ which was seen as a proclamation that ‘the British Empire must stand together against the world’ (p.109). The government of the day was Conservative, led by Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, but it only had a majority because of its coalition with the Liberal Unionist defectors from the Liberal party. Now the core principle of old school liberalism was the free trade which had made Britain great in the mid-Victorian period.

In fact Hattersley neglects the detail and implications of protectionism to focus on giving an intricate and quite confusing account of the problems Balfour faced keeping his cabinet and his government together, which boiled down to the timing and way of announcing the resignation of various dissidents. Chamberlain resigned because protectionism wasn’t being implemented fast enough but Tory free traders also resigned in opposition to the policy and detestation of the former Liberal Chamberlain’s influence. Balfour dealt with the ongoing crisis with silky subtlety from 1902 to 1905 and then resigned government at the end of 1905. A general election was held in January 1906 and the Liberals stormed home in a landslide. The Liberals were, in fact, deeply divided over various issues, centrally the question of Irish Home Rule, but managed to unite around their anti-protectionism and ran a campaign highlighting the fact that tariffs would raise the cost of food.

Hattersley skimps on this, a key fact brought out in other accounts I’ve read. Instead he is obsessed with the minutiae of what Balfour promised the Duke of Devonshire who upset a trio of colleagues by not resigning alongside them, with details of meetings and dinners and promises and pledges among the Tory elite. No doubt that’s how politics actually works, but this aspect of Hattersley’s account is for politics addicts.

7. Uniting the Nation (social reforms)

Having painted in the background, this is the chapter in which Hattersley gets round to explaining the changes which he’s been claiming were so central to the Edwardian decade. At their core is one thing, a revolution in the political culture of the nation. Victoria’s entire reign was dominated by a laisser-faire philosophy of free trade and unfettered competition and the devil take the hindmost. Classical liberalism thought the state ought to be small and had just two duties, to uphold the law at home and protect from foreign enemies. When it came to the vast majority of the British population which were either poor or very poor or utterly destitute, the almost universal assumption was that their poverty was their own responsibility. Victorian moralists blamed the plight of the poor on their own indigence, immorality, laziness and so on. The only recourse for the poor and unemployed was the workhouse which, since the Poor Law of 1832, was purposely designed to be as inhumane as possible in order to act as a deterrent, and a spur to the indigent poor to try harder.

During the Edwardian decade this political philosophy underwent a swift and amazing revolution. A series of reports by charities and investigators during the 1890s revealed depths of poverty and squalor in all Britain’s cities but also in the countryside that had never been appreciated before. These findings were incorporated into a series of royal commissions which in turn led to a flurry of acts which fundamentally altered the attitude of the state to the poor from judgemental vengeance to support and responsibility.

  • 1902 registration of midwives
  • 1906 Education Act stipulating the supply of school meals
  • a system of medical inspection of schools
  • 1907 borstals were established for young offenders
  • 1908 act made neglect a criminal offence for the first time

Why? The pop history answer is that the Boer War revealed the shocking health of the stunted wretches conscripted from Britain’s slums. Also, the influence of the growing number of Labour MPs, in the 1906 election Labour won 53 seats.

But what really comes over in this chapter is that we were copying Germany which was already decades ahead of us. This was especially true in the area of supporting the unemployed, creating a national insurance tax to pay the unemployed a minimum dole, and creating labour exchanges to help people back into work. Conservatives were persuaded of these lefty measures because they improved the efficiency of the economy as a whole. And far from being radical experiments, Britain copied the tried and tested methods which were already propelling Germany’s economy ahead of ours on every measure. To compete against its rivals, Britain needed a better educated, better fed workforce that wasn’t allowed to rot and lose its skills when laid off by capitalism’s regular slumps. Hence the unemployed workmen’s act and powers to set up labour exchanges (p.130).

It’s startling to learn that a young William Beveridge went to study Germany’s welfare provision in 1905 and was so impressed by what he saw that he brought back to Britain a version of the Bismarckian system which was to form the basis of the hugely influential report published during the war and which, famously, formed the basis of the Welfare State created by the Labour government under Clement Attlee (p.465).

Some of the child and family laws were passed under the Conservatives before 1905, but the working men’s legislation was driven forward by Winston Churchill during his so-called New Liberal phase. Churchill drove forward prison reform, a bill improving conditions in coal mines, a bill limiting the number of hours people could work in shops,

8. Who Shall Rule?

The clash between the old ruling class and the new liberals came to a head in the great constitutional crisis triggered by Lloyd George’s 1909 budget which imposed new taxes on the rich in order to fund old age pensions and welfare policies and which the House of Lords, dominated by rich landowners, promptly rejected. The Liberal government led by Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, First Earl of Oxford, threatened to flood with Lords with Liberal peers while radical firebrand David Lloyd George toured the country giving rabble rousing speeches, backed up by Winston Churchill, still in his fierce new Liberal phase.

Hattersley gives a fairly detailed account of the political machinations, in the middle of which King Edward died (6 May 1910) and was replaced by his son, George V. The Liberals proceeded to win two general elections (in January and December 1910) (admittedly with Labour and Irish Nationalist support) which persuaded the new sovereign, very reluctantly, to accede to Asquith’s threat, which in turn led the Lords to back down and pass Lloyd George’s Budget and the National Insurance Bill.

Hattersley delivers one of those pithy summaries which I remember my history teachers at school used to extract and turn into an essay question, namely: Victoria handed over to her successor the poisoned chalice of the Boer War, and Edward VII handed over to his successor the Peers-versus-the-People crisis.

9. Ourselves Alone (Irish Home Rule)

After decades of frustration among Irish nationalists, the question of Irish Home Rule returned to the agenda in Westminster because, in the 1910 general election called by the Liberal Party to prove their mandate for Lloyd George’s inflammatory budget of 1909, Conservatives and Liberals both won about 270 seats and so the balance of power was held by the Irish Nationalists with their 82 MPs.

It took the sclerotic process of Whitehall to get it together, but the 1912 Home Rule Bill was the price the British Liberals paid the Irish Nationalists for their support in getting the Budget and the act to reform the House of Lords through (p.187).

Hattersley goes back to recap the background. After the fall of its charismatic leader Charles Stewart Parnell 1890, named in a divorce case as an adulterer, the struggle for Irish independence went into abeyance.

‘The era of constitutional possibilities for Irish nationality ended on the day that Charles Stewart Parnell died.’ (Arthur Griffith, quoted on page 182)

Hattersley namechecks the key players and the numerous organisations set up to campaign for home rule, including Michael Davitt and Arthur Griffith (founder of Sinn Fein and editor of The United Irishman), John MacBride and James Connolly, Roger Casement (revealer of the horrors of Belgium’s colony in the Congo and later gun-runner for the IRA), James Larkin (leader of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union), John Redmond (leader of the Nationalist Party in Parliament), Michael Collins, along with the upper class women, Maud Gonne and Constance Gore-Booth, memorialised by the great poet W.B. Yeats.

Ireland was wretchedly badly run by the British, with rural and urban poverty even worse than on the mainland. The nationalist cause was boosted by Britain’s appalling handling of the Boer War, in which another small people was bullied and butchered by an overweening empire.

I read a lot of this stuff as an undergraduate as background to Yeats’s poetry, and periodically over the following years. Rereading it all in detail, I was struck not by the Irish fight for independence which, in a sense, that is simple and logical, like any other colonial struggle against imperial masters. What always impresses me is the strength of the opposing force, the rise of Unionism in Ulster, led by the brilliant and charismatic lawyer, Sir Edward Carson, the hundreds of thousands of northern Protestants who signed petitions, the 100,000 men who joined the proto Ulster army, the mass smuggling in of guns and ammunition, and the acquiescence of senior officers in the British Army in what Churchill bluntly called treason i.e. actions against the express wish of the elected British government and the King (p.188 ff.).

Hattersley shows how the partition of Ireland between an Irish nationalist south and west and a different entity in the Protestant north was originally one of many solutions proposed in the 1910s but slowly became the most favoured, how it was defined in different ways by different factions among the Unionists but within a few years had gained traction as the least bad option.

10. Votes for Women!

Female England awoke during the Edwardian era. (p.81)

Like the Ireland chapter this one goes back a few decades to background events, for example when Millicent Fawcett founded the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies in 1887. But the story comes to life when Hattersley gives us biographies of the leading campaigner Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel (nicknamed by some papers ‘the Queen of the Mob’).

I knew the suffragettes were violent hooligans who used terrorist techniques (for example, sending letter bombs to leading politicians, p.220) but Hattersley’s account brings out how wilfully violent and destructive they were. Not only throwing bricks and tiles at the Prime Minister and other cabinet members, smashing their windows, vandalising their cars or trying to burn their houses down, slashing paintings in galleries, setting fire to postboxes, rampaging along Oxford Street and Regent Street smashing every shop window with hammers (p.219), spitting at and slapping policemen (p.207), but, when it was discovered some were practicing shooting, it was feared there would be active assassination attempts a la JFK (p.216). They also damaged quite a few works of art.

It was interesting to learn how many of them were lesbians or lived in unorthodox relationships (p.217). It is typical of Hattersley’s enjoyably gossipy approach to learn that the redoubtable Edwardian composer, Ethel Smyth (1858 to 1944), not only went to prison (2 months in Holloway) for smashing the Colonial Secretary’s windows, not only wrote the stirring suffragette anthem, ‘The March of the Women’, but fell passionately in love with (the married) Emmeline P, writing: ‘I knew that before long I would be her slave’ (p.217).

Did you know it was the Daily Mail which coined the word ‘suffragette’ as a term of mockery and abuse but which the activists then adopted with pride and we have used ever since? (p.209)

But the biggest thing that struck me was the reason many Liberal and Labour politicians opposed women’s suffrage wasn’t the principle of the thing, which most approved of – it was fear of its practical consequences.

It had taken decades of fraught negotiation for the existing male electorate to come into being and it still excluded some 5 million men from the vote (always forgotten in this context). Some Labour and Liberals were against women’s suffrage because they knew that the vote would probably, at least at first, only be extended to better-off women who would promptly vote Conservative.

In other words, giving middle-class women the vote (the most feasible strategy) risked destroying radical and progressive politics in Britain for a generation (p.218). It was a cogent and powerful argument, even if making it earned you a slap in the face from Christabel Pankhurst.

In 1912 and ’13 and ’14 bills were drafted to extend the franchise, to which greater or lesser measures of female suffrage were added, and which variously passed or failed in the Commons or in Committee stage but everyone accepted that suffrage was going to happen sooner or later. And then the Great War broke out, putting any further development on the women question – as with Irish independence – on hold but making some sort of solution inevitable once the fighting had finished.

In fact it was before the war ended (in November 1918) that, in January 1918, the Representation of the People Act was passed, giving the vote to men aged over 21, whether or not they owned property, and to women aged over 30 who occupied land or premises with a rateable value above £5, or whose husbands did, thus extending the local government franchise to include women aged over 21 on the same terms as men. As a result of the Act, the male electorate was extended by 5.2 million to 12.9 million and the female electorate went from 0 to 8.5 million, or 2 in 5 adult women.

(It was not until the Representation of the People (Equal Franchise) Act 1928 that women gained full electoral equality with men, the act giving the vote to all women aged over 21, regardless of any property qualification, adding another five million women to the electorate.)

Since 1928 there have been 24 general elections, of which Labour have won 10. From the little research I’ve done, until recently women voters on the whole voted Conservative although that has changed recently (see article on gender divide in general election voting).

11. United We Stand (the trade unions)

The complicated history of trade unions in the Edwardian era. The Taff Vale train dispute case of 1901 recognised trade unions as legal entities but this was the opposite of a Good Thing for it meant that employers could now take trade unions to court if it could be proved that strikes or picketing had adversely affected their business. And not just claim compensation from union funds but sue individual union officials into the bargain (pp.222 to 224).

Hattersley explains that the Trade Union Congress and most unions had regarded politics as peripheral to their core activities of protecting members and campaigning for better pay and conditions, But the potentially crippling implications of the Taff Vale case made them all realise they needed representation in Parliament to defend their interests.

So this chapter traces the earliest history of the Independent Labour Party (founded 1893), the Labour Representation Committee (founded 1900) and its early luminaries, particularly the two key figures of Keir Hardie and Ramsay MacDonald. This leads up to the foundation of the Labour Party proper in 1906, which broke through in that year’s January general election to win 29 seats on 4.8% of the vote (p.234).

Of course Hattersley’s lifelong involvement with the Labour Party, most notably as deputy leader under Neil Kinnock from 1983 to 1992, gives him unprecedented insight into Labour’s traditions and contemporary working. As such it is more than ordinarily interesting when he writes that the party – ‘then, as now, despised theory’, ‘more interested in practice than theory’ – has always been a very soft-left party with little or no theoretical underpinning (p.237).

In fact, the book is sprinkled with asides which sound like the wisdom of practical experience in the field, wry familiarity with the quirks and foibles of Parliamentary politics:

  • [Balfour] took refuge in the expedient employed by uncertain prime ministers down the ages… (p.131)
  • The TUC, always happy to accept half a loaf, was delighted… (p.152)
  • It was a tactic the Tory party was to employ time and time again in an attempt to obstruct the work of elected governments. (p.158)
  • General elections are rarely fought on issues of the parties’ choice… (p.167)
  • Speakers’ judgements on such matters are rarely challenged with success… (p.220)
  • Like so many private members bills it was then buried at the Committee stage and forgotten. (p.231)
  • The new Labour members, euphoric as new members always are… (p.234)
  • The Select Committee Inquiry endorsed the status quo as Select Committee Inquiries often do. (p.282)
  • Select Committees of the House of Commons usually contain one or two Members whose enthusiasm outruns their discretion. (p.457)

Back to the Labour party, it was somehow symbolic that the party’s first leader and Moses, the illegitimate, poorly educated Scotsman, Keir Hardie, made powerful speeches about injustice but knew nothing about economics and had very few practical policies for bringing about the ideal world he depicted in his rousing speeches. Plus ça change…

The detailed series of legal cases which hampered then liberated the Edwardian trade unions, with the explanation of Liberal party support, the advent of the new Labour Party MPs, and the trend for the sometimes very small unions to amalgamate into huge mega-unions based on a specific trade (mining, railwaymen etc) all give a strong sense of a social movement emerging from legal, political and financial weakness, to staking its claim to become a major component of British domestic history for the rest of the century.

12. Useful Members of the Community (education)

It was quite an eye-opener to learn that the central issue in trying to improve education in this country, from 1870s till the 1900s, was religion. To be precise, the majority of schools were run by the Church of England so when any government tried to set up a state-run, nationwide system of primary schools, it had to address two massive problems: 1) the Church of England’s powerful concerns that reforms would mean it losing its influence over the nation’s youth; and 2) the vehement opposition of non-conformists, who strongly objected to Anglican schools being subsidised by their local taxes.

Some non-conformists refused to pay their local taxes under the new system introduced in 1902 and were prepared to go to prison to defend the principle. In fact, the provisions for local authority funding of schools antagonised the large non-conformist community so much that this issue alone goes a long way to explaining why the Tories, who’d brought the Act in, were slaughtered in the 1906 election.

Everyone knew that Britain needed to bring its education system up to the standards of Germany (many British educationists had toured Germany and had realised the German system was way better than ours – just like their industries, businesses, health and welfare systems were streets ahead of ours, p.465). This chapter is a good example of the yawning gulf between political theory and practice; of the way a really simple aim and intention which most of the political class agreed on, could end up requiring endless, torturous negotiations, drafts and redrafts, defeats in the House of Commons and Lords, and so on, before a half-workable compromise finally gets passed.

Just working through the battle of vested interests and the hangover of historic structures and organisations in this one area, education, helps you understand why so many aspects of Britain’s social and economic structure are so compromised, messy, half-cocked and inefficient.

It was also the era when the Workers Education Association was founded (1908), the northern universities received their charters (Birmingham 1900, Manchester and Liverpool 1903, Leeds 1904, Sheffield 1905).

In a parallel stream, the wildly successful Boy Scout movement was founded by General Robert Baden-Powell, hero of the siege of Mafeking, the first camp being on Brownsea Island in 1907. One of the small group of men who founded a movement which they lived to see sweep the world.

13. Ideas Enter the Drawing Room (theatre)

Drawing room drama replaced by theatre of ideas, copying abroad (as usual), in this case Ibsen, and our own provocateur George Bernard Shaw (‘the most famous iconoclast and atheist of his age’, p.370). But first Hattersley conscientiously gives us the owners of London theatres, the price of tickets in London and the provinces, the lives of the great actor managers (Irving) and leading ladies (Ellen Terry, Mrs Patrick Campbell), the quality of middle-brown ‘respectable’ drawing room drama, the advent of musical comedy epitomised by the success of The Merry Widow.

And then the fight against the state censor of plays, the Lord Chamberlain, led by John Galsworthy who, according to Wikipedia:

became known for plays with a social message, reflecting, among other themes, the struggle of workers against exploitation, the use of solitary confinement in prisons, the repression of women, jingoism and the politics and morality of war.

With mention of the plays of Harley Granville-Barker, The Voysey Inheritance and Waste. Throw in the works of George Bernard Shaw and that’s quite a lot of plays about contemporary issues.

But the decade contained the seeds of change. The 1900s saw the first displays of moving pictures and by 1910 buildings had opened devoted to the showing of moving pictures, much more immediate and much cheaper than even the cheapest musical comedy and variety.

14. Literature Comes Home (Edwardian literature)

With the death of Aubrey Beardsley and the imprisonment of Oscar Wilde the Aesthetic Movement petered out. Hattersley quotes Yeats, pre-eminent poet of the Celtic Twilight and then Irish nationalist movement, remarking that around 1900 ‘Everyone got down off their stilts’. The trouble with overviews of the literature by historians or politicians is that they are not professional literary experts, and so they tend to make the obvious points in the obvious ways, writing the same opinions as a thousand other ‘histories of literature’. So: with the end of the Boer War Kipling moved to Britain, settled in Sussex and radically changed his subject matter from tales of the dry and dusty hills of India to stories about England, Puck of Pook’s Hill and the like. The Poet Laureate Alfred Austin and Sir Henry Newbolt supplied a continuation of Kiplingesque patriotic poems but without the subtlety.

If you’re looking for a common thread among the poets it is probably different flavours of patriotism, from Newbolt at the jingo end, through Robert Bridges, GK Chesterton, young Rupert Brooke, and then a flotilla of minor figures, each with one or two anthology poems – Walter de la Mare, John Masefield, poets who would be gathered together in the Georgian anthologies of 1912 and subsequent years.

Hattersley makes the dubiously journalistic claim that one ‘great’ novel was published each year:

1900 – The Way of All Flesh by Butler, Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad

1901 – Kim by Rudyard Kipling

1902 – The Wings of the Dove by Henry James

1903 – The Ambassadors by Henry James

1904 – The Golden Bowl by Henry James, Nostromo by Joseph Conrad

1905 – Where Angels Fear to Tread by EM Foster, Kipps by H.G. Wells

1906 – The Man of Property by John Galsworthy

1907 – The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad

1908 – The Old Wives Tale by Arnold Bennett, A Room with a View by E.M. Foster

1909 – Tono-Bungay and Ann Veronica by H.G. Wells

1910 – Howard’s End by EM Foster, The History of Mr Polly by H.G. Wells, Clayhanger by Arnold Bennett

The New Woman was a recurring theme in fiction and a flurry of woman writers, admittedly popular writers, such as Maria Corelli, Baroness Orczy, Ethel M Dell, Elinor Glyn, children’s writers Frances Hodgson Burnett, E. Nesbit and Beatrix Potter.

What emerges from Hattersley’s brisk review is a sense of an emerging, educated, intelligent middle class, of the rise and rise of the New Woman, of the lives of working people described with a new seriousness, in Wells and Bennett up to a point, but with sensitivity and insight of genius in the novels of DH Lawrence who emerged just at the end of the period (Sons and Lovers, 1913).

15. The End of Innocence (sport)

With increased leisure time, caused in part by government legislation limiting working hours, went the growth of sport: football, cricket, tennis, athletics, rugby league and union, were all put on a more professional basis, paid, and new stadiums and halls built to accommodate growing crowds. Sport became business. London hosted the 1908 Olympic games. The conflict between gentlemen and players, based on snobbery and a wish to keep the classes distinct i.e. gentlemen unsullied by commerce. The first celebrity sportsmen such as Bob Crompton of Blackburn Rovers and W.G. Grace. The aim of gentlemen, in sport as in every other aspect of life, was to demonstrate ‘effortless superiority’. Contemporary commentary is littered with words like ‘chivalry’ and ‘honour’, words associated with the medieval ruling class. The MCC and other sporting bodies, like the House of Lords, could be relied on to resist the encroachment of commercialisation i.e. working class players being paid, for as long as possible.

Meanwhile in other nations, such as America, sportsmen specialised in one game and practiced intensively, sometimes with the support of a ‘coach’ (p.323). Or the advent of American jockeys who used a new posture, ‘the forward seat’, to win (p.331). In sport, as in industry and commerce Britain’s addiction to amateurism, hobbled by class war, condemned it to long-term mediocrity.

Horse racing has always relied on gambling. In 1906 the government tried to regulate it. In 1908 the sport established a new definition of ‘thoroughbred’, mainly with a view to excluding the threat from American-bred winners.

Surprisingly, given the general chauvinism, women progressed in two sports, gold and tennis, although these remained robustly middle class (as they are to this day). Popular men’s sports, on the other hand, steadily became more working class, football and rugby union being two examples, and boxing, the longest establishment popular sport.

Hunting, of course, remained the preserve of the aristocratic elite, surrounded by all manner of preposterous traditions, like chivalry ultimately dating back to the Norman conquest and subjugation of Saxon serfs. As a Saxon serf I have all my life cordially despised the aristocrats who subtly or not so subtly have asserted their superiority over me, John Buchan’s Lord Leithen, Siegfried Sassoon in his memoirs. No surprise that the resistance to Asquith and Lloyd George’s People’s Budget in the House of Lords was led by fox-hunting aristocrats like Willoughby de Broke (with his floridly Norman name). They were, and are, the class enemy.

So many of these social aspects remind me of what H.G. Wells in Tono-Bungay calls the Bladesover system, the way English society was structured around the grand houses of the landed aristocracy in the 17th and 18th centuries, with a constellation of professions (lawyers, doctors, bankers and brokers) servicing them, and had provided the social, cultural, mental and even geographic structure of Britain up till his own time, the only change being the stepping of new businessmen or financiers into various places as the actual aristocracy became defunct, but everyone working to keeping these archaic structures of thought and ceremonial in place. ‘The new middle class hunters wanted to conform…’ (p.337)

I was forced to play lots of sports at school: I disliked cricket because of the boredom and snobbery, really disliked rugby because of the sadistic pleasure big boys took in stomping everyone else, quite liked hockey because there was little physical contact and some skill, really liked rowing especially sculling because you could disappear down the river on your own; and in breaks played football on the tarmac playground, often with small tennis-sized balls.

16. Gerontius Awakes (art, architecture, music)

Another portmanteau chapter, which is interesting enough but feels like a dutiful ticking of obvious boxes. In 1901 commenced the redesign of the Mall from the statue of Victoria (1901) to Admiralty Arch (1911).

John Singer Sargent was friends with Monet but eschewed foreign experimentalism and made himself the Reynolds (i.e. the highly paid portrait painter of the rich) of his day. Hattersley quotes the avant-garde art critic Roger Fry describing Sargent as: ‘as gentle as a man as he was striking and undistinguished as an illustrator and non-existent as an artist’ (p.358), one of the few moments which ruffles the stolid flow of Hattersley’s dutiful nods to all the obvious greats.

The great composer of the day was Edward Elgar, condemned for ever to be remembered for his Pomp and Circumstance marches, written 1901 to 1907. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ took music from one of the marches and incorporated words by A. C. Benson in 1902. Notes on Delius, Holst (lots of folk songs, St Paul’s suite 1912), Percy Grainger and the young Vaughan Williams (The Lark Ascending 1914). A little later, in 1916, Hubert Parry would set Jerusalem to music. Celebrations of Englishness comparable to the very English settings of Foster, Wells, Saki, Kipling in Pook’s Hill mode and all those Georgian poets.

Architecture characterised by the Edwardian Baroque. Edwin Lutyens, Giles Gilbert Scott and, in Scotland, Charles Rennie Mackintosh. The influence of Alfred Waterhouse on commissions of large public buildings. The Ritz Hotel. The RAC club in Pall Mall. Royal London House, Finsbury Square. Westminster Cathedral (John F. Bentley).

The garden suburb movement, Ebenezer Howard. Letchworth. Hampstead. the prophets thought it would appeal to all classes but like all high-minded movements it attracted the professional middle classes.

The Camden Town school of art, correlative of Zola’s naturalism. Yuk.

In 1910 Grafton art gallery hosted an exhibition of recent French painting (Gauguin, Matisse) which caused a scandal. The critic Roger Fry could only think to label them all post-impressionists, an unsatisfactory label which has stuck (p.356). It highlighted the philistinism of the ruling class and the sensationalising vulgar sensationalising of the press, led by the Times.

The first Futurist manifesto 1909, the second one 1910. Committed to replicating the machine energy of the age.

17. Would You Believe It? (philosophy and religion)

Summary of G.E. Moore’s Principia Ethica which had such a dynamite impact on the Bloomsbury Group. Hattersley summarises it as claiming that morality is relative, changes according to time and place. This was perceived by the Bloomsburies as a huge liberation from Christian morality which insists that moral values are universal and (incidentally), strict and repressive. Moore gave them a theory which underpinned their already existing practice of passionate friendships and cliques. And non-traditional sexual relations i.e. gays and lesbians and other genders in between. Hattersley tags on a brisk explanation of Bertrand Russell’s work on sets and categories, explaining that both Moore and Russell were anti-Christian. From the heights of academia came an attack on the ideology Oxbridge was invented to guard. Backtracking a bit to The Golden Bough, the pioneering work of anthropology which theorised that all human societies progress from pagan polytheism through monotheism and finally achieve the objective rational thought of science.

The life and extraordinary discoveries of New Zealander Ernest Rutherford i.e. discovering that the atom is not the smallest unit of matter but is itself made up of component parts.

Second half of the chapter is about the Christian churches: the part erection of the Catholic Westminster Cathedral; the divisions in the Church of England between High Church at one end and Modernists seeking to reconcile the creed with all the discoveries of science, at the other; the Methodists and other nonconformists. No mention of Jews, Muslims etc…

18. Hardihood, Endurance and Courage

There were four Polar expeditions during the Edwardian decade. Hattersley describes in detail all four of them: Scott’s first 1902-3, Shackleton’s in 1907-8, Scott’s second in 1910-12, Shackleton’s second 1914.

Scott’s diary and the example of Oates are routinely trotted out as examples of British pluck, but reading any account impresses you more with the bad decisions, bad planning, lack of resources and shambolic amateurishness of the attempt. When you read that some of Scott’s companions questioned the quality of the horses and provisions before they even set sail but decided to defer to their captain and social superiority’s judgement (p.406), you hear the genuine voice of deference to idiots which led Britain to near disaster in the Boer War and to catastrophe in the First World War.

Plus the amazing adventures in Central Asia of Marc Aurel Stein, archaeologist of Buddhism (pages 396 to 397), and Colonel Sir Francis Younghusband’s expedition up from British India to Tibet (394 and 5).

19. Halfpenny Dreadful (newspapers)

Riveting chapter about the explosion of newspapers, magazines and journals at the end of the nineteenth century, and the creation of a particular type of populist paper at the turn of the century, focusing on the career of Alfred Harmsworth, later made 1st Viscount Northcliffe (1865 to 1922), creator of the Daily Mail (in 1896) and the Daily Mirror. His career is set against George Newnes’s creation of Tit-Bits magazine in 1881. Newnes mentored and trained a generation of journalists in what came to be called The New Journalism. Harmsworth was one, another was Cyril Arthur Pearson, who founded the Daily Express in 1900.

Hattersley says there were two types of New Journalism, one which aimed to report politics and the news but in a much more accessible format than the solid wall of prose of The Times; and the other sort which didn’t care about serious news at all and was packed with trivia and celebrities.

How with the outbreak of the Boer War, Harmsworth deliberately made the Daily Mail the newspaper of empire, the jingo paper, taking an attitude of unremitting criticism of the (Conservative) government for its comprehensive mismanagement of the war, thus letting our boys down.

Between 1866 when the Companies Act eased the rules of limited liability and 1914 4,000 newspaper companies were formed in London and the provinces. Between 1900 and 1914 ten evening newspapers tried their luck in London.

I didn’t know the Daily Mirror was set up in 1903 to target women readers, had an all-women staff and a woman editor. It only lasted a year. In the end the chapter is all about Harmsworth and ends with his mounting campaign to warn the government about the dire military and naval threat from Germany. Interestingly, he became obsessed with German interest in the very new technology of flying, which he thought the British Army was ignoring.

20. The Shape of Things To Come (new technologies)

Britain pioneered the canal and the steam railway but was badly behind by the time the two next transport innovations came long, electric trams and motor cars. The Americans and Germans pioneered electric tram cars in the 1850s. It took 50 years for them to appear on British streets. And the Germans, French and Italians were all ahead of us in car design. Where had all the engineers gone? And the investors willing to take a punt?

The 1900 Century Road Race to publicise cars (whose diminished legacy is the annual London to Brighton race). Henry Royce the engineer and Charles Rolls the salesman, a partnership made in heaven. the company went from strength to strength, but Rolls used his share of the profits to invest in airplanes. Lord Northcliffe took up the cause of air flight in The Daily Mail and offered prizes for manned flights across the Channel and from London to Manchester. He was taken for a flight by Orville Wright.

Senior politicians became interested. Louis Bleriot won the prize for crossing the Channel in 1909. Northcliffe arranged a reception at the Savoy and Bleriot’s plane was exhibited at Selfridge’s.

The great race from London to Manchester between plucky Brit Claude Graham-White who, of course, lost to his French rival Louis Paulhan. More competitions followed. Charles Rolls was killed in one (12 July 1910).

Ships: a thorough look at Royal Navy shipbuilding, first the companies and yards around Britain, then the revolutionary introduction of turbine-driven ships in the early 1900s. Commercial liners and the construction of the two huge ships the Mauretania and Lusitania. The Blue Riband competition for crossing the Atlantic fastest. The White Star Line commissions two huge superliners to be named the Olympic and the Titanic. On 14 April 1912 on her maiden voyage the Titanic hit an iceberg in mid-Atlantic and sank, drowning 1,515 people.

The chapter begins to free associate because as it sank, the Titanic sent desperate SOSs out by the newish technology of radio, being picked up by the Carpathia which steamed to the rescue, arriving 80 minutes after Titanic sank and rescuing 700 souls. Impressive technology.

And it leads Hattersley into an account of the scandal of government officials trading in shares on Marconi’s Wireless company as other members of the government were awarding the company the contract to build the Imperial Wireless Chain agreed by the 1911 Imperial Conference. Muck-raking scandal. Accusations of libel. Court cases. Commission of inquiry etc.

Epilogue: The Summer Ends in August

A recap of the very bad personal relationship between Edward VII and his sister’s son (i.e. nephew) Kaiser Wilhelm II, starting with the latter gatecrashing the elaborate ceremonial surrounding the funeral of Victoria. Wilhelm comes over as a tactless idiot, for example the interview insulting Britain he gave to the ‘New York World’ while he was a guest in Britain.

It broadens out to become quite a detailed account of the political, diplomatic and military build up to the outbreak of the Great War, seen exclusively through the prism of British-German relations, and more narrowly still, the erratic, angry, aggrieved behaviour of Wilhelm. It’s a sequence of events, featuring the Entente Cordiale, the naval arms race, the building of the Dreadnoughts, the Agadir and Fashoda crises, and the two Balkan wars, which was drummed into me at school for my history GCSE.

As to one of the most over-determined events in global history, Hattersley’s take is that Germany was determined on war by 1913 i.e. none of it was accidental. Germany had collected almost all her foreign debts while leaving her creditors waiting so that the Bundesbank held record gold reserves. Woodrow Wilson’s emissary to Europe, Colonel House, toured the capitals and reported back that the German Army was determined to attack and conquer France according to the Schlieffen Plan before turning on Russia. According to Hattersley Germany was just waiting for a pretext and the Serbian terrorists supplied it.


Politicians

Tory Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, ‘the most influential Tory in Edwardian England’, was languid and ineffectual, ‘personified the dedicated dilettante’ (p.84).

Joseph Chamberlain was a Unitarian by birth and a troublemaker by nature. (p.255)

Radical Joe Chamberlain banged the drum for a more imperialist foreign policy. He was one of the loudest supporters for the catastrophically mismanaged Boer War (1899 to 1902) in which some 20,000 women and children died in Britain’s concentration camps (p.99; described at length in chapter 5; incompetence p.90).

Chamberlain went on to aggressively support the idea of an imperial customs union, more to bind the empire together than for the economics. The widely reported fact that such a union would almost certainly increase the cost of foodstuffs helped the Conservatives lose the 1906 general election by a landslide (chapter 6: ‘A preference for Empire’).

Two new young stars lead the Liberal government, pro-Boer, anti-imperial, anti-establishment David Lloyd George, and temporary radical Liberal, Winston Churchill.

I was surprised at just how radical Lloyd George was: he told suffragettes that if women had the vote there’d be none of these stupid wars; he declared India would never be properly governed till it was given its independence (p.102).

Issues

Edwardian society was riven by disputes about: the Boer War; imperial tariff reform; the controversial 1902 Education Act; votes for women; Irish Home Rule. The 1906 Liberal government went on, in 1909, to propose a Budget designed to raise taxes on the rich and landowners in order to fund radical social reform, namely the provision of old age pensions, national insurance and unemployment benefit. When the bastion of privilege, the House of Lords, rejected the bill, it led to a constitutional crisis in which the Liberals called and won two elections in 1910, and persuaded King Edward to threaten the Lords with creating hundreds of Liberal peers who would flood the Lords and ensure the budget went through (570, to be precise, p.168) . In order to avoid this outcome the Lords voted reluctantly to pass the budget.

Poverty

If you like social history and poverty porn, chapter 4: ‘The Condition of England’ is entirely devoted to the appalling poverty revealed by the many reports, studies and surveys published during the 1890s and 1900s, which lay behind Lloyd George’s righteous anger and his and Churchill’s radical proposals to improve the lives of the poor. Millions of Britons lived in squalid one-room shacks or tenements, slept in the same beds, didn’t have enough money to feed or clothe themselves. A 1904 report concluded that about a third of all British children went hungry every day.

The theme is renewed in chapter 7: ‘Uniting the nation’, a thorough description of the 1906 Liberal government’s attempts to develop social policies, and includes the fascinating factoid that William Beveridge, the young Oxford social scientist, was sent to Germany to learn what he could about their system of national insurance, unemployment benefit, labour exchanges and so on. Here, as in so many other things, we copied the more advanced Europeans (p.465).

International rivalry

One of the leading anxieties of the age was fear of international competition, economic and military. As anyone with a passing interest in history knows, the Edwardian period was obviously one of increasing rivalry and tension between the great powers of Europe, who developed a network of alliances and pacts which, when triggered by the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo on 28 June 1914, fell like dominoes to trigger the First World War.

Whether this sequence of events was ‘inevitable’, whether the war was the inevitable result of commercial and imperial rivalries, or of the alliance system, or of the creation of a large ambitious German state in the centre of Europe, or, on the contrary, was the result of a handful of miscalculations and misunderstandings, the kind of spats which had been defused and managed in the past and could easily have been defused and resolved in this instance, are issues which have kept, and will keep, historians happily occupied till the end of civilisation.

As to the commercial rivalries, it is probably a little less known among the general population than the First World War but, again, anyone with an interest in modern history knows that by around 1900 Britain had been definitively overtaken in terms of production and gross domestic product by its main rivals, Germany and America (pages 67, 109, 465). Only Britain’s ‘invisible’ exports of financial and banking services, largely to the colonies, kept Britain’s balance of payments from being in the red, based on the fact that the pound sterling was the global currency of choice (p.68). That and the large amount of goods we were able to sell to protected colonial markets, the most important of which was India.

It was this commercial anxiety which explains the appeal to many businessmen, politicians and commentators of Joseph Chamberlain’s impassioned campaign for an imperial customs union from 1903 (described at inordinate length in chapter 6: ‘A preference for Empire’). Joe wanted:

to make the empire a worldwide customs union which was held together by bonds of trade as well as the ties of history. (p.111)

Hattersley gives us an eventually mind-numblingly detailed account, not of the policy itself, but of the extraordinarily complicated political manoeuvring it triggered within the Conservative cabinet, 1902 to 1905. All of which proved pretty pointless because tariff reform, like everything else the Tories stood for, was swept away in the Liberal landslide election of January 1906, and soon afterwards Chamberlain himself suffered a crippling stroke (July 1906) and was forced to withdraw from public life.

Speed of change

Like so many historians of this era, Hattersley lists the dramatic advances made in practical technology (electric lights, the early telephone, bicycles, the swift spread of the motor car), in science (X-rays, radioactivity) and theoretical physics (no history of the period is complete without perfunctory reference to the world-shaking theories of Einstein and Freud) without really conveying their social impact. They are listed but not really assessed…

The endurance of deep structural issues

As regular readers of this blog know, one of the things which strikes me most about reading history or old novels is the continual reminder that problems, issues or ideas which we like to think of as new and exciting but have in fact been around for over a century. And the fact that they’ve been around for so long strongly suggests they are somehow hard-wired into the human condition or into the societies we inhabit.

Thus when you read about politicians’ and businessmen’s and commentators’ anxiety about Britain’s technological and industrial failings, and about the poor shape of British education compared to leading rivals on the continent (Germany, the Scandinavian countries) being expressed in 1901, and realise exactly the same sentiments are common now, one hundred and twenty years later, it can’t help but make you wonder whether these kind of issues are too deeply engrained in British society ever to be changed.

This came over when reading the chapter about the challenge facing Edwardian politicians of trying to solve the very widespread and horrifying poverty, ill health and pitiful life expectancy of the poor of their time. The debate about the ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor, about whether the poor bear any responsibility for their poverty or are victims of a system which chews them up and spits them out as it requires, about how much financial help the state should give the unemployed, destitute and long-term, sick, what kind of support the unemployed need to get into work, debates about trying to improve basic wages – all these are debates we are still having today. And that, in my opinion, is because we still live under the kind of laissez fair (nowadays called neo-liberal) capitalist economic system that the Edwardians lived under.

This really came into focus when I searched the internet to find out more about ‘The Condition of England’, a searing indictment of Edwardian Britain published in 1909, by Charles Masterman, radical Liberal Party politician and intellectual (discussed by Hattersley on pages 65 and 66).

On the internet I came across an article about it written in 2009 by David Selbourne, ‘political philosopher, social commentator and historian of ideas’, in the New Statesman. Selbourne highlights the issues raised in Masterman’s book solely to reflect on how little has changed in the subsequent 100 years, these issues being:

  • the Edwardian period was one of astonishing technological change (telegraphs, telephones, electricity, bombs and aeroplanes)
  • yet ‘moral progress’ had not kept up with material growth, and the ever-growing wealth of some, their ‘vulgarised plutocracy’, ‘extravagance’ and ‘ostentation’ went hand in hand with gross poverty and ‘monstrous inequality’
  • between the super-rich and the immiserated poor lie what Masterman termed the ‘suburbans’, members of the commercial and business classes, respectable but ‘lacking in ideas’, comfortable in villas with ‘well-trimmed gardens’, perpetually complaining about being ‘over-taxed’, hostile to the Labour Party, objecting to welfare for ‘loafers’ – what Disraeli in the 1870s called ‘villa Toryism’, the basis of the Daily Mail reading class which is still so powerful today
  • Masterman complains that he lived in a society dominated by money, ‘organised on a money basis, with everything else a side-show’; ‘the people in England and America’ are ‘writhing in the grasp of a money power more and more in the hands of enormous corporations’, a complaint you read every day in 2024
  • Masterman sees religion as becoming ‘irrelevant to the business of the day’ which has, probably, been true for decades
  • Masterman sees the institution of the Family ‘breaking in pieces’ under the strain of daily existence
  • Masterman complains about the ‘vacuous vulgarity’ of the ‘cheap and sensational press’ which actively deceives and excites their mass readership, betraying its duty to the truth
  • as for ‘socialism’, Masterman claims there is little real interest in it; whereas the rich may ‘lie awake at night listening fearfully to the tramp of the rising host’, then as now, the ‘people’ has far more pressing issues on its mind: ‘how to get steady work, the iniquities of the “foreigner” and… which football eleven will attain supremacy in some particular league’
  • and the Labour Party? ‘They may perhaps stand for the working man in opinion’, says Masterman, but ‘the majority of them are certainly remote from him in characteristic’, while ‘a Labour leader, if successful, tends to become conservative’
  • Masterman even complains about the ‘strange mediocrity’, the poor quality of British leaders in ‘high positions in church and state’, something I read about in the press almost every day

In other words, Masterman’s analysis of Britain 1909 can appear, at first glance, like an astonishing anticipation of Britain 2021, except that… it isn’t, as I so often insist, an anticipation: It is an indication of how much hasn’t changed in a century and surely a demonstration of the deep economic and social structures which make up England, which are not somehow extraneous to English society, which are not additional extras which can be easily tweaked if only we elected the right politicians – but which make up the fundamental essence of English society and the English character.

Errors

A couple of errors leaped out at me. George Eliot’s novel ‘Middlemarch’ was not published in 1891-2 (p.308) but 1871-2, and General Gordon was not killed in Khartoum in 1865 (p.341) but 1885. The Russian Revolution did not take place in 1916 (p.359). The Christian states of the Balkans did not form a secret alliance in 1914 (p.475) but in 1912 on the eve of the First Balkan War.

Maybe the proofreader had become as overwhelmed with factoids as I felt.

Conclusion

Most of this is familiar – not necessarily a lot of the details, but certainly the general shape of all the issues. The book is packed with information but the reader gets to the very end and discovers that they really haven’t learned that much. The Edwardian decade was an era of rapid social, cultural and technological change and fraught with a number of political crises? Well, which decade of the twentieth century wasn’t?

Gaps

Having made it to the end of this 480-page marathon one glaring omission stood out – the British Empire. There should have been a chapter about the empire, probably divided into white and non-white i.e. a summary of political and economic developments in Canada-Australia-New Zealand; and then ditto for the non-white colonies starting with India (the partition of Bengal, the founding of the Muslim League) and then Africa (for example, the amalgamation of various colonies into Nigeria), maybe others in the Caribbean or elsewhere. The book was only published 20 years ago but already, with our greater than ever awareness of imperial sins, and the relentless multiculturalisation of Britain, this feels like a glaring absence.


Credit

The Edwardians by Roy Hattersley was published by Little Brown in 2004. All references are to the 2007 Abacus paperback edition.

Related reviews

Amy Foster by Joseph Conrad (1901)

‘Amy Foster’ is one of Joseph Conrad’s early short stories. It was written in 1901, first published in the Illustrated London News in December 1901, then collected in ‘Typhoon and Other Stories’ (1903). It is 12,334 words long.

The plot

The unnamed first-person narrator returned to England from abroad ‘a good many years ago now’. Soon after he was invited to go and stay with his friend Kennedy, who is a country doctor, living in Colebrook, on the shores of Eastbay in Kent. Kennedy began his career as a surgeon in the Navy before becoming the companion of a famous explorer. He invites the narrator down to stay with him and so the narrator finds himself accompanying the doctor on his rounds.

Amy

In the fifth paragraph they are out riding in the doctor’s gig when they see Amy Foster in her garden, hanging out her washing, ‘her dull face, red, not with a mantling blush, but as if her flat cheeks had been vigorously slapped, and to take in the squat figure, the scanty, dusty brown hair drawn into a tight knot at the back of the head. She looked quite young’ (p.150) and the doctor calls out a friendly greeting to her. Somewhere playing is her little boy, Johnny.

Amy’s biography

He goes on to tell the narrator that Amy is the daughter of one Isaac Foster, who from a small farmer has sunk to be a shepherd. The beginning of his misfortunes dated from his runaway marriage with the cook of his widowed father – ‘a well-to-do, apoplectic grazier, who passionately struck his name off his will, and had been heard to utter threats against his life’ (p.151). The story of her father’s failed marriage anticipates Amy’s own tribulations.

Despite the homely English setting, Conrad almost immediately falls into familiar, hyperbolical and pessimistic ways of thinking, as Kennedy remarks of Amy that you’d think she lacked all imagination:

It’s enough to look at the red hands hanging at the end of those short arms, at those slow, prominent brown eyes, to know the inertness of her mind – an inertness that one would think made it everlastingly safe from all the surprises of imagination. And yet which of us is safe?

This is the moral of ‘Lord Jim’, the nagging fear that none of us live up to our moral values and idealised self images, what Freud would later call the punishing superego. In the same vein, Kennedy continues:

‘There are other tragedies, less scandalous and of a subtler poignancy, arising from irreconcilable differences and from that fear of the Incomprehensible that hangs over all our heads – over all our heads…’

Kennedy now launches into the life story of Amy which makes up the text. At the age of 15 she was put out to service, to the New Barns Farm, tenanted by Mr and Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith was ‘a genteel person with a sharp nose [who] made [Amy] put on a black dress every afternoon. She also owned a grey parrot.

Amy falls in love

Amy lived for four years at the Barns, faithfully serving the Smiths, and never going further than the two mile tramp back to her mother’s house. Then she fell in love, not casually of course, but in a Conradian way, with the maximum of hyperbole.

She fell in love silently, obstinately – perhaps helplessly. It came slowly, but when it came it worked like a powerful spell; it was love as the Ancients understood it: an irresistible and fateful impulse – a possession! Yes, it was in her to become haunted and possessed by a face, by a presence, fatally, as though she had been a pagan worshipper of form under a joyous sky. (p.152)

The immigrant

Who did she fall in love with? Well, thereby hangs the majority of the tale. The man in question is the survivor of a shipwreck, washed up on the Kentish shore, who blunders round the countryside terrifying honest citizens. Because he speaks no English but a harsh East European language, then Kentish country-people think he’s a tramp or even a dangerous madman.

The gift of bread

Until he’s cornered by Mr Smith in one of the outhouses on New Barns Farm. Smith keeps him locked in his wood-lodge while he ponders what to do with him. During this interval Amy shyly offers the scared, exhausted and hungry vagrant some pieces of bread.

‘No wonder that Amy Foster appeared to his eyes with the aureole of an angel of light. The girl had not been able to sleep for thinking of the poor man, and in the morning, before the Smiths were up, she slipped out across the back yard. Holding the door of the wood-lodge ajar, she looked in and extended to him half a loaf of white bread.’ (p.163)

This gesture of compassion and acceptance goes right through the vagrant, staying with him, and is the basis for their eventual relationship and marriage.

The immigrant is taken in by Old Mrs Swaffer

Smith arranges for the vagrant to be taken in by his nearest neighbour, old Mr. Swaffer. Here he is washed and dressed and put to work. In exchange for board and keep, he is employed in the fields and proves a solid worker even if no one can understand a word he says and his progress in English is very slow. Kennedy remarks on his handsomeness:

He was very good-looking, and most graceful in his bearing, with that something wild as of a woodland creature in his aspect.

The immigrant is named Yanko Goorall

And around about this time the community gets to learn his name. It is Yanko, which means ‘little John’, Goorall (p.169).

Yanko saves Swaffer’s grand-daughter

In a crucial event, Yanko looks up from his work in a field and notices that Swaffer’s toddler grand-daughter has fallen into a local horse pond, drops everything, runs over and saves her life (p.167). As you can imagine Swaffer and the entire community upgrade their opinion of him. Swaffer now gives him a regular wage, which the vagrant uses to go to the local pub where he tries to get people interested in the exotic folk songs of his native land. Slowly he learns to speak halting English.

The immigrant’s story

In one of those stories within a story, Kennedy now tells the narrator what he pieced together of Yanko’s story. Yanko was a mountaineer of the eastern range of the Carpathians, brought up in an East European country by his devout peasant parents. He was recruited by an agency which offered young men and women a new life in America. And so he is transported by train (which he finds novel and bewildering) then put up overnight in a tenement house in Berlin, before travelling again by train to the north German coast, at Hamburg.

Then they were loaded aboard a ship, which Kennedy later found out was the Hamburg emigrant-ship Herzogin Sophia-Dorothea, and set off through the Baltic. Kennedy picks up the story when he says he saw the ship anchor off the Kent coast. That night is dark and stormy and in the middle of it another steamer sought shelter in the bay and rammed the emigrant ship, splitting it in half so that it quickly went down with all hands, drowning hundreds of emigrant men, women and children. Yanko alone survived and swam to shore, emerging half dressed, covered in mud and weed, and traumatised. (Over the coming days hundreds of the drowned corpses would wash up ashore and be taken on stretchers to be laid out in a row under the north wall of the Brenzett Church.)

Anyway, it was in this state that he washed up, stumbled about the countryside terrifying everyone till Mr Smith of New Barns managed to lock him in his wood-lodge, where Amy fed him.

Yanko’s marriage proposal

All through the weeks and months as he works for Old Swaffham, Yanko retains the impression of compassion from when Amy gave him his first piece of bread and moonily worships her from afar. Eventually he asks Old Swaffer to intercede with her father (Foster) for her hand.

Foster thinks it’s as good an offer as he’s ever liable to get for his simple daughter and accepts. Old Swaffer makes over a cottage to the couple as reward for saving his grand-daughter.

Marriage and child

And so the couple get married and she bears him a son. But then the tone of the story markedly changes. Quite abruptly Conrad has Dr Kennedy tell the narrator that the village began to hear rumours of discord. Slowly it leaks out that Amy dislikes Yanko talking his language to the baby and reciting the Lord’s Prayer to it, as his father had to him (p.172).

Yanko gets tuberculosis

The reader wonders where this marital discord theme will go when Conrad bottles out with one of the easiest ends to a story like this – he dies. To take it a bit more slowly, Yanko comes down with tuberculosis and lies in a bed in the downstairs room, tended by Amy (p.173). But she is no longer the angel of simple-minded compassion who gave him the bread, but worn down by nerves and anxiety.

The night of terror

Indeed she feels a growing fear which, in classic Conrad style, in the course of just one night, turns into an unreasoning terror. So that when, in his fever, Yanko begs her for water, she’s too genuinely terrified to give him any, but she snatches up the baby, paralysed with fear.

She sat with the table between her and the couch, watching every movement and every sound, with the terror, the unreasonable terror, of that man she could not understand creeping over her. She had drawn the wicker cradle close to her feet. There was nothing in her now but the maternal instinct and that unaccountable fear. (p.174)

In his fever Yanko shouts at her in his guttural language then staggers up out of his bed – at which point terrified Amy seizes the baby, runs out the door and doesn’t stop running till she arrives at her parents’ house.

Yanko dies

Next morning Kennedy finds him lying face downwards outside the house with the door open. He had obviously staggered a few paces after his fleeing wife then collapsed. He’s not quite dead so Kennedy and his servant carry him inside where, exhausted by the fever, he does finally expire. Or, as Conrad puts it:

The fever had left him, taking with it the heat of life. And with his panting breast and lustrous eyes he reminded me again of a wild creature under the net; of a bird caught in a snare. She had left him. She had left him – sick – helpless – thirsty. The spear of the hunter had entered his very soul. ‘Why?’ he cried… (p.175)

And died. Dr Kennedy wrote heart failure caused by fever on his death certificate.

Puzzlement

The story ends with the very Conradian tone of puzzlement as Dr Kennedy wonders how much red-faced peasant woman Amy every thinks about the one great love of her life, the man who was her true love but then became her terror.

‘Is his image as utterly gone from her mind as his lithe and striding figure, his carolling voice are gone from our fields?… It is impossible to say whether this name recalls anything to her. Does she ever think of the past?’

And the very last phrase in the entire story luxuriates in the characteristically Conradian sense of futility and despair:

‘I have seen her hanging over the boy’s cot in a very passion of maternal tenderness. The little fellow was lying on his back, a little frightened at me, but very still, with his big black eyes, with his fluttered air of a bird in a snare. And looking at him I seemed to see again the other one – the father, cast out mysteriously by the sea to perish in the supreme disaster of loneliness and despair.’

Yes Joseph, truly we are all birds snared in the traps of our tragic lives etc.

People smuggling

Critics are always claiming that this or that author or artist was ‘prophetic’ or ‘anticipated’ or ‘predicted’ issues which are still with us but this, in my view, is a profound misunderstanding about society and history. These people didn’t set out to prophecy anything. Instead they are describing issues which were problems in their own day (the only day they knew) and if they appear to us, looking back, to have ‘anticipated’ some of our modern social or political problems, it is, in fact, because we have failed so solve them.

Thus one aspect of the tale is Conrad’s surprising revelation about unscrupulous people smugglers operating in eastern Europe in the 1880s.

‘A few months later we could read in the papers the accounts of the bogus “Emigration Agencies” among the Sclavonian peasantry in the more remote provinces of Austria. The object of these scoundrels was to get hold of the poor ignorant people’s homesteads, and they were in league with the local usurers. They exported their victims through Hamburg mostly.’

One hundred and forty years later the issue is still with us, and has become one of the defining political issues of our time. Conrad didn’t predict anything, he was just reporting a theme of his own time. It is not his fault or to his credit, that the same issue remains a hot button issue 140 years later. All that indicates is our complete failure as a society and international community, to solve it.

Other cast members

No matter how simple the basic plot of a Conrad story, and no matter how much it is focused on a central protagonist, they are always surprisingly densely populated with numerous secondary and tertiary characters. I think this is for two reasons: 1) it damps down the hyperbolic hysteria Conrad is so prone to whereby his protagonist ends up taking on the powers of the universe or representing the futility of human existence. Including a number of other people who are going about their normal business, pushing prams or shopping or chatting down the pub helps ground Conrad’s stories and make them more plausible. 2) But having adopted this approach of numerous extra characters, Conrad is often very sly in making them, their behaviour or their stories compare and contrast with the central narrative, so they are not utterly random, but often part of a carefully wrought pattern.

Miss Swaffer, who keeps house frugally for her father, ‘a broad-shouldered, big-boned woman of forty-five, with the pocket of her dress full of keys, and a grey, steady eye… She dressed severely in black, in memory of one of the innumerable Bradleys of the neighbourhood, to whom she had been engaged some twenty-five years ago, young farmer who broke his neck out hunting on the eve of the wedding day’ (p.166). She is almost completely deaf.

So Miss Swaffham’s story –a tragic love affair leading to her being on her own, is very directly comparable with Amy’s case.

The young ladies from the Rectory who come to visit snooty Miss Swaffer. One of them is reading Goethe with the help of a dictionary and the other ‘had struggled with Dante for years’ (p.164). Their bourgeois education and ambition contrast starkly with Amy’s uneducated simplicity.

In the hours after Yanko is washed up he manages to terrify a range of locals including:

  • Hammond, owner of the pig-pound where Yanko takes shelter after staggering up out of the sea.
  • The Brenzett carrier who takes him for a tramp sleeping under a hedge.
  • The schoolmistress who goes out to remonstrate with the vagabond when he scares her children.
  • The driver of Mr Bradley’s milk-cart who lashes out at Yanko with his whip.
  • Three boys who later admitted to throwing stones at him.
  • Mrs Finn, the wife of Smith’s waggoner, out walking with her baby in a perambulator; outraged by the approach of this muddy phantom she hits him with her umbrella and runs away.
  • Old Lewis hammering away at rocks, who Mrs Finn gets to join her watching the vagabond flee across the fields.

Then there’s the two brothers, who went down to look after their cobble hauled up on the beach, found, a good way from Brenzett, a hencoop from the wrecked ship lying high and dry on the shore, with eleven drowned ducks inside, which they took home to their family and ate.

You can see how all these sometimes comic types help to ground the story, while creating the sense of a wider community that his central protagonists operate in.

Swaffer’s younger daughter, married to Willcox, a solicitor and the Town Clerk of Colebrook. It is her 3-year-old daughter, Bertha, who fell into the horsepond and Yanko saved (p.167).

In the tap-room of the Coach and Horses:

  • Preble, the lame wheelwright
  • Vincent, the fat blacksmith
  • the strange carter who can’t be doing with Yanko performing some weird dance and takes his half-pint outside
  • the landlord who tells Yanko he doesn’t want no ‘acrobatic tricks in the tap-room’ (p.169)

Mystery

Conrad’s fiction is based on the premise that everyone is a mystery to everyone else: Kurtz is a mystery, Jim is a mystery, Falk is a mystery to the puzzled narrators of their stories. And so is the unnamed emigrant, sole survivor of a tragedy at sea, who’s washed up on their shore. The first time Kennedy sees him is described in a phrase which could have come from the stories of Kurz or Jim:

‘It was there that I saw him first…’

Portentous words which inaugurate the long puzzle, the investigation and piecing together which we are familiar with from so many Conrad stories.

It’s in this spirit that, even as he tells her story, Kennedy admits to the narrator that Amy is a mystery to him (just as Kurz and Jim remain, to the bitter end, mysteries to Marlow).

‘How this aptitude came to her, what it did feed upon, is an inscrutable mystery…’

She lives for 4 years at New Barns with the Smith family, never went further than back to her parents’ house. Then she fell in love, which, in Conrad’s hands, is a diabolical business:

‘It came slowly, but when it came it worked like a powerful spell; it was love as the Ancients understood it: an irresistible and fateful impulse – a possession! Yes, it was in her to become haunted and possessed by a face, by a presence, fatally, as though she had been a pagan worshipper of form under a joyous sky – and to be awakened at last from that mysterious forgetfulness of self, from that enchantment, from that transport, by a fear resembling the unaccountable terror of a brute…’

Conradian hyperbole

Conrad can’t help himself from adopting a hyperbolic or cosmic tone, readily resorting to talk about terror, horror, fear or idiot imbecility, or invoking the mighty powers which govern the world and even the universe, at the drop of a hat.

Hyperbole

Conrad’s mind always leaps to extremes. Pondering Yanko’s complete alienation from the people who take him in, Kennedy remarks:

Conceive you the kind of an existence overshadowed, oppressed, by the everyday material appearances, as if by the visions of a nightmare. (p.166)

Dr Kennedy and the narrator are pottering along in his cart and they see some labourers walking home from a day’s work. You can imagine how, in many Edwardian authors, this might prompt nice thoughts of home, hearths, fires, wives and good meals, but not for Conrad. Everything is cranked up to an Edgar Allen Poe level of shrillness:

‘One would think the earth is under a curse, since of all her children these that cling to her the closest are uncouth in body and as leaden of gait as if their very hearts were loaded with chains…’ (p.153)

Later, when Smith first sees the shipwrecked man:

Smith, alone amongst his stacks with this apparition, in the stormy twilight ringing with the infuriated barking of the dog, felt the dread of an inexplicable strangeness.

At the drop of the smallest hat everything in Conrad becomes about lunatic, inexplicable strangeness, weirdness, insanity, rage, despair, horror and agony.

Conrad’s cosmic similes

The Doctor came to the window and looked out at the frigid splendour of the sea, immense in the haze, as if enclosing all the earth with all the hearts lost among the passions of love and fear. (p.172)

And then there is Conrad’s frequent tendency to go cosmic, to invoke the entire universe in his metaphors and comparisons, to such an extent that, to my mind at any rate, he sometimes steps into science fiction territory.

It was as if these had been the faces of people from the other world…

He was different: innocent of heart, and full of good will, which nobody wanted, this castaway, that, like a man transplanted into another planet, was separated by an immense space from his past and by an immense ignorance from his future. (p.168)

But this is not to say this is bad. On the contrary, Conrad has a brazen boldness about talking about life, the universe and everything which his stiff-upper-lipped British contemporaries mostly lacked, and which helps to give all his stories their sense of symbolic depth and resonance, so unusual in English literature.

The hyperbole as it were sets a tone, allows the stories to contain greater allegorical or symbolic force than their straitlaced English contemporaries. Thus it is that, among numerous other themes and images, the story recurs to the image of humans as birds caught in traps.

1) When Dr Kennedy is called in by Smith to examine the vagabond who he’s just locked up in his wood-lodge, Kennedy observes ‘his glittering, restless black eyes reminded me of a wild bird caught in a snare’.

2) Years later when Kennedy is called in to treat Yanko in his final fever, he observes that, ‘with his panting breast and lustrous eyes he reminded me again of a wild creature under the net; of a bird caught in a snare’.

3) A preparation of images which make it all the more haunting and effective when, at the very end of the story, Kennedy leans over the cot of Yanko and Amy’s baby son and observes ‘The little fellow was lying on his back, a little frightened at me, but very still, with his big black eyes, with his fluttered air of a bird in a snare’. (p.175)

The narrator as jigsaw solver

The Conradian storyteller is always a detective, a man who pieces together his narrative from fragments told him by their parties or the protagonist himself, which always require pondering, assessing and carefully stitching together.

‘I have been telling you more or less in my own words what I learned fragmentarily in the course of two or three years, during which I seldom missed an opportunity of a friendly chat with him.’

‘Perhaps it was just that outlandishness of the man which influenced Old Swaffer. Perhaps it was only an inexplicable caprice. All I know is that at the end of three weeks I caught sight of Smith’s lunatic digging in Swaffer’s kitchen garden.’

This is acknowledged at the start of the story, where the narrator tells us that:

‘His papers on the fauna and flora made him known to scientific societies. And now he had come to a country practice – from choice. The penetrating power of his mind, acting like a corrosive fluid, had destroyed his ambition, I fancy. His intelligence is of a scientific order, of an investigating habit, and of that unappeasable curiosity which believes that there is a particle of a general truth in every mystery.’

He is, then, an investigator and puzzle solver by disposition.

The language barrier

‘He could talk to no one, and had no hope of ever understanding anybody. It was as if these had been the faces of people from the other world – dead people – he used to tell me years afterwards.’ (p.166)

Figures at the heart of Conrad stories often, like their author, suffer from a language barrier. Yanko is, among other things, an extreme example of the difficulties with language which so many Conrad protagonists suffer.

‘A sudden burst of rapid, senseless speech persuaded him at once that he had to do with an escaped lunatic. In fact, that impression never wore off completely. Smith has not in his heart given up his secret conviction of the man’s essential insanity to this very day.’

With the profoundly alienating effect that:

‘All these faces that were as closed, as mysterious, and as mute as the faces of the dead who are possessed of a knowledge beyond the comprehension of the living…’

Even when he slowly painfully acquires some grasp of English, it is always marked by his alien origins:

‘He told me this story of his adventure with many flashes of white teeth and lively glances of black eyes, at first in a sort of anxious baby-talk, then, as he acquired the language, with great fluency, but always with that singing, soft, and at the same time vibrating intonation that instilled a strangely penetrating power into the sound of the most familiar English words, as if they had been the words of an unearthly language.’

With the result that:

His foreignness had a peculiar and indelible stamp. (p.168)

Impossible not to read into this the experience of Conrad the exile, the immigrant who obtained a stunning fluency in English but always with an alien flavour.

Thoughts

‘Amy Foster’ is, at first, a convincingly gritty portrait of rural life into which the powerful figure of Yanko stumbles… and yet, by the end, in fact at the very end, it feels forced.

The initial slow sections about Amy’s character are the eclipsed by the colourful piecing together of the account of the man washed ashore, and there is a slow logic to the love between Yanko and Amy, as the doctor tells it… but right at the end the tempo completely changes and the speed with which Conrad has the couple fall out and argue, and then the sudden note of horror which grips her on the night of the storm, all this feels too rushed. Conrad devotes barely a page to describing how Amy is transformed from doting lover to feeling anxious about, then scared of, then terrified by, her husband. It feels forced and rushed.

Notes

Originally Conrad toyed with calling the story ‘The Castaway’ or ‘A Husband’. It’s interesting how he gravitated away from focusing on the handsome mysterious immigrant and came to realise that the story would have more power if told for its impact on the simple, monosyllabic peasant girl.

No specific location has been identified for the story. It’s somewhere on the Kent-Sussex border. The fictional town of Brenzett is based on Dymchurch.

Yanko is a transliteration of the Polish Janko. Goorall corresponds to Góral, the Polish word for ‘highlander’.


Credit

Conrad wrote ‘Amy Foster’ in 1901. It was first published in the Illustrated London News (December 1901) and collected in Typhoon and Other Stories (1903). Page references are to the Oxford World’s Classics paperback edition of ‘Typhoon and Other Stories’, 2008 revised edition.

Related links

Conrad reviews

Falk: A Reminiscence by Joseph Conrad (1901)

Horror, ruin and everlasting remorse. And no help. None. I had fallen amongst a lot of unfriendly lunatics!
(Conrad demonstrates his usual gift for calm understatement)

Thus from question to question I got the whole story.
(Perfect expression of the way a Conrad story is often a piecing together of evidence by the narrator)

‘Falk: A Reminiscence’ is a work of short fiction by Joseph Conrad, 30,499 words long. Conrad completed it in May 1901. Conrad usually placed his stories with magazines for obvious financial reasons (to get paid twice, once by the magazine and then by a book publisher when the story was published in a collection), but he failed to place ‘Falk’ because of its controversial subject matter (see below). So the story first saw the light of day in book form, in ‘Typhoon and Other Stories’, published by William Heinemann in 1903.

Quick summary

Like ‘Heart of Darkness’ and ‘Lord Jim’, ‘Falk’ has a frame narrative which establishes the setting. Like those narratives, it is told after dinner to a group of fellow seaman who can be trusted to understand its technical details and nuances.

Several of us, all more or less connected with the sea, were dining in a small river-hostelry not more than thirty miles from London…

The narrator of the text we read is not the narrator of the story. He is one of the diners, and watches and listens as a different diner tells the tale which makes up the text.

Then one of us, who had not spoken before, a man of over fifty, that had commanded ships for a quarter of a century, looking after the barque now gliding far away, all black on the lustre of the river, said:

‘This reminds me of an absurd episode in my life, now many years ago, when I got first the command of an iron barque, loading then in a certain Eastern seaport. It was also the capital of an Eastern kingdom, lying up a river as might be London lies up this old Thames of ours. No more need be said of the place; for this sort of thing might have happened anywhere where there are ships, skippers, tugboats, and orphan nieces of indescribable splendour. And the absurdity of the episode concerns only me, my enemy Falk, and my friend Hermann.’

This fifty-something man takes us back 20 years or so (to the 1880s) when he was a 29-year-old newly commissioned officer employed by the Dutch East India Company. He had been appointed ex-officio by the British Consul to take charge of a ship after her captain had died suddenly, leaving the ship’s affairs in a complete mess, bills scattered around the messy cabin, important documents for some reason stored in a violin case (p.83).

I was totally inexperienced, greatly ignorant of business, and hopelessly unfit for any sort of command.

The first half of the story leisurely describes this inexperienced young man’s efforts to bring order to a ship which had been left in chaos by his predecessor, who neglected his duties and kept a mistress on shore.

Delayed from sailing the narrator-captain takes to visiting another vessel, the Diana, and gets to know its skipper, Hermann, who has aboard his wife and four children.

Hermann had been trading in the East for three years or more, carrying freights of rice and timber mostly.

Also on Hermann’s ship is his niece, an orphan he’s been looking after for three years. The narrator makes it abundantly clear that this niece is a full-figured, buxom and attractive woman, in terms which are unusually explicit for the usually restrained and aloof Conrad.

The girl was of the sort one necessarily casts eyes at in a sense. She made no noise, but she filled most satisfactorily a good bit of space. (p.104)

Magnificent in her close-fitting print frock she displayed something so commanding in the manifest perfection of her figure that the sun seemed to be rising for her alone. The flood of light brought out the opulence of her form and the vigour of her youth in a glorifying way.

The title character of the story, Captain Christian Falk, is the owner of the only tugboat in the harbour. He is a rash, impetuous, touchy man and behaves with increasing animosity towards the narrator, for no reason the narrator can make out. This climaxes when, one morning before anybody’s up, Falk abruptly attaches his tow cables to Hermann’s ship, the Diana, and tows it out of the shallow harbour, down the river to the estuary mouth, ready to set sail (pages 94 to 96). What makes this odd is that he had promised and contracted to tow the narrator’s ship first, so this is a striking breach of their agreement. And the impetuous haste with which he does it damages quite a bit of the Diana‘s woodwork.

Anyway, in Conrad’s usual circumlocutory manner it takes some time for the basic fact of the story to come out which is that – Falk is in love with Hermann’s niece and thinks the narrator is a rival for her affections. His irrational animosity to the narrator is based on the completely erroneous idea that the narrator is in love with her, too.

When Falk confronts the narrator with this accusation, over a drink and a game of cards in Schomberg’s hotel, the latter has to tactfully explain that he visits the Diana so often, not to woo the niece, but because he is young and a little lonely and enjoys the reassuring domestic atmosphere aboard the Diana, what with the homely wife and Hermann’s little children. He enjoys being waited on, eating well and then sharing a pipe and a chat with old Captain Hermann (p.87) – the buxom niece is neither here nor there.

Thus the air is finally cleared between the two ‘rivals’ and Falk abates his hostility. The narrator goes so far as to say he will help Falk’s suit and talk to Hermann, mediating as a go-between.

All this has taken up about two-thirds of the story, and it’s only in the final pages that the core of the thing is revealed. Because Falk, from misconceived notions of honour and chivalry, in a visit to Hermann, with the whole family present, insists on making his big confession: years ago, when marooned on a stranded ship, he murdered a man and then took part in dismembering, cooking and eating his body. He is a cannibal.

‘Imagine to yourselves,’ he said in his ordinary voice, ‘that I have eaten man.’

Conrad’s telling of Falk’s telling of the story of the marooned ship goes into very great detail, with descriptions of all the key crew aboard the doomed ship and a gruelling account of how the ship’s crew ran low on water, and ran completely out of food, till the crew resorted to boiling boot leather and then eating wood.

But as you can imagine, Falk’s confession has a devastating impact on everyone present and has aftershocks on all the characters. Having confessed, Falk sees the Hermann family’s reaction, thinks he has blown his suit, makes his excuses and leaves, leaving the narrator and Hermann to talk through this staggering revelation.

But, to cut a long story short, it turns out the niece doesn’t mind, insists she wants the match to go ahead, and Hermann is talked into it for financial reasons. (He wants to return home to Europe, taking his family with him; the niece would have required a room of her own and thus doubled the fare; marrying her off to Falk solves his legal responsibility for her and saves a tidy bit of money, p.144.) The next day the narrator sees the ‘happy couple’ standing on deck together.

They met in sunshine abreast of the mainmast. He held her hands and looked down at them, and she looked up at him with her candid and unseeing glance. It seemed to me they had come together as if attracted, drawn and guided to each other by a mysterious influence. They were a complete couple. In her grey frock, palpitating with life, generous of form, olympian and simple, she was indeed the siren to fascinate that dark navigator, this ruthless lover of the five senses. From afar I seemed to feel the masculine strength with which he grasped those hands she had extended to him with a womanly swiftness. (p.144)

So they get married. The novel ends with a comic touch which is also a comment on the nature of stories, particularly in Conrad’s community of yarning, gossiping seamen i.e. how they get embellished, simplified and turned into legends. When he returns to the (unnamed) port, five years later, the narrator discovers he is n ow part of a much-told tale, about ‘a certain Falk, owner of a tug, who had won his wife at cards from the captain of an English ship’ (p.145).

Clever, deft and funny, it is one of Conrad’s very rare happy endings.

Primitive

‘Heart of Darkness’ is famous for the mood it creates of travelling back in time to the primitive barbaric origins of humanity (in the heart of Africa) and, in a striking passage at the end, for projecting this barbarism onto the London where its narrator, Marlow, is telling his yarn, a London which had also been, as he puts it, one of the dark places of the earth.

Anyway, it’s notable that this story too juxtaposes the comfortable after-dinner setting – posh chaps enjoying a cigar and a yarn – with the sense of their primitive ancestors looming, as it were, over their shoulders.

The wooden dining-room stuck out over the mud of the shore like a lacustrine dwelling; the planks of the floor seemed rotten; a decrepit old waiter tottered pathetically to and fro before an antediluvian and worm-eaten sideboard; the chipped plates might have been disinterred from some kitchen midden near an inhabited lake; and the chops recalled times more ancient still. They brought forcibly to one’s mind the night of ages when the primeval man, evolving the first rudiments of cookery from his dim consciousness, scorched lumps of flesh at a fire of sticks in the company of other good fellows; then, gorged and happy, sat him back among the gnawed bones to tell his artless tales of experience – the tales of hunger and hunt – and of women, perhaps! (p.77)

1) It’s an effective, imaginative trope in its own right but also very current at the time, the late-Victorian early-Edwardian era, in a civilisation ever-more aware of the gulf between its own haves and have-nots, and the yawning gulf between the West and the native inhabitants of so many of its colonised countries. The note of barbarism reminds me of the H.G. Wells of The Time Machine and The island of Dr Moreau.

2) But the description also, of course, neatly sets up the central event of the story, which is an act of desperate cannibalism, a reversion to primitive bestial pre-civilised behaviour.

Cosmic

Mention of Wells lets me slip in here an example of what I call the cosmic note in Conrad, the handful of moments in every story where he zooms out from his specific characters to make some comparison with the world, the solar system, the universe.

I don’t mean to say she was statuesque. She was too generously alive; but she could have stood for an allegoric statue of the Earth. I don’t mean the worn-out earth of our possession, but a young Earth, a virginal planet undisturbed by the vision of a future teeming with the monstrous forms of life and death, clamorous with the cruel battles of hunger and thought. (p.82)

Totemic figure

Heart of Darkness is a long study of the mesmeric figure of Mr Kurtz who the narrator approaches from multiple angles, gets various third-party opinions about, talks to at multiple moments, but whose mystery he never penetrates.

‘Lord Jim’ is a long study of the mesmeric figure of Jim who the narrator approaches from multiple angles, gets various third-party opinions about, talks to at multiple moments, but whose mystery he never penetrates.

Falk is a (not-so-long) study of the puzzling figure of Falk who the narrator approaches from multiple angles, talks to at multiple moments, gets various third-party opinions about, offers to help, but whose mystery he never penetrates.

He remained still for a time in the dark – silent; almost invisible. (p.130)

Spot the pattern? All Conrad’s themes – incommunication, the mystery of other people, the wafer thin line between civilisation and barbarism, between sanity and madness – he discovered early on were best achieved by an unrelenting focus on one, central, symbolic and mysterious figure.

The large and variegated cast

As usual what starts out seeming like it will be a fairly straightforward story concerning a handful of characters, ends up becoming very complex and referring to a large number of secondary characters:

– The 50-something captain-narrator, ‘a man of over fifty, that had commanded ships for a quarter of a century’.

– His crew – a mate, second mate, a Chinaman.

– Captain Hermann, German, a ‘Schiff-fuhrer or ship-conductor’, skipper of the Diana out of Bremen, ‘the simple, heavy appearance of a well-to-do farmer, combined with the good-natured shrewdness of a small shopkeeper. With his shaven chin, round limbs, and heavy eyelids he did not look like a toiler, and even less like an adventurer of the sea.’

– His wife Mrs Hermann, ‘an engaging, stout housewife… [wearing] baggy blue dresses with white dots… Her voice was pleasant, she had a serene brow, smooth bands of very fair hair, and a good-humoured expression of the eyes. She was motherly and moderately talkative.’

– Their four children – Lena, Gustav, Carl, Nicholas the baby.

– Hermann’s (unnamed) niece, 19, who they’ve carried about with them for 3 years, a figure of ‘much bodily magnificence’, ‘You could not call her good-looking. It was something much more impressive. The simplicity of her apparel, the opulence of her form, her imposing stature, and the extraordinary sense of vigorous life that seemed to emanate from her like a perfume exhaled by a flower, made her beautiful with a beauty of a rustic and olympian order. To watch her reaching up to the clothes-line with both arms raised high above her head, caused you to fall a musing in a strain of pagan piety.’

Schomberg, a brawny, hairy Alsatian, ‘proprietor of the smaller of the two hotels in the place’, where everyone meets to drink and gossip. This character appears in ‘Lord Jim’. Conrad liked having characters occur in different narratives, the prime example being the storyteller Charles Marlow who narrates Heart of Darkness, Youth and Lord Jim.

– Mrs Schomberg who cooks and helps in her husband’s hotel.

Captain Christian Falk, Scandinavian (the narrator can’t remember whether he was Danish or Norwegian, p.88), skipper of the only tug on the river, ‘a very trim white craft of 150 tons or more, as elegantly neat as a yacht.’

He had her manned by the cheekiest gang of lascars I ever did see, whom he allowed to bawl at you insolently, and, once fast, he plucked you out of your berth as if he did not care what he smashed. Eighteen miles down the river you had to go behind him, and then three more along the coast to where a group of uninhabited rocky islets enclosed a sheltered anchorage. There you would have to lie at single anchor with your naked spars showing to seaward over these barren fragments of land scattered upon a very intensely blue sea. (p.

– Falk had previously wooed a Miss Vanlo, a very ladylike girl who came out from Britain to keep house for her brother, played the piano to entertain Falk, but was sickly and died.

Fred Vanlo, brother of the ill-fated Miss Vanlo, ‘who had an engineering shop for small repairs by the water side’.

Old Mr Siegers, ‘the father, the old gentleman who retired from business on a fortune and got buried at sea going home’, invested in Falk’s business.

Young Mr Siegers, ditto (p.101).

Gambril, elderly seaman on the narrator’s ship. He also appears in ‘The Shadow Line’.

Johnson, ‘formerly captain of a country ship, but now spliced to a country wife and gone utterly to the bad’, ‘sallow of face, grizzled, unshaven, muddy on elbows and back; where the seams of his serge coat yawned you could see his white nakedness’.

Mrs Johnson, ‘the big native woman, with bare brown legs as thick as bedposts’.

– The Consulate’s constable, an ex-sergeant-major of a regiment of Hussars (p.109).

Plus the separate set of characters in the cannibal’s tale (see below).

The cannibal’s tale

Only towards the end, in the last major passage of the text, does Falk tell his story to the narrator, having himself rowed out to the narrator’s ship expressly for the purpose (pages 133 to 142). It happened ten years back, when he sailed as first mate on the first ship sent by his native town to the South Seas, the Borgmester Dahl. One fine day the propeller dropped off, they lost power and drifted away from the main sea lanes, becoming less and less likely to be spotted and rescued. At first they ration the food but then it gives out and they are reduced to eating leather or chewing wood.

The narrator subjects Falk’s account to characteristically Conradian analysis, invoking the basic needs of bare, forked humanity.

He wanted to live. He had always wanted to live. So we all do – but in us the instinct serves a complex conception, and in him this instinct existed alone. There is in such simple development a gigantic force, and like the pathos of a child’s naive and uncontrolled desire.

This extended passage goes into lots of detail. It could be excerpted from the rest of the tale as a description of the harrowing effects of starving at ease. Falk quickly paints the characters of the main crewmen, the obstinate captain, the chief engineer and so on. And doesn’t stint on the characteristically Conradian hyperbole and his favourite vocabulary of human extremes.

It is, of course, no ordinary accident, but one which leads to the ship drifting helplessly out of the usual shipping lanes as the men slowly starved and descended into despair

Consternation and despair possessed the remaining ship’s company, till the apathy of utter hopelessness re-asserted its sway. That day a fireman committed suicide, running up on deck with his throat cut from ear to ear, to the horror of all hands.

The captain jumps overboard. they boil their boots to eat, skeletons aboard the carcass of a ship. More men commit suicide jumping over. Falk tries to grab and prevent a few but is haunted by the lost look in their eyes, but he resolves not to die.

His heart revolted against the horror of death, and he said to himself that he would struggle for every precious minute of his life.

The carpenter is the only other man of mettle, who’s kept his spirits up. Falk likes him, they form a kind of unspoken bond (as so many men do in Conrad) but one day, as he’s bending over the remaining water butt, he hears the carpenter sneaking up behind to brain him with a crowbar. Falk leaps out the way, punches him to the deck then barricades himself in his cabin. He has a revolver and the porthole of his cabin is next to the the only barrel of freshwater, in other words, if he can stay awake, he can nab the carpenter as he tries to sneak a drink. Next morning, after a tussle, Falk shoots the carpenter dead.

Starved spectres of men crawl out from their hiding places and they butcher and eat the carpenter. Even then, most of them died as the starving weeks dragged on. In the end only three others were rescued with him when the ship was finally spotted and rescued.

And, as usual, in Conrad’s hands the central figure of this harrowing tale assumes symbolic proportions, comes to stand for some kind of cosmic principle.

He had survived! I saw him before me as though preserved for a witness to the mighty truth of an unerring and eternal principle. (p.142)

And not just Falk. Earlier we heard the narrator comparing Hermann’s unnamed niece to a Greek goddess, stirring pagan thoughts. Now, having turned the cannibal Falk into the embodiment of the deep human will to survive and endure, he sees how these two emblematic figures are destined for each other.

She was eminently fitted to interpret for him its feminine side. And in her own way, and with her own profusion of sensuous charms, she also seemed to illustrate the eternal truth of an unerring principle. (p.142)

Falk’s build

Falk defeated the carpenter and survived, and is now such a fierce antagonist because he is big and strong; he has an odd head and face but his body is massive.

The wind swayed the lights so that his sunburnt face, whiskered to the eyes, seemed to successively flicker crimson at me and to go out. I saw the extraordinary breadth of the high cheek-bones, the perpendicular style of the features, the massive forehead, steep like a cliff, denuded at the top, largely uncovered at the temples. The fact is I had never before seen him without his hat; but now, as if my fervour had made him hot, he had taken it off and laid it gently on the floor. Something peculiar in the shape and setting of his yellow eyes gave them the provoking silent intensity which characterised his glance. But the face was thin, furrowed, worn; I discovered that through the bush of his hair, as you may detect the gnarled shape of a tree trunk lost in a dense undergrowth. These overgrown cheeks were sunken. It was an anchorite’s bony head fitted with a Capuchin’s beard and adjusted to a herculean body. I don’t mean athletic. Hercules, I take it, was not an athlete. He was a strong man, susceptible to female charms, and not afraid of dirt. And thus with Falk, who was a strong man. He was extremely strong.

‘Herculean.’ Hercules being, of course, a figure from Greek legend and thus fitting in with the classical hints dropped throughout the text – the niece’s pagan statuesque figure, the name of Hermann’s ship being Diana, use of the adjective pagan and other sneaky little references.

I saw the modest, sleek glory of the tawny head, and the full, grey shape of the girlish print frock she filled so perfectly, so satisfactorily, with the seduction of unfaltering curves—a very nymph of Diana the Huntress. (p.122)

The sirens sing and lure to death, but this one had been weeping silently as if for the pity of his life. She was the tender and voiceless siren of this appalling navigator…

As to Falk’s size and strength, the narrator speculates:

But maybe women liked it. Seen in that light he was well worth taming, and I suppose every woman at the bottom of her heart considers herself as a tamer of strange beasts.

As the feminist saint Sylvia Plath wrote:

Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

The world in a story

One of the marvellous things about Conrad’s fictions is the effort he takes to describe not just the key protagonists, but to depict the entire world in which they move. Having such an extensive cast in every story helps achieve this, but so does a passage like this which tries to paint the wider society the characters move in.

We explored together on that afternoon an infinity of infamous grog shops, gambling dens, opium dens. We walked up narrow lanes where our gharry – a tiny box of a thing on wheels, attached to a jibbing Burmah pony – could by no means have passed. The constable seemed to be on terms of scornful intimacy with Maltese, with Eurasians, with Chinamen, with Klings, and with the sweepers attached to a temple, with whom he talked at the gate. We interviewed also through a grating in a mud wall closing a blind alley an immensely corpulent Italian, who, the ex-sergeant-major remarked to me perfunctorily, had ‘killed another man last year’. Thereupon he addressed him as ‘Antonio’ and ‘Old Buck’, though that bloated carcase, apparently more than half filling the sort of cell wherein it sat, recalled rather a fat pig in a stye. Familiar and never unbending, the sergeant chucked – absolutely chucked – under the chin a horribly wrinkled and shrivelled old hag propped on a stick, who had volunteered some sort of information: and with the same stolid face he kept up an animated conversation with the groups of swathed brown women, who sat smoking cheroots on the door-steps of a long range of clay hovels. We got out of the gharry and clambered into dwellings airy like packing crates, or descended into places sinister like cellars.

The usual Conrad hyperbole

Even in a relatively light-hearted story Conrad can’t help himself resorting to notions like madness, misery, terror, horror, despair, imbecility and so on. It’s second nature to him, these are the concepts and words which come readiest to his pen.

I was glad to make any escape on board that Bremen Diana. There apparently no whisper of the world’s iniquities had ever penetrated. And yet she lived upon the wide sea: and the sea tragic and comic, the sea with its horrors and its peculiar scandals, the sea peopled by men and ruled by iron necessity is indubitably a part of the world.

There was a sense of lurking gruesome horror somewhere in my mind, and it was mingled with clear and grotesque images

He stood up; he flung himself down headlong; he tried to tear the cushion with his teeth; and again hugging it fiercely to his face he let himself fall on the couch. The whole ship seemed to feel the shock of his despair.

Conrad knows his tendency to rush straight to the extremities of human experience is his biggest weakness and throws in a pre-emptive mention of it

‘What is it you said I was last night? You know,’ he [Hermann] asked after some preliminary talk. “Too – too – I don’t know. A very funny word.’
Squeamish?’ I suggested.
‘Yes. What does it mean?’
‘That you exaggerate things – to yourself. Without inquiry, and so on.’ (p.143)

He’s aware he does it but he can’t stop. His stories are made out of exaggeration, extremity and hyperbole. A cannibal!

Puzzlement

The hyperbole is an obvious quality that many readers comment on. But having just read ‘Lord Jim’, ”Typhoon’ and ‘The End of the Tether’, I’ve realised that deeper and more important than it, the core Conrad quality, is the way his characters, and in particular his narrators, are continually puzzled and bewildered by everything, and especially all other human beings. They are hopelessly bewildered by other people’s behaviour.

His manner was usually odd it is true, and I certainly did not pay much attention to it; but that sort of obscure intention, which seemed to lurk in his nonchalance like a wary old carp in a pond, had never before come so near the surface. (p.92)

I remember only that there was, on that evening, enough point in his behaviour to make me, after he had fled, wonder audibly what he might mean. To this Hermann, crossing his legs with a swing and settling himself viciously away from me in his chair, said: ‘That fellow don’t know himself what he means.’ (p.93)

Hermann seemed to be requesting an answer of some sort from her; his whole body swayed. She remained mute and perfectly still; at last his agitation gained her; she put the palms of her hands together, her full lips parted, no sound came. His voice scolded shrilly, his arms went like a windmill – suddenly he shook a thick fist at her. She burst out into loud sobs. He seemed stupefied.

She shook her head back at me negatively, I wonder why to this day.

His tales tend to focus around one person, a man – Almayer, Willems, Karain, Kurtz, Jim, Falk – and the text mostly consists of very lengthy and puzzled speculations about this man’s character and behaviour.

The narrators often cajole their auditors by asking rhetorical questions which demonstrate how the narrator not only doesn’t understand what’s going on, or understand the nature of the central protagonist, but just as often doesn’t understand himself, throwing out speculations and asking his auditors to agree:

How shall I express it? what else could it be?

As a footnote, the narrator thinks women are particularly impenetrable, which may be taken as a sexist thought. But really ‘they’ are only a bit more imponderable than all the men in the story:

It was impossible to make out women. Mrs. Hermann was the only one he pretended to understand.

In a nutshell, nothing is clear. This is another meaning of the comic ending where the narrator finds out that his rivalry with Falk has been turned into a legend. At the time everything is hopelessly confused and afterwards people turn the howling confusion of life into simple stories to comfort and amuse themselves.

Inarticulacy

Intimately connected with the inability to understand other human beings is the continual failure to communicate with each other demonstrated by all the characters, in a hundred ways, large and small.

His speech was not transparently clear. He was one of those men who seem to live, feel, suffer in a sort of mental twilight.

Schomberg tapped his manly breast. I sat half stunned by his irrelevant babble.

Falk had a low, nervous laugh. His cool, negligent undertone had no inflexions, but the strength of a powerful emotion made him ramble in his speech.

I heard Hermann’s voice declaiming in the cabin, and I went in. I could not at first make out a single word, but Mrs. Hermann, who, attracted by the noise, had come in some time before, with an expression of surprise and mild disapproval, depicted broadly on her face, was giving now all the signs of profound, helpless agitation.

And in fact the point of the entire story is a clumsy, maladroit communication. After a very long buildup, after all manner of confusions and misunderstandings – not least Falk’s eccentric decision to tow Hermann’s ship not the narrator’s, without telling either of them, leaving them both astonished – the bombshell at the heart of the story is delivered in one simple sentence:

‘I have eaten man.’

Leaving the narrator faint and Hermann dazed. It’s not only a dazzling revelation in its subject matter but also in that it is an extremely rare instance of someone speaking a simple blunt truth. All that foreplay leading up to this blunt admission!

More than coping with the horror, terror, imbecility etc etc which Conrad says he sees at the heart of human existence, the real subject of his fictions is the difficulty of making sense of the world and, above all, of other people.

Remembering the things one reads of it was difficult to realise the true meaning of his answers. I ought to have seen at once – but I did not; so difficult is it for our minds, remembering so much, instructed so much, informed of so much, to get in touch with the real actuality at our elbow.

The language barrier

His pronunciation of English was so extravagant that I can’t even attempt to reproduce it. For instance, he said ‘Fferie strantch.’ (p.107)

It is of course important that two of the three central figures in the story (narrator, Hermann, Falk) are not British, are not native English speakers. Hermann is German and Falk is Scandinavian and they are both described as struggling to express themselves in English (why are they talking English at all?). When they speak their own languages the narrator, confused already about what’s going on, struggles to understand.

At the sight of Falk, stepping over the gangway, the excellent man would begin to mumble and chew between his teeth something that sounded like German swear-words. However, as I’ve said, I’m not familiar with the language, and Hermann’s soft, round-eyed countenance remained unchanged. (p.90)

And although the narrator is described as a pukka Englishman he is, of course the mouthpiece of Józef Korzeniowski who, although all the literary guides tell you is one of the glories of early 20th century English literature, nonetheless doesn’t write English like an Englishman at all.

The English Edwardian novelists are H.G. Wells, E.M. Forster, John Galsworthy, Arnold Bennett, who are concerned with the micro distinctions of England’s class system and Edwardian scandals, or the suave Somerset Maugham or entertaining Saki or Kipling in his Sussex fairies mode – none of them describe anything like Conrad’s reports back from a universe of horror and moral collapse, none of them have his dramatically florid way with the language which he himself experienced at one remove and had so many of his characters struggle and fail to master.

Silence

The most complete lack of conventional communication is, of course, silence and it is no accident that the woman at the heart of the story, who the men gravitate around like the sun at the centre of her little solar system of men, the niece, never speaks. I wonder if Conrad had her saying this or that, maybe chatting to the narrator on his visits to the Diana etc – but then realised that she became a vastly more potent and symbolic presence if she said nothing, nothing at all.


Related links

Conrad reviews

Kim by Rudyard Kipling (1901) part 2

‘Alas! It is a great and terrible world.’
(The lama’s catchphrase)

In part one of this review I summarised Rudyard Kipling’s 1901 novel, Kim, chapters 1 to 9, picking out interesting quotes, and commenting. This part picks up the summary half way through the novel i.e at chapter 10. It’s not just half way through, though. Chapter ten introduces four elements which change our view of the narrative.

1. For the first time the narrator refers to all the events of the story as not being in the exciting present, following the day-by-day, hour-by-hour exploits of our daring young hero, but in the historic past. Talking about a report Kim writes for his mentor Mahbub Ali, the narrator says:

The report in its unmistakable St Xavier’s running script, and the brown, yellow, and lake-daubed map, was on hand a few years ago (a careless clerk filed it with the rough notes of E’s second Seistan survey), but by now the pencil characters must be almost illegible. (p.144)

This completely changed my attitude to the story, converting it from a tale of the present to one of the past (regarded from Kipling’s time), and so doubly past: from our time back to the time of writing and publishing (1901) and then, further back, by a distance that allows secret reports to be openly published and its writing to fade i.e. an appreciable period.

2. The second thing is related to the first, which is that the narrative (not quite for the first time but for in the first really sustained way) steps back from describing the breathless present, to take a more lofty overview of events. Previously the narrator had reported virtually every scrap of dialogue between Kim and his interlocutors; now the narrator steps back and uses just a few paragraphs to convey the passage of no fewer than three years of Kim’s life, covering his school career at St Xavier’s College. In term time he learns white boy subjects like reading, writing and ‘rithmetic, along with Latin and cricket. In holiday time he accompanies Agent C25, otherwise known as Mahbub Ali, well-known Pathan horse trader, on his ‘business’ trips to various parts of India, all the time learning spycraft on the job. Or he goes to stay with the supposed jeweller Lurgan Sahib up in Simla, where he is instructed in the arts of disguise and blending in.

In other words, after this brief overview of the passage of time, events from chapter ten onwards occur three years later than the events of the first half. We are told that Kim is now 16 years old (p.149).

3. Part of this change involves a switch from direct speech – the overwhelming majority of the text to date has been direct speech i.e. dialogue – to narrative description. It’s like stepping off a fast-moving tram onto the pavement. Suddenly the text has a completely different feel.

4. Lastly, it’s also at the start of chapter 10 that Mahbub gives Kim a gun. A gun.

A mother-of-pearl, nickel-plated, self-extracting .450 revolver.

Suddenly, at a stroke, a story which had been about a 10 or 11 year old boy having innocent adventures turns into a spy story with guns. Guns and knives had, albeit obliquely, occurred earlier, specifically in the scene where Kim warns Ali that two enemy agents are lying in wait to shoot him outside he and his employees’ campment at Lucknow railway station (chapter 8). But with Ali’s ceremonial presentation to Kim of his own gun, suddenly the story seems to have more in common with Raymond Chandler than the innocent schoolboy adventures of Stevenson or Rider Haggard.

Plot summary from chapter 10

Chapter 10

Head of ‘the Department’ Colonel Creighton and two of his best native operatives, Ali and Lurgan, have a summit conference about Kim’s future. The latter pair think Creighton should have been using Kim on missions years ago. For the first (and only) time the phrase ‘Secret Service’ is used. The phrase ‘Great Game’ had cropped up only twice before in the text (‘the Great Game that never ceases day and night, throughout India’); from now on it occurs 15 times.

In Lucknow, Ali takes Kim to visit Huneefa the blind hoori who uses her stain to colour the now-pale Kim back to a native brown. Turns out she is also a witch or enchantress and, as Kim passes out due to heavy soporifics, she casts spells to keep traditional devils away from him. Also turns out that the obese Babu is out on the balcony observing proceedings (with repugnance). He and Ali are both a bit freaked out by the genuine witch intensity Huneefa.

So Colonel Creighton has agreed that Kim can finally definitively leave St Xavier’s. Ali supervises him being painted brown and then clothed in native dress. The plan is to let him wander the roads with his lama for another 6 months as a probationary period.

Chapter 11

So Kim is told he may travel to Tirthankars’ Temple, Benares for a happy reunion with his master, so he catches a train, with the usual casual encounters with other travellers which make the book feel so rich and full.

When he arrives at the Jain temple, the lama is predictably unemotional, shows Kim his cell, explains his devotions, explaining that he has wandered here and yon but many dreams have told him that he would never find the River of Life until he was reunited with his chela. And so he has patiently waited three years for their reunion.

He treats the fevered child of a desperate father, a Jat from Jullundur, with quinine and beef essence, curing him, but with delicacy and grace awards the credit to the god of the Jains, the lama’s hosts, who are flattered. Kipling repeatedly describes the delicacy and respect of the various native traditions, and generally contrasts them with white people’s blundering clumsiness e.g. Bennett the chaplain.

When Kim rises to ‘bless’ the child we discover that he is now, aged 16, ‘tall and slim’, like all male heroes should be (p.164)

The lama decides they will head north, so Kim arranges a train ticket. The Bankoh with the sick son accompanies them. On the train they meet ‘a mean, lean little person – a Mahratta’, who uses the special rhythm of speech and displays his amulet, to let Kim know he is one of the Secret Service, agent E23. He tells a real espionage story of travelling South with a colleague to collect vital information, they are set upon and his colleague killed, he just has time to bury the vital document ‘under the Queen’s Stone, at Chitor’, then he is chased all over central India by enemy agents, one of whom finally attacks and cuts him, before he makes his getaway onto the current train, cut and bleeding and shaking in terror.

Kim puts all his skills of disguise and uses the paintbox Lurgan gave him, to utterly transform E23.

In place of the tremulous, shrinking trader there lolled against the corner an all but naked, ash-smeared, ochre-barred, dusty-haired Saddhu, his swollen eyes –opium takes quick effect on an empty stomach –luminous with insolence and bestial lust, his legs crossed under him, Kim’s brown rosary round his neck, and a scant yard of worn, flowered chintz on his shoulders. (p.171)

Chapter 12

They arrive at Delhi station where a young British officer is leading a group of native policemen in a search for E23. The thing is, the opposition agents have framed him for a murder down South and his picture and description have been widely circulated, to police and officialdom outside ‘the Department’. That’s why Kim performed his makeup magic on the train.

Now the English officer, searching through the train, comes to their compartment, sees a half-naked Saddhu (E23 in disguise), a lama meditating, his chela yakking, and a big hairy peasant (the man with the sick infant) and – with what this book has to taught us to be characteristic English ignorance – dismisses them:

‘Nothing here but a parcel of holy-bolies,’ said the Englishman aloud, and passed on.’

In the immense crowd of Delhi station, E23 sees a tall British officer and contrives to blunder into him, let fly a stream of abuse at which the officer arrests him. E23 just has time to explain that this is Strickland, ‘one of us’, an authority figure who appears in other Kipling stories.

The narrator intervenes to indicate the web of connections which makes up the Great Game. Soon a telegram is going from Strickland’s office in Delhi to agents in Chitor who dig up the letter, and the information, he tells us, has consequences which ripple as far afield as the Ottoman Sultan.

Meanwhile, Kim and the lama set off on foot heading north from Delhi with the foothills of the Himalayas in the background, in scenes of village life beautifully illustrated by Kipling. They are in the neighbourhood of the matron of Hulu who sends servants to invite them to her house. Here there are comic scenes as this domineering woman bosses her household and the lama, while Kim giggles at his discomfort. I realised she’s a bit like Tintin’s Madame Castafiore, imperious, bossy but loveable.

One evening she introduces them to a worker of charms who has healed her sick grandson, before departing grandly in a servant-held palanquin to tour her villagers. At which point the medicine man reveals he is none other than the obese Hurree Babu.

Three things. Babu first of all reveals that it was he who was sent down to Chitor to retrieve the buried document. He tells Kim how impressed everyone in ‘the Department’ was by his quick thinking on the train, in disguising and thus saving E23.

Then he tells him a new situation. Three years earlier the British Army, including the Mavericks, had marched off to fight, in what I take to have been the Second Afghan War (1878 to 1880). At the peace some of the northern princedoms had undertaken to have roads built. Hurree supervised the building but slowly learned that the princes, and the local coolies, all thought of the roads as being prepared for invading Russians. Now, Hurree tells him, two spies have been sent by Russia, one a Russian and one a Frenchman, under cover of a hunting expedition, to spy out the lie of the land, to make maps of the area, to prepare the way, maybe, for an invading army.

Babu says he would simply poison them and be done but the British government with its ludicrous sense of fair play is allowing them to visit and keep up the front of mere hunters. But:

‘They are Russians, and highly unscrupulous people.’

Nothing changes, then. So Hurree asks Kim to head north with him to deal with these Russkies, but not travelling together. Hurree will go ahead and asks Kim to persuade the lama to head northwards, but at a day’s march behind them, so nobody thinks they’re connected. Which is what they do.

Chapter 13

Lovely descriptions of walking up into the foothills of the Himalayas, the villages, the wildlife, the clean air, the bracingly steep slopes. The lama grows stronger as he scents the mountain air of his Tibetan homeland.

Hurree Babu overtakes them and they discuss plans. He tells them to follow his umbrella, which he will keep open at all times, then hurries past them. A few days later he catches up with the two foreign spies up in the mountains. They had bullied the 11 coolies lent them by an independent Rajah one time too many, after a particularly scary thunderstorm, and the servants had melted into the forest. At this propitious moment the Babu appeared and posed as the ‘agent for His Royal Highness, the Rajah of Rampur.’ The Russian and Frenchman are delighted.

He lets them get him drunk and complains more and more about the perfidious British i.e. lulling them into thinking he can be suborned to their cause.

For the first time we see and hear the two foreign spies. Why is one Russian, one French? Because, according to the notes, the Paranoid party in the British administration saw a threat not only from Russia via the North-West Frontier, but (far more remotely) from France, which was annexing parts of China and, it was feared, might attempt an attack on India through Tibet.

The choice of nationalities is made, then, for Kipling’s propaganda purposes. Their characters and conversation are equally propagandistic. They are made to systematically under-estimate the British, taking their (the British) apparent openness to strange travellers as weakness; and to over-estimate their (the Russian and French) understanding of ‘the Oriental mind’. Says the Russian:

‘It is we who can deal with Orientals.’

This kind of hubris, of unjustified vaunting, doesn’t go unpunished in Kipling. wo days later, they come across the lama sitting with the diagram explaining his religion, expounding it to Kim. The foreigners ask who they are. Babu explains this is a famous local holy man, and he will expound the mysteries of Buddhism. The lama is delighted to do so, while Babu takes Kim aside and tells him the foreigners have all their reports – books and reports and maps – stored in a large kilta with the reddish top.

Suddenly – violence! The Russian wants the lama’s diagram, offers money, the lama inevitably refuses, the Russian seizes it and it tears. The lama goes for his metal pencase, the Russian punches him full in the face. All the coolies recoil in superstitious horror. While the lama reels back from the blow, Kim throws himself at the Russian’s throat, rolling down the hill a little, till he can bash the Russian’s head against a boulder. The Frenchman ran towards the lama, fumbling with his revolver as if to take him hostage, but is driven off by a barrage of stones from the coolies, who scoop up the wounded lama and all disappear into the forest, as dusk falls suddenly.

The Babu runs down to Kim, tells him to lay off the Russian, tells him to run and join the coolies in the forest, where they have taken the foreigners’ bags, get possession of the bag of maps. Kim stops bashing, turns and runs. The Frenchman fires and just misses him. For the first time Kim takes out his gun and fires it in anger, missing the Frenchman, then running on into the trees.

Now the Babu takes charge, begging the Frenchman to stop shooting, assisting the injured Russian to his feet.

Cut to the coolies in the fir trees. They are outraged by the act of sacrilege they’ve just seen; one of them points out they have the foreigners’ four rifles and could simply go down and shoot them dead. But the lama, after a moment’s hesitation, rises above the situation and his own injuries and preaches true Buddhist forbearance. No. NO, he commands the coolies who quickly back down. The foreigners’ anger and impiety will bring its own reward. They will be reincarnated as worms. Kim cheerfully chips in that he kicked the Russian in the groin as they tumbled down the hillside together.

No, the coolies will take the lama and Kim back to their village, Shamlegh-under-the-Snow. Kim realises that, despite his brave front, the lama is more badly shaken than he admits. His heart is racing. He feels dizzy. The coolies then discuss how they are going to divide the spoils because they have carried off the foreigners’ entire baggage. Here Kim is canny and doesn’t so much claim the big kilta, the basket containing eight month’s work by the foreigner’s, maps and notes etc, as plants the idea that it is full of bad juju and only he knows how to defuse and turn it away.

Cut to Hurree, a mile away, on the main track with the furious foreigners, alternately shouting at each other or berating him. So he play-acts the stupid native, submits to abuse and blows, the better to stick with them. And hugs himself with glee for he knows how he will guide the losers through scores of mountain villages where they will become a byword for humiliation and ineptitude.

Chapter 14

Arriving at their village the coolies divide their loot. The lama regrets giving way to anger and meditates all night. Next morning Kim meets the Woman of Shamlegh, bold and commanding. The men have gone and left her with the kilta. In her hut Kim spills it on the floor and discovers all the foreign spies’ equipment:

Survey-instruments, books, diaries, letters, maps, and queerly scented native correspondence. At the very bottom was an embroidered bag covering a sealed, gilded, and illuminated document such as one King sends to another.

The woman of Shamlegh flirts with Kim. He is now a tall handsome young man (of 16). She appears to offer Kim her ‘hand’ and headship of the village. Kim has to tactfully decline (p.214) and again on page 218. She is really smitten by his handsomeness. Love interest very unusual in Kipling.

He asks her to take a message to the Babu. Village children are monitoring their process along the forest road. Later she returns with a reply from the Babu that all is well, that Kim and the lama should retrace their steps, and he will overtake them, once he has escorted the foreigners as far as Simla.

The lama comes to sit with the other villagers, dangling their feet over the vertiginous edges of the mountain village, laughing and smoking. He confesses to Kim that he is very sad. It was a mistake to abandon his quest for the River of the Arrow and return to the hills. He comes of the hills and loves the hills but that is precisely why it was giving in to his desires and affections to return up here. And the blow he received was a sign from the Wheel that he was slipping back into the world of emotions. No, they must return down to the plains.

The woman of Shamlegh now reveals that she had an affair with a Sahib who fell sick, who took her to the nearest mission station, taught her the piano, taught her Christianity, left promising to come back but never did. Bitter, she returned to lord it over this shabby little village and its poor menfolk. She was beguiled by Kim because he reminded her of her Sahib, but Kim persists in saying he must return to the plains with his lama till she becomes angry and bitter. She mocks the lama’s weakness, he can barely support himself against the doorpost, and so whistles up some of her men who bring out a dooli, ‘the rude native litter of the Hills’, and carefully lift the ailing lama into it.

She and Kim squabble up to the departure but then he surprises her by dropping his disguise of assistant priest to a lama, taking her round the waist and kissing her, Sahib style, while saying ‘Good-bye, my dear.’ As the litter is carried down the hill by the grunting village men, Kim looks back and sees her, a small figure waving from the door of her hut.

Chapter 15

The final chapter, tying up loose ends. We are told how Hurree Babu continued his pose of obseqious guide till he had led the foreigners all the way to Simla, where he grovellingly begged a testimonial then disappeared. Reappeared in Shamlegh where the Woman told him about Kim and the lama’s departure in the litter, and he sets off to overtake them, having lost quite a lot of weight in all these peregrinations.

Now the lama is becoming ill. When the littermen leave them at the plain Kim becomes his staff, leaned on, carrying the foodbag, the bag with the foreigners’ secrets, begging in the morning, setting up the lama’s blanket, caring for the old man who is visibly dying.

The lama is full of gratitude. Kim says he loves him and has failed him and hasn’t done enough and bursts into tears. The lama raises him up and says he is the best of disciples.

Kim had sent message ahead to the widow of Kulu, the chatterbox who hosted them before. Now she sends a litter to collect the holy man and falls into long middle-aged flirtation which the lama takes in good part. Kim is so tired he’s ill. The widow vows to nurse him back to health.

She gives him a lockable strongbox for the treasures, brews him reviving potions and force them down him, then she and another old woman give him a truly Indian massage, after which Kim sleeps for 36 hours.

When he wakes, refreshed, it’s to discover the Babu has caught up with them and the lady of Kulu, the Sahiba, has been feeding him up, too. He has appeared in his long-running disguise as a ‘humble Dacca quack.’. Now Kim formally hands over the foreigners’ treasure trove to the Babu and it is a great weight off his mind. The responsibility has been stressing him.

We learn that it is clear proof of the treason of some of the northern princes, sucking up to the Tsar, so the British will replace them. And the Babu tells how he delivered them to Simla where they tried to establish their identity at the nearest bank, having made Russia a laughing stock among peasants along the entire route.

(It’s a slight puzzle in the plot that nothing further seems to happen to the two foreign spies. They are allowed to continue on their way.)

The Babu, in his comic way, announces that Mahbub Ali has come to the house too. He has to go now, to make report, but soon they will all rendezvous up at Lurgan Sahib’s in Simla, tell all their stories and have a party. This is all very convivial and happy.

Very interestingly, Kim is portrayed as being so shattered that he feels quite alienated from the world, almost as if he’s had a nervous breakdown. Nothing will focus, nothing makes sense. Then. Click. It all slots into place.

He looked upon the trees and the broad fields, with the thatched huts hidden among crops – looked with strange eyes unable to take up the size and proportion and use of things – stared for a still half-hour. All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his soul was out of gear with its surroundings – a cog-wheel unconnected with any machinery, just like the idle cog-wheel of a cheap Beheea sugar-crusher laid by in a corner. The breezes fanned over him, the parrots shrieked at him, the noises of the populated house behind – squabbles, orders, and reproofs – hit on dead ears.

‘I am Kim. I am Kim. And what is Kim?’ His soul repeated it again and again.

He did not want to cry – had never felt less like crying in his life – but of a sudden easy, stupid tears trickled down his nose, and with an almost audible click he felt the wheels of his being lock up anew on the world without. Things that rode meaningless on the eyeball an instant before slid into proper proportion. Roads were meant to be walked upon, houses to be lived in, cattle to be driven, fields to be tilled, and men and women to be talked to. They were all real and true.

It’s a rare bit of psychology, for Kipling. Kim goes outside for the first time in days and lies on the good earth and feels it healing him.

Cut to Mahbub and the lama returning from a walk. Turns out the lama stumbled into a nearby book a few days earlier, and Mahbub leapt in and stopped him from drowning. But the lama insists that this little brook was the River of the Arrow and that he has finally achieved enlightenment. Mahbub mocks, and makes sarcastic asides in his own language, but is impressed by the lama’s utter certainty. He even sees the funny side when the lama asks him to take up Buddhism and follow The Way.

Mahbub the Muslim Pathan stomps off about his business. The lama calmly sits down beside sleeping Kim and wakes him. He sits:

cross-legged figure, outlined jet-black against the lemon-coloured drift of light. So does the stone Bodhisat sit who looks down upon the patent self-registering turnstiles of the Lahore Museum. (p.239)

Neatly tying the scene back to the very opening outside the Lahore Museum. The lama proceeds to tell Kim in all seriousness how, while he (Kim) was recovering, he (the lama) went and sat under a tree, taking no food or water for two days and two nights. And then:

‘Upon the second night – so great was my reward – the wise Soul loosed itself from the silly Body and went free. This I have never before attained, though I have stood on the threshold of it. Consider, for it is a marvel!’

Freedom from the silly body and its illusions and devilries. Enlightenment. Kipling indulges in a powerfully persuasive vision of the lama’s soul flying completely free of his body, free of the constraints of time and place, and uniting with the Great Soul where everything is always now.

But he felt compelled to return to the body of this poor mortal, Teshoo Lama, in order to show his disciple the way. And the last spoken words of the story are his imprecation to Kim to follow him on the road to salvation:

‘Son of my Soul, I have wrenched my Soul back from the Threshold of Freedom to free thee from all sin – as I am free, and sinless! Just is the Wheel! Certain is our deliverance! Come!’

This is a very moving and persuasive end to this long rambling tale. It deliberately leaves completely up in the air the question whether Kim will follow the way and become a seeker for wisdom, or will at some point be reunited with Babu, Mahbub and Lurgan and graduate into a fully-fledged operative in the Great Game.

My money would be the mystical route, for right at the end he is hugely relieved to be shot of the box of foreigners’ correspondence and says the Great Game can go hang. Whereas his reverence for the lama is deep and unashamed.

But the point is Kipling leaves it as a sort of cliff-hanger. A Rorschach test. What you think happens next says more about you than about the story.

Scenes and descriptions

Odd and clotted though Kipling’s prose often is, he strews the book with beautiful word paintings.

In the Jain temple

Kim watched the last dusty sunshine fade out of the court, and played with his ghost-dagger and rosary. The clamour of Benares, oldest of all earth’s cities awake before the Gods, day and night, beat round the walls as the sea’s roar round a breakwater. Now and again, a Jain priest crossed the court, with some small offering to the images, and swept the path about him lest by chance he should take the life of a living thing. A lamp twinkled, and there followed the sound of a prayer. Kim watched the stars as they rose one after another in the still, sticky dark, till he fell asleep at the foot of the altar.

Climbing the foothills

They crossed a snowy pass in cold moonlight, when the lama, mildly chaffing Kim, went through up to his knees, like a Bactrian camel – the snow-bred, shag-haired sort that came into the Kashmir Serai. They dipped across beds of light snow and snow-powdered shale, where they took refuge from a gale in a camp of Tibetans hurrying down tiny sheep, each laden with a bag of borax. They came out upon grassy shoulders still snow-speckled, and through forest, to grass anew.

The shikarris who save Kim and the lama

They sat down a little apart from the lama, and, after listening awhile, passed round a water-pipe whose receiver was an old Day and Martin blacking-bottle. The glow of the red charcoal as it went from hand to hand lit up the narrow, blinking eyes, the high Chinese cheek-bones, and the bull-throats that melted away into the dark duffle folds round the shoulders. They looked like kobolds from some magic mine – gnomes of the hills in conclave. And while they talked, the voices of the snow-waters round them diminished one by one as the night-frost choked and clogged the runnels.

There’s story, there’s a plot of sorts, there’s characters. But you could argue that Kim is worth reading, and treasuring, for these descriptions alone.

Secondary characters

Quite apart from the main, recurring characters, Kim has a large cast of walk-on parts, especially when Kim is on the road or on a train with his lama.

  • Huneefa, the blind witch or mistress of dawat
  • A long-haired Hindu bairagi (holy man), who had just bought a ticket, halted before him at that moment and stared intently (p.156)
  • a chance-met Punjabi farmer—a Kafmboh from Jullundur-way who had appealed in vain to every God of his homestead to cure his small son (p.157)
  • A white-clad Oswal banker from Ajmir, his sins of usury new wiped out (p.158)
  • a mean, lean little person—a Mahratta, so far as Kim could judge by the cock of the tight turban (p.167)
  • A hot and perspiring young Englishman (p.173)
  • A tallish, sallowish District Superintendent of Police – belt, helmet, polished spurs and all – strutting and twirling his dark moustache (p.174); this turns out to be Inspector Strickland, an authority figure who appears in other Kipling stories
  • the Russian spy
  • the French spy
  • the man from Ao-chung who emerges as the leader of the rebellious coolies
  • the Woman of Shamlegh

Kim’s identity crises

Modern literary and art criticism is obsessed the idea of identity and the umpteen different crises it is prey to – gender identity, sexual identity, national identity, ethnic identity, religious identity. Kipling was there 120 years earlier with this story of a boy with an excess of identities: is he the orphan of a British soldier? Or a canny street kid from Lahore? Or a budding young spy for the Raj?

[Ali] ‘Therefore, in one situate as thou art, it particularly behoves thee to remember this with both kinds of faces. Among Sahibs, never forgetting thou art a Sahib; among the folk of Hind, always remembering thou art – He paused, with a puzzled smile.
[Kim] ‘What am I? Mussalman, Hindu, Jain, or Buddhist? That is a hard knot.’

And:

[Kim] ‘Hai mai! I go from one place to another as it might be a kickball. It is my Kismet. No man can escape his Kismet. But I am to pray to Bibi Miriam, and I am a Sahib.’ He looked at his boots ruefully. ‘No; I am Kim. This is the great world, and I am only Kim. Who is Kim?’ He considered his own identity, a thing he had never done before, till his head swam. He was one insignificant person in all this roaring whirl of India, going southward to he knew not what fate. (p.101)

Who is Kim, indeed?

A very few white people, but many Asiatics, can throw themselves into a mazement as it were by repeating their own names over and over again to themselves, letting the mind go free upon speculation as to what is called personal identity. When one grows older, the power, usually, departs, but while it lasts it may descend upon a man at any moment.

‘Who is Kim – Kim –Kim?’

He squatted in a corner of the clanging waiting-room, rapt from all other thoughts; hands folded in lap, and pupils contracted to pin-points. In a minute – in another half-second – he felt he would arrive at the solution of the tremendous puzzle; but here, as always happens, his mind dropped away from those heights with a rush of a wounded bird, and passing his hand before his eyes, he shook his head.

When the Russian punches the lama, Kim retaliates like a hot-blooded Irishman (his father was Irish and his Irish ‘blood’ is made much of throughout the text). Then he kneels over the lama, cradling his head and speaking like a native.

Then he remembered that he was a white man, with a white man’s camp-fittings at his service.

Lachrymose literary critics, keen to make everything a crisis, lament Kim’s ‘split’ identity and are all-too-quick to make it a symbol of India itself, with some tragic divide between coloniser and colonised. But there are two other, less hysterical ways to think about the issue.

One is the obvious one that is front and centre of the story itself, which is that the depth of the white boy’s knowledge of Indian street life makes him wonderful choice of operative for Creighton and the Department: an entirely positive, good thing.

The other is even simpler, which is that it’s fun and it’s cool. It’s cool being Kim, king of the streets in Lahore, skilled manipulator of railway carriages, of resting places on the Great Trunk Road, teller of tales to big households. Street urchin, loyal disciple, schoolboy, trainee spy. Dressing up and having adventures is what Sherlock Holmes and loads of other protagonists of 1890s adventure stories love to do, and which boys of all ages who read them, wish they could do.

Kipling’s crabbed prose and plotless stories

As discussed in the first of these two Kim reviews, Kipling’s prose is crabbed, abbreviated, littered with Biblical or official or archaic vocabulary, allusive, telegraphic. He uses almost any device in order to prevent it being smooth and flowing and easily comprehensible. It’s the textual embodiment of his barely fierceness, his energy, his sarcasm, his facetiousness. Some sentences just require a double take.

Lurgan Sahib did not use as direct speech, but his advice tallied with Mahbub’s

Meaning that Lurgan didn’t say it so directly as Mahbub did. Odd locution, though, isn’t it? Examples abound. Here’s the start of chapter 11. After being handed his disguise, a small gun, and news from Ali that he’s allowed to go see his lama, Ali then leaves him alone at Lucknow train station, and:

Followed a sudden natural reaction.

Think of all the ways you’d rewrite that to make it smoother, more readable, more enjoyable. No, Kipling prefers the clipped, telegraphese.

The man who couldn’t write plots

I’d like to link this tendency with another major tendency of Kipling’s fiction, which is his struggle to come up with plots, with actual storylines. Many of his short stories do, indeed, have plots, but it’s also quite common to come across ones which are more like anecdotes which have been stretched, or sometimes just like clever ideas which have been padded out. I’m thinking of the ‘story’ of a new-built ship where he gives all the parts voices and shows how they learn to work together. Or the one about the animal inhabitants of an old mill who react to it being hooked up to electric power by its owner. These are good ideas but they don’t quite build up to be actual stories. Ditto, for example, the Just So stories. It’s a brilliant idea, but quite a few of the actual stories don’t quite live up to the original conception.

The Norton edition contains excerpts from letters and relevant writers. In particular it has several short excerpts from the autobiography Kipling wrote right at the end of his life, ‘Something of Myself’. And in these it’s interesting to read not once but twice, he himself conceding that thinking out plots was his chief shortcoming as a writer. He describes the way he chewed over a revised version of Kim with his father, chatting over their time in India over many a pipe of tobacco. It was in this process that many of the very specific details with bejewel the final narrative, its ‘opulence of detail’, were remembered and added. At which point he goes on to write:

As to its form there was but one possibility to the author, who said that what was good enough for Cervantes was good enough for him. To whom the Mother: ‘Don’t you stand in your wool-boots hiding behind Cervantes with me! You know you couldn’t make a plot to save your soul.’ (p.275)

Several things. One, it displays Kipling’s enduring bond with his parents. He was clearly very attached to his mother and father till the end of his life, and this is sweet. Two, this is a typically contorted way of making his point, hiding it behind dialogue with his mother. Three, and this may be because he’s embarrassed to admit such a cardinal failing in a writer, that he had great ideas, brilliant ideas, but struggled to work them up into plots and narratives.

You turn the page and there’s another excerpt from Something of Myself which really rams it home.

Kim, of course, was nakedly picaresque and plotless – a thing imposed from without. (p.277)

Not just this, he then goes on to write a colourful paragraph describing how he ‘dreamed for many years’ of turning the story into a good, solid, three-volume Victorian novel, with a compelling storyline,  psychologically rich characters, carefully worked out symbolism etc etc. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Not being able to do this, I dismissed the ambition as ‘beneath the thinking mind’. So does a half-blind man dismiss shooting and golf.

I think he’s being hard on himself. Tens of thousands of novels are coming-of-age stories which hang a sequence of sometimes pretty random incidents on the notion that they all occurred to the central protagonist and marked his or her ‘development’ and growth from childhood, through adolescence into adulthood. Kim is no more random than many of these. In fact I think he does a good job of establishing the main characters – the lama at the start, Mahbub Ali growing in importance, Lurgan Sahib appearing half way through to add colour and variety, then Hurree Babu adding strangeness.

But clearly Kipling himself saw the novel as deficient in plot, and plot-planning as a major weakness in his abilities as a writer.

Is Kipling’s crabbed style a compensation for lack of plot?

My suggestion is that, after reading lots of Kipling, I began to wonder whether his odd, crabbed, cryptic, archaicising, Biblicising prose style was what he twisted up and contorted and worked on instead of plots. He knew he couldn’t make an impact with dramatic stories – so he developed, or jazzed up his already eccentric way of writing, instead.

I imagined him getting more and more frustrated with himself and, in his stress and anxiety, strangulating the English language into ever weirder shapes and locutions, as if  the baroque overwroughtness of his prose would somehow compensate for what he himself was very conscious was an embarrassing absence of fully worked-out story.


Credit

Kim was serialised in Cassell’s Magazine from January to November 1901, and first published in book form by Macmillan & Co. Ltd in October 1901. All references are to the 2002 Norton Critical Edition edited by Zohreh T. Sullivan.

Related links

Related reviews

The Black Mask by E.W. Hornung (1901)

The paperback edition of Raffles stories I picked up in a second-hand bookshop contains the first eight Raffles stories (originally collected in a volume titled The Amateur Cracksman, published in 1899) along with the second eight, which were collected in the next volume, The Black Mask, published in 1901.

The final story in volume one had ended with the failure of Raffles’s most ambitious plan – to steal a priceless pearl which was being taken by courier on a German steamer across the Mediterranean. Caught by his nemesis – Inspector Mackenzie of Scotland Yard – Raffles was given a moment to say goodbye to his ‘fiancée’ – a young Australian woman that he’d actually been using to find out more about the pearl – and takes the opportunity to jump up onto the ship’s railing and, as Mackenzie and the ship’s officers run to stop him, to dive overboard into the sea.

His assistant and the narrator of the Raffles tales, ‘Bunny’ Manders, thinks he catches sight of a head bobbing in the long reflection of the sunset across the waves, before he is himself dragged off to be thrown into the brig, taken back to Britain, tried, found guilty, publicly shamed and humiliated, and sent to prison for his part in Raffles’s various thefts.

There the series appeared to end with Bunny in the nick and Raffles drowned off the Italian coast. But…

The stories

1. No Sinecure

The first story in the new set reveals that… it is not so!!

It is 18 months later, Bunny has served his time in HMP Holloway. A wealthy relation has reluctantly taken pity on him and found him a hovel of a garret to live in while Bunny pursues an unsuccessful career as a freelance writer.

One day Bunny gets a telegram telling him to look at an advert in that day’s Daily Mail. It is an advert for a nurse-cum-gentleman’s assistant to an ailing old man, Mr Maturin. Bunny pawns some belongings to buy a suit and heads off for the interview at an apartment block in Earl’s Court.

He is let into the apartment by a zippy young doctor, Dr Theobald, who is the ageing Mr Maturin’s personal physician, and then ushered into the darkened room where the invalid lies in bed, white-haired and white-faced. As soon as the physician has exited, Bunny realises that the figure in the bed is… RAFFLES, his old mentor and partner in crime!!

Even as bubblegum, popcorn entertainment the stories are not as barbed and gripping as they might be. For example, you might have expected Bunny to be a bit cross with the man who led him into a life of crime, got him banged up for eighteen months, and ruined his life. You might have expected some kind of psychological reckoning. But not a bit of it, he’s just thrilled to see old A.J. again.

Raffles gives the briefest explanation of his escape: it was a hard swim, the reflection of the setting sun dazzled any potential pursuers, and life for a half-naked man wading ashore on Capri was challenging. The peasants gave him clothes, he got odd jobs, he worked his way north along the coast and into France. That’s about it. Then we are swiftly on to this week’s adventure.

Bunny helps Raffles get dressed in formal evening wear and they take a circuitous route across the apartment block roof (This is to avoid awkward questions from the porter in the apartment block’s downstairs lobby). They go down by a separate set of stairs, and head to Kellner’s Restaurant in the West End. Here, Raffles explains, he and Bunny are going to pretend to be rich Americans meeting the head of a famous firm of Regent Street jewellers’.

Over dinner in a private room the jeweller places on the table a series of expensive pieces. Raffles, in his guise as American millionaire, declares he wants them all – can he take them and send round a cheque? As expected, the jeweller laughs in his face, so Raffles makes a suggestion. Why doesn’t he place the pieces in the cigarette carton he happens to be carrying, seal it up, and give it back to the jeweller who can post it round in three days, after he’s received and cashed Raffles’s cheque.

The Regent Street jeweller agrees and they call for string and sealing wax, carefully stow the jewels in the carton, wrap and seal it, stand up and shake hands, then the jeweller departs with the carton which he will, as promised, post.

Leaving Raffles to open his voluminous jacket to reveal… the cigarette carton with the jewels in it!!

While there had been a hiatus of waiters coming in with brown paper, string and whatnot, Raffles had swapped the carton with the jewels in it for an identical but empty one – which is the one they wrapped up and gave to the jeweller!

Quickly they take a cab back to Earl’s Court, climb up the parallel staircase, and over the roofs, back into the sick room, where Raffles changes back into pyjamas and gets into bed. Raffles is back! and Bunny has helped him pull off his first job of the new era!!

Raffles and Bunny on the roof, illustration by F. C. Yohn (1906)

Raffles and Bunny on the roof, illustration by F. C. Yohn (1906)

2. A Jubilee Present

Taking advantage of the absence of Dr Theobald, Raffles takes Bunny along to the Gold Room at the British Museum. It is meant to be just a reconnaissance trip, but Raffles is loudly telling his sidekick how he plans to steal a priceless gold cup when a hidden policemen surprises them both by stepping out of the shadows.

After a few moments of trying to bluff his way out of it, Raffles simply hits the man over the head with a stick and they walk quickly but calmly past the attendants in the other rooms, down the steps, and into a hansom cab which takes them to the nearest tube, and so anonymously and safely back to the Earls Court. Here Raffles shows Bunny that in all the confusion – he pocketed a priceless gold relic.

In the event, the relic is too rare to fence, and too culturally precious to melt down for the gold (Raffles is, after all, a gentleman of taste). So, for fun, he sends it anonymously to Queen Victorian to celebrate her Jubilee!

3. The Fate of Faustina

Some Italian organ grinders in the street outside prompt Raffles to reminisce about the time he spent on the island where he had stumbled ashore, naked and exhausted, having made his getaway from the ship, as described above.

Once taken in and given clothes by kind locals, he got a labouring job and fell in love with a peasant girl, Faustina. But she was the beloved of the creepy Stefano, himself a factor to the big, rich lord, Count Corbucci.

Raffles planned with the girl to flee the island and stole a revolver which he shows her how to use. That night he is creeping down the steep staircase carved in the rock towards the cavern which they have made their secret hideaway when… he hears blundering footsteps coming up the other way.

Raffles crouches into an alcove to let the heavy-breathing big guy wheeze past and then lights a match, to reveal that it is the Count. After some ironical exchanges the count tells Raffles to go and find his beloved and turns round to resume the ascent with a scornful laugh.

Raffles hurtles down the steps and into the cavern to find Faustina dead, stabbed to death. She had been caught by Stefano and the Count, had revealed her plan to escape and drawn the gun on them, but they had wrenched it off her and stabbed her to death. Stefano is still in the cave and Raffles shoots him dead.

Raffles runs back up to the steps and along to Corbucci’s house where he roughly ties up the Count and locks all the doors, half hoping the blackguard will starve to death there. Then Raffles takes a dinghy to the mainland, and quickly skims over the way he stowed away on ships taking him further up the coast, getting small jobs where possible.

But there I had to begin all over again, and at the very bottom of the ladder. I slept in the streets. I begged. I did all manner of terrible things, rather hoping for a bad end, but never coming to one.

One day, catching sight of himself in a mirror, Raffles realises he looks like an exhausted white-haired old wreck and that no-one back in London would now recognise him. And so to London he returns, adopts the character of the old paralytic, hires Dr Theobald to make it all look kosher, and then arranged for Bunny to come calling looking for the job.

However, now he tells Bunny that – they have followed him.

Who, the police? asks Bunny. No, the CAMORRA!

Count Corbucci was a top man in the Italian underworld organisation, the Camorra, and Raffles is not surprised that word has been put out to every Italian in London to track him down. If he’s not much mistaken, that’s exactly what the Italian barrel organ people out the front of their flats have been doing. Tracking him down and staking him out.

4. The Last Laugh

Sure enough it was the Camorra. One night Bunny spots a man in the darkness opposite their block of flats standing and watching. Raffles waits till Bunny has changed into his pyjamas to go to bed, then declares he’s going out to confront these watchers in the dark.

Bunny springs to the window and watches Raffles emerge from the apartment block and the man opposite promptly turn and walk away, with Raffles in hot pursuit. But then Bunny sees a big fat man in a slouch hat amble into the street, pass directly under the window of their flat, and make off after the other two. Something’s up. Quick, he better warn his hero!

Bunny changes into his clothes, runs out into the street, hires a hansom and drives around west London in a fever, but can find no trace of Raffles or the others. Finally, he returns to the flat and remains, looking out the window in an agony of suspense all night.

Suddenly, there’s a frantic knocking at the apartment door and a one-eyed Italian stands there talking very fast Italian and gesturing for Bunny to follow. Out into the street, along Earls Court Road to the cab stand, into the first hansom, then it is a feverish life-or-death drive across London to Bloomsbury, with the cab driver using all his wiles to weave in and out of traffic and take unexpected side streets.

It’s exactly the same mentality as the car chases in James Bond or Jason Bourne movies, the same nail-biting tension building up, only set in 1901 and with hansom cabs.

The one-eyed Italian directs the cab to Bloomsbury Square and makes him pull up outside number 38. Out they leap, run across the pavement, burst through the door, run up the stairs, and into a room where Bunny is horrified to discover Raffles bound to the wall by leather ropes threaded through iron hoops attached in the wall, with a gag thrust in his mouth, covered in blood from a beating.

But the Italian doesn’t falter and continues his run at an old grandfather clock standing dead opposite Raffles, knocking it to the ground just as the revolver attached to the clock face fires, as it had been arranged to do, as the clock struck noon.

Not only had the Count’s men tied Raffles up and beaten him… they had arranged this fiendish death as a psychological torture. For the best part of 12 hours Raffles had had to watch the minute hand slowly creeping round and the apparatus inch towards the point where the clock hand would pull the trigger of the revolver and shoot him through the heart!

Who is the one-eyed man and why was it all left to the last minute? As they undo the straps and set Raffles free, he explains to Bunny that the man is one of the Count’s assistants who Raffles got a few moments alone with and managed to bribe – persuaded him that he (Raffles) would see him set up and safe if he would help.

Why the delay and the wild panic drive? Because the Count and his other assistant didn’t leave to get a train from Victorian until 11am. So 11 was the earliest that the one-eyed man could leave on his life-or-death dash for Bunny, all the time knowing that they had to be back before noon.

But did the Count leave on time? Did he ever leave the building? Cue dramatic music!!

For now Raffles reveals a further twist in the story. He had for some time been walking around with a hip flask filled with spirits, tinctured with — the deadliest poison known to man!!

‘It is cyanide of cacodyl, and I have carried that small flask of it about with me for months. Where I got it matters nothing; the whole point is that a mere sniff reduces flesh to clay. I have never had any opinion of suicide, as you know, but I always felt it worthwhile to be forearmed against the very worst. Well, a bottle of this stuff is calculated to stiffen an ordinary roomful of ordinary people within five minutes; and I remembered my flask when they had me as good as crucified in the small hours of this morning. I asked them to take it out of my pocket. I begged them to give me a drink before they left me. And what do you suppose they did?’

What the Count and his pal did was taunt Raffles with the flask, refuse him a drink, then go downstairs and drink a toast to their wicked scheme. And promptly dropped dead, where our heroes find them, grimly spread across table and floor in positions of agony.

These two stories are quite significantly more blood-thirsty than anything which has gone before in the Raffles canon. It was only half a dozen stories back that Raffles was invited down to a country house weekend on the strength of his cricketing skills, in a story as concerned with satirising vicars and duchesses as with robbery. The tone seems to have darkened considerably. It would be interesting to know from a Raffles scholar if this reflected any change in the tone of fiction, or of popular culture, at around this date – or whether someone had suggested to Hornung that he take Raffles in a new direction.

But murder, torture, suicide and poison introduce a new, more highly-strung mood into the stories.

5. To Catch a Thief

There has been an outbreak of jewellery thefts among the highest of high society. Raffles and Bunny know it is not them for the simple reason that they are still in self-imposed hiding in their Earls Court flat.

This entire second series of stories is rather stifled by this fact, the fact that – even though his appearance has changed considerably for the worse – Raffles is still petrified that someone will identify him, the cops will arrest him and he’ll be sent to prison. They tend to only go out at night, generally in disguise, and even then avoid the fashionable parts of London. A lot of the devil-may-care, man on the town spirit of the first set of stories has thus been sacrificed. They feel more claustrophobic.

Anyway, without much detective work Raffles has identified that the man responsible for this little crime wave is himself a member of the upper classes, one Lord Ernest Belville.

So they drive round to his lordship’s apartment in the swanky new King John’s Mansions. When they announce that Lord Ernest is expecting them, the porter nods them through and the page boy obligingly takes them up in the electric lift (a relative novelty in the stories) and unlocks and shows them into his Lordship’s flat. That wasn’t very difficult, then.

Raffles and Bunny thoroughly search every room in Belville’s flat and, as always happens, it is the last place they look that they stumble upon the hiding place of the jewels.

(That trope, that the thing the heroes are looking for is always in the last place they think of, after everywhere else has been searched, must be a deep narrative truth. It is a profound fixture of this kind of ‘search’ story.)

And then there’s yet another cliché which is that, having emptied the hiding place (which was a set of hollow Indian exercise clubs) of all Lord Ernest’s loot, they have just fitted everything back in place, closed the windows and cupboards, turned all the lights off and are about to make a quiet exit when…. they hear a key being fitted into the lock!

Lord Ernest confronts them whereat Raffles, with his lightning wits, waves a gun and pretends to be the police. He leaves Bunny to tie up his lordship, saying he’ll just go for reinforcements. Inevitably big strong Belville manages to overcome Bunny and knock him cold, escaping down the fire escape.

Raffles comes back in, wakens up the groggy Bunny, and they swiftly depart the flats, walking across St James’s to hop into a hansom cab and so home.

Now, as usual, they decide to avoid the porter in the lobby of their block of flats, and so go up a set of service stairs and then across the rooftops. Raffles is in advance of Bunny who is still slow and groggy from being knocked out. Raffles goes to get a light to help him.

In his absence, however, Belville appears brandishing the revolver he took off Bunny. Turns out he did not escape down the fire escape, but hid in the toilet and listened to Raffles and Bunny’s conversation – then followed them in the darkness across St James’s, then by cab etc.

Now he handcuffs Bunny to the railings of a perilous little iron bridge over a deep drop between two wings of the apartment block. Raffles reappears and there is a confrontation while the two gentleman thieves congratulate each other on their style and then proceed to debate how they’re going to proceed.

A big storm is brewing. There is lightning. A tremendous gust of wind blows out the lamp Raffles was holding and he lunges forward. Ernest tries to block his move but trips and plummets down down into the well between buildings, landing splat on the concrete at the bottom.

Raffles releases Bunny from his handcuffs and helps him along into the safety of their apartment.

Somewhere along the line Raffles has switched from the light and airy comedy of Lord Amersteth’s house party and cricket match to a world of murder and cyanide in what feels like a permanent Gothic night. Jeeves and Wooster have turned into Batman.

6. An Old Flame

Wheeling Raffles along in a bath chair in his character as invalid, Bunny is horrified when the old man sees an open window into a posh Mayfair house too attractive to resist. He clambers up to the first floor balcony and into a room with much silver on show, but is caught by the lady of the house entering.

Bunny pushes the bath chair quickly round the corner and away from this disastrous scene – but is amazed when a few moments later Raffles catches up with him. The woman turns out to be no other than Jacques Saillard, a passionate headstrong Spanish woman who has made a reputation as a painter. They had an affair some years before.

They have barely got home before the doorbell rings and it is her. She has followed them. She insists Raffles dismisses Bunny who is kicked out of the flat while she gives Raffles an earful of complaint.

Next thing Bunny knows is that Raffles asks him to find them a place in the country. Now this woman knows he’s alive she will sooner or later blurt out the secret. Raffles tells Bunny to go and find a nice quiet cottage somewhere like Ham Common west of Richmond. So off Bunny goes and does just that, renting it from a kindly old lady. Raffles had made his dismissal official, getting Dr Theobald to pay him off (it’s easy to forget that for all the stories in this volume Bunny has, supposedly, been an assistant and help to the supposedly confirmed old invalid Mr Maturin.

Bunny waits for news of Raffles’s arrival and, after ten days, pays a visit back to the apartment block in Earls Court. Here he is horrified to learn from Dr Theobald that Mr Maturin has passed away. They are just carrying the coffin downstairs. Bunny watches appalled.

Next day he attends the funeral in an agony of unhappiness, watches Dr Theobald and then Jacques Saillard pay their respects and drive away. An odd-looking fellow had been hanging round and now offers Bunny, the last mourner, a lift in his brougham.

Wwll, no prizes for guessing that this chap turns out to be… Raffles in disguise! Yes, he faked his own death to throw Jacques Saillard off the track and paid Dr Theobald a whopping £1,000 to sign the death certificate and keep quiet.

7. The Wrong House

Freed from their Earls Court base, Raffles and Bunny move in to the cottage on Ham Common and tell the kindly old landlady that Raffles is Bunny’s brother, returned from Australia.

But old habits die hard and this story is about the semi-farcical attempt to burgle a stockbroker’s house near the common and make a quick getaway on the newfangled technology of bicycles!

Unfortunately, it is a dark and foggy night and they end up breaking into the wrong house, which is a private school packed with plucky young students, who grab Bunny, until Raffles manages to free him at which point they are confronted by the head of the school and only just about blag their way out – claiming that they were innocent passersby who saw the burglary taking place.

They run out top the drive where they have stashed their bicycles and set off with the students giving such close pursuit that they actually wrench their handlebars, but our heroes manage to shake them off, and make their escape, going on an immense roundabout route before returning, none the better off, to the little cottage.

8. The Knees of the Gods

The Boer War breaks out on 11 October 1899. Raffles and Bunny read about it and then, as the tide turns against Britain, decide to volunteer. Being a bit old, unable to be conscripted in England, they take ship to South Africa and wangle their way into a regiment there, as privates.

Here a very strange thing happens. Hornung’s style turns into Rudyard Kipling’s. Having read almost all of Kipling’s 120 or so short stories, I can report that, in his later tales, he made a point of revising the stories again and again, to remove extraneous words and phrases, repeatedly paring and chipping away at the stories to make them more and more clipped and allusive, often to the point of obscurity.

To my surprise, that’s what happens to Hornung’s style. It’s as if he’s incapable of broaching on the subject which Kipling’s massive imaginative presence, in poems, short stories and novels, virtually owned – Britain’s imperial wars – without adopting his style.

The plot, such as it is, revolves around a corporal in Bunny and Raffles’s platoon who they come to suspect is a Boer spy, and catch in the act of releasing British horses and packing them off to the Boer lines. Raffles impresses an officer in the regiment who, it turns out, he was at school with – presents definitive evidence of the corporal’s guilt – and the corporal is shot as a spy (after Raffles and this officer spent forty or so minutes chatting, inevitably, about cricket, that great social marker of the pukka Englishman).

But it’s the adoption of Kipling’s often puzzlingly clipped and allusive style which dominates the story, for me. For example, this dodgy corporal, Connal, picks on Bunny until Raffles steps in to defend him (in best public school style).

Connal was a hulking ruffian, and in me had ideal game. The brute was offensive to me from the hour I joined. The details are of no importance, but I stood up to him at first in words, and finally for a few seconds on my feet. Then I went down like an ox, and Raffles came out of his tent. Their fight lasted twenty minutes, and Raffles was marked, but the net result was dreadfully conventional, for the bully was a bully no more.

That phrase, ‘Their fight lasted twenty minutes, and Raffles was marked’ – the clipped understatement of ‘Raffles was marked’ – is fantastically redolent of the stiff-upper-lip, public schoolboy tone of Kipling’s stories about schoolboy hi-jinks, Stalky and Co.

This obliqueness really comes over as the story builds to a climax. The platoon is tasked with taking a hill held by Boers, and is crawling forwards when Bunny is drilled by a bullet through the thigh. Raffles of course comes to his aid, pulling him into the shelter of a rock and taking it upon himself to try and locate and shoot the sniper who did it. Up and down he pops behind this rock, chatting away merrily to Bunny, commentating on his progress in identifying the blighter’s location, ducking down again to reload, popping up again to take another pot shot.

Until he is shot dead. Raffles proves himself the ultimate good chap by dying for his Queen and Country. This puzzled me because I know there is at least one more set of Raffles short stories, plus an entire novel, so I am intrigued how Hornung got around the difficulty of killing off his hero.

But what impressed me more than Raffles’s death was the extraordinary way it is described. These last few pages consist almost entirely of Raffles’s confidant chat to Bunny, who is by now, in pain and losing consciousness, with each long paragraph of dialogue, just briefly ended by a phase about Raffles reloading from his bandolier.

His entire activity of jumping up to take pot shots, then ducking back down again, is not described, it is only implied, through the couple of references to bandolier, and some of Raffles’s banter about ‘missing the blighter’ and so on.

It took me a page or so of rereading to figure out what was happening and I was really struck by the technique because this is exactly what Kipling’s later short stories are like. In Kipling’s short stories, also, the explanatory text is pruned so far back that it is often difficult to work out exactly what is going on. Only a long quote can give the effect, the way rhythm supersedes sense, and the way concrete detail is omitted and key facts only implied.

It was not a minute before Raffles came to me through the whistling scud, and in another I was on my back behind a shallow rock, with him kneeling over me and unrolling my bandage in the teeth of that murderous fire.

It was on the knees of the gods, he said, when I begged him to bend lower, but for the moment I thought his tone as changed as his face had been earlier in the morning.

To oblige me, however, he took more care; and, when he had done all that one comrade could for another, he did avail himself of the cover he had found for me. So there we lay together on the veldt, under blinding sun and withering fire, and I suppose it is the veldt that I should describe, as it swims and flickers before wounded eyes.

I shut mine to bring it back, but all that comes is the keen brown face of Raffles, still a shade paler than its wont; now bending to sight and fire; now peering to see results, brows raised, eyes widened; anon turning to me with the word to set my tight lips grinning. He was talking all the time, but for my sake, and I knew it. Can you wonder that I could not see an inch beyond him? He was the battle to me then; he is the whole war to me as I look back now.

‘Feel equal to a cigarette? It will buck you up, Bunny. No, that one in the silver paper, I’ve hoarded it for this. Here’s a light; and so Bunny takes the Sullivan! All honour to the sporting rabbit!’

‘At least I went over like one,’ said I, sending the only clouds into the blue, and chiefly wishing for their longer endurance. I was as hot as a cinder from my head to one foot; the other leg was ceasing to belong to me.

‘Wait a bit,’ says Raffles, puckering; ‘there’s a gray felt hat at deep long-on, and I want to add it to the bag for vengeance…. Wait—yes—no, no luck! I must pitch ’em up a bit more. Hallo! Magazine empty. How goes the Sullivan, Bunny? Rum to be smoking one on the veldt with a hole in your leg!’

‘It’s doing me good,’ I said, and I believe it was. But Raffles lay looking at me as he lightened his bandolier.

‘Do you remember,’ he said softly, ‘the day we first began to think about the war? I can see the pink, misty river light, and feel the first bite there was in the air when one stood about; don’t you wish we had either here! ‘Orful slorter, orful slorter;’ that fellow’s face, I see it too; and here we have the thing he cried. Can you believe it’s only six months ago?’

‘Yes,’ I sighed, enjoying the thought of that afternoon less than he did; ‘yes, we were slow to catch fire at first.’

‘Too slow,’ he said quickly.

‘But when we did catch,’ I went on, wishing we never had, ‘we soon burnt up.’

‘And then went out,’ laughed Raffles gayly. He was loaded up again. ‘Another over at the gray felt hat,’ said he; ‘by Jove, though, I believe he’s having an over at me!’

‘I wish you’d be careful,’ I urged. ‘I heard it too.’

‘My dear Bunny, it’s on the knees you wot of. If anything’s down in the specifications surely that is. Besides – that was nearer!

‘To you?’

‘No, to him. Poor devil, he has his specifications too; it’s comforting to think that…. I can’t see where that one pitched; it may have been a wide; and it’s very nearly the end of the over again. Feeling worse, Bunny?”

No, I’ve only closed my eyes. Go on talking.’

‘It was I who let you in for this,’ he said, at his bandolier again.

‘No, I’m glad I came out.’

And I believe I still was, in a way; for it WAS rather fine to be wounded, just then, with the pain growing less; but the sensation was not to last me many minutes, and I can truthfully say that I have never felt it since.

‘Ah, but you haven’t had such a good time as I have!’

‘Perhaps not.’

Had his voice vibrated, or had I imagined it? Pain-waves and loss of blood were playing tricks with my senses; now they were quite dull, and my leg alive and throbbing; now I had no leg at all, but more than all my ordinary senses in every other part of me. And the devil’s orchestra was playing all the time, and all around me, on every class of fiendish instrument, which you have been made to hear for yourselves in every newspaper. Yet all that I heard was Raffles talking.

‘I have had a good time, Bunny.’ Yes, his voice was sad; but that was all; the vibration must have been in me.

‘I know you have, old chap,’ said I.

‘I am grateful to the General for giving me to-day. It may be the last. Then I can only say it’s been the best – by Jove!’

‘What is it?’ And I opened my eyes. His were shining. I can see them now.

‘Got him – got the hat! No, I’m hanged if I have; at least he wasn’t in it. The crafty cuss, he must have stuck it up on purpose. Another over … scoring’s slow…. I wonder if he’s sportsman enough to take a hint? His hat-trick’s foolish. Will he show his face if I show mine?’

I lay with closed ears and eyes. My leg had come to life again, and the rest of me was numb.

‘Bunny!’ His voice sounded higher. He must have been sitting upright.

‘Well?’

But it was not well with me; that was all I thought as my lips made the word.

‘It’s not only been the best time I ever had, old Bunny, but I’m not half sure – ‘

Of what I can but guess; the sentence was not finished, and never could be in this world.


Comments

I’ve just read a few novels by H.G. Wells, who is almost always exact and clear in his imagining of a scene (no matter how preposterous). By contrast, I began to get irritated by Hornung’s lack of sequentiality. I mean that:

  1. His sentences often skip over logical connections so you have to do a bit of work to figure out what he’s talking about.
  2. At the same time, his descriptive abilities are limited. I got little or no sense of the interior of the British Museum which is a sitting duck of a subject for a writer – in fact his descriptions of rooms and places is generally thin.
  3. Obscure phrasing.

Maybe I am just not getting his banter but pretty regularly there are phrases I just don’t understand. At the very end of The Last Laugh he writes:

But the worst did not come to the worst, more power to my unforgotten friend the cabman, who never came forward to say what manner of men he had driven to Bloomsbury Square at top speed on the very day upon which the tragedy was discovered there, or whence he had driven them. To be sure, they had not behaved like murderers, whereas the evidence at the inquest all went to show that the defunct Corbucci was little better. His reputation, which transpired with his identity, was that of a libertine and a renegade, while the infernal apparatus upstairs revealed the fiendish arts of the anarchist to boot. The inquiry resulted eventually in an open verdict, and was chiefly instrumental in killing such compassion as is usually felt for the dead who die in their sins.

But Raffles would not have passed this title for this tale.

I’ve no idea what this final sentence means. It makes you appreciate all the more the lucidity and clarity of Conan Doyle’s prose in his Sherlock Holmes stories of the same period.

In the following example, I think Hornung is straining a simile until it breaks. Bunny is waiting with bated breath for Raffles to return to their flat.

I can give you no conception of the night that I spent. Most of it I hung across the sill, throwing a wide net with my ears, catching every footstep afar off, every hansom bell farther still, only to gather in some alien whom I seldom even landed in our street.

What? By ‘alien’ does he mean alien and so useless fish i.e. he saw and heard things but nothing relevant to his watch for Raffles? Or:

Then one night in the autumn – I shrink from shocking the susceptible for nothing – but there was a certain house in Palace Gardens, and when we got there Raffles would pass on.

I have no idea why he is shocking the susceptible, and no idea what the phrase ‘would pass on’ means. Does it mean ‘and when we got there Raffles made me carry on walking right past it’? Why doesn’t he say so?

Every few pages there are phrases like this, which require a bit of effort to parse or understand, and this lack of fluency rises to a peak in the final story, where Hornung appears to be making a virtue of it, emphasising a clipped and deliberately allusive style in – if I’m right – conscious or unconscious imitation of Kipling.

Pop culture

There are high speed chases, priceless jewels, kidnaps and poisonings. It’s a tell-tale sign that an author knows he is writing popular rubbish using popular stereotypes when he knowingly compares his characters to…er… popular stereotypes.

With his overcoat buttoned up to the chin, his tall hat pressed down to his eyes, and between the two his incisive features and his keen, stern glance, he looked the ideal detective of fiction and the stage.

‘For the moment I did think you were one of these smart detectives jumped to life from some sixpenny magazine; but to preserve the illusion you ought to provide yourself with a worthier lieutenant.’

Overtly acknowledging that you’re using penny shocker clichés doesn’t raise you above them, it just tends to confirm the reader’s perception.

ITV dramatisation

ITV made television dramatisations of the stories in the 1970s, starring the dishy Anthony Valentine.


Related links

Reviews of other fiction of the 1880s and 1890s

Joseph Conrad

George du Maurier

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Anthony Hope

E.H. Hornung

Henry James

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

The First Men in the Moon by H.G. Wells (1901)

This is the seventh of Wells’s classic science fiction novels. He had also, by 1901, written over 60 science fiction short stories. Single-handedly he had created a new genre for the English-speaking world, which was quickly taken up and copied.

It wasn’t just that he wrote a lot, it’s that the early books each tackled, described, thought through and realistically presented some of the founding tropes of science fiction – time travel and attack by aliens from another world, being the two outstanding ones – which have been recycled thousands of times since.

The First Men in the Moon is not quite in the same league because it didn’t invent the topic of travelling to the moon – Jules Vernes had written a novel on the same theme thirty years earlier (From the Earth to the Moon, 1865) and in fact a number of fantasies and romances on the subject had been written for centuries (including the version by the 17th century writer Cyrano de Bergerac whose illustrations by Quentin Blake I recently reviewed – Voyages to the Moon and the Sun, based on the Comical History of the States and Empires of the Moon, 1657).

Also, the scientific basis of the story – the mechanism by which the protagonists get to the moon – using some kind of anti-gravity metal – the way it’s discovered and handled, isn’t as persuasive as some of the earlier fantasies. Nonetheless, the story is still compelling because of the thoroughness with which Wells thinks through the practical details – and then because of the avalanche of astounding discoveries which his heroes make once they’ve arrived on the moon, and which keeps the reader on the edge of their seat.

Amateur hour

As usual in Wells, the whole thing is invented by an inspired amateur – the notion of government-sponsored scientific research being still decades away, pioneered by the Manhattan project of the 1940s.

Instead the story is narrated in the first person by a rather disreputable bankrupt, Mr Bedford, who retreats to a bungalow on the Kent coast where he hopes to scribble a best-selling play in order to make a quick buck, but gets into conversation with an eccentric neighbour, Cavor, and gets drawn into the latter’s scientific experiments.

The ‘scientific’ basis is simple, or simple-minded, enough. Cavor points out that we now know the universe is full of rays and waves that act at a distance – light rays, x-rays, electricity and gravity. And we know of materials which block some of these rays – light and electricity and x-rays. So why can’t we create something which blocks the effect of gravity?

Bedford immediately sees the vast amounts of money to be made from such a material in a hundred and one commercial applications:

An extraordinary possibility came rushing into my mind. Suddenly I saw, as in a vision, the whole solar system threaded with Cavorite liners and spheres de luxe. (p.27)

So Bedford persuades the rather other-worldly Cavor to take him on as a ‘partner’, and becomes a regular visitor to the latter’s house down the hill (incidentally observing the comic rivalry of the three working class labourers Cavor has working in his various workshops).

An enormous explosion and then a terrific hurricane announce to the narrator that Cavor has indeed succeeded in making the new material. it happened by fluke, when a substance they’d been working on was left to cool and crystallised into the material they now decide to christen ‘cavorite’. (It all takes place on 14 October 1899, as Bedford faithfully records.)

What caused the hurricane is that, as soon as it came into existence, the cavorite blocked the earth’s gravitational pull from working on the air above it. This meant that that air – which normally presses downwards at a pressure of 14 pounds per square inch – ceased doing so, and instead floated freely upwards. This created a column of ’empty air’ directly about the square of cavorite. Into this gravity-less tube rushed all the surrounding air which, on finding itself also liberated from the earth’s gravity, also lost its downward weight and was itself forced upwards by the rest of the surrounding air rushing in. And so on and so on. In a split second the pull of pressurised air into the column of unweighted air created a huge inrush of air from the surroundings, in which everything which was not tied down was immediately dragged towards it at tremendous force.

For the few moments that this happened all the air in the neighbourhood was sucked into the gravity-free tube – which explains the sudden hurricane Cavor and Bedford felt. But then they themselves saw the little sheet of cavorite itself get sucked up by the empty vortex and they both watched it soar up through the column, up, up and – presumably – right out of the earth’s atmosphere… at which point everything returned to normal. ‘By Jove, old chap.’

Bedford and Cavor look at each other. This thing could escape the earth’s atmosphere. It could fulfil man’s oldest dream of leaving earth. But how to steer or control it? Cavor goes off pondering and the next day has come up with a solution: encase the cavorite in steel plates which mask its anti-gravity effect, and only open the plates facing in a certain direction when you want the anti-gravity cavorite to work in that direction.

(You can see why Wells has his narrator, Bedford, continually lament that he didn’t keep notes, didn’t make a record of the process by which cavorite was made, didn’t follow all of Cavor’s abstruse thinking and so on. This is because Well’s idea doesn’t really make practical sense.)

So the pair construct a sphere, with an inner layer made of glass, then covered in warm cavorite paste, then steel divided into plates. (In fact it’s less a sphere than a polyhedron made of flat plates. And the plates are more, in fact, like ‘blinds’ which can be opened and closed. I’ve always found this quite hard to visualise.) Once everything is in place they heat the cavorite paste to securely bind it to the ‘sphere’ and then, as it cools, it assumes the magical properties and – whoosh!

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Herring (1901)

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Hering (1901)

The idea is that to steer the sphere you open a plate in the direction you want gravity to cease working and are repelled away from any nearby object (the earth or moon or sun) which would ordinarily exert the attractive power of gravity. Once in space, close the plates and you’ll be pulled towards the nearest big object. Like the moon.

Bedford climbs into the sphere and Cavor shows him how he’s furnished it – the blankets, some frozen oxygen in cylinders, some food, an electric light and some carbolic acid device to get rid of the carbon dioxide they inhale. But while Bedford is still pondering whether he wants to go, Cavor opens the earthside shutters, the cavorite works and whoosh! they are flying towards the moon.

Wells’s story races at top speed to prevent you from realising what tosh it is, and to enchant you in his narrative spell. Wonder follows wonder. First of all there is weightlessness. Maybe earlier writers had realised that we would be weightless in space but Wells gives a very accurate prophecy of what it feels like, the tingling in the blood and the way everything inside the sphere floats around bumping into everything else.

It was the strangest sensation conceivable, floating thus loosely in space, at first indeed horribly strange, and when the horror passed, not disagreeable at all, exceeding restful; indeed, the nearest thing in earthly experience to it that I know is lying on a very thick, soft feather bed. But the quality of utter detachment and independence! I had not reckoned on things like this. I had expected a violent jerk at starting, a giddy sense of speed. Instead I felt – as if I were disembodied. It was not like the beginning of a journey; it was like the beginning of a dream.

They open some of the plates to see where they’re headed and a) are dazzled by the brightness of the sun and b) looking the other direction, are stunned by the profusion of stars, millions more than you can see through earth’s atmosphere.

Cavor makes last-minute adjustments and they come to land in a vast crater on the moon. Here the reader is bombarded with vivid impressions. It is dark and the ground is covered in soft white stuff which they only slowly realise is not dust but frozen atmosphere. They have arrived just at sunrise over the crater and are astonished to watch the frozen white stuff all around them melt and then evaporate, to form an atmosphere, tingeing the sky blue.

Is it breathable? Cavor performs the ludicrously amateur experiment of opening the manhole which they use to get in and out of the capsule and discovers that – yes, it is thinner than earth’s but the moon’s atmosphere turns out to be perfectly breathable. (No ill effects from sunlight, radiation, burning, toxic gases, nothing! Convenient, eh?)

They climb outside and are astounded to watch small pebbles shiver, pop, put out roots, and then stalks. They are plants and shrubs and strange tree-sized flora, which grows even as they watch. Of course. The moon’s ‘year’ – the length of time it takes the sun to rise and set over the lunar surface – only lasts for 14 earth days. In that fortnight, life forms have to spring, grow, mature, produce their own seed, and decline.

But the thing they are most enraptured with is the low gravity. Only a sixth of the earth’s. Off they go springing and bounding in giant leaps amid the surreally growing and blossoming fruits of the moon. Until – oops – they both realise they have forgotten where the sphere was and, looking back, see only an immense rustling growing forest of moon flora.

And it is then that they hear an ominous boom boom boom noise from beneath the surface and a grinding as of great gates opening. Not long afterwards they see the first of the Selenites herding a vast slug-like creature with tiny closed eyes and a horrid red mouth which is slurping and munching its way through the foliage, like a farmer herding a monstrous cow.

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Herring (1901)

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Herring (1901)

Amazement

Wells’s aim is to amaze, stun, astonish and astound. The basic, foundational trope of a visit to a strange land is reminiscent of any number of late-Victorian yarns – Vernes’ Journey to the Centre of the Earth (1864), Rider Haggard’s journeys to darkest Africa (She, 1886), or Conan Doyle’s Professor Challenger trip to a Lost World (1912) in the remotest Amazon.

But science fiction has the advantage over mere adventure stories in that it can make things up purely to astound, astonish, shock, disgust and amaze the reader.

Because the text is available online, it is searchable, and so I searched and counted no fewer than 415 exclamation marks, as the characters, and the author, continually signal their amazement at their astounding discoveries!!!

Then, for fun, I searched all the instances of the word ‘amazing’.

It comes to me with a certain quality of astonishment that my participation in these amazing adventures of Mr. Cavor was, after all, the outcome of the purest accident.

[Cavor’s workshop] looked like business from cellar to attic – an amazing little place to find in an out-of-the-way village

It was an amazing piece of reasoning. Much as it amazed and exercised me at the time.

And then, sudden, swift, and amazing, came the lunar day.

With a steady assurance, a swift deliberation, these amazing seeds thrust a rootlet downward to the earth and a queer little bundle-like bud into the air.

Cavor panted something about ‘amazing sensations’.

What the Selenites made of this amazing, and to my mind undignified irruption from another planet, I have no means of guessing.

Amazing little corner in the universe – the landing place of men!

… returning after amazing adventures to this world of ours.

There were several amazing forms, with heads reduced to microscopic proportions and blobby bodies.

Amazing and incredible as it may seem, these two creatures, these fantastic men insects, these beings of other world, were presently communicating with Cavor by means of terrestrial speech.

The dictionary definition of to amaze is ‘to cause someone to be extremely surprised’. Synonyms for ‘amaze’ give a sense of the aim of Well’s fantasies (and of the thousands of pulp sci-fi writers who followed him). It is to:

astonish, astound, surprise, bewilder, stun, stagger, flabbergast, nonplus, shock, startle, shake, stop someone in their tracks, stupefy, leave open-mouthed, leave aghast, take someone’s breath away, dumbfound, daze, benumb, perplex, confound, dismay, disconcert, shatter, take aback, jolt, shake up

Taken prisoner

Back in the story our heroes sneak away from the ghastly apparition of the Selenite and realise they are hungry. Not having any provisions from the sphere they are driven by desperation to nibble one of the growing lunar ‘trees’ and Wells gives quite a humorous account of the way that the ‘food’ does them no harm but makes them both very drunk. Through their drunken bickering they are aware of Selenites surrounding them and of some kind of struggle, then it all goes dark.

They wake up with hangovers in a dark cell in handcuffs and shackles. One or two individual Selenites come to see them before they are raised to their feet and led by a posse of Selenites, some of whom are carrying the sharp spiked goads they’d seen one using on get the big fat mooncalf earlier. Our heroes are fascinated and disgusted at the Selenites’ appearance, a kind of giant ant. The shapes of their heads appear to vary, indicating different brain size and probably advanced specialisation of job or function in what they come to realise is the complex Selenite civilisation.

They are taken through caverns measureless to man, past enormous machinery which appears to be pumping out some kind of liquid which glows blue and provides illumination here. Cavor speculates wildly that there may be a whole civilisation here, under the surface of the moon. Maybe networks of caverns descending via tunnels down to some inner sea. Scooped out and developed over thousands of years.

When they come to a narrow plank going out over what appears to be a vast bottomless pit, Bedford rebels. One of the Selenites goads him with the spiky implement and he sees red. He punches the Selenite and is astonished to watch his fist go right through its head and out the other side. They are clearly far less sturdy and strongly made than humans. Before he knows it he is attacking all of them and then grabbing Cavor to make a getaway.

This is actually the turning point of the book, because the rest of the main narrative describes their panic-stricken escape back to the surface of the moon. It is a chase narrative. As you might imagine, it involves climbing up clefts and stumbling into vast caverns and a lot more fighting, with the unpleasant discovery that the Selenites have a sort of crossbow which fires spears.

Nonetheless, triumphing over all these perils our heroes finally blunder out into a huge circular shaft with spiral steps running up along the wall (the kind of thing we’ve all seen in sci-fi and fantasy movies) leading up to the surface. Up it they run, emerging into the lip of a ‘crater’ – and they now understand that the moon’s ‘craters’ are in fact an immense network of circular ‘lids’ which can be retracted to reveal the labyrinth of tunnels created by Selenite civilisation and which allow the Selenites to emerge onto the surface to farm their herds of moon cows.

The sun is visibly waning: some 14 days have passed underground though they haven’t noticed, and is now threatening to set with all that entails in terms of losing the breathable atmosphere. Where is the sphere?

Afflicted by despair as they survey the vast area of lunar foliage, now visibly browning and declining, they pin a handkerchief to a nearby bush and set off to explore in opposite directions, taking vast moon leaps as they go.

Nearing exhaustion and plagued by fear that search parties of very angry Selenites will be out after them, Bedford is on the brink of giving up when he is momentarily dazzled by a shaft of light and realises it is sunlight reflecting off a panel of the sphere. Weeping with relief he bounds over and confirms it’s true. But what of Cavor? He leaps to a nearby peak and shouts Cavor’s name but – as Wells had pointed out from the first (in the kind of scientifically accurate detail which are such a joy of these stories) moon air is a lot thinner than earth air and so sound doesn’t carry very well: even when they’re shouting at each other it sounds like they’re whispering.

He can see the hankie in a bush a few miles away and so leaps over towards it. Here he yells Cavor’s name again, then looks down and sees an archetypal adventure story sight: broken bushes, churned-up soil, all the signs of a struggle. Going down he finds a scrap of paper in which Cavor has hurriedly written that he’s hurt his knee in landing awkwardly in a ditch and can hear the Selenites closing in, any moment they’re going to come, oh my God –

And here his message breaks off and the paper is marked by… a red liquid. Blood!!!!

The Selenites have got him. The crater is closed. All entrance to the interior is blocked off. The sun has almost set. Bedford realises he must save himself. I found his flight back the sphere quite gripping. Wells convincingly describes the sudden drop in temperature as the sun declines, the air grows thin and cold and then the first snowflakes will fall. The temperature will ultimately drop to Absolute Zero and Bedford will freeze to death unless he can make it to the sphere in time. At last he is there. Crawling on hands and knees. Barely strength to reach up to the manhole, Twists. Can’t do it. Twists again. Pulls himself up and is… inside!

An exhausted Bedford just about makes it back to the sphere as snow falls, illustration for The First Men In The Moon by Claude Allin Shepperson

An exhausted Bedford just about makes it back to the sphere as snow falls, illustration for The First Men In The Moon by Claude Allin Shepperson

Food. Blanket. Warmth. Recovery. Sleep. Wakes rejuvenated. Grasps the grim reality of his situation. Opens the cavorite plates. Silently flies into space. More by luck than judgement he steers a course back to earth.

In an outcome so ludicrous it is like a pantomime, he not only lands back on earth, but he lands back on the south coast of England, barely a few miles from where they took off. On the sea, but conveniently close to a beach which he is then washed up on. Some jolly English chaps are coming down for their morning swim. ‘Crikey, old chap, you look a bit peaky let us take you up to the old hotel.’

Here he tucks into bacon and eggs and is drinking coffee when there’s an explosion and bewilderment outside the door. Some young lad had been hanging round as the chaps took dirty, dishevelled Bedford up to their hotel. He’d looked a bit shifty. The young wretch must have gone back to the sphere, climbed in and opened a plate, making it lift off. Damn and blast! There go Bedford’s dreams of setting up an interplanetary travel agency.

But he still has the gold. Did I mention the gold? Amid their adventures Bedford had realised that the shackles and manacles the Selenites had bound them with were made of gold. He had grabbed a couple of tyre lever-sized gold rods during their breakout. In fact he’d found them handy for fighting their way through the Selenites.

At least he still has them. He is rich.

A coda from Cavor

Wells could have stopped his tale there. Instead, there is a coda which takes up a surprising amount of space, pages 150 to 186 in the Everyman paperback edition.

To the outrage of all common sense, a Dutch electrician and early radio ham, picks up radio messages… from the moon! Yes, Cavor was captured, as Bedford had described: but his captors were kind to him, and, once he’d recovered, they took him on a Cook’s Tour of their vast civilisation. Part of this was learning that there was an apparently infinite variety of types of Selenites and soon Cavor was being introduced to the brainy ones: he could tell they were brainy, because they had very big heads! Big heads and thin skins so he could actually see the brain matter pulsating as they thought their deep thoughts.

Turns out that some of the Selenites are specialists in language and set about teaching Cavor who quickly catches on and starts to teach them English. Thus, within a few weeks, Cavor is communicating with the Selenites who explain how their society works, confirm that the moon is a swiss cheese of underground caverns and passages, that the phosphorescent liquid and much else is produced by immense machinery, that at the centre of the moon there is indeed a vast and tempestuous sea – and much more besides.

These visions of an alien civilisation, as so often, develop a strong flavour of being social criticism of the author’s own civilisation. Cavor discovers that the Selenites breed all the different types of workers in the equivalent of test tubes, distorting all aspects of their bodies and brains to suit them to the work they’re destined for. (Anticipating Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World by 30 years).

Harsh? Yes, he is a bit disgusted by it and especially by one particular sight of an embryonic Selenite having its forelimbs artificially lengthened to do manual work, but – and here is the Author’s Message –

Of course it is really in the end a far more humane proceeding than our earthly method of leaving children to grow into human beings, and then making machines of them.

On another occasion his guides – the preposterously named Phi-oo and Tsi-puff – bring him to a great field of mushrooms being grown for food, where they find all the workers drugged and fast asleep, until they are needed for the harvest when they’ll be woken. Again, the character Cavor becomes a mouthpiece for the Fabian Socialist H.G. Wells:

To drug the worker one does not want and toss him aside is surely far better than to expel him from his factory to wander starving in the streets

Cavor’s tour climaxes with a presentation to the Grand Lunar, Master of the Moon – at which point the book definitely feels more like a lampoon or a parody than a ‘serious’ fantasy, a kind of ludicrous Wizard of Oz vibe.

Except that here it also reaches a kind of height of teenage socialism. Cavor radios back to earth a lengthy version of his interview with the Grand Lunar which begins with harmless stuff about the structure of the earth, why we live on the surface and not underneath like the Selenites, what weather is like in a place with 12 hour days, and so on. Little by little Cavor describes human civilisation, cities and factories and trains, how we do not breed different types of human to perform different tasks, not yet anyway.

But, when asked whether there is a Grand Earthly as there is a Grand Lunar, he finds himself having to explain the idea of ‘nations’ and ’empires’ and, before he realises it, is describing ‘war’. His brutal description of this absurd folly fills the Grand Lunar and the huge entourage of Selenites listening to Cavor’s account with horror.

Yes, wars in which men flock to the flag, train and arm and proudly wear uniforms, before clashing in huge armies designed solely to kill as many of the opponents as possible. As he proceeds, Cavor notes the moans of disappointment and disillusion rising from the crowd and the ‘expression’ on what passes for the Grand Lunar’s face.

Cover of Amazing Histories magazine, featuring an illustration of Cavor addressing the Great Lunar

Cover of Amazing Histories magazine, featuring an illustration of Cavor addressing the Great Lunar

A week later comes the final broadcast we are ever to hear from Cavor. It is a panic-stricken sentence, ‘I was mad to let the Grand Lunar know – ‘… and then a few words attempting to convey the secret of cavorite. Then silence.

Bedford imagines the dismay Cavor’s revelation about the true nature of human beings must have caused among the Selenites, and how the mood turned against Cavor, and how the moon people then realised that he was broadcasting messages to his violent brethren back on earth, with the risk that these psychopaths might return in one of these ‘armies’ and conquer the Selenites.

Gulliver

When I read this as a teenager I was awed by Wells’s profound insight into human nature. Now it reminds me of Gulliver’s Travels, in which the hero also describes human behaviour to the peace-loving King of Brobdingnag, who replies, accurately enough:

‘I cannot but conclude the Bulk of your Natives, to be the most pernicious Race of little odious Vermin that Nature ever suffered to crawl upon the Surface of the Earth.’

True or not, the point is that, bolted on to the science fantasy, this coda reads very much like a variation on the time-honoured satire on contemporary civilisation and, by extension, of human nature, which goes back before Swift to Thomas More’s Utopia and before that to any number of Roman and Greek authors.


Commentary

There are three obvious features about a Wells novel like this, what he called his ‘fantasy novels’:

1. Fast

It’s fast-moving. Bedford has bumped into Cavor, built the sphere, gone to the moon, watched the desert bloom, been captured and taken below, escaped and fought his way to the surface, found the sphere and escaped, crash-landed on earth and had a hearty breakfast, all in a mere 150 pages (in the Everyman paperback edition I read).

2. Fantastic

The speed prevents you noticing its preposterousness. It’s so fast-moving you don’t notice how quickly you leave the world of Edwardian England, with its pubs and evening strolls along the Downs, completely behind. It only requires ten or so pages from Bedford meeting Cavor, to him thoroughly involving him in his theoretical speculations, and then – whoosh! they’re off to the moon.

It is fast-moving because it is, in a sense, pulp. Only by moving fast from one astounding moment to the next can it stop you pausing to reflect and thus breaking the spell.

3. Mundanity

But, contradicting a little what I’ve said above, just as important as the speed and fantasy, is its air of mundaneness and normality.

I think it was Tom Shippey in his book about Lord of the Rings who explained that what made the book such a success was the invention of the hobbits. Tolkien had been working on his private-world mythology for decades, inventing languages and complex histories for his elves and dwarves and so on, and had produced quite a few texts narrating whole eras in his legendary Middle Earth. But they were boring and flat.

It was the invention of the down-to-earth, small, beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, no-nonsense, common-sensical hobbits which gave him a vehicle to take the reader into his world. We are introduced to the hobbits first and thoroughly identify with their idealised pastoral English life – before the first hints of other-worldly menace ever appear.

This explains why Lord of the Rings is regularly voted the greatest novel of the 20th century, while I’ve never met anyone who managed to complete The Silmarillion, another of Tolkien’s epics, describing a different era in Middle Earth’s history, but which lacks hobbits and, therefore, all charm and – crucially – representatives of the ordinary reader; imaginative vectors allowing us to enter into his imaginative world.

It’s an overlooked element of Wells that his best books also require this dichotomy – the interlocking of two opposites, the fantastic and the mundane.

We all know about the fantastical in his books, for example the idea that Martians launch an attack on earth or a man invents a time machine and travels to the distant future. Those are certainly the ideas at the core of the books. But when you actually read the texts what comes across almost as powerfully is the very mundane details of the places where this all happens – that the Martians land in Dorking and head towards London across the humdrum landscape of Surrey, blasting well known landmarks on their way (which is why there is a striking sculpture of a ‘Martian’ in Dorking town centre).

Wells himself was well aware of doing this:

For the writer of fantastic stories to help the reader play the game properly he must help him, in every possible unobtrusive way, to domesticate the impossible hypothesis. (Quoted in the critical afterword to the Everyman edition)

And one mark of this is the way the people who witness and generally write up the narratives are always very ordinary, everyday chaps, who are often a bit confused, puzzled, don’t quite follow what’s going on, miss important details, don’t quite follow the scientific whatchamacallit, and, in their bumbling innocence, stand in as a kind of stylised representative of the innocent reader.

They are all Dr Watsons to a succession of fierce, eccentric or visionary Holmeses, respectively:

  • 1895 The Time Machine – first person unnamed narrator
  • 1896 The Island of Doctor Moreau – first person narrative by shipwrecked sailor Edward Prendick
  • 1897 The Invisible Man – (third person narrator)
  • 1898 The War of the Worlds – first person unnamed narrator
  • 1899 When the Sleeper Wakes – first person narrative by Graham, the eponymous sleeper
  • 1901 The First Men in the Moon – first person narrative by Mr Bedford
  • 1904 The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth – third person narrative
  • 1906 In The Days of the Comet – unnamed first person narrator
  • 1908 The War in the Air – featuring Bert and Tom Smallways
  • 1914 The World Set Free – third person narrator

Making this list shows that this isn’t exactly a hard-and-fast rule, but that most of the most effective fantasies are told in the first person by someone undergoing the adventure themselves.

It goes some way to explaining why of the early stories The Invisible Man stands out as particularly unlikeable and negative: it is one of the few not told by a more or less reasonable chap, who we’re meant to identify with.

As a footnote, this helps explain the presence of the three working class men who Cavor employs in his lab, in the earlier pages of the book. They are each jealous of each other’s specialisms, argue and often down tools to go off to the pub and argue some more and so perform the function of the rude mechanicals in Shakespeare, offering comic interludes but also throwing into relief the more serious activities of their middle class superiors. Anchoring them to a humorous everyday reality.

This also explains why Bedford, at an early stage, after he’s had an argument with Cavor, goes off for an epic walk across Kent, enjoying the countryside, stopping for lunch in a pub, chatting with the local yokels while he puffs on his pipe. All designed to embed the wild fantasy in a comfortable, relaxing coat of verisimilitude.


Related link

Related reviews