Читать книгу Kidnapped - Роберт Льюис Стивенсон - Страница 6

Why Kidnapped? In the first decade of the twenty-first century when the displacement of Gutenberg’s culture by that of the flashing pixel seems assured, why produce a new edition of one of the most familiar novels in English? The simple answer is that a book remains our most compact cultural artefact, portable like a mobile phone, and (in the form of a master novel) reflective of a period’s social and intellectual history Kidnapped is a ready transport to a distant past, joining the reader with a sixteen-year-old ‘boy’ who, in the aftermath of a small war, finds himself wandering the remote islands and highlands of Scotland with a renegade soldier. This may sound like the stuff of romance, but in truth it has the potency of myth. There is no other explanation for the lasting appeal of a book that has been translated into a host of world languages. Like its author, who continues to fascinate biographers, Kidnapped quickens the imagination of contemporary readers: they are none of them bored, and many read the book with avidity. It may be simple enough to say this, but the point should not be underestimated. Virtually every college reader in this age of the speeding image needs to be coaxed, at times even coerced, into paying attention to static images. That a late-nineteenth-century text, of a story set almost 150 years earlier, could entice a reader raised on television and film is no small achievement. Although Stevenson obviously could not foresee his late-twentieth-century readers, his imagination was modern enough to accommodate them. The economy and rapidity of his action, the vividness and limpidity of expression, and the entire story sustained by suspense—all these qualities are precisely suited to a contemporary reader’s visual experience. This is not to say that Stevenson was a screenwriter ahead of his time (although the cinematic qualities of his fiction have always been exploited) but that he intuitively understood what readers required—he once remarked that an author must be willing to spend five hours to save a reader five minutes—and what, a century after his death, they came to demand. For if sober critics droned on about the complexity and density and greatness of the Victorian triple-decker, Stevenson instinctively knew that fundamentally those tomes were beyond reason: “To be clear and to be expressive and always to be brief—those were his primary aims.”1

If Stevenson was writing at the dawn of the new style, of the break with Victorian decoration and ornament, he was himself the originator of that style. It was a style that modeled itself on the best of English prose, past and present, from the well known (“Shakespeare and Thomas Browne, and Jeremy Taylor and Dryden’s prose, and Samuel Johnson”) to the esoteric (“it is very well worth while to read Napier. His ‘History of the Peninsular War’ seems to me a fine solid piece of work”), and it was itself the model for the new style in English prose.2 Stevenson’s writing was everywhere admired and often adulated. From George Meredith to Viola Paget to Henry James, from Andrew Lang to Marcel Schwob to Natsume Sōseki (“Among the writings of the West, I like Stevenson’s style the best. It has strength and conciseness, and it is never tedious or effeminate”),3 from autograph hunters to book collectors, writers and readers all saw Stevenson as someone who was leading English prose, and basically English fiction, into new territory. Kipling learned to write short stories from him. Jack London thought he and Kipling were the dominant models in English for fiction. As late as the mid-1930s Malcolm Cowley, looking back over his early years in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, listed Stevenson and Kipling as the first two writers that his “lost” generation read on their own.

But if these writers are themselves now old, it is instructive to identify their positions in literary and cultural studies. With the legitimation of popular culture, Kipling and London, who immediately followed Stevenson, have suddenly become more attractive and serious. And the modern novel, which for the majority of the twentieth century was defined as the novel of James and Conrad and Joyce, of Woolf and Faulkner and Lawrence, has now been redefined, or at least expanded, to include a tributary that runs from Stevenson to Kipling to London to Hemingway and on through Graham Greene. This parallel tradition contains the elements that contemporary readers find most compelling: stories that engage their attention because they take place in the real world, are narrated fluently, and hold a great capacity for visualization as they are read. These are the stories that become the films, and indeed are themselves the films within the stories. Kidnapped is a prototype of this form.

On 29 May 1886, Young Folks Paper, the weekly that was serializing Kidnapped; or the Lad with the Silver Button, published a letter from a reader named Edwin Hope: “I have never read anything of Mr. Stevenson’s before, and his intensely powerful style strikes me with the added force of novelty. There is a vivid directness and simplicity in the style, with the true quaint flavour of the period in it, which seems to me the perfection of storytelling. It is the same merit which is so strong in the ever-fresh ‘Robinson Crusoe’ and ‘Gulliver’s Travels’” (vol. 28, no. 809). The novel, which had been running since the start of the month, had “already won very high encomiums from a number of readers” (according to the editor in this same issue), but Edwin Hope has the distinction of offering the first printed commentary on the text. Both by the substance and tone of his letter, the writer is considerably more mature than the title of the weekly publication would lead one to expect. Indeed, judging solely by the letters and the editorial commentary in “Our Letter-Box,” the readership of James Henderson’s magazine was older than its name implied. At one point the editor addressed this issue directly: “The title of Young Folks cannot certainly be limited to children. The title was selected because it embraced a much wider circle. ‘Young folks’ can be applied with as much propriety to young men and young women as to children. … Our readers [include] all classes, ages, sizes, and sects. We have no specially privileged class” (3 July 1886, vol. 29, no. 814). Twenty years later the Manchester literary club published an appraisal of the journal that James Henderson had founded after he moved from Manchester to London: “‘Young Folks’ Paper’ was … a high-class weekly journal for family reading, and in its day it stood without rival. A very considerable portion of its space was devoted to poetry and to essays dealing with literary subjects.”4

The conviction that Kidnapped is a children’s book derives from two major sources: its initial publication in Young Folks and Stevenson’s own dedication-preface to the first edition, identifying the purpose of the novel: “to steal some young gentleman’s attention from his Ovid, carry him awhile into the Highlands and the last century, and pack him to bed with some engaging images to mingle with his dreams.” Apart from the obvious pose of the declaration, a manner that has a long tradition behind it in the field of the “romance,” any reader may wonder at the choice of Ovid as the classical author whom the young gentleman was being seduced away from. After all, Ovid presents a relatively simple Latin for reading purposes, but more importantly he represents a racy and even titillating writing, one that the young gentleman might be reading under the covers, and the thought of drawing the boy’s attention away from libidinous delights and directing it toward a realistic exploration of Scottish history can hardly be viewed as a treat, and certainly not as a favor. In brief, Stevenson is doing precisely the opposite of what he claims: rather than turning his reader away from study and enticing him into the world of pleasure, he is closing the classical pages of pleasure and opening a book with a potentially powerful instructional value.

There is no question that Stevenson’s Dedication, together with the publication of Treasure Island and A Child’s Garden of Verses, and the periodic references in his letters to the composition of a “boys’ book,” have been the principal reasons for the classification of Kidnapped as a children’s book, and this despite the fact that from the time of its publication and throughout Stevenson’s life the novel was consistently treated as an adult text. The New York Tribune addressed this issue directly in its review: “While avowedly intended for boys, [it] is as certain as any of Mr. Stevenson’s previous books to find the majority of its readers among grown-up people” (18 July 1886, p. 6). The New York Times was a bit more oblique: “‘Kidnapped’ may have a little touch of ‘Treasure Island’ in it, but for a man to have written ‘Treasure Island’ and to have then produced as dramatic a story as ‘Kidnapped’ is to have done a good deal” (1 August 1886, p. 9). Henry James jotted elliptically on a back page of the copy inscribed to him a note on the “coquetry of his pretending he writes ‘for boys’” (see illustration, page lxii). In his published essay on Stevenson, James dropped both the informality and the implication that the novelist might be dissembling: “the execution is so serious that the idea (the idea of a boy’s romantic adventures) becomes a matter of universal relations.”5

Yet for more than a century Kidnapped has been marketed and cataloged as a children’s classic, a notable example being the Scribner’s edition illustrated by N. C. Wyeth, regularly displayed in bookstores at Christmas when parents are eagerly in search of anything that will raise the cultural level of their children. With the book institutionalized as a children’s classic, it is an intractable job to alter, let alone eradicate, that perception. In other words, Kidnapped becomes the book that it has been received as, and for a substantial portion of the population, including the public that has never read it, the book is what its cultural reception reads it as. Yet there is an adult audience that occupies another space and reads the text with a more open attitude, one that displaces or discounts the years of received or ossified criticism. Perhaps Stevenson’s own readers were closer to the book’s impulses than later generations; perhaps it is important to return to that earlier period, not to recover their experience, which would be futile, but to comprehend their wonder before a wholly original form of writing.

For some the story of David Balfour is so well known that its very familiarity works against it. For those reading it for the first time it may have the excitement attendant upon the new, but at the end one must wonder at the distance between the suspense here and that manifested in a thriller by Alfred Hitchcock or Michael Powell, not to mention someone like Brian De Palma. Perhaps it is unfair to contrast a book with a film, but we read every text in the context of our whole experience, and Stevenson’s book must surely seem tame by comparison. Indeed, it would be strange if an innocent reader were not querulous about the fuss over Kidnapped when the title-word has such frightening meanings for a contemporary audience. But if the gap between the late-Victorian reader’s expectations of dramatized terror and our own seems unbridgeable, we should remember that there are still significant differences even between what Stevenson was doing and what his audience expected. For one thing, the kind of terror that Stevenson provided in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, his greatest commercial success, was viscerally distinct from that in Kidnapped. There Stevenson was working in a genre—almost a subgenre—that focused on horror, whether we call it “Gothic” or the “shilling shocker,” an early version of the “nightmare” films of today, or the horror films of Hollywood in the 1930s. Certainly Stevenson was more artistic, and certainly Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is more than Hollywood kitsch, but the continuous remakes of the story suggest that the essential nature of the market was never revised or questioned: it was a film sold as a product to frighten if not terrorize its audience, whatever the intentions of the filmmakers with respect to the moral or allegorical implications of the story. That Stevenson was capable of writing stories that elicited such responses is hardly surprising, given his nurturance on tales of witchcraft and possession that his nurse, Alison Cunningham (whose name is appropriated in Kidnapped), read and told him as a child. And stories of possession and the supernatural like “Thrawn Janet” and the “Tale of Tod Lapraik” are enough to remind us that he was quite willing to play with the reader’s emotions in a way that was not far removed from the practice of Poe, whose shadow hovered over many of his early stories.

But the method in Kidnapped was different. Without question Stevenson was determined to create a realistic experience of fear and terror—not sensational, not melodramatic, but a meticulous melding of the exact detail with a measured tone in order to effect the proper sensation: the bolt of lightning that saves David from a near-fatal fall at the top of the stairs in the House of Shaws; the rats “scurrying” over his face after he is shanghaied and thrown in the putrid bowels of the ship; the “raw, red wound” on Ransome’s leg, the stigma of Shuan’s physical abuse but a badge of courage for the orphan whose mind was more profoundly damaged; or the “rope’s end” that Ransome himself carried to “wollop” the boys even smaller than him, thus repeating an unending cycle of abuse. The seamless integration of these details within the narrative constitutes a pattern of Stevenson’s style, a lean and poetic realism that is both plain and movingly affective at the same time, a style that despite the time of the story (1751) and the moment of composition (1886) most closely resembles the modernist experimental fiction of Ernest Hemingway.

When David comes to his lawyer at the end of his adventure, he is questioned sharply about his experience: “‘You say you were shipwrecked,’ said Rankeillor: ‘where was that?’ ‘Off the south end of the isle of Mull,’ said I. ‘The name of the isle on which I was cast up is the Island Earraid.’ ‘Ah!’ says he smiling, ‘you are deeper than me in the geography’” (p. 250). David’s answer was clearly more than Rankeillor bargained for. In a way, the lawyer offers a grudging if oblique compliment to his young client, telling him in effect that the details of these small and obscure western islands are of no importance to the main issue under contention: who is this person in his office, and is he the rightful heir to the estate of Shaws? But that was Stevenson’s characteristically oblique way of noting one of the major motifs of his text—not only a book whose characters traverse a broad swath of Scottish land but one where the place-names of everything from a clachan to a town, from a loch to an isle, from a battlefield to a gallows site are identified with a fidelity to their location and their history that can be appreciated only by reference to a historical gazetteer.

David Daiches was succinct when he called Kidnapped “a topographical novel about Scotland in 1751.”6 Stevenson was insistent that his book be accompanied by a map, and publication was held up until a map could be produced that would effectively trace David Balfour’s “wanderings,” much like the wanderings of epic heroes in the past. Any number of radio broadcasts of the adventures of David Balfour have followed his route through the western isles and across the Highlands, a route that has also become a tourist attraction. Not only have writers followed in the footsteps of Stevenson but people have signed up to follow in the footsteps of his pen-and-ink creations. On a banal level this is a testament to how well travel agents have been able to commodify a novel into a viable marketing tool. But on a more profound level it reflects how deeply Stevenson embedded his country’s physical history—for topography to him was history—into the consciousness of his people. Mull and Morven, Earraid, Queensferry Balquhidder—these all exist in the national cultural life of Scotland, separate from their real life, by dint of their imaginative reconstruction in a fictional text.