Читать книгу Kidnapped - Роберт Льюис Стивенсон - Страница 9

Stevenson had a wonderful sense of humor, as all who knew him attested. He was a marvelous raconteur, could be outrageously playful (as shown by the elaborate pranks carried out in his young Edinburgh days with his cousin Bob), and had a tongue that alternated between jest and bite. The range of his comedy and satire can be found in all the volumes of his Letters and in the mordancy of New Arabian Nights and the farce of The Wrong Box. If these last two texts are well known, there are others that are barely so, like St. Ives, with its extravagant parody of popular romances. The simple truth is that traces of humor can be found in most of Stevenson’s writing, and Kidnapped is no exception. In this case it is so pervasive, however sparely remarked, as to warrant discussion in its own right.13

One of the most quotable lines from Kidnapped appears just after Colin Campbell has been shot, and David discovers Alan at the scene. Having satisfied himself that his friend did not pull the trigger, he then asks him if he can “swear” that he does not know the man who was seen fleeing: “‘No yet … but I’ve a grand memory for forgetting, David’” (p. 155). Of course the humor here is fairly obvious. In the immediate aftermath of a terrible scene, a murder “in cold blood” (to use David’s phrase), Alan provides a momentary relief from the tragedy. He has already been sparring with David by his denial of any complicity in the murder: “‘I swear upon the Holy Iron I had neither art nor part, act nor thought in it’” (p. 155). The sword is of course exactly what Alan would swear upon, since it is what defines him, in one sense, and what he may well hold most sacred. The fact that he throws in a Scots legal phrase, “art nor part,” which means he was not an accomplice in the act, and hence is not culpable, is a nice touch that Stevenson provides for the benefit of historical accuracy. But the “grand memory for forgetting” is strictly Alan, his way of saying “I am as great at the forgetting as I am at the fighting,” and it is amusing not just as an oxymoron but because it reveals a bit of Alan’s character, the way he juxtaposes and tries to reconcile opposites, a habit that David sees as the contradiction between courage and vanity, as in Alan’s hiding his hat under his greatcoat lest it be destroyed by water, or in his calling Mr. Riach a “small” man: “It was droll how Alan dwelt on Mr Riach’s stature, for to say the truth, the one was no smaller than the other” (p. 161).

Stevenson takes a single word like grand and invests it with the speaker’s irony. So when David has failed at his task of watching for the redcoats Alan says to him: “man! but ye’re a grand hand at the sleeping!” (p. 176). By this time the word assumes a mocking note (it was used first by Ebenezer Balfour in describing the stairs—“They’re grand”—and then by David after his near fall—“This was the grand stair!” (p. 38), just as Hemingway uses the word fine in “Hills Like White Elephants” to imply ironic meanings. Still it is not just irony that Alan’s talk carries but good humor, even a kind of self-mockery—“I’ve a grand memory for forgetting”—as if the word itself is a sign of the speaker’s awareness of his own boastfulness. David of course does not know whether to laugh or get angry at Alan, a condition he finds himself in repeatedly. During the quarrel chapter Alan cannot accept the fact that David is nearly a foot taller than he: “‘Ye’re no such a thing! … There may be a trifling maitter of an inch or two; I’m no saying I’m just exactly what ye would call a tall man, whatever” (p. 223). The amusingly tentative way Alan goes about denying the obvious, as if to dismiss all argument, helps to defuse the tension and begin the work of repairing their relationship. So when Alan finally admits the difference in height, lest a new quarrel ensue, David says, “I could have laughed, had not my stitch caught me so hard; but if I had laughed, I think I must have wept too” (p. 223). As elsewhere, the space between tragedy and comedy is very close, and it is not always clear whether one is enjoying the fun of a ridiculous incident or sorrowing at the near escape of a painful one.

Stevenson’s humor covers a range of ironic tones, from genial comedy to sarcasm to dry wit, with even a touch of the gallows. In each case the humor is calibrated to the context. David and Alan are trying to get help from a Highlander during their flight. The convoluted process of communicating by means of physical signs demonstrates Alan’s inventive survival skills and gives them both an opportunity for resting and “drolling” a while: “‘it would certainly be much simpler for me to write to him, but it would be a sore job for John Breck to read it. He would have to go to the school for two-three years; and it’s possible we might be wearied waiting on him’” (pp. 185–86). Later, by contrast, the two are almost at sword’s point, each gibing the other, until Alan throws out his now-famous tag, “‘I am a Stewart …’” Unable to bear it any longer, David cuts him off with a marvelous insult: “‘I ken ye bear a King’s name. But … I have seen a good many of those that bear it; and the best I can say of them is this, that they would be none the worse of washing’” (p. 220). And an example from the islet chapter, where David is so disheartened by his miserable situation that when he sees a proud and powerful stag looking for all the world like a lord astride his demesne, all he can do is admit the animal’s superior ability to adapt to the conditions of life: “I saw a red deer … in the rain on the top of the island; … I suppose he must have swum the straits; though what should bring any creature to Earraid, was more than I could fancy” (p. 121). This is not just the mark of a shrewd lad, which we know David to be, but of a young man with a gift for language and a desire to exploit that gift. Thus the biting insult and the mock wonder are equally illustrative of David’s fluency in expressing the complexities of his emotions. He expends his wit even at moments of great danger: “Alan’s society was not only a peril to my life, but a burthen on my purse” (p. 190). This is drier than the gallows humor of James Stewart (“‘It would be a painful thing for our friends if I was to hang’” [p. 166]), as David seems unable to decide which is worse, Alan as a danger to his life or a drain on his purse. The line recalls a familiar if not proverbial phrase—“your m oney or your life”—which was used subsequently in one of the signature routines of a great modern comedian.

David and Alan at last cross the Highland line, with just a body of water left between them and safety. As David looks across to the other shore, with its prospect of freedom and wealth, he muses on his present homeless state, a beggar in rags, and an outlaw as well. The chapter “We Pass the Forth” serves as a pause in the plot, providing a respite for the fugitives from the fatigue of the flight, and a bridge to the final cluster of chapters, in which David recounts his adventures and recovers his estate. It is also a smart and entertaining comic interlude. The male bonding that has dominated the narrative to this point is here broken, or at least interrupted, by an attractive and resourceful woman who proves instrumental in transporting David and Alan across the Forth. If Stevenson had in mind the bravery of Flora Macdonald, and the compassion of Cummy, then he could do no better than his creation of Alison of Limekilns. And in the process he slips in a bit of banter that teasingly touches on issues of sexuality.

The comedy begins with Alan and David’s repartee on the logic of traversing a body of water (“‘If it’s hard to pass a river, it stands to reason it must be worse to pass a sea’” [p. 236]) and broadens to the good-natured epithets that Alan hurls at David in exasperation at his young friend’s ignorance of female psychology (“‘ye have a fine, hang-dog, rag-and-tatter, clapper- maclaw kind of a look to ye, as if ye had stolen the coat from a potato-bogle’” [p. 238]). It reaches a high point in Alan’s covert wooing of the innkeeper’s daughter, whom he is determined to use to secure a boat and carry them across the Forth. To do that he assumes her natural sympathy for a poor, woebegone lad like David (whose condition he theatrically exaggerates) and, working on her good looks, as well as David’s ungainliness, he entices both her curiosity and her pity. If Alan’s “play-acting” (as he calls it) is deceptive, and offensive to his young companion’s sense of honesty, he reminds David of the alternative: “‘if ye have any affection for my neck (to say nothing of your own) ye will perhaps be kind enough to take this matter gravely’” (p. 239). The wry remark is a way of lancing the reality of death. Stevenson’s comedy, as we have seen, is never far from its near cousin, and the wit and raillery often serve to make the prospect of tragedy bearable. But his art conceals this complexity. Just as the simplicity of the style masks the studied diction and the rhythmic syntax, so too does the subtle blending of comedy and tragedy deflect from the clearness of understanding that is at the heart of each of the modes. Of course, to separate the humor from the pathos would wrench the meaning from the text, for in the end comedy is the balm for sadness, just as tragedy is a beacon in the midst of laughter.

But Stevenson was not beyond the display of comic effect for its own sake, as Alan here pleads with the young woman for help.

If we lack that boat, we have but three shillings left in this wide world; and where to go, and how to do, and what other place there is for us except the chains of a gibbet—I give you my naked word, I kenna! Shall we go wanting, lassie? Are ye to lie in your warm bed and think upon us, when the wind gowls in the chimney and the rain tirls on the roof? Are ye to eat your meat by the cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick lad of mine, biting his finger ends on a blae muir for cauld and hunger? Sick orsound, he must aye be moving; with the death grapple at his throat he must aye be trailing in the rain on the lang roads; and when he gants his last on a rickle of cauld stanes, there will be nae friends near him but only me and God. (p. 243)

Alan is making this most extraordinary appeal to an innocent lass whose heart (he presumes) she puts before her head. The passage is a parody of sentimental fiction, or more precisely of the techniques and attitudes that sentimental writing indulges in: the adjective that pretends to make the noun larger but is merely a conventional epithet (“this wide world”); the rhetorical repetition (“and where to go, and how to do, and what other place”) that tugs at the listener’s heart; the picture of the victim, cold, suffering, and in want, contrasted with the warmth and comfort of the auditor, who ought to feel guilty at the inequity of their positions; and the final indignity of death on the gibbet, with the body left to hang in chains. Who could be dry-eyed at this projection of a young man’s fate? And if Alan is “playacting” here, well aware that he is conning the trusting lass, there is Stevenson behind his puppet, with a full consciousness of how much this writing is bred in the bone of popular romance. Ever the magus, however, the novelist gives his own twist to this self-reflexive exercise. For by the use of a vigorous Scots vocabulary—one that leads the Scottish National Dictionary to quote the same sentence twice in order to cite both “gowls” and “tirls”—he turns a sentimental parody into a miniature prose performance, one where the subject becomes the transformation of a tired literary form into a living art.

Half-title page from Henry James’s inscribed copy of the English edition.