Monday, December 29, 2014

the-secret-sharer/summary-and-analysis



http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/the-secret-sharer/summary-and-analysis/part-1
Personal Background
Joseph Conrad, one of the English language's greatest stylists, was born Teodor Josef Konrad Nalecz Korzenikowski in Podolia, a province of the Polish Ukraine. Poland had been a Roman Catholic kingdom since 1024, but was invaded, partitioned, and repartitioned throughout the late eighteenth-century by Russia, Prussia, and Austria. At the time of Conrad's birth (December 3, 1857), Poland was one-third of its size before being divided between the three great powers; despite the efforts of nationalists such as Tadeusz Kosciuszko, who led an unsuccessful uprising in 1795, Poland was controlled by other nations and struggled for independence. When Conrad was born, Russia effectively controlled Poland.
Conrad's childhood was largely affected by his homeland's struggle for independence. His father, Apollo Korzeniowski, belonged to the szlachta, a hereditary social class comprised of members of the landed gentry; he despised the Russian oppression of his native land. At the time of Conrad's birth, Apollo's land had been seized by the Russian government because of his participation in past uprisings. He and one of Conrad's maternal uncles, Stefan Bobrowski, helped plan an uprising against Russian rule in 1863. Other members of Conrad's family showed similar patriotic convictions: Kazimirez Bobrowski, another maternal uncle, resigned his commission in the army (controlled by Russia) and was imprisoned, while Robert and Hilary Korzeniowski, two fraternal uncles, also assisted in planning the aforementioned rebellion. (Robert died in 1863 and Hilary was imprisoned and exiled.) All of this political turmoil would prove to be predictably disturbing to young Josef, who could only stand idly by as he watched his family embroiled in such dangerous controversy.
Conrad's father was also a writer and translator, who composed political tracts, poetry, and satirical plays. His public urgings for Polish freedom, however, eventually caused Russian authorities to arrest and imprison him in 1861; in 1862, his wife (Conrad's mother), Eva, was also arrested and charged with assisting her husband in his anti-Russian activities. The two were sentenced to exile in Vologda, a town in northern Russia. Their exile was a hard and bitter one: Eva died of tuberculosis in 1865 and Apollo died of the same disease in 1869. Conrad, now only twelve years old, was naturally devastated; his own physical health deteriorated and he suffered from a number of lung inflammations and epileptic seizures. His poor health would become a recurring problem throughout the remainder of his life. Poland did not gain independence until 1919, and although patriots such as Apollo were instrumental in this eventual success, their martyrdom left many children (such as Conrad) without parents or hope for their future.
The Call of the Sea
After his father's death, Conrad was returned to Krakow, Poland where he became a ward of his maternal uncle, Thaddeus Bobrowski. His uncle sent Conrad to school in Krakow and then to Geneva under the guidance of a private tutor. However, Conrad was a poor student; Despite his having studied Greek, Latin, mathematics, and (of course) geography, he never completed the formal courses of study that he was expected to finish. His apathy toward formal education was counterbalanced by the reading he did on his own: During his early teenage years, Conrad read a great deal, particularly translations Charles Dickens' novels and Captain Frederick Marryat, an English novelist who wrote popular adventure yarns about life at sea. (He also read widely in French.)
Marryat's novels may have been partly responsible for the sixteen-year-old Conrad's desire to go to sea and travel the world as a merchant marine (an exotic wish for a boy who grew up in a land-locked country); in 1874, his uncle reluctantly granted him permission to leave Poland and travel, by train, to the French port city of Marseille to join the French Merchant Navy. After his arrival, Conrad made three voyages to the West Indies between 1875 and 1878; During this time, he smuggled guns for the Carlists, who were trying to put Carlos de Bourbon on the throne of Spain. In 1878, Conrad suffered from depression, caused in part by gambling debts and his being forbidden to work on any French ships due to his lying about having the proper permits. He made an unsuccessful attempt at suicide, shooting himself through the shoulder and missing his vital organs. (Biographers differ in their interpretations of this attempt: Some contend that Conrad was depressed about his squandering all his money, while others report that the attempt was a ruse designed to put Conrad out of work and thus escape the grasp of creditors.) Later that year, Conrad boarded an English ship that took him to the eastern port-town of Lowestoft; there, he joined the crew of a ship that made six voyages between Lowestoft and Newcastle. During this time, he learned English. Conrad's determination to succeed as a seaman was impressive: Although he began his career as a common sailor, by 1886 he had sailed to the Asia and was made master of his own ship. He then became a British subject and changed his name to Joseph Conrad (partly to avoid having to return to Poland and serve in the Russian military).
In 1888, Conrad received his first command of the Otago, a ship harboring in Bangkok whose master had died. Surprisingly, Conrad hated the day-to-day life of a sailor and never owned a boat after becoming famous; The sea, however, offered Conrad the opportunity to make a living. One of Conrad's most important voyages occurred in 1890, when he sailed a steamboat up the Congo River in central Africa. Conrad was attracted to this region partly because of the adventure he thought it could offer him and (perhaps more importantly) because working in the Congo could earn him some much-needed money. During this voyage, Conrad witnessed incredible barbarity, illness, and inhumanity; his recollections of this trip would eventually become the basis of his most famous work, Heart of Darkness. During this time, Conrad was considering turning his seafaring adventures into novels, and he eventually publishedAlmayer's Folly, which he had been composing during the early 1890s in 1895. The success of his first novel lured him away from the sea to his new adventures as an English novelist. He settled in England, married Jessie George (in 1896), and began the career for which the world would remember him best.
From Sailor to Author
After the publication of Almayer's Folly, Conrad began producing a number of books in rapid succession, many of which featured plots about sailors and travel to explore moral ambiguity and the nature of human identity. The Nigger of the "Narcissus" (1897) concerns a tubercular Black sailor whose impending death affects his fellow crewmen in a number of profound ways. Lord Jim (1900) examines the effects of a cowardly act and how this act's moral repercussions haunt a man until his death. (Lord Jim's story is told by Marlow, the narrator of Heart of Darkness.) In 1902, Conrad published Heart of Darkness, a short novel detailing Marlow's journey into the Belgian Congo — and the metaphorical "heart of darkness" of man. All three books were highly regarded in their time and are still widely read and studied today. In 1904, Nostromo was published; the complex tale of an imaginary South American republic. The effects of greed and foreign exploitation helped to define Conrad's oblique and sometimes difficult narrative style. Although he produced a large body of work, Conrad was often a slow writer who felt the pressure of deadlines and the need to keep writing to keep his family financially solvent. His struggles were eased, however, in 1910, when John Quinn, an American lawyer, bought all of Conrad's manuscripts and awarded him a small pension.
Conrad continued writing tales of travel, but also turned his attention to novels of political intrigue. The Secret Agent (1907) concerns a group of anarchists who plan to blow up the Greenwich Observatory;Under Western Eyes (1911), set in nineteenth-century Czarist Russia, follows the life of a student who betrays his friend — the assassin of a government official — to the authorities. His story "The Secret Sharer" (1912) uses the "Doppelganger theme" (where a man meets his figurative double) to examine what Conrad viewed as the shifting nature of human identity and the essential isolation of all human beings. In 1913, Chance was a great success both critically and financially; the novel, like Heart of Darkness, explores the ways in which an innocent person (like Marlow) becomes hardened by the horrors that surround her. Other novels marked by these essential Conradian themes include The Inheritors(cowritten with Ford Maddox Ford, 1901), Victory (1915), and The Shadow-Line (1917). Conrad alsoturned to autobiography: The Mirror of the Sea (1906), A Personal Record (1912), and Notes on Life and Letters (1921). All treat his seafaring days and development as an artist.
Conrad died of heart failure on August 3, 1924. He was buried in Canterbury Cemetery and survived by his wife and sons (Borys and John). Still honored by millions of readers as one of the greatest modern writers, Conrad left behind a large body of work whose nature he defined (in his Preface to The Nigger of the "Narcissus") as "a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect."
allegory
An allegory is a work of art in which characters and events take on metaphorical or symbolic meanings that are deliberately cultivated by the artist. The most famous literary allegory in English is John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress (1678), where symbolic characters (with names such as Christian, Evangelist, and Faithful) move through a symbolic plot (part of which, for example, involves their fleeing the City of Destruction) to arrive at the Celestial City eventually. Bunyan's allegory is clear and straightforward: Any person who wishes to reach Heaven must remain pure despite all of the hardships and tests he will face. Another widely known allegory is Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queen (1590) in which different knights represent different virtues, such as holiness, temperance, and chastity. Because of their accessibility and moral teachings, allegories have been popular with readers since the beginnings of English literature.
While "The Secret Sharer" may not seem as obviously allegorical as the aforementioned works, it can nonetheless be read as an allegorical examination of a timid man becoming more daring and therefore, more complete. The primary allegorical element in the story is its plot: As the Captain journeys through the Gulf of Siam and eventually to within the shadow of Koh-ring, he also undertakes a metaphorical journey within himself. Just as a traveler is in a different place literally at the end of a journey, so the Captain is in a different emotional "place" as he watches Leggatt swim to shore.
Conrad's depiction of the Captain also invites the reader to consider the story's other allegorical implications. For example, the young and inexperienced Captain wants to behave in a resolute and forthright manner, but he lacks the courage and sense of command that would enable him to do so. Conrad's making the Captain the newly appointed commander of a ship on foreign seas evokes those situations in every person's life when he or she is called upon to show courage and steadfastness, but feels out of place and uncomfortable with such demands.
Leggatt's appearance changes all this. In terms of the allegory, Leggatt is like the scorpion that smuggled its way into the Chief Mate's inkwell: sly, inexplicable, and potentially deadly. The fact that Leggatt killed a man — however accidentally or unintentionally — suggests his symbolic position as the more brutal, impulsive part of the human psyche. His initial nudity suggests his symbolically elemental essence in all of us: He is naked because he represents the human soul "stripped down" to its essentials without being "disguised" in any guise. When the Captain offers Leggatt one of his sleeping suits, the allegorical implications are unmistakable: Leggatt is — symbolically — a part of the Captain that readers see at the end of his "voyage."
Another piece of clothing that holds allegorical significance is the Captain's hat, which he gives to Leggatt before allowing him to escape the ship and swim to Koh-ring's shores. The last third of the story, when the Captain maneuvers the ship next to Koh-ring, repeatedly depicts the island as a symbol of death, looming over the Captain and his (understandably) terrified crew. However, to grow as a person (so Conrad's allegory goes), the Captain must experience a "brush with death" to test his newfound confidence. If not for Leggatt's losing the Captain's hat, which the Captain then uses to help him steer clear of the shoals, the ship would certainly be destroyed. This clarifies the plot. But in terms of the allegory, the hat suggests something else: Despite his having been assisted by Leggatt in finding his confidence and bravery, ultimately, the Captain himself is responsible for his transformation — a proposition that accords with the notion of Leggatt symbolically representing a part of the Captain's personality. Thus, the Captain's own hat saves his ship because it is the Captain himself who grows as a person and is responsible for his own change.
The Skipper of the Sephora enters the allegorical equation as well. As Leggatt symbolically represents the more passionate and dangerous side of man, the Skipper represents a side even more timid than the Captain at the beginning of the story. For example, he refuses to take a stand to help Leggatt, despite that the man Leggatt killed was an insolent sailor who could have cost all the men their lives and despite the fact that Leggatt killed the man accidentally. Thus, Conrad begins "The Secret Sharer" with the Captain being offered two extreme modes of behavior: Leggatt's and the Skipper's. The Captain encounters each one physically and emotionally, but by the end of the story, he has completed his allegorical journey through the symbolic shadow of death and looks forward, as does his symbolic counterpart, to a "new destiny."
Finally, the story's title reflects its overall allegory of growth and change. The Captain conceals Leggatt because — like many people — he tries to stifle and keep down the more physical and dangerous part of himself. He would rather possess a façade of cool control than fall prey to his own violent impulses. However, the story suggests that there are times in a person's life when he must call upon his "Leggatt" side to complete a dangerous task or prove himself worthy of his hire. We are all "secret sharers" of our darker selves, but we all keep them in reserve for use in dire situations.
1. Trace how the Captain's character changes by concealing Leggatt.
2. Discuss Conrad's use of the doppelganger theme in "The Secret Sharer."
3. Describe the allegorical meaning of the story.
4. Explain how "The Secret Sharer" treats the theme of knowledge. What, for example, are some of the different kinds of knowledge learned by the characters?
Introduction
"The Secret Sharer" was published in 1910, and the story is based on an actual incident, with some of the facts altered to suit Conrad's artistic purposes: In the 1880s, a mate aboard the Cutty Sark killed an insubordinate sailor during an altercation in which the insubordinate sailor eventually died. Like Leggatt, the killer who escapes punishment and befriends the story's narrator, the murderer escaped his punishment by swimming to a new destiny. Conrad uses the story of a sailor to explore themes of great scope.
The story can also be read as a bildungsroman — a tale of a young man's coming of age, much like Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Charles Dickens's David Copperfield, or James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Examining the story in light of these deeper levels of meaning transforms the work from a typical adventure story to an allegorical work, rich in symbolism.
The Doppelganger Theme
Upon an initial reading, "The Secret Sharer" seems to be an old-fashioned tale of adventure on the sea. The story features a captain, his crew, a mysterious event, a murder, a near-disaster, and the saving of a ship. While "The Secret Sharer" is an adventure yarn, it also stands as a profound and often disquieting examination of every person's dual nature and how each person must resolve this duality for the self to grow. Conrad's use of the doppelganger theme — a character's double or alter-ego — allows him to explore the dual nature of his protagonist, a young yet unsure captain assuming his first command.
"The Secret Sharer" concerns a young captain who assumes the command of his ship only a fortnight before the action of the story begins. Because of this, he is doubtful, untried, and feels himself at the mercy of a crew that while not mutinous or even hostile, slightly undermines the authority that a captain should possess if he is to truly command a ship as he sees fit. Like the skipper of the Sephora (the ship from which Leggatt escaped), the Captain worries over his reputation and the means by which he can preserve it during his first command. Because he lacks the courage and conviction needed to command a ship successfully, he stands as a well-meaning yet weak example of a typical captain. Once Leggatt appears from the depths of the sea — a possible symbol of the Captain's unconscious desire to remedy his own weaknesses — the Captain's personality begins to change.
His discovery of Leggatt changes the Captain in both obvious and subtle ways. Leggatt is, by definition, a killer who murdered an insolent sailor while simultaneously saving the Sephora during a terrible storm. While Leggatt did not intentionally kill the seaman, he is still a powerful and slightly sinister figure. Thus, Leggatt (a renegade from the law) represents the more brutal, irrational side of man, while the Captain represents the more civilized and refined one. Although the Captain thinks that a ship should be run in an orderly and straightforward fashion, Leggatt struck the insolent seaman because he would not assist him in repairing a sail. This is hardly an orderly action to take, but Leggatt felt no regard for rules and regulations when the lives of his fellow sailors were at stake during the storm, and the insolent seaman refused to cooperate in repairing the sail. The Captain, therefore, represents the more rational but timid side of humankind, while Leggatt represents the more irrational but brave side. Together, the Captain and Leggatt make up a perfect commander, and Conrad's story tracks how Leggatt influences the Captain and by doing so, transforms him into the perfect commander.
Conrad's use of the doppelganger theme invites the reader to consider his or her own duality, and to struggle for a balance between the rational and irrational, the timid and bold, the public and private sides of his or her personality. According to "The Secret Sharer," one's personality is created through interacting with others who offer a glimpse into the part of oneself that one assumes he or she lacks, only to discover that it has been lying dormant, waiting to be released.
THE CAPTAIN
Appointed to the command of his ship only a fortnight before the story begins, the Captain is a young and inexperienced, sincere yet uninspiring commander who eventually learns to call upon his previously hidden reserves of strength and cunning. In the beginning of the story, his authority is undermined slightly by his sneering second mate. He offers to take the anchor-watch himself to learn about the ship and feel less alienated. Early in the story, he states, "My position was that of the only stranger on board," and, more significantly, "I was somewhat of a stranger to myself." His feeling out-of-place on the ship mirrors his feelings of inadequacy concerning his new command.
After he meets Leggatt, however, the Caption begins behaving in ways that surprise both himself and his crew. He becomes more daring (constantly maneuvering Leggatt to prevent his discovery), more cunning (lying to the Sephora's Skipper about being hard-of-hearing), and more courageous (steering the ship close enough to Koh-ring so that Leggatt can swim to safety). He begins commanding his men in a direct and unapologetic way, and eventually wins their respect by keeping his composure during the episode at Koh-ring. This change in the Captain is what drives the story forward until its end, when he feels "the perfect communion of a seaman with his first command."
LEGGATT
The ex-Chief Mate of the Sephora, Leggatt is an impulsive man who acts according to his own sense of justice rather than any formalized regulations that attempt to draw a line between right and wrong. While he did kill a man aboard theSephora, he did so unintentionally after the two became embroiled in a brawl. Because he knows, however, that no judge will spare him the gallows, he decides to escape his confinement on the Sephora and to risk his life searching for a "new destiny."
Conrad draws attention to one of Leggatt's qualities in particular upon his entrance into the story — his physical strength. After being discovered by the Captain (hanging onto the rope ladder), Leggatt informs him that he previously swam to an islet and then to the Captain's ship — a distance of two miles. Conrad's attention to the detail of Leggatt's physical strength reflects his emotional strength as well. Determined never to face an "old fellow in a wig and twelve respectable tradesmen" in court, Leggatt escapes his bondage, fakes his own death, and at the story's end, strikes out for freedom. His strength is inspiring to the Captain, who begins a "secret sharing" of Leggatt's better qualities as the story proceeds
Summary
As dusk begins to fall, the unnamed narrator of the story stands on the deck of his ship, currently anchored at the mouth of the Meinam River in the Gulf of Siam. The narrator is the Captain of the ship who leaves the deck to eat supper with his mates. The time is approximately eight o'clock.
At supper, the Captain remarks that he saw the masts of a ship anchored amongst some nearby islands. The Chief Mate explains that the ship to which the Captain is referring is probably another English one, waiting for the right moment to sail home with a favorable tide. The Second Mate elaborates: The ship is the Sephora, from Liverpool, and is bound home from Cardiff with a cargo of coal. (He learned this from the skipper of the tugboat who came aboard to fetch the Captain's letters.)
The Captain makes a magnanimous gesture by offering to take the anchor watch himself until one o'clock, after which time he will get the Second Mate to relieve him. Again alone on deck, the Captain meditatively smokes a cigar and again considers his own "strangeness" to the ship and its command. The rest of the crew sleeps soundly.
The Captain notices that the rope side ladder, hung over the side of the ship to accommodate the skipper of the tugboat, has not been brought in. As he begins to pull it, he feels a jerk at the other end and curious, looks over the rail into the sea. He sees a naked man floating in the water and holding the end of the ladder. The man introduces himself as Leggatt. He has been in the water since nine o'clock, which makes the Captain consider his strength and youth. Leggatt climbs up the ladder and the Captain rushes to his cabin to fetch him some clothes. The Captain learns that Leggatt was the chief mate of the Sephoraand that he accidentally killed a fellow crewman. Although Leggatt unintentionally murdered the man, the Skipper stripped Leggatt of his title. The Captain tells Leggatt that they should retire to his cabin so as not to be discovered by the Chief Mate. The Captain hides Leggatt in his cabin, returns to the deck, summons the Chief Mate to take over the anchor watch, and returns to his cabin.
Leggatt continues his story: After killing the man, he was placed under arrest and kept in his cabin for almost seven weeks. Approximately six weeks into his confinement, Leggatt asked to see the Skipper and asked him to leave his door unlocked that night, while the Sephora sailed through the Sunda Straits, so that he could jump off and swim to the Java coast. The Skipper refused.
Three weeks later, the Sephora came to its present location, and Leggatt discovered that the ship's steward — wholly by accident — had left the door to his cabin unlocked. Leggatt wandered onto the deck and jumped off into the sea. He swam to a nearby islet while the Sephora's crew lowered a boat to search for him. Leggatt removed his clothes and sank them, determined never to return. He swam to another small island, saw the riding light of the Captain's ship, and swam to it. Eventually, he reached the rope ladder, completely exhausted after swimming over a mile. The Captain helps Leggatt into his bed, where he falls asleep immediately. The Captain eventually falls asleep himself; the next morning, the steward enters the Captain's cabin to bring him his morning coffee. (He does not notice Leggatt because the Captain drew the curtains that separate the bed from the rest of the cabin.) The Captain becomes more paranoid that someone will discover Leggatt and decides that he must show himself on deck. The Captain learns that a ship's boat is coming toward their ship. He orders the ladder to be dropped over the side and leaves Leggatt to meet who he is sure will be the Skipper of the Sephora, searching for Leggatt.
Analysis
When the story begins, Conrad implies that the Captain gained his post through connections rather than by steadily rising through the ranks of his fellow sailors. By the end of the story, however, Leggatt helps the Captain become more assured with his command and more respected by his crew.
The Chief Mate's anecdote about finding a scorpion in his inkwell holds symbolic importance. Like the scorpion, found in the most unlikely of places, Leggatt similarly is found clinging to the rope ladder. Leggatt's crime of murder (although accidental) similarly marks him as dangerous, like a scorpion. Finally, Conrad begins employing color symbolism here: The scorpion drowns in an inkwell, rendering it black when discovered by the Chief Mate, while Leggatt's hair is black, thus strengthening the connection between these two outcasts. Black is the color most associated with evil in Western thinking, and one should note that both the scorpion and Leggatt are stained black: The scorpion literally by the ink and Leggatt figuratively by his crime.
The Captain's desire to take the anchor watch himself stems from his feelings of isolation and alienation. Although he feels "painfully" that he is "doing something unusual" in taking on the watch himself, he does so to learn more about the ship and what he calls "the novel responsibility of command." He enjoys watching the sea because of its "singleness of purpose." The sea, unlike his own command, makes sense to him in its "absolute straightforwardness."
Leggatt's entrance into the story marks him as an almost supernatural force, sent by some higher power to assist the Captain in his struggle to gain the respect of his men and himself. His naked form and his rising from the sea heighten the suggestion that Leggatt has been "created" for the Captain. Again note Conrad's use of symbolism: Water has been widely used as a symbol of the subconscious mind, and nudity is an obvious symbol of feeling metaphorically "exposed" in front of others. Thus, Leggatt symbolically rises out of the Captain's subconscious, because he feels that he is "exposing" his weaknesses as a new commander. Note that when Leggatt first encounters the Captain, he asks, "I suppose your captain's turned in?" Leggatt assumes that the Captain is an ordinary seaman — perfectly understandable under the circumstances, but also a clear indication that there is nothing stately or "captain-like" about the Captain. Also note that the Captain first obliquely denies his position, saying that he is "sure" the captain isn't turned in, before he states, "I am the captain." Again, note that while he is technically the Captain, he lacks the qualities that suggest the substance of a captain, such as fortitude, presence, and strength. Conrad's story is, in part, about the Captain's acquisition of these qualities through the help of Leggatt.
Conrad begins stressing the idea that Leggatt is — in certain important ways — the Captain's double. His use of what is commonly called the doppelganger theme serves to highlight the qualities that the Captain lacks by showing them embodied in his double. Leggatt's being dressed in one of the Captain's sleeping suits and hiding in his cabin suggests their relationship in physical terms; but Conrad suggests their bond in many other ways as well: Both men are young, both hold (or, in Leggatt's case, held) posts of importance that they acquired through their "connections," both are "Conway boys," both are isolated from their respective crews, both save a ship during a dangerous event, and both eventually strike out for "new destinies." Each man offers something to his double: The Captain offers Leggatt a place to hide and his eventual means of escape, while Leggatt forces the Captain, through his assistance in helping him at Koh-ring, a chance to prove his seamanship in the eyes of the crew
The fact that the Captain so readily believes Leggatt's story about his murder of the sailor may mark him as gullible or even foolish in the eyes of some. However, the Captain — although working with a crew — feels isolated from them, and welcomes Leggatt's presence in much the same way that Leggatt welcomes his. Leggatt is, at first, someone the Captain can speak to, and he offers to help him almost as a means of continuing their "secret" relationship. The doppelganger theme usually involves a man meeting what the Captain calls his "other self." In this light, Leggatt is (figuratively) a "part" of the Captain that he doesn't know he possesses. At the story's end, Leggatt has effectively opened the Captain's eyes to the qualities he thought he lacked at the beginning of his command. Thus, the Captain immediately offers to hide Leggatt because, in a symbolic sense, Leggatt is the Captain — or at least the part of him that has been, until now, unexpressed. The Captain's future meeting with the Skipper of the Sephora at the start of Part 2 is one of the first tests of this newly developing part of himself.


Study HelpFull Glossary for The Secret Sharer""


a bark of the dead floating in slowly under the very gate of Erebus a boat leading departed souls to Erebus, the dark place under the earth where the dead pass before entering Hades, according to Greek mythology.
beyond my ken beyond my range of knowledge.
Binnacle the upright, cylindrical stand holding a ship's compass, usually located near the helm.
bo's'n phonetic spelling of "boatswain," a ship's warrant officer or petty officer in charge of the deck crew, the rigging, anchors, boats, and so on.
Bullock a young bull.
Cain in the Bible, the oldest son of Adam and Eve; he killed his brother Abel.
Cambodge Cambodian.
campstool a lightweight, folding stool.
Cardiff seaport in Southeast Wales, on the Bristol Channel; capital of Wales and county seat of South Glamorgan.
Cochin-China historic region and former French colony in Southeast Indochina; the southern part of Vietnam.
Conway boy sailor who trained on the British battleship Conway.
Cuddy the cook's galley on a small ship.
foreyards the lowest yards on the foremast (the mast nearest the bow, or front, of a ship), from which the foresail is set. (A "yard" is a selnder rod or spar, tapering toward the ends and fastened at right angles across a mast to support a sail.)
gimbals a pair of rings pivoted on axes at right angles to each other so that one is free to swing within the other; a ship's compass, pelorus, and so on, will remain horizontal at all times when suspended in gimbals.
Gulf of Siam "Siam" is the old name of Thailand; the Gulf of Siam is the arm of the South China Sea, between the Malay and Indochinese peninsulas.
Halter hangman's noose.
Java Head the westernmost point of Java, a large island of Indonesia, southeast of Sumatra.
Koh-ring the prefix "Koh" connotes an island; the island of Koh-ring is Conrad's creation.
mainyard the lowest yard on the mainmast (the principal mast of a vessel),from which the mainsail is set. (A "yard" is a slender rod or spar, tapering toward the ends and fastened at right angles across a mast to support a sail.)
Malay Archipelago large group of islands between Southeast Asia and Australia, including Indonesia, the Philippines, and sometimes New Guinea.
Mizzen the mast that is third from the bow of a ship with three or more masts. (The "bow" is the front part of a ship.)
Norfolk county of East England, on the North Sea.
the poop on sailing ships, a raised deck at the stern, sometimes forming the roof of a cabin.
Ratlines any of the small, relatively thin pieces of tarred rope that join the shrouds of a ship and serve as the steps of a ladder for climbing the rigging. "Shrouds" are sets of ropes or wires stretched from a ship's side to a masthead to offset lateral strain on the mast.
"She's round" the ship has passed around the land and is clear of danger.
Square the yards by lifts and braces nautical command meaning, "Sail directly before the wind." "Yards" are slender rods or spars, tapering toward the ends and fastened at right angles across a mast to support a sail; "braces" are ropes passed through blocks at the ends of yards, used to swing the yard about from the deck.
Sunda Straits straits running between a group of islands in the Malay Archipelago, consisting of two smaller groups; Greater Sunda Islands (Sumatra, Java, Borneo, Sulawesi, and small nearby islands) andLesser Sunda Islands (Bali and islands stretching east through Timor).
taffrail the rail around the stern of a ship. (The "stern" is the back end of a ship.)
that unplayful cub the second mate; a "cub" is an inexperienced, awkward youth.
What does the Bible say? 'Driven from the face of the earth.' in the story of Cain and Abel, Cain complains he will be "driven from the face of the earth" for the murder of his brother.

the-secret-sharer/summary-and-analysis/part-2

http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/the-secret-sharer/summary-and-analysis/part-2

2. Consult reference sources on Sigmund Freud's ideas about the conscious mind, specifically his ideas about the id, ego, and superego. Consider how Freud's ideas can be applied to "The Secret Sharer" and then create a poster on which you compare Conrad and Freud's ideas about the make-ups of our personalities. (Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams is a good starting point for your research.)

Summary
The Skipper of the Sephora arrives on board the Captain's ship, looking for any sign of Leggatt. The Skipper is distressed over Leggatt's actions and disappearance, explaining that he has been at sea for thirty-seven years and has never seen anything like what happened with Leggatt.
The Captain offers the Skipper the explanation that perhaps the heavy sea — rather than Leggatt — killed the crewman, but the Skipper tells him that this could not have been the case. He then tells the Captain that he will have to report Leggatt as a suicide.
The Skipper is, however, suspicious of the Captain and remarks that while the mainland is seven miles away, the Captain's ship is only two miles away from theSephora. To mislead the Skipper, the Captain shows him the rest of his cabin and stateroom, announcing his intention to do so, so that Leggatt will know to remain absolutely still. As the Skipper descends the ladder to return to his ship, he begins to ask the Captain if he suspects Leggatt to be on board, but the Captain quickly dismisses him with, "Certainly not."
The Captain and Leggatt have another secret conversation. Leggatt tells the Captain that the Sephora'sSkipper lied when he said that he gave the order to repair the foresail. Rather, he whimpered about their "last hope" while Leggatt repaired the foresail without being told to do so. The Captain, wholly convinced of Leggatt's innocence, understands that the weather, on the night Leggatt killed the crewman, "crushed an unworthy mutinous existence."
Leggatt's presence in the Captain's cabin causes the Captain to constantly think of him, and the Chief Mate and the helmsman notice the Captain behaving in an odd, stealthy manner. The Captain's tension grows more unbearable. During this time, Leggatt hides mostly in the Captain's bathroom and sleeps with him in his bed. Leggatt eats tins of preserves stored in the Captain's locker and drinks the Captain's morning coffee.
Leggatt asks the Captain to maroon him on a nearby shore, since he will not return to England to be tried and hung. The Captain initially refuses, but then agrees to grant Leggatt his wish.
At midnight, the Captain goes on deck and orders this ship to change its tack and approach the east side of the Gulf. The Chief Mate silently hints at his disapproval and tells the Second Mate that the order shows a lack of judgment. By noon, the Chief Mate wonders when the Captain will order a change of course. However, the Captain tells him that they will be sailing as close to the islands as they can to find some "land breezes" to propel them more quickly than they were moving in the middle of the Gulf. The Chief Mate expresses his shock at this decision.
That night, the Captain tells Leggatt that he will steer the ship near Koh-ring, an island that seems inhabited. The Captain will maneuver the ship to within half a mile of the shore. Leggatt warns him to be careful, lest a mishap cost the Captain his first command.
The Captain returns to the deck and orders the Second Mate to open the quarter-deck ports. He then returns to his cabin and tells Leggatt to escape out of the quarter-deck ports while the rest of the crew is occupied. He also tells him to lower himself to the sea with a rope to avoid a splash. Leggatt grabs the Captain's arm as a silent gesture of thanks.
That night, the Captain visits Leggatt for the last time. He gives him three sovereigns, which Leggatt initially refuses but eventually accepts. Neither man says anything when they separate for the last time.
When the Captain returns to the deck, he is startled by the ship's proximity to the land, but he knows he must maintain this course to help Leggatt escape. He orders the helmsman to continue their course, while the other crewmen stare in disbelief. They approach Koh-ring, and as the ship gets closer to the land, the members of the crew begin vocalizing their concern. The Chief Mate cries that the ship's bottom will be torn off by the land and the helmsman expresses his doubts over the Captain's order to maintain their course.
Although the Captain remains stern to the men, he is filled with doubt about their chances of survival. The dark sky, combined with the shadow of the hills of Koh-ring make navigation very difficult, and the Captain wishes he had some kind of mark in the water by which to gage his steering. Suddenly, he sees a white object in the water within a yard of the ship's side — he recognizes it as his hat, which he gave to Leggatt and which had fallen off his head when he began his swim to shore. The Captain uses this mark to help him steer the ship, which avoids being grounded and steers clear of any further danger. The Captain now feels in perfect command of the ship and his crew. As his ship sails on, he watches his hat disappear from view and thinks of Leggatt, "striking out for a new destiny."
Analysis
Conrad suggests that Leggatt "shares" his better qualities with the Captain; he also uses the Skipper of the Sephora to contrast the kind of captain that the Captain will become at the end of the story. TheSephora's Skipper represents one possible outcome of the Captain's fate, as does Leggatt. The Skipper is a man who hides behind his command, fearful of any damage to his reputation and fearful of his own crew. (The presence of his wife on board may be a hint that the Skipper is more "wimpy" than he should be when commanding the Sephora.) Recall Leggatt's story in Part 1: Although the Skipper knew that Leggatt saved the ship by repairing the foresail, he would not allow this to mitigate Leggatt's punishment because "He was afraid of the men, and also of that old second mate of his." Like the Captain, the Skipper was faced with a second mate who questioned his command — but unlike the Captain during the episode at Koh-ring, he is too afraid of looking foolish in front of others to give any order that may seem questionable. The Skipper also lies to the Captain about the foresail, saying he ordered its repair, when in fact Leggatt was responsible for doing the job and saving the Sephora. Fearful of giving any credit to Leggatt, the Skipper lies to mask his own lack of foresight, seamanship, and conviction. He also tells the Captain that he "never liked" Leggatt — but according to Leggatt, the Skipper was unable to meet his eyes when visiting him in his cabin, suggesting the guilt felt by the Skipper over arresting Leggatt for a technical, yet accidental, crime. The kind of command practiced by the Skipper is exactly what Leggatt helps the Captain avoid.
Part 2 also marks the Captain's growing bravery, which is contrasted with the Skipper's cowardice. When speaking to the Skipper, the Captain tells him he is hard of hearing so that the Skipper will speak loud enough for Leggatt to hear him; and he deftly handles the Skipper's attempts at prying information about Leggatt out of him. Note that as the Captain continues risking his command for Leggatt, their relationship takes a physical toll on him: He stealthily paces the decks, startles the steward, and must force himself to adopt the "unconscious alertness" required of all able seamen. While Leggatt teaches the Captain what makes a good commander, the lessons are exhausting and trying. As the Captain says, this period is "an infinitely miserable time."
Leggatt himself becomes even more unreal in the second half of the story. During the scene where the steward almost discovers Leggatt in the Captain's bathroom, the Captain wonders if Leggatt is "not visible to other eyes" than his own. He forms an "irresistible doubt" of Leggatt's bodily existence and even compares keeping the secret to being haunted. Even Leggatt is aware of his ghost-like status when he tells the Captain, "It would never do for me to come to life again." Unlike the keeper of a haunted house, however, the Captain is haunted by his other self, which is by the presence of a man who, the Captain comes to realize, embodies the part of him that needs to be revealed if he is to mature as a commander and not become a doddering coward, such as the Skipper of the Sephora.
This crucial distinction is made clear to the Captain when Leggatt tells him that he must maroon him. At first, the Captain resists, stating that they "are not living a boy's adventure story" and that such a plan is absurd. Leggatt, ever the teacher, tells the Captain that he thought he had "understood thoroughly," which makes the Captain consider the shaping of his own personality.
Being able to recognize his own cowardice frees the Captain from acquiring the cowardice so obvious in the Skipper of the Sephora.
The Captain's maneuvering of the ship at Koh-ring stands as the ultimate test of his newly discovered traits. At first, the Chief Mate questions his decision to "stand right in," that is, to take the ship close to the islands to pick up the land breezes. "Bless my soul!" the Chief Mate cries. "Do you mean, sir, in the dark amongst the lot of all them islands and reefs and shoals?" The Captain finds a new assurance in his voice (unlike when first speaking to Leggatt) and says, "It's got to be Koh-ring." This assurance is even more pronounced when he is questioned by the Second Mate about opening the quarter-deck ports and responds, "The only reason you need concern yourself about is because I tell you to do so." Earlier in Part 2, the Captain notices Leggatt's complete sanity, and it is this sanity, or ability to remain level-headed in times of distress, that the Captain has effectively "borrowed" from Leggatt.
The Captain and Leggatt's parting conveys the degree to which each man has assisted the other. The Captain tells Leggatt, "I hope I have understood," to which Leggatt replies, "You have. From first to last." Like a student at a graduation ceremony, the Captain receives his "diploma" from his teacher, Leggatt. The men are then silent as Leggatt grasps his savior's arm. They have grown close enough that words would only be superfluous.
The story's final scene reflects the degree to which the Captain has changed due to his relationship with Leggatt. The Captain's words to his crew become more forceful and direct. Strong commands, such as, "Keep her full," "Don't check her way," "Turn all hands up," and "Be quiet," pepper his speech, and when the Chief Mate babbles in fear (like the Skipper of the Sephora), the Captain grabs his arm and shakes it "violently." Although he, too, is afraid to look at the land, he refuses to betray his own doubts to the men he commands.
When he sees his white hat floating in the sea, left by Leggatt as he began his swim to safety, the Captain is able to steer the ship away from the island and back into safer waters. The fact that the Captain's own hat serves as his mark reiterates the idea that Leggatt is that "secret" part of himself that even he did not know existed. After the ship moves out of danger, the Captain feels "the perfect communion of a seaman with his first command." As he thinks of Leggatt being free, the proud swimmer striking out on a new destiny, these words apply to the Captain as well. The Captain is now free from his own timidity; he is proud, as he metaphorically swims to his future as a commander; and he is striking out on a new destiny as well as a man who has discovered a previously hidden part of himself.

Kipling and Dreams





Childhood terror in a dream of shipwreck 
When Kipling takes up the notion of dream in "The Red Lamp (Civil and Military Gazette, July 1889) it is again as a device for presenting terror. At one level it’s a vivid, highly commercial little sketch, drawing on his new expertise in ships’ fittings, acquired during his recent voyage between Calcutta and San Francisco on the way back to England. It was a journey charged with more emotion from the past than he perhaps understood.

The story evokes nothing less than the threat of complete annihilation. During a hot night on shipboard, his narrator finds a space to sleep right in the bows of the ship, a setting chosen to make plausible his ensuing vision. The glare of a red lamp from another steamship warns him it is approaching on a collision course. He can’t understand why the alarm is not raised: he is alone in seeing the approaching danger. He watches, paralysed, as the vessels smash together, before being woken to find it was just a dream.

It’s scarcely a story at all, in spite of its concrete detail and elaborate description, since the key moment occurs when the narrator wakes to find it was all a dream. The horror evaporates. Yet the feeling which the dream vision communicates is remarkable in its helpless terror. It might make sense, noting the moment in his life when "The Red Lamp" was written, to link his choice of this particular image of horror with the violent impact on him as a child in Southsea when his inner world was overturned and all but destroyed. 
All the circumstances suggest that at the time of writing "The Red Lamp" in 1889, Kipling was emotionally exposed. He was between worlds, out on his travels having chosen to give up the security of his place in India in order to try his luck in London. That was the point of his trip for this man of twenty-three. Yet in effect he was repeating the move which had brought him, as a small child, from Bombay to Southsea. As if in preparation or self-defence, only a few months earlier, in writing the story "Baa Baa, Black Sheep" (The Week’s News, December 21 1888), he had taken himself back to the world of desolation in which he’d lived between five and eleven.

His sister, Trix, may have claimed, decades afterwards, that he exaggerated the misery of those years, but her experience was inevitably different as a younger child, a girl, who was specially favoured. Mrs Edmonia Hill, in whose Allahabad home Kipling was a paying guest at the time of writing "Baa Baa Black Sheep", noted the ‘towering rage’ brought on in him by working on it.

He can scarcely have anticipated this violent upheaval. Describing straightforward unhappiness, if that had been all he had to deal with, might well have been therapeutic but Kipling had chosen to revisit a time in his early development when his perception of reality and his very being were under attack. It doesn’t seem too much to claim that by the time his Aunt Georgie set about rescuing him, he was showing signs of something close to psychosis. In taking himself back, finding words to make the past live again by the act of writing, he had raised demons: the dark faces, perhaps, of the welcome Daemon of his creativity. For in spite of all the turbulence, Kipling retained artistic control over his volatile material, as ‘Punch’, the name he chose for the small boy who stands for himself. 
Hindustani was Kipling’s first language and it never left him. As a small child in Bombay he had to be reminded to speak English when he joined his parents in the drawing-room. As a grown man, when he chose to name his young hero ‘Punch’, it had the effect of playing on the Hindustani meaning of the word and of reinforcing his personal stake in the story. In English the name ‘Punch’ is a real oddity but in Hindustani the word ‘panch’ carries the meaning both of ‘five’, the age at which Kipling was deposited in Southsea, and ‘perplexity’. 
It’s not possible to claim with certainty that this choice was fully conscious, though it is indisputable that in maturity Kipling delighted in planting clues to make his readers work. Taken together, ‘five’ and ‘perplexity’ identify mental confusion as the lasting damage imposed on the five-year-old Kipling and described in "Baa Baa Black Sheep" .

In "The Brushwood Boy" (1895), as a man of thirty, Kipling would come to explore the psychological consequences of this clash between what I would call true and false experience, when outside teaching seeks to displace what has been authentically registered by the self. But for the moment, in "The Red Lamp" Kipling simply generated an image of looming annihilation, in the ship bearing remorselessly down on his own vessel. In naming it as a mere dream, Kipling the writer was able to contain the terror he knew so well, reducing it to literary capital.
Childhood terror arrives in the present: the return of the repressed 
"At the End of the Passage" (1890) represents Kipling’s first mature attempt to move beyond merely manipulating the fear he was so skilled at provoking in his readers. The story, dense and satisfying in its detail of the lonely lives of Englishmen employed in colonial service in India, is framed by the weekly get-togethers of four men. Isolated by the nature of their different professions they are struggling to support each other through the Hot Weather. At its heart stands the crisis of a man who can’t allow himself to sleep because he fears a particular dream. In this dream he is chased along corridors by a blind face that cries and can’t wipe its eyes. ‘If I’m caught, I die, I die,’ Hummil, the engineer, cries in horror. 

It’s difficult to avoid noticing that the language Kipling chooses to describe Hummil’s panic specifically invokes both childhood experience and the threat of hell as punishment: ‘He stood at the doorway in the expression of his lost innocence. He had slipped back into terrified childhood’ the narrator tells us. ‘It has made every night hell to me; and yet I’m not conscious of having done anything wrong,’ Hummil at last confides to Spurstow, the doctor. One effect of this eruption of a child self into the life of the grown man is that Hummil begins to be confronted with the figure of himself. He meets his double, sitting at the table in front of him.Kipling works up the reader’s fascinated alarm with the greatest skill, drawing on an old superstition to assert that: 'the simulacrum is in all respects real except that it cast no shadow’. When Hummil is found dead, ‘In the staring eyes was written terror beyond the expression of any pen’. The Indian servant’s explanation echoes Hummil’s own talk of being chased. At the same time it is cast in the language of "The Phantom Rickshaw":

‘my master has descended into the Dark Places and there has been caught because he was not able to escape with sufficient speed.’
As a final frisson we are led to believe that with his camera the doctor has caught a specific image, one that is cunningly left unnamed, in the eyes of the dead man. The image is so terrifying that the doctor immediately destroys the film and even the camera.

This was thrilling and utterly saleable, though maybe also a kind of cop-out, in advancing a mysterious ‘Indian’ explanation of Hummil’s distress. Or was it a challenge to the reader to make sense of all the cues he was offering? Kipling was tracing the movements of the inner world through the images of his fiction, at a time when a language for naming that world and its processes was only starting to be developed in the west. Sigmund Freud's The Interpretation of Dreamswasn’t published until 1900, while Freud was yet to connect the uncanny with the return of the repressed. He would also go on to link these with the appearance of a double and with regression to a time in the life of the individual when the ego was not yet sharply differentiated from the external world and from other persons. Freud arrived at these formulations, still not published when Kipling composed "At the End of the Passage", in part by reflecting on works of fiction. It was by allowing his imagination to draw from his own inner depths that Kipling made such connections for himself. 
Dreams which invite the reader's interpretation: laying a trail 
In comparing Hummil’s experience—and that of characters in other stories—with what had happened to Kipling as a child, it is not my intention to diminish Kipling’s highly crafted works to fragments of autobiography. Rather, I intend to suggest a source for his exceptional analytic insight. The states of psychological disturbance he identifies are not unique for they are caused by an experience that is widely shared. They reflect the impact on the sensitive developing mind of Christian teachings, particularly those regarding guilt and punishment.

Kipling has planted clues to the source of Hummil’s original distress: a piety that offers a misleading picture of the world, one passed on by mothers. Remembering how the narrator spoke of him as a frightened child, while Hummil himself spoke of the torments of hell, the reader picks up a resonance with a scene that the writer had carefully laid out close to the story’s opening.

The bored men, having abandoned their game, are knocking aimlessly about Hummil’s bungalow, when one of them, Mottram, strumming on the piano, glides into the Evening Hymn. Hummil, like the others sweating in one hundred and one degrees of heat, and on edge, as he explains from lack of sleep, responds with a bitter speeded up chant of the words.:“It ought to go to “The Grasshopper’s Polka”, he remarks. Linking the hymn with a popular piece of dance music for piano in this way is an index of Hummil’s disturbance, for it approaches deliberate blasphemy.


Glory to thee, my God, this night
For all the blessings of the light.'

Reincaranation, dream and writing 

Trance and reverie, waking states in which the everyday forms of perception give place, are linked with dream in "The Finest Story in the World" (1891). Charlie Mears, a bank clerk who yearns to be a writer, is the subject of its study rather than its hero. Endowed with an immensely detailed knowledge of life as a galley slave and as a northern pirate, he doesn’t appear to question where that knowledge comes from. Nor can he write it: on the page his work is leaden. His speaking voice alone is able to carry the story. It’s when he’s sleepy, about to go to bed or gazing spellbound into the fire that he gains access to it. But when he is utterly vulnerable, asleep, that’s the moment whe when thenightmare’ in which he experiences his own death sweeps over him.

Writing in the first person, Kipling inserts himself in the story, as a young man in London, a figure very close to his actual position at that time. Emphasising his own identity as a writer, Charlie’s mentor and interlocutor, allows him to raise questions about inspiration and originality, before providing an answer designed to thrill Kipling’s own readers with assertions concerning reincarnation. Those assertions may also be designed to calm Kipling himself. He had learned that as a writer he was at times taken over by a power beyond his conscious control, his ‘Daemon’ as he named it, which brought those intuitions of guilt and death he developed in writing "The Phantom Rickshaw". He needed some framework for understanding what was happening to him. It may have been a relief to arrive at the formulation of a ‘half-memory falsely called imagination.’ 

The power of what Charlie recounts, his fragments of narrative and of description, remain striking. Yet the story itself is so distorted by the writer’s personal need to establish an explanation for those bursts of inspired talk, that it is dragged down. A Hindu acquaintance, Grish Chunder, is unconvincingly introduced, with discussions meant to demonstrate that the East, with its faith in reincarnation, can accommodate Charlie and his tales. Chunder can explain it all and how it will end: “Charlie will remember a little and a little less and he will call it dreams” . 
More disturbing, to today’s readers at least, is the assertion that Charlie’s gift will evaporate once he comes to feel that he’s in love with a woman, as though something pristine in him will be killed off, and with it access to what is truly known. It’s awkward, a place where the pattern of Kipling’s own fantasies— or is it his buried memories? — come poking through. The reader senses strain, too, in the repeated assertion that some writing, some knowledge, is forbidden by ‘The Lords of Life and Death’: the narrator says he would like to write the story of Charlie’s former lives but feels that he must not do so. One reason, he claims, is that readers would say that he made it up out of other men’s books. But the intimation of veto is stronger and more diffused than that: the intuition of a past death, and the sense of a knowledge that is forbidden, weave together, closing the way.

To the end of his life Kipling remained uneasy about being so porous, so open to knowledge he could not account for, and uncomfortable with his sometimes uncanny power of intuition. In Something of Myself, which was in late draft at the time of his death, he describes two such occasions which left him baffled.

In 1913, when he was lying out watching manoeuvres near Aldershot, the weather conditions put him in mind of South Africa and the Boer War. In imagination he felt the pressure of all the British dead from that war, seeing them forming and flickering before him in the heat. (Readers may see a link with his story "The Army of a Dream" (1904), but Kipling himself failed to make that connection.) His notion came to obsess him. In the end, however, he drew back from writing it up for publication because he didn’t want to attract discussion of his ‘psychical experience’. ‘And I am in no way psychic’, he stoutly if unconvincingly declared. He believed that his sister Trix’s psychical experiments had contributed to her breakdowns.
That disclaimer was closely followed in his memoir with an account of an exactly prophetic dream, quite prosaic but perfectly exact in its detail, which came to him in 1922. Six weeks before the ceremony took place, the dream precisely anticipated his experience in Westminster Abbey when he was present for the dedication by the Prince of Wales of a memorial to the dead of the Great War. For Kipling, it was an unsought example of forbidden knowledge: he had 'passed beyond the bounds of ordinance ... But how, and why, had I been shown an unreleased roll of my life-film?’, he asked.
Charlie’s memories—if they do belong to him—or his visions, are involuntary, like his creator’s, and appear to give a clue to the workings of the world, workings specifically not recognised under Christianity. Grish Chunder, the Hindu, is brought in to dramatise the existence of a different culture and to make its reading of the world actively present in the tale. 

The words of the hymn are totally at odds with the reality of the here and now: instead of ‘the blessings of the light’ the day is clouded by ‘the gloom of a November day in London’. More critically, Hummil’s jangled tone indicates that he is angrily aware of betrayal. The trust in protection from the powers of darkness that is implied by the hymn has proved empty. Hummil’s nights are haunted.

For the others, however, the hymn-tune provokes idealised fantasies of home, in contrast with the alien world in which they actually find themselves.: 

“Summer evenings in the country, stained-glass window, light going out, and you and she jamming your heads together over one hymnbook”, said Mottram.’
But are these truly the ‘sacred recollections’ that Lowndes claims, or are they to be read as wishful thinking? They appear to be finely judged on the writer’s part, in order to wake scepticism in the reader. When Spurstow the doctor chimes in:‘“Also mothers. I can just recollect my mother singing me to sleep with that when I was a little chap,” we are told that‘darkness had fallen on the room’ and ‘they could hear Hummil squirming in his chair’. Something disembodied, neither the narrator nor the characters but the narrative itself, appears to record that assent or endorsement of these pieties are being withheld.


http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/rg_dreams.htm#phantom
... the blind face that cries
and can't wipe its eyes ... 


Kipling and Dreams
(by Mary Hamer) 
Childhood terror in a dream of shipwreck

When Kipling takes up the notion of dream in "The Red Lamp (Civil and Military Gazette, July 1889) it is again as a device for presenting terror. At one level it’s a vivid, highly commercial little sketch, drawing on his new expertise in ships’ fittings, acquired during his recent voyage between Calcutta and San Francisco on the way back to England. It was a journey charged with more emotion from the past than he perhaps understood.

The story evokes nothing less than the threat of complete annihilation. During a hot night on shipboard, his narrator finds a space to sleep right in the bows of the ship, a setting chosen to make plausible his ensuing vision. The glare of a red lamp from another steamship warns him it is approaching on a collision course. He can’t understand why the alarm is not raised: he is alone in seeing the approaching danger. He watches, paralysed, as the vessels smash together, before being woken to find it was just a dream.

It’s scarcely a story at all, in spite of its concrete detail and elaborate description, since the key moment occurs when the narrator wakes to find it was all a dream. The horror evaporates. Yet the feeling which the dream vision communicates is remarkable in its helpless terror. It might make sense, noting the moment in his life when "The Red Lamp" was written, to link his choice of this particular image of horror with the violent impact on him as a child in Southsea when his inner world was overturned and all but destroyed.

All the circumstances suggest that at the time of writing "The Red Lamp" in 1889, Kipling was emotionally exposed. He was between worlds, out on his travels having chosen to give up the security of his place in India in order to try his luck in London. That was the point of his trip for this man of twenty-three. Yet in effect he was repeating the move which had brought him, as a small child, from Bombay to Southsea. As if in preparation or self-defence, only a few months earlier, in writing the story "Baa Baa, Black Sheep" (The Week’s News, December 21 1888), he had taken himself back to the world of desolation in which he’d lived between five and eleven. 
His sister, Trix, may have claimed, decades afterwards, that he exaggerated the misery of those years, but her experience was inevitably different as a younger child, a girl, who was specially favoured. Mrs Edmonia Hill, in whose Allahabad home Kipling was a paying guest at the time of writing "Baa Baa Black Sheep", noted the ‘towering rage’ brought on in him by working on it.

He can scarcely have anticipated this violent upheaval. Describing straightforward unhappiness, if that had been all he had to deal with, might well have been therapeutic but Kipling had chosen to revisit a time in his early development when his perception of reality and his very being were under attack. It doesn’t seem too much to claim that by the time his Aunt Georgie set about rescuing him, he was showing signs of something close to psychosis. In taking himself back, finding words to make the past live again by the act of writing, he had raised demons: the dark faces, perhaps, of the welcome Daemon of his creativity. For in spite of all the turbulence, Kipling retained artistic control over his volatile material, as ‘Punch’, the name he chose for the small boy who stands for himself. 
Hindustani was Kipling’s first language and it never left him. As a small child in Bombay he had to be reminded to speak English when he joined his parents in the drawing-room. As a grown man, when he chose to name his young hero ‘Punch’, it had the effect of playing on the Hindustani meaning of the word and of reinforcing his personal stake in the story. In English the name ‘Punch’ is a real oddity but in Hindustani the word ‘panch’ carries the meaning both of ‘five’, the age at which Kipling was deposited in Southsea, and ‘perplexity’.

It’s not possible to claim with certainty that this choice was fully conscious, though it is indisputable that in maturity Kipling delighted in planting clues to make his readers work. Taken together, ‘five’ and ‘perplexity’ identify mental confusion as the lasting damage imposed on the five-year-old Kipling and described in "Baa Baa Black Sheep" .
In "The Brushwood Boy" (1895), as a man of thirty, Kipling would come to explore the psychological consequences of this clash between what I would call true and false experience, when outside teaching seeks to displace what has been authentically registered by the self. But for the moment, in "The Red Lamp" Kipling simply generated an image of looming annihilation, in the ship bearing remorselessly down on his own vessel. In naming it as a mere dream, Kipling the writer was able to contain the terror he knew so well, reducing it to literary capital.
Childhood terror arrives in the present: the return of the repressed 

Friday, December 26, 2014

Dream and Hallucination as symptoms


Kipling appears to be manipulating fear for the entertainment of his readers, fear of unknown forces which lie the other side of the familiar world, and fear for the human mind, which is vulnerable to invasion. 


Kipling and Dreams(by Mary Hamer) 


http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/rg_dreams.htm#phantom
Dream and Hallucination as symptoms


Shortly after Christmas 1876, Georgie Burne-Jones, wife of the painter, caught her eleven-year-old nephew, Ruddy, at the bottom of her London garden, striking out with a stick at a tree. When she asked what he was doing, ‘I thought it might be Grandma but I had to hit it to make sure,’ he replied.

Georgie was alarmed by what she read as the signs of disturbance and she put investigations in train. As a result, Ruddy’s mother returned from India to reclaim him with his younger sister, Trix from ‘The House of Desolation’ as he would come to call it, in Southsea. They had been living there in the care of a foster-mother, Mrs. Holloway, a woman who turned out to be an unfortunate choice. A strict Evangelical, her piety was of the kind that takes pleasure in manipulating fear.

As a man of seventy, Kipling recalled Mrs. Holloway with bitterness, in his autobiography, Something of Myself: ‘I had never heard of Hell, so I was introduced to it in all its terrors’ he wrote. I will explore the damaging impact of this encounter more deeply in due course. Yet in his maturity as an artist, he was able to extract some benefit. Over time, writing sensational stories about dreams brought to the surface his own intimate knowledge of terror and guilt. This was gold dust to him as a writer.


Dreams created for sensation

At the start of his career the teenage journalist would lie awake at night in India, pondering what would ‘take’ with the market at home. He was mainly concerned with exploiting the dramas and extremities of life in the East, with a stylish touch of cynicism. "The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows" (Civil and Military Gazette, 26 September 1884) ventriloquised the drugged tones of a Eurasian addict come down to living in an opium den. The red and black dragons on the pillow that come to life and fight, like the Joss that ‘turns all sorts of queer colours late at night and stamps his feet and rolls his eyes’, are not mysteries but opium dreams of the kind the writer had experienced himself. They are offered as crowning details in a brilliant and disturbing tapestry.
When Kipling did turn to using regular dreams, ones not fuelled by drugs, it was at first as a literary device. This allowed him to present a dialogue between the younger and older selves of the speaker. "The Dream of Duncan Parrenness" (Civil and Military Gazette, December 1884) with its pastiche of eighteenth-century idiom, is another dazzling work of virtuosity on the part of a very young man. It lays claim to an even more explicit cynicism. Parrenness is a Writer—that is, an administrator for the East India Company— in eighteenth-century Calcutta. The dream teaches him that in order to achieve his ambition to be Governor he must give up his trust in both men and women and lose ‘the tender conscience of a boy’.

That story is dramatically appealing as a piece of imaginative writing, but the insights that its dream offers, with their striving for sophistication, are merely knowing. Neither is there any touch of the inscrutable, the resonance of hidden truths which makes important dreams compelling, in the dream which is reported in "The Last of the Stories" (1888). This time Kipling does present himself directly, the young writer now sure of a readership throughout India, as the dreamer. The Devil of Discontent takes him off to a sort of literary underworld peopled from novels, where he is greeted by the characters he created, and is brought to recognise how far his skill fell short. 
The mind under stress, dream images of unwelcome knowledge 

It was in composing "The Phantom Rickshaw" for Quartette, the Christmas supplement of the Civil and Military Gazettein 1885, that Kipling first felt himself moved by the force he was to call his Daemon. When it was in charge he learned:‘do not try to think consciously. Drift, wait, and obey.’ This was also the first story to make a link between guilt and the images generated by the mind under stress. Dream and hallucination meet in the experience of Pansay, haunted by a vision of the woman he abandoned, as he last saw her, seated in a black and yellow rickshaw. 

Earlier that year Kipling had learned for himself or been reminded of what it was to hallucinate without the benefit of any drug. In March 1885 he’d been sent as special correspondent to the Rawalpindi Durbar, his first serious assignment, from which he sent back a series of brilliant reports, overtaxing himself in the process. He completed his review of the marching troops. But when at last he tried to rest, exhausted by overwork yet hyperalert from too much sensation and too little sleep, he found himself watching a relentless vision of infinite pairs of legs marching past. 

‘One of the few advantages that India has over England is a great Knowability,’ opens "The Phantom Rickshaw". It’s only on rereading that the irony comes home. Readers are not given the option of simply taking "The Phantom Rickshaw" as a straight ghost story, gripping as the writer makes it. Instead they are encouraged to speculate from the first about the sources of Pansay’s waking visions and night-dreams. The practical Dr Heatherlegh’s diagnosis of overwork is advanced only to be challenged by the author’s more alluring and sinister theory ‘that there was a crack in Pansay’s head and a little bit of the Dark World came through’. However, ‘never trust the teller, trust the tale’, as D. H. Lawrence advised. The story itself nudges us towards less vague and more challenging interpretations. Almost to the end, Pansay is made to deny his own cruelty, even to attempt justification. When his mind brings back an image of the woman he has crushed and killed by his heartless behaviour, what he knows but does not want to know is brought home. The main actor in the tale is the unwelcome knowledge that Pansay attempts to leave behind but will never be able to escape. 
In a final irony he believes that what haunts him is a spirit coming from outside himself. Today we might call those hauntings a projection, the condensed image of the guilt that Pansay would prefer not to confront. That is where the story gets its power. At this point in his career as a writer, Kipling appears to be manipulating fear for the entertainment of his readers, fear of unknown forces which lie the other side of the familiar world, and fear for the human mind, which is vulnerable to invasion. 

As a child however, at a deep level he was left in a state of confusion and shock. His parents were not believers and had given him little or no religious instruction. In Bombay his encounters with religion had taken the form of joining his Catholic ayah at prayer by a wayside cross, or of glimpsing ‘the friendly gods’ in the small Hindu temples where he went with the bearer. Under normal conditions of development a child builds up a picture of the world drawn from the evidence of its own senses. Yet all Ruddy’s previously benign experience was now trumped by the news of a God of revelation, that is one he did not discover for himself but could only know by means of others’ teaching. More shocking still, this new God was one who might wish to punish him in everlasting fire. This was no small thing. Such an attack on all he thought that he understood put him at risk, psychologically speaking. Destroying his confidence in the world, it also undermined his trust in his own senses, threatening to rob him of the power of judgment. 
The children, left without warning or explanation, only knew that they had been abandoned, ‘deserted’, as Trix would remember, many years later. Though Trix herself was gifted and she too became a writer, as a grown woman she suffered breakdowns and was never to overcome the harm she suffered as a child. Mrs. Holloway imposed a cloying intimacy on Trix, while she bullied Ruddy: his confusion and loss were compounded by her attempts to break his spirit. He portrayed this experience directly in a story, "Baa Baa, Black Sheep" ’ (1889). But it is the effects which come much later, when trauma experienced in childhood, or even in the womb, erupts into the present in the form of dreams, that he takes up and explores repeatedly as an artist. 
Dream and Truth

Before moving on to consider Kipling’s dream stories in the order they were written, I’d like to go back to that scene in the garden, which his biographer, Andrew Lycett, reports. At that time Ruddy had been subject to Mrs. Holloway, and her campaign to break his spirit in the name of godliness, for more than five years. When Ruddy hit out at his grandmother, he probably thought he was seeing a ghost: his maternal grandmother, Hannah Macdonald, had died in the previous March.

Little love had been lost between them. Strongly critical of Rudyard’s behaviour as a two-year-old, Hannah dismissed him then as ‘that self-willed rebel’. She herself was a clergyman’s wife. On a visit to Southsea when he was rising seven, according to biographer Harry Ricketts, she aligned herself with Mrs. Holloway by subjecting him to a Sunday passed in ‘reading the Scriptures and repeating hymns’.

In after years, his Aunt Georgie would often ask Rudyard why he had never spoken of his unhappiness in Southsea or of the assaults made by Mrs. Holloway. Aside from the fear of reprisals, as a child he lacked the language to frame what he was going through; his distress remained buried and unnamed. But in that fantasy of his dead grandmother, so close in association to the figure of Mrs. Holloway and her teachings, his overtaxed mind projected an image in which his fear and anger were condensed.

When he did find words, in his twenties, to tell the story of those Southsea years in ""Baa, Black Sheep", the writing released those feelings to be examined. In certain of his subsequent dream stories from then on he gradually began to include the image of a pious mother in the background. Instead of associating these figures with the cruelties he had personally experienced, however, as an artist he indicated that they were dangerous for a different reason: their teachings misled their sons, disabling them by blinding them to the real world.
Dream and Trance as a way of knowing

As a famous writer, Rudyard Kipling’s curiosity, his appetite for accurate information, was notorious. When they saw his name on a passenger list ships’ crews groaned, for they foresaw the barrage of questions they’d be encountering throughout the voyage. But he was also a man of his time, when the public was alive with an excitement about unseen forces that scarcely distinguished between mesmerism and electricity, between the telegraph and radio waves or spiritualism. Though he was chary of the latter, Kipling too was fascinated by science, and the new technologies that allowed information to be transmitted at a distance.

He also came to ask about the form of knowledge that is not picked up from ordinary observation and experience, but arrives into the mind unbidden. In Kipling’s mature stories, dream and trance are not escapes from reality but conduits for a knowledge that would otherwise remain inaccessible.
Yet who knows what powers that current or where it takes its source? The question had a special relevance for him as a writer. In "The Finest Story in the World" (1891) he wrote speculatively of ‘the half-memory falsely called imagination’. 
The weight that Kipling would lay in his stories on uncommon means of knowing and communication, their importance for him as a more convincing alternative to Christian explanations of the world, would increase over time, in parallel with his own experiences as an adult.

But his aims were more modest when he was publishing his first stories. 

"Moti Guj – Mutineer"




Nazim perhaps Nazim-ul-Mulk, the hereditary style of the reigning prince of the Hyderabad Territories – see Hobson-Jobson, p. 628.
Page 364, line 8] elephant-language See Chapter IX of Beast and |Man in India by Lockwood Kipling for further information on the belief that elephants came from the furthest East, as some of the words of command are Chinese or Burmese.

Eric Scigliano in Seeing the Elephant (Bloomsbury Publishing, Plc., 2006, first published in Britain as Love, War and Circuses , p.167), notes
 


http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/rg_motiguj1.htm
"Moti Guj –
Mutineer" 


(notes edited
by John McGivering) 

notes on the text 

[July 14th 2006]

Publication

First published in Mine Own People in the United States of America in 1891 and collected in Life’s Handicap the same year.

The story

Moti Guj is a magnificent and powerful elephant, who works clearing forest land for planting coffee. He is owned by a dissipated mahout, Deesa, to whom he is devoted.

One day Deesa asks for leave to go off on a drunken orgy, and the planter allows him ten days off, provided Moti Guj will work while he is away. Deesa tells the elephant that for ten days he must work for Chihun, another mahout, and departs. To the planter's surprise Moti Guj works well – for ten days. On the eleventh day, however, he refuses to do his daily stint, and wanders around the camp looking for Deesa and generally causing trouble. At dawn the following day Deesa returns, has a joyous reunion with Moti Guj, and – to the planter's astonishment – they get back to work clearing stumps. 

Some critical comments

KJ 253/8 has what the Editor called 'a rather maudlin sketch' by the French artist H. Deluermoz, showing a larger than life Deesa embracing the elephant.

This is another of the stories which Lionel Johnson believes does not deserve publication (R L Green p. 93.)

Hart (p. 107) points out the importance of the British in India understanding the point of view of the Indians if they are to rule successfully, and including the view of the elephant who will work just as long as his master tells him to and no longer. Hart also refers to the orang-outangs in “Bertran and Bimi” (earlier in this volume) which he sees as significant as anticipating the further variation of points of view in the Jungle Books.

Other stories concerning elephants include “Toomai of the Elephants” and “Her Majesty’s Servants” (The Jungle Book), “Namgay Doola” earlier in this volume, “ Letters of Marque X” (p.82) and "From Sea to Sea III" (p.231) (From Sea to Sea, Vol. 1), “The Killing of Hatim Tai” (From Sea to Sea, Vol. 2 p. 369), “My Lord the Elephant” (Many Inventions), and the verse “Municipal.” See also Chapter IX of Beast and Man in India, by Lockwood Kipling, for illustrations, folk-lore, instructions in management and an outline of this story.

See also Colonel J.H. Williams, Elephant Bill (Rupert Hart-Davis, 1950) for observations on their intelligence and sense of humour (p. 60 etc.), and Seeing the Elephant by Eric Scigliano (Bloomsbury Publishing, Plc., 2006, first published in Britain as Love, War and Circuses 2004) 

[J H McG]