"The Suicide Club and Other Stories" by Robert Louis Stevenson: We were so impressed with his "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," we return this week to look at five more stories by the splendid Robert Louis Stevenson.
If you know anything at all about 70 proof, then you know we're gonna love any story called "The Suicide Club." And even though it doesn't delve into the existential nature of suicide, it's still a swell read, exchanging philosophical undertones for pure storytelling.
"The Suicide Club" is more Sir Arthur Conan Doyle than Albert Camus or Jean-Paul Sartre. It features Prince Florizel of Bohemia and his trusty comrade, the dashing Colonel Geraldine. Whenever life as a prince becomes too dull, Florizel instructs Geraldine to ready the horses and off they go in pursuit of adventure. One evening, while lulling away their boredom in a common pub, they encounter a peculiar young man offering everyone in the establishment cream tarts. All those not accepted, he eats himself. Their curiosity gets the better of them, and the Prince and Geraldine accept the tarts on the condition that the young man dines with them. It's the beginning of a most unique escapade.
It seems the young man is in the process of squandering his earthly possessions. The extravagance of the cream tarts was simply the last of his musings, leaving him with exactly forty pounds to his name. He is preparing to quit life, but needs the remaining funds to pay his dues into The Suicide Club, a secret society of men with shared visions of self-destruction. The Prince and Geraldine pretend to suffer from a similar state of mind, convincing the young man to allow them to join him on his journey.
After a thorough screening process, and the payment of their forty pounds, the Prince and Geraldine are welcomed into the ranks of The Suicide Club. While the name would seem to suggest a brazen attitude towards life, its members aren't there merely because they want to kill themselves; they are there because they lack the courage to do the dreaded deed themselves.
Presided over by a lone President, a ceremony is held each night where every member in attendance is dealt a playing card. The member receiving the ace of spades has the good fortune of dying. The man dealt the ace of clubs is given the responsibility of helping his colleague into eternity. One man's murder is another man's friendship.
The Prince and Geraldine's encounter with The Suicide Club is chronicled in three sections, "Story of the Yong Man with the Cream Tarts," "Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk," and "The Adventure of the Hansom Cab." The first lays the groundwork for the tale, with the other two beginning as seemingly unconnected yarns before smoothly spinning into the original theme. It's the story's construction, not to mention Mr. Stevenson's rock-solid prose, that makes "The Suicide Club" a breezy, entertaining read.
In "Lodging for the Night," Francis Villon, a young poet who prefers the company of thieves, is turned out into a wintry night after witnessing one of his associates kill another over a game of cards. While the poetic lad is occupied contemplating the man's death, his friends are kind enough to relieve him of his money. Villon doesn't discover this important fact until he's roaming the frozen landscape in need of shelter. After failed attempts with relatives and old friends, Villon is eventually taken in for the night by a distinguished old soldier, and the pair engage in an intense discussion about crime, honor, and morality. It's good stuff.
"Thrawn Janet" (meaning "Twisted Janet") tells of the good Reverend Soulis, who takes a fallen woman for his wife. The townspeople believe her to be a witch and put her to the usual test, tossing her in a lake to see if she drowns. The Reverend comes to the rescue, doing his best to appease the citizens by getting his wife to publicly denounce Satan. The woman is seen the next day walking through town, her neck horribly twisted to one side and speaking in tongues. More shocking discoveries soon follow. The story is written in an old Scots dialect. Here's a sampling:
"Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam' first into Ba'weary, he was still a young man - a callant, the folk said - fu'o' book learnin' and grand at the exposition, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi' nae leevin' experience in religion."
And that's one of the easier lines to decipher. Word on the street is that this was an old Scottish folktale first told to Mr. Stevenson by his childhood nurse. While the dialect does make it difficult to follow at times, the author's decision to present the story in the same voice he originally heard it gives the tale a sense of atmosphere and authenticity it may have otherwise lacked. It's worth the effort.
In 1827 and 1828, two Irish-born men, William Burke and William Hare, murdered at least 15 people in Edinburgh, selling the corpses to a Dr. Knox, who used the bodies for the purpose of dissection at his school of anatomy. In "The Body-Snatcher," Mr. Stevenson tells the tale from the perspective of two young medical assistants serving under Dr. Knox. While one is horrified to discover the truth about the bodies, the other is eager to take advantage of the opportunity. Once again, the subject of morality owns center stage, as the two men fall headlong into secrecy, intrigue, and murder.
When reading "The Body-Snatcher," take care to note its structure. Mr. Stevenson opens with a narrator telling how he and a few friends gather every night in the parlor of a hotel, sharing stories and drinks. One of the regulars is an old drunken Scotchman named Fettes, who everyone calls Doctor, partly out of jest and partly because he's rumored to have had some sort of background in medicine. A prominent guest at the hotel takes ill, and his equally prominent doctor is sent for from London. Upon hearing the visiting doctor's name, Fettes rushes out to see for himself, bringing the long estranged medical assistants together once more. The narrator eventually draws the story of their sordid past from Fettes and relays it to the reader. It's these well-crafted, subtle misdirections, and unexpected revelations, that make for a memorable piece of literature.
It's said that Mr. Stevenson was a great admirer of Fyodor Dostoevsky, and the Russian master's influence can definitely be seen in "Markheim," which has its title character killing a pawnbroker on Christmas Day. The Devil himself interrupts Markheim's search of the slain man's house, offering the murderer the location of the money, and thus a speedy escape, in exchange for his already tarnished soul. Being confronted in such a way, being forced to face his sins and decaying character, Markheim rallies to his own defense and makes one final, desperate attempt at salvation. This is the very best of the impressive lot, and it deserves mentioning in any discussion of great short stories.
Robert Louis Stevenson is a remarkable talent. For whatever reason, whether it's because "Jekyll and Hyde" has been taken for granted over the years or maybe "Treasure Island" labeled him a children's writer, he just doesn't seem to get the respect he deserves. That needs to change. Mr. Stevenson's prose is effortlessly graceful, elegant without ever being pretentious. He never takes a false step. And his insightful work examining the nature of man and the bounds of morality has earned 70 proof's undying respect.
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