Complete works of hall c.., p.560
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 560
[END OF THE NARRATIVE OF MARY O’NEILL]
MEMORANDUM OF MARTIN CONRAD
My darling was right. I had known all along, but I had been hoping against hope — that the voyage would set her up, and the air of the Antarctic cure her.
Then her cheerfulness never failed her, and when she looked at me with her joyous eyes, and when her soft hand slipped into mine I forgot all my fears, so the blow fell on me as suddenly as if I had never expected it.
With a faint pathetic smile she gave me her book and I went back to my room at the inn and read it. I read all night and far into the next day — all her dear story, straight from her heart, written out in her small delicate, beautiful characters, with scarcely an erasure.
No use saying what I thought or went through. So many things I had never known before! Such love as I had never even dreamt of, and could never repay her for now!
How my whole soul rebelled against the fate that had befallen my dear one! If I have since come to share, however reluctantly, her sweet resignation, to bow my head stubbornly where she bowed hers so meekly (before the Divine Commandment), and to see that marriage, true marriage, is the rock on which God builds His world, it was not then that I thought anything about that.
I only thought with bitter hatred of the accursed hypocrisies of civilised society which, in the names of Law and Religion, had been crushing the life out of the sweetest and purest woman on earth, merely because she wished to be “mistress of herself and sovereign of her soul.”
What did I care about the future of the world? Or the movement of divine truths? Or the new relations of man and woman in the good time that was to come? Or the tremendous problems of lost and straying womanhood, or the sufferings of neglected children, or the tragedies of the whole girlhood of the world? What did I care about anything but my poor martyred darling? The woman God gave me was mine and I could not give her up — not now, after all she had gone through.
Sometime in the afternoon (heaven knows when) I went back to Sunny Lodge. The house was very quiet. Baby was babbling on the hearth-rug. My mother was silent and trying not to let me see her swollen eyes. My dear one was sleeping, had been sleeping all day long, the sleep of an angel. Strange and frightening fact, nobody being able to remember that she had ever been seen to sleep before!
After a while, sick and cold at heart, I went down to the shore where we had played as children. The boat we sailed in was moored on the beach. The tide was far out, making a noise on the teeth of the Rock, which stood out against the reddening sky, stern, grand, gloomy.
Old Tommy the Mate came to the door of his cabin. I went into the quiet smoky place with its earthen floor and sat in a dull torpor by the hearth, under the sooty “laff” and rafters. The old man did not say a word to me. He put some turf on the fire and then sat on a three-legged stool at the other side of the hearth-place.
Once he got up and gave me a basin of buttermilk, then stirred the peats and sat down again without speaking. Towards evening, when the rising sea was growing louder, I got up to go. The old man followed me to the door, and there, laying his hand on my arm he said:
“She’s been beating to windward all her life, boy. But mind ye this — she’s fetching the harbour all right at last.”
Going up the road I heard a band of music in the distance, and saw a procession of people coming down. It was Father Dan’s celebration of thanksgiving to God for what was left of Daniel O’Neill’s ill-gotten wealth sent back from Rome for the poor.
Being in no humour to thank God for anything, I got over a sod hedge and crossed a field until I came to a back gate to our garden, near to “William Rufus’s” burial place — stone overgrown with moss, inscription almost obliterated.
On the path I met my mother, with baby, toddling and tumbling by her side.
“How is she now?” I asked.
She was awake — had been awake these two hours, but in a strange kind of wakefulness, her big angel eyes open and shining like stars as if smiling at someone whom nobody else could see, and her lips moving as if speaking some words which nobody else could hear.
“What art thou saying, boght millish?” my mother had asked, and after a moment in which she seemed to listen in rapture, my darling had answered:
“Hush! I am speaking to mamma — telling her I am leaving Isabel with Christian Ann. And she is saying she is very glad.”
We walked round to the front of the house until we came close under the window of “Mary O’Neill’s little room,” which was wide open.
The evening was so still that we could hear the congregation singing in the church and on the path in front of it.
Presently somebody began to sing in the room above. It was my darling — in her clear sweet silvery voice which I have never heard the like of in this world and never shall again.
After a moment another voice joined hers — a deep voice, the Reverend Mother’s.
All else was quiet. Not a sound on earth or in the air. A hush had fallen on the sea itself, which seemed to be listening for my precious darling’s last breath. The sun was going down, very red in its setting, and the sky was full of glory.
When the singing came to an end baby was babbling in my mother’s arms— “Bo-loo-la-la-ma-ma.” I took her and held her up to the open window, crying:
“Look, darling! Here’s Girlie!”
There was no answer, but after another moment the Reverend Mother came to the window. Her pale face was even paler than usual, and her lips trembled. She did not speak, but she made the sign of the Cross.
And by that . . . I knew.
“Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord, Lord, hear my cry.”
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
I saw him off at Tilbury when he left England on his last Expedition. Already he was his own man once more. After the blinding, stunning effect of the great event there had been a quick recuperation. His spirit had risen to a wonderful strength and even a certain cheerfulness.
I did not find it hard to read the secret of this change. It was not merely that Time, the great assuager, had begun to do its work with him, but that he had brought himself to accept without qualm or question Mary O’Neill’s beautiful belief (the old, old belief) in the immortality of personal love, and was firmly convinced that, freed from the imprisonment of the flesh, she was with him every day and hour, and that as long as he lived she always would be.
There was nothing vague, nothing fantastic, nothing mawkish, nothing unmanly about this belief, but only the simple faith of a steady soul and a perfectly clear brain. It was good to see how it braced a strong man for life to face Death in that way.
As for his work I found him quite hopeful. His mission apart, I thought he was looking forward to his third trip to the Antarctic, in expectation of the silence and solitude of that strengthening region.
As I watched the big liner that was taking him away disappear down the Thames I had no more doubt that he would get down to the South Pole, and finish his task there, than that the sun would rise the following morning.
Whatever happens this time he will “march breast forward.”
MARTIN CONRAD TO THE AUTHOR
WIRELESS — ANTARCTIC CONTINENT (via MACQUARIE ISLAND AND RADIO HOBART 16).
Arrived safe. All well. Weather excellent. Blue sky. Warm. Not a breath of wind. Sun never going down. Constellations revolving without dipping. Feel as if we can see the movement of the world. Start south to-morrow. Calmer than I have ever been since She was taken from me. But She was right. She is here. “Love is stronger than death, many waters cannot quench it.”
THE END
THE MASTER OF MAN
THE STORY OF A SIN
This 1921 novel is set on the Isle of Man and concerns Victor Stowell, the Deemster’s son, who commits a romantic indiscretion and then gives up on all of his principles in order to keep it a secret. However, in the face of the mounting consequences, Victor confesses publicly to his crime and is punished, but redemption comes through a woman’s love. The penultimate of Caine’s novels, it is romantic and moralistic, returning to his regular themes of sin, justice and atonement, whilst also addressing the “Woman Question.”
The central idea for the narrative came from a correspondence that Caine had in September 1908. Following a performance of the theatrical version of his earlier novel, The Christian, the author was identified as a likely signatory in a petition against the harsh punishment of a woman named Daisy Lord. After giving birth to a child out of wedlock the young woman had killed the child secretly, but was discovered and arrested. At the trial she explained that “I thought I would put an end to it so that it should not have the trouble I have had.” Caine signed the petition, but he kept the accompanying letter as a record of its story. In writing about the novel for promotional purposes, however, Caine makes no mention of the case of Daisy Lord. Instead, he attributed his inspiration to a vague story from Manx legal history.
The Master of Man also used many themes and events from Caine’s own life. One notable instance is the episode where Bessie is sent away to be educated before she would be fit to marry the educated and higher-class Victor Stowell, recalling Caine’s having set up Mary Chandler in Sevenoaks in order to be educated before their own marriage. As was usual in Caine’s work, he makes no acknowledgement of his main sources, instead writing that “while the principal incidents of the tale I have now to tell owe something to reminiscence, I have exercised so freely the storyteller’s licence in telling them… that I can claim no better authority for my story than that of an independent creation, with a general background of fact.”
Caine had begun work on the novel in 1913, putting it aside in order to concentrate on writing in support of the Allies during World War I, apparently not picking it up again until one day after the Armistice, on the 12th of November 1918. By the autumn of 1919 the book had begun to appear in serial form in magazines in America and Britain, although the episodes had to be later interrupted and held back due to problems with Caine’s health and personal life — principally owing to the strain on his marriage and the death of his publisher, William Heinemann. After working on the novel in St. Moritz, the Savoy Hotel in London and at his home, Greeba Castle, in the Isle of Man, the book was completed and ready for publishing in July 1921.
The novel introduces Victor Stowell, the son of the Deemster, who has allowed his talents to go to waste until he meets Fenella Stanley, the Lieutenant Governor’s daughter, who inspires him to try to make something of himself. His progress in studying to become an advocate is halted when he learns that Fenella has become a Warden at a Lady’s Settlement in London. Understanding that her seven-year contract means that she therefore cannot marry him, Victor slides into disrepute. This leads eventually to his giving into the temptation to sleep with Bessie Collister, who he meets at a dance hall in Douglas.
Whilst writing the novel, Caine gave it the working title of The Manx Woman. He was convinced to change the title at the suggestion of his agent at Heinemann, Charly Evans, who wrote: “I am convinced that the title The Master of Man has a ring to it like the chimes of Big Ben - something that stirs one to the utmost, and arouses every element of curiosity.”
Towards the end of its serialisation in magazines, a draft version of the completed book was sent to various friends, critics and public figures to obtain their responses for use in promotional material for the book. Caine’s good friend, Robert Leighton, responded emphatically, calling the book “your supreme achievement… the greatest and most perfect thing you have done. It seems to me you know human nature with absolute success.” However, the majority of those that received the book sent acknowledgements that were merely brief and polite. The book went on sale in July 1921 with an initial printing of 100,000 copies, and it was announced in the Manx press “to be immediately made available for the vast English holiday crowd that sets out on its annual vacation about the last week of July.” The entirety of this print run sold out within a matter of days and the book immediately topped the bestseller list. Yet, Caine was bemused and annoyed to find that it held the top-selling spot for only a short period of time.
The general critical response was negative. In the 27 years since Caine’s great success of The Manxman, literary tastes had moved on and his didactic and melodramatic style was now felt to be out of fashion. A severe reviewer in The North American Review wrote “the sentiment aroused by the story depends in large measure upon an arbitrary and unreal contrast between Stowell’s character and the things he does and suffers,” and that “the novel as a whole is condemned by its sham inevitableness and its reckless idealizations.”
The Master of Man has been out of print since Caine’s death and his reputation declined steeply since its publication, leaving the author’s novels sadly neglected today.
The original title page
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The First Book: The Sin
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
The Second Book: The Reckoning
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Third Book: The Consequence
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Fourth Book: The Retribution
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
Fifth Book: The Reparation
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sixth Book: The Redemption
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Seventh Book: The Resurrection
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CONCLUSION
Sulby Glen, the apparent location of Bessie’s home
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to conversations, many years ago, with the late Karl Emil Franzos for important incidents in Chapter Forty-Four, which, founded on fact, were in part incorporated by the Russo-Jewish writer in his noble book, “The Chief Justice.”
Also I ‘wish to say that Tolstoy told me, through his daughter, that similar incidents occurring in Russia (although he altered them materially) had suggested the theme of his great novel,” Resurrection.”
For as much knowledge as I may have been able to acquire of Manx law and legal procedure, I am indebted to Mr. Ramsey B. Moore, the Attorney-General in the Isle of Man, the scene of my story.
H.C.
Greeba Castle,
Isle of Man.
The First Book: The Sin
CHAPTER ONE
THE BREED OF THE BALLAMOAR
WE were in full school after breakfast, when the Principal came from his private room with his high, quick, birdlike step and almost leapt up to his desk to speak to us. He was a rather small, slight man, of middle age, with pale face and nervous gestures, liable to alternate bouts of a somewhat ineffectual playfulness and gusts of ungovernable temper. It was easy to see that he was hi his angry mood that morning. He looked round the school for a moment over the silver rims of his spectacles, and then said, “Boys, before you go to your classes for the day I have something to tell you. One of you has brought disgrace upon King William’s, and I must know which of you it is.”
Then followed the “degrading story.” The facts of it had just been brought to his notice by the Inspector of Police for Castletown. He had no intention of entering into details. They were too shameful. Briefly, one of our boys, a senior boy apparently, had lately made a practice of escaping from his house after hours, and had so far forfeited his self-respect as to go walking in the dark roads with a young girl a servant girl, he was ashamed to say, from the home of the High Bailiff. He had been seen repeatedly, and although not identified, he had been recognised by his cap as belonging to the College. Last night two young townsmen had set out to waylay him. There had been a fight, in which our boy had apparently used a weapon, probably a stick. The result was that one of the young townsmen was now in hospital, still insensible, the other was seriously injured about the face. Probably a pair of young blackguards who bad intervened from base motives of their own and therefore deserved no pity. But none the less the conduct of the King William’s boy had been disgraceful. It must be punished, no matter who he was, or how high he might stand in the school.
“I tell you plainly, boys, I don’t know who he is. Neither do the police the townsmen never having heard his name and the girl refusing to speak.”
But he had a suspicion a very strong suspicion, based upon an unmistakeable fact. He might have called the boy he suspected to his room and dealt with him privately. But a matter like this, known to the public authorities and affecting the honour and welfare of the college, was not to be hushed up. In fact the police had made it a condition of their foregoing proceedings in the Courts that an open inquiry should be made here. He had undertaken to make it, and he must make it now.
