Hacia un concepto de ética

TODAY SCOTT IS remembered not because of his achievements as an explorer but

because “he composed the most haunting journal in the history of exploration.”169

Those pencilled words not only tell an extraordinary story but also tell it astonishingly well. The reader follows the little band of men on their great quest, struggling with them across the forbidding wasteland towards the goal, where bitter disappointment, long foreshadowed, awaits them. Then, in the interval between ‘failure’ and death, we watch, hoping and fearing, as their difficulties multiply. But it is Scott’s words that draw us into this drama, and we see through his eyes and feel with him, as a quest narrative transforms ineluctably into a tragedy and an exemplum on how to face death—no less great a human theme than the quest. I begin this chapter with an assessment of Scott’s qualities as a writer, paying particular attention to the last journal itself, “the active instrument that has made the adventure so famous and the characters of the adventurers so familiar” (H. Young). Following that, I investigate certain qualities of “Scott of the Antarctic” as a story, and the remainder of the chapter considers some of the imaginative inflections the story has received.

Scott’s narrative of his last expedition, unlike that of the first, remains in the form of a diary or journal. What Piggott calls “the enduring question of motives and audiences” (3) in regard to such documents has already been discussed and also some of the editorial changes made to the manuscript prior to publication. Full details of the text’s preparation and publication history can be found in the recent scholarly reprint of Smith, Elder’s 1913 first edition, Scott’s Last Expedition, Vol. I, Being the Journals of Captain R. F. Scott, R.N., C.V.O. (Jones, Introduction xlii-xlviii). (The second volume

contained preliminary scientific reports and accounts by others of Terra Nova’s

subsidiary expeditions.) Scott’s published words comprise: the journal describing events from the preparations for departure from New Zealand until his death; substantial or complete versions of eight letters and short quotations from two others;

169 _{Jones makes this comment in the introduction to his edition of Scott’s journals (xvii), the version}

and his “Message to [the] Public,” giving the reasons as he saw them for the destruction of the polar party. By way of prefacing my analysis of Scott’s writing, I begin with some of the earliest, and most personal, responses it evoked.

One of the first and most poignant was that of his wife. Kathleen Scott received news of her husband’s death while she was travelling by sea to meet the expedition on its return to New Zealand. As she read first the fragments which had been made public and later the complete journal, it was Scott’s example of character and courage that most inspired her. Of his “Message’s” dying appeal on behalf of the bereaved relatives, she writes in her diary while still at sea: “That was a glorious courageous note & a great inspiration to me—If he in his weak agony-racked condition could face it with such sublime fortitude, how dare I possibly whine—I will not ...” (25 Feb. 1913). And after receiving the journal on arrival in New Zealand and spending the entire night reading it: “Any more magnificent invigorating document I never read, & one would be a poor creature indeed if one could not face one’s world with such words to inspire one” (27- 28 Feb. 1913). In the same entry she mentions the “fine stirring words of self forgetfulness” in her husband’s last letter to her.170 _{Kathleen Scott’s presence at home}

and the love between her and Scott are important elements of “Scott of the Antarctic.” As I have mentioned, some versions of the story interleave her daily activities in England with Scott’s on the Antarctic plateau; others conclude as she receives news of her husband’s death. It needs to be remembered, however, that she was by no means the type of the conventional grieving widow.

Sir Clements Markham, although no doubt less important to the explorer than his wife, had an equally great impact on his life. The two men were closely associated professionally for more than a decade and it was Markham who had appointed Scott

leader of Discovery, thus launching him on his Antarctic career. Markham also

responded to the legacy of courage and selflessness transmitted through the journals,

themes that were echoed, in turn, by contemporary reviewers of Scott’s Last Expedition

(Greely; Brown). Markham writes in the book’s preface:

170 _{Twenty years after the events, a French commentator wrote romantically of this letter that it “brings}

tears, certainly, but makes one wish all the same, as one woman said, to be so loved by such a man” (“qui arrachent des larmes, certes, mais qui font envier tout de même, disait une femme, celle qui fut aimée à ce point par un tel homme”) (Rouch 608-09). A curious inversion of this sentiment appears in contemporary American writer Evan Connell’s “The White Lantern,” an essay which seems to owe much to Huntford. Connell regards the words Scott’s wife wrote about him in her diary as his only redeeming quality and concedes: “To arouse such transcendent feelings in a woman, he must have been extraordinary” (154).

... the vast number of readers of his journal will be deeply impressed with the beauty of his character. The chief traits which shone forth through his life were conspicuous in the hour of death. There are few events in history to be compared, for grandeur and pathos, with the last closing scene in that silent wilderness of snow. The great leader, with the bodies of his dearest friends beside him, wrote and wrote until the pencil dropped from his dying grasp. There was no thought of himself, only the earnest desire to give comfort and consolation to others in sorrow. (4)171

Like Kathleen Scott, Markham highlights the journal’s revelation of its writer’s character, a character he recognizes. But the references to historical perspective and to “grandeur and pathos,” along with the description of the setting and the use of the term “closing scene,” also point to certain dramatic qualities inherent in the story itself. I will explore the nature and structure of the story later, through a comparison with Greek tragedy; but first to Scott the writer.

Scott as a writer

Commentators have always praised the explorer’s literary gifts. His first biographer dubbed him “a born writer” (Gwynn 35) and the most recent observes: “Of all the great explorers of the Heroic Age Scott was the only one ... who had the literary talent to make sense of his life ...” (Crane 38). Even Huntford, as we have seen, conceded Scott’s ability in this regard, although he turned that too into a fault by arguing that the

explorer employed it in “masterly self-justification” (Scott and Amundsen 562). The

principal texts I consider here are The Voyage of the Discovery and Scott’s Last Expedition, and a distinction should be made between texts the author edited and those he did not. As I stated in the prologue to this thesis, if Scott had survived he would have polished and added to his Terra Nova manuscripts to prepare them for publication, just as after his previous expedition. Whether the result would have been an improvement,

however, is open to question. One of the first reviewers of Scott’s Last Expedition

thought not:

The reader undoubtedly gains in having the story told through these diaries written on the spot. It is only necessary to compare this account with that of Captain Scott’s previous expedition ... excellent as that was, to realise this. The colour and the glamour of the life are reflected from every page, with all its vicissitudes and changes of mood. Had Captain Scott been able to rewrite these diaries for publication we feel sure that some of the

171 _{Twenty years later, Martin Lindsay plagiarized Markham in the preface to his biography of Scott:}

“There are few events in history to be compared with the final tragedy enacted in that silent desert of snow—the dying leader, with the dead bodies of his dearest friends beside him, writing, writing until the pen slipped from his fingers, with never a thought for himself, seeking only to give consolation to others” (17-18).

simplicity and directness would have been lost, trifling episodes, momentary reflections, might have been removed, and other incidents expanded. But now we have it all exactly as it seemed at the time.... (Brown 14)

Of course, by its nature, a story with such an ending could not have been revised by its author, but the diaries were edited to some degree by others. Sledging and base diaries were combined to give a continuous daily narrative, and material from letters to

Kathleen Scott was incorporated in certain places (Jones, Introduction xliv).172 _As

discussed in chapter 4, some critical comments were removed and minor changes were made to punctuation, spelling and grammar. Nevertheless, Scott’s original remained essentially intact. And while a distinction can certainly be drawn between daily records kept in the field and accounts composed after the events (R. Davis), by the time Scott pencilled his Terra Nova diaries he had already written The Voyage of the ‘Discovery’ and they are therefore, even in their manuscript form, the work of an experienced writer. In this regard they contrast with the writings of many of the early explorers of Canada, for example, which Northrop Frye once wittily called “as innocent of literary intention as a mating loon” (“Conclusion” 214).

Scott’s literary talent had several aspects. It must first be admitted that he had unusually good material to work with. Lamenting the fact that the genre of the “explorer’s diary” now appears to be “defunct,” Thomas Mallon writes: “There are no uncharted worlds left into which prairie schooners can roll and ships sail—unless you count outer space; but even if you do, you have to face the fact that most astronauts cultivate a diction as gray as moondust and aren’t very promising diarists” (49). By contrast, Scott had at his disposal the fabled last uncharted part of the world to explore, with Markham’s “silent wilderness of snow” as its heart. But then, so did Shackleton, Amundsen and, for that matter, Wilson. And since there is general agreement (see, e.g., notes 111 and 173) that their books are of considerably lower quality than his, the distinction must lie, in combination with the nature of his story, in Scott’s writing itself.

In the first place, the explorer possessed an unusual sensibility for such a man of action and this supplied him with, among other things, a greater range of things to

write about than most. Leonard Huxley, who edited both Discovery and Scott’s Last

Expedition, declared admiringly that Scott’s mind was “like wax to receive an

172 _{What Jones means by the statement “the editors departed from chronology to craft the dramatic}

conclusion to the volume” (xliv) is not clear, since every entry of the return journey—from the departure from the Pole to the final entry—simply reproduces Scott’s manuscript. There can be no question of ‘crafting’ here: the conclusion was innately dramatic.

impression and like marble to retain it” (qtd. Huxley 144). The diaries are full of Scott’s responses to animals, people, events, and the physical features and conditions around him. At times, he simply jotted down impressions, and the first part of one such list, from 2 February 1911, shows all his senses alert:

The seductive fold of the sleeping-bag.

The hiss of the primus and the fragrant steam of the cooker issuing from the tent ventilator.

The small green tent and the great white road. The whine of a dog and the neigh of our steeds. The driving cloud of powdered snow.

The crunch of footsteps which break the surface crust. The wind-blown furrows.

The blue arch beneath the smoky cloud.

The crisp ring of the ponies’ hoofs and the swish of the following sledge.

The droning conversation of the march as the driver encourages or chides his horse. The patter of dog pads.

The gentle flutter of our canvas shelter. Its deep booming sound under the full force of a blizzard.

The drift snow like finest flour penetrating every hole and corner—flickering up beneath one’s head covering, pricking sharply as a sand blast ... (Journals 112-13).

These are the responses of a poet,173 _{and represent Scott’s writing in its germinal}

stages. As he gathers his materials, he is also beginning to process them. In the first item, for example, a reaction to the fold of the sleeping bag which is initially somatic is then made literary by the use of the word “seductive,” a personification that suggests the effect of the object on the observer. Similarly with the antithesis in the third item. And a flair for onomatopoeia is revealed in elements such as the “crisp ring” of hoofs, “swish of the following sledge,” “patter of dog pads” and drift snow “flickering up.” On the other hand, the choice of the term “steeds” instead of horses or ponies is an example of a more forced and conventional literariness, of which there is further evidence later in the list in items like: “The blizzard, Nature’s protest—the crevasse, Nature’s pitfall ...” (113). The unmannered style of The Voyage of the ‘Discovery,’ however, and also Scott’s keen awareness of cliché and literary affectation (which I will demonstrate at the end of this section) suggest that if he had been able to prepare his Terra Nova diaries for publication, phrases like the last would not have made the final

173 _{These “Impressions” have often been noticed by commentators, and are the only non-fiction that}

poet Bill Manhire includes in his anthology of Antarctic writing, The Wide White Page. He believes Scott uses language here “with more sense of its lyrical possibilities than either of his poetry-writing contemporaries, Wilson and Shackleton” (17). Similarly, Connell states that the vignettes are “what you might expect from a mystic poet, not an explorer” (148).

cut. More authentic and effective is Scott’s lyrical jotting on 23 April in the afterglow of the sun that had departed for the winter: “The long mild twilight which like a silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday; when morning and evening sit together hand in hand beneath the starless sky of midnight” (176).

Some of the “Impressions” took a more discursive or philosophical form, as in this excerpt from a passage about dogs:

A dog must be either eating, asleep, or interested. His eagerness to snatch at interest, to chain his attention to something, is almost pathetic. The monotony of marching kills him. This is the fearfullest difficulty for the dog driver on a snow plain without leading marks or objects in sight. The dog is almost human in its demand for living interest, yet fatally less than human in its inability to foresee.

The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment. The human being can live and support discomfort for a future. (Journals 117)

The philosophizing here also has a characteristically practical point: how to get the best work from the animals. (Amundsen, incidentally, overcame the problem of the featureless horizon by having a man on skis go ahead of the dogs.)

A passage from The Voyage of the ‘Discovery’ offers an excellent illustration of Scott’s command of still more extended discourse, as he combines sensual response and philosophical reflection into a memorable whole. The extract also provides an example of a text that he at least had the opportunity to revise, although quotation marks indicate that it is sourced from his diary. Scott is describing his feelings at the point when he, Lashly and Evans turn back at the limit of their plateau journey. Having just said, “I am not an imaginative person ...,” he looks out over the snow still untrodden and writes:

But, after all, it is not what we see that inspires awe, but the knowledge of what lies beyond our view. We see only a few miles of ruffled snow bounded by a vague wavy horizon, but we know that beyond that horizon are hundreds and even thousands of miles which can offer no change to the weary eye, while on the vast expanse that one’s mind conceives one knows there is neither tree nor shrub, nor any living thing, nor even inanimate rock—nothing but this terrible limitless expanse of snow. It has been so for countless years, and it will be so for countless more. And we, little human insects, have started to crawl over this awful desert, and are now bent on crawling back again. Could anything be more terrible than this silent, wind-swept immensity when one thinks such thoughts? (2: 195-96)174

174 _{Shackleton appears to have borrowed from this passage, the image of crawling insects in particular, in} The Heart of the Antarctic. Also at the point of turning back from his furthest south, he writes: “it falls to the lot of few men to view land not previously seen by human eyes ... we were but tiny black specks crawling slowly and painfully across the white plain, and bending our puny strength to the task ...” (1: 297).

(Immediately afterwards, Scott lightens the mood and finishes the chapter with homely details of their camp-life.) It would be hard to disagree with Gwynn, who regards the larger section from which I have quoted as one of Scott’s finest (74). With great economy and sharp, well-chosen imagery (ruffled snow, wavy horizon, crawling insects) the author gives the reader a remarkable spatial perspective: foreground, horizon and ‘aerial view.’ The rhythms are sure: as, for example, in the weary endlessness conveyed by the long second sentence, and the immutable fact underscored by the short balanced phrases and repetition in the next. The passage reveals a breadth of vision and, pace Scott’s disclaimer, imagination. Pointing out that some of the explorer’s best writing is unrelated to adventure, Gwynn cites a