Gabriel Betteredge & Co.: character in The Moonstone

Sarah commented on my post about Gabriel Betteredge, the narrator of the first part of The Moonstone (actually, not of the very first part), that she thinks “the strength of The Moonstone is in its characters, especially Gabriel,” and I tend to think she is right. Or at least, one of its biggest strengths.

First, the whole idea of character is foregrounded in the novel in a couple of important ways, the first being the structure of the story itself. Franklin Blake, one of the principals in the affair of the Moonstone, charges himself with collecting the most thorough account of the mystery possible. He prevails on several witnesses, not just to the theft of the Indian Diamond but to all the ensuing events up to and including the solution to the crime, to provide him with accounts of what they themselves saw, heard, and knew at the time. The accounts are not overlapping, though they make reference to each other in places. But the experience of hearing the story recounted by eleven different first person narrators, each of whom appears in the accounts of the others, puts the matter of character immediately in mind.

The first such narrator (after the prologue) I have already mentioned, Gabriel Betteredge. He is unusual in that he is one of two people to tell two separate parts of the story, and in that his first account is by far the longest portion of the book. He introduces us to all the main players, so it’s through him we first get an idea of all the rest of the people we will come to know much better later. For one: Rachel Verinder. Rachel is behind the second reason character is so important in the story; it is because of Rachel’s character (secretive, obstinate, good) that the entire plot of the book exists at all. In the days immediately following the theft, she is clearly hiding something. Betteredge, who has been in her family’s service his whole life, insists that despite her guilty appearances he simply knows she cannot have stolen the diamond, and that no matter what Sergeant Cuff thinks, be he the best detective in England or not, her guilt is no less than impossible. But because we know Betteredge so well, we know his attachment to the family, to his “young lady” especially—and because during his whole narrative Rachel is acting really, really weird—we think she is completely guilty, and also kind of a pain in the ass. We definitely don’t believe in the tales of her wonderful character.

But it turns out those stories are true, and in every other narrative, as more information about the theft of the diamond leaks out, Rachel does seem like an extremely upstanding young woman. And it turns out that for all her queerness after the incident, she has been doing something noble all along—or at least genuinely thinks she has. And in so doing she has kept information hidden for an entire year that could have, most probably, helped to clear up the mystery in only a few days, had it been available to Sergeant Cuff initially. Indeed, Cuff has retired and been off the case that entire year, and as soon as he hears the way the case has broken open by that point he is able to name the ultimate perpetrator.

(Rachel’s is not the only character to hinder the investigation. The servants, insulted by the initial investigator, are less than helpful afterward, purely out of spite as we find out later.)

The rest of the narrators are just about as good as Gabriel Betteredge. Miss Clack, a poor relation of the Verinders, is a hysterically funny “rampant spinster” evangelist. Mathew Bruff, the Verinders’ solicitor, is nosy, gossipy, and extremely concerned with his time—which, he reminds us, “is money.” Franklin Blake is a perfect male counterpart to Rachel. More on Ezra Jennings and Sergeant Cuff in a moment. Mr. Candy, town doctor, and Mr. Murthwaite, knowledgeable adventurer, are also well-developed personalities despite more minor roles.

On Ezra Jennings: very interesting to me that the character with the sense to blow the whole thing open is both widely mistrusted because of a stain on his honor (not to mention his “gipsy complexion” and “parti-coloured hair”) and also an opium abuser (like Wilkie Collins himself). In fact, he is so well aware of the unreliability of his own story, in telling it both to Franklin Blake and to us, that he supplements his arguments with passages from well-known medical books. (Though I feel I could write a whole post on the use of documents in constructing the narratives themselves. I may do so.) Also, he is one of the most charming and disarming of the characters, in my own opinion. Who else would say this, after receiving a politely and indirectly scolding letter:

Translated from polite commonplace, into plain English, the meaning of this is, as I take it, that Mrs. Merridew stands in mortal fear of the opinion of the world. She has unfortunately appealed to the very last man in existence who has any reason to regard that opinion with respect. I won’t disappoint Miss Verinder; and I won’t delay a reconciliation between two young people who love each other, and who have been parted too long already. Translated from plain English to polite commonplace, this means that Mr. Jennings presents his compliments to Mrs. Merridew, and regrets that he cannot feel justified in interfering any farther in the matter.

Here it feels like we are really getting at Collins, though that may well be an illusion. But I really like Jennings’s outsider status; he is so much more forthright and genuine for it.

And on Sgt. Cuff: “first and greatest” of English detectives? I don’t know, but he is certainly a well-drawn prototype. His somewhat unusual appearance, first off (in the words of Betteredge):

…a grizzled, elderly man, so miserably lean that he looked as if he had not got an ounce of flesh on his bones in any part of him. He was dressed all in decent black, with a white cravat round his neck. His face was as sharp as a hatchet, and the skin of it was as yellow and dry and withered as an autumn leaf. His eyes, of a steely light grey, had a very disconcerting trick, when they encountered your eyes, of looking as if they expected something more from you than you were aware of yourself. His walk was soft; his voice was melancholy; his long lanky fingers were hooked like claws. He might have been a parson, or an undertaker—or anything else you like, except what he really was. A more complete opposite to Superintendent Seegrave than Sergeant Cuff, and a less comforting officer to look at, for a family in distress, I defy you to discover, search where you may.

But despite a possible lack of bedside manner, Cuff is quite brilliant and puts Seegrave, of course, to shame. And comforting the family in distress is definitely not his priority. But even Cuff’s logic sets him on the wrong trail. Because of Miss Verinder, “How any man living was to have seen things in their true light, in such a situation as mine was at the time, I don’t profess to know.” The heart of any mystery for its reader! We cannot solve it until the facts are laid before us, and neither can Sergeant Cuff.

And the last bit of foregrounded character: I knew for a while who was the really guilty one in this tale, though it took almost to the end for me to say how he had done it (and this really was an incredibly suspenseful novel). One of the problems with his guilt was one of motive. A financial motive sort of made sense, but then sort of not. It wasn’t until Cuff uncovered the completely and utterly hidden character of the man in question that the motive became clear. A second character entirely: assumed name, unknown address, secret lady love. And yet there was something about his personality all along that made me think him guilty.