[In the following excerpt, Keppler discusses the symbolism of the visitant in terms of Christian ethics.]

In another group of examples the good second self resembles in technique the second self as Tempter; he is a more subtle Saviour than the ones we have thus far considered, realizing that the major task of salvation must be done by the person being saved, and enticing him by one means or another toward the inward state with which such self-salvation is synonymous. Naturally, as the second self who pursues in order to save is bound to seem objectionable and menacing to the first self who stands in need of salvation, so the second self who tempts for the same purpose is bound to seem devious, suspect, allied with the Devil or perhaps the Devil himself. It is for the latter that the unnamed intruder of Stevenson's “Markheim”¹ is mistaken by the first self, though he proves a very different Devil from the ones we met in Chapter 4. Similar in plan to Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, this story begins with a murder, and again it is the murder of an old pawnbroker by an impoverished young man; again, also, the murder is merely the prelude to the real story, the story of its consequences in the mind of the murderer-protagonist. Markheim's need differs from Raskolnikov's in that he has brought it upon himself by a life of dissipation, but he justifies himself no less than the young Russian, not by the philosophy of Might Makes Right but by assuring himself that God, being just, will surely forgive him. Like Macbeth before the murder of Duncan, he is conscious only of the fear of earthly retribution, and he looks down with no stirring of conscience on the crumpled, blood-stained body that a moment ago was a living man.

But Markheim, in realms of his being of which he has not taken account, is no more immune to the monstrousness of his deed than is Raskolnikov. He has looked upon his victim, before plunging his dagger into the latter's heart, with infinite pity and a touch of horror; he has, for all the danger of doing so, delayed the stroke, trying to converse with the flint-hard old dealer, trying to penetrate the mask of everyday to some vestige of humanity within, trying as Raskolnikov tries to find some excuse for not doing the act to which his sense of duty to himself has brought him. And once the crime is committed, and he is alone and free to search for the pawnbroker's money, he discovers that he is neither alone nor free; on every side there are companions, there are watchers, there are reminders and compellers. As he moves about with a candle, the mirrors on all sides catch his reflection: once more the old device of the mirror, placing the self outside the self, as though independent of its original (Narcissus, Baldwin, William Wilson), in this case not only inimical but manifold, “as it were an army of spies.” The silence is vexed by sounds other than clocks: his own stealthy footsteps—or is he positive they are his own? In the drawing room upstairs, going through the dealer's keys, he hears them again, and now in horror he knows they are not his own; they are mounting the stairs from below. Suddenly the knob turns, and, as Markheim cries out hoarsely, a visitor, apparently taking this for an invitation, enters and shuts the door behind him. The outlines of the newcomer seem to waver slightly, to Markheim's terrified gaze, like those of idols in candlelight. Markheim has no doubt of the other's reality, but he has increasing doubt of the other's humanity; “and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he bore a likeness to himself; and always, like a lump of living terror, there lay in his bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the earth and not of God.”²

In other words Markheim, like Ivan Karamazov and Faust in their hours of extreme vulnerability, appears to be playing host to the Devil. And like those other diabolical visitants, Markheim's is no gloomy fallen Archangel but a poised, polite, cynical man of the world, precisely the sort of man Markheim ought to have been in order to carry out his plans with full success. At once he seems to take Markheim's side, gives him sound advice on how to proceed, urges him to hurry before the maidservant returns, offers to tell him where the money is hidden (“for a Christmas gift,” as he sweetly puts it), and suggests that Markheim be content with the kind of scoundrel he is and act accordingly. All this is much the sort of thing we have seen other Devils doing, tempting to evil with plausible diabolical arguments that are articulations of thoughts already present in the first self's mind. But Markheim's visitor differs from the others in that he tempts in just the reverse direction from theirs, toward good instead of evil. By affecting to take the side of Markheim's viciousness he forces Markheim to face the fact of this viciousness, to stop deluding himself with notions of his justification or of good intentions to reform, and to see that the course he has taken can lead him only where it has always led him, steadily deeper into degradation and hopeless damnation. Nor is this done, as we have seen it done by Svidrigaïlov, out of malice; for as Markheim at last defies the diabolical counsel (the maidservant has returned, and the “Devil” suggests that Markheim murder her as well) and chooses the one door of freedom left open to him, that of self-renunciation, the features of the visitor “brightened and softened with a tender triumph.” Markheim walks down the stairs and opens the house door.

He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. “You had better go for the police,” he said. “I have killed your master.”³

To be sure there is a certain allegorical flavor about the tempter of Markheim, just as there is about the pursuer of the first William Wilson. Nevertheless, the former is no more a mere personified idea than the latter, but from his first appearance, for all his mystery, he is a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood character in the story, perhaps even more vivid than his counterpart. It is true that he is perceived only by Markheim, as the Devil of The Brothers Karamazov is perceived only by Ivan. But it should be noted how careful Stevenson is to avoid stamping his visitant as “nothing but” a mental content; just as careful as Dostoyevsky is to do the opposite. The fact that the features of the visitor “faded and dislimned” as Markheim turns away to give himself up is not the same thing as his disappearance before Markheim's eyes. Indeed Markheim does not watch the transformation, even though we are told that the transformation takes place, and have it described for us. In other words, we are made aware of something (whether or not a supernatural something) happening to the visitor of which Markheim is not aware, something that must therefore take place outside the range of Markheim's experience, in the realm of objective reality.

In “Markheim,” then, we find the second self as Saviour assuming the guise of the Devil and apparently tempting as the Devil, but using the process of pseudo-temptation to accomplish his real temptation, which leads Markheim from the lostness of self-love to the triumph of self-conquest. …

Notes

1. In Vol. III of The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, edited by Charles Curtis Bigelow and Temple Scott (New York: The Davos Press, 1906), pp. 359–78.

2. Ibid., p. 372.

3. Ibid., p. 378.