Jamaica Inn

“‘You mustn’t mind your Un­cle Joss,’ she said, her man­ner chang­ing sud­den­ly, fawn­ing al­most, like a whim­per­ing dog that has been trained by con­stant cru­el­ty to im­plic­it obe­di­ence, and who, in spite of kicks and curs­es, will fight like a ti­ger for its mas­ter.”

Aunt Patience’s obedience to her husband evokes pathos and is a mark of how deeply Joss has broken her spirit. Patience has little personality or spirit beyond her devotion to Joss. This is an indication of the abuse she suffers. Like with Francis Davey’s paintings, du Maurier uses the effects of the uncanny to unsettle the reader: Patience’s sudden change makes the reader encounter this familiar character in an oddly taboo and unfamiliar context.

“‘That’s very pret­ty,’ he said; ‘very pret­ti­ly put in­deed. Now we know just what sort of lodg­er we have. Scratch her, and she shows her claws. All right, my dear; you and I are more akin than I thought. If we are go­ing to play, we’ll play to­geth­er. I may have work for you at Ja­mai­ca one day, work that you’ve nev­er done be­fore. Man’s work, Mary Yellan, where you play with life and death.’”

Joss respects Mary for standing up for herself; her courage makes her a potential accomplice or at least a worthy adversary. His reference to “claws” juxtaposes with the oddly delicate physicality of his own hands. Joss also hints at the dark business going on behind the scenes at Jamaica Inn, which is a vital part of his character exposition since it demonstrates that he enjoys bragging about his dangerous life.

“There’s things that hap­pen at Ja­mai­ca, Mary, that I’ve nev­er dared to breathe. Bad things. Evil things. I can’t nev­er tell you; I can’t even ad­mit them to my­self. Some of it in time you’ll come to know. You can’t avoid it, liv­ing here. Your Un­cle Joss mixes with strange men, who fol­low a strange trade. […] You must nev­er ques­tion me, nor him, nor an­y­one, for if you came to guess but half of what I know, your hair would go gray, Mary, as mine has done, and you would trem­ble in your speech and weep by night, and all that love­ly care­less youth of yours would die, Mary, as mine has died.’”

This is the second real hint that Mary receives about the danger lurking at Jamaica Inn. Patience’s warning also gives an insight into the changes in her character and appearance that Mary noticed when she arrived. This is the most information Mary ever receives from her reticent aunt. The hint that “[s]ome of it in time you’ll come to know” highlights the way du Maurier uses Mary as a proxy for the reader, both learning about the mysteries throughout the novel.

“Had she been a man, she would have gone down­stairs and chal­lenged Joss Merlyn to his face, and his friends with him. Yes, and fought them too, and drawn blood, if she were lucky. And then away on a horse from the sta­ble, with Aunt Pa­tience rid­ing pil­lion, and so down to the south again, to the friend­ly Helford shore, set­ting up as a farm­er in a small way up Mawgan way, or Gweek, with her aunt to keep house for her.”

Mary often bitterly opines about being a woman, which she believes puts her in a more precarious situation than if she were a man. Written through free indirect discourse which gives the reader an insight into Mary’s thoughts via third-person narration, this passage chimes with the sexual threat underscored by the gendered dynamics of life at Jamaica Inn. Because she cannot match Joss’s strength, she must beat him in a battle of wits, for which she is ill-prepared, as she is unaware of her uncle’s real business.

“Be­cause he had a dis­arm­ing smile and his voice was not un­pleas­ing, she had been ready to be­lieve in him, and he all the time per­haps laugh­ing at her the oth­er side of his face. There was bad blood in him; he broke the law eve­ry day of his life, and what­ev­er way she looked at it there was no es­cap­ing from that one un­re­deem­a­ble fact—he was Joss Merlyn’s broth­er.”

Mary is conflicted by her impressions of Jem Merlyn. His lineage, and hints from Aunt Patience, suggest that he is just as bad as his brothers, underscored by the novel’s theme of bad blood. However, this passage foreshadows the romantic relationship that will grow between Mary and Jem, as well as Mary’s darker feelings of attraction to Joss.

“He spoke with such so­lic­i­tude, and yet with such calm au­thor­i­ty, that Mary sighed with re­lief, throw­ing all re­spon­si­bil­i­ty aside for the time be­ing, con­tent to trust her­self in his keep­ing. He ar­ranged the reins to her sat­is­fac­tion, and, look­ing up at her, she saw his eyes for the first time from be­neath the brim of his hat. They were strange eyes, trans­par­ent like glass, and so pale in col­or that they seemed near to white; a freak of na­ture she had nev­er known be­fore. They fas­tened upon her, and searched her, as though her very thoughts could not be hid­den, and Mary felt her­self re­lax be­fore him, and give way; and she did not mind.”

Francis Davey, the Vicar of Altarnun, is presented as a “freak of nature” which utilizes the harmful tropes of disability corresponding to villainy. Du Maurier partially does this to divert suspicion from his character. Despite his disarming appearance, Mary feels that she can trust him, and this first meeting cements the vicar in Mary’s mind as her one hope and ally in a land of criminals; her relaxation is a red herring.

“They have a fas­ci­na­tion un­like any oth­er part of the coun­ty. They go back a long way in time. Some­times I think they are the sur­viv­al of an­oth­er age. The moors were the first things to be cre­at­ed; af­ter­wards came the for­ests, and the val­leys, and the sea.”

Aside from his albinism, Francis Davey’s strange excitement as he and Mary cross the moors is another element of characterization that du Maurier uses to suggest that something may not be right about him. For a Christian preacher, he is oddly fascinated with “pagan” sentiments about the landscape.

“But when I’m drunk I see them in my dreams; I see their white-green faces star­ing at me, with their eyes eat­en by fish; and some of them are torn, with the flesh hang­ing on their bones in rib­bons, and some of them have sea­weed in their hair… There was a wom­an once, Mary; she was cling­ing to a raft, and she had a child in her arms; her hair was stream­ing down her back. The ship was close in on the rocks, you see, and the sea was as flat as your hand; they were all com­ing in alive, the whole bunch of ‘em. Why, the wa­ter in places didn’t come above your waist. She cried out to me to help her, Mary, and I smashed her face in with a stone; she fell back, her hands beat­ing the raft. She let go of the child and I hit her again; I watched them drown in four feet of wa­ter.”

Joss’s confession is an example of the suspense that du Maurier builds throughout the novel, from the ominous atmosphere surrounding Joss’s tale to the gruesome details of his murders of men, women, and children. Du Maurier constructs the speech with long sentences containing multiple clauses broken by semi-colons and ellipses, reflecting the torrent of confession that pours from Joss. She uses physical, vivid imagery (“torn,” “smashed”) to evoke disgust in the reader, yet his repeated appeals to “Mary” also appeal to sympathy.

“Dead men tell no tales, Mary.”

Joss’s drunken confession echoes the cryptic references that he and Jem have made about playing with life and death: As a wrecker, Joss has killed many people as they struggle to shore from their sinking ships. This iconic line is likely derived from a similar phrase in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, reflecting the fact that du Maurier uses elements of the adventure novel tradition, and has been used in other famous instances such as Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean franchise (Stevenson, Robert Louis. Treasure Island. Oxford University Press, 2020).

“Mary did not con­sid­er her un­cle an­y­more. She had lost her fear of him. There was only loath­ing left in her heart, loath­ing and dis­gust. He had lost all hold on hu­man­i­ty. He was a beast that walked by night. Now that she had seen him drunk, and she knew him for what he was, he could not fright­en her. Nei­ther he, nor the rest of his com­pa­ny. They were things of evil, rot­ting the coun­try­side, and she would nev­er rest un­til they were trod­den un­der­foot, and cleared, and blot­ted out. Sen­ti­ment would not save them again.”

Learning of Joss’s involvement with the wreckers causes Mary to cast aside any human feeling for him. Though his drunken confession shows that he does indeed have some sort of conscience, that is not enough to atone for the blood on his hands. Ironically, du Maurier uses similar language to Joss’s confession when Mary determines that the world will be better off without him; she sees him as “rotting” and wants him “trodden underfoot, […] blotted out,” highlighting the pervasive brutality of this criminal environment even for those on its peripheries.

“Mary wrapped her shawl around her and folded her arms. She wished that wom­en were not the frail things of straw she be­lieved them to be; then she could stay this night with Jem Merlyn and for­get her­self as he could for­get, and both of them part with a laugh and a shrug of the shoul­der in the morn­ing. But she was a wom­an, and it was im­pos­si­ble. A few kisses had made a fool of her al­ready. She thought of Aunt Pa­tience, trail­ing like a ghost in the shad­ow of her mas­ter, and she shud­dered. That would be Mary Yellan too, but for the grace of God and her own strength of will.”

Mary recognizes that her heart would have her stay the night with Jem in Launceston, but it would violate her own principles. Her growing love for Jem threatens the resolve she needs to stoically pass her time at Jamaica Inn. She blames this on women’s “frailty,” and hence her resolve not to stay the night emphasizes the gendered dynamics of the novel in which the women are forced to elude sexual advances, whether for their safety or reputation.

“‘Our bright days are done, and we are for the dark,’ he said soft­ly. ‘If it were permitted to take our text from Shake­speare, there would be strange ser­mons preached in Corn­wall to­mor­row, Mary Yellan. Your un­cle and his com­pan­ions are not mem­bers of my con­gre­ga­tion, how­ev­er, and if they were they would not un­der­stand me. You shake your head at me. I speak in rid­dles. “This man is no com­fort­er,” you say; “he is a freak with his white hair and eyes.”’”

The enigmatic Vicar of Altarnun does not behave in the comforting way Mary expects of priests. The fact that he takes his “text from Shakespeare” highlights his deviation from the text of the Bible. His words reinforce Mary’s uncharitable thoughts about the nature of his albinism, since du Maurier makes him fulfill the trope of being different, villainous, and shunned—thoughts which make Mary feel ashamed.

“Drawn by a mag­net, the sea hissed away from the strand, and a break­er run­ning high above its fel­lows flung it­self with a crash of thun­der upon the lurch­ing ship. Mary saw the black mass that had been a ves­sel roll slow­ly upon its side, like a great flat tur­tle; the masts and spars were threads of cot­ton, crum­pled and fall­en. Cling­ing to the slip­pery, slop­ing sur­face of the tur­tle were lit­tle black dots that would not be thrown; that stuck them­selves fast to the splin­ter­ing wood like lim­pets; and, when the heav­ing, shud­der­ing mass be­neath them broke mon­strous­ly in two, cleav­ing the air, they fell one by one into the white tongues of the sea, lit­tle black dots with­out life or sub­stance.”

The horrific scene of the shipwreck is one of the iconic scenes in Jamaica Inn. Mary is forced to be a spectator to the catastrophe, and her horror is doubled by her powerlessness to stop the ship. The vivid language recalls that used by Joss in his earlier confession.

“Those who car­ried pis­tols now had the ad­van­tage, and the land­lord, with his re­main­ing ally Har­ry the ped­lar by his side, stood with his back to the cart and let fly among the rab­ble, who, in the sud­den ter­ror of pur­suit that would fol­low with the day, looked upon him now as an en­e­my, a false lead­er who had brought them to de­struc­tion.”

Joss’s position as a leader of the pirates was evidently not as ironclad as he liked to portray. The second he shows weakness by botching this final wreck, the men of the moorlands turn on him, and it is only the fact that Joss and Harry have pistols that saves them from a full-blown mutiny. Du Maurier draws attention to his weakness and precarious leadership by calling him “the landlord,” juxtaposing his official vocation with the war-like scene.

“‘He’ll come,’ he said; ‘he’s bound to come. I’ve cut my own throat; I’ve gone against him. He warned me once, and I laughed at him; I didn’t lis­ten. I wanted to play the game on my own. We’re as good as dead, all three of us sit­ting here—you, Pa­tience, and Mary, and I.’”

Joss’s terror at an unknown figure coming to punish him for the botched wrecking job confirms Mary’s suspicion that Joss is not the sole leader of the wrecked smugglers in the countryside. Du Maurier uses prolepsis—“[w]e’re as good as dead”—in order to heighten the suspense as to whether the characters will survive.

“She thought again of the laugh­ing, care­free Jem who had driv­en her to Laun­ces­ton, who had swung hands with her in the mar­ket square, who had kissed her and held her. Now he was gra­ve and si­lent, his face in shad­ow. The idea of dual per­son­al­i­ty troubled her, and fright­ened her as well. He was like a stran­ger to her to­night, ob­sessed by some grim pur­pose she could not un­der­stand.”

Jem’s cryptic behavior forces Mary to confront the idea that he may be Joss’s collaborator, whom Joss now fears is coming to kill them. When Jem swears to kill Joss for what he did to Mary on Christmas Eve, it only increases Mary’s suspicion. This presentation of Jem as a “stranger” parallels Patience’s impacted mental health and sudden changes.

“When he was stabbed from be­hind he must have stretched out his hands, and stumbled, drag­ging at the clock; and when he fell upon his face the clock crashed with him to the ground, and he died there, clutch­ing at the door.”

Joss’s dead body forms a grim spectacle as Mary returns to Jamaica Inn. Because the clock is broken, the inn is unnaturally silent—Mary could usually hear its ticking from the kitchen. The broken clock is a symbol that the time of Joss’s reign of terror in the inn is over.

“She knew that the ev­i­dence could be built against him piece by piece, with her­self as wit­ness; it would be a fence around him from which there would be no es­cape. She had only to go now to the squire and say, ‘I know who it is that has done this thing,’ and they would lis­ten to her, all of them; they would crowd around her like a pack of hounds pant­ing for the chase, and the trail would lead them to him, past Rushyford, and through Trewartha Marsh, to Twelve Men’s Moor.”

With Aunt Patience dead, Mary’s conflicted feelings toward Jem intensify. If he really is the murderer, she is left with two options: breaking her own heart by informing the authorities what she knows and sending Jem to the gallows, or keeping quiet and living with the guilt that Aunt Patience’s murderer will live a free man. The reference to “a pack of hounds” crowding her foreshadows the hounds that chase Mary and Francis on the moor, and this image inverts the real ending: The hounds do not ultimately chase Jem; they join him in the chase.

“This was not a draw­ing at all, but a car­i­ca­ture, gro­tesque as it was hor­ri­ble. The peo­ple of the con­gre­ga­tion were bon­neted and shawled, and in their best clothes as for Sun­day, but he had drawn sheep’s heads upon their shoul­ders in­stead of hu­man faces. The an­i­mal jaws gaped fool­ish­ly at the preach­er, with sil­ly va­cant so­lem­ni­ty, and their hoofs were folded in pray­er.”

The vicar’s blasphemous sketch, coupled with his strange paintings and the utter lack of personality in his room, begin to cast doubt on his character. This painting references not only his congregation but Joss and his men, of whom Davey is also a leader.

“Your mind works slow­ly to­night, Mary Yellan, and I ap­pear to talk in rid­dles. Did you not know that it was Jem Merlyn who in­formed against his broth­er?”

Throughout her tense supper with Francis Davey, Mary is agonized over the vicar’s questioning about Jem. Davey describes his speech as “riddles” just like he did when he takes to Mary on the moor (142), reflecting the enigmatic mysteries of the novel that have not yet been solved for the reader. Mary fails to recognize the actual danger in her situation.

“‘I’ll come with you, Mr. Dav­ey,’ she said, ‘but you’ll find me a thorn in the flesh and a stone in your path. You will re­gret it in the end.’”

Mary has no choice but to go on the run with Francis Davey, even if she opposes him and promises to try to take him down. The “thorn” and the “stone” are references to Jesus’s crucifixion and resurrection, in which thorns were placed on his head and a stone was used to cover the entrance to his tomb. Davey’s ironic detachment from Christian teachings and desire to return to a pre-Christian way of living makes these references a threat to him; he is not on the path to Christian redemption.

“The hounds were worm­ing in and out amid the brack­en, and one of them leaped at the jut­ting rock be­neath her, his great muz­zle snuffling the stone. Then Jem fired once more; and, look­ing be­yond her, Mary saw the tall black fig­ure of Fran­cis Dav­ey out­lined against the sky, stand­ing upon a wide slab like an al­tar, high above her head. He stood for a mo­ment poised like a stat­ue, his hair blow­ing in the wind; and then he flung out his arms as a bird throws his wings for flight, and drooped sud­den­ly and fell; down from his gran­ite peak to the wet dank heath­er and the lit­tle crumbling stones.”

In the climactic scene of Jamaica Inn, Mary and Francis Davey flee from Squire Bassat’s hounds as Jem fires at them. The vicar’s dramatic death alludes to his ironic position as a preacher since he dies on an “altar,” and his outstretched arms recall the crucifixion, yet he ultimately falls. Du Maurier extends the avian imagery with which she describes him throughout the novel and his love of the moors as his body falls into the heather.

“In the kind­ness of their hearts they would have her en­ter into con­ver­sa­tion when com­pa­ny was pre­sent, and strove that she should not sit aside; while she longed the while for the si­lence of her own bed­room or the home­ly kitch­en of Rich­ards the groom, whose ap­ple-cheeked wife would make her wel­come.”

Du Maurier explicitly explores the problems of class difference in a novel in which socioeconomic background shapes the events and yet is largely implicit. In the aftermath of the events of the novel, Mary is taken in by the Bassat family, who accepts her enthusiastically. However, Mary’s experiences have soured her to the region, and she does not feel that she fits in with the Bassats’ high-class society.