Dignity, the Amoral Virtue

“There was little to be gained in growing despondent, however. In any case, it would have been foolish to waste the few remaining minutes of daylight. I walked back down to the Ford where I packed the briefcase with some essential items. Then, arming myself with a bicycle lamp, which cast a surprisingly good beam, I went in search of a path by which I could descend to the village. But no such path offered itself, though I went some distance up the hill, a good way past my gate. Then when I sensed that the road had ceased to climb, but was beginning to curve slowly down in a direction away from the village—the lights of which I could glimpse regularly through the foliage—I was overcome again by a sense of discouragement. In fact, for a moment I wondered if my best strategy would not be to retrace my steps to the Ford and simply sit in it until another motorist came by. By then, however, it was very close to being dark, and I could see that if one were to attempt to hail a passing vehicle in these circumstances, one might easily be taken for a highwayman or some such. Besides, not a single vehicle had passed since I had got out of the Ford; in fact I could not remember really remember having seen another vehicle at all since leaving Tavistock. I resolved then to return as far as the gate, and from there, descend the field, walking in as direct a line as possible towards the lights of the village, regardless of whether or not there was a proper path.”

The mannerisms and style of the narrator should make this insanely dull, but instead, it is extremely compelling. All that hyperprecision is marvelously done. Any other narrator would have simply said, “I ran out of gas, but fortunately I was within walking distance of a village.” Instead, we get the minute details, e.g. that bicycle lamp, “which cast a surprisingly good beam.”

As the novel proceeds, this endless precision, trying to make sure he is articulating the matter in such a manner as to leave no wrong impression, reveals itself to have a rather deep psychological motivation. By being obsessively focused on the minute details of life, Stevens is manifestly deluding himself about the rather more important events going on around him.

The novel is set in 1956, but most of the story is Stevens relating the details of his work in the 1930s. Back then, the owner of the house in which Stevens served was Lord Darlington. We get some vague hints early on that there is something a bit off about Darlington, but Stevens glosses over it at first. Then as he is relating the tale, we find out Darlington was really active in the peace movement of the 1930s and some of the other people with whom Darlington was working on achieving world peace were Germans who would later become rather notorious. Then as Stevens talks further, we find out that Darlington was actually a Nazi sympathizer. Well, that turns out to be not quite right either. Darlington was a Nazi collaborator.

So, Stevens spent the 1930s in the employ of a Nazi. Stevens knows it. Throughout the book, when he meets people who find out he is working at Darlington’s old house, he quickly tell them that he never worked for Darlington. Then in his reminisces of his past, he is actively trying to convince himself that Darlington was not doing what Darlington was obviously doing. The extent to which Stevens goes to disguise this fact from himself is at times quite comical. When Darlington is hosting what is obviously a gathering of Nazis, Stevens spends the time telling us about the evening by obsessing about the shininess of the silverware. 

Not only is Stevens an unreliable narrator for the reader. He is an unreliable narrator even when talking to himself about his own life.

This is not the only way in which Stevens is deluding himself. The housekeeper, Miss Kenton, looms large in his memories. From the outside, it is obvious that Stevens is in love with Miss Kenton, but he will never admit that fact, even to himself. It also seems that Miss Kenton was in love with Stevens but he also would never admit that fact. Not surprisingly, things don’t work out between Stevens and Kenton.

So, why is Stevens like this? To understand Stevens, it helps to hear his explanation of what constitutes the Greatness of the landscape of Great Britain: “it is the very lack of obvious drama or spectacle that sets the beauty of our land apart.” The same is true of the Great Butlers, of course. It’s all about Dignity.

Stevens’ father was a butler. Stevens aspired to be one of the Great Butlers, and thus he molded his life toward that aim. From his youth, he believed that Dignity is the most important quality in a butler, and, not incidentally, in a man. He strives to maintain dignity in everything he does. He is working at one of the great houses in England. But, for reasons out of his control, the head of household becomes a Nazi. What is the dignified butler to do? Maintain his dignity, of course, by engaging in a massive effort to perfect his cognitive dissonance: he knows Darlington is reprehensible, but dignity demands he serve well. On top of that he is in love, but dignity demands he not let emotion get in the way of service.

What course of action could he take which would not violate that core belief? The moral dilemma: should a butler with dignity continue to serve in an otherwise fine establishment or should he quit because the head of the house is enabling evil? Which is the more dignified thing to do? Serve or quit?

Notice, the question is not about the moral thing to do. The question is which action is more “dignified.” The book can thus be seen as an argument that dignity is an amoral virtue…which is when you think about a rather odd adjective for a virtue. Surely it is good to be dignified, right? As the book asks, isn’t remaining dignified somehow wrapped up in the idea of being honorable? Being honorable is good, right?

Of course, it is easy to sit back and say that obviously Stevens should have quit. But note, the quit option would require the quitter to bare his own soul, to say that the desires of the quitter are more important than the requirements of the job. To make that sort of assertion is figuratively removing one’s clothing in public, revealing what is underneath the clothing of dignity in the presence of others.

The end of this novel is extremely poignant; it is hard to think of other novels which compare. Stevens reveals he knew about the conflict between maintaining dignity while serving an abhorrent man or abandoning his post and losing dignity. He chose the former, but he has doubts about whether that was the right thing to do. Once those doubts creep in, he then spends the whole book constructing a defense of his own actions. It isn’t obvious that Stevens believes his own defense.

Then add in the loss of love. Not only did Stevens’ quest for dignity result in a career of which it is hard to be proud, that same desire to always be dignified destroyed any chance Stevens had for love and family.

This is a guy who knows he did not have a life well-lived, but it would destroy him to acknowledge that. So, he tries desperately to avoid facing that fact by obsessing about the small details of his life. For example, in that passage above which I chose randomly, Stevens is explaining that he made the right decision to walk down to that village after his car broke down. See? He is a very good decision maker. He really thinks things through. You can’t fault his decisions. Right? Right?

I could not help wondering what Stevens would have thought about Jeeves. It is obvious what Jeeves would have done if he found himself in the service of a Nazi (Roderick Spode, for example). He would have coughed politely and tendered his resignation. Jeeves would have lost zero dignity in such a course of action. Yet, such a possibility never occurs to Stevens. More evidence that everyone should read Wodehouse, I suppose.

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Bowman, James Honor: A History “When Honor is at Stake”
Jackson, Matthew The Human Network “Choose Your Friends Wisely”