Persuasive Ironies:

Abstract

The ostensible goal of the utopian novel is to serve as the fictional embodiment of a theoretical ideal, the dream of a perfect society brought to life. This is especially true in the age of Enlightenment, a time that seemed to particularly believe in the emancipatory power of reason and its ability to rationally organize human existence. The novel is an obvious handmaiden to the utopian project, rendering the brave new world tangible and familiar while also acting as its advocate, persuading readers of its virtues. It seems surprising, then, to find two eighteenth-century utopian novels that not only critique utopian ideals but also call into question fiction's ability to deliver utopianism's message, or indeed, any kind of lesson at all. Yet the two novels I discuss in this article, Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels (1726) and Ignacy Krasicki's Mikołaja Doświadczyńskiego przypadki (The Adventures of Mr. Nicholas Wisdom) (1776), do exactly that. Krasicki and Swift illustrate the ultimate disjunction between the human and the abstract, a problem that is at the heart of political theory itself. The inability of the universal to meaningfully encompass the individual casts doubt on political projects of universal freedom, which must ultimately be a freedom of the individual, and of self-determination. What makes their novels of particular interest is the way in which they simultaneously illuminate the limits of fiction's powers of political pedagogy and its ability to portray those limits through its use of irony.Mikołaja Doświadczyńskiego przypadki is often considered to be the first Polish novel, and a typical text of the Enlightenment. The novel tells the story of a young man, Mikołaj, and his upbringing in Sarmatian Poland. Forced to leave the country because of financial problems, he travels to France, which he must also eventually flee because of money troubles. A shipwreck lands him on the island of Nipu, which most critics read as a fairly straightforward embodiment of Enlightenment principles, in line with other European visions of utopia.1 After leaving Nipu, Mikołaj travels to the New World, and ultimately returns to Poland. Studies of the novel focus on its advocacy of Enlightenment values (though more recent criticism has begun to complicate this picture, as Teresa Kostkiewiczowa points out in a broad overview of this issue), but as I make clear here, the novel lends itself to a very different reading.2 Swift was undeniably an influence on Krasicki: in fact, the narrator of Krasicki's subsequent novel, Historia, is a character from Gulliver's Travels, an immortal Strudlbrug from Luggnag, of Gulliver's third voyage. Read alongside Gulliver's Travels, the critique of Enlightenment values in Mikołaja Doświadczyńskiego przypadki becomes far more apparent. Both novels not only articulate a similar problematic at the heart of utopian thought but also reflect more specifically on the role that fiction plays in illuminating these critiques.At the center of both texts is an interrogation of the disjunct between theory and practice, between the particular and the universal. The universal has, of course, long been a problem for utopian thought, particularly for its fictional representations. The universal as a category is necessarily abstract and formal in nature: if it is to contain everyone, it cannot be too particular. But this is precisely what cripples the fictional efforts: the category becomes so broad that it loses sight of the individual. Fredric Jameson complains, for instance, that in utopian literature “the perspective is utterly anonymous. The citizens of utopia are grasped as a statistical population; there are no individuals any longer, let alone any existential ‘lived experience.’”3 The characters become a uniform, undifferentiated mass, no longer recognizable as human. It is a curious conundrum, for this is the very problem that fiction ought to ameliorate, rendering the experience of utopian life tangible. Moreover, this tendency to paint humanity in its elementary forms also opens onto the dangers inherent in utopian planning; the slippage into totalitarianism that is so common in these works. To lose sight of the individual, it seems, is also to lose sight of the cost of human life. Utopias, by virtue of being “perfect,” are singular entities that struggle to accommodate pluralism.As a problem, this difficulty in depicting individuals in universal terms—and universals in individual terms—becomes a fascinating manifestation of the disjunction between the human and the theoretical. The intriguing aspect of Swift's and Krasicki's texts is that they make this issue central to their novels, turning them into reflections on the problem as such. Their works actively grapple with, and comment on, the difficulties inherent in the encounter between abstraction and reality, theory and practice.This disjunction between abstraction and reality also lies at the center of the paradox of travel literature, a subgenre that has particularly strong ties to utopian fiction. Travel writing is an obvious model for utopian literature: the structure of travel narrative offers the perfect justification for devoting so much attention and detail to the inner workings of a fictional society (indeed, the premise of the utopian novel practically requires an audience conceived of as foreign, for why else would the descriptions be necessary?). But here the paradox takes hold: as a genre, travel literature attempts to deliver virtually what it simultaneously insists must be experienced personally—the experience of travel. This contradiction is made particularly explicit when authors complain about the damage wreaked by other travel narratives that have been propagating false information about a given locale and argue vehemently that literature is not to be trusted. These are works that insistently privilege lived reality over abstract—or literary—knowledge, simultaneously attempting to make the experience of reading a novel akin to the act of travel and protesting the impossibility of their task.Many texts simply ignore this paradox and take it as given that their work will not suffer from such flaws. They acknowledge the problem and proceed as if their own accounts are faultless, because at very least they have shown themselves as conscientious and aware of the potential dangers that lie ahead. The narrator in Krasicki's later novel, Historia, is a representative example: he not only makes a point of correcting stereotypes about the places he visits but also derides written histories and warns readers never to trust official accounts.4 In other words, he dives into paradox with hardly a backward glance: historical narratives are unreliable and their misleading accounts have dangerous effects, but his own work can be relied on to provide a faithful account. In Gulliver's Travels and Mikołaja Doświadczyńskiego przypadki, Swift and Krasicki treat the issue in somewhat more complex ways, using travel writing's inherent problematic as an opening onto the broader question of the clash between abstraction and reality and what it means for utopian thought.Early on in Gulliver's Travels, Swift shows Gulliver to be simultaneously aware of the virtues of travel—its ability to educate and enlighten—and immune to its effects. When his description of England to the king of Brobdingag is met with horror, Gulliver's own faith in his homeland is not shaken. Rather, he says, But great allowances should be given to a King who lives wholly secluded from the rest of the world, and must therefore be altogether unacquainted with the manners and customs that most prevail in other nations: the want of which knowledge will ever produce many prejudices and certain narrowness of thinking; from which we and the politer countries of Europe are wholly exempted.5 The potential wisdom to be gained from a journey lies in its ability to unsettle one's views, leading to the acknowledgment of a different perspective. Gulliver, unable to distance himself mentally from the politics of his home and recognize them as flawed, can readily dismiss the king's view precisely because the king has not traveled widely, never mind the fact that Gulliver's own voyages have served only to reinforce previously held beliefs. The irony here is readily discernible and makes it quite clear that simply going to a different place does not automatically confer wisdom on the traveler.Mikołaja Doświadczyńskiego przypadki takes a different approach, though a similarly problematic one. Mikołaj, in an encounter reminiscent of that between Gulliver and the king of Brobdingag, takes the criticisms to heart, even if he is not fully persuaded. Rather than attributing the disagreement to his companion's lack of travel, Mikołaj is impressed by his friend's wisdom despite this lack: Upokarzał mnie rozum Xaoo; nie mogłem tego skombinować, jak to człowiek, który w Warszawie nigdy nie był, Paryża nie widział, mógł przecię rozsądnie myślić, mówić i konwinkować nawet człowieka, który nierównie więcej od niego i widział, i słyszał.(Xaoo's reasoning humbled me. I could not fathom how a person who had not been to Warsaw and had not seen Paris was able nonetheless to think and speak sensibly and to be convincing, even in conversation with someone who had both seen and heard incomparably more than he).6 Here, Mikołaj simultaneously illustrates the merits of travel—allowing one to encounter others whose ideas may be persuasive—and also implies that it is not necessary, for after all, Xaoo has attained this wisdom without ever leaving home. Perhaps it is simply a matter of reading the right books after all? Travel, in these two scenes, is shown as either insufficient or unnecessary: hardly a glowing endorsement for the genre of travel writing.Mikołaj's further adventures deepen the problem. The novel can be read as a narrative of conversion (or education), whereby Mikołaj moves from naiveté to wisdom as he learns about the world. The most obvious marker of change in the protagonist is in his attitude toward money. In the early portions of the text, most of Mikołaj's problems are of a financial nature, and his desire for money threatens to destroy him. When he arrives at the island of Nipu, he is seemingly educated out of this love for gold until he discovers a shipwreck that contains, among other things, a pile of treasure. It is here that we see the limits of abstract intellectual argument, for despite his better judgment, he simply cannot resist the allure of money, the very thing that nearly ruined him in the first place: Złoto, lubo w tej wyspie do niczego niezdatne, ułudziło mnie zupełnie. Stałem się chciwym bez nadziei zysków, trwożnym w zupełnym bezpieczeństwie…. Jużem się był przyzwyczaił do sposobu życia Nipuanów; jużem zaczynał doznawać skutków szacownej spokojności. Kruszec złoty nie dość że mnie uczynił nieszczęśliwym w Europie, dognał za światem…. [W]idząc, że się żadnym sposobem przezwyciężyć nie mogę, przedsięwziąłem na owej zachowanej z okrętu łodzi puścić się na zgubę oczewistą prawie, byle z tej wyspy wynieść. (140–41)(The gold, though valueless on Nipu, had utterly beguiled me. I became greedy without hope of profit, and I felt anxious while enjoying complete security…. I had actually grown accustomed to the Nipuan way of life. I had begun to value the sacred tranquility of the place. But that metal known as gold was not content to make me miserable in Europe alone; it now pursued me the world over…. Realizing that I could not prevail over myself, I resolved to leave the island in the boat I had salvaged from the wrecked ship, even though I was almost certain that this would bring about my ruin. [101, translation modified]) Although greed and the desire for luxury are faults explicitly derided by the Nipuans, and although Mikołaj seems to agree with their teachings on an abstract level and enjoy a world without money, when confronted with the glint of gold he is overwhelmed by what even he can recognize as an irrational desire. He flees the island without a word of goodbye, as though he were escaping a prison instead of a paradise. Although he will later claim that it was patriotism and a yearning for home that led to his departure, the baser motive is far more credible. Clearly, abstract knowledge can only go so far: human caprice is far more powerful.He eventually frees himself of his greed once and for all, but the means of his conversion is not rational discourse of the sort he had been exposed to in Nipu: after leaving Nipu he is enslaved and forced to work in the mines, which leads to a painful awareness about where wealth comes from and the suffering it causes. If the lovers of gold were made aware of how much suffering people undergo to provide them with this metal, he argues, they would change their ways (151/110). Although he quickly converts his suffering into a life lesson via abstract reasoning, it is clear that it is the physical pain that has changed his mind, again casting doubt on the power of literature to deliver, in writing, lessons that are bought with experience.One could say that the problem is not literature and whatever powers it may possess but rather human nature. Indeed, Mikołaj is practically a poster child for human intractability. Despite myriad educational experiences, he repeatedly reverts back to his previous beliefs and must be trained out of them anew. This is most clear in his persistent tendency to stereotype people. For example, his initial encounters with the Nipuans lead him to think they are a rather primitive race, and he decides that he can best express his gratitude for their hospitality by making them aware of their own barbarism. As he is on the verge of doing so, however, they turn the tables, praising his progress in becoming more civilized and adapting to Nipuan culture (93–94/66–67). He is thunderstruck with astonishment, and so begins the novel's long-running critique of developmental notions of human civilization. I return to the political implications of this aspect of the text later, but for the moment, its relevance is to illustrate Mikołaj's stubborn immunity to any form of education. Although he does ultimately recognize that the Nipuans are not savage, this fails to translate into a broader cultural relativism or even to an increased self-awareness of his own assumptions about others. When he arrives in the New World and a tribal native offers him assistance, Mikołaj declares himself “zdziwiony takowym procederem dzikiego człowieka” (152) (“surprised that a savage would act in such a manner” [111]). The irony of the scene is not lost on the reader, particularly because the “native” immediately offers a lengthy disquisition on the topic, which is later repeated by the Margrave de Vennes. Not only does Mikołaj need to be reminded of it again by the Margrave; upon hearing it, he remarks that he is surprised to hear such profound ideas from a man who looks, at first glance, like a dandy—launching the Margrave into yet another lecture.The novel thus finds itself in a somewhat paradoxical position, striving to educate its readers at the same time that it attempts to illustrate the limitations of abstract argument. While Krasicki shows that reasoned discourse cannot guarantee a lasting transformation in his protagonist, he seems to retain some faith that, if repeated often enough, it may ultimately convert his readers. The novel therefore attempts to form its claims in a dual fashion: not only by abstract argument but also through vicarious experience. While the reader cannot be made to work in the gold mines, for instance, he can, perhaps, be moved through fiction to a new understanding. The power of such a plea, however, is ambiguous at best and is dependent on the extent to which the reader can identify with Mikołaj and his experiences. At the same time, Mikołaj is also clearly a negative example in some cases, whom the narrator is gently mocking for his narrow-mindedness and inability to learn.7 Thus, the novel must likewise contain long passages of didactic screed (delivered by other characters) to set the reader on the correct path. In other words, the novel simultaneously asks the reader to identify with the protagonist and read him ironically. This is precisely the paradox of travel writing and, more broadly, the problem at the heart of literature's pedagogical potential: it has two strategies of persuasion, and they are at odds with each other.Mikołaj's resistance to rational argument underscores a fundamental problem with the utopian premise: the recalcitrance of human nature. The utopian dream is based upon the ability of humans to lead a rationally organized existence, but as Mikołaj's adventures—and the end of the novel—make clear, it is not always possible to persuade people to do what is good for them. And yet this is precisely what utopian fiction strives to do, and indeed must do, for the citizens of utopia must be committed to the principles on which it is founded. What then, are we to make of a utopian novel that illustrates the impossibility of convincing someone via abstract argument?While the conclusion of the work speaks to the difficulties in persuading people to change their own system of government to a superior one—to enact a utopia—it cannot be ignored that Mikołaj was not banished from Nipu but left of his own volition, and for wholly irrational reasons. The problem in this case is not only how to convince people to create a utopian world but also how to persuade them to stay put once they have one. As Krasicki shows, this is a difficult proposition, for human nature is fickle. Swift likewise speaks of such human caprice: describing the island of Laputa in the third voyage, Gulliver notes that travel is strictly regulated, for the female inhabitants would otherwise flee. While this may be read as simple Swiftian misogyny (Frank Boyle, referring specifically to this episode, offers a defense against this charge), it nonetheless further speaks to the impossibility of a rationally organized life:8The wives and daughters lament their confinement to the island, although I think it is the most delicious spot of ground in the world; and although they live here in the greatest plenty and magnificence, and are allowed to do whatever they please, they long to see the world, and take the diversions of the metropolis, which they are not allowed to do without particular license from the King; and this is not easy to be obtained, because the people of quality have found by frequent experience how hard it is to persuade their women to return from below. (155–56) Here, we see again the irrational desire to leave “the most delicious spot of ground in the world,” even for a life of misery. Although Gulliver deduces from this that “the caprices of womankind are not limited by any climate or nation, and that they are more uniform than can be easily imagined” (156), one cannot help but notice that Gulliver himself is cursed with a similar capricious wanderlust; “the thirst I had of seeing the world, notwithstanding my past misfortunes, continuing as violent as ever” (143), “my insatiable desire of seeing foreign countries” (67), “I continued at home with my wife and children about five months in a happy condition, if I could have learned the lesson of knowing when I was well” (213). Human beings' instinct to roam, it seems, is unconquerable, making them ineligible for a tranquil utopian existence.The question of whether people are suited to paradise is one that troubles utopian writing. For a perfect world would seem to require, in turn, perfect inhabitants, and as these texts make clear, people fall rather short in this regard. This problem is articulated by the Margrave de Vennes in Mikołaja Doświadczyńskiego przypadki in much simpler terms, as pertains to the difficulty of making friends: Nie trzeba wyciągać po ludziach ostatniego stopnia doskonałości, bo takim sposobem nie znajdziemy żadnego, którego byśmy uznali godnym naszego przywiązania; … [n]ie znajdziesz waszmść Nipuanów w Europie; musisz jednak żyć z ludźmi…. Mniej niedoskonały niech tylko będzie celem troskliwości takowej—będziesz szczęśliwym, bo znajdziesz przyjaciół. (163)(If we require the highest degree of excellence in people, we will not then find anyone deemed worthy of our affection…. There are no Nipuans in Europe, but you must live among people…. Grant a few imperfections in those you care to know well, and you will be happy, for then you will find friends. [119]) Collective existence demands compromise and a willingness to accept the faults of others. Reading over these words, one also thinks of poor Gulliver returning home from his voyages and settling into a deeply misanthropic existence, unable to bear even the scent of his wife and children, spending most of his time attempting to chat with his horses. But this speech by the Margrave is not simply a guide to making friends; it is also an implicit claim about human nature as such and the realities of collective life. A utopian society is one that requires “the highest degree of excellence in people”; conformity to a standard of perfection that humankind is incapable of.It is noteworthy that in his speech, the Margrave draws a distinction between Nipuans and people. One could replace Nipuans with Houyhnhnms and arrive at a conclusion as to the moral that would be equally applicable to Gulliver's Travels. The implication is that Nipuans and Houyhnhnms are a different sort of creature from humans, able to achieve a standard that people cannot. Indeed, it is not whim that sends Gulliver back to England in the final voyage of Swift's novel; rather, it is an inadequacy of a different sort: he is not a Houyhnhnm. This would seem to be a further confirmation of humankind's inadequacy to utopian life, but in fact, it opens onto a somewhat different interpretation.It is not exactly because Gulliver is not a Houyhnhnm that he cannot remain in their country; rather, it is because he occupies an ambiguous position in the organization of Houyhnhnm society. Somewhat too refined to be a Yahoo, he is nonetheless not a Houyhnhnm and never will be. He therefore does not meet the requirements to be a true citizen of Houyhnhnmland and, as such, becomes a threat. The Houyhnhnm assembly decrees that it is “not agreeable to reason or nature” (273) for him to live in a Houyhnhnm home as a companion and that it is dangerous for him to be placed among the Yahoos, for his rudimentary powers of reason could lead him to organize the Yahoos in rebellion. Thus, he is exhorted to leave. Rather than being a claim about humankind's qualifications (or lack thereof) to inhabit a utopia, this is an example of a flaw in the utopian scheme: its inability to tolerate ambiguity. In a rationally ordered society, matters are black and white: there can be no third term.We see manifestations of this problem in both Krasicki's and Swift's novels. The rigid organization of the utopian world makes any possibility of difference or change dangerous. What these works illustrate, furthermore, is the way in which anything that does not belong to the utopian scheme becomes wholly negative, an embodiment of evil. This is evidenced by the Laputans' paranoid study of astronomy in the society encountered in Gulliver's third voyage. The Laputans fear that which they can neither control nor fully calculate. It is here that utopia's totalitarianism, and violence, emerge.Krasicki subtly points to the violence in the utopian scheme through the character of Laongo, who serves as a condensed version of all threats posed by otherness. Laongo, we are told, traveled to distant islands and returned with plans of reform. When these plans were discovered, he and his followers were stoned to death. A pile of rocks marks the site, and a ballad keeps its lessons alive for future inhabitants. Just how strongly engraved the memory of this primordial violence is on the minds of Nipuans is made clear when Xaoo, recoiling in horror at Mikołaj's descriptions of a corrupt European legal system, cries “Bądźcie błogosławione, święte ręce, któreście stosami kamieni przywaliły Laonga i towarzyszów jego! Takich by nas zbrodni nau-czyli wezwani od niego cudzoziemcy!” (129) (“Blessed be those sacred hands that crushed Laongo and his accomplices with stones! The outlanders he summoned would have taught us to commit the crimes you describe” [93]). The brutality of the language, and the matter-of-fact way in which it is uttered, is jarring, forcing the reader to confront the violent repression necessary to any utopian scheme, its inability to tolerate dissension in any form.It is not only explicit rebellion that Nipuans fear but innovation more generally—and therefore travel. Laongo's crime is his attempt to foment rebellion, yet the cause is clearly located in his voyages to other countries. Here the problematic union of travel writing and utopian literature becomes clear, for while it is obvious that Mikołaj can benefit from his voyages because they bring him to Nipu and allow him to learn about their way of life, it is also apparently obvious that the Nipuans, believing they have found the ideal way of life, can in no way benefit from encounters with others.Xaoo initially asks Mikołaj a series of questions, striving to find out as much as he can about the European way of life. Having learned about Mikołaj's way of thinking, he then proceeds with his own lessons, the project of “civilizing” Mikołaj. Gulliver's Houyhnhnm master is also eager to learn about Europe, mostly because he is astonished to discover a Yahoo with some grasp of logic. He likewise, however, seems more intent on explaining the flaws of these systems to Gulliver than entertaining them as genuine alternatives. This curiosity on the part of certain utopians—surely akin to the caprice and wanderlust of the protagonists, albeit in a more restrained form—is notable, hinting as it does that travel (both to and from utopia) truly is a threat to their way of life. Xaoo states this explicitly, saying that foreign places will either be better or worse than one's home, and if they are worse, what good does it do to see them, and if better, what does one gain from seeing them other than a newfound discontent with one's own lot? Though he agrees that one may indeed learn things that will benefit one's home, he claims that this will inevitably lead to the importation of foreign vices as well, for evil is more appealing to the weak human spirit than is virtue (125/90). This statement is particularly striking, for it is an implicit acknowledgment that humans are not naturally virtuous creatures—they must be disciplined in order to be good. While travel does hold out some possibility for improving a person, this is outweighed by its potential harm. There is an interesting political undertone to this argument as well: Xaoo argues that travel is the privilege of the wealthy, a luxury small—or minor—nations cannot afford. The costs are too high, and not only in terms of expenditure; travel also deprives society of useful members: “Im kraj uboższy—szkoda większa, a jeżeli nie ma w sobie takich okoliczności, które by do podobnych podróż zwabiały cudzoziemców—nienagrodzona” (125) (“The poorer a nation, the greater the costs. Moreover, if a nation has nothing to attract visitors, the costs are not repaid” [90]). More importantly, Xaoo says, travel feeds man's restlessness rather than satisfying it, making it clear that a successful utopian society depends on the suppression of human passions in favor of a virtuous existence. It requires discipline and complete submission to its laws and principles. An encounter with different forms of life leads one to question these norms and is therefore a threat to the entire society.This danger is apparent even in the highly disciplined society of the Houyhnhnms. Commentators on Swift such have pointed out that, in his willingness to play the role of host, Gulliver's Houyhnhnm master violates local customs.9 Though he explicitly derides Gulliver's beliefs, declaring him a “perfect Yahoo” (229), he nonetheless seems to enjoy his company and conversation. This suggests that he is not wholly impervious to outside influence. What is more, though he ultimately accedes to the assembly's ruling and bids Gulliver depart, there is a trace of regret in his final words. The leniency he had verged on exhibiting validates the utopian fear of outsiders, showing as it does that even a perfectly reasonable creature can become personally attached to a Yahoo.The aberrant nature of this fondness is vividly clear when compared to the fate of the other Yahoos. In Houyhnhnmland, anxiety about otherness moves toward a terrifying extreme. Set against the race of Houyhnhnms, the Yahoos come to represent all that is evil, and indeed, are portrayed as thoroughly nasty creatures. This can be seen even in Houyhnhnm language: “The Houyhnhnms have no word in their language to express anything that is evil, except what they borrow from the deformities or ill qualities of the Yahoos” (269). This distinction, however, is not cast in racial terms but in terms of rationality: whereas the Houyhnhnms are creatures of pure reason, the Yahoos are bestial and irrational. The terms of the debate are set as those of reason itself, wholly impersonal. “So compelling is Houyhnhnm reason that it is presented as entirely other than force”: passionless, disinterested, and impermeable to argument.10 With such variables, the validity of the plan to exterminate the Yahoos brooks no disagreement. Even Gulliver, biologically kindred to them (to an extent that he develops a strong sense of repulsion toward himself, though self-immolation never seems to cross his mind), thinks nothing of using Yahoo skins and tallow to outfit his boat (275–76). The murder of the Yahoo