Ruth Menzies

Re-writing Gulliver's Travels: the demise of a genre? Ruth Menzies The imaginary voyage is characterised by a certain ambiguity which originates to a considerable extent in the deliberate blurring of boundaries between reality and fiction. This technique, which can be traced back to Lucian’s True History, is perhaps most clearly reflected in the care and attention which even authors of very obviously fictional texts devote to providing a plausible geographical setting for their invented travels and lands. While the imaginary nature of many works is evident, the opening and closing sequences, describing the outward and return journeys, are almost invariably realistic in nature, and the countries visited by the traveller are usually located on the fringes of the known world. One of the main reasons for this is that the genre usually provides a means of expressing criticism – whether direct or indirect – of real, contemporary society: the imaginary lands and peoples discovered by the narrator function as a mirror, reflecting a frequently discomfiting image of humanity. In order to fulfil this intermediary role, the imaginary society is best situated in a median position, in the hinterland between the known and the unknown, the familiar and the strange. This largely explains why the genre flourished in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, when voyages of discovery were revealing new lands and customs, expanding horizons and also increasing speculation as to the nature of those areas left unknown, areas which furnished authors with ideal locations for their works. In the modern context, it might therefore seem impossible to write a new imaginary voyage. In the absence of the requisite geographical uncertainty, there would appear to be no scope for this type of writing, which has arguably been supplanted by science-fiction, a related but nonetheless separate genre. How, then, is one to interpret the relatively recent appearance of sequels to and re- writings of imaginary voyages, most notably of Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver's Travels? Are they to be considered as the inevitable consequence of the intrinsic nature of writing, of the oft-repeated view that all texts are intertexts and that nothing new can really be written? Are they simply postmodern pastiches, or, in the case of feminist re-writings, the result of a re-appropriation of the canon by those whom it traditionally excluded? Do they confirm the demise of the imaginary voyage, reduced to endless variations on old themes and tales, or can they be seen as exemplars of the genre in their own right, as proof of its perpetuation and ability to adapt to changing literary and cultural contexts? In addressing these questions, I wish to confine myself to the analysis of two modern re-workings of Gulliver's Travels, published at thirty years’ interval: Matthew Hodgart’s A New Voyage to the Country of the Houyhnhnms, Being the Fifth Part of the Travels into Several Remote Parts of the World. By Lemuel Gulliver (1969) and Alison Fell’s more recent The Mistress of Lilliput (1999). While sequels and apocryphal re-writings of Gulliver's Travels are nothing new – the numerous volumes of Gulliveriana bear witness to the quantity of such texts – a great many of the early examples seem to have been primarily motivated by a desire to cash in on the remarkable commercial success of Swift’s imaginary voyage. The inspiration behind these two modern versions is evidently to be found elsewhere: namely, in the adaptation and updating of one of the most fundamental works of literature. Both texts are simultaneously sequels, picking up the tale where Swift ended it with Gulliver’s return from Houyhnhnmland to England, and re-writings, based on the modification of a key aspect of the original work. Matthew Hodgart’s New Voyage to the Country of the Houyhnhnms resembles its precursor in that it is characterised above all by the satirical portrait it presents of contemporary society. However, the historical context is updated, as the dichotomy between the Houyhnhnms and Yahoos is transposed to represent the conflicts which shook American university campuses in the late 1960’s, at the height of student unrest. Gulliver, unable to bear life in England, returns to Houyhnhnmland, only to find it rocked by the uprising of the Yahoos, who revel in the expression of their basic natural impulses – most memorably through the episode known as the “Great Shit-In” –, refuse to work and demand a role in decision-making. Alison Fell’s work alters the perspective of the narrative, recounting the experiences of Mary Gulliver, who remains a minor, silent figure in the background of Swift’s tale, left alone for increasing periods as a result of her husband’s wanderlust and finally spurned in favour of the horses in the stable. As early as 1727, the hapless figure of abandoned Mrs Gulliver inspired Pope to compose a poem allowing her an opportunity to express her grievances,1 and in Fell’s Mistress of Lilliput, Lemuel’s long-suffering and loyal spouse sets out to track down her fugitive husband on a voyage which comes to resemble a feminist quest for liberation and self-knowledge. From a formal perspective, the two texts more or less resemble the standard format of most classic imaginary voyages. Hodgart’s book constitutes a particularly elaborate pastiche. Its cover is modelled on that of the 1735 edition of Gulliver’s Travels, albeit with several alterations and additions, including a copy of the Dean’s signature, apparently scribbled on as an afterthought. The most striking element is the presence of a decidedly modern pink flash sticker bearing the adjective “new.” A convincingly rudimentary map is included with the inside title page, while the typeface, punctuation, syntax and presentation of each chapter – a subheading summarises the content – also contribute to the artifice which consists in disguising the re-writing as an eighteenth-century text. The Introduction is reminiscent of the prefaces found in many examples of the genre, apparently intended to reassure the reader as to the authenticity of the tale by describing the circumstances in which the manuscript was discovered, as well as highlighting the task undertaken by the so-called ‘editor’ in transcribing and preparing the text for publication. As is frequently the case, reference is made to the existence of a further text, in this instance a “separate volume,” containing “incontrovertible evidence concerning the handwriting and other matters” (Hodgart 7) which will prove Swift’s authorship. Where the latter’s preface to Gulliver’s Travels purports to prove Gulliver’s existence, Hodgart’s thus adapts to its particular literary and cultural context, claiming that the text was written by Jonathan Swift. However, in keeping with the codes of the genre, the preface, while apparently testifying to the truth of the account it precedes, subverts that same suggestion and hints at the fictional and allegorical nature of the work: Hodgart, for example, alludes to the fact that he edited the ‘discovered manuscript’ during a semester spent at Cornell University in the spring of 1969, and mentions that he added footnotes “for the identification of accidental resemblances between the figments of Swift’s diseased imagination and certain contemporary events” (8). The Mistress of Lilliput is less clearly imitative in presentation although it also contains a map, a dedication written by the narrator, and characteristically eighteenth-century chapter subheadings. The narrative voice, however, differs radically from that typical of imaginary voyages, as the events are recounted not by the traveller, Mary Gulliver, but by her faithful travelling companion, a doll. This rather bizarre circumstance both lessens the immediacy of the account and yet serves as a reminder of the barriers which long prevented women from assuming authorship and taking control of their own autobiographies and destinies. Living in the shadow of her dominant yet absent husband, Mrs Gulliver herself would never dream of penning such a tale, and the doll’s role as silent, frustrated onlooker and passive witness to the travels and experiences of her mistress constantly highlights the silent position of even adventurous women. The narrative structure of the text is also unlike that of traditional imaginary voyages, as Fell interweaves the travel account with a description of the French naturalist Antoine Duchesne’s fictional quest to breed the magnificent Fragaria chiloensis or ‘frutilla’ strawberry, discovered in Brazil by the aptly-named spy, Frézier. Duchesne was responsible for the discovery that strawberry plants can be unisexual as well as bisexual, and in the narrative his efforts to find a partner plant in order to breed the frutilla provide a parallel to Mary Gulliver’s gradual journey towards sexual awareness and freedom, which she eventually finds with the naturalist himself. In this regard, it is worth noting that Fell’s version of Gulliver's Travels builds up to a conclusion which is utterly lacking in the original text, as it is in numerous imaginary voyages. While a certain formal circularity is generally respected, the appearance – however flimsy – of authenticity requiring that the traveller come back to his homeland in order to recount his adventures to his kinsfolk and public, many texts end in abrupt and somewhat inconclusive manner, with the voyager dying or otherwise disappearing almost immediately upon his return, leaving only his manuscript. In Swift’s text, the fate of Gulliver remains rather uncertain: is he mad or just lucidly misanthropic? How does he live out the rest of his days? A sequel, however light-hearted, provides a form of response to these unanswered questions: in the case of The Mistress of Lilliput, the reader not only learns what happened to Gulliver following his difficult return to England, but also follows the adventures of his wife until their happy end.

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