The Wizard's Son, Vol. 3 (of 3) — Reading Notes

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In Category - Science Fiction Utopias

Authors: Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret), 1828-1897 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2014 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Supernatural -- Fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction; Great Britain -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 77,050

Reading time 335 min

Text sections 6

The Wizard's Son, Vol. 3 (of 3) — Reading Notes can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 77,050 words, 5 hr 35 min estimated reading time, and 6 detected text sections.

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Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Supernatural -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #47557

Margaret Oliphant's third volume uses Walter's internal monologue and the loch-side setting to dramatize a crisis of will, where supernatural inheritance and romantic union are refracted through diction of comparison, fever, and suspended time.

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Title & short description10 pts
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Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
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Was this then the conclusion of all things--that there was nothing so perfect that it was worth a man's while to struggle for it; that any officious interference with the recognised and existing was a mistake; that nothing was either the best or the worst, but all things mere degrees in a round of the comparative, in which a little more or a little less was of no importance, and the most strenuous efforts tended to failure as much as indifference? Walter, returning to the old house which was his field of battle, questioned himself thus, with a sense of despair not lessened by the deeper self-ridicule within him, which asked, was he then so anxious for the best, so ready to sacrifice his comfort for an ideal excellence? That he, of all men, should have this to do, and yet that, being done, it should be altogether ineffectual, was a sort of climax of clumsy mortal failure and hopelessness. The only good thing he had done was the restoration of those half-evicted cotters, and that was but a mingled and uncertain good, it appeared. What was the use of any struggle? If it was his own personal freedom alone that he really wanted, why here it was within his power to purchase it--or at least a moderate amount of it--a comparative freedom, as everything was comparative. His mind by this time had ceased to be able to think, or even to perceive with any distinctness the phrase or _motif_ inscribed upon one of those confused and idly-turning wheels of mental machinery which had stood in the place of thought to him. It was the afternoon when he got back, and everything within him had fallen into an afternoon dreariness. He lingered when he landed on the waste bit of grass that lay between the little landing-place and the door of the old castle. He had no heart to go in and sit down unoccupied in that room which had witnessed so many strange meetings. He was no longer indeed afraid of his visitor there, but rather looked forward with a kind of relief to the tangible presence which delivered him from meetings of the mind more subtle and painful. But he had no expectation of any visitor; nor was there anything for him to do except to sit down and perhaps attempt to read, which meant solely a delivering over of himself to his spiritual antagonists--for how was it possible to give his mind to any fable of literature in the midst of a parable so urgent and all-occupying, of his own?

He stood therefore idly upon the neglected turf, watching the ripple of the water as it lapped against the rough stones on the edge. The breadth of the loch was entirely hidden from him by the projection of the old tower, which descended into the water at the right, and almost shut off this highest corner of Loch Houran into a little lakelet of its own. Walter heard the sound of oars and voices from the loch without seeing any one: but that was usual enough, and few people invaded his privacy: so that he was taken by surprise when, suddenly raising his eyes, he was aware of the polished and gilded galley from Birkenbraes, in which already Mr. Williamson, seated in the stern, had perceived and was hailing him. "Hallo, my Lord Erradeen! Here we've all come to see ye this fine afternoon. I told them we should find ye under your own vine and your own fig-tree." This speech was accompanied by a general laugh. The arrival of such a party, heralded by such laughter in a desolate house, with few servants and no readiness for any such emergency, to a young man in Walter's confused and distracted condition would not, it may be supposed, have been very welcome in any case, and at present in his exhaustion and dismay he stood and gazed at them with a sort of horror. There was not even a ready servitor like Hamish to assist in the disembarkation. Duncan had rowed cheerfully off upon some other errand after landing his master, and old Symington and old Macalister were singularly ill-adapted for the service. Lord Erradeen did his best, with a somewhat bad grace, to receive the boat at the landing-place. The gravity of his countenance was a little chill upon the merry party, but the Williamsons were not of a kind that is easily discouraged.

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The third volume of The Wizard's Son opens with Walter questioning the value of struggle itself: "Was this then the conclusion of all things—that there was nothing so perfect that it was worth a man's while to struggle for it?" The passage establishes a diction of the comparative—"a little more or a little less," "comparative freedom"—that pervades his thoughts. Oliphant renders Walter's mental state through mechanical imagery: "idly-turning wheels of mental machinery" that have replaced genuine thought. The loch-side setting becomes a stage for suspended action, where Walter lingers on "neglected turf," watching water lap against stones, unable to enter the room that witnessed "strange meetings."

Diction of Despair and the Comparative Mode

Oliphant builds Walter's despair through a repeated grammatical structure: the comparative. Phrases such as "a little more or a little less," "comparative freedom," and "nothing was either the best or the worst" create a world where absolutes dissolve. This is not merely thematic but a stylistic tic: Walter's mind cannot settle on a fixed point. The narrator reports that his "mind by this time had ceased to be able to think, or even to perceive with any distinctness the phrase or motif inscribed upon one of those confused and idly-turning wheels." The mechanical metaphor—wheels turning without progress—reinforces the sense of futility. The comparative mode extends to his view of his own actions: the restoration of cotters is "but a mingled and uncertain good." Oliphant thus uses syntax to mirror psychological paralysis, making the reader feel the absence of a stable moral or emotional ground.

The Landscape as Psychological Stage

The loch and its shore are not mere backdrop but active participants in Walter's crisis. He stands "idly upon the neglected turf, watching the ripple of the water as it lapped against the rough stones." The verbs—"lingered," "lapped," "stood"—emphasize stasis and waiting. The landscape is described in terms of neglect and roughness, mirroring his internal state. When he returns to Auchnasheen, he "hurried past the gate" and took the path to the moors, as if the house itself is a site of threat. The gamekeeper's interruption about shooting coverts is dismissed as "too trivial" for his "preoccupied soul." Oliphant uses the contrast between mundane rural business and supernatural dread to heighten the tension. The loch also serves as a boundary: Oona watches from the shore as Walter departs by boat, and the water becomes a medium of separation and longing.

Dialogue and the Voice of Anxiety

Dialogue in the excerpts is sparse but charged. Mrs. Methven's entreaties—"Oh, my boy! what ails you? what is wrong?"—are rendered as a refrain that "came back to his ears" while Walter answers in a voice "which seemed to come from any point of the compass rather than from his own lips." This dissociation between speech and self is a key authorial choice: Oliphant does not give Walter coherent dialogue but instead fragments his responses. Hamish, the boatman, speaks with "an anxious countenance," unable to discern whether Walter is moved by "love or hate, or madness or good meaning." The ambiguity in Hamish's perception underscores the opacity of Walter's motives. Oona's farewell is silent except for her wave, and Walter's own words—"To-morrow! if I can live till to-morrow in this suspense"—are the only direct speech from him, revealing a desperate temporality.

Structure of Suspense and the Fever Dream

The narrative structure in these chapters relies on a deliberate slowing of time. Chapter I begins with a philosophical meditation, then moves to Walter's arrival and lingering. Chapter XI opens with the statement that "the rest of this day passed over Walter like a dream in a fever." Oliphant then lists sensory fragments: "his mother questioning him," "his servants looking at him wondering," and phrases that "boiled up" like straw in a whirlpool. The simile of the whirlpool—"a straw cast into a whirlpool and boiling up as the bubbles went and came"—captures the chaotic, repetitive nature of his perception. The chapter ends with the impulse to flee to the hillside, where a "battle" with "spiritual enemies" awaits. Oliphant withholds the actual confrontation, instead building anticipation through internal turmoil and trivial interruptions, a technique that sustains suspense across the volume.

Readers attentive to Oliphant's prose will notice how she uses grammatical patterns—the comparative, the mechanical metaphor, the fragmentary refrain—to externalize Walter's inner conflict. The loch and moor are not picturesque but psychological; dialogue is often reported rather than direct, emphasizing isolation. This volume rewards those who read for voice and structure rather than plot resolution alone.

Reading Oliphant’s third volume, I kept thinking of Walter’s suspended hours by the loch — how fever blurs the edge of choice. It reminded me of a quieter book, one where time also folds inward rather than forward. Brought Forward — Story, Setting & Ideas holds that same uneasy pause, though its weather is gentler. Strange, how two such different worlds can share one hesitant heartbeat.