Essays on literary works - 2024

What Does It Mean to Live by a Code of Honor? (Based on Alexandre Dumas' “The Three Musketeers” and Jules Verne's “Children of Captain Grant”)

Living by a code of honor — it sounds so definitive, doesn’t it? Like a creed etched into marble, untouched by time or human frailty. But let’s be honest: no one’s moral compass points true north all the time. Honor, like everything else, is messy, mutable, and deeply personal. And yet, as we turn the pages of Alexandre Dumas’ “The Three Musketeers” and Jules Verne’s “Children of Captain Grant,” the idea of honor emerges not as a relic but as a paradoxical lifeline. What does it mean to live by a code in worlds as disparate as 17th-century France and the uncharted wildernesses of Verne’s globe? Let’s unravel this knot, shall we?

On Fencing and Fidelity

The Musketeers, with their famous “All for one, and one for all,” seem like the very avatars of honor. But have you noticed how much of their “code” is performative? D’Artagnan’s quest to join their ranks is riddled with duels, disguises, and (let’s face it) a little too much swagger. Honor, for them, isn’t just a moral stance; it’s a theatrical one. Yet beneath the bravado lies something poignant: a fierce loyalty that transcends personal ambition. Is this loyalty to each other, or to some idealized version of themselves? Maybe both. Maybe neither. And here’s the kicker: their enemies, from Cardinal Richelieu to Milady de Winter, operate by their own equally rigorous, if twisted, codes. Is the Musketeers’ honor superior, or just different? (I know, I’m being cheeky, but it’s worth asking.)

The Moral Cartography of Verne’s Explorers

Jules Verne gives us a different flavor of honor. In “Children of Captain Grant,” the search for Captain Grant’s whereabouts is as much about human decency as it is about geographical coordinates. Glenarvan and his crew are motivated by a sense of duty to a man they’ve never met. But does this duty spring from genuine altruism, or is it a way to assert their own cultural and moral superiority? There’s a colonial undertone here that’s hard to ignore—the presumption that their “civilized” values are universally applicable. Verne, whether consciously or not, gives us a critique wrapped in an adventure story. (By the way, doesn’t it feel ironic that the moral high ground often requires such a steep climb?)

The Gendered Dimensions of Honor

Speaking of steep climbs, let’s talk about women in these stories. Constance Bonacieux in “The Three Musketeers” and Mary Grant in “Children of Captain Grant” are ostensibly secondary characters, but their roles are pivotal. Constance’s honor is tied to her loyalty and virtue—a double-edged sword that renders her both idealized and vulnerable. Mary, on the other hand, embodies a quieter, more pragmatic honor: she’s determined, resourceful, and far less burdened by the chivalric baggage of her male counterparts. Is it too much to say that their respective fates reflect the limitations of their cultural scripts? Perhaps, but it’s worth noting how these women navigate their constrained roles with a grace that often eludes the men around them.

Trauma, Desire, and the Unspoken

Now let’s delve into the messy undercurrents. Honor often serves as a mask for deeper, less articulate drives: fear, desire, even trauma. Milady de Winter—one of Dumas’ most compelling creations—is a study in how personal history shapes (or distorts) one’s code. Her actions are monstrous, yes, but they’re also rooted in survival and revenge. Can we condemn her without understanding her? (And no, this isn’t a plea for moral relativism. It’s more like… moral archaeology.) Similarly, in Verne’s tale, the relentless pursuit of Captain Grant reveals more about the seekers than the sought. Their honor-driven quest is as much about proving something to themselves as it is about rescuing a lost sailor. Do they even realize it? Probably not.

Codes as Cultural Constructs

Here’s where things get meta: honor, as depicted in these texts, is less a universal principle than a cultural construct. Dumas’ France is steeped in courtly intrigue and religious conflict, where honor is wielded as both weapon and shield. Verne’s explorers, meanwhile, operate within a framework of imperial ambition and scientific rationalism. What’s fascinating is how these codes, while ostensibly rigid, are constantly being renegotiated. (By the way, doesn’t it feel like our own “codes”—social media etiquette, anyone?—are just as provisional?)

The Reader’s Role

Let’s not forget: the act of reading itself is an engagement with honor. We bring our own biases, our own codes, to these texts. Do we judge the Musketeers’ antics as noble or reckless? Do we admire Verne’s explorers for their tenacity or criticize them for their presumption? The texts don’t exist in a vacuum; they’re mirrors (ugh, I know, I promised not to use that word) reflecting our own dilemmas back at us. And isn’t that the ultimate paradox? To live by a code is to acknowledge its imperfection, its contingency. To read about it is to participate in its ongoing redefinition.

A Final (Disjointed) Thought

So, what does it mean to live by a code of honor? Maybe it’s less about adhering to a set of rules and more about grappling with the contradictions those rules entail. Maybe it’s about striving for something unattainable, knowing full well you’ll fall short. And maybe—just maybe—it’s about accepting that honor, like literature, is an unfinished conversation. Or maybe that’s just the coffee talking. Either way, it’s a question worth revisiting… preferably with another cup.