Colonial Enterprise in Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe

An undoubtedly unique perspective is presented by Daniel Defoe’s novel-the first novel in the history of literature- Robinson Crusoe that reflects the progress of character through an introspective, individualistic narrator. The path taken by the novel’s main character, Robinson Crusoe, is one greatly influenced by the ideal of providence, being that Crusoe’s existence is swayed by the intervention of both Crusoe, as the first novel, altered the perception of the literary individual and his/her adaptation to the world at hand. In his excerpt from the book The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding, Ian Watt writes “Previous literary forms had reflected the general tendency of their cultures to make conformity to traditional practice the major test of truth” (Watt 366).

Perhaps this is why Robinson Crusoe’s life begins as it does: with a candid narration of his own struggle with adolescence; with an account of his mercantilist traits; with a sentimental hashing of the relationship he holds with the only male role model in his life, his humble father. “[I]f I was not very easy and happy in the world,” Crusoe recalls his father telling him, “it must be my meer (sic) fate or fault that must hinder it” (Defoe 7). Here, it is fault that complicates the narrator; he both rejects something that is a cultural and religious inculcation (the honor of parents) and invokes another (capitalism at sea). This signifies the establishment of an individual character, one who quickly learns to reject a religious perspective that is handed down. He embraces a natural wandering, but is seemingly punished. Once he begins his voyage at sea, Crusoe is struck with sickness and terror and must re-evaluate his relationship with a God he initially views as vengeful, one that frowns upon a son who squanders his inheritance. Whereas Crusoe could have simply stayed at home and lived a comfortable (but meager), holy existence, he chooses to participate in something he invariably refers to as ‘evil’ by voyaging out to sea.

Therefore it is necessary for Crusoe, specifically in his role as a Prodigal Son of sorts, to be redeemed, and, as Defoe reinforces the old saying that ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ In his essay “Expanding Empires, Expanding Selves: Colonialism, The Novel, and Robinson Crusoe,” Brett McInnely writes,

Though his journey toward selfhood begins on precarious grounds–he is nearly swallowed by a storm, enslaved by Moors, and shipwrecked on an uninhabited island frequented by cannibals and located in the middle of the Spanish Empire–Crusoe gradually learns how to assert himself over land and people. (McInnely 2)

Because Crusoe acknowledges providence, it is the religious background which expedites his role as an individual in isolation. In fact, the storyline up to this point depicts one of an exemplary tale: one that forbids not only the dishonor of parents, but also the temptation of greed. Upon finding numerous coins remaining in his ship’s wreckage, Crusoe says, “Oh drug! […] what are thou good for?” (Defoe 47).

Yet Crusoe, as he is separated from society, does not become discouraged; instead of being overwhelmed by the emptiness of the island he now inhabits, his character develops by progressing from a self-aware narrator to one who is self-centered. He remains reliable in his voice and he manages to capitalize on the few necessities he salvages. This practicality is something that marks Crusoe’s limited psychology because he is jaded over it. I.e., he remains a social human (one who would horde money on a desert island) and chooses not to deny it. Even in the judgment of God, Crusoe never delves into the religious contradiction of his action. Rather, he naturally strays away from the psychological dilemma and relies on his logic to survive.

Still, Robinson Crusoe’s spiritual perspective arises in many instances that act as a necessity to the depth of Crusoe’s character. Upon arriving on the island, he prays thankfully to God for his deliverance. This is highly impractical, especially in terms of a religion that promotes the passage into heaven; whereas the greedy, physical body should have died in accordance to Crusoe’s transcendence, he is instead shoved into a limbo of sorts.

Despite Crusoe’s fear of God, his ambitions still drive him-in a way that could be viewed as downright sacrilege. In a contradictory act that further promotes his self-awareness, he unwittingly commits a sin.

[I]t came into my thoughts that I should lose my reckoning of time […] and should even forget the Sabbath days from the working days; but to prevent this, I cut it with my knife upon a large post […] making it into a great cross. (Defoe 52)

Instead of devoting this cross to his lord, like he unconsciously knows he should, he adopts it for his own purposes. The language Defoe uses here speaks for itself: Crusoe’s “thoughts;” his contrast between the “Sabbath days” and the “working days;” and, of course, the “great cross.” Although it may seem that this crude ‘kalandar’ (sic) may serve a double purpose, with Crusoe viewing the fortunate continuation of his days on the island as a sign of God’s intervention-which he will simultaneously keep track of and worship with the help of the cross-readers should not forget that Crusoe is merely promoting his own well being.
Although he is consciously choosing to revere God on the Sabbath day, he is still using the rest of his week to revere himself, and he records his days in a matter that is often blatantly fallacious. In fact, many of Crusoe’s recorded measurements come up short per se.

It is worth mentioning that shortly after he notches the cross, Crusoe makes a record that Defoe intended to further convey the ironies of his character’s capitalistic intentions. Crusoe writes, “The juxtaposition of these practical and religious items, specifically with the tone in which it is written, not only represents how they get in the way of each other, but how they both may be viewed by readers each as adventitious to Crusoe’s character. Just as Crusoe’s careful measurements of his work actually act as work themselves, Crusoe’s religious digressions also subtract from his days on the island. It should also be mentioned that both provide their own means to an end, with Crusoe later forgetting to properly calculate the date as a result of sleeping in, and his realization of providence (which arrives often as quickly as it leaves) compensating his initial repentance.

Still, the island lifestyle keeps Robinson Crusoe consistently focusing on his own magnitude. As an eighteenth-century British Protestant, i.e., a man of capital, it makes perfect sense that Crusoe would see corn sprouting from the ground and consider it English. Of course he will use it for his own good, but it is the manner in which he initially receives it that best show how Crusoe chooses to capitalize on his own warped ideal of providence. Upon seeing the green leaves growing from the ground, he believes he is witnessing a miracle in action-one that has taken place especially for him-but only for a fleeting moment. Within a few lines, Crusoe is subsequently rationalizing that it was actually his doing, as he writes,

I had shook a bag of chickens (sic) meat out in that place, and then the wonder began to cease; […] I must confess [emphasis added], my religious thankfulness to God’s providence began to abate […] for it was really the work of Providence as to me […] if I had thrown it any where (sic) else, at that time, it had been burnt up and destroy’d. (Defoe 64)
By Crusoe acknowledging that this is the result an unconscious action, one that is entirely his own, he once again accidentally rebukes both his practical ambitions and the hypothetical ambitions of God. Unfortunately, Crusoe is too caught up in his own existence to acknowledge this; it was mere luck that brought him to turn his trash into a tasty accompaniment to the turtles’ eggs, fowl, and goats’ meat that he regularly dines upon.

In fact, if it weren’t for luck, Crusoe would not have those goats to dine on. In a strange twist of luck, he does not kill but rather handicaps a goat “so that [he] catch’d it, and led it home in a string […] he bound and splinter’d up its (sic) leg which was broke […] he lived Unfortunately, not all is good luck. Crusoe, for the first time, finds a turtle; if he had only washed up on the opposite side of the island, he would have encountered a whole population of them “in this horrid place” (Defoe 69). While he butchers the turtle in the home he has made, it coincidentally begins to rain. Then, in a turn for the worse, Crusoe becomes extremely ill. Over the course of days, the sickness consumes him until he believes he is on the brink of death. This is where he notes, “Pray’d to GOD (sic) for the first time since the storm off of Hull, but scarce knew what I said, or why; my thoughts being all confused” (Defoe 70).

Here, the confusion Crusoe is suffering from is not simply a result of his sickness; Defoe intends it to be more ambiguous. While Crusoe is employing his elements to their greatest potential, his thankfulness to God (and/or belief in providence) has seemingly dwindled. In fact, he has suffered from “a certain stupidity of soul” (Defoe 71). Crusoe’s own practicality has ebbed accordingly, and once again he is self-doubting and concerned that his ambition on the island has incurred a wrath similar to that he suffered for disobeying his father. It would seem that for Crusoe, giving thanks to God for a budding ear of corn or a goat to breed is simply not enough when he already engages in such self-praise.

Now he shall die a poor, humbled man-alone in the wild with no one to give him his last rights.

Yet the manner in which Crusoe is redeemed is even more ambiguous. Upon his sickbed, he envisions a flaming angel that tells him, “Seeing all these things have not brought thee to repentance, now thou shalt die” (Defoe 71). Although this instigates a major progression in Crusoe as a religious character, it is equally mired by the circumstances in which it occurs. Not only is this a hallucination (by definition), but it also signifies a God that only intervenes when Crusoe is at his lowest, most desperate of times. In fact, readers should interpret this occurrence in the story as a re-deliverance of Crusoe, one that will re-strengthen his religious and capitalist vigor as he asks himself, “What is the earth and sea of which I have seen so much, whence it is produced, and what am I, and all the other creatures, wild and tame, human and brutal, whence are we?” (Defoe 74).

As Crusoe’s power over the natural elements (the seasons, his corn, his animals) advances with the passing of time, it is suitable that conflict should arise in the form of ‘brutal creatures.’ Up to this point, he has had differing views on his yearning for human companionship. Although he misses human companionship, he is deeply disturbed by the arrival of a footprint on the beach of his island.

It has been eleven years since Crusoe has been in human contact, and now he must deal with not only a presence but an absence. His initial thoughts on this are not optimistic; he prefers to believe that the origin of the print is something demonic. Ironically, he never considers that it is a miracle or even a sign of potential rescue-nor does he ever consider the possibility of it being a woman! For as long as he has been the ruler of his own realm, and comfortable with it (he has constructed a “country seat,” a “castle” he refers to as his “bower”), Crusoe has never had his self-prescribed importance put into check (Defoe 132). This means that, for the first time, he must defend his role of authority.

Crusoe’s island experience establishes in his mind religious, and hence, national boundaries; once he has been literally singled out and separated from the European world by God, Crusoe, on reentering that world, is assured of his place in it. (McInnely 9)

Therefore, Crusoe feels that it is necessary to defend himself from anyone who might disrupt his holy functions as an English protestant, which is precisely why Defoe chose to make the creators of the footprints adversarial, if not demonic
Yet there is another way to look at the presence of the Other on the island in regards to Crusoe’s identity; i.e., it is not such a dry contrast (the holy versus the unholy). Rather, there may be a blurring of this line. If Crusoe simply guns down the cannibals, what comes next? Crusoe asks himself what the outcome of this test from God would be: “[The cannibals] it seems had been suffer’d by Providence, in his wise disposition of the world […], as nothing but Nature entirely abandon’d of Heaven [.] I began to be weary of the fruitless excursion” (Defoe 135). Consciously, Crusoe understands that somehow he could and/or should profit from this bloody excursion-surely he can, once again, find common ground between his heavenly providence and his existence on the once-solitary island.

Crusoe’s self-composition, accordingly, hinges on more than a distinction between a “civilized” self and a “savage” Other; mastering the self requires mastering the Other [emphasis added]. It is not until Friday is introduced into the narrative and his subsequent relationship with Crusoe that Crusoe is able to compose himself as “master,” in control of himself as well as the native Other. (McInnely 18)

Mastering one’s surroundings, whether they are plants, animals, or humans, is ultimately reflected in a positive light by the end of Robinson Crusoe. Indeed Friday, a Caribbean captive who is ultimately transformed into a quasi-reflection of Crusoe, can be viewed as Crusoe’s ultimate accomplishment on the island. He provides living proof that Crusoe is not only a survivalist, but someone whose will is extremely strong.

In the end, it is this will of Crusoe’s that acts-specifically in reaction to what he considers to be overt religious intervention-that reinforces his tendencies towards what can objectively be viewed as religious disobedience. Instead of saving Friday, he enslaves him. Instead of befriending Friday, he berates him. Just as Crusoe’s father desired for him to live a life of humility, Crusoe seized everything he could in a short-handed attempt to attain power, even making his sole companion call him ‘master.’ Worst of all, Crusoe even converts him to Protestantism.

With the many ways that Friday impersonates Crusoe, it is encouraging to point out how he contrasts him. Whereas Crusoe was presented as a deeply religious individual throughout the novel, his religion is finally scrutinized by a real voice; Friday knows his own [G]od and its name is Benamuckee. Friday’s emotion and candor in his religious discussions with Crusoe act to deemphasize the religious edge Crusoe holds throughout the novel by exhibiting a true, and mutual, questionability, which, finally, allows Crusoe his true deliverance into a world of perceptive emotion. This is where human nature intervenes-with Defoe’s intentions of conscious capitalism at the expense of no one.

Works Cited

Defoe, Daniel. Robinson Crusoe. 2. London: Penguin, 2003.

McInney, Brett C.. “Expanding Empires, Expanding Selves: Colonialism, the Novel, and Robinson Crusoe.” Studies in the Novel 35March 1, 2003 21. 12/10/06

Watt, Ian. The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. Berkely, CA: University of California Press, 2001.