“People find this great fault with me–that I turn my stories into sermons. They forget that I have a master to serve first before I can wait upon the public.” George MacDonald.
Donal Grant is a “story-sermon” par excellence, for although in one sense it throws subtlety to the wind (there is no question here, as in MacDonald’s fairy-tales, of “stealing past watchful dragons,”) “unsubtle” need not of course mean unskilful: nor does the author derogate from his mythopoeic standards because at times he makes use of blunt tools. Rather, the mythmaker or spell-weaver is taken up into the preacher, and the result is a kind of fairy-tale for grown-ups....
In Sir Gibbie (to which Donal Grant is the sequel) we find these words from GM's Celtic hero:
“You ministers sudna mak yersels sae like cloods. Ye sud be cled in white an’ gowd, an’ a’ colours o’ stanes, like the new Jerooslem ye tell sic tales aboot, an’ syne naebody wad mistak the news ye bring.”
“You ministers shouldn’t make yourselves so like clouds. You should be clad in white and gold, and all colours of stones, like the new Jerusalem you tell such tales about, and then nobody would mistake the news you bring.”
George MacDonald, and Donal Grant as his messenger, are in a very real sense the fulfilments of this hope–unless it be argued that Donal, habited in his unassuming tutor’s garb, does not outwardly fit the bill. To the eye of the imagination, however, he is clad in panoply as rich as ever MacDonald wore, and certainly the “news he brings”–news from a far country, for the lack of which Arctura has been slowly perishing–is beyond anyone’s misconstruction. He is not an ordained minister, but he is something far better: a mighty prophet, fighting, like all of MacDonald’s heroes, a spiritual battle, only here it rages more fiercely than ever, at times even reaching an epic pitch. I shall be much interested to know if, after reading of Donal’s confrontation with the drug-addicted Lord Morven in chapter XXX (“He went down the stair with a sense of exhaustion such as he had never before felt”) I will be the only one strangely reminded of Gandalf and the Balrog...
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The above (slightly edited) is taken from my Translator's Preface for the new edition. It doesn't give much away in terms of the plot, but gives you an idea of the TYPE of novel you can expect from MacDonald on this occasion...
A little more from the preface...
We descend the hill with Donal then, the strains of his latest poem perhaps still ringing in our ears; the remembrance of his former sufferings still fresh; and we see his willingness to “let patience have her perfect work” as he hands those sufferings over to the God he trusts in. Within a few chapters, we meet the jewel of the novel Andrew Comin, who is to Donal what Janet Grant was to Sir Gibbie–the wisdom of eld, MacDonald would remind us, is no more to be despised than the various qualities hidden in his youthful heroes–and soon the two become fast friends. This drawing together of “crabbed age and youth” is a constant theme in MacDonald’s works, the truest in each (and there is very little that is NOT true in either Donal or Andrew) recognising at once a kindred spirit in the other. Their conversations are as comfortable as an old pair of slippers, as jovial as a school holiday (witness the recurrence of the sole/soul pun first aired in The Princess and the Goblin) and as vibrant as the life-giving source whence the truth of their colloquies flows.
Donal next finds employment at Castle Graham. Here he meets Arctura, and tutors Davy, his employer’s younger son. Here too, the real drama of the novel unfolds, for the enigmatical, reclusive Lord Morven under whose auspices our hero pursues his calling is prey to a legion of drug-induced devils; his ostensible heir is a self-worshipper and incipient cad; and occasional visitor Miss Carmichael a leech, sucking the life from Arctura, while professing to be her greatest friend. All of them Donal must face and overcome, whilst shielding Davy and Arctura from the worst consequences of their combined machinations. Of the castle itself...I will draw but the faintest of sketches by comparing it to Jane Eyre’s Rochester Hall. The secret it contains, and the gothic horrors there enacted invite the comparison, as does the fact that the new tutor is long excluded from the mystery. It is kept from being the scene of absolute nightmare (and herein are we reminded again of the seat of the Rochester family) by Donal’s own integrity; by the innocence of his pupil and the friendliness of a fellow domestic; and by his growing affection for one of the residents, who at first mistrusts him and holds herself aloof. If I add that there is a story- within-the-story inspired by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and that a young fisherman of Donal’s acquaintance is more than a little reminiscent of Dickens’ tragic Ham Peggotty, it is not that I think Donal Grant in any special sense unoriginal; but merely to show the richness of the tapestry with which MacDonald chose to work.