John Marcher believes that a great—and possibly violent—fate awaits him, and he refers to this fate as the “beast in the jungle.” Because Marcher accepts his mysterious fate and stoically awaits it, he doesn’t know whether or not he’s afraid of it—and later, his friend May Bartram helps Marcher see that even if he is afraid, he’s able to live with that fear, which is a kind of “courage.” But although Marcher doesn’t know what his fate is, his belief in it is familiar to him, and living with that belief is a passive and easy process. Eventually, Marcher learns that his fate was not something he ever prepared for: he’s doomed to never experience real passion or emotion. By demonstrating that Marcher’s stoic, preparative “courage” served no purpose, the novella suggests that real courage means facing the unknown, including unknown feelings.
At first, both May and Marcher believe that Marcher is brave for stoically awaiting his fate, even though he might be afraid. Marcher initially doesn’t know whether he’s afraid of his fate or not, although May often asks him if he is. Marcher can never answer her; after all, he doesn’t know what his fate is, which means he doesn’t know what he would be afraid of. If he can’t “name it,” he can’t identify his feelings about it. It’s possible that he’s afraid, but he awaits his fate without complaint. Later, May guesses that even if Marcher is afraid, he’s learned to live with “danger” for so long that he’s become “indifferent” to it. In other words, Marcher can easily ignore any fears about his fate because he’s learned to stifle them and is even used to them. Marcher wonders whether this makes him a “man of courage,” and May agrees that it might. Both Marcher and May believe that Marcher is courageous for waiting out his fate—even though he doesn’t know what that fate is, doesn’t know whether or not he should be afraid of it, and has only succeeded in stifling his feelings about it.
In his later years, Marcher admits that he’s afraid of not knowing his fate, since it might be “more monstrous” than he initially thought. While he has finally admitted his fear, he still thinks that this fear is something he can passively live with. In other words, imagining a “more monstrous” version of the fate he’s already prepared for doesn’t change how Marcher responds. Marcher is still anticipating and living with his fear, something he and May both consider courageous. However, because this fear is familiar to Marcher, Marcher can’t be truly courageous, since his response to fear has been to passively accept it. Crucially, “the beast” is still an abstract hypothetical, and Marcher isn’t actually facing anything. He has acclimated to his fate, but his courage hasn’t been tested—both because he’s comfortable with what he thinks his fate will be and because no actual beast has emerged.
Eventually, Marcher and May both prove themselves to be cowardly, as they’re unable to act on the things that truly frighten them. Most notably, May never tells Marcher that she loves him. It’s possible that May doesn’t want to interfere unnecessarily in Marcher’s fate, since she secretly deduces that Marcher is doomed to never experience true passion or love. However, she does hint at her own feelings a handful of times, which means that she wants Marcher to know that she loves him—she just isn’t willing to tell him directly, likely because she’s afraid. In this instance, courage wouldn’t mean stifling or acclimating to fear, but rather acting in spite of it. And in this way, May’s choice to stifle and hide her feelings is a kind of cowardice.
Similarly, Marcher never acts on any of his emotions or feelings because he’s preparing to face his one big fear (the “beast”). This means that he never questions his own feelings toward May, possibly out of fear that he’ll lose her—he worries that his fate could be violent, and because of this, he chooses not to bring a woman into his life. In the end, Marcher learns what May already knew: that his fate was actually to live a life without love. As such, he realizes that the only way to avoid that fate would have been to embark on a loving life with May. In the end, Marcher’s “courage” was cowardice, since he never conquered his real fears and instead spent his life preparing to face the familiar unknown (the “beast”) rather than the truly frightening unknown (love and emotion). Real courage—both for May and Marcher—would have meant diving into a relationship despite their fears. Instead, Marcher and May stifle those fears, and though Marcher believes that doing so is courageous, the novella suggests that it’s cowardice to avoid fear altogether.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Courage vs. Cowardice ThemeTracker
Courage vs. Cowardice Quotes in The Beast in the Jungle
“What I see, as I make it out, is that you’ve achieved something almost unprecedented in the way of getting used to danger. Living with it so long and so closely you’ve lost your sense of it; you know it’s there, but you’re indifferent, and you cease even, as of old, to have to whistle in the dark. Considering what the danger is,” May Bartram wound up, “I’m bound to say I don’t think your attitude could well be surpassed.”
John Marcher faintly smiled. “It’s heroic?”
“Certainly—call it that.”
It was what he would have liked indeed to call it. “I am then a man of courage?”
“That’s what you were to show me.”
He still, however, wondered. “But doesn’t the man of courage know what he’s afraid of—or not afraid of? I don’t know that, you see. I don’t focus it. I can’t name it. I only know I’m exposed.”
“Yes, but exposed—how shall I say?—so directly. So intimately. That’s surely enough.”
“You admitted it months ago, when I spoke of it to you as of something you were afraid I should find out. Your answer was that I couldn’t, that I wouldn’t, and I don’t pretend I have. But you had something therefore in mind, and I see now how it must have been, how it still is, the possibility that, of all possibilities, has settled itself for you as the worst. This,” he went on, “is why I appeal to you. I’m only afraid of ignorance to-day—I’m not afraid of knowledge.”
“It has touched you,” she went on. “It has done its office. It has made you all its own.”
“So utterly without my knowing it?”
“So utterly without your knowing it.” His hand, as he leaned to her, was on the arm of her chair, and, dimly smiling always now, she placed her own on it. “It’s enough if I know it.”
“Oh!” he confusedly breathed, as she herself of late so often had done.
“What I long ago said is true. You’ll never know now, and I think you ought to be content. You’ve had it,” said May Bartram.
“But had what?”
“Why what was to have marked you out. The proof of your law. It has acted. I’m too glad,” she then bravely added, “to have been able to see what it’s not.”
