Dickens’ The Cricket on the Hearth, 1845

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(scene from a staging of the theatrical version, per small caption)

The Cricket on the Hearth*

Here we are at the second-worst of Dickens’ Christmas books. It falls into that category of Dickens I’d read for elements I like rather than because I love the book as a whole. Chesterton writes that, properly considered, Dickens shouldn’t be thought of in terms of discrete novels, but rather in terms of slices of the overall personality of the writer. This point of view is a bit too author-driven for modern taste (though it is, after all, equally historically contingent and artificial to insist on the coherence of discrete works as analytic objects—and we do, no one is so Derridean as to actually overcome this tendency in practice for longer than the duration of a particularly pious article), but if this lens has its limitations it also has its appeal. Even bad Dickens has a lot to offer: I think of it like Classic Doctor Who, where I almost always find something to delight or interest me in a given episode (even one I quite dislike—bloody “and the Silurians”).

In The Cricket on the Hearth, a young woman nicknamed Dot (actually christened Mary) has wed an older carrier named John and produced a young child with him. Their household also includes a servant (a foundling girl) and Boxer (a dog). The family is friends with an older toy-maker, Caleb, and his blind daughter, Bertha. (Intergenerational friendship is so much more normal in this era than our own—it’s not just Dickens, it’s everywhere.) Caleb’s son was lost long ago whilst off making his fortune, but this son was once engaged to a girl named May Fielding, a friend and contemporary of Dot’s. May Fielding is now engaged once more, this time for purely practical reasons, to Tackleton the toymaker. May’s mother has egged on the match.

Tackleton is also Caleb’s tyrannical boss and landlord. To make her life easier, Caleb’s told Bertha that they live in a lovely house and that Tackleton is a wonderful man who’s forever smiling and winking while hateful crap topples out of his mouth. (Early troll-culture?) (No, not really.) Horribly, Bertha’s fallen a little in love with the person she thinks Tackleton is, and is saddened by his immanent marriage to May.

In the course of his rounds John picks up an old man who asks to stay with them for a few days due to some logistics snafu, and who’s willing to pay for the privilege. Some confusing business leads Tackleton to suspect that the old man is actually a young one in disguise, and to tip off John to Dot’s evident seduction by this mysterious stranger. After seeing some Othelloish ‘proof’ of their affair John contemplates terrible revenge, but after a hard night’s thinking (with supernatural (possibly? the book thinks it’s definitely magical, but more on why it doesn’t feel that supernatural in a moment) intervention in her favour) he decides to be kind to his young wife, and to bend over backwards to release her from their apparently ill-assorted union. Dot is pretty offended, but forgives him his mistake: it comes out that the old man was indeed a young one in disguise, but that he’s actually Caleb’s lost son, come back to confront May about her apparent desire to be with someone else and to marry her, if she’s still interested (and to her mother’s annoyance, she is). Dot is helping him in this endeavour. John and Dot make it up; Bertha is disabused of her illusions and forgives her father for having given rise to them, appreciating the huge efforts he’s gone to for her sake; and even Tackleton grudgingly forgives the bride he only wanted as a toy for choosing personal happiness instead of a life with him on such terms. Only May’s greedy mother is left piqued.

I know that’s a whirlwind summary, but one never knows how to deal with this! In academic criticism I’d assume you’d read this book already or were at any rate more here for critical/meta content than for a plot synopsis. In a book review I’d be positively discouraged from ‘spoiling’ the book (I do not personally believe in spoilage unless we’re discussing food, but I am aware other people are concerned about this (non-issue)). This is an awkward medium, so perhaps my awkward summary suits it.

Cricket is a simple story, designed to come out simultaneously with a theatrical production. Dickens was always getting plagiarised on the boards anyway, maybe he thought ‘why not gazump it?’ This type of simultaneous multi-media release is still rare even in our modern era of greater franchise-based organisation and marketing: it was something of a coup when Lloyd-Webber got out his Phantom sequel in every major market simultaneously, even if the musical itself was far from one. Dickens is deeply in conversation with Victorian pantomime and melodrama theatrical forms (he’s literally writing this for stage melodrama, with that dual-end in mind). As per last review, Simon Callow makes excellent points about the particular inherent interconnectedness of Dickens’ Christmas books and theatre. It’s also worth reminding ourselves that Dickens is, from a few antecedents, inventing the whole genre of ‘the Christmas story’ here. Cricket’s plot is perhaps best viewed as intentionally lean and silly, and thus potentially ideal for the several generic spaces it’s occupying. Dickens can certainly do dense: while I don’t love Cricket, some of the things I dislike about it are probably not errors, but choices.

(As a side note, “Vladimir Lenin left during a performance of the Cricket play in Russia, as he found it dull and the saccharine sentimentality got on his nerves. This incident might now be little remembered if George Orwell had not mentioned it in his essay on Dickens (from Wiki). One day, I will write an entire counter-essay on what a piece of malformed shit this Orwell essay on Dickens is. Orwell even manages, in this essay, not to get Lenin. ORWELL does. Stoppard whoops his ass in Travesties, it’s so embarrassing. I cannot think of Orwell’s Dickens essay without an eye twitch. Even now. And his review of Gaudy Night—I have to move on here before I black out and kill again.)

As with Our Mutual Friend and Battle of Life, here we have a familial relationship wherein one person conceals important information from another as an act of love, undertaking a great, burdensome feat of disguise and deceiving their loved one in order to help them. Lying to Bertha about the conditions in which they live exhausts and perpetually confuses Caleb, who lives in a clashing Orwellian (aha, yeah) double-think miasma. It also drains his already-limited finances; he buys her presents ‘from their kind benefactor’. Bertha’s blindness is a great opportunity for Caleb and a curse and a ‘blessing’ for Bertha, in that she can be thus insulated from the realities of her life.

Victorians, or at least Dickens, are far more comfortable with this kind of patronising treatment of truth and agency than we might be today. It seems unfair to entirely dismiss Caleb and John Harmon’s (OMF) acts as exercises of paternalistic control, when they demand real sacrifice from their perpetrators, and loss of agency and control. They also necessarily involve taking on labour and suffering, and are sometimes undertaken by the disempowered ‘child’ in the relationship. In Battle, the somewhat-infantilized younger sister deceives her elder sister/mother.  In addition to the great deception of OMF, i.e. John’s serving as the secretary for his own estate, Lizzie also deceives her father a little about her brother’s desertion, which she herself planned.

Caleb spends his days performing happiness for Bertha, telling her how wonderful things are in an attempt to enchant their domestic space, their enemies and their life. In doing so he even accidentally enchants his daughter into falling in love with the unworthy Tackleton. It’s a bit Life is Beautiful, really—perhaps we do still have some cultural space for this sort of lie, but only in the case of the very young, and in the direst possible circumstances. But consider Caleb as an actor/enchanter—and one within a play, as well. Charm is very associated with enchantment, manipulation, witchcraft, and a Freudian control over others’ psychologies. These elements also emerge strongly in Our Mutual Friend’s Bella/John fairy-tale romance arc.

Is there, perhaps, a core relationship between a willingness to hide unpleasant things from people as an act of love in Dickens’ work, charm, our current attitude towards charm and our current attitude towards agency? Is there something about our neo-liberal, almost Objectivist moment of strongly asserted independence, self-control and agency that is opposed to charm, opposed to the idea of our being swayed by external forces and actors? This frantic claim of self-determination occurs before the backdrop of the vast hierarchy of late capitalism, which makes a mockery of such assertions. Effectively resisting these hierarchies would require forms of solidarity we aren’t currently organised to employ. Does this insistence that we stand proud in our oysertish self-containment actually render us less able to understand and reckon with demagoguery, when it comes calling? Do (neo-liberal?) ‘independence’ formulations blind us to the play of hierarchies in our lives, and to the potential for collective resistance?

Questions of agency are especially fraught here because of Bertha’s blindness. There is something deeply uncomfortable and perhaps especially unethical about lying to Bertha, who depends on her father for information about the world she is unable to gather herself (to a perhaps unrealistic extent: you can smell and feel damp, etcetera, in a way the fairy-tale logic of Bertha’s deception cannot admit). Bertha is not a child, she is a young woman. This is not a temporary condition, but a permanent one. Her father’s lies have already caused her to feel heartbreak on Tackleton’s account: they have not shielded her from all harm, and have in some ways exposed her to additional pain.

Elsewhere Dickens has a tendency to ask people to contribute, in a hard situation, to the wellbeing of the family, and to measure their maturity by their willingness to try to do so. The siblings in Nicholas Nickleby chip in, and David Copperfield’s Dora is a bit of a failure for being unwilling and unable to do so. Bertha works hard at her father’s side, and yet doesn’t share the psychological and logistical burdens of their position. Her disability thus bars her from adulthood in a way that is disquieting. Her father is complicit in this process, and exacerbates it.

Yet one thing I hate is when people take a few examples from the canon and say Dickens ‘thinks’ (as though that’s quite the word we want, or something we care about—we all know his thinking is difficult to encapsulate, and that it isn’t entirely want matters to us as readers now) this or that about a topic important to contemporary discourse (a topic often constructed very differently, now, and in a wholly removed rhetorical context: imagine reading one person’s singled out memes and tweets in 100 years, without recourse to The Discourse). The fact is that Dickens has so many depictions of disability. He’s deeply interested in disabled people in the world (a topic that was perhaps more visible to Victorians than it is to us today), and gives them any range of personalities and experiences: vile Wegg; wonderful Jenny Wren; glorious Sloppy; ascendent, towering little Mowcher (who was apparently, quoth Cowell, going to be a villain until Dickens got a FURIOUS LETTER from a local dwarf chiropodist, along the lines of I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU WOULD INSULT ME THUS SIR!! Dickens was super embarrassed, though he’d no pre-existing idea of the woman’s existence, and re-wrote the whole ending so that Mowcher would be awesome and the real-life hairdresser proud to own the connection). These physically and mentally disabled characters are canny, productive, good-hearted, turned nasty by their situations and treatments, sulky, loyal, etc. They are, in short, people. **

I find it more productive to say that some Victorian story forms such as melodrama and some currents of popular thought exercise influence of various degrees in and through Dickens’ thinking and texts, as stories demand or as a project is more vulnerable to the pressure of them. Greater length and more of a sense of creative vision from Dickens himself can dispel these forces of cliche: they retreat or ‘come out of the cart’ in order to make more room for his developed characters and his own creative expressions. This is not to absolve Dickens from complicity in his poor representations and to reserve for his personality and agency only his contemporarily-laudable decisions and great works. It’s simply to say that without an understanding of Victorian contexts and how stock-tropes exert force on the creation of art, and without considering the breadth of his representations, it’s fairly useless to chat about ‘how Dickens thought about disability’.

Another thing that really bears some discussion is the erotic energy Caleb’s portrayal of a Tackleton generates. Bertha falls in love with her father’s words. Her affections are focused in part on:

1. something her father has created, so a sibling,

2. her father-as-artist,

3. on her father himself, the giver of gifts and ‘embodiment’ of her affection, and

4. on a refracted father-figure: Tackleton is, supposedly, their provider-benefactor, and of an age with Bertha’s sire.

When this deception collapses, Bertha credits her father with the benevolent spirit she romantically loved in Tackleton. She recommits her affections to her providing father. She has no mother to stand in the way of her serving as the lady of her father’s house, or to absorb or deflect her devotional, romantic energy. Her brother’s return does complicate this family circle, but his marriage draws him away from it, into a new family unit. I’m not saying anything as simplistic as ‘this is soft incest’. It decidedly isn’t. It is, however, a somewhat uneasy family romance that is a little difficult to reconcile neatly. 

I mean, were I a character in this story, especially Bertha or Caleb, I’d be fairly uncomfortable with this turn of events and what it might say about my affections and desires. Then again I am a psychoanalytic reader, and by definition a Dickens character cannot be. Freud himself was deeply influenced by Dickens, and his system of thinking about consciousness was influenced by the Victorian novel. I would not even hesitate to say that it was derived from it (and particularly from Dickens) in some measure, because Freud cops to exactly that on numerous occasions.

Caleb’s deception involves the use of performativity to express the authenticity of his love for Bertha. Performativity and authenticity are two important terms when we’re thinking about charm, but this also aligns with Dickens’ thinking about the theatre as enabling and accessing essential truth or hyper-reality by means of show in Nicholas Nickleby. (A theme Callow picks up on and deals well with: his biography really has much to offer. It is not perfect, but like the similarly-situated Chesterton work, it is insightful, loving and informed.) Charm arising from artifice and display is sometimes considered pernicious, a particularly feminised evil (painted whores, lying bitches). Dickens himself is somewhat down on artifice in the orchard dancing sequence of Battle of Life. But I think in general his attitude about artifice and charm is relatively nuanced, evincing positivity towards premeditation and the theatrical and also a vexed, complicated attitude towards coquetry. I’m thinking of Dora in DC, and perhaps Mrs. Nickleby, as well as the avatar for his own ex-fiancé in Little Dorrit.

Dickens is shockingly cruel to Mrs. Nickleby for still imagining herself desirable. But then he’s young when he writes cruelly of her, and latently furious with his mother, who Mrs. Nickleby is said to resemble. And like Austen, he doesn’t so much learn to play nice or blunt his edge as learn his kindness with time (this process becomes obvious when you consider Austen’s satiric juvenilia). It’s striking how kind Little Dorrit ultimately is to the character who serves to provide a parody of aged girlish affectations of unaffectedness. Dickens comes back to re-write Mrs. Nickleby and his former fiancé alike here, and to do better justice to them as a more mature man. He really gets the theatricality of performed gender, and doesn’t condemn it. I’m fairly confident in saying that Dickens is pretty mature about performance, especially feminised modes thereof, and sees no strong divide between it and The Real. (As a side-note, it’d be the worst hypocrisy for Dickens to come down against premeditation, theatricality and coquetry. Deprived of these, he would have neither career nor character-traits.)

This is of a piece with his general understanding of the performativity of marginal life: the charm-effort needed to survive for those who lack power, agency and resources. Uriah Heep probably expresses Dickens’ most brutal deconstruction of these social demands, and how we repudiate such shows with visceral dislike even while demanding their execution. Besides, not everyone ‘gets’ what Heep is doing and is made uncomfortable by his hypocritical fawning, as David is. This tactic serves Uriah well. We have the proof of this in his various ascensions. It’s almost impossible to divide Heep’s motives from his show cleanly, though these at times twist in opposite directions. Heep is one of Dickens’ most theatrical and pre-meditating characters (all his life is a play), and yet Dickens is fascinated by this manipulative creep: he always loves his grotesques more than his pantomime-pretty protagonists.

Concerns about performativity and authenticity also wind through John and Dot’s conflict. John wonders whether his wife’s affection and duty have just been shows to dupe him, or even efforts to convince herself that she’s happy when she isn’t. Performativity becomes reputation and chastity: Dot is seen doing something that is perhaps suspicious-looking, aiding in a disguise, and thus her own authenticity comes into question. Chastity and reputation are of course always domestic and public performances, even where underlying feelings of love and loyalty are their origin. I’m thinking a little of Paul Dombey Sr.’s ill-assorted second marriage. While his (decidedly unloving) wife Edith is still faithful to him (indeed she is never actually adulterous), it is insufficient for Dombey that she simply be so. She must come and dance at his party before his associates, like Esther’s predecessor, despite the fact that Edith prides herself on having never hitherto implied more feeling towards him than was actually in her.

Like David Copperfield, Cricket features May-December romantic relationships and apparent tension concerning them. We are supposed to believe Dot may be faithless or unhappy because her husband is older, even as we and the other characters are supposed to believe Annie Strong might be (though it seems to me as though Dot’s conduct is intended to be more suspect than Annie’s). Dot might have made a foolish marital choice, even as Betsey Trotwood implies Clara Copperfield might have done (though Betsey’s blame largely accrues to David Senior, there). Tackleton seems to have an easy time reducing his prospective marriage to May to a Dombeyish transactional affair because of her youth and beauty, while Bertha is able to cathect Tackleton a little like a father-lover. Indeed Tackleton finds the prospect of a young woman feeling real affection for him a proof of her insanity. Bertha’s tactfully-demonstrated affection is contemptible to him.

Possibly, across the Dickens canon (and maybe in Victorian thinking more generally?), May-December marriages are acceptable and even productive if they’re somewhat paternalistic (and it’s always father-daughter). But if they don’t fall into that model, they may be objectifying and exploitable. There’s not really a model for older wife-younger man. It’s not impossible that there would be—remember the Hot Widows of Regency theatre? There’s also not really a model for age-stratified relationships that are radically egalitarian (possibly the Dedlocks?). Bleak House threatens a paternalistic Jarndyce/Esther union, rendered especially familial because he’s her guardian and employer and has known her since childhood. It then curves around to favour a match between Esther and her age-mate, Allan Woodcourt. May-December marriages in general, though, seem to bear special risks of exploitation and infidelity.

Michael Slater made an excellent point in his lecture on Dickens and Christmas that all the Christmas books are, in some way or another, about memory. In Cricket, it’s Dot’s qualities and her past good behaviour, as well as the memories the couple share, that enable John to snap out of his Othello-ish rage and to be more than decent to May when he believes she’s cheated on him (or wants to), forgiving her fully the very next day and acting to promote her happiness at the expense of his own. John travels from a murderous rage, a dangerous excess of chauvinism, to a state of superlative goodness and self-transcendence. There is a feminising process in play: a magical quintessence of the forces of domestic preservation, in the form of the preserved cricket, gentles and elevates him. Even Tackleton is eventually impressed by John’s forbearance, and is himself gentled and elevated by it. The fantastic agent, the cricket, simply enables a supernatural expansion of natural processes of memory, thought and reflection, and serves as a fairy-repository of the common and ritual actions Dot has done and the couple have undertaken together in order to make their homelife successful.

This is a somewhat unusual treatment of a common theme: cheating wife, vengeful and jealous husband. Again, Dickens could be directly rethinking his adored Shakespeare. (Molly Katz points out that she’s not entirely sure this is a ‘counterblaste’ to Othello so much as, possibly, a development of the themes of Emilia’s speech. I think that could be right!) But Dickens’ emphasis on the Christmas book as a vehicle for explorations of forgiveness makes something strange and appealing out of the material. The husband is in a Deep Jealous Rage, but when he sits down, rather than concocting a revenge plot, he’s visited and affected by an externalised karmic essence of the goodness of the household and the love and work he and his wife have put in to it. He is forced to consider all these memories of her having been a good person and good to him, and by morning he’s transformed, through a night of thinking, from murderous to absolutely clement, understanding and releasing Dot.

This is the sort of incredibly bold transformation few writers besides Dickens really have the balls to just tell you can happen. We’re all afraid of it being unbelievable, but Dickens is just as head-down set in this in Christmas Carol. Cricket is not a good book, but there’s a power and feminism here. I could hedge on that term, but I choose not to. Cricket confronts the then-terrifying possibility of the angel in the house being a betrayer and insists that infidelity would not make her one. It says that whatever unfaithful women do, they do not deserve violence or even less physical forms of cruelty at the hands of the men who exercise power over their lives. John says a lot of quite keen stuff about having thought now about how Dot was young when she married. He suggests that she perhaps felt pressured, or simply found the union not to her liking after the fact. This method of forcing this character and the male reader to consider womens’ positions is really remarkable: how many ‘Why DID that woman do that thing you find reprehensible? Really enter her perspective, her gendered situation.’ takes do we have coming out now? I have trouble thinking of a contemporary popular, mass-culture narrative as invested in deconstructing toxic masculinity as Cricket is.

Thus it’s a little weird for Wikipedia to flatly say that in Cricket Dickens “abandoned social criticism, current events, and topical themes in favour of simple fantasy and a domestic setting for his hero’s redemption.” This formulation only works if your conception of the political issues does not include gendered violence: still a huge killer of women in England and elsewhere today. You’d have to shunt gender right out of your whole idea of the political, like Orwell does. (Ooooooh.)

Dickens is using the structure of melodrama to empathise in convincing ways with Dot’s position, and her having been ‘innocent’ all along does not unmake the central climax and the importance of the key work of forgiveness. Again we see emotional labour recognised as work, and as valuable. It’s interesting to see forgiveness staged, and the act of forgiving presented as itself redemptive. Dot’s resentment and hurt at having been thought unfaithful is also valuable, as is the maturity with which she herself forgives the suspicion and rises above it. (Dickens himself was never so sanguine, where he felt himself in the right: one of the stickiest points of his character was his defensiveness where he felt guilty, but also felt he hadn’t actually done wrong. Perhaps Dot’s comparative sang froid is due to her more total innocence.)

Dot’s true feeling eventually reveals itself via display, and this is what ultimately convinces John she is honest. But is such display also what made him feel her honesty could be in doubt? Perhaps it’s even possible to question Dot’s ‘womanhood’ (because to be a woman is, in some ways, to be a wife, a mother, a ‘good’ woman—I say this not in agreement with that position, but as an analysis of the cultural nexus that constitutes gender) and her marriage because, from the start, the occupation of such categories relies on performance. As Butler would tell us, womanhood is always performatively enacted.

Look at the mannered, intentional, ludic wifely displays Dot engages in:

Then, Dot—quite well again, she said, quite well again—arranged the great chair in the chimney-corner for her husband; filled his pipe and gave it him; and took her usual little stool beside him on the hearth.

She always would sit on that little stool.  I think she must have had a kind of notion that it was a coaxing, wheedling little stool.

She was, out and out, the very best filler of a pipe, I should say, in the four quarters of the globe.  To see her put that chubby little finger in the bowl, and then blow down the pipe to clear the tube, and, when she had done so, affect to think that there was really something in the tube, and blow a dozen times, and hold it to her eye like a telescope, with a most provoking twist in her capital little face, as she looked down it, was quite a brilliant thing.  As to the tobacco, she was perfect mistress of the subject; and her lighting of the pipe, with a wisp of paper, when the Carrier had it in his mouth—going so very near his nose, and yet not scorching it—was Art, high Art.

Art is specifically flagged up! We also have Dot’s ritualistic fussing over the baby (which must itself be dressed and displayed), Dot’s concern over her appearance (specifically her well-formed and well-attired legs), and this passage:

The packages and parcels for the errand cart, were numerous; and there were many stoppages to take them in and give them out, which were not by any means the worst parts of the journey.  Some people were so full of expectation about their parcels, and other people were so full of wonder about their parcels, and other people were so full of inexhaustible directions about their parcels, and John had such a lively interest in all the parcels, that it was as good as a play.  Likewise, there were articles to carry, which required to be considered and discussed, and in reference to the adjustment and disposition of which, councils had to be holden by the Carrier and the senders: at which Boxer usually assisted, in short fits of the closest attention, and long fits of tearing round and round the assembled sages and barking himself hoarse.  Of all these little incidents, Dot was the amused and open-eyed spectatress from her chair in the cart; and as she sat there, looking on—a charming little portrait framed to admiration by the tilt—there was no lack of nudgings and glancings and whisperings and envyings among the younger men.  And this delighted John the Carrier, beyond measure; for he was proud to have his little wife admired, knowing that she didn’t mind it—that, if anything, she rather liked it perhaps.

Like Agnes in DC, Dot is like a portrait of herself. Dot spectates, and herself invites spectation. She likes to be admired, and her husband, rather than being jealous, likes that she likes it, or even likes her being admired for his own part. In this figuration perhaps it is Dot’s beauty that charms, or her extensive preparations. But equally, it is her position overlooking others at work, the display she makes now and the thwarted desire of men.

Tackleton also speaks of the appearance of their happiness as a show, making John subconsciously doubt the validity of their feelings:

‘Tchah!  It’s of no use to be anything but free with you, I see,’ said Tackleton.  ‘Why, then, the truth is you have a—what tea-drinking people call a sort of a comfortable appearance together, you and your wife.  We know better, you know, but—’

‘No, we don’t know better,’ interposed John.  ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well!  We don’t know better, then,’ said Tackleton.  ‘We’ll agree that we don’t.  As you like; what does it matter?  I was going to say, as you have that sort of appearance, your company will produce a favourable effect on Mrs. Tackleton that will be.  And, though I don’t think your good lady’s very friendly to me, in this matter, still she can’t help herself from falling into my views, for there’s a compactness and cosiness of appearance about her that always tells, even in an indifferent case.  You’ll say you’ll come?’

Other people—though not Tackleton himself, by his own account—are ‘taken in’ and think this couple, mis-matched in years, as happy as they seem. ‘Tea-drinking’ people. It’s not necessary that Dot actually agree with Tackleton about the advisability of Tackleton’s own May-December match: the fact that she looks attractive and well-kempt, and thus appears happy, will support his argument.

In the next passage Tackleton suggests that Dot and John should kill the noisy, irritating cricket on their hearth:

‘Bah! what’s home?’ cried Tackleton.  ‘Four walls and a ceiling! (why don’t you kill that Cricket?  I would!  I always do.  I hate their noise.)  There are four walls and a ceiling at my house.  Come to me!’

‘You kill your Crickets, eh?’ said John.

‘Scrunch ’em, sir,’ returned the other, setting his heel heavily on the floor.

Curiously and typically, Dickens delights both in the family that cherishes and preserves and never would smash a cricket, but just as much, if not more, in his grotesques. He relishes cricket-smashing Tackleton, describing his flawed character with great interest and vigour and giving us (in addition to Tackleton’s delightful name) a great deal of information on his backstory and person:

Tackleton the Toy-merchant, pretty generally known as Gruff and Tackleton—for that was the firm, though Gruff had been bought out long ago; only leaving his name, and as some said his nature, according to its Dictionary meaning, in the business—Tackleton the Toy-merchant, was a man whose vocation had been quite misunderstood by his Parents and Guardians.  If they had made him a Money Lender, or a sharp Attorney, or a Sheriff’s Officer, or a Broker, he might have sown his discontented oats in his youth, and, after having had the full run of himself in ill-natured transactions, might have turned out amiable, at last, for the sake of a little freshness and novelty.  But, cramped and chafing in the peaceable pursuit of toy-making, he was a domestic Ogre, who had been living on children all his life, and was their implacable enemy.  He despised all toys; wouldn’t have bought one for the world; delighted, in his malice, to insinuate grim expressions into the faces of brown-paper farmers who drove pigs to market, bellmen who advertised lost lawyers’ consciences, movable old ladies who darned stockings or carved pies; and other like samples of his stock in trade.  In appalling masks; hideous, hairy, red-eyed Jacks in Boxes; Vampire Kites; demoniacal Tumblers who wouldn’t lie down, and were perpetually flying forward, to stare infants out of countenance; his soul perfectly revelled.  They were his only relief, and safety-valve.  He was great in such inventions.  Anything suggestive of a Pony-nightmare was delicious to him.  He had even lost money (and he took to that toy very kindly) by getting up Goblin slides for magic-lanterns, whereon the Powers of Darkness were depicted as a sort of supernatural shell-fish, with human faces.  In intensifying the portraiture of Giants, he had sunk quite a little capital; and, though no painter himself, he could indicate, for the instruction of his artists, with a piece of chalk, a certain furtive leer for the countenances of those monsters, which was safe to destroy the peace of mind of any young gentleman between the ages of six and eleven, for the whole Christmas or Midsummer Vacation.

What he was in toys, he was (as most men are) in other things.  You may easily suppose, therefore, that within the great green cape, which reached down to the calves of his legs, there was buttoned up to the chin an uncommonly pleasant fellow; and that he was about as choice a spirit, and as agreeable a companion, as ever stood in a pair of bull-headed-looking boots with mahogany-coloured tops.

Still, Tackleton, the toy-merchant, was going to be married.  In spite of all this, he was going to be married.  And to a young wife too, a beautiful young wife.

He didn’t look much like a bridegroom, as he stood in the Carrier’s kitchen, with a twist in his dry face, and a screw in his body, and his hat jerked over the bridge of his nose, and his hands tucked down into the bottoms of his pockets, and his whole sarcastic ill-conditioned self peering out of one little corner of one little eye, like the concentrated essence of any number of ravens.  But, a Bridegroom he designed to be.

In fact Dickens so loves this crabbed old sinner that he cannot resist giving him a redemption arc, unearned but fun anyway:

There was a tap at the door; and a man came staggering in, without saying with your leave, or by your leave, with something heavy on his head.  Setting this down in the middle of the table, symmetrically in the centre of the nuts and apples, he said:

‘Mr. Tackleton’s compliments, and as he hasn’t got no use for the cake himself, p’raps you’ll eat it.’

And with those words, he walked off.

There was some surprise among the company, as you may imagine.  Mrs. Fielding, being a lady of infinite discernment, suggested that the cake was poisoned, and related a narrative of a cake, which, within her knowledge, had turned a seminary for young ladies, blue.  But she was overruled by acclamation; and the cake was cut by May, with much ceremony and rejoicing.

I don’t think any one had tasted it, when there came another tap at the door, and the same man appeared again, having under his arm a vast brown-paper parcel.

‘Mr. Tackleton’s compliments, and he’s sent a few toys for the Babby.  They ain’t ugly.’

After the delivery of which expressions, he retired again.

The whole party would have experienced great difficulty in finding words for their astonishment, even if they had had ample time to seek them.  But they had none at all; for the messenger had scarcely shut the door behind him, when there came another tap, and Tackleton himself walked in.

‘Mrs. Peerybingle!’ said the Toy-merchant, hat in hand.  ‘I’m sorry.  I’m more sorry than I was this morning.  I have had time to think of it.  John Peerybingle!  I’m sour by disposition; but I can’t help being sweetened, more or less, by coming face to face with such a man as you.  Caleb!  This unconscious little nurse gave me a broken hint last night, of which I have found the thread.  I blush to think how easily I might have bound you and your daughter to me, and what a miserable idiot I was, when I took her for one!  Friends, one and all, my house is very lonely to-night.  I have not so much as a Cricket on my Hearth.  I have scared them all away.  Be gracious to me; let me join this happy party!’

He was at home in five minutes.  You never saw such a fellow.  What had he been doing with himself all his life, never to have known, before, his great capacity of being jovial!  Or what had the Fairies been doing with him, to have effected such a change! […] Well! if you’ll believe me, they have not been dancing five minutes, when suddenly the Carrier flings his pipe away, takes Dot round the waist, dashes out into the room, and starts off with her, toe and heel, quite wonderfully.  Tackleton no sooner sees this, than he skims across to Mrs. Fielding, takes her round the waist, and follows suit.

Chesterton says that Christmas Carol’s Scrooge goes about villainy in such a jolly, full-tilt fashion that he was probably always sneaking toys to children when the narrative’s back was turned. Tackleton is something of a delightful demon even as Scrooge is, and his unnecessary, superlative redemption arc is reminiscent of Scrooge’s. Dickens just can’t stand to end the story with anyone he likes left out of the tableaux, out in the cold, barred from the final feast.

A few final notes:

Some of the description of Tackleton’s terrifying toys is very reminiscent of “Christmas Tree”’s. I have here the note “god, nursemaid, toys, journey”, but no more idea than that what the hell I might have meant when I wrote it. Something pertaining to this!

May’s grasping mother slides somewhere into the spectrum of ‘Dickens’ mothers’. Someone must have done a very good paper or even infographic about them all, yes? I love her surly resentment when the plan doesn’t come off, and how she has to be coaxed out of it.

The restoration of Bertha’s brother is some great melodrama shit, and his fairy-taleish return as an old man, disguised thus to test his love’s fidelity (Could he have so disguised himself? Eh, who cares—), does that peculiarly Dickens trick of building and establishing the charm of his own work out of the elements of, or within the skeleton of, pre-existing forms of charm.

***

SUMMING UP:

SUPERNATURAL ELEMENTS IN CRICKET:

Again, the key theme for all the Christmas’ books use of the supernatural is memory, and the key frames are theatrical/pantomime/melodrama and fairy tale (possibly with a side of himself-supernaturally-interested Shakespeare). Cricket is perhaps the most ‘for the stage’ of any of the Christmas books, with the closest relationship to pantomime structures, but its particular iteration of ‘supernatural memory’ is perhaps also the most mundane. John is literally just remembering things: the force causing him to do so and organising his perceptions is said to be a sort of Shintoish house spirit, but it could just as easily be his own conscience or reason. It’s an interesting depiction of forces outside one’s own person and resources directing and curbing one’s behaviour, or of an intervention in personal life by some greater power: perhaps Christian Victorian readers took that element somewhat more seriously than I do? Memory itself could be said to be magical, here: it transports you to other times, it alters your mood, it exercises a great and unstoppable power over you.

HOW CRICKET CONSTRUCTS CHARM:

We’ve already talked about Cricket as fairy tale and theatrical performance, specifically as melodrama, pantomime and as Shakespeare reworking. We’ve also looked at artifice and authenticity and gendered charm (including something like amae behaviour) in terms of Dot, and about Caleb as a deceiving enchanter/performer. Both Dot and Caleb’s charming perhaps throw light on Dickens’ own charm labour. Charm is an audience effect, both performed and seen in story (characters charm and are charmed) and at a meta level: the reader is charmed, sometimes by the charming and charmed qualities or states of characters within the text.

If Dickens, a consummate and enthusiastic semi-professional director, can be seen as writing theatre in his prose, it’s possible that he wants characters to function as a the ultimate actors. Characters are actors Dickens can utterly control, and whose whole lives are ‘authentically’ available for the audience and useful as performance. They have no private, ‘off-stage’ existences to disrupt this. They look and emote exactly as he wants them to; they never tire of rehearsal or flub their lines. Dickens also wants living subjects to act for him on the stage and to take part in his real-life proto-psychoanalytic efforts, but here he’s making his own (which he becomes increasingly good at: Dickens gets better at character as he goes on). The actors he makes are by turns psychologically realistic and bigger than life, as he needs them to be.

Dickens is also making bank out of the Christmas stories, inventing and promoting a highly marketable nascent genre. He’s charming his contemporary reader for money, and for love: he needs that sustaining audience relationship, both for his bread and for his sense of self (more on this in re: Christmas Carol and touring). Your love is his posterity, too. It’s charm’s capacity to get the charmer what they need and want, at others’ expense (someone must Be Charmed) that really disquiets people: that, and the realisation that emotional labour is being monetised. That it is always-already labour, in ways that exist outside of and exceed capitalist definitions of the term. “They say it is love. We say it is unwaged work.” Silvia Federici can tell us so much about why acknowledging the connections between feeling and work is deeply uncomfortable and difficult to do. She would suggest it’s because capital is interested in mystifying these connections and obscuring the fact that  it’s predicated on the large-scale uncompensated appropriation of female labour (including feminised emotional labour). (Fanon would say something similar (though by no means contradictory—quite the reverse!) about capital’s reliance on the uncompensated appropriation of the labour of ‘raced’ peoples.)

There are only three specific uses of the word charm or any form thereof in the text. One is in the passage quoted at length above:

Of all these little incidents, Dot was the amused and open-eyed spectatress from her chair in the cart; and as she sat there, looking on—a charming little portrait framed to admiration by the tilt—there was no lack of nudgings and glancings and whisperings and envyings among the younger men.  And this delighted John the Carrier, beyond measure; for he was proud to have his little wife admired, knowing that she didn’t mind it—that, if anything, she rather liked it perhaps.

This element of a female audience herself being watched makes me think strongly of Molly Katz’s work on female audiences on stage and off in Shakespearean and Jacobite drama (specifically Malfi, which works with the same themes—female spectatorship, jealousy, mismatched marriage—to very different ends).

Another, here:

She sat plying her needle, before the fire, and singing to herself.  Such a blithe, thriving, steady little Dot!  The fairy figures turned upon him all at once, by one consent, with one prodigious concentrated stare, and seemed to say, ‘Is this the light wife you are mourning for!’

There were sounds of gaiety outside, musical instruments, and noisy tongues, and laughter.  A crowd of young merry-makers came pouring in, among whom were May Fielding and a score of pretty girls.  Dot was the fairest of them all; as young as any of them too.  They came to summon her to join their party.  It was a dance.  If ever little foot were made for dancing, hers was, surely.  But she laughed, and shook her head, and pointed to her cookery on the fire, and her table ready spread: with an exulting defiance that rendered her more charming than she was before.  And so she merrily dismissed them, nodding to her would-be partners, one by one, as they passed, but with a comical indifference, enough to make them go and drown themselves immediately if they were her admirers—and they must have been so, more or less; they couldn’t help it.  And yet indifference was not her character.  O no!  For presently, there came a certain Carrier to the door; and bless her what a welcome she bestowed upon him!

Again the staring figures turned upon him all at once, and seemed to say, ‘Is this the wife who has forsaken you!’

It’s Dot’s beauty, but also her domestic skill and her self-contained defiance that render her charming, here: her show of indifference, but also her keen feeling.

And the last:

‘Father,’ said Bertha, hesitating.  ‘Mary.’ [i.e. Dot]

‘Yes, my dear,’ returned Caleb.  ‘Here she is.’

‘There is no change in her.  You never told me anything of her that was not true?’

‘I should have done it, my dear, I am afraid,’ returned Caleb, ‘if I could have made her better than she was.  But I must have changed her for the worse, if I had changed her at all.  Nothing could improve her, Bertha.’

Confident as the Blind Girl had been when she asked the question, her delight and pride in the reply and her renewed embrace of Dot, were charming to behold.

Here Bertha’s delight and pride in her friend, and their embrace, are charming to behold. For who? Perhaps her father, who’s relieved to be forgiven—are we the audience supposed to experience this relief with him, or in sympathy for him, and to be charmed as a part of that process? Or are we supposed to be charmed simply by their affection? Or is Caleb supposed to be the one charmed to see their affection? Feeling between women, and spontaneous expressions thereof not aimed at producing success in courtship, are constructed as charming here, as they were in Battle.

***

* Some sections of this essay feel repetitive and clumsy to me, and for that I’m sorry. I suspect I need a beta to make the whole thing better, but this is just a blog post, and I’ve no intention of putting my girlfriend to the trouble of 8,000 odd words of editing when she just did the 12k “Kirk Drift” for me Saturday, over a book she’s not read, and again—for my blog. You want this article-polished, you can email me with a publication offer, can’t you.

** Funnily enough, Molly Katz points out I unconsciously stole the thrust of this from the ‘actually-quite-imitable-as-it-turns-out’:

to Mary Hurnall:

Dear Madam.

I have been in Scotland for some weeks past, and find so many letters to answer on my return, that I am obliged to send a more brief reply to yours than I desire. Accept my sincere thanks, both for your note, and the Invitation it contains. I fear it is not likely it will ever be in my power to accept it in deed, but in spirit I do, and so do Mrs. Dickens and my children—you are right; I have four. Be assured that I am not unmindful of my promise, and that if you should come back to London at any time, I shall, please god, make a point of seeing you. Your remark—a very natural and proper one—on the blind man in Barnaby, is only another proof to me, among many others which present themselves in various forms every day, of the great disadvantages which attend a detached and desultory form of publication. My intention in the management of this inferior and subordinate character, was to remind the World who have eyes, that they have no right to expect in sightless men a degree of virtue and goodness to which they, in full possession of all their senses, can lay no claim—that it is a very easy thing for those who misuse every gift of Heaven to consider resignation and cheerfulness the duty of those whom it has deprived of some great blessing—that whereas we look upon a blind man who does wrong, as a kind of monster, we ought in truth and justice to remember that a man who has eyes and is a vicious wretch, is by his very abuse of the glorious faculty of sight, and immeasurably greater offender than his afflicted fellow. In a word, I wished to show that the hand of God is at least as manifest in making eyes as in unmaking them, and that we do not sufficiently consider the sorrows of those who walk in darkness on this earth, when we set it up as a rule that they ought to be better than ourselves, and that they are required to be by their calamity. Calamity with us, is made an excuse for doing wrong. With them, it is erected into a reason for for their doing right. This is really the justice of rich to poor, and I protest against it because it is so. All this you would have seen if you could have had the whole book before your mental vision. As it is, I can only hope to bring my meaning before you by very slow and gradual degrees, and after you have formed a first impression on the subject. That it is a real pleasure and delight to me to know that I afford you any consolation or amusement, you may believe with your whole heart. And believe also that I am,

Dear Madam with an unaffected interest in your happiness

Faithfully Yours

CHARLES DICKENS

Quoth Katz:

Also interesting that Uriah also brings up “cheerfulness” in a very similar phrasing: “from nine o’clock to eleven, that labour was a curse; and from eleven o’clock to one, that it was a blessing and a cheerfulness”.  And I also wonder about “very slowly and by gradual degrees” when we have the “slow fire” that Uriah puts David on. He means “I will slowly bring the reader into this consciousness”, but there’s an element of Uriah’s signature slow roast to it, to me.

That sort of hint of vindictive ‘forcing to see’ might look ahead to a rather more modern, social justice call-out formulation. Also, the extent to which Dickens isn’t just represented by David in Copperfield is often overlooked.

Dickens’ The Battle of Life (1846)

The Battle of Life (1846)

800px-Battle_cover.jpg

Per Wiki: “Battle is the only one of the five Christmas Books that has no supernatural or explicitly religious elements. (One scene takes place at Christmas time, but it is not the final scene.) The story bears some resemblance to The Cricket on the Hearth in two respects: it has a non-urban setting, and it is resolved with a romantic twist. It is even less of a social novel than is Cricket.”

Battle is probably my least favourite of the Christmas Books, and it’s easily the one I find it most difficult to talk about. It’s not execrable, it’s just more fairy-taleish and more Christmas-pantomime in its structure, tone and characterisation than the others. Its protagonists are only allowed that ‘principal boy and girl’ level of subjectivity. In a different Dickens work Michael Warden—a rich and slightly dissolute young man who tries to seduce and run away with a young woman, is refused by her after he believes she’s consented and made to genuinely feel the shame of his actions, is compelled by her to participate in a theatrical kind of penance, and who eventually ends up, ‘off stage’, marrying this Marion after all—would be a compelling and fleshed out character, and the eucatastrophe of his ending could be deeply interesting. Length is part of what makes this story melodrama—that, and a lack of interiority. How different from Our Mutual Friend’s false identity and faked death are this story’s more ridiculous developments, really? It’s surprisingly easy to imagine this plot as serious and moving—if Dickens had given it time. But despite starting out his career in the short story format, with few exceptions Dickens can’t entirely bring his talents to bear on anything shorter than a three-volume. I imagine someone at some point or other has thought Dickens would be better for being compressed and curtailed (Graves in The Real David Copperfield, for example), but it turns out that’s entirely wrong: Dickens’ best stuff is in his ‘overflow’ (though I have some other thoughts about whether that excess is mess: I actually think Dickens is fairly micro-level meticulous, and that this often gets overlooked because of the volume, exuberance and colour of his production and imagination).

I am, it seems, not the only person to have thought something like this:

The novel’s earliest critics found flaws that emphasised its weakness when compared with other of Dickens’s popular works. The Times‘ reviewers summarise the strongest and most bitter of these attacks by way of a description that suggests the book is `intrinsically puerile and stupid,’ `a twaddling manifestation of silliness,’ and `simply ridiculous’ (Ford, 53). Later criticism, although less caustic in tone, recognises that the book’s chief fault was its attempt to tell a tale concerning the complexities of passion and self-denial in three inadequately short chapters. Harry Stone speaks for the majority of readers by referring to The Battle of Life as `a savagely reduced work that sometimes reads like a scenario, sometimes like a breathless outline’ (Stone, 132).

Breathless, no doubt, because Dickens was , at the time of writing the book, engaged on another consuming project: `I am horribly hard at work with my Christmas Book,’ he wrote to Thomas Talfourd from Lausanne where he had sequestered himself in September 1846, `which runs (rather inconveniently) in a Curricle just now, with “Dealings with the Firm of Dombey and Son” (Letters, IV, 631). Additionally, Dickens was later to admit that his subject had warranted greater development than the scope of a Christmas book would allow. But in satisfying the demand for narrative closure he was haunted by not fulfilling his intention to write what he described to John Forster as `both a love story in the common acceptation of the phrase, and a story about love’ (Letters, IV, 631). The distinction is, as I intend to argue, both exact and essential.”

(The quoted article’s pretty good, by the by, and might warrant your attention. I would say that this:

“Beyond attention to the self-sacrifice is the acknowledgment that the book is commemorative of a real sister, or sister-in-law, Mary Scott Hogarth [Figure 1], who biographers stress held an almost magnetic attraction for Dickens both before and after her death. Biographical readings of the story have to date been preoccupied with the supposedly displaced affection for Mary that the book seems to foreground. Freudian approaches make obvious connections between a story about a man who loves two sisters that was written by a man who loved two sisters. During the narrative one of the two sisters, Marion, performs the obligatory act of self-sacrifice; However, my interest lies in another, less disinterested, aspect of her behaviour, an aspect I might add that the novel avoids fully investigating: her lapse in submitting wholly to the desire of others.”

is interesting because Dickens does marry the older, steady sister, and spends David Copperfield sort of re-negotiating that choice—Agnes performs some Catherine and some Mary functions in the text, which asserts itself grandly to shore up a fictional relationship that’s not very believable, which is itself a synecdoche for real life romantic triangulations that ultimately prove difficult to sustain. David Parker’s words herein about the irreducible nature of Dickens’ affection for Mary are about the first subtle, intelligent things I’ve read on the topic. You could also say something about anabasis in re: Marion’s journey in this, couldn’t you?)

That said, Battle’s plot is not serious or moving as it stands. Two sisters have grown up with a young man, Alfred, a ward of their father, about the place. Both of them love the young man, though the older, slightly plainer sister (Grace) keeps this an absolute secret and stands back while Alfred and Marion, her younger sister, conduct their love affair. Alfred goes off on a three-year tour of foreign schools of medicine, as his now-departed dad asked his guardians to arrange for him, and the very night he returns Marion seems to elope with the aforesaid Michael Warden. It later turns out Marion did absolutely adore her fiancé Alfred, but that she left because her self-sacrificing sister did too. In leaving Marion gave Grace and Alfred time to fall in love and be happily married for a while, and herself time to get over it. So Marion pretends to have ‘eloped’ while actually off living with her aunt. At some point she slips her dad the information that she’s fine, and later on she has Warden come weirdly imply she’s died (Why? It makes sense to generate narrative drama, but not really in-world.) before making her triumphant reappearance on the scene.

The whole end of this deception, and indeed the level of the deception and the theme of stupidly selfless sisterly love, are all turn-offs for me. I’m all for sorority, but the element of the ridiculous grates on my sensibilities. Just bloody write a note. I know it’d make Grace feel bad, but shit, be adults and talk. Interestingly this is just the kind of authorial treatment of people Simon Callow draws our attention to in his biography of Dickens, noting Dickens’ decision not to tell his wife Catherine their daughter had died, but to instead soften the blow by delivering the information in stages. Dickens believes in controlling the narrative, in not telling people things it’d hurt them to know just for the sake of some objective commitment to truthfulness or communication and mutualistic decision making. It’s an interesting argument, but it runs so against contemporary thinking about respecting the agency of your loved ones by giving them all the information, letting them make decisions and supporting them in these. (I am also, incidentally, indebted to Callow for his comments on Dickens’ pantomime-logic in re: the Christmas stories.)

The ball scene in which Alfred is riding ever closer and preparations for the homecoming have been undertaken and anticipation is swelling and the crowd is dancing and Marion is slipping away has an undeniable vigour. This strong set-piece pulls on the emotional energy of something like Cinderella’s half-shod escape from the palace or the revels of the twelve dancing princesses. Or perhaps it’s an adventure story? It feels slightly Baroness Orczy or something (of course whatever Dickens was drawing on would have to be earlier—and, I hope, better (‘cleverest woman in Europe’ my ass, the whole climax of Pimpernel is literally stumbling through brambles right behind a dude for miles, hoping he doesn’t bloody turn around)). The set up of the story’s conclusion mixes, however, an irksome, tedious and unnecessary series of reveals (not a Gallifrey audios level of REVEALS, but more than enough) with this fairy-tale logic: it’s not so happy a marriage as the ones we are told the four young people will henceforth enjoy.

What Battle is a little like, perhaps, is a femme!Two Gentlemen of Verona, which also doesn’t play well for a modern audience. You’re supposed to throw over your romantic object for the sake of your same-sex companionable bond, and then it’s all right in the end: love is transferable, replaceable, assignable, and the neat hand wave of ‘time passed’ is enough to channel all these torrents of feeling to productive and sociable ends. Time heals all wounds, leaving no scars in the form of resentments and longings, making you wonder if the feelings mattered in the first place. Without having inhabited the time-lapse and the psychologies involved, the sacrifices and the growing into new directions and the thoroughly-won forgivenesses and redemptions Dickens loves to write and give audiences in a Christmas book come off thin and cheap—which is especially damaging in a Christmas book, where what you want is a rich, full, sensual experience to compliment the season.

I do love this final paragraph:

TIME—from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five- and-thirty years’ duration—informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden means of hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honour of that countryside, whose name was Marion. But, as I have observed that Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give to his authority.”

(Incidentally, how dare Dickens be so young at this point, and have already produced so much? God I hate him. But even in a bad book he still gives me so much—I’m still so happy to be in his writing. He’s hard not to be fond of, once you spend proper time with him.)

The opening of the book is strikingly bleak and interested in long-term change and the continuity of the land. It almost puts me in mind of Alan Garner (ATTN: MAUREEN). I’ll give you the whole of it, you can skim it if you like.

Once upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colour from harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses’ hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at the sun.

Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising- ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at mothers’ breasts sought mothers’ eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene of that day’s work and that night’s death and suffering! Many a lonely moon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of the earth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were worn away.

They lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived in little things; for, Nature, far above the evil passions of men, soon recovered Her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty battle-ground as she had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang high above it; the swallows skimmed and dipped and flitted to and fro; the shadows of the flying clouds pursued each other swiftly, over grass and corn and turnip-field and wood, and over roof and church- spire in the nestling town among the trees, away into the bright distance on the borders of the sky and earth, where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown, and grew up, and were gathered in; the stream that had been crimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled at the plough; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work; sheep and oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields, to scare away the birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbath bells rang peacefully; old people lived and died; the timid creatures of the field, and simple flowers of the bush and garden, grew and withered in their destined terms: and all upon the fierce and bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight. But, there were deep green patches in the growing corn at first, that people looked at awfully. Year after year they re-appeared; and it was known that underneath those fertile spots, heaps of men and horses lay buried, indiscriminately, enriching the ground. The husbandmen who ploughed those places, shrunk from the great worms abounding there; and the sheaves they yielded, were, for many a long year, called the Battle Sheaves, and set apart; and no one ever knew a Battle Sheaf to be among the last load at a Harvest Home. For a long time, every furrow that was turned, revealed some fragments of the fight. For a long time, there were wounded trees upon the battle- ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall, where deadly struggles had been made; and trampled parts where not a leaf or blade would grow. For a long time, no village girl would dress her hair or bosom with the sweetest flower from that field of death: and after many a year had come and gone, the berries growing there, were still believed to leave too deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them.

The Seasons in their course, however, though they passed as lightly as the summer clouds themselves, obliterated, in the lapse of time, even these remains of the old conflict; and wore away such legendary traces of it as the neighbouring people carried in their minds, until they dwindled into old wives’ tales, dimly remembered round the winter fire, and waning every year. Where the wild flowers and berries had so long remained upon the stem untouched, gardens arose, and houses were built, and children played at battles on the turf. The wounded trees had long ago made Christmas logs, and blazed and roared away. The deep green patches were no greener now than the memory of those who lay in dust below. The ploughshare still turned up from time to time some rusty bits of metal, but it was hard to say what use they had ever served, and those who found them wondered and disputed. An old dinted corselet, and a helmet, had been hanging in the church so long, that the same weak half-blind old man who tried in vain to make them out above the whitewashed arch, had marvelled at them as a baby. If the host slain upon the field, could have been for a moment reanimated in the forms in which they fell, each upon the spot that was the bed of his untimely death, gashed and ghastly soldiers would have stared in, hundreds deep, at household door and window; and would have risen on the hearths of quiet homes; and would have been the garnered store of barns and granaries; and would have started up between the cradled infant and its nurse; and would have floated with the stream, and whirled round on the mill, and crowded the orchard, and burdened the meadow, and piled the rickyard high with dying men. So altered was the battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight.

Nowhere more altered, perhaps, about a hundred years ago, than in one little orchard attached to an old stone house with a honeysuckle porch; where, on a bright autumn morning, there were sounds of music and laughter, and where two girls danced merrily together on the grass, while some half-dozen peasant women standing on ladders, gathering the apples from the trees, stopped in their work to look down, and share their enjoyment. It was a pleasant, lively, natural scene; a beautiful day, a retired spot; and the two girls, quite unconstrained and careless, danced in the freedom and gaiety of their hearts.”

Now, that’s the type of scene Dickens almost never does, isn’t it? The martial conflict? There’s a Christmas story with one (ah, the hilariously-named Richard Doubledick), but that feels as though Dickens is mentally copy-pasting from all the other Tales of Courage and Military Brotherhood stuff he’s read. Fundamentally, Dickens can never wholeheartedly engage in the romance of empire because for all his fuzziness on some matters of history (Chesterton alleges as much, at least), he has a fundamental sense of deep time. Think of the dinosaur opening of Bleak House, which is like Ballard’s Drowned World except it deserves to exist. And here’s this, too. I suspect Dickens can’t emotionally connect to ‘the glory of battle’ because he’s too domestic. He takes the long-view. His mind is on what comes of battles: grief, a mess and eventual healing. It’s interesting that this story is set within such a powerful metaphor for healed internal wounds: it ought to be mimetic for the girls’ pain, first Grace’s and then Marion’s, but these characters are too insufficiently psychologically established to give much payout on that front. Further, this grown-over Flanders Field they live in seems so much BIGGER than Grace and Marion’s heartache. You could say that Dickens wants you to feel their problems as in conversation with the epic, ennobled and made valid because they are real human problems, but if so that kitchen sink naturalism sits awkwardly with his melodrama/fairy-tale storytelling mode.

The moral relativism and nihilism of the girls’ father is, from the beginning, undercut by his actually caring a good deal about Arthur and the girls. The story itself lovingly says as much. (I want to talk sometime about the sense of fondness for characters you can get from Dickens, and how this affects the reading experience.) This treatment is both a great call-out of a certain kind of Deep Thinker and an interesting meditation on what the contemplative life can do to people:

“Doctor Jeddler was, as I have said, a great philosopher, and the heart and mystery of his philosophy was, to look upon the world as a gigantic practical joke; as something too absurd to be considered seriously, by any rational man. His system of belief had been, in the beginning, part and parcel of the battle-ground on which he lived, as you shall presently understand.”

“The Doctor never dreamed of inquiring whether his children, or either of them, helped in any way to make the scheme [of life] a serious one. But then he was a Philosopher.”

“A kind and generous man by nature, he had stumbled, by chance, over that common Philosopher’s stone (much more easily discovered than the object of the alchemist’s researches), which sometimes trips up kind and generous men, and has the fatal property of turning gold to dross and every precious thing to poor account.”

Dr. Jeddler, in spite of his system of philosophy—which he was continually contradicting and denying in practice, but more famous philosophers have done that—could not help having as much interest in the return of his old ward and pupil as if it had been a serious event. So he sat himself down in his easy-chair again, stretched out his slippered feet once more upon the rug, read the letter over and over a great many times, and talked it over more times still.”

Knowing Dickens’ DEEP love for Shakespeare (which actually—may account for some of the melodrama/fake-death here in Battle, to be honest—perhaps we don’t talk enough perhaps about Shakespeare As Panto/Melodrama, about continuities between him and these later forms of popular theatre), maybe this is a sort of melancholy Jacques turn?

I see I’ve left a note to myself here to ‘rethink this in the morning’. Well, it’s some mornings later, and I suspect that what I meant to say is that while others may have handled the material between Shakespeare and Dickens (melancholy being a fairly popular subject) who the later had read and I have not, it feels possible to me that Dickens, who asserted that Hamlet would absolutely suck to know in life, might be playing with just that here. He could be contending with the slightly elitist contention that the unexamined life is not worth living (who has the luxury of examining their life, and what rhetorica; frameworks do we consider valid in drawing up such accounts?), and also thinking about what life lived according to ideology/the contemplative life is and does to people, in a way not many writers have. I’m sorry, this feels like a huge topic actually, and it seems I’m still having trouble coming to grips with it, so I’m going to back off from it a little.

We talk about Dickens not writing many intellectuals, by the by, but Doctor Jedder should be remembered in the lists, and also you could profitably talk about him in relation to depression (‘thinking of the old ‘un’ as well—though I’ve seen people talk about Mrs Gummidge as depressed). There’s something especially poignant at the present moment about being driven to depression by regarding the present and past with too conscientious and too intelligent an eye. This also makes me think that the ‘existential horror of the 20th century’ crowd should possibly… historically contextualise their claims to a unique modern subjectivity a little more thoroughly, because Jedder’s oppressive awareness of history feels a little like ‘intellectual reactions to the holocaust’.

I love the lawyers in this. There are almost bloody always a suite of lawyers in any given Dickens production. They roll up here named Snitchy and Craggs, “Self and Craggs”, and I’m like here we go again, those names sound evil af, I bet they are about some mischief. But no! surprisingly!

Instead, they do a bit of comedy Chatting Shit About The Amazingness of the Law:

“’With a purpose and intention in it, I was saying,’ resumed Snitchey, ‘that commands respect. Life a farce, Dr. Jeddler? With law in it?’

The Doctor laughed, and looked at Alfred.

‘Granted, if you please, that war is foolish,’ said Snitchey. ‘There we agree. For example. Here’s a smiling country,’ pointing it out with his fork, ‘once overrun by soldiers—trespassers every man of ’em—and laid waste by fire and sword. He, he, he! The idea of any man exposing himself, voluntarily, to fire and sword! Stupid, wasteful, positively ridiculous; you laugh at your fellow- creatures, you know, when you think of it! But take this smiling country as it stands. Think of the laws appertaining to real property; to the bequest and devise of real property; to the mortgage and redemption of real property; to leasehold, freehold, and copyhold estate; think,’ said Mr. Snitchey, with such great emotion that he actually smacked his lips, ‘of the complicated laws relating to title and proof of title, with all the contradictory precedents and numerous acts of parliament connected with them; think of the infinite number of ingenious and interminable chancery suits, to which this pleasant prospect may give rise; and acknowledge, Dr. Jeddler, that there is a green spot in the scheme about us! I believe,’ said Mr. Snitchey, looking at his partner, ‘that I speak for Self and Craggs?’

Mr. Craggs having signified assent, Mr. Snitchey, somewhat freshened by his recent eloquence, observed that he would take a little more beef and another cup of tea.

‘I don’t stand up for life in general,’ he added, rubbing his hands and chuckling, ‘it’s full of folly; full of something worse. Professions of trust, and confidence, and unselfishness, and all that! Bah, bah, bah! We see what they’re worth. But, you mustn’t laugh at life; you’ve got a game to play; a very serious game indeed! Everybody’s playing against you, you know, and you’re playing against them. Oh! it’s a very interesting thing. There are deep moves upon the board. You must only laugh, Dr. Jeddler, when you win—and then not much. He, he, he! And then not much,’ repeated Snitchey, rolling his head and winking his eye, as if he would have added, ‘you may do this instead!’”

But then when Warden shows up to tell them his plan for running off with Marion, they’re not into it. They’re good people and good characters and I love them.

Behold:

Snitchey and Craggs had each, in private life as in professional existence, a partner of his own. Snitchey and Crags were the best friends in the world, and had a real confidence in one another; but Mrs. Snitchey, by a dispensation not uncommon in the affairs of life, was on principle suspicious of Mr. Craggs; and Mrs. Craggs was on principle suspicious of Mr. Snitchey. ‘Your Snitcheys indeed,’ the latter lady would observe, sometimes, to Mr. Craggs; using that imaginative plural as if in disparagement of an objectionable pair of pantaloons, or other articles not possessed of a singular number; ‘I don’t see what you want with your Snitcheys, for my part. You trust a great deal too much to your Snitcheys, I think, and I hope you may never find my words come true.’ While Mrs. Snitchey would observe to Mr. Snitchey, of Craggs, ‘that if ever he was led away by man he was led away by that man, and that if ever she read a double purpose in a mortal eye, she read that purpose in Craggs’s eye.’ Notwithstanding this, however, they were all very good friends in general: and Mrs. Snitchey and Mrs. Craggs maintained a close bond of alliance against ‘the office,’ which they both considered the Blue chamber, and common enemy, full of dangerous (because unknown) machinations.

In this office, nevertheless, Snitchey and Craggs made honey for their several hives. Here, sometimes, they would linger, of a fine evening, at the window of their council-chamber overlooking the old battle-ground, and wonder (but that was generally at assize time, when much business had made them sentimental) at the folly of mankind, who couldn’t always be at peace with one another and go to law comfortably. Here, days, and weeks, and months, and years, passed over them: their calendar, the gradually diminishing number of brass nails in the leathern chairs, and the increasing bulk of papers on the tables. Here, nearly three years’ flight had thinned the one and swelled the other, since the breakfast in the orchard; when they sat together in consultation at night.”

Or:

“‘I think it will be better not to hear this, Mr. Craggs?’ said Snitchey, looking at him across the client.

‘I think not,’ said Craggs.—Both listened attentively.”

And:

‘You’ll live to see me making a good use of riches yet. Henceforth the star of my destiny is, Marion!’

‘Take care of the stairs, sir,’ replied Snitchey; ‘for she don’t shine there. Good night!’”

Then:

Mr. and Mrs. Craggs came arm in arm, but Mrs. Snitchey came alone.

‘Why, what’s become of HIM?’ inquired the Doctor [Jedder, their host].

The feather of a Bird of Paradise in Mrs. Snitchey’s turban, trembled as if the Bird of Paradise were alive again, when she said that doubtless Mr. Craggs knew. SHE was never told.

‘That nasty office,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

‘I wish it was burnt down,’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘He’s—he’s—there’s a little matter of business that keeps my partner rather late,’ said Mr. Craggs, looking uneasily about him.

‘Oh-h! Business. Don’t tell me!’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘WE know what business means,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

But their not knowing what it meant, was perhaps the reason why Mrs. Snitchey’s Bird of Paradise feather quivered so portentously, and why all the pendant bits on Mrs. Craggs’s ear-rings shook like little bells.

‘I wonder YOU could come away, Mr. Craggs,’ said his wife.

‘Mr. Craggs is fortunate, I’m sure!’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘That office so engrosses ’em,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

‘A person with an office has no business to be married at all,’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

Then, Mrs. Snitchey said, within herself, that that look of hers had pierced to Craggs’s soul, and he knew it; and Mrs. Craggs observed to Craggs, that ‘his Snitcheys’ were deceiving him behind his back, and he would find it out when it was too late.

At the very same moment Mrs. Craggs was oracular on the cross subject. Was it possible, she said, that Craggs could so blind himself to his Snitcheys, as not to feel his true position? Did he mean to say that he had seen his Snitcheys come into that room, and didn’t plainly see that there was reservation, cunning, treachery, in the man? Would he tell her that his very action, when he wiped his forehead and looked so stealthily about him, didn’t show that there was something weighing on the conscience of his precious Snitcheys (if he had a conscience), that wouldn’t bear the light? Did anybody but his Snitcheys come to festive entertainments like a burglar?—which, by the way, was hardly a clear illustration of the case, as he had walked in very mildly at the door. And would he still assert to her at noon-day (it being nearly midnight), that his Snitcheys were to be justified through thick and thin, against all facts, and reason, and experience?

Neither Snitchey nor Craggs openly attempted to stem the current which had thus set in, but, both were content to be carried gently along it, until its force abated. This happened at about the same time as a general movement for a country dance; when Mr. Snitchey proposed himself as a partner to Mrs. Craggs, and Mr. Craggs gallantly offered himself to Mrs. Snitchey; and after some such slight evasions as ‘why don’t you ask somebody else?’ and ‘you’ll be glad, I know, if I decline,’ and ‘I wonder you can dance out of the office’ (but this jocosely now), each lady graciously accepted, and took her place.

It was an old custom among them, indeed, to do so, and to pair off, in like manner, at dinners and suppers; for they were excellent friends, and on a footing of easy familiarity. Perhaps the false Craggs and the wicked Snitchey were a recognised fiction with the two wives, as Doe and Roe, incessantly running up and down bailiwicks, were with the two husbands: or, perhaps the ladies had instituted, and taken upon themselves, these two shares in the business, rather than be left out of it altogether. But, certain it is, that each wife went as gravely and steadily to work in her vocation as her husband did in his, and would have considered it almost impossible for the Firm to maintain a successful and respectable existence, without her laudable exertions.”

It’s such an odd and lovely eucatastrophe that they should turn out to be so good, and it renders the ending (when, after some years, Craggs has died) actually very affecting:

“Self and Craggs (deceased) took a chop here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. Mr. Craggs, sir,’ said Snitchey, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and opening them again, ‘was struck off the roll of life too soon.’

‘Heaven forgive me for not condoling with you,’ returned Michael Warden, passing his hand across his forehead, ‘but I’m like a man in a dream at present. I seem to want my wits. Mr. Craggs—yes – I am very sorry we have lost Mr. Craggs.’ But he looked at Clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with Ben, consoling her.

‘Mr. Craggs, sir,’ observed Snitchey, ‘didn’t find life, I regret to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or he would have been among us now. It’s a great loss to me. He was my right arm, my right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was Mr. Craggs. I am paralytic without him. He bequeathed his share of the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors, administrators, and assigns. His name remains in the Firm to this hour. I try, in a childish sort of a way, to make believe, sometimes, he’s alive. You may observe that I speak for Self and Craggs—deceased, sir – deceased,’ said the tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket- handkerchief.”

It’s also almost a joke about Scrooge and Marley, or Dickens’ other shady and unfeeling lawyers who form little part of the community, and whose business relationships are not also personal relationships.

Because the protagonists are somewhat disembodied in Battle, it’s the minor characters who do all the work of appealing to you. (And I want the charm-labour component of that stressed.) The marriage of Clemency and Britain, for example, is winning in a weird way:

Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in any degree of life (as the world very often finds it), to take those cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking of people for their outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison!

It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward.”

Dickens doesn’t even hate Britain for this, he’s just like lol whatever men. Clemency is great throughout, like a kind of daffy Peggotty. I am apparently not alone in this opinion either: “The character of Clemency Newcome produces the most enjoyable part of the book, many feel she foreshadowed Clara Peggotty in David Copperfield.”

CHARM IN ‘BATTLE OF LIFE’

There should be some charm in the central characters, but they’re not people enough for that, and we don’t feel them as aesthetic objects either. The aforementioned lawyers and servants-cum-innkeepers charm us with their eucatastrophe, their gentle ridiculousness, their idiosyncrasy, and their inherent sensibility and worth as people.

Dickens often establishes charm via a sense of place. It may seem odd that there’s any such thing in Battle, given its apocalyptic beginning, but there’s an Inn in this, and Dickens has A Thing about inns.

The Nutmeg-Grater Inn

Dickens’ description of the Nutmeg-Grater Inn in The Battle of Life is enough to make any weary traveler yearn for such a comfortable respite:

At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly sheltered behind a great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign- board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passer-by, from among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer.

The horse-trough, full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed, prick up his ears. The crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little bed-chambers above, beckoned, Come in! with every breath of air. Upon the bright green shutters, there were golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top.

Upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and in the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards.”

So what constitutes the charm in this passage? We get colour: contrasts, glints of light in darkness, brightness offset by clean white. Ruddy, golden, green, clear, crimson, pure white, bright green, golden, brown, bright red, white, darkness, light. Other colours are implied but not specifically named: this is a dense, saturated image, like a still of Peter Jackson’s filmic Hobbiton (Tolkien of course owing more to Dickens than he was interested in directly acknowledging). Dickens often does sort of ‘filmic’ writing, and was very interested and involved in theatre throughout his life. Theatrical spectacle often ‘tells’ in his writing. Notice that this is almost starting with an establishing shot. The ‘camera’ then flicks over details: exterior, then ‘visible from the exterior’ windows, then the doorway, then glimpses of that interior. The whole passage is drawing the ‘eye’ onwards and inwards.  Entertain, encircle, address, beckon: the verbs of the passage also welcome you, the reader-traveller, in. There are emotional words: jolly, cheer, affecting. These don’t just describe, they insist on your sympathetic response.

There’s food, there are promises of comfort. There’s excess: the brown jug is ‘frothing over’. There is more than enough. ‘Excess’ is perhaps the key Dickensian affective condition: the whole universe of his writing is governed by surplus rather than scarcity. Even his misers have jewels and notes and deeds positively crammed into some chest or other. Here excess generates the feeling of welcome and charm. The commercial enterprise of the inn is demonetised. There is enough for you too, no trouble. The inn’s financial reasonableness is not mentioned: labour is everywhere, but money has ceased to exist, and the transaction is rendered invisible (you could say something there about Silvia Federici and emotional labour and the processes of rendering that work always inexplicit, which would be both pertinent in re: charm in this context and an unfair, Orwellish bad take on Dickens, who is bringing you the LABOUR as well, even here: entertainment, perched, hangings—someone did and is doing all this, and we are also told who and in what manner).

The inn is both natural and the clear and explicit product of (female) labour: ‘snugly sheltered behind a great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bole’, ‘[t]he ruddy sign- board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passer-by, from among the green leaves’, plants in pots on the window sill. This is nature preserved but improved, encircling and sheltering the inn, which both participates in nature and the Victorians’ strict, morally-coded cleanliness, which separates man from dirt until death reunites them, and does so much of the work of class-distinction in anticipation of that eventual equalising oblivion.

Look too at this sly evocation of an English green man: ‘ogled the passer-by, from among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer’. The super-mundane, the canny, here touches the uncanny. There’s something dryad-like and supernatural encircled in and constituted by the man-made quotidian and the natural. Chesterton talks about the nearness of enchantment and the mundane, and it’s probable that he feels this in part due to his long association with Dickens’ work.

There are a few direct uses of the word ‘charm’ in some form or other in this piece:

“Still, Mr. Craggs, without much heeding these remarks, looked uneasily about until his eye rested on Grace, to whom he immediately presented himself.

‘Good evening, ma’am,’ said Craggs. ‘You look charmingly. Your –
Miss—your sister, Miss Marion, is she—’”

The construction strikes me as strange. Craggs is distracted, but also it’s possible this sounded more natural to a Victorian ear. ‘You look charmingly’—a transient, contingent state, how Grace looks done up for the party rather than what Grace is. An action of ‘Grace’, as well: to look Charmingly. There’s something of ‘charisma’, in the Pauline sense, about that. And it’s significant that Craggs is here not lying, exactly, but concealing information about a proposed elopement from someone it will nearly effect: in fact, trying to elicit information about it from her. ‘Charm’ always has some association with fronts, with lies. Here the compliment is itself something of a lie: Craggs possibly doesn’t think this of plainish Grace, and in the moment he’s certainly more preoccupied with worry than charmed by her appearance.

Nowhere more altered, perhaps, about a hundred years ago, than in one little orchard attached to an old stone house with a honeysuckle porch; where, on a bright autumn morning, there were sounds of music and laughter, and where two girls danced merrily together on the grass, while some half-dozen peasant women standing on ladders, gathering the apples from the trees, stopped in their work to look down, and share their enjoyment. It was a pleasant, lively, natural scene; a beautiful day, a retired spot; and the two girls, quite unconstrained and careless, danced in the freedom and gaiety of their hearts.

If there were no such thing as display in the world, my private opinion is, and I hope you agree with me, that we might get on a great deal better than we do, and might be infinitely more agreeable company than we are. It was charming to see how these girls danced. They had no spectators but the apple-pickers on the ladders. They were very glad to please them, but they danced to please themselves (or at least you would have supposed so); and you could no more help admiring, than they could help dancing. How they did dance!

Not like opera-dancers. Not at all. And not like Madame Anybody’s finished pupils. Not the least. It was not quadrille dancing, nor minuet dancing, nor even country-dance dancing. It was neither in the old style, nor the new style, nor the French style, nor the English style: though it may have been, by accident, a trifle in the Spanish style, which is a free and joyous one, I am told, deriving a delightful air of off-hand inspiration, from the chirping little castanets. As they danced among the orchard trees, and down the groves of stems and back again, and twirled each other lightly round and round, the influence of their airy motion seemed to spread and spread, in the sun-lighted scene, like an expanding circle in the water. Their streaming hair and fluttering skirts, the elastic grass beneath their feet, the boughs that rustled in the morning air—the flashing leaves, the speckled shadows on the soft green ground—the balmy wind that swept along the landscape, glad to turn the distant windmill, cheerily—everything between the two girls, and the man and team at plough upon the ridge of land, where they showed against the sky as if they were the last things in the world—seemed dancing too.”

The association of charm with music and witchcraft is coming through strongly here. I’ve heard it mentioned that this agricultural scene is more drawn from Dickens’ composition environment, rural Italy, than it is an English harvest, and that does make some sense. But the scene still has about it as much of the air of a pre or extra-Christian agricultural ritual as it does a spontaneous display. The very proto-national nature of the dance seems to suggest such pagan connections.

There’s quite a coy game going here with the idea of display. It’s not to be desired, yet Dickens is very much displaying these ‘natural’ young women in a studied way for you. The display can be simultaneously innocent and a bit sexualised: here they are amidst fecundity, in a female space, unaware of your gaze on them. (It’s surprising how often Dickens inserts himself as an authorial figure into female spaces. It often doesn’t feel sexual, voyeuristic: when he talks about his childhood experience of Scheherazade, for example (in “Christmas Tree”), he seems to identify with her, or at least to feel his place is in the harem being menaced by exterior male presences rather than out amongst the menacers.) A ‘finished’ stye of dancing would associate the girls’ action with audience and intent, with sexually appealing to men. This is here rejected, even as that’s part of the process of this passage: to interest the audience, via Grace and Marion’s sexual/marital appeal, in their sexual/marital fates.

The charm of the dance derives from the girls’ pleasure in it, their self-willed vigour. Dickens is always more drawn to passion and feeling than to sophisticated apathy and distance. It’s not about you, not even about the other women watching. Still, conviviality’s important here too, and your helplessness as the unseen spectator to resist the ‘charm’ of their dance is a proof of its power: you’ve been drawn into feeling with them, feeling for them, whether you will or no. This is also what Dickens wants for you as a reader of his text. It’s striking that Grace and Marion are both childlike here in their dance, when Grace’s mothering of Marion is about to distance them beyond the span of years that actually separates them.

I think Dickens must know, in re: “a trifle in the Spanish style, which is a free and joyous one, I am told, deriving a delightful air of off-hand inspiration, from the chirping little castanets”, that he’s talking about flamenco. Flamenco is indeed spontaneous, but the signature ‘duende’ that moves its performers to spontaneous, trace-like physical expressions is typically spoken of in a more serious fashion than this. 

Let’s look for a moment at duende (an ‘artistic and especially musical term […] derived from the duende, an elf or goblin-like Magic creature in Spanish mythology’) as an aesthetic concept:

According to Christopher Maurer, editor of “In Search of Duende”, at least four elements can be isolated in Lorca’s vision of duende: irrationality, earthiness, a heightened awareness of death, and a dash of the diabolical. The duende is an earth spirit who helps the artist see the limitations of intelligence, reminding them that “ants could eat him or that a great arsenic lobster could fall suddenly on his head”; who brings the artist face-to-face with death, and who helps them create and communicate memorable, spine-chilling art. The duende is seen, in Lorca’s lecture, as an alternative to style, to mere virtuosity, to God-given grace and charm (what Spaniards call “angel”), and to the classical, artistic norms dictated by the muse. Not that the artist simply surrenders to the duende; they have to battle it skillfully, “on the rim of the well”, in “hand-to-hand combat”. To a higher degree than the muse or the angel, the duende seizes not only the performer but also the audience, creating conditions where art can be understood spontaneously with little, if any, conscious effort. It is, in Lorca’s words, “a sort of corkscrew that can get art into the sensibility of an audience… the very dearest thing that life can offer the intellectual.” The critic Brook Zern has written, of a performance of someone with duende, “it dilates the mind’s eye, so that the intensity becomes almost unendurable… There is a quality of first-timeness, of reality so heightened and exaggerated that it becomes unreal…”.[3]

Lorca writes: “The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, ‘The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.’ Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation.”. He suggests, “everything that has black sounds in it, has duende. [i.e. emotional ‘darkness’] […] This ‘mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains’ is, in sum, the spirit of the earth, the same duende that scorched the heart of Nietzsche, who searched in vain for its external forms on the Rialto Bridge and in the music of Bizet, without knowing that the duende he was pursuing had leaped straight from the Greek mysteries to the dancers of Cadiz or the beheaded, Dionysian scream of Silverio’s siguiriya.” […] “The duende’s arrival always means a radical change in forms. It brings to old planes unknown feelings of freshness, with the quality of something newly created, like a miracle, and it produces an almost religious enthusiasm.” […] “All arts are capable of duende, but where it finds greatest range, naturally, is in music, dance, and spoken poetry, for these arts require a living body to interpret them, being forms that are born, die, and open their contours against an exact present.” [2]

Duende is STRONGLY identified with the uncanny, and is thus here brought into contact with the canny, the ‘angel’, charisma, the heimlich displayed by these young women. Again, we see the very strong, mutually-constituting  relationship between charm and the uncanny. It is really striking that Dickens goes here. Sure it’s an accidental misfire sort of thing, but I’m with Freud on accidents, namely in believing they’re usually pretty fucking significant. ‘Chirping little castanets’ is a sort of cricket on the hearth attempt to domesticate a visceral, sexual, pain-filled art-form. Such an unexpected relationship also serves, perhaps inadvertently, to strengthen Dicken’s association of this ancient battlefield with the current orchard.

Again, the passage is super-adjectival, and again it almost evokes Shakespearean set-pieces: I’d say this was the Branagh/Thompson Much Ado.

Look at the centrifugal motion of this passage, and the way Dickens is creating his signature expansiveness via repetition, building, moving outwards:

Not at all/Not the least

the list of styles of dancing it’s not, piling them

‘and back again, and twirled each other lightly round and round, the influence of their airy motion seemed to spread and spread’

‘the sun-lighted scene’

‘like an expanding circle in the water’

streaming hair/fluttering skirts/elastic grass beneath their feet<— things in motion, rippling out (and not even the grass is harmed, it’s bouncing back)

‘the balmy wind that swept along the landscape, glad to turn the distant windmill, cheerily—everything between the two girls, and the man and team at plough upon the ridge of land, where they showed against the sky as if they were the last things in the world—seemed dancing too.’

Again, we have conviviality: the girls’ charm charms the people watching them, the agricultural proceeding, the world. Private pleasure is irresistibly communicable.

‘Oh, bless you, nothing an’t the matter with me,’ returned Clemency – and truly too, to judge from her well-soaped face, in which there gleamed as usual the very soul of good-humour, which, ungainly as she was, made her quite engaging. Abrasions on the elbows are not generally understood, it is true, to range within that class of personal charms called beauty-spots. But, it is better, going through the world, to have the arms chafed in that narrow passage, than the temper: and Clemency’s was sound and whole as any beauty’s in the land.”

Clemency’s good-will is internal, pressing out: the world cannot get at her, cannot muffle or change her. This encysted quality is somewhat at odds with the charm of people with great sensibility (I haven’t yet exactly worked out the relationship between these forms of charm). And again, Clemency here is presented as outside the marriage market—but in fact her ‘personal charms’, her hard-working abraded elbows and good temper, are about to win her a husband. This also reminds me of a Roald Dahl passage (Dahl is also decidedly an inheritor of Dickens’):

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Notes on Dickens’ “The Perils of Certain English Prisoners” (1857)

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The Perils of Certain English Prisoners

* God, where to start.

* For an incredibly prolific 19th c British writer, Dickens has relatively few moments of racism to his discredit. I don’t say that to baby him, but because I think it would impoverish our reading not to say it. I’m not going to link it here, but before I sat down to do this I was glancing at a not-great treatment of Dickens and racism, summarising the course of thinking on the subject. (Wiki, obviously.) I think people think it’s productive in this sort of summary of scholarship, and perhaps in the scholarship itself, to be really reductive here: that nuance would be compromising. But I don’t think that actually serves criticism or a historical understanding of the mechanisms of empire. I believe we need to be very, very fair to 19th c writers and the complexity of their thought so that we can discuss how it’s still deeply problematic. I felt like Grace Moore (Dickens and Empire) was doing real work to that end. I’ve not read her book, but from these notes on her conclusions she seems to care about contexts and psychology… at all.

Otherwise… scholarship isn’t Tumblr. This is the space for academia to dig deep and show how racism gets enabled and built and how it’s still happening. I really question the strategy and motives behind a treatment so reductive it pretends Dickens was responding to India’s First War of Independence/‘the Sepoy mutiny’ in a vacuum, without a huge swell of popular opinion informing his thinking and, on a personal level, a son in the armed forces, serving in India directly after the events. I really question a treatment that thinks an angry, heat of the moment, private letter to a friend represents one’s settled opinion on anything—my god. And separately, covering someone’s reactions to a news-item about cannibalism, wherein they blamed a hostile attack force rather than accept that a party of explorers had been poorly prepared and resorted to eating each other, with no reference to the deep cultural taboos surrounding cannibalism (and with no thought about how deeply this particular person, with his fanatical, almost desperate humanism, would have feared and felt threatened by the idea of such a turn of events), strikes me as so pointless. What wasted ink.

Obviously I have time for the Inuit in question being pissed about this, but scholarly coverage of the incident can acknowledge and honour the absolute justice of Inuit anger and simultaneously look at the context the statements were made in, or what is it good for?

You could say the source texts do better than the summary (which, let’s face it, is also a document by a professional Dickens scholar—who do you think writes that Wiki page, yer da?), and I’m sure they do. A bit. But I also feel like I got the gist of these arguments, and that frankly, they suck.

When is the call out useful, and when is it no longer the appropriate tool? When are often-WASP scholars Spotting/Debunking Daddy for other reasons? I don’t know, I’m looking at a weak-ass discussion of anti-semitism in Dickens and thinking

1. up your reading comprehension game at any time, and

2. as a Jewish woman threatened by the rise of international neo-fascism, THIS DOES SHIT FOR ME. If you want your historical Oliver criticism debate I guess you can have it, but in terms of staging this now, I feel like it’s fucking Case Closed, and this research summary wants to Teach the Controversy.

I know I’m Freudian and retro, but I do honestly think people can have a lot invested in ‘but he wasn’t all good!’ hot takes, and that we need to interrogate the smug complacency of our own neoliberal moment there and also ask, constantly and rigorously, why do we want this? What do we get from it? We have to ask that as rigorously and ruthlessly as we interrogate our desire for unblemished heroes, and to locate where we are, as social and psychological actors, in these analyses.

So, what do we want? Who is this for? What does Jane Smiley get from the assertion that “we should not interpret [Dickens] as the kind of left-liberal we know today-he was racist, imperialist, sometimes antisemitic, a believer in harsh prison conditions, and distrustful of trade unions”[7]? I like Smiley—I attended a very engaging lecture by her, and we’re from all the same places. But frankly, that’s a shitty historical condensation, and it’s fairly embarrassing. I could go into the details, but like—mister prison reform? ‘Let’s publish North and South for a huge national audience’ dude? It’s a lot more fucking nuanced than that. Racist compared to what? Where are we locating that? Also what do you want, for time not to have passed and all these conversations not to have changed? And for the love of god I am over the anti-semitism thing. I am over it! BECAUSE I HAVE READ OUR MUTUAL FRIEND SO. WE’RE FUCKING GOOD. Saying he’s ‘sometimes’ anti-Semitic is such a fucking mis-characterisation of the whole field research/Eliza Davis situation. It’s like how Pound never gets nailed for anti-semitism (it’s a footnote) but GK ‘guys I take a lot of it back’ Chesterton unfailingly does (it’s a conversation-ender, a legacy-killer, despite his frankly admirable clarification-cum-major-walk-back in the early ‘30s). Some of this is so obstinately stupid and so utterly unhelpful to activism and to scholarly appraisal alike that I am furious thinking about it.

All that said, I’m pissed with Dickens for writing a fairly racist short story here. It’s hurtful, it’s short-sighted, it’s angrier than it is kind, it’s not particularly good, and it is beneath him.

Here are some of the problems in play:

1. The way Dickens talks about Christian George King is sort of how he talks about some white people. But because it’s racialized, it’s doing more, both then and now. That’s irreducible. We’re in the territory of ‘punching down’ humour with this discussion (though Dickens predominately punches up). Christian George King writhes, and he smiles in your face while plotting to destroy you, and how different is that really from Uriah Heep? But it is, because it reflects on King’s blackness in a way Heep’s perfidy is never allowed to reflect on his marked othering characteristic, his class (it’s charity schools that are toxic, it’s not necessarily even Heep himself’s soul—in fact, due to how doubled with David and Steerforth Heep is, to a degree we’re supposed to view Heep’s position as contingent, ‘there but for the grace of god’). There’s something interesting in the huge problem of King’s character being falsity: engendering trust to betray it. It’s big and Shakespearian (and Dickens is a giant Shakespeare fanboy who draws on the playwright with confidence–he gives a towering, unsettling Shakespeare villain speech to Heep for example at the end of “Explosion”, letting his antagonist win that argument–so what does it mean for him to give that kind of backing to King?) but we don’t get much time with it.

2. Genre is also constructing the piece’s racist underpinnings. Dickens is writing a pirate adventure, and just as a Western brings in troubling Native American issues because they’re foundational to the genre, the set-pieces of 19th c pirate adventure are kind of fundamentally racist (though I think we talk about this less). We do get a big crew of pirates, and of the principals only King is explicitly black, I think? The captain is European (Portuguese), and his seeming right-hand man is explicitly an English escaped convict. Our protagonist tells the civilians not to trust any of the mixed black and native american villagers King is one of during the pirates’ raid on the colony, but this is a heat of the moment response to what’s going on: it’s not clear whether the villagers actually are all in league with King and the pirates. (Also, they’re Native American and black: their very make-up tells a story of white transportation and exploitation, probably via slavery: their existence here is historically contingent and ethically implicating, especially given Dickens’ hard anti-slavery stance.)

This story is doing strange, strange things with ridiculous colonial mismanagement and wrong-doing. An incompetent boob is in charge of the English settlers. Before we come on the scene, he’s gotten the former leader of King’s people drunk and coerced him into signing the legal title to the island over to the English. This ass has been rewarded for his con with his current job.

The story knows this guy is awful and shouldn’t lead so much as a horse to water. It’s built in a strong Caliban grievance for King, made the pirates multi-racial and given big villainous roles to an Englishman and a Portuguese man. It’s locating racialized dislike of King in its narrator-protagonist, a lower-class white man with a lot of anxiety about his ignorance and status and a lot of hostility to everyone at large. There’s also a strange moment when the narrator and King are working on a project together and the narrator feels he could like King.

“A quick sort of council was held, and Captain Maryon soon resolved that we must all fall to work to get the cargo out, and that when that was done, the guns and heavy matters must be got out, and that the sloop must be hauled ashore, and careened, and the leak stopped. We were all mustered (the Pirate-Chace party volunteering), and told off into parties, with so many hours of spell and so many hours of relief, and we all went at it with a will. Christian George King was entered one of the party in which I worked, at his own request, and he went at it with as good a will as any of the rest. He went at it with so much heartiness, to say the truth, that he rose in my good opinion almost as fast as the water rose in the ship. Which was fast enough, and faster.”

There’s so much there. This isn’t a ‘they’re just evil!’ explanation for King’s betrayal. We’re told the English colonists ‘treat the villagers kindly’, but Dickens is elsewhere a thorough thinker on the ways charity can patronise and infantilize and a ruthless critic of self-serving, insufficient, interfering ‘beneficence.’ What does it mean that the governor is utterly undeserving of respect? How much of the story’s racism is just the pov of the narrator character—but to what extent is that ‘okay’ even if it is? What does it mean that the protagonist’s anxieties are a very real route misanthropic and racist thinking take? That’s well-observed, if nothing else.

I think it means something that this story is smarter than itself. It has the seeds of its critique right there. You almost expect the “Nobody’s Story” ‘actually you brought this on yourself at every point’ turn, or the balancing ‘good’ native character. It almost feels like more of a betrayal when nothing like that materialises.

3. Dickens is good on injustice when he understands it intimately, but not as good when he’s not thinking/doesn’t know he situation up close. He has to be in there to smell bullshit, though no one is better at unpacking bullshit and examining it from every angle. But Dickens’ words have a longer reach than that of an ordinary man, did then and do now, and so in a way less clemency can be extended to him on this point.

4. This is deeply, deeply about India’s First War of Independence/‘the Sepoy mutiny’, and in complicated ways. It was written in reaction to that still-current conflict. I can’t summarise British reaction to that event–I keep thinking of the massive paintings in the Tate Modern’s poorly constructed Empire exhibition last year. Here’s a piece you could read, if interested, that covers this positioning to a limited extent while chiefly outlining the piece’s South American imperial context. There’s a lot of historical background in play, and you really need a paper to unpack England’s reaction to the ‘mutiny’, without which Dickens’ personal reaction and this story’s position as a comment on those events can’t hope to be understood.

I also read some stuff on this story and imperialism as a class tension safety valve.  Admittedly I was just skimming, but I didn’t find it very convincing. There doesn’t seem to be that much work on “Perils”.

He needed called on this. Just all of it. Because he has the unusual and great talent of being good at apologising and changing his mind, and he has some perfectly acceptable characters of colour elsewhere (we could debate whether some of the people I’m thinking about are PoC, but that’s a different question). Just last Christmas story there was a black servant (Dickens certainly has a wealth of white ones) who we hear no ill of while a white guy flips out and is a total asshole. Admittedly we don’t know much about Snow. He’s not a great, complex figure or anything. But his presence hints at Dickens’ capacity for a diversity of portrayals and a greater fairness on this point.

So: he can do this. It would have been worth calling him out in 1857. How did no one tell him he was talking shit? Again, I think we’re back at popular opinion in that moment, both in terms of general Victorian literary racism and the response to the ‘Sepoy uprising’. Maybe no one we have a record of thought he was full of it here?

I don’t need writers to be perfect and incongruously contemporary in their beliefs and political expressions, but this does disappoint me deeply. Yet I also know I need to have a wary critical relationship with this writer that doesn’t justify his fuckups. In a way the danger of Dickens’ activism is that it promises you the moon. The danger to the reader of Dickens’ craving to be the ‘shadow at your shoulder’, a presence you feel as you interact with his work, a person you know and like and trust, is the erosion of distance between you and him, and an ensuing desire to excuse his faults, to swap his good qualities for his bad like you’re trying to make an equation balance and/or to hide his shortcomings. I know I experience these urges, but I’m not wholly prepared to eliminate the feeling of broad sympathy his work engenders to chase a general objectivity for purity points (it’s not like you can Win Academia anymore—what jobs?). I think it’d make me less responsive to the work, and again, I question the motives of doing it (oh god I’m the fucking Wickfield). But I guess a piece like this serves as a reminder of the dangers of fondness, and a warning not to get too close, not to let Dickens (who may well be constantly working to do it) absorb you.

* As was Dickens’ stated purpose, this story gives us quite good ‘women in action’. They’re practical, courageous and efficient as well as good-hearted. So this odd little paean to imperialism, which I find at odds with the general tenor of his work, is also surprisingly white-feminist. Make of that what you will.

* It’s not even a great naval adventure—I’d rather read Forester for this and get my dubious Imperial jollies that way.

* The ‘WERE THEY HIDEOUS PIRATES? No they were the rest of our party’ fake out is a bit fun. Idk, I’m not rag-picking for treasures and lost wills in this trash-heap, it feels gross to do it. I haven’t th heart.

* That is such an odd ending. I was expecting a romantic conclusion, and we instead get this muddled weirdness about how people tried to promote the narrator (who gets lavishly praised in the story, though I’m not exactly sure why, given that most of the people involved seem to have worked about equally hard) but it didn’t work that well because he’s not bright. The romantic interest married someone else, and he’s telling her about the course of their shared adventures and his long love for her when they’re very old. We’re told he’s happy not without her in a rushed and under-explained way.

I was brought so low by all this that I briefly wondered whether Robert Graves was right and Dickens has a Thing about lower class men marrying up, and tries to put it down in fiction. Fortunately I remembered Graves is never right, as well as several examples of just this happening in Dickens. But nothing fixes this strange end to a regrettable story that I generally wish did not exist.

Charm words: 0

Notes on Dickens’ “The Wreck of the Golden Mary” (1856)

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The Wreck of the Golden Mary

* I don’t have that much to say about this one. It’s hard to guess what the whole looked like, other than probably ‘not like this’? I’ve glanced at someone else’s summary, and they do get rescued, as I expected.

* This story’s grim. The fall from the high energy, jolly beginning feels almost like a betrayal. I wasn’t really expecting the child Lucy’s death, and I wasn’t really expecting the captain’s apparent demise, or where we’re left in the narrative (at least when it’s published in this form, which has a legitimate existence in its own right, as I think Dickens revised it as an independent piece for collected editions of his work).

* The narration flip from the Captain to the first mate and the matter of the shoes (the Captain has been without them since the wreck, hiding the problem and getting dangerously sick because there was nothing to be done) feels like a doubt-twist ending. It’s a small thing but also fairly powerful that, from the captain’s own account, we didn’t know about his suffering. It’s a gesture at once schmaltzy and subtle. This feels like something Dickens would normally do from the outside, as it were, but here it’s leant a kind of shocking power because of our hitherto apparently transparent relationship with the captain’s pov. We can suddenly abandon that close pov, entering a sort of epistolary log from the mate, and the Captain can have been withholding information from us.

* This is the first time we’ve been embedded in one of these Christmas stories where the sustained interiority has felt fairly distinct from Dickens’ own, and has been supported in a convincing character with a different backstory and general perspective.

* Maybe in a sense “The Wreck of the Golden Mary” is about living well under awful conditions and, if it comes to it, dying well. Even if the story “really” rescues them, it can’t save Lucy (and it possibly can’t save the Captain), and it’s still brought them to the brink, and thus pushed us into thinking about what it is to die decently in circumstances of extreme deprivation. That would still, in a strange way, be consistent with his broader redemptive Christmas story project.

* Steadiman is such a morality play name.

* Rarx is interesting (again, what a name for a vile, avaricious man!), I bet he does more in the full version.

* I’ll include Callow’s thoughts on this here:

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Charm words: 1

I proposed that, whenever the weather would permit, we should have a story two hours after dinner (I always issued the allowance I have mentioned at one o’clock, and called it by that name), as well as our song at sunset. The proposal was received with a cheerful satisfaction that warmed my heart within me; and I do not say too much when I say that those two periods in the four-and-twenty hours were expected with positive pleasure, and were really enjoyed by all hands. Spectres as we soon were in our bodily wasting, our imaginations did not perish like the gross flesh upon our bones. Music and Adventure, two of the great gifts of Providence to mankind, could charm us long after that was lost.”

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Notes on Dickens’ The Holly-Tree Inn (1855)

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The Holly-Tree Inn (1855)

* Nominally, this is a story about a young man who throws a paddy because he believes his best friend and his finance are into one another. (“From our school-days I had freely admitted Edwin, in my own mind, to be far superior to myself; and, though I was grievously wounded at heart, I felt the preference to be natural, and tried to forgive them both.”) We must assume that his evidence for throwing said paddy was circumstantial, given that we later learn Edwin was actually gunning for the finance’s live-in cousin. The (nameless, I think) narrator has nonetheless decided, on the strength of this supposition, to abandon his life and make for America. He’s got time to kill before the ship sails, and so he decides to go north, where he gets snowed in at the titular inn. He spends a shitty Christmas alone, then seeks out stories from the inn’s other inhabitants and has a better time listening to these and bonding with the tale’s tellers before fortuitously running into the Happy Ending in the form of Edwin and Cousin, en route to Gretna Green. This final reversal isn’t hugely comic, but it’s pleasing.

* What we actually get is a bit of frame narrative, enlivened by a strong snowy coach sequence and a fun description of the vast fucking freezing room the narrator’s staying in, succeeded by an essay reminiscent of Dickens’ first two Christmas pieces for HW. This is followed by Dickens’ short story, and some other short stories by other writers, and then the whole is bookended by a tail bit of frame-narrative.

The ‘recollections of various inns’ are just Dickens. This (presumably) young male narrator is probably not possessed of a mysterious knowledge of everywhere Dickens himself has been. He’s a bit young to be such a world-traveller, and his description of American inns sits oddly with his final “I never went to America”. Yes, he could simply refer to the abandonment of his current scheme to emigrate, but I think it makes more sense to view this as ‘basically another essay’, tucked into a  kind of disposable frame narrative/scenario. (The cold room also feels rather Drawn From Life.) Dickens spends some pages giving us his more interesting Bill Bryson before he gets bored of it and moves on.

* The ‘reminiscences of inns’ section whirls you through various scenes and even various story-telling modes: there’s something of a folk tale/Christmas ghost story/true crime anecdote of a cock crowing out a murderer’s guilt.

There are also:

– a creepy druid

  great bitchy remarks on American mega-hotels that ring true as descriptions of conference hotel monstrosities today: “I put out to sea for the Inns of America, with their four hundred beds apiece, and their eight or nine hundred ladies and gentlemen at dinner every day. Again I stood in the bar-rooms thereof, taking my evening cobbler, julep, sling, or cocktail. Again I listened to my friend the General,–whom I had known for five minutes, in the course of which period he had made me intimate for life with two Majors, who again had made me intimate for life with three Colonels, who again had made me brother to twenty-two civilians,–again, I say, I listened to my friend the General, leisurely expounding the resources of the establishment, as to gentlemen’s morning-room, sir; ladies’ morning-room, sir; gentlemen’s evening-room, sir; ladies’ evening-room, sir; ladies’ and gentlemen’s evening reuniting-room, sir; music-room, sir; reading-room, sir; over four hundred sleeping-rooms, sir; and the entire planned and finited within twelve calendar months from the first clearing off of the old encumbrances on the plot, at a cost of five hundred thousand dollars, sir. Again I found, as to my individual way of thinking, that the greater, the more gorgeous, and the more dollarous the establishment was, the less desirable it was.”

He then pulls back and says something nice about Americans, because he’s gotten in hot water for this one before. Also I love that ‘dollarous’ coinage, which is so temptingly close to ‘dolorous’.

– Rhineland hotels where “where your going to bed, no matter at what hour, appears to be the tocsin for everybody else’s getting up”

(tocsin: alarm bell or signal)

– “I departed thence, as a matter of course, to other German Inns, where all the eatables are soddened down to the same flavour, and where the mind is disturbed by the apparition of hot puddings, and boiled cherries, sweet and slab, at awfully unexpected periods of the repast. “

I love ‘awfully unexpected’.

* We see a very interesting use of ‘bashful’ here that doesn’t entirely align with a current understanding of the term. It’s more like ‘social awkwardness’? The history of social awkwardness would be a great project for someone.

* In with this good coach journey, Dickens expresses some nice wryness about how contemporary people lament the lost stage coaches, but they dreaded stage journeys enough at the time. Dickens is always a little more subtle than a reductive view of him as sentimental and nostalgic would lead you to believe. He has these surprising self-reflexive turns, and is both unabashedly sentimental and capable of steely analysis. He’s at odds with his own indulgences.

* Dickens talks a lot about the stabling and the inns involved, but I still think of stage coaches as more like ‘arrangements’ than the railroads’ infrastructure, and thus have some trouble parsing them as technology and a transportation network. I think this might generally be a late-capitalist viewpoint: things like Uber are transportation networks, but they’re somehow illegitimate, flexible and transient. We have trouble quite mentally accounting for non ‘official’ industry, perhaps.

* Good prose bit:

“THIRD BRANCH–THE BILL


I had been snowed up a whole week. The time had hung so lightly on my hands, that I should have been in great doubt of the fact but for a piece of documentary evidence that lay upon my table.”

* It’s somewhat hard to get a good sense of the bashful narrator’s increasing comfort with the other people at the inn without hearing their stories and seeing them told to him. This rewrite isn’t quite so smooth as it might be.

* Dickens’ story-within-a-story is about man working at the hotel who, when younger, knew a couple of seven and eight years old who tried to elope together. Simon Callow rolls his eyes at this short story in his biography, finding it mawkish, so I came in girded. But actually I thought it was quite funny, and that Dickens is aware of the several forms of ridiculousness herein, and that that was kind of the point? (Dickens’ defenders are often in the position of defending him from half-true popular opinions and of apologising for their own strong emotional reactions to him: elaborately excusing his faults real or imagined, or building the case for him as literary and thus their reactions to him as valorous. Thus you get a lot of kind of OTT desperate apologies for problems Dickens doesn’t quite have. I’d like to spend a lot more time on charges like ‘psychologically unrealistic’, because I think what’s going on is a lot more complex than that, and that we need to talk about how we’re coming to that assessment and whether what we’re asking for is even always valuable.) The story’s almost, with its undercurrent of unkindness towards the girl, who isn’t as invested in or faithful to the project as her eight year old swain, and its notes of pessimism about couples going to be married in general, a bit of an old-fashioned chivalric or cavalier ‘bitches, eh?’ It’s much gentler than those, but there are some generic echoes.

I don’t feel this amusement about women’s reactions (which is another layer of ridiculousness re: the elopement) is particularly harsh, and it’s some of the best-written stuff in the story:

The way in which the women of that house–without exception–every one of ’em–married _and_ single–took to that boy when they heard the story, Boots considers surprising. It was as much as he could do to keep ’em from dashing into the room and kissing him. They climbed up all sorts of places, at the risk of their lives, to look at him through a pane of glass. They was seven deep at the keyhole. They was out of their minds about him and his bold spirit.”

“There the father lifts the child up to the pillow, and he lays his little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor unconscious little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, and gently draws it to him,–a sight so touching to the chambermaids who are peeping through the door, that one of them calls out, “It’s a shame to part ’em!” But this chambermaid was always, as Boots informs me, a soft-hearted one. Not that there was any harm in that girl. Far from it.”

That feels affectionate and even approving. Which, come to think of it, is such a rare attitude to women’s pleasure? Think of the ‘hysterical fan’ characterisations that are common as muck. This enters into their squee, into the very pleasure of over-reaction, and seems to find a moral and aesthetic justice there.

The whole thing is more fun than twee, though there’s definitely a twee component? I don’t know, it’s not The Story I’d pick for over-preciousness. Also, when talking about it, we really have to remember it’s a Christmas number for the whole family, and that some of the other stories might have hit a darker note Dickens had to balance or reign back (authors failed to hit his brief all the damn time, I feel fairly sorry for him as an editor). It feels unfair to discuss this very situationally located work just as some shit Dickens thinks.

* The young boy is a sort of precocious Artemis Fowl type. The sub-narrator’s restlessness is convincingly described.

(0 charm words)

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Notes on Dickens’ “The Seven Poor Travellers” (1854)

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The Seven Poor Travellers

* While the preceding two essays and three of the four Christmas stories have been in first person, there was something snippetish about all four of the short stories. Two retreated into allegory, and the other two were something like the polylogues Simon Callow’s theatre-focused biography of Dickens cite as having had a strong influence on him. They were sprints, not marathons, or tableaux and not plays. In these next two longer stories, Dickens seems to be more thrown upon his own resources, and to an extent the narrative voice starts to feel like his own. Thus I’m going to speculate that in terms of writing in the first person, the David Copperfield-style autobiographical tone comes somewhat naturally to him, and to further conclude that it takes him a while longer to learn to write a serious, psychologically rich first-person voice that’s quite distinct from his own, a la Pip or Esther (or even the work he beings to do in “The Wreck of the Golden Mary”). Everything about the irritation, the restlessness, the anger at miserly charity and the whole-hearted entry into a project in “Poor Travellers” feels like Dickens himself: even the stupidly long walk does. I wonder whether Dickens authentically can’t help writing this character as Dickens, or whether this is some kind of Masterpiece Theatre performance for the magazine audience, where the magazine’s great Conductor will also winningly (and winkingly, as himself and not himself—for the events of the story are more obviously fictionalised than the POV) conduct you through this year’s collection of stories by means of establishing the frame narrative and starting it off? Against that, we have the fact that Victorian audiences only understood DC as autobiography in a shadowy, twilight way, so the extent to which they understood Dickens as nakedly present in his first person narration of this period is limited.

* Here’s some publication information.

But beginning with the extra Christmas number for 1854, The Seven Poor Travellers, Dickens put the stories within an overall framework by adding special openings and endings and providing brief links between the segments. Dickens himself usually wrote two of the segments (though he sometimes wrote one, sometimes three). He always set the overall theme, and he usually wrote all of the framework. At first the framework was spare and utilitarian (though the dramatic situation was often fanciful); the typical strategy was to bring together a group of strangers and have them while away their time by telling stories (the dramatic situation usually required such a diversion). In the later Christmas numbers, Dickens gave more attention to the framework and to creating a realistic and sometimes suspenseful situation for the storytelling. In the still later Christmas numbers he began to vary the formula itself by writing nonframework narratives in conjunction with a single collaborator.”

That’s an interesting prompt to set yourself. He keeps doing that, with the Christmas books et al: setting himself these chunky, fiddly tasks.

* This introduction is markedly better than any of the preceding short stories, with the possible exception of “Schoolboy’s”. (Is Dickens getting a bit better at short fiction as he goes along?) It’s funnier, for one, and allowed to be. The note of deep irritation with the charity’s miserly discharge of its ancient obligation rings clear, and the typography of the dinner theatre bill is so good I’m going to replicate it here via photo rather than trust ebook editions:

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* “The Seven Poor Travellers takes place on Christmas Eve in Rochester at the charity hospice founded in 1579 by Richard Watts – an actual hospice that Dickens knew well from his childhood days. “ (from Dickens Journal Online) And it shows—there’s strong architectural detail, etc.

* “The [other] stories themselves were written by George Augustus Sala, Wilkie Collins, Eliza Lynn [afterward Mrs. Lynn Linton], and Adelaide Anne Procter, respectively.” It’s 1854 and 2/5 (so almost half) of the contributors to this anthology are women. I’m just FUCKING SAYING.

* Dickens has sort of already done this ‘everybody tell stories’ frame (for no fucking reason, though I enjoyed it I guess) in Nicholas Nickleby, with that winter carriage ride up to Yorkshire.

* Slater points out in his lecture that the close of this Christmas story is suffused with the religiosity Ruskin claimed Dickens’ Christmas lacked. I don’t really get what people mean by saying anything like that, because clearly Dickens has a diffuse but strong emotional allegiance to Christianity, and a profound and driving allegiance to a moral framework derived from a non-doctrinal, fundamental/text- and praxis-based understanding of Christianity. I head someone at a Dickens Day conference a few years ago muse over what Dostoevsky and Tolstoy had meant by referring to him as ‘that great Christian writer’, but this could not be more self-evident as an emotional concept. The speaker also wondered whether Dickens meant he could LITERALLY feel the spirit of his dead friend/sister-in-law there with him while looking at the natural glory of Niagara falls, and started in on trans-continental ghost migration patterns, the mechanics and feasibility thereof. It was then I decided to have a somewhat distant relationship with formal Dickens fandom, such as it is. Then there was a talk about thing theory and chairs in Dickens. I died straight away, and my spirit may now be perceived in attendance on any natural wonders you choose to visit.

* The end section is strong.

* What’s a ‘proctor’ when this charity is established?

* I have laughed at lot at “The Story of Richard Doubledick” as a title.

* That said, woah this section about Taunton’s incredible eyes is homoerotic.

Now the Captain of Richard Doubledick’s company was a young gentleman not above five years his senior, whose eyes had an expression in them which affected Private Richard Doubledick in a very remarkable way.  They were bright, handsome, dark eyes,–what are called laughing eyes generally, and, when serious, rather steady than severe,–but they were the only eyes now left in his narrowed world that Private Richard Doubledick could not stand.  Unabashed by evil report and punishment, defiant of everything else and everybody else, he had but to know that those eyes looked at him for a moment, and he felt ashamed.  He could not so much as salute Captain Taunton in the street like any other officer.  He was reproached and confused,–troubled by the mere possibility of the captain’s looking at him.  In his worst moments, he would rather turn back, and go any distance out of his way, than encounter those two handsome, dark, bright eyes.”

Taunton’s function in the story is very Dickens-woman: he inspires Doubledick, calls him back to social responsibility via observation, is described as beautiful (handsome) and forgiving, and he gives Richard his mother, just as though they had married before he died. From Doubedick’s broken engagement to Taunton’s death (after a mourning period, he’s supplanted by Richard’s original fiancé, now wife), Taunton essentially serves as a wife to Richard.

* This section has that distasteful imperial bombast that Dickens mostly avoids throughout his career, which is actually somewhat remarkable given that he’s working in an era choking on the stuff—he’s a bit rightly suspicious of it perhaps, or at any rate it doesn’t do much for him. Even here glory comes in kind of vague terms, and the ending unsettles the morality of these achievements a little. Also this is set at a Napoleonic, ‘just war’ remove.

* I sort of like what little we see of Doubledick’s wife. I don’t love the marriage as an ending (it’d feel more earned in one of Dickens’ longer works, the very length would have worked to win me to it—in fact I like the deathbed marriage in Our Mutual Friend just fine), so I’m glad we go on and spend time with French post-war and then have the moral question about revenge as our tying-off.

* The way Dickens rewrote his contributions to present them independently afterwards is a lot like what Willa Shakespeare did when uploading her portions of the Atonement Cycle to Ao3 DON’T @ ME I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING OK

Notes on Dickens’ Poor Relation’s, Child’s, Schoolboy’s and Nobody’s Stories (1852-1853)

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The Poor Relation’s Story” (1852)

* This is in the first person, which Dickens tends to favour for his Christmas stories (so far as I’ve read them). That’s somewhat odd, given that except for David Copperfield, Great Expectations and portions of Bleak House, Dickens tends to use third-person in his (longer) fiction. I just saw a scholar claim DC and GE were his only first person works, and though she was speaking off the cuff, that sort of strikes me as strange given all the short fiction she has to unremember (she’s an expert, she definitely knows about these) to generate that statement. I know the short fiction’s not as good (or rather perhaps it’s more fit for purpose, and thus more fixed to its publication circumstances and intended audience), but it should nonetheless still form part of our idea of How Dickens Writes.

They say, when you’re getting into bullfighting, that you should attend novilladas (apprentice bullfighters’ bouts) in order to understand the mechanics of the art (bullfighting is, whether one finds it moral or not, a cross between sport, art and religious ritual) and appreciate the toil involved on all fronts. Though the Christmas stories aren’t Dickens’ juvenilia, I’m relating to them a little in that way: they’re teaching me, I think, more about his mechanics and process than the more intimidating and better-finished novels. Or perhaps they’re just showing him in a weaker light? After all, what concrete and distillable things can I say about his process based on these short stories?

* We’re in the first of a four-story little suite of tales, which perhaps evolves out of the conceit of Master Humphrey’s Clock as a sort of frame narrative and perhaps gives rise to the shape of the coming multi-authorial Christmas compilations. I wouldn’t want to say that absolutely without reference to Dickens’ correspondence et al.

* In large part, this story seems like it could be a not terribly inspiring but decent chunk out of one of the novels. The character, his catch phrase about being nobody’s enemy but his own**, his narration of his present circumstances and his way of conveying his earlier downfall (and the very nature of that downfall) all give that impression.

* Dickens deals with poor relations in Pickwick Papers (I haven’t read this but the Michael Slater lecture I listened to assures me they’re in attendance at Christmas, dutifully enlivening blind man’s bluff), Bleak House, Great Expectations, and Our Mutual Friend. (There are probably more such characters, I’m just not remembering right now.) Dickens expresses a keen understanding of their peculiar situations and of the ridiculous pretentious and privations involved. His sympathy with them derives from this nuanced appreciation of the ridiculousness of their position, which he doesn’t attempt to deny or ameliorate at a surface level with socially anxious tact. His amusement isn’t at odds with his empathy. This is especially interesting given that Dickens ends up supporting his own ‘poor relations’. His sympathy seems more with them, literarily, than with the munificent benefactors he’s more akin to in his own middle age. This story’s example of the breed seems almost a forerunner of decent Mr. Twemlow in OMF.

* The ‘how I came to be in my present position’ section, with its list of things that ‘didn’t happen’, is particularly strong.

* The ‘castle in the air’ ending strikes me as a bit groan-worthy, and I wonder if it worked better at the time. Did it strike people as profound or powerful that the narrator might, if he’s being honest, live a better life than most of the assembled? If you read it that way, it could well be a strong reversal of the in-story and in-life audiences’ expectations, locating agency, the power to pity, etc. with the story-teller. Or do we take this claim, given the stark initial description of the narrator’s days, as merely a figure of speech? I do, and so the pathos comes on too strong for me here.

** That phrase also comes up in DC and GE:

‘Traddles,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, ‘is a young man reading for the bar. Yes. He is quite a good fellow—nobody’s enemy but his own.’

‘Is he his own enemy?’ said I, sorry to hear this.

‘Well,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, pursing up his mouth, and playing with his watch-chain, in a comfortable, prosperous sort of way. ‘I should say he was one of those men who stand in their own light. Yes, I should say he would never, for example, be worth five hundred pound. Traddles was recommended to me by a professional friend. Oh yes. Yes. He has a kind of talent for drawing briefs, and stating a case in writing, plainly. I am able to throw something in Traddles’s way, in the course of the year; something—for him—considerable. Oh yes. Yes.’” DC

““You silly boy,” said Estella, quite composedly, “how can you talk such nonsense? Your friend Mr. Matthew, I believe, is superior to the rest of his family?”

“Very superior indeed. He is nobody’s enemy—”

“Don’t add but his own,” interposed Estella, “for I hate that class of man. But he really is disinterested, and above small jealousy and spite, I have heard?”

“I am sure I have every reason to say so.”” GE

(uses of ‘charm’ words: 0 . I’ll have to do the math again, but I’m getting a sense that the % frequency with which Dickens uses charm words is less in this short fiction than in the books, despite how ‘Christmas numbers’ might make you think there’d be an uptick.)

The Child’s Story” (1852)

* I dislike this one, and it’s not entirely its fault. I dislike wise child narrators, and I dislike allegory as a mode. So this is… fine. And a well-written example of a thing I don’t like. But there we are.

* The wife’s death and the reunion with the child are still effective.

(uses of ‘charm’ words: 0)

The Schoolboy’s Story” (1853)

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* This one is genuinely fun, and I would recommend it outside this Christmas story context. It’s easily the most entertaining  story of this set. The voice and POV are engaging. Dickens really enjoys what he can do with schoolboys’ way of talking, the slang and the allusions.

* Dickens seems, as Molly Katz mentioned to me, particularly interested in relationships between younger and older schoolboys (David and Steerforth, John Jarndyce and Boythorn, Paul Dombey and Toots, possibly Oliver and the Dodger fit into this paradigm?). Is this a fantasy of his (To have been cared for by an older child when he needed it? To be a benevolent child?), or perhaps a reflection of some lived or witnessed relationship? The female pairings he stages don’t work in quite the same way (though there are several, and some of them are about as homoerotic as David/Steerforth: Florence/Edith, Kate Nickleby/Madeline, Esther/Caddy Jellyby). All this familiarity with school life might suggest to the reader (possibly intentionally, or semi-intentionally) a sort of school career Dickens never actually had. In fact how cagey he was about his family’s financially precarious periods might suggest that he wanted his audience to think him familiar with these environments due to personal experience. I suppose his actual familiarity with them must come from associating with his own well-educated children.

* We get an allusion to Julius Caesar that positions the play in reference to friendship. In DC, David also says something about JC making him think of friendship. Was this just Dickens’ interpretation of the text, or was this a common Victorian appraisal of the play? It strikes me now as strange and idiosyncratic, but perhaps at the time this was a standard reading? (I’ve gone and asked Sophie Duncan, who works on Victorian Shakespeare–she might know.)

* The leader of the conspiracy is perhaps overly-invested in the betrayal of Old Cheeseman. Though it’s not alluded to, I almost wonder if they were special friends ere Cheeseman’s elevation.

* I love the leader of the conspiracy’s claims about his father and fortune turning out to be bs. Like, you see it coming and it’s still good.

* The ending is a struggle. Belatedly, we’re told that our narrator wasn’t involved in any of the events he’s recounting. He’s just a later recipient of both the lore and Old Cheeseman’s munificence: there to prove it’s on-going, that Cheeseman does not forget his old associations and the school has not forgotten him, etc. That distance makes the earlier story of the uprising against Cheeseman less immediate and the narrator’s place among the conspirators both guiltless (and thus without shame and catharsis in the great forgiveness) and something of a presumption (why is he claiming partisanship when he never fought in the Cheeseman wars?!). It also makes it seem as though Cheeseman and wife have nothing to occupy them but this one scholastic institution and acts of charity associated with it (so like a kindly equivalent of the 20-something still trying to hang out at high school parties–though even that comparison speaks to my very temporally-located anxiety about inter-generational friendship, which Victorians didn’t really share). Again, from the narrator’s perspective, I’m sure that’s all that does go on in their lives: it’s all he sees of them, and he’s a child yet, not given to conjecturing into the interior lives or broader activities of adults. We also have only a short space in which these characters can develop, so we don’t get to see Cheeseman in the world. The piece is focused on these events, and reigns itself in. It’s also tasked with fulfilling Dickens’ desire (and the market’s?) for the Christmas stories to hit a tone, and to enact and inspire forgiveness, etc.

(uses of ‘charm’ words: 0)

Nobody’s Story” (1853)

* Here we’re back in an allegorical mode, and back, to some extent, in the territory of The Chimes.

* Even given that the first two stories had strong melancholy elements, it’s still a shock to be ripped from this middle or upper class family hearth (which we dimly glimpse behind the stories) and thrown into the working-class misery of Nobody’s Story.

* We’re also now in third person, but the Close Third that characterised our association with Trotty Veck.

* It’s interesting that Dickens is willing to turn this rather bleak piece, with its chill ending, out as a Christmas number. He fears neither poor sales nor being criticised for giving the people downer activism at Christmas, apparently, though both money and popularity matter a great deal to him. Maybe Dickens just wanted his big Christmas audience to get a strong dose of social justice? Or maybe his radicalism, as per Carol, was just genuinely popular, and not incompatible with big circulation numbers/sales.

* This is perfectly good social criticism, but it’s also very like the aforementioned Chimes, and the many other places where Dickens did god’s work and said wealth stratification and Calvinistic moral judgement of the poor was bullshit, etc.

This is the kernel of the story:

“But the Master said again, “O you labouring men! How seldom do we ever hear of you, except in connection with some trouble!”

“Master,” he replied, “I am Nobody, and little likely to be heard of (nor yet much wanted to be heard of, perhaps), except when there is some trouble. But it never begins with me, and it never can end with me. As sure as Death, it comes down to me, and it goes up from me.”

There was so much reason in what he said, that the Bigwig family, getting wind of it, and being horribly frightened by the late desolation, resolved to unite with him to do the things that were right–at all events, so far as the said things were associated with the direct prevention, humanly speaking, of another pestilence. But, as their fear wore off, which it soon began to do, they resumed their falling out among themselves, and did nothing. Consequently the scourge appeared again–low down as before–and spread avengingly upward as before, and carried off vast numbers of the brawlers. But not a man among them ever admitted, if in the least degree he ever perceived, that he had anything to do with it.”

Fair, but Dickens has said similar stuff more potently elsewhere.

* I think my final thought is that this probably did a fair amount of work as the Christmas number, but that it can do less work for posterity, given that we now have access to the whole of the Dickens canon and its many fine passages of righteous anger at our fingertips.

(uses of ‘charm’ words: 0)