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Archive for the ‘Charles Dickens’ Category

The key to the whole is power. This can be seen by reconstructing the necessary context the novel creates for itself, which is the political map of Barsetshire — Bill Overton, of Framley Parsonage, The Unofficial Trollope

a book which might better have been called ‘The Chronicle of a Winter at Dillsborough’ — Trollope’s narrator, The American Senator

DillsboroughasDrawnbytheGerouldsblog
Dillsborough

Dear friends and readers,

This week on Trollope19thCStudies, I was asked some good questions:

When you have time, will you explain to us just what you mean by “mapping.” I admit I thought you meant you were making maps of the fictional places in the Barset novels … Is it just noting the places these authors mention in their novels? Is it like the scholars who make maps of the journeys through the streets of Dublin that the characters in Ulysses make? Could you give us a definition and what you believe the purpose or benefit of mapping is.

I’ve used the occasion to get down some of my thoughts towards my paper. One of the purposes of this blog is to work out thoughts towards scholarship projects. I wrote to know what I think. (E.M. Forster — “How can I tell what I think until I see what I say?”; Edward Albee — “I write to find out what I’m talking about.”) I’ve now read the four books I’m focusing on, each chosen because of its creation or use of a map: Castle Richmond, Framley Parsonage, Phineas Redux, and The American Senator, and I’ve found what are going to be my foundational texts. The above header is going to be its title.

So, to answer the question, the first thing I did was go back and look over 3 of these foundational texts, all by Franco Moretti: — Atlas of the European Novel, Signs Taken for Wonder, and a chapter called “Maps” in his Graphs, Maps and Trees. I didn’t find a definition of mapping. According to the Concise Oxford: a map is 1) a diagrammatic representation of an area or land or sea showing physical features, cities, roads; or 2) a dialogue or collection of data showing spatial arrangement or distribution of something. One critic argues that Trollope structures his books not by his stories and plots but by juxtaposing areas and groups of characters; it’s a spatial order we have in Last Chronicle of Barset and I think that’s so for The American Senator. The third definition has to do with genes so I skip it. We talk metaphorically about mapping all sorts of things.

In Atlas Moretti “mapped” the European novel several ways. He demonstrated to his satisfaction at any rate that England and France were dominating places for the development and dissemination of the realistic novel of the 19th century: it was in these societies they were written because the society lent itself to the typical themes of such novels (such as following an individual career in society, marrying for love which may be regarded as a career choice for women), and because the society had over the 18th century developed an small cottage industry of printing, selling, disseminating such books — the printing and distributed and making of money for writers and publishers grew by leaps and bounds because of advances in technology. Between the two language bases (French and English) there was also a constant flow back and forth of novels in the original and translation — as well as non-fiction books (travel books for a start).

As part of this Atlas Moretti wrote a chapter where he mapped the stories and characters of the books of several writers. One small section for Jane Austen began it — her map is small, self-contained; she chooses only a small part of even southern England and within that is further selective. Now what has happened is her presence through films and a cult has spread to the point that many readers like to assume the worlds she presents are coterminous with the world of the England in the 18th century. They go so far as to write books where they basically franchise — or do research — within Austen and create a 20th or 21st century Austenland.

Much larger were the worlds of city-dwellers and Moretti’s authors of choice are emphatically Balzac and Dickens. Prelude to these were writers like Bulwer-Lytton (the silver-fork novels of the 1820s, which Trollope read as a young man). What Moretti shows is that when characters in Balzac and Dickens novels move from one place to another they are moving within fields of power. As with Austen, though it’s less noticeable, they are selective; you think you are in a map of London or Paris, but you are not. You are in choice spots. The story of the novel – its narrative — is a story of movement from one place to another and back again.

In Signs taken for Wonders Moretti shows the plot-structure of Balzac’s novels follows his characters’ movement from one site to another where there is a gain or loss of power. Enthralling plots can come from such ordinary experiences. Streets are not where social experiences that matter take place; important experiences are in offices or houses; the characters are ignorant of the larger place they live in except as a route from one site to another. Finally characters can be ruined by other characters they’ve never met (might not have heard off), and they are treated as transformed by the place they live in.

In his chapter “Maps” he compared the imagined maps of Mary Mitford (Our Village) and Elizabeth Gaskell (Cranford), which he drew after reading these books with the Parisian maps by Balzac and Galt (Annals of the Parish), real rural maps (in John Barrell’s book on landscapes). As opposed to real maps and maps by Balzac, Mitford and Gaskell did not try to map routes out of their district to cities or towns outside these where things might be gotten that are not in the village; instead in Mitford’s village and Gaskell’s Cranford, most roads lead round and round Cranford; we see one of two go outside but they are drawn only so far as the place. We do not want to go out to the city unless it has something we need for real and can’t get in Cranford, and this is apparently rare.

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Photograph of Victoria Embankment, 1875 (a place and project used in political campaigns in the Palliser novels)

My thesis is Trollope was doing what Moretti says Balzac and Dickens (and Austen and Hardy too) did. The story of Phineas is just such a narrative as Lucien de Rubempre. Trollope is as selective as Balzac and Dickens only he selects up — as does Balzac. From what I’ve been reading Balzac is more all encompassing than either Dickens or Trollope say, but it may be those I’ve read (Graham Robb) write, like Moretti, out of strong admiration for Balzac and love of his books. Balzac encompasses much in Paris, really maps a lot of it. And yet some is imaginary; some are imaginary places. Trollope though has parallels with Austen — a prediction for the gentry in the country — and anticipates Hardy in that his characters do move out of their county life and into towns and cities and far away.

So first Castle Richmond and Trollope’s Ireland. Trollope lived for 18 years in Ireland and all over the place or at least several quite disparate places in Ireland: he first came to the midlands (Banagher) but he moved south and south west (mostly Kellys and OKellys occurs here, but also Dublin); he then moved to the North (Landleaguers); also he lived in Belfast; and he summer vacationed (so to speak) in the far west (where An Eye for an Eye takes place).

Not only did he live in disparate places, he literally mapped the place by setting up mail routes and riding over these again and again. He sat and made postal routes — maps. During the time he was writing the The Warden he was in south west England mapping postal routes and part of the impulse was his seeing Salisbury Cathedral now as a part-outsider who had to return to Ireland when this period of his “real” mapping of England ended and he and Rose moved to Dublin.

Roughly speaking his 5 novels which explicitly take place mostly in Ireland (An Eye for an Eye has scenes in England), Phineas Finn and Redux and the stories take place really all over Ireland. He covered the area in his novels. The question has arisen to me if I should concentrate on this. What I have read (by Mary Hamer) is what I suspected may be true of his London maps (Pallisers territory): Trollope creates worlds for his novels which seem coterminus with real worlds we experience, but are filled in with imagined places to the point that you cannot quite map Trollope’s worlds with say southeast England, or London, or, for that matter, southwest Ireland of the other cities in the world he imagined so concretely.

(The problem here is I’m obsessive and once I started on mapping Ireland in Trollope’s books it would take me months to do it right. And that kind of detail is not wanted — even most of the time by most people. It’d be like my Austen calendars.)

My guess is if the Anglo-Irish novels were filmed we’d have travelogues of Ireland. Thady flees to the mountains in Macdermots, the desolate countryside is an actor in that novel; the hero in An Eye for an Eye is murdered by a cliff; the lovers have their trysts out of doors by the seacoast of western Clare; there is a mass meeting in Dublin which opens Kellys and OKellys; murder and clashes occur outside courthouses in Landleaguers. Castle Richmond is there more a matter of contrasting houses (so an Anglo-Irish Ascendency landscape), but in London Herbert Fitzgerald realizes how low his status now is by his experience of the city and where he lives.

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NicholasReconstructionofBarsetshireSadleircommentary161small
Nichols’ reconstruction of Barsetshire (found in Sadleir)

Trollope also invents or maps places onto places already there. He invented Barsetshire which he tells us is a combination of Dorsetshire, Somersetshire, and Sadleir (p. 164) adds Gloucestershire, Wiltshire. He invented it unclearly at first, but by Dr Thorne it begins to be a place called East Barsetshire and by Framley Parsonage he makes a map. The Small House of Allington he once excluded from the Barsetshire books apart from its lack of a clerical theme, it takes place in Guestwick, an invented county next to Barsetshire.

AllinghamGerouldsblog
Allingham: Trollope is careful to delineate the relationships between the small and large house and their grounds

What must be emphasized here as important is this: insofar as Trollope is read and his maps believed, his books skew our understanding of place. There are people alive today reading these Barsetshire novels who will call them accurate — when for example, such abysmal poverty is omitted. At the time they had a striking actually partly because Trollope set them in contemporary UK (Scotland as well as England), refers to real events going on at the time. I suspect Angela Thirkell’s books reinforce this and erase the real poverty, real middle class lives today.

BragdonEstateasDrawnbyTheGerouldsblog
Bragdon Estates (drawn by Geroulds), next to Dillsborough in An American Senator

Turning to The American Senator, it’s a newly developed countryside but I am not sure as yet if Trollope is mapping over some previous place (or has a specific place in mind; none of the critics say he does nor does he). What I have discovered here is a minute geography of power. As in the Palliser novels across the board of London within the small district of Dillsborough, its outlying area and Bragton estate, as well as the estate of Mistletoe which Arabella Trefoil visits, depending on where you are, and what you are doing you are constrained to do to feel this, you are situated, you have status or not. The very dinner tables are geographies of power. Small House of Allington opens up with same sort of intricate detail of space and place (see above) and it all may be interpreted as to status, but there is also an idyllic romancing going on, nostalgia for past where gentry embedded with its church, tenants, nearby village.

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Pallisers 8:17: What Lord Fawn saw (from Phineas Redux)

In my proposal I did tell of how when I went to an Trollope Society AGM in London in 1999, we went on 1 of 6 circuitous detailed maps drawn from the Pallisers books, but which had locations for characters across Trollope’s whole oeuvre as well as from Trollope’s own life as far as we know it. We walked round Trollope. The route chosen was the one that the Rev Emilius followed in order to murder Fawn and the one Phineas followed to get home that night. What I’ve got to do here is access the accuracy of the routes obsessively gone over and over of say Bonteen’s murder and see how accurate or inaccurate they are, and I’ve been asked to review a book that may do just that: Emelyne Godfrey’s Masculinity, Crime and Self-Defence in Victorian Literature has a chapter on the street life of the Phineas books.

My hunch is while in the main Trollope is accurate, as in his Irish maps, he also departs imaginatively so as to make points about status, the characters, thematic sites. It’s telling that these scenes and streets have been filmed — in the Palliser parts covering the murder and trial. The Phineas Redux material in Pallisers contrasts a pastoral interlude of Gerard Maule and Adelaide Palliser riding in a city park (a kind of generalized convention and not taken from the book which contrasts London with the warmth and congeniality of Harringon Hall and its hunting in Trumpeton wood).

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A bucolic park where Fawn and Adelaide walk, and Maule and she ride together (Pallisers 8:17)

There was some shooting on location for the time in the 1974-75 series, but it was a time when little of this sort of thing was done (the Poldark series was a singular exception and the use of Cornwall and shooting on location was no small part of its success); if you do look at Davies’ recent films of TWWLN especially you see an attempt to get the streets in, but they are not differentiated, situated with respect to one another, nor imitative of what’s in the novel.

(There are also illustrations by Millais showing Phineas leaving the Bunces and taking up residence in a gentleman’s part of London overlooking a park; that is filmed in the earlier parts of the Pallisers from Phineas Finn.)

So that’s where I am.

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PosySimmonsCranfordblog
Posy Simmons’s Cranford, from end papers of Cranford Chronicles (modelled on Thomas Moule’s 19th century The County Maps of England, see Southern England)

I’ll conclude so many books sell popularly when publishers include maps I’m ever startled by how parsimonious they often are about these. The books of the filmed Cranford Chronicles had as papers Posy Simmonds exquisitely picturesque maps and if I could remember I know I’ve read about how Gaskell slowly invented that countryside and where it relates to.

Writing this blog has helped me be less afraid I’m not getting anywhere. I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew and so think a separate paper to be published just on the Irish novels is something I could do in future but would take too long here and not be appropriate. But I could as an exhibit myself try generally to draw one just to show — to have something to show as I won’t be doing a power point presentation. Jim is not up to it and I can’t do such things myself.

Ellen

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Irene Soames (Gine McKay) as old Jolyon (Corin Redgrave) comes upon her in the grounds of Robin House for the first time (2002 Forsyte Saga, Part 5)

Dear friends and readers,

I’ve not had time to blog here again since Saturday. I’ve been off-line from Hurricane Sandy: I hope all who read this blog and are in the area affected by the vast intense storm. are now safe and have access to power again or know when they are going to have access and in the meantime have somewhere to go for sleep, rest, comfort, and food. And that eventually you are compensated and helped out of your losses again insofar as this is possible.

And for been weeks busy with my own tales of upstairs/downstairs (house improvements DIY). Not to omit writing some portraits (Henry and Eliza Austen, Aunt Jane) and about Austen’s letters on Austen Reveries.

I’ve a new plan I hope to go through with. Preparatory to the third season of Downton Abbey, I will at least post my blogs on the episodes from last season, culminating in the Christmas special, as well my continual watching of the two Forsyte Sagas, both 1967 and 2002, a pleasurable and instructive comparison: both are superb. I mean to return to serious film studies, to go through the first and second; the still at the head of this blog is one of Irene Soames shortly after the death of Philip Bossiney, her lover, and her escape from Soames. She wanders in the idyllic Robin House grounds where the idyllic interlude with the old man begins.

I’ve been reading Gaskell (Mary Barton, North and South), Trollope (Castle Richmond), Dickens (Bleak House and now Little Dorrit), not to omit Charlotte Smith (Ethelinde, and just finishing her first novel, Emmeline, or, The Orphan of the Castle), and about historical fiction. I do hope to share some of this with you, as well as translation studies and foremother poets to come.


Where I spill my life, much I love close at hand, near to heart

Cheers,
from Ellen and Jim

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Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went–and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light …
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress–he died.
— Byron, inspiration for Shelley’s The Last Man


The Gothic Wanderer by Tyler Tichelaar


Caspar David Friedrich (1174-1840), A Monk by the Sea: a sublime picture Stephen C. Behrendt uses when teaching the gothic (from Gothic Fiction: The British and American Traditions: Approaches to Teaching, edd. Diane Long Hoeveler & Tamar Heller

Dear friends and readers,

As someone who has been reading gothic books ever since I began to read books meant for adults, and has taught gothic books many times, constructed a course I gave several times in different versions, Exploring the Gothic, and dedicated part of my website to the gothic, I found myself a little startled to discover that of some 19 or so novels Tyler Tichelaar analyses with care, I’d read through only 5 of them (!), and never finished another 2 — until I turned to the MLA-sponsored Gothic Fiction: The British and American Traditions, edd. Diane Long Hoeveler & Tamar Heller, to find my ratio there was just as bad, maybe worse. The gothic as a mode is a vast terrain capable of swallowing up a variety of forms (novel, poetry, film, story, opera, video game) and conveying a themes diverse enough to be popular across several centuries. Sometimes the same book at the same time can be accurately interpreted as reactionary-conservative or radical progressive (see Richard Davenport-Hines’s The Gothic: 400 Years … ). Nevertheless, as those of us who love the mode know there are a number of images, plot-, and character types, moods, emphases that repeat like a formula. That’s why it’s easy to make fun of. Take one huge labyrinthine ancient (preferably partly ruined) dwelling, one cavern, a seashore, place inside a murderous incestuous father or mother (preferably chained), heroes and heroines (various kinds), get a tempest going at night, be sure to have plenty of blood on hand, and stir in a great deal of supernatural phenomena, have the action occur in the deep past or be connected to a deep past …

It seems most teachers begin a course in the gothic the way I did: by attempting to immerse students somehow or other: I used a short gothic novel, Susan Hill’s Woman in Black and the 1989 film adaptation, a genuinely unnerving experience whose central figure students told me they feared seeing afterward, or (for brevity as well as power), Edith Wharton’s short story, Afterward, with the BBC 1 hour film adaptation. Then I’d have the students say what they thought was characteristically gothic in either.

Tyler Tichelaar would though probably not begin with these two, nor Scott Simpkins (one of the contributors to Gothic Fiction) who seems to concentrate his course on what’s called the male gothic, and who says there are nowadays few full-scale books devoted to the male gothic, probably because the revival and recent respectability of the form is a direct result of feminism. As Eva Figes shows in her Sex and Subterfuge, the female gothic allows women writers and readers to express, experience, awake up to see, express and protest in a displaced fantasy form the real oppression and destructive nature of the upbringing and circumstances women are subjected to. At its center is usually a woman who is unjustly victimized, often imprisoned, beaten in some way. The male gothic takes the male trajectory of inflicted stress, loss, pressure, punishment, usually a male at the center, and often someone exiled — wandering far from home, unable to find or make a home, to belong anywhere. I am here simplifying of course, a book can contain both modes, women can write male gothics; men, female gothics.

This is not the only fault-line. How is it related to the picturesque on the one hand and the sublime on the other? Are horror distinguishable from terror gothics? There are sub-genres to the form: the ghost story does tend to dwell on guilt, on some irretrievable injustice having been done and is not physically violent but offers psychological terror, where the vampire story is a brutal physical exercise in breaking bodily taboos, its origins include fear of the dead hating the living, simply because (in atavistic kinds of thought) they are still living. The modern short story with its subtle sudden intrusion of the uncanny (un-home-y) stemming from M. R. James tends to present the supernatural as psychological projection. So too ways of reading differ. Tichelaar tends to analyze his stories from a Christian perspective, looking to see how the gothic enables readers to cope with the breakdown of family-centered or supportive laws and customs, and older traditional forms of state organization; Eva Sedgwick is persuaded that the gothic arises from paranoia about homosexuality (really any transgressive sexuality outside a narrow set of conventions) and discusses what gothics can make us see sexually which realistic conventions would preclude (Between Men; also her notorious “Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl” reprinted in Tendencies).

I take this direction because it is the great merit of Tichelaar’s book to dwell on the male gothic and use the figure of the wanderer as a way of exploring a series of related books, some written by, as for example, Fanny Burney where he analyses the distinctively feminist perspective of her work (a long chapter on her The Wanderer) and Mary Shelley where he analyses the woman’s deployment of Rosicrucian elements, the Christian myth of Paradise Lost, a profoundly pessimistic rejection of much of the romantic in an apocalyptic mythos (another long chapter, this one on Frankenstein and then The Last Man).


Robert de Niro as Frankenstein’s outcast, lonely monster, wandering in a world of snow and ice (1993 Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein)

As Tichelaar says, we never learn for sure that the monster has found peace in death. Tichelaar’s point of view on The Wanderer as a gothic book about a figure seeking a community has recently been discussed in The Burney Journal too: Andrew Dicus, “Evelina, The Wanderer, and Gothic Spatiality: Francis Burney and a Problem of Imagined Community,” Burney Journal 11 (2011):23-38.

Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho as well as Matthew Lewis’s The Monk are also key texts. Tichelaar empathizes with Antonio. He understands and justifies Radcliffe’s heroines turn to reason and community at the close of harrowing losses, where especially married women and daughters are abused.


Alfonso Simonetti, Ancor Non Torna, an illustration for 19th century Italian translation of Radcliffe’s Romance of the Forest

Tichelaar takes the gothic into the Edwardian era and then the 20th century with discussions of Stoker’s Dracula (another long chapter), Tarzan and the modern heroic vampire. (Although not discussed as an example by Tichelaar I’ve done Suzy McKee Charnas’s 1980s Vampire Tapestry, much indebted to geological ideas, with great success with students.)

This could be an effective book for teachers to send students to read. Tichelaar writes in a readable style; he really does tell the stories of his books effectively. I can vouch for this as in a number of cases I was not at all at a loss not having read the book. Their situations and character types are summed up clearly. He begins with Milton’s Paradise Lost which is a centrally alluded-to text — until recent times and its presentation of legitimate transgression (as the romantics saw it). I liked the plainness and personal sincerity of the approach. Tichelaar begins with his love of the gothic as a boy, how he found himself when he first became an academic forced to travel far from home (upper Michigan), displaced, identified with the gothic wanderer, and feels this is a figure who can speak home to people today similarly transplanted, or peoples today who fight to control their homeland. He traces anti-semitism and sympathy for the outcast Jew in the figure of the wanderer. He’s very concrete when he makes analogies. It is true that gambling is a central sin in Udolpho. Godwin’s St Leon does seem to be about Godwin’s own troubles as a radical philosopher trying to persuade people that reason (and a scientific outlook ultimately) drawn from experience is a far better guide to life than religious beliefs (or myths). Tichelaar is unusual for arguing that for Godwin “life’s true meaning exists in the value of human relationships, so he condemns whatever may sunder them” (p. 67). Many critics suggest Godwin’s detachment from his personal context when he argued his theses that he offended his readers intensely.

I probably learned most (new) material from Tichelaar’s chapter leading from Thomas Carlyle’s at first despairing Sartor Resartus (he ponders suicide) as a text about a gothic to Bulwer-Lytton’s Zanoni leading to Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities. Dickens borrowed his tale of Sidney Carlton substituting himself for another man from Zanoni, was influenced by Carlyle’s French Revolution, and B-L’s use of Rosicrucian ideas about immortality and Christian Redemption. For my part I’m not sure that Dickens himself believed in these providential patterns, but he was willing to use them to (as Tichelaar says) “create a novel that is life-affirming and provides redemption for its Gothic wandering characters” (p. 193). Tichelaar emphasizes the number of wanderers in this novel, the theme of “recalled to life” (as an imperative), and how Carlton acts for the Darnay family (“I hold a sanctuary in their hearts,” p. 206) group and is a Christ-figure. The revolution is a background for a plot of sacrifice (p. 196). Maybe. I remember I was intensely moved by Dickens’s portrait of the depressive Sidney Carlton, and his poignant semi-suicide (I just cried and cried), the famous line (no matter how parodied I care not): “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known,” and Ronald Colman’s enactment:


Ronald Colman (when I was 13 my very favorite actor) — a noble-in-failure gothic wanderer

Jim’s complaint has been (while watching the movie, he read the book decades ago) that Dickens’s text lends itself to anti-French revolution propaganda of a simplistic sort. It’s easy to fear and detest the Madame Defarges of the 1935 film. I’m not sure; I’m hoping later this year (or next) to read the book with a fun and generous group of people on Inimitable-Boz (at Yahoo) and watch a number of the films adapted from it before pronouncing even tentatively.

The MLA Gothic Fiction is so rich with titles of books, ways of defining and introducing different forms of gothic, and then essays on specific gothic texts, I must perforce select out those chapters which either impressed me particularly or troubled me and draw examples from those where the kinds of gothic and those specific texts I’ve gravitated towards, preferred to read or have taught are those analysed.


Friedrich, Woman at the Window (1822)

The opening section of the book is particularly rich and useful. Six essays by respected scholars on how they start their gothic courses, how go about defining the gothic, exemplifying it: Marshall Brown uses philosophical texts:

Solitude moves us in every one of its peaceful pictures. In sweet melancholy the soul collects itself to all feelings that lead aside from world and men at the distant rustic tone of a monastery bell, at the quiet of nature in a beautiful night, on every high mountain, near each crumbling monument of old times, in every terrifying forest. But he who knows not what it is to have a friend, a society in himself, who is never at home with his thought, never with himself, to him solitude and death is one and the same.

Stephen Behrendt offers pictures, Anne Williams distinguishes female from male gothic, Carol Snef gothic’s distrust and use of science. In the last part of the book we again get general approaches, which films (Wheeler Winston Dixon), how to cope with demands one make the course interdisciplinary or include public service, reach out to relatively unprepared students. There are just a cornucopia of cited secondary studies; I looked and did see all my favorite texts were there (including the profound Elegant Nightmares, about ghost stories as popular version of Kafkaesque visions, by Jack Sullivan), though I missed the French studies that are so important (Maurice Levy). The book is limited to Anglo versions of the gothic — though these are influenced by European texts and pictures.


Henri Fuseli (1741-1825), Perceval delivering Belisane from the Enchantment of Urma (1783) — said to be wholly invented by Fuseli. What is happening here: Is the man trying to kill himself, thrust that sword down the women’s body or is he trying to break the chain of the kneeling man?

Then there are 19 essays on specific texts set out chronologically (starting with Walpole’s Castle of Otranto and ending on African-American gothics, e.g., Naylor’s Linden Hills, and really pop books (equivalent to Tichelaar’s Tarzan) like Anne Rice’s. Notable: Angela Wright on the intermingling of solid historicity with narratives of female sexual exploitation in Sophia Lee’s The Recess, Diane Long Hoeveler in effect summarizes her book Gothic Feminism for you (using among others Wollstonecraft, Dacre). Like Tichelaar, Daniel Scoggin takes you on a journey through the gothic by follwing a single figure: the vampire. I found myself learning new characteristics of sub-genres in Mark M. Hennely’s description of the Irish gothic (big-house displacement), liked the clarity of Susan Allen Ford on contemporary female gothic (Angela Carter, Margaret Atwood).

I’ll concentrate just on Judith Wilt “‘And still he insists He Sees the Ghosts’: Defining the Gothic” and Kathy Justice Gentile’s “Supernatural Transmissions Turn-of-the-Century Ghosts in American Women’s Fiction: Jewett, Freeman, Wharton and Gilman.” I was troubled by Wilt (and a couple of other contributors) who said she encourages her students to suspend their disbelief and really believe in this world of spirits or “spirituality,” and cannot quite believe her assertion that their students are sceptical. I taught gothic courses for a number of years and I found students all too frequently did believe in ghosts or could be led into saying they did. They’d imply “we don’t know, do we?” sometimes at the end of a talk. Gentile shows how to read Sarah Orne Jewet’s Country of the Pointed Firs as gothic, and then Mary Wilkins Freeman’s collected ghost stories (collected as The Wind in the Rose) re-enacting the tragedies of mothers losing their children and their loneliness and rage, culminating in Wharton’s ghost stories one which I’ve read again and again with my students and with people online in cyberspace. Wharton’s subjects marriage to a relentlessly alert scrutiny; as theme across them all is a concealed repressed vulnerable self who becomes enthralled by the past and the dead evaluation of Edith Wharton’s.


“The Lost Ghost” (from Forrest Reid, Illustrators of the Eighteen Sixties, 1928, p. 89)

As a measure of this MLA’s book’s advice, the bibliographic essayist recommends Chris Baldick’s introduction to his Gothic Tales volume as one short place which really puts the history of the genre and it central dispositions together. I read it and agree. I like how Baldick denies that the gothic is universal in reach: each of its fears work only within “the peculiar framework of its conventions” and it does belong to a peculiar set of people in a specific set of centuries where life has been lived in a fraught way (pp. xx-xxi). Margaret Anne Doody’s essay, ‘Deserts, Ruins and Troubled Waters: Female Dreams in Fiction (in Genre, 1977) is one of the best essays (and so enjoyable) ever written on the female gothic. I bought myself Mary Wilkins Freeman’s collected ghost stories (I had read only one thus far), read in a couple of the anthologies of tales and ghost stories I have in the house, and vowed I’d read my collection of essays on intertextuality in Wharton bye Adeline Tintner next.

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“The Library Window” (illustration for ghost story by Margaret Oliphant)

I have myself been troubled that when I teach the gothic that I am encouraging atavistic dangerous beliefs. I’d be careful at the outset to say I didn’t believe there was a supernatural world filled with ghosts, witches, vampires or anything else. I emphasizes we were entering a fantasy realm which made heavy use of realism to draw us in. I know the gothic takes us into the realm of the numinous (to my mind the origin of the term where cathedrals are concerned) well beyond the limited doctrinal codes of establishment religions. But once we raise these terrors and the awareness death is not far from us at any time do we have the courage to confront honestly the perception of human experience raised. Elizabeth Napier famously honestly argued gothic novels fail, are silly, masochistic, disjunctive in form. Neither of these books answers responds to such objections.

I felt a residual reluctance because the material can be called sick. To myself I would say that much in human live and society is sick or very bad, and this mode enables us to explore serious issues in life, loss, grief, sexuality, madness, death, but yet I know the instigation of fear and playing around with character who are made neurotic has a downside. When students morally condemn this or that, it’s no help as most students are regarding what they are reading as “other” than them. To suggest that the stories are ethical because they bring out spirituality (religious feelings) in characters is to suggest that those who do not believe in religion are unethical. By implication this is discussed continually when the critic analyses the story to bring out its ethical content or how it criticizes society, and yet I know many students do not listen well, do not understand what they are told, and simply dismiss what a professor might say if it goes against their deep-seated lessons from their family backgrounds.

I admit I chose the gothic because it was safer. When I taught directly realistic books I would often end up being directly political or more clearly so than I meant to be. Students often did not agree with my politics, were disturbed and even angered by books like say All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Marque or John LeCarre’s The Constant Gardener. So when I did Walter von Tilburg Clark’s The Ox-Bow Incident after say doing Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, the depiction of the violence of US culture was somehow deflected by the use of fantasy to depict victimization.

Still I carried on teaching gothic books as part or the whole of a course because students responded intensely to some of the material. The very formulaic quality of some of it (ghost story structure) made asking them to do a talk something they could do. Perhaps Leslie Fielder was right and US culture really has gothic currents embedded in it. I like how Tyler Tichelaar reads the gothic out of his personal experience. His idea seems to me valid: we are turned into rootless souls in emotionally destructive environments when we are torn from our birthplaces and original families because that is what one must do to get a paying job (survive) in the US. I identify with the female victim heroine or the hero who is a man of sensitivity attacked for this, and this is out of my experience of growing up female in the US. Like Ann Radcliffe’s heroines I turn to reveries in beautifully ordered (picturesque) landscapes to find peace.


Friedrich, Evening

I recommend both books for readers and teachers of the gothic.

Ellen

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Phineas (Donal McCann) famously humiliated and harassed by Mr Clarkson (Sidney Bromley) who urges him “Do Be Punctual” (Pallisers 4:7)

Dear friends and readers,

Another in the same spirit as my last. Again on Victoria someone asked for citations of debt in Victorian novels, so I wrote as follows:

As he often mirrors common reality, Trollope has so many instances and characters driven, worried and occasionally (rarely but it happens) exploiting debt in different ways it’s impossible to catalogue briefly. The most common and well-remembered plot device is of the man who counter-signs a bill for someone else and then the other person doesn’t pay it. Phineas Finn lured and pressure by Lawrence Fitzgibbon in Phineas Finn, but also Mark Robarts in Framley Parsonage who co-signs for Lord Lufton who can much better afford living on more than he has.

Larger versions of this include male characters who owe a lot of money and hide this or that their business is failing or non-existant: this leads to suicide — Melmotte and Lopez and Dobbs Brougton. Debt collectors can sometimes hound women and they seek to sell jewels or use them as insurance (Lizzie Eustace). The “blaggard” type male who we are to have contempt for is the man driven to take money from a woman (though we may be led to understand why he does): George Vavasour dragging money out of Alice Vavasour because he has to pay huge election bribes, and then breaking his sister’s arm when the grandfather dies and it’s discovered he had left just about everyone to George’s sister, but in trust so he cannot get at it.


Kate Vavasour holding her broken arm after George has fled (from the original illustrations of Trollope’s novels, this one by Miss Taylor, a scene in Can You Forgive Her?)

The most interesting instances though are those which enabled us to see the working of finance in the Victorian period: say, the short story, “Why Frau Frohman Raised her Prices” shows an Austrian woman innkeeper’s struggle not to raise her prices:

The Frau had always held her head high,– had never been ashamed of looking her neighbour in the face, but when she was advised to rush at once up to seven swansigers and a half (or five shillings a day), she felt that, should she do so, she would be overwhelmed with shame. Would not her customers then have cause of complaint? Would not they have such cause that they would in truth desert her? Did she not know that Herr Weiss, the magistrate from Brixen, with his wife, and his wife’s sister, and the children, who came yearly to the Peacock, could not afford to bring his family at this increased rate of expenses? And the Fraulein Tendel with her sister would never come from Innsbruck if such an announcement was made to her.

She learns a very hard way that to keep up with inflation (as we would put it, she must must raise her prices. Trollope analyses the workings of a business: how the Frau has to buy things before she makes money by selling them, and how when the price of these go up, she must put her prices up; if she does not, how she must buy inferior goods and then loses customers but when she does, she helps other people do better (who work for her). He does not (unfortunately) go further than that, but it is still an insightful analysis which explicates the workings of capitalism. In Doctor Thorne Roger Scatcherd now an alcoholic and ostracized from people of his own intelligence because he is not of their class grew rich by saving the large amounts he made as a construction worker who opened his own business; he then lent money to others to begin enterprises. In the Victorian period it was very difficult (well nigh impossible) for an ordinary man to borrow large sums to open a business. Charles Darwin’s father grew rich by lending money and charging interest (like Roger) of course.

Novels by Trollope about gambling or fearful of it will be about debt include s a minor gambler in Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite, man who is an aristocratic drone type (familiar) and lives off his mistress; Burgo Fitzgerald does very badly at the gambling tables when last seen in Can You Forgive Her and is given an allowance by Plantagenet Palliser who also becomes wrathful when his wife, Lady Glen, congenial with Burgo and still in love with him, wants to gamble too and blamed Alice Vavasour (poor Alice). Quiet prostitution within boarding houses to pay the rent is shown in Trollope’s Miss Mackenzie. How single women really got on.

Other novelists:

Oliphant’s Hester is about the workings of a business and family and thus how well the successful yet lonely, envied and somehwat isolated heroine by the end has handled debt (It reflects Oliphant’s successful career). Gwendolen marries Grandcourt in Daniel Deronda to avoid her mother going into debt; the novel opens with her learning how gambling will not do. In Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters, the secondary heroine, Cynthia is hounded by Preston, a ruthless aggressive steward who sexually wants her (and now wants to be allied to her as her mother has married up by marrying Mr Gibson), Preston, I say, tortures her emotionally over a 20 pound debt and blackmailing letters to prove it; he wants to force her to marry him.


From opening shots of Daniel Deronda (director Tom Hooper, scripted by Andrew Davies): next to Gwendoleth an aging women’s bejewelled hands at the gambling table

And so much in Dickens, just to start: Little Dorrit. The Marshalsea prison. Mr and Mrs Merdle destroyed. Arthur Clenham thrown in jail near the end.

And who can forget:

Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure
nineteen pounds, nineteen six, result happiness. Annual
income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds,
ought and six, result misery. —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield

Debt does never seem to make anyone happy in Victorian novels. It does not make individual people happy in our own day, and that’s why the Republicans can manipulate the populace by arguing the state deficit must be brought down. Corporations are not people; nor are states. Deficits when the money brought in is used by gov’t to expand social services, building roads and schools, providing for lower interest rates really does provide more jobs and a better life for all. Ask Frau Frohmann how capitalism can work well.

Ellen

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Dear friends and readers,

What do you mean summer’s here? It’s the beginning of May. Well, arguably from the point of view of weather, here in Northern Virginia we have two seasons: the cold (or maybe it would be more accurate nowadays to say the mostly cool and chilly) where days are short, and the light is ruthlessly husbanded to make it last as long as possible in the later parts of the 24 hour cycle; and the hot (sometimes fiercely) with long enough light, so those of us who find demands we awaken in the darkness so hard to take, have the relief of a lit sky by 6 am. And we are in the latter season now.

But that’s not how I’m defining summer. I’m defining summer as the day when teaching ceases, and my schedule turns into a summer one for the next 3 or so months. As I teach in a college where the semester’s classes ended for me yesterday, that’s what happened today. Some people don’t feel the term is ended until the literal work is & I understand that. In a way I’ve a third of the reading of students’ papers to go. They hand in their last (3rd) paper and do a final (which has 3 short essays in class as part of it and outside class answer about 20 questions) but for me once my summer routs begin the summer begins. And while I like it, indeed find it exhilarating, sane or larger perspective-giving, what I find hard is the teaching itself. That’s the ordeal, that’s the strain.

And today I began to develop my summer’s reading and started to develop the trajectory into my summer’s writing. I sent off a final copy of my review of the Later Manuscripts of Jane Austen, a Cambridge book edited by Janet Todd and Linda Bree, and am finishing the last of the reading for my on-going project of reading and writing about a letter by Jane Austen each week: Mary Brunton’s 1810 novel, Self-Control and Brian Southam’s Jane Austen and the Navy. I began my return to Sophie Cottin to see if I can make a proposal on infamous novels for the coming EC/ASECS, using Cottin’s Amelie Mansfield and Charlotte Smith’s Manon Lescaut. I’ll write more about this as time develops — I have no deadline as I’ve also decided to go down to one section a term starting this fall so this new group of ever-revolving routs is not going to end come late August, only diminish somewhat. Over on my Sylvia blog I’ll try to work out my plan every so often. I do need order so I feel I have meaning and if only to know what to read and what to write next.

For tonight I thought I’d say here what I’ve been listening to over this past year in my car — using MP3s as CDs which I have to buy. I’ve tried the librivox recordings: Mil Nicholson reading Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend is probably among the better as she really reads dramatically, but I found I couldn’t enjoy it. She just tried too hard, went excruciatingly slowly in order to pull the voices and imagined scenes off, seemed after all to miss the larger implications or meanings and it strained my patience how at the end of each chapter I had to listen to a full announcement once again that this was librivox, in the “public domaine”, by whom, who reading and where we were. I was told this was to try to stop those who are unscrupulous from selling these readings by informing anyone who bought it they need not have. To my mind all this did was allow the private property and personal profit system to invade the world of the imagined books naggingly.

Audible.com and other venues where one can supposedly buy (or perhaps rent) many kinds of recordings are set up to cheat the customer, to trap him or her into spending huge amounts of money (see “Stay Away! it’s filled with traps!”). So my plan to use my new ipod this way didn’t work. And there’s nothing for it but buy what one can find at Amazon.

I checked out how much it would cost to turn my audiocassettes into tapes. I might do this eventually — a little at a time though. It costs $9 a cassette. That doesn’t sound overmuch, but what happened when you have 18 tapes for one of the book so Paul Scott’s Raj Quartet. That’s $180 for the book. You see the problem, especially as I’m not sure the book’s tapes are not dried out and will transfer well.

For me that means mostly older books and what’s called classics and better fiction when it’s on sale. A sad decrease in what I can choose from. The old books-on-tape used to include read books that sold only to relative minority of people — good non-fiction, history, biography, science, e.g., David Case reading abridgements of Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle or Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire which were not savaged but long enough to include a lot; Donada Peters reading Victoria Glendinning’s biography of Anthony Trollope. When the demand for big profit and wide sales as the criteria for what would be read aloud took over, mostly trash or this year’s fashionable book for an elite is all one can obtain — and by buying, not renting.

Still I made do. Why? I still spent a lot of hours in my car, often driving Izzy somewhere. These hours were cut down as of December when she got her good full-time job as an Information Technologist. Yes she did. I still though have many as there is no good public transportation in Virginia. And, as I’ve mourned as Sylvia, I can no longer read much or even at all at night. My brain gives out and at best I can watch movies — or write blogs. Summer being here I will be much less in the car (twice a week for 90 minutes to and from GMU was a central time), so I thought I’d record what I read this year — or listened to which comes down to the same thing sometimes better as books brilliantly read aloud are true to many authors’ purposes.

Unless I’m misremembering (which I don’t think I am) I began with Donada Peters and David Case alternating the two narrators of Anne Bronte’s Tenant of Wildfell Hall. This was so good, especially the soft brogue Case used for Gilbert Markhan, I sometimes could hardly wait to get into my car. This was late spring just after my tape deck broke and I never finished David Case reading Fielding’s Tom Jones.

Come June I was into Trollope’s Last Chronicle of Barset read aloud by Simon Vance. While he is good, his interpretation was grating: he read Josiah Crawley as not tragic but veering on the comic-ridiculous (or contemptible). Hot or true high summer (August) I began and through the early fall (much of this with Izzy) listened to Donada Peters reading Daniel Deronda (we loved it, especially the Jewish half of the novel or intertwined stories), Middlemarch (I don’t think it could have been better read) and Romola (a book that fails but nonetheless has some great, riveting sequences — Izzy found it so as well as I). One might call it a George Eliot year.

I tried to post regularly in the morning on some of this in order to keep notes and remember. Only for Romola did I have anyone reading with me (on Trollope19thCStudies).

Then we turned to Dickens. I regret to say I succumbed to an abridged version of Dickens’s Little Dorrit. I thought I’d try it as the complete was so expensive — so many CDs. Anton Lesser was superb and, with a little help from Davies’s film adaptation and interpretation of Amy Dorrit (and memories of Christine Edzard’s), I felt we were in the presence of preposterous genius. The book is prophetic of today. Still we missed much I know. Then the ill-fated Mil Nicholson of Our Mutual Friend. Sometimes the book felt stillborn and if it had not been for Sandy Welch’s brilliant film, I would have gotten nothing out of it; with Welch I did feel I reached the pith and electrifying core of the book. I do think Dickens was tired or made a wrong decision to recuse himself as narrator for his characters in this novel are not sufficiently rich in imaginative thoughtful subjectivity, to carry the book.

Just now I’m into David Case reading Bleak House; if I’ve heard or read this one before, I forgot a lot of it and again the problems in it (and there are a number as in all Dickens’s books) are counteracted by Davies’ film. Next up will be Juliet Stevenson (what a treat) reading Gaskell’s Mary Barton.

So I’m not doing too badly, you see. Probably though since from here on in I’ll be relatively rarely in my car, I won’t be posting all that much on my reading since much this coming summer will be in the 18th century and surrounding Austen (I mean at long last to do a full paper on Bad Tuesday).

I do try to read at night and have managed over the past couple of months to return to Winston Graham’s Poldark novels and have read at a leisurely pace (when I could) his Ross Poldark, Demelza, and now Jeremy Poldark. I’m finding these books reward re-reading and I’m seeing new rich elements in them I had not realized before. I know there are older tapes of these read aloud, but nowadays a reading must occur on MP3s as CDs to be listenable to for me in my car and affordable.

*********************

So let me take time out to say here that I’m relieved and delighted to be able to say that for a second time Ross Poldark, No. 1 of this historical novel series, went over superlatively well. Last year I was so nervous going in on the first of the 3-4 days set aside for this (like other) books. But I got what were undoubted two of the best talks I had all term. This time a talk was given on the treatment of Demelza versus the treatment of Verity which got the whole class discussing these characters, their scenes, issues involved. I was startled to see a student I fully expected not to show, not only turn up for the talk, but bring a thoroughly marked up book. A fourth had gone through the mini-series and put on scenes for us to watch and then directed our attention to the book. She didn’t have a real thesis, but her choices were such, it left us a lot to talk about.


Ross (Robin Ellis) talking to Pearce (John Baskcomb) at the opening of the first episode; the young man just returned … (Part 1, 1975-76 Poldark)

It’s a tribute to the 18th century too. The last speaker (in my other class) was just chuffed to find feminist talk/discourse in the 18th century — and “by a woman” said she amazedly. She found a passage by Anna Barbauld’s niece, Lucy Aiken. I did have quotations from both Paine (Rights of Man) and Wollstonecraft (The Rights of Woman) ready. Several said how they felt there was not the resolution at the end that they wanted; that they were just beginning, hardly in medias res as they closed Ross Poldark.


When Ross first sees Demelza at the fair: she is being beaten (Part 2, 1975-76 Poldark)

Graham catches the reader with his slow drawn appealing characters we believe in and identify with. There is this intensity of concern with the characters; Graham is in them and utterly involved with their fully imagined situation. This fourth time round I see that the core of the novel which dominates it is a continual intimate delineation of the two central personalities melding and not melding together in an early phase of their marriage.

I’ve read on to Demelza and finished it last night for a fourth time. Ross Poldark incites a riot over two ships coming into and wrecked on the shore and a savage mob action ensues, a Walpurgis night to match the splendor of the night catching pilchards. The last two times round I really didn’t read slowly or carefully enough to see that indeed the hero is presented as psychologically half-crazed over the failure of all his schemes, the death of this baby daughter, the abysmal poverty around him closing in, and the enfeebled wife who to free his sister, Verity, unknowingly brought this on them — she was loyal to the individual not the group, a no no for which she is harshly punished. Nor that there are striking Jacobin sentiments given him at the same time. The book rewards re-reading in the light of the other books.


Demelza (Angharad Rees) says he has become her whole life, she loves him for all he has done (Part 3, 1975-76 Poldark)

Winston Graham will be one of my continuing projects for a long time to come.

*********************

So all this is to explain why I’ve not been posting on books here of late and or when I have it’s been retrospective (as in my Praise of Colm Toibin). I’ve fallen back on operas, movie-going or watching at night, what I’ve read and watched with my students (my lecture notes turned into blogs). And Downton Abbey — beloved older mini-series too. Now I’m ever hoping to do better and if I can muster up the energy to make sense of the morning notes I took on the above books or from my morning posts this summer, or find something new or genuinely interesting to say about what I have managed at night or in Jim and my coming summer activities (we are going to go to plays, operas, the Fringe festival again, the occasional lecture, dramatic reading aloud), I will. Spin offs from my later day-time routs will come in here too. In my brief discussion of Ross Poldark and Demelza I’ve given an example of what I hope to be able to do on occasion on reading-as-life.

Ellen

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Filmic rendition in Welch’s movie of the famous opening scenes of Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend: opening shot of movie; Lizzie (Keeley Hawes) at center; John Harmon (Steven Mackintosh) back from the dead and drowned the last

Dear friends and readers,

Over the past 10 weeks I’ve been listening to Mil Nicolson (Librivox) read aloud Dickens’s last complete great novel, Our Mutual Friend while in my car. Alas, I didn’t get very far: I was hardly in my car after the 1st week of December, and I was that awkward with the thumbnail drive and the ipod, I kept re-listening to what I had heard. I managed to get near Chapter 20. At the same time though I did read a number of essays on Dickens’s novel and found myself remembering my first reading of the novel while I was in my thirties, when I reached the point of the strained marriage
of Bella Wilfhur and John Rokesmith and Dickens’s presentation of Rokesmith’s way of educating Bella out of her materialism and prestige-oriented values. It seemed to me a reverse of Ibsen’s The Doll House: he was tyrant and she obdurate pupil. I was pulled along by the ferocious rivalry of Headstone (his deep injuried) and the nihilism, arrogance of that expert needle artist, Eugene Wrayburn. Finally the abject Lizzie despised at some level by both and all but Jenny Wren, her loving self-annhiliation.

So I sought quick entry into the novel by way of Sandy Welch’s masterpiece film, a transposition (faithful), Our Mutual Friend. And I found I got closer to the book than I might have done in the text had I been able to read at night. (I no longer can most of the time.) Welch is (as she often is) faithful to the plot-design, keeps all major characters (and invents no new ones), keeps all the hinge points (central plot turning points), famous lines (well what there is of fame). She respects Dickens — and her audience. I just loved this film and writ here about it to suggest it is a deeply humane way reading of the novel and present another case for the greatness of costume drama and mini-series.

Welch’s film is deeply melancholy, sad and opens where Dickens’s does: the river. I remember OMF as being highly unusual for Dickens for its central exploration of sexuality twisted and gone wrong and the conflict of Headstone and Wrayburn, but this far in the book (Chapter 8) the idea that what is driving the world into sickness is not that everyone is longing to love one another and be loved — which is Welch’s particular emphasis.

Dickens’s book had stayed with me: I still remembered the opening on the river between Liz and her bird of prey father after all these years. The 2nd chapter of the Veneerings is generalized out to depict the dysfunctional — unreal, utterly insincere lying — basis of social life and the goals of those who practice dinners. The 3rd chapter gives us some understanding of what we saw in Chapter 1, and we meet Eugene (a do nothing, this type embitters Dickens so, only here we are allowed to see how hard it is to do something and how it’s all wrapped up in money and performance) and then 4th, Lizzie who can’t read because it would offend her father and she can only hope “to influence” if she gives up her inner life.

Dark and bitter and lost. I miss the use of the narrators in Bleak House (Esther Summerson versus the saturnine voice) and the use of 3rd person free indirect discourse in Little Dorrit. We are at such a distance from these figures we listen to and see thus far.

Welch’s film worked for me as all was presented as deep grief from Lizzie’s horrified bewildered point of view. The settings were most of them of narrow spaces, no room to turn, dark too, scary as allowing people to come up behind you and destroy you. Or abject public spaces.

It’s a world based on the river. Everyone gets their living off the river and around it. Even dredging up corpses. People throw themselves into the river or are thrown there.

It’s a world of garbage dumps. Of people making their living scavenging. The Boffins for years have run a huge garbage dump.


Mr Boffin (Peter Vaughn) showing Mr Rokesmith (Steven Mackintosh’s second disguise, now hired as Boffin’s secretary) his house and environs

In the film after the river scene and the party salon choral scene:


Lady Tippins (Margaret Tyzack) in the center

we cut to the scene in the public tavern which comes out of the river: In both book and film we encounter the hard indifference of behavior Miss Abbey Potterson (Linda Bassett in the film) could enact before Lizzie Hexam when Lizzie refuses to separate herself form her father, disliked by Miss Potterson as much for his low status and what people therefore think of his possible horrible crimes as these crimes themselves: he seems to kill poor people, throw them in the river and then retrieves them for money.

Dickens’s descripion of The Six Jolly Fellowship-Porters, like the use of caricature and abstraction, brings us right back to early Dickens. apparently there was such a pub; here is a later illustration by Sol Eytinge (From Victorian Web)

The house is alive, it’s a person or character in itself, a world built of meanings reflecting its significance in its surrounding by its physical characteristics. Stone had not illustrated it.

*********************
Part Two of the film veered off to Welch’s emphasis. She presented the characters are intensely eager to reach one another, to love, to be interdependent. Three love affairs in Dickens which I remember as fiercely devouring, finally selfish, are here presented under the aegis of intense need and hurt. Eugene Wrayburn intensely needs Lizzie to give his life a meaning and him meaningful action (to teach her and Jenny to read). David Morrissey delivers a brilliant performance as a half-mad anguished Bradley Headstone, intensely sexually repressed and hating anyone who is not (especially women): he wants to take over Lizzie to prove his self-worth and loathes Wrayburn for dismissing him, laughing at him.


Headstone (David Morrissey) in his school

Wrayburn stands for the world. It’s hard to see if he has any concern for Lizzie (Wrayburn seems to) but the performance is sympathetic. At least I think so.


Paul McGann as the louche drone who is finally reclaimed

The third affair shows us Rokesmith falling in love with Bella whose kindness to her father is made much of. He takes the father out to dinner, and shows him respect. They have a beautiful day doing things like going to a museum, dressing up, courtesy interchanges; she has bought the father a new outfit all at once (Dickens makes the point that this man never before had a new hat and trousers at the same time). He loves her and she is beginning to see the man who is hovering over her with the same intensities as Headstone and Wrayburn has a heart.


Father-daughter, Mr Wilfur (Peter Wight) and Bella (Anna Friel)


John and Bella

The movie is filled with shots of people hugging one another. Jenny Wren imagines herself being beaten and beating others, but she is all loving kindness to Lizzie whom she has taken in as a seamstress and she needs Lizzie as much as Lizzie needs her.


Lizzie and Jenny Wren (Katy Murphy) hugging together

Thus far the Boffins are loving; even Wegg is respectful, enjoying his cake while reading The Decline.


Regret, anger, grief, alienation from one another: the Lammles (Anthony Calf and Doon Madkichan shortly after marriage

Against this the Lammles are obviously a sick couple, full of hatred because they have married perversely; Lizzie’s brother does stand out as inexplicable in character compared to the others. He throws Lizzie off for not accepting Headstone: he seeks status as well as money, We do wonder why? There seems no reason to — the day out of Bella and her father is not at all connected to having status and money; it seems one can pull this off as long as one has a heart. The Lammles have one only for themselves.


Marcus Stone’s illustration

***************

Lizzie’s brother, Charles (Paul Bailey), sent to school

A crucial moment in the book. Chapter 6, the scene where Lizzie comes home and tells her brother he must leave them to go to school full-time and stay away, and then the profoundly affecting/affective scene of Lizzie telling her father, his sudden (to me) unexpected murderous rage, taking his knife and stabbing the table, saying that if his son rejected him, he rejected the son totally and would smash (or some other word) that son, and Lizzie’s abject cringing horror.

The pictorialism of the scene remains in the mind: the outline of the girl cringing in horror more than terror for herself, the old man again a bird of prey at that table.

I took it that Lizzie is not afraid of her father, but we are to understand that though she insists to herself her father does not murder people, throw them in the river and then retrieve them to sell as corpses, at some level (not very deep) she believes it. And it could be he does.

At any rate she wants to separate her brother from him more to keep the brother from the moral contamination than even the shunning of the father that has begun as Rumor becomes explicit. She refuses to protect herself either from social isolation and pariah-dom and refuses to learn to read well and to teach herself because this would arouse the father’s jealousy and hatred and she no longer be able to influence him.

The complete self-sacrifice of this position is intolerable and the contradictions not improbable. If a girl were so electrified with moral horror, she’d not stay; if she had this kind of intelligence, how could she (like a Radcliffe heroine) refuse to acknowledge wrong-doing even to herself; if she refused to believe it, she’d probably be narrow, obtuse, filled with the usual family loyalty that is a species of hypocrisy (so I see it) and clan protection. By doing this Dickens does make such a scene. I would not call her an angel since her behavior is as morally imbecilic as the Radcliffe heroine of Udolpho faced with terror and refusing to run away because forsooth she has to be obedient to her aunt, some piety.

The brother is such a weasel and now I’m remembering this way he and we meet Bradley Headstone (whose second name refers to death, the graveyard, he’s a headstone, and also his great bodily strength — made of stone, his obtuseness). And that is the way Welch has the boy actor do the part in the film.

We see the breakup of families and how it happens and real internecine feeling.

The shunning by Gaffer by crowd or group mentality against his “pollution” as well as self-protection.

This is a novel and film for this decade — not thus far as to analysis of institutions but the way people are just turned into hideous poverty. I was watching DemocracyNow.Org last night and film of the Syrian people, desperately poor, being shot in the streets by their gov’t's military forces, their home hovels. They have no access to the great wealth of their own country, it’s kept to the few, in this case including not only the elite of their country running it (1% indeed) but the US which gives millions to support that elite (ditto in Yemen, ditto Bahrain). And we need not go so far: the Tories are busy doing this all over England (impoverishing people, destroying jobs, social services, social institutions for public meeting) and the US gov’t here (billions for drones for surveillance, no money for people foreclosed or the least job).

The real trouble with the book is the picture is not attached to anything the way I have just attached it. Welch I think achieves this with her larger landscape pictures and use of choral commentaries (ironic, bitter) in the rich people salon and party scenes.

Did Dickens expect his readers to understand? or simply have an urge to rouse them against the conditions of their time? the problem is the readership is not Gaffer and Lizzie — they are not real people at any rate. I remember how Madame de Stael said the problem with writing novels is you have to appeal to readerships which don’t understand, will get offended, and get past conscious censorship too.

It appeals through inarticulated pictures and a dependence on the reader having the moral reaction which is comprehensive but the readers often do not :) For example, readers online complain of Stone’s illustrations as ugly or weird or not pleasing. They are spot on — and a product of collaboration between Dickens and Stone. I’ve put a few of them into our albums.


Mr Wegg wants some of his body parts back; Mr Venus (Timothy Spall) charges

Mr Venus’s shop in the pictures scarcely captures the morbidity of the bodies. They are done in both the caricature and idyllic style. Headstone writhing on the floor is the latter:

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Peter Vaughn as Mr Boffin asking Wregg to become his reader


Crazed madness of Wregg (Kenneth Cranham) before Boffin’s new mansion

The dwarf is a disabled figure who turns up as an evil grotesque in Dickens — and again it’s bodily and again dwarves are often shown to be twisted people where they are blamed for having poison in them, not that their emotional state is a reaction to how they’ve been treated, which is much more the reality. A powerful black singer (Eric Owen) turned the anti-semitic portrait of a dwarf in Wagner’s Ring into a figure that resonated with justified resentment in a recent Met HD production, and the stance seems to have resonated in many heart and ear. I have never read The Old Curiosity Shop. I can’t think of any dwarves this morning. We have to try to remember disfigured characters perhaps to find an equivalent in realistic fiction.

I remember feeling for Jenny Wren who takes Lizzie in. I understood how she could come to love-hate her clinging devouring father.

Dickens’s Mr Boffin seems to me a male type that has disappeared. Literary types do disappear when whatever social reality that gave rise to them goes. He’s the male simpleton, usually or almost always working class. Such men were used in the Shirley Temple movies. I suggest they come from the strong culture of deference which at once deprived most males of higher education and taught them they would be punished hard if they did not appear happy and complacent and even ignorant of the terms of their lot. The type may be seen (paradoxically perhaps but neutralizing the archetype) in Walt Disney’s Snow White’s 7 dwarves. Dickens does improve this by suggesting Mr Boffin is socially insecure, sensitive, avoiding class hurts. Why else go to Silas Wegg? Mr Boffin feels he’s least likely to be despised, and his tiny sums of money appreciated. So there’s a little insight …

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Lizzie as Madonna saving the beaten Wrayburn

In Sandy Welch’s film, we have the uncommon case of a male novel turned into a woman’s film — for all the characteristics of women’s films are here, plus distinguishing elements of Welch’s art. Among these both are this peculiar emphasis on the large landscape as a scene of intimacy. We have one here: in the story Eugene Wrayburn as been in effect stalking Lizzie, trying to get her to come live with him outside marriage. He does it tenderly as if he cannot resist and needs her, but he will not marry her as beneath him. She our ideal woman of course knows it’s unthinkable for him to marry her so flees him, but does stubbornly hold out when he finds her out through bribing Jenny Wren’s father — Lizzie has been working as a seamstress for Jenny who took her in when her father died.

But his stalking her is just one stalking; he is stalked in turn, by Bradley Headstone who tells himself his intentions are all honorable. He wants to marry her. That means in reality crush her spirit utterly. He despises her as he daughter of the lowest of the low, a grave snatcher, perhaps a murderer, who drew bodies from the filth of the Thames. He would control and bend her to his will, with an iron mind. This is honor? This is marriage Victorian style yes. Bradley stalks Lizzie too but he also stalks Eugene who drives him mad by his mockery. Wrayburn won’t acknowledge Headstone is there and gets a thrill out of this stalking.

Wrayburn is a sick man, as sick as so many of the people in this novel are.

Unfortunately Welch softens Wrayburn as many do. What she does do — is make the film about people reaching out to one another, prevented from succeeding by the norms of the private property system, prestige, social performance. The madness of dysfunctional behavior if we were to consider what might make good people happy is pictured for us repeatedly in the landscapes. There are astonishing moments of a crippled man named Wegg dancing in the screen against garbage dumps, against rich houses. Most of the scenes are of garbage dumps, broken down places. Others are of the river, wet, stodgy, dangerous, glittering. Some are the corridors of the city, pictured as narrow labyrinth prisons (like a Renaissance painting). Only nature has beauty. Only there are people together intimately because away from the social group.

The colors are so rich. The film much reminds me of her Turn of the Screw, Jane Eyre, North and South in this use of landscape. Here, for example, is Lizzie reversing what her father did. Her father drew dead bodies from the river which he perhaps killed, and he sold them to doctors or anyone who would take them Ah ha another parallel for today: the animal torture business, people kidnap and enslave animals for experiments and if you protest for real, you can be imprisoned as an eco-terrorist. It also shows the ruthlessness of the medical industry then too.

She is going to save Eugene Wrayburn. She has found him smashed up on the wet grasslands (!?) just outside London, done in by Headstone who he Wrayburn did egg on to this.

It’s deeply felt and the book provides the depth behind the vignettes, each story fully played out with details and thought. I loved the music too, slow, rhythmic like a swaying boat in a river.

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In the feature Pam Ferris likened Mrs Boffin to a working class woman today who wins the lottery; she is better than that for she has a very good heart, and unlike Mr Boffin is never corrupted into even seeming mean
Some contemporary analogues and characters in other novels by Dickens:

Some of the description of Mr Podsnap (hardly there at all in the film) put me in mind of Newt Gringich, lines about his solid sliminess (words to this effect). He is not the lout the American politician is. Otherwise his narrow hypocrisy and obnoxiousness is probably an accurate rendition of a Victorian type still partly with us.

Miss Podsnap (not in the film) reminded me of Flora in Little Dorrit: made nervous and unsure of herself by never having been allowed to live or have any independence. I wonder if this type is found elsewhere in Dickens. If she reflects Dickens’s wife’s character, then considering he understood that, his leaving her feels worse. OTOH, I was not sure in either Flora or this Georgiana’s case I’m not reading sympathy into the character rather than derision.

IN the book, Riderhood comes to snitch on Hexam in order to get the award and both Lightwood and Wrayburn return to the Hexam residence. The picture of Lizzie weeping by the fire, her loneliness, her desperate circumstances is moving. She is this still picture of abjection and loss. We are not allowed to see inside her hardly at all in this book.

Rokesmith and the Wilburs are brought in very late: almost an afterthought, something that came to Dickens later. Yet a central group. By contrast, in the film adaptation the supposed murder of Harman comes first, and the character of Harmon to Rokesmith brought in very early. I’ve put a still of Steven Mackintosh talking to Bella after they are married on our website page. He’s a brilliant actor and really best at fierceness, anger and I think has just the right amount of intense sternness towards Bella for the part Dickens meant. I just wish his bitterness had been directed elsewhere or Bella had not been made into this shallow type; Welch changes that a lot, and makes Bella have a warm good heart which very quickly learns to be better once she leaves the Wilbur mother (a misogynist bully figure to my mind).

The surroundings are so oozy and ugly and eerie in the book, but then London was not nice place for most people and Wrayburn’s words about the desperate street life he saw Paris (people picking up garbage to make ends meet) probably I assume reflects what Dickens saw and wants us to realize are the real cities too.

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As I watched the first hour or so of the fourth and last part (thus half of it) of Sandy Welch’s OMF, it set me thinking more about Dickens’s OMF. The last part of Welch’s OMF moves very slowly: we have a longish sequence of each of our sets of characters waking: everyone getting up to face the day and what they see: Mortimer Lightwood gets up and Eugene not there; we see the desperate houses by the water, Jenny out anxious and deeply resentful but worried about her father; Wegg vowing vengeance — and we see the misery of the workers at the garbage dump (especially symbolic this); Bella looking at John in bed; Mrs Noddy sad in her splendid loneliness; the Lammles smoking nearby as they prepared to enter to offer themselves as replacements for the real friends the Noddys had (the crippled disabled boy is gone as well as Bella): Mr Riderhood finding Headstone bloodied in the grass near his house. Again when a series of climactic events where Mortimer discovers Wrayburn near death with Lizzie; Jenny’s father dredged up from river where he drowned; John outted as John Harmon finally, the Lammles refused, Headstone back in the school where LIzzie’s vicious brother now says he will have nothing to do with Headstone we get another such sequence.

One does not have time for this in the recent (by Andrew Davies) Bleak House and Little Dorrit films, or most Dickens films I’ve seen. Welch is registering a peculiarity about OMF, one which Christine Edzards tried to pull out of Little Dorrit by removing the idiosyncratic grotesques and concentrating just on two central figures as if the story were seen from their consciousness (Amy Dorrit and Arthur Clenham). It’s set up as a mystery with complicated plot, but that’s not what the text really lends itself to. It’s more a series of dramatic picturse linked through allegory. I noticed for the first time that the Podsnaps are totally omitted from Welch’s film, and how sidelined Mr Twemlow is. That’s in line with Edzards’s film. Mr Twemlow is a comic repeat of decency, only comically puzzled and the Podsnaps another set of grotesques, more hateful in their effect than the Lammles who are at some level (especially in Part 4 of Welch’s film) pathetic, as contemptible in our eyes as they ought to be in their own and the world’s were the world’s values humane. (At the end of the Part 4 the Lammles hook on to another innocent couple to live off them.)

I’ve been very moved by Welch’s film; I love how the characters finally come together — the sudden wild violence of Steven Mackintosh as “our mutual friend” — for he has provided the wherewithal to support Bella, by extension Bella’s father, the Boffins. On Welch’s account it’s John Harmon who is the Dickens figure in this novel, the alter ego, not the more dramatically riveting Wrayburn or Headstone.

All three are Dickens in a sense (Wrayburn what he rejected but impulses in him), but Harmon stands for what is good — as does Arthur Clenham, what is right. Seeing the book this way turns it on a pivot for me and makes it if not easier to get into and engage with at least growing out of a central vision underlying the later books. This time he’s simply made a quieter book.

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The green and lovely gardens surrounding the house John Harmon can provide the Boffins and Bella and his child with; we see Jenny and Sloppy join them in a picnic scene


Lammles forever playacting, forever to be humiliated hangers-on

When I came to the end of the film I was very moved. This is one of the great — of many great film adaptations done by the BBC or British TV — and occasionally by commercial groups for movie-houses. The idyllic ending for some had been prepared for in Part 3 when they reached out to one another (Bella and John’s beautifully unadorned marriage with just the father behind them walking in the park); the lousy ending for others by their egoism (the Lammles with their opulent wedding and now cold mean life). Welch had filled out Dickens’s characters with her projection of human need. I can only hope the new spirit abroad of making travesties which assume the audience has not read and would not even like the book fall down on the reality the audience they seek really is not keen on this genre for real – not done with depth of emotion and seriously conceived interaction between era, text, film.

The film also ends with yet another stalking sequence: now the fierce hateful Riderhood stalks Bradley Headstone. We do feel very much for Headstone: this man is a rat, a snake; David Bradley the actor who did the part looks like the actor who did Wegg: Kenneth Cranham. Both are older thin man with heads that can be made up to look skull-like.

Headstone says he never had a friend and when it’s clear that Riderhood (David Bradley — have I done justice to his performance) is going to suck him dry, he’ll starve. He walks away and Riderhood follows and of course what happens is the lonely desperate hurt man (whom no one would know any more than the people at the end of the film will know Lizzie) turns on Riderhood and takes him down to drowning with him.

So the antepenultimate scene of the film is the filthy scary greasy polluted waterways with bodies seen floating in it. Where we began. (The pipeline so touted that Obama did reject would take filthy oil down the center of the US to be exported; not to get any jobs for anyone in the US, and it would pollute). Have people heard of fracking? OMF is about 19th century fracking.

The penultimate scene is a montage partly scene from Mortimer Lightwood’s point of view — he is the only unpaired presence:


Mortimer Lightwood (Dominic Mafham looking down at Eugene in bed)

where we see Sloppy taken in by Jenny and they become a couple interspersed with Rokesmith and Bella and baby and the Boffins on a blanket. Mr Wifur seems forgotten here. (So too Lizzie’s brother but then he wanted to be.) We hear Eugene talk of how he might go abroad with Lizzie but Lightwood would miss him. The perspective on this scene is Lightwood as outsider but needing these people too. Wrayburn wants to go abroad for the wrong reasons: he’s ashamed. He should not be he’s told. Rokesmith rowing and his face seen.

I loved the last scene. After all Podsnap might have been in the social scenes: if the fat nasty man so gussied up is him. Well he and Lady Tippins and everyone are sneering at a party at Wrayburn for marrying this waterman’s daughter. They are disgusted. Why Lightwood stays with these people is beyond me — but it’s what makes us see them. Lightwood appeals to Twemlow and Twenlow has his great moment: they are shits, and what’s most their point of view is stupid and ugly. It’s articulated very generally: anyone who lives in accordance with what he or she thinks is the imagined respect of society is a fool for in a way there is no such thing. “Society’ is a shallow mirror we make up with our own minds, and anyway (to be particular) Wrayburn never cared for these people any way.

A curious contradiction: we are to grieve for Headstone for not having any friends but at the same time see that false friends and the world’s admiration is not worth the loss of your soul. The camera ends on Twemlow and Lightwood.

I liked that ending very much though I’m not sure it was Dickens’s emphasis. It seems to me to speak to 21st century people and come out of a particular perpsective often seen in the finest costume dramas made by women and a few men too.


Eugene and Lizzie’s hands holding tight to one another

In Welch’s film, the pair are never shown in close conversation — except one scene half suggestive itself where he is trying to get her to come and live with him. Even then it’s seen from
afar. It’s all vignettes. When Wrayburn talks, it’s to Mortimore
Lightwood; when Lizzie talks it’s to her brother, father, Abby, Jenny Wren, and except to her brother, it’s all reactive. We see Bella visit her but hear no conversation. In the book is it that we are made aware of how different in class and education they are?

Welch’s is quite different from Davies’s presentation of Amy Dorrit and Clenham: Davies fills in the relationhips, and in Dickens’s book while the scenes between Amy and Arthur are not dramatized, they are told in the third person indirect mode. (Too much is made of showing and not telling, until the 20th century the scene described was as common as the one dramatized.)

This film and book certainly made my spirits soar and validated what I know to be the correct view but one it needs strength to hold to because there are too many Lady Tippins and Podsnaps and Lammles about, to say nothing of their instruments and the hateful complicit angry people serving them too.

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At work in the garbage dumps of the film’s world — out of which money is to be made; the actor here when he pulls off his mask turns out to be Sloppy (Martin Hancock), the disabled young man Mrs Higden took in

Finally, we come back to the river. It is the case that in the 19th century the Thames River was (relatively speaking, say compared to today) stuffed with corpses. The vision that Our Mutual Friend projects is not a fantasy nightmare. Many ways to look at this, but I’ll content myself with being literary and say it’s another instance of how the gothic genre is as real, and can actually tell us more about what’s important in life than books which adhere to what’s called “realism” (Trollope is called realistic).

Unfortunately, we have no photos of people dredging the Thames for corpses or dropping them in, but I did see a reproduction which has something of the same meaning as Our Mutual Friend‘s real life symbols: at the Museum of Modern Art there’s a show on of murals by Diego Rivera (see just below for the LRB column by Hal Foster on this) and one includes “Frozen Assets:”

Our modern more decorous version of corpses at least here in the US (outside the US until very recently it was rare for the armies of capitalism to attack citizens outright — now drones are okay too inside the US) does not include soaked human bodies floating in or underneath our waterways as a usual thing. For dead bodies we must go to the streets where they are dragged off to the side, or better yet, hospitals (yes hospitals) where if the person is brought back, it’s with a huge bill. In a way what a black joke is there: the body brought back is priced (chattel slavery priced people too)

Anyway Hal Foster describes the Rivera mural impeccably:

“Frozen Assets is an inspired montage: Rivera based the vault on those he had toured in Wall Street and the hangar on the interior of the Municipal Pier on East 25th Street, while his skyline combines a few downtown banks with several new buildings in midtown, including the Chrysler, Empire State, McGraw-Hill, Daily News and Rockefeller Center (the last three of which were designed by Rockefeller favourite Raymond Hood). The allegory of this literal exposé is explicit: the building boom that gave us the great skyscraper city depended on the cheap labour represented by the subway drones and the sleeping bodies as much as on the stashed assets. In this not-so-divine comedy, the pier is a grey purgatory and the vault a brown hell, as much prison as bank (in this faecal cavern, Rivera almost suggests the anal sadism that Freud associated with money). Only the skyscrapers have any vitality, but their animation is fetishistic; indeed, Frozen Assets depicts a fetishisation of capital on a metropolitan scale, in which urban liveliness counts far more than the actual livelihood of working men and women; unlike the labouring bodies in the other murals, they are the real ‘frozen assets’ here.


Diego Rivera, Frozen Assets (1930)

It may be not be realized but today again aging people in the US fear nursing homes the way the poor in Dickenss’s time feared the poor- and work-house


Another death scene: Lizzie caring for Mrs Betty Higden (Edna Dore), Welch’s interpretation emphasizes the loving care, but the words are the terror Dickens gives the old woman

I understand there is a film adaptation of Edwin Drood “in the works”. I hope so for I’d like to see a good film adaptation in the tradition of the older ones like this of that last book. There is enough there to figure out an ending Dickens probably meant.

Ellen

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Carrie Brattle, “castaway,” her hands appealing to someone inside a closed window (from The Vicar of Bullhampton, vignette by Henry Woods)

Dear friends and readers,

A couple of months ago I saw a Call for Papers on Patrick Leary’s Victoria listserv for a Northeast Victoria Society Association (NVSA) conference to be held at Columbia University, NYC, in April 2012. The place was convenient, the time appealed; Jim could come with me and enjoy himself during the day while I was at the conference with the two of us getting together each evening. The perspective and topics seemed to fit my desire to explore and write about Gaskell’s dramatization of disabled characters and the people (mostly women) who cared for them. The conferees were calling for papers showing Victorian writers who did not fit at all into present cliched ideas about the era, who broke our orthodoxies and conventional norms. The trouble was that to do this right would take several months of reading Gaskell carefully and books and essays about her. I haven’t got the nerve to give a superficial paper based on the reading I did with two members of Women Writers through the Ages last year — or the reading with other friends of her novels on other listservs in previous years.

Then a couple of weeks ago it came to me that I could write and deliver a paper on Trollope showing how the illustrations for his novels (which he involved himself with) provided contrapuntal readings of his novels such that alternative norms of behavior, values at variance with, and experiences undermined, subverted, provided values at variance with the explicit orthodoxies of his man plot-designs and characters. I remembered how frequently the pictorial narratives appealed sentimentally to the female reader, focused on minor women in the book, dramatized details and scenes not in (though consonant with) the novel at hand. In the above vignette for Trollope’s The Vicar of Bullhampton, the novel’s “fallen woman” or “castaway” is shown in a scene not in the novel; she is either fleeing the court where her brother has been tried to murder after he has been shamed by the community’s attitude towards her or appealing to someone on the other side of a closed window in a thicket of a garden. Neither moment is dramatized in the novel; both show her in a mode of open vulnerable distress which reveals the cruelty and unfairness of the way she’s been treated.

Well for the past three days I’ve been pulling out, breaking open and rereading my old stacks of notes on the original illustrations to Trollope’s novels, and a select group of novels that I’d like to write about – masterpieces once or still often dismissed, or put aside as having concerns no longer in fashion: Castle Richmond is a novel partly about the 1847-48 famine and has a homoerotic secondary story, as well as older heroines whose marriage is dubious or who sexually desire a handsome young man; The Last Chronicle of Barset, once Trollope’s signature book, centers on a gifted man whom his society’s treatment has driven into an angry depression to the point he’s distracted, confused, unable to function: instead of looking at him through normative lens, the pictures see the world through his eyes. The Vicar of Bullhampton I’ve mentioned. Also novels which will enable me to show the influence of these illustrations on film-adaptations which use an analagous methodologies (inventing scenes not there originally which create contrapuntal or self-reflexive corrective meanings): shots in Davies’s He Knew He Was Right and The Way We Live Now are derived from some of the the original illustrations of these.


Emily (Laura Fraser) and Louis (Oliver Dimsdale) Trevelyan: a confrontation late in the movie modelled on Stone’s conception where Davies has subtly elaborated on Trollope’s language to suggest any love’s destructiveness

I also dipped into these novels and taken down a copy of The Vicar of Bullhampton to add to my evening’s reading this coming month. And I read four essays on this and Castle Richmond and Last Chronicle and one on the collaboration nature of Millais’s and Trollope’s intertextualities in Millais’s illustrations to 6 of Trollope’s novels.

And, gentle reader, I’ve been trying to include Dickens’s Little Dorrit in my overall reading and watching budget by listening in my car to an abridgement of said novel brilliantly read by Anton Lesser and slowly going through Davies’s wondrous film adaptation once again.

The caricature style of illustration is as expressive as the idyllic one. The statue in the center of the room of a mother leaning over a child with love, re-appears in variations of grief, distress and longing in Davies’s film adaptation of Bleak House and presentations of Anna Maxwell Martin as Esther and Gillian Anderson as Lady Dedlock,

One result: today I wrote a 500 word proposal which I’ll be revising tomorrow, putting away until Saturday, and then sending off to the email addresses of the conference organizers. I’d like to go to the conference even if my paper is not accepted, but were it to be I could hold my head up more, experience and demonstrate more that I’m part of this scholarly Victorian world (which I am) and thus participate in and enjoy the experience more. I think I might have said on this blog that my review of The Politics of Gender in Anthony Trollope’s Novels: New Readings for the Twenty-First Century, edd Margaret Markwick, Deborah Denenholz Morse, and Reginia Gagnier did appear in Nineteenth Century Contexts this past spring, 33:2 (2011):190-92. I will put this up on my website later this week. And my paper, Trollope and TV: Intertexuality in the Pallisers series may well be published in a coming volume on adaptations of 19th century novels.

I’m remaining a Trollopian in other ways. Izzy and I listened to Timothy West read aloud the whole of Barchester Towers recently and for a new radio system I bought for my car I’ve purchased the whole of The Last Chronicle of Barset read aloud by Simon Vance on CDs burnt with MP3s, considerably cheaper than a set of CDs made from tapes. It is a pleasure Izzy and I can share — as well as music she has burnt CDs for in our car.

Ellen

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Children’s reading club, circa 1910, Children’s Museum, NY or NJ

Dear friends and readers,

A third instalment of my experience of the Sharp conference last weekend. What unites these sessions is the belief that people form social identities through reading books and magazines and create social networks and capital (Bourdieu’s term) by setting up and controlling what happens in institutions needed for the study of books. All the paraphernalia and social experience surrounding books are exploited to make favored books sell and norms spread; this includes illustrations. National identities and what language a group speaks, which languages die and which carry on partly depend on and are shaped by what texts are published and distributed.

Perhaps individual minds and hearts were not so much left out, as people were seen sheerly in their social roles interacting with one another with books. Of course individual experience with books occurs when someone is alone in a room or with his or her book and matters as intensely and maybe more than all this identity formation, marketplace behavior and accounts of social external interaction of a less intimate nature. However, it’s not something that’s studied generally nor quantifiable and not the focus of book history.

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Henry Handel Richardson, The Fortunes of Richard Mahoney

Saturday mid-morning I went to a 2nd session on “Transnational Transactions,” this one on forming literatures and marketplaces. In “The Two-Sided Triangle: Australian Books and American Publishers” David Carter described the attempts of Australian publishers and authors to go beyond a paradigm set up early for selling books: in publishing London was a center which dominated Australia; it’s a story of Australian books published in the US without reference to UK editions. Famous books like Henry Kingsley’s Recollections of Geoffrey Hamlyn and Marcus Clarke’s For the Term of His Natural Life appeared in both the UK and US, but there were numerous lesser books published in just American editions, e.g., Rolfe Boldrewood’s Robbery Under Arms, mysteries and thrillers (Fergus Hume’s The Steel Crown. Jessie Couvrer (Tasmania)’s Piper of Piper Hall. Copyright made a great difference in the profits that could be made so we see the twentieth century’s book clubs distribute Henry Handel [Ethel Florence] Richardson; the Nobel Prize made Patrick White’s books more popular in the US than UK. It’s a story of changes from decade to decade: in the 1930s Australians began to write books for an American audience; after 1945 the paperback revolution spread sexy and detective fiction; in the 1980s there was a boom in sales, which was not sustained. Australian science fiction and fantasy sold, but stories rooted in Australian landscape, history, culture did not draw much readership. Nonetheless, in the 21st century Sydney talk directly to London and New York publishers. Nowaday there is much intermixing so it’s not clear if J. M. Coetzee is an Australian or South African published in the US.

Gerald Groenewald’s “‘Through literature a nation becomes great:’ Afrikaner Nationalism and the reception of Afrikaner books in South Africa, circa 1910-40″ was the story of how Die Huisgenout or The Family and House Magazine played a central role in the formation of a separate Afkricaner white identity. Sucessive editors differently attempted to define and model a national Afrikaner life by telling (inventing?) a history of traditions and ideals. Four to five out of 28 pages were reviews of books. There were 3 distinct periods under 3 distinct editorships: 1916-23, the magazine was high brow, serious throughout; then 1923-31, it turned more popular, had fewer shorter book reviews, many photos, covered sports. 1931-45 a trade journalist headed the magazine and added strong nationalism (“the great trek” was celebrated); historical artists presented as heroic, with Africaner texts 2/3s, Dutch texts 10 to 23% and English 10 to 15%. You might say the magazine provided a school for all in the early 20th century. (Afrikans seems to be a dialect of Dutch.)

Frank de Glas told the story of the Prix Formentor (1961-65), named after the hotel its initiator and his favorite writers met at and the Prix International des Editeurs (1961-67) He was showing how small groups of individuals could create respected reputations for specific books, larger national constortiums (something worth thousands of dollars) with translations functioning as consecrations. There had been an upsurge inteh sale of books in the international market in the 1950s, and this advertising move made for author brandnames. Carlos Barral made his own and the careers of his protegees (5 writers’s careers were described) and overcame cultural repressions. Rules that were said to be followed were sometimes broken; all but communists could get their books sold. Dacia Matraini was one of the 5, the only woman and she was “annexed” by feminists.

This was the lunchtime where I bought myself bad coffee and a stale croissant for too much money; drank and ate little, and went back to the Dillon center to look at the beautiful art works by staff in the gallery, browse the books on display, talked to an editor about my book project (“A Place of Refuge,” a study of the Austen films) and then read quietly until the afternoon sessions started.

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The Boston Athenaeum Library

In the afternoon I went to a session about how books can also be the center of individual identity and small community formation. Katherine Wisser told who were the individuals who belonged to and created social worlds through the development of the Boston Atheneaum Library: 1806 reading room was established; in 1807 named Atheneaum; 1826 established in Pearl Street House; 1829 women officially let in; 1848 established in its present location on Beacon Street. The conscious motives were those of the Enlightenment, civic pride (Boston would vye with Philadelphia and Benjamin Franklin), and to build social capital for themselves. In 1856 the Boston Public Library was opened; 1876 the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Proprietors were members, 70 in 1882, 65 men & 5 women; 3/4s of these people had gone to a Harvard college; their occupations were various, but over 1/4 were scholars, and most were involved with intellectual matters (lawyers.

Ross Harvey showed that while white New Zealanders through they were indoctrinating Maoris with industrial & capitalist (how to save, how to invest) ideas by the publication of a bilingual magazine, the Maori Messenger, Maoris had their own developed forms of industry and capitalism (tribe style), were interested in maritime, export, and agricultural activities. Their products included flax, potatoes, timber. George Grey helped Maoris hold onto their language; David Burns was used as an example of someone came to live in New Zealand and left a diary of his arduous life among the Maori, which was published.

Melanie Kimball’s “‘They wanted to read books by lady authors’”: early 20th century children’s reading clubs at the Cleveland Public library” (from archives from 1908-32) meant to demonstrate that children’s experiences were shaped by the librarians Kimball used American developmental psychology to categorize the different age groups. Children all want a club to be able to belong to a group and are vulnerable to peer pressure; between ages 10 and 20 they are trying out roles, looking at alternative solutions for lifelong goals, exploring their talents and others. It’s true the children’s statements she read showed more piety and conscious aspiration than seems probable in a child and the lists of books read were improving, some snobbish, and class and gender based: Dodge’s Hans Brinker; Alcott’s Under Lilacs; Burnett’s Little Lord Fauntleroy. Archives show children naming their groups, electing officers. In the depression fees and car fares were waved; alas, by the 1950s there were few reading groups there to read, many more had become simply ways to meet and do something else.

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Phiz (Hablot Browne), Meekness of Mr Pecksniff and his charming daughters, one of the illustrations for Dickens’s Martin Chuzzlewit


John Everett Millais, “Tom, I am come back,” one of the illustrations for Trollope’s Orley Farm

The 2nd session of the afternoon was the most exciting of the conference for me. I wrote a long chapter in my book on Trollope where I studied the original illustrations to his novels; my work was based on real study in rare book rooms, and my conclusions praised by Mark Turner in the one scholarly review I’ve had. The session was on book illustration in 19th century England and the second talk by Robert Patten, a well-known scholar of book illustration and Dickens (Charles Dickens and His Publishers [1978], George Cruikshank’s Life, Times, and Art [1991, 1992], editor of Literature in the Marketplace: Nineteenth-Century British Publishing and Reading Practices [1995]), compared an illustration by Phiz for Martin Chuzzlewit to one by Millais for Orley Farm (a set of illustrations and book I know very well). I’ll describe his paper first even though it came second.

Prof Patten argued that the two illustrations showed radically different modes of illustration, with Phiz presenting a theatrical or presentational performance, where each gesture or item is an external symbol of an attitude or idea while Millais draw an inward, subtly complex picture in which the characters turn away from us, and their physical selves are not performing for us. Phiz uses personification, his art is emblematic; we are looking at a boxed stage set. External signs tell about interiority. The message is the hypocrisy of the Pecksniff’s and sincerity of Pinch. Millais’s drawing were engraved on wood by Dalziel, and Prof Patten suggested they capture a deep moment of psychological interaction not readily allegorized at all. In my book I spent a lot of time on the psychologized idyllic style and all he said seemed to me spot on, but for his final interpretation of this specific picture. Prof Patten argued we had gender balance here, for Mr Furnival, the lawyer husband missed his wife when she had left him because she assumed he was having an affair with his client, Lady Mason, so badly, that her power was triumphing the way her skirt fills the space, with her hand at the center. He gave his talk with confidence and panache and it seemed to go over very well

The talk afterward included demurrals. One man seemed to suggest that Phiz was more inward than Prof Patten allowed and Millais more emblematic. Two women suggested that the situation was of a women suppliant before her husband. I agreed with with this and retold the story of how Mrs Furnival had left Mr Furnival after many years of emotional and social neglect, that he had the right to eject her once again, and that although Trollope let us know the husband longed for her, she did not know that. Her hand is uncertain, she is pleading with him to take her back. I then said she also would have to accept marriage on his terms, and accept that since she was literally wrong, Lady Mason would again be the center of Mr Furnival’s hours. Prof Patten then commended my comments, especially when I said both Pinch and Lady Mason are suppliants, but then said but no, this takes place after the trial. So it is gender balance.

Well after I went home, I checked and discovered that this picture occurs well before the trial. The trial is yet to come. Mrs Furnival also had been hurt by far more than Lady Mason’s presence; for years Mr Furnival had traveled alone, left her with a servant and no company, no social life. It may be she was literally wrong to think Lady Mason was her husband’s mistress, but all else she had felt was just and now she had to give up her demands and real personal needs. We may hope he’ll behave better now, but there’s no promise, and in the course of things he may well revert.


George Brettingham Sowerby, illustration to Charles Kingsley’s Glaucus, or The Wonders of the Shore

The first talk was Elizabeth Starr’s carefully thoroughly studied explanation and reading of a complicated publication of science illustrations for Charles Kingsley’s Glaucus. Kingsley presented himself as a well-read amateur who was conducting a tour of the shoreline to which we as readers are invited. There were 5 editions of this text, and what we find are a series of complex interactions between the text and illustrations, the writer and his illustrators. In particular George Brettingham Sowerby’s images function to fill the gaps in content and imagination in Kingsley’s book, and turns it into a Ruskinian experience. This book was one of the influential popular science books of the era.

Prof Starr took the audience through several comparisons of text and picture, reading aloud the scientific text with its information and then showing how the plate illustrated and went beyond the text. Competition between the men may have formed part of what happened for Sowerby’s notes to his illustrations are in an appendix. Kingsley also used Philip Henry Gosse’s nature and marine biology texts, but if we look we see that Sowerby’s illustrations are influencing Kingsley’s descriptions.

This made great sense to me. Of Millais’s illustrations to Orley Farm, especially one of Lady Mason during her agon before she hires a lawyer to fight the accusation of forgery and try to hold onto her son’s property, Trollope wrote:

In an early part of this story I have endeavoured to describe how this woman sat alone, with deep sorrow in her heart and deep thought on her mind, when she first learned what terrible things were coming on her. The idea however, which the reader will have conceived of her as she sat there will have come to him from the skill of the artist, and not from the words of the writer. If that drawing is now near him, let him go back to it. Lady Mason was again sitting in the same room — that pleasant room, looking out through the verandah on to the sloping lawn, and in the same chair; one hand again rested open on the arm of the chair, while the other supported her face as she leaned uponher elbow; and the sorrow was still in her heart and the deep thought in her mind. But the lines of her face were altered, and the spirit expressed by it was changed. There was less of beauty, less of charm, less of softness; but in spite of all that she had gone through there was more of strength, — more of the power to resist all that this world could do to her.

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It was 4:30. I had had a full day. I now will try to give a paper on Trollope’s original illustrations at a coming Victorian conference (Spring 2012 in NYC, Columbia University) and Eleanor Shevlin’s Washington Area Print Group (meets one a month, on a Friday afternoon at the Library of Congress between September and May). We (Jim, I, and Izzy) had tickets to see a play about Picasso at the Capital Fringe Festival that evening. I had just enough time to get home, eat with my two beloved people, and then go out again to make the play’s first act.

So, gentle reader, I again did not attempt to go to the day’s late afternoon plenary lecture, this time at the Natural History Museum. It was hot and a walk away. I got on the train.

Well, in my clumsy and half-thwarted efforts to phone Jim to pick me up at the train station, King Street, I ended up having pleasant talk with a man on the train just my age who also has trouble using cell phones. I said I found the ubiquitous use of them analogous to chimpanzees grooming one another: phones are the most stressful way to contact someone; you have immediacy but no bodily contact to control behavior. He said he felt he lost his liberty carrying one around. Yes, Jim had said when he was working he did not want one for then he was a dog on a leash. I did manage to make the call though and when King Street arrived, I bid adieu to my companion and got off the train, walked down to the street where Jim was waiting for me in his Jaguar.

And now to bed,
Ellen

See Sharp 1, Sharp 2, and Sharp 4.

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Catherine Hogarth Dickens, a photo of her later in life

Dear friends and readers,

Last week I finished reading Lilian Nayder’s The Other Dickens: A Life of Catherine Hogarth. Were it to be read widely, its content genuinely taken in and disseminated, the book has the potential to alter the common perception of Catherine Hogarth Dickens as a person, woman, and wife and mother, of Dickens’s attitude and behavior towards her during the early as well as later phases of their marriage. Many people are aware his conduct towards her once he decided to eject her from their mutual home, was studiedly cruel, outrageous, but they seem unaware that from their earliest years as man and wife, far from dissatisfying him, she supplied and catered to his every need and desire, as a man and professional (who wanted a presentable socializing baby-making wife). This includes obeying the smallest detail of the decorations in a mantelpiece of their home, really letting him control her almost completely, with only the occasional (apparently) easily squashed protest against his vicarious similar use or enjoyment of other women through what was called mesmerizing them.

Nayder’s book could function to offer readers another example of what happens to a woman when you give her husband unqualified power over her from the concrete money and power the man has and from the inculcated myths of what life is about (she is to be an obedient devoted wife) and how we are to judge her (by how she is said to have brought up her children). Nayder says her aim is to build a portrait of Catherine as a complete life apart from Dickens; she can’t quite succeed in that, but her book could help to break down popular stereotypical hagiographies of Dickens among fans and scholars too. It seems to me as important a re-framing of Dickens as well as Catherine Hogarth as Gillian Gill’s We Two: Albert and Victoria Saxe-Coburg. Like Gill’s, Nayder’s book is a strongly woman-centered text.

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My project reading and writing postings about the chapters of the book began on Trollope19thCStudies when I posted a review of Nayder’s book by Dinah Birch (London Review of Books, 33:3 [2001] 25-28), and a friend and member of the listserv community was taken aback by Birch’s text as it seemed written by someone who had not read the book at all. Birch repeats the false conception of Dickens’s marriage that it was in his interest to spread (that Catherine was an inadequate, boring, “easily controlled” and therefore irritating unworthy partner for the great genius), reiterates in abstract language general assertions of those aspects of Dickens’s fiction and action which make him look like a mild proto-feminist, and hardly recounted any details from Nayder’s book. Indeed Birch’s review concentrates on Dickens, not Catherine, and accuses Nayder of “an element of revenge” because Nayder dares to forces Dickens into the “margins.” My friend was very generous and sent me a copy of the book as a present, and I now write this blog in order that someone put into public a summary of its contents.

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Early autograph of the unmarried Catherine

Nayder begins her book by making a strong case for Catherine Hogarth as a person in her own right. Catherine lived many years before she met Dickens and many after the marriage ended. Chapter 1 tells us (as biographies do) Catherine’s background, her family. There were a number of strong intelligent women in her family; hers was a Scots background with a strong intellectuality and interest in music as part of the culture.

We first meet Catherine (get a sense of her presence) at age 17, going out to pay a social call. To capture something of the witty outlook of the young Catherine, Naydor retells one of Catherine’s jokes: to someone explaining the supposed beauties (?!) of the story of Adam and Eve, Catherine said: “Eh, mon, it would be nae temptation to me to gae rinning aboot a garden stark naked ‘ating green apples.” Catherine sounds like an Austen heroine (probably not Miss Morland as this character is a naif): bright, good-natured, well-read, open, able to write an appealing letter. This comes from a letter by Catherine and she also shows an ironic reaction to the typical sentimentality women are supposed to feel and enact.

I wish Nayder had reprinted this letter. What’s interesting is people have paid attention to a post-script added by Dickens — not the letter itself, and in this post-script as is typical of Dickens apparently (and perhaps he liked to put down his coming wife this way — a rival you see) “the comic insignificance of Catherine’s concerns’ — and all women’s concerns, trivial you see.

People care about who wrote something I’ve discovered, far more than what’s in it. (This leads to an overvaluation of any famous writer’s oeuvre, fetishicizing, but that’s by the bye). We do get reprints of some of the autographs.

Later ones written after her marriage are closely written and crossed like Jane Austen’s.

Nayder says Catherine’s sense of self was strongest before marriage and this segues into an account of her parents and grandparents.

Nayder is hampered because the womens’ letters were not saved (how typical this is) but some of the men’s were. Both parents and grandparents were really substantial middle class types — her father had just the kind of job Walter Scott started out with, a law writer — and literary and musical people. Her grandfather, George Thompson, did serious scholarly work to collect Scots music.

George Hogarth, Catherine’s father was a publisher, and thus potentially of great use for a young writer. But there’s a lot more here. He was ambitious, left off being a farmer’s son and become a solicitor. Not easy. He rose in status and to add to his money and social contacts was a tutor. When he did not do that well (not easy in this era) and began to need more money or lose out (nonetheless they lived in nice quarters in Edinburgh), a letter on this. Then he switched to journalism, and that’s what brought him and his family to London.

Here we learn about the man’s varied previous life; cultured, capable, educating his daughters, in cultured fashionable circles in Edinburgh like Catherine’s grandparents). Justice is done to Catherine’s mother, Georgina, apparently also derided by Dickens’s scholars. Mrs Hogarth apparently was not deferential to her great son-in-law. She would not keep up to his impeccable house-keeping standards. A minor but real irritation for me as a woman reader is Dickens’s nagging at women who don’t keep impeccable houses. I wonder whether he ever kept up a house, controlled a servant. I would never have spent my life this way no matter what era. Catherine’s mother insured her own life too. Her outlook against a man like Dickens was “semi-sarcastic humor.”

There is a problem with Nayder’s praise of Catherine’s grandfather and father’s positive attitudes towards women. They were not to be educated fully in the way of men at all. They may admire women in France for doing men’s jobs but they are not to learn how to cope in the world the way men do. Not that it’s easy to learn this for anyone, boy or girl. It’s just that admirable as some of their sentiments are, the particular limitations are enough to skew a girl’s outlook about herself.

This may also be seen in spades in the endless pregnancies and children Catherine’s grandmother, mother and then she had to cope with. Lists of children and siblings do not convey what this does to a woman’s life but is enough to suggest how she must spend it.

Music meant a lot in both the grandparents and then Catherine’s parents’ home, and not only did Catherine read a lot, she was trained in music for its own sake. Indeed “profit was a secondary consideration” in the home. That makes life a lot more comfortable but can boomerang.

So we leave the Hogarths off with the father through the influence of Lockhardt (Scott’s son-in-law and that’s what made him) as the editor of an Exeter newspaper. Nayder’s narrative (p. 48) confirms the idea that Dickens was strongly attracted to Catherine for the connection with her father — and yes the two-removed contact to Scott (though his equally reactionary Tory son-in-law, Lockhardt). See p 48, last sentence second paragraph: “She was the daughter of George Hogarth.”

Myself I surmised that part of the attraction for Dickens surely was this father-in-law he’d get this way. Later in life he controlled his writing and became the lasting success he did because he became a publisher himself. (“Freedom of the press belongs to the man who owns one” &c&c). Sutherland’s Victorian Publishers and Novelists is very good on Dickens as businessman (so too Gaskell). It’s an age-old truism that ambitious men can and do pick wives with their father-in-law in mind. It’s put in this nice neutral way about how the father does affects the daughter’s marital choices but consider the inner life ties of this.

That he focused on her partly because of who she was related to does not mean there was no psychological allurement. Apparently there was, but from these letters and enough are left for us to see subtleties (even if we might not understand them accurately or as either of the two participants saw them) and these suggest tensions from the start.

To backtrack: Catherine’s father George Hogarth found himself editor of Tory papers, first in Exeter, then in Yorkshire, and then in London where he finally did move over to a liberal paper – the one Dickens was writing for (The Morning Chronicle), so for a while Hogarth was a sort of boss if not over, at least alongside Mr Dickens.

It’s no surprise the Tory papers outnumber the liberal. Today we know what money supports. Nayder tells us the contemporary political events affecting the media and real people in England at the time (Peterloo massacre, Reform bill. We learn of Hogarth’s continued musical interests reflected in some of his daughter and her sisters’ doings, and of the friends the Hogarths made: Franklins, Arytons. With the latter the Hogarth girls became friendly: Nayder does include how Mrs Ayrton had TB and was dying from it all the while expected to run a household, have children (?!).

Nayder shows us how much responsibility and time this business of running a middle class household took, and also how important it was for her husband’s career. This not only brings home the nature of these women’s real lives once again, though she doesn’t enough emphasize the constant pregnancies and babies and how the power arrangements probably stifled complaints about the husbands. I take it Mrs Ayrton apparently complained her maid was drinking (the “alcoholic maid” on p. 45), but we have nothing about Mr Ayrton.

So Catherine would have to take all this on.

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Charles and Catherine when young

The courtship and engagement

What’s important about Nayder’s treatment of Dickens’s courtship of Catherine is the tension early on in Dickens and Catherine’s courtship running up to marriage. Apparently Dickens had been disappointed by another engagement: Maria Beadle had turned him off and he was determined that he would not suffer the same kind of cold-shouldering and the domineering that apparently was part of this again. Nayder quotes Dickens’s letters (alas he destroyed Catherine’s) which show him complaining about Catherine behaving in an affected way, playing silly manipulative tricks (from his point of view. Nayder says this is Dickens’s interpretation of Catherine through indirection trying to assert her private independence and space. As time went on and Catherine saw that Dickens would break the engagement off (a no no for women as it hurt their reputation) and (I assume really liked him — and Naydor says she was mastered by him and feel for the romantic tradition) she gave in, and we get this letter where he’s instructing her how she is to be there to make him breakfast and serve him. I would say that Dickens was here bullying Catherine and she is inadequate how to deal with it and thus she began to try to manipulate him indirectly and he immediately reacted by calling her out on this and resenting it.

Slater in a footnote is credited with taking the view that Dickens really felt Catherine to be frivolous and was writing earnestly and gravely. When Dickens writes to Catherine that she exhibits “frivolous absurdity, which debases the name [of love] and renders it ludicrous,” I also see her as someone made uncomfortable by Dickens’s evident intellectual genius. As it emerges from the letters I am reminded of one of Dickens’s grotesque (supposedly comic — but here I’ll confess I no longer find them funny myself) Fora Flintwich.

He will have to support her and is busy writing and she resents the time lost — like many people married to writers who do not themselves write or read incessantly. This is his strong point. I wish Dickens had said he loves to write and enjoys it and been less hypocritical and not referred to their duties to one another, but maybe that would have not gotten the response he wanted.

Altogether both are manipulating and playing games. This is a couple who are regarding marriage as a part of this planned career, looking on marriage as this responsibility from a very gendered perspective. So they are endowing all their actions with these imagined (or real if you like) burdens. No wonder they are already having trouble, experiencing stress.

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Chart of Catherine’s pregnancies (p. 156)

The marriage

Jumping ahead: Chapter 5 opens with lots of statistics about childbirth in the era and specifically Catherine’s: how often, when confined; there’s even an information speculation that such a couple as the Dickens’s with their reproductive rate would probably have 15 to 20 acts of intercourse per month, with estimated intervals of pregnancies and non-pregnancies.

What Birch ignored beyond the real details of the book about Catherine Hogarth’s life is how Nayder set her life in a woman’s world, and quite carefully — later we’ll see how Nader uses some women’s novels that Catherine liked and read to provide parallels with Catherine’s behavior and experience. The early part of Chapter 5 is given over to outlining the statistics of childbirth in the Victorian period — and extrapolating what kind of sex life might lie behind these. The idea is to give a general picture of averages within which Dickens’s treatment of Catherine and her response can be really understood.

Another long portion is about how doctors treated women pregnant, miscarrying, giving birth. Like inferior people whose ideas are not to be taken into account at all. Repeatedly we see the doctor consulting the husband first as to what to do. The woman is turned into a child who cannot be trusted with information or decisions that are affecting her directly.

Some of this continues into today; the difference would be that today such attitudes have to be qualified strongly — the doctor must at least pretend to consult the patient and many do consult and try to get the patient to take responsibility too, and to chose (this helps avoid lawsuits) and are not just meted out to women but to many patients.

We also get an account of how Victorian wrote about postpartum depression, again in a way that disregarded the woman as an individual, did not take at all into account she might not want endlessy to be pregnant or breast-feed. Among the revolting things here are how women were denied painkillers for a long time, the rational being Eve’s necessary punishment.

To return to our specific individuals, Nayder’s Chapters 2 and 3 tell the story of the Dickenses’ engagement, wedding and first years of marriage I see this: what happened was Dickens was just too strong a personality for Catherine. She couldn’t buck him, backed up as he also was by the culture. I feel for her.

His taking over the expenses, bills, buying stuff, even deciding what they should eat is a controlling personality. He had enormous energy – that’s part of his genius — too. He did leave to her the control of the servants to some extent. I find that par for course. It’s probably among the least pleasant of tasks in a household such as the Dickens’s. In part of course who wants it; she was endlessly pregnant and sick (including miscarriages too — no fun I can tell the reader — I’ve had two). But she would rue the day when she realized that in fact the house was not hers nor the objects in it, not even the children.

Nayder says (probably rightly) having all these babies gave Catherine her reason for being as a woman and put her into a community, with all the people active around her either helping her or doing the same. Also each child was to her a new sign of affection. I’ve seen this attitude myself today. As Catherine was to find out, this confidence was more than a little delusional.

As important as the ceaseless pregnancies was the demand she control herself to stay in a kind of seclusion and give over her body night and day to caring for and breast-feeding her children on demand. No wonder she became depressed: every aspect of her waking life was a form of self-erasing bodily servitude. Again I feel for her. Nowadays too women are pounded by an incessant drumbeat for breast-feedings, and the pseudo-science supporting this matches the pseudo-science supporting the idea that there’s a baby in a woman from the moment of conception. Nurses gain power over women in the hospitals this way. In Nayder’s account it’s the doctors and Dickens himself who exert the control.

Among other things to see Catherine as forced and not wanting what was imposed on her and managing at last to avoid it shows her not an hysteric, not an incompetent, but as during her engagment indirectly reacting sometimes on her own behalf. She was fortunate to have such a rich man as her husband who when he said she was to have a painkiller got it. Not though when she said it. She was not asked.

This not telling women and not giving them their own choice does not protect from reality — what is inflicted is a specific kind of reality — and it can be seen in how Dickens treated the death of one of their children. Dora. He lied. He pretended she was just very sick

Thus Catherine Hogarth weeping and depressed because she couldn’t breast-feed is a significant spectacle. Nayder herself says she got over these depressions once she was no longer required to stay upstairs and be powerless. But the experience of this at least three times was not to be overcome or forgotten. A pattern with Dickens in charge is set. Who is he to tell her what to do — and all the male doctors. I suspect she didn’t want to breast-feed and didn’t care (dare) to say it. So she’s driving herself nuts in several directions at once.

(I spent four times in hospital over miscarriages and childbirths and experienced a modern version of the pressure Catherine had to endure. I was herded into a huge room filled with women, many with IVs attached to them still where a speech was given whose purpose was to create guilt and insist all women must breast-feed and the longer and the bettter. I’ve seen women urged to diet not to have big babies and urged to overeat — and end up with a C-section because the baby is too large. After first four weeks there is no need for transfer of antibodies; all the talk about needed bonding this way and asking women to feed on demand is absurd; who should control a situation, a woman or a baby? Just as much love can be shown by bottle-feeding (and a lot less expense and anxiety when the woman resorts to a breast pump (unspeakable this infliction). In quiet talk with other women I know many admit how they dislike it, how much it gets in the way of their lives and what an emotional strain the ordeal is. Lots pretend to follow orders, even more feel guilty because they are targets for blaming for years after for what ever the child grows up into.)

That Dickens blamed Catherine for the endless pregnancies is rich too. He writes that Macrone is “permissive’ in letting other woman come downstairs (!). These women are owned by these doctors and husbands, like some cattle to produce calves?

Catherine did grow close to the first child, a son as it happened. I’ve seen this. The first child seems to mean so much — it’s the first experience.

And so now we come to Mary Hogarth whose story is told from her and Catherine’s point of view. It was common in this period for sisters to be close — especially if at all congenial in nature. women didn’t go to school, couldn’t get real jobs, couldn’t leave the home so they had to make friends with biologically related individuals. It does seem as if Mary felt for Catherine even if she became the “privileged” person to shop with the genius making so many money around whom so many people were happy to gather and so respected. But then Mary died and Catherine lost her.

It’s not irrelevant that Catherine is losing her looks. In the photos and pictures she is heavy. It would have been so hard for her to keep her figure at all. Part of the enjoyment she was to partake of was eating food — we are told how Dickens likes it that she can eat again when they go out. But this did her in too — and does her in still. Photos in books show Ellen Ternan to be conventionally attractive staying thin.

I do note that Ellen never got pregnant. From Trollope’s remark I take that not to be that she withheld anything from Dickens but rather that he knew how to have sex with a woman and not get her pregnant. He did not have the unselfishness and decency towards Catherine not to use her as a continual baby-maker but did refrain from doing this to Ellen as it would not have been in his interest. There were contraceptives available and their uses were well understood, his relationship with Ellen Ternan implies he knew lots of satisfying sexual techniques which did not include full sexual penetration and ejaculation into a woman’s vagina. Orgasm can
be brought about in many ways.

After showing the reader how Catherine Hogarth was the partly (or mostly) willing victim of the usual abuses of women through their reproductive and biological organs still going on today, through her lack of any job on offer but that of wife and the reality that she married a controlling dominating personality increasingly successful financially as well as socially (and a genius to boot), Nayder backtracks to present another view of the death of the sister, Mary.

This is the first time I’ve read the details of how Dickens presented Mary; hitherto I was aware only that generally he presented a ludicrously unreal worshipful picture of her. Dickens then used this portrait to damn Catherine: the story line became how Mary saw how Catherine was inadequate to start with and of course did all she could to compensate to the (poor?) big man. Mary was used as a hammer to smash Catherine.

Nayder shows us by quoting the letters that in fact Mary’s relationship was with Catherine, that the two of them formed a supportive partnership as close sisters and women friend still can. All make sense to me. They were together “irreverent towards men … mocked male presumption … emphasized, with comic self consciousness, their own power, not their power by proxy.”

I liked this sort of thing brought out by their alas only 5 letters and also that Nayder shows Dickens using Mary to keep men/guests in the house: how could Bentley be impolite to Mary and so he took the drink and stayed.

So Catherine not only had a loss in companionship, support, but Dickens later reinterpreted Mary to be part of his story.

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Dickens in a daguerrotype by Mayall (c. 1853)

Travel and living abroad, mesmerizing Catherine and other women

Chapter 3 brings use Dickens’s claims to hypnotize Catherine (and then other women). I’ve read about this phenomenon (as maybe some on our list have) and know that often the idea you have been mesmerized or hypnotized is partly believed by the victim. Studies show that repeatedly the person doing the hypnotizing is of high status and the one hypnotized low. I find Macready’s behavior to his wife, Fanny, horrible (p. 97): 10 children, dies of TB (very painful disease)

We see Dickens discouraging Catherine’s relationship with her mother and youngest sister, Helen from 1858 and Catherine bringing Georgina in. Catherine wanted someone — Georgina didn’t get to run the household as a consumer either. They move to bigger quarters, very fancy now. Now she’s expected to travel with him. She apparently would have preferred to stay home with her children, or at least was not keen to leave them.

Here we get this mesmerizing and obliged travel brought together; she is uprooted from where she knows, and feels (presumably) safe and is now dependent on him utterly. He the God, she among those who worship Him. So what does he do? he hypnotizes her again and she gets hysterical (p. 117). Of course this proves her weakness and volatility as a woman to Dickens.

It’s really not funny. Dickens shows little feeling for Catherine for real; or to put it another way, any feeling she might have had that interfered with him, he dismisses. He makes her pain during her births into a joke, and says he’ll mesmerize her. Very funny. (He did arrange for her to be anesthetized during the eighth. Chloroform was used. How good of him. I wonder did husbands have to sign for their wives.)

She loses self-control and consciousness.

I’ve now and again come across papers about women’s psychological reactions to marriage as presented practiced in many parts of the world still: the woman at home, left with children, the man with the job. One pattern that emerges is Catherine’s here: that a personality hitherto firm and independent becomes dependent and even afraid to go far on her own; this is accompanied by emotional instability (crying jags), infirmness. the paper is Alexandra Symonds, “Phobias after Marriage: Women’s Declaration of Dependence” American Journal of Pscyhoanalysis, 31:2 (1971). I’ve seen this debilitation and loss recently in reaction to the marketplace practices that have emerged as jobs become scarce, prices high, no safety net; things like “behavioral interviews” (a form of hazing).

Two others: Lenore Walker and Elizabeth Waites (“Battered Women and Learned Helplessness” and “Female Masochism and the Enforced Restriction of Choice,” Victimology, 2 [1977-78]:525-44) whose work demonstrates how this explanation (which partly absolves society) is maintained by not looking at the social arrangements and circumstances of a case. The girl is offered a highly restricted set of choices and is trained early on to see that none of her actions have any effect on what is done to her. This kind of thing done early creates a passivity in individuals difficult to break out of. Animal studies show this for animals. And then we are told women can be innately masochistic.

Chapter 5 continues this mesmerizing by Dickens of women. Now he’s mesmerizing Madame de la Rue whose huband is understandably not keen. Nayder reports in this chapter how Dickens said of one of his readings aloud of A Christmas Carol how much pleasure it gave him to see the power he could have over others. I’ll bet. I forgot yesterday to say also that most people who allow themselves to be hypnotized are also women and it’s most frequently done by men.

I suppose Dickens wanted to have an affair with this woman and couldn’t in the tight circumstances.

In this chapter Dickens takes his family to live in Italy you see: cheaper, and supposed quieter. We see that Catherine has two years respite from these incessant pregnancies and then they begin again, but she has at least asserted her right to a wet nurse.

Catherine did what she could to put a stop to Dickens’s taking over the de la Rues; it was finally achieved by moving away from Genoa and never returning.

While some of the self-abnegation demanded hurt Catherine, she begins to fight back for herself: she holds onto women friends she wants (Christina Thompson who Dickens particularly disliked), introduces a pianist, Christina Well. But I note how Dickens threatened her again in the way he did in the courtship: “I should never forgive mysel or you if the smallest drop of coldness or misunderstanding were created between me and Macready, by means so monstrous” (p 129). My guess at this humor Georgina was directly at Macready’s sister-in-law was needling, catty needling. Why is this Catherine’s fault.

He’ll never forgive her. Like Darcy with his implacable resentments. Dickens’s dreams are about how the dead Mary is this angel trying to reach him. Naydor again says how Dickens’s idea about Mary that she was so centered on him was not but we can see how Dickens is the object of compassion in the dream.

She is not effective for her children: I’ve read how Dickens tried to mould his sons in his own image. I certainly feel for Charlie who is not aggressive enough (“lack of manly energy and drive”) to suit Dickens. Perhaps not as intelligent as he too (so disappointing to Dickens). Naydor writes: “When he could not successfully influence and control family members, he judged and criticized, a pattern particularly evident in his marital relations” (p. 123). Catherine stuck up for the boy to some extent. We are told in a previous chapter the boy chose to stay with his mother later on.

The man depicted here is the author I’m familiar with in the books too: some of his attitudes towards “pathetic” male characters.

The time in Genoa is (possibly) reflected in the Dorrits’ experience of Italy in Little Dorrit

So now we find that Charles Dickens can’t stand the Weller young women. How dare they want to have careers and a life of their own. It seems the Weller father and even a husband (Thompson) worries lest Christian throw away, give up her gifts and business as a pianist and piano teacher.

It seems that if you marry in this era, it’s all over for you (pp. 134-35). There was no thin rubber.

What Dickens would like to see though is Anna getting “shocked and knocked and started into a reasonable woman.” Let us take a minute to think about what he could mean by that phrase.

He goes to visit the Wellers and what does he find: (“singularly”) untidy children! (p. 136)

Catherine tries to hold onto the friendship with Christiana: “a talented friend with whom she could discuss people and art, refreshing in her expressiveness and her relative unconcern with social proprieties” (p. 137)

Nailed down again though: the sixth pregnancy ended in a miserable childbirth: she is reported as “in a most critical condition,” “in a state of tribulation,” on the morning the baby finally emerged “suffered very much.” So she can’t go to her friend’s wedding.

The hostilities between the men (the Wellers are betraying the class order called men) were too much. So Catherine finds a new young musical friend. It seems she lived vicariously through this young musical women.

*************************

Georgina Hogarth late in life

Following Chapter 5 is a sketch of the character and life of Georgina (who I gather sided with Dickens when Dickens left Catherine) contextualized by the life of another (I had almost said) women servant in the household: Anne Cornelius and Anne Cornelius’s daughter, given the names of Catherine and Georgina and Anne: The curious thread left hanging is about Catherine Georgina Ann Cornelius. We are given no father’s name.

The chapter contextualized Georgina’s life not with Dickens and her work for him but as one of a trio serving Dickens and living together as women in the house., traveling together. Anne traveled second class of course. Yours in subordination is the idea. It appears that Georgina was in the house as much a servant as governess, as much mothering the children (p. 198) What set Georgina apart was not that she was so superior a character but she was not a target for sex: no babies endlessly, no miscarriages, no restrictions imposed on her all throughout. Of course if Georgina asserted herself in company not to like this person or that Dickens put her in her place (p. 202)

Georgina’s reward was to live the rest of her life with Dickens, supported by him. Catherine’s own large heartedness comes out in the remark she made afterward that it was a comfort to her to think her sister was with the children. Not many women would take it that way (p. 199)

The Deceased Wife’s Sister’s Bill has a sinister aspect: the man was not bedding his sister-in-law, that would be incest and as log as they didn’t marry no one would think they were having sex. Probably Dickens and Georgina didn’t — it appears her services were not called upon here.

A friend who is a frequent reader of Dickens (has read collections of Dickens’s letters as well as a spate of biographies) suggested to me one flaw in Nayder’s book is she doesn’t quote Catherine Hogarth enough. There are more letters than the surface feel of this book presents. My friend said that paradoxically Nayder is guilty of what she accuses others of: quoting Dickens rather than Catherine.

This kind of argument can be used to suggest that Nayder skews the evidence, but it is a problem for biographers from Boswell and Gaskell to our own day: how much do you transcribe verbatim and how much paraphrase and summary. You have to do the latter a good deal or the book gets too long.

The last part of the interlude gives us the fates of Anne and her daughter, Kate. Kate went on to become a pupil at North London college, Dickens paying for her schooling as he did for the daughters of his brother, also enrolled in the same school. Then a third sister joined these daughters (Dickens’s nieces).

Catherine did not mention mother, Anne, or daughter, Kate in her will and they seem to have lost contact. Georgina did write Anne after Catherine’s death, the day after, an acknowledgment of what Anne’s presence had been in the household.

Anne kept getting into financial difficulties. Not uncommon in this pre-20th century age (we are returning to the conditions that caused the vast majority of people to be desperate). Kate was allowed to marry quite young, but it seems the marriage turned out well to the extent that Kate became a successful music instructor and schoolteacher well into middle age while still having 6 children. Anne came to live with her daughter and son-in-law in old age.

Catherine spent her old age with Charley and Bessie Evans, the latter of whom she formed a good relationship with. I hope I’m not alone in finding such ends called successes demoralizing.

***************************

Charles and Catherine later in life

Chapter 6: Middle years, tension erupts, and Dickens’s breaks up the marriage and disperses his children

Nayder does say that many of Catherine’s letters were destroyed by Dickens so the picture that emerges from the last years of the marriage just before the break-up comes from his letters and we see a strongly egotistical husband-in-charge. The letters show him turning her into the helpless woman: in this chapters’ letters we see how he takes his point of view and insists it’s hers and then insists she act on it. He talks in this “you had better” tone — she had better do and think what he wants, and then he throws at her how he has provided everything: he has given her a “station better than rank, and surrounded you with many enviable things.

To say the early years were happy ones is to use the word happy in a superficial way. Dickens may have been happy because he got a willing servant-slave administering to his needs, obeying him at all points, including every bit of her body, time, and even mind. When he is gone from the house, he sends a letter which orders every detail of a mantelpiece be precisely what he wants. This is scary If she was happy in the beginning, she seems not to have been by the time of the first birth. Depression at childbirth is not caused just or even by childbirth, but by all the things that occur around it and what is demanded of the woman and how she is treated. Since he destroyed the letters we are left with this idea that childbirth brings on depression as a general principle instead of the actual situation which brought on her depression.

Now we also back with his mesmerizing Catherine and even more fun for him: his conjuring. We are told in the scholarship how splendid Dickens was at this, and that he could ferret out Catherine’s thoughts. I know I have the implication right here: Nayder suggests Catherine was silently playing along and saying what was wanted so Dickens would look like he conjured up her meaning. This silence of hers is chilling. Is she afraid of some aspect of him. Well, duh, yes, see how he threatens her implicitly with the loss of his affection in the letter where he tells her what he thinks and how she must act on it (pp 212-13).

He’s still pursuing other women by his mesmerizing and conjuring antics. One of the women she gets involved with from this sees her “subservience:” Mrs Hoare (p. 219). It was apparently okay by Dickens that Kate Horne got rid of her tyrant-husband; now he has no husband to deal with when he visits (p. 221). We hear how relieved Kate was. I suppose she had money of her own or got a decent income out of the husband. She was a strong type and maybe this is why Dickens admired her too.

To Dickens it was not okay for Christina Thompson to try to have a life of her own while with her husband. Oh no. She is to keep her children tidy first thing: this women’s “excitability” and “restlessness’ are a “disease.” She is not subordinating herself to husband and children. I notice the other Dickens brother, Fred, is separated from his wife too, Anna. So Charles’s behavior is not unusual for the family.

We see Catherine scurrying about, writing letters to people to get her brother a job from them. Wonderful these connections. Angela Coutts. The letter is interpreted as showing Catherine had her own relationship with one of these women. I see something different: she is using what Dickens gives her to further her family member’s advancement. This is the payment for her subservience and she does buy into it (p; 231)

Nayder is unusual (also?) in not dwelling at length on the separation or making it loom large in space: in a sense the book has been preparing for it since Catherine’s pregnancies and Dickens’s use of them to control her further began. It’s in the cards even if it was Dickens who called a halt to proceedings: we see early on not only his taking over her personality (as well as body) and her diminishment from this, but the near affairs (mesmerizing of other women, and then chasing after them) and now finally open affairs.


Ellen Ternan

What precipitated the break was Dickens’s taking up with Ellen Ternan — and I suppose though the text doesn’t put it this way — his decision to take over Ellen’s personality and bring her under his control and he saw he couldn’t go this far. At the close of the chapter just before the break, we are told Catherine realizing an affair was going on began to protest, there were quarrels; this is when Dickens insisted she visit the Ternans to “show” all was legitimate and she agreed it was so, and she did, but they both knew better.

Dickens even bullied Catherine into visiting Ellen Ternan. This is edging to the practice of bringing your mistress to your house and table which in France at least was something a wife could bring into court to demand a divorce or separation.

We also see how he broke up the whole home, including sending away the sons. I felt as sorry for them as I do for Catherine. I realize that this level of people were the colonialists: Trollope sent one of his sons too. The fringe gentry who would not inherit big and hoped to gain big by going abroad to grab the land and its products in countries controlled by the British military. But Dickens had a good deal of money, far more than Mr Trollope and he could have tried to set the sons up in the UK. He wanted them out. The story of their leaving is pure pathos.

Catherine never saw Walter again (his eyes in his portrait look intently elusive). Dickens says how “manly” was Walter’s behavior. Right. Four were sent off to school — far away from where Dickens is again.

Charley did defy the father and openly side with the mother and stay with her.

Nowadays Dickens couldn’t get away with this. Catherine would have the right to equal share in the property, to equal right in what would happen to her children (clearly Dickens regards them as his appendages, symbols of his identity), and would not have been so humiliated and bereft. She could have carried on her life as mother, housekeeper, respectable and at long last independent householder. She was deprived of a life this way — he killed her in effect.

Having said this I am again struck by how she doesn’t protest and she does not publicize her side at all. That she tried to stay. It seems to me that one aspect of the tragedy of her life was she loved this man and was enthralled by him very strongly. It makes sense in that from his books you see what a power he was, what a genius, and she would have been influenced by the adulation everyone else, most of whom didn’t know him intimately, gave him. A couple of times I was startled by her abjection. I read as a living person and this book has wanted me to compare Catherine to myself as a woman. So here I do it again: I’ve never loved anyone sufficiently to allow anyone to do this to me. When I have come across men much admired or powerful, partly because I’m a strong sceptic, I’d say I saw through it to judge them on human qualities. She seems not to have been able to say to herself, what a bastard this man and turn around and tell everyone else and let him know it in no uncertain terms.

There was her weakness. She probably (foolish foolish woman) tried to hold onto him through the pregnancies. She had not the insight to see he would not take any kind of inward responsibilty for them, that he couldn’t give a shit about them as individuals for real — partly because of what his character clearly was and partly as his code of manliness (it didn’t do).

We get the story of Hans Christian Anderson’s visit – his lack of seeing what’s in front of him.

We do get in this chapter a couple of paragraph vignette of Dickens as sexual predator in the brothels of Paris. On a night after a dinner party Dickens describes where he stigmatized Catherine for overeating (he’s aware she’s overweight badly by now — partly from all the pregnancies), he goes to a brothel. He talks about the prostitutes in terms which signal his disdain and moral and physical superiority: “wicked, coldly calculating, or haggard and wretched” [which they clearly deserve]. But there is one he is attracted to. He looks for her. Not there in the house. So he’ll look about the streets for her: “I mean to walk about tonight …” p. 239) The great man.

For Catherine’s final years (Chapters 7 and 8 and Interlude III of Nayder’s biography), see comments.

Ellen

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The train that thunders through (Dicken’s “The Signal-man” as adapted in the 1975 film)

Dear friends and readers,

I’ve another gothic from my Exploring the Gothic class to discuss: for this past Friday my class and I read and discussed Charles Dickens’s unusual and brief ghost story, “The Signalman.” I’ve written about Andrew Davies’s 1976 film of this here before, but then I concentrated on the film, now we’ll look at Dickens’s text itself.

Here’s the story online: “The Signal-man” by Charles Dickens

A summary (if you don’t have the time or inclination to read this gem): an unnamed narrator comes to a deep cutting in the earth, and calls down below to a signalman whose job is to live in a box-like small house by a railway track and provide a signal for people on and working a train of its coming, going, and state. He persuades the signalman to let him come down to his dark place below, and he and the signalman talk. The signalman is in a bad way: he tells the narrator of an apparition he has seen twice: a man stands by the track with one hand over his eye and the other waving at a coming train; each time this vision appears death follows soon. After the first time it was a ghastly train accident; after the second a young woman died. The signalman is distraught because he cannot save the person/people. He is lonely, he is educated, intelligent and has no one to share his thoughts or learning (math, algebra) with. He once had an opportunity to better himself, but missed out because of private events he won’t go into anymore. The narrator goes off but says he will return on the narrator’s off hours again — these off-hours are not much use to the narrator as he has ever to be alert for the bell. His duties to pull the bell are light, yet he is a slave to it. He lives a life of anxiety. The next time the narrator shows up (next day?) he looks below, seems to see the apparition himself, hears the train coming, and then rushing below finds the signalman has died — run over.


Bernard Lloyd as visitor (narrates the tale)

The story is eerie and mysterious: we never learn the names of the two characters, and we never learn who the narrator is. To the narrator, the signalman appears to be a spirit; to the signalman the narrator appears to be a spirit. At the first meeting between the two men, the unnamed signalman is clearly wondering if the narrator is somehow being controlled by spirit forces. He asks him “don’t you know” that the red light is part of his charge – and goes on to ask during their conversation if the words he spoke “were conveyed to you in any supernatural way. At the same time, the narrator (also nameless!) is wondering almost the same thing about the signalman. “The monstrous thought came into my mind as I perused the fixed eyes and the saturnine face, that this was a spirit, not a man.” The narrator finds a “monstrous thought” entering his own mind – and, in the next breath, says of the signalman: “I have speculated since, whether there may have been infection in his mind.” The narrator goes on to share the signalman’s obsession and fear of the red light – and, when the final catastrophe comes, he finds his own thoughts (the words he associated with the warning gesture) strangely borne out along with the signalman’s deadly premonition.

The story begins with one question and ends with another. At the start, as readers, we wonder why the narrator calls down to the signalman in the first place – and we never really get an answer to this. If he wasn’t being motivated by something supernatural, what other reason was there? The signalman could be lured to death by an irrational self-destructive despairing impulse; the narrator could be an employee of the company come to investigate the signalman for being ill or too nervous to do his job properly. We are left wondering and get no definite answer. It almost seems as if the signalman lures the narrator down and disturbs his life just as the phantom (real or imaginary) is luring him and disturbing his life.

The story is about the mental torture the signalman experiences daily. Loneliness, helplessness, lack of power (he is too lowly to persuade the company to act differently about the train), anxiety, a desire to have someone to talk to: there is the strangely creepy repeated line: “But he would beg to remark that he had not finished” – which has a touch of humor, but at the same time helps to give a feeling of impending doom and the signalman’s desire to have the narrator stay. One interpretation says the signalman is haunted by a malicious poltergeist.


Denholm Elliot as poignant signalman

One of my students (the first section I teach) gave a talk where he suggested the story is about the how technology obliterates traditional ways of life. The railway contain immense power, and people felt threatened before it. The student’s view echoed an essay I linked into my “course materials for y students” is by Norris Pope where he argues that the story is a response to the terrifying technology of the railways (which at the same time liberated people more than any other technology had before and except for the car since): Norris Pope’s “Dickens’s “The Signalman” and Information Problems in the Railway Age,” Victorian Studies, 42:3 (2001), 436-461. But the student went much further in suggesting the story was about the evils of technology for the audience.

Another student (in my second section) talked about how the story was about or derived directly from an accident Dickens was involved with and showed us a state of trauma that the signalman should have had help with and couldn’t. She thought the apparition was a psychological projection of the signalman’s mind. (She didn’t explain how the narrator saw the third apparition; questioned she suggested maybe the third apparition was the signalman himself seen by the narrator just before killing himself.) The student’s view was more or less the view the second article I put on my “Course Materials” discussed: Jill Matus’s “Trauma, Memory, and Railway Disaster: The Dickensian Connection,” Victorian Studies, 43:3 (2001): 413-36. The student went much further in saying that today we would try to help this man and the story was showing us how no one did help this man.

I’ll go over that as told in this second essay:

In 1865 Charles Dickens narrowly escaped death when the train on which he was traveling from Folkestone to London jumped a gap in the line occasioned by some repair work on a viaduct near Staplehurst, Kent. The foreman on the job miscalculated the time of the train’s arrival; the flagman was only 550 yards from the works and unable to give adequate warning of the train’s approach. The central and rear carriages fell off the bridge, plunging onto the river-bed below. Only one of the first class carriages escaped that plunge, coupled fast to the second class carriage in front. “It had come off the rail and was [...] hanging over the bridge at an angle, so that all three of them were tilted down into a corner” (Ackroyd 1013).

Dickens managed to get Ellen Ternan and her mother, with whom he was traveling, out of the carriage and then behaved with remarkable self- possession, climbing down into the ravine and ministering to the many who lay injured and dying. Ternan was his mistress and he was concerned to hide this, but still went forward to save others.

With further aplomb, he climbed back into the dangerously unstable carriage and retrieved his manuscript, an account of which is offered in the memorable postscript to Our Mutual Friend (1865).

Once back in London, however, Dickens began to develop the symptomatology that today we would recognize as typical of trauma.’ He was greatly shaken and lost his voice for nearly two weeks: “I most unaccountably brought someone else’s out of that terrible scene,” he said. He suffered repeatedly from what he called “the shake,” and, when he later traveled by train, he was in the grip of a persistent illusion that the carriage was down on the left side. Even a year later, he noted that he had sudden vague rushes of terror, which were “perfectly unreasonable but unsurmontable.” At such times, his son and daughter reported, he was unaware of the presence of others and seemed to be in a kind of trance. His son Henry recalled that he got into a state of panic at the slightest jolt; Mamie attested that her father’s nerves were SP never really the same again: he “would fall into a paroxysm of fear, tremble all over and clutch the arms of the railway carriage.”

I then delivered a sort of lecture, inviting questions as I went along. This is what I do after students do presentations or talks. After their presentations I ask four questions: what was the student’s thesis, what his or her strategry [what did he or she do in the talk, tell a story, give an example, write on the board &c], what his or her strengths and how could he or she have improved the talk. Then the student sits down and I again get in front of the class.

I talked about how Victorians would have had an ambivalent attitude towards trains. Trains liberated people more than anything had before: before trains most people could not easily travel farther than by foot in a given day. Most people could not afford a horse; a carriage went slowly and awkwardly — not comfortable, dangerous (from overturning). Now in a brief time you could get to a major city. You could escape your environment, move far in one day, move away with ease. It’s comparable to the Internet in how it can connect people from distances. It was part of the industrial world making things and making money for some people. They knew this. I talked of how the underground was built in London at the time: promoted by Michael Farraday, he had to overcome tremendous fears (of the world below, of being buried alive) to achieve this, but he did it and then people used the underground quickly.

Dickens’s was a strong purveyor of gothic, or used it centrally in his long and short fictions. In novels and short stories, he has a has a number of character lured to their own death, attracted to self-destruction (Lady Dedlock in Bleak House, Carker in Dombey and Son). Dickens seems compelled by people who are mysteriously drawn towards their own death – there are quite a number of characters in his books who commit suicide, but there are also others who are drawn towards something which will destroy them.

The students’ questions got us talking about the atmospherics of the story as not overdone and effective. A hallucinatory quality is found in Dickens’s great novels. Another way of seeing it is a tale of doubling, the double self (as in Hyde and Jekyll) only this time the double is a threat. At the end we wonder why the signalman allowed himself to be drawn out on to the line and ignored the approaching train. The phantom if there was one appears three times: – the phantom has appeared twice, with death resulting each time, and now is appearing for a third time. We immediately know from fairy tales that the third catastrophe will be the final one, the end of the story. They noticed the number 3.


The horror of the visitor looking at the Signalman’s corpse (what’s left of it)

To conclude, the story or narrator can be seen as a projection of an impulse towards death opening before us a disappointed frustrated man who lives his life shut up in a dark cave through which a machine thunders with mechanical regularity. There are some odd nervous puns in the story which support this idea.

I talked of how this gothic manages to tell the story of another kind of unspeakable: the terrors of technology and misery of an ordinary life controlled by technology. Dickens had great sympathy for working people, and here is a man compelled by the need for a job to live like a troll in a cutting all alone. (How much he would have profited from the Internet and a computer in his hut.)

It takes place in a railway tunnel. Good modern ghost stories do not tend to occur in gothic castles or be set in the long ago. They are often set in modern anonymous places where technology has rooted up a natural landscape: old canals, waterways, and railways are favored. Dickens doesn’t need owls or bats; the wet dark tunnel without a sky is enough. There are no windows in a grave either. There are some good resonating lines about the nature of hard life. He’s missed his chance and does not get another.

As for the film (Andrew Davies, the screenplay writer, Lawrence Clark, director, Rosemay Hill, producer, Denholm Elliot the signalman with Bernard Lloyd the narrator or visitor): they do full justice to Dickens’s appreciation of how technology can land given individuals in terrible isolation. Denhom Elliot plays the Signalman who has little to do but must be there, and is living in these meagre circumstances, an educated man who lost out. Very touching in the story and film how he sits and read math, but no one to talk to or appreciate or ask questions of, but he plugs on. (Such a character might have been found comfort in the Internet.) The man who comes to visit (investigate really) show real compassion and full horror at the close.

It was shot on location. Beneath a high steep hill by a train tunnel. I’ve no doubt it arose from Dickens’s own train accident, the terrors and pain of this are gotten across. For the brilliance of the film techniques, see my other blog.

We had really good talk and the students appeared to have read the story and understood it with no trouble.

Ellen

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