Appreciations and Criticisms of the Works of Charles Dickens — Dombey and Son Part 2

The change made Dickens a greater novelist.

I am not sure that it made him a greater man.

One good character by Dickens requires all eternity to stretch its legs in; and the characters in his later books are always being tripped up by some tiresome nonsense about the story.

For instance, in _Dombey and Son_, Mrs. Skewton is really very funny.

But nobody with a love of the real smell of Dickens would compare her for a moment, for instance, with Mrs. Nickleby.

And the reason of Mrs. Skewton's inferiority is simply this, that she has something to do in the plot; she has to entrap or assist to entrap Mr. Dombey into marrying Edith.

Mrs. Nickleby, on the other hand, has nothing at all to do in the story, except to get in everybody's way.

The consequence is that we complain not of her for getting in everyone's way, but of everyone for getting in hers.

What are suns and stars, what are times and seasons, what is the mere universe, that it should presume to interrupt Mrs. Nickleby?

Mrs. Skewton (though supposed, of course, to be a much viler sort of woman) has something of the same quality of splendid and startling irrelevancy.

In her also there is the same feeling of wild threads hung from world to world like the webs of gigantic spiders; of things connected that seem to have no connection save by this one adventurous filament of frail and daring folly.

Nothing could be better than Mrs. Skewton when she finds herself, after convolutions of speech, somehow on the subject of Henry VIII.

, and pauses to mention with approval "his dear little peepy eyes and his benevolent chin."

Nothing could be better than her attempt at Mahomedan resignation when she feels almost inclined to say "that there is no What's-his-name but Thingummy, and What-you-may-call-it is his prophet!"

But she has not so much time as Mrs. Nickleby to say these good things; also she has not sufficient human virtue to say them constantly.

She is always intent upon her worldly plans, among other things upon the worldly plan of assisting Charles Dickens to get a story finished.

She is always "advancing her shrivelled ear" to listen to what Dombey is saying to Edith.

Worldliness is the most solemn thing in the world; it is far more solemn than other-worldliness.

Mrs. Nickleby can afford to ramble as a child does in a field, or as a child does to laugh at nothing, for she is like a child, innocent.

It is only the good who can afford to be frivolous.

Broadly speaking, what is said here of Mrs. Skewton applies to the great part of _Dombey and Son_, even to the comic part of it.

It shows an advance in art and unity; it does not show an advance in genius and creation.

In some cases, in fact, I cannot help feeling that it shows a falling off.

It may be a personal idiosyncrasy, but there is only one comic character really prominent in Dickens, upon whom Dickens has really lavished the wealth of his invention, and who does not amuse me at all, and that character is Captain Cuttle.

But three great exceptions must be made to any such disparagement of _Dombey and Son_.

They are all three of that royal order in Dickens's creation which can no more be described or criticised than strong wine.

The first is Major Bagstock, the second is Cousin Feenix, the third is Toots.

In Bagstock Dickens has blasted for ever that type which pretends to be sincere by the simple operation of being explosively obvious.

He tells about a quarter of the truth, and then poses as truthful because a quarter of the truth is much simpler than the whole of it.

He is the kind of man who goes about with posers for Bishops or for Socialists, with plain questions to which he wants a plain answer.

His questions are plain only in the same sense that he himself is plain--in the sense of being uncommonly ugly.

He is the man who always bursts with satisfaction because he can call a spade a spade, as if there were any kind of logical or philosophical use in merely saying the same word twice over.

He is the man who wants things down in black and white, as if black and white were the only two colours; as if blue and green and red and gold were not facts of the universe.

He is too selfish to tell the truth and too impatient even to hear it.

He cannot endure the truth, because it is subtle.

This man is almost always like Bagstock--a sycophant and a toad-eater.

A man is not any the less a toad-eater because he eats his toads with a huge appetite and gobbles them up, as Bagstock did his breakfast, with the eyes starting out of his purple face.

He flatters brutally.

He cringes with a swagger.

And men of the world like Dombey are always taken in by him, because men of the world are probably the simplest of all the children of Adam.

Cousin Feenix again is an exquisite suggestion, with his rickety chivalry and rambling compliments.

It was about the period of _Dombey and Son_ that Dickens began to be taken up by good society.

(One can use only vulgar terms for an essentially vulgar process.

) And his sketches of the man of good family in the books of this period show that he had had glimpses of what that singular world is like.

The aristocrats in his earliest books are simply dragons and griffins for his heroes to fight with--monsters like Sir Mulberry Hawk or Lord Verisopht.

They are merely created upon the old principle, that your scoundrel must be polite and powerful--a very sound principle.

The villain must be not only a villain, but a tyrant.

The giant must be larger than Jack.

But in the books of the Dombey period we have many shrewd glimpses of the queer realities of English aristocracy.

Of these Cousin Feenix is one of the best.

Cousin Feenix is a much better sketch of the essentially decent and chivalrous aristocrat than Sir Leicester Dedlock.

Both of the men are, if you will, fools, as both are honourable gentlemen.

But if one may attempt a classification among fools, Sir Leicester Dedlock is a stupid fool, while Cousin Feenix is a silly fool--which is much better.

The difference is that the silly fool has a folly which is always on the borderland of wit, and even of wisdom; his wandering wits come often upon undiscovered truths.

The stupid fool is as consistent and as homogeneous as wood; he is as invincible as the ancestral darkness.

Cousin Feenix is a good sketch of the sort of well-bred old ass who is so fundamentally genuine that he is always saying very true things by accident.

His whole tone also, though exaggerated like everything in Dickens, is very true to the bewildered good nature which marks English aristocratic life.

The statement that Dickens could not describe a gentleman is, like most popular animadversions against Dickens, so very thin and one-sided a truth as to be for serious purposes a falsehood.

When people say that Dickens could not describe a gentleman, what they mean is this, and so far what they mean is true.

They mean that Dickens could not describe a gentleman as gentlemen feel a gentleman.

They mean that he could not take that atmosphere easily, accept it as the normal atmosphere, or describe that world from the inside.

This is true.

In Dickens's time there was such a thing as the English people, and Dickens belonged to it.

Because there is no such thing as an English people now, almost all literary men drift towards what is called Society; almost all literary men either are gentlemen or pretend to be.

Hence, as I say, when we talk of describing a gentleman, we always mean describing a gentleman from the point of view of one who either belongs to, or is interested in perpetuating, that type.

Dickens did not describe gentlemen in the way that gentlemen describe gentlemen.

He described them in the way in which he described waiters, or railway guards, or men drawing with chalk on the pavement.

He described them, in short (and this we may freely concede), from the outside, as he described any other oddity or special trade.

But when it comes to saying that he did not describe them well, then that is quite another matter, and that I should emphatically deny.

The things that are really odd about the English upper class he saw with startling promptitude and penetration, and if the English upper class does not see these odd things in itself, it is not because they are not there, but because we are all blind to our own oddities; it is for the same reason that tramps do not feel dirty, or that niggers do not feel black.

I have often heard a dear old English oligarch say that Dickens could not describe a gentleman, while every note of his own voice and turn of his own hand recalled Sir Leicester Dedlock.

I have often been told by some old buck that Dickens could not describe a gentleman, and been told so in the shaky voice and with all the vague allusiveness of Cousin Feenix.

Cousin Feenix has really many of the main points of the class that governs England.

Take, for an instance, his hazy notion that he is in a world where everybody knows everybody; whenever he mentions a man, it is a man "with whom my friend Dombey is no doubt acquainted."

That pierces to the very helpless soul of aristocracy.

Take again the stupendous gravity with which he leads up to a joke.

That is the very soul of the House of Commons and the Cabinet, of the high-class English politics, where a joke is always enjoyed solemnly.

Take his insistence upon the technique of Parliament, his regrets for the time when the rules of debate were perhaps better observed than they are now.

Take that wonderful mixture in him (which is the real human virtue of our aristocracy) of a fair amount of personal modesty with an innocent assumption of rank.

Of a man who saw all these genteel foibles so clearly it is absurd merely to say without further explanation that he could not describe a gentleman.

Let us confine ourselves to saying that he did not describe a gentleman as gentlemen like to be described.

Lastly, there is the admirable study of Toots, who may be considered as being in some ways the masterpiece of Dickens.

Nowhere else did Dickens express with such astonishing insight and truth his main contention, which is that to be good and idiotic is not a poor fate, but, on the contrary, an experience of primeval innocence, which wonders at all things.

Dickens did not know, anymore than any great man ever knows, what was the particular thing that he had to preach.

He did not know it;

he only preached it.

But the particular thing that he had to preach was this: That humility is the only possible basis of enjoyment; that if one has no other way of being humble except being poor, then it is better to be poor, and to enjoy; that if one has no other way of being humble except being imbecile, then it is better to be imbecile, and to enjoy.

That is the deep unconscious truth in the character of Toots--that all his externals are flashy and false; all his internals unconscious, obscure, and true.

He wears loud clothes, and he is silent inside them.

His shirts and waistcoats are covered with bright spots of pink and purple, while his soul is always covered with the sacred shame.

He always gets all the outside things of life wrong, and all the inside things right.

He always admires the right Christian people, and gives them the wrong Christian names.

Dimly connecting Captain Cuttle with the shop of Mr. Solomon Gills, he always addresses the astonished mariner as "Captain Gills."

He turns Mr. Walter Gay, by a most improving transformation, into "Lieutenant Walters."

But he always knows which people upon his own principles to admire.

He forgets who they are, but he remembers what they are.

With the clear eyes of humility he perceives the whole world as it is.

He respects the Game Chicken for being strong, as even the Game Chicken ought to be respected for being strong.

He respects Florence for being good, as even Florence ought to be respected for being good.

And he has no doubt about which he admires most; he prefers goodness to strength, as do all masculine men.

It is through the eyes of such characters as Toots that Dickens really sees the whole of his tales.

For even if one calls him a half-wit, it still makes a difference that he keeps the right half of his wits.

When we think of the unclean and craven spirit in which Toots might be treated in a psychological novel of to-day; how he might walk with a mooncalf face, and a brain of bestial darkness, the soul rises in real homage to Dickens for showing how much simple gratitude and happiness can remain in the lopped roots of the most simplified intelligence.

If scientists must treat a man as a dog, it need not be always as a mad dog.

They might grant him, like Toots, a little of the dog's loyalty and the dog's reward.

[Illustration: Charles Dickens, 1849 From a daguerreotype by Mayall.

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