Dear Serial Readers,
I'm bereft. Although the foreshadowing wasn't subtle, this number that concludes with Paul's death had a coherence and force unlike the previous four. And we have the death of the entitled "Son" only a quarter through the novel! Like the first number's conclusion, this one reasserts "the Daughter after all!" Is this daughter a new character (many have observed that these installments seem to bring in a new character toward the end) now that she's the only surviving child? And will Florence's story expand beyond the marriage plot that's already been set in motion?
The pathos of the dying child narrative seems a prevalent ingredient in nineteenth-century fiction. I can't help but remember my mother's sardonic remark to me whenever I expressed fears of mortality as a child: "Don't worry, Darling, only the good die young!" Why is it that these moribund children are so "old fashioned"--preternaturally wise, good, observant? Little Eva in UNCLE TOM'S CABIN (1851-52) provides the moral center there, much like Paul's christianized goodness and love. The image of Florence and Paul with "their arms around each other" (ch 16, 240) reminds me of the death of Helen Burns in JANE EYRE, also published in 1847. These are just two of countless instances of the dying child as a source of spiritual, moral, and other kinds of redemption. Can anyone think of a child in a Victorian novel who dies early and isn't similarly "old fashioned"? How will this death affect Father Dombey, as well as Daughter Florence?
All the references to temporality, to sunsets and sunrises, to clocks and candles (mentioned as another way of telling time on 205) course through this number along with the river and the waves with their ways of marking the passage of time. I was particularly interested in the third-to-last paragraph about Paul's death as "the old, old fashion!" that even associates human extinction with the end of narrative: "The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll" (241). With the death of "and Son" at this fairly early point, where will the narrative go--to "Dombey and Daughter"?
For next time: part-issue number six, chaps 17-19 (originally published in March 1847)
Serially yours,
s.
5 comments:
I was also surprised by the early departure of Paul, and I imagine that readers who'd followed earlier Dickens novels like Oliver Twist, where one child protagonist stays at the center of the novel, would have been even more so. And I'm interested in how this is all presented. I hate to use the term free indirect discourse, because I'm not sure it would stand up to scrutiny, but it seems applicable in Chapter XIV. We know that Paul's very sick, hence all the pity he gets from his classmates and teachers, but he doesn't, and the narrator filters impressions through Paul's consciousness. It's not really until the actual death scene that the narrator steps out and openly comments on things, developing the metaphor of the waves and the sea that Paul interpreted as literal sound. I'm curious about what effect this stylistic virtuosity has on the novel.
And the railroad returns to the novel, providing both real loss and genuine (massive) change. It seems significant that the enormous changes of the railroad return in the same series of chapters where Paul lies dying. In both cases we have a focus on irreparable loss, even if the railroad brings some benefits that Paul's death does not.
I'll admit that I've read Dombey and Son before, and so I wasn't surprised by little Paul's abrupt exit in this installment. What I find so fascinating on this reading is the way that seemingly final endings (here the death of Paul; earlier the death of Mrs. Dombey following childbirth and the expulsion of "Richards" after her unauthorized visit to Staggs' Gardens) give rise to new beginnings. Endings and beginnings seem to multiply in this novel!
The issue of beginnings and endings is highlighted in this particular installment by the representations of time that others have been posting about. On the one hand, time seems to be moving swiftly, allowing for clear beginnings and endings. We see this as Staggs' Gardens is eradicated under the tracks of the swiftly moving railroad. On the other hand, there's a strong sense of the unchangeability of things with the "old fashioned" Paul and the idea of immortality. Here the possibility of newness is less clear. I get the sense that things change in the world of Dombey and Son, but also always stay the same.
I wonder if we could map this onto the serial reading experience? Are others getting a sense that this reading experience has a kind of consistency despite the ups and downs of each installment? It feels to me as though we as readers are "moving forward," but also staying in place. Is this a hint of the picaresque within this developing novel of character? I also wonder to what degree serial reading contributes to this tension between narrative movement and stasis. I don’t remember having quite this same feeling when I read Dombey and Son in one-volume form!
When I had barely started part V (but after Monday), I checked the blog and read Susan's first sentence--so although I quickly stopped reading and closed the window I was aware that Paul's death (which I knew would come at some point) would happen at the end of this section. Still, I will admit that I shed tears as Paul said good-bye to Walter, and was very moved by this entire installment of the novel.
Part of that had to do with what Joshua refers to as free indirect discourse, something that I, too, noticed as very prevalent in these chapters and that drew me more closely into the narrative.
I was also struck by the importance of kindness in this section, a word that came to mind even before it appeared toward the end of chapter 16. The love that the Blimbers had for Paul surprised and touched me; the clock ticking on about "my lit-tle friend" suddenly seemed to mean that phrase kindly, as I saw Dr. Blimber express affection toward Paul. The school became more than the Dickensian forcing house, something a bit more complex, though we still have the Blimbers' apparent lack of comprehension of Paul's illness and what seems to be relative neglect--although it remains unclear just what Paul's illness is, and whether or not they could have done anything more to prevent his death.
An unresolved question: If Paul in a sense dies because of lack of parental care, then doesn't some guilt rest with Susan Nipper and Polly Toodle for that excursion to Skagg's Gardens? But such guilt seems utterly inappropriate to the novel. Mr. Dombey is certainly not the warmest of fathers, but he also clearly loves Paul.
On another theme of this section, I'm ambivalent about the railroad. The Toodles live in a much sturdier home now, and their family is thriving. I understand the nostalgia, but I've also been to present-day Camden Town, which certainly benefits from post-Victorian developments.
At the end, I, too, was reminded of the concluding words of part I. But I also had a feeling of stronger conclusion, and a sense that I had no idea what was to follow. Will Dombey relent and keep Walter in London? How will Florence's role and her relationship with her father develop? How will the memory of Paul figure in later chapters? I resisted the temptation to begin part VI before writing this comment, to feel more intensely the experience of those first serial readers. I may even wait until tomorrow.
If I must save only a few lines from Dombey and Son, one must be this as Miss Blimber has defined "analysis" for little Paul: "Dombey didn't seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in upon his intellect, but he made Miss Blimber a little bow."
Again Paul's sweet earnestness revealed as Miss Blimber calls his attention to a "general observation" at the close of the analysis: "Paul set himself to follow it with grat care."
That something is the matter with the great clock, something wrong with time itself, prepares us.
Dickens eases us with immediate occupation of Walter and his situation, then plunges us back into despair as Susan Nipper needs Walter's aid in delivering Polly to Paul's deathbed.
The title of Chapter 16 brought tears, much less the content. I read that Thackery (having just begun his Vanity Fair) upon reading this installment rushed into the offices of Punch, threw the intallment down on Mark Lemon's desk, and declared, "There's no writing against such power as this. One has no chance." [Wolf Mankowitz' Dickens of London]
This number begins like all the others, with Paul entering a new stage of life. At first, it seems like the new beginning is going to be Paul's first vacation from school. Something new certainly, but nothing on the level of birth, christening, move to Pipchin's, or move to Blimber's. But then it becomes apparent that what Paul is beginning is his final journey to death.
I found it interesting that in the first part of this section, Paul, although not consciously recognizing death, acts at times like he is preparing for it--the way he seems to be saying goodbye to places and things and trying to fix things in his mind for future (eternal?) reflection. And, of course, there's his emendation of the sentence "when I grow up" to "if I grow up." But most touching is his wish that the Blimber-ites "remember him kindly" and that even the dog "might miss him when he was no longer there." There is more than an intimation of mortality here.
That's what makes it all the more poignant in the later portions of the section that Paul doesn't seem to understand what's happening to him. He understands that he is treated differently from everyone else, and that he is thought of differently from everyone else, but can't make out why. It's as if part of him is preparing for death and the other part doesn't recognize its approach. Of course, that all changes at the very end when he says good-bye to his friends, even over the protest of La Pipchin.
Paul dies with the same doctors in attendance who were present at his birth; he sees his mother, and says good-bye to his nurse. The close of chapter 16 brings the whole story we have read full circle in a structural sense. The circle is closed, and that means Dickens must introduce structural as well as substantive changes in the coming chapters.
If each number can no longer begin with a new beginning for Paul, how will they begin? Will we continue to have two parts Dombey to one part Walter? Will the book decide to be about someone else? Or will Paul remain the central character in somebody's eyes even after his death?
P.S. Did the term "old-fashioned" have a particular significance to the Victorians that I don't get?
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