Dear Serial Readers,
That paragon former of surfaces, Mrs. General, aka the governess who is not to be named as such, cautions Amy not to say the "vulgar" word "Father," but to use "Papa" instead. Then follows a string of acceptable "p" words, part of her varnishing the surface of her pupil into a suitably well-polished appearance. "Prunes and Prism" becomes the delightful code for social varnish. What I loved here is Dickens' attention to the surface of language, to the mere spectacle of sounds that go together--whether Papa, potatoes, poultry, or prunes and prisms--quite apart from meaning. A language writer, Dickens, before the day! I also liked the aural affinity between "prism" and "prison," a key theme of the narrative. Amy Dorrit is the antithesis to the varnishing principle (a precursor to the Veneerings of Our Mutual Friend), here with her aversion to surface shaping and her ability to see beyond surface displays.
The other passage in this installment that jumped out was in the last chapter ("Mostly, Prunes and Prism") where Little D. speculates on the similarities between expats abroad and prisoners in Marshalsea--how similar both ways of living seem to be, with a "general unfitness for getting on at home." This made me think about how often Dickens' novels highlight the discomforts of home life or the elusiveness of home. Perhaps, as Tolstoy's famous first sentence of Anna Karenina suggests, that's the stuff of fiction, or the nineteenth-century novel at any rate. But this novel is especially insistent on the displaced persons experience, the travelers in quarantine in Marseilles, the Marshalsea prisoners, and now the expats in Geneva, Venice, and Rome. And then people, like Amy and like Arthur, who don't "fit" with the family they're in. Lots of wandering, searching, or is this also fleeing?
That "Papa" Dorrit (as Mrs. G insists) is "concerned" about Amy might suggest some finer qualities to his character, but this concern seems more to do with his discomfort that she is not adapting to the new, elevated station of the Dorrits and that her not fitting in could embarrass him. Dickens also seems fascinated with inept fathers, whether out-and-out cruel or just very self-centered and short-sighted or otherwise impaired. This pair of the selfish and limited father and the deserving, dutiful (sometimes to a fault), and overlooked or rebuked daughter reminds me of the pair from Dickens' most immediately previous novel Hard Times: Gradgrind and Louisa. But there are legions of similar pairs, including Dombey and Florence or, much later, Gaffer Hexam and Lizzie, or Jenny Wren and her father. There is of course the abused or neglected or unappreciated son too, and this reminds me that Arthur has yet to appear in these chapters abroad. But we know Amy has written to him, so perhaps soon there will be news.
Next week, chaps 8-11 (4 chaps).
Serially sauntering,
Susan
2 comments:
I'm finally catching up after a long period of lagging behind, and now I see that Susan has got to just about everything I noticed in this installment already. I too love the "varnish" and determined superficiality of Mrs. General; it's fun to hear her insist on the shallowest approach to life. And I enjoyed seeing Fanny adopt the same sort of perspective (though she's careful to seem independent, as when she publicly resists Mrs. General's suggested expressions but makes sure to incorporate them into her language at a later date).
It's interesting that "depth" -- the sort of thing that Mrs. General takes pains to avoid and that Little Dorrit can't help but care about -- includes the irrevocable wounds and injuries of the past. For someone who's often dismissed as hopelessly sentimental, I think Dickens has a pretty mature and thoughtful perspective here. If you attempt to be like the rest of the Dorrit clan by forgetting a painful past, you doom yourself to superficiality, but remaining aware of that past carries with it problems of its own. And, the narrator tells us, there's no way to fully heal the scar that the Marshalsea experience leaves.
Meanwhile Blandois is lurking and appearing increasingly menacing. I always like seeing just how long all the secret connections and mysteries can remain hiding in a Dickens novel. It's pretty interesting how much we still don't know about how everything fits together, over five hundred pages in.
And then there's that passage that equates prison society with society at large; we've seen a few of these, but this one is another reminder that the darkness of the Marshalsea hasn't left the novel just because its characters have managed to escape.
I am so late in writing after reading these chapters that I’ve lost the flow of things. I loved the image of Mrs G. in her chamber on a diminutive square of carpet. Papa’s pandering to her, though, pushes all my puttons. In her presence he tells Amy, “You habitually hurt me.” That could be true only extent that his swollen pride is so inevitably bruised. Wealth has brought to the surface his sorry-but-true colors. Only Fredrick stands up for Amy, protesting “against false pride and ingratitude.” As for Amy, the narrator says: “She felt that in [her father’s] bearing toward her there was the shadow of the Marshalsea wall. New shape, same old sad shadow.” Mrs. Gowan lives under “a touch of a shadow” too. Will this a match make?
On another note, it is easy to see how Pet and Amy could bond in their aversion for Blandois. What is this secret power of his that is referred to?
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