Dear Serial Readers,
Yesterday's newspaper acrostic had this clue: "Like a family in the first sentence of ANNA KARENINA." How about like a family in this novel, especially in this installment? What is it about those Victorian novelists (and their Russian contemporaries) and their unhappy families? Comments last week reflected on the ironic title of "The Happy Pair" (and possible alternatives to Dombey and Edith), but in this number we learn that Dombey's indifference toward his daughter has been transformed into "hatred" (a word Dickens pointedly uses). What surprised me about this section of the installment was the astute psychological realism of Dickens's portrayal of Dombey's disappointment in his marriage and its effect on his relationship with Florence, who had hoped for a different outcome. Sometimes Dombey seems not much more than the modern corporate automaton of Dickens's caricature; but there's a searing depth to Dombey's character in this chapter.
As everyone noticed with last week's number, personal power continues to play an important part in this segment as well. Since Dombey's regard of Edith has little power over her indifference toward him, his hatred of Florence threatens to have disastrous power. At the same time, Edith submits to Dombey's assertion of his power over her only for Florence's sake. So in effect, Florence--as the domestic angel in this perverse family--has power, or a positive influence, over Edith. Edith is certainly the saintly sinner. Besides her compassion for Florence, she forgives her mother's "part" in selling Edith in marriage, and reminds her mother whose guilty conscience disturbs her deathbed peace, or departure, rather, "to the invisible country far away." This phrase, repeated several times and recalling Paul's death (again, those talking waves and their mystery), also suggests a link to the colonial sites like Barbados, the destination of Walter's dubious voyage.
I continued to marvel at the networking of Dickens's multiplot serial novel. In this installment, we learn that the "withered and very ugly old woman" (403 Oxford) who offers to tell Edith's fortune in #9 when she first meets Dombey in Warwickshire is none other than Mrs. Brown and Alice's mother. Dickens also draws attention to the parallels between Edith and Alice here in chap 40 (although the name "Alice" never appears) despite their class differences, as women prostituted in marriage or otherwise. I expect there will be more connections between Edith and Alice through that arch villain Carker.
The use of verb tense also intrigues me in this number. I think I've observed this before on this blog, but it seems to me that Dickens's fluctuating between tenses is more pronounced in this novel than in others. What do you think? Here the present tense of chapter 41 again is linked to death; does the verb tense suggest the timelessness of death or eternity? And Edith listening to those waves at the close of the installment hints of her own end, in the future. But the present tense also seems to point toward the serial reader and the experience of reading the novel at intervals, like a series of past tenses intervening on present-tense daily life. And Dickens seems to address the reader with such directives like: "Draw the rose-coloured curtains..." (619). But I'm curious about Victorian temporalities and sense of time, as suggested by this vacillation between past and present, and even other verb tenses as well (Josh mentioned the narrator's "might have" constructions last week). What else does the present tense (and the alternation of tenses) signify? And how does the novel handle simultaneity, or the occurrence of events in different sections at approximately the same time?
To indulge in historical coincidental time for a moment in closing, I'd like to mention that this installment was first published in October 1847, the very month that JANE EYRE initially appeared in print. So imagine reading this number and JANE EYRE simultaneously!
For next week: #14, chapters 42-45 (4 chapters again, as in #12).
Serially suspended,
Susan
3 comments:
I've been getting more and more interested in rhetoric lately, and I think its terminology and interests provide a pretty helpful view on what Dickens is up to here in chapter 41. I'd argue that it falls under the category of the grand style: rich, eloquent, florid language designed to elevate a subject and excite passion in the reader. What's interesting, perhaps, is how often the grand style comes up in Dombey and Son to describe death. Paul's death early on, most obviously, draws on a lot of the language we see here (especially the recurring sea symbolism). But I think we also see it, albeit to a lesser extent, at the very beginning of the novel. It also appears in death scenes in Bleak House and David Copperfield, so I think it's a phenomenon worth exploring. And it appears in weddings, too -- I'm thinking of the magnificent scene where John Harmon and Bella Wilfer marry in Our Mutual Friend. I'm still not sure what to make of rhetoric and the serial novel, though. The grand style embraces stylistic virtuosity as an end in itself, almost, which seems somewhat in tension with the narrative drive.
And speaking of plot -- we still have Solomon Gills and Walter Gay to deal with, Alice Marwood's mysterious story, a little more of Edith revealed, and poor Mr. Toots having no luck with Florence. It almost seems like this installment is content to let the plot simmer without developing much (well, except for the death at the end). With a narrative this complex, it's easy to let the tension build for a bit. I'm certainly tempted to keep reading and discover what happens, but in the interest of cultivating serial reader-style suspense, I will restrain myself ...
What a fascinating serial part, from the humor and pathos of Rob leaving Captain Cuttle (and the Captain taking over the bed under the counter to keep watch over those goods that no one seems to buy or even want) to the depth of Dombey's hatred and frustration and his lashing out in the only way he seems to know, the assertion of mastery. And then, of course, Mrs. Skewton's death and the eternal voices of the waves. I agree that the present tense, especially in that last chapter, is part of a grand style. As I think I mentioned in another post, Dickens uses it in *Bleak House* for the Lady Dedlock chapters of the novel, to convey the sense of an eternally present impending destiny. Here I think it's the eternal presence of impending death, a presence ignored by all those at the end of the chapter who don't even want to talk about the late Cleopatra, let alone imagine that the voice of the waves applies to them. The imagery of the waves, the weedy shore, and the beckoning white hands is very powerful and moving here. As for "Close the rose-coloured curtains!", that seemed to me a command to a kind of celestial stage manager, somewhat reminiscent of Thackeray's similar conceit in *Vanity Fair,* also published in 1847 (obviously a great year in British fiction).
I am finding Edith to be, as Susan writes, a very "saintly sinner." I was terribly moved (and I use that adverb consciously) by the way she matter-of-factly repeats her forgiveness to her mother--matter-of-factly, but sincerely and effectively. Those brief but powerful sentences made me wonder if I could be so forgiving, of much lesser mistakes; and yes, I have been, but for the moment I was faced with a kind of shock of recognition. I think Dickens's power here is that, through these extreme characters and their appalling relationship, he makes us think of our own roles as parents or children, as in the waves chapter he confronts us with our own mortality and our efforts to ignore it.
Hello serial readers!
My thoughts about this week's installment relate to the interesting tension in the novel between isolation and connection. From the beginning of Chapter 39, Dickens underscores solitude. To begin, Captain Cuttle "passed whole days and weeks without interchanging a word with any one but Rob the Grinder" (455-56), and by the end of the chapter, Rob is gone and the Captain "renewed his solitary life" (468). In the following chapter, Dombey is described as living in "solitary bondage to his one idea" (469), "in the solitude of his own rooms," "pass[ing] long solitary hours" (470), and perceiving his own "alienation from all hearts" (470). This is indeed deep isolation! The failure of communication between Edith and Dombey adds another layer to the inability of humans to connect. Edith's only attempt to reach out to her husband’s human side leaves both "stanger to each other than [they were] henceforth" (476). Florence, too, seems isolated in this installment, for she is kept away from the dying Cleopatra. And, of course, the installment ends with "Edith standing there alone" (491)…although there is also a definite sense that she and Alice might connect up at some point.
What makes this pronounced focus on isolation interesting to me is the fact that this novel is simultaneously creating a heavily networked plot, as Susan mentioned in her post. It seems, then, that the content of the chapters is slightly at odds with the formal strategies of the novel. The plot is connecting characters, but those same characters are becoming ever more estranged and isolated. The opportunities for connection are present, but they are not utilized.
This apparent tension between isolation and connection brought me back to the question of serial reading. After all, reading is an activity that is both isolating (in the sense that you do it alone) and potentially connecting (in the sense that readers gain access to someone else’s thoughts, observations, point of view, etc. and that texts can provide a common point of reference between various readers). I’m wondering if serial reading in particular connects readers to others, or isolates them? Or might it do a little of both?
I have one final thought about the prominent use of present tense in the final chapter. I wonder if modulating into the present tense might be an attempt to combat the depressing isolation that the previous chapter sets up. It does diminish the temporal distance, and thus brings narrator and reader closer together. In this way, it seems to force a closer connection.
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