Like Napoleon, he had made his army on the march. He had walked in front of his mob of aggressive characters as Napoleon did in front of the half-baked battalions of the Revolution. And, like Napoleon, he won battle after battle before he knew his own plan of campaign; like Napoleon, he put the enemies' forces to rout before he had put his own force into order Like Napoleon, he had a victorious army almost before he had an army. After his decisive victories Napoleon began to put his house in order; after his decisive victories Dickens also began to put his house in order. The house, when he had put it in order, was Bleak House.
There was one thing common to nearly all the other Dickens tales, with the possible exception of Dombey and Son. They were all rambling tales; and they all had a perfect right to be. They were all rambling tales for the very simple reason that they were all about rambling people. They were novels of adventure; they were even diaries of travel. Since the hero strayed from place to place, it did not seem unreasonable that the story should stray from subject to subject. This is true of the bulk of the novels up to and including David Copperfield, up to the very brink or threshold of Bleak House. Mr. Pickwick wanders about on the white English roads, always looking for antiquities and always finding novelties. Poor Oliver Twist wanders along the same white roads to seek his fortune and to find his misfortune. Nicholas Nickleby goes walking across England because he is young and hopeful; Little Nell's grandfather does the same thing because he is old and silly. There is not much in common between Samuel Pickwick and Oliver Twist; there is not much in common between Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby; there is not much in common (let us hope) between Little Nell's grandfather and any other human being. But they all have this in common, that they may actually all have trodden in each other's footprints. They were all wanderers on the face of the same fair English land. Martin Chuzzlewit was only made popular by the travels of the hero in America. When we come to Dombey and Son we find, as I have said, an exception; but even here it is odd to note the fact that it was an exception almost by accident. In Dickens's original scheme of the story, much greater prominence was to have been given to the travels and trials of Walter Gay; in fact, the young man was to have had a deterioration of character which could only have been adequately detailed in him in his character of a vagabond and a wastrel. The most important point, however, is that when we come to David Copperfield, in some sense the summit of his serious literature, we find the thing still there. The hero still wanders from place to place, his genius is still gipsy. The adventures in the book are less violent and less improbable than those which wait for Pickwick and Nicholas Nickleby; but they are still adventures and not merely events; they are still things met on a road. The facts of the story fall away from David as such facts do fall away from a traveller walking fast. We are more likely perhaps, to pass by Mr. Creakle's school than to pass by Mrs. Jarley's wax-works. The only point is that we should pass by both of them. Up to this point in Dickens's development, his novel, however true, is still picaresque; his hero never really rests anywhere in the story. No one seems really to know where Mr. Pickwick lived. Here he has no abiding city.
When we come to Bleak House, we come to a change in artistic structure. The thing is no longer a string of incidents; it is a cycle of incidents. It returns upon itself; it has recurrent melody and poetic justice; it has artistic constancy and artistic revenge. It preserves the unities; even to some extent it preserves the unities of time and place. The story circles round two or three symbolic places; it does not go straggling irregularly all over England like one of Mr. Pickwick's coaches. People go from one place to another place; but not from one place to another place on the road to everywhere else. Mr. Jarndyce goes from Bleak House to visit Mr. Boythorn; but he comes back to Bleak House. Miss Clare and Miss Summerson go from Bleak House to visit Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger; but they come back to Bleak House. The whole story strays from Bleak House and plunges into the foul fogs of Chancery and the autumn mists of Chesney Wold; but the whole story comes back to Bleak House. The domestic title is appropriate; it is a permanent address.
Dickens's openings are almost always good; but the opening of Bleak House is good in a quite new and striking sense. Nothing could be better, for instance, than the first foolish chapter about the genealogy of the Chuzzlewits; but it has nothing to do with the Chuzzlewits. Nothing could be better than the first chapter of David Copperfield; the breezy entrance and banging exit of Miss Betsey Trotwood. But if there is ultimately any crisis or serious subject-matter of David Copperfield, it is the marred marriage with Dora, the final return to Agnes; and all this is in no way involved in the highly-amusing fact that his aunt expected him to be a girl. We may repeat that the matter is picaresque. The story begins in one place and ends in another place, and there is no real connection between the beginning and the end except a biographical connection.
A picaresque novel is only a very eventful biography; but the opening of Bleak House is quite another business altogether. It is admirable in quite another way. The description of the fog in the first chapter of Bleak House is good in itself; but it is not merely good in itself, like the description of the wind in the opening of Martin Chuzzlewit; it is also good in the sense that Maeterlinck is good; it is what the modern people call an atmosphere. Dickens begins in the Chancery fog because he means to end in the Chancery fog. He did not begin in the Chuzzlewit wind because he meant to end in it; he began in it because it was a good beginning. This is perhaps the best short way of stating the peculiarity of the position of Bleak House. In this Bleak House beginning we have the feeling that it is not only a beginning; we have the feeling that the author sees the conclusion and the whole. The beginning is alpha and omega: the beginning and the end. He means that all the characters and all the events shall be read through the smoky colours of that sinister and unnatural vapour.
The same is true throughout the whole tale; the whole tale is symbolic and crowded with symbols. Miss Flite is a funny character, like Miss La Creevy, but Miss La Creevy means only Miss La Creevy. Miss Flite means Chancery. The rag-and-bone man, Krook, is a powerful grotesque; so is Quilp; but in the story Quilp only means Quilp; Krook means Chancery. Rick Carstone is a kind and tragic figure, like Sidney Carton; but Sidney Carton only means the tragedy of human nature; Rick Carstone means the tragedy of Chancery. Little Jo dies pathetically like Little Paul; but for the death of Little Paul we can only blame Dickens; for the death of Little Jo we blame Chancery. Thus the artistic unity of the book, compared to all the author's earlier novels, is satisfying, almost suffocating. There is the motif, and again the motif. Almost everything is calculated to assert and re-assert the savage morality of Dickens's protest against a particular social evil. The whole theme is that which another Englishman as jovial as Dickens defined shortly and finally as the law's delay. The fog of the first chapter never lifts.
In this twilight he traced wonderful shapes. Those people who fancy that Dickens was a mere clown; that he could not describe anything delicate or deadly in the human character, -- those who fancy this are mostly people whose position is explicable in many easy ways. The vast majority of the fastidious critics have, in the quite strict and solid sense of the words, never read Dickens at all; hence their opposition is due to and inspired by a hearty innocence which will certainly make them enthusiastic Dickensians if they ever. by some accident, happen to read him. In other cases it is due to a certain habit of reading books under the eye of a conventional critic, admiring what we expect to admire, regretting what we are told to regret, waiting for Mr. Bumble to admire him, waiting for Little Nell to despise her. Yet again, of course, it is sometimes due to that basest of all artistic indulgences (certainly far baser than the pleasure of absinthe or the pleasure of opium), the pleasure of appreciating works of art which ordinary men cannot appreciate. Surely the vilest point of human vanity is exactly that; to ask to be admired for admiring what your admirers do not admire. But whatever be the reason, whether rude or subtle, which has prevented any particular man from personally admiring Dickens, there is in connection with a book like Bleak House something that may be called a solid and impressive challenge. Let anyone who thinks that Dickens could not describe the semi-tones and the abrupt instincts of real human nature simply take the trouble to read the stretch of chapters which detail the way in which Carstone's mind grew gradually morbid about his chances in Chancery. Let him note the manner in which the mere masculinity of Carstone is caught; how as he grows more mad he grows more logical, nay, more rational. Good women who love him come to him, and point out the fact that Jarndyce is a good man, a fact to them solid like an object of the senses. In answer he asks them to understand his position. He does not say this; he does not say that. He only urges that Jarndyce may have become cynical in the affair in the same sense that he himself may have become cynical in the affair. He is always a man; that is to say, he is always unanswerable, always wrong. The passionate certainty of the woman beats itself like battering waves against the thin smooth wall of his insane consistency. I repeat: let any one who thinks that Dickens was a gross and indelicate artist read that part of the book. If Dickens had been the clumsy journalist that such people represent, he never could have written such an episode at all. A clumsy journalist would have made Rick Carstone in his mad career cast off Esther and Ada and the others. The great artist knew better. He knew that even if all the good in a man is dying, the last sense that dies is the sense that knows a good woman from a bad; it is like the scent of a noble hound.
The clumsy journalist would have made Rick Carstone turn on John Jarndyce with an explosion of hatred, as of one who had made an exposure -- who had found out what low people call "a false friend" in what they call "his true colours." The great artist knew better; he knew that a good man going wrong tries to salve his soul to the last with the sense of generosity and intellectual justice. He will try to love his enemy if only out of mere love of himself. As the wolf dies fighting, the good man gone wrong dies arguing. This is what constitutes the true and real tragedy of Richard Carstone. It is strictly the one and only great tragedy that Dickens wrote. It is like the tragedy of Hamlet. The others are not tragedies because they deal almost with dead men. The tragedy of old Dorrit is merely the sad spectacle of a dotard dragged about Europe in his last childhood. The tragedy of Steerforth is only that of one who dies suddenly; the tragedy of old Dombey only that of one who was dead all the time. But Rick is a real tragedy, for he is still alive when the quicksand sucks him down.
It is impossible to avoid putting in the first place this pall of smoke which Dickens has deliberately spread over the story. It is quite true that the country underneath is clear enough to contain any number of unconscious comedians or of merry monsters such as he was in the custom of introducing into the carnival of his tales. But he meant us to take the smoky atmosphere seriously. Charles Dickens, who was, like all men who are really funny about funny things, horribly serious about serious things, certainly meant us to read this story in terms of his protest and his insurrection against the emptiness and arrogance of law, against the folly and the pride of judges. Everything else that there is in this story entered into it through the unconscious or accidental energy of his genius, which broke in at every gap. But it was the tragedy of Richard Carstone that he meant, not the comedy of Harold Skimpole. He could not help being amusing; but he meant to be depressing.
Another case might be taken as testing the greater seriousness of this tale. The passages about Mrs. Jellyby and her philanthropic schemes show Dickens at his best in his old and more familiar satiric manner. But in the midst of the Jellyby pandemonium, which is in itself described with the same abandon and irrelevance as the boarding-house of Mrs. Todgers or the travelling theatre of Mr. Crummles, the elder Dickens introduced another piece of pure truth and even tenderness. I mean the account of Caddy Jellyby. If Carstone is a truly masculine study of how a man goes wrong, Caddy is a perfectly feminine study of how a girl goes right. Nowhere else perhaps in fiction, and certainly nowhere else in Dickens, is the mere female paradox so well epitomised, the unjust use of words covering so much capacity for a justice of ultimate estimate; the seeming irresponsibility in language concealing such a fixed and pitiless sense of responsibility about things; the air of being always at daggers-drawn with her own kindred, yet the confession of incurable kinship implied in pride and shame; and, above all, that thirst for order and beauty as for something physical; that strange female power of hating ugliness and waste as good men can only hate sin and bad men virtue. Every touch in her is true, from her first bewildering outbursts of hating people because she likes them, down to the sudden quietude and good sense which announces that she has slipped into her natural place as a woman. Miss Clare is a figure-head, Miss Summerson in some ways a failure; but Miss Caddy Jellyby is by far the greatest, the most human, and the most really dignified of all the heroines of Dickens.
With one or two exceptions, all the effects in this story are of this somewhat quieter kind, though none of them are so subtly successful as Rick Carstone and Caddy. Harold Skimpole begins as a sketch drawn with a pencil almost as airy and fanciful as his own. The humour of the earlier scenes is delightful -- the scenes in which Skimpole looks on at other people paying his debts with the air of a kindly outsider, and suggests in formless legal phraseology that they might "sign something" or "make over something," or the scene in which he tries to explain the advantages of accepting everything to the apoplectic Mr. Boythorn. But it was one of the defects of Dickens as a novelist that his characters always became coarser and clumsier as they passed through the practical events of a story, and this would necessarily be so with Skimpole, whose position was conceivable even to himself only on the assumption that he was a mere spectator of life. Poor Skimpole only asked to be kept out of the business of this world, and Dickens ought to have kept him out of the business of Bleak House. By the end of the tale he has brought Skimpole to doing acts of mere low villainy. This altogether spoils the ironical daintiness of the original notion. Skimpole was meant to end with a note of interrogation. As it is, he ends with a big, black, unmistakable blot. Speaking purely artistically, we may say that this is as great a collapse or vulgarisation as if Richard Carstone had turned into a common blackguard and wife-beater, or Caddy Jellyby into a comic and illiterate landlady. Upon the whole it may, I think, be said that the character of Skimpole is rather a piece of brilliant moralising than of pure observation or creation. Dickens had a singularly just mind. He was wild in his caricatures, but very sane in his impressions. Many of his books were devoted, and this book is partly devoted, to a denunciation of aristocracy -- of the idle class that lives easily upon the toil of nations. But he was fairer than many modern revolutionists, and he insisted on satirising also those who prey on society not in the name of rank or law, but in the name of intellect and beauty. Sir Leicester Dedlock and Mr. Harold Skimpole are alike in accepting with a royal unconsciousness the anomaly and evil of their position. But the idleness and insolence of the aristocrat is human and humble compared to the idleness and insolence of the artist.
With the exception of a few fine freaks, such as Turveydrop and Chadband, all the figures in this book are touched more delicately, even more faintly, than is common with Dickens. But if the figures are touched more faintly, it is partly because they are figures in a fog -- the fog of Chancery. Dickens meant that twilight to be oppressive; for it was the symbol of oppression. Deliberately he did not dispel the darkness at the end of this book, as he does dispel it at the end of most of his books. Pickwick gets out of the Fleet Prison; Carstone never gets out of Chancery but by death. This tyranny, Dickens said, shall not be lifted by the light subterfuge of a fiction. This tyranny shall never be lifted till all Englishmen lift it together.
I have been watching the BBC 1985 adaption of Bleak House. I liked the look of it more than the 2005 version, because I thought Diana Rigg would make a better Lady Dedlock than Gillian Anderson. It is pretty good. I was not sure about Denholm Elliot as John Jarndyce, but he won me over. The actors who played Tulkinghorn, Lady Dedlock, John Jarndyce, Esther Summerson, Ada Clare and Richard Carstone are all excellent. The only actor I do not like is the one who plays my favourite character, William Guppy. In the book, Mr Guppy is a comic character. He is not a particularly good man, but neither is he a bad man. In the 1985 TV series, he is sinister and not at all funny.
Apparently George Bernard Shaw said she was maddening prig and that she was sanctimonious and sentimental. I read also that she is often hard to adapt to television, because she is basically too good to be interesting. In the book everyone loves her, except as a little girl by her aunt and Mrs Chadband. Without her disfiguring illness, she might have been difficult to sympathise with by the reader. I don't know if this is fair. She's a goody goody, a very conscientious, hardworking one; but so is Mr Woodcourt, and so is Mr Jarndyce. Ada was just as dull. All the same, she is not an interesting a narrator as Pip from Great Expectations. Pip developed serious character flaws. He became a snob and dropped his only close friends from childhood. By the end of the book, he is possibly an emotional cripple. I don't know if that makes him more likeable, but maybe it makes him more interesting. He also has an unreliable memory, which is apparent in particular regarding Estella, the girl he adores and aspires to be worthy of. Esther's narration might have been more interesting if she hinted some discrepancy between her perception of the events and the reality, but she seems to be telling her story pretty straight. Is there any suggestion that Esther is being unfair or misrepresenting anyone? Maybe all her goodness, her conscientiousness, and her work ethic results from her being unloved as a child. She craves love and approval. Maybe she is just a product of her Victorian, Protestant upbringing. https://thevictoriansage.wordpress.com/tag/esther-summerson/
SPOLIERS So, Mr Tulkinghorn has been found dead in his chambers. He will not be mourned, but whodunnit? Mr George has been arrested, but it can't be him. That would be contravening the rules of story-telling. Grandfather Smallweed is mean enough, but he is not physically capable. It doesn't seem his style anyway. It might be young Smallweed, but I don't know. It would not be in his self-interest. Personally, I suspect Mr Guppy. He has been quiet lately. Lady Dedlock seems to have been behind the conspiracy; hence her walking up and down the grounds at Chesney Wold late into the evening of the night of the shooting in a preoccupied manner. She knows Mr Guppy and Mr Guppy knows his way around Chancery Lane. I can't work out what his motive would be. He likes Esther, although not so much since her disfigurement. Perhaps he has learnt Lady Dedlock is her mother. Who else could it be? Might it be Mr Woodcourt. Perhaps he learnt that Mr Tulkinghorn had been persecuting Jo via Mr Bucket, and holds him responsible for Jo's death. It could also be Hortense. Hortense is headstrong enough. She appears to have a violent streak. Also, Mr Tulkinghorn has grievously offended her. Maybe she is too obvious a suspect. Mind you, Lady Dedlock knows her too and Hortense might want her old job back, which thanks to Rosa having been bundled off into Mr Rouncewell's care, is now available. Mr George - 33/1 Mr Smallweed (younger) - 10/1 Mr Guppy - 2/1 Mr Woodcourt - 3/1 Mme Hortense - evens
I wonder what the infectious disease was that Esther caught off Charley, her maid, which she caught off Jo, the orphan street sweeper. At first it seemed like it may have been no worse than flu, which is plenty bad enough. However, she was sick for three weeks, nearly died, and when she recovered, she found she had lost her looks. What infectious disease does that? Smallpox is disfiguring, but it did not sound like smallpox from the symptoms. Don't tell me, but this is what I am intrigued to find out: Will Esther recover her good looks? If not, will Dr Woodcote still marry her? How will Mr Guppy react? Has Jo survived his illness?
I am about 40% through the Bleak House. There are many strands in the book. There are also many characters. My favourites so far are Jo the street sweeper, and Mr Guppy. I cannot tell yet whether Mr Guppy is a goodie or a baddie, or whether he is shallow or deep. He is a comic character. I think he may be shallow, but I do not think he is very bad, or even wearisome. Dickens' shallow characters tended to be wearisome. No doubt I will find out what he is up to in the rest of the book. Jo is a very sympathetic character, being so poor and an orphan. He says he don't know nuffink, and he is illiterate, but he knows his way around and he knows his own mind. He is maybe a bit too open.
I was reminded of Middlemarch while reading chapter 17 of Bleak House. Richard Carstone does not really know what he wants to do. He decided to study to become a surgeon under Mr Badley's direction, but he is not really applying himself. Now he thinks he wants to become a lawyer. Not knowing what you want to do for a living is a common enough problem among young adults, I suppose. However, I was reminded of the chapter in Middlemarch in which Tertius Lydgate gains his love of science and sense of vocation for medicine. Like Tertius Lydgate, there is a medical man in Bleak House, called Mr Allan Woodcote. This is the man Esther Summerson is developing feelings for. Like Tertius Lygate, he is in his late twenties, but is not established enough in his profession to afford to marry. He has decided to enrol as a ship's surgeon, I suppose in order to earn some serious money. This seems odd to me. Your late twenties is a long time to remain single. Poorer people did marry. I suppose it is best not to speculate how aspiring professional men dealt with their urges. Gout seems a commonplace affliction in classic literature. I don't think I have ever met anyone with gout. It seems like a comic disease that afflicts the elderly and wealthy. In Bleak House, Sir Leicester Dedlock suffers from it. In Middlemarch, Tertius Lydgate finally abandons his aspirations to advance medicine for the good of society in order to satisfy his wife's expensive tastes. He writes a medical paper on gout and sets up a practice treating wealthy patients. Another similarity between Bleak House and Middlemarch, is that Esther Summerson, like Dorothy from Middlemarch, has the ability and drive to do anything she wants, but because she is a woman, her options are limited. While Richard Carstone is having trouble deciding whether he wants to be a surgeon or a lawyer, Esther's only option is to be a house-keeper.
I started to read Bleak House yesterday, which is some undertaking as it is nearly 1000 pages long. I found the first two chapters dense reading. The third and fourth chapters are narrated by a young woman, Esther Summerson. I was slightly surprised by this, because I had heard that Dickens only used first person narrators in two books: David Copperfield and Great Expectations. I will be interested to see if this continues. I know one or two things about Bleak House already, but I suspect it will not be predictable. A Tale of Two Cities was spoilt for me because I could tell what was going to happen from half way through. Partly because of that, I have decided not to read any more chapter notes at the back of the book. Introductions quite often give away a lot of the plot, but the notes do too. This is annoying, because I see an obsolete word, for example 'patten', with a chapter note number beside it, I then turn to the notes to check what it means, and it gives away spoilers on the plot.
I was wondering if anyone who has read Bleak House could give me a I short explanation about the Court of Chancery and its different members and how things proceeded, if possible. Also, I'm up to chapter 19 and it says the court of Law and Equity are on vacation for four months. Does that mean nothing happens in Chancery for four months and is it just that Court that had a vacation but the other Court that dealt with comman law too? I thought I was understanding how the Court of Chancery worked until I came to this chapter and I hate reading on when there's something I'm not sure about. I really hope someone can help.
I just finished reading Bleak House my English class and was hoping I could get some ideas from everyone on the essay I have to write for it. The prompt I was given: Spontaneous Combustion: is it a cheap trick, or a brilliant plot device? Does it promote the concerns and themes of the novel in a rich and meaningful way, or is it just a little bit of sensation that Dickens throws in to appease his readers and dispatch a character he wants to get rid of? This of course is in reference to Krook. I think it would be fun to contrast the slow development of nearly every element in the plot (the Jarndyce and Jarndyce case, Tom-all-alone's, Esther's life and search for her mother and love) with the suddenness that is Krook's death. Anyone have any suggestions or analysis of their own that would work well with this prompt?
Bleak House is a favorite of mine ; in book, TV movie, and audiobook. I've recently finished listening to an unabridged version that really has me thinking. Towards the end of the story, George goes to the north to seek his brother & family. He finds them and is well received. He asks his brother to listen to a letter he has written to Esther. I have read it twice over since hearing it and it doesn't quite come clear to me. I think he's referencing Nemo, but I'm just not sure. The most odd part of all of this is that the book copy I have DOES NOT have this chapter ! My book has 66 chapters; not 67 as the online version on this site! Guess which one is missing...the chapter about George's visit! How frustrating! If anyone can explain the purpose and meaning of said letter, I would be glad indeed!
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