BY: Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Romance is perhaps the highest point of human expression, except indeed religion, to which it is closely allied. Romance resembles religion especially in this, that it is not only a simplification but a shortening of existence. Both romance and religion see everything as it were foreshortened; they see everything in an abrupt and fantastic perspective, coming to an apex. It is the whole essence of perspective that it comes to a point. Similarly, religion comes to a point -- to the point. Thus religion is always insisting on the shortness of human life. But it does not insist on the shortness of human life as the pessimists insist on it. Pessimism insists on the shortness of human life in order to show that life is valueless. Religion insists on the shortness of human life in order to show that life is frightfully valuable -- is almost horribly valuable. Pessimism says that life is so short that it gives nobody a chance; religion says that life is so short that it gives everybody his final chance. In the first case the word brevity means futility; in the second case, opportunity. But the case is even stronger than this. Religion shortens everything. Religion shortens even eternity. Where science, submitting to the false standard of time, sees evolution, which is slow, religion sees creation, which is sudden. Philosophically speaking, the process is neither slow nor quick since we have nothing to compare it with. Religion prefers to think of it as quick. For religion the flowers shoot up suddenly like rockets. For religion the mountains are lifted up suddenly like waves. Those who quote that fine passage which says that in God's sight a thousand years are as yesterday that is passed as a watch in the night, do not realise the full force of the meaning. To God a thousand years are not only a watch but an exciting watch. For God time goes at a gallop, as it does to a man reading a good tale.
All this is, in a humble manner, true for romance. Romance is a shortening and sharpening of the human difficulty. Where you and I have to vote against. a man, or write (rather feebly) against a man, or sign illegible petitions against a man, romance does for him what we should really like to see done. It knocks him down; it shortens the slow process of historical justice. All romances consist of three characters. Other characters may be introduced; but those other characters are certainly mere scenery as far as the romance is concerned. They are bushes that wave rather excitedly; they are posts that stand up with a certain pride; they are correctly painted rocks that frown very correctly; but they are all landscape -- they are all a background. In every pure romance there are three living and moving characters. For the sake of argument they may be called St. George and the Dragon and the Princess. In every romance there must be the twin elements of loving and fighting. In every romance there must be the three characters: there must be the Princess, who is a thing to be loved; there must be the Dragon, who is a thing to be fought; and there must be St. George, who is a thing that both loves and fights. There have been many symptoms of cynicism and decay in our modern civilisation. But of all the signs of modern feebleness, of lack of grasp on morals as they actually must be, there has been none quite so silly of so dangerous as this: that the philosophers of to-day have started to divide loving from fighting and to put them into opposite camps. There could be no worse sign than that a man, even Nietzsche, can be found to say that we should go in for fighting instead of loving. There can be no worse sign than that a man, even Tolstoi, can be found to tell us that we should go in for loving instead of fighting. The two things imply each other; they implied each other in the old romance and in the old religion, which were the two permanent things of humanity. You cannot love a thing without wanting to fight for it. You cannot fight without something to fight for. To love a thing without wishing to fight for it is not love at all; it is lust. It may be an airy, philosophical, and disinterested lust; it may be, so to speak, a virgin lust; but it is lust, because it is wholly self-indulgent and invites no attack. On the other hand, fighting for a thing without loving it is not even fighting; it can only be called a kind of horse-play that is occasionally fatal. Wherever human nature is human and unspoilt by any special sophistry, there exists this natural kinship between war and wooing, and that natural kinship is called romance. It comes upon a man especially in the great hour of youth; and every man who has ever been young at all has felt, if only for a moment, this ultimate and poetic paradox. He knows that loving the world is the same thing as fighting the world. It was at the very moment when he offered to like everybody he also offered to hit everybody. To almost every man that can be called a man this especial moment of the romantic culmination has come. In the first resort the man wished to live a romance. In the second resort, in the last and worst resort, he was content to write one.
Now there is a certain moment when this element enters independently into the life of Dickens. There is a particular time when we can see him suddenly realise that he wants to write a romance and nothing else. In reading his letters, in appreciating his character, this point emerges clearly enough. He was full of the afterglow of his marriage; he was still young and psychologically ignorant; above all, he was now, really for the first time, sure that he was going to be at least some kind of success. There is, I repeat, a certain point at which one feels that Dickens will either begin to write romances or go off on something different altogether. This crucial point in his life is marked by Nicholas Nickleby.
It must be remembered that before this issue of Nicholas Nickleby his work, successful as it was, had not been such as to dedicate him seriously or irrevocably to the writing of novels. He had already written three books; and at least two of them are classed among the novels under his name. But if we look at the actual origin and formation of these books we see that they came from another source and were really designed upon another plan. The three books were, of course, the Sketches by Boz, the Pickwick Papers, and Oliver Twist. It is, I suppose, sufficiently well understood that the Sketches by Boz are, as their name implies, only sketches. But surely it is quite equally clear that the Pickwick Papers are, as their name implies, merely papers. Nor is the case at all different in spirit and essence when we come to Oliver Twist. There is indeed a sort of romance in Oliver Twist, but it is such an uncommonly bad one that it can hardly be regarded as greatly interrupting the previous process; and if the reader chooses to pay very little attention to it, he cannot pay less attention to it than the author did. But in fact the case lies far deeper. Oliver Twist is so much apart from the ordinary track of Dickens, it is so gloomy, it is so much all in one atmosphere, that it can best be considered as an exception or a solitary excursus in his work. Perhaps it can best be considered as the extension of one of his old sketches, of some sketch that happened to be about a visit to a workhouse or a gaol. In the Sketches by Boz he might well have visited a workhouse where he saw Bumble; in the Sketches by Boz he might well have visited a prison where he saw Fagin. We are still in the realm of sketches and sketchiness. The Pickwick Papers may be called an extension of one of his bright sketches. Oliver Twist may be called an extension of one of his gloomy ones.
Had he continued along this line all his books might very well have been note-books. It would be very easy to split up all his subsequent books into scraps and episodes, such as those which make up the Sketches by Boz. It would be easy enough for Dickens, instead of publishing Nicholas Nickleby, to have published a book of sketches, one of which was called "A Yorkshire School," another called "A Provincial Theatre," and another called "Sir Mulberry Hawk or High Life Revealed," another called "Mrs. Nickleby or a Lady's Monologue." It would have been very easy to have thrown over the rather chaotic plan of the Old Curiosity Shop. He might have merely written short stories called "The Glorious Apollos," "Mrs. Quilp's Tea-Party," "Mrs. Jarley's Waxwork," "The Little Servant," and "The Death of a Dwarf." Martin Chuzzlewit might have been twenty stories instead of one story. Dombey and Son might have been twenty stories instead of one story. We might have lost all Dickens's novels; we might have lost altogether Dickens the novelist. We might have lost that steady love of a seminal and growing romance which grew on him steadily as the years advanced, and which gave us towards the end some of his greatest triumphs. All his books might have been Sketches by Boz. But he did turn away from this, and the turning-point is Nicholas Nickleby.
Everything has a supreme moment and is crucial; that is where our friends the evolutionists go wrong. I suppose that there is an instant of midsummer as there is an instant of midnight. If in the same way there is a supreme point of spring, Nicholas Nickleby is the supreme point of Dickens's spring. I do not mean that it is the best book that he wrote in his youth. Pickwick is a better book. I do not mean that it contains more striking characters than any of the other books in his youth. The Old Curiosity Shop contains at least two more striking characters. But I mean that this book coincided with his resolution to be a great novelist and his final belief that he could be one. Henceforward his books are novels, very commonly bad novels. Previously they have not really been novels at all. There are many indications of the change I mean. Here is one, for instance, which is more or less final. Nicholas Nickleby is Dickens's first romantic novel because it is his first novel with a proper and dignified romantic hero; which means, of course, a somewhat chivalrous young donkey. The hero of Pickwick is an old man. The hero of Oliver Twist is a child. Even after Nicholas Nickleby this non-romantic custom continued. The Old Curiosity Shop has no hero in particular. The hero of Barnaby Rudge is a lunatic. But Nicholas Nickleby is a proper, formal, and ceremonial hero. He has no psychology; he has not even any particular character; but he is made deliberately a hero -- young, poor, brave, unimpeachable, and ultimately triumphant. He is, in short, the hero. Mr. Vincent Crummles had a colossal intellect; and I always have a fancy that under all his pomposity he saw things more keenly than he allowed others to see. The moment he saw Nicholas Nickleby, almost in rags and limping along the high road, he engaged him (you will remember) as first walking gentleman. He was right. Nobody could possibly be more of a first walking gentleman than Nicholas Nickleby was. He was the first walking gentleman before he went on to the boards of Mr. Vincent Crummles's theatre, and he remained the first walking gentleman after he had come off.
Now this romantic method involves a certain element of climax which to us appears crudity. Nicholas Nickleby, for instance, wanders through the world; he takes a situation as assistant to a Yorkshire schoolmaster; he sees an act of tyranny of which he strongly disapproves; he cries out "Stop!" in a voice that makes the rafters ring; he thrashes the schoolmaster within an inch of his life; he throws the schoolmaster away like an old cigar, and he goes away. The modern intellect is positively prostrated and flattened by this rapid and romantic way of righting wrongs. If a modern philanthropist came to Dotheboys Hall I fear he would not employ the simple, sacred, and truly Christian solution of beating Mr. Squeers with a stick. I fancy he would petition the Government to appoint a Royal Commission to inquire into Mr. Squeers. I think he would every now and then write letters to newspapers reminding people that, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, there was a Royal Commission to inquire into Mr. Squeers. I agree that he might even go the length of calling a crowded meeting in St. James's Hall on the subject of the best policy with regard to Mr. Squeers. At this meeting some very heated and daring speakers might even go the length of alluding sternly to Mr. Squeers. Occasionally even hoarse voices from the back of the hall might ask (in vain) what was going to be done with Mr. Squeers. The Royal Commission would report about three years afterwards and would say that many things had happened which were certainly most regrettable; that Mr. Squeers was the victim of a bad system; that Mrs. Squeers was also the victim of a bad system; but that the man who sold Squeers his cane had really acted with great indiscretion and ought to be spoken to kindly. Something like this would be what, after four years, the Royal Commission would have said; but it would not matter in the least what the Royal Commission had said, for by that time the philanthropists would be off on a new tack and the world would have forgotten all about Dotheboys Hall and everything connected with it. By that time the philanthropists would be petitioning Parliament for another Royal Commission; perhaps a Royal Commission to inquire into whether Mr. Mantalini was extravagant with his wife's money; perhaps a commission to inquire into whether Mr. Vincent Crummles kept the Infant Phenomenon short by means of gin.
If we wish to understand the spirit and the period of Nicholas Nickleby we must endeavour to comprehend and to appreciate the old more decisive remedies, or, if we prefer to put it so, the old more desperate remedies. Our fathers had a plain sort of pity; if you will, a gross and coarse pity. They had their own sort of sentimentalism. They were quite willing to weep over Smike. But it certainly never occurred to them to weep over Squeers. Even those who opposed the French war opposed it exactly in the same way as their enemies opposed the French soldiers. They fought with fighting. Charles Fox was full of horror at the bitterness and the useless bloodshed; but if any one had insulted him over the matter, he would have gone out and shot him in a duel as coolly as any of his contemporaries. All their interference was heroic interference. All their legislation was heroic legislation. All their remedies were heroic remedies. No doubt they were often narrow and often visionary. No doubt they often looked at a political formula when they should have looked at an elemental fact. No doubt they were pedantic in some of their principles and clumsy in some of their solutions. No doubt, in short, they were all very wrong; and no doubt we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us. But when they saw something which in their eyes, such as they were, really violated their morality, such as it was, then they did not cry "Investigate!" They did not cry "Educate!" They did not cry "Improve!" They did not cry "Evolve!" Like Nicholas Nickleby they cried "Stop!" And it did stop.
This is the first mark of the purely romantic method: the swiftness and simplicity with which St. George kills the dragon. The second mark of it is exhibited here as one of the weaknesses of Nicholas Nickleby. I mean the tendency in the purely romantic story to regard the heroine merely as something to be won; to regard the princess solely as something to be saved from the dragon. The father of Madeline Bray is really a very respectable dragon. His selfishness is suggested with much more psychological tact and truth than that of any other of the villains that Dickens described about this time. But his daughter is merely the young woman with whom Nicholas is in love. We do not care a rap about Madeline Bray. Personally I should have preferred Cecilia Bobster. Here is one real point where the Victorian romance falls below the Elizabethan romantic drama. Shakespeare always made his heroines heroic as well as his heroes.
In Dickens's actual literary career it is this romantic quality in Nicholas Nickleby that is most important. It is his first definite attempt to write a young and chivalrous novel. In this sense the comic characters and the comic scenes are secondary; and indeed the comic characters and the comic scenes, admirable as they are, could never be considered as in themselves superior to such characters and such scenes in many of the other books. But in themselves how unforgettable they are. Mr. Crummles and the whole of his theatrical business is an admirable case of that first and most splendid quality in Dickens -- I mean the art of making something which in life we call pompous and dull, becoming in literature pompous and delightful. I have remarked before that nearly every one of the amusing characters of Dickens is in reality a great fool. But I might go further. Almost every one of his amusing characters is in reality a great bore. The very people that we fly to in Dickens are the very people that we fly from in life. And there is more in Crummles than the mere entertainment of his solemnity and his tedium. The enormous seriousness with which he takes his art is always an exact touch in regard to the unsuccessful artist. If an artist is successful, everything then depends upon a dilemma of his moral character. If he is a mean artist success will make him a society man. If he is a magnanimous artist, success will make him an ordinary man. But only as long as he is unsuccessful will he be an unfathomable and serious artist, like Mr. Crummles. Dickens was always particularly good at expressing thus the treasures that belong to those who do not succeed in this world. There are vast prospects and splendid songs in the point of view of the typically unsuccessful man; if all the used-up actors and spoilt journalists and broken clerks could give a chorus, it would be a wonderful chorus in praise of the world. But these unsuccessful men commonly cannot even speak. Dickens is the voice of them, and a very ringing voice; because he was perhaps the only one of these unsuccessful men that was ever successful.
Does anyone know where I could find the region 1 DVD of the BBC version of NN (with D'Arcy as Nicholas) at a reasonable price? All the sites that sell it for ~$22 are out of stock and everywhere else it is nearly $40. Is the DVD discontinued or just very rare? Thanks!
I absolutely LOVE this book -- but I don't understand one part. When Wackford Squeers is talking to the evil stepfather before going home to Devonshire, he says that the boys must pack razors for the trip. The men share knowing smiles at this remark. What does this passage mean? :confused: Thanks, Miracle Max
I whole-heartedly recommend seeing the current Chichester Festival Theatre production of Nicholas Nickleby. The book adaption (which was first played at the National ten years ago to great acclaim) has been shortened from the National version, but still extends over two shows. The acting is superb, the whole production is magnificent in my opinion, and for anyone who enjoys the variety, humour, and pathos of Dickensian characters this is a must-see. The play has some 100 characters, tackled by a cast of 23 which stretches credibility a bit at times but doesn't detract at all from the sheer enjoyment which is on show. A truly memorable event. For press views go to http://www.cft.org.uk/cft-productions_reviews.asp?pid=13 Addendum 2nd September 2006: TOO LATE now it's finished.
The novel Nicholas Nickleby, being early in the career of Dickens, has faults of execution and structure and garrulousness which he corrected progressively in his later works. There are so many subplots in NN, so that though it is Dickens's first fairly well sustained novel, it is still half in the world of the "sketches" G. K. Chesterton speaks of. This is one reason why a film of the book is vital to its lasting value. As the computer age increases patience with antique styles of writing (not counting Shakespeare's, which is not antique in the deepest sense) will become less and less read. But a film that carries the story well can be a treasure to set beside the book, and it can lead many people to go back to the book and read it for themselves.
With these thoughts in mind, I think Nicholas Nickleby has an important place right now in helping Charles Dickens keep his place in the popular imagination. I refer to the felicity of filming the novel just at this time, this juncture. The 2002 film is a boon to the tradition of Dickensian admiration. The story in NN has all of the characteristics of idealism and hope, charm and sentiment, good vs. evil, and other qualities, available in Dickens stories long widely familiar, like A Christmas Carol or Oliver Twist. Those qualities made those more familiar stories as famous as they are, yet somehow NN got left behind in the familiarity and fame departments. The Carol, especially, one can hardly avoid completely each and every Christmas. Who would really mind going through a Christmas, by now, without having to hear the names Scrooge and Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchett one more time? Yet a Christmas devoid of Dickens is unthinkable. So what are we to do? Film other early Dickens novels that have the same warmth and magic as the ones we know best, that's what. NN is the perfect choice for this objective.
Look at how it is now. One or more of the films of the Carol is always on television at the end of the year, more ubiquitous in December than It's A Wonderful Life and almost as ubiquitous as snow. Oliver Twist was once made into an Oscar Winning Best Picture musical film. And David Copperfield and Great Expectations, with all the periodic versions of them that come from the BBC and such, are more familiar and represent the Dickensian world and its flavors in the common mind more than NN has had a chance to do. (I suppose there have been British television films of NN in the past, but they have not stuck in many people's memories.) We tire of the Dickens of the Carol because, though it is a great story, it has been told over and over until it has become hackneyed. To be old-fashioned is one thing, to be hackneyed is another. The old-fashioned charm of Dickens remains, even in the 21st century, an indispensable part of a modern human being's literacy and taste, even if there is too much sugar (or saccharine) in that taste. But if Dickens is to remain immortal in the common mind, and keep his place in common literacy, it is necessary that he become known for more of his stories than are present common fodder for our Christmastime idleness. We must not tire of Dickens simply because we are overfamiliar with only a small part of him.
That is where NN comes in. The Old Curiosity Shop or Dombey & Son would not have come in, as a major feature film right now, as well. And later Dickens novels have dirt that has sunk into the soul as the early works do not. So NN is the choice.
Nicholas Nickleby, though it has little in it that is directly about Christmas, is the present story for freshening up the Dickensian spirit. And it has elements the Carol or Oliver lack. We get not one but two pair of Romeo-&-Juliet lovers. At this point I move to a small aside in reaction against a view of Chesterton. Whether Nicholas should have married Miss Bray or another girl, he at least marries a girl who has the proper purity and grace. And it is a bit untrue, as Chesterton claims, that Madeline Bray is not a hero, or heroine: after all, it is hard to look after a spiteful and bitter father who was never good to you. Once may wonder how or why good people in Victorian fiction manage to love family members who do not love them back (after all, Nicholas and Kate do not care much for their uncle), but the subject is more than one of respectability---of wearing a proper family face. Madeline is a heroine to a degree, because when she must mourn her father's death her grief is more than saccharine: she has lived and worked in the honest hope that he would one day come round and feel or realise the truth of love. What might seem mere oversweetened treacle (like those awful Dotheboys meals without the brimstone) from one angle might actually be something more, from the implicit perspective of the Victorian mind: it might come from the assumption that people do good things out of hope, even if it is unrealistic. That could be seen as a kind of heroism, Mr. Chesterton.
However, for Madeline's sake, I have digressed from what I was trying to point out. Nicholas Nickleby has all the qualities we associate with Dickens plus a romantic dimension not found in more familiar stories. Thus, the recent film of NN, screenwritten and directed by Douglas McGrath, is the Dickens film I have been waiting to see for years. Though taking out so many of the subplots may be said to make the story less rich (especially leaving out Kate's griefs as a seamstress), yet for all the loss of Wititterlys and Snevellicis in the film, so much richness remains and the lines of the story become so clear that the slimming is an advantage. It gives a clarity to the emotional development of the plot. (I much enjoyed, years ago, seeing the film of the complete-plot stage production, immigrated to Broadway from the Old Vic, with Roger Rees as Nicholas, but that was a different medium with a different message.)
Director McGrath has a fresh touch with the material, and transforms about 89% of the treacle or saccharine into a more pleasant and palatable sweetener. This film should become a treasure to set beside the book, as the film of The Wizard Of OZ is a film to set beside L. Frank Baum's original novel.
I hope the 2002 film of Nicholas Nickleby will become popularly recognized as a classic and become shown frequently, on cable and network, so that we can think of NN as much as of CC when we approach the Christmas season or when we remember the romantic ideals of long ago. I saw the film twice, and though I can't say I balled at the end, I did notice that both times little rivulets of liquid were coursing down my cheeks.
Saw the BBC film of Nickleby and was persuaded to pick up the book. Not having read Dickens before, I was a bit worried about getting through it, but 750 pages later, I must say that I think this is one of the best books I've ever read. It may not be his best novel, it may not be the peak of Dickens's biting social satire, his brilliant and insightful caricatures, his humorous character sketches, but in terms of a hero, I've encountered few in all of literature that can rival Nicholas Nickleby. Ralph Nickelby and Wackford Squeers also make a wonderfully wicked pair and all of the secondary characters add flavor to the novel, each as memorable as the next. This is truly a great work, and though the sophistication or importance of it can be dwarfed by Dickens's other works, I can't think of one that is more entertaining to read.
I think that 'Nickleby' is Charles Dickens' greatest work.
Not only is it emotive and harsh, it is also humerous. Nicholas is the most realistic
character he has ever invented, his other characters eg. Oliver Twist,
do not have one imperfection to thwart their angelic personalities, but that is what makes us love them.
Nicholas is a peice of reality in a rolocoster of a sanctimonious and
humerous plot. I would reccomend it to anyone.
Nicholas Nickleby is one of my favorite Dickens novels because of the smoothly blended elements of tragedy and comedy at once. It's a masterful character study of tragic proportions, but Dickens, like Shakespeare, always provides comic relief along the way. Dickens stays true to the Aristotelian Poetic formula and doesn't stumble when telling such a complex story. Reversals and richness of detail abound. Highly recommended.
Nickleby doesn't approach the very best of Dickens' novels, but I agree with what Chesterton said about it. Nicholas is a terrific romantic hero, and as a novel it is far more successful than Oliver Twist. There are characters and scenes to enjoy as in all of Dickens' novels, very few of which have what can really be called a good plot (Two Cities stands out by a long way from the pack), so in fairness to Nicholas Nickleby, this isn't at all bad for Dickens and for all its warts, it has one of his most attractive heroes.
After I finished reading a Tale of Two Cities, I checked out this book from the library, hoping that all of Dickens books would be as good as Two Cities was. I was greatly disappointed. This book nowhere aproaches the depth, excitement, satire, and drama that A Tale of Two Cities possesses. It has several interesting and dramatic chapters, but their effect diminished by the monotony and unoriginality of the rest of the book.
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