THE GREAT DICKENS CHARACTERS
All criticism tends too much to become criticism of criticism; and the
reason is very evident. It is that criticism of creation is so very
staggering a thing. We see this in the difficulty of criticizing any
artistic creation. We see it again in the difficulty of criticizing
that creation which is spelt with a capital C. The pessimists who
attack the Universe are always under this disadvantage. They have
an exhilarating consciousness that they could make the sun and moon
better; but they also have the depressing consciousness that they could
not make the sun and moon at all. A man looking at a hippopotamus may
sometimes be tempted to regard a hippopotamus as an enormous mistake;
but he is also bound to confess that a fortunate inferiority prevents
him personally from making such mistakes. It is neither a blasphemy nor
an exaggeration to say that we feel something of the same difficulty
in judging of the very creative element in human literature. And this
is the first and last dignity of Dickens; that he was a creator. He
did not point out things, he made them. We may disapprove of Mr. Guppy,
but we recognize him as a creation flung down like a miracle out of an
upper sphere; we can pull him to pieces, but we could not have put him
together. We can destroy Mrs. Gamp in our wrath, but we could not have
made her in our joy. Under this disadvantage any book about Dickens
must definitely labour. Real primary creation (such as the sun or the
birth of a child) calls forth not criticism, not appreciation, but a
kind of incoherent gratitude. This is why most hymns about God are
bad; and this is why most eulogies on Dickens are bad. The eulogists
of the divine and of the human creator are alike inclined to appear
sentimentalists because they are talking about something so very real.
In the same way love-letters always sound florid and artificial because
they are about something real.
Any chapter such as this chapter must therefore in a sense be
inadequate. There is no way of dealing properly with the ultimate
greatness of Dickens, except by offering sacrifice to him as a god; and
this is opposed to the etiquette of our time. But something can perhaps
be done in the way of suggesting what was the quality of this creation.
But even in considering its quality we ought to remember that quality
is not the whole question. One of the godlike things about Dickens is
his quantity, his quantity as such, the enormous output, the incredible
fecundity of his invention. I have said a moment ago that not one of
us could have invented Mr. Guppy. But even if we could have stolen Mr.
Guppy from Dickens we have still to confront the fact that Dickens
would have been able to invent another quite inconceivable character to
take his place. Perhaps we could have created Mr. Guppy; but the effort
would certainly have exhausted us; we should be ever afterwards wheeled
about in a bath-chair at Bournemouth.
Nevertheless there is something that is worth saying about the quality
of Dickens. At the very beginning of this review I remarked that the
reader must be in a mood, at least, of democracy. To some it may have
sounded irrelevant; but the Revolution was as much behind all the books
of the nineteenth century as the Catholic religion (let us say) was
behind all the colours and carving of the Middle Ages. Another great
name of the nineteenth century will afford an evidence of this; and
will also bring us most sharply to the problem of the literary quality
of Dickens.
Of all these nineteenth century writers there is none, in the noblest
sense, more democratic than Walter Scott. As this may be disputed,
and as it is relevant, I will expand the remark. There are two
rooted spiritual realities out of which grow all kinds of democratic
conception or sentiment of human equality. There are two things in
which all men are manifestly unmistakably equal. They are not equally
clever or equally muscular or equally fat, as the sages of the modern
reaction (with piercing insight) perceive. But this is a spiritual
certainty, that all men are tragic. And this again, is an equally
sublime spiritual certainty, that all men are comic. No special and
private sorrow can be so dreadful as the fact of having to die. And no
freak or deformity can be so funny as the mere fact of having two legs.
Every man is important if he loses his life; and every man is funny
if he loses his hat, and has to run after it. And the universal test
everywhere of whether a thing is popular, of the people, is whether it
employs vigorously these extremes of the tragic and the comic. Shelley,
for instance, was an aristocrat, if ever there was one in this world.
He was a Republican, but he was not a democrat: in his poetry there is
every perfect quality except this pungent and popular stab. For the
tragic and the comic you must go, say, to Burns, a poor man. And all
over the world, the folk literature, the popular literature, is the
same. It consists of very dignified sorrow and very undignified fun.
Its sad tales are of broken hearts; its happy tales are of broken heads.
These, I say, are two roots of democratic reality. But they have in
more civilized literature, a more civilized embodiment or form. In
literature such as that of the nineteenth century the two elements
appear somewhat thus. Tragedy becomes a profound sense of human
dignity. The other and jollier element becomes a delighted sense of
human variety. The first supports equality by saying that all men are
equally sublime. The second supports equality by observing that all men
are equally interesting.
In this democratic aspect the interest and variety of all men, there
is, of course, no democrat so great as Dickens. But in the other
matter, in the idea of the dignity of all men, I repeat that there
is no democrat so great as Scott. This fact, which is the moral and
enduring magnificence of Scott, has been astonishingly overlooked.
His rich and dramatic effects are gained in almost every case by some
grotesque or beggarly figure rising into a human pride and rhetoric.
The common man, in the sense of the paltry man, becomes the common
man in the sense of the universal man. He declares his humanity.
For the meanest of all the modernites has been the notion that the
heroic is an oddity or variation, and that the things that unite us
are merely flat or foul. The common things are terrible and startling,
death, for instance, and first love: the things that are common are
the things that are not commonplace. Into such high and central
passions the comic Scott character will suddenly rise. Remember the
firm and almost stately answer of the preposterous Nicol Jarvie when
Helen Macgregor seeks to browbeat him into condoning lawlessness and
breaking his bourgeois decency. That speech is a great monument of
the middle class. Molière made M. Jourdain talk prose; but Scott made
him talk poetry. Think of the rising and rousing voice of the dull
and gluttonous Athelstane when he answers and overwhelms De Bracy.
Think of the proud appeal of the old beggar in the “Antiquary” when he
rebukes the duellists. Scott was fond of describing kings in disguise.
But all his characters are kings in disguise. He was, with all his
errors, profoundly possessed with the old religious conception (the
only possible democratic basis), the idea that man himself is a king in
disguise.
In all this Scott, though a Royalist and a Tory, had in the strangest
way the heart of the Revolution. For instance, he regarded rhetoric,
the art of the orator, as the immediate weapon of the oppressed. All
his poor men make grand speeches, as they did in the Jacobin Club,
which Scott would have so much detested. And it is odd to reflect that
he was, as an author, giving free speech to fictitious rebels while he
was, as a stupid politician, denying it to real ones. But the point for
us here is this: that all this popular sympathy of his rests on the
graver basis, on the dark dignity of man. “Can you find no way?” asks
Sir Arthur Wardour of the beggar when they are cut off by the tide.
“I’ll give you a farm.... I’ll make you rich.” ... “Our riches will
soon be equal,” says the beggar, and looks out across the advancing sea.
Now, I have dwelt on this strong point of Scott because it is the best
illustration of the one weak point of Dickens. Dickens had little or
none of this sense of the concealed sublimity of every separate man.
Dickens’s sense of democracy was entirely of the other kind; it rested
on the other of the two supports of which I have spoken. It rested on
the sense that all men were wildly interesting and wildly varied. When
a Dickens character becomes excited he becomes more and more himself.
He does not, like the Scott beggar, turn more and more into man. As
he rises he grows more and more into a gargoyle or grotesque. He does
not, like the fine speaker in Scott, grow more classical as he grows
more passionate, more universal as he grows more intense. The thing
can only be illustrated by a special case. Dickens did more than once,
of course, make one of his quaint or humble characters assert himself
in a serious crisis or defy the powerful. There is, for instance, the
quite admirable scene in which Susan Nipper (one of the greatest of
Dickens’s achievements) faces and rebukes Mr. Dombey. But it is still
true (and quite appropriate in its own place and manner) that Susan
Nipper remains a purely comic character throughout her speech, and
even grows more comic as she goes on. She is more serious than usual
in her meaning, but not more serious in her style. Dickens keeps the
natural diction of Nipper, but makes her grow more Nipperish as she
grows more warm. But Scott keeps the natural diction of Bailie Jarvie,
but insensibly sobers and uplifts that style until it reaches a plain
and appropriate eloquence. This plain and appropriate eloquence was
(except in a few places at the end of “Pickwick”) almost unknown to
Dickens. Whenever he made comic characters talk sentiment comically,
as in the instance of Susan, it was a success, but an avowedly
extravagant success. Whenever he made comic characters talk sentiment
seriously it was an extravagant failure. Humour was his medium; his
only way of approaching emotion. Wherever you do not get humour, you
get unconscious humour.
As I have said elsewhere in this book Dickens was deeply and radically
English; the most English of our great writers. And there is something
very English in this contentment with a grotesque democracy; and in
this absence of the eloquence and elevation of Scott. The English
democracy is the most humorous democracy in the world. The Scotch
democracy is the most dignified, while the whole abandon and satiric
genius of the English populace come from its being quite undignified in
every way. A comparison of the two types might be found, for instance,
by putting a Scotch Labour leader like Mr. Keir Hardie alongside an
English Labour leader like Mr. Will Crooks. Both are good men, honest
and responsible and compassionate; but we can feel that the Scotchman
carries himself seriously and universally, the Englishman personally
and with an obstinate humour. Mr. Hardie wishes to hold up his head as
Man, Mr. Crooks wishes to follow his nose as Crooks. Mr. Keir Hardie is
very like a poor man in Walter Scott. Mr. Crooks is very like a poor
man in Dickens.
Dickens then had this English feeling of a grotesque democracy. By that
is more properly meant a vastly varying democracy. The intoxicating
variety of men--that was his vision and conception of human
brotherhood. And certainly it is a great part of human brotherhood.
In one sense things can only be equal if they are entirely different.
Thus, for instance, people talk with a quite astonishing gravity about
the inequality or equality of the sexes; as if there could possibly be
any inequality between a lock and a key. Wherever there is no element
of variety, wherever the items literally have an identical aim, there
is at once and of necessity inequality. A woman is only inferior to
man in the matter of being not so manly; she is inferior in nothing
else. Man is inferior to woman in so far as he is not a woman; there
is no other reason. And the same applies in some degree to all genuine
differences. It is a great mistake to suppose that love unites and
unifies men. Love diversifies them, because love is directed towards
individuality. The thing that really unites men and makes them like to
each other is hatred. Thus, for instance, the more we love Germany the
more pleased we shall be that Germany should be something different
from ourselves, should keep her own ritual and conviviality and we
ours. But the more we hate Germany the more we shall copy German guns
and German fortifications in order to be armed against Germany. The
more modern nations detest each other the more meekly they follow
each other; for all competition is in its nature only a furious
plagiarism. As competition means always similarity, it is equally true
that similarity always means inequality. If everything is trying to
be green, some things will be greener than others; but there is an
immortal and indestructible equality between green and red. Something
of the same kind of irrefutable equality exists between the violent and
varying creations of such a writer as Dickens. They are all equally
ecstatic fulfilments of a separate line of development. It would be
hard to say that there could be any comparison or inequality, let us
say between Mr. Sapsea and Mr. Elijah Pogram. They are both in the same
difficulty; they can neither of them contrive to exist in this world;
they are both too big for the gate of birth.
Of the high virtue of this variation I shall speak more adequately
in a moment; but certainly this love of mere variation (which I have
contrasted with the classicism of Scott) is the only intelligent
statement of the common case against the exaggeration of Dickens. This
is the meaning, the only sane or endurable meaning, which people have
in their minds when they say that Dickens is a mere caricaturist.
They do not mean merely that Uncle Pumblechook does not exist. A
fictitious character ought not to be a person who exists; he ought to
be an entirely new combination, an addition to the creatures already
existing on the earth. They do not mean that Uncle Pumblechook could
not exist; for on that obviously they can have no knowledge whatever.
They do not mean that Uncle Pumblechook’s utterances are selected and
arranged so as to bring out his essential Pumblechookery; to say that
is simply to say that he occurs in a work of art. But what they do
really mean is this, and there is an element of truth in it. They mean
that Dickens nowhere makes the reader feel that Pumblechook has any
kind of fundamental human dignity at all. It is nowhere suggested that
Pumblechook will some day die. He is felt rather as one of the idle and
evil fairies, who are innocuous and yet malignant, and who live for
ever because they never really live at all. This dehumanized vitality,
this fantasy, this irresponsibility of creation, does in some sense
truly belong to Dickens. It is the lower side of his hilarious human
variety. But now we come to the higher side of his human variety, and
it is far more difficult to state.
Mr. George Gissing, from the point of view of the passing
intellectualism of our day, has made (among his many wise tributes
to Dickens) a characteristic complaint about him. He has said that
Dickens, with all his undoubted sympathy for the lower classes, never
made a working man, a poor man, specifically and highly intellectual.
An exception does exist, which he must at least have realized--a wit,
a diplomatist, a great philosopher. I mean, of course, Mr. Weller.
Broadly, however, the accusation has a truth, though it is a truth that
Mr. Gissing did not grasp in its entirety. It is not only true that
Dickens seldom made a poor character what we call intellectual; it is
also true that he seldom made any character what we call intellectual.
Intellectualism was not at all present to his imagination. What was
present to his imagination was character--a thing which is not only
more important than intellect, but is also much more entertaining. When
some English moralists write about the importance of having character,
they appear to mean only the importance of having a dull character. But
character is brighter than wit, and much more complex than sophistry.
The whole superiority of the democracy of Dickens over the democracy
of such a man as Gissing lies exactly in the fact that Gissing would
have liked to prove that poor men could instruct themselves and could
instruct others. It was of final importance to Dickens that poor men
could amuse themselves and could amuse him. He troubled little about
the mere education of that life; he declared two essential things
about it--that it was laughable, and that it was livable. The humble
characters of Dickens do not amuse each other with epigrams; they amuse
each other with themselves. The present that each man brings in hand is
his own incredible personality. In the most sacred sense, and in the
most literal sense of the phrase, he “gives himself away.” Now, the
man who gives himself away does the last act of generosity; he is like
a martyr, a lover, or a monk. But he is also almost certainly what we
commonly call a fool.
The key of the great characters of Dickens is that they are all great
fools. There is the same difference between a great fool and a small
fool as there is between a great poet and a small poet. The great fool
is a being who is above wisdom rather than below it. That element of
greatness of which I spoke at the beginning of this book is nowhere
more clearly indicated than in such characters. A man can be entirely
great while he is entirely foolish. We see this in the epic heroes,
such as Achilles. Nay, a man can be entirely great because he is
entirely foolish. We see this in all the great comic characters of
all the great comic writers of whom Dickens was the last. Bottom the
Weaver is great because he is foolish; Mr. Toots is great because he is
foolish. The thing I mean can be observed, for instance, in innumerable
actual characters. Which of us has not known, for instance, a great
rustic?--a character so incurably characteristic that he seemed to
break through all canons about cleverness or stupidity; we do not
know whether he is an enormous idiot or an enormous philosopher; we
know only that he is enormous, like a hill. These great, grotesque
characters are almost entirely to be found where Dickens found
them--among the poorer classes. The gentry only attain this greatness
by going slightly mad. But who has not known an unfathomably personal
old nurse? Who has not known an abysmal butler? The truth is that our
public life consists almost exclusively of small men. Our public men
are small because they have to prove that they are in the common-place
interpretation clever, because they have to pass examinations, to
learn codes of manners, to imitate a fixed type. It is in private life
that we find the great characters. They are too great to get into the
public world. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a
needle than for a great man to enter into the kingdoms of the earth.
The truly great and gorgeous personality, he who talks as no one else
could talk and feels with an elementary fire, you will never find
this man on any cabinet bench, in any literary circle, at any society
dinner. Least of all will you find him in artistic society; he is
utterly unknown in Bohemia. He is more than clever, he is amusing.
He is more than successful, he is alive. You will find him stranded
here and there in all sorts of unknown positions, almost always in
unsuccessful positions. You will find him adrift as an impecunious
commercial traveller like Micawber. You will find him but one of
a batch of silly clerks, like Swiveller. You will find him as an
unsuccessful actor, like Crummles. You will find him as an unsuccessful
doctor, like Sawyer. But you will always find this rich and reeking
personality where Dickens found it--among the poor. For the glory of
this world is a very small and priggish affair, and these men are too
large to get in line with it. They are too strong to conquer.
It is impossible to do justice to these figures because the essential
of them is their multiplicity. The whole point of Dickens is that he
not only made them, but made them by myriads; that he stamped his
foot, and armies came out of the earth. But let us, for the sake of
showing the true Dickens method, take one of them, a very sublime one,
Toots. It affords a good example of the real work of Dickens, which was
the revealing of a certain grotesque greatness inside an obscure and
even unattractive type. It reveals the great paradox of all spiritual
things; that the inside is always larger than the outside.
Toots is a type that we all know as well as we know chimney-pots. And
of all conceivable human figures he is apparently the most futile and
the most dull. He is the blockhead who hangs on at a private school,
overgrown and underdeveloped. He is always backward in his lessons,
but forward in certain cheap ways of the world; he can smoke before
he can spell. Toots is a perfect and pungent picture of the wretched
youth. Toots has, as this youth always has, a little money of his own;
enough to waste in a semi-dissipation, he does not enjoy, and in a
gaping regard for sports, in which he could not possibly excel. Toots
has, as this youth always has, bits of surreptitious finery, in his
case the incomparable ring. In Toots, above all, is exactly rendered
the central and most startling contradiction; the contrast between a
jauntiness and a certain impudence of the attire, with the profound
shame and sheepishness of the visage and the character. In him, too,
is expressed the larger contrasts between the external gaiety of such
a lad’s occupations, and the infinite, disconsolate sadness of his
empty eyes. This is Toots; we know him, we pity him, and we avoid him.
Schoolmasters deal with him in despair or in a heartbreaking patience.
His family is vague about him. His low-class hangers-on (like the Game
Chicken) lead him by the nose. The very parasites that live on him
despise him. But Dickens does not despise him. Without denying one
of the dreary details which make us avoid the man, Dickens makes him
a man whom we long to meet. He does not gloss over one of his dismal
deficiencies, but he makes them seem suddenly like violent virtues
that we would go to the world’s end to see. Without altering one fact
he manages to alter the whole atmosphere, the whole universe of Toots.
He makes us not only like, but love; not only love, but reverence
this little dunce and cad. The power to do this is a power truly and
literally to be called divine.
For this is the very wholesome point. Dickens does not alter Toots in
any vital point. The thing he does alter is us. He makes us lively
where we were bored, kind where we were cruel, and above all, free
for an universal human laughter where we were cramped in a small
competition about that sad and solemn thing, the intellect. His
enthusiasm fills us, as does the love of God, with a glorious shame;
after all, he has only found in Toots what we might have found for
ourselves. He has only made us as much interested in Toots as Toots
is in himself. He does not alter the proportions of Toots; he alters
only the scale; we seem as if we were staring at a rat risen to the
stature of an elephant. Hitherto we have passed him by; now we feel
that nothing could induce us to pass him by; that is the nearest way
of putting the truth. He has not been whitewashed in the least; he has
not been depicted as any cleverer than he is. He has been turned from a
small fool into a great fool. We know Toots is not clever; but we are
not inclined to quarrel with Toots because he is not clever. We are
more likely to quarrel with cleverness because it is not Toots. All the
examinations he could not pass, all the schools he could not enter, all
the temporary tests of brain and culture which surrounded him shall
pass, and Toots shall remain like a mountain.
It may be noticed that the great artists always choose great fools
rather than great intellectuals to embody humanity. Hamlet does express
the æsthetic dreams and the bewilderments of the intellect; but Bottom
the Weaver expresses them much better. In the same manner Toots
expresses certain permanent dignities in human nature more than any
of Dickens’s more dignified characters can do it. For instance, Toots
expresses admirably the enduring fear, which is the very essence of
falling in love. When Toots is invited by Florence to come in, when he
longs to come in, but still stays out, he is embodying a sort of insane
and perverse humility which is elementary in the lover.
There is an apostolic injunction to suffer fools gladly. We always lay
the stress on the word suffer, and interpret the passage as one urging
resignation. It might be better, perhaps, to lay the stress upon the
word gladly, and make our familiarity with fools a delight, and almost
a dissipation. Nor is it necessary that our pleasure in fools (or at
least in great and godlike fools) should be merely satiric or cruel.
The great fool is he in whom we cannot tell which is the conscious
and which the unconscious humour; we laugh with him and laugh at him
at the same time. An obvious instance is that of ordinary and happy
marriage. A man and a woman cannot live together without having against
each other a kind of everlasting joke. Each has discovered that the
other is a fool, but a great fool. This largeness, this grossness and
gorgeousness of folly is the thing which we all find about those with
whom we are in intimate contact; and it is the one enduring basis
of affection, and even of respect. When we know an individual named
Tomkins, we know that he has succeeded where all others have failed;
he has succeeded in being Tomkins. Just so Mr. Toots succeeded; he was
defeated in all scholastic examinations, but he was the victor in that
visionary battle in which unknown competitors vainly tried to be Toots.
If we are to look for lessons, here at least is the last and deepest
lesson of Dickens. It is in our own daily life that we are to look for
the portents and the prodigies. This is the truth, not merely of the
fixed figures of our life; the wife, the husband, the fool that fills
the sky. It is true of the whole stream and substance of our daily
experience; every instant we reject a great fool merely because he
is foolish. Every day we neglect Tootses and Swivellers, Guppys and
Joblings, Simmerys and Flashers. Every day we lose the last sight of
Jobling and Chuckster, the Analytical Chemist, or the Marchioness.
Every day we are missing a monster whom we might easily love, and an
imbecile whom we should certainly admire. This is the real gospel of
Dickens; the inexhaustible opportunities offered by the liberty and
the variety of man. Compared with this life, all public life, all
fame, all wisdom, is by its nature cramped and cold and small. For on
that defined and lighted public stage men are of necessity forced to
profess one set of accomplishments, to rise to one rigid standard. It
is the utterly unknown people, who can grow in all directions like an
exuberant tree. It is in our interior lives that we find that people
are too much themselves. It is in our private life that we find people
intolerably individual, that we find them swelling into the enormous
contours, and taking on the colours of caricature. Many of us live
publicly with featureless public puppets, images of the small public
abstractions. It is when we pass our own private gate, and open our own
secret door, that we step into the land of the giants.