_Little Dorrit_ stands in Dickens's life chiefly as a signal of how far
he went down the road of realism, of sadness, and of what is called
modernity. True, it was by no means the best of the books of his later
period; some even think it the worst. _Great Expectations_ is certainly
the best of the later novels; some even think it the best of all the
novels. Nor is it the novel most concerned with strictly recent
problems; that title must be given to _Hard Times_. Nor again is it the
most finely finished or well constructed of the later books; that claim
can be probably made for _Edwin Drood_. By a queer verbal paradox the
most carefully finished of his later tales is the tale that is not
finished at all. In form, indeed, the book bears a superficial
resemblance to those earlier works by which the young Dickens had set
the whole world laughing long ago. Much of the story refers to a remote
time early in the nineteenth century; much of it was actually recalled
and copied from the life of Dickens's father in the old Marshalsea
prison. Also the narrative has something of the form, or rather absence
of form, which belonged to _Nicholas Nickleby_ or _Martin Chuzzlewit_.
It has something of the old air of being a string of disconnected
adventures, like a boy's book about bears and Indians. The Dorrits go
wandering for no particular reason on the Continent of Europe, just as
young Martin Chuzzlewit went wandering for no particular reason on the
continent of America. The story of _Little Dorrit_ stops and lingers at
the doors of the Circumlocution Office much in the same way that the
story of Samuel Pickwick stops and lingers in the political excitement
of Eatanswill. The villain, Blandois, is a very stagey villain indeed;
quite as stagey as Ralph Nickleby or the mysterious Monk. The secret of
the dark house of Clennam is a very silly secret; quite as silly as the
secret of Ralph Nickleby or the secret of Monk. Yet all these external
similarities between _Little Dorrit_ and the earliest books, all this
loose, melodramatic quality, only serves to make more obvious and
startling the fact that some change has come over the soul of Dickens.
_Hard Times_ is harsh; but then _Hard Times_ is a social pamphlet;
perhaps it is only harsh as a social pamphlet must be harsh. _Bleak
House_ is a little sombre; but then _Bleak House_ is almost a detective
story; perhaps it is only sombre in the sense that a detective story
must be sombre. _A Tale of Two Cities_ is a tragedy; but then _A Tale of
Two Cities_ is a tale of the French Revolution; perhaps it is only a
tragedy because the French Revolution was a tragedy. _The Mystery of
Edwin Drood_ is dark; but then the mystery of anybody must be dark. In
all these other cases of the later books an artistic reason can be
given--a reason of theme or of construction for the slight sadness that
seems to cling to them. But exactly because _Little Dorrit_ is a mere
Dickens novel, it shows that something must somehow have happened to
Dickens himself. Even in resuming his old liberty, he cannot resume his
old hilarity. He can re-create the anarchy, but not the revelry.
It so happens that this strange difference between the new and the old
mode of Dickens can be symbolised and stated in one separate and simple
contrast. Dickens's father had been a prisoner in a debtors' prison, and
Dickens's works contain two pictures partly suggested by the personality
of that prisoner. Mr. Micawber is one picture of him. Mr. Dorrit is
another. This truth is almost incredible, but it is the truth. The
joyful Micawber, whose very despair was exultant, and the desolate
Dorrit, whose very pride was pitiful, were the same man. The valiant
Micawber and the nervous, shaking Dorrit were the same man. The defiant
Micawber and the snobbish, essentially obsequious Dorrit were the same
man. I do not mean of course that either of the pictures was an exact
copy of anybody. The whole Dickens genius consisted of taking hints and
turning them into human beings. As he took twenty real persons and
turned them into one fictitious person, so he took one real person and
turned him into twenty fictitious persons. This quality would suggest
one character, that quality would suggest another. But in this case, at
any rate, he did take one real person and turn him into two. And what is
more, he turned him into two persons who seem to be quite opposite
persons. To ordinary readers of Dickens, to say that Micawber and Dorrit
had in any sense the same original, will appear unexpected and wild. No
conceivable connection between the two would ever have occurred to
anybody who had read Dickens with simple and superficial enjoyment, as
all good literature ought to be read. It will seem to them just as
silly as saying that the Fat Boy and Mr. Alfred Jingle were both copied
from the same character. It will seem as insane as saying that the
character of Smike and the character of Major Bagstock were both copied
from Dickens's father. Yet it is an unquestionable historical fact that
Micawber and Dorrit were both copied from Dickens's father, in the only
sense that any figures in good literature are ever copied from anything
or anybody. Dickens did get the main idea of Micawber from his father;
and that idea is that a poor man is not conquered by the world. And
Dickens did get the main idea of Dorrit from his father; and that idea
is that a poor man may be conquered by the world. I shall take the
opportunity of discussing, in a moment, which of these ideas is true.
Doubtless old John Dickens included both the gay and the sad moral; most
men do. My only purpose here is to point out that Dickens drew the gay
moral in 1849, and the sad moral in 1857.
There must have been some real sadness at this time creeping like a
cloud over Dickens himself. It is nothing that a man dwells on the
darkness of dark things; all healthy men do that. It is when he dwells
on the darkness of bright things that we have reason to fear some
disease of the emotions. There must really have been some depression
when a man can only see the sad side of flowers or the sad side of
holidays or the sad side of wine. And there must be some depression of
an uncommonly dark and genuine character when a man has reached such a
point that he can see only the sad side of Mr. Wilkins Micawber.
Yet this is in reality what had happened to Dickens about this time.
Staring at Wilkins Micawber he could see only the weakness and the
tragedy that was made possible by his indifference, his indulgence, and
his bravado. He had already indeed been slightly moved towards this
study of the feebleness and ruin of the old epicurean type with which he
had once sympathised, the type of Bob Sawyer or Dick Swiveller. He had
already attacked the evil of it in _Bleak House_ in the character of
Harold Skimpole, with its essentially cowardly carelessness and its
highly selfish communism. Nevertheless, as I have said before, it must
have been no small degree of actual melancholia which led Dickens to
look for a lesson of disaster and slavery in the very same career from
which he had once taught lessons of continual recuperation and a kind of
fantastic freedom. There must have been at this time some melancholy
behind the writings. There must have existed on this earth at the time
that portent and paradox--a somewhat depressed Dickens.
Perhaps it was a reminiscence of that metaphorical proverb which tells
us that "truth lies at the bottom of a well." Perhaps these people
thought that the only way to find truth in the well was to drown
oneself. But on whatever thin theoretic basis, the type and period of
George Gissing did certainly consider that Dickens, so far as he went,
was all the worse for the optimism of the story of Micawber; hence it is
not unnatural that they should think him all the better for the
comparative pessimism of the story of _Little Dorrit_. The very things
in the tale that would naturally displease the ordinary admirers of
Dickens, are the things which would naturally please a man like George
Gissing. There are many of these things, but one of them emerges
pre-eminent and unmistakable. This is the fact that when all is said and
done the main business of the story of _Little Dorrit_ is to describe
the victory of circumstances over a soul. The circumstances are the
financial ruin and long imprisonment of Edward Dorrit; the soul is
Edward Dorrit himself. Let it be granted that the circumstances are
exceptional and oppressive, are denounced as exceptional and oppressive,
are finally exploded and overthrown; still, they are circumstances. Let
it be granted that the soul is that of a man perhaps weak in any case
and retaining many merits to the last, still it is a soul. Let it be
granted, above all, that the admission that such spiritual tragedies do
occur does not decrease by so much as an iota our faith in the validity
of any spiritual struggle. For example, Stevenson has made a study of
the breakdown of a good man's character under a burden for which he is
not to blame, in the tragedy of Henry Durie in _The Master of
Ballantrae_. Yet he has added, in the mouth of Mackellar, the exact
common sense and good theology of the matter, saying "It matters not a
jot; for he that is to pass judgment upon the records of our life is the
same that formed us in frailty." Let us concede then all this, and the
fact remains that the study of the slow demoralisation of a man through
mere misfortune was not a study congenial to Dickens, not in accordance
with his original inspiration, not connected in any manner with the
special thing that he had to say. In a word, the thing is not quite a
part of himself; and he was not quite himself when he did it.
He was still quite a young man; his depression did not come from age.
In fact, as far as I know, mere depression never does come from mere
age. Age can pass into a beautiful reverie. Age can pass into a sort of
beautiful idiocy. But I do not think that the actual decline and close
of our ordinary vitality brings with it any particular heaviness of the
spirits. The spirits of the old do not as a rule seem to become more and
more ponderous until they sink into the earth. Rather the spirits of the
old seem to grow lighter and lighter until they float away like
thistledown. Wherever there is the definite phenomenon called
depression, it commonly means that something else has been closer to us
than so normal a thing as death. There has been disease, bodily or
mental, or there has been sin, or there has been some struggle or
effort, breaking past the ordinary boundaries of human custom. In the
case of Dickens there had been two things that are not of the routine of
a wholesome human life; there had been the quarrel with his wife, and
there had been the strain of incessant and exaggerated intellectual
labour. He had not an easy time; and on top of that (or perhaps rather
at the bottom of it) he had not an easy nature. Not only did his life
necessitate work, but his character necessitated worry about work; and
that combination is always one which is very dangerous to the
temperament which is exposed to it. The only people who ought to be
allowed to work are the people who are able to shirk. The only people
who ought to be allowed to worry are the people who have nothing to
worry about. When the two are combined, as they were in Dickens, you are
very likely to have at least one collapse. _Little Dorrit_ is a very
interesting, sincere, and fascinating book. But for all that, I fancy
it is the one collapse.
The complete proof of this depression may be difficult to advance;
because it will be urged, and entirely with reason, that the actual
examples of it are artistic and appropriate. Dickens, the Gissing school
will say, was here pointing out certain sad truths of psychology; can
any one say that he ought not to point them out? That may be; in any
case, to explain depression is not to remove it. But the instances of
this more sombre quality of which I have spoken are not very hard to
find. The thing can easily be seen by comparing a book like _Little
Dorrit_ with a book like _David Copperfield_. David Copperfield and
Arthur Clennam have both been brought up in unhappy homes, under bitter
guardians and a black, disheartening religion. It is the whole point of
David Copperfield that he has broken out of a Calvinistic tyranny which
he cannot forgive. But it is the whole point of Arthur Clennam that he
has not broken out of the Calvinistic tyranny, but is still under its
shadow. Copperfield has come from a gloomy childhood; Clennam, though
forty years old, is still in a gloomy childhood. When David meets the
Murdstones again it is to defy them with the health and hilarious anger
that go with his happy delirium about Dora. But when Clennam re-enters
his sepulchral house there is a weight upon his soul which makes it
impossible for him to answer, with any spirit, the morbidities of his
mother, or even the grotesque interferences of Mr. Flintwinch. This is
only another example of the same quality which makes the Dickens of
_Little Dorrit_ insist on the degradation of the debtor, while the
Dickens of _David Copperfield_ insisted on his splendid
irresponsibility, his essential emancipation. Imprisonments passed over
Micawber like summer clouds. But the imprisonment in _Little Dorrit_ is
like a complete natural climate and environment; it has positively
modified the shapes and functions of the animals that dwell in it. A
horrible thing has happened to Dickens; he has almost become an
Evolutionist. Worse still, in studying the Calvinism of Mrs. Clennam's
house, he has almost become a Calvinist. He half believes (as do some of
the modern scientists) that there is really such a thing as "a child of
wrath," that a man on whom such an early shadow had fallen could never
shake it off. For ancient Calvinism and modern Evolutionism are
essentially the same things. They are both ingenious logical blasphemies
against the dignity and liberty of the human soul.
The workmanship of the book in detail is often extremely good. The one
passage in the older and heartier Dickens manner (I mean the description
of the Circumlocution Office) is beyond praise. It is a complete picture
of the way England is actually governed at this moment. The very core of
our politics is expressed in the light and easy young Barnacle who told
Clennam with a kindly frankness that he, Clennam, would "never go on
with it." Dickens hit the mark so that the bell rang when he made all
the lower officials, who were cads, tell Clennam coldly that his claim
was absurd, until the last official, who is a gentleman, tells him
genially that the whole business is absurd. Even here, perhaps, there is
something more than the old exuberant derision of Dickens; there is a
touch of experience that verges on scepticism. Everywhere else,
certainly, there is the note which I have called Calvinistic; especially
in the predestined passion of Tattycoram or the incurable cruelty of
Miss Wade. Even Little Dorrit herself had, we are told, one stain from
her prison experience; and it is spoken of like a bodily stain; like
something that cannot be washed away.
There is no denying that this is Dickens's dark moment. It adds
enormously to the value of his general view of life that such a dark
moment came. He did what all the heroes and all the really happy men
have done; he descended into Hell. Nor is it irreverent to continue the
quotation from the Creed, for in the next book he was to write he was to
break out of all these dreams of fate and failure, and with his highest
voice to speak of the triumph of the weak of this world. His next book
was to leave us saying, as Sydney Carton mounted the scaffold, words
which, splendid in themselves, have never been so splendidly quoted--"I
am the Resurrection and the Life; whoso believeth in Me though he be
dead yet he shall live." In Sydney Carton at least, Dickens shows none
of that dreary submission to the environment of the irrevocable that had
for an instant lain on him like a cloud. On this occasion he sees with
the old heroic clearness that to be a failure may be one step to being a
saint. On the third day he rose again from the dead.
[Illustration: Charles Dickens, 1859
From an oil painting by W. P. Frith, R.A.]