Allegorically Speaking

Last year I wrote here that Owen Wister’s The Virginian grabbed me in a very positive way at first and then turned awful. This year, Graham Greene’s The Quiet American did just the opposite. I started reading about Thomas Fowler, a married British journalist in Vietnam in the ’50s, living with a local girl who fixes him multiple opium pipes every evening and then lies dutifully on the bed while he enjoys himself adulterously, and I thought, “What have I got myself into?” But then the American showed up, and the book got really good.

In reading other works by Greene before, I’ve almost always found something like allegory. I’ll pretend to be an actual literary critic for a moment and try to explain why I say “something like allegory” instead of just calling it allegory. Pilgrim’s Progress is an allegory. Bunyan gives characters names like Piety and Hopeful and Heedless to show that they represent characteristics. If he thinks some fault, like despair, is an especially tough problem, he makes that character a giant. In the world of Pilgrim’s Progress, any fantastic thing can happen because the story isn’t really about a man named Christian traveling to a new place called Celestial City; it’s really about any Christian’s advancement toward sanctification and heavenly reward. For this allegory to work, the details don’t have to have in-world consistency or coherence; they only have to be consistent with what they represent in our world.

By contrast, Greene’s story really is about Englishman Thomas Fowler, American Alden Pyle, and Vietnamese woman Phuong. Pyle doesn’t represent the United States in the sense that the United States is the actual character in the actual story and that Pyle is merely the country’s avatar. He does represent the U. S. in that he comes from the U. S. But if a story began with a traveling salesman who says to the first housewife who opens the door, “Hello, madame. I represent the Whirlwind Vacuum Cleaner Company” (my hypothetical story clearly takes place in a bygone era), no one would think that the story is actually about the vacuum company and that the salesman is merely an allegorical manifestation of it.

And yet Greene’s character, the actual point of the actual story, does do a little bit of allegorical work because he quite naturally acts like someone who comes from the U. S. One can’t read the book without thinking that the U. S. national policy toward the nation of Vietnam in the ’60s is an awful lot like Fowler’s attitude toward Phuong, but that’s because U. S. national policy was developed by people like Fowler, not because Fowler arbitrarily represents the country. In an actual allegory, like Animal Farm, Fowler might have in fact been a fowl (a rooster probably), and the other characters, representing various countries, would have been other farmyard animals, all from the same in-story country (in fact all from the same hundred acres in the same country), because allegorical representation can be in many ways arbitrary as long as the necessary attitudes or actions are clear enough that the reader knows what each character represents and what the story is really about. But Fowler doesn’t represent the U. S. in an arbitrary way. His representation is totally natural and normal. Arggh! Does that make any sense?

The novel is short, and I don’t want to give too much away, but I’ll say this much about the plot. Pyle comes to Vietnam as part of an American economic mission, and he sees Fowler with Phuong. He decides he likes Phuong, and he believes it to be objectively clear that Phuong would be better off with him than with Fowler. “Sorry it had to be you, Fowler,” he says (I’m quoting from faulty memory and paraphrasing slightly), “since we’re such good friends. But you can see that she would be better off with me and that she’ll see it, too.” Pyle sees that a brothel is a likely future for someone like Phuong if not suitably protected and believes he has something like a duty to preserve her from that fate, and in fact makes his pitch to her in very objective terms. Of course, this looks like an allegory of the United States taking over the war in Vietnam from the French with the attitude that only our country can save Vietnam and her neighbors, all lined up like dominos, from Communism. But don’t Americans tend to believe in simple solutions and to believe that Americans have the ingenuity and perseverance to implement those solutions better than anyone else in the world? Fowler doesn’t allegorically represent the U. S. He’s a citizen of the U. S. acting like it.

And yet The Quiet American, as a story about an American and a Vietnamese woman, is also at some level a story about Americans and Vietnamese people. Will you be surprised if I tell you that things don’t end well for everyone? Some readers say that Greene, writing in 1955, predicted the American phase of the war and its outcome. But, really, it didn’t take powers of prediction. You read twenty pages of this book and tell me you see any way for it to end happily ever after!

Our Mutual Complexity

Wikipedia says (and it seems to be properly sourced) that critics didn’t think much at first about Our Mutual Friend because of its complexity. Admittedly, the plot is complex. Lizzie Hexam is on a boat on the Thames rowing her father, Gaffer Hexam, who pulls a dead body out, which is identified as that of John Harmon by a shaken man called Julius Handford. Then a nouveau riche couple named the Veneerings holds a dinner attended by  various people, all of whom seem to be their oldest and dearest friends (although the Veneerings haven’t known any of them for more than a month), and one of the diners, Mortimer Lightwood, tells the story of John Harmon, who, having inherited his father’s dust (i.e. trash) company, sailed home to England only to be murdered, the business and home instead going to the faithful servants, the Boffins. Lightwood further says that Harmon was instructed by the will to marry Bella Wilfer, a pretty girl who says she will only marry for money. Mr. Boffins hires Silas Wegg, a literary man with a wooden leg, to read Gibbon to him at night, and he hires as a secretary a man named John Rokesmith, who looks a lot like Julius Handford. Rokesmith also ends up renting a room at the Wilfers. The Boffins want to adopt a small child and also to take in Bella so that she can enjoy some of the wealth she would have had had Harmon lived. Lizzie’s brother goes to study with Bradley Headstone, who falls in “love” with Lizzie but is loved by his assistant, Miss Peecher. Mortimer’s friend, Eugene Wrayburn, also falls for Lizzie and pays to have her educated, but not by Headstone, who becomes jealous about Wrayburn’s attentions. Then the Lammles, two of the Veneerings’ friends, try to get their friend Georgiana Podsnap married to Mr. Fledgeby, who visits Lizzie one day on the terrace where she and a dolls’ dressmaker named Jenny Wren rent rooms from Mr. Riah. It seems several of the characters owe Mr. Riah money. Meanwhile Wegg meets a taxidermist named Venus and partners with him to begin to search through the old Harmon house for, what? money? a second will? Now we’re about a fourth of the way through the book, and I haven’t even mentioned Mr. Twemlow, Lady Tippins, Betty Higden, Sloppy, and the Milveys. Yes, it’s complex.

Can we even say that there’s a central plot? Lizzie is the first character we meet, and she forms one vertex in a nice love quadrangle. So maybe the book is primarily about her. But Lizzie’s overshadowed pretty quickly in chapter 1 by the appearance of a dead body. So maybe the main plot has to do with John Harmon. Who killed him? What will Wegg and Venus find in the dust heaps? But then there’s the title. Surely an author points to the central story in his title! (Not so surely: Trollope doesn’t in The American Senator.) Rokesmith is called a mutual friend of the Boffins and Wilfers, so maybe he forms the center of the central story. Where does this mysterious stranger come from? But then the book is called *Our* Mutual Friend; maybe “we” are the key. In other words, maybe the story of the Boffins and the Wilfers (especially the Boffins and Bella) takes center stage. Or maybe Dickens will tie all the stories together. Or maybe they will all stay parallel, only intersecting randomly like knights and damsels in The Faerie Queene, held together by the common theme of money and the sudden acquisition thereof.

All I can tell you now is that all this complexity and lack of center, far from bothering my dad and my future wife and me when we read the book together (see the previous post), seemed very exciting. Each of the first five or six chapters introduced a new set of characters, tangentially related at best, and each was as intriguing and entertaining as the last. We didn’t care where it was going because the going was so much fun, and we were glad that we had many hundreds of pages to find out what it all meant.

May I go back to the issue of characters? I’m annoyed every time I read some critic complain about a “shallow” Dickens character. You create fifty of the best, most memorable characters in the history of literature, and then we’ll talk about the characters you didn’t draw out so well! As I said last time, I think the only real dissatisfaction we can have is with a handful of the pretty girls scattered across the novels, novellas, and stories, and we love them in spite of themselves if we truly love Dickens. But let me add a couple more arguments on behalf of the author of the best-selling novel in all of history (I just found that out a few days ago: look it up!), as if such an author needs arguing on his behalf.

First, Dickens was writing at a time when the notion of a character in a novel was changing. Characters had been types before. We watched them act according to their respective sets of virtues and vices, and we enjoyed the plot that came out of it. Only in the nineteenth century did we really start to have an idea that a good character should have a somewhat unusual make-up that would lead him or her to respond to circumstances and change and grow in interesting ways. And only after detectives and psychoanalysts (who are also detectives) became a thing did we really want to find out all the inmost secrets of a character. Dickens didn’t live that late, so don’t expect Joycean character from him. But we can expect some characters full of surprising complexity (e.g. David), heroes with dark flaws (e.g. Pip), and characters who change dramatically (e.g. Sydney Carton). Ugh! I had several other examples in mind, but this post is already getting too long.

Second and last, Dickens’s plan for a novel involved putting on a long parade of characters, of opening up every district of London and the surrounding countryside all at once. Maybe the primary human complexity he intended to portray was social and not individual. And yet in his secondary and tertiary and even incidental characters, Dickens is the master of presenting the tip of what is clearly an iceberg. David Copperfield meets an old carter (i.e. a nineteenth-century Uber driver) named Barkis who has an eye for David’s old nurse, Peggotty. One day he tells David, “Tell her, Barkis is willin’.” A couple more times in later chapters, he gives a knowing wink to David and says, “Barkis is willin’.” I don’t think Barkis says anything else in the book, yet he is a favorite with Dickens fans. We know the diligent old country laborer who doesn’t talk much, so we recognize Barkis’s authenticity. It means something that he has chosen as his beloved an eminently good woman. It means something that he is so shy, he passes along his intentions through a young, involuntary mediator. With a single line, Dickens assures us that Barkis is a man we would respect, a man we could rely on, a man whose faults we could overlook if we met him in real life. That is the work of an ingenious master artist, and I don’t know why we should want any more from him.

Our Mutual Female Friends

A Tale of Two Cities was the first book by Charles Dickens that I read. I was about twelve years old, and it changed the way I looked at literature. The second Dickens book I read wasn’t Oliver Twist or Great Expectations or David Copperfield, the ones you might imagine (because you could find cheap editions of those at the B. Dalton bookstore in the mall, or because you considered the catalog of Classics Illustrated comic books to represent the sum total of the literary canon!). It was, for some reason now lost to even the outermost reaches of historiographical power, Our Mutual Friend. My dad and my fiancé (now wife) all got copies and read it during the same period and talked about it when we got together. Life has perhaps never been better than during those weeks of discussing Dickens with two people I loved.

I’m now enjoying my third reading of Our Mutual Friend. Many years have come between my second reading and now; it is for instance, one of the few Dickens books I haven’t blogged about before because I haven’t read it since I started this public project. I’m a little amazed at how much I remember from the book, and especially that everything I remember brings up memories of conversations with Nancy and Dad; I don’t remember anything about reading it the second time.

But, of course, I don’t remember everything in the eight-hundred page tome. The biggest surprise has been Bella Wilfer. I remembered her story well enough, but I had some details of her character wrong. I think that in my memory I had confused Bella with Caddy Jellyby from Bleak House. And I know the reason: both girls have trouble with their mothers and find solace in private dinners (i.e. lunches) with their fathers, a story line that seizes my heart and mind because it is one in which I can sympathize with both father and daughter. (Notice that my mom did not join in our Little Women-like Dickensian book club.)

But there must be other reasons that caused me to misremember details about one of the main characters of this book I cherish. Perhaps because Bella’s character isn’t as strong or deep, literarily speaking, as the characters of Mr. Bumble, Wackford Squeers, Captain Cuttle, Ebenezer Scrooge, Aunt Betsey Trotwood, Wilkins Micawber, Sydney Carton, or Miss Haversham? Yes, of course, that’s the reason. Critics have said (don’t ask me their names; I refuse to remember them!) that Dickens was never good at the characters of heroines. Let me clarify right here that by “heroine,” I think they mean “main love interest”: the person the supposedly typical young woman among readers was expected to have identified with. Betsey Trotwood is heroic in the greatest sense and stands as one of Dickens’s greatest creations, but she is not, I believe, who these critics have in mind when they deprecate Dickens’s depiction of heroines. And if I’m right about who they’re thinking about, I have to agree to a point. If the girl isn’t married at the beginning of a novel and Dickens destines her to marry before the end, he makes her pretty and earnest and good. What do I think of when I think of Kate Nickleby? That she’s pretty and earnest and good. What do I think about when I think of Lucie Manette? That she’s pretty and earnest and good. There’s more to Bella than that, but the end of her story arc finds her pretty and earnest and good.

So I partially and reluctantly agree if these nameless critics mean that Dickens wasn’t especially good at providing his eligible young women with deep characters. But if they mean that Dickens wasn’t good at drawing women, I disagree and have to defend my hero. I have two main lines of argument, and I’ll get the politically parlous one (parlous: a good Dickens word) out of the way first. I believe it’s possible that some women are indeed pretty and earnest and good, and I believe that many young women in the Victorian era, no matter how admittedly unfair or cruel or thoughtless the men of the age were at restraining women within their “sphere,” actually aimed at domestic bliss as the goal of their lives. Please tell me I’m not a monster to think it’s OK to believe that some Victorian women would have found it a great compliment to be called pretty and earnest and good. There may even be a few women today who would take joy in a slightly differently worded encomium. The problem is not, says this dude with the limited perspective of testosterone and a Y chromosome, that some women are satisfied with being pretty and good and seeing family duty as the pinnacle of fulfillment; the problem is in assuming that all women want it or ought to want it or ought to be it without wanting it. In any case, Kate Nickleby is admittedly nowhere near as interesting a literary character as, say, Anna Karenina or Scarlett O’Hara. But might she not be nevertheless true to life?

I confess, that first argument only goes so far. Elizabeth Bennet is pretty and earnest and good and also a deeply interesting character, so it was clearly possible for Dickens to do better. Perhaps we can pity the man here. In Catherine Hogarth, he found a wife who was pretty enough but who didn’t turn out to have the other two-thirds of the winning recipe. So maybe he only wanted to give his male leads happier love lives than he himself had had.

But before we leave argument no. 1, let’s acknowledge that Dickens, while not reaching Austenesque heights, does sometimes do better with his eligible females. Bella is more than the stereotype, with her mercenary edge. Esther Summerson is more, with her serious doubts about whether she can in fact live up to the stereotype expected of Victorian women, especially after smallpox erases her beauty, and with her understanding that struggle and defect and loss can actually elevate the worth of everything else in life. Susan Nipper is more, with her acid tongue. And Caddy Jellyby is more, with her melancholia and her resentment of her mother.

With Susan and Caddy, we have strayed from the group of lead love interests, and this departure leads us to argument no. 2: Dickens does just fine with women whom we don’t expect to see getting married. After all, this is Charles Dickens, wildly popular and influential author, subject of scores of scholarly books and two scholarly journals of long standing, and probably still in our tragically unbookish and functionally illiterate society the most familiar English author of the nineteenth century (although he may be second to Austen). He doesn’t enjoy this glorious reputation and eminent standing because he had serious flaws in his skills with character development. He produced a grand parade of unforgettable female characters, interesting and complex, ranging from wholesome to silly to morally ambiguous to infuriating and all the way to downright villainous.

Let’s begin with Betsey Trotwood, who hates men (and donkeys) and will not let David Copperfield forget her disappointment that he wasn’t born a girl. But she has a sad history that explains some things at least, she protects a man with mental illness, and boy! does she come through in the end! Then how about Miss Havisham, who sits in a darkened house in her wedding dress decades after she was jilted at the altar? She auditions boys to find one who will come play with her beautiful young ward just so she can watch Estella break the boy’s heart. Miserable Estella, herself, is an amazing character, a girl who cannot have the life Dickens’s ideal readers and typical female protagonists enjoyed because she has been raised as a tool by a mad recluse. (I suppose she is the lead love interest since Pip is in love with her all the way to the end of the book, but do we really want her to marry Pip? I don’t!) Then there’s Biddy, the girl Pip doesn’t notice, who has to negotiate the conflict between her feelings for Pip and, on the one hand, Victorian standards of expression (or repression) of those feelings and, on the other hand, Pip’s very consistent treatment of her in a way that makes him wholly unworthy of her affection. Biddy thinks she has to be realistic and settle for someone else, but she ends up much happier for her choice.

Give a Dickensian woman a few married years, and she can be loving like Mrs. Boffin or narcisistically shrewish like Mrs. Wilfer. Give her a job, and she might blossom into a Sarah Gamp, the drunken nurse with the conveniently fictitious friend. Give her money, and she may become a delicious villain like Lady Dedlock, who, like the Sphinx, has a secret, speaks in riddles, and never shows animation or expression on her stony face. Then there’s Mrs. Defarge, who coldly encodes the deadly fate of her enemies into her knitting while talking with them. And there’s Nancy, the prostitute with the heart of gold – and not my wife! (A side note. If you were, by the slimmest of chances, to ask me for examples of men who treated prostitutes with utmost dignity, four names would come to mind: Jesus, Cervantes, Dostoevsky, and Dickens.)

I have to stop without doing any more than mentioning Sally Brass, Mrs. Clennam, Rosa Dartle, Jenny Wren, and Miss Mowcher, all well developed and none stereotypical. And there’s Mrs. Gummidge, with one unforgettable line, and Mrs. Plornish, with one unforgettable goofy habit, and Mrs. Bagnet, who is the subject of one unforgettable joke (definitely not at her expense). None of these three women can be said to be developed as deep literary characters, yet they all live in my memory as three-dimensional human beings.

How are you supposed to take this post, dear reader of the twenty-first century? The odds are that you have lived a tragically deprived life and haven’t read these books, that you don’t know these names. In that case, my flipping through a picture book can’t possibly demonstrate to you that Dickens actually could create good female characters. But if nothing else, the fairly long litany of names in this post may at least suggest to you that the girls who are pretty and earnest and good are in the minority.

Play with Fire

I remember twelve years ago, when I couldn’t wait to publish a post on everything I read. I really do. But this year, we’re almost to the end of January now, and I haven’t had any pressing urge to share my profound thoughts. Well, that’s the problem, actually: twelve years ago I felt I had more profound things to say. And by “profound” I don’t mean world-changing or even erudite; I just mean more than surfacy. But I feel now as if I’ve said on these pages all the profound things I have to say. I’ve reported my favorite thoughts on all the books I love and all the books I hate already. I’ve spewed forth all the contents of my brain on literary style and what makes for meaningful content. I’ve even shared what little I know about good poetry.

But I’ve had a good time reading this month, and there are at least three of you out there who read faithfully (which I know because you write to me from time to time). So I have a few slightly-more-than-surfacy things to say today about my recent adventures. Many of those adventures have braved the unknown perils of the Land of Drama, so here are a handful of comments about the plays I’ve read in the last four weeks.

A few years ago I read, mostly understood, and heartily enjoyed two plays by Ben Jonson: Volpone and Every Man His Humour. This year I decided to tackle the same author’s Sejanus and Batholomew Fayre. Sejanus is a tragedy about the rise and fall of a power-hungry advisor to Tiberius Caesar, just the kind of thing I would expect to enjoy. But I didn’t much. It didn’t have any of the rich poetry of Shakespeare, and yet despite its more straightforward language, I didn’t always understand the mere meaning of the sentences. I don’t usually have much trouble with seventeenth-century English, so I don’t know what was wrong; I was probably distracted or something. But I will say that if I get a hankerin’ to read an Elizabethan-Jacobean drama about Romans, I’ll go back for another helpin’ of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Batholomew Fayre worked much better for me. Four-hundred-year-old humor can be tough: it can depend on obscure topical references and on puns using slang no longer in use. There was a bit of that at the Fayre, but what I missed in understanding was made up for by the goofy but well recognized characters and the obligatory disguises and mistaken identities.

Better than either offering from Jonson was Molière’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Here the creator of Figaro has some fun with a newly rich blockhead, M. Jourdain, who wants to surround himself with all the luxuries that gentlemen enjoy but doesn’t have the taste or understanding to know what it is he’s getting. On the other hand, his ignorance leaves him very easy to please; one of his teachers explains that all language is either poetry or prose, and M. Jourdain thinks an education a very fine thing indeed if it can teach a person that he’s been speaking prose his whole life without knowing it. Of course, there are more disguises and misunderstandings. Aristotle said that tragedy shows humans as better than they really are and comedy as worse than they really are. But comedy has always seemed much more realistic to me than tragedy: the ludicrous M. Jourdain is barely exaggerated. I grew up in the St. Louis suburbs, the land of 100,000 real-life Beverly Hillbillies families. So I know. (Sometimes the hillbilly still comes out in me: hence me hankerin’ for a helpin’ in the previous paragraph.)

Best of all were two plays by Aeschylus: Prometheus and The Eumenides. I don’t remember now why of all the Greek plays I could have reread, I chose these two, but I’m glad I did. (Or maybe they’re all just so good that any random pair would have scratched my itch.) Students of ancient Greece have to wonder often how intelligent people could have believed in such a petty, jealous, vengeful, unstable set of gods, let alone worship them. Well, Prometheus dares to pull back the curtain and show Zeus for what he is: an immoral, untrustworthy parricide. He also hints that Zeus will himself fall in the (near?) future. I wish we had more of this story!

The Eumenides provides an interesting and moving origin story for one part of the human psyche. Clytemnestra has killed Agamemnon because he dared to come home from war when she didn’t stay faithful to him as Penelope did to Odysseus. Orestes kills his mother in revenge. The Furies are ready to wreak havoc on the land; they don’t like to see killing in return for killing, so they want to kill some more in order to stop the killing. Make war to make peace; that always works, right? Fortunately Athena convinces the divine avengers to leave the physical realm as it is and work on the heartstrings instead, creating senses of conscience and guilt as gifts to mankind. I’ve heard so many people talk about guilt being a bad thing, I’m always happy when I hear a wise one pointing out that guilt is a gift. 

By the way, one of the three of you who contact me from time to time recently reported to me that he can no longer post comments. I have discovered that you have to have a Google account (and presumably be signed into said account) in order to comment. So fire up your account, and make a comment. But don’t say anything too surfacy!