Universität Mannheim Anglistisches Seminar Lehrstuhl Anglistik II

„Discipline must be maintained.“ Chancery, Police and Family in Charles Dickens‘s Bleak House B.A.-Arbeit HS Charles Dickens Dozent: Dr. Stefan Glomb HWS 2009 Gutachter: Dr. Stefan Glomb

Hannah Brosch

Table of Contents

1. Introduction 1 2. Victorian Institutions 2

2.1. The Court of Chancery 2 2.2. The Metropolitan Police 4 2.3. The Family 5

3. The Narrative Structure of Bleak House 7 4. Victorian Institutions in Bleak House 10

4.1. The Court of Chancery and its Members 10 4.2. The Police and their Personnel 16 4.3. Bad and Good Families 21

5. Michel Foucault and Bleak House 29 5.1. Discipline and Punish 30 5.2. A Foucaultian Reading 31

6. Conclusion 32 7. List of Works Cited 34

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1. Introduction

In late 1850, Charles Dickens made the following comment about the upcoming

Great Exhibition, which was supposed to celebrate Victorian Britain’s imperial

glory:

Which of my children shall behold the Princes, Prelates, Nobles, Merchants, of England, equally united, for another Exhibition – for a great display of England’s sins and negligences, to be, by steady contemplation of all eyes, and steady union of all hearts and hands, set right? (Quoted in Page 28)

This was exactly what the novelist was to do in Bleak House. A so-called

‘condition-of-England’ novel, Bleak House sets out to severely criticize the

cornerstones of the nation. Published in monthly installments in Dickens’s own

periodical Household Words, the novel incorporates many topics and issues of

immense public concern between 1852 and 1853. (cf. Pykett 129-131) It

portrays a society which is as complex as it is corrupt and whose every

member, high or low, is, however implausibly, connected to the others. (cf.

Pykett 133)

“What connection can there be, between the place in Lincolnshire, the house in

town, […] and the whereabouts of […] the outlaw with the broom?” (Dickens

180) The social institution which brings all the characters and plots together is

the Court of Chancery (cf. Pykett 133), in the proceedings of which nearly

everybody in the novel is involved. Closely related to the court are the police. In

contrast to these public institutions, the novel presents the privacy of the family

and its home.

How is Chancery judged in the novel? What is the role of the police? How are

families depicted? And, most importantly, what exactly is the relationship

between public and private? This is the set of questions that this thesis seeks to

answer.

In the first part, I will sketch the historical development of the Court of Chancery

and the police, respectively, in order to make clear their positions in Victorian

society. I will then expound the Victorian concept of ‘family’ and explain its

importance. In the second part, I will give an overview of the novel’s narrative

structure, followed by an analysis of its representation of the institutions under

discussion, using exemplary characters and passages.

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D. A. Miller, in his Foucaultian reading of Bleak House, wonders how “a novel

dealing with a civil suit becomes a murder mystery”. (Miller 92) After a brief

outline of Foucault’s thoughts on social institutions and social discipline, Miller’s

analysis will be alluded to. I will close by commenting on the validity of the

solutions Dickens’s novel suggests to the problems pointed out.

2. Victorian Institutions The 19th century saw great changes in nearly every aspect of life, as Britain

became the most powerful nation in the world. Industrialization and urbanization

helped to shape the modern state. On the other hand, they produced mass

poverty and housing problems, the negative side effects of economic

advancement. (cf. Allan 15) Traditional institutions frequently could not keep up

with those new challenges, which led to a series of reform acts or the creation

of new, more efficient institutions, some of which are still in existence today. (cf.

Collins 3)

2.1. The Court of Chancery

British law at the beginning of Queen Victoria’s reign was very complicated,

which was partly due to the fact that it was not based on a written constitution in

the style of Napoleon’s “code civil”, but largely on precedent. (cf. Purchase 89)

Still, the Courts of Common Law, which were in charge of criminal cases, were

of course bound by legal statutes and supported by juries.

The Court of Chancery, its civil counterpart, dealt mainly with wills, trusts,

guardianship, adoption and marriage. (cf. Allan 18) It was far more subjective

than the criminal courts and, therefore, potentially arbitrary. There were no

juries; the power of judgment belonged solely to the presiding Lord Chancellor.

Having once been the king’s appointed chaplain, secretary and keeper of the

royal seal, his office had, in the course of time, come to encompass more and

more judicial duties. From the 18th century onwards, the Lord Chancellor was

always a member of the peerage. (Britannica)

The Court of Chancery originated in the Lord Chancellor’s personal court when,

under the reign of Edward III, it ceased to follow the king’s court and became

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sedentary. At first, it was a court of appeals, meant to provide relief where other

legal channels had failed. (cf. Donovan 181) By the 19th century, however, this

mediaeval relict had degenerated into an extremely slow and corrupt institution.

(cf. Allan 18-19) Holdsworth gives a three-page description of the court’s

standard procedure in 1850, part of which I quote:

[The defendant] might demur, either on the substantial ground that no case had been made out for the interference of the court, or by reason of a technical objection to the form of the bill. A plea was generally a statement of matters not appearing on the face of the bill, which showed a reason why the suit should be either barred or delayed. The answer, which was generally given on oath, both answered the plaintiff’s interrogatories contained in the bill and set out other facts essential to the defendant’s defence. Unless the defendant lived within twenty miles of London, a special commission issued to take the answer. This involved office fees, charges by the London solicitor who took it out, and fees to the commissioners for swearing. There were frequent applications for a master to take more time to answer, and appeals from his decision to the court. […] (Holdsworth 82)

He goes on to name four causes of the court’s inefficiency: A bloated apparatus

of employees, all of which received various fees; a lack of supervision by the

Lord Chancellor in charge; numerous remnant practices which had long lost

their original purpose; and the principle of complete control, which entailed that,

even if only a minor point in a suit had to be settled, the entire procedure had to

be gone through. (cf. Holdsworth 86-87) The court refused to accept oral

testimonies, but only written affidavits, which generated much bureaucracy and

a great amount of paperwork. In addition to that, all the property involved in a

suit remained inaccessible to the parties in order to meet the costs of the suit.

(cf. Allan 18)

A suit could last a very long time. This is proven by the infamous Jennings

property case, which is supposed to have inspired the fictitious Jarndyce and

Jarndyce case. (cf. Purchase 91) Its namesake died in 1798, leaving behind

1,500,000 pounds. In 1915, the case was still not settled, but the costs

accumulated amounted to 250,000 pounds already. (cf. Daleski 166)

Dickens himself had Chancery experience, too: In 1844, he sued some of his

publishers, won, but had to pay more than he gained. (cf. Allan 18) Adding to

his experiences as a law clerk in his youth, this led him to condemn all judicial

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business. “I have that high opinion of the law of England generally, which one is

likely to derive from the impression that it puts all the honest men under the

diabolical hoofs of all the scoundrels.” (Quoted in Collins 174)

Unsurprisingly, the Court of Chancery was already an object of heated public

debate when Bleak House was being written (cf. Page 30) and by the time the

novel was published, reforms were already underway. The Chancery Reform

Act of 1852 changed “both the pleading of the court, and its system of

procedure” (Holdsworth 114), followed by further reforms, until, in 1873, the

Court of Chancery was fused with the Courts of Common Law. (cf. Holdsworth

114)

2.2. The Metropolitan Police The oldest nationwide police system dated from Elizabethan times, when parish

constables and watchmen had dutifully, but largely harmlessly, made their

rounds. Only London had, from 1750 onwards, been policed by the so-called

Bow Street Runners, established by the magistrate brothers Fielding. (cf.

Collins 197) The Bow Street Runners were a group of ‘thief-takers’ whose job

was detection. They were financed partly by the government and partly by fees

from their clients; this of course encouraged corruption. (cf. Emsley 18-19)

After the need for police reform had long been discussed, in 1829, home

secretary Robert Peel founded the Metropolitan Police. (cf. Emsley 24-25) Their

main duty lay in the prevention of crime and the creation of a safer urban

environment. (cf. Allan 17) Their organization was, overall, much more rigid and

hierarchical than that of their 18th century counterpart; uniforms and weaponry

gave them a militaristic air. They received no fees, but were funded entirely by

the government and seemed, on the whole, less corrupt than their

predecessors. (cf. Collins 200)

For a while, both units coexisted with an increasing degree of tension; until, in

1839, the old police was incorporated (cf. Emsley 26-30) because the new

police was widely perceived as far more capable of ensuring the public order

that the property-owning classes wished for:

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[S]treet traders were ordered to move along, as were groups of loitering youths, prostitutes and vagrants; street games and street gambling were stopped; drunks were dragged to the police cells to sleep off their inebriation; fighting drunks were dragged with more force. (Emsley 60)

There is no possible measurement of how much the new police contributed to

the following decrease in crime (cf. Collins 200); yet it was their image that

mattered as much as their actual function. From 1842 onwards, the

Metropolitan Police had its own detective department (cf. Page 39) and by the

1850s, its members were widely applauded. Emsley quotes an 1851 edition of

Punch:

[T]he police are beginning to take that place in the affections of the people […] that the soldiers and sailors used to occupy. In the old war-time there was a sort of enthusiasm for the ‘blue jackets,’ the defenders of the country, but in these happier days of peace, the blue coats – the defenders of order – are becoming the national favourites. (Quoted in Emsley 62)

The policeman most admired was, of course, the detective. (cf. Page 39)

Dickens himself was known to have an enthusiastic devotion to the Metropolitan

police; he sang their praises in his magazine and, as we shall see, in his novels.

(cf. Collins 196-197) Personally acquainted with many detectives, he

interviewed them and joined them ‘on duty’. (cf. Collins 205-206) “[H]e could

regard their work – unlike that […] of lawyers – as socially beneficial. […]

[U]nlike soldiers they did not operate in areas which were outside [his]

experience or where his moral judgement was uncertain,” (Collins 215) Collins

explains Dickens’s admiration of the police.

Policing was, apparently, more than a mere profession, for the symbolic

importance of the policeman to Victorian society can hardly be overestimated.

“The English ‘Bobby’ was becoming, in the perception of the propertied and

respectable classes […], a pillar of the constitutional and legal structure of that

society.” (Emsley 64)

2.3. The Family

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Though not an official institution like the ones described before, the family was

central to Victorian society. Nead’s description, quoted by Allan, is very much to

the point: “The family home was defined as the nucleus of the state and

breakdown in domestic order was understood in terms of total social

disintegration.” (Quoted in Allan 14) In general, ‘the’ family was a middle-class

institution, the relevance of which grew with the political and economic power of

the middle classes. It is also closely linked to the concept of gender

segregation, with the man being assigned a public role and the woman being

assigned a private role.

The most illustrious British family was that of Queen Victoria herself, who, with

her beloved husband Albert and their nine children, functioned as the national

ideal. (Cf. Purchase 64) It must be noted that, despite her claimed ‘domesticity’,

the queen performed a very public role, which is only one of the most obvious

contradictions inherent in the idea. What separated the aristocratic family from

the middle-class family was precisely this blurring of the fixed spheres; (cf.

Waters 123) alongside the fact that aristocratic women enjoyed far more

freedom – freedom to sin – than their middle-class counterparts. Neither did the

working classes conform to the ideal, as material necessity frequently forced

women to work outside the home. (cf. Allan 14)

The family home was supposed to be a refuge from the tainted world of politics

and commerce. “[It] also acted as [a] bastion[…] of defence […] against

elements such as loners, criminals, gypsies, the mad, vagrant children,

disreputable men, loose women and foreigners.” (Purchase 66) Overseen by a

benevolent ‘hearthside angel’, the home had to be kept clean, tidy and, above

all, morally intact. (cf. Purchase 66) As mothers, women were to endorse their

children with the ‘right’ values. As wives, they were to divert their husbands from

their tedious tasks. The functioning of the family was thus seen as crucial to the

functioning of the state’s bureaucracy and economy. (cf. Waters 121) Both

realms were considered equal. Against the construction of women as domestic

rulers, however, stand the very limited rights they enjoyed otherwise and the

fact that it was only the husband’s position in society that maintained the

household. (cf. Allan 14)

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In wider terms, ‘home’ to the Victorians meant Britain as a whole, composed of

many small homes, and contrasted with the un-homely world over the water. (cf.

Purchase 45)

No other writer has contributed as much to notions of ‘home’ and ‘Britishness’

as Charles Dickens. “Dickens […] is the great painter of English manners, and

for better or worse, the image of this country that emerges from his books has

become indelibly a part of the national character.” (Andrews 2) This has mainly

been achieved by his focus on domestic, as opposed to foreign, issues (cf.

Purchase 46) and by his portrayals of angelic housewives, (cf. Andrews 5)

patronizing fathers and innocent children. A very influential text in this respect

was “A Christmas Carol” from 1843, which firmly associated “a small, snug

home, crisp fire and tempting supper” (Waters 121) with the festival. Yet it is

striking that a writer so well-known for his depictions of domestic sentimentality

has in fact produced so many images of broken families:

[A] statistical analysis of the novels yields 149 full orphans, 82 with no father, and 87 with no mother, making a total of 318 full or partial orphans: ‘only fifteen named characters we deem significant in the major works […] had or have two parents, and in nearly half of these cases their families today would be considered dysfunctional. (Quoted in Waters 120)

Neglect of marital, parental and filial ‘duties’ and transgression of the ascribed

gender roles were a great threat to the family. (cf. Allan 15) Clearly, it is its very

contestedness that explains the supreme importance of the ideal.

3. The Narrative Structure of Bleak House

What makes Bleak House a particularly interesting reading matter is its use of a

dual narrative structure. Half of the novel’s action is told from the point of view

of an omniscient third-person narrator, the other half by the limited first-person

narration of the character Esther Summerson. (cf. Grenander 302) Their styles

are distinctly different; together they create a multifaceted image of ‘reality’. (cf.

Stringham Delespinasse 254)

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London. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets, as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth […]. Smoke lowering down from chimney pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes. […] Fog everywhere. […] Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. (Dickens 3)

The beginning is reminiscent of a newspaper article, as is the use of the present

tense. The rest of the quote, too, is journalistic in tone. Pykett compares the

omniscient narrator to “the shadowy super-reporter persona whom Dickens self-

consciously sought to develop in Household Words” (Pykett 135-136), who can

go anywhere and see everything, thus getting an overview of ‘the big picture’.

(cf. Stringham Delespinasse 256) His presentation of scenery and events is

detailed; his language is elaborate and often metaphorical. However, he mostly

shows the surface of things and people, hardly ever providing direct insight into

the characters’ souls. (cf. Grenander 304) Yet although he narrates from a

detached position, he is definitely not neutral. A critical, intellectual, ironical

observer, (cf. Grenander 305) he frequently poses rhetorical questions to the

reader or preaches his opinions (cf. Pykett 133): “Jo, is it thou? Well, well!

Though a rejected witness, who ‘can’t exactly say’ what will be done to him in

greater hands than men’s, thou art not quite in outer darkness.” (Dickens 125)

By telling so many different episodes from so many different locations, the

omniscient narrator creates an impression of disorder, even chaos. (cf.

Stringham Delespinasse 256)

Esther Summerson, on the other hand, is a fleshed-out character who interacts

directly with her surroundings. Consequently, she only has knowledge of events

she witnesses or is told about. (cf. Grenander 305) She narrates her story in the

past tense, from a future perspective. (cf. Dickens 708)

I don’t know how it is, I seem to be always writing about myself. I mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think about myself as little as possible, and I am sure when I find myself coming into the story again, I am really vexed […] but it is all of no use. […] My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised; and found so much employment for our time, that the winter days flew by us like bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and always in the evenings, Richard gave us his company. […] He was very, very, very fond of Ada.

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[…] I had never seen any young people falling in love before, but I found them out quite soon. (Dickens 93)

Esther overtly diminishes her own reliability, though in doing so she indirectly

asserts her modesty, which makes her “a paragon of all the virtues” (Grenander

305) a young woman should have. Her language is simpler than that of the

omniscient narrator because she gives less outward descriptions and uses

fewer metaphors, and her syntax is more colloquial. Due to this, she also seems

less educated; though she displays what one might call ‘good common sense’.

(cf. Dickens 160) Her viewpoint is above all emotional and sympathetic: (cf.

Stringham Delespinasse 256) “I could see that the poor girl was near crying,

and I resumed my chair without speaking, and looked at her (I hoped) as mildly

as I felt towards her.” (Dickens 38) In addition to this, Esther appears so

trustworthy that she is confided in by most characters she meets and so helps

to reveal their thoughts and motifs. (cf. Grenander 305)

Counterbalancing the apparent randomness of action created by the omniscient

narrator, “Esther in her personal, past-tense narrative is better able to suggest

temporal and causal connections between events, leading to a more ordered

world view.” (Stringham Delespinasse 258) It seems only fit that the chapter

with which her narration starts is titled “A Progress”. (Dickens 14) Furthermore,

the omniscient narrator’s journalistic approach fails to evoke the emotional

involvement with the characters that a novel requires. Again, it is Esther’s

‘closer’ look which ensures that the reader ‘cares’. (cf. Stringham Delespinasse

254) To sum it up, Esther’s narrative serves to add order and feeling to the

novel.

Feminist critic Blain, in pointing out that the omniscient narrator is undoubtedly

male because “an omniscient narrator was masculine almost by definition”,

(Blain 67) stresses how the two separate yet complementary narratives mirror

the two separate gendered spheres. By allotting to each an equal portion of the

narrative, Dickens affirms their supposed equality. However, “Esther cannot tell

about either the working of the law in Chancery, or the making of the Law in

Parliament; as a woman, she is shut out from these two patriarchal structures.”

(Blain 68) She can only describe the effect these public evils have on her

immediate environment, the family home. (cf. Blain 68) The male narrator, on

the other hand, is not constrained by such limits. He easily crosses the border

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by entering family homes, describing them in the same scrutinizing style as he

describes the public world. (cf. Dickens 234)

4. Victorian Institutions in Bleak House The novel’s title first and foremost refers to the nation and the sorry state it is in.

Fog, smoke and dirt make it visually bleak; symbols of a moral taint that can be

found everywhere. (cf. Daleski 168-169)

[…] Dickens presents a view of the greatest of his bleak houses, England, whose windows to human suffering are misted over by the pettifoggery of an archaic parliamentary and legal system bogged down in tradition and technicalities, whose foundations are embedded in the mud of the past, and whose door to change is stubbornly rusted on its hinges. (Van Buren Kelley 253)

The substance of this nation, this ‘imagined community’ (cf. Plotkin 17), are its

institutions and its citizens. The novel’s heavy critique spares few of those; its

main target, however, is the law. (cf. Pykett 131)

4.1. The Court of Chancery and its Members

Dickens’s disapproval of the British law is seen by Donovan as part of his anti-

intellectualism and, to a certain degree, anti-institutionalism. (cf. Donovan 176)

He deplored how the legal profession neglected the end for the means, in that it

seemed more focused on correct and consistent procedure than on justice and

righteousness.

It amounts to no paradox […] to say that the lawyer cares nothing for justice; he cares only for the law. Of the justice, that is to say, of the social utility of his professional activity he is presumably convinced antecedently to his engaging in it, but he goes about his business secure in the knowledge that justice will best be served by his shrewdness in outwitting his adversary. (Donovan 179)

Many of his novels criticize how the courts fail to live up to their assumed

responsibilities. This is shown to be particularly true of the Court of Chancery.

One must remember that the Lord Chancellor was originally the “keeper of the

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king’s conscience” and as such was responsible for “all the ‘charitable uses in

the kingdom’” (quoted in Donovan 181) It was his explicit duty to take care of

the weak, the invalid and the poor. This tradition heightens the moral imperative

underlying his work, which makes his failure only the more outrageous. (cf.

Donovan 181)

Chancery’s first depiction in the novel mirrors Holdsworth’s description and thus

seems very faithful to reality:

On such an afternoon, […] the High Lord Chancellor ought to be sitting here […], addressed by a large advocate […], and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lanterns in the roof […]. [S]ome score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be […] mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities […]. [T]he various solicitors in the cause […] ought to be […] ranged in a line […] between the registrar’s red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters’ reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. (Dickens 4)

Inapprehensible, tedious negotiations – scores of paid participators – the Lord

Chancellor himself bored to sobs. The Court of Chancery represents a system

which, once useful, has perverted all its principles. Situated at “the very heart of

the fog” (Dickens 4), it obscures rather than making light of the cases brought

before it. Instead of serving the people, it is completely self-serving. Instead of

righting wrongs, it ruins lives. (cf. Daleski 165) The concept of equity has

become void, and one must certainly be mad to put any trust in it:

‘Right! Mad, young gentleman. […] I have the honour to attend court regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great Seal. It has been open a long time!’ (Dickens 29)

Despite its blatant abuses, the court’s power over capital, human and otherwise,

is immense. Young orphans like Ada Clare, Richard Carstone and Miss Flite (cf.

Dickens 29) are made ‘wards of court’ and placed under the Lord Chancellor’s

authority. Esther Summerson remarks how “[he] appear[s] so poor a substitute

for the love and pride of parents.” (Dickens 27) Inheritances, houses and

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estates are kept ‘in Chancery’, left to pay or to decay while the right of

ownership is debated. (cf. Dickens 80) The most notorious of these Chancery

properties is the slum Tom-All-Alone’s, (cf. Daleski 169) the neglected ruins of

which breed “a swarm of misery”. (Dickens 180)

The court’s nominal promise of justice, meaning and wealth appeals to

existential human needs. (cf. Miller 94) That is why it never fails to attract

suitors. (cf. Dickens 4) Donovan goes as far as stating that “Chancery affects

men’s lives the way God does, not by direct intervention in human affairs, but by

commanding belief or disbelief.” (cf. Donovan 189) Believing, hoping and

anticipating, those who have become entangled in the court procedure waste

their lives like drug addicts. (cf. Dickens 261) The case of Richard Carstone

illustrates how a man is gradually devoured by Chancery until nothing is left of

him. (cf. Daleski 180) Others, like Gridley, ‘the man from Shropshire’, try to

resist and fight, but he, too, finally dies of exhaustion. (cf. Dickens 287) “It’s the

system” (Dickens 176) that is against him: “Let [the suitors] but once clearly

perceive that [the law’s] grand principle is to make business for itself at their

expense, and surely they will cease to grumble.” (Dickens 443)

Exemplifying the conscious pointlessness of the court’s proceedings, Jarndyce

and Jarndyce, this “monument of Chancery practice” (Dickens 18), is central to

the novel’s plot. For decades, it has been ‘going on’ and hundreds of people are

parties to it. (cf. Dickens 5-6) Apparently, those who are made parties have no

right to withdraw, even if they want to. (cf. Dickens 80) Apart from it being a

probate dispute, it is never wholly explained what the suit is about (cf. Miller 89)

Not that it really matters: “Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke.”

(Dickens 6) The lawyers are cynical about it (cf. Dickens 6), while morally

upright characters like Mr Jarndyce can only look upon it with sadness. (cf.

Dickens 80)

The novel goes further to make its point. As an even darker double of the court,

it presents the Rag and Bottle Shop of Mr Krook, a bedraggled alcoholic (cf.

Dickens 359) whom even crazy Miss Flite recognizes as “a little – M[ad] –“.

(Dickens 44) Krook, called “the Lord Chancellor” by the neighbours, greedily

buys and stores heaps of documents which he, being illiterate, cannot read.

More sinisterly, he even has “three sacks of ladies’ hair” (Dickens 44) in his

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cellar, a hint to his possible murderous capacities. There is only chaos and dirt

in Krook’s shop, itself a perversion because nothing is ever sold there.

Krook is also a landlord; his lodgers include mad Miss Flite and the opium-

addict Nemo alias Captain Hawdon, both of whom lead miserable lives. Nemo,

alone and forgotten, eventually dies of an overdose. (cf. Dickens 113) A shadow

of doom seems to hang over the whole house. When Krook himself meets his

end, it seems all too appropriate: He violently disintegrates through

spontaneous combustion. (cf. Van Buren Kelley 262-264) A similar fate is

suggested for the Court of Chancery:

Nothing but a mine below it on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules and precedents collected in it, and every functionary belonging to it also, high and low, […] and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of, gunpowder, would reform it in the least! (Dickens 97)

Chancery is too extensive, too labyrinthine, too intangible to be easily changed

and so evokes the desire for an anarchic, ‘cleansing’ act of destruction. (cf.

Miller 90) Nonetheless, the system is run by somebody and it does have human

faces. How are these portrayed?

The Lord Chancellor is not even given a name. (cf. Dickens 27) He is a

symbolic figure, though, as Miss Flite insists, “he is married, you know” (cf.

Dickens 402) and “his manner [is] both courtly and kind”, (Dickens 27) Esther

remarks. His depiction is in keeping with that of the rest of the aristocracy as

benevolent but blind, and altogether far too narrow-minded to manage matters

of wider concern. (cf. Van Buren Kelley 256) (cf. Donovan 178) He does not

look into affairs extensively and seems to give his blessing to whatever his

employees suggest. (cf. Dickens 28)

The solicitor Mr Tulkinghorn, of high repute because of his connection to the

nobility, dressed in an old-fashioned style and very much like a black beetle (cf.

Dickens 11), is characterized as follows:

He wears his usual expressionless mask – if it be a mask – and carries family secrets in every limb of his body […]. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great, or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells, is his personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the

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secrets of his clients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself. (Dickens 133)

Tulkinghorn does not display any emotions; he pursues his work accurately but

dispassionately. His workplace and home are one, and accordingly, he has no

private life. He even expresses disgust of matrimony: “[M]ost of the people I

know would do far better to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three-

fourths of their troubles.” (Dickens 470) The narrator briefly touches the

question of Tulkinghorn’s personal happiness by describing how “one bachelor

friend of his, a man of the same mould and a lawyer, too, who lived the same

kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, […] then […] gave his goldwatch

to his hairdresser […] and hanged himself.” (Dickens 249) A life full of

professionalism and material possessions, almost devoid of personal concerns

or human compassion (cf. Dickens 466) is seen as meaningless.

The novel speculates about Tulkinghorn’s motivations, “[w]hether he be cold

and cruel, whether immovable in what he has made his duty, whether absorbed

in love of power, […] whether he in his heart despises the splendor of which he

is a distant beam.” (Dickens 326) Well-paid by his high-ranking clients, it is not

money he is after. (cf. Dickens 108) Tulkinghorn’s main object, that much is

certain, is the pursuit of information, which equals power. (cf. Dickens 465) He

hoards the secrets of the powerful – not to disclose them, but rather to keep up

a constant threat of disclosure and so to keep them at his mercy. (cf. Dickens

470) His professed loyalty to Sir Leicester Dedlock is thus, in the true ‘spirit of

the law’, ultimately self-serving. (cf. Dickens 469) His general view of human

nature is extremely negative (cf. Dickens 472) and other people are to him only

objects fit for manipulation. Nowhere is this more obvious than when he

smashes Lady Dedlock, “[thinking,] with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he

watches the struggle in her breast, ‘The power and force of this woman are

astonishing!’” (Dickens 466) ‘Conscience’ and ‘moral’ are empty terms for him;

the end justifies the means.

With the law always on his side, Tulkinghorn sees himself as almost

untouchable. Mademoiselle Hortense’s threats after he has broken his promise

to her do not worry him in the least. (cf. Dickens 477) “He is in the confidence of

the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stacks telegraph family secrets to

him. Yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to whisper, ‘Don’t go home!’”

15

(Dickens 536) His desire to know everything is justly punished; his hubris

causes his death.

Mr Kenge is Mr Jarndyce’s solicitor and appears, in a way, like the opposite of

quiet Tulkinghorn. A slick and eloquent talker, he is nicknamed ‘Conversation

Kenge’. He, too, however, serves the aristocracy, having “formed himself on the

model of a great lord.” (Dickens 19) In his shallow pompousness, his self-

importance and his praise of the English law, he seems, at best, a fool, at worst,

a scoundrel. (cf. Dickens 18) Perhaps it is appropriate for such a flat character

to be given no personal background whatsoever.

While Tulkinghorn still inspires a certain awe and Kenge looks glamorous at

least, Mr Vholes is only abhorrent:

[A] sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they were cold, a red eruption here and there upon his face, tall and thin, about fifty years of age, high-shouldered and stooping. Dressed in black, black-gloved and buttoned to the chin, there was nothing so remarkable in him as a lifeless manner, and a slow fixed way he had of looking at [his client]. (Dickens 431)

As expressed by his shabby, solitary office, (cf. Dickens 442) Vholes is less

renowned and less powerful than his colleagues are. (cf. Dickens 443)

Consequently, his economic survival is much more precarious. In his petty way,

he may resort to the same mean measures as Tulkinghorn (cf. Dickens 468),

bribery, for example, yet he does not seem entirely easy about it. (cf. Dickens

431) In need of legitimization, he repeatedly, almost compulsively refers to his

three daughters and his aged father whom he supports. (cf. Dickens 432) “’You

will excuse my having mentioned my daughters,” he said. ‘They are my weak

point. I wish to leave the poor girls some little independence, as well as a good

name.’ (Dickens 432) Underneath his set phrases, however, Vholes is clearly

drawn as a predator and a parasite; he grabs and grabs his clients’ money until

nothing is left. (cf. Daleski 165) The narrator takes up the same stance against

Vholes that he takes against the whole legal system: “The question is never one

of a change from Wrong to Right […] but is always one of injury or advantage to

that eminently respectable legion, Vholes.” (Dickens 444)

Mr Guppy is only a law clerk and as such not half as unscrupulous as the

solicitors: “[H]e looked most ashamed, and very earnest.” (Dickens 440) It is

16

also noteworthy that he is the only law employee who has a fleshed-out family

member in the shape of his old mother. (cf. Dickens 438) This is not to say that

he, too, does not seek his own advantage. His continuous efforts to rise in

status are, however, simultaneously pathetic, ridiculous and repellent:

Proposing to Esther because he believes her to have secret noble connections,

(cf. Dickens 103) pursuing her like the worst of stalkers (cf. Dickens 141) and

immediately dropping her when her beauty and likeness to Lady Dedlock are

gone. (cf. Dickens 439) He tries romantic language, but feels more at home with

law talk:

But, Miss Summerson! Angel! […] I have been brought up in a sharp school, and am accustomed to a variety of general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, what means might I not find of advancing your interests, and pushing your fortunes! (Dickens 103)

Sentiment is only a pretext for the pursuit of wealth and power. Although still

young, Guppy is irrevocably infected by the law, willing, if not likely, to become

a second Tulkinghorn eventually. (cf. Miller 97)

The lawyers of Bleak House are all bad characters in varying degrees. Yet none

of them is a bad lawyer, for egoism and self-interest are the inherent duties of

the profession. Lecker, in her essay ‘Split Characters in Dickens’, raises an

important question: “Could one perform a nasty professional role and remain

untouched in human terms?” (Lecker 692-693) “My daughters may know me

better,” (Dickens 445) Vholes claims. But then his daughters are never shown (it

seems questionable whether they even exist), while the misery caused by

Vholes and the likes of him is painted most vividly. One might argue that

Dickens, keen on making his point, portrays the ‘human faces’ of the legal

system as inhumanely as possible. To a degree, he still evades the

problematisation of the separate spheres.

4.2. The Police and their Personnel

The police are first shown after the death of Nemo the law-writer, handling the

unruly public, and pictured as follows:

17

Policeman at last finds it necessary to support the law, and seize a vocalist; who is released upon the flight of the rest […]. So the sensation dies off for the time, and the unmoved policeman […] with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy thread […] to look casually about for anything between a lost child and a murder. (Dickens 119)

Two things are emphasized here: the policeman’s subservient position towards

the law and his cold blood. Furthermore, the ‘Bobby’ seems to be quite a

spectacle to look at, not unlike the showiness of an aristocrat among

commoners. So far, there is nothing to distinguish him from the legal profession

the novel criticizes.

Later on, the main representative of the police in the novel, Inspector Bucket, is

finally introduced, on visit in Mr Tulkinghorn’s office:

[He] stands there, with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle age. Except […] [for his intensive gaze], there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing. (Dickens 250)

It is striking how Bucket in his intent inconspicuousness initially resembles

Tulkinghorn. (cf. Waters 128) The inspector, though humble towards the lawyer,

(cf. Dickens 251) is just as feared and respected in the criminal milieu. “Mr

Bucket, coming behind some undersized young man […] [,] touches him with

his stick, upon which the young man, looking around, instantly evaporates.”

(Dickens 252) He is determined and thoroughly competent. (cf. Dickens 628)

Some of his attributes appear almost superhuman (cf. Miller 102): “Time and

place cannot bind Mr Bucket.” (Dickens 576) Similar claims are made for

Tulkinghorn, who “from the […] Dedlock property […] transfers himself to […]

London […] as if it were next door to his chambers.” (Dickens 472)

When shown in action, however, the differences between the two come to light.

Bucket is always friendly, jovial, vivacious and talkative while addressing people

on business: “Yes! and lookee here, Mr Snagsby,’ resumes Bucket, taking him

aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a

confidential tone. ‘You’re a man of the world, you know […] [.’]” (Dickens 250)

He flatters them and tries to make them feel esteemed. Furthermore, he is not

18

at all haughty, but shows a remarkable adaptability to all social spheres,

seeming as much at ease talking to “Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet” (Dickens

589) as to his manservant. (cf. Dickens 584) In order to increase his familiarity

with those he is interrogating, Bucket often ‘happens to recall’ a family member

who is supposed to have something in common with his interlocutor: “’My father

was at first a page, then a footman, then a butler, then an innkeeper.’” (Dickens

583) This may or may not be true - as a policeman, Bucket is indeed likely to

come from a lower middle-class background (cf. Collins 219) - however, the

ultimate aim of his communicative strategies is obvious: winning people’s trust,

securing their cooperation and extracting information from them. Nowhere is

this shown more acutely than in the chapter “Dutiful Friendship”, where Bucket

joins Mrs Bagnet’s birthday party at her home only to arrest their good friend Mr

George:

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr Bucket, and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him that as a friend of George’s she is particularly glad to see him this evening […]. (Dickens 545)

Bucket waits until they have left the house before telling Mr George:

‘Now, George,’ says Mr Bucket, ‘Duty is duty, and friendship is friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have endeavoured to make things pleasant tonight, and I put it to you whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody, George.’ (Dickens 548)

When he has been cleared and released, Bucket pays his compliments to

George’s mother: “He’s discharged honourable, that’s what he is; with no more

imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one, I’ll

bet a pound.” (Dickens 618) The innocent, this seems to say, have nothing to

fear from the police and must only wait patiently until they are proven so. This

belief, however, does not hold up.

Bucket’s persistent joviality takes on a cynical edge, becomes almost distasteful

when he hunts the wronged and the weak. Hence, he tells Gridley, the worn-out

suitor of Chancery, when he comes to arrest him, among all possible crimes, for

‘contempt of court’: “Why, I am surprised to hear a man of your energy talk of

19

giving in. You mustn’t do that. You’re half the fun of the fair, in the Court of

Chancery.” (Dickens 287) When discussing the flight of Lady Dedlock, he has

the nerve to tell her grieving husband that “[i]t is a beautiful case – a beautiful

case”, (Dickens 628) seeming in complete oblivion of the people affected. His

supposed benevolence finally comes to smack of hypocrisy where Jo, the poor

orphan crossing-sweeper, is concerned. Telling the civilian onlooker that he is

not going to harm the boy (cf. Dickens 250), he nonetheless pays a bribe to

have the critically ill child turned out of a house. (cf. Dickens 670-671) Bucket’s

intention is to keep Jo quiet; (cf. Dickens 626) that is, ironically, soon achieved

forever. (cf. Dickens 525) “Though this ‘one grand recipe’ for Jo [i. e. moving

him on] is presented as a symbol of society’s wicked neglect of such waifs, the

policeman is exonerated. He is fulfilling his instructions, impersonally.” (Collins

204) Is it possible that, to Bucket, the law is even more of a game than it is for

the lawyers?

Bucket, all too well-acquainted with the Gomorrah that is Tom-All-Alone’s, (cf.

Dickens 253) seems to have seen too much evil to actually believe in the good

(cf. Miller 113): “Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent as

can be […], look well after your […] money, for they are dead certain to collar it,

if they can.” (Dickens 628) Neither are the abysses of the high and mighty

secret to him: “’I have had the honour of being employed in high families before,

and you have no idea […] what games goes on.” (Dickens 582) Disillusioned,

his ‘humanity’ is more often than not rendered farcical.

Bucket wholeheartedly affirms the sanctity of the home at very moment he is

breaking that sanctity (cf. Waters 128): “[W]hat is public life without private ties?

He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that sphere that he finds

happiness. No, it must be sought within the confines of domestic bliss.”

(Dickens 547) He does have a wife, about whom he can tell the sweetest

stories, and although he himself has no children, he loves them dearly. (cf.

Dickens 546) Yet unfortunately, his own home is almost eroded by his public

duty, for even his wife takes part in the detection work (cf. Dickens 576), and

Bucket himself is so occupied by it that he “holds himself aloof from that dear

solace” (Dickens 576) most of the time. So where is the positive moral influence

on him supposed to come from?

20

Though presented ambiguously, Bucket is clearly meant to be a good character.

“One of the greatest compliments a novelist can pay to his characters is to let

them harm the ‘good’ characters with impunity.” (Collins 204) Moreover, Esther,

the moral voice of Bleak House, tells the reader: “He was really very kind and

gentle; and as he stood before the fire warming his boots, […] I felt a confidence

in his sagacity which reassured me.” (Dickens 623)

Again, the vexed question comes up: “What is the relationship between the

private and public life when the norms of the two are apparently at odds?”

(Lecker 695) Lecker suggests that Bucket is one of many ‘inverted hypocrites’ in

Dickens’s novels, who, for the sake of duty, show less humanity than they feel.

Yet, does not the same potentially hold true for Vholes? How is one to

differentiate the ‘inverted hypocrite’ from the real hypocrite? Bleak House’s

partiality against the law and for the police is not logical.

What distinguishes the police inspector from the lawyer, one might say, is his

social conscience. (cf. Miller 95) Bucket can certainly not be accused of being

self-serving, since his payment is never even mentioned. He serves the law, a

system characterized as corrupt; yet at least he does so kindly, when he can.

(Dickens 252) Unlike most lawyers, he cares for justice: “[E]very person should

have their rights according to justice.” Furthermore, Bucket actually ‘does’

something, instead of just sitting around in his office brooding or in court,

talking, respectively. While it is futile to debate old wills for decades without

reaching a conclusion; surely, criminals must be caught and condemned?

Still, the effects of his efficiency are questionable. Taking a closer look at

Bucket’s actions, they do not do much ‘good’. Apart from the examples

mentioned earlier, - the deaths of Jo and Gridley - his most important

achievement is solving the novel’s murder mystery by arresting Hortense, the

French servant who has murdered Mr Tulkinghorn. While the reader is made to

feel that this lawyer’s death is no great loss, “[d]iscipline must be maintained,”

(Dickens 313) Hortense, drawn just as negatively as her victim (cf. Dickens

476), is put where she belongs. (cf. Dickens 596) The ensuing pursuit of Lady

Dedlock, which results in her death, (cf. Dickens 657) is at best a morally

ambivalent act. Forgiven by her husband, (cf. Dickens 617) she cannot be

forgiven by society and must never forgive herself. (cf. Blain 79) She dies, but

the Dedlock family will never again be what it once was. (cf. Dickens 638)

21

Inspector Bucket may truly be a good man as well as a good policeman; still,

even he cannot save England.

4.3. Bad and Good Families

After this pessimistic survey of the public world, the last chance for the nation’s

salvation seems to lie in the home:

Through his representation of Jo [the homeless orphan] and throughout Bleak House, Dickens argues that, unless they are properly trained within a carefully maintained household, not only do children suffer, but the notion of what it means to be English is itself endangered. Neatly ordered homes and proper families are necessary for the cultivation and growth of English children. The novel presents an anxiety that the lack of clear boundaries between household and world […] entails a breakdown of family and a threat to country. (Plotkin 17)

It will be no surprise to find out that Bleak House’s families are seriously

overburdened with the task. In almost all of the families shown, various

members transgress their social roles and neglect their duties, the bad

consequences of which are as strikingly displayed as the failures of Chancery.

An early indicator of how this public institution destroys harmony and sows

dissent in families is the fact that Jarndyce and Jarndyce itself is essentially a

family affair. “I am grieved that I should be the enemy […] of a great number of

relations […]; and that they should be my enemies […]”, (Dickens 50) angelic

Ada complains. There are further examples of how the intrusion of public affairs

into the private space destroys happiness.

The Jellyby household is a heap of rubbish and the sole blame for that is put on

Mrs Jellyby. Enthusiastically engaged in what the novel calls “Telescopic

Philanthropy”, she has abandoned her responsibilities as a wife, mother and

household manager. Instead, she is obsessed with a charity mission in Africa,

about which she knows only very little, but to which she devotes all of her time

and attention. (cf. Plotkin 22) She is so absorbed by this ‘ridiculous’ project that

she does not even notice what happens around her. (cf. Van Buren Kelley 259)

In addition to that, her chief reason for doing so, the novel implies, is not the

desire to help others, but self-aggrandizement. (cf. Dickens 83)

22

Without the shining example of the woman, nothing goes right. The servants

drink (Dickens 341); the food is bad; (Dickens 35) the general atmosphere is

one of extreme unpleasantness. (cf. Dickens 34) Esther gives her condemning

judgment:

I believe that nothing belonging to the family, which it had been possible to break, was unbroken at the time […]; that nothing which it had been possible to spoil in any way, was unspoilt; and that no domestic object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child’s knee to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could well accumulate upon it. (Dickens 341)

Left to themselves, the little Jellyby children are in constant danger of being hurt

or getting lost. (cf. Dickens 32) Furthermore, they are uneducated; they do not

know how to behave and have regressed into a state of wilderness which is

compared to that of natives in the colonies: “Pa […] said the children were

Indians […] and […] that […] the best thing that could happen to them was, their

being all Tomahawked together.” (Dickens 337-338) (cf. Plotkin 25) This is most

explicitly shown by the example of Caddy Jellyby, the eldest daughter, who is

forced to serve as her mother’s scribe and consequently lacks all the

accomplishments a young middle class woman needs: “I can’t do anything

hardly, except write. […] I’m disgraceful.” (Dickens 38) She is her mother’s most

severe critic: “Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole house directly […]. Ma’s

ruinous to everything.” (Dickens 341) Though it is her duty as a child to submit

to her parents, the gravity of Mrs Jellyby’s crime and the savageness she has

been brought up in seem to excuse her.

In all that chaos, Mr Jellyby is easily overlooked:

I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair, […] and seemed passively to submit himself to Borrioboola-Gha […]. As he never spoke a word, […] [i]t was not until we left the table, and he remained alone with Richard, that the possibility of his being Mr Jellyby ever entered my head. (Dickens 35-36)

“’Ah! Mr Jellyby, […] I don’t know that I can describe him to you better than by

saying that he is the husband of Mrs Jellyby.’ ‘A nonentity, sir?’” (Dickens 30)

The ‘normal’ relationship between husband and wife is inverted here in that the

23

husband is the appendage of his wife, which makes him nonexistent to Victorian

society.

Mr Jellyby has long resigned to his fatal marriage; most of the time he just

suffers silently. Supervised by Caddy and Esther, he attempts to help tidy the

house, but soon leaves off again, because, as a man, he is ‘naturally’ unable to

do so. (cf. Dickens 341) In the world of the home, Mr Jellyby is as helpless as a

child. (cf. Dickens 344)

His daughter pities him: “Poor Pa! […] What a disappointed life!” (Dickens 341

According to the logic of the gendered spheres, his wife’s failure to provide him

with an appropriate home is soon followed by and linked to his failure in

business:

The name of poor Mr Jellyby had appeared in the list of Bankrupts, but a day or two before; and he was shut up in the dining-room with two gentlemen, and a heap of blue bags, account-books, and papers, making the most desperate endeavours to understand his affairs. They appeared to me to be quite beyond his comprehension; for when Caddy took me into the dining-room by mistake, […] he seemed to have given up the whole thing, and to be speechless and insensible. (Dickens 269)

Unaccustomed to order, Mr Jellyby consequently cannot find any order in his

nebulous business affairs either. Not even his profession is ever specified. The

possibility that his failure might be his own fault seems out of the question. (cf.

Dickens 152) The Jellybys are saved from poverty only because of “the general

clemency and commiseration of his creditors.” (Dickens 337) Pawned and

provided with another insignificant day-job, Mr Jellyby’s falling on society is

narrowly avoided.

Caddy Jellyby eventually manages to escape her dreadful family home. Thanks

to the help of Esther, she is initiated in the mysteries of house-keeping (cf.

Dickens 338-339) and so equipped can set up a home of her own.

Whether she is likely to find more contentment there seems questionable, for

the family she marries into is as dysfunctional as the one she comes from. Mr

Turveydrop, Caddy’s father-in-law, is nothing but an idle deadbeat who thinks of

himself as an aristocrat (cf. Donovan 184) and, accordingly, sees his one duty

in life in the public presentation of his “Deportment.” (Dickens 156)

24

He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable connection (having never in his life before done anything but deport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses which were indispensable to his position. […] [T]he mainspring of the story was that, in spite of the man’s absorbing selfishness, his wife […] had, to the last, believed in him, and had, on her death-bed […] confided him to their son as one who had an inextinguishable claim upon him […]. The son […] had lived and grown in the same faith, and now, at thirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a day. […] (Dickens 157)

Prince Turveydrop, Caddy’s husband, described as slightly feminine and

resembling his mother (Dickens 155), has an “almost childish character”

(Dickens 160) It seems fit that his wife Caddy calls him “her darling child”.

(Dickens 265) The young couple has to beg the father for his permission to

marry. They can only persuade him to give his consent by promising to serve

him as long as he lives. (cf. Donovan 184) In fact, this means that they inhabit a

little attic (cf. Dickens 345) while Mr Turveydrop occupies the “only comfortable

room in the house” (Dickens 266); that they have frugal meals while their father

dines at fashionable restaurants (cf. Dickens 159) and that they alone run the

dancing-school which generates the family income. (cf. Dickens 435) Burdened

in this way with a tyrannical father-in-law and an immature husband, Caddy is

lucky to be “used to drudgery.” (Dickens 435)

Yet although Esther sharply criticizes Mr Turveydrop’s parasitical existence,

(Dickens 268) neither Prince nor Caddy ever do: “[S]he was so happy, and so

full of old Mr Turveydrop’s praises, that I would not have said a word in his

disparagement for any consideration.” (Dickens 269) A man who abandons his

prescribed duties for nothing but his own convenience is still to be held above a

woman who does the same for what she believes to be the public good - a fine

illustration of the Victorian double standard.

The most extreme example of role denial and irresponsibility is given by Mr

Skimpole. (cf. Donovan 183) An egoist, a hedonist (cf. Dickens 668-669) and a

cadger, without a guilty conscience or any scruples whatsoever, he brazenly

introduces himself as “a mere child in the world”. (Dickens 59) The very idea

that he might be expected to take care of anybody is ridiculous to Mr Skimpole.

(cf. Dickens 59) That this man actually has a family comes as a great surprise:

25

‘Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?’ inquired Richard. ‘Yes, […] half a dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think. But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted somebody to look after him. He is a child, you know!’ said Mr Jarndyce. ‘And have the children looked after themselves at all?’ inquired Richard. […] ‘It is said that the children of the poor are not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skimpole’s children have tumbled up somehow or other.[‘] (Dickens 57)

Mr Skimpole is a doctor by profession, but prefers not to work and to let himself

be maintained by his various rich friends instead. (cf. Dickens 58-59) He, too, is

positioned close to the aristocracy, having been medical attendant to “a German

prince”. (Dickens 58) Most of his time is spent on visit in grand country houses

(Dickens 487) and far away from his family home, one reason for this being the

fact that they are frequently visited by debtees. (cf. Dickens 485) Yet although

hardly there, when there, he is still entitled to the lion’s share of everything,

occupying the most beautiful room in the house, for example. (cf. Dickens 485)

Like that of the Jellybys, the Skimpole household is dirty and sleazy, and like

that of the Turveydrops, it is not at all improved by unnecessary luxury goods,

the signs of decadence. (cf. Dickens 480) What makes them seem worse than

both is the fact that the whole family is a burden to society at large. (cf. Van

Buren Kelley 260) The reason for this can be found in Mr Skimpole’s refusal to

live like a man of his age, status and education should (cf. Lecker 692), but his

attitude has been passed on to his wife and children. He cheerfully and

shamelessly outlines their principle: “‘We can’t cook anything whatever. A

needle and thread we don’t know how to use. We admire the people who

possess the practical wisdom we want; but we don’t quarrel with them. […] Live

upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!’” (Dickens 485)

Mrs Skimpole’s only noteworthy attribute is her now faded beauty. She has

rejected her role as wife, mother and housekeeper by styling herself as an

invalid. (cf. Dickens 483) While their sons have simply run away, their daughters

are destined to be genteel beggars. (cf. Dickens 484) Yet, most astoundingly,

none of them reproaches the father for it: “‘In this family we are all children, and

I am the youngest.’ The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were

amused by this droll fact […].” (Dickens 483) In doing so, the girls, like Prince

and Caddy, fulfill their proper social roles, which makes them deserving

receivers of Esther’s pity and Mr Jarndyce’s charity. (cf. Dickens 480)

26

[The daughter] looked very young, indeed, to be the mother of two children; and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that the three daughters had grown up as they could, and had had just as little haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father’s playthings in his idlest hours. (Dickens 484)

The array of families presented in the novel becomes even more bizarre with

the Smallweeds. They are, in many ways, the opposite of the Skimpoles, and

yet they are just as bad. “The artificial children in the disorderly Skimpole’s

apartments are counterbalanced by the unnatural old men and women at the

Smallweed’s.” (Van Buren Kelley 260) While the bohemian Skimpoles pride

themselves on their idleness and their impracticality,

[t]he house of Smallweed, always early to go out [to work] and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, […] and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it, and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced, have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds. (Dickens 235)

This is underlined by the fact that here we do not have parents, but

grandparents who have raised the children. Together they live in a “dark little

parlour certain feet below the level of the street.” (Dickens 235) Their great-

grandfather having been educated at a Charity school, the present family has

risen to a lower middle-class status and clings to it fiercely. It is no exaggeration

to say that they are obsessed with money and property. (cf. Dickens 235)

Accordingly, old and infirm Mr Smallweed still ‘works’ as a moneylender (cf.

Dickens 241), his grandson Bart is apprenticed as a law clerk (cf. Dickens 223)

and even his granddaughter Judy is, rather ironically, “in the flower business”

(Dickens 239) The family members keep together out of economic necessity,

yet there is no affection between them. Mr Smallweed habitually insults and

mistreats his wife: “I should like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion […]

You are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You’re a head of a swine!”

(Dickens 239) Mrs Smallweed, luckily, has lapsed into dementia, which has

cleared her of all duties and reduced her to an infant. (cf. Dickens 234) The

children, though outwardly obedient to the old man, eagerly await his death so

they will inherit. (cf. Dickens 239) They have imbibed the principles of the

27

market economy from their infancy. Overburdened with responsibility, the

Smallweed children have responded by becoming exceedingly greedy. (cf. Van

Buren Kelley 260) Fittingly, they take on the inheritance of ‘Lord Chancellor’

Krook after his death. (cf. Dickens 452)

Contrasted with these four bad families is the family of Mr Jarndyce, the owner

of Bleak House. (cf. Dickens 27) Interestingly, it is not a family in the

‘classic’ sense, as its members are either only remotely related or not related at

all. Yet this does not seem to matter, since “for most of the novel’s characters,

families are not inherited, but made.” (Plotkin 23)

Mr Jarndyce is a wealthy, land-owning bachelor, who, by his lawyer, is

introduced as “a highly humane but at the same time singular man.” (Dickens

19)

Mr Jarndyce is viewed as a kind of natural guardian […]. He is viewed, that is, as performing functions on a personal level that are supposedly fulfilled by institutions (such as Chancery […]) on a national level. Characteristically, he takes responsibility for all the weak and the needy with whom he comes in contact, though the typical object of his attentions (the symbolic object) is the orphan. (Daleski 187)

He is a very private man, who, although he has more reason than anyone to

become involved in Chancery, strictly keeps away from the court case begun by

his ancestor (cf. Dickens 80). In fact, his prime motivation for adopting his

young cousins Ada and Richard is overcoming the family division that Chancery

has caused. (cf. Dickens 398) This is in keeping with the believed function of

the home in warding off the corrupting effects of the outside world. While Ada

and Richard are thus the Jarndyce ‘children’, Esther is given a different role.

Donovan remarks how “her relations with the other inmates of Bleak House are

curiously ambiguous and ill-defined.” (Donovan 183) She is a ward and a

sisterly companion to Ada; yet, like a wife, she is also responsible for the

material and moral management of the house. Having excelled in this field of

duty, she is rewarded by being offered the role of wife in earnest. (cf. Donovan

183) Consideration of Esther’s nickname “little woman” (Dickens 81) may help

to clear the role confusion. (cf. Waters 123) After all, in Victorian ideology, the

difference between child and wife was not perceived as very big; both were

essentially dependent, politically immature creatures. (cf. Allan 14) Esther’s

28

relationship to Mr Jarndyce is early on portrayed and approved of by her, and

does not change throughout the novel (cf. Dickens 709):

[‘]I am quite sure if there were anything I ought to know, or had any need to know, I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole reliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard heart indeed. […][‘] From that hour I felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved, quite content to know no more, quite happy. (Dickens 82)

It should be added that, as an illegitimate female orphan, Esther has hardly any

choice but to trust. (cf. Blain 78) Through Mr Jarndyce’s generosity and under

her diligent management, Bleak House – its name a reminder of its negative

past – is turned into a model home. (cf. Van Buren Kelley 264-265) Internal

conflicts, however, build up when Richard transgresses his role by questioning

his guardian’s authority. Allowed to freely choose a genteel profession, he

nonetheless fails to live up to the Victorian work ethic. (cf. Lecker 692)

Therefore, Mr Jarndyce denies him the hand of his cousin Ada. (cf. Dickens

276-277) Richard angrily responds by hiring a lawyer of his own and trying to

bring the Jarndyce and Jarndyce case to a settlement. (cf. Dickens 431) When

Ada comes of age, she, too, defies her guardian through a secret marriage to

Richard. (Dickens 564) Unsurprisingly, the young couple lives and, in Richard’s

case, dies in misery and poverty. (cf. Donovan 186) Is it their lack of faith in

their patriarch or their involvement with Chancery which causes their doom?

Both are clearly connected, since Richard perceives Mr Jarndyce increasingly

negatively as he is contaminated by the law (cf. Daleski 179):

[‘]If I have the misfortune to be under that influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, it may have a little twisted him, too. […] You know it taints everybody. You have heard him say so fifty times. Then why should he escape?’ ‘Because,’ said I, ‘his is an uncommon character, and he has resolutely kept himself outside the circle, Richard.’ (Dickens 424-425)

Still, it is valid to voice the doubt. Daleski comments on “Mr Jarndyce being a

little too benign for ordinary flesh and blood.” (Daleski 187) It is only his wealth

which enables him to keep out of public affairs. Yet, where does this wealth

come from? The novel never even hints at its source. Mr Jarndyce can be seen

as lucky in not having to pursue a – potentially problematic – profession;

29

however, he is hardly representative. One of the few functional families in Bleak

House, then, is possibly made so only by exceptional circumstances. In addition

to that, Mr Jarndyce’s goodness sometimes borders on stupidity or even

voluntary blindness, as he financially supports people like Mrs Jellyby (cf.

Dickens 83) and Mr Skimpole (cf. Daleski 189), thus indirectly destroying

families.

In the end, Richard sees his error and the Jarndyce family unity is restored at

his deathbed (cf. Dickens 704): “’I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard

one; but you shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it.’ ‘Well, well,’ said

my guardian, comforting him; ‘well, well, well, dear boy!’” (Dickens 703) Ada and

their child return into the care of the ‘father’, (cf. Dickens 709) while Esther’s

secret wish is guessed and granted by the same father-fiancé, who gives her

away to become the wife of Mr Woodcourt. (cf. Dickens 693-694) The roles in

the ‘good’ Jarndyce family are not as ideally defined as might be expected, but

are rather uneasily changeable, suggesting even quasi-incestuous tendencies.

Nonetheless,

[E]arly nineteenth-century social paternalist ideology saw the family’s benevolent hierarchy as providing a model for social reform. […] [T]his view of social organization derives from the theory of political right known as patriarchalism, in which the authority of the father as family head is held to be the model for all power relations. (Waters 131)

The root of all evil is named subsequently:

When parents will not or cannot take care of their children, when husbands refuse to be masters in their own houses, above all when these relations are not illuminated and softened by love, it is useless to expect those public institutions in which the relations of the family are mirrored to supply their defects. (Donovan 186)

5. Michel Foucault and Bleak House 5.1. Discipline and Punish The French philosopher Michel Foucault, in his 1975 work Discipline and

Punish. The Birth of the Prison, examined the way power is distributed in

modern societies. In his opinion, every social relationship is necessarily a power

30

relationship; not only on a macro level, as between state and citizen, but also on

a micro level, as between parent and child, for example. Power is therefore

omnipresent and it is valid to say that the less power needs to assert itself, the

more effective it is. (cf. Ruffing 56-57)

One of the most important manifestations of power is the power to discipline

and punish. In the course of history, this power has increasingly been seized by

the state under the monopoly of force. Between the 18th and the 19th century,

the methods of punishment have changed dramatically. The state moved from a

system of public executions to imprisonment behind closed doors. (cf. Ruffing

58-60) Collins confirms that “Dickens’s lifetime coincided with the greatest

period of legal and penal reform in our history.” (Collins 2) The main idea behind

this was a disciplination of the soul instead of the body, or rather, a

disciplination of the body through the soul. (cf. Ruffing 58) This holds true not

only for ‘criminals’, but for every member of modern society.

Foucault spricht von einer Mikrophysik der Macht, die sich mittels Überwachung, […] des Lohns und der Bestrafung der Seele der Menschen bemächtigen will. […] Institutionen prägten […] das Bewusstsein eines Menschen und statteten ihn mit einer individuellen Biographie, Lebensgeschichte, Fähigkeiten und Charaktereigenschaften aus. (Ruffing 59)

In other words, education (or, in the case of criminals, re-education) served to

prevent social transgressions. While this thought is certainly not new, the

growing impalpability and thus effectiveness of power made it ever more

dangerous to the subject. Foucault, accordingly, uses the metaphor of the

prison to characterize modern society. (cf. Ruffing 61)

Studies about repeat offence by ex-detainees make the idea of successful

disciplination a questionable one. (cf. Ruffing 65) The possible ‘success’ of the

disciplination of non-criminal subjects is even more questionable, as the

meaning of ‘success’ is entirely relative, since culturally defined. Ultimately, one

could come to the conclusion that education and disciplination serve to reinforce

existing power relationships in a society and to keep the individual from

attempts at social reform.

5.2. A Foucaultian Reading

31

D. A. Miller applies Foucault’s ideas to the plot of Bleak House, thereby

analyzing the ties between the law, the police and the family. In doing so, he

points out several important internal contradictions in the novel.

First of all, Miller claims that it is the family’s failure which calls into being

disciplinary institutions such as the Court of Chancery and the police. If all

families functioned as they should, there would be no illegitimacy, no orphans

and no subsistence problems. Hence, there would be no need for court-

regulated guardianship or arrest of debtors, for example.

What is required of the family to avoid public disciplination, then, is ‘voluntary’

self-disciplination. “If discipline was confined to the carceral [i.e. public

disciplinary institutions], […] this was so in order that it might ultimately be

extended – in the mode of what was experientially its opposite – to the space

outside it [i. e. the privacy of the family].” (Miller 88) The separation between

private and public is thus effectively abolished. (cf. Miller 88)

Miller elaborates on this thought by emphasizing the unlocalisability of the Court

of Chancery. Although it is, materially, located in a building, its influence and

power stretch far beyond, which is emblematized by the dominant metaphor of

“fog everywhere”. (Dickens 3) Following Foucault’s logic, the court’s power to

discipline is omnipresent. It is also subtle and impalpable, since the suitors to

the court all appeal of their own ‘free’ will and “seduced by it, addicted to it,

internalize the requirements for maintaining its hold.” (Miller 89) (cf. Miller 89)

If Chancery is omnipresent and almighty, reduction of its power through reform

is, consequently, impossible. Instead, the only effective way of resisting it would

be complete destruction and anarchy. This desire arises in the novel (cf.

Dickens 8); however, it is never acted upon. (cf. Miller 90)

Miller criticizes Bleak House’s indecisiveness in the portrayal of Chancery’s

effects. Apart from the unrealistic incorruptibility of characters like Mr Jarndyce

and Esther Summerson, he primarily comments on Richard’s fate. Though

Richard is mostly shown as an innocent victim of Chancery, the novel also

expresses the thought that it might be his own characteristic unsteadiness

which causes him to turn to Chancery in the first place. (cf. Miller 91-92)

Chancery’s total domination and the impossibility of reforming it are called into

32

question. Miller concludes how “in the literal sense of giving utterance to a

double discourse, Bleak House is a contradictory text.” (Miller 92)

He then goes on to examine the plot’s shift from civil suit to murder mystery. In

spite of Chancery’s continuous deferment of closure, justice and meaning, the

desire for these concepts persists. (cf. Miller 94) Therefore, a different authority

must provide them: the detective police.

In relation to an organization so complex that it often tempts its subjects to misunderstand it as chaos, the detective story realizes the possibility of an easily comprehensible version of order. […] [T]he detective story performs a drastic simplification of power as well. For unlike Chancery, the detective story is fully prepared to affirm the efficacy and priority of personal agency. (Miller 95)

In addition to that, the police, through their easy localizability, at first sight

reinstall the separation between public and private. This notion, however, is

soon subverted, too, as Inspector Bucket is repeatedly shown to intrude into

homes in search of criminals. (cf. Miller 100-101) “The representation of the

police, then, is not just organized by a comforting principle of localisation; it is

also organized within the fear-inspiring prospect of the possible suspension of

this principle.” (Miller 101) In this way, the novel unsettles the reader about the

nature of the private. Miller recapitulates:

On one hand, Chancery is a total system of domination, engendering resistances whose mere inversions […] only entrench its power more deeply. On the other hand, Chancery’s domination seems to cease precisely at the points where one elects to erect bulwarks against it such as Esther’s Bleak House. Or again: if the police represent a reduction of the domination of Chancery, and thus permit a domestic autonomy, it is also suggested that the police, as all-encompassing as Chancery, can at any moment abolish that autonomy. Or still again: the police are other, better than Chancery, but they are also the organ that polices on its behalf and thus works to preserve it. (Miller 103)

6. Conclusion

It cannot be repeated too often that Bleak House, in spite of its first impression

of ideological simplicity, is a thoroughly contradictory and fairly complicated

novel.

33

Society, it claims, is corrupt because its members and institutions evade their

‘proper’ roles and responsibilities. While not much can be said against this

statement, it poses several further questions. An institution is more than the

total of its members and public and private roles are not identical.

For women and children, life is ‘easy’ in so far that they only have a private role

and that the only institution they effectively belong to is the family. They must be

thrifty, selfless and submissive to authority; then they will be taken care of and

rewarded. The prime illustration of this process is the progress of Esther

Summerson. However, it is entirely by chance that she has even come to the

attention of Mr Jarndyce. Other ‘good’ characters like Jo are not so lucky. Are

they less deserving?

For men, public and private role are often incompatible. Privately, they must be

benevolent and charitable. If they can live on their family fortune, as Mr

Jarndyce does, there is no conflict. Yet if they have to pursue nasty public

professions which directly interfere with their benevolent intentions, what are

they to do? Choose a different profession – that of ‘good’ doctor, for example,

as Mr Woodcourt does? (cf. Van Buren Kelley 268) And what if they fail to find a

profession at all? They are, presumably, to die, as Richard does, leaving their

families unprovided for. “In his depiction of families made memorable by their

failure to exemplify the domestic ideal, Dickens exposes the instability of the

ideology he otherwise seeks to affirm.” (Waters 133)

Nonetheless, in the novel, the family is assumed to be the source of both the

corruption and the possible cure of society. “Dickens, far from being a

revolutionary, is calling in Bleak House for nothing more subversive than a

change of housekeepers.” (Daleski 189) Esther Summerson, the female

illegitimate orphan, is to save the nation. However, she is powerless in the

public sphere. She can only constitute a temporary retreat from it. The

separation of the spheres, in other words, is to be the solution of society’s ills.

That this ‘solution’ is an evasion and, therefore, utterly inadequate need hardly

be said. For while those who can afford it retreat to their homes and offer a little

charity here and there, Chancery continues to work its evils, destroying more

homes than can be made in the meantime. Systemic, public wrongs can never

be countered by individual, private action.

34

Perhaps sensing the inadequacy of its solution, the novel finally presents the

police, a public institution bent on doing the ‘good’. It is an institution which, like

the family patriarch, can safely be trusted. In the joining of Esther and Inspector

Bucket on their wintry night chase, (cf. Dickens 636) the novel portrays what

might be a beneficial alliance between private and public. However, even

Inspector Bucket’s presentation as a ‘hero’ is fairly hesitant, as I have shown.

The incongruity between private and public role simply re-emerges in this

character.

While Bleak House thus fails to provide its readers with convincing answers, let

alone with a programme for social reform, it is its very inconsistency which

makes the text interesting. By showing the complexity of modern society in its

early stages, the novel has the potential to set today’s readers thinking about

their own contemporary, even more complex society.

7. List of Works Cited Primary Literature

Dickens, Charles. Bleak House. Ware: Wordsworth, 1993.

Secondary Literature

Allan, Janice M. Bleak House: A Sourcebook. London: Routledge, 2004.

Blain, Virginia. “Double Vision and the Double Standard in Bleak House: A

Feminist Perspective.” Bleak House, Charles Dickens. Ed. Jeremy Tambling.

Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1998. 65-85.

Britannica Online Encyclopedia. “Lord Chancellor.” 02. 12. 2009.

http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/348007/lord-chancellor.

Collins, Philip. Dickens and Crime. London: Macmillan, 1965.

Daleski, H. M. Dickens and the Art of Analogy. London: Faber and Faber, 1970.

35

Donovan, Robert A. “Structure and Idea in Bleak House.” ELH Vol. 29, No. 2

(Jun., 1962): 175-201.

Emsley, Clive. The English police: a political and social history. Harlow:

Pearson, 1996.

Grenander, M. E. “The Mystery and the Moral: Point of View in Dickens’s “Bleak

House”.” Nineteenth-Century Fiction Vol. 10, No. 4 (Mar., 1956): 301-305.

Holdsworth, William S. Charles Dickens as a Legal Historian. Yale: Yale

University Press, 1929.

Lecker, Barbara. “The Split Characters of Charles Dickens.” Studies in English

Literature, 1500-1900 Vol. 19, No. 4, Nineteenth Century (Autumn, 1979): 689-

704.

Miller, D. A. “Discipline in Different Voices: Bureaucracy, Police, Family, and

Bleak House.” Bleak House, Charles Dickens. Ed. Jeremy Tambling.

Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1998. 87-122.

Page, Norman. Bleak House: A Novel of Connections. Boston: Twayne, 1990.

Plotkin, David. “Home-made Savages: Cultivating English Children in Bleak

House.” Pacific Coast Philology Vol. 32, No. 1 (1997): 17-31.

Purchase, Sean. Victorian Key Concepts. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan,

2006.

Pykett, Lyn. Charles Dickens, 1812-1870 – Criticism and interpretation.

Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2002.

Ruffing, Reiner. Michel Foucault. Paderborn: Fink, 2008.

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Stringham Delespinasse, Doris. “The Significance of Dual Point of View in Bleak

House.” Nineteenth-Century Fiction Vol. 23, No. 3 (Dec., 1968): 253-264.

Van Buren Kelley, Alice. “The Bleak Houses of Bleak House.” Nineteenth-

Century Fiction Vol. 25, No. 3 (Dec., 1970): 253-268.

Waters, Catherine. “Gender, family and domestic ideology.” The Cambridge

companion to Charles Dickens. Ed. John O. Jordan. Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press, 2001. 120-135.

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"Ich versichere, dass ich die beiliegende Arbeit ohne Hilfe Dritter und

ohne Benutzung anderer als der angegebenen Quellen und Hilfsmittel

einschließlich des Internets angefertigt und die den benutzten Quellen

wörtlich oder inhaltlich entnommenen Stellen als solche kenntlich

gemacht habe."

Worms, den 20. 12. 2009 _______________________