Little Dorrit Part One Chapters 5-8

[Peter]

Chapter 5

Family Affairs

“Mother, our House has done less and less for some years past, and our dealings have been progressively on the decline.” - Arthur Clennam



First, happy New Year to all the Curiosities. It’s always exciting to begin a new novel and discuss its mysteries and events with friends. Little Dorrit is a door stopper, so let’s find a comfortable chair, settle in, and explore together what Dickens is up to in this novel.

The title of this chapter is “Family Affairs” so let’s take a look at the characters who appear and see what we can learn about each. Mrs Clennam appears first in her wheelchair wheeled by her apparent servant Jeremiah Flintwinch. We see her unlocking a tall cabinet. Mrs Clennam seems like the cabinet. Both are stiff, locked up, and appear to hold secrets of some kind. Dickens tells us her face is a “gloomy labyrinth.” We will need to unlock her secrets and background. Her son Arthur is eager to discuss their “affairs.” Mr Clennam is dead and his wife is the sole executrix of an estate that seems to be in some disarray. Their business - whatever it is exactly we don’t know yet - has been in decline. Arthur’s use of the word “house” can be taken in two ways. First, the House is the business which is in decline. Second, the house, the place where Mrs Clennam lives is, like the business, “out of date and out of purpose.” Let's keep this in mind. The Clennam’s physical home reflects both the state of the business and also the apparent state of Mrs Clennam. Mrs Clennam, her home, and the business are all infirm or in decline. Like Mary Lou mentioned last week, I too wonder if a Dickens scholar or reader has tried to imagine a blueprint of what the Clennam house (and Bleak House and Dombey’s house etc) look like. I also see the house reflecting Arthur’s state of affairs as he wants nothing to do with the business, or his home, or, apparently, his past as well. Dickens offers us many levels and ideas about how to interpret the word “house.”

We learn that Arthur is forty. He has spent 20 years in London and 20 years abroad with his father and his business. We learn that his mother was the dominant partner in both the marriage and the business. An important point to remember as we read in is that Arthur suspects his father has wronged someone in the past and made no “reparation.” His mother refuses to say anything concrete to either confirm or deny Arthur’s suspicions. Before Arthur’s father died he gave his watch to Arthur to return to his mother. Arthur questions the significance of the watch to his mother. Arthur suspects the watch might have something to do with the unpaid “reparation” to someone. In response To Arthur’s question, his mother “by a swift and sudden action of her foot, … drove her wheeled chair rapidly back.” This suggests to me that there is some hidden meaning to the watch. It also suggests that his mother is capable of great mobility when she chooses. The watch - time - . Could Dickens be suggesting that time may be a concept that will develop as the novel continues?



Thoughts

We are in the early phase of the novel and Dickens has presented us with much to think about.

What value should we place on the suggested mystery of the unpaid “reparation?”

Arthur’s mother seems to be infirm and confined to her wheelchair but she is capable of violent physical action, has a quick temper, and refuses to be open or candid with her son and his questions although she has not seen him for 20 years. What could be Dickens’s intent in presenting her in this manner?

As Tristram pointed out in last week’s remarks and commentary the concept of imprisonment seems to permeate the early chapters of the novel. Other Curiosities have picked up this thread as well. In this chapter Mrs Clennam resents the fact that she sees herself as being “in prison and in bonds… . I endure without murmuring, because it is appointed that I shall so make reparations for my sins. …” What dreaded secret might she hold?

I certainly agree that there are many kinds and methods of imprisonment. Wait till the next chapter for a deep dive into the world of one prison. ;-)



There is a book that Mrs Clennam orders Flintwinch to get. She threatens Arthur that should he continue to pursue his line of thought and questions she will disown him. What is said next confuses me. The servant Flintwinch asks what’s going on. I would think a servant might be seen but never heard. What might be meant or suggested as he questions the interaction between a mother and her son? Perhaps it would be a good idea to pay close attention to Flintwinch as we move forward in the novel. We soon learn that he is the new “partner” of Mrs Clennam. Something is amiss here, don’t you think? Is he a servant, a business partner, a usurper and devious man? His wife is also a curious character. Often in a Dickens novel a character who dwells in the shadows in the opening chapters becomes a major factor in the plot. We need to keep an eye on her too.

The next person we encounter in the house is the “little girl” who lives in the shadows of the Clennam household. Dickens goes to great lengths to reinforce to the reader that she is ” small … slight … noiseless ..shy … subdued.” And yes, she has small hands. Little Dorrit is the title character of the novel. We are told that Arthur “showed an interest in this dependant.” Of interest is the fact that while we have seen Mrs Clennam’s fiery character in evidence throughout this chapter towards everyone, with Little Dorrit Mrs Clennam demonstrates “a fine gradation” of kindness towards Little Dorrit. Why might this be? Another mystery!

There is one other character in this novel we should consider. That other “character” is the house itself. Did you notice that beyond it being old and frail like its owner Mrs Clennam it takes on several human characteristics. Let's look at the words used to describe the house. We find such words and phrases as “gaunt,” “lethargy,” “hid,” “rouse,” with “black figures short of heads and legs” being attributed to the house. To me, this suggests the house is being personified by Dickens. What could Dickens be up to by giving a house so many human characteristics?

Arthur decides the house bears too much mystery, unease, and hostility to continue to live in with his mother so he takes rooms at a coffee-house. He will continue to go over the books of his parent’s Company at his former home, but wants nothing else to do with the house or its inhabitants with the single exception of Little Dorrit. Dickens ends the chapter with the sentence “At last [Clennam] resolved to watch Little Dorrit and know more of her story.”

This has been a chapter of mystery. What could be next?

[Peter]

Chapter 6

The Father of the Marshalsea

“That a child would be born to you in a place like this? … What does it signify?” the doctor of the Marshalsea


If there was any doubt that prisons and different ways of being imprisoned would form the foundation of this novel, this chapter should dispel that idea.

To put this chapter into its historical context we need to remember that Dickens’s father was once imprisoned in the Marshalsea for debt. Dickens’s father, mother, and his siblings all spent time in that prison. Charles, who was 12 at the time, went to work at Warren’s Blacking Factory. Most of the young Charles’s wages bought food for his family in jail and Charles was very familiar with the jail, its inmates, and its routines. At the time Little Dorrit was being written the Marshalsea had been closed. When we read the last sentence of the first paragraph “it is gone now, and the world is none the worse without it” we know those words come from both Dickens’s own experience and his heart.

The first paragraphs of this chapter establish the general condition of the jail, introduce us to its inhabitants, and zeros in on the character of William Dorrit, Little Dorrit’s father. One might suspect that the description of the jail, the jailers, and the criminals would be rather depressing and grim after reading Chapter One of this novel but such is not the case. Rather, Dickens creates a setting with character interactions which are humourous and witty. We learn that Mr Dorrit has a very timid and pregnant wife, and two children, one a boy who is three years old and one a girl who is two. The jailor tells Mr Dorrit that he wonders who is the most helpless person in the family, Dorrit himself or the unborn child. The jailor also predicts that Mr Dorrit will never get out of jail “unless his creditors take him by the shoulders and shove him out.”

Dickens recounts the birth of Little Dorrit as a community event. The men of the jail all go hide but the women, lead by a Mrs Bangham, a chairwoman, messenger, and former resident of the Marshalsea, rally round to assist in the birth. Mrs Bangham cannot recall the last time there was a birth in the jail. The doctor in attendance, whose name is Haggage, attends the birth and happily administers brandy to both Mrs Dorrit and himself. The birth completed, and a very little baby girl admitted into the world. The doctor, who is fully medicated with brandy, extols the advantages of being in jail by declaring “It's freedom sir, it's freedom.” An interesting twist of the function of a jail.

Time passes, and Mr Dorrit becomes the longest inhabitant of the jail. With this, he becomes more and more recognized as a unique person. Eight years after Little Dorrit’s birth, his wife, on a visit an old friend, dies. Here we need a bit of an explanation. Mr Dorrit was the member of the family who was convicted. The other members of his family were not considered criminals, but since the “breadwinner” of the family was in jail, they went too. They had freedom of movement to the “outside” world. It's a bit difficult to imagine in today’s world isn’t it? It does, however, explain why Little Dorrit was free to come and go within the prescribed hours the jail was “open” to the public.

More time passes and Mr Dorrit becomes known as the Father of the Marshalsea and we are told “he grew to be proud of the title.” As the “Father,” newly convicted prisoners were presented to him, and there was an expectation that each new resident of the jail would pay some financial homage to Mr Dorrit.

Thoughts

We have read how horrid and unpleasant the jail was in Marseilles in Chapter One. In this chapter the Marshalsea is, by comparison, rather comfortable, and presented with a much lighter and humourous tone. Dickens has thus presented the experience of being incarcerated through different lenses. What reasons do you think Dickens has presented these two jails in such a different light?

There is a convivial mood in the Marshalsea prison. What might be the reason for Dickens creating this tone?

As a side note, do you wonder, as I have, why Mr Dorrit would not use the monetary gifts he receives as payments to get out of jail? Is it as simple as he is attempting to guarantee the comforts of his family and has, as a consequence, no money is left over? Is there a darker purpose Dickens may be suggesting?

What is your first impression of Mr Dorrit, the Father of the Marshalsea?

[Peter]

Chapter 7

The Child of the Marshalsea

“At what period in her early life the little creature began to perceive that it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrow yards surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top would be a difficult question to settle.”

Little Dorrit’s life in the Marshalsea was unusual to say the least. The turnkey became her godfather. Little Dorrit was given a chair by the turnkey and she spent hours with him at his post. It could be said that he was more of a father figure to her than her own father. In fact, it was the turnkey’s thought that he would make Little Dorrit the sole beneficiary of his will. His only concern was that Little Dorrit’s father or someone else would be able to get their hands on Little Dorrit’s inheritance. Alas, the turnkey died intestate. Thus, Little Dorrit’s first opportunity to have some independence in life was thwarted.

Due to her ineffectual father Little Dorrit assumes the role of the parent at the tender age of 13. Her father becomes her child, and his other children, Tip and Fanny, become her children as well. Her sister Fanny had a desire to dance and so Little Dorrit made an arrangement with an incarcerated dance instructor to help her “wayward” sister learn to dance. Little Dorrit’s “idle” brother Tip, through the kindness of the jailor, obtained a job outside the prison walls as well. Tip was indeed idle and went through numerous jobs - even more than Richard Carstone - until he became a scam artist, was arrested, and imprisoned in the Marshalsea for debt. As Tip says, “ I have come back in what I may call a new way. I am off the volunteer list all together. I am in now as one as one of the regulars.”

Little Dorrit did not forget her own needs. Through another prisoner, a seamstress, Little Dorrit learns to sew. At the age of 22 she is working “beyond the walls” as well. She does, however, keep her private life and her nightly residence to herself. Her life has thus become divided between the “free city” and “the iron gates.” Thus, Little Dorrit is leading two secret lives every day. To her father and siblings she is a little child who leaves the prison for the day but her destination is unknown. To her employer, she is a seamstress who leaves their private residence and returns home to a place not known. As Dickens states “This was the life, and this the history.” What Dickens also tells us at the end of this chapter is that “upon one dull September evening [Little Dorrit was] observed at a distance by Arthur Clennam.”

Thoughts

I’ve just noticed that I have not used Little Dorrit’s Christian name yet. Her first name is Amy. Sorry about that. That slip does, however, help remind us about earlier comments how a person’s name often acts as an aid to establish the character. For example, the name changes to Tattycoram and Pet in Chapter Two. When a person loses their name, has it changed, or chooses to change it themselves there are usually undercurrents of meaning that occur. We may see name changes in the coming weeks. We should pause and ask why.

Given the background we have learned about Amy in this chapter what is your initial response to her character?

We have discovered how a person can be in prisoner and feel imprisoned in numerous ways. With Little Dorrit we see a character who has multiple layers of secrets as well as being a person who lives in a jail. How might the variety of secrets that Amy has effect her character as we move through the novel?

Amy is the parent to both her father and her siblings. What significance for the novel might this hold?

Dickens makes it clear that Arthur Clennam has an interest in Little Dorrit. How might Dickens further develop this relationship in the novel?

[Peter]

Chapter 8

The Lock


‘Anyone can go in’ replied the old man plainly; adding by the significance of his emphasis,’ but it is not everyone who can go out.”


OK. I admit it. When I see the above line from the chapter under discussion I think of The Eagles great song “Hotel California.” Does anyone else think this way? The Marshalsea Prison and Hotel California. Just wondering.

And now back to Dickens. The second paragraph of this chapter is a masterpiece of character description. Arthur approaches this shabbily dressed man and asks him what the place before them was. The answer is the Marshalsea prison. When Arthur asks the man if he knows the name Dorrit he discovers that the man he is talking to is Frederick Dorrit, and he is the brother to William Dorrit, Amy's father. Frederick tells Arthur that much of what happens outside the walls of the prison are never recounted to his brother William. Arthur is then conducted inside the prison and to William Dorrit’s cell. There, Arthur sees Little Dorrit preparing supper for her father. Arthur realizes that the food being presented to her father is the food Little Dorrit was given for herself at his mother’s home.

What follows is the ritual of a person being presented to Amy's father, William Dorrit assumes his role of the Father of the Marshalsea and then tells Arthur how seldom people come to the jail without being presented. Next, Arthur is told most people offer a testimonial to the father of the jail. Arthur complies.

A bell is heard ringing which signifies that the jail’s front door will be locked soon. Fanny and Tip enter the room and demand fresh clothes for themselves. Little Dorrit opens an old chest of drawers and hands bundles to her brother and sister. Clearly, Little Dorrit is performing the role of the parent to both her father and her siblings. The prison bells are heard ringing again. Before leaving, Arthur presents a testimonial to William Dorrit. Arthur then assures little Dorrit that he only followed her in order to “endeavour to render you and your family some service.”Arthur tells little Dorrit that he hopes to gain her confidence. In response, little Dorrit says “you are very good sir you speak very earnestly to me - but I wish you had not watched me.”

Thoughts

There is a formality that exists within the walls of the jail. There is also a clear hierarchy of persons and roles Within the jail. How would such an organized approach to an institution be of benefit to both those within the jail and those who visit it?

At this point in the novel let us speculate on Arthur’s interest and motives towards Little Nell … oops, I mean Little Dorrit.

Is Arthur simply a good man looking to do good deeds for others?

Is Arthur simply trying to learn more about his own family’s mystery and hopes that Little Dorrit can help him?

Could it be possible that Arthur has an emotional interest in little Dorrit?

What other motives may there be for Arthur’s interest in Little Dorrit?

What follows next in the chapter is Dickens developing more of the background of both Little Dorrit and Mrs. Clennam. We learn that Mrs. Clennam offered Little Dorrit a position within her household. Could it be possible that this is one way Mrs Clennam is trying to pay penance for some previous action or event in her life? In any case, Little Dorrit is concerned that the truth of her residence and background may someday be learned by Mrs. Clennam. More and more, we see Dickens weaving the idea of secrets being held by some and secrets being revealed or sought by others. In the middle of this vortex is Little Dorrit, Arthur, and Mrs Clennam.

The bell for the closing of the jail for the evening is heard again. Too late! The main gate has been locked and Arthur has become, for at least one night, also imprisoned in the Marshalsea. We discussed earlier how imprisonment is a trope in this novel. Here we find layers of mystery and imprisonment. Arthur is seeking the answers to his family’s mystery. For at least this night he is imprisoned in the Marshalsea. As Arthur passes the night in prison there are three images of people that run through his mind. The first is of his father who is dead but his image remains in a portrait. The second is his mother “with her arm up, warding off his suspicions.” The third is Little Dorrit “with her hand on the degraded arm and her drooping head turned away.“

Arthur continues to wonder whether his mother “had an old reason… for softening to this poor girl.” With all these thoughts Arthur finally falls asleep. When he awakens the next morning Arthur wonders “what do I owe on this score!”

Thoughts

In what significant ways has the plot been developed in this chapter?

What further questions have been raised in this chapter?

Why did Dickens title this chapter “The Lock?”

[Mary Lou]

Haha - I hadn't thought of Hotel California, Peter, but it did remind me of another ominous pop culture reference:
https://youtu.be/0zyeF5JLxY8

I'll be back - still have a bit more to read yet.

[Julie]

Peter wrote: "Dickens makes it clear that Arthur Clennam has an interest in Little Dorrit. How might Dickens further develop this relationship in the novel?"

I would think this was a romance in the works, if it were not that back in Chapter 3 we learn Arthur has an old sweetheart, recently widowed, and concludes the chapter day-dreaming about her. So maybe his interest in Amy Dorrit is only about honorable gentlemanly patronage. But at this point I feel that could swing either way (old love or Little Dorrit?), and it's nice to be uncertain about how things will work out instead of finding it an obvious conclusion.

[Julie]

Peter wrote: "To put this chapter into its historical context we need to remember that Dickens’s father was once imprisoned in the Marshalsea for debt. Dickens’s father, mother, and his siblings all spent time in that prison. Charles, who was 12 at the time, went to work at Warren’s Blacking Factory. Most of the young Charles’s wages bought food for his family in jail and Charles was very familiar with the jail, its inmates, and its routines."

I knew Dickens's father went to jail for debt, but I didn't realize Dickens went with him! Wow. Thanks for this background, Peter.

I very much enjoyed these chapters, more so than the beginning of the book, which felt kind of clunky to me: too many plot threads heaving themselves into place with too many stereotypical characters. This I liked much better: the focus on the Clennams and the Dorrits narrows the lens and lets the story develop more gently and gradually.

I loved the chapters on the Father and Child of Marshalsea, which felt like fairy tales to me. I am a little nervous about Amy's born-to-self-sacrifice nature (there are too many daughters sacrificing themselves to undeserving fathers/grandfathers in Dickens!), but right now it's balanced out for me by her resilience and by the fascinating "what-if?" Dickens offers us: what if a child were born and raised in a prison? And I loved her relationship with her turnkey godfather, and just the general idea of the prison as a community in its own right, with its own laws and philosophies but also some of the same human nature you find everywhere else.

I do find it confusing that the jailer in the French prison and the turnkey in Marshalsea each have a little girl. As far as we know so far this is coincidence, right? (Although no doubt symbolic coincidence.)

Finally, I found the end of Chapter 8, with Arthur transfixed at the idea of his mother punishing herself to even the score with a hurt she's inflicted on someone else, to be delightfully gothic and creepy--and it's sort of creepy-squared, because we have not only Mrs. C obsessed with a past sin (if Arthur is right), but Arthur obsessed by her obsession. His late-night thoughts in our last installment were about an attractive widow, but now he's up late thinking about his unwholesome mother instead. Not a good direction, Arthur!

[Mary Lou]

Peter wrote: "At this point in the novel let us speculate on Arthur’s interest and motives towards Little Nell.”

A slip of the keystroke, there, Peter, when you referred to Amy as Little Nell. But an easy slip to make, since no father/father figure has irritated me like William Dorrit since Little Nell's grandfather. Both feckless, selfish men who need to stop relying on the kindness and wisdom of the little girls in their lives to get by. Shame on them.

[Julie]

Mary Lou wrote: "Peter wrote: "At this point in the novel let us speculate on Arthur’s interest and motives towards Little Nell.”

A slip of the keystroke, there, Peter, when you referred to Amy as Little Nell. But..."

Ha! I missed that! But I agree 100% on the resemblance.

[Mary Lou]

It seems to me that "the debtor" was not named in chapter 6, and we only found out his connection with the "little girl" later. Interesting that Dickens would leave that information out initially. What were his reasons, I wonder?

I'm also fascinated with the segment Peter referenced about prison being peace. A nanny state indeed! William obviously has anxiety about the outside world and prison is a cocoon for him. And yet, while the big pool makes him uncomfortable, he has no problem being a big fish in the little pond of the Marshalsea. Of course, the "father of the Marshalsea" is not only a title of dubious distinction, it's also meaningless when it comes to William having any real agency. Why do the other prisoners put up with his pretensions, I wonder? And what happened in his life to make him happier in lock-up than having freedom?

Peter, your comparisons of the Marshalsea with Rigaud's and John Baptist's prison experience made me wonder if debtor's prison wasn't more like today's "white collar" detention centers, i.e. a lot less punitive than a prison for violent criminals might be. Dickens certainly does give it a much homier feel. Or is that less Dickens experience, and more through William's eyes?

What does everyone make of Frederick? Is he as feckless as his brother? Why so filthy? I could almost sense the fleas crawling on him, the way Dickens described his lack of hygiene. What has befallen these two brothers, to make them such social pariahs? Despite the filth and the inexplicable request that he makes of Arthur - to go along with the charade that allows William some dignity that he certainly doesn't deserve - I find Frederick likeable so far.

Finally, I cringed for Amy when her father was asking Arthur for a "testimonial". She takes the fourth commandment to extremes, if you ask me.

[Peter]

Julie wrote: "Peter wrote: "To put this chapter into its historical context we need to remember that Dickens’s father was once imprisoned in the Marshalsea for debt. Dickens’s father, mother, and his siblings al..."

Hi Julie

My comment about Dickens going to work at the age of twelve while his parents and siblings were in the Marshalsea might suggest Dickens lived in the jail as well. I should have made more clear that Dickens lived outside the jail in a rooming house. Yes, a twelve year old living by himself, going to work at a blacking factory, and then bringing part of his wages to his family in jail. The novel LD cuts deep into Dickens’s own experiences. The name Warren’s Blacking Factory makes a couple of appearances in his novels.

This part of Dickens’s life remained a secret from his own family for decades. It was John Forester, Dickens’s good friend and first biographer, who first revealed the story of the Marshalsea to the general public after Dickens’s death.

[Peter]

Mary Lou wrote: "Peter wrote: "At this point in the novel let us speculate on Arthur’s interest and motives towards Little Nell.”

A slip of the keystroke, there, Peter, when you referred to Amy as Little Nell. But..."

Mary Lou

Thanks for the catch. Our two little friends do share much in common. As part of our final comments on this novel we should ask who is more annoying — Nell’s grandfather or Amy’s father.

[Julie]

Peter wrote: "Julie wrote: "Peter wrote: "To put this chapter into its historical context we need to remember that Dickens’s father was once imprisoned in the Marshalsea for debt. Dickens’s father, mother, and h..."

Thanks for the clarification, and it is very sad that he kept that a secret all his life.

[Peter]

Mary Lou wrote: "It seems to me that "the debtor" was not named in chapter 6, and we only found out his connection with the "little girl" later. Interesting that Dickens would leave that information out initially. ..."

Hi Mary Lou

Yes. Dickens creates a quandary when we see how Mr Dorrit much prefers to live within a jail than without it. The idea at first seems silly. I agree with you that he prefers to be a big fish in a little pond rather than a small fish in the tumult that is London.

In many ways, however, I can see how jail does create a sense of freedom, order, and a recognizable hierarchy that would be very appealing to some.. In jail, one is freed from the responsibilities and expectations of society. In jail, while one’s life is severely regulated, one’s life is also ordered, predictable, and constant. In jail, one’s status is established by time spent incarcerated, not by one’s wealth, title, social position, or government appointment.

When we consider the tumult of the city of London, its pace of life, social expectations, financial demands, political intrigue and, at the same time, political inefficiency one could argue that the Marshalsea is a safe walled island that protects its inhabitants from the chaos that surrounds it every day.

[Kim]

Which one is more annoying, Nell's grandfather or Amy's father? I'm pretty sure that Amy's father is Nell's grandfather brought back to life. I can't stand either of them. And if you are in prison because you are in debt and must stay there until your debts are paid, how are you supposed to earn the money to pay them if you are in prison?

[Tristram]

Kim wrote: "And if you are in prison because you are in debt and must stay there until your debts are paid, how are you supposed to earn the money to pay them if you are in prison? "

That's one of the wonderful paradoxes of Victorian life, isn't it? Probably, you were supposed to lend the money you needed from someone else so that you just transferred your debts? Apparently, you still had to pay for your own food in a debtor's prison because why else would Amy smuggle her own food into the Marshalsea to prepare it for her father? Likewise, the prisoners in the first chapter apparently had to pay their own way, and that's why Rigaud's repast was much daintier than the Italian smuggler's.

I am relieved to find that I am not the only one to heartily despise Mr. Dorrit as a feckless, self-righteous, scrounging humbug. He has no idea how he came to be imprisoned, but he does not even try to concentrate, to man up and find out, and by putting up with his circumstances so easily, he consigns his three children to a life in prison, a life in which they have no chance of learning to deal with life as it is outside - and we clearly see the results of this in Tip, who is destined to become a good-for-nothing, some kind of scruffier Richard Carstone, only not so noble-hearted. It is Amy, not her father, who sees to it that Fanny and Tip are getting some kind of education and some kind of opening in life - and this is shameful.

I think that Dr. Haggage sums up most perfectly the attitude of Mr. Dorrit and of probably not few of the inmates of the prison when he says that once inside the Marshalsea they no longer have to worry about life's challenges and iniquities and they are safe from their creditors. This mindset may work well for someone who has no family to depend on him and no children to whom he must set an example - but it is despicable in someone like Mr. Dorrit. In a way, though, the outer prison creates an inner prison, or reinforces it, in these people: namely the prison of learned helplessness, and this is an attitude I often find at school and with some of my family members, luckily neither my wife nor my children. We have a nice expression to deal with this attitude in German, and I sometimes use it with some of my students, who simply say, "I can't do it" and then resign. If you translated it into English, it would be something like: "I cannot lives in I-don't-want-to-Street." Oh, how my son hates this saying ;-)

[Tristram]

Do you know the movie The Shawshank Redemption? It's a prison movie, and there is one very old prisoner played by James Whitmore, who spent most of his life in prison and is suddenly released and then finds himself in a world he no longer understands. After a couple of days, this man, who had been the prison librarian and therewith had a task that fulfilled his life and gave it sense, is so lonely and desperate that he commits suicide. - I think the same would happen to Mr. Dorrit if he found himself outside the Marshalsea all of a sudden and didn't have his daugther at his side to rely on.

[Peter]

The various psychologies of a person in prison are as different and intricate as the psychologies of a person who is free and lives outside a prison’s walls. In both cases, the person through experience learns how to cope within their environment or they suffer the consequences.

Let’s consider the Marshalsea prison. Outside its walls is freedom. Each person in every Dickens novel who lives in London (or elsewhere) is in an ecosystem where they live, work, travel, and experience love, hate, fear and every other emotion. Is not this one of the great powers of Dickens? He shows us people in the process of getting along with their lives.

The Marshalsea has an outer courtyard where both visitors to the jail and the prisoners can intermingle. This is the transitional world, a world where overlapping occurs. In psychological terms, it is a transitional place.

Next is the jail itself where prisoners spend their time, their Iives and must create a different ecosystem for survival. In this world is found a place similar to what exists outside the Marshalsea’s walls. Here we also find seamstresses, dancing instructors, doctors and every other sort of occupation.

The way I see it there is little difference between the Barnacles who have power and prestige and live outside the walls of the jail and Mr Dorrit, the Father of the Marshalsea who lives inside the jail. Are they both not people of power, significance, people who are respected for no good reason. Both are barnacles. Ah, Dickens and the way he gives the perfect name to most of his characters. The only real difference is, as I see it, they exist in different ecosystems within the same country. The night Arthur spends in the Marshalsea gives us a look at our protagonist who is a transitional figure between the two worlds. Little Dorrit is a figure who fascinates him. She too is a transitional figure. One of the links between the two is Arthur’s mother's home. Is that home not also a prison? And of course we need to remember that his mother is evidently imprisoned both physically by her wheelchair and mentally by a secret she holds.

Dickens was fascinated with prisons. In American Notes we see how a prison was a top priority to visit during his travels. As we have already noted, this is a novel about imprisonment in multiple ways.

[Bobbie]

Well, where to begin with Mr. Dorrit? Just as the question asks how a debtor is to ever pay his debts in prison, there is also the question which asks how the debtor is to pay for his food and needs while in prison. In Mr. Dorrit's case he does not want his family to go out and work outside the prison (unless I read this wrong) but I wonder where he believes the food comes from that Little Dorrit brings for his supper. But he also does not want Tip to become a debtor also. None of it makes sense to the logical person. My question is what does Mr. Dorrit do with his "testimonials" if he doesn't spend it on his family or his debts.
Despicable, yes!

I wonder if Dickens is making a deliberate or conscious comparison of Amy to himself, not only that his father was in debtors prison and left him to work in the blacking factory but in another major way. Just as Amy finds a way to learn a skill and use it to support herself (as well as him) and uses her guidance to aid her siblings, Dickens was able to rise above his circumstances and prosper in life. I read somewhere that while he was in the blacking factory, he thought he would never be able to return to school. And who knows if later in the book we may see Amy progress with more skills and education. At this point she seems to be sacrificing herself, especially her health.

I am wondering if this may turn out to be one of my favorite Dickens novels.

[Peter]

Bobbie wrote: "Well, where to begin with Mr. Dorrit? Just as the question asks how a debtor is to ever pay his debts in prison, there is also the question which asks how the debtor is to pay for his food and need..."

Bobbie

I hope that this book does turn out to be a favourite of yours. Your question of where the money goes when Mr. Dorrit gets his testimonials is a good one. After so many years I hope he has invested it well. :-)

[Peacejanz]

I think Mr. Dorret is a lazy bum. We do not have a lot of info about him before he goes to prison but read nothing about his seeking to learn a trade (as Amy does) or trying to do anything within the prison to make money - like the doctor does. His two older children are out doing things. The dancer learned to dance in prison - then got a job outside. Everyone and his brother tried to help the older son - got him jobs and he was so lazy or unwilling to be a good worker (Could he have learned this from his father?) that he could not keep a job. So he became a thief - following the footsteps (in a way) of his father. Go to prison where you do not have to do any work. Amy is the poor dumb one because she just keeps feeding her father her food and helping her brother and sister. She has a skill - she could walk away. Of course, that is not what Dickens wants us to learn. Amy is loyal to her family, mothers them and does not adequately take care of herself. Dickens told us about her shabby clothes and her thin body. She gives her food to her father who is grabbing money from anyone he can - the new inmates and even Amy's friend. The two older children seem not to give the father anything. At least that is what Dickens has told us so far. Maybe we will learn additional things in the future. Remember that Dickens wrote this as a serial so he can add good things later. But so far, I think the father is a bum.

[Kim]

You all are making me dislike the grand ruler of the debtors more and more.

[Kim]

Then there is Arthur, I'm confused. Arthur followed Amy which wasn't very nice, but he still did it, and is now waiting to ask someone passing by what building it is that she has entered. This got me wondering why he didn't know it was the Marshalsea. I know he has been gone for twenty years, but wouldn't you remember something as big and creepy (that's how I picture it) as a prison? So I went looking for it and found this:

"The Marshalsea (1373–1842) was a notorious prison in Southwark, Surrey (now London), just south of the River Thames. It housed a variety of prisoners over the centuries, including men accused of crimes at sea and political figures charged with sedition, but it became known, in particular, for its incarceration of the poorest of London's debtors. Over half the population of England's prisons in the 18th century were in jail because of debt.

Run privately for profit, as were all English prisons until the 19th century, the Marshalsea looked like an Oxbridge college and functioned as an extortion racket. Debtors in the 18th century who could afford the prison fees had access to a bar, shop and restaurant, and retained the crucial privilege of being allowed out during the day, which gave them a chance to earn money for their creditors. Everyone else was crammed into one of nine small rooms with dozens of others, possibly for years for the most modest of debts, which increased as unpaid prison fees accumulated. The poorest faced starvation and, if they crossed the jailers, torture with skullcaps and thumbscrews. A parliamentary committee reported in 1729 that 300 inmates had starved to death within a three-month period, and that eight to ten were dying every 24 hours in the warmer weather.

The prison became known around the world in the 19th century through the writing of the English novelist Charles Dickens, whose father was sent there in 1824, when Dickens was 12, for a debt to a baker. Forced as a result to leave school to work in a factory, Dickens based several of his characters on his experience, most notably Amy Dorrit, whose father is in the Marshalsea for debts so complex no one can fathom how to get him out."


"Southwark was settled by the Romans around 43 CE. It served as an entry point into London from southern England, particularly along Watling Street, the Roman road from Canterbury; this ran into what is now Southwark's Borough High Street and from there north to old London Bridge. The area became known for its travellers and inns, including Geoffrey Chaucer's Tabard Inn. The itinerant population brought with it poverty, prostitutes, bear baiting, theatres (including Shakespeare's Globe) and, inevitably, prisons. In 1796 there were five prisons in Southwark – the Clink, King's Bench, Borough Compter, White Lion and the Marshalsea – compared to 18 in London as a whole.

Until the 19th century imprisonment was not viewed as a punishment in itself in England, except for minor offences such as vagrancy. Prisons simply held people until their creditors had been paid or their fate decided by judges; options included execution (ended 1964), flogging (1962), the stocks (1872), the pillory (1830), the ducking stool (1817), joining the military, or penal transportation to America or Australia (1867). In 1774 there were just over 4,000 prisoners in Britain, half of them debtors, out of a population of six million.

Prisoners had to pay rent, feed and clothe themselves and, in the larger prisons, furnish their rooms. One man found not guilty at trial in 1669 was not released because he owed prison fees from his pre-trial confinement, a position supported by the judge, Matthew Hale. Jailers sold food or let out space for others to open shops; the Marshalsea contained several shops and small restaurants. Prisoners with no money or external support faced starvation. If the prison did supply food to its non-paying inmates, it was purchased with charitable donations – donations sometimes siphoned off by the jailers – usually bread and water with a small amount of meat, or something confiscated from elsewhere as unfit for human consumption. Jailers would load prisoners with fetters and other iron, then charge for their removal, known as "easement of irons" (or "choice of irons"); this became known as the "trade of chains."

The Marshalsea occupied two buildings on the same street in Southwark. The first dated back to the 14th century at what would now be 161 Borough High Street, between King Street and Mermaid Court. By the late 16th century the building was crumbling. In 1799 the government reported that it would be rebuilt 130 yards (119 m) south on what is now 211 Borough High Street. Most of the first Marshalsea, as with the second, was taken up by debtors; in 1773 debtors within 12 miles of Westminster could be imprisoned there for a debt of 40 shillings. Jerry White writes that London's poorest debtors were housed in the Marshalsea. Wealthier debtors arranged to be moved –regularly securing their removal from the Marshalsea by writ of habeas corpus –to the Fleet or the King's Bench, both of which were more comfortable. The prison also held a small number of men being tried at the Old Bailey for crimes at sea.

By the 18th century, the prison had separate areas for its two classes of prisoner: the master's side, which housed about 50 rooms for rent, and the common or poor side, consisting of nine small rooms, or wards, into which 300 people were confined from dusk until dawn. Room rents on the master's side were ten shillings a week in 1728, with most prisoners forced to share. Women prisoners who could pay the fees were housed in the women's quarters, known as the oak. The wives, daughters and lovers of male prisoners were allowed to live with them, if someone was paying their way.

Known as the castle by inmates, the prison had a turreted lodge at the entrance, with a side room called the pound, where new prisoners would wait until a room was found for them. The front lodge led to a courtyard known as the park. This had been divided in two by a long narrow wall, so that prisoners from the common side could not be seen by those on the master's side, who preferred not to be distressed by the sight of abject poverty, especially when they might themselves be plunged into it at any moment.

There was a bar run by the governor's wife, and a chandler's shop run in 1728 by a Mr and Mrs Cary, both prisoners, which sold candles, soap and a little food. There was a coffee shop run in 1729 by a long-term prisoner, Sarah Bradshaw, and a steak house called Titty Doll's run by another prisoner, Richard McDonnell, and his wife. There was also a tailor and a barber, and prisoners from the master's side could hire prisoners from the common side to act as their servants.

By all accounts, living conditions in the common side were horrific. In 1639 prisoners complained that 23 women were being held in one room without space to lie down, leading to a revolt, with prisoners pulling down fences and attacking the guards with stones. Prisoners were regularly beaten with a "bull's pizzle" (a whip made from a bull's penis), or tortured with thumbscrews and a skullcap, a vice for the head that weighed 12 lb (5.4 kg).

What often finished them off was being forced to lie in the strong room, a windowless shed near the main sewer, next to cadavers awaiting burial and piles of night soil. Dickens described it as, "dreaded by even the most dauntless highwaymen and bearable only to toads and rats." One apparently diabetic army officer who died in the strong room – he had been ejected from the common side because inmates had complained about the smell of his urine – had his face eaten by rats within hours of his death, according to a witness.

By 1799 Marshalsea had fallen into a state of decay, and a decision was made to rebuild it 130 yards south. Like the first Marshalsea, the second was notoriously cramped. In 1827, 414 out of its 630 debtors were there for debts under £20; 1,890 people in Southwark were imprisoned that year for a total debt of £16,442. Women debtors were housed in rooms over the tap room. The rooms in the barracks (the men's rooms) were 10 ft. 10 ins (3.3 m) square and 8–9 ft (2.4–2.7 m) high, with a window, wooden floors and a fireplace. Each housed two or three prisoners, and as the rooms were too small for two beds, prisoners had to share. Apart from the bed, prisoners were expected to provide their own furniture. An anonymous witness complained in 1833: "170 persons have been confined at one time within these walls, making an average of more than four persons in each room – which are not ten feet square!!! I will leave the reader to imagine what the situation of men, thus confined, particularly in the summer months, must be like.

Much of the prison business was run by a debtors' committee of nine prisoners and a chair (a position held by Dickens' father). The committee was responsible for imposing fines for rules violations, an obligation they met with enthusiasm. Debtors could be fined for theft; throwing water or filth out of windows or into someone else's room; making noise after midnight; cursing, fighting or singing obscene songs; smoking in the beer room 8–10p. am or 12–2p. pm; defacing the staircase; dirtying the privy seats; stealing newspapers or utensils from the snuggery; urinating in the yard; drawing water before it had boiled; and criticizing the committee.

As dreadful as the Marshalsea could be, it could also be a haven, because it kept the creditors away. Debtors could even arrange to have themselves arrested by a business partner to enter the jail when it suited them. Historian Margot Finn writes that discharge could therefore be used as a punishment; one debtor was thrown out in May 1801 for "making a Noise and disturbance in the prison."

"Trey Philpotts (whoever that is) writes that every detail about the Marshalsea in Little Dorrit reflects the real prison of the 1820s.According to Philpotts, Dickens rarely made mistakes and did not exaggerate; if anything, he downplayed the licentiousness of Marshalsea life, perhaps to protect Victorian sensibilities."

[Peacejanz]

Kim, thanks for the additional info. Helps set the stage and points out how unaware Arthur was/is. So is he evil or just not paying attention? I am not calling him evil yet. And based on the class system at that time, Arthur was quite normal to follow a servant or employee if he wanted to. He was a much higher class than Amy. Although, why did ne not just ask her where she lived? Because Dickens had to get him into the prison to meet her father and find out how awful it really is.

[Peter]

Kim wrote: "Then there is Arthur, I'm confused. Arthur followed Amy which wasn't very nice, but he still did it, and is now waiting to ask someone passing by what building it is that she has entered. This got ..."

Kim, thanks for the details. What a horrid place the Marshalsea is and what a horrid way to treat a person. Dickens certainly sanitized its conditions for the Victorian reading public. It is difficult - if not impossible - to believe a civilized country allowed such a place to exist. That, of course, gives us a greater insight into why Dickens wrote the novel in the first place.

[Peter]

Peacejanz wrote: "Kim, thanks for the additional info. Helps set the stage and points out how unaware Arthur was/is. So is he evil or just not paying attention? I am not calling him evil yet. And based on the class ..."

Hi Peacejanz

So far Arthur is portrayed as a very naive man. Perhaps Dickens was using him as a model for the general public who were also naive as to the breadth and depth of what was occurring in their own country and under their own noses.

We will have to follow what happens to Arthur. Will he wake up to the horrors around him? What will he do to remedy the situation? Lots of questions yet to be answered.

[Kim]

Mr. Flintwinch mediates as a friend of the Family

Chapter 5

Phiz

Text Illustrated:

"Now," said Jeremiah; "premising that I'm not going to stand between you two, will you let me ask (as I have been called in, and made a third) what is all this about?"

"Take your version of it,' returned Arthur, finding it left to him to speak, "from my mother. Let it rest there. What I have said, was said to my mother only."

"Oh!" returned the old man. "From your mother? Take it from your mother? Well! But your mother mentioned that you had been suspecting your father. That's not dutiful, Mr Arthur. Who will you be suspecting next?"

"Enough," said Mrs Clennam, turning her face so that it was addressed for the moment to the old man only. "Let no more be said about this."

"Yes, but stop a bit, stop a bit," the old man persisted. "Let us see how we stand. Have you told Mr Arthur that he mustn't lay offences at his father's door? That he has no right to do it? That he has no ground to go upon?"

"I tell him so now."

"Ah! Exactly," said the old man. "You tell him so now. You hadn't told him so before, and you tell him so now. Ay, ay! That's right! You know I stood between you and his father so long, that it seems as if death had made no difference, and I was still standing between you. So I will, and so in fairness I require to have that plainly put forward. Arthur, you please to hear that you have no right to mistrust your father, and have no ground to go upon." — Book the First, "Poverty," Chapter 5, "Family Affairs,".

Commentary:

Mr. Flintwinch mediates as a friend of the Family again, is elaborately etched, with all three faces modeled and the background fully filled in. Mr. Flintwinch's face is the most striking, done with a modified caricature technique which conveys the man's grotesqueness without that impossibility of face one sometimes got in Browne's early work. An emblematic detail appears, done with extreme care in the working drawing as well as the etching, which may at first seem out of place in the mode Browne establishes in these first few illustrations, where tone and composition seem to matter more than minor detail. It is a picture over Flintwinch's head, identifiable as the central portion of John Martin's painting and mezzotint, Joshua Commanding the Sun to standstill on Gibeon, probably the most familiar image of this episode in the first half of the century, especially in woodcut illustrations of the Bible (see William Feaver). The presence of such a picture in the room of Mrs. Clennam, an extreme self-justifying Calvinist, is plausible. In Dickens' words, Mrs. Clennam has "a general impression" that threatening to disown her son "was in some sort a religious proceeding". Jeremiah's first name also fits well with his function as mediator, speaking for the lordly Mrs. Clennam to the sinful Arthur. In the detail, Joshua's hand is raised in the same way as Flintwinch's, and there is a visual pun: the (supposed) man of God causes the "son" to stand still, to cease his rebellion.

I hope you can see all that, I certainly can't, I barely even noticed there was a painting on the wall.

[Kim]

The Room with the Portrait

Book I, Chapter 5

Phiz

Text Illustrated:

In the course of the day, too, Arthur looked through the whole house. Dull and dark he found it. The gaunt rooms, deserted for years upon years, seemed to have settled down into a gloomy lethargy from which nothing could rouse them again. The furniture, at once spare and lumbering, hid in the rooms rather than furnished them, and there was no colour in all the house; such colour as had ever been there, had long ago started away on lost sunbeams—got itself absorbed, perhaps, into flowers, butterflies, plumage of birds, precious stones, what not. There was not one straight floor from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings were so fantastically clouded by smoke and dust, that old women might have told fortunes in them better than in grouts of tea; the dead-cold hearths showed no traces of having ever been warmed but in heaps of soot that had tumbled down the chimneys, and eddied about in little dusky whirlwinds when the doors were opened. In what had once been a drawing-room, there were a pair of meagre mirrors, with dismal processions of black figures carrying black garlands, walking round the frames; but even these were short of heads and legs, and one undertaker-like Cupid had swung round on its own axis and got upside down, and another had fallen off altogether. The room Arthur Clennam's deceased father had occupied for business purposes, when he first remembered him, was so unaltered that he might have been imagined still to keep it invisibly, as his visible relict kept her room up-stairs; Jeremiah Flintwinch still going between them negotiating. His picture, dark and gloomy, earnestly speechless on the wall, with the eyes intently looking at his son as they had looked when life departed from them, seemed to urge him awfully to the task he had attempted; but as to any yielding on the part of his mother, he had now no hope, and as to any other means of setting his distrust at rest, he had abandoned hope a long time. Down in the cellars, as up in the bed-chambers, old objects that he well remembered were changed by age and decay, but were still in their old places; even to empty beer-casks hoary with cobwebs, and empty wine-bottles with fur and fungus choking up their throats. There, too, among unused bottle-racks and pale slants of light from the yard above, was the strong room stored with old ledgers, which has as musty and corrupt a smell as if they were regularly balanced, in the dead small hours, by a nightly resurrection of old book-keepers. — Book the First, "Poverty," Chapter 5

Commentary:

The Room with the Portrait, like the other plate for the second monthly instalment, Mr. Flintwinch mediates as a friend of the family, likewise set in the dilapidated Clennam house in London, again is carefully etched, in the manner usually described as a dark plate, which Phiz had used so effectively to establish a foreboding, mysterious, and menacing atmosphere in Dickens's previous novel, Bleak House. John Harvey describes such mood-setting plates as differing somewhat in intention and effect from those that portray characters. Here, for example, the obscured study with writing desk and cabinet becomes a metaphor for Arthur's estranged relationship with his dead father and moribund mother — implying, too, that some sort of mystery surrounds his father, whose portrait, dominating the room from the upper left, Arthur studies from the doorway. He is indistinct, but his face bears a strong resemblance to that of the man in the portrait. Only a little light penetrates the gloom, and bills and registers are strewn about, as if nobody has cared for the room, or even entered it since the owner's (apparently unanticipated) demise.

What would usually be background is now the centre of interest. Human figures, when present, are small and insignificant, while of the ten dark plates the first four and last two [in Bleak House] have no figures at all . . . On Browne's part the development of this mode shows the depth of his response to Dickens's writing at this time, for it is ideally suited to conveying the oppressive gatherings of fog and darkness in human affairs so powerfully presented in the novel. Browne's small fugitive figures reflect not only Lady Dedlock's situation, but also the novel's general intimation of the pitiable helplessness and isolation of hounded human beings.

Although Phiz is applying the dark plate technique to a wholly different story, the thematic intention — to leave the reader, like the protagonist in the picture literally as well as figuratively "in the dark" — is similar. As in the opening serial illustration, The Birds in the Cage this strategy is not without its risks as the viewer-reader must struggle to relate the text to specific objects in the dimly-lit room and to identify with the sketchily realised figure in the darkened room, although the juxtaposition of plate and passage realised renders this process a little easier than in the original serial or "part publication," in which the illustrations appeared ahead of the text of the monthly instalment, all neatly tucked into the green wrapper.

"The Room with the Portrait" is a pendant to the episode in the preceding plate, as Arthur goes to his late father's room and sees the portrait of the dead man "with the eyes intently looking at his son as they had looked when life departed from them," and which "seemed to urge him awfully to the task he had attempted". The darker of the duplicate plates goes rather far in the direction of obscurity, and many readers may prefer the lighter one with more distinct details, yet the darkness of Arthur's face in the murkier plate is more effectively expressing the fact that Arthur himself is becoming engulfed in a darkness of mind and spirit. The illustration as a whole is a successful follow-up to its companion, representing the unremitting darkness Arthur has found in the bosom of his family, and his sense of helplessness against it. It also again suggests the novel's central image, the prison — literally the enclosed space and psychologically the identity from which one cannot escape.

[Kim]

This refection of oysters was not presided over by Affery, but by the girl who had appeared when the bell was rung.

Chapter 5, Book 1

James Mahoney

Text Illustrated:

But Mrs. Clennam, resolved to treat herself with the greater rigour for having been supposed to be unacquainted with reparation, refused to eat her oysters when they were brought. They looked tempting; eight in number, circularly set out on a white plate on a tray covered with a white napkin, flanked by a slice of buttered French roll, and a little compact glass of cool wine and water; but she resisted all persuasions, and sent them down again — placing the act to her credit, no doubt, in her Eternal Day-Book.

This refection of oysters was not presided over by Affery, but by the girl who had appeared when the bell was rung; the same who had been in the dimly-lighted room last night. Now that he had an opportunity of observing her, Arthur found that her diminutive figure, small features, and slight spare dress, gave her the appearance of being much younger than she was. A woman, probably of not less than two-and-twenty, she might have been passed in the street for little more than half that age. Not that her face was very youthful, for in truth there was more consideration and care in it than naturally belonged to her utmost years; but she was so little and light, so noiseless and shy, and appeared so conscious of being out of place among the three hard elders, that she had all the manner and much of the appearance of a subdued child. — Book the First, "Poverty," Chapter 5.

Commentary:

The accompanying caption is somewhat different in the Harper & Bros. edition: They looked tempting; eight in number, circularly set out on a white plate, on a tray covered with a white napkin, flanked by a slice of buttered french roll and a little compact glass of cool wine and water — Book 1, chap. v. The Mahoney illustration parallels the 1856 Phiz steel-engraving of the uncomfortable interview between mother and son earlier, Mr. Flintwinch mediates as a friend of the family Arthur Clennam.

In the room lit by the fitful mid-morning sun of London, the three figures are the supposed invalid, the widow Mrs. Clennam, in her wheelchair, her thirty-something-year-old son Arthur (lately returned from the family business in China, probably Hong Kong) by the window, and Little Dorrit with the serving tray (centre). Arthur Clennam, studying both women by the ray of sunlight that penetrates this bedroom in the upper story of the decaying mansion, finds Amy Dorrit, the occasional servant, an interesting subject for speculation. The passage realized introduces Amy Dorrit and establishes the connection between her and the Clennam household, where she has regular employment as a day-maid:

Little Dorrit let herself out to do needlework. At so much a day — or at so little — from eight to eight, Little Dorrit was to be hired. Punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit appeared; punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit between the two eights was a mystery.

This speculation will lead Clennam to discover Amy's principal role as her father's companion in the infamous debtors' prison, the Marshalsea, located in the Borough (south of the Thames). As opposed to Phiz's original illustration for the fifth chapter, The Room with the Portrait, Mahoney's description of the characters is intended to support the development of characterization and plot rather than to establish the gloomy atmosphere of the Clennam household.

In his characterization for the "Dickens on Tour" volume of the novel (Diamond Edition, 1867), American illustrator Sol Eytinge, Junior, epicts a sinister, cold, brooding mother and an earnest son, trying to explain himself — clearly, the scene illustrated in Mrs. Clennam and Arthur Clennam is from Book One, Chapter 5, but is typical of this awkward familial relationship throughout the novel. The emphasis in the Mahoney illustration, as in the Eytinge illustration, is the contrast between the open, generous, and thoughtful Arthur and his bitter, brooding, judgmental Calvinist mother. Mahoney is particularly interested — and intends that the reader be interested — in her peculiar self-denial in her interview with her son. At 11:00 A. M. punctually she takes a fortifying repast of oysters, but this morning, after arguing with her son and having her confidential servant, Jeremiah Flintwinch mediate, she willfully denies herself this little treat. Thus, author and illustrator present the attentive reader with what seems like a small mystery which may be nothing more than a quirk of character.

[Kim]

Miss Clennam and Arthur Clennam

Chapter 5, Book 1

Sol Eytinge, Jr.

Commentary:

The third paired character study to complement Dickens's narrative, Eytinge's "Mrs. Clennam and Arthur Clennam," focuses on the dictatorial invalid, her wheel-chair almost a throne in that it and she together dominate the picture. Missing from the illustration, although very much present in the facing page of the text, is the butler, Flintwinch. Accordingly, the reader of 1871 would probably have connected this earlier passage from Chapter Five, "Family Affairs," with Eytinge's third full-page illustration:

Looking at him wrathfully, she bent herself back in her chair to keep him further off, but gave him no reply.

"I am deeply sensible, mother, that if this thought has never at any time flashed upon you, it must seem cruel and unnatural in me, even in this confidence, to breathe it. But I cannot shake it off. Time and change (I have tried both before breaking silence) do nothing to wear it out. Remember, I was with my father. Remember, I saw his face when he gave the watch into my keeping, and struggled to express that he sent it as a token you would understand, to you. Remember, I saw him at the last with the pencil in his failing hand, trying to write some word for you to read, but to which he could give no shape. The more remote and cruel this vague suspicion that I have, the stronger the circumstances that could give it any semblance of probability to me. For Heaven's sake, let us examine sacredly whether there is any wrong entrusted to us to set right. No one can help towards it, mother, but you.

"Still so recoiling in her chair that her overpoised weight moved it, from time to time, a little on its wheels, and gave her the appearance of a phantom of fierce aspect gliding away from him, she interposed her left arm, bent at the elbow with the back of her hand towards her face, between herself and him, and looked at him in a fixed silence.

Eytinge effectively communicates the essentials of Mrs. Clennam's character: her inflexibile nature, her moral rigidity, her stern Calvinist approach to life, and especially her lack of warm and maternal feeling for her son.

[Kim]

"Give me the money again," said the other, eagerly, "and I'll keep it, and never spend it."

Book 1, Chapter 6

James Mahoney

Text Illustrated:

"It ain't much," said the Plasterer, putting a little pile of halfpence in his hand, "but it's well meant."

The Father of the Marshalsea had never been offered tribute in copper yet. His children often had, and with his perfect acquiescence it had gone into the common purse to buy meat that he had eaten, and drink that he had drunk; but fustian splashed with white lime, bestowing halfpence on him, front to front, was new.

"How dare you!" he said to the man, and feebly burst into tears.

The Plasterer turned him towards the wall, that his face might not be seen; and the action was so delicate, and the man was so penetrated with repentance, and asked pardon so honestly, that he could make him no less acknowledgment than, "I know you meant it kindly. Say no more."

"Bless your soul, sir," urged the Plasterer, "I did indeed. I'd do more by you than the rest of 'em do, I fancy."

"What would you do?" he asked.

"I'd come back to see you, after I was let out."

"Give me the money again," said the other, eagerly, "and I'll keep it, and never spend it. Thank you for it, thank you! I shall see you again?"

"If I live a week you shall."

They shook hands and parted. The collegians, assembled in Symposium in the Snuggery that night, marvelled what had happened to their Father; he walked so late in the shadows of the yard, and seemed so downcast. — Book the First, "Poverty," Chapter 6>

Commentary:

The chapter introduces the reader to a pair of minor characters, Thomas Plornish, a plasterer infrequently employed (distinguished by his paper hat) and his wife Sally (left), and a major character, Amy's father, William Dorrit, now called "The Father of the Marshalsea," a title he inherited from the prison's oldest turnkey. Now the oldest inhabitant of the notorious debtors' prison, William Dorrit receives monetary gifts from all newcomers presented to him, the coins usually being silver and occasionally gold. Imagine his chagrin when the honest plasterer, Mr. Thomas Plornish of Bleeding Heart Yard, pays his tribute in copper coins.

The picture of Mr. Dorrit's forgiving Plornish, and promising never to spend the small coins ("ha'pennies") that the honest workman has given him, appears under the running head "The Father of the Marshalsea," although the passage realised occurs several pages later, once the story of the succession of the title is complete, under the running head "Her Childhood." After his haughty and overwrought reaction to the workman's tribute of coppers, William Dorrit shows a better side of his character after he realizes that the genial plasterer intended no insult to the Father of the Marshalsae, whose residence is announced by the plaque, upper right, and the heavy, iron-bolt-reinforced door, left. As is customary for older, middle-class males of the late 1820s, William Dorrit wears a respectable skull-cap (as in the Phiz illustrations of Old Martin in Martin Chuzzlewit, but his threadbare clothing reveals his poverty, despite his proud intention to be regarded as a gentleman and a "patriarch."

[Kim]

Little Dorrit and the turnkey

Chapter 7

Arthur A. Dixon

Child Characters from Dickens 1905

Text Illustrated:

Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, when the turnkey, being relieved, was off the lock; and that the turnkey went up to the font of Saint George’s Church, and promised and vowed and renounced on her behalf, as he himself related when he came back, ‘like a good ‘un.’

This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary share in the child, over and above his former official one. When she began to walk and talk, he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it by the high fender of the lodge fire-place; liked to have her company when he was on the lock; and used to bribe her with cheap toys to come and talk to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey that she would come climbing up the lodge-steps of her own accord at all hours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little armchair by the high fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket-handkerchief; and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll which soon came to be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock, and to bear a horrible family resemblance to Mrs Bangham—he would contemplate her from the top of his stool with exceeding gentleness. Witnessing these things, the collegians would express an opinion that the turnkey, who was a bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But the turnkey thanked them, and said, ‘No, on the whole it was enough to see other people’s children there.’

[Kim]

How's this for a Phiz illustration in color Peter? The dark plate certainly isn't dark here, Arthur can see everything in the room just fine. :-)

[Peter]

Kim wrote: "How's this for a Phiz illustration in color Peter? The dark plate certainly isn't dark here, Arthur can see everything in the room just fine. :-)

"

Ah, Kim. This plate certainly illuminates the Phiz image but I’m a curmudgeon. I welcome all colour illustrations for a Dickens novel but will always maintain the purity of Phiz must reside in his original illustrations for the first edition of the novels.

[Mary Lou]

Until I read the commentary on the Mahoney illustration, I never made the connection that the plasterer who had the effrontery to give Dorrit coppers instead of silver or gold pieces is none other than Mr. Plornish, who, with his delightful wife, will be making an appearance again, later in our story. In some ways, there are no coincidences in Dickens. (Of course, in other ways there are far too many!)

[Mary Lou]

Unlike Peter, I always prefer the colorized Phiz plates, which are much easier on these old eyes! Thank you for sharing them, too, Kim.

[Tristram]

Peter wrote: "Kim wrote: "How's this for a Phiz illustration in color Peter? The dark plate certainly isn't dark here, Arthur can see everything in the room just fine. :-)

"

Ah, Kim. This plate certainly illum..."

I gladly subscribe to your sentiment, Peter, and also to your idea that Clennam, in his ignorance about the Marshalsea, may reflect the ingnorance of many a respectable Victorian, not exactly of the existence of the Marshalsea itself, but definitely of what it meant to be imprisoned there.

As to why Arthur did not just ask Amy, I would put this down to natural reticence and a desire not to put Amy to shame. It looks to me, however, as though Arthur's decision to stalk Amy made matters even worse for the two of them.

[Tristram]

Kim,

Thanks a lot for the additional information on the Marshalsea, which certainly paints a much grimmer picture of the place than the text does. From Dickens's description of the place and some of the events, I get the impression of a certain amount of squalor and poverty, but somewhat, the place also seems quaintly homely and free of care. I never knew that prisoners were also allowed to leave the place during the day in order to earn some money, but Mr. Dorrit says that he cannot cross that line that marks the entrance of the prison: Maybe, there were special rules attached to who was allowed to go outside during the day and who wasn't, or maybe that Mr. Dorrit preferred not to know that he could go outside in order to do a decent day's work.

[Avery]

These chapters really narrowed down the themes of prison and freedom for me. The part that shocked me upon reading the thread was how many found the presentation of Marshalsea as more palatable than the Marseilles prison. To me it was different, but still very upfront in its horror. The repeated theme of the walls, narrow yards, bells to constrain even time, made me extremely claustrophobic! The richness of Dickens' descriptions came back to lock me in.
The social world of the place was thoroughly established in chapters 6 and 7 and its rotating cast of characters, plus social strata almost made one forget the physical location. The breadth of the community belies that is all was “environed by a narrow paved yard, hemmed in by high walls.” Descriptions of the place constantly used words like confined, close, narrow, blind, incarcerated, and the word ‘lock’ over and over (a quick word search puts it at approximately 30 repetitions in chapters 6-8.) This was thrown in stark relief for me when Little Amy was questioning her Godfather Bob about a field. She asked if it was locked up. She is a little girl, but her world is so narrow and the experience so small that she can't imagine a place that isn't’ locked up. Of course all children’s experience is narrow because of their time contracts, but it is still one of those moments where the observations of children can bring clarity to an adult's awareness. And even Bob the turnkey was as much a prisoner who could not express much about certain topics, his vocabulary caged him, and subsequently Amy.

As for freedoms, there were two particular ways that freedom was illustrated that were particularly appealing to my sensibilities. My background is in technology and I’m currently pursuing my masters in library science with a specialization in archival studies. So Amy’s pursuit of learning and information struck close to home. How she sought these out, not just for herself, but for her family, I cannot help but associate with seeking a type of freedom. Idealistly, all learning can be a type of freedom of mind, but hers was more practical, attempting to establish marketable skills for her family. I’m sure many of us here can relate to the struggle for financial freedom.
This is opposed to her father, who has eschewed that freedom as well as his responsibilities to his family. Others have well covered the obvious freedoms from responsibilities of independent life that he has found. I also find that even in the Marshalsea he has assumed a sort of privilege of being the ‘Father’ of the institute. As the oldest member of their community, I could picture that he had a lot to offer new members. Efficiencies, connections etc to make their stay more comfortable, or breif or whatever the newest image's goal was. And for that I could understand his pomp and expectations. But there is no evidence that the buffoon accepts any responsibility for the claimed privilege. A personal pet peeves of mine is the combined nature of those concepts. Here in the Marshalsea, Mr. Dorrit seems to have found freedom from particular nuisance, and even the freedom from pride or self respect.

[Peter]

Avery wrote: "These chapters really narrowed down the themes of prison and freedom for me. The part that shocked me upon reading the thread was how many found the presentation of Marshalsea as more palatable tha..."

Hi Avery

I appreciate your close reading of the chapters. You are right. The repetition of the horrors of walls, narrow yards, even bells that constrain time all add up to a place that is hard to conceive and even imagine. Your identification of specific words certainly helps develop our understanding of these chapters. Thank you for pointing out that there were about 30 repetitions of the word “lock” found between chapters six and eight. I never realized that the word occurred so often. A close reading often reveals more than a study of an entire chapter. While Dickens is sometimes wordy, he encapsulates so much with very few words if one looks closely .

I agree with you that a child’s awareness often serves to point out what an adult needs to know for their own awakening. Mr. Dorrit is indeed free in a locked world. Who among us realizes that at times a small world is safer and more comfortable than the opportunities that exist beyond the doors and lots of a prison.

As we go forward in the novel I think it will be beneficial for all the Curiosities to pay close attention to the buildings, residences, rooms, and other living spaces. Very often in Dickens a home or other physical space helps define the character.

There is still lots to come, of course, and I hope you continue with your insights.

[Kate]

Hello all

I'm a bit behind, so will keep this short (or at least try to). I did finish reading the chapters several days ago but have been in the midst of painting, hence the delay.

For me, at this point in time, I'm intrigued by Mrs Clennam and Flintwinch.

Firstly, why would she be separated from her husband and son for 20 years? To me, given the times, I find it odd for a husband and wife to be living miles apart, even though they have stated that she was looking after the business in London. I wonder if this was a convenient excuse to put mileage between them. If so, who did what to whom? This leads me to my other point.

Mrs Clennam maybe old and immobile, however, she certainly appears to have her faculties. So if she was capable of being left to take care of business, why is Flintwinch so involved and appears to have control over Mrs Clennam, especially given the fact he is the servant. It belies the character she appears to project. It also brings me back to the idea that if she wasn't quite capable, why leave her in London on her own? Was it simply because women were perceived to be lacking the temperament for business, for her to have to turn to a man? If that is the case, then, why would father and son leave or at least one of them not return earlier?

Hmmmm, questions, questions...

[Tristram]

Hello Avery,

I really like your thoughts about old Dorrit's position in the Marshalsea society: Characteristically, he does not owe his position of being the Father of the Marshalsea to merits of his own such as labour, the development of practical skills, or perseverance but it simply comes down on him as a matter of course. It is by not doing anything, by idling and by refuting responsibility for his own life and those of his children that he attains seniority in this place. Isn't that pathetic? In a way, it's like nobility - something a person preens himself on but hasn't lifted a finger for. This shows very clearly what kind of feckless man our Mr. Dorrit is, and now that I come to think of it, it also tunes in very well with the proceedings of the Circumlocution Office, whose princicples we have read of this very week - the Barnacles in charge there also practise the art of not doing anything and of preventing things being done. I never actually noticed this parallel before but it dawned on me when I read your comment.

As to Mr. Dorrit's being able to help any of the newcomers, I am much in doubt of it. I think he is a mere figurehead of pomposity, down to the wood, and that he expects those alms in exchange for nothing. My reason for assuming this is that he does not even know what is going on in his own family, so he doesn't strike me as a man that is very aware of his surrounding.

Another idea I liked in your post is that Amy pursues knowledge (or practical training) as a means to liberty.

[Kate]

Peter wrote: "Avery wrote: "These chapters really narrowed down the themes of prison and freedom for me. The part that shocked me upon reading the thread was how many found the presentation of Marshalsea as more..."

Hi Peter and Avery

Following on from my thoughts about Mrs Clennam (which I just posted), the idea of prisons and locks, so far, seems metaphorical about the way in which she is behaving. Even though she may be "free", she certainly appears imprisoned by something that will hopefully reveal itself. I imagine it has something to do with Flintwinch and a breakdown in relationship with her husband and son. We shall see...

[Mary Lou]

Kate wrote: "I find it odd for a husband and wife to be living miles apart, even though they have stated that she was looking after the business in London. ..."

Really good observations, Kate. I'd also add to them that it seems odd to me (though maybe not so much in 19th century England) that Arthur went off with his father rather than staying at home with his mother. I'm trying to figure out his age -- I think he would have been around 20 or so when he left, so perhaps it's not so suspicious. But he seems to be a dutiful son, despite his absence, so why was he gone so long and is that the only reason for her bitterness?

[Julie]

Mary Lou wrote: "Kate wrote: "I find it odd for a husband and wife to be living miles apart, even though they have stated that she was looking after the business in London. ..."

Really good observations, Kate. I'd..."

I just figured the father had to leave for business reasons, and the son with him to help out, and there's maybe not enough love lost between mom and dad to warrant her coming with them? It wasn't all that unusual under British imperialism for the men to travel on business while the women stayed home, especially if the business also had matters at home for the women to see to. Though 20 years of it does seem extreme.

Also to hear Arthur talk about his upbringing it sounds like there was cause for bitterness from the start.

I agree with Kate's take that there's something wrong with the Flintwinch--Mrs. C relationship.

[Bobbie]

These comments about husbands and wives being separated for many years reminds me of a book I recently read, Coming Home by Rosamunde Pilcher. In that book the protagonist is separated from her father since about age 4 or 5 and a younger sister was born in England and did not meet her father for many years. It does seem to me that someone could make a trip to at least meet or see their children if not the wife. But, I guess it was a different time.

[Peacejanz]

Oh, folks, come out of your dream worlds. Husbands and wives are often separated, especially when they are migrants or very poor. Read Edwidge Danticat about her upbringing in Haiti after her parents went to NYC. And had another child whom she did not meet until she was 8-10. (Oh Brother, I am dying.) People stay married for all sorts of reasons, money being one of them. I went to high school with a couple who lives apart - each has their own house and I see them together at social events. It is their business. Native Americans and immigrants often lived apart for years at a time. Just trying to survive. I would dare say that there are people who are married to someone but not living with them in your very own communities. Check it out. Check your state and county records. Call the elected officials and ask their minions to find out for you. Open your eyes, look around. People live apart for their own reasons. In this case, they were living apart because Dickens wanted this distance to add something. We do not know yet - maybe the split with mom and Arthur or the relationship of mom and the butler. But try not to be amazed when people are married and live apart. The former president of my country is known for not living with his wife very often and brags that she does not share his bed. Of course, he has the money for several homes. If you are going to read Dickens, try not to be naive. peace, janz

[[deleted user]]

I do agree, Janz, that it happens very often - and more often than I like, because as you say the grounds for this situation often lie with lack of income or other reasons why it is not possible to make other choices, instead of it being a choice.

I also think we can acknowledge a lot of us here are very possibly privileged people who are not accustomed to this happening for the reasons you mention. We all have access to the internet, to Dickens, and to literacy to give a couple of examples. Realising this takes some time - just as it took some time for me to realise divorce is common f.i. because I grew up with parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts/uncles etc. who all grew old together managing to stay in love. What are the odds, right? Well, here I am, now realising that my ((great-)grand-)parents' marriages are totally relationship goals and not the default. I'm still planning to meet the goal btw, so far so good ;-).

Still, while it is and was pretty common in real life, it is not that common to encounter in novels especially in the Victorian era. I think that is one of the main reasons people think it is weird. That and, honestly, I believe no one should have to stay married because divorce is not an option. That is not against people who are in that situation, it is against them having to be in that situation because it's the only option they have. It shouldn't. I hope you know what I mean ...

Its it naive to believe the mentioned situation is odd, period? Probably. Is it naive to mention it is odd within the parameters of a Victorian novel? I think that is to be seen. It at least is something that stands out to people, and something that might put a stamp on the plot of the novel.

[Avery]

Tristram wrote: "Hello Avery,

I really like your thoughts about old Dorrit's position in the Marshalsea society: Characteristically, he does not owe his position of being the Father of the Marshalsea to merits of ..."

Hey Tristam! I didn't really think that Mr. Dorrit would help anyone, it was just so easy for me to think of ways that he could! Your comparison to nobility I thought was apt, with the nobility evolving out of the military class, and eschewing those responsibilities to the working class. But of course never forgetting the privileges due to them or the responsibilities of the working class to them. It really puts a bee in my bonnet. I get very worked up when responsibility and privilege are separated.

I have now also been introduced to the Circumlocution Office and also see the parallel. I was listening to that chapter while out for a jog and just about gave myself a stich from either outrage or laughter, I'm not sure which!

[Peacejanz]

Jantine wrote: "I do agree, Janz, that it happens very often - and more often than I like, because as you say the grounds for this situation often lie with lack of income or other reasons why it is not possible to..."

You make very valid points. I think marriage partners living apart was quite common in Dickens' day because trade was so much more long distance. No telephone, no FAX, no email, not much except to sail there and make decisions. I did not go back to check but I thought the father's reason to be away was his business while Mama keep the business going there in England/Europe. Europeans were especially determined to go to the wilds and command the people to obey. How long were they in India? Countries in Africa? Have to keep those ----- in line! You can fill in the blank. So I think it is pretty normal for Daddy to be gone and to take Junior with him. peace, janz