David Copperfield is a fascinating novel. Every chapter reveals Dickens’ masterful powers of description and understanding of the human psyche. He brings even the most minor characters to life in a vivid way. Why would anything written by Dickens require a defense? Well, this is targeted towards my fellow Catherine Project book club members. At the final meeting, the consensus seemed to be that the book was a good story and entertaining, but not worthy of re-read. That it “lacked profundity” and “philosophical exploration.” Putting aside the stuffy notion that these are the prime qualities which make a novel worth re-reading, he was panned and compared with Dostoevsky, a particularly unfair (and pretentious) comparison. I disagree and here’s why.
The World of Dickens
But first, a little whining. I find the genre and mechanics of the Dickensian world slightly annoying. I enjoy the caricatures and even the melodrama on occasion. I find his writing truly funny. But I find something cheap about the coincidences. Dickens uses so many plot devices. He has to create implausible situations to reintroduce the minor characters. He seems obsessed with providing closure to his audience and tying up loose ends. Because it is a first person narrative and it is limited to mid-19th century communication technology, tying up loose ends often requires minor characters to literally be seen by the narrator (David), which leads to many miraculous reappearances. My chief complaint is these cute coincidences add little to the narrative while destroying the realism. The book feels very real, even with the absurd elements. It might be surprising that an oeuvre filled with occasional eel-like characters and spontaneous combustions (Bleak House) could come across as realistic, but it does to me. However, when these plot devices bombard the reader, he must turn to suspension of disbelief and perhaps an eye roll.
I’m sure people have written on this subject and its rhetorical purpose. I know the fantastical is common in satires and social criticism; from my own reading, Candide, Master and Margarita, or Gulliver’s Travels each have a similar quality. But Dickens’ novels sit in between the obviously magical satirical world and the real world, and I’m wondering why he doesn’t just pick one or the other. Is the absurdity a spoonful of sugar with the medicine? Would it be too bleak to present these stories in a completely plausible world? Or am I mistaken attempting to find a rhetorical rationale in a stylistic choice?
Pre-Destination and Personality Essentialism
Dickens famously begins the book with David wondering whether the story will reveal that he is the hero of his own life, or whether “that station belongs to someone else.” Naturally, we discussed this epic question at length. My hot take, straight out of sophomore English class, is that the question has a false premise that is incompatible with the Dickensian worldview. There is no single hero and can never be. One of my favorite things about this book is the theme that path dependency and circumstances greatly influence the outcome of one’s life. David is a product of his birth, the sum of his relationships, and, to a lesser extent, the decisions he makes. Dickens makes this painstakingly clear. He can’t be the hero, nor can anyone else. There are no heroes; there is only community, this complex organism where there are no neat monocausal relationships or dramatic triumphs of individual will. Everything exists in a dynamic equilibrium. Dickens presents a social theory akin to the theory of bureaucratic politics, which contradicts the more mainstream “great man theory of literature.”
I didn’t come to the above conclusion quickly. I was consistently surprised by the extent to which David seemed to lack agency. David’s childhood is a bit like A Series of Unfortunate Events; one horrible thing after another happens to him. He’s precociously perceptive, which means he reports on his misfortunes eloquently, but from a little kid’s perspective. This tone from the narrator adds to the frustration that he is powerless to change things; one would think such a cognitively capable kid would fare better. If he understands why his life is miserable, why can’t he take action to address it? Initially, I chalked this up to the powerlessness of children in an adult’s world, but I think it is how Dickens thinks about the world more broadly. David does make some decisions which change his life. Most notably, he escapes the dreary life of a child laborer by journeying to visit his Aunt and petition her for adoption. But before and after, he is mostly adrift through life. David himself attributes most of his decisions to indifference or external influences and he rarely takes a decisive action towards a desired goal.
The same is true of other characters. The more minor characters appear to be compelled to behave a certain way by their essential personality. Mr. Micawber is the textbook example. He repeatedly makes terrible financial decisions but is always optimistic about success. He comically is thrown in debtor’s prison, assumes life under a false identity, and hops around the greater London area defaulting on loans. There is no sense that Micawber has the power to change, despite the external forces demanding he does (the penal system, his destitute family, his devoted wife). Uriah Heep is a similar example. Both by birth and education, he is a sinister, scheming creature and there is no version of the novel where he turns towards justice. Or Dora, who is incapable of maturing past adolescence, despite the desire and means to do so. Dickens makes it clear that these characters are confined in some ultimate way. Moreover, I don’t think this pre-destination is part of the gimmicky Dickensian genre; rather, it is his most earnest social commentary.
This world, where heroism is not an option to anyone because of the confines of their nature, may be depressing but contra my fellow book club members, I think it is insightful and even refreshing. It’s obvious to me that life is not heroic for most people. It can’t be. If it was, there wouldn’t be heroism as the very concept requires rarity. You are largely born a certain way to a certain family, and in the majority of cases, this initial condition predicts the possible courses a life can take. In Victorian England, as in modern times, many decisions have already been made for you before you can even speak. What you imagine are your own reasoned decisions are connected in a complicated way to your environment. Portraying characters as capable of anything neglects that we each have a nature, and for practical purposes, this nature puts boundaries on what our life can become. There are certainly cases of people overcoming their natures, but those are the exception to the rule. It may be depressing, but it is more apt as a description of reality than the swashbuckling heroes of 19th century literature and indeed, the literary heroes of David’s youth. Dickens isn’t strict about outcomes being determined by class or genetics, but he acknowledges that these immutable qualities are highly influential and, for many, deterministic.
Another premise I disagree with is that the characters are simplistic or one dimensional. I don’t think that is true for the majority of those in this book, but also, so what if it is? While I am a humanist first and foremost, and believe that every individual has a rich, unique life whether they acknowledge it or not, this isn’t strictly observable. For example, when I consider my coworkers, my distant relatives, and my neighbors, I don’t know their inner life. In my life story, these characters are influential, but they are also one-dimensional to me. There are a few essential characteristics about them that I know, but I don’t have deep insights into their inner monologue and their soul. It seems reasonable to me that David wouldn’t either! Whether there is a deepness to everyone is another question, but I don’t think it is a substantive critique to expect insights from a first person narrative that would require an omniscient narrator. Lastly, I think it is possible that those with literary interests exaggerate their own complexity out of vanity or pride or simply too much source material. Most people are complicated, but some people are not. Of the complicated majority, few know they are complicated. Of the complicated who know they are complicated, even fewer understand why they are complicated and could convincingly write on the topic. In other words, its entirely possible that “simplistic” characters are closer to real people than complicated ones. Yes, we contain multitudes but some are more multitudinous than others. And it is not an affront to humanity to “hit the wavetops” on a minor character.
One final note on Dickens’ thoughts on destiny and heroism. He does not preclude the possibility of change entirely. He demonstrates that a major shock to the system can inspire real transformation. In the novel, this is often tragedy. David responds to his Aunt’s bankruptcy by taking life seriously and learning a profession. It’s also seen in the Yarmouth crew after Emily’s disappearance. Mrs. Gummidge is converted from depressed, catatonic wreck to rock of the family. Mr. Peggotty is converted from rock of the family to a vagrant, wandering the world searching in vain for his adopted daughter. Ham goes from nice young working man to suicidal man of daring. Even Micawber has his transformation. He thrives in Australia, repays all his debts, and even becomes a magistrate, though he never overcomes his verbosity. In short, tragedy and a change of scenery are your best bets at escaping your genetic/class/personality predestination. This is consistent with Dickens’ emphasis on the role of the environment; if outcomes depend primarily on one’s environment, the way to change course is to find a new environment (move) or dramatically alter the current one (tragedy).
Dora, Dog Moms, and Despair
One of the most interesting subplots in David’s journey is his marriage to Dora. Putting aside the disturbing realization that, in some sense, Dickens wrote an entire semi-autobiographical novel to lament his youthful misadventures in love (and the pain it must have caused the real-world Dora), Dora was interesting to me for one particular reason: I believe she is the first “dog mom” in literary history. Dora is incredibly immature. She is more like a child than a life partner. Her main purpose in life appears to be tending to her dog, Jip. She teaches him tricks, puts him on her lap, and plays with him. This appears to be the majority of her day. David tries to reform her and turn her into a useful life partner. As an example, he gets her a cookbook that she might learn how to make dinner, as opposed to having an expensive servant that does this. What does she do with it? She uses it as a prop for Jip to stand on. Besides David, Jip is her main attachment. Indeed, when Jip’s mortality starts to show, Dora’s does as well. A creative reading might lead one to believe that she can’t fathom a world without her dog, and her health demises along with Jip’s.
Dora’s obsession with this pet fits within the novel’s broader theme of the importance of community. Throughout the book, characters withdraw from community and struggle dearly. This can be seen in the tragic cases of Emily and Martha. They are ruined women who are, in part, spurned by their communities, but mostly so ashamed of their behavior that they opt-out. This ends in misery. Only once they are reunited with their people do they start to flourish. The same pattern is seen with Mr. Wickfield’s grief-driven reclusiveness, Ham’s heartbreak and related death wish, Uriah Heep’s psychopathy and Steerforth’s philandering. Conversely, it is only by joining community that your life can flourish (e.g. the migration to Australia, Treadles’ clown car apartment, David’s return from Switzerland). Dora is one of those who spurns community, and she is perhaps the least forgivable. Part of her role is to serve as an emblem of the out-of-touch upper class. She has no regard for others; her life is simply about getting amusement from her dog. She is so removed from the exigencies of life that Dickens suggests she could not survive on her own. Is this the purest expression of a noble Victorian lady? One who can’t do anything and mostly doesn’t even try? Who stays as precious as a naive child her entire life? While Dickens is not overtly critical in the book, she does seem to represent a criticism of the life of a certain type of lady.
While I acknowledge Dickens’ general brilliance and foresight, I don’t think he was anticipating the elevation of dogs to human status that is easy to spot in any American city. But I relish this opportunity to express my recent radicalization and one of my least-popular opinions: there is something pathological about “dog moms” (and dads). Walk with me through a day in my Yuppie life. Simply choose your metro area. I assure you, it is all the same.
I’m walking a few blocks to the grocery store on a summer day. Everything is vibrant. The unhoused on the corner are blasting music on a tinny speaker. Young women dart from street to street in athleisurewear, sometimes bound for an exercise class and sometimes not. Boutique coffee shops have a line out the door. Post-college bros and elder millennials relive the glory days at any and every nondescript outdoor drinking establishment. One thing is absent: children. It’s hard to notice at first, but once you do it becomes a little unnerving. I see a stroller up ahead and I crane my neck as I walk past. It’s a Shih Tzu! On the next block, I hear “baby talk” behind me and spin around. There’s no baby, she’s just coaxing her Golden retriever to defecate. I get my groceries and return to my apartment. There are dog treats on the counter. I pickup an Amazon parcel from the package room and the shelves are replete with orders from Chewy and its more premium alternative, The Farmer’s Dog. I ride the elevator to my floor and walk towards my door. Around the corner I hear some tenants engaged in an animated conversation. “Wow, I didn’t realize you had another one. What’s his name?” … “Oh Hi Teddy!!!” Teddy is not a human child, but a puppy. As I pass Teddy’s domicile, I look on the door and there’s his name, right alongside his “parents” and his “older brother” (also a dog). Outside the door, there are a number of discolored spots, which are evidently Teddy’s uncleaned urine; unlike true babies, no one has thought to put diapers on their dog children. I open my apartment door and take a deep breath. I am finally safe from the tyranny of pets… when my phone buzzes. It is the weekly email passive aggressively reminding tenants that dogs are not allowed in human-only areas. Compliance is limited at best.
The members of my bookclub were incredibly hostile to Dora. She was an object of their pity. She was pathetic. She was a terrible wife, totally unconcerned with the aspects of life that really matter, unengaged with reality, uninspired, and incapable of self-improvement. I felt a little uncomfortable and offered “I think there’s hope for her… She’s like 18 years old. I’m confident she can learn how to cook.” I was shot down.
As a closeted social observer, I didn’t point out that Dora was an archetype of sorts with a clear modern equivalent. How many of us shy away from the seriousness of life in favor of some sort of pet? It’s not just the obsessed dog owners pathologically imitating the biological imperative who are escaping. She represents our desire to escape from life in pursuit of comfort and companionship, to be held captive by our anxieties, to plug in to the experience machine, to avoid responsibility, and to cheat ourselves of the full spectrum of human experience.