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A review by rbreade
Dombey And Son by Charles Dickens
Contains none of Dickens' most famous characters and yet is one of his best novels. Thackeray, whose Vanity Fair appeared in installments at about the same time as Dombey and Son, said of it, "There's no writing against such power as this--one has no chance!" He was referring to the extraordinary scenes told from the viewpoint of children, for which Dickens was lauded, for the poignance with which he drew Florence Dombey, for his amazing Edith Granger, possibly the most fully realized female character Dickens ever wrote (admittedly a weak point in his work), and for the way his many subplots are yoked to his purpose, an extended portrait of the cost pride can exact from those who carry it too far, and the tendency of people who have money to overestimate what it can accomplish, especially in the realm of human relationships. A sample of what Thackeray meant by his comment is illustrated by this image of Florence's nightly pilgrimage to her father's door after the death of her mother, his wife:
"Against [his door], scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen for his breath; and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a consolation to him, to win him over to the endurance of some tenderness from her, his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if she had dared, in humble supplication."
This is not the only heart-breaking image in the novel; there are many like it. And the protracted battle of wills between Dombey and his new wife, Edith Granger, is one of the most amazing in fiction, extremely complex because of Edith's extraordinary self-loathing.
Though not an ironic writer, being far too earnest, Dickens deploys a nice bit of irony in the title: Dombey and Son, the firm, his cherished hope that his son will grow up to join him as a Titan of British finance, never comes off--Paul Dombey, Jr. dies while still a child. Rather, it is his daughter who is his true heir, whom he barely acknowledges, whom he comes to hate, in a way, for how she found a place in young Paul's heart when he, his father, was unable to. Exhibit A:
"Who was it who, unaided by his love, regard, or notice, thrived and grew beautiful when those so aided died? Who could it be, but the same child at whom he had often glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, with a kind of dread, lest he might come to hate her; and of whom his foreboding was fulfilled, for he DID hate her in his heart."
Strong stuff. It's a study in blindness, and in not valuing what one has. Without going into too much detail, Paul Dombey, Sr., is brought very low, indeed, by the end. Along the way there are machinations, and characters lost at sea, and heartbreak. Mrs. Skewton, Edith Granger's mother, provides the horrific template for Ida Lowry in Terry Gilliam's Brazil, she of the too-numerous plastic surgeries. James Carker, Dombey's right-hand man, is one of Dickens' most underrated villains, being smooth, cunning, hyper-intelligent, and accomplished, compared in the text, fittingly, to a cat and a spider, and constantly making me think of a shark--the teeth. If you read it, you'll see what I mean.
"Against [his door], scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen for his breath; and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a consolation to him, to win him over to the endurance of some tenderness from her, his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if she had dared, in humble supplication."
This is not the only heart-breaking image in the novel; there are many like it. And the protracted battle of wills between Dombey and his new wife, Edith Granger, is one of the most amazing in fiction, extremely complex because of Edith's extraordinary self-loathing.
Though not an ironic writer, being far too earnest, Dickens deploys a nice bit of irony in the title: Dombey and Son, the firm, his cherished hope that his son will grow up to join him as a Titan of British finance, never comes off--Paul Dombey, Jr. dies while still a child. Rather, it is his daughter who is his true heir, whom he barely acknowledges, whom he comes to hate, in a way, for how she found a place in young Paul's heart when he, his father, was unable to. Exhibit A:
"Who was it who, unaided by his love, regard, or notice, thrived and grew beautiful when those so aided died? Who could it be, but the same child at whom he had often glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, with a kind of dread, lest he might come to hate her; and of whom his foreboding was fulfilled, for he DID hate her in his heart."
Strong stuff. It's a study in blindness, and in not valuing what one has. Without going into too much detail, Paul Dombey, Sr., is brought very low, indeed, by the end. Along the way there are machinations, and characters lost at sea, and heartbreak. Mrs. Skewton, Edith Granger's mother, provides the horrific template for Ida Lowry in Terry Gilliam's Brazil, she of the too-numerous plastic surgeries. James Carker, Dombey's right-hand man, is one of Dickens' most underrated villains, being smooth, cunning, hyper-intelligent, and accomplished, compared in the text, fittingly, to a cat and a spider, and constantly making me think of a shark--the teeth. If you read it, you'll see what I mean.