Elizabeth Gaskell

John McVeagh

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781317201397
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Critique littéraire

First published in 1970, this study demonstrates both the range and essential unity of the works of Mrs. Gaskell. The author analyses the novels of social criticism, the biography of Charlotte Brontë and the novels of country life as distinct expressions of her genius, commenting on recurrent themes, typical methods of presentation and consistent attitudes as they appear in each of the works. The differences of subject and intention between the three kinds of writing will be seen in the extracts which indicate the range of her ability and interests. The final section summarises her range and success and failure. This book will be of interest to students of literature and sociological history.

Narrative manner

Mrs. Gaskell was less a novelist than a story-teller; the distinction matters when we come to assess the quality of her art. She had a knack of touching on the raw points of her age before anybody else, and won fame because her stories put into words its unspoken fears. She kept her fame because, once established, her vivacious talent ensured her of a ready audience when her later subjects were less arresting than their predecessors. Thus she was always in high demand, Dickens and Thackeray competing for her work for their respective magazines. There was never any need for her to question her own talent, for all were agreed she was important. Though she had critics, they questioned the use to which she put her abilities, not whether she had them.

The result is that technically there is not much development in her novels from Mary Barton onwards. Since she was not compelled by failure to reappraise herself, she constructed and organized her material in much the same way every time she wrote. The later novels may be better integrated, but they are refinements of the technique of the early ones, not new departures, and the main features of her narrative manner are observable in all her work.

It is valuable to keep in mind at the outset Mrs. Gaskell's own intentions when writing, for it appears that the final appearance of her novels was the result of a deliberate leaning towards dramatized and vivid action rather than theorizing, description or exposition. She did not often speak of the writer's craft, but in 1859 a young novelist wrote to her for advice, and her answer shows what she specifically proposed to herself as the purpose, scope and requisites of a good novel.

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As you ask me for my opinion, I shall try and give it as truly as I can; otherwise it will be of no use; as it is I think that it may be of use, as the experience of any one who has gone before on the path you are following must always have some value in it. In the first place you say you do not call The 3 paths a novel; but the work is in the form which always assumes that name, nor do I think it is one to be quarrelled with. I suppose you mean that you used the narrative form merely to introduce certain opinions & thoughts. If so you had better have condensed them into the shape of an Essay. Those in Friends in Council &c. are admirable examples of how much may be said on both sides of any question, without any decision being finally arrived at, & certainly without any dogmatism. Besides if you have thought (the result of either introspection or experience,—& the latter is the best & likely to be the most healthy—) to communicate, the neatness, pithiness, & conciseness of expression required by the Essay form is a capital training of style. In all conversation there is a great deal of nothing talked—and in a written conversation on thoughtful subjects these come in with a jar, & cause impatience.

But I believe in spite of yr objection to the term 'novel' you do wish to 'narrate'—and I believe you can do it if you try,—but I think you must observe what is out of you, instead of examining what is in you. It is always an unhealthy sign when we are too conscious of any of the physical processes that go on within us; & I believe in like manner that we ought not to be too cognizant of our mental proceedings, only taking note of the results. But certainly—whether introspection be morbid or not,—it is not a safe training for a novelist. It is a weakening of the art which has crept in of late years. Just read a few pages of De Foe—and you will see the healthy way in which he sets objects not feelings before you. I am sure the right way is this. You are an Electric telegraph something or other,—

Well! Every day your life brings you into contact with live men & women,—of whom yr reader, know nothing about [sic]: (and I, Mrs. Gaskell for instance, do know nothing about the regular work & daily experience of people working for their bread with head-labour,—& that not professional,—in London.) Think if you can not imagine a complication of events in their life which would form a good plot. (Your plot in The Three paths is very poor; you have not thought enough about it,—simply used it as a medium. The plot must grow, and culminate in a crisis; not a character must be introduced who does not conduce to this growth & progress of events. The plot is like the anatomical drawing of an artist; he must have an idea of his skeleton, before he can clothe it with muscle & flesh, much more before he can drape it. Study hard at your plot. I have been told that those early Italian Tales from which Shakespeare took so many of his stories are models of plots,—a regular storehouse. See how they—how the great tragedies of all time,—how the grandest narrations of all languages are worked together,—& really make this sketch of your story a subject of labour & thought. Then set to & imagine yourself a spectator & auditor of every scene & event! Work hard at this till it become a reality to you,—a thing you have to recollect & describe & report fully & accurately as it struck you, in order that your reader may have it equally before him. Don't intrude yourself into your description. If you but think eagerly of your story till you see it in action, words, good simple strong words, will come,—just as if you saw an accident in the street that impressed you strongly you would describe it forcibly.

Cut your epithets short. Find one, whenever you can, that will do in the place of two. Of two words choose the simplest. But yr style seemed to me good. It was the want of a plot—& the too great dwelling on feelings &c,—& the length of the conversations, which did not advance the action of the story,—& the too great reference to books &c—which only impede the narration—that appeared to me the prevalent faults in your book.

The Letters of Mrs. Gaskell, pp. 540-2

The priorities are actuality, soundness of plot and economy. Whatever distracts attention from the reality of the story is bad; if the purpose is to introduce certain opinions and thoughts' and nothing else, then it is not a novel at all. Again, a novel is the worse for too much emphasis on 'the physical processes that go on within us', and the better for being extroverted and solid. Her praise of Defoe is significant. The 'results' of our 'mental proceedings'—that is, their effect as seen in action—are the grist, not the proceedings themselves; and even the results need to be heightened and compressed to leave behind the 'great deal of nothing' which makes up so much of life. The novelist's art is a dissolution of brute reality and an imaginative reconstruction of it in a more concentrated and durable form. The emphasis is important, for Mrs. Gaskell is clearly speaking out of her experience. She prefers dealing in real things, actual incidents, solid people. To invent a chain of incidents is what matters, link them together and realize each link in the chain with the maximum clarity; reasons, morals, intellectual conclusions, theoretical consequences are less stressed. The artist is seen as a touchline spectator conveying without falsity the vision before him; each unit of which is 'a thing you have to recollect & report fully & accurately'. The novelist as participator, as string-puller, as omniscient guide is absent; his function is that of a window-pane, to frame a fact.

The effect of this philosophy on Mrs. Gaskell's work is, as we might expect, that each of her novels is constructed as a series of crises. They move from start to finish by a succession of crucial episodes. The sense of a continuously developing motion is absent, as is the sense of a single consciousness powerfully directing events to a pre-ordained conclusion. They are constructed by the piecemeal accumulation of little scenes, little specimens of drama which together constitute the action. Here, for instance, is how the social-criticism theme is introduced in Mary Barton. Wilson and John Barton are the speakers:

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'Thou must leave off calling her "little" Mary; she's growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's stock than thine,' interrupted Wilson.

'Well, well, I call her "little" because her mother's name is Mary. But, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and "Mary", says she, "what should you think if I sent for you some day and made a lady of you?" So I could not stand such talk as that to my girl, and I said, "Thou'd best not put that nonsense i' th' girl's head, I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread by the sweat of brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady, worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any one of God's creatures but herself."'

'Thou never could abide the gentlefolk,' said Wilson, half amused at his friend's vehemence.

'And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?' asked Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye; and bursting forth he continued, 'If I am sick, do they come and nurse me? If my child lies dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want of better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn't a humbug? When 1 lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her!) stands fretting, as I know she will fret,' and here his voice faltered a little, 'will a rich lady come and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round and see what best to do? No, I tell you, it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. Don't think to come over me with the old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor; I say, if they don't know, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us; but I know who was best off then,' and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it.

'Well, neighbour,' said Wilson, 'all that may be very true, but what I want to know now is about Esther—when did you last hear of her?'

Mary Barton, ch. 1

The romantic qualities of Charlie Kinraid in Sylvia's Lovers are illustrated and made credible by his stories, which Mrs. Gaskell includes in the novel:

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'Th' whales hasn't mended their manners, as you call it,' said Kinraid; 'but f ice is not to be spoken lightly on. I were once in th' ship John, of Hull, and we were in good green water, and were keen after whales; and ne'er thought harm of a great grey iceberg as were on our lee-bow, a mile or so off; it looked as if it had been there from the days of Adam, and were likely to see th' last man out, and it ne'er a bit bigger nor smaller in all them thousands and thousands o' years. Well, the fast-boats were out after a fish, and I were specksioneer in one; and we were so keen after capturing our whale, that none on us ever saw that we were drifting away from them right into deep shadow o' th' iceberg. But we were set upon our whale, and I harpooned it; and as soon as it were dead we lashed its fins together, and fastened its tail to our boat; and then we took breath and looked about us, and away from us a little space were th' other boats, wi' two other fish making play, and as likely as not to break loose, for I may say as I were th' best harpooner in board the John, wi'out saying great things o' mysel'. So I says, "My lads, one o' you stay i' th' boat by this fish,"—the fins o' which, as I said, I'd reeved a rope through mysel', and which was as dead as Noah's grandfather—"and th' rest on us shall go off and help th' other boats wi' their fish." For, you see, we had another boat close by in order to sweep th' fish. (I suppose they swept fish F your time, master?)'

'Ay, ay!' said Robson; 'one boat lies still holding t'end o' th' line; t'other makes a circuit round t'fish.'

'Well! luckily for us we had our second boat, for we all got into it, ne'er a man on us was left in' th' fast-boat. And says I, "But who's to stay by t' dead fish?" And no man answered, for they were all as keen as me for to go and help our mates; and we thought as we could come back to our dead fish, as had a boat for a buoy, once we had helped our mate. So off we rowed, every man Jack on us out o' the black shadow o' th' iceberg, as looked as steady as t'pole-star. Well! we had na' been a dozen fathoms away fra' th' boat as we had left, when crash! down wi' a roaring noise, and then a gulp of the deep waters, and then a shower o' blinding spray; and when we had wiped our eyes clear, and getten our hearts down again fra' our mouths, there were never a boat nor a glittering belly o' e'er a great whale to be seen; but t'iceberg were there, still and grim, as if a hundred ton or more had fallen off all in a mass, and crushed down boat, and fish, and all, into th' deep water, as goes half through the earth in them latitudes. Th' coal-miners round about Newcastle way may come upon our good boat if they mine deep enough, else ne'er another man will see her. And I left as good a clasp-knife in her as ever I clapt eyes on.'

'But what a mercy no man stayed in her,' said Bell.

'Why, mistress, I reckon we a' must die some way; and I'd as soon go down into the deep waters, as be choked up wi' moulds.'

'But it must be so cold', said Sylvia, shuddering and giving a little poke to the fire to warm her fancy.

Sylvia's Lovers, ch. 9

These adventures, however exciting, hold up the main business of the novel while they are in the telling, and Mrs. Gaskell's willingness to postpone the general for the local effect in this way makes her work slow-moving and leisurely. She avoids slackness by employing scenic contrasts; these passages from Mary Barton are an example:

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He carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her hands. He looked around for something to raise her head. There was literally nothing but some loose bricks. However, those he got; and taking off his coat, he covered them with it as well as he could. He pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat. He looked round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to drag herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. He snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then he began, with the useful skill of a working-man, to make some gruel; and when it was hastily made, he seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when many other things had been sold in a lot, in order to feed the baby), and with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched teeth. The mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually she revived. She sat up, and looked round; and recollecting all, fell down again in weak and passive despair. Her little child crawled to her, and wiped with its fingers the thick-coming tears which she now had strength to weep. It was now high time to attend to the man. He lay on straw, so damp and mouldy, no dog would have chosen it in preference to flags; over it was a piece of sacking, coming next to his worn skeleton of a body; above him was mustered every article of clothing that could be spared by mother or children this bitter weather; and in addition to his own, these might have given as much warmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on him; but as he restlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off, and left him shivering in spite of the burning heat of his skin. Every now and then he started up in his naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the fearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in exhaustion, and Barton found he must be closely watched, lest in these falls he should injure himself against the hard brick floor. He was thankful when Wilson reappeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea, intended for the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw drink, he snatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he had never shown in health.

Mary Barton, ch. 6

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Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson's house, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet bustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down their shutters, although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town while trade was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on their day's begging expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr. Carson's...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title
• Copyright
• Original Title
• Original Copyright
• TABLE OF IMPORTANT DATES
• Contents
• PRELIMINARY REMARKS
• PLAN OF ANALYSIS
• NOVELS OF SOCIAL CRITICISM
• 'THE LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË'
• NOVELS OF COUNTRY LIFE
• THE CHALLENGE OF LIFE
• THE HUMAN RESPONSE
• NARRATIVE MANNER
• LIMITATIONS AND ACHIEVEMENT
• SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY