A contested will – or rather, multiple versions of a will – are at the center of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, an interminable court case which devours the lives of all legatees. Such is the backdrop for Charles Dickens’ Bleak House, a bleak and bitter indictment of the judicial system.
This is my third go-round for Bleak House. I confess that the first time I read it, I was befuddled by the method of storytelling, which alternated between Esther Summerson’s first-person narration and an omniscient third-person narrator. Plus, there is a humongous cast of characters (which is standard in any Dickens’ novel). My second time through was benefited from watching BBC’s 2005 production, which does an exceptional job of weaving together multiple storylines.
Bleak House follows the fortunes of Esther, whose parentage is a mystery. Her benefactor is John Jarndyce, a benevolent soul who resides at Bleak House. Jarndyce, who is one of the legatees of the court case, agrees to raise the two wards in Jarndyce, Ada Clare and Richard Carstone.
On the other end of the tale is Lady Dedlock, a cold, aloof aristocrat who hides a dreadful secret. She too is caught up in the court case. Once she comes under the suspicion of Edward Tulkinghorn, her husband’s villainous solicitor, she fears that her past will be exposed.
While Dickens’ novel is famous for its indictment of the judicial system, and it instigated some measure of judicial reform, what caught my attention this time is the examination of family relationships. A last will and testament is supposed to clearly state who receives what as a bequest. But this also applies to parent-child relationships.
Early in the novel, Esther encounters Mrs Jellyby, a far-sighted philanthropist who is more concerned about the welfare of a distant African tribe (fictional) than her own family. Her husband is so beaten down by life that he has to be propped against the wall. Her daughter Caddy is her unwilling amanuensis, and there are abundant younger Jellybys who are forced to scrounge for food because neither parent is capable of caring for them.
Likewise, there is Harold Skimpole, a congenial parasite whose defense is that he is too much of a child to actually be held responsible for anything: He does not work, he runs up debts, and he pleads ignorance when it comes to any financial matters. But he is perfectly willing to sponge off others. Skimpole does have a wife and daughters, but he seems perplexed when it is suggested that he should support them.
In contrast, there is the beneficent John Jarndyce, a parental figure for Ada and Richard. As Richard becomes increasingly obsessed with the outcome of the court case, he begins to view John as an interloper and an opponent, no matter how much John assures him otherwise. It becomes a symbolic battle between a worldly-wise father and a stubborn, willful son.
Throughout the novel, there are parentless children, like Jo the crossing-sweeper and Charlie Neckett, and childless parents, like the poverty-stricken Jenny, whose infant dies from want. There are mother-son relationships, such as Mr Guppy and his giggling mother, and the estranged mother and son, Mrs Rouncewell and Mr George. There are kind families, like the Bagnets, and there are villainous families, like the Smallweeds. There are constructed families, like Mr George and Phil Squod, and newly formed families, like Caddy Jellyby and her husband, Prince Turveydrop.
And ultimately, there is the discovered parentage of Esther Summerson, which pulls all the story threads together.
Of all of Dickens’ novels, David Copperfield remains my favorite, but Bleak House, with its interwoven storylines ranging from highest society to lowest poverty always impresses me. If you are new to Dickens, I encourage you to watch the BBC miniseries first; it was measurably helpful in parsing out the critical details of the plot. After that, indulge in the novel, for it is brilliant.
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