Gareth Wilson

1. Fagin and the Slums

Fagin is a creature of the slums. More than any other character, he blends in among the sleaze and the dirt and, in fact, would be unable to function in any other context. He thrives on sin and debauchery: it’s the only thing he’s ever known, or is capable of comprehending. Based on a prevalent Jewish stereotype, Fagin is the arch-villain of the novel. He exists in stark contrast to the saintly Oliver and the troubled, but basically good, Nancy. He has few redeeming traits: he is a thief and a corrupter of youth. And yet we’re attracted to his energy. If Dickens had wanted us to hate him unconditionally, he might very well have made him as dull and humorless as characters like Monks. What’s more, by condemning Fagin to die, Dickens invokes our sympathy, not in the manipulative, easy way he toys with our emotions in his descriptions of Oliver, but more subtly. As Fagin awaits his doom in his cell, we can’t help wondering if society is partially to blame for the life he has led. Since part of the purpose of this novel is social reform—to point readers to the problems of the urban slums and invoke change—Fagin should be pitied above all, for it is Fagin who epitomizes slum life, and all it represents.

In many respects, Fagin is a stock character based on an Ethnic stereotype. When we first encounter Fagin, he is described as “a very old, shriveled Jew, whose villainous looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair” (Dickens 64). From the beginning, we’re encouraged to view Fagin as a disgusting figure with all the exaggerated marks of Jewish appearance, including wild red hair and whiskers, and an absurdly large hooknose. As Harry Stone points out, readers at the time would have been familiar with this sort of Jewish character. Its use by Dickens is a form of shorthand—we know what to expect of Fagin from the moment he is first described. To reinforce our impression of Fagin as little more than a caricature, the narrator refers to him as “The Jew” throughout the novel. To this day, Fagin has become so intertwined with his ethnicity that we cannot think of him without immediately conjuring images of his stereotyped Jewish appearance. As Harry Stone says, “Fagin’s name, like Shylock’s, has become a synonym for meanness and depravity, and Dickens’ and Shakespeare’s villainous Jews are the best known Jewish characters in English literature” (448). There’s no doubt that any discussion of Fagin must include a discussion of his Jewishness.

Fagin is not a practicing Jew. As Stone points out, in his first scene, Fagin is seen frying sausages, which shows he does not abide by Jewish dietary laws. What’s more, Fagin never once makes mention of his religion, and seems to despise spirituality in all its forms. When Oliver visits Fagin in his cell, saying, “Let me say a prayer. Do. Let me say one prayer; say only one upon your knees with me, and we will talk till morning” (Dickens 449), Fagin flatly ignores the boy’s request. He doesn’t even respond to the “venerable men of his own persuasion” who come to pray with him (Dickens 450). Perhaps Fagin’s lack of spirituality is not surprising, particularly given his lifestyle. But there’s a definite distinction between Fagin’s religion and his ethnicity. Dickens himself made the point quite clear. In response to criticism of his portrayal of Fagin, he said, “He is called ‘The Jew’ not because of his religion, but because of race”(as cited by Horne 496). And though Dickens feigned surprised at being accused of anti-Semitism, saying “I know of no reason the Jews can have for regarding me as ‘inimical’ to them” (cited by Stone 448), he was sensitive to the criticism. Stone describes how, in later editions of Oliver Twist, Dickens changed many references to “the Jew” to simply read “he” or “Fagin.” That Dickens was willing to make this change shows that Fagin’s Jewishness is not the whole point. Casting Fagin in a stereotypical light gives the readers a clue what to expect of Fagin, but it doesn’t provide the whole picture.

To understand Fagin, we must first understand his role in the novel as villain. To Fagin, crime is more than a way of life; crime is life itself, the only thing he understands. Fagin is a thief and has likely been a thief all his life. But, worse than his own life of crime, he is a corrupter and a pimp. As Larry Wolf explains, not only is he a literal pimp to Nancy, but he is also the metaphorical pimp of all the boys (in fact, Wolf even goes so far as to suggest Fagin is literally selling out the boys for sex). Black-hearted and devious, Fagin is the essence of crime and depravation, and he fits seamlessly into his surroundings, as if a part of them. Richard Altick describes the poor neighborhoods of London in the era that Dickens wrote Oliver Twist: “This purgatory was both fetid and dark. Its streets were unlighted at night, and unpoliced at anytime…Many such slums lay in low ground along streams swollen by human sewage and industrial waste” (Altick 45). Fagin thrives and prospers in these awful conditions. At one point, the narrator describes him creeping down the street, emphasizing how he blends into the squalor: “The hideous old man seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and darkness through which he moved, crawling forth by night in search of some rich offal for a meal” (Dickens 153). The description of Fagin as a reptile is particularly apt; with his scaly skin, his slinky walk and his cold-heart, he is more creature than man.

And we’re never allowed to forget it. Fagin’s appearance and manner constantly remind us of his evil nature. Though the Dodger tells Oliver that Fagin is a “’spectable old gentleman,” when we first lay eyes on him, we see just how disgusting he is, both in terms of his appearance and his creepy manner. He is constantly rubbing his hands together, either in evil delight, or while calculating some new scheme and, though he’s often smiling, it is a hideous, cruel smile. The constant addition of “my dear” to nearly every statement he utters makes him seem even more perversely evil, and his attempts at appearing kind strike us as completely false. He behaves gently toward Oliver in their first encounter but, soon after, he explicitly threatens the boy’s life. When he finds Oliver has seen him sorting through stolen goods he says, “What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick – quick! For your life!” (Dickens 68). Likewise, it’s hard to miss the incongruity of such a vicious man telling Bill Sikes they must have “civil words—civil words, Bill” (Dickens 132) or greeting Oliver with kindness: “Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear” (Dickens 128). In the scene in which he warns Oliver to watch what he does, or get hanged—one of his most despicable moments—the narrator informs us Fagin spoke “with great friendliness and politeness of manner” (Dickens 144), which makes the scene even creepier.

Even Bill recognizes Fagin’s wickedness. Bill is constantly accusing Fagin of being evil. In fact, when we first meet Bill, he is already spouting off on the subject: “What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence…I wonder they don’t murder you; I would if I was them” (Dickens 98). Other times, he calls Fagin a “black hearted wolf” (374) and accuses him of being born without parents, reinforcing our notion that Fagin simply materialized from the dirty streets. He also refers to Fagin as Satan on numerous occasions. When Fagin places his hand on Bill’s shoulder, he says, “I don’t feel like myself with that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,” explaining that it reminds him of “being nabbed by the devil” (Dickens 371). That Bill, himself a robber and a murderer, recognizes Fagin as a repugnant human being truly reinforces Fagin’s evilness.

Dickens not very subtly contrasts the deplorable Fagin with good-hearted characters like Oliver, who might as well have a halo above his head throughout the novel, given his angelic behavior and appearance. Fagin looks even worse when we view him through Oliver’s eyes. In fact, when Fagin appears in scenes with Oliver, Fagin’s evil nature is compounded by contrast. If Fagin represents all the evil in the world wrapped into one character, Oliver represents all that is good and respectable. He is so saintly that, for Nancy, “The very sight of him makes me want to go against myself and all of you” (Dickens 209). Fagin is well aware of Oliver’s innocence. In fact, he’s drawn to Oliver for this very reason. In Oliver’s purity he sees an opportunity for monetary gain, for he feels his untarnished appearance makes him the perfect criminal. But, more importantly, Oliver fascinates him because he’s the first boy he’s encountered who is incorruptible, making him both a novelty and a challenge. Fagin feels confident he can convert Oliver to his side, saying, “I’ve had my eye on him, my dears, close: close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief, and he’s ours—ours for life!” (Dickens 159). Fagin’s prediction is eerie, but it’s also unrealistic: nothing will ever convert Oliver to the evil lifestyle. Fagin later admits, “He was not like the other boys in the same circumstance…his hand was not in” (Dickens 214). Yet he never gives up hope. With false confidence, he continues to brag, even after he knows he’s failed: “You want him made a thief: if he is alive, I can make him one from this time” (Dickens 214). We can almost hear the desperation in Fagin’s voice as he makes this proclamation. It’s as if corrupting Oliver would justify Fagin’s own life of crime: if Oliver can be hardened, then every one is a criminal at heart.

Oliver’s resistance is particularly frustrating to Fagin because he’s had great success as a corrupter in the past. He has definite skill as a manipulator, no matter how transparent his actions might seem to the audience. The other boys have an unwavering allegiance to Fagin, which he relishes gleefully: “See what pride they take in their profession, my dear. Isn’t beautiful?” (Dickens 363). Only Nancy rebels against him, and even Nancy retains some loyalty to him until the end: “Bitter as were her feelings toward the Jew, who had led her step by step deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence there was no escape, still there were times when even towards him she felt some relenting” (Dickens 370). When asked to deliver Fagin to the authorities, Nancy refuses, saying, “I will not do it—I will never do it…Devil that he is…and worse than devil he has been to me, I will never do that” (Dickens 385). Even Oliver is not completely immune to Fagin’s charm. In an early scene, Oliver merrily plays along with Fagin in a game of steal-the-handkerchief. In another instance, after Oliver has been brought back to Fagin’s against his will, the narrator describes how “the old man would tell them stories of robberies he had committed in his younger days, mixed up so much with that which was droll and curious that Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing that he was amused in spite of all his better feelings” (Dickens 152). There is something strangely appealing about Fagin: he has a malicious charisma. Steven Marcus wonders why “this demonic, disgusting and monstrous old man should be so fascinating, so comic, even so winning in his abominable wickedness” (Marcus 495). Though Marcus doesn’t provide a full response to his question, I think the answer is simple—we respond to Fagin’s vivacity. Everything so displeasing about his manner is also occasionally charming. As he cackles and dances around in wicked delight, it’s hard not to smile at a man so unabashedly evil.

Our feelings towards Fagin are complicated. After his condemnation, we even begin to sympathize with him. After his trial, Fagin pathetically looks around the crowd in an attempt to find some sort of forgiveness. But, “In no one face—not even among the women, of whom there were many there—could he read the faintest sympathy with him, or any feeling but one of all all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned” (Dickens 441). They have a right to hate this man, and so do we. We’re reminded of the scene in which Fagin expresses his own view on execution: “What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light…Five of them strung up in a row, and none left to play booty or turn white-livered!” (Dickens 68). We might feel Fagin deserves his fate, but Dickens’ personal opposition to capital punishment should give us a hint that Fagin’s death should not be celebrated. In a letter, Dickens once said he believed in “the total abolition of the Punishment of Death, as a general principle” (quoted by Collins 226). He thought even the worst criminal was a human being and deserved to be treated like one. Without explicitly stating this belief in the novel, Dickens conveys this sentiment to his readers. When we later see that same crowd “pushing, quarrelling, joking” in front of “the black stage, the crossbeam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death” (Dickens 450), we have shifted from sympathizing with the masses to disparaging them. What’s more, we have gone from fully condemning Fagin to pitying him.

Watching Fagin in his cell stirs our emotion. Fagin has been so full of life throughout the novel that watching him suffer is a little disheartening. In the cell, we get a more intimate look at Fagin than ever before. We’re in there with him, alone, for the first time, and we suffer with him as he thinks about the cold reality of what awaits him: “To be hanged by the neck till he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead” (445). He doesn’t repent, and he plots his escape even until his last moments. But now he’s pitiable, not threatening: “He cowered upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missile from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn and twisted into knots” (Dickens 446). Cast now in an almost Jesus-like role, Fagin no longer seems like the vicious criminal he once was and, for once, his grizzled appearance strikes us as sad. In his own words, spoken in quiet desperation after being condemned, he’s just “an old man—an old man—an old man” (Dickens 443). As with Nancy, maybe society is partly to blame for Fagin’s life—maybe he’s just a byproduct of the slums. Even though Fagin does not changed in any significant way, in his final scene, at the very least, we finally recognize he is a human being.

2. Crime and Respectability in Great Expectations

Criminality and evil take many forms in Great Expectations. One of the most obvious criminals in the novel is Magwitch who, at first, seems to be the embodiment of everything frightening and sinful about the underworld. Pip comes to feel both intense fear and sympathy for this man. In some respects, Pip can relate to Magwitch because he knows what it’s like to be treated like a criminal, or at least like a little troublemaker. But Pip’s association with Magwitch makes him a criminal in actual fact, and this idea frightens him. Pip’s dealings with Magwitch become intertwined in his mind with the shamefulness of his lower class upbringing. He sees the opportunity to start anew and become a gentleman at the hand of the “respectable” Miss Havisham, but she wants to torment, rather than help him. Pip has difficulty shedding his notion that Miss Havisham is a respectable old woman and Magwitch is a reprehensible convict because his ideas of respectability are based on class. But Magwitch, Pip’s true benefactor, shows himself to be the respectable one in the end. In this novel, how people act rarely relates to their societal role, and nearly everyone has an illicit streak, whether it’s Magwitch, Miss Havisham, Pip or the wholly despicable Orlick. Typical classifications of criminality and respectability become confused as Pip reevaluates his class-biased views.

The novel begins with Pip’s encounter with Magwitch, so it seems likely that this is Pip’s first memory. At any rate, it is a highly important, traumatic moment. We can’t blame him for being so affected—what young child wouldn’t be horrified after meeting this wild, raving convict? And yet, though his very first description of the criminal is filled with justifiable fear, it also paints a somewhat sympathetic picture. As Magwitch grabs him by the throat, Pip describes his captor as “a man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who limped and shivered, and glared and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head” (Dickens 10). This is not the description of a man that anyone would want to encounter in a graveyard, but it is also a somewhat sad account. Magwitch is certainly big and threatening, but he’s also sickly and weak, and shows the marks of a difficult life.

However, despite his feelings of pity, Pip can hardly ignore the terror he feels in this first encounter. Magwitch is a monster, a villain and, what’s more, an apparent cannibal. As he stares at Pip, he wets his lips voraciously, “You young dog…what fat cheeks you ha’ got…Darn me if I couldn’t eat ‘em!” (Dickens 10). The threat of being devoured increases when Magwitch warns of another man, lurking somewhere in the shadows, who makes Magwitch look like “an angel” and “has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and his heart, and his liver” (Dickens 11). Harry Stone, who has devoted a third of a book to cannibalism in the works of Dickens, considers Magwitch’s morbid threats to be humorous. He says, “Unlike the child Pip, we know that Magwitch will not eat the boy’s fat cheeks and that he knows no young man who will eat his liver” (Stone 126). I do not find Magwitch’s threats quite so laughable: I think this is a truly scary moment. However, I agree with Stone that, even though Magwitch certainly seems hungry and vicious enough to devour a little boy whole, Pip is not in any real danger.

But whether or not the threat is real, fear is the prominent reason that Pip decides he must do as the convict says and steal for him. After the meeting, he finds himself in a state of “mortal terror.” He certainly fears Magwitch but, perhaps more importantly, he says, “I was in mortal terror of myself, from whom an awful promise had been extracted” (Dickens 18). Pip is his own worst demon. He explains, “I am afraid to think even now of what I might have done, upon requirement, in the secrecy of my terror” (Dickens 18). Oliver Twist remained morally flawless, despite Fagin’s best efforts, but Pip seems more impressionable. Throughout Pip’s life, fear is highly important; he fears Magwitch, he fears social inadequacy and, finally, he fears his own snobbery. In the words of critic F.S. Shwartzenbach, “Pip’s guilt will be a lifelong, constant companion eating away at his innards” (185). Fear and guilt are crippling emotions in Pip, having an almost hallucinatory effect on him. While engaged in the act of stealing for Magwitch, he says, “I was very much alarmed by a hare hanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back was half-turned, winking at me” (Dickens 18). Later, he feels every one he sees is accusing him, and fully expects to find a police officer waiting for him at every turn. He thinks he’s going to be convicted to die, despite the fact that he has done nothing more than steal some items from his own pantry.

By viewing himself as a criminal, Pip associates himself with Magwitch. He feels pity for Magwitch because he can relate to this man that looks and acts like a grotesque monster. Pip can relate because his own life is little better than imprisonment, and he wallows away his time feeling responsible for crimes, both real and imaginary. As Lynn Pykett explains, crime and discipline are “foreground in Pip’s narrative of how he was brought up by hand, experienced generalized feelings of guilt for the crime of being alive, as well as specific feelings of guilt for the ‘crimes’ he does commit” (171). Pip sympathizes with this man in the lowest echelons of society because, though he doesn’t fully comprehend it, his situation and social class also place him on the fringes of society.

Pip’s feelings of inadequacy are with him from the beginning, but his meeting of Miss Havisham and Estella is a major turning point in his attitude. Miss Havisham, and Estella particularly, view Pip with derision, heightening Pip’s sense of the failure of his upbringing. Pip immediately falls for Estella, who thinks of Pip as a common laboring boy and doesn’t even want to acknowledge his existence. Miss Havisham cruelly encourages this behavior. Soon enough, Estella’s feelings begin to affect Pip: “Her contempt for me was so strong that it became infectious and I caught it” (Dickens 52). Until he enters the world of Estella and Mrs. Havisham, he doesn’t know that his hands are coarse and ugly, or that some of his habits (such as saying “Jacks” instead of “Knaves”) are considered crass and crude. Early on, Pip’s judgment of character is not class-based. He dislikes his sister, Mrs. Joe, not because she is poor, but because she is cruel and uncaring. At the same time, his boyhood relationship with Joe is a happy one, undisturbed by notions of class. Pip was even able to sympathize with Magwitch (in between the bouts of horrendous fear) because class distinctions were still meaningless to him. His experience at Satis House changes his entire attitude.

In many ways, Pip’s first encounter with Miss Havisham parallels his graveyard meeting with Magwitch. Both events occur under somewhat frightening circumstances, in scary settings (in a cemetery and in a scary old mansion), and both involve benefactors, one real and one false. And, in both cases, Pip has feelings of pity for the character involved. However, importantly, besides some initial shock, Miss Havisham does not frighten Pip to the extent that Magwitch does, even though she is a grotesque old woman with some morbidly creepy personal habits. Early on, Pip describes her as “corpse-like,” adding, “I have often thought since, that she must have looked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have struck her to dust” (Dickens 52). When she asks, “You are not afraid of a woman who hasn’t seen the light of day since you were born?” (Dickens 52), Pip is clearly a little shaken. But after he realizes that Miss Havisham might help in his social rise and his pursuit of Estella, he immediately forgives her quirks. He puts up with the fact that she wears a decrepit old bridal gown and keeps around all the relics of her never-to-be wedding, including a festering, old cake; he gladly wheels her around the mansion in her wheelchair; he even accepts her cruel manipulation of his emotions, all because she has the power to assist in his social mobility. He forgives her, even though she commits one of the worst, most damaging crimes in the novel. Stone calls her a “passionate, obsessive, aggressive devourer” (137) because she utterly demolishes Pip to compensate for her own dreary existence.

As terribly as Miss Havisham behaves, she eventually makes an effort to redeem herself. Her act of cruelty may be too great for us to forgive, but she shows a genuine display of regret. With almost psychotic intensity, she pleads for Pip’s forgiveness, literally groveling at his feet as she repeats, “What have I have done?” (Dickens 297). Miss Havisham’s cries of remorse are a startling role reversal. Once an all-powerful character, she had authority over Pip’ actions and his fate, but her own sense of guilt eventually cripples her. As she loses figurative power, her physical afflictions begin to seem more debilitating. In the climax of their relationship, Pip rescues her from her burning mansion, taking complete control over her fate. Nobly, Pip forgives this beast of a woman, whose “mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased,” even though she has nearly destroyed his life (Dickens 295). Miss Havisham’s crime is truly beyond forgiveness, but Pip’s sympathy is one of his greatest virtues.

For Pip, sympathy is something that must be relearned. Sympathy for Miss Havisham comes relatively easily to him because of her supposed respectability, but his feelings towards Magwitch are more variable. When Magwitch comes to Pip’s London apartment, Pip treats him with disgust and scorn. Unable to recognize the aging convict, Pip describes him with much less emotion than he did in their earlier encounter in the graveyard: “I made out that he was substantially dressed, but roughly: like a voyager by sea. That he had long, iron grey hair. That he was about sixty. That he was a muscular man, strong on his legs, and that he was browned and hardened by exposure to weather” (Dickens 237). This detached description parallels his first reaction, but his boyhood fear has vanished. Along with the fear, we also find a complete lacking of sympathy in his cold, direct observations. His treatment of the man is quite callous, and he fervently denies that he could possibly know him: “I resented the sort of bright and gratified recognition that still shown on his face. I resented it because it seemed to imply that he expected me to respond to it” (Dickens 237). The very idea that this scoundrel expects to be acknowledged angers him.

Considering how much Magwitch has invested in Pip, it’s understandable that Magwitch finds this treatment a little “disapinting,” but he recalls to Pip that, in their prior encounter, “You acted nobly, my boy! Noble, Pip! And I have never forgot it!” (Dickens 238). It’s important that this once vicious criminal is able to express notions of nobility and that his notions are often on target. Even though Pip’s former dealings with Magwitch involved petty theft and aide of a wanted criminal, Pip did, in fact, act nobly. Later, when he and Herbert help Magwitch escape, it is an equally noble act. Some of Pip’s best behavior occurs outside the bounds of respectability and law. When Magwitch is dying, he tells Pip he likes him because, “You’ve been more comfortable alonger me since I was under a dark cloud than when the sun shone” (Dickens 341). Pip’s feelings for Magwitch are a muddle of emotions ranging from mortal terror to pity to contempt to son-like devotion, but his attachment to the man overrides his other feelings.

Pykett calls Magwitch Pip’s “dark father,” but I don’t think we need to qualify his role as father as “dark”: Magwitch is Pip’s father, period. Though Joe cares for Pip with a father’s love, he’s more of a brother to Pip than a patriarch: he is a loved childhood companion, not an authority figure. Magwitch, on the other hand, has the power to care for Pip and to instill fear, both important fatherly roles. Of course, the fact that Magwitch is also Estella’s biological father links the world of wealth and respectability with the lower class and the criminal. One of the greatest ironies of the novel is that, though Pip and Estella seem to come from such conflicting social systems, they are practically brother and sister. Pip and Estella are unrelated by blood, of course, but they share several parental relationships. Both share a mother figure in Miss Havisham, while Magwitch is Estella’s biological father and Pip’s symbolic father. These tangled relationships further blur divisions of class and respectability.

Great Expectations shows a progression in the complexity of Dickens’ view of evil from earlier novels. Here, Dickens portrays the full range of evilness, from purely wicked to mostly good, and includes a number of morally complex characters. The vicious, snarling creature who threatens Pip with the premise of eating him alive later becomes a doting father figure, while the woman he thinks has been providing for him turns out to be an avaricious old witch. One of the most important themes in the novel is that people have the power to change. Magwitch transforms into a caring old man, Estella’s harshness (arguably) softens, and even Miss Havisham attempts to redeem herself. The most important moral journey in the novel is Pip’s. Fueled by emotions ranging from fear to sympathy, Pip undergoes several transformations. From Miss Havisham and Estella he picks up notions of class hatred, though he comes to find that social distinctions are often inconsequential, if not completely meaningless. Furthermore, criminality and respectability are not inextricably linked: respectable people can act like criminals, and criminals can act respectably,

3. Uriah, Littimer and the Model Prison

The chapter entitled “I Am Shown Two interesting Penitents” in David Copperfield is a humorous, yet critical account of contemporary prisons, as well as a fitting final look at the novel’s two most despicable villains. As one critic notes, it is almost superfluous, and does not seem to fit into the natural flow of the plot (Collins 150). Superfluous or not, the circumstances that allow the chapter to occur are certainly contrived. For one, Mr. Creakle’s odd reappearance after a sizable absence is a bit out of place; his new role as the comically over-concerned prison magistrate is almost unrelated to his former role as David and Traddle’s cold-hearted schoolmaster. Also, it’s a little hard to believe, realistically, that the two convicts that David and Traddles happen to meet turn out to be none other than David’s old adversaries, Uriah and Littimer. Nevertheless, the chapter is a fascinating, deceptively simple look at the nature of evil and criminal behavior.

Upon reading this chapter about the supposed “true system of prison discipline,” a comparison to other Dickensian prisons seems natural. By contrast, we recall the cold cell to which Fagin is condemned in Oliver Twist, where the conditions are so bad that they invoke feelings of pity in the reader, despite Fagin’s unwillingness to repent: “It was very dark; why didn’t they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil.—Light, light!” (Twist 407). The Newgate prison where Magwitch spends his last days in Great Expectations is a good deal more humane: “There was a duty to be done, but not harshly” (Expectations 315). But, if not excessively cruel, Magwitch’s prison is by no means forgiving—certainly the prisoners are not coddled with excessive luxuries, as they are in Creakle’s prison.

There’s something admirable, if not highly misconceived, about Mr. Creakel and his vision for the modern penitentiary. For him, “there was nothing in the world to be legitimately taken into account but the supreme comfort of prisoners, at any expense” (Copperfield 827). But David is, from the start, pessimistic. Upon first seeing the impressive structure that houses the facilities, he comments, “I could not help thinking, as we approached the gate, what an uproar would have been made in this country, if any deluded man had proposed to spend one half the money it had cost, on the erection of an industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge for the deserving old” (Copperfield 827). He goes on to comment on the cuisine to which the prisoners have become accustomed—the “plentiful offerings” are, in fact, a good deal better than the food eaten by the “honest, working community” (Copperfield 828). Whereas Pip might very well have appreciated the great care given to the prisoners, David’s scorn at treating the detainees to such amenities is not surprising given that his experiences with crooks have been wholly negative.

As David examines the cells, his suspicions seem to be supported by the characters he encounters. Mr. Creakle’s system calls for isolation of the prisoners so that they may have time for “sincere conversion and repentance” (Copperfield 828). As it turns out, this is a pipe dream, though stating so “would have been a flat blasphemy against the system” (Copperfield 828). None of the men show true repentance, though those who feign great guilt and humility are treated with special kindness. David says, “I found that the most professing men were the greatest objects of interest,” even in spite of “their conceit, their vanity, their want of excitement and their love of deception” (Copperfield 828). In many ways, this description brings to mind a prison full of Uriah Heeps—men who hide their evil behind feigned humility. Since such behavior is encouraged and even lauded, it’s hardly surprising that the “Favorite,” “The Model Prisoner,” is, in fact, no other than Uriah himself.

It hardly speaks well of Creakle’s prison system that Uriah is revered with almost godlike admiration. Mr. Creakle, his associates, and the others on the tour, take Uriah’s characteristic falseness at face value, and are more than willing to believe him when he proclaims, “I see my follies now, sir!” (Copperfield 831). Uriah has always hid behind a false shield of humility, much as Littimer has disguised his evil through his excessive “respectability.” How fitting that Littimer, proclaiming almost word for word the same false sentiments as Uriah (“I am conscious of my own past follies”), is honored as the second most admired prisoner in the system. Both characters pretend to repent their life of crime, but in the process, they merely criticize David. Uriah says that David would be better off if he were in his position and, likewise, Littimer says of David, “it may be profitable to that gentleman to know, sir, that I attribute my past follies, entirely to having lived a thoughtless life, sir, in the service of young men; and to having allowed myself to be led by them into weakness” (Copperfield 833). If Uriah and Littimer are thought to epitomize the positive aspects of Creakle’s model prison, it’s hard to blame David for his skepticism.

Uriah is a character that we recognize as evil from his very first appearance in the novel. In fact, Uriah is evil in the exact same repulsive way as Fagin. Even Uriah’s appearance, down to his red hair, parallels Fagin’s stereotyped, Jewish appearance, and Satin-like quality. Likewise, both characters seem to literally ooze grime—Fagin is “like a loathsome reptile, engendered in slime” (Twist 453), while Uriah’s forefinger makes “clammy tracks along the page…like a snail” when reading a book (Copperfield 227). Miss Mowcher wisely tells us “try not to associate bodily defects with mental, my friend, except for good reason” (Copperfield 452), but Uriah certainly gives us good reason.

Littimer is probably at least as evil as Uriah, though his decorum is a more believable facade. And yet, the offense that lands Uriah in captivity is a nonviolent one, involving fraud and forgery, while Littimer commits a brutal street crime—a slightly unexpected reversal. Despite the posh behavior, David is wise to Littimer even from the beginning. The mocking way in which David prefixes every description of the man with the word “respectable” (his respectable manner, “his respectable head”, his “respectable cough,” etc.) shows that David is highly suspicious. When Littimer tells David that Emily is missing, David treats him with pure revulsion, unable to refer to him as anything more than “a creature” (Copperfield 651).

But it is Miss Mowcher, herself originally cast as a villain, who takes the strongest dislike to this deplorable man. After she tells David about Littimer’s scheme, she says, “Littimer had better have a bloodhound at his back, than little Mowcher” (Copperfield 453). And, as we find out, Littimer would, in fact, have done better to cross paths with a vicious canine than the feisty Miss Mowcher. After Littimer attempts to rob a young man, she “ran betwixt his legs to upset him—and held on to him like grim death.” In fact, she holds on with such might that “the officers were inclined to take ‘em both together” (Copperfield 853). She despises this man as if he were—even more than Uriah—the devil himself.

In Dickens novels, those in a life of crime are not always evil characters (for example Magwitch, Nancy, etc). Furthermore, he shows us that even the worst, most despicable villains should be treated as a human being (as we see when Fagin is condemned to death). Nevertheless, in Dickens’ world, truly evil characters tend to be static. Uriah and Littimer are no exception. The two villains are “perfectly consistent and unchanged…exactly what they were then, they had always been” (Copperfield 836). Mr. Creakle’s system is highly ineffective and, by implication, so too were many of the modern prisons that were springing up during the period. David’s impression of the prison is characterized, not by mere skepticism, but by disgust and revulsion: “It was a rotten, hollow, painfully-suggestive piece of business altogether” (Copperfield 836). Dickens seems to have felt the same way about similar, real-life prisons. Nevertheless, no matter how misconceived the system may be, it is an admirable attempt to do something kind for the most disadvantaged members of society. And, I think that’s something that, in other moods, Dickens might have applauded.

Rationale

I began the semester by reading Oliver Twist, with a vague sense that I would focus on slum life and criminal behavior. As background information, I looked over several books on the Victorian era, including Victorian People and Ideas by Richard D. Altick. I originally intended to write on several of the characters in the novel. I briefly considered focusing on Nancy, with the idea of also looking at other fallen women in Dickens novels. But, after reading the novel, I decided instead to focus on Fagin and, particularly, his finals days in the condemned cell. I used several secondary sources, including Dickens and Crime by Phillip Collins and “Dickens and the Jews” by Harry Stone.

My second paper was on Great Expectations. As a follow-up to my first paper, I wrote on Magwitch and other characters that engage in criminal behavior. Though I might have done better to focus on Magwitch alone, I also felt compelled to discuss Miss Havisham. Whereas Magwitch is a character identified as a criminal, the respectable Miss Havisham engages in criminal behavior of a different kind. I thought the connection was relevant, but the paper ended up being more of a thought piece than a thesis-driven argument. If I were to rework this paper, I think it could be improved by either excluding the portion on Miss Havisham and adding to the study of Magwitch, or by making a more solid connection between the two characters. As sources, I also used The Night Side of Dickens by Harry Stone and Critical Issues: Charles Dickens by Lynn Pykett.

For the final portion of my conference work, I did an analysis of the scene in David Copperfield in which Uriah and Littimer are sent to Mr. Creakle’s “model prison.” As my conference work has focused on criminality, this scene is highly relevant. This humorous scene, featuring the two most despicable villains in the novel, makes an interesting comparison with the much more grim scene in Oliver Twist, depicting Fagin in his condemned cell. This scene also hints at an interesting paradox in Dickens’ own thinking about criminals. Though this scene is highly skeptical of the idea that criminals can change, Dickens, at other times, seems to have been much more optimistic about the possibility of criminal reform.

Works Cited

Altick, Richard D. Victorian People and Ideas. New York: Norton, 1973.

Collins, Phillip. Dickens and Crime. New York: St. Martins, 1994.

Dickens, Charles. David Copperfield. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1999.

Dickens, Charles. Oliver Twist. New York: Penguin, 2002.

Dickens, Charles. Norton Critical Edition of Great Expectations. New

York: Norton, 1999.

Marcus, Steven. Dickens: From Pickwick to Dombey. New York: Basic,

1965.

Pykett, Lyn. Critical Issues: Charles Dickens. Palgrave: 2002.

Schwartzenbach, F.S. Dickens and the City. Athlone: 1979.

Stone, Harry. “Dickens and the Jews.” Kaplan, Fred, ed. Norton Critical Edition of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. New York: Norton, 1993.

Stone, Harry. The Night Side of Dickens. Ohio State UP: 1994.

Wolff, Larry. “The Boys are Pickpockets and the Girl is a Prostitute.” New Literary History, vol. 27, num. 2 (1996).