Angels and Absences: Child Deaths in the Nineteenth Century (47 page)

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Authors: Laurence Lerner

Tags: #History, #Modern, #19th Century, #Social Science, #Death & Dying, #test

BOOK: Angels and Absences: Child Deaths in the Nineteenth Century
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Page 122
The ignorance of laboring children in Victorian England was almost total, and deeply shocking to those who read the reports of the Children's Employment Commission (one of those who read them was Marx):
Four times four is 8; 4 fours are 16. A king is him that has all the money and gold. We have a King (told it is a Queen), they call her the Princess Alexandra. Have heard say that God made the world, and that all the people was drownded but one; heard say that one was a little bird. God made man, man made woman. Had been to chapel, but missed a good many times lately. One name that they preached about was Jesus Christ, but I cannot say any others, and I cannot tell anything about him. He was not killed but died like other people. The devil is a good person. I don't know where he lives. Christ was a wicked man.
38
One wonders if there is a kind of twisted intelligence at work in some of this, but it is very different from Jo, though Jo is surely meant to be one of their company. Jo is, in fact, very articulate: his carefully limited solecisms (Sangsby for Snagsby, nothink for nothingeven some touches of misspelling that do not indicate the slightest mispronouncing like "wos" orr "wuns") cannot disguise the lucidity and complexity of his thinking. He has perceived that sectarian disputes interfere with piety and shares Dickens's own dislike of evangelicals. When Allan Woodcourt teaches him a prayer to die with, he is a ready pupil and appreciates what is being done for him: "I'll say anythink as you say, sir, fur I knows it's good." He repeats the words and dies saying, "Hallowed bethy.'' His death is not as different from Paul's as we might at first think, and is not meant to be.
The death of little Johnny in
Our Mutual Friend
contains the same indignation, and the same address to "my lords and gentlemen and honourable boards" (the last expression is put in because the protest here is not simply about neglect but about the workings of the New Poor Law). Johnny does not die in such complete ignorance as Jo, and has more of Dick and Nell about him when he gives his toys to the poor child in the next bed; and he is more interesting because of Sloppy, his grandmother's "mangler," who speaks in Dickenspeak, turning the description of Johnny's illness into a splendid paragraph of colorful evasiveness:
Mr Sloppyproceeded to remark that he thought Johnny "must have took 'em from the Minders." Being asked what he meant, he answered, them that
 
Page 123
come out upon him and partickler his chest. Being requested to explain himself, he stated that there was some of 'em wot you couldn't kiver with a six-pence. (2:9)
We do not know what Johnny dies of, and in Sloppy's mouth our ignorance of the ailment is swallowed up by the comic style:
"He called it something as wos wery long for spots." Rokesmith suggested measles. "No," said Sloppy, with confidence, "ever so much longer than them, sir."
As with Dr. Marigold's daughter, humor and pathos are combined; but in this case, each belongs to a different personage.
The other poor child who dies in
Bleak House
is Jenny's baby. Jenny is the wife of a drunken brickmaker, and she and her friend Liz also have a peripheral connexion with the plot. Their husbands beat them, and they have to slip off secretly to do their good deeds. Jenny's baby dies, and she attaches herself to Liz's as a substitute: neither the dead nor the living baby is given a name, and neither mother has much identity. The one person who has an identity is Jenny's husband, when he rounds on Mrs. Pardiggle for her charitable visiting:
I wants a end of these liberties took with my place. Now you're a-going to poll-pry and question according to customI know what you're a-going to be up to. Well! You haven't got no occasion to be up to it. I'll save you the trouble. A'nt my place dirty? Yes, it is dirty, it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally onwholesome; and we've had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. How have I been conducting of myself? Why, I've been drunk for three days; and I'd a been drunk four, if I'd a had the money." (Chapter 8)
This voice sounds with an authenticity seldom heard in Victorian bourgeois fiction: it assaults the condescension of Mrs. Pardiggle and the pious exhortations of the pamphlets she distributes ("It's a book fit for a babby, and I'm not a babby"). It assaults every touch of sentimentality: there is to be no glossing over the nastiness of the life or the casualness of the children's deaths. It assaults the reader's expectations as they were raised by the portrait of Jo. Jenny's child, without even a name, belongs to the world uncovered

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