Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird (17 page)

Aunt Alexandra is another crucial character who illustrates that the way to change the law and society is gradual and subtle. Significantly, Aunt Alexandra bends. Lee compares Alexandra to Mount Everest (“cold and there”) and describes her bearing as “formidable” from any angle (
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145). Lee also highlights Alexandra's boarding-school manners, her inclination toward noblesse oblige, her penchant for upholding absolute morality in any setting, and her utter lack of self-doubt. Aunt Alexandra's great passions include maintaining the Finch family reputation and presiding at missionary teas where the society ladies of Maycomb fret over the native Mruna tribe and other unfortunates (
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260). Perhaps most important, Aunt Alexandra's name itself hearkens to classical Greece and seems to denote a repository of civilization that resembles the famous library that was located in Alexandria. Lee's depiction of Alexandra makes her the last person in the book that one would expect to bend.

For Alexandra, however, an awakening moment of realization—an understanding of the necessity for change and flexibility—occurs during the ladies' tea. In Lee's account, Alexandra is “pierced” and even gratified when Miss Maudie Atkinson subtly but sharply defends Atticus from Mrs. Merriweather's racial criticism (
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266). Shortly thereafter, in the Finch kitchen, Alexandra talks with Maudie and Scout after Atticus and Calpurnia leave to tell Helen Robinson that her husband, Tom, was killed trying to escape Enfield Prison Farm (
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269). In her reactions, Alexandra first grieves for the effect of racism and prejudice on Atticus, and then she continues by acknowledging the fear behind racism, expressing her despair that people in society rely on Atticus rather than working to eradicate racism themselves (“what they're afraid to do themselves,” she cries). Eventually Miss Maudie underscores this realization of Alexandra's when she describes the handful of people in Maycomb who “say that fair play is not marked White Only” as people with “background,” a categorization that can only appeal to Alexandra's sense of gentility and class. Notably, Alexandra's treatment of Scout after this realization is no longer chiding or overbearing; instead, she smiles at Scout and invites her to pass a tray of cookies to the ladies (
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271); later, after Scout's rescue, Alexandra hands Scout overalls to wear and calls her “darling” (
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303). Now governed by compassion and understanding, rather than by rules and social expectations, Alexandra bends.

Alexandra's transformation, however slight it may seem in the powder-puffed context of the ladies' missionary society, demonstrates that legal and social change starts in individual hearts. Lee also uses Aunt Alexandra to show that fighting racism and prejudice is civil, moral, and just. A bastion of civility like Aunt Alexandra—representing classical Greece—would naturally support compassion, fairness, and equality. Indeed, the development of such personal traits demands that fighting racism become one of the highest and best purposes of society. In addition, Lee shows us that there is more than one way to be a civil rights advocate; while civil disobedience, marches, sit-ins, and federal declaratory judgment actions certainly have their place, fostering changes in the individual heart are just as significant, if not even more important. Readers here sense that common civility and fairness on the street corner, when multiplied by thousands, will lead the way to widespread racial justice.

Lee also uses several other characters to highlight different ways of bending the law in order to achieve legal reform. One powerful example of this is the case of Mr. Link Deas. Sensing powerlessness and the need to help Tom Robinson during the trial, Deas takes matters into his own hands and interrupts the decorum of the courtroom, bursting out, “I just want the whole lot of you to know one thing right now. That boy's worked for me eight years an' I ain't had a speck o'trouble outa him. Not a speck” (
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222). This outburst prompts Judge Taylor to evict Deas from the courtroom, perhaps overreacting to Deas' improper but honest affirmation of Tom's fine character. Interestingly, both Link Deas and Judge Taylor bend the law, in different ways, in their attempts to give Tom Robinson every possible advantage. Deas interrupts the trial, risking contempt of court sanctions, to tell the community and the jury that Tom Robinson has good character and is not a troublemaker. Similarly, while Taylor always strives to maintain a fair trial, in his case management techniques he (true to his name) tailors the case in order to help Tom. For example, Taylor appoints Atticus rather than another attorney to shape Robinson's defense, knowing that such an upright man would not provide a customary or lackadaisical defense for an African American accused of raping a white woman. Additionally, Taylor seems to shade the evidence in order to provide the jury a sense of the real story. As Atticus notes after the trial, Taylor looks at Ewell during the trial as if he were a “three-legged chicken” or a “square egg” (
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287). “Don't tell me judges don't try to prejudice juries,” Atticus concludes. Thus Deas and Judge Taylor both represent different attempts at influencing the jury to help Tom—influencing or bending the law themselves by trying to persuade the jury itself to bend. Deas bends the decorum of the trial and Judge Taylor bends the rules of impartiality required of a jurist. Each man's endeavor goes about as far as possible without giving cause for declaring a mistrial.

The trial of Tom Robinson, of course, constitutes the main narrative of the novel. Despite expectations to the contrary, all sorts of bending goes on in any trial. The adversarial system in jurisprudence encourages this, by ethically charging each attorney to represent the client—either the “people” or the defendant, as the case may be—to the best of his or her ability. Consequently, each attorney tries to bend the jury to see the facts of the case a certain way and uses every tool at hand to do so. Scout repeatedly acknowledges this duty by her matter-of-fact assessment of the prosecutor's sharp cross-examination of Robinson, while the same actions drive Dill to tears. Uniquely, Lee describes the prosecutor, Mr. Gilmer, as having a slight cast in one of his eyes, which he uses to his advantage; he seems to be looking at someone when he is not, causing juries and witnesses to pay closer attention, thinking themselves to be under Gilmer's scrutiny (
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189). In contrast to Atticus' piercing, eagle eyes or to Calpurnia's squinting, searching eyes, Gilmer apparently has trick eyes that he uses to deceive and intimidate people—albeit completely within ethical, moral, and legal guidelines. By investing Gilmer with such a supernatural gift, Lee seems to highlight similar traits in Atticus, while drawing a distinction between Atticus' keen sight, employed to save the community from a rabid dog, and Gilmer's deceptive vision, employed to persuade the susceptible jury to convict an innocent man.

Could Tom Robinson possibly have been guilty? Significantly, Lee allows the reader to decide this important question, never absolutely revealing his innocence in so many words, while giving signs throughout the novel that make Tom's innocence appear to be an inescapable conclusion. Even so, Lee's decision to imply rather than inform the reader on this important point has sadly given provocative law professors an opening to question and castigate the trial techniques of Atticus Finch on the basis of an almost—but not totally—impossible presupposition that Tom is somehow guilty and that Atticus knows it. The resulting debate completely loses sight of the main focus of the novel on the evil effects of racism in society and the need for people and society to bend in order to change it. On the contrary, Lee leaves the question of Tom's innocence to the reader in order to heighten the dramatic tension of the novel, particularly in the trial narrative, and to allow the reader to discover the truth on his or her own. This method seems to highlight the ways that the law is bent and shaped by factors other than the innocence or guilt of one person. Indeed, the reader discovers the truth of Tom's innocence and must come to terms with the reality of institutional racism. Scout bluntly confirms what the reader is led to expect: “Tom was a dead man the minute Mayella opened her mouth and screamed” (
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276). After Tom's death, editor B. B. Underwood of the local Maycomb newspaper makes the point suggested by the title of the novel: Tom's death is like the senseless slaughter of songbirds by hunters and children (
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275).

Atticus stands against the prejudice, hate, and senseless killing that are clearly understood by both Scout and Underwood: “Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird” (
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103). Miss Maudie Atkinson explicates this comment of Atticus by noting the innocence of mockingbirds and their beautiful, freely given songs. Because Atticus is relentless in his pursuit of moral improvement, he quite rightly considers Hitler a maniac—“the only time I ever saw Atticus scowl,” notes Scout—but he still is able to instruct Scout: “It's not okay to hate anybody” (
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282). In the moral worldview of Atticus Finch, Hitler is a despicable psychopathic dictator who should be deposed, but Atticus simultaneously acknowledges that hatred is evil and harmful for all of society. Hatred harms the beholder as much as, if not more than, the object of hatred.

Despite critics' protests to the contrary, Atticus is completely consistent in his search for the higher moral purpose in every aspect of life. He tells Scout that Tom's case “goes to the essence of a man's conscience” and confesses that he could not attend church and worship God if he didn't try to help Tom (
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120). But when Scout responds that most of Maycomb thinks he's wrong in his espousal of Tom's cause, Atticus grants his opponents “full respect” for their opinion but continues to stress the fact that he must be at peace with his own conscience in order to live with other folks (
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120).

For Atticus, defending an innocent man, preventing hatred of others from infecting society, and protecting innocent songbirds are all ways of living out his conscience, his God-given purpose, his moral obligation. So in order to meet his calling, Atticus consistently believes that bending the law is appropriate. He goes further and does everything he can to make the law more flexible and to change the shape of things for the future. “In the name of God, do your duty,” he implores the jury. “In the name of God, believe him” (
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234).

In his every act, Atticus consistently opposes hatred, racism, and common prejudice, and therefore serves as an example to his children as well as to Maycomb as a whole. Scout and Jem also search for the higher moral purpose throughout the narrative. Jem's search is almost tortured at times, as he frequently goes off and ponders in silence, much like Atticus reflects by himself (so much so that he worships at church by himself, leaving Jem and Scout to sit separately). One scene in the novel troubles some commentators who see in it an inconsistency in Atticus and his search for truth throughout the narrative. This event occurs when Nathan Radley upsets Jem by plugging the knothole in the tree along the children's path to school, a knothole where Boo Radley (unbeknownst to Scout and Jem) left them two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck Indian-head pennies, and other presents (
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67–71). Radley tells Jem he plugged the hole because the tree was dying, a lie later confirmed by Atticus who notes the tree's green and full leaves and the lack of brown spots. But when Jem tells Atticus that Radley said the tree was dying, Atticus responds: “Well maybe it is. I'm sure Mr. Radley knows more about his tree than we do” (
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71).

The way Atticus reverses his opinion on the question of the tree's health is not an example of a vacillating stance as some commentators contend, but rather the action serves to pinpoint his flexibility and his consistent search for the higher moral purpose. His reply is seemingly more concerned with helping to preserve his neighbor's standing and autonomy than verifying the truth or falsity of his claim. It appears that to Atticus, neighborly generosity and benevolence prevails over maintaining a truth that may be relatively insignificant. At the same time, it's clear that Jem is emotionally disturbed by this scene, although it's not clear what brings him to tears—Atticus' puzzling response, Radley's concealment, or just the plug in the knothole. Atticus notably does not either agree with Radley or lie to Jem; he merely says that Radley's explanation might be the case, and then he accepts Radley's right to ascertain the status of his own trees. Atticus refuses to call Radley a liar, just as he refuses to denigrate or retaliate against Bob Ewell and just as he refuses to openly castigate his neighbors for their racism. Indeed, Atticus goes further than that. He generously grants his neighbors' opinions the same status as his opinions: “They're entitled to full respect for their opinions,” he tells Scout (
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120). His quiet and solitary search for the higher purpose in all things explains the potentially confusing juxtaposition of moral values that Atticus espouses throughout the novel. He somberly weighs competing values and tries to discover the good points in all.

In this way, Atticus is Christlike, a description many commentators agree upon (see, for example, Shaffer), noting several Christlike parallels: taking Ewell's spit in his face without retaliation (
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248); protecting the community from the rabid dog (
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110); doing what society cannot do itself (
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269); and helping the innocent both by defending Tom and by protecting him from an attempted lynching (
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169–176). His quiet search for the higher purpose also appears Christlike: he withdraws in church and ponders; he reads alone and reflects on truth and values; he contemplates basic philosophical principles and explains them succinctly to Scout. All the while, Atticus exhibits a generous spirit toward his neighbors, even those who are enmeshed in the racism of the time, following the Christlike example demonstrated when Jesus dined with prostitutes, tax collectors, and sinners, and called all people his “brother” and “sister” while accepting and forgiving their failings. Jesus, too, bent the law, for example, by healing people on the Sabbath day; in doing so, Jesus looked for the higher good (the cure of disease and brokenness) rather than upholding the narrow, rigid Sabbath restrictions of the Jewish authorities.