Satire in the Victorian novel

by Frances Theresa Russell

But by the nineteenth century the indignant moralist was considerably subdued, even in England, and his reproof more likely to be acidulous than acrid. For this reason some other antithesis would seem more useful to our present study; and from the fact that our satiric vehicle is made on the two general models known as romantic and realistic, the same division appears most workable to apply to the satiric methods used in fiction. Both terms, however, are too nebulous to be used without the precaution of stating the sense in which they are at present used. As to the former, this statement by Stoddard sums up the situation:[86]

“To give an exact definition of what one means by romanticism, to give anything more than a vague idea of the notion one intends to convey when he uses the word romantic, to give a single definite conception to a reader by the use of the word romance, is impossible.”

The difficulty about realism is not so much ambiguity as the question of its very existence. This, however, need not concern us here, as there is no question of its nonexistence in Victorian fiction. Whether or not pure unadulterated realism is a myth was to the Victorians a postulate of no moment, for they had no use for it in any case. No stage of theirs would ever be set for a Madame Bovary or an Old Wives’ Tale. But while they looked upon their art as akin to painting rather than photography, they prided themselves on their fidelity to human character and the great truths of human life. To them the romantic meant the fantastic and incredible, while the realistic signified the sane and sober, the possible if not the actual; and in this sense we use the terms.

To these two divisions, it is necessary to add a third as a sort of tertium quid, for the ironic method is important enough to deserve some special treatment, although not correlative with the others. It is conscious indeed of its aristocratic superiority to them, although it cannot maintain itself independently but must be allied to one or the other.

Of the dozen names on the roll of Victorian satiric novelists about half are found in the list of the romantico-satirical. They seem to come in pairs, and for the sake of symmetry and clearness may be so grouped. The first pair are the most distinguished contributors to this section,—Peacock and Butler, standing at the two chronological extremes. The second pair furnish a medium amount, and are themselves forerunners to the main group, though their fantastic productions are forty years apart,—Lytton and Disraeli. The third pair are of least account here, but are of especial importance in the realistic field,—Thackeray and Meredith.

Altogether this half dozen men produced nearly two dozen items of the romantico-satiric order, none of which could be called novels in the strict sense, yet all of which are worthy of being included in this list, because of the light they throw on the characteristics of the romantic method in satire. The largest amount, both actually and relatively, is supplied by Peacock, for his seven tales represent the bulk of his own output. The smallest is Lytton’s, represented by only one, and that an aftermath of a prolific and versatile energy. Disraeli threw off three skits, like Thackeray’s half dozen and Meredith’s two, in being preliminary to later and more substantial work. Butler’s two, on the contrary, though forming only a fraction of his stops of various quills, are the most inevitably associated with his name, the pair indeed whereby his name is known.

The list covers a period of eighty-five years, though it is prolonged over a half century only by the interval of thirty years between Erewhon and its sequel. The rest are fairly compact, except for Peacock’s Rip Van Winkle sleep between Crochet Castle and Gryll Grange. A dated table is appended for the convenience of a bird’s-eye view.[87]

Returning now to our first parallel, Peacock and Butler, we find the parallelism to be rather complete, manifesting itself in character, destiny, and product.

The destiny of both lay in a mean that was not golden. Their annals were the long and simple of the fairly well to do. Neither knew the exhilaration that comes from prosperity and downright good luck; neither, the depression of bitter struggle or disaster. The current of Peacock’s progress was retarded by the comparative poverty that, like Tennyson’s, postponed his marriage; and that of Butler was obstructed by his family’s opposition to his unpardonable preference for a secular career. If the son of a clergyman and the grandson of a bishop could not see his clerical duty and do it, there was no help for it, he must go to New Zealand. But to banish a youthful radical was only to set him free; and to allow him a perspective and a fresh viewpoint was to bring down upon orthodoxy an infinite deal of mischief. “It was the England that he saw with new eyes,” says his biographer Harris, “after his return, that awakened his restless, satiric vigour. He reacted to the English scene as no one else in his century had reacted before.”[88]

By temperament Peacock and Butler were both solitary, pervaded by a gentle melancholy, and permeated with love of classic lore. But Peacock’s sadness could take the ironic Jonsonian turn. Quite appropriately did he choose “Your true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit,” as the motto for Nightmare Abbey. Butler’s persiflage, however, covers a more real and permanent pessimism, perhaps because it is directed against the spectacle of the wilfully blind leading the born blind, rather than against a lot of “sentimentalists, chasers after novelty, bilious malcontents.”[89]