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All texts copyright Farah Mendlesohn
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Crowning the King: Published first in Crowning the King: Harry Potter and the Construction of Authority” Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts, Vol. 12 no. 3, Fall 2001. 0897-0521. pp. 287-308. Reprinted in Lana A. Whited, ed. The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter: Perspectives on a Literary Phenomenon. Columbia MO: University of Missouri Press, 2002, ISBN: 0-8262-1443-6, 405 pages, pp.159-181.
Examining the political structures of children’s texts is a task always open to attack. Children’s texts are not supposed to be ideological. Open espousal of ideology is more often linked to the children’s books of Red China than it is to the mainstream work of western Europe. In reality, most of the major classics of western children’s literature, and specifically of children’s fantasy, have been rooted in and propounded systems of authority and belief. Charles Kingsley’s The Water-Babies (1863), or C. S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia (The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, 1950) are unabashedly Christian; The Wizard of Oz (1900) outraged much of the American public for its anarchic and populist values; while E. Nesbit’s The Story of the Amulet (1906) flaunts its author’s socialism. Superficially, Rowling stands apart from these classics.
There is no obvious political or evangelical intent other than relaying
an oft told tale about the battle of good against evil. She is not an
authoritarian writer with a message to be propounded via the morality
tale, nor is she seeking to create a society or world which can, through
its mere depiction, inspire us to change. To demand that she do any of
these would clearly be an unacceptable imposition from critic upon author.
However, while Rowling clearly does not intend to engage with ideology,
its role in her work is inescapable. Rowling is engaged in a form of mythopoeic
consolatory fantasy rooted in a distinctively English liberalism which
is marked as much by its inconsistencies and contradictions as by its
insistence that it is not ideological, but only “fair”. Its
ideology is its very claim to a nebulous and non-existent impartiality.
The ideological structures of Rowling’s work focus on a manipulation
of this uncritical construction of “fairness”. The denial of
ideology which forms a significant element of the text promotes a willing
suspension of intellectual rigor. This contributes to the promotion of
a particular understanding of authority while simultaneously undermining
the coherence of the texts. Further, it leads to a rejection of the subversive
opportunities available to the fantasist exemplified in the works of Lewis
Carroll and others: if a world is fundamentally fair and rational, subversion
is politically unnecessary. We can see this in both Tolkien and Lewis,
whose fundamental message remains that fairness and happiness can best
be achieved when rules are obeyed and heroes decided by destiny. That
the definition of fairness operated both by these writers and by Rowling
is constructed around the actions of the hero means that it is easy to
ignore the further implications inherent in the text. More important, perhaps, has been the ideological impact of the structural shift from fairy tale to fantasy. In the classic fairy tale, while the act of traveling provided the tools and proof of the hero’s fitness, it is the final application and the proving that is of interest. Thus in “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” the soldier’s journey provides him with the means to follow the princesses, but the adventure succeeds his journey. In the modern fantasy, increasingly, the adventure is the journey. Similarly, for the soldier in the fairy tale, the crucial choices take place at the end of the story, but in the modern fantasy, the crucial choices are played out, bit by bit, as the journey unfolds. A recent attempt to revert to the last act finale approach, in David Eddings’ The Mallorean, proved a damp squib as the “choice” was unbelievably obvious, foreshadowed by the four previous books.3 In the modern fantasy, if the getting there has become the focus of the adventure, it has also become the focus of what it means to be a hero. While most modern fantasy has been unable to avoid hereditarian assumptions, it has at least moved towards presenting the adventure itself less as a proof of blood right, than of a growing into strength and maturity which complements the assumed birthright. However, circumstance of birth has retained its narrative power and Rowling, as we shall see, has created a hero and a moral structure in which the rights of birth, while simultaneously denied, underpin the structures of heroism which is the basis of her ideological universe. In a rather heated discussion on the net, Andy Robertson declared “Harry Potter is a Returning Prince who gets his worth 100% from heredity and genetics.”4 Robertson advocated the appreciation of Potter as a blow for traditionalism. However, he rejected the assertion that the entire articulated dynamic of the Potter books is of worth, self proof, and the ridiculousness of hereditarian assumptions. What, then, did he mean? The main plot of the Harry Potter books, is, as Robertson
has pointed out, that of the returning prince, deprived of his heritage
by the actions of a usurper, who has come to reclaim his throne, and with
it, herald a new age of happiness. In constructing such a plot, Rowling
has had no hesitation in manipulating all the established tropes in constructing
the romantic hero of modern fantasy. Michael Moorcock has noted that “Almost
all romantic heroes and heroines are wounded children.”5 But not
since the nineteenth century have orphans been portrayed with such extreme
relatives with any other intention than parody: James and the Giant Peach
comes to mind.6 The classic example of this extreme treatment is in Frances
Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess:7 Sara Crewe, coincidentally black-haired
and green-eyed, is banished to an attic because she no longer has money.
Here she, too, learns magic, although of a more metaphorical kind, until
her true nobility of heart and blood is discovered. The relegation of
Harry to the cupboard under the stairs, the apparent starvation, and the
Dursleys’ insistence that Potter wear the shabbiest of clothes, all
combine to make him the most mistreated of mistreated Princes. It also
seems rather unlikely given the Dursleys’ desire to maintain face
in front of the world. From the beginning, we are told that Harry’s parents are some of the most powerful magical people of their day, an attribute which despite all the evidence—Harry’s incompetence in potions class for example, and Hermione’s greater success in the exams—we are expected to assume he has inherited. Instead of demonstrating power, he demonstrates “gifts” in the most materialist sense. In the first book his popularity is assured by his inheritance of sporting ability and the gift of a new, super-charged broom by a wealthy well-wisher (Quidditch, like polo, is a game for the moneyed, it seems). In the second book, The Chamber of Secrets, his success depends on a magical cloak inherited from his father; in the third, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, on the gift of a magical map. In the fourth book, he has “inherited” the ability to withstand a curse, and the best touch of all, he has “inherited” part of Voldemort which is crucial in the wand selection which helps him to withstand the villain. This is important: it means that at no time does Harry act with anything which can be called his own or the result of hard work and application, as is the case with, for example, Lloyd Alexander’s Taran, all of whose gifts (the ability to use a sword, to apply a magical tool, to organise an army) are the direct result of endless hours of learning, the realization that love and loyalty matter and the willingness to help someone defend a sheepfold not his own respectively. Nor, as in Baum’s Oz, does magic act to encourage Potter to self-development, but instead operates as metaphor for self development. The result, as Waggoner has observed of Roald Dahl’s Charlie, is that the reader “knows that ... [he] is deserving and noble because Dahl tells him so, not because he can see Charlie behaving in a noble manner...”,10 and we know the punishment of his enemies is appropriate because our protagonist is allowed to approve. This perception is reinforced by the presence of that staple of fairy tale and fantasy; the Companions. Where Harry’s success does not rest on inheritance (whether material or genetic) it rests instead on the attributes of his companions. Repeatedly in the Potter books, it is not Potter who displays ingenuity, intelligence, or bravery, but his companions: the redoubtable and brilliant Hermione; the kind, reckless and incredibly strong Hagrid; the faithful and dogged Ron. This is no coincidence, nor is it simply a children's author attempting to demonstrate that friendship makes one strong. Traditionally, fairy tale and fantasy have surrounded the hero with companions (some of whom, like Cedric Diggory in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire) have proved expendable) but the role of the companions has been twofold. First, they provide their skills to enable the hero to achieve specific things for which the hero and not they, take the credit and the prize. The second role of the fantasy companion but not of the fairy tale companion has been to teach life's lessons: to bring the hero into maturity by teaching him new skills, drawn from their strengths and new wisdoms from their application. David Eddings’ The Belgariad11 offers one of the best modern examples of this, as Garion, the hero, is effectively brought up by a range of characters who teach him skills which he finds useful, but also lend their own powers to his cause. Garion becomes more active in the last two books, increasingly applying their lessons rather than the people themselves. A nicely subversive version of the same pattern can again be found in Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain sequence, in which Taran’s companions share their weaknesses, not their strengths, and each gain enormously in wisdom from this.12 However, Rowling, so far, has employed only the first, fairy tale, aspect of this trope in which Potter's companions offer their services, with little implication that Potter learns from this. Where, for example, he applies Hermione’s advice, it is presented at the same level as the application of the cloak of invisibility. Hermione, in fact, is not even accorded the status of “companion” as such until the third book. In The Chamber of Secrets Hermione finds the vital clue but is paralyzed by the basilisk and thus excluded from the adventure. But Hermione is crucial to Harry’s success in the The Chamber of Secrets, providing him with the disguises he needs. In the inter-school magic competition in The Goblet of Fire Hermione similarly provides Harry with the secret talisman, in this case knowledge. Hagrid and Dobby also fit within this construction: both assist Harry to cheat in competition, Dobby with the information about herbs, Hagrid with a secret look at the dragons. Both lend their intrinsic qualities to Harry's service. In both cases, if Harry learns anything, it is patronizing sympathy for their mistakes and simplicities, even while he accepts what is offered. He has not, so far, developed any of the empathy or admiration for Dobby that Taran developed for his not dissimilar companion, Gurgi. In the Chronicles of Prydain, Gurgi functioned as an alternative model of bravery. Unlike Dobby, he was not a figure of fun, but operated as perhaps the most important support for the hero, not merely as foil. The structure of companionship in the Potter books has two effects. First, these companions function as courtiers: their talents are, by extension, their prince’s talents, and their deeds reflect his glory (one of the best manipulations of this trope can be found in John Barnes’ witty novel, One for the Morning Glory, 1996). But secondly, the role of the companions, combined with the hereditary nature of Potter’s own intrinsic qualities, create a peculiarly passive hero to whom things happen, which he suffers and bears, but who rarely proceeds in a proactive manner. Potter does not search out trouble, nor does he willingly enter upon quests, yet he is presented at various times as a shining prince. Firstly through the recovery of Neville’s Remembrall (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, 145) and then through the embarrassing hero worship of Colin in The Chamber of Secrets (96, 98) as well as the more purposeful underwater rescues of The Goblet of Fire. However, his bravery, so far, has been to act upon Hermione’s advice or, as twice in The Goblet of Fire, to act out of ignorance, only to be rewarded for his foolishness. He may have shown moral fiber but that does not mean that he had more moral fiber than those who listened to the instructions. But then, Harry Potter is the prince, and however contrived, the prince must always be the victor even if this involves ignoring the use of magic in the Muggle domain: another child would have been expelled. Fairness and justice maybe be bent so that the Prince remain, what we are repeatedly told he is, the nice boy: the role of his companions is intrinsic to the creation of moral authority around the person of Harry Potter. Hagrid’s position is particularly interesting in terms of the class structures of the book. Hagrid, more than any other character, fits the requirements of the 1950s lower class sidekick and shapes the presentation of Harry. The 1950s sidekicks came in a range of presentations. The number one sidekick, Dan Dare’s Flamer or Jet Morgan’s Mitch (in the BBC radio series, Journey Into Space, 1953-1955), was allowed to be of the same social status but secondary in confidence, machismo, looks and general charisma, and he generally deferred to the hero. This sidekick’s role was to reinforce the hero’s decisions without ever threatening his leadership. Ron very comfortably fits this role. However, many of these heroes had a second sidekick, usually of marginal social status, and very much more obviously servile. Of a distinctly lower social class than Harry, and belonging to a minority “ethnic” group (he is a half-giant), Hagrid is both the outsider and the deferential friend. If we look for a literary comparison he is the equivalent to Dan Dare’s Digby, or Jet Morgan’s Lemmy (the Jewish radio operator). Like Lemmy and Digby, he is dignified with only one name (as is Dobby). Hagrid, is an egregious portrait of an underclass ne’er-do-well whose magical incompetence can be traced to his mixed blood. Hagrid lacks agency and he lacks real intelligence. More to the point, his attempts to exert agency result in chaos from which Harry and his friends must rescue him. Hagrid, like Dobby elsewhere, is continuously infantilized to an extent that it brings into question what Hagrid was ever doing at Hogwarts and more to the point, what he learned there, for whatever else Hogwarts achieved, it clearly did not succeed in smoothing out Hagrid’s accent. For no apparent reason, Hagrid speaks with an accent rather more than a few social notches below that of his school-mates, his ex-school mates, and the teachers around whom he has spent over twenty-five years. Whatever his social origins, association with the school would have changed that to some degree, at the very least, removing the most obvious class markers, but it is more in keeping with the structures of the novel that Hagrid’s social origins (and the focus of much prejudice) are demonstrated with every word he speaks, that his lack of intelligence and self control actually fulfill the stereotypes associated with his ethnicity, thus permitting Harry and his friends to demonstrate their “tolerance”, and to show that Harry is a “good chap”. J.K. Rowling’s books have received praise precisely because they are compounded of anachronisms. The old Englishness of wizardry is a source of humor, from Mr. Weasley’s obsession with newfangled Muggle inventions to the befuddled wizard of book four in his mismatched clothes: it is a form of humor that ranges from the affectionate to the derisory. In terms of the authoritarian structures of the book, however, this old Englishness places Rowling in the company of Tolkien and of Lewis in constructing their fantasy worlds as a lament for old England, for the values of the shires and for a “greener” and simpler world.13 One way in which we can understand Rowling’s otherwise rather confusing structures is to place her works within the Tory version of fantasy as outlined by Moorcock, Waggoner, and Grant.14 In this construction of the fantastic, fantasy is both escapist and consolatory. It is hostile to the “real” world but not subversive of it: consolatory (rather than strictly happy) endings are mandatory, and the fittings and furnishings of the fantasy world are nostalgic. Some of this is material: the use of the steam train at Kings Cross, for example, which surely comes into the category of misuse of magic on Muggle artefacts but which helps to recreate the atmosphere of the pre-war boys’ school story, complete with sweets shared in old-fashioned closed carriages15 and feasts at the beginning and end of term. The moral conflict within the Potter books is between different structures of authority and differing ideologies of conservatism. Rowling has no real problem with authoritarian figures, or with hierarchies. What is in dispute is how they are constructed, and in many ways, this is a battle between versions of Toryism and is thus built upon 1980s politics. On the one hand we have the aristocracy (Malfoy and ilk) posited as closed and bigoted. On the other hand we have the Dursleys, the epitome of a certain type of aspirationalist Thatcherite shopkeeper/middle class business family as described by the decades' alternative comedians. Both are rejected by the Dumbledores and Weasleys who see them as unacceptable extremes and who claim for themselves the moral high ground of moderation. The Dursleys’ suburbia was loathed by the likes of Lewis who saw it as confining to the imagination and the ruin of real England (see the character of Eustace Grubb in C.S. Lewis’ The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (New York: Collier Books, 1953)), and to both Tolkien and Lewis, the suburbs, with their emphasis on newness, were radically anti-conservative: rejecting communal greens for grain elevators and feudal dues for the financial lures of capitalism. Even the rather twisted socialism of the Grubb family, with their ideas of scholastic equality and vegetarianism are framed as radical threats to the genuine England. Rowling’s use of this trope is both convenient and unnecessary, in that her “real” villains are the aristocracy: the Malfoys and their cronies. Superficially, in her introduction of Potter as the outsider, and Malfoy, the aristocrat, as the school villain, Rowling distances herself from the conservative tradition. In reality she, like school story writers and fantasists before her, simply reconfirms its validity, both by the superficial appearance of egalitarianism—Potter’s success–and by the use of liberal characters to reinforce the status quo. Thus, while open contempt is expressed by Dumbledore and the Weasleys towards the Malfoys and their emphasis on pure blood; both are quick to point out that the Weasleys and the Potters are from the some of the oldest magical families in England. And Hogwarts as public school is crucial to this aristocratic structure which underpins the novels: as far as we can tell–and in the great English tradition, finance is not a topic to be discussed openly—Hogwarts is a British public school (a misleading nomenclature, as British “public” schools are funded by fees paid by parents although to confuse the issue, they have the status of charities, not businesses). In the first book Harry worries about how he will afford the school and is reassured by Hagrid that he has enough money. The need for money to secure a good education is a given: Dudley’s school, Smeltings, is sneered at neither because of its cost, nor because it is a poor educational establishment (Dudley’s report makes this clear) but because it is a fake. It is a “minor” public school, aspiring to compete with the likes of Eton and Harrow in the construction of “traditions” such as the Smeltings’ Stick but, in its self-conscious competition, making itself ludicrous. In the eyes of Tory England it commits the unforgivable sin of vulgarity. However, if Hogwarts is a private school, and this is very unclear, Hermione is presumably on a scholarship. Hermione’s family is comfortably off (they are dentists) but they are not wealthy, and average public-school fees, which include the cost of boarding, are currently running at the annual cost of a medium sized car. In the conventional school narrative, this would be Hermione’s story of struggle against adversity and for acceptance (and in one sense it is, since “Hermione’s story” is essentially one of learning conformity to a new social milieu). However, it is Potter who has the status of the special and treasured pupil in the way he is treated as special by the teachers, while it is Hermione who receives the treatment, from her peers, often meted out to the scholarship pupil without necessarily the compensation of status through intellect. On a number of occasions her position as perhaps the brightest child in the school is used to humiliate her: we are expected to believe, for example, that she is unable to tell a cat’s hair from a girl’s hair (Chamber, 225), and that her intelligence precludes emotional sensitivity, although it is Hermione who helps Harry to understand why Ron is resentful in the fourth book. When, in The Chamber of Secrets, she receives special attention for her abilities, given extra coaching and the ability to manipulate the timetable, this proves to be an opportunity to humiliate her and lay stress on her inability to be “sensible” rather than excessive. At other times, she is ridiculed in contexts where Harry could defend her, but chooses not to, such as when George Weasley, who has failed most of his exams, insists she is speaking only for herself when she suggests that younger members of the school would simply not have learned enough to compete for the Triwizards’ trophy. (Goblet, 256). In contrast, although Malfoy may seek to challenge it, Harry’s place in the school appears secured by his heredity. Harry is a legacy. His social place is assured both by his own history and the presence of his father. One aspect to understanding what is happening here is the very school structure which Rowling has adopted. Irrespective of the situation in US schools, it has long been a given in British schools that hard work and application in the classroom are not admired by either students or, frequently, by teachers. The hard-working student is the swot or the scholarship pupil (note that both is true for Hermione) and although they may be a credit to the school, they do not succeed where it really matters, on the sports field. As David Steele’s chapter has considered the school story in detail I won't elaborate here, but bluntly, Harry is set up as the gentleman scholar: he works hard enough that his natural talent will take him through but he is never shown at the top of the class as this, a position occupied by Hermione, is despised as too showy for a gentleman. We know Harry is bright because we are told he is, but it is to be taken for granted, he is a “natural”, in both work and play, and therefore although he needs to practice whether in the school room or on the Quidditch field he rarely needs to exert himself. The structure of the books around a school year and examinations may disguise this, but all of Harry’s important magical adventures focus on his talents and not his learning. Although the Malfoys are always held up as the epitome of evil, the blame is, as has already been indicated and will be discussed further below, placed on their bad blood and not on the structures of aristocracy. In fact Rowling goes to great lengths to deflect attention from the hierarchical and hereditarian ideas with which she litters her novels. By placing almost as much blame on her Thatcherite bourgeoisie, she obscures the construction of the class structure in the books. We are invited to choose, not between aristocracy and their allies, the new rich, and revolutionary change, but between two competing visions of aristocracy. The “good guys” in this structure are the similarly aristocratic (they come from a long line of magical families) Dumbledores, Weasleys and Potters. In the persons of Dumbledore and Mr. Weasley, we are presented the “real” England of Bilbo Baggins and the Shire. When Rowling presents her Wizard Civil Service it is in the model of an imagined nineteenth century in which younger sons served for the privilege of service (only this way can the Weasleys’ poverty be explained) and in which fairness and scrupulous honesty combined with a particular type of stupidity were the hallmarks of a particular sort of English civil servant manifested in book three as Crouch: a man so upright that he condemns his own child to the prison in Azkaban.16 This type of Englishness is further exemplified in Quidditch, a game which combines the public school enthusiasm for rugby with the class structures of Polo and which recreates, unsurprisingly, the English school tradition which prizes the games captain over the head boy and sports agility over mere intelligence and diligence. But finally, this linkage creates a vision of fantasy in which aristocracy is allied with the country gentry in the care of the inferior; a High Toryism or modern liberalism where everyone is nice, and tolerant; where women are in the home and use their magic to speed the cooking and cleaning (Mrs. Weasley, in Chamber, 34) and differences are accepted but we all know who is inferior to whom and treat them nicely because they are inferior: the William Hague understanding of toleration. Here, finally, is where we reach a number of particular knotty problems in the authority structures of Rowling's novels. The visibly articulated structure of the Potter novels
is that birth into a magical family is no guarantee either of magical
ability, or of quality of character. Potter, the headmaster Albus Dumbledore,
and all the other characters we are invited to admire, share this apparent
belief. However, two characters puncture the structure: Filch, the unpleasant
janitor, is the only complete “squib” we meet (Chamber, 145).
Lockhart, also thoroughly unpleasant, appears to have over-rated his magical
abilities. For all the claim that magic is a poor measurement of character,
we meet no-one within this world who is both nice and un-magical: and
both of these characters are laid open to ridicule, Lockhart, understandably,
for trying to be more than he is, but Fitch for attempting to better himself
(Chamber, 128). The hereditarian assumptions of Rowling’s novels are also bolstered by the ever present destinarianism of Hogwarts and its world. Although Albus Dumbledore and other good people preach moral freedom, the evidence is all around Harry that very little is about personal choice. The visible illustration of this sits in front of him once a year: the sorting hat. The role of the sorting hat is to tell people what they are and what they may become. That Harry gets a choice is entirely due, as we later learn, to his contamination by Voldemort, so that his “choice” is actually between two heredities or destinies. It is not a free choice. The extent to which the Hat is constructing a social order is most vividly depicted by Hufflepuff: a house dedicated to the sidekick and creating the mentality of the faithful follower. The faithful follower is one of the last bastions of Tory, Tolkienian England. He is Sam Gamgee in Lord of the Rings17 Bunter in the Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries (Dorothy L. Sayers) or Tumnus the Faun ( in Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe). As the fantasy author China Miéville has observed, the heyday of the English sidekick is definitely “pre-thatcherite but post-feudal: the officer class’s dream of the loyal batman who is allowed in the mess hall, differentiated from serfs by being ‘chums’, at least to some degree.”18 To make it worse, “because they are not slaves they choose their own subordination. The stereotype is defined by its subservience, but within a (capitalist) framework of class-mobility or denied in hereditarianism.”19 Hufflepuffs, technically equal, are, according to that the Hat: “Loyal, hard-working and true...” (Sorcerer’s, 118). But they can never be leaders because somehow they are not fully human, and it is perfectly acceptable to kill off Cedric Diggory, captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, in order to provide out hero with a motive to hold out, and in order to allow Dumbledore to deliver his “consolatory” speech which closes The Goblet of Fire.20 For those readers who know their Star Trek, members of the Hufflepuff house wear the red shirt. They are doomed by their very association with those they follow. And to add to all this, it is simply not possible to accept that people are in Hufflepuff because this is their true character. If this were the case, Hermione should be in Ravenclaw, where those of a, “... ready mind...of wit and learning, will always find their kind” (Sorcerer’s, 118). Her very presence in Gryffindor is a fix to ensure Harry his courtiers. Thus the house structure manipulates and moulds. And finally, if the Hat predicts rather than controls, it is inconceivable that the House of Slytherin be even tolerated. The Hat could assess and expel on the very first day. A more subtle, and perhaps insidious example, is in the matter of Quidditch. As I have already indicated, although this is never stated, Quidditch is a rich man’s sport: like Polo in which the expense of horses limits participation to those with money or those sponsored by money, Quidditch players with old brooms can never compete with those in possession of the latest technological marvels. Yet the possession of these is the source of contention and condemnation. When the Malfoys present the Slytherin team with new brooms, this is presented as cheating; when Harry receives a new, high-powered broom, it is framed as simply good fortune which rectifies a perceived injustice. No comment is made that he now outpowers the competing seekers. This is a sport in which money matters, but in which the moral universe makes some expenditures more acceptable than others. The issue seems to be, however, not how money is used, but who has it. This equation is reinforced when we look at two related issues: Harry and the Dursleys, and Harry's relationship with Ron. Rowling’s depiction of the Dursleys is frankly ridiculous. We are allowed no moral ambiguity. The Dursleys might not be nice but their moral turpitude is underlined with a bright, red brush. However, the ridiculousness of Rowling’s coruscation of the Dursleys disguises a rather unpleasant truth: when Harry’s parents died they left him substantial amounts of money. In normal circumstances, any court would release some portion of that money for his care. Instead, Harry’s proper guardians, the wizards and their government, deliberately choose to leave him to unknown relatives who are expected to care from him without recompense or assistance. The moral issue is cloudy. I am sure we all hope that if our children had to be looked after by others it would be done with absolute altruism. But equally, the impression is that the Potters were rich in the Wizard world. The money can be exchanged (Chamber, 57), yet no provision was made for the financial support of their child. What is Harry’s, is Harry’s but his status as the foundling prince implies that what is Harry’s will be preserved. And while the Dursleys are vile, the wizardly decision not to provide financial support for their care of Harry is not based upon this judgment, for the wizards provide no evidence that they have taken this into account. The second issue is that of Ron Weasley. The Weasleys are poor. Why this should be so, this reader fails to understand: Mr. Weasley is a senior civil servant, the equivalent to a Whitehall “mandarin”, a role which pays rather well in Britain. His two eldest boys are in well paid and prestigious employment Does he have a secret vice, gambling on Quidditch matches for example? But perhaps his poverty is a deliberate indication of his moral stature? If so, it is simplistic. Lloyd Alexander managed this much more effectively with a complex cast of characters whose relative wealth shaped their choices but did dictate their moral compass. Poverty in the Rowling books is all too often used as a short hand for moral virtue; hence Harry is not simply neglected but positively starved. It is worth noting that Tom Riddle/Voldemort’s poverty is less the issue than the abandonment of his mother, which is continually contrasted by the loyalty of Harry’s parents to their child. Clearly the Weasleys act as Potter's moral compass, but there are still uncomfortable issues. For all his supposed generosity, Harry Potter does not use his money to assist Ron. By this I do not mean extravagant presents, but it would be quite within Potter’s power to give Ron birthday and Christmas presents which nicely judged his own spending power and Ron’s desires. Instead, while we see Harry being given presents, we don’t actually hear what he gives to others. His discomfort with his wealth is portrayed, but it remains a cosy, liberal discomfort, not the basis for action. This liberalism points us to another interpretation of the money issue: discussing money is not polite in Britain. Only the nouveau riche (the Dursleys) and the arrogant (the Malfoys) either discuss money or regard it as an indicator of character. Consequently, as Merja Makinen has argued, what we may be reading is less the equation of poverty with moral value, than an assumption that those of genuine value disregard the presence or absence of money as a force in their worlds.21 Throughout the novels, there is a tendency for Harry’s friends to defer to him. Both Hermione, who is brighter, and Ron, who is better acculturated, wait upon Harry’s opinion to validate their actions. This is disguised, ironically, by the comments of Draco Malfoy on this very point. Malfoy operates as the competing prince; contending for attention, for the ideological agenda and for the right of inheritance (see Chamber of Secrets). Effectively, anything Malfoy sneers at must in reality be good, so that we are encouraged to disregard the way the world of friendship very literally spins around Harry. Note that Malfoy’s relationship with his friends mirrors that of Harry—we are allowed to see them as courtiers, but because Hermione and Ron are nicer, and Harry less inclined to bully, it is easy to ignore the fact that the relationships are essentially the same. This is clearest in the first of the books in which Harry’s friendship with Hermione is grudging and his willingness to humiliate her in public no better than Malfoy’s treatment of his acolytes. (Sorcerer’s, 148). But later, it becomes clear that Harry does not seek out friends. Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, Colin and Dobby all seek out Harry and two of these, Hagrid, and Colin, are engaged in hero worship, reinforcing the sense that these are courtiers, as much as friends. Dobby fits another, even more dubious role. If, as I have already argued, Harry’s main quality as hero is to be the “decent chap”, and Hagrid is his batman, then Dobby acts as the “admiring noble savage” whose role in the nineteenth- and early twentieth centuries has been to assist such decent chaps out of scrapes while demonstrating their own emotional dependence.22 I will return to this last point in the final section of this chapter because, as I will explain, it has disturbing ramifications. But deference has a dual function. I have already discussed the extent to which it creates Harry as the character of the prince, but in addition it functions to create the mirage of social mobility. The message of the book is that both Hermione, the born outsider, and Ron, the socially marginal in an aristocratic world, can succeed and get ahead, but hidden in this is the extent to which their social success is dependent upon Harry. When Hermione refuses to speak to either of the boys, in the first book (Sorcerer’s, 164, 171), it is she who is isolated by the decision, and it is partly pity (and, if we are less generous, need) which encourages Harry to re-extend the hand of friendship. Again, Malfoy sees this clearly, consequently encouraging us to disregard it as a factor in the moral order of the novels, but we are shown very clearly in the tensions between Harry and Ron in the third book that Ron both gains and loses in the construction of his moral fibre, by the extent to which his social prominence in the school is dependent upon Harry. The situation with Hermione is more complex. She herself is much more anxious to make her own way, but we are continually shown her dependence on the social hierarchies. Throughout the book, Hermione is accepted in the social structure of the school only because she is Harry’s friend. Some of this (as has been considered by Dresang) is entirely an issue of gender. Hermione is the bossy know-it-all girl and thus doomed to be disliked by her peers. She can be liked only by association, or when she chooses to conform, and will never be permitted to be anything other than a second in command. But in The Goblet of Fire Hermione achieves separation from Harry and attention solely for herself. The attention she receives is predicated first on the magical equivalent of plastic surgery (Goblet, 299, 405, 414), a gender issue which I will not discuss here but of which I feel Rowling should be ashamed, and second, on the attention paid to her by the only other figure presented as more exciting that Potter, Viktor Krum the Quidditch player. Leaving aside the issue that Hermione gains unconditional approval primarily via male attention (note my earlier comment that her efforts at intellectual self improvement are often derided), the point needs to be made that she is also drawn into the cosy social world of wizardry by the approval of a high status insider. Ron Weasley, for all of his insider position, cannot validate her because his status is not high enough. The structure of social acceptance remains hierarchical. School stories, however, are inevitably hierarchies and it is pointless to criticize Rowling simply for her recreation of this, although it should be pointed out that her decision to operate within these conventions is not inevitable. That arch conservative, Enid Blyton, succeeded in creating a convincing pupil run democracy in her Naughtiest Girl stories, which remains impressive to this day. However, the structure of authority within Hogwarts is informative in that it confirms the emphasis on essentially conservative social and fantastical structures. At Hogwarts, Dumbledore, the headmaster, is the man in charge, but he is not the final arbiter. These are the school governors, to whom Dumbledore owes deference and presumably on behalf of whom he runs the school (although there are some hints that the Ministry is in charge). However, while we are told that Dumbledore is responsible to the governors, in practice they appear to be in awe of him. Dumbledore is as much a deferential employee as was Merlin. The employee is more powerful than the employer. Our acceptance of this judgement is made palatable by the clearly greater wisdom which Dumbledore possesses and his insistence at the end of The Goblet of Fire that he is championing the world against a dark threat. This is reinforced by two tactics: first, the retention of Snape, a man manifestly unsuited to be a housemaster—and his retention in this position is serious grounds to question Dumbledore’s wisdom, as is his employment of Lockhart, whom he presumably taught—but whose real role is to highlight Dumbledore’s fairness, or at least his willingness to cheat on behalf of Gryffindor House (but not, interestingly, either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw). The second tactic is to continually undermine Professor McGonagall, an extremely competent woman, presumably, to have reached such a position, but who is shown as prim where Dumbledore is broadminded, rigid where he is flexible, and unfair and hasty where Dumbledore is shown to be willing to listen and fair at least where Harry is concerned. It is possible to see in Dumbledore a parallel to Harry, both actually demonstrate little of their purported superiority, but both are presented against a background in which they emerge the moral victors. I will return to this point in greater detail, but nowhere is this clearer than in The Goblet of Fire where only Dumbledore does not tell Hermione that the elves wish to be slaves. His comment that she simply doesn’t understand and is going about things the wrong way, and his employment of Dobby, make him seem radical in comparison, but the truth is this is only because his foils are so extreme. Finally, Dumbledore’s power is only ever hinted at. He is as powerful at Voldemort but too noble to use this power: a balance which seems to equate active power (and perhaps knowledge) with evil and apparently validates both Dumbledore’s and Harry’s passivity. One question worth considering, however briefly, is whether this will allow Hermione to be cast as potentially evil. To what extent will her role be to be held in check by the less clever or powerful, but the more moral, Harry? Because Dumbledore is all wise, these books, for all that they are presented as children’s books in the school tradition, actually limit childhood autonomy, cutting across the tradition that the school story trope offers space for children to test the boundaries and exert independence. Although Dumbledore is often passive in deeds, he is the individual who outlines the nature of the moral battle which is taking place, usually in his conversations with Harry, and at the end of the fourth book, in his discussions with his colleagues. That Dumbledore fulfils the archetype of Gandalf is blindingly obvious but still significant in that it prepares us for Dumbledore’s prophetic, galvanizing and consolatory role at the end of The Goblet of Fire which might otherwise detract from the protagonist-status of Harry. Instead, Harry and his friends, as the books proceed, increasingly find themselves involved in other people’s concerns. In part this is a product of Rowling’s desire to place Harry at the centre of a global struggle, but whereas in conventional fantasy, such as Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising sequence, which similarly places children at the heart of a global battle between good and evil, the hero comes to act increasingly without adult support, in books three and four, Harry is gathering around himself a coterie of adult protectors and champions including Dumbledore, Snape, Sirius and Lupin,23 who seem to obviate the need for Harry to do anything. This is evident in the denouement of the fourth book: Harry is assisted by adult ghosts until adult rescuers arrive. We don’t immediately see this because, as I have already pointed out, natural immunity—rather than the range of skills which the fantasy hero usually develops—is praised as a sign of great bravery. The truth, is that Harry could have done little beyond what he did. He was not asked to hold out against temptation, because he was asked to give up nothing. Harry’s life was in danger but there was nothing but resistance he could offer. Nothing would have saved his life. We already knew that Harry had a natural talent for resisting the curse. Bravery is about choice and Harry, in this situation, had no choices. If we were looking for the truly brave in The Goblet of Fire, it is to Neville we should look. Rowling’s world of fantasy is one of hierarchy and prejudice. In the awe and wonder of the magical world it is easy to miss the point that attitudes to the non-magical range from contempt to at best patronizing curiosity. The debate between good and evil in these books has little to do with arguments for egalitarianism. Voldemort and his followers, who despise and wish to control all Muggles are opposed, not by espousers of Muggle liberty, equality and fraternity, but by an understanding that Muggles are a naturally inferior species to be protected and cared for, if only because they occasionally throw up a magical “sport” like Lily Potter or Hermione. The debate is between slavery or house pet status, as evidenced by the passage of the Muggle Protection Act (Chamber, 51). The most tolerant attitude we are shown is that of Mr.
Weasley, who finds Muggles, and their ways of managing without magic,
intensely interesting, but who refuses to accept that in many ways, Muggles
are cleverer because they do not have magic. The very ignorance which
the wizards display over Muggle activities is only explainable in terms
of hierarchy. Wizards and Muggles live along side each other. We are informed
in book three that there is only one completely Muggle-free (that is inhabited
by Wizards only) village. It is almost inconceivable, therefore, that
Wizards should be so ignorant of Muggle life-styles. It only works if
we frame it in terms of segregated and imperialist hierarchies, in which
it is the norm that those who regard themselves as superior are oblivious
to the lives of those they control: the madam in South Africa, the colonial
governor in the Indian bungalow. All these people felt little need to
understand those they ruled. The disrespect shown to Muggles, is clearest
in the fourth book: during the Quidditch tournament, no-one seems to object
to the alacrity with which Muggle minds are wiped. While this is obviously
taken from the film Men in Black it does not excuse the sense in which
Muggle memories seem expendable and it is perfectly acceptable to control
Muggles in ways which are explicitly condemned in book three. If any excuse
is offered, it seems to be that Quidditch takes precedence over morality. Although this is a magical world, not all magical creatures
are equal. In reality we are in a world of apartheid in which magical
creatures other than humans are denied wands (Goblet,132) and are presumed
guilty of a crime simply by being found in possession of one (which helps
to explain Madame Maxime’s reluctance to acknowledge her background)
and in which some magical creatures are denied the rights to homes (see
the “de-gnoming”, at Chamber, 35-37, and note that these are
sentient beings with language) and in which others are slaves. Dobby is freed by magical means: Harry ensures that his master presents him with a sock (Chamber, 338), thus fulfilling the edict that house-elves are freed only if they are given clothes. Simply taking garments will not work, and the garments must come from their masters. Thus house-elves are tied in a kind of bondage that is peculiarly difficult to break even if they wanted (Chamber, 28, 177). Self -liberation (unless Rowling changes the rules which may happen) is explicitly denied. These slaves cannot produce a Harriet Tubman, but must wait instead on the dubious assistance of a William Lloyd Garrison, convinced of the power of moral suasion, or the reluctant intervention of a Lincoln. It is thus fortunate, therefore, that with the exception of Dobby, who according to Winky has “ideas above his station” (Goblet, 98) the house-elves do not wish to be freed. Of the all the structures of authority within the Potter books, this is the one which I find most difficult to accept. Given the fact that the Potter books are not yet complete, I accept entirely the probability that by the end of the book the elves will be freed. Dumbledore’s insistence that a moral victory can only be won morally and hence without the assistance of the Dementors seems to imply this (Goblet, 604). I also suspect that the elfish insistence on slavery will prove to be an elfish tactic entirely designed to help the right side win—which will of course make Dobby look irresponsible. In the meantime, however, we are presented with a world in which all the moral authorities appear to approve of slavery and in which the slaves are presented as happy, simple souls who merely wish to serve their families to the best of their ability. No one who has seen Birth of A Nation (1915) or Gone With the Wind (1939) could fail to recognise the resemblance between the relationship of Scarlett O’Hara and Mammy, and of Winky and “Master Barty” (Goblet, 683). Much of the plot, of The Goblet of Fire hinges on the loyalty of a house-elf—a mammy whose first loyalty is to her charge. House elves seem not to be expected to have larger loyalties to abstractions such as good or evil. Their loyalties are only to their masters and their enslavement absolves them from responsibility. Thus the house-elves, for all their competence, are infantilised. The image is reinforced by the characterization of Dobby as the “happy darky”, making jokes, causing mischief, and of Winky, miserable when freed. Without some stories of elf rebellion, which might parallel the very real evidence which has survived from slave narratives and masters’ reports, the images of Dobby and Winky, neatly confirm Stanley Elkins’ long discredited argument for the Sambo complex, in which oppression creates a range of child like behavior, and remakes freedom into a punishment for the institutionalized.24 When Dobby reappears in The Goblet of Fire he is having a hard time. A free house elf, he is discovering what Frederick Douglass discovered one hundred and fifty years ago: a skilled slave is a desirable thing, but a skilled freedman is an unwanted trouble maker. Dobby cannot get work because he wants to be paid for it. This, if nothing else, demonstrates that Hermione is right. The whole system rests on the enslavement of elves. If this were not the case, someone like Mrs. Weasley who bemoans the fact that she has no house elf (Chamber, 29)) could at least supplement her house hold needs with paid elf labor. In the end, Dobby finds refuge at Hogwarts, but he is clearly a charity case. Further, his freed status is undermined both by the attitude of other elves and by the disparagement of what he buys. Somehow, Dobby’s socks are more trivial that Harry’s candy or broomstick repair kit. The contempt heaped on the way Dobby dresses parallels neatly the way “pickaninnies” and maidservants were mocked when they dressed up in what was available or created their own fashions away from the control of their masters. (Goblet, 375-76). However, and to reinforce an earlier point, things could be worse for Dobby, he could be treated like a “common goblin” (Goblet, 98). If it is in the nature of elves to be servants, why are they so clearly owned? Why can they not choose for whom they work as do the house spirits of tradition? But we are clearly shown that Hermione is wrong and that elves do not resent their slavery: while Dobby may be happy, Winky hates freedom. She is a “proper” house-elf and indicates her misery in her uncleanliness and drunkenness proving that house-elves do not want freedom and servants should be kept away from alcohol: every one knows that house-elves cannot cope on their own. (Goblet, 377). When Dobby announces the joys of freedom, the other elves edge away from him. It is the only hint we have that he might be endangering them. The open implication is that they think he is mad. When they force the children out of the kitchen, one senses that nasty things are about to happen to Dobby (later in the book) It is also clear that the elves think Dobby should have stayed even with a bad master (Goblet, 381). Hermione, discovering that Hogwarts is run by house elves, is incensed and determines to campaign for their freedom. Hermione’s objection to the system of slavery on which the magical world rests seems entirely reasonable, yet, whatever Rowling’s eventual intentions, Hermione is undermined at every turn with arguments straight from the American ante-bellum South. Ron argues that the house elves are happy (Goblet, 125) and that they like being bossed around. Mr. Weasley claims to agree with Hermione but insists “now is not the time to discuss elf rights” (Goblet, 139) and has brought up at least one son, Percy, who believes that the only issue is that house elves should be unswervingly loyal (Goblet, 154), while Fred warns Hermione not to talk to the elves as it will put them off their cooking.(Goblet, 367) Hagrid, whose own position as a half giant opens him up to discriminatory assumptions dismisses Dobby with “you get weirdoes in every breed.” Hagrid feels it would be unkind to liberate the elves. It is “in their nature” to want to care for humans. And we know that Dumbledore is paying Dobby. Why can’t he change the terms and conditions for all house elves; he is supreme master at Hogwarts—or is Ron right and they don’t want to be free? At best Dumbledore is a gradualist, like Jefferson, which is a fine position for the slave owner, but not so good for the slave. Further, Hermione is made to look very silly in her campaign (Goblet, 224-5), while Ron, with his continual emphasis that the elves like being slaves, seems to be the sane, mainstream one. Again, Hermione’s assertion that the elves are brainwashed makes her look silly, and undercuts her basic argument Goblet, 229). Whether intentionally or not, Rowling has replicated the 1860s opposition to immediatist abolitionism, making the liberators look extremist and the unhappy slaves the victims of “agent provocateurs”. When Ron teases Hermione, his teasing is a conspicuous attempt to bully her into conforming (Goblet, 377). Whether it works is unclear, but Hermione herself is shown up as a hypocrite when she fails to question the provision of the tournament banquet (Goblet, 416-7). The only indication that Rowling may be playing games with us is with Ron’s casual comment: “We’ve been working like house-elves here” (Goblet, 223). It is obvious that Rowling wants a liberal approach—she is not advocating slavery—but it is the inconsistency of the liberal at work here—she cannot help but use the stereotypes and lacks the inventiveness of, say, the slave relationship in Diana Wynne Jones’ The Homewardbounders (1981). However much the house-elves may turn out to be happy if they are freed, it will never take away the impression of happy “darky” which is created by the character of Winky. Unlike, for example, Gurgi, a superficially similar character in Alexander’s Prydain sequence, there is little example of growth, or of humanity. And to conclude, while Rowling may well be seeking to educate children on the iniquities of slavery, the fact that house-elves absolutely cannot free themselves, but must be freed by others, creates a dynamic in which all justice must be offered from above, rather than taken from below.
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