Unit 9 · Topic 9.1

9.1 Minor characters and why change matters

A long work spends little time on its minor characters, so they rarely change. Their job is usually to move the plot along or to bring out something in the main characters. With a major character, whether they change or stay the same is often a big part of what the work means.

Key terms

minor character
major character
static character
dynamic character
flat vs. round character

Major and minor, round and flat

A major character gets the story's attention: we see their choices, thoughts and growth. A minor character appears less and usually serves a purpose, like delivering news, causing a problem or showing a contrast. Because the story doesn't follow them closely, minor characters tend to stay the same.

Two pairs of terms help here. A dynamic character changes in an important way; a static character doesn't. A round character is complex and can surprise you; a flat character is built around one or two traits. The novelist E. M. Forster made the round and flat distinction popular in 1927. Most minor characters are flat and static, and that's fine: a flat character can be memorable and useful.

What minor characters are for

Moving the plot: a messenger, a rival, a helper who arrives at the right time.
Revealing a main character: a foil whose contrast makes the main character's traits clear (see 6.1).
Representing a group or value: a character who stands for a social class, a set of rules or a way of life.
Serving as a measuring stick: a character who stays the same, so you can see how far the main character has moved.

Change, or no change, as meaning

For major characters, the question of change is central. When Pip in Charles Dickens's Great Expectations (1861) rises into a gentleman's life, he becomes ashamed of Joe, the kind blacksmith who raised him. Joe barely changes at all. His steady goodness is the measuring stick that shows how far Pip has drifted and, later, how far he has to come back.

A major character who refuses to change can be just as meaningful. Jay Gatsby builds his whole life around recovering the past. When Nick warns him that he can't repeat the past, Gatsby answers, "Why of course you can!" His refusal to change is the heart of the tragedy.

A minor character who sharpens a theme

Wemmick, the clerk at the London law office where Pip gets his money, is a minor character with a memorable split. At the office he is dry and mechanical. At home in Walworth, in a tiny house he calls his Castle, he is warm and devoted to his deaf old father, whom he calls the Aged. He explains: "the office is one thing, and private life is another." He doesn't change, but his divided life mirrors the bigger question of the novel: can a person keep a good heart in a world that runs on money and status?

Worked examples

Try each one yourself first, then open the solution.

Example 1
Explaining a minor character's function
In Great Expectations, Wemmick tells Pip that "the office is one thing, and private life is another," and later asks him to keep his "Walworth sentiments" separate from his "official sentiments." Explain how this minor character helps develop the novel's ideas about Pip.
Show the solutionHide the solution
1. Step 1: Describe the character: Wemmick has two selves, a hard public one at the law office and a kind private one at home.
2. Step 2: Note that he doesn't change. His split is fixed; he manages it on purpose.
3. Step 3: Connect to the main character: Pip is also divided, between his ambitions in London and his loyalty to Joe and the forge. But Pip's division makes him ashamed and unkind.
4. Step 4: Explain the contrast: Wemmick protects his private warmth, while Pip lets ambition crowd his out. The minor character shows the major one what he's losing.
Answer: Sample answer: Wemmick never changes, but his fixed double life helps measure Pip's. By insisting that "the office is one thing, and private life is another," Wemmick keeps his kindness safe at home, where he cares for his father and builds a little Castle with a drawbridge. Pip, by contrast, lets his London ambitions take over his private loyalties and becomes ashamed of Joe. Through this minor character, Dickens shows that the city's cold world of money doesn't have to destroy a good heart, which makes Pip's neglect of Joe a choice he has to answer for rather than something that simply happened to him.

Common mistakes

Dismissing minor characters as unimportant. Ask what purpose each one serves.
Expecting a minor character to change. If one does, that's unusual and worth explaining.
Saying a major character "doesn't change" as a criticism. Explain what the lack of change means.

On the exam

Multiple-choice questions may ask what function a minor character serves in a passage, such as revealing a main character's values. Look at how the main character reacts to them.
In the literary argument essay, comparing a major character's change with a minor character's steadiness is an efficient way to discuss the work as a whole.

Connected topics

Videos

"What is a Flat Character vs a Round Character?": A Literary Guide for English Students and Teachers
OSU School of Writing, Literature and FilmWatch on YouTube (opens in a new tab)
Ophelia, Gertrude, and Regicide - Hamlet Part 2: Crash Course Literature 204
CrashCourseWatch on YouTube (opens in a new tab)
Dynamic vs. Static Character
MelissaWatch on YouTube (opens in a new tab)
Dynamic vs. Static Characters (why you need both!)
ReedsyWatch on YouTube (opens in a new tab)
Types of Characters
Educational TutorialsWatch on YouTube (opens in a new tab)

Check yourself

4 questions on 9.1 Minor characters and why change matters. Pick an answer to see if you got it, and why.

ALGERNON. Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on! Tell me the whole thing. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.

JACK. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?

ALGERNON. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the country.

JACK. Well, produce my cigarette case first.

ALGERNON. Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce your explanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]

JACK. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. In fact it’s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.

ALGERNON. Where is that place in the country, by the way?

JACK. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited . . . I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.

ALGERNON. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town and Jack in the country?

JACK. My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to understand my real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. It’s one’s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness, in order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.

ALGERNON. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility!

JACK. That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.

ALGERNON. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.

JACK. What on earth do you mean?

ALGERNON. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.

JACK. I haven’t asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night.

ALGERNON. I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out invitations. It is very foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations.

JACK. You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.

ALGERNON. I haven’t the smallest intention of doing anything of the kind. To begin with, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is quite enough to dine with one’s own relations. In the second place, whenever I do dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, and sent down with either no woman at all, or two. In the third place, I know perfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night. She will place me next Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the dinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent . . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one’s clean linen in public. Besides, now that I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist I naturally want to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you the rules.

JACK. I’m not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am going to kill my brother, indeed I think I’ll kill him in any case. Cecily is a little too much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going to get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise you to do the same with Mr. . . . with your invalid friend who has the absurd name.

ALGERNON. Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.

JACK. That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen, and she is the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I certainly won’t want to know Bunbury.

ALGERNON. Then your wife will. You don’t seem to realise, that in married life three is company and two is none.

JACK. [Sententiously.] That, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corrupt French Drama has been propounding for the last fifty years.

ALGERNON. Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the time.

JACK. For heaven’s sake, don’t try to be cynical. It’s perfectly easy to be cynical.

ALGERNON. My dear fellow, it isn’t easy to be anything nowadays. There’s such a lot of beastly competition about. [The sound of an electric bell is heard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I get her out of the way for ten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen, may I dine with you to-night at Willis’s?

JACK. I suppose so, if you want to.

ALGERNON. Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act I (first performed 1895; published 1899)

Question 1 of 4

Aunt Augusta, heard only as “an electric bell” ringing “in that Wagnerian manner” (paragraph 27), affects the scene chiefly by

LUBOV. We go away, and not a soul remains behind.

LOPAKHIN. Till the spring.

VARYA. [Drags an umbrella out of a bundle, and seems to be waving it about. LOPAKHIN appears to be frightened] What are you doing?... I never thought...

TROFIMOV. Come along, let’s take our seats... it’s time! The train will be in directly.

VARYA. Peter, here they are, your goloshes, by that trunk. [In tears] And how old and dirty they are....

TROFIMOV. [Putting them on] Come on!

GAEV. [Deeply moved, nearly crying] The train... the station.... Cross in the middle, a white double in the corner....

LUBOV. Let’s go!

LOPAKHIN. Are you all here? There’s nobody else? [Locks the side-door on the left] There’s a lot of things in there. I must lock them up. Come!

ANYA. Good-bye, home! Good-bye, old life!

TROFIMOV. Welcome, new life! [Exit with ANYA.]

[VARYA looks round the room and goes out slowly. YASHA and CHARLOTTA, with her little dog, go out.]

LOPAKHIN. Till the spring, then! Come on... till we meet again! [Exit.]

[LUBOV ANDREYEVNA and GAEV are left alone. They might almost have been waiting for that. They fall into each other’s arms and sob restrainedly and quietly, fearing that somebody might hear them.]

GAEV. [In despair] My sister, my sister....

LUBOV. My dear, my gentle, beautiful orchard! My life, my youth, my happiness, good-bye! Good-bye!

ANYA’S VOICE. [Gaily] Mother!

TROFIMOV’S VOICE. [Gaily, excited] Coo-ee!

LUBOV. To look at the walls and the windows for the last time.... My dead mother used to like to walk about this room....

GAEV. My sister, my sister!

ANYA’S VOICE. Mother!

TROFIMOV’S VOICE. Coo-ee!

LUBOV. We’re coming! [They go out.]

[The stage is empty. The sound of keys being turned in the locks is heard, and then the noise of the carriages going away. It is quiet. Then the sound of an axe against the trees is heard in the silence sadly and by itself. Steps are heard. FIERS comes in from the door on the right. He is dressed as usual, in a short jacket and white waistcoat; slippers on his feet. He is ill. He goes to the door and tries the handle.]

FIERS. It’s locked. They’ve gone away. [Sits on a sofa] They’ve forgotten about me.... Never mind, I’ll sit here.... And Leonid Andreyevitch will have gone in a light overcoat instead of putting on his fur coat.... [Sighs anxiously] I didn’t see.... Oh, these young people! [Mumbles something that cannot be understood] Life’s gone on as if I’d never lived. [Lying down] I’ll lie down.... You’ve no strength left in you, nothing left at all.... Oh, you... bungler!

[He lies without moving. The distant sound is heard, as if from the sky, of a breaking string, dying away sadly. Silence follows it, and only the sound is heard, some way away in the orchard, of the axe falling on the trees.]

Curtain.

Anton Chekhov, The Cherry Orchard (1904), the end of Act IV, translated by Julius West (1916)

Question 2 of 4

Fiers’s appearance after everyone has left (paragraphs 24–25) is significant chiefly because

Question 3 of 4

Lubov’s statement in paragraph 1, “We go away, and not a soul remains behind,” becomes ironic by the end of the passage because

All night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places instead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now pigs, now men,—never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me until the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and partly dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in taking it fell asleep.

Biddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not sleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when I started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the afternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the clinking of the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the resolution to go downstairs. After all, I remained up there, repeatedly unlocking and unstrapping my small portmanteau and locking and strapping it up again, until Biddy called to me that I was late.

It was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal, saying with a sort of briskness, as if it had only just occurred to me, “Well! I suppose I must be off!” and then I kissed my sister who was laughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair, and kissed Biddy, and threw my arms around Joe’s neck. Then I took up my little portmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them was, when I presently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back, saw Joe throwing an old shoe after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped then, to wave my hat, and dear old Joe waved his strong right arm above his head, crying huskily “Hooroar!” and Biddy put her apron to her face.

I walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had supposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to have had an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High Street. I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very peaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to show me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all beyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave and sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the village, and I laid my hand upon it, and said, “Good-bye, O my dear, dear friend!”

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried than before,—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe with me then.

So subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in the course of the quiet walk, that when I was on the coach, and it was clear of the town, I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would not get down when we changed horses and walk back, and have another evening at home, and a better parting. We changed, and I had not made up my mind, and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite practicable to get down and walk back, when we changed again. And while I was occupied with these deliberations, I would fancy an exact resemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us, and my heart would beat high.—As if he could possibly be there!

We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations, Chapter 19 (1861)

Question 4 of 4

Joe and Biddy’s farewell in paragraph 3, throwing old shoes, Joe crying “Hooroar!” and Biddy putting “her apron to her face,” chiefly presents them as

0 of 4 answered