Charles Dickens was born at Portsea, in 1812, an offspring of what the accurate English call the
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“lower middle class.” Inheriting something from a father who was decidedly Micawberish, and a mother who resembled Mrs. Nickleby, Charles was not likely to be a humdrum1 child. But the remarkable2 thing about him was the intense, aspiring3, and gaily4 sensible spirit with which he entered into the business of developing whatever gifts he had received from his vague and amiable5 parents.
The fat streak6 of comfort in his childish years, when his proud father used to stand the tiny lad on a table to sing comic songs for an applauding audience of relatives, could not spoil him. The lean streak of misery7, when the improvident8 family sprawled9 in poverty, with its head in a debtors’ prison, while the bright, delicate, hungry boy roamed the streets, or drudged in a dirty blacking-factory, could not starve him. The two dry years of school at Wellington House Academy could not fossilize him. The years from fifteen to nineteen, when he was earning his bread as office-boy, lawyers’ clerk, shorthand reporter, could not commercialize him. Through it all he burned his way painfully and joyously10.
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He was not to be detailed11 as a perpetual comic songster in upholstered parlors12; nor as a prosperous frock-coated citizen with fatty degeneration of the mind; nor as a newspaper politician, a power beneath the footstool. None of these alluring13 prospects14 delayed him. He passed them by, observing everything as he went, now hurrying, now sauntering, for all the world like a boy who has been sent somewhere. Where it was, he found out in his twenty-fifth year, when the extraordinary results of his self-education bloomed in the Pickwick Papers and Oliver Twist.
Never was a good thing coming out of Nazareth more promptly15 welcomed. The simple-minded critics of that day had not yet discovered the damning nature of popularity, and they hailed the new genius in spite of the fact that hundreds of thousands of people were reading his books. His success was exhilarating, overwhelming, and at times intoxicating16.
It was roses, roses all the way.—
Some of them had thorns, which hurt his thin skin horribly, but they never made him despair or doubt
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the goodness of the universe. Being vexed17, he let it off in anger instead of distilling18 it into pessimism19 to poison himself. Life was too everlastingly20 interesting for him to be long unhappy. A draught21 of his own triumph would restore him, a slice of his own work would reinvigorate him, and he would go on with his industrious22 dreaming.
No one enjoyed the reading of his books more than he the making of them, though he sometimes suffered keenly in the process. That was a proof of his faith that happiness does not consist in the absence of suffering, but in the presence of joy. Dulness, insincerity, stupid humbug—voilà l’ennemi! So he lived and wrote with a high hand and an outstretched arm. He made men see what he saw, and hate what he hated, and love what he loved. This was his great reward,—more than money, fame, or hosts of friends,—that he saw the children of his brain enter into the common life of the world.
CHARLES DICKENS AS CAPTAIN BOBADIL IN “EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR.”
Painted by C. R. Leslie.
But he was not exempt23 from the ordinary laws of nature. The conditions of his youth left their marks for good and evil on his maturity24. The petting of his babyhood gave him the habit of showing
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off. We often see him as a grown man, standing25 on the table and reciting his little piece, or singing his little song, to please an admiring audience. He delighted in playing to the galleries.
His early experience of poverty made him at once tremendously sympathetic and invincibly26 optimistic—both of which virtues27 belong to the poor more than to the rich. Dickens understood this and never forgot it. The chief moralities of his poor people are mutual29 helpfulness and unquenchable hopefulness. From them, also, he caught the tone of material comfort which characterizes his visions of the reward of virtue28. Having known cold and hunger, he simply could not resist the desire to make his favourite characters—if they stayed on earth till the end of the book—warm and “comfy,” and to give them plenty to eat and drink. This may not have been artistic30, but it was intensely human.
The same personal quality may be noted31 in his ardour as a reformer. No writer of fiction has ever done more to better the world than Charles Dickens. But he did not do it by setting forth32 programmes of legislation and theories of government. As a
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matter of fact, he professed33 an amusing “contempt for the House of Commons,” having been a Parliamentary reporter; and of Sir Robert Peel, who emancipated34 the Catholics, enfranchised35 the Jews, and repealed36 the Corn Laws, he thought so little that he caricatured him as Mr. Pecksniff.
Dickens felt the evils of the social order at the precise point where the shoe pinched; he did not go back to the place where the leather was tanned or the last designed. It was some practical abuse in poorhouses or police-courts or prisons; it was some hidden shame in the conduct of schools, or the renting of tenements37; it was some monumental absurdity38 in the Circumlocution39 Office, some pompous40 and cruel delay in the course of justice, that made him hot with indignation. These were the things that he assailed41 with Rabelaisian laughter, or over which he wept with a deeper and more sincere pity than that of Tristram Shandy. His idea was that if he could get people to see that a thing was both ridiculous and cruel, they would want to stop it. What would come after that, he did not clearly know, nor had he any particularly valuable suggestions
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to make, except the general proposition that men should do justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly42 with their God.
He took no stock in the doleful predictions of the politicians that England was in an awful state merely because Lord Coodle was going out of office, and Sir Thomas Doodle would not come in, and each of these was the only man to save the country. The trouble seemed to him deeper and more real. It was a certain fat-witted selfishness, a certain callous43, complacent44 blindness in the people who were likely to read his books. He conceived that his duty as a novelist was done when he had shown up the absurd and hateful things, and made people laugh at their ugliness, weep over their inhumanity, and long to sweep them away.
In this attitude, I think, Dickens was not only natural, and true to his bringing-up, but also wise as a great artist in literature. For I have observed that brilliant writers, while often profitable as satirists to expose abuses, are seldom judicious45 as legislators to plan reforms.
Before we leave this subject of the effects of
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Dickens’s early poverty and sudden popularity, we must consider his alleged46 lack of refinement47. Some say that he was vulgar, others that he was ungrateful and inconsiderate of the feelings of his friends and relations, others that he had little or no taste. I should rather say, in the words of the old epigram, that he had a great deal of taste, and that some of it was very bad.
Take the matter of his caricaturing real people in his books. No one could object to his use of the grotesque48 insolence49 of a well-known London magistrate50 as the foundation of his portrait of Mr. Fang51 in Oliver Twist. That was public property. But the amiable eccentricities52 of his own father and mother, the airy irresponsible ways of his good friend Leigh Hunt, were private property. Yet even here Dickens could not reasonably be blamed for observing them, for being amused by them, or for letting them enrich his general sense of the immense, incalculable, and fantastic humour of the world. Taste, which is simply another name for the gusto of life, has a comic side; and a man who is keenly sensitive to everything cannot be expected
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to be blind to the funny things that happen among his family and friends. But when Dickens used these private delights for the public amusement, and in such a form that the partial portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, Mrs. Nickleby, and Harold Skimpole were easily identified, all that we can say is that his taste was still there, but it had gone bad. What could you expect? Where, in his early years, was he likely to have learned the old-fashioned habit of reserve in regard to private affairs, which you may call either a mark of good manners, or a sign of silly pride, according to your own education?
Or take his behavior during his first visit to America in 1842, and immediately after his return to England. His reception was enough to turn anybody’s head. “There never was a king or emperor,” wrote Dickens to a friend, “so cheered and followed by crowds, and entertained at splendid balls and dinners, and waited upon by public bodies of all kinds.” This was at the beginning. At the end he was criticized by all, condemned53 by many, and abused by some of the newspapers. Why? Chiefly
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because he used the dinners given in his honour as occasions to convict the Americans of their gross national sin of literary piracy54, and because when he got home he wrote a book of American Notes, containing some very severe strictures upon the country which had just entertained him so magnificently.
Mr. Chesterton defends Dickens for his attack upon the American practice of book-stealing which grew out of the absence of an International Copyright Law. He says that it was only the new, raw sensibility of the Americans that was hurt by these speeches. “Dickens was not in the least desirous of being thought too ‘high-souled’ to want his wages.... He asked for his money in a valiant55 and ringing voice, like a man asking for his honour.” And this, Mr. Chesterton leaves us to infer, is what any bold Englishman, as distinguished56 from a timidly refined American, would do.
Precisely57. But if the bold Englishman had been gently-bred would he have accepted an invitation to dinner in order that he might publicly say to his host, in a valiant and ringing voice, “You owe me
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a thousand pounds”? Such procedure at the dinner-table is contrary not only to good manners but also to good digestion58. This is what Mr. Chesterton’s bold British constitution apparently59 prevents him from seeing. What Dickens said about international copyright was right. But he was wretchedly wrong in his choice of the time and place for saying it. The natural irritation60 which his bad taste produced was one of the causes which delayed for fifty years the success of the efforts of American authors to secure copyright for foreign authors.
The same criticism applies to the American Notes. Read them again and you will see that they are not bad notes. With much that he says about Yankee boastfulness and superficiality, and the evils of slavery, and the dangers of yellow journalism61, every sane62 American will agree to-day. But the occasion which Dickens took for making these remarks was not happily chosen. It was as if a man who had just been entertained at your house should write to thank you for the pleasure of the visit, and improve the opportunity to point out the shocking
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defects of your domestic service and the exceedingly bad tone which pervaded63 your establishment. Such a “bread-and-butter letter” might be full of good morals, but their effect would be diminished by its bad manners. Of this Dickens was probably quite unconscious. He acted spontaneously, irrepressibly, vivaciously64, in accordance with his own taste; and it surprised and irritated him immensely that people were offended by it.
It was precisely so in regard to his personal appearance. When the time suddenly arrived that he could indulge his taste in dress without fear of financial consequences, he did so hilariously65 and to the fullest extent. Here is a description of him as he appeared to an American girl at an evening party in Cincinnati eighty years ago. “He is young and handsome, has a mellow66 beautiful eye, fine brow and abundant hair.... His manner is easy and negligent67, but not elegant. His dress was foppish68.... He had a dark coat with lighter69 pantaloons; a black waistcoat embroidered70 with coloured flowers; and about his neck, covering his white shirt-front, was a black neck-cloth also embroidered with
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colours, on which were two large diamond pins connected by a chain; a gold watch-chain and a large red rose in his buttonhole completed his toilet.”
The young lady does not seem to have been delighted with this costume. But Dickens did not dress to please her, he dressed to please himself. His taste was so exuberant71 that it naturally effervesced72 in this kind of raiment. There was certainly nothing immoral73 about it. He had paid for it and he had a right to wear it, for to him it seemed beautiful. He would have been amazed to know that any young lady did not like it; and her opinion would probably have had little effect upon him, for he wrote of the occasion on which this candid74 girl met him, as follows: “In the evening we went to a party at Judge Walker’s and were introduced to at least one hundred and fifty first-rate bores, separately and singly.”
But what does it all amount to, this lack of discretion75 in manners, this want of reserve in speech, this oriental luxuriance in attire76? It simply goes to show that Dickens himself was a Dickens character.
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He was vivid, florid, inexhaustible, and untamed. There was material in the little man for a hundred of his own immortal77 caricatures. The self-portrait that he has drawn78 in David Copperfield is too smooth, like a retouched photograph. That is why David is less interesting than half-a-dozen other people in the book. If Dickens could have seen his own humourous aspects in the magic mirror of his fancy, it would have been among the richest of his observations, and if he could have let his enchantment79 loose upon the subject, not even the figures of Dick Swiveller and Harold Skimpole would have been more memorable80 than the burlesque81 of “Boz” by the hand of C. D.
But the humourous, the extravagant82, the wildly picturesque,—would these have given a true and complete portrait of the man? Does it make any great difference what kind of clothes he wore, or how many blunders of taste and tact83 he made, even tragic84 blunders like his inability to refrain from telling the world all about his domestic unhappiness,—does all this count for much when we look back upon the wonders which his imagination
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wrought in fiction, and upon the generous fruits which his heart brought forth in life?
It is easy to endure small weaknesses when you can feel beneath them the presence of great and vital power. Faults are forgiven readily in one who has the genius of loving much. Better many blunders than the supreme85 mistake of a life that is
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.
Charles Dickens never made, nor indeed was tempted86 to make, that mistake. He carried with him the defects of his qualities, the marks of his early life, the penalties of his bewildering success. But, look you, he carried them—they did not crush him nor turn him from his true course. Forward he marched, cheering and beguiling87 the way for his comrades with mirthful stories and tales of pity, lightening many a burden and consoling many a dark and lonely hour, until he came at last to the goal of honour and the haven88 of happy rest. Those who knew him best saw him most clearly as Carlyle did: “The good, the gentle, high-gifted, ever-friendly, noble Dickens,—every inch of him an Honest Man.”
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1
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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industrious
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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invincibly
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| adv.难战胜地，无敌地 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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forth
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professed
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enfranchised
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| v.给予选举权( enfranchise的过去式和过去分词 )；（从奴隶制中）解放 | |
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repealed
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| 撤销，废除( repeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenements
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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condemned
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piracy
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| n.海盗行为，剽窃，著作权侵害 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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digestion
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apparently
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irritation
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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hilariously
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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70
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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71
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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72
effervesced
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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75
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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76
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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77
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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78
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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80
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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81
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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82
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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83
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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84
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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85
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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86
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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87
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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88
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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