If, in these pages, written in remembrance of my father, I should tell you my dear friends, nothing new of him, I can, at least, promise you that what I shall tell will be told faithfully, if simply, and perhaps there may be some things not familiar to you.
A great many writers have taken it upon themselves to write lives of my father, to tell anecdotes1 of him, and to print all manner of things about him. Of all these published books I have read but one, the only genuine “Life” thus far written of him, the one sanctioned by my father himself, p. 8namely: “The Life of Charles Dickens,” by John Forster.
But in what I write about my father I shall depend chiefly upon my own memory of him, for I wish no other or dearer remembrance. My love for my father has never been touched or approached by any other love. I hold him in my heart of hearts as a man apart from all other men, as one apart from all other beings.
Of my father’s childhood it is but natural that I should know very little more than the knowledge possessed3 by the great public. But I never remember hearing him allude4 at any time, or under any circumstances, to those unhappy days in his life except in the one instance of his childish love and admiration5 for “Gad’s Hill,” which was destined6 to become so closely associated with his name and works.
He had a very strong and faithful attachment7 for places: Chatham, I think, being his first love in this respect. For it was p. 9here, when a child, and a very sickly child, poor little fellow, that he found in an old spare room a store of books, among which were “Roderick Random,” “Peregrine Pickle,” “Humphrey Clinker,” “Tom Jones,” “The Vicar of Wakefield,” “Don Quixote,” “Gil Blas,” “Robinson Crusoe,” “The Arabian Nights,” and other volumes. “They were,” as Mr. Forster wrote, “a host of friends when he had no single friend.” And it was while living at Chatham that he first saw “Gad’s Hill.”
As a “very queer small boy” he used to walk up to the house—it stood on the summit of a high hill—on holidays, or when his heart ached for a “great treat.” He would stand and look at it, for as a little fellow he had a wonderful liking8 and admiration for the house, and it was, to him, like no other house he had ever seen. He would walk up and down before it with his father, gazing at it with delight, and the latter would tell him that perhaps if he p. 10worked hard, was industrious9, and grew up to be a good man, he might some day come to live in that very house. His love for this place went through his whole life, and was with him until his death. He takes “Mr. Pickwick” and his friends from Rochester to Cobham by the beautiful back road, and I remember one day when we were driving that way he showed me the exact spot where “Mr. Pickwick” called out: “Whoa, I have dropped my whip!” After his marriage he took his wife for the honeymoon10 to a village called Chalk, between Gravesend and Rochester.
Many years after, when he was living with his family in a villa11 near Lausanne, he wrote to a friend: “The green woods and green shades about here are more like Cobham, in Kent, than anything we dream of at the foot of the Alpine12 passes.” And again, in still later years, one of his favorite walks from “Gad’s Hill” was to a village called Shorne, where there was a p. 11quaint old church and graveyard14. He often said that he would like to be buried there, the peace and quiet of the homely15 little place having a tender fascination16 for him. So we see that his heart was always in Kent.
But let this single reference to his earlier years suffice, so that I may write of him during those years when I remember him among us and around us in our home.
From his earliest childhood, throughout his earliest married life to the day of his death, his nature was home-loving. He was a “home man” in every respect. When he became celebrated17 at a very early age, as we know, all his joys and sorrows were taken home; and he found there sympathy and the companionship of his “own familiar friends.” In his letters to these latter, in his letters to my mother, to my aunt, and, later on, to us his children, he never forgot anything that he knew would be of interest about his work, p. 12his successes, his hopes or fears. And there was a sweet simplicity18 in his belief that such news would most certainly be acceptable to all, that is wonderfully touching19 and child-like coming from a man of genius.
His care and thoughtfulness about home matters, nothing being deemed too small or trivial to claim his attention and consideration, were really marvellous when we remember his active, eager, restless, working brain. No man was so inclined naturally to derive20 his happiness from home affairs. He was full of the kind of interest in a house which is commonly confined to women, and his care of and for us as wee children did most certainly “pass the love of women!” His was a tender and most affectionate nature.
For many consecutive21 summers we used to be taken to Broadstairs. This little place became a great favorite with my father. He was always very happy there, p. 13and delighted in wandering about the garden of his house, generally accompanied by one or other of his children. In later years, at Boulogne, he would often have his youngest boy, “The Noble Plorn,” trotting22 by his side. These two were constant companions in those days, and after these walks my father would always have some funny anecdote2 to tell us. And when years later the time came for the boy of his heart to go out into the world, my father, after seeing him off, wrote: “Poor Plorn has gone to Australia. It was a hard parting at the last. He seemed to become once more my youngest and favorite little child as the day drew near, and I did not think I could have been so shaken. These are hard, hard things, but they might have to be done without means or influence, and then they would be far harder. God bless him!”
When my father was arranging and rehearsing his readings from “Dombey,” the p. 14death of “little Paul” caused him such real anguish23, the reading being so difficult to him, that he told us he could only master his intense emotion by keeping the picture of Plorn, well, strong and hearty24, steadily25 before his eyes. We can see by the different child characters in his books what a wonderful knowledge he had of children, and what a wonderful and truly womanly sympathy he had with them in all their childish joys and griefs. I can remember with us, his own children, how kind, considerate and patient he always was. But we were never afraid to go to him in any trouble, and never had a snub from him or a cross word under any circumstances. He was always glad to give us “treats,” as he called them, and used to conceive all manner of those “treats” for us, and if any favor had to be asked we were always sure of a favorable answer. On these occasions my sister “Katie” was generally our messenger, we others waiting p. 15outside the study door to hear the verdict. She and I used to have delightful26 treats in those summer evenings, driving up to Hampstead in the open carriage with him, our mother, and “Auntie,” and getting out for a long walk through the lovely country lanes, picking wild roses and other flowers, or walking hand in hand with him listening to some story.
There never existed, I think, in all the world, a more thoroughly27 tidy or methodical creature than was my father. He was tidy in every way—in his mind, in his handsome and graceful28 person, in his work, in keeping his writing table drawers, in his large correspondence, in fact in his whole life.
I remember that my sister and I occupied p. 16a little garret room in Devonshire Terrace, at the very top of the house. He had taken the greatest pains and care to make the room as pretty and comfortable for his two little daughters as it could be made. He was often dragged up the steep staircase to this room to see some new print or some new ornament29 which we children had put up, and he always gave us words of praise and approval. He encouraged us in every possible way to make ourselves useful, and to adorn30 and beautify our rooms with our own hands, and to be ever tidy and neat. I remember that the adornment31 of this garret was decidedly primitive33, the unframed prints being fastened to the wall by ordinary black or white pins, whichever we could get. But, never mind, if they were put up neatly34 and tidily they were always “excellent,” or “quite slap-up” as he used to say. Even in those early days, he made a point of visiting every room in the house once each morning, and if a p. 17chair was out of its place, or a blind not quite straight, or a crumb35 left on the floor, woe36 betide the offender37.
And then his punctuality! It was almost frightful38 to an unpunctual mind! This again was another phase of his extreme tidiness; it was also the outcome of his excessive thoughtfulness and consideration for others. His sympathy, also, with all pain and suffering made him quite invaluable39 in a sick room. Quick, active, sensible, bright and cheery, and sympathetic to a degree, he would seize the “case” at once, know exactly what to do and do it. In all our childish ailments40 his visits were eagerly looked forward to; and our little hearts would beat a shade faster, and our aches and pains become more bearable, when the sound of his quick footstep was heard, and the encouraging accents of his voice greeted the invalid41. I can remember now, as if it were yesterday, how the touch of his hand—he had a most sympathetic p. 18touch—was almost too much sometimes, the help and hope in it making my heart full to overflowing43. He believed firmly in the power of mesmerism, as a remedy in some forms of illness, and was himself a mesmerist of no mean order; I know of many cases, my own among the number, in which he used his power in this way with perfect success.
And however busy he might be, and even in his hours of relaxation44, he was still, if you can understand me, always busy; he would give up any amount of time and spare himself no fatigue45 if he could in any way alleviate46 sickness and pain.
In very many of my father’s books there are frequent references to delicious meals, wonderful dinners and more marvellous dishes, steaming bowls of punch, etc, which have led many to believe that he was a man very fond of the table. And yet I think no more abstemious47 man ever lived.
In the “Gad’s Hill” days, when the house was full of visitors, he had a peculiar48 notion of always having the menu for the day’s dinner placed on the sideboard at luncheon49 time. And then he would discuss every item in his fanciful, humorous way with his guests, much to this effect: “Cock-a-leekie? Good, decidedly good; fried soles with shrimp50 sauce? Good again; croquettes of chicken? Weak, very weak; decided32 want of imagination here,” and so on, and he would apparently51 be so taken up with the merits or demerits of a menu that one might imagine he lived for nothing but the coming dinner. He had a small but healthy appetite, but was remarkably52 abstemious both in eating and drinking.
He was delightful as a host, caring individually for each guest, and bringing the special qualities of each into full notice and prominence53, putting the very shyest at his or her ease, making the best of the p. 20most humdrum54, and never thrusting himself forward.
But when he was most delightful, was alone with us at home and sitting over dessert, and when my sister was with us especially—I am talking now of our grownup days—for she had great power in “drawing him out.” At such times although he might sit down to dinner in a grave or abstracted mood, he would, invariably, soon throw aside his silence and end by delighting us all with his genial55 talk and his quaint13 fancies about people and things. He was always, as I have said, much interested in mesmerism, and the curious influence exercised by one personality over another. One illustration I remember his using was, that meeting someone in the busy London streets, he was on the point of turning back to accost56 the supposed friend, when finding out his mistake in time he walked on again until he actually met the real friend, whose shadow, as it were, but a moment ago had come across his path.
And then the forgetting of a word or a name. “Now into what pigeon-hole of my brain did that go, and why do I suddenly remember it now?” And as these thoughts passed through his mind and were spoken dreamily, so they also appeared in his face. Another instant, perhaps, and his eyes would be full of fun and laughter.
At the beginning of his literary career he suffered a great sorrow in the death—a very sudden death—of my mother’s sister, Mary Hogarth. She was of a most charming and lovable disposition57, as well as being personally very beautiful. Soon after my parents married, Aunt Mary was constantly with them. As her nature developed she became my father’s ideal of what a young girl should be. And his own words show how this great affection and the influence of the girl’s loved memory were with him to the end of his life. The p. 22shock of her sudden death so affected58 and prostrated59 him that the publication of “Pickwick” was interrupted for two months.
“I look back,” he wrote, “and with unmingled pleasure, to every link which each ensuing week has added to the chain of our attachment. It shall go hard I hope ere anything but death impairs60 the toughness of a bond now so firmly riveted61. That beautiful passage you were so kind and considerate as to send to me has given me the only feeling akin42 to pleasure, sorrowful pleasure it is, that I have yet had connected with the loss of my dear young friend and companion, for whom my love and attachment will never diminish, and by whose side, if it please God to leave me in possession of sense to signify my wishes, my bones whenever or wherever I die, will one day be laid.”
She was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery62, and her grave bears the following inscription63, written by my father:
“Young, beautiful, and good, God in His mercy numbered her among His angels at the early age of seventeen.”
A year after her death, in writing to my mother from Yorkshire, he says: “Is it not extraordinary that the same dreams which have constantly visited me since poor Mary died follow me everywhere? After all the change of scene and fatigue I have dreamt of her ever since I left home, and no doubt shall until I return. I would fain believe, sometimes, that her spirit may have some influence over them, but their perpetual repetition is extraordinary.”
In the course of years there came changes in our home, inevitable64 changes. But no changes could ever alter my father’s home-loving nature. As he wrote to Mr. Forster, as a young man, so it was with him to the time of his death: “We p. 24shall soon meet, please God, and be happier than ever we were in all our lives. Oh! home—home—home!!!”
《A Tale of Two Cities双城记》
《David Copperfield大卫·科波菲尔》《A Tale of Two Cities双城记》
《匹克威克外传 Pickwick Papers》
《董贝父子 Dombey and Son》
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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impairs
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| v.损害，削弱( impair的第三人称单数 ) | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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