Dickensblog

'The Last Dickens,' part five

"'I wonder was Milton visited by angels or by devils when he wrote -- and who is it that appears to me?'" (p. 232)

This book could be subtitled "The Opium Wars." The stuff is everywhere. Osgood is lured into an opium den in search of clues, and nearly done away with; Francis continues to enforce the British trade in India (and it's horrid to read about how Indians could get in trouble for growing a little rice to keep from starving, when all the British wanted them to do was to grow more opium); near Gadshill, the local innkeeper's son has been lost to its siren song. And then there's "Datchery," Dickens's mesmerism patient who renamed himself after one of the author's characters: Why does he leave an opium poppy on Dickens's grave?

Dickens knew well what an opium den looked like, or at least that's Osgood's impression when he enters the place: "Witnessing this squalor was like seeing photographs of scenes from The Mystery of Edwin Drood!" The great unspoken question looming here is, with that knowledge, how would Dickens have viewed his son's career? (Of course, he takes a little himself in the form of laudanum, but for medicinal purposes only -- and it doesn't seem to help much, anyway.)

We don't get any answers to that yet, even though we do flash back again to Dickens on his reading tour. We get more of his kindness and tenderness in this part, and some of his camaraderie with his friends and assistants.

"I have come to be fond of you, Tom. Do not abandon saying your private prayers, as you likely do -- I never have myself, and I know the comfort of it. If I should live to publish more, I'd want you to read my books, whether or not you can make out that they have anything to do with your own life. Will you do it?"

"Yes," Tom said.

"Good, you will be a reader I am proud of." (p. 233)

We also get a rather wild story about a stalker. In an essay for Borders (I think you may need a Borders Rewards membership to read it), Matthew Pearl writes, "As my work continued, in the crevices and corners of my research, I discovered there was an actual Dickens stalker at that exact time." Pretty fascinating discovery, but I doubt that stalker went to the lengths that this one in the book does!

We finish this section with Osgood and Rebecca hot on the trail of the mastermind who both killed Daniel and tried to put Osgood out of commission. As Osgood exclaims, "It must be [the same person]! Dickens himself could not write such a discovery as coincidence!" (p. 252)

Well put.

'The Last Dickens,' part four

Osgood thought about Dickens's popularity. People had gone to church to pray for Little Nell, they had cried for Paul Dombey as though for their own son, they had cheered -- how they cheered at Tremont Temple -- when Tiny Tim was saved. His books became real for everyone who read them, whether the humble laborer in the Strand or the patrician in Mayfair. That is why even those who never in their life read any novels, would read his. (pp. 135-6)

We're back in 1870 with Rebecca and Osgood as they arrive in England. Here we meet Dickens's sister-in-law Georgy (sweet and likable), his daughter Mamie (sweet and likable), and his friend and biographer-to-be John Forster (snotty, jealous, sexist, and curmudgeonly. But still somehow likable. I'm not sure I'm supposed to like him, but he's such a hoot I can't help it. This is what comes of too many viewings of House, I suppose). Later on we meet Mamie's married sister Katie, an incessant flirt with something of Fanny Dorrit about her.

While the ladies of Gadshill are selling things and closing up the house -- there not being enough money for them to stay on -- the Americans are exploring every corner of the estate and running around London to try to pick up clues about Drood. Along the way we see a bit of Dickens's will, which directs that he be buried humbly, and a description of his grave, which is not at all humble, thanks to Forster -- so add "disrespectful of the wishes of the dead" to Forster's other less-than-sterling qualities. We also learn about Dickens's practice of mesmerism, which sounds like it didn't go very well, when servant Henry Scott tells the story of a local man who was treated by Dickens: "'One of the cooks told me that the farmer's illness was better, but his mental condition had become feeble during those mesmerism sessions." (Page 161) And eventually we find out that "feeble" is far too weak a word for it. Interesting. I wonder if these ill-conceived experiments will play any further part in the narrative. . . .

'The Last Dickens,' part three

Flashback time. And now we come to the REALLY fun stuff. We're taken back two-and-a-half years to Dickens's last reading tour in America. And when I say that these readings have all the elements of a nineteenth-century rock concert, I'm not kidding. It's all there: the entourage, the paparazzi, the ticket lines, the scalpers, the groupies, right down to the sound checks. Even the fans who find that the performer can't live up to their own expectations or fit in with their imaginings.

"But that ain't the real Charles Dickens, the man whose books I've been reading all these years?"

"Yes!"

"Well, all I've got to say about it then is, that he knows no more about Mister Scrooge than a cow does of pleatin' a shirt, not my ideas of Scrooge, anyhow." p. 127

And what of the rock star himself? A recent review (which I can't find at the moment, but will try to link to later) of a novel about Catherine Dickens, Girl in a Blue Dress, asked whether there has ever been a successful fictionalization of Catherine's husband. The truth seems to be that the man had so outsized a personality that it would be a Herculean task to capture it. Pearl wisely doesn't try to create a comprehensive characterization. He leaves his portrait a bit sketchy -- unlike some of the members of Dickens's entourage, whom we get to know fairly well, the central character always feels a little remote. But various familiar though contradictory elements gleam out here and there -- the heroism and the selfishness, the wild exuberance and the melancholy, the sly humor turning suddenly to anxiety.

Add to all that the fact, unlike most rock stars, Dickens actually follows through on his stated concern for the poor and refuses to let them be charged too much for tickets, and I'd say we have a pretty accurate and admirable characterization here.

This is the liveliest and best written part of the book so far, and I wouldn't be surprised if it should turn out to be the part that Pearl enjoyed writing most. Thus far it's the part I've enjoyed reading most.

'The Last Dickens,' part two

"'What . . . do . . . I . . . want? Dickens!'" p. 54

And the Dickens plot thickens (sorry). We've been finding out just how many people have a stake in the fate of Edwin Drood and how high the stakes are. Already jobs have been threatened by the author's death; the American firm of Fields, Osgood and Company owes practically all its success to him. This state of affairs is especially hard on Rebecca Sand, a divorced bookkeeper at the firm and thus in a precarious position for a young woman in 1870. Now the theft of the last installment threatens the firm's rights to publish it. They could send for a duplicate, but if another publisher puts out the stolen edition first, they're pretty much toast -- unless they could find out how Dickens intended to end the story, and publish their own edition that exclusively reveals the solution to the mystery.

So the need to find out everything they can about Dickens's plans for the book sends Rebecca and her boss James Osgood on an ocean voyage to England, during which Osgood is pursued by both homicidal villains and giggling girls, and Rebecca has a hard time deciding which she dislikes more.

We also revisit India and find out that the Dickens mentioned in chapter 1 was not Charles, but his son Francis, who's dealing with some major daddy issues. And the improbable thread that keeps reappearing, tying all these people together, is opium. It may or may not have been responsible for Rebecca's brother's death; Francis's job revolves around it; and of course it plays a prominent role in Edwin Drood.

Herman the turbaned would-be assassin is satisfyingly creepy -- almost Blandois-like as he sits in his prison cell singing nursery rhymes and killing rats. ("Then there was a sound, like a rat squealing" made my blood run cold.) Not all the minor characters are as well drawn, but Rebecca and Osgood are appealing and sympathetic. The narrative is exciting when it really gets going, though at this point it seems to be moving in fits and starts. Anything set in India spurs it to such a gallop that some of the events blur as they rush by, while at other parts the plot and language grow slow and formal. Hopefully things will smooth out a bit as we get further along. . .

'The Last Dickens,' part one

"Dickens! -- That strange word, that name of names . . ." The Last Dickens, p. 32

As promised, we'll be going through Matthew Pearl's new novel this week. The book starts off, improbably, with an arrest, an escape, and a bloody death in India in 1870. Pearl's language here is a bit stiff, almost cursory, and the narrative a bit rushed, and one is just starting to wonder what this is all about when suddenly, one of the British soldiers asks out of nowhere, "But won't we, if Dickens, I mean . . ."

And presto, we're in Boston, where the hunt is on for a mysterious bundle of papers -- the last installment of Edwin Drood that Dickens wrote before he died, as it turns out. In the next four chapters, there's another death, two robberies (or rather, one robbery and one attempted robbery), and what looks like the beginning of a romance. And a few names that Dickens would have loved, like Montague Midges and Sylvanus Bendall.

"Sylvanus Bendall was a different breed. He welcomed risk. He opened the door and invited risk in, taking its coat and brushing its boots and serving it tea in his living room." p. 23

The pace is certainly breakneck, but I like it. It pulls you into the story and sweeps you breathlessly along, and the prose loosens up and begins to flow -- and the really cool thing is that it's an adventure story about publishing, of all things. Who knew the American publishing industry of 1870 was such a jungle? Some of the publishers even have their own mercenaries (with the marvelous name of "Bookaneers"!) who hang out at docks and try to swipe manuscripts coming from England. And of course "the last Dickens" is an invaluable prize, both for these pirates and for the ordinary men and women on the docks who would love to get their hands on it.

"A poetic brickmaker noted that he had attended all of Dickens's public readings at the Tremont Temple in Boston two and a half years earlier, waiting in line when it was so cold the mercury was clean out of sight. . . . A mechanic perched near the corpse announced he had read Dickens's David Copperfield four times, but this was eclipsed by six! eight! and nine! from others. One old man began to cry and it seemed to be for the accident victim's sad fate, until he whispered, 'Poor dear old Dickens, noble Dickens.'" p. 24

And they try to tell us today that literature isn't for the masses and books need to be dumbed down. Pffft.

That's chapters 1-5. More tomorrow!

’David Copperfield,’ part three

Ciarin McMenamin as older David comes across as a little blank (especially in comparison with his expressive younger self). In a way it's understandable -- David in the novel is so occupied with holding together all the threads of the book and being impacted by so many colorful characters that he often seems to act as a background figure in his own story. Still, it would have been nice to see him engaging a little more actively in things. Joanna Page's Dora, by contrast, is so enjoyable that I found the character much more appealing than I ever have before. Another highlight in this section is Dawn French as Mrs. Crupp -- except I missed "I'm a mother myself," a classic line and the crowning touch to her character.

With the story condensed like this, Dickens's beloved coincidences are brought out in sharp relief, with Steerforth and Micawber popping up out of the woodwork almost simultaneously. (Agnes's "Sometimes it is wiser to leave the past alone" at this juncture makes me wonder if she would have been one of those "Facebook is evil!" people who are becoming so trendy just now.) I miss David's drunk scene; "Steerforth, you'retheguidingstarofmyexistence" is unfailingly one of the comic highlights of the book for me. Steerforth himself is very good, though he moons over Rosa too much instead of being playful with her, making their scenes work not quite as well as they should. I'm glad they kept his line about wishing he had had a judicious father. It's a profound and revealing insight.

Interesting choice to tell Ham that it was Steerforth he was going to save. It's a very rare thing for an adapter to make a character nobler than he or she is in the original work. Normally it's the other way around.

I love the ending (except I'd like to take both David and Agnes on What Not to Wear and get those frightful hairdos fixed). It was a lovely idea to finish up with Betsey Trotwood at last holding her longed-for goddaughter.

All in all, a thoroughly pleasant adaptation with some truly great acting. If there was a little falling off in quality in the second half, at least it wasn't nearly as sharp a decline as in the second half of Oliver Twist. Highly recommended.

Inspired by Drood

Here are three unsolved mysteries. How did Charles Dickens intend his last novel to end? Why have we recently had a outbreak of fiction inspired by it? And, perhaps strangest of all, why do we have such an enduring interest in the secrets of the Victorians?

The Independent, March 13, 2009

Karen Hall of Some Have Hats offers her take on the first three chapters of Dan Simmons's Drood here. And next week I'll be sharing my impressions of Matthew Pearl's The Last Dickens, which will be released here in the U.S. on Tuesday. (Thanks again to Mr. Pearl and Random House for the review copy!)

Donkeys and deer

As always in the spring, I'm fighting the deer for possession of my flowers. This has made me especially sympathetic to Miss Betsey.

To this hour I don't know whether my aunt had any lawful right of way over that patch of green, but she had settled it in her own mind that she had, and it was all the same to her. The one great outrage of her life, demanding to be constantly avenged, was the passage of a donkey over that immaculate spot. In whatever occupation she was engaged, however interesting to her the conversation in which she was taking part, a donkey turned the current of her ideas in a moment, and she was upon him straight. Jugs of water, and watering-pots, were kept in secret places ready to be discharged on the offending boys; sticks were laid in ambush behind the door; sallies were made at all hours, and incessant war prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excitement to the donkey-boys, or, perhaps, the more sagacious of the donkeys, understanding how the case stood, delighted with constitutional obstinacy in coming that way. I only know that there were three alarms before the bath was ready, and that on the occasion of the last and most desperate of all, I saw my aunt engage, single-handed, with a sandy-headed lad of fifteen, and bump his sandy head against her own gate, before he seemed to comprehend what was the matter. These interruptions were the more ridiculous to me because she was giving me broth out of a table-spoon at the time (having firmly persuaded herself that I was actually starving, and must receive nourishment at first in very small quantities), and, while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon, she would put it back into the basin, cry "Janet! Donkeys!" and go out to the assault.

David Copperfield, Chapter 13

Reclaiming the irreclaimable

The Times Literary Supplement has a review of a new book by Jenny Hartley, Charles Dickens and the House of Fallen Women. No, it's not what it sounds like. It's the story of Dickens's "most important and most characteristic charitable venture," a home for women deemed "irreclaimable" by others.

Reviewer John Bowen writes that despite various setbacks, "overall, it is striking how clear-minded the Urania project was and how realistic and thorough in execution. Dickens and [fellow philanthropist Angela] Burdett-Coutts were simply unwilling to be indifferent to the suffering that surrounded them, and unfailingly energetic in pursuing the chances of change for the better. Urania gave those who entered its doors decent food and clothing, some education, a library, a garden and even music lessons from Dickens’s old friend John Hullah, Professor at King’s College London. . . . Caroline Chisholm, a fellow advocate of emigration, asked Dickens if it really was true that his ex-prostitutes 'had Pianos'. 'I shall always regret', he told Miss Coutts, 'that I didn’t answer yes – each girl a grand, downstairs – and a cottage in her bedroom – besides a small guitar in the washhouse.'"

Read more of Bowen's intriguing and insightful review here.

In other news, commenter Juliana Maantay asked about the location of Aunt Betsey's house in the David Copperfield movie. A search turned up this site, which places it in Hampshire and has some lovely photos (including one of the bird wallpaper)!

The haves and have-nots

Charlotte Higgins has a blog post up at the Guardian about those who have read Dickens and those who haven't. She's happy to have recently become a "have":

For those who have, there's a large and happy club of believers in existence whose members can share jokes about Mrs Bayham Badger's late husbands and Mr Micawber's circumlocutions – but more than that, who know that all of life is contained in these marvellous, all-encompassing books vibrating with almost corporeal vividness. Like the operas of Wagner, these greedy works of art swallow you up, and make you forget that there's anything else but them. Last week I swear I inhabited my own life only barely – it was the final third of David Copperfield that seemed truly solid and real.

Great post, and there are some good comments under it too. Check it out.