In recent weeks I have been fighting with myself, and though he is long dead, Charles Dickens is to blame; and here's why:
"Fill the glass and send around the song - and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass is filled with reeking punch instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it's not worse. Look on the merry face of your children as they sit around the fire. One little seat may be empty - one slight form that gladdened the father's heart and roused the mother's pride to look upon, may not be there. Dwell not upon the past - think not that, one short year ago, the fair child now fast resolving into dust sat before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheeks, and the gay unconsciousness of infancy in the joyous eyes - Reflect upon your present blessings - of which every one may have many - not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some."
Taken from Christmas Festivities, this passage was the opening salvo in an ongoing argument that I would have with myself, as I read, what collectively, are known as Charles Dickens's Christmas Stories. And when it came to the last of them, The Cricket On The Hearth, subtitled, A Fairy Tale Of Home, I was so exercised that I wanted to skip whole pages in a desperate attempt to cross the finishing line. And when I did cross it, and while the memory was still fresh, I scribbled this:
"A rather, sentimental, sanctimonious and laborious story, in which, in the end, everyone, including Tackleton, is redeemed".
It was just one of many complaints. Having finished A Christmas Carol, I wrote:
"I didn't care much for the tone of a large part of Stave Four, far too paternalistic and moralistic and sanctimonious."
And, when it came to, The Haunted Man And The Ghosts Bargain, subtitled, A Fancy For Christmas Time, I was complaining about the over long introduction, before I get to the story proper. And some time before I had finished it, I wrote this note:
"I cannot believe as I read this convoluted story, that it was written with children in mind."
As for, A Christmas Tree, I struggled with what I described as Dickens's "exhaustive" description of each and every present. And noted also, (though not as a criticism), how the concluding sentence seemed to allude to the Gospels, and in particular to Christ.
"... the London of the 1840's was very much the London of the eighteenth century; a city of small shops and small trades, a city of dirty red brick, a city which was covered by a patina of fog and decay, a city which had simply no resources for those who poured into its dens and courtyards,. Poured into the narrow streets, poured into the jerry-built houses constructed back to back without drainage; poured into the cellars; poured into the frowsy lanes which had a channel of sewage running along them; poured into the once-grand buildings which had become a honey-comb of tenements; poured into the cheap lodging houses, where men, women and children mingled promiscuously together. In some of these places, according to an inspector in 1847, "the filth [by which he meant excrement] was lying scattered about the rooms, vaults, cellars, areas and yards, so thick, and so deep, that it was hardly possible to move for it". In 1856 when a death occurred in one of the tenements of Clerkenwell," the living and the dead must be together in the same room, the living must eat, drink and sleep beside a decomposing corpse, overheated by a fire required for cooking, and already filled with the foul emanations from the bodies of the living and their impure clothes". The housing conditions for what might be called the labouring poor are best summarised in this short official report on the death of one woman who lived with her husband and son in a small room, without furniture, in Bermondsey: "She lay dead beside her son upon a heap of feathers which were scattered over her almost naked body, their being neither sheet nor coverlet. The feathers stuck so fast over the whole body that the physician could not examine the corpse until it was cleaned, and then found it starved and scarred from the bites of vermin. Part of the floor of the room was torn up, and the hole used by the family as a privy."......"
Now herein, in part at least, I think, lies the answer to those characteristics in Dickens writing that disturbed me: what I saw as his manic optimism; his proselytising; his absence of real emotion, as expressed in the exhortation to: ("think not that, one short year ago, the fair child now fast resolving into dust sat before you",) to say nothing of his hopelessly idealised portrayal of character, (the obviously unworthy accepted); attributes, that in the context of my feelings of antagonism, were causing me to question, not just Dickens, but myself.
Well the truth is, that Dickens knew his audience, and he was personally familiar with the squalid conditions as described by Peter Ackroyd, for he frequented such places, and took friends and visitors to London to see them. And as Ackroyd points out, unlike his friends, Dickens showed a considerable fortitude in coping with the stench.
So, perhaps I was wrong to be outraged at Dickens's exhortation to forget about the dead child, and instead, should have understood that I was being confronted with a truth that was well understood by his readers: that the very act of surviving, for the truly destitute, was a brutal business. And if, as I found him, Dickens was, "paternalistic, moralistic and at times, sanctimonious", that too must be seen in context, for in his writings, and in his wider social interests, Dickens was a crusader: a passionate advocate for children, and a defender of the marginalised and abused. And in that respect, (and not withstanding my own personal difficulties with some aspects of his writing), it has to be acknowledged that there is realism aplenty, (and humour), in the Christmas Stories: In the exchange between Scrooge and the two charitable gentlemen, who, using an age old tactic, gained access into the inner sanctum that was the counting house: nipping in through an open door as someone, Scrooge's nephew, was leaving:
".....They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood with their hat's off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.
"Scrooge and Marley's, I believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list, "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?"
"Mr Marley has been dead these seven years," Scrooge replied. "He died seven years ago, this very night."
"We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.
It certainly was, for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word "liberality," Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.
"At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessities, hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir."
"Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge.
_____
And in the person of "Trotty", a ticket porter, who, wet and cold, and sheltering as best he can in the vicinity of the locked church while he waits for work, doubts the validity or usefulness of his existence. That is, until he sets his eyes on Meg, his daughter whom he loves. Unexpectedly, (for she has been paid for her work), she has come to him with a warm lunch: tripe, a potato and half a pint of fresh drawn beer. And with the news that Richard, who is never likely to be rich, has asked her to marry him. But when summoned to the home of Alderman Cute, and the wasteful economics in the production of tripe, are explained to him by Alderman Cute's friend Mr. Filer, Trotty is aghast, and relieved, when Alderman Cute, having inspected it, eats what remains of the tripe, at which point he pays Trotty, (half the going rate), to carry a letter to Sir Joseph Bowley, Member of Parliament. Having delivered it, and while he waits for a reply, Trotty, addressed by this pillar of the establishment, is subjected to yet more humiliation:
"Your only business my good fellow...your only business is with me. You needn't trouble yourself to think about anything. I will think for you; I am your perpetual parent. Such is the dispensation of an all wise Providence!, now the design of your creation is - not that you should swill, and guzzle, and associate your enjoyments, brutally, with food;...but that you should feel the Dignity of Labour. Go forth erect into the cheerful morning air, and - stop there. Live hard and temperately, be respectful, exercise your self-denial bring up your family on next to nothing, pay your rent as regularly as the clock strikes, be punctual in your dealings. (I set you a good example; you will find Mr. Fish, my confidential secretary, with a cash-box before him at all times); and you may trust in me to be your Friend and Father."
And when questioned about his personal affairs, Trotty humbly admits to owing Mrs. Chickentrotter some money, and to being behind with his rent, Sir Joseph's response is not to reach for his cash-box, but to chide, and dismiss him with contempt.
_______________
But the story in this collection that I most warmed to, was, The Seven Poor Travellers: because it was based on fact, had the feel of autobiography about it, and because I sensed a connection between the Poor Travellers and the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem. And as I read it, and because of what had gone before, I was expecting at any moment to be confronted with skulduggery, something that never quite happened.
The story evolves around a bequest in the will of Sir Richard Watts, philanthropist and MP for Rochester in Kent, which was, that overnight shelter and entertainment, and fourpence, should be provided for (six) poor travellers. Having inspected the Watt's Charity from the outside, Dickens, who has been observed from an upstairs window by a woman of "a wholesome matronly appearance", is invited in:
"This", said the matronly presence, ushering me in to a low room on the right, "is where the travellers sit by the fire, and cook what bits of supper they buy with their fourpence."
"Oh! Then they have no Entertainment?" said I. For the inscription over the outer door was still running in my head, and I was mentally repeating it in a kind of tune, "Lodging, entertainment, and fourpence each."
"They have a fire provided for 'em," returned the matron: a mighty civil person, not, as I could make out, overpaid:"and these cooking utensils. And this what's painted on a board, is the rules for their behaviour. They have their fourpence when they get their tickets form the steward over the way - for I don't admit 'em myself, they must get their tickets first - and sometimes one buys a rasher of bacon, and another a herring, and another a pound of potatoes, or what not. Sometimes, two or three of 'em will club their fourpences together, and make a supper that way. But not much of anything is to be got for fourpence, at present, when provisions is so dear."
It was Christmas Eve, and the long and the short of it is, that the matron, whom Dickens repeatedly refers to in the story, as, "the presence", agreed that he could meet the Travellers, in return for which, he would provide the supper:
"I went back to my Inn", he tells us, "to give the necessary direction for the Turkey and Roast Beef, and, during the remainder of the day, could settle to nothing for thinking of the Poor Travellers. When the wind blew hard against the windows - it was a cold day, with dark gusts of sleet alternating with periods of wild brightness, so if the year were dying fitfully - I pictured them advancing towards their resting-place along various odd roads, and felt delighted to think how little they foresaw the supper that awaited them. I painted their portraits in my mind, and indulged in little heightening touches. I made them footsore; I made them weary; I made them carry packs and bundles; I made them stop by finger-posts and mile-stones, leaning on their bent sticks and looking wistfully at what was written there; I made them loose their way, and filled their five wits with apprehensions of lying out all night, and being frozen to death. I took up my hat and went out, climbed to the top of the Old Castle, and looked over the windy hills that slope down to the Medway: almost believing that I could decry some of my Travellers in the distance. After it fell dark, and the Cathedral bell was heard in the invisible steeple - quite a bower of frosty rime when I had last seen it - striking, five, six, seven, I became so full of my travellers that I could eat no dinner, and felt constrained to watch them still, in the red coals of my fire. They were all arrived by this time, I thought, had got their tickets, and were gone in. - There, my pleasure was dashed by the reflection that probably some travellers had come too late and were shut out."
And on the morrow, after the feasting and story-telling of the night before, and coffee and bread which Dickens had provided for breakfast, The Seven Poor Travellers took their leave:
"While it was yet scarcely daylight, we all came out into the street together, and there shook hands. The widow took the little sailor towards Chatham, where he was to find a steam boat for Sheerness; the lawyer, with an extremely knowing look, went his way, without committing himself by announcing his intentions; two more struck off by the cathedral and old castle for Maidstone, and the book-pedlar accompanied me, over the bridge. As for me, I was going to walk, by Cobham Woods, as far upon my way to London as I fancied.
"When I came to the stile and footpath by which I was to diverge from the main-road, I bade farewell to my last remaining Poor Traveller, and pursued my way alone. And now, the mists began to rise in the most beautiful manner, and the sun to shine; and as I went on through the bracing air, seeing the hoar-frost sparkle everywhere, I felt as if all nature shared in the joy of this great Birthday."
__________
© Cormac McCloskey
Dickens - by Peter Ackroyd
Publisher - Minerva and Mandarin Paperbacks 1996
ISBN 0 7493 0647 5
Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol and Other Christmas Writings
Publisher - Penguin Classics 2003
ISBN-13: 978-0-140-43905-2
Contents:
Christmas Festivities
The Story Of The Goblin Who Stole A Sexton
A Christmas Episode From Master Humphrey's Clock
A Christmas Carol
The Haunted Man And The Ghos's Bargain
A Christmas Tree
What Christmas Is, As We Grow Older
The Seven Poor Travellers
Charles Dickens: The Christmas Books
Publisher - Penguin Popular Classics 1994
ISBN 978-0-14062-099 3
Contents:
A Christmas Carol
The Chimes
The Cricket On The Hearth
Note: Robert Watts 1529-1579 was a leading citizen of Rochester in Kent who established the charity as referenced in The Seven Poor Travellers. And the bequest, displayed above the entrance, reads as follows:
Richard Watts, Esq
by his Will, dated 22 Aug. 1579,
founded this Charity
for Six poor Travellers,
who not being ROGUES, or PROCTORS,
may receive gratis for one Night,
Lodging, Entertainment,
and Four-pence each.
Note: This blog, "Charles Dickens", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 13th December 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment