As an artist in fiction Dickens was great; but not because he had a
correct theory of the technique of the novel, not because he always
followed good rules and models in writing, nor because he was one
Who saw life steadily and saw it whole.
On the contrary, his vision of life, though vivid, was almost always
partial. He was capable of doing a great deal of bad work, which he
himself liked. The plots of his novels, on which he toiled tremendously,
are negligible; indeed it is often difficult to follow and impossible to
remember them. The one of his books that is notably fine in structure and
approximately faultless in technique—_A Tale of Two Cities_—is so unlike
his other novels that it stands in a class by itself, as an example of
what he could have done if he had chosen to follow that line. In a way it
is his most perfect piece of work. But it is not his most characteristic
piece of work, and therefore I think it has less value for us than some
of his other books in which his peculiar, distinctive, unrivalled powers
are more fully shown.
After all, art must not only interpret the world but also reveal the
artist. The lasting interest of his vision, its distinction, its charm,
depend, at least in some real degree, upon the personal touch. Being
himself a part of the things that are seen, he must “paint the thing _as
he sees it_” if he wishes to win the approval of “the God of things as
they are.”
Now the artistic value of Dickens’s way of seeing things lay in its
fitness to the purpose which he had in mind and heart,—a really great
purpose, namely, to enhance the interest of life by good enchantment,
to save people from the plague of dulness and the curse of indifference
by showing them that the world is full of the stuff for hearty laughter
and deep sympathy. This way of seeing things, with constant reference
to their humourous and sentimental potency, was essential to the genius
of Dickens. His method of making other people see it was strongly
influenced, if not absolutely determined, by two facts which seemed to
lie outside of his career as an author: first, his training as a reporter
for the press; second, his favourite avocation as an amateur actor,
stage-manager, and dramatic reader.
The style of Dickens at its best is that of an inspired reporter. It
is rapid, graphic, pictorial, aiming always at a certain heightening
of effect, making the shadows darker and the lights brighter for the
purpose of intensifying sensation. He did not get it in the study but
in the street. Take his description in _Martin Chuzzlewit_ of Todgers’s
Boarding House with its complicated smells and its mottled shades of
dinginess; or take his picture in _Little Dorrit_ of Marseilles burning
in the August sunlight with its broad, white, universal stare. Here is
the art of journalism,—the trick of intensification by omission,—carried
to the limit. He aims distinctly at a certain effect, and he makes sure
of getting it.
He takes long walks in the heart of London, attends police courts, goes
behind the scenes of theatres, rides in omnibuses, visits prisons and
workhouses. You think he is seeking realism. Quite wrong. He is seeking a
sense of reality which shall make realism look cheap. He is not trying to
put up canned goods which shall seem more or less like fresh vegetables.
He is trying to extract the essential flavour of places and people so
that you can taste it in a drop.
We find in his style an accumulation of details all bearing on a certain
point; nothing that serves his purpose is overlooked; everything that is
likely to distract the attention or obscure his aim is disregarded. The
head-lines are in the text. When the brute, Bill Sykes, says to Nancy:
“Get up,” you know what is coming. When Mrs. Todgers gives a party to Mr.
Pecksniff you know what is coming. But the point is that when it comes,
tragedy or comedy, it is as pure and unadulterated as the most brilliant
of reporters could make it.
Naturally, Dickens puts more emphasis upon the contrast between
his characters than upon the contrast within them. The internal
inconsistencies and struggles, the slow processes of growth and change
which are the delight of the psychological novelist do not especially
interest him. He sees things black or white, not gray. The objects that
attract him most, and on which he lavishes his art, do not belong to
the average, but to the extraordinary. Dickens is not a commonplace
merchant. He is a dealer in oddities and rarities, in fact the keeper
of an “Old Curiosity Shop,” and he knows how to set forth his goods with
incomparable skill.
His drawing of character is sharp rather than deep. He makes the figure
stand out, always recognizable, but not always thoroughly understood.
Many of his people are simply admirable incarnations of their particular
trades or professions: Mould the undertaker, old Weller the coachman,
Tulkinghorn the lawyer, Elijah Program the political demagogue, Blimber
the school-master, Stiggins the religious ranter, Betsey Prig the
day-nurse, Cap’n Cuttle the retired skipper. They are all as easy
to identify as the wooden image in front of a tobacconist’s shop.
Others are embodiments of a single passion or quality: Pecksniff of
unctuous hypocrisy, Micawber of joyous improvidence, Mr. Toots of dumb
sentimentalism, Little Dorrit of the motherly instinct in a girl, Joe
Gargery of the motherly instinct in a man, Mark Tapley of resolute and
strenuous optimism. If these persons do anything out of harmony with
their head-lines, Dickens does not tell of it. He does not care for the
incongruities, the modifications, the fine shadings which soften and
complicate the philosophic and reflective view of life. He wants to write
his “story” sharply, picturesquely, with “snap” and plenty of local
colour; and he does it, in his happiest hours, with all the _verve_ and
skill of a star reporter for the _Morning Journal_ of the Enchanted City.
In this graphic and emphatic quality the art of Dickens in fiction
resembles the art of Hogarth in painting. But Dickens, like Hogarth, was
much more than a reporter. He was a dramatist, and therefore he was also,
by necessity, a moralist.
I do not mean that Dickens had a dramatic genius in the Greek sense that
he habitually dealt with the eternal conflict between human passion and
inscrutable destiny. I mean only this: that his lifelong love for the
theatre often led him, consciously or unconsciously, to construct the
_scenario_ of a story with a view to dramatic effect, and to work up the
details of a crisis precisely as if he saw it in his mind’s eye on the
stage.
Notice how the _dramatis personæ_ are clearly marked as comic, or tragic,
or sentimental. The moment they come upon the scene you can tell whether
they are meant to appeal to your risibilities or to your sensibilities.
You are in no danger of laughing at the heroine, or weeping over the
funny man. Dickens knows too much to leave his audience in perplexity.
He even gives to some of his personages set phrases, like the musical
_motifs_ of the various characters in the operas of Wagner, by which you
may easily identify them. Mr. Micawber is forever “waiting for something
to turn up.” Mr. Toots always reminds us that “it’s of no consequence.”
Sairey Gamp never appears without her imaginary friend Mrs. Harris. Mrs.
General has “prunes and prism” perpetually on her lips.
Observe, also, how carefully the scene is set, and how wonderfully the
preparation is made for a dramatic climax in the story. If it is a comic
climax, like the trial of Mr. Pickwick for breach of promise, nothing is
forgotten, from the hysterics of the obese Mrs. Bardell to the feigned
indignation of Sergeant Buzfuz over the incriminating phrase “chops and
tomato sauce!”
If it is a tragic climax, like the death of Bill Sykes, a score of dark
premonitions lead up to it, the dingiest slum of London is chosen for
it, the grimy streets are filled with a furious crowd to witness it, and
just as the murderer is about to escape, the ghostly eyes of his victim
glare upon him, and he plunges from the roof, tangled in his rope, to be
hanged by the hand of the Eternal Judge as surely as if he stood upon the
gallows.
Or suppose the climax is not one of shame and terror, but of pure pity
and tenderness, like the death of Little Nell. Then the quiet room is
prepared for it, and the white bed is decked with winter berries and
green leaves that the child loved because they loved the light; and
gentle friends are there to read and talk to her, and she sleeps herself
away in loving dreams, and the poor old grandfather, whom she has guided
by the hand and comforted, kneels at her bedside, wondering why his dear
Nell lies so still, and the very words which tell us of her peace and his
grief, move rhythmically and plaintively, like soft music with a dying
fall.
Close the book. The curtain descends. The drama is finished. The master
has had his way with us; he has made us laugh; he has made us cry. We
have been at the play.
But was it not as real to us while it lasted as many of the scenes in
which we actors daily take our parts? And did it not mellow our spirits
with mirth, and soften our hearts with tears? And now that it is over are
we not likely to be a little better, a little kinder, a little happier
for what we have laughed at or wept over?
Ah, master of the good enchantment, you have given us hours of ease
and joy, and we thank you for them. But there is a greater gift than
that. You have made us more willing to go cheerfully and companionably
along the strange, crowded, winding way of human life, because you have
deepened our faith that there is something of the divine on earth, and
something of the human in heaven.