FORSTER tells us that Dickens, in his later novels, from _Bleak House_
onwards (1853), “assiduously cultivated” construction, “this essential of
his art.” Some critics may think, that since so many of the best novels
in the world “have no outline, or, if they have an outline, it is a
demned outline,” elaborate construction is not absolutely “essential.”
Really essential are character, “atmosphere,” humour.
But as, in the natural changes of life, and under the strain of restless
and unsatisfied activity, his old buoyancy and unequalled high spirits
deserted Dickens, he certainly wrote no longer in what Scott, speaking of
himself, calls the manner of “hab nab at a venture.” He constructed
elaborate plots, rich in secrets and surprises. He emulated the manner
of Wilkie Collins, or even of Gaboriau, while he combined with some of
the elements of the detective novel, or _roman policier_, careful study
of character. Except _Great Expectations_, none of his later tales
rivals in merit his early picaresque stories of the road, such as
_Pickwick_ and _Nicholas Nickleby_. “Youth will be served;” no sedulous
care could compensate for the exuberance of “the first sprightly
runnings.” In the early books the melodrama of the plot, the secrets of
Ralph Nickleby, of Monk, of Jonas Chuzzlewit, were the least of the
innumerable attractions. But Dickens was more and more drawn towards the
secret that excites curiosity, and to the game of hide and seek with the
reader who tried to anticipate the solution of the secret.
In April, 1869, Dickens, outworn by the strain of his American readings;
of that labour achieved under painful conditions of ominously bad
health—found himself, as Sir Thomas Watson reported, “on the brink of an
attack of paralysis of his left side, and possibly of apoplexy.” He
therefore abandoned a new series of Readings. We think of Scott’s
earlier seizures of a similar kind, after which _Peveril_, he said,
“smacked of the apoplexy.” But Dickens’s new story of _The Mystery of
Edwin Drood_, first contemplated in July, 1869, and altered in character
by the emergence of “a very curious and new idea,” early in August, does
not “smack of the apoplexy.” We may think that the mannerisms of Mr.
Honeythunder, the philanthropist, and of Miss Twinkleton, the
schoolmistress, are not in the author’s best vein of humour. “The
Billickin,” on the other hand, the lodging-house keeper, is “in very
gracious fooling:” her unlooked-for sallies in skirmishes with Miss
Twinkleton are rich in mirthful surprises. Mr. Grewgious may be
caricatured too much, but not out of reason; and Dickens, always good at
boys, presents a _gamin_, in Deputy, who is in not unpleasant contrast
with the pathetic Jo of _Bleak House_. Opinions may differ as to Edwin
and Rosa, but the more closely one studies Edwin, the better one thinks
of that character. As far as we are allowed to see Helena Landless, the
restraint which she puts on her “tigerish blood” is admirable: she is
very fresh and original. The villain is all that melodrama can desire,
but what we do miss, I think, is the “atmosphere” of a small cathedral
town. Here there is a lack of softness and delicacy of treatment: on the
other hand, the opium den is studied from the life.
On the whole, Dickens himself was perhaps most interested in his plot,
his secret, his surprises, his game of hide and seek with the reader. He
threw himself into the sport with zest: he spoke to his sister-in-law,
Miss Hogarth, about his fear that he had not sufficiently concealed his
tracks in the latest numbers. Yet, when he died in June, 1870, leaving
three completed numbers still unpublished, he left his secret as a puzzle
to the curious. Many efforts have been made to decipher his purpose,
especially his intentions as to the hero. Was Edwin Drood killed, or did
he escape?
By a coincidence, in September, 1869, Dickens was working over the late
Lord Lytton’s tale for _All The Year Round_, “The Disappearance of John
Ackland,” for the purpose of mystifying the reader as to whether Ackland
was alive or dead. But he was conspicuously defunct! (_All the Year
Round_, September-October, 1869.)
The most careful of the attempts at a reply about Edwin, a study based on
deep knowledge of Dickens, is “Watched by the Dead,” by the late
ingenious Mr. R. A. Proctor (1887). This book, to which I owe much aid,
is now out of print. In 1905, Mr. Cuming Walters revived “the auld
mysterie,” in his “Clues to Dickens’s Edwin Drood” (Chapman & Hall and
Heywood, Manchester). From the solution of Mr. Walters I am obliged to
dissent. Of Mr. Proctor’s theory I offer some necessary corrections, and
I hope that I have unravelled some skeins which Mr. Proctor left in a
state of tangle. As one read and re-read the fragment, points very dark
seemed, at least, to become suddenly clear: especially one appeared to
understand the meaning half-revealed and half-concealed by Jasper’s
babblings under the influence of opium. He saw in his vision, “_that_, I
never saw _that_ before.” We may be sure that he was to see “_that_” in
real life. We must remember that, according to Forster, “such was
Dickens’s interest in things supernatural that, but for the strong
restraining power of his common sense, he might have fallen into the
follies of spiritualism.” His interest in such matters certainly peeps
out in this novel—there are two specimens of the supernormal—and he may
have gone to the limited extent which my hypothesis requires. If I am
right, Dickens went further, and fared worse, in the too material
premonitions of “The Signalman” in _Mugby Junction_.
With this brief preface, I proceed to the analysis of Dickens’s last
plot. Mr. William Archer has kindly read the proof sheets and made
valuable suggestions, but is responsible for none of my theories.