THE BOYHOOD OF DICKENS
Charles Dickens was born at Landport, in Portsea, on February 7, 1812.
His father was a clerk in the Navy Pay-office, and was temporarily
on duty in the neighbourhood. Very soon after the birth of Charles
Dickens, however, the family moved for a short period to Norfolk
Street, Bloomsbury, and then for a long period to Chatham, which thus
became the real home, and for all serious purposes, the native place of
Dickens. The whole story of his life moves like a Canterbury pilgrimage
along the great roads of Kent.
John Dickens, his father, was, as stated, a clerk; but such mere terms
of trade tell us little of the tone or status of a family. Browning’s
father (to take an instance at random) would also be described as a
clerk and a man of the middle class; but the Browning family and the
Dickens family have the colour of two different civilizations. The
difference cannot be conveyed merely by saying that Browning stood
many strata above Dickens. It must also be conveyed that Browning
belonged to that section of the middle class which tends (in the small
social sense) to rise; the Dickenses to that section which tends in
the same sense to fall. If Browning had not been a poet, he would have
been a better clerk than his father, and his son probably a better
and richer clerk than he. But if they had not been lifted in the air
by the enormous accident of a man of genius, the Dickenses, I fancy
would have appeared in poorer and poorer places, as inventory clerks,
as caretakers, as addressers of envelopes, until they melted into the
masses of the poor.
Yet at the time of Dickens’s birth and childhood this weakness in their
worldly destiny was in no way apparent; especially it was not apparent
to the little Charles himself. He was born and grew up in a paradise of
small prosperity. He fell into the family, so to speak, during one of
its comfortable periods, and he never in those early days thought of
himself as anything but as a comfortable middle-class child, the son
of a comfortable middle-class man. The father whom he found provided
for him, was one from whom comfort drew forth his most pleasant and
reassuring qualities, though not perhaps his most interesting and
peculiar. John Dickens seemed, most probably, a hearty and kindly
character, a little florid of speech, a little careless of duty in
some details, notably in the detail of education. His neglect of his
son’s mental training in later and more trying times was a piece of
unconscious selfishness which remained a little acrimoniously in his
son’s mind through life. But even in this earlier and easier period
what records there are of John Dickens give out the air of a somewhat
idle and irresponsible fatherhood. He exhibited towards his son that
contradiction in conduct which is always shown by the too thoughtless
parent to the too thoughtful child. He contrived at once to neglect his
mind, and also to over-stimulate it.
There are many recorded tales and traits of the author’s infancy, but
one small fact seems to me more than any other to strike the note
and give the key to his whole strange character. His father found it
more amusing to be an audience than to be an instructor; and instead
of giving the child intellectual pleasure, called upon him, almost
before he was out of petticoats, to provide it. Some of the earliest
glimpses we have of Charles Dickens show him to us perched on some
chair or table singing comic songs in an atmosphere of perpetual
applause. So, almost as soon as he can toddle, he steps into the
glare of the footlights. He never stepped out of it until he died. He
was a good man, as men go in this bewildering world of ours, brave,
transparent, tender-hearted, scrupulously independent and honourable;
he was not a man whose weaknesses should be spoken of without some
delicacy and doubt. But there did mingle with his merits all his life
this theatrical quality, this atmosphere of being shown off--a sort
of hilarious self-consciousness. His literary life was a triumphal
procession; he died drunken with glory. And behind all this nine
years’ wonder that filled the world, behind his gigantic tours and his
ten thousand editions, the crowded lectures and the crashing brass,
behind all the thing we really see is the flushed face of a little boy
singing music-hall songs to a circle of aunts and uncles. And this
precocious pleasure explains much, too, in the moral way. Dickens had
all his life the faults of the little boy who is kept up too late at
night. The boy in such a case exhibits a psychological paradox; he is
a little too irritable because he is a little too happy. Dickens was
always a little too irritable because he was a little too happy. Like
the over-wrought child in society, he was splendidly sociable, and yet
suddenly quarrelsome. In all the practical relations of his life he
was what the child is in the last hours of an evening party, genuinely
delighted, genuinely delightful, genuinely affectionate and happy, and
yet in some strange way fundamentally exasperated and dangerously close
to tears.
There was another touch about the boy which made his case more
peculiar, and perhaps his intelligence more fervid; the touch of
ill-health. It could not be called more than a touch, for he suffered
from no formidable malady and could always through life endure a
great degree of exertion even if it was only the exertion of walking
violently all night. Still the streak of sickness was sufficient to
take him out of the common unconscious life of the community of boys;
and for good or evil that withdrawal is always a matter of deadly
importance to the mind. He was thrown back perpetually upon the
pleasures of the intelligence, and these began to burn in his head
like a pent and painful furnace. In his own unvaryingly vivid way he
has described how he crawled up into an unconsidered garret, and there
found, in a dusty heap, the undying literature of England. The books
he mentions chiefly are “Humphrey Clinker” and “Tom Jones.” When he
opened those two books in the garret he caught hold of the only past
with which he is at all connected, the great comic writers of England
of whom he was destined to be the last.
It must be remembered (as I have suggested before) that there was
something about the county in which he lived, and the great roads along
which he travelled that sympathized with and stimulated his pleasure
in this old picaresque literature. The groups that came along the
road, that passed through his town and out of it, were of the motley
laughable type that tumbled into ditches or beat down the doors of
taverns under the escort of Smollett and Fielding. In our time the
main roads of Kent have upon them very often a perpetual procession
of tramps and tinkers unknown on the quiet hills of Sussex; and it
may have been so also in Dickens’s boyhood. In his neighbourhood
were definite memorials of yet older and yet greater English comedy.
From the height of Gad’s-hill at which he stared unceasingly there
looked down upon him the monstrous ghost of Falstaff, Falstaff who
might well have been the spiritual father of all Dickens’s adorable
knaves, Falstaff the great mountain of English laughter and English
sentimentalism, the great, healthy, humane English humbug, not to be
matched among the nations.
At this eminence of Gad’s-hill Dickens used to stare even as a boy with
the steady purpose of some day making it his own. It is characteristic
of the consistency which underlies the superficially erratic career of
Dickens that he actually did live to make it his own. The truth is that
he was a precocious child, precocious not only on the more poetical
but on the more prosaic side of life. He was ambitious as well as
enthusiastic. No one can ever know what visions they were that crowded
into the head of the clever little brat as he ran about the streets
of Chatham or stood glowering at Gad’s-hill. But I think that quite
mundane visions had a very considerable share in the matter. He longed
to go to school (a strange wish), to go to college, to make a name, nor
did he merely aspire to these things; the great number of them he also
expected. He regarded himself as a child of good position just about
to enter on a life of good luck. He thought his home and family a very
good spring-board or jumping-off place from which to fling himself to
the positions which he desired to reach. And almost as he was about
to spring the whole structure broke under him, and he and all that
belonged to him disappeared into a darkness far below.
Everything had been struck down as with the finality of a thunder-bolt.
His lordly father was a bankrupt, and in the Marshalsea prison. His
mother was in a mean home in the north of London, wildly proclaiming
herself the principal of a girl’s school, a girl’s school to which
nobody would go. And he himself, the conqueror of the world and
the prospective purchaser of Gads-hill, passed some distracted and
bewildering days in pawning the household necessities to Fagins in foul
shops, and then found himself somehow or other one of a row of ragged
boys in a great dreary factory, pasting the same kinds of labels on to
the same kinds of blacking bottles from morning till night.
Although it seemed sudden enough to him, the disintegration had,
as a matter of fact, of course, been going on for a long time. He
had only heard from his father dark and melodramatic allusions to a
“deed” which, from the way it was mentioned, might have been a claim
to the crown or a compact with the devil, but which was in truth an
unsuccessful documentary attempt on the part of John Dickens to come to
a composition with his creditors. And now, in the lurid light of his
sunset, the character of John Dickens began to take on those purple
colours which have made him under another name absurd and immortal.
It required a tragedy to bring out this man’s comedy. So long as John
Dickens was in easy circumstances, he seemed only an easy man, a
little long and luxuriant in his phrases, a little careless in his
business routine. He seemed only a wordy man, who lived on bread and
beef like his neighbours; but as bread and beef were successively
taken away from him, it was discovered that he lived on words. For
him to be involved in a calamity only meant to be cast for the first
part in a tragedy. For him blank ruin was only a subject for blank
verse. Henceforth we feel scarcely inclined to call him John Dickens
at all; we feel inclined to call him by the name through which his son
celebrated this preposterous and sublime victory of the human spirit
over circumstances. Dickens, in “David Copperfield,” called him Wilkins
Micawber. In his personal correspondence he called him the Prodigal
Father.
Young Charles had been hurriedly flung into the factory by the more or
less careless good-nature of James Lamert, a relation of his mother’s;
it was a blacking factory, supposed to be run as a rival to Warren’s by
another and “original” Warren, both practically conducted by another
of the Lamerts. It was situated near Hungerford Market. Dickens worked
there drearily, like one stunned with disappointment. To a child
excessively intellectualized, and at this time, I fear, excessively
egotistical, the coarseness of the whole thing--the work, the rooms,
the boys, the language--was a sort of bestial nightmare. Not only did
he scarcely speak of it then, but he scarcely spoke of it afterwards.
Years later, in the fulness of his fame, he heard from Forster that a
man had spoken of knowing him. On hearing the name, he somewhat curtly
acknowledged it, and spoke of having seen the man once. Forster, in his
innocence, answered that the man said he had seen Dickens many times in
a factory by Hungerford Market. Dickens was suddenly struck with a long
and extraordinary silence. Then he invited Forster, as his best friend,
to a particular interview, and, with every appearance of difficulty and
distress, told him the whole story for the first and the last time.
A long while after that he told the world some part of the matter in
the account of Murdstone and Grinby’s in “David Copperfield.” He never
spoke of the whole experience except once or twice, and he never spoke
of it otherwise than as a man might speak of hell.
It need not be suggested, I think, that this agony in the child was
exaggerated by the man. It is true that he was not incapable of the
vice of exaggeration, if it be a vice. There was about him much vanity
and a certain virulence in his version of many things. Upon the
whole, indeed, it would hardly be too much to say that he would have
exaggerated any sorrow he talked about. But this was a sorrow with a
very strange position in Dickens’s life; it was a sorrow he did not
talk about. Upon this particular dark spot he kept a sort of deadly
silence for twenty years. An accident revealed part of the truth to the
dearest of all his friends. He then told the whole truth to the dearest
of all his friends. He never told anybody else. I do not think that
this arose from any social sense of disgrace; if he had it slightly
at the time, he was far too self-satisfied a man to have taken it
seriously in after life. I really think that his pain at this time was
so real and ugly that the thought of it filled him with that sort of
impersonal but unbearable shame with which we are filled, for instance,
by the notion of physical torture, of something that humiliates
humanity. He felt that such agony was something obscene. Moreover there
are two other good reasons for thinking that his sense of hopelessness
was very genuine. First of all, this starless outlook is common in the
calamities of boyhood. The bitterness of boyish distresses does not lie
in the fact that they are large; it lies in the fact that we do not
know that they are small. About any early disaster there is a dreadful
finality; a lost child can suffer like a lost soul.
It is currently said that hope goes with youth, and lends to youth its
wings of a butterfly; but I fancy that hope is the last gift given to
man, and the only gift not given to youth. Youth is pre-eminently the
period in which a man can be lyric, fanatical, poetic; but youth is
the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is
the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the
knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration
comes to the middle-aged; God has kept that good wine until now. It is
from the backs of the elderly gentlemen that the wings of the butterfly
should burst. There is nothing that so much mystifies the young as
the consistent frivolity of the old. They have discovered their
indestructibility. They are in their second and clearer childhood, and
there is a meaning in the merriment of their eyes. They have seen the
end of the End of the World.
First, then, the desolate finality of Dickens’s childish mood makes me
think it was a real one. And there is another thing to be remembered.
Dickens was not a saintly child after the style of Little Dorrit or
Little Nell. He had not, at this time at any rate, set his heart wholly
upon higher things, even upon things such as personal tenderness
or loyalty. He had been, and was, unless I am very much mistaken,
sincerely, stubbornly, bitterly ambitious. He had, I fancy, a fairly
clear idea previous to the downfall of all his family’s hopes of what
he wanted to do in the world, and of the mark that he meant to make
there. In no dishonourable sense, but still in a definite sense he
might, in early life, be called worldly; and the children of this world
are in their generation infinitely more sensitive than the children
of light. A saint after repentance will forgive himself for a sin;
a man about town will never forgive himself for a _faux pas_. There
are ways of getting absolved for murder; there are no ways of getting
absolved for upsetting the soup. This thin-skinned quality in all very
mundane people is a thing too little remembered; and it must not be
wholly forgotten in connection with a clever, restless lad who dreamed
of a destiny. That part of his distress which concerned himself and
his social standing was among the other parts of it the least noble;
but perhaps it was the most painful. For pride is not only (as the
modern world fails to understand) a sin to be condemned; it is also
(as it understands even less) a weakness to be very much commiserated.
A very vitalizing touch is given in one of his own reminiscences. His
most unendurable moment did not come in any bullying in the factory
or any famine in the streets. It came when he went to see his sister
Fanny take a prize at the Royal Academy of Music. “I could not bear
to think of myself--beyond the reach of all such honourable emulation
and success. The tears ran down my face. I felt as if my heart were
rent. I prayed when I went to bed that night to be lifted out of the
humiliation and neglect in which I was. I never had suffered so much
before. There was no envy in this.” I do not think that there was,
though the poor little wretch could hardly have been blamed if there
had been. There was only a furious sense of frustration; a spirit like
a wild beast in a cage. It was only a small matter in the external and
obvious sense; it was only Dickens prevented from being Dickens.
If we put these facts together, that the tragedy seemed final, and
that the tragedy was concerned with the supersensitive matters of the
ego and the gentleman, I think we can imagine a pretty genuine case
of internal depression. And when we add to the case of the internal
depression the case of the external oppression, the case of the
material circumstances by which he was surrounded, we have reached a
sort of midnight. All day he worked on insufficient food at a factory.
It is sufficient to say that it afterwards appeared in his works
as Murdstone and Grinby’s. At night he returned disconsolately to a
lodging-house for such lads, kept by an old lady. It is sufficient to
say that she appeared afterwards as Mrs. Pipchin. Once a week only he
saw anybody for whom he cared a straw; that was when he went to the
Marshalsea prison, and that gave his juvenile pride, half manly and
half snobbish, bitter annoyance of another kind. Add to this, finally,
that physically he was always very weak and never very well. Once he
was struck down in the middle of his work with sudden bodily pain. The
boy who worked next to him, a coarse and heavy lad named Bob Fagin,
who had often attacked Dickens on the not unreasonable ground of his
being a “gentleman,” suddenly showed that enduring sanity of compassion
which Dickens was destined to show so often in the characters of the
common and unclean. Fagin made a bed for his sick companion out of
the straw in the workroom, and filled empty blacking bottles with
hot water all day. When the evening came, and Dickens was somewhat
recovered, Bob Fagin insisted on escorting the boy home to his father.
The situation was as poignant as a sort of tragic farce. Fagin in his
wooden-headed chivalry would have died in order to take Dickens to his
family; Dickens in his bitter gentility would have died rather than
let Fagin know that his family were in the Marshalsea. So these two
young idiots tramped the tedious streets, both stubborn, both suffering
for an idea. The advantage certainly was with Fagin, who was suffering
for a Christian compassion, while Dickens was suffering for a pagan
pride. At last Dickens flung off his friend with desperate farewell
and thanks, and dashed up the steps of a strange house on the Surrey
side. He knocked and rang as Bob Fagin, his benefactor and his incubus,
disappeared round the corner. And when the servant came to open the
door, he asked, apparently with gravity, whether Mr. Robert Fagin lived
there. It is a strange touch. The immortal Dickens woke in him for an
instant in that last wild joke of that weary evening. Next morning,
however, he was again well enough to make himself ill again, and the
wheels of the great factory went on. They manufactured a number of
bottles of Warren’s Blacking, and in the course of the process they
manufactured also the greatest optimist of the nineteenth century.
This boy who dropped down groaning at his work, who was hungry four or
five times a week, whose best feelings and worst feelings were alike
flayed alive, was the man on whom two generations of comfortable
critics have visited the complaint that his view of life was too rosy
to be anything but unreal. Afterwards, and in its proper place, I
shall speak of what is called the optimism of Dickens, and of whether
it was really too cheerful or too smooth. But this boyhood of his may
be recorded now as a mere fact. If he was too happy, this was where
he learnt it. If his school of thought was a vulgar optimism, this is
where he went to school. If he learnt to whitewash the universe, it was
in a blacking factory that he learnt it.
As a fact, there is no shred of evidence to show that those who have
had sad experiences tend to have a sad philosophy. There are numberless
points upon which Dickens is spiritually at one with the poor, that is,
with the great mass of mankind. But there is no point in which he is
more perfectly at one with them than in showing that there is no kind
of connection between a man being unhappy and a man being pessimistic.
Sorrow and pessimism are indeed, in a sense, opposite things, since
sorrow is founded on the value of something, and pessimism upon the
value of nothing. And in practice we find that those poets or political
leaders who come from the people, and whose experiences have really
been searching and cruel, are the most sanguine people in the world.
These men out of the old agony are always optimists; they are sometimes
offensive optimists. A man like Robert Burns, whose father (like
Dickens’s father) goes bankrupt, whose whole life is a struggle against
miserable external powers and internal weaknesses yet more miserable--a
man whose life begins grey and ends black--Burns does not merely sing
about the goodness of life, he positively rants and cants about it.
Rousseau, whom all his friends and acquaintances treated almost as
badly as he treated them--Rousseau does not grow merely eloquent, he
grows gushing and sentimental, about the inherent goodness of human
nature. Charles Dickens, who was most miserable at the receptive age
when most people are most happy, is afterwards happy when all men
weep. Circumstances break men’s bones; it has never been shown that
they break men’s optimism. These great popular leaders do all kinds of
desperate things under the immediate scourge of tragedy. They become
drunkards; they become demagogues; they become morpho-maniacs. They
never become pessimists. Most unquestionably there are ragged and
unhappy men whom we could easily understand being pessimists. But as a
matter of fact they are not pessimists. Most unquestionably there are
whole dim hordes of humanity whom we should promptly pardon if they
cursed God. But they don’t. The pessimists are aristocrats like Byron;
the men who curse God are aristocrats like Swinburne. But when those
who starve and suffer speak for a moment, they do not profess merely an
optimism, they profess a cheap optimism; they are too poor to afford a
dear one. They cannot indulge in any detailed or merely logical defence
of life; that would be to delay the enjoyment of it. These higher
optimists, of whom Dickens was one, do not approve of the universe;
they do not even admire the universe; they fall in love with it. They
embrace life too closely to criticize or even to see it. Existence to
such men has the wild beauty of a woman, and those love her with most
intensity who love her with least cause.