The power of Dickens is shown even in the scraps of Dickens, just as the
virtue of a saint is said to be shown in fragments of his property or
rags from his robe. It is with such fragments that we are chiefly
concerned in the _Christmas Stories_. Many of them are fragments in the
literal sense; Dickens began them and then allowed some one else to
carry them on; they are almost rejected notes. In all the other cases we
have been considering the books that he wrote; here we have rather to
consider the books that he might have written. And here we find the
final evidence and the unconscious stamp of greatness, as we might find
it in some broken bust or some rejected moulding in the studio of
Michael Angelo.
These sketches or parts of sketches all belong to that period in his
later life when he had undertaken the duties of an editor, the very
heavy duties of a very popular editor. He was not by any means naturally
fitted for that position. He was the best man in the world for founding
papers; but many people wished that he could have been buried under the
foundations, like the first builder in some pagan and prehistoric pile.
He called the _Daily News_ into existence, but when once it existed, it
objected to him strongly. It is not easy, and perhaps it is not
important, to state truly the cause of this incapacity. It was not in
the least what is called the ordinary fault or weakness of the artist.
It was not that he was careless; rather it was that he was too
conscientious. It was not that he had the irresponsibility of genius;
rather it was that he had the irritating responsibility of genius; he
wanted everybody to see things as he saw them. But in spite of all this
he certainly ran two great popular periodicals--_Household Words_ and
_All the Year Round_--with enormous popular success. And he certainly so
far succeeded in throwing himself into the communism of journalism, into
the nameless brotherhood of a big paper, that many earnest Dickensians
are still engaged in picking out pieces of Dickens from the anonymous
pages of _Household Words_ and _All the Year Round_, and those parts
which have been already beyond question picked out and proved are often
fragmentary. The genuine writing of Dickens breaks off at a certain
point, and the writing of some one else begins. But when the writing of
Dickens breaks off, I fancy that we know it.
The singular thing is that some of the best work that Dickens ever did,
better than the work in his best novels, can be found in these slight
and composite scraps of journalism. For instance, the solemn and
self-satisfied account of the duty and dignity of a waiter given in the
opening chapter of _Somebody's Luggage_ is quite as full and fine as
anything done anywhere by its author in the same vein of sumptuous
satire. It is as good as the account which Mr. Bumble gives of out-door
relief, which, "properly understood, is the parochial safeguard. The
great thing is to give the paupers what they don't want, and then they
never come again." It is as good as Mr. Podsnap's description of the
British Constitution, which was bestowed on him by Providence. None of
these celebrated passages is more obviously Dickens at his best than
this, the admirable description of "the true principles of waitering,"
or the account of how the waiter's father came back to his mother in
broad daylight, "in itself an act of madness on the part of a waiter,"
and how he expired repeating continually "two and six is three and four
is nine." That waiter's explanatory soliloquy might easily have opened
an excellent novel, as _Martin Chuzzlewit_ is opened by the clever
nonsense about the genealogy of the Chuzzlewits, or as _Bleak House_ is
opened by a satiric account of the damp, dim life of a law court. Yet
Dickens practically abandoned the scheme of _Somebody's Luggage_; he
only wrote two sketches out of those obviously intended. He may almost
be said to have only written a brilliant introduction to another man's
book.
Yet it is exactly in such broken outbreaks that his greatness appears.
If a man has flung away bad ideas he has shown his sense, but if he has
flung away good ideas he has shown his genius. He has proved that he
actually has that over-pressure of pure creativeness which we see in
nature itself, "that of a hundred seeds, she often brings but one to
bear." Dickens had to be Malthusian about his spiritual children.
Critics have called Keats and others who died young "the great
Might-have-beens of literary history." Dickens certainly was not merely
a great Might-have-been. Dickens, to say the least of him, was a great
Was. Yet this fails fully to express the richness of his talent; for
the truth is that he was a great Was and also a great Might-have-been.
He said what he had to say, and yet not all he had to say. Wild
pictures, possible stories, tantalising and attractive trains of
thought, perspectives of adventure, crowded so continually upon his mind
that at the end there was a vast mass of them left over, ideas that he
literally had not the opportunity to develop, tales that he literally
had not the time to tell. This is shown clearly in his private notes and
letters, which are full of schemes singularly striking and suggestive,
schemes which he never carried out. It is indicated even more clearly by
these _Christmas Stories_, collected out of the chaotic opulence of
_Household Words_ and _All the Year Round_. He wrote short stories
actually because he had not time to write long stories. He often put
into the short story a deep and branching idea which would have done
very well for a long story; many of his long stories, so to speak, broke
off short. This is where he differs from most who are called the
Might-have-beens of literature. Marlowe and Chatterton failed because of
their weakness. Dickens failed because of his force.
Examine for example this case of the waiter in _Somebody's Luggage_.
Dickens obviously knew enough about that waiter to have made him a
running spring of joy throughout a whole novel; as the beadle is in
_Oliver Twist_, or the undertaker in _Martin Chuzzlewit_. Every touch of
him tingles with truth, from the vague gallantry with which he asks,
"Would'st thou know, fair reader (if of the adorable female sex)" to the
official severity with which he takes the chambermaid down, "as many
pegs as is desirable for the future comfort of all parties." If Dickens
had developed this character at full length in a book he would have
preserved for ever in literature a type of great humour and great value,
and a type which may only too soon be disappearing from English history.
He would have eternalised the English waiter. He still exists in some
sound old taverns and decent country inns, but there is no one left
really capable of singing his praises. I know that Mr. Bernard Shaw has
done something of the sort in the delightfully whimsical account of
William in _You Never Can Tell_. But nothing will persuade me that Mr.
Bernard Shaw can really understand the English waiter. He can never have
ordered wine from him for instance. And though the English waiter is by
the nature of things solemn about everything, he can never reach the
true height and ecstasy of his solemnity except about wine. What the
real English waiter would do or say if Mr. Shaw asked him for a
vegetarian meal I cannot dare to predict. I rather think that for the
first time in his life he would laugh--a horrible sight.
Dickens's waiter is described by one who is not merely witty, truthful,
and observant, like Mr. Bernard Shaw, but one who really knew the
atmosphere of inns, one who knew and even liked the smell of beef, and
beer, and brandy. Hence there is a richness in Dickens's portrait which
does not exist in Mr. Shaw's. Mr. Shaw's waiter is merely a man of tact;
Dickens's is a man of principle. Mr. Shaw's waiter is an opportunist,
just as Mr. Shaw is an opportunist in politics. Dickens's waiter is
ready to stand up seriously for "the true principles of waitering,"
just as Dickens was ready to stand up for the true principles of
Liberalism. Mr. Shaw's waiter is agnostic; his motto is "You never can
tell." Dickens's waiter is a dogmatist; his motto is "You can tell; I
will tell you." And the true old-fashioned English waiter had really
this grave and even moral attitude; he was the servant of the customers
as a priest is the servant of the faithful, but scarcely in any less
dignified sense. Surely it is not mere patriotic partiality that makes
one lament the disappearance of this careful and honourable figure
crowded out by meaner men at meaner wages, by the German waiter who has
learnt five languages in the course of running away from his own, or the
Italian waiter who regards those he serves with a darkling contempt
which must certainly be that either of a dynamiter or an exiled prince.
The human and hospitable English waiter is vanishing. And Dickens might
perhaps have saved him, as he saved Christmas.
I have taken this case of the waiter in Dickens and his equally
important counterpart in England as an example of the sincere and genial
sketches scattered about these short stories. But there are many others,
and one at least demands special mention; I mean Mrs. Lirriper, the
London landlady. Not only did Dickens never do anything better in a
literary sense, but he never performed more perfectly his main moral
function, that of insisting through laughter and flippancy upon the
virtue of Christian charity. There has been much broad farce against the
lodging-house keeper: he alone could have written broad farce in her
favour. It is fashionable to represent the landlady as a tyrant; it is
too much forgotten that if she is one of the oppressors she is at least
as much one of the oppressed. If she is bad-tempered it is often for the
same reasons that make all women bad-tempered (I suppose the
exasperating qualities of the other sex); if she is grasping it is often
because when a husband makes generosity a vice it is often necessary
that a wife should make avarice a virtue. All this Dickens suggested
very soundly and in a few strokes in the more remote character of Miss
Wozenham. But in Mrs. Lirriper he went further and did not fare worse.
In Mrs. Lirriper he suggested quite truly how huge a mass of real good
humour, of grand unconscious patience, of unfailing courtesy and
constant and difficult benevolence is concealed behind many a
lodging-house door and compact in the red-faced person of many a
preposterous landlady. Any one could easily excuse the ill-humour of the
poor. But great masses of the poor have not even any ill-humour to be
excused. Their cheeriness is startling enough to be the foundation of a
miracle play; and certainly is startling enough to be the foundation of
a romance. Yet I do not know of any romance in which it is expressed
except this one.
Of the landlady as of the waiter it may be said that Dickens left in a
slight sketch what he might have developed through a long and strong
novel. For Dickens had hold of one great truth, the neglect of which
has, as it were, truncated and made meagre the work of many brilliant
modern novelists. Modern novelists try to make long novels out of subtle
characters. But a subtle character soon comes to an end, because it
works in and in to its own centre and dies there. But a simple
character goes on for ever in a fresh interest and energy, because it
works out and out into the infinite universe. Mr. George Moore in France
is not by any means so interesting as Mrs. Lirriper in France; for she
is trying to find France and he is only trying to find George Moore.
Mrs. Lirriper is the female equivalent of Mr. Pickwick. Unlike Mrs.
Bardell (another and lesser landlady) she was fully worthy to be Mrs.
Pickwick. For in both cases the essential truth is the same; that
original innocence which alone deserves adventures and because it alone
can appreciate them. We have had Mr. Pickwick in England and we can
imagine him in France. We have had Mrs. Lirriper in France and we can
imagine her in Mesopotamia or in heaven. The subtle character in the
modern novels we cannot really imagine anywhere except in the suburbs or
in Limbo.