_Pickwick_ was a work partly designed by others, but ultimately filled
up by Dickens. _Edwin Drood_, the last book, was a book designed by
Dickens, but ultimately filled up by others. The _Pickwick Papers_
showed how much Dickens could make out of other people's suggestions;
_The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ shows how very little other people can make
out of Dickens's suggestions.
Dickens was meant by Heaven to be the great melodramatist; so that even
his literary end was melodramatic. Something more seems hinted at in the
cutting short of _Edwin Drood_ by Dickens than the mere cutting short of
a good novel by a great man. It seems rather like the last taunt of some
elf, leaving the world, that it should be this story which is not ended,
this story which is only a story. The only one of Dickens's novels which
he did not finish was the only one that really needed finishing. He
never had but one thoroughly good plot to tell; and that he has only
told in heaven. This is what separates the case in question from any
parallel cases of novelists cut off in the act of creation. That great
novelist, for instance, with whom Dickens is constantly compared, died
also in the middle of _Denis Duval_. But any one can see in _Denis
Duval_ the qualities of the later work of Thackeray; the increasing
discursiveness, the increasing retrospective poetry, which had been in
part the charm and in part the failure of _Philip_ and _The Virginians_.
But to Dickens it was permitted to die at a dramatic moment and to leave
a dramatic mystery. Any Thackerayan could have completed the plot of
_Denis Duval_; except indeed that a really sympathetic Thackerayan might
have had some doubt as to whether there was any plot to complete. But
Dickens, having had far too little plot in his stories previously, had
far too much plot in the story he never told. Dickens dies in the act of
telling, not his tenth novel, but his first news of murder. He drops
down dead as he is in the act of denouncing the assassin. It is
permitted to Dickens, in short, to come to a literary end as strange as
his literary beginning. He began by completing the old romance of
travel. He ended by inventing the new detective story.
It is as a detective story first and last that we have to consider _The
Mystery of Edwin Drood_. This does not mean, of course, that the details
are not often admirable in their swift and penetrating humour; to say
that of the book would be to say that Dickens did not write it. Nothing
could be truer, for instance, than the manner in which the dazed and
drunken dignity of Durdles illustrates a certain bitterness at the
bottom of the bewilderment of the poor. Nothing could be better than the
way in which the haughty and allusive conversation between Miss
Twinkleton and the landlady illustrates the maddening preference of some
females for skating upon thin social ice. There is an even better
example than these of the original humorous insight of Dickens; and one
not very often remarked, because of its brevity and its unimportance in
the narrative. But Dickens never did anything better than the short
account of Mr. Grewgious's dinner being brought from the tavern by two
waiters: "a stationary waiter," and "a flying waiter." The "flying
waiter" brought the food and the "stationary waiter" quarrelled with
him; the "flying waiter" brought glasses and the "stationary waiter"
looked through them. Finally, it will be remembered the "stationary
waiter" left the room, casting a glance which indicated "let it be
understood that all emoluments are mine, and that Nil is the reward of
this slave." Still, Dickens wrote the book as a detective story; he
wrote it as _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_. And alone, perhaps, among
detective-story writers, he never lived to destroy his mystery. Here
alone then among the Dickens novels it is necessary to speak of the plot
and of the plot alone. And when we speak of the plot it becomes
immediately necessary to speak of the two or three standing explanations
which celebrated critics have given of the plot.
The story, so far as it was written by Dickens, can be read here. It
describes, as will be seen, the disappearance of the young architect
Edwin Drood after a night of festivity which was supposed to celebrate
his reconciliation with a temporary enemy, Neville Landless, and was
held at the house of his uncle John Jasper. Dickens continued the tale
long enough to explain or explode the first and most obvious of his
riddles. Long before the existing part terminates it has become evident
that Drood has been put away, not by his obvious opponent, Landless, but
by his uncle who professes for him an almost painful affection. The fact
that we all know this, however, ought not in fairness to blind us to
the fact that, considered as the first fraud in a detective story, it
has been, with great skill, at once suggested and concealed. Nothing,
for instance, could be cleverer as a piece of artistic mystery than the
fact that Jasper, the uncle, always kept his eyes fixed on Drood's face
with a dark and watchful tenderness; the thing is so told that at first
we really take it as only indicating something morbid in the affection;
it is only afterwards that the frightful fancy breaks upon us that it is
not morbid affection but morbid antagonism. This first mystery (which is
no longer a mystery) of Jasper's guilt, is only worth remarking because
it shows that Dickens meant and felt himself able to mask all his
batteries with real artistic strategy and artistic caution. The manner
of the unmasking of Jasper marks the manner and tone in which the whole
tale was to be told. Here we have not got to do with Dickens simply
giving himself away, as he gave himself away in _Pickwick_ or _The
Christmas Carol_. Not that one complains of his giving himself away;
there was no better gift.
What was the mystery of Edwin Drood from Dickens's point of view we
shall never know, except perhaps from Dickens in heaven, and then he
will very likely have forgotten. But the mystery of Edwin Drood from our
point of view, from that of his critics, and those who have with some
courage (after his death) attempted to be his collaborators, is simply
this. There is no doubt that Jasper either murdered Drood or supposed
that he had murdered him. This certainty we have from the fact that it
is the whole point of a scene between Jasper and Drood's lawyer
Grewgious in which Jasper is struck down with remorse when he realises
that Drood has been killed (from his point of view) needlessly and
without profit. The only question is whether Jasper's remorse was as
needless as his murder. In other words the only question is whether,
while he certainly thought he had murdered Drood, he had really done it.
It need hardly be said that such a doubt would not have been raised for
nothing; gentlemen like Jasper do not as a rule waste good remorse
except upon successful crime. The origin of the doubt about the real
death of Drood is this. Towards the latter end of the existing chapters
there appears very abruptly, and with a quite ostentatious air of
mystery, a character called Datchery. He appears for the purpose of
spying upon Jasper and getting up some case against him; at any rate, if
he has not this purpose in the story he has no other earthly purpose in
it. He is an old gentleman of juvenile energy, with a habit of carrying
his hat in his hand even in the open air; which some have interpreted as
meaning that he feels the unaccustomed weight of a wig. Now there are
one or two people in the story who this person might possibly be.
Notably there is one person in the story who seems as if he were meant
to be something, but who hitherto has certainly been nothing; I mean
Bazzard, Mr. Grewgious's clerk, a sulky fellow interested in
theatricals, of whom an unnecessary fuss is made. There is also Mr.
Grewgious himself, and there is also another suggestion, so much more
startling that I shall have to deal with it later.
For the moment, however, the point is this: That ingenious writer, Mr.
Proctor, started the highly plausible theory that this Datchery was
Drood himself, who had not really been killed. He adduced a most complex
and complete scheme covering nearly all the details; but the strongest
argument he had was rather one of general artistic effect. This argument
has been quite perfectly summed up by Mr. Andrew Lang in one sentence:
"If Edwin Drood is dead, there is not much mystery about him." This is
quite true; Dickens, when writing in so deliberate, nay, dark and
conspiratorial a manner, would surely have kept the death of Drood and
the guilt of Jasper hidden a little longer if the only real mystery had
been the guilt of Jasper and the death of Drood. It certainly seems
artistically more likely that there was a further mystery of Edwin
Drood; not the mystery that he was murdered, but the mystery that he was
not murdered. It is true indeed that Mr. Cumming Walters has a theory of
Datchery (to which I have already darkly alluded) a theory which is wild
enough to be the centre not only of any novel but of any harlequinade.
But the point is that even Mr. Cumming Walters's theory, though it makes
the mystery more extraordinary, does not make it any more of a mystery
of Edwin Drood. It should not have been called _The Mystery of Drood_,
but _The Mystery of Datchery_. This is the strongest case for Proctor;
if the story tells of Drood coming back as Datchery, the story does at
any rate fulfil the title upon its title-page.
The principal objection to Proctor's theory is that there seems no
adequate reason why Jasper should not have murdered his nephew if he
wanted to. And there seems even less reason why Drood, if unsuccessfully
murdered, should not have raised the alarm. Happy young architects,
when nearly strangled by elderly organists, do not generally stroll away
and come back some time afterwards in a wig and with a false name.
Superficially it would seem almost as odd to find the murderer
investigating the origin of the murder, as to find the corpse
investigating it. To this problem two of the ablest literary critics of
our time, Mr. Andrew Lang and Mr. William Archer (both of them persuaded
generally of the Proctor theory) have especially addressed themselves.
Both have come to the same substantial conclusion; and I suspect that
they are right. They hold that Jasper (whose mania for opium is much
insisted on in the tale) had some sort of fit, or trance, or other
physical seizure as he was committing the crime so that he left it
unfinished; and they also hold that he had drugged Drood, so that Drood,
when he recovered from the attack, was doubtful about who had been his
assailant. This might really explain, if a little fancifully, his coming
back to the town in the character of a detective. He might think it due
to his uncle (whom he last remembered in a kind of murderous vision) to
make an independent investigation as to whether he was really guilty or
not. He might say, as Hamlet said of a vision equally terrifying, "I'll
have grounds more relative than this." In fairness it must be said that
there is something vaguely shaky about this theory; chiefly, I think, in
this respect; that there is a sort of farcical cheerfulness about
Datchery which does not seem altogether appropriate to a lad who ought
to be in an agony of doubt as to whether his best friend was or was not
his assassin. Still there are many such incongruities in Dickens; and
the explanation of Mr. Archer and Mr. Lang is an explanation. I do not
believe that any explanation as good can be given to account for the
tale being called _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_, if the tale practically
starts with his corpse.
If Drood is really dead one cannot help feeling the story ought to end
where it does end, not by accident but by design. The murder is
explained. Jasper is ready to be hanged, and every one else in a decent
novel ought to be ready to be married. If there was to be much more of
anything, it must have been of anticlimax. Nevertheless there are
degrees of anticlimax. Some of the more obvious explanations of Datchery
are quite reasonable, but they are distinctly tame. For instance,
Datchery may be Bazzard; but it is not very exciting if he is; for we
know nothing about Bazzard and care less. Again, he might be Grewgious;
but there is something pointless about one grotesque character dressing
up as another grotesque character actually less amusing than himself.
Now, Mr. Cumming Walters has at least had the distinction of inventing a
theory which makes the story at least an interesting story, even if it
is not exactly the story that is promised on the cover of the book. The
obvious enemy of Drood, on whom suspicion first falls, the swarthy and
sulky Landless, has a sister even swarthier and, except for her queenly
dignity, even sulkier than he. This barbaric princess is evidently meant
to be (in a sombre way) in love with Crisparkle, the clergyman and
muscular Christian who represents the breezy element in the emotions of
the tale. Mr. Cumming Walters seriously maintains that it is this
barbaric princess who puts on a wig and dresses up as Mr. Datchery. He
urges his case with much ingenuity of detail. Helena Landless certainly
had a motive; to save her brother, who was accused falsely, by accusing
Jasper justly. She certainly had some of the faculties; it is
elaborately stated in the earlier part of her story that she was
accustomed as a child to dress up in male costume and run into the
wildest adventures. There may be something in Mr. Cumming Walters's
argument that the very flippancy of Datchery is the self-conscious
flippancy of a strong woman in such an odd situation; certainly there is
the same flippancy in Portia and in Rosalind. Nevertheless, I think,
there is one final objection to the theory; and that is simply this,
that it is comic. It is generally wrong to represent a great master of
the grotesque as being grotesque exactly where he does not intend to be.
And I am persuaded that if Dickens had really meant Helena to turn into
Datchery, he would have made her from the first in some way more light,
eccentric, and laughable; he would have made her at least as light and
laughable as Rosa. As it is, there is something strangely stiff and
incredible about the idea of a lady so dark and dignified dressing up as
a swaggering old gentleman in a blue coat and grey trousers. We might
almost as easily imagine Edith Dombey dressing up as Major Bagstock. We
might almost as easily imagine Rebecca in _Ivanhoe_ dressing up as Isaac
of York.
Of course such a question can never really be settled precisely, because
it is the question not merely of a mystery but of a puzzle. For here the
detective novel differs from every other kind of novel. The ordinary
novelist desires to keep his readers to the point; the detective
novelist actually desires to keep his readers off the point. In the
first case, every touch must help to tell the reader what he means; in
the second case, most of the touches must conceal or even contradict
what he means. You are supposed to see and appreciate the smallest
gestures of a good actor; but you do not see all the gestures of a
conjuror, if he is a good conjuror. Hence, into the critical estimate of
such works as this, there is introduced a problem, an extra perplexity,
which does not exist in other cases. I mean the problem of the things
commonly called blinds. Some of the points which we pick out as
suggestive may have been put in as deceptive. Thus the whole conflict
between a critic with one theory, like Mr. Lang, and a critic with
another theory, like Mr. Cumming Walters, becomes eternal and a trifle
farcical. Mr. Walters says that all Mr. Lang's clues were blinds; Mr.
Lang says that all Mr. Walters's clues were blinds. Mr. Walters can say
that some passages seemed to show that Helena was Datchery; Mr. Lang can
reply that those passages were only meant to deceive simple people like
Mr. Walters into supposing that she was Datchery. Similarly Mr. Lang can
say that the return of Drood is foreshadowed; and Mr. Walters can reply
that it was foreshadowed because it was never meant to come off. There
seems no end to this insane process; anything that Dickens wrote may or
may not mean the opposite of what it says. Upon this principle I should
be very ready for one to declare that all the suggested Datcherys were
really blinds; merely because they can naturally be suggested. I would
undertake to maintain that Mr. Datchery is really Miss Twinkleton, who
has a mercenary interest in keeping Rosa Budd at her school. This
suggestion does not seem to me to be really much more humorous than Mr.
Cumming Walters's theory. Yet either may certainly be true. Dickens is
dead, and a number of splendid scenes and startling adventures have died
with him. Even if we get the right solution we shall not know that it is
right. The tale might have been, and yet it has not been.
And I think there is no thought so much calculated to make one doubt
death itself, to feel that sublime doubt which has created all
religion--the doubt that found death incredible. Edwin Drood may or may
not have really died; but surely Dickens did not really die. Surely our
real detective liveth and shall appear in the latter days of the earth.
For a finished tale may give a man immortality in the light and literary
sense; but an unfinished tale suggests another immortality, more
essential and more strange.