Drood (34 page)

After eight years of mourning in seclusion in his gloomy Sherbourne retreat, in 1860, at the age of sixty-seven, Macready had remarried—the twenty-three-year-old Cecile Louise Frederica Spencer became the second Mrs Macready—and moved to a handsome new home in Cheltenham, only four or five hours from London. Soon after that they had a son.

Dickens was delighted. The Inimitable loathed, feared, and despised the idea of getting older (it was the reason that Mary Angela, his oldest grandchild, Charley and Bess’s daughter, this very evening was calling Dickens “Venerables,” as the writer had insisted—he would not allow the word “grandfather” to be used around him) and he did not wish to see or acknowledge signs of age or decay in those closest to him.

But the William Charles Macready at our table this Christmas Day night of 1865, at age seventy-two, showed every possible sign of age and decay.

The same features that so many had found interesting in an actor—the powerful chin, massive forehead, large nose, sunken eyes, pursed and budlike lips—now conveyed the sense of some once-proud bird of prey collapsed into itself.

As an actor, Macready had developed a technique, still taught at theatrical schools, called “the Macready pause.” I had heard it on stage myself. Essentially it was nothing more than a hesitation, an odd pause or ellipsis put into a line of dialogue where no punctuation existed, and it’s true that it could add impact or emphasis to a line, to the point of changing the meaning of the words on either side of the pause. Macready had incorporated this pause into his regular speech decades ago and his dictatorial ways as a director of plays had been parodied by many—“Stand—er—er—still, damn your eyes!” or “Keep your—er—er—eye on me, sir!”

But now the Macready pause had devoured most of the Macready meaning.

“I can’t—er—er—can’t
tell
you—er—er—Dickens, how… What
is
that preposterous and—er—er—horrible hubbub from the other… Children?
Your
children, Charley? What cat is that? Do—do—do—a—a—a—a—damn it! Cecile! What was I about to say before… Collins! No,
you,
the other one—with the spectacles! I read your—er—er—saw your—you—you—you—cannot possibly have meant that she… Do, fair Georgina, pray unburden us all of this—er—er—relieve us of this—a—a—banging of pewter pots from the kitchen, no? Yes! By God! Someone should tell the stage manager that these children should… Oh,
A Woman Is White
is what I meant to—er—er—capital turkey, my dear! Capital!”

T
HE TURKEY WAS
good. Some people have written that no one in England had been more responsible in the past decades for turning English families gathering around their tables on Christmas away from the bony and greasy goose and towards the rich, plump turkey than had Charles Dickens. His ending to
A Christmas Carol
alone seems to have pushed thousands of our previously goosified countrymen over the poultry bodice brink onto the white breast of true turkey feasts.

At any rate, the turkey was good this day, as were all the steaming side dishes. Even the white wine was better than that which Dickens usually served.

This was a small Christmas gathering by Dickens’s standards, but the long table was still more crowded than any Caroline had ever hosted for a Christmas dinner. At the far end was Charles Dickens, of course, the carved carcass of the larger of the two depleted turkeys still in front of him like a trophy of war. To his immediate right was Macready, and across the table from the Eminent Tragedian was his young wife, Cecile. (I am sure that there is some ironclad social rule against seating spouses across from one another—almost as bad as next to each other, I would think—but Charles Dickens was never one to pay much attention to Society’s dictates. Mere Podsnappery, he would say.)

Next to Macready was his god-daughter and namesake, Kate Macready Dickens Collins, but she did not look pleased to be seated next to her god-father—or pleased to be at the table with us, for that matter. After darting venomous glances at her father and wincing at Macready’s endlessly elliptical and indecipherable pronouncements, she would look down the table towards her sister Mamie and roll her eyes. Mamie—Mary—who was seated on my left (since, for some unknown reason, Dickens had bestowed upon me the honour of sitting at the opposite end of the table from him), had put on even more weight in the few weeks since I had last seen her and was looking more and more like her matronly mother.

Across from Katey was my brother, Charles, who did indeed look ill this evening. As much as I hated to agree with Dickens on this particular matter, Charley’s pale countenance did look like a death’s head.

To Katey Dickens’s right sat the Young Orphan, our very own Staplehurst survivor, Edmond Dickenson, who spent the evening grinning and gazing and beaming at everyone like the fool he was. Across from Dickenson was another young bachelor, twenty-six-year-old Percy Fitzgerald, who managed to be just as jovial and enthusiastic as Dickenson,
sans
the idiocy.

Sitting between Dickenson and Mamie Dickens was Charley Dickens. The Inimitable’s oldest child seemed the happiest of any of us there that night, and the reason may have been sitting across the table from him. I confess that young Bessie Dickens, his wife, may have been the loveliest woman there that night—or at least a close second to Cecile Macready. Dickens had been furious at Charley for falling in love with Bessie Evans—her father, Frederick Evans, had been a long-time friend of the Inimitable’s, but Dickens had never forgiven Evans for representing Catherine during the ugly separation negotiations—nor for being her trustee afterwards—
even though Dickens himself had asked Evans to take on those roles.

Luckily for Charley Dickens’s happiness and future, he had ignored his father’s blusterings and ultimatums and married Bessie. She was quiet and contained this night—she rarely spoke in the presence of her father-in-law—but the candlelight on her lovely neck was statement enough. On Bessie’s left sat Georgina Hogarth, who did her best to preside over the table and cluck about each dish and entrée in the author’s wife’s very palpable absence.

To Georgina’s left and to my immediate right sat young Henry Fielding Dickens. As far as I could recall, this was the first time that the sixteen-year-old had eaten at the grown-ups’ table on Christmas Day. The boy looked proud of that fact in his shiny new satin waistcoat with buttons far too visible. Less visible were the long side-whiskers the boy was attempting—none too successfully—to wish into existence along his downy cheeks. He kept touching, not consciously, I believe, his smooth cheeks and upper lip as if to see if the desired whiskers might have grown in during dinner.

To my immediate left, sitting between Mamie Dickens and me, was the true (for me) “Surprise Guest” of the evening—a very tall, very thickset, very ruddy-complexioned, very bald man with the kind of luxurious moustache and side-whiskers that poor young Henry D. could only dream of. The man’s name was George Dolby and I had actually met him at the
Household Words
office once or twice, although my recollection was that his background was in theatrical or business management, not publishing. During the evening’s introductions before dinner, it became obvious that Dickens had known Dolby slightly, had some business to discuss with him, and—since Dolby was at loose ends this Christmas—had invited him to Gad’s Hill on the spur of the moment.

Dolby was an energetic and skilful talker, despite a stammer that disappeared only when he was imitating other people (which he did frequently). His stories centred on theatrical gossip and, except for the slight stammer when he was speaking as himself, were told with almost perfect theatrical emphasis and timing—but he also knew how to listen. And to laugh. Several times this evening he had given forth with a noisy, jolly, reverberating, unselfconscious laugh that may have made Katey Dickens and Mamie roll their eyes but which, I noticed, always brought a smile to the Inimitable’s face. Dolby seemed especially amused by Macready’s nearly impenetrable tales and waited patiently through the “— er—er—er” for the “by God!” final lines before erupting in mirth.

The communal part of the evening was almost over, the children and grandchildren had come in to wish “Venerables” and their parents good night, the conversation had reached a pause where even Dolby seemed thoughtful and a little sad, Katey and Mamie had quit rolling their eyes and looking displeased with us all, but obviously the women were ready to retire to wherever they retire when the men move to the library or billiards room for brandy and a cigar, when young Dickenson said, “Excuse me, Mr Dickens, but if I may be so forward, what are you writing now, sir? Have you embarked upon another novel?”

Instead of frowning at the upstart, Dickens smiled as if he had been looking forward to this question all evening.

“Actually,” he said, “I have put aside my writing for the time being. I don’t know when I shall pick it up again.”

“Father!” cried Mamie in mock alarm. “You not writing? You not in your study writing every day? Shall the next announcement be that the sun no longer shall rise in the east?”

Dickens smiled again. “In truth, I have decided to embark upon a more rewarding endeavour over the coming months—perhaps years. A creative undertaking that shall be more rewarding to me in both artistic and financial terms.”

Katey showed her own version of the Inimitable’s smile. “You’re becoming an artist, Father? An illustrator, perhaps?” She looked at her quiet husband, my brother, across the ruins of the turkey. “You had best watch out, Charles. You have yet another competitor.”

“Nothing like that,” said Dickens. Kate often irritated her father, but his response to her taunt tonight was filled with equanimity. “I have decided to create a new art form altogether. Something the world has never experienced—has never imagined!—before this.”

“Another—eh—eh—a new—eh—eh, that is to say—by God, Dickens!” offered Macready.

The author leaned to his left and said softly to Cecile, “My dear, of all men at this table, your husband knows best the beauty and power of the new endeavour I shall be embarking upon in a very few weeks.”

“You’re going to become a full-time actor, Father?” chirped up Henry, who had seen his father on the amateur stage his entire life and who had been tossed around by him on that same stage during the early performances of my
The Frozen Deep.

“Not at all, my boy,” said Dickens, still smiling. “I daresay that our friend Wilkie at the other end of the table here might have a glimmer of what I have in mind.”

“I have no clue whatsoever,” I said truthfully.

Dickens set both hands on the table and spread his arms in a way that reminded me of da Vinci’s
The Last Supper.
That thought had hardly entered my mind before another followed fast on its heels—
If this is the Last Supper, which amongst us here is Judas?

“I have authorised Wills to negotiate on my behalf with Messrs Chappell of New Bond Street for an engagement consisting of at least thirty readings,” continued Dickens. “While the negotiations have only yet begun, I am quite confident that this shall happen and that it shall herald a new era of my career and of public entertainment and education.”

“But Father,” cried Mamie, obviously shocked, “you know what Dr Beard has said to you during your recent illnesses—degenerations of some functions of the heart, the need for more rest—your previous reading tours have so exhausted you…”

“Oh, nonsense,” cried Dickens but with even a broader smile. “We are considering appointing Mr Dolby there…”

The huge man blushed and bowed his head.

“. . . as my business manager and companion on these trips. Chappell would organise all business and administrative arrangements, as well as pay for my own and Mr Dolby’s and probably Mr Wills’s personal and travelling expenses. All I shall have to do is to take my book and read at the appointed place and hour.”

“But reading from your books is hardly… what did you call it, Father?… a new art form,” said Katey. “You’ve done it many times.”

“So I have, my dear,” agreed Dickens. “But never the way I shall on this and future tours. As you know, I never simply…
read
from my books, although sometimes I feign to. All of my performances are done from memory and I reserve the right to edit, conflate, alter, and rewrite scenes to a great extent… even improvise completely upon occasion, just as the Eminent Tragedian here has done count-less times to the betterment even of Shakespeare.” He patted Macready’s arm.

“Ah—yes—I, of course—but, Bulwer-Lytton, yes, I would gag away at will,” said Macready, reddening under his pale skin and wrinkles, “but the—er—er—the Bard. By God… never!”

Dickens laughed. “Well, my prose is not the Bard’s. It is not inscribed in stone anywhere like Moses’ Commandments.”

“But still,” said my brother, “a new art form? Can any reading be such?”

“Mine shall be from this tour forward,” snapped Dickens. His smile had faded.

“Your readings are already unique in their tone and brilliance, sir,” said young Dickenson.

“Thank you, Edmond. Your generous spirit is appreciated. But in my future readings, beginning on this tour and continuing… as I said… perhaps for many years, I plan to bring to the proceedings a totally unprecedented level of theatricality combined with a true understanding of the manipulation of animal magnetism.”

“Magnetism, by Jove!” exploded Dolby. “Sir, do you propose to mesmerise the audience as well as to entertain them?”

Dickens smiled again and stroked his whiskers. “Mr Dolby, I shall assume that you read. Novels, I mean.”

“Indeed I do, sir!” laughed Dolby. “I have enjoyed all of yours and also Mr Collins’s here… Mr Collins at the end of the table to my right, I mean to say.” He turned to me. “That book
Armadale
that Mr Dickens’s press published for you, Mr Collins. Wonderful stuff, sir. That heroine—Lydia Gwilt, I believe her name was. What a woman! Wonderful!”

“We did not have the pleasure of publishing
that
book of Mr Collins’s in serial form,” Dickens said formally. “Nor shall we have the honour of publishing it in book form. It shall appear in May of the coming year from another publisher. Although I am delighted to be able to say that we are in the process of wooing our dear Wilkie back to publish his next novel in
All the Year Round.”