Dickens in Genoa

ARECENT book on Dickens, that calls itself a novel and that depressed me profoundly, caused me to look into a collection of family papers for some record of the friendship that existed between Charles Dickens when he was at Genoa and my grandfather, who was our Consul there. I wanted to evoke his likeness for myself from his amusing letters, not to disprove anything or discover anything new, but merely to see the man Dickens in his own handwriting (sheaves of it are in the British Museum) which to me is quite enough to confute his lone libeller. With the hand and manner of Dickens, a man could not be anything but lovable.

The first letter I found was not addressed to Timothy Yeats-Brown, but to the late Angus Fletcher, the sculptor :

My dear Fletcher,

Ten thousand thanks. Take the illustrious abiding place of the illustrious man for three months (I do not like to bind myself to a place I have not seen and tried for longer) : stipulating in the agreement that if I, at the expiration of that time, continue it for 12 months, I shall pay so and so. Of course you will get it as cheap as you can. But I do not wish to bind the butcher very tight for the three months, so that what I overpay, as it were, in that term, is afterwards allowed me if I hold it for twelve. You understand, bright Dugald Hadn't your bedroom better be on the ground floor, lest those enormous blocks of marble you will work upon, should fall through and damage the family ! I feel myself on the roof,- with a tele- scope at my eye. You stand beside me with a blouse and chisel. But little of me is visible behind my moustache, but that is of a swarthy and -bandit hue. I look towards my Native Land, and scowl. I also drink—a little. Do I smoke at all ?

A duplicate of this has gone to the other address. You are a nice man to hope I am working at Italian, when I am working my very head off at Martin Chuzzlewit !

Best regards and many thanks from Kate.

Ever faithfully yours,

Angus Fletcher, Esq. CHARLES DICKENS.

There is a small puzzle about this letter. The first of the twenty monthly numbers of Martin Chuzzlewit appeared in January, 1843. It seems curious that Dickens, who was such a hard anZ last worker, should be still busy with it when seventeen numbers had appeared.

In 1845 Dickens had never given a public reading, or even, I believe, a reading to any friends outside his own house. The next letter (undated, but written from the Palazzo Peschiere in the early summer of 1845) shows that my grandfather had been discussing the question with him. I remember my father. telling me that the first reading Dickens ever gave was at the- Palazzo Gropallo (our house), and that Dickens was extremely nervous and insisted that no one should sit behind him. Would that more details of that evening had been preserved !

My dear Mrs. Brown,

I have commtmicated the contents of your note to ,Charles and in reply to it he desires me to say that as he has made up his mind to read the Christmas Carol through, instead of any detached pieces from his other works, he has no objection to your inviting Lady • Pellew. He feels so much, he says, the want of effect and interest in the extracts that it is in fact for that reason he has so long deferred fixing the evening for the reading, but he is sure he can make a very effective thing of the Carol. Will you tell Mr. Brown this is his decided conclusion

Ever most sincerely yours,

CATHERINE DICKENS.

I return your books with many thanks. Charlie will be so glad to be with your boys to-morrow.

The Honble. Mrs. Yeats Brown.

Charlie was Dickens' eight year old son. The next letter is written in an unusually cramped hand, and is curt in tone. It is, I think, of some interest as showing that Dickens' private readings had as yet given him little idea of the immense and perhaps unfortunate success that was to attend his public performances.

Peachiera, Tuesday Morning, June Third, 1845.

My dear Sir I must beg you--with the greatest reluctance—to excuse me this evening. Devonshire Terrace, Monday, thirteenth May, 1844.

It has only this moment come to my- knowledge,tbat you expect guests whom I have never seen or heard of in my IE I knew them I have no doubt I should be as happy to read to theM aiI should be to read to you ; but I do not know them ; and I have an invincible repugnance to that kind of exhibition which an otherwise pleasant recreation becomes under such circumstances. It may be a natural and rational dislike or it may be very much beside the mark. But I have it.

I am truly sorry that I did not explain this general objection of mine more explicitly to you some days ago. But I thought in the first instance that you would perhaps infer it from my dislike to reading out of my own house, and I felt sure you were in full possession of it when Mrs. Brown proposed to make a special exception in the case of Lady Pellew and her daughter, to which I was unfeignedly glad to consent. It is no fault of mine, but rests solely with Mrs. Dickens, that I write to you at so late a moment. It is not ten minutes since she told me what you told her of your arrangements last Sunday.

Always, my dear Sir, Faithfully yours,

T. Yeats Brown, Esquire. CHART ES DICKENS.

The quarrel was soon put right, however,. In fact, I believe the reading took place after all, or another reading very soon afterwards. Some years later, when. my grandparents were in London, Dickens wrote:

Devonshire Terrace, Wednesday, Fourteenth August, 1850.

My dear Brown, Georgina tells me you are going to the opera next Tuesday. Now (as our servants are out of town and we are in an anti- Malthusian state here) I want you and Mrs. Brown to come and dine with me at the Star and Garter at Richmond, on the following Friday. I will drive you down and we will dine early ; so that if we feel disposed for Vauxhall we may go there, very easily, afterwards.

Is it a bargain! I name that day because I am not likely to be free before, being now hard at work. My good friend Mr. Ellis of the Star and Garter is used to me and knows how to make us comfortable.

Say yes, and I elevate my pen in the air after the Roman manner and swear by it to call for you next Friday week at 3! With best regards to Mrs. Brown and all the pets (including, when you write, the child with the name which I am not sufficiently Biblical to be able to spell)*.

Believe me very cordially yours,

T. Yeats Brown, Esquire. CHARLES DICKENS.

There were other letters, but I cannot trace them at the moment. These I have given are characteristic of the man—no more or less. They are not startling, but they are typical and they seem to me, as I trace their very modern writing with none of the faded flourishes common at the time and the jolly signatures underlined a dozen times or so, to say something quite out loud. Dickens is one of us in this vital, restless, eager century. He has not aged like some of the Victorians. He lives because we love him. We love him because he is so human. For that reason, also, we read more of him than of any other writer. That stupid brute, the British public, will go on loving the man as well as- reading his books.

F. YEATS-BROWN.