Biography of Charles Dickens by His Daughter Mamie
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CHAPTER V.
Charles Dickens Interest in London birds.--Our pet bird "Dick."--Devotion of his
dogs.--Decision to visit America.--His arrival in New York.--Comments on
American courtesies.--Farewell public appearances.
The warm affection which was so characteristic of my father toward people
was also directed, as I have already told, towards animals and birds. A
few further anecdotes occur to me, and I have ventured to give them here,
before proceeding to tell of his visit to America, his readings, and the,
to me, sad story of his last public appearance.
My father's quick and amusing observation of London birds and their
habits, and of their fondness for "low company," is full of charm and
quaint oddity. He writes: "That anything born of an egg and invested
with wings should have got to the pass that it hops contentedly down a
ladder into a cellar, and calls that going home, is a circumstance so
amazing as to leave one nothing more in this connection to wonder at. I
know a low fellow, originally of a good family from Dorking, who takes
his whole establishment of wives in single file in at the door of the jug
department of a disorderly tavern near the Haymarket, manoeuvres them
among the company's legs, and emerges with them at the bottle entrance,
seldom in the season going to bed before two in the morning. And thus he
passes his life. But the family I am best acquainted with reside in the
densest part of Bethnal Green. Their abstraction from the objects in
which they live, or rather their conviction that these objects have all
come into existence in express subservience to fowls, has so enchanted me
that I have made them the subject of many journeys at divers hours.
After careful observation of the two lords and of the ten ladies of whom
this family consists, I have come to the conclusion that their opinions
are represented by the leading lord and leading lady, the latter, as I
judge, an aged personage, afflicted with a paucity of feather and
visibility of quill that gives her the appearance of a bundle of office
pens. They look upon old shoes, wrecks of kettles, saucepans and
fragments of bonnets as a kind of meteoric discharge for fowls to peck
at. Gaslight comes quite as natural to them as any other light; and I
have more than a suspicion that in the minds of the two lords, the early
public house at the corner has superseded the sun. They always begin to
crow when the public house shutters begin to be taken down, and they
salute the pot-boy the instant he appears to perform that duty, as if he
were Phoebus in person."
During one of his walks through the slums, my father was so fascinated by
the intelligence of a busy goldfinch drawing water for himself in his
cage--he had other accomplishments as well--that he went in and bought
it. But not a thing would the little bird do, not a trick would he
perform when he got to his new home in Doughty Street, and would only
draw up water in the dark or when he thought no one was looking. "After
an interval of futile and at length hopeless expectation," my father
writes, "the merchant who had educated him was appealed to. The merchant
was a bow-legged character, with a flat and cushiony nose, like the last
new strawberry. He wore a fur cap and shorts, and was of the velveteen
race velveteeny. He sent word that he would 'look round.' He looked
round, appeared in the doorway of the room, and slightly cocked up his
evil eye at the goldfinch. Instantly a raging thirst beset the bird, and
when it was appeased he still drew several unnecessary buckets of water,
leaping about the perch and sharpening his bill with irrepressible
satisfaction."
While at Broadstairs one summer, our bathing woman, who reared birds,
gave a canary to my sister and myself. "Dick," who was only a few weeks
old when he came to us, grew to be a very king of birds, and became in
time a most important member of the household. There was a fierce war
waged against cats during his lifetime, and writing from Boulogne my
father very funnily describes our troubles with the feline race: "War is
raging against two particularly tigerish and fearful cats (from the mill,
I suppose), which are always glaring in dark corners after our wonderful
little 'Dick.' Keeping the house open at all points it is impossible to
shut them out, and they hide themselves in the most terrific manner,
hanging themselves up behind draperies like bats, and tumbling out in the
dead of night with frightful caterwaulings. Hereupon French, the
footman, borrows a gun, loads it to the muzzle, discharges it twice in
vain, and throws himself over with the recoil exactly like a clown. But
at last, while I was in town, he aims at the more amiable cat of the two
and shoots that animal dead. Insufferably elated by this victory he is
now engaged from morning to night in hiding behind bushes to get aim at
the other. He does nothing else whatever. All the boys encourage him
and watch for the enemy, on whose appearance they give an alarm, which
immediately serves as a warning to the creature, who runs away.
They--the boys--are at this moment (ready dressed for church) all lying
on their stomachs in various parts of the garden. I am afraid to go out
lest I should be shot. Mr. Plornish, says his prayers at night in a
whisper lest the cat should overhear him and take offence. The tradesmen
cry out as they come up the avenue: 'Me Voici! C'est
Moi--boulanger--me tirez pas, Monsieur Frenche!' It is
like
living in a state of siege, and the wonderful manner in which the cat
preserves the character of being the only person not much put out by the
intensity of this monomania is most ridiculous. The finest thing is that
immediately after I have heard the noble sportsman blazing away at her in
the garden in front I look out of my room door into the drawing-room and
am pretty sure to see her coming in after the bird, in the calmest manner
possible, by the back window." But no harm ever came to "our wonderful
little 'Dick,'" who lived to a ripe old age--sixteen years--and was
buried under a rose tree at "Gad's Hill."
On his return from his last visit to America he wrote a charming account
of his welcome home by the dogs at "Gad's Hill." "As you ask me about
the dogs, I begin with them. When I came down first I came to Gravesend,
five miles off. The two Newfoundland dogs coming to meet me with the
usual carriage and the usual driver, and beholding me coming in my usual
dress out at the usual door, it struck me that their recollection of my
having been absent for any unusual time was at once cancelled. They
behaved (they are both young dogs) exactly in their usual manner, coming
behind the basket phaeton as we trotted along and lifting their heads to
have their ears pulled, a special attention which they received from no
one else. But when I drove into the stableyard, 'Linda' was greatly
excited; weeping profusely, and throwing herself on her back that she
might caress my foot with her great forepaws. Mamie's little dog, too,
'Mrs. Bouncer,' barked in the greatest agitation on being called down and
asked: 'Who is this?' tore round me, like the dog in the Faust outlines."
My father brought with him, on his return from his first visit to
America, a small, shaggy Havana spaniel, which had been given to him and
which he had named "Timber Doodle." He wrote of him: "Little doggy
improves rapidly and now jumps over my stick at the word of command."
"Timber," travelled with us in all our foreign wanderings, and while at
Albaro the poor little fellow had a most unfortunate experience--an
encounter of some duration with a plague of fleas. Father writes:
"'Timber' has had every hair upon his body cut off because of the fleas,
and he looks like the ghost of a drowned dog come out of a pond after a
week or so. It is very awful to see him sidle into a room. He knows the
change upon him, and is always turning-round and round to look for
himself. I think he'll die of grief; it is to be hoped that the hair
will grow again."
For many years my father's public readings were an important part of his
life, and into their performance and preparation he threw the best energy
of his heart and soul, practising and rehearsing at all times and places.
The meadow near our home was a favorite place, and people passing through
the lane, not knowing who he was, or what doing, must have thought him a
madman from his reciting and gesticulation. The great success of these
readings led to many tempting offers from the United States, which, as
time went on, and we realized how much the fatigue of the readings
together with his other work were sapping his strength, we earnestly
opposed his even considering. However, after much discussion and
deliberation he wrote to me on September 28th, 1867: "As I telegraphed
after I saw you I am off to consult with Mr. Forster and Dolby together.
You shall hear either on Monday or by Monday's post from London how I
decide finally." Three days later: "You will have had my telegram that I
go to America. After a long discussion with Forster and consideration of
what is to be said on both sides, I have decided to go through with it,
and have telegraphed 'yes' to Boston." There was, at first, some talk of
my accompanying him, but when the programme of the tour was submitted to
my father and he saw how much time must be devoted to business and how
little, indeed almost no time could be given to sightseeing, this idea
was given up.
* * * * *
A farewell banquet was given him in London on the second of November, and
on the ninth he sailed. A large party of us went to Liverpool to see him
sail, and with heavy hearts to bid him farewell. In those days a journey
to America was a serious matter, and we felt in our hearts that he was
about to tax his health and strength too cruelly. And so he did.
Soon after reaching the United States, my father contracted a severe cold
which never left him during his visit, and which caused him the greatest
annoyance. I will give you a few quotations from his letters to show how
pluckily he fought against his ailment and under what a strain he
continued his work. On his arrival at New York on Christmas Day, in
response to a letter of mine which awaited him there, he wrote: "I wanted
your letter much, for I had a frightful cold (English colds are nothing
to those of this country) and was very miserable." He adds to this
letter, a day or two later: "I managed to read last night but it was as
much as I could do. To-day I am so unwell that I have sent for a
doctor." Again he writes: "It likewise happens, not seldom, that I am so
dead beat when I come off the stage, that they lay me down on a sofa
after I have been washed and dressed, and I lie there extremely faint for
a quarter of an hour. In that time I rally and come right." Again: "On
the afternoon of my birthday my catarrh was in such a state that Charles
Sumner coming in at five o'clock and finding me covered with mustard
poultices and apparently voiceless, turned to Dolby and said: 'Surely,
Mr. Dolby, it is impossible that he can read to-night.' Says Dolby:
'Sir, I have told Mr. Dickens so four times to-day and I have been very
anxious. But you have no idea how he will change when he gets to the
little table.' After five minutes of the little table I was not, for the
time, even hoarse. The frequent experience of this return of force when
it is wanted saves me much anxiety, but I am not at times without the
nervous dread that I may some day sink altogether."
But as a reward for his unstinted self-giving came the wonderful success
of his tour, the pride and delight which he felt in the enthusiasm which
greeted him everywhere, the personal affection lavished upon him, and the
many dear friends he made. He writes from Boston, a propos of these
rewards: "When we reached here last Saturday night we found that Mrs.
Fields had not only garnished the room with flowers, but also with holly
(with real red berries), and festoons of moss dependent from the
looking-glasses and picture-frames. The homely Christmas look of the
place quite affected us."
Later, from Washington: "I couldn't help laughing at myself on my
birthday here; it was observed as much as though I were a little boy.
Flowers and garlands of the most exquisite kind, arranged in all manner
of green baskets, bloomed over the room; letters, radiant with good
wishes, poured in. Also, by hands unknown, the hall at night was
decorated; and after 'Boots at the Holly Tree Inn' the audience rose,
great people and all, standing and cheering until I went back to the
table and made them a little speech."
He wrote home constantly, giving frequent commissions for improvements at
"Gad's Hill," to be made before his return. He was much impressed on his
second visit, as on his first, I remember, with the beauty of the
American women. "The ladies are remarkably handsome," he wrote.
[Picture: The Empty Chair]
In the autumn of 1869 he began a series of farewell readings, which were
another heavy tax upon his health and strength. During his tour at this
time he writes to Mr. Forster after some rather alarming symptoms had
developed: "I told Beard, a year after the Staplehurst accident, that I
was certain that my heart had been fluttered and wanted a little helping.
This the stethoscope confirmed; and considering the immense exertion I am
undergoing, and the constant jarring of express trains, the case seems to
me quite intelligible. Don't say anything in the 'Gad's' direction about
my being a little out of sorts. I have broached the matter, of course,
but very lightly."
But even such warning as this failed to make him realize how much less
was his strength, and with indomitable courage and spirit he continued
his tour. The trouble in his feet increased, and his sufferings from
this cause were very great. It became necessary at one time for him to
have a physician in attendance upon him at every reading. But in spite
of his perseverance, he became so ill that the readings had to be
stopped.
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