The Final Recollections of Charles Dickens (3 page)

It was not a bad living for me, but it was not a particularly good one either. And my eye was on a more ambitious goal. In 1831, at age nineteen, I joined the staff of
The Mirror of Parliament
, a weekly publication that reported on proceedings in the House of Lords and House of Commons. My work consisted of attending legislative sessions and transcribing what was spoken.

It has been said that one must be a common scholar before becoming an uncommon one. In 1833, I took the first tentative step in that direction. I had previously applied for and received a reader's card for the library in the British Museum. Now I had a desire to put my own thoughts on paper rather than read and record the words of others.

I wrote a sketch of London life and submitted it anonymously to a little-known publication called the
Monthly Magazine
. I was so unsure of myself that I dropped my work stealthily into a letter box outside a dark office one evening at twilight. A week later, “Dinner at Poplar Walk”—my writing—was published.

I purchased a copy of the magazine, walked to Westminster Hall, and went inside. I remained there for half an hour because my eyes were so dimmed with joy and pride that they could not bear the light of the street and were not fit to be seen.

A vision of what my life might become had opened wide before me.

More sketches followed. In August 1834, I published my first signed article in
the Monthly Magazine
using the pseudonym “Boz”—a pet name that had been bestowed upon one of my younger brothers. That same month, I took a job as a reporter for the
Morning Chronicle
. Unlike my work as a Parliamentary reporter, my new position offered a regular salary. That enabled me to move out of my parents' home and establish a residence of my own.

My responsibilities at the
Morning Chronicle
largely involved the transcription of speeches, debates, and talks given at political dinners and other political events. When Parliament was not in session, I did general reporting and wrote theatre reviews for the paper.

Theatre was a love of mine. I harboured ambitions as an actor and practiced even such things as walking in and out of a room and sitting down in a chair so as to impress others. I attended some form of theatre almost every night at that time in my life. But the sketches, which were my first attempts at true authorship, remained the focus of my writing. I am conscious of their bearing
marks of haste and inexperience. I was a young man, and I sent them into the world with many imperfections. Nonetheless, I recorded London and its people as I found them.

The
Morning Chronicle
published
Sketches by Boz
on a regular basis. Then, in January 1835, one of its owners, George Hogarth, undertook to edit a new paper. Hogarth asked me to write sketches for
The Evening Chronicle
. I agreed, and my salary was increased from five to seven guineas a week.

Hogarth also invited me to his home in Chelsea, where I was introduced to his eldest daughter, Catherine.

There had been little romance in my life up until that time. I was slightly built and looked young for my age. Carrying myself with perfectly erect posture, I was able to appear a bit taller than I was. My features were characterised more by animation and, I would hope, intelligence than by beauty and grace. Later, my fame became an aphrodisiac. Women wanted to be in my presence. But I was largely ignored by the descendants of Eve when I was young.

Catherine was amiable, sweet natured, and kind. Also short, plump, and awkward in movement. It was a time in my life when I wanted a family and to be the master of my own home. I greatly admired her father, and he saw me as a young man of promise. The relationship also offered me a passageway to a more secure position in society.

There is an adage that advises, “A man should select for his wife only such a woman as he would select for a friend were she a man.”

By that measure, I chose unwisely. In May 1835, I proposed marriage to Catherine, and she accepted without pause.

Better had she not. There is no disparity in marriage more troublesome than unsuitability of mind. Catherine had no interest in the world beyond her family and no experience with it either. She was of a social class above me but made a poor lion's mate.

At the time, I did not understand.

Meanwhile, I continued to write.
Sketches by Boz
grew more popular. In autumn of 1835, a publisher named John Marone offered me one hundred pounds for their copyright with the intention of publishing them with illustrations in two volumes the following year.

That brings my narrative to 27 January 1836, when George Hogarth invited me to dine with him at the Garrick Club. The club had been founded five years earlier for the purpose of bringing together patrons and practitioners of drama, so that actors and others of the theatre might meet on equal terms with men of education and wealth.

The day was clad in one of the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five dresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, and dismal. In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of life. In the city, it had a foul stale smell and was a dirt-stained addition to the gutters.

We dined in a large room with richly paneled walls before retiring to the club library. A gentleman with
a hook attached to his right wrist approached another man who was standing by the fireplace.

The man by the fireplace was in his mid-thirties with a sharp nose and prominent chin. He was elegantly dressed in a brown suit with a shirt of the finest linen, rich in pattern and scrupulously white. He seemed a bit haughty, as though requiring everyone who wished conversation to come to him. And come they did, each visitor enjoying an audience for so long as he politely allowed.

Think for a moment of a long chain woven around a man that has a hold upon his thoughts for the rest of life. A chain of iron or thorns or flowers or gold. That chain would not exist to bind him but for the formation of the first link on the first day.

For everything that followed in my life, this was that day.

As a writer of fiction, I have been privileged to come and go as I please, to enter through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome all obstacles of distance, time, and place. But the recitation contained in the following pages is truth in its most absolute form. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies were within me, whatever might have been done differently and better, this is as I acted and as it all happened to me.

CHAPTER 2

The man standing by the fireplace in the library of the Garrick Club was not handsome. But he had the carriage of a handsome man and an aura about him that demanded attention. He stood with his arms folded for greater impressiveness of bearing. Everyone in the room was aware of his presence. I watched as he talked with those who ventured to his side and observed how readily they responded to him.

“That's Geoffrey Wingate,” George Hogarth told me. “He's an ingenious man.”

I knew of Wingate by reputation. Gentlemen on the street raised a forefinger to the brim of their hat as he passed by. He was a man of business who invested with great success on behalf of his clients, who were drawn from the ruling class. His money and the money he had made for them had caused him to be courted and admired.

“I met him at a dinner not long ago,” Hogarth confided. “I think he will remember me. Would you like an introduction?”

I thought that would be interesting, and Hogarth clearly wanted to remake Wingate's acquaintance. So we crossed the room to the fireplace.

Wingate acknowledged our approach. “Mr. Hogarth. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

His voice was deep and rich. It seemed incongruous that a man of ordinary stature should have such a large voice, almost intimidating in the manner of physical bulk.

Hogarth introduced me as “the young man who is betrothed to my lovely daughter, Catherine.”

Wingate said that he was pleased to meet me, but there was no overdoing of it. He was pleased to meet me in a well-bred, mannered way. Then Hogarth added that I was “better known as Boz,” and Wingate's demeanor changed.

“Very impressive,” he noted. “You are such a young man. You must tell me how your writing began.”

I was brief in my recitation. Then, to my surprise, Wingate handed me his card with the instruction, “We must talk further soon.”

“I know how precious your time is,” I said deferentially.

“Nonsense.”

“A sketch by Boz in
The Evening Chronicle
would interest our readers,” Hogarth offered. “And nicely done, it could advance Mr. Wingate's business interests.”

“Precisely,” Wingate responded. “Mr. Dickens and I must set up a time to talk. I conduct business from my
home. Would Monday next at two o'clock in the afternoon be convenient for you?”

I said that it was.

“I will see you then. For now, let me leave you with the thought that every man should live as comfortably as he can. My advice to you, sir, is, ‘Be as rich as possible. Be as rich as you honestly can.'”

Wingate lived in a large house on a genteel street near Grosvenor Square. I arrived for my appointment a few minutes before the appointed hour. A brass knocker shaped like the head of a ferocious lion glared at me from the front door. I wiped my boots and was admitted by a servant.

The house was spacious and grandly furnished with rich sofas, handsome mirrors, and high-backed damask-covered chairs. A second servant led me through several rooms and knocked on a closed oak door. Wingate's voice sounded loud and clear, instructing me to enter. I did, and he rose from his desk to greet me.

The room was magnificently furnished with formidable easy chairs, thick carpet, and cabinets inlaid with precious wood. A window behind an imposing leather-topped desk looked out on a plot of land cultivated as a garden. It was not the best time of year for a garden, but I could see that the space was beautifully kept. There were clusters of bushes and trellises on which flowers would bloom in the growing season.

A large oil painting facing the window depicted a naval engagement with two warships firing cannonry at each other while several more vessels were blowing up in the distance.

Wingate and I shook hands, and he gestured for me to sit opposite the desk. Then he took a seat. A thick green ledger with a red leather spine lay open before him.

“I took the liberty of making some inquiries about your past,” Wingate said, beginning the conversation. “I am sure that, as a reporter, you will do the same of me if you have not already done so. Frankness is part of my character, so let me be direct and honest with you.”

“I was not born in the front rank. I have no trophies of birth. It was not preordained that I should be a gentleman. Like you, I was forced by circumstances to make my own way in the world. I am what you aspire to be. If a man is born in possession of a silver spoon, it is not very difficult to keep the spoon polished. But if he is born in possession of a wooden ladle, the process of transmuting it to silver can be discouraging. I am thirty-six years old and a rich man now. Not so rich as some suppose, but wealthy. I have fought against the inequities of the world, and I have won.”

“My business involves the combination of financial judgment and capital. Others supply the capital. I put in my ability and knowledge. I arrange investments, annuities, insurance, and other business ventures on the most favourable terms possible for my clients in exchange for a small commission. The dividends on most of the investments that I arrange begin immediately and are substantial. I am a bold speculator but not a reckless one. I know what to invest in and how to back
out quietly at the right time as well as any man alive. There is strict integrity in all of my transactions. There must be absolute honour among men of business, or business cannot be successfully carried on.”