IV Chapter from the Book "Phases of Dickens"

There were two plots upon which Dickens undoubtedly prided himself. The value of one we shall never conclusively ascertain; the other we can appraise.

Personally I think the plot of Our Mutual Friend to be poor, unconvincing, and occasionally clumsy. The secret of John Harmon should either have been better kept, or there should have been no air of mystery at all. Boffin's methods are not only primitive and repugnant, but they lead us to doubt whether they would have been effective. Why should the girl he disgusted with his affected miserliness necessarily fly to the arms of the man she despised? Could a man of Boffin's simple nature have acted so schemingly, and have adopted so roundabout a course to fulfil his object? Too much is left to chance, and too many people are made miserable that one person should be made happy. Boffin's character undergoes violent change, and we cannot reconcile the simple old soul of the earlier chapters with the consummate actor of the latter chapters. John Harmon himself is stagey, and his in-and-out business, his appearances and disappearances, his discovery and recognition by some, and his total evasion by others, make an undue strain upon credulity. He is too much like the actor with loud "aside" speeches which every one hears except those who are nearest to him; and the plot fails because it is mainly composed of make-believe. Then the story is over-weighted with detached incidents and by groups of disconnected characters. It degenerates into medley. Yet Dickens undoubtedly thought his plot subtle, ingenious, and clever — which is one more proof that as a maker of plots he lacked craft.

I have sometimes a fear, which will not be repressed, that Edwin Drood might have been equally disappointing, and that he overrated his powers. Certainly this would be the case if, as some of the would be solvers assert, he intended to unlock the riddle with a key which remained to be manufactured in the latter portion of the work — that is, by introducing an entirely new character who had no part or interest in the earlier events.

Dickens was not so utterly inartistic as that. Even in the story of Jonas Chuzzlewit he manifested some adroitness in manipulating the Nadgett episodes; and we may be sure that in the more careful design of the Drood mystery he would exercise greater skill. I have already said, however, that as a writer of detective tales Dickens was a failure. His Hunted Down is the only exception to the rule. But in the Drood volume we come to an entirely new set of circumstances, and a new mood on the part of the author.

So many books have been left unfinished, from Virgil's Æneid to the last novels of Thackeray and Stevenson, that one's first inquiry might be why an absorbing interest should be sustained in the unfinished work of Charles Dickens. It is due to the fact that it issues a challenge to the human intellect. It proclaims itself a "mystery," and, in more or less set terms, defies elucidation. When we find the declaration of Charles Dickens that he possessed a "new and incommunicable idea" we are resolved, as was John Forster, to wrest it from him. Here is a riddle of the Sphinx, and every Œdipus is ready to take the risk of unraveling it.

There was no idea which Dickens hugged more closely, one whose possibilities and varieties of treatment pleased his fancy more, than that a man, assumed to be dead, and treated as non-existent, should suddenly reappear in new guise and confound and convict his supposed murderer. This was the famous "Watched-by-the-Dead" theory on which so much stress was laid by Richard Anthony Proctor — a theory which is traced from Barnaby Rudge, one of the earliest novels, to Our Mutual Friend, one of the latest, and a theory which some contend was intended to be wrought out in its most consummate form in Edwin Drood, On first consideration this seems likely; on second consideration it is impossible.

Not only had Dickens exhausted that theory, but he was aware he had exhausted it. Edgar Allan Poe, in his penetrating essay on the first chapters of Barnahy Rudge, had plainly told him that this "secret" was no real secret, had triumphantly foretold the sequel to the premiss, and had declared that "the intention once perceived, traces of the design are found on every page, and points break out in all directions like stars." In course of time, so familiar did Dickens's "dead man" devices become by repetition, that there was nothing easier than for keen students and analysts to anticipate exactly what parts would be played by Meltham, Rudge, Rokesmith, and all the secret or disguised characters in "Watched-by-the-Dead" stories. The fact was not lost upon Dickens, who eventually retorted upon the proleptic and too-discerning critics by declaring that their discovery of a presumed "deception" in one novel had never been designed by him as a deception at all. In the well - known "Postscript" to Our Mutual Friend he gave the seers and prophets to understand that he had outwitted them after all, for they had only found what he had never concealed, but, on the contrary, had been "at great pains to suggest." "An artist," he added caustically, "may perhaps be trusted to know what he is about in his own vocation, and I was not alarmed by anticipation." Then he disclosed his real purpose — "To keep for a long time unsuspected, yet always working itself out, another purpose originating in that leading incident ... that was at once the most interesting and the most difficult part of my design."

There are here two matters for consideration. The first is the tacit acknowledgment of Dickens that his older and constantly recurring device of doubled parts was played out, and that he had originated something new and unexpected. The second is that he had not wholly abandoned the favourite idea, but had only given it a new turn; or, to repeat his own words, he had "worked out another purpose originating in the leading incident" — the purpose carefully concealed to the last, the reader boggled with the thought that the familiar theme would have the familiar ending, and then the dramatic disclosure sprung upon him as a surprise.

As Dickens reached this turning — point in his methods in 1864, when he planned Our Mutual Friend, it is obvious that if he ever intended to attempt to mystify his public again it would not be by the old expedient of transforming characters and recalling the dead to life, but by working out some other purpose "originating in the leading incident." The Drood volume came in 1870, and contained "a curious and incommunicable idea," "an unsuspected purpose originating in the leading incident, and difficult to work."

We now have to put to ourselves three questions: What was "new"? What was "incommunicable"? What was "difficult to work"?

It would be entirely "new," with Dickens, if the supposed dead man, unlike Rudge, and Meltham, and John Harmon, were in this case proved to be really dead; and it would be "incommunicable" if the mysterious watcher of the assassin were not such an one as in all the previous novels, but some person in the story, "marked out from the first," yet so concealed as to run only an infinitesimal risk of detection. Then, as Poe said, when the mystery was pre-comprehended "the points would break out in all directions like stars"; and then, as Dickens avowed, we should find that the real mystery was in a purpose "originating in the leading incident," the leading incident being no mystery at all, though set forth as one. All this would be "difficult to work," especially one detail which, so far as I can judge, was to constitute the supreme surprise in the end.

It was necessary for the author to cover up his tracks as speedily as possible, and to suggest false outlets. Thus, a main point is whether or not Drood is dead. Dickens always suggests that he may have escaped and may reappear. Rosa Bud, long after his disappearance, reviews the situation and goes through the series of arguments, leaving the conclusion in doubt. The sagacious reader at once jumps to a conclusion of his own — the conclusion Dickens wished, and, of course, the wrong one. If it is such an arguable matter, be sure Drood has escaped. Exactly so. Half the mystery is gone if a leading character has finally fallen out. Dickens becomes blandly confidential — but it is the confidence — trick of the literary expert.

In three instances, Proctor's theory that Drood had escaped and would come again upon the stage in disguise, signally fails. (This chapter was written, and was delivered as a lecture, several years before the admirable volume, About Edwin Drood, by Professor Jackson, was published.) First, it assumes that Dickens would repeat the outworn plot of making "the dead" return. Secondly, it would leave unexplained, under those circumstances, the "dead" man's silence and his inactivity for six months in spite of his assailant's continuance of malignant and dangerous operations. Thirdly, it would not bring the story to a conclusion such as Dickens, with his strong dramatic instinct, would have been likely to conceive. And there was a fourth reason, which, though personal, is to one who venerates the memory and character of Charles Dickens, overwhelmingly strong. The theory that Drood survived involves the acceptance of the theory that Dickens had, in explicitly denying that fact on more than one occasion, openly and deliberately uttered to his closest friends and associates what was false. Incidentally, however, the circumstance that he had three times declared "Drood was dead" was a valuable enlightenment in another direction, for it demonstrated that this was never the prime mystery, and was never designed as the puzzle. After Number Two of the story there was to be "a curious interest steadily working up to Number Five which requires a good deal of art and self - denial." The guessing that Drood was alive did not disturb Dickens in the least.

Dickens liked to work on a basis of fact, and he found that basis in the history of a young Rochester citizen whose fate had remained a mystery until his corpse had been discovered hidden away; then his murder by a relative who had professed the deepest affection for him had been confirmed. But there is another circumstance, less known, more surprising, and far more significant. In 1869 (when Edwin Drood had not been begun) a story was submitted to Dickens by the Hon. Robert Lytton and accepted by him. It was called John Acland. In October, three months after Drood had been contemplated, but six months before the first number was issued, Dickens hurriedly and prematurely brought John Acland to a close, and explained to the author in writing his reason: "The story had been done before."

This was perfectly true; a similar story to John Acland is to be traced in a magazine of the period. But here comes the amazing series of coincidences. Lytton's story was of the murder of a man by one who was not only his close friend but his host; the crime was a mystery; the missing body could not be traced; and it was hinted that the man was not dead but might reappear. But eventually the corpse was found in an icehouse, and its identity was established by means of a watch. The parallels between the written story John Acland and the yet-to-be-written story Edwin Drood are thus too astounding for explanation. At all events, only one presents itself, and that is that both authors had read the previously published narrative, and had decided upon the treatment of a similar theme. One further detail in this history is worth recording. Dickens said in his letter to Lytton that he had altered the original title of the story from plain John Acland to The "Disappearance" of John Acland, because, he explained, "this will leave the reader in doubt whether he really was murdered, until the end." The ruse must be compared with that adopted by Dickens in calling his own story The Mystery. It left the reader in doubt. That was the object.

What, then, was the secret? How was it to be disclosed? How are we now to penetrate it? At the time Dickens wrote his story he was under the influence of Wilkie Collins (whose Woman in White had just previously appeared in Household Words); and Collins made it part of his plan that every trifle, every chance episode, every seemingly casual item, should possess appositeness and importance and presently fall into its destined place. Dickens followed this method. When, in a mere parenthetical manner — an explanatory phrase or two inserted in a long conversation — he allowed the fact to glide in that some one had been in the habit of disguising herself, and that a girl had once worn a boy's attire, we cannot dismiss it as irrelevant. This will prove to be a link in some chain slowly fashioning in the course of the history. It is as weighty in its way as the fact that Durdles always carried his keys with him, that Jasper wore a long silk scarf round his delicate throat, that the boy Deputy waited near the Cathedral at night to stone Durdles home, that quicklime will destroy even the boots on the feet, and that a girl with a rich brown complexion had long hair, a deep voice, and dark eyes. It is as weighty as the laconic observation of Mr. Grewgious that he had "just come from Miss Landless" when he proceeded to watch the deadly effect of his message to Jasper of the broken engagement; and it is as weighty as the stonemason's remembrance of an eerie Christmas-Eve dream when he heard a strange cry like the howl of a dog. All trifles — but all circumstantial evidence! — nothing wasted, everything to be turned to account, every portion however minute fitting perfectly in that irrefragable chain made up of countless links.

And, all the time, Dickens continues to suggest that Drood is alive, and may at any moment leap into the light. Then, at the psychological moment, Datchery enters, wearing a big wig. What dullard could fail to fall into the trap? A man is missing — another man appears — they must be one and the same! Such acumen is worthy of Dogberry himself. We can imagine how the creator of Mrs. Harris roared.

Dickens, by apparent frankness, wished his readers — to "jump" at Drood — because that was not the solution. So he brought into prominent conjunction two facts delightfully easy to misunderstand. But if Datchery were not Drood, who could he be? He could be half-a-dozen persons — up to a certain point. We may find one very plausible reason for believing that Mr. Bazzard was Datchery, two superficial reasons for Lieutenant Tartar, three very strong reasons for Mr. Grewgious: and, according to all logic, the majority must rule the decision. It was part and parcel of Dickens's purpose to throw out hints as to one character and another; his secret would have gone had he made every person impossible but one. But each identification fails. The preposterous Bazzard theory rests entirely on one half-humorous phrase, and the Tartar theory on two doubtful declarations. Grewgious, on the other hand, scores at least half-a-dozen points, and he seems to be a very likely solution of the problem of Datchery until we are confronted with that impassable barrier which Dickens had deliberately reared — the inability of the "angular" man, with his unconcealable mannerisms, his curious tone, his dryness, and his halting speech, to transform himself into a genial "old buffer" of totally different tone and with perfect fluency of conversation. These are all false signals, deliberately devised to cause a divagation from the right road. They lead us along smooth paths — far away from the goal we seek.

But if, after granting "points" to each of these characters, we still find one left with double the number of the best, must we not, according to mathematical law, give that character preference, or have we learnt our Euclid in vain? If, too, we find that by substituting that character for Datchery we get a perfectly consistent story and a very appropriate and dramatic conclusion, must we not still give it preference? If, again, the acceptance of that character entails no breach of logic, but on the contrary reveals perfect coherence in the story, and shows "an interest steadily working up from the first" and "a new idea, difficult to work" — then are we not justified in giving it absolute pre-eminence?

The crucial question follows: Do we find such a character? It was not Drood, because Drood was dead, as Dickens avowed; it was not a person who already was aware of Jasper's guilt, or the long delay in action would be unjustified, and the watching would be unnecessary; it was not one who was outside the story and therefore had no personal interest in the sequel. It was one, on the contrary, who had the strongest reasons for undertaking the task and who had a proved ability to perform it; one who had need to wait and watch; one who was subtly marked out from the first for the mission, yet as subtly concealed from detection. I find such an one in Helena Landless, the real heroine of the story.

Literature and the drama will be searched in vain for a young woman playing the part of an elderly man. It is "a new idea, and difficult to work." The way has to be very carefully prepared to reconcile the reader to the possibility, and to enable a clear reason to be recognized why such an impersonation should take place. But Dickens skilfully laid his foundations, and subtly introduced his details. There was a young woman, he tells us, accustomed to disguise from her very earliest years; one who, as a mere child, in her desperation, had run away from home three times and "each time dressed as a boy." This same woman, coming from Ceylon, had a rich dark complexion, the casual mention of which scarcely impresses us until we realize that such a complexion would also suit an "elderly buffer," suggestive of a sailor, did she ever choose to pass as one. This young woman, we are given to understand in a score of ways, both direct and indirect, possessed great force of character, and in emergency—even as a child — could show "the daring of a man." All this is vouchsafed us long before we have any reason to believe she is designed or would be needed to take a man's part. It seems natural enough, ordinary enough, that this woman should have abundant tresses; and we scarcely realize why so much emphasis is laid upon that simple circumstance until it dawns upon us later that if ever she wore a wig it would have to be a noticeably large one. But would she not in such a contingency first remove those luxuriant tresses? Even as we put that question to ourselves, we see that Dickens had again answered in advance, for this girl was to have a lover who admired her wild beauty, a man to whom she was passionately devoted; and the one act she would shrink from (one that every woman shrinks from) would be her own disfigurement.

Thus were the links forged so quietly, so insidiously, and withal so delicately fitted and ingrooved in advance, that we barely comprehend their strength, their precision, and their perfection until, in a new light, we give them closer scrutiny, a new examination. Then, in a flash, the revelation bursts upon us. The more, then, do we become convinced that they were forged for a purpose, and that Dickens from the first intended Helena Landless to fulfil a great and arduous mission as the watcher and avenger, Datchery.

But why should she concern herself with the avenging of the murder of Edwin Drood, a youth who was nothing to her, who had never aroused her interest, and whom she had some reason to dislike? Notice, again, how well the foundations are laid. She was the avowed protectress of Rosa Bud, who had won her deep gratitude and affection, and she was the ever-ready helper and ally of her twin brother, her double self, with whom she had "a perfect understanding." In avenging Drood's murder, and in convicting Jasper, she was saving these two, dearest and closest to her. It was not so much Drood's fate that concerned her as Jasper's suppression. It was not the mischief he had done as the mischief he still intended to do that spurred her to action, and that was why Dickens brought out with such terrible force the malignant nature of the man who — no matter what evil he had wrought in the past — was intent on further evils in the future. And the two who would suffer, the two who were in imminent danger, were those whom Helena Landless above all others would most ardently desire to save, and would incur any risk to aid. Once again, the deep and well - laid purpose of the author becomes manifest, every detail evolved, every item requisite, every fragment, however detached, having its appointed relationship and place, to the finishing and perfecting of the intricate design.

Helena Landless is almost masculine in character. The terrors which appalled her brother never made her tremble. When she had seen Jasper's malignant influence at work she vowed that she would "not be afraid of him under any circumstances." When Rosa needed help, it was Helena who proffered it. When her brother fled to London as a refuge Helena stayed behind to live down scandal. Strength, a man's strength, manifest everywhere. Yet she was the one leading person in the Cloister - ham circle whom Jasper would be unable to recognize. Only once did he hear her speak, and then at a distance. At the end of six months even he, with his delicate ear, would not know her voice: it was an unfamiliar sound. This difficulty avoided, the rest was comparatively easy.

Suppose, however, this theory is incorrect, that Drood was only half - murdered, and that he reappeared; then carry the matter to its only possible conclusion and observe the waste of material, the number of non-sequiturs, and the loss of important characters. First, Jasper is spoilt as a thoroughpaced villain, for it would be shown that he had badly and irretrievably bungled in his cleverly-laid schemes. But Richard Proctor himself admitted that "nothing more sensational had ever been invented in fiction than the terrible punishment devized for Jasper," and this confirms what Dickens himself suggested and what Forster specified. Yet a man does not incur the most terrible of punishments for only half a murder.

Not alone would Jasper's character be spoilt. Helena Landless would be lost — she must either be somebody important or nobody at all. If she had no mission, the careful limning of her character in such strong lines, showing her fitness for that mission, was vain and ridiculous. There was no need to prove her capacity if her capacity was never to be tested.

If, too, Edwin Drood survived, never did a more superfluous character lag upon the stage. He had never been loved in the truest sense by Rosa, nor had he truly loved Rosa in return. To make him utterly impossible as a future husband Tartar was introduced, and a returned Edwin, superseded, would prove, at least, embarrassing.

But Dickens was not guilty of such bad art. The whole story shows what a consummate artist he had become. If his revelations were forcible and vivid, his concealment and repression were not the less significant. No character, displayed so strikingly on occasion, is yet kept more in the background than Helena Landless. The superbness of the effort is realized when we perceive the success of the author in at once convincing us of Helena's greatness and yet withdrawing her from view and causing her at times to be almost forgotten. She was in reserve — the mighty force ready to operate, but hidden until the exact moment arrived for a crushing action.

In judging Dickens as a plot-maker we must not lose sight of this repression, this extraordinary demand upon his self-restraint. It is easier to reveal than to conceal, but he was compelled by the nature of his plans to prevent Helena from being seen or heard. Yet, when we have seized the clue, how much stronger it becomes as we realize this hidden strand in it! We suddenly discern why Jasper and Helena, though moving in so small a circle, are kept apart; or rather, why they meet only once, and why at that early meeting the note of hostility, of an inexpugnable antagonism, is immediately struck. The sound of the note lingers through the story — yet they met no more, never spoke to each other again. All the same the author had achieved his purpose. So thoroughly had he achieved it, that we are able to see with conviction that although Jasper had forgotten the exact sound of her voice, he would realize in that crucial moment when he was to confront her again that Helena, and none other, was the destined Avenger, and that she typified the secret inexorable Fate that dogs the murderer to his doom. This is the supreme triumph of Dickens.

The idea once caught, however faintly, grows in power and centres itself amid manifold lights. There are still secrets scarcely to be guessed at; there are still possibilities in diverse directions. Only the master-hand could have finished this master-work; only the designer of the master-key could have opened the baffling and triple-guarded lock. We read Edwin Drood under disadvantages, but every succeeding reading, every "loving study" of it, deepen the conviction that it had all the charm and mellow radiance of a sunset which follows and perfects a day of unfailing light.