雙語·聰明的消遣：毛姆談英國文學(xué) 查爾斯·狄更斯與《大衛(wèi)·科波菲爾》 2

Charles Dickens and David Copperfield 2

When he had been working for a year or so in the Gallery of the House of Commons, Dickens began to write a series of sketches of London life; the first were published in The Monthly Magazine, and later ones in The Morning Chronicle; he was paid nothing for them, but they attracted the attention of a publisher named Macrone, and on the author's twenty-fourth birthday they were issued in two volumes, with illustrations by Cruickshank, under the title Sketches by Boz. Macrone paid him one hundred and fifty pounds for the first edition. The book was well reviewed, and within a short time brought him an offer of further work. There was a vogue at the time for anecdotic novels of a humorous character, which were issued in monthly parts at a shilling, with comic illustrations. They were the remote ancestors of the funnies of our own time, and they had the same prodigious popularity. One day a partner in the firm of Chapman and Hall called upon Dickens to ask him to write a narrative about a club of amateur sportsmen to serve as a vehicle for the illustrations of a well-known artist. There were to be twenty numbers, and he offered fourteen pounds a month for what we should now call the serial rights, with further payments when later they were published as a book. Dickens protested that he knew nothing about sport and did not think he could write to order, but“the emolument was too tempting to resist.”I need hardly say that the result was The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. The first five numbers had no great success, but with the introduction of Sam Weller the circulation leaped up. By the time the work appeared in book-form, Charles Dickens was famous. Though the critics made their reservations, his reputation was made. It is well to record that The Quarterly Review, speaking of him, said that“it required no gift of prophecy to foretell his fate—he has risen like a rocket and he will come down like a stick.”But indeed, throughout his career, while the public devoured his books, the critics carped.

A couple of days before the appearance of the first number of The Pickwick Papers, in 1836, Dickens married Kate, the eldest daughter of George Hogarth, a colleague of Dickens on The Morning Chronicle. George Hogarth was the father of six sons and eight daughters. The daughters were small, plump, fresh-coloured and blue-eyed. Kate was the only one of marriageable age. That seems to have been the reason why Dickens married her rather than one of the others. After a short honeymoon, they settled down in Furnival's Inn and invited Kate's pretty sister, Mary Hogarth, a girl of sixteen, to live with them. Dickens accepted a contract to write another novel, Oliver Twist, and he started it while still at work on The Pickwick Papers. This also was to appear in monthly numbers, and he devoted a fortnight to one and a fortnight to the other. Most novelists are so absorbed in the characters which are at the moment engaging their attention that, by no effort of will, they thrust back into their unconscious what other literary ideas they have had in mind; and that Dickens should have been able to switch, apparently with ease, from one story to another is an amazing feat.

He took a fancy to Mary Hogarth, and when Kate found herself with child and, could not go about with him, Mary became his constant companion. Kate's baby was born, and as she might be expected to have several more, a move was made from Furnival's Inn to a house in Doughty Street. Mary grew every day more lovely and more delightful. One May evening, Dickens took Kate and Mary to a play; they enjoyed themselves and came home in high spirits. Mary was taken ill. A doctor was sent for. In a few hours she was dead. Dickens took the ring from her finger and put it on his own. He wore it till his death. He was prostrated with grief. Not long after, he wrote in his diary: “If she were with us now, the same winning, happy, amiable companion, sympathizing with all my thoughts and feelings more than anyone I know ever did or will, I think I should have nothing to wish for but a continuance of such happiness. But she is gone, and pray God I may one day, through his mercy, rejoin her.”These are significant words, and they tell us a great deal. He arranged to be buried by Mary's side. I think there can be no doubt that he had fallen deeply in love with her. We shall never know whether he was aware of it.

At the time of Mary's death, Kate was once more pregnant, and the shock brought on a miscarriage. When she was well enough, Charles took her for a short trip abroad so that they might both recover their spirits. By the summer he, at all events, had sufficiently done so to have a boisterous flirtation with a certain Eleanor P.