The Detective and Mr. Dickens (9 page)

That night of the fourteenth, Dickens was in the Chair presiding over the annual dinner of the General Theatrical Fund. We peopled every table that had been brought in for the occasion and the tap of The London Tavern was filled to overflowing with those unfortunates who had made their pledge to the fund either too late or too usurously to assure them a good table for the festivities. I was sitting at a table with Sala and Egg and Phillip Collins, immediately behind the most prominent of the satellite tables peopled with Dickens’s oldest friends: Forster, Wills, Macready, Bulwar, Trevor Blount and Talfourd, a lawyer who lived his whole life under the illusion that he was really a literary man.

Immediately following the serving of the wine and the first course of meat pie and French potatoes served on clam shells, Sir John Falstaff held court, to the delight of all. Dickens introduced that worthy from the Chair. Falstaff entered from a small anteroom on the right, all whiskers and belly. He wore a capacious jerkin that was part short cape and part large-buttoned doublet. Around his bulging waist was a thick leather belt from which hung a pointy dagger of the Italian mode and a heavy broad-bladed hand sword. His loose leather trousers were rolled at his boottops and large, mean-looking riding spurs were strapped to his heels. As he entered, he brandished an oversized drinking tankard.

It was, of course, Mark Lemon, one of Dickens’s closest friends and perhaps
the
most enthusiastic of the collaborators and actors in Dickens’s frequent amateur theatricals. Lemon, indeed, seemed born to the part of Falstaff. He possessed the great girth, the jolly eye, the booming voice, the bristling whiskers, and the tipsy rolling gait that were all impeccable credentials for the part. Macready had even asked him to play the part professionally a few years before, when Covent Garden was getting up a
Henry IV, Part One
, but Lemon refused, protesting that “once an amateur always an amateur.” Covent Garden settled for Alexander Welsh, but even Macready, in private, agreed that his portrayal did not at all come up to Lemon’s.

Upon entering, Falstaff stood in a small cleared space immediately in front of the Chair, where Dickens sat applauding happily. As befit the fat drunkard and ruffian that he was, Falstaff glared around belligerently, then took a long draught from his tankard and sat down. He arranged himself comfortably in the chair, comically adjusting his swords so that they didn’t poke his bulging stomach, took another look around, another deep draught, and began:

“For, Harry, I do not speak to thee in drink…”

With that Lemon rolled his eyes and gazed at his huge tankard.

“And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name…”

We all recognized the speech immediately, the tavern scene from Act II. What could be more appropriate for this tavern scene?

“A good portly man, i’ faith, and a corpulent…”

“You bloated barrel of sack!” It was Macready who barked this insult from the table immediately in front of the stage.

The whole company burst out laughing as Falstaff paused a brief moment to frown with disdain upon this groundling heckler before continuing on:

“of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage.”

“A fat drunkard and whoremonger!” This insult came from Dickens in the Chair and suddenly the scenario was clear. Macready and Dickens were intentionally inciting the crowd as a way of involving them in this small exercise in theatre. We were expected to be part of the cast.

Falstaff paid no attention but rode straight on with his argument:

“and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by’r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff.”

“Falstaff, you big-bellied varlet!” came a laughing taunt from the midst of the mob in the tap. I recognized Garis the actor’s voice.

“You fat bag of wind!” Another tapster gleefully took up the game.

Falstaff went on, undaunted:

“If that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks.”

“Virtue in his drunken red nose!”

“Virtue in his bouncing belly!”

The insults flew fast and furious. Falstaff, ignoring their jibes, his booming voice rising above the crowd, continued to flatter himself shamelessly:

“If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak of it, there is virtue in that Falstaff. Him keep with, the rest banish.”

“You obese bucket of beer!” High spirits flowed as freely as the wine, and I found myself shouting insults right along with the others. We tried to outdo each other in the alliterative quality of our catcalls.

“You jiggling jerkin of flesh!”

“You farting fricassee of mutton
merde
!”

“You mountainous mound of meat!”

The insults only spurred Falstaff forward faster and more fiercely on his flight of fatuous self-flattery:

“No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff…”

“Fat Jack Falstaff!”

“…valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not him thy Harry’s company. Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world!”

With a flourish of his crushed hat and a clinking of his spurs, Falstaff swept off the stage to a deafening round of applause and cheers.

Everyone was entertained by Lemon’s Falstaff and merriment buzzed through the dining room and the tap as the second course, a hearty roast in natural brown gravy, was served with cooked carrots. As we ate and drank, anticipation built for Dickens’s speech.

The coffee was being served by the tavern’s scullery maids. In mere moments, the glass would be tapped for silence, the introduction would be made, and Dickens would rise to speak. I was lighting my cigar in anticipation, when an unusual flurry of activity at the table immediately in front caught my attention.

First, the Serjeant-At-Arms, a large actor named George Ford, whom I had seen in supporting roles at both Covent Garden and Drury Lane, approached Forster, whispered in his ear and escorted him from his table.

My eyes followed as they repaired to the rear of the tavern near the door. Forster quickly entered into deep conversation with a young man who appeared out of breath and rather red in the face. Almost immediately, Forster became very agitated and actually reached out, grabbed the young man by the shoulders, and shook him. The young man replied by shaking his head violently up and down, signifying affirmation of whatever had so greatly agitated Forster. Without another word, Forster turned and hurried back to his table.

Sitting down, Forster immediately leaned close, first to Macready and then to Lemon, who, after uncostuming himself, had joined the party of Dickens’s oldest friends, and spoke excitedly in a lowered voice.

“Good Lord!” I overheard Lemon exclaim in shock. Macready controlled his reaction better, but his eyes went wide.

At the very moment that I was leaning forward to eavesdrop on that trio so deep in mysterious conversation, Dickens was introduced. He arose at the center of the double-winged head table, smiled out at the gathering and raised his glass to toast the General Theatrical Fund. His smile set in motion a wave of applause, which drowned out all other sounds. Forster, Macready, and Lemon were startled, looked furtively around and then at each other. There was panic and indecision in their faces.

Dickens began with an acknowledgement of the usefulness of the Theatrical Fund. I must admit that I didn’t really hear his opening words due to my curious observation of the agitation at the table directly in front of me. I was convinced that something quite unusual was up.

Dickens’s booming voice exerted its control over the room. Forster sank back in his chair as if defeated. With the palms of his hands held up to the other two, he gestured for them to wait.

“Although the General Theatrical Fund, unlike some similar public institutions, is represented by no fabric of stone, or brick, or glass—like that wonderful achievement of my ingenious friend Mr. Paxton, of which the great demerit, as we learn from the best authorities, is, that it ought to have fallen down before it was quite built, and would by no means consent to do it.”

Great peels of laughter accompanied this comment with everyone joining in except Forster and Lemon and Macready who each looked as if they were in the midst of choking.

“Although, I say, the General Theatrical Fund is represented by no great architectural edifice, it is nevertheless as plain a fact, rests upon as solid a foundation, and carries as erect a front as any building in the world.”

Thus Dickens began his speech, but, much to my own surprise, I wasn’t paying full attention. He was the best after-dinner speaker I had ever heard, yet this night I was distracted. Forster was so nervous that his hand shook as he lit his cigar. Macready sat scowling, his bushy eyebrows stretched taut. Lemon’s eyes darted everywhere, with a delicate nervousness unbefitting of Good Jack Falstaff.

Dickens had gotten up steam and his speech was speeding along its track with clear direction and the full exercise of his whimsical powers of description:

“It is a society which says to the actor, you may do the light business, or the heavy business, or the comic business, or the serious business, or the eccentric business; you may be the captain who courts the young lady; you may be the Baron who gives
the fete
, and who sits on the sofa under the canopy, with the Baroness, to behold the
fete
; or you may be the peasant who swells the drinking chorus at
the fete
, and who may usually be observed to turn his glass upside-down immediately before drinking the Baron’s health; or, to come to the actresses, she may be the Fairy, residing forever in a revolving star; or you may even be a Witch in
Macbeth
, bearing a striking resemblance to Malcolm or Donalbain of the previous scenes with his wig of the hind-side before.”

It was one of his usual lively performances, yet it left me standing at the station. Finally, his voice began to rise as it always did when he drew near to finishing with his usual flourish:

“…the actor sometimes comes from scenes of affliction and misfortune—even from death itself—to play his part before us; all men must do that violence to their feelings, in passing on to the fulfillment of their duties in the great strife and fight of life.”

When he heard Dickens utter those words, Forster turned white, and looked at Macready as if he had just seen the ghost of Banquo sit down at the table.

With a final toast to the Fund, Dickens smiled over the whole room, gave a small courteous bow and sat down. The applause was thunderous, and lasted long minutes. My eyes never left Forster’s face. His eyes were riveted upon Dickens in the Chair. Finally, the room restored itself to the normality of smoking and drinking. It was then that Forster and Lemon moved quickly from their seats to the Organizer’s table. Forster bent across and spoke briefly to Dickens. For a long moment, a paralysis seemed to lock that midsection of the head table in its grip.

Then, with a sudden though quite unsteady movement, Dickens was up and clearly taking flight. When he reached the end of the table, Forster and Lemon immediately flanked him. As they crossed the crowded room, they resembled two bailiffs escorting a prisoner into custody. All the excitement and animation which had enlivened Dickens’s face as he spoke to the assembly had drained from his countenance. His lips had gone white and a sickly grey cast had descended over his face. People at the tables rose to shake Dickens’s hand and compliment him on his speech as he passed through the crowd, but Forster shoved them violently away.

I could no longer contain my curiosity or my concern for my friend. I rushed to Dickens’s side as Forster and Lemon guided him between tables toward the door.

“What is it? Charles, what is it?” Though unintended, my voice had clearly caught the urgency of the scene.

Forster glared at me.

“Bad news. Bad news indeed,” Lemon said, recognizing me.

Charles could barely speak. He was badly shaken, seemed near fainting. He was not the vigorous, willful strider of the night streets with whom I was accustomed to keeping company. “It’s, it’s Dora, Wilkie. Oh God!” he stammered, a look of utter despair crippling his countenance.

Forster and Lemon, each with a hand on one of his elbows, continued to pilot him toward the door.

With a look of panic flooding his countenance, Dickens swivelled his head backwards even as he was moving away from me: “Wilkie, please follow us. We will need you tonight. Devonshire Terrace.” It was a plea in the voice of a man who has been washed overboard and is crying out in the night for someone to throw him a rope.

With that, Forster and Lemon rushed him through the door and into a waiting carriage. I was left standing befuddled in the street before the tavern door. Two or three of the Grub Streeters were still loitering in attendance. They had, of course, recognized Dickens when he came out. Now, they looked to me for some explanation. I hailed a passing hansom and escaped.