What Mr. Dickens does is very frequently infinitely better than anything he says, or the way he says it; yet the doing is as delicate and intangible as the odour of violets, and can be no better described. Nothing of its kind can be more touchingly beautiful than the manner in which Bob Cratchit—previous to proposing “a merry Christmas to us all, my dears, God bless us”—stoops down, with tears in his eyes and places Tiny Tim’s withered little hand in his, “as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.” It is pantomime worthy of the finest actor.
Admirable is Mrs. Cratchit’s ungracious drinking to Scrooge’s health, and Martha’s telling how she had seen a lord, and how he “was much about as tall as Peter!”
It is a charming cabinet picture, and so likewise is the glimpse of Christmas at Scrooge’s nephew’s. The plump sister is “satisfactory, O perfectly satisfactory,” and Topper is a magnificent fraud on the understanding; a side-splitting fraud. We see Fred get off the sofa, and stamp at his own fun, and we hear the plump sister’s voice when she guesses the wonderful riddle, “It’s your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!” Altogether, Mr. Dickens is better than any comedy.
What a change in Stave Four! There sit the gray-haired rascal “Old Joe,” with his crooning voice; Mr. Dilber, and those robbers of dead men’s shrouds; there lies the body of the plundered, unknown man; there sit the Cratchits weeping over Tiny Tim’s death, a scene that would be beyond all praise were Bob’s cry, “My little, little child!” a shade less dramatic. Here, and only here, Mr. Dickens forgets the nature of Bob’s voice, and employs all the power of his own, carried away apparently by the situation. Bob would not thus give way to his feelings. Finally, there is Scrooge, no longer a miser, but a human being, screaming at the “conversational” boy in Sunday clothes, to buy him the prize turkey “that never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped ’em off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax.” There is Bob Cratchit behind time, trying to overtake nine o’clock, “that fled fifteen minutes before.” There is Scrooge poking Bob in the ribs, and vowing he will raise his salary; and there is at last happiness for all, as Tiny Tim exclaims, “God bless us every one!”
It is difficult to see how the “Christmas Carol” can be read and acted better. The only improvement possible is in the ghosts, who are, perhaps, too monotonous; a way ghosts have when they return to earth. Solemnity and monotony are not synonymous terms, yet every theatrical ghost insists that they are, and Mr. Dickens is no exception to the rule. If monotony is excusable in anyone, however, it is in him; for, when one actor is obliged to represent twenty-three different characters, giving to everyone an individual tone, he may be pardoned if his ghosts are not colloquial.
Talk of sermons and churches! There never was a more beautiful sermon than this of “The Christmas Carol.” Sacred names do not necessarily mean sacred things.
SIKES AND NANCY. [353a]
“Although amongst his friends, and such of the outside world as had been admitted to the private performances of the Tavistock House theatricals, Mr. Dickens was known to possess much dramatic power, it was not until within the last few weeks [353b] that he found scope for its exhibition on the platform. Although the characters in his previous readings had each a distinct and defined individuality—and in true artistic spirit the comparatively insignificant characters have as much finish bestowed upon their representation as the heroes and heroines, e.g. the fat man on ’Change who replies ‘God knows,’ to the query as to whom Scrooge had left his money—a bit of perfect Dutch painting—one could not help feeling that the personation was but a half-personation given under restraint; that the reader was ‘underacting,’ as it is professionally termed, and one longed to see him give his dramatic genius full vent. That wish has now been realised. When Mr. Dickens called round him some half-hundred of his friends and acquaintances on whose discrimination and knowledge of public audiences he had reliance, and when, after requesting their frank verdict on the experiment, he commenced the new reading, ‘Sikes and Nancy,’ until, gradually warming with excitement, he flung aside his book and acted the scene of the murder, shrieked the terrified pleadings of the girl, growled the brutal savagery of the murderer, brought looks, tones, gestures simultaneously into play to illustrate his meaning, there was no one, not even of those who had known him best, or who believed in him most, but was astonished at the power and the versatility of his genius.
“Grandest of all the characters stands out Fagin, the Jew. The voice is husky and with a slight lisp, but there is no nasal intonation; a bent back, but no shoulder shrug; the conventional attributes are omitted, the conventional words are never spoken; and the Jew fence, crafty and cunning even in his bitter vengeance, is there before us, to the life.
“Next comes Nancy. Readers of the old editions of ‘Oliver Twist’ will doubtless recollect how desperately difficult it was to fight against the dreadful impression which Mr. George Cruikshank’s picture of Nancy left upon the mind, and how it required all the assistance of the author’s genius to preserve interest in the stunted, squab, round-faced trull whom the artist had depicted. Accurately delineating every other character in the book, and excelling all his previous and subsequent productions in his etching of ‘Fagin in the Condemned Cell,’ Mr. Cruikshank not merely did not convey the right idea of Nancy, which would have been bad enough, but conveyed the wrong one, which was worse. No such ill-favoured slut would have found a protector in Sikes, who amongst his set and in his profession was a man of mark. We all know Nancy’s position; but just because we know it we are certain she must have had some amount of personal comeliness, which Mr. Cruikshank has entirely denied her. In the reading we get none of the common side of her character, which peeps forth occasionally in the earlier volumes. She is the heroine, doing evil that good may come of it—breaking the trust reposed in her that the man she loves and they amongst whom she has lived may be brought to better lives. With the dread shadow of impending death upon her, she is thrillingly earnest, almost prophetic. Thus, in accordance with a favourite custom of the author, during the interview on the steps at London Bridge, not only does the girl’s language rise from the tone of everyday life and become imbued with dramatic imagery and fervour, but that eminently prosaic old person, Mr. Brownlow, becomes affected in the same manner, saying, ‘before this river wakes to life,’ and indulging in other romantic types and metaphors. This may be scarcely life-like, but it is very effective in the reading, enchaining the attention of the audience and forming a fine contrast to the simple pathos of the dialogue in the murder-scene, every word of which is in the highest degree natural and well-placed. It is here, of course, that the excitement of the audience is wrought to its highest pitch, and that the acme of the actor’s art is reached. The raised hands, the bent-back head, are good; but shut your eyes, and the illusion is more complete. Then the cries for mercy, the ‘Bill! dear Bill! for dear God’s sake!’ uttered in tones in which the agony of fear prevails even over the earnestness of the prayer, the dead, dull voice as hope departs, are intensely real. When the pleading ceases, you open your eyes in relief, in time to see the impersonation of the murderer seizing a heavy club, and striking his victim to the ground.