Monday, December 9.—Left home at 8 A.M. for New York. The day was clear and cold, the journey somewhat long, but on the whole extremely agreeable. We only had each other to plague or amuse, as the case might be, and we had the new Christmas story of Dickens and Wilkie Collins (called “No Thoroughfare”) to read, and so by sufficient attention to the peculiarities or follies or troubles of our neighbors and some forgetfulness of our own, we came to the Westminster Hotel at night, in capital spirits but rather frozen physically. We had scant time to dress and dine and to go to the Dickens reading. We accomplished it, nevertheless. Saw the rapturous enthusiasm, heard the “Carol” far better read than in Boston, because the applause was more ready and he felt stimulated by it. Afterward Mr. D. sent for us to come to his room. He was fatigued, of course, but we sat at table with him and after a while he began to feel warmer as vigor returned. He brought out his jewels for us to see—a pearl Count D’Orsay once wore, set with diamonds, etc.—laughed and talked about the way we dress and other bits of nonsense suggested by the time, all turned towards the fine light of Charles Dickens’s lovely soul and returning with a fresh gleam of beauty. We left early lest we should overfatigue him.
Wednesday, December 11.—At four Dickens came to dinner in our room with Eythinge and Anthony, his American designer and engraver. Afterward we went to the “Black Crook” together, and then home to the hotel, where we sat talking until one o’clock. There is nothing I should like so much to do as to set down every word he said in that time, but much must go down to oblivion....
He talked of actors and acting—said if a man’s Hamlet was a sustained conception, it was not to be quarrelled with; the only question was, what a man of melancholy temperament would do under such circumstances. Talked of Charles Reade and the greatness of “Griffith Gaunt,” and the pity of it that he did not stand on his own bottom instead of getting in with Dion Boucicault, etc., etc. But after dinner he unbent, and while we were in the box at the theatre showed how true his sympathies were with the actors, was especially careful to make no sound which could hurt their feelings by apparent want of attention. The play was very dull, so we sat and talked. He told me that no ballet dancer could have pretty feet, and one dreadful thing was they could never wash them, as water renders the feet tender and they must become horny. He asked about Longfellow’s sorrow again and expressed the deepest sympathy, but said he was like a man purified by suffering.
We had punch in our room after the play, when he laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks over Bob Sawyer’s party and the remembrance of the laughter he had seen depicted on the faces of people the night before. Jack Hopkins was such a favorite with J. that D. made up the face again and went over the necklace story until we roared aloud. At length he began to talk of Fechter and to describe the sensitive character of the man. He saw him first quite by accident in Paris, having strolled into a little theatre there one night. He was making love to a woman, and so elevated her as well as himself by the sentiment in which he enveloped her that they trod into purer ether and in another sphere quite lifted out of the present. “‘By heavens!’ I said, ‘a man who can do this can do anything!’ I never saw two people more purely and instantly elevated by the power of love. The manner in which he presses the hem of the dress of Lucy in the ‘Bride of Lammermoor’ is something surpassing speech and simply wonderful. The man has a thread of genius in him which is unmistakable, yet I should not call him a man of genius exactly, either.” Mr. Dickens described him as a man full of plans for plays, one who had lost much money as a manager, too. He was apt to come down to Gad’s Hill with his head full of plans about a play which he wished Mr. Dickens to write out and which Fechter would act in the writing-room, using Mr. Dickens’s small pillow for a baby in a manner to make the latter feel, if Fechter were but a writer, how marvellous his powers of representation would be. “I, who for so many years have been studying the best way of putting things, felt utterly amazed and distanced by this man.”
Before the end of our talk Mr. Dickens became penetrated by the memory of his friend and brought him before us in all the warmth of ardent sympathy. Fechter is sure to come to this country: we are sure to have the happiness of knowing him (if we all live), and in that event I shall consider last night as the beginning of a new friendship.
Reduced facsimile of Dickens’s directions, preserved among the Fields papers, for the brewing of pleasant beverages
Sunday, December 22.—Another week has gone. We are again at home in our dear little nook by the Charles, and tonight the lover of Christmas comes to have dinner with us. We had a merry time last Sunday, and after we had separated the hotel must needs take fire—to be sure, I had been packing and was in my first sleep and knew nothing distinctly of it; but it was an escape all the same and Mr. Dickens rushed out to help, as he always seems to do....