The Mystery of Charles Dickens

by John Paulits

  “Twelve, although it sometimes seems like a hundred and twelve.”

  De la Rue gave a slight laugh. “Excuse me, I’m being remiss. The presence of such a famous man has flustered me.” De la Rue rose and went to his desk. He opened a bottom drawer and extracted an ornate wooden box. He brought it around and opened it in front of Dickens. Cigars.

  “I have these sent from Havana. I think you will find them excellent.”

  “New to me,” said Dickens.

  “I predict you will never want to smoke a cigar made anywhere else after you smoke this one.”

  Dickens took a cigar and gestured his thanks.

  “Angus?” offered de la Rue.

  Fletcher took a cigar, and the three men worked over their cigars for a moment.

  When clouds of smoke circled their heads, de la Rue said, “I hope you are not planning to write of us with the same disapproval you voiced about the Americans. You are planning a travel book, I presume.”

  “I am,” Dickens informed him, impressed that de la Rue’s mind ran toward an interest in his writing plans.

  “I have read your American Notes. Is America as bad as all of that?”

  “I’m afraid so. The constant spitting, I think, sums up America for me. Would you believe, at times my railroad car seemed to be carpeted with cotton balls from the constant expectoration?”

  De la Rue’s head bounced slightly with controlled laughter.

  “Then perhaps it is a good thing you let your colonies have their way.”

  Dickens and Fletcher laughed politely.

  “Genoa has its problems, believe me," said de la Rue, "but spitting...” He pronounced the word with infinite distaste. “...is not one of them.”

  Dickens indicated the cigar. "This is excellent."

  "As promised," de la Rue said with a smile.

  After a moment of silent smoking Fletcher said, “So, Emile, you will ask about for a new home for Mr. Dickens?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The three men rose.

  “I will contact you, Mr. Dickens, as soon as I hear of something, and I hope we will meet again soon. I know my wife is eager to meet you. She is English, you know. And please, take these.” He handed both Dickens and Fletcher three additional cigars each.

  “You are most kind, Monsieur de la Rue,” Dickens complimented. “And I do look forward to meeting your wife.”

  The three men walked to the office door.

  "Until I hear from you then," said Dickens. Handshakes went round and Dickens and Fletcher left.

  Chapter Four

  Dickens' next-door neighbor at the Villa Bagnerello was the French Consul-General. The Consul and his English wife admired Dickens greatly. The Consul had even reviewed some of Dickens' novels in a French magazine. Taking advantage both of his position and proximity, and wanting to meet the great writer, the Consul invited the select of Genoa society to his villa in late August and naturally included Dickens and his wife among the invitees.

  Dickens' writing materials had arrived in Genoa only two weeks before, and he had immediately set to work revising Oliver Twist, the only novel he retained the rights to at the moment, in preparation for Bradbury and Evans bringing it out in a single volume for the first time. Dickens hoped this little bit of work would also help nudge him toward solvency. As much as he had left it to Catherine to deal with Genoa society, even leaving the house when visitors dropped by, he happily anticipated the Consul's gathering. His knowing the Consul had written favorably about him played no small part in this happy anticipation.

  Oddly enough, the Consul's villa was so shut away by its vineyard that, though right next door, to get there from the Villa Bagnerello was a mile’s journey. On the final Friday evening in August, Dickens and his wife got into their carriage to make the short drive to the Consul's villa.

  Dickens, dressed in a gray suit and glimmering black satin waistcoat complete with a red rose in his buttonhole, made certain to be fashionably late, hoping to assure a fuss upon his entrance. He succeeded. His appearance at the entrance to the grand sala stopped conversation and spun heads. He stood studiously oblivious to the attention, looking about and waiting for the Consul to welcome him. Being owned by a French Consul rather than a butcher apparently had a beneficial effect on a villa because the Consul's villa was in much better condition than his own. There were three tall windows in the sala, the rich red draperies pulled back to reveal a stunning view of the Bay of Genoa. Torches and candles lit the room brightly as finely dressed men and women, many holding wineglasses, tried with a feigned nonchalance to get a look at him. The floor was a beautiful swirl of tan and white marble, and the stairway to the grand sala had no cracks.

  Dickens spotted the Consul bustling his way, a wide smile on his face, his hand outstretched in greeting. The Consul was a small man with a thin mustache and, at the moment, very eager brown eyes. In a thick accent he welcomed his guest.

  "Monsieur Dickens, I am so happy you have accepted my invitation. You must let me take you and your wife around and introduce you."

  This suited Dickens fine. Twenty minutes later the gathering returned to a semblance of what it had been before Dickens' arrival. Dickens left Catherine chatting with the Consul's English wife and helped himself to a glass of the local white wine, which, at a penny farthing a pint, had already become a great favorite of his. He had taken no more than a sip when he heard his name spoken by the one person he most hoped to see. Dickens turned to face Emile de la Rue.

  De la Rue made a slight bow. "Welcome again to Genoa, Mr. Dickens. This time more formally."

  "I hoped I might find you here, Monsieur de la Rue."

  "I have good news for you. At least I hope it is good news."

  Dickens lifted his wineglass slightly in a toast to de la Rue and waited for him to continue.

  "There are rooms available in the Palazzo Peschiere. A Spanish duke lives in the room beneath what would be your apartments. He is a fine, quiet gentleman. Have you heard of it?"

  "Palazzo Peschiere? The Palace of...Fishponds?"

  "Yes." De la Rue brushed an invisible speck from the right side of his nose. "It is lovely and the rooms are available at the same price as the Doria Palace I mentioned the day you came to my office. Goldfish are provided."

  Dickens smiled while doing a quick calculation. He would be saving nearly a hundred pounds over the course of his stay in Genoa.

  De la Rue went on. "If you are free, I would be most happy to take you to see the Peschiere tomorrow afternoon. It is in Genoa, large enough for your family and quite fit for the winter."

  "By all means. You have my thanks."

  De la Rue gallantly waved off Dickens gratitude. "Your wife, I believe?" He indicated Catherine.

  “Yes, let me introduce you.” Dickens led de la Rue over to his wife. "Catherine, this is Emile de la Rue. He has found a lovely place for us to move into." After a few moments of polite conversation, Catherine returned to the Consul's wife, and Dickens and de la Rue helped themselves to another glass of wine.

  “And where is your wife, Monsieur de la Rue? I’ve been looking forward to meeting her. English wives seem to be the fashion here in Genoa. So many men have chosen English brides." In a low conspiratorial voice Dickens added, "And rightly so, eh?"

  The two men laughed.

  "We must set to work to find one for Fletcher," Dickens went on.

  "Oh, we must not set ourselves the task impossibile." The men laughed again.

  Dickens waited to hear about Madame de la Rue, but de la Rue merely sipped his wine. He noticed Dickens' stare.

  "Ah, yes. My wife. I must tell you she is an invalid, Mr. Dickens, and did not feel up to coming along this evening. Shortly after our marriage something struck her. I cannot even say what it is."

 
"I don't wish to pry, Monsieur de la Rue. If you'd rather not say..."

  "No, no. I do not mean that. I mean it is very difficult to describe her symptoms."

  Dickens' insatiable curiosity rose, and his expression clearly showed his interest. De la Rue continued.

  "I say just after we were married she began to have these attacks...these movements of the face mostly, but not exclusively. ‘Spasms’ I believe is the correct word?"

  Dickens nodded.

  "These attacks sometime leave her helpless and seem generally to occur at night. She is often unable to sleep."

  "This goes on every day, every night?"

  "No, no, no. She has many good nights, but this malady is so unpredictable."

  "Are there no competent doctors in Genoa?"

  "They are at a loss what to do. Besides, she is reluctant to go to these doctors. They are not English, you see."

  Dickens tilted his head thoughtfully. "Does she never get out?"

  "Oh, she does. My, yes. She planned to be here this evening, but no more than an hour before we were to leave, she did not feel she could face all of these people. She and I are planning to be at the Marquis di Negri's gathering next Friday, though. Have you met the Marquis? He was a great friend of your Lord Byron."

  Dickens nodded, his mind still fixed on Madame de la Rue. "Yes, the Consul introduced us."

  "He is, I know, planning to invite you. You should be sure to put yourself in his way this evening."

  "I will do so," said Dickens. The Consul appeared at his side.

  "May I take Monsieur Dickens away, Emile?"

  "My loss will be the gain of everyone else. I'm sure many people would like a word with Mr. Dickens. Be sure the Marquis has an opportunity to chat with him, Consul."

  "Ah, yes." The Consul winked knowingly.

  "Please give my best to your wife, Monsieur de la Rue. Tell her my wife and I look forward to meeting her." Lowering his voice Dickens gave each man a sharp look and whispered, "Perhaps next Friday?"

  The men laughed.

  "On to il Marchese," Dickens cried, and off he went at the Consul's shoulder.

  The grandeur of the Palazzo Peschiere stunned Dickens. It stood within the walls of Genoa (Genoa was a walled city which locked its gates at midnight) surrounded by beautiful gardens of its own, adorned with statues, vases, fountains, marble basins, terraces, walks of orange and lemon trees, and groves of roses and camellias, and of course, boasted the fishpond. The rooms were uniformly spacious, but Dickens was most impressed by the grand sala, some fifty feet in height with three large windows at the end overlooking the whole town of Genoa, the harbor, and the neighboring sea. The walls and ceiling of the sala were adorned with three hundred year old frescoes whose colors looked as fresh as the day they were painted. The remaining rooms opened off the sala, and everything Dickens saw pleased him. Where the Villa Bagnerello was dismal and barely habitable, the Palazzo Peschiere seemed bright, cheerful, lavish, and inviting. Dickens described it to his family as an enchanted palace in an Eastern story.

  Dickens leased the Peschiere for October through June and offered his profuse thanks to Emile de la Rue. The two men looked forward to meeting again the following Friday evening at the Marquis di Negri's villa.

  On Friday night, however, Dickens' wife stayed at home to care for daughter Kate, who had developed a fever, so Dickens was driven alone to the Marquis' lavish villa, timing his entrance, as usual, with some specificity. As usual, he dressed to be noticed, tonight wearing a tan suit over a yellow waistcoat, a white rose in his lapel.

  No sooner had Dickens entered the Marquis’ grand sala than the very fat and very old Marquis approached him gushing, "Ah, Monsieur Dickens, an honor, an honor. Let me show you my home." The Marquis' home was indeed grand, but Dickens had grown a bit weary of looking at high-ceilinged, spacious rooms. He put as much enthusiasm as he could into his responses as the Marquis even took him outside for a tour of the grottoed walks under variegated lights that laced the fragrant, colorful gardens.

  Back inside the brightly lit sala Dickens eased himself away from the Marquis, helped himself to some delicious chilled white wine, highly recommended by the Marquis, and searched the crowd. Standing before a fresco of angels wafting a serenely peaceful Mary to heaven stood Emile de la Rue, a young woman with bunched, shimmering black hair, dressed in a white gown by his side. The woman’s hair sparkled as she turned her head to speak to the people around her, and Dickens saw she wore a tiara. De la Rue noticed Dickens, and his eyes widened in recognition and greeting. He put his hand on the young woman's shoulder, made a few more comments to the group of which he and she were a part, and then escorted the woman toward Dickens.

  Dickens' eyes darted from de la Rue to the woman and back. The woman was lovely. She came up to de la Rue's shoulder, and was slightly shorter than Dickens.

  Dickens inspected her a second time and their eyes held. She had sparkling blue eyes and an easy, natural smile. Her mouth was small and tending to round with a prominent upper lip that rose slightly in the middle. Her lips were quite red and resembled in Dickens' mind nothing so much as a delicate rose bud about to blossom.

  "Monsieur Dickens, may I present my wife Augusta."

  "Mr. Dickens." The woman smiled with a slight bow of the head.

  "Madame de la Rue, my pleasure." Dickens bobbed his head once with gusto.

  "It is such an honor to meet so famous a countryman."

  "And I am delighted at meeting so beautiful a countrywoman."

  "Oh, my." Madame de la Rue smiled. "And your wife?"

  "Ah, little Kate, my daughter, has been feverish these past few days, and my wife is being nursemaid tonight."

  "Oh, I’m so sorry. I looked forward to meeting her. I've heard so much about her from the Consul's wife." The Consul's wife and Catherine Dickens had exchanged visits during the week after their introduction at the Consul's party.

  "Give her our best, please," said Madame de la Rue. "And I do hope your daughter feels better soon."

  The Marquis bounced ploddingly into the group. "Emile, Emile, you must meet my wife's cousin, newly arrived from England. A banker like yourself."

  "Darling?" said de la Rue to his wife.

  She smiled. "You go on. Mr. Dickens will entertain me?" She pursed her lips to make her statement a question.

  "It will be an honor."

  De la Rue and the Marquis strode off across the room.

  Dickens and Augusta de la Rue looked at each other, Dickens immersing himself in her shining blue eyes. She looked down.

  When she glanced back at him she said, "I hear from our friend Angus your first impressions of Genoa were anything but positive."

  Dickens shrugged. “My first look at the city did provide something of a shock. It hasn't been very well kept up. My own villa is a dilapidated sty, but don't mention it to Angus. He chose the villa, but he did no more than I asked him to do. And the poverty on the streets here rivals our own London. While walking yesterday in the city I passed what looked like five bundles of locomotive rags. It turned out to be a mother and her four children. For one moment I felt as if I'd never left home. Another person, a woman, inspected the hair of a child for lice right out on the street. Is anything done for these people here?"

  Madame de la Rue shook her head slightly, drew her lips together thoughtfully, and said, "Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?"

  Dickens gaped for a moment. Madame de la Rue touched him on the arm and gave a small laugh. "Don't take me seriously, Mr. Dickens. I regularly give money to the poor, and I donate to the church, which I trust does its duty toward the poor."

  Dickens smiled, all thoughts of the poor melting away. "You've read my book."

  "Of course. I've read all of your books. They are wonderful. I have my sister send me
the chapters as they come out. She lives in London. It's only been a month since the final chapters of Martin Chuzzlewit reached me. America." She gave a small, theatrical shudder. "Are you writing while you're here in Genoa?"

  Dickens loved for people to take an interest in his interests, especially in his writing. His words came faster. "I'm planning a Christmas book. The idea I have will I hope strike the heaviest blow I can wield in favor of the poor. I've not begun it yet. I'm still searching for a framework, a title..."

  Suddenly, Madame de la Rue's eyebrows flicked twice up her forehead, and the left corner of her mouth pulled backwards three times. The movements were so unexpected and Dickens gaze so intense as he described his coming Christmas book, his surprise froze both his tongue and his expression.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. This strikes me at times," Madame de la Rue explained softly.

  "My apologies for my reaction. It was...I..." Rarely at a loss for words, Dickens nonetheless found himself befuddled.

  Madame de la Rue touched his arm again. "Think nothing of it." Again her eyebrows shot upwards and the left corner of her mouth pulled back twice. "I hardly know it’s happening myself."

  "A new malady since you've been married, your husband tells me?" Dickens prodded, his focus now shifted to the woman's explanation.

  "Yes. Usually it's no more than what you've seen."

  "Usually?"

  Madame de la Rue took a breath. "Would you like to get some air, Mr. Dickens?"

  "Yes, I would."

  Madame de la Rue led him down the grand stairway and out onto one of the grottoed walks under the rainbow of lights.

  “A lovely night,” she sighed and inhaled deeply. “The aroma of the breeze...”

  Dickens waited to hear more.

  "You seem quite interested in my health, Mr. Dickens." She turned a smiling face toward him.

  "I hope I'm not offending..."

  Madame de la Rue waved her hand slightly. “To tell you the truth I’m glad to have an Englishman to talk to about it. An intelligent Englishman."