The Mystery of Charles Dickens

by John Paulits

  Dickens did not respond.

  "Sometimes I can barely sleep, the dreams are so bad."

  "Dreams?"

  "Sometimes these spasms are so severe I slip into and out of consciousness. There are things in my dreams then..."

  Madame de la Rue's mouth began to twitch repeatedly, and she seemed to drift into a strange preoccupation.

  "Madame, please. Don't speak any more of it. I see how it distresses you."

  Madame de la Rue looked at Dickens as if seeing him for the first time. She took a deep breath.

  "No, no. I won't. Please forget I mentioned it. Let's just circle the garden and return to the party."

  Dickens and Madame de la Rue walked, talking of England, as they circled the garden and retraced their steps inside and up the stairs to the grand sala. Emile de la Rue waited there.

  "Ah, here you are, my dear. Come, there are people you must say hello to."

  Both Augusta and Emile de la Rue made their excuses to Dickens and walked off.

  Dickens mingled with the other guests for the rest of the evening, hoping for another opportunity to speak with Madame de la Rue. He wanted the opportunity to tell her about his good friend Dr. John Elliotson, whom he knew for a fact had treated patients with symptoms like she had.

  Late in the evening Augusta de la Rue approached him.

  "So sorry to have been ignoring you," she said with an ingratiating smile, "but my husband has so many business acquaintances and I must, it seems, meet and chat with them all."

  "Your husband is a busy and important man," Dickens responded, hoping to find a way back to the topic of her malady.

  Madame de la Rue gave an odd twist of her head. "Don't you live outside the city, Mr. Dickens?"

  "Why yes. In Albaro."

  "Well, it is near midnight. If you don't leave now, you'll never get outside the gates in time."

  Dickens pulled his watch from his pocket. He had been so intent on speaking a second time with Madame de la Rue he had ignored the passage of time. And he had absent-mindedly ordered his coach back well past midnight.

  "My lord. You're right." The prospect of explaining to his wife why he had not come home all night, and her nursing a sick child, loomed unattractively before Dickens' eyes.

  Madame de la Rue smiled and pointed to her right. There the Marquis laughed heartily at something one of his guests said to him.

  "Yes. Thanks. It's been a pleasure. Good night." He rushed over to the Marquis and made a quick, grateful acknowledgment of his hospitality. Dickens hurried to the stairs and rushed out into the night.

  Chapter Five

  At a distance from the Marquis' villa compatible with dignity, Dickens began to run as hard as he could along the Strada Sevra, a newly constructed street. The ground he raced over was uneven and led downhill. Out of nowhere Dickens felt a stunning crack across his breast. Unlit and unattended, a pole fastened across the street breast high slammed into him and he spun headlong over it. He landed, rolling forcefully in the dusty road. Dickens lay stunned, his clothing shredded in places.

  He got to his feet and, after a brief moment to be certain he’d broken no bones, he hurried on, intent on making it through the midnight gate. Only a few steps outside the gate he heard the midnight chimes of Genoa sound in various church towers of the town. Safely on his way home now, Dickens paused a moment to listen. Chimes. The chimes at midnight. Chimes, of course! He could build his Christmas story on the chimes. Doubly relieved at not having killed himself in his haste to get home and at having gotten an inspiration albeit it at a most bizarre moment for his story, Dickens strode the two miles to Albaro, though at something slower than his usual four miles per hour pace.

  The next morning he felt miserable. Either the blow he had taken when he smashed into the pole or the rattling he had received when he hit the ground had reawakened the pain in his left kidney he had experienced off and on since childhood. Through Dickens' mind passed the memory of Bob Fagin, one of his young co-workers in the blacking factory of cursed and undisclosed memory, applying hot water bottles to him at age twelve when the agony set in.

  He lay in bed, breathing shallowly, trying to ignore the pain. Catherine, who had risen early, bustled into the room.

  "What did you do to yourself last night?" she asked, a sprinkling of disdain in her voice. "Your clothes are all torn and dirty. Did you crawl home?" She held his ripped suit jacket before him.

  "An accident," he explained wearily. He mentioned his pain.

  Catherine’s voice softened some. "Well, you just lie still today. I'll have Georgy fix you some hot compresses."

  Dickens nodded, in no mood or condition to argue.

  The warm compresses kept coming during the day, and by the time Dickens had finished a late afternoon meal in bed, he felt much better. He rose and dressed slowly, planning to go no farther than the garden, when Catherine walked into the bedroom.

  "You have a visitor. A Madame de la Rue. She has come with her maid."

  "You've seen her?"

  "No, Anne brought me her card." Anne was Mrs. Dickens' personal maid.

  “I’m sure she’s here to see us both. I met her at the Marquis’ last night, and she asked for you. You met her husband, you recall. She passed along her best for little Kate. I'm not at all surprised she's decided to visit."

  "You weren't expecting her? I see you're dressed."

  "I was on my way to sit in the garden. Come, we shouldn't keep her waiting."

  Dickens and his wife met Augusta de la Rue in the entry room off the main hall. After the appropriate introductions, the three of them proceeded into the garden.

  Catherine reported on little Kate’s health, Dickens reported on his accident, and somehow his kidney ailment found its way into the conversation.

  Madame de la Rue said, "We both have our health shortcomings then, I see."

  "Both?" Catherine queried.

  Madame de la Rue explained her malady to Kate, Dickens listening closely for any added information but hearing far fewer details than the night before. Madame de la Rue omitted telling Kate about her odd dreams.

  Georgina, Catherine's younger sister, appeared and informed Catherine her daughter was asking for her. Catherine excused herself and, with Georgina, went to tend to the sick girl.

  The eyes of Dickens and Madame de la Rue followed the departing women. When they had no other choice, they looked at each other.

  "You do look somewhat pale, Mr. Dickens. I hope you will rest. I called to invite you and your wife to our home later this month, the third Friday. A small dinner for friends. Nothing like the open houses of the Consul and the Marquis, although both will be invited, along with the esteemed Governor of Genoa. Have you met him?"

  Dickens nodded. “Yes, yes I have. Of course my wife and I will be there. May I ask you something?"

  The corner of Madame de la Rue's mouth twitched twice. She gave an odd sideways nod of her head and waited.

  "You didn't mention your dreams to my wife. Was there a reason?"

  “You are very sharp, Mr. Dickens. Please forget I ever mentioned them.” Madame de la Rue glanced down guiltily. “Nor have I told my husband."

  "Not of the dreams?"

  The woman shook her head and looked at Dickens. "I don't know why I mentioned them to you. For some reason I cannot bring myself to reveal those dreams to him, even though there isn’t much to reveal. I..." She stopped talking.

  "You're under no obligation to tell me about them, I assure you."

  "I know. I know. Ah, your wife is returning. If you will keep my secret...?"

  Dickens made a quick move with his right hand to indicate agreement.

  Dickens apprised Catherine of the de la Rues’ invitation, and Catherine responded with proper gratitude. The visit ended soon
after. Madame de la Rue insisted Dickens stay in the garden and rest rather than see her out. Dickens complied.

  After going over what Madame de la Rue had told him about her dreams and being unable to make any more of it than he already had, he turned his mind to his Christmas story. He had written Forster just the other day about his troubles in starting the story without first finding a proper title for it. He called for pen and paper and wrote a one-sentence letter to Forster. The letter read, "We have heard THE CHIMES at midnight, Master Shallow!" He laughed as he handed the letter back to his servant for mailing. Forster would be certain to get his joke.

  The de la Rues postponed their dinner from the third to the final Friday in September. The note Dickens received omitted the reason, and Dickens wondered whether Madame de la Rue's condition caused the postponement. The week following this dinner the Dickens family would make their two-mile move from the Villa Bagnerello to the Palazzo Peschiere, and the family found the respite in planning and packing provided by the dinner party most welcome.

  The de la Rues lived in Genoa on the top floor of the Palazzo Brignole Rosso, a building not far from the office where Dickens first visited de la Rue. Like the Consul's home and the Marquis' home, the de la Rues’ home was an island of elegance amid the squalor of Genoa. Ornately framed paintings hung on the walls. Richly detailed, hand-woven carpets covered the floor of each room. Two additional servants - four total - had been hired for the night as well as an additional cook. The dining table was set with beautiful china plates rimmed with decorative and intricately etched grapevines, and faceted, glittering crystal glasses stood alongside, waiting to be filled with the delicious local wines. Above the dining table an ornate crystal chandelier hung directly over a floral centerpiece composed entirely of camellias.

  Dickens wore his bright red waistcoat and his black suit complete with a red rose buttonhole. Catherine wore her lavender gown. By now a somewhat familiar figure among this society, Dickens’ entrance caused little stir. Emile de la Rue greeted each guest upon arrival.

  "Mr. Dickens, welcome to my home. Mrs. Dickens."

  After assuring de la Rue he’d had an uneventful two-mile carriage ride and being reminded by de la Rue that come next week he would be a full-fledged Genoese, Dickens moved off, leaving his wife, as had become routine, in the hands of the French Consul's wife. Dickens spotted Madame de la Rue speaking with the Governor. He watched as her eyebrows and the corner of her mouth danced more than Dickens had ever seen. He frowned and wondered if a specific cause or certain state of mind induced these spasms in the woman.

  Madame de la Rue noticed him and nodded while she continued to speak with the Governor. Dickens, satisfied Madame had discovered his arrival, wandered away to find a glass of wine. He gazed out over the city from a window when he felt a touch on his arm.

  Dickens turned. "Madame de la Rue."

  "I see you are moving much better than when last we met." She smiled, her gaze calm and happy, her eyes sparkling and a Genoese bay blue.

  "Oh, yes, yes. That's passed. The accident caused it. I have worse infirmities to worry about, I assure you."

  "Really?" The calm and happy gaze changed. A look of concerned interest settled in her eyes.

  Dickens hoped his describing his occasional attacks of facial neuralgia would induce the woman to describe her own infirmity in more detail.

  "I had no idea being a famous author brought on such precarious health," she said thoughtfully when Dickens had finished his litany of aches and pains.

  "No. My youthful days, something about them has left me like this."

  Madame de la Rue commenced a strange movement of her head, once, twice, thrice, bending it sharply toward her right shoulder and then upright again. She looked back at Dickens.

  "I've had a very hard week."

  "Your postponed dinner...?"

  "Yes. Sometimes and unaccountably I feel so fearful...I don't know what of...so fearful I cannot bring myself to leave home."

  Dickens readily anticipated pursuing the topic but couldn’t. "I see your husband beckoning you."

  "Oh, the English Consul has arrived."

  "I've been looking forward to meeting him."

  "I'll bring him over." She excused herself and went to her husband.

  She had had a bad week, Dickens pondered. He’d wanted to suggest to her tonight that she describe her malady to him in detail so he could write Elliotson in London for advice. Elliotson was a master at these kinds of things. Perhaps even he himself...

  Suddenly, a stir of activity caught Dickens’ eye, and he saw Madame de la Rue lying on the floor wracked with tremors, almost like an epileptic fit. He rushed over.

  Emile de la Rue knelt over her. “Darling, darling.” He looked into the crowd gathered about him. "Please, help me get her to her bedroom."

  Dickens and two other men stepped forward. They gently lifted Madame de la Rue to her feet.

  "Stay away. Stay away," the woman moaned. Dickens noted her eyes were closed, and she addressed no one in particular.

  The men, Dickens included, gently guided Madame de la Rue out of the room. De la Rue opened a door, and the men took the lady into a bedroom. They sat her on the bed, and Dickens watched her closely.

  "Stay away," she whispered once more and her eyes opened. She looked around groggily until she focused on her husband's face. "Oh, Emile."

  “I am here, darling. I am here. Gentlemen, leave us. She will be fine. I will care for her, and our dinner will go on."

  Reluctantly, Dickens followed the other two men from the room.

  The dinner did go on but under the somber cloud of Madame de la Rue's attack. She did not appear at the table or any time thereafter. The party dissolved earlier than it would have otherwise, and the guests left, each expressing appropriate concern to Emile de la Rue. Dickens and his wife rode home, Dickens showing his wife the offending midnight pole on the way.

  The next few days encompassed the move to the Palazzo Peschiere and were a whirl of packing and unpacking, exploration and delight. Once settled in his new home Dickens dedicated the month of October to completing his Christmas book, The Chimes, and on the third of November at half-past two in the afternoon, he wrote "The End" to his manuscript. Other than nighttime walks about Genoa, the writing had been his only activity. He had even denied entrance to the Governor of Genoa, who called to pay his respects and to invite the Dickens family to a gathering at his palazzo, by having his wife explain he was engaged on a book and could not be disturbed. The Governor subsequently took on a proprietary interest in Dickens' literary progress, telling everyone at his gathering, as if they did not know any better, "the great poet" was writing a book and should be left alone until he was ready to receive visitors.

  Dickens had gauged the completion of his manuscript accurately. He wanted to reciprocate the hospitality he had been shown in Genoa before he left on November sixth for a tour of northern Italy. He also planned a trip to England to read his new story to John Forster and other friends whom Forster would gather together. He thought The Chimes the most powerful story he had ever written, and he could not wait to show off what he had done. On a more mundane note, he also needed to see the story proofs through publication. He planned to be back in Genoa before Christmas.

  To accomplish his intended reciprocation he had set Friday, November 5 as the date for a dinner at his new and elegant palazzo. He had sent invitations to the French and English Consuls, the Governor, Angus Fletcher, the Marquis de Negri, and Sir George Crawford, an English banker then visiting Genoa. He also sent an invitation to the de la Rues accompanied by a personal note of invitation to Madame de la Rue. She responded with a personal note of her own, promising to make every attempt to attend the dinner.

  All Dickens could do now was hope she would show up.

  Taking a cue from the de la Rues,
Dickens hired three waiters and would have hired an additional cook if the Governor of Genoa had not already offered the use of his own two cooks, a municipal courtesy extended to Genoa's famous visitor. Dickens, however, insisted on overseeing everything from the purchase of the fish to the folding of the napkins.

  As a special recompense for all of the help Emile de la Rue had given him in finding suitable places to live, Dickens asked the de la Rues to arrive at five-thirty, an hour before the time he told the other guests.

  Dickens and his wife took the couple into the garden, where a few late-blooming roses and camellias lingered. After a brief discussion about the wonders of the Palazzo Peschiere, Dickens said, "Monsieur de la Rue, Madame, I had a second purpose in mind when I asked you to come here before the others; a second purpose besides offering my heartfelt gratitude to you both for your many kindnesses." Dickens had plotted his approach carefully. He had not shared his scheme with Catherine, and he could feel her stare. He did, though, want her to hear his suggestion first hand.

  Looking straight at Emile de la Rue he continued. "I believe I may be able to help your wife, perhaps even cure her of her attacks and her sleepless nights." He trusted his using the innocuous term "sleepless nights" would both keep de la Rue in the dark about Madame's secret and indicate to Madame herself his promise to rid her of her dreams.

  De la Rue straightened himself and looked at his wife.

  "What do you mean, Mr. Dickens?" de la Rue asked, his eyebrows contracting into a straight line as he gazed back at Dickens.

  "In London there is a doctor, a very good friend of mine. His name is John Elliotson. He has achieved wonderful cures of patients with symptoms similar to your wife's. I have seen him work. I have read of his cures."

  "What is his secret?" de la Rue asked, not entirely taking Dickens forthright manner in all seriousness.

  "Mesmerism. He uses mesmerism. He has given his patients new lives with his treatments. I have seen it. I can vouch for it."