The Mystery of Charles Dickens

by John Paulits

  "Mesmerism!" de la Rue intoned, eyebrows rising.

  "Let me explain." Dickens took the next fifteen minutes explaining the concepts behind animal magnetism and the methods employed by its practitioners.

  When Dickens finished, he sat back and kept his eyes on Emile de la Rue. De la Rue drew a deep breath. "I scarcely know what to say. Augusta?"

  Augusta nodded slowly. "I believe Mr. Dickens can help, Emile. I don't know much about this Doctor Elliotson, but I have heard his name. He is quite reputable."

  Dickens sensed an opening and addressed Madame de la Rue. "I would ask your leave to acquaint Dr. Elliotson with your symptoms and get his advice. Tomorrow I'm leaving Genoa for some six weeks. I will be in London in early December. I would write to Dr. Elliotson now and see him when I reach London. When I return to Genoa, I will follow the doctor's advice and begin treatment."

  "You!" de la Rue exclaimed.

  "I am a capable mesmerist, sir." Dickens now told the story of meeting Elliotson and being trained by him. He told of his successful attempts to mesmerize his wife some two years before in America and of inducing what at first was a frightening but then a controllable mesmeric trance; of mesmerizing his sister-in-law Georgina and others at first simply for entertainment's sake, but subsequently to alleviate their illnesses. "I am certain I can help," he concluded.

  Emile de la Rue looked at Mrs. Dickens.

  "What he says is true," she reported grudgingly. "My husband can do the things he claims."

  Augusta de la Rue answered before her husband could. "Yes, Mr. Dickens. Yes. I want very much to be helped."

  "Monsieur de la Rue?" Dickens asked more stiffly than he meant to.

  “Why...why certainly. If you can help Augusta in any way, then you must, of course."

  "Excellent. Then I will do as I said. I will write Elliotson before we leave Genoa. If I could have a few moments alone with Madame tonight so I can be certain my letter is accurate..."

  "Certainly," Augusta de la Rue answered.

  Georgina appeared and informed the group the other guests had begun to arrive, and everyone left the garden to join the new arrivals.

  After dinner Dickens invited Augusta de la Rue into the garden again. As they passed beneath the windows where the dinner had taken place, Dickens glanced up and saw Catherine looking down. Dickens disdained to give notice of his wife's attention and continued out of sight of the window. He led Madame de la Rue through the large garden to the fishpond where they sat on wooden benches.

  Dickens did not hesitate. "Madame, I need to know details of your dreams. On my honor I will keep what you tell me confidential, save my telling it to Dr. Elliotson."

  Augusta de la Rue looked at Dickens.

  Dickens sensed her reluctance and tried to reassure her. “Let me first say that it is a most astonishing coincidence that I have never in my life, whatever projects I may have determined on otherwise - never begun a book or begun anything of interest to me, or done anything of importance to me, but it was on a Friday. Why, I was born on a Friday, you know. You and I first met on a Friday. I purposely planned tonight's dinner for a Friday so I could make the offer I’ve made you on a Friday. It is a good omen. I know it is. But I would like to ask you a few things, if I may."

  Madame de la Rue nodded and stared into the dark water of the fishpond.

  "These attacks - when did they begin?"

  She turned toward Dickens. "Two weeks, a month, after Emile and I married, nearly ten years ago."

  Dickens shook his head in sympathy. "For so long? And the frequency of these attacks?"

  "Oh, every week in a minor way such as you saw the first night we met. I scarcely know it happens."

  "And attacks like the one at your home?"

  She looked down. "There is no telling. Sometimes not for months; then sometimes I go nights on end without sleep."

  "And the dreams?"

  Augusta de la Rue astonished Dickens by reaching out her hand and clasping his.

  "They are awful. So dark and frightening. Something...someone is in my dreams. Threatening me. Coming after me. Oh, I can't. I can't."

  Dickens’ stomach dropped in fear as Augusta de la Rue’s head began to quiver and bounce toward her right shoulder.

  "I will ask no more, Madame. No more. I have heard enough."

  Dickens' fingers hurt from the pressure of the woman's hand. He put his other hand atop their two and gently stroked. In a quiet, even voice he said, "There will soon come a time when I will need you to trust me absolutely, Augusta."

  At the sound of her first name the pressure on Dickens' hand lightened.

  "Tell me you will trust me. I can help you. By God, I know I can help you."

  Madame de la Rue slowly moved her head upright.

  "Breathe deeply. Breathe evenly, Augusta. Tell me that you will trust me."

  The woman's eyes closed. As Dickens watched the rise and fall of her breathing, she moved her head slowly and affirmatively.

  "Yes, Charles." Her eyes opened. The touch of their hands had become normal. For the first time Dickens noticed how soft and warm her hand was. He gently stroked her long fingers with his top hand.

  "Yes, Charles. I do trust you. I will do whatever you say." Her mouth twitched slightly.

  Dickens released her hand.

  "Then we understand each other, Augusta."

  "Yes, Charles."

  Dickens rose and helped the woman to her feet. "Be assured, I will do all in my power to help you."

  Saying little else they walked back the way they had come and returned to the party.

  Having achieved what he had set out to achieve put Dickens in excellent spirits for the rest of the night. He even sang some of the comic songs - "The Cat's Meat Man" twice by popular demand - his father taught him as a child, a talent of his in which his father had taken great pride. By the party's end Monsieur de la Rue was no longer Monsieur de la Rue but Emile, and Mr. Dickens was no longer Mr. Dickens but Charles.

  The following day Dickens and his faithful courier Louis Roche left Genoa, his family remaining behind. They visited Parma, Modena, Bologna, Venice, Padua, Verona, Mantua, and Milan. On Sunday, December first, he arrived in London. On the second he read The Chimes to Forster, Thomas Carlyle, his brother Fred, and a half-dozen other notable friends and basked in their praise and their tears.

  On December third he and Dr. John Elliotson dined alone. On the fourth he gave another reading of The Chimes to a second group Forster gathered. He spent two long days with Bradbury and Evans seeing to the publication of The Chimes - without the costly color illustrations which had cut into the profits of A Christmas Carol.

  Sunday night, December eighth, found Dickens back on the road, and by December twenty-second he had returned to Genoa, ready to resume his Italian sojourn. Soon to be added to the routine of his domestic life, however, were near daily visits to the Palazzo Brignole Rosso to mesmerize Augusta de la Rue.

  Chapter Six

  On Monday, two days before Christmas and Dickens' first full day back from England, a note from Emile de la Rue arrived at his breakfast table. The note read:

  "Charles,

  My wife has suffered greatly since you left. I have never seen her like this. Have you brought a remedy?

  Can you visit as soon as possible?

  Emile."

  Dickens finished off a slice of ham, explained his destination to an unresponsive Catherine, and put himself to rights. Satisfied with his appearance, he briskly walked the short distance between the Peschiere and the Brignole Rosso. Emile de la Rue himself opened the apartment door.

  "Oh, Charles. Welcome, welcome. I hoped you could come." De la Rue closed the door behind Dickens and led him by the arm toward the same bedroom where Augusta de la Rue had been helped the
night she collapsed at the dinner party.

  "Your trip, Charles? How was it?"

  "Deuce take my trip. Tell me about your wife."

  They paused outside the bedroom door. De la Rue kept his hand on Dickens' arm. Dickens waited, keenly attentive.

  "She has had so little sleep. Her nights have been fearful. Not until the afternoon does Augusta seem to be settled enough to rest, and only then, I fear, because she is so exhausted by what she suffered the night before."

  "Has she been eating?"

  "Dinner has generally been a quiet time, but she's taken very little at other times. As the night deepens the attacks begin."

  "Go on."

  De la Rue heaved a heavy sigh. "She becomes someone other than herself. There is fear in her eyes. Her movements...her trembling...it frightens me. She's cried out on occasion."

  "Saying what?"

  De la Rue shrugged and gestured to indicate the lack of sense in his wife's ravings.

  "How is she today?"

  "The days have fallen into much of a pattern. Mornings, she lies in bed as now, exhausted but unable to sleep. You will see a change in her, I’m afraid."

  Dickens looked toward the bedroom door.

  "May I go in?" he asked.

  "Yes. Frida and Giovanni are nearby if you need them." Frida and Giovanni were the two de la Rue servants. "Giovanni will come and get me from the office if necessary. Let me take you in."

  Dickens stopped de la Rue. "You’ll be going to your office, then?"

  “Yes. Augusta’s poor health has become our daily routine and today, unfortunately, is a day like every other. Generally, though, she improves as the day goes on, but as the night progresses..." De la Rue gestured helplessly.

  Dickens nodded. He had been prepared to explain to de la Rue why he needed to be alone with Augusta - how the powers of mesmerism required an undisturbed attachment to the patient. He said only, “Yes, Emile, go to your office. It’s better I work with your wife with nothing to distract her."

  "You believe you can help her, then?"

  "I know I can."

  De la Rue opened the bedroom door.

  Augusta de la Rue turned toward them at the sound. The woman's face looked sallow and thinner, her eyes dull and full of weariness. Her hair hung limply across the pillow and over the edge of the bed. Dickens rigidly kept the shock he felt to himself.

  "Oh, Mr. Dickens." She managed to sit up. "I hate to have you see me this way."

  "Charles came at once, darling," de la Rue told her.

  Augusta smiled. "You are very kind, Mr. Dickens."

  Dickens moved a chair to the bedside. Before he sat he turned back to de la Rue and stared at him.

  "Ah, yes. Augusta, I will be at the office. I leave you in good hands. Giovanni will come for me if necessary. Help her, Charles. Please." De la Rue walked to the opposite side of the bed, leaned over, and kissed his wife. He left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Augusta turned quickly to Dickens. "Oh, Charles, I have been so unwell."

  "The dreams?"

  "Yes, yes. Someone is in my dreams. He won't let me sleep." The left side of her face began to twitch. Her eyes closed and opened wearily. The corner of her mouth jumped. Dickens took her hand.

  "Augusta, you must trust me. Absolutely."

  Dickens could see there would be little problem in extracting trust from his patient. Eager dependence already shone from her eyes.

  "Look at me. Listen to me." Dickens stroked her hand slowly, from the wrist down to the tips of her fingers. "You need rest. I need to make you stronger. We will lay to rest this accursed phantom. Trust me, we will. But you must believe in me." Augusta began to answer, but Dickens held up his hand. "Shhh. Your words are not necessary now. I promise I will come to you whenever you need me, day or night. I will be here every morning, just as I am here today, and every morning I will see to it you rest. No, don't look away. You must see in my eyes my concern for you. Do not look away from me." He continued to stroke her hand, and kept his voice in "an assured and assuring monotone," as Elliotson had recommended. "You are going to feel tired. More tired than you have ever felt."

  Dickens could feel Augusta losing herself in his eyes as if she were falling into a pool of warm and soothing water. He recalled the power he felt when he read The Chimes to Forster and the others. When he looked up from his reading and made eye contact with one of his audience, that person could not look away from him. Dickens knew the profound authority of his visual ray.

  "The problem will be your eyelids. You will not be able to keep them open. They will be pulled shut by tremendously heavy weights. You will find it impossible to remain awake."

  Dickens felt a nervous tremor run through him as Augusta's eyelids fluttered.

  “I will force you to sleep and to rest. When you are stronger, we will expel the phantom that haunts you. Listen to me closely, Augusta. There is a state between waking and sleeping where a person can experience more in five minutes than in a month of dreams. You will eventually tell me what you experience when you are in that state. The phantom will come to fear us. It will come to fear you." Augusta's eyelids closed, fluttered open, and closed again. "For now I want only for you to rest. The phantom will not return today. You will rest, and you will become strong."

  Augusta's head rolled to the right side, away from Dickens. He continued to stroke her hand and repeat things he had already said to her. Augusta's fingers relaxed in his grasp. Her breathing grew strong and steady. Scarcely breathing himself, he laid Augusta's hand down on the counterpane and sat watching over her as she slept. Fifteen minutes later, assured her sleep was deep and sound, Dickens rose and left the room.

  He sought out Giovanni and in his best Italian said, "Your mistress is resting. Do not enter the room. Keep the house quiet. Ask Monsieur de la Rue to write me as soon as he comes home and tell me how Madame is."

  Giovanni understood and Dickens left.

  Catherine asked no questions about his visit to the de la Rues, and Dickens chose not to favor her with a report unless she did so. He spent the day catching up on correspondence that had reached the Peschiere during his absence, but as darkness drew near, his thoughts returned to Augusta de la Rue. He tried to do some reading in the room he had made his office, but he could not concentrate. In his mind he reviewed everything Dr. Elliotson had told him. Cure the symptoms. Find the cause. The cause. Augusta's phantom. What could it be? What did it mean? It would take time to learn the truth.

  When the anticipated note from the Brignole Rosso came, Dickens took it back into his office and opened it. It read:

  Charles,

  You worked wonders. My wife slept much of the day and feels far better as a consequence. She is now dressing for dinner.

  I pray that this result continues. How can we be certain it does? Many, many thanks.

  Emile.

  Dickens thought a moment and composed a reply. It read:

  Emile,

  Your letter is exactly the news I had hoped for. I will, with your permission, visit Madame each morning for the near future and provide a mesmeric treatment to enable her to rest, if one is needed. Do not hesitate to call on me, day or night, if I can be of service.

  Charles.

  He sealed the note and sent his servant with it on the short trip to the de la Rues. Immensely pleased with the results of his morning, Dickens sought his wife out to inform her.

  "Dinner will be at six," she reported when Dickens found her overseeing the cook in the kitchen.

  “Kate, I’ve received a note from Emile. It seems I worked something of a miracle this morning with Madame de la Rue. I showed you this morning’s note. Read this. It's just arrived. I enabled her to rest comfortably all day."

  "Did you? It must be a great comfort
to them both." His wife continued to bustle about, ignoring the proffered note.

  "Yes, yes. No doubt. I'm going to visit each morning to see if I'm needed there."

  Icily, Catherine asked, "Did you see Georgy on your way here? I must speak with her."

  "I heard her playing with Charley and Walter in their room."

  Silently, his wife left the kitchen.

  Over dinner and afterwards Dickens regaled Catherine and Georgy with news of his London trip, especially what he considered the great triumph of his reading The Chimes at Forster's house. Around ten o'clock the family retired.

  Hours later, a timid, candle-bearing servant in nightclothes shook Dickens' shoulder. He opened his eyes.

  "Sir, a note from Brignole Rosso has come. It seems there is a crisis of some sort."

  Dickens put his fingers to his lips and gently rose from bed. His wife slept on. He followed the servant out of the room and took the note from him.

  Charles,

  I pray your request to be called at any time was genuine. Madame is in a terrible condition. I am at a loss what to do.

  If at all possible, please come to her.

  Emile.

  Sleep fell away from Dickens like a loosened cloak. He grew alert, eagerly craving the opportunity to put his powers to the test. He took the candle from the servant, waved him away, and reentered the bedroom to dress.

  Midway through dressing he heard his wife’s voice. “What in heaven’s name are you doing? Is there a fire?"

  "No, no, Kate. Go on back to sleep. Madame de la Rue is ill. Very ill. Emile thinks I can be of some use. He has sent a note."

  "To you? Now? What time is it?”

  "Just after three."

  "Who do they think...?"

  Dickens interrupted, "I'll be home when I can. Go back to sleep." He strode to the door and left the room.

  Emile de la Rue, clad in nightclothes and a robe, awaited him when he reached the Brignole Rosse. The rooms were candle-lit and eerie.

  "I cannot thank you enough, Charles."

  "Where is Madame?"

  "In the bedroom. Come."