26 September (1854): Charles Dickens to Wilkie Collins

By the 1850s, Charles Dickens was not just the most famous writer of his day, but also occupied the center of a large circle of writers, publishers, and actors. In 1851, through mutual friend Augustus Egg (the “Kernel” of this letter), the thirty-nine-year-old Dickens became acquainted with law student and aspiring author Wilkie Collins, who was then twenty-seven. The two became close friends, often traveling Europe together, and Dickens took a keen interest in helping Collins (sometimes referred to as the “Dickensian ampersand”) develop his work. Several of the latter’s stories and novels were serialized in Dickens’ journals—Household Words and its successor All The Year Round—and, indeed, by the time of The Moonstone’s publication in 1868, Collins rivaled his mentor in popularity. Dickens, along with his wife Catherine and ten children, enjoyed several French holidays in the 1850s, and he continued his writing while abroad. At the time of this letter’s composition, Dickens had only recently finished Hard Times.

BOULOGNE, Tuesday,

Twenty-sixth September, 1854.

MY DEAR COLLINS,

First, I have to report that I received your letter with much pleasure.

Secondly, that the weather has entirely changed. It is so cool that we have not only a fire in the drawing-room regularly, but another to dine by. The delicious freshness of the air is charming, and it is generally bright and windy besides.

Thirdly, that V—’s* intellectual faculties appear to  have developed suddenly. He has taken to borrowing money; from which I infer (as he has no intention whatever of repaying) that his mental powers are of a high  order. Having got a franc from me, he fell upon Mrs. Dickens for five sous. She declining to enter into the transaction, he beleaguered that feeble little couple, Harry and Sydney, into paying two sous each for “tickets” to behold the ravishing spectacle of an utterly-non-existent-and-therefore-impossible-to-be-produced toy theatre. He eats stony apples, and harbours designs upon his fellow-creatures until he has become light-headed. From the couch rendered uneasy by this disorder he has arisen with an excessively protuberant forehead, a dull slow eye, a complexion of a leaden hue, and a croaky voice. He has become a horror to me,  and I resort to the most cowardly expedients to avoid meeting him. He, on the other hand, wanting another franc, dodges me round those trees at the corner, and at the back door; and I have a presentiment upon me that I shall fall a sacrifice to his cupidity at last.

On the Sunday night after you left, or rather on the Monday morning at half-past one, Mary was taken very ill. English cholera. She was sinking so fast, and the sickness was so exceedingly alarming, that it evidently would not do to wait for [Dr] Elliotson. I caused everything to be done that we had naturally often thought of, in a lonely house so full of children, and fell back upon the old remedy; though the difficulty of giving even it was rendered very great by the frightful sickness. Thank God, she recovered so favourably that by breakfast time she was fast asleep. She slept twenty-four hours, and has never had the least uneasiness since. I heard—of course afterwards—that she had had an  attack of sickness two nights before. I think that long ride  and those late dinners had been too much for her. Without them I am inclined to doubt whether she would have been ill.

Last Sunday as ever was, the theatre took fire at half-past eleven in the forenoon. Being close by the English church, it showered hot sparks into that temple through the open windows. Whereupon the congregation shrieked and rose and tumbled out into the street; —** benignly observing to the only ancient female who would listen to him, “I fear we must part;” and afterwards being beheld in the street—in his robes and with a kind of sacred wildness on him—handing ladies over the kennel [gutter] into shops and other structures, where they had no business whatever, or the least desire to go. I got to the back of the theatre, where I  could see in through some great doors that had been forced open, and whence the spectacle of the whole interior, burning like a red-hot cavern, was really very fine, even in the daylight. Meantime the soldiers were at work, “saving” the scenery by pitching it into the next street; and the poor little properties (one spinning-wheel, a feeble imitation of a water-mill, and a basketful of the dismalest artificial flowers very conspicuous) were being passed from hand to hand with the greatest excitement, as if they were rescued children or lovely women. In four or five hours the whole place was burnt down, except the outer walls. Never in my days did I behold such feeble endeavours in the way of extinguishment. On an average I should say it took ten minutes to throw half a gallon of water on the great roaring heap; and every time it was insulted in this way it gave a ferocious burst, and everybody ran off. Beaucourt has been going about for two days in a clean collar; which phenomenon evidently means something, but I don’t know what. Elliotson reports that the great conjuror lives at his hotel, has extra wine every day, and fares expensively. Is he the devil?

I have heard from the Kernel. Wa’al, sir, sayin’ as he minded to locate himself with us for a week, I expected to have heard from him again this morning, but have not. Beard comes to-morrow.

Kindest regards and remembrances from all. Ward  lives in a little street between the two Tintilleries. The Plornish-Maroon desires his duty. He had a fall yesterday, through overbalancing himself in kicking his nurse.

Ever faithfully.

* Vincent Percival Cattermole, a friend of Dickens’ children and a guest on their holiday.

** Thought to be Robert Keeley, an actor-manager and comedian as well as a colleague and friend of Dickens.

From The Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. I. Edited by Georgina Hogarth and Mamie Dickens. London: Chapman and Hall, 1880. pp. 362-365.

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