Charles Dickens was born at Portsea in 1812

Charles Dickens (1812—1870)

The
son of a government clerk, Charles Dickens was born at Portsea in 1812. His
family moved to London shortly after his birth. The early London life of the
Dickens family was utilized in several of the son’s novels, especially in David
Copperfield. His first great success was with the Pickwick Papers, which
appeared serially in 1836.

Then
followed the novels which have become celebrated and are read the world over.
Dickens was an indefatigable writer, editor and, later in life, a public
reader. He wrote a number of short stories, of which The Old Man’s Tale of the
Queer Client is probably the most skilfully constructed and best written. It is
related by one of the characters in the Pickwick Papers.

The Old Man`s Tale of the Queer
Client

From
the Pickwick Papers

“TT
matters little,” said the old man, “where, or how, I picked up A this brief
history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reached me, I should
commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at the conclusion, go back for a
beginning. It is enough for me to say that some of its circumstances passed
before my own eyes. For the remainder I know them to have happened, and there
are some persons yet living who will remember them but too well.

“In the Borough High Street, near St. George’s Church, and on the same side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our debtor’s prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been a very different place from the
sink of filth and dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but little temptation to the extravagant, or consolation to the provident. The
condemned felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the
insolvent debtor in the Marshalsea Prison.

“It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from the old
recollections associated with it, but this part of London I cannot bear. The
street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of passing vehicles, the
footsteps of a perpetual stream of people—all the busy sounds of traffic,
resound in it from morn to midnight, but the streets around are mean and close;
poverty and debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune
are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my
eyes at least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and
sickly hue.

The Old Man`s Tale of the Queer Client part 1

You fancy then that you have forgotten everything you knew

But God Almighty did not make me a fool; I don’t take black for white; I know a thing or two; I could see very clearly, for instance, that Aleksandra Andreyevna that was her name did not feel love for me, but had a friendly, so to say, inclination a respect or something for me. Though she herself perhaps mistook this sentiment, anyway this was her attitude; you may form your own judgment of it. But,” added the doctor, who had brought out all these disconnected sentences without taking breath, and with obvious embarrassment, “I seem to be wandering rather you won’t understand anything like this…. There, with your leave, I will relate it all in order.”

He drank off a glass of tea, and began in a calmer voice.

Belief in himself

“Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. You are not a doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand what passes in a poor fellow’s heart, especially at first, when he begins to suspect that the disease is getting the upper hand of him. What becomes of his belief in himself? You suddenly grow so timid; it’s indescribable. You fancy then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that the patient has no faith in you, and that other people begin to notice how distracted you are, and tell you the symptoms with reluctance; that they are looking at you suspiciously, whispering.

Ah! it’s .horrid! There must be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find it. Isn’t this it? You try no, that’s not it! You don’t allow the medicine the necessary time to do good. … You clutch at one thing, then at another. Sometimes you take up a book of medical prescriptions here it is, you think!

Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one out by chance, thinking to leave it to fate But meantime a fellow-creature’s dying, and another doctor would have saved him. ‘We must have a consultation,’ you say; ‘I will not take the responsibility on myself.’ And what a fool you look at such times! Well, in time you learn to bear it; it’s nothing to you. A man has died but it’s not your fault; you treated him by the rules. But what’s still more torture to you is to see blind faith in you, and to feel yourself that you are not able to be of use. Well, it was just this blind faith that the whole of Aleksandra Andre- ycvna’s family had in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was in danger.

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There must be a remedy, you think, for this disease

But God Almighty did not make me a fool; I don’t take black for white; I know a thing or two; I could see very clearly, for instance, that Aleksandra Andreyevna that was her name did not feel love for me, but had a friendly, so to say, inclination a respect or something for me. Though she herself perhaps mistook this sentiment, anyway this was her attitude; you may form your own judgment of it. But,” added the doctor, who had brought out all these disconnected sentences without taking breath, and with obvious embarrassment, “I seem to be wandering rather you won’t understand anything like this…. There, with your leave, I will relate it all in order.”

He drank off a glass of tea, and began in a calmer voice.

Belief in himself

“Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. You are not a doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand what passes in a poor fellow’s heart, especially at first, when he begins to suspect that the disease is getting the upper hand of him. What becomes of his belief in himself? You suddenly grow so timid; it’s indescribable. You fancy then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that the patient has no faith in you, and that other people begin to notice how distracted you are, and tell you the symptoms with reluctance; that they are looking at you suspiciously, whispering.

Ah! it’s .horrid! There must be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find it. Isn’t this it? You try no, that’s not it! You don’t allow the medicine the necessary time to do good. … You clutch at one thing, then at another. Sometimes you take up a book of medical prescriptions here it is, you think!

Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one out by chance, thinking to leave it to fate But meantime a fellow-creature’s dying, and another doctor would have saved him. ‘We must have a consultation,’ you say; ‘I will not take the responsibility on myself.’ And what a fool you look at such times! Well, in time you learn to bear it; it’s nothing to you. A man has died but it’s not your fault; you treated him by the rules. But what’s still more torture to you is to see blind faith in you, and to feel yourself that you are not able to be of use. Well, it was just this blind faith that the whole of Aleksandra Andre- ycvna’s family had in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was in danger.

The District Doctor part 5

Vladimir Nikolaievitch in every letter implored

Needless to mention that this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man, and that it was very congenial to the romantic imagination of Maria Gavrilovna.

The winter came and put a stop to their meetings, but their correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir Nikolaievitch in every letter implored her to give herself to him, to get married secretly, to hide for some time, and then to throw themselves at the feet of their parents, who would, without any doubt be touched at last by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and would infallibly say to them: “Children, come to our arms!”

Pretext headache

Maria Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time, and several plans for a flight were rejected. At last she consented: on the appointed day she was not to take supper, but was to retire to her room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid was in the plot; they were both to go into the garden by the back stairs, and behind the garden they would find ready a sledge, into which they were to get, and then drive straight to the church of Jadrino, a village about five versts from Nenaradova, where Vladimir would be waiting for them.

On the eve of the decisive day, Maria Gavrilovna did not sleep the whole night; she packed and tied up her linen and other articles of apparel, wrote a long letter to a sentimental young lady, a friend of hers, and another to her parents. She took leave of them in the most touching terms, urged the invincible strength of passion as an excuse for the step she was taking, and wound up with the assurance that she should consider it the happiest moment of her life, when she should be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear parents.

After having sealed both letters with a Toula seal, upon which were engraved two flaming hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw herself upon her bed just before daybreak, and dozed off: but even then she was constantly being awakened by terrible dreams.

First, it seemed to her that at the very moment when she seated herself in the sledge, in order to go and get married, her father stopped her, dragged her into a dark bottomless abyss, down which she fell headlong with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale and bloodstained. With his dying breath he implored her, in a piercing voice, to make haste and marry him.

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On the eve of the decisive day

Needless to mention that this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man, and that it was very congenial to the romantic imagination of Maria Gavrilovna.

The winter came and put a stop to their meetings, but their correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir Nikolaievitch in every letter implored her to give herself to him, to get married secretly, to hide for some time, and then to throw themselves at the feet of their parents, who would, without any doubt be touched at last by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and would infallibly say to them: “Children, come to our arms!”

Pretext headache

Maria Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time, and several plans for a flight were rejected. At last she consented: on the appointed day she was not to take supper, but was to retire to her room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid was in the plot; they were both to go into the garden by the back stairs, and behind the garden they would find ready a sledge, into which they were to get, and then drive straight to the church of Jadrino, a village about five versts from Nenaradova, where Vladimir would be waiting for them.

On the eve of the decisive day, Maria Gavrilovna did not sleep the whole night; she packed and tied up her linen and other articles of apparel, wrote a long letter to a sentimental young lady, a friend of hers, and another to her parents. She took leave of them in the most touching terms, urged the invincible strength of passion as an excuse for the step she was taking, and wound up with the assurance that she should consider it the happiest moment of her life, when she should be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear parents.

After having sealed both letters with a Toula seal, upon which were engraved two flaming hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw herself upon her bed just before daybreak, and dozed off: but even then she was constantly being awakened by terrible dreams.

First, it seemed to her that at the very moment when she seated herself in the sledge, in order to go and get married, her father stopped her, dragged her into a dark bottomless abyss, down which she fell headlong with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale and bloodstained. With his dying breath he implored her, in a piercing voice, to make haste and marry him.

The Snow Storm part 3

Looring of the chamber

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so Cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—-ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night: suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ^ ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted familiar things. But, ere long, I felt mysef getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness— until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

Sound increased

No doubt I now grew very pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men but the noise steadily increased.

Oh, God; what could I do? I foamed

—I raved-

—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder

—louder

—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!

—-no, no! They heard!

—they suspected!

—they knew!-

—they were making a mockery of my horror!

—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!

—and now

—again!

— hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

—“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!

— tear up the planks!

—here, here!

—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

As I understand something about

Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852)

Born in the Ukraine, Gogol was in many respects the founder of modern Russian literature. His stories of rural life collected under the title Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka were enthusiastically received, and, because of their freshness and originality, exerted a profound and lasting influence. To Gogol is chiefly due the credit for inaugurating the modern Russian novel and short story.

The present version of St. John’s Eve is reprinted from Taras Bulha, and Other Tales, by permission of J. M. Dent and Sons, publishers.

St. John’s Eve

(From Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka)

Thoma Grigorovitch had one very strange eccentricity: to the day of his death he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were times when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, he would interpolate new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to recognize it. Once upon a time, one of those gentlemen who like every sort of frippery, and issue mean little volumes, no thicker than an ABC book, every month, or even every week, wormed this same story out of Thoma Grigorovitch, and the latter completely forgot about it. But that same young gentleman, in the pea-green caftan, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and, opening it in the middle, showed it to us.

Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them and stick them together with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand something about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read it. I had not turned two leaves when all at once he caught me by the hand and stopped me. “Stop! tell me first what you are reading.”

I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.

“What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? Why, your own words.”
“Who told you that they were my words?”

“Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: ‘Related by such and such a sacristan.’ ”

“Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a Moscow peddler! Did I say that?’ ’Twas just the same as though one hadn’t his wits about him!’ Listen, I’ll tell the tale to you on the spot.” We moved up to the table, and he began.

St. John’s Eve part 1

There were times when

Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852)

Born in the Ukraine, Gogol was in many respects the founder of modern Russian literature. His stories of rural life collected under the title Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka were enthusiastically received, and, because of their freshness and originality, exerted a profound and lasting influence. To Gogol is chiefly due the credit for inaugurating the modern Russian novel and short story.

The present version of St. John’s Eve is reprinted from Taras Bulha, and Other Tales, by permission of J. M. Dent and Sons, publishers.

St. John’s Eve

(From Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka)

Thoma Grigorovitch had one very strange eccentricity: to the day of his death he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were times when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, he would interpolate new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to recognize it. Once upon a time, one of those gentlemen who like every sort of frippery, and issue mean little volumes, no thicker than an ABC book, every month, or even every week, wormed this same story out of Thoma Grigorovitch, and the latter completely forgot about it. But that same young gentleman, in the pea-green caftan, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and, opening it in the middle, showed it to us.

Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them and stick them together with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand something about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read it. I had not turned two leaves when all at once he caught me by the hand and stopped me. “Stop! tell me first what you are reading.”

I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.

“What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? Why, your own words.”
“Who told you that they were my words?”

“Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: ‘Related by such and such a sacristan.’ ”

“Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a Moscow peddler! Did I say that?’ ’Twas just the same as though one hadn’t his wits about him!’ Listen, I’ll tell the tale to you on the spot.” We moved up to the table, and he began.

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New York gentleman to pave its well-nigh

John W. Blossom, Esq., the able editor of the Higginsville Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of Freedom, arrived in the city yesterday. He is stopping at the Van Buren House.

We observe that our contemporary of the Mud Springs Morning Howl, has fallen into’ the error of supposing that the election of Van Werter is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. He was doubtless misled by incomplete election returns.

It is pleasant to note that the city of Blathersville is endeavoring to contract with some New York gentleman to pave its well-nigh impassable streets with the Nicholson pavement. The Daily Hurrah urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate success.

Presently

I passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance, alteration, or destruction. He glanced at it and his face clouded. He ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous. It was easy to see that something was wrong. Presently he sprang up and said “Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak of those cattle that way? Do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such gruel as that? Give me the pen!”

I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plow through another man’s verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. While he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window, and marred the symmetry of my ear.

“Ah,” said he, “that is that scoundrel Smith, of the Moral Volcano— he was due yesterday.” And he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and fired. Smith dropped, shot in the thigh. The shot spoiled Smith’s aim, who was just taking a second chance, and he crippled a stranger. It was me. Merely a finger shot off.

Then the chief editor went on with his erasures and interlineations. Just as he finished them a hand-grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments. However, it did no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked ,i couple of my teeth out.

“That stove is utterly ruined,” said the chief editor.

I said I believed it was.

“Well, no matter don’t want it this kind of weather. I know the man that did it. I’ll get him. Now, here is the way this stuff ought to he written.” The inveterate liars of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake are evidently endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most glorious conception of the Nineteenth Century, the Ballyhack railroad. The idea that Buz- zardville was to be left off at one side originated in their own fulsome brains or rather in the settlings which they regard as brains. They had better swallow this lie if they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding they so richly deserve.

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The Daily Hurrah urges the measure

John W. Blossom, Esq., the able editor of the Higginsville Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of Freedom, arrived in the city yesterday. He is stopping at the Van Buren House.

We observe that our contemporary of the Mud Springs Morning Howl, has fallen into’ the error of supposing that the election of Van Werter is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. He was doubtless misled by incomplete election returns.

It is pleasant to note that the city of Blathersville is endeavoring to contract with some New York gentleman to pave its well-nigh impassable streets with the Nicholson pavement. The Daily Hurrah urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate success.

Presently

I passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance, alteration, or destruction. He glanced at it and his face clouded. He ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous. It was easy to see that something was wrong. Presently he sprang up and said “Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak of those cattle that way? Do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such gruel as that? Give me the pen!”

I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plow through another man’s verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. While he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window, and marred the symmetry of my ear.

“Ah,” said he, “that is that scoundrel Smith, of the Moral Volcano— he was due yesterday.” And he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and fired. Smith dropped, shot in the thigh. The shot spoiled Smith’s aim, who was just taking a second chance, and he crippled a stranger. It was me. Merely a finger shot off.

Then the chief editor went on with his erasures and interlineations. Just as he finished them a hand-grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments. However, it did no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked ,i couple of my teeth out.

“That stove is utterly ruined,” said the chief editor.

I said I believed it was.

“Well, no matter don’t want it this kind of weather. I know the man that did it. I’ll get him. Now, here is the way this stuff ought to he written.”
The inveterate liars of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake are evidently endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most glorious conception of the Nineteenth Century, the Ballyhack railroad. The idea that Buz- zardville was to be left off at one side originated in their own fulsome brains—or rather in the settlings which they regard as brains. They had better swallow this lie if they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding they so richly deserve.

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