A Lost Fragment of “Our Mutual Friend”

We are pleased to report that there has just now come into our possession, against a considerable advance of cash in Swiss francs (from a source which we prefer not to detail, as there may have been certain irregularities in the transaction, and authorities are such sticklers), a holograph manuscript, previously unpublished, by Mr Charles Dickens, written in a flowing hand upon foolscap, and subscribed with the signature “Boz”.  Even the most cursory graphological examination suffices to warrant the MS as genuine.

A portion of the manuscript which came into our possession, by fair means or foul

The fragment describes a conversation around an elegant dinner-table, and evidently was as yet in but an early stage of composition, for the characters have not yet been given names, but figure only as “Mr X” and “Mr Y”.  Yet the ultimate destination of the scene is quite certain, for written boldly across the top are the words “DINNER AT VENEERINGS”, thus establishing beyond a doubt that it was intended eventually to form part of that indelible episode which crowns the novel Our Mutual Friend; in which, however, the incident described in the fragment  is nowhere reflected.  Whether the author deemed the fragment unsatisfactory and thought better of including it, or whether he had simply mislaid it (or whether it had been purloined -- a distinct possibility given the venue where, over a century later, it ultimately turned up), or whether it fell victim to that financially lucrative but belletristically vexatious system of serial publication (the novel originally appeared in nineteen separate periodical installments, appearing seriatim  over the course of almost two years), the episode having been conceived of too late to take its proper place in the sequence, its turn having already passed, and not being re-inserted ex post facto at the time of bound-volume publication, the work having in the meantime already grown to unwieldy length, (not unlike this very sentence) -- we shall never know.   At all events, we now offer the piece to the discerning public, very lightly edited by our hand (the matter of one or two typos, and some words that had to be made out beneath a blot of ink).  And thus do we yet further secure the place of The World of Dr Justice (headquarters:   Geneva) at the very pinacle of curating incunabula.

For further exemplification from our growing store of Lost Fragments, click here.

~  {Dinner at the Veneerings} ~

By now the table-talk had subsided in volume  and broken up into separate conversations.  But above this now, Mr X would trouble Mr Y for the salt (who sat across from him, a short ways below it).  Mr Y suffered himself to be so troubled, passing it over without comment.  Mr X, strictly observing the courtesies, expressed his reconnaisance (¹)  of Mr Y’s exertions on his behalf, in compliance with the commission issued, in the briefest possible terms -- a single monosyllable -- which yet perfectly met the case, within the limits of the regulations.    Mr Y, outdoing even Mr X in taciturnity, merely nodded.

At this point, their conversation languished for a time;  until at length, a lull in eating as well as in speaking having intervened, Mr X wondered aloud whether Mr Y was by any chance aware  of one particular fact, to wit:  that to contract a debt of honor, though it be at cards, and to make no effort to repay it, is the action of no gentleman.   (And here the word was father to the deed, for had the recipient of this intelligence been previously unacquainted therewith, it would certainly form part of his mindstock now).

Mr Y, making no response, nor evincing any evidence that he had heard the remark (a brief bout of deafness having perhaps supervened), then forked another piece of roast and chewed at it meditatively;  whether the object of his meditation were the excellences of the beef (which were considerable), or the validity or otherwise of the late assertion by Mr X, could not be ascertained from his features.  And when at length  the choice morsel had been adequately masticated, swallowed, and sent on its way for appropriate processing in the digestive tract (whose dark invisible but necessary doings have not unjustly been compared to the activities of the laboring classes), Mr Y, still making no reply, next cleared his palate with a temperate sip from some old and perfectly matched claret, the effect being evidently salutory.  Only then did he give voice to his inner sentiments, stating that he in fact was not so aware.

Something about the phrasing was troubling to Mr X, as it seemed to suggest some lack of effect from his own previous communication, which should perforce have established such awareness even had there been none such before.  Whereupon he reiterateed his original remark (with whose wording no fault could be found, to attempt to emend which would therefore have amounted to gilding the lily), only this time with a heightened distinctness of ictus, and a precision in the enunciation of the voiceless stopped consonants, such as could not have been plainer  even to a child.

“Are - you - aware, sir, that-t-t --“ and so forth on to the conclusion.

Mr Y considered a bit, as though rummaging (not very industriously) through the storage bins of his memories, to ascertain whether, by chance, though originally overlooked, some such notion (met-with perhaps in the works of Horace, or the elder Cato) might not after all be lying somewhere idly about:  before finally shaking his head, for all reply.

At this point his attention seemed rather to wander; for though he served himself another generous forkful, his gaze roamed elsewhere, across the wainscoting, almost among the rafters;  and the complementary draught, this time, with which (the intrabuccal processing having concluded) he washed the gobbet down, was drawn out longer, and seemed to induce a kind of languor, verging on disinterest in his surroundings, as though his thoughts were quite elsewhere, or had even ceased entirely.

Yet then, as though his wandering intellect had once again returned to the table (much as the soul of the sleeper, at large in the night, returns to its parent body at dawn), though still not looking in the direction of Mr X, Mr Y then (speaking with unusual distinctness) wondered aloud whether that gentleman would be good enough -- would have the kindness -- would condescend to consent to repeat that remark.

This Mr X now in fact did, outdoing his previous efforts in point of both elocution and volume, so as to be of service, not only to the young, but to whoever might previously have suffered surdity through repeated exposure to cannons on the battlefield.

At this juncture the ladies, which had been  throughout these proceedings  whispering oblivious amongst themselves  at the lower end of the table, now turned to observe.

Mr Y finally swiveled his eyes towards the now quivering figure of Mr X, speculatively musing whether those remarks might have been directed towards any particular individual.

Mr X replied emphatically that they had not been so directed;  that nothing, though it be in China, could have been more distant from his thoughts;  and yet, all the while fixing his interlocutor with a stare that seemed to belie that asseveration.

Mr Y then mildly observed -- and this, he assured those present (for he now had their complete attention) without all reference to any individual  present or absent -- that any person or personage who might presume to cast any variety of implication upon any other person or personage in whatever way, for whatsoever reason it might be, (and so forth with sundry fastidious clausules which ‘twere tedious to repeat), might be invited to go boil his head. (²)
Mr X finding himself momentarily at a loss for words, Mr Y helpfully filled in the gap in the flow of conversation (for a stunned silence was now absolute) with the further precision (³):  Boil it or braise it, or grill it for all he cared;  it was all quite one to him.

Mr X, finally finding his tongue, retorted that any such hypothetical reference could be entirely ruled out, as forming no part of his intention;  while yet reciting from memory the familiar sayings (phrased in the homely way of the folk) to the effect that “He that has ears to hear, let him hearken”, and “If the shoe fits, wear it.”

Mr Y, giving as good as he got, and returning proverb for proverb (unlike that supposititious gentleman in the original remark  who had reportedly neglected his debt), that dwellers of glass houses should refrain from shying stones.

This bit of traditional wisdom seemingly failed to mollify Mr X, however, for he proceeded to remark (with the Bard, we assume, though we shall have to look the passage up when leisure permits),  that there was no good cur like a well-whipped cur, and that any gentleman who derogated from the proprieties of his station, deserved to be flayed at the cart’s tail.

Mr Y, seeming to chime with the spirit of this sentiment (at least they could agree on something), concurred, yet added a caveat, to the effect that whipping was too good for some people, and that the remedy was rather to be sought at the stakes of Smithfield.

At which observation, Mr X, slapping down his napkin and rising with an oath, reached towards the waistcoat pocket where he kept his pistol --

[And here, the fragment breaks off.]

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We now return you to your regularly scheduled essay.

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Footnotes

(¹) reconnaissance:  Here Dickens evidently uses the word in its original French sense;  although, in light of subsequent developments, a flavoring from the later military usage  cannot be excluded.

(²) boil his head:  Connoisseurs of both authors will here instantly recognize a favorite phrase of Mr P.G. Wodehouse, so strongly influenced by Dickens in point of style.  Yet he cannot actually have read this particular passus, since, as mentioned previously, it was never published before this very day.  Consequently a direct le-style-c’est-l’homme influence of the earlier upon that later novelist, cannot in this instance  be established.

Whether the contavenient influence, of Wodehouse upon Dickens, might be surmised in this case, mediated perhaps by signal-bearing tachyons traveling backwards in time, we must leave to the physicists.

(³)  precision: Another covert Gallicism, difficult to render precisely in English, which is no doubt why Dickens here resorted to it.

After extensive digging through Victorian police archives, our Research Branch has managed to identify this London figure as the probable original of “Mr X”.

[Update 16 December 2013]  The first authoritative foreign site to acknowledge the validity and veracity of our findings, has just published a learnèd article upon the subject:

http://www.tinmoi.vn/so-thich-ghe-tham-nha-xac-cua-nha-van-charles-dickens-011289473.html

We appreciate the attention.

~

From the Rare Books collection of the World of Doctor Justice (headquarters:  Geneva) :

Marginal annotations by Dickens himself, simplifying the task of our handwriting experts  considerably.

~

[Further update]  Another long-suppressed incident in the life of Mr Charles Dickens has now been photographed, lightly fictionalized, and is available to viewing by mature audiences, here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDMHb3GetIc

[Yet further updated]  The suggestion by Professor Cole, that the fragment is actually from the hand of Thackeray, we dismiss without comment.

[Update 17 December 2013]   A reminder to readers:  While everyone is welcome to comment on this post, and while we freely publish those that disagree with us, please to keep the commentary within the bounds of academic decorum.  Some of the contributions below, border on the disturbing.  We really don’t want a repetition of the sort of offensive professorial war-of-words that unfortunately blighted our public offering of St. Augustine’s now-famous “Lost Sonnet”, as evidenced here:

http://worldofdrjustice.blogspot.com/2011/12/controversy-rages.html

Virtuously,

Dr. J.

[Update 18 décembre 2013]  It has been brought to my attention that someone purporting to be myself has been posting highly intemperate replies to our distinguished disputants.  Either someone has hacked into my account, or else a certain doppelgänger personality which does occasionally emerge during one of my fugue states, may be responsible for this mischief.  In any event, I retain no memory of having written any such things.

(Die like dogs, you whoresons !!!)