Among the unpublished manuscripts of my late friend Dr.
Watson … no, just kidding.
Our Mutual Friend, the last finished novel of Charles
Dickens, does not lie at the center of most readers’ affections; yet connoisseurs there are, who wóuld
award the palm to that late work. And one of the most memorable minor
characters therein -- as minor as might be, since (if memory serves) he
utters not a word at any time -- is the discreetly appearing and vanishing
figure of the Analytical Chemist. His denomination is never explained,
and he is given no other name. His
ostensible function is to wait on the Veneering’s table, at that elegant or
elegantesque or simili-elegant supper party which is to seal the coming-out of
these arrivistes or nouvel-arrivés;
his deeper purpose is … well, it must be guessed-at. But whatever it was, Dickens was evidently quite
satisfied with the results.
What does he mean, then -- and especially, why ever is he called that?
The proper approach, I now believe, is not to be overly … analytical about it (as I tried to be,
upon first encountering the character, with wonder). The phrase simply wandered into Dickens’ mind, without
any nicety of correspondence to the Dalton or Lavoisier theory of the day,
and serves perfectly to suggest what needs suggesting: neither fawning nor class resentment on the part of the table-attendent, but
cool detachment, and unwavering observation. In this he is a forerunner of that other supranatural
butler, Jeeves.
(There are differences, but these are subtle, and must await
another time for treatment, when Jeeves himself shall consent to appear at the
center of our lens.)
Bonus quote:
Hungarian goulash, always a dish to
be avoided unless you had had the forethought to have it analysed by a
competent analytical chemist.
-- P.G. Wodehouse, Ice in the
Bedroom (1961)
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