Mr Dickens and his gifted cat

MR. DICKENS AND HIS GIFTED CAT

By Bob, Charles Dickens’ cat, as told to Gerald J. Schiffhorst

It was the best of times for us; it was also the worst of times. It was the season of light, with Christmas approaching; it was also the season of darkness, with cold, wintry days when the wind howled and when the Master’s tensions and worries spread throughout the Dickens’ household.

In that initial week of December of 1843, the Master, having just returned from Manchester, where he witnessed people living in cold streets like alley cats, was greatly moved by the plight of the poor. He was preoccupied with what to do about the untold children- ill housed, ill fed, ill clothed--almost as much as he was with his looming deadline.

“I must do a story about Christmas, Bob, something about compassion for the needy,” he said, frowning and pacing back and forth with eager anticipation. “And you know the time is growing near. It must be published by Christmas Eve.”

He grew ever more animated as he talked, more to himself than to me:  “I developed the story line in my head whilst I did my daily walk, and I have some earlier Christmas stories to draw on….but I want this to be special: a bit of prose that I propose to call a Carol. Not a long novel but a short, mirthful piece.  I want to leave the readers with a jolly good temper by capturing the true spirit of Christmas.”

I looked at him quizzically and thus he explained: “I mean the kindness and generosity that all people, especially Christians, should practice year-round to those in need, of which there are a superabundance in this teeming city.”

We were alone together in his upstairs study, with a fireplace and several stout candles on the mantel to warm the room and with me resting on his desk, watching the flickering candle next to his inkwell.  I then played my nightly trick on him: I quenched the flame with my left paw, mainly to see Mr. Dickens’s reaction and gain his attention, intensely focused as he was on his work.  He was not amused.

“If you can’t be a good cat and be still,” he said to me, “then I shall have to put you outside, I’ll be bound.”  As I knew he spoke in jest, I had no fear of being thrust into the bleak winter night.  He promptly relit his candle.

He petted me then as he began to talk about his story; it was his way of bringing it to life. He often sought my reactions and, if I may not be too bold, my ideas, especially about names. 

I should mention that Mr. Dickens was the only inmate of that large household that I favoured with my company.  Mrs. Dickens was civil to me, and the daughters, Mary and Kate, were polite, as was Georgina, who cared for the children-- or perhaps I should say they tolerated my presence.  But none of the nine children, certainly not the rowdy boys, showed anything like affection or warmth toward me; I suspect they hated me for being a cat, even though I was useful in keeping the house rodent free.

Little did they know that I was the Master’s favourite companion—nay, his only companion when he wrote, as he did for eight or more hours each day.

Only Mr. D. cared for me.  He alone knew I was literate. So I ignored the others and stayed close to the Master. It was a far, far better thing that I did, than I have ever done, to keep him company on those cold nights when, with the wind whistling round eaves and down the chimneys, he wrote his masterpiece.  To do so alone with no one around him would have been abhorrent.

 As usual, it took great effort, great pain and struggle, for him to begin to write out his characters and the story in which they were set.

“If I can’t get the name of a character right, I can’t picture him, much less describe him for my readers, you see, Bob.” He spoke in a loud voice and frowned. “Thus far, I have a miser--lonely and miserable. I have him down as follows: a ‘squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner.’ He will be somehow converted into a kind and charitable man….But what shall I call him?”

“Squeers, perhaps?”

“Can’t use that!  Taken!  Have you forgotten my Nicholas Nickleby?”

“How about Squeezer?” I suggested, knowing that was also a weak choice. “Or Scratchit…. or maybe Scrooze?”  I was playing with the first of the long list of adjectives he had read to me.

“You’re onto something, my little furry friend.” He stood up and began to laugh with delight.   “I think I shall name him Ebeneezer, and for the surname…Scrooge!  What think you?”

I merely purred in admiration for such a perfect name.

“Now your idea of Scratchit gives me an idea for his poor clerk, underpaid and overworked man as he is. I think he will be Cratchit; in fact, Bob Cratchit, in your honor.”

I grew so excited I leapt up and, in the process, knocked over the candle. The Master’s pleasure at once transformed itself into ire.  I was going to be treated, albeit briefly, like a mere cat again instead of the inspirational role I had cultivated in those long, dark nights: that of muse and amanuensis with a privileged spot on the writing desk.

So off I flew across the room and settled myself on a velvet cushion by the fire whilst the Master retrieved and relit his candle, cursing me in the process.

“You are the best of cats but also the worst of cats!” he mumbled to himself. But I could tell he was pleased with my suggested names. He knew I was watching his every move from across the room and listening to him recite the dialogue that he scratched out with his pen.

I sat there at least two hours—I could hear the chiming of the hall clock-- as he scribbled away, often reading parts of the story aloud.  I wasn’t fond of the ghosts and in fact would have much preferred doing without such spectral nonsense.  But I liked Bob Cratchit and was moved, much moved, by poor Tiny Tim.

“I think I’m going to make my deadline,” he said after some additional time had passed; he said this mainly to himself.  “Some will say this is a religious story and indeed, in a sense, it is—being as it is about redemption and the need for selfish people to help others and love their fellow man.” He stood up, stretched and kept talking, and I’m sure he included me in his audience.

“Yes! We did it!” he shouted finally, lifting his arms—and then me—in the air while alternating between laughing and crying with relief that he had completed his final draft.  “The story will be ready for the publisher tomorrow.  I predict brisk sales, Bob!”

Mr. Dickens, that most excitable and passionate gentleman, placed me gently back on his desk, in my customary corner, petting me with special vigour.

Little did he think, on that December night, that “A Christmas Carol” would one day be read by millions upon millions of people—none of whom knew that an obscure cat had played a role in creating that famous miser, the melancholy Mr. Scrooge, and the story of his conversion.

Is it any wonder that Mr. Dickens would later be quoted as saying, “What greater gift than the love of a cat?”

Gerald Schiffhorst

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