in the time of Dickens, expressed its virtue in the, then, generally
accepted principle that women were creatures without legs
But be that as it may, like his colleagues Dickens was more of
a creator of books than of morals. His novels, and not the
Victorian attitude of those times, are where we have to find the
answer to the question of whether he was really a great novelist.
On that point, I think his work leaves us in no doubt whatsoever.
Novels can be imaginedand in fact quite a few have been
writtenin which man is more shockingly confronted with him
self than is the case with the books, written by Dickens. We
should not soften the sentimentality which occurs here and there,
nor hide that pathos which is sometimes so annoying. That his
novels contain imperfections, that there are black-white characters
in his books, that novels have been written which are more
powerful in imagination and greater in vision, are not arguments
justifying an}/ doubt about his great artistry. His mastery in
presenting the world to his readers has resulted in peopling his
works with characters which, as with all great novelists, lead their
own unmistakable lives.
Pickwick and his companions, Bumble, Fagin, Mrs. Nickleby,
Pecksniff, Mrs. Gamp, David Copperheld, Murdstone, Micawber,
Pip, Estella and many others are all people we know, not because
they remind us of psychological books in which their egos could
be described, but because our meeting with them could bring the
shock of recognition of our own good or bad qualities, passions
and impulses. We seem to know all of them personally.
This possibility of indicating a work of art as an artistic and
sensible interpretation and description of the lives of people in
other eras than those in which it originated, may well be the real
criterion of its greatness. I think that such a criterion applied to
Dickens gives him a place among the immortals. Even we of
today can find in Dickens a man able to describe, though not of
our generation, the human condition which the sentimentality
of his time could not devaluate.
Well above the fashion and the sentiments of his days, Dickens
rises like an artist who, in most of his works but particularly in
David Copper field, provides the inimitable tone which only a
great writer, in fortunate moments, is able to draw from the
strings of his authorship.
This authorship of Dickens is of a richness, a liveliness, a
fertility, an intensity and an inventiveness of which we in the
Netherlands, I am sorry to say, cannot provide an example in our
own literature.
It is to this greatness and to the Immortal Memory of Charles
Dickens that I, as a Netherlander and as Burgomaster of the city
which he honoured by special mention in his novel Little Dorrit,
am both privileged and delighted to propose a toast, and in doing
so I wish to thank your Fellowship most warmly for inviting me
here tonight
To Charles Dickens and his Immortal Memory
