by DM Bryan
“I fail to understand why not,” said my companion. “A printer might be as wicked as the next man.”
My turn to gaze upon him. I did not trust his tone. I feared my tale was missing its mark. That Mr. Gotobed was no lover of intrigue. That my voice wavered and quavered. The square grew brighter and hotter. The odour of cow shit rose heavenward.
“Really Mr. Gotobed,” I said, sounding uncertain, even to myself, “how can you explain the fact that no one was in Mr. Bakewell’s shop—where did they disappear to, all the clerks at once?”
“You mean Dash, Quibble, and Blotpage?”
I had not realized Gotobed knew them.
“Those bastards,” he said.
He knew them.
“Mr. Quire, sir,” said Gotobed, “I will confess I followed you on a whim. When I saw you inside Bakewell’s, up and down in the window like a monkey on a lady’s shoulder, you interested me strangely.”
“A monkey?” I prided myself on the naturalness of my actions. I’d seen a gibbon once, all line and no grace.
“Sir, I intended no offense. But the vision of you in Mr. Bakewell’s window startled me. You appeared like the answer to some question I did not know to ask.”
Was the man’s face flushed? I sniffed his person as surreptitiously as I could. But his eyes shone clear and no acrid vapours hung about his mouse-coloured coat and breeches.
“The dexterousness with which you secured this print and the casual authority with which you left the scene of your crime has won you an admirer in me, sir.”
“Then give me my paper back.”
Gotobed considered. “I am afraid you will run away, and while I could catch you, I do not wish to chase you.”
“Upon my word of honour, I will not run.”
Mr. Gotobed’s laughter caused a passing soldier to turn his head. I spat.
“Again, I fear I have insulted your finer feelings, Mr. Quire.”
My finest feeling told me to set off across Smithfield and disappear into the thick press of skirt and leg, and I would have done so but for my print clutched in Gotobed’s fist.
“Why this single print? Would not a complete set of subjects earn more?”
I examined the stain on my sleeve. I felt the urgent need to see the paper again.
“I expect no profit,” I told Gotobed. “The print is mine.”
“Was yours,” said Gotobed.
I cursed Gotobed wildly, and hit out. This time, he stepped forward, holding me so that my paper came next to my face. I could smell the ink. With one arm, Gotobed pinioned me, setting his mouth at my ear. He sent hot and ticklish breath upon my cheek, telling me to calm myself, to not draw attention to ourselves, lest we both lose the print.
By way of reply, I let my knees go limp, and then as we sank toward the dirty ground of Smithfield market, I shot upwards, bringing my crown into contact with Mr. Gotobed’s chin. Mr. Gotobed staggered and released me. I took a step backwards and watched him reeling in circles, hand to his nose, the print still held carefully above my head. When he could stand upright again, vermillion droplets spotted his neckerchief. “You bloody little bugger,” he said and came at me, attempting to push me down into the mud and cow shit of Smithfield.
I evaded him with some difficulty, aware that I’d begun to cry again. The tears, even angry ones, had to stop. Seeing them, Gotobed cursed me roundly and let me go. Then he began to employ on himself the handkerchief he’d once offered me. Angrily, he blotted away a rosette of blood, then turned an angry and slightly swollen eye on me. “Bugger you,” he offered again.
“It’s not yours.”
His only answer was to turn on the heel of his shoe, and begin to stalk away down Duck Lane. After a moment, I ran after. I had no choice. “Please,” I said, trotting along beside him. Truly, his legs stretched a great deal further than mine. I attempted to get in front of him, but he quickened his pace and I tripped. After that, I did not demean myself by nipping like a pug dog, but grabbed his coat and made every effort to hang on.
Gotobed stopped and put his head down close to mine. “Let go,” he said. “Or I will really hurt you.” He shook me for good measure.
“Please, sir,” said I, all stratagem exhausted. And perhaps he heard something in my voice for he let go of my collar. “Keep the print,” I said. “It is mine by rights, but perhaps we might both keep some share in it.”
“What do you mean, share it?” he said. “It is entirely mine because it is entirely in my hand—that is entirely the case, little Mr. Quire.”
“I have a proposal to make, if you will listen.” I was thinking as hard as I could. The thought of losing that print was a cramp in my gut. Worse than hunger, was that pain.
“You have nothing to treat with, you little gibbet-bird.”
“I do, sir, I do. But you must listen. Hear what I have to say, in all fairness.”
Gotobed scratched his head under his wig. “Fairness,” he said, as if to himself. Then he dragged me under an overhanging window, where we were out of the heaviest flow of foot-traffic. “You have until Great St. Bart’s sounds,” said he.
Over the stone dwellings of Duck Street, the church tower showed its face. The hands of the clock were almost clapped to. I had not a moment to waste. And yet, I had no scheme in mind.
I stood, staring at the fellow, at his thin shanks and stained sleeves. And then, as if in a tale, a project entire leapt into my mind, a stratagem so complete it might have been Heaven sent—nay, it must have been Heaven sent.
I smiled at the inky devil and made my proposal.
Chapter 13
The Life and Times of Cass Quire, Gentleman.
Which gives the nature of the scheme Cass enters with Mr. Gotobed, but also provides some cautionary notes on the comportment of young people who have nobody but themselves in the world.
London, 1746.
I had no way of knowing the proposal I was about to make would end in the slicing of my print down the middle. Had I known, would I, like the true mother in King Solomon’s judgement, have let Mr. Gotobed keep the picture for himself? I cannot say—all I knew was that Mr. Gotobed had the advantage of me, and I must act quick if I were to explain my stratagem.
“Have you seen George Bickham’s sorry copy of Hogarth’s Harlot?” I asked Gotobed. “I recently stole a copy from a shop in Mays House in Covent Garden—do you know the work?”
Gotobed’s only answer was to look at the clock in the nearby church tower. It showed the little share of time he had given me to explain myself.
“Are you aware, Mr. Gotobed, that Mr. Hogarth’s Harlot sells for 2s 6d, while Bickham’s asks only 6d for his vile imitation?”
Of course, I’d paid nothing at all. Still, Mr. Bickham’s ugly rendering of a bare breasted harlot and her vomiting sister cost me peace of mind. My own mother might have been one of those women. I knew little of her beyond her name, and the cheapness of Mr. Bickham’s line, combined with the ugliness of his sentiment, left me feeling very low indeed.
“Well,” I continued, “I can tell you that Mr. Bickham’s rendering is very stiff, and his composition is flaccid. He copies Mr. Hogarth, as so many inferior artists do. Now, as to the print you hold there. It is most definitely one of that ingenious artist’s original works, although I have not seen him approach this subject matter before. Still, every detail carries the stamp of his inimitable style.”
Mr. Gotobed appeared to be listening despite himself, and when I was finished, he said, “For a thief, you have a knowledgeable way of talking of pictures.”
“Whenever I am in the street,” I said, “I make the printseller’s window my school. It is free to look and cheap to learn. Mr. Hogarth is my constant study, and I know all his work by heart. I promise this print is a new production, never before seen by a public hungry for more.”
“Someone,” said
Gotobed, who as a printer’s apprentice was equipped to reconstruct the crime, “has taken this precious page from Mr. Hogarth’s printery—snatched it up from the horse where it lay drying.”
“It will be missed,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, so that no one should overhear us, there in Duck Street.
“Bakewell took a chance displaying it in his window.”
I agreed. The bookseller had indeed risked the ire of Mr. Hogarth—a man who did not easily give up his cause when roused. I put my finger to the bottom of the page where nothing was written. The print did not yet give the artist’s name, nor did it say, as his prints always did, Published according to an Act of Parliament.
Gotobed saw my gesture. “But is there no law without the words?” he asked me. We looked at one another. In truth, neither of us knew, but we shared the superstitious reverence, common to all apprentices, journeymen, and even pressboys, for Mr. Hogarth’s legal amendment.
Now Gotobed unfurled the print, shifting a little so that we both might look. We were still tucked under a window overhang, out of the way of any passersby. He extended one long leg, so that I might not easily snatch the print and run from him. Hemming and hawing a little over the page, he finally said, “This is a trial-pull only. He’s testing the composition and the balance of the tones before he finishes the work. Only the central design is complete. Look here.”
We bent over the page and Gotobed drew my attention to the rectangular frame around the image that stood empty and waiting adornment. At the top we could make out a few light strokes of the burin running horizontally, interrupted by one or two short vertical lines that carved up the spaces between.
“Bricks,” I said, understanding at last what the marks would become—a frame constructed to fool the viewer’s eye, making the print look as if it is already hung on a wall. “And more embellishment there,” I told Gotobed, pointing with my dirty nail. “Like on a monument. And here, at the bottom, a cartouche. Like on a silver cup.”
Gotobed was nodding. He picked up the page and found the words on the back: Tom Idle Betrayed by his Whore. “Here he’s written the title for the top. And in the cartouche, he’ll print some improving verse, no doubt.”
I nodded. We both knew the genre. “Blessed are the weak,” I said, noting, not for the first time, poor Tom’s peril.
My companion laughed. “Meek,” said he.
“He’s meek enough too.”
“ ’Tis a series,” said Gotobed. “Like the Harlot and the Rake. Each print is a little part of the tale. There must be others.”
“Eight,” said I, the verses leaping unbidden into my mind. “One, Tom is born, poor in spirit and in all things besides. Two, Tom loses his mother and would mourn her as much as is in his power. Three we have before us—the weak are ever meek, for they know themselves faulty and easily imposed upon.”
I waited for Gotobed to correct me, for we both knew what I should have been saying if I gave the verses in their proper form, but he held his peace, and so I continued. “Four, Tom is hungry and thirsty and would be righteous, even as he takes a silver spoon from a tavern. Five, he is merciful, for he holds his tongue when the constables come, even though he could take others with him. Six, he is pure of heart, praying in Newgate with as clear a conscience as ever was had by a man in his sorry state. Seven, he makes his peace with his whore, for she comes to explain her choice, and he understands. Eight—”
“Eight,” said Gotobed, “he hangs on the Tyburn tree, and blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.”
“That is the final verse exactly,” I said.
“It will not sell. Your theology is peculiar to thieves.”
“My exegesis is as good as any man’s.”
“Agreed. But still such a series will not sell—not without Mr. Hogarth’s design, his cleverness with the tale, his choice of the one hundred tiny details that give us all so much pleasure in the reading.”
“Give me some paper, and I’ll show you,” said I.
Gotobed was a poor man but also a printer’s apprentice. He had paper. More surprising, he appeared willing to give me a chance to prove myself. He gestured to me to follow him, and after a little hesitation, I did. After all, he still held my print.
Together, we went down Little Britain and into Aldersgate. Passing through an alley even more intestinal than Duck Lane, we slid out the bottom of Red Cross Street. At the entrance to a gin shop, we stepped over a pair of women lying in the street, one propped up against the other. The younger of the two, a yellowing cap on her head, flickered an eye at Gotobed. When he ignored her, she stuck out her stockinged leg for me, but I skipped around her torn slipper and came safe into Grub Street.
Gotobed’s chamber lay through a grimy portal and up a set of piss-reeking stairs. We climbed, passing walls crudely marked with ships and gibbets. A person my own age came down the stairwell toward us. She carried a roaring baby in her arms, a sibling or perhaps her own child. Perhaps both. The baby raged, wriggling, maggot-like in its swaddling, until we climbed past it and its anger. On the next landing, we stopped at a door that had Gotobed’s name scrawled beside it. He was a Thms—now, I knew his Christian name, although I did not feel the better for it. The room beyond the door held eight floorboards, a table, a truckle bed in an alcove behind a torn curtain, and a fireplace both cold and bare. On the mantle sat a teapot.
Gotobed kept scraps of paper in a wooden cupboard that hung upon his wall, and brought one to me, along with a pressed piece of charcoal of the sort some printers’ masters use to make notations.
To prove myself, I drew Tom in Newgate, on his knees in an oblong of light. I adapted but did not copy elements of Mr. Hogarth’s compositions. Tom’s purity of heart, I put in his face, taking pains to reproduce the fleshy oval and cap of dense curls from the original. When I finished Tom’s expression, Gotobed gave me a small sigh of contentment.
“You have him exact,” he said. “It’s a fair copy.”
“I emulate, not copy,” I told him, bending back over the shading of the larger cross that fell across the floor of Tom’s cell and over the shoulder of his coat.
“But he would never be alone in Newgate,” Gotobed said when I had finished Tom’s figure, and so I added two rogues dicing in the murky background, and also a man and a rat fighting over a scrap of bread. By the door, I drew a gaoler taking a bribe from a poor woman to improve the care of her cadaverous husband, whose ring was being slyly removed from his finger by a boy as like to myself as a boy could be. I made each of these into a group that was a story in its own right, but I made sure of the balance of light and dark. I held in my mind the massing of figures and shapes, teasing the whole into a curving line that delighted the eye.
Gotobed approved my picture with an even more intense pleasure than I had thought to occasion. He termed me the cleverest fellow he’d ever met and wasted as one whose employment consisted in snatching watches from pockets. “What is your history?” he asked me. “You must have once been an engraver’s apprentice to draw with such ease. Can you ’grave—oh tell me you can work the burin with the same facility.”
Alas, I was no apprentice, and I could not engrave, but Gotobed did not remain downcast for long. “Never mind,” he said, “I know engravers aplenty, but you must draw the rest in the way I tell you, so that when we print—”
I stopped him there, excited beyond measure by what he had just said. The engraver’s art was religion to me, and I longed to see the trick done. I told Gotobed I would do the drawings, but I must be allowed to watch the engraver grave the plate. I had never before imagined the chance might be mine—to sit at the elbow of a master and watch him work, to understand his tools and learn his technique. I feared Gotobed would think me foolish, but he agreed without appearing to think at all of the importance of the thing he granted. I went to thank him, but thoug
ht better when I saw that he was utterly preoccupied with calculations, bits and pieces of which tumbled from his lips.
“You say Hogarth sells for two shillings a piece?” he said.
“Two shillings and six pence.”
“We must not be greedy—two shillings it is. Now, we may multiply that by as many booksellers as will agree to our terms. And how many in London?” he asked.
“Booksellers?” Truly I had no idea. More appeared every week.
“Purchasers,” he said. “Buyers. Customers. How many people in London?” He began to laugh. Truly, it was an impossible number. He might well have asked how many stars in the sky or fish in the sea.
“Hogarth will advertise,” said Gotobed. “He always does, and when he does we must be ready with our prints, for we must at once convert them to gold and vanish like the magician Fawkes.”
Mr. Hogarth’s willingness to advertise was well known but so was his hatred of those who would sell copies of his prints. I said so.
“Ah,” said, Gotobed, “but these—my clever little man—are not copies but rather are emulations—as you yourself so righteously showed. His engraver’s act leaves untouched those of us who would honour his intentions with designs of our own.”
“But we use his tale, his title.”
“What title,” said Gotobed, “Tom Idle?” Why that’s my name and your name too, I’ll warrant.”
“The story—”
“Is written ten times over and sold at every hanging since Judas.” And upon this dark omen, which he appeared neither to recognize nor understand, he seized my hand and shook it vigorously. I was still unsettled in my mind when he took a knife from someplace he had secreted it, and mutilated the print, slicing a zigzag line down the middle.
Gotobed might as well have slashed a knife through my own pale chest. The paper curled up around the jagged cut. It cleaved Hogarth’s picture—Tom’s betrayal in a low tavern—in twain. When I had a moment to recover myself, I sprang to the table and without so much as examining my fingers for dirty smuts, I tried to rejoin what had been sundered.