Chatterton

by Peter Ackroyd

  I can’t go by public transport,’ Harriet said as they entered the street. ‘I’m not in the mood for common people.’ She stepped into the gutter to flag down a taxi but her eyesight was so bad that, for the most part, she was hailing passing cars.

  ‘You know,’ Sarah said, ‘that this picture might be a fake?’

  ‘Don’t tell me that. Not now.’ But then she added, ‘How do you know?’

  There’s something wrong. I can’t tell you what exactly, but there is something…’

  ‘Well, never mind.’ As far as Harriet was concerned, the documents were of far more importance. She knew what to do with the papers, with the writing, and the image on the canvas could be left for others to resolve. ‘I can always consult the experts, Miss Art Critic,’ she added very grandly. And she already knew which experts she would choose: Cumberland and Maitland might authenticate the picture or, if Vivien’s indiscreet remarks about the Seymour forgeries had any truth, they might even be persuaded to alter it. Already the vision of her triumph engulfed her. ‘Of course,’ she said, waving wildly at a black object on the horizon, ‘Hello! There’s an old woman here! Of course I will have to give something to that poor girl. Or would that be too silly?’

  ‘Of course you should. And you should acknowledge her husband’s work. After all –’

  ‘After all what? He’s dead, isn’t he?’ The taxi had pulled up beside her, and she took the canvas from Sarah. ‘Do you want a lift?’

  ‘No. I think I’ll just be quietly sick into my handbag.’

  ‘That’s rather taking coals to Newcastle, isn’t it, dear?’

  ‘If you were real, I would love to give you one hard slap.’ Harriet was addressing the portrait, which she was trying unsuccessfully to hang in her sitting room. She had rested the canvas on the mantelpiece but it had slipped down, almost breaking the death mask of Keats; she had tried to suspend it from a metal bracket, last used for a Hogarth print of The Distrest Poet’, but the bracket had come away from the wall, leaving a small cavity behind; then she had started to hammer in a nail but Mr Gaskell had entwined himself between her legs. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I was up here first.’ She kicked the cat away but she was so precariously perched upon her wicker chair that, as she did so, she almost fell and in her effort to right herself the painting slipped from her grasp; it crashed down heavily upon her head before hitting the floor. Fortunately she was still wearing her fur hat but, although she was not injured, the canvas knocked off the little stuffed bird which had been fastened to it. Mr Gaskell immediately pounced on it. ‘It’s not real,’ she shouted. ‘It’s only an imitation!’ But it was too late: the bird’s stuffing was now strewn across the carpet.

  She readjusted her hat and, with a sigh, got down from the chair. ‘Oh well, darling,’ she murmured, ‘you wouldn’t know the difference anyway, would you? You’re not really human, after all.’ She extended her arms. ‘So come and give your Mother an animal’s kiss!’ But it would not kiss its mother, and with another sigh she lowered her arms. The portrait was lying on the floor, the painted side upwards. Harriet Scrope was tired now, and she sat down. If I were a poor person, she thought, I could be sleeping beneath the trees. I could be part of Nature… and then, when eventually she opened her eyes, Thomas Chatterton was staring at her.

  Part Three

  Since we can die but once what matter it

  If Rope or Garter, Poison, Pistol, Sword,

  Slow-wasting Sickness or the sudden burst

  Of Valve Arterial in the noble Parts

  Curtail the Miserys of human Life:

  Tho’ varied is the Cause the Effect’s the same,

  All to one common Dissolution tends.

  (Sentiment. Thomas Chatterton.)

  Within the Garret’s spacious dome

  There lies a well-stored wealthy room…

  When in the morn with thoughts erect

  Sly Dick did on his dream reflect;

  Why faith, thinks he, ‘tis something too,

  It might – perhaps – it might – be true,

  I’ll go and see – away he hies,

  And to the Garret quick he flies…

  (Sly Dick. Thomas Chatterton.)

  13

  ON THE morning of the twenty-third of August, in the year of Our Lord seventeen hundred and seventy, Thomas Chatterton wakes feeling unusually merry. This summer dawn is very bright; the sun hovers above the rooftops of London and already the mist has dispersed over the adjoining fields, driven away by the encroaching heat. A warm breeze stirs the tops of the trees and the birds rustle on the branches, preparing to sing. Many of the citizens hurrying through the narrow streets look up in surprise at the bright air, as if it were a quality in themselves which they were seeing for the first time: at least this is Thomas Chatterton’s vision, as he gets up from his bed and stares down at the rooftops from the window of his attic room in Brooke Street. He has never lived so high above the streets before, and it is still with a feeling of wonder that he surveys this scene. In my aerial abode, he wrote to his mother as soon as he arrived in London, I enjoy high spirits. I am elevated beyond expression, and have lofty thoughts of my approaching eminence. Soon you will see me on the pinnacle of glory, dear Mama, far removed from the prostrate and debased Bristolians of our acquaintance. He has lodged here for five weeks and each day he has felt the same exhilaration, waking above the city and then descending into it, wandering lost through its courts and alleys, savouring its smells, feeling the excitement of its crowded thoroughfares and then, at night, walking back to Brooke Street by the light of the flares and to the sound of the fiddle or the barrel-organ. He is seventeen years old and this is his new world.

  He opens the window wide, breathing in the air. He can hear the sound of the cattle bellowing in Smithfield, and already the carriages are hurrying down High Holborn, but these noises delight him. They accompany the rush of his own pride and ambition as he faces the summer day, and in a strong melodic voice he sings out across the rooftops the latest comic song from the Vauxhall Gardens: I came up to town scarce four months ago An awkward country clown, sir, but now quite a beau.

  A small boy down below, selling old shoes which are tied around his neck, gives a little scream of recognition and yells up to Chatterton the refrain: Too ral loo ral loo!

  Chatterton waves to him and falls back upon his bed, scratching himself and yawning. Then he remembers that, last night in the coffee-house, he heard of the death of Alderman Lee who was set fair to become one of his patrons. Well, what of it? One patron dead, but more to fill his place. He takes up the paper and lead pencil which he always leaves by his bed before he sleeps (for his poetry often comes to him in dreams), and writes: Lost by Alderman Lee’s death in promised work … . .

  Ł1.11.6 Will gain in elegies for Lee … … … .

  Ł2 .2.0 Will gain in satires against Lee … … …

  Ł3 .3.0 Thus… … … … … . .

  Ł5 .5.0 So am glad he is dead by … … … . .

  Ł3.13.6 In fact he has already written part of one elegy and, as for the rest, they will soon be commissioned and speedily completed. Chatterton is to be relied upon in such matters and, despite his youth, certain booksellers are already prepared to pay him small sums in advance of his finished work. Lee, he says idly to himself as he stares up at the blackened ceiling, Lee, Lee, twig from the City tree, which does not grow but springs unnaturally, its roots in consanguinity, its fruit mere fantasy. He laughs at his own invention, warmer than the warmest breeze, closer than his breath, brighter than the sun; he stretches out again upon the bed, and writes words in the air with his lead pencil: Dearest Mama, my rise through life proceeds apace. I am exalted in London and will no doubt soon reach the pitch of sublimity. Your loving son, Tom.

  Nothing now disturbs his high spirits, not even the suspicion that he has caught a dose of the clap from the fair mistress of the house, Mrs Angell. He leaps up from his bed, though, to inspect his night-shirt; and he gives a low whi
stle when he sees the stains upon its rough cotton. This is no fantasy, he says out loud, but the seed of propinquity, for I have lost my virginity, and now stand in perplexity. What is to be done? Last night he told a particular coffee-house friend of his adventure, one Daniel Hanway, a compiler of miscellanies.

  Do you ever make love, Dan?

  No, I buy it ready made! Hanway laughs: he is equal to anything, and always has a riposte to hand.

  Well, may I tell you of my last act of darkness? (It was also his first, although he says nothing of this.)

  Do. I am at home in the dark, Tom.

  It was my landlady –

  Ah, it is always thus.

  I was leaning from my window, savouring the night air, when I heard a woman singing. You know the song which goes, I put my hand into a bush?

  And pricked my finger to the bone. An Irish ditty, Tom, a low one.

  So she is singing this and, when I look down, I see my Mrs Angell, drunk to the last degree, knocking upon the door of her own house and demanding admittance.

  Oh, Tom, she was to be had.

  So I slip down the stairs, not wishing her to wake the street – Or wake in the street.

  And no sooner do I unlatch the door when she falls into my arms.

  You scoundrel, you. You took her at once?

  Oh Mr Chatterton, she says, oh Mr Chatterton. I am infinitely obleeged. And she hangs on to me like ivy around a tower. Then you know what begins to stir?

  Your prickle, naturally.

  It begins to stir con amore. And when she feels it against her she whispers to me, oh Mr Chatterton, you may lodge in me tonight. And so.

  And so?

  I obliged her infinitely. I did not creep back to my own apartment until dawn.

  Crawled rather than crept, I presume?

  No, I was still strong. It was that morning I wrote the Panegyric on the King’s Water Closet. Do you remember it?

  The lines on the Privy Council?

  Yes, the very same. Chatterton brightens at this memory of his own verses, but now he lowers his voice a little. But I must tell you this, Dan, I believe I have some issue from my encounter with Mrs Angell.

  A child so soon?

  No, no, I mean an issue from my you know what. And, and, there is a pain when I piss. Is it – The clap! You have the clap! This calls for more wine.

  Chatterton assumes a merry expression but, after the potboy has left a fresh bottle, he bites his nail and asks, What cure is there, Dan?

  Hanways laughs again. I have heard good reports from the lime tubs, but those are only for the sorely afflicted. And, if you have missed the pox, the surgeon need not be called. The clap is nothing at all, Tom, nothing at all. Chatterton plainly shows his relief as his companion goes on, but catch it now before it grows. Employ our illustrious London kill-or-cure.

  Kill?

  No, a mere hyperbole. But it cures.

  And what is this famous antidote?

  Arsenic and opium mixed together. The arsenic removes the contagion, the opium allays the sourness and the pain. It is the speediest removal in the world. You need only four grains of arsenic to one dessert-spoon of opium. Hurrah, finished, the clap departs. And all the while you will have had sweet opium dreams.

  And there is no danger?

  No, no danger in the world. You will fare much worse at the hand of the surgeon. You know, how, with his knife…

  Chatterton recalls this advice now as he stands perspiring in the summer dawn, his night-shirt still clutched in his hands. I am young yet, he says, this is nothing. A mere bagatelle. Bag of nails. All the great poets have suffered it. And he remembers his words as a child: paint me an angel, mother, paint me an angel with wings and trumpets, to spread my name all over the world. This clap is nothing at all. I have fallen a prey to Venus but Orpheus still directs my steps.

  And with this he begins scribbling again, wishing to complete the elegy in praise of Alderman Lee before his breakfast: it has been ordered by The Town and Country, to be delivered that morning. And then perhaps another verse, a satire against Lee, for the London Gazette. He works on, naked, his night-shirt tossed upon the bed, shielding his face from the rising sun as the attic room slowly fills with light. When he is finished he writes the lines over in blue ink and signs them. And as he inscribes his name with a flourish he is filled with a wild joy; he jumps up and dances around the room in his exhilaration, his bare heels thudding against the wooden boards, the sun catching his red hair as he leaps at the centre of the turning world. He does a somersault upon his narrow bed. The world turns upside down. Then he stops as suddenly as he had begun, and takes out his pocket-book to write: One elegy and one satire completed, before eight this morning.

  Now for beef and coffee. The household servant has left a jug of water on the top landing outside his door, and he fetches it to clean himself. Then he puts on blue breeches, a green waistcoat, and a dove-grey tail-coat: a gentleman of parts, a young gentleman of substance. As he puts up his hand to part his hair he notices a wafer of candle grease upon the right sleeve of his jacket and, with a sudden fierce energy, he scrapes it off with his fingernail as shards of wax drop onto the floor. Now he is complete. He takes his hat and opens the door cautiously; he descends the stairs softly, for fear of waking Mrs Angell from her slumbers. But, as soon as he walks out into Brooke Street, he gives a little skip and runs to the corner of High Holborn: under this summer sky he could run to the ends of the earth. But in Holborn he checks himself, and on an impulse turns back to enter the druggist’s at the corner.

  Mr Cross is sitting behind the counter, wiping the top of a glass jar, when Chatterton enters and in a loud voice asks for fifteen grains of your best arsenic and some tincture of opium.

  And how much of that last particular item, sir, would it be? Cross keeps on polishing the jar, which has something floating in it.

  Chatterton grows more hesitant. Enough, he says, enough to give me relief from my stomach cramps.

  Ah, replies the druggist, this is a matter of philosophy, for how can I measure the intensity or duration of your pains?

  They are very severe. Chatterton makes a face: he is enjoying this masquerade. They attack me in the night, and I roll in agony until the morning.

  Oh dear.

  They are like the burning of a poker, red hot from the fire, and like the stinging of bees.

  What martyrdom. Cross rises from his stool, puts down the jar and leans over the wooden counter. Shall we say five hundred drops of laudanum? I could offer you grain pills, but the liquid laudanum is always to be preferred. I boil it myself, sir. I banish the impurities. I bid them to be gone.

  Chatterton tries to recall Hanway’s advice on the constituents of the London kill-or-cure. And I can measure it with a spoon?

  Oh, my good sir, there are spoons and spoons. There are your dessert-spoons and your teaspoons, your dinner spoons and your cooks’ spoons.

  Just a spoon.

  Oh, just a spoon. Cross takes down a large coloured bottle and, with his back turned, becomes confidential. And that is how I take it, good sir. Just a spoon. For cramps, naturally. Laudanum stops the nausea and soothes the pain in the bowels. He measures out the tincture into a glass phial. Ah, opium, opium, he continues, wiping the side of his mouth with his hand, the happy cordial, the ruby fountain of dreams, the great procurer of bliss. And, of course, physic for the sick. He taps in the stopper of the phial with his forefinger. Fifteen grains of arsenic, did you say? Or did you wish for fever drops?

  Chatterton clears his throat. No, white arsenic, if you please. For the rats. They disturb me with their squeaking and gnawing.

  What nights you must pass. And with your stomach, too. Cross goes over to a high shelf, and takes down a linen bag. Arsenicum album. A sure death, sir, but a lingering one. The arsenic never works hastily. It burns slowly, you might say. Chatterton laughs at this, and Cross gives him a quick look. You are in good spirits yourself, are you, sir, despite this unfortunate stomach
?

  Oh yes, perfectly good.

  Yes, you look to be well, you look to be well. Cross measures out the grains of arsenic. A curious combination, sir, arsenic and opium. He filters the grains into a smaller bag. Did you know of the suicide seven doors from here? Chatterton shakes his head. A Prussian gentleman it was, by the name of Stern. Francis Stern. They found him the next morning, all his limbs and features twisted out of shape. Arsenic convulsions, you see, sir. It acts on the prima viae and frequently proves eccoprotic.

  What was that you mentioned? Chatterton takes out his notebook, in which he keeps new-found words.

  Eccoprotic, dear sir. A purgative. An evacuation. Often fatal. He leans over and touches Chatterton’s little book. And they found a piece of writing on the unfortunate corpse.

  Yes? Chatterton is intrigued by this.

  The victim had written, O Lucifer son of the morning, how art thou brought down to Hell, the side of the pit. Almost a specimen of poetry, sir. Cross ties up the small bag of arsenic with a double length of cord. But no doubt the literature sprang from the opium, which was discovered by his bed. And the verdict was felo de se. Suicide. As the worthy Friar says of the poppy, does he not, Within the infant rind of this small flow’r Poison hath residence and medicinal power – Chatterton finishes the quotation for him, For this being smelt, with that sense cheers each part, Being tasted slays all senses with the heart.

  But I have a clear conscience, Cross goes on, the German did not buy the arsenic here.

  Again he gives Chatterton a quick look, which the young man interprets correctly. I can assure you, I have no such intention as the gentleman you speak of. He laughs. I am at war with the grave, and have no desire to be vanquished by it. Not yet. I am just beginning, you see.

  Yes, you are a young man still. Shall we say sixpence? Cross takes the small silver coin which Chatterton gives him and, the business complete, grows confidential again. I take it from your accent, sir, that you are not from this place?