‘You don’t put your name on the books,’ said the young man. ‘I would.’
‘Do you think I am foolish enough to announce to my creditors that I am earning an income? Come, have tea. Besides, fame was never dear to my heart. The prize is elusive, so why seek it?’
Just as the young man settled, and as the tea stood poured, there came a shout from the prison yard.
‘That is the very worst thing about this room,’ said the old man. ‘The sunshine brings them out.’ He went to the window, and glowered down upon a pack of young boys chasing each other across the prison yard.
‘You have no right to be there! Go away, or I will send for the marshal!’ he shouted.
There were jeers from the boys. He returned to his place beside the teapot.
‘Sometimes they take fright,’ he said. ‘They certainly should not be here. And if the world were just, neither should you be, my friend. You do not have many years on those boys, and a debtor’s cell is no place for a man like you.’
‘It is no place for an old man, either. How do you bear it?’
‘Learn philosophy, my friend, and you will bear anything. If the only annoyance of being over the water are the shouts of frolicking boys, then…’ He inclined his head to listen. ‘I do believe they have gone. The yard sounds empty. Perfectly empty. That reminds me – Laurence Sterne’s blank page in Tristram Shandy. Would you be surprised to discover that I suggested that to him?’
‘You did?’
‘Indeed so. I do not often speak of it. I had remarked to him on the benefits of anonymity, and by mental association, the subject expanded to masks – to disguise – to oblivion – to nothingness. And then I said to him: “Do you know what would be truly audacious in a work of literature?” And he said to me “What?” And I said—’
The polite knock on the half-open door did not disturb Combe’s composure. ‘I do believe that will be Mr Ackermann. Come in, sir, you find me at home.’
There entered a man of abundant apple-cheeked cheerfulness as well as of considerable height, dressed in a white silk shirt with a cravat, black breeches and jacket, and carrying a capacious leather bag, all items suggesting expense.
‘It is very good to meet you, Mr Combe,’ he said, in an accent unmistakeably Germanic. Still, he said ‘very’ not ‘werry’, unlike many Londoners.
William Combe and Rudolph Ackermann clenched hands over the teapot.
‘If you would be so kind,’ Combe said to the young man, ‘to allow us to resume our discussion later.’ The young kid goat swallowed a mouthful of tea, shook hands hurriedly with Ackermann, and then slipped through the door and closed it.
‘Come to my window, sir,’ said the old man, noticing that Ackermann was glancing around the room. ‘I am lucky enough to possess one of the finest vistas to be had in the Bench. Come, let me show you.’
Beyond the prison yard, over the wall, were the hills of Kent and Surrey. There were no boys below now, just two middle-aged prisoners, who acknowledged Combe with a wave, and he gave a slow and elegant acknowledgement in return.
‘You seem quite contented to be here, Mr Combe.’
‘One endures, Mr Ackermann, one endures. May I offer you tea? I cannot offer you wine, because I do not drink any strong liquor at all. It is the vice of prisoners and the vice of writers in particular.’
‘I am not as free of wice as you, Mr Combe, but tea will do nicely.’ Here, his lapsed ‘v’ made Combe hint at a smile.
As Combe poured, Ackermann cast a glance at the bookshelves that the young man had examined.
‘The top shelf are all by me,’ said Combe, teapot in hand. ‘As for the rest – occasionally I consult them, but the Bible is the only book I read now. For my soul – and also for my work.’
‘A good biblical quotation is never out of place.’
‘True, but I produce sermons for priests who cannot write their own.’
‘Really? I am shocked. I had assumed priests spoke according to their own lights.’
‘How charming you should think so. But no, they put in an order for avarice, pride, forgiveness – any sin or theme they like, and I will produce a sermon on the subject in half an hour. I believe I give a country parson the confidence in the pulpit which he might take three pints of ale to achieve otherwise. Your tea, sir.’
‘Before we turn to business,’ said Ackermann, settling down, ‘I have heard of your fondness for a certain item of food.’ From his case, Ackermann brought out a muslin, and from that produced a small pie.
‘Gooseberry,’ he said.
‘Gooseberry! Mr Ackermann! Oh, Mr Ackermann!’ Combe took the pie and moved his elegant finger against the dish and, rather inelegantly, collected some spilled juice, and licked the surplus off, before smearing the remainder on the crust.
‘I must order a jug of custard from the cook,’ said Combe. ‘I cannot thank you enough. Although I should warn you – I will not be easily swayed in business. Do not think I can be bought for a pie.’
‘It is a gift, sir. My cook makes quite excellent pies. I trust that I may have the opportunity of presenting you with more in the future, should we come to a suitable arrangement.’
‘Now regarding that arrangement – your letter to me, was, if I may say so, rather vague about what you had in mind. You mentioned a new monthly scheme.’
‘Yes, a new scheme. And new schemes require a personal presentation lest they be misjudged. I shall try to explain.’ He produced from his pocket a letter. ‘This was sent to me, for inclusion in my magazine, the Repository of Arts. There are introductory comments, but those are not the important matter. You will see there is a poem. It is about a dying infant. Please cast your eyes upon it.’
Combe read the verse, frowning especially at:
Go from this sin-fraught, mad’ning earth
And burst into immortal birth.
‘A work undoubtedly of interest to its author,’ said Combe, returning the letter.
‘Do you have any idea,’ said Ackermann, ‘how many poems are submitted to me for prospective publication? It is hundreds. Half of London wants to be a poet. There is an insatiable urge to put trifles in rhyme and see them in print. Now as a man of business, when I see evidence of such desire—’
‘You believe that somewhere and in some way it will produce a return for you.’
‘Exactly so! I came to thinking that if there are all these would-be poets in the city – all these people who want to see rhymes in print – well, it suddenly struck me: why not publish a magazine in which everything is written in verse?’
‘A monthly anthology?’
‘No, Mr Combe. I do not simply mean that it will publish poetry. I mean that everything within its wrappers will rhyme. Without exception! Even birth, marriage and death notices. Even advertisements. Let me put it like this. If someone submits – for instance – a bulletin about Napoleon Bonaparte, then in verse it must be. If a British general gives an account of his battles, it will not be accepted unless it’s a poem. Equally, every review we publish, whether it’s of a book, a play, an opera or whatever else – it too must rhyme. And I confess, when the idea struck, I was quite taken with it. But I can see you do not look excited, Mr Combe.’
‘If I may be honest…’ He glanced at the pie upon the table, as though wondering whether honesty was a wise policy. ‘Mr Ackermann, I confess the idea does not charm me. The continual echo of the lines would become – I fear – unbearably tedious. I can think of how it would proceed – rhyming marriage with carriage, death with breath – no, I would never read it, Mr Ackermann. I fear that neither will the general population of London. I am sorry if that disappoints you.’
‘You are not the only person to tell me so. My young son – a most precocious boy, Mr Combe – my own son had your concerns. He thought of an excellent way of telling me. I found on my desk a note from him, on which he had written two lines. They went: “The magazine is a fine new dawn – And that’s a word that rhymes with yawn.” I
thought it was charming.’
‘One day I am sure he will follow you into business.’
‘So there were many people, just like yourself, people who were telling me the magazine would not work and yet – and yet – I just knew in my heart there was something there! Then’ – he smacked his hand on his palm – ‘as if by fate, along came the ingredient vital to its success! You are familiar with the drawings of Mr Rowlandson?’
‘I have passed the print shops. Though not recently, you will understand.’
‘Mr Rowlandson works on my Repository. He came to me with an idea. Imagine, he said, a man who talks incessantly about his travels. A man whose dull and minutely recorded experiences of his excursions are the most fascinating thing in the world – to him. The sort of man who will say: “Let me just show you some drawings I have made of the places I have visited.” A man who has fallen under the spell of the picturesque – who loves to show you all the ruined abbeys covered with ivy that he has drawn. Mr Combe, let me ask you this question: could you compose a quantity of verse about this exceedingly uninteresting traveller?’
‘A quantity of verse?’
‘Three hundred lines a month. Verse that would make this traveller a laughing stock. I want to put in an order for poetry from you, just like those vicars put in orders for their sermons. Mr Rowlandson intends to produce a series of humorous pictures about this traveller, one or two every month, and the verse would describe the pictures. This, I know, is the ingredient that will make my magazine a success. What do you say, Mr Combe?’
‘I say that I am no poet, sir.’
‘But that is precisely why I have come to you. People who think themselves poets would die rather than write to order. They are entranced by the muse. Their spontaneity is a measure of their genius – so they think. I cannot use people who only write when they have a whim. I need someone regular and reliable.’
‘I work best alone, sir. What if I don’t get on with Mr Rowlandson?’
‘You don’t even have to meet him. Every month you will receive one or two of his pictures. They will show the mishaps of the traveller – he will be stumbling into rivers – falling over – getting into whatever sorts of difficulties Mr Rowlandson invents. And the buyers of my magazine will enjoy seeing this dull man suffer in all these ways.’
‘I am not persuaded anyone will buy the magazine. The concept is – with respect – as dull as this man of Mr Rowlandson’s.’
‘But don’t you see – here is the genius – the sheer genius! If people start to find all the rhymes in the magazine dull, it will increase their desire to see this man suffer. They will – so to speak – blame the traveller for the dullness! The whole magazine could seem like the essence of the man. Push him in the river, they will say! That will shut him up! And, Mr Combe – here is where you play your part – you have to describe him getting drenched. You will, in three hundred lines of your best verse, compose his punishment for being a bore. Oh, but wait – I have not told you the best part. The character’s name. Mr Rowlandson sees the traveller as both a schoolmaster and a churchman, and he will combine the dullest characteristics of both. He wants the mere mention of the character to remind people of the excruciating lessons in Latin grammar they endured at school. He wants to call him – Dr Syntax! Dr Syntax – in search of the picturesque! Now is not that genius too?’
Combe did not answer, but instead rose wearily from his seat. He looked for a moment out of the window, towards the hills beyond the prison limits, and then walked to a mirror above a washing bowl.
‘I am becoming picturesque,’ he said, inspecting his reflection. ‘My hair grows thin, like old thatched cottages, my wrinkles are deep, like the tracks on a road left by cartwheels. There is nothing smooth about me now. I am just an interesting old ruin. Interesting mainly to myself. For how many months would the verses be required?’
‘Until Mr Rowlandson loses interest, or until the market can take no more. It might be a year. It might be two. It could be extended indefinitely.’
‘Or it might be an ignominious disaster and be wound up before summer ends.’
‘Quite. But let us be optimistic. Let us say that, if the market supports my judgement, I will order – ten thousand lines of poetry from you, Mr Combe.’
Combe turned away from his reflection and once more went to the window. He looked down into the yard and observed the marshal crossing. He moved his fingers in the elegant half-wave he had given before. ‘There could be additional gooseberry pies, you say?’
*
At the end of the week, Rudolph Ackermann, son of Rudolph Ackermann, a shiny boy of about thirteen years, with cheeks plucked from the same orchard as his father’s, arrived at the King’s Bench and placed a portfolio in Combe’s hands.
‘So, you are the lad who rhymes dawn with yawn,’ said Combe.
‘Yes sir. I did think of telling my father, “Please stop the verse – before it gets any worse.” But Father had set his heart on the scheme, and it would have been going too far.’
‘Perhaps you should provide Mr Rowlandson’s accompaniment, young man, not me.’
‘I am happy to bring you the pictures, and a gooseberry pie, if it keeps the business going, sir.’ From the identical bag to the one his father had brought, the boy drew forth a muslin and placed a pie, somewhat larger in diameter than its predecessor, upon the table. Combe’s lips parted in anticipation of the deliciousness it represented.
‘Well, well, let us see what Mr Rowlandson has done,’ said Combe, when he had finished ogling.
‘There are three for now, sir, and more when you have done the verses for these. My father thought it would help you focus if you just had these three to begin with.’
‘Very thoughtful of him.’ Combe undid the portfolio’s ribbon, and took out the first three pictures in the projected series now called The Schoolmaster’s Tour. Combe made a nondescript sound, then pinned the pictures on a screen, and handed back the portfolio to Ackermann Jr. He stood studying the pictures.
The first showed the emaciated Dr Syntax emerging from his house, on his way to mount a grey nag, whose reins were held by an old bald ostler. A fat and bosomy wife, with forearms to match, stood in the doorway waving a finger, presumably giving her views on her husband’s excursion. Syntax merely walked forward, and tugged on his gloves. Villagers, and a greyish dog with a hint of a dachshund, turned their heads and gawped at this ludicrous fellow. The second picture showed Dr Syntax at a signpost, apparently lost, while the third showed Syntax attacked by highwaymen.
‘So this is what I am to work with. Any suggestions as to how I should proceed?’
‘If I could have a piece of the pie I might be inspired, sir.’
‘I should be the sole author then,’ said Combe with a smile. ‘But a small piece may perhaps not be missed. Especially as I cannot wait to sample it now, even without custard. Sit down, and we shall have a mouthful.’
‘Do you know something, sir,’ said the boy as he licked his spoon clean, ‘you won’t get to see everything that Mr Rowlandson does. I have seen sketches that my father said could not be used.’
‘And what are those?’
‘There is one of Dr Syntax on a bed – he hasn’t a stitch of clothing on, and a medical man is working away on his bum.’
‘Outrageous!’ Combe smiled. ‘Any others?’
‘There is one in which a lady is showing her titties, and Dr Syntax is looking at them.’
‘Your father is right to exercise restraint,’ said Combe with a wicked chuckle. ‘But of course if you ever see any more, I would be rather interested to hear about them.’ The boy then said his farewell, and Combe was left alone with the pictures.
He began muttering to himself. ‘The traveller … the traveller can a real beauty see … in a decayed and rotten tree!’ With a look of satisfaction, he wrote that down. He took another spoonful of the pie and, while chewing its tartness, said, ‘He looks to nought but what is rough … and ne’er thin
ks nature coarse enough…’
Then came a knock. He screwed up his features and called out: ‘Oh come in, if you must.’ A pretty girl, with delicately arched brows and inspiring lips, but whose bonnet made her head look too large for her shoulders, entered the room. ‘Mr Combe?’
‘And you are?’
‘Just come for my master’s sermon. St Mary’s Islington.’
‘I sent it three days ago.’
‘It’s not arrived, sir.’
Combe opened the window and called out: ‘My friend!’
The voice of the kid-goat prisoner answered, ‘Mr Combe!’ from the next cell along.
‘This week’s sermons?’
There was a sound of scraping chairs and panic.
‘Find St Mary’s Islington and bring it here now,’ said Combe. ‘Then do the rest as soon as possible.’
Combe turned to the girl and smiled warmly. ‘Do apologise to the reverend gentleman. I have just taken on this man and pay him for odd jobs, but…’ He shook his head in disbelief.
The kid goat brought in a pile of letters and selected one, which was sealed, like the rest, with Combe’s monogram. In a state of some embarrassment, perhaps partly caused by the girl’s prettiness, he deposited the letter in her hand. She thanked Combe and left.
When the room was empty again, Combe sat back in his chair, stroked his nose, looked at the illustrated screen and possibly thought of the attractions of the girl himself, for soon afterwards he wrote: ‘You charm my heart, you quite delight it – I’ll make a tour – and then I’ll write it.’
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 5