Death and Mr. Pickwick

by Stephen Jarvis

  *

  ‘I AM GOING TO MENTION TWO things connecting to these events,’ said Mr Inbelicate, ‘and both concern clothes.’

  I learnt, first, that when the rioters at Bristol looted Mansion House, they chanced upon Sir Charles Wetherell’s portmanteau. With wild delight, they distributed the contents among themselves: shirts, stockings, handkerchiefs, shoes and – no doubt to their great glee – linen.

  Mr Inbelicate placed a framed picture, by Seymour, on the library table: Fruits of Sir Charles’s Wisdom at Bristol. Burning buildings were in the background, from which men fell to their death, and the dragoons had arrived, but Seymour pushed the looting of the clothes to the foreground. One rioter wore Wetherell’s robe, while swigging liquor, another his wig and tie. A third drank from a barrel of rum, using Wetherell’s hat instead of a cup.

  ‘You will notice,’ said Mr Inbelicate, ‘that this picture is from the Looking Glass. You see, Scripty, when Seymour returned from Richmond, there was a note from McLean, requesting an immediate meeting.’

  *

  WILLIAM HEATH SAT IN THE Three Tuns public house in the Haymarket at midday, deep in thought, pencil at the ready. There were fewer customers than on his last visit – far fewer – because the hay and straw market, from which the area derived its name, had transferred to St Pancras. Soiled labourers, employed to lay fresh paving stones, were at the bar, but it was not enough to fire Heath’s imagination: he needed a crowded public house, with a great variety of face. McLean would want to see proof of at least one idea for the Looking Glass that afternoon, and so far nothing of any merit had come.

  As a temporary expedient, he began drawing small pictures of dragoons slashing with sabres. This led to a sketch of the Duke of Wellington.

  Suddenly there was a widening of Heath’s eyes, and a straightening of his posture.

  Some time before, he had drawn a print for McLean showing the Duke of Wellington in full uniform, standing before McLean’s shop window, enjoying the display. McLean had not only liked the picture but remarked that it showed how times had changed in the print business – in the days of Gillray, no politician would be shown in such a relaxed manner, looking at prints.

  ‘Pictures are not so biting now,’ said McLean, ‘and I think we are the better for it.’

  Heath began another sketch of Wellington, and he smiled at his own cleverness. Once again the duke stood outside McLean’s shop, but this time an issue of the Looking Glass was in the window – which in turn showed a miniature Duke of Wellington looking at the Looking Glass, with additional pencil strokes suggesting the replication of the scene, at a smaller scale, to infinity. Nothing could have better expressed the idea of the Looking Glass.

  When Heath arrived at McLean’s shop, one of the overnight colourists was in attendance at the counter: a pale and undernourished girl of about fourteen, whose hair always reminded Heath of sparrow wings.

  ‘You are either up very late,’ said Heath, ‘or in very early.’

  ‘I am in at the time Mr McLean wanted, sir,’ she said. ‘Someone has to look after the shop. Mr McLean has business upstairs.’ She looked towards a bead curtain.

  ‘I will keep you company for a bit, then,’ said Heath.

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  Heath placed the drawing down and said: ‘What do you think of my Duke of Wellington?’

  ‘I have coloured him before.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘It looks like him in other pictures, so I suppose that makes it a good likeness.’

  ‘Oh but I met him, you know, on the battlefield. That’s where I got my knowledge of his face. Not from another man’s drawing, but from the flesh itself. I have been within fifteen inches of that fine nose.’

  ‘You must be proud, sir.’

  There was a sound of a door opening upstairs. Heath heard a voice, which he recognised as McLean’s.

  ‘He said to me, “Are you a Tory or a Whig?”’ remarked McLean, ‘and I said, “I shake hands with all parties, and laugh at them all too.”’

  Then came another voice, which Heath did not recognise: ‘I’ve always said to be a caricaturist one must be a Whig, and laugh at Tories, and be a Tory and laugh at Whigs.’

  ‘And be a radical and laugh at both,’ said McLean.

  ‘And laugh with both at the radicals,’ said the unknown other. Their shoes were on the stairs, descending.

  McLean came smiling through the beads. His smile disappeared as soon as he saw William Heath. ‘Ah – Mr Heath,’ said McLean. He coughed. ‘This is Mr Seymour.’

  Heath watched as Seymour handed several watercoloured pages, which would serve as a pattern for brushwork, to the sparrow-headed girl. She promptly slid off her stool and went through the curtain. The uppermost page, he saw, was titled The Looking Glass.

  ‘What is going on here?’ said Heath. ‘I have brought you my latest sketch.’

  ‘There should have been a better moment to explain this to you,’ said McLean.

  ‘What is he doing bringing you Looking Glass drawings?’ said Heath, pointing directly at Seymour’s face.

  ‘The trouble, Mr Heath,’ said McLean, ‘is your lack of regularity. I cannot be blamed if your – your habits – have resulted in this unfortunate embarrassment for you. The fact is – Mr Seymour will be taking over as the artist for the Looking Glass. No doubt I can still use the occasional piece from you –– what is this one?’ He looked at the picture of Wellington inspecting the Looking Glass. ‘Oh dear, Mr Heath. Of all things you might draw.’ He smiled, crookedly, and passed the picture over to Seymour.

  ‘I am so very sorry, Mr Heath,’ said Seymour. ‘I have become an admirer of your work—’

  ‘Take your filthy hands off that.’ Heath snatched the picture away. ‘I’ve heard about you, Seymour. I know what you are. He’ll bring some dandy customers to your windows, McLean.’

  ‘That’s enough, Heath!’ said McLean.

  ‘Why don’t you celebrate your new appointment in the back room of the White Lion, Seymour?’ yelled Heath. ‘You’ll find plenty of your sort to toast your success there.’ Heath tore up his own picture, and threw the pieces at Seymour.

  Seymour took the action stoically. ‘I am very sorry this has happened to you,’ he said.

  ‘Get out, Heath!’ said McLean. ‘You’re drunk!’

  When the eighth issue of the Looking Glass appeared, the front page stated that it was drawn and designed by Robert Seymour. As if to impress his own potency upon the public, Seymour’s first issue boasted thirty-seven separate pictures, compared to Heath’s first-issue tally of only twenty-eight.

  *

  EVERY WEEK THROUGHOUT 1830 SEYMOUR took work into McLean’s print shop, and placed it upon the counter with exactly the punctuality that McLean required. The smile of the proprietor as he examined the work signalled every satisfaction with the artist, and all the terms and conditions of their professional relationship could be expected to continue. Nonetheless, the mind of Thomas McLean was troubled.

  When McLean looked out upon the streets, there were noticeably more drunkards than ever – men reeling past the shop, laughing at the pictures in between swallows from raised bottles. When McLean locked up in the evening and walked home, it seemed to him that the public houses made themselves up as much as the area’s whores: exteriors often received a new coat of paint, illustrated signboards were refreshed, and windows were never allowed to remain dirty or cracked. These houses were also brightly lit with lamps in the windows, while beaming landlords stood on especially wide doorsteps and extended the invitation to ‘Have a nice brandy, sir?’ And, as the year progressed, the landlords pattered according to the season; so it was: ‘Cool yourself down with a drink, sir?’ in summer, or ‘Why not warm yourself before the fire, sir?’ in late autumn. Nor was it just the public-house landlords who promoted drunkenness – private citizens too sold beer straight from their doorsteps.

  And every time McLean passed a drunkard l
eaning against a hoarding or a lamppost, he thought of Heath.

  Heath liked the bottle too much, and that was why he couldn’t be relied upon. There was no sign that Seymour would go the same way – no sign yet. But, McLean asked himself, what if he did?

  The Looking Glass was by now a very successful publication, and was sold on the basis of Seymour’s drawings. What if, McLean asked himself, Seymour should slip into Heath’s habits? Sometimes the artist mentioned going for a drink after receiving payment for drawings. If he had to dismiss Seymour, another artist might be found – but would the Looking Glass survive the change? Would he not lose the readership if they were loyal to Seymour’s drawings?

  It was all hypothetical, but a good businessman had to be prepared.

  By December, McLean had decided upon a policy to be implemented in the new year. But when to inform the artist? On Seymour’s last visit to the print shop, he had told McLean of a humorous picture he proposed on the theme of antiquaries: Seymour said that he would attend a meeting of the Society of Antiquaries on 9 December – a special meeting, in the presence of the Duke of Sussex. He would bring his drawing to the shop a day or two afterwards.

  McLean resolved that, after the drawing was presented, he would inform the artist of his new policies.

  *

  Presiding over the long, high-ceilinged, well-illuminated chamber, on a throne-like chair with purple upholstery, was the rather dignified and very eagle-like president of the Society of Antiquaries. The important members of the society occupied seats on either side of the president at a long, well-polished table, reflecting the lights which ran down the centre of the proceedings; lesser members were forgotten about along the chamber’s edges. From a chair at the table, up stood the meeting’s principal speaker, Thomas Amyot, a thin yet cheerful man in his mid-fifties, with thick brows and a curved nose, and hair suggestive of laurel leaves.

  Mr Amyot duly began to present an account of his recent antiquarian discoveries, delivered in a broad Norwich accent. His subject was the death of King Richard II at Pontefract Castle on Valentine’s Day 1399.

  A discovery which a researcher of contemporary life could make about this speech, thought Robert Seymour, while standing at the chamber’s fringe, would be its extreme dullness.

  The cause of death may be disputed, said the speaker. The king may have starved himself to death; or he may have been at first determined to starve himself to death, but, having repented, he found the orifice of his stomach was shut, and he could not eat; or he may have been assassinated. But whatever the cause, King Richard definitely met his end at Pontefract Castle in 1399 – in contrast to the entertaining but wholly false legend, recently revived by the Scottish historian Mr Tytler, that the king had escaped from the castle, and travelled in disguise to the Scottish isles where, in the kitchen of Donald, lord of those isles, he was discovered by a jester who had been educated in his own court at London, and subsequently met his death in Scotland at Stirling Castle.

  ‘With all my respect for Mr Tytler’s learned and ingenious labour,’ said Mr Amyot, ‘I cannot but arrive at the conclusion that this tale ought to be ranked among those fables of fugitive or cloistered princes with which the histories of all ages and countries notoriously abound. The lovers of the marvellous at various periods have professed their belief in Harold’s escape from the Battle of Hastings to lead a life of holy seclusion at Chester; in Richard of York’s transmigration into the humble guise of Perkin Warbeck; and in James IV’s flight from Flodden Field to exchange his sceptre for a palmer’s staff in a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. To believers in these, there is now an additional call for the exercise of their faith – the tale revived by Mr Tytler.’

  The full paper, the secretary informed the members, would be published in the society’s Archaeologia, otherwise known as Miscellaneous Tracts relating to Antiquity.

  After polite applause, the members engaged in conversation among themselves in various groups around the chamber, although everyone was keen to be in the presence of the Duke of Sussex, a large man with receding curly hair and an abundant measure of charismatic authority.

  ‘Now I, for my part, do not see life as accidents and chance,’ Seymour heard the duke say. ‘There is Providence at work in all things. There is a wisdom that directs our lives, and always gives them purpose.’ The duke also spoke knowledgeably to Mr Amyot of Richard II’s life, right down to the livery badges of the king’s military retinue.

  Some of the tones in the duke’s voice reminded Seymour of the higher register of Moses Pickwick – the tendency of a large man to squeak. At times, Seymour found it difficult to avoid a smile. The squeak was especially prevalent when the duke talked, with enthusiasm, of his extensive library, which included Bibles in many languages, from Manx to Mohawk – and all the time the duke spoke, he drank tumblers of brandy, while his fat fingers wrapped themselves around a capaciously bowled meerschaum. The pipe’s fragrance indicated that herbs had been added to the tobacco – but, apart from that exoticism, it was obvious that this member of the royal family loved alcohol and tobacco as much as the ordinary man, and that, thought Seymour, was endearing.

  *

  On the following morning, Seymour produced his picture A Group of Antiquaries, which he took to McLean in the afternoon.

  There was a hesitance in McLean’s manner, even as he paid the artist.

  ‘Are you dissatisfied with the picture?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘No, not at all, no. It is as finely executed as all your work.’

  ‘In that case I shall be off. I am meeting my brother-in-law for a drink before Christmas. I shall say goodbye for now, Mr McLean.’

  ‘Mr Seymour, one moment before you go.’

  The artist halted in the doorway.

  ‘Mr Seymour, we have now come to the end of volume one of the Looking Glass. I believe it is time to make certain changes. There are two things. First, from the January number onwards, I shall retitle it McLean’s Monthly Sheet of Caricatures.’

  ‘You are the proprietor, and if that is what you wish, there is nothing I can do. Although I have to say – I believe The Looking Glass is a more expressive title. With due respect, I think you are making a mistake.’

  ‘It is my decision. There is something else. The second thing. There is no easy way of telling you this, Mr Seymour. I intend to remove your name from the credits. It will not say any more that you are the artist. All your work in the publication will, in future, be anonymous.’

  ‘I do not understand. You surely cannot be serious about this.’

  ‘Single prints in my windows – things like these antiquaries – very well, those are yours, and will still bear your name. But The Looking Glass – I mean McLean’s Monthly Sheet – well, that is bigger than any individual artist. You are, after all, the second artist to work upon the publication. Artists come and go. I intend to shift the loyalty of the readership away from artists and towards the publisher himself. So McLean’s Monthly Sheet it will be. Mine will be the only name to appear in the publication.’

  ‘I cannot accept this. I am the artist. It is all my work. The title will make the public believe that you are behind it all.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘The public buys it because of me.’

  ‘Your pride may be a little hurt now – but you have every practical reason for accepting what I say.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘You could walk out, if you prefer. But you would be the one making the mistake. The market for single prints is in decline, Mr Seymour. I see that every day – and I know it when I look at my receipts. People aren’t happy with just one laugh for their money. The way ahead is McLean’s Monthly Sheet.’

  ‘Do you expect me to put up with this?’

  McLean shrugged. ‘Artists come and go.’

  *

  ‘MCLEAN MAY HAVE CALLED IT his sheet,’ said Mr Inbelicate, ‘but for me it is always The Looking Glass, with illustrations by Robert Seymour. The p
ictures could not fail to draw people’s eyes, whatever it was called.’

  He showed me a three-page pictorial representation of the French uprising of 1830. The lithographical smoke from the mouths of guns truly gave a sense of being present, of witnessing the actual banging of the revolutionary weapons.

  ‘And though Seymour was forced to be anonymous in its pages, his star rose,’ said Mr Inbelicate. ‘He commented pictorially, once a month, on the events of the day, including the riots in Bristol.’

  ‘You mentioned that there was another link of the riots to clothing.’

  ‘Ah yes! The clothing, the clothing. It is one of those higgledy-piggledy matters I love. Discovering tenuous links is one of the great rewards of long and rambling study, Scripty. Well, this concerns the livery of the waiters of the White Hart, who helped Moses Pickwick repel the rioters. In their breeches and silk stockings, they looked rather like overgrown schoolboys from Westminster School. This was often remarked upon to Moses Pickwick, and he had a standard reply. “I hope,” he said, “that my waiters are better behaved than the boys of that establishment.” You see, Scripty, the boys of Westminster School were notorious – not only for their pranks, but for their wicked bullying of boys who did not fit in. There was one sad little boy who certainly did not fit in, who shall play a part in these events, and we must turn to him now. His family claimed a connection to Thomas à Becket, and so he had an unusual surname, which must itself have been a gift to the bullies of Westminster School. His name was Gilbert à Beckett.’

  *

  ‘THAT LOOKS LIKE A BURN to me,’ said the new matron to the mousy boy. She turned his head for a better examination of the mark on his cheek.

  ‘I flicked a crumb of hot jam pudding on myself.’

  ‘Did you drop your spoon on your hand in shock?’ She pointed to a bruise on his knuckles.

  ‘There was a horse at the gates that was slipping on the ice, and I laughed and lost my own balance and slipped myself, and fell over backwards. I hit my hand.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is.’