‘Forgive me, but I could not help overhearing about a pig,’ said Seymour.
‘The pig. Yes. There is a gentleman who drinks in the Grosvenor who is attached to a pig he has reared, and he cannot bring himself to slaughter it. He says he is finally determined to do it on Monday at sunrise, but he won’t.’
Seymour looked away for a moment. In his mind he saw the carcass of a pig hanging up by its heels from a cottage wall. The animal was slit open, with a bowl beneath to catch the blood.
‘I think I could make an admirable picture of that pig being slaughtered for your club book,’ said Seymour.
‘Certainly the pig will make an admirable meal,’ said Barnard, giving Penn a perturbed look for the oddness of the artist’s suggestion. ‘Our butcher is a drunkard, yet he knows how to make black pudding. But it will be premature to draw the picture, because the pig won’t die.’
‘Then I shall draw it, and when the pig does die, make a tracing and copy it into your book. I would call it He Dies at Sunrise.’
‘Rather more morbid than our normal contributions,’ said Penn. ‘Might I make a suggestion for something else? Why don’t you sketch Edward next to those flowers?’ Penn gestured to a vase containing dried daisy-like blooms. ‘Go stand over there and pose, Edward.’ Barnard took a position next to the vase, sniffing the dead blooms, so that his small circular glasses were just above the petals.
‘I have never seen flowers like these before,’ said Seymour.
‘You are unlikely to unless you have been lagged to Australia,’ said Barnard. ‘I grew them from seeds.’
‘Edward’s scientific interest in horticulture is almost as great as his interest in angling,’ said Penn. ‘He will happily watch plants grow, with the same enthusiasm that some men watch a cricket match.’
‘I do, because plants are much more interesting than a cricket match,’ said Barnard.
‘He measures how much the stalks grow in a day,’ said Penn. ‘Admit it, Edward.’
‘I do, happily.’
‘And Edward is a man who has had the distinction of a parrot named after him: the Platycercus barnardi, Barnard’s Parakeet. I shall always be jealous. And, in his spare moments he runs the empire.’
‘Really, Richard.’
‘May I ask what you do in a professional capacity, Mr Barnard?’ said Seymour.
‘A lot of people ask that,’ said Penn, smiling, moving a fishing rod behind the vase so as to make a better composition.
‘No more than they ask the same about you, Richard. In a way, I do run the empire, Mr Seymour. A part of it, at least.’
‘Malta, Gibraltar, Australia and a large portion of southern Africa,’ said Penn. ‘And always seeking to add to his portfolio.’
‘Mr Seymour, let me briefly explain,’ said Barnard. ‘A colony needs certain things – currency, arms, roads, administrators. I provide them. But the main benefit of being Agent General is that it leaves plenty of time for fishing.’
‘Though riverbanks are not the only banks that concern him,’ said Penn. ‘Edward is a man with profound financial interests in Lothbury.’
‘Richard, no more, please. Now how is this as a pose?’ he said, grasping his chin, and staring as though conducting an intense study of the flowers.
Seymour saw a boy in the cottage’s garden, stirring a tub of pig’s blood. An old woman cut up entrails on a bench.
‘I prefer my idea,’ he said.
*
In a little while, the three adjourned to a local public house, the Boot. A medium-sized jack caught that morning by Barnard was stuffed, at his request, with lemon slices, basil, thyme and parsley, wrapped in ten sheets of wet newspapers of two different political persuasions, then tied with string and placed in the hot wood-ashes of the inn’s fireplace, which was kept alive even on warm days for the cooking of fish.
Seymour, Barnard and Penn chatted until the paper turned black, and the jack was ready. Just as they had finished anatomising the fish on their plates, it was appropriate that a man known for his performance in parliamentary sessions relating to the Anatomy Act on human dissection entered the Boot. He was a fellow of considerable forehead and dark penetrating eyes, as well as a nose to suit a larger man and a mouth to suit a smaller – Henry Warburton, Member of Parliament for Bridport, and enthusiastic member of the Houghton Angling Club. Warburton was greeted with great demonstrativeness, verging on sensation, by Penn and Barnard, for now the gathering of club members was truly under way.
‘Brandy, landlord!’ cried Warburton as he settled down at the table. ‘These chairs are never comfortable,’ he added.
‘They would be, if you had more flesh on your hips, Henry,’ said Penn. He introduced Seymour to the new arrival.
‘I am familiar with your work, Mr Seymour,’ said Warburton.
‘The Anatomy Act helped me to comment on the Reform Bill,’ said Seymour to Barnard and Penn. ‘I drew the bill as a person being anatomised by the Tory peers, amputating the arms and legs.’
‘I remember that,’ said Warburton, ‘but I remember too your work on the Burke and Hare murders. You were surely one of the first to illustrate the events.’
*
In the grimy loft, the woman was on the floor, Burke’s hands upon her throat. Hare calmly observed the proceedings.
*
‘Not many would know the illustrations of The Murderers of the Close as my work,’ said Seymour. ‘I am impressed you do.’
‘I shall be impressed when the landlord brings my brandy,’ said Warburton.
Over the next hour, more members of the club arrived in the Boot, and all were introduced to Seymour.
‘Sir Francis Chantrey, Mr Seymour,’ said Barnard. ‘His collection of rods and tackle is the envy of every fisherman in England.’
‘But I know you as a sculptor, sir,’ said Seymour.
‘For us,’ said Barnard, ‘Sir Francis designed the figure of the trout on Stockbridge Town Hall that acts as a weathercock. In that sense alone do we think of him as a sculptor.’
‘We are a band of brothers, Mr Seymour,’ said Chantrey, ‘and you won’t hear tempers raised or unkind words when one member talks to another. We are here for each other’s pleasure and we always say there is no satisfaction so great as to contribute to mutual content.’
Seymour looked around the table. Though all were there for angling, it was the variety of characters that made the table a curiosity. There was the member with ringlets in his hair, and a large diamond ring, and Bouquet du Roi perfume which drifted across the table, marking him out as a London beau. There was a mild-mannered cleric who exchanged remarks on the benefits of free trade with Warburton, and a minute later closely examined a sharp hook attached to an artificial fly. There were occasional comments from all sides of the table reflecting professions and passions, on military matters, medicine, philosophy and racegoing. One landowner said he was unhappy that the game laws had been so recklessly repealed, and Warburton – upon whom the brandy had started to have a notable effect – responded: ‘In the Tonga Islands, my friend, the rats are preserved as game and nobody is allowed to kill them, except those who are descended from the gods. This is the only country and the only case I know of which has ever furnished anything like a parallel to the ridiculous English game laws. What is it that gives a man the right to shoot a hare, a pheasant or a partridge for his dinner if and only if he owns land worth a hundred pounds a year? I am glad of the change!’
The applause Warburton received was muted, and cries of ‘Drink up and shut up, Warburton!’ were uttered and received with good humour.
‘In my life,’ Seymour said to Chantrey, ‘I do not think I have seen such a varied gathering in one room. And so merry.’
‘I do not know of an unhappy angler,’ said Barnard. ‘When the club meets, there is a playfulness which comes over all. Restraint and care vanish.’
Seymour saw Wonk sitting on the riverbank, smiling.
Last to arrive was a bald, broad
, round, cheerful man with a churchwarden pipe, who was identified as Mr Dampier.
‘He’s our merriest fisherman – as long as he has a pipe in his mouth,’ said Barnard.
‘One puff, and who cares about the dull weight of the world?’ replied Dampier.
‘He was irritable once when he had forgotten his tobacco,’ said Penn, ‘but that lasted only an instant. For who would not lend this man the means to fill his pipe?’
‘It is bliss indeed to sit by a river, smoking.’ Dampier settled himself down. ‘Well, Mr Seymour, I must say I have never met a caricaturist before, and I am very pleased to meet you. But I must also say that you caricaturists are tame fellows now, compared to what the pictures used to be like.’
‘We have all become tamer,’ said Seymour. ‘But you are right. Many people say much the same thing to me.’
‘It’s not just caricatures,’ said Dampier. ‘Fielding or Smollett wouldn’t be published today. It’s as though we no longer fart.’
‘Really, sir!’ said Canon Beadon, whose dietary regimen perhaps made him sensitive on the subject.
‘It’s true! You would hardly believe we have buttocks! Show a Cabinet minister or the king with his breeches down and who could believe his lies? We have been thoroughly subdued.’
A general discussion on this subject began, which other drinkers in the Boot joined, as though the club had stumbled upon a topic too important to restrict by subscription. A man with a crooked nose, and a few straight teeth, set down his tankard and recalled the perfect delight of examining Gillrays after dinner when he was a younger fellow, as the guests took wine. ‘I can remember my old father laughing and joking with no restraint. The soul has gone out of the world,’ he said.
‘I agree with you sir,’ said Dampier. ‘Life is long, and we need laughter. We should say what we think of people. I am sure the public find your pictures amusing, Mr Seymour, but they don’t go far enough.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said a man with deep lines of experience, a cheerful twitchy mouth, and an alert manner, ‘hiring an album of pictures for the evening was the best way of sitting next to a shy girl.’
‘Some of Rowlandson’s you’d save for girls who weren’t so shy,’ said a man in a corner with a snort, which became a coarse cackle, taken up by others.
Opinions now flowed back and forth. There was a consensus that when the Prince Regent ascended to the throne, the lavish outfits and grand splendour of the coronation set the new mood, and the populace was not so keen on breeches coming down any more. Then Queen Caroline died, and the hurricane winds of the old caricaturists were becalmed ever afterwards.
‘I think it is getting worse, gentlemen, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ said the petite landlord as he brought over a tray of drinks. ‘It’s amusement itself that is on its way out.’
‘These days,’ said the man with the crooked nose and the few straight teeth, ‘you’re met with a sneer just for mentioning some simple pleasure – like going for a walk on a nice evening, or just – I don’t know – just for mentioning that you were having a chat with a man you had cottoned on to at an inn. You can almost hear the sniff of disapproval.’ There were nods, and murmurs of shared experience around the Boot.
‘It’s as though all we should do is work hard, and then spend the rest of our time reading Holy Scripture,’ said a wearied man who drank resting on a walking stick. ‘Apologies to clerical gentlemen present.’
‘There is something in what you say,’ said the canon. ‘Vicars themselves used to be merrier. There have always been miserable sorts in the church, and we used to make fun of them, but there are more of them now.’
‘I am aware of corresponding changes in my profession,’ said Seymour. ‘There are more engravings of Shakespeare in the print-shop windows now. And scenery. And pictures of flowers and fruit are becoming popular, which families are encouraged to paste into scrapbooks.’
‘But still, Mr Seymour,’ said Penn, ‘is it a bad thing if we do not live in such raucous times as we used to? There are grounds for optimism. Reform is under way. You and your brother artists must surely accommodate to the prevailing mood.’
‘Undoubtedly our rulers will drink from the glass of reform,’ said Seymour. ‘But they will spit it out if it tastes too strong.’
‘Reform may not go far, Mr Seymour, but it is beginning,’ said Penn. ‘You can sense the desire for improvement – a genuine goodwill and benevolence, a will to make things better for people.’
‘There is a will to believe such things,’ said Seymour.
‘It is your duty as a caricaturist to be cynical, but these days men want to be kinder,’ said Penn.
‘We are all scared of being found unrespectable, that’s what it is,’ said Dampier. ‘And, as most of us in our hearts are not respectable, we are bringing in an age of utter hypocrisy. There used to be a man I would see around who would stand on street corners, arms outstretched, singing about cocks, farts and bums. Always made me laugh. This was about fifteen years ago. Then he vanished. Up before the beak, probably. We won’t see his like again. All very safe for women and children!’
‘The aim now must be to have the humour and fun without the debauchery,’ said Seymour. ‘In a way, it is more of a challenge for a person in my profession.’
‘I do not understand how the likes of Gillray got away with so much,’ said Penn. ‘I am amazed that some of the old prints escaped prosecution.’
‘Well, simply imagine the courtroom,’ said Warburton. ‘The counsel for the prosecution stands up, in all his dignity, and reads the solemn indictment, of how His Majesty the King was depicted bent over in the act of breaking wind!’
There was a wave of laughter throughout the inn, as though they had recaptured the spirit of former times.
‘But in any case,’ said Seymour, ‘caricaturists have too little impact on events for the authorities to be especially concerned about us.’
‘You are surely being modest, Mr Seymour,’ said Warburton.
‘I do not believe the First Lord of the Treasury plans his policies thinking of me,’ said Seymour.
‘But I know – and I am sure you know it too, Mr Seymour – that men of your profession affect the way that people think about a politician,’ said Warburton. ‘In extreme cases, a man could be associated for all time with his drawing.’
‘Even if that were true, sir, it is not good for a caricaturist to admit it. My duty is to prick pomposity’s bubble – I do not even like talking about “my duty” – but you should understand, I would not become such a bubble myself.’
‘Who would even know what the prime minister looked like without men like you, Mr Seymour?’ said Barnard.
‘I have heard rumours that Wellington has one of yours in his privy,’ said Warburton.
‘I have heard that myself,’ said Seymour. ‘But so has every caricaturist about his work. Caricaturists never flatter politicians, and yet politicians desire our pictures with more intensity than the most lickspittle portraits ever produced. And though I would not want it widely known – please keep this to ourselves – I am growing to like the politicians I draw. Are they any worse than the rest of us? They strut, and pose, and talk unending rubbish, and it all amounts to a rather endearing little game.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘But we have surely spent too much time on this. You gentlemen are here for sport!’
Conversation quietened for a while, and the other drinkers in the Boot disengaged from the club. Penn stood up to relieve a cramp in his legs, and he looked towards the mantelpiece, to two piles, one of recent issues of the Sporting Magazine, and one of recent issues of the New Sporting Magazine.
‘The Sporting Magazine is not what it was since Nimrod vanished from its pages,’ said Penn.
‘There is always the New,’ said a thin-lipped club member with a purplish eye and elegant lashes, whose languor and confidence were in proportion to his wealth – he was indeed rumoured to be the Houghton’s most comfortable landowner. �
��My spies tell me that Nimrod is wanted by Surtees at the New.’
‘I don’t know why he gave up writing in the first place,’ said Penn. ‘Hunting is not my sport, but even I enjoyed his pieces.’
‘Surely you know of the legal restraint placed upon him?’ said the landowner.
‘I do not,’ said Penn. ‘If you know anything about Nimrod, tell us.’
‘I not only know about Nimrod, I know Nimrod personally,’ said the landowner, taking an opportunity to draw upon his cigar. ‘Nimrod could be described as’ – he looked into the cloud of smoke, trying to see how to capture the fellow – ‘he could be described as a man of the world, but in a better sense than is normally meant by that expression. He has seen a lot in his forty-odd years, and he knows a lot, and is so sharp in observation that, were one to choose a guest for supper to add satisfaction to the food, it would be difficult to find a better companion than Nimrod.’
Another long, smoke-gazing pause followed.
‘Nimrod has sat next to me at dinner,’ he eventually continued, ‘and when he turned in my direction, just in the movements of his lips and teeth and eyes he captivated me, and I thought what a good-looking, charming man. His voice is so polite and so soft. And his high forehead just irresistibly makes you think: here is an intelligent fellow. And most charming of all, he already seems to know you from the very first moment you meet him – and from then on, you are under his spell. I watched Nimrod holding his knife and fork, and his hands are, frankly, beautiful; I remember thinking hands like those would get the best out of a horse.’
‘Do tell us more,’ said Penn.
*
THERE WAS A QUILL, POISED to write. It leant within a beautiful male hand, upon a desk, before a windowload of rain, overlooking the Blackfriars Road in London, in November 1821.
The fraying of a shirt cuff suggested the hand had known better times, while a letter from a wife on one side of the desk indicated it no longer clasped its feminine equivalent. From beneath a blotter, an invitation card with a decorative border told of a party not attended, while the cramped and untidy room around spoke of the impossibility of extending a reciprocal invitation without causing offence.
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 35