And a watercolour over the hearth of a hunt in Leicestershire, together with a scattering of other items – including a stirrup cup on the mantelpiece and whip in a corner – testified to where the man at the desk would rather be.
He looked at the nib of his quill, which he sometimes thought resembled a javelin point.
There were framed copies of articles on the wall. People seldom frame articles unless written by themselves – so it must be presumed that the room was occupied by the author. One was signed ‘Eques’, horseman in Latin. The next, simply ‘A’, the first letter of a surname. Then, ‘Acastus’, the Greek who participated in the hunt for the Calydonian Boar, renowned for his prowess as a javelin thrower.
He had read through the contents of the latest piece he had written. It was on the same subject as the watercolour, fox-hunting in Leicestershire, and the writer’s depth of knowledge was evident: the very soil of Leicestershire, the piece noted, was favourable to holding a scent, and it gave approval to the expansiveness of the county’s enclosures and the quality of its fences.
Now he paused. How was the piece to be signed? After the face underwent several contemplative expressions, the hand added the signature which satisfied most that day: ‘Nimrod’ – the mighty hunter before the Lord. He addressed the letter to Mr Pitman, the publisher of the Sporting Magazine.
*
Once Charles Apperley had adopted the pseudonym of Nimrod, his fortunes, and those of the Sporting Magazine itself, changed. Both author and magazine reached new, glorious heights. There came a day when Apperley was summoned to the office of Mr Pitman for a most significant meeting. A contract was placed before the author for signature.
‘You have more than doubled our circulation, Mr Apperley,’ said Pitman, his face showing that special geniality to be found in the vicinity of legal documents when a signature is most earnestly desired. ‘You have even enabled us to increase our price per issue. The contract I have drawn up reflects your great value to us.’
Nimrod ran his eyes over the terms of the generosity: £1,500 a year, as well as all the costs of keeping five hunters and a hack, and payment of an insurance premium of £93 10s.
‘But there is one clause,’ said Pitman, ‘which I inserted for a particular reason. I know it is only a matter of time before others ask you to write for them.’
‘I am by nature loyal, sir.’
‘I do not doubt it – and the contract should be seen as expressive of your loyalty to us, and our loyalty to you.’ He leant back against his chair, carefully considering his next words. ‘I would not seek to irrevocably and permanently bind you, Mr Apperley, for that could chafe against your spirit, and become, in time, a source of great irritation to you, to the detriment of your work.’ He leant forward again. ‘I seek to bind not you, but Nimrod.’
‘But – I am Nimrod.’
‘You must not forget that Nimrod was born in the Sporting Magazine’s pages. I propose that, if you would go elsewhere, you must do so under another name. Quit the Sporting Magazine if you like – write for someone else if you wish – but it is on the strict understanding that you do so with a fresh identity. This contract binds you for ten years, until the end of 1835. During that period, the contract stipulates that you shall not write about sport for anyone else under the name of Nimrod. After the ten years, I give you complete freedom, and Nimrod is yours to use as you wish.’
‘A name is just a name.’
‘Is it? You might ask yourself whether I would have inserted the clause if I myself thought so. I hope that you will sign – but I would not want the clause to be a source of unhappiness and strained relations in the future.’
‘I do not see it as a restraint. The contract merely proves the kindness of your disposition, Mr Pitman. I thank you for it.’
He dipped the pen in the inkwell, and added his signature.
*
The Sporting Magazine’s more-than-doubled circulation placed it in many households throughout the kingdom. In one such household in the North, Hamsterley Hall, an old bachelor called simply Matthew, or Methuselah to the servants, had always been an especially avid reader, even before the advent of Nimrod.
Matthew-Methuselah had attached himself to the Surtees family, who were fox-hunters. This was not an unusual arrangement: many country families had an eccentric old bachelor or spinster attached to them, taken in because of some misfortune, or sometimes fortune, and once assigned a room, by custom and tradition the occupancy became permanent. The sight of Matthew-Methuselah sitting in an armchair reading the Sporting Magazine was as much a part of Hamsterley Hall as the longcase clock behind him, which itself bore a dial enlivened by a painting of a hunt.
It was true he had, on occasions, threatened to sally forth for ever, but always when icicles were on the eaves, when only the brutal would allow him to go. Moreover, he was a fox-hunter himself, and fox-hunting being a key to many doors, he would hardly be excluded from a prominent fox-hunting household.
As he aged, he hunted ever, saying – even as he rose from his sickbed, to put on a scarlet jacket – ‘Death will need the fastest hound in hell’s pack to catch this old fox!’ The indefatigable spirit for the chase impressed itself particularly upon the master’s second son, Robert Surtees, a thin and very serious youth, whose hair was cut in the Henry V style. Many were the hours he sat with the old man.
Life continued in this course for the old hunter, until there came the day he was struck down by an illness which even his spirit could not defy. Suddenly, he embraced mortality with a practical enthusiasm almost obscene. He instructed the undertaker to call at the earliest opportunity, to discuss the design for a coffin with hunting-pink padding and brass fox heads on the handles and a special bracket so he could be buried with a hunting horn – ‘Because, you never know,’ he said with a grin, ‘Satan’s hellhounds may be up for the chase.’ He coolly examined the plans, and signed them from his bed. The coffin was duly delivered, and he declared that henceforth he would sleep inside it – ‘Then,’ he said, ‘all you’ll have to do is put on the lid and tap in the nails.’ A young nurse was hired to tend to his needs. She spent every day in his room, listening to his hunting reminiscences from the coffin, feeding him, wiping his mouth and mopping his brow.
Then, one day, old as he was, he rallied, put on his hunting outfit, and went out with the pack of hounds.
He returned in high spirits.
Just how high those spirits were was revealed when the nurse came to the house nine months afterwards, saying that he had fathered a child. The old man grinned, and slapped the arms of his armchair. Whether he was serious or not, he claimed to have sired the child in the coffin, with the handles rattling as he went to work.
He died a year later. But the old man’s indomitable passion for hunting left its mark upon the young Robert Surtees.
Yet, if the absorption of hunting spirit was down to this man, it was another person who broadened the youth’s knowledge and experience. This was the local Member of Parliament and Master of Foxhounds, Ralph John Lambton, a slim, kindly and most deeply respected huntsman. To young Surtees, the sight of this fine man upon his horse, surrounded by hounds, in a light mist, was a vision of the finest sort of English gentleman. Lambton’s humour in calling his horse Undertaker was a delight too, and useful to know – for when the young Surtees first met Lambton in the field, uncertain as to what to say to such a distinguished man, the one thought that came into Robert Surtees’s head was the tale of Matthew-Methuselah and the coffin. Lambton laughed upon horseback, and a bond was established between the two. In all likelihood, Lambton had heard the story before, but if so, he gave the youth the opportunity to tell the tale, and laughed as though it were fresh.
But Surtees remained a very serious young man, and you would no more expect to see a smile upon his face than you would upon a horse. The serious set of his manner, and his tendency to sit alone in a library, suggested that he was fit for one profession: the law. Only his attentio
n to clothes, verging on the dandyish, indicated another side to his character, alongside his legal textbooks. He studied and he studied, and the path he was on eventually took him south, to the capital.
*
The bells of Bow Church are famous for their chime; but in May 1825 it was the destiny of the young Surtees to hear another Bell, with a capital B, in that very part of London – in an office in Bow Churchyard, where he was articled to William Bell, conveyancer. Although near Cheapside, one of the liveliest of thoroughfares, Surtees had never experienced such dullness, and every morning he went to work with a sigh. As he sat at his desk and indited commaless title deeds in a carpetless office, there was scarcely a speck of colour to offer him cheer, apart from the green or red tape with which the documents were tied.
‘What is the law?’ said Surtees once, in an angry outburst to a squirrel-faced clerk who sat by the coat stand. The clerk stayed silent, and covered his lips with his fingers to make sure. ‘Paper. Reams of paper. Wasps made paper before humans, didn’t they? The law is a nest of wasps.’
William Bell’s first act every day, after not acknowledging Surtees, was to remove his grey overcoat and hand it to the squirrel-faced clerk. The coat was of considerable age, with threads hanging down and a button missing, and it remained a mystery as to why a man of some standing, such as Mr Bell, should wear such forlorn apparel. The conjecture formed by Surtees was that the coat had been purchased on the very day Bell had entered the legal profession, and would continue to be worn until the very day Bell retired, when it would be filed away in a wardrobe for eternity. It was an active contract in fabric form.
Bell then put on a brown wig, which he kept locked in a bureau, and with a splutter he settled down for work.
In the friendless, foxless evenings in London, with little money, Surtees’s comfort in his narrow and dingy lodgings was the Sporting Magazine. The articles of Nimrod, however, he read in two minds. They were well written, certainly. But in their approach to the hunt, they stoked up the young man’s dislike. The world of the wealthy fox-hunters of Leicester was not Surtees’s world; and, at times, it seemed Nimrod wrote as though the hunt were merely an excuse to set horses in motion. In essence, Nimrod was a horse man, Surtees a hound man. Nimrod jumped a fence with courage and style; for Surtees, the fence was the foe.
The fence that Surtees had to jump at that time of life was the profession of the law. He now realised that he was temperamentally unsuited to its practices. As if he were working his way back to hunting, by the route of the law, he took a specialised interest in matters of warranty relating to the soundness and sale of horses. But again, he found it dull fare. Although he did once crack a smile – a rare event for him, under any circumstances – when he considered Lord Ellenborough’s judgement in the case of Bassett v. Collis, that if a horse emitted a loud noise which is offensive to the ear, the animal is still to be considered a sound horse.
*
Had Robert Surtees applied his legal knowledge to the contract binding the activities of Nimrod, he would have seen the impossibility of escaping its fetters; still, the terms were not onerous, as long as Nimrod remained content to work for the Sporting Magazine. And Nimrod was content – until 1827, when Mr Pitman died.
When the bony finger of an executor ran down the column in the Sporting Magazine’s accounts, it paused at the payments to Nimrod. The salary was excessive in its own right – and aggravated by substantial expenses. The item duly received the attention of the second executor.
‘We are buying him horses, saddles and stablehands,’ said the sunken-eyed first executor in a shaking, querulous voice, from a throat that did not fill his collar.
‘And for this we receive – what?’ said the second executor, who was younger, and whose fingertip had just squeezed a black beetle that crawled upon the desk.
A letter was sent that morning, proposing new terms for Nimrod’s remuneration – a reduction. This was to be offset by a contribution of £170 a year to costs, but no more than a contribution, not all costs as before.
Nimrod replied with a visit to the magazine’s office.
‘I am the reason this magazine has succeeded!’ he said, rising angrily from the chair upon the opulent carpet between the desks of the two executors. ‘Without me, it would have been buried long ago!’
‘If you would stay calm, sir,’ quaked the first executor.
‘People started talking about the Sporting Magazine for one reason,’ he said. ‘Me – Nimrod. Before I came along the editor counted almost anything as sport, just to fill the pages, because there weren’t the contributors. I gave you real sport! You should be thanking me! You should be increasing my payment.’
‘Before you say any more, Mr Apperley, hear us,’ said the second executor. ‘Since our letter to you, we have been examining in detail the costs you passed on to the magazine.’
‘In considerable detail,’ said his partner, and the two now assaulted Nimrod in turns, from two fronts, beginning with the younger man.
‘There appears to have been a discrepancy between the costs as defined by your contract, and the costs as defined by yourself.’
‘This concerns insurance premiums.’
‘And various other sums.’
‘We have added all these amounts together.’
‘And made a calculation.’
‘The result is that you are in debt to us.’
‘To an amount of approximately £1,200.’
A horse may jump high, but no fence is as high as a debtors’ prison wall. As Nimrod’s anger halted in the face of the ominous circumstances in which he found himself, he said calmly: ‘I do not believe that to be so. Mr Pitman agreed to all the costs.’
‘Not according to the strict terms to which you consented,’ said the older executor.
‘If we are all sensible, we can arrange mutually agreeable terms for repayment of the £1,200,’ said his partner.
The temporary calm in Nimrod’s manner was indeed temporary. ‘I shall resign first!’
‘If you are wise, Mr Apperley,’ said the younger executor, ‘you should withdraw that statement. You should consider your position, and not act in haste. We control the name Nimrod until the end of 1835. Should you try to use that name, a legal injunction will immediately be issued against you. We would ask you to consider your likely earnings without your usual nom de plume.’
‘I can write under another name.’
‘Could you, Mr Apperley?’ continued the executor. ‘Could you really? Consider the effect of the name Nimrod. People in the sporting world rouse themselves at its very mention. Nimrod is associated with excellence in hunting, and with excellence in writing about hunting.’
‘The reaction to any other name would be – “Who?”’ said the older man. ‘A name is a most valuable asset, as Mr Pitman knew.’
‘My partner speaks wisely. Even you, Mr Apperley – even, I say, a man of your considerable gifts – can have – now how can I put this? Let us say that even a man of great talent can have off days. But a name can cloak faults. With a talent behind it – with genius behind it – nothing has the force of a name. A name will compensate for any off day.’
‘Why, with an established name,’ said the older executor, ‘errors and flaws will even be interpreted as evidence of genius.’
‘My partner has once again shown his great wisdom and knowledge of the world. Mr Apperley, it would be folly for you to resign from the Sporting Magazine. For in its pages – and only its pages – can you be what you truly are – Nimrod.’
*
Not for the first time and not for the last, a man in debt saw a solution in escape. So Charles Apperley resigned, took the first boat to cross the Channel, and vanished in France.
*
There was ice on the pavement in London at the start of January 1830, and the morning was bitter. Robert Surtees had just finished his breakfast. Undeterred by cold, he left Lincoln’s Inn Fields – where he now lived above his chambers
– and took a walk to inspect the magazines on sale at the bookshop.
His eyes were drawn to a new publication, the Looking Glass, because it looked different from anything else available on the counter. Still, sport was ever his passion, and so he put down the Looking Glass and left the store with the usual copy of the Sporting Magazine.
The mud underfoot had frozen solid, and by a process of mental association, the thoughts of Robert Surtees turned towards the vexed question of breaking ground, or digging in pursuit of a fox. This practice was held by some to be contrary to all the principles of hunting. Surtees disagreed.
As he inserted his key in the door, Surtees resolved that he would start the new year with a letter on the very subject of breaking ground to Mr Shury, the current editor of the Sporting Magazine.
Two days later, Mr Shury received the unsolicited communication, arguing for the acceptability of breaking ground on the basis that a distinguished Master of Foxhounds, Ralph John Lambton, a man of high character, had once broken into a drain, whereupon, as the writer put it, ‘Sly Reynard forfeited his life for his cowardice.’ The letter was signed ‘A Durham Sportsman’.
It was apparent to Mr Shury – a tubby, pleasant, smoky-haired man, with a genial smile and a genius for delegation – that the Durham Sportsman was both knowledgeable and well connected: two qualities much to be prized in the wake of Nimrod’s departure. Thus, Mr Shury tapped his stomach and hummed, as he often did when he made a decision which afforded him some pleasure, and he not only published the correspondence, but immediately wrote to the Durham Sportsman asking for further contributions.
It was not long before the Durham Sportsman received an offer of paid employment at the premises of the Sporting Magazine. To a young man who knew the drudgery and dullness of the law, the offer was impossible to decline.
Now, Mr Shury came from a decent family, and was decent in his own dealings too. He ensured that the office was warm and dry, and pleasantly decorated with sporting prints, and he was not too lofty to pour a cup of tea. He would indulge in charming conversation from the very moment he arrived in the morning, he even purchased cakes as a treat in the afternoon. He had but one shortcoming as the editor of the Sporting Magazine: he possessed no sporting knowledge whatsoever. The upshot was that he wrote virtually nothing himself, and allowed his staff to write almost every article – and the staff was now mainly Robert Surtees. There were just two other contributors.
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 36