Death and Mr. Pickwick

  ‘I think few would deserve that fate,’ said Seymour.

  ‘There are hundreds who deserve it!’ said à Beckett. ‘The professors of medicine should name a new disease – Seymour-mania, an ailment in which one suffers severe despondency because of depiction in one of your drawings. So who shall we give this mania to today, Mr Seymour? Who suffers next?’ A cunning look came to à Beckett’s features. ‘I have an idea. What about a Covent Garden actor who gestures too much? There are plenty of those to choose from!’ He snorted and his laughter filled the office.

  ‘What if, Mr Seymour,’ said Mayhew, casting a look of displeasure towards à Beckett, ‘you were to draw the queen as a German Frau playing the hurdy-gurdy, and you make her coronet look like one of those caps hurdy-gurdyers wear? Then – I think you will like this – you draw the king as a little monkey, and she is leading him with a piece of string.’

  ‘I think that is an excellent idea, Mr Mayhew,’ said Seymour. ‘I could show the king looking up into her face, quivering with fear, thinking he is going to be beaten with a stick if he doesn’t perform. I can probably also do something with the hurdy-gurdy. The scroll at the end could become a face.’

  ‘What about the face of Wellington?’ said Mayhew.

  ‘Wellington it shall be!’ said Seymour.

  ‘I think, Mr Seymour,’ said à Beckett in a low and serious voice, ‘I still prefer the theatrical profession to be our target this week.’

  ‘Drop this, Gilbert,’ said Mayhew.

  Seymour watched the exchange of strained expressions between the two. ‘What is going on here? What are you holding back from me?’

  ‘Mr Seymour, have you ever seen the stage manager at Covent Garden, when he goes on stage?’ said à Beckett, after looking sharp daggers towards Mayhew, and raising a finger as well, to stop interruption.

  ‘Mr Bartley? Yes, he is not the sort to stay in the wings.’

  ‘How true. How very true. His abiding habit is to shelve deserving performers, or put them in minor roles, and appear in the production himself. Would you have any trouble capturing his image?’

  Seymour noted the annoyance in Mayhew. ‘I could do it from memory. I saw him in My Neighbour’s Wife. But I want to know what you two are holding back.’

  ‘Tell him, Gilbert,’ said Mayhew.

  ‘I shall make a bargain with you, Mr Seymour – draw me a picture of Bartley, and I shall confess all. My mind is foaming like a brewer’s tub with what Figaro could say about him.’

  In a matter of minutes there was an image of the pudgy manager, complete with side whiskers growing from beneath a top hat. Simultaneous to the sketching, à Beckett had sat and worked on a statement to accompany the picture.

  ‘Wonderful, you have done it again!’ said à Beckett as soon as he saw the drawing. ‘Now what about this for the words: “Mr Bartley is amazingly proud of his talent, and makes it the object of so much dignity that really the vulgar eye of the public has never yet been allowed to feast upon it.” Then what if I go on to say: “If Bartley possesses any talent, it is a precious gem, concealed in some hidden casket, but as yet there have been no symptoms of any intentions on his part of making it manifest.”’

  Seeing the immobility of Seymour’s features, and the distaste on Mayhew’s, à Beckett gave a small nervous laugh. ‘Well, let me be straight. Mr Seymour, I have put money into the theatre in Tottenham Street. So some of your pictorial barbs aimed at competing theatres wouldn’t do any harm, would they?’

  ‘You should know I am entirely opposed to this, Mr Seymour,’ said Mayhew. ‘We are in business to expose politicians and others for what they are – self-interested men who affect principles. To go down this route ourselves is wrong. It is complete hypocrisy.’

  ‘As I have already told you, Henry,’ said à Beckett, ‘theatrical managers are used to leading a devil of a life, and a little bit of our devilry won’t kill Bartley. Besides, we have always included theatrical reviews.’

  ‘But now any theatrical review in Figaro has ulterior motives,’ said Seymour.

  ‘That is exactly what I told him,’ said Mayhew. ‘Mr Seymour, you cannot be easy doing drawings on this basis.’

  ‘I am not,’ said Seymour. ‘If the public gets wind of this—’

  ‘Your picture of Bartley will merely be a bit of amusement,’ said à Beckett. ‘In fact – he will probably be honoured to be drawn by you. You have said yourself that politicians collect your drawings. What was it you told me – that Wellington has one of yours in his privy? Come, Mr Seymour – you cannot deny that Bartley is a dreadful performer. To not expose him, simply because of my business affairs, is itself a betrayal of our principles. It would be letting down our readers. Come, Mr Seymour, there will be no compromise of our standards – I wish to attack Bartley because he is an appalling actor, and an appalling man. I would not attack him otherwise.’

  Seymour looked towards Mayhew for guidance.

  ‘I have already expressed my misgivings,’ said Mayhew. ‘But I shall not think the worse of you if you do these drawings, as Gilbert is intent upon this course. I wash my hands of it, however.’

  Seymour walked towards the window and looked into the street. A hawker in a scarf was holding up a copy of Figaro, and even as the artist watched, a man approached to buy a copy. ‘All right,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Splendid!’ said à Beckett. ‘Do you know the theatre in Tottenham Street at all, Mr Seymour?’

  ‘I know it has changed its name more than any other theatre in London. As though it is always hoping a new name will revive its fortunes.’ He turned round to face à Beckett. ‘It is not a theatre I would invest in.’

  ‘I am convinced it will make a good return. I will insist on certain changes, so that it does.’

  ‘While changing Figaro to push us in the direction of failure,’ said Mayhew.

  ‘Hush, Henry. Do you know, if I had been in charge before, I think Grimaldi’s son would still be alive.’

  ‘Was he at Tottenham Street?’ said Seymour.

  ‘He gave his last performance there.’

  The artist turned towards the street again. The hawker was approached by two more men, one of whom laughed even as he passed over a penny.

  ‘What was it with Grimaldi’s son?’ said Seymour. ‘Wanted to wear his clown’s outfit on his deathbed? Wasn’t that it?’

  ‘A terrible end. Drink was undoubtedly part of it. But there are rumours, you know, which circulate at the theatre. The man in the ticket office insisted on taking me aside and telling me that in his opinion young Grimaldi was poisoned; then he laughed and told me to avoid drinking in the green room if I made myself unpopular with the scene painters.’

  ‘So why do you think you could have saved Grimaldi?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘Oh, a feeling about what might lie behind his woes. And a feeling that he might have profited from talking to me. But no matter. The ticket man is right about the scene painters, though. I am not popular with them. That is why I would be delighted if you would do me another artistic favour, Mr Seymour.’

  Seymour turned back towards the room. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘The theatre is going to put on a play of mine, The Revolt of the Workhouse. I have seen some drawings for the stage scenery – and I am not impressed. It would be useful to have some other drawings. I would hire a very experienced designer, but – I am afraid there are many costs.’

  ‘So you want me to do it for you.’

  ‘Do not feel obliged, Mr Seymour,’ said Mayhew.

  ‘You will receive a full and generous payment when the production is a success, as I am sure it will be,’ said à Beckett. ‘It is a question of the payment being deferred.’

  ‘I do not like being dragged further into this,’ said Seymour. ‘But – oh very well. Do you have a script?’

  Seymour sat down in the office and went through the scenes. He designed views of the workhouse, including a washroom, with a pump. He drew in female inmates, washin
g and throwing about soapsuds. Then came a London street scene with a beadle on patrol. ‘Now we’ll have St Paul’s by moonlight,’ he said to à Beckett, who sat beside him, enraptured. ‘We’ll put in some groups of destitutes, asleep.’ A series of drawings, toy-theatre size, soon corresponded to the entire stage production.

  ‘Mr Seymour, I insist that you are there the opening night!’ said à Beckett. ‘We will have a glass of the grape in the green room.’

  *

  In the first week of March, Seymour called again at the Figaro office. This time, only à Beckett was present.

  The artist placed down an invoice for recent work. ‘I still haven’t received payment for the previous two drawings,’ he said.

  ‘A minor problem, Mr Seymour, regarding our inwards flow of cash. It will soon be put right. Shall we discuss the next issue?’

  Seymour suggested that the theme should be Tory Members of Parliament seeking to retain their privileges. À Beckett nodded and then said: ‘That theme was on my mind already. I believe I have a capital idea for the form your drawing should take. What if you were to portray Wellington and other Tories as shabby women, with threadbare aprons, holding maces, and driving away other politicians?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Suppose we were to call it Revolt of the Tory Paupers – whoa, Mr Seymour! Sit down, it is just an idea! Please sit down! I think it would work very well. They are in revolt because they are clinging to their privileges. I can comment that they are as revolting in their conduct as the meanest of workhouse inmates. It would work! It would be another success for you.’

  ‘This is going too far, à Beckett. You are blatantly using me to promote your own theatre. If a politician did anything like this we would flay him.’

  ‘It would make a spanking picture. And the sooner the play makes a profit, the sooner I will be able to pay you for your work.’

  ‘Do you mean for my work on the scenery? Or for my Figaro drawings? Answer me, à Beckett! You are using Figaro money to fund your theatre, aren’t you?’

  ‘My financial affairs are my own concern.’

  ‘What if the theatre does not succeed? Do I get paid anything until then?’

  ‘It will succeed. And if it does not – who designed the scenery?’

  ‘Withdraw that remark.’

  ‘I spoke hastily. I apologise.’ He composed himself and then said: ‘I shall withdraw. But you shall draw. I want that caricature exactly as I have described it. It is in your own interest.’ He waited again. ‘You will draw it, won’t you?’

  ‘You are on thin ice, à Beckett.’

  *

  A month later, Seymour was again in the Figaro office, and again Mayhew was absent.

  ‘Henry was feeling under the weather, Mr Seymour,’ said à Beckett, ‘so I said he should go home. But the two of us can have a useful discussion. There is another theatrical picture I want you to draw.’

  ‘My answer is no.’

  ‘Come, come, Mr Seymour – the art of caricature has a lot in common with the theatre. You arrange your characters as though they are on a stage, so all can be seen – surely a little further involvement with theatre will not hurt you?’

  ‘Where is my payment for the last six weeks of drawings? I am disguising it from my wife with my savings. When will I receive the money?’

  ‘My dear Mr Seymour—’

  ‘I would remind you that it is not just my own fees, but the advances I make to woodcutters – when will I be reimbursed?’

  ‘Now come, you have seen Mr Manders act, and now you will draw him in the role he plays in The Revolt of the Workhouse.’

  ‘You want me to draw the very thing which has taken away my payment!’

  ‘The very thing which will earn your payment.’

  *

  When Seymour returned home, he grudgingly drew the actor with hair in the King Charles style, wearing a top hat and leaning against an umbrella. Despite the artist’s distaste, he perfectly captured the actor’s strongly curved eyebrows, large eyes and detached look.

  À Beckett wrote an accompaniment as soon as the messenger boy delivered Seymour’s picture: ‘The above is an admirable sketch of a superb original, Mr Manders as Mahomet Muggins, in The Revolt of the Workhouse, for assuredly nothing can exceed the dressing, the attitude, the making-up and the acting in the part in which Seymour has drawn him. It presents one of the most admirable pieces of burlesque performing which we ever saw.’

  *

  The following week, when à Beckett arrived at the Figaro office, Mayhew was already there, holding a letter.

  ‘This is a note from Seymour,’ said Mayhew. ‘He says that we will get no picture from him this week. That is all. There is no explanation.’

  ‘So the great Seymour’s inexhaustible well of inspiration has run dry.’

  ‘You do not believe that.’

  ‘Shall I tell you the truth behind that note?’ said à Beckett. ‘Little is happening in the world this week. We shall struggle ourselves to fill the magazine. Seymour has found nothing to make his pencil twitch. So, with the thoughtlessness typical of the artist, he provides nothing, and has made our work even harder. I suppose we shall get through somehow, Henry.’

  ‘What do we put on the front page instead of a drawing? How do we explain it to readers?’

  ‘We merely say that the woodcutter has been taken ill with influenza. And – I have it! We shall promise our readers that Seymour will provide two drawings next week, in compensation.’

  ‘Seymour would have to agree to that.’

  ‘Whether he agrees or not – I am going to publish it.’

  *

  The following week, Seymour submitted a single picture, again by messenger, without any preceding discussion of subject. It showed a large beer barrel, marked as the property of dissenters, which bishops of the established church tapped in order to fill tankards with gold coins. If à Beckett saw a parallel to the relationship between Seymour and himself, he did not betray it to Mayhew, and his editorial comments interpreted the drawing as a commentary on religious affairs.

  *

  The next week, another picture arrived by messenger, with no apparent relationship to contemporary issues: it showed two dead men, the staunch upright figure of Napoleon Bonaparte and the tired, gouty figure of George IV, staring at each other across an expanse of water.

  ‘What the devil does Seymour mean by this?’ said à Beckett, passing the drawing to Mayhew.

  ‘That he is tired old England, and you are the enemy across the water? That there is a rift between you that cannot be crossed?’

  ‘I shall interpret it as two ghosts, talking about the state of their respective countries.’

  *

  The next week, Seymour sent in no picture at all, and no message.

  ‘We will merely publish without a picture,’ said à Beckett. ‘Seymour will come back, begging for forgiveness. In the meantime, I shall write that Lord Melbourne and Mrs Norton went to see The Revolt of the Workhouse.’

  ‘Shameful, Gilbert.’

  ‘There is so much gossip about Melbourne and Mrs Norton that what does it matter if we invent a little more?’

  ‘I shall write to Seymour, and plead with him to send us something.’

  *

  Three days later, a messenger brought a drawing of the Chancellor of the Exchequer depicted as a jester, complete with cap and bells. His head burst through a copy of The Times, with the annotation: ‘Lord help the country that has such a minister!’

  ‘I knew he would be back,’ said à Beckett.

  Mayhew cast an eye over the accompanying letter. ‘He says that he will go away for a week, for a rest, and that there will not be a picture for the next issue. He hopes that disagreements can be put behind us. But – he says in future he will not come to the office.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He also says he trusts that the finances of Figaro will be managed more wisely than the Chancellor of the Exchequer mana
ges the finances of the country.’

  ‘Seymour will be paid when I am ready to do so.’

  ‘You cannot go on like this, Gilbert.’

  ‘Can I not? And do you also believe Robert Seymour to be the only caricaturist in London?’

  *

  ‘And you could not tell me this until now?’ said Jane Seymour to her husband during supper one evening in August. She sent her children away from the table. ‘Would this have continued until every penny of our savings was gone?’

  He was not looking at her. He stared at his dinner plate, idly moving the food around.

  ‘Stop that!’

  ‘It is not Mayhew’s fault. He has always treated me fairly.’

  ‘And let à Beckett pay you in compliments!’ She reached across and seized the fork from his fingers. ‘Without a moment’s delay, you will write to the other parties involved in Figaro, and get every penny that’s owed to you. Remind me of their names.’

  ‘Thomas Lyttleton Holt.’

  ‘He will be our first letter.’

  ‘He is no longer involved in Figaro.’

  ‘Then why tell me?’

  ‘He is a pleasant man. A restless man. He always moves on to something else.’

  ‘Why should I care about that now? Why do you care?’

  He looked across at his wife with the most desperate expression in his eyes. ‘I am fearful about what will happen if we press this too far.’

  ‘Tell me who else is involved in Figaro.’

  A letter was duly sent to William Strange. Three days later, Seymour received a note from à Beckett. Jane watched as he read it. He breathed out in exasperation. ‘We will not get the money. The sly dog has transferred the entire ownership to Strange.’

  ‘He cannot just throw off his debts like that!’

  ‘That is exactly what he has done. He says he has no further concern in the pecuniary affairs of Figaro, and that he is only the editor. He declines any further communication with me, and says that it matters little to him who draws the pictures, but that if am to supply them in the future, I am to do so through Strange.’

  ‘This is not hopeless,’ she said. ‘You now write to Strange again.’