Death and Mr. Pickwick

by Stephen Jarvis

  As he sipped coffee, Seymour looked out of the windows towards Whitehall, though his view was obscured by a small rectangular sign gummed across a pane which stated, for the benefit of breakfasters, ‘Beware of Sods’. He smiled, stabbed a rasher, and took in the statue of King Charles I on a horse, and the pump – two stationary objects in the sun, while all else outside was in motion: coaches whose roofloads of passengers waved goodbye; the sullen wagons of bent-over draymen with their happy barrels of beer; hand-pulled carts piled high with carrots or coal; and hawkers in droves, walking up and down with trays of odds and ends.

  At the next table sat three men enjoying a breakfast drink, and as they had each placed a whip across the table’s surface, it was reasonable to assume they were coach drivers. One man in particular captured Seymour’s attention, a cheerful, fat and ruddy soul, under a floppy hat with a wide radius, who in the corner of his mouth smoked a pipe, the bowl of which was carved into a bonneted lady. He sat thighs apart within the skirts of a greatcoat – even though the weather was warm – and the buttons resembled copper pennies. This man had a quart pot in front, in contrast to the pint pot of his neighbour and the coffee of the driver opposite. The pint-pot drinker sat inclined in a lazy pose with his head against his knuckles, too lazy to lift his eyes, and his finger circulated in a burn from a cigar, one of many which disfigured the table. The coffee-drinker was a thin, pimply-faced young man, not much older than a youth, with an ugly Adam’s apple and a new mackintosh, which he had placed across his lap. Judging from the young man’s conversation, he was new to the routes of the Golden Cross, and probably to the entire profession of coaching itself.

  ‘So how long you been a coachman, Mr Chumley?’ said the coffee-drinker to the greatcoated man.

  ‘Thirty-three years. Thirty-three years over the London stones and out over Westminster Bridge. And I knowed the area since well before I was your age.’

  ‘Old Chumley’ll tell you about what happened at the gate here,’ said the pint pot’s associate. ‘C’mon tell the lad, and don’t spare the details.’

  The greatcoated driver removed his pipe, drank half his quart pot and wiped his lips. He brushed away a few crumbs on the table, as though to delay talking. At last he said: ‘It happened thirty-five years ago. And every driver who works out of the Golden Cross knows it, and if you have to hear it from someone, it should be from me. I saw the passenger before and the passenger after. And I have a special connection – I drive the same route.

  ‘It was April, a nice morning, and I was hanging around, sweeping the yard. There was a very pretty young woman who smiled at me as she entered the yard, and she came along in front of my broom. She was probably not yet twenty, with yellow hair that twisted out from under the top of her bonnet, and a tiny little nose, and rosy lips and all her features put together in the very best way. I remember thinking to myself how bonny she looked. She was a passenger on the Rochester and Chatham coach, and as I swept up some hay, I saw her climb on to the coach’s roof. Very pretty ankle I thought. She sat there, waiting to go, the only person on the roof that day, and she gave me another smile. There was a lot of luggage stowed behind her. Well, the driver took the reins, and started, and he calls out, “Mind your head up top,” because the gateway is low. I continued sweeping. Then I heard a scream in a woman’s voice that would scrape your marrow – and it came from the gateway. That young woman had tried to bend back, to avoid her head knocking the arch – but the luggage had prevented her going back far enough. The result was – well, the arch got her. It tore the flesh of her face right up, all the way to the top of her forehead.’

  The young man covered his mouth with his fingers, and with the other hand he pushed his coffee to one side.

  ‘I had to help to get her down, and her face was – well, you wouldn’t want your worst enemy to see it. Lip hanging half off, nose like a dog had savaged it. Well, she was taken to a hospital, and the story got back that she had come up to London to visit a sister who was lying-in. She lasted just over a week in hospital – and then the poor girl died. I will always remember her. I have often thought to myself I got the very last smile from those rosy lips. It was the driver’s fault, definitely. He stacked the luggage, and he was fined five pounds for negligence. Terrible sight, terrible sight.’

  Chumley drank again, and his manner reverted to its previous cheerfulness.

  ‘That’s quite a coat you’re wearing, Mr Chumley,’ said the young man, when he considered a respectful few seconds had passed.

  ‘It was my father’s, and it’ll be my son’s one day,’ he said.

  ‘Tell him about the pockets,’ said he of the pint pot, who continued to circulate his finger in the cigar burn. ‘Go on, tell him.’

  ‘The pockets are very useful,’ said Chumley, ‘though there’s so many even I am surprised by what I find in ’em sometimes. Last week I came across a half-eaten sandwich from the previous week. Bit hard the bread, but the meat wasn’t crawling, so I had that.’

  ‘Show him your bottle of rum.’

  From the depths of a pocket near his waist Chumley took out a bottle marked ‘Poison’ with a death’s head as the stopper. ‘The only real poison to me is that stuff.’ He pointed to the coffee cup of the young man. ‘Coffee and tea are hemlock and arsenic to a true coachman. Now don’t take offence, young ’un, but all I will say is that coachmen like to drink together, we still get the coaches out on time, and when have we not read a waybill right? You’ll be a true coachman when you get rid of that mackintosh, and when you drink ale like the rest of us.’

  ‘You should see Old Chumley handle a young horse on the hill outside Rochester after two quart pots.’

  ‘Some of it’s the cattle, not me,’ said Chumley. ‘Here’s a bit of wisdom, young ’un: make sure you drink a handful of water from the same trough as the horses – let the horse see you do it, give him a pat, and I swear you will get more out of him.’

  ‘What about getting more out the passengers, eh? Tell the lad about that.’

  ‘Always make certain you say to the passengers at your last stop, “I shall be going no further today, ladies and gentlemen.” There are four sorts of passenger when it comes to gratooities. Them as pays nothing. Them as pays not enough. Them as pays with buttons. And them as pays too much. Though between you and me – I don’t think that fourth sort exists. And the ladies – always make certain you talk to the ladies.’

  ‘Very popular with the female passengers, is Old Chumley.’

  ‘Females always like a bit of banter, ’specially the married ones and widows. There’s one widow I know, who always wants to sit on the driving seat next to me, and she doesn’t even get down when the cattle are being changed, like the seat belongs to her, and she watches me all the time and she pats the seat and says, “Come up, Mr Chumley,” when I have finished my inspections. One day I said to her: “I hope you don’t think a seat next to me means more than a seat next to me.” Then I made a joke I am rather proud of. I said: “A woman is the one horse I can’t put a bridle on.” The look she gave me was like she had drunk poison herself! I haven’t seen her since.’ He laughed and swallowed the last froth in his pot. ‘Must be off, gentlemen.’

  Seymour watched as Chumley walked with the strange, stiff gait of the experienced driver, first to the bar to refill his death’s head bottle, and then outside, pausing to shout ‘Commodore coach – Rochester and Chatham,’ at the door.

  Seymour followed into the coachyard, and watched Chumley inspect the buckles of the horses. Chumley smiled obligingly at Seymour, and to all the passengers, as he checked that their names appeared on the waybill. He admitted the insides, but instructed the outsides – of whom Seymour was one – to board on the pavement beyond the Golden Cross’s entrance, once the low arch had been passed. Then Chumley took out his pipe, gathered the reins, made a little whistle through his teeth, and was off, in the direction of Kent.

  *

  The Bull in Rochester stretched a good deal
wider than most inns, occupying a substantial section of Rochester’s high street. The Commodore pulled into the yard, Chumley jumped down, and then took up a position by the coach door, as his palm received thanks from the dispersing passengers. Seymour was the last to step into the yard, and gave three coins, rather than one, for which he received a removal of Chumley’s pipe, and a personal, smoky ‘Thank you, sir,’ rather than the deferential nod given to the previous contributors.

  ‘Between you and me,’ said Seymour, ‘is the Bull a good place to stay?’

  ‘Better than next door, sir,’ whispered Chumley. ‘Don’t go there if you want to be left with anything in your pocket. Man named Sharp is the proprietor. That says it all. His boy’ll ask if you want an errand done – you see what he charges to post a letter.’

  So Seymour entered the Bull, where two tall aspidistras told of its respectability, while its larder came highly recommended by the hams hanging from columns beside the coffee room, with supporting statements from counters bearing joints of beef and lamb, as well as game pies – the latter cut open to reveal their fillings – and if any doubts should linger, they would be dismissed by dangling nets of lemons in which each fruit seemed individually polished, and by three mountainous bowls of eggs – chicken, duck and quail. Most welcoming of all was the smell of freshly brewed coffee, with hints of brandy and mulling spice. Moreover, the place was so clean: a glance across to the twisting staircase showed stairs that were scrubbed, and probably recently, for there was no evidence whatsoever of boots tramping upon them after a disgorging of passengers.

  Unfortunately, as Seymour approached the reception desk, the impression was offset by a middle-aged lady, with an earthy smell like a field on a damp day, who began an argument with the clerk. Rather than wait until the lady had finished her business, Seymour decided to ascend the staircase and explore.

  He wandered into the empty ballroom, where sunshine showed up swirls of chalk dust on the floor. There was an unlit fireplace and a pen for musicians. Empty chairs stood in front of the wainscoting, and on the back of one there was an abandoned poodle-collar frock coat. He opened a door to a dark room at one side, with card tables. Then he approached the row of windows and looked out over the stable yard. A lurcher crossed. He watched it, perhaps considering its potential for a drawing. Then he left, with the intention of returning to the reception desk, but he paused on the stairs, half a flight up, as the lady was still arguing. He heard her say: ‘You know what my sister used to call Rochester and Chatham? Rob ’em and cheat ’em!’ So Seymour took out a sketchbook and drew the particular way in which the staircase twisted.

  When the lady had at last finished the argument, Seymour approached the desk and requested a room. The clerk had a personable manner, and white hair with some darker patches, as well as long beautiful fingers which he splayed across the ledger, spoilt only by a peeling of the skin around the knuckles.

  ‘I was just looking in the ballroom,’ said Seymour. ‘Many functions held here?’

  ‘Quite a lot, sir. The military hire us. They all come. Lancers, dragoons, hussars. Well, they don’t have any alternative. This is the only place for concerts and public entertainments in Rochester.’

  When settled in a room, Robert Seymour lay upon the bed and closed his eyes.

  *

  Mr Pickwick’s third companion would have an eye for the ladies. That would be his form of humbug. He would portray himself as the great conqueror of female hearts, the wooer supreme – and would dress in the style of Beau Brummell. In reality, he would be no more than an ageing, fat, ogling drunkard, incapable of winning the hand of a desperate spinster. This man would go to the ball, led by visions of pretty girls tripping along the dance floor, showing a shapely ankle or a daring décolletage during the performance of a quadrille. The other members of the Corresponding Society, in an alcoholic stupor, would be unable to attend the ball – and so the ogler would be accompanied by another man, who, lacking the appropriate dress for such an occasion, borrowed the sportsman’s club jacket!

  The duel would result from mistaken identity, and the club jacket would be the cause – a jacket of a most distinctive design, with buttons engraved ‘PC’ for ‘Pickwick Club’, but recalling the pugilistic blazers Seymour had seen at the Daffy Club. The wearer of the jacket would involve himself in some imbroglio at the ball, offence would be caused, and Mr Pickwick’s sporting companion, the jacket’s owner, would be blamed.

  Now the circumstances of the imbroglio virtually created themselves.

  The man wearing the jacket would cause trouble by flirting with a woman in whom another man was interested. In the morning a messenger would arrive – and the sportsman would find himself challenged to a duel. The sportsman would believe himself capable of almost anything when drunk and so, although he had not the slightest memory of events of the previous night, he believed he did cause offence; and feeling obliged to defend the honour of the club, he accepted the challenge!

  He would need a second. The poet would be an excellent choice: he would see only the romance of the life-and-death engagement, the stuff of stirring stanzas, not the sportsman’s fear, which set the gun quivering in the palm. Besides, duels had been fought over poetry. If the sportsman were reluctant, the poet would egg him on.

  Seymour opened his eyes. It was all there.

  *

  ‘YOU ARE ASSUMING QUITE AN “if”,’ I said.

  ‘What – that Seymour created the members of the Corresponding Society?’ said Mr Inbelicate. He made a sound which, rendered into letters, would be onamatopoeic for ‘piffle’.

  ‘Scripty, you sound just like a cantankerous old professor.’ He plunged the poker into the fire, on a day that was hot already, and brought the hottest coals to the surface. ‘And they are always ready to assume that others have committed howling errors. We shall return to the creation of Mr Pickwick’s companions in a while.’ He withdrew the poker and pointed it at me. ‘We have agreed that it would be desirable to have a powerful and exciting event at the start.’

  ‘Something dramatic, a unifying event, which would demonstrate the traits of Mr Pickwick and his companions. Which might be a duel.’

  ‘Might be a duel! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to link the sporting character and the Lothario in a single event? Guns and fishing rods occupied an entirely different world from women in those days. Occasionally you would find a female sporting enthusiast, but it was rare. The affaire d’honneur is one of the few links that could exist between sport and women. And I do not believe anything else you could suggest would have the drama of a duel. And it is easy to demonstrate the theme of the reluctant duellist in Seymour’s work. You will recall that he once drew an apparatus to help duellists with weak nerves.’

  ‘Aided in its work by a good dose of laudanum and brandy,’ I said.

  ‘I must also show you one of Seymour’s pictures on foreign affairs. Come with me.’

  In his library, he brought out a copy of McLean’s Monthly Sheet, commenting on strife in Portugal, which showed Queen Maria facing her rival Miguel across a chasm. A man in a cocked hat urged the people: ‘Fight for your illustrious queen!’ A monk similarly urged: ‘Fight for your august king!’

  ‘I see no duel here,’ I said, ‘unless you simply mean opposing parties.’

  ‘No, no, no – it is the caption Seymour has added. “Oh it’s a mighty pretty quarrel!” He has attributed this to Sir Lucius O’Trigger. This is most important as evidence! This is an allusion, Scripty, to a duelling scene in Sheridan’s The Rivals, in which Sir Lucius, an Irish baronet, encourages a reluctant duellist. Mistaken identity is involved too – Seymour was obviously familiar with the play. Read The Rivals, Scripty, and you will see a clear influence upon the duelling scene we are concerned with. We know Seymour went to the Bull because we have the drawing of the staircase. There is no doubt in my mind that he went to Rochester because he conceived of a duel as the best way of linking the traits of the Pickwickians
.’

  ‘If he came up with the traits.’

  ‘What you should be doing is working backwards from the events of the duel. You should be thinking about the borrowing of the jacket. You don’t just lend a stranger clothes. He has to have done something to win your trust. So we must return to Seymour, lying on his bed in the Bull. He closes his eyes. His mind wanders. He starts recalling his own past. He thinks of the time he spent with Joseph Severn, in the studio in Goswell Street. That location was perfectly convenient for Mr Pickwick’s researches in Hampstead, because he could trot to the end of the street, and catch the Hampstead stage at the Angel. Now, let us imagine Goswell Street, on the eve of Mr Pickwick’s departure for Rochester, as Seymour attempts to construct the events he requires.’

  *

  GOSWELL STREET, AT NIGHT, 12 May 1827. Several women formed a group outside the door of the Prince Regent public house. The fanlight illuminated the hooked nose on the first woman, which altered its apparent shape as she turned – she smiled, fair-haired and pretty as a day-old chick, to a man who left the Prince Regent. As he showed no interest in her, she cursed and continued her conversation with the other women.

  A little way along the street, a pawnbroker remained open. A stall at a corner sold coffee at a penny a cup to clerkish-looking men of a disappointed age. Here and there were shops, now shuttered, selling candles, as well as dealers in horse cloths and blankets, and another stall where a woman still weighed out cat’s meat. There were also booksellers, waste-paper dealers, and a store selling anything that haphazardly came to mind: umbrellas, parasols, cigars, memorandum books. Further along, a man was in the road on his knees, clearly the worse for liquor and – as he happened to be near the coach stand – as though reduced to that amusing state of degradation in which he touted for trade as a human horse. This was Goswell Street at night, an ordinary street, on an ordinary night, on 12 May 1827.

  At an ordinary-looking boarding house in this street, Mr Pickwick put on his nightcap and nightshirt. He had returned from a meeting of his club. For – in spite of being a man of solitary intellectual pursuits – Mr Pickwick believed that there was nothing so delightful as to incorporate. Being placed beyond most men’s weakness for the fair sex, Mr Pickwick had instead formed a club, and named it after himself. If some considered this an act of vanity, then his reply was that ‘vanity stimulated philanthropy’ – the fires of self-importance in his bosom were quenched by the waters of benevolence; or, if not by water, by something stronger.