Death and Mr. Pickwick

by Stephen Jarvis

  ‘See a lawyer. One who knows technicalities. He might get you out of it.’

  ‘I used to work in the law myself. I know when a contract is cast iron.’

  ‘An alias could hide you.’

  ‘I know my obligations. Besides, I cannot trust people enough. I would be found out.’

  ‘Well, accept your fate, and don’t complain. There must be scores of writers who are in debt, locked up in the Fleet. Whereas, look at you – a glass of good wine, with cigars, and enough left over to buy your mate here a drink.’

  ‘I have security, true. There are benefits. And – I may say – I would not accept the offer, even if I could. I know this Seymour. Touchy. A more temperamental illustrator in London isn’t to be found. But – it grates on me that I cannot choose to throw this offer back in his face.’

  ‘Ah, smoke another cigar, and forget him.’

  *

  Of the two usual motivations for moving house – the pinch of necessity, or the demonstration of one’s rise in the world – the move of the Seymour family across Islington, to 16 Park Place West, was decidedly of the latter kind. Situated at the end of a fashionable terrace, it possessed a decently sized nicely laid-out garden, to the delight of Mrs Seymour, complemented by a summer house which it was agreed would be an excellent place for Seymour to do his work when the weather turned warm. They moved in before Christmas, and when they opened the French windows on the first day and stepped out with their children into the garden, it was in the knowledge that Bell’s New Weekly Messenger had recently stated: ‘Seymour seems to be beating Cruikshank out of the field.’

  *

  It was early January when Seymour next paid a visit to the Strand, to enquire about progress in the search for a supplier of letterpress.

  ‘You asked William Clarke!’ said Seymour. ‘Why ask him? Why?’

  Edward Chapman and William Hall exchanged puzzled glances.

  ‘He seemed a good choice,’ said Chapman. ‘But in any case he has not replied.’

  ‘I am glad of it! You have not heard him talk of the law?’

  ‘Neither of us has met him,’ said Hall.

  ‘On the basis of a few months spent in his youth as a junior lawyer’s clerk he thinks himself as learned as the Lord Chancellor. No, he will not do. The very fact he could not be bothered to answer shows that he cannot be trusted to supply words.’

  ‘If I may ask, Mr Seymour,’ said Chapman, ‘is something the matter?’

  *

  Thomas Kibble Hervey had failed to complete the letterpress on time. The Book of Christmas appeared, absurdly, after Christmas. For those following the Gregorian calendar of the Orthodox Church, when Christmas falls on 7 January, The Book of Christmas might have been a well-timed present. For all other Christians, the festival was a thing done with for another year, and The Book of Christmas in January was of no more interest than a stale plum pudding. It was unfortunate, therefore, that as soon as the artist had entered the premises in the Strand, such a pudding loomed in the conversation, when Edward Chapman, in a spirit of friendliness, remarked on how amusing he had found Seymour’s Christmas drawing for Figaro. The drawing showed Melbourne dressed as a cook, bringing in a steaming Christmas pudding marked ‘Reform’ on a platter – only for Wellington, and other ermine-clad Tories, to descend upon it, and pluck out the plums, as though reform was a pudding too rich for England’s stomach.

  Not surprisingly, Hervey’s failure came to Seymour’s mind.

  *

  ‘Nothing is the matter,’ said Seymour, though the tone of his voice plainly indicated that something was. ‘You must try again. Let me say once more I need someone fast. Someone who will complete work when it is meant to be completed.’

  When Seymour left, Chapman said: ‘I think Leigh Hunt could be our man. We must approach him without delay. He is reputed to be punctual in producing letterpress.’

  But on an afternoon towards the end of January 1836, Edward Chapman held in his hand a letter of rejection from that same Mr Hunt. Seymour had been in the office the day before, all but delivering an ultimatum that a writer must be found in the next two weeks.

  Across the room, at a desk, sat Charles Whitehead, who came in on certain days to work on the Library of Fiction.

  Chapman eyed up the scholarly-looking Whitehead. Chapman did note the slight tremor in Whitehead’s hand as he read through a manuscript; but that did not seem a great concern when the Library of Fiction was going according to schedule.

  That evening, after Whitehead tidied up his desk, he raised a hand to say goodnight, but Chapman said: ‘Do you have a moment, before you leave?’

  Shortly afterwards, Whitehead discussed Chapman’s proposal at the bar of the Grotto – his drinking partner that night was a reasonably handsome fellow in spectacles, who earned a reasonable living in administrative work in a theatre, though when he first drank in the Grotto he had yearned to be an actor, albeit with no experience to support the proposition.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ said the reasonably handsome fellow. ‘The ideas are all laid out for you in these drawings. It’s a club of drunkards, and whatever it is they get up to, you write about. This is very easy money, Charlie. Take it.’

  ‘I am not sure. It’s the regularity of the thing. Published in monthly numbers. The last time I did anything as regular was when I was a clerk. I can’t go back to that. I am bad enough writing against time as it is.’

  ‘You be careful about what you talk yourself into believing, Charlie Whitehead.’

  ‘You don’t understand the way my mind works when it comes to writing. Let’s say I rise on Monday morning. I know that I have until Friday of the following week to get the work done. Plenty of time, I say to myself. So I go for a drink. Probably here. The time to submit the work gets closer, and I start to get worried. The easiest way to forget my worries is—’

  ‘Drink, I know. And it works.’

  ‘But then I become nervous. My whole system gets excited and agitated. I go back home and try to write – and the words do not come. So I look out of the window, down on to the street. There is nothing to inspire me but the dirt in the gutter. Then I know that I will not have the work in on time, but I also know I must. Then the publisher sends me a note, urging me on; and then – suppose I fall miserably ill.’

  ‘Oh Charlie! Don’t think like this!’

  ‘But I do!’ He took a mouthful of rum. ‘So I write to the publisher and say I am sorry, I may be a little late, that it will never happen again. I make a pledge that in the future I will write in advance. I promise that he shall have the work by the Monday, and in the future I will always be well in advance. But the promise gets me even more nervous. And this must be kept up month after month! No, the right thing is to turn it down. I am better at writing when the mood takes me.’

  ‘That makes you better at being poor.’

  ‘That is the writer’s lot.’

  ‘Charlie Whitehead, you should take this work. It could be the making of you. Don’t you fear being reduced to complete penury?’

  ‘If necessary, I shall apply to the Literary Fund for assistance.’

  ‘Ah! Now we get the truth. This club of drunkards thing is hard work, and you think if you apply to the fund you can get money for nothing.’

  ‘If the work were more congenial, I would do it. But it is not. Now, no more of this. It is spoiling the evening.’

  *

  The next morning, Whitehead went to the Strand and informed Edward Chapman that he had decided to decline the offer.

  ‘I am truly sorry, Mr Whitehead,’ said Chapman. ‘Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?’

  ‘I think not. But I have been considering who else you might approach. You could try one of the writers I have recruited to do some pieces for the Library of Fiction. I knew him when I was working at the Monthly Magazine. He’s a parliamentary journalist and he writes short stories under the pen name of Boz.’

  ‘Ah, I think I have
heard of him. Is he reliable?’

  ‘I am a little concerned that I haven’t received his stories yet. But he is a busy man. There is no cause for panic yet. A prod should do it.’

  He wrote down the real name of Boz and an address at Furnival’s Inn.

  *

  When Charles Whitehead awoke in the morning, he was not in his own lodgings. His head ached. He was lying on a bed, outside the covers, still wearing his clothes, only his boots removed. The room was clean and tidy, and sunlit, and had virtually no colour except white. There were no lace edges, no vases, no mirrors and no pictures. The only decoration was a large crucifix on a chest of drawers, placed so that the eyes of anyone sitting up in bed – as Whitehead was then, wondering where he was – would be perfectly aligned with its centre. A Bible lay beside the bed.

  He had some recollection of a person lifting him up from the street.

  The door opened and a thin, unsmiling man came in, whose cheekbones were so prominent they reminded Whitehead of naked heels. He had seen the face before.

  ‘You sell the Christian Observer on the streets,’ said Whitehead.

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Did you bring me here?’

  ‘I did my duty as a Christian to help you. This is my home.’

  ‘I am grateful. I thank you. I do not deserve such charity.’

  ‘You were dragged down by drink. You were on the pavement. I could not walk by.’

  Whitehead rubbed his forehead. ‘May I splash some water on my face?’ He pointed towards a plain ewer, bowl and towel which lay behind the crucifix.

  ‘You may, sir.’

  As he dried his face, Whitehead said: ‘I made a decision. Then I came to believe I had made the wrong decision. I drank much more than I normally do. You must have found me at a late hour.’

  ‘My duty is not governed by the clock. Are you a Christian, sir?’

  ‘I am. Not a good one. I did not ask the Lord for guidance. I should have done. I write for a living.’

  ‘What is it that you write?’

  ‘Stories. Some drama. Poetry.’

  ‘Imaginative literature. I see.’ He breathed heavily, in undisguised disapproval. ‘I believe it is no accident our paths have crossed. I endeavour to do the work of the Lord. It is my concern, as a Christian, that the public taste moves towards you.’

  ‘I presume you mean away from Scripture.’

  ‘Are you not worried, sir, about the effect of your writing? Especially on the young.’

  ‘I am not successful enough for my works to make an impression.’

  ‘A work that starts small may grow in influence. Years ago, I stood in protest outside the theatres playing Life in London. I saw it as my duty. How many innocent nightwatchmen doing their duty were attacked because the young thought it a joke? I distributed Scripture to the theatregoers, because someone had to take a stand. I knew that Life in London would deprave, and I was right.’

  ‘With respect, I would not judge all imaginative literature by the standards of Life in London, sir.’

  ‘Truth is the mind’s only wholesome food.’ He closed his eyes as he breathed in. ‘You may share my family’s bread this morning. But I would ask you not to mention your literature at the table, before my wife and children. You are welcome nonetheless.’

  *

  ONE MORNING, AS I WAS buttoning my shirt, I heard Mr Inbelicate playing The Kinks’ ‘Death of a Clown’ downstairs. It was the first time there had been music in the house. By the time I joined him at the breakfast table, the tune had changed to ‘Vesti la giubba’ from Pagliacci. Other clown-themed songs followed, because he had made a collection of pieces in this vein.

  ‘Edward Holmes said that music isn’t sauce,’ I remarked, as I cut into my bacon. ‘I tend to agree.’ I continued eating in grudging silence until Dylan’s ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ played. ‘This isn’t even a clown song,’ I said.

  ‘Shush.’ We listened until the song reached the lyric about a clown who cried in the alley, when Mr Inbelicate pointed at me, smiled and said: ‘It is.’

  ‘I presume you are setting the mood for our discussions today.’

  ‘I am. You will remember, Scripty, Chatham Charlie’s obsession with clowns, when he was a boy.’

  ‘He pestered his father with questions about the size of clowns’ mouths and so on,’ I replied.

  ‘Imagine how his interest must have been piqued, when he was grown up, and he read the account of the death of J. S. Grimaldi in the Morning Chronicle. What details of the death do you remember, Scripty?’

  ‘The clown vomited, became delirious, with terrible hallucinations, and dressed himself in his stage outfit and even applied make-up. He had to be held down on his bed, until he breathed his last. Debauchery and drunkenness were blamed.’

  ‘Yes – excessive dissipation was said to have destroyed him. And don’t you think Chatham Charlie’s interest must have reached a frenzy of fascination when rumours began to circulate about the real cause of the clown’s death? Rumours of foul play.’

  ‘This is what you said à Beckett heard, but I did not give it any credence.’

  ‘The vomiting and hallucinations would be consistent with poisoning.’

  ‘Who would have done it?’

  ‘Some people said a prostitute, and that Grimaldi had refused to pay his bill, or that he did something else to cross her. There were witnesses who said that on the night before his death, J. S. Grimaldi had taken a well-dressed lady to the theatre in Tottenham Street, and they had occupied a box on the night of a performance, and an argument began. An argument so loud it could even be heard on stage. And those weren’t the only rumours of foul play.

  ‘There was talk of bruises which had been found on the clown’s body, on his ribs, ankles and knees. What was the explanation for those? Had he mistimed a tumble? Had he fallen through a trap? Or had he been in a fight with a prostitute’s pimp? Some people said a pugilist was involved, and that he was jealous of Grimaldi’s association with the woman.’

  ‘There seem to be a lot of “some people saids” here. I’d like to see evidence.’

  ‘The rumours may well have been entirely groundless, pure fabrications of the mob. They were undoubtedly stoked up by the extraordinary decision to bury the clown’s body before the inquest, as though there was something to hide. But think of these rumours reaching the ears of Chatham Charlie. They feed the idea of a tale he might write. He thinks of a clown, on a deathbed, experiencing hallucinations brought on by drink. A clown who imagines that his wife plans to murder him. In the inferno of his fever, the clown actually believes his faithful wife is capable of putting rat poison in his gin, or strangling him, or plunging a blade into his chest.’

  ‘Right between the pompoms,’ I said.

  ‘Be serious!’

  ‘A dying clown should surely get some laughs,’ I replied.

  ‘All right. But listen. The clown believes his wife will kill him by some method, because he deserves it – for all the terrible abuse and beatings he has given her in the past. Well, Chatham Charlie doesn’t write the story straight away. He shelves the idea for several years. He lets it mature. But Chatham Charlie knew he would write the story of the dying clown one day. Suppose the idea returns to him at odd moments. Such as when he goes out to watch the latest entertainment of those days, a diorama show.’

  *

  HE SAT AMONG THE AUDIENCE in a sweaty backstreet theatre. On stage came a cylinder-hatted showman dressed in black, who gestured to a small square frame with its own miniature proscenium arch. Between the arch’s columns was a canvas roll bearing vividly painted pictures, which crossed from right to left as an assistant cranked a handle, so the audience saw a constant succession of changing images: a coach rolling along the road, stopping at various towns; a ship at sea, and terrible waves, and a shipwreck; scenes of the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo. Another assistant added sounds: the clip-clopping of horse hooves, wind and waves, and cracks suggestiv
e of gunfire.

  As he watched the scenes roll by under the little theatrical arch, he recalled once again the death of young Grimaldi. Was it really foul play? Who would murder a clown? Clowns are noisy, they are bright, they are cheerful. Some people hate clowns, but it is hate in the way you hate a vegetable, or eggs. It must have been drunkenness and debauchery, he concludes. But thoughts of the dying clown will not leave him alone.

  He left the theatre, went into the cool night, and wandered a little way. He stopped to inspect the wares of a second-hand book cart stationed under a street lamp. He inspected the spines of the various items, and chanced upon a work published in twelve numbers, held together by a well-rubbed and very frayed string, whose winding fibres suggested a skeletal ribcage.

  *

  ‘IT WAS A WORK PUBLISHED a few years after he was born,’ said Mr Inbelicate. ‘A work of words and pictures by two people we have encountered before, Combe and Rowlandson – for their collaboration did not end with Dr Syntax. The work was called The English Dance of Death.’

  *

  HE UNDID THE KNOT, AND turned to the title page, which bore a quotation from Horace:

  With equal Pace, impartial Fate

  Knocks at the Palace, as the Cottage Gate.

  He was captivated instantly by Rowlandson’s pictures of Death, in the form of a skeleton, appearing at the very moment of transition to the next world.

  *

  At the altar of an English church stands a fat old rake marrying a young slim bride – Death, dressed as the vicar, will claim the groom before the covers of the marriage bed are thrown back.

  Then comes Death the prizefighter, his knuckles literally bare as he squares up – lying on the ground is a bloodied boxer who will not rise before the count of a thousand, let alone ten.

  Next, Death the hunter on a steed of rattling bones – he chases huntsmen and their hounds over a cliff edge.

  And Death as a stagecoach driver at Bath, beside the Pump Room door: men on crutches pull his coach, and the whip in his bony hand urges them on, to die faster.

  He turned another page – and saw Rowlandson’s picture of the death of a clown. The skeleton thrust an hourglass into the face of the wan, wasted entertainer. Under the picture were the lines: