Death and Mr. Pickwick

by Stephen Jarvis

  ‘There is really no one among your contacts?’

  ‘Mr Hall, etchers are amateurs – or bodgers – or dabblers – or women. It is art by chemicals.’

  ‘I had assumed it takes great skill.’

  ‘It takes immense skill. It is the poor reputation of etching nowadays that deters most decent artists from doing it. Seymour was an exception. He didn’t mind what people thought. It will be extraordinarily difficult to replace him.’

  Jackson put down the last woodblock. ‘Mr Hall, let me tell you the difference between steel engraving and steel etching. A good engraver, working away patiently, can gouge a line as thick as a wire one minute, and as fine as a newborn baby’s hair the next. He is a proud man. And with good reason, for it has taken him years to learn the technique. Now you say to such a man that the thickness of a line should be determined by how long a piece of metal spends in an acid bath, and he will be appalled. An etching can never have the subtlety of an engraving. The two look completely different when they are printed, and only the engraved picture has professional esteem attached to it. But etching is still a very skilful technique in its own right.’

  ‘Exactly how skilful?’ said Hall. ‘Could someone learn to do it in time for the next number of Pickwick?’

  ‘Impossible! Mr Hall, etching takes great experience and judgement. And constant practice. Practice to acquire the skill in the first place, and then practice so that the hand retains its expertise. It is like playing the piano or the violin. Stop the daily practice and you’ll soon notice the difference.’

  ‘Why would someone take the trouble to learn if, as you say, it is held in such poor regard?’

  ‘If an artist is prepared to defy its reputation – then, there is nothing like etching. Etching is freedom. Etching is speed. All you do is scratch away at wax and then the acid does the hard work for you. No tiresome labour with a graver on the metal. And very soon the printing plate is done and you can move on to the next picture. Seymour was the fastest artist in London, and etching completely suited his temperament.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said Hall, ‘someone could be persuaded that etching is easy?’

  ‘The man would be a fool. And even if you found a fool – what good would it do you? The results wouldn’t be worth printing.’

  ‘It might buy us time. It might get us some sort of picture, even if it were only a stopgap. And all the while, we could be looking for someone better. Or perhaps – perhaps, Mr Jackson, the fool might turn out to be a man of exceptional talent. A man who learns with the speed of lightning.’

  ‘It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done. A novice starting to etch would need unbelievable patience and determination. Plate after plate would be ruined as he tried to learn. For that matter, plate after plate would be ruined even after he had learnt. No, give up this folly, Mr Hall. And give up Pickwick altogether. Close it down. When Seymour shot himself, he took Pickwick with him to hell.’

  ‘Mr Jackson, are there any artists you know who might just be persuadable? Think of your professional contacts. Who among them might take on this task? Especially if we said that you had recommended them. Who might give it a go?’

  Jackson hesitated, and appeared to consider someone, but then said: ‘There is nobody.’

  ‘I would pay a consultant’s fee for your recommendation. Let me ask you once more. Think carefully. There is someone, isn’t there?’

  At last, Jackson said: ‘A certain fellow does cross my mind. I wouldn’t be surprised if you know his work already. He does quite a few woodcuts, as well as painting. If you keep at him – I think he could be persuaded. Stand your ground, and he’s the sort of character who’ll crack.’

  *

  The door of the house in Compton Street opened, and a crafty-looking man with a considerable grey beard stepped outside.

  ‘Doing an apostle for you is one thing, Mr Buss, but I don’t know.’

  ‘I pay you very well – and that’s something you do know.’ A man in his early thirties, wearing a black woollen cap, and exhibiting eyes of pleasant humour and a determination around the lips, appeared at the doorway.

  ‘I am tired of all the funny looks,’ said the bearded man.

  ‘Those bristles keep you in work.’

  ‘Don’t you ever ask me to do Judas, that’s all I say. I’d be thrown out of the few circles in London that are still willing to have me.’

  While they were talking, a cab drew up. ‘Good morning, Mr Buss,’ said the new arrival as he stepped on to the pavement.

  ‘Mr Hall,’ said Robert Buss, ‘this is a surprise.’ He turned once more to the bearded man. ‘King Lear next time.’

  ‘I’m not promising. If I do keep away from the razor, I’ll be there.’ The bearded man took his leave.

  ‘Do come in, Mr Hall.’

  Hall stepped into the hall.

  ‘Curious customer that man with the beard,’ said Robert Buss.

  ‘He looked it.’

  ‘He’s the model for every artist who does a canvas based upon Shakespeare, Scott or the Bible. But he is always threatening to shave. Come through. I have some home-brewed bivvy – can I persuade you to try some?’

  ‘That is very hospitable of you, Mr Buss. Yes, why not, thank you.’

  William Hall waited in the studio among the easels and half-finished canvases, and when Buss returned bearing two foaming tankards, Hall was to be found inspecting a berry-patterned enamel plate displayed upon a shelf.

  ‘An old piece of mine,’ said Buss. ‘My father wanted me to become an enameller.’

  ‘Even a practical man like myself could not help being drawn to the colours. I noticed as well this very interesting painting over here.’

  It was a picture on the wall showing a little girl weeping over her pet canary. The bird lay dead upon the top of a barrel. In the background sat a presiding officer in military dress amid all the trappings and personnel of a court martial, while a poor cat, the probable killer of the bird, had been tied to a spade.

  ‘If I am not mistaken,’ said Hall, ‘the officer and the sentry are both you, are they not?’

  ‘Yes, and the little girl is my daughter. She lost her pet canary. I like the humour of it. Yet – poor bird too. I have always hated the thought of what cats do to birds.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Hall noticeably shuddered. ‘That painting over there is intriguing as well.’

  On an easel was an incomplete picture showing the aftermath of a duel: one duellist lay already dead with a bullet through his brain, while the other, bearing a wound likely to be mortal, was being carried away by seconds.

  ‘I am going to call it Satisfaction,’ said Buss. ‘I was thinking about the pointlessness of duels. How can a bullet possibly determine right and wrong?’

  ‘Indeed. You have heard about the death of Seymour, I presume.’

  ‘Yes.’ He drew in a breath. ‘There were people who said that Seymour had no equal as a caricaturist. I have friends who knew him. I was speaking to one who was with him a couple of months ago. It was a happy evening apparently – concerning, strangely enough, his involvement with you.’

  ‘Oh is that so?’

  ‘I understand there was a little party gathered in the parlour at Seymour’s house and they read out Boz’s work, and laughed until very late. Weren’t Mr Hunt and some magazine writers considered before Boz?’

  ‘Mr Hunt, yes. And Mr Clarke, if you know him.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘And Charles Whitehead, whom you do know.’

  ‘Yes, I have done the picture he asked for. Curiously enough, for a story by Boz. I shall go and fetch it in a moment, and you can pass it to Mr Whitehead. Do you know, my friend told me that after Boz’s work was read out, everyone agreed that he was the person to carry out Seymour’s plan. What a shame it cannot proceed. Now have you seen this? It is the most ambitious picture I have ever attempted.’ He took Hall to the end of the studio, where a large painting lay across two easels – unfinishe
d, but showing Christmas in the time of Queen Elizabeth, with all the indoor activities of the season, including a yule log ablaze and drinkers around the wassail bowl. ‘It must be completed soon for exhibition.’

  ‘Very good. It was actually about Boz that I came to see you.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the drawing for you now.’

  ‘My main concern is not actually that drawing. Mr Buss, let me come straight to the point. I need to find a replacement for Seymour. Someone who will draw and etch pictures for the publication you have mentioned. You see, we do wish to proceed with it, but with a new artist. Mr Jackson came in the other day with some woodcuts, and I asked for his opinion on whom I might approach to be Seymour’s replacement. Without a moment’s hesitation, he suggested that I should approach you.’

  Buss laughed. ‘Mr Hall, I have never held an etching needle in my life. If John Jackson suggested me, it is a joke! I know nothing about etching.’

  ‘My understanding is that etching is a very simple technical process. It may well be, Mr Buss, that precisely because you have not used an etching needle before, you have not experienced its great simplicity.’

  ‘You cannot put a novice into Seymour’s shoes.’

  ‘My partner and I will make due allowance for any lack of experience.’

  ‘Mr Hall, even if it were possible, I would have to stop work on my Christmas painting. If I interrupt the work, I will miss the date for submission to the exhibition.’

  ‘Mr Buss, I am appealing to you to help us in our hour of need. I know in my marrow you are the man.’

  ‘I know I am not.’

  ‘Think of what you could do, not what you have done.’

  ‘Really and truly – I am not the person you want.’

  ‘My powers of judgement have always been envied. When I met Boz, I judged he was the right man to be Seymour’s partner. My judgement will be right about you. One look at these paintings convinces me. Let me be frank – the work has not yet caught fire among the public. I am afraid that may be the fault of my partner, who is a charming man, but sometimes his judgement goes awry. You see, he agreed the proportion of pictures to letterpress, and that proportion was in error. And – it is my belief we had the wrong artist at the start, as well. This is a new beginning.’

  ‘New beginning or not—’

  ‘My judgement now is that we should double our current print run for this third number. That is a measure of the confidence I have in your abilities, Mr Buss. It is how much I am prepared to risk – because I know it is not a risk. I put my faith in you. All I ask is that you say yes.’

  *

  Robert Buss had long been a customer of the Gallery of the Fine Arts, otherwise known as the Temple of Fancy of Rathbone Place, and he often emerged from its door with a shopping-chit-load of artistic supplies: a small cake of ultramarine – five black lead pencils – a red sable brush – a moulded picture frame – and all manner of sundries to bulge a canvas bag. When he entered the gallery at the end of April, the habitual friendliness of the owners came out for a valued client. These owners were two brothers, with identical white, puffy heads of hair, and identical grey suits. They shook the artist’s hand in a flourish of keenness, pink skin and perfectly manicured fingernails.

  ‘How exceedingly good to see you again, Mr Buss,’ said one brother. ‘I was struck by a woodcut of yours recently, showing a scene on a beach. Did you see it, Joseph?’

  ‘How remiss of me,’ said the other brother. ‘I did not.’

  ‘It showed a painter, so obsessed with capturing the sea on his canvas that he did not notice the tide was lapping at his boots. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Buss?’

  ‘It is. I am always impressed by your knowledge.’

  ‘I did see another picture of yours recently, Mr Buss, on a musical theme,’ said the other brother. ‘Did you see it, Samuel?’

  ‘I don’t believe I did, Joseph. Do tell.’

  ‘It showed a man practising on the trombone in the early hours of the morning, to the great annoyance of his landlady. Most amusing.’

  ‘You always astonish me,’ said Buss. ‘I am amazed you see so much.’

  ‘If one of us doesn’t see it,’ said Joseph.

  ‘The other will,’ said Samuel. ‘But how may we help you today, Mr Buss?’

  ‘I was hoping that you could tell me something about etching.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’ said Joseph, coming to the fore as his brother retreated to another customer in the rear of the shop, who by a raised finger had indicated a willingness to purchase. ‘I am, if I may say so, the etching expert. My brother knows engraving. He feels that the few extra years he has upon me give him the wisdom to advise on the use of the graver, while I am the man for the acid.’

  ‘I would like to know some basic principles,’ said Buss. ‘For instance – how long does the acid take to act upon the metal?’

  ‘There is no simple answer. Some lines are bitten deeper than others. It might take a minute, it might take two hours. It depends on the drawing. It is a question of the effect you want to achieve.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it was silly of me even to ask. I should have known. I should have thought about it. If I had thought about it, I would have known. But you see – I haven’t thought about it before.’

  ‘We have some excellent books on the art of etching. There are introductory works we can supply which, if you study hard, should in due course—’

  ‘I need to be fully proficient in three weeks.’

  The shopkeeper emitted a squeak-snort which disturbed the professional conviviality of his brother, who was then giving change for a hog’s hair varnish brush.

  ‘Mr Buss,’ said Joseph, ‘I would be defrauding you if I were to sell you a book on that basis.’

  ‘I must learn. I am replacing Seymour.’

  ‘Replacing Seymour? And in three weeks? Mr Buss, is this some sort of prank? You haven’t been put up to this by Ackermann, have you? Does he think he can show me up to be a shyster?’

  ‘You must help me. Please. I need to buy everything required to etch in steel. The plates, the needles, the acid, the wax – everything.’

  The other proprietor now came over. A jerkiness came to their two faces, manifested especially in twitches of the mouth.

  ‘Mr Buss,’ said Samuel, ‘when you make studies preparatory to your paintings, you buy chalk from us. You also buy pencils of various degrees of hardness, blackness and breadth of point. That is so?’

  ‘I am a loyal customer.’

  ‘The drawings you are used to making are nothing like the thin pen-and-ink lines for an etching. All your previous experience is the utter opposite of what is required.’

  ‘And scratching through wax,’ said Joseph, ‘is completely different from taking a pencil and drawing on paper. To go from your current state to producing designs equal to those of a master etcher like Seymour, why, you would … you would…’

  ‘Need a miracle to succeed,’ said Samuel.

  ‘I have given my word,’ said Buss. ‘I will not let people down. There is a principle involved.’

  The two brothers looked at each other with great concern, until Samuel nodded to Joseph, who proceeded to walk around the gallery collecting all the various items involved in the process of etching, talking as he did so – perhaps to provide Buss with insights into technique, more likely in a final attempt to dissuade him from folly.

  ‘An etcher,’ said Joseph, ‘has to take into account the strength of the acid – the metal surface – the temperature of the day – and the quality of the illustration required.’ He picked up a small bottle of fluid. ‘This liquid is crucial. It is stopping-out varnish.’

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Buss.

  Samuel’s manifestation of incredulity was covered by a handkerchief.

  ‘It is impervious to acid,’ said Joseph. ‘For perspective, lines in the foreground must be etched deeper than those in the background. So after you have submerged the plate j
ust long enough for the most delicate lines to be bitten, you take it out, wash it, dry it, and then brush this varnish on those lines. It dries straight away. Then you repeat the process for the next most delicate lines, and so on, until only the strongest lines remain.’

  ‘And then I would be done?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Buss, then you would be done. As long as the wax has stood up – because if it gives way, and the acid seeps uncontrollably on to the metal, it’s a disaster. Mr Buss, buy these items if you like, but set aside six months, at the very least, to learn and gain experience.’

  ‘I keep my word.’

  *

  White and black: the paper and the ink, the day and the night that Robert Buss devoted to practice.

  Trial drawings flowed from his studio: men from the sixteenth century in ruffs; muscular horses’ limbs; a proud military officer; a fetching country lass in a bonnet; as well as heads, hands and draperies from numerous angles. He realised, from the book bought at the gallery, that if he drew lines too closely together, the thin intervening threads of metal would collapse under the action of the acid. The aim was to suggest much, by few lines – with the unfortunate consequence that he drew in a timid style, and often he scowled at his own pictures.

  Among the trials were a number of the Pickwickians, with Buss’s interpretations of scenes from the two already-published parts, and also from the notes Boz provided of the content of the forthcoming number. So when Boz penned a scene based upon his old friend Potter’s attribution of a bad head to a meal of salmon, rather than to the alcohol that was its true cause, Buss drew Mr Pickwick and his Friends under the Influence of the Salmon, with Mr Pickwick dancing in the centre, his waistcoat maladroitly buttoned, throwing his hat in the air, holding his glass in his hand. While when Boz wrote of the sleepy fat boy, using his memories of James Budden of Chatham, and described him peering into an arbour, where Seymour’s Lothario attempted to woo a spinster, Buss drew The Fat Boy Awake on this Occasion Only. He also drew a sketch of a cricket match witnessed by the Pickwickians, showing a player hit on the nose by a ball.

  But now he had to attempt his first etching. He decided upon a simple scene of a bonneted country girl carrying a basket, scrutinised by a top-hatted, cane-carrying admirer of the female form.