He built a wax wall around the plate’s perimeter, and carefully poured on the yellow aqua fortis. He cursed as he discovered that the wax seal was not true, and the acid leaked from one corner on to the table.
When he had remoulded the wax, he poured again. There was no leak this time, but he could not relax his weary eyes, for he knew he had to stand over the plate, whisking away bubbles with a feather. As all seemed to be progressing well, he went away to prepare a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He returned to see that the acid had bitten completely through one corner and seeped out on to the table again, with a most disagreeable odour. Upon investigation, he realised that the floor was not even, and too much acid was biting in one spot.
Putting a wedge of paper under the table leg, he started afresh. Once more, all seemed to be going well. He watched a few bubbles rise, which he brushed away, but he fell into a daydream, which then turned into a nodding of his head. He was awakened by a stinging of his hand. The acid had sat for so long it had gone straight through the plate, and leaked out. He rinsed his skin, and tried again. This fourth attempt appeared to work without mishap. When he judged the biting to be done, he poured away the acid.
He dared only to give the plate one dose of aqua fortis, and avoided stopping-out varnish, and the merits of a second dip – he was happy merely to have bitten an unsophisticated, uncomplicated line.
A printer down the road allowed him to run off a proof. He stood beside the press in a state of great expectation; but when the image appeared, he felt deflated – the country girl and the gentleman were there, but in lines of soulless insipidity; for, without the varnish, all parts of the picture, whether the country girl’s bonnet or the tip of the gentleman’s cane, were of exactly the same strength. But – he consoled himself – it was much better than might be expected from a man who had never etched in his life. He merely needed more practice.
He had not long returned to the studio when his wife admitted an old friend, a Mr Harrison, a pleasant, easy-going, well-dressed fellow, with impish curls, who had risen to the position of chief clerk in a copperplate printer’s in Castle Street.
‘Happened to be passing,’ he said, as the two shook hands. ‘On my way to dispute an invoice for India paper, and thought I would see how you are.’
‘In truth, Harrison,’ said Buss, ‘I am rather pushed for time. Let us sit and have a quick glass, and I shall explain what I am up to.’
After hearing of Seymour, and Pickwick, and the necessity of practice, and then more practice, Harrison said: ‘Now this could be rather fortunate for me.’
‘Fortunate for you? How so, Harrison?’
‘Some of my friends are putting on a ball, and they have asked me to get a card of admission made up. Would you – as part of your practice – like to design and etch it?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Buss. ‘There was even a ballroom scene in the first number of Pickwick and so it would certainly be in keeping with the publication’s subject matter. Yes, I will do it. I will do it now.’
In a short while, Buss had produced a drawing of tiny figures dancing a quadrille under a chandelier. And as the text of Pickwick had mentioned a harp being carried upstairs to the ballroom at the Bull in Rochester, so Buss incorporated a harpist into the design. He traced the picture to a waxed plate, scratched away, applied acid, and soon had a printing plate to pass to his friend.
‘I am most impressed,’ said Harrison.
‘I think you should wait and see what it prints like before you give me compliments,’ said Buss.
After Harrison left, Buss attempted a trial of another Pickwickian etching. He chose as his subject Mr Pickwick at the military review, from the second number – Mr Pickwick was jammed into the crowd, as a soldier forced him back with a musket butt to the stomach. Buss was reasonably satisfied with the results when he saw the proof, and decided he would send the steel plate off to Chapman and Hall the next day, to demonstrate his progress – but upon inspection of the steel plate in the morning, he saw that a thin layer of rust had accumulated on the surface. This was mystifying. He concluded it had two causes: condensation from the cups of coffee he had drunk while practising late into the night, and his own anxious breath.
He could not send so unprepossessing a plate to the publishers. Accordingly, he rubbed the steel over with emery paper until it was polished.
*
When Edward Chapman examined a proof Bradbury and Evans printed from the plate, he was puzzled. ‘Why has he shown the review taking place in the rain?’ he said to Hall. ‘That isn’t in the letterpress.’
In his innocence, Buss’s application of emery had scratched fine lines all over the surface, creating the effect of a downpour.
‘Quite apart from that,’ said Chapman, ‘I am not at all happy with the figures. The lines are thin. He’s been too sparing with the acid. The drawing has no confidence.’
‘We must in no way discourage him, Edward,’ said Hall. ‘There is so little time. We need his drawings, whatever they are like.’
‘I’ll send him a note saying how pleased we are with his efforts,’ said Chapman.
‘No – tell him that we are pleased with his performance, not efforts. Finish by saying that we look forward to seeing the etching plates for the third number as soon as possible.’
*
After one more day of practice, Buss embarked upon the final drawings for the Pickwick illustrations. His sketch of the fat boy peering into the arbour left the artist dissatisfied, so he redrew it completely, moving the lad and all his corpulence to the foreground. Then came the cricket match, and he showed the ball knocking off the hat of one of the fielders. These two drawings he sent by messenger to Chapman and Hall for immediate approval. While he waited, Buss continued to practise with acid and wax. Every minute had to be usefully employed. The messenger returned with a note stating that the publishers were greatly pleased and expected the etching plates in the morning.
It was unfortunate that, at the first attempt, the wax did not withstand the acid, and a large proportion of the fat boy’s stomach was bitten away.
Buss calmed himself, and tried again – this time, the wax crumbled at the very point of the etching needle. What was wrong? The wax was simply not pliable enough.
He recalled the proprietor in the Gallery of the Fine Arts saying that the temperature of the day could affect the process – and it was chilly. So he added sweet oil to his wax, and hoped. He also lit a fire. But as he sat at the table, such was his anxiety that the needlepoint shook in his hand every time he brought it close to the wax. He was forced to lie down for half an hour to calm himself. When he rose, he certainly felt ready. He decided to attempt the other drawing, of the cricket match, so as to be completely refreshed.
But shortly after the needle made its first groove, he became aware of his daughter’s new canary singing in the next room. It was impossible to concentrate. He covered the cage with a cloth and settled down again.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. He heard the beard model talking in the hall to his wife.
King Lear! He had completely forgotten the session to paint King Lear!
More time ticked away as Buss explained that the session would have to be rescheduled. He was forced to apologise, pay money for the model’s time, and had to hear that a silver-handled badger-hair shaving brush had recently caught the model’s attention, and that he would probably start saving up for it and that he had seen a lovely barber’s bowl too.
‘Once something like that bowl gets into my head, I can’t get it out again,’ said the model. ‘My cousin played the violin in the parlour the other day, and as he applied rosin at his horsehair bow, I kept thinking of lathering up my bristles.’
When Buss had finally seen the beard model out of the door, a spasm at his fingertips destroyed the circularity of a waxen cricket ball.
*
It was a very late hour when Robert Buss knocked at the door of George Adcock, an eng
raver of his acquaintance. After five more knocks, an upstairs window opened and a thin, unhappy head in a nightcap emerged.
‘Why – Mr Buss. What are you doing here?’
‘I must speak to you, Mr Adcock, it is urgent.’
‘Surely it is not so urgent as to plough up a man’s sleep?’
‘I am truly sorry, but I had to come.’
Adcock, carrying a candle and wearing a nightshirt, opened the door, and Buss, carrying a bag that clinked with the sounds of metal and glass, and wearing a downcast expression, thanked Adcock profoundly as he entered the hall. Buss soon explained the awkward circumstances in which he had been placed.
‘There can be no more delays,’ said Buss, as they sat in Adcock’s front room. ‘I must submit the finished plates tomorrow morning. I now realise I cannot do them myself – I came here to beg your help.’
‘But I am an engraver, not an etcher,’ said Adcock.
‘You are far closer to being an etcher than I am.’
‘Mr Buss, I do not even wish to do engraving any longer. I am receiving fewer and fewer commissions. My best days are behind me. I should tell you – my intention is to leave England and seek a new trade in the Caribbean. All I want is a steady, honest and undistinguished life, in a place with a kindly amount of sun.’
‘If you are a man who can uproot himself like that, then surely the change from engraving to etching will be nothing.’
‘But this work could not possibly be my best. I would not wish to leave England with a stain upon my reputation.’
‘If there are mistakes, they will be passed off as mine. No blame will be attached to you. Only to me. But I will be able to hand something to Chapman and Hall, and I will then have a whole month in which to practise until the next number is due. I have brought everything with me – acid, wax, tools, plates.’ He began taking the items from his bag and placing them on a table, in spite of Adcock’s protestations. ‘And of course I have brought the drawings,’ he said. ‘Please. There is nothing else I can do. You are my only hope.’
*
Adcock lit a candle behind a globe of water, to throw light on to the plate. He and Buss sat together into the early hours; and, as they watched for rising bubbles, they reminisced about the circumstances in which they had met. The engraver’s father had been an actor and prompter, and when Buss received a commission to produce a portrait of Mr Sam Vale at the Surrey Theatre, he had met both Adcocks, senior and junior, in the wings.
‘Do you remember Vale’s funny expressions?’ said Adcock.
‘I certainly do,’ said Buss. ‘“As the so-and-so said to the such-and-such”. He even used one when I was setting up my easel and paints. He was wearing a red jacket, and he said: “I hope you will have red on your brush, as the hunter said to the fox.”’
‘My father used to say that if Vale dried up on stage, he would hurl one of his sayings into the play, without a care for the script, and the laughter of the audience would cover up the sound of the prompt.’
‘When we met, you were full of plans to become an actor yourself.’
‘I was. I had a few attempts. Enough to make me realise that engraving would be more stable employment. And it was for a while.’
‘It is a step into the unknown you are taking now.’
‘I am wondering whether you mean the Caribbean or your plates.’
‘The Caribbean of course.’
‘I saw hard times ahead in engraving. I wouldn’t want my family and friends to be obliged to support me. Come – I think we will pour off the acid.’
*
Buss slept for a couple of hours on Adcock’s armchair, but left before the engraver had risen, leaving a note of the most profound thanks.
At the printer’s he saw the proofs. The biting-in had been carried off successfully, but the wax had been poorly scraped away, by a hand used to an engraver’s chisel, not an etcher’s needle. As a result, the drawing appeared amateurish and stiff, without a free-flowing touch. The characters’ heads and hands were a particular dismay. Nonetheless, Buss told himself, Chapman and Hall had said that allowances would be made for inexperience. These plates, of which not one line of etching was actually by Buss himself, would just have to do. After another month’s practice, he would be ready.
*
But on a morning during the previous week, Edward Chapman had called at John Jackson’s house in order to collect some woodcuts. On Jackson’s workbench, Chapman noticed a large and exceptionally fine etching of a fat, bald man on a runaway horse.
‘What is this?’ said Chapman, lifting the etching for a closer look, his eyes poring over the comical way the fat man clung to the horse’s neck. ‘It is wonderful!’
Jackson lifted his eyeshade. ‘A young man called Browne did it. Used to work at Findens the engravers.’
‘Not Hablot Browne?’
‘The same. Do you know him?’
‘He’s done some small woodcuts for us. A man called Fennell put him our way.’
‘Ah, I know Fennell. And someone else I know from Findens, a man called Archer, gave me a copy of this picture yesterday.’
‘I did not know that Browne could etch like this.’
‘Neither did I until I saw this picture. According to Archer, it won the Royal Society of Arts medal. I might show it to some people. A tradesman on a runaway horse is good for a laugh. It might even be a seller for your window.’
‘Certainly the horse is excellent. This Browne boy’s awake!’
*
Two weeks had passed since Robert Buss’s submission of the etching plates. He had subsequently received written instructions for the designs for the next number, and accordingly had sketched Mr Pickwick emerging from a crashed coach on a moonlit night. He continued to practise etching, but by way of relaxation from time to time returned to Satisfaction, his painting of the duel. The large Christmas scene still rested across the two easels, untouched since Hall’s visit, as the possibility of its entering the exhibition had been lost.
Buss was adding paint to a bullet wound when his wife – a woman in her early thirties, with an intense, almost masculine brow – brought in a letter. He recognised the writing as Hall’s, and gently sat down with a cup of tea to read the contents. He broke the seal.
He put down the tea and the blood drained from his face. He reread the letter, and then stood, and began calling in great distress: ‘Frances! Frances! You have no idea what they have done!’
His wife returned to the studio, drying her hands on a cloth.
‘Read it!’
There were two sentences:
Messrs Chapman and Hall thanked Mr Buss for his etchings for The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.
This was to inform Mr Buss, however, that no further illustrations would be required as the work had been placed in the hands of Mr Hablot Browne.
‘We must seek advice from a lawyer, Robert,’ said Frances Buss. ‘They cannot break a contract like this.’
‘There was no contract! That cunning devil Hall came here, treating me with all friendliness – taking special care there was nothing on paper and no witnesses! Oh, I see it now. And I suspected nothing. I listened only to his pleas.’
He grabbed a canvas sack and began gathering all the etching instruments. ‘Every publisher I have worked for has kept his promises. Chapman and Hall begged me to do the work. I gave up the chance of exhibiting my painting for them. And this is how they treat me! Conceited, vulgar fools! And I was the biggest fool for ever taking this on.’
By now all the means of etching were dropped inside the sack. He practically hurled the sack into a cupboard, and then locked the cupboard door.
*
The private secretary showed Mrs Norton into the prime minister’s office, and as soon as the door was shut, she said, with furious urgency in her voice: ‘George is going to sue you for adultery.’
She noticed the scared look in Melbourne’s eyes. This was succeeded by an expression she had never s
een before. It was as if his eyes had turned inward, and could see only himself. This was Melbourne serious, with no mischief, and all the teasing stripped away.
‘I came here as quickly as I could,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to hear this from me. This will not stay a secret for long.’
There was a pause before Melbourne said, with little emotion: ‘How did you find out? Has he told you himself?’
‘I was away visiting my family. George and I had quarrelled about where the children should spend Easter. I took a cab to Birdcage Walk. When I got there, a servant barred my entrance. She told me that the children had been sent away, according to George’s instructions, and that I could not enter the house. That was also according to his instructions.’
She waited, perhaps expecting sympathy for her predicament; if that was her expectation, he did nothing to satisfy it.
She continued: ‘The servant was also instructed to inform me that George is going to sue you for adultery. He will seek substantial damages.’
Even if he said no words, his body and manner spoke with a decisiveness – a decisiveness he had never heretofore shown to her on any occasion. He was instantly unlinking himself from a woman who was now an embarrassment and a source of vexation, and worse.
‘George would not do it without encouragement,’ she said. ‘The Tories have urged him on.’
Suddenly he said: ‘Do you think I don’t see that? It is a vile conspiracy. Your husband wouldn’t have the courage or the brains to do it on his own.’
There was protracted silence, which she broke when she said: ‘You have not asked how I feel. Nor mentioned how this will affect my reputation. I will be made to appear like a painted prostitute in a public court. Do you not care what this will do to me?’
Melbourne scarcely showed a reaction, and merely smoothed down his eyebrows.
She waited, hoping that any moment he would say something. When he did not, her voice did not merely break the silence, but shattered it. ‘God forgive you, Lord Melbourne – go ahead, clear your name. Clear yourself from the stigma of having loved me.’
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 69