Death and Mr. Pickwick

by Stephen Jarvis

  ‘There is a new character I have in mind,’ said Boz, when the two were seated. ‘If you were taken on, he would be among the first you would draw.’

  ‘A new character? I should paint my beard red in his honour. That’d make you laugh. What sort of character?’

  *

  ‘ADAM CAME FROM DUST; AND from London mud would arise another man – a bootblack,’ said Mr Inbelicate.

  *

  BOZ HAD ALREADY, FOR A play, invented a one-eyed boots, who walked along the corridor of an inn carrying a lantern, picking up the footwear outside the doors, chalking the room number on the soles of each pair. This bootblack saw customers as their shoes: ‘Werry happy to see there an’t no high-lows – they never drinks nothing but gin and vater,’ said the bootblack, chattering away to himself. ‘Them and the cloth boots is the vurst customers an inn has – the cloth boots is alvays abstemious, only drinks sherry vine and vater, and never eats no suppers.’

  Something of this could be used again for the Sancho Panza figure. Though a second eye should be added. The new bootblack would see very well. Or rather, he vould see werry vell. He vould see werry vell indeed.

  Perhaps he would be a rascal. The sort to pilfer a bottle of Madeira from his employer’s cellar if he could get away with it. Perhaps he would be a ‘weller’, in the criminal sense of the word.

  No, that wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be a thief. Just sharp.

  But the name of Weller was right.

  The name had followed Boz around over the years. That in itself was a good augury. The first Weller in his life was his childhood nurse, whose passion for gruesome tales was a trait he might use in the bootblack. Then there was Sam Vale, the actor with the peculiar sayings; Vale – when pronounced as ‘Wale’ – was close to Weller. What if the bootblack had picked up some of the actor’s sayings – and coined new ones of his own? If he cleaned boots in Southwark, near the Surrey Theatre, that was plausible. Sam would be an excellent first name for him, too.

  Then there was Seymour’s drawing of a servant. It could be improved, sharpened. Soon Boz could see – actually see, in his mind’s eye – the character cleaning boots in the yard of the White Hart Inn in Southwark. Sam Weller wore a striped waistcoat – black calico sleeves – blue glass buttons – a bright red handkerchief around his neck – no, not merely around, but wound in a very loose and unstudied style – and a hat too, an old white hat, carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were plenty of characters on the streets who had these as bits and pieces of appearance, but they needed to be brought together. And there he was in the inn yard, when his work shining shoes was interrupted – the maid on the balcony called out ‘Sam!’

  ‘Hallo,’ replied the man with the white hat.

  ‘Number twenty-two wants his boots.’

  ‘Ask number twenty-two vether he’ll have ’em now, or vait till he gets ’em.’

  Boz burst out laughing himself at that, when he heard – actually heard – Sam Weller give that response.

  *

  It was evening, the end of the first week of June, when Boz carried the manuscript of the fourth number of Pickwick to the Strand. Upon entering the establishment of Chapman and Hall, he saw neither of those gentlemen, but rather an unfamiliar young man who sat behind the counter reading a copy of The Christian Year. He was perhaps twenty years old, with a dark greasiness to his skin, and deep pools of eyes which flickered with bright intelligence. The young man stood to attention as soon as the door opened and revealed himself to be extraordinarily tall and thin.

  ‘You must be Boz,’ he said.

  ‘How on earth did you know?’

  The young man chuckled. ‘You are too determined to be a customer, and I am aware of the manuscripts expected to come in over the next few days. And’ – he chuckled again – ‘you should also know, I have charged three previous men with being Boz today! Pleased to meet you, sir. I am Thomas Naylor Morton, Chapman and Hall’s reader, among other things.’

  ‘Is Mr Chapman here?’

  ‘Today no. Nor Mr Hall.’

  Boz stroked his lips, wondering whether to entrust the manuscript to the hand he had just shaken, with no further message. ‘You are quite young to be their reader,’ he said.

  ‘I persuaded Mr Chapman of my suitability from the start. He asked me about my upbringing, so I told him that my father was the author of a life of St Francis of Assisi as well as one of the first men in England to cultivate asparagus. I seemed to have almost infinite experience with that in my background.’

  Boz smiled. ‘You didn’t mention Mr Hall. Was he persuaded too?’

  ‘Mr Hall was a different matter. However, I have dabbled in enough areas to advise on the merits of many different manuscripts. I am not a complete innocent in geology – theology – classical languages. I have interests in birds – beasts – fishes – flowers. A great interest of mine is palaeography. Ancient writing and inscriptions.’

  ‘That is an extraordinary coincidence. I have included a little jest on ancient writing in the latest number of Pickwick.’

  ‘Is that so? Now you have truly captivated me, sir.’

  ‘Mr Pickwick finds some modern graffiti on a piece of stone, and believes that it is an inscription from the distant past, made by an unknown civilisation. In fact, the inscription merely says a man’s name, Bill Stumps, but poorly spelt and badly laid out. Mr Pickwick is fooled into believing he has made a great antiquarian discovery.’

  *

  Boz had walked on the rainy high road from Rochester to Maidstone, when a harsh wind blew. Leaving the road, he made an outcrop of ancient standing stones his shelter – three large flat stones some eight feet high, and a fourth laid flat across, as a roof. It was a place of peculiar loneliness. Leaning against an upright, he smoked a cigar. On a fine day, a picnic here would be excellent, he thought, when the weather was sunny, with an accompaniment of dry white wine instead of rain, when the bluebells on the hills were out in bloom. He presumed the stones were a Druidic altar, devoted to the worship of the sun and the moon and mistletoe. Perhaps a place for human sacrifice. There were other monuments in the area as well, and any stroll could reveal evidence of the flint tools of the first Englishmen.

  *

  ‘The derided antiquary is a joke with a great tradition,’ said Thomas Naylor Morton. ‘Now let me show off my knowledge. The fourth-century Roman poet Ausonius had great fun with the idea. But I risk making myself into a figure of ridicule simply by being aware of that fact. Tell me – was the idea for including the graffiti yours or Mr Seymour’s?’

  ‘We both had an interest in the vein of humour.’

  ‘I am not surprised. It is the general belief that an antiquary will mistake an old pigswill trough for a sarcophagus or a chamber pot for a Roman vase. And it is not altogether inaccurate. Have you heard of the antiquary Gough?’

  ‘I believe I have.’

  ‘He was deceived by fake Saxon characters inscribed on a shard of chimney-slab. But I am chattering on too much. Always my fault. You should send me away with my tail between my legs. I am so sorry.’ Then Thomas Naylor Morton’s mood suddenly changed; his lips twitched, as though a topic in his mind, which had been present all along, needed to be voiced, and could not be – but then it burst forth.

  ‘I do not know whether I should tell you this,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘I know only because Mr Chapman and Mr Hall had the door of their office ajar yesterday. You must not say I told you.’

  ‘You haven’t told me anything yet.’

  ‘Quite. Well, the fact is, I am afraid the prospects of their continuing with Pickwick are doubtful. Very doubtful. The average monthly sales are stuck at four hundred copies.’

  ‘I feared as much. I had hoped to speak to them tonight, to put the case for continuing.’

  ‘I heard them discussing an offer of help from Mr Tilt, the bookseller at the corner of St Bride’s Passage. Do you know the shop I mean?’<
br />
  ‘I do. One of the best windows in the city. You can’t help but look into it.’

  ‘That’s the one. Always has displays of pictures to be bound into Scott’s novels. I already knew that Tilt had proposed some sort of deal. I’m not certain what was in it for him. But he told them that he would send out copies of Pickwick to all the provincial booksellers he knew, on the basis that they could return any copies that remained unsold.’

  ‘A good scheme.’

  ‘So it sounds. Unfortunately, I heard Mr Hall say yesterday that fifteen hundred copies had been sent out, and of those, fourteen hundred and fifty had been sent back.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’

  ‘Mr Hall sees Pickwick as going from bad to worse.’

  *

  ‘First it was four pictures, Edward, then it was three pictures, now it is down to two pictures – I say it is time for no pictures,’ said Hall. ‘And no letterpress either.’

  ‘It may yet bear fruit, William,’ said Chapman. ‘Tilt has made us some useful contacts – and remember Pickwick is cheap.’

  ‘It is not that cheap, it just seems so. If you consider it as a commitment to buy all the parts, that in total is two-thirds the price of a new three-volume novel, and twice or even three times the cost of reprinted novels.’

  ‘Pickwick to me,’ said Chapman, ‘is like a curious and ruined little rustic chapel, very interesting and rather sad. Not exactly pleasing, but interesting.’

  ‘It may be,’ said Hall, ‘but I am not going to worship there.’

  *

  ‘I have done what I can to promote the work,’ said Boz to Thomas Naylor Morton. ‘Do you know the notice that was inserted about Buss taking over? How it spoke of the “great success” and “extensive circulation” of the publication?’

  ‘All talk, of course.’

  ‘But the reviewer at the Morning Chronicle took it seriously. I passed him the number, pointed out the notice, and he quoted those very words in his review.’

  ‘All the talk in the world can sometimes have no effect.’

  ‘Pickwick needs more time.’

  ‘Chapman may give you that – but Hall? Unlikely, I am afraid. You know the advertising leaflet that was slipped into Pickwick, for Rowland’s pimple-and-spots treatment? I have never seen Hall so overjoyed. He came in here, waving the advertising copy like a flag. It’s because it’s pure revenue, at no cost. He doesn’t care about what we put out – for him, it’s the profits of pimples that matter.’ Noticing the dispirited look on Boz’s face, Morton said: ‘Why don’t you read me some of your manuscript?’

  ‘It is rather late.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘What is the point now?’

  ‘You never know.’

  *

  When Boz put down the manuscript, after reading a large extract, Thomas Naylor Morton paused several seconds, then said: ‘I want to hear this Sam Weller talk. I want to hear him talk like I have never wanted to hear a fictional character talk before.’

  ‘I thank you. But from what you have said, he may not talk again.’

  ‘They can’t kill him. It would be wrong. Absolutely wrong.’

  ‘But if Hall…?’

  ‘I will make every effort to persuade both Chapman and Hall to keep faith with Pickwick.’

  ‘But from what you have said—’

  ‘Chapman, I am convinced I can win over. But Hall – I confess, I do not relish raising the matter with him. There is a stare he has. Like two icicles spearing you in the mind. But it will not really be me taking Hall on. It will be Sam Weller. He will fight for the publication’s life.’

  *

  ‘He’s a bootblack,’ said Boz.

  ‘A bootblack!’ said Crowquill. ‘Well, the mud in the streets is as thick as the mud in our minds. Only we can clean our shoes!’ His face underwent extraordinary changes of expression, from profundity to wickedness, before relaxing and adding that his great talent was woodland scenes. ‘The branch where a crow sits, preening its feathers, is perfect for a Crowquill picture. Black feathers – black as blacking. Now that’s what I should do to make you laugh – dip my beard in blacking, eh?’

  Such eccentricity did not bode well. Crowquill was sent on his way.

  *

  The next morning, Hablot Browne climbed the stairs to Boz. Browne had purchased new sailcloth trousers. His hair, for once, was carefully combed. He knocked. He and Boz recognised each other from the forecourt at Furnival’s, and instantly fell into good fellowship.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Browne, when the two were seated, ‘when I was told that Boz lived in Furnival’s, I knew he would be you.’

  ‘Did you? How?’

  ‘For one thing, the colourful waistcoats I have seen you wear. So many people in Furnival’s look like they are in the legal profession – and you do not.’

  ‘Well, as you have been observing me, I have observed you. My first observation is that Seymour was somewhat older than yourself.’

  ‘I am twenty. Nearly twenty-one, sir.’

  Boz smiled approvingly.

  ‘Although I am an engraver by profession,’ said Browne, ‘etching is more to my taste.’

  ‘In the one etching of yours I have seen, there was great skill in the depiction of the horse. That’s a talent I could use in Pickwick.’

  ‘I have been drawing horses since I was a child. I have sometimes gone to the British Museum and sketched the horses of the Elgin Marbles. But let me show you this. I have illustrated one of Pickwick’s published scenes.’

  From a portfolio he brought out a drawing showing Mr Winkle with a gun, while Mr Tupman lay on the ground injured, having received an armful of the gun’s shot. The fat boy stood behind a tree, peeking on.

  Boz gave another approving smile.

  ‘I have carefully studied Seymour’s works,’ said Browne, ‘but I know I could not replace Seymour. I read the notice in Pickwick about his death – and I agreed with its sentiments. Seymour’s death has left a blank, and a void. No one could replace him.’

  ‘A strict interpretation of that would mean that Pickwick could not continue without Seymour.’

  ‘I did not mean that.’

  ‘No, I understand. Which other artists have exerted an influence on you?’

  ‘Cruikshank. Gillray. Blake. Holbein—.’

  ‘Holbein?’

  ‘The Dance of Death made a strong impression on me.’

  ‘Oh did it?’

  ‘I have – how can I put this? I have a certain talent for producing little works. No I said that wrong. I mean I put my passion into details. I see smaller works as – delightful – charming – I like to put people in – people doing whatever they are up to, and all kinds of activities, all happening at once. It is as though you bring your face up close to a window – yes, the drawing is like a window – and then you look into a little room, and suddenly so much is going on.’

  Now the approval was not only in the smile, but in the eyes and every aspect of Boz’s face.

  ‘If you would allow me to show you some more work – I was commissioned to do some pictures of cathedrals. In some cases the drawings are entirely mine – this one for instance.’ It showed the dome of St Paul’s, the Thames in the foreground, upon which a boat caught the eye, with two rowers in top hats. ‘In other cases I turned architectural sketches into finished drawings by adding a few little figures and various details here and there.’ He showed a picture of Canterbury Cathedral in which a fat man stood next to a thin man.

  ‘Many would simply have claimed that everything in the drawings was entirely theirs.’

  ‘Many would, I suppose.’

  *

  They worked through the night, Browne and Young – and from their labours emerged the etching of the bootblack in the courtyard of the White Hart Inn, Southwark. Also in the picture was a lawyer, whose snuff-taking propensities in the letterpress took inspiration from the suctioning noses of Boz’s former employers, Messrs Ellis and Black
more. The bootblack was shown twisting his head around towards the lawyer, with his body turned away from the man’s authority. There too was Browne’s portrayal of Mr Pickwick, with spectacles and a fine bulging stomach, in the best traditions of Seymour, but also with a happier face than previously shown. Mr Pickwick was delighted by this bootblack. He was tickled – he was charmed – one could almost say he had fallen in love, and at first sight.

  Browne added further details to entertain the viewer, details not mentioned in Boz’s words: a curious little dog at Mr Pickwick’s ankles; a haywain in the yard with a mountain of fodder topped by two boys, who had climbed up as a jape; a maid on the balcony carrying a platter from which steam rose; and on a higher balcony, a line of clothes drying in the breeze.

  ‘I’d like a pseudonym to sign these plates,’ said Browne. ‘A different identity from my paintings might be useful. You know how the academy works.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘I do, yes. Something unique and clever and mysterious. What about signing them as “No one”?’

  ‘Such self-confidence.’

  ‘No, listen. Suppose I write that name with dots between the letters – N dot O dot O dot N dot E dot. Like an acronym. So the whole thing is very puzzling. What does it stand for? You could ask: “What is the meaning of that?” Go on, ask me.’

  ‘What is the meaning of that?’

  ‘No one knows. Do you see? It’s like saying “Mr No one knows”. He knows, because he wrote the acronym. And as no one is a non-existent person, it’s a complete mystery. It’s meaningless. No one actually does know.’

  ‘Rather convoluted. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Well, I do like it. And to give extra style, I want to use the Latin word for no one, Nemo, but written with dots, N dot E dot M dot O dot. I will have translated meaninglessness. I like that! There you are. That’s my name.’ He signed ‘N.E.M.O.’ at the bottom of the illustration.

  ‘You can do better.’

  ‘I am using it.’

  *

  A few days later, Browne suggested a new name, which would appear on the pictures of the subsequent numbers.