‘Blacking.’
‘No. Day and Martin’s blackin’.’ From an inside pocket he produced a copy of Pickwick, which he had already produced several times that day, to mention to customers. ‘Listen: “Samuel brushed away with such ’earty good will…” and then it says ’e used “polish which would ’ave struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr Warren” – that’s another blacking manufacturer, Warren’s – because “they used Day and Martin at the White ’Art”.
‘Day and Martin was what I used when I first became a boots at Walker’s ’Otel and Coffee-Room in Bridge Street. But I’d ’ad enough of getting up early, cos the ’Otel boots is always the earliest riser. So I set up on my own, and I still get up early, but at least I works for myself, and I’ve kept with Day and Martin and that’s what you’ll find on your shoes, every time you come to me.’
‘Unless I am taken on, I shall return to Wales.’
‘Well if you go back, you take a piece of advice with you, lad – before you listen to a man’s declarations, take a look at ’is boots, that’s what ’e is, regardless of what ’e says.’
The boy laughed, but still looked nervous.
‘If you come back tomorrow, I’ll tell you the story of ’ow Day and Martin began. It’s very int’restin’. I ’eard it from a man who worked at the factory. That’s between Kingsgate and Dean streets. Entrance looks on to ’Olborn.’
‘I don’t suppose you could tell me now. I don’t know how to fill the time.’
‘I suppose I could, if no other customers come. But you make certain you get the position, and come back another day, otherwise I’ll have told you for nothin’!’
Settling himself down, the bootblack began his tale.
*
‘About sixty years ago, in the town of Doncaster, it was a day you wouldn’t think could get ’otter, but ’otter it got. Well, standin’ in the doorway of a barber’s shop was a man called Mr Martin. There are lots of people called Martin, first or second name, but was any Martin in England better with a razor than this Martin? He gave old fellers smooth boys’ chins. He slashed with a sharp edge better than a dragoon – it’s a very good thing ’e was in ’is right mind, because it would be very bad for ’is customers if ’e weren’t. I was reading about that in this Pickwick, a madman with a razor. Shhht!’
The bootblack sliced the air.
‘But, this Mr Martin was sane as you or me and ’e was just standin’ there, tryin’ to keep cool, when who should ’e see but a soldier walkin’ along the road. Now soldiers, when they’re not being blown to pieces, usually take pride in the way they look. And even a soldier who ’as been blown to pieces would prefer to be seen ’eadless with ’is ’at on than without. But this soldier was not smartly dressed – ’e was dusty all over, ’is face bruised, ’is uniform all torn, and draggin’ ’imself along, with not a bit of ’ope on ’is face.
‘Mr Martin, thinkin’ such a man might be freshened up with a shave, enquired whether the soldier was feelin’ as good as ’e might. And the soldier, restin’ a moment, said that ’e was going to be feelin’ worse soon, when the regiment flogged ’im with the cat-o’-nine-tails. It was ’is own fault – got in with the wrong sort of men when on leave, and they encouraged ’im to spend ’is money on pleasure, and what they couldn’t get out of ’im by persuasion and good fellowship, they proceeded to take by force. They punched ’im, threw ’im on the ground, kicked ’im, and took all that was left of ’is money. So the solder ’ad to get back to the barracks the next mornin’ before ’is leave ran out – but that was impossible to do on foot, and without a penny in ’is pocket there was nothing to pay for a coach. So, ’e was sure to be arrested and it was the cat for ’im – ’e couldn’t even afford another drink in the mornin’ to dull the pain.
‘Now Mr Martin was a kind-’earted soul, with a fondness for the army’s achievements. And ’e went into ’is shop, and took out a guinea, and gave it to the soldier. Well, the man could ’ardly believe it! There was the fare! The floggin’ would be escaped! And ’e thanked the barber again and again, and ’e said there wasn’t much ’e could do in return, ’cept ’e knew a recipe for blackin’, which ’e used to clean ’is boots. And ’e wrote down a recipe of molasses, treacle, vinegar and other ingredients, some of which made the barber screw up ’is eyes they were so strange. “Is it any good?” said the barber. “You won’t find better,” replied the soldier. And ’e said ’e would give Mr Martin the recipe, and ’e might be able to mix it up, put it in pots, and sell it, and say to ’is customers, after an ’aircut, it will make you look nice, from ’ead to toe. “Or use it on your own shoes,” said the soldier, “and see if they don’t shine nicely in the sun.”
‘Off went the soldier to catch the coach, and ’e was never seen again.
‘Well, Mr Martin ’ad a cousin, Mr Day, and cuttin’ ’air ran in the family, for ’e was also a barber, in Covent Garden, and prob’ly the mud was red in ’is doorway, and decorated quite a few of ’is customers’ shoes. And Mr Martin sent ’is son down to ’is cousin with the soldier’s recipe. The cousin made some up, and ’e knew a good business idea when ’e saw it. So the two of them started makin’ blackin’, and the business grew and grew until Day and Martin came to be used by all the best bootblacks in all the world!’ He took a bow. ‘And that’s why you’ve got a lovely jet-black shine on your feet.’
The Welsh boy thanked the bootblack and said as he left: ‘I hope I shall get the position.’
‘I know you shall, lad, with the ’elp of Day and Martin and me.’
When the bootblack finished work in the evening, he took a slab of Pittis’s soap from a drawer in his box, went to a pump to clean his hands, then adjourned for supper in an inn. As he waited for his meal, he took out Pickwick once more, for it was rare indeed to read anything that concerned a bootblack. He re-examined the passage which had given him such pleasure, when Sam Weller made his first appearance:
‘It was in the yard of one of these inns – of no less celebrated a one than the White Hart – that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots.’
The bootblack – the reading bootblack – knew the White Hart; he visited it when he worked in the hotel, and still went there sometimes to meet a friend, a hop-factor’s man, when he was up from Kent with his master on a visit to Southwark, and then all three would dine together in the White Hart. It was not one of the smart coaching inns, like those of the City and the West End. It had seen better days, but it still served a good joint of roast beef. He read on:
‘There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction.’
The reader’s mirthful noises and exclamations as he proceeded through the pages caught the attention of a dustman at the next table.
‘What’s that then?’ said the dustman, who was sufficiently bold to reach across and lift the publication so as to see the title. ‘The Pickwick Club. What’s that then?’
*
The office of the Literary Gazette faced St Clement Dane’s Church and the nine o’clock bell had just finished striking.
‘A pleasant morning is always spoilt by that bell,’ said William Jerdan, the Gazette’s editor, looking out of the window. ‘There’s no more cheerless chime in all London.’ He arrowed a sour look at a solitary clerk in the corner: a man whose narrow face was born for administration, and to which nose-pinching spectacles added nurture to the gifts of nature. Jerdan then sat down sullenly at a desk, which bore the pile of books and miscellaneous publications submitted by publishers for review.
He had already decided that he would begin his day with an inspection of the fourth number of Pickwick. He had been impressed by this publication from the start. In reviewing the first number, he had noted that the design was playful, the satire good-humoured, and the cuts clever and laughable.
But now he read of t
he first appearance of Sam Weller.
The clerk watched as the editor smiled, thumped the desk in appreciation, and even stood and rubbed his arms in between paragraphs, then reread the whole publication from beginning to end. The enthusiasm was so pure and unwonted that the clerk could occasionally stop work, and observe, and know that he would face no retribution.
At last Jerdan closed the number. Resting his hands on the desk, he contemplated the literature he had just consumed. At last he said: ‘There is a character in this monthly whose patter is perfect for filling any space there is to fill. Do you know what I shall do?’
‘No, sir,’ said the clerk.
‘First of all, I shall pass this number over to you. The enjoyment is too good to keep to myself. While you are reading it, I shall write to the author immediately. He must develop the character to the utmost.’
*
A favourable review in the Literary Gazette usually meant money in a publisher’s coffers and the continued employment of a writer – but Jerdan did not stop at a review. He spread the word about Pickwick in person. He could not help himself. He told those he met at dinners. He told politicians. He told the poets of his acquaintance. He told the editors of other journals. They in turn told others. Soon, thousands of threads were sent out, exponentially urging the importance of reading Pickwick.
*
A person walking down a street would now see a small crowd of people outside a bookshop window looking at the etchings of Pickwick. The pictures were the door to the Pickwickian world, to be entered at no cost in pennies or time, but simply by the act of looking. They tempted someone who had not yet read The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club to go inside for an examination of the letterpress, especially if others were looking too. It would be an individual of extraordinary resistance to the urges of curiosity who would be unaffected.
Soon, anyone entering a public house would see the flash of at least one rectangular green wrapper. The next day, the person would experience several more sightings of green in the same public house. Then in different public houses, and then in other places, in shop queues, at coffee stalls, all kinds of locations, among all manner of people, like the first buds of spring and then the many buds of spring, spreading across the city like a speeded transition of season, becoming the gardens and the fields of summer. Readers would walk along in the very act of reading, eyes concentrated on the green-wrappered publication. On a patch of grass, there would be men and women together, all reading Pickwick, or one reading and the others listening.
*
Back in the Strand, Thomas Naylor Morton knocked at Chapman and Hall’s office.
‘What is it, Mr Morton?’ said Chapman.
‘I thought you should know about the letters we are getting about Pickwick. There are too many to answer. Here’s one: “Just thinking about reading Pickwick can make me feel better.” And this is another: “I start laughing at Pickwick even before I open it.” And this: “I feel better off knowing that Sam Weller is in the world.”’
*
A labourer sat in a gin shop soon after dawn, reading his Pickwick. He was joined by a fishmonger, also with his Pickwick, whose reeking skin would normally drive men to anywhere else, but not now, for a jolly mood bonded the two and they talked of the antics on a Pickwickian page. Then came a man who parked his donkey cart outside, and, having given the beast a nosebag, he sipped gin noisily in between quoting Sam Weller; and then a milkmaid came, who put down her pails, and she too stopped for a gin and a few minutes’ talk of Pickwick.
The surgeon would read Pickwick in a cab on his way to the hospital; the omnibus driver would read Pickwick while the horses were changed; the blacksmith would read Pickwick while waiting for metal in a furnace; the cook would read Pickwick when she was stirring the soup; the mother would read Pickwick when the child was at her breast. In all the unfilled gaps in people’s lives, in all those moments when it was possible for reading to overlap another activity, Pickwick appeared. If one were to open a number and cast an innocent eye on the first words, there may seem nothing initially amusing about them; but to those who knew they led to Mr Pickwick and Samuel Weller, even an innocent phrase – such as ‘Mr Pickwick’s apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation’ – would instantly unleash gales of humour. Ordinary men who had never before been noted for a display of emotion were changed. The surly, sallow cheesemonger in a striped apron would now be seen howling with laughter when a housewife entered his corner shop, and a conversation ensued between the two – two people who had never been known for any exchange of words except the terse terms of a sale of cheddar – these two talked about Pickwick. The housewife remarked on how difficult it was to listen to her husband reading Pickwick aloud to the family without feeling a craving for food, and a piece of strong cheese would do just right. The cheesemonger not only concurred – he gave her an extra two ounces, gratis, as a token of their new friendship.
Nor was this the phenomenon of a single month. There came a new astronomical order to people’s lives – never before had strangers chattered in this manner, with an upsurge every thirty days. You watched the queues forming at the booksellers in the early morning, with the customers keen and expectant, even before the vendor had cut the string on the green bundles. The shilling dropped into his palm was like a full miniature moon which had worked its influence upon the mind of the buyer.
The young men of Paternoster Row now had bags stuffed to overflowing with Picks. Wagonloads of the green numbers were pulled away. Pickwick was loaded on coaches to every part of the country. Tailors sold Mr Pickwick hats to fit every head and Sam Weller corduroy breeches. Bakers sold cakes in the shape of the great man, with icing-sugar stomachs. Tobacconists offered the Penny Pickwick Cigar, whose boxes were decorated with that esteemed gentleman, doffing his hat and bowing, and holding a scroll which extolled the cigar’s excellence.
Then piratical playwrights joined in the fun, and crowds flocked to theatres to see unauthorised dramas which brought Mr Pickwick and his friends out of the words and the drawings and into life, and the same crowds would emerge wobbling their tonsils to raucous Pickwickian songs:
Drink! Drink! Drink! Boys
Let us drown the cares of the day!
So sang a group of lads, arm in arm, when they left the City of London Theatre in the evening after a performance of The Pickwick Club, or The Age We Live In, on their way to a public house.
Think! Think! Think! Boys
Time and tide for no man will stay!
Pickwick was a benign plague. As each new part arrived, it was as though there had been news of a victory at Waterloo, with the green-wrappered pamphlet as a banner, flourished in sheer elation that Pickwick had happened. People forgot who they were and their station in life – they simply wanted to talk to each other about Pickwick, and rejoice in its triumph. The word ‘Pickwickian’ was heard everywhere – an event, a person, an experience were all Pickwickian – and whilst this word was flexible in meaning, all understood.
Even when not talking about Pickwick, or reading it, you could tell the people who had read the latest number. They had a look in the eye. And as the publication day of a new number advanced, you saw that look more and more.
In the afternoon it was common to see men who, by the state of them, had walked dusty miles to lay their hands upon a Pickwick; while in the evening, in every public house and inn the conversation was of the latest number and little else – and if someone had not read Pickwick, soon they had to. Yes, there were scowlers burying themselves in their elbows at the bar who denounced and dismissed anything new; yes, there were the happy-with-my-lot and the satisfied-with-what-I-have; yes, there were those who said it was throwing twelve penn’orth down the drain; but even such as these saw the green pamphlet with the Putney puntite in people’s hands, and they wondered whether they sh
ould buy.
Mr Pickwick was there, in front of everyone, like a real person, not as a hazy mist of head-hidden words: every man, woman and child had exactly the same image of Mr Pickwick in his or her consciousness. When a dustman talked of Mr Pickwick, a lord could know exactly who was meant because of the pictures. Your Mr Pickwick was my Mr Pickwick, was a universal Mr Pickwick – a being of fiction, a man-created man, was suddenly recognised by all. This was unprecedented in human affairs. It was as though Mr Pickwick actually walked the streets, that you might see him trotting along in his tights and gaiters, walking past railings, pausing at a shop window, or entering a public house. You would know him in a moment, you could point to him, and say, ‘There he is!’ Even the royal and the powerful were not noticed or cared about in this way. The king in full regalia would be recognised, but stripped of crown, sceptre and sash, many would ask, ‘Who is he?’ if they bothered to ask at all; Lord Melbourne was prime minister, but he would need no disguise to be incognito on many streets. Yet everyone knew Mr Pickwick. The character existed almost as a solid form, and the solitary act of reading was a shared experience.
But some family men insisted on a first read in private. That was the privilege of the breadwinner, and the head of the household. A man would come home from work, ignoring the appeal in the eyes of his wife and children, and after supper he would settle down with a cup of tea, not too strong, shut the door, draw the curtains, and open the green wrapper.
There were several pages of illustrated advertisements, to be turned quickly, providing a glimmer of an engraving of a tea service or an eight-day clock. Then came the two Pickwickian etchings, on their somewhat thicker, satisfying paper, instantly setting the mood. Then the story.
For the next hour, the rest of the world – what people call the real world – vanished. The reader indulged himself in pure laughter, perhaps the keenest joy of his life. Not that it was all laughs. There were deeper parts in the pages too. Tragedies that alternated with the comedy, and gave variety. It seemed moreover that the world of Mr Pickwick was a world in which a person had all the time and all the space and all the food and all the drink he might ever need, a world where pleasure could be endless. And how marvellous, the reader thought, as he read of Mr Pickwick’s travels, to just take oneself off in a coach, or be idle on a sunny day, and escape the four walls of the parlour and the prospect of the office in the morning. If only one could do such things as the Pickwickians did!
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 74