Death and Mr. Pickwick

by Stephen Jarvis

  Still, for all this, his very next words in the letter were: ‘Mr Clarke’s own story I have put into a cobbler’s mouth.’

  *

  So, in the sixteenth number, Thomas Clarke read of a cobbler who told of circumstances similar to his own, who declared: ‘The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.’ The cobbler added: ‘I’m here for ten thousand, and shall stop here till I die, mending shoes.’

  *

  ‘I trust you are satisfied now?’ said Clarke’s friend, as he lifted his cracked cup to his lips, and blew away an excess of foam.

  ‘I am reasonably satisfied that a case, akin to mine, is before the public. It is a grain of hope. We shall see what happens.’ He did not turn the japan. Instead, he picked it up and placed it in his pocket.

  Yet a work such as Pickwick could not be overly solemn for too long. Mr Pickwick’s travels had come to a halt in prison – and it was in Mr Pickwick’s nature that he must roll onwards, once more, like the coach service with which he shared his name.

  *

  Mr Pickwick spent three months in the Fleet, but in the end, he had to emerge; for it is all very well to have principles, but life is the thing, and a man who is in prison out of choice affects others by choice; and this Mr Pickwick came to realise. Weighing all that could be gained and all that could be lost to everyone by paying the lawyers, or not, Mr Pickwick himself saw that principles should sometimes be put aside. So he paid, and was released.

  Thomas Clarke was not the same about Pickwick afterwards. Sullen and hard-faced, he shrank into his own shoulders, and wandered around the Fleet’s corridors. In the coffee room, he was offered the latest Pickwick by his friend, and refused even to open the wrapper.

  ‘Look at him!’ he said, stabbing his finger at the stomach of Mr Pickwick in the punt. ‘Well fed, sends himself to prison because of a principle! Even has his servant inside with him! And he could leave any time he wishes! He doesn’t even like to look at the horrors of prison. He shuts himself off in his room to avoid contamination with the likes of us! Where is my choice? Posthumous Papers! I know what it means to have my life destroyed by real posthumous papers, by a last will and testament that binds me for ever – what are Samuel Pickwick’s papers compared to the ones that hold me in this prison without hope!’

  He pulled the japan from his pocket. After two turns he looked at it hard. Uttering a spluttered disgust, he placed the japan down on the table, and was never seen to lift it again.

  *

  At a school in Camberwell, the large and demonstrative headmaster, whose forearms were always in motion, was such an enthusiast for reading the monthly numbers to the rows of boys gathered in morning assembly that when he closed the number in which Mr Pickwick secured his release from prison, it was strange that he adopted a solemn face and temporarily halted all movement of his limbs. He said: ‘We have taken a special interest in the affairs of Mr Pickwick because we see him as a friend of Camberwell – as we know, on the club’s transactions it is recorded that, in addition to his research on the Hampstead Ponds, he conducted research, of an unspecified nature, in our area.’

  An audible whisper from a row towards the back said: ‘Probably at Camberwell Green’ – which prompted a laugh throughout the assembly, as five public houses were known to be situated at the Green, all within a distance of less than two hundred yards.

  Controlling a smile, the headmaster continued. ‘To some, Mr Pickwick may be an innocent fool. Yet, this man stood up for what he believed in. There is no better example of the heroic spirit of a Briton than Mr Pickwick’s willingness to go to prison in defiance of an injustice. Well – Mr Pickwick is now free. And so boys – in celebration of Mr Pickwick’s release, I declare the rest of the day – a holiday!’ The forearms were stretched to their fullest extent, and spasmed, as a living conduit for the boys’ cheers.

  In contrast, a Latin master and a mathematics master, who stood in a corner of the hall, gave extremely perfunctory claps.

  ‘This is disgraceful,’ said Mathematics.

  ‘I agree entirely,’ said Latin. ‘As it is, the boys are only interested in Pickwick, and talking like Sam Weller. They count the days until the next part appears.’

  ‘It’s mirth and capers, nothing else. No time for studies.’

  ‘It is as though every pupil is an opium addict, getting pleasure dose by dose.’

  ‘And we have a headmaster who endorses it.’

  They smiled profoundly, and clapped as loudly as anyone, when the headmaster walked by them on his way out of the hall.

  ‘At least,’ said Mathematics, ‘the end of the wretched publication is in sight. Then we’ll be rid of Pickwick for ever.’

  *

  John Forster was unaccountably restless in an upper room in Doughty Street. He stood, looked out of the window, took cognisance of the porter in mulberry livery who patrolled near the gates on the street below, and then resumed his seat opposite Boz. His face demonstrated a gravity which could be acquired only by a man with legal training. His index fingers pressed together and tapped his lower lip. Then he said: ‘Under the terms of the proposed deed of licence, after five years you will be assigned one third of the copyright for Pickwick – contingent on a work of similar character to Pickwick being produced.’

  ‘But you are concerned,’ said Boz. ‘I see no reason to be.’

  ‘It is not the deed itself that is a concern. I am uncomfortable about the original letter of agreement between yourself and Chapman and Hall. Though it did not spell out specific terms, the letter agreed to increase your remuneration for the work, should it prove to be very successful.’

  ‘No one could deny the success of Pickwick.’

  ‘No one could. And Chapman and Hall honoured the letter – as you have told me, they increased your payment with a sum of two thousand pounds. A substantial improvement on the original remuneration. But let me ask you – do you know whether Seymour had a similar letter to yours?’

  ‘Seymour’s arrangements were his own.’

  ‘Let us suppose that evidence should emerge of Seymour having a similar letter of agreement. As Chapman and Hall have increased your remuneration, and thereby demonstrated conditions under which the terms of the letter apply, Seymour’s family would surely have a claim to some additional remuneration. Perhaps a share of the copyright. A small share compared to yours – but still a share.’

  ‘That would be Chapman and Hall’s responsibility.’

  ‘Suppose there were a claim by Seymour’s heirs – a claim which, being unpaid, built up in value over time. Conceivably, Chapman and Hall could be in debt to the Seymour family. We must exercise great caution in entangling your affairs too closely with theirs.’

  ‘Are you suggesting Pickwick could force someone into debtors’ prison?’

  ‘It is a theoretical possibility.’

  ‘Seymour’s ghost has no claim at all! Pickwick became a far greater work after Seymour was gone.’

  ‘I am certain it became a far greater work after he was gone. But as a precaution, in future, I do not think we should mention the original letter of agreement. I shall, I think, have a word with Chapman and Hall about this as well. We have our celebratory dinner in a few days. I think it advisable to mention over dinner that no agreement existed for Pickwick – that everything was done as an understanding between gentlemen, and that no contract was drawn up. Let us make certain our guests hear it.’

  *

  WHEN THOMAS KELLY PUBLISHED HIS novels in numbers, the final number was often a double number – to ring the passing bell, to tie loose ends into a large, satisfying bow. Accordingly, the last number of Pickwick was double length. It turned the parts into a curious whole: ‘twenty-parts-in-nineteen’. Which, everyone agreed, was very Pickwickian.

  The final number included all the traditional apparatus of a book: frontispiece, title page, half-title, dedication, table of contents, list of illustrations, errata sheet – an errata sheet which was itself of a
decidedly Pickwickian quality, as some errors had already been corrected by the compositors, and therefore the errata sheet was in error – and directions to the binder regarding the placing of illustrations. There was also a preface.

  Boz sat and thought for some time about the wording of this last item. What should he say about Seymour?

  *

  ‘All rather sly and shadowy, isn’t it, Scripty?’ said Mr Inbelicate. ‘The way, in the preface, Boz talks about “deferring to the judgement of others” at the start of the project – without identifying exactly who those “others” are. That isn’t all. He refers, later on, to just one artist, not the three who had been involved.’ Mr Inbelicate read from the preface: ‘“It is due to the gentleman” – note that, Scripty, gentleman, not gentlemen – “whose designs accompany the letterpress, to state that the interval has been so short between the production of each number in manuscript and its appearance in print, that the greater portion of the illustrations have been executed by the artist from the author’s mere verbal description of what he intended to write.” It is as though he only wants you to think of Browne. And note how he refers to “the greater portion”. So a smaller portion may not have originated in this way at all. He says nothing about those.’

  *

  THE PREFACE DONE, THE TWENTY-PARTS-IN-NINETEEN of The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club could be taken by a customer to a bookbinder, to be transformed into a one-volume novel. Except that anyone looking at the title page issued with that final number would see that the work was no longer called The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. In a final break with Seymour, the work simply became known as The Pickwick Papers, the short version of the title which many had been using for some time. The bookbinder would throw away the full title, along with the wrappers.

  There was one other change announced by that title page.

  No longer were the papers merely ‘Edited by Boz’.

  Under the title, it said: ‘by Charles Dickens’.

  *

  Four days after the last number finished its run, ‘The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens’ was stamped in gilt letters on the spine of a new, grey-black, clothbound, all-in-one-volume edition issued by Chapman and Hall. Thousands of copies of this volume appeared in bookshop windows with extraordinary rapidity – a full ten days ahead of its advertised appearance – as though the pride of bestowing the dignity of a novel upon Pickwick had made the steam presses work all the faster.

  *

  The lace-edged invitation cards had gathered an elite group of gentlemen to a private room in the Prince of Wales Hotel on Saturday evening on 18 November 1837.

  Seated around the table were various men who had played a role in connection with Pickwick: Chapman, Hall, Jerdan, Browne, Talfourd, Forster, Hicks, Bradbury, Evans – and Dickens himself.

  The first to speak was Hicks.

  ‘Now Mr Dickens’s manuscript was often a challenge.’ (Laughter and cheers around the table.) ‘The writing was small with some very strange names: never at B&E had we seen a Tollinglower before, nor a Mudberry, let alone a Smauker. As for the spellings – well, Mr Dickens, they owed rayther more to the way words are spoken on the streets of London than to the approved authorities!’ (More laughter.) ‘But we loved setting it, sir. It was a challenge we rose to. In the compship, every man was keen to get a take of Pickwick. It was a privilege to see the glorious phrases of Sam Weller before anyone else in the world! And I may say, Mr Dickens, that looking at the latest issue of this’ – he pulled from his inside pocket a copy of the New Sporting Magazine – ‘it seems that others are keen to emulate your success. Now just let me read you something: “A clever young chap, formerly boots at a family hotel in Bridge Street, has offered to supply us with ‘sayings and similes’ at half a crown a hundred. He describes himself as a cousin of Sam Weller and says that he can make a considerable allowance to the ‘trade’ who will take a quantity.” But I say: there is only one Sam Weller. And I say to everyone here – as Mr Pickwick said to his followers – “Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass.”’ The proposal was received with loud and universal approbation.

  There followed speeches from the various participants, who usually found a quotation from Pickwick to flavour the proceedings. Then Edward Chapman rose and presented Dickens with a set of silver apostle spoons, with Pickwickian characters on the handles instead of biblical ones; rum was immediately poured into the spoon bowls, and those assembled gladly sipped liquor administered by Sam Weller, Mr Jingle, Job Trotter, the fat boy and others from the pantheon of The Pickwick Papers.

  Then Dickens rose. His inclination was to climb on to his seat, in imitation of Mr Pickwick when the latter addressed the club, but Forster’s tight hold on a sleeve proved persuasive and Dickens stayed with his feet on the floor. After thanking the various speakers, and responding to quips they had made, he came to his peroration.

  ‘I confess, I am proud of Pickwick. The way it has made its way in the world is extraordinary. And it is my hope – it is my firm belief – that Pickwick will survive long into the future, long after I am gone. During the course of its publication, as you all know, gentlemen, I laid down my notebook for recording parliamentary speeches. Now I have laid down Mr Pickwick’s notebook too. I have written one hundred slips of paper a month, on average, to produce the letterpress. And I declare to you now that if each of a month’s slips were a year in my life – I say, if I were to live one hundred years – and if I were to write three novels in each, I should never be so proud of any of them as I am of Pickwick.’ (Calls of ‘Hear, hear.’) ‘Gentlemen, I thank you all.’

  Finally, Talfourd stood to propose the toast of the evening. A bell was rung and in came the head waiter, pushing a trolley on which was a cake of many tiers. At the cake’s top stood a miniature fat figure in sculpted marzipan, in the very pose that Dickens had wanted to strike, one hand gesticulating in the air, the other under his coat-tails.

  Talfourd raised his glass: ‘To the gweat Mr Pickwick!’

  The middle of April, 1838

  A torpor hung over Dickens – induced by mulled wine, the bodily aches of a cold, and carriage-driving, all of the day before – which defeated every attempt at writing until the middle of the afternoon. Even when he settled, progress was slow.

  A coach had overturned in his new novel in numbers, and the passengers sought shelter in an inn. In his mind, it was the Wheatsheaf at Long Bennington. He conceived of the passengers telling a couple of stories to pass the time, akin to the stories he had inserted in Pickwick.

  He looked at the date on the newspaper. It was two years ago, almost to the very day, that he invited Seymour to a glass of grog.

  He saw the dead man in Furnival’s with his glass of cold-without. The dead man with deady.

  Swigging grog. Grog swig. Grogzwig!

  Soon afterwards, he wrote the title of a story: ‘Baron Koeldwethout of Grogzwig’.

  He began: ‘The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was as likely a young baron as you would wish to see…’

  He told of how the baron, beset by an overbearing wife, and debt, had decided to put an end to himself. He resolved to put a knife to his throat as soon as he finished a last bottle of wine and a pipe.

  As the baron drained his glass, he saw that he was not alone.

  ‘On the opposite side of the fire, there sat with folded arms a wrinkled hideous figure, with deeply sunk and bloodshot eyes, and an immensely long cadaverous face, shadowed by jagged and matted locks of coarse black hair.’ The apparition’s tunic buttons were coffin handles, his short dusty cloak the remnant of a pall.

  ‘I am the Genius of Despair and Suicide,’ said the apparition, who threw his cloak aside to reveal a stake – a stake, as is commonly hammered into the heart of the self-murderer, when denied a Christian burial and interred at a crossroads – a stake which protruded from the centre of his body. The apparition pulled the stake out with a jerk, ‘and laid it on
the table as composedly as if it had been his walking stick’.

  After talking to the apparition, the baron’s spirits revived. He realised that, although the world may be dreary, the world of the apparition may not be any better.

  ‘You have not the appearance of being particularly comfortable,’ said the baron. ‘I’ll brood over miseries no longer, but put a good face on the matter.’

  The apparition then lifted the stake, thrust it violently into his body, and with an unsettling howl, disappeared.

  Dickens felt satisfied. He concluded with the comment: ‘My advice to all men is that if ever they become hipped and melancholy from similar causes (as very many men do), they look at both sides of the question, applying a magnifying glass to the best one, and if they still feel tempted to retire without leave, that they smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottle first, and profit by the laudable example of the Baron of Grogzwig.’

  With that, the number was complete.

  *

  AFTER WE HAD DISCUSSED THE possible significance of the tale of the baron, Mr Inbelicate said: ‘There was something else which happened in 1838.’

  He passed over another of his missiles in paper form.

  *

  The Account of Weld Taylor, Lithographer (extracted from an unpublished autobiography)

  IT WAS IN 1838 THAT I went to visit Dickens in Doughty Street. I had met him before, when I was present at the sketching of his portrait by Samuel Laurence. That drawing was in chalk, on light buff paper, capturing his genius in the flash of the eyes and the sensitiveness of his mouth, and it was my intention to publish it as a lithograph, for which I was quite certain there would be a great demand from the public.

  Dickens thought the proposal an excellent one, because at the time his face was not well known to the public. I believed the lithograph would be improved if it carried the facsimile signature of ‘Boz’. Thus, I called upon him simply for the purpose of collecting his pseudonymous autograph. While there, we chatted in his drawing room, which was pleasantly pink, and there was a marble fireplace, and the mood was very jovial, and I brought up the subject of Robert Seymour.