I knew Seymour a little, for we both obtained our proofs at Englemann’s printers in Newman Street and one day I suggested I might draw the artist’s portrait. Seymour agreed, he sat, and I have to say I gave him a suggestion of a smile – but it was about the only time I ever saw it. To me, he seemed one of the most melancholy men I have met, and you would never think that someone of his nature could create such humour. Whether he was melancholy with others, I cannot say, but he was with me. As I was in Doughty Street in connection with Dickens’s portrait, it seemed natural to mention in conversation a similar business I had had with Seymour.
‘Seymour,’ said Dickens. ‘I did not know him, really. But an artist of talent. I greatly admired his work.’
‘He certainly seemed to capture the spirit of Pickwick,’ I said. ‘I prefer his work to Browne’s. Even after Seymour died, I thought that when Browne drew Mr Pickwick in a wheelbarrow, there was something of Seymour’s there.’
‘Did you?’
Suddenly, Dickens rose. After a little while he returned with a couple of Seymour’s drawings. ‘You may have them,’ he said.
I was highly delighted, as one of them showed the shepherd from Pickwick – there he was, sipping his pineapple rum, reeking of hypocrisy. It was only after I had left Doughty Street that I suddenly realised it could not have been the shepherd, because he appeared much later in the story, long after Seymour died. This was most curious.
I remember showing the drawing to a friend, and I said, ‘It must be the shepherd,’ and then I also said: ‘Yet how can it be him, when Seymour was dead?’
I wish I had asked Dickens to explain the paradox, but I suspect that I would have received an equivocal answer. For something else peculiar occurred, which left another mystery.
Suddenly Dickens said: ‘Seymour and his wife were out in the streets, about a week before his death and he took her inside a milliner’s shop. He enquired about mourning caps. So the assistant brought out one made of tulle. “Very fine fabric,” said Seymour. “Why don’t you try it on, my dear?” She proceeded to do so.’
I was astonished. ‘The family told you this?’
Dickens made a noise – I am not certain whether it signified agreement or not.
‘Did you learn this at Seymour’s funeral?’ I said.
‘I did not go.’
‘You would have expected the family to keep quiet about such a thing. To show premeditation of the act would have had the most dire consequences. The family would have lost all rights to inherit.’
Dickens moved the conversation on, by referring to the lithograph which was the purpose of my visit, and no more was said about Seymour.
*
‘IF IT WAS A DRAWING of the shepherd,’ I said, ‘it is strong evidence that Seymour and Dickens were involved in long-term planning. It would be evidence that Seymour had some knowledge of Pickwick’s contents, extending into the numbers published after his death.’
‘Now let us consider a third event of 1838,’ said Mr Inbelicate.
*
ON A VISIT TO DOUGHTY Street, John Forster brought from a portmanteau two magazines for October 1838, Franklin’s Miscellany and The Edinburgh Review, and placed them on a coffee table.
‘There are items in these which bother me,’ he said. ‘Have you read them yet?’
‘I have not,’ said Dickens.
‘The first concerns Seymour.’
‘Does it?’ He stroked his hand across his hair.
‘There is a technicality which they have got wrong – they refer to the three numbers of Pickwick that Seymour was involved with, rather than two. That is a minor matter. The substance is the thing. This is what it says: “Many of our readers are not aware that Seymour first furnished the idea of The Pickwick Papers; Mr Dickens wrote the first three numbers to his plates, and but for the artist’s death they would have travelled their jocund road together. We are but doing justice to his memory when we admit this, for he was a man of great observation, much affected to the ludicrous, and full of original anecdote with a good display of caustic wit.”’
Dickens fidgeted with his cuffs: ‘I can guess why they said three. Seymour’s influence did not entirely end at his death.’
‘You should have told me that before. It adds point to the other piece. Though it is not about Seymour as such – well, let me read it. Let me say that it is full of praise for you. “We think him a very original writer – well entitled to his popularity – and not likely to lose it – and the truest and most spirited delineator of English life, amongst the middle and lower classes, since the days of Smollett and Fielding. He has remarkable powers of observation and great skill in communicating what he has observed. We would compare him with Hogarth. What Hogarth was in painting, such very nearly Dickens is in prose fiction.”’
‘But they say other things.’
‘They do. They note the misgivings that some have about the continued linking of your words to pictures. They stress that they do not share these views, but they say – one moment – yes. “The author has been contented to share his success with the caricaturist. He has put his works forth in a form attractive, it is true, to that vast majority, the idle readers – but one not indicative of high literary pretensions, or calculated to inspire a belief of probable permanence of reputation. They seem at first sight to be among the most evanescent of the literary ephemera of their day – mere humorous specimens of the lightest kind of light reading, expressly calculated to be much sought and soon forgotten – fit companions for the portfolio of caricatures – good nonsense – and nothing more.”’
‘There is nothing more ephemeral than a comment in a magazine.’
‘I confess – I have misgivings too.’
‘Say what you came here to say, Forster, and I shall listen.’
‘Let us consider what happened when Pickwick first appeared. Some saw the work as a series of cockney sketches. Some as a sort of magazine, or some type of entertaining periodical, giving the public their laughs once a month. Yet the work embodies the genius of Smollett and Fielding. Are you content for such a work to be – frankly – degraded by the way it originated? You took it on when you were a newspaper reporter; yet you aspired to be a novelist. Seymour’s contribution was nothing compared to yours.’ Forster drew back in his chair, noting in the movements of Dickens’s mouth, and the smoothing of the shirtsleeve, the vein of anxiety he had found. Forster leant forward. ‘The idea of you as the instigator of Pickwick, as its sole creator, is the truly accurate one. It is more true than the literal truth. It is true to your nature and genius, upholding your dignity, and the dignity of literature – more so than what actually happened. Accuracy in its strictest sense is a distortion we can do without.’
*
Jane Seymour walked down the Strand on a day as cold and bleak as her expression, and entered the bow-windowed premises of Chapman and Hall.
Hall stood behind the counter and, never having met Mrs Seymour, assumed a conventionally helpful expression, believing her to be a customer. Chapman was at that moment climbing a ladder, placing books on an upper shelf, but he half turned, and said: ‘Oh – Mrs Seymour. It is you.’ Hall’s face changed in an instant.
‘I came in person,’ she said, ‘because I have received no reply to the letters I sent.’
‘Did you send us letters?’ said Chapman, descending the ladder. He stood at his partner’s side. ‘I am afraid I have seen no correspondence from you at all, Mrs Seymour. Have you seen any, William?’
‘I have not. There used to be a gentleman who worked for us, Mr Morton, who looked after letters, but I am afraid he has moved on to pastures new. Perhaps he was not quite as efficient as we believed him to be.’
‘Well, we can now discuss the matter,’ she said.
‘It is not a very convenient time, Mrs Seymour,’ said Chapman.
‘We are expecting deliveries,’ said Hall.
‘I am prepared to wait – until the close of business, if need be, i
f you have a chair I can sit on. Or I shall stand if you have none.’
Hall pulled at his collar and Chapman gave him a nervous glance, and possibly a nod. Hall then called to a youth from the rear to mind the shop, and Chapman led Mrs Seymour to their office.
‘How might we help you?’ said Chapman when all were seated and the door was closed.
‘My late husband had a financial understanding with you,’ she said.
‘An understanding?’ said Chapman. Mystified glances were exchanged between the publishers.
‘You agreed to increase his remuneration on Pickwick if the work should prove to be very successful. It has obviously proved to be so.’
‘Do you have specific details of this supposed agreement?’ said Hall.
‘It was not “supposed”. But no, there are no specific details, because the terms themselves were left undefined.’
‘Left undefined!’ Hall laughed and looked towards Chapman, who smiled broadly in return. ‘Mrs Seymour, I would not consent to any agreement without clearly defined terms. I would insist on knowing the amount of the increased remuneration, whether a fixed sum, or a percentage. And above all, there would be an exceedingly strict definition of “very successful”.’
‘Something so loose could not be an agreement of ours,’ said Chapman. ‘Perhaps there has been a confusion with another publisher. Your late husband mentioned to me some troubles he had had with Figaro in London. The publisher of Figaro may, for some reason best known to himself, deal in such vague arrangements. I assure you that Chapman and Hall do not.’
‘There was an agreement,’ she said.
‘An agreement in writing, Mrs Seymour?’ said Hall.
‘It was in writing.’
‘Was?’ said Hall.
‘I admit that my husband – when his mind was troubled – destroyed various documents around the time of his death.’
‘So you have nothing in writing?’ said Hall.
‘I have children in need.’
‘So you have no documentary evidence at all confirming these assertions of yours?’ said Hall.
‘I know a document existed. My husband showed it to me.’
‘This supposed agreement,’ said Hall.
‘It was not supposed!’
‘Edward, do you have any recollection at all of this agreement?’
‘I do not, William. Mrs Seymour, consider your distress at the time of your husband’s death. Whatever you believe you saw, it could not have been an agreement of the sort you suggest.’
‘My husband made your fortune! You are in debt to Robert for ever!’
‘Madam, calm yourself,’ said Hall.
‘My children have a right!’
Chapman stood. ‘Madam, kindly leave.’
She left the office, still protesting.
If two grown men could have played leapfrog for joy, without undermining professional dignity, then Chapman would have placed his hands on his knees for Hall to vault over his back.
September 1845
The lodgings that Jane Seymour occupied with her two children and her brother were modest but clean, and one room was furnished with the best of the remaining pieces of furniture: this was the room where Edward Holmes gave piano lessons. As the income from the lessons could under no circumstances be lost, and as prospective pupils’ parents often came to inspect the facilities, prior to leaving their prodigies in Holmes’s care, this room was well maintained and decorated with Robert Seymour’s pictures, and indoor plants, to add colour.
A certain father, who always stayed throughout the lesson and always buried his head in The Times as his son played scales, usually left the newspaper behind on the coffee table, as though it were a gratuity. One day, while waiting for the next pupil to arrive, Jane happened to be sitting, reading that newspaper, while Edward occupied the piano stool, looking out of the window.
‘Well, that’s a coincidence,’ she said.
‘What is?’ said Holmes.
‘There is a review of a private dramatic performance which Dickens appeared in at the Royalty Theatre. And both à Beckett and Henry Mayhew were in the cast. That’s strange, don’t you think? That these three men, all connected with Robert, should be acting together.’
Holmes examined the paper. ‘A performance of Every Man in His Humour. I heard talk of this at The Atlas office a few weeks ago. I believe it’s a fund-raising event.’
‘If it is a fund-raising event then – Edward, what if we were to contact Dickens? What if he were to put on a similar show to help our family? Surely he would do it. Think of the debt he owes to Robert. And Mr Mayhew and à Beckett have their own debts to Robert as well. The children could get their education! They must do it!’
‘I suppose they might. It’s worth a try. It’s probably best if we don’t make the approach ourselves. I’ll see if I can find someone to do it on our behalf.’
*
A month later, when Forster arrived for supper at Devonshire Terrace where Dickens now lived, he was informed by the author immediately after arrival, in the study, as soon as the door was closed: ‘I have received a letter from someone connected with the Seymour family, asking me to put on a play to help them.’
After reading the letter, Forster said: ‘You must do nothing which implies that you have some obligation to Seymour. You must decline. There are great issues at stake here. Your reputation. And the reputation of Pickwick.’
‘How should I respond?’
‘Simply say that the only occasions on which the performance can be repeated are already arranged. Perhaps make some nominal contribution to the children’s education. A few pounds. No more. But it should be seen as a charitable contribution, not in any sense as an obligation. Also say that you are so constantly engaged that – unfortunately – you really have no leisure to devote to the consideration of Mrs Seymour’s case. Finish off by saying that you fear it is not in your power to be of any further service to her. That should do it.’
‘I will give her five pounds for her children’s education,’ said Dickens.
‘Make that the last penny she will get from you.’
*
One day, towards the end of 1846, John Forster paid a visit to the Strand. William Hall was out on business, but Edward Chapman happily showed Forster into the office, and as a kettle had just boiled, the two shared a convivial cup of tea.
‘I have been concerned,’ said Forster, when he judged enough conviviality had been swallowed, ‘by the appearance in the press of reports of Dickens “writing up” to Seymour.’
‘Writing up is what happened,’ said Chapman.
‘Be that as it may – a novel is not started by its illustrator.’
‘Pickwick was not truly a novel at the start. Perhaps it wasn’t truly a novel even at the end. Pickwick is Pickwick.’
‘Whatever Pickwick was at its inception, it looked increasingly like a novel as it went on and, in my opinion, became a novel long before its last page was penned. But I do admit there are those who would say that, to be a novel, Pickwick should derive entirely from the conceptions of the writer. It is difficult to reconcile the great artistic claims for Pickwick with the knowledge that Seymour was in control at the beginning.’
‘Its beginning will be consigned to oblivion. We have the glory that is Dickens’s work.’
‘I am not so complacent. I do not believe Pickwick’s origins will be forgotten. I paid a visit to a bookshop the other day, to see what I could find by Seymour.’ From his portmanteau, he took out a collected edition of Seymour’s prints, published as a volume. ‘There are characters in this who look decidedly like Mr Winkle. There are scenes which remind me of Pickwick.’
‘Is that a terrible thing, Mr Forster? What happened, happened.’
‘I want you to consider two views of Dickens. One view is – the great novelist, who produces the immortal work, Pickwick. Another view is – the man who works from a structure and suggestions provided by a caricaturist. Which is Dic
kens? How should Pickwick be remembered by posterity? I say that even if Dickens controlled all but a tenth of Pickwick – that tenth is the tenth that offends the eye.’
‘My view is that even Shakespeare had sources. There were chroniclers he worked from – we wouldn’t have had King Lear without Geoffrey of Monmouth. This in no sense detracts from the greatness of Shakespeare’s work.’
‘Very true. Except that Shakespeare did not have the living Geoffrey of Monmouth at his side. Geoffrey of Monmouth didn’t tell Shakespeare what to do. It is one thing to select a dead chronicler as one’s source, and quite another to write up to a living man’s ideas.’
‘Well, even so, there is nothing that can be done. William and I arranged the collaboration between Seymour and Dickens. The press have got hold of the fact, and – as you have discovered yourself – there are these pictures by Seymour in circulation.’
‘That is why I came to see you, Mr Chapman. I have given the matter some thought. I believe something can be done. Tell me – if you open an illustrated work of fiction, can you say which came first – words or pictures? Without further evidence, could you say what caused what?’
‘I suppose I couldn’t.’
‘There are the reports in the press of Seymour being in control. The pictures in this book of Seymour’s prints suggest the reports are true. And even if Dickens were to dismiss the reports as tittle-tattle and gossip, people would say there is no smoke without fire. So, Mr Chapman, do you know what I intend to do?’
‘No, what?’
‘I intend to build a fire myself, to explain the smoke – and add a little smoke of its own.’
‘Now you have lost me.’
‘What if we said there was an earlier version of Pickwick, a scheme which existed before Dickens came along? This would be Seymour’s version. Then what if we also said that Dickens brushed this scheme aside, for various reasons, until only tiny fragments of Seymour’s scheme were left – and that even these fragments appeared as a result of pictures which Dickens commissioned? The public would immediately be given an explanation for any rumours about Seymour’s involvement. Ah, they would say, that is the truth – it is just that the newspapers got things a bit muddled. How typical of the press, they would say – that is why the illustrations in Pickwick look rather like things Seymour had done before, there was an earlier version! And Seymour’s pictures in Pickwick would no longer be the instigators of the work. His pictures would be established as coming second, not first.’
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