As soon as Mrs Hancock had left and the boy was seated, a barrel-organ player happened to start up outside, beginning with the tune ‘Champagne Charlie’. Moses began to sing, regardless of the boy’s presence.
For Champagne Charlie is my name,
Champagne Charlie is my name,
Good for any game at night, my boys,
Good for any game at night, my boys,
Champagne Charlie is my name
When the tune finished, Moses said to the butcher’s boy: ‘Why do people not like organ grinders? Toss him a coin, from this purse. And take one for yourself.’
‘Very kind, sir.’ The boy leant out of the window and waved to the swarthy, neckerchiefed musician, who sent over his red-coated ring-tailed monkey, to take the coin.
There was a deep sigh from Moses as the organ grinder moved away.
It was then that the boy, stuck for a topic of conversation, lifted his glass and said: ‘There’s a lot of drinking in The Pickwick Papers, ain’t there, sir?’
Suddenly it was as though ditches of rage had been dug in Moses Pickwick’s face. Features contorting, he groped for his blackthorn cane, and shaking all over, he struggled to his feet. Steadying himself with the armchair, he flailed the cane and shouted: ‘Mrs Hancock! Mrs Hancock! Get him out! Get this boy out!’ As the housekeeper entered, the bewildered and terrified boy fled past. The street door was heard to open and slam.
Moses was persuaded to sit, but he scowled all the time. ‘I don’t believe he was from the butcher at all,’ he said. ‘He was from my nephew. That’s who he was from. My nephew sent the boy to taunt me. Does he think that he has not done enough? The White Hart was the greatest coaching inn in the West of England – until my nephew wrote that book!’ He breathed heavily. ‘We will send him another letter, Mrs Hancock.’
‘Yes, Mr Pickwick.’
‘You answered too quickly, madam,’ said Moses, throwing her a suspicious gaze. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That your nephew was the author of The Pickwick Papers of course.’
‘Indeed he was! And everything was fine until he wrote it. I was mocked because of that book. That book is why the White Hart was destroyed! And he was to blame!’
‘Yes, Mr Pickwick.’
After a minute or two of silence, he said: ‘I wish the organ grinder would return. Do call him back, Mrs Hancock. Give him a shilling for “Champagne Charlie”.’
‘I will when I have done a few things, Mr Pickwick,’ She pottered around the room, and the process would continue until all possibility of blackthorn-flailing had passed.
When Moses Pickwick had settled, and forgotten about the organ grinder, a distant look came to his eye. ‘The White Hart,’ he exhaled. ‘Do you know, Mrs Hancock, the deer, the white hart, is the creature that can never be caught.’
‘Is that so, Mr Pickwick?’
‘That’s what the legends say. It is a ghost-white stag. Not with pink eyes, it is not an albino. But normal eyes for a deer. If those eyes ever look at you, you are never the same again. Do you know, Mrs Hancock, a superstitious man came into the White Hart once and he told me had seen a real white hart. He had actually seen one, in a forest clearing.’
‘Did he, Mr Pickwick?’
‘He said that white harts are messengers from the afterlife. It was alive once, you know, my White Hart, in its glory days.’
‘Yes it was, Mr Pickwick,’ she said. She put down a vase she had lifted. ‘And in a way, I think it still is.’
‘Yes, Mrs Hancock, it still is.’ He smiled. After a long pause, he said: ‘Trains will never keep on those rails. The tracks are much too narrow.’
The distant look came again. He saw the coachwheels revolve, and he was once more on the porch of the White Hart, waving and wishing all the passengers a good journey, God willing.
Moses Pickwick died in January 1869. In his last moments, upon his deathbed, he spoke of filling up the coaches with braces of ducks and dozens of pigeons, and, especially, with barrels of oysters, as approved by the time of year.
*
1873
‘YOU WILL BE SURPRISED, HARRISON,’ said Buss as he placed the drawings on the table in the studio, wheezing as he sat down, ‘that I should ever want to see these again.’
Robert Buss had been turning out a cupboard when his friend arrived; now, the artist’s Pickwick pictures, and other preparatory drawings for that work, saw light for the first time in thirty-seven years.
‘Yes, I am surprised,’ said Harrison. ‘I thought any mention of Pickwick was forbidden in your house.’
The old artist spread the images out. ‘I have never quite been able to lose the thought that my two plates were abominably bad. Now I look at them again – they are not so terrible after all.’
‘They are surprisingly good,’ said Harrison, turning the picture of the arbour scene for a closer examination.
‘I am glad you think so. And – the more I look at them – I think they are really good, much better than Browne’s first efforts. Not up to Seymour’s level, but then he had years of experience. I can see some flaws. The shading is too formal. The figures should be smaller.’
‘At the very least, anyone could see they showed great promise.’
‘If Browne had been thrust into my situation, and compared to Seymour, then mark my words, he would have been the one branded the Pickwick failure.’
‘I have never for one moment thought of you as “the Pickwick failure”.’
‘You are very kind, Harrison. But I know how the world works. Tell me – do you know the print that appeared about eighteen months after Dickens’s death, showing his empty chair at his writing desk?’
‘I have seen it, yes.’
‘What a funny combination of names Dickens and I would have made – The Pickwick Papers, written by Boz, drawn by Buss.’
Over the succeeding weeks, ‘written by’ was omitted from the artist’s thinking, but ‘Boz, drawn by Buss’ was his obsession, judging by the numerous sketches of Dickens’s characters which he drew while still in bed, for often he did not have the strength to rise. The sketches concerned Dickens’s entire career, from Pickwick onwards, as though Buss were determined to prove not only that he was worthy to be Seymour’s successor, but that he could draw the whole of Dickens’s work, a feat accomplished by no other illustrator who had partnered the author.
Buss’s conception was a grand watercolour portrait of Dickens, with characters from the novels in the background, beginning with Mr Pickwick and Sam Weller in the very positions they adopted in Browne’s drawing, with Sam half-turning, and Mr Pickwick admiring – the drawing that Buss would have made, had he not been dismissed.
With great exertion, he pulled himself out of the blankets one morning and started work on the watercolour, the easel having been placed in readiness beside his bed. He used a photograph of Dickens as his model, and gradually, over a number of weeks, his picture of Dickens materialised, with the author sitting in a chair in the library, while the characters floated among the books on the shelves as if emerging from Dickens’s imagination.
*
Robert Buss died on 26 February 1875. At the time of his death, barely a quarter of the picture had been coloured, and that mostly of Dickens himself.
After the funeral, Harrison stood before the easel, beside Buss’s daughter, Frances.
‘Do you know my opinion?’ he said. ‘Please do not take this the wrong way. The painting is much more powerful for being left unfinished. It is as though the characters are in the process of coming into existence.’
‘Similar thoughts had occurred to me,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the thought occurred to my father too.’
‘I hope you are right,’ he said. ‘I truly hope you are right.’
*
‘BUT WHAT OF PICKWICK’S THIRD illustrator?’ I asked Mr Inbelicate. ‘What of Browne?’
It was one of Mr Inbelicate’s traits that, occasionally, he would do i
mpersonations of the men who had played parts in these events. Though Mr Inbelicate bore no resemblance to Dickens whatsoever, he spoke as though he were the author himself, throwing Browne aside, after many years of collaboration: ‘His drawings are stiff. They are not real men. They are puppets on strings, I could pull them apart at the joints. They are out of fashion. They smell old. Of all writers – am I not the one who least needs to be illustrated?’
Then Mr Inbelicate returned to his own self – if his own self could be said to exist, separate from Pickwickian concerns.
‘Browne’s days ended sadly,’ he said. ‘His hand became crippled, so he was forced to hold his pencil like a child receiving his first lesson from a drawing-master. But I wish to talk of someone else’s old age and infirmity now.’
‘Whose?’
‘Samuel Pickwick’s.’
*
IT WAS A RAINY APRIL evening in Great Queen Street in 1875 when Walter Besant left the Quatuor Coronati Masonic Lodge. Beneath the streaming black umbrella strode this heavy-footed man, bulky by stomach and bulky by beard – the latter virtually doubling the length of the face. The beard’s practical purpose could be discerned only by a very close scrutiny of the bristles: the dents and scars of a poor and embarrassing complexion were just capable of being observed.
The weather itself would be reason enough for a man to be melancholy, but a tightening of Besant’s lip suggested a deeper cause. He decided to cheer himself up by knocking at the house of his friend James Rice. Soon the two were sitting together at a table, smoking cigarettes and enjoying red wine and fruit. Rice was a bearded fellow too, but of lawn-length, rather than the full bush of Besant.
‘How did the meeting go?’ said Rice.
‘Rather sad. An old member had passed away. I knew him well.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, it must come to us all, with no exceptions,’ said Besant. He leant back, and his beard mingled with the cigarette smoke, creating a momentary impression of an even larger beard. ‘I was thinking, James – I was accepted into the lodge in 1862. As I walked here, it occurred to me that around that time, Mr Pickwick would have died.’
‘That’s a peculiar thought. A most peculiar thought. Mr Pickwick cannot die. No, you cannot conceive of it at all.’
‘It is precisely because it is difficult to conceive of Mr Pickwick dying that I find the thought of it so intriguing. It could be turned into a story.’
Rice stubbed his cigarette, sipped his wine, and picked up an apple. ‘Now you say it – yes, a story about the closing chapter of Mr Pickwick’s life definitely would be intriguing. I wish there were more apples to help keep us alert. I’d like to talk it through – play with the idea of his death.’
‘I may be accused of arrogance, but if anyone has the right to put the old gentleman to sleep, it is surely me.’
‘I agree with you. But I would like to help.’
‘It is all right – you may, you may.’ He leant back and looked towards the ceiling as he inhaled upon the cigarette. ‘I shall never forget the joy,’ he said softly, ‘when the results of the examination were pinned on the board. Full marks were 1,350 and I obtained 835. In all seriousness, James – I have never felt so great a joy in all my life. I downed pint after pint of Audit Ale afterwards. I can remember my pride as Calverley shook my hand and congratulated me. Here was this brilliant young fellow, Calverley, whom everyone wanted to know, and he wanted to know me!’
Besant put down the cigarette and, like Rice, picked up an apple. He chewed excitedly, and a small uneaten piece became lodged in the lush garden of his beard. ‘Imagine reading an in memoriam notice for Mr Pickwick in the newspaper. Over breakfast, you open The Times and see: “We regret to announce the death of Mr Samuel Pickwick, corresponding member of many learned societies and founder of the Pickwick Club.”’
‘Now that’s a notice to make you choke on your bacon!’ laughed Rice, as he reached across, plucked the piece of apple from Besant’s beard and placed it in the ashtray beside the burning cigarette. ‘How old would he be?’
‘Quite old. About eighty-four, I think.’
‘The age should be more significant. More dramatic.’
‘How dramatic can the life of an eighty-four-year-old man be?’
‘He would watch the clock. His last day in this world would be the eve of his eighty-fourth birthday.’
‘Ah yes, very good. It should be the end of a month too, as though another serial part of Pickwick were due out that day.’
‘He should die – I think – on April the thirtieth,’ said Rice.
‘He would be in his study at Dulwich. Let’s say a white cat, a favourite pet, has died recently, and now Mr Pickwick sits fondling a ribbon that used to be tied around the cat’s neck.’
‘He would ask Sam to tie it in a bow for him and put it in a drawer, for Mr Pickwick’s hands were awkward these days. Sam would say “There, that’s a werry lovely little knot, sir, as the hangman said to the man vot vos convicted of fifteen murders.”’
‘“I was thinking more of the laces of shoes,” Mr Pickwick would say with a little smile. “It’s been a long time since I first saw you, Sam, when you were cleaning boots in the innyard in Southwark.” Then Mr Pickwick would look across at the portrait of his bespectacled mother on the wall, and remark: “I am eighty-four, Sam, tomorrow. Eighty-four. I shall not see another birthday.”’
‘And Sam would say, “Vot nonsense, sir, you’re young yet.”’
‘Yes, and then Sam would also say: “Ve can’t afford to lose you, sir. Dyin’ indeed? Ven I’m alive.”’
‘But then,’ said Rice, leaning forward as the enthusiasm took hold, ‘Sam would add, that when the time came, “Up there, I vill be your servant for sure, sir.”’
Besant and Rice continued their discussion long into the night. They began noting down sentences, gradually building a story they intended to publish, ‘The Death of Samuel Pickwick’.
‘In the morning, Sam will go into Mr Pickwick’s room, carrying a cup of tea,’ said Besant. ‘Now what if we said: “There was Mr Pickwick, sleeping on his side, the covers brought up like a much-loved baby, but still showing the sweet smile.”’
Rice continued. ‘Sam stood and looked down – and started to shake. He could hardly walk to the table, but still put down the tea. He knew what he had to do. His hand stretched out, shaking all the time, and touched the great forehead. It was cold. Deathly cold.’
Besant took over: ‘Sam touched the pulse. But, as though there was still hope, he turned down the covers, and stretched his fingertips to Mr Pickwick’s heart. There was no beat.’
Besant stood up. ‘We shall write it properly after we’ve had some sleep, and put Mr Pickwick in his grave. He will be buried in Dulwich. And Sam – poor griefstricken Sam – he will be buried next to his master, just seven days later.’
‘What would be written on Mr Pickwick’s grave?’
‘I think – “His works live after him.”’
‘And on Sam’s?’
‘“Faithful to the end.”’
*
AS MR INBELICATE’S HEALTH DECLINED, he became increasingly agitated as to whether I had made the right selection of material. Many times a day he would rap on the floor with his Dr Syntax cane, call ‘Scripty!’ and when I arrived at his bedside he would interrogate me on a certain point. One day, for instance, it was the Daffy Club’s rule of ‘accommodation’.
‘You know it means that tall tales are listened to respectfully. Nobody is called a liar.’
‘I have included that, I believe.’
‘You believe! That isn’t good enough. Go and fetch me The Squib Annual.’
Just as I arrived downstairs, rap, rap, rap went the Syntax cane. ‘Scripty!’ came the yell.
This continued for several weeks. I confess that my enthusiasm for the entire project waned. Many were my conversations with Mary when I said I could not continue. She placed her hand on mine, and urged me to go
on, as best as she could. ‘Only you can write this book,’ she said once.
Matters came to a head in the summer when, at the point of exhaustion, I asked Mr Inbelicate if I could take a short holiday.
‘There is no time,’ he said. He asked me to fetch some notes on a subject which, at that moment, I could have done without: the relative typeface sizes of ‘Boz’ and ‘Seymour’ on the wrapper of Pickwick – as the former was larger than the latter, one might be led to the conclusion that Boz was in charge of the affair, and not writing up to Seymour at all. ‘This would be a wholly erroneous conclusion,’ he said. He proceeded to talk of how The Book of Christmas was a perfect refutation. The letterpress showed, at numerous points, that Hervey was following Seymour’s lead. Yet Hervey’s name was considerably larger than Seymour’s on the title page.
‘Are you listening, Scripty?’
‘Yes.’
‘If we look at the earliest advertisement for Pickwick, a leaflet inserted into the Domestic Magazine, you will see the difference in typeface is not so pronounced. True, “Edited by Boz” is in slightly larger type than “Seymour”; but the greatest impact is “Embellished with Four Illustrations”, in bold type, which precedes “by Seymour”. It is the pictures which are obviously the main attraction here.’
‘I am sorry – I cannot take any more today,’ I said.
‘You must continue, Scripty. We have so little time.’
‘I simply cannot. My brain is shutting down.’
He lay back on his pillow. I could see he was considering some new way of whetting my appetite for the task. Eventually he said: ‘You will not feel the same after I have shown you a particular manuscript.’
‘I cannot take any more Pickwick today.’
‘This manuscript is about a man who knew Pickwick as no other man has ever known it. His single-minded devotion to the book makes our endeavours seem an idle whim.’
‘I do not believe that is possible.’
‘I shall prove it.’
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 92