Death and Mr. Pickwick (10 page)

When he had done so, she stood behind him. ‘Now – don't move your pencil yet. Hold it ready. You must know the course of the line before the drawing is begun. So – look from the horse to the paper, and from the paper to the horse, and then back to the paper. Keep on doing that until your imagination starts to see the horse in the place it is meant to occupy. Do it now. Is it happening? Do you see the mane on the paper?'

‘I do.'

‘You truly see it? On the paper?'

‘I do.'

‘Then draw, Robert Seymour,
draw
! The quicker you draw, the better. Ha ha!' She clapped her hands in mad delight. ‘Oh – I have just remembered something else Thomas did! An elementary exercise, but you need to do it! I need to take you back to the start.'

When the horse was drawn, and she had pronounced herself very pleased, but saw room for improvement, she sent Seymour to her husband's billiard table to fetch a white ball. Then she instructed him to place the ball in different positions in her parlour, so that it would stand in varying relation to the light from the windows. In each position, he had to draw the ball. ‘You must do exactly as Thomas did,' she said. ‘You must observe how the light is weakened by shadow as the ball curves round.' Dozens of spheres were the result, and as Robert Seymour worked, she emptied drawers to find invoices and letters and old calico patterns for their blank areas, ready to receive his images.

*   *   *

For the next three mornings, immediately after breakfast, Robert Seymour was sent up to Mrs Vaughan to spend the entire day in supervised sessions of drawing. On the afternoon of the third day, the servant brought in a note which Mrs Vaughan read, to the accompaniment of some tightening of her mouth, and she then passed the note over to Seymour to draw upon.

‘As you will see,' she said, ‘my husband is returning tonight. Barton is not in good health. I think it is best if you go out, and do not return to the house until late. I must explain the circumstances of your apprenticeship to my husband. In any case, it will be good if you spend some time away from me, for you must develop on your own. I shall give you money to go to a tavern.'

So Robert Seymour spent the evening in the Hand and Shears, a small and dark public house, where he recognised several sly traders from Smithfield market leaning against the bar. Eventually, at nine o'clock, he returned to the Vaughan residence.

On the doorstep, even before he had inserted the key in the door, he heard raised voices. Mr and Mrs Vaughan were in the middle of an argument. It took no special mental acuity to guess the cause.

Entering the hallway, he saw three boys of different ages: all older than himself, all positioned near the bottom of the staircase, and all eyeing him with dislike. From Mrs Vaughan's prior descriptions, he knew their names and could match names to faces. Todd was a red-haired boy with a foxy look, culminating in a chin of extreme triangular pointedness, who sat, knees wide apart, on the stairs above the rest. Kibble had a heavy brow and bent nose which combined to suggest criminality, and he slouched, hands in pockets, against the newel-post as though it were a street lamp. Beside the wainscoting, Field had a nervous and greasy demeanour, and was pulling on his hair. Coming from above was Mr Vaughan's voice: ‘This is
completely
unreasonable! The boy is here to work.'

‘I know what I see in the drawings,' said the voice of Mrs Vaughan. ‘We cannot waste what he has.'

‘Are you calling my designs waste?'

‘You do not see what I see.'

There was a lull. During this, the red-haired Todd rose, and in his own time, descended the stairs until he stood in the hall, several inches taller than Seymour. ‘So you are the new apprentice.'

‘I am pleased to meet you. My name is Robert Seymour.'

‘Listen to the way he speaks,' said Kibble. ‘Not quite London, is it?'

‘My mother is from Somerset. But I have grown up in London.'

‘Somerset,' said Field. ‘I believe Vaughan has made trips to Somerset. Do you think he might know this boy's mother?'

‘That explains why he's here,' said Kibble.

‘Mrs Vaughan wouldn't like her husband's mistakes working for him,' said Todd. ‘Well, well. We've got it worked out, lads.'

Suddenly the argument upstairs flared up once more. A shout came from Mrs Vaughan: ‘You can have your horse!' There was a sound of porcelain shattering. ‘It was worthless until the boy sketched it!'

‘I am going to my room,' said Seymour.

‘No you're not,' said Todd. From his top pocket, he brought out a pair of geometric dividers. ‘Hold him.'

Before Seymour could react, Kibble and Field pressed his shoulders to the wainscoting. Todd adjusted the dividers. ‘Now how far apart are those eyes, eh, Seymour? Seymour – what about seeing less?' Field laughed and Todd made a thrust at Seymour's face with the dividers which stopped just short of both eyeballs. ‘Look at him flinch!' Then another thrust. And another. ‘Oh, you're scared. Well you can keep your eyes – today.' He stabbed the dividers into Seymour's thigh. ‘Listen to him squeal!' The three laughed, threw Seymour against the stairs and walked away.

Seymour sat on the stairs, rubbing his thigh, listening to the argument in which Mrs Vaughan seemed to gain the upper hand. As he righted himself, Vaughan emerged from the upstairs room, flushed in the face. He cast a despising look at Seymour when he descended and said: ‘Get out of my sight.'

So Seymour went to the small room where he slept, but as he approached, he heard a tune being sung. He listened at the door:

There were three men came out of the west,

Their fortunes for to try

And these three men made a solemn vow

John Barleycorn must die.

Seymour turned the doorknob. The song stopped.

A timid-looking boy, under the cover of sheets, sat bolt upright and then broke into a smile. ‘Oh do,
do
come in. I have some bread and cheese if you would like some. I did not eat with the others, because I am supposed to be ill.' He grinned widely, and threw off the covers.

‘I know your surname is Barton,' said Seymour, shaking the boy's hand, ‘but I don't know your Christian name.'

‘I am known as Wonk.'

‘That's a peculiar name.'

‘Have you seen the red-haired apprentice?'

‘Todd.'

‘He gave it to me.'

‘Why?'

Wonk came over flustered. ‘He thought it was funny. It came about because – well, say “Master Barton” a few times. Then Todd played around with words and names for me. So I am Wonk now.'

‘I will not call you Wonk unless you want me to.'

‘For your own sake, please do. The less you antagonise them the better. Wonk is perfectly all right. I am used to it now.'

‘What were you singing when I entered?'

‘“John Barleycorn”. It is my favourite song. Would you like me to teach you?'

‘Do.'

Soon, ‘Pity the Sorrows of a Poor Old Man' was also to be heard.

*   *   *

Mrs Vaughan had won the right for Robert Seymour's afternoons to be devoted to artistic practice, while the mornings would be given over to her husband's pattern-drawing.

At breakfast the next day, attended by Vaughan and all the apprentices at a single table – with Mrs Vaughan absent, as was her custom – it seemed, by various smiles and pleasantries, that Vaughan had accepted his wife's conditions, and resolved to make the best of it. For Vaughan was – as Wonk had told Seymour as they sat upon their beds sharing bread and cheese – at heart a good soul. That soul was certainly reflected in the excellence of the breakfast, with nicely browned and seasoned sausage, eggs in which the yolk was neither overdone nor underdone, thickly buttered toast and strong coffee; though the deeper resentments provoked by the new apprentice manifested themselves in the way Todd stared across the table at Seymour and in the slow sawing action with which his cutlery worked, and in his laboured chewing in which he made certain that Seymour looked into his mouth.

With the meal over, all transferred to the drawing office, a well-lit annexe with a high ceiling and walls decorated with framed watercoloured fabric patterns, mainly combining the floral with the geometric: pink rows of Euclidean peonies and nasturtiums, each half an inch high, then dropped down, inset, and repeated in reverse. In contrast to this neatness, the apprentices' desks were pockmarked and scratched, through intense application of dividers, sharp pencils and rulers.

When all had taken their seats, Vaughan closed the door and cleared his throat. Looking towards the new apprentice, he said: ‘The name “Seymour” begins with “S”. What sort of S? Is it a gently curving S – a shiver in a straight line? Or a grossly bulging undulating S – a snake sleeping off a meal? Todd, how would you recommend our new man start his signature?'

‘With a satisfying medium S, a perfect S, neither too straight nor a distasteful swerve.'

‘Good. Field, what do I say about the representation of petals?'

‘The representation of petals must flow with an ease and a grace.'

‘Good. Barton, what do I say about the work overall?'

‘That it should be done, sir,' said Wonk; there was a hint of a twinkle in his eye, and a half-smile at Seymour.

Vaughan smiled. ‘I will let that pass. But tell him, Kibble.'

‘There is the necessity of a sweetness being given to the work overall.'

‘All of these things you will learn, Seymour, until they become second nature. Field, what do I say about geometry and botany?'

‘Aim for the flowering pentagon and the blossom within squares.'

‘Kibble, what are our favourite colours?'

‘Red, purple and cherry-blossom pink.'

‘Indeed – red, purple and cherry-blossom pink.' He stood directly in front of Seymour's desk. ‘You will copy from vases, from engravings, from patterns already made. You will learn about weaves, repetitions, and the use of metal threads. You will produce designs for shawls and dresses and curtains. You will immerse yourself in petals, berries, feathery fronds, weeping willows, and all variations on lupins and calla lilies. What were your favourite colours before you came here, Seymour?'

‘Blue and green, Mr Vaughan.'

‘In due course, your tastes will change to red, purple and cherry-blossom pink.'

*   *   *

In the afternoon, Robert Seymour joined Mrs Vaughan, and after tea was poured, she sat back in her armchair and said: ‘You may sketch me, if you like.'

Just as he lifted his pencil, she said: ‘I wish to talk while you draw. I have not told you yet about my son's own apprenticeship, to an artist. I have held back, because of – what happened. You are happy to listen, as you draw?'

‘It will not distract me, Mrs Vaughan.' Then, as an afterthought, he said: ‘I have the ability to listen intently as I work. I believe I inherited it from my father.'

She took several sips of tea, and then put down her cup. After nervous motions of one hand within another, she began.

‘Years ago, when Thomas's father and I realised that our son had great talent, but that it needed to be developed, we apprenticed him to a certain Mr Edward Dayes, who was recommended to us. He had exhibited at the Royal Academy, and was known for landscapes and miniatures, as well as paintings of cathedrals and so forth, and he seemed a very good choice for Thomas. I remember Mr Dayes calling at our house for the first time – but when he took my hand, I confess I was disappointed. There was a weakness in his face – it made me think of melting wax, especially under the eyes. But he had been recommended, and I took that seriously, and so did my husband. Mr Dayes took Thomas on, and at the start, we were pleased enough to pay the premium. Until we came to realise that he was jealous of our son.

‘I believe he used the apprenticeship to deliberately hold Thomas back. He gave our son every menial task he could, with very few lessons at all. He would make Thomas grind paint and clean brushes, or apply watercolour washes, or simply sweep the floor. These
are
part of an apprentice artist's everyday life – but there didn't seem to be anything else in this apprenticeship.

‘But, such was Thomas's determination, he could not be held back. He practised late into the night, sketching and painting, and if Dayes ever saw these works he would make a great show of tossing them aside and sometimes he would not speak to my son for a week at a time, except in odd grunts, or in short commands to grind paints and clean brushes. I believe that Edward Dayes knew Thomas would grow into a more distinguished artist than himself, and he couldn't bear that thought.

‘Well, through Edward Dayes, there was a person my son came to know, a young and wealthy draper with premises in Cheapside, not far from Mansion House. This draper was very hobby-horsical about old castles and monasteries and suchlike, and he liked to travel around and record these buildings with a pencil. Well, being a draper, he dealt in cloth, and cloth lasts only until the moths have had a meal, and that is perhaps why he liked old things in stone and brick.' She smiled. ‘My husband sees his designs as everlasting, even if the cloth they are printed on goes threadbare. But that aside – what I do know is that this draper was no artist. And, one day, he came to Mr Dayes with a large batch of exceedingly poor drawings, and he asked if they might be improved. Mr Dayes took the draper's money, and was all flattery and smiles, saying that they hardly needed any work at all, apart from a touch here and there. Then he passed all the drawings to Thomas – and as Edward Dayes only ever gave Thomas menial tasks, that was how he viewed the draper's assignment. So Thomas worked upon them, and added colour, and made them better in whatever way he could. He made them splendid! The draper was so pleased with the results that he and my son became friends.