Death and Mr. Pickwick (105 page)

‘The keeper who loved Chunee had taught him to understand some commands, and so he told the elephant to kneel. And the elephant, docile as anything, just like in the old days, got down slowly to its knees. The muskets were raised. Some aimed for the legs, and some for the chest. And the order was given – bang, bang, bang, bang.

‘There were terrible noises that came from Chunee as the bullets struck. But he was not defeated. He got to his feet, and charged the bars. The men shot again, aiming for the parts they thought most sensitive. Blood was now pouring from Chunee, all over the floor, pools of it, mixed up with hay.

‘Round after round the men fired, shooting everywhere they thought would work, but the elephant still wouldn't fall. The shooting went on for more than an hour.

‘They said you could hear Chunee's agony right down the Strand. Crowds started gathering, wanting to watch the events. The authorities wouldn't let 'em, though some are supposed to have offered two guineas for a good view.

‘But even then, Chunee wouldn't die. The commanding officer, shaking all over, decided to enter the cage. He had to be careful, because there was still life in the beast. And the floor was slippery with blood. Well, he drew his sword, and strapped it to the end of his musket somehow, and plunged it into the neck. And that was it for poor Chunee.

‘I remember all the pictures being sold afterwards, showing the elephant kneeling behind the bars as the musketeers fired. Coloured, they were – grey and red.

‘I went to the menagerie a couple of days later. So did hundreds of others, they were queuing on the street to get in. They charged a shilling to see the animal hewn by a team of Smithfield butchers, cutting off the hide, and taking twelve hours to do it. Well, in something that big there's bound to be something worth having. But the fact was –
nothing
was wasted. The meat was sold by the butchers, and they handed out sheets with recipes for elephant stew. My mother brought some elephant meat home – it was red, almost purple. We had it for Sunday dinner – and it tasted like – I don't know. I tried some deer once, a bit like that. And Chunee's hide was made into belts and shoes and wallets, and goodness knows what else. Then they brought in a sawbones, who dissected the animal with the help of a team of eager medical students.

‘Finally, there was Chunee's skeleton standing on display in his old cage. I saw the bullet holes in the skull. When they pulled down the menagerie, they auctioned off the skeleton, and got a hundred pounds for it, I think. Who knows where it is now?'

*   *   *

Throughout the tale, Thomas Clarke had turned the piece of japan. When his friend finished, he put the japan down, very decisively, and said: ‘I will die in debtors' prison. I have been cut off from social enjoyments and intercourse with the world – I have been
denuded
of necessary comforts – my health is suffering – you can scarcely know the agony I feel,
with no hope
! Infinite wealth would be no compensation for this! And where is my brother Valentine? Gone forever! What hope does a Chancery prisoner have?
None.
'

‘Read
Pickwick
and forget it.'

In late July, George Beadnell received a reply from Boz:

My Dear Sir

I have purposely abstained from replying to your note before, in order that if our friend Mr Clarke communicated with you again, you might be enabled to tell him with perfect truth that you had heard nothing from me.

My reason is this – if I were in the slightest instance whatever, to adopt any information so communicated, however much I invented upon it, the world would be informed one of these days – after my death perhaps – that I was not the sole author of
The Pickwick Papers
– that there were a great many other parties concerned – that a gentleman in the Fleet Prison perfectly well remembered stating in nearly the same words &c &c &c.. In short I prefer drawing upon my own imagination in such cases.

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, gentle
man
, not gentle
men
– “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.