Death and Mr. Pickwick (120 page)

The reunion of the old White Hart men was occurring for a reason: soon, the White Hart would cease to exist. Even as the men sat down to lunch, sledgehammers broke through the coaching inn's walls.

By turns, the old drivers spoke of their lives after the establishment of the London to Bath railway, when the Great Bath Road became all but deserted. One had mucked out stables; another had found employment as a farm labourer; a third had driven a vegetable cart for a while and then become a rag-and-bone man. Most accepted these experiences as the price of progress. Moses Pickwick did not.

‘I always say,' he remarked, ‘that railwaymen have no pride in their appearance. Look at their faces – all smuts and soot.'

‘Now then, Mr Pickwick, that's not entirely fair,' said a brown-spotted driver with a shaky index finger. ‘When we were driving coaches, we often used to get mud on our faces.'

‘Yes,' said Moses Pickwick, ‘but mud is nat'ral.'

There came many more comments, anecdotes and experiences, concluding with one driver's account of an unemployed buglemaker of his acquaintance, who in disgust at having to make frying pans instead of coaching horns, crushed his last bugle in a vice.

Then Moses Pickwick brought his palms down upon the table, and said: ‘It is time, gentlemen, time to bid the White Hart farewell.'

He stood, with the aid of a blackthorn cane, and led a procession to the building. For several minutes they watched the brick dust fly as the hammerheads fell. One by one, the old coachmen raised a little finger and left, until Moses Pickwick stood alone.

He watched as a nimble workman climbed a ladder at the porch, and began unscrewing the famous statue, the white hart of the White Hart. Moses walked closer, to the side of the foreman, who stood hands on hips, as the statue was detached. The two had developed a friendly rapport during the previous few mornings, from the time the demolition had commenced, with Moses paying a visit to the site every day.

‘There was a special toast we used to drink at the White Hart,' Moses said to the foreman.

‘Was there, Mr Pickwick? What was that?'

‘It was a toast to the inn itself. A wish for its continued prosperity in its competition with the other inns of Bath.'

‘I bet you remember it.'

‘I do. “May the White Hart outrun the Bear, And make the Angel fly, Turn the Lion upside down, And drink the Three Tuns dry.”'

‘Sad it's not heard any more.'

‘I could curse myself! I missed an opportunity today. It could have been spoken for a last time at my little reunion of old drivers. I wish I could call them back. Too late now.' He fell silent, watching the workman and the statue. Eventually he said, in his bass register: ‘Imagine all the people who have stayed here. Veterans from Trafalgar. People coming to take the waters. So many people, over the years.'

The workman had by now unscrewed the statue, and with difficulty he carried it in his arms down the ladder. He brought the statue over towards the foreman.

‘Do you want this, Mr Pickwick, to remind you of those times?' said the foreman.

Moses breathed in deeply. ‘His antlers are dirty. Never like that in the old days.' He stroked off a smut around the antler's tip. ‘No, where would I put him?' said Moses. ‘Besides, I don't need reminding. I remember it all.'

He patted the head of the hart, then turned, thrust his blackthorn cane forward, and walked away.

9 November 1867. Evening.

John Forster sat in his book-lined study beside a Corinthian-column table lamp, sipping claret. There was a satisfied look upon his features, but the light shining through the cranberry glass tinted his face unnaturally.

Earlier that day Dickens had sailed from Liverpool, bound for America for a reading tour. A few days prior to departure he had brought round a letter, for Forster's safekeeping. It was the letter Edward Chapman had written eighteen years before, about his mythical friend John Foster.

‘It has to be ready to use, in case it is needed when I am away,' said Dickens. ‘When I think of this matter, Forster, I am sick with worry.'

 

*

‘DICKENS HAD GOOD REASON TO
be anxious,' said Mr Inbelicate. ‘A person had emerged in public whom we have got to know a little, Scripty. Insofar as anyone
could
know him. I refer to Robert Seymour, the son of Robert Seymour. You see, in 1866 he had written to
The Athenaeum
magazine about his father.'

‘I hope this means we may continue with his manuscript.'

‘It does.'

 

*

ONCE I KNEW THAT THERE
was a blatant contradiction in the account of
Pickwick
's origin, as given by Dickens and Chapman, it became my obsession to discover the truth.

In Dickens's preface, I read his objections to the supposed Nimrod Club scheme: ‘I objected, on consideration, that although born and partly bred in the country I was no great sportsman, except in regard of all kinds of locomotion.' Born and partly bred
in the country
! He was born in Portsmouth. He grew up in Rochester and Chatham. These are not the country. But that is an aside.

If my father came up with the specific members of the Pickwick Club, as Mr Buss claimed, it is difficult to see how this club
could
be called the Nimrod Club. Dickens said that he rejected the sporting idea, in favour of ‘a freer range of English scenes and people'. In a club which has not only the sport of Mr Winkle, but also the poetry of Mr Snodgrass, the romantic interests of Mr Tupman, and the scientific and antiquarian interests of Mr Pickwick, there must necessarily already be a ‘freer range of English scenes and people'
.
If Nimrod means a sporting club, and one restricted in its interests to sport, as Dickens implies, then how can there be members with a diversity of interests? It cannot have been called the Nimrod Club. Even from a publishing point of view, it would be peculiar to name the club after the interests of one active member, the sport of Mr Winkle, ignoring the other members. By naming the club after the founder, so that it is the Pickwick Club, there is scope for diversity – the members could do all manner of things. The Pickwick Club was sensible; but the Nimrod Club made no sense to me at all. Furthermore, my mother never spoke about a Nimrod Club.
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club
was my father's title, not
The Notorious Notes of the Nimrod Club.

There is another strange thing too. If Dickens had really resisted the sporting theme, why is it that so much of the early part of
Pickwick
relates to sport in one way or another? I look at the tale of the sagacious dog – and there is Jingle, the poacher with a gun. More shooting skills follow in the duelling scene. Then the refractory steed – horsemanship. The fight with the cabman – strongly suggestive of pugilism. The arbour scene – Tupman recovers from a sporting injury. Mr Pickwick in search of his hat brings him into contact with a farmer, which leads into the rook-shooting. After my father's death, there is a cricket scene. In what sense could there have been an overturning of a sporting theme when there is so much sport? Once again, Dickens's account makes no sense at all. It
does
make sense if my father was dictating the terms of the work.

Dickens never resisted the sporting theme in the way he claimed. This was an argument he invented years later.

I sometimes think Dickens wanted to turn us all into versions of Mr Pickwick, gullibly accepting his prefaces. How strange that I have found myself becoming a sceptical sort, akin to Sam Weller.

*   *   *

I must be plain. The search for truth has been my
only
concern. I will not be drawn into public debate. I am too old. Even if I were younger, I would have no relish for the fight. That is for others. My involvement with
The Athenaeum
magazine taught me a lesson, which I do not wish to repeat. I shall talk of that now.

*   *   *

It was March 1866, and I was living in a terrace on Eel Brook Common, Fulham, a place which I am led to believe was once known as Hellbrook Common, and was the site of a medieval plague pit.

Often I would wander among the common's lime trees as my recreation, watching youths kick a football. Once one of them kicked the ball and it knocked off my hat. Sometimes I would sit on a bench there and read a newspaper or magazine. Such was my eventful life.

There was one Sunday morning, on the common, when I heard a father saying ‘Boo!' to his daughter. She jumped, and it ended in giggles. It made me recall that my father had his own version of this game. He would take my sister and me aside, and then he would say: ‘Now we are travelling in a steam carriage.' He would make a chug chug sound. ‘We are going along … and going along and …
Boom
!' We would jump as he pretended the carriage had exploded, and it ended in giggles, just like the little girl's. Sometimes my father would say: ‘Imagine we have mechanical legs.' He would walk around the room in a stiff way, and we would mimic and follow, and his legs would go faster and faster until … ‘Boom!' Once again, we were blown apart.

Seeing the father and his daughter was one thing that put me in mind of my own father; but I think also there was some passing reference in
The Athenaeum
to his work at the time, which I read when I was sitting on the bench on the common. I do not recall all the circumstances now, but I decided to write to
The Athenaeum
, bringing my father's participation in
Pickwick
to the public's attention.

The very next week, Dickens wrote to the editor. I have here his letter, clipped from the magazine's pages:

Sir,

As the author of
The Pickwick Papers
(and one or two other books), I send you a few facts, and no comments, having reference to a letter signed ‘R. Seymour' which on your editorial discretion you published last week.

Mr Seymour the artist never originated, suggested, or in any way had to do with, save as illustrator of what I devised, an incident, a character (except the sporting tastes of Mr Winkle), a name, a phrase, or a word, to be found in
The Pickwick Papers
.

I never saw Mr Seymour's handwriting, I believe, in my life.

I never even saw Mr Seymour but once in my life, and that was within eight and forty hours of his untimely death. Two persons, both still living, were present on that short occasion.

These are, simply, lies!

To begin with, notice how he describes the witnesses as ‘two persons'. How objective that seems. They were his wife and brother!

I shall say, and not attempt to disguise it by talking of ‘a person', that my mother told me that Dickens met my father on another occasion, prior to the meeting mentioned by Dickens. This was the crucial occasion when Father gave Dickens the necessary materials for the work. Drawings, books and notes were passed over to the provider of the letterpress, as one would expect. But how could I prove this happened? It would seem very natural for the two men to meet, prior to embarking on the project; it would also be very natural to exchange letters afterwards, to clarify any outstanding matters. But natural was not enough. It would be my family's word against his. All I can say is that his assertions that he never saw my father's handwriting, and met him only once, are not in his 1847 preface. They came much later on. When Dickens had decided to seal himself off from any contact with my father.

 

*

‘IT IS TRUE, SCRIPTY, THAT
there is no absolute necessity for a letterpress writer and an artist to meet. There is the precedent of Combe and Rowlandson. They communicated solely through pictures. Yet there is a difference in the case of Dickens and Seymour. By the time I have poured us a drink, I want you to tell me what it is.'

When he passed over the glass I said: ‘The difference is that Seymour's pictures require some explanation.'

‘Say more.'

‘How could Dickens even know Tupman was a lover, Snodgrass was a poet, and Mr Pickwick a scientist and antiquarian? The only member of the Pickwick Club who instantly betrays his identity through his visual appearance is Winkle, by wearing a sporting outfit.'

‘And this problem is even more obvious in the case of the duel, Scripty. Everything points to Seymour coming up with that. How could the imbroglio of the duel be communicated solely in pictures? Now, continue.'

‘You have demonstrated to me that Dickens signed up for the scheme that Hall brought him, when he visited Furnival's. If Dickens did, somehow, subsequently exert some influence on the pictures, then he would need to meet Seymour, or at the very least exchange letters with him, to get the artist's consent to the changes, and agree to some sort of compromise.'

‘So,' said Mr Inbelicate, ‘either way, the evidence indicates Dickens was lying. If he didn't meet or communicate with Seymour, then Seymour was in charge of the project, and that was that: Dickens was simply writing up to Seymour's pictures. If he did get some control over the project, he must have communicated with Seymour to get the consent to the changes.'

‘The only piece of devil's advocacy I can contribute is that, conceivably, Seymour could have used Chapman and Hall to communicate on his behalf. Then, strictly speaking, Dickens could be telling the truth.'

‘But Scripty, it would be bizarre to entrust that to someone else. If you have a pet project, then surely you would be the person to discuss it? You, after all, would know the most about the project. And think of things like Weld Taylor's drawing of the shepherd, suggesting that Dickens and Seymour were involved in long-term planning of
Pickwick
, or Mr Pickwick's interest in sticklebacks echoing Richard Penn's. Would you really entrust matters like this to someone else?'