Death and Mr. Pickwick (123 page)

‘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 impersonations 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'.