Death and Mr. Pickwick (127 page)

Mr Inbelicate's Narrative

In June 1870 I joined the throng entering Westminster Abbey's south transept. The death of a military leader or a monarch creates such crowds, yet Charles Dickens had been neither. No Englishman had ever attained such a hold on the populace. I passed under high arches, queued in dim corners, read historical names on tablets and observed the blind statues. Benches covered in black cloths were roped together, to funnel the crowd leading to the open grave, near the Shakespeare and the Milton memorials. So many flowers had been thrown, the coffin's lid was rendered invisible. A portrait of Dickens as a young man stood on the wall above the grave.

The Times
editorial said of
Pickwick
: ‘We are inclined to think that this, the first considerable work of the author, is his masterpiece.' The true story of that masterpiece, the story of the greatest literary phenomenon in history, has yet to be told.

*   *   *

It was an autumn evening in 1875 when I took myself to the Ship and Star public house in Sudbury, where in a corner a blind fiddler played a sprightly air, and the drinkers hummed along, moving their glasses in time.

‘Ready for the attic?' said the landlord, a volcanically stout man at the belt, leading to a disproportionately small head, leading to a wisp of white hair, which even resembled smoke. He banged down two old lanterns on the bar – lanterns with battered tin tops and splintered wooden bodies.

He led me through passages, then upstairs. The lanterns emitted light to the front only. We progressed through a low and narrow door to another staircase which for its first few steps was steep, until a chimney burst through its flight. Squeezing past, with great difficulty, the landlord grabbed a rope and half heaved himself upwards, grunting as he did so. Now we reached the attic. There were roughly hewn rafters and two squares of evening sky visible through the smallest conceivable gable windows. There were also cobwebs everywhere.

‘This is what proves it,' he said. He brought his lantern close to a wall where, scratched into the plaster, were names, obscene rhymes and drawings of stick men – some on stick horses and some on stick women. The name ‘The Sloth' appeared as a signature to many of these creations.

‘A great fat man I'm told he was,' said the landlord. ‘Slow in brain and slow in body, hated work. He was never so proud of anything as being called The Sloth.'

Pride. As he moved the lantern all over the wall, so as to illuminate every scratch, I wondered whether the pride of the landlord was genuine or whether it was tongue-in-cheek. By the tone of his voice, he definitely did seem proud of Sudbury's history of political corruption, or at least proud that it had inspired, allegedly, the election scenes at the imaginary town of Eatanswill in
Pickwick
. He might have been showing off the Bayeux Tapestry, rather than the manner in which thirty-three Free and Independent voters amused themselves when they were locked in the attic, to stop their votes being cast.

‘These were the days when Plum Pudding Wilks was the Member of Parliament,' he said.

‘Plum Pudding?'

‘On account of the form of his benevolence. Very generous he was, with his free dinners for the children of voters. Best fete the town had ever seen.'

‘But it wasn't enough to win the seat.'

‘Not in 1834, no. So when you have given away as much as he did, and it's still not enough, what else do you do? So the thirty-three were filled to the brim with drink, and every single one of them kept in here until the election was well and truly over and Plum Pudding was elected with an increased majority. Sudbury was Eatanswill, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise.'

‘What about Kettering?'

‘Wrong part of the country.'

‘Ipswich?'

‘They weren't generous enough then, and they're not generous enough now.'

I thanked the landlord for his help and we went downstairs, where the blind fiddler was still sawing the strings.

In the summer of 1884 I went in search of Sam Weller's voice, having heard reports of Essex boatmen still exchanging ‘v's and ‘w's. I wandered around Clacton and the River Blackwater, listening to many a striped-jersey-wearer mooring his vessel, but all the consonants I heard were anchored in their usual place. There are, though, rumours of colonised Caribbean islands where men say
werry
, so perhaps someday I shall go there. The one survival of Sam's speech known to me is an artificial one, in music-hall songs. Sitting in the stalls of the Shoreditch Empire, I heard a mother in the row in front explain to her son, as they shared a bag of tiger nuts, that ‘Sam Weller copied the way these performers talk.' Soon, I suspect, the theory will be advanced that Sam suffered from a rare speech impediment.

*   *   *

There is a mention of Liverpool towards the end of
Pickwick
, when Jingle and his associate Job Trotter – he of the mulberry outfit, similar to the Doughty Street porter's uniform – take a ship from the docks to Demerara. An approximate date for the departure could be established and it amused me to claim that research into shipping and crew was the reason for my visit to the records of the Liverpool Corporation in 1895. The real reason was my discovery that Thomas Naylor Morton was still alive, and that he immersed himself in palaeographic investigations within these archives, though I had also heard, from a family member, that he was unlikely to talk about his time at Chapman and Hall.

Passing myself off as a researcher, I identified Morton on my first visit to the archives, and by looking lost and making frustrated noises near the desk where he worked, I was able to distract him, and he asked the question I wanted: ‘Could I be of help?'

I explained my research interests, without mentioning
Pickwick
, and when he assisted me, I thanked him, and said that I must treat him to lunch. He put up a struggle, saying he had done very little, that anyone would have done the same, but I insisted, and added that my real reason was that I hated eating on my own, and that he would do me a kindness if he joined me.

In a restaurant we chatted about our respective researches. He was working on the transcription of ancient charters. I said that I was investigating the career of an uncle who had served as a ship's captain, and jokingly added the comment: ‘Funnily enough, a friend told me that my uncle could have captained the very ship that carried Jingle and Job Trotter away in
Pickwick
!'

As soon as I mentioned
Pickwick
it was as though I had jabbed Morton with a pin in the leg, he gave such a start. He lost his composure. At first he tried to cover it up, pretending that he had never read
Pickwick
. I then said: ‘Never read
Pickwick
? I can't believe that. If you will forgive me – I feel that there is some information you are holding back.'

There was, as I had judged, too much of the scholar in Morton's character to make him a successful or contented liar. After one or two nudges, he opened up.

He told me about his involvement with Chapman and Hall, and of his pleading with them to keep faith with
Pickwick.
I gave all the appropriate expressions of astonishment: to think that I, by sheer chance, should stumble upon the man who had saved the great book. I then asked Morton why he had kept quiet about this considerable feat – the world would be only too willing to shake his hand.

‘You will remember,' he said, ‘the incident of the inscribed stone in the book, when Mr Pickwick believes he has found a piece of ancient writing, but in fact he has just found a piece of modern-day graffiti by a man called Bill Stumps.'

‘Of course.' I perhaps let my guard slip here, and gave a hint to Morton that my interest in
Pickwick
was far from superficial, for I got carried away and mounted a hobbyhorse, and spoke of my conjecture that Seymour invented the Bill Stumps incident, or something akin to it. I mentioned Seymour's pictures of antiquaries and then said: ‘It seems to me that there are very few jokes one
can
tell about antiquaries. It has to be either an incident of the Bill Stumps kind, where a gullible antiquarian is misled, or the antiquary has an interest so obsessive in some triviality that it appears ridiculous. But Mr Pickwick goes on his mission to
expand
his field of observation, and see the world. He has abandoned his silly specialised interests. So if Seymour wanted to make fun of antiquaries in Pickwick, Bill Stumps was the likely result.'

‘You are probably right,' he said. He held back for a moment, apparently considering my statement. ‘I have told you of my interest in palaeography – the average person would probably consider that a silly specialised interest.'

‘I do not think so at all.'

‘You do not need to be embarrassed. I wouldn't mind if you did. The Bill Stumps incident has a special humour for a person like myself. I remember talking to Dickens about it. But you should also know that I move in the circles of antiquarian scholarship. That is where Bill Stumps became a source of extreme embarrassment to me. I could not possibly own up to being the book's saviour.'

‘Are antiquaries so lacking in a sense of fun?'

‘It is not that,' he said. ‘It was that the matter became very serious indeed. When
Pickwick
was published, jokers among the general public thought it a hoot to deface ancient monuments with the name “Bill Stumps”. A spate of graffiti appeared. I even suffered the indignity of the matter being discussed at an antiquarian meeting – I practically died with shame. I kept quiet of course. I would have been blackballed if they had found out. The worst act of defacement was at Stanton Moor, in the Peak District. I went to see that myself. There are standing stones on the moor, known as the Nine Ladies Stone Circle. The most important one there is called The King. When I saw that someone had gouged “Bill Stumps” into The King's surface, I felt humiliated to my core.'

‘It was not your fault.'

‘Be that as it may – I have resolved never to speak of my involvement with Chapman and Hall. I have mentioned other publishers I have worked for, but never mentioned my involvement with
Pickwick.
I have told my family that it cannot be made public within my lifetime. But' – he gave me a knowing look; I think he guessed that my meeting him was not a coincidence – ‘truth will out.' There was a little smile, too, as he said it.

‘But, suppose you were back in Chapman and Hall's office – suppose you
knew
that there would be the defacement of ancient monuments as a result of supporting Dickens. Would you
still
have supported him? Surely you couldn't have allowed
Pickwick
to die?'

‘I have sometimes weighed that up. Which is more important? The preservation of ancient monuments for future generations, or the work which has given so much pleasure to the world?'

‘Well, which would you choose?'

‘I choose to bury myself in the records of Liverpool Corporation. I always say the records are notable for two things: their great volume, and the complete lack of interest they stimulate in the general public. I am happy to spend the rest of my days among them, and simply experience the curious and quaint pleasures they yield. I must return to them now.'

He shook my hand, thanked me for lunch, and left. It was the last I saw of Thomas Naylor Morton.

*   *   *

In 1906, I read that a new electric tram line was being laid by the London County Council in Goswell Street.

Goswell Street is the most famous street in the world; but, in fact, there is no Goswell
Street
any more, but Goswell
Road
, with the street lengthened into a raucous thoroughfare for traffic, from Charterhouse to the Angel. Many times I have walked along the relevant stretch, from the narrow south end up to Compton Street, where it becomes wider, and of somewhat better character.

It is inevitable on such a walk to speculate on the location of Mr Pickwick's lodgings. On the basis that he looked out of the window, and Goswell Street extended to the left and to the right, it is tempting to conclude that he lived centrally. As the morning sun enters Mr Pickwick's room, the lodgings must be on the west side of Goswell Street. There is a three-storey-and-attic, somewhat shabby, with a hipped roof covered with red tiles, and the ground floor converted into a shop, which I always consider to be his.

As I have said, I have walked along Goswell Street many times, but to see it attacked with pickaxes was a new, and unsettling, experience. I asked a labourer for a brick and was gladly given one.

‘I know why you want it,' he said. ‘I've taken one home myself.'

I was especially aware that the work would remove segments of the dwellings opposite the three-storey-and-attic. There would be gaps in the view now if Mr Pickwick looked out of his window. Not that Mr Pickwick would choose to live in the area any more – even if there were no labourers, the noise from carriers' yards and manufacturers, not to mention the shops, would ruffle his composure.

It is now 1908, and I am in a quiet part of Dulwich close to Dulwich Wood, and standing in front of an agreeable little cottage. This is believed to be the residence where Mr Pickwick retired, with Sam. There is a brass plate beside the entrance to the garden, supposedly saying Pickwick Villa, but so many have touched the metal that only a hint of the letters of ‘Pickwick' remain. I shall stay here a few minutes, writing this note, hoping that the clouds move, and the plate catches the sun, and so be in its glory.

*   *   *

As I stood there, I thought of Mr Pickwick in Dulwich, when May came around and the weather was fine, when he would sit happily in the garden of the small white cottage, among its pretty hawthorn boughs, the garden projecting rather forward of its neighbours, somewhat in the manner of Mr Pickwick himself. There were no lawyers to harass him. There was no Fleet Prison to hold him. On a summer's day, he would go to the village pond to eat a pastry bought from the baker, and feel goodwill to all, and contemplate the waters, which reminded him of his earlier research. He would watch a shirehorse drink, and Mr Pickwick would now have the courage to stroke its mane. In the autumn he would go to the Greyhound Inn in the evening. Sometimes, as he drank, a hare would dash past, and the sound of dogs would indicate why, and he would think of Mr Winkle's feigned interest in sport, and he would smile.