Death and Mr. Pickwick (27 page)

How Mr Inbelicate urged me to study the
Quixote
! He wanted me to explore everything from the hero's rank of hidalgo, to the comedy of the phrase ‘de la Mancha'. He suggested that I might trace the forerunners of the Don and Sancho, specifically a farmer called Bartolo and his squire Bandurrio, and then back, back,
back
in history to the earliest manifestation in literature of a man and his comic servant.

I shall never have the time to do so, at least not in the depth Mr Inbelicate desired. For the
Quixote
is so vast and so complex that no man could understand it in its entirety, were he to devote his entire life to the assignment. Mr Inbelicate had no conception of the limitations of my time. It was as if he believed that certain works of fiction, particularly those of a rambling quality, have the potential to found monasteries, and that there should be a loyal tonsured order, devoted to their silent contemplation. Well, I cannot be a monk of Cervantes. I told Mr Inbelicate that Spaniards themselves rarely read the
Quixote
in full these days – and the Spaniard who says he has done so is probably a liar. Mr Inbelicate replied that such a Spaniard would be admired if he
were
telling the truth.

Occasionally, though – about as often as I buy manchego cheese – a dreaminess comes over me, and I make cursory forays into the study of the
Quixote
, tempered by realism, common sense and my own awareness of mortality. So, I have briefly studied the
Quixote
's reception in England. At first, oddly enough, the
Quixote
was regarded as a work of the type it was satirising, a somewhat silly romance. But by the time of the translation of Charles somebody-or-other, the
Quixote
was seen as a work about an idealistic, impractical man, and the hero's squire was seen as just as important as the hero.

For there is no Don Quixote without his squire Sancho Panza, and Seymour in his painting of Sancho surely knew this. And, perhaps even then, as a young man at work on this canvas, portraying the thin knight and a fat squire – I say, perhaps even then – his mind wondered, playfully, about the possibility of reversing fat and thin. What if – he might have asked – what if there were a fat knight and a thin squire?

I also note in passing Sancho's fondness for proverbs. For there is something in the Iberian soil – or, more likely, the wine – which makes a Spanish tongue produce proverbs with ease, and which also makes a Spanish ear receptive to a proverbial expression. Certainly, a Spaniard with a cigar in his hand is ready to give you wisdom as he puffs out smoke. So, in deference to the wishes of Mr Inbelicate, I have assembled a few volumes of
refraneros,
or Spanish proverbs. It is from the particular fondness of the Spanish public for these sayings that Sancho Panza derived some of his extraordinary popularity, as though he were a living book of proverbs. His first is: ‘Let the dead go to the grave, while the living continue to eat.'

But – to return to Seymour – somewhere around the time he painted Sancho Panza, Robert Seymour's interests changed. It was as though he thought of Sancho's first proverb and he saw the dead walking to their graves, wrapped in their shrouds, and he wanted to put them on canvas. For suddenly, he took a special interest in the supernatural, above all the supernatural legends of Germany. This appears to have originated with a visit to the opera.

So let us join Seymour, and his cousin Edward Holmes, as they leave the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in September 1825, having watched a performance of
Der Freischütz
. Holmes, for all his fascination with the superficialities of appearance, was a man with a deep knowledge of music, and lost no opportunity to show his learning. Noting the enthusiasm of his cousin for the opera, the opportunity presented itself.

 

*

‘YOU DO KNOW, ROBERT,' SAID
Holmes as they left the Theatre Royal, ‘that the story of
Der Freischütz
is founded on real events.'

‘You will not have me believe that, Edward.'

‘There are records of a court in Bohemia to prove it. Let us go for a drink, and I shall tell you.'

Once they were settled, Holmes began.

 

*

IT WAS A HOT JUNE
evening in 1710, and across the cooling shadow of Chod Castle's tower stepped an unobtrusive youth. He carried a hunting gun in one hand, and an empty sack in the other. For such a youth, the sturdy, unmemorable name of Georg Schmid was appropriate. Whilst he would not be thought handsome, he would not be thought ugly either. He was one of those fellows who make little impression on life, and yet are always attracted to pretty girls. It so happened that evening, as he drew close to an inn upon the street, that he noticed an exceptionally pretty barmaid.

He knew by sight all the striking local faces, but he took a special interest in this new girl. She was then collecting tankards in the evening sun. She had fair hair, a green dress, and was laughing with the men who were leaning on the window ledge outside.

And she paused in her work, tray in hand, and very deliberately turned and smiled at Georg Schmid.

The toe of his boot made a twitch in the direction of the inn, and he might well have entered had he not suddenly been overcome with shyness and embarrassment. The boot jerked itself back, and Georg Schmid half stumbled – he heard a laugh, which he suspected was the girl, but he did not dare check. The source of his embarrassment may partly be explained by the sack he carried: it was empty.

Georg Schmid longed to be acclaimed an excellent marksman. Whenever not working as a clerk for his father, he went to the woods to shoot game. Rarely was he successful, but on occasions he brought something home for the pot. If his sack had been full that evening, he would certainly have visited the inn and spoken to the barmaid.

Every day during the next week Schmid went out shooting, to the great annoyance of his father, who accused him of neglecting his duties, but Georg thought only of impressing the pretty girl in the inn. On the seventh day, he met with success. He shot, and an excellent rabbit was his! Instead of carrying it in the sack, he held it proudly on display by the ears. He strode past Chod Castle tower again, and this time his boots led him confidently inside the inn.

‘You're Schmid's son, aren't you?' said the barmaid as he approached the counter and placed the rabbit down.

‘How did you know?' said Georg, amazed and yet delighted by her knowledge.

‘I just know,' she said, with a smile. ‘I see you have been out shooting.'

Young Schmid could hardly conceal his excitement. ‘It is yours to make into a rabbit pie,' he said, ‘if you let me have the first piece.'

‘It is a very fine rabbit,' she said. ‘It is the finest I have ever seen – apart from one. Yesterday, Herr Weber presented me with a rabbit, which is like the father to this, it is so much larger.'

Having noted Schmid's reaction, she said: ‘Why don't you bring me a deer – a fine deer – I am keen on venison.'

‘I cannot trespass on the estates,' he said.

‘Sometimes deer break free,' she replied. ‘But if I must settle for a rabbit – make it an
exceptional
rabbit.'

‘I shall shoot you the finest rabbit in the forest.'

‘Do you promise to come here every time you have been out shooting?' she said. ‘I want to know how you are doing.'

Georg Schmid made his promise; and every few days, in the next month, he returned to the inn; but he did not strictly abide by the terms of the promise, for the humiliation of unremitting failure would have been unbearable. He hunted at least twice as often as he visited, using a circuitous route home which did not pass the inn when he wished to avoid the barmaid. When he did enter the inn, always she said: ‘Where is that rabbit?' or ‘Have you failed again, Georg Schmid?' or ‘Herr Weber brought me another rabbit yesterday, and it was bigger than his last.' Always she added: ‘But if I had venison, that would be better than anything.'

‘I shall bring you a rabbit,' he said, ‘but it has to be the finest in the forest.' He did not tell her that he had missed every tail he had shot at.

After these exchanges, Georg Schmid usually retired with his ale to a corner of the inn, which gave a direct diagonal view of the counter, so he could watch her pour drinks. Also, he knew from experience that she would, at least once, gaze and smile directly along that diagonal, right into his eyes. That night, to his annoyance, the corner was already occupied by a bearded man with a narrow, sallow face whom Georg had never noticed before, and Georg realised he would have to put up with a slightly less advantageous view.

‘She is pretty, isn't she?' said the man, whose eyes were also narrow and sallow. When Georg did not reply, the man said: ‘Come, do join me. I knew a girl who resembled her, some years ago.' When Georg hesitated, the man said: ‘She has set you a hunting challenge, hasn't she?'

‘How did you know?' Georg was as astonished as when the girl revealed awareness of his name, though not as delighted.

‘The girl I knew set me one too. Come, let us take a seat together. Tell me how you are doing with the challenge.'

He joined the man and explained that whenever he saw a rabbit, he took aim but his hand shook, and he always missed.

‘The challenge is impossible for me,' he said. ‘I am too nervous. Even if I
were
to kill a rabbit, I know it wouldn't be enough. Her true taste is venison. Oh, what is the point of going hunting? But she
enslaves
me.'

The man said: ‘You could call upon help.'

A confused expression formed on Georg Schmid's face. The expression altered to distinct unease, especially in the eyes, as if Georg had an inkling of the man's meaning. There was a strained murmur in Georg's voice as he asked: ‘What kind of help?'

The man reached into his pocket and took out a flattened musket ball. ‘This hit the very heart of a deer. Yet I did not aim at the heart. I aimed above, through the antlers, so as to miss the animal entirely. The bullet still found its billet, right in the deer's chest.'

‘You are very lucky, sir,' said Georg. ‘How I wish I had your good fortune.' He gave an agitated laugh and rose to go, but the man gripped Georg's wrist.

‘These bullets are charmed,' whispered the man. ‘Were you to wear a blindfold – were you even to fire over your shoulder, in the opposite direction to the deer – they would infallibly hit their mark. If you join me on St Abdon's Day, I shall cast more
freikugeln
like these.'

Georg Schmid turned his head to see whether anyone was listening. There was no one. The girl was leaning over the counter, laughing with the handsome Herr Weber, who had wrapped a fox-fur stole around her neck.

Georg turned to face the sallow man again. ‘This is blasphemy,' he whispered. ‘It is damnation.'

‘Damnation? No. He who casts
freikugeln
will rise from his coffin as a ghost, and hunt for ever in the forests. He will be an
immortal
hunter. But before then – think of the pleasures you would win in this life!' Georg Schmid cast another look towards the girl, and saw she was bestowing a thank-you kiss on the cheek of Herr Weber. As he turned to the sallow man again, he took fright and endeavoured to leave once more, but the man tightened his hold upon Georg's wrist. ‘You could prove to her that you are the greatest marksman in Bohemia. Would she not be yours then? I tell you, Georg Schmid—'

‘How do you know my name?'

‘I know it.'

‘Were I to use these bullets, I would be nothing. I would be a fraud.'

‘You would have shown that you have the courage to cast the
freikugeln
. Most would not dare. You have a stout heart, Georg Schmid. That is what she sees in you. That man who laughs with her now, that Herr Weber – he is a coward, for all his skill with a gun. She is yours, Schmid, if you cast the
freikugeln
.'

Schmid attempted to pull away for a third time, but the man's sallow eyes opened to their fullest extent, and Schmid's willpower vanished.

‘Have you never walked in the forest at night,' said the man, ‘and felt a presence behind you, though no man could be seen? I
know
you have. It was the soul of one who had courage, one who cast the bullets. Seize immortality, Schmid!'

*   *   *

Three weeks later, Georg Schmid sat opposite his father, who knitted his brows in concentration on the document in front of him.

Georg put down his quill. ‘I have just realised something, Father.'

‘Have you?' He did not stop reading.

‘I have just put the date on this letter, and I realise that today is St Abdon's Day.'

‘Is it?'

‘The saint of barrel-makers.'

His father looked up and a broad blossoming of pleasure came to the older man's face. He rubbed his hands together, and it was not because the room was cold.

After several hours, the father sat snoring in his armchair. Georg took the tankard from the pudgy fingers, and drained it – not that there was much more than froth. The youth had himself drunk little, but he was safe in the knowledge that his father would be stupefied until dawn. Georg opened the door to the street. The moon had gone a little beyond full, and was obscured behind drifting clouds, which cleared as soon as he stepped outside. He could hear faint sounds of singing, and as he approached the inn, he saw the girl dancing with Herr Weber in the candlelight, with the other drinkers clapping along. Georg could swear that she cast a glance towards himself, even as Weber held her hand in the air.

Exactly as the sallow man had instructed, Georg waited at a tree by the crossroads. The night was warm. Suddenly a deer ran out of the forest. The creature's eyes caught the moon, then its hooves pattered past and it vanished into the forest again. Moments later, Georg felt a startling tap upon his neck. It was the sallow man. ‘I did not hear you approach,' said Georg.