Death and Mr. Pickwick (71 page)

‘Like all writers,' said Mr Inbelicate, ‘he turned experience to his advantage, and wrote a short story, “Some Passages in the Life of Francis Loosefish, Esq.”, about a persistent debtor. A story which happened to be illustrated by our good friend Robert Seymour, with a woodcut of a stocky bulldog-faced bailiff arriving at the door armed with one of
those
' – he pointed up to the display of truncheons above the hearth. ‘But of more interest is: how did this story come to be published?'

 

*

TWO GOOD FRIENDS WERE OUT
walking under the elms in the Terrace Gardens of Richmond in early spring. One was a small, smart and oddly formed man of about thirty years of age, with a prominent nose and short thin legs, as well as long, thick arms which were constantly in motion. He chattered frequently, at speed. The other, a few years younger, was stouter and taller, with ruddy cheeks and a taciturn, meditative manner, who walked with his arms behind his back. The first man was William Hall; his friend was Edward Chapman.

Suddenly Chapman said: ‘How dull do you find newspapers, William?'

‘What a peculiar question! How could I quantify dullness? Though – when I think about it – let us put it in terms of the amount of money one would pay to avoid a minute spent reading a newspaper. It would differ from man to man. From man to woman. From newspaper to newspaper. In principle it could be done.'

‘I meant it as a simple question. Do you not find a great deal of newspapers' contents completely devoid of interest? Please – a simple answer.'

‘I admit I
do
find them dull. In places. Why do you ask? And make the answer as complicated as you like.'

‘I was with my brother the other day, and he was reading the newspaper. He sighed and put the paper down and said: “Someone should publish a newspaper with the dull bits removed.” And – how can I put this? It was as though he had opened a door and let in light. Someone should do exactly that.
We
should do it, William. We simply buy enough publications, fillet them, and use whatever is left – everything interesting, republished as a single newspaper. Now what do you think of that?'

‘Let us buy a paper immediately.'

They sat on a bench on the terrace and Hall went through the paper, running his eyes down the columns, making a clicking noise with his tongue at certain points, as though adding a stroke to a tally in his mind. Chapman meanwhile smoked a cigar, cross-legged and content for his friend to conduct investigations, although he too was at work, writing in pencil in a notebook.

‘Whatever total you come up with for column inches of dullness,' said Chapman, ‘increase it, because you find things interesting which normal men find dull. Such as the calculations you are doing now.'

‘I have already included a factor for that,' said Hall, who clicked again, effortlessly able to conduct a conversation without disturbing his mathematical processes. ‘I am doing this, Edward, as though I am you, and increasing the proportion of dullness experienced by twenty per cent.'

‘How kind. I suppose that will do it. Now, how is this for an advertisement? “Those who care for any subject in particular, or for all subjects, would willingly have them divested of what is stale and unprofitable, just as they like to have their lettuces served up without the outer leaves. It will be our business to get rid of the outer leaves of everything and to serve up the heart and soul of it. Nothing will be omitted that is convertible to the reader's pleasure.” What do you think?'

Hall grunted approval, but looked skyward, apparently having finished his calculation, and now considering production costs.

‘It needs a good quotation to round it off,' said Chapman. After more thought he added: ‘“If thou dost not take our new paper with thy tea, or thy dessert, or thy cigar, or thy next good resolution, or with the paper which thou takest already, ‘Why,' as Falstaff says, ‘thou art not the man we took thee for.'”'

Within a short time, they had acquired a lease on premises in the Strand, close to St Clement Danes and the offices of the
Morning Chronicle
– a narrow but double-fronted establishment, which in the opinion of Edward Chapman gave the impression of being wider than it was and which in the opinion of William Hall would cover its lease because of the great number of prospective customers passing by in a day. Thus the company of Chapman and Hall commenced business as publishers and booksellers – and on 5 June 1830, appeared, price sixpence, the first number of their experiment in the reduction of dullness,
Chat of the Week
, otherwise known as the
Compendium of All Topics of Public Interest
.

 

*

EXTRACT FROM AN ESSAY BY
Mr Inbelicate, ‘The Early History of Chapman and Hall:'

Many British publishers during this period learnt that there are times when the world of men is more interesting than the words of men, when customers in coffeeshops and public houses prefer to talk of reality, not books. Who could be captivated by a sentimental novel when the world offered the death of George IV? What was the excitement of a tale of the criminal classes compared to the ravages of cholera? Why read about Irish adventures when riots over reform had set Bristol ablaze?

Hungry printers and ragged publishers showed where world and word stood. If men read at all in these times, it was opinions in pamphlets and reports in newspapers they wanted, not books. By selling magazines and ephemeral fare Chapman and Hall survived when many publishers and booksellers did not.

Thriving
in these times, however, was
Figaro in London
. It had not escaped the mathematical brain of William Hall that a penny journal like
Figaro
would need a circulation of three to four thousand a week to break even. Many journals – most journals – almost all journals – did not achieve such a circulation, and they died; while
Figaro in London
was said to sell seventy thousand copies a week.

It was not surprising that attracting Robert Seymour to work for Chapman and Hall was that company's great aim of 1835. Their bait was a pocket-sized publication to appear at Christmas, called
The Squib Annual
.

 

*

‘IF WE MAKE IT MORE
political than most annuals,' said Chapman, ‘Seymour may be ours.'

‘Once we have him, we will be in a position to request more work,' said Hall.

‘That fellow Whitehead who called the other day,' said Chapman. ‘I have been thinking we may be able to pair him with Seymour. There's that story he left about the debtor, Lewdfish or whatever the character was called.'

‘Loosefish.'

‘I know, William. And I knew you would correct me and that is why I said it. But Seymour might illustrate the story.'

‘If we hook him first.'

Thus a letter was sent out, and a few days later a reply was received from the artist, accepting their offer to produce twelve etchings for
The Squib Annual.

*   *   *

It was late November, and Seymour had just recovered from his illness. He sat in his study, at work on the drawings for another commission,
The Midsummer Comic Annual for 1836
. For the frontispiece, he had drawn a sinister-looking trio of sportsmen, who asked: ‘Vot! Got no sport?' The drawings illustrated the months of the year, and he was then at work on April. He sketched three women fishing in a punt, while a mischievous boy peeping through a hole in a fence said, ‘Won't I give 'em an April shower!' as he pumped water over the women. It was then that Jane entered, and announced that Mr Chapman was in the parlour.

‘I am not surprised,' said Seymour. ‘I got a letter from him last week, saying that he would be calling to collect the drawings for
The Squib Annual
– but he also said he wanted to talk about woodcuts to accompany a publication with stories by a man called Whitehead, and other people. I am not certain I want to take it on.'

‘Would another publication hurt?'

‘It's the quality of the cutter that concerns me. I kept on thinking of some of my old drawings when I was sick, and not many cutters have shown my work to advantage. And besides' – he stood and stared out on to the garden – ‘there are better things I could be doing. I am thinking of taking up the brush once more. And I am determined to get Mr Pickwick under way. I have delayed much too long with it. At the same time, I don't exactly like to turn Chapman out on his ear.'

‘There is a very easy way of getting rid of him, without causing offence. Ask for a lot more money.'

He turned to face her. ‘You know how asking for money always makes me feel awkward.'

‘Robert, if the aim is to get rid of him, you shouldn't feel awkward at all. Make a large amount sound like a trifling sum, and he will realise that he cannot afford you.'

‘How believable will it be if I ask for an excessive amount? No, I'd rather not.'

‘Ask three times the normal price.'

‘I can't, Jane.'

‘Then ask four times the price.'

He smiled at her; she smiled mischievously back.

*   *   *

‘I could be perfectly happy in a garden like yours, Mr Seymour,' said Edward Chapman as he stepped back from the parlour window, ‘just poking about, planting, watching things grow. I would always be looking forward to summer.'

‘Much the sentiments of my wife,' said Seymour. ‘In fact, we are intending to move soon, to a house with a larger garden.'

‘Are you? That holly bush, by the way – I would be
most
obliged if you would allow me to cut a few sprigs, and use them to ornament the shop's windows at Christmas.'

‘I am hoping to decorate the bookshops myself this Christmas, by another means. I have a publication coming out with Mr Spooner.'

‘Never met him, but I know the shop. But –
our
Christmas production. The pictures for
The Squib Annual
are finished, I trust?'

Seymour handed Chapman the drawings, which the publisher sat and examined with considerable pleasure. After reaching the twelfth drawing, and expressing his delight that an artist of such standing had agreed to work for the firm, Chapman said: ‘I mentioned in my letter our intended
Library of Fiction
, under the editorship of Mr Charles Whitehead.'

‘I do not know Mr Whitehead.'

‘He is a great undiscovered talent. He was working for the
Monthly Magazine
before we persuaded him to join us. He intends to use some of the professional contacts he made at the
Monthly
to recruit writers for the
Library of Fiction
, and he will also write for the publication himself. As I believe I explained in my letter, the
Library
will be issued once a month, and we intend that the stories be accompanied by pictures. Mr Hall and I both believe your drawings would be the lustre of its pages.'

‘I thank you for thinking that.'

‘I wonder whether we could talk about that now?'

‘If I were to agree to work for the publication, there would be two conditions. First, the woodcutting must be executed by a competent man. Someone like Jackson or Landells. Not someone who would be better employed chopping firewood.'

‘My partner and I seek the highest standards possible.'

‘Second – my price would be six pounds per drawing.'

‘Six pounds per drawing. I see. That is an expense – but, as I said, we seek the highest standards. But may I ask – are these to be your terms for all work in the future?'

‘No, not in the future. Because I do not intend to do any more woodcuts, unless it is for a few established clients, like
Figaro
.'

‘Might I enquire – is there a reason for that?'

‘There are several reasons. One reason is a plan I have for a new work. A little pet idea of mine, which I have been mulling over for quite a while.'

‘What sort of idea, Mr Seymour?'

‘A new pictorial scheme. Etchings associated with letterpress.'

‘Might I ask – do you have a publisher for this idea?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Mr Seymour, would it be imposing upon you to tell me something of your idea? You have my word that this will go no further.'

‘It would be a monthly publication. It is partly inspired by a club I encountered in Holborn – superficially, it is a sporting club, but in reality it is a drinking club.'

‘Aren't they all? But perhaps you have identified a phenomenon which others have missed.'

‘Perhaps.'

There was a hesitancy on Seymour's part, in which he brushed his arm, and manipulated his tongue around his teeth. Chapman gave the minutest start to his own frame, in which his hands moved apart, his head dipped, and his brows raised, as a nudge to Seymour to say more.

‘I have in mind,' said Seymour, ‘as the work's main character, a queer sort of card, a man so gullible he is scarcely aware of falsehood at all. And yet this man sees himself as being on a scientific mission, gathering knowledge to benefit the world.'

‘That sounds interesting. Do tell me more.'

‘It would be easier if I showed you.' He fetched the work he had done thus far.

‘Here he is – my gullible character, Mr Pickwick.'

Chapman saw for the first time the fat bald figure with spectacles who had founded the Pickwick Club.

‘What a curious character, Mr Seymour. What an odd little man. Or perhaps I should say
not
so little man,' he remarked, tapping the pencilled belly.

‘You do not like him?'

‘Quite the reverse. I am instantly taken with him. And others may feel the same. You would remember a character who looked like this.'