Death and Mr. Pickwick (81 page)

Then he drew the words ‘Pickwick Club', as though the letters were made of gnarled branches, to indicate rusticity. For although clubs were overwhelmingly a phenomenon of the city, the men in the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club would travel to the countryside. The drawing would then be transferred to a woodblock, for only a woodcut would have the strength to last the entire print run of all the parts, and moreover could be combined with metal type to show a date, part number and subtitle. He had already decided that the wrapper would be green, like the
New Sporting Magazine
, and like the naivety of Mr Pickwick himself.

The wrapper also had one especially ingenious aspect.

He had struggled with how to convey the idea of the Corresponding Society, a club within a club. It was important to suggest the sporting crucible from which the telling of Münchausen tales had emerged, but the adventures of the Corresponding Society were only partly concerned with sport, and as soon as the society went on its mission, the role of sport would diminish.

The solution came to him when he considered the self-reference he had used in
The Book of Christmas
: there, he had shown
The Book of Christmas
itself being read, by Mr Pickwick, before the fire.

Thus, he decided he would announce, on the wrapper, the ‘Perils, Perambulations, Travels and Adventures' of the Corresponding members in one typeface, and add, in a different, Gothic typeface, ‘and Sporting Transactions', not only to emphasise the special status of sport within the club, but to draw attention to the pictures on the wrapper, a self-reference, for they were obviously examples of sporting transactions. Yet, as ‘sporting transactions' appeared as the last item in a list, the effect was of sport being left behind – whilst the perils, perambulations, travels and adventures were pushed to the fore. Readers would go through the frame established by the guns, rods and other sporting items, and join the Corresponding Society on its mission.

With this work done to his satisfaction, it was time to meet the writer of the letterpress.

*   *   *

A wooden sign indicated to Seymour that he was at the correct door of Furnival's for number thirteen. He faced a staircase, steep and gloomy, where an ugly-profiled laundress stood halfway up the first flight, indifferently polishing the rail. He placed his hand on the brass sphere at the bottom and ascended.

Before Seymour had reached the last flight, the door at the top swung decisively open, lighting up the gloom, and also suggesting that the occupant had watched for someone to cross the forecourt.

A young man stepped out on to the small square landing and looked down into the stairwell. His eyes ranged over the visitor, not only moving around the facial features, but roaming from hair to shoe, from hand on the rail to hand carrying a carpet bag – upon the bag the eyes lingered a moment, and narrowed – before returning to the face. This done, there was a brief smile.

A charming smile, as Seymour apparently saw it, judging from how wide the artist's eyes opened. ‘So you are Boz?'

‘I am. You are most welcome, Mr Seymour.'

The young man re-entered the room, and Seymour rose to an empty landing – their handshake did not happen until after Seymour was inside, but when it happened, Seymour truly engaged with the hand, smiling as he shook. There was some enthusiasm returned.

The room itself was in disarray, which Boz asked to be excused, on the grounds that he would be moving shortly to number fifteen, with the advantage of a kitchen in the basement.

‘The strange thing is,' said Seymour, looking around the room, ‘I was in this building a few years ago. I did some drawings for a scientifically minded gentleman, Mr Meikelham. Or Mr Stuart, that was the name he wrote under. Do you know him?'

‘I do not even know the person on the floor below! It's the way here. Generations of lonely legal students have studied in these rooms, cut off from everyone else, and that atmosphere continues. You did some drawings for him, you say?'

‘Just some quick, crude sketches to enliven a book – but strangely enough I drew a little cherub, with a bald head and glasses. He resembled the main character in the work I have in mind now, Mr Pickwick.'

‘Well, let us hope the coincidence is a good omen for our collaboration.'

‘I believe the best omen is your book of
Sketches.
It is, quite simply, marvellous.'

‘I thank you, sir. Come, let us sit at the table.'

Seymour began removing items from his carpet bag, starting with copies of the
New Sporting Magazine
, and then books, pamphlets, rough drawings and written notes, the latter including references to scientific works on sticklebacks, arising from his association with Penn. ‘All these things should be a help to you,' he said. There was a faint annoyance in Boz's eyes, but Seymour carried on, bringing out volumes by Edward Jesse, including the one into which Penn's ‘Maxims and Hints for Anglers' was bound. ‘Jesse has some extraordinary anecdotes of dogs,' said Seymour. ‘And here is Egan's sequel to
Life in London.
Oh yes, this was published by Kidd. Now let me show you some sketches.'

The first sketch showed Mr Pickwick standing on the chair addressing the members of his club, who were gathered around a table. The second was of Mr Pickwick involved in the street fight arising from his altercation with the cabman. In this picture, Mr Pickwick's spectacles had been knocked off in the struggle and they lay upon the pavement, while nearby lolled a carpet bag, in a similar design to Seymour's. Boz pointed at that particular detail.

‘I am afraid I am no admirer of carpet bags myself,' he said.

Seymour straightened up at the uncalled-for abruptness of the remark. ‘That's not such a good omen, then,' said Seymour, ‘as Mr Pickwick carries a carpet bag on his travels.'

‘Well, I always use a portmanteau when I'm travelling. I wouldn't part with it for the world. They may get rubbed and scuffed – but they last for life.'

‘The hard straight edges just wouldn't be in keeping with Mr Pickwick. He's too soft and round.'

‘Well, that is a thing I dislike about carpet bags,' said Boz, raising his eyes to look directly at Seymour. ‘The way they bend.' He returned to the picture again. ‘But a street row is admirable. I'd watch a fight myself. Now what am I supposed to find in these magazines?'

‘There is an amusing character who sometimes appears in them,' said Seymour, ‘called Jorrocks. He used to appear more.'

‘Perhaps the editor got tired of him.'

Seymour's head flinched. But, carrying on, he found a page in which the editor, Robert Surtees, engaged in an imaginary encounter with the character of his invention. He passed the magazine to Boz, who read: ‘“Oh Mr Heditor I'm so glad to see you! – so glad to see you!” exclaimed Jorrocks, bursting like a little wild Bull of Bashan into our sanctum at the Eclipse Sporting Gallery the other day.'

‘Jorrocks is a little like Mr Pickwick,' said Seymour. ‘They are about the same age. About the same size too. Both bald, though Jorrocks covers it up with a wig. Jorrocks is involved in an amusing court case in one issue, and I think we might do something similar.'

‘Now what is this?' asked Boz. It was
The Book of Christmas.

‘The diary of Mr Pickwick, on his travels, will reflect the seasons,' said Seymour. ‘So I envisage some Christmas scenes in what we do.'

‘That's an excellent idea,' said Boz, who paid rather more attention to this volume. With each picture in
The Book of Christmas
that Boz examined, Seymour sensed a softening of the writer's mood, with amused – even joyous – movements around the eyes and mouth. ‘This coach with all the turkeys is quite wonderful,' said Boz.

‘I thank you. I should—'

‘One moment, Mr Seymour.' Further signs of Boz's enjoyment followed, in little chuckles, and in smiles, and in the pointing at details, and in kind remarks, which Seymour thanked, though Boz did not appear to notice. He proceeded through the pages, stopping at every picture, and he mentioned – with some delight – the appearance of the jolly Mr Pickwick at the fireside. There was also the extraordinary atmosphere of the scene in which the crone told children ghost stories.

‘A remarkable work,' said Boz, as he closed the volume. ‘But I interrupted you. What were you about to say?'

‘I was going to tell you – but I won't now.' Seymour smiled warmly.

‘Do tell me, Mr Seymour,' said Boz, still apparently caught up in the mood of the pictures.

‘Well, I was going to say that
The Book of Christmas
became a most unfortunate volume. It appeared late, when Christmas was over, and it sold hardly any copies.'

‘And why was it late?'

‘Well – I am afraid the letterpress writer let me down.'

‘I see.' Boz wiped his mouth, and it was as though he was wiping away his mood. ‘And you were going to tell me this.'

‘He couldn't produce the words on time, but I am sure—'

‘When Cruikshank did the drawings for my
Sketches
, he had trouble keeping up with
me
.'

‘Yes – well, yes, I can imagine that. Now this – this is the work I have just done for Chapman and Hall,
The Squib Annual
. I like the skit on the British Association for the Advancement of Science in this. Let me show you.'

He turned to a poem, and Boz glimpsed lines poking fun at a perpetual motion machine:

A curious machine not unlike a clock

On the top was a bull, on his back a cock.

‘Mr Seymour, why not simply tell me the way in which you see the publication proceeding?'

‘All right. I have made notes – and you have these pictures – and then some rough sketches which should help—'

‘If you would be so good as to start.'

Seymour adumbrated some of his ideas for Mr Pickwick. ‘In his own eyes, he is a philanthropist.'

‘But he is not?'

‘He sees his own silly researches as proof of his benevolence. He is like those who believe steam power will solve all men's ills. Or those who would feed the starving with pamphlets.' Seymour smiled. ‘And actually, if he heard what I have just said – he is so gullible, that he would think people proposed pulping pamphlets and feeding them as porridge to the poor!'

‘I can see some fun could be had with a man like that.'

Seymour then explained the circumstances leading to the duel, and showed Boz the drawing of the scene on the staircase at the Bull Inn, with the military doctor confronting the stranger who had borrowed the club jacket.

‘I actually grew up in the area,' said Boz. ‘So I know the Bull well.' He stared hard at the picture of the staircase.

‘Is there something wrong?' said Seymour. ‘I specifically went to Rochester and stayed at the Bull, so the details are accurate.'

‘I can see that. May I borrow your pencil for a moment?'

Seymour hesitated, then took the pencil protruding from his top pocket and passed it over to Boz.

‘It would be better if this character's arm were outstretched,' said Boz. He sketched in a straighter arm, directly on the drawing. The new arm looked like a grey phantom extending from the elbow of the old. The displeasure that resulted on Seymour's face was a redrawing of the artist's features.

‘That is how I believe an actor like O. Smith would play the part of the military doctor,' said Boz, looking at the picture. ‘That is
exactly
the sort of gesture he would use. And so would Keeley, when his blood boils like lava, and his face changes colour as though he has access to every shade in the palette of rage.' He handed the picture back to Seymour, and noted the dissatisfaction on the artist's face. ‘It is just a preliminary sketch, is it not? It doesn't matter if it is changed, does it? Do you not think it would be more dramatic the way I have drawn it?'

‘But as I told you,' said Seymour in a low voice, ‘the drawing accurately shows the building's details. As you can see – there is this niche behind the staircase, with the bust of a man's head. That is why I had the arm positioned the way it was. The way you have drawn it, the arm will not show well against the bust. It will look ridiculous. As though the doctor is swatting a statue.'

‘Then remove the niche and the bust. Erase them, and have just a clear panel.' He stared hard at Seymour. ‘Don't you think it's an improvement?' He inclined his head to indicate he awaited a reply.

Seymour inhaled noisily. ‘Well, I suppose it is not a great change. If we relax the requirement for accuracy, I can see the advantages of what you are proposing. Though I would have appreciated it if you had asked before drawing on my picture.'

Seymour pushed forward pages of notes concerning Mr Pickwick and his club, although he did not inform Boz that they included in-jokes – allusions to the Houghton and Daffy clubs, and the artist's life. Thus, Boz could read that Mr Pickwick lived in Goswell Street, although not that this was where Joseph Severn had his studio. He learnt that the Pickwick Club was founded in 1822, though not that this was the same year as the Houghton began. Also, the Pickwick Club had associations with the financial district of Lothbury and Mr Pickwick had a scientific interest in sticklebacks, and called them by a silly name – but Edward Barnard and Richard Penn were not mentioned; while the ‘PC' jacket seemed only to refer to the Pickwick Club, and the member from Aldgate was just a member from Aldgate.

‘In some places you are very vague, and some you are very specific,' said Boz, casting an eye down the pages. ‘You name this Joseph Smiggers man as the club's chairman' – he had the same initials as the Daffy's chairman, Jem Soares – ‘yet you appear undecided on the names of Mr Pickwick's travelling companions.'