Death and Mr. Pickwick (90 page)

*   *   *

When Chapman left, Edward Holmes returned to John Mead in the parlour. ‘You do know,' said Holmes, ‘that there must not be a
felo de se
verdict at the inquest?'

‘I am afraid I do not know what that means.'

‘It means that no Christian burial would be allowed. It would be a verdict of self-murder. But the consequences for those living would not merely be shame and humiliation. A verdict of
felo de se
would deprive Jane of all rights to inherit. The Crown would take everything from her.'

‘That is absurd and cruel.'

‘That is the law.'

‘Then the law is mad.'

‘The one who was mad was Robert. At least, that is the verdict the inquest must reach. The coroner must decide that, in a state of madness, Robert took his own life. If the inquest should decide that Robert's death was a rational act, an escape from his troubles – then all is lost for Jane. You must convince the inquest of your uncle's madness.'

‘I do not want to do it.'

‘Even so, you must.'

‘I admit I have seen him distraught – when I lodged with him, ten years ago, and the Royal Academy turned down his work. He could have killed himself then.'

‘Tell the inquest that he was driven nearly mad on that occasion too. You must do everything to persuade the coroner that Robert shot himself in a temporary state of mental derangement – a state of wild excitement.'

‘But what do I use as evidence?'

‘You have this man Chapman coming here, seeking Robert's work even after his death. It is as though there is no peace for the artist in his grave. So say that overexertion in work, and the constant demand for new ideas, turned Robert's head. You have to portray him as a man who could not rest and who committed the act in an unguarded moment. Tell them that, normally, Robert was a temperate man, a man in good circumstances, a pleasant man, and had it not been for the strains placed upon him, there was no one more amiable.'

‘I am not an actor. You would be the better person to do it.'

‘My place is with Jane. Besides, it will carry more conviction if the testimony comes from someone outside his closest circle. It will seem as if anyone could see this man was working too hard, and his very talent destroyed him.'

‘I will do what I can. But I am uneasy. If I should fail—'

‘You will not. The inquest will be on your side. The last thing they will want to do is to reduce a widow and her children to utter destitution. Tell the coroner that, from your experience, Robert was often irritable and nervous, and even trivialities could excite him. All you need to do is to give them sufficient reason to find a verdict of temporary insanity, and they will seize it.'

*   *   *

At the inquest, the hoped-for verdict was reached. Robert Seymour's body was duly laid to rest in the burial ground of the Chapel of Ease in Liverpool Road, Islington. The grave was near the north wall – the traditional place for the interment of executed criminals, excommunicates, unbaptised babes, and madmen who had taken their own lives.

*   *   *

In early May, Jane Seymour lifted the copy of the second number of
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club
, which her brother had placed on the parlour table, telling her to look at it if and when she felt strong enough to do so. She noted that the wrapper stated that there were four illustrations by Seymour, when in fact there were three. Inside was a leaf inserted as an address to the reading public:

Before this number reaches the hands of our readers, they will have become acquainted with the melancholy death of Mr Seymour, under circumstances of a very distressing nature. Some time must elapse before the void which the deceased gentleman has left in his profession can be filled up; the blank which his death has occasioned in the society which his amiable nature won, and his talents adorned, we can hardly hope to see supplied.

We do not allude to this distressing event, in the vain hope of adding, by any eulogiums of ours, to the respect in which the late Mr Seymour's memory is held by all who ever knew him. Some apology is due to our readers for the appearance of the present number with only three plates. When we state that they comprise Mr Seymour's last efforts, and that on one of them, in particular (the embellishment to ‘The Stroller's Tale'), he was engaged up to a late hour of the night preceding his death, we feel confident that the excuse will be deemed a sufficient one.

Arrangements are in progress which will enable us to present the ensuing numbers of
The Pickwick Papers
on an improved plan. April 27th, 1836.

She closed the wrapper. She called upstairs to Edward, and asked him if he would mind coming down.

‘The notice here states that the dying clown was Robert's last picture,' she said when he entered the parlour. ‘It wasn't.'

‘Wasn't it?' he said.

‘They confidently assert that these etchings were Robert's last work, and that he was working on the clown until late in the night preceding his death. That's not true, Edward. How could they know, in any case? They were not with him.'

‘I suppose it's just an error.'

*   *   *

Three more issues of
Figaro in London
carried works by Robert Seymour. On the Saturday after his death, there appeared a picture relating to the destruction of an equestrian statue of King William III in Dublin, blown up by agitators, as well as a short death notice inserted just before the magazine was printed, it being too late for a more substantial tribute. On the following Saturday came a picture of Wellington, with a pile of cure-all pills which would solve all political problems – the picture was in a prominent black border, as a mark of respect for the passing of a great artist. On the third Saturday were the merest outlines of a sketch: they concerned the enforced collection of tithes in Ireland, and showed characters who appeared spectral and transparent, for they were made of a few unfinished lines, and carried ghostly truncheons with which they attempted forced entry at a door. Mayhew had called at Park Place West and collected this last picture from the summer house. The comment below said: ‘Poor Seymour always threw the proper light upon everything.'

With these three pictures, the public career of Robert Seymour came to its conclusion.

*   *   *

‘Surely you must know an etcher you could recommend to us, Mr Jackson,' said William Hall.

‘I do not,' said John Jackson as he took carved woodblocks out of a carpet bag and placed them carefully upon Hall's desk.

‘There is really no one among your contacts?'

‘Mr Hall, etchers are amateurs – or bodgers – or dabblers – or women. It is art by chemicals.'

‘I had assumed it takes great skill.'

‘It takes
immense
skill. It is the poor reputation of etching nowadays that deters most decent artists from doing it. Seymour was an exception. He didn't mind what people thought. It will be extraordinarily difficult to replace him.'

Jackson put down the last woodblock. ‘Mr Hall, let me tell you the difference between steel engraving and steel etching. A good engraver, working away patiently, can gouge a line as thick as a wire one minute, and as fine as a newborn baby's hair the next. He is a proud man. And with good reason, for it has taken him years to learn the technique. Now you say to such a man that the thickness of a line should be determined by how long a piece of metal spends in an acid bath, and he will be appalled. An etching can never have the subtlety of an engraving. The two look completely different when they are printed, and only the engraved picture has professional esteem attached to it. But etching is still a very skilful technique in its own right.'

‘Exactly
how
skilful?' said Hall. ‘Could someone learn to do it in time for the next number of
Pickwick
?'

‘
Impossible
! Mr Hall, etching takes
great
experience and judgement. And constant practice. Practice to acquire the skill in the first place, and then practice so that the hand retains its expertise. It is like playing the piano or the violin. Stop the daily practice and you'll soon notice the difference.'

‘Why would someone take the trouble to learn if, as you say, it is held in such poor regard?'

‘If an artist is prepared to defy its reputation – then, there is nothing like etching. Etching is freedom. Etching is speed. All you do is scratch away at wax and then the acid does the hard work for you. No tiresome labour with a graver on the metal. And very soon the printing plate is done and you can move on to the next picture. Seymour was the fastest artist in London, and etching completely suited his temperament.'

‘Do you think,' said Hall, ‘someone could be
persuaded
that etching is easy?'

‘The man would be a fool. And even if you found a fool – what good would it do you? The results wouldn't be worth printing.'

‘It might buy us time. It might get us some sort of picture, even if it were only a stopgap. And all the while, we could be looking for someone better. Or perhaps –
perhaps
, Mr Jackson, the fool might turn out to be a man of exceptional talent. A man who learns with the speed of lightning.'

‘It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done. A novice starting to etch would need unbelievable patience and determination. Plate after plate would be ruined as he tried to learn. For that matter, plate after plate would be ruined even
after
he had learnt. No, give up this folly, Mr Hall. And give up
Pickwick
altogether. Close it down. When Seymour shot himself, he took
Pickwick
with him to hell.'

‘Mr Jackson, are there any artists you know who might just be persuadable? Think of your professional contacts. Who among them might take on this task? Especially if we said that you had recommended them. Who might give it a go?'

Jackson hesitated, and appeared to consider someone, but then said: ‘There is nobody.'

‘I would pay a consultant's fee for your recommendation. Let me ask you once more. Think carefully. There is someone, isn't there?'

At last, Jackson said: ‘A certain fellow does cross my mind. I wouldn't be surprised if you know his work already. He does quite a few woodcuts, as well as painting. If you keep at him – I think he could be persuaded. Stand your ground, and he's the sort of character who'll crack.'

*   *   *

The door of the house in Compton Street opened, and a crafty-looking man with a considerable grey beard stepped outside.

‘Doing an apostle for you is one thing, Mr Buss, but I don't know.'

‘I pay you very well – and that's something you
do
know.' A man in his early thirties, wearing a black woollen cap, and exhibiting eyes of pleasant humour and a determination around the lips, appeared at the doorway.

‘I am tired of all the funny looks,' said the bearded man.

‘Those bristles keep you in work.'

‘Don't you ever ask me to do Judas, that's all I say. I'd be thrown out of the few circles in London that are still willing to have me.'

While they were talking, a cab drew up. ‘Good morning, Mr Buss,' said the new arrival as he stepped on to the pavement.

‘Mr Hall,' said Robert Buss, ‘this is a surprise.' He turned once more to the bearded man. ‘King Lear next time.'

‘I'm not promising. If I do keep away from the razor, I'll be there.' The bearded man took his leave.

‘Do come in, Mr Hall.'

Hall stepped into the hall.

‘Curious customer that man with the beard,' said Robert Buss.

‘He looked it.'

‘He's the model for every artist who does a canvas based upon Shakespeare, Scott or the Bible. But he is always threatening to shave. Come through. I have some home-brewed bivvy – can I persuade you to try some?'

‘That is very hospitable of you, Mr Buss. Yes, why not, thank you.'

William Hall waited in the studio among the easels and half-finished canvases, and when Buss returned bearing two foaming tankards, Hall was to be found inspecting a berry-patterned enamel plate displayed upon a shelf.

‘An old piece of mine,' said Buss. ‘My father wanted me to become an enameller.'

‘Even a practical man like myself could not help being drawn to the colours. I noticed as well this very interesting painting over here.'

It was a picture on the wall showing a little girl weeping over her pet canary. The bird lay dead upon the top of a barrel. In the background sat a presiding officer in military dress amid all the trappings and personnel of a court martial, while a poor cat, the probable killer of the bird, had been tied to a spade.

‘If I am not mistaken,' said Hall, ‘the officer and the sentry are both
you
, are they not?'

‘Yes, and the little girl is my daughter. She lost her pet canary. I like the humour of it. Yet – poor bird too. I have always hated the thought of what cats do to birds.'

‘Indeed!' Hall noticeably shuddered. ‘That painting over there is intriguing as well.'

On an easel was an incomplete picture showing the aftermath of a duel: one duellist lay already dead with a bullet through his brain, while the other, bearing a wound likely to be mortal, was being carried away by seconds.

‘I am going to call it
Satisfaction
,' said Buss. ‘I was thinking about the pointlessness of duels. How can a bullet possibly determine right and wrong?'

‘Indeed. You have heard about the death of Seymour, I presume.'

‘Yes.' He drew in a breath. ‘There were people who said that Seymour had no equal as a caricaturist. I have friends who knew him. I was speaking to one who was with him a couple of months ago. It was a happy evening apparently – concerning, strangely enough, his involvement with you.'