Death and Mr. Pickwick (95 page)

‘I believe I have.'

‘He was deceived by fake Saxon characters inscribed on a shard of chimney-slab. But I am chattering on too much. Always my fault. You should send me away with my tail between my legs. I am so sorry.' Then Thomas Naylor Morton's mood suddenly changed; his lips twitched, as though a topic in his mind, which had been present all along, needed to be voiced, and could not be – but then it burst forth.

‘I do not know whether I should tell you this,' he said.

‘Tell me what?'

‘I know only because Mr Chapman and Mr Hall had the door of their office ajar yesterday. You must not say I told you.'

‘You haven't told me anything yet.'

‘Quite. Well, the fact is, I am afraid the prospects of their continuing with
Pickwick
are doubtful. Very doubtful. The average monthly sales are stuck at four hundred copies.'

‘I feared as much. I had hoped to speak to them tonight, to put the case for continuing.'

‘I heard them discussing an offer of help from Mr Tilt, the bookseller at the corner of St Bride's Passage. Do you know the shop I mean?'

‘I do. One of the best windows in the city. You can't help but look into it.'

‘That's the one. Always has displays of pictures to be bound into Scott's novels. I already knew that Tilt had proposed some sort of deal. I'm not certain what was in it for him. But he told them that he would send out copies of
Pickwick
to all the provincial booksellers he knew, on the basis that they could return any copies that remained unsold.'

‘A good scheme.'

‘So it sounds. Unfortunately, I heard Mr Hall say yesterday that fifteen hundred copies had been sent out, and of those, fourteen hundred and fifty had been sent back.'

‘Oh Lord.'

‘Mr Hall sees
Pickwick
as going from bad to worse.'

*   *   *

‘First it was four pictures, Edward, then it was three pictures, now it is down to two pictures – I say it is time for
no
pictures,' said Hall. ‘And no letterpress either.'

‘It may yet bear fruit, William,' said Chapman. ‘Tilt has made us some useful contacts – and remember
Pickwick
is cheap.'

‘It is not
that
cheap, it just seems so. If you consider it as a commitment to buy all the parts, that in total is two-thirds the price of a new three-volume novel, and twice or even three times the cost of reprinted novels.'

‘
Pickwick
to me,' said Chapman, ‘is like a curious and ruined little rustic chapel, very interesting and rather sad. Not exactly pleasing, but interesting.'

‘It may be,' said Hall, ‘but I am not going to worship there.'

*   *   *

‘I have done what I can to promote the work,' said Boz to Thomas Naylor Morton. ‘Do you know the notice that was inserted about Buss taking over? How it spoke of the “great success” and “extensive circulation” of the publication?'

‘All talk, of course.'

‘But the reviewer at the
Morning Chronicle
took it seriously. I passed him the number, pointed out the notice, and he quoted those very words in his review.'

‘All the talk in the world can sometimes have no effect.'

‘
Pickwick
needs more time.'

‘Chapman may give you that – but Hall? Unlikely, I am afraid. You know the advertising leaflet that was slipped into
Pickwick
, for Rowland's pimple-and-spots treatment? I have never seen Hall so overjoyed. He came in here, waving the advertising copy like a flag. It's because it's pure revenue, at no cost. He doesn't care about what we put out – for him, it's the profits of pimples that matter.' Noticing the dispirited look on Boz's face, Morton said: ‘Why don't you read me some of your manuscript?'

‘It is rather late.'

‘Please do.'

‘What is the point now?'

‘You never know.'

*   *   *

When Boz put down the manuscript, after reading a large extract, Thomas Naylor Morton paused several seconds, then said: ‘I want to hear this Sam Weller talk. I want to hear him talk like I have
never
wanted to hear a fictional character talk before.'

‘I thank you. But from what you have said, he may not talk again.'

‘They can't kill him. It would be wrong.
Absolutely
wrong.'

‘But if Hall…?'

‘I will make
every
effort to persuade both Chapman
and
Hall to keep faith with
Pickwick
.'

‘But from what you have said—'

‘Chapman, I am convinced I can win over. But Hall – I confess, I do not relish raising the matter with him. There is a stare he has. Like two icicles spearing you in the mind. But it will not really be
me
taking Hall on. It will be Sam Weller. He will fight for the publication's life.'

*   *   *

‘He's a bootblack,' said Boz.

‘A bootblack!' said Crowquill. ‘Well, the mud in the streets is as thick as the mud in our minds. Only we can clean our shoes!' His face underwent extraordinary changes of expression, from profundity to wickedness, before relaxing and adding that his great talent was woodland scenes. ‘The branch where a crow sits, preening its feathers, is perfect for a Crowquill picture. Black feathers – black as blacking. Now that's what I should do to make you laugh – dip my beard in blacking, eh?'

Such eccentricity did not bode well. Crowquill was sent on his way.

*   *   *

The next morning, Hablot Browne climbed the stairs to Boz. Browne had purchased new sailcloth trousers. His hair, for once, was carefully combed. He knocked. He and Boz recognised each other from the forecourt at Furnival's, and instantly fell into good fellowship.

‘Do you know,' said Browne, when the two were seated, ‘when I was told that Boz lived in Furnival's, I knew he would be you.'

‘Did you? How?'

‘For one thing, the colourful waistcoats I have seen you wear. So many people in Furnival's look like they are in the legal profession – and you do not.'

‘Well, as you have been observing me, I have observed you. My first observation is that Seymour was somewhat older than yourself.'

‘I am twenty. Nearly twenty-one, sir.'

Boz smiled approvingly.

‘Although I am an engraver by profession,' said Browne, ‘etching is more to my taste.'

‘In the one etching of yours I have seen, there was great skill in the depiction of the horse. That's a talent I could use in
Pickwick
.'

‘I have been drawing horses since I was a child. I have sometimes gone to the British Museum and sketched the horses of the Elgin Marbles. But let me show you this. I have illustrated one of
Pickwick
's published scenes.'

From a portfolio he brought out a drawing showing Mr Winkle with a gun, while Mr Tupman lay on the ground injured, having received an armful of the gun's shot. The fat boy stood behind a tree, peeking on.

Boz gave another approving smile.

‘I have carefully studied Seymour's works,' said Browne, ‘but I know I could not replace Seymour. I read the notice in
Pickwick
about his death – and I agreed with its sentiments. Seymour's death has left a blank, and a void. No one could replace him.'

‘A strict interpretation of that would mean that
Pickwick
could not continue without Seymour.'

‘I did not mean that.'

‘No, I understand. Which other artists have exerted an influence on you?'

‘Cruikshank. Gillray. Blake. Holbein—.'

‘
Holbein
?'

‘
The Dance of Death
made a strong impression on me.'

‘Oh
did
it?'

‘I have – how can I put this? I have a certain talent for producing little works. No I said that wrong. I mean I put my passion into details. I see smaller works as – delightful – charming – I like to put people in – people doing whatever they are up to, and all kinds of activities, all happening at once. It is as though you bring your face up close to a window – yes, the drawing is like a window – and then you look into a little room, and suddenly so much is going on.'

Now the approval was not only in the smile, but in the eyes and every aspect of Boz's face.

‘If you would allow me to show you some more work – I was commissioned to do some pictures of cathedrals. In some cases the drawings are entirely mine – this one for instance.' It showed the dome of St Paul's, the Thames in the foreground, upon which a boat caught the eye, with two rowers in top hats. ‘In other cases I turned architectural sketches into finished drawings by adding a few little figures and various details here and there.' He showed a picture of Canterbury Cathedral in which a fat man stood next to a thin man.

‘Many would simply have claimed that everything in the drawings was entirely theirs.'

‘Many would, I suppose.'

*   *   *

They worked through the night, Browne and Young – and from their labours emerged the etching of the bootblack in the courtyard of the White Hart Inn, Southwark. Also in the picture was a lawyer, whose snuff-taking propensities in the letterpress took inspiration from the suctioning noses of Boz's former employers, Messrs Ellis and Blackmore. The bootblack was shown twisting his head around towards the lawyer, with his body turned away from the man's authority. There too was Browne's portrayal of Mr Pickwick, with spectacles and a fine bulging stomach, in the best traditions of Seymour, but also with a happier face than previously shown. Mr Pickwick was delighted by this bootblack. He was tickled – he was charmed – one could almost say he had fallen in love, and at first sight.

Browne added further details to entertain the viewer, details not mentioned in Boz's words: a curious little dog at Mr Pickwick's ankles; a haywain in the yard with a mountain of fodder topped by two boys, who had climbed up as a jape; a maid on the balcony carrying a platter from which steam rose; and on a higher balcony, a line of clothes drying in the breeze.

‘I'd like a pseudonym to sign these plates,' said Browne. ‘A different identity from my paintings might be useful. You know how the academy works.'

‘Do you have any ideas?'

‘I do, yes. Something unique and clever and mysterious. What about signing them as “No one”?'

‘Such self-confidence.'

‘No, listen. Suppose I write that name with dots between the letters – N dot O dot O dot N dot E dot. Like an acronym. So the whole thing is very puzzling. What does it stand for? You could ask: “What is the meaning of that?” Go on, ask me.'

‘What is the meaning of that?'

‘No one knows. Do you see? It's like saying “Mr No one knows”. He knows, because he wrote the acronym. And as no one is a non-existent person, it's a
complete
mystery. It's meaningless. No one actually
does
know.'

‘Rather convoluted. I don't like it.'

‘Well, I do like it. And to give extra style, I want to use the Latin word for no one, Nemo, but written with dots, N dot E dot M dot O dot. I will have translated meaninglessness. I like that! There you are. That's my name.' He signed ‘N.E.M.O.' at the bottom of the illustration.

‘You can do better.'

‘I am using it.'

*   *   *

A few days later, Browne suggested a new name, which would appear on the pictures of the subsequent numbers.

‘Phiz?' said Young.

‘As in physiognomy. I thought it went well with Boz. Boz and Phiz.'

‘Better than Nemo.
Much
better.'

*   *   *

The noise in the Court of Common Pleas on 22 June 1836, when the prime minister was on trial for adultery, was a thick London mud of sound, composed of the smelliest odours of rumour, the vocal appreciation of the slippery slope to downfall, the moist and titillating gossip of an eminent man with his breeches around his ankles, and coughs – liquid, unhealthy coughs. Outside the courtroom, it was a cool and showery day; inside, the heat rising from the bodies of the onlookers was itself suggestive of adulterous desire, and beads of condensation formed on the windows.

‘Where's Melbourne?' said a woman to her husband in the middle seats of the middle row of those gathered for the performance.

‘I don't think he's here,' said her husband.

‘Too guilty to show his face. What about the trollop?'

‘I don't know what she looks like, but there is nobody around who looks as if it might be her.'

‘Too ashamed.'

Two rows in front, an unmarried woman inclined her head towards her equally spinsterish friend. ‘It's Melbourne's love letters that are going to be the best bit.'

‘He's the father of her children, that's what I hear,' came the prim-mouthed reply.

In the back row, a man said to his son: ‘It's not only what he says to her, but what he says about the king.'

‘I've heard that in one of his letters,' said the son, ‘he calls the king an old fool.'

‘What's he saying?' said the woman in the middle seat in the middle row, pointing towards the judge, Lord Chief Justice Tindall, who had just taken his seat, at 9.30 a.m. precisely. The judge's lips were moving, apparently in the attempt to establish order – the long, unemotional face under the goat-hair wig looked intelligent, and therefore carried the presumption that the words the lips formed were reasonable, but they were lost among all the sounds of the court.

‘I
think
he's saying the court will be adjourned unless there is quiet,' said the woman's husband.