Death and Mr. Pickwick (97 page)

The warmth of the Norton fireside took Boz back to the badly ventilated body-heated courtroom, where sweat from his forehead dripped on to his notebook. There was Follett reading out the silly letters – Boz heard the laughter in the court: great guffaws on the benches, and huge grins, with thick, scarlet lips.

He stirred and his mind cleared, and he was near the point of waking. As he approached full consciousness, thoughts came that the action against Melbourne was an abuse of the law, an attempt to find an innocent man guilty of sexual misconduct. If indeed Melbourne
was
innocent. But if Melbourne was an innocent man, then the action was a shameless attempt to ruin a man's character. The evidence given by disloyal servants – soiled handkerchiefs and raised dresses – that was all part of the plot. But not
all
servants are disloyal.

Seymour's Sancho Panza figure came to the fore. The artist had left behind a picture of a character with a cockade in his hat. The cockade could be part of the character's livery if he left service as a bootblack and became Mr Pickwick's manservant. It was inappropriate dress, a cockade, and that was the point – poor, naive Mr Pickwick would choose a badge intended for servants of royalty, peers, military officers and others serving under the Crown.

Mr Pickwick was a natural victim. Even on the wrapper, the birds had pecked at his pie as he slept in the punt. He needed a rescuer. His first rescuer was Jingle, who saved him from the cabman. A more permanent and trustworthy rescuer was wanted.

*   *   *

When Boz rose in the evening, still not refreshed, he knew that something must be turned out for next month's
Pickwick
, and the events of the courtroom seemed capable of transfer to the green wrappers. They would have to be modified, of course. It was inconceivable that a fellow like Mr Pickwick would stand trial for adultery. But what about breach of promise? What if Mr Pickwick were to become entangled with a middle-aged woman, a widow perhaps? But
how
was she widowed? There was a case of 1827, which he remembered from his time as a legal clerk.

*   *   *

An hour before opening time, a knock came at the Northumberland Arms public house in Pentonville. The landlord did not respond. He continued sitting in the rear, smoking his early-morning cigar. The knock came again, and then a voice: ‘Mr Mitton! Mr Mitton!'

‘Can't a man have a few moments to himself?' he muttered. He stood behind the bar, and made a strange up-and-down motion on the floor, as though doing an exercise. Then, taking his time, he proceeded to the bolt. Two men were on the doorstep, both of whom had officialdom lurking in the sockets of their eyes, and were distinguished mainly by shape of nose: the one in front having a larger, bonier affair which undoubtedly marked him out for seniority, while the one behind bore a thinner, prettier organ which surely betrayed inexperience.

‘You are Mr Mitton?' said the bearer of the bigger nose.

‘I am.'

‘Thomas Dean. Excise officer. We have a warrant to search this house. We have reason to believe there is an unlicensed still on the premises.'

‘You have reason to believe?'

‘You do know the meaning of “warrant”?'

‘It means you won't take my word that there is nothing here.'

He admitted the men, and they poked their noses in cupboards and back rooms, but no evidence of a still was found.

‘I must have hidden it very well, mustn't I,' said Mitton. ‘Who put you up to this? Let's have a look at that warrant.'

Dean took the document from his pocket, and Mitton looked it over. Then he said, ‘I suppose this is of no further use to you as you have searched every inch of my house. I shall keep this to remind me of you.'

‘That is the property of the Excise Office.'

‘Oh is it?' He smiled, folded the paper, and tucked it in his waistcoat pocket.

There was a nod of understanding between the two officers. Suddenly they pounced, restraining Mitton's arms, pushing him back against the counter of the bar, until one arm broke free and Mitton groped for a weapon of any kind whatsoever. He found a pewter pot – and crashed it down upon Excise Officer Dean's head.

‘You are a fool if you think this is the end of the incident,' said Dean, rubbing his crown. ‘That could have killed me!'

‘I am keeping that warrant,' said Mitton. He flourished the paper as a trophy, evading the snatch of the junior. ‘Now get out!'

In the case of
Rex
v.
Mitton
, it was conceded that the defendant had no right to keep possession of the warrant, and that the officers certainly had the right to use necessary force to obtain said warrant. The question was whether, by pushing the defendant against the bar, the excise officers had used more force than was necessary.

That night, in the Northumberland Arms, a cheerful Mr Mitton gave each customer a drink of spirit gratis, and hence the outcome of the court case may be guessed with considerable likelihood of accuracy. Some said that the spirit came from a supply under the floorboards, and it was definitely poured to the accompaniment of a wink and a broad smile. And when Mitton decided he would smoke his early-evening cigar, he lit it with a blazing document which had been held in the coals of the fire – a document which looked suspiciously like a search warrant.

*   *   *

So Boz conceived of a widow, left alone in the world when her husband, an excise officer, received a fatal blow upon the head with a pewter pot. How was she to survive? The solution was obvious: lodgers.

He needed a name for this widow. Mrs Bordel was amusing, but was soon modified into Mrs Bardell. Thus, Mrs Bardell placed a notice in her window: ‘Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Enquire within.'

The notice was seen by a certain Mr Samuel Pickwick, address unknown, who
did
enquire within, and shortly afterwards took up residence in Mrs Bardell's apartment in Goswell Street, on the desirable, well-lit, first-floor front, away from the damp of the basement and the draught of the attic.

There were many details to be resolved, but Boz could certainly conceive of Mr Pickwick writing innocent letters to Mrs Bardell, letters whose contents would be distorted in a court of law, as Follett attempted with those of Melbourne to Caroline Norton.

Boz imagined Mr Pickwick sitting in Garraway's Coffee House, 'Change Alley, and thought of circumstances which could lead to a letter to Mrs Bardell.

*   *   *

Garraway's was renowned for its sandwiches, whose butter was always spread to the edge of the crust and beyond. These sandwiches were consumed as men read newspapers or perused albums of prints, or after they had come downstairs from the saleroom on the first floor, having signed a contract to purchase a stack of timber or an elegant town house.

One lunchtime, Mr Pickwick happened to be in Garraway's eating such a sandwich, accompanied by a tankard of punch on the side. Whether the sandwich was filled with beef or chicken or cheese is unknown, but it was probably not pork, for suddenly a particular craving to eat a well-cooked pork chop entered Mr Pickwick's brain. And though his eyes were directed towards a notice stuck upon the window announcing the sale of a country villa, all he saw was the chop and the sauce, the beautiful tomato sauce, not loose like some sauces, but reduced to
just
the consistency that Mr Pickwick liked, and with
just
enough ginger to suit his palate. True, he suffered pains in his joints after eating such a chop, which may have been causally related to the presence of the ginger, but in his opinion it was a price worth paying. At that moment, in his mind he could picture the chop, and his head lolled back in anticipation – a chop an inch thick, if not a little more, smothered with a ladleload of that excellent sauce. The person who possessed a special genius in preparing a chop according to these requirements was none other than Mr Pickwick's landlady, Mrs Bardell.

Mrs Bardell always cooked the chop
just
right, on a clean gridiron over cinders, never to be besmirched by coal smoke. Indeed, she kept cinders aside in a special box – ‘Mr Pickwick's embers' she called them – for perfect chops. Her skill in chop-cooking had been obtained by considerable practice and deep researches into the properties of heat, for she turned the chop
just
the number of times to achieve the optimum between overdone and underdone, and turned with tongs, not with a fork which, as she said, just lets the juices escape. The resulting chop was neither leathery, nor greasy, and so delicious that Mr Pickwick would eat until only the bone was left. Then he heard the trumpet of the elephant from the nearby menagerie and the thought of the beast's raised trunk broke his reverie, and turned his mind back to the practicalities of securing the chop.

For one requirement of this perfection was that the fire with cinders must be made up at least three-quarters of an hour before cooking, and so Mrs Bardell must be notified. Thus, as he pushed the last remnant of the sandwich into his mouth and drained the punch, he wrote to his landlady: ‘Garraway's, twelve o'clock. – Dear Mrs B. – Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, PICKWICK.' He paid a boy to deliver it to Goswell Street.

*   *   *

If someone like Follett got his hands on that note, thought Boz, what might he do? How might the meaning be twisted?

He imagined the speech to the jury: ‘And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Certain letters have passed between these parties. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications – letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: “Garraway's, twelve o'clock. – Dear Mrs B. – Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, PICKWICK.” Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! And tomata sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these?'

Boz smiled. Yet how could a man like Mr Pickwick be involved in a breach-of-promise suit? It is inconceivable that Mr Pickwick would wish to marry
any
woman. He was removed from such desires. In any case, Mr Pickwick would be on the move, and what could the pleasures of the hearth mean to him, unless it was the hearth of a public house?

Boz imagined Mr Pickwick at his lodgings, thinking about hiring Sam Weller as his manservant.

*   *   *

Mr Pickwick was nervous, filling the morning with fidgets, poking the sea-coal in the scuttle for no reason, turning an old goblet on the mantelpiece round so its more gilded side showed, and then turning it back again, so the well-worn side was on display. He raised the subject most tentatively to his landlady, using words about two people living together, and the costs of doing so, and looking Mrs Bardell in the eye as he spoke, forgetting to mention, in his nervousness, that the two people were himself and a manservant, not himself and a prospective
Mrs
Pickwick.

*   *   *

It was true that Mr Pickwick did not specifically ask Mrs Bardell to marry him; but the question in a court of law would be: could Mr Pickwick's conduct and words lead a reasonable person to conclude that he was indeed proposing marriage? And a reasonable person, listening at the door, might very well conclude that such a proposal was made. Here was the means of suing Mr Pickwick for breach of promise.

Boz thought of Seymour. He knew what Seymour had been – the look of the artist screamed sod. If Mr Pickwick was anything like Seymour, he would seek some kind of a relationship with another man. Though he might seek to hide it behind the veil of employment.

*   *   *

Boz knew he had to change the legal personnel of the court. Lord Chief Justice Tindall was too learned and too sound in his judgement, his character too mild, too even. The judge in Mr Pickwick's case should be altogether different. This judge would take the case because Lord Chief Justice Tindall was indisposed.

It was, of course, inevitable that Mr Pickwick would lose the case. Then he would turn on Mrs Bardell's lawyers.

‘Not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get from me,' Mr Pickwick would tell them to their faces.

Now if Mr Pickwick had lived in his own property, or possessed land, or had an income from labour, then payment could be enforced; but Mr Pickwick was retired, and he lived in rented accommodation. He had substantial wealth in financial assets, but this being England, no one had bothered to enact a law to seize those. So, being a debtor who refused to pay, there was but one fate for Mr Pickwick, as he himself would realise: ‘Not one farthing do you get from me,' he would tell Mrs Bardell's lawyers, ‘if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtors' prison.' All the pleasures of life on the road, all the freedom, he would willingly forsake not to let scoundrels triumph. Mr Pickwick may be a fool, but hidden within was a spirit to stir a British heart.

All this would come later. For now,
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club
had to survive in the marketplace.

*   *   *

Some people – a small some – had bought
Pickwick
thus far. But the green wrapper, with the fat man in the punt, did at least draw eyes down to booksellers' counters; just as the etchings of the Pickwickians, when they were separated from the letterpress and displayed, drew eyes up to the panes of booksellers' windows. The black and white pictures suggested the amusement lying ahead.

A few thought to themselves: this slim green pamphlet might be worth trying. It was not obvious exactly what it was, and that was itself of interest.

Pickwick
was bought by a man who had an earring and by a man with a luxuriant moustache and by a man who catalogued butterflies and by a man who had bought shark's fins at the wharf to make soup and by a man with a beard who carried a radical newspaper who attended agitated assemblies and by a man in a scruffy coat, who wrote short pieces for magazines and by a man wheeling a barrow of exotic shrubs he would sell at his nursery.