Death and Mr. Pickwick (89 page)

‘It would have had some effect upon me, I suppose.'

‘Do you know how Boz heard about the death of Seymour? It was when his brother Fred thrust an early edition of the
Morning Chronicle
into his chest. Boz and his wife were still in their dressing gowns. Boz is supposed to have responded to the death with consternation, disappointment and anxiety.'

‘And well he might.'

‘But I have always thought that the mind of Boz would have gone in different directions. Extraordinary directions. First, he would have been shocked, I am sure. I believe he would have recalled Dismal Jemmy's remarks about the delights of suicide by drowning when he stood with Mr Pickwick on Rochester Bridge – remarks which Seymour would have read. But I think Boz's mind would then have wandered down very strange alleyways. Alleyways which he would have been ashamed to acknowledge. Do you know what I think, Scripty? That when he read of a butcher arriving at the scene of the death, he imagined Seymour converted into sausages.'

‘That is an
outrageous
suggestion.'

‘Is it? I can imagine, in the dark corners of Boz's mind, that he could conceive of the butcher hacking Seymour to pieces, grinding him up, putting him in sausage casings, and feeding the sausages into the mouth of Grimaldi's son, who was attempting to emulate the vast feats of eating of his father. Ha! And now I can see you are thinking of something Boz later wrote which might indeed have been influenced by such thoughts!' He clapped his hands with glee.

‘Let us move on,' I said.

 

*

EDWARD CHAPMAN PUSHED AN INCH-HIGH
pile of black-edged correspondence towards the other side of the desk, where Boz sat. ‘These are the letters and messages that have arrived so far,' he said quietly. ‘We receive more with every passing hour.'

Boz lifted a corner, and noticed a line which said: ‘The Hogarth of our age has gone.'

‘I had the greatest respect for his abilities,' he said.

‘It is a tragedy not only for his family, but a great sadness for the country, and if I may say so, a sadness for our company as well,' said Chapman. ‘There is much more we might have done with him.'

‘So,' said Hall, moving in suddenly, pushing the letters an inch forward, giving himself more room to lean with his hands on one side of the desk, and then looking directly at Boz: ‘I have written you a cheque for fourteen guineas in lieu of work you would have done on the third part.'

‘I beg your pardon?' said Boz, his demeanour instantly changed.

‘I have rounded up the guineas to fourteen, to bring it all to a conclusion. We obviously cannot continue,' said Hall.

‘This is too sudden, William,' said Chapman. ‘Another day for business, not today. We can discuss this after the funeral.'

‘No,' said Boz. ‘Let us settle this now. I came here because we
obviously
continue. We can overcome a temporary difficulty.'

‘I have already told the printers that they may break up the type for the second part,' said Hall.

‘
They cannot
!'

‘Please let me handle this, William,' said Chapman, as he saw the rising fury in the young man's countenance. ‘I would prefer not to talk of this now, but if we must, so be it.' He turned to Boz. ‘We are keen that you continue to write for us. We wish to foster your growing reputation. But with a work as damaged as this – it is best to let it pass away with Seymour. You will harm your own prospects, as well as ours, if we try to prolong this publication artificially.'

‘Tell the printers to keep the type together,' said Boz.

‘They may well be breaking it up as we speak,' said Hall.

‘Then send a messenger straight away and tell them to halt!'

‘Do not use that tone with me, sir,' said Hall. ‘Any type tied up uselessly is a cost. We enjoy good relations with Bradbury and Evans, and I wish to continue that relationship. I would also prefer to keep on good terms with you.'

‘Please, William! You are making a difficult situation much worse.' Chapman turned once more to Boz. ‘We understand that you feel a bond with this work, as any author would – but the fact is, there has been no sign up to now of any strong interest from the public. And that was
with
Seymour. Without him—'

‘Seymour put Mr Pickwick in shackles.'

‘I can understand that you may feel that way. But without Seymour's illustrations—'

‘Hire another artist.'

‘I admit the thought has occurred to me,' said Chapman, ‘but I dismissed it. To retain the publication's status, the artist would obviously have to be George Cruikshank. He is hardly going to want to be Seymour's understudy.'

‘Again – there is no
obviously
that I see,' said Boz. ‘I wouldn't want Cruikshank in any case. He is too slow. And he couldn't draw an effective horse if we threatened to whip him ourselves.'

‘Even if we
were
to hire another artist,' replied Chapman, ‘the visual harmony of the work would be ruined.'

‘Not at all. I had discussed the next few scenes with Seymour. There is to be a rook-shooting episode. There is a courtship scene in an arbour. There is a cricket match. There is to be a manservant introduced. All you need is someone who can produce scenes like these and come somewhere close to Seymour's style.'

‘
Come somewhere close
!' said Hall, unable to restrain himself. ‘Sir, that is the very point. The work is diminished. You would be yoking yourself to damaged goods. And so would we.'

‘I had not finished,' said Boz. ‘Give the subscribers something new. Something more than they had when Seymour was alive.'

‘And what is that?' said Hall.

‘More pages of letterpress.'

‘We have a budget,' said Hall, ‘which we will
not
exceed.'

‘I meant, reduce the number of illustrations to compensate. Cut them back to two per number.'

‘Out of the question,' said Hall. ‘People bought the first number on the understanding that each number would have
four
illustrations. It would destroy the spirit of the work. We should lose the few readers we already have.'

‘Even with two pictures per number, it would still be a highly illustrated work,' said Boz. ‘If all the parts were bound together in a volume, it would have over forty pictures – I doubt whether a more illustrated work of fiction has ever appeared.'

‘He is probably right on that, William,' said Chapman. ‘There can't be many works that even approach it.'

‘
And
you will save,' continued Boz, addressing his remarks primarily to Hall, ‘on the cost of the artist, on the costs of the steel and the costs of the paper for illustrations. Keep quiet about what you paid Seymour and, mark my words, you'll find someone to do drawings for ten shillings a plate.'

Hall did not immediately raise objections, and indeed by a rubbing of his mouth seemed to suggest that he was considering the points raised. So Boz continued.

‘I have been writing one and a half sheets per number. Two sheets has a completeness. Even if I have to work at full steam through the night, I shall deliver two entire sheets of letterpress, thirty-two printed pages, in one hundred slips of my handwriting a month. Every month, on time.'

Boz then turned to Chapman. ‘I will expand the lengths of the scenes. I will have more space to develop the characters. Character after character, as Mr Pickwick travels around the country. Characters and characterisation that Seymour never dreamt of.'

He turned back to Hall. ‘Working at my greatest energy, I could fill twenty handwritten slips in a single day.'

Then back to Chapman. ‘I will fill the pages more vividly than any illustration.'

Then he alternated between the two. ‘Scheherazade told stories night after night; I will do it month after month. And is this the opportunity you would destroy? Are you not at least
curious
as to what I can do?'

Chapman and Hall exchanged looks, apparently undecided.

Boz said: ‘First you contact the printers, and keep the type they have set. Then, visit Seymour's widow. Get the plates for his last drawings. We can use those for the second number. And immediately start searching for a new artist.'

There were nods between Chapman and Hall. The latter then said: ‘Very well, we will find an artist.'

‘You understand, of course,' said Boz, ‘that I shall require additional payment for additional work.'

‘An increase to eighteen guineas a month would be a proportionate rise,' said Hall.

‘I shall take your word, as a man who has figures at his fingertips, that eighteen guineas would be a proportionate rise,' said Boz. ‘But as you will be saving money on plates, I believe an additional two guineas would be in order.'

‘You push us far, sir!' said Hall.

‘If the sales increase, as I expect, then I would expect you to go a little farther.'

‘We are
already
taking a risk – when we do not even have an artist,' said Hall.

Chapman touched his arm.

‘Oh very well,' said Hall. ‘Twenty guineas for a monthly part.'

There was a shaking of hands, but after Boz had left the office, Hall said: ‘Whether we sell any copies at all of the second number is my concern – though I am calculating we will sell a few to ghouls hunting the work of an artist who shot himself.'

‘I suppose it would not do any harm to sales if people believed it was his
last
work,' said Chapman. ‘We might insert a notice in the second number to that effect.'

‘I shall leave that with you. Get Boz to write it, and make him earn some of the money we are paying him.'

‘I wouldn't be surprised if he asked for more, just for that task.'

‘Well he won't get it. It's in his own interest to make the publication sell. But even if we stoke up some ghoulish curiosity, I suspect the demand will be small. I propose that we halve the print run, to five hundred copies.'

‘Agreed.'

*   *   *

In the parlour at Park Place West, Edward Holmes passed the scrap of paper found beside Seymour's body to Edward Chapman. Also in the parlour was Robert Seymour's nephew, John Mead, who had arrived minutes before.

‘It is not completely coherent, as you will see,' said Holmes. ‘He was never the best at writing.'

The publisher read:

Best and dearest of wives – for best of wives you have been to me – blame, I charge you not any one, it is my own weakness and infirmity. I do not think anyone has been a malicious enemy to me; I have never done a crime my country's laws punish with death. Yet I die, my life it ends. I hope my Creator will grant me peace in death, which I have prayed so for in vain when living.

‘I believe it would be best, Mr Chapman,' said Holmes, ‘if my sister were not disturbed at the moment.'

‘I understand, of course. He blames himself, I see.'

‘He
takes on
the blame. But what made him feel the weakness and infirmity is a question that arises. According to my sister, he returned home in a state of great distress after the meeting with your writer. Then he immediately burnt his papers connected with this
Pickwick
thing. Not his papers in general, you'll note, but just the ones connected with that particular publication. As though the publication disgusted him. But he was a Christian, and could exercise forgiveness.'

‘I see,' said Chapman. ‘He burnt everything connected with
Pickwick
, did he?'

‘Everything he could immediately lay his hands on, at least.'

‘I see he said he had no malicious enemies.'

‘According to my sister, your writer sent a note which criticised every aspect of a drawing Robert did, apart from the furniture. All it needs is a mood to exaggerate the importance of criticism and – well, nothing can be done now. I do not deny that at times he was a troubled man, Mr Chapman. But you will understand that my sister is exhausted and, almost in spite of herself, she is now asleep. She will be in no condition to attend the inquest. The young fellow here' – he indicated John Mead – ‘will represent the family.'

‘I understand perfectly,' said Chapman. ‘When she awakes, please express the sincerest sympathies of both myself and my partner.'

‘I shall do that.'

‘There are also these we have received.' Chapman drew from his pocket a large bundle of correspondence, now thicker than the pile Boz had seen, held together with black ribbon.

‘I shall pass them on to my sister, when I judge she is fit to read them.'

‘There is one other matter, Mr Holmes. It is very difficult to raise at such a time. But it is my hope that we can save the publication that Mr Seymour was working on. The
Pickwick
thing as you call it. But as a tribute to him.'

‘I wish you well, sir.'

‘The fact is – Mr Seymour was working on pictures for the second number. Do you know whether he completed them?'

‘I do not. But I could take you to the summer house where they might be.'

‘That is very good of you, Mr Holmes.'

In the summer house, propped against the wall, were the two steel plates.

‘Perhaps these,' said Holmes. ‘Yes, this looks like them.'

‘He turned the plates to the wall,' said Chapman.

‘I have never known him do that before,' said Holmes.

‘But there are just three etchings on these plates,' said Chapman. ‘I wonder whether he did the drawing for the fourth picture? If he did, and it could be found, it might be converted into an etching.'

Holmes opened and shut the desk drawers, and glanced along the shelves. ‘I don't believe we will find it,' he said. ‘I think he made his feelings clear.'