Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 15

  ‘That’s what they say, sir,’ said the landlady’s voice, ‘but do you know the mistake he made?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a farthing to know, sir.’

  ‘Very well. What was it?’

  ‘He planted them to feed silkworms.’ Cough. ‘But he planted the wrong mulberry, pink not white. And no silkworm would ever touch those. You can’t fool a silkworm, sir.’ Cough.

  Exasperated, Irving stood up and threw back the door. ‘Why don’t you learn the full story of Pyramus and Thisbe,’ he said to the landlady, ‘and make a few pennies when you cough that tale.’

  ‘Pyramus and who, sir?’ Cough.

  ‘I cannot write with this noise!’ He left the room, shut the door behind him, turned the key and, walking past the landlady, hurried downstairs and out.

  For several hours Irving strolled around London. He headed for the heart of the city. Even on a Sunday, there were earnest, busy men in the metropolis who found a smile too much trouble, who did not stop to chatter idly, or listen with any interest to anything. Here and there, though, was a flash of colour in a window box, or a single flower in a bottle on a ledge, or a small patch of grass, as though the Englishman’s soul were repelled by so much city, and needed a speck of countryside.

  Soon, Irving sat at a table in an inn and watched the people passing by. A strange being, an undernourished man with a deformed nose and bruised eyes that leered in two directions, came and chattered away to himself outside the window, as odd in speech as in face. Having had enough of this man, who showed no inclination to move on, Irving left the inn and wandered to a print shop, its brightly coloured pictures as relieving to the senses as the flowers he had noticed. He then resolved to head back to Canonbury, with the specific intention of writing a letter to his landlady, giving up the room as he could not work in such a place.

  *

  THEN SEYMOUR SAID TO WONK: ‘I haven’t told you yet that two days ago, when I was carrying an easel through the streets, on my way here, a voice called out behind me, and it was someone I have mentioned to you – Joseph Severn.’

  ‘Oh, was it?’ Wonk stood abruptly and lay upon the bed.

  ‘His married sister is letting him use a room in her house as a studio.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Goswell Street. He has invited me over next Sunday to see a painting he is working on. He says it is most important I come to see a preliminary version. He will also invite my cousins Edward and Jane. And he is keen to see Canonbury, Wonk, so he says everyone should walk over here afterwards, and then we could have a picnic in the fields.’

  ‘And where will I be when this is going on?’

  ‘I thought about pretending you were modelling for me. If Joseph had suggested coming here first, then we definitely could have done that. They could catch me in the middle of painting you, I could put down my brushes, and then we would all go out for a picnic. But unfortunately he wants me to go to Goswell Street first. The painting, whatever it is, is obviously in the forefront of Joseph’s mind. I’m sorry, Wonk. I can see you are not pleased.’

  ‘I will just to have disappear for the day, I suppose.’

  ‘It is not my fault. As it is, we will have to hide the signs you are here. I cannot trust Edward. What we are would be – another deformity to him. He may not cause trouble himself, but eventually I think he would talk to someone. That’s unsettling.’

  ‘And Jane?’

  ‘I don’t think she has any conception of such things as us.’

  ‘And Joseph himself?’

  ‘I suspect he guesses my inclination. I confess I am not entirely discreet in my manner with him.’

  ‘You cannot help yourself.’

  ‘There is something of that, when I am with him. Do not look at me like that, Wonk. Let’s forget about it for now, and finish the ale.’

  ‘You finish it. I am too tired. I’ve had enough liquor for one day. I am going to bed.’

  *

  Edward Holmes, a fellow of thick chestnut hair and bonny-babyish looks, placed himself in the middle of the sofa in the bay-windowed room in Goswell Street, directly opposite Joseph Severn’s covered easel. His sister Jane sat to his left – she was not as pretty as her brother, for she had a broader nose and thinner lips, and if the two had swapped outfits and exchanged hairstyles, Edward could have convincingly played the sister, and Jane the brother. To the right of Holmes was Seymour, who sat in a lazy pose, one leg over the other, resting his temple on his knuckles, and his elbow on the sofa’s back.

  ‘Now we are all gathered,’ said Holmes, ‘I must tell you that Jane and I saw two perfect monstrosities on our way here. That’s right, isn’t it, Jane?’

  ‘It is, but we are here for Joseph’s picture. Robert wants to see it too, I am sure.’

  Holmes was undeterred. ‘One was a man with ears like an elephant. The other was a woman with a port-wine birthmark all over her face like a map of the Iberian Peninsula. You would have enjoyed capturing the precise colour, Joseph. Then on Friday – I must tell you about this – I saw a boy running a vegetable stall with bumps all over his hands, and it was difficult to tell his fingers from the carrots.’

  ‘You are making that up, Edward,’ said Severn.

  ‘If we must talk of such things,’ said Seymour, ‘let it be later.’

  ‘Robert, you know you find it as amusing as I do. But – proceed, Joseph.’

  ‘The Royal Academy’s gold medal for historical painting,’ said Severn, standing by the easel, ‘has not been awarded for twelve years. That is because no one has been worthy of it.’

  ‘You are obviously entering,’ said Holmes, smiling to left and right.

  ‘Let Joseph tell us in his own way,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Edward is right. I am entering. The theme is Spenser’s Faerie Queen – and I practically know the work by heart! When the theme was pinned up on the noticeboard, there were other students looking and they were just full of sighs, saying how dull, and they shuffled off, but I wanted to shout hooray! The specific scene is the Cave of Despair – “Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife”. We were given a year to submit our entries. I have worked upon different versions in cold weather and in poor light. And because I couldn’t afford a model, I have even used my own legs as my guidance, seen in a mirror. Don’t laugh, Jane! Well, I want you all to look at the conception of the theme I think I shall go for. I started this some time ago, abandoned it, but now I think it is the way ahead.’ He threw back the cloth.

  The painting showed an incomplete horse and five figures. Instantly Holmes said with a snort: ‘I recognise your legs, Joseph.’

  Nearly complete was the portrayal of a blonde woman, seizing a dagger from a despairing knight who intended to kill himself.

  ‘I think if you persist to the end, the gold medal is yours, Joseph,’ said Seymour. ‘Though the horse needs a lot of work.’

  ‘There I know you can help me, Robert.’

  ‘I am still learning about horses myself. I can perhaps suggest some paintings you might use as examples.’

  ‘I cannot express how much the prize would mean to me. The winner of the gold medal can apply to the academy for a travelling fellowship.’

  There was a strange shadow that crossed Seymour’s face.

  ‘And where will you travel, should you win?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘He will go to Italy, of course,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Edward is right. Three years to study the masters! And in the landscapes of Italy! So you see, you must help me with the horse, Robert.’

  ‘Horses are difficult,’ said Seymour. ‘I was trying to do a stallion recently – rearing up, showing its hooves. And all the subtleties of white – light ochre and black – and vermilion and umber – bone black for the pupil of the eye—’

  ‘Are you all right, Robert?’ said Jane.

  ‘You do not need to help me now, Robert,’ said Severn. ‘Another day. Let us have a laugh to put us in the mood for a pi
cnic. Edward, you can amuse us at the piano while I pour some wine.’

  Holmes sat down at the piano and played the chords of ‘Away with Melancholy’ – a song so funereal that it was impossible to hear without bursting into laughter:

  Away with melancholy

  Nor doleful changes ring

  On life and human folly

  But merrily let us sing

  Fal la.

  When Wonk arrived at Canonbury in the late evening, Seymour was lying on the bed, his shirt undone, several empty bottles of liquor at the table by his side.

  ‘What is wrong?’ said Wonk.

  ‘I will never see Joseph again.’ He explained about the prize.

  ‘He may not win,’ said Wonk. ‘But if he does, he may return.’

  ‘He may. But after he leaves England, I shall not see Joseph again. I have never been struck by such a sense of finality.’

  ‘This is your imagination.’

  ‘No. It is more than that. Joseph Severn died for me in Goswell Street.’

  He reached to the floor and lifted an engraving of a painting. It showed a sleeping woman in a white nightdress, stretched across her bed, lolling dangerously towards one side. A grim, thick-limbed, bulging-eyed troll squatted upon her stomach. In the shadows of her chamber, the head of a crazed horse emerged from between the curtains. It was The Nightmare by Fuseli.

  ‘You remember this picture by Joseph’s tutor?’

  ‘I wasn’t so drunk that I cannot remember your talking about it. Fuseli, that’s the artist. You said the woman was Fuseli’s lost love.’

  ‘Those are the rumours that Joseph picked up. This creature, this troll as ugly as bull beef, according to Joseph, resembles Fuseli, who is not much bigger than a troll himself. Then there is this weird horse – the nightmare that would ride her in her dream. Perhaps I am the mare. Perhaps I am the troll. Just foolish thoughts, I know.’

  He dropped the engraving on the floor. Whatever the ideas, memories and desires provoked by the picture, they would not be pursued then. Seymour rubbed his eyes. ‘Joseph has been trying to push me towards Jane as well. He kept it up all afternoon. He embarrassed us both. He repeated a story Edward had told him about Jane and me, when we were children.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He reached across for a bottle, saw that there were dregs left, and drank them. ‘When she and I were very small, I found her crying in the garden,’ he said. ‘I do not even remember why she was teary. But I said to her, “One day, I will be very rich and have bags of gold coins. And people will say there go Robert and Jane, walking down the street. I will make you happy, Janey. I will bring sunshine into your life.” Joseph teased us about it, and Edward joined in. The wine made it seem funnier to them than it was. Childish nonsense, as I said.’

  ‘But such pledges can linger. Even if just as a vague sense of disappointment,’ said Wonk.

  ‘He is always pushing Jane on me. I am fond of her, of course. More than fond. I always have been. But – I believe it is mainly because she is my cousin. If she were not already part of my circle, I do not believe I would ever come to know her, nor want to, especially. But now is not the time to talk of Jane. I have been thinking of a response to Joseph’s painting of Spenser.’

  He reached down to the side of the bed again, and picked up a book from the floor. It was the volume of Tasso which he had borrowed from Joseph, and never returned.

  ‘If he has Spenser as his objective, then Tasso is mine. I will practise, and practise, and I shall paint a picture based upon Tasso which will outdo Joseph’s of Spenser. I may not study under Fuseli, but Joseph will know about my painting. He can be sure of that.’

  *

  ‘I LOVE THE WORD “HIGGLEDY-PIGGLEDY”,’ SAID Mr Inbelicate. ‘I love things which are higgledy-piggledy.’

  ‘It is a peculiar word,’ I replied. ‘Is it related, etymologically, to pigs?’

  ‘Have you never seen a herd of pigs, Scripty? All their disorder and irregularity. They will go higgledy, and higgledy again, before they even reach a piggledy. But now – have a look in this binder.’

  There were various statements inside, in old-fashioned handwriting, held in plastic envelopes.

  ‘They are recollections,’ he said. ‘Wonk wrote them.’

  *

  I REMEMBER ONE DAY A MESSENGER boy arrived at Canonbury. He returned a painting to Robert, which showed a middle-aged, rusty-haired woman with a pronounced cast in one eye – Robert was adamant he would paint her as she was, with no flattery, so the painting was sent back, ripped in half. Robert and I had a tremendous laugh about that, and we displayed the two torn pieces, one on each side of a vase of flowers.

  I also remember coming back after a walk in the afternoon, and the curtains were closed. Robert was slumped forward on the table, facing the wall. He would not speak. There was no reason for such a mood. He seemed shrunken in comparison to the room. Over the next few days, he might try to work but his pencil would shake in his hand and undermine every effort, and he would swear all the time. Yet in such moods he could still make some amusing quip, albeit with a bitter edge. I remember he picked up one half of the painting of the squint-eyed woman, and said: ‘I should send her a copy of The Compleat Angler, with a note attached, saying a cast like yours is an inspiration to fly fishers everywhere.’

  Then a day later, you would scarcely believe it was the same man. He had his legs curled up like a happy girl, sitting on the edge of that table all smiles, and he seemed so large he filled the room. He told jokes, his voice was a song, he whistled, he chattered without end, and his arms would go everywhere over me. The mood was short-lived, though.

  But his melancholy was not new. I should have expected it. I had seen it at Vaughan’s, when Mrs Vaughan called Robert’s bad times an ‘attack of the mulligrubs’ and Mr Vaughan called it ‘printing on funeral crêpe’. Neither Mr Vaughan nor Mrs Vaughan got much out of Robert on such days, but the dark moods became more intense at Canonbury. Or I felt them more.

  There was another thing. I became annoyed by the amount of time he devoted to his work, and the Tasso painting in particular was an obsession for him, including numerous preparatory studies and different versions. I would sit at the table smoking and see him at the easel, concerned only with the picture and caring nothing about me. I would go as far as to say I became jealous of that painting. One morning, in our two positions, easel and table, we had the following exchange of words:

  Me: Is it wise to stake so much on the Tasso?

  Him: I am not going to do this half-heartedly.

  Me: Robert, what I mean is – a poet’s work can have such personal meaning for the reader.

  Him: As does Tasso for me.

  Me: But if the poem achieves greatness—

  Him: Are you saying my painting will never be equal to Tasso’s words?

  Me: Your work may be difficult for viewers to appreciate. You will find they come to the canvas with their own conceptions.

  Him: I come to the canvas with my conceptions. I will make viewers see them. And you, Wonk, do not paint. You have given up.

  I waited for some minutes, mulling this over.

  Me: You wanted me to leave Vaughan’s and paint. I was prepared to stay there, dull though it was.

  Him: Then—

  Me: Say it.

  Him: No.

  Me: If you want me to return to Vaughan’s—

  Him: I do not.

  Me: Then stop painting now.

  Him: I cannot.

  Me: Let us go fishing or shooting.

  Him: Another day, Wonk.

  Me: Spend an hour talking to me.

  Him: What about?

  Me: I don’t think you would be lost for a subject. There is always yourself.

  He gave me an unpleasant look, and he did not speak for hours afterwards. As he was absorbed in the painting, that was no great loss of conversation.

  *


  There was another claim upon his time: the correspondence he conducted with his cousin Jane. I remember saying to him, as I returned to Canonbury late in the evening after I had come back from a public house alone and found him at the table, pen in hand: ‘You are writing to her again?’ He said that she would be coming with Holloway cheesecakes and sandwiches in a few days, and the two of them would make a proper outing of it. He told me – and he seemed utterly oblivious to my feelings on this! – that in the letter’s margin he had drawn an elaborate letter ‘R’ with lips, kissing a letter ‘J’, and he held up the letter to show me. ‘Jane always says I am silly to include such things, but I know she would miss it if I didn’t,’ he said.

  I had to listen to the account of that cheesecakes-and-sandwiches meeting, details which burn me now to recall, as they burnt at the time. How they went on a walk together, to the farm of Samuel Rhodes, how Jane thought the cows the finest specimens of cattle in the metropolis, how they purchased a jug of milk, and how they watched buckets being carried away by Welsh and Irish milkmaids.

  Two weeks later, they went to church together, and again I was treated to the account of what happened. This was particularly hard to bear because it involved guns, which I thought belonged to the world I shared with him, and was not hers at all. A local cheese merchant – cheese, that very word started to annoy me when he used it, because he always made me go and get some! (but that is a minor point) – the cheese merchant, I was told, had rested his new gun upright against the pew, and on his lap were two sparrows, tied together with string.

  For the reason of recording recollections, I shall say what I remember, even if I didn’t like listening at the time.

  There was apparently a baker beside the cheese merchant and he too carried evidence of similar sporting prowess, because tied to his belt were several animal paws – the previous owner of one apparently being a tabby cat. R and J listened to these two talk, and in due course I had to as well. ‘See him,’ said the cheese merchant to the baker, pointing to a head several rows in front, ‘werry amusing. Out for pigeon last veek, forgot to take the ramrod out, burst the barrel on his best gun.’ ‘At the ale before, I expect,’ said the baker. But the man in front had obviously heard. He turned round and said: ‘You overload yours and then see if it’s funny.’ ‘Avay, vith you,’ said the cheese merchant. ‘You couldn’t hit a stuffed partridge on top of a fencepost.’ I learnt that both R and J shared a smirk at this.