Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 7

  Having finished with these scenes, Robert Seymour took his sketchbook to the animal pens, where villainous-looking drovers made free use of the goad; for crushed into five acres of Smithfield were thousands of cows, sheep, horses and pigs. He saw a sheep that had reared up, and become wedged in that position by the other sheep in the pen. He watched its drover, a youth not much older than himself, swing a fist at the creature, and laugh as two bloody teeth fell out on to the filth. Dodging the dung and the pools of urine, Seymour then sat upon a bale of hay, to draw a salt-and-pepper mare with a twisted hind leg and a healed cut over one eye, and he made the twist in her leg unsettling to behold, and the eye blindly blank.

  A public house nearby had stayed open throughout the night, and he sketched two ruddy men outside, who clapped hands as a deal was struck. ‘Down the red lane!’ said one, as they lifted their tankards, and became another sketch.

  He drew and walked in the surrounding streets for several hours, before returning to Duke Street at noon, for he had been assured of a lunch by the bushy-headed servant.

  As soon as he inserted the door key, he heard a cry from upstairs which would not have a disgraced a parade-ground drill sergeant – except that the voice was female. ‘Robert Seymour! Come up here, if that is you. Upstairs, second door along.’

  The servant entered the hall in a state of agitation. ‘Just sending him up, Mrs Vaughan!’ She pointed at his shoes. ‘You’ve got the mud off those? All right. Up you go. And don’t stare at her dress.’

  ‘Is Mr Vaughan back?’

  ‘No, she wants to get to you first. Up you go.’

  At the top of the staircase, at an angle through the open door, he glimpsed a bird-patterned oriental vase on a piano. Suddenly a woman with a pinched and severe face planted herself in the centre of the landing. She wore a calico dress of stylised pink roses – unexceptional at first glance, but on second glance, made of panels of misprinted fabrics sewn together: flowers overlaid twice, or printed with a crease in the petals, or upside down, or smudged, or on which the colours had run.

  ‘You are staring at my dress! Stop it!’

  ‘I am sorry, ma’am. I meant no offence.’

  ‘Why waste perfectly good cloth? Go in with you, Robert Seymour. Seymour – a good name for a boy who stares!’

  She motioned him into the pastel sitting room and closed the door.

  ‘Stop there.’

  He had reached the middle of a pink circular rug, and she patrolled the tassels of the perimeter, looking him up and down, very deliberately lifting his jacket tails and inspecting his knees and elbows.

  ‘So,’ she said, opposite and uncomfortably close to his face, ‘now I have stared at you. Tell me – is Seymour also the name of a boy who wishes to see more than we have to offer?’

  ‘I am not quite sure I understand, ma’am.’

  ‘If you are going to run, Robert Seymour, it is best you do it sooner rather than later. Your legs are athletic, and your face has enough of the hare in it.’

  ‘I know what is expected of me.’

  ‘Do you? Why are you apprenticed to us? What made your mother do it?’

  ‘She believes I have the ability to draw.’

  ‘Does she? I can see the outline of something inside your jacket. It looks like a book. What are you reading?’

  ‘It is a sketchbook.’

  ‘Showing off your ability with a pencil.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Show it me.’

  ‘I would rather not, ma’am.’

  ‘The drawings are unchristian, are they?’

  ‘They are unfinished.’

  ‘What do you sketch?’

  ‘I have been at Smithfield market drawing animals.’

  ‘There are no animals in our designs. What else do you sketch?’

  ‘If you please, ma’am, does it matter?’

  ‘It does matter! My husband has to know the habits of your drawing hand – if only to know what he is struggling against. Show it me. Or do you want us to throw you out? Oh, perhaps that’s it.’ She walked around the perimeter of the rug again. ‘But consider, Robert Seymour – your mother is a widow. She could not have found it easy to pay our premium. The premium will still be legally ours, even if you are dismissed.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to throw me out, ma’am.’

  ‘Are you implying we have taken your mother’s money under false pretences?’

  ‘I was wondering whether a lot of apprentices come to Vaughan’s and leave the first day.’

  ‘I don’t like your wondering and I don’t think I like you and I don’t think you will like your mother’s money spent on an outing and a lavish dinner for the other boys. So I suggest you show me the sketchbook.’

  He put his hand in the pocket, and held up the sketchbook, and she snatched it away. She opened it at a random page.

  The drawing she saw was a butcher sharpening his steel – the protruding lip, the large belly in the striped apron, and the laughter in his face were all completely captured.

  Her expression changed in an instant.

  ‘But I know him,’ she said. ‘I have seen him in the market.’

  She turned further pages, and looked at the sorrowful cows, the frightened pigs, and the whimsy of a dog stealing a joint of lamb. She turned another page, and saw two crafty horse traders, whispering behind their hands, as an innocent-looking young fellow led a half-starved horse away.

  There was a peculiar and uneasy cast to her face when she raised her eyes from the sketchbook. ‘This is unexpected. Let me look at this again. Do sit down.’

  He took a seat in an armchair, covered in misprints of lilies. Mrs Vaughan took a similar chair, only with cherries, and she went through the sketchbook from start to finish. When she closed the cover she said: ‘Where did you learn to draw?’

  ‘I taught myself.’

  It was as though the woman were softening before his eyes. A suggestion of a smile crossed her lips.

  ‘And yet your mother wishes you to draw silly flowers for calico! You may look at my dress. Stare at it, if you will. You would not be happy to design it. Speak honestly.’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘It would be a waste,’ she said. In a most soothing voice, she added: ‘I shall call for tea.’

  She studied the sketchbook again, until the tea was brought. The servant gave Robert Seymour an uncomprehending glance as she entered, though Mrs Vaughan did not notice, for she was too absorbed in the drawings. When the door was closed, Mrs Vaughan said: ‘You have pulled on my reins, Robert Seymour.’ She held up her hands to stop his question. ‘No, no, no! I do not want to send you away. I think there is Providence in your coming here.’ There passed several moments when she simply looked at the boy with great concentration, but finally she said: ‘You should know, to begin with, that I had a son who was an artist.’

  Young though he was, a look came to Robert Seymour’s face which verged upon craftiness, as though he had taken on, momentarily, the spirit of the horse traders at Smithfield; fortunately it manifested itself only in the moment Mrs Vaughan looked away, recalling some memory of her son. When she next looked at Robert Seymour, he had tilted his head, and his eyes had much in common with the soft, sorrowful expression of the Smithfield cow.

  ‘My son was only twenty-seven when he died, ten years ago. I would never make him draw calico patterns. It would be against all logic. Against all feeling. I would not be a mother if I did it. I can see you wish to ask me something.’

  ‘Did Mr Vaughan want his son to design patterns?’

  ‘Bless you, Mr Vaughan was not his father. Mr Vaughan is my second husband. My previous married name was Girtin. My son was Thomas. Damp air killed him, they say. Another waste. You want to say something else.’

  ‘My mother said bad air killed my father.’

  ‘Damp air?’

  ‘It could be so.’

  ‘It is superficial to blame the air. It was painting that killed my son. He w
as out in all weathers watching storms and clouds, so as to turn them into pictures. Always he got soaked to the bone. He should have stayed in a tavern, snug before the fire, like any other Englishman! But I knew I could not stop him, and so did not try.’ She looked away for a few moments, and then she said: ‘How much encouragement has your family given you?’

  ‘My aunt has given me a few sketchbooks. And a paintbox when I was small. She said I was a born artist.’

  ‘Giffle gaffle! No boy should ever be told that! My son made himself an artist. Years of practice and devoted study went into his works. He copied and he studied the masters. He was most certainly not born an artist. And neither were you.’ She stood as she warmed to her own theme. ‘Art was not in my son’s blood – his father made ropes and brushes and my family made glass. I shall tell you this – and you make sure you remember it. When Thomas was a child, other boys did drawings every bit as good as his. But they did not stick with it. The pencil was never out of his hand. It was part of his hand. What do you wish to say?’

  ‘My mother says that the pencil is my eleventh finger.’

  ‘Does she, indeed?’

  She proceeded to reminisce about her son, memory following memory, and Robert Seymour would respond with a smile or a sadness, as suited the recollection; and if she paused, he said: ‘Please tell me more about your son.’

  ‘I would ask Thomas to fetch water, and he would refuse if he was drawing. Then he would say to me, “Could you fetch some, as I am thirsty.” I did it for him! Then our dog would nuzzle up to Thomas and try to play with him, and he would push the poor creature away. He had no duty but drawing. With such a boy it is pointless even to try to shift him from the path.’ Then she chuckled, as a different memory came to her mind. ‘When Thomas was a boy, we lived at St Martin’s le Grand. Regardless of what I said, he would go to the river and befriend the bargemen. And they would carry him up and down the Thames, and he would sketch the scenery all the time as they floated along. The fishermen’s houses, the people on the shore, and the wherrymen – even in the pouring rain he’d be sketching, as though he had the fire of God within him to keep him warm and dry. His pencil wouldn’t stop. No, no, Robert Seymour, you cannot be apprenticed to my husband. Not in the usual way. He will set you to draw with a ruler and compass. That is no good to you.’

  She stood and paced the room, full of plans. ‘I watched Thomas become an artist. Here’s a piece of advice. Remember this. Don’t always use a sketchbook. Use cheap paper, any scraps you can find. Just like my son did. Because if the paper is costly you will fear spoiling the drawing, and your hand will lose its freedom. Go on, speak again.’

  ‘I have not been given many sketchbooks. I have used any paper I have found. I have drawn in the margins of letters.’

  ‘How wonderful! Now – a thought occurs to me. On the landing you passed a statuette of a horse. My husband bought it as a present for me. You can make better use of it. Go and fetch it now and put it on that table.’

  When he had done so, she stood behind him. ‘Now – don’t move your pencil yet. Hold it ready. You must know the course of the line before the drawing is begun. So – look from the horse to the paper, and from the paper to the horse, and then back to the paper. Keep on doing that until your imagination starts to see the horse in the place it is meant to occupy. Do it now. Is it happening? Do you see the mane on the paper?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You truly see it? On the paper?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then draw, Robert Seymour, draw! The quicker you draw, the better. Ha ha!’ She clapped her hands in mad delight. ‘Oh – I have just remembered something else Thomas did! An elementary exercise, but you need to do it! I need to take you back to the start.’

  When the horse was drawn, and she had pronounced herself very pleased, but saw room for improvement, she sent Seymour to her husband’s billiard table to fetch a white ball. Then she instructed him to place the ball in different positions in her parlour, so that it would stand in varying relation to the light from the windows. In each position, he had to draw the ball. ‘You must do exactly as Thomas did,’ she said. ‘You must observe how the light is weakened by shadow as the ball curves round.’ Dozens of spheres were the result, and as Robert Seymour worked, she emptied drawers to find invoices and letters and old calico patterns for their blank areas, ready to receive his images.

  *

  For the next three mornings, immediately after breakfast, Robert Seymour was sent up to Mrs Vaughan to spend the entire day in supervised sessions of drawing. On the afternoon of the third day, the servant brought in a note which Mrs Vaughan read, to the accompaniment of some tightening of her mouth, and she then passed the note over to Seymour to draw upon.

  ‘As you will see,’ she said, ‘my husband is returning tonight. Barton is not in good health. I think it is best if you go out, and do not return to the house until late. I must explain the circumstances of your apprenticeship to my husband. In any case, it will be good if you spend some time away from me, for you must develop on your own. I shall give you money to go to a tavern.’

  So Robert Seymour spent the evening in the Hand and Shears, a small and dark public house, where he recognised several sly traders from Smithfield market leaning against the bar. Eventually, at nine o’clock, he returned to the Vaughan residence.

  On the doorstep, even before he had inserted the key in the door, he heard raised voices. Mr and Mrs Vaughan were in the middle of an argument. It took no special mental acuity to guess the cause.

  Entering the hallway, he saw three boys of different ages: all older than himself, all positioned near the bottom of the staircase, and all eyeing him with dislike. From Mrs Vaughan’s prior descriptions, he knew their names and could match names to faces. Todd was a red-haired boy with a foxy look, culminating in a chin of extreme triangular pointedness, who sat, knees wide apart, on the stairs above the rest. Kibble had a heavy brow and bent nose which combined to suggest criminality, and he slouched, hands in pockets, against the newel-post as though it were a street lamp. Beside the wainscoting, Field had a nervous and greasy demeanour, and was pulling on his hair. Coming from above was Mr Vaughan’s voice: ‘This is completely unreasonable! The boy is here to work.’

  ‘I know what I see in the drawings,’ said the voice of Mrs Vaughan. ‘We cannot waste what he has.’

  ‘Are you calling my designs waste?’

  ‘You do not see what I see.’

  There was a lull. During this, the red-haired Todd rose, and in his own time, descended the stairs until he stood in the hall, several inches taller than Seymour. ‘So you are the new apprentice.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you. My name is Robert Seymour.’

  ‘Listen to the way he speaks,’ said Kibble. ‘Not quite London, is it?’

  ‘My mother is from Somerset. But I have grown up in London.’

  ‘Somerset,’ said Field. ‘I believe Vaughan has made trips to Somerset. Do you think he might know this boy’s mother?’

  ‘That explains why he’s here,’ said Kibble.

  ‘Mrs Vaughan wouldn’t like her husband’s mistakes working for him,’ said Todd. ‘Well, well. We’ve got it worked out, lads.’

  Suddenly the argument upstairs flared up once more. A shout came from Mrs Vaughan: ‘You can have your horse!’ There was a sound of porcelain shattering. ‘It was worthless until the boy sketched it!’

  ‘I am going to my room,’ said Seymour.

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Todd. From his top pocket, he brought out a pair of geometric dividers. ‘Hold him.’

  Before Seymour could react, Kibble and Field pressed his shoulders to the wainscoting. Todd adjusted the dividers. ‘Now how far apart are those eyes, eh, Seymour? Seymour – what about seeing less?’ Field laughed and Todd made a thrust at Seymour’s face with the dividers which stopped just short of both eyeballs. ‘Look at him flinch!’ Then another thrust. And another. ‘Oh, you’re scared. Well you can keep
your eyes – today.’ He stabbed the dividers into Seymour’s thigh. ‘Listen to him squeal!’ The three laughed, threw Seymour against the stairs and walked away.

  Seymour sat on the stairs, rubbing his thigh, listening to the argument in which Mrs Vaughan seemed to gain the upper hand. As he righted himself, Vaughan emerged from the upstairs room, flushed in the face. He cast a despising look at Seymour when he descended and said: ‘Get out of my sight.’

  So Seymour went to the small room where he slept, but as he approached, he heard a tune being sung. He listened at the door:

  There were three men came out of the west,

  Their fortunes for to try

  And these three men made a solemn vow

  John Barleycorn must die.

  Seymour turned the doorknob. The song stopped.

  A timid-looking boy, under the cover of sheets, sat bolt upright and then broke into a smile. ‘Oh do, do come in. I have some bread and cheese if you would like some. I did not eat with the others, because I am supposed to be ill.’ He grinned widely, and threw off the covers.

  ‘I know your surname is Barton,’ said Seymour, shaking the boy’s hand, ‘but I don’t know your Christian name.’

  ‘I am known as Wonk.’

  ‘That’s a peculiar name.’

  ‘Have you seen the red-haired apprentice?’

  ‘Todd.’

  ‘He gave it to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Wonk came over flustered. ‘He thought it was funny. It came about because – well, say “Master Barton” a few times. Then Todd played around with words and names for me. So I am Wonk now.’

  ‘I will not call you Wonk unless you want me to.’

  ‘For your own sake, please do. The less you antagonise them the better. Wonk is perfectly all right. I am used to it now.’

  ‘What were you singing when I entered?’

  ‘“John Barleycorn”. It is my favourite song. Would you like me to teach you?’

  ‘Do.’

  Soon, ‘Pity the Sorrows of a Poor Old Man’ was also to be heard.

  *