Death and Mr. Pickwick by Stephen Jarvis Read Free Book Online Page B

suitably dried-out pursuit for a desiccated man.’
    â€˜Yes, John, yes! But I couldn’t just leave him in a classroom. Then I recalled one of my jaunts, and a picture I did a few years ago – a drawing of an amateur artist travelling in Wales, carrying his easel, palette and sketchbook down a steep hill, a slave to picturesque views—’
    â€˜You showed it to me. I know where this is going, Rowly – you have a crumbling old man, with limbs like twigs, who goes in search of ruins and dead trees.’
    â€˜Or he stops to sketch an old nag that should be meat for one of your stage-cats. I was in a virtual frenzy, John, thinking of how I could use him – he could fall backwards into a lake, because he is too distracted with the scene in front of him; or he could be fascinated by gnarled old cows, and ignores the handsome horse in another field. And he could make notes of any sights or anything at all he found interesting, but which would send anyone else to sleep. I knew I had found the perfect character to draw. I saw Ackermann about it as soon as I came back to London. He will publish the pictures. But it is on one condition: that I work with a partner.’
    â€˜A partner?’
    â€˜A man to supply words.’
    The kitten mewed loudly and placed its paw at one of the holes. ‘He needs feeding,’ said Rowlandson. ‘I must go, John. Besides, I must get to work.’ He swallowed the contents of the second tankard in almost a single quaff, shook hands with his friend, stooped under the beams and lintel, and left.
    It was then that the wrinkled and mainly toothless man from across the aisle re-entered the conversation. ‘I overheard you and your friend. Artist is he?’
    â€˜He is. You probably heard his idea for a man of skin and bone. If I know my friend, and I do, he will come to me shortly to help him develop his scheme. Sometimes his imagination is as dry as his throat. But there is definitely something amusing to the idea. A dull pedant. A schoolteacher or a vicar who bores people to death. I must give it some thought.’
    â€˜A man of skin and bone – a pedant – aye, that should work. What Englishman wouldn’t laugh at a man like that?’
    *   *   *
    In Cell Number 2 on the uppermost floor of the King’s Bench Prison for debtors, Southwark, were: a faded rug, a writing desk with a drawer handle missing, a rusted bedstead – though the sheets were spotlessly clean – and a table, on which stood a perfect porcelain tea service with gilding on the rims of the cups; but the most noteworthy object was an elderly man, sitting to one side of the teapot in a pose of great elegance.
    Everything in this man’s manner spoke good breeding: his finger upon his cheek; the way he sat cross-legged with his feet seeming the ornament of his legs; and the delicate arrangement of his features. Though he had shiny elbows, and shirt cuffs with straggling threads, his waistcoat bore pearl buttons, making his shabbiness appear deliberately crafted. But he was old, this William Combe – indeed he was reputed to be the oldest inhabitant of the prison. He looked towards a bookcase, where stood a fellow examining the spines of the books with evident interest. This latter man turned and revealed a kid-goatish face, to which silvery spectacles added a few years, but he was undoubtedly one of the youngest men in the prison.
    â€˜You don’t put your name on the books,’ said the young man. ‘I would.’
    â€˜Do you think I am foolish enough to announce to my creditors that I am earning an income? Come, have tea. Besides, fame was never dear to my heart. The prize is elusive, so why seek it?’
    Just as the young man settled, and as the tea stood poured, there came a shout from the prison yard.
    â€˜That is the very worst thing about this room,’ said the old man. ‘The sunshine brings them out.’ He