Serials to Graphic Novels

by Catherine J Golden

  Figure 11. “Let Him Remember It in That Room, Years to Come.” Illustration by Hablot Knight Browne for Charles Dickens’s Dombey and Son, 1848.

  Visual cuing or prompting is another stage effect in the caricaturists’ dramatic repertoire, as evidenced in Phiz’s “Mr. Pickwick Slides” (see fig. 6, ch. 1, 48) and “Mr. Pickwick in the Pound” (see fig. 5, ch. 1, 47). George Cruikshank uses cuing in “The Short Courtship” for Points of Humour (1823), a Regency publication that was very popular with the Victorians. This picture accompanies a tale about two strangers discovered drunk in a kennel in the London streets and assumed to be man and wife. Taken to a public house by a “charitable” (9) gentleman, the two “whom the laws of God had not made one” (10) awake from their stupor to discover they are sharing one bed. Cruikshank illustrates the climax of this humorous vignette just as the old woman “set up a scream, and roused the old gentleman, whose astonishment was not a jot less than the lady’s” (10). Clothes are strewn on the surrounding furniture, offering ocular proof that the lady and gent are in a state of relative undress.23 To the amusement of the peeping Toms, who peer through the cracks to see what the ruckus is all about, the old lady proclaims her virginity and shouts at the old man: “‘make me an honest woman, thou wretch, … villain that you are,—make an honest woman of me, or I’ll be the death of thee;’” (10–11). Although the owner of the public house vouches for the old lady’s honor, the old man agrees to “make an honest woman of” his odd bedfellow, much to the amusement of the peepers, who cue the audience to chuckle along with them.

  Richard Doyle skillfully uses visual cuing to stage a funny spectacle in the ballroom in “The Marquis ‘en Montagnard’” for Thackeray’s The Newcomes (1855) (see fig. 12). Thackeray makes fun of the Marquis in the text:24

  His English conversation was not brilliant as yet, although his French was eccentric; but at the court balls, whether he appeared in his uniform of the Scotch Archers, or in his native Glenlivat tartan, there certainly was not in his own or the public estimation a handsomer young nobleman in Paris that season. It has been said that he was greatly improved in dancing; and, for a young man of his age, his whiskers were really extraordinarily large and curly. (2: 78)

  Figure 12. “The Marquis ‘en Montagnard.’” Illustration by Richard Doyle for William Makepeace Thackeray’s The Newcomes, 1855 (vol. 2). From the Norman M. Fox Collection, Scribner Library, Skidmore College.

  Building upon Thackeray’s mockery, Doyle positions the partygoers in an enclosed small space—not of a bedroom, as in “The Short Courtship”; or a skating rink, as in “Mr. Pickwick Slides”—but of a dance floor. All the gentlemen but the Marquis are dressed in formal attire. The Marquis (whom Ethel Newcome’s grandmother favors over the protagonist Clive Newcome) looks ridiculous in his Highland costume complete with a flamboyant tartan skirt and laced up stockings. The finely dressed ladies visually prompt us to laugh at the Marquis, who steps clumsily toward Ethel, indicating his inability to dance even though “it has been said that he was greatly improved in dancing” (2: 78). So “extraordinarily” bushy are his sideburns that they extend into his shirt collar. One of the partygoers hides her amused smile with a fan, a stage prop that she twirls in a gesture that, according to Victorian fan language, means, “I wish to get rid of you.”

  Expressive Gestures and Stage Props

  Clichéd gestures, meaning-laden fruits and flowers, allegorical paintings on a parlor wall, and figurines on a mantel were “standard practice of early English graphic artists” (Steig, “Dickens” 227). A recognizable visual vocabulary of gesture, expression, and interior decoration, drawn from the Hogarthian tradition of graphic satire and caricature, advances the theatricality of book illustrations by caricaturists who use gestures and props to comment on plot developments and characterization. For example, gesturing to the nose, as a Victorian viewer would recognize, means being “in the know.” Cruikshank incorporates this gesture into Oliver Twist and deepens our understanding of the corruption transpiring between Morris Bolter (aka Noah Claypole) and Fagin in “The Jew and Morris Bolter Begin to Understand Each Other” (see fig. 45B, ch. 4, 181). Spying on Nancy for Fagin, Bolter puts into motion a series of events that culminate in Sikes’s murder of Nancy.

  Backdrops contain props to advance the drama of a scene. In “Mr. Bumble and Mrs. Corney Taking Tea,” Cruikshank plants a small porcelain figurine of Paul Pry on the far left side of the mantel. This detail—easily overlooked today, but readily identified by a Victorian viewer—foreshadows the parish beadle’s corrupt motivation for marriage well before Dickens reveals it in the text. Paul Pry—a popular dramatic character from John Poole’s 1825 comedy Paul Pry—was known to appear at inopportune moments with umbrella in hand, saying: “I hope I don’t intrude.” The figurine, never mentioned in the text,25 foreshadows a development at the end of chapter 23: Mrs. Corney is called away to witness Old Sally the pauper’s death, and Mr. Bumble begins to poke his nose into her drawers, counting her silver. Later in the novel, an unhappily wed Bumble confirms he has taken the part of Paul Pry: “‘I sold myself, … for six tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniter, and twenty pound in money’” (OT, Oxf. 1982 226).

  In “Traddles and I, in Conference with the Misses Spenlow” (see fig. 13) for Dickens’s David Copperfield (DC, 1850), Browne draws Clarissa and Lavinia Spenlow, Dora’s spinster aunts, as bird-like figures, much as Dickens describes them: “They were not unlike birds, altogether; having a sharp, brisk, sudden manner, and a little short, spruce way of adjusting themselves, like canaries” (DC, Norton 503). Stage props abound in this illustration. A pair of lovebirds in a birdcage positioned directly behind Lavinia magnifies both sisters’ resemblance to the feathered species and David’s love for Dora, which he only later realizes is “‘the first mistaken impulse of [an] undisciplined heart’” (558). Paintings on the wall and books on the mantelpiece, not explicitly mentioned in the text, comment powerfully on plot and characterization.

  Figure 13. “Traddles and I, in Conference with the Misses Spenlow.” Illustration by Hablot Knight Browne for Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield, 1850.

  Phiz’s inventive use of allegorical paintings here anticipates the work of Victorian narrative painters. For example, in his triptych Past and Present (1858), Augustus Egg incorporates The Fall, an iconic scene of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden, in the first of the three canvases. Egg places the painting above a small portrait of the fallen wife, who is peeling an apple just as her husband opens the letter disclosing her treachery.26 In “Traddles and I, in Conference with the Misses Spenlow,” Phiz likewise includes books and paintings to stage David’s hopes and fears as he seeks Dora Spenlow’s hand in marriage following the propitious death of Dora’s father, who forbids the match. Titles of some of the books on the mantelpiece—Paradise Regained and The Loves of the Angels—announce David’s great expectations for marriage. A trio of paintings—The Momentous Question on the left, The Last Appeal on the right, and Arcadia in the center—proclaim, respectively, David’s love for Dora, his fear of rejection, and his hope for married bliss.

  The Good Samaritan (see fig. 29, ch. 3, 113) was a popular interior prop to comment on character. In Vanity Fair’s most dramatic illustration entitled “Becky’s Second Appearance in the ‘Character of Clytemnestra’” (see fig. 14),27 Thackeray includes the picture of this parable, not mentioned in his text, on the wall directly above a dying Jos Sedley when Dobbin visits Jos and pleads with his brother-in-law to leave Becky Sharp and return to England with him. The left half of this illustration functions as a well-lit open stage. The Good Samaritan painting seemingly becomes a tableau vivant: Jos assumes the role of the wayfarer in need of tending, and honest Dobbin takes on the role of the Good Samaritan, who tries to persuade Jos not to take artful Becky’s bait. Gesture and expression are also telling in this plate. Jos’s sagging flesh and pronounced facial lines suggest
recent weight loss and sickness. Fear exudes from Jos’s quivering knees to his raised eyebrows and his nightcap. Thackeray poses Jos melodramatically; sitting in an armchair, Jos clasps his hands in supplication, as if he is begging Dobbin to save him from Becky: “‘they mustn’t say anything to Mrs. Crawley:—she’d—she’d kill me if she knew it. You don’t know what a terrible woman she is’” (VF 874). But even the Good Samaritan cannot save Jos, who is “‘destined to be a prey to [one] woman’”—Becky Sharp (36).

  Figure 14. “Becky’s Second Appearance in the ‘Character of Clytemnestra.’” Illustration by William Makepeace Thackeray for his Vanity Fair, 1848.

  The Good Samaritan painting also makes a moral comment in an illustration that Thackeray’s artistic mentor, George Cruikshank, designed for Oliver Twist. In “Oliver Recovering from a Fever,” Cruikshank places this painting above the hearth on the wall of Mr. Brownlow’s parlor. The visual allusion to this parable, which Dickens does not mention in the text, reflects how Mr. Brownlow’s heart is “large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition” (OT, Oxf. 1982 72). Oliver, cast as the wayfarer in this plate, has just narrowly escaped from Fagin’s den. Mr. Brownlow, playing the Good Samaritan, ministers to orphan Oliver, who appears thin, poorly, and in need of tending. Stage props and costuming—for example, medicine bottles on the mantelpiece and the wide skirt of Mr. Brownlow’s dressing gown that rivals Mrs. Bedwin’s in girth—magnify Brownlow’s kindly disposition. The Good Samaritan painting foreshadows Oliver’s happy fate—Brownlow will adopt Oliver and tend to him as his own son. Moreover, a second painting on the wall above Oliver—a portrait of Oliver’s real mother, Agnes Fleming, of which Oliver is the “living copy” (72)—is visual proof of Oliver’s rightful middle-class heritage likewise revealed at the novel’s end.

  Casting, Recasting, and In-depth Character Studies

  As author and illustrator of the highly theatrical Vanity Fair,28 Thackeray casts Becky Sharp in various roles that compromise her character. A consummate actress, Becky begins her dramatic career in chapter 2 when, as a child, she mimics the Miss Pinkertons to the delight of her Bohemian father’s friends. Becky’s triumph comes in a production of Clytemnestra staged at Lord Steyne’s Gaunt House in chapter 51, a scene which incorporates a tableau vivant. In between these chapters, Thackeray casts Becky as a Napoleon in petticoats in the pictorial capital to chapter 64, “A Vagabond Chapter,” making an implicit association between the “Corsican upstart” (VF 211) and manipulative Becky, so proud of her French ancestry. Here Becky is in exile: “She felt she was alone, quite alone: and the far-off shining cliffs of England were impassable to her” (816). Positioned in profile, Becky has a distinctively sharp nose that identifies her as Thackeray’s “heroine.” The tri-corner hat and uniform partially covering her petticoats and her placement alone on a cliff make a visual allusion to B. R. Haydon’s popular paintings of Napoleon in exile. This series begun in 1829 shows Napoleon alone facing the “impassable” cliffs of the remote South Atlantic island, St. Helena.

  In pictorial capitals to chapter 44 and chapter 63, Thackeray recasts his brilliant military strategist as a siren figure who is, respectively, alluring to men and capable of their destruction. In chapter 44, Thackeray draws Becky in profile as an enchanting mermaid strumming on a lute by moonlight. The capital O stands for the moon. Becky’s long hair flutters behind her, nearly touching her mermaid tail, but she is easily identifiable by her sharp nose, again accentuated in profile. The pointed rocks below the waterline signal the darkness that lurks beneath Becky’s charm: in this very chapter, Becky sings enchantingly to wealthy Lord Steyne, who lavishes her with jewels and bank notes, but she boxes her son’s ears when young Rawdon sneaks into the room to hear her sing. In the design for chapter 63, Becky becomes a diabolical siren. With wild and loose hair, she assumes the role of Circe and holds in her hand a crucial prop—a trademark staff that extends into the capital letter S that begins the paragraph. Becky’s nose is particularly sharp, her eyes decidedly evil, her eyebrows dark and arched, and her expression completely wicked. Thackeray never condemns Becky of adultery or murder, enabling her to remain the “heroine” in his novel “without a Hero,” but he adds jagged rocks and sculls of past victims to the illustrative stage. While a pictorial capital letter typically introduces the theme of its accompanying chapter, it is not until the following chapter that Thackeray calls Becky a “siren” and a “monster” “writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flapping amongst bones, or curling round corpses” (VF, Oxf. 812).

  Even more than her role as a siren, Becky’s casting as the mythical Clytemnestra puts her dubious character on stage. The right half of the illustration of “Becky’s Second Appearance in the ‘Character of Clytemnestra’” comes close to confirming Becky’s part in Jos’s death, although Thackeray never convicts Becky of a legal crime. Daughter of Leda and Tyndareus, Clytemnestra in Greek mythology kills her husband, Agamemnon, when he returns from the Trojan War to seek revenge for Agamemnon’s murder of their daughter Iphigenia. Becky twice plays the part of Clytemnestra. The first is in the charades29 episode accompanied by Thackeray’s illustration “The Triumph of Clytemnestra.” At Gaunt House, Becky performs in the last act of the second charade composed of two words of two syllables each. The first syllable is “Aga,” staged as an Eastern scene to recall the black eunuch who guarded the Imperial Harem of the Ottoman Empire, and the second syllable is a tableau of “Memnon,” the Egyptian god. Costumed to play the role of Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, Becky makes her appearance in the last act of this charade. She performs in the scene where Clytemnestra murders Agamemnon, played by Rawdon Crawley. In the text, Becky is performing in a tableau vivant in which she seizes a dagger from her accomplice, Aegisthus, and thrusts it at Agamemnon as the stage suddenly goes dark in a theatrical blackout. Lord Steyne intuits Becky’s capacity to kill when he reviews her acting and exclaims: “‘Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part’” (VF, Oxf. 646). Of course, “to kill” is a clever figurative reference, but in the accompanying full-page engraving entitled “The Triumph of Clytemnestra,” a smiling Becky holds the dagger, a damning theatrical prop, as she bows gracefully to her admiring audience.

  More incriminating is “Becky’s Second Appearance in the ‘Character of Clytemnestra,’” which led Elizabeth Rigby to “advise our readers to cut out that picture of our heroine’s ‘Second Appearance as Clytemnestra,’ which casts so uncomfortable a glare over the latter part of the volume” (161); believing Becky innocent of a capital crime, Rigby also confides in her 1848 Quarterly Review article, “Who can, with any face, liken a dear friend to a murderess?” (161). Becky looks like a murderess in this plate. However, a stage curtain separates Becky from Jos and Dobbin, creating the kind of ambiguity about Becky’s guilt for which Thackeray was renowned; when asked whether or not Becky actually murders Jos, Thackeray declined to answer.30 His novel instead leaves a trail of gossip, speculation, and visual and verbal clues (for example, Becky’s solicitors, Burke, Thurtell, and Hayes, are named after notorious murderers).31 Jos urges Dobbin to visit him that particular night because “Mrs. Crawley would be at a soirée, … they could meet alone” (VF, Oxf. 873). If we believe that Becky is at a party and not actually in the room, then the ambiguity of the text is preserved, and the plate moves us deep into Jos’s fragile psyche where Becky becomes an ominous realization of Jos’s fear of her. But if we read Becky as actually present in the room, then Becky in her loose robe with her wild hair and “killing” smile looks unmistakably like the murderess Clytemnestra as she appears in Pierre-Narcisse Guérin’s Clytemnestra (1817), a painting well known to Thackeray’s Victorian viewers. If we believe Becky is in the room, then this illustration is a tableau vivant of the Gaunt House charade. Becky, who appears to be holding a dagger, glares at her Agamemnon through the curtain in a manner reminiscent of Guérin’s painting. In this staged picture of Clytemnestra, Becky is poised to kill.<
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  In-depth character study is another important dimension of the caricaturists’ theatricality. George Cruikshank skillfully leads us into the psyche of two of Dickens’s darkest character-actors, the robber-murderer Bill Sikes and the thieving Fagin, in, respectively, “The Last Chance” and “Fagin in the Condemned Cell.” Cruikshank’s contemporaries compared him to Rembrandt for his skill in dramatic lighting.32 The plate of Sikes haunted by his brutal murder of Nancy is as notable for its stage lighting as it is for its psychological terror, which also exudes from the illustration of Fagin alone in the prison cell. “The Last Chance” and “Fagin in the Condemned Cell” theatrically light up the extreme anxiety of a criminal who is confronting his demise.

  In “The Last Chance” (see fig. 15), Sikes is standing precariously on the edge of a rooftop, holding onto a rope tied to the chimney in an attempt to lower himself into Folly Ditch and escape capture by the mob that hotly pursues him. Dickens sets the scene at darkest night with “lights gleaming below” (OT, Oxf. 1982 325). In this dramatic plate, which Dickens did not think his illustrator should attempt,33 Cruikshank simulates torchlight and the intensity of the mob by spotlighting the onlookers in neighboring buildings who lean out their windows to stare at the criminal; one woman even raises her outstretched arm to point directly at Sikes. In the text leading up to this moment, the mob is shouting for ladders and sledge-hammers “with the ecstasy of madmen” (326). Sikes is wanted not only by this “infuriated throng” (326) but also by Oliver’s protector, Mr. Brownlow (319), who offers an ample reward to capture Sikes.