Death and Mr. Pickwick

  ‘He described him as having deeply sunken eyes. He described a careworn face. A sallow skin! How could I possibly associate this with youth? And less miserable! He even calls him a dismal man.’

  To communicate an interest to the plate, his whole appearance should express more sympathy and solicitude …

  ‘To communicate an interest! So there is no interest otherwise, then?’

  … and while I represented the sick man as emaciated and dying, I would not make him too repulsive.

  ‘But the clown was ghastly! I am giving him what he wanted! If anything, I have erred in the other direction – I cannot call the clown repulsive in my drawing.’

  The furniture of the room, you have depicted, admirably.

  ‘Oh, he’ll concede that I draw admirable furniture. How kind of him. What praise!’

  ‘Please stay calm, Robert.’

  ‘I conceded when he suggested altering the position of the arm. But now! He is dictating the expressions on the faces! He would tell me how I myself should look if he could. “Cheer up, Mr Seymour, put a smile on those lips of yours!” Even if I gave him exactly what he wanted, the very mirror of his descriptions, it still wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Robert, this will do your health no good at all.’

  ‘The furniture is admirable. Is that the truth about me? That I have come no further in life than my father? I make furniture. Sticks. Straight lines. That’s all. No – I am less than my father! At least he made real chairs and tables!’

  ‘You are frightening the children. Please, for their sake.’

  ‘Do you know the pictures of mine that stick in my memory, Jane, out of all the thousands I have done? The rejected ones, the few that were considered not quite right. And now this – this dying clown – has been inserted into a work that was to be my pride! And I do the drawing – and he rejects it! And these parts must be produced month after month, like I am a clown myself, laughing and making others laugh, regardless of what I feel!’

  *

  He rose early the next morning, and walked around the garden. He entered the summer house and lay upon its floor, staring at the ceiling. When Jane found him, some hours later, she urged him to redraw the picture of the clown as soon as possible. ‘It is the only thing that will stop you brooding,’ she said. ‘Get it done, Robert, and then it is finished.’ She stretched out her hand, to help him to his feet.

  He sat down in the summer house to redraw the picture.

  He read again of Dismal Jemmy: ‘His jaws were so long and lank that any observer would have supposed he was drawing the flesh of the face in, for a moment, by some contraction of the muscles.’

  This dismal man wasn’t merely thin. It was as though he had the power to disappear within himself. Perhaps the man was younger than his sunken eyes indicated, perhaps they and the careworn flesh were the result of a strange self-suction. But no, that was ridiculous. But still, he drew the dismal man a little younger. He also indicated more concern, with the man leaning forward towards the clown upon the bed, rather than sitting stiffly. But the peculiar notion of self-contraction made Seymour look at his own hands, and the pudginess they had acquired in recent times.

  He used to be slender. He was not now.

  He came to the drawing of the clown’s wife. Boz wanted her younger too. But why should he oblige Boz? He would not reduce her age. If anything, he drew her as older, so that she verged on a haggard crone.

  Finally, he came to the clown. He considered the instruction that this character should not be too revolting.

  Seymour’s mouth tightened.

  At that moment, Jane returned to the summer house.

  ‘I am just about to draw the clown’s face,’ he said.

  She watched her husband’s features distort into a hideous expression as he drew. On the paper emerged a picture of the younger Grimaldi at his most revolting – the face thinner, more of a horror than Boz’s description.

  Seymour stood up: ‘I will not bend my will to his. The drawing is done.’

  Sunday evening, 17 April 1836

  Seymour walked under the archway at Furnival’s, and turned right, to the entrance for number fifteen. He gripped the banister hard. He ascended several dozen stone steps. He rapped the knocker once. Boz opened after a delay, and offered his hand, but when Seymour extended his own, there was but a brief touch of flesh on flesh, and it would be difficult to assign responsibility for the break.

  Seymour smelt Boz’s breath. A definite looseness in the writer’s manner indicated that the evening had started in the afternoon.

  Seymour passed through the little hall, of similar dimensions to a closet, into the modest sitting room where he was introduced to Boz’s wife. She was curvaceous, quite pretty, with plump lips, but around her eyelids hung a leaden suggestion of sleepiness – a type of woman who nonetheless suggested the passion at whose apex the eyes would open wide and show their full blue.

  Boz’s brother Fred was also in attendance, and he shook Seymour’s hand with great enthusiasm. ‘It is a privilege to hold Figaro’s razor,’ he said.

  ‘I thank you. Where are Chapman and Hall?’ said Seymour, turning to Boz.

  ‘They send their apologies,’ said Boz. ‘Shall we get the circulation going in your drawing hand?’ There was a strange look on Seymour’s face. ‘Grog, I meant. How do you take it?’

  ‘Oh … cold-without.’

  As Boz poured, he said: ‘I heard you had trouble with the steel of your plates, Mr Seymour.’

  ‘A wholly unusual event. I hope that we can use this occasion to discuss our work, if your wife and brother do not object. I would like to discuss a fishing scene I have in mind.’

  ‘Fishing! Lord, no! Not tonight. Let us amuse ourselves, for goodness’ sake. Fish are to be caught at fishmongers.’

  ‘The scene is of considerable importance to developing the story.’

  ‘Mr Seymour, I have lain in fishing boats on summer days doing nothing. I have walked along many a bank. But holding a rod and a line waiting for the fish to bite – no! Boz would have to get up, and do something!’ He passed Seymour the glass. ‘But do you know, my brother and I were having quite a little talk about caricaturists before you arrived. We would be grateful for your opinions. Now take Gillray. Are you knowledgeable about his work, Mr Seymour?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Do you count yourself among his admirers?’

  ‘What is more wonderful than a drawing by Gillray? One can call a politician by many names – but to show him as a poisonous toadstool is to fix him in the mind for ever.’

  ‘Well, that is your view. I confess I find Gillray disagreeable. As I was telling my brother, his drawings are like a howling mob. I think we are better off without him. If Gillray were still around, we would still be glorying in cockerels pecking out each other’s eyes.’

  ‘It is true that the curtain has gone down on his era. But I will never escape his influence. But let us discuss the fishing scene.’

  ‘Now what about Rowlandson? Do you know his picture of a farmer’s daughter giving an excruciating performance at the harpsichord?’

  ‘Oh you know that?’ Seymour seemed pleasantly surprised. His shoulders relaxed. ‘My brother-in-law has it on his wall. We have laughed over it together.’

  ‘But why is the daughter so squab and hideous? I would not hang Rowlandson on my wall.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  Seymour sipped the grog and then said: ‘It is strange you should say that. When I was examining Sketches by Boz I thought one or two of Mr Cruikshank’s illustrations bore the distinct stamp of Rowlandson.’

  ‘Did you?’ An irritated expression overcame Boz’s features. ‘Well, as for Mr Cruikshank – I have had my disagreements with him. But do you know, when I see him, with his sparkling eyes, and the energy and the humour that hangs from him, I cannot help thinking that this man is like his drawings. And I cannot help thinking – as I look at yo
u now’ – he glanced at Seymour, up and down, and left no doubt that he did not appreciate the contemplation – ‘I cannot help thinking that you are not like your drawings. No one would guess that you are Seymour.’

  ‘Really, Charles!’ said Boz’s wife. ‘Please do not take that the wrong way, Mr Seymour.’

  ‘There is no right way it can be taken, madam. At least your husband had the grace not to smile when he looked at me, and so indicated the fault lay in my drawings.’

  ‘Apologise, Charles.’

  ‘I merely meant that Mr Seymour is more serious and dignified than the situations of the characters he often depicts.’

  ‘It is obvious to me, madam,’ said Seymour, ‘that sometimes your husband says things which require restraint. I drew Mr Pickwick’s luggage as a carpet bag – and he insisted on describing it as a portmanteau, even though he and I discussed the matter when I came to Furnival’s before. The likes of that will not happen again.’

  ‘Carpet bags,’ said Boz, sneering, finishing off his grog. ‘Their very patterns are demeaning, and so are the handles.’

  ‘A portmanteau would have less character in a drawing,’ said Seymour. ‘It would be just – an oblong. Certainly, Mr Pickwick would always carry a carpet bag. And he will in future. An errata slip can be published in the final number to remove the word “portmanteau”, and replace it with “carpet bag”.’

  ‘As the editor, I would not allow that change.’

  ‘You are my creation as editor. The editor is a mere fictional device.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘And I think so.’

  ‘You will have noticed that Chapman and Hall printed my name in larger type on the wrapper. I know where their sympathies lie.’

  ‘I not only noticed, I did not disapprove. It would be natural for the editor to appear larger than the illustrator in these fictional papers. When my pictures provided the letterpress writer of The Book of Christmas with the instructions for what he should write, his name was printed larger than mine. Such are the ways of publishers. My drawings speak for themselves. And the wrapper is entirely dominated by my pencil.’

  Fred exchanged anxious looks with his sister-in-law. ‘I always enjoy seeing your drawings in the print shops, Mr Seymour,’ he said. ‘I would be keen to know what you are working on now, apart from your collaboration with my brother.’

  ‘Fred is right to remind us of your work in the print shops,’ said Boz. ‘As a caricaturist, windowpanes are yours to rule. There you may draw what you want, who you want, and inform us all of the empty promises of our leaders. Still – I believe it is really a very simple thing indeed to draw the face of a politician on a pig’s body, with his snout in a trough.’

  ‘Are you saying, sir, my drawings lack depth?’

  ‘I am saying it is rather harder to show the soul of a pig in human form without resort to curly tails. I shall just get myself more grog.’

  ‘My drawings work upon the mind in an instant,’ said Seymour, addressing Boz’s back as the drink was poured. ‘That is their strength. Written sentences require a temperament that is undistracted to be read, and a mind in the mood to absorb information.’

  ‘I am satisfied not to deal in the superficial, sir.’

  ‘I see your point, Mr Seymour,’ said Fred, now looking with great concern towards his sister-in-law, and she returning the look. ‘You seize a man’s attention, long before he engages with words.’

  ‘That is so. The viewer is mine before he has even had a chance to think.’

  ‘Well sir, if that is your pride,’ said Boz.

  ‘Charles, perhaps you should discuss the fishing scene with Mr Seymour,’ said Boz’s wife, noticing the rising anger in Seymour’s eyes. ‘You don’t mind, do you Fred?’

  ‘Not at all. I think it would be fascinating.’

  ‘A fishing scene – a frozen moment, with mute characters,’ said Boz.

  ‘The drawings speak,’ said Seymour.

  ‘And I suppose they will also tell our audience how the moment came about and what will happen next?’

  ‘That is why you were appointed. That is your employment on Pickwick.’

  ‘My employment. The trouble is, Mr Seymour, in my life, whatever the task, I devote myself to it. I throw myself in, my whole self, completely. And you see, Mr Seymour, I am aware that this is a joint endeavour. And that makes me feel that I am not giving all my effort to the task. I can work hard on my words, and still it seems I am not giving my best. That, I say, is how it seems, regarding my involvement with you. At times, I confess I find it objectionable.’

  ‘I think your work is comparable to Hogarth, Mr Seymour,’ said Boz’s wife, cheerily.

  ‘Thank you, madam. In all modesty, several commentators have compared my work to his.’

  ‘The comparison is usually made for comic designers, I believe,’ said Boz.

  ‘Charles! There was no need—’

  ‘I am sorry to say that it is your husband’s inadequacies that he is voicing, madam. The inadequacies indeed of any writer. His words could never create a sense of the physical identity of a person,’ said Seymour.

  ‘You will withdraw that, sir. I will make you withdraw it.’

  ‘I speak the truth. There are things a writer can suggest – dim shadows – whether a man is tall, or short – whether he is swarthy or pale – whether his hair is thick or thin – you can mention a smile, a shape of nose – but do the best you could, and a mother could not recognise her own son in your work. But one look at Mr Pickwick in my pictures would make him immediately recognisable in any crowd.’ He finished the grog, and placed the glass down noisily upon the mantelpiece.

  ‘Do you realise how disruptive it is for me with your pictures there?’ said Boz. ‘I look at them, and they chafe. What if I want a character to talk as he feels? Is his flow of conversation always to be interrupted by one of your drawings? Am I always to be constrained by working my way towards a farcical scene of yours? Am I perpetually to be bound to an angler falling into a river, or some other scene of the same kind?’

  ‘You took on this work. You knew what it entailed. You did not have to accept the offer.’

  ‘It is a question of what the work is. What it could be. What it should be.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘In the first place, the pictures should arise from the words.’

  ‘Mr Pickwick is mine!’ It was yelled across the room, almost a scream. The three others present looked at each other, and their faces bore expressions akin to fear – even Boz appeared shaken in his resolution to pursue the course he was upon.

  ‘Let us simply deal with the outstanding business between us,’ said Boz. ‘You have the revised drawing of the clown with you?’

  From a thin portfolio he had brought to Furnival’s, Seymour took out the picture.

  ‘But this is no good at all,’ said Boz. ‘The wife looks older than before. And the clown is utterly repugnant. You have to do this again.’

  ‘I shall not.’

  ‘You must.’

  Seymour snatched the picture away. There was a sudden change in his deportment. He appeared on the verge of a smile. ‘The one reason I am taking this back is to etch it, in this form, with this picture as my guide, with not the slightest deviation from what you have just seen.’

  ‘Tear it up. You will start it again.’

  ‘It will be turned into hard steel, and printed exactly as it is. And you will learn a lesson.’

  ‘You will draw it according to my requirements.’

  ‘Every movement of the etching needle through the wax will determine its look, and it will be precisely like this drawing. I shall take great pains to do that. And then I shall drip, drip, drip the acid on to the steel. That will be the grog you will swallow.’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? What good will it do to print a picture that is out of keeping with my story?’

  ‘I am under no obligation to reflect that at all,’ sa
id Seymour. ‘You are required to do what I want, writing up to my pictures.’

  ‘Perhaps you would care to show me where I have given that undertaking in writing? I worked in a lawyer’s office when I was younger. We were rather scrupulous about what a person was required to do. Show me proof.’

  ‘You know exactly what this work was intended to be.’

  ‘Let me inform you of a little mental habit of mine, Mr Seymour. I rarely tell anyone I do it. If I do not listen to the words a person is saying, their faces acquire a strange ludicrous life of their own.’

  ‘That is quite enough!’ said Boz’s wife. ‘Mr Seymour, I do apologise, on behalf of my husband.’

  ‘I sometimes think, Mr Seymour,’ said Boz, ‘that artists turn to caricature because in the distraction of laughter viewers will not notice so readily the weaknesses and deficiencies in draughtsmanship.’

  There was a pause before Seymour replied. He could in that period have been thinking of his work, over many years, and reliving flaws he had himself seen or that others had pointed out to him. ‘My pictures are intelligible to all who have eyes, whether or not they can even read,’ he said weakly. Suddenly his head jerked up. ‘You are jealous of that power.’

  ‘Do you think the ideas in your pictures are new, Mr Seymour?’ said Boz. ‘I saw a cockney sportsman on a cracked earthenware jug at breakfast at an inn where I stayed once. There he was, shooting at a beehive. I did not laugh. I used the jug to pour milk into my coffee, and that was the best thing for it. At least the milk was fresh.’

  Again, alleged flaws were perhaps contemplated by Seymour, he perhaps even heard à Beckett and others naming the flaws, for he did not respond immediately. ‘The pictures of my characters will remain inside people’s heads,’ he said eventually, softer than before, ‘long after every word of yours has faded from their memories.’

  ‘Oh that is your view? My view is different. You see,’ said Boz, ‘when I learnt that a dog could be represented by three letters of the English alphabet I did not need a picture of the beast complete with wet nose and wagging tale. Should a book have pictures at all?’