Death and Mr. Pickwick (87 page)

‘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 you 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,' said 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?'

Before Seymour could reply, Boz moved closer. ‘By the way, Mr Seymour – the alphabet. One reason I felt I had no alternative but to take my own course and insert the dying clown was your spelling – the many spelling mistakes I found in the notes you had composed. I have never seen such a concentration of errors. It is no wonder to me that you take pride in your pictures.'

‘The way you opened
Pickwick
,' said Seymour, visibly distressed, ‘the line about the first ray of light which illumines the gloom – the dazzling brilliancy – it's you, isn't it, you're the ray of light, that's how you see yourself, the dazzling brilliancy,' said Seymour. ‘And I am your gloom.'

‘I merely say that if a work is to be illustrated, the artist's ambition should be to present the author's scenes to the reader, rather than showing off his own abilities. Such as they are.'

‘Charles!' said Boz's wife. ‘He is our
guest
.'

‘All I believe,' said Boz, ‘is the obvious truth – that pictures can put themselves
between
the author and his reader. That pictures can corrupt an author's vision of the world.'

‘If you see Mr Pickwick when you write about him, it is because of
me
,' said Seymour, standing straight, by power of his bones, but twitching, and looking at any moment as if he might fall. ‘You could write a thousand volumes and you would not have made the impression on a man's mind of
one
of my pictures.' He turned towards the door. It was as though he had to hide his face, before it was seen.

‘Mr Seymour – Charles,' said Fred, ‘the two of you will destroy the work like this. You must meet under calmer circumstances, and resolve your differences.'

‘One thing needs to be settled tonight,' said Boz. ‘The drawing of the clown
has
to be revised.'

‘The picture as it exists is my only answer. I do not need to say another word to you.'

‘You
must
do this. You
will
draw the clown again!'

But Seymour was out the door, shaking with emotion.

Boz pursued, and shouted from the top of the staircase, as the artist descended. ‘You
will
do the dying clown exactly as I want it. You
will
do it!'

Seymour had escaped into the night.

*   *   *

Seymour returned to his home in a state of the greatest agitation. He did not attempt to use his key, but resorted to knocking, without cease – Jane had stayed up, and when the door was open he collapsed into her arms, crying. Then he pushed her away, and went to his desk. From a drawer he took out correspondence and other material relating to
Pickwick.