Death and Mr. Pickwick Read online

  ‘I am not quite sure about that addition,’ said Stuart.

  ‘I am. But the figures are too bare. And too similar. There needs to be more to interest the viewer. I think I know what to do.’

  Seymour sketched a cherub leaning lazily against a circular brick furnace while reading a newspaper. It was not merely the pose, nor even the newspaper prop, which caught the eye. He drew the cherub as bald, and added circular spectacles. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘will do it.’

  *

  MR INBELICATE’S ENTHUSIASM WAS UNBOUNDED when he showed me the bald, bespectacled cherub. ‘There he is! His first appearance in the world! The drawing is simple and crude, but he is there, Scripty, he is there!’

  *

  ‘I WANT TO GO FURTHER,’ SAID Seymour. ‘We are admitting the whimsicality of cherubs – but I am thinking of the whimsicality of steam itself. What steam might do in the future.’

  Cherub after cherub came from Seymour’s pencil in the next two hours. Each cherub operated a fantastic machine from the artist’s imagination. He drew a bread-cutting machine, and a cherub who carried away a sliced loaf on a platter; then a shaving machine, with cherubs’ beards lopped by steam-operated razors; then a mechanically operated execution machine – a blindfolded cherub lay on the chopping block, the axe poised with a piston on its haft, as a cherub vicar read the last rites; then a gravedigging machine, with a mechanically operated spade – unemployed sexton-cherubs sat on another grave, playing cards and smoking churchwardens. In a final picture, the bespectacled cherub stood against a tree reading Izaak Walton, while a steam-operated rod and line caught him a fish.

  To all these pictures, Robert Stuart made scarcely a murmur of resistance. Perhaps the unceasing productivity of Seymour reminded him of all that might be achieved by the power of steam.

  *

  ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THE SECOND movie in the Alien franchise?’ said Mr Inbelicate as he returned from a storeroom with two framed pictures under his arm.

  It was an extraordinary question for a man of his specialised interests, so extraordinary that I was quite taken aback, and my astonishment must have shown from the other side of the library table. I confirmed that I had seen Aliens, and added that I wished that the third, and especially the fourth, in the franchise had not been made.

  ‘I am not concerned with those, nor the first,’ he said. ‘Just the second, and then just the scene with the powered mechanical exoskeleton. Have you seen The Wrong Trousers?’

  I was astonished again. ‘The Aardman animation? Yes, very amusing.’

  ‘The techno-trousers in the story – you remember those?’

  ‘The robotic legs.’

  ‘Yes, and I could show you designs for something similar invented by a Russian in the late nineteenth century, to assist the wearer with running and jumping. But where did the idea of mechanically aiding a human being’s capacities come from? When did it enter the world? Perhaps it was here.’ He laid down the two pictures, both of them Seymours, both called Locomotion, for me to inspect.

  *

  ‘I CONFESS I HAVE NEVER SEEN the likes of such pictures before – anywhere,’ said Thomas McLean as he looked at the two Locomotion scenes which Robert Seymour had placed on the counter.

  A plump and bespectacled scholarly figure, eyes stuck in a book, walked with the aid of steam-powered mechanical boots; in the other picture, a mad-looking man, with beard and top hat, also had steam-powered footwear. Surrounding both mechanised walkers were visions of transportation by applications of steam – but in the first picture, the transport was smooth and pleasant, epitomised by ladies travelling in a giant wheeled kettle, while in the second, locomotion had turned to disaster: a spherical steam-powered flying machine, with one webbed wing broken away, was about to fall, carriages toppled over cliffs and produced thick, suffocating charcoal clouds, and on the horizon a steamboat sank. Even the steam-powered walking of this picture was troublesome, with the fire going out in the mad-looking man’s boots.

  ‘I have more in this line,’ said Seymour. He now showed McLean further illustrations of the murderous potential of new technology. A steam coach full of passengers was blasted apart as its boiler exploded – a lady’s head, still wearing her hat, was blown off her shoulders, while her body remained inside the coach; a fat woman was erupted into a pond with a splash to match the size of her body; a dragoon officer was hurled into the air, his legs scissoring in an extraordinary straddle; while another helpless passenger was draped across the bracket of a lamppost.

  ‘Before I show you my next, let me show you a picture by Cruikshank,’ said Seymour. ‘This is his rather restrained interpretation of the theme.’ Seymour showed a picture of a steam carriage driving along the road, and an astonished horse who commented: ‘Dash my wig if that isn’t the rummiest go I ever saw!’ ‘And,’ said Seymour, ‘if that is all that Cruikshank can offer, besides complaining about my name…’

  He placed a picture of his own on top of Cruikshank’s. This was Unexpected Arrival by Steam, which showed the explosion of a locomotive – the force hurled a fat lady through a drawing-room window, to land right in the middle of a refined tea party.

  ‘And with that explosion,’ said Seymour, ‘I blow up Cruikshank.’

  McLean placed the Locomotion pictures in the window without delay. Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered.

  *

  After Seymour left the print shop, he bought a coffee from a street vendor, and watched handsome young men examine his pictures. He could, if he wanted, introduce himself; but he looked at his pocket watch. He had promised his wife he would be home soon. His only pleasure that evening, therefore, would be a drink in a public house.

  As he stood at the bar, Seymour watched two dustmen, both wearing their fantail hats, reading newspapers. They took pride in their appearance, like many dustmen; both wore coloured waistcoats, and one stroked a gold watch chain. To be seen reading newspapers was all part of their display, and Seymour listened with some amusement to their conversation.

  ‘Does The Times say anything about The Chronicle today?’ said the first dustman. ‘I’ve got The Chronicle’s latest on The Times.’

  The other turned the pages of the newspaper to find an editorial comment. ‘Vell, it says The Chronicle is a disgraceful print, which feeds on falsehood and tells lies so much that in its case “increase of appetite had grown by vot it fed on”.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘So vot does The Chronicle say about The Times?’

  ‘That its imbecile ravings “resemble those unfortunate wretches whose degraded prostitution is fast approaching neglect and disgust”.’

  ‘They have done better.’

  Seymour’s amused grin was noted by a side-whiskered man at the bar, who had also been observing the dustmen.

  ‘The way of the world, and it doesn’t bode well,’ said the man, with a particular movement of abhorrence, as though shuffling into his own clothing. ‘The “March of Intellect”, people call it, when the likes of dustmen read. I don’t call it that. I call it trouble.’

  ‘It is surely not a bad thing,’ said Seymour. ‘Though it can be a little unsettling. But it has its funny side.’

  ‘You are misled, sir, if that is your opinion. What did a member of the House of Lords say? Something like “The March of Intellect is a tune to which one day a hundred thousand tall fellows with clubs and pikes will march against Whitehall.” No man ever said anything wiser.’

  Seymour finished his drink, and entered the busy street. He had walked but a little way when he saw a sign outside a small theatre, which announced: ‘Grand Exhibition of the Effects of Inhaling Nitrous Oxide, the Exhilarating Laughing Gas’. It was irresistible. He paid the entrance fee.

  There were scenes such as he had never witnessed before. Two men on stage danced together, laughing all the time. Another posed like a boxer, punching the air and guffawing at his misses. Another attempted to make a political speech, but broke down as he did so.r />
  A man on stage in a top hat invited people to come up from the audience to inhale from a nozzle attached to an inflated leather bladder. ‘You, sir,’ he said, pointing to Seymour, ‘you look like you need cheering up. Come and give it a go.’

  Seymour held up a hand to decline, but there were shouts from the audience of: ‘Go on, you sour chops!’ As these did not cease he went on stage, to a round of applause, and placed the nozzle to his lips. He felt a numbness at the back of his throat, which then moved into the rest of his head. He felt a light-headed dizziness. He laughed, in spite of himself, a laughter based upon nothing yet overwhelming, stamping him with stylised cherry-blossom pink lips, a laugh that made others laugh.

  *

  It was late when he returned to the house. Jane asked where he had been. ‘Out,’ he said.

  ‘You have been drinking.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Let us go to bed.’

  ‘I am going to work.’

  He drew A Prescription for Scolding Wives. A husband forced the nozzle of the laughing-gas tube into his wife’s mouth, holding fast to her neck so she could not escape, her face and hands expressing all her terror as she was forced to take the tube deep into her throat. With that drawing done, he moved on to the next, with no pause.

  He sketched an apparatus to undress and cover up a man when tired, a machine which pulled off breeches, put on a nightshirt, and finished by drawing a sheet over the sleeper. Now he was truly under way, as absurd and wonderful ideas flowed into his mind.

  Next came the riding apparatus for timid horsemen, in which the movements of the horse’s legs were restrained within slots. Then the duelling apparatus for gentlemen of weak nerves: after a plentiful dose of laudanum and brandy, the reluctant duellist was fixed into a frame which held him up, along with his pistol – even the act of firing was easy, for a string attached to the trigger was tugged by the duellist’s second.

  Seymour felt hungry, and he made himself a chicken sandwich. As he chewed, he drew a scrawny roast lark upon a dinner plate, which a magnifying glass enlarged to the size of a fine capon. Then came a picture of tubes, which would convey the smell of food from the tables of the rich to the nostrils of the poor – he showed the poverty-stricken lined up to sniff, and wrote underneath that such charity tubes were particularly recommended for the philanthropy of those who had made fortunes by machinery.

  Finally that night came The March of Intellect. He showed ordinary working people in the street, intent upon improving themselves. A bricklayer sat on his hod to read, a woman played a harp in public, a café had all the classics and periodicals for its customers. Posters on hoardings announced: ‘Useful Knowledge’, Mechanics’ Magazine, Every Man’s Book and a play The Great Elephant of Exeter ’Change. A man carried a placard which said ‘New Patent Steam Carriage’. Everywhere people were reading, playing musical instruments, intending to watch a drama or taking part in the technological advances of society. But a baby in the foreground lay on the cobbles, utterly neglected and about to be stepped on by a man with his nose in a book.

  *

  An unstoppable flow of drawings by Robert Seymour was the boast and the pride of Thomas McLean’s Haymarket window until the end of 1829. On New Year’s Day 1830, when the pavement was glassy with ice, Seymour approached McLean’s shop with careful steps and his latest collection. It was not altogether with joy that he saw a new entertainment in the window, attracting a small crowd of frosty-breathed spectators, among them an assortment of the area’s prostitutes, whose rouge seemed a manifestation of warmth. There on display was the Looking Glass, drawn and etched by William Heath, billed as the author of the Northern Looking Glass, and on sale at the price of three shillings plain, six shillings coloured, for four pages. The opening page, displayed in the window in the six-shilling form, showed an unprecedented thirteen humorous pictures on a single sheet.

  Seymour entered the shop and, after the briefest of pleasantries, asked McLean if he might examine a copy.

  ‘The artist slows down after the first page,’ said Seymour. The second page consisted of only two large pictures.

  ‘He picks up his pace again,’ said McLean. There were ten pictures on the third page.

  ‘Then he goes to three for the last.’

  ‘He’s establishing a rhythm.’

  Seymour placed his own pictures upon the counter in silence.

  ‘This will not detract from your work,’ said McLean. ‘But – twenty-eight pictures in total. No one has ever put so many in a single publication.’

  ‘If you are selling it on the basis of the number of pictures, there could be more of them. Now, if these poor pictures of mine happen to meet with your approval, I hope you will be good enough to pay me, please.’

  *

  Some hours after Seymour left the shop, Heath called upon McLean. In contrast to Seymour, whose appearance was always neat and tidy, Heath’s clothes looked slept-in. He reeked of strong liquor and tobacco.

  ‘Thought I’d come to wish you a Happy New Year, Mr McLean.’

  The wish was returned, but not with any enthusiasm.

  ‘I was out celebrating with a few friends last night,’ said Heath, ‘but don’t you go thinking that I have forgotten the next Looking Glass. I even got a good idea while I was with them, which I am sure we can use in a number sometime.’ He fumbled in a stained and torn pocket and pulled out a dirty piece of paper which he held in front of McLean, whose hand did not attempt to take it, so Heath placed the paper on the counter and smoothed out its many creases. At the bottom of the paper, Heath had scribbled ‘Members of Parliament’. The drawing itself showed a face, marked in the appropriate positions AYES, NOES, HEAR HEAR. ‘Clever, don’t you think, Mr McLean? My friends liked it.’

  ‘This is but one picture of course. I presume that you have ideas for more.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Mr McLean.’

  But McLean did worry.

  *

  At home, Robert Seymour’s production of drawings not only continued unabated – he stood on the threshold of a grand new project.

  On a shelf above his desk was a volume of Shakespeare, which had been a wedding gift from Edward Holmes. Jane had remarked, when dusting and while her husband drew, that it was a shame to see such a volume unread. So that evening Seymour sat in the parlour, the Shakespeare upon his knees, while Jane sat darning linen.

  In the front of the book, Holmes had written a quotation from Richard III: ‘Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?’ Seymour did not move beyond this page, but looked down, pondering the quotation.

  ‘You are quiet,’ said Jane.

  ‘Not in my head.’ He stood up. ‘I must begin drawing.’

  ‘No, Robert, not tonight. You said that we would sit together.’

  ‘I cannot let this idea go.’

  At his desk, he began work on his own interpretation of the quotation. His picture showed an abomination – a woman with tiny cows pullulating like boils all over her face and forearms. Yet, in spite of her loathsomeness, an ardent suitor kissed the woman’s hand, as though she were a great beauty. On the table in the foreground, Seymour drew the explanation for the woman’s physical state – a book entitled Treatise on Vaccination, implying she had been syringed with infected milk. Next to the treatise, he added the explanation for the suitor’s courtship: the woman’s certificates for large holdings of bank stocks and consols. The suitor gave a knowing look, right towards Seymour as he drew the face, even as the lips were planted on the revolting hand. The suitor was proud to be a fortune-hungry scoundrel.

  It was now that Seymour embarked upon a frenzy of creation, wrenching Shakespeare from the bondage to conventions of meaning. He would open Holmes’s wedding gift and run his eye down the page, until a line stimulated his mind’s eye, and then he drew.

  From Romeo and Juliet he chose the three words ‘The Mangled Tybalt’ – and showed Tybalt passing himself through a mangle, hi
s body squeezed as flat as paper between the rollers, his limp fingers draped upon the handle. For A Midsummer Night’s Dream the title itself produced the illustration: a fat sleeper, lying in bed in the sweltering heat of June and enduring the anguish of a nightmare in which he roasted before a fire with a gigantic hook stuck through his stomach. Then from Henry V the line ‘Gloster, ’tis true we are in great danger’ inspired the whimsy of two Gloucester cheeses speaking to each other as they were about to be eaten.

  He did not stop.

  Macbeth’s ‘I have supp’d full with horrors’ led to a man entering a cellar, with a ladle in his hand, while two cat carcasses hanging in the larder revealed the nature of the stew that would be supp’d that night. And, not content with the monstrous woman he had created for Richard III, Seymour illustrated a line from Othello – ‘There is no such man, it is impossible’ – with another abomination, a creature with vast eyes on the sides of the head, a nose from which twigs grew, fangs for teeth, feet three times normal size, and the largest human belly in pendulous existence.

  He did not stop.

  There was another belly-bearer, of special significance, that he drew next, to interpret a line in Lear, ‘Nay, good my Lord, your charity o’ershoots itself.’ On the paper, there emerged a bespectacled fat man, the obvious descendant of the character he had produced for Robert Stuart’s book, and of his own steam-powered boot-wearer in the Locomotion picture, but now fully developed; in a gentle scene which proved the benevolence of the fat man, Seymour showed him holding an umbrella in pouring rain as he knelt at a pond feeding a family of ducks. In the man’s pocket, to emphasise his benevolence and kindness to all creatures, was a copy of the book The Man of Feeling.