woman from the Committees of Correspondence. She marched on down the street, pressing copies of the broadsheet into every hand that would take one, and a few that tried not to. Marla took the other side of it, and they looked at it together.
Marla had been surprised to find after they moved to Magdeburg that political cartoons were not a twentieth-century original art form; that, in fact, political cartoons were ubiquitous in the seventeenth century. The one at the top of the broadsheet was a typical sample of the current state of the cartooning art: sketchy, somewhat awkward art combined with savage satirical writing.
“Hmmph!” Marla snorted. “I need to have Aunt Susan send this guy some of my brother’s comic books. Let him learn how to draw real cartoons.”
“I don’t know,” said Franz. “I think he did well with the horns on the chancellor.”
Chancellor Oxenstierna had been drawn as a Minotaur figure with sweeping horns; an obvious reference to the inevitable puns on his name that seemed to universally come to mind to both up-timers and down-timers alike. The Ox or Der Ochse , either way it referred to a bovine, and this particular figure was dressed in a fancy doublet.
All the figures in the cartoon were labeled. Franz wasn’t sure if it was the artist or the editor that wanted to make sure that nothing was misunderstood, but it still brought a smile to his face.
“Hmm, that’s the emperor lying on the bed,” Marla puzzled out. “But who are all these people kneeling? Holy cow, this guy’s lettering is atrocious.”
“This one is ‘Free Electorate,’” Franz said, pointing to the label. “That one is ‘Freedom of Religion,’ and the other one is ‘Freedom of Speech.’”
“Who’s the girl in the corner by the bed?”
Franz tilted the page, trying to get a better angle on the somewhat muddled drawing. “I think that is supposed to be Princess Kristina.”
“So what is it that he’s got in his hands that he’s aiming at the freedoms?”
“Well, judging from the caption, I think it is a giant scalpel.” The caption read “Perhaps A Little Blood-letting Will Help The Emperor Regain His Senses.”
Marla looked at him. “Scalpel?”
“You know they used to bleed patients?”
“Ick!” Marla thrust the broadsheet into his hands and started down the street. “I don’t get it.”
They spent the next few minutes arguing about whether the drawing made any sense or not, walking along dodging other pedestrians, crossing streets, sidestepping wagons, carts, and the inevitable animal by-products. Wagon drivers were supposed to clean up after their horses, mules or oxen. Whether they did or not often depended on how visible a Committee of Correspondence member was.
Their badinage ended as they stopped before a familiar door. The sign above the door read Zopff and Sons , and through the small panes of glass set in the door they could see the printing presses the firm operated. Franz opened the door, and they stepped in, to be greeted by their friend Patroclus.
“Franz! Marla!” He advanced with open hands, albeit somewhat ink stained.
“Don’t touch me,” Marla warned. “Last time you got that ink on me, it took me two days to get it off.”
Patroclus laughed. “All right, I will keep my hands to myself, then. But what brings you to see us? We do not have a commission from you at the moment, do we?”
“Nope,” Marla said. “Although I think the Grantville Music Trust will have the next batch of music to be printed ready before long.”
The younger of the two Zopff sons, Telemachus, came up behind his brother just as she said that. He made a face. “Music. All the fiddly little bits with the notes and stems and flags going just so. I would rather set ten pages of words, even in Roman type, than a single page of music.”
Patroclus landed a backhand on his brother’s biceps. “That music has kept us in sausage and ale the last couple of years, and you should be
Marla had been surprised to find after they moved to Magdeburg that political cartoons were not a twentieth-century original art form; that, in fact, political cartoons were ubiquitous in the seventeenth century. The one at the top of the broadsheet was a typical sample of the current state of the cartooning art: sketchy, somewhat awkward art combined with savage satirical writing.
“Hmmph!” Marla snorted. “I need to have Aunt Susan send this guy some of my brother’s comic books. Let him learn how to draw real cartoons.”
“I don’t know,” said Franz. “I think he did well with the horns on the chancellor.”
Chancellor Oxenstierna had been drawn as a Minotaur figure with sweeping horns; an obvious reference to the inevitable puns on his name that seemed to universally come to mind to both up-timers and down-timers alike. The Ox or Der Ochse , either way it referred to a bovine, and this particular figure was dressed in a fancy doublet.
All the figures in the cartoon were labeled. Franz wasn’t sure if it was the artist or the editor that wanted to make sure that nothing was misunderstood, but it still brought a smile to his face.
“Hmm, that’s the emperor lying on the bed,” Marla puzzled out. “But who are all these people kneeling? Holy cow, this guy’s lettering is atrocious.”
“This one is ‘Free Electorate,’” Franz said, pointing to the label. “That one is ‘Freedom of Religion,’ and the other one is ‘Freedom of Speech.’”
“Who’s the girl in the corner by the bed?”
Franz tilted the page, trying to get a better angle on the somewhat muddled drawing. “I think that is supposed to be Princess Kristina.”
“So what is it that he’s got in his hands that he’s aiming at the freedoms?”
“Well, judging from the caption, I think it is a giant scalpel.” The caption read “Perhaps A Little Blood-letting Will Help The Emperor Regain His Senses.”
Marla looked at him. “Scalpel?”
“You know they used to bleed patients?”
“Ick!” Marla thrust the broadsheet into his hands and started down the street. “I don’t get it.”
They spent the next few minutes arguing about whether the drawing made any sense or not, walking along dodging other pedestrians, crossing streets, sidestepping wagons, carts, and the inevitable animal by-products. Wagon drivers were supposed to clean up after their horses, mules or oxen. Whether they did or not often depended on how visible a Committee of Correspondence member was.
Their badinage ended as they stopped before a familiar door. The sign above the door read Zopff and Sons , and through the small panes of glass set in the door they could see the printing presses the firm operated. Franz opened the door, and they stepped in, to be greeted by their friend Patroclus.
“Franz! Marla!” He advanced with open hands, albeit somewhat ink stained.
“Don’t touch me,” Marla warned. “Last time you got that ink on me, it took me two days to get it off.”
Patroclus laughed. “All right, I will keep my hands to myself, then. But what brings you to see us? We do not have a commission from you at the moment, do we?”
“Nope,” Marla said. “Although I think the Grantville Music Trust will have the next batch of music to be printed ready before long.”
The younger of the two Zopff sons, Telemachus, came up behind his brother just as she said that. He made a face. “Music. All the fiddly little bits with the notes and stems and flags going just so. I would rather set ten pages of words, even in Roman type, than a single page of music.”
Patroclus landed a backhand on his brother’s biceps. “That music has kept us in sausage and ale the last couple of years, and you should be
Similar Books
