Kitabı oku: «Forty Years of 'Spy'», sayfa 6

"I go up to 'im and I say, 'You thirsty?' and 'e say 'e die … 'Ah!' I reply, 'I go and fetch you some water.... I take it and 'old it to 'is lips … then … when 'is lips close on the brim …" (here Carlo's eyes would flash and distend)" … I take the cup away and 'e fall back and die!"

In reality, in spite of his melodramatic description, I expect Pellegrini would have been the first to help the sufferer, for he had a tender heart and the kindest of dispositions.

Our meeting at the Lawsons' was the beginning of a lasting friendship. I became fond of "Pelican," as his friends called him, and always found his company refreshing. There are innumerable stories to tell of him, some hardly polite, but none the less entertaining. I think his quaint English added to the humour of his narrative, his naïve self-glorification and childish conceit added not a little to the entertainment of his hearers.

A friend once said to him, "Pelican, I noticed in the picture of D– (a Colonel in the Blues) that 'Spy' has left out the spurs!"

"Ah," replied Carlo, smiting his chest with a blow of conscious pride, "I never make mistake in the closes."

As a matter of fact, D– had stood in a position in which his spurs were concealed.

I scored off Pellegrini on another occasion, much to his amusement. Weldon, "Norroy King at Arms," invited us to dine with him to meet Sandys the artist, who did not turn up. Pellegrini, who had a habit of sleeping after meals, partook of the excellent dinner, and then, taking a cigar and the most comfortable armchair, sank into a profound slumber, punctuated by violent snores. Weldon and I after attempting conversation, exchanged looks rather glumly across his sleeping body, when Weldon had an inspiration.

"I say, Ward," he exclaimed, "here's an opportunity, we may as well do something to amuse ourselves—do take a pencil and draw him!"

So I drew the caricaturist, who, waking presently from his slumbers, was immensely tickled by my sketch, and wrote across the corner "approved by C. P." The drawing now hangs in the Beefsteak Club.

Another episode à propos of Carlo's slumbers occurred in there.

I must mention first of all an extraordinary accomplishment of Pellegrini's, which I do not remember ever having noticed in any other man—the habit of retaining a cigar in his mouth while he slept and snored. One day as he slept by the fire I watched him drawing in his breath and letting it go in his usual queer fashion … when the cigar fell out of his mouth! Feeling that a substitute was needed, I, in a spirit of curiosity, replaced it by a cork; the indrawing and expanding continued as before; then he snored– once—twice—thrice; and suddenly the cork shot out, and, making a noise like a pop-gun, flew with considerable force into the fire. Pleased with my experiment, I rescued it, but it was rather too burnt to replace. Then an irresistible piece of devilry made me dab the tip of his nose with it. Stirring in his sleep, he brushed his face with his hand with the action of one who brushes away a fly. I made another little dab in a carefully chosen spot, with the same result. The men sitting at the other end of the room began to giggle, and the caricaturist in burnt cork began to grow interesting. Presently Carlo awoke, stretched, and giving his face a final rub, stood up, accompanied by a roar of laughter. Going to the nearest glass, Pellegrini saw his comic reflection.

"Oh!" he said, dramatically, "I do not accept apologize—you no longer remain member 'ere!—write to the Committee—most unclubbable that—you wait … we shall see!"

I tried to pacify him, but he waved me aside. The next morning he wrote me the following letter:—

Studio,

53, Mortimer Street,

Cavendish Square.

Dear Leslie,

Forgive me if I took the joke of last evening too much au sérieux.

Ever yours,

Pellegrini.

During my first years on Vanity Fair (or thereabouts) Pellegrini was engaged in making an excellent series of caricatures of the members of the Marlborough Club, in which the Prince of Wales was much interested. His Royal Highness enjoyed Pellegrini's genius and his company. The drawings were reproduced in the most costly manner, and the collection was still unfinished when, owing to a disagreement, Pellegrini refused to complete them.

The famous caricaturist numbered some eminent men amongst his friends. Paolo Tosti and the late Chevalier Martino (Marine Painter in Ordinary to the King) I remember especially. In the early days Pellegrini was constantly to be seen at Pagani's, where there gradually gathered a coterie of well-known Italians and Englishmen. In this way the restaurant became the rendezvous of interesting people, and Pagani's undoubtedly owed its fame to Pellegrini.

In later years, illness barred him from many pleasant places, and kept him a prisoner in nursing homes. He suffered from a variety of ailments, and not the least amongst them was lumbago.

I was at the Fielding Club one evening when "Pelican" came crawling in, looking white and ill; blue circles round his eyes accentuated his look of misery.

"Come along, Pelican," I said, thinking to cheer him, for we frequently played together, "come and play billiards."

"Ah!" he groaned, his hand on his back. "I cannot play billiard to-night, my boy, I 'ave lumbago!"

Later the hospital claimed him, and it was sad to visit an old friend whose sufferings were acute, in such changed surroundings at Fitzroy Square.

The King of Italy decorated him, and when I came with my congratulations, he said, "Oh! Don't! It come too late!"

There is yet another memory of him in brighter circumstances which comes to me quite clearly across the years. One of my sisters was staying at my studio in William Street, when the Neapolitan came in full of his quaint humour. Looking at her gallantly, he smiled, and said, with a soft sigh and with such child-like admiration as to be irresistibly comical, "Oh, those beautiful cat's-eye!"

I remember the day was glorious and the season at its height. We were going out, when he said, "I must carry your sunshade." This was only an excuse for foolery, for he took it and, walking with it, assumed a mincing gait to the accompaniment of remarkably comic grimaces. My sister, remonstrating, said, "Really, Mr. Pellegrini, I can't walk with you like this."

"Very well," he replied, and crossing over with the same absurd gestures, he walked on the other side of the road, twirling the red sunshade all the way to Gunter's, where he continued his fooling by trying to persuade the waitress to supply him with a liqueur (which was decidedly forbidden).

While we ate our ices, he conquered the girl with high-flown and exaggerated compliments, and finally had his way; and as for the liqueur, success found him more or less indifferent to its consumption, for the jest had been nearly all bravado.

James J. Tissot was an occasional contributor to Vanity Fair. His work can hardly be called caricature; for the sketches were rather characteristic and undoubtedly brilliant drawings of his subjects. He was achieving considerable popularity (especially with dealers) by painting lively scenes—usually in grey tones—of Greenwich breakfast parties, modern subjects with a pretty female figure as the centre of attraction. Tissot had a strong personality, and from the psychological point of view his story is extraordinary. The woman to whom he was devoted (and who figured so frequently in his pictures) died, and Tissot, overcome with grief, perhaps with remorse, left England and went to the East to seek distraction in foreign travel. In Palestine he stayed and painted; and here he drew a series of religious pictures illustrating the life of Christ. They were exhibited at the Doré Gallery on his return to England, and showed an extraordinary change of outlook. He became at first extremely religious, and then the victim of religious mania. Later, he surprised his world by becoming a monk, driven by his devotion to the memory of the dead woman to the extremities which often arise when a strong character is suddenly disrupted by great sorrow. Finally, he entered a monastery, where he eventually lost his reason and died.

He used to say in his sane days, when talking about his work, and about art in general, "If you feel the drapery or the hang of a garment in a drawing is shaky, and your model cannot understand the subtleties of the pose you require, get a cheval glass, pose yourself, if possible, and sketch your reflection. Sometimes it is astonishing how successful the result is."

Before I proceed any further with my recollections of Vanity Fair I think perhaps I might jog the reader's memory by a few reminiscences of the early days of that paper, which was almost the first paper which could be called a society journal. The Owl was the first to be published of that type, and out of this pioneer arose Vanity Fair. In those days the eager public paid a shilling for their weekly publications; and Vanity Fair was founded by Mr. Gibson Bowles (better known as "Tommy"), since a member of Parliament, and at that time the best editor the paper ever had. He had the gift of the right word in the right place; and it may be remarked that a dislike of Dickens prevented any quotations from that well-known author from entering the pages, and that he opposed the fashion of that period of alluding to a lady of title with the Christian name as a prefix.

Among the earliest contributors were the late Colonel Fred Burnaby and the late Captain Alexander Cockburn, a son of the late Chief Justice, Lady Desart, Lady Florence Dixie (who was editress at one time), and the late Mr. "Willie Wyllats." The latter, an even more brilliant writer than many of the rising men of that generation, also wrote for Vanity Fair at that period.

The caricatures in Vanity Fair were supplemented by very terse and extremely clever comments upon the lives of the subjects portrayed by the cartoonist. These were signed "Jehu, Junior," and were in themselves enough to attract the reader by their caustic wit.

Looking back to-day it is strange to read in the light of great events these miniature biographies of politicians now forgotten, of others who left their party to go over, of statesmen, of judges who sat on important cases and are now only remembered in connection with a trivial poisoner, an impostor in a claim, of careers then unproved but now shining clearly in the light of fame, and of others whose light is extinguished—all within so short a lapse of time.

In those days I stalked my man and caricatured him from memory. Many men I was unable to observe closely, and I was obliged to rely upon the accuracy of my eyesight, for distance sometimes lends an entirely fictitious appearance to the face. I listened to John Stuart Mill at a lecture on "Woman's Rights"; and then as he recited passages from his notes in a weak voice, it was made extremely clear that his pen was mightier than his personal magnetism upon a platform. A strange protuberance upon his forehead attracted me; and, the oddly-shaped skull dipping slightly in the middle, "the feminine philosopher" just escaped being bereft not only of his hair when I saw him, but of that highly important organ—the bump of reverence.

His nose resembled a parrot's, and his frame was spare. In fact, he was ascetic and thin-looking generally; but his manner and personality breathed charm and intellect.

With Anthony Trollope I was more fortunate, for my kind friend, Mr. James Virtue, the publisher, invited me to his charming house at Walton, where I was able to observe the novelist by making a close study of him from various points of view. We went a delightful walk together to St. George's Hill, and while Trollope admired the scenery, I noted the beauties of Nature in another way, committed those mental observations to my mental note-book, and came home to what fun I could get out of them.

The famous novelist was not in the least conscious of my eagle eye, and imagining I should let him down gently, Mr. Virtue did not warn him, luckily for me, for I had an excellent subject. When the caricature appeared, Trollope was furious, and naturally did not hesitate to give poor Virtue a "blowing-up," whereupon I in turn received a stiff letter from Mr. Virtue. It surprised me not a little, that he should take the matter so seriously; but for a time Mr. Virtue was decidedly "short" with me. Luckily, however, his displeasure only lasted a short period, for he was too genuinely amiable a man to let such a thing make a permanent difference to his ordinary behaviour.

I had portrayed Trollope's strange thumb, which he held erect whilst smoking, with his cigar between his first and second fingers, his pockets standing out on either side of his trousers, his coat buttoned once and then parting over a small but comfortable corporation. The letterpress on this occasion I consider was far more severe than my caricature, for I had not praised the books with faint damns as being "sufficiently faithful to the external aspect of English life to interest those who see nothing but its external aspects and yet sufficiently removed from all depth of humanity to conciliate all respected parents." Nor had I implied that "his manners are a little rough, as is his voice; but he is nevertheless extremely popular amongst his friends, while by his readers he is looked upon with gratitude due to one who has for so many years amused without ever shocking them. Whether this reputation would not last longer if he had shocked them occasionally, is a question which the bookseller of a future generation will be able to answer."

It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, for through this drawing I received an offer from Edmund Yates, who was then starting The World, to make a series of caricatures regularly for the forthcoming paper. My father, who was anxious for me to continue my more serious work of portraiture, advised me to do half the number requested by Yates. When Yates heard my decision he refused to consider a smaller number of contributions, and so the matter dropped. Previous to this I had illustrated a number of his lectures by drawings of celebrities, and I declined the extra work with some reluctance. Looking back, I see the excellence of my father's advice that I should not devote the whole of my time to work for reproductions, and I have often regretted that I did not give more time to my more serious work. I never realized that Vanity Fair might one day cease to exist for me, or that a period might arrive when, owing to the ever enlarging field of photography, that type of work would be no longer in such demand.

My father was himself a caricaturist of no mean order; and one of my most cherished possessions is a caricature which my father made of me as a child, drawn on the day before I returned to Eton after a holiday. In it I am represented as a most injured person, because a very callous conversation is being carried on in the face of the great tragedy of my life (at the moment), the ending of the holidays. Of course I caricatured my father in due time for Vanity Fair; and he was a delightful subject.

"For heaven's sake, don't let me down gently!" he said. And I didn't!

In consequence, friends complained of my want of respect, whereas my father regarded the drawing with amusement, for he could always appreciate a joke against himself.

Once, however, I remember an amusing incident in which for quite a long time he failed to see any humour. My mother and sister, with my father and me, were returning from some theatre, and we hailed a cab. Getting in, my father said "Home" to the cabby, whereupon the man replied, "Where, sir?" "Home," replied my father, a trifle louder. "Where, sir?" answered the cabby, his voice mounting one note higher in the scale. "Go home," cried my father, irascibly. Still the cab didn't move, and the expression on the face of the driver was a study. "Do you hear?" thundered my father. "No," replied the man. Then we came to the rescue.

But to return to the subject. Dr. Doran (whom I had caricatured shortly before in Vanity Fair) possessed the same delightful magnanimity as regards a joke against himself, and I really found that men of this type appreciated caricature. This drawing of my father's friend caused me extreme disappointment when it appeared, for during its manipulation by the lithographers it had suffered considerably. The original now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery, to which it was presented, I believe, by one of the trustees of that institution.

In January, 1873, the death of Lord Lytton (whose funeral I attended with my parents, as I had also been present at Thackeray's) led to my receiving a commission from Mr. Thomas, the editor of the Graphic. Mr. Thomas, knowing that I was acquainted with the great author, sent me a water-colour sketch of the Hall at Knebworth by old Mr. Macquoid (the father of Percy Macquoid), in which I was to place a figure of Lord Lytton. My introduction to the paper came through Luke Fildes, who, besides making the drawing of Charles Dickens's "Empty Chair" after his death, was then making the very interesting drawing of Napoleon III. on his deathbed. Small, Gregory and Herkomer also helped to make the Graphic, and I produced portrait drawings of celebrated people, including Miss Elizabeth Tompson, Disraeli, Sir John Cockburn, Millais, Gladstone and Leighton.

CHAPTER VI
CARICATURE

Cannot be taught.—Where I stalk.—The ugly man.—The handsome man.—Physical defects.—Warts.—Joachim Liszt and Oliver Cromwell.—Pellegrini, Millais and Whistler.—The characteristic portrait.—Taking notes.—Methods.—Photography.—Tattersall's.—Lord Lonsdale.—Lord Rocksavage.—William Gillette.—Mr. Bayard.—The bald man.—The humorous sitter.—Tyler.—Profiles.—Cavalry Officers.—The Queen's uniform.—My subjects' wives.—What they think.—Bribery.—Bradlaugh.—The Prince of Wales.—The tailor story.—Sir Watkin Williams Wynn.—Lord Henry Lennox.—Cardinal Newman.—The Rev. Arthur Tooth.—Dr. Spooner.—Comyns Carr.—Pigott.—"Piggy" Palk and "Mr. Spy."

During my long and varied career as a caricaturist, I have watched some of the great men of the century build their careers, and as men are often known, remembered and immortalized—especially abroad—by some idiosyncrasy selected by the capriciousness of time, so I shall always retain of certain characters odd, and even baffling, recollections.

The caricaturist, I am convinced, is born, not made. The facility which comes to some artists after long practice does not necessarily avail in this branch of art; for the power to see a caricature is in the eye of a beholder, and no amount of forcing the perceptions will produce the point of view of a genuine caricaturist. A good memory, an eye for detail, and a mind to appreciate and grasp the whole atmosphere and peculiarity of the "subject," are of course essentials … together, very decidedly, with a sense of humour.

I have met a considerable number of people, some interesting, amusing, extraordinary, and delightful, and some, but not many (I am glad to say), who, as subjects, were neither desirable nor delightful.

On the turf, in the Houses of Lords and Commons, in the Church, in Society, in the Law Courts—in fact, everywhere, I have hunted for my victim; and, in obedience to that inevitable eye with which I was presented at birth by my good (or bad, according to some people) fairy, I have found him in each and all of these places. At times I have followed the dictation of my own fancy, but more often I have been given a certain person or personage to stalk. Of course, not every one lends himself readily to the caricaturist, for the ideal subject is clearly one whose marked peculiarity of feature or carriage strikes at once the "note" which can be effectively seized and turned to account. The handsome man with perfect features and ideal limbs, but nothing exceptionally positive about him but his good looks, is sometimes, for example, a decidedly difficult subject. On the other hand, every one is caricaturable—in time, and when one knows him—whether on account of a swagger, a movement of the wrist, curious clothes, or of an oddly shaped and individual hat. So a longer acquaintance and a more extended opportunity for prolonged study renders even the beautiful man (or woman) at length a possible or even a very good subject. Here, however, the test of the caricaturist is revealed, for while there are many who can perceive and hit off the obvious superficial traits of those who present themselves as ready-made subjects, the genuine caricaturist combines a profound sense of character with such a gift of humour as will enable him to rise above the mere perception of idiosyncrasy or foible, and actually to translate into terms of comedy a psychological knowledge unsuspected by those who uncritically perceive and delight in the finished caricature.

The painfully ugly man who has some physical defect is almost as bad as the man with no specially named feature; for one does not wish to be malicious, and the portraying of physical defects is not a delight to the caricaturist. His object is rather to seize upon some absurd but amusing idiosyncrasy all unguessed by the subject himself, and very often by his friends, for we grow unobservant of everyday occurrence and familiar faces. But in spite of this, we must touch upon defects, because, for instance, sometimes an accident resulting in a twisted leg, a curious nose, an odd thumb, will not alter a man, but are so characteristic that to omit them would only draw attention to their presence. I could not have left out the cyst upon the forehead of John Stuart Mill, or the warts upon the faces of Liszt or Joachim. In the case of the latter I was profoundly disappointed when he grew a beard, for the warts upon his face were as marked as Cromwell's, and one was so accustomed to them that they seemed a part of the man.

In connection with this question of portraying a man "warts and all," I might cite the beautiful bust of Liszt by Boehm. Here the sculptor left out the warts, with, it seems to me, a failure of judgment which affects the importance of the bust as art as well as its importance as a true image of the subject. I do not mean that I should prefer such physical defects over-emphasized in a portrait, for that would be absurd. It is, however, essential that an artist should not be unduly sensitive about such blemishes. Imagine, for instance, how little we should recognize—and how little we should appreciate—such a bowdlerized or expurgated rendering of the oddly-marked face of Oliver Cromwell.

This reminds me of an early caricature of my own. It was drawn on paper with a flaw which the lithographer took for a wart; and in an excess of zeal the lithographer copied it minutely as such. The subject, whom I had drawn from memory, came to ask me for an explanation, saying, "My dear fellow, I may have other blemishes; but really I have not a wart!" I was obliged to explain that the flaw in the paper upon which I drew the original had only shown it in one light.

In the earlier days of Vanity Fair I was very often given subjects refused by Pellegrini. Bowles would say to him, "Now I want you to catch So-and-so," and Pellegrini would reply, "I don't like 'im. Send Ward—'e can run after 'im better." Thus it came about that I was sent off to stalk the undesirable subject because I was younger, and I was obliged of course to comply with the demands of the paper and pursue Pellegrini's uncaricaturable subjects. As an artist, Pellegrini's likes and dislikes were curious. He could find no beauty in a landscape, so he informed me, no matter how well depicted. Whistler's work he adored and Millais' he detested. He was a great personal friend of Whistler's, and, curiously enough, because Pellegrini's work was formerly greatly opposed to Whistler's, he spent a considerable time studying Whistler's method of painting and admiring his work. Pellegrini became so imbued with the great painter and his ideas that he determined to abandon caricature and give his attention to portrait painting. His intention was to outshine Millais, whom he found uncongenial as an artist, and whose work he prophesied would not survive a lifetime's popularity. One of his favourite recreations was to discuss Millais and his success in relation to himself when he had gained fame as a painter. One day, on this subject, after working himself up into his customary excitement, he twisted a piece of paper into a funnel-shaped roll, and said to me:—

"Now Millais' ambitions go in like this"—pointing to the big end, "and become this"—turning up the smaller end. "And mine begin small and go on...." Here he opened his arms as if to embrace the infinite.

When Pellegrini partially abandoned caricature and took up portraiture he attempted to become a master of painting too soon, and, inspired by Whistler's facility, imagined that it would be easy to overcome very quickly the difficulties of a lifetime. Occasionally, of course, he succeeded legitimately, as in the case of "Gillie"³ Farquhar; but, generally speaking, if Pellegrini had a sitter who was an admirable subject for caricature, he was unconsciously liable to put what he saw into his portrait. His successes were great; he was undoubtedly—when he had a "sympathetic" subject, a genius in caricature. That pleasure, or sympathy, is one of the main elements in the success of a caricaturist. Just as a subject may offer great temperamental difficulties, so it frequently happens that—for some inexplicable reason—he will at once afford an opening which a practised caricaturist will know immediately how to turn to account. It is this element of chance which lends a charming uncertainty to the caricaturist's art; and it is this element also which explains in many cases the strange success or failure of an impression, the apparent fluctuations of an artist's talent in preserving a likeness or translating a personality into terms of comedy. Thus it often happened that I was fortunate in my own choice of a man, and thus, on the other hand, that when I was sent off in a hurry to seize the peculiarities of a man, I found he required a great deal of study, and so was obliged to leave out the caricature and put as many characteristics in as I could.

The "characteristic portrait," although without the same qualities as the caricature, is sometimes more successful with one type of man. Nature is followed more accurately, the humour is there, if there is humour in the subject, and the work is naturally more artistic in touch and finish, and probably a better drawing in consequence. The caricature done from memory is wider in scope; one is not distracted from the general impression by the various little fascinations of form one finds in closer study. In fact, I consider that in order that the cartoon should have a perfect result, it must be drawn firstly from memory. Of course, little details and characteristics can be memorised by a thumb-nail sketch, or notes upon one's shirt cuff, and for this reason I usually watch my subject all the time. I make notes, keeping him under observation and making the note at the same time. The sketch made in these circumstances is frequently useless in consequence; but it seems to impress upon my brain the special trait I have noticed.

My caricatures were often the result of hours of continual attempts, watching my subject as he walked or drove past me, or if he were a clergyman, as he preached, again and again. Before I pleased myself I would make elusive sketches, feeling, as it were, my way to the impression I had formed of him. At other times I was lucky, and the aid of inspiration led to almost instantaneous results.

A difficulty which caused me considerable trouble was the reproduction of my work. In early caricatures I frequently aimed at a result which, recognized, would not survive the process of reproduction, and so I was compelled to destroy the sketch; later in life my work became firmer and thus enabled the copyist to produce a better result. Pellegrini seldom failed in his precision of touch, and was equally careful to preserve a clean line, for he traced his first work carefully on to the final pages to ensure a good outline.

It is extraordinary how deeply-rooted the idea is that a big head and miniature body makes a caricature, whereas, of course, it does not in the least. I suppose the delusion is the result of suggestion from without, from sporting papers and such-like publications. I have had drawings sent to me, and photographs and drawings copied from photographs, requesting that I should convey my opinions of them to a tiny imaginary body, in the case of an author the head to be supported by one hand, with a book of poems or a novel in the other. In all cases I was obliged to refuse because—except in the case of a posthumous portrait—I never draw anybody from a photograph or without having seen and carefully studied them. (There is only one exception to this rule, drawn at the request of Vanity Fair.) For the great point I always try to seize is the indefinable and elusive characteristic (not always physical but influencing the outward appearance), which produces the whole personal impression of a man. Now a photograph may give you his clothes, but it cannot extend to you this personal influence. It is accurate, hard, and set. When I have not been required to make a caricature I may have a sitting, and make a drawing, which is perhaps interesting to the uninitiated, but to me impossible, because I have not illuminated that impression by the inspiration I have received. So I tear it up and try again—sometimes over and over again. Frequently one requires several sittings before one becomes familiar with one's subject, for different days and varying moods lend entirely different aspects to the same face. As a result one becomes, as it were, en rapport with the subject before one. A first sitting, as far as actual execution goes, counts for nothing; occasionally my editor has said to me—"Keep to the caricature;" but when in the attempt to obey I have made the drawing, I have frequently lost not only portrait and caricature but also the spontaneity as well. Often when I have finished my work, I feel I should like to do it all again, for, although a general impression is in many cases the best, as a result of more frequent sittings we see characteristic within characteristic.