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.
[Illustration: J. REDMOND, M.P.
1904.]
[Illustration: THE SPEAKER
(J. W. LOWTHER, M.P.).
1906.]
[Illustration: BONAR LAW, M.P.
1905.]
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.
The face of the man who lives or studies indoors is usually more
difficult to portray than the features of the one who is very much in
the open air, because the hardening effect of constant or very
frequent out of door exposure produces more decided lines. Just as a
soldier who has seen a campaign or two on active service begins to
show signs of wear, so his face grows in interest, and the furrows
more distinct; and in the same way an old admiral is more interesting
than a young sailor whose face as yet wears no history. So it is with
the weather-beaten hunting-man and the traveller with weather-beaten
countenance.
Tattersall's was a great field for me, for there is something quite
distinctive in the dress and gait of the truly horsey man, which lends
itself to caricature.
Lord Lonsdale, for instance, is quite a type, and I studied him
entirely there. He was, and is, a delightful subject, and the drawing
eventually fetched a considerable sum in the sale of _Vanity Fair_
drawings at Christie's. Again one of my most successful caricatures
was that of Lord Rocksavage (Lord Cholmondeley) as the result of
Sunday afternoon studies at Tattersall's. Americans show a good deal
of the open-air quality to which I have alluded. I suppose the effect
of climate and the method of heating rooms "across the pond" produces
that parchment-like complexion, and the strongly-marked features of
many typical American faces. I found William Gillette (as Sherlock
Holmes) very interesting to draw in consequence; but then, of course,
I must say he is an exceptional American or are they all exceptional?
So it was in the case of the American Ambassador, Mr. Bayard, who had
accentuated features, overhanging eyebrows, and deeply set eyes. He
had a peculiar charm of manner, but was terribly deaf. Shortly after
arriving in London, he was a guest at the Mansion House at a dinner
given to representatives of Art and Literature, and was invited to
speak. He did, but one thought he would never sit down. Having been
greatly applauded at one period of his speech, this gave him an
impetus to go on, but the guests grew wearied and restless, and in
consequence, rattled their glasses and clattered their knives and
forks. Mr. Bayard, who was really saying delightful things, took this
for applause and continued his speech indefinitely. Afterwards, the
Lady Mayoress, remarking upon the unfortunate incident, said to me, "I
am ashamed of those of my guests who behaved so badly during the
Ambassador's speech. I do hope you were not one of them." I was glad
to be able to assure her of my innocence, and that I was too engrossed
in Mr. Bayard's appearance to follow very closely his speech.
My best subjects are those who possess the greatest possibilities of
humour. I divide human nature into two classes (as a caricaturist, I
mean), those who are funny and those who are not. People say to me
sometimes, "So-and-so has a big nose--suppose you make it bigger," or
words to that effect. My reply is that a big nose made even bigger,
need not in itself be funny. The bald man usually insists upon keeping
on his hat, forgetting that his bald head contains a good deal in it,
is frequently much more interesting than a well-covered cranium, and
is nothing to be ashamed of.
The knowledge of human nature, of the foibles, and vanities of man
that come with one's study of caricature is extraordinary, one does
not come to know a man until he becomes a model for the time being and
disports himself in a variety of ways according to his character,
temperament, or personality.
[Illustration: HENRY KEMBLE. 1907.]
[Illustration: H. BEERBOHM TREE. 1890.]
[Illustration: GERALD DU MAURIER. 1907.]
WILLIAM GILLETT [Illustration: (_Sherlock Holmes_). 1907.]
There is the man one does not dare caricature in his presence, but
contents oneself with studying and noting carefully; and the man one
thinks one dare caricature and finds to one's surprise that he takes
offence; and the man who comes and says, "So-and-so is splendid, you
must do him. D'you know old Tommy What's-his-name? he's capital now,
ain't he?" and seeing one observing him, "Now I myself, for instance,
I've nothing peculiar about me. If you were to caricature me, my
friends wouldn't recognize me." Then there is another type who comes
to the studio and dictates as to the style of work one must adopt in a
particular caricature; and yet another to whom nature has been unkind,
and whom one lets down easily because one has a feeling of compassion,
as I have said, for people so burdened through no fault of their own.
One no longer feels surprise when they say, roaring with laughter,
"Very funny, and haven't you been hard on me!... but still it's not
bad as a joke!"
Others are very amusing; they come to my studio and settle themselves
down as though they were at the photographer's, then suddenly exclaim,
"Oh! I forgot. The photographer tells me this is my worst side, I must
turn the other towards you if you don't mind." I then thanked him for
the tip, as it was the worst I preferred; on one occasion a well-known
fighting Colonel who went by the nickname of "Pug" (being so like one)
called at my studio to see his caricature which he had been told was
very like him. He asked where it was. I said, "On the mantelpiece,"
which he had already scanned. "No! No!" he uttered; "that is not me.
No one could possibly take that for me. I was called 'Bull Dog' in my
regiment" (but he was better known as "Pug") "and that thing couldn't
possibly fight. You know it yourself. For heaven's sake do me full
face." As there was no getting rid of him I was compelled, with a soft
heart, to obey; and as I thought I saw a tear in his eye I drew him
again. He was much relieved, but I wasn't. In the first caricature I
had put the "Pug's" tail on to the crook of his stick which he held
behind him, as it so much resembled one. After this I had to keep the
profile drawing from publication. But the sensations one experiences
on realizing one's profile for the first time, are certainly
appalling. When I was a boy I never examined my features at all, I
just accepted myself, and got used to seeing my face in the glass as I
brushed my hair, and it did not strike me as being specially
offensive; I wished, I must say, that nature had been more generous,
but my wishes did not worry me or verge into vague longings after
extreme beauty, nor did the sight of myself alarm me until one day I
went to my tailor's, where the mirrors were many and large, with a
clever arrangement enabling the customer to view himself _en profile_.
In the course of the interview a personal view of my coat from the
side was required, and gazing into the mirror I glimpsed a sudden
impression of my face from the side.
I left the shop, extremely depressed, for I came to the rapid
conclusion _I looked the sort of person sideways that I should have
disliked if I had known him_.
It is sad to think few men know their own profile. I once had some
very unpleasant moments with a cavalry officer owing to our difference
of opinion as to the contour of his legs, and the set of his
trousers. He came to my studio looking rather like a musical comedy
colonel (although he was a soldier to the backbone), very smart with
his perfectly tailored clothes, very tight trousers, immaculate shoes
and very well groomed throughout, very typical of the sort of man an
actor would delight in as a model. His entrance to my studio was just
as full of dash, with great eclat he gave himself into my hands,
saying, "Do what you like with me, I don't mind anything. Have a good
old shot at me just for a joke--I'm a bit of a caricaturist myself."
After standing a little while he grew tired, and as is frequently the
case, self-conscious, and began to wonder why he came, and in
consequence became rather depressed. A spell of fidgeting seized him,
and he expressed a desire to see the drawing, which I informed him was
against the rules.
"Oh, damn it all, let's have a look," he expostulated, and to keep him
quiet I was obliged to show him my work.
"Hang it, I didn't come here to be made a pigmy of!" he shouted.
"You'd better put a bit on the legs--they're not like that!"
It was getting near lunch time, so I went on working for another five
minutes or so, when presently he wanted to look again. Remonstrating,
I said, "You'll spoil the drawing if you keep on interrupting."
But he insisted upon another glance to reassure himself; this time he
was angry.
"I'm not coming here to have the Queen's uniform insulted!" and
looking deeper into the drawing: "and my nose doesn't turn round the
corner like that."
I expostulated, and presently he stood once more. After the same brief
interval he bounced over again.
"I won't have the Queen's uniform ridiculed. My ears are not so large
as that--you must cut a bit off them...."
At this I retired to the sofa, tired out, and determined to settle my
recalcitrant soldier.
"Look here," I began, "I didn't ask you here to teach me my business.
I really can't continue under your instructions."
"Oh, very well," he said, changing his tone, "I'm sure we're both
hungry, and I think you'd better come with me and have a bit of lunch
at my club, and we'll settle this after."
I agreed, thinking perhaps he had been out of humour. We had an
excellent lunch and parted good friends. Before leaving he said, "I
have no doubt you'll see there was something in my suggestion, and
I'll come again to-morrow."
I finished the drawing, without further discussion, but he did not
leave my studio looking quite happy, and he carefully ascertained
before getting the address of the lithographers who were going to
reproduce the drawing. I heard afterwards that he lost very little
time in paying them a visit and begging them to cut a considerable
piece off the ears, which they informed him was impossible as they had
no right of alterations, and it would be quite against their
principles.
An officer in my unhappy subject's regiment said to me afterwards,
that the result was greatly appreciated at Aldershot, but that they
were all greatly disappointed to find that I had flattered him!
My caricatures are frequently described as "gross" by the wife who is
hurt by the pencil that points a joke at her husband's peculiarities;
or she says, "Why don't you do my husband as you did So-and-so!"
(referring to a decided and unsparing caricature). I have been described
as unkind; or sometimes when, carried away by a fascinating subject, I
have perhaps not sufficiently controlled my pencil, I have been accused
of "brutality." The truth is that in working one may not intend anything
personal, or for one moment imagine any one could take the result
seriously; but the finished work, made with a detailed, and possibly
inhuman devotion to one's own conception, strikes the beholder in a mood
entirely different. Very few of those who admire a caricature realize
that its satire lies, not in any personal venom, but in the artist's
detached observation of life and character. In the early days of _Vanity
Fair_ people viewed caricature as something entirely new, and in the
light of this novelty viewed it in the right spirit; later they grew
particular, and, as they frequently paid (from which I did not benefit),
an entirely new type of subject came to me; it was as though a spirit of
commercialism crept between me and my sitters.
[Illustration: FIFTH EARL OF PORTSMOUTH,
1876.]
[Illustration: MAJOR OSWALD AMES (OZZIE).
1896.]
[Illustration: EARL OF LONSDALE.
1879.]
A subject whom I strongly caricatured, pleased me by saying when
introduced to him, "No man is worth _that_ (snapping his fingers) if
he can't join in a laugh against himself."
I remember going to lunch with a very rich man (for the purpose of
studying him), who would insist on looking at my rough notes in spite
of my protestations to the effect that they were only notes, not
drawings. He became highly incensed.
"I may be stoutish," he exclaimed, "but I'm not a fat, dumpish figure
like that. Now wouldn't it be a good and a new idea if you were to
make me different. You see my friends know me as a short, round man,
it would be so funny and quite a novelty if you were to make me tall
and thin. Now you think it well over--it would be quite a departure in
caricature."
I intimated that I thought the idea was rather far-fetched and that it
was possible that his friends would prefer him as nature had made him.
"If you want to please me, you must make me tall," he said. "I'll come
to your studio and pay you a visit and perhaps buy some of your
work--if you satisfy me in this respect."
I told him I was not accustomed to be bribed in that manner and wished
I had not accepted his hospitality. There are people who think they
can do anything by bribery. They call at one's studio, and hint that
one shall paint a portrait of them and go as far as to point out how
it shall be done, and what the price shall be. Others, when one has
done a mere drawing of them, imagine that they have been tremendously
caricatured and complain bitterly.
If it had not been a question of time and money, I would not have
encouraged sitters in my studio at all. When I became pressed for
time, however, it was impossible to seek my subjects, especially when,
with the exception of men of definite public position, I was not
always sure of finding them. One interesting point in connection with
the men whom one finds only in such places as the House of Commons, is
the fact that one is then at the mercy of the lighting of the
building. This frequently accounts for bad portraits and
unrecognizable caricatures, for lighting falsifies extraordinarily.
Of course I had innumerable sitters who were delightful in every way,
and many who, if they were peculiar, were otherwise good sorts; but I
am chiefly concerned at this moment with the strange stories of the
exceptional cases that have astonished me from time to time. A
peculiarity of some of my sitters in which I have rarely found an
exception, is as to their professed ability to stand. I do not like to
tire my sitters, and I usually tell them I am afraid they will find a
position wearisome, which they deny, telling me at the same time that
standing for hours is not in the least tedious to them. Half an hour
goes by--and they start to sigh and fidget, and presently give in, and
finally confess they had not expected it to be such an ordeal--and
always with the air of having remarked something entirely original. I
have noticed, too, the brightness of step with which my sitters enter
my studio, and, after a long sitting, the revived brightness brought
about by the mention of lunch.
Bradlaugh, who was a willing subject, asked me upon entering my studio
rather breezily whether I wished him to stand upon "'is 'ead or 'is
'eels," so he quite appreciated the situation.
There are people who become nervous about their clothes. I have known
a peer object to spats because they did not look nice in a picture.
One man who was a noted dandy grew very concerned about his trousers.
After making innumerable efforts to persuade him to stand still, I was
obliged to wait while he explained about his clothes.
"My trousers are usually perfect, and without a crease," he said,
bending to look at them, while he bagged out the knees and found
creases in every direction. The more creases he saw the more concerned
he became and looked at them in grieved surprise as though he had
never seen them before.
A sitter who worried over his clothes came to me in the form of a
gentleman from Islington, who wore the most extraordinary trousers,
for which he continually apologized, and seemed quite oblivious of the
fact that I was drawing him in profile. Every other moment he would
turn full face to me with some remark ending with another apology for
his trousers (which reminded me of the first Lord Lytton's, they were
so wide at the foot).
"Please remember I am drawing you in profile," I would interject
occasionally, as he turned his face to me, and each time he would try
to remember, apologize for his nether garments, and his forgetfulness,
raising his hat and bowing to me at every apology. Why he was so
conscious of his clothes I do not know, unless he found their cut
necessary to Islington.
_A propos_ of clothes. After being at Tattersall's one day, I went
with Mr. Sterling Stuart to lunch, and afterwards we proceeded to his
dressing-room to choose a suit which he was to wear when I drew his
caricature. As he gave me a free hand I found one which attracted my
eye immediately; it was an old tweed with a good broad, brown stripe,
and I felt there was no question to which was the best for my purpose.
He appeared the next day in my studio looking the pink of perfection,
and as I surveyed him I suddenly realized with dismay that his
trousers did not match the incomparable coat. I drew his attention to
what I imagined was an oversight.
"Well, my boy! do you think," he said, "that the man who built that
coat could have lived to build the trousers too?"
[Illustration: THE REV. R. J. CAMPBELL.
1904.]
[Illustration: STERLING STUART
(_The Hatter_)
1904.]
[Illustration: FATHER BERNARD VAUGHAN.
1907.]
Not long after my cartoon of the Prince of Wales appeared, I was
passing by a tailor's shop and I saw a reproduction in the window.
Feeling slightly curious as to its exact object there, I went to look,
and on closer examination found that the ingenious tailor was using it
as a form of advertisement, and underneath was written:--
"The very best coat that I've seen the Prince wear
Was drawn by the artist of _Vanity Fair_."
The sensitiveness of people with a tendency towards corpulency is also
at times provocative of trouble. Sir Watkins William Wynn, who sat for
me on one occasion, was quite a portly old gentleman, and, presumably
in order to conceal his stoutness from my notice, he buttoned his coat
before taking up his position. As an inevitable result, a number of
well marked creases made their appearance in the region of his
watch-chain, and these I naturally included in my drawing. When he
subsequently saw the latter he refused at first to believe that so
many creases existed, but after I had finally convinced him of their
presence he went straight off to his tailor's and bestowed the blame
on him. No doubt the tailor profited in the long run; however, I
fancy, as a matter of fact, that I have been of service to a good many
tailors in my time. For many of the notabilities I have cartooned
seemed altogether unaware of their habilatory shortcomings till they
were confronted with them in my drawings.
Self-conceit is the keynote of the story of a noble lord who called
upon me at my studio with a view to my "putting him in _Vanity Fair_."
I was very busy at the time, and had consequently to suggest the
postponing his appointment till a later hour, whereupon he took great
offence and refused to return at all. But I was determined he should
not escape me, and I took the opportunity at an evening party to study
him thoroughly. When his caricature appeared he was so chagrined that
he dyed his hair, which was white, to a muddy brown, in order that he
should not be recognized.
An old gentleman of great position in the world who came to my studio,
had a very red nose. After the sitting, as he was leaving, he said
rather shyly:--
"I hope you will not be too generous with your carmine, as it might
give the public a wrong impression, and it is an unfortunate fact that
both my grandfathers, my father, and myself all have had red noses,
and all are total abstainers."
Another subject was restless to a degree, and walked about the room
instead of permitting me to draw him.
"Hope you won't keep me very long," he said, "I'm never still for a
moment, I'm always walking about my room. You'd better do me with a
book in my hand as though I were dictating to my clerk."
I was rather disconcerted, for this was not to be a caricature, but a
characteristic portrait.
"But," I said, "your friends won't know you so. Anyway, go on
walking."
I made little notes as I watched him, and after he had been walking
some time I began to hope that he would be getting tired, when he
stopped short and said:--
"No! You'd better do me with my hand on my waistcoat."
"Very well," I replied, "we'll begin again."
In this position I began a drawing of him, when he decided it would
not do.
"Oh, well," I said, "sometimes you sit down, don't you? And it seems
to me a very natural thing to do. Suppose I draw you that way?"
Mark Twain was another subject who came under the category of the
"walkers." I had a good deal of difficulty in getting hold of him, but
when I eventually caught him at his hotel, I found him decidedly
impatient.
"Now you mustn't think I'm going to sit or stand for you," he told me,
"for once I am up I go on."
The whole time I watched him he paced the room like a caged animal,
smoking a very large calabash pipe and telling amusing stories. The
great humorist wore a white flannel suit and told me in the course of
conversation that he had a dress suit made all in white which he wore
at dinner-parties. He had just taken his Honorary Degree at Oxford,
and he rather wanted to put his gown on, but I preferred to "do" him
in the more characteristic and widely-known garb. He struck me as
being a very sensitive man, whose nervous pacings during my interview
were the result of a highly strung temperament. The only pacifying
influence seemed to be his enormous pipe which he never ceased to
smoke.
When I think of all the good stories I have missed when I have been
studying these really humorous people, I regret that my attention must
be centred on my work regardless of the delightful personalities which
sometimes it has been my good fortune to meet.
I should like to be able to wind up my sitters like mechanical toys,
to be amusing to order. What a lot of trouble it would save!
A clever amateur caricaturist once wanted me to paint his portrait,
and during his sittings gave me his views upon caricature. He informed
me that he had no compunction whatever in doing a caricature upon the
physical defects of his subjects, and that if, for instance, a man had
... well ... a decidedly large stomach, he would not hesitate to
increase it.
After several sittings I made one of the best drawings and
characteristic portraits I have ever done, as he appealed to me as a
subject, for he was individual in his dress, and his hat had a
character which is rare nowadays.
But during the progress of the work, he was self-conscious and
awkward, which is a result curious in a man who had a clever gift of
caricature, himself. However, I did not exaggerate my work to the
extent of producing a caricature, and gave him more credit than to
expect me to flatter him. But it seemed that I expressed his bulk more
truthfully than was tactful, for it appeared he had undergone a
dieting process and considered himself quite sylph-like in
consequence. When the drawing was in the hands of the lithographers I
went down to see the proof, and to my surprise this man turned up. He
appeared to be very friendly, shook hands, and expressed the usual
polite banalities. I was a trifle puzzled, but I heard afterwards that
he went to the office the next day with his lawyer to look at the
drawing, and said to him:--
"Don't you consider this to be a most offensive caricature of me?" (He
imagined I was intending to insult him.)
This resulted in publication being forbidden, whereupon the
lithographers informed him that the drawing was already finished, and
all the expense of reproduction incurred. He accordingly paid what was
necessary, and it was never published, so I heard no more of the
matter.
Some time after I met his medical adviser, whom I told of this
extraordinary hallucination as to my intentions. He appeared amused.
"Oh!" he said, "he is really a very good fellow; but it's been a mania
with him to reduce his stomach, and he was under the impression that
he'd succeeded."
My methods of studying my subjects vary considerably, and the most
successful of my caricatures have been without exception those which
were made without the knowledge of the persons portrayed. After all,
this is nothing more than natural, for by watching a man unawares one
more successfully catches his little tricks of manner, and to some
extent his movements, all of which are carefully concealed when he
comes in the guise of a complacent sitter to the studio. And so, for
the purpose of frank caricature, one prefers to rely upon memory.
I have spent such a considerable time in public places of interest
that I fear I am quite well known to the police. Not infrequently I
have been detected in the act of obtaining my victims (by the pen),
for I discovered the following account in a newspaper: "An amusing
incident occurred one evening in the House of Commons Lobby in
connection with the caricaturist and a victim. I had seen 'Spy'
silently and patiently stalking a new member (Mr. Keir Hardie) with a
striking and tempting personality. The new member, however, was
nervous, having apparently an instinctive idea that he was being
pursued, for he moved restlessly about, casting suspicious glances all
round him. An evening or two after I was surprised to see 'Spy' and
his victim engaged in a friendly conversation, the artist taking
advantage of the opportunity to examine every detail of face and
figure. It seems that the new member thought he recognized a friend in
his pursuer, and not knowing what he was after, he went up to him
feeling that he had found refuge, and that here at least was one man
who did not want to sketch him. I need hardly say that 'Spy' took full
advantage of the chase, and not long after this the victim appeared in
_Vanity Fair_."
That reminds me of the time when Lord Henry Lennox came up to me in
the Lobby.
"My dear," he said in his usual characteristic manner, "you see that
little man over there--I detest him--he caricatured me and made me
appalling."
He took a violent dislike to Pellegrini, who had seized upon his
obvious stoop with a wonderful touch, and converted it into one of his
finest caricatures.
Cardinal Newman quite unconsciously placed me in rather an awkward
dilemma. At the time when I was anxious to stalk him I heard he was in
Birmingham; so I went to Euston Station, and had actually bought my
railway ticket when suddenly I caught sight of his Eminence upon the
platform. Here was an opportunity not to be missed! I saw him go into
the buffet and followed him. He sat down at a small table and ordered
soup. I took a seat opposite and ordered food also, studying him
closely while he partook of it. But I was not altogether satisfied,
and I felt anxious to see him again. So I travelled down to
Birmingham, and on the following day I called at the Oratory and asked
one of the priests there at what time the Cardinal was likely to go
out. Evidently, in spite of my protests, the priest concluded that I
wanted an audience with Cardinal Newman, for saying that he would
apprize him of my visit, he disappeared. My object had been to perfect
my former study by a further glimpse; and a personal interview was
really the last thing I desired. There was accordingly nothing left
for me but to bolt!
[Illustration: CANON LIDDON.
1876.]
[Illustration: CARDINAL NEWMAN.
1877.]
[Illustration: THE DEAN OF WINDSOR (WELLESLEY).
1876.]
My most comical search was probably one in which I was assisted by Mr.
Gibson Bowles. It took place in Holloway Gaol. The Rev. Arthur Tooth,
"the Man of the Mount," and that most celebrated ritualist, was in
durance vile.
"Awkward," said Mr. Bowles, "but we must certainly have him. Let me
see.... I'm the Secretary to the Persian Relief Fund.... Come along,
Ward."
What possible connection could exist between the Persian Relief Fund
and the Rev. Arthur Tooth I failed utterly to see, but apparently Mr.
Bowles made the authorities at Holloway see it, for we got safely
through, and I had the unique experience of observing the Reverend
gentleman as he posed behind the bars.
I found Mr. Bowles an invaluable second when studying my subjects, he
was so thoroughly a man of the world and withal so tactful and
resourceful that I was glad when we worked in company. It was a great
help for me, and I was able to employ my attention in observing while
he took the responsibility of conversations and entertainment of the
subject entirely off my hands. Sometimes I disconcerted my friends,
who were all unaware of the promptings of the caricaturist's
conscience. I was walking down St. James' Street one day with a friend
discussing the subjects of the day with easy equanimity when I saw
Brodrick the Warden of Merton (whom I had been hoping to catch for
weeks). I suddenly grew quite excited, and, seeing him turn a corner,
I rushed on in pursuit. My friend begged me to desist, and, finding me
deaf to his entreaties, left me. I followed Mr. Brodrick into a shop,
had one long look at him, and went home to complete a caricature that
came with immediate success.
On occasions, disguise has been necessary for a "complete stalk"--when
I was endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of Doctor Spooner (known to
fame as the creator of Spoonerisms), I started by means of
masquerading as a student in cap and gown, and as the renowned
gentleman's sight was very bad indeed, he was a pretty safe man to
tackle. My methods were, of course, well known to the real
undergraduates who aided me to the best of their ability; but on this
occasion one student in the front row nearly gave me away. Suddenly
turning round in the middle of the lecture, he inquired in a loud
stage whisper, "How are you getting on?"
"Hush! He'll see," I remonstrated.
"Oh!" exclaimed the undergraduate, "that's all right if he does. I'll
tell him you're my guv'nor!"
Mr. Comyns Carr, an old and valued friend of mine, always divided my
work into two classes, one of which he was pleased to term the
"_beefs_" and the other the "_porks_." He begged me, when I was
painting his own cartoon, to put him among the "porks." I promised I
would and did my best to prevent his face from becoming too florid.
But apparently my labours were in vain, or else the lithographers
failed me, for after the drawing was published, Comyns Carr greeted me
at the club with the words, "Oh, Leslie! I'm among the 'beefs' after
all!"
I regretted the fact, but unfortunately the fault was not mine. The
reproduction was limited to the number of colours, so that there was
no happy medium for the lithographers; if the reproducers wanted a
florid effect, the face appeared red all over, if the drawing was a
"pork" with a red rose in his coat and a faint colour in his cheeks,
they made the face all red and used the same colour for the rose.
OXFORD DONS.
[Illustration: DR JOWITT
(_Master of Balliol_).
1876.]
[Illustration: DR SPOONER
(_Dean, New College_).
1898.]
[Illustration: PROFESSOR ROBINSON ELLIS
(Professor of Latin).
1894.]
One of the difficulties of my position as a caricaturist for a
newspaper came home to me on the occasion of the visit to my studio of
a Queen's Messenger.
I was extremely busy at the time, and was, luckily for me, quite
unable to accede to his request that I should immediately make a
drawing of him, as he was shortly to appear in _Vanity Fair_. Making
an appointment for the next day he took his departure. I _called_ upon
my editor on the following day, and while in conversation I remembered
my engagement, and breaking it off suddenly, prepared to go.
"Who is your sitter?" said he.
I referred to the gentleman in question, who I imagined had been sent
to me from my editor.
"I won't have that man. I have made no arrangement. He's been
bothering me to put him in for years."
"What shall I do then?" I said. "This is very awkward for me."
"Tell him we've got too many Queen's Messengers already."
I hurried off and found my poor rejected sitter waiting with a thick
stick, the presence of which he began to explain before I could make
my apologies to him. He told me that he had bought the weapon, not in
self-defence, or with an idea of attack, but because he thought it was
most characteristic of him.
I then had to interrupt him with my excuses which was a most
disagreeable task.
"Oh," he said, "that's only an excuse for not putting me in. I see
it."
He flushed very red and showed a little temper, for he had been
endeavouring for some time to be placed upon the list of subjects in
_Vanity Fair_ and without success.
After some discussion, during which, in some sympathy with his
annoyance, I anxiously watched the stick, he slunk out of the studio
with an air greatly different from the spruce and upright demeanour of
his arrival.[4]
An awkward predicament in which I was the innocent arbitrator came
about through a very gross caricature by another artist (I do not
remember whom) of Mr. Pigott the censor of plays and a very old
friend; I believe it was unpleasant, for he wrote to me and said he
wished he had been put in my hands. I do not know whether I am wrong
in saying so, but it was rather odd his writing to ask my advice, for
he was strongly in favour of suing _Vanity Fair_ for libel. At all
events I called upon him and advised him to ignore the matter. He
reassured me by saying, "Well, I've already come to that conclusion
myself since writing my letter. I've seen my solicitors who gave me
the same advice, but I still wish I'd been done by you."
A friend of mine came to me once and said, "You simply must make a
drawing of 'Piggy' Palk, he's such a splendid subject--have you ever
seen him? I'm sure if you had you couldn't resist making a caricature
of him."
"Very well," I said. "Give me an opportunity of meeting him--what's he
like?"
"I must introduce you to him first, we'll get up a little dinner--he
shall be there--at the Raleigh Club. We'll introduce you as 'Mr.
Spy'--don't forget that he wears an eyeglass, because he's nothing
without it."
When the evening came I was placed on the opposite side of the table
to the young man, where I had a good opportunity of studying his
features, which were diminutive, with the exception of his ears which
were enormous. I waited and waited for the eyeglass to appear (for as
my friend had truly said, his face was nothing without it), and
finally got up from dinner full of disappointment. There were several
other guests who were quite aware of my identity, and all attempted to
help me in my object, but without success, a fact which created no
little amusement among us.
My host pressed his friend to join our party in his rooms, and
"Piggy," as his friends called him, to my horror, said that he had
another engagement; when, however, he was informed that there would be
attractive young ladies among the party, he altered his mind. On
arriving we were received by these charming ladies, who contributed to
the evening's fun by entering very completely into the open secret of
my visit. We had a piano and plenty of fun and chaff, and under cover
of the evening's amusement I took in "Piggy" Palk. I was introduced to
the most attractive of the ladies and enlisted her services on my
behalf over the eyeglass. My friend at once introduced "Piggy" to her,
and she induced him to produce the eyeglass. After some preliminary
conversation she began:
"Oh, Lord Haldon, I see you have an eyeglass, do you ever wear it?
Sometimes an eyeglass improves a man's appearance immensely, I should
like to see how you look in one."
"Oh, yes," he said, "I sometimes wear it!" And so he put it into his
right eye.
"Yes, it suits you very well. You don't make such faces as some people
do in wearing it."
He was flattered.
"Now I'd just love to see if you look as nice with it in the left
eye."
The obedient young man, mollified by her flattery, did all he was
told, while I made good use of my eyes, and the company were becoming
so hilarious that they could hardly conceal their merriment while the
girl went on.
"It's really wonderful how effective it is, and how it suits you
equally in either eye."
Thinking he had made an impression, "Piggy" took her into a corner and
made himself most fascinating, assiduously retaining the eyeglass all
the time.
"He seems to be getting on very well," said one of the guests to me,
in an undertone.
[Illustration: LORD HALDON, 1882.]
I was about to reply when Lord Haldon turned to me and said:--
"Do you know, 'Mr. Spy,' that it's very bad manners to whisper?"
So addressing myself to the lady, I offered my humble apologies and
regrets for my forgetfulness (much to her amusement).
When the caricature appeared he wondered "who the fellow was who had
seen him," and tried to remember when it was he had worn lilies of the
valley in his dress coat. I wonder he did not suspect "Mr. Spy."