Wellington visits the effigy of the dead Napoleon, and sits
to Sir George Hayter for historic picture--Paintings from
models--Is the photograph “taken from life,” or----?
Wellington gazing upon the effigy of Napoleon is one of the many
instances of a really fine picture being produced from an original work
executed in our studios. Upon it hangs an interesting story.
[Illustration: WELLINGTON VISITING THE EFFIGY OF NAPOLEON
From the celebrated picture by Sir George Hayter.]
Early one morning, soon after the Exhibition had been opened for the day,
Joseph, Madame Tussaud’s son, who had been wandering through the rooms,
as was his habit, perceived an elderly gentleman in front of the tableau
representing the lying-in-state of Napoleon I.
The model of the dead exile rested--as it does down to this very day--on
the camp bedstead used by Napoleon at St. Helena, and was dressed in
the favourite green uniform, the cloak worn at Marengo (bequeathed by
Napoleon to his son) lying across the feet. In the hands, crossed upon
the chest, was a crucifix. In those days it was the custom to lower at
night the curtains that enclosed the bed, in order to exclude the dust,
whereas now the whole scene is encased in glass.
Observing that the visitor was desirous of seeing the effigy, and no
attendant being at hand, Joseph Tussaud raised the hangings, whereupon
the visitor removed his hat, and, to his great surprise, Joseph saw that
he was face to face with none other than the great Duke of Wellington
himself.
There stood his Grace, contemplating with feelings of mixed emotions the
strange and suggestive scene before him.
On the camp bed lay the mere presentment of the man who, seven-and-thirty
years before, had given him so much trouble to subdue.
No feeling of triumph passed through the conqueror’s mind as he looked
upon the poor waxen image, too true in its aspect of death; he rather
thought upon the vanity of earthly triumphs, of the levelling hand of
time, and how soon he, like his great contemporary, might be stretched
upon his own bier.
Mr. Joseph Tussaud used frequently to recall this dramatic meeting
between the Iron Duke and the effigy of his erstwhile foe, and to imagine
the feelings of the old General as he gazed upon the couch. It was
probably the first of the Duke’s many visits to the Exhibition.
A few days after this most interesting visit Mr. Tussaud, who was an old
friend of Sir George Hayter, related the incident to that artist.
Hayter was immediately struck with the potential value of the event for
the production of a painting of the historic scene, and the Tussaud
brothers at once commissioned him to execute the work for them.
[Illustration: SIR GEORGE HAYTER
Whose painting of Wellington visiting the effigy of Napoleon is now on
exhibition in the Napoleon rooms at Madame Tussaud’s.]
Sir George thereupon communicated the idea to the Duke, who readily
responded, and offered to give the necessary sittings. We have the
sketches made by Hayter in preparation for the work, and among them
appears a drawing of Joseph Tussaud himself, although he does not enter
the actual picture.
Hearing that the artist was making progress with the painting, the Duke
visited his studio, and, having expressed himself warmly in appreciation
of the picture (the figures had been but lightly limned in at the time),
said:
“Well, I suppose you’ll want me to sit for my picture here?”
Hayter has given us a most characteristic portrait of Wellington as
he then appeared. He is dressed in his usual blue frock-coat, white
trousers, and white cravat, fastened with the familiar steel buckle.
He stoops a little as was his wont, his head is lightly covered with
snow-white hair, and his manly features are marked with an expression
of mingled curiosity and sadness as, hat in hand, he looks upon the
recumbent Napoleon. The picture was completed early in December, 1852,
and has been on view in the Napoleon Rooms at the Exhibition ever since.
The engravings of the picture have been circulated in thousands
throughout the world, and, strange to say, they are exceedingly popular
in Austria. It is an interesting fact that the painting in question was
the last portrait for which the Duke ever sat.
This story brings to mind several instances in which the members of the
Tussaud family, especially in days gone by, have produced subjects for
other artists to paint from. For example, the model of Marat stabbed in
his bath--which has been shown in our Exhibition ever since it existed
in Paris--was modelled expressly to assist the famous David to paint his
picture representing the death of the miscreant.
Strange to say, a replica of this painting was offered to us a year or
so ago, and the dealer who submitted it insisted that it was the picture
from which our model was copied. He looked wofully incredulous when it
was explained to him that the boot was on the other foot, and that the
picture had been copied from the model.
On one occasion, in a newsagent’s shop, a lady customer asked for a
picture postcard of King Edward. Several were shown to her, but after
inspecting them she pushed all the direct photographs on one side, and
selected the print of a figure that had been modelled. The shopkeeper
subsequently stated that this card was almost invariably chosen in
preference to others.
In recent years there has grown a curious disposition on the part of
certain publishers to exploit for their own purposes work produced in our
studios. This is not to be wondered at when photographs of our models
have been so often mistaken for portraits taken direct from life.
We have ourselves on many occasions photographed our likenesses
for reproduction by the Press; and, apart from this, newspaper
representatives, times out of number, have requested permission to take a
photograph of figures in the Exhibition for the use of their own journal.
There is also the inevitable snapshotter, who neither asks permission nor
cares whether it is granted or not. Such individuals seize an opportunity
when few persons are about and take an illicit “negative” without risking
a verbal one. The result has been that the photographs thus secured--all
subject to copyright fees never collected--have been made use of for
all kinds of purposes; they have turned up as blocks in newspapers and
magazines, illustrations in books, and portrait postcards, besides being
treasured in albums and framed as pictures.
Only very occasionally has a statement accompanied publication
acknowledging the source from which the picture has originated--a
circumstance that has more than once led to a curious and, so far as the
artist is concerned, a somewhat vexatious contretemps.
It has so happened that we have had sometimes to send a member of our
staff in quest of all the latest photographs of a favourite celebrity
whose figure we have desired to remodel and bring up to date. Not
infrequently has he brought back with him “photographs” purporting to
have been taken from life, but which have been instantly recognised as
reproductions of figures in the Exhibition.
A droll incident once occurred illustrative of this strange situation.
Many years ago, when Mr. Joseph Tussaud, under pressure of time and with
very meagre material to go upon, produced a portrait of the late Pope
Leo XIII directly after he was elevated to the papal chair, a certain
well-known firm of photographers were at their wits’ end to obtain a
portrait of the new Pontiff, and the novel idea suggested itself to
them of arranging to borrow for a short time Madame Tussaud’s model,
and therefrom obtain an original negative that might fulfil their
requirements. This they accordingly did, and the object was achieved with
remarkable success, for the portrait challenged detection. So lifelike
was the picture that when it was placed upon the market beholders
concluded that the Pope had sat for it.
Another firm of photographers, some time afterwards, and at great trouble
and expense, succeeded in obtaining sittings from the Pope himself.
When the portrait taken from life appeared, and was compared with the
photographs from the model, very grave doubt was raised as to whether the
new portrait was really a good likeness, and many persons questioned its
genuineness, much to the chagrin of the photographers who produced it.