[_14 Jan. '09_]
The death of that distinguished draughtsman and painter, Henry Ospovat,
who was among the few who can illustrate a serious author without
insulting him, ought not to pass unnoticed. Because an exhibition of his
caricatures made a considerable stir last year it was generally understood
that he was destined exclusively for caricature. But he was a man who
could do several things very well indeed, and caricature was only one of
these things. In Paris he would certainly have made a name and a fortune
as a caricaturist. They have more liberty there. Witness Rouveyre's
admirable and appalling sketch of Sarah Bernhardt in the current _Mercure
de France_. I never met Ospovat, but I was intimate with some of his
friends while he was at South Kensington. In those days I used to hear
"what Ospovat thought" about everything. He must have been listened to
with great respect by his fellow-students. And sometimes one of them would
come to me, with the air of doing me a favour (as indeed he was) and say:
"Look here. Do you want to buy something good, at simply no price at all?"
And I became the possessor of a beautiful sketch by Ospovat, while the
intermediary went off with a look on his face as if saying: "Consider
yourself lucky, my boy!" I used even to get Ospovat's opinions on my
books, now and then very severe. I wanted to meet him. But I never could.
The youths used to murmur: "Oh! It's no use you _meeting_ him." They were
afraid he was not spectacular enough. Or they desired to keep him to
themselves, like a precious pearl. I pictured him as very frail, and very
positive in a quiet way. He was only about thirty when he died last week.