Forty Years of 'Spy'

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.

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.

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 éclat 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.

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.