Forty Years of 'Spy'

"I like so much this one of Professor Owen," he said. "It's just the sort of thing that Bowles would delight in. Re-draw it the same size as the cartoons in Vanity Fair and I'll take it to him."

I called with the cartoon, which was accepted—but was unsigned. I had invented a rather amusing signature in the form of a fool's bauble, but this did not meet with Mr. Bowles' approval. After a little discussion he handed me a Johnson's dictionary, in order that I might search there for some appropriate pseudonym. The dictionary fell open in my hand in a most portentous manner at the "S's," and my eye fell with the same promptitude on the word SPY.

"How's that?" I said. "The verb to spy, to observe secretly, or to discover at a distance or in concealment."

"Just the thing," said Bowles. And so we settled it, and since then, like the Soap man (this is not an advertisement), I have used no other (with one exception, of which I will tell later).

Becoming a permanent member of the staff of Vanity Fair and my dream more than realized, I turned my attention to caricature whole-heartedly and with infinite pleasure.

On the publication of my first drawing, Pellegrini called upon Gibson Bowles (rather suddenly, considering his previous indifference and silence), to tell him in flattering terms what he thought of the caricature, and to inquire into the identity of the artist. I in my turn received the following letter from Mr. Arthur Lewis.

Thorpe Lodge,March, 1873.

My dear Leslie Ward,

I've just got my last week's Vanity Fair. I presume the admirable cartoon of Professor Owen is yours, as you said you'd some idea of doing him for a trial of your skill. I cannot refrain from sending you my congratulations on so successful a commencement. Without flattering, I can tell you that I think it almost (if at all) without exception the best of the whole series. I hope we may have many more of such quaint yet kindly caricatures from your pencil.

Believe me,Sincerely yours,Arthur Lewis.

I was extremely pleased to receive this flattering letter and encouragement from a man whom I admired; whose opinions, as those of an amateur artist of undoubted ability, were worth considering; and who was entirely in sympathy with my choice of a career. Mr. Arthur Lewis knew everybody in literary and artistic circles; at his house in Campden Hill all the most delightful artists and artistes of the day came to amuse and be amused. There, in the garden, where one might imagine oneself miles away from London, Mrs. Arthur Lewis (Kate Terry of former years) entertained, and, in the summer time, gave charming garden parties.

Before his marriage, Mr. Lewis was noted for his suppers at Moray Lodge, where he once entertained the Prince of Wales. It was from this house, by the way, that the Moray Minstrels derived their name.

On Sunday mornings he was pleased to paint, for as he was a very busy man, the week end was the only time he could spare for his favourite occupation. One of his pictures, after being hung on the line at the Royal Academy, was bought by a stranger from William Agnew for two hundred pounds. Lewis told me with great pride that he was prouder of that cheque than of any he ever received, and as a rich man he must have been the recipient of large sums.

It was at the Lawsons' house that I first met my fellow artist Carlo Pellegrini. Previous to our meeting, a mutual acquaintance had jestingly and rather fiendishly accosted Pellegrini one day with a remark concerning my work.

"Hullo, Pellegrini! You've got a rival."

"Oh, that boy," replied the caricaturist, "I taught 'im all 'e know!"

This was news indeed to me, for as well as owing my education in drawing to the Academy Schools, I had caricatured from my earliest childhood. At the time I treated the assertion as a joke; but in later life, when the fiction was believed by journalists and set forth in print, I rather regretted my former indifference.

An episode occurred shortly after the publication of my caricature of the late Lord Alington, showing how easily such misunderstandings might gain credence. A friend of mine met me one day. "My dear fellow," he began, "there's a capital caricature in Sotheran's that you could study with advantage—you should go and have a look at it. You may get a few tips from it." I stared a moment to make sure that he was not pulling my leg, then I understood. "My dear old fool," I said. "Go and have another look and at the signature to it—that particular drawing is mine."

Pellegrini was quite as individual in his outward appearance as he was by temperament. In person he was little and stout, and extremely fastidious. He always wore white spats, and their whiteness was ever immaculate, for he rode everywhere, a fact which probably accounted for his bad health in later years. His boots, too, were the acme of perfection, and his nails were as long and pointed as those of a Mandarin. He used to tell the story of his arrival in London, without the proverbial penny, and how he wandered about the streets unable to find a night's lodging, until, growing weary and desperate, he slept in a cab. There were other stories of how he fought with Garibaldi, having a charmed life while the bullets whistled past him, or of his destined career of diplomacy, and of his Medici descent. One of the most amusing characteristics of Pellegrini was the way in which he related an anecdote. His expressive eyes, which always seemed to be observing everything, would commence to flash before the words came; and his English, which was ever poor, stumbled and tripped, for although he was rather too quick to recollect slang terms, his grammar remained appalling, but delightfully naïve. As the story progressed his eyes would roll and flash, and, working himself up into a frenzy as Neapolitans do, he would become extremely excited, until when the crisis came, the point of the story burst upon the listeners' ears with a bomb-like suddenness. His own description of how he would treat his enemy was inimitable. First he created his subject, and then imagined him lying in terrible agony and poverty by the wayside, and dying of thirst.

"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.