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TO attempt to introduce Daniel Vierge to the few artists of the world who are artists, would be, on my part, an impertinence, since his work is as well known to them as it is to myself. To attempt to introduce him to the rest of the world would be no less impertinent, since apparently most men care nothing for the illustrator, though they may, without ever troubling to know him, delight in his work. But the appearance of Pablo de Segovia, not in French or Spanish, but in English, illustrated by Vierge’s completed series of drawings, is worthy of note and, possibly, of some comment.

Vierge’s first edition of this book was published in Paris in 1882, by Bonhoure, and the drawings not only made his own name famous throughout the entire artistic world, but renewed the popularity of Quevedo. The book—and when I speak of it I refer to the illustrations and not to the letter-press—was the most brilliant, the most daring, the most original which had ever appeared. From the head-piece of the first chapter nearly to the end, almost every page contained a perfect picture which amazed all who studied it, and delighted all who could appreciate it. These exquisite little drawings displayed a knowledge of form, of action, of light and shade, of architecture, expressed with a brilliancy of handling which has never been surpassed. To make such a statement is to challenge criticism. But if there have been any more artistic drawings, or engravings of drawings, produced from the time of Dürer or Bellini, Rembrandt or of Piranesi, I have yet to find them, though I have gone in search of them through the chief Museums and Galleries of Europe. In comparison with Vierge, Dürer knows nothing of light and shade, Bellini and Vandyke and Holbein are heavy and laboured in their handling, while Piranesi and Canaletto have but an historical interest. It is true that to-day in many ways by many men Vierge is nearly approached, but he has been the inspirer and the master of them all.

The ninety little process blocks in Bonhoure’s edition showed the knowledge of the past, combined with the brilliancy and go of the present. But after a certain page there came a blank, and the letter-press dragged on—a libretto without the music. All that one knew was contained in a short note by the publisher: Vierge had been stricken with a grave malady, for some years he disappeared as a working artist. Those years, however, were spent in struggling against an affliction which would have killed a man less strong, but from which he has emerged able to complete his most important work. I am sure that Vierge would be the last, either himself to advertise his frightful misfortune, now happily over, or to wish to have it advertised by others. It is enough to say that when his entire right side was paralysed, and he lost the power of speech, he simply trained himself to work with his left hand, and to-day, as is proved by the last twenty illustrations in this book, and the pages of Le Monde Illustré week after week, he is producing drawings which are unsurpassed.

I hate and abominate the painter who fills columns with the recital of his misfortunes, telling you how he lost his paint brush, or how he had never a canvas of the right size, and soulfully lamenting the degeneracy of an age which knows quite too much to appreciate him. I can almost worship a man who silently conquers a living death.

Vierge is an artist who, like all great artists, has worked for his art—and his bread and butter. He is an illustrator, and, though therefore he has no hope of devoting a gallery to his own glorification, any Museum which might be so fortunate as to secure the original drawings from which these reproductions were made, would become for artists a place of pilgrimage.

His first publisher thought it enough to state, in the smallest possible types on the title page, that the story of Pablo was illustrée de nombreux dessins par D. Vierge—many publishers are not even so generous as this, and ignore the artist-illustrator altogether. To give the man, to whose genius the whole reason of the new edition was due, a few lines in a publisher’s preface, was, I suppose, very kind and thoughtful and considerate. But the French Government has since decorated Vierge with the Legion of Honour, and the French artists have awarded him a gold medal for these very designs. The charm and interest of the old illuminated missals lie not in the text, which often can be gotten elsewhere or is of no account, but in the pictures or decorations themselves, the work of the illustrators of that day. While the illuminations are prized, the names of the artists are usually forgotten. So, too, the work of contemporary illustrators is almost invariably dismissed by the critic with a sneer or with patronage, if indeed it be noticed at all. Still, there are some of us who know that these great little masters of illustration have spent more time and thought over the production of the cuts which embellish an author, than the author himself did on the text, and not infrequently knows far more about the subject. But because the criticism of books is, as a rule, in the hands of men who know nothing about art, their drawings are ignored. Or perhaps the degeneracy of modern illustration, and the want of ability of engravers and reproductive artists, is lamented by men who could not tell the difference between a process block and an etching, though they are certain that the old work, the originals of which they never saw, is much better than that which we are doing to-day and which they do not want to see.

Fewer people, probably, have seen Vierge’s Quevedo since it has been published, than in a day sit and gape, and yawn in awe-struck ignorance before the Sistine Madonna; and yet the latter is as blatant a piece of shoddy commercialism as has ever been produced; the Quevedo is a pure work of art. Indeed, never in the history of the world were there such marvellous drawings produced as to-day. But while collectors, dealers, and directors of Museums squabble over a piece of dirty paper, or throw public funds and private money away for drawings of which, if Dürer or Rembrandt, or any painter of distinction, perpetrated them, he should have been ashamed, none has the wit to spend as many pennies on the drawings of modern men with no popular reputation, as they do pounds for the work of others who have a widespread, and possibly justly merited fame, but no knowledge of the art they practise.

Go through the National Galleries of Germany, and though you will find tons of miserable scrawls produced by painters, outside of Berlin you will scarcely come across a drawing by Menzel or Klinger. In the much-[Pg ]belauded gallery of Munich, you will not find an example of Dietz or any of the men who to-day are the leaders of German art; if you want to see them you must go to the publishing offices of Fliegende Blätter. And how many Charles Keenes or Frederick Sandys’ does the British nation possess? Or where, outside of the offices of the Century Magazine and Harper’s, can you see a comprehensive collection of the work of American illustrators? In France, if you wish to study drawings produced by the cleverest of French draughtsmen, you must go, not to the Louvre or the Luxembourg, but to the Elysée Montmartre or the Chat Noir. So long as print sellers and curators have no real knowledge of art, one may expect the present state of affairs to continue.

Until art be taken as seriously as literature, and be discussed with as much thought and care and attention by men who understand it practically as well as theoretically—for the theory of art is or no value, and the practice is everything—illustration will not find its proper place as one of the most living and important of the fine arts. But, no matter—the great illustrator is quite as much of a creator as the great painter or the great sculptor. If the illustrator print his conception of an author’s meaning upon the same page as the latter’s text, this does not belittle him any more than it increases a painter’s greatness to give his picture the place of honour in a Museum, or the sculptor’s genius to allow him to obstruct the traffic of a street.

The first issue of Pablo de Segovia completely revolutionised the art of illustration and created a new school of illustrators, the influence of which is now felt all over the world, even by artists to whom the name of Vierge is absolutely unknown, and by critics who, in praising their friends, are really only testifying to the greatness of the master whose name they never heard. And here I should like to say that I make no pretension to having discovered Daniel Vierge, although I have been accused of it; this book discovered him to all artists.

When it came to reproduction, most of the drawings had to be much reduced. This was beautifully done by Gillot (and it is interesting to compare the latter’s work of ten years ago with that in this volume done by him to-day), while the printing of Lahure was most careful and satisfactory; but the appearance of Vierge’s work in many cases was entirely changed, though he himself knew how it would be changed. Vierge, as anyone can see from these new reproductions, drew openly, freely, boldly, but most carefully. The reproductions in Bonhoure’s edition gave one the impression of exquisite delicacy, a refinement of line which did not altogether exist in the original drawings, but was produced because the artist knew exactly what he wanted, and because the engraver was able to obtain it.

The drawings were made upon white paper—Bristol board or drawing paper—with a pen and liquid Indian ink. Vierge uses now a glass pen like an old stylus, and this, I believe, he prefers to all others. The drawings were then given to Gillot, the photo-engraver, who, by means of photography and handwork, produced in a metal block a reproduction of the original drawing which could be printed with type. It is a favourite, but fallacious, statement of the art critics that mechanical reproduction not only ruins the drawing, but is not to be compared to facsimile woodcutting. This is absolutely untrue if the artist is a craftsman, and the engraver, who is a craftsman, is also an artist. Vierge and Gillot fulfill these conditions. No woodcutter, not even Whitney, Collins, Gamm or Léveillé (there are, unfortunately, none in England to be considered) could reproduce any one of these drawings in the wood a bit better than Gillot has done by the mechanical process. Many of Vierge’s lines are so clear and so pure and so simple, that they would be comparatively easy to cut in the wood. Other arrangements of lines are so complex, that no woodcutter could ever follow them, but would have to suggest them. Gillot has reproduced them perfectly, and almost altogether by mechanical means. But, granted that the woodcutters could have made equally good reproductions, unless you could find a consummate artist, who, for the love of the thing, was willing to give years of his life to it, it would be much more sensible to do what has been done—give the work to a mechanical engraver like Gillot. For the woodcutter would be sure to put some of his own personality into his block, and for my part I prefer Vierge unadulterated. But it is one of the art critic’s absurd canons of belief that in taking work away from woodcutters and handing it over to mechanical reproducers you are ruining the art of wood-engraving. The process man has merely removed much drudgery from the wood-engraver, and obtained for him the chance to produce work of his own. In the reproduction of pen drawings like those of Vierge, nearly as much depends upon the printer as upon anyone else, and I look forward with much interest to the appearance the book will present. Even authorities on the subject of illustration continually go wrong in this matter, by accusing artists, who know perfectly well what they are about, of being unable to draw for reproduction, when the engraver’s proofs which are sent them are almost perfect, though the final result is almost invariably ruined, owing in some degree to the artlessness of printers, who, of course, in a fine book should never be trusted, but principally to the imperfections of the modern steam-printing press, and quality of the paper supplied by publishers. No illustrated book can have full justice done to it unless it is printed by hand as carefully as an etching. No art critic displays anything but his small knowledge of the subject when he blames the artist for what may be due to the incapacity of the engraver or the imperfections of the press. Though the critic and the public have only to consider the result—the printed book—in almost every case, the artist is absolutely helpless, as he is not allowed to have anything to do with this result. That comparative perfection may be reached has, however, been shown, on the one hand, by the productions of the Kelmscott Press in hand-work, and, on the other, by the De Vinne Press with steam.

Fifty years ago Vierge’s illustrations could not have been printed with type. Because once this could not be done—because until the present century and the coming of Menzel and Fortuny there never was a man who could draw like Vierge; are not new styles of reproduction to be invented for his benefit, and new methods of printing to be employed? No doubt the early printed books, now the pride of the collector and the dealer, were sneered at by the illuminator and damned by the critic. Some day Bonhoure’s edition of Pablo will be quite as highly prized as the most precious Caxton.

I have no intention of going into the analysis of the motives which prompted Vierge to undertake the illustration of Pablo de Segovia. I have never asked him why he took it up, and most likely if he were asked it would be impossible for him to suggest any reason, other than that the book appealed to him. I do not believe that any artist could definitely explain why he endeavoured to produce a certain work of art. He merely wanted to do it, and then the opportunity presented itself. Nor do I think the literary artist would know why he wrote a certain novel. The idea came to him, and he had to. The literary man can describe his sensations, and tell you how he actually walked across the street to see a house, or re-wrote a page which did not please him, or hunted for months for a character: it is the fashion for him to do so. The artist experiences the same sensations. He not only has to go across the street to see the house, but he may probably have to stand before it, on the side-walk, for a couple of days amidst the crowd and traffic, working under the most difficult conditions; he too has to search for his model, and, when he has found him, obtain the actual costumes he wants, or have them made. The literary man, too, can get almost all his accessories out of books, or if he has to go to a Museum and cannot send some one, a glance and a few words are enough. The result, if well done, is hailed as great literature; but the artist, who probably has worked quite as long, quite as hard, and put quite as much brains into his work, is told, if he is told anything, that his drawings are pretty. He seldom has the opportunity of showing how well and how faithfully he has done his part. It is more than possible that if he has really studied his subject carefully the author will not like the result, and the public will complain because the artist has given them more than the author was able to make them see for themselves, or else they will demand a photograph because he has made them look at nature with his eyes.

However, it cannot any longer be said that the illustrator’s life is not reasonably successful. The Paris Exhibition of 1889 brought the gold medal, to which I have referred, to Vierge for these very drawings, and the French nation has since decorated him, and in his case it certainly was a reward for merit and nothing else. Then, also, in illustrating a book like Pablo, of course a certain amount of latitude was allowable. The artist could pick and choose his architecture in the most picturesque spots of Spain, and produce a harmonious whole. Nor did he have to consider Quevedo’s personal whims; in this case the author, being dead, could not demand that the artist should illustrate exactly those portions of his work which are not illustratable, or which do not appeal to him. He could work away at just the time when he wished to; having no Salon to get ready for, he could make his drawings in whatever fashion he chose, trying all kinds of methods and experiments, with no hanging committee to reject him because his originality would cast their own productions into the shade; he could then have his drawings joyfully accepted by a publisher, and work sympathetically with the engraver and printer. But it was just when he thought success within his grasp, and the book was almost finished, that he was paralysed. Vierge’s case, so far as the first edition of Pablo is concerned, is one of the most cruel. The relations of artists and publishers that is, publishers who understand the production of fine books—have usually been happy. But there are exceptions.

I cannot point out whether these drawings, from the author’s point of view, illustrate the text. I have never read the whole book. But I only care to consider the illustrations as the most remarkable series of little pictures in black and white that have been produced. That this will be admitted I do not believe for a minute. More probably Dürer or Botticelli will be cited, and the nobility of their composition extolled, and the purity of their ideals dilated upon, while the meanness of Vierge’s imagination, and the baseness of his ideals, are exhibited as a painful contrast. I find, however, Vierge’s true and brilliant realism much more interesting than the conventional idealism of the past. The man who can interest and delight you by the way he draws an old shoe, or a broken pot, as Vierge has done, is quite as great as he who must take a heavenly host to produce the same impression.

And from the point of view of technique Vierge’s work is the most perfect that has been done, and it is this quality alone—that is technique—which has made the reputation of Rembrandt and Velasquez. It is not because of its subject that a picture is great, but because of the manner in which it is worked out. To rank subject above execution, from which it is absolutely inseparable, is intolerable to the artist, and is merely a device of the inartistic to palm off their incompetent productions. Nowhere save among Teutonic nations would it be necessary to make this explanation. But in a land where Art with a Mission, and a big A, has descended upon the people, it cannot be too strongly insisted upon. It may be well, therefore, to show wherein the greatness of Vierge’s technique lies.

It is most evident in his power of expressing many facts with the fewest possible lines. Each one of these lines is put down with the thought of the engraver for ever in his mind. This, however, does not mean that he is less free in his handling. It merely implies his complete command of his materials. The art of leaving out, and yet conveying the right impression, probably is the most difficult in the world. Like all art, which is most subtle, it appears ridiculously easy. Every line is drawn with the utmost care—a care so great that it is not apparent. The figures in the little pictures are worked out with a thorough knowledge of anatomy. The architecture and landscapes, and especially one or two drawings of mountains, have been studied and rendered in marvellous fashion. All these pictures are filled with the sunlight and atmosphere of the south; and all look so simple and so slight that anyone would think he could almost do them himself. Possibly he could—almost. For the boundary between good work and bad is nearly imperceptible; in fact, it is quite so except to a few artists. And it is really only to those few artists that a work of art does truly appeal in its entirety.

This, as a whole, is the last and the most important complete work which Vierge has ever produced. But for a man who probably has so many working years before him—Vierge cannot be much more than forty—it may be the first of a long series of masterpieces. I know that he has schemes for such work in his head, and he has now found the most important person for an illustrator—a publisher. But even should he never be able to realise his dreams of illustrating the great authors of his own country, he has already done more than most men: not only has he produced work which has delighted the artistic world, work which will live, but he has created a method and a science of illustration acknowledged by the few to be hitherto unequalled for brilliancy of execution and adaptability for the printing press.

Joseph Pennell.

NOTE.—At my request, Vierge has furnished the following brief details of so much of his life and work as he wishes to make public:—

20 Fevrier, 1892.

...Je suis né le 5 Mars, 1851, des l’âge de 3 ans je commençais à crayonner, il parait que c’était mon seul amusement d’enfant; mon pêre me voyant des dispositions serieuses pour le dessin me fit travailler sans relâche.

Ma santé jusqu’à 7 ans était délicate; pour ce motif mes parents ont quetté la ville, pour habiter un endroit, prés de Madrid, nommé Pinto, et là tout en remettant ma santé du matin au soir je prenais des croquis d’après nature.

En 1864 j’entrais à l’école des Beaux Arts de Madrid, J’avais comme maîtres, Madrazo, Fédérico, M. de Hatt, Borglini, etc. En 1865, le 18 Juillet, j’obtonais une mention honorable notée excelente. En 1866, le 8 Juillet, même récompense; en 1867, le 16 Juin, un diplome d’honneur. C’est à cette époque que j’ai illustré “Madrid la Nuit,” écrit par Eusebio Blasco; “Les Mystéres de Rome et du Globe.” A la suite au musée de Madrid, j’ai copié quantité d’études de peinture d’après Velasquez et Gohia. En 1869 j’arrivais à Paris avec l’espoire de ne faire que de la peinture, à peine dans cette ville la guerre Franco-Allemande éclata, par cet incident je me suis trouvé accaparé par “Le Monde Illustré” et par “La Vie Moderne.” A cette même époque j’ai illustré quantité de livres, entres autres, “Les Travailleurs de la Mer,” “Année Terrible,” “Notre-Dame de Paris” et d’autres écrits par Victor Hugo; “La Mosaïque,” “Le Musée des Familles,” “Le Magasin Pitoresque,” “Le Grand Tacagno” de Quevedo, “Les Contes” d’Edgar Poe, et aussi “L’histoire de France et la Revolution” de Michelet et quantité d’autres. En 1882 je fus nommé commandant ordinaire de la Reine d’Espagne Isabelle la Catholique. Le 29 Septembre, 1889, j’ai reçu la médaille d’or à l’Exposition Universelle de Paris de 1889, et le 29 Novembre, 1889, ma décoration de Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur....

Vierge.