Vicky
All the obituarists will no doubt salute Vicky as the greatest cartoonist of our time. This I am sure he was. Not only was he a draughtsman who had equipped himself with a uniquely effective technique for making his political points: he was also a man who cared to the point of suffering about political issues, and who was endlessly fasci- nated by the subtleties of political struggle. Talk- ing to him was always stimulating, not simply because he felt strongly about the injustices of the world, but also because he was so extraordinarily well-informed about politics. I suppose he knew almost every British politician of consequence, and however much they squirmed over his car- toons, they all liked him as a man. Many of the readers who wrote furious letters- to the Evening Standard imagined him to be some sort of revolu- tionary ogre. His politician victims knew bettet. He would often complain with mock despair that yet another public man whom he had impaled in a cartoon had written privately to beg for the original drawing.
Latterly, like many an idealist of the left, he had been depressed about the performance of Labour in otlice. This gave an extra sting to his cartoons, of course, for cartoonists are best in opposition. Yet he worried constantly about his work, as indeed he always had done. When I saw him only a few days ago he told me (not for the first time) that he was haunted by the fear of going on after he had said all he had to say. At least he did not do that. And the death of this saddened. kind little refugee who loved England has deprived our political life of an irreplaceable zest.
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