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    [Illustration]




  The Life, Letters and Work of
  Frederic Baron Leighton
  Of Stretton

  VOL. I




    "_If any man should be constantly penetrated with a gift
    bestowed on him, it is the artist who has realised as his
    share a genuine love for nature; for his enjoyment, if he
    puts his gift to usury, increases with the days of his life._"


    "_Every man who has received a gift, ought to feel and act as
    if he was a field in which a seed was planted that others
    might gather the harvest._"

                                        _FREDERIC LEIGHTON._

    _August 1852._




  The Life, Letters and
  Work of
  Frederic Leighton

  BY

  MRS. RUSSELL BARRINGTON

  AUTHOR OF "REMINISCENCES OF G.F. WATTS," ETC. ETC.

  IN TWO VOLUMES

  VOL. I

  LONDON
  GEORGE ALLEN, RUSKIN HOUSE
  1906

  [All rights reserved]




  Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
  At the Ballantyne Press

    [Illustration: EARLY PORTRAIT OF LORD LEIGHTON
    From the Painting by G.F. Watts (Photogravure)
    By permission of the Hon. Lady Leighton-Warren and Sir Bryan
    Leighton, Bart.]




    TO ALL WHO HOLD DEAR THE
    MEMORY OF FREDERIC LEIGHTON
    THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED WITH
    THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGIES FOR
    ITS VERY MANY SHORTCOMINGS




PREFACE


Ten years and more have passed since Leighton died, yet it is still
difficult to get sufficiently far away, to take in the whole of his
life and being in their just proportion to the world in which he
lived.

When we are in Rome, hemmed in by narrow streets, St. Peter's is
invisible; once across that wonderful Campagna and mounting the slopes
of Frascati, there, like a huge pearl gleaming in the light, rises the
dome of the Mother Church. As distance gives the true relation between
a lofty building and its suburbs, so time alone can decide the height
of the pedestal on which to place the great.

The day after Leighton's death Watts wrote to me:--

"...The loss to the world is so great that I almost feel ashamed to
let my personal grief have so large a place.

"I am glad you knew him so well. I am glad for any one who knew him.
No one will ever know such another, alas! alas! alas!

"I am glad you have enjoyed the friendship of one of the greatest men
of any time."

This is the estimate of a great artist who knew Leighton for forty
years, and for many of those years enjoyed daily intercourse with him.

A few like Watts required no length of time before forming a right
estimate of Leighton. They not only knew him to be great, but knew why
he was great. Undoubtedly as a draughtsman Leighton was unrivalled;
but bearing in mind his English contemporaries--Watts, Millais, Holman
Hunt, Rossetti, and Burne-Jones--it is not as a painter that even his
truest friends would claim for him his right to the exceptional
position he undoubtedly occupied.

What was it that gave Leighton this position? He himself was the very
last to claim it as a right. His creed and his practice were ever to
fight against the weaknesses of his nature rather than to rejoice in
its strength. For assuredly, however strong the intellect, beautiful
the character, brilliant the vitality, and fine the intuitive
instincts, a man may yet have within his nature foibles in common with
the herd. The difference is, that in the truly great the unworthier
side of nature is viewed as unworthy--is fought against and banished
like the plague.

"A good man is wise, not because all his desires are wise, but because
his reasonable soul masters unwise desires and is itself wise.

"He is courageous, because he knows when to fight, and does so under
control of reason.

"He is temperate, because his pluck and his desires unite in giving
the first place to the reasonable soul; and finally, he is just,
because each principle is in its place and stops there."

In a letter to his mother when he was twenty-three Leighton wrote: "I
feel I have of my nature a very fair share of the hateful worldly
weakness of my country people;" adding, "Still, I have found no
sufficiently great advantage or compensation for the tedium of going
out." Again, three years later, after describing to his sister the
delight he felt in the beauty he found in Algiers, he wrote: "And yet
what I have said of my feelings, though _literally true_, does not
give you an exactly true notion; for, together with, and as it were
behind, so much pleasurable emotion, there is always that other
strange second man in me, calm, observant, critical, unmoved,
blasé--odious!

"He is a shadow that walks with me, a sort of nineteenth-century
canker of doubt and discretion; it's very, very seldom that I forget
his loathsome presence. What cheering things I find to say!"

Doubtless Leighton had within him the possibilities of becoming a
worldling, and also of becoming a cynic. He overrode and banished the
first as despicable, the second as hideous.

But it is not in the wisdom that--Socrates-like--steered his life by
reason, that we find the adequate answer to the question, "Why was
Leighton the prominent entity he was?" Diverse as were his natural
gifts and his power of achievement on various lines, he differed
radically from that modern development--the all-round man, who has no
concentrated fire as a centre to illumine his life, but develops all
his capacities so that they shall shine forth equally on certain high
levels. From childhood Leighton had one overriding passion, and from
this sprang the will-force and vitality which throughout his life
succeeded in bringing his intentions to fruition. Whatsoever his hand
found worthy to do at all, he did with the whole might of his great
nature. Still even that would not adequately answer the question. His
greatness truly lay in the fact that the choice he made of what was
worth doing was never limited by personal interests. He impelled the
force of his powers for the welfare of others, and for the causes
beneficial to others, as much or more than to those matters which
concerned himself alone. Hence his true greatness and his great
fame--for Æschylus is right: "The good will prevail."

A sense of duty--"the keenest possible sense of it," to use Mr.
Briton Rivière's words--which was the keynote of all Leighton's
actions, was impelled in the first instance by a feeling of gratitude
for the joy with which beauty in nature and art had steeped his being
from a child; a deep well of happiness, a constant companion, ever
springing up in his heart, which he craved that others should share
with him. This happiness gave sweetness to his life, lovableness to
his character, irresistible power to his control. Leighton's was truly
a life of praise and gratitude for the joys nature had bestowed on
him. He had a pleasant way of making the truth prevail. The
description by Marcus Aurelius of his "third man" applies well to the
character of Leighton.

"One man, when he has done a service to another, is ready to set it
down to his account as a favour conferred. Another is not ready to do
this, but still in his own mind he thinks of the man as his debtor,
and he knows what he has done. A third in a manner does not even know
what he has done, but he is like a vine which has produced grapes, and
seeks for nothing more after it has once produced its proper fruit. As
a horse when he has run, a dog when he has tracked the game, a bee
when it has made the honey, so a man, when he has done a good act,
does not call out for others to come and see, but he goes on to
another act, as a vine goes on to produce again the grapes in season."

Leighton's work in every direction was complete work, because his mind
grasped completely the proportion and aspect of everything he
undertook. His inborn affection for, and sympathy with, his
fellow-creatures impelled him to feel that the area of self-interest,
however gifted that self might be, was too restricted for him to find
full completeness therein. This could only be attained by working with
and for others. Such feelings and doctrines are common in religious
and philanthropic men; but in the ego of the modern artist there is
generally something which seems to demand a concentration of attention
on his own ego in order to develop his gifts as an artist. The
attitude of Leighton towards his own work, and towards that of others,
was essentially contrary to this concentration.

In his letters to his mother, and to his master, Eduard von Steinle,
are found the bases on which the superstructure of his after career
rested, the underpinning of that monumental feature of the Victorian
era--namely, in unflagging industry, in ever striving to make his life
worthy of the beauty and dignity of his vocation as an artist, and in
ever endeavouring to make his work an adequate exponent of "the
mysterious treasure that was laid up in his heart": his passion for
beauty.

In my attempt to write Leighton's life I have purposely devoted more
space to the earlier than to the later years of his career as an
artist. With an artist more than with others is it specially true that
the boy is father to the man; and if Leighton's example is in any way
to benefit students of art, the early struggles, the failures, more
even than the successes, will teach the lesson that there is no short
cut on the road which has to be travelled even by the most gifted.
From the family letters and those to his master, which are, with a few
exceptions, given in full, it will also be seen that, however high was
the pedestal on which Leighton placed his mistress Art, he felt keenly
likewise the beauty of his family relationships, and a deep, grateful
affection for the master who had given him his start on the road to
fame.

If this endeavour to present a true picture of Leighton the man has
any value, it is owing mainly to the fact that Mrs. Matthews has
placed at my disposal the family and other letters in her
possession,--an act which demands the thanks of all those who are
interested in the fame of her brother.

I also wish to acknowledge with gratitude the considerate kindness of
several of Leighton's friends in contributing "notes" and letters,
which are of true value in bringing before the public a right view of
the man and of the artist. First and foremost among these contributors
must be placed Dr. von Steinle, son of Professor Eduard von Steinle of
Frankfort-on-Main, the beloved master to whom Leighton in 1879
referred as "_the indelible seal_," when writing of those who had
influenced him most for good. The first letter of the correspondence
which was carried on between the master and pupil, and preserved
preciously by each, is dated August 31, 1852, the last 1883. Only
second in interest to this correspondence, which discloses Leighton's
intimate feelings and aspirations as an artist, are the notes supplied
by Mr. Briton Rivière, R.A.--notes which could only have been written
by one whose own nature in many ways was closely attuned to that of
Leighton's, and which give the intimate aspect of Leighton as an
official. "It would be difficult for any one," writes Mr. Briton
Rivière, "to give in a short space any adequate account of a character
so full and complex as Leighton's." And indeed it would require a
great deal more than two volumes even to touch on all the events of
this eventful life, which might further illustrate Leighton's
character; but Mr. Briton Rivière has noted certain salient
characteristics of his friend with a sympathy, and a fine touch, which
I think will prove of very rare interest in this record. The tribute
to Leighton of Mr. Hamo Thornycroft, R.A. (from a sculptor's point of
view), carries great weight, and gives also, as does that of another
old comrade in the Artists' Volunteer Corps, an appreciative account of
Leighton as the soldier. To these, to Lady Loch, the Hon. Mrs. Alfred
Sartoris, Sir William Richmond, R.A., Mr. Walter Crane, Mr. Alfred
East, P.R.B.A., I offer my thanks for so kindly contributing notes
which help to solve the problems presented by "a character so full and
so complex." For courteous permission to publish letters I wish to
express my thanks to Alice, Countess of Strafford, the executor of Mr.
Henry Greville, who was one of, if not the most intimate of the
friends who loved Leighton; the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, Mrs. Fanny Kemble's
daughter and executor; the Right Hon. Sir Charles Dilke, executor of
Mrs. Mark Pattison (afterwards Lady Dilke); the Right Hon. John
Morley, Dr. von Steinle, Mr. John Hanson Walker, Mr. Cartwright, Mr.
Robert Barrett Browning, Professor Church, Mr. T.C. Horsfall, and Mrs.
Street, daughter of the late Mr. Henry Wells, R.A.; the executor of
George Eliot, Mrs. Charles Lewes; and the executors of John Ruskin.
There are many other letters and notes of interest which have been
preserved by Mrs. Matthews, but which cannot be inserted for want of
space. Among these are affectionate notes from Joachim, Burne-Jones,
Hebert, Robert Fleury, Meissonier, Gérome, Tullio Massarani; also
friendly letters from Cardinal Manning, Viscount Wolseley, Sarah
Bernhardt, John Tyndall, Froude, Anthony Trollope, Sir John Gilbert,
Lady Waterford, and Lord Strangford. A number of letters exist from
members of the Royal Family to Leighton, all evincing alike admiration
for the artist and an affectionate appreciation of the man.

In these pages there will be found a repetition of several sentences.
This is intentional. Watts would often remark, "A really wise and true
saying can't be repeated too often"; and in Leighton's letters are
several tallying with this description, which it would be a pity to
detach from their own context, and yet which are also required
elsewhere to enforce the argument.

As regards the kindness shown in allowing reproductions of pictures,
I have to tender my loyal gratitude to the Queen for the gracious loan
of the picture presented to her Majesty by Leighton; also to the
Prince of Wales for allowing the "Head of a Girl," given to his Royal
Highness as a wedding present by the artist, to be reproduced in these
pages.

Other owners of pictures to whom I proffer also my warm thanks are
Lord Armstrong, Lord Pirrie, the Rt. Hon. Joseph Chamberlain, the Hon.
Lady Leighton-Warren, Sir Bryan Leighton, the Hon. Mrs. Sartoris, Sir
Elliot Lees, Sir Alexander Henderson, Mr. E. and Miss I'Anson, Mr. S.
Pepys Cockerell, Mr. T. Blake Wirgman, Mrs. Stewart Hodgson, Mr.
Hanson Walker, Mrs. Henry Joachim, Mrs. Stephenson Clarke, Mrs. C.E.
Lees, Mrs. James Watney, Mr. Hodges, Mrs. Charles Lewes, Mr. H.S.
Mendelssohn, Mr. Phillipson, and Dr. von Steinle.

Also to the Fine Art Society, the Berlin Photographic Co., Messrs.
Agnew & Son, Messrs. P. & D. Colnaghi, Messrs. Henry Graves, Messrs.
Lefevre, Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co., and the directors of the
Leicester Galleries.




CONTENTS


                                                                  PAGE
  INTRODUCTION                                                       1

  CHAPTER I
  ANTECEDENTS AND SCHOOL DAYS, 1830-1852                            34

  CHAPTER II
  ROME, 1852-1855                                                   91

  CHAPTER III
  PENCIL DRAWINGS OF PLANTS AND FLOWERS, 1850-1860                 197

  CHAPTER IV
  WATTS--SUCCESS--FAILURE, 1855-1856                               222

  CHAPTER V
  FRIENDS                                                          250

  CHAPTER VI
  STEINLE AND ITALY AGAIN--FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE EAST,
    1856-1858                                                      278




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME I


   1. DESIGN FOR REVERSE OF THE JUBILEE MEDALLION                Cover
      Executed for Her Majesty Queen Victoria's Government,
      1887.

   2. CROWN OF BAY LEAVES                                          "
      From Drawing made by Lord Leighton at the Bagni de Lucca,
      1854.

   3. PORTRAIT OF LORD LEIGHTON BY G.F. WATTS, ABOUT 1863
      By kind permission of the Hon. Lady LEIGHTON-WARREN      To face
      and Sir BRYAN LEIGHTON, Bart. (_Photogravure_)        Dedication

   4. HEAD OF YOUNG GIRL                                To face page 1
      By the gracious permission of HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN.

   5. PORTRAITS OF LORD LEIGHTON'S FATHER AND MOTHER WHEN YOUNG     17
      From Miniatures.

   6. EARLY PAINTING OF BOY SAVING A BABY FROM THE CLUTCHES OF AN
      EAGLE (_Colour_)                                              19

   7. PORTRAIT OF PROFESSOR EDUARD VON STEINLE                      27
      By kind permission of his Son, DOCTOR VON STEINLE.

   8. PORTRAIT OF MRS. SARTORIS, 1856                               28

   9. CRYPT UNDER ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL WHERE BARRY, SIR JOSHUA
      REYNOLDS, TURNER, AND LORD LEIGHTON WERE BURIED               33

  10. PORTRAITS OF LORD LEIGHTON AND HIS YOUNGER SISTER, MRS.
      MATTHEWS                                                      37
      Drawn by him when a boy.

  11. EARLY COMIC DRAWING MADE IN FRANKFURT                         43
      By kind permission of Mr. JOHN HANSON WALKER.

  12. PORTRAIT OF MR. I'ANSON, LORD LEIGHTON'S GREAT-UNCLE, 1850    48
      By kind permission of Mr. E. and Miss I'ANSON.

  13. THE DEATH OF BRUNELLESCHI, 1851                               55
      By kind permission of Doctor VON STEINLE.

  14. THE PLAGUE IN FLORENCE, 1851                                  56

  15. STUDIES OF BRANCHES OF FIG AND BRAMBLE                        69
      Leighton House Collection.

  16. STUDY OF BYZANTINE WELL HEAD, VENICE, 1852                    81
      By kind permission of Mr. S. PEPYS COCKERELL.

  17. FROM PENCIL DRAWING OF MODEL, ROME, 1853. "COSTUME DI
      PROCIDA"                                                      98
      Leighton House Collection.

  18. HEAD OF MODEL USED FOR FIGURE IN CIMABUE'S MADONNA,
      ERRONEOUSLY STATED TO HAVE BEEN THE PORTRAIT OF LORD
      LEIGHTON, 1853                                               112
      Leighton House Collection.

  19. SKETCH OF SUBIACO, 1853                                      116
      Leighton House Collection.

  20. HEAD OF VINCENZO, 1854                                       152
      Leighton House Collection.

  21. COPY IN PENCIL OF THE PORTRAITS OF GIOTTO, CIMABUE, MEMMI,
      AND TADDEO GADDI                                             138
      From the Capella Spagnola, Sta. Maria Novella, Florence,
      1853. Leighton House Collection.

  22. STUDY OF WOMAN'S HEAD FOR FIGURE AT THE WINDOW--CIMABUE'S
      MADONNA, 1854 (_Photogravure_)                               145
      Leighton House Collection.

  23. ORIGINAL SKETCH IN PENCIL AND CHINESE WHITE FOR CIMABUE'S
      MADONNA, 1853                                                149
      Leighton House Collection.

  24. CIMABUE'S MADONNA, 1855                                      193
      By kind permission of the FINE ART SOCIETY.

  25. FACSIMILE OF LETTER FROM SIR CHARLES EASTLAKE, ANNOUNCING
      THAT QUEEN VICTORIA HAD PURCHASED CIMABUE'S MADONNA, MAY
      3, 1855                                                      194

  26. STUDY OF CYCLAMEN, 1856                                      200
      Leighton House Collection.

  27. WREATH OF BAY LEAVES, 1854                                   201
      Leighton House Collection.

  28. STUDY OF A LEMON TREE--CAPRI, 1859                           202
      By kind permission of Mr. S. PEPYS COCKERELL.

  29. STUDY OF BRANCHES OF A DECIDUOUS TREE                        202
      Leighton House Collection.

  30. EARLY STUDIES OF KALMIA LATIFOLIA, OLEANDER, AND
      RHODODENDRON FLOWERS                                         205
      Leighton House Collection.

  31. STUDIES OF PUMPKIN FLOWERS                                   206
      Leighton House Collection.

  32. STUDY OF VINE, 1854--BAGNI DI LUCCA                          206
      Leighton House Collection.

  33. STUDIES OF VINE LEAVES, "BELLOSGUARDO," SEPT. 1856           207
      Leighton House Collection.

  34. "ARIADNE ABANDONED BY THESEUS--DEATH RELEASES HER." 1868
      (_Photogravure_)                                             211
      By kind permission of LORD PIRRIE.

  35. "ELISHA RAISING THE SON OF THE SHUNAMMITE," 1881             211
      (_Photogravure_)

  36. "DÆDALUS AND ICARUS," 1869 (_Photogravure_)                  211
      By kind permission of Sir ALEXANDER HENDERSON, Bart.

  37. "CAPTIVE ANDROMACHE," 1888 (_Photogravure_)                  213
      By kind permission of the BERLIN PHOTOGRAPHIC CO.

  38. STUDY IN OILS FOR "CAPTIVE ANDROMACHE" (_Colour_)            213
      By kind permission of Mrs. STEWART HODGSON

  39. "WEAVING THE WREATH," 1873                                   214

  40. "WINDING THE SKEIN"                                          214
      By kind permission of the FINE ART SOCIETY.

  41. "THE MUSIC LESSON," 1877                                     214
      By kind permission of the FINE ART SOCIETY.

  42. STUDIES OF SEA THISTLE, MALINMORE                            218
      From Sketch Book, 1895.

  43. STUDIES OF SEA THISTLE, MALINMORE                            218
      From Sketch Book, 1895.

  44. "RETURN OF PERSEPHONE" (_Photogravure_)                      221
      Corporation of Leeds.

  45. STUDY IN OILS FOR "RETURN OF PERSEPHONE" (_Colour_)          221
      By kind permission of Mrs. STEWART HODGSON.

  46. FROM DECORATIVE PAINTING ON GOLD BACKGROUND OF CUPID WITH
      DOVES                                                        223

  47. "IDYLL," 1881 (_Photogravure_)                               229

  48. PORTRAIT OF MISS MABEL MILLS, 1877                           229

  49. "VENUS DISROBING FOR THE BATH," 1867                         230
      By kind permission of Sir A. HENDERSON, Bart.

  50. PHRYNE AT ELEUSIS, 1882                                      230

  51. PORTRAIT OF MRS. ADELAIDE SARTORIS, DRAWN FOR HER FRIEND,
      LADY BLOOMFIELD, 1867                                        233
      By kind permission of the Hon. Mrs. SARTORIS.

  52. STUDY FOR PORTION OF FRIEZE, "MUSIC" (NOT CARRIED OUT IN
      FINAL DESIGN). 1883                                          234
      Leighton House Collection.

  53. FROM SKETCH IN WATER COLOUR FOR TABLEAUX VIVANTS,
      "THE ECHOES OF HELLAS" (_Colour_)                            241
      Leighton House Collection.

  54. STUDY FROM MR. JOHN HANSON WALKER, WHEN A BOY, FOR
      "LIEDER OHNE WORTE," 1860                                    251
      Leighton House Collection.

  55. PORTRAIT OF MRS. JOHN HANSON WALKER, PAINTED AS A WEDDING
      PRESENT TO HER HUSBAND, 1867 (_Colour_)                      273
      By kind permission of Mr. WALKER.

  56. FIGURES FOR CEILING FOR MUSIC ROOM, PREVIOUS TO THE DRAPERY
      BEING ADDED, 1886                                            276

  57. ORIGINAL SKETCH IN CHARCOAL OF DANCING FIGURES FOR THE SAME,
      1886                                                         276
      Leighton House Collection.

  58. WATER COLOUR DRAWING OF THE CA' D'ORO, VENICE                285
      (_Colour_)

  59. VIEW IN ALGIERS (_Colour_)                                   299

  60. VIEW IN ALGIERS (_Colour_)                                   301

  61. SKETCH FOR "SALOME, THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS," 1857          308
      Leighton House Collection.

  62. SIXTEEN SCENES IN FLORENCE--ILLUSTRATIONS TO "ROMOLA"  Beginning
      By kind permission of Mrs. CHARLES LEWES.               page 310

      1. BLIND SCHOLAR AND DAUGHTER.
      2. "SUPPOSE YOU LET ME LOOK AT MYSELF;" NELLO'S SHOP.
      5. "THE FIRST KEY."
      6. PEASANTS' FAIR.
      7. THE DYING MESSAGE.
      8. FLORENTINE JOKE.
      9. THE ESCAPED PRISONER.
     10. NICCOLO AT WORK.
     11. "YOU DIDN'T THINK."
     13. "FATHER, I WILL BE GUIDED."
     15. THE VISIBLE MADONNA.
     16. DANGEROUS COLLEAGUES.
     17. "MONNA BRIGIDA."
     18. "BUT YOU WILL HELP."
     20. "DRIFTING."
     21. "WILL HIS EYES OPEN?"


    [Illustration: HEAD PRESENTED TO THE QUEEN BY LORD LEIGHTON
    By permission of Her Majesty the Queen]




ERRATA


Motto facing Title-page, line 3, _for_ "from," _read_ "for."
Page  xx, No. 49, _for_ "Figures for Ceiling, &c.," _read_
          "By kind permission of Sir A. Henderson, Bart."
Page  31, line 7, _for_ "at all," _read_ "to all."
Page  60, omit note.
Page  67, line 31, _for_ "unscorched," _read_ "sunscorched."
Page 103, line 31, _for_ "worse that," _read_ "worse than."
Page 127, line 16, _for_ "Wasash," _read_ "Warsash."
Page 169, line 8, _for_ "Pantaleoni," _read_ "Pantaleone."
Page 197, note, _for_ "Vol. I.," _read_ "Vol. II."
Page 213, lines 6, 7, _for_ "owing ... from," _read_ "owing ... to."
Page 265, note. The reference number should be to "Edward," instead
          of to "Adelaide."
Page 296, line 17, _for_ "Couture," _read_ "Conture."




THE LIFE OF LORD LEIGHTON




INTRODUCTION


In 1860, when Leighton, at the age of thirty, definitely settled in
England, art was alive in two distinctly new directions. Ruskin was
writing, the Pre-Raphaelites were painting, and Prince Albert, besides
encouraging individual painters and sculptors, had, through his fine
taste and the exercise of his patronage in every branch of art,
developed an interest in good design as it can be carried out in
manufactures and various crafts. Leighton followed the Prince
Consort's initiatory lead; and, by showing the same cultured and
catholic zeal in her welfare, was enabled to continue and develop
Prince Albert's important work, thereby widening and elevating the
whole outlook of art in England.

It has at times been asserted that Leighton was greater as a President
of the Royal Academy than he was as a painter. It would be truer, I
think, to say that it was because he was so great as an artist in the
highest, widest meaning of the word, so sincere a workman, that he
stands unrivalled as a President. In a letter to a friend, dated May
1888, ten years after he had been elected President, he wrote, "I am a
workman first and an official afterwards," and it was, I believe,
because he carried into his official duties the true artist's warmth,
sincerity, and zeal for his special vocation, that his influence as an
official was never deadened by theoretic red-tapeism, nor by secondary
or side issues. Leighton ever flew straight to the mark, and the mark
he aimed at in his presidential work was ever the highest essential
point from the view he also took as an artist. His official duties,
carried out with so great an amount of scrupulous conscientiousness,
would have gone far to fill the entire life of an ordinary human
being; yet these duties were, to the last, subordinated in his
personal existence to his self-imposed duties as a painter and a
sculptor.

The words, "I am a workman first and an official afterwards,"
epitomise the creed of his life. From earliest childhood art had cast
over Leighton's nature a glamour which made his heart-service to her
the great passion of his life. His "great nature" had in it many
sources of stirring interest and of pure delights, which he enjoyed
keenly; but nothing came in sight, so to speak, which ever for a
moment seriously challenged a rivalry with the salient ruling passion.
His character, as it developed, wound itself round it; his strongest
sense of duty focalised itself in its service; his ambition ever was
more inspired and stimulated by a devotion to the best interests of
art than by any purely personal incentive. Leighton was an artist of
that true type in whom no influence whatsoever can deter or slacken
incessant zeal for work. In the deepest recesses of his nature burnt
the unquenchable fire, the paramount longing to follow in Nature's
footsteps, and to create things of beauty. Among the many loyal
servants who have dutifully worshipped at the shrine of art, never was
there one who more completely devoted the best that was in him to her
service.

"Va! your human talk and doings are a tame jest; the only passionate
life is in form and colour."[1]

Leighton's nature may be viewed from three aspects. Though each aspect
is apparently detached from the others, it would be impossible to
record a true portrait were the three not kept in view while
attempting to draw the picture.

First, there was Leighton, the great man, the public servant, gifted
with exceptional powers of intellect and character, who attained the
highest social position ever reached by an English artist; the
Leighton the world knew, whose sway was paramount in the many councils
and assemblies to which he belonged no less than when fulfilling his
duties as President of the Royal Academy, and whose helpfulness and
zeal in promoting the extension of a knowledge and appreciation of
English art in foreign countries and in the colonies became
proverbial. Lady Loch tells of his invaluable help in the efforts she
and her husband made to encourage art, while the late Lord Loch was
Governor of the Isle of Man, of Victoria, and of Cape Colony. "I feel
it would be impossible," she writes, "to convey in a few words what a
wonderful friend Frederic Leighton was to my husband from the time he
first knew him,[2] forty years before Leighton's death, and to myself
from the time we married. He was always ready to help us at every
turn. Any deserving artist whom we sent to him would be certain to
find in him a friend. When we arranged the very small Art Exhibition
in the Isle of Man, you could hardly imagine with what energy and
thoughtfulness he entered into the matter, impressing upon us all the
steps that we ought to take in order to secure its success, even to
the details, such as packing and insuring the pictures. He himself
sent us pictures for the Exhibition, and guided our judgment in
admiring and caring for those which were best and most to be valued,
with a paternal care and zeal not describable. Again, when we were in
Australia, and the great International Centennial Exhibition in
Melbourne took place in 1888, Frederic Leighton selected such a good
collection of pictures that they simply were the saving of the
Exhibition financially--they attracted such continuous crowds of
visitors. Subsequently, when an exhibition of ceramic work was asked
for in Melbourne, and Henry Loch wrote to consult his friend, amidst
all Frederic Leighton's important work and duties, he rushed about and
secured a most interesting collection of all kinds of china and
pottery, which was greatly appreciated by the Australians. Again, in
1892, he formed a Fine Art Committee, consisting of himself, who was
appointed Chairman, Sir Charles Mills, Sir Donald Currie, M.P., Mr.
W.W. Ouless, R.A., Mr. Colin Hunter, A.R.A., Mr. Frank Walton, and Mr.
Prange, to select pictures to send for exhibition at Kimberley.
Besides a picture lent by Queen Victoria, at Leighton's request, of
the portraits of herself and the royal family by Winterhalter, and
four by Leighton, which he lent, the Committee secured 181 pictures,
though not without great difficulty, Leighton told us, because the
artists were afraid their works would be injured by the burning sun,
the sandstorms, and the rough journey up from the Cape. Owing,
however, to Leighton's untiring exertions, a very interesting and
successful exhibition took place in this then little known town of our
English colony in Africa."

On the day Leighton died, Watts, his near neighbour and
fellow-workman, in a letter to a friend, wrote that he had enjoyed "an
uninterrupted and affectionate friendship of five-and-forty years"
with Leighton. He continues: "No one will ever know such another. A
magnificent intellectual capacity, an unerring and instantaneous
spring upon the point to unravel, a generosity, a sympathy, a tact, a
lovable and sweet reasonableness, yet no weakness. For my own
part--and I tell you, life can never be the same to me again--my own
grief is merged in the sense I have of the appalling loss to the
nation; it seems to me to be no less."[3] Later, Watts wished it
recorded that Leighton's character was the most beautiful he had ever
known. This tribute from the great veteran artist, thirteen years
Leighton's senior, but who outlived him more than eight years, was
echoed far and wide by many at the time of Leighton's death. To his
powers and influence, exercised in the Royal Academy as a body and to
the members individually, Mr. Briton Rivière, the painter, and Mr.
Hamo Thornycroft, the sculptor, give the following appreciative
tributes.

Mr. Briton Rivière writes:--

"To begin with, I never really knew him--though we had met several
times before--until I began to serve upon the Council with him very
soon after his election as President. This at once brought us into
very intimate relations, and a very few meetings convinced me that his
opinions and actions on that body were invariably regulated by a true
spirit of absolute justice and fairness to all, and that if he had his
own particular art beliefs--which he certainly had, for art was to him
almost a religion, and his own particular belief almost a creed--he
never allowed it to bias him in the least. Indeed, I have never worked
with any one who exhibited a broader or more catholic spirit of
tolerance, even sympathy with all schools, however diverse from his
own, only demanding honesty and sincerity should be the basis of each
kind of work.

"I have always felt that no one, who had heard only his elaborately
prepared speeches, knew his real power as a speaker.

"He was a master of time. I do not think he ever failed to keep an
appointment almost to the minute. He was seldom much too early, but
never too late.

"He was an ideal president for any institution, and after serving
under him for many years, I cannot think of any one faculty which a
president should possess, which Leighton wanted."

Mr. Hamo Thornycroft writes:--

"My earliest recollection of Leighton was in 1869, when, with several
other young art students, I went to his studio. He had promised to
criticise the designs we had made from Morris' 'Life and Death of
Jason.' This he did most admirably, it seemed to me, and most
sympathetically, devoting considerable time to each; and I came away
encouraged and a sworn devotee of the great man.

"For the next few years, I had the benefit of his teaching at the
Academy Schools, where he was most energetic as a visitor, and took
the greatest pains to help the students. He was, moreover, an
_inspiring_ master. Besides doing much for the school of sculpture,
till then much neglected, he started a custom of giving a certain time
to the study of drapery on the living model. His knowledge in this
department and his excellent method were a new element in the training
in the schools, and soon had a salutary effect upon the work done by
the students. His influence, through the Academy Schools, upon the
younger generation of sculptors was very great. There can be no doubt
whatever that the rapid advance made in the art of sculpture during
the last thirty years was to a considerable extent due to the sympathy
and the interest which Leighton gave to it.

"Leighton, as is well known, carefully prepared his important
speeches, like many great speakers; but I never saw him fail, or even
hesitate, when called upon to speak unexpectedly. At meetings of the
Academy Council or at the general assemblies, his summing up and his
weighing of the arguments brought forward by members in course of
discussion was always masterly, just and eloquent. He had such a great
sense of proportion, and detected what was the essence and the
essential part of a speaker's argument."

At a meeting held in Leighton's studio, after his death in May 1896,
for the purpose of furthering the scheme of preserving the house for
the nation as a memorial to the great artist, the sculptor, Mr.
Alfred Gilbert, R.A., on rising to speak, said he felt too much on the
occasion to be able to make a speech, adding, "I can only say that all
I know, and all the little I have been able to do as a sculptor, I owe
to Leighton."

In a letter, dated February 9, 1896, Watts again writes: "I delighted
in shaping a splendid career of incalculable benefit to his
(Leighton's) epoch. His abilities, his persuasiveness, the peculiar
range of his cultivation, would have fitted him to accompany a
delicate embassy, where his efficiency would have been made evident,
establishing a right to be entrusted with the like as its head; I
believe something of this and more, if there could be more, was for
him in the future. You know, I always looked forward to his seat in
the House of Lords. That came about, and I believe the rest was but a
question of time. Feeling this, you can understand that my own grief
seems to me to be selfish. I am glad you enjoyed the friendship of one
of the greatest men of any time."

In the speech which the King, then Prince of Wales, made at the first
banquet held after Leighton's death, on May 1, 1897, His Majesty
referred to the late President in the following words:--

"All of us in the room, and I especially, must miss one whose eloquent
voice was so often heard at this banquet--a voice, alas! now hushed
for ever. It is unnecessary, as it would be almost impertinent in me,
to hold forth in praise of the merits and virtues of Lord Leighton.
They are known to you all. He has left a great name behind him, and he
himself will be regretted not only by the great artistic world, but by
the whole nation. I myself had the advantage of knowing him for a
great number of years--ever since I was a boy--and I need hardly say
how deeply I deplore the fact that he can be no more in our midst. But
his name will be cherished and honoured throughout the country."

It is not necessary to dwell more lengthily on this salient aspect of
Leighton. During his lifetime it was public property, the great name
he has left is evidence sufficient to coming generations.

Secondly, as portrayed chiefly by his human qualities, there was the
aspect of Leighton as his family and his friends knew him; the beloved
Leighton, the delightful companion, the charming personality, the
being whose brilliant vitality brought a mental stimulus into all
intercourse with him. The Leighton _qui savait vivre_ perhaps better
than did ever any other conspicuous, overworked servant of the public;
an active, positive influence, radiating strength and sunshine by his
presence; and playing the game--whatever game it was--better than even
the experts in special games. In that which perhaps he played best,
lay his remarkable social power. Leighton had a deep-rooted and
ingenuous sincerity of nature, and never for a moment lost his
self-centre; yet he had the rare gift of unlocking the side most
worthy to be unlocked in the nature of his companion of the moment. He
had the power of evolving out of most people he met something that was
real and of interest. Never giving himself away, he yet managed to
meet other individualities on any ground that existed which could by
any possibility be made a mutual ground. Though generosity itself in
believing the best of every one, and at times entrapped by the wily,
anything like flattery was a vice in his eyes. He neither gave himself
away, nor induced others to give themselves away while in his company,
and would always abstain from obtruding his opinions, modestly
withholding judgment where he saw neither a duty nor a distinct reason
to pronounce.

Perhaps the strongest mark of Leighton's true distinction lay in the
fact that, notwithstanding his reserve on all matters of deep feeling,
notwithstanding his love of form in the living of life as in the
creating of art, notwithstanding the perpetually shifting and urgent
claims which, as a public man and a prominent social entity, were
being continually forced upon him, the inner entity, the real
Leighton, remained to the end a child of nature. No need was there for
him to gauge the proportionate merit of the various conflicting
influences that played on his complicated life; his own instinctive
preferences clenched the matter indubitably, asserting that the
noblest grace and the finest taste lay in the spontaneous and the
natural. When Watts wished it recorded that Leighton's nature was the
most beautiful he had ever known, he referred, I think, more specially
to that lovable, kind-hearted ingenuousness and noble simplicity which
were its deepest roots, notwithstanding a life of conflicts,
ambitions, and unparalleled success. There are among those who most
honour and love Leighton's memory, and who felt most keenly his loss,
poor and unsuccessful artists and students, of whom the world has
never heard, but to whom the great President gave of his very best in
advice and sympathy.[4] He never posed, though he was an adept in
catching the atmosphere of a situation, however new and foreign to
his usual beat such a situation might be. Scrupulous in his attitude
of reverence towards his vocation as an artist, _ever_ most scrupulous
to render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's, the inner core of
the nature remained simple and unstained by worldliness.

Then there was the third aspect of Leighton, the Leighton at times
half-hidden from himself; the yearning, unsatisfied spirit, which,
though subject at times to great elevations of delight, at others was
also the victim of profound depressions and a sense of loneliness--a
state of being born out of that strange, only half-explained region
whence proceed all intuitive faculties. Such states are referred to
occasionally in his letters to his mother, and we find their influence
recorded at intervals in his art. In 1849, on a sketch of Giotto when
a boy, are written in the corner the words "Sehnsucht"; in 1865, there
is the David, "Oh, that I had wings like a dove; for then would I fly
away and be at rest"; in 1894, the "Spirit of the Summit"--these are
all alike expressions of the home-sickness that yearned for an abiding
resting-place not found in the conditions of this world. "Oh, what a
disappointing world it is!" were words he uttered shortly before his
death. In 1894, when at Bayreuth, a friend was congratulating him on
his ever fortunate star having even there easily overcome the
difficulties of the crowd. Leighton, passing over the immediate
question, answered with a striking serious sadness, "I have not _ever_
got what I most wanted in this world."

No mind was ever more explicit to itself in its mental working, than
was his with regard to matters which the intellect can investigate and
solve. His judgment could never be warped by reason of an insufficient
brain apparatus with which to judge himself and others impartially.
But Leighton was a great man, beyond being the one who owned "a
magnificent intellectual capacity." The qualities he possessed, which
made him a prominent entity who influenced the interests of the world
at large, secured for him a footing on that higher level where human
nature breathes a finer, more rarefied atmosphere than that in which
the intellect alone disports itself; a level from which can be viewed
the just proportion existing between the truly great and the truly
little. Selfishness disappears in a nature such as Leighton possessed,
when that level is reached. The necessity for self-sacrifice forces
itself so peremptorily, that there is no struggle to be gone through
in exercising it. For instance--notwithstanding the absorbing nature
of his occupations and the intense devotion he felt towards his
vocation as an artist, when it was a question of the country needing a
reserve force for her army to draw on in case of war--a need which is
at this present moment insisted on by Lord Roberts with such zealous
earnestness--Leighton at once seized the importance of the question,
and, at whatever sacrifice to his own more personal interests,
enlisted as a volunteer, and mastered the art and duties of soldiering
so completely that many officers in the regular army envied his
knowledge and efficiency.

The following is an appreciation by an old comrade in the Artists'
Volunteer Corps:--

"The names of those who first enrolled themselves to form the Artists'
Volunteer Corps in 1860 is a record of considerable interest in
itself, and calls back many reminiscences connected with art. Leighton
joined May 10, 1860, and was in a few days given his commission as
ensign.

"Probably the very character of the first recruits tended to prevent
that expansion and accession of numbers without which no military body
can flourish. Lord Bury, the first commandant, became the Colonel of
the Civil Service Rifles; and whatever attention may have been given
to firing and detailed training, the early appearances of the
'Artists' in public at reviews was, as a rule, as a company or two
attached to the Civil Service Rifle Corps.

"Events, however, brought a change in the command, and Leighton
having, not without hesitation, accepted it, set himself at once to
introduce reforms. The Captains, he announced, were to be responsible
each for the command and drill of his company. He, to carry out before
promotion as Major Commanding a duty which the previous laxity had
never required of him, learned the company drill by heart and went
through the whole complicated system then existing, on a single
evening under trying circumstances in very insufficient space.
Reorganisation did not rapidly fill the ranks, and there was much hard
work to be done before the Artists' Corps appeared as a completed
eight-company battalion, and took its place among the best of the
Volunteer Corps of the Metropolis. The personality of the Commander
did very much to achieve this result, and Leighton became
Lieutenant-Colonel Commandant in 1876.

"Next to his duty to his Art and to the Royal Academy, as he was ever
careful to say, he esteemed his duty in the Corps. Busy man, with his
time mapped out more than most, he was always accessible and ready to
give the necessary time to those who had access to him on the Corps
business. He never appeared on parade without previous study of the
drill to be gone through, while his tact, energy, and personal charm
were brought out and used at those social meetings with officers and
with men which do so much to build up the tone of a volunteer body.

"Of camps and duties in the tented field he took his part cheerfully.
He shared the hardship of the early experience of the detachment at
the Dartmoor Manoeuvres, where, camping on the barren hills above the
lower level of the mist, the extemporised commissariat followed with
difficulty, and the officers consoled themselves for the roughness of
their fare by the consumption of marmalade, which happened to be
supplied in bulk, and had to clean their knives in the sand to make
some show for the entertainment of the Brigadier at such dinner as
could be had.

"Regarding volunteering so earnestly as he did, the reports of the
Inspecting Officers would appear of great importance in Leighton's
eyes. On one occasion paragraphs had appeared in the papers about the
Corps which probably gave some umbrage to the authorities. The
Inspecting Officer kept the battalion an unconscionable time at drill,
changed the command, fell out the Staff Sergeants, yet all went well.
At length, with Leighton again in command, and a word imperfectly
heard, the square walked outwards in four directions. The confusion
was put to rights, and the well-prepared speech from the Inspecting
Officer as to the importance of battalion drills, &c., followed. It
was quite a pleasure to point out to the distressed Leighton that the
whole was manifestly a 'put up thing.'

"The answer he received on another occasion admitted of no
misinterpretation. Riding with the Officer after the inspection, and
anxious to know whether in his opinion he was really doing any good
work by his volunteering, Leighton asked whether the Officer would be
willing to take the battalion he had just inspected under fire, and
received the laconic reply, 'Yes, sir, hell fire.'

"On Leighton's election as President of the Academy, his twenty-five
years active service in the Corps ceased in 1883. All the time that
the history of the volunteering of the nineteenth century is known,
his name will be associated with the Artists' Corps to the honour of
both."

Mr. Hamo Thornycroft, R.A., also adds his tribute in the following
lines:--

"I should think that few Commanding Officers of Volunteer Regiments
could surpass Colonel Leighton in efficiency. His wonderful knowledge
of infantry drill, and the decision with which he gave the word of
command, made it very easy for the men in the ranks to obey him; and
the quickness of eye with which he detected an error in any movement
frequently saved confusion in the ranks on a field day. The Artists'
Corps soon became one of the smartest in London. I well remember how
efficiently he commanded the Volunteer Battalion in the Army
Manoeuvres on Dartmoor in 1876, when for a fortnight of almost
continuous rain on that wild moorland he kept us all happy and full of
respect for him by his fine soldierly example. His thoroughness and
kindness were constant. After a soaking wet night he would come down
the line of tents in the early morning distributing some unheard-of
luxury, such as a couple of new-laid eggs to each man, which he had
managed to have sent from some outlying village."

Besides the obvious results of a complex and astonishingly
comprehensive nature, there were also phases in Leighton's life which
were the outcome on that side of his being half hidden to himself.

Most of us have dual natures, not only in the sense that good and bad
reside within us simultaneously, but we have also a less definable
duality of nature; nature's original creature being one thing, and the
creature developed by the conditions it meets with in its journey
through life, another. Each acts and reacts on the other. We meet the
conditions forced upon us in life from the point of our own
individualities. On the other hand, the original creature gets twisted
by circumstances and the influence of other personalities, and becomes
partially altered into a different person. This backwards and forwards
swaying of the influence of nature and circumstances helps to make
life the intricate business it is. In the case of highly gifted human
beings there seem to be further complications, arising chiefly,
perhaps, from the fact that these form so small a minority. Very
subtle and undefinable is the effect of such gifts on the character
and nature of those possessing them, for nature herself maintains a
kind of secrecy and endows her favoured ones with but a half
consciousness in respect of them. She gives to the artist and to the
poet the something, unshared with the ordinary mortal, which controls
the inner core of his being, and which is another quantity to be
allowed for in his contact with his fellows. It initiates his most
passionate, peremptory conditions of temperament, yet it remains
partially veiled to himself, in so far that he cannot explain it, nor
give it its right place, any more than the lover can explain the
glamour which is spread over life by an overpowering first love. When
Plato classes the souls of the philosopher, the artist, the musician,
and the lover together[5] as having been born to see most of truth, he
recognises the same inspired instinctive quality in the artist as in
the lover. In the artist is linked, as part of its separateness from
the rest of the community, the inseparable shyness of the lover.
Anything is better than to expose the sacred, indescribable treasure
to the indifferent stare of the uninitiated. We find every sort of
ruse adopted by lovers and artists to avoid being forced into
explicitness on so tender, so intimate a passion; so convincing to its
possessor, so impossible of full explanation to those who possess it
not. The necessity to give it a clear outline is only forced when a
danger arises of the lover being robbed of his mistress, the artist of
his vocation; then the will, propelled by the all-conquering love,
asserts itself, and difficulties have to succumb before it.

Such was the result of opposition in Leighton's case. From early
childhood he was known to care for nothing so much as for drawing, and
his talent attracted notice and pleased his family, every
encouragement being given him by his parents in his studies. It was
only when, as a boy of twelve, he viewed art as the serious work of
his future life, and when this view was met by the authorities as one
not to be encouraged, that the strong passion of his nature asserted
its rights. Clearly in opposition are planted the firmest roots of
those inevitable developments which make the great of the world great.
In Leighton was nurtured that sense of responsibility towards his
vocation, so salient a characteristic throughout his career, partly by
his father's attitude towards the worship of his nature for beauty and
for her exponent art. To prove that his self-chosen labour was no mere
play work, no mere avoiding the hard work of life and the duller paths
of service generally recognised only as of serious use to mankind, for
a game which was a mere pleasure, was a strong additional incentive to
Leighton's own high aspirations, inspiring him yet more to treat the
development of his gifts as a moral responsibility. He considered it
almost in the light of a debt owing to those to whom he was attached
by strong family affection, that he should prove good his cause.
Though he fought and overcame, having once won his point, he did his
utmost to satisfy his father's ambition for him, and to be "eminent."

On August 5, 1879, he wrote to Mrs. Mark Pattison, who was compiling
notes for an article on his life: "My father, of his own impulse, sat
down to write a few jottings, which I cannot resist sending you,
because I was touched at the thought in this kind old man of eighty.
_He_, by the way, _is_ a fine scholar, and was, at his best, a man of
exceptional intellectual powers. My desire to be an artist dates as
far back as my memory, and was wholly spontaneous, or rather
unprompted. My parents surrounded me with every facility to learn
drawing, but, as I have told you, _strongly_ discountenanced the idea
of my being an artist unless I could be eminent in art."

    [Illustration: LORD LEIGHTON'S FATHER
                   LORD LEIGHTON'S MOTHER
    From Miniatures, by permission of Mr. H.S. Mendelssohn]

Still--though to excel was Leighton's aim, in order to satisfy his
father's and also his own ambition--within the hidden recesses of that
aim lay the reverent, more single-hearted worship for his mistress
Art--seldom unveiled, it would seem, when with his father, to whose
purely intellectual and philosophical attitude of mind it would not
have appealed. Those alone possessed the key to that inner sanctuary
who did not need the key; who wanted no introduction, and were not
merely sympathisers, but native inhabitants. There is a freemasonry
between the inmates of these places remote from the world's usual
habitations, and these, naturally, have a horror of vaunting the
possession of a sacred ground to the outsider, the uninitiated. Many
of Leighton's most intimate acquaintances gathered no clue, through
their knowledge of him, of the existence of the secluded spot. Dr.
Leighton's influence, however, non-artistic as was his nature,
stimulated his son's natural mental elasticity, encouraging a
comprehensive and unprejudiced view of life and people, a view which
marked Leighton's undertakings with a stamp of nobility and
distinction throughout his career. Yet further--the intellectual
training he received in youth probably enlarged, in some respects, the
areas of the sacred sanctuary itself, enabling Leighton, when he was
the servant of the public and possessing wide influence and patronage,
not only to exercise power with the qualities which spring from a high
intellectual development, but to mellow with wisdom the guidance of
the yet higher sympathies of the heart, when helping those staggering
along the road which he himself had travelled over with such success.
To many, however, especially to those possessing the artistic
temperament, it must always remain, to say the least, a questionable
advantage to a student of art that his intellectual faculties should
be forced forward at the expense of the development of his more
emotional and ingenuous instincts, at the age when sensitiveness to
receive impressions is keenest, and when such impressions have the
most lasting power in moulding the future tendencies of his nature.
Certainly the effects of a development of critical and analytical
faculties is apt to prove a damper to those ecstasies of enthusiasm
which inspire the most convincing conceptions in art. When first
starting and facing seriously his independent career alone, Leighton
writes to his mother: "I wish that I had a mind, simple and
unconscious as a child." Again, writing to his elder sister from
Algiers in 1857, after describing the delightful impression produced
by a first visit to an Eastern country, he adds: "And yet what I have
said of my feelings, though _literally true_, does not give you an
exactly true notion, for together with, and as it were behind, so much
pleasurable emotion, there is always that other strange second man in
me, calm, observant, critical, unmoved, blasé--odious! He is a shadow
that walks with me, a sort of nineteenth-century canker of doubt and
dissection; it's very, very seldom that I forget his loathsome
presence. What cheering things I find to say!"

Allied to the third, more intimate aspect of his nature were phases in
Leighton's feelings when heart would seem to conquer head. He would at
times indulge in what might almost be designated as a self-imposed
blindness, when he would allow of no criticism by himself or others of
the cause or person in question. An enthusiastic, unselfish devotion,
a sense of chivalry or pity, would override his normally
clear-sighted, intellectual acumen. Having set his belief and
admiration to one tune, faithful loyalty--and maybe a certain amount
of obstinacy--would bind him fast in an adherence to the same.

    [Illustration: EARLY PICTURE OF BOY RESCUING SLEEPING BABY
    FROM EAGLE
    Leighton House Collection]

Belonging also to the intuitive, more emotional side of his nature,
was the curiously strong influence places exercised over him, certain
localities affecting him and exciting his sympathies with a strong
power.

In 1857 he wrote to his elder sister: "If I am as faithful to my wife
as I am to the places I love, I shall do very well!"

In order to seize fully Leighton's complete individuality, an
understanding of Italy, his "second home," is perhaps necessary--a
conception of the nature of the unsophisticated Italian life which
fascinated him so greatly when as yet no invasion had been made of
cosmopolitan, so-called civilisation. As a magnet, Italy drew Leighton
to her.[6] Under the influence of her radiant beauty, breathing such a
life of charm and colour beneath sunlit skies, he felt the sources of
happiness in his own nature expand and his powers ripen. In the
fertility of her soil, the vitality of her people, the superb quality
of her art--fine and gracious in its perfection, and distributed
generously throughout the length and breadth of her land--he
experienced influences which intensified his emotions and vivified his
imagination. The child-like charm of her people, so spontaneously
happy, enjoying the ease and assurance of nature's own aristocracy,
because enjoying nature's generous gifts with unabashed fulness of
sensation, in whom are non-existent those sensibilities which create
self-consciousness, restraint, and an absence of self-confidence,
aroused in Leighton an interest deeper than mere pleasure. It was to
him like the joy of a yearning satisfied, as of those who, having had
their lot cast for years with aliens and foreigners, find themselves
again with their own kith and kin, surrounded by the native atmosphere
which had lent such enchantment to childhood. Again and again he
returned to Italy to be made happy, to be revived, to be strengthened
by her. Her influence became kneaded into his very being, not only
nourishing his sense of beauty and rendering more complete the artist
nature within him, but touching the sources from which his artist
temperament sprang, inspiring his very personality and changing it
into one which was certainly not typically English. His rapid
utterance, his picturesque gesture, his very appearance, were not
emphatically English.[7]

Certain Englishmen who knew Leighton but slightly felt out of sympathy
with him for this reason, experiencing a difficulty in recognising him
as one of themselves. It was, however, only on the surface that a
difference existed. Once intimate with Leighton, he was ever found to
be _au fond_ English of the English. After the age of thirty it was in
England Leighton fought the serious battle of life--Italy was but the
playground, though a playground of such fascination to him that the
glamour of it was spread over the working hours no less than over the
holidays. In these days we have to go into the smaller towns and
villages to discover the typical Italian characteristics; but when
Leighton, as a child, was taken from the gloom of Bloomsbury to this,
to him a magic world,--syndicates, building-companies, tramways, and
modern things generally, had not as yet invaded either Rome or
Florence. When grown up and master of his own actions, he wandered
into unsophisticated haunts--villages and towns off the beaten tracks,
where with abnormal facility he learned the distinctive _pâtois_ of
every district, listening with delight to local folk-songs, and
watching the peasants and the aborigines of the soil. In early
sketch-books we find records of visits to Albano, Tivoli, Cervaro,
Subiaco, San Giuminiano, and to even smaller and less known villages
in Tuscany and Veneziano, where he enjoyed the unalloyed flavour of
Italy and her people. Those who pay only flying visits to the country
after they are grown up would find a difficulty perhaps in realising
what Italy was to Leighton; but any one visiting for a few weeks even
such a well-known place as Albano, without other preoccupation than to
watch the natives and wander in the beautiful scenery to the sound of
the many flowing fountains, could still catch something of the true
national spirit which fascinated him so greatly. The typical Britisher
might regard the ways of these natives of the _Provincia di Roma_ as
irrational, idle, semi-savage. Doubtless the streets and piazzas
abound in noisy inhabitants, gesticulating with wild dramatic fervour,
who appear to have otherwise little to do in life but to loiter and
"look on"; sociable groups of women sit round the doorways knitting;
but it is the talk, accompanied by excited action, which is engrossing
them. Charmingly pretty children are playing everywhere--idle,
troublesome, but so happy! To the accompanying sound of running
waters,--night and day,--cries, yells, and songs ring out through the
ancient little town.[8] High up on the side of the mountains it
overlooks the Roman Campagna, the tragic strangeness of those
land-waves rolling away, flattened and stretched out, for miles and
miles, under the dome of light and shadowing cloud, a network of
bright gleams and violet lakelets, to the far-off brilliant shine on
the sea limit.[9] This noise, dramatic action, gesticulation, all
ending apparently in nothing in particular, but filling the little
town with such amazing vitality--what is it all about? The typical
Englishman does not know--does not care to know, despising the whole
thing as beneath his notice. But Leighton knew well what it meant.
From experiences in his own nature he realised that it was but an
innocent outlet, through voice and gesture, of an excitement resulting
from an imperative dramatic instinct, a vital force in the emotional
nature of the Italian. He recognised the necessity for such an outlet
in such temperaments through his sympathy with the glad exuberance of
physical vitality enjoyed in this sunlit land; anti-puritan though it
may be, this exuberance is none the less pure and innocent.

The holy Saint Francis in his ecstasies of spiritual illumination
would, it is said, break out into song from the natural impulse to
find an outlet and to throw off the excess of excitement, that
thrilled through his being.[10]

Leighton knew that to suppress the vitality which needs such an outlet
was to minimise the forces necessary for life's best work. He himself,
in the working of his mind, was possessed of a magnificent facility--a
facility which left the strength of his emotions fresh and free, to
enjoy the ecstasies of admiration and delight which the choice gifts
of nature and art had given him; but there are many among modern men
and women, taught by much reading, who overweight their physical
vitality in the effort to develop intellect and to forward
self-interest, till all simple physical enjoyment is lost, and the
natural man becomes repressed into a mental machine incapable of any
spontaneous emotions of joy, and blunt to the fine aroma of life's
keen and pure pleasures--

    "My nature is subdued to what it works in."

To Leighton the simple joyous child of nature, in the form of the
unsophisticated Italian, was a preferable being. To the end of his
life he retained much of the child in his own nature, and had ever an
inborn sympathy with the love for children so evident everywhere in
unspoilt Italy; for the gracious caressing of them by the poorest of
the poor--old men in the veriest tatters and rags showing a complete
and beautiful submission to the dominating charms of babyhood.

The memory of the hideous, gruesome stories of baby-farming in England
strikes indeed a contrast with the scenes that abound at every turn
in any old, dirty, picturesque Italian village, and assuredly settles
the question, Is our English development of civilisation an unalloyed
benefit?

As a contrast to the definite, explicit German development of his
intellectual machinery, Leighton had special sympathy with the
emotional spontaneity of the Italian race; also as a contrast to the
selective and finely poised conclusions to be worked out in theories
of composition learnt from his beloved master Steinle, arose a special
admiration for the casual, unpremeditated, inevitable grace and charm
in the manners and gestures of this southern people. What laboured
theories so often failed to achieve, nature here was always doing in
her most careless moods.

In considering the intimate aspect of Leighton's nature, and the
interweaving of the original fabric with the forces developed by the
circumstances he encountered, the influence of Italy must assuredly be
given a very distinct prominence. From her and her people he acquired
courage in the exercise of his intuitive preferences, also a
development of that rapid and direct insight so inborn in her
children. Like the lizards that dart with such lightning speed across
her sun-scorched walls and over the gnarled bark of the weird olive
tree, the perceptions of the typical Italian are swift, and fly
straight to the mark. In the Italian, however, this vividness of
perception is mostly expended in ejaculation and dramatic gesture,
which,--subsiding,--leaves a state of indolence and nonchalance,
untroubled by any mental exertion. In Leighton the rapidity with which
his perceptions seized the core of truth was backed by an intellectual
activity of extraordinary power, by which he worked his intuitive
sensibilities into the interests which guided the solid aims of his
life.

Probably no Englishman ever approached the Greek of the Periclean
period so nearly as did Leighton, for the reason that he possessed
that combination of intellectual and emotional power in a like rare
degree. The human beings who achieve most as active workers in the
world, are doubtless those in whom can be traced a capacity for making
apparently incompatible forces pull together towards a desired end.
Leighton succeeded in allying two distinct developments in his nature;
and by, so to say, putting these into double harness and driving them
together, acquired an advantage which few other artists, if any, have
possessed since the time of the Greeks.

But, being essentially English as well as Greek-like, Leighton pushed
this combination of powers to a moral issue. He held as his creed of
creeds that the mission of Art was to act as a lever in the uplifting
of the human race, not by going beyond her own domain, but by
directing the sense of beauty with which her true priesthood must ever
be endowed, in order to eliminate from man his more brutal tendencies,
to refine and perfect his insight into nature, and to develop his
delight in her perfection. He held that, the stronger the emotional
force in an artist, the stronger the sense of responsibility should
be; the more he should seek to express it in a manner which would
elevate rather than deprave. In his picture of "Cymon and Iphigenia,"
Leighton expressed the main dogma of his belief. In sentences towards
the end of his second address to the Royal Academy students in the
year 1881, he eloquently describes the complex and deep nature of
those æsthetic emotions whence spring the Arts:--

"It is not, it cannot be, the foremost duty of Art to seek to embody
that which it cannot adequately present, and to enter into a
competition in which it is doomed to inevitable defeat.

"On the other hand, there is a field in which she has no rival. We
have within us the faculty for a range of emotions of vast compass, of
exquisite subtlety, and of irresistible force, to which Art and Art
alone amongst human forms of expression has a key; these then, and no
others, are the chords which it is her appointed duty to strike; and
Form, Colour, and the contrasts of Light and Shade are the agents
through which it is given to her to set them in motion. Her duty is,
therefore, to awaken those sensations directly emotional and
indirectly intellectual, which can be communicated only through the
sense of sight, to the delight of which she has primarily to minister.
And the dignity of these sensations lies in this, that they are
inseparably connected by association of ideas, with a range of
perceptions and feelings of infinite variety and scope. They come
fraught with dim complex memories of all the ever-shifting spectacle
of inanimate creation, and of the more deeply stirring phenomena of
life; of the storm and the lull, the splendour and the darkness of the
outer world; of the storm and the lull, the splendour and the darkness
of the changeful and transitory lives of men. Nay, so closely overlaid
is the simple æsthetic sensation with elements of ethic or
intellectual emotion by these constant and manifold accretions of
associated ideas, that it is difficult to conceive of it independently
of this precious overgrowth.... The most sensitively religious mind
may indeed rest satisfied in the consciousness that it is not on the
wings of abstract thought alone that we rise to the highest moods of
contemplation, or to the most chastened moral temper; and assuredly
Arts which have for their chief task to reveal the inmost springs of
Beauty in the created world, to display all the pomp of the teeming
earth, and all the pageant of those heavens of which we are told that
they declare the Glory of God, are not the least eloquent witnesses to
the might and to the majesty of the mysterious and eternal Fountain of
all good things."

Not only could no attempt be approximately made at giving a real and
vivid picture of Leighton's remarkable personality were not the three
aspects of his nature taken into account, but also if the influences
which affected him strongly during those years when his genius and
character were being developed were not also considered. His
conscious nature and feelings, during the first thirty years of his
life, can be best traced in his letters, notably in those to his
mother. It is easy to recognise, in reading his mother's letters to
him, from whom he inherits the warm tender generosity which made his
nature so lovable.

    [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF PROFESSOR EDOUARD STEINLE
    Drawn by Himself]

When at Frankfort, in 1845, he first became acquainted with the most
"indelible" influence of his life in that inner sanctuary in which he
had hitherto been a lonely inmate. Seven years later, in the Diary he
calls "Pebbles," written for his mother, when, fully fledged, he
leaves the nest to battle alone on the field of life, he pays a
tribute of unqualified affection and gratitude to his master, Steinle,
who first unlocked the door to Leighton's full consciousness of the
depth of his devotion for his calling (see pp. 61 and 62).

In 1879, the year after Leighton was elected President of the Royal
Academy, in the same letter to Mrs. Mark Pattison already quoted from,
he writes, respecting the influences which affected his art
development: "For _bad_ by Florentine Academy, for good, far beyond
all others, by Steinle, a noble-minded, single-hearted artist, _s'il
en fut_. Technically, I learnt (later) much from Robert Fleury, but
being very receptive and prone to admire, I have learnt, and still do,
from innumerable artists, big and small. Steinle's is, however, the
_indelible seal_. The _thoroughness_ of all the great old masters is
so pervading a quality that I look upon them all as forming one
aristocracy."

During the first year when he settled in Rome, in the beginning of
1853, he made the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris. Leighton's
friendship with Mrs. Sartoris (Adelaide Kemble), many years his
senior, and one who had ever viewed her art as a singer from the
purest and highest aspect, became a strong and elevating influence in
his life. Professor Giovanni Costa (the "Nino" of the letters), one
of Leighton's most intimate friends from the year 1853 to the end in
1896, wrote of Mrs. Sartoris, referring to the early days in Rome from
1853 to 1856:[11] "The greatest influence on the life of Frederic
Leighton was exerted by Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris (Miss Adelaide Kemble),
who had the mind of a great artist. Mr. Sartoris was one of the
greatest critics of art, and Mrs. Sartoris had a most elevated and
serene nature."

This great friendship with Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris brought with it many
others, notably those of Robert Browning and of Mr. Henry Greville.
Some years later, Leighton writes of Mr. Henry Greville, in a letter
to his pupil and friend, Mr. John Walker: "He is indeed one of the
kindest and best men possible, I look on him myself as a second
father"; and Henry Greville in a letter to Leighton writes: "I wish
you were my son, Fay"--Fay being the name given to Leighton by his
inner circle of intimates, and certainly a stroke of genius in the one
who invented it. Writing from Frankfort to his mother, where he
returned to show his works to Steinle after his family had finally
migrated to Bath and he to Rome, he says: "I have had such a letter
from Henry (Henry Greville); there never was anything like the
tenderness of it. You would have been just enchanted."

The friendship with Mrs. Sartoris only ended with her death in 1879,
the year after Leighton was elected President of the Royal Academy.
Being then close upon fifty, deeply sensible of the grave
responsibilities involved by his new position, Leighton entered on a
fresh phase in his career. As president of the centre of national
living art, this phase involved a serious view being taken of the
interests of art such as could be encouraged by a public body. Also as
one who had been helped and encouraged by personal friendship and
influence to work out the best in him, with his ever eager and
generous nature he felt anxious to hand on the help he had received by
devoting a like sympathy to the individual interests of other workers.
His field of action had become enlarged, and he rose with consummate
ability to the fulfilment of the duties this larger area entailed on
him. Not only by his biennial addresses to the students of the Royal
Academy, but by the speeches delivered spontaneously at the councils
and elsewhere, when no preparation would have been possible, his fame
as an orator was established. Many there are who have heard the
impromptu speeches he made, who can vouch, as do Mr. Briton Rivière
and Mr. Hamo Thornycroft, that these were just as fine in language and
excellent in the concise form in which the words were made to convey
the intended meaning, as those which Leighton had carefully prepared
beforehand, and possessed, moreover, the charm of an unlaboured
effort.

    [Illustration: FROM DRAWING OF ADELAIDE SARTORIS
    Paris, 1856]

The seventeen years, during which Leighton was President of the Royal
Academy, and prominent in every direction as the leader of the art of
his country, were not without saddening influences. His duties
necessitated contact with many varieties of human nature, some far
from sympathetic to him. The contrast between his own disinterested
reverence for beauty, moral and physical, with the indifference
displayed by many of his brother artists towards his own high aims and
aspirations, forced itself more and more on Leighton as the optimistic
fervour and enthusiasm of youth waned with years and failing health.
He had to face the depressing fact that selfish motives are the ruling
factors with most men, even with those who ostensibly follow the
calling of beauty. Much of the joyousness of his spirit was lessened
accordingly, though his "sweet reasonableness," to quote Watts' truly
suggestive words, never deserted him. This prevented any bitterness or
resentment from finding permanent location in his nature. Another
source of distress arose from the fact that his great position
aroused the jealousy of the envious. However exceptional his tact,
however truly heartfelt his consideration for others, no virtues could
stand against the vice of being so pre-eminently successful in the
eyes of the envious, whose vanity alone placed them in their own
estimation on a level with the great.

Nothing perhaps excites so rampant a jealousy in unappreciative and
envious natures, as does the unexplainable charm of a delightful
personality. It aggravates the dull and envious beyond measure to see
a being thus endowed galloping over the ground in all directions with
ease, there being in their eyes no sufficient explanation for the
pace. Such success is viewed by the envious as a kind of trick, some
witchery of fascination, which deludes the world into bestowing
unmerited advantages on the conjuror. Those, on the contrary, who can
appreciate a transcendent and delightful personality, recognise it as
the convincing grace of the power of uncommon gifts flashing their
radiance into the intercourse of every-day life, modestly ignored as
conscious possessions but inevitably sparkling out in any human
intercourse, and from a social point of view making the greatest among
us the servants of all.

Jealousy fights with hidden weapons. What man or woman ever
acknowledged being jealous? The passion is disguised. Hence the
hideous sins that follow in its wake: ingratitude, treachery,
calumnies, are called into the service to blacken the offending
object. Bacon says of envy: "It is also the vilest affection, and the
most depraved; for which cause it is the proper attribute of the
devil, who is called _the envious man, that soweth tares amongst the
wheat by night_, as it always cometh to pass that envy worketh
subtilly, and in the dark; and to the prejudice of good things, such
as is the wheat."

Leighton suffered from the jealousy of the envious, though in most
cases the open expression of it was smothered during his life by
reason of his power and position. Besides being tender-hearted and
easily hurt at any feeling of hostility shown against him, he
cordially hated any phase of the ugly.

In the spring of 1895 Leighton said to a friend: "My one constant
prayer is that I should not live beyond seventy." His great dread was
to be a burden to any one--to cease to be useful to all. His wish was
more than fulfilled. He passed onward five years before the allotted
three score and ten.

Many there were who felt with Watts that life was indeed darkened; "a
great light was extinguished," a beloved friend was no longer amongst
them to help, encourage, and brighten the days. To a wide social
circle, a personality, rare in its charm and endowments, differing
from all others, had passed off the stage. It was as if, amid the
sober brown and grey plumage of our quiet-coloured English birds,
through the mists and fogs of our northern clime, there had sped
across the page of our nineteenth century history the flight of some
brilliant-hued flamingo, emitting flashes of light and colour on his
way.

To the wide public a power and a control, noble and distinguished in
its quality, had ceased to rule over the art interests of the country.
Last, but not least, to his "brothers and sisters," as Leighton called
all earnest students and artists, it was as if a strong support, a
centre of impelling force, an inspiration towards the best and highest
in art, had been suddenly swept away.

On the day of his funeral, a friend, whose husband had known him from
the commencement to the end of the brilliant career, wrote the
following notes:--[12]

"Lord Leighton's funeral to-day was as brilliant as his life, and we
came home from the majestic ceremony at St. Paul's Cathedral feeling
that his kind and gracious spirit would have rejoiced--for all he
loved and honoured in life were there mourning for the loss of their
gifted and genial friend. As the procession moved slowly into the
Cathedral the crimson and golden pall was Venetian in its brilliancy,
and the long branch of palm spoke touchingly of pain over and the
conquest won. Music, the sister Art he so devoutly worshipped, lifted
up her voice in pathetic accents to the dome of the vast Cathedral,
striving to re-echo the solemnity and grief around.

"Dear gracious Leighton, how vividly my husband recalled his earliest
impressions of him, the handsome young artist at Rome. Visions arise
in the mind of joyous days in his second home there, the cultured and
hospitable house of Adelaide Sartoris, which formed the happy
background of Leighton's life. He remembered the departure of his
picture 'The Triumph of Cimabue,' sent with diffidence, and so,
proportionate was the joy when news came of its success, and that the
Queen had bought it. It was the month of May. Rome was at its
loveliest, and Leighton's friends and brother artists gave him a
festal dinner to celebrate his honours. On receiving the news,
Leighton's first act was to fly to three less successful artists and
buy a picture from each of them (George Mason, then still unknown, was
one), and so Leighton reflected his own happiness at once on others.
To-day as we viewed the distinguished (in the best sense of the term)
mourners, it seemed an epitome of all his social and artistic life. He
never forgot an old friend, and not one was absent to-day. The men
around his coffin all looked heartily sad. It was only when those
peaceful words came, 'We give Thee hearty thanks, for that it hath
pleased Thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this
sinful world,' that we remembered the agony of his last three days on
earth, and we could be glad for our dear friend that it was past. We
could give hearty thanks, but it was for him and him alone, for we
turn with heavy hearts to our homes, feeling that with Frederic
Leighton ever so much kindness, love, and colour has gone out of the
world."

    [Illustration: CRYPT UNDER ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, WHERE BARRY,
    SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, TURNER, AND LORD LEIGHTON WERE BURIED
    From a photo, by permission of Messrs. S.B. Bolas & Co.]

Attached to the wreath which lay on his coffin were the lines written
by our Queen:--

    "Life's race well run,
     Life's work well done,
     Life's crown well won,
     Now comes rest."

In Leighton's own letters, more than is possible in any other written
words, will be traced those qualities of character and feeling which
guided the rare gifts nature had bestowed. These, used with unstinting
generosity for the benefit of others, established for our national art
a position, cosmopolitan in its influence, never previously attained
by English painting and sculpture, and of which it may be fairly
hoped, future generations, no less than the present, may reap the
benefit.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] George Eliot--"Romola."

[2] Lord Loch's cousin, Colonel Sutherland Orr, married Leighton's
elder sister in the year 1857.

[3] Quoted in G.F. Watts' "Reminiscences."

[4] An incident, one out of many that tell of Leighton's hearty, eager
helpfulness, happened on one of the evenings at the Academy, after the
prizes had been given away. A student was passing through the first
room, on his way to the entrance. He looked the picture of dejection
and disappointed wretchedness, poorly and shabbily dressed, and
slinking away as if he wished to pass out of the place unnoticed.
Millais and Leighton, walking arm in arm, came along, pictures of
prosperity. Leighton caught sight of the poor, downcast student.
Leaving Millais, he darted across the vestibule to him, and, taking the
student's arm, drew him back into the first room, and made him sit down
on the ottoman beside him. Putting his arm on the top of the ottoman,
and resting his head on his hand, Leighton began to talk as he alone
could talk; pouring forth volumes of earnest, rapid utterances, as if
everything in the world depended on his words conveying what he wanted
them to convey. He went on and on. The shabby figure gradually seemed
to pull itself together, and, at last, when they both rose, he seemed
to have become another creature. Leighton shook hands with him, and the
youth went on his way rejoicing. It is certain that if other help than
advice were needed, it was given. But it was the extraordinary zest and
vitality which Leighton put into his help which made it unlike any
other. He fought every one's cause even better than others fight their
own.

[5] In Plato's "Phædrus," Socrates says: "The soul, which has seen
most of trouble, shall come to the birth as a philosopher, or artist,
or musician, or lover; that which has seen truth in the second degree,
shall be a righteous king, or warrior, or lord; the soul which is of
the third class, shall be a politician, or economist, or trader; the
fourth, shall be a lover of gymnastic toils, or a physician; the fifth,
a prophet, or hierophant; to the sixth, a poet or imitator will be
'appropriate'; to the seventh, the life of an artisan, or husbandman;
to the eighth, that of a sophist, or demagogue; to the ninth, that of a
tyrant; all these are states of probation, in which he who lives
righteously, improves, and he who lives unrighteously, deteriorates his
lot."

[6] He wrote to his sister in 1857 from Algiers: "I shall spend my next
winter in my dear, dear old Rome, to which I am attached beyond
measure; indeed, Italy altogether has a hold on my heart that no other
country ever can have (except, of course, my own), and although, as I
just now said, I was most delighted with Africa, and have not a moment
to look back to that was not agreeable, yet there is an intimate little
corner in my affections into which it could never penetrate." And later
he wrote in a letter to his mother: "I have so often been to Italy, and
so often written to you from thence, that it seems quite a platitude to
tell you how much I enjoy it, and what a keen delight I felt again this
time when I once more trod the soil of this wonderful country; indeed,
by the time you get this you will already yourself be in full enjoyment
of its pleasures, and though naturally you cannot feel one tittle of my
attachment and yearning affection for it, yet you will have all the
physical delights of sun and serene skies and a good share of the
wonder and admiration at the inexhaustible natural beauties of this
garden of the world. I came through Switzerland this time, but as quick
as a shot, as I was in a hurry to get _home_ to Italy."

[7] Du Maurier, who took much interest in tracing indications of
various racial distinctions in the remarkable people of his time, was
troubled on this point. He was convinced that in Leighton existed
indications of foreign or Jewish blood, but was quite unable to
discover any facts in support of this theory.

[8] Leighton wrote in a letter to his sister from Algiers of the
strange sounds which the Moors emit, adding: "Much the same sort of
thing is noticeable in the peasants near Rome, whose songs consist
(within a definite shape) of long-sustained chest notes that are
peculiar in the extreme, and though often harsh, seem to be wonderfully
in harmony with the long unbroken lines of the Campagna."

[9] On December 1, 1856, Leighton writes to Steinle: "My Italian
journey afforded me in every way the greatest pleasure and edification,
and I seem now for the first time to have grasped the greatness of the
Campagna and the giant loftiness of Michael Angelo."

[10] "Après de pareilles émotions, il avait besoin d'être seul, de
savourer sa joie, de chanter sa liberté définitivement conquise, sur
tous les sentiers le long desquels il avait tant gémi, tant lutté.

"Il ne voulut donc pas retourner immédiatement à Saint-Damien. Sortant
de la cité par la porte la plus voisine, il s'enfonça dans les sentiers
déserts qui grimpent sur les flancs du Mont Subasio. On était aux tout
premiers jours du printemps. Il y avait encore çà et là de grandes
fondrières de neige, mais sous les ardeurs du soleil de mars l'hiver
semblait s'avouer vaincu. Au sein de cette harmonie, mystérieuse et
troublante, le coeur de François vibrait délicieusement, tout son être
se calmait et s'exaltait; l'âme des choses le caressait doucement et
lui versait l'apaisement. Un bonheur inconnu l'envahissait; pour
célébrer sa victoire et sa liberté, il remplit bientôt toute la forêt
du bruit de ses chants.

"Les émotions trop douces ou trop profondes pour pouvoir être exprimées
dans la langue ordinaire, l'homme les chante."--_Vie de S. François
d'Assise, par Paul Sabatier._

[11] "Notes on Lord Leighton," _Cornhill Magazine_, March 1897.

[12] The _Morning Post_ of February 4, 1896.




CHAPTER I

ANTECEDENTS AND SCHOOL DAYS

1830-1852


Some light is thrown on Leighton's ancestry by the following letter,
written by Sir Baldwyn Leighton to Sir Albert Woods, Garter, at the
time when a peerage was bestowed on Frederic Leighton. It deals with
the question of associating the name of Stretton with the Barony.

                                        "TABLEY HOUSE, KNUTSFORD,
                                              _January 10, 1896._

    "DEAR SIR,--In answer to yours of January 9, I beg to say that
    there are two places called Stretton in the County of Salop;
    one, now known as Church Stretton, having become a small town,
    was formerly in the possession of my family through the
    marriage of John de Leighton, my lineal ancestor, with the
    daughter and heiress of William Cambray of Stretton in the
    fourteenth century, whose arms we still quarter (see Herald's
    Visitation for Shropshire). This no longer belongs to me,
    having been mortgaged and sold by Sir Thomas Leighton, Kt.
    Banneret, temp. Hen. VIII. But there is another Stretton in
    the parish of Alderbury with Cardeston which does still belong
    to me, and has always belonged to the family from time
    immemorial. I have been in communication with Sir Frederic
    Leighton on the subject, and it _is_ my wish that he should
    adopt the supplemental title of Stretton. According to a
    pedigree made out by a Shropshire antiquarian some thirty
    years ago, Sir Frederic's branch descends from the younger son
    of the John de Leighton who married the Cambray heiress, and
    who was admitted burgess of Shrewsbury in 1465. Therefore I
    am of opinion that it _is_ a very proper supplemental title
    for Sir Frederic to assume.--I remain, yours, &c.,

                                               "BALDWYN LEIGHTON.

   "To Sir ALBERT WOODS, Garter."

In 1862, Leighton writes to his mother:--

"You must know that I received some time back a letter from the _Rev.
Wm. Leighton_ (address, _Luciefelde, Shrewsbury_) asking me very
politely to give him whatever information I could about our family, as
he was making a pedigree of the Leighton family, and was anxious to
find out something about a branch that had settled and been lost sight
of in London. I answered that I regretted I could give him no definite
information on the subject, beyond our belief that we were of a
younger branch of the Shropshire Leightons, whose arms and crest we
bore, that I knew personally nothing of my family further back than my
grandfather, telling him who and what he was. I ended by referring him
_to Papa_, to whom I immediately wrote, telling him the nature of Mr.
Leighton's request, and begging him to write to him at once in case he
could give him any clue that might facilitate his researches. I then
received a second, and very interesting, letter from Mr. L. telling me
that he had found in Yorkshire some Leightons (I forget the Christian
names, but not Robert) who claimed to descend from the Shropshire
stock, and whose crest differed from the Leighton crest exactly as
ours does, _i.e._ in the _forward_ expansion of the right wing of the
Wyvern; a peculiarity, by the by, which did not appear to be of weight
with him. There was more in this letter which I don't clearly
remember, but nothing establishing our claim; this letter I
immediately forwarded to you, and since then both myself and Mr.
Leighton have been waiting to hear from Papa."

The conclusion arrived at from these inquiries was--that, three or
four hundred years ago, the descendants of John de Leighton and the
Cambray heiress migrated from Shropshire to Yorkshire, and that
Leighton's grandfather, Sir James Leighton, court physician to the
Emperor Nicholas of Russia, was a descendant of this branch. Dr.
Leighton, the artist's father, married the daughter of George Augustus
Nash of Edmonton. He and his wife, early in their married life, went
to St. Petersburg, and it was supposed that he would probably succeed
his father as court physician to the Czar, who favoured Sir James
Leighton with his intimacy; but the climate of St. Petersburg not
suiting Mrs. Leighton's health, they remained there but a few years.
It was at St. Petersburg that the two eldest children were born,
Fanny, who died young, and Alexandra, the god-child of the Empress
Alexandra, who became Mrs. Sutherland Orr. From St. Petersburg, the
family moved to Scarborough, and it was at Scarborough, on December 3,
1830, that the most famous member of the Leighton family was born. The
question as to which was the actual house in which the event took
place was satisfactorily settled at the time when Leighton was raised
to the peerage, in letters which appeared in the press,--one
containing the testimony of Mrs. Anne Thorley, who was in Dr.
Leighton's service for three years with the family at Scarborough, and
for two years after they moved to London. She affirms that Leighton
was born in the house in Brunswick Terrace, now numbered 13, but which
at that time consisted only of three houses. Mrs. Thorley adds,
"Fred's mother was a splendid lady--such a good one with her children,
and most affectionate."

A second son named James, who died in his infancy, was also born at
Scarborough, and five years after the birth of Leighton his younger
sister Augusta, now Mrs. Matthews, was born in London.

    [Illustration: Lord Leighton when a Boy
    From a Portrait by Himself
    By permission of Mr. H.S. Mendelssohn]

    [Illustration: Lord Leighton's younger Sister when a Child
    From a Drawing by Lord Leighton
    By permission of Mr. H.S. Mendelssohn]

Dr. Leighton had every prospect of excelling among those most
distinguished in his profession. Deafness, however, by which he was
unfortunately attacked about that time, made it impossible for him to
practise any longer as a physician. Deprived of his active work, he
turned his attention to more abstract lines of study, and to
philosophy.

In 1840, Mrs. Leighton, after a severe illness, required a drier
climate than that of England, and the family travelled on the
Continent, visiting Germany, Switzerland, and Italy.

Family annals record the delight with which Leighton, the boy of ten,
enjoyed the beauty of nature in Switzerland, the flowers and
everything he saw in the land of mountains. When he reached Rome, the
buildings, the fountains, the ruins, the models awaiting hire on the
Piazza di Spagna, fascinated him, and he filled many sketch-books with
records of all the picturesque scenes that struck him as so new and
wonderful. From earliest days, drawing was Leighton's greatest
amusement, and he had it always in his own mind that he would be an
artist and nothing else. When in Rome, he was allowed to study drawing
under Signor Meli, but his father insisted on other lessons being
carried on with regularity and industry. We hear of his elder sister
and Leighton learning Latin together from a young priest. Dr. Leighton
had a commanding intelligence, and made his will felt. As with many
fond fathers who centre their chief interest on an only son, and
foster thoughts of a notable future for him, Dr. Leighton seems to
have felt that the greater his interest and affection, the greater
must be the exercise of strict discipline over his boy. Leighton
received, to say the least, a stern upbringing from his father,
mitigated, however, by the greatest tenderness from his mother. The
boy's will respecting his future career proved sufficient for the
occasion, and he had reason to be thankful that the general knowledge,
which Dr. Leighton insisted on his acquiring, was instilled at so
early an age. From the time he was ten years old he was made to study
the classics, and at twelve he spoke French and Italian as fluently as
English. Dr. Leighton had himself taught the boy anatomy, ever
cherishing the hope that he would, when he came to years of
discretion, renounce the idea of being an artist, and follow in the
footsteps of his father and grandfather by becoming a doctor. In
either case a knowledge of anatomy was thought necessary, and, in
after years, Leighton declared he knew much more anatomy when he was
fourteen than he did when he was President of the Royal Academy. "I
owe," he said, "my knowledge to my father. He would teach me the names
of the bones and the muscles. He would show them to me in action and
in repose; then I would have to draw them from memory; until my memory
drawing was perfect, he would not let it pass."

The family returned to England for the summer of 1841, spending it at
the paternal grandfather's country house at Greenford; and during the
following winter Leighton studied at the University College School in
London. Mrs. Leighton's health again declined in England, and the
family migrated to Germany, the country chosen by Dr. Leighton as that
in which the education of the children could be best carried forward.
Leighton studied under tutors at Berlin, it being only in his spare
moments that he found time to sketch, or to visit the galleries. Then
followed a move to Frankfort, and thence to Florence. There he was
allowed to enter the studio of Bezzuoli and Servolini, celebrated
artists in Florence, but of whose real greatness Leighton, even at
that early age, entertained his doubts. It was in Florence that the
father's will had finally to submit to the son's passion for his
vocation. Dr. Leighton was too wise to allow prejudice to affect his
serious actions. He could no longer blind himself to the fact, that
this desire to be an artist was a vital matter with his son. He felt
it would be wrong to try and override the boy's desires without
seeking the opinion of an expert on art matters as to whether there
was any probability of Leighton excelling. He therefore took him and
his drawings to Hiram Powers, the sculptor, for the verdict to be
given. The well-known conversation took place after Powers had
examined the work.

"Shall I make him a painter?" asked Dr. Leighton.

"Sir, you cannot help yourself; nature has made him one already,"
answered the sculptor.

"What can he hope for, if I let him prepare for this career?"

"Let him aim at the highest," answered Powers; "he will be certain to
get there."

Leighton had won: he had now to prove good his cause. Even though
theoretically his father had given in, he yet hoped that, as years
went on, a change in his boy's views might come about; but he was
allowed to work at the Accademia delle belle Arti, under Bezzuoli and
Servolini, and besides continuing his study of anatomy with his
father, Leighton attended classes in the hospital under Zanetti. Of
this time in Florence, one of his life-long friends, Professor Costa,
writes: "I knew, both from himself and from his fellow-students, that
at the age of fourteen Leighton studied at the Academy of Florence
under Bezzuoli and Servolini, who at this time (1842) had a great
reputation. They were celebrated Florentines, excellent good men, but
they could give but little light to this star, which was to become one
of the first magnitude. Leighton, from his innate kindness, loved and
esteemed his old masters much, though not agreeing in the judgment of
his fellow-students that they should be considered on the same level
as the ancient Florentines. 'And who have you,' said Leighton one day
to a certain Bettino (who is still living), 'who resembles your
ancient masters?' And Bettino answered, 'We have still to-day our
great Michael Angelos, and Raffaels, in Bezzuoli, in Servolini, in
Ciseri.' But this boy of twelve years old could not believe this, and
one fine day got into the diligence, and left the Academy of Florence
to return to England. Although the diligence went at a great pace, his
fellow-students followed it on foot, running behind it, crying, 'Come
back, Inglesino! come back, Inglesino! come back,' so much was he
loved and respected. He did come back, in fact, many times to Italy,
which he considered as his second fatherland."

It was, however, at Frankfort, where the family settled in 1843, that
Leighton fell under the real, living art influence of his life, in the
person of Steinle. Leighton described this artist later as "an
intensely fervent Catholic, a man of most striking personality, and of
most courtly manners." In the temperament of this religious Catholic
was united a fervour of feeling with a pure severity in the style of
his art which belonged to the school of the Nazarenes, of which
Steinle was a follower, Overbeck and Pfühler having led the way. A
spiritual ardour and spontaneity placed Steinle on a higher level as
an artist than that on which the rest of the brotherhood stood.
Leighton, boy as he was, at once realised in his master the existence
of that "sincerity of emotion,"--to use his own words when preaching,
nearly forty years later, to the Royal Academy students; a quality
ever considered by him as an essential attribute of the true
artist-nature--of that inner vision of the religious poet, of that
finer fibre of temperament which endowed art in Leighton's eyes with
higher qualities than science or philosophy alone could ever include.
Steinle viewed art with the reverence and nobility of feeling which
accorded with those aspirations that had been hinted to the boy's
nature in his best moments, but which had had no sufficiently clear,
decisive outline to inspire hitherto his actual performances. In
Steinle's work he found the positive expression of those aspirations;
there, in such art, was an absolute confutation of the creed that art
was but a pleasant recreation, having no backbone in it to influence
the serious work of the world; the creed which meant that, if taken up
as a profession, it led but to the making of money by amusing the
æsthetic sense of the public in a superficial manner. The view taken
by the magnates--the "Barbarians" of the time--was, that unless a
painter were a Raphael, a Titian, or a Reynolds, his position was
little removed from that of the second-rate actor or the dancer. It
was not the profession, but the individual prominence in it which
alone saved the situation. In Steinle, Leighton found an exponent of
art, who reverenced the vocation of art itself as one which should be
sanctified by the purest aims and the highest aspirations.

In the nature of one who exercises a strong influence over another is
often found the real clue to the nature influenced. Circumstances had
led Leighton to be reserved with regard to his deepest feelings
respecting art, but with Steinle that reserve vanished. Under the
influence of this master he realised an adequate cause for this
deep-rooted, peremptory passion. Steinle's nature explains that of his
pupil; for Leighton was, in an intimate sense, introduced to a full
knowledge of his own self by Steinle. This influence, to use his own
words, written more than thirty years later, was the "indelible seal,"
because it made Leighton one with himself. The impress was given which
steadied the whole nature. There was no vagueness of aim, no swaying
to and fro, after he had once made Steinle his master. The religious
nature also of the German artist had thrown a certain spell over him.
Leighton possessed ever the most beautiful of all qualities--the power
of feeling enthusiasm, of loving unselfishly, and generously _adoring_
what he admired most. Fortunate, it may possibly have been, that his
father's strict training developed his splendid intellectual powers at
an early age; fortunate it certainly was, that, when emancipated from
other trammels, he entered the service of art under an influence so
pure, so vital in spiritual passion as was that of Steinle.

However, it was not till Leighton reached the age of seventeen that he
was allowed to give his time uninterruptedly to the study of art. At
that age he had acquired sufficient knowledge of the classics and of
the general lines of knowledge even to satisfy his father. He had also
completely mastered the German, French, and Italian languages. The
vitality of his brain was almost abnormal, otherwise his constitution
was not strong. Constantly such phrases as "I am not ill, but I am
never well" occur in his letters, and he suffered from weakness and
heat, also from "blots" in his eyes, perhaps the result of scarlet
fever, which he had as a child. His school days seem to have had their
_mauvais moments_. When he was fifteen, his parents and elder sister
went to England, leaving him and his little sister at school during
their holidays. The love for his mother, and his longing to be with
her, is told in the following pathetic appeal:--

                                                 "FRANKFORT A/M.,
                                         _Friday, June 26, 1845._

    "[DEAR MAMMA],--Your letter, which I have just received,
    caused me the greatest pleasure, for I have been anxiously
    expecting it for three long days. I am very pleased to hear
    that Lina is getting stronger, though slowly, and hope that
    Hampstead will agree with her and you better than London. I am
    very sorry to hear that you are not very well. I hope that the
    country will refresh Papa after all his fatigues. I need not
    tell you that I was very unhappy when I heard what you said
    about my going to England; ever since I have been here, from
    the time I wake to the time I go to bed, I think of London;
    the other night, indeed, I went in my dream to see the new
    British Museum. However, if there is nothing to be done....
    From Hampstead you can see London, and there is the dear old
    common where I and the Coodes used to play, and the pretty
    little lake where I went to slide, and it's such a pleasant
    walk to London and the galleries, and ... is there _no_ little
    hole left for poor Punch?[13] On the 16th July all the
    schoolboys go on a three weeks' journey, whose wing but yours
    can take care of me for so long a time? I will ask for money
    to buy a clothes-brush, I have none; 2 fl. I spent on
    water-colours for the painting lesson, 5 fl. a splendid book,
    'Percy's Relics of Old English Poetry,' 1 fl. sundries, my
    last florin I lent to Bob, but he was fetched away in a hurry
    before his money was given to him, however he said he would
    send it me from Mayence, but I have not seen it since. It is a
    great bore to have no money; that 1 fl. would have lasted the
    second month very well as I only want it for sundries. I have
    dismissed Mottes, my _new_ boots have already been _re_soled,
    and he made me wait three weeks for a pair of boots, which of
    course I did not take. I wish I had had turning clothes, my
    jacket is very shabby, and I cannot afford to put on my best
    whilst it goes to the tailor; my black trowsers are ruined,
    but I must wear them whilst my blue ones go to be lengthened.
    Little Gussy looks very well, she is very well, and has sundry
    'zufrieden's' and 'très content's.' On the advice of _Pappe_,
    the master of mathematics and nat. phil., I have got a
    'Meierhirsch's Algebraische Aufgaben.' I want a Euclid, mine
    is in England, how shall I get at it? I am quite well, but
    _long_ to see you all, and to have some _wing_; pray write
    very soon. Give my best love to Papa and Lina, and believe me,
    dear Mamma, your affectionate and _speckfle_ son,

                                                    F. LEIGHTON."

    [Illustration: EARLY COMIC DRAWING, About 1850
    By permission of Mr. Hanson Walker]

History does not record whether the "little hole for poor Punch" had
been found or not. Together with other studies, Leighton was allowed
to attend the model class at the famous Staedelsches Institut, and, in
1848, when the family went to Brussels, he painted his first picture,
Othello and Desdemona, his elder sister sitting as model for the
Desdemona, and also a portrait of himself. From Brussels he went to
Paris, studying in an _atelier_ in the Rue Richer, among a set of
Bohemian students, and then to Frankfort, to work seriously under his
beloved master Steinle. The following letter to his father shows how
unsatisfactory he considers his studies had been in both Brussels and
Paris, and that now, as he expressed it, he is girding his "loins for
a new race."

                                     "CRONBERG, _Friday evening_.

    "[DEAR PAPA],--As I have reason to believe that you are not
    indifferent to the fate of the studies which met with
    Dielmann's censure, and at the same time opened my eyes to the
    fact that I have not yet (to use a German phrase) 'die Natur
    mit dem Löffel gefressen,'[14] I now write to tell you that I
    have retouched better parts of them, and _that_ to Burger's
    satisfaction as well as to mine. Of course some are better
    than others. Independently of the intense irritation which bad
    sitting (as well you know) occasions to my nerves, they give
    me great trouble, and I take it; but this can hardly astonish
    me, when I consider that, in point of fact, during the whole
    time that has elapsed between my leaving the model class in
    the Staedelsches Institut up to my return to Frankfurt, I have
    _never_ studied from nature; that I did not in Brussels, I
    need not remind you, and you must also remember that
    everything I painted in Paris, in the way of portraits, was
    done _before_ nature, I grant, but with a certain _ideal_
    colour or tone, the consistency of which might be illustrated
    by putting Rubens, Reynolds, Titian, Tom Lawrence, Vandyke,
    Velasquez, Correggio, Carracci, Rembrandt, and Rafael into a
    kaleidoscope, and setting them in a rotatory motion, in a
    word--

          When taken
          Well shaken.
                 (What's his name--Hem!)

    I am therefore girding my loins for a new race, far from
    discouraged, but rather with the persuasion that one with my
    innate love for colouring, and, I think I may add, sharp
    perception of the merits and demerits of the colouring of
    others, has a fair chance of success; nor am I dissatisfied
    with my beginning."

In the year 1849, he went to London to paint the portrait of his
great-uncle, Mr. I'Anson, Lady Leighton's brother, and wrote to his
father and mother the following:--

    "Fleeced at Malines--very fine passage--slept well, why the
    deuce had not I a carpet bag? horrid inconvenience! my chest
    of drawers twenty feet below the surface of the deck, obliged
    to get on friendly terms with a sailor to borrow a comb (which
    had got blue with usage)--lovely brown tints about my shirt,
    cuffs more picturesque than tidy; two hours stifling in that
    confounded hole of a waiting-room in the custom house; arrive
    at last at Mr. I'Anson's at about three o'clock; as he was not
    at home I dressed and ran half round London before dinner;
    crossed Kensington Gardens, saw the outside of the Exhibition,
    went down Hyde Park, along Green Park, stared at Buckingham
    Palace, rushed down St. James' Park, flew up Waterloo Place,
    made a dive at Trafalgar Square, and a lunge at Pall Mall,
    gasped all along Regent Street, turned up Oxford Street, bent
    round to the Edgware Road, and from there the whole length of
    Oxford Terrace, I brought home a very fine appetite!"

    "[MY DEAREST MOTHER],--I have resumed my Uncle's likeness, and
    as far as it goes (the head is done) very successfully. Will
    you tell Papa from me that it is more 'aufgefasst' (as I
    expected) than 'durchgeführt,' but that I have seized the
    _twinkle_ of his mouth to a T.

    "Mr. I'Anson treats me with the utmost kindness, it is of
    course superfluous to tell you that I enjoy myself beyond
    measure.

    "I am a very slow writer--I am without readiness either of
    thought or speech owing to the picturesque confusion which
    possesses my brain, and not, God knows, from a phlegmatic
    habit of mind."

Letter to his mother from Norfolk Terrace, Hyde Park:--

    "[DEAREST MOTHER],--I have received your kind letter, and
    conclude from your silence on that point that Lina is now
    getting on well. In order to avoid losing time on fluency of
    style, I shall follow, strictly as I find them, the heads of
    your epistle, and answer them in the same succession. First, I
    hasten to thank you and Papa for your kind permission to
    prolong my stay, a permission which I value the more that I
    know that Papa was desirous I should return as soon as
    possible. You tell me, dear Mamma, that I am not to lose time
    in seeing the _lions_ of London, and Papa, in his displeasure
    at my having done so little as yet towards the real object of
    my visit, seems to imply an idea that I _have_ been so doing;
    I regret very much that you should entertain that notion, and
    assure you that I have neither hitherto dreamt, nor have
    ultimate intention, of seeing that long list of wonders, the
    Colosseum, the polytechnic, the cosmorama, the diorama, the
    panorama, the polyorama, the overland mail, Catlin's
    exhibition, the Chinese exhibition, nor even Wild's great
    globe, for that, I am told, costs five shillings; this is a
    decided case of 'Frappe, mais écoute.' And if Papa did not
    think that I had so wasted my time, is it not very certain
    that, if I had not thought it a matter of duty, I would not
    have tired myself making what I most hate, calls, instead of
    seeing works of art?

    "Lady Leighton looked in some respects worse, and in some much
    better, than I expected; I was surprised to see her walk with
    her back bent, and leaning on a stick; but I was more
    surprised still to see a face so free, comparatively, from
    wrinkles, and bearing such evident traces of former beauty.
    Her reception was of the warmest; in her anxiety lest I should
    be lonely and uncomfortable in an inn, she insisted on my
    sleeping in her house. She talked much, long, and _well_,
    though slowly and in a suppressed tone; she dwelt tenderly on
    Papa's name, and advocated warmly our return to England. I saw
    two letters which she wrote to her brother, my uncle, and
    which were both most elegantly written; both contained a
    paragraph in allusion to me; in the first, written before my
    visit (in answer to one in which my uncle had prepared her for
    seeing me), she expresses herself most _eager to receive and
    to love the grandson, of whom all speak so highly_; in the
    second, written after my return to London, she says that her
    _dear and fascinating grandson amply realises all her
    expectations_, and that seeing him has increased that pain
    which she feels at being separated from us all.

    "Now, I will give you a _catalogue raisonné_ of whom I have
    seen: Cowpers, this you know; Smyths, ditto; Laings, very
    kind, though Mr. Laing, like the Cowpers, did not know me till
    I mentioned my name; Wests, exceedingly kind, invitation to
    dinner; Richardsons, motherly reception, party, given for me;
    Moffatt, very _prévenant_, asked me twice to dinner, both of
    which invitations I was unfortunately obliged to refuse, but
    wrote a very civil note, and went next morning in person to
    apologise; Hall, dreadfully busy, but gave me cards to
    Maclise, Goodall, Frith, Ward, Frost; Maclise was not at home,
    but I found Goodall, Ward, and Frith, and was pleased with my
    visits. There is a new school in England, and a very promising
    one; correctly drawn historical _genre_ seems to me the best
    definition of it. They tell me there is a fine opening for an
    historical painter of merit, and that talent never fails to
    succeed in London. Goodall, a young man about thirty, who
    painted 'The Village Festival,' in the Vernon Gallery, and of
    which you have an engraving in one of your Art Journal
    numbers, sells his pictures direct from the easel; and he does
    not stand alone. Sir Ch. Eastlake received me very politely,
    but looks a great invalid; Lance, very jolly, and Fripp,
    ditto. Bovills and E. I'Ansons, very kind, invitations, of
    course; Mackens, you know; I have found no time to call on Dr.
    Holland, Mr. Shedden, or Tusons.

    "Having told you _whom_, I will now tell you rapidly _what_, I
    have seen: Vernon Gallery, very much gratified; Dulwich
    Gallery, very much disappointed; British Institution, ditto;
    National Gallery, pictures magnificent, locality disgraceful,
    I must make another visit there; Royal Academy, on the whole,
    satisfactory; British Museum, very fine; Mogford's Collection,
    very indifferent; Marquis of Westminster (Mr. Laing), very
    fine indeed; private collection (through interest of Mr.
    Moffatt), delightful; Windsor, _Vandyke_, superb; _Lawrence_,
    a wretched quack. Time presses--_la suite au prochain
    numéro_."

    [Illustration: MR. I'ANSON, LORD LEIGHTON'S GREAT-UNCLE. 1850
    By permission of Mr. E. I'Anson]

The portrait of his great-uncle, Mr. I'Anson, here reproduced, proves
that the visit to London effected the desired result. On his return to
Frankfort he painted the portraits of Lady Cowley and her three
children. Lady Cowley writes: "I am delighted with the pictures of my
dear little girls, and again return you my most sincere thanks for
having painted them." And in another letter: "I should have called on
Mrs. Leighton all these days, had I not been very unwell with the
grippe, as I wished to express to her, as well as to yourself, how
very grateful I am for the beautiful portrait you have made of my
little Frederick. I am quite delighted with it, as well as every one
else who has seen it. Besides being extremely like, it is such a good
painting that it must always be appreciated. Ever yours sincerely,
Olive Cecilia Cowley." In the spring of 1852, Leighton, being then
twenty-one, went to Bergheim, to paint the portraits of Count
Bentinck's family. He writes from there:--

    "[DEAREST MAMMA],--Having naturally a reflecting turn of mind,
    I am struck with the truth of the following aphorism: 'It's
    all very well to say I'll be blowed, but where's the wind?'
    Circumstances induce me to deliver a sentiment of a parallel
    tendency; it's all very well to say 'mind you write'; but
    where's the post? A deficiency in that latter commodity is a
    leading feature in the economy of the principality of Waldeck;
    so much so, that any individual residing in Bergheim, and
    desiring to carry on a correspondence 'ins Ausland,' is
    obliged to take advantage of the privilege freely granted him
    by the liberal constitution of the country of carrying his own
    letters to the first frontier town of the next state, and
    having posted them, waiting for an answer. I, however,
    _knowing my privileges_, and not being desirous of availing
    myself of them in _that line_, humbly and modestly send these
    lines by my hostess's flunkey, who is going to Fritzlar
    to-morrow on an errand of a similar description. _N.B._--If
    you want a person to receive an epistle within a fortnight
    (that is allowing you to be a neighbour), you must chalk up
    _per express_ on the back of it, in consideration of which he
    or she will receive it through the medium of a hot messenger,
    much, and naturally, fatigued and excited by a journey
    performed at the rate of half a mile an hour, not including
    the pauses in which the _inner man_ is refreshed and
    invigorated by a cordial gulp of 'branny un worrer.'

    "Fancy a man getting to a place, by appointment, expecting a
    carriage and trimmings to take him to a lovely retirement in
    the country, and finding--devil a bit of it! Well that's
    precisely what did not happen to me when I got to Waldeck,
    because although the carriage was not there, there was a
    letter to say it could not come. The road to Bergheim, which
    crosses a river of no mean pretensions without the assistance
    of a bridge (other advantageous peculiarity of the state of
    Waldeck), was, it appeared, rendered impracticable by an
    inundation of the torrent alluded to; it was therefore
    proposed to me (without an option) to perform the journey on
    the top of an _oss_ provided for the purpose and accompanied
    by a groom mounted on another; I willingly accept an offer so
    much to my taste, and for the first time after a lapse of
    nearly three years put a leg on each side of a steed. The
    first part of the road was executed at a round trot on a very
    nice level _chaussée_, but I cannot say that I felt altogether
    at home on my saddle. An eye to effect is nevertheless kept
    open, which is manifested by my catching up two drowsy,
    drawling, jingling 'po shays' and sweeping past them with
    supreme contempt, but at a great expense of my lumbar muscles.
    Presently, however, my continuation-clad members began to thaw
    a little, and to adapt themselves to the saddle, which also
    lost some of its rigid severity; I began to feel very
    comfortable, and, by Jove! it was a good job I did, for on
    getting out of Fritzlar, we left the high road (for reasons
    above given) and plunged into a rugged, donkey-shay sort of
    by-path in which the ruts were without exaggeration a foot
    deep. Nothing daunted, however, I make light of this 'terrain
    légèrement accidenté,' cross stream and ride along tattered
    banks with the nonchalance of the Chinese Mandarin in the
    Exhibition of '51; in fact, such is my confidence in myself,
    that I at last begin to feel above my stirrups, I scorn them,
    fling them over my saddle, and perform without their
    assistance the rest of the journey to within half a mile of
    Bergheim, and that on a road the profile of which was about
    this:

    (Here was drawn a line representing a hill-side almost
    perpendicular.)

    "On my arrival I am of course kindly received by the Countess
    (her husband is still at Oldenburg), got my tea, and go to bed
    rather stiff after an equestrian performance of about two
    hours and a half. The house is large and rambling, fifteen
    windows in a row, and yet I cannot get a satisfactory light,
    the only available north room looking on a lane, the
    white-washed houses of which reflect disagreeably on the
    picture, whenever the sun shines. However I must make up my
    mind to it and do my best; I am at present painting the
    Countess."

                                             "BERGHEIM, _Sunday_.

    "[DEAR MAMMA],--In the midst of my anxious expectations of a
    letter from you, it suddenly occurred to me that I had
    forgotten to give you my direction; in the full confidence
    that _late is far preferable to never_, I now hasten to make
    up for my omission--

                    Mons. F. Leighton
                           bei
             Ihrer Erlauchten der Gräfin von
                   Waldeck und Pyrmont
                       zu Bergheim
                       bei Fritzlar
                   Fürstenthum Waldeck.

    "_N.B._--You will not forget to write _per express_ on the top
    of the envelope; for reasons, see my letter of last Sunday.

    "Being sorely pressed for time, I now huddle on to the rest of
    the paper a few loose remarks, for the incoherency of which I
    crave your indulgence.

    "The aspect of affairs is much changed since my last epistle;
    then, I was looking forward with anxious though sanguine
    expectation to the labour before me; now, I look back on one
    portrait (that of the Countess), achieved to the great
    satisfaction of those for whom it is intended, and contemplate
    with satisfaction the progress which the other is making in
    the same direction. I must, however, add that, owing to the
    necessary absence of the Countess for two days next week, my
    return home will be delayed in proportion, as I have a few
    more touches to give to the portrait of my eldest patient,
    whose husband is desirous of taking it over to England with
    him. (I shall probably be with you Saturday afternoon--at all
    events I shall let you know beforehand.)

    "What I said a few lines back will have suggested to you what
    I am now going to add; Colonel B. is now returned from
    Oldenburg, and will probably be in London in the early part or
    middle of June; he is _much_ pleased with the pictures, and in
    his kindness has promised me an introduction to his brother in
    town, and also to another relation, whose name I have
    forgotten; the result of which is to be: access to the
    collections of Lord Ellesmere, Duke of Sutherland, and Sir
    Robert Peel. I told Colonel B. that if on his road to or from
    Toeplitz in the autumn he should pass through Frankfurt, I
    should be very glad if he could bring the pictures with him,
    as they would both want a varnish, and the children probably a
    few glazes and touches; he said that he would make a point of
    so doing, that indeed after all the trouble and pains I had
    taken for him, it was the least he _could_ do; for these and
    other reasons (not unimportant) which I shall communicate when
    I see you, you need not regret my having made two journeys to
    paint his wife and children.

    "That I spend one of the days of the Countess' absence in
    seeing _Wilhelmshöhe_, a sight reputed unique of its kind,
    will, I hope, not seem unreasonable.

    "I have noted down, as they occurred to me, during the last
    few days one or two little arrangements, relative to my
    approaching journey, which I would ask you to make during my
    absence, trusting at the same time that if in the meanwhile
    anything else should occur to your provident mind, and be
    transmitted to your _many-knotted_ pocket-handkerchief, you
    will kindly carry it into execution, in order to avoid delay
    when I return from the country, as _my_ time will be almost
    entirely taken up by Lady P.'s [Pollington's] sitting and the
    _business calls_ I have to make.

    "Will Papa kindly order a tin case for my compositions; it
    should be a plain cylinder, about an inch and a half in
    diameter, with a lid at one end; let its length be that of my
    'Four Seasons.'

    "To my amazement I have just received a letter from you, dear
    Mamma--_did_ I give you my direction? You forgot the _per
    express_ on the back of the letter. Pray write soon. Much love
    and many kisses to all.--Your dutiful and affectionate son,

                                                    F. LEIGHTON."

Soon after Leighton's return to Frankfort Lord Cowley was appointed
British Ambassador in Paris, and writes the following letters. The
invitation he gives to Leighton to make his home at the Embassy while
pursuing his studies was not accepted, Steinle's teaching being only
given up later for the charms of Italy.

    "MY DEAR MR. LEIGHTON,--I am more obliged than I can say by
    the kindness you have shown in painting portraits of my
    children. I never saw anything so like, or in general so
    pleasing, as the portrait of Frederic, and I only regret that
    it is not in England to be seen and appreciated. Once more
    accept my thanks, and believe me to be very truly yours,

                                                         COWLEY."

                                             "_Sunday Afternoon._

    "MY DEAR MR. LEIGHTON,--It has been quite out of my power to
    get to your house, as I had intended, to take leave of you,
    and to thank you again for the valuable reminiscence which
    through your talent and kindness I carry away with me. It will
    give Lady Cowley and myself great pleasure if you will visit
    us at Paris. You cannot find a better school of study than the
    Louvre, and we shall be most happy to lodge and take care of
    you.

    "Pray present my best compliments to the members of your
    family.

    "I regret very much not being able to do it in person.--Very
    faithfully,

                                                         COWLEY."

On his return from Waldeck, Leighton painted the portrait of Lady
Pollington, one of his Frankfort acquaintances.

During these years, when Leighton studied under Steinle, his family
lived also at Frankfort, and therefore few other letters written at
that time exist. There was a journey to Holland, made during the early
summer of 1852, from England, where he and his family had returned for
a visit. The journey back to Frankfort, _viâ_ Holland, is the subject
of a long letter to his mother.

    "There I am at the Hague. Pretty place, the Hague, clean,
    quaint, cheerful, _and_ ain't the Dutch just fond of smoking
    out of long clay pipes! _And_ the pictures, _Oh_ the pictures,
    _Ah_ the pictures! That magnificent Rembrandt! glowing,
    flooded with light, clear as amber, and do you twig the _grey_
    canvas? _What_ Vandykes! what dignity, calm, gently breathing,
    and a searching thoughtfulness in the gaze, amounting almost
    to fascination; and only look at that Velasquez, sparkling,
    clear, dashing; Paul Potter, too, only twenty-two years old
    when he painted that bull, and just look at it; Jan Steen,
    Terburg, Teniers, _Giov. Bellini_ (splendid), &c. &c. There I
    catch myself bearing something in mind: 'And yet, after all'
    (with an argumentative hitch of the cravat), 'all that those
    fellows had in advance of us was a palette and brushes, and
    _that_ we've got too!' I walk down to Scheveningen, and
    sentimentalise on the seashore; I find the briny deep in a
    very good humour, and offer _you_ mental congratulations.

    "About the Rembrandt at Amsterdam, I say nothing, for it is a
    picture not to be described. I can only say that, in it, the
    great master surpasses himself; with the exception, however,
    of this and the Vanderhelst opposite to it, which is full of
    spirit and individuality, the _Ryko Museum_ is tolerably flat.
    After a dull afternoon, I hurry off to Arnheim, and to
    Mayence, and to Frankfurt, where I arrive on Wednesday
    evening. From Cologne to Frankfurt, Janauschek[15] was on the
    same conveyance as myself; I made her acquaintance, which was
    a great blessing to me on that tedious, cockney-hackneyed
    journey. She is lady-like, interesting, amiable, and
    _severely_ proper, almost cold; she observed the strictest
    incognito. Towards evening, however, when she had ascertained
    that I was a resident at Frankfurt, and therefore probably
    knew her perfectly well, and that I was an artist, which
    excited her sympathy, and that my name was Leighton, a name
    with which she was acquainted (through Schroedter and others)
    as that of one of the most talented young artists of Frankfurt
    (hem!), she relaxed considerably. She has a melancholy and
    most interesting look, and talks very despondently of the
    state of dramatic art nowadays. I made myself useful to her at
    the station, and she was warmly grateful. About my picture[16]
    (which I have entrusted to Steinle's care) I have nothing to
    communicate, except that I am confirmed in thinking that it
    has been universally well received; even Becker seems to like
    it in many respects--of course you know that the leading fault
    is that it was painted under his rival; Oppenheim said (when I
    talked of it as a daub) that he wished he could daub so, and
    that he promised me a great future; Prince Gortschakoff (who,
    by the by, preferred the portraits, and judges with all the
    _aplomb_ of a Count Briez) introduced himself to me in the
    gallery, and told me in the course of conversation that he
    regretted very much having no work of mine, adding that he
    only bought masters of the first order; _that_ was a
    compliment, at all events; Dr. Schlemmer has been very kind to
    me, and has given me a letter for Venice; I dined with him on
    Sunday, and made the acquaintance of Felix Mendelssohn's
    widow, a charming woman."

    [Illustration: "THE DEATH OF BRUNELLESCHI." 1851
    By permission of Dr. Von Steinle]

    [Illustration: "THE PLAGUE IN FLORENCE." 1851]

Between the years 1849 and 1852 Leighton painted, besides the
portraits mentioned, three finished pictures, "Cimabue finding Giotto
in the Fields of Florence," "The Duel between Romeo and Tybalt," and
"The Death of Brunelleschi"; and also made the notable drawing, now in
the Victoria and Albert Museum, of a scene during the plague in
Florence. His master, Steinle, easily discerned that Leighton was
truly enamoured of Italy; the subjects he chose were Italian, and his
memory was full of the charm and fascination of the country which he
ever referred to, to the end of his life, as his second home. It was
decided that he should go to Rome, his father having determined to
leave Frankfort and to reside at Bath, where his mother, Lady
Leighton, was then living. Steinle gave Leighton an introduction to
his friend and fellow "Nazarene," Cornelius, and on the eve of his
departure his mother wrote a farewell letter of "injunctions,"
flavoured happily by hints of humour. There is something very quaint
to those who knew Leighton after he was thirty in the admonitions
with regard to manners and politeness, which occur in several of his
mother's letters.

    "MY DEAREST CHILD,--As we are about to part, you may perhaps
    think you will be rid of my lectures, but no, I leave you some
    injunctions in writing, so that you will not be able to urge
    the plea of forgetfulness if you continue your negligent
    habits, though you certainly may _forget_ to read what I
    write--but I trust to your love and respect for me, though the
    latter needs cultivation nearly as much as habits of
    refinement in you. I have no new advice to give you, I can but
    repeat what I have urged on you many times from your childhood
    upwards; I do implore you, let your conscience be your guide
    amidst all temptations, they will be such as they have never
    yet been to you, as you will henceforward have no other
    restraint on your actions than what is self-imposed. I beseech
    you, do not suffer your disbelief in the dogmas of the
    Protestant Church to weaken the belief I hope you entertain of
    the existence of a Supreme Being. Strive to obey the law He
    has implanted in us, which approves good and condemns evil,
    though the struggle for the mastery between these principles
    is sometimes fearful, as every one knows, especially in youth.
    My precious child, if one sinful mortal's prayer for another
    could avail, how carefully would you be preserved from moral
    evil (the greatest of all evil); but I need not tell you there
    is no royal road to Heaven any more than to excellence in
    inferior objects, every advantage must be obtained by energy
    and perseverance. May God help you to keep free of the
    greatest of all miseries, an upbraiding conscience; for though
    this can be deadened for a time in the hurry of life while
    youth lasts, there comes an hour when life loses its
    attractions, and _then_ issues the troubled consequence of
    merry deeds. I am aware you have heard all this a hundred
    times, and better expressed, but it will bear repetition; and
    now that it is your mother who is counselling you, you will
    not, I trust, turn a deaf ear.

    "I can but repeat what I have continually told you--to refine
    your feelings you must neither utter nor encourage a coarse
    thought. It would be an inexpressible pleasure to me to leave
    you confirmed in good habits; but wishes are idle. I trust to
    your desire to improve in all ways and to please me. The next
    sheet I wrote some time ago, intending to rewrite it, but the
    trouble is too great for my shaking hands, and I add what I
    have written to-day on separate pieces of paper. I have
    written enough; I have only now to add an entreaty that you
    will not throw these admonitions away, but sometimes read
    them, remembering they come warm from your mother's heart.

    "My child, your manners are very faulty, and I am consequently
    much disappointed. You take so much after me, and my nearest
    relations had such refined manners, that I made sure you must
    resemble my father and brothers. There is, however, nothing on
    earth to prevent your becoming the gentleman I wish to see
    you, and remember to write ineffaceably on the tablets of your
    memory, 'Too much familiarity breeds contempt.' You remember
    how seriously young ----'s forwardness has been commented on.
    Well, it is true, you have never, as far as I know, spoken as
    he has done; but as I have seldom seen you in company, nor
    your father either, without observing some want of politeness,
    is it not probable that other people have their eyes open
    also?"

These admonitions received, Leighton started on his journey to Rome.
At Innsbruck, on August 18, 1852, he began to write a Diary, in order
that his mother should hear the details of his travels, and to serve
"as a clue" by which he might one day recall the "impressions and
emotions of the years of his artistic noviciate."

Leighton's utterances on paper in these early days display the same
intense exuberance of vitality which, during the whole of his notable
career, served to spur on his mental and emotional powers to perform
with great completeness all the various kinds of work which he
undertook; a vitality which conquered triumphantly the effects of
indifferent health and troubled eyesight. In the diaries and letters
is also to be traced the existence of that Greek-like combination of
qualities so characteristic of Leighton--namely, explicit precision in
his thought and expression, and a subtle power of analysis, united
with great emotional sensitiveness and enthusiastic warmth of
temperament. His feeling for beauty was an intoxicating joy to him.
Heartfelt and genuine joy engendered by beauty in nature and art is
not a very common feeling among the moderns, though so much fuss is
made by many in our day in their endeavours to become "_artistic_";
but, as a ruling guide, beauty has gone out of fashion. The accounts
that Leighton gives of his ecstasies in the presence of beautiful
scenes, enforce the belief entertained by those who knew him best,
that it was the power which beauty exercised over him that developed
his exceptional strength in all artistic directions. What force in the
over-riding of difficulties does not passion give to the lover! No
less a force was engendered in Leighton by the inspiration of the
beauty of nature.

In the letter to his mother, which accompanies the Diary, referring to
the joy he has been experiencing, Leighton adds: "I feel almost a kind
of shame that so much should have been poured down on me. I will put
my talent to usury, and be no slothful steward of what has been
entrusted to me. Every man who has received a gift ought to feel and
act as if he was a field in which a seed was planted, that others
might gather the harvest." The purity of purpose which guided
Leighton's life to the end, generated first by the precepts of his
mother in the fertile soil of his own beautiful nature, subsequently
developed by the teaching of the high-minded Steinle, and finally
established later by other elevating influences, chastened the
emotional side of Leighton's passion for beauty, and disentangled it
even in the earliest days from lower and purely sensuous
contamination. The puritanical attitude of mind towards beauty
appeared to Leighton absolutely impure and desecrating, in that it
associated influences and feelings which are of the lowest with the
appreciation of God's most beautiful creations, and some of man's
highest aspirations with sensations entirely degraded and unworthy.

Fun and humour abound in the family letters, and in the Diary.
Leighton was never guilty of being sentimental, and when referring to
the word _ideal_ in one of his letters, he writes he "hates such
stuff." After he died, it was written of him: "He was no idealist;
needless to say, he was no materialist, no one less so; nor does the
term realist seem to recall his nature. He was--if such a word can be
used--an actualist, the actual was to him of primary importance. But
the actual meant a great deal more to Leighton than it does to most of
us. Life and its vivid interests was spread over a much wider area; so
many more of its various ingredients were such very actual entities to
him."[17]

And when Leighton started, at the age of twenty-one, to begin his
independent life, we feel that it is with the _actual_ that he
grappled--the actual in his sensations, his feelings, his impressions,
his conditions. An unmistakable note of reality rings through his
description of all these. He has no tendency, even unconsciously, when
under the glamour of the most entrancing impressions, to colour the
picture other than he _actually_ saw it. In the strength of his own
real nature he goes forth on the journey of life.


DIARY

                                    INNSBRUCK, _August 18, 1852_.

    [Sidenote: I contemplate the life and
    adventures of Mr. Thumb.]

"When Hop o' my Thumb, a nursery hero of European note, first sallied
out into the world with an eye to making a fortune, his first step was
(justly foreseeing what the world would expect of the hero of a future
romance) to lose himself in a large and horrid forest, in which it was
pitch dark all day long, and nothing was heard but ... &c. &c. (Here
see biog. of H.O'M. Thumb, Esq., vol. i.)

"Now, in those days mile-posts were not yet come in, and maps were
excessively expensive; how, then, was H.O'M.T., after he should have
realised a large independence, to find his way back through this
intricate waste? Here admire the man of parts and sagacity! '_He
determined_,' says the historian, '_to drop pebbles in a row all along
the path_'!

    [Sidenote: and adopt one of his
    measures,]

"Admirable Thumb! I, too, purpose, as I stroll along, to drop every
now and then mental pebbles, which shall serve as a connecting link
between the past and the future, and as a clue by which I may one day
recall the emotions and impressions of the years of my artistic
noviciate.

"Be with me, oh Thumb!

    [Sidenote: but make a reservation.]

"_N.B._--Quality of pebbles not warranted.


PEBBLES

    [Sidenote: Pebble I.]

"Kind, affectionate, earnest Steinle!

    [Sidenote: A tribute of affection and
    respect for my dear Steinle.]

"In a record of whatever concerns me as an artist, _his_ name should
be at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end. _Now_, at the
beginning, for our parting is still painfully present to my mind; our
parting, and the last few days we spent together: the sad face and
moistened eye with which he watched the diligence in which I rolled
off from Bregenz; his fitful way, when we travelled together--one
moment jovial and facetious, another laying his hand affectionately on
my shoulder and remaining silent; his saying to me before I started,
'I shall be all alone to-morrow, here, and yet I shall be with you all
the day.'...

"_In the middle_, all through, and to the end--because if ever,
hereafter, my works wear the mark of a pure taste, if ever I succeed
in raising some portion of the public to the level of high art, rather
than obsequiously acquiesce in the judgments of the tasteless and the
ignorant, and if I keep alive, to the end, the active conviction that
an artist, who deserves the name, never ceases to learn, the key of
such success will be in one name: Steinle; in having constantly borne
in mind his precept, and his example.

    [Sidenote: I find on reflection that
    though I started a week ago, I am only
    just gone!]

    [Sidenote: I look forward,]

"Although a week has already elapsed since I left Frankfurt, so long
my home, it is only now that I have parted from Steinle that I really
feel that I have taken the great step, that I have opened the
introductory chapter of the second volume of my life, a volume on the
title-page of which is written "Artist." It seems to me that my
wanderings began at _Bregenz_, and that in retracing, as I presently
shall, my route until I got there, I am tearing open again leaves that
were closed--to remain so. I seize the opportunity offered by this
first day of repose to take breath, and, as I stand within the
threshold, to look before me and reconnoitre. Italy rises before my
mind. Sunny Italy! the land that I have so long yearned after with
ardent longing, and that has dwelt in my memory since last I saw it as
a never-fading, gentle-beckoning image of loveliness; I am about again
to tread the soil of that beloved country, the day-dream of long years
is to become a reality. I am enraptured!

    [Sidenote: but don't feel quite _it_.]

"And yet--how is it that my pleasure is not unalloyed? that I
involuntarily shrink from grasping the height of my wishes? It is
because I feel a kind of sacred awe at breaking through the charm
that has been so long gathering around the image that I have carried
in my inward heart, as one who loves, at touching with cold _reality_
that which has so long been the far removed object of dreamy, sweetly
melancholy longings!

"I cannot help thinking that an imaginative man must feel something
similar when on the point of changing courtship for marriage.

    [Sidenote: Get better.]

"Other thoughts, too, assail me, and sometimes make me uneasy. 'Do I
fully feel....' No, 'Shall I _continue_ fully to feel the immense
importance to me of the three or four years now before me? feel that
they will be the corner-stone of my career, for good or for evil?
Shall I have the energy to carry out all my resolutions? Shall I
fulfil what I have promised?'... Then I think of Steinle, and I feel
reassured.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble II.]

"Let me come to the point, to the description of my journey; but
before I begin, let me remember that, whilst of all my friends and
companions only _three_ were present at my departure,--one of them was
there in order to give me a commission, and another to acknowledge a
service,--old General Bentinck did not think it too great an exertion
to see off, at eight in the morning, one, three times younger than
himself.

    [Sidenote: Middelburgh, August 11.]

"My first day's journey took me to Middelburgh, along the Bergstrasse,
which we all know, and of which I therefore say nothing, and yet I
enjoyed it more than I ever had done before; it was one of those cool,
clear, _opalescent_ mornings, in which all nature looks as if it was
teeming with health and freshness; there was something exhilarating,
too, in the atmosphere, which very much increased my enjoyment; I
looked upon familiar scenes, but I saw them in a new light; it seemed
to me as if I was reading nature in a new book.

    [Sidenote: Stift Neuburg.]

"On arriving at Heidelberg, I hurried at once, by appointment with
Steinle, to a place in the neighbourhood called 'Stift Neuburg,' the
property and residence of Frau Rath Schlosser, the widow of his old
and intimate friend, Rath Schlosser.

    [Sidenote: I enjoy myself.]

    [Sidenote: Heilbronn, August 12.]

"Picture to yourself, just where the Neckar makes a graceful curve,
about a mile above Heidelberg, half-way up a rich and sunny slope,
chequered with clustering vineyards and luxuriant meadows, an old,
picturesque convent, with its adjoining chapel and appurtenant dairies
and farmhouses, the whole group raised up on a lofty, timeworn,
weather-beaten terrace--and you will form some idea of _the Stift_.
There I spent the afternoon in the most charming possible manner,
whether in wandering with Steinle along the solitary, shady walks of
the convent garden, or in snuffing about in the vaulted, mildew old
library (which, by the by, contains six or seven thousand valuable and
curious books), or the silent chapel, with its stained-glass windows,
or in looking through Frau Rath's magnificent collection of drawings
by German artists, or, finally, in enjoying the conversation of the
Frau Rath herself, who is a most clever and amiable old lady. The next
morning (for I spent the night there) after all breakfasting together,
we went down by a postern gate to the river-side, and awaited the
arrival of the Heilbronn steamer; general leave-taking, shaking of
hands, gratitude and thanks on the one side, on the other reiterated
invitations for the future, which I sincerely hope I may one day be
able to meet. The valley of the Neckar as far as Heilbronn, where we
arrived on the evening of the same day, is dull enough in all
conscience; indeed, had it not been for the company and always
interesting conversation of Steinle, I really do not know what I
should have done with myself; such a contrast with the preceding day!

"Between Heilbronn and the Lake of Constance, however, a new scene
opens out; I see Germany under a totally new aspect, I understand at
last what German poets mean when they rave about the lovely
'Schwabenland' and call it the 'Perle deutscher Gauen'; I can now
imagine the existence of _landed patriotism_ (if I may be allowed the
expression) among the Germans coming from that part of the country. It
is, indeed, an enchanting panorama; a never-ceasing variety of rich,
profusely fertile valleys, studded with cheerful, bright-looking,
home-inviting villages, and enclosed by chains of gently undulating
hills. The corn was ripe, and waved in golden stripes across the
variegated plains; the peasants, a picturesque, good-humoured set,
were scattered over the fields, some mowing down the heavy laden
wheat, others binding it into graceful sheaves; in one respect the
scene reminded me of my own dear country: it looked as if a blessing
were on it.

    [Sidenote: Ulm: its cathedral]

"On our road we passed through Ulm,[18] and visited the cathedral,
some parts of which (especially the portico) are very beautiful and
elegant; the interior contains a magnificent and highly elaborate
tabernacle, and some wood-carving by Syrlin of exquisite workmanship;
the whole, however, left a melancholy impression on both of us,
especially on Steinle, who is an ardent Catholic. It stands neglected
and half-finished, in the midst of a miserable, rambling town-village,
a thing of olden times, for whose presence one can hardly account. It
was built, or rather, begun, as a monument of Catholicism; the country
round it has become Protestant; itself has been protestantized; it has
been disfigured by an incongruous heap of business-like pews; it is no
longer accessible at every hour of the day, from Sunday to Sunday its
walls re-echo no sound but the occasional tread of the pew-opener, as
he dusts the seats of those who pay him for it; the soul has left the
grey old pile; it is a stately corpse. What artist, however uncatholic
in his belief, can contemplate those old Gothic churches, with their
glorious tabernacles and other ornaments equally beautiful and equally
disused, without painfully feeling what an almost deadly blow the
Reformation was to High Art, what a powerful incentive it removed,
irrecoverably? Who, in his heart of hearts, can but dwell with
melancholy regret on the times when art was coupled with belief, and
so many divine works were virtually expressions of faith? What a
purifying and ennobling influence was thus exercised over the taste of
the artist! an influence which nothing can replace. This influence was
incalculably great; no dwelling was so humble but it owned a crucifix;
no artist so poor in capacity but endeavoured to produce something not
unworthy of his subject; the general _tone_ of taste thus produced
reacted on everything; witness the most insignificant doorlatch or
ornament that remains to us from the Middle Ages. Is it not remarkable
that the first artists of the modern day, in the higher walk of art, I
mean, are _Catholics_? Cornelius and Steinle were born in the Church
of Rome; Veit and Overbeck went over to it; Pugin, too, our great
architect, was converted by his art to the Catholic faith.

    [Sidenote: August 15, Sunday.]

"From Friedrichshafen a delightful sail took us across the emerald
coloured Lake of Constance to Bregenz, where I parted from Steinle.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble III.]

    [Sidenote: August 21, Saturday.]

    [Sidenote: I make a reflection,]

    [Sidenote: and feel grateful.]

"I am sitting at my window in the inn (hôtel, I'll trouble you!) at
Meran. For the first time since I left Innsbruck I have leisure again
to take up my pen. As I look back on my journey through the Tyrol, so
far as it goes, I am forcibly struck with the reflection that my
enjoyment of it has been much keener this time than ever it was
before; this increased enjoyment has not, I feel, arisen from any
external or adventitious circumstances; last time that I was in this
lovely country, I contemplated it with ease and comfort from the
rumble of our own carriage; this time I have jolted through it under
all the disadvantages attendant on an _Eilwagen_ and indifferent
weather; it has arisen in the greater development of my artistic
sensibilities, in my sharpened perception of the charms of nature,
which discloses to me now a thousand beauties that found no echo in me
when I saw them last. I congratulate myself on this reflection. If any
man should be constantly penetrated with gratitude for a gift bestowed
on him, it is the artist who has realised as his share a genuine love
for nature; for his enjoyment, if he puts his gift to usury, increases
with the days of his life.

    [Sidenote: I get drunk with the
    anticipation of Italy,]

    [Sidenote: and spout a parable.]

"Another circumstance, which has greatly augmented my relish of the
Tyrol, is that, at every step, it assumes more and more the character
of my darling Italy; I have watched with fond anxiety every little
token that whispered of the south; the gently purpling tints that
steal gradually over the distant hills, as one advances towards the
land of the amaranthine Apennines, the slow but steadily progressive
change of vegetation, the gaunt and ragged fir giving way by degrees
to the encroachment of a richer and more gently rustling shade, the
anxiously watched gradations, the climax at last; the walnut, first,
'few and far between,' but warmly welcome, with its clustering leaves
of juicy green; the chestnut, with its long, graceful, dark-hued
foliage; the vine, again, no longer, as in the north, tied stiffly to
a row of sticks (like a regiment of gooseberry bushes), but luxurious,
wildly spreading, gracefully trained along rows of outward-slanting,
basket-like trellis-work, and wreathed here and there by a pious hand
up a roadside image of the Crucifixion in illustration of the words of
Christ: '_I_ am the true vine.' Now, too, the dark striped, portly
pumpkins, with their gorgeous flame-like flowers, begin to appear,
sometimes drowsily lolling under the tremulous shade of the mantling
vines, sometimes basking with half-closed eyes down the sunscorched
lizard-haunted walls, sometimes trained across from house to house,
hanging like Chinese lamps over the heads of the passers by.
Presently, a _fig-tree_--two--three--more--plenty! A cypress--and, by
Jove! look at that terrace of stately, heavy-laden citron and orange
trees! Nothing is wanting now but the olive. How could I pass by such
dear old friends without loitering a little among them? A faithful
lover, I return, after six years of longing absence, to the home of
her of my inward heart; I hurry along, I have already crossed the
garden gate. I breathe the air she breathes, I see from afar the bower
where she dwells; but as I hasten along the well-known path, a
thousand reminiscences of her arise from every object around me, and
cling to me, and throw a gentle net across my faltering step, and
whisper softly to my dream-wrapt brain--I am spellbound--I linger,
even in my impatience.

"I must not forget the excessively picturesque appearance of all the
towns and villages south of Innsbruck; long, narrow, tortuous streets,
lined on each side with never-ceasing vistas of arcades, and enclosed
by houses of most fancifully artistic irregularity; as one passes
along the vaulted galleries the eye is constantly caught by some
picturesque object; either the peasants, as they stroll along in their
divers costumes, or the many-coloured, richly piled fruit stalls that
every now and then fill the arches, or, through an open door, the
endless depth of vaulted passages and fantastic staircases and
irregular inward courts and yards, offering to the artist's eye a play
of lights and shades and mysterious, dreamy half-tints that might
shame even a Rembrandt or an Ostade. As the exterior of all the houses
is (with the exception, of course, of the ornaments) scrupulously
white, the streets, narrow as they are, reflecting, by the luminous
nature of their local tint, the light of day into the remotest corner,
have a most cheerful aspect.

"Of the Tyrolese themselves, three qualities seem to me to
characterise them, qualities which go well hand in hand with, and, I
think it is not fanciful to say, are in great measure a key to, their
well-known frankness and open-hearted honesty. I mean Piety, which
shines out amongst them in many little things, a love for the art,
which with them is, in fact, an outward manifestation of piety, and
which is sufficiently displayed by the numberless scriptural subjects,
painted or in relief, which adorn the cottages of the poorest
peasants, and, last not least, a love for flowers (in other words, for
nature), which is written in the lovely clusters of flowers which
stand in many-hued array on the window-sills of every dwelling. The
works of all the really great artists display that love for flowers.
Raphael did not consider it 'niggling,' as some of our broad-handling
moderns would call it, to group humble daisies round the feet of his
divine representation of the Mother of Christ. I notice that _two
plants_, especially, produce a beautiful effect, both of form and
colour, against the cool grey walls: the spreading, dropping, graceful
_carnation_, with its bluish leaves and crimson flowers, and the
slender, anthered, thousand-blossomed _oleander_.

    [Illustration: STUDY OF A BRANCH OF FIG TREE, 1856
    Leighton House Collection]

    [Illustration: STUDY OF BRAMBLE, 1856
    Leighton House Collection]

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble IV.]

    [Sidenote: Statues in Innsbruck.]

    [Sidenote: I take on,]

    [Sidenote: and lay on,]

    [Sidenote: but bottle it up again.]

"One of the sights in Innsbruck has left on me a deep and, I hope, a
lasting impression: the bronze statues in the Franciscan church; they
are the finest specimens of German mediæval sculpture that I ever saw,
and grew on me as I gazed at them in a manner which I hardly ever felt
before; their great merit consists in combining in the most astounding
manner the most consummate knowledge of the art with all the
simplicity of nature and the most striking individuality (that first
of artistic qualities), and exhibiting at the same time the most
elaborate finish in the details, with greatest possible breadth and
grandeur of general masses; this quality is particularly conspicuous
amongst the women, three, especially, standing side by side, show, by
three perfect examples, the whole secret of ornamental economy; the
one, whose dress is ornamented with all the richness of which a
luxurious imagination and an unparalleled power of execution were
capable, recovers its simplicity of outline and mass by having a
tightly fitting body and sleeve and a skirt of moderate amplitude;
the second, whose ornaments, though richly, are more broadly disposed,
retains its balance by a slightly increased amplitude of drapery;
while the third, whose dress is altogether without embroidery,
acquires a corresponding effect by large, loose sleeves and richly
folded skirt, and two large plaits hanging down her back. What an
opportunity this would be, backed by these giants of breathing bronze,
to make an indignant descent on some paltry and muddle-headed moderns,
who don't know how to discriminate between that kind of finish which
proceeds from the love of a smooth surface, and makes the artist
equally careful of his pumps and of his pictures, and that other kind
of minuteness which is the beautiful fruit of a refined love for
nature, and proceeds from a feeling of piety towards the mother of
art, and who complacently call 'niggling,' a quality above the
appreciation of their _breadth-mad_ brains; who, in their
art-made-easy system of 'idealising' (forsooth), look for artistic
'beauty' in a facial angle of so and so much. What with the _Greeks_
was an _abstract of_ MAN, and very appropriately applicable in the
cases of demi-gods (that the ancients _could_, and _did_, 'en tems et
lieu,' individualise, may be sufficiently seen in their admirable
portraits), becomes with _them_ an absurdly misapplied _average of
mankind_, not _a_ man, or _men_. _The leading feature in Nature is a_
MANIFOLD INDIVIDUALITY, AN ENDLESS VARIETY; _she is like a diamond,
that glances with a thousand hues_. 'Indeed!' I hear them
contemptuously sneering, 'you don't seem to be aware, sir, that ideal
beauty is the great _centre_ of all these _extreme_ varieties, and the
only thing worthy of a great artist's attention.' 'Well, gentlemen,'
say _I_, 'without inconsistency, you can't get out of the way of the
following mouthful: there are (perhaps you will allow) three
elementary colours, which in different combinations produce every
variety of hue; _but_, the great _centre_ of these three _extremely_
various colours is _grey, non-colour ... the ideal of a bit of
colouring, "the only thing worthy of the attention of a great
colourist" is a picture with no colour in it at all_.' However,
Messrs. the Generalisists and _Apollinisists_ 'have every reason to
congratulate themselves on the extensive circulation of their views,
for their _ideal_' is visible in every haircutter's window. Never
mind, I must contain myself--but the rod is in pickle!

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble V.]

    [Sidenote: Meran.]

"A glorious amphitheatre of lofty mountains! On one side rugged,
sternly rising, crenelated, grey, snow-strewn; on the other, dreamy,
far outspreading, gently vanishing, southward luring, softly glowing,
wrapt in tints of loveliest azure, gradually blending with the
silver-fretted sky. A spreading, fertile gushing valley. Down the
sunny, swelling slopes, across the embosomed plain, an endless,
curling, wreathing flood of gold-green vines, foaming and eddying with
purple grapes. Through the verdant waves, like rushes in a stream, the
Indian corn raises its slender form and feathered head in long array.
Beneath, outstretched at ease, the pumpkin winks and yawns. At the
foot of a steep-fronted, purpling rock, skirting the glowing
vineyards, a foaming mountain stream, emerald and silver. Along the
heights, nestling in verdure, rise thickly scattered, castellated
villas, looking, with their bright, white walls, like smiles on the
face of the earth. An epitome of what is rich and joyous and
unfettered in landscape. The Alpha and Omega of all that is charming
in the Tyrol. MERAN!

"I can say no more for it.

"To my mind, it is inferior to Italy only in one respect: it is
wanting in that glowing, strongly marked individuality, that earnest
beauty, that 'charm that is in melancholy,' which fascinates so
powerfully in the land of wine and oil.

    [Sidenote: Pebble VI.]

    [Sidenote: Italy!]

    [Sidenote: I "realise," as the Americans say,]

    [Sidenote: and find reason to think that
    I am a queer party.]

"To be able to say that, on returning after long years to a country
whose image memory has, during the whole of that time, fondled with
all the partiality of ardent attachment, one has found one's best
expectations realised, is, in this world of disappointments and
frustrated expectations, indeed a rare thing; but to find imagination
_surpassed_ by reality is rarer still; yet it is my case now that I
once more breathe the air and tread the soil of Italy. For this, I
feel more grateful than I can say; for to have been disappointed in
_these_ hopes would have been to me the greatest of miseries; as it
is, my enjoyment is a double one: that which is occasioned by the
positive, intrinsic beauty of what I see, and that, not less great, of
recalling at the same time a happy, long-dwelt-on past. This I have
more particularly experienced since my arrival in Verona; and here a
queer feature in my queer idiosyncrasy obtrudes itself to notice,
_i.e._ the extraordinary dominion exercised over me by the senses of
smell and hearing! That I do labour under these peculiarities I always
knew, but to what a ludicrous extent, I did not find out till, on
arriving here (Verona), I was suddenly seized by a gust of a thousand
smells and a din of a thousand sounds, some always remembered, others
long-forgotten, suddenly rising up again to my memory. I was
spellbound, the veil of the past was torn up, I was fairly carried
back against the stream of time. Ridiculous as it may sound, my
enjoyment of Italy, independently, of course, of the art (which is an
extraordinary tissue of reality and illusion), would be very imperfect
without this combination of trifles. One thing, I think, must affect
every one agreeably; I mean the exquisitely humorous cries of the
vendors in the thoroughfares and market-places; who could hear and not
remember the loud, expostulatory shriek with which the one dwells on
the excellencies of his handkerchiefs, the argumentative and facetious
tone in which another infers that comfort is not possible without a
supply of his matches, that urgent wail with which a third deplores
that man should have so little appreciation of his baked apples, the
muddy, half-suffocated tenor with which a fourth proclaims his
water-melons, or the rabid, piercing soprano which seems to warn the
public that 'if those violets are not bought pretty quick, there will
soon be none to buy'?"

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble VII.]

    [Sidenote: Verona.]

"I do not think there exists anywhere a more powerfully and
fantastically individual town than Verona; it is to Italy what
Nuremburg is to Germany; but it is a transfiguration of Nuremburg; in
point of wildly picturesque variety it defies description and
surpasses expectation; it is saturated with art; wherever one turns,
the eye is struck by some beautiful remnant of the taste--that was; of
that glowing, sterling feeling for art, which spread itself over
everything, and ennobled whatever it touched. Hardly a house that
cannot boast of a sculptured archway, or some such token of ancient
splendour; not a church, even the most insignificant, but is crowded
with old paintings in oil and fresco, few of which are bad, some very
good, a few excellent, but _all_ in a far higher _tone of feeling_
than nine-tenths of the shallow, papery daubs with which the
nineteenth century covers its carcase of steam engines. No
wonder--they are all scriptural or apocryphal subjects, and were all
painted with an ardent belief in the faith to which they all owe their
existence; from thence arose, amongst other excellencies, a certain
naïf, ingenuously childlike treatment of the miraculous, which,
combined with the manly dignity of consummate art, gives them an
indescribable charm, which nothing can replace. Now--with us, at
least, of the cold belief--men throw really eminent talents--_to the
dogs_. But, for us Protestant artists, things are made much worse than
they in any way need be, by the total rejection of pictures and
statuary in our churches. Now, three centuries back, in the first
ebullition of reformatory fanaticism, such a practice was not only
comprehensible, but even a natural and necessary consequence and token
of their total disavowal of everything approaching to the Romish form
of worship; but its continuance at present amongst us is, not only
contrary to the spirit of the Anglican Church, which after all, when
compared to Lutheranism and Calvinism, is a _conservative_ one, but is
founded on arguments altogether untenable with any degree of
consistency; for if, as we are told, pictures and statues distract the
attention and produce a worldly frame of mind, if it be true indeed
that works of _high art_ (for, of course, no others are here taken
into consideration), than which surely nothing is more calculated to
raise the tone of the mind and prepare it for the reception of
elevated impressions, have indeed so pernicious an effect, then, it is
evident, by the same argument, the beauties of architecture, the
eldest of the sister arts, must be equally rejected; at the sight of a
Gothic church, that offspring of Christianity, we must shrug our
shoulders and say with pious aversion: 'Vanitas vanitatum!' But the
Church of England has not gone as far as that; indeed, great attention
is paid to our Church's architecture; is there no inconsistency here?
Or does the Church, terrified by the example of Romish image-worship,
fear a similar evil amongst us, whose belief is so infinitely more
circumscribed than that of Rome? Or is she so tender of admitting
symbols into her bosom, she, whose corner-stone is a symbol: the Last
Supper?

"To return to Verona.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble VIII.]

    [Sidenote: The Veronese love flowers,]

    [Sidenote: and have good legs.]

"As Gamba, owing to the time which my letter took in reaching him, was
not able to meet me at the time appointed, I remained two days at
Verona, days to which I shall always look back with unmixed pleasure.
I indulged, this time (the more that I knew the town already), in the
luxury of _not_ 'sight-seeing,' but strolled about the whole town in
every direction, dropping into churches, staring at tombs and palaces
and piazzas and pictures, just as if rolled past me in the
ever-varying panorama. I was struck, in the Tyrol, with the profusion
of flowers everywhere displayed; but here I see far more, and those,
too, more artistically distributed; they rise in double and treble
tiers on, in, and about the gracefully curved balconies, and assert
their sway wherever human ingenuity makes it possible to place a
flower-pot, and in a great many other places besides; creepers wreathe
from window to window, and vines actually springing from holes in the
walls, with no visible root or origin at all, spread their graceful
mantle over the walls of crumbling palaces. Of the Veronese
themselves, I cannot say that they are a handsome race; the women
especially, though they have a great deal of character in their
features, are generally far from good-looking. Amongst the peasants I
saw some very fine men; they have, some of them, very good legs,
slender and well shaped as a Donatello or a Ghiberti.

    [Sidenote: Thursday, August 26.]

    [Sidenote: Gamba.]

"On Thursday Gamba came, just as I was giving him up in a high state
of despair and mystification. We hurried at once by Padua to Venice,
where I found your letter.

    [Sidenote: I look back and feel ashamed,]

    [Sidenote: and make a clumsy excuse.]

"As I look through what I have written, before sending it off to you,
I feel, painfully, that my style is clumsy, stuttering, incoherent;
that I am wordy, without saying enough; that I am overfree in my use
of fanciful epithets, without giving an adequate idea of the
suggestive beauty of what I see; that I am sometimes almost mawkish,
without saying half I feel; that I am incorrigibly slovenly and
forgetful; that I can't write, that I can't spell. In answer to all
this, I can only answer by referring to a little premonitory
observation at the foot of my first page, _i.e. Quality of Pebbles not
warranted_.

       *       *       *       *       *

BATCH No. 2.

(This blank represents three weeks.)

    [Sidenote: Sept. 16.]

"_September 16._--Many happy returns of the day, dear Gussy! The other
day I took a pair of scales, and put into the one vessel the price you
would have to pay for the postage of a congratulatory letter to be
received by you on your birthday, and into the other a pleasure which
a surprise might afford you; the postage outweighed its rival; so I
wrote no letter. If my directions have been attended to, you will, no
doubt, have received a far more satisfactory outward and visible sign
of my good wishes.

    [Sidenote: Sept. 18.]

"_September 18._--The same to you, Papa!... _Can the river offer its
fountain a drink?_

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble I.]

    [Sidenote: Sept. 19.]

    [Sidenote: I lucubrate,]

    [Sidenote: when I consider, &c. &c.,]

    [Sidenote: whereas, &c. &c.,]

    [Sidenote: and even then, &c. &c.,]

"Three weeks (apparently months) have elapsed since I last soared on
the descriptive pinion; now, and only now, on the eve of my departure
from Venice, I find time and leisure again to pour on the past a
libation of pen and ink. I resume the quill with a feeling of
disheartenment. With what intentions did I begin to write this
(journal)? Had I not hoped to note down, at once and in all their
freshness, my emotions and impressions just as I should receive them?
and to speak also sometimes of the thousand little incidents that fall
in one's path, and which form the arabesque round the chapter of life?
And how are my hopes fulfilled? Behold me, on the morning of the last
day, the day of parting, packing, paying, and passports, forced to
throw in a hurried and disconnected heap a few general remarks
concerning what I have seen and heard and felt and found, and not
found, during my stay in the home of Titian. And even that, how
difficult! For in this short stay, sight has succeeded sight, emotion
has followed emotion, in one continued merry-go-round; I have been
alternately grave and gay, melancholy and jocose, dejected and
enraptured; add to this that in my mind, as in the dissolving views,
one picture always effaces its predecessor, and you will at once
perceive that I am in the position of a man trying to see the pebbles
at the bottom of a muddy brook, or his natural face in a basin of
gruel.

    [Sidenote: but you know, &c.]

"Now, I again repeat what I made a preliminary condition: that I send
you the pebbles, loose and disjointed, and that I don't undertake to
make a necklace of them.

"'But whose fault is all this?' (I hear you ask).

    [Sidenote: besides, it's not my fault]

"During my stay here (I continue, without attending to your question)
I have been up nearly every day _before the sun_ (about five o'clock),
and after working and tearing about the town all day, towards evening
I was not sorry to....

"Do you guess how it was I wrote so little?

    [Sidenote: A little digression]

"Here a little observation obtrudes itself to my notice. Man (for
there is nothing like throwing your own frailties on mankind in
general) is born with an irresistible tendency to talk _at something
or somebody_; eighteen pages back I was talking to nobody; or, if I
did address anything, it was that very vague personage, the future;
now I find myself getting more and more personal; _you's_, I expect,
will soon get up to fifty per cent.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Sidenote: Pebble II.]

    [Sidenote: A picture.]

    [Sidenote: (Parenthetic Pebble about Gondolas.)]

"Venice! Mighty word, city of endless associations, image that fills
the mind! What impressions has it left on me? I shrink from answering
a question so difficult to answer _fairly_, and from dissecting a
point of such intricate anatomy. Whilst I think it over, I will give
you a picture or two to look at; you shall have a peep out of the
window where I sit writing. It is early morning, everything is cool
and calm, in silent, almost breathless expectation of the not yet
risen sun. Before your eyes rises one of the most splendid views in
Europe, that of the Grand Canal from the steps of the Academy; the
stately, dark green street of waters reflects on its wide-spreading
mirror the grey and crumbling palaces, and the lovely form of Sta.
Maria della Salute, with her domes of dazzling white. Not a ripple
mars its glossy surface, except where, at rare intervals, some silent
gondola glides swiftly along, scattering the sparkling drops from its
graceful oar, or where, here and there, the playful 'aura mattutina'
has left too rough a kiss upon its slumbering cheek. No sound is
heard, but the distant, even, measured chimes, that seem to be rocking
on the silence of the morning. Along its marge, singly, or clustering
in close array beneath roofs of vine-covered trellis, lie the
far-famed, ebon-coloured, swiftly gliding gondolas of Venice.
'Gondolas!' Whilst the sun is rising, let me say a word or two on
gondolas. It has always excited my great surprise that these barks,
which are graceful almost beyond imagination, are, in point of fact,
in their present shape the offspring of a period, next to our own, the
most execrable in point of taste which the world has produced. I mean
the end of the seventeenth, or rather the beginning of the eighteenth
century. Yet, so it is. In the time of Carpaccio and the Bellinis they
were queer, tolerably uncouth contrivances, about two-thirds of their
present length, pointed and equally curved at both ends, so as to
resemble as nearly as possible a slice of melon, dead of the cholera.
In Titian's day the shape began to taper out a little, and the iron
points or knobs, _at both ends_, rose to a greater height, and were
enriched with a serrated ornament; but they did not assume their
present slender proportions and graceful ornament, _at the prow only_,
till the eighteenth century; as also the mysterious and exquisitely
comfortable little cabins or coffins, which now surmount them, and
which formerly were open _behind and before_, forcing the passenger to
sit upright! They contained then the rudiment of an idea of grace,
which took its natural growth and development in spite of man.
Meanwhile, for I have been watching him, the sun has appeared above
the horizon; not that I see his own, real, glorious face, for he is
hidden behind an ancient palace, but I see his reflection glowing in
the eye of nature. First a gentle, tremulous, golden light began to
steal along the dappled morning sky, warning all the little, distant,
fleecy clouds to shake their plumes, for that it was going to begin;
then, of course, the water took up the tune; and then (it was fit the
biggest building should set the example) the 'Salute' assumed a
saffron hue, and gradually one by one all the palaces on one side of
the Canal, right up to our windows, and, did not you notice? your own
face took quite a shine. For a while you yourself and everything round
you seems wrapped in a trance; presently you begin to write. How is
this? The whole picture begins to dance and quiver. Our Lady della
Salute glows with a deeper blush, and trembles. Then, suddenly, her
redness vanishes, her glorious countenance sparkles, and she raises
her stately form in a garment of burnished silver; the gondolas that
nestle round her feet, and hem in the whole length of the Canal, seem
like a fillet of sparkling gems around a web of emerald and gold; the
sky is a sea of light; the sun is in the wide heavens--it's time for
breakfast. Waiter, coffee and rolls!

    [Sidenote: I am reminded,]

"'Do you mean,' I hear you urge, 'to come to the point, and tell us
how you like Venice?'

    [Sidenote: but take no notice.]

    [Sidenote: Pebble IV.]

"Another picture! (pretending not to hear). The same scene, but under
a different aspect. How different! Just now it was a scene of dawning
life, a burst of gladness--now it is a mild, a gentle dream, an
Italian moonlight night, a _Venetian_ moonlight night--calm, clear,
soft, fancy stirring. You lean idly out of the window; there are two
of you, or ought to be, but you don't say anything to one another; you
are rocked in silence; you feel the sweet, warm breath of night pass
over your cheek; you think of Shakespeare's exquisite verses on what
he never saw but with the eye of his boundless fancy; you are sitting
with Jessica and Lorenzo (that is his name, I think) on a bank of
violets; you are anxiously waiting for Portia and her company; your
ear is attentive to every sound; presently a sweet, half-heard strain,
like a distant echo, dawns on your ear; then it is lost again; again
it swells, and seems to glide gently along the shadowy waters towards
you, nearer, still nearer. You see a track of gleaming light along the
water, and at intervals a shower of tiny stars; it's no illusion; they
glide along towards you, the voices that rose from the distant waters;
they are almost beneath your window. Quick, quick, a gondola; a dozen
or more musicians, with every kind of instrument, sit together in a
bark, and alternately play and sing lovely melodies by the musicians
of Italy. As long as the strain lasts the oar is suspended, and the
floating orchestra drifts slowly along with the slowly ebbing tide;
round it, a cluster of gondolas, full of breathless listeners whose
very soul seems to melt with the delicious sounds, and combine with
them--at least, you can answer for yourself, for you are one of them.
Those are moments which you, I am sure, will never forget.

    [Sidenote: You interrupt me, but I take no notice.]

"'You are beating about the bush, we want an ans....'

    [Sidenote: Pebble V.]

"Another picture! (taking no notice of you)--a bit of Giorgione,
coloured by Veronese. You are in an _atelier_; pictures and sketches
in different stages of advancement lie about the tables and cover the
easels; at one end of the room you see a large cupboard; its open
doors betray within layers of rich old silks and damasks, some made
up, some in pieces, as they were found at the antiquary's; further, an
old mandoline, that perhaps could tell of the days of Titian. Through
the large, gaping window you look upon a group of the most picturesque
Venetian houses, with their fanciful basket-shaped chimneys and
irregular windows and thousand-fold tints; the foreground is
gracefully supplied by a screen of slender, net-like trees, amongst
which heavy-laden vines wreathe in fanciful festoons. But where is
Werner? the amiable inmate of this charming snuggery; where his
pupils? Ah, I hear them! Hark! in the garden, a merry laugh, a
clattering of cups, a sound of several voices, a suggestion of
enjoyment; you rush to the scene of action; on your road you nearly
break your neck over a table covered with the remains of a hearty
dinner. A few yards further, you see half-a-dozen young men (of course
artists) stretched, in every variety of ingeniously comfortable
attitude, on a temporary floor of Turkey carpets, in a cool, clear,
shady spot beneath arches of roof-weaving vines; in the middle, at
comfortable arm's length, coffee, and heaps of purple grapes, whilst
the intervals of conversation are filled by affectionate and earnest
appeals to long Turkish pipes. You approach; you are recognised;
seized by the hand, thrown down on the carpet; and presently you
perceive that an entire afternoon is gone by! But that afternoon
becomes a landmark to you. May not such reminiscences well endear a
place to one's memory?

    [Illustration: STUDY OF BYZANTINE WELL HEAD. Venice, 1852
    By permission of Mr. S. Pepys Cockerell]

"'Well, then, I suppose....' (say you).

"Never mind, let me continue.

    [Sidenote: More where the rest came from.]

"Another impression. You are sitting, early in the morning, in a
spacious, picturesque court; you have got your sketch-book, and you
are busily poring over a drawing of a beautiful old Saracenic well;
you are intent on doing it well, on cutting out that friend you have
got with you. Presently you are seized with a peculiar sensation; you
have heard, all of a sudden, the voice of an old, old friend, who
speaks to you of things you don't see round you; a veil falls from
your eyes; you feel that you have missed something for some time past;
a vision rises before your eyes--a sweet vision of wooded hills and
grassy fields, teeming with a thousand wild flowers and sending forth
a sweet smell, and of flowing streams, of _fresh_ waters, of birds
singing merrily as they fly from tree to tree, and swing on the
slender branches; and then you remember that you dwell in a
mysterious city, closed in by the salty sea. Who was the friend that
called up these lively images in your mind? It was a poor, solitary,
wandering _Bee_. But he suggested something else to you, the roaming
honey-gatherer--he reminded you of _freedom_; reminded you that
Freedom had no home _there_; and he made you _feel_ how much you had
felt it, how much you had been unconsciously haunted by the breath of
oppression that hovers over poor, browbeaten Venice, and whose
pestilence clings to its rocky shore, as the rankling seaweed to the
skirts of its palaces. Poor Venice! once resounding with joyous
voices, now its walls seem, as you pass them, to mutter mournfully of
arrests, condemnations, executions! Its narrow streets re-echo with
the heavy tread of exulting soldiers, with the watchword of a foreign
tongue. Palaces and convents are become barracks and infirmaries, and
Slavonian troopers loll and spit where the proudest lords and
loveliest ladies of Venice used to assemble to the banquet or the
ball. But I turn away from such sad reflections, lest they may seem to
outweigh all the delight that I have spoken of before.

    [Sidenote: Pebble VI.]

    [Sidenote: What I think about it.]

"I have rehearsed to you a few of my impressions for good and for
evil, and I think that was the only way of answering your (imaginary)
questions. I need make no apologies for not _describing_ Venice to
you, as you have all seen it, and it is a place the image of which
does not easily fade. I might say a word or two about the Venetians.
Whatever some people may say (and, if I am not mistaken, Byron amongst
them), the female Venetian type, such as it is transmitted to us by
Titian, Giorgione, Pordenone, &c. (_i.e._ stout, tall, round-faced,
small-mouthed, _Roxolane-nosed_) has either totally disappeared, or
only manifests itself to a chosen few; one feature only I recognise,
and that is a profusion of fine hair, which they plait in the most
elaborate manner. A thing that rather puzzles those who go to Venice
with the idea of seeing _Titians_ and _Veroneses_ at the windows and
in the streets, is that the women have altogether left off dyeing
their hair auburn as they used in former times. To show you that
vanity made the fair sex go through the greatest personal discomfort
as far back as the sixteenth century, I will tell you what the process
of dyeing was. On the top of nearly every house in Venice is a kind of
terrace-like scaffold, or scaffold-like terrace ('you pays your money
and takes your choice'), which has the noble vocation of drying linen;
in former days, however, they were built for a different purpose. In
the middle of the day, during the greatest heat of the sun, the party
anxious to impart to her hair a tint between sugar-candy and radishes
repaired to these _lofty_ spots, and there regularly bleached her hair
in the following manner: she put on her head the _brim_ of a large
straw hat, so that the top of the head was exposed to all the power of
the sun, whilst the face and neck were kept in the shade. Through the
hole thus left in the middle of this extraordinary headgear the whole
of the hair was drawn, and spread out as much as possible; which done,
different kinds of waters, made for the express purpose, were passed
over it by means of a little sponge fastened to the top of a reed.
History does not give the exact number of _coups-de-soleil_ caught in
this manner; a few, I should imagine. However, I can warrant the
accuracy of my statement, which is borrowed from a contemporary author
of the highest standing. The men of Venice are neither handsome in the
face nor well made in the body. The Venetian dialect is amusing; in
the mouth of a woman, if well spoken, it is pretty, musical,
childlike, lisping; but in the mouth of a man, for the most part,
muddy, stammering, unintelligible.

       *       *       *       *       *

   "There, much as still remains to say, and willingly as I dwell on
   its memory, I must discard Venice, and turn to your kind letter,
   for it is now, I am afraid, more than a month since I last wrote.
   This delay has, however, been unavoidable, for when one is
   travelling, or staying a short time in a place, one is always
   hurried and flurried in the day-time, and in the evening tired or
   excited--or both. Next time you hear from me (which will be when
   I reach Rome) my communication will openly take the shape that
   this has imperceptibly been attaining, that of a letter; when I
   am once settled for the winter I shall, I hope, be better able to
   write _au jour le jour_. Before entering into your letter, which
   will be a longish job, I must acknowledge the receipt of one from
   Papa, containing part of my remittance; it was written in most
   kind terms (I tell you this because you can't have seen it, since
   he wrote in London), and was, I think, the longest I ever got
   from him, at all events it was the first in which he said
   anything beyond what was necessary to business. It gave me
   sincere pleasure. I was touched, it seemed to me that distance
   had brought me nearer to him; pray thank him both for that and
   for the consideration with which he has provided for an emergency
   which will in fact arise--that of my not reaching Rome in
   October; I do not expect to get there until the first week in
   November. Of one thing I must remind Papa; he talks of sending to
   Rome the _remaining eighty_ pounds of my second quarter; he has,
   I am afraid, forgotten that he gave me sixty for my first; my
   remittance this time is only _forty_ pounds, he therefore has
   only twenty to send to Rome.

   "I now turn to your letter, dear Mamma; I lay it by my side, and
   as I read it slowly through, answer it systematically, head for
   head, for in my present hurry I have indeed no time to pick and
   choose, or to arrange my topics according to their importance and
   interest, or even to consult as much as I wish the little
   amusement that my letters give you. However, I console myself a
   little with the reflection that it certainly is not the
   composition of my letters which gratifies you much, for I am
   painfully aware that my ideas are brought to paper with about as
   much order as the footprints of a cock-sparrow show on a
   gravel-walk.

   "You say, dear Mamma, that you have a fear of not telling me all
   that I wish to hear; and there, indeed, you are right, for if you
   were to tell me _all_ that I wish to know about your doings, you
   might write for a week; but you are equally right in supposing
   that _whatever_ you write concerning yourself (and selves) is
   full of interest to your distant Punch. About my health? Well, I
   plead guilty, steaks _do_ still continue to be to me _physical
   consciences_; this admonitory part they took more especially at
   Venice, where the climate, I must confess, did not agree with me
   particularly well. This is perhaps attributable to the water,
   which was particularly bad there, for my diet was of the simplest
   description. Judge for yourself: in the morning early, coffee and
   dry bread (I have discarded butter to keep company with Gamba,
   who is not in the habit of eating any); at eleven or so, fruit
   and bread; at four or five, a simple dinner; and in the evening,
   an ice or a cup of coffee. Here I live much in the same way.

   "I am truly delighted to hear that you are accommodating yourself
   a little to an English climate; if you once get over that one
   great obstacle, nothing else need prevent your establishing
   yourself in the country which, after all, is still the dearest to
   you; with the prospect of pleasant and desirable society for
   yourself and the girls, and of other resources for Papa, there is
   every reason to hope that you will find in Bath what you have so
   long wished for, a home in _England_."

Speaking of his elder sister's suffering, he continues:--

    "I feel, almost, a kind of shame that so much should have been
    poured down on me, who have deserved it less. To become
    deserving of it, must be my great, never-wavering endeavour;
    I will put my talent to usury, and be no slothful steward of
    what has been entrusted to me. Every man who has received a
    gift, ought to feel and act as if he was a field in which a
    seed was planted that others might gather the harvest.

    "I am delighted to hear that Lady Leighton is getting on well,
    and as much gratified at having made on her a favourable
    impression; pray tell her that her presence and conversation
    inspired me with a desire to please her, and that her
    affectionate reception has still a lively hold on my memory.

    "You tell me that you were touched at Steinle's kindness to
    me, and indeed it was such as might well touch any one; this
    time you will be touched at his affliction, poor man, he has
    just had a heavy misfortune--the most affectionate of fathers
    has lost another child, the second, in a year and a half; I
    heard this from André, who has just arrived from Frankfurt,
    and who called on the unfortunate man before he started and
    found him much dejected. He said in his melancholy but calm
    tone of voice: 'Ich habe eine Tochter begraben.' You think it
    improbable that I shall find a _second_ Steinle; I delight in
    the belief that there _is none_.

    "I am not surprised at your finding it impossible to imagine
    an artist without a genuine love for nature. In any but an age
    of perverted taste such a thing could not exist; but it is
    only too true that that most essential of qualities has become
    obsolete, and is hardly to be found at all. Artists now are
    full of _breadth_ and _depth_; and, between us and the
    doorpost, _flatness_. On this subject I mean to tell you more
    in my next letter, when I speak more particularly of my
    _artistic_ impressions and opinions, which I have not yet
    done.

    "I am glad to hear what you tell me about the comfort you
    enjoy in Bath, from the superior cleanliness and decency of
    behaviour of English servants over foreign ones; it is a
    thing to which I am particularly alive, and which struck me
    very much last time I was in England; Gussy too, I am sure,
    appreciated it very much. I am sorry that I cannot participate
    in your enthusiasm about the beauties of Bath (barring, of
    course, the situation, which is charming), but I will say
    nothing against it, as I am only too glad that you should be
    pleased with it. I quite follow you in your admiration of the
    edifices in Westminster; I think that, taking them altogether,
    they form one of the finest groups of architecture that I ever
    saw; but what particularly pleases me in the Houses of
    Parliament is the example they set of building in that style
    of architecture which is our own, the growth, as it were, of
    our soil, and which therefore best befits our country. Such
    feelings, I have reason to believe, are becoming prevalent in
    England, and they may have great results; but I reserve all
    this for another letter. I am glad to hear of the institution
    you tell me of for the cultivation of good principles; I
    believe that the greatness of England will not be as ephemeral
    as that of the other nations that have had the lead in
    succession, because so much is done to consolidate and
    increase in strength the basis on which it stands, and which
    is the best prop to the enduring prosperity of a nation,
    uprightness and morality.

    "I have now followed and answered your letter, from beginning
    to end, from point to point, it is time I should close; next
    time I write, I shall be in Rome, settled for the
    winter.--Believe me, dear Mamma, with very best love to all,
    your most affectionate and dutiful son,

                                                 "FRED LEIGHTON."

  _Translation._]
                                           VENICE, _31st August_.

    "HONOURED AND VERY DEAR HERR STEINLE,--If I did not, according
    to our agreement, write to you directly Rico[19] arrived, it
    was because I could not make up my mind to put you off with
    two words, whereas I had neither time nor leisure to write you
    anything detailed. Now, however, arrived and established in
    Venice, I take up my pen to repair the neglect. It is a
    lovely, cool, clear summer morning; I sit at my window on the
    Grand Canal, and before my eyes rises in glorious beauty the
    incomparable outline of Sta. Maria della Salute with the
    adjoining Dogano. The newly risen sun (it is five o'clock in
    the morning) throws a golden, enchanted light along one side
    of the Canal; the gondolas and barges, which nestle in a
    numerous array at the steps of the _Salute_, glitter in the
    dusky distance like gleaming jewels on the borders of the
    silver mirror of the water, whose clear bosom is gently
    ruffled by the soft breath of dawn. All is still, except the
    distant church bells. What words can give an idea of such a
    sight? I gaze about me in a day-dream and think of you, the
    dear friend, the honoured master; all that I owe you for
    heartfelt sympathy and wise guidance, and cannot pay, rises
    before my grateful soul, and reminds me that I have lost one
    whom I shall miss many a time. I hope with all my heart that
    your stay in the mountains of Appenzell will have given you
    fresh strength, and that in all respects you are
    re-established and invigorated according to your expectations.

    "Now, however, as I am to speak of myself, and to give some
    account of my impressions on my journey, I note that for me
    the potent picture of Italy, of Venice, has pushed all that
    went before into the background, almost blotted it out, so
    that now it floats before me like a dim remembrance; but with
    two exceptions: two pictures have impressed themselves deeply
    on my memory, and will certainly not be easily erased--I mean
    the _Franciscan church at Innsbruck_ and lovely _Meran_. You
    were indeed right when you said that the cast giants in that
    church are the grandest achievement of German sculpture; they
    are colossal, a truly imposing spectacle, brilliant monuments
    of an age of noble taste. What eternal truth! What an amazing
    impress of individuality! Of marvellous execution that never
    borders on the little, full of breadth and strength, and yet
    nobly slender, they are the most perfect example of _economy
    of detail_; what a sharp contrast to the superficial
    stone-hammering (I might say) of to-day; what an everlasting
    shaming to the nineteenth century! I could name many sculptors
    who could not look at these things without profit.

    "Meran! What an indelible, fascinating picture floats before
    one's eyes at the name; this Alpha and Omega of all that is
    lovely in Tyrol; this lovely amphitheatre of mountains, rugged
    on one side, and steep and covered with snow on the other,
    glowing in the purple gleam of the south--widely extended,
    melting away, alluring; this fertile plain; this gold-green
    flood of climbing vines, hanging down like waterfalls from the
    espaliers on the mountain slopes, with the purple foam of the
    vines; these thousand pleasure-houses and castles; the
    picturesque costume!

    "But why so many words? You have seen this beauty yourself,
    and have no doubt a clearer picture of it than I can paint for
    you.

    "In Botzen, to my very great regret, I was unable to see Herr
    von Hempel, since he was staying, not in his town house, but
    in a castle at a distance of two hours; but I visited Becker's
    brother. He received me in a most friendly manner, asked much
    after his brother, of whom he had heard _nothing_ for more
    than a _year_, and told me that his mother, who had recently
    visited him in Feldkirch, had wept bitterly about it. I must
    also inform you that he has recently _taken unto himself a
    wife_--a fact of which our good Jacob (that is his name, is it
    not?) also knew nothing.

    "I could still, dear Herr Steinle, write much to you about
    Tyrol and Italy (especially about _Verona_), for I know no one
    with whom I so gladly share my artistic sensations as with
    you, but lack of time obliges me to close quickly for the
    present; I will only add that after I had been two days in
    Verona the worthy Rico arrived, and we are now having a _feast
    of art_ in Venice together.

    "Should you be still at the Stift when you receive these
    lines, I beg you to kiss the Frau Rath's hand for me, and to
    tell her that I remember vividly the day I spent in her house.
    Remember me most kindly to your wife--I congratulate her upon
    her deliverance from the Cronberg martyrdom; kiss the little
    children for me, and remember me to the elder ones; remember
    me also to Frau Schöff & Co. and to all my other good friends;
    this is perhaps rather a large request, but whom could I omit?
    I rely upon your kindness. I close with a plea for forbearance
    towards my incorrigible writing and my lame, headlong
    style.--Heartfelt greetings from your devoted and grateful
    pupil,

                                                  "FRED LEIGHTON.

    "_P.S._--Should you have anything to say to me, or any
    commission to give me, the address, Poste Restante, Florence,
    will find me till the end of September.

    "Gamba wishes to be cordially remembered to you, and promises
    himself to be under your wing again in eighteen months.

    "In my next letter I will tell you about Italy."

FOOTNOTES:

[13] In the winter of 1845 Leighton went to a children's costume ball
in Florence as Punch, and for some time after the name clung to him in
his family.

[14] Literally, "devoured nature with a spoon."

[15] A distinguished actress.

[16] Probably "The Death of Brunelleschi."

[17] See Appendix, In Memoriam.

[18] See sketch, "A Monk Dividing Enemies," Leighton House Collection,
"Ulm, 1852."

[19] Count Gamba.




CHAPTER II

ROME

1852-1855


The first group of letters from Leighton to his family from Rome tells
of his instalment, his projects, his disappointments, his indifferent
health, and his eye-troubles. But more important are the views he
expresses on his "_artistic_ impressions," and the ideas which force
themselves on his mind, resulting from these impressions; the
increased anxiety with which he regards the task he has set before
him; the "paralysing diffidence" which he feels with regard to
"composing." In the letter he wrote on January 5, 1853, he enters more
intimately into his own feelings in addressing his father than in any
previous letter I have seen. This letter is in answer to one from his
father, which Leighton describes in writing to his mother[20] as "the
longest I ever got from him, at all events it was the first in which
he said anything beyond what was necessary to business; it gave me
sincere pleasure. I was touched; it seemed to me that distance had
brought me nearer to him." Leighton was evidently eager to respond to
any advance from his father towards possible intimacy on the ground of
his art-interests. In "Pebbles" he writes that he opens the
"introductory chapter of the second volume" of his life, "a volume on
the title-page of which is written 'artist'"; in these first letters
from Rome he begins the second volume itself. The letter to his
younger sister, on her "coming out," contains at its close memorable
advice on the subject of the development of her musical taste.[21]
"You must descend into yourself, and draw at the fountain of your own
natural taste, but mind you go very deep, that you may really get at
your _genuine, natural_ taste, and I think you won't go far wrong. He
who knows how to hear the voice of nature has found the safest guide,
and he only is a good master who opens the mind of his pupil to that
voice." At the age of twenty-one, Leighton had realised, and was
himself pursuing, the only right course in studying any art. By
invariably drawing deeply from the fountain in his own nature, he ever
remained true and sincere as an artist. It is evident that, if there
is no fountain to draw from in a nature, any study of art becomes
useless, and Leighton, when consulted in later years, never encouraged
false hopes in those who possessed no natural endowments. When he
wrote,[22] "being very receptive and prone to admire, I have learnt,
and still do, from innumerable artists, big and small; Steinle's is,
however, the indelible seal," he referred to the fact that in Steinle
he had fortunately found the master who opened his mind to the voice
of his own nature. Leighton felt a great necessity to sift the various
influences which played upon his receptive nature, on account of his
ready sympathy with all that was admirable. He had constantly to seek
for that inner light, that "genuine, natural taste," which his revered
master had led him to search for and find, and to act from the
dictates of that light, and from no other.

The commencement of the first letter from Rome to his mother is
missing; the date of the post-mark is November 25, 1852, Rome.

    "...unnoticed, and which now requires to be woven in with the
    rest. I mean, of course, my more directly and practically
    _artistic_ impressions, and their results. I take them up 'ab
    ovo.' To an artist an occasional change of scene is of the
    greatest advantage, if not importance; for, generally
    speaking, when he has stayed long in one place, surrounded day
    after day by the same objects, his eye becomes, by the
    deadening effect of constant habit, indifferent to what he
    sees around him, and often even inaccessible to the
    impressions which a newcomer might receive from the same
    natural beauties; most things that please the eye or the
    imagination, do so (in my case, at least) by some peculiar
    association; indeed I should imagine it must be so with all
    things, for even when one cannot (as one often can) define
    precisely the association which creates the echo within of the
    impressions received, it seems to me that one is instinctively
    aware of a kind of indefinable _innate relationship_ to the
    beauties manifested in nature, to which, by-the-bye, I think,
    all other associations might ultimately be traced through
    different degrees of consanguinity. It is in being
    unexpectedly reminded (however indirectly or unwittingly) of
    this affinity, that lies all the pleasure that we experience
    by the means of sight; indeed, it strikes me, although I am
    too ignorant to explain why, that the 'feu sacré' of the
    artist is a kind of inward, spontaneous, ever active,
    instinctive _impulse_, blind and involuntary, to manifest and
    put forth this his pedigree--as it were a yearning of son to
    father, an attraction of a part to the whole, which is, as it
    were, the living _motive_ and condition of his existence, and
    which sometimes infuses in his works 'un non so chè' that is
    felt by others, but for which he would be at a loss to
    account, and of which he is perhaps barely aware; it is a
    manifestation of a _truth_ which is felt to be _fit_, and
    called _beautiful_. These reflections, which have often
    involuntarily forced themselves on me, suddenly remind me of
    an expression I once heard Papa quote from some German
    philosopher, I think Hegel: 'Der Mensch ist das Werkzeug der
    Natur.' Good gracious, where am I running to? and how far out
    of my depth! and yet one feels the want to empty one's head a
    little now and then; latterly, especially, these ideas have
    been stirred up in me by the perusal of fragments on the
    theory, philosophy, of Art, &c., by Eastlake, which gave rise
    in me to some painful feelings. At the first onset I was
    amazed and bewildered at the quantity and great versatility of
    Eastlake's acquirements, a man who has yet found time to
    cultivate his art with success. I was filled with regret and
    mortification when I looked at myself and considered how
    little I know, and how little, comparatively, my health and
    eyes will allow me to add to my meagre store. As I got further
    into the subject, my feelings altered; it seemed to me to grow
    more and more vast and comprehensive, but not more
    _intricate_, for it appeared by degrees to embrace and involve
    in itself (and be involved in) all human knowledge, so that I
    felt that there must be only one key to all mystery, the
    _non_-possession of which key is the characteristic, the
    condition _des Menschseins_. Then it struck me as utterly
    absurd for anybody to pretend to know anything about anything;
    but it also struck me that it is not given to man to be a
    neutral spectator, that he must advance or recede; and that
    beautiful saying of Lessing's, which Papa read to us, occurred
    to my mind: 'Wenn der Allmächtige' (I quote from memory, and
    therefore probably not quite correctly) 'vor mich hin träte in
    der Rechten die vollkommene Erkenntnis, in der Linken ein
    ewiges Streben nach Wahrheit, ich würfe mich flehend in seine
    Linke und sagte: Vater, gieb! die reine Wahrheit ist doch nur
    Dir allein!'[23] I hardly meant to say all this, especially as
    it must seem horridly weak to a philosopher of Papa's calibre,
    but I really could not help it; I wish such thoughts would
    never come into my head, for I am painfully aware that I have
    not the grasp of mind to investigate any abstract subject
    deeply, and I wish that I had a mind, simple and unconscious,
    even as a child. I hurry back to the point with my tail
    between my legs; I was saying, was not I? that habit deadens
    us (read _me_) to the _suggestive_ qualities of nature, and
    that change of scene is sometimes required to make us again
    _aware_ of nature; after such change she speaks a more
    eloquent language than ever; I have heard her voice, ever
    since I left Frankfurt, ring more powerfully than ever before,
    and it has been the key to all that I have done, and to all
    that I have omitted. But there are some cases in which this
    numbing effect of habit has more lasting, almost irrevocable
    consequences; when one has been for a long space of time
    _utterly_ familiarised with an object (a work of art in
    particular) of which one did not, when the acquaintance or
    _liaison_ was contracted, appreciate all the beauties, though
    in process of time the _understanding_ may become fully aware
    of these qualities, the _heart of the mind_--if I may use such
    an expression--can never feel that ingenuous fulness of
    admiration which would penetrate a sensitive and cultivated
    spectator on seeing it _for the first time_. This I have felt
    more particularly in the case of the 'Transfiguration' here in
    the Vatican; I am so utterly familiar with it from a child,
    when I could in no way understand it, that I find it
    impossible to judge of it _objectively_; I see colossal merit
    in it, and yet, when I have looked at it for a few minutes, I
    turn away and walk on; I am deadened to it. Thank God, it is
    not so with his (Raphael's) divine frescoes, which are so
    maimed and profaned in the engravings that the originals were
    _new_ to me. But I am at the end of my paper, and as you do
    not wish me to cross, I must this time close by just telling
    you what my disappointments have been, that you may not form
    a false idea of them. First, I expected to find an
    _atmosphere_ of high art, and every possible 'günstige
    Anregung' for its cultivation; in this I have been completely
    disappointed; of the numberless artists here, scarcely any can
    call themselves historical painters, and Gamba and I, who
    hoped for emulation, are thrown completely on ourselves;
    Overbeck is the only remains of that much to be regretted
    period when he and Cornelius and Veit and Steinle and others
    were labouring together in friendly strife; he will, however,
    never be to us what Steinle was. The next greatest sore point
    was the difficulty of getting a studio. When we arrived in
    Rome the first thing we heard was that all the _ateliers_ were
    taken; and it was only after some days despondent search that
    I got a little bit of one most skimpingly furnished, that I
    should have sneered at when I first arrived. I have no
    _sécrétaire_; I am obliged to lock up my papers with my
    shirts; I have been obliged to buy a lamp, for the one they
    gave me tried my eyes; and if I want any article of furniture
    I must buy it, because I understand that at the end of the
    year hiring costs as much here as buying. My _atelier_ for
    next winter I shall take in the spring, as a good many become
    vacant at that time. Rome is twice, nearly three times, dearer
    than Florence in some respects; I am in despair; Gamba, who
    has just half what I have, absolutely starves himself in his
    food, and can hardly keep himself cleanly dressed; yet he has
    fewer expenses than I, who have calls to make now and then,
    and must dress accordingly. Oakes, too, who had sent me a
    charming letter to Florence, saying that he delighted in the
    idea of coming to spend the winter with me in Rome, was
    suddenly prevented; this was a bitter disappointment; I had
    expected a great deal of improvement from his conversation. I
    am in the bleak position of one who stands in immediate
    contact with _no_ cultivated and superior mind. The Laings
    have not come yet; I hope to goodness they won't disappoint
    me also.--I remain, dearest Mamma, your dutiful and
    affectionate son,

                                                 "FRED LEIGHTON."

                (_La suite à un prochain numéro._)

                                                           "1852.

    "DEAREST GUSSY,--As a gallant brother, I can't well do less
    than answer separately your postscript to Mamma's letter. I
    shall make a point, if I meet with it, of reading Andersen's
    'Dichterleben'; your recommendation is sufficient to
    predispose me favourably. I perfectly understand what you say
    about St. Paul's, and quite agree with you on that subject.
    What suits a salmon-coloured ribbon? By George, that's a
    weighty question, and requires mature reflection; it would
    look _best_ on a white dress with blue flowers or spots; a
    sea-green would not look bad, and on black silk it would be
    _distingué_; a bluish violet would not be bad either. I am
    sincerely sorry that I am not able to 'assister' at your
    triumphal entry into your eighteenth year; I am afraid the
    spell is beginning to fall by degrees from the greatest of
    days. If my directions have been attended to, I was present by
    proxy on the memorable occasion. Do you fully appreciate the
    immense importance of the epoch? Do you sufficiently feel that
    you are on the brink of being _OUT_? You are very much
    mistaken in supposing that I hear much good music here; there
    is little or none to hear; the theatres, at least, are all
    bad. I sincerely hope that you cultivate assiduously the
    talent with which you are blessed; especially the vocal part I
    am very anxious about; of course you will take lessons in
    Bath. I sympathise very much with you on the want of
    Rosenhain's guiding influence; I fully appreciate your
    difficulty; you must descend into yourself, and draw at the
    fountain of your own natural taste, but mind you go very deep,
    that you may really get at your _genuine, natural_ taste, and
    I think you won't go far wrong. He who knows how to hear the
    voice of nature has found the safest guide, and he only is a
    good master who opens the mind of his pupil to that
    voice.--Believe me, with many kisses, your very affectionate
    brother,

                                                            "FRED.

    "If Gussy _did_ want to be a charitable Christian, she would
    copy in her pretty handwriting five lines a day of my horrid
    scrawl, for I am ashamed that my Pebbles should remain in such
    a state."

                              "BATH, _Sunday, November 29, 1852_.

    "MY BELOVED CHILD,--I need not tell you how close an account I
    keep of the day of the month, nor how my heart beats as the
    foreign post hour approaches, because you know how tenderly I
    love you, and what it cost me to part from you, and
    consequently how anxiously I look for the consolation for your
    absence which your letters afford me, and I had hoped you
    would supply this balm liberally. Of course while you were
    actually travelling I made every allowance for weariness, &c.
    &c., but if you have carried out your intentions, you must
    have been in Rome quite ten days, and though I said in my last
    I hoped for the future you would leave only three weeks
    between each of your letters home, it is now more than a
    calendar month since I had last the great happiness of seeing
    your handwriting. I would not, my love, be unreasonable, but
    you must remember that, in addition to the natural desire to
    hear how you manage for yourself, my maternal anxieties have
    been awakened by the indisposition you spoke of as not
    serious, it is true, but which has started up before me,
    explaining your delay in writing, and which, in spite of
    reason's suggestion that a slight illness would not hinder
    your work, whilst Gamba would prevent the addition of suspense
    to the trouble a serious attack would cause us, has brought
    the evil of separation very bitterly before me. The goodness
    of your heart, my child, will teach you how you can soften
    this to me; it is one of the few occasions remaining to you to
    exercise self-denial, as you live alone and have no one to
    please but yourself. I now and then wonder a little anxiously
    whether you ever think of my exhortations, so much have I
    wished that you should be in the retirement of your house as
    gentlemanly as you are in company. But then I recollect
    sentences in your letter, proving such right views in
    important matters, such a clear understanding of your
    responsibilities, that I resolve to believe that you will
    strive to do right in small matters as well as in great ones;
    indeed, my child, I have remarked with deep satisfaction your
    appreciation of the blessings that are allotted to you, and
    indeed you do right to enjoy them with all humility, for I
    cannot flatter you in opposition to the dictates of my
    conscience that you are _so_ well deserving of happiness as
    your poor sister. She is deserving of the highest respect of
    all, bearing all her trials with admirable patience. The
    persevering rain, which has caused a great deal of illness in
    Bath, has had a very bad effect on her, throwing her back just
    as she was beginning to mend, so that she has a great deal of
    rough ground to go over again. We revel in literary abundance,
    even German and French books are in the circulating libraries,
    and _I_ often wish the days longer to read and to work. Gussy
    says she hopes you will not think her ill-natured if she
    declines copying your letters, for, indeed, were she willing
    to undertake this difficult task, I should forbid it, as her
    eyes, always delicate, are unusually weak; whether this comes
    from too long confinement to the house, or from crying, I
    cannot say; the latter is produced by _Heimweh_! what do you
    think of this for an English girl? Thank God, she employs the
    best remedy against regretful feelings, as she is occupied
    from morning till night. Are you equally industrious? I read
    the other day the following assertion by Southey, which I copy
    for you, in case you should _still_ have the habit, so common
    amongst young people, of wasting during the day occasional
    quarter-hours or ten minutes, because, they ask, only such a
    few minutes, how often have I heard that excuse. This is the
    portion: 'Ten minutes' daily study, for seven years, will give
    the student sufficient knowledge of seven languages to read
    them with ease, and even to travel without an interpreter in
    the respective countries.' Is not this an encouragement to
    industry? We imagine you by this time settled in your lodging
    and beginning to feel at home. God grant that you may have
    your health there and meet with kind friends; we are curious
    to know what your letters will do for you. In the meantime you
    will, I doubt not, have met some old acquaintances--the Henry
    Walpoles, the Laings, Mr. Petre, the Isembourgs, and Princess
    Hohenlohe; to what amount the latter will condescend, I know
    not, but remember, I entreat you, my advice. The two former
    families you will most likely have first met at church; let me
    hope at least that you will not abandon the habit; it may at
    last bring a blessing upon you. The intentions of your
    Frankfurt acquaintances we learnt in a letter from Mme.
    Beving; she had heard from M. Fenzi that he had given you a
    general invitation to his villa, and that you had dined with
    him, or been asked to do so; I do not know whether he made any
    comment on you. Did your organ of _veneration_ do its duty?
    Forgive my hints, dear son; all your good qualities are
    pictured in lively colours before my eye, but I do not even
    try to forget your faults, lest I should neglect my duty to
    you; with the best resolutions we all occasionally require a
    fillip to our conscience. Next Friday is your birthday. It
    will be the first on which you have not received your parents'
    blessing in person. We shall not forget you, my darling. God
    bless you, my own dear Freddy; in this prayer your father
    joins most fervently; think often of the advice and love of
    your devoted mother,

                                                    "A. LEIGHTON."

    [Illustration: COSTUMI DI PROCIDA. Rome, 1853]

                                            1 BROCK STREET, BATH,
                                             _December 13, 1852_.

    DEAR FREDERIC,--I need not say that we had all of us great
    pleasure in receiving your letter from Rome, though not before
    your dear mother had suffered great anxiety from the
    delay--the greater, because your former letter did not give a
    very encouraging account of your health. It gave us also great
    pain to hear of the vexatious disappointments which have
    attended your first entrance into the Eternal City, but this
    was, perhaps, to be expected, as the sanguine expectations of
    youth are seldom realised, and we may hope that by this time
    you will have found in other advantages and opportunities for
    improvement a sufficient compensation for the loss of those
    you had expected. What you say about the weakness of your
    eyesight is far more serious, and, indeed, would have
    occasioned us alarm if we did not hope and believe that you
    meant no more than we already knew at Frankfort, that your
    eyes were weak, and not that they had continued to grow
    weaker. But when I consider that your only means of acquiring
    an honourable independence and gratifying your laudable
    ambition depends upon your eyesight, I surely need no
    arguments to urge you in the strongest manner to use all those
    precautions for its preservation which your own good sense
    must suggest--to throw aside your brush or pencil the first
    moment that your eyes begin to smart or water, not to draw on
    white paper or by candlelight (or lamp or any artificial
    light), nor read except large print, nor small print even by
    daylight, except for a few minutes occasionally in a book of
    reference, and to acquire as much knowledge as you can,
    independently of books, by conversation with well-informed
    men, if you are so fortunate as to meet with them; when you
    cannot paint, talk, or observe, exercise your memory, it will
    store and cultivate your mind more and try your eyes less than
    reading, which in your case cannot be systematically pursued.
    You may perhaps meet some well-informed young men amongst the
    German artists. Above all, draw your compositions as large as
    possible (or rather as necessary for your eyes) and not such
    as your architectural drawings, "Four Seasons," &c., which
    contain so many objects minutely drawn. I suppose, likewise,
    that chalk and charcoal must be better than pencil, and the
    paint-brush better than either. You have no reason to complain
    either of want of ideas or of power of expressing them (at all
    events with your pen), however deficient you may think
    yourself in a command of language for conversation; but the
    fact is that, considering the distance that separates us, it
    is of much more importance to us to know _how_ you are, what
    you do, and what you observe, than what you think. Your
    letters remind me of my friend, Dr. Simpson of York, who, when
    we sat down for dinner, would enter into some abstract
    discussion, say, of the nature and varieties of fish, or, _à
    propos_ of the aitch-bone, on the homologies of the skeleton,
    while in the meantime fish and beef were growing cold and my
    appetite impatiently vivacious; so in your letters, while we
    are burning with impatience to know how you are, what progress
    you are making, or at all events what are your opportunities
    of progress in the art, you indulge us with abstract
    reflections on the theory of art in general. Your last letter,
    it is true, begins and ends with interesting matter, but with
    an interpolation of some three pages of disquisition on the
    nature of genius in art, &c., &c., which, however well thought
    or expressed, would be more in place in an essay than in your
    letter to us who are so much more interested in what
    immediately concerns yourself. The consequence is that,
    although with a praiseworthy wish to please us you have tried
    your eyes with a long letter, you have omitted much we were
    anxious to know--whether, for instance, you were conscious of
    having made any progress, or derived any advantage from the
    many pictures both in art and nature you have had so many
    opportunities of seeing; whether you had been making many, and
    what sketches or copies, for we are quite convinced that you
    have not been losing your time; whether you have been
    comparing what you can do with what other artists of about
    your age and standing in Italy can do, and whether the result
    is satisfactory; whether there are any among them from whom
    you can take any useful hints; whether Overbeck or any other
    competent artist is willing to assist you; whether, above
    all, you saw Power at Florence, and what he thought of your
    compositions; whether you find in Rome the material advantages
    you expected in the way of models, &c., and whether you will
    think it advisable to draw from the antique--the Apollo,
    Torso, &c.; in short, I cannot too strongly impress upon you
    that one fact is of more value to us than a volume of
    reflections. Of course, I would not have you infer that the
    progress of your mind, your thoughts and feelings, are by any
    means a matter of indifference to us, but after all they can
    be only imperfectly shown in occasional letters, and must
    necessarily exclude information of a more positive and, for
    the present, of a more important nature. Let me caution you,
    too, against reading any of the modern German works on
    æsthetics; they can be only imperfectly understood without a
    knowledge of the philosophies, of which they form a part, and
    any advantage you may derive from them will not be at all
    commensurate to the time and trouble, especially for you who
    have so much positive knowledge to acquire. If, however, any
    of your German friends can convey to you in conversation any
    clear ideas on the subject (and if they have them themselves
    there is no reason why they should not), well and good, but do
    not let them impose upon you, as they so often do upon
    themselves, with words either without any well-defined
    meaning, or one different from, or even the direct contrary,
    of the usual one. According to Hegel, for instance, 'das
    Schöne, ist das _scheinen_' (Schöne from scheinen) 'der _Idee_
    durch ein sinnliches Medium.' Now every artist knows without
    Hegel that his idea, or, if he prefers to think so, nature's
    idea within and through him, appears or manifests itself in
    the sensuous material, in colours if he be a painter, or stone
    if he be a sculptor, but this would be worse than trite, it
    would be intelligible to a plain understanding. _Idee_ has a
    far deeper meaning. If you hear a German flourishing away with
    the magic word, ask him what he means. He will tell you,
    perhaps, that it is das Absolute or der objective Geist as
    distinguished from the Begriff or subjectiver Geist, or rather
    the indifference of both, and that is neither one nor t'other,
    but potentially either, or the _an sich_, or _an und für
    sich_, or rather the _an, für, über sich_; at last after much
    _hin und herreiten_ you get some faint glimmering of what is
    meant; perhaps what some people call the soul in nature, or in
    still plainer English, nature, or the unknown cause of all we
    see, not an abstraction but a real entity, impersonal,
    however, and therefore not a god, acting according to certain
    laws, unconsciously in external nature (in ihrem Anders'sein)
    coming to itself--acting consciously in man, but more
    reflectively in science, more instructively in art. Well, you
    have caught the _Idee_ at last (perhaps!) through its many
    Proteus-like changes and recognise an old friend after
    all--scratch your head, and ask whether you are any wiser than
    before. 'Das scheinen der Idee durch ein sinnliches
    Material'--in the Madonna of Raphael, for instance--'ist das
    Schöne.' Why then, says Punch, not equally so in the pork-pie
    and the mustard-pot, since the _Idee_ manifests itself equally
    in both. The German solves the difficulty by "Sie sind ein
    practischer Engländer, und haben keinen speculativen Geist."
    In the meantime, let us hope that nature will use you as her
    tool to carry out in colours and canvas some of her beautiful
    ideas, and leave it to the German to find out how the
    practical Englishman who has not read Hegel's "Æsthetics" has
    set about it. That you may accomplish this to the utmost
    extent of your wishes is the sincere wish of, dear Fred, your
    affectionate father,

                                                 FREDC. LEIGHTON.

    _P.S._--"Werkzeug der Natur" is an idea by no means peculiar
    to Hegel.

    "_Your_ birthday--

    "Dearest Mamma, may it be a right happy one--one that may
    serve, and be used, as a pattern to cut out others on. Judging
    by your accounts, there is one among you who will contribute
    mirth to your enjoyment--one who takes as many shapes as
    Proteus, and is always the most welcome of guests; his name is
    _Bettering_. In this world confident expectation is a greater
    blessing, almost, than fruition. I too, if my directions have
    been followed (as I confidingly hope), shall have appeared to
    you on the great day _as good as gold_.

    "How grieved I was, dearest Mother, to hear that I had given
    so much pain to the kindest of hearts! My excuse, such as it
    was, you got in my last letter, which reached probably the day
    after you posted your epistle to me; I was sincerely sorry; I
    had not, I must confess, any idea of anxious suspense on your
    part, as you were not in expectation of any _particular_ news;
    I shall in future try to be more deserving of your solicitude;
    this time, you see, I am punctual.

    "Health Report. Taking all in all, tol. sat., owing, no doubt,
    to the unusually magnificent weather which we have had since I
    arrived here; rheumatism, average; colds, not more than usual;
    eyes?... hum ... might be better; I suppose macaroni 'al
    burro' are not unwholesome--I and Gamba and several others eat
    it nearly every day.

    "I now turn to your letter. Little Gussy an authoress! dear
    child, it gives one unfeigned pleasure to hear of her
    successful _début_. I have myself had no opportunity of
    judging of her talent for writing, but feel convinced that
    with her warm heart, impressionable soul, sterling
    understanding, and quick powers of observation, whatever she
    writes will please a healthy taste. She has my very best
    wishes. And yet, what slight cloud was that, I felt pass over
    my pleasure, casting (I could not help it) an undefined shadow
    on my heart? Did not I feel startled at being so palpably
    reminded that the _child_ Gussy no longer exists? Did I not
    seem to feel, disagreeably, that the bridge was cut down
    behind us, that the last tie was broken that, in Gussy's
    person, still linked us to childhood, the buoyantly confiding
    age, the irresponsible age? Did not I become, through her,
    painfully aware that when I took leave of you, you all sealed
    with your kiss the first volume of my life, that I am indeed
    launched into the second, that the rehearsal is indeed over
    and the curtain drawn up?

    "And do I not feel, even now, a _hypocrite_, _to know_ my
    path, and yet so often to deviate from it? Write often, dear
    Mother!

    "The hint you gave me about husbanding my time, I shall take
    to heart; it is a thing of which I myself full well feel the
    necessity and know the unfailing benefit; but I confess that
    when I read your quotation from 'Bob,' I felt irresistibly
    reminded of the question once put to sage and wise courtiers
    by the facetious monarch 'who never said a foolish thing, and
    never did a wise one,' viz. Why is a tub of water with a goose
    in it lighter than one without?

        "'God help thee, Southey, and thy readers too!' (Byron).

    "Your next question is: Am I comfortably _settled_ in Rome?
    Well, I am happy to say that since the first week or fortnight
    my prospects have been slowly but steadily brightening, one
    cloud after another has passed away, and though I do not
    expect to see the bright sky of fulfilled expectations quite
    unveiled, yet I look forward to the enjoyment sooner or later
    of contentment. I wrote my last letter in a tone of
    considerable disheartenment, which I was indeed labouring
    under; perhaps it was the triumph of a selfish feeling that
    made me communicate my woes to you when it was not in your
    power to mend them; but yet it is such a relief to feel that
    there are those who are not indifferent to our grievances, who
    rejoice when _we_ rejoice, and weep when _we_ weep; and then,
    too, it seemed to me that perhaps a word from you might throw
    a new light on my position and give me new reason to be
    comforted. Meanwhile, altered circumstances have reassured me
    on some points, and my own reason has pacified me on others
    which I saw to be irremediable; the prospect of emulation of a
    peculiar kind, such as I found in Steinle, and generally
    speaking in the German school (I do not mean the emulation of
    industry which I find amply in Gamba, or in the science of the
    art which I have lately discovered amongst certain young
    Frenchmen, but that which affects the animating _spirit_ of
    the art, the _spiritual_ taste, the tendency of one's
    thoughts), I have entirely renounced; the visions that I had
    (God knows why, for I don't think I ever expected to grasp
    them) of a time like that of Steinle's sojourn in Rome, when
    so many master-minds were united together in friendly strife,
    all inspired by the same spirit, all going hand in hand--have
    all faded away, and only linger in my mind as a sweet
    regretted image, like the gentle glow of twilight in the
    western sky when the cold moon is already in the heavens. But
    I have, on the other hand, seen reason to believe that this
    will turn out for my good; that it is proper that I should,
    once for all, and in all things, accustom myself to the idea
    that I am, or should be, a _self-dependent_ and
    _self-actuated_ being, accountable to myself for good and for
    evil; that I must therefore learn to build and rely on my own
    resources, and remember the most important of truths, that if
    the growth of my art is to be healthy, lasting, fruit-bearing,
    it must, though fostered from without, be rooted deeply in,
    and receive its vital sap from the soil of my own mind. Still,
    I have thought it good to hang up in my studio a work of
    Cornelius and one or two of Steinle, to animate myself by
    dwelling constantly on _an idea of excellence_ (not _ideal_, I
    hate such stuff) irrespective of the _specific mode_ in which
    it is manifested; and in this I think I have chosen the _juste
    milieu_--so far my reason. Yet I do not deny that I every now
    and then feel longings and regrets that make me feel the truth
    of those lovely words--

        "'We look before and after,
            And pine for what is not;
          Our sincerest laughter
            With _some_ pain is fraught.'

    "Among the irremediable disappointments on which I have to
    put the best face, is that of not seeing Oakes here this
    winter. From a man of warm feelings, of tastes congenial to my
    own, of a cultivated and liberal mind, I had hoped to derive
    much pleasure and especially advantage, and thus to have
    supplied in some measure the void which must arise (and, alas!
    remain) in my brain from want of time, want of robuster
    health, want of eyes. A friendship, too, of mutual seeking is
    so agreeable a thing. Matters stand so: when I was in Florence
    I received from him a letter full of a kind and friendly
    spirit, in which he seized with eagerness at the idea of
    spending a winter with me in Rome; he was already in Paris,
    where he was in treaty with a travelling servant in order to
    continue his journey; he had written to you (did you get the
    letter?) to know where he was most likely to catch me up; he
    was anticipating the enjoyment we should find together in
    Venice, or in Florence, or wherever we should meet; this
    letter has been waiting for me a month at the post. I arrive
    in Rome, and look anxiously about for Oakes, who, I suppose,
    must already have arrived; no Oakes--no
    news--suspense--despair; at last a letter: he has been
    recalled from Paris; he is obliged, willy nilly, to stand for
    his borough (Conservative, Ministerial); he is an M.P.

    "Another disappointment, hitherto, is the non-arrival of the
    Laings; I had promised myself great enjoyment in Isabel's
    society; the footing on which we stand is such an agreeable
    one: enough familiarity (for old friendship's sake) to make
    our intercourse easy--a relaxation; enough restraint to refine
    it and make it improving; she plays, too. Music! How I yearn
    for music, which I never hear in the land best adapted to
    foster it; music, that humanises the soul, that calls forth
    all that is refined and elevated and glowing and impassioned
    in one's breast, and without which the very lake of one's
    heart ('il lago del cuore,' Dante) stagnates and is
    congealed. I express myself extravagantly, but my words flow
    from my heart.

    "Again, the studio, which I at last found, though snug and
    cheerful, very (let's give the devil his due), is, in its
    professional capacity, bad beyond description; the light is
    execrable; I could not dream of painting a picture in it
    (thank God, I have only taken it till spring), scarcely even a
    portrait, 'which is absurd,' Euclid, hem. What a list of
    lucubrations! for goodness' sake, let me look at the gay side
    of the picture. It has been a great comfort to me all through
    that all the artists resident here, whom I have spoken to on
    the subject, felt on first arriving the same kind of
    disappointment that I did, and that all by degrees have
    acquired the conviction that, after all, it's the best place
    in the world for study. I have myself begun to feel what an
    incalculable advantage it is always to have models at your
    disposition whenever, and _however_, you want them; I look
    forward, too, with the greatest delight to the studies that I
    shall make this summer in the exquisitely beautiful spots to
    which the artists always take refuge from the heat and malaria
    of Rome. I long to find myself again face to face with Nature,
    to follow it, to watch it, and to copy it, closely,
    faithfully, ingenuously--as Ruskin suggests, 'choosing
    nothing, and rejecting nothing.' I have come to the conviction
    that the best way for an historical painter to bring himself
    home to Nature, in his own branch of the art, is strenuously
    to study _landscape_, in which he has not had the opportunity,
    as in his own walk, of being crammed with prejudices,
    conventional, flat--academical. But I am getting to the end of
    my paper, and I have as yet said but little to the point; I
    have not yet answered Papa's question about my sketching, and
    therefore that I may not seem to be shirking the point, I
    shall just tell you that amongst the sketches that I have made
    (mostly architectural) are some by _far the best I ever
    did_.[24] I have also to justify Marryat about not writing; I
    got his letters the other day with a kind note to say that he
    had been ill; that to the Princess Doria has availed me
    nothing, as she is in mourning for her father, Lord
    Shrewsbury; that to the Prince Massimo has opened to me at
    once two of the first and most exclusive houses in Rome, those
    of his two sisters, the Princess Lancelotti and the Duchess
    del Drago. Enough for to-day. Good-bye, dearest Mother. Very
    best love to all. Think often of your dutiful and affectionate
    son,

                                                  "FRED LEIGHTON.

    "I am ashamed to think of the time I have taken writing this
    letter; not from want of ideas, not from any great difficulty
    in expressing them, but from the great difficulty I have in
    getting at them, controlling them, holding them fast.

        "'A saucepan without a handle.
          Soup without a spoon.'

    "VIA DI PORTA PINCIANA, N. 8."

                               "ROMA, VIA DI PORTA PINCIANA, N.V.
                                      (_Postmark, Jan. 5, 1853._)

    "DEAR PAPA,--When I received, the other day, your kind and
    most interesting letter, and felt the appropriateness of your
    admonitions--felt, too, how foolish it is for me, who am
    ignorance personified (in certain matters, at least) to waste
    _my_ time in speculations on subjects beyond my grasp, and to
    exhaust _your_ patience by twaddling them out to you, whilst
    your own penetrating and comprehensive mind takes, in
    preference, a practical view of the subject--a question
    suddenly presented itself to me: Bless my soul! what will he
    say to the epistle I have just sent off? For, as you, by this
    time, know yourself, it is, though perhaps less groggy than
    the last, still insufficient in point of practical purport; a
    _messed-up_ dish, not a joint. I hasten, if possible, to make
    'amende honorable' by communicating to you in language as
    concise as possible whatever information you either express or
    hint a desire to have.

    "One word only, a farewell one, on the subject of my
    _ci-devant_ digressions; no, _three_ words; I must say in my
    own justification. 1st. That when I sat down to write, it was
    always with an idea of telling all (or nearly), and all in
    detail, too, from which I was prevented by invariably getting
    to the end of my paper, my time, and my eyes (as it would try
    them to cross) before I had accomplished my object; 2nd. That
    I have been discursive with an idea of entertaining for a time
    the suffering members of the family; 3rd. That all my abstract
    drawl, though it in some cases abutted in tenets that I had at
    different times heard you let fall, was _altogether_ my own;
    indeed it was, perhaps, the consciousness of the instinctive
    _self-suggestedness_ of such thoughts that made me turn round
    on myself and take an objective view of ditto. A philosopher
    is very like a dog trying to catch his own tail.

    "Now to business. You speak of my eyes; I cannot conceal from
    you that they are worse than they were at Frankfurt, but I do
    not know whether I can say that they are _getting gradually_
    worse; everybody takes some time in getting _acclimatisé_ to
    Rome; my sufferings may perhaps be ascribed to that. I intend
    for some months to give up the nude in the evening. Your
    advice about gathering information from the conversation of
    men of cultivated mind I would most gladly follow, but, alas,
    I only know _two_ really well-informed people here, and one is
    an old man I hardly ever see. There is no fear of my drawing
    my compositions too small, for (I shall tell you why
    presently) I am drawing _none at all_, and probably shall draw
    none for a considerable time; but close and minute study of
    Nature in its details is, as I now see more plainly than ever,
    of paramount importance. I come to another point which it is
    difficult to touch with conciseness: have I made any progress?
    Perhaps I am not entitled to answer positively in the
    affirmative till I shall have painted some portrait or picture
    better than anything I have yet produced; this I have not yet
    had an opportunity of doing; but if, from superlative
    confidence, having fallen to a more beseeming diffidence, if
    having improved and chastened my taste, if having become more
    anxiously aware of the extent of my task and more deeply
    humbled by those who have fulfilled it, may be called
    progress, then I can answer: Yes, I have made a step.

    "I was deeply impressed with the glorious works of art I saw
    in Venice and Florence, and was particularly struck with the
    exquisitely _elaborate_ finish of most of the leading works by
    _whatever_ master; the highest possible finish combined with
    the greatest possible breadth and grandeur of disposition in
    the principal masses; art with the old masters was full of
    love, refined, utterly sterling. I had got during my journey
    through the Tyrol into a frame of mind that rendered me
    particularly accessible to such impressions; I had been
    dwelling with unwearied admiration on the exquisite grace and
    beauty of the details, as it were, of Nature; every little
    flower of the field had become to me a new source of delight;
    the very blades of grass appeared to me in a new light. You
    will easily understand that, under the influence of such
    feelings, I felt the greatest possible reluctance to _sketch_
    in the hasty manner in which one does when travelling; I
    shunned the idea of approaching Nature in a manner which
    seemed to me disrespectful, and the consequence was that until
    I got to Verona I did not touch a pencil. In Venice and
    Florence, however, I made several drawings, some of which are
    most highly finished, and afforded me, whilst I was occupied
    on them, that most desirable kind of contentment, the
    consciousness of endeavour. Of course I was obliged to conquer
    to a certain extent my aversion to anything but finished
    works, and accordingly I made a considerable number of
    _sketches_ 'proprement dits.' With regard to composing,
    however, I still feel the same paralysing diffidence, I cannot
    make up my mind to draw compositions like those I have
    hitherto produced, but, at the same time, I feel that I am as
    yet incapable of drawing any in the manner I should wish, and
    as I see no prospect of such a desirable state of things till
    I have spent a summer in the mountains and drawn landscape,
    men and animals for several months, it is very unlikely that I
    shall put my hand to anything original till next winter; then
    I shall pour myself out with a vengeance. When I left
    Frankfurt I asked Steinle whether I should compose the first
    winter; he answered: '_Oh, wenn Sie mögen._' He foresaw how it
    would be. It gives me great comfort to feel that I am quietly
    settled to study for some years in one place, and that I am
    able to make plans for the future without having to reckon on
    removals and changes. Meanwhile, this winter I take models, I
    have been studying the anatomy of the horse, I shall draw at
    the Vatican from Raphael and Michael Angelo (_perhaps_, too,
    from the antique), &c. &c. A digression, whilst I think of it:
    I think that the pains in my eyes are in some measure nervous,
    for mentioning them invariably brings them on, in broad
    daylight. About the little emulation I find here I have spoken
    in my last letter. The general tone here (of course with some
    exceptions) is one of public toadying mediocrity. There is
    here one young Frenchman, remarkable for correctness but
    coldly scientific (only in his art), without that warmth and
    spontaneity which give such a peculiar charm to works of
    genius. Overbeck was endlessly courteous and praised me very
    highly, talked of the artists in Rome acquiring in us 'einen
    ächten Zuwachs' ('a real addition'), but the half century
    between our respective ages and his pietistical manner make me
    sure that we shall derive but little advantage from him; I
    neither expected nor wished to find a second Steinle.

    "As for Powers, though he was very polite to me in his own
    sort of way, I am pretty certain that he had entirely
    forgotten, nor did he ask me to show him anything. You may
    console yourself on that score--a sculptor, especially one who
    can do little but busts (however pre-eminently good they may
    be, and _his_ are), can very seldom judge well of pictures.
    Gibson, the great sculptor, whom I know very well, and who
    shows me great kindness by-the-bye, has about as little
    judgment in painting as a man well can. That I _do_ find
    models here, and many other material advantages, I told you in
    the letter that you lately received.

    "I have now, dear Papa, answered all your questions; it only
    remains for me to thank you for your poignant and admirably
    practical remarks on the German philosophers--remarks, I
    assure you, which have quite answered their purpose; both they
    and the kind wishes you have expressed concerning my future
    advancement shall not have been thrown away on your grateful
    and affectionate son,

                                                 "FRED LEIGHTON."

    [Illustration: STUDY OF HEAD FOR "CIMABUE'S MADONNA." 1853
    Erroneously supposed to be the Portrait of Lord Leighton
    Leighton House Collection]

                                       (_Postmark, Jan. 5, '53._)

    "DEAREST MAMMA,--To your appendix an appendix. Paper and time
    force me to laconism.

    "My personal discomforts, for which you show such kind
    sympathy, are, I am happy to say, now only very slight; the
    only thing I suffer annoyance from is my stove, which makes my
    head ache; with regard, however, to beating a retreat, I must
    candidly tell you that I see my only chance of coming to
    anything is studying here steadily for _some three_ years;
    the more so that it is by all accounts only at the end of the
    first year that one feels all the advantages which Rome
    affords. My plans seem to be these: this winter, studies; next
    summer, ditto, in the mountains, or wherever it is coolest;
    next winter, pictures, portraits, compositions; summer after,
    Paris, see the large Veronese (which was invisible the last
    time I was there); from Paris to Bath to see all you darlings
    again, spend two or three weeks in England studying its
    character under the ciceroneship of Oakes, that thorough
    Briton, and collecting materials for some large (in meaning if
    not in size) picture to be painted in Rome during the third
    winter, and to be my firstling in an English exhibition; I
    feel that one day my painting will have a strongly national
    bias. That autumn I should probably return to Rome _viâ_ Spain
    to see the Murillos, &c.

    "When you next write to Lady Pollington, pray remember me very
    kindly to her; her merry face and facetious ways are still
    before me. Lord Walpole, whom you mention as coming to Rome,
    and whom I shall know if he does, is indeed, I believe, a very
    agreeable and clever man. The Henry Walpoles have been very
    civil to me; Mrs. Walpole told me that if I wrote to you I was
    to give her best--I think she said, _love_--for that you were
    a great favourite of hers.

    "Here I must absolutely close, though I have plenty more to
    say. My very best thanks to Papa and you all for the kind
    presents, but I don't see why you won't allow me the pleasure
    of giving you anything. As I have written this letter
    immediately after the other, I cannot promise to write again
    soon. To yourselves, very best love from your dutiful and
    affect.

                                                  "FRED LEIGHTON."

The following letters from Steinle are evidently the first Leighton
received in Rome from his master. No comment on them is necessary.
Every line is evidence of the affectionate quality and beauty of the
nature that so permanently influenced Leighton's for good.

  _Translation._]                             "FRANKFURT AM MAIN,
                                               _January 6, 1853_.

    "MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--Although I do not know your address,
    and am uncertain whether this will reach you, yet I can no
    longer withstand the urging of my heart; I only know that you
    and Gamba are in Rome, that you have visited Overbeck, as he
    himself has written me; assuming, however, that you also visit
    the Café Greco, I will risk that address. Your spirited lines
    from Venice reached me safely, and I can truly say that since
    then my thoughts and my good wishes for you and for Gamba have
    daily accompanied you. A report which has been circulated
    here, that you, Gamba, and André had been attacked by robbers,
    made me anxious for a time, and I expected from day to day
    that you would yourself write me something about this
    adventure--in vain. Overbeck writes me now that it would give
    him particular satisfaction to be able to help or serve you in
    any way during your stay in Rome, and cordially wishes that
    you and Gamba would give him the opportunity to do so, but
    unfortunately he knew nothing else about you to tell me. What
    Schäffer writes me is also so extremely scanty, that for all
    that concerns you and Rico I am thrown back on my own thoughts
    and suppositions. That you are both absent from me is
    unfortunately a painful truth; as to whether the ideal life
    which from old and dear habit I still live with you, be also
    true, the future, I hope, may show. I have an idea that you,
    dear friend, and perhaps also your faithful comrade, already
    suffer from the artistic fever of Rome, which every one feels
    in the first year. It is that glorious old Rome, with her
    wealth, and the multitude of her impressions, which works so
    powerfully upon the receptive mind, that it can retain nothing
    in contradiction, and cannot escape her influence; this period
    is one of discomfort, because we feel ourselves oppressed; but
    though it is of the greatest value, and no doubt bears rich
    fruit, the work of artists of to-day is neither in a position
    to offer you anything important, nor to deceive you in sight
    of the old masters; if the multitude of impressions is first
    gradually assimilated, if everything is assigned its place, if
    we take a wide survey, and can stride forward freely in
    pursuit of the goal set before us, then only does that
    wonderful spirit which hovers over Rome rise up in us strong
    and inspiring, and then we are able to recognise what we have
    actually won in the fight with discomfort. Thus, and in
    similar circumstances, I fancy that my dear friends are in the
    same case as the bees, which swarm, and toil with all the load
    they collect, but cannot make honey by perpetual sucking. That
    is inconvenient and oppressive, but ah! when this time is
    past, what wealth will they unfold, with what comfort will
    they look upon the well-filled satchel, how quickly they will
    recognise that such wealth pays interest for the whole life!
    But if it is otherwise, dear friend, then laugh at the
    all-wise Steinle, and resolve finally to free him from such
    delusions, and to set the matter before his eyes as it really
    is, and be you assured of one thing, that he always wishes
    that everything may be good and prosperous for you, that all
    that you are longing to attain you may attain, and that
    Almighty God may guard you and Rico from all ill! You can have
    had no idea with what feelings your friend would read your
    vigorous, spirited lines from Venice. I received them, on my
    return, from Gamba, a very dear lad, and could not help being
    sorry that you, who have become so dear to me, should know
    absolutely nothing of what distressed your friend. We are men;
    hear, then, the news. Returning from Switzerland, I heard of
    the illness of my daughter Anna, in Metz, and I and my wife
    hurried to her, and spent six sorrowful days by the death-bed
    of my little sixteen-year-old daughter. After the funeral, I
    came back here, and finished 'The Raising of Jairus'
    Daughter.' The real pleasure of my art I felt shrink from me
    day by day in Metz; and now all my pleasure depends upon the
    beloved art, for happiness is more and more confined within
    the four walls of my _atelier_. Do not read any complaint in
    this; I have learnt much sadness, but have also found rich
    cause to thank God from my heart. What manner of children
    should we be, if we would not kiss the rod when we are
    chastised? And now, dear friend, with all my heart a greeting
    to Rome, and to all who remember me kindly. All friends here
    send greetings to you and Gamba, including Casella il
    Professore; Senator Nay is in Rome. I hope with all my heart
    that you have good news of your dear ones, and remain, always
    and altogether yours,

                                                        "STEINLE."

    [Illustration: VIEW OF SUBIACO, NEAR ROME. 1853
    Leighton House Collection]

  _Translation._]

    "MOST ESTEEMED HERR STEINLE,--When you receive these lines I
    shall have already been long in the lovely land wherein I lack
    nothing but your presence; I beg you to accept from me the
    accompanying translation of the first volume of the works of
    the Father of English Poetry as a little remembrance; whether
    it is a good rendering of the great master I cannot judge, as
    at the moment of writing it has not arrived; but one thing I
    can answer for: it is the only volume of the only translation
    of Chaucer into the German language in existence; I only
    regret that there is also no Italian version; may it serve you
    as a souvenir of your devoted and grateful pupil,

                                                  "FRED LEIGHTON."

  "FRANKFURT A/M."

  _Translation._]
                           "ROME, VIA DELLA PURIFICAZIONE No. 11,
                                                    _January 11_.

    "MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--At last I am able to write you a few
    words, and (although very late) to send you my very best good
    wishes and congratulations for the New Year. I am sure that
    you will be kind enough to forgive my long silence, and will
    believe me when I tell you that I absolutely could not help
    it. I hope with all my heart that in the meantime you have
    been well and strong, and that your beautiful works have
    progressed in accordance with your wishes. How has the
    experiment with the new ground turned out? Have you already
    started on the other cartoon? I, for my part, have experienced
    the fact that to make plans and to carry them out are two
    different things; for nothing has come of the pictures which I
    set myself to paint. I have already told you in Frankfurt,
    dear Master, how painfully my deficiency pressed upon me, and
    how clearly I felt that my works lacked a highly genuine
    finish in the form, an intimate knowledge of nature; this
    consciousness had so increased when I arrived in Rome that
    without more ado I determined to employ myself during the
    whole winter exclusively upon school tasks, and by all means
    to endeavour to rid my artistic capacity a little of this
    defect; so now I continually paint study heads, which I try to
    finish as much as possible, and in which I especially have
    good modelling in view; that I have achieved this,
    unfortunately I cannot yet assert, but I derive great
    enjoyment from the attempt, and hope that my efforts will not
    remain unrewarded; I shall then next year, if I come to the
    painting of pictures again, go to work with greater knowledge
    and clearness, and shall be able, I hope, to clothe my ideas
    more suitably.

    "I have nothing further to report of myself. I hope, my dear
    Friend, to receive a few lines from you, telling me what you
    are doing, for you know well how deeply interested I am.

    "Will you be so kind as to tell Mr. Welsch that my trouble to
    find the Palazzo Scheiderff was in vain, and I have also
    unluckily not seen his brother? If I pass through Florence
    again in spring, I will try my luck once more. And now, adieu,
    dear Master. Kindest remembrances to your wife and children,
    and to you the warmest greeting, from your grateful pupil,

                                                      "LEIGHTON."

  _Translation._]
                                              "FRANKFURT AM MAIN,
                                                _March 24, 1853_.

    "MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--My desire for news of you and Gamba was
    certainly great, but I possessed my soul in patience, for I
    was convinced that it would come at last; you and Rico have
    given me so many proofs of your love and friendship, that I
    was able to face with perfect calm and confidence all the
    numerous and impatient questions for news of you which came to
    me. Now, however, I see by your welcome lines, to my inward
    regret, that some restrained anxiety about you is justified,
    and while on one hand I greatly regret the weakness of your
    eyes and in a manner suffer with you, yet I have also my
    consoling argument that the Roman climate, at a better time of
    year, will certainly be good for your ailment, and that my
    Leighton can rise up again, that he will not lose courage. But
    whatever joy I had when you and your noble friends bore such
    splendid witness of one another, I cannot express myself as
    very easily satisfied; that you, in your efforts, would stand
    alone in Rome, I knew well, I am sure you are cut out for it,
    and it appears to me, even, as if every good heart that rises
    to a happy independence nowadays, must feel his loneliness, I
    might even say, that it must in order to give skill and power
    of conviction. The better you get to know Rome, the more you
    will learn to love her, and much will be freely given, when
    once the year of struggle is past, that could never be seized
    by force. How much I have rejoiced over all that you write of
    your and Rico's studies, how I should like to see them! Cling
    now to nature, you are quite right, you will not lose the art
    of composition, for it is not a thing that can be acquired: it
    is a gift, and one that you and Rico possess. Now, indeed, it
    always seems to me, when I consider the highest aims of art,
    and indeed the greatest capacities of man, that there should
    be a certain equalisation of the various powers, and it
    strikes me as indispensable, if we are not to become
    one-sided, that we should by such equalisation balance these
    various powers so as to achieve a _complete harmony_. Thus,
    however great a delicacy goose-liver may be, it always
    indicates a diseased goose, the monstrous enlargement of an
    organ, &c.; I do not say this by way of blame, and am thinking
    perhaps too much only of my own feeble powers, but merely as a
    little warning that it may be well to keep in view. Do not
    think that it is the Professor asserting himself, I say this
    only as a matter of experience and because you and Rico lie
    very close to my heart, and are associated with my own feeling
    of the sacredness of art. I have, however, no anxiety; you
    have good and noble natures, and will not lose the tracks of
    truth. Spare and save your eyes, I hope that you will soon be
    quite free from this ill, and then--forward! What you write me
    of the friends is certainly quite correct, and I myself
    thought no otherwise; Overbeck is the purest and noblest man
    that I have ever met; moreover a genius--therefore I rejoice
    that you and Rico know him; he speaks with feeling and
    judgment of his art. Excuse, dear Leighton, my forgetfulness;
    I have not thought of the dear and lovely present which with
    your note surprised me so pleasantly on my return--I mean the
    powerful and rich Chaucer; I find the prologue splendid,
    rather knotty, but the Germans of that time are still
    knottier. I thank you heartily. Of myself, I can inform you,
    that I daily rejoice more over the grey canvas; I have worked
    two months on my picture of the 'Whitsun-sermon,' and now in
    three weeks have painted half the picture, and am, even though
    somewhat exhausted, not altogether discontented with the
    result. This picture, which grows daily more like a fresco, is
    getting on fast, but much still remains to be done, and I have
    the progress of the whole picture in hand. Of the friends
    here, I can tell you that all speak of you and Gamba with love
    and sympathy, and that you are kindly remembered by all. Thank
    Rico cordially for his welcome note; if you and Rico always
    call me 'master,' a title which abashes me, we shall be
    friends, and I hope that as I grow old in years, at least I
    shall remain young in art. Tell Rico that I had a visit from
    his grandmother, who loves him dearly; with a few lines he
    would give her extreme pleasure. Now, adio, dear friend; equip
    yourself with patience and courage, and keep sad thoughts far
    from you. Greet all friends from me most heartily, also I have
    to send to you and Gamba warmest greetings from all here,
    including my wife, Frau Ruth Schlosser, and Casella. Let me
    hear sometimes how you get on. Always and altogether yours,

                                                   "EDW. STEINLE."

  (_Postmark, March 28, 1853.
  Received April 6._)                 (_On cover_--Mrs. Leighton,
                                  1 Brock Street, Bath, England.)
                                  "ROME, VIA DE PORTA PINCIANA 8.

    "DEAREST MAMMA,--If I did not, as was naturally my first
    impulse, answer your letter directly I received it, it was
    because Isabel's[25] portrait has of late taken up all the
    time, or rather eyes, that I can dispose of; this being,
    however, a _drying_ day, I seize the opportunity of making up
    for lost time. As I have mentioned the portrait, I may as well
    say _en passant_ that I expect it to be a very successful
    likeness, and as decent a painting as a thing done in so
    desultory a manner can be expected to be; Gamba admires it
    very much, and intends to copy some parts. I was much touched
    at the affectionate sympathy you show for me in my visitation,
    and am as glad for you as for myself to say that there is a
    decided improvement in the state of my eyes, so that, although
    they are by no means _well_, it would hardly be worth while to
    go to a doctor for a written account of my symptoms; the more
    so as Dr. Small, who is a man very well thought of, thinks it
    all depends on the weather, and will go away when fine weather
    sets in, which God give! Add to this that several people of my
    acquaintance, _i.e._ Mrs. Sartoris and Mrs. Walpole, who never
    had anything the matter with their eyes, find them affected
    now. About two months ago I went to consult Dr. Small, or
    rather, on calling on him one day he _had me up_
    professionally, for I felt a delicacy about going myself, as
    he had told me that he would be very happy to be of service to
    me _without_ any remuneration. Finding that Dr. Small's
    prescription had done me no perceptible good, I determined at
    last to go to a homoeopathic physician, of whom I heard great
    things. He was originally the apothecary of Hahneman (do I
    spell the name rightly?) the father of Homoeopathy. Under his
    hands I certainly improved rapidly; but it so happened that,
    just as I went to him, the rains, which had lasted without
    interruption for six weeks, ceased, and we had some days of
    glorious weather--now, who cured me, Jove or the apothecary?
    The weather is now as bad again as ever; but though less well,
    I have not _relapsed_ with it. Most days I can paint three or
    four hours (I don't think I could draw), and the other
    evening I even read half an hour with a lamp without feeling
    pain; what a pass things have come to that that should be a
    boast! I confess that the little I do, I do without energy or
    great enjoyment. I have not yet given my eyes the fair trial
    of complete rest which, when the Laings go, I shall be able,
    through your kind promise of a piano and singing lessons, to
    do for a fortnight or three weeks. My sincere thanks to Papa
    for his kindness and liberality. I shall begin immediately
    after the holy week, for until the _forestieri_, of which
    there are a fabulous number, have gone to their respective
    summer quarters, neither piano nor masters are in any way
    come-at-able.

    "Having now spoken of my health, I return to your letter, for
    I find that the only way of writing at all to the point, is to
    answer sentence for sentence the questions and remarks you ask
    and make, and in the same order.

    "I indeed count myself fortunate in having the acquaintance of
    Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris; it is a source of the greatest
    enjoyment to me; they show me the most marked kindness, which
    I value all the more because it is for my own sake, and not
    for that of a dinners-demanding letter of introduction. I am
    never there less than three times a week, and often more; I
    have dined with them _en famille_ four times, and it is only
    seven weeks since I made their acquaintance. Although I have a
    good many friends here, it is the only house which it is
    improving to me to frequent; her conversation is most
    agreeable to me, not from any knowledge she displays, but from
    her great refinement of feeling and taste; her husband is an
    enthusiastic amateur painter. I also meet there a young man of
    the name of Cartwright, a very old friend of theirs, who seems
    to me to possess an extraordinary amount of information, a
    mine which I have already begun to 'exploiter' to my own
    profit.

    "I have made a considerable number of acquaintances, and have
    had more than enough parties, for people have a habit here of
    receiving once a week, so that, especially towards the end of
    the season, there never was an evening when I could not have
    gone somewhere, and often I had two or three places for one
    night; I used often to stay away from them, till I was afraid
    of offending people, which one does not wish to do when one
    experiences kindness from them. Then came a long series of
    arrears, which I found most monotonously tiring, for I am more
    lazy about dressing for a party than ever; more than once,
    when I have gone to my room to go through that hateful
    operation, I have slipped into bed instead of into my glazed
    boots; and yet, if I had taken the steps a great many young
    men do take, I should have gone to twice the number of places.
    Now all this was very well for this winter, as I could do
    nothing else on account of my eyes, but next year I shall turn
    over quite a new leaf; in the first place, give up dancing
    altogether--it is too fatiguing; and in the next, go nowhere
    but to my old acquaintances (of this winter, I mean).

    "I have lionised Isabel all over Rome, and devoted to her
    nearly all my afternoons since she came; it is the luckiest
    thing in the world, her coming here at a time when I am not
    able to paint; she is going in a few days; you may easily
    imagine that I have not slept in the afternoons since she has
    been here.

    "Gamba is, as you rightly suggested, far too straitened to go
    into society; however, he no way requires it, he has good
    health and untiring industry, and requires no such relaxation.
    As my paper is coming to an end, I must pass over the rest of
    your letter more rapidly. I fully feel with you that it is
    better in many respects that I should not go to Frankfurt, but
    I confess that when I saw it was out of the question, I felt
    painfully having to wait another year before seeing you;
    however, it is for the best. I am interested in hearing that
    you have bought a house in Bath; it looks as if you had at
    last found an anchor in your own country; is the society of
    Bath really agreeable? I always hear it spoken of in a jocular
    tone. What becomes of the Frankfurt house? You won't sell it,
    will you? Pray remember me most kindly to Kate Chamberlayne,
    and thank her for giving such an unworthy a corner in her
    memory.

    "And now, dear Mamma, I must close. Pray write very soon, and
    give me a quantity of news about all your doings; tell me how
    dear Lina gets on and Gussy's Pegasus."

The preceding letter contains the first mention that I have seen of
Leighton's friends, Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris, who were to be so much to
him during twenty-five years of his life. He had known them seven
weeks when he wrote it, and already Rome had become a happier place.
All that most interested him in social intercourse was satisfied in
their companionship, and in that of the intimate circle of friends who
frequented their house. It soon became a second home, a home doubly
welcome, as Leighton felt keenly being separated from his family. Mr.
Sartoris was a fairly good amateur artist, and was considered by his
friends to be a first-rate critic of painting. To Leighton's reasoning
mind, ever prone to analyse and to give expression to the results of
his analysis, it must have been inspiringly interesting to discuss art
in general and his own in particular with one who had a natural gift
for criticism.

Again, music was ever a joy to Leighton, a joy only equalled by that
inspired by his own art. Mrs. Sartoris (Adelaide Kemble), imbued with
the noble dramatic instincts and traditions of the Kembles, was not
only a great singer, but a great musician, and had in all matters a
fine taste, bred of true and deep feeling united with keen natural
perceptions. In Miss Thackeray's "Preface to a Preface" to Mrs.
Sartoris' delightful story, "A Week in a French Country House," she
quotes the description of one who had known the two sisters, Fanny and
Adelaide Kemble, from their youth: "Mrs. Kemble is essentially poetic
and dramatic in her nature; Mrs. Sartoris, so much of an artist,
musical, with a love for exquisite things and all that belongs to form
and colour." (Some of us remember hearing Lord Leighton say that,
though Mrs. Sartoris did not paint, she was a true painter in her
sense of beauty of composition, in her great feeling for art.) Another
old friend, referring to Mrs. Sartoris, with some show of reason
deprecated any attempt to record at all that which was unrecordable:
"Would you give a dried rose-leaf as a sample of a garden of roses to
one who had never seen a rose?" she exclaims, recalling, not without
emotion, the golden hours she had spent, the talks she had once
enjoyed in the Warsash Pergola. "You have only to speak of things as
they are," said a great critic who had known Mrs. Sartoris in her
later years. "Use no conventional epithets: those sisters are beyond
any banalities of praise." Again, take another verdict: "That fine and
original being, so independent and full of tolerance for the young;
sympathising even with _misplaced_ enthusiasm, entering so vividly
into a girl's unformed longings. When I first knew her, she seemed to
me to be a sort of revelation; it was some one taking life from an
altogether new and different point of view from anything I had ever
known before." Such are the descriptions given by those who knew her
intimately of the lady who held out so kind a welcoming hand to
Leighton when, as a youth of twenty-two, he started for the first time
alone on the journey of life. I saw Mrs. Sartoris only two or three
times at the house of our mutual friends, Mrs. Nassau Senior and Mrs.
Brookfield. It was during the last years of Mrs. Sartoris' life, when
illness and sorrow had marked her noble countenance with suffering. A
friend of mine, however, who was greatly attached to Mrs. Sartoris,
would often talk to me of her. My friend had had exceptional
opportunities of coming in contact with the most distinguished minds
in Europe. She told me she had never met with any personality who
naturally, and apparently without effort, so completely dominated all
others who were present. However distinguished the guests might be at
a dinner, Mrs. Sartoris, she said, was invariably the centre of
interest to all present.

The Sartoris children were another source of delight to Leighton in
this home. No greater child-lover ever existed. He writes, moreover,
that all social pleasures which he enjoyed during the three years he
lived in Rome he owed to these friends.

With life brightened and inspired by their sympathy, and by all the
sources of interest and culture which their society included, Leighton
began brooding over the work which he meant should embody the best of
his attainments so far as they were then developed. Florence and her
art had cast a spell on his spirit very early in his existence. He had
become especially enamoured of Giotto, the half-Catholic, the
half-Greek Giotto. Pheidias had not yet touched him intimately; but
his loving, spontaneous appreciation of this Florentine master, whose
work in one sense echoes the secret of the noble, serene sense of
beauty to be found in that of the Greeks, proves that in very early
days Leighton's receptive powers were alive to it. The subject which
inspired his first great effort appealed especially to Leighton from
more than one point of view. In the historical incident which he chose
was evinced the great reverence and appreciation with which the early
Florentines regarded art, even when expressed in the archaic form of
Cimabue's painting. The fact of his picture of the Madonna causing so
much public enthusiasm was in itself a glorification of art; a witness
that in the integral feelings of these Italians such enthusiasm for
art could be excited in all classes of the people. One of the
doctrines Leighton most firmly believed, and most often expressed, was
that of the necessity of a desire for beauty among the various classes
of a nation, poor and rich alike, before art of the best could become
current coin.[26] In painting the scene of Cimabue's Madonna being
carried in triumph through the streets to the Church of Sta. Maria
Novella, Leighton felt he could record not only his own reverence for
his vocation, but the fact that all who follow art with love and
sincerity find a common ground, whatever the class may be to which
they belong. To Steinle, religion and art were as one, and his pupil
had so far been inoculated with his master's feeling that, as his
friend and brother artist, Mr. Briton Rivière, writes: "Art was to
Leighton almost a religion, and his own particular belief almost a
creed." As no difference of class should be recognised in church, so
neither should any be accentuated between artists, when such are
worthy of their calling, a belief which Leighton carried into practice
all his life in his relations with his brother artists. He makes
Cimabue, the noble, lead by the hand the shepherd boy Giotto, who was
destined to outstrip his patron in the race for fame, and to become so
great an influence in the history of his country's art. The magnates
of the city are represented in Leighton's procession as forming part
of it, while Dante, standing in a shadowed corner, is watching it
pass.

Again, Leighton was afforded an opportunity, in the accessories of the
design, of painting the things which had entranced him in those days
when he first fell in love with Italy; the mediæval costumes in the
old pictures, the background to the _Città dei Fiori_ of hills, spiked
with cypresses pointing dark, black-green fingers upwards to the sky,
and the beautiful San Miniato crowning one of their summits, the stone
pines, the carnations, the _agaves_--all these things that had
appealed to his native sense of beauty as such wonderful revelations,
when, at the age of ten, he was transported to the sunlit land of art
and beauty, after being accustomed to the sights and surroundings of a
dingy region in fog-begrimed London.

The subject of Leighton's early _opus magnum_ was indeed no bare
historical fact to his mind; it was a symbol of everything to which,
in his enthusiasm for his calling, he attached the most earnest
meaning, and which was also steeped in the radiant glamour cast over
his spirit from childhood by the land that inspires all that is most
ardent in the æsthetic emotions of an artist.

The subject decided on, in the spring-time of 1853 he began working,
as hard as the trouble in his eyes would permit, at the cartoons for
the design. His intention of remaining in Italy during the summer was
frustrated, partly by the unsatisfactory state of his eyes and health
generally, partly by the decision of his family to return to their
home in Frankfort for the summer, before finally settling in Bath.
This change of plans is first mentioned in a letter to Steinle
received February 23, 1853:--

  _Translation._]
                                   ROME, VIA DI PORTA PINCIANO 8.

    DEAR MASTER AND FRIEND,--How gladly I seize the opportunity to
    answer your delightful letter, and to connect myself again
    through the post with a man and a time round whom and which so
    many dear remembrances cling; that I did not do this
    immediately on receipt of your lines, I hope you have not set
    down to a possible negligence or to any sort of cooling of my
    grateful attachment to you, but that you have
    thought,--something has happened, Leighton has not forgotten
    me; and so it is; I suffer with my eyes. How sorry I am to
    begin a letter by giving you such news, for you expected only
    to hear from me of industrious making of progress; therefore
    exculpation of my silence is my first duty. The disorder of my
    eyes is not painful; I do not suffer with it; I am only
    incapacitated. Oh, that I were again in Frankfurt, then I
    should be well! Otherwise I am fairly well, and am intensely
    eager to do a great deal--and dare not; I am not altogether
    incapacitated, only my wings are clipped; I work for two or
    three hours every day, but as I cannot accomplish all that I
    desire, the little I can affords me the less pleasure; what,
    however, particularly damps my ardour is the lack of
    intellectual stimulus, because for _nearly six weeks_ I have
    not _looked at a book_, for in the evening I simply dare not
    do _anything_. I have driven myself out into society, till I
    absolutely prefer going to bed. If I could only compose in my
    head! but first this was always difficult for my unquiet head,
    and secondly I have, in consequence of this moral _Sirocco_,
    been blown upon by such a _svoglia-tezza_ that it is quite
    impossible; it only remains for me to think sadly of my, and I
    may say to you, most sympathetic friend, of our hopeful
    expectation, and to vex myself with the recollection of the
    zeal and joy with which I had commenced to put my plans into
    execution in Venice and Florence. My optic ailment is partly
    of the nerves, but principally rheumatic. You can imagine
    whether it has been improved by four weeks of unbroken wet
    weather! But enough of these complaints. I will now turn to
    your letter and answer the points on which you touch. What a
    refreshment your lines were to me! They are a mirror of your
    warm, rich soul; I read with unfeigned emotion how
    sympathetically you still think of your two pupils; you have
    not been out of our minds for a moment; see how it is in my
    atelier here: in your portrait you are bodily, in your
    writings you are spiritually, present with me daily. That I
    did not write to you immediately on my arrival was certainly
    wrong of me, for then I had not begun to suffer with my eyes;
    but my head was in such a maze that I always put off and
    thought, I will wait till I hear if he has received my first
    lines, quite forgetting that you did not know my address in
    Rome. I am sure you will forgive me. What you imagined about
    my impressions, agrees at the first blush with the facts, but
    as regards the "gathered honey" it has unfortunately turned
    out quite differently. I feel as if blighted, and until I have
    the full use of my eyes it will not be otherwise. Of Rico I
    will say nothing, for he will write himself either to-day or
    to-morrow; I can only tell you that so far we have travelled
    through Italy in perfect concord and friendship; but there is
    one thing that he will not tell you himself, he is
    indefatigably industrious, and has made marked progress in
    both drawing and painting. One word about my own development.
    Since I left Frankfurt, my observations on nature and art, in
    all beyond what is technical, have produced in me a curious
    shyness, a peculiar and uncomfortable distrust of myself. When
    on my journey I saw Nature unfold before my eyes in her
    teeming summer glory, and saw how each flower is like a
    miracle on her richly worked garment, when I saw how golden
    threads wound everywhere through the whole fabric of beauty,
    then it seemed to me that the artist could not without
    sacrilege pass over the least thing that is sealed with the
    love of the Creator; when, later on, I noticed in Venice and
    Florence with what love and truth the great Masters had
    rendered the smallest, then my feelings arose; I knew only too
    well that I, until I should have drawn a multitude of studies,
    could not possibly complete a composition in the sense that I
    should wish, and otherwise I would not; and the consequence of
    this knowledge is that I have not attempted a stroke of
    composition, and I often anxiously ask myself whether I could;
    thus far it has worked to paralyse me, but on the other hand
    it has led me to draw some very complete studies which would
    certainly not displease you, dear Master. Finally, I touch
    upon a point which, on account of its painfulness, I would
    gladly pass over. I heard in Florence from André of your
    severe loss, and my first impulse was to write to you to
    express my sympathy; but when I set about it, I found it so
    infinitely difficult to say anything suitable without
    irritating your wound, that in the end I forbore. Your
    consolation you draw from a higher source than human
    friendship.

    We have visited Overbeck several times, and have found him a
    dear and estimable old man, but naturally the difference of
    age and of aims is too great between us for him to supply
    your place with us; besides, I do not wish that he should in
    any way supplant Steinle in my memory or affection.

    Flatz and Rhoden have welcomed us both most cordially; your
    name is a charm with them; as regards their art, both are
    _thoroughly able_, but unfortunately such _literal copyists_
    of Overbeck's style that absolutely no difference is
    perceptible; consequently they are quite insipid to me, for I
    consider a real independence indispensably necessary in an
    artist. From all three I send you most cordial greetings.

    Much as I could still tell you, my dear friend, I must hasten
    to a close on account of my eyes. I beg you not to repay my
    silence in kind, but when you have a moment, put a few lines
    on paper for the encouragement of your distant pupil. I long
    also to know how your works prosper, particularly the large
    one on the grey canvas with the light from above.

    Accept the assurance of the unalterable, devoted attachment of
    your grateful pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    It is not impossible that I might come to Frankfurt for a
    short time this summer.

  A Monsieur Frederic Leighton,
    Frankfort a/M. Poste Restante.          BATH, _May 15, 1853_.

    MY BELOVED SON,--I have hardly the courage to tell you how
    intense is our joy at the prospect of meeting you, so much
    sooner than we had hoped, knowing that our pleasure is
    obtained, or will be, at the expense of a grievous
    disappointment to your long cherished and quite reasonable
    hopes. Your father was quite depressed the whole evening after
    the receipt of your last letter. I am sure I need not tell you
    how willingly I would relinquish my expected happiness to
    promote yours. I shall write but a short letter, as we hope to
    be in Frankfort soon after this reaches its destination.
    Surely I told you in my last epistle we mean to spend the
    summer at home, for the last time to bear that name, alas! I
    fear I shall never, in England, feel as I do in Germany when
    tolerably well. The climate makes it impossible for me to feel
    that springiness of spirit so nearly allied to youthful
    feelings which I have often enjoyed at Frankfort and for no
    particular reason. It was in the air, but never notice these
    observations in your father's presence. He is sufficiently
    troubled at the thoughts of depriving me of my beloved house
    and garden, which, after all, is done by my own desire. I have
    just been reading an extract from a letter to Miss Pakenham
    from Mrs. Maquay, partly at that lady's request, that we might
    know the agreeable impression you made on her and your
    acquaintances at Rome. I will not gratify your vanity by
    repeating words of praise that have sunk deep into my mother's
    heart; "for the matter of that," I think your father and
    sisters are equally pleased at the tribute to your attractive
    qualities.

    I will no farther fatigue your eyes as we hope so soon to
    embrace you. We fervently hope your eyes will be obedient to
    the treatment, which shall enable you to return to Rome for
    the winter. You cannot doubt that your father desires as much
    as you that you may be in a fit state to return.

    God bless you, my dearest, all unite in this wish, if
    possible, more than the others.--Your tenderly attached
    Mother,

                                                     A. LEIGHTON.

Leighton went for medical treatment to Bad Gleisweiler, bei Landau,
and writes to Steinle from there on July 25, 1853:--

  _Translation._]

    HONOURED AND DEAR FRIEND,--What can you think of me for
    leaving you so long without news of me! It certainly did not
    occur through forgetfulness, but because I always deferred in
    the hope of being able to announce some marked improvement in
    my condition, but that is still impossible, although my
    general health (particularly in respect of the hardening
    against cold-catching) is much stronger, though unfortunately
    the improvement in my eyes is not great; this, however,
    requires time, and especially patience. I shall be here
    another fortnight, then my medical treatment will proceed in a
    so-called after-cure (Nachkur); I shall be dieted, take many
    baths, work in moderation--ouf! But I will conform to it all
    willingly, if only I may very soon return to my adored Italy.
    How I cherish the beloved image in my heart! how it comforts
    me! how many idle hours it beautifies for me! how mightily it
    draws me! The remembrance of the beautiful time spent there
    will be riches to me throughout all my life; whatever may
    later befall me, however darkly the sky may cloud above me,
    there will remain on the horizon of the past the beautiful
    golden stripe, glowing, indelible, it will smile on me like
    the soft blush of even. In the meantime, I impatiently await
    the moment when I shall see you again, my dear friend, and
    when I shall be permitted to set before your eyes the work
    which we have already discussed together; I shall seek so to
    deal with my affairs that you shall not be ashamed of your
    grateful and devoted pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    _P.S._--I beg to be remembered most kindly to your wife, and
    to all my friends.

  (_On envelope_--A. Madame Leighton,
  50 Frankfurt a/M.)
                                     BAD GLEISWEILER, BEI LANDAU.
                                     (_Postmark, July 30, 1853._)

    I had the first quarter last year; so that I shall still be
    where I started; however, I can say nothing more myself to
    Papa, since he has given me to understand that his reason is
    want of confidence in me, for, having rejected the obstacle
    which I myself suggested--that he could not afford it--he
    leaves no other reason possible. I confess I do not feel much
    flattered that this feeling should have so penetrated him as
    to make him fall back from me on an occasion so momentous as
    the painting of my first exhibiting picture, a moment critical
    in my career, and on the immense importance of which nobody
    can, at other times, dwell with more disheartening eloquence
    than himself; how, he says, do I know that your picture will
    succeed? Is it this doubt that makes him throw obstacles in my
    way? Nobody is better persuaded than myself of the kindness of
    Papa's heart, and of the sincerity of his desire for my
    welfare, but he does not seem in any way to realise the
    importance of the occasion. Now, if I, like so many other
    young men, had gone into the army, he would not--for what
    father does?--have hesitated for a moment to provide me with
    my complete outfit as required by the rules of the regiment,
    for he would have felt that I could not canter about on parade
    without a coat; but now that I am girding myself for a far
    greater struggle, now that I am about, single-handed, to face
    the bitter weapons of public criticism, does he withhold the
    sword with which he might arm me, for fear I should waste my
    blows on the butterflies that pass me as I march into the
    field? At two and twenty I am still in his eyes a schoolboy
    whose great aim is to squeeze as much "tin out of the
    governor" as he can by any ingenuity contrive.

    Will you remember me most kindly to my uncle, aunt, and
    cousins, and take for all yourselves the best love of your
    dutiful and affectionate son,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

Leighton took the cartoons for his picture of Cimabue's Madonna to
Frankfort to discuss the designs with Steinle and obtain from him his
criticism and advice. In the autumn of 1853, the home in Frankfort was
finally given up, and the family returned to Bath. Leighton, on his
journey back to Rome, stopped some weeks at Florence, to steep himself
afresh in her mediæval art, and to gather fresh material for the
details of his picture. During this visit, he drew the group of
figures painted _al fresco_ by Taddeo Gaddi on the walls of the
Capella Spagnola of Sta. Maria Novella, which included the portraits
painted from life of Cimabue and Giotto. In this portrait Leighton
found the costume for the hero of his picture. He also repeated the
dress in painting the cartoon for Cimabue's portrait executed in
mosaic in the Victoria and Albert Museum. The pencil sketch (see List
of Illustrations) is wonderful as a drawing, considering the
conditions under which it was made. It was secured for the Leighton
House Collection, and in the preface for the catalogue it is
described (see Appendix). While at Florence he wrote the following
letter:--

                                     FLORENCE, 386 VIA DEL FASSO,
                                             _November 13, 1853_.

    [MY VERY DEAR MAMMA],--How could you for one instant suppose
    that I could suspect you of coldness towards me? I was quite
    distressed that you should have entertained such an idea, and
    had I followed my first impulse should have written at once to
    tell you so; but, as it so easily happens when one is newly
    arrived in a strange place, first one thing and then another
    made me defer writing, till at last I made up my mind to stay
    at home all this morning, and not to get up till the letter
    should be finished; I am, however, still several days within
    my month. With regard to my health, I made no especial mention
    of it, probably because, as I have a treatment before me when
    I get to Rome, I attached little importance to my feelings in
    this state of interim; however, as you mention it, I am happy
    to say that my faceache makes its appearance decidedly less
    often than it did in Frankfurt, and that my eyes seem to me,
    if anything, better since I have got to Italy. One thing is
    certain, and that is that my spirits are very much improved
    since I have got back to the dear land of my predilection; I
    felt it as soon as ever I arrived in Venice; I felt a heavy
    cloud roll away from over me, the sun burst forth and shone on
    my path, and a thousand little springs, stifled and
    half-forgotten fountains of youth and joyousness, gurgled up
    in my bosom and buoyed up my heart, and my heart bathed in
    them and was glad--happy Fred! that he has such sources of joy
    and happiness! Unlucky Fred! for he will never be able to live
    but where the heavens always smile--and where he can economise
    on umbrellas!

    I have had many happy hours within the last three weeks, but I
    think that the happiest time of all was the afternoon of our
    descent on to Florence from the mountains of the Romagna; even
    the morning of that day was very enjoyable, for although the
    sky was murky and cross, and it rained as far as you could
    see, yet I knew that that very evening, in that very coach, I
    should be rattling along the streets of dear, dear Florence,
    and that bore me up, and I made light of the rain, and
    whistled out of tune in order to take off the wind, who, in
    spite of his fine voice, has certainly no ear for music. Then,
    too, we had a most amusing coachman, who did nothing but tell
    stories and crack jokes the whole time. One episode is worth
    transcribing: "Seen to-day's paper, sir?" (turning sharply
    round). "Well, no" (says I); "anything in it?" "Ah!" (says
    he), "very interesting correspondence from the moon." The
    article seems to have been as follows: "Our correspondent in
    the moon tells us of rather a discreditable affair which has
    just taken place in a high quarter. It seems that the other
    night St. Peter, having spent the evening with a few friends,
    by whom he was entertained with the distinguished hospitality
    which his high position entitled him to expect, left them in
    such a state of excitement and, in short, intoxication, that
    he lost his way, and was missing at his post till ten o'clock
    the next morning. Unfortunately, too, he had taken the keys
    with him. About two o'clock in the morning a batch of souls,
    with passports for heaven, came up to the gates and requested
    admittance, but finding all knocking in vain, they were
    obliged to spend the night behind a cloud in a very exposed
    situation, which was made doubly disagreeable by their having
    put on in anticipation the very slight costume habitually worn
    in the abode of eternal happiness; several severe colds were
    caught." "But all this," he added (mysteriously producing a
    key from his waistcoat pocket), "does not affect me--letters,
    you know, despatches." I have myself subsequently consulted
    the papers in question, and find that St. Peter, in the
    confusion of his ideas, had taken up his seat at the other
    Sublime Porte, and had inadvertently let a lot more Russians
    into the Danubian Principalities. So the papers say. However,
    I confess that I rather question the whole affair.

    I close with the old, yet ever new refrain. Pray, write very
    soon! if at once, to Florence, Poste Restante; if not, to
    Rome, Poste Restante.--With very best love to all, I remain,
    dearest Mamma, your dutiful and affectionate son,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    [Illustration: Portraits of Cimabue, Giotto, Simone Memmi, and
    Taddeo Gaddi, from Fresco in Capella Spagnola, by Taddeo Gaddi.
    Santa Maria Novella, Florence, 1853.]

                                         BATH, _August 13, 1854_.

    MY DEAREST FREDDY,--We are delighted to know you are out of
    Rome, for it is possible to have too much of a good thing; and
    much as you delight in "seeing the streets flooded with light
    and glittering under a metallic sky" (how beautiful it must
    be!), the pure air of the country, a less fierce heat, and a
    total change of scene, will, I trust, make a new man of you.
    How long a holiday shall you take, and did you mean that you
    are staying with the Sartoris family as a visitor? under all
    circumstances you will be a great deal with them, and as for
    the happiness you would so affectionately share with me, I
    would not, if I could, deprive you of a morsel of it; you are
    enjoying such unusual social advantages that it is a solace to
    me to know that you are capable of appreciating them. Thank
    God, you have no taste for what so many men of your age call
    pleasure, and that in spite of your sociable disposition, you
    always show good taste in the choice of your companions. I
    wish we could have a little of your society. The ---- are
    still familiar and dear friends, but their minds are so
    different, so conventional, that many sides of your sisters'
    minds are closed, even to them.

The next letter from Leighton to his mother was written after he
returned to Rome:--

  (_On cover_--Mrs. Leighton,               ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
    No. 9 Circus, Bath, England.)             _January 19, 1854_.
                               (_On cover--Arrived Jan. 6, '54._)

    DEAREST MAMMA,--When I received your long expected letter,
    which, by-the-bye, took sixteen days reaching me, I was just
    winding myself up to write and tell you that I was sorely
    afraid some letter of yours must have been lost; I need hardly
    tell you that I was relieved of a considerable anxiety when I
    found that all was right, and that your letter, not mine, had
    been detained in that most slovenly of all institutions, the
    Roman post.

    And now that I have taken up my pen, what a quantity I have to
    make up for in the way of congratulations, and greetings, and
    good wishes relative to days often and felicitously to recur!
    what jolly birthdays loom in the imagination, what Christmas
    Eves and Christmas Days, and old years going out and new ones
    coming, with a punctuality never known to fail! Alas! that I
    cannot send you some outward and visible sign of my inward
    sympathies and hearty yearnings; here would be a fine
    opportunity of enumerating an extensive catalogue of blessings
    which I sincerely wish to see showered down upon you, but that
    they can all be returned in one compendious, all-embracing
    word--Health! I therefore laconically but heartily wish you
    all _that_, positive or relative; and this leads me to _mine_.
    Well, let me confess it (unromantic as it undoubtedly is); I
    feel there is no shirking the avowal that, stamping all things
    down into an average, and squinting at little annoyances,
    I--must I say it?--_am about as happy as the day is long_: may
    my happiness reflect a little of its light on your days,
    dearest and best of mothers! I have begun my report of health
    by an average of my spirits; I think there is more _à propos_
    in this than one might at first sight imagine. I proceed to
    the other details which differ widely from your probable
    expectations; you ask me whether I leech myself with
    conscientious regularity. Now I don't leech myself at all! My
    reason for abstaining when I first came was that I feared so
    strong a measure till my spectacles should arrive that I might
    therewithal screen and protect my exhausted blinkers. It is
    only the other day that the said barnacles arrived, and as I
    have meanwhile gone on working day after day without great
    inconvenience to my eyes, I really think I might do myself
    more harm than good by drawing blood, the more so that I am by
    no means a person of full habit that I could spare much of
    that article.

    On turning to your letter, I find the next point you touch is
    my music. I did indeed try my voice at the Hodnett's as you
    anticipated, but unfortunately I never by any chance had
    anything like a decent note in my voice during the whole time
    that I was in Florence; indeed at the very best of times it is
    the merest "fil de voix" that I have, which, however, would
    not prevent my cultivating it for my own private enjoyment,
    but for a circumstance which will astound you perhaps, but is
    nevertheless a great fact--to wit, that I can't afford it! The
    expenses of my pictures are far too considerable to allow of
    it this winter; next winter I hope to make up for lost time
    and still to be able to chirp some little ditty when I once
    more skim by the paternal nest. A piano I have, such a
    hurdy-gurdy! I fear, alas! I am an inveterate blockhead; I
    daily lament that you did not _drub_ music into me when I was
    a child; I should then have broken my fingers in time; my
    youngsters shall most assuredly learn it with a stick in their
    minds' eye. As we were just talking of the ----s, I must
    mention that I founded my opinion less on what they say than
    on what _I_ think and see; they could not either of them be
    happy if they could not have their bonnets and dresses from
    the most fashionable _modiste_, turn out drag of their own,
    and in every way be "the thing"; that they like me, I know,
    but I believe they would not have me if they liked me twice as
    much; I am not exactly poor, I admit, but I seem something
    like it in Florence, where it is the custom for young men to
    drive to the Cascine in elegant broughams or phaetons, to find
    their riding-horses at the round piazza, to prance and amble
    round the ladies, and then to drive home again in the style
    they went. But let me speak of more important things; you will
    be pleased to hear that my compositions have been highly
    approved of by all those whose opinion has weight with me.
    Cornelius said, the first time he saw them, "Ich sehe Sie sind
    weiter als alle Engländer ausgenommen _Dyce_;" that is a great
    compliment from such a man. I have made one alteration in my
    plans, of which Papa, I think, will not disapprove; I found,
    on more accurate calculation, that, in order to paint my
    Cimabue of such a size as to be admissible to the London
    Exhibition, the figures would be far smaller than my eyes
    would tolerate; I have therefore reversed the order of things,
    and am painting it on a large scale for the great Exhibition
    in Paris (spring, '55), in which all nations are to be
    represented, and where size is rather a recommendation than an
    obstacle. My "Romeo" I shall send to London in the same year;
    it will be a foot each way smaller than Lady Cowley's
    portrait; thus I also have the advantage of giving the
    Florentine picture a size more commensurate to the
    art-historical importance of the event it represents. With
    regard to the sale of it, I hug myself with no vain delusions.
    I paint it for a name; I could not have a finer field than is
    offered by the great International Exhibition in question. I
    must come to a close, for I expect a model immediately, and do
    not wish to miss to-morrow morning's post. _La suite au
    prochain numéro._

    Pray write soon, dearest mother, and tell me all I long to
    know about yourselves, the house, the furniture, your friends,
    and your dinner-party; meanwhile, having first largely helped
    yourself, pass up to all the dear ones very best love and
    kisses from your dutiful and affectionate boy,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

  (_On cover_--Mrs. Leighton,               ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
    9 Circus, Bath, England.)                   _March 22, 1854_.
                                           (_Received March 31._)

    DEAREST MAMMA,--As I see no chance of finding time to write to
    you in the ordinary course of things by merely waiting for it,
    I lay down my brush for this afternoon, and "set to" regularly
    pen in hand to answer your last, dated the fifth (let us be
    business-like), but which did not reach me till a few days
    ago. According to the egotistical practice which you have
    wished me to adopt, I begin with an account of myself: I am
    very much at a loss to tell you anything of my eyes that shall
    convey to you a correct idea of their state; one thing is
    certain, which is that their weakness bears no regular
    proportion to the work done; sometimes when I do little or
    nothing my eyes feel uncomfortable, and at others, when I do a
    great deal, I suffer nothing. For instance, yesterday, having
    a great deal of work cut out for the day, I worked eleven
    hours, with barely half an hour's respite at twelve, and,
    _pour comble de méfaits_, I did what I rarely venture on--I
    read at night; and yet I feel little or no inconvenience. The
    fact is, my eyes are the humble servants of my head, which is
    particularly sensitive; at the same time I hesitate to adopt
    leeches (unless, of course, Papa adheres to his opinion),
    because I don't feel as if I were over-troubled with blood;
    what do you think? My _otherwise_ health is, thank God, very
    decent. I am not a robust man, but I jog on very comfortably,
    and feel very jolly, and I am sure I have a good many reasons
    to be so. About the hours I spend inactive, I don't feel that
    so severely as I did last winter, by any means; in the first
    place, I work till five or so (from seven or eight in the
    morning), then, you know, I dine at six, which I make rather a
    long job; then, in the evening, instead of tiring my eyes as I
    did last winter with dancing, _which_ I have totally forsworn
    (there are more "whiches" in my letter than in the whole
    tea-party on the Blocksberg in "Faust"), I spend nearly all my
    time at the house of my dear friends, the Sartoris, where, I
    assure you, to pass to another point in your letter, I neglect
    no opportunity to cultivate my poor unlettered mind. It is
    indeed my _only_ opportunity, for to study, alas, I have
    neither time, health, nor eyes, and the hopes to which you
    allude, and which I myself once entertained, must, I fear, be
    given up. The worst feature in my mental organisation is my
    utter want of memory for certain things, a deficiency of which
    I am daily and painfully reminded by the mention in my
    presence of books which I have read and enjoyed, and which I
    have _utterly_ forgotten. My only consolation I find in the
    hope that I shall be able to devote myself with double energy
    to the art "proprement dit," and in the reflection that hardly
    any of the modern artists (alas, what a standard!), that have
    possessed extensive knowledge and varied accomplishments, have
    had them as a super-addition to the gift of art, but _at the
    expense_ of their properly pictorial faculties; to every man
    is dealt a certain amount of _calibre_--in one man's brain it
    breaks out in a cauliflower of variegated bumps, in another's
    it flows into one channel and irrigates one mental tree, and
    "sends forth fruit in due season"--hem! Thus, whilst _I_
    paint, _others_ shall know all about it; _I_ shall be an
    artist, let _them_ be connoisseurs. What did poor Haydon (for
    I _have_ read the book) get by his mordant gift of satire and
    his devouring thirst for ink? He embittered old enemies, made
    new ones, estranged his friends, encouraged the fierce
    irascibility of his own temperament, allowed himself to cuddle
    the phantoms of undeserved neglect which always haunted him,
    distorted his own perceptions, and cut his throat! Without
    that pernicious gift, Haydon would not have written, the
    Academy would have hung his pictures as they deserved, for his
    early works were full of promise, they would have stood by him
    in the hour of need; had everything that he saw and heard not
    fallen in distorted images on the troubled mirror of his mind,
    he would, no doubt, have produced better works. Haydon might
    have been a happy man! With regard to the practical lesson to
    be drawn by myself, this painful book undoubtedly shows in a
    strong light the absurdity of _always_ painting large
    pictures--a practice in which, I assure you, I have not the
    remotest idea of indulging. To one thing, however, which you
    observe, dear Mamma, I must beg to take exception, as
    involving a very important question: you say Haydon persisted
    in following the historic style, to the exclusion of pictures
    of a saleable size; now this would only avail as precedent
    against historical art on the supposition that that walk
    necessarily implies colossal proportions, than which idea
    (though Haydon seems to have entertained it) nothing can be
    more false. Is it necessary to mention Raphael's "Vision of
    Ezekiel," "Madonna della Seggiola," or a thousand other
    pictures, by him and others, which utterly confute any such
    notion? But even were it so, we must also not overlook the
    fact that the unsaleability of Haydon's pictures had its cause
    as much in their quality as in their quantity, and I will hold
    up to you, in contrast to his sad story, the case of Mr.
    Watts, who gives a sketch of the artistical character at the
    end of the autobiography, and who has as many orders for
    _fresco_ as he can execute for a considerable number of years.

    [Illustration: STUDY OF HEAD OF WOMAN AT WINDOW IN "CIMABUE'S
    MADONNA"
    Leighton House Collection]

                                              BATH, _April 17th_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRED,--I have left a longer interval than usual
    between this letter and my last, for your convenience and my
    advantage; that is to say, that by arriving close on the time
    for your writing to me, the contents of this sheet, or
    anything in it needing comment, may not have escaped your
    memory till no longer wanted, for, with the best possible wish
    to be contented with the epistles for which I look forward so
    anxiously, I cannot help feeling a little disappointed when
    you do not answer inquiries. I do not wish to be unreasonable,
    my darling, in my demands on your time, but I cannot bear that
    your letters should be mere unavoidable monthly reports, and
    not what mine are to you, that is, in intention; though I make
    every allowance for natural infirmity. Could we but have
    foreseen your weakness of sight, I should have felt a great
    inclination to thrash you into exercising your memory more
    than you did, though I am not at all sure that the result
    would have been satisfactory; and with respect to music, I am
    convinced you would not have made a satisfactory return for
    any knowledge acquired by dint of birch, but--if it were not
    useless--I would enlarge upon the imprudence of having
    neglected your father's admonitions at a more recent period to
    store your memory; remember it for the sake of your own young
    people when you are the venerable papa of an obstreperous
    youth like yourself. I think upon the whole it is satisfactory
    that the uneasiness in your eyes depends on your general
    health. Papa thinks the sensation you describe when drinking
    must be nervous, and connected with the narrow swallow you
    inherit from me, a peculiarity which has shown itself in four
    generations. We do not feel so certain as it would be
    comfortable to do that the climate of Rome is the one best
    suited to a nervous person; but of course you will seek a
    healthy change of place as soon as the heat makes it
    desirable. I must remind you of the unpleasant fact that your
    constitution very much resembles mine; remember what I have
    come to, and do not trifle with yourself; do not say to
    yourself: What a bore Mamma is! I am constantly thinking of my
    precious absent son, and long, as only a mother can, to see
    you; when I look at your picture, I feel quite wretched
    sometimes that I cannot, though you seem alive before me,
    stroke your cheek and lean my head on your chest. The other
    day we were startled by the appearance in the drawing-room of
    Andrew, Lizzy, and the girls; and the first greeting over,
    "That's my saucy Fred," burst out of your aunt's mouth; "dear
    fellow, what a likeness;" and Lina was equally admired, and we
    all agreed in deploring Gussy's absence from the wall. I wish
    I could see your studies, for I suppose you have a great many
    for your great undertaking. Models are probably cheaper than
    in Germany--are you conscious of improvement? This seems an
    odd question, but it is suggested by the fact that while Gussy
    practises most diligently, she seldom seems conscious of the
    improvement I perceive distinctly. Do you see Cornelius from
    time to time, and gain anything from him? You never mention if
    you have any friends amongst the artists distinguished in any
    way.

                                          ROME, _April 29, 1854_.

    I have of late, since the underpainting of my large picture
    (at which I worked like a horse) given myself rest and
    recreation in the way of several picnics in the _Campagna_
    under the auspices of Mesdames Sartoris and Kemble. We are a
    most jovial crew; the following are the _dramatis personæ_:
    first, the two above-mentioned ladies; then Mr. Lyons, the
    English diplomatist here (whom your friend probably meant); he
    is not ambassador, nor is he in any way supposed to represent
    the English people here, he is only a sort of negotiator;
    however, a most charming man he assuredly is, funny, dry,
    jolly, imperturbably good-tempered; then Mr. Ampère, a French
    savant, a genial, witty, amusing old gentleman as ever was;
    then Browning, the poet, a never-failing fountain of quaint
    stories and funny sayings; next Harriet Hosmer, a little
    American sculptress of great talent, the queerest,
    best-natured little chap possible; another girl, nothing
    particular, and your humble servant who, except when art is
    touched, plays the part of humble listener, in which capacity
    he makes amends for the vehemence with which he starts up when
    certain subjects are touched which relate to his own trade; in
    other things, silence, alas! becomes him, ignorant as he is,
    and having clean forgotten all he ever knew![27] I shall not
    be able to leave Rome more than a month in the summer, as the
    work which I have carved out for myself makes it utterly
    impossible. You must know, however, that the hot months (July
    and August) are not the dangerous ones, but September, when
    the rains set in. During that month I shall give myself a
    complete rest from work, and shall go to the baths of Lucca,
    the healthiest spot in Italy, where I shall enjoy cool air,
    country scenery, and, better than all, the society of the
    Sartoris, who are going to spend the summer there; meanwhile,
    I shall take what precautions I can; I shall live as the
    Italians do, getting up early, and sleeping in the middle of
    the day, and shall resume flannel, if you do not advise the
    contrary, as I see reason to believe that it is a great
    preservative against fever. As for the general climate of
    Rome, I don't give it much consideration, as there is not the
    least probability of my ever _residing_ here; I think there is
    not a worse place for a rising artist to set up his abode in
    than Rome, on account of the want of emulation as compared,
    for instance, to a place like Paris, where there are hundreds
    of clever men, all hard at work, and where an artist is always
    exposed to comparisons. It is impossible for me to give you
    any decisive answer about my progress, for you know I have
    been busy all the winter drawing studies; I shall see when I
    come to the picture itself what steps I have made forwards; I
    reckon on its being the best thing I shall have done, I can
    say no more. I believe Sartoris, whose judgment in all the
    arts is excellent, considers me the most promising young man
    in Rome; but that does not mean much--we shall see!

    Of my daily life and occupations, I have little or nothing to
    say, as they are monotonous to a degree; parties, of course,
    have ceased, and I am just about to leave p.p.c.'s everywhere,
    as I don't mean to go into the world at all next year. I don't
    remember whether I told you that some little time back Mrs.
    Sartoris gave some tableaux and charades in which your humble
    servant co-operated; the whole thing was, I believe, very
    successful. The greatest treat I have had lately has been
    hearing Mrs. Kemble read on different occasions Julius Cæsar,
    Hamlet, and part of Midsummer Night's Dream; I need not tell
    you how delighted I was.

  (_Cover_--Mrs. Leighton,                  ROME, _May 25, 1854_.
    Circus, Bath, England.)                  (_Received June 5._)

    VERY DEAREST MAMMA,--Your letter (which I received the day
    before yesterday, and should have answered the next day but
    for an engagement I had made to go into the country) caused me
    great pain; if you have known me hitherto for a dutiful and
    loving son, believe that in this case nothing has been further
    from me than the least umbrage at the advice and suggestions
    that you always offer me with kindness and delicacy, and that
    I am much distressed at the idea of having in any way
    aggravated the discomforts which an English winter make you
    suffer; let me rather attribute, and beg yourself to refer, to
    the depressed state of your spirits any misconstruction you
    have laid upon a letter in which, if there was any constraint,
    it arose only from a desire to answer satisfactorily and
    systematically such questions as you asked me; I will
    endeavour in future to present my report in a more ornamental
    form. The delay, too, of my last letter arose from a
    misconception on my part of your expectations, for I was
    waiting and eagerly waiting for _your_ answer to intervene,
    and, considering the irregularity of Roman posts, you can
    hardly have a day on which you particularly expect to receive
    news of me. Let me hope, dear Mamma, that on these points, as
    on the others that I am going to touch, you will be able in
    future to think more cheerfully, in spite of the distorting
    medium of British fogs. I fear from the tone of alarm I detect
    in your letter that I (myself perhaps, at the time, under the
    influence of the _scirocco_) must have conveyed to you an idea
    of greater ill-health than I labour under: my eyes, certainly,
    are not strong, so that I avoid using them at nights, and I
    am, as I ever was, incorrigibly bed-loving, but this is "the
    whole front" of my ailments; meanwhile I work all day with
    little or no annoyance. I am of good cheer and contented, and
    altogether more free from rheumatism than I have been for a
    long time; that, thus deprived of the means of reading, such
    little information as I ever had should have effectually made
    its escape from a noddle that never had the capacity of fixing
    itself on any _one_ thing at a time, is deplorable, but not to
    be wondered at; let us hope for a better day. Nor is spending
    the hot months of the summer here in Rome so dreadful a thing
    as it appears to your tender anxiety; with proper precautions
    and a regular life I shall no doubt go through it as well as
    so many of my friends that have tried the experiment; the more
    so that the worst part of the summer is in September and early
    October, at which period I shall be enjoying the particularly
    cool and healthy air of Bagni di Lucca. How could you be
    surprised, dear Mamma, at my having begun the pictures? did I
    not tell you the size of them? do you not know the quantity of
    figures in the composition? do you not know that it will be
    considered a piece of extraordinary rapidity if I finished
    them in time for the Exhibitions, _i.e._ by the beginning of
    next February? You perceive the necessity of my staying here,
    willy nilly. The Sartoris seem to you too prominent a motive
    in my desire to stay; alas! and again alas! they are off to
    Lucca in a few days, and I shall be left alone. Judge whether
    I am eager to get off, and whether anything but necessity of
    the most urgent kind will keep me here, for I am warmly
    attached to both, and her I dearly love. Be quite at ease
    about the amount of advice I can get here, I do not lack that
    if I want it; but as it is, the compositions were so
    completely sifted by Steinle before I left Frankfurt, that I
    have nothing left but the material execution, in which you
    know every artist must fumble about for himself. Cornelius
    _is_ very kind and amiable to me, has been to see me twice,
    and speaks well of me behind my back; he told Mrs. Kemble
    (Fanny) that there was not another man in England that could
    paint such a picture as my "Cimabue" threatens to be, and the
    same was unhesitatingly asserted by Browning, the poet, who is
    also a connoisseur. Such details as these from my mouth savour
    of intolerable vanity; they are not meant so, and I give you
    them simply because I think they will fall pleasantly on the
    ear of the mother of the daubster. To show you the _revers de
    la médaille_ about advice from influential men, I will just
    tell you that I received the other day from Cornelius some
    advice which was diametrically opposed to that of Steinle,
    _arrangez vous!_ Gamba and I are still capital friends, and he
    is making great progress, which is the well-earned fruit of
    his talent and assiduity.

    Now, dear Mamma, you see how letters come to be dry; by the
    time you have shaken off the responsibility of question
    answering, and begin to breathe a little, you have got to the
    end of time and paper, and have no margin left for a little
    dessert; the fact is, _your_ only chance is this: next time
    you write, ask me no questions, and then I'll devote my
    epistle to telling you a most thrilling story which, though it
    far surpasses in strangeness the common run of works of
    fiction, is _perfectly and literally true_, as I have it
    almost from headquarters; them's your prospects!--Meanwhile,
    with very best love to all, I remain, your affectionate and
    dutiful son,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    [Illustration: ORIGINAL SKETCH OF COMPLETE DESIGN FOR "CIMABUE'S
    MADONNA"
    Drawn in 1853
    Leighton House Collection]

  _Translation._]                           ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
                                                  _May 29, 1854_.

    DEAREST FRIEND,--Delightful as it always is to me to receive
    any news of you, yet your last letter, along with pleasure,
    caused me some pain, for I could not help fearing that my long
    silence had annoyed you a little; if this should be indeed the
    case I must express my extreme regret, and beg you to believe
    that my gratitude and love can only cease when my memory
    ceases; how could it possibly be otherwise?

    You paint me a very melancholy picture of the situation in
    Frankfurt; it is certainly a most unpleasant state of things,
    all this quarrelling and dissension! When I, at this distance,
    think of such a regular hermit-like way of going on, I feel
    quite disgusted; it is fortunate that you, dear Friend, have
    in the ecstasy of creation a resource that can never fail you.
    But how comes it that Hommel and Hendschel, formerly your
    enthusiastic pupils, have now cooled down? That is very
    incomprehensible; they do not know their own interests. I
    congratulate you most heartily on the completion of your large
    picture, which I am very sorry not to have seen finished, and
    I am especially glad to hear what you tell me about the
    shield-bearer, for that breathes to me of _industrious study
    of nature_! Believe me, that you, the mature master, who still
    consents to play the part of a student, will not be without
    your reward.

    What you have written me about my work has put me into a most
    terrible dilemma, a dilemma which I am still very deep in. It
    is a presumption that I should set up _my_ ideas, and a
    disobedience that I should take the advice of other friends,
    against your judgment; but I have gone so carefully into this
    manner of representation, that I beg you, dear Friend, to
    reconsider the matter, and see whether I am not right. These
    are my reasons: it seems to me that the action in my pictures,
    if ostensibly a triumph of the artist, yet, at the same time,
    as an historical event, is just as much the consecration of a
    Madonna, for which reason I (as you know) have placed the
    masterpiece which is being carried upon a small decorated
    altar; that such a solemn event probably took place on a
    church festival (as was the case with the consecration of the
    Chapel) may very well be assumed; would not such a festival in
    the _thirteenth century_ be important enough to justify the
    presence of the bishop? But much more important than this
    question of historical probability, appears to me the
    consideration that the conception of a bishop is only made
    tangible to the general mass of spectators by certain symbolic
    articles of apparel, which are in some degree inseparable from
    it; a bishop's presence in the procession is most probable.
    Why should I not put him there? Amongst others, this opinion
    was also held by Cornelius, to whom, as an experienced
    Catholic, I naturally applied at the outset, and who told me
    candidly that he would leave it. I hope you will not accuse me
    of being too stiffnecked; in other respects I am certainly
    docile.

    Since I last wrote to you I have been fairly industrious on an
    average. I have now under-painted "Romeo and Juliet" in grey
    (grau untermalt), made both the colour sketches, and have now
    fairly got into the over-painting, or rather second
    under-painting, of "Cimabue"; but I have not been always
    within four walls; on the contrary I have profited by the
    beautiful spring weather, and have often gone out into the
    divine Campagna with a party of dear friends, male and female,
    and I need not tell you that we have enjoyed it. I wish with
    all my heart you could be with us, my dear Master. Rico, the
    ever-industrious, for he does twice as much as I, sends you
    warm greetings. I must now close. I wish I could tell rather
    than write to you how you are loved and esteemed by your
    devoted pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    Please remember me most kindly to your wife.

  _Translation._]                              FRANKFURT AM MAIN,
                                                _August 6, 1854_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--You have heaped coals of fire upon my
    head, for I have not answered your last dear note, brought me
    by André, and now I have received by Miss Farquhar the lovely
    study of Vincenzo's head, which you so kindly wish to present
    to me. I am almost dumfounded to find that you could believe I
    was angry with you because you have not written me for so
    long, and that you believe that the indignation had been
    ignored in my last note. That, dear friend, was a complete
    delusion, for there is nothing to which I am more partial than
    to artists' letters, and nothing to which I am more
    insensible than to such flattering praise as you lavish upon
    me, while I know only too well how unfortunately little I have
    deserved it. In earnest, dear friend, call me no more master,
    but rather regard me as your true and sincere friend, who only
    out of friendship for you and love of art, far removed from
    despicable dissimulation, faithfully shares with you his
    opinions and experience, and never regards them as the
    pronouncements of an oracle. I know very well what a
    difference there is between the description of a work of art
    and the sight of it; the first, at best, only gives one side,
    one part, whilst seeing places before our eyes the whole soul
    of the artist, from all sides, and then much is made mutually
    clear which in the former case appeared either not understood
    or misunderstood. Miss Farquhar could not tell me enough about
    you and your work, and greatly kindled my curiosity and desire
    to be in your _atelier_ for once; I was only sorry that she
    had nothing to tell me about Gamba; indeed, on the whole, she
    knew nothing about him. If I am to express my thoughts of the
    very beautiful head of Vincenzo, it seems to me that Leighton
    ought to guard against striving for excessive fineness, for
    works of art can only be produced by quite the contrary
    method. A certain roughness must bring out fineness, but if
    everything is fine, nothing remains fine, &c. But believe,
    though this head half displeases me, especially on account of
    these theories, I think it beautiful and masterly in drawing,
    and am consequently proud to possess it, as I am of all that I
    have from your hand. I thank you a thousand times for this
    fresh proof of your friendship. About this place, let me be
    silent; you are right to say that art is my refuge, and that I
    find in it my compensation for much that goes ill here and
    everywhere; I must also not allow this asylum to be profaned
    by the trifles of the very human things that surround us in
    this world.

    Greet from me Rome, Gamba, Cornelius, and all the friends who
    remember me; and to yourself, dear friend, heartfelt greetings
    from your true and unchanging friend,

                                                    EDW. STEINLE.

    [Illustration: "VINCENZO, THE PRETTIEST AND WICKEDEST BOY IN
    ROME." 1854
    Leighton House Collection]

Before leaving Rome Leighton received the following characteristic
letter from Mr. Cartwright, one of his truest life-long friends:--

                                       CARLSBAD, _July 11, 1854_.

    MY DEAR LEIGHTON,--You will be astonished to see a letter from
    me. I can assure you that I have often thought of you, and
    meant to indite you an epistle in the hope of eliciting a
    reply full of Roman tale from you, and lately, when through
    Papeleu I heard of your great canvass labors, my yearning got
    a new twinge which at last has been pinched into expression by
    the start at Pollock's resuscitation. I had heard of his death
    in Paris and had mourned his fate most sincerely, when the
    first man whom I met tramping health out of the hot water of
    Carlsbad was Pollock himself. He is himself again every inch
    of him; indeed a most wonderful recovery; and, after deep and
    valorous potations of hot water, we take long walks in the
    hills. He goes from here to Marienbad and Prague, and means to
    be back in Rome by the end of October. And I also mean to
    return there. Like a true drunkard, I can't forswear my
    bottle, and I must have another pull at it. We shall be there,
    I hope, in the beginning of October, and I hope, my dear
    Leighton, that you will not grudge me the pleasure of letting
    me have a few lines, so that I may know whether you will be
    there in the winter and what are the changes in Rome since my
    time. Are the Sartorises to be there next winter, and where
    are they now? Pray answer me this, as I particularly wish to
    know where they are. I have heard that there were such crowds
    of strangers at Rome last winter that quarters were not to be
    had; and for this reason I wish to be there early. Do you
    happen to know what is the price of the floors in the house on
    the Pincio which was built by Byström the sculptor? Next to
    the Trinità, immediately after the sculptor's studio, there is
    a small house inhabited when I was last in Rome by some French
    officers (at least a sentinel was at the door) and years ago
    by Mrs. Sartoris. Pollock tells me it is now to be let. Would
    you be kind enough to give me any information you can about
    it. It is a house I have often coveted on account of the view.
    I beg your pardon for my coolness; I hope you will bear kindly
    with it; if I can do anything for you in Paris, command me:
    but anyhow pray write to me, if only a few lines, for in my
    heart I wish to have some news about you and old Rome. The
    other day I saw at the Louvre our old friend the very
    questionable _Vittoria Colonna_ which was at Minardis. It was
    for Exhibition there in the Gallerie d'Apollon: what the
    picture is I cannot pretend to pronounce, but I do not like
    it: it is a picture in which I have no confidence. I think
    that if not a made picture, it is at all events a tame one.
    This year there was no Salon as it has been put off till next
    year's great Exhibition. Robert Fleury has sold a picture to
    the Luxembourg which is not so good as his former ones; but
    the man who I think is the most _marked_ one of the day is
    Conture. Excuse my scrap, and pray take pity on my longing and
    write me, were it only _a line_. I should be grievously
    disappointed were you to refuse me the pleasure. I shall be
    _here till the 7th August_; until the _25th August_, after
    that date letters will find me Frankfurt Poste Restante; and
    after that in Paris Poste Restante. If you write here, put
    Carlsbad--Böhmen--and in a corner, _Austria_. And now
    farewell; with a real ... I am longing for a letter. The
    kindest regards to my Caffé Greco and other friends.--Yours
    most sincerely,

                                             W.C. CARTWRIGHT.[28]

After his stay at the Bagni di Lucca, in the summer of 1854, Leighton
went to Frankfort, Venice, and to Florence, returning to Rome in
October.

In the following letter to Steinle are sentences it might be well to
print in finest gold, for the benefit of students who try to run
before they walk, who aim at the freedom and glorious inevitability of
a Velasquez touch without taking the pains to equip themselves
worthily to enter the lists with the giants; not realising that
skipping over the underpinning, necessary in creating any work of art,
must result in the shakiest of edifices. The sentence refers to the
criticism in Steinle's letter of August 6, 1854, on the drawing of
"Vincenzo" (called by Leighton "the prettiest and wickedest boy in
Rome") which Leighton had sent him.

  _Translation._]                           ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
                                              _October 22, 1854_.

    As I am making a short pause to-day in my work, I cannot
    employ it better than in writing a letter to you, my very dear
    Friend. It was a very great comfort to me to see by your last
    lines that you had not construed my former long silence as a
    cooling of my friendship and gratitude, and I therefore hope
    that you will also this time meet me with the same
    forbearance. You will certainly be interested to hear, my dear
    Friend, that both my pictures are by this time fairly forward,
    and I expect to finish them within three months. How much I
    wish that you could see them here, and that I could put in the
    finishing touches under your supervision! I would give you an
    account of my work, but, bless me, what is there to _tell_
    about my picture, except that it has given me a fearful amount
    of trouble, and that in the end one perceives how
    circumstantially one has gone to work on the whole matter; the
    "Cimabue" goes to London and the "Romeo" to Paris. While I am
    speaking of my works, I take this opportunity to touch
    gratefully upon your kind remarks about the study head of
    Vincenzo, and to inform you, however, that my opinion of it
    takes rather more the form of a question than that of an
    objection. I have often considered the question of the
    self-guidance of an artist who is left to his own devices, and
    it has often struck me how many wander in evil by-paths
    through an unorganised, may I say _unprogressive_, development
    of their gifts; and now it seems to me that most of them are
    wrecked because they maturely study _the object to be
    attained_, while the _means_ are not considered which should
    lead to such results. For example, a young man sees a Raphael,
    a Titian, a Rembrandt, all in their latest manner, and hears
    people say: See how broad, how full, how round, how masterly!
    And the student naturally conceives the wish that he also
    might produce broad and masterly works, and _so far_ he is
    right; but from that point he goes aside. He goes home and
    _strives_ and _strains_ after masterly breadth; he succeeds
    (apparently), and he is lost. The soap-bubble is quickly
    blown; he rejoices in its gay colours; it flies up and breaks
    in the air. And the cause is simple; the true, genuine
    mastership is not an _acquired quality_ but an _organised
    result_. As with art itself, so is it also with the individual
    artist. If we cast an eye over the progress of art-history, we
    see how the full, conscious, free, has developed itself out of
    the meagre, timorous, scrupulous, dry. Similarly if we compare
    the first efforts of the individual with his last, we perceive
    the same thing: place M. Angelo's "Pinta" beside the
    decorations of the Sixtine, one of Raphael's works at Perugia
    beside the "Stanzen," Rembrandt's "Leçon d'anatomie" beside
    the "Nightwatch," and it will be evident in the most striking
    manner that not one of these men had risen by means of his
    talent to full breadth in his youth, or had been in any way
    studious to do so, but on the contrary that they have attained
    mastery by natural growth. In order, therefore, to reach the
    same altitude, the young artist must proceed in the same
    manner as his exemplars, and must endeavour so to direct his
    studies that he, according to his gifts, may achieve a similar
    result. He who would fill his threshing-floor must not
    _glean_, but rather he must _sow_ that he may richly harvest;
    he who would have rare fruits all his life must plant and
    cherish the tree; even so should the young artist seek to
    plant a tree the normal fruit of which is called "artistic
    perfection." You will easily understand how by the application
    of these maxims my preliminary works go forward rather
    _timorously_. Entire conscientiousness is now the chief thing
    to me. I _am laying_ the foundation on which I hope to rely
    firmly later on; I am amassing capital and am not yet in
    enjoyment of the interest. "How many objections to a couple of
    words?" you will laughingly remark; dear Friend, I must feel
    myself indeed well equipped before I permit myself to oppose
    anything against your judgment.

    Of Gamba I will say nothing, for he is going to enclose a few
    lines in this.

    I have made a trip to Florence this summer, and again
    thoroughly enjoyed the art-treasures. I think I have spoken to
    you of the wall-paintings by Giotto which were discovered two
    years ago in Santa Croce; one of them, which represents the
    death of St. Francis, is the literal prototype of the
    celebrated fresco by Ghirlandajo (on the same subject) in the
    Sta. Trinita, and I really prefer it.

    Time, eyes, paper fail me, and I must close. I hope that, if
    you write to me again, you will tell me exactly what you are
    doing.--Meantime, dear Master, accept the heartfelt greeting
    of your grateful pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    Please remember me most kindly to your wife and to all my
    friends.

Leighton's eye trouble having become a constant anxiety and hindrance
to him, he resolved to consult Graefe, the great German oculist. From
Florence, on his return journey, he writes his impressions of Berlin
to Steinle. In this letter he repeats again the sense of happiness
which he always experienced in Italy.

  _Translation._]
                                     FLORENCE, 386 VIA DEL POSSO,
                                                   _November 13_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND AND MASTER,--At last I am able to write to
    you. In the hurry and bustle of travelling, and even in the
    short sojourns that I have made here and there, it has been
    impossible for me to sit quietly down and compose a letter.
    Even to my parents I have written this morning for the first
    time since I left Vienna. But you will readily believe that
    during this time I have often travelled in thought to
    Frankfurt in loving remembrance of you, my dear Friend.

    Strange things have happened to me since I saw you. I had not
    even reached Berlin when I was informed by a "jebildeten"
    (cultivated) Prussian that Graefe, on whose account
    exclusively I was travelling to the "geistreichen" (clever)
    capital, had gone away for an indefinite period; imagine my
    dismay! Luckily on my arrival I found an old friend who was
    acquainted with the family of Geheimerath von Graefe, and who
    found out through them that Graefe must arrive at the Golden
    Lamb (Leopoldostadt) in Vienna on such and such a day. I met
    him, and had a consultation at which he examined my eyes with
    the ophthalmoscope, and told me to be of good cheer, my
    trouble was certainly obstinate but in no way dangerous, and I
    might hope for a complete cure. He prescribed me a course for
    Rome, which consists principally of local blood-letting and
    wearing spectacles, and will be very tedious; but I will
    gladly conform to anything in order to get my eyes back again.
    One thing is certain, since I have been in Italy they have
    been quite markedly better, which I attribute for the most
    part to the diminution of my hypochondria. Yes, since I have
    been in Italy I have become a new man; I breathe, my breast
    throbs higher; heavy clouds have rolled away from me; the sun
    shines again on my path, and my heart is once more full of
    youth and love of life; if only you were also here, dear
    Friend!

    But I must tell you something about my German travels, and I
    will begin with Berlin. There is certainly something special
    about that town. At the first glance it is somewhat imposing,
    and the prodigious quantity of new buildings, which evidently
    aim at architecture, gives (one may hold one's own opinion as
    to the taste of the buildings) the appearance of great
    artistic activity and of a widespread taste for art; but I
    have since found reason to regard this apparent love of art as
    something feigned or forced. One gets quite sick of
    _education_ in Berlin; would you believe that now _every girl_
    has to pass an _examination as governess_?[29] Kaulbach
    understands the Berliners well; in Raeginski's house a study
    of a Roman piper hangs in great honour, which he has purchased
    from the _great master_ on account of a doggerel verse which
    is written on it in large letters, and runs thus:--

    "Upon my travels in Italy,
    This little boy I found, but he,
    Although my brush may his form repeat,
    Remains to my sorrow incomplete."[30]
                 --W. KAULBACH.

    Divine! eh? I knew a counterpart in the Belgian art-world.
    When I visited Gallait in Brussels some years ago, before the
    door stood a ragged, most picturesque Hungarian rat-catcher,
    who asked me if an artist did not live there. Recently I saw
    my Slav again, with a violin under his arm, in a window, very
    finely lithographed, I believe even an "artistes
    contemporains"; in the corner was "Louis Gallait pinx";
    underneath, "Art et Liberté"! Thus do pictures originate!

    In Berlin everything is valued extrinsically. One sees that
    most strikingly in the new Museum. When it is finished, it
    will be, in proportion to the means of the town in which it
    stands, the most splendid that I know; moreover, it cannot be
    denied (unsuitable as a three-quarters Greek building may be
    on the banks of the Spree) that much in the architecture is
    even very beautiful. But what is the good of it all? With the
    exception of some Egyptian antiquities, in all these lavishly
    gilded and painted rooms there are only _plaster casts_! Yes,
    and, I must not forget it, the great tea-service of Kaulbach.
    A wretched thing, made, moreover, with superfluous
    productiveness; simple allegory carried out without any fine
    sense of form, with utter denial of all individuality, and
    painted--well, of that one would rather say _nothing_; and yet
    "Kaulbach has the Hellenic art," &c. &c., and all the rest
    that is in the papers. One would like to exclaim with Cassius:
    "Has it come to this, ye gods!"

    Unfortunately I cannot praise the Cornelian things in the
    _old_ Museum much either. I must confess they displeased me
    greatly; when I consider them from a distance in their
    connection with the building, I find them disproportioned; in
    a long, very simple colonnade, built on a large scale, I
    require of a fresco painting that it shall show in form and
    colour large, quiet, plastic masses; instead of that I see
    here a gay, unquiet, confused _fricassée_ of thought and
    allegory that makes one dizzy; ideas in such profusion that
    nothing remains with the spectator; he goes away without
    having received anything; nor is the mental impression
    plastic. If, however, one goes nearer to see the execution,
    again one finds nothing pleasing--a constrained, unlovely
    drawing--positions that could only be attained by complete
    breaking on the wheel--a general appearance as if the figures
    had no bones, but muscles made of brick instead. The colour is
    not much better than Kaulbach's. The end-piece on the right,
    an allegorical representation of the death of man (or
    something of the kind), gives the most ordinary and at the
    same time most awkward sudden impression that I have yet seen.
    Cornelius may look at the Vatican in Rome and see if he can
    find anything like it there. Altogether the once certainly
    great artist seems to have somewhat deteriorated; the Cartoons
    at the Campo Santo are not by a long way so good as the design
    (which I find charming in parts); they are here and there,
    which greatly surprised me, disgracefully _out of drawing_;
    and then the theatrical attitudes, conventional clothes, &c.
    &c. In the Museum itself there are few pictures of the first
    rank, but so much the more beautiful are those by masters of
    the second rank. What a Lippi! what a Basaiti! what a Cos
    Rosetti! I was entranced; that is art, character, form,
    colour, all in beautiful harmony. The "Daughter of Titian"
    does not deserve its celebrity; it is weak and dull.

    But my paper is exhausted, as are also my eyes; I will
    therefore defer the rest to another letter, and only mention
    that in Vienna Kuppelwieser, Führich, and Roesner received me
    like a son of the house, and all sent hearty greetings to you.
    Do write to me very soon, dear Friend, and keep in kind
    remembrance your grateful, devoted pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    My address is, Poste Restante, Rome.

    Please remember me most kindly to your wife, and generally to
    all friends.

When tracing the ever-swaying ebb and flow in the tides of joy and
sorrow in a life, we come to times which seem to accumulate in their
days the whole strength of feeling and vitality of which a nature is
capable; prominent summits that rise triumphant out of the troublous
waves, up to which the past existence has seemed to climb, and the
memory of which retains a dominating influence in the descent of the
future.

"I--h'm--must I say it?--am just as happy as the day is long." So
wrote Leighton to his mother when at the age of twenty-three he was
spending his days in and about Rome--that wonderful Rome with her
world of ghosts, her solemn eventful past skimmed over and made faint
by her actual sunlit present. To Leighton that sunlit present became
vividly, excitingly alive. Fountains of joy were springing up in the
artist-nature, catching as they sprang golden rays from all that is
most beautiful in youth's dominions. Leighton writes to Steinle (July
25, 1853): "The remembrance of the beautiful time spent there (Rome)
will be riches to me throughout my life; whatever may later befall me,
however darkly the sky may cloud over me, there will remain on the
horizon of the past the beautiful golden stripe, glowing, indelible;
it will smile on me like the soft blush of even."

When, in the late autumn of 1852, he first arrived in Rome, he had just
stepped from the position of being one in a family to that of being an
independent unit; and, though accompanied by his brother artist, Count
Gamba, he felt greatly the loss of what he had left behind--the
inspiring companionship of Steinle, compared to which nothing in Rome
was worthy to count as an art influence. Obliged to work in a small,
inconvenient studio, the only one obtainable--expected friends, whose
society he valued, failing him--he felt the want of so much that he
could hardly enjoy what he had. In those first days (as we gather from
his letters) the Eternal City cast no fresh glamour over his spirit.

Spring came, and the tune changed with the entrancement of
Persephone's release in the balmy warmth of the South. The spring air
twinkles with sunshine, and the fruit-trees are again alive with gay
blossom, of fluttering petal, frail as the soft moth wing; the villa
gardens are again bedecked with grand, more solid petalled
flowers--brilliant-hued camellias--and later,--the noble magnolia's
ivory white goblets; while the ground is carpeted with violets and
varied-hued anemones. All over the wild spaces of the Campagna spring
up grasses and lovely unchequered growth, spreading a green and golden
fur, bristling in the bright light for miles and miles under a
cloudless sky away to the faint blue line of mountains on the horizon.
On one summit--golden in the sunlight--the old town of Subiaco is
poised; on nearer slopes--summer haunts of the ancient Roman world,
Tivoli, Frascati, Albano: the wastes of budding herbage between
checked only here and there by some spectre of old days, some skeleton
of a broken archway, some remnant of a ruined wall.

It was on these strange wilds of the Roman Campagna that the life-long
friends, Giovanni Costa and Leighton, first met. Here is the
description of the delightful scene of their meeting, and of
Leighton's previous introduction to Costa's work at the famous Café
Greco, written by Costa after his friend's death:--

"In the year 1853, the Café Greco at Rome was a world-renowned centre
of art, a rendezvous for artists of all nationalities, who had flocked
to Rome to study the history of art as well as the beauties of nature
surrounding the sacred walls of the Eternal City.

"At the Café Greco[31] there was a certain waiter, Rafaello, a
favourite with all, who had collected an album of sketches and
water-colours by the most distinguished artists, such as Cornelius,
Overbeck, Français, Bénonville, Brouloff, Böcklin, and others, and I
felt much flattered when I too was asked to contribute, with the
result that I gave him the only water-colour I have ever done in my
life. Leighton was also begged by Rafaello to do something for the
album, and having it in his hands, he saw my work, and asked whose it
was. On being told, he advised Rafaello to keep it safely, saying
that one day it would be very valuable. When I came later to the Café,
Rafaello told me how a most accomplished young Englishman, who spoke
every language, had seen my water-colour, and all he had said about
it. I was very proud of his criticism, and it gave me courage for the
rest of my life.

"That same year, in the month of May, the usual artists' picnic took
place at Cervara, a farm in the Roman Campagna. There used to be
donkey races, and the winner of these was always the hero of the day.
We had halted at Tor dé Schiavi, three miles out of Rome, and half the
distance to Cervara,[32] for breakfast. Every one had dismounted and
tied his beast to a paling, and all were eating merrily.

"Suddenly one of the donkeys kicked over a beehive, and out flew the
bees to revenge themselves on the donkeys. There were about a hundred
of the poor beasts, but they all unloosed themselves and took to
flight, kicking up their heels in the air--all but one little donkey,
who was unable to free himself, and so the whole swarm fell upon him.

"The picnic party also broke up and fled, with the exception of one
young man, with fair, curly hair, dressed in velvet, who, slipping on
gloves and tying a handkerchief over his face, ran to liberate the
poor little beast. I had started to do the same, but less resolutely,
having no gloves; so I met him as he came back, and congratulated him,
asking him his name. And in this way I first made the acquaintance of
Frederic Leighton, who was then about twenty-two years old; but I was
not then aware that he was the unknown admirer of my drawing in
Rafaello's album. I remember that day I had the great honour of
winning the donkey race, and Leighton won the tilting at the ring with
a flexible cane; therefore we met again when sharing the honour of
drinking wine from the President's cup, and again we shook hands.
When I heard from Count Gamba, who was a friend and fellow-student of
Leighton's, what great talent he had, I tried to see his work and to
improve our acquaintance; for as I felt I must be somewhat of a donkey
myself, because of the Franciscan education I had received, and
because I was the fourteenth in our family, I thought the
companionship of the spirited youth would give me courage."

And again it was on the Campagna that that choice and delightful
company picnicked in the spring-time of the year, of which company
Leighton wrote on April 29, 1854 (see p. 146).

Who knows but that it was at one of these notable picnics that
Browning was inspired to write his wonderful little poem on the
Campagna?

    "The Champaign, with its endless fleece
      Of feathery grasses everywhere,
    Silence and passion, joy and peace,
      An everlasting wash of air--
    Rome's ghost since her decease.

    Such life there, through such lengths of hours,
      Such miracles performed in play,
      Such letting nature have her way,
    While Heaven looks from its towers."

Life was full to overflowing in those inspiring days, and Leighton was
indeed "as happy as the day was long." Friendships grew apace. Many
were made which were lasting, notably that with Mr. Henry Greville,
the most intimate man-friend of Leighton's life. His friendships with
Sir John Leslie, Mr. Cartwright, George Mason, Mr. Aitchison, Sir
Edward Poynter, all began in those early happy days in Rome. Artists
living there, who included this gifted brother-painter in their
comradeship, showed more and more sympathy towards his work as they
became more intimate with the delightful nature. Leighton had arrived
so far forward on the threshold of his success that anxiety about his
pictures was outweighed by hopeful expectancy; but it was while still
standing on the threshold--that really most inspiring of all stages in
the journey, during the two years from 1853 to 1855, before the great
triumph of signal success crowned him--that we catch the happiest
picture in Leighton's life. To use his own words, "In this world
confident expectation is a greater blessing, almost, than fruition."

In a letter he wrote to Fanny Kemble on February 1, 1880, Leighton
refers to a conversation he had with her at this "outset of his
career"--a conversation which recurred to him, he tells her, when he
first addressed the Royal Academy students from the presidential chair
in 1879. He offers a copy of his discourse for her acceptance, ending
his letter by the words: "If you remember that conversation, you may
perhaps feel some interest in reading the Lecture, of which I ask you
to accept a copy. If you do not remember it, nevertheless accept the
little paper for the sake of old days which were not as to-day."[33]
How much can a few words say! If gratified ambition could ever make an
artist-nature happy, how transcendently happy Leighton ought to have
been in 1880! But the fibre which strung the highest note in his
nature never vibrated to worldly success. Though his ambition may have
sought success, and his passion for fulfilling to the utmost his duty
towards his fellow-creatures may have greatly welcomed it, he
remained to the end of his life ever on the threshold of that kingdom,
the possession of which could alone have satisfied what he "_cared for
most_."

The following letters mention the progress of the _opus magnum_ to its
completion, also of the "Romeo" picture, and his visits to Florence
and the Bagni di Lucca. The first begins by his expressing his
ever-growing dislike of general society.

  [_Commencement missing._]

    Miss ---- is no less than ever, and no less agreeable, as far
    as I can judge; I have only called once as yet, I have an
    ungovernable horror of being asked to tea; my aversion to
    tea-fights, muffin-scrambles, and crumpet-conflicts, which has
    been gathering and festering for a long time, has now become
    an open wound. The more I enjoy and appreciate the society and
    intercourse of the dozen people that I care to know, the more
    tiresome I find the commerce of the others, _braves et
    excellentes gens du reste_; the Lord be merciful to the
    overwhelming insipidity of that individual whose name is
    Legion--the _unexceptionable_--the _highly respectable!_ My
    great resource is, of course, Mrs. Sartoris, whom I see at
    some time or other every day, for it would be a blank day to
    me in which I did not see her; God bless her! for my dearest
    friend. I warm my very soul in the glow of her sisterly
    affection and kindness. Little baby is the same sunbeam that
    he always was; did I tell you I painted his likeness in oils
    as a surprise for his father? as a picture it is not
    unsuccessful, but any attempt at a portrait of that child is a
    profanation, and will be till we paint with the down of
    peaches and the blood of cherries, and mix our tints with
    golden sunlight; still, it pleased _them_, and that ought to
    be enough; but I am an artist as well as a friend. A very
    interesting acquaintance I have here in the shape of Rossini,
    the great Rossini! Poor Rossini, what a sad fate is his, to
    have lived to see the people on whom the glory of his splendid
    genius has shone turn away from him in forgetfulness,
    neglecting his classical beauties to listen to the noisy
    trivialities of a ----, who has made the Italian name in music
    a by-word of ridicule; with the music of course, the singers
    have degenerated also; a singer no longer requires to be an
    _artist_, it is no longer necessary that he or she should
    study his or her part till every note has a meaning and a
    character expressive of the words of the libretto, and
    accompanied by musical and impassioned _mimica_; no, let the
    _prima donna_ only squall out her never-ending _fioriture_
    with sufficient disregard for the safety of her lungs, or the
    _primo tenore_ shake the stage with a _la di petto_, and all
    is right. This is a digression, but as an artist I can't help
    taking it to heart, and wanted to have it out. Amongst Mrs.
    Sartoris' few "intimes" at this moment is a Neapolitan lady,
    la Duchessa Ravaschieri, daughter of Filangièri the minister,
    who has given her himself an education almost unique amongst
    Italian noblewomen, who are insipid and ignorant beyond
    anything.

                                         FLORENCE, HÔTEL DU NORD,
                                            _September 20, 1854_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--I was much surprised, as we very naturally
    measure time past by the number of events that have taken
    place in it, the interval between this your last letter and
    the previous one seemed to me doubly long, for I have changed
    scene so often during these last four or five weeks, and have
    moved so much from place to place, that it seems to me an age
    since I last despatched a letter to England; from which you
    will naturally and correctly infer that it was a very great
    pleasure to me once more to see your handwriting. Your kind
    anxiety and advice about the cholera I shall remember when I
    get to Rome (which will be in a week or ten days), where that
    disease prevails, although mildly, for what are thirty cases a
    day in a town of that size? In the meantime, both at the baths
    where I have been, and at Florence, where I am, the cholera
    has not dared to show its face; indeed, such a prestige of
    salubrity attaches to the name of the baths of Lucca that
    eight days' sojourn at that place is considered tantamount to
    a "_quarantaine_!" It is a very strange thing, this exemption
    from disease, for in a number of the surrounding villages the
    number of people carried off has been frightful. As for that
    after apprehension of yours, dearest Mamma, about my being
    alone and uncared for in case of illness, I am happy to say
    that nothing can be more unfounded; I have in Mrs. Sartoris
    that genuine friend, and, especially, genuine _woman friend_
    that in such a case would leave nothing undone that you, the
    best of mothers, and my own dear sisters, would do for me. It
    is her habit, when any of her bachelor and homeless friends
    are poorly, to go and sit with them and nurse them, and do you
    think that I, who have become one of her most intimate circle,
    should need to fear neglect? In the friendship of that
    admirable woman I am rich for life. Poor thing, she has lately
    received a great blow in her own family from the sudden
    calamity which has befallen her. This shocking news reached me
    here, at Florence, where I had come on from the baths, and
    ascertaining that her husband was gone off to England to
    inquire into the matter, and that by a chance her boy's tutor
    was absent at the same time, I instantaneously went off to
    Lucca, where I stayed a week (till the return of the tutor),
    taking care of her boy, hearing him his lessons, and
    especially keeping him out of the way; in the evening I used
    to walk or drive with her, and to my infinite gratification
    was able to be some little comfort and distraction to her; my
    only regret in the whole business was that I was making no
    material sacrifice of my own time and pleasure, so that I had
    not the satisfaction of comforting her at my own expense. In
    adopting the resolution, which I have communicated to you, of
    retiring from society, I have taken into consideration all
    that you say, dear Mamma, and more too, for I feel I have of
    my nature a very fair share of the hateful worldly weakness of
    my country-people; still, I have found no sufficiently great
    advantage or compensation for the tedium of going out; the
    Roman _grand monde_, a small part of which I know, and which,
    had I chosen to push a little, I might have known all, is of
    no _use_ whatever in reference to my future career; added to
    which I believe I told you that I never by any chance got
    introduced to anybody, so that whomever I know, I know by
    chance, or by their own wish. For instance, last winter I met
    the Duke of Wellington constantly, both at the Sartoris' (he
    is a very old friend of hers) and at the Farquhars', and
    though he is the most accessible of men, I made no attempt to
    make his acquaintance, and so it is with everybody. But for
    the _tableaux charades_ which Mrs. S. gave last winter, in
    which I was joint-manager with herself, and was therefore
    brought into contact with her numerous co-operating friends, I
    should probably have known few or none of those who were at
    her house every week; always excepting our own intimate
    circle, to wit, Browning, Ampère, Dr. Pantaleone, Lyons, Count
    Gozze, Duke Sermoneta, &c. You know, when I say I shan't go
    out, it is in so far a _façon de parler_, that, as I shall be
    at least every other day at Mrs. Sartoris', I shall not be at
    home, trying my eyes. I quite agree with you in thinking this
    business of ----'s a most awkward thing; I cannot understand a
    man having once gone into the army and made his profession to
    be honourably killed for his country, should not jump at the
    idea of going to the scene of war; I have felt a very strong
    desire to lend a hand myself, but one cannot drive two trades.
    My singing (in particular, and music in general) I have
    avoided mentioning, because, dear Mamma, it is a subject on
    which I have _no_ reason to dwell very complacently; my first
    disappointment was finding my voice, instead of strengthening
    in an Italian climate, getting if possible weaker than it was.
    It is the merest "fil de voix." I have therefore as the onset
    very insufficient "moyens"; this is owing, not only to the
    insufficiency of my "organe," but also to an unpleasant
    visitation in the shape of swollen and irritated tonsils, the
    very ailment, I believe, under which Gussy labours. This
    symptom, which I have carried about some time, is, I fancy,
    not likely ever to leave me permanently; add to this that as
    soon as I sit down to thump with elephantine touch a most
    ordinary accompaniment, the little voice I have vanishes; thus
    between two stools ... you know the rest. Still, I am bound to
    add that Mrs. Sartoris (who could not flatter) has great
    pleasure in hearing me coo a little song or two that I know,
    and says I have what is better than voice, which is a musical
    "accent," and that (she is pleased to add) to a rather
    remarkable degree; my voice is weak and powerless, but true
    and facile. I will tell you exactly what to expect when you
    see me again. I shall be able to sit down to the piano and
    whine some half-dozen pretty little ballads, with a
    rum-tum-tum accompaniment of affecting simplicity. Gussy
    dreams of me as "very handsome" and "are my whiskers growing?"
    I am _not_ very handsome, none of my features are really
    _good_. My whiskers _have_ grown, they are undeniable, there
    is no shirking them, or getting out of the way of them; _I
    wear whiskers_ though you were short-sighted; _but_ they are
    modest ones; as for moustaches, the seven hairs which I have
    (and wear) are not worth mentioning, but still I have none of
    that delicacy which you profess on the subject. In my opinion,
    _if_ gentlemanhood is a thing dependent on the scraping of
    four square inches of your face, and residing only in the
    well-shaved purlieus of a (probably) ugly mouth, I feel equal
    to going without it, in that shape at all events. A moustache,
    and even a beard, if kept short enough to be in keeping with a
    not very flowing costume, is both becoming and convenient, and
    I fear that the whole prestige of respectability hovering
    around Mr. and Mrs. ----, or the withering contempt of the
    irreproachable Sir John and Lady ----, would not make me
    shave, unless, indeed, I felt too hot about the chin. I have
    gone through your letter, and shall wind up with a few words
    about my doings, which, by-the-bye, might be compendiously
    characterised by one word: _nothing_. My holidays are drawing
    to a close, and I shall be in Rome, working very hard to get
    my pictures done for the Exhibitions. Meanwhile I am enjoying
    Florentine sunsets, the gorgeousness of which defies
    description. The other day, in particular, I was on the
    heights near the Miniato, I thought I had never seen anything
    like it. I remembered Papa's fondness for that spot, and
    wished he had been there to share my enjoyment; the lanes were
    cool and pearly grey; over them hung in every fantastic shape
    the rich growth of the orchards and gardens that crowned the
    lengthened walls; the olives, strangely twisted, flaming with
    a thousand tongues of fire; the wreathing vine flinging its
    emerald skirts from tree to tree; the purple wine flashing in
    the fiery grape; the stately _maïs_ flapping its arms in the
    breath of the evening; the solemn cypress; the poetic laurel;
    the joyous oleander--all glorified in the ardour of the
    setting sun, that flung its rays obliquely along the earth;
    you would have been enchanted.

                                            ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
                                             _February 10, 1855_.

    DEAR PAPA,--I hasten to answer your kind letter and to thank
    you for the willingness you express to advance such a sum of
    money as I shall require to cover the heavy expenses I am
    incurring. I forgot to mention in my last letter that my
    picture will be directed straight to the frame-maker's who
    undertakes the exhibiting of it.

    In approaching the other points which you touch in your
    letter, I feel that my letter will unavoidably have a
    combative colouring, which I sincerely hope you will not
    misconstrue, and beg that you will consider whether the
    reasons I advance for not conforming to your suggestions are
    not sound ones. If I particularly object to accompanying my
    picture, it is because I think that the small advantages that
    might accrue from so doing would in no way make up for all I
    should lose; whatever can be done to my picture on its arrival
    in England will be kindly done for me by my friend, Mr. T.
    Gooderson, who is in the habit of receiving and varnishing
    Buckner's works on similar occasions; with respect to the
    interest to be made amongst the Academicians in behalf of my
    op. magn., I have neglected _that_ on the _express advice_ of
    Buckner, who has great experience in those matters and is a
    most kind and honest man; he says, such is the party spirit of
    R.A.'s, that the best chance of securing impartial treatment
    (in the case of a work of merit) is to be _completely unknown_
    to all of them, a condition which I am admirably calculated to
    fulfil. You are also perhaps not aware that my picture will
    reach England _five weeks_ before the opening of the
    Exhibition, so that by accompanying it I should completely
    lose all the best part of the year here in Rome. There are a
    great number of things which I propose doing now that my
    pictures are about to be off my hands. There are here several
    very remarkable heads of which I wish to make finished
    studies, and especially also I am loth to go without having
    drawn anything from Michael Angelo and Raphael, which is one
    of the chief objects for which one comes to this city of the
    past; but, I do not hesitate to say, the principal task which
    I propose to myself is a half-length portrait of Mrs.
    Sartoris, to which I wish to devote my every energy that it
    may be worthy of perpetuating the features of the last Kemble;
    irrespective of the enormous artistic advantage to be derived
    from the study of so exceptional a head, you will easily
    understand my eagerness to give some tangible form to my
    gratitude towards those whose fireside has been my fireside
    for so long a time; nothing would grieve me more than missing
    so good an opportunity. I confess, too, that I wished to see a
    little more leisurely the glorious scenery that lies all round
    Rome, and which I have hitherto hardly glanced at, and partly
    indeed not seen at all. I had indeed contemplated before
    leaving Italy, making a trip to Naples, Capri, Oschia, Amalfi,
    and all the spots about which artists rave. This, however,
    will I fear be under all circumstances a financial _château en
    Espagne_.

  _Translation._]
                                            ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
                                                   _February 12_.

    HONOURED AND DEAR FRIEND,--That you, who know me so well and
    are so well aware of how I carry your image in my heart, could
    misinterpret my silence I did not fear for a moment, for
    rather will you have thought to yourself that the stress of my
    occupations in the course of the day, and my incapacity to do
    anything at night, have hitherto prevented me from writing;
    and so it is; for, be you assured, dear Friend, that, as long
    as I pursue art, you will be ever present with me in the
    spirit, and that I shall always ascribe every success which I
    may possibly attain in the future to your wise counsel and
    your inspiriting example, for "as the twig is bent the tree's
    inclined."

    First I will tell you about my health; thank Heaven, as
    regards my general health, I have nothing to complain of; if
    not exactly strong, still I am lively and in good spirits, and
    look out upon the world quite contentedly. My eyes--well, yes,
    they might be better; otherwise I am always in a condition to
    work my seven or eight hours a day without over-exertion, in
    return for which I dare not do anything in the evenings. To
    tell the truth, my position is not an agreeable one; I am not
    bad enough to follow the course prescribed for me by Graefe,
    but on the other hand not well enough to be able to feel quite
    tranquil....

    Time has slipped away in stress of work since I commenced this
    letter. I throw myself again upon your goodness, dear Master,
    and beg you will not measure my love by my readiness in
    writing, for then I should certainly come off a loser. I told
    you that my affairs have pressed upon me; I have finished my
    "Cimabue." I am dreadfully disappointed, dear Friend, that I
    cannot, as I hoped, send you a photograph, but it has been
    impossible for me to have one taken, since the picture is so
    large that it could not be transported to a photographic
    loggia without fearful ado and unnecessary risk to the canvas;
    I will therefore exert myself to write you what it looks like.
    First you must know that I changed my intention as to the
    respective sizes of the two pictures, for I perceived that my
    eyes could not possibly permit the Florentine composition to
    be carried out on the proposed scale. I therefore took a
    canvas of 17-½ feet (English measure), in consequence of which
    my figures have become half life size (like Raphael's "Madonna
    del Cardellino"), and do not look at all ill. The other
    picture (which I shall send to London) will be something over
    7 feet long by 5 feet. If I am to get them both finished by
    next January, I must set to work in earnest. I have made the
    following alterations: first, those prescribed by you, viz. I
    have made the picture which is being carried larger, the
    chapel smaller, and have suppressed the flower-pots on the
    walls. A further alteration I have made by the advice of
    Cornelius; he said to me that the foremost group (the women
    strewing flowers with children) seemed to him somewhat to
    disturb the simplicity of the rest of the composition, and
    suggested that I should put in a couple of priests, especially
    as the portrait is of a Madonna and is being taken to a
    church; he further advised me, in order to prevent the picture
    from being too frieze-like, to allow this foremost group to
    walk up to the spectator. It now looks something like this:

    (Slight sketch of the design for "Cimabue's Madonna.")

    I hope with all my heart that you will approve these
    alterations. I have drawn a quantity of heads and hands, which
    are all finished, like the "Chiaruccia" which I gave you;
    drapery is not lacking. How I regret, dear Friend, that I
    cannot show them to you. Gamba also is very industrious; he
    has made endless studies, and has also got his record ready.
    He sends you most hearty greetings. Of his diligence there is
    always plenty to tell, and you will not be surprised when I
    tell you that he has made very gratifying progress.

    I could still tell you a great deal, my dear Master, of what I
    have seen and experienced! but time and, alas! especially eyes
    compel me to be laconic, or this oft-begun letter will never
    be finished. Therefore I will only briefly narrate what
    happened to me in the imperial city; my goodness! how long ago
    that seems. My first impression, as I alighted from the train,
    was very pleasant. A lovely autumn morning, the Prater with
    its beautiful trees, the Jägerheil in the sunshine, all
    together welcomed me gaily. I alighted in the Leopold suburb,
    and set off on foot the same morning in quest of Kuppelwieser,
    a cordial, charming man. Through him I became acquainted with
    Führich and Roesner, who both received me no less kindly. They
    all remembered with warm affection their dear comrade,
    Steinle, and sent most hearty messages to him. Of their works
    (for to you, best of friends, I write frankly) I cannot,
    candidly, speak very highly, but perhaps I might of the
    tenacious maintenance of their opinion in spite of the
    boundless, oppressive indifference of the Viennese towards
    high art. Now, the dear friends are somewhat ascetic
    representatives of their mode of thought--a mode of thought
    which can be combined, as we have seen in the great days of
    art, with the greatest charm of representation; but this
    quality is unfortunately too often absent from our friends. Of
    the two, Kuppelwieser is the less offensive; he is perhaps
    rather antiquated, but not without cleverness; Führich is far
    too ornamental for me, and as a painter, God save the mark!
    Good gracious! what is nature there for? What can the people
    make of all this! how is it possible that one can get so far
    in spite of a perverted training! that people do not perceive
    their fearful arrogance! They plume themselves upon piety and
    humility, and in God's beautiful creation nothing is right for
    them; do they then ever admit, these gentlemen, that they do
    not want nature any more because they are aware that they no
    longer know how to use her? Would they feel happy if they saw
    a Masaccio, a Ghirlandajo, a Carpaccio? But they in their
    drawings are pretentious and puffed up, but there is no
    learnedness in them, and that which God has made so lovely
    with all the brilliancy of colour, they daub with any dirt,
    and call it a picture; some even (that was still lacking)
    shrug their shoulders spitefully and mock--at the
    unattainable. And whence does all that arise? How is it that
    even sensible, clever men are so ill equipped? It is due
    solely and alone to the topsy-turvy, involved principle of
    education, to the fact that the people, while they are still
    young, labour and worry day and night at the representation of
    unrepresentable ideas, instead of drawing from nature and from
    nothing else for ever and ever amen, till they are in close
    harmony with her; that would be a soil from which the tree of
    their art could grow upwards, fresh, powerful,
    ever-herbescent; that they might not stand there in their old
    age as high, proud, upward-aspiring trunks without leaves,
    without sap. Naturally all this is not aimed at the good
    Führich, but in general against all those who in their
    infatuation allow themselves, behind the shield of severe
    sentiments and high efforts, to throw overboard all the
    difficulties of art. How gladly my thoughts turn away from
    such unpleasing reflections to you, dearest Friend, who take
    nature for your model in every part of your pictures, and with
    your high degree of ability are always the devoted pupil of
    _nature_! Keep, I beg you, _your_ grateful pupil in
    sympathetic remembrance, and never doubt the devotion of your
    loving friend,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    Please remember me most kindly to your wife; also to my other
    friends. If you see Schalck, will you kindly say to him that I
    have received his letter, and will answer it when my eyes
    permit. I am longing to hear what pictures and drawings you
    are making! Will you forgive my silence, and write to me?

    My picture is under-painted grey-in-grey (_grau in grau_); I
    finished it in a week; it was a great effort.

                                                ROME, VIA FELICE,
                                             _February 19, 1855_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--As the body of the letter I have just received
    is written by Papa, I have thought well to address to _him_
    the important part of mine; you will therein see all the
    business news that I have to give, and will, I know, be much
    pleased to hear that my picture has had great success here; I
    hope it may not have less in London. As the picture is of a
    jovial aspect and contains pretty faces, male and female, I
    think the public will find _leur affaire_; the "Romeo and
    Juliet" (also nearly finished) will, though perhaps a better
    picture, probably be less popular from its necessarily serious
    and dingy aspect. Dear Mamma, I am much tickled at your
    comparison between the Campagna and the environs of Bath; it
    is like saying that strawberries and cream are equal and
    perhaps superior to a haunch of wild boar! _l'un n'empeche pas
    l'autre_, but they can never be compared, nor can they answer
    the same purpose. The Sartoris are well; I am there every
    evening of my life.

    The next page is Papa's. Good-bye, dear Mamma. Best love from
    your affectionate and dutiful son,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    _P.S._--My resolution not to dance I have kept (excepting in
    the case of quadrilles), and have avoided making new
    acquaintances, as I intend next winter not to go out at all;
    but if I have no longer agitated the fantastic toe, and have
    acquired a cordial dislike to balls, I have been all the
    oftener to my dearest and best friends, the Sartoris, to whom
    I go about four times a week, and of whose sterling worth it
    is impossible to speak too warmly; at their house also I have
    made several interesting acquaintances; Fanny Kemble (as you
    know), Thackeray, Lockhart, Browning, the authors; Marochetti,
    the sculptor, and so on; as for Mrs. Sartoris, I look upon her
    as an angel, _ni plus ni moins_, and I feel terrified at the
    idea of how much more exacting she has made me for the future
    choice of a wife, by showing one what opposite excellencies a
    woman may unite in herself.

  _To his Father--Part of letter missing._]
                                                            1855.

    It is with very great pleasure that I announce to you the
    completion of my large picture, which I have exhibited
    privately to my English friends and a crowd of artists of all
    nations. You will, I am sure, be gratified to hear that it had
    a remarkable "succès"; artists of whatever school seem equally
    pleased, some admiring the drawing, others the colouring. I
    hope that what I say does not savour of vanity; I simply tell
    it you from a conviction that it is agreeable to you to hear
    what people say of your son, and to anticipate in some measure
    the verdict of a larger public. As for the positive _value_ of
    it, we all know what to think about _that_. It amused me to
    hear that several people compared my picture to the works of
    Maclise, and came to conclusions considerably in my favour.
    Swinton paid me the compliment of requesting to be introduced
    to me, and seemed very sincerely to admire my picture, as also
    a portfolio of leads which I have drawn at different times,
    and which are much admired by everybody.

    Of course you did perfectly right in not dreaming of
    exhibiting Isabel's likeness. Pray do not think from what I
    said about my lengthened stay in Rome, that I undervalue the
    delight of seeing you all again, but still I think that if by
    a little postponement I can have that pleasure without losing
    my spring, it would be better. My idea is to remain in Italy
    till the end of May, and then visiting Paris (to see the great
    Exhibition) on my road to get home by the middle or end of
    June, which will still leave me a long summer's holiday.

This letter from his mother contains the news of Leighton's father's
joy at the success of the picture in Rome:--

                                             _February 18, 1855._

    Now I think of it, you have probably some signs of spring
    about you--how enviable! My dear Fred, I did not compare the
    artistic resources of Bath with those of Rome, well knowing
    that the transparent atmosphere there imparts beauty to the
    country which, without it, might not be remarked; equally
    bright and clear the sky is not in England, but I assure you
    that many parts of the country near us and in Devonshire, and
    doubtless in many other counties, may for beauty challenge a
    comparison with many most admired spots in Italy and
    elsewhere, though the character of the landscape is different.
    Nevertheless, I shall be very glad to see again Switzerland,
    Southern Germany, &c. &c. Pray, dear Fred, if you do go to
    sketch in the Campagna, take care not to expose yourself to
    any disagreeable adventures with Brigands; I _entreat_ you, be
    prudent. Not to tire you with repetition, I have not alluded
    to the success of your picture, but I must tell you that your
    father was radiant with joy as he read your letter and gave it
    into my hands with the words, "That _is_ a satisfactory
    letter." I am curious to know _when_ we shall see your Paris
    picture, and whether we shall winter in that delightful town;
    Papa and I have always wished it. I must just mention, what I
    had nearly forgotten, that a great treat is in store for the
    inhabitants of Bath, as next week Mrs. Fanny Kemble is to read
    some of Shakespeare's plays in public, with appropriate music.
    A great treat is expected. God bless you, love, I can no more.
    Our united affectionate greetings.--Your attached Mother,

                                                     A. LEIGHTON.

                                         ROME, _January 3, 1855_.
                                            (_Recd. January 12._)

    DEAREST MAMMA,--Let me hasten to reassure my poor dear
    progenitor on the subject of his anxieties; if I spoke
    doubtfully and despondently of my performances, it was owing
    to the lively feeling that every artist, whose ideal is beyond
    the applause of the many, must entertain of his own
    shortcomings; once and for all let me beg him never to feel
    any uneasiness on the score of mechanical processes, as in
    such cases one always has the resource of cutting the Gordian
    knot by painting over again the unsuccessful portions, an
    expedient indeed to which I have many a time been forced to
    resort; the result of such failures is called experience;
    through such failures alone one arrives at success. Nor am I
    wanting in the applause of my friends, who all speak in praise
    and encouragement of my works, and it is not a little
    gratifying to me to find that those whose opinions I most
    value are the first to speak favourably of my endeavours; as
    agreeable as is to me this testimony on their part, so
    indifferent am I, and must I beg you to be (for better and for
    worse) to the scribbling of pamphleteers; the self-complacent
    oracularity of these _pachidermata_ is rivalled only by their
    gross ignorance of the subjects they bemaul, and the
    conventional flatness of all their views; I speak without fear
    of being considered partial, as the article which you
    communicate to me contains more of praise than of blame; it
    is, however, my practice never to accept (inwardly) the praise
    of those whose blame I don't acknowledge. I happen to have
    seen other articles from the pen of this same Mister ----, and
    know _à quoi m'en tenir_. The notice on myself I had heard of,
    but not seen. It may amuse you to hear that my draperies have
    been considered (alas!) the most successful part of my
    picture, and I am at present labouring hard to bring the
    heads, &c., _up to them_! In about a fortnight, the large work
    ("Cimabue," the "canvas of many feet") will be, D.V.,
    finished, with the exception of the ultimate glazes and
    retouches; by the end of February, both pictures will start
    for their respective destinations. One thing has caused me
    some annoyance and anxiety; I wrote a month ago (or more) to
    one Mr. Allen, carver and gilder, 31 Ebury Street, Pimlico,
    sending a design of my frame, and requesting him to let me
    know at once what would be the cost of such a frame, whether
    he would undertake it, and asking many questions important to
    me to know; I have received no answer; I therefore must take
    for granted that either he has not received my letter, or his
    answer to me has been lost; now, as there is no longer any
    time to correspond on the subject, I must, on the supposition
    that my letter has gone astray, send another design together
    with an unconditional order to begin at once at whatever cost;
    now I grudge the time of writing a duplicate of my old letter,
    and especially that of drawing a new diagram for his guidance.
    With regard to the price, Fripp, who recommended him to me,
    says Allen is a very respectable man, and will no way take
    advantage of my awkward position; I calculate the frame can
    hardly exceed five and twenty pounds; then there will be the
    bill for exhibiting the picture of which he will take charge;
    I expect that the framing, packing, sending, &c., of the two
    canvases together will cost about fifty pounds "tant pis pour
    moi!"

(Here the letter breaks off.)

  (_Cover_--Madame Leighton,
  9 Circus, Bath, England.)

                                            ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
                                                 _March 2, 1855_.
                                    (_On cover--Recd. April 12._)

    DEAR PAPA,--I received a day or two ago the kind letter in
    which you inform me of the disposition you have made to enable
    me to get the money I want, and for which I sincerely thank
    you; your letter reached me just as I was driving the last
    nail into the coffin of my large picture; the small had been
    disposed of in like manner the day before. Delighted as I am
    to have got them at last off my hands, yet I felt a kind of
    strange sorrow at seeing them nailed up in their narrow boxes;
    it was so painfully like shrouding and stowing away a corpse,
    with the exception, by-the-bye, that my pictures may possibly
    return to my bosom long before the Last Judgment. With regard
    to the success of my picture with its little Roman public,
    nearly all the praise that reached my ears was bestowed
    _behind my back_, so that whether intelligent or no, I have
    good reason to believe it was sincere; indeed, I should not
    else have said anything about it; Cornelius, I am sincerely
    sorry to say, did not see my daubs in their finished state; he
    was prevented by ill-health; however, all the advice he could
    give me I got out of him in the beginning, and indeed, as you
    know, altered about a dozen figures at his request; in points
    of material execution he is utterly incompetent; I am happy to
    say that he feels very kindly towards me, as indeed he told me
    in plain words, and added on one occasion, "Sie können für
    England etwas bedeutendes werden;" I need not tell you that as
    he is altogether without apprehension of the peculiar and very
    great merits of some of our artists, he considerably
    overvalues my (relative) value. You ask for _my_ opinion of my
    pictures; you couldn't ask a more embarrassing and
    unsatisfactory question; I think, indeed, that they are very
    creditable works for my age, but I am anything but satisfied
    with them, and believe that I could paint both of them better
    now; I am particularly anxious that persons whom I love or
    esteem should think neither more nor less of my artistic
    capacity than I deserve; the plain truth; I am therefore very
    circumspect in passing a verdict on myself in addressing
    myself to such persons; I think, however, you may expect me to
    become eventually the best draughtsman in my country; Gibson
    and Miss Hosmer are, as you expect, amongst those who praise
    me, but I warn you that they are both utterly without an
    opinion in matters pictorial. Who is ----? He is, _entre
    nous_, the worst painter I ever saw, but also the greatest
    toady, in virtue of which quality he makes £5000 a year by
    portraying the nobility of Great Britain and Ireland; however,
    towards me he has been very pleasant and nice, and so long as
    there is no lord in the way he is a sufficiently companionable
    person. I certainly feel very little desire to have my
    "Cimabue" hung in the little room you speak of, but I fear
    that I must take my chance with the rest; the fact is that
    although I personally have taken no steps in the matter, still
    "ces messieurs" will not be unprepared for my picture, because
    I know that old Leitch for one will speak to them about it and
    will do everything that is friendly; he even offered to
    varnish it, but _that_ another friend of mine has already
    undertaken. One thing is certain, they can't hang it out of
    sight--it's too large for that. I must leave myself room to
    write afterwards to Mamma....

    ...I am glad that you have made up your mind to not seeing me
    as soon as you expected; indeed I felt sure that when I told
    you all the reasons which concurred to make me prolong my
    stay, you would feel the force of them; I willingly confess,
    too, that I was most strongly biassed on the matter by my
    reluctance to part from my friends, but particularly _her_. I
    am horrified at the use you make of the words "indefinite
    time"; I shall certainly never live long anywhere without
    going to see them, and I trust that our "intimes relations"
    will not cease as long as I live. How sorry I am that I should
    not have known in time that Mrs. Kemble was to read in Bath; I
    should have liked so to introduce you to her; you no doubt
    found her reading a rare treat. How beautiful is the
    "Midsummer Night's Dream" with Mendelssohn's music! This
    reminds me of dear Gussy and _her_ music; I suppose her new
    master is a good one, or she would not have taken him;
    generally speaking I have a sovereign dislike for the
    _engeance_ of _pianistes_ with their eternal jingle-tingles at
    the top of the piano, their drops of dew, their sources, their
    fairies, their bells, and the vapid runs and futile conceits
    with which they sentimentalise and torture the motive of other
    men; we have a specimen here in the shape of the
    all-fashionable ----....

Referring to a lady of his acquaintance, he continues:--

    She has acquired by her melancholy and sometimes haughty moods
    a character for misanthropy which she has not cared to refute;
    but, my good sir, she is DIVORCED! Poor cowards! should they
    not rather gather her to them, and "weep with her that weeps,"
    Bible-wise Pharisees! Your letter is full of thrilling events:
    children born among the Australian flocks of Mr. Donaldson;
    little ----, too, taking to herself a husband--alas for the
    Laird of (probably) Ballyshallynachurighawalymoroo! I must
    think of answering dear Gussy's note, and close with a hearty
    kiss, from your dutiful and affectionate son,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    DEAREST GUSSY,--Many thanks to you for your kind note and for
    the sympathy and interest which you both offer and ask. How
    heartily sorry I am that you should still be persecuted by the
    soreness in your throat, and should be prevented, poor dear,
    from singing; you who have the rare gift of that which is
    unteachable and without which the most brilliant execution is
    dumb to the heart; I mean musical accent. I had hoped that we
    should sing together, but I fear that if the air of Bath has
    such a bad effect on the throat, I shall be invalided as well
    as yourself. What is about the compass of your voice? or
    (which is more important) in what _tessitura_ do you sing with
    least discomfort? that I may see whether anything I sing will
    suit us; unfortunately most part of my limited _répertoire_
    consists of the first tenor part in quintettes and quartettes,
    which are not available for us two. I don't know whether I
    told you that I take a part in Mrs. Sartoris' musical
    evenings, in which I officiate as _primo tenore_; you may
    imagine how great an enjoyment this is to me. Dear Gussy, how
    I wish you could hear _her_ sing! it would enlarge your ideas
    and open out your heart; I am sadly afraid however, that she
    won't winter in Paris, so that if you go there you must make
    up your mind to not meeting her; but if you are in England in
    October she may possibly be there by that time, and you might
    make her acquaintance; if I sell either of my pictures, and am
    "sur les lieux" at the time, I will take you and Lina to town
    at my own expense and introduce you to the dearest friend I
    have in the world; I long for you to know and love one
    another. You ask me whether she is like her sister; in
    _expression_, sometimes, strikingly like; in _feature_, not in
    the least. She is the image of John Kemble, with large
    aquiline nose and the most beautiful mouth in the world, a
    most harmonious head, and, like Fanny, the hair low down on
    her forehead; artistically speaking, her head and shoulders
    are the finest I ever saw with the exception only of Dante's;
    in spite of all this, many people think her barely
    good-looking, because she has no complexion, very little hair,
    and is excessively stout; _you_ will be more discriminating. I
    am amused at Mamma's asking me in her letter whether I know
    why ---- did not know the Sartoris! Pardi! I did not introduce
    them,--in the first place I have been obliged to make a rule
    to introduce nobody to that house, as I should otherwise
    become a nuisance; people have constantly fished for
    introductions knowing my intimacy; but the chief reason is
    that Mrs. Sartoris has the judgment and courage to ask to her
    house nobody but those she _likes_ for some reason or other,
    for which reason her house is the most sociable in the world;
    her "intimes" are a complete medley, from the Duke of
    Wellington down to a poor artist with one change of boots, but
    _all_ agreeable for some reason; I know that she would be kind
    to _any one I_ brought to her, but I also know that the ----s
    would have been in the way and a _corvée_ to her, which fully
    accounts, &c. &c.

    I am delighted, dear Guss, that you have a music master to
    your heart, and that you have been considered worthy to play
    Bach's Fugues, which are indeed monstrous difficult. With
    regard to the pianistic style and the dewdrop-warbling school,
    you need not fear that _I_ should throw sour grapes in your
    teeth about _that_; _franchement_, the ---- after all is
    commonplace enough, and the ----, though pretty, hardly
    deserves such an epithet as beautiful; as for the ----, it's
    just ludicrous. Did you ever hear ---- piano-doodle himself?

    I was rather surprised at the judgment you pass on Fanny
    Kemble's reading; if _anything_ seems at all coarse in it, it
    is occasional bits in the _male_ part, and that only, after
    all, because it is _too_ good and it seems discrepant to hear
    male harsh sounds proceeding from the mouth of a woman. With
    regard to her women, nothing can be more pathetic and touching
    than her Juliet, or indeed all the women I have heard her do;
    there is altogether in her style a certain amount of mannerism
    belonging to the Kemble school, but in spite of all that, it
    is quite unapproachable now and is grand in the extreme; the
    Ghost in "Hamlet" is quite a creation. You seem, like Mamma,
    to apologise almost for expressing an admiration for my
    photograph; do you think, dear, that I don't value your
    sympathy irrespectively of your art judgment? I shall send you
    soon two photographs of portraits that I am now painting; one
    of Mrs. Sartoris, the other of her little daughter May. I must
    close.--With very best love to all, I remain, your very
    affectionate brother,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

The change Leighton made in his picture at the request of Cornelius,
mentioned in his letter to his father, dated March 2, 1855, can be
seen by comparing the pencil sketch of the complete design with the
finished painting (see List of Illustrations). It consisted in his
making the Procession turn at the left-hand corner to face spectator,
instead of filling in this space and giving the required grouping of
lines partly by the foreshortened horse and its rider which we find in
the first sketch. In the Leighton House Collection there is a fine
study in pencil of the undraped figure of the man riding which is not
included in the final design. There are those who remembered the
picture when first painted in Rome, also at the Exhibitions in
Trafalgar Square and Burlington House, who were of opinion that it was
never seen so advantageously as on the occasion when the King lent it
for exhibition in the artist's own studio in Leighton House in the
year 1900, and many seeing it there exclaimed, "Leighton never did a
finer thing;" and, truly, seen, as it was then, placed across the end
of the glass studio under perfect conditions of lighting and
surroundings, the power and originality both in the colouring and
design of the work were very striking and impressive. Leighton's
friends felt specially grateful to the King, for an opportunity having
been afforded for the public to see this early work under such
favourable and appropriate circumstances. During those months when the
picture was shown at Leighton House, it felt as if the very spirit of
the young artist, at the time when he was starting on his notable
career, had returned and was haunting the home of his later years.
From the end of the large studio, looking through the darkened passage
connecting the two rooms, the procession verily looked alive, a
_tableau vivant_--no mere painting.

One of the salient virtues in the composition lies in the happy way in
which the two central figures take a separate important position,
without the moving on of the procession being interrupted nor their
attitudes being in any sense forced. On the contrary, it is by their
absorbed, modest demeanour, which contrasts with the rest of the gay
crowd, talking, singing, and playing musical instruments as it moves
along, that the sense of awe and reverence felt by the two artist
spirits becomes accentuated. These recognise in this public ovation
bestowed on the picture of their beloved "Madonna and Child" the union
of a service offered both to Art and to Religion.

The happiness Leighton enjoyed during the two years when this subject
occupied his thoughts seems to have been reflected in the vigour of
the actual painting. It was evidently finally executed with an
exuberant feeling of satisfaction. Careful studies having been
previously made for every portion, the under-painting itself was, as
he writes to Steinle, completed in one week, and the canvas once
attacked, there appears to have been no hitch in the process of
completion. The happy balancing of masses, the grouping of the
figures, the beauty of the lines throughout the crowded procession are
admirable. The picture was admitted by competent judges to be a work
marked by a distinct individuality, yet possessing "style," a word
which in recent years had been associated in England with art that
lacked vigour and originality, and which flavoured solely of obsolete
grooves and theories. The colour is richer and purer than in
Leighton's earliest pictures, and arranged cleverly so as to give full
importance and value to the beautiful white costume worn by
Cimabue.[34] Sir William Richmond, R.A., writes: "Impressions of early
years are not easily removed. As a boy at school I went to the R.A.
Exhibition, and saw for the first time a work of Leighton's, the
procession in honour of the picture by Cimabue in Florence, 1855. It
stood out among the other pictures to my young eye as a work so
complete, so noble in design, so serious in sentiment and of such
achievement, that perforce it took me by the throat."

Leighton sent a photograph of the picture to Steinle with a letter
dated March 1.

  _Translation._]
                                            ROME, VIA FELICE 123,
                                                 _March 1, 1855_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--Although since my last letter I have had
    no news of you, I cannot pass by this moment, so important to
    me, without giving you intelligence of it. Yesterday I at last
    sent off both my pictures, the large one to London, the small
    one to Paris, with the consignment of the Roman Committee.
    Thank goodness, at last I have got them off my mind! And how
    sorry I am, dear Friend, that I could not put the finishing
    touches to them in your presence! Of the "Cimabue," I send
    you, in two pieces, a very bad photograph, but it is the best
    that could be made within four walls; from it you will only be
    able to judge generally of the grouping, for as regards the
    colour, which comes out so black in the photograph, in the
    picture it is altogether clear and light. You will certainly
    be glad to hear that this work has earned much praise here; I
    promised that you should not have to be ashamed of your pupil.
    The small picture is so dark in effect, that it would be
    impossible to photograph it; but as I suppose you, like all
    the rest of the world, will visit the great exhibition in
    Paris, you can avail yourself of the same opportunity to see
    my daub.

    Gamba is, now as ever, industrious, tireless, conscientious;
    his picture _also_ will be finished in a few weeks, and will
    be a great credit to him; I only wish he had a prospect of
    selling it, but at present the sale of pictures is stagnant,
    especially in Piedmont, where the art-loving Queen-Mother has
    died. He will have to fight hard against the gigantic pedantry
    of the Turin Academy and College of Painters (_Malfacultät_),
    for he paints things exactly as he sees them in nature; God be
    with him! Of course, he sends you heartfelt greetings. Of
    other artistic doings in Rome I cannot tell you much; I think
    I have already told you that I look upon Rome as the grave of
    art; for a young artist, I mean, for whom actively suggestive
    surroundings are necessary. As regards the so-called German
    historical art, that is not much of a joke to me; when men,
    out of pure impotence, throw themselves under the shield of
    noble tendencies, in order to make mistaken efforts to imitate
    the work of other painters, they are simply ridiculous; but
    when men are endowed with fine natural gifts, and nevertheless
    out of sheer queerness and pedantry go altogether astray, then
    I only feel angry. God forgive me if I am intolerant, but
    according to my view an artist must produce his art out of his
    own heart; or he is none.

    Dear Master, I may perhaps pass through Frankfurt on my way
    back (in June); I should like beyond all things to see you
    again, you and your works that are so dear to me. Have you
    painted the "Death of Christ" which pleased me so much? Write
    to me if you have time, and tell me how things go with you.
    Keep a friendly recollection of your grateful, affectionate
    pupil,

                                                  FRED. LEIGHTON.

  _Translation._]
                                               FRANKFURT AM MAIN,
                                                _March 20, 1855_.

    DEAR FRIEND,--My best thanks for your dear lines of the 1st
    and for the photographs, with which you afforded me the
    greatest pleasure. I had an idea that I should receive this
    friendly remembrance, and I hope that you have meanwhile
    received my letter of the 3rd March. I know the difference in
    a photograph of a painting, and the often quite contrary
    effect of the yellow and red, too well to be deceived by a
    dark impression; the masses, their distribution, alike in the
    groups and in the light and shade, the outline of the
    background, most of the single figures, all please me very
    well, and you could not believe how much I rejoice in every
    detail in which I recognise my Leighton, and when I see how
    all these have been achieved so thoroughly by industrious
    study and artistic culture. You have indeed prepared a real
    feast for me, my good wishes in my last letter were quite the
    right ones, and the recognition which you have obtained in
    Rome was certainly well earned. I am convinced that Overbeck
    was heartily pleased with your pictures. It was perhaps my
    imagination, dear friend, when I thought from your letter that
    there was a slight cloud between us, but I think it will be
    torn away when these lines reach you. The fond idea of being
    again able to share your life and artistic work, I must
    relinquish, for I am an exile, and besides cannot make myself
    familiar with your progress as an artist in the Fatherland.
    Shall, then, your stay in Italy be ended by the journey which
    you led me to hope would bring you to see me again? But I
    forget so easily that we live in a world of renunciations, and
    that often when we believe we are disposing, we are disposed.
    My spirit and my love will always, wherever you may be, be
    with you. It occurred to me that probably our excellent Gamba
    would not send his great picture to Paris, and yet I seem to
    have heard that he intended doing so; it appears to me that
    exhibition in Paris would give the picture more importance
    than in Turin; that Gamba would triumph over the academic
    formalities in Turin, I do not doubt in the least. His
    grandmother and all his friends await him here; on a journey
    to Paris?--Now, dear friend, one more request. Ihlée brought
    from Rome some photographic views, with which I and the
    friends who know Rome are truly delighted; the worthy Frau
    Rath Schlosser wishes very much to possess a selection of
    twelve, I myself would like to have at least three, will you
    be so good as to bring them with you in June, and also
    yourself take the trouble to make a really beautiful
    selection? You will oblige me thereby very greatly. I shall
    rejoice excessively to see you again, and wish much that your
    stay in Frankfurt need not be so short. Remember me cordially
    to Gamba, and give my kindest regards to Altmeister Cornelius.
    My wife thanks you for your kind remembrance, and sends many
    greetings. All friends here have bidden me send their best
    wishes to you and Gamba. Adieu, dear friend, always and
    altogether yours,

                                                    EDW. STEINLE.

  _Translation._]
                                          ROME, _April 15, 1855_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--Only a day or two after I sent off my
    letter with the photograph, I received your dear lines, and
    now I have also the letter in which you acknowledge receipt of
    mine, so that I am well off for news of you. All the affection
    and kind sympathy which you express for me has affected me
    deeply, and I look forward with sincere pleasure to the moment
    when I shall be able personally to express my gratitude to
    you; I am also most eager to see the drawings of the
    completion of which you tell me; judging by the sketches, I
    expect great things from this composition, so rich in
    imagination; I saw the first beginnings of it. That you are
    pleased with my photograph rejoices me extremely, but I am
    sorry that you have not mingled some blame with the praise;
    you say that _most_ of my figures please you well; ergo, some
    of them do not; which are they? why not tell me all? do you no
    longer regard me as your pupil? From one part of your letter I
    understand that you think I have had a great deal of
    intercourse with good old Overbeck; that is not so; he and his
    followers one does not see at all unless one belongs to their
    clique; Overbeck has never been within my four walls.
    Cornelius I see less seldom, but not very often; he is a very
    charming old man, so cheerful and friendly, and is of great
    strength; for the rest, he has some little queernesses; he
    said to me once, "Yes, Nature has also her style" (!). Does
    that not bespeak a curious mental development?

    Gamba will not, as it happens, send his picture to Paris, it
    was not ready in time; meantime, it is being exhibited here in
    the Piazza del Popolo, and receives the applause it merits; he
    sends you most cordial greeting.

    Yes, indeed, the years of my "Italian Journey" are now ended!
    It seems but yesterday that we first took leave of one
    another, and you encouraged me upon my setting forth; the
    remembrance makes me sad at heart; I cannot help asking myself
    whether my expectations for these three years have been
    fulfilled: and the question remains unanswered.

    My stay in Italy will always remain a charming memory to me; a
    beautiful, irrecoverable time; the young, careless,
    independent time! I have also made some friends here who will
    always be dear to me, and to whom I particularly attribute my
    attachment to Rome.

    From an artistic point of view I am quite glad to leave Rome,
    which I, _for a beginner_, regard as the grave of art. A young
    man needs before all things the emulation of his
    contemporaries; this I lack here in the highest degree; also
    here I cannot learn my _trade_, and, notwithstanding
    Cornelius, I am of opinion that the spirit cannot work
    effectively until the hand has attained complete pliancy, and
    I cannot see what right a painter has to evade the
    difficulties of painting; Cornelius always says, "Take care
    that the hand does not become master of the spirit," and that
    sounds well enough; however, I see that, in consequence of his
    scheme of development, he has not once succeeded in painting a
    head reasonably, not once in modelling as the _form_ requires;
    and that, with all his magnificent talent! Judge the tree by
    the fruit. How are the frescoes of Raphael painted and
    modelled? and the Sixtine Chapel! the lower part of the "Day
    of Judgment" is in a high degree _colouristic_
    (_Koloristisch_). _Those_ people took nature straight from
    God, and were not ashamed; therefore their art was no
    galvanised mummy.

    I must close. Please remember me most kindly to your wife, and
    to my other friends. For yourself, keep in remembrance, your
    grateful and affectionate pupil,

                                                  FRED. LEIGHTON.

Steinle answers:--

  _Translation._]
                                FRANKFURT AM MAIN, _May 6, 1855_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--Hearty thanks for your friendly note of
    April. The photograph of your picture quite pleases me as it
    is, and if I am particularly pleased with the details, that is
    to cast no discredit on the whole; for a general criticism the
    photograph does not give me sufficient certainty, and I must
    content myself, this time, with expressing the pleasure your
    always well-composed pictures give me. You know your picture,
    and can see more in the photograph than I. What you say about
    Overbeck, Cornelius, and Rome, I understand well, and I am in
    sympathy with much of it; but I am almost beginning to fear
    you, especially as I particularly feel how much I myself am
    wanting in ground-work, how much I myself belong to the same
    evolution as these two men. Custom, circumstances, and the
    tendencies of the times, are often mitigating facts in our
    judgment of these painters; they have fought against things of
    which we no longer know anything, and, as participators in
    their art, we stand, to a certain extent, shoulder to shoulder
    with them; their delicacies are proofs of their struggle, and
    the characteristic of youth becomes in old age principally a
    sign of weakness. Also experience has taught me not to let
    myself be deceived by what is called "cliquiness," I grant you
    that this is not an infallible judgment, which is often to be
    regretted, but people nowadays are weak, and I have found that
    cliques often have a greater tendency for good than those
    judgments which make more noise, a greater outcry than the
    fact warrants. Overbeck has always withdrawn himself too much;
    but now, dear friend, you must attack him on the subject
    before you leave Rome. Kindest regards to Gamba, to whom I
    wish a happy completion of his picture. My wife sends best
    greetings. Always and altogether yours,

                                                    EDW. STEINLE.

We have read in Leighton's letters the effect the "Cimabue's Madonna"
produced on his friends in Rome, and how it was nailed up as "in a
coffin" and despatched from the Eternal City, where it was destined
never to return.

    [Illustration: "CIMABUE'S 'MADONNA' CARRIED IN PROCESSION
    THROUGH THE STREETS OF FLORENCE." 1855
    By permission of the Fine Art Society, the owners of the
    Copyright]

There exists a small long envelope edged with black, stained horny
yellow by time, the head of Queen Victoria on the postage stamp. It
was despatched from England to Rome over fifty years ago. In the
ardent spirit of the young artist who had been eagerly awaiting
tidings of his first great venture, what a tumult of excitement must
the contents of that small envelope have aroused! They brought with
them a conclusive and triumphal end to all arguments with his father
concerning the career Leighton had chosen; they realised the sanguine
hopes of his beloved master, Steinle, and of his other friends; last
not least, they gave him the means and the great happiness of helping
his fellow-artists. To quote again from the record of one who was with
him in Rome at the time: "My husband[35] remembers the departure of
his picture 'The Triumph of Cimabue,' sent with diffidence, and so,
proportionate was the joy when news came of its success, and that the
Queen had bought it. It was the month of May. Rome was at its
loveliest, and Leighton's friends and brother-artists gave him a
festal dinner to celebrate his honours. On receiving the news,
Leighton's first act was to fly to three less successful artists and
buy a picture from each of them. (George Mason, then still unknown,
was one.) And so Leighton reflected his own happiness at once on
others."

  _Translation._]
                                            ROME, 123 VIA FELICE,
                                                  _May 18, 1855_.

    DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND,--As with everything that I receive
    from you, I was delighted to get your dear lines of the 6th;
    one thing only in them grieved me a little, _i.e._ that what I
    said about the German historical painters here seems to have
    rather jarred upon you. Was I then so intolerant in my
    expressions? I hope not. You say that you are almost afraid of
    me. When I spoke to you so freely of the others, was that not
    a plain proof of how completely I except you? You assuredly
    know, dear Master, how and what I think of you, and that I
    ascribe entirely to you my whole æsthetic culture in art. Your
    commission to good old Overbeck I have executed as well as I
    could. I found him much more cheerful and less ailing than
    before. He received me with the greatest amiability; we spoke,
    amongst other things, of you, and I perceived that he had it
    in his mind to go soon to Germany and to spend a couple of
    weeks in Mainz; I should like to be the first to give you this
    good news.

    As for myself, dear Friend, my plans are once more quite
    upset. My father has hastily recalled me to England, and I am
    sorry to say that I must consequently give up going to
    Frankfurt. However, I have not neglected your commission. I
    have chosen the photographs, and you will receive them in the
    beginning of next month, and that by a friend of mine who will
    be passing through Frankfurt, and whom I hereby introduce to
    you. Mrs. Sartoris is my dearest friend, and the noblest,
    cleverest woman I have ever met; I need not say more to secure
    her a cordial welcome from you. She is one of the celebrated
    theatrical family of Kemble. It is now ten or eleven years
    since she left the stage, but she is still the greatest living
    cantatrice.[36]

    You will certainly be glad to hear that on the first day of
    the Exhibition my picture was bought by the Queen.

    I am at this moment in the thick of packing; you must excuse,
    dear Friend, my ending so abruptly. I will write again from
    England.--Your grateful pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    [Illustration: Reproduction of Letter written by Sir Charles
    Eastlake, P.R.A., to Lord Leighton, announcing the fact that
    Queen Victoria had purchased his picture, "Cimabue's Madonna."
    1855.]

So ended the first page of Leighton's life as an artist in the Rome of
the fifties--a very different Rome to that of the present. The
atmosphere was still steeped in those days with a flavour belonging to
the Papal temporal dominion, and the visible life still picturesque
with the costumes and grandeur of mediæval customs.

FOOTNOTES:

[20] See page 83.

[21] Page 97.

[22] Page 26, "Introduction."

[23] "If the Almighty were to come before me, with absolute knowledge
in his right hand, and perpetual striving after truth in his left, I
would fling myself to his left, praying: Father, give! pure truth is
thine alone."

[24] "The Well-Head" (see List of Illustrations), drawn during
Leighton's visit to Venice, and described in "Pebbles," more than
justifies this opinion, for it may be questioned whether any other
drawing he ever made of the kind is as perfectly beautiful.

[25] Miss Laing, afterwards Lady Nias.

[26] See Appendix. Presidential Address delivered by Sir F. Leighton,
Bart., P.R.A., at the Art Congress, held at Liverpool, December 3,
1888.

[27] This modest attitude Leighton took as listener reminds me of the
last time he saw Browning. One afternoon in the autumn of 1888, we were
sitting with Leighton and Browning in the Kensington studio. Browning
showed us photographs of the Palazzo Rezzonico which he had lately
given to his son. The subject turned to a discussion on Byron and
Shelley. Often as I had heard Browning talk well, I never heard him
converse so well as he did on that afternoon. It was no monologue. It
was real conversation, and of the kind that inspires others to do also
their best; but Leighton never uttered, till--when, after an hour or
so, we rose to leave--he exclaimed, "Oh, don't! _do_ go on," and we had
to sit down again. When at last the good thing came to an end, Leighton
conducted us downstairs to his door, where we parted. Browning waved a
farewell from across the road, where he stood for a moment in front of
the little cottages, while Leighton stood in the porch-way of his
house. The next day Browning started on his last journey to Italy--to
die in the Palazzo Rezzonico.

[28] Another old friend of Leighton's, Mr. Hamilton Aïdé, writes: "My
journal 1854-55-56 contains frequent notices of our excursions and long
days spent on the Campagna, and on the hill-sides near the Bagni di
Lucca, where we took out food for mind and will as well as for the
body, and sketched while one of our party read aloud--and also of many
Tableaux at Rome, devised by him (Leighton) to suit the colouring,
character, and grace of certain noble ladies."

[29] It appears that Leighton had been misinformed as to "every girl"
having to pass such an examination.

[30] In Italien auf meiner Wanderschaft
     Hab' ich dies Büblein aufgerafft
     Hab's mit dem Pinsel so hingeschrieben
     Ist mir leider unvollendet geblieben.

[31] The Café Greco still exists, unaltered since the days when
Leighton and Gamba lunched there every day on _macaroni al burro_. I
visited it last May (1906), and heard from the present proprietor that
it continues to be frequented by artists of all countries. He had heard
of the book of sketches, and also that Rafaello had sold it before his
death, but to whom the _Padrone_ could not say.

[32] Of Cervara there is a pencil drawing by Leighton in the Leighton
House Collection, in his earliest style, dated 1856.

[33] Fanny Kemble's answer to these words of Leighton's were:--"Thank
you, my dear Sir Frederic, for the address you have been so good as to
give me. You honour me by remembering any conversation you ever had
with me. I remember one I had with you many years ago, but do not think
you refer to that. You say no word, and you do well, upon the subject
that must be uppermost in both our minds when we meet or hold any
intercourse with each other--our thoughts must be of the same
complexion and could hardly find any expression. Thank you again for
your kindness.--I am affectionately, your obliged,

                                                   FANNY KEMBLE."

[34] Ruskin wrote the following criticism of the picture when it was
first exhibited: "This is a very important and very beautiful picture.
It has both sincerity and grace, and is painted on the purest
principles of Venetian art--that is to say, on the calm acceptance of
the whole of nature, small and great, as, in its place, deserving of
faithful rendering. The great secret of the Venetians was their
simplicity. They were great colourists, not because they had peculiar
secrets about oil and colour, but because when they saw a thing red
they painted it red, and ... when they saw it distinctly they painted
it distinctly. In all Paul Veronese's pictures the lace borders of the
tablecloths or fringes of the dresses are painted with just as much
care as the faces of the principal figures; and the reader may rest
assured that in all great Art it is so. Everything in it is done as
well as it can be done. Thus, in the picture before us, in the
background is the Church of San Miniato, strictly accurate in every
detail; on top of the wall are oleanders and pinks, as carefully
painted as the church; the architecture of the shrine on the wall is
studied from thirteenth-century Gothic, and painted with as much care
as the pinks; the dresses of the figures, very beautifully designed,
are painted with as much care as the faces; that is to say, all things
throughout with as much care as the painter could bestow. It
necessarily follows that what is most difficult (_i.e._ the faces)
should be comparatively the worst done. But if they are done as well as
the painter could do them, it is all we have to ask, and modern artists
are under a wonderful mistake in thinking that when they have painted
faces ill, they make their pictures more valuable by painting the
dresses worse.

"The painting before us has been objected to because it seems broken up
in bits. Precisely the same objection would hold, and in very nearly
the same degree, against the best works of the Venetians. All faithful
colourists' work, in figure-painting, has a look of sharp separation
between part and part.... Although, however, in common with all other
work of its class, it is marked by these sharp divisions, there is no
confusion in its arrangement. The principal figure is nobly principal,
not by extraordinary light, but by its own pure whiteness; and both the
master and the young Giotto attract full regard by distinction of form
and face. The features of the boy are carefully studied, and are indeed
what, from the existing portraits of him, we know those of Giotto must
have been in his youth. The head of the young girl who wears the
garland of blue flowers is also very sweetly conceived."

D.G. Rossetti wrote to his friend, William Allingham, May 11, 1855:
"There is a big picture of Cimabue, one of his works in procession, by
a new man, living abroad, named Leighton--a huge thing, which the Queen
has bought; which every one talks of. The R.A.'s have been gasping for
years for some one to back against Hunt and Millais, and here they have
him, a fact that makes some people do the picture injustice in return.
It was very interesting to me at first sight; but on looking more at
it, I think there is great richness of arrangement, a quality which,
when really existing, as it does in the best old masters, and perhaps
hitherto in no living man--at any rate English--ranks among the great
qualities."

[35] Sir John Leslie.

[36] Mrs. Richmond Ritchie gives a very charming account of her first
introduction in the Rome of those days to Leighton's friend, the great
_cantatrice_, Mrs. Sartoris, in the preface to the edition of "A Week
in a French Country House," published in 1902. Thackeray, Mrs.
Ritchie's father, and Charles Kemble, Mrs. Sartoris' father, had been
old friends. Mrs. Ritchie says: "The writer's first definite picture of
her old friend (Mrs. Sartoris) remains as a sort of frontispiece to
many aspects and remembrances. We were all standing in a big Roman
drawing-room with a great window to the west, and the colours of the
room were not unlike sunset colours. There was a long piano with a bowl
of flowers on it in the centre of the room; there were soft carpets to
tread upon; a beautiful little boy in a white dress, with yellow locks
all a-shine from the light of the window, was perched upon a low chair
looking up at his mother, who with her arm round him stood by the
chair, so that their two heads were on a level. She was dressed (I can
see her still) in a sort of grey satin robe, and her beautiful proud
head was turned towards the child. She seemed pleased to see my father,
who had brought us to be introduced to her, and she made us welcome,
then, and all that winter, to her home. In that distant, vivid hour
(there may be others as vivid now for a new generation) Rome was still
a mediæval city--monks in every shade of black and grey and brown were
in the streets outside with their sandalled feet flapping on the
pavement; cardinals passed in their great pantomime coaches, rolling on
with accompaniment of shabby cocked-hats and liveries to clear a way;
Americans were rare and much made of; English were paramount; at night
oil-lamps swung in the darkness. Many of the ruins of the present were
still in their graves peacefully hidden away for another generation to
unearth; the new buildings, the streets, the gas lamps, the tramways
were not. The Sartorises had fireplaces with huge logs burning; Mrs.
Browning sat by her smouldering wood fire; but we in our lodging still
had to light brazen pans of charcoal to warm ourselves if we shivered.
At my request an old friend, who for our good fortune has kept a diary,
opens one of his pretty vellum-bound note-books, and evokes an hour of
those old Italian times from the summer following that Roman winter. He
tells of a peaceful Sunday at Lucca, a place of which I have often
heard Mrs. Sartoris speak with pleasure; Leighton and Hatty Hosmer and
Hamilton Aidé himself are there; they are all sitting peacefully
together on some high terrace with a distant view of the spreading
plains, while Mrs. Sartoris reads to them out of one of her favourite
Dr. Channing's sermons. Another page tells of a party at Ostia. 'Very
pleasant we made ourselves in a pine wood,' says the diarist; 'I walked
by A.S.'s _chaise-à-porteur_ up the hills later in the evening. She
talked of her past life and all its trials, and of her early youth.'
Mrs. Ritchie in her preface also tells of this 'past life.'

"The Rue de Clichy of which he (Thackeray) speaks was the street in
which Miss Foster lived, under whose care both Fanny and Adelaide
Kemble were placed, when they successively went to Paris. Then each in
turn came out and made her mark, and each in turn married and left the
stage for that world in which real tragedies and real comedies are
still happening, and where men and women play their own parts
instinctively and sing their own songs. Adelaide's short artistic
career lasted from 1835 to 1842, long enough to impress all the
subsequent years of her life. With all the welcoming success which was
hers, there must have been many a moment of disillusion,
discouragement, and suffering for a girl so original, so aristocratic
in instinct, so quick of perception, so individual, '_De la bohême
exquise_,' as some great lady once described her. The following page
out of one of her early diaries gives a vivid picture of one side of
her artistic life: '...Received an intimation that the company who are
to act with me had arrived at Trieste, and would be here at eleven to
rehearse the music. At twelve came Signor Carcano (the director of the
music), and a dirty-looking little object, who turned out to be the
prompter. After they had sat some time wondering what detained the
rest, a little fusty woman, with a grey-coloured white petticoat
dangling three inches below her gown, holding a thin shivering dog by a
dirty pocket-handkerchief, and followed by a tall slip of a man, with
his hair all down his back, and decorated with whiskers, beard, and
mustachios, made her appearance. I advanced to welcome my Adalgisa, but
without making any attempt at a return of my salutation, she glanced
all round the room and merely said, "Come fa caldo qui! Non c'è nessuno
ancora? Andiamo a prendere un caffé," and taking the arm of the hairy
man retreated forthwith. Then came Signor Gallo, leader of the band,
then the tenor, who could have gained the prize for unwashedness
against 'em all--and after half-an-hour more waiting, Adalgisa and the
hairy one returned, and after about half-an-hour more arrived my bass,
and, God bless him, he came clean!

"'We then went to work. Adalgisa could think of nothing but her dog, who
kept up a continuous plaintive howl all the time we sang, which she
assured me was because it liked the band accompaniment better than the
piano, as it never made signs of disapprobation when she took it to
rehearsals with the orchestra. She also informed me that it had five
puppies, all of which it had nursed itself, as if Italian dogs were in
the habit of hiring out wet nurses....'" And again--

"I can remember her describing to us one of these performances, and her
enjoyment of the long folds of drapery as she flew across the stage as
Norma and how she added with a sudden flash, half humour, half
enthusiasm: 'I have everything a woman could wish for, my friends and
my home, my husband and my children, and yet sometimes a wild longing
comes over me to be back, if only for one hour, on the stage again, and
living once more as I did in those early adventurous times.' She was
standing in a beautiful room in Park Place when she said this. There
were high carved cabinets, and worked silken tapestries on the walls,
and a great golden carved glass over her head--she herself in some
velvet brocaded dress stood looking not unlike a picture by Tintoret."




CHAPTER III

PENCIL DRAWINGS OF PLANTS AND FLOWERS

1850-1860


No attempt at an appreciation of Leighton's art would be complete were
it not to include, and even accentuate, the distinct value of the
exquisite drawings of flowers and leaves which he made in pencil and
silver point between the years 1852 and 1860.[37] As regards certain
all-important qualities these studies are unrivalled. I was well
acquainted with the drawings Leighton made for his pictures during the
last twenty-five years of his life, and I had oftentimes heard Watts
express an unbounded admiration for these; but when, looking through
the portfolios of early drawings after Leighton's death, I came upon
these exquisite fragments in pencil, it seemed that I had found for
the first time the real key to the inner chamber of his genius. As
reproductions of the beauty in line, form, and structure--the
architecture, so to speak, of vegetation--nothing ever came closer to
Nature revealed by a human touch through a treatment on a flat
surface.

On December 22, 1852, Leighton writes to his mother from Rome: "I long
to find myself again face to face with Nature, to follow it, to watch
it, and to copy it, closely, faithfully, ingenuously--as Ruskin
suggests, 'choosing nothing and rejecting nothing,'" and it is in this
spirit that he set to work when he filled sketch-books with exquisite
studies of the flowers and plants he loved best. These records of the
joy with which Nature filled his artistic temperament are to some more
truly sympathetic than his elaborate work, for the reason that, while
enjoying their beauty, we come in contact with the pure spirit of
Leighton's genius unalloyed by any sense of intellectual effort. In
his diary, "Pebbles," on August 21, 1852, Leighton writes: "Of the
Tyrolese themselves, three qualities seem to me to characterise them,
qualities which go well hand in hand with, and, I think it is not
fanciful to say, are in great measure a key to, their well-known
frankness and open-hearted honesty. I mean Piety, which shines out
amongst them in many true things, a love for the art, which with them
is, in fact, an outward manifestation of piety, and which is
sufficiently displayed by the numberless scriptural subjects, painted
or in relief, which adorn the cottages of the poorest peasants ... and
last, not least, a love for flowers (in other words, for Nature),
which is written in the lovely clusters of flowers which stand in
many-hued array on the window-sills of every dwelling. The works of
all the really great artists display that love for flowers. Raphael
did not consider it "niggling," as some of our broad-handling moderns
would call it, to group humble daisies round the feet of his divine
representation of the Mother of Christ. I notice that _two plants_,
especially, produce a beautiful effect, both of form and colour,
against the cool grey walls; the spreading, dropping, graceful
_carnation_, with its bluish leaves and crimson flowers, and the
slender, anthered, thousand-blossomed _oleander_." No exact name has
ever been given to the special creed of the artist's religion; to that
condition of the soul which Socrates in Plato's _Phædrus_ declares has
come to the birth as having seen most of truth together with that of
the Philosopher, the Musician, and the Lover. The artist penetrates
further than others can, into the mysteries of Nature's marvels as
revealed through the eye, and he therefore comes in closer union
through the sense of sight with the spirit of the artist of the
infinite, and can gauge better the immeasurable distance which exists
between Divine and human creation, and this is felt more distinctly,
more reverently, when the artist simply copies Nature than when his
own dæmon is taking a part in the inspiring of his inventions.

Leighton writes to his mother when he first reaches Rome in 1852: "I
wish that I had a mind, simple and unconscious, even as a child"; and
we find the evidence in these studies by Leighton of plants and
flowers that his wish, for the time when he was drawing them, was
granted; no intellectual choice nor assumption of scholarly theories
have taken part in their achievement; they are spontaneous echoes of
Divine creations when he was "face to face with Nature," and there is
no reflection of any teaching but hers. Nature and her child have been
alone together. The results are unalloyed expressions of the joy he
felt in pure impersonal revelations of beauty. They are distinguished
because elemental, recording the birth of the ingenuous response of a
human spirit to a superhuman perfection of workmanship. When in such
union of spirit with Nature, the artist-soul enters his most sacred
shrine. An ecstatic joy is kindled by wonder, admiration, adoration,
from which joy is inspired a peremptory impulse to endeavour to
reproduce in his human handicraft the marvels of creation. Such
experiences result from instinctive inevitable conditions, and, coming
from the illumination of genius, belong to a higher level than that on
which the intellect works;[38] no temptations of the personal dæmon
simmer behind and distort the pure vision of Nature, provoking
suggestions which are human of the human--the desire to excel, the
ambition to be first, the love to display individuality. That inner
life, the very core and most vital meaning of Leighton's being, the
life that held revelry with all Nature's beauty, had been enraptured
through the pure innocent loveliness in the flowers. Take, for
instance, the page where he has _explained_ the cyclamen he found at
Tivoli in October 1856, and take a cyclamen, the real flower, and
dissect it. What precious work we find: the ribbed calyx spreading out
from the satin sheen of the stalk to clasp the bulbous swelling at the
root of the petals--brilliant like finest blown glass, each calyx
fringed round with emerald green flutings--inside straw colour dashed
with brown speckles, all this triumph of minute finish just to start
the sail-like petals of the flower itself. What reverence and
enthusiasm was excited in Leighton as he pored over such things is
vouched for by this page (and others similar of different flowers),
exquisite portraits of every view of the cyclamen; faint notes in
writing recording the colours which his pencil failed to do.

    [Illustration: STUDIES OF CYCLAMEN. Tivoli, October 1856
    Leighton House Collection]

    [Illustration: WREATH OF BAY LEAVES.
    Drawn at the Bagni di Lucca, 1854. Leighton House Collection]

Referring to his journey through the Tyrol, in 1852, Leighton writes:
"I had been dwelling with unwearied admiration on the exquisite grace
and beauty of the details, as it were, of Nature; every little flower
of the field had become to me a new source of delight; the very blades
of grass appeared to me in a new light."

Not only his artistic temperament, but also circumstances, had guided
Leighton's instincts into the worship of beauty--beauty such as can be
conceived alone by the artistic temperament--as the divinest element
in creation and one to be reverenced beyond all others; and when "face
to face" with Nature, having no desire but to record that reverence
and worship "ingenuously," he made these incomparable drawings. They
were done solely for the sake of the joy he felt in doing them, and
Leighton certainly never expected any recognition of their beauty by a
future generation. Stray leaves from a sketch-book have been collected
and preserved in the Leighton House Collection, having been extracted
from a mass of old dusty papers. On these pages are exquisite
pencilled outlines of cyclamen, of a crocus, of oleander flowers, of a
bramble branch, of sprays of bay and of plants of the agaves. They are
dated the year after Leighton's great success, 1856, the year of his
failure. In 1854, when he spent the summer at the Bagni di Lucca, he
drew studies of bay-leaves twined into a wreath and festoons of the
vine (see List of Illustrations and design on cover). Three days after
Leighton's death, in a letter to _The Times_ from one who knew him, a
reference was made to this visit to Lucca.[39] This old acquaintance,
who was then seeing him daily for three months, writes, "He was the
most brilliant man I ever met." It was this brilliant entity, this
attractive personality, who spent hours over drawing the flower of a
pumpkin and of a "_faded pumpkin_." Professor Aitchison records how he
found Leighton at work over this drawing.[40] The celebrated "Lemon
Tree," to which Professor Aitchison refers, and of which Ruskin also
writes,[41] though the most renowned of Leighton's drawings of plants,
and doubtless a _tour de force_,--a wonderful achievement,--has not, I
think, the same perfection of charm which many of the earlier, less
complete studies possess.[42] The sketch of a portion of a deciduous
tree[43] is perhaps a greater triumph in draughtsmanship than even the
"Lemon Tree," because the foliage has a frailer and less definite
aspect, and is yet reproduced with an absolute certainty of outline.
The "Lemon Tree," drawn at Capri in 1859, was done for a purpose.
Leighton had a feeling that the pre-Raphaelites ought not to have it
all their own way on the score of elaborate finish and perfection in
the drawing of detail. My first introduction to the "Lemon Tree" was
on an occasion when Leighton and I had had an argument respecting the
principles of the pre-Raphaelite school. He fetched the drawing from a
corner in his studio, and, while showing it to me, said words to the
effect that it was not only the pre-Raphaelites who reverenced the
detail in Nature, and who thought it worth the time and labour it took
to record the beauty in the wonderful minutiæ of her structure. If
sufficient pains were taken, any one, he maintained, who could draw at
all ought to be able to draw the complete detail of every object set
before him. But, for the very reason that the "Lemon Tree" was done
with a further purpose than the mere joy the beauty of Nature excited
in Leighton's æsthetic senses, there is not, I think, quite the same
convincing charm in this drawing as in some other more fragmentary
studies.

In considering this early work by Leighton, it should be borne in
mind, that in those years when it was executed, photography had not
yet given the standard of a finish and perfection in actual
delineation which outrivals every record made by human hand and eye.
Photography has, in these later years, given the proportion and detail
in beautiful architecture, the form of trees, plants, and flowers,
their exquisite delicacy of structure, their grace and intricacy of
line: all this has been secured and pictured for us by the camera;
and, up to a certain point, very precious and truthful are these
memoranda of the aspects of nature and art. Many of us remember the
days when enthusiastic disciples of the wonderful new art of
photography prophesied that no other would soon be needed, and that
the draughtsman's craft would before long cease to exist. And further,
they maintained it only required the discovery of a means to
photograph colour for the painter's art also to be demolished.
Artists, however, knew better. What was valuable in the records of
photography, and what was of most intrinsic worth in the records
created through means of the human hand and eye, were absolutely
incomparable quantities. The treatment of nature in a photographic
picture, however admirable and complete, must always be lacking in the
evidence of any preference, reverence, or enthusiasm--in the sacred
fire, in fact, which inspires the draughtsman's pencil and the
painter's brush. Photography is indiscriminate; human art is
selective, and is precious as it evinces and secures a choiceness in
selection. However truthfully a photograph may record beauty of line
and form in nature, it inevitably also records in its want of
discrimination any facts which may exist in the view photographed;
these counter-balance the effect of such beauty, and mar the subtle
impression of charm which scenes in nature produce on a mind sensitive
to beauty.

    [Illustration: STUDY OF LEMON TREE. Capri, 1859
    By permission of Mr. S. Pepys Cockerell]

    [Illustration: STUDY OF DECIDUOUS TREE.
    Leighton House Collection]

As the vision of the artist which attracts this feeling for beauty
focalises itself in the sight, he naturally perceives but vaguely any
other objects before him; therefore, the facts inspired by such
preference become accentuated, and all their surroundings subordinated
to it. For this reason, also, what is called, somewhat erroneously,
the sculptor's sense of line and form--the sense applying equally to
the treatment of line and form on a flat surface as in the round--is
not so obvious in a photograph as in a good drawing. The eye of one
possessing a gift for drawing transmits to the brain the structure of
an object, not only as it is outlined against other objects, but also
as the different planes of which it is formed recede or advance, slant
one way or another, curve or straighten. To a truly gifted
draughtsman, such as Leighton, there is an absorbing interest in
working out the forms of the objects he sees which delight his sense
of beauty,--of guiding his pencil so that it echoes on the paper the
gratification with which his senses are inspired through his artistic
perceptions. The result will be--that the drawing he produces almost
unconsciously accentuates what has delighted him most in the objects
he is depicting, and, explaining further than does even an actual copy
by photography the element of beauty which has inspired him, carries
with it also an inspiring effect on the spectator: the drawing will
have something in it which affects us as a living influence, an
influence which the most perfect of photographs can never possess. The
actual perspective may be absolutely correct in the photograph--so may
be the placing on the paper of every turn and twist in a bough or a
leaf as regards their outlines; but compared to a beautiful drawing we
feel the want of mind behind it: no human sense has revelled in the
intricacies of growth and foreshortening, no human eye has traced the
exquisite grace and sweep of the curve and the happy spring of the
shoot alive with uprising sap. Just that accentuation which
unwittingly creeps into the human touch, denoting that the
construction of the form has been perceived and appreciated with
delight, is lacking. The line of a pathway rising up on the sweep of
an upland, a line which is always so fascinatingly suggestive, does
not lead you farther over the hill in a photograph as it does in a
little woodcut by William Blake. Just that push and movement is
wanting in the sense of the line which in a really fine drawing gives
it a living quality. Another shortcoming is caused by the inevitable
flattening of tone in a photograph. The brightest light does not
detach itself, the darkest spot, to some degree always, even in the
best print, is merged in the general shadow.

    [Illustration: EARLY STUDIES OF KALMIA, OLEANDER, AND
    RHODODENDRON FLOWERS
    Leighton House Collection]

The idea that photography could supersede the art of the draughtsman
soon exploded. Artists have used photography--some intelligently, as
did Watts--many unintelligently. The illegitimate use of photography,
the endeavour to make the lens do the work which alone the human eye
and hand can effect, was seen in lifeless portraits, painted partly
from the sitter, partly from a photograph. It is natural that any
genuine artist should rebel against such cheapening of his art; and
the deadening effects of relying on photography "to help you out" have
brought about the result that the qualities in art which are furthest
removed from those which it has in common with photography have been
forced to the front, and the grammar of drawing, the groundwork of
nature's structures which the human hand and the photographic lens can
both record, has ceased to be considered as all-important. In
Leighton's work this grammar was in itself developed into a fine art.
By comparing any sketch he made of a leaf or of a flower with a
photograph of the same, this will be evident to any eye that can
appreciate grace and quality in drawing.

The latest phase of using photography to help out the drawing is found
in some modern illustrations where the lens has found the outline, the
right placing of the scene on the paper, the right proportion and
perspective in buildings, and the general light and shade of the scene
for the illustrator--the human hand only coming in to give breadth of
effect, to undo the tell-tale finish of the photograph, and to make it
into what is called "a picture" on the lines of a Turner or a
Whistler.

All these were unknown ways in Leighton's youth, and to the end of his
life he could make no use whatever of photography in his work. He took
a kodak with him once on his travels, but the results were amusingly
negative. "From the moment an artist relies on photography he does no
good," was a statement I heard him make. Leighton believed in no short
cuts. Enthusiasm, labour, sacrifice, renouncement,--these, and these
alone, he maintained, can secure for the artist a worthy success.

    [Illustration: STUDY OF A FADED FLOWER OF PUMPKIN. Rome, 1854
    Leighton House Collection]

    [Illustration: STUDY OF FLOWER OF A PUMPKIN. Meran, 1856
    Leighton House Collection]

    [Illustration: STUDIES OF BRANCHES OF VINE. Bagni di Lucca, 1854
    Leighton House Collection]

    [Illustration: BRANCH OF VINE. Bellosquardo, Florence, 1856
    Leighton House Collection]

There are those who would define genius by describing it as the
faculty for taking infinite pains. But obviously genius is in itself a
power, born of inspiration, which so completely overmasters all other
conditions in a nature, that no labour nor time is taken into account
so long as the impelling force obtains utterance. The inborn
conviction in a nature that it has the power to create, demolishes all
impediments which come in the way to hinder this power from stamping
itself into a form. The necessity of taking infinite pains is but the
natural and inevitable consequence of the burning desire born, who
knows how? in the spirit of those who are blessed with genius, and the
faculty to discern how best to develop it. Leighton, by reason,
perhaps, of the very spontaneity of his own gifts, and also of his
extreme natural modesty, allied to the conscientiousness with which he
carried out his feeling of duty towards his vocation, was apt to lay
more stress on the necessity for taking pains than on the necessity of
possessing the real source of his power of industry. He saw too often
the fatal results of artists depending on talent to achieve what only
talent allied to industry can perform, for him not to accentuate the
all-importance of unceasing labour. He wrote to his elder sister with
reference to one of these fatal results: "I have not seen that young
man's recent work, neither do I hunger and thirst thereafter;
twenty-one years ago, or more, his parents brought me a composition of
his--it justified the highest hopes--it was very ambitious in its
scope (though the work of a child), and the ambition was justified
in the ability it displayed. Nothing that I could have done at his age
approached it. I told his parents so. He ought now to have been a very
considerable artist, to say the least--he no longer even _aims_! He
told me a year or two ago that he had _ceased to design_! He paints
portraits, and twists a little moustache under an eyeglass. He is
_nothing_, as far as the world knows, and I doubt whether he is hiding
himself under a bushel. I fear vanity and idleness have rotted out his
talents. It is a strange and a sad case. I often quote it (without
names) to those who show precocious gifts." His attached friend and
fellow-Academician, Mr. Briton Rivière, writes of Leighton:--

"I have always believed that his ruling passion was Duty--the keenest
possible sense of it; to do anything he had to do as perfectly as
possible, and to be always at his best. He was evidently a believer in
Goethe's maxim that 'an artist who does anything, does all.' In his
own work, in what concerned his colleagues and the outside body of
artists, in fact in everything he did. Nothing easily or passively
done satisfied him; but in every case the decision and action were
brought by care and work--if possible, executed by himself; and no
pressure of time or labour ever made him escape such personal trouble,
or caused him to transfer it to the shoulders of another. This temper
of mind was shown even in small matters, which so busy a man might
well have left for others to do. I think it sometimes injured his own
work as an artist, because, though a great artist can never be evolved
except by years of patient work and strenuous effort to do his very
best always, yet, on the other hand, it is often the happy, easy work
and absolutely spontaneous effort at the moment by such a hand which
is his very best. Such happy, easy work probably Leighton would seldom
allow himself to do, and never would leave at the right moment, but
would still strive to make better and more complete. He must still
elaborate it and try to make it more perfect; and this it was which
made his old friend and enthusiastic admirer, Watts, sometimes say
"how much finer Leighton's work would be if he would admit the
accidental into it."

I remember once casually remarking to Leighton how much easier writing
was than painting. He answered quickly but seriously--quite
impressively: "Believe me, nothing is easy if it is done as well as
you can possibly do it." This was Leighton's creed of creeds. Whatever
genius or facilities an artist may possess, he must ignore them as
factors in the fight. He must possess them unconsciously--the whole
conscious effort being concentrated on surmounting difficulties, not
on encouraging facilities.

To return to the subject of this chapter. It would be obviously
unreasonable to attempt to compare slight studies of plants and
flowers, however precious, with finished important works of art such
as "Cimabue's Madonna," "A Syracusan Bride," "Daphnephoria," "Captive
Andromache," "The Return of Persephone," or, in fact, with any of
Leighton's well-known paintings--or indeed with those masterly studies
of the figure and draperies in black and white chalk, drawn for his
pictures, or when he was seized with the beauty of an attitude while
his model was resting. These, though executed in a few seconds, are
true and subtle records of the perfection in the form and structure of
the human figure, proving the existence of a knowledge and of a sense
of beauty which Watts declared were unrivalled since the days of
Pheidias. The later masterly studies of landscape in oil-colour which
formerly lined the walls of his Kensington studio, in which can be so
truly discerned the distinctive colouring and atmosphere of the
various countries where they were painted, also are greater as
achievements than the pencil drawings. Nevertheless, when studying
Leighton's genius with a view to gauge rightly its power and also its
limitations, it is, I maintain, essential to take into account these
direct studies from Nature, made with the object solely of following,
watching, and copying her faithfully, ingenuously, "choosing nothing
and rejecting nothing," but into which crept unconsciously the
undeniable evidence of his native gifts. As proofs of spontaneous
power in the quality of his genius, they refute much unjust criticism
which has been hurled at Leighton's art since his death. Sir William
Richmond wrote[44]:--

"That term of abuse and of contempt, trite now, on account of the
mannerism of its constant adoption by ephemeral critics, and sometimes
adopted by poorly equipped artists, 'academic,' has been most
unjustly, in its derogatory sense, applied to Leighton's art.

"In point of fact, it is academic, but only in the good sense of being
highly educated, very scientific, and restrained. And in that sense it
is a pity that there is not more of such academic art. The bad sense,
wherein such criticism is applicable, being justly advanced towards
work that displays no inspiration, no originality, that is correct and
commonplace, balanced without enthusiasm, adequate without reason, and
accurate without good taste in the choice of beautiful and expressive
gestures, forms, and colours, and is preoccupied and narrow."

It is probably the restraint, the science, the high education in
Leighton's finished pictures which have provoked unsympathetic critics
to endeavour to demolish Leighton's reputation as a great artist. To
these, such qualities would seem to deny the existence of any
sensitiveness, any spontaneity in his art. They have asserted that it
is cold, dry--academic. For the reason that science, calculated
effects, style, and high education--qualities rarely found in modern
English art--are evident in Leighton's pictures, they conclude that
the painter is possessed of no intuitive genius. They take essentially
a British, a non-cosmopolitan standpoint from which to preach. They do
not take into account the standard towards which Leighton was ever
aiming. He may not have attained the goal towards which he worked, but
the nature of that goal should be understood and recognised before any
criticism on his work can pass as intelligent and just; and these
exquisite drawings of flowers and plants come to our aid in confuting
sterile estimates of Leighton's art, which deny any other elements but
those which can be acquired by painstaking and teachable qualities.
Here are records of Nature complicated by no intellectual choice, no
academic learning, no results of high education; and what is the
result? an undeniable evidence of the finest, most tender
sensitiveness for beauty, resulting in a complete and perfect
rendering of the subtlest forms of growth. When "face to face" with
Nature, Leighton's æsthetic emotions were keen enough and
all-sufficient to create these perfect records, as later in his life
he created unrivalled drawings of the human figure in even more
spontaneous and certainly more rapid strokes of his pencil, and
landscape sketches which prove undeniably his gifts as a colourist;
but it may be questioned whether his æsthetic emotions had as great a
_staying_ power as those qualities of heart and brain which made
Leighton a great man, independent of the position he held as a great
artist. His sensibilities were of the keenest; the agility and
vitality of his brain power were quite abnormal. As Watts wrote, a
"magnificent intellectual capacity, and an unerring and instantaneous
spring upon the point to unravel." It seemed, however, that this
vitality and agility did at times run away with that more abiding
strength of æsthetic emotion which impregnates the very greatest art
with a serenity, a sublime atmosphere,--an emotion which denotes a
mood in which the artist has been steeped throughout the creation of a
work, from the first moment he conceives it to the moment when he puts
the last touch to the canvas, and affects the actual manipulation of
the pigment. The above criticism applies only justly to certain of
Leighton's works. In many of his paintings the poetic motive which
inspired their invention,--their mental atmosphere,--governs the
achievements throughout, though doubtless these works also would have
had a more convincing effect as art had the surface possessed a more
vibrating quality. Among those pictures in which form, colour, tone,
and expression are completely dominated by their poetic meaning are
"Lieder ohne Worte," a lovely, though youthful, work; "David;"
"Ariadne," a picture little known, but in some respects perhaps the
most poetic Leighton ever painted; "Summer Moon" (Watts' favourite
Leighton), "Elisha Raising the Son of the Shunammite," "Winding the
Skein," "Music Lesson," "Antique Juggling Girl," "Dædalus and Icarus,"
"Helios and Rhodos," "Golden Hours," "Cymon and Iphigenia," "The
Spirit of the Summit," "Flaming June," "Clytie" (unfinished).

    [Illustration: "ARIADNE ABANDONED BY THESEUS; WATCHES FOR HIS
    RETURN. ARTEMIS RELEASES HER BY DEATH." 1868
    By permission of Lord Pirrie]

    [Illustration: "ELISHA RAISING THE SON OF THE SHUNAMMITE." 1881]

    [Illustration: "DÆDALUS AND ICARUS." 1869
    By permission of Sir Alexander Henderson]

No aspect of his own work was a secret from Leighton. No one knew
better than he did his own limitations, or why it was necessary to
keep himself in hand by methods of procedure in his painting which he
could guide by his ever present intellectual acumen. He wrote to his
father on March 2, 1855, having just completed the two pictures,
"Cimabue's Madonna" and "Romeo": "You ask for _my_ opinion of my
pictures; you couldn't ask a more embarrassing and unsatisfactory
question; I think, indeed, that they are very creditable works for my
age, but I am anything but satisfied with them, and believe that I
could paint both of them better now. I am particularly anxious that
persons whom I love or esteem should think neither more nor less of
my artistic capacity than I deserve--_the plain truth_; I am therefore
very circumspect in passing a verdict on myself in addressing myself
to such persons; I think, however, you may expect me to become
eventually the best draughtsman in my country."

A biographer's obvious moral duty is to aim at presenting impartially
"the plain truth," following Leighton's lead in not desiring to give
either a more or less favourable view of his capacities as an artist
than they deserve. On May 7, 1864, Leighton writes in a letter to his
father and mother: "I had a kind note this morning from Ruskin in
which, after criticising two or three things, he speaks very warmly of
other points in my work and of the development of what he calls
'enormous power and sense of beauty.' I quote this for what it is
worth, because I know it will give you pleasure, but I have _not_ and
_never shall have_ 'enormous power,' though I have some 'sense of
beauty.'" Leighton remained ever far from being contented with his own
work. "I alone know how far I have fallen short of my ideal," he says,
many years later, to the old acquaintance of the Lucca days. He had
studied under the shadow of the great masters; and though never an
imitator even of the greatest,[45] he had set himself a standard of
supreme excellence, more easily approached under the conditions in
which artists worked in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth
centuries than it possibly could be in those of the nineteenth. With
respect to his power of draughtsmanship and his natural sense of
beauty, Leighton knew his place was among the greatest. His
appreciation and love of colour were also far keener than those
possessed by the average artist. He felt nevertheless that he lacked
the inevitable and continuous force which alone gives "_enormous
power_" and ease to the craftsman, when he deals with work on a large
scale, and which carries with it the absolutely convincing effect of
the world-renowned art of the past. Realising that the "enormous
power" was not there because the ever conclusively propelling force
was lacking, perhaps owing partly to the want of robust health, and
also doubtless from the scattering of his powers in many directions to
which he was drawn by a sense of duty, Leighton, in working out the
designs of his large pictures, clung all the more resolutely to the
exercise of that system which he had adopted, and which many of his
friends--Watts and Briton Rivière among the number--thought tended to
cramp his genius. He was not sufficiently sure of himself to admit the
"accidental" into his work.

    [Illustration: "CAPTIVE ANDROMACHE." 1888
    The Corporation of Manchester]

    [Illustration: STUDY IN COLOUR FOR "CAPTIVE ANDROMACHE." 1888
    By permission of Mrs. Stewart Hodgson]

    [Illustration: "WEAVING THE WREATH." 1873]

    [Illustration: "WINDING THE SKEIN." 1880
    By permission of the Fine Art Society, the owners of the
    Copyright]

    [Illustration: "MUSIC LESSON." 1877
    By permission of the Fine Art Society, the owners of the
    Copyright]

Some critics have, however, gone beyond the mark in emphasising this
characteristic of Leighton's methods. One writes: "Deliberateness of
workmanship and calculation of effect, into which inspiration of the
moment is never allowed to enter, are the chief characteristics of the
painter's craftsmanship. The inspiration stage was practically passed
when he took the crayon in his hand; and to this circumstance probably
is to be assigned the absence of realism which arrests the attention."
This statement is contrary to many which I have heard fall from
Leighton's own lips. He constantly drew my attention to the fact--a
fact on which he laid great stress, and of which many models were
witnesses--that he _invariably_ recurred to Nature in the later stages
of his pictures, in order to imbibe renewed inspiration from the source
of all his æsthetic emotions--Nature. Any one who carefully studies
Leighton's pictures will find evidence of this in the works themselves,
in the accessories no less than in the principal figures. During the
exhibition of some thirty of Leighton's finest paintings at Leighton
House in 1900, I was daily more and more impressed by the fact that
the final touches in those pictures had been inspired by the actual
subtlety of Nature's aspects, and transmitted to the canvas by the
artist direct from the objects before him without conscious
calculation. Very obviously was this the case not only in the principal
features of the design--the countenances and the hands and feet of the
figures--but in such details as the flowers, fabrics of draperies,
carpets, mother-of-pearl inlaying, found (for instance) in "A Noble
Venetian Lady," "Summer Moon," "Sister's Kiss," "Weaving the Wreath,"
"Winding the Skein," "The Music Lesson," "Atalanta." In all these
pictures exists the internal convincing evidence contradicting the
statement that "the inspiration stage was practically past when he took
the crayon in his hand." This, however, did not obscure in some of
Leighton's large finished pictures undoubted evidences of arrangements
and calculated effects, which are not over-ruled by an art which
conceals them, by the art which disguises art,--the clenching force of
the inevitable. The beauty of line, the grouping of masses, the
"composition" evident in the posing of the figures--admirable and
unlaboured as all these arrangements are--not infrequently lack this
convincing sign of the inevitable. It is too obvious that they have
been chosen by the intellectual taste of their maker. When Goethe was
expatiating on Shakespeare and comparing his genius with his own, he
said, as a proof of his own inferiority, that he knew well how every
word was made to come in its place, but with Shakespeare they came
without Shakespeare knowing.[46] Leighton, like Goethe, was conscious
that his genius could not vie with the greatest in the world--the
genius he was able to appreciate as Goethe did Shakespeare's; but he
also knew, as did Goethe, exactly the place his own art ought to take;
he knew that in his sense of style--which, in its true meaning, is the
echo of Nature in her choicest, noblest moods,--in his sense of the
beauty of the human structure, in his power of draughtsmanship, his
work was superior to that of any of his contemporaries in England. The
fact of the greatness of Leighton's powers in some directions
challenges a comparison between his work and that of the giants of old
who possess enormous power in all directions. No one knew so well as
did Leighton the place he must take when he entered the lists with the
giants: "I have _not_ and _never shall have_ 'enormous power.'" He
writes in 1856 from Paris to his Master, Steinle:--

  _Translation._]
                                           PARIS, RUE PIGALLE 21.

    MY GOOD AND DEAR FRIEND,--Accidentally I had an idle morning
    when I received your dear letter, and therefore answer it
    immediately. With your usual modesty you put aside all that I
    say of goodness and love, but I repeat it unweariedly.
    Steinle, my good Master, if in this insincere world I have an
    unfeigned, pure feeling, it is my warm gratitude and love for
    you; and the time when I bloomed, gay and full of hope, in
    your garden will light me through life like a sunny spot in
    the past; and I yield myself to this feeling the more
    confidently, since I _know_ that I am under no delusion in it.
    I have fairly strong insight, and know exactly what I owe to
    you, and for what I have to thank nature; I can already
    appraise my moderate natural gifts; but I know also that these
    gifts received _through you alone_ the impression of _taste_
    that can alone make them effective, and that in your hands
    they were refined as in a furnace. An English painter seldom
    lacks fancy and invention, but _taste_, that which forms and
    embellishes the raw material, _that_ is almost always wanting
    with us--and it is you I must thank for the _little_ I
    possess.

To flatter was an impossibility with Leighton. He paid every artist
the respect of believing he desired the same sincerity shown in the
criticism of his work that he,--Leighton,--wished when his own was
judged, and with which he judged it himself. A remarkable feature in
his character was the power he had of retaining so secure a hold on
his own standards of excellence without for a moment losing his
individual self-centre, yet at the same time possessing that of
entering sympathetically into the view of other artists--a view often
quite contrary to his own--and generously acknowledging every merit
that could by any possibility be extracted from their work. Mr. Briton
Rivière writes: "The intensity of his own personal belief was well
known to himself. He once said to me, in reference to a clever picture
which he greatly admired for some of its qualities, that he could not
really enjoy it, owing to its careless drawing. On another occasion,
when at Mr. Russell's sale I had bought a very vigorous study by Etty,
and Leighton was quite enthusiastic about its colour and painting, he
said, 'But I could not bear it on my wall, with that drawing,' and he
laughed at himself for this strictness, and said, 'I know that I am a
prig about drawing.' However, not only did this never blind him to the
claims of another kind of art, but I think he was even more keen to
recommend for approval the work of any school of painting for which,
personally, he had no particular liking or sympathy. 'It is not
whether you or I like it, but what it is on its own merits,' was a
favourite warning of his to any rapid opinion expressed on a picture.
To any one intimately acquainted with his own real views and opinions
it was sometimes surprising to find how well he realised the
intentions, and put himself in the place, of some artist who had
produced something very foreign to his own point of view, and quite
repugnant to his beliefs. This is not a common quality among artists,
whose critical tolerance is often in an inverse ratio to the firmness
of their own particular creed of art faith; and it was one of the many
qualities which marked Leighton out as so admirably fitted for the
Presidency."

Leighton was, undoubtedly, an absolutely competent critic of his own
art; and the fact that his principles had been inspired by a
spontaneous and sincere reverence and admiration for the creations of
artists whom time has crowned as the greatest in the world, and that
with his critical faculty he perceived in what measure he had
succeeded in following in their steps, enabled him to gauge with
absolute justice the merits and shortcomings of his own work, compared
with that of his contemporaries. Whatever those shortcomings were,
certain it is that they did not arise from an absence of those natural
gifts which are the outcome of emotional sensitiveness, nor from a
want of intense feeling for the beauty of Nature, nor from a poverty
of invention. The theory that his art was solely the result of his
having an abnormal power of industry and of taking pains--a theory
which has been advanced many times since Leighton's death--cannot hold
good for a moment with those who impartially study his work from the
beginning of his career. The spontaneity of the impulse to produce in
every born artist is described in the following passage from
Leighton's first discourse, when President, to the students of the
Royal Academy, December 10, 1879, and the description is obviously
drawn from his own personal experience: "The gift of artistic
production manifests itself in the young in an impulse so spontaneous
and so imperative, and is in its origin so wholly emotional and
independent of the action of the intellect, that it at first and for
some time entirely absorbs their energies. The student's first steps
on the bright paths of his working life are obscured by no shadows
save those cast by the difficulties of a technical nature which lie
before him, and these difficulties, which indeed he only half
discerns, serve rather to whet his appetite than to hamper or
discourage him; for his heart whispers that, when he shall have
brushed them aside, the road will be clear before him, and the
utterance of what he feels stirring within him will be from
thenceforward one long unchecked delight. This spirit of spontaneous,
unquestioning rejoicing in production, which is still the privilege of
youth, and which, even now, the very strong sometimes carry with them
through their lives, was indeed, when Art herself was in her prime,
the normal and constant condition of the artistic temper, and shone
out in all artistic work. It is this spirit which gave a perennial
freshness to Athenian Art--the serenest and most spontaneous men have
ever seen. And when again, after many centuries, another Art was born
out of the night of the Dark Ages, and shed its gentle light over the
chaos of society, this spirit once more burst through it into flame.
All forms of Art are alike fired with it. Architecture first, exulting
in new flights of vigorous and bold creation; then Sculpture; last,
Painting, virtually a new Art, looked out on to the world with the
wondering delight of a child, timidly at first, but soon to fill it
with the bright expression of its joy. Those were halcyon days; the
questions, 'Why do I paint?' 'Why do I model?' 'Why should I build
beautifully?' 'What--how--shall I build, model, paint?' had no
existence in the mind of the artist. 'Why,' he might have answered,
'does the lark soar and sing?'"

Though his direct study from Nature mostly took the form, in later
years, of sketching in oil colour views in the different countries in
which he travelled, Leighton showed to the end of his life his great
delight in flowers by continuing to make sketches from them. In 1895,
at Malinmore, he was fascinated by the sea-thistle, and there are four
pages in a sketch-book devoted to rapid sketches of the plant,
_callantra_, which he made there. Notes are written on the first
sketch indicating the colours. It is interesting to compare the early
pencil work executed between 1850 and 1860 with that of forty years
later. Though the handling may be different, there is the same
complete sense and enjoyment of the wonderful architecture of plants
and flowers obvious in both.[47]

    [Illustration: STUDY OF SEA THISTLE. Malinmore, Ireland, 1895
    From Sketch-book]

    [Illustration: STUDY OF SEA THISTLE. Malinmore, Ireland, 1895
    From Sketch-book]

    [Illustration: "RETURN OF PERSEPHONE." 1891]

    [Illustration: STUDY IN COLOUR FOR "RETURN OF PERSEPHONE." 1891
    By permission of Mrs. Stewart Hodgson]

FOOTNOTES:

[37] See Appendix, Vol. II., description in Preface to "Catalogue of
the Leighton House Collection."

[38] An artist who was a great flower lover, when relating her
experiences, maintained that it was in the revelation, to her
perceptions, of the infinite perfection of the structure and form of
one flower, that she had realised in her own nature a more intimate
recognition and response to that of the Creator of the Infinite than
had ever been elicited by any church services or creeds, or even, in
fact, by the most sublime scenery. In one small flower she had found an
epitome of the wonders and beauties of all creation, so focussed as to
be grasped closely, and responded to, from the innermost intimate
recesses of her nature with a joy unspeakable.

[39] See Appendix, Vol. II., Preface to "Catalogue of the Leighton House
Collection."

[40] See Appendix, Vol. II., "Lord Leighton, P.R.A., Some
Reminiscences."

[41] Appendix, Vol. II.

[42] Ruskin was mistaken in thinking that the "Lemon Tree" and the
"Byzantine Well" are of the same date. The former drawing was made in
1859, the latter seven years earlier in 1852 (reproduced facing page
80), and is referred to in his diary, "Pebbles." I think this is the
most beautiful drawing of the kind I have ever seen.

[43] See List of Illustrations.

[44] See Appendix, Vol. II.

[45] See letter to Steinle, page 188: "...God forgive me if I am
intolerant; but according to my view an artist must produce his art out
of his own heart, or he is none."

[46] "I remember hearing him (Wordsworth) say that 'Goethe's poetry was
not inevitable enough.' The remark is striking and true; no line in
Goethe, as Goethe said himself, but its maker knew well how it came
there. Wordsworth is right; Goethe's poetry is not inevitable; not
inevitable enough."--Preface to "Poems of Wordsworth," chosen and
edited by Matthew Arnold.

[47] Knowing that Leighton was a frequenter of the Kew Gardens, I asked
Sir W. Thiselton Dyer to write me his recollections of him, which he
most kindly did in the following letter:--

                                         KEW, _January 11, 1906_.

    DEAR MRS. BARRINGTON,--My acquaintance with Lord Leighton was
    only beginning to ripen into intimacy when he unhappily died.
    His somewhat grand seigneur manner at first a little alarmed
    me; but when I had broken through his reserve, I became, like
    every one else, much attached to him.

    He used often to dine in evening dress at a small table behind
    a screen at the door of the coffee-room at the Athenæum. In the
    corner adjoining this is a round table known as Abraham's
    Bosom, as it was once frequented by Abraham Hayward. Here, on
    Royal Society days, we often had a lively scientific party.
    Leighton often found it impossible to keep aloof, and joined in
    the fun.

    I found Sir Frederic, as he was called, was well known to our
    men as a visitor to Kew. He used to drive down in his victoria
    in the afternoon and take a solitary walk. I only myself came
    across him once. I had taken some trouble to get a fine show of
    the old-fashioned Dutch tulips known as Bizards and Byblomen. I
    found Leighton one day absorbed in the enthusiastic
    contemplation of them. There were certain combinations of
    colour which completely fascinated him. I remember that he
    particularly admired a purplish brown with yellow and a reddish
    purple with cream-colour. Both were, I think, in the "key" that
    particularly appealed to him. He was very anxious to have them
    in his garden in London, and we gave him a little collection,
    with directions how to grow them. What was the result I never
    heard.

    I then suggested that, as it was a lovely spring day, I should
    take him a walk. He assented, and we sent his carriage round to
    the Lion Gate, nearest to Richmond. I took him through the
    Queen's Cottage grounds to show him the sheets of wild
    hyacinth. He admitted their beauty, but remarked that the
    effect was not pictorial.

    That, I think, was Leighton's point of view. With an intense
    feeling for beauty, he had little or none for Nature pure and
    simple. His art was essentially selective, and I think he took
    most pleasure at Kew in the more or less artificial products of
    the gardener's art. What he sought was subtle effects of form
    and colour. Personally, I appreciate both ways of treating
    plants. I am always at war with artists for their undisciplined
    and mostly incompetent treatment of vegetation: drawing and
    anatomy are usually defective to an instructed eye, such faults
    would be intolerable in the figure. Their presence robs me of
    much pleasure in looking at Burne-Jones' pictures. I imagine he
    mostly made his plants up out of his head. Ruskin, with all his
    talk, was both unobservant and careless. Millais, on the other
    hand, though I am not aware that he ever had any botanical
    training, by sheer force of insight paints plants in a way to
    which the most fastidious botanist can take no exception. One
    can actually botanise in his foreground of "Over the Hills and
    Far Away," yet there is no loss of general pictorial effect.
    The plant drawing of Albert Dürer, Holman Hunt, and Alma
    Tadema, though more studied, is absolutely satisfying to the
    botanist. Sir Joseph Hooker has always complained that the
    Royal Academy has never given any encouragement to accurate
    plant drawing. Yet I have heard Sir William Richmond say that,
    as a student, he made hundreds of careful studies of
    plant-form, and that he knew no discipline more profitable. I
    remember remarking to an Academician that I thought that in
    this respect the competition pictures of the students reached a
    higher standard than that of the average May Exhibition, and he
    admitted that that was a possible criticism.

    Leighton aimed at beauty by selection and discipline. Millais
    in his later work looked only to general effect and balance,
    but as to detail was content to faithfully reproduce, and did
    not select at all. This explains the admiration which I believe
    Millais had for Miss North's work. Both produced admirable
    results, but they were of an essentially different kind, though
    equally admirable.

    But whenever Leighton introduced plant-forms, it was penetrated
    by his characteristic thoroughness and perfect mastery of what
    he was about. I am myself a passionate admirer of the
    Gloire-de-Dijon rose. I remember telling Leighton that I did
    not think that any one had ever painted it with such consummate
    skill as he had. I am told, and quite believe it, that his
    pencil studies from plants are as fine as anything that has
    ever been done.

    Leighton rendered us a very great service on one occasion. Miss
    North's pictures were painted on paper, roughly framed, and
    simply hung by her on the brick walls of her gallery. They soon
    began to rapidly deteriorate. I appealed to L. for advice. I
    was, I confess, astonished to receive from him a full, precise,
    and business-like report, pointing out exactly what should be
    done, and who was the proper person to do it. The gallery was
    to be lined with boarding, the pictures were to be properly
    framed, cleaned, lightly varnished, and glazed. The report was
    at once accepted by the office of works, the work was
    successfully carried out, and no trouble has been experienced
    since.

    In his turn, Leighton sometimes appealed to me. This was
    notably the case when he was painting his "Persephone," which I
    frankly told him I thought was the most beautiful picture he
    had ever painted. He had been in Capri, and had seen on the
    rocks a blue flower which he wished to introduce into the
    foreground. We made out what it was, and sent him tracings from
    plates and sketches from herbarium specimens. These did not
    satisfy him, and he ultimately sent to Capri for the living
    plant. He worked hard at it, and, I do not doubt, produced a
    very beautiful piece of colour.

    That year I dined at the Academy. "Persephone" hung over
    Leighton's chair, and was the subject of one of the few really
    witty remarks I ever heard in an after-dinner speech. But then
    the speaker was Lord Justice Bowen.

    But his beautiful foreground was all gone. Leighton, and I
    think he was right, thought it destroyed the balance of his
    colour scheme, and painted it out. But I have always felt sad
    to think of the beautiful work that lay buried there.

    When he died, we felt very sad at Kew. He had always been so
    lovable and disinterested. We decided to send some tribute to
    his funeral, but to avoid what was commonplace. So we sent a
    large wreath of bay, introducing, in the place of the
    conventional berries, single snowdrop flowers. The result was
    dignified and, I think, adequate. At any rate, the Academicians
    thought so, if, as I have been told, they placed the wreath by
    the coffin on the hearse on its way to St. Paul's.

    I walked back with Lord Redesdale, one of Leighton's most
    intimate friends, who had come up from Batsford to attend.
    There was a great gathering at the Athenæum. I sat next
    Millais, already himself stricken with death, and whom I never
    saw again.

    I am afraid all this will not be very helpful to you, but my
    pen ran on to tell you all I could of a good, great, and brave
    man, whom it was an honour to have known.--Yours always
    sincerely,

                                             W.C. THISELTON DYER.




CHAPTER IV

WATTS--SUCCESS--FAILURE

1855-1856


It was in the summer of 1855, in consequence of his father having
summoned him suddenly back to England, that Leighton first became
known as a notable person to the London world. His picture of
"Cimabue's Madonna" had preceded him, and gave him an introduction to
the art magnates; while the fact that the Queen had bought it of the
young and, till then, unknown artist, raised the curiosity of those to
whom the intrinsic value of the work was insignificant, compared to
its having received this mark of Royal approval. Hanging on the walls
of the Academy throughout the season and being much talked about, the
picture, combined with the painter's charming personality, won for him
at once a prominent position. His friends of the happy Roman days,
however, remained the nucleus of his real intimacies. As can be
gathered from his letters, he had already in Rome felt general society
to be fatiguing and unremunerative, the interest in it never having
compensated him for the physical exertion and weariness it entailed.
Health--and a more or less stolid temperament--are requisite in order
to combat, with any satisfaction, the wear and tear of late hours, and
contact with mere acquaintances and strangers whose personalities
carry with them no special interest. Leighton found no pleasure in
such intercourse sufficient to overbalance its sterility, for he
possessed neither robust health nor much equanimity of temperament.
He could enjoy with ecstasy those things which delighted him, but
had little of that even current of patient contentment, the normal
condition of those who can tolerate cheerfully--and even with
pleasure--the herding in crowds with mere acquaintances. Circumstances
combined in making Leighton's disinclination to indiscriminate
visiting often misunderstood. His extreme vitality when in company,
his notable gifts as a talker and as a linguist, the high social
standing of many of his most intimate friends, naturally gave the
impression that he was made for the sort of success which is the aim
of many living in the London world. That he never availed himself of
all the opportunities that offered themselves was considered by many
as a sign of conceit and superciliousness. Nothing could have been
farther from the truth. That he was ambitious for Art to take her
legitimate position on the platform of the world's highest interests
is certain, and that he resented the position which was but too often
accorded in England to her earnest votaries, and had a keen
discernment in tracing evidences of self-interest and snobbish
proclivities in those who would have patronised him, is no less
certain; but that Leighton himself was ever personally otherwise than
the most modest of men, all who really knew him can attest. To
whatever class in society a man or woman might belong, whether a Royal
or a quite humble friend--once a friend, Leighton gave of his very
best and worthiest. No time or trouble would he spare in such service;
though he was too eager a worker, and felt too keenly a responsibility
towards his calling for him to allow any moment of his life to be
frittered away by claims which were not in his eyes real or of any
serious advantage to others.

    [Illustration: "CUPID WITH DOVES"
    Decorative work with gold background. About 1880]

It was during this summer that he made the personal acquaintance of
Ruskin, Holman Hunt, Millais, and Watts. While in London he found a
home with his mother's relations, Mr. and Mrs. Nash, in Montagu
Square, for whose affectionate kindness he was ever grateful. It was
while staying there that Watts and he first met, or rather on the
pavement outside the house. Watts recounted how he had ridden one
afternoon to Montagu Square, and having asked for Leighton, the artist
himself came out to greet him. Watts was much impressed at the time,
he said, by the extraordinary amount of vitality and nervous energy
which Leighton seemed to possess. This acquaintance thus begun was
continued for forty years.[48]

As regarded Art, the supreme interest in the lives of these two famous
painters, their relations remained intimate to the end of Leighton's
life. Before Leighton definitely settled in London, Watts invited him
to show his work in the studios of Little Holland House, which
invitation he gratefully accepted. In a letter to his mother Leighton
writes: "Watts has been exceedingly amiable to me; the studio is at my
disposal if I want to paint there. I am still of opinion that Watts is
a most marvellous fellow, and if he had but decent health would whip
us all, if he does not already."

It is interesting to trace the influences which developed alike in
Leighton and Watts, the feeling for form which in both artists is
analogous to that of the Greek. Before going to Italy, Watts had
studied the perfection in the work of Pheidias in the Elgin Marbles, a
perfection rediscovered by Haydon; and a visit to Greece later only
confirmed his conviction that the Pheidian school of sculpture made a
higher appeal to his artistic sense than did any other. That was "_the
indelible seal_" which, in the case of his brother artist, had been
stamped on Leighton's artistic nature through the guidance of his
master, Steinle. When Watts lived in Italy, from the year 1843 to
1847, he found that it was the work of Orcagna and Titian that
appealed most to his imagination, and to his sense of form and
colour--Orcagna's great conceptions, which struck notes stranger and
more widely suggestive than those dictated and restricted by special
religious creeds; Titian, the glorious Titian of the Renaissance,
whose sense and modelling had the breadth and bloom of Pheidian art,
and whose colour was triumphant in qualities of richness and subtlety
combined. The pure beauty in the early religious painters made a much
slighter and less personal appeal to Watts during those four years he
lived in Italy.

It was in Italy, when a child of twelve, that Leighton drank a deep
draught from the fountain-head of mediæval and modern art; and this
established once and for all the high standard towards which he ever
aimed. But though his true artistic preferences were aroused at this
early age, the full and complete passion for his calling was not
developed till he met his master some years later in Frankfort.
Belonging to the brotherhood of Nazarenes, the early religious Italian
art appealed more strongly than any other to Steinle; and, doubtless,
the earnest study Leighton devoted to Duccio, Cimabue, Giotto,
Buonfigli, Perugino, and Pinturicchio, and the delight he took in
their work, was originally started by Steinle. The following list,
which exists in Steinle's handwriting, of the paintings which he
wished Leighton specially to study in Florence is evidence of this.

  _Translation._]

FLORENCE

  _St. Croce._--The choir by Angiolo Gaddi, pupil of Giotto. The
      chapel on the right by his uncle, Taddeo Gaddi. The altar
      by Giotto himself, in the sacristy the Taddeo Gaddi, in the
      refectory the Last Supper, all by Giotto.

  _St. Marco._--Outside Fiesole, where particularly should be seen
      in the cloister-cell and choir-stalls a Last Supper by
      Ghirlandajo.

  _St. Maria Novella._--The choir by Domenico Ghirlandajo, chapel
      by Giovanni and Filippo Lippi, a Madonna in marble by
      Benedetto da Majano, the great Madonna of Cimabue. The Hell
      and Paradise of Andreas Orcagna. Opposite the court of this
      chapel grey in grey by Dello and Paul Ucello; from the court
      into the Capello dei Spagnola, to the left the picture by
      Taddeo Gaddi; all the rest by Simon Memmi.

  _Capella di St. Francesco_, by Dom. Ghirlandajo.

  _St. Ambrogio._--Fresco by Cosimo Rosetti.

  _St. Spirito._--Built by Brunelleschi; altar-pieces by Filippo
      Lippi and Botticelli.

  _Al Carmine_, dei Massacio's.

  _St. Miniato._--Chapel by Aretino Spinello.

  _Palazzo Riccardi._--The lovely chapel by Benozzo Gozzoli.

  _In the Chapel of the Foundling Hospital._--Beautiful
      altar-piece by Ghirlandajo.

After visiting Padua, Siena, Perugia, Assisi, however, the pupil
became a keen admirer of this early art, independently of any
influence other than the inherent beauty, dignity, and purity of the
feeling in the works themselves.[49] Moreover, the natural sympathy
which Leighton felt for the art of Greece, discovered in this early
Italian work records of her influence, and that, in a very striking
manner, it was allied to that of the great ancients. In his Academy
address of 1887 we find this alluded to in the following passage:--

    "The production, both in sculpture and painting, of the middle
    period of the thirteenth century has a character of
    transition. In painting, the works, for instance, of Cimabue
    and of Duccio are still impregnated with the Byzantine spirit,
    and occasionally reveal startling reminiscences of classic
    dignity and power, to which justice is not, I think,
    sufficiently rendered. In sculpture, the handiwork of Nicolo
    Pisano is full of the amplitude, the rhythm, and virility of
    classic Art. I see in it, indeed, the tokens of a new life in
    Art, but little sign of a new artistic form--it is not a dawn;
    it is an after-glow, strange, belated, and solemn. In the Art
    of Giotto and the Giottosques, the transformation is
    fulfilled. It is an art lit up with the spirit of St. Francis,
    warm with Christian love, pure with Christian purity, simple
    with Christian humility; it is the fit language of a pious
    race endowed with an exquisite instinct of the expressiveness
    of form, as form, but untrained as yet in the knowledge of the
    concrete facts of the outer world; an art fresh with the dew
    and tenderness of youth, and yet showing, together with this
    virginal quality of young life, a simple forcefulness
    prophetic of the power of its riper day. Within the outline of
    these general characteristics individuality found sufficient
    scope."

Even when this transformation is fulfilled in the frescoes of Giotto,
any intelligent study of his art at Padua and Assisi, while keeping in
mind the manner in which Pheidias felt and treated the human form in
his sculpture, would prove to the student how distinctly visible is
the link between the ancient and this mediæval art; though the fact of
the latter being fired with an ecstasy of spiritual emotion of which
the Greek had no experience, may disguise the link where feeling in
art is of more interest than form. There is the same detachment of one
form from another, each being given its full expression and
intention--which induces a feeling of simplicity and serenity in the
greatest work. The form of the head is not smudged into the throat,
nor the throat into the chest, nor the chest into the arms. Even in
the smallest Greek coin or _intaglio_ of the best period this separate
individuality of form in each part of the human frame is accentuated,
and with it a sense of size and breadth. The same fundamental
principles also, adhered to by the great Greek workmen in their
treatment of drapery, is to be traced in the work of Giotto.

    [Illustration: "IDYLL." 1881]

    [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MISS MABEL MILLS (THE HON. MRS.
    GRENFELL). 1877]

But the great Greeks did not invent the beauty they immortalised, any
more than did Leighton and Watts; the Pheidian school intuitively
chose the noblest form it found in nature.[50] The notable gift
with which nature endowed the artists of the Periclean epoch consisted
of eyes to perceive, and taste to _prefer_, the form which,
intrinsically and most convincingly, inspires admiration in those
imbued with the finest sense of beauty--not a gift to invent something
new and different from nature. In like manner the gift nature bestowed
on Leighton and Watts was the same, a perception and a preference for
noble form; and in this choice they had been educated by legacies from
Pheidias and his school, but only so far as these legacies induced
them to seek and perceive in nature herself the elements of such
nobility. In painting the magnificent head and shoulders entitled
"Atalanta,"[51] or the reclining figures in "Idyll,"[52] Leighton
copied as directly from nature as when he painted the portrait of
"Miss Mabel Mills,"[53] where a similar beauty of form in the throat
existed as in Miss Jones, who sat for "Atalanta" and "Idyll." When
Watts painted his superb "Lady with the Mirror," one of his really
great achievements, it was the model before him whose beauty he was
recording, though his own sense in recognising it had been further
inspired by his study of Pheidias. We need not go out of England to
find types which are as completely noble as are those in the most
inspiring art ever created, but the sense as a rule is wanting in
English artists to select and to prefer such nobility.

Leighton writes to a friend in 1879:--

    "I have just remembered a circumstance which might be worth
    mentioning: I painted pictures in _an out-of-door top light_
    and with realistic aims (of course, subordinate to style) in
    the old Frankfurt days before I came over here, and long
    before I heard of 'modern' ideas in painting. In this,
    perhaps, more than in anything, the boy was the father of the
    man, for it is still the corner-stone of my faith that Art is
    not a corpse, but a living thing, and that the highest respect
    for the old masters, who are and will remain supreme, does not
    lie in doing as they did, but as men of their strength would
    do if they were now (oh, _derisim_!) amongst us."

Leighton taught Watts to appreciate the Greek inheritance to be found
in early Italian art; and I have frequently heard Watts comment on the
evidence of this legacy in Giotto's work. Watts, by ventilating the
results of his studies of Pheidian art with Leighton, and analysing
the elemental principles on which it was grounded, aided his brother
artist in securing a faster hold on the sources of his individual
preferences.

No two characters could have been more dissimilar than those of Watts
and Leighton, no two men could have led more different external lives;
Leighton's great and varied gifts requiring for their full exercise
the whole area of life's stage, Watts' genius demanding seclusion, and
days undisturbed by friction with the outer world. Watts' first and
great object in life was to preserve his work, and to bequeath it to
his country, which he, happily for his country, was enabled to do;
Leighton's object was to complete a work as far as industry and his
gifts would enable him to complete it, then--as he would say--"to get
rid of it and never see it again; but try to do better next time"! The
one was frank, free, courageous; the other almost morbidly
self-depreciative, sensitive, and timid. All the same, no two workmen
could have had more sympathy with one another in their true aims and
aspirations, or more mutual admiration for each other's artistic
gifts.

    [Illustration: "VENUS DISROBING FOR THE BATH." 1867
    By permission of Sir A. Henderson, Bart.]

    [Illustration: "PHRYNE AT ELEUSIS." 1882]

Watts, to his credit, had from his first acquaintance with Leighton
discerned that "the unusual position" which Leighton undoubtedly held
from his first appearance in the London world to the day of his death,
was due to the possession of unusual gifts, exercised in a very
unusually generous and public-spirited manner, and not to reasons
invented by those who were envious of this prominent position.

Watts wrote to Leighton after they became neighbours in Kensington:--

    "I have been worrying myself by fancying you rather
    misunderstood the drift of my observations respecting the
    value of social consideration to a professional man, that I
    meant to imply you sold your pictures in consequence of the
    unusual position you undoubtedly hold; knowing me and my
    opinions as you do, you could hardly think so, yet poets and
    artists are proverbially sensitive beings. I know I am myself
    to a degree that could hardly be imagined, though not with
    regard to opinion of my work; I am resigned, if not contented,
    to preserve what I can do for posterity, conscious that no
    other judgment can really be worth anything; I am very often
    unhappy, thinking that after all the best I can do may not be
    worthy of being brought before the great tribunal at all; but
    I do not allow myself to brood over the subject more than I
    can help. However, I do not attempt to deaden the keen dread I
    have of giving pain or offence, and am really miserable when I
    think I have done so, or been unjust; I don't think I am often
    the latter, but I may by clumsiness fall into the former
    regrettable position. I should grieve indeed if any word or
    deed of mine should ever be offensive to you, for you know me
    to be always yours most sincerely,

                                                         "SIGNOR."

Immediately on his arrival from Italy Leighton paid a visit to his
family at Bath, arriving on May 24. He returned to London shortly
after, where his family joined him on June 15, and the introduction so
long desired by Leighton took place between his parents and sisters
and his great friends, Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris. In December 1854
Leighton's mother had written: "How delightful to see you again, and
perhaps we may spend the next winter together, but of that I am
uncertain. In England we shall not be, and both Papa and I incline to
Paris, but Gussy has an anxious desire to go to Berlin. The Sartoris'
being in Paris would be a strong inducement to us to go there, as we
very much wish to make your friends' acquaintance, and we should most
likely meet at their house agreeable people. I am exceedingly sorry I
overlooked Mrs. Sartoris' friendly message, which I have since
discovered in your former letter. Pray offer her my best compliments,
and assure her I consider her great kindness to you gives her a claim
upon my sympathy, and I shall rejoice to have an opportunity of giving
her this assurance in person."

In February his mother wrote: "I hope you will not long be separated
from your friends the Sartoris when you leave Rome. We all sincerely
desire to become acquainted with the valued friends of whom we hear so
much."

Later his father wrote: "With regard to your reasons for remaining at
Rome during the spring, you have this time at least the best of the
argument. If there were no other than your wish to give more tangible
form to your gratitude to your kind friends, the Sartoris, it would be
sufficient, to say nothing of the drawings from M. Angelo and
Raphael."

And in the same cover his mother says: "I feel, with your father,
great satisfaction at your undertaking a likeness of Mrs. Sartoris--I
hope it may prove a satisfactory one. Give our love to Mrs.
Sartoris." Leighton's younger sister kept a diary in those days.
Written in this are notes which describe the keen appreciation which
she and her family felt for her brother's friends. "In fact she is, as
Fred says, an angel. She seems very fond of him, as she might be of a
younger brother.... She is very stout, high coloured, and has little
hair. But the shape of her mouth is very fine, the modulations of her
voice in speaking are exquisite. She is a creature who can never age,
and before whose attractions those of younger and prettier women must
always pale." "August 1855.--Fred returned to Bath to stay with us a
little while. Beautiful drives together. So generous in giving me
several volumes of poetry." "Sept.--Left us to go to Paris."

    [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MRS. ADELAIDE SARTORIS
    Drawn by Lord Leighton for her friend Lady Bloomfield, 1867
    By permission of the Hon. Mrs. Sartoris]

While in London Leighton wrote the following to his master, Steinle:--

  _Translation._]
                                   10 MADDOX STREET, BOND STREET,
                                                    LONDON, 1855.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--At last I am able to write to you again.
    When I sent off my last letter to you I was busily packing for
    my journey; now I have been already six weeks in England, and
    it seems a year since I left Rome. I scarcely need tell you,
    dearest Friend, that at first, in this London hurly-burly, I
    hardly knew whether I was standing on my head or my heels: I
    will not say that this condition has not had a certain charm.
    I have made several acquaintances, have been cordially
    received, and have had considerably more praise for my picture
    than it deserves. However, I have already set seriously to
    work again, and expect shortly to commence upon a new
    composition. It is a real grief to me, dear Master, to have to
    work without your guidance.

    My _succès_, here in London, which, for a beginner, has been
    extraordinarily great, fills me with anxiety and apprehension;
    I am always thinking, "What can you exhibit next year that
    will fulfil the expectations of the public?" When I have
    settled anything definitely, I shall report to my master in
    Frankfurt.

    Now, however, as regards the photographs. Owing to unforeseen
    circumstances, Mrs. Sartoris (whom I introduced to you in my
    last letter) was obliged to alter the plans of her journey,
    and will not leave this for Germany until the middle of
    September. What now? Will you wait so long, or shall I seek an
    opportunity to send you your seven things?

    And now, my Friend, how are you occupied? Do you still sparkle
    with beautiful inventions? Tell me all that you are doing. I
    had a delightful surprise recently when I saw your long
    expected "Court Scene" in Paris; it is a charming composition.
    I tell you nothing of the great Paris Exhibition, for you
    naturally will not neglect to see a thing so excessively
    interesting; it throws light upon a great many things. If only
    you could come in September! then we could meet again and
    renew old times a little; it would be very delightful. I
    should like extremely to arrange something of the kind with
    you; we should certainly agree very well.

    Remember me most kindly to your wife and my old friends in
    Frankfurt, and keep in mind your loving pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

In a letter to his mother, before she arrived in London, Leighton
refers to Ruskin's criticism when comparing his "Cimabue's Madonna" to
Millais' "Rescue":--

                                                          LONDON.

    I do wonder at the critics: will they never let "the cat die"?
    What Ruskin means by Millais' picture being "greater" than
    mine, is that the joy of a mother over her rescued children is
    a higher order of emotion than any expressed in my picture. I
    wish people would remember St. Paul on the subject of hateful
    comparisons: "There is one glory of the sun, and another glory
    of the moon, and another glory of the stars, for one star
    differeth from another star in glory."

    I spent last night an evening that Gussy would have envied me.
    We (I and the Sartoris and one or two others) were at Hallé's,
    who is the most charming fellow in the world.

    [Illustration: STUDY FOR PORTION OF FRIEZE, "MUSIC" (not carried
    out in final design). 1883
    Leighton House Collection]

Having sent his "Romeo" picture to Paris, Leighton was not quite
unknown to the art world when he arrived there in September 1855. The
"Cimabue's Madonna," hanging on the walls of the Royal Academy in
London, and this picture being shown at the great International
Exhibition in France, he can fairly be said to have entered at the age
of twenty-four the arena where he competed with the first artists in
Europe. By a mistake the "Romeo" picture was hung in the Roman instead
of the English section in the International Exhibition. The following
extract appeared in a publication at the time, and gives the unbiassed
criticism of one who was unknown to Leighton:--

    "Strange it may seem, but such is the fact, that of the
    thirteen canvasses she (Rome) has sent on this occasion to
    sustain her credit, that which for intrinsic merit takes the
    lead--in which soul for expression and true artistic feeling
    are conspicuous, is due to the pencil of an
    Englishman--Frederic Leighton, _né à Scarborough, élève de
    Mons. Edouard Steinle de Frankfort_. The subject of this
    picture--and it is a fine one--is the reconciliation of the
    Houses of Montagu and Capulet over the bodies of Romeo and
    Juliet. Let us hope that his native country may hear and see
    more of so promising an artist as Mr. Leighton."

And again:--

    "When these lines were written on the other side of the
    Channel, Mr. Leighton had already sent his 'pencil's' first
    representation to the Royal Academy, causing therein not a
    little surprise, fluttering the dovecots in Corioli. We beg he
    will construe our sincere anticipations into a hearty
    welcome."

In the early days of September 1855, Leighton was in Paris preparing
to settle in for a winter's hard work. The following letters to his
mother and father and to Steinle were written soon after his arrival.
In that to Steinle, Leighton alludes to the serious work he has
before him, in painting "The Triumph of Music":--

                                HÔTEL CANTERBURY, RUE DE LA PAIX,
                                                  _Sunday, 1855_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--Though I have, of course, nothing to tell you
    yet, still, as it is Sunday morning, I send you a few lines as
    a token of continued vegetation. Paris is bright and warm and
    sunny, and contrasts incredibly with the murkiness of London.
    I have already set to work to look for a studio, but shall
    have great difficulty in finding one, and shall have to pay
    about 1500 francs per annum _unfurnished_; my furniture I
    shall of course hire, not buy--_ci vuol pazienza_.

                                                HÔTEL CANTERBURY,
                                                _Saturday, 1855_.

    DEAR PAPA,--When one has bad news to swallow, there is nothing
    like taking the bull by the horns and engulphing the dose at
    once: this is the bull to be swallowed, horns and all. I have,
    after great trouble and manifold inquiries, taken _the only_
    studio that at all suited me, and for that I give
    _unfurnished_ 150 francs a month. It is enormous, but
    unavoidable; nor have I been at a disadvantage from being an
    Englishman, for two artists of my acquaintance, one a
    _Parisian_ just returning from Rome, the other a Frankfurter,
    have seen precisely the _same_, and only the same, studios as
    I did. It is the dearth of studios and the great demand for
    them that makes the price so high. Those who have had studios
    some time of course pay very much less, others put up with
    little holes far too small to paint a picture of any size.
    Carlo Perugini is painting in the studio of a friend, and that
    is a strip not large enough for one person. There was only
    _one_ studio which I could for a moment think of besides this
    one I have taken, and that costs infinitely less; but not only
    was it too small--it had been built _this_ summer, and is not
    yet finished painting, feels cold and damp, and would no doubt
    have laid me up with the rheumatism.

    I have been advised and actually assisted in everything by
    Hébert, who is a friend as well as an old acquaintance, and
    than whom nobody knows the resources of Paris better. He took
    me about to get my furniture, &c., and I am happy to say that
    I have bought everything, including ample bedroom and table
    linen, crockery, and knives, spoons, &c., all under £30. I
    have quite a little _fond de ménage_; this is the only cheap
    thing I have done in Paris, everything is exactly as dear as
    London. It certainly _is_ lucky I sold my picture.

    My frame cost, with time and trouble of exhibition, 320
    francs.

[Portion of letter to his father.]

                                       21 RUE PIGALLE, _Tuesday_.

    I have nothing whatever to tell you, except that I have just
    finished a head of Carlo Perugini (for myself), which is the
    best thing of the kind I ever did. It has not interfered with
    my picture, but has stopped up unavoidable gaps. I have got H.
    Wilson[54] to teach me the Conture Method--_à fin d'avoir taté
    à tout_. Conture paints well in spite of his method, which
    might easily lead to superficial mannerism. The best _dodge_
    is to be a devil of a clever fellow.

    Will you do me a _great_ favour--for my friend Hébert, to whom
    I am under great obligations? If you can get me for him _any_
    Greek classic (if Homer, all the better) in the _same edition_
    as my _Brumek's Anacreon_ with _Latin notes_, I shall be much
    obliged. Hébert wants very much to have any such work.

  _Translation._]
                                           21 RUE PIGALLE, PARIS,
                                  _Saturday, September 29, 1855_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--At last I find the long-desired
    opportunity to send you the photographs; our old Gamba has
    undertaken to convey them to you. How I envy him the pleasure
    of seeing you again, dear Master! You, on your side, will
    certainly have great pleasure in seeing your old pupil again.
    He is just the same as ever; rather more of a beard, and
    broader shouldered, but still quite the old Gamba. He will be
    able to tell you that we have cherished your memory with love
    and reverence, and are always proud to call ourselves your
    pupils.

    I should like to describe to you what I am painting now, but
    the subject I have chosen is such an absolute matter of
    sentiment, that your imagination might well paint something
    quite different, in comparison with which my picture might
    subsequently suffer; I would rather wait until I can send you
    a photograph. It is a picture with only four figures, but
    life-size. I stand in alarm before the blank canvas. One
    learns gradually to understand that one really can do nothing.

    The photographs in the portofolio with my writing on them are
    yours; I hope they will please you. You must accept them as a
    little memento of my Italian hobbledehoy-hood.

    Remember me respectfully to Madame Steinle, to my other
    friends "tante cose."

    Keep me in remembrance.--Your grateful pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

Again to Steinle he writes:--

                                           PARIS, RUE PIGALLE 21.

    No one could sympathise better than I with your melancholy
    loneliness in the hermitage of Frankfurt; in that air an
    artist breathes with difficulty; I confess I should be
    entirely paralysed by the lack of models and other resources
    in Frankfurt; one all too easily loses sight of the infinite
    importance of a complete material representation, which is
    always the special mark of the _artist_; I often see with
    amazement how even quite clever people behave in this respect.
    It has quite a plausible sound if one says (such a fellow as
    Strauch, for example), "Away with materialism! Pfui! The great
    artist is he who has the most ideas!" Stop, my little man! do
    you not feel what a store of artistic cowardice lies behind
    your words? Ah, behind so broad a shield you can elude all the
    difficulties of your work! He who has the most _ideas_ is
    first only as the greatest _poet_ or even _philosopher_! He
    only is an _artist_ who can _set_ his ideas _forth_. _Art_
    means the power to do; undoubtedly the idea is the source, the
    achieved is art; but an _idea_ completely _embodied_ can no
    more exist without the _artist_ power than a thousand ideas
    that are only muddled away by agitated incapacity!

    I gladly let myself go on such matters to you, for I know that
    we are of one mind regarding them, and it does one good to
    pour out one's heart a little for once.

    I hear, with particular interest, that you are painting the
    little picture of the Madonna that you composed twenty-three
    years ago in the diligence when you were travelling to Italy;
    it is a very good thing. I imagine a lovely landscape in the
    background; an oleander, rich in starry bloom; grey olives and
    stately cypresses wave in the distance; soft violets nestle on
    the bank of the cool water, and gaze with earnest eyes out of
    the whispering grass. On the still bosom of the stream sleep
    white blossoms, which have flown down when the winds breathed
    on the limes, and see, in a secret nook in the shade of the
    lovely _Himmelsglocken_, the strawberry bed from which the
    black-eyed John will peep at the treasures. Above, in the
    branches, many-coloured birds frolic, and chase one another,
    and flit through the grove, in harmonious, song-rich flight.
    And the Madonna! how tenderly and lovingly she looks down upon
    the two playing children! Have I described your picture?

    In order to send it to England (and how delighted I should be
    to see it) you should, so much I know from personal
    experience, cause your picture to reach the Royal Academy
    (without fail) on the first of April; I believe that influence
    is no use at all, for the Academicians are very autocratic; I
    will, however, obtain all the information in good time. I, who
    was even more totally unknown in England than you, have
    refrained, by the advice of my friends, from applying to _any_
    person, and have left my pictures entirely to themselves.

    Now I must close this immoderately long letter. It seems not
    impossible to me that I may pass through Frankfurt next
    spring, then we will have a good long gossip together, won't
    we?

    Till then, keep in warm remembrance your English pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

It is clear that Paris lacked the charm which Italy had for Leighton.
Parisians have been compared to the Greeks with respect to the
peculiarly _fin_ and agile manner in which they can exercise their
intellects; and so far Leighton might have been expected to fit in
happily and with enjoyment to himself into their life. But though he
felt a great respect and admiration for the genuine artistic sense
which the French undoubtedly possess as a nation, Leighton, no less as
a man than as an artist, was more Greek than is any typical Parisian.
He viewed the beauty of nature from a less circumscribed standpoint,
his emotions were excited with a more ingenuous spontaneity and less
from a _parti-pris_ attitude than, as a rule, are those of the French
artist. Paris was too artificial to appeal strongly to Leighton's
taste. As with the Greeks, grace and charm in the form of living as in
Art was a necessity to his well-being; but he found more natural
expression of such grace and charm in the unsophisticated Italian than
among the artificial and more highly finished manners of the
Parisians. We never read of the eager longing to be in France that
Leighton's letters show when it was a question of a return to Italy.
Also Paris does not appear to have suited his health. He writes to his
mother after living there some weeks:--

                                    21 RUE PIGALLE, _Sunday, 21_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--I observe in a general way that the climate of
    Paris is very exciting to my nerves--infinitely more than
    Rome. The life I lead is one of unprecedented regularity and
    absence of any kind of excess, yet sometimes in the evening,
    when I have lit my lamp and my fire and sit down to work, I
    can neither play, nor read, nor draw, nor do anything for five
    minutes together for sheer restlessness and fidgets. That
    sleep, too, that used to be the corner-stone of my
    accomplishments and the pillar of my strength, is not by any
    means what it was--_non sum qualis eram!_

    The Sartoris have not changed their plans more than five or
    six dozen times since you saw them. They are now staying in
    the country with the Marquise de l'Aigle, Edward's sister.
    They will be here at the beginning of November and stay
    _three_ months--ooray! Lady Cowley is, I believe, not yet come
    back. I see a great deal of Herbert Wilson here. He has with
    him, too, an arch-brick of a friend, a naval captain whom I
    like most particularly. I am painting his head for practice
    and for him--he is a fine specimen of an English sailor.
    About learning by heart, don't you think it will be a great
    waste of my very little eyesight to read the same thing over
    and over again until I know it?

                                    21 RUE PIGALLE, _October 26_.

    My health, to return to the eternal refrain, is just what it
    was. I shall find very little difficulty in giving up coffee
    or tea after dinner, as I never take either; indeed, of late I
    have given up wine, beer, gin, and other spirituous liquors as
    utterly exciting and damnable. Nothing makes me sleep as I
    used except going to bed late, and as I am always either
    sleepy, tired, or fidgety in the evening, I very seldom get
    beyond ten o'clock.

    Carlo Perugini, whom I saw to-day, sends "tante cose" to his
    cousin. He is a charming boy, most gentlemanlike, and has that
    peculiar childlike simplicity which belongs to none but
    Italians.

    [Illustration: SKETCH IN WATER COLOUR FOR TABLEAUX VIVANTS,
    "THE ECHOES OF HELLAS."
    Leighton House Collection]

Leighton's friendship with Brock and the French sculptor Dalou began
in these autumn days of 1855. He also made the acquaintance of
Whistler, whose etchings he admired greatly. The work of Jean François
Millet also delighted him no less than that of Corot.

His sister's diary contains the following notes: "November 25.--We
arrived at Paris. Our dear, handsome Fred was here to meet us.
December 1.--Fred comes to see us daily, though sometimes only for
five minutes. He is pale and coughs a good deal; it makes us uneasy.
He often comes to dinner. Presents to us on New Year's day. Took me to
the Conservatoire. Always generous. We went often to Mrs. Sartoris in
the evening."

It was in Paris that Leighton probably first enjoyed to the full the
culture of his instincts for the drama. Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris remained
in Paris during the winter and spring, and Mr. Henry Greville arrived
there on February 28th, 1856.

Extracts from his published diaries give a picture of the _milieu_ in
which Leighton's hours of relaxation from work were spent:--

                                   27 RUE DU FAUBOURG ST. HONORÉ,
                                       _Saturday, March 1, 1856_.

    I left London on Thursday with Flahault and Charles, and after
    a smooth passage slept at Boulogne and came on here yesterday.
    After dining _tête-à-tête_ with the excellent doctor (the
    Hollands dined out), I went to Adelaide Sartoris', where I
    found Herbert Wilson, Leighton, and other young and
    good-looking artists, and some ladies whom I did not know, and
    amongst them Madame Kalergi, a niece of Nesselrode, a tall,
    large, white-looking woman, who has a reputation for
    cleverness and a great talent on the pianoforte. This morning
    I went to Leighton's studio, and saw his drawings, which are
    full of genius.

                                             _Thursday, March 6._

    Heard in the morning that Covent Garden theatre was burnt at
    seven yesterday morning, and went to announce the event to
    Mario. In the evening, with Adelaide Sartoris and Leighton, to
    Ristori's rentrée in "Mirrha." She acted more finely than
    ever, and I was enchanted with her wonderful beauty and
    classic grace: her tenderness, in this part especially, is
    indescribable. Adelaide Sartoris had never seen her before,
    and was as much delighted as astonished at the performance.
    The audience was in a frenzy of enthusiasm, and yet I do not
    believe half the people present understood Italian.

                                              _Friday, March 20._

    I went last night with Adelaide Sartoris and Leighton to see
    Ristori in Alfieri's play of "Rosmunda."

    In reading it I was convinced I should be bored by so inflated
    a rhodomontade, and that the part of Rosmunda, being one of
    unmitigated fury and violence, was unsuited to an actress
    whose chief merit seemed to consist in her power of
    delineating the gentler passions. I was therefore but little
    prepared for the wonderful effect she produced upon me and on
    the audience. The play is horrible and offensive, but her
    manner of rendering this odious part is nothing short of
    sublime. Her beauty in the costume of the sixth century is
    beyond all description, and the manner in which she varies
    the phases of the same passions of hatred and vengeance, and
    the prodigious power of the whole impersonation, are
    marvellous. Her acting of the scene in the third act, when she
    tells Ildevaldo that Amalchilde loves Romalda, is about the
    best thing I have seen her do; and the last act, in which she
    murders her rival, and the way in which she seizes her and
    drags her up the steps, is like a whirlwind sweeping
    everything before it; too terrible almost to witness, and
    prevented my sleeping all night.

                                              _Monday, March 24._

    In the evening I went (as I generally do) to Adelaide
    Sartoris', where I found Bickerton Lyons, French, and
    Leighton. This latter is a singularly gifted youth. Besides
    his talent for painting and drawing, which is already at
    twenty-five very remarkable, and likely, if he lives, to place
    him in the highest rank of modern artists, he appears endowed
    with an extraordinary facility for anything he attempts to do.
    He speaks many foreign languages with remarkable fluency, and
    almost without accent; he is possessed of much musical
    intelligence, and on matters connected with the art which he
    has made his particular study and profession his information
    is very extensive--and, I am told by others, better able to
    judge than myself, that this is the case. With all these
    qualities, natural and acquired, I never saw a more amiable or
    single-hearted youth.

                                           _Wednesday, March 26._

    Went with the Sartoris's, Montfort, and Leighton to the Palais
    Bourbon to see Morny's pictures--a charming collection. The
    Emperor had just sent him two beautiful pieces of Beauvais
    tapestry--marvellous specimens of that manufacture; in return,
    I suppose, for his speech of the other day, with which his
    Majesty was highly pleased.

                                      _Wednesday, April 2, 1856._

    In the morning, with Adelaide Sartoris, Browning the poet,
    Cartwright, and Leighton, to the Pourtalès Gallery--a charming
    collection. The pictures that most pleased me were a Paul
    Veronese, a Rembrandt, and a Greuze. There is also a fine
    collection of Raphael ware--glass and bronzes. Pourtalès has
    ordered by will that this collection should remain intact for
    ten years, and then to be sold to the highest bidder.

                                      _Wednesday, April 9, 1856._

    Last night, after a dinner given by a Lady Monson to Adelaide
    Sartoris, Leighton, and myself, at Philippe's, we adjourned to
    the first representation of the Italian translation of
    Legouvé's play of "Medea"--that in which Rachel refused, after
    attending rehearsals, to act the principal part, and about
    which there was a trial. Great curiosity was shown about this
    performance, and there was a great scramble for places; and,
    although inserts for nearly three weeks, we were fobbed off
    with very bad seats in the orchestra. The play had great
    success, and that of Ristori was prodigious, but not greater
    than she deserved. The part is most arduous, full of
    transitions, and almost always on the full stretch. Her
    costume was most picturesque, having been designed by
    Schæffer, and she looked like a figure on an Etruscan vase;
    and in no play that I have yet seen her in does she produce
    more effect than in certain passages of "Medea." The audience
    was wound up to a pitch of frantic enthusiasm. I am always
    astonished at the effect she produces on the mass of the
    audience, when I know how few there are who really can follow
    the play. But, whether by means of her countenance, voice, or
    gestures, she contrives to make all the nuances of her acting
    felt by the public. I expect when she comes to London she will
    find a vast difference between this excitable and sympathetic
    audience and that stupid, flat collection of would-be
    fashionables who will _promener leurs ennuis_ at her
    performances.

Before his family had arrived in Paris the subject of the Orpheus
entitled "The Triumph of Music," to which Leighton was devoting
himself, was criticised by his father, which criticism Leighton
answered in the following letter:--

    I do not think honestly that the choice of a mythological
    subject like Orpheus shows the least poverty of invention, a
    quality, I take it, much more manifested in the manner of
    treatment than in the choice of a moment.

    About fiddles, I _know_ that the ancients had _none_; it is an
    anachronism which I commit with my eyes open, because I
    believe that the picture will go home to the spectator much
    more forcibly in that shape.

To his mother he writes:--

                                                     RUE PIGALLE.

    I have seen Scheffer,[55] who is cordiality itself to me;
    Robert Fleury, ditto, and I have further made the acquaintance
    of Ingres, who, though sometimes bearish beyond measure, was
    by a piece of luck exceedingly courteous the day I was
    presented to him. He has just finished a beautiful figure of
    Nymph, which I was able to admire loudly and sincerely. I have
    also been to Troyon, who was polite.

    I am fiddling away at the preliminaries of my pictures, a
    disjointed and desultory period through which one has to wade
    to get at one's large canvas.

    The Sartoris are of course, as ever, my stronghold and
    comfort.

    Your loving boy,

                                                            FRED.

    I have sent the sketch of my "Orpheus" to Ruskin, and don't
    yet know his opinion of that particular thing, but I feel
    about that, that as a _now_ responsible artist, it is my
    _duty_ to do things exactly as I feel them and to abide by
    them, risking criticisms and cavillings of every kind. I must
    be _myself_ for better and for worse; this truth, which I feel
    strongly myself, has been corroborated by the opinions of
    Fanny Kemble, Mr. Sartoris and Mrs. Sartoris, all at different
    times, and quite spontaneously expressed. In haste.--Your
    dutiful and affectionate son,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

The question naturally arises, considering the sequence of the history
of the Orpheus picture, _was_ Leighton _himself_ when he painted "The
Triumph of Music"? I have studied his work from the commencement to
the close of his artistic career, and this picture remains the unique
example, in my opinion, when he was _not_ himself; the only picture
which does not carry out the principle he thought of all importance.
It does not evince "sincerity of emotion." The feeling and intention
of the work when first conceived had been absolutely sincere; but,
when it came to the performance, spontaneity had failed. It seems to
have been painted when he was overshadowed by an influence which was
alien to his real artistic sense, and is a further proof that Paris
was an entirely unsympathetic atmosphere to him. The picture appears
to me to be in feeling unreal, stagey--not to say, ridiculous. That
Leighton, after the first bitterness of his failure was over, shared
somewhat the same view of it is certain; for shortly after the Academy
Exhibition of 1856 was over he took it off the stretcher, rolled it
up, and consigned it to oblivion during his lifetime in the dark
recess of a cellar.

Notes in Mr. Henry Greville's Diary, dated April 24th and Tuesday, May
6th, run as follows:--

                                              LONDON, _April 24_.

    Went yesterday to Colnaghi's to see Leighton's picture of
    "Romeo and Juliet," with which I was much pleased. Colnaghi
    tells me it is much admired, and said, "Young Leighton will,
    one day, be a very great man."

                                                _Tuesday, May 6._

    A letter from Leighton, in answer to mine preparing him for
    the failure of his picture in the Exhibition, says: "Whatever
    I may have felt about my little bankruptcy, there is no fear
    of its disabling me for work, for if I am impressionable I am
    also obstinate; and, with God's will, I will one day stride
    over the necks of the penny-a-liners, that they may not have
    the triumph of having bawled me down before I have had time to
    be heard."

In April Leighton's family left Paris to travel in Switzerland. The
following letters to his mother show the spirit in which Leighton met
his artistic disaster.

                                                         _May 7._

    DEAREST MAMMA,--I received your two kind letters in due time,
    and answer them on the second day you fixed, having in the
    interval had time to hear about the fate of my picture; but
    first let me say, dear mamma, that you need never fear my
    misinterpreting or taking awry any kind advice that your love
    and solicitude may dictate to you. I am reading as much as
    ever my eyes will allow--indeed, you are strangely mistaken in
    thinking I don't see the necessity of reading. I assure you
    that it is a perpetual mortification to me to feel how little
    I know, but I stand unfortunately at such a disadvantage owing
    to the weakness of my eyes and my unprecedented absence of
    mind; however, I shall do what I can, and hope for the best.

    Dearest Mamma, I did not expect to write a _consolatory_ note
    to you to inaugurate your journey, but I am sorry to say that
    I am in that painful position. My picture, which has been
    exceedingly badly hung, so that one can scarcely see half of
    it (indeed I believe only the figure of Orpheus), is an
    _entire failure_; the papers have abused, the public does not
    care for it, in fact it is a "fiasco." Ruskin (who likes the
    "Romeo" very much) is disappointed with "Orpheus," tho' he
    says of course a man like me can't do anything that has not
    great merits, and that I am to attach no importance to the
    malicious articles written by venal critics. Now, dearest
    Mother, look upon this--you and Papa, who takes so
    affectionate an interest in my welfare--look upon this, as I
    do, as a fortunate occurrence; consider what an edge and a
    zest I get for my future efforts, and what an incentive I have
    to exert myself to put down the venomous jargon of envious
    people--next year, tho' the Academicians may think that they
    have cowed me, I shall very probably not exhibit; but the year
    after, God willing, they shall feel the weight of my hand in a
    way that will surprise them. The more they abuse, the better
    I'll paint--industry against spite--I will have a pull for it.
    Dear Henry Greville behaves to me like an angel; he writes
    _every day_, and sends me the _Times_ regularly. Mrs.
    Sartoris, too, writes very often. You will be glad to hear
    that my prospects about models are rather brighter than they
    were; I have found two or three that will be useful.

                                                 PARIS, _Sunday_.

    Although my letter (and I am afraid a very unpleasant one)
    must have reached you as soon as the other was fairly out of
    the house, yet I write a line in answer to all the kind and
    considerate things you wrote in the idea I might be ill or
    irritable. I value your kind solicitude, dear Mamma, as much
    as you can wish, I assure you, and should indeed be heartily
    sorry in any way to give you pain or make you in any way
    unhappy--and talking of that, dear Mamma, I sincerely hope you
    have completely got over your first annoyance about my fiasco,
    which, except of course in a pecuniary point of view, is in
    point of fact a fortunate event for my future progress, in the
    _élan_ it gives to my application and particularly to my
    obstinacy. I am very busy now at "Pan" and "Venus," but have
    not decided what I shall do next year. I think it is very
    characteristic of the critics that they _none_ of them mention
    "Romeo and Juliet," which is, I know, universally liked. Dear
    Mamma, never fear, your boy will walk over all that--depend
    upon it. How does Papa take it? How the girls?--Give to all my
    best love, and believe me, your very devoted son,

                                                            FRED.

                                                 _Tuesday, 1856._

    DEAR PAPA,--In the hope that I should receive to-day Ruskin's
    pamphlet on the Institution, I delayed until now answering
    your kind letter. It has, however, not arrived, and as there
    is great uncertainty whether it really is already published or
    no, I think it better not to keep you longer without news from
    me. The criticisms in the papers are, as far as I can judge,
    partly from the little I have read and partly from what my
    friends tell me, singularly injudicious, leaving almost
    entirely untouched the really vulnerable parts of the picture,
    and attacking almost exclusively that which is least
    objectionable--the execution.

    Ruskin does not much like the picture, and prefers the "Romeo"
    considerably, but he will write of course in a serious spirit
    and like an intelligent man. I have just made the acquaintance
    of Robert Fleury--the best French colourist, in my
    opinion--and he received me with the greatest kindness and
    simplicity, showing all that he had, and explaining anything
    that I wished to know; this is a valuable acquaintance which
    I owe to Montfort. I have made the acquaintance of a highly
    talented young German genre painter of whom I had heard in
    Frankfurt; he is my age, and paints with greater facility, but
    my talent is of a higher order I think. Ary Scheffer has been
    very amiable and pleasant to me about my fiasco, telling me
    what he went through himself, and telling me to think nothing
    of it. I sent to Wild shortly after you left, and was able to
    render him a little service in the way of some Venetian
    costumes, still I hesitate to ask him to introduce me to Paul
    Delaroche. We shall see about all that next autumn when I come
    back from Italy, when the Viardots will also introduce me to
    Delacroix.

    Pan and Venus are progressing _tout doucement_.

    I have written to Watts to ask his leave to put my pictures in
    his studio (Pan and Venus) in Little Holland House. I read
    carefully all you said, dear Mamma, about the critics, &c. &c.
    I honestly think that my ill-luck is in no way attributable to
    over-hurrying. Those things in my picture which were really
    most open to discussion, I did all with my eyes open and
    deliberately, and they were the only ones that the discerning
    scribblers seem not to have noticed. Again, with regard to the
    said critics, I think, dear Mamma, you see things "en noir."
    _Who reports_ me to have sneered at ----? I did internally, as
    I do at all snobs. However, I have long since banished the
    whole subject. If ever I attain real excellence, the public
    will in the long run find it out; and if they don't pay me
    they will at least acknowledge me, especially when the
    pre-Raphaelite "engouement" has calmed a little. In a
    fortnight I shall go to England; by that time Pan and Venus
    will be done, and I think they promise well. I am very anxious
    to get to London. I mean to enjoy it very much--take my fill,
    and then go for a short time to Italy to renew my profession
    of faith before Raphael and Michael Angelo. I am very glad to
    hear that you are enjoying yourselves, and that you remember
    me in the midst of your jonquils and anemones.

FOOTNOTES:

[48] Watts wrote at the time Leighton died that he had enjoyed an
uninterrupted friendship with him of forty-five years. This was
evidently a slight miscalculation. We read in one of Leighton's letters
to his mother from Rome that Watts had called on him, but that he had
missed seeing him, and Watts certainly spoke to me of this interview on
the pavement of Montagu Square in 1855 as the first he had had with
Leighton.

[49] In a letter from his mother, December 22, 1854, she quotes an
extract from the _Morning Post_, written by a critic who had been
visiting the studios in Rome, and who alludes to Leighton's sympathy
with Giotto. It reads to-day as quaint and curiously antiquated as do
Knight's scornful criticisms on the Elgin Marbles. Mrs. Leighton
writes: "One sentence in your letter has set your dear father on the
horns of anxiety. You tell us we are not to expect too much from your
pictures, and remind us 'that the path which leads to success, &c. &c.'
Now, Papa fancies that you had underpainted your canvas and were not
satisfied with the result, and that was the cause of your writing less
hopefully than usual. We have been wishing much to hear what your
progress was; knowing the subject of each picture, we should have
understood if you had reported progress. In case you are in want of a
little encouragement, I must tell you the other day Papa enters the
drawing-room with a radiant face. He held in his hand a piece of paper,
and requesting my attention, he read me its contents, which I copy for
you, and which I found were taken from a column in the _Morning Post_
devoted to criticisms on artists and their works chiefly, I believe, on
the Continent, but of that I am not quite sure. 'I next called on Mr.
Leighton, who is employed on a canvas of many feet. His subject
is'--then follows the description, after which he adds: 'Mr. Leighton
will become a great artist if he advances as he has begun. His drawing
is admirable, much better than that of English artists generally. Some
of the figures are Giottoish in the treatment of the drapery, which is
scarcely pardonable, because drapery fell flowingly about the human
body in Giotto's time as well as now. Why imitate the uncomfortable
line of that conventional rag? It is, however, unfair to judge of
anything beyond drawing and composition in the present state of this
picture, which is an extraordinary work for so young a man.' Remarks
more or less favourable were made on several other artists, but nothing
like what you have just read. Do you know this critic? I need not tell
you how highly we appreciate this gentleman's sagacity; but jokes
apart, Papa was rather puzzled at such a criticism about the drapery of
some of the figures, because you excel in such folds, so it seems to us
odd that you should skimp any of your figures. The same column contains
observations on the subject of 'High Art' and large historical
pictures, or rather comments on those made by young students, such
indeed as I have heard you make, that I could almost have fancied the
author was answering your remarks. We were rather startled to read in
your letter that you find you had better not use the interests of a
professional man to facilitate the admission of your picture into the
Exhibition of the Royal Academy, but trust to its merits for that
result, as we are told the Exhibition in question is, strictly
speaking, a private affair for the works of the members only and such
as they choose to admit, which explains perhaps the complaints of
rejection one has read of from time to time. I hope your picture may be
kindly judged and well hung."

[50] On a first visit to Athens I was struck by the extraordinary
insignificance and want of beauty in the Levantines of mixed race who
crowded the streets; nowhere seemed there a trace left among the
inhabitants of the town of the type of Greek beauty. When travelling a
few days later to Colonna, while the train stopped at a station on the
lower slopes of Hymettus, I saw two men hurrying through the adjacent
olive groves to catch it. They were dressed in the Greek costume of the
provinces--an embroidered waistcoat cut low leaving the throat bare,
the short white plaited skirt, and the heavy cloak falling from one
shoulder. Either of these men might have sat to Pheidias for the
Theseus. Both were more magnificent in form than any statue ever made.
Doubtless, in the days of her ancient glory, Greece contained a far
larger proportion of inhabitants who were beautiful than are to be
found now; nevertheless Pheidias without a doubt had to exercise his
gift of selecting the best, no less than did Leighton and Watts.

[51] See List of Illustrations.

[52] Ibid.

[53] Ibid.

[54] Mr. Herbert Wilson.

[55] The story is that on Leighton's expressing his gratitude at
receiving a visit from him (Ary Scheffer), he replied, "If I did not
attach considerable importance to your talent, I should not have
mounted three flights of stairs to see you."




CHAPTER V

FRIENDS


Leighton's friendships were very salient, vivid interests to him among
the varied occupations of his life. In any complete picture of his
personality these must take a prominence only secondary to his passion
for Art and Beauty,--and for "his second home,"--the land that had
cast such a strange spell and charm over him from the early days of
childhood,--to his love for his family, and his reverent devotion to
his master, Steinle, and to Mrs. Sartoris. To these two inspiring
friends and teachers he declared he owed what he prized most in life,
namely, a development of those gifts and qualities which enabled him
to be of service to his generation.

"I have always believed that his ruling passion was _Duty_--the
keenest possible sense of it," Mr. Briton Rivière writes. The
influences which were the most precious to Leighton were assuredly
those which enabled him to extend his own influence in the highest and
widest direction, and fulfil exhaustively his duty to his
fellow-creatures. Every moment of his life was real and earnest to
him. Every moment had a purpose--ever before him was the urgent
imperative necessity he felt of being _faithful_: faithful in every
detail as in decisive final aims. If an epithet had to be attached to
his name, epitomising Leighton's salient characteristics, the most
appropriate would surely be "Leighton the faithful."

Many among those who are dead,--also among the now living, found in
him their best friend. The letters written to him by Mr. Henry
Greville, and those that Leighton wrote to Mr. Hanson Walker are good
examples, among the many that have been preserved, showing the very
prominent place his friends took in Leighton's life. In the first we
trace the tender affection he inspired in the hearts of his
intimates,[56] and in the second the ardent manner in which Leighton
would help artists younger than himself, and how with a parental
solicitude he would do his best to forward their true interests.[57]

    [Illustration: STUDY OF HEAD FOR "LIEDER OHNE WORTE." 1860
    Leighton House Collection]

The following letters from Mr. Henry Greville were written on
Leighton's return to Paris, after he had run over to London to place
the "Romeo" picture which had been in the Paris International
Exhibition with Colnaghi, and after "The Triumph of Music" had been
sent in to the Academy.

                                              LONDON, _April 25_.

    DEAR FAY,--You are rather a bad boy not to have given either
    Ad. or me a _signe de vie_, but as I have not seen her to-day,
    she may have heard from you. We both want to do so _very_
    much, so pray write ME a line directly. I only do so to-day to
    say that at my suggestion Ad. and I rushed off yesterday again
    to Colnaghi to find out if the Queen or Albert knew of your
    picture being at his shop; and if not, to ask him to let them
    know it, if he could do so with propriety. He said he would at
    once send the picture to B. Palace, as he was in the habit of
    doing other works; though he did not think that it was likely
    they would buy another picture of yours, he admitted that it
    might be advantageous to you that they should see it. He again
    praised the picture greatly, and told us that it was
    universally admired. My sister prefers it infinitely to
    "Cimabue" in all respects, but the fact is, the subject is
    more attractive to English people than the other. I have
    nothing else to tell you. I am _very_ seedy with an affection
    of the bronchial tubes, and very low, and would give anything
    to see you, my dear boy, but must have patience till the
    pleasant moment of having you under my roof arrives. You will
    be glad to hear that my mother is better. I have not seen
    Ellesmere, as he was at the Review, but you may depend on my
    not forgetting your interests. The said Review was a most
    glorious spectacle, and they had a splendid day for it. I am
    starved to death here, and Ad. and I do nothing but grumble.
    She and I dined _tête-à-tête_ last night, and slept and
    coughed through the evening with the occasional intermission
    of talking of you--you old Fay! To-night I am going with her
    to Eli, though I ought to be in my bed. Theo is ill and can't
    come, and Fanny reads. Oh! that you were to be with us! Tell
    me if you would object to a VERY slight gold frame to the
    drawings--merely a _line_, because, as my rooms are all white,
    and that everything in them has gilt, the drawings want a sort
    of background--which this slight frame would give them. Tell
    me what you think. I don't mean to hang up my Vintage, but
    keep it near me on an _easle_ (how do you spell it?). Charley,
    being highly coloured, looks lovely, and don't want any
    frame--nasty Charley! Now pray write and tell me all about
    yourself--and the _moddles_--and how you _are_--and how you
    get on--and what you do. Don't drag off to dull parties, but
    go to bed early.

    God bless you. Amami, ne ho gran bisogno. Colnaghi said he had
    heard from one Cooper a very good report of "Orpheus."

                                                               H.

    How have the photographs turned out? I like your portrait less
    now that you are away--but it can't be helped, it is better
    than none, but it looks so sad. I have hung you and Ad. up
    side by side in sweet companionship in my dressing-room, so
    that I may see you both the first thing on waking.

                                            LONDON, _April 26th_.

    DEAREST BIMBO,--You have made us pass some very anxious hours,
    as the telegraph which I sent off at seven this morning will
    have testified, though it will also have surprised and perhaps
    alarmed you until you read its contents. The fact is, _I_
    thought it odd that we did not hear from you, yesterday at all
    events, as I felt sure you would have written immediately on
    getting our joint note from Boulogne, Wednesday, and certainly
    on the following day. However, I felt sanguine that on going
    to dine at 79, I should find that Ad. had heard from you, but,
    on the contrary, I found her full of anxiety at no letter,
    imagining every species of cause for your silence, which she
    said was so very unlike you, that I directly caught the same
    state of worry, and we determined that I should telegraph the
    first thing this morning to know if you were ill, or if
    anything had happened. I never slept all night, and of course
    had worked myself, with her assistance, into a wretched state
    of anxiety about you--when at nine your letter arrived, and a
    blessed relief it was. I should not probably have been in such
    a state, had Adelaide not been convinced that illness or some
    catastrophe had prevented your writing, because, she said,
    your _wont_ was to do so immediately on parting with her, and
    she could account for it in no other way. In short, dear Fay,
    we were very foolish; but I assure you our folly met its own
    punishment by the anxiety, and which spoilt our "Eli"
    entirely. Poor Fay! I daresay you little thought that we were
    tormenting ourselves about you, and I, for one, shall try and
    not do so any more. Your letter is like yourself--dear and
    kind. With regard to the enclosure, my opinion is that you
    would not do wisely or handsomely by Colnaghi to withdraw your
    picture from his keeping, unless he _wished_ to get rid of it
    to make room for the supposed exhibition of drawings;
    moreover, my own opinion is that you would not do well to
    exhibit at the Crystal Palace. I have no faith in that
    institution, and I think it will be a pity to rob your studio
    of the "Pan" and "Venus" for that purpose; but as I do not
    consider myself a good judge of these matters or competent to
    advise you, I think I should be very much guided by what other
    artists of the same standing as yourself think and do in the
    matter, and before deciding or answering Mr. Magwood, I should
    write to Buckner or any one else competent to advise you and
    ask their opinion. I don't know what Sister Adelaide will say,
    but I have sent her your letter and the enclosure, and she
    will probably write to you on the subject. You are _too_ dear
    and nice about my mother. I fear that before you come she will
    have left London, and I don't think you would like to paint
    her, because her sweet face is entirely hidden by the shade
    she is obliged to wear over her poor eyes; but _you_ know
    whether I should like her portrait painted by you! But, dear
    Fay, you are too lavish of your time on others, and do not
    think enough of yourself. Here I was interrupted by a visit
    from Adelaide, overjoyed at hearing all is well with you, and
    agreeing entirely with me _in re_ C. Palace, Colnaghi, &c. She
    says if C. wishes the picture to be removed, it is for him to
    express that wish and not you, that a better order of people
    go to him than those who frequent the C.P., that he is
    well-disposed towards you, and that it is advisable you should
    keep him as your friend.

    We think Mogford's reference useless, being a foreigner, and
    we are certain that unless _Millais_ and others of the same
    class exhibit at the C.P., you had best have nothing to do
    with it. I took Ad. up to your room, and she says you will be
    _comfy_ in it; and she saw your nice face, patted it, and
    said, "Dear Fay, but it looks so sad!" She thinks both
    drawings will be better for a slight gilt _rim_, but I won't
    put it on without your leave. I am so glad you are leading a
    wholesome life, and getting the b. who planted you, rather
    than dawdle proudly, and be without a good _moddle_. I have
    nothing to say, dear Bimbo, and you will have had enough of
    me. I am very bad with an ulcerated throat, cough, and
    inflamed bronchia, and altogether below par. I have seen
    hardly anybody since I came. Adelaide would have been pleased
    with "Eli," had she been in a vein where pleasure was
    possible. Pauline sang to perfection the lovely music allotted
    to her. And now, dearest Bimbo, God bless you. Write very
    often, if only a _line_, as it is comfortable to hear that all
    is well with you--that is always the news I most wish to get;
    and tell me how the pictures progress, and your real state of
    mind about them.--Your old and loving Babbo,

                                                               H.

    I send back Mogford. Penelope B. (Bentinck) tells me that the
    great judge, George, condescends to approve "Romeo" mightily!!

                                    LONDON, _Monday, April 28th_.

    DEAR GOOD FAY,--Cartwright was wrong about the telegraph, but
    as our anxiety was removed by your letter, I did not expect
    you to send me one. Knowing how likely you were to write,
    supposing you to be well, you may imagine that we were not a
    little anxious at getting no sign of life from you, in return
    for our daily letters, and I never could have guessed that the
    Boulogne letter would only have reached you on Saturday!
    However, all is well that ends well, but we passed a very
    disagreeable day and night, and it was _because_ we did _not_
    think you capable of putting off writing that we fussed and
    worried ourselves about you--foolishly, dear Fay, no doubt. I
    am very seedy and confined to the house by throat, bronchia,
    unceasing cough, swelled glands, bad eyes--and should not
    inflict myself and ailments upon you, but that it is a solace
    and a comfort to _causer avec "mon petit dernier"_--a
    cognomen which smiles UPON me--and made _me_ smile. Sister
    Adelaide tea'd with me last night _en tête à tête_. Fanny was
    grand, and would not come in, though she dropped her sister at
    my door, because (she said) I had not said _to_ her that I
    wished _for_ her! I was so little _en train_ that I was not
    sorry to have only Adelaide, and we _did_ more than once say
    how we wished Fay was eating the muffin destined for the proud
    Fanny. Adelaide has just been here, and brought me your dear
    letter. I don't see any _present_ prospect of the fire of my
    affliction being extinguished or allowed to grow dim, so you
    may make your mind easy on that score, excellent Fay. I feel
    for your loneliness, and know what a contrast it must present
    with the sweet fellowship we have held together so unceasingly
    for those last two months. The only thing you gain by the loss
    of your people is more time, and a later repast. I don't doubt
    poor Mamma being unhappy at leaving you, her true and only
    Benjamin, and for an indefinite time. I can judge by what I
    felt at parting with _mon petit dernier_, and _with_ the hope
    of so soon greeting him again. No, Fay, I won't have the
    Charley drawing, and I won't have you do anything more for any
    one but yourself, knowing as I do all the things you have on
    hand--and _à propos_ of _that_, I must tell you that I have
    endeavoured to put another iron in the fire _in re_ fresco. I
    asked Lady Abercorn, who is my dearest friend, to speak to
    Lord Aberdeen (her father-in-law) who is on the Committee of
    Taste, or whatever it is called, first about your picture at
    Colnaghi's and then of you generally as desirous of painting
    in fresco, and as of one whose studies have been that way
    directed, in whom I take a great interest; but I made her
    understand that it was no _job_ I wanted done, or that I asked
    any favour, but merely I wished it to be known that Leighton,
    a very rising artist, would like to be employed in that line,
    if an occasion presented itself. Lady A. understood me exactly
    and being very sympathetic immediately conceived an interest
    for my _petit dernier_ (I wish you were my son, Fay!) and said
    if she did not see Lord Aberdeen very soon she would write to
    him. Neither I nor Adelaide know where Windsor and Newton
    live, so you had best write straight to him to send the
    colours you want. I think I _must_ put just a _baguette d'or_
    on the drawings, and when you see them on my walls I don't
    think you will disapprove. With regard to Cartwright, Adelaide
    says Jules Sartoris has got a place called Tusmore. I should
    advise him to lose no time in advertising it both in the
    newspaper and by different agents in town and country. I
    should think it was a place _sure_ to be let, from its
    convenient distance from London and other advantages. There is
    no news here.

                                               LONDON, _May 6th_.

    DEAREST FAY,--Your letter is a relief and a comfort. It is
    both to me to see you take this disagreeable business so
    manfully, so wisely, and to think that instead of being cast
    down, your energies will only be aroused by this stupid and
    unjust criticism. In this case it may, then, well be said,
    "Sweet are the uses of adversity." As to all the other papers,
    I can't pretend to say what they may have written, but the
    _Leader_ is one of no repute, and, as Ruskin said to Adelaide
    this morning, it don't REALLY signify _what_ they write; in
    the long run talent and genius must prevail, as yours will,
    dear Fay, if it please God to grant you, as I fervently pray,
    health and strength. She is going to write to you, and will
    tell you all Ruskin said, and also what she thinks of the
    Exhibition in general and your picture in particular, which, I
    hear, is infamously placed--that is, in so bad a light that
    only _Orpheus_ is visible. Passing, I must tell you that
    Edward (Sartoris) came to see me yesterday, and the _first_
    thing he said on entering the room was, "Well, I don't think
    Leighton's picture looks bad. Orpheus's drapery is too yellow,
    but it don't look amiss at all." This was rather much for him,
    eh? He likes "Autumn Leaves," and he praised the "Leslie"
    (which Adelaide says is all very well, but "slaty"). Landseer
    is beautiful--but E. (Edward Sartoris) was _sous le charme_,
    having sat next him at dinner at Marochetti's, when he told me
    L. was as much _aux petits soins_ for him as if he had been
    the loveliest of females. I am so glad about the models, and
    if I don't hear from you as often shall know why. I am also
    glad you dine with Cartwright and Co., but _how_ you _can_
    dandle a nasty, doughy, puffy, bread-and-butter smelling thing
    called a baby! Pah! a baby is my horror and aversion. Never do
    it again--not even by your own. I could not have dandled even
    my Bimbo without a grimace. Well done! old hideous ----; if
    she promise not to act herself, I'll take a box for her next
    benefit. She is the _âme damnée_ of Macready, so that her
    verdict surprises me. I expect she will begin imitating her,
    and have Medea translated--horrible idea! Read Ellesmere's
    speech; it is very pretty, and the whole debate is
    interesting, but Derby and Co. don't cut a good figure at all.
    I am getting better now, and dined with my parent yesterday,
    but can't go out in daytime for fear of eyes and throat, the
    wind is so cold. Of course I read your letter to Ad. (Adelaide
    Sartoris). (I think you had best now write straight to her,
    because as I am soon hoping to be out, and have no one to send
    so far, your letters will get to her quicker and more surely
    by post.)

    You must be very careful, and take time to weigh well and
    consider the subjects of your future pictures. I think the
    Mermaid might be both interesting and effective well carried
    out, and you might also perhaps paint some subject from some
    one of the Italian poets--Tasso, Ariosto, Boccaccio--for your
    own satisfaction. God bless you! my dear boy. I am longing to
    see you again already. Tell me how the models answer and how
    you get on. _Don't_ call Brackley _de_. They are removed to
    the Meurice. If you don't find them, write to her and offer to
    go with her (saying at my suggestion) to the Louvre.--Love
    your old Babbo,

                                                               H.

Later in the summer Mr. Greville wrote:--

                                     1856, HATCHFORD, _Thursday_.

    MY DEAR BOY,--I do sympathise with your disgust at the same
    time that I think you have acted very _légèrement_ about your
    pictures, and, in fact, taken no trouble or heed about them.
    _You should have seen to it all yourself before you left
    London_, or have given directions to Watts, to which he would
    have attended, instead of leaving him in total ignorance as to
    what you meant or wished, and which picture or if both were to
    go. I kept perpetually telling you to see after this business
    and to be more _exact_ in it, but you see now the consequence
    of not attending to things more carefully. You had better
    write a curt letter to Greene, reminding him that you _had_
    given written directions (as you say) that it was your "_Pan_"
    that was to be removed, and that you made no mention of the
    "Venus" (what has he done with her?), and again asking him
    (since he had not replied to the query) whether he had got the
    "Romeo." I shan't be in London until to-morrow night late, and
    as you are to be there on Monday there will be no use in my
    going to Greene, but I can do so on Saturday if you wish it.
    I have had an answer from Ellesmere's secretary, to whom I
    wrote to go and see if your pictures were well hung, to say
    that the Exhibition only opens in first week of September,[58]
    but that he has a friend who is an influential member of the
    hanging committee, and that he will speak to him in favour of
    yours being put into a good light. I heard from Adelaide
    yesterday that she will be in town on Monday and will dine us.
    I hoped you would have stayed (and she too) all Tuesday and
    gone away on Wednesday morning, so that we might have spent
    two evenings together, and I am disappointed. I shall go to
    Scotland on Wednesday, and am sorry to have settled to do so.
    I suppose you know Alfred Sartoris marries Miss Barrington--an
    alliance which will enchant Aunt ----, as the young lady is
    "The Honourable," and allied to several marquesses and
    earls.--Addio, caro, your ever affectionate H.

    _P.S._--Write again by all means to Greene asking _what has
    become of the "Venus,"_ and also whether the "Romeo" has or
    _not_ been sent to Manchester--whether you employ him or not,
    you have a right to know what he has done with your property.
    Write a line to Queen Street to-morrow to say at what time you
    will be there on Monday that I may not be out of the way.

    Rain has come, but it is still deliciously warm and fine in
    the intervals.

Later in the same year Mr. Greville wrote:--

                                       LONDON, _August 26, 1856_.

    MY DEAREST FAY,--I have just got your letter of Saturday 23rd
    from Frankfort, and as you state therein that you were to
    leave that place on Monday, and that the letters which I sent
    to Malet for you could only reach him on that morning, it is
    next to certain that they will not have reached you. I
    requested him, in the event of your having left Frankfort, or
    in his failing to find you out, to send them on to the _p.
    restante_ at Venice, and you will probably find them there
    together with this letter, but I think it best also to send
    you the originals for fear of accident, as it is desirable
    that you should write to Mr. Harrison yourself.[59] In the
    meanwhile, I have told him that when I knew your address I
    would apprize him of it, and in a few days I shall write and
    say that you are at Venice; but I don't think he will write to
    you any more, but that he will expect to know _when you are
    likely to return_. Having got so far, it of course is out of
    the question that you should think of, or for a moment be
    expected to return on purpose, and I think it most likely you
    will be able to get Watts to go and look at the picture, in
    case the matter should be pressing; but I think it will be
    best that you offer to return to England before you settle at
    Paris, and whenever your present tour (which I told Mr.
    Harrison was one for artistic purposes) shall be ended. It
    will be a great bore having to come back even then, on
    purpose. I am sorry you did not get the letters at Frankfort;
    on the whole though, perhaps they would only have worried you
    and have made you _hesitate_ as to _returning_, and which
    perhaps you might have thought _shorter_ and less troublesome
    than having to come back by-and-bye. However, it is very
    probable you may get Watts to do what is necessary, and that
    you may be saved the expense and bore of another journey here
    in the autumn. Adelaide and I contemplated the possibility of
    your coming over at once from Frankfort, and we both
    deprecated the idea, though we privately said how intensely
    glad we should be to see you--selfish as it might be; and it
    was arranged that I was to telegraph to her to Tunbridge where
    she is gone to-day. Thanks, you dear boy, for your letter just
    received. I can understand your pleasure at finding yourself
    in your old haunts again, with your old friend and master to
    whom you owe so much. It is a great comfort to me to find that
    he likes your drawings, though I never doubted his doing so. I
    was amused by your account of the Pimp and Ballerina, whose
    modesty seems to have attracted you more than that of the
    Russian Princess. Since writing to you last I have done but
    little. I am come into town this morning expecting to find
    Ffrench, but he has not turned up. I saw Sister A.[60]
    yesterday on her way through, but my visit was spoilt by the
    ---- Girls and Cigala, who (as he never made love to me)
    appears to me merely a _bon sabreur_ and horse fancier. You
    know my opinion of the young ladies, who, _par parenthèse_,
    adore you. I am still at H. (Holland) House, and shall remain
    there until Friday, when I come to dine with Adelaide, and
    shall then go to Hatchford until I repair to Worsley--my
    sister will be established there before long. Yesterday,
    Ellesmere's secretary sent me a letter to say that the gent.
    of the hanging committee "would take care that Mr. Leighton's
    pictures were placed in the most favourable position."[61] So
    let us hope for the best. I must tell you that Vic. is come
    home, and is now opposite to me, and that she looks admirably
    well. We have had heaps of people at H. House at dinner almost
    every day. Marochetti came yesterday. He is full of the
    subject of colouring statues, and has just taken to Osborne
    two busts which the Queen was to present to-day to P. Albert
    for his birthday. Marochetti _traite d'imbéciles_ all the
    English sculptors who cannot yet take in this "undoubted
    fact." He says Gibson is the only one who admits it, but even
    he will not go Marochetti's lengths. Watts is (you know) at
    Malvern, and the doctor thought him decidedly better before he
    went, and that he may get into tolerable health. I think he is
    to be at Malvern three weeks. John Leslie's wedding is at this
    moment proceeding; he has almost settled to buy Lady C.
    Lascelles' house at Campden Hill, which will be a capital
    position for his studio, and another Sunday lounge for you
    next year. Next year! (_eheu fugaces!_) a long time to wait to
    see you again under my roof, you very dear boy. I always think
    this dispersing time so melancholy. I wonder if I shall hear
    from you before Venice. Oh yes, of course, you will write
    wherever you stop. Mind and tell me about your studies, and
    what you see and do--above all things take care of your
    health, and don't catch fever by working in the sun, &c.
    Charles says he can't think where your hat box can be--he is
    in ecstasies with your old trousers, which have come out
    brand new and a capital fit! You would be quite envious if
    you could see them.

    Good-bye, best of Fays. I shall send this letter off and write
    another in a few days. I will mark _outside_ the dates of my
    letters (and PRAY, mind and always date yours--you never do)
    so that you will know which to open first. God bless you, you
    dear _good_ fellow.--Love your fond old,

                                                           BABBO.

                                   LONDON, _Thursday, August 28_.

    DEAREST FAY,--One line to say that this afternoon your letter
    of Sunday with the enclosed for Harrison reached me. It is a
    relief to me that you _got_ the letters, and I think your
    answer does very well, but as it had no cover, and that I was
    obliged to send it in my own name to Harrison, I added, what
    _you_ had better have done, that if necessary you could easily
    come over the beginning of November, and I rather hope they
    will accept that offer, as by that time the Court will have
    returned from Scotland (perhaps to Windsor though), and you
    might have a chance of being brought into contact with Albert,
    and you would jabber good German to him and win his heart,
    which _may_ be valuable to you. With regard to Watts, he said
    he should be too happy to do _anything_ for you, but he wished
    you to be thrown with Albert. He (Watts) is better and has
    left Malvern. I got yesterday the _Manchester Guardian_, with
    a sort of preliminary list of the pictures which are to be
    opened to the private view to-morrow. They were not then all
    hung, but they mention the "Romeo" as in a conspicuous
    place--a sombre picture, but the Romeo and Juliet finely
    conceived--or something to that effect. You shall hear all
    about it. I have got little Ffrench till Saturday, when I go
    to Hatchford and he home. I expect Adelaide to-morrow--we dine
    with her, and I _fear_ shall have ----, which will be a potent
    bore. There is of course no other news. Penelope Bentinck has
    produced a huge boy, and is quite well. John Leslie's marriage
    went off without any tears, and he made a very good "neat and
    appropriate."

    God bless you, my very dear boy--you are not so fond of me as
    I am of you--be sure of it. Take care of yourself, and write
    to and love your old

                                                         BABBINO.

    Tell me all about your studies, as they interest me, and don't
    forget to put me up to some pretty cheap gilt-moulding for my
    frame.

    Adelaide was pleased and touched at your seeing about her
    pictures. Fay, she is devotedly attached to you--you may be
    sure of it.

                                        HATCHFORD, _September 9_.

    MY DEAREST FAY,--I am going to begin a letter to you which I
    can only send when I know where to direct to you, for after
    Venice (from whence I have not heard from you yet) you have
    given me no address. I hope to hear that you got all mine sent
    to that place, and particularly the one enclosing a copy of
    Phipps' letter to me in which he tells me it is the Queen's
    wish that you come over here on your return to Paris. I got
    your letter from Meran on Thursday last, and I sent it off to
    Adelaide by that post, enjoining her to let me have it back by
    the next, since which I have never had a line from her, and at
    last grew so alarmed that I wrote to Anne to ask what had
    happened, and that I could not but fear Ad. had been sent for
    to Edward[62] in Ireland. To this letter I got _no_ reply, and
    I have been in great suspense and anxiety till this morning,
    when sure enough my surmise proved correct, and I got a few
    lines from Adelaide herself from Muckross, whither she arrived
    on Saturday, having left Warnford the day before, they having
    sent for her. She has, I do not doubt, written to you and told
    you that she found him neither dead or dying, but in a low,
    bilious fever, having been in bed a week, and the doctor not
    giving much hope of a speedy recovery. She, however, intends
    to move him as soon as it is possible, but it may be some time
    first, and of course their plans are more or less uncertain,
    and mine of meeting them in London at an end, as I shall be
    gone to Worsley before they can be in town. It is, however, a
    mercy that this illness is not even more serious than it is.
    When I heard his account of himself as I passed through
    London, I wondered that she was not more alarmed, but I did
    not tell her how serious the case appeared to me, and as it
    has proved; and when I did not hear from her, I immediately
    guessed what had occurred. She found Fordwich there, and says
    the place appeared a Paradise, and now that she is easy about
    Edward, perhaps she won't mind spending the time there instead
    of Warnford. Only, the boy was to go to Eton on the 11th, and
    I don't know how they will manage that. I have written to Ad.
    to-day, and have sent her a volume I received this morning
    from Fanny Kemble. The letter would interest you, but is too
    bulky to send. She speaks of you in a way that pleases me and
    would gratify your vanity in every respect, and describes you
    as one of the most interesting people she ever met, and hopes
    that your art may be an unceasing source of fame, profit, and
    delight to you. I will keep the letter and show it to you when
    I have the happiness of seeing you, my dear Fay. When Sarah
    leaves her she is to begin reading in the West, and I suspect
    that will answer better to her than the girl's society! Dear
    Fay, my sister writes to me that she and Brackley went into
    Manchester to see your pictures. I will transcribe what she
    says: "They are pretty well placed, but the 'Romeo' is so dark
    a picture it is difficult to see, and the lighting of the
    gallery has something of the defect of that at B. House. The
    'Pan' and 'Venus' seem to me to be very good pictures. _B.
    considers them improper._ I like the 'Pan' the best. There are
    not many good pictures in the Exhibition." To this I replied
    that I was much diverted by Brackley's prudishness, but that
    if such personages were to be painted, it was not possible to
    clothe them in crinoline or in green gauze drawers such as
    Bomba imposed upon his Ballerina. It makes me so sick, all
    that cant about impropriety, but there is so much of it as to
    make the sale of "nude figures" very improbable, and therefore
    I hope you will turn your thoughts entirely to well-covered
    limbs, and paint no more _Venuses_ for some time to come. I
    trust you will devote all your energies to the Romeo, Dalilah
    and Syren, and if you have any spare time, that you will do
    our Friar Lawrence. I forget if I told you that Miss Kaye saw
    your portrait of yourself, and says it is quite a _libel_ on
    your physiognomy. Why _did_ you make yourself so pinched and
    sad-looking, Fay?

    _September 12._--Your letter from Venice of 5th reached me
    this morning. I feel sure you will not have got my long
    letter directed there on the 5th and enclosing Phipps' answer,
    so I had better transcribe it: "It would be very desirable
    that Mr. L. should run over from Paris when there to see
    exactly what is the damage done to his picture, and I will
    have nothing done to it in the meantime, but care shall be
    taken that the injury shall not be increased. Mr. L. does not
    state in his letter where an answer would reach him, and if
    you are in communication with him perhaps you would have the
    kindness to mention to him what Her Majesty's wishes on this
    subject are." So, you see, my dear boy, you _must_ come, and
    perhaps it may not be time so wasted, as I shall try and find
    out when the Queen comes back from Scotland, so that if
    possible you may time your arrival accordingly. The P. of
    Wales is going to see the manufactories at Manchester, and
    they are going to ask him to Worsley, I believe. Only fancy
    those brutes at Warnford never sending me Adelaide's letter
    written to me the morning of her hastening off to Ireland a
    week ago until to-day! Too bad. She wrote in great distress of
    mind and evidently hardly expected to find Edward[63] alive,
    as she did not believe the telegraph which said he was better,
    thinking that if it were so they would not have sent for her.
    You dear boy, I am so glad you enjoy your Venice--which is all
    very pretty no doubt, but I hate stinks and fleas--and they
    abound there. I hate wobbling in a boat and walking in dirty
    alleys, so I don't envy you at all. Have you fallen in with
    either of the new married couples, Wilson or Leslie? Fay, it
    is well you should come and see me, for I don't think there is
    much chance of my going to Paris. The Hollands are going to
    Naples, as the wall of their house at Paris has been damaged
    by the pulling down of the next house and has to be rebuilt,
    and I shall have no money to pay for lodging and food. There
    are long lists of the pictures the Queen and others are to
    send to the great Manchester Exhibition next year--I think
    twenty at least from the Royal Galleries, and Ellesmere sends
    eight or ten. I see that Eastlake is at Rome, so you may fall
    in with him there. I conclude my next letter must be directed
    there. You should recollect to give your address _d'avance_.
    The second post has just brought me the enclosed, which, as
    she says she don't write to you, I send (though it will cost a
    fortune), knowing that it will gladden your eyes to see her
    hand. She loves you dearly as I do, Fay! Your Meran letters
    are very pretty, and I wish I could see that place. Good-bye,
    and God bless you. We have lovely weather--not one bad day
    since I have been here. Go and see the Villa Salviate. What
    have you done with Steinle--what heard of Gamba? Love.--Your
    old loving father,

                                                               H.

Enclosed is one from Mrs. Sartoris to Mr. Greville, which he sends on
to Leighton.

                                             MUCKROSS, KILLARNEY.

    Many thanks. I got a letter too this morning, which I send you
    with your own--let me have mine back. E. (Edward Sartoris) is
    certainly a little better, thank God--still in bed though. He
    hopes perhaps to get off next Saturday--this appears to me
    nothing short of impossible--Monday I should think the very
    soonest for such a move. This place is divinely beautiful, I
    see, but I go out very little, and what with the shock I
    received before starting, and the fatigue of my rapid journey,
    and the anxiety about him, I feel incapable of receiving any
    _impression_ from the place. I seem to acknowledge its beauty,
    but I cannot get even a momentary enjoyment out of it at
    present. The _hosts_ are very kind. Herbert always was an
    excellent fellow. I cannot write to Fay, for with all the
    delay caused by his letter having had to follow me here, my
    answer would no longer catch him at Venice, and I do not know
    where he next pitches his tent. Dear boy! he seems very
    happy--God bless him and keep him so!

  MUCKROSS, _Tuesday, 9th_.

                                       HATCHFORD, _September 22_.

    DEAREST FAY,--The enclosed reached me to-day having first been
    sent to Ebury Street.[64] I think it best to send it to you
    that you may reflect on what you will do, though it seems to
    me that with the exception of the "Cimabue" you have _no_
    picture you could send to this Exhibition. If you wish to be
    represented by that work, I conclude you would have to ask
    permission of the Queen to send it there, and this should be
    done through "The Honourable Colonel Phipps," or Mr. Harrison,
    his secretary. This permission would of course be granted at
    once. When Charles told me in my bed this morning that a
    letter had come for you from Manchester, I fondly hoped it was
    to announce sale of one or other of your pictures! I wrote
    yesterday, and have nothing more to say to-day but that I am
    better, though still seedy. We have got the equinoctial gales
    with rain. I fancy we, France and England, are going to recall
    our missions from Naples, if Bomba don't give in, and send
    squadrons of ships. But what then? I don't suppose we mean to
    bombard the town. But he will do _just enough_ to give us a
    pretence for holding our hand, and matters will then resume
    their ordinary course, and the K. of the two Sicilies be
    governed just as it was before. Our position is a very
    ticklish one in this affair. I long to hear whether you saw
    Pasta--and anything more than the waddle, the red face and
    beard. Mind and answer my questions. I should tell you that
    amongst your papers that came from Manchester they sent P.
    Albert's letter to Ellesmere, and the long prospectus too, but
    there is no use in forwarding it to you--this will already
    cost a fortune, but I think it best to send it. When is it you
    expect to be here? How long do you stay at home?--Addio,
    carissimo,

                                                             H.G.

                                          LONDON, _September 29_.

    MY DEAREST FAY,--Here I am, sleeping in London on my way to
    Worsley to-morrow morning, and I have got my Mère Augusta
    occupying your room; the first _female_ I have ever housed or
    fed, and it will be a rehearsal for Sister Ad. I have just
    missed her, as she went to the station as I left it, but I
    found a letter from her just returned from putting the boy to
    school; it is a bore that I missed her, as I shall not see her
    for an age. Edward has been committing all sorts of follies
    and is again confined to his room, but is better. He ought to
    come to London and consult a clever man, or he will be very
    ill, as he was once before. What a fellow you are never to say
    a word about Pasta to me! Of course Mrs. Siddons had a
    magnificent eye and brow--who said she had not?--and was a
    glorious actress, but I should always have preferred Reston.
    What did Pasta say of _her_? You are wrong about P. not being
    _powerful_--she was _tremendous_; her voice was one of immense
    power--almost coarse at times, but prodigious, and her
    _gestes_ sublime from grace and strength. Dear Fay, I have
    measured the frame; it is twelve inches wide and fourteen
    long. Now do find me a pretty cheap croûte. I have seen no one
    in London but Lady Shelburne, who said there was no news. She
    disapproves, like me, of the policy with regard to Naples, and
    I think we shall find by-and-by a great reaction _là dessus_.
    By-the-bye, when at Rome go and hear the opera Verdi has been
    composing for that place on the story of Adrienne, and tell me
    all about it. He wrote formerly such pretty melodies, and is a
    clever fellow. I don't know what Adelaide will do about going
    to Germany, but I hope give it up, as for many reasons it
    appears to me at this moment to be a foolish scheme.

    Good-night, you dear boy. I can't frank this, as it is late,
    and I don't know how, so you must pay this time. Write soon,
    and _answer_ my letters.

    I don't quite understand what it is you are doing in Italy
    except amuse yourself. Is there any other ----? How long will
    it be before I see you?--Addio, caro caro, tanto tanto,

                                                               H.

On the death of Lady Ellesmere, his sister, in answer to Leighton's
letter of sympathy Mr. Greville writes--

                                          HATCHFORD, _Wednesday_.

    MY DEAREST FAY,--In my affliction, I have one consolation--and
    it is such events as these that prove it--I am rich in
    friends, more so, much more than I deserve--and amongst them
    there is no one whose unselfish love I prize more than yours.

    Dear Fay, I _know_ you feel for me, and I am grateful.

    God bless you for it.--Your affectionate

                                                               H.

A short note to his father from Leighton announces the death of this
dear friend in December 1872.

                                  ATHENÆUM CLUB, PALL MALL, S.W.,
                                                        _Friday_.

    MY DEAR PAPA,--I lost last night one of my oldest and dearest
    friends--Henry Greville; he died without much suffering, and
    looks this morning calm and beautiful in his rest. You know
    what I lose in him.--Your affectionate son,

                                                            FRED.

Among many letters of the kind, preciously preserved by those who owe
much to Leighton, the following notes, addressed to his young friend
"Johnny" (Mr. John Hanson Walker), may be found interesting as
exemplifying the trouble which Leighton would take in helping young
artists, and with what kindness, sincerity, and delicacy he tendered
his advice and assistance. None of these letters are dated.

                                                    THE ATHENÆUM.

    MY DEAR JOHNNY,--I write one line in haste to say how sorry I
    am to hear that your health has been unsatisfactory of late. I
    earnestly trust you won't disregard your doctor's advice, and
    that you will, _at any sacrifice_, do something to recover
    strength, even though a long sea voyage were necessary. Health
    is the _first_ thing. Talk it over with Miss Nan; if her love
    is as sincere as you believe, and I don't for a moment doubt
    it, she will give you the same advice.

    For myself, I begin to think my studio will never be ready. I
    have not done a stroke of work. I _hope_ at the end of next
    week I shall be at it again.

    In October I am off to Rome.--Yours sincerely,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.
    2 HOLLAND PARK ROAD,
      ADDISON ROAD, KENSINGTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                   ATHENÆUM CLUB,
                                                  PALL MALL, S.W.

    Supposing a proper price were given, should you care to copy
    (for a man of position) a portrait by Sir William Beechey and
    one or two by Sir Thomas Lawrence? I am not asking you to do
    it for a moment, I merely want to know whether you would
    _care_ to do the work; _if_ so, please let me know what you
    would ask.

    I have seen Mr. Greville to-day, and he begs me to tell you
    that the Countess Grey will be glad if you can undertake for
    her, for the sum of _£10_, a copy of a portrait of Lady
    Charlotte Greville. The picture is now with the Countess of
    Ellesmere, Mr. Greville's sister, and shall be sent to you
    wherever you wish, if you will let me know at once. Is it to
    go to Great Castle Street? Lady Ellesmere will be extremely
    obliged if you will not keep the picture a moment longer than
    you absolutely require it to make a good copy; the portrait is
    that of her mother, and she is extremely loth to part with it,
    even for a time. Please send me a line in answer to this, and
    believe me always.

                                                      _Thursday._

       *       *       *       *       *

    The picture will be duly sent to you.

    I have another matter for your consideration: Mr. Greville
    wants to know if you can think of any good picture (Sir Joshua
    or Gainsborough would be best) that would make a good
    companion to the one he has already bought of you; if you
    could suggest anything suitable, he would give you the
    commission. I am very glad you should have encouragement, but
    I trust you will not flag in your zeal about more important
    studies.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I send you the money from Mr. Greville for the portrait of his
    mother. I am very glad you should have this new commission,
    but you must thank _him, not me_, for it was entirely his idea
    and desire. He is indeed one of the kindest and best men
    possible. I look on him myself as a second father.

    To save time, I shall make arrangements for you to work in my
    studio on the _4 first_ days of January, if you can manage it.
    I shall be out of town, and you will have the place all to
    yourself.

    I wish you a happy Xmas and New Year, and remain.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                  WARNFORD COURT,
                                                 BISHOPS WALTHAM.

    You will forgive me, I am sure, for not writing to you to
    thank you for your letter, received some weeks back; but the
    fact is I have been so very busy as to make writing a matter
    of very great difficulty. I heard from your father not long
    ago that you have been very fortunate in getting capital
    commissions for portraits where you have been staying. I am
    very glad indeed to hear it, and trust sincerely that you feel
    you are progressing as steadily in proficiency as in
    prosperity. To the commissions you have had in the country, I
    have one to add here. Mr. Henry Greville wishes you to paint
    for him a copy of a head of a relation of his--I believe, of
    poor Lady Ellesmere, his sister, whose recent death has been
    such a terrible grief to him. You will, I am sure, be glad to
    undertake this painting, even though it may not in itself be
    very interesting. The size is a sort of oval kit-cat, not
    large. He proposes to offer you ten pounds for it.

    How is Miss Nan? I hope you have good accounts of her, and
    that all goes smoothly between you.

    I send this to Bath to be forwarded, as I don't know your
    present whereabouts.

       *       *       *       *       *

    DEAR JOHNNY,--I am just off to Paris, and write one line in
    hot haste to thank you for yours, and to say that I am
    delighted to hear you are conscious of progress. Come back as
    soon as you can _conveniently_, please, because Mr. Greville
    has _borrowed_ Lady Ellesmere's portrait for you to copy, and
    wants to return it as soon as possible to the Duke of
    Devonshire.

    Come and see me when you return, and believe me, with kind
    regards to Miss Nan,--Yours always,

                                                             F.L.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                             2 HOLLAND PARK ROAD,
                                                   KENSINGTON, W.

    I want very much, before they have quite disappeared, to get
    for myself and for a friend a couple of old-fashioned country
    bumpkins' smocks; you know the sort of thing. Do you chance to
    know any one in any of the villages about Bath who could pick
    up a couple? I should like a brown one (_NOT a white Sunday
    one_) and a green one, and that they should _not_ be
    washed--well worn, untidy things. If you saw your way to
    getting me such garments, I should be very grateful, but don't
    _trouble_ about it.

       *       *       *       *       *

    If you have leisure to think of anything but Miss Nan just at
    present, will you do me a favour? Will you get for me a
    peasant's _wide-awake_, in shape like the one I painted in
    your portrait, only really _old_ and _soiled_ and _stained_;
    bought, in fact, if possible, off a bumpkin's head? Can you do
    this for me, and either send it or bring it if you are about
    to return shortly? I will pay you when we meet.

    When is the wedding to be? or is it already over? I wish you
    all happiness and prosperity, and remain with kind
    remembrances to Miss (or Mrs.) Nan,--Yours truly,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    I hope you can read this; my hands are so cold I can scarcely
    hold the pen.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Mr. Greville has very kindly desired me to give you another
    commission, this time a larger one. He wants you to copy from
    my large picture the group of women carrying flowers, the size
    of the original.[65] He offers you £25 for it. If you are
    disposed, as I have no doubt you will be, I would, if I were
    you, write him a line of thanks for the kind interest he shows
    in you. In great haste.

       *       *       *       *       *

    One line in a great hurry to say that I am delighted to hear
    that you have got in to the life school at the Royal Academy,
    and to thank you for the photo., which is capital.

    I have not touched my Venus since you went away. I have been a
    good deal out of town myself, and have spent most of my time
    in finishing the two large decorative figures, which have now
    gone home. I am sorry you did not see them.

    Come as soon as you can to begin Mr. Greville's picture.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I leave town Saturday next, and shall not see you till
    Saturday the 6th July, so I write a line to say that you will
    set to work by yourself; the maid will light you a fire and
    give you the key of the studio.

    I have written direct to Gatwell to order the canvas, or it
    would not have been ready in time. You are to paint the group
    full size. _Trace it_ to get it quite accurate. Put the head
    of the centre figure, the woman in _yellow_, about four inches
    or four and a half inches from the top of the canvas; that
    will give you all the rest. _Leave out_ the little _child
    sitting_. Go slap at the colour, vigorously but _NOT quick_.
    The slower you work, if you work with energy, the sooner you
    get through, and the better the result.

    I hope you are enjoying yourself.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MRS. HANSON WALKER
    By permission of Mr. Hanson Walker]

    Although I certainly think it is a pity to exhibit too soon,
    nevertheless I think that your particular situation just now
    does justify you in doing so, as long as you confine yourself
    to the Suffolk Street Gallery. I sincerely hope you may sell
    your pictures.

    With kind regards to Mrs. Nan and love to my god-child, I am,
    in haste, yours always,

                                                             F.L.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I can't quite make out the price as written in your note, so
    to avoid mistakes I send blank cheque, which pray fill in
    yourself.

    Just off--good-bye.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                 _26th December._

    I have got your note and enclose little cheque. This is as it
    should be. It is absurd that because I am an old friend, you
    should be a loser by me in time and pocket.

    With a merry Xmas and New Year to you and Nan, I remain, in
    haste, yours sincerely,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                   2 HOLLAND PARK ROAD, _Monday_.

    Many thanks for your letter. I have had absolutely no time to
    answer sooner, and now can only do so most briefly. I am
    extremely glad to hear of the success of your labours at
    Dorchester, and think you are very right to take for yourself
    and "Mrs. Nan" a refreshing little holiday on the hills.

    I will begin the portrait next week,[66] when you return, at
    which time also I hope to show you some under-painted work
    which I think may interest you. I shall certainly call and see
    your screen. It will no doubt be a very useful bit of
    "property" to you.

    Remember me very kindly to your wife.

       *       *       *       *       *

    MY DEAR JOHNNY,--I am much obliged to you for your letter,
    telling me of your doings in the country. I think you will do
    wisely in going to the Isle of Wight to paint landscape; the
    danger of copying the old masters too exclusively, as you have
    been forced to do lately, is that one is apt to fall into
    mannerism by trying to see Nature with the eyes of others;
    painting landscape direct from Nature is the best possible
    corrective against this tendency.

    I shall be glad to see you and what you have done on your
    return, if you are here before the 20th or 22nd August; if
    not, we shall meet in October, when I return from the East.

    I am working away at my picture, which will be under-painted
    before I leave England.

    I wish you joy of your summer trip, and remain, yours very
    truly,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                 _6th September._

    I have just got your letter, and scribble a line in haste (for
    I am very busy) to say that you are wholly at liberty to do
    whatever you choose with Nan's picture, and that I am glad for
    your sake that people like it. I am also much pleased to hear
    that you have an interesting portrait on the easel, in which
    you see progress and improvement in the matter of breadth and
    light and subordination of half tints; nothing is more
    important in painting; I think that after accuracy and
    refinement of form, it is the quality you should most strive
    for. I am myself tolerably well, but not by any means
    brilliantly. I have got to work at a few small heads, which
    you will see before long.

    In haste, with love to Nan and the children.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                              LYNTON, _Saturday_.

    I have just received your note, and hear with sincere regret
    that you have not been prospering lately in your affairs. I am
    in great difficulty as to what I can do for you in the matter
    of the Curatorship. If it were only a question of testifying
    to your character, zeal, industry, &c. &c., I should have real
    pleasure in giving you that testimony in the highest and
    fullest degree. But, my dear Johnny, if I am not very much
    mistaken, the Curator is expected to be able when required to
    _advise and direct the pupils_, and I cannot in candour
    conceal from you that your age and experience do not appear to
    me yet to qualify you for that part of the duties. If it were
    not so, why does the candidate send in some of his works for
    inspection? You must not be angry with me, Johnny; you know I
    have always spoken the plain truth to you, and am always ready
    and desirous to help you when it is in my power. I should be
    only too glad to think of your obtaining some post that should
    relieve you from all immediate pecuniary care. Give my love to
    your wife and children, and believe me always, yours most
    sincerely,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    _P.S._--I shall be back on Wednesday or Thursday.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                        _Sunday._

    In case any alteration should have been made in the
    arrangements of the Schools during my absence, and that
    _teaching_ is not expected as part of the duties of a curator,
    I send you a letter to the Council, as I should be sorry you
    lost any fair chance by my absence.

    You heard from me no doubt yesterday.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                           _Care of_ MRS. WALKER,
                                    NEALINMORE, GLEN COLUMBKILLE,
                                                     CO. DONEGAL.
                                                          _15th._

    I have got your note, in regard to which I feel some little
    embarrassment. I am, as you know, always pleased when it is in
    my power to be of any use to you, and I should therefore wish
    to help you in this matter concerning which you write. I own,
    however, to having some hesitation in asking this favour of
    Mr. Hodgson, because I fear that the granting of it would be a
    source of a good deal of inconvenience to him, and he might,
    out of his old friendship, be put in an awkward position; he
    would be equally loth to say "yes" or "no." The picture hangs
    in his dining-room, _and cannot possibly be moved_. The copy
    would be a lengthy affair, for there is an enormous amount of
    work in the group you speak of, and you would have,
    therefore, to be established for a long time in a room which
    is in daily use by the family. I do not at all say that he
    might not grant the favour you ask, but I own I feel that _I_
    cannot, discreetly, ask it of him. I am sure you will not
    misinterpret my declining, and I shall be very sincerely glad
    if you yourself succeed in your direct appeal.

    I trust you and yours are thriving, and that you have not
    suffered lately from your leg.

    This is a wild, wind-swept corner of Ireland in which I am
    staying, and abounding in matter for studying, especially rock
    forms, but the inconstancy of the weather puts sketching
    almost out of the question.

    This is a matter of comparative indifference to me, as I came
    here purposely for rest, and not for work.

    Give my love to Nan and the chicks.--Sincerely yours,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Do you know of any one who would do a life-size _copy_ of a
    portrait of the Queen in robes for the sum of _£100_? I have
    been asked to inquire. It is, I believe, for Chelsea Hospital.
    In former days it might have been worth _your_ while; now it
    no longer is, it would not pay you; but you perhaps know of
    some less prosperous artist who would undertake it, and who
    would do it _well_--for of course that is expected.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                             2 HOLLAND PARK ROAD,
                                                   KENSINGTON, W.
                                        (_Postmark, Mar. 9. 82._)

    I am absolutely _ashamed_ to rob you, but you offer me the
    drawing so kindly that I can't possibly refuse it; I am
    delighted with it, only you must let me give you a little
    drawing some day in return. With very best thanks.

    [Illustration: STUDY OF GROUP FOR CEILING IN MUSIC ROOM
    Executed for Mr. Marquand, New York, 1886
    Leighton House Collection]

    [Illustration: FIRST SKETCH OF GROUP FOR MR. MARQUAND'S CEILING
    IN MUSIC ROOM, NEW YORK
    Leighton House Collection]

The following letter was written when Mr. Hanson Walker was in
America. In it Leighton refers to the ceiling he painted for Mr.
Marquand (see List of Illustrations):--

                                             2 HOLLAND PARK ROAD,
                                                  KENSINGTON, W.,
                                            _12th February 1887_.

    DEAR JOHNNIE,--I was very glad to get your letter giving so
    very satisfactory an account of yourself and your doings. I
    had already heard of your prosperity in a general way from
    Nan, who came to see me before starting, but who told me also
    how lonely you felt. It must have been a great joy to you to
    see her again, and it will be a still greater when you see the
    (_fourteen?_) youngsters about you once more; you will, like
    everybody who crosses the water, bring back a very pleasant
    recollection of American kindness and hospitality, and, I am
    glad to think, also a good pocketful of money. I hope it will
    bring you luck here. I am glad that Mr. Marquand has made you
    welcome to his house, which I understand is very beautiful. I
    know his Vandyke well; it belonged to an acquaintance of mine,
    Lord Methuen, who has a number of beautiful things at Corsham.
    It is one of the finest I know, and stands quite in the front
    rank of Vandykes. The Turner also I know, a rare favourite of
    mine. But of the Rembrandt I know nothing. I am glad, too, you
    thought my "ceiling" looked well. I hope he has introduced _a
    little gold in the rafters_ to _bind_ the paintings to the
    ceiling itself. Give my love to Nan, and believe me, with all
    good wishes, sincerely yours,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    Please remember me to the Marquands and to your friends the
    Osbornes.

FOOTNOTES:

[56] Owing to the kindness of Mr. Greville's niece and executor, Alice,
Countess of Strafford, I am able to quote extracts from his letters to
Leighton in this "Life." Unfortunately the letters from Leighton to Mr.
Greville cannot be found, though, as we know, many were written. During
his first visit to Algiers in 1857, Leighton wrote to his mother: "The
fact is that as besides corresponding with you I write often to Mrs.
Sartoris, and still oftener to Henry Greville, and having continually
much the same to tell all of you, I often cannot remember to whom I
have written what."

[57] It was when visiting his family at Bath that he first saw Hanson
Walker, the "Johnny" of the letters and of the pictures. Leighton was
much taken with the picturesque beauty of the boy's head, and made
various studies from it. A pencil study he made from his head (see List
of Illustrations) he used as a study for his picture "Lieder ohne
Worte." Having discovered that his sitter had a natural taste for
drawing, Leighton advised "Johnny's" father to let him become an
artist. This led to the boy being sent to learn drawing at the School
of Art in Bath. When Leighton returned to London after it had been
decided that "Johnny" was to study drawing, the young student received
one day to his surprise a large case. On opening it he found to his
delight a cast from the antique, a drawing-board, paper, charcoal,
chalks, in fact, all the utensils wanted by a beginner wishing to work
seriously at Art. Never to the end of his life did Leighton's interest
in his pupil flag. Never was he too busy to do a kindness to him or
his. Perhaps the early and somewhat romantic marriage which "Johnny"
made with a lady for whom Leighton felt from the earliest days of the
wedded life a very sincere regard, and the charming children who soon
made a pretty cluster round their parents, and were always a delight to
Leighton, cemented the friendly interest. The head of "Nan" (Mrs.
Hanson Walker--see List of Illustrations), painted as a wedding present
to "Johnny," is one among the happiest of Leighton's portraits. It is
broad in treatment, and fair and very pure in colour, and as a likeness
was considered perfect.

[58] Yearly Exhibition at Manchester.

[59] This correspondence refers to the "Cimabue's Madonna" at
Buckingham Palace. Small holes in the canvas having appeared, the
authorities were anxious that Leighton should inspect the picture, and
take steps to prevent further mischief.

[60] Mrs. Sartoris.

[61] In the Yearly Exhibition at Manchester, where Leighton sent the
"Romeo," "Pan," and the "Venus."

[62] Mr. Edward Sartoris.

[63] Mr. Edward Sartoris.

[64] Papers relating to the great Manchester Exhibition held in 1857.

[65] "A Syracusan Bride."

[66] The portrait of Mrs. Hanson Walker, which Leighton painted as a
wedding present for his young friend.




CHAPTER VI

STEINLE AND ITALY AGAIN--FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE EAST, 1856-1858


In Mr. Henry Greville's diary we find the following entry:--

                                     _Thursday, July 24th, 1856._

    Went on Monday to Hatchford with Leighton, and passed all
    Tuesday with him and Mrs. Sartoris on St. George's Hills. The
    day was enchanting, and the Hills in their greatest beauty.

Before leaving London in 1856 Leighton wrote to his mother:--

                                       LONDON, _Wednesday, 1856_.

    As my stay in London is drawing to a close, and nobody writes
    to me, I must write to somebody. I am happy to say (for I know
    it will interest you) that my "Pan" and "Venus" are admired as
    much as I could wish, so that I am not without hopes of
    selling one of them at Manchester. Gibson was quite delighted
    with them; I am, however, bound to say he knows nothing about
    it. The sketches of my "Orpheus" I have sold to White for £25,
    which comes "unkimmon" handy, as this place is ruinous. I have
    made the acquaintance of Rossetti, one of the originators of
    the pre-Raphaelite movement. He is apparently a remarkably
    agreeable and interesting man. Hunt also I like much. My plans
    are these: on Monday next I leave London, and shall spend a
    small week between the Cartwrights and (perhaps) the Grotes,
    after which on or before the 12th I shall be with you in Bath,
    where I shall remain until the 16th, on which day I shall come
    up by the early train to town, where I shall meet H. Greville,
    stay long enough to get my passport in order, and then be off
    double quick to Italy. I am longing to get to work again; I
    am doing nothing whatever except Henry's dog, which takes up
    what little time I have. Will you tell Papa that I went to the
    shop he recommended, and got a splendid Shakespeare ready
    bound in eight volumes for three guineas!

From Bath he wrote to Steinle:--

  _Translation._]
                                                  9 CIRCUS, BATH,
                                                _August 2, 1856_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--In about ten days I expect, on my way to
    Italy, whither I go on a short student journey, to pass
    through Frankfurt or Cologne, according as you are in one or
    the other, exclusively in order to take my dear master once
    more by the hand; and if you are at the moment in Frankfurt, I
    might even spend two or three days in the old Bokaga, and even
    draw a composition as in the old times. Do, dear friend, send
    me a line by return of post in order that I may make
    arrangements.

    The rest verbally--I have sadly forgotten my German.

    Hoping to meet very soon, dear master.--Think of your pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

  _Translation._]
                                                   BATH. 9 CIRCUS
                                                       (_later_).

    MY VERY DEAR MASTER,--I have just received your dear lines,
    and hasten to say that nothing could be more delightful to me
    than to travel with you again, if only for a few days.

    I had intended to go _viâ_ Milan for the sake of quickness,
    but I will go direct through the Tyrol to Venice.

    If all goes well, I will arrive in Frankfurt on the 23rd of
    this month; does that fit in with your plans?

    How delighted I am to see you again, my good Master!

    To our speedy meeting!--Your grateful pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

Leighton had felt his failure keenly, though, with his usual
consideration, he had tried to lessen the disadvantages of it in
writing to his mother. The friend who enjoyed constant intercourse
with him at the Bagni de Lucca in 1854 wrote at the time of his death:
"Leighton longed for and desired success; but only in so far as he
deserved it. When he was sharply checked in his upward career, he
accepted the rebuke with humility, for he was a modest man." Mrs.
Browning writes to Mrs. Jameson, May 6, 1896, from Paris: "Leighton
has been cut up unmercifully by the critics, but bears on, Robert
says, not without courage. That you should say his picture looked
well, was comfort in the general gloom." Though those critics who were
spokesmen for the envious among the artists seemed to revel in
Leighton's disaster, he had many friends who took perhaps a too
favourable view of the unfortunate picture. But neither excess of
abusive ridicule, nor a too favourable view taken by intimate friends,
could unduly influence Leighton himself--Leighton the actualist. He
had a firm faith that in the _actual_ it is man's lot to find the true
and the really helpful. These words of his master, Steinle's, written
to him in 1853, doubtless recurred to him, and he felt he must return
to the Eternal City to be reinspired after his fall:--

    I would rather remember that you will receive these lines in
    the Eternal City, that you are with our friend Rico, and that
    you are settling to work with renewed vitality and a pocketful
    of studies. In Cornelius, besides much that is stubborn, you
    will find so much that is admirable, and so much truly
    artistic greatness, that you will soon love him, for he is
    also of a truly childlike disposition, and much too good for
    Berlin, for which reason he has left the place. You lucky men
    who have crossed the Tiber--the Vatican of St. Peter, the
    Courts of St. Onofrio, the Villa Pamfili--where in the world
    is there anything like them? Where is there a town in which
    every stone has greater, more splendid things to tell us of
    every period? Where is there a place where the artist could
    soar higher than in Rome? Forget that you are practically in
    an island, and study your Rome; it is invaluable for one's
    whole life, which is otherwise so commonplace and so small.
    Your youth and courage--"the sparrow among the beans" ("Triton
    among the minnows")--need not be injured thereby; but, dear
    friend, you must become a man, and there is nothing great in
    the world that has been achieved except by taking pains.
    Addio, carissimo; greet Rico and the friends most heartily. My
    wife reciprocates your friendly greetings, and I remain, your
    devoted friend,

                                                         STEINLE.

He travelled there _viâ_ Frankfort to see Steinle, with whom he went
to Meran, thence to Venice and Florence, then on to Rome.

                                        FRANKFURT, BRAUSELER HOF,
                                                     _August 24_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--Being at last in Frankfurt, and having seen
    Steinle and his works, and, _en revanche_, shown him mine, I
    sit down to write to you. You will, I am sure, be glad to hear
    that he was much pleased with my drawings, that he liked the
    compositions, and what is more, gave me good advice about
    them. He also suggested to me to paint the little "Venus"
    rising out of the sea (from Anacreon), of which I have already
    made a sketch. My studies he seemed to think excellent; I gave
    him three of them; I was so charmed to see his dear face
    again, looking just the same as he always did, and when he
    showed me what he had been doing, I fairly set up the pipes.
    He took me in the afternoon to the Guaitas, who have a series
    of drawings by him from Clemens Brentano's poems; they are
    perfectly exquisite; the richness and variety of his
    imagination is something marvellous. Mr. Guaita, who is about
    to have them photographed for his friends, has kindly promised
    me a copy. To-morrow morning I am off for the Lake of
    Constance, whence through the Finstermünz to Meran, where I
    and Steinle part, though not till I have stayed there two or
    three days. To-day I shall go to Mr. Bolton and to Madame
    Beving to deliver your letter. Altogether Frankfurt has
    improved in appearance; it looks much more like a capital
    than it did formerly; new shops have sprung up, old ones are
    improved, and the whole town looks gay and busy; all this does
    not prevent it from being highly antipathetic to me, which is,
    I daresay, in some measure attributable to the hideous jargon
    that one hears wherever one turns. I have seen Gogel and Koch,
    who were both very civil, the former asking me to dine with
    him, which, however, I could not do, being already engaged to
    Steinle. And you, dearest Mamma, how are you? and Papa and the
    girls? Tell me all about them--write Venice p. restante.

    God bless you, dear Mamma. Remember the boy.


    I have had such a letter from Henry (Mr. Henry Greville);
    there never was anything like the tenderness of it--you would
    have been just enchanted.

                                           VENICE, _September 6_.

    I believe I told you in my last letter that I was going to
    spend a few days at Meran with Steinle. Now when I got there I
    found the place so beautiful and so healthy, and so rich in
    subjects for "my pencil," that I stayed _a week_, and this
    accounts for my being rather behindhand with this letter.

    Steinle and I had rooms at a sort of hydropathic
    boarding-house, with splendid accommodation for bathing in the
    coldest possible mountain water, a convenience of which I
    availed myself daily to my great enjoyment.

    I lived _comme les poules_. I was up at daybreak and a good
    bit before the sun (who takes a long time before he gets his
    nose into a valley) and went to bed very shortly after sunset;
    I worked and walked and ate and slept, that was my simple bill
    of fare. My good Steinle and myself got on, as of course,
    capitally. He is most affectionate and kind, and I have
    derived a good deal of artistic advantage from his intercourse
    even in that short time.

    By-the-bye, before I left Frankfurt I received through H.
    Greville a letter from Mr. Harrison, secretary to Col. Phipps,
    asking me to go to the Palace to look at the canvas of the
    "Cimabue," which appeared to be defective in some parts;
    though what on earth can be the matter with it I don't know;
    at the same time I got another saying, that as I was not in
    England, there would be no necessity for me to make a special
    journey to England on that account, and merely wishing to know
    when I expected to return. I sent an appropriate answer, which
    I submitted to Henry Greville, and now am waiting for further
    instructions from Harrison here in Venice.

Writing of his delight in being again in Italy he adds:--

    How I revelled in the first really Italian bit, the lake of
    Lugano! What an exquisite little picture it is with its villas
    and terraces, its cypresses and its oleanders, and the little
    town itself too! stretching its cool arcades along the blue
    margin of the water; a lovely drive along the lake took me to
    that of Como, and from thence I went by rail to Milan; stayed
    a day, went to the Scala, performance so bad I was obliged to
    leave the house, and now I am for a week in Venice gliding
    along in lazy gondolas, winking up at grey palaces and
    glittering domes. I suppose you won't leave Italy this time
    without seeing Venice once more, and feeding your eyes again
    on Titian and Bonifazio, Veronese and Tintoretto. By-the-bye,
    I am doing a sketch from a superb Bonifazio in the Academy
    here; yesterday I painted hard for six hours, so you see it is
    not _all_ boats, and now I must close. I will write to you
    again from Florence, and I hope with a better pen. God bless
    you, Mammy, give my love to all from your loving boy.

To his father Leighton writes:--

                                         FLORENCE, HÔTEL DU NORD,
                                           _25th September 1856_.

    About my pictures[67] I have heard (for Henry makes the
    Ellesmeres keep him _au courant_, which of course is very
    convenient for me) that they are pretty well hung, but that
    the "Romeo" is not seen very well owing to a defect in the
    lighting of the room. Lady E. said the "Pan" and "Venus"
    seemed to be very well painted, or something, but Lord
    Brackley thought them improper! Henry, of course, was furious
    at their prudishness. I don't for the life of me know where to
    have them sent to, nor can I know for the next three weeks
    about, as I must write to consult Henry and get his answer and
    then write to you, but surely there is time. You have, of
    course, received the letter in which I tell you that I _must_
    go to England at the beginning of November to see about my
    picture, but you need not be afraid about my having to do it
    over again; that would be a good joke; no artist ever yet was
    responsible _pro_spectively for what might happen to his
    picture; but it will be a frightful bore in the expense line
    coming back from Italy fairly swept out as I shall be. Were
    you so kind as to pay the rent for me as I asked you?

  _Translation._]
                                      FLORENCE, _28th September_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--Well may you say that the Meran post is
    tardy, for I only received your dear letter of the 13th three
    days ago. Meanwhile you have probably long since received
    mine, in which I thanked you heartily for the beautiful coat
    received in Venice.

    I have already stayed here in Florence eight days, and though
    I have not worked very arduously, I have yet thoroughly
    enjoyed myself, and also, I hope, learned something from the
    lovely things that I am seeing again here; meanwhile there
    remains much for me to see in the two days that I have still
    to stay, amongst others the Capella of Benozzo Gozzoli in the
    Palazzo Riccardi, a work which I love excessively. To see the
    old Florentine school again is a thing which always enchants
    me anew, for one can never be sated with seeing the noble
    sweetness, the childlike simplicity, allied with high manly
    feeling, which breathes in it. But I speak to you of plain
    things which you know far better than I. I am quite eager to
    see the new drawings at Fabiola, and I am much excited about
    those at Cologne; but the gods alone know when I shall see
    them.

    On Wednesday I go to Rome, where I hope to see Rico; if only
    I could take _you_ with me, dear master! Meanwhile I beg you
    to remember me most kindly to Madame Steinle, and yourself
    believe in the love of your grateful pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

    _P.S._--My stay in Rome will (alas!) only be very short, for I
    am unexpectedly obliged to go soon to London, confound
    it!--instead of a month, _ten_ days! _Povero me!_

    [Illustration: CA' D'ORO, VENICE. WATER COLOUR. 1856]

                                   FLORENCE, _11th October 1856_.

    DEAREST MAMMY,--I wonder whether you are coming to Florence,
    and, if so, how long you are going to stay. I suppose you will
    go to the Hôtel du Nord as in old times--I go there
    invariably, and write now from my own particular room. I wrote
    to you last from Venice, where I spent ten days in a very
    satisfactory manner between work and _flânerie_ of an artistic
    description--indeed I _flâned_ this time with more advantage
    than hitherto, for I went more closely than I had yet done
    into the _architecture_ of Venice, studying the different
    masters, their different styles and relative merit; I need not
    say that I found this extremely interesting. Fred Cockerell, a
    young architect friend of mine, was there with Villers Lister,
    another very nice boy, a London acquaintance of mine. We were
    a great deal together, and they accompanied me to Padua, where
    I left them doing _Giotto_, which I would most willingly have
    done myself if I had not been hard pressed for time. In the
    painting line I only made one sketch, a Bonifazio of the first
    water, which will figure very satisfactorily on my studio
    wall; it took me a good deal of time, and is on the whole, I
    think, very fair. In Florence I have had one or two great
    disappointments which have rather diminished my enjoyment of
    this loveliest place. I expected confidently to find both
    Browning and his wife and Lyons. Neither of them are here, the
    former not having yet returned from the North, and the latter
    having been called home to see his father, who is very ailing.
    I have seen the Fenzis, who received me with their wonted
    cordiality, and am going to-day to call on the Maquays. I am
    here too short a time to work, beyond a pencil sketch or two,
    and am off for dear old Rome on Friday morning as ever is. I
    shall stay there till I find a studio, which I hope won't be
    long, and shall then rush off to Cervara in the mountains to
    paint.

    Good-bye, Mammikins. Give my best love to all, and believe me
    your loving boy,

                                                            FRED.

In Rome Leighton received the following from his friend Mr.
Cartwright:--

                                    AYNHOE, _September 26, 1856_.

    MY DEAR LEIGHTON,--Truly was I delighted with your letter, so
    that in spite of my "nature to" I gulped my huff, though I was
    like to choke; but self-interest is a wonderful smoothener,
    and as I want you to do something for me I mean to behave
    myself. Leighton, by the squints which you shot over my park
    from your outspread umbrella, by those you are hereafter to
    shoot, by Tokay cup and venison hash--by anything you like, I
    want you to belumber yourself with some ripe _stone
    pinecones_, and a hundred cork acorns. I have found a _true_
    legitimate stone pine about forty to fifty feet high on my
    property, and as for the cork trees you have seen the one in
    my garden, and therefore, I do not see why I should not have a
    lot in the park. They can only be raised from acorns. Now,
    _if_ you could take steps to get me _these_ things--God! I
    don't know what I would not do for you, and how would we enjoy
    it in years to come to watch the growth of our trees. It is a
    _national_ object. You may have some difficulty in getting the
    acorns and cones; Pantaleone or Erhardt might perhaps mention
    to you some gardener who would procure them. _You_ know
    probably the trees would get to be called L. pines and
    Leighton oaks, which is one way to immortality if Orpheus and
    Eurydices won't help you. I wrote to Mason about the pines; by
    all means _make_ him answer, the exertion will do him good, he
    _wants_ exercise, and therefore don't get on with his work. My
    God! when I came in at twelve to-day he was not up!

    How I envy you at Rome when I think of it; how would I _enjoy_
    being there, and yet I can't help thinking of ----'s death at
    the same time. Remember me to little Cornhill and every Roman
    who remembers me. Write Poste Restante, Paris. I go there, I
    believe, next week, but _where_ I shall be the winter ----?
    Forster is in the Westminster--be d----d to it for stale wine
    that it is. As for Mason, make him write, and believe me,
    yours affectionately,

                                                           W.C.C.

                                        ROME, _October 14, 1856_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--I have delayed writing to you for a few days
    in the hope of finding a letter from you in answer to my last;
    however, as the posts here are frightfully irregular, and I
    think it very possible your answer may have been lost, I wait
    no longer. I enclose two little criticisms on my "Romeo" and
    "Venus," which will I think please Papa and you, and which
    were sent me through Mrs. Sartoris by Henry Greville.[68]
    There is, however, not the remotest chance of my selling them
    at Manchester, and I am considering where to show them next. I
    am trying here in Rome (where I shall stay till the end of
    October) to make up by rigid economy for the expense
    inevitably incurred by living at inns all the way here. I
    can't tell you what a delight it was to me to see this dear
    old place again. Everything is so unaltered since I left it,
    that I felt on returning exactly as if I was coming home from
    a drive instead of a lengthened absence. The frescoes which I
    knew so well were as new to me again from their colossal
    grandeur, and I wished I could spend a month or so exclusively
    copying in the Sixtina. My picture, though not well _seen_, is
    not particularly badly _hung_, but it can only be seen from a
    distance, so that the expressions are almost entirely lost; it
    does not look so well as in my studio. The Pre-Raphaelites are
    very striking, full of talent and industry, but unpleasant to
    the eye. Meanwhile they have the day. Colnaghi told me that he
    _thought_ he could sell "Romeo" if I made the price _four
    hundred_, and said I could do it without derogating, as it
    went through his, a dealer's, hands. I consulted Henry and
    Mrs. S., who strongly advised me to follow his advice. I have
    done so. May it bring me luck. If the remarks you quote, dear
    Mamma, are meant to apply to my relation with Mrs. Sartoris, I
    can only say, that as I have derived from her more moral
    improvement and refinement (you know it), and from her circle
    more intellectual advantage than from _all my other
    acquaintances_ put together twice over, I can't join with Mrs.
    Whatshername in apprehending "a great number of
    inconveniences."

In a later letter Leighton announces the sale of the "Romeo"
picture:--

    The "Romeo," which had the best place in the Exhibition, has
    been sold for £400, which to me represents _£360_ after
    deduction of percentage. They have in a most slovenly way sold
    my picture for pounds though marked _guineas_, they want to
    know if I claimed the difference; as they have behaved without
    sufficient _égard_ about other things also, I have directed
    the secretary in England to say that I should like the error
    to be rectified, though I do _not_ wish the sale to be
    cancelled on that account if it be too late. I don't want to
    miss the money of course, but I have no idea of such
    negligence on their part.

    You see, dear Mamma, that my little pension to Lud has become,
    for this year at least, so easy that I have scarcely any merit
    left.

                                        19 QUEEN STREET, MAYFAIR.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--Having arrived in London, and been to the
    Palace to see my picture, I hasten both to tell you the result
    of my inspection and to answer your very kind letter to Paris
    which, like an ass that I am, I have neglected to bring with
    me. The damage to my picture is trifling and easily
    remediable, having arisen in no way from the precarious nature
    of paint or varnish, but from a faulty canvas, and probable
    rough usage in moving. I shall set all right in a few days;
    the holes or raw places are in the sky, and luckily not near
    the faces. I have not yet seen Colonel Phipps, and am waiting
    for further instructions; the Court I shall of course not see,
    as it is at Windsor.

    I don't remember whether I told you that I got an invitation
    from Manchester to exhibit next spring, and having nothing to
    send but "Cimabue," have respectfully applied to the Queen
    through Colonel Phipps to obtain it of her for that occasion.

    I am truly sorry not to see you all but as you say, I can't
    afford it; indeed, I write now partly to ask Papa to send me
    some money, the £50 he gave me in the middle of August when I
    started are not only gone, but scarcely took me back to Paris,
    and but for Petre, whom I met coming back from Naples, and who
    lent me a trifle with most friendly alacrity, I should have
    been frightfully pinched; the first part of my journey being
    all travelling, and hotel life was very dear. In Rome,
    however, I lived for nothing, and sailed from Civita Vecchia
    to Marseilles "before the mast," a thing I will never do again
    if I can help it, but which enabled me just to get home to
    Paris within a few francs of the £50. Meanwhile I have no
    hesitation in saying that I never spent three months more
    profitably or more agreeably. I suppose Papa kindly paid my
    last quarter as I asked him, but not having received your
    letter I don't in reality know.

    P. Delaroche is dead, I am sorry to say. Going through Paris I
    went to see Rob. Fleury, who with characteristic kindness put
    me up to several dodges in picture-restoring with a reference
    to "Cimabue"--invaluable information.

After doing what was required to the Buckingham Palace picture,
Leighton returned to Paris, where he wrote the following to Steinle:--

  _Translation._]
                                  21 RUE PIGALLE, _1st December_.

    DEAR FRIEND AND MASTER,--I read with real distress the sad
    news of your severe loss, but sincere and deep as is my
    sympathy, I pass on in silence, for in such an hour of trial
    there is but one comfort for you, and that not from man.

    I should no doubt have come back to you from Rome in the
    beginning of October, but I had to go to England, where I
    spent three weeks, and am consequently now just established
    again in Paris. My Italian journey afforded me in every way
    the greatest pleasure and edification, and I seem now for the
    first to have grasped the greatness of the Campagna and the
    giant loftiness of Michael Angelo; still the dear old town,
    now as ever, is quite unchanged. The good Cornelius is so
    cheerful and friendly that it is a real pleasure; he has
    finished some works which have much beauty in the design, but,
    quite in confidence, they are nevertheless a trifle "solite
    cose," and much too weakly drawn: from a man who makes claims
    to style, one expects something more of solidity. Cornelius is
    a richly and powerfully endowed man, but he does the young
    generation no good; if young people would only look at work of
    Michael Angelo's! I except the sculptor Willig, he is a famous
    fellow, and also an agreeable man. I was glad to meet Gamba
    again, but unfortunately I did not see any work of his.

    Dear Friend, in spite of all my efforts I could nowhere find
    the right garment for your composition, and learnt only after
    a long search what is properly the official dress; I learnt at
    last from the custodian of the Sixtina, who inquired from the
    head "Ceremoniere," that the cardinal in these days wears the
    Cappa Magna _pavonazza_, not the _red_.[69] The costume
    therefore is: purple undergarment, _lace shirt_ (rochetto),
    cappa magna of violet _cloth_ (those in the _Charwache_ will
    wear no _silk_), black shoes, four-cornered hood, and gloves
    with the ring; I enclose a drawing of the real confessional in
    St. Peter's Church; I hope it may be of use to you. Dear
    master, how can you possibly _excuse_ yourself for closing
    your letter with a word of true and wise advice! You know that
    I owe to you, and to no one else, the whole of my serious
    education, and am proud of it.

    If you do not get the work at Cologne, it will be a downright
    infamy and a dirtiness without parallel; but I hope for the
    best.

    How I should like to see your "Marriage at Cana."

    Keep in remembrance your loving pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

  _Translation._]
                                            _Saturday, 9th May 1857._

    MY DEAR FRIEND AND MASTER,--Your letter, just received, has
    given me intense pleasure. Your constant and affectionate
    remembrance of a pupil who is under so many obligations to
    you, rejoices my heart. On this occasion, however, your letter
    was particularly welcome, because I had already begun to worry
    myself a little about your long silence, and was almost afraid
    you might imagine that I had not exerted myself sufficiently
    in the matter of your cardinal.

    But first of all I offer my best congratulations on the
    completion of the Cologne affair, and on the splendid field
    which is offered to you also in Münster. At last you have work
    which is worthy of your abilities and your efforts, and will
    give them scope. With such employment I must not regret that I
    shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again in Paris. That
    I have not seen the "Marriage of Cana" is, I candidly confess,
    a source of regret to me; I know the design of the
    composition, and should have liked extremely to have seen how
    it has turned out. When shall I see one of your works again?

    What shall I tell you about myself, my dear friend? I am
    getting on with my pictures, and have now got them all three
    into a fairly forward state of _under_-painting; completion,
    however, will only be reached in the course of next winter,
    for I intend to execute them with minute care. I have
    simplified my method of painting, and foresworn all _tricks_.
    I endeavour to advance from the beginning as much as possible,
    and equally try to mix the right tint, and slowly and
    carefully to put it on the right spot, and _always_ with the
    model before me; what does not exactly suit has to be adapted;
    one can derive benefit from every head. Schwind says that he
    cannot work from models, they _worry_ him! a splendid teacher
    for his pupils! nature worries every one at first, but one
    must so discipline oneself that, instead of checking and
    hindering, she shall illuminate and help, and solve all
    doubts. Has Schwind, with his splendid and varied gifts, ever
    been able to model a head with a brush? Those who place the
    brush behind the pencil, under the pretence that _form_ is
    before all things, make a very great mistake. Form _is
    certainly ALL important_; one cannot study it enough; _but_
    the greater part of _form_ falls within the province of the
    tabooed _brush_. The everlasting hobby of _contour_ (which
    belongs to the drawing material) is first the _place_ where
    the _form_ comes in; what, however, reveals true knowledge of
    form, is a powerful, organic, refined finish of modelling,
    full of feeling and knowledge--and that is the affair of the
    brush (_Pinsel_).

    You see I have again begun discoursing, my dear Master; you
    must excuse all this silly talk, and ascribe it to the
    pleasure I feel whenever I enjoy intercourse with you, even if
    only by letter. How much we have already talked over together!

    And now adieu, dear Friend. Rest assured that you have not
    wasted your affection on an ungrateful man, and keep always in
    remembrance--Your faithful pupil,

                                                        LEIGHTON.

    Please remember me most kindly to your wife.

    I do not know of any work of mine that has appeared in an
    illustrated paper--Louie has been dreaming.

Three interesting letters to Steinle belong to the following year. In
the second Leighton states that he is about to start for Algiers.
After his arrival there he writes to his mother describing the place.
Notwithstanding the difficulty he found in drawing the natives of
Algiers, owing to their shyness and to their prejudices, Leighton
succeeded while there in making drawings which rank among his very
best; in fact, in certain qualities no others he ever drew can be said
to equal them. To quote Mr. Pepys Cockerell (_Nineteenth Century_,
November 1896):--

"I do not believe that more perfect drawings, better defined or more
entirely realised, than these studies of heads of Moors, camels, &c.,
were ever executed by the hand of man."

Unfortunately the paper Leighton used was of the kind which becomes
injured by time. The brown stains which now disfigure the sheets and
the faint tone of the pencilling make it impossible to reproduce these
drawings with any worthy result, but some of the original sketches can
be seen in the Leighton House Collection.

  _Translation._]
                                ROME, 11 VIA DELLA PURIFICAZIONE,
                                                 _March 3, 1857_.

    MY VERY DEAR MASTER,--Heartiest thanks for your kind lines of
    the 3rd of last month.

    I hear with the greatest interest that your cartoon is now
    finished, and that you expect to get to the wall next year.
    How I envy you this great work! I cannot deny that I rejoice a
    little, secretly, that you are tied down to _buon_ fresco, for
    I have a passion (unfortunately an altogether unsatisfied one)
    for this material. You may be quite sure that if it is in any
    way possible for me, I shall make a little excursion to
    Cologne in order to offer my humble assistance; nothing could
    be more delightful to me.

    Some works of yours have just come to Rome; illustrations to a
    prayer-book, engraved (I believe) by Keller. When did you make
    these charming drawings? The one with the blossoming staff and
    the little Madonna is quite specially sympathetic to me. The
    things are, however, engraved without feeling or delicacy.

    With what you say about the advantage of growing older I
    quite agree, and I am in a certain respect anxious for the
    time when I shall find my _niveau_, and shall be able to work
    with more peace and equanimity. I have been for some time in a
    very painful position--I feel so humbly my incapacity even
    from afar off to approach the entrancing beauty of nature,
    that I have not the courage to embark upon any large work. For
    some time I have scarcely composed at all; partly, it is true,
    because I have no time, but partly also because I do not feel
    myself in a position to embody an idea properly. I know that
    such a condition is morbid, and hope to extricate myself from
    it in time. It arises also partly from the fact that my
    _individuality_ is not yet sufficiently developed; I see it
    coming, but it takes a very long time. I know already, on the
    smallest computation, _what_ I want, but I do not know _how_ I
    am to accomplish it.

    I went recently to see Cornelius, who is always genial and
    charming. He is drawing on one of the Redelli for the Campo
    Santo. Rich and spirited in invention and arrangement, the
    form in _details_, however, is very badly drawn--heads that
    are unpermissible; he treats God's nature quite cavalierly. I
    saw at his house a composition by a certain Wöredle (or some
    such name) of Vienna, a pupil of Führich, the subject taken
    from the Apocalypse: "There shall be wonders." Above, the
    Saviour, in the usual attitude, with the usual flowing
    garment; to the right and left, Mary and John, in their
    respective usual attitudes; at their feet four angels blowing
    trumpets, by Cornelius; in the background a number of comets;
    lying about in the middle and foreground, a quantity of
    figures, which have been collected from different works of
    Cornelius', strike convulsive attitudes on the floor; for the
    rest, the whole is constructed with appalling academic
    execution and lifelessness. Cornelius seemed to think it quite
    right; I consider it difficult, with reverence and love, to
    complete the head of one girl; for that reason I am not fond
    of going to him, for although personally he is extremely
    sympathetic to me, I cannot help feeling that I do not fit in
    with him, and am obliged to dissemble. But you must be quite
    weary of this chattering letter, dear Master; I will close.
    Remember me most kindly to your wife and children, and rely
    always upon the friendship of your grateful pupil,

                                                        LEIGHTON.

  _Translation._]
                                   _Thursday, September 3, 1857._

    DEAR FRIEND AND MASTER,--I was, as usual, most delighted to
    receive your cordial letter of 21st August; I am touched by
    your constant friendship, but also somewhat ashamed that you
    should treat your much indebted pupil almost as an equal and
    counsellor. I have the greatest desire to see your second
    cartoon, but I am very much afraid that this year it will be
    quite impossible, for I am going on a journey in quite the
    opposite direction; I am shortly going to Africa, partly to
    make some landscape studies, but also to make acquaintance
    with that very interesting race, but _not_ in order to become
    a painter of Bedouins. It was my intention, as I am starting
    immediately, not to write till I came back, in order that I
    might have something to tell you; however, the following has
    suddenly made me change my mind; the fat, affected,
    tailor-like, civil-spoken little Jew visited me recently and
    told me you want to make inquiries about wall painting, and
    that I might tell you, if I was writing, that Conture has just
    gone away. This impelled me to write immediately. Will you
    forgive me, for old friendship's sake, if I put in a word
    here, to which you need not give the smallest attention? I
    want to protest vehemently, dear Master, against all
    _oil_-painting on _walls_; and that, not because fresco
    painting has sufficed for the greatest works of the greatest
    masters, but on account of the _positive disadvantages_ of
    oils. How, in effect, do the two materials stand to one
    another? Fresco is certainly the one material for monuments.
    First, because it is the most suitable for a broad, massy,
    imposing _form_, for in no material can one pursue form so
    completely _without losing colour_; secondly, because by no
    other method can one attain such masterly, earnest, quiet,
    virile effect in colour; thirdly, however, and principally,
    because fresco _is visible from all points alike_, this
    advantage is immeasurable for architectural art. What, on the
    other hand, are the advantages of oil? Only one occurs to me
    and that is quite illusory, _i.e._ you have a wider range of
    colour; but all the colours that an oil palette has in advance
    of fresco are, for fresco, superfluous if not pernicious.
    Superfluous, because the broken, fine grey tones which have
    such an infinite charm in easel pictures, and which counteract
    the otherwise too great brilliance of the material, are quite
    superfluous in a painting where _all tones_ are dull and
    solid. Pernicious, where they would be applicable, because
    they might mar the majestic peace of the work. And then it
    should be remembered that the limited scale of the fresco
    palette, so _far as it extends_, is unsurpassable for glow and
    atmosphere and strength. Titian's frescoes at Padua in the
    Tenola St. Antonio rival his oil-paintings in colour. M.
    Angelo's "Madonna in the Last Judgment" might (for colour) be
    by Tintoretto, and many figures on this glorious wall are as
    glowing as Titian's! As regards the disadvantages of
    oil-painting, I can only say that they often blister in the
    shadows, and that one can _only see them from one point of
    view_. I know very well that fresco is exposed to damp, but
    one can, indeed one must, have one's wall examined before one
    begins to work, and if it is well dried and "drained" there is
    no danger; at the worst, one can cover one's wall with sheets
    of lead; it has been discovered that this was often done in
    Pompeii. Or one can also (there are instances) paint upon a
    specially prepared canvas away from the wall. But you know all
    this better than I. Have you forgiven me, dear Friend? I could
    not forbear from saying this, and rely upon your indulgence.

    Do not allow Schlösser to mislead you about my work. I daub on
    steadily, but am by a very long way not contented.

    I send these lines to Frankfurt in the hope that they will be
    forwarded to you.

    I shall stay some weeks in Algiers--can I do anything for you?
    in that case send me a line. Till the _1st October_ a letter
    will find me; address, Poste Restante, Algiers.

    All good luck be with you on your holidays, and may you gain
    the desired strength.

    Keep in remembrance your loving pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.
    21 RUE PIGALLE.

                                         ALGIERS, _Friday, 18th_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--I arrived here only last Monday, as the little
    delay about the money made me lose the boat by which I
    intended to sail; having, however, nothing in my studio that
    was dry enough or otherwise fit to work on, I left Paris all
    the same and visited Avignon, Nîmes, and Arles, most
    interesting towns which I had long desired to see. Avignon
    reminded me so vividly of certain parts of Rome that it was
    all I could do not to take a place for Civita Vecchia and
    succumb to my longing desire to see Italy once more.

    I have not the least idea (especially in this hot weather) how
    to describe to you this strange and picturesque town in which
    I have taken up my temporary quarters; everything where the
    African element has been preserved is so entirely new, so
    unlike anything that you have seen, that I see no chance of
    putting before your mind any living image of the thing. Before
    going further I may as well tell you, dearest Mammy, that
    although it is very hot I am perfectly well and have an
    enormous appetite. I walk from six to eight hours every day,
    and bathe regularly in the sea.

    Algiers occupies one horn of a most beautiful bay, thickly
    studded with villas and farms, and reminding one greatly of
    Italy. The aspect of the town, however, shows you at once, and
    from a great distance, that you are in no European land. You
    must know that oriental houses have no roofs, but are
    surmounted by terraces, that they have no windows, the rooms
    being lit from the inner court, and that they are painted
    three times a year of the purest white, so that on approaching
    Algiers, rising as it does steeply up the hillside, it looks
    from the sea and under an African sun like a pyramid of
    alabaster or marble, or, as some poet or other has said of it,
    like a swan about to spread her wings. The effect of this
    whiteness glittering out from the green and purple hills and
    hanging over a dark-blue sea is really most beautiful;
    unfortunately, however, the whole of the lower part of the
    town that runs along the port has been so completely
    Europeanized that, but for a rather pretty mosque on the
    waterside, you might fancy you were at Havre or any other
    French seaport town. As soon, however, as you get up into the
    Arab town, your illusions are not only restored but enhanced,
    for assuredly nothing could be more perfectly picturesque and
    striking than the steep, tortuous streets that climb up to
    the Casbah, or fortress, at the top of the town. The upper
    storeys of the houses jut out into the street in such a manner
    that they constantly meet, forming an archway underneath, and
    yet the streets are never dark, from the dazzling whiteness of
    all the walls, which reflect the light in every direction and
    gild and brighten the darkest corners. Fancy, in the midst of
    all this gleaming white, the gorgeous effect produced by the
    varied colours of oriental costumes and complexion: the
    copper-coloured Arabs, the sallow Jews, the ebony negroes; and
    then the frequent display of every kind of fruit--crimson
    tomatoes and purple aubergines, emerald and golden melons,
    glowing oranges, luminous green grapes, and to relieve the
    blaze of ardent colour, the tender ivory tones of the
    tuberose, and the soft milk-white jessamine. I don't think a
    colourist could have a more precious lesson than seeing this
    place; you see in half-an-hour a sufficient number of fine
    harmonies to set you up for a year. Not less striking than the
    display of colour is the variety of types and costumes. Arabs
    of the desert, with their lofty bearing and ample drapery, the
    tattered, brawny Kabyles, the richly dressed Jewesses, the
    negresses, dressed in long indigo-coloured draperies, and with
    bracelets of horn round their ankles; in fact, you cannot
    imagine a greater medley than is presented by a street in the
    Arab quarter of the town. It has this drawback, that in the
    midst of such an _embarras de richesses_, I don't know how I
    shall ever be able to work; as yet I have not seen a pencil
    even, indeed I have not been off my feet since I arrived, and
    my head is in a perfect muddle. I spend next week in the
    interior of the country, and when I come back I shall have a
    fortnight in which I hope to do something. Getting anybody to
    sit here is exceedingly difficult, and costs mints. The price
    of living here is the same as Paris, but anything at all extra
    is very dear; a horse or a cab to get to some place beyond a
    walk is very expensive, and my consumption of drink (lemonade,
    coffee, &c., for pure water is not wholesome here) from six in
    the morning till bedtime is something incredible. Good-bye,
    dearest Mother, I will write a longer letter next time. I have
    no news from India. Best love to all, from your most
    affectionate boy.

    If you hear from Lina, _mind_ you let me know, as I am most
    anxious for news.

    I am so sorry the ink is so pale. I have written over half the
    letter, but it is not much use; next time I will have darker
    ink.

    [Illustration: SKETCH IN OILS. ALGIERS. 1895]

                                      ALGIERS, _Monday 29, 1857_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--Poor Lina,[70] what a state of wretched
    suspense and terror she must live in! what a frightful crisis
    it is! God grant all may end well. Have you heard lately? Pray
    let me know whatever you can; at this distance I can get only
    the most salient facts, and am most eager to hear some more
    circumstantial account of the progress of affairs. Poor
    Sutherland, I often think of his kind grey eyes and manly
    carriage; what a harassing, anxious life he must lead!

    Before I go any further I must ensure saying a thing that I
    have been intending to tell for some time past, and which has
    always been driven out of my head by the more immediate
    subject of my letter. I am by no means certain that I have not
    already mentioned it; I wish to be quite certain. The fact is
    that as besides corresponding with you I write often to Mrs.
    Sartoris, and still oftener to Henry Greville, and have
    continually much the same to tell all of you, I often cannot
    remember to whom I have written what, and I am therefore
    uncertain whether I told you that Romeo and Juliet and Pan and
    Venus are by this time exciting (let us hope) the admiration
    of the citizens of America at the town of Philadelphia. It
    costs me nothing at all either to send or to fetch, and the
    percentage is ten per cent. I sent them off the end of last
    month, just before leaving Paris for Africa. Tom Taylor is on
    the committee, and I think the speculation may turn out good,
    particularly if Mrs. Kemble, who is in America now, takes an
    interest in them.

    Putting aside all question of anxiety and sorrow, I am
    delighted with my visit to Algiers. I feel that, though I have
    as yet been unable to touch a pencil, I have already taken a
    great deal of new stuff, and if I were to leave Africa with an
    empty sketch-book, I should still return to my easel improved
    in knowledge of form and combination of colours. Still it is
    a great mortification to me to see such fine types around me
    without any means of getting them to sit, an operation to
    which they have an insuperable objection; if it were not
    vexatious, it would be quite amusing to see how they slink
    away when they perceive you are trying to sketch them.

    Of course, one of my great desires was to see if possible a
    Moorish _intérieur_; and in this, though it is difficult to
    achieve, I have been very fortunate, through the
    instrumentality of a young native, with whom I became
    accidentally acquainted. I have made the acquaintance of one
    Achmet, son of Ali Pasha, a decayed native gentleman, now
    holding office in the French customs, but once very well to do
    in the world. I have been twice to his house, which I may as
    well describe to you, as it is a type of all Moorish houses in
    this part of the world. The whole of the centre of the
    building is taken up by a little _cortile_, open to the sky
    and surrounded by two storeys of arcades of a graceful shape,
    on to which the rooms open as in Greek houses. These arcades
    are painted pure white, and are relieved by fillets of
    coloured porcelain tiles that have a most original and
    charming effect; the first-floor gallery is closed in by a
    breast-high balustrade, elegantly carved and painted blue or
    green; the top of the house is invariably an open terrace,
    adorned with flowers and shrubs. The rooms, I said, open on
    the corridors and have no windows (except little peeping
    holes) on to the street; they are consequently always wrapped
    in a sort of clear, cool, reflected twilight that is
    inexpressibly delightful and soothing in hot, glaring weather.
    Each room takes up one side of the house, and is therefore a
    long narrow strip; immediately opposite the door is an alcove,
    containing a raised, handsomely cushioned and carpeted divan,
    and ornamented invariably with three florid gilt
    looking-glasses. At the foot of the raised divan is another
    lower one for those who like low seats; other such divans run
    along the wall, and a few highly wrought, embossed chests and
    other oriental articles of furniture complete the decoration
    of the room. In such a room Achmet Oulid received us, putting
    before us delicious hot coffee in tiny cups with filagree
    stands, a delightful kind of peach jam, and the pipe of peace.
    You would have laughed to see your son lolling on a Turkey
    carpet and puffing away at a long pipe. Our host has the
    dearest little daughter, ten years old, whom by a great
    stretch of courtesy we were allowed to see. By-the-bye, nearly
    all Arab children are lovely, and look great darlings in their
    Turkish dress.

    My paper is coming to an end and the boat does not wait, so I
    close. I shall write you another letter before I leave this
    and tell you more of what I have done and seen.

    Good-bye, dearest Mammy.

    [Illustration: SKETCH IN OILS. ALGIERS. 1895]

Leighton refers to this visit in a letter to Mrs. Mark Pattison
(1879), who was about to write an account of his art. "This visit made
a deep impression on me; I have loved 'The East,' as it is called,
ever since. By-the-bye, I drew here my (almost) only large
water-colour drawing 'A Negro Festival' (the picture Leighton always
referred to as 'The Niggers'), which was thought very well of by my
friends."

To his sister in India he wrote:--

    Since I last wrote I have spent a month or six weeks in
    Algeria, and have opened an acquaintance with the East which I
    hope to keep up, not only from the pleasure but from the
    instruction I have derived from even a short visit. My next
    journey, however, will be to the old, original cradle of
    Western Art--to Egypt, which country, as I shall visit it
    under widely different circumstances from what you did, poor
    dear, and I trust in much better health, will of course strike
    me in a very different manner. There are many things in the
    Arab quarter in Algiers which will probably stand comparison
    with Cairo, but besides that, Egypt has far more physiognomy
    as a country than the coast of Algeria. I am anxious to study
    the Egyptian type, which is truly grand and wonderful.
    However, these are plans for a tolerably remote day, as I
    shall spend my next winter in my dear, dear old Rome, to which
    I am attached beyond measure; indeed, Italy altogether has a
    hold on my heart that no other country ever can have (except,
    of course, my own); and although, as I just now said, I was
    most delighted with Africa, and have not a moment to look
    back to that was not agreeable, yet there is an intimate
    little corner in my affections into which it could never
    penetrate. If I am as faithful to my wife as I am to the
    places I love, I shall do very well. What the first impression
    of an Eastern country is, you already know by experience as
    far as the mere aspect goes, but to understand my sensations
    you must translate your own into a far brighter key. In my
    case everything was for me: a decent passage, a glorious day,
    a light heart, and a firm determination to enjoy myself; to
    this add that more rapid apprehension of what is beautiful
    which belongs to an artist's eye, and is the natural
    consequence of the constant exercise and cultivation of that
    faculty.

    I saw in Algiers many things that interested me, very much _du
    point de vue moeurs fêtes_, with strange music on queer
    instruments, odd dances, odder singing. The music of the Moors
    is altogether very strange; it is monotonous in the extreme,
    fitful, and sometimes apparently without any kind of shape,
    and yet there is something very characteristic and almost
    attaching about it. This applies only to instrumental music,
    for as for the voice, they seem to consider it only as a
    shriller instrument, using always at full pitch, with neck
    outstretched and eyes half shut, always from the throat and
    always higher than they can go. It is very strange that a
    nation which attained once so high a pitch of civilisation,
    should either never have known or have entirely forgotten that
    the human voice is capable of inflection, and what an
    all-powerful vehicle it may be made of every passionate
    sentiment or soothing influence. However, much the same thing
    is noticeable in the peasants near Rome, whose songs consist
    (within a definite shape) of long-sustained chest notes that
    are peculiar in the extreme, and though often harsh seem to be
    wonderfully in harmony with the long unbroken lines of the
    Campagna.

    _À propos_ of chanting, I saw a very striking thing one day in
    Algiers, in the shape of a Rhapsodist, who recited, with an
    uncouth instrumental accompaniment, a long string of strophes
    describing (I am told) the life and deeds of some hero; it was
    exactly what a recital of the Homeric poems must have been
    amongst the early Greeks. The Homer stood up in the midst of a
    motley and most picturesque group of breathless listeners, and
    chanted, with a sort of animated monotony, verses of about
    two lines each, heightening the colour of his tale by
    gesticulations. After each strophe the music struck in,
    consisting of two queerly shaped tambours and a shrill flute.
    After the performance, or rather, during the pauses, money was
    collected in the tambourines. Homer (if he ever lived) no
    doubt did the same.

On his return to Paris Leighton wrote to Steinle:--

  _Translation._]
                                       PARIS, _October 22, 1857_.

    MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--Since I know your industry better than
    any one else, and also know that at this moment you are quite
    particularly busy, I cannot be surprised that you have not
    answered my letter of last month; however, some warm
    expressions slipped from me in that letter which you may
    perhaps have taken amiss; lest this should be indeed the case,
    I hasten, my dear Master, to make you an ample apology and to
    beg you not to take amiss what I may have said too hastily;
    but if it is not so, do send me a short note that my doubt may
    be solved; for it is an excessively painful idea to me that a
    single word from my mouth should have displeased you.

    I have just come back from Africa, where I have spent some
    weeks with extreme pleasure, and, I believe, not without great
    benefit; indeed, I might say that an artist cannot perfect his
    sense of form so well anywhere as in the East; the types of
    characteristic stamp which meet one's eye at every step are a
    wonder to see, and of the simple grandeur of the costumes one
    can form no previous conception--one sees real Michael Angelos
    running about the streets.

    I have done little or almost nothing, for one cannot possibly
    induce the Arabs to sit; however, I believe I have learnt a
    great deal by my observations; I have already made a
    resolution to become acquainted with the Egyptian race in the
    near future. But now I must see to it that I produce something
    this winter, for time goes bye with giant strides, and will
    not be called back again.

    And you, my dear friend? what are you working at now? How I
    should like to see your second cartoon! but unfortunately that
    is one of the impossibilities. What has happened about the
    church you were to paint? Has anything been settled? Once more
    I beg you to write me a few lines to assure me that you are
    not angry at my indiscretion.

    Please remember me most kindly to your wife. And keep in
    kindly remembrance, your grateful pupil,

                                                        LEIGHTON.

And again:--

  _Translation._]
                                           PARIS, 21 RUE PIGALLE,
                                              _November 2, 1857_.

    DEAR FRIEND AND MASTER,--All my best thanks for your kind
    letter, and for the enclosed photograph of your splendid
    cartoon; there is no need for me to tell you how greatly this
    has rejoiced and delighted me; by now you know that beforehand
    regarding every work of Steinle's (Steinleischen Arbeit), and
    in no work more than in this do I recognise the fulness and
    the brilliance of your fancy; meanwhile (as is only human) my
    joy is a trifle damped by the overwhelming desire to know the
    complete composition, and then to see the original itself. How
    glad I am that at last you have a worthy task!

    It was a great relief to me to find that you did not take
    amiss what I wrote about wall painting, and that you quite
    understood that I could only become so wrathful regarding a
    matter which interests me in the highest degree. I wish with
    all my heart that you may discover something which will fill
    all requirements, while at the same time, as a bigoted
    frescoist, I shake my head a little at your heresy. You will
    certainly find me dreadfully stiff-necked, dear Friend! That
    is because lately I have seen fresco painting much nearer, and
    have compared it with oil painting directly beside it; I
    cannot deny that in colour I find it immeasurably more frank
    and stronger than its oil-neighbour, which appears muddy and
    dull next it. True, Cennini mentions wall painting, but only
    supplementarily, and after he has written at length of _buon
    peseo_. I certainly fall into his views again!

    Now, adieu, my dear friend; once more all my best thanks; you
    may rely upon it, that the very first thing of mine that is
    photographed shall immediately find its way to you at
    Frankfurt; meantime, I candidly confess to you that I am quite
    terribly dissatisfied with my performances, and could only
    submit a hasty work to you.

    Think often of your most devoted pupil,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

  (Written below by Steinle)
  Answered, 4th June 1858.

The following letters, dated 30th November 1857, Paris, refer to Mrs.
Orr's narrow escape from Aurungabad, owing to the fidelity of Sheik
Boran Bukh, in the time of the Mutiny. It is a good example of the
ease with which Leighton threw himself into the atmosphere of a
situation. It reads like the writing of an Oriental!

    MOST VALUED FRIEND,--The report of your gallant and generous
    conduct towards my sister and the companions of her flight has
    reached my ears, not only by private letters but also through
    several of the first English newspapers. From one end of this
    country to another, Englishmen have read the account of your
    loyal bearing, and from one end of the country to the other
    there has been but one voice to praise and to admire it; for
    uprightness and fidelity are precious in the eyes of all
    Englishmen, and honour and courage are to them as the breath
    of life; but _my_ feelings towards you are naturally doubly
    warm and grateful, for to your care and vigilance I owe the
    safety of a most precious and valued life, that of a beloved
    sister. It is to express to you this gratitude that I now
    write, and also to beg you to accept as a small token of my
    regard a shawl which I send together with this letter, and
    which will be as a sign to cement our new friendship. Wear it
    in remembrance of that perilous night at Aurungabad, and in
    wearing it remember that on that night your fidelity won for
    you many new friends, and amongst the truest and most sincere
    count the brother of Mrs. Orr,

                                                   FRED LEIGHTON.

_To_ FREDERICK LEIGHTON, Esq., &c. &c.

                                    AURUNGABAD, _13th July 1858_.

    MOST RESPECTED SIR,--I beg to return you my humble and hearty
    thanks for your kindness in having sent me a revolving pistol,
    which was highly admired by all who saw it. I cannot be
    sufficiently thankful to your invaluable kindness. I shall not
    part with it till death, but keep it as a remembrance of your
    high estimation of me your unworthy servant, and ever pray for
    your and family's welfare and happiness.

    I feel very uneasy in not hearing from Captain Orr since he
    left us; I beg you will kindly let me know how he is getting
    on, as I hear that he is not altogether very well. I was very
    anxious to accompany him, and he agreed to take me, but on
    second consideration he changed his mind. I hope some day or
    other to be able to see you and family by God's grace.

    I conclude, sir, with my humble respects and good wishes to
    self and family. Hoping all's well.--I am, Sir, your most
    obedient and grateful servant,

                                    SHEIK BORAN BUKH, _Silladar_.

                                                      _Thursday._

    DEAR PAPA,--In accordance with your request, yesterday
    received, I enclose an envelope for B.B., on which perhaps you
    will be so good as to add his rank, whatever that may be--I
    believe Subahdar. I am glad the letter is right, and knowing
    your great epistolary facilities, I don't feel as sorry as I
    ought to have interfered with your design. I don't think it
    will fall heavily on you.

    I have a great favour to ask of you; and I feel sure you won't
    grudge it me, as it concerns a man whose house is a second
    home to me: Cartwright--indefatigable as he is, he keeps
    constantly on the alert for any vacancy in Parliament, and is
    in frequent communication with Hayter on the subject. Now the
    representation of _Scarborough_ has just become vacant, and I
    should take it as the greatest kindness if you would write to
    that great friend of yours in that town (a banker--whose name
    I, if I were to sit on my head, I could not remember; but you
    know), mentioning Cartwright as a great friend and most
    appropriate man. He (your friend) is sure to be very
    influential amongst the townsfolk. I should wish you to say
    this: state who Cartwright is, his family, place (Aynhoe Park,
    Brackley), his relations _with Hayter the Whipper-in_ (that he
    may not appear _tombé des nues_), and the following creed:
    Pledge himself to Reform Bill with extension of franchise;
    considers the Educational question amongst the most important
    of the day; wants a thorough inquiry into India and Indian
    affairs (government), and is prepared to support Lord
    Palmerston's administration. All this is very important to
    mention, because _all his relations_ are hot Tories. Also, in
    case your friend should accept the suggestion and want to
    communicate _at once_ Cartwright, give his (C.'s) direction in
    Paris, _No. 5 Rue Roquépine_. Will you do this for me?

    Please give dear Mamma a wigging for expressing no pleasure at
    the prospect I hinted at of running over to Bath for a day or
    two in the winter; tell her if she does not behave better I
    won't come. I would write at greater length, but my model is
    waiting, and I have no time.--With anticipated thanks, your
    affectionate son,

                                                            FRED.

It was in the year 1857 that Leighton painted the beautiful figure of
"Salome, the Daughter of Herodias," which apparently was never
exhibited in any exhibition of his works till that of 1897. A sketch
(see List of Illustrations) made for the picture is in the Leighton
House Collection, also other drawings of dancing figures sketched in
Algiers.

    [Illustration: STUDY FOR "SALOME, THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS."
    1857
    Leighton House Collection]

To his mother he wrote in the beginning of 1858:--

                                             MONDAY, _Jan. 1858_.

    DEAREST MAMMA,--Many thanks for your nice long letter, which I
    had been anxiously expecting not only for news of yourself but
    to hear what tidings had reached you from India. I am so
    glad dear Lina continues tolerably well considering her
    position. I can fully understand how dreadfully anxious poor
    Sutherland must have been the whole time about her. I mean to
    write to her myself without delay. Will you please let me have
    her present direction, as I don't know it? How kind Sutherland
    is to have remembered at such a moment about my tigerskin!
    What an excellent and thoughtful creature he must be! The
    extract from Brig. Stuart's despatch is most gratifying and
    satisfactory, but I want to see it in print; where is it
    published? can't you somehow get it and let me have it? I have
    the greatest desire to possess it in that shape. What a nice
    letter Booran Buckh's is. I am afraid that about the regiment
    returning to Aurungabad is a hope not very likely to be
    realised. There is still a frightful deal to do in Oude. Sir
    Colin wants men sadly, and cavalry is particularly precious.

    Mario's _étrenne_ cost me a pound, it was the least I could
    do. Let me reassure you, dear Mamma, about my behaviour to
    that amiable creature. I have been at his house often since,
    and am sure he is not in the least hurt; as for his thinking I
    was proud about his being an actor, that is so out of the
    question that I could not help laughing when I read the
    passage in your letter. In the first place, he would never
    dream of suspecting me of such a piece of vulgarity, and in
    the next, actor or no, he still is Count Candia, and therefore
    more than my equal in rank.

    I hope I may be with you somewhere about the 6th or 7th
    February, and should stay till the 10th or 11th. It would be
    humbug to say that I should not rather find you alone than in
    a whirlpool of funereal gaieties; but, however, I am at your
    disposal; do with me as you wish. I have been suffering very
    much of late from tooth and face ache. I am rather better now,
    thanks to, or in spite of, homoeopathy.

    Lady Cowley I have never found in yet. The Embassy parties
    have not begun yet. I go out almost every evening, but only in
    a circle of four or five houses. I can't stay at home, my eyes
    are too weak to do anything, I am sorry to say; I have not
    opened a book this winter. The Hollands are going to Naples,
    to my great regret; they were very kind; poor Lady Holland has
    only just recovered from a very serious illness.

    You tell me to bring over my Algerine sketches, but I have
    very little to show, a few scratches only of types; my two
    principal studies are _in oils_; I can't well take those over.
    I am working away at my pictures as well as the pitch-dark
    weather allows (which is very badly); however, I hope they may
    turn out well. The silent Sartoris said to-day he thought my
    Juliet picture "safe to succeed."

    Good-bye, dear Mamma; best love to all from your most affect.
    boy,

                                                            FRED.


END OF VOL. I

    Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
    Edinburgh & London

    [Illustration: "BLIND SCHOLAR AND DAUGHTER"
    No. 1. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: NELLO'S SHOP: "SUPPOSE YOU LET ME LOOK AT MYSELF"
    No. 2. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "THE FIRST KEY"
    No. 5. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "THE PEASANTS' FAIR"
    No. 6. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "THE DYING MESSAGE"
    No. 7. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "FLORENTINE JOKE"
    No. 8. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "THE ESCAPED PRISONER"
    No. 9. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "NICCOLO AT WORK"
    No. 10. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "YOU DIDN'T THINK"
    No. 11. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "FATHER, I WILL BE GUIDED"
    No. 13. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "THE VISIBLE MADONNA"
    No. 15. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "DANGEROUS COLLEAGUES"
    No. 16. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "MONNA BRIGIDA"
    No. 17. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "BUT YOU WILL HELP"
    No. 18. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "DRIFTING"
    No. 20. "Romola"]

    [Illustration: "WILL HIS EYES OPEN?"
    No. 21. "Romola"]

FOOTNOTES:

[67] "Romeo," "Pan," and "Venus," being then exhibited at the yearly
autumn Exhibition at Manchester.

[68] "368. _From Keats' Ode to Pan, in the 'Endymion'_: F.
Leighton.--Flesh painting is the grand test. With the majority of
artists the attempt results in a something very much resembling tinted
marble. Not so Mr. Leighton. This enchanting creation of his mind glows
with the rich warm hues of life; and the sweeping outline which gives
such beauty to the female form is preserved with subdued definiteness.
The background is a fine piece of mellow autumnal tinting.

"_The Royal Institution._--In the second room will be found one of the
very best, if not the best picture in the exhibition, No. 183,
'Reconciliation of the Montagues and Capulets,' by F. Leighton.
Whatever its other merits or faults may be, it tells the sad story
clearly and forcibly. The scene is 'the tomb of all the Capulets,' and
the moment chosen by the artist is when the heads of the rival houses,
standing by the dead bodies of those in whom all their hopes had been
centred, agree to lay by their ancient feuds, and clasp their hands in
sign of future friendship.

    "'_Capulet_--O brother Montague, give me thy hand:
                 This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
                 Can I demand.
     _Montague_--But I can give thee more:
                 For I will raise her statue in pure gold:
                 That while Verona by that name is known
                 There shall no figure at such rate be set,
                 As that of true and faithful Juliet.'

In the foreground are the bodies of the lovers, placed on a bier.
Juliet has thrown herself upon the body of Romeo, her hands clasped
around his neck, and her cheek touching his. In that position, typical
of her undying love, the fatal potion has done its work. Lady Capulet,
in a paroxysm of maternal grief, has thrown herself on her knees at the
foot of the bier; behind her is the Friar. Opposite the spectator are
old Capulet and Montague, their aged forms bowed with grief, in the act
of reconciliation. These are the principal figures. The Prince,
attendants, &c., fill up, without crowding, the picture. The gloom of
the ancient monument is capitally rendered, the colouring is
harmonious, and the disposition of the figures careful and dramatic.
The artist has admirably discriminated the characters of the two aged
noblemen. Readers of Shakespeare will not need to be reminded of the
distinction which the dramatist has made between the two. Montague
appears only in the first and last acts, but displays great resolution,
accompanied by a noble moderation, in the brawl commenced by the
retainers of each of the houses. The language put into his mouth is
noble and poetical, especially in concluding his account of the black
and portentous humour which had overtaken his son.

    "'But he, his own affection's counsellor,
      Is to himself,--I will not say--how true,--
      But to himself so secret and so close,
      So far from sounding and discovery
      As is the bud, bit with an envious worm,
      Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
      Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.'

No such language as this is ever given to old Capulet. On the contrary,
he is fussy, shallow, and pretentious. Even the Nurse snubs him. In the
first act he rushes out frantically calling for his sword, to which
Lady Capulet replies--

    "'A crutch, a crutch!--why call you for a sword?'

And the Nurse on another occasion says--

    "'Go, go, you cot quean, go,
      Get you to bed; faith you will be sick to-morrow
      For this night's watching.'

The artist has finely distinguished the two men; there is no mistaking
them. On the other hand, if we may 'hint a fall' or two, we should say,
that the faces of the lovers are too livid and corpse-like. They are
but newly dead, and the artist would have been truer to nature and
increased the beauty of his picture if he had allowed some of the
beauty of life to linger around them. The attitude of the Friar, too,
with elevated arms and appalled look, is not in harmony with the grand
composure of his demeanour at all other times, the noble motives from
which he had acted, and that sanctity of character which induces the
Prince to say to him, after his explanatory speech--

    "'We still have known thee for a holy man.'

With all drawbacks, however, this is a noble picture; and if our
readers will turn to the scene in the play and refresh their memories
before going to the Institution, they will, we think, agree with us in
ranking it as a successful Shakesperian illustration--high praise, but
deserved."

[69] Among the drawings sold by the Fine Art Society in 1897 was a very
striking and interesting sketch in water-colour by Steinle. The subject
was a peasant confessing to a Cardinal. May be it was the sketch for
this picture for which Steinle asked Leighton to help him respecting
the cardinal's costume.

[70] Mrs. S. Orr was in India, the Mutiny taking place at that time.


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    | Page 210: "magnificent intellectual capacity, and unerring and |
    |           instantaneous spring upon the point to unravel."     |
    |           replaced with "magnificent intellectual capacity,    |
    |           and an unerring and instantaneous spring upon the    |
    |           point to unravel." (see "Reminiscences of G.F. Watts"|
    |           by Mrs. Russell Barringtong, page 193.)              |
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    | Page 226: Spagnolli replaced with Spagnola                     |
    | Page 261: "bran new" replaced with "brand new"                 |
    | Page 272: "He offers you £25 for if" replaced with             |
    |           "He offers you £25 for it"                           |
    | Page 273: "your sincerely" replaced with "yours sincerely"     |
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    | Footnote 10: Sain-Damien replaced with Saint-Damien;           |
    |              l'envalussait replaced with l'envahissait; and,   |
    |              remplet replaced with remplit                     |
    | Footnote 36: Caranco replaced with Carcano                     |
    |           (see Adelaide Sartoris' book "A Week in a French     |
    |           Country-House" page xxx.)                            |
    |                                                                |
    | Note that the names I'Anson and Ffrench are legitimate         |
    | surnames.                                                      |
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    | Frankfort a/M. is the abbreviation for Frankfurt am Main,      |
    | (in English 'Frankfort on the Main') a city on the Main        |
    | River, Germany.                                                |
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