(_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 medaille_ 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 Andre, 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 Bystroem the sculptor? Next to

the Trinita, 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--Boehmen--and in a corner, _Austria_. And now

farewell; with a real ... I am longing for a letter. The

kindest regards to my Caffe 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 "Lecon 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 Liberte"! 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 _fricassee_ 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, Fuehrich, 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 Cafe

Greco, written by Costa after his friend's death:--

"In the year 1853, the Cafe 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 Cafe 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, Francais, Benonville, Brouloff, Boecklin, 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 Cafe,

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 de 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 Filangieri the minister,

who has given her himself an education almost unique amongst

Italian noblewomen, who are insipid and ignorant beyond

anything.

FLORENCE, HOTEL 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, Ampere, Dr. Pantaleone, Lyons, Count

Gozze, Duke Sermoneta, &c. You know, when I say I shan't go

out, it is in so far a _facon 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 _mais_ 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 _chateau 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 17-1/2 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 Jaegerheil 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

Fuehrich 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; Fuehrich 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

Fuehrich, 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 "succes"; 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 _a 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 koennen fuer

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 L5000 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 _repertoire_

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 _corvee_ 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 (_Malfacultaet_),

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. Ihlee 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 aesthetic 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 mediaeval 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 Aide, 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 Bueblein aufgerafft

Hab's mit dem Pinsel so hingeschrieben

Ist mir leider unvollendet geblieben.

[31] The Cafe 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 mediaeval 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 Aide 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-a-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 boheme

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'e nessuno

ancora? Andiamo a prendere un caffe," 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."