Chapter II: Rome (1)

1852-1855

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

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

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

"FRED LEIGHTON."

(_La suite a un prochain numero._)

"1852.

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

"FRED.

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

"BATH, _Sunday, November 29, 1852_.

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

"A. LEIGHTON."

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

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

FREDC. LEIGHTON.

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

"_Your_ birthday--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"FRED LEIGHTON.

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

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

"VIA DI PORTA PINCIANA, N. 8."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"FRED LEIGHTON."

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

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

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

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

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

"FRED LEIGHTON."

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

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