Chapter II: Rome (2)

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

"STEINLE."

_Translation._]

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

"FRED LEIGHTON."

"FRANKFURT A/M."

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

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

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

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

"LEIGHTON."

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

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

"EDW. STEINLE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

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

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

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

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

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

A. LEIGHTON.

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

_Translation._]

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

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

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

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

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

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

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

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

BATH, _August 13, 1854_.

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

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

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

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

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