Chapter II: Rome (3)

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

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

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

BATH, _April 17th_.

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

ROME, _April 29, 1854_.

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

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

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

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

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

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

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

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

Please remember me most kindly to your wife.

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

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

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

EDW. STEINLE.

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

CARLSBAD, _July 11, 1854_.

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

W.C. CARTWRIGHT.[28]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRED LEIGHTON.

My address is, Poste Restante, Rome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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