The question naturally arises, considering the sequence of the history of the Orpheus picture, was Leighton himself when he painted "The Triumph of Music"? I have studied his work from the commencement to the close of his artistic career, and this picture remains the unique example, in my opinion, when he was not himself; the only picture which does not carry out the principle he thought of all importance. It does not evince "sincerity of emotion." The feeling and intention of the work when first conceived had been absolutely sincere; but, when it came to the performance, spontaneity had failed. It seems to have been painted when he was overshadowed by an influence which was alien to his real artistic sense, and is a further proof that Paris was an entirely unsympathetic atmosphere to him. The picture appears to me to be in feeling unreal, stagey—not to say, ridiculous. That Leighton, after the first bitterness of his failure was over, shared somewhat the same view of it is certain; for shortly after the Academy Exhibition of 1856 was over he took it off the stretcher, rolled it up, and consigned it to oblivion during his lifetime in the dark recess of a cellar.
Notes in Mr. Henry Greville's Diary, dated April 24th and Tuesday, May 6th, run as follows:—
London, April 24.
Went yesterday to Colnaghi's to see Leighton's picture of "Romeo and Juliet," with which I was much pleased. Colnaghi tells me it is much admired, and said, "Young Leighton will, one day, be a very great man."
Tuesday, May 6.
A letter from Leighton, in answer to mine preparing him for the failure of his picture in the Exhibition, says: "Whatever I may have felt about my little bankruptcy, there is no fear of its disabling me for work, for if I am impressionable I am also obstinate; and, with God's will, I will one day stride over the necks of the penny-a-liners, that they may not have the triumph of having bawled me down before I have had time to be heard."
In April Leighton's family left Paris to travel in Switzerland. The following letters to his mother show the spirit in which Leighton met his artistic disaster.
Dearest Mamma,—I received your two kind letters in due time, and answer them on the second day you fixed, having in the interval had time to hear about the fate of my picture; but first let me say, dear mamma, that you need never fear my misinterpreting or taking awry any kind advice that your love and solicitude may dictate to you. I am reading as much as ever my eyes will allow—indeed, you are strangely mistaken in thinking I don't see the necessity of reading. I assure you that it is a perpetual mortification to me to feel how little I know, but I stand unfortunately at such a disadvantage owing to the weakness of my eyes and my unprecedented absence of mind; however, I shall do what I can, and hope for the best.
Dearest Mamma, I did not expect to write a consolatory note to you to inaugurate your journey, but I am sorry to say that I am in that painful position. My picture, which has been exceedingly badly hung, so that one can scarcely see half of it (indeed I believe only the figure of Orpheus), is an entire failure; the papers have abused, the public does not care for it, in fact it is a "fiasco." Ruskin (who likes the "Romeo" very much) is disappointed with "Orpheus," tho' he says of course a man like me can't do anything that has not great merits, and that I am to attach no importance to the malicious articles written by venal critics. Now, dearest Mother, look upon this—you and Papa, who takes so affectionate an interest in my welfare—look upon this, as I do, as a fortunate occurrence; consider what an edge and a zest I get for my future efforts, and what an incentive I have to exert myself to put down the venomous jargon of envious people—next year, tho' the Academicians may think that they have cowed me, I shall very probably not exhibit; but the year after, God willing, they shall feel the weight of my hand in a way that will surprise them. The more they abuse, the better I'll paint—industry against spite—I will have a pull for it. Dear Henry Greville behaves to me like an angel; he writes every day, and sends me the Times regularly. Mrs. Sartoris, too, writes very often. You will be glad to hear that my prospects about models are rather brighter than they were; I have found two or three that will be useful.