London, Monday, April 28th.
Dear good Fay,—Cartwright was wrong about the telegraph, but as our anxiety was removed by your letter, I did not expect you to send me one. Knowing how likely you were to write, supposing you to be well, you may imagine that we were not a little anxious at getting no sign of life from you, in return for our daily letters, and I never could have guessed that the Boulogne letter would only have reached you on Saturday! However, all is well that ends well, but we passed a very disagreeable day and night, and it was because we did not think you capable of putting off writing that we fussed and worried ourselves about you—foolishly, dear Fay, no doubt. I am very seedy and confined to the house by throat, bronchia, unceasing cough, swelled glands, bad eyes—and should not inflict myself and ailments upon you, but that it is a solace and a comfort to causer avec "mon petit dernier"—a cognomen which smiles upon me—and made me smile. Sister Adelaide tea'd with me last night en tête à tête. Fanny was grand, and would not come in, though she dropped her sister at my door, because (she said) I had not said to her that I wished for her! I was so little en train that I was not sorry to have only Adelaide, and we did more than once say how we wished Fay was eating the muffin destined for the proud Fanny. Adelaide has just been here, and brought me your dear letter. I don't see any present prospect of the fire of my affliction being extinguished or allowed to grow dim, so you may make your mind easy on that score, excellent Fay. I feel for your loneliness, and know what a contrast it must present with the sweet fellowship we have held together so unceasingly for those last two months. The only thing you gain by the loss of your people is more time, and a later repast. I don't doubt poor Mamma being unhappy at leaving you, her true and only Benjamin, and for an indefinite time. I can judge by what I felt at parting with mon petit dernier, and with the hope of so soon greeting him again. No, Fay, I won't have the Charley drawing, and I won't have you do anything more for any one but yourself, knowing as I do all the things you have on hand—and à propos of that, I must tell you that I have endeavoured to put another iron in the fire in re fresco. I asked Lady Abercorn, who is my dearest friend, to speak to Lord Aberdeen (her father-in-law) who is on the Committee of Taste, or whatever it is called, first about your picture at Colnaghi's and then of you generally as desirous of painting in fresco, and as of one whose studies have been that way directed, in whom I take a great interest; but I made her understand that it was no job I wanted done, or that I asked any favour, but merely I wished it to be known that Leighton, a very rising artist, would like to be employed in that line, if an occasion presented itself. Lady A. understood me exactly and being very sympathetic immediately conceived an interest for my petit dernier (I wish you were my son, Fay!) and said if she did not see Lord Aberdeen very soon she would write to him. Neither I nor Adelaide know where Windsor and Newton live, so you had best write straight to him to send the colours you want. I think I must put just a baguette d'or on the drawings, and when you see them on my walls I don't think you will disapprove. With regard to Cartwright, Adelaide says Jules Sartoris has got a place called Tusmore. I should advise him to lose no time in advertising it both in the newspaper and by different agents in town and country. I should think it was a place sure to be let, from its convenient distance from London and other advantages. There is no news here.
Dearest Fay,—Your letter is a relief and a comfort. It is both to me to see you take this disagreeable business so manfully, so wisely, and to think that instead of being cast down, your energies will only be aroused by this stupid and unjust criticism. In this case it may, then, well be said, "Sweet are the uses of adversity." As to all the other papers, I can't pretend to say what they may have written, but the Leader is one of no repute, and, as Ruskin said to Adelaide this morning, it don't really signify what they write; in the long run talent and genius must prevail, as yours will, dear Fay, if it please God to grant you, as I fervently pray, health and strength. She is going to write to you, and will tell you all Ruskin said, and also what she thinks of the Exhibition in general and your picture in particular, which, I hear, is infamously placed—that is, in so bad a light that only Orpheus is visible. Passing, I must tell you that Edward (Sartoris) came to see me yesterday, and the first thing he said on entering the room was, "Well, I don't think Leighton's picture looks bad. Orpheus's drapery is too yellow, but it don't look amiss at all." This was rather much for him, eh? He likes "Autumn Leaves," and he praised the "Leslie" (which Adelaide says is all very well, but "slaty"). Landseer is beautiful—but E. (Edward Sartoris) was sous le charme, having sat next him at dinner at Marochetti's, when he told me L. was as much aux petits soins for him as if he had been the loveliest of females. I am so glad about the models, and if I don't hear from you as often shall know why. I am also glad you dine with Cartwright and Co., but how you can dandle a nasty, doughy, puffy, bread-and-butter smelling thing called a baby! Pah! a baby is my horror and aversion. Never do it again—not even by your own. I could not have dandled even my Bimbo without a grimace. Well done! old hideous ——; if she promise not to act herself, I'll take a box for her next benefit. She is the âme damnée of Macready, so that her verdict surprises me. I expect she will begin imitating her, and have Medea translated—horrible idea! Read Ellesmere's speech; it is very pretty, and the whole debate is interesting, but Derby and Co. don't cut a good figure at all. I am getting better now, and dined with my parent yesterday, but can't go out in daytime for fear of eyes and throat, the wind is so cold. Of course I read your letter to Ad. (Adelaide Sartoris). (I think you had best now write straight to her, because as I am soon hoping to be out, and have no one to send so far, your letters will get to her quicker and more surely by post.)
You must be very careful, and take time to weigh well and consider the subjects of your future pictures. I think the Mermaid might be both interesting and effective well carried out, and you might also perhaps paint some subject from some one of the Italian poets—Tasso, Ariosto, Boccaccio—for your own satisfaction. God bless you! my dear boy. I am longing to see you again already. Tell me how the models answer and how you get on. Don't call Brackley de. They are removed to the Meurice. If you don't find them, write to her and offer to go with her (saying at my suggestion) to the Louvre.—Love your old Babbo,
H.
Later in the summer Mr. Greville wrote:—
1856, Hatchford, Thursday.
My dear Boy,—I do sympathise with your disgust at the same time that I think you have acted very légèrement about your pictures, and, in fact, taken no trouble or heed about them. You should have seen to it all yourself before you left London, or have given directions to Watts, to which he would have attended, instead of leaving him in total ignorance as to what you meant or wished, and which picture or if both were to go. I kept perpetually telling you to see after this business and to be more exact in it, but you see now the consequence of not attending to things more carefully. You had better write a curt letter to Greene, reminding him that you had given written directions (as you say) that it was your "Pan" that was to be removed, and that you made no mention of the "Venus" (what has he done with her?), and again asking him (since he had not replied to the query) whether he had got the "Romeo." I shan't be in London until to-morrow night late, and as you are to be there on Monday there will be no use in my going to Greene, but I can do so on Saturday if you wish it. I have had an answer from Ellesmere's secretary, to whom I wrote to go and see if your pictures were well hung, to say that the Exhibition only opens in first week of September,[58] but that he has a friend who is an influential member of the hanging committee, and that he will speak to him in favour of yours being put into a good light. I heard from Adelaide yesterday that she will be in town on Monday and will dine us. I hoped you would have stayed (and she too) all Tuesday and gone away on Wednesday morning, so that we might have spent two evenings together, and I am disappointed. I shall go to Scotland on Wednesday, and am sorry to have settled to do so. I suppose you know Alfred Sartoris marries Miss Barrington—an alliance which will enchant Aunt ——, as the young lady is "The Honourable," and allied to several marquesses and earls.—Addio, caro, your ever affectionate H.
P.S.—Write again by all means to Greene asking what has become of the "Venus," and also whether the "Romeo" has or not been sent to Manchester—whether you employ him or not, you have a right to know what he has done with your property. Write a line to Queen Street to-morrow to say at what time you will be there on Monday that I may not be out of the way.