The life, letters and work of Frederic Leighton. Volume I

by Mrs. Russell Barrington

Florence, Hôtel Du Nord,
September 20, 1854.

Dearest Mamma,—I was much surprised, as we very naturally measure time past by the number of events that have taken place in it, the interval between this your last letter and the previous one seemed to me doubly long, for I have changed scene so often during these last four or five weeks, and have moved so much from place to place, that it seems to me an age since I last despatched a letter to England; from which you will naturally and correctly infer that it was a very great pleasure to me once more to see your handwriting. Your kind anxiety and advice about the cholera I shall remember when I get to Rome (which will be in a week or ten days), where that disease prevails, although mildly, for what are thirty cases a day in a town of that size? In the meantime, both at the baths where I have been, and at Florence, where I am, the cholera has not dared to show its face; indeed, such a prestige of salubrity attaches to the name of the baths of Lucca that eight days' sojourn at that place is considered tantamount to a "quarantaine!" It is a very strange thing, this exemption from disease, for in a number of the surrounding villages the number of people carried off has been frightful. As for that after apprehension of yours, dearest Mamma, about my being alone and uncared for in case of illness, I am happy to say that nothing can be more unfounded; I have in Mrs. Sartoris that genuine friend, and, especially, genuine woman friend that in such a case would leave nothing undone that you, the best of mothers, and my own dear sisters, would do for me. It is her habit, when any of her bachelor and homeless friends are poorly, to go and sit with them and nurse them, and do you think that I, who have become one of her most intimate circle, should need to fear neglect? In the friendship of that admirable woman I am rich for life. Poor thing, she has lately received a great blow in her own family from the sudden calamity which has befallen her. This shocking news reached me here, at Florence, where I had come on from the baths, and ascertaining that her husband was gone off to England to inquire into the matter, and that by a chance her boy's tutor was absent at the same time, I instantaneously went off to Lucca, where I stayed a week (till the return of the tutor), taking care of her boy, hearing him his lessons, and especially keeping him out of the way; in the evening I used to walk or drive with her, and to my infinite gratification was able to be some little comfort and distraction to her; my only regret in the whole business was that I was making no material sacrifice of my own time and pleasure, so that I had not the satisfaction of comforting her at my own expense. In adopting the resolution, which I have communicated to you, of retiring from society, I have taken into consideration all that you say, dear Mamma, and more too, for I feel I have of my nature a very fair share of the hateful worldly weakness of my country-people; still, I have found no sufficiently great advantage or compensation for the tedium of going out; the Roman grand monde, a small part of which I know, and which, had I chosen to push a little, I might have known all, is of no use whatever in reference to my future career; added to which I believe I told you that I never by any chance got introduced to anybody, so that whomever I know, I know by chance, or by their own wish. For instance, last winter I met the Duke of Wellington constantly, both at the Sartoris' (he is a very old friend of hers) and at the Farquhars', and though he is the most accessible of men, I made no attempt to make his acquaintance, and so it is with everybody. But for the tableaux charades which Mrs. S. gave last winter, in which I was joint-manager with herself, and was therefore brought into contact with her numerous co-operating friends, I should probably have known few or none of those who were at her house every week; always excepting our own intimate circle, to wit, Browning, Ampère, Dr. Pantaleone, Lyons, Count Gozze, Duke Sermoneta, &c. You know, when I say I shan't go out, it is in so far a façon de parler, that, as I shall be at least every other day at Mrs. Sartoris', I shall not be at home, trying my eyes. I quite agree with you in thinking this business of ——'s a most awkward thing; I cannot understand a man having once gone into the army and made his profession to be honourably killed for his country, should not jump at the idea of going to the scene of war; I have felt a very strong desire to lend a hand myself, but one cannot drive two trades. My singing (in particular, and music in general) I have avoided mentioning, because, dear Mamma, it is a subject on which I have no reason to dwell very complacently; my first disappointment was finding my voice, instead of strengthening in an Italian climate, getting if possible weaker than it was. It is the merest "fil de voix." I have therefore as the onset very insufficient "moyens"; this is owing, not only to the insufficiency of my "organe," but also to an unpleasant visitation in the shape of swollen and irritated tonsils, the very ailment, I believe, under which Gussy labours. This symptom, which I have carried about some time, is, I fancy, not likely ever to leave me permanently; add to this that as soon as I sit down to thump with elephantine touch a most ordinary accompaniment, the little voice I have vanishes; thus between two stools ... you know the rest. Still, I am bound to add that Mrs. Sartoris (who could not flatter) has great pleasure in hearing me coo a little song or two that I know, and says I have what is better than voice, which is a musical "accent," and that (she is pleased to add) to a rather remarkable degree; my voice is weak and powerless, but true and facile. I will tell you exactly what to expect when you see me again. I shall be able to sit down to the piano and whine some half-dozen pretty little ballads, with a rum-tum-tum accompaniment of affecting simplicity. Gussy dreams of me as "very handsome" and "are my whiskers growing?" I am not very handsome, none of my features are really good. My whiskers have grown, they are undeniable, there is no shirking them, or getting out of the way of them; I wear whiskers though you were short-sighted; but they are modest ones; as for moustaches, the seven hairs which I have (and wear) are not worth mentioning, but still I have none of that delicacy which you profess on the subject. In my opinion, if gentlemanhood is a thing dependent on the scraping of four square inches of your face, and residing only in the well-shaved purlieus of a (probably) ugly mouth, I feel equal to going without it, in that shape at all events. A moustache, and even a beard, if kept short enough to be in keeping with a not very flowing costume, is both becoming and convenient, and I fear that the whole prestige of respectability hovering around Mr. and Mrs. ——, or the withering contempt of the irreproachable Sir John and Lady ——, would not make me shave, unless, indeed, I felt too hot about the chin. I have gone through your letter, and shall wind up with a few words about my doings, which, by-the-bye, might be compendiously characterised by one word: nothing. My holidays are drawing to a close, and I shall be in Rome, working very hard to get my pictures done for the Exhibitions. Meanwhile I am enjoying Florentine sunsets, the gorgeousness of which defies description. The other day, in particular, I was on the heights near the Miniato, I thought I had never seen anything like it. I remembered Papa's fondness for that spot, and wished he had been there to share my enjoyment; the lanes were cool and pearly grey; over them hung in every fantastic shape the rich growth of the orchards and gardens that crowned the lengthened walls; the olives, strangely twisted, flaming with a thousand tongues of fire; the wreathing vine flinging its emerald skirts from tree to tree; the purple wine flashing in the fiery grape; the stately maïs flapping its arms in the breath of the evening; the solemn cypress; the poetic laurel; the joyous oleander—all glorified in the ardour of the setting sun, that flung its rays obliquely along the earth; you would have been enchanted.

Rome, Via Felice 123,
February 10, 1855.

Dear Papa,—I hasten to answer your kind letter and to thank you for the willingness you express to advance such a sum of money as I shall require to cover the heavy expenses I am incurring. I forgot to mention in my last letter that my picture will be directed straight to the frame-maker's who undertakes the exhibiting of it.

In approaching the other points which you touch in your letter, I feel that my letter will unavoidably have a combative colouring, which I sincerely hope you will not misconstrue, and beg that you will consider whether the reasons I advance for not conforming to your suggestions are not sound ones. If I particularly object to accompanying my picture, it is because I think that the small advantages that might accrue from so doing would in no way make up for all I should lose; whatever can be done to my picture on its arrival in England will be kindly done for me by my friend, Mr. T. Gooderson, who is in the habit of receiving and varnishing Buckner's works on similar occasions; with respect to the interest to be made amongst the Academicians in behalf of my op. magn., I have neglected that on the express advice of Buckner, who has great experience in those matters and is a most kind and honest man; he says, such is the party spirit of R.A.'s, that the best chance of securing impartial treatment (in the case of a work of merit) is to be completely unknown to all of them, a condition which I am admirably calculated to fulfil. You are also perhaps not aware that my picture will reach England five weeks before the opening of the Exhibition, so that by accompanying it I should completely lose all the best part of the year here in Rome. There are a great number of things which I propose doing now that my pictures are about to be off my hands. There are here several very remarkable heads of which I wish to make finished studies, and especially also I am loth to go without having drawn anything from Michael Angelo and Raphael, which is one of the chief objects for which one comes to this city of the past; but, I do not hesitate to say, the principal task which I propose to myself is a half-length portrait of Mrs. Sartoris, to which I wish to devote my every energy that it may be worthy of perpetuating the features of the last Kemble; irrespective of the enormous artistic advantage to be derived from the study of so exceptional a head, you will easily understand my eagerness to give some tangible form to my gratitude towards those whose fireside has been my fireside for so long a time; nothing would grieve me more than missing so good an opportunity. I confess, too, that I wished to see a little more leisurely the glorious scenery that lies all round Rome, and which I have hitherto hardly glanced at, and partly indeed not seen at all. I had indeed contemplated before leaving Italy, making a trip to Naples, Capri, Oschia, Amalfi, and all the spots about which artists rave. This, however, will I fear be under all circumstances a financial château en Espagne.

Translation.]

Rome, Via Felice 123,
February 12.

Honoured and dear Friend,—That you, who know me so well and are so well aware of how I carry your image in my heart, could misinterpret my silence I did not fear for a moment, for rather will you have thought to yourself that the stress of my occupations in the course of the day, and my incapacity to do anything at night, have hitherto prevented me from writing; and so it is; for, be you assured, dear Friend, that, as long as I pursue art, you will be ever present with me in the spirit, and that I shall always ascribe every success which I may possibly attain in the future to your wise counsel and your inspiriting example, for "as the twig is bent the tree's inclined."

First I will tell you about my health; thank Heaven, as regards my general health, I have nothing to complain of; if not exactly strong, still I am lively and in good spirits, and look out upon the world quite contentedly. My eyes—well, yes, they might be better; otherwise I am always in a condition to work my seven or eight hours a day without over-exertion, in return for which I dare not do anything in the evenings. To tell the truth, my position is not an agreeable one; I am not bad enough to follow the course prescribed for me by Graefe, but on the other hand not well enough to be able to feel quite tranquil....

Time has slipped away in stress of work since I commenced this letter. I throw myself again upon your goodness, dear Master, and beg you will not measure my love by my readiness in writing, for then I should certainly come off a loser. I told you that my affairs have pressed upon me; I have finished my "Cimabue." I am dreadfully disappointed, dear Friend, that I cannot, as I hoped, send you a photograph, but it has been impossible for me to have one taken, since the picture is so large that it could not be transported to a photographic loggia without fearful ado and unnecessary risk to the canvas; I will therefore exert myself to write you what it looks like. First you must know that I changed my intention as to the respective sizes of the two pictures, for I perceived that my eyes could not possibly permit the Florentine composition to be carried out on the proposed scale. I therefore took a canvas of 17-½ feet (English measure), in consequence of which my figures have become half life size (like Raphael's "Madonna del Cardellino"), and do not look at all ill. The other picture (which I shall send to London) will be something over 7 feet long by 5 feet. If I am to get them both finished by next January, I must set to work in earnest. I have made the following alterations: first, those prescribed by you, viz. I have made the picture which is being carried larger, the chapel smaller, and have suppressed the flower-pots on the walls. A further alteration I have made by the advice of Cornelius; he said to me that the foremost group (the women strewing flowers with children) seemed to him somewhat to disturb the simplicity of the rest of the composition, and suggested that I should put in a couple of priests, especially as the portrait is of a Madonna and is being taken to a church; he further advised me, in order to prevent the picture from being too frieze-like, to allow this foremost group to walk up to the spectator. It now looks something like this: