San Martino, September 20 (1889).
Dear Dad,—I received your letter two or three days ago, but have deferred answering till I could say something one way or another about my health, for of course I have nothing else to tell of in these high latitudes. Well, I am in fairly good trim, and as well as I am likely to be till I leave, for San Martino will be shorn of my presence on Friday next as ever is (my address for the first fortnight in October will be Hotel Brufani, Perugia). On the other hand, if you were to ask me whether I am "as fit as a fiddle" or a "flea," or "as a strong man requiring to run a race," or "a giant refreshed," or "a bridegroom coming forth from his chamber," or whatever simile you like, I am obliged to own that I am not. I am aware that the air is superb, and when I get on to an exposed slope and open my mouth like a carp I am further aware at (and for) the time—so to speak, "for this once only"—of very gratifying symptoms; then they are fugitive, and my average condition is perhaps a little less satisfactory than on Hampstead Heath. On the other hand, of course, such air must in some occult way be benefiting my tissues, and I shall no doubt, as the stock phrase is, "feel so much better afterwards." Meanwhile, I undergo much humiliation; whilst ladies make with comfort and ease delightful ascents to neighbouring peaks, I humbly pant up an anthill or two, resting at every third yard—puffy, helpless, effete. And lest I should console myself with inexpensive commonplace about my years, &c. &c., I have before me two acquaintances, not climbers by trade, one 65 and the other (most charming of men, Sir James Paget) 73, who put in their twelve, sixteen, or even at a pinch eighteen or twenty miles to my one, and back again without turning a hair or having a vestige of fatigue! Ugh!!
I am most truly sorry that your strength did not enable you to see Manchester; but it is wonderful that you do what you do on the doorstep of 89!—Your affectionate son,
Fred.
From Tours, October 30, he wrote to Mrs. Matthews:—
Tours, October 30, 1890.
I hope, when I get back next week, that I shall find the old dad fairly well. More can't be expected; and especially I hope to find Lina drawing within sight of the end of her anxious toil.[83] I am delighted to hear that she means to leave town again for a bit—a good bit, I hope. Tell her with my love that she is to make herself very comfortable, and not to look at the money, but send for a cheque whenever convenient. She must, in justice to herself, do her work under the most favourable circumstances she can command.
I have, of course, no particular news; I have been visiting till now. (I am going to-morrow to Blois and Chambord.) Nothing but old familiar scenes with the old familiar enjoyment, in the more serious sense of the word, but not of course with the old buoyancy of spirit—that must necessarily fade with every year now, and I must be content with an occasional little flicker of the waning candle. I have, however, been better in health during the second than during the first half of my holiday. In Rome I was the whole time with old Nino,[84] whom I further took on a Giro to Siena and Florence. I also gave him a commission: very few things could give him so much pleasure (inside—he is not demonstrative!), and nothing is now so needful to him. His lameness is not as bad as I had feared; but he had a bad attack of his enemy, rheumatism, at Florence, and had to bolt back to his people. Of course, too, his anxiety about Georgina, my god-daughter, who has only just pulled through a terrible illness, has put a heavy strain on him in every way.
Weather has broken up; of late bitter cold, to-day cold plus rain, worthy of London.
On January 24, 1892, Doctor Leighton died at the age of ninety-two, at 11 Kensington Park Gardens, where for many years, every Sunday when in London, Leighton invariably went to see his father and his two sisters at five o'clock, remaining to the last minute before dinner. This regular habit he continued after Doctor Leighton's death; Mrs. Sutherland Orr living on in the same house and Mrs. Matthews in the close vicinity. In the autumn of 1893 Leighton was advised to go to the Hotel Riffel Alp, Zermatt. "What a stupendous view this is from my window," he wrote. "Weather in the main superb; it is finest for this scenery when it is not fine. Knee still rather troublesome—nuisance! Am seeing a doctor." In the October of the same year he wrote to Mrs. Matthews:—