My dear Leighton,—Don't fret; you will do everything like yourself in the end, I know; wait till the end of October, as you propose. I cannot return before the beginning of it, though I would do so were it necessary, but it is not, for I have only this morning received the notification of which I told you, that "the marble is in the sculptor's studio." We shall therefore be in full time.
The portrait you saw was the autotype which I lent to Mr. Richmond, and concerning which I wrote to him before leaving London, directing that it should be sent to you. He engaged to let you have it whenever you desired. I therefore enclose (oh, fresh attack on your envelopes and postage stamps!) a note which I presume he will attend to, and which you will of course burn should he have sent the portraits meanwhile. I have also two others nearly like that portrait, taken the same day with it, which I was unable to find, but which shall be found on my return.
Dear Leighton, I can only repeat, with entire truth, that you will satisfy me wholly. I don't think, however, you can make me more than I am now—Yours gratefully and lovingly,
Robert Browning.
Continuation of letter to his mother:—
I am glad to hear Papa reported favourably of my work, and that you like the photographs of my pictures now in the Exhibition. I am very glad also that Gussy liked the receding figure in the "Lieder ohne Worte," as it was a favourite also with me, the tallness of said figure was inseparable from the sentiment of it in my mind. I have a photograph of that picture still remaining; I will give it to Gus when she comes through, I can get myself another some future day. I am getting on tol-lol with my pictures, but am rather anxious just now about the extreme difficulty of getting a peacock. I want to buy one to have the skin prepared, and if I don't get one soon they will all lose their tails; and there I shall be—in a fix! A friend of mine has written to Norfolk, and hopes to get me one. The season, even in the extremely moderate form in which I take it, is a fatiguing affair. I get up late and never feel fresh and vigorous. I have serious thoughts of entirely giving it up next year. I will go now and then to stay at people's houses, but not to their parties—le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle. A propos of country houses, I am going to spend a few days with Lady Cowper at Wrest Park towards the end of this month; there are to be theatricals and great hilarity. And now about Bath, I hope, dearest Mammy, you won't be hurt if I propose to come at the end of the first week in September instead of the last week in August. The fact is I have a great "giro" I want to make, and if I could take Bath in the regular progress it would be both a great convenience and a saving of expense. I mean to stay three weeks in Bath and have thoughts of painting a pot-boiler of little Walker if he is still handsome. I wish Papa would look after him, and let me know what he is doing and how he is looking. These are my plans: I want, whilst the summer is still hot and green, to visit South Hampshire, New Forest, Isle of Wight, South Devon, North Devon, and so work my way round to Bath, whence to Stourhead for a few days; then to Mason in Staffordshire, and then back to London. My pictures will be done long before the Exhibition next opening, so I can manage all this. I shall visit the following people: Sartoris, Aïdés, perhaps Morants, I hope Tennyson, Lady E. Bulteel, and look in at Mount Edgcombe—the rest of the journey will be purely artistic.
Clovelly, Sunday.
Dearest Mammy,—I could not find time to answer your note (for which best thanks) before I left Ventnor. I am now in one of the most picturesque spots on the north coast of Devon—the rendezvous of painters and tourists, the pays de cocagne of Hook and one of the chief lions of my trip.
The places I have visited so far are Salisbury, Exeter, and Bideford; with the latter I was much disappointed, and think it far below its reputation; not so Salisbury, which is a most interesting town, full of quaintness and character beyond my expectations; it has, however, a look of decay and depopulation about it which makes me feel awfully low-spirited. The Cathedral, perhaps, altogether rather disappointed me—though of course much about it is very beautiful; then, too, its general (internal) aspect is entirely marred by a brutal coat of whitewash laid on in the last century, covering up the marble columns and killing out all life and colour. Unfortunately, it would cost very many thousands to restore the church and its ancient glories.
To-morrow I start for Ilfracombe—the next day for Lynton.