2 December: Boreham on Lord Leighton

The Aristocracy of Art
No picture that ever graced the walls of a gallery reflected so much honour on British art as did the knightly personality of Lord Leighton, whose birthday it happens to be tomorrow. He was known at the Royal Academy as the Prince of Presidents, and not only deserved, but adorned, that proud and resounding title. He was princely in his appearance and behaviour, princely in the magnificence of his conceptions and the splendour of his execution, princely in his chivalry, his generosity, his courtesy.

Nobody passed him on the street without turning to bestow upon his striking figure the homage of a second glance. In common with Longfellow and Walt Whitman, he had the type of face that, had he been an actor, would have fitted him to take the central role in a Passion Play.

Always immaculately dressed and carrying himself with perfect poise, he was the most magnetic and arresting figure in every company that he joined; and, with a mind richly stored by diligent study and ceaseless travel, he treated his companions to a constant flow of sparkling wit and delicious humour. Few personalities in English society were more admired or more honoured than was he.

Art His Plaything And His Passion
Leighton had the ball at his feet from the start. His father, a doctor, was determined that, whatever gifts his boy displayed, he should enjoy every possible advantage in developing them. He noticed that Frederick, at the age of five, made sketches of all the cats and dogs, the odds and ends, about the home. Fearing that this passion for the pencil might indicate merely a childish infatuation, the good man took his boy on a Continental tour; but, in each of the capitals visited, the things that Frederick insisted on seeing were the masterpieces of the great painters. On their return to England, Dr. Leighton showed his son's prentice efforts to some of the most eminent painters of the period, seeking their advice. "Sir," said one of them, "you have no say in this matter. Nature has already decided for you. Your son is a born artist!" And the perplexed father wisely regarded the die as having been cast.

Leighton's debut was auspicious, if not sensational. His first notable effort was a spacious, animated and colourful canvas depicting "The Procession of Cimabue's Madonna through the streets of Florence." As soon as it was finished, he sent it to the Academy. Never has a new and unknown person achieved a greater initial triumph. In defiance of all precedent, the hanging committee accorded to a stranger the place of honour in that year's exhibition. The most distinguished artists of the day acclaimed it; the critics, forgetting their traditional reserve, indulged in a hurricane of superlatives, and, to complete the young painter's coronation, Queen Victoria herself purchased it.

The years that followed were marked by two outstanding features—the amazing fecundity of Leighton's genius, and the unceasing flow of the honours lavished upon him. His output was as stupendous in quantity as it was superb in quality. He was soon buried beneath an avalanche of bouquets. Crowned heads heaped on him their most coveted distinctions. In 1878 he was made President of the Royal Academy—the most illustrious President since Sir Joshua Reynolds. And in the last year of his life he was made a baron, the Queen expressing her delight at his acceptance of the peerage.

A Lady's Man And A Bachelor
But when all is said and done, the finest thing about Leighton is the engaging personality of the man himself. He is much more than an artist. His life, as G. F. Watts declared, was more noble than anything in his work. The nineteenth century regarded him as a perfect type of the English gentleman. Generous to a fault, he gave away his money almost as soon as he had earned it. The soul of chivalry, he was ever eager to place his knowledge, experience and counsel at the disposal of a struggling beginner. Tennyson had but one fault to find with Leighton; he did not smoke. We, viewing things from the standpoint of posterity, may be permitted to indulge a much more poignant regret. He never married.

He was noted for the charming old world courtliness with which he consistently behaved towards women. G. F. Watts, who lived near him, once entertained an elderly French lady whose husband, years before, Leighton had known well. Watts took his guest round to Leighton's home to introduce her. Leighton received her, Watts says, as if she were a queen. He knelt and kissed her hand. The old lady was completely overcome by his natural grace and ready homage; to the end of her days she never ceased to sing the praises of the great painter's perfect knightliness.

Yet, although he painted the most exquisite pictures of beautiful women that his period produced, and although his "Wedded" was probably the most popular engraving of his time—greatly in demand as a wedding present—he himself died a bachelor! We can only console ourselves with the reflection that, though his genius is not perpetuated by successive generations bearing his honoured name, his work is still ours, whilst his influence will be felt, and felt for good, through long centuries to come.

F W Boreham

Image: Lord Leighton