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Updated: May 13, 2025
Albert Letchford was about the only man that he was pleased to see the only one who never jarred on his nerves.
He was to depart, very soon, but in a manner little expected. Sir Richard as we have noticed, would never say "Good-bye." It was always "Au revoir." One day in this October Miss Letchford went to see him with her little sister. It was tea-time, but Lady Burton was in another room with a visitor. Never had he appeared so bright or affectionate.
Letchford said I had a core of fanaticism in my slow nature, and that I would end by waving the red flag. Spiritual pride and vanity, as I have said, were at the bottom of most of them, and, try as I might, I could find nothing very dangerous in it all. This vexed me, for I began to wonder if the mission which I had embarked on so solemnly were not going to be a fiasco.
Letchford went to Bohemia as the guest of the Prince of Thurn and Taxis. At Vienna his next resort, he painted many beautiful pictures, one of the best being founded on Edgar Allen Poe's poem, "Silence." Finally he went to Naples, where he produced the series of pictures that has given him immortality the illustrations to The Arabian Nights.
Yet in the Life of her husband almost the closing words she does give a hint to those who could understand. She says: "Do not be so hard and prosaic as to suppose that our dead cannot, in rare instances, come back and tell us how it is with them." That evening, when Miss Letchford, after her return, entered Sir Richard's room, she saw some papers still smouldering in the grate.
Singularly enough the night before that is the terrible Sunday night Miss Daisy Letchford experienced "a strange instance of telepathy." "My brother," she says, "had gone out, and I waited alone for him. Suddenly I fancied I heard footsteps in the passage and stopping at the door of the room where I was reading. I felt drops of cold sweat on my forehead.
An unwholesome youth was Aronson, the great novelist; a sturdy, bristling fellow with a fierce moustache was Letchford, the celebrated leader-writer of the Critic. Several were pointed out to me as artists who had gone one better than anybody else, and a vast billowy creature was described as the leader of the new Orientalism in England.
Albert Letchford and Miss Letchford had come to stay with her "for the remembrance of the love her husband bore them." It fell to Miss Letchford to sort Sir Richard's clothes and to remove the various trifles from his pockets.
Letchford became the Burtons' Court Painter, as it were frequently working in their house and both he and his sister admired nay, worshipped Sir Richard down to the ground. Even as a child, Albert Letchford was remarkable for his thoughtful look, and his strong sense of beauty.
Sometimes they worried me beyond endurance. When the news of Messines came nobody took the slightest interest, while I was aching to tooth every detail of the great fight. And when they talked on military affairs, as Letchford and others did sometimes, it was difficult to keep from sending them all to the devil, for their amateur cocksureness would have riled Job.
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