Very few people can stand the climate of the Highlands without suffering

from it; it is so damp and so depressing in winter-time, when the wind

howls so piteously in the twisted branches of the Scotch firs, and when

the rain imprisons one for weeks within liquid walls of unrelieved

grayness. Mr. Hamerton, since he came to Innistrynich, had repeatedly

suffered from what he believed to be toothache, although his teeth were

all perfectly sound, and the pain being always attended by insomnia, was

a cause of weakness and fatigue detrimental to his general health. The

doctor said it was congestion of the gums, due to the excess of moisture

in the climate, which had not been favorable to either of us; for I had

also discovered that my hearing was becoming impaired, and these were

weighty additional reasons for removing elsewhere. I had been somewhat

anxious at times, when I saw him fall suddenly into a state of

listlessness and prostration, but as he always recovered his energy and

resumed his usual avocations after a short sleep, I thought it must be

the result of temporary exhaustion, for which nature kindly sent the

best remedy--restoring sleep; and as he had told me he had always

experienced the greatest difficulty in getting to sleep before midnight

or at regular hours, and especially in getting a sufficiency of sleep in

the course of the night, it seemed a natural compensation for the

system, that an occasional nap should now and then become

irrepressible,--the more so on account of his customary nocturnal rides,

sails, or walks. To the end of his life the hours of the night seemed to

him quite as fit for any sort of occupation as those of the day, and it

made little difference to him whether it was dark or light; indeed at

one time, years later, when at Pré-Charmoy, he began, to the

stupefaction of his country neighbors, to call upon them at nine or ten

in the summer evenings, and then to propose a row on the pond or a walk

by moonlight; but it happened not unfrequently that he could get no

admittance, rural habits having sent the inhabitants to their early

beds; or else if they were still found in a state of wakefulness, they

did not evince the slightest desire to be out with a _noctambule_, and

even hinted that it might look objectionable and vagabondish in case

they were seen. He was greatly astonished at this new point of view; for

it was merely to spare the working hours of the day that he took his

relaxation in the night.

A good many more pictures had been painted in the course of the year,

and had suggested many "Thoughts about Art," which had been duly

consigned to the manuscript of the "Painter's Camp." Aunt Mary, who was

kept _au courant_, wrote: "How can you, dear Philip Gilbert, find time

to paint so much, and to write so much?" It was now necessary to be more

industrious than ever, in order to have a sufficient number of works to

cover the walls of the exhibition room, the project being near its

realization and matured in all its details. My husband was to take me,

our children, and Caroline to my parents at Beaucaire, and leave us

there while he went in search of a house, then back again to the

Highlands for the removal, and before joining me again he was to

organize the exhibition in London with the help of Thursday, and leave

him in charge of it.

About the middle of October, 1861, we started for our long journey

southwards, with mingled feelings of deep regret for what we left

behind,--the country we still loved so much, the associations with the

births of our children and the laborious and hopeful beginnings of an

artistic and literary career, as well as the tender memories of the

growth of our union, which solitude had tested and strengthened and made

so perfect and complete; then if we looked forward, it was with joyful

feelings for the lasting reunion of the family, for the peace and

happiness we were going to give to my father's old age, and also for

future success and easier circumstances.

We stopped at Todmorden to say farewell to our relations, and also paid

farewell visits to some friends, amongst them Mrs. Butler and her

husband--Mr. Hamerton's Burnley schoolmaster; to Mr. Handsley, for whom

he had as much esteem as affection, and to his half-cousins Abram and

Henry Milne, who had agreed to purchase his property, and had given him

a commission for the two pictures already spoken of at Loch Awe, and

destined for the billiard-room, which had been built in the meantime,

and was now used daily.

On arriving at Beaucaire, we found my mother in much better health than

formerly, but my father looked aged, we thought; however, he was much

cheered by our prospects, and entered heartily into every detail

concerning them.

My husband had not much time to spare, and he made the most of it;

together we saw Arles, Nîmes, the Pont du Gard, and Montmajour, and

called upon Roumieu, the Provençal poet, to whom we were introduced by

friends. We used to roam along the shores of the Rhône in the twilight,

the noble river affording us a perpetual source of admiration, and one

evening, when we were bending over one of its bridges looking at the

swollen and tumultuous waves after a storm, we became spellbound by the

tones of a superb voice, coming as it seemed from the sky, and singing

with happy ease and unconcern, one after the other, some of the most

difficult parts in the opera of "William Tell." We dared not speak for

fear of losing a few notes, for the rich, full voice hardly paused

between two songs, never betraying the slightest effort or fatigue;

half-an-hour later it ceased altogether, and we went to my father's full

of our discovery.

"Oh! it's Villaret of the brewery; yes, a splendid tenor, but he has

long been discovered; only he has no musical education, and his

relatives won't hear of his going on the stage. Alexandre Dumas, after

listening to him, offered to pay all necessary expenses to enable him to

attend the Conservatoire, but it was of no use: they are very religious

in the family, and have an insurmountable horror of theatres. He is,

himself, a very simple, good-natured fellow, and does not require much

pressing to sing whenever he is asked. I know some of his friends, and

the lady organist of the church particularly; and if you wish to hear

him at her house, I dare say she would give a _soirée_ to that end."

Two days later we were invited by the lady to meet him, and with evident

pleasure, but without vanity, he sang several pieces, with very great

power and feeling. At last, when the company were leaving, the lady of

the house took Gilbert aside to beg him to remain a little longer with

Villaret, and when everybody else had left, she said: "Now, Monsieur

Villaret, I count upon the pleasure of listening to my favorite piece in

'La Muette de Portici.' I am going to play the accompaniment." "I would

if I could, to oblige you," he answered; "but you are aware of my

weakness. I never can do justice to it, because I can't master my

emotion." "Never mind; you must fancy we are alone together. Mr.

Hamerton and his wife will remain at the other end of the salon, behind

your back; and what then if you break down?... no one will be any the

worse for it." She sat down and began the accompaniment of that most

exquisitely tender song,--

"De ton coeur bannis les alarmes,

Qu'un songe heureux sèche les larmes

Qui coulent encore de tes yeux."

The words were hardly audible; but we were so moved by the marvellous

purity of the pathetic voice that tears stood in our eyes. As for the

singer, tears rolled down his face. It was one of those rare and perfect

pleasures that are never forgotten. A few years later Villaret made his

_début_ as first tenor at the Opéra in Paris with great success. He was

very generous with tickets to his early friends and fellow-citizens;

some of his most intolerant relatives had died, and he had yielded at

last to the general wish.

Now came for my husband and myself the longest separation in our married

life. It lasted two months, and seemed at least two years, so sad and

wearied did we grow. He wrote every night succinctly what had been done

in the course of the day, and sent me his letters three times a week.

When beds had been packed up or sold, our kind neighbors, Mr. and Mrs.

Whitney, offered him hospitality, which he gratefully accepted, till

everything was cleared out of Innistrynich and on its way to Sens, in

the department of the Yonne, where our new residence was to be.

On his way to Sens, Gilbert stayed a few days with his aunts, but left

them for a short time, and concluded the sale of his property to Henry

Milne. It was but a poor bargain, the times being bad for the cotton

district on account of the American war; but he had no alternative,

having engaged to find capital for the wine business, and even needing

money for daily expenses, for as yet he earned nothing.

What he had been in dread of for so many years, on account of his Aunt

Mary's state of health, happened just as he was returning to "The

Jumps," and when he saw his uncle Thomas awaiting him at the station he

had a foreboding of the truth. "Aunt Mary is dead?" ... "Not dead yet,

but unconscious, and there is no hope. This morning when Susan was in

the breakfast-room, waiting for her sister, she heard a stamping

overhead, followed by a dull, heavy thud, and on rushing upstairs found

Mary stretched on the floor and moaning, but unconscious. She has been

put to bed and attended by doctors; but there is nothing to be done, and

they say that she does not suffer." Mournfully my husband ascended

alone, in the dark night, the steep hill up which he had so often walked

gayly to see his beloved guardian; tenderly he watched at her bedside

for forty-eight hours, till she breathed no more, and at last reverently

accompanied her remains to the chosen place, which he never omitted to

visit afterwards, every time he came to Todmorden. He wrote to say what

a satisfaction it was to think that his aunt had seen him only a few

hours before the attack, and when it came she must have felt him so near

to her.

I remember an incident which took place on the day we took leave of Aunt

Mary to go to Innistrynich; she had invited two of her nieces to lunch

with us at "The Jumps." When we left the house, some time in the

afternoon, I went first with my cousins, leaving nephew and aunt

together for more intimate communing, and when my husband reached us,

his eyes were still moist and his voice tremulous. The girls

thoughtlessly teased him about it, and twitted him with his weakness;

but he did not allow them to amuse themselves long, he cowed them with a

violence of contempt which terrified me, whilst I could not help

admiring it. "Yes," he said, "I have shed tears--not unmanly tears--and

if you are not capable of entering into the feelings of grateful love

and regret which wring these tears out of my heart, I despise you for

your heartlessness." His voice had recovered its firmness and rang loud,

his eyes shot flames, he looked more than human. These startling

outbursts of generous or honest passion were one of his most marked

characteristics; they occurred but rarely, but when they did occur

nothing could abate their terrific violence; a single word in mitigation

would have acted like oil on the flames. It must be explained that they

were always justified by the cause, and it was impossible not to admire

such genuine and high-minded resentment against meanness or dishonesty,

or in some cases against what he considered insulting to his sense of

honor. For instance, on one occasion a very important sale of works of

art was to take place abroad, and he was asked to contribute some notes

to the catalogue. It was hinted--clearly enough--that any words of

praise would be handsomely acknowledged. He resented the offer like a

blow on the face, blushed crimson with ardent indignation, and almost

staggered to the writing-table; there he seized a postcard, and in

large, clear, print-like letters threw back the insult with cutting

contempt. The sense of having cleared his honor somewhat relieved him,

and after waiting for a propitious moment I tried to persuade him,

before the card was posted, that the offence was not so heinous as it

looked, the writer not knowing him personally, and merely imagining

himself to be acting in conformity with a prevalent custom, which some

critics were far from resenting. All I could obtain, however, was an

envelope for the terrible postcard.

Now to resume the narrative. I left Beaucaire to join my husband at

Havre on his return, and after visiting the town together we hastened to

our new house at Sens, which I longed to see, for it had been chosen in

my absence, and though I had received minute descriptions of it, I was

not able to realize its appearance or surroundings. It was one of the

large, roomy _maisons bourgeoises_, so numerous in French provincial

towns at that time, built for the convenience of the owner, and not in

order to be let as an investment. It was perfectly suitable for the

double purpose Gilbert had in view--with a spacious carriage entrance,

courtyard, cellars, barns, and stable for the wine trade, and large,

commodious, well-lighted rooms for residence. But to my regret there was

no garden,--a great privation for me; however, my husband told me that

our landlord had promised to make one if I cared so much for it. I did

care very much, as the only view from the house was that of other houses

and walls on the other side of the street; but when asked to fulfil his

promise, the landlord said it was a misunderstanding, he had merely

given leave for _us_ to make a garden in the courtyard if we liked, or

else he would let us have one for a moderate rent, outside of the town,

a common habit at Sens. However, as I did not appreciate the pleasure of

an hour's walk every time I wished to smell a flower in my garden, we

declined the offer, and my husband kindly planned a narrow flower-bed

all along the base of the walls in the courtyard, which looked gay

enough when the plants were in full bloom, and the walls were hidden by

convolvulus, nasturtiums, and Virginia creepers.

Even before the house was furnished and in order, Gilbert was eager to

begin his commission pictures; but he soon found that even our large

rooms were too small for a studio, and the light was not good for

painting; but at the same time, I believe he was not _really_ sorry,

because it gave him a plausible excuse for turning one of the barns into

a capital studio.

This outbuilding offered great and tempting advantages; it was isolated

from the house, therefore silent and private; it might be lighted from

the north, and was sufficiently spacious to allow a part to be divided

off for a laboratory. Being greatly interested in architecture and

building, my husband derived great pleasure from the execution of his

own plans, even in such a small matter. I vainly attempted to reconcile

him to the idea of using one of the large rooms, standing in fear of the

expense; but I could not help admitting that with his propensity for

large canvases, which I deprecated all my life, a studio was

indispensable; and, after all, as it seemed almost certain that we

should stay there a great many years, it was not of much importance,

especially after having lived in terror of seeing him undertake the

building of a tower, or the restoration of an old castle like

Kilchurn,--a dream that he often indulged, as numerous designs bore

testimony.

The first thing considered by Gilbert when he settled at Sens was the

choice of subjects for his commission pictures, which he intended to

paint directly from nature; and he soon selected panoramic landscape

views from the top of a small vine-clad hill, called St. Bon, which

commands an extensive prospect of the river Yonne, and of the plains

about it. On the summit of this eminence there is a kiosk belonging to

the archbishop, who readily granted the use of it to the artist for

sheltering his pictures, brushes, colors, etc. But the artist was not

one who could bear confinement, and the kiosk was but a tiny affair, and

not movable, so two of the tents were set up at its foot, and formed a

painter's camp, which attracted so many curious visitors that it was

thought unsafe to leave it at their mercy; and when Gilbert went back

home for the night a watchman, well armed with pistols and a gun, took

his place. Every day, when the great summer heat had abated, I used to

set off with the children to go and meet my husband at the foot of the

hill, and we returned together to the house, attempting on the way to

make the boys speak English, but without success, for the eldest, who

spoke _nothing_ but English when I had left him two months before at

Beaucaire, now chose to gabble in Provençal, which he had picked up from

his nurse, regardless of his Aunt Caroline's efforts to make him talk in

his native tongue. Subsequently, when he perceived that no one

understood him, he quickly dropped his Provençal and replaced it by

French, but would not trouble himself to speak two different languages

together.

By the care and thoughtfulness of Gilbert, a pretty little house and

garden had been prepared for his father-in-law and family, at a short

distance from our own dwelling, where the office of the business was now

ready on the ground-floor, completely fitted up, and separated from the

private dwelling.

My mother had come first with my brothers and sister, whilst my father

remained a little longer to put his successor _au courant_. But it

seemed to me that the delay was longer than we had foreseen, and I began

to grow anxious on account of my letters remaining unanswered; then I

was told that my father was very busy, not very well, and that he could

not write. About a month later he wrote that he was now well enough to

undertake the journey, and with great rejoicings we prepared to receive

him; but when I noticed how altered he was, how thin, how weak, all my

joy forsook me, and it was almost beyond my power not to let him read it

in my face. Courageous as ever, he tried to be and to _look_ happy, and

talked of setting to work immediately. I learned now that he had been

dangerously ill, but that his malady had been kept secret to spare me.

A few trying months followed, during which we passed alternately from

hope to fear, the most distressing feature of this sorrowful time being

my poor father's desperate struggle for life. "I must and I will live to

work; it is my duty to get well; I have a heavy debt and responsibility

now that you are involved in this business," he used to say to his

son-in-law. He had the greatest confidence in his friend, Alphonse

Guérin, the celebrated discoverer of the antiseptic method of dressing

wounds, and thought that if any one could cure him it was A. Guérin, who

had prescribed for him throughout his life in Paris. Accordingly to

Paris he went, and died there shortly after, notwithstanding the devoted

care of his doctor.

Everything seemed to turn against my husband's wisest plans, but nothing

daunted by this last fearful blow, he at once offered his mother-in-law

a pension sufficient to enable her children to carry on their education;

this pension would gradually be diminished as the children became able

to earn money for themselves and to take their share in the maintenance

of their mother. The fact was, that from that time he had two families

to keep.

Besides the studies at St. Bon, he had begun two pictures of large

dimensions in his studio, and worked at them steadily. As he could not

sit down, this excess of fatigue brought on a very serious illness,

which kept him in bed for nearly a fortnight, and it was the only

instance of his submission to such an order from a physician during the

whole course of our married life, but it was rendered imperative by the

nature of the disorder. He hated remaining in bed when awake, at all

times, and he could not stand it at all in the hours of day; later on he

had the measles, and still later he suffered from gout, but he would not

stay in bed in either case, and during the first attack of gout, which

was as severe as unexpected, he remained for twenty-one nights without

going to bed.

This illness prevented him from attending the marriage of his eldest

cousin Anne Hamerton, about which her sister wrote on July 22, 1862,

that it was to take place on August 6, and after giving a good many

details she observed: "You may be above such vanities, but I think

Eugénie may be a little interested; poor Eugénie, how anxious she must

have been, having you in your room so long! How are your pictures

progressing? It must decidedly be a punishment to you to be limited to

time at your easel, particularly now, when you must feel so wishful to

get on with your commissions."

After his recovery, my husband arranged his work in a manner which

divided the hours into sitting ones and standing ones, to avoid a return

of the late inflammatory symptoms; and there never was a recurrence of

them.

The pictures were in a fairly advanced stage when Mr. William Wyld came

on a visit of a few days and gave him valuable advice about them. His

Aunt Susan said in a subsequent letter: "I am very glad Mr. Wyld has

been to see your pictures, and though you may be a little dissatisfied

that your present works will be 'dirt cheap,' still the cheering opinion

of them will give you great courage, I hope. I shall certainly go to see

them as soon as they get to Agnew's."

So much for the art department. For the literary one the "Painter's

Camp" had been accepted by Mr. Macmillan, and we were in a fever of

excitement awaiting its publication. As to the wine business, after

remaining irresolute for some time, Gilbert had accepted the proposition

of a friend to assume what should have been my father's part,--with this

alteration, however, that he would pay interest on the funds confided to

him, and share the clear profits with the sleeping partner.

This episode in my husband's life was so bitter, and involved him in

such difficulties, that I will cut it short. Suffice it to say, that

though the partnership was continued for a few years, during which the

interest of the money came but irregularly, the capital was entirely and

irremediably lost in the end.

When autumn came, the commission pictures were sent to Manchester for

exhibition, and shortly after Mr. Milne declined to accept them, on the

plea that he did not care for the subjects: the real reason being that

his sensitive heart had been again impressed--this time by a young

governess, of whom he had bought two copies after Greuze, which were now

occupying the place formerly destined for his cousin's works. However,

another friend soon became their purchaser, but for the artist the

disappointment remained.

Sadness for the loss of his aunt, Mrs. Thomas Hamerton, which happened

just at that time, and sympathy with his uncle in these trying moments,

spoilt the pleasure Gilbert had anticipated from the visit to his

relations which we made that year. We were to go back to France with

return tickets; and the time allowed being nearly over, we went to take

leave of our friends at West Lodge, when we learned that Mrs. T.

Hamerton, who had lately been suffering from an attack of gout, had

succumbed to its weakening effects. Regardless of the pecuniary loss, my

husband immediately expressed his determination to stay as long as he

could be of any help to his uncle. We therefore sacrificed our tickets,

and went back to "The Jumps," whence he came down every day to spare his

uncle all the painful formalities of a funeral. We only left when the

run of ordinary habits had been re-established at West Lodge, but even

then we felt that a new misfortune was lurking in the silent house, for

the health of Jane Hamerton, who had never been very strong, now began

to disquiet her friends, particularly my husband, whose affection for

her was very true and tender. Aunt Susan, who was her devoted but

clear-sighted nurse, wrote to us in the course of the summer that her

case was very serious, notwithstanding the short periods of improvement

occurring at intervals. The poor girl had grown very weak and lost her

appetite; almost constantly feverish, she longed for fruit to refresh

her parched mouth and quench her thirst. As soon as he became aware of

this longing, Gilbert began to plan how he might gratify it, and it

appeared easy enough, as we were in a land of plenty; but the time

required for the transport of such delicacies as grapes and peaches

threatened ominously their safe arrival. However, we would run the risk

to give a little relief to our dear invalid, and we would take the

greatest precautions in the packing. So we went to a fruit-grower,

taking with us a large box filled with dry bran and divided into

compartments: one was filled with melons, another with grapes, the last

with peaches, every one taken from the tree, vine, or plant with our own

hands, then wrapped in tissue-paper and protected all round with bran.

The result will be seen in the following letter from Jane:--

"MY DEAR EUGENIE AND P. G.--A thousand thanks for the enormous box of

fruit, which arrived here to-day about noon: it is quite a honey-fall to

the inhabitants of West Lodge, more especially to me. I am very happy to

tell you that the grapes have arrived in perfect condition, and that the

melons seem to have suffered only outwardly, as the one cut into is

quite luscious and good. The sausage (_saucisson de Lyon_) also appears

to have borne the journey well, but has not yet been tasted, so the next

letter from Todmorden must give the opinion upon it, but it certainly

looks to me a most comical affair; and to tell last the only

disagreeable thing, it is about the peaches, which were all in a

dreadful mess, and quite mixed up with the bran and scarcely fit to

touch, though Aunt Susan did take out one or two to see the extent of

the decay. How very provoking for you both when you heard of the

detention at Havre, particularly when P. G. had taken such precautions

with regard to the outside directions."

If I have given such apparently trivial details at length, it was to

show how generous of his time and thought was my husband in everything

concerning affection or pity; his sympathy was always ready and active,

and he never begrudged his exertions to give relief or comfort to those

in need of either.

It had been most fortunate for the young author of the "Painter's Camp

in the Highlands" that the MS. of the book happened to come under the

eyes of Mr. Macmillan himself, who, being in want of rest, and attracted

by the title, had taken it with him in the country and had read it with

great delight. Being a Scotchman, he was in immediate sympathy with so

fervent an admirer of the Highlands as my husband, and had at once

agreed to publish the book.

From the first it was a success: the freshness of the narrative, the

novelty of the subject, the truthfulness and charm of the descriptions

were duly appreciated, together with the earnest (if still immature)

expressions of the "Thoughts about Art." The book soon found its way to

America, where it attracted the notice of Roberts Brothers' publishing

house. They were charmed with it, and published an edition in America.

The "Painter's Camp" was well received by the Press of both nations, and

the reviews were numerous. It was compared to "Robinson Crusoe" and

called "unique." The author was very much amused to hear that "Punch"

had given an illustrated notice of it under the title of "A Painter

Scamp in the Highlands."

This success--almost unexpected--led my husband to accept proposals for

other literary productions, the most important at that time being

contributed to the "Fine Arts Quarterly Review," and beginning with an

elaborate criticism of the Salon of 1863. He also began to write for the

"Cornhill" and "Macmillan's Magazine," much against his wish, merely

because painting was a source of expense without a return.

Although, my husband had himself chosen Sens for his residence, his

choice had been dictated by necessity, to a great extent, rather than by

preference. It was a combination of conveniences for different purposes,

but the kind of scenery was so far from giving entire satisfaction to

his artistic tastes that he began to suffer seriously from mountain

nostalgia. He admired the river, and had upon it a lovely rowing-boat,

bought of the best boat-builder at Asnières, and he used it often, but

without finding river landscape a compensation for mountain scenery. In

fear of a serious illness, we thought it better to gratify the longing,

and devised a plan for a journey to Switzerland which would greatly

reduce the expense without spoiling the pleasure. It was this: The new

line of railway from Neufchâtel to Pontarlier had just been opened, and

passed through the most beautiful scenery. Gilbert offered the company

an article in an English paper in return for two travelling tickets, for

himself and his wife, and the offer was accepted.

It was a charming holiday. We stayed a few days at Neufchâtel with

friends, and visited at our leisure Geneva, Lausanne, Lucerne, Bâle, and

Berne, and after feasting his eyes on Mont Pilatus, the Jungfrau, and

Mont Blanc, my husband came back cured. He had sometimes spoken of the

possibility of a removal to Geneva (before we had been there), on

account of the lake and Mont Blanc; but I objected that we did not know

the place. To this objection he had a very characteristic answer: "_You_

don't know the place, but I know it as well as if I had dwelt there,

after reading so many descriptions of it, and being aware of its

geographical situation." When I remarked that it was quite different

from what I had anticipated, he said: "It is exactly what I had

imagined." He often used to tell us that he had no need of going to

Rome, or Vienna, or to any other celebrated town, to know its general

aspect, for he had studied their monuments in detail, the prevailing

character of their architecture, that of the inhabitants with their

costumes and manners, and he was even acquainted with the names and

directions of the principal streets.

At the end of the year, our sweet cousin Jane died with great

resignation, thankful to be delivered from her long, wearying,

consumptive pains. Aunt Susan had volunteered to be her bed-fellow from

the month of June, in order to move her gently, and to support the poor

wasted frame upon her own, to relieve the bed-sores by a change of

posture; her devotion had been indefatigable and unrelieved, for her

invalid niece would accept attendance from no one else.

This loss was keenly felt by my husband, whose little playfellow she had

been; the threatening symptoms of the disease had prevented her coming

to us, together with her father and aunt, as it was proposed they should

do in the summer, and now grief did not allow her bereaved relatives to

entertain the idea of a change.

It is likely enough that the series of sorrows and disappointments we

had experienced since we came to Sens prevented our growing attached to

the place; it may be also that our roomy but thoroughly commonplace

house, being one of a row in a street devoid of interest, never answered

in the least to our need of poetry or even of privacy, particularly with

our minds and hearts still full of dear Innistrynich; but certain it is

that we did not feel the slightest regret at the idea of leaving it

forever; nay, we even longed to be away from it. This feeling was common

to both of us, yet we both refrained from mentioning it to each other

for some time, thinking it unreasonable, till we came to discuss it

together, and to agree that it would not be unreasonable to exchange a

house too large for our wants for a smaller one at a lower rent, and a

town life that neither of us enjoyed for a simpler mode of living in

some picturesque country-place more suitable for my husband's artistic

taste.

It must be explained that our partner had decided to take a house in the

very heart of Burgundy to carry on the business, on the plea that the

name of the renowned vineyards surrounding it, being on the address,

were likely to inspire confidence in the customers. He added that the

situation would also be more favorable for his purchases, sales, and

business journeys, and of course, being the only working partner, he

acted as he liked. Then what was the use now of those empty cellars,

dreary paved courtyard, and formal office? We had no pleasant

associations there, having made no friends on account of our

mourning--why should we remain against our inclination?

We decided to remove as soon as we had discovered something for which we

might form a real liking, and the result of our experience has been

given at length by Mr. Hamerton in "Round my House," to which I refer

the reader for details which could not find place in the following brief

account of our search.

It was begun on the shores of the Rhône, whose noble landscape my

husband so much admired. But although the scenery was very tempting to

an artist, _that_ was not the only condition to be considered, and we

were soon discouraged by the prevailing dirtiness and slovenliness of

the people, and by what we heard of the disastrous inundations. We were

also afraid of our children catching the horrid accent of the country.

So we thought of the Saône district, Gilbert being unable to bear the

idea of being at a remote distance from an expanse of water of some

kind.

Here again the landscape was appreciated, though for charms different

from those of the Rhône. Unluckily we could not find a suitable house in

a good situation, and we also learned that intermittent fevers were very

prevalent, on account of the periodical overflows of the Saône.

We tried after that the vine-land of Burgundy, where Gilbert told me

what he has repeated in "Round my House": "There is no water, with its

pleasant life and changefulness, here." I also agreed with him in

thinking the renowned vineyards of the Côte d'Or most monotonous, except

during a very short time indeed, when they are clothed in the splendor

of gold and purple, just before a cruel night of frost strips them bare,

and only leaves the blackened _paisceaux_ visible, for more than six

months at a time. Then we turned to the beautiful valley of the Doubs,

and discovered the very dwelling of our dreams, in which were found all

the conditions that we thought desirable. However, we were doomed to a

new disappointment, for the owner, when we offered to take it, changed

her mind and coolly declined to let.

Fortunately, some time later, a friend directed us to quite another

region, that of the Autunois, to see a very similar house, offering

about the same advantages. There were a few points of difference; for

instance, the little river encircling the garden was only a

trout-stream, instead of the broad and placid Doubs; the building was

also of more modest appearance. As compensations, however, there were

picturesque and extensive views from every window; the situation was

more private, and the solitude of the small wild park with its beautiful

trees at once enchanted Gilbert. So we decided to take Pré-Charmoy.

CHAPTER VIII.

1863-1868.

Canoeing on the Ternin.--Visit of relatives.--Tour in Switzerland.--

Experiments in etching.--The "Saturday Review."--Journeys to

London.--Plan of "Etching and Etchers."--New friends in London.

--Etchings exhibited at the Royal Academy.--Serious illness in

London.--George Eliot.--Professor Seeley.

NOT to waste his time in the work of removal and fitting up, Mr.

Hamerton remained behind at Sens, to finish the copying of a window by

Jean Cousin in the cathedral and some other drawings, begun to

illustrate an article on this artist. We had all gone forward to

Pré-Charmoy, and when he arrived there, everything being already in

order, he continued his work without interruption. He was delighted with

the unpretentious little house, and with its views from every window;

with the silent, shady, wild garden, and its group of tall poplars by

the clear, cool, winding river which divided it from the pastures on the

other side, and he often repeated to us with a smile, "Pré-Charmoy

charme moi." Although the house was small, there were a good many rooms

in it, and the master had for himself alone a studio (an ordinary-sized

room), a study, and a carpenter's shop--for he was fond of carpentry in

his leisure hours, and far from unskilful. He liked to make experimental

boats with his own hands, and moreover he found out that some kind of

physical exercise was necessary to him as a relief from brain-work, for

if the weather was bad and he took no exercise he began to feel liable

to a sort of uncomfortable giddiness. I wished him to consult a doctor

about it, but he believed that it would go away after a while, for it

had come on quite lately while painting on an open scaffolding inside

the cathedral at Sens, when he could see through the planks and all

round far below him, and this had produced, at times, a kind of vertigo.

The pretty little boat bought at Asnières was all very well for the

Arroux which flows by Autun, but for the narrow, shallow, winding Ternin

and the Vesure, some other kind of craft had to be devised, and paper

boats were built upon basket-work skeletons, and tried with more or less

success. My eldest brother Charles, who had finished his classical

studies and was now preparing to become an architect, used to come from

Mâcon for the holidays, sometimes bringing a friend with him, and

together with Gilbert they went exploring the "Unknown Rivers." They

generally came home dripping wet, having abandoned their canoes in the

entanglement of roots and weeds after a sudden upset, and having to go

and fetch them back with a cart, unless the shipwreck was caused by an

unsuspected branch under water, or by the swift rush of a current

catching the frail concern and carrying it away altogether, whilst the

venturesome navigator was gathering his wits on the pebbles of the

river-bed.

Towards the end of August, Mr. Thomas Hamerton and his sister Susan came

to visit us. They liked the Autunois--at least what they saw of it--

exceedingly, but they suffered much from the heat, particularly our

uncle, who had remained true to his youthful style of dress: high shirt-

collar sawing the ears and stiffened by a white, starched choker, rolled

several times about the neck; black cloth trousers, long black

waistcoat, and ample riding-coat of the same color and material. He was

also careful never to put aside either flannel undergarments or woollen

socks. Our kind uncle was a pattern of propriety in everything, but the

fierce heat of a French August on a plain surrounded by a circle of

hills was too much even for Mr. T. Hamerton's propriety, and he had to

beg leave to remove his coat and to sit in his shirt-sleeves. There was

a stone table under a group of fine horse-chestnuts in the garden, not

far from the little river, to which we used to resort after dinner with

our work and books in search of coolness, and there even my husband did

his writing. One afternoon, when we were sitting as usual in this shady

arbor, all silent, uncle dozing behind the newspaper, and his nephew

intent on literary composition, what was our astonishment at the sight

of sedate Aunt Susan suddenly jumping upon the table and remaining like

a marble statue upon its stone pedestal, and quite as white. We all

looked up, and uncle pushed his spectacles high on his forehead to have

a better sight of so strange an attitude for his sister to take. At last

Aunt Susan pointed to something gliding away in the grass, and gasped:

"A serpent! oh, dear, oh, dear, a serpent!" Vainly did my husband try to

calm her fright by explaining that it was only an adder going to seek

the moisture of the river-bank and never intending to attack any one,

that they were plentiful and frequently to be met with, when their first

care was to pass unnoticed; our poor aunt would not be persuaded to

descend from her pedestal for some time, and not before she was provided

with a long and stout stick to beat the grass about her as she went back

to the house.

Mr. T. Hamerton's intention, as well as his sister's, was to go to

Chamouni and the Mer de Glace, and to ask their nephew to act as guide.

He was glad enough to avail himself of the opportunity for studying

mountain scenery, but felt somewhat disappointed that I declined being

one of the party, from economical motives.

The letters I received during their tour bore witness to a fervent

appreciation of the landscape, of which a memento was desired, and

Gilbert undertook to paint for his relatives a small picture of Mont

Blanc after reaching home; meanwhile, he took several sketches to help

him. As he was relating to me afterwards the incidents of the journey,

he remembered a rather amusing one. At Bourg, where they had stopped to

see the church of Brou, he came down to the dining-room of the hotel and

found his uncle and aunt seated at their frugal English breakfast of tea

and eggs, which he did not share because tea did not agree with him, but

took up a newspaper and waited for the _table d'hote_.

"My word!" exclaimed his uncle, when _déjeuner_ was over, "but you do

not stint yourself. I counted the dishes: omelette, beef-steak and

potatoes, cray-fish and trout, roasted pigeons and salad, cheese,

grapes, and biscuits, without mentioning a full bottle of wine. Excuse

my curiosity, but I should like to know how much you will have to pay

for such a repast?"

"Exactly two francs and fifty centimes," answered his nephew; "and I

dare say your tea, toast, butter, and eggs will come to pretty near the

same amount, for here tea is an out-of-the-way luxury, and also you had

a separate table to yourselves, whilst the _table d'hôte_ is a

democratic institution."

"Then let us be democrats as long as we remain in France, if the thing

does not imply being deprived of tea."

From London, on her way back, Aunt Susan wrote:--

"We went to the Bedford Hotel, Covent Garden, and bespoke beds, got

something to eat, and then set out. Our first visit was to 196

Piccadilly, where Thursday was glad to see us, and where we stayed a

long time, well pleased to look at your pictures. I like them all

exceedingly, and could not decide on a choice; they each had in them

something I liked particularly. When we had been gone away some time, we

remembered we had not paid our admission, so we went back; this afforded

us another looking at the pictures and also a pleasing return of a small

etching; our choice was 'Le four et la terrasse de Pré-Charmoy!' We were

well contented with what we got, but I did think the proofs beautiful."

Mr. Hamerton's strong love of etching had now led him to the practice of

it, and for several hours every day he struggled against its technical

difficulties. Full of hope and trust in a final success, he turned from

a spoilt plate to a fresh one without discouragement, always eager and

relentless. His main fault, as I thought, was attempting too much finish

and effect, and I used to tell him so. He acknowledged that I was right,

and when taking up a new plate he used to say playfully: "Now _this_ is

going to be a good etching; you don't believe it because you are a

little sceptic, but you'll see--I mean not to carry it far." Then before

biting he showed it me with "Look at it before it is spoilt." It was

rarely spoilt in the biting, but by subsequent work. Many charming

proofs I greatly admired. "Oh! this is only a sketch; you will see the

improvement when I have darkened this mass." Then I begged hard that it

should be left as it was, and I was met by arguments that I could not

discuss,--"the effect was not true so," "the lights were too strong," or

"the darks too heavy;" "but _very little_ retouching was necessary," and

it ended in the pretty sketch being destroyed after having been

re-varnished and re-bitten two or three times. When it was no longer

shown to me, I was aware of its fate. The amount of labor bestowed upon

etching by my husband was stupendous, as he had to seek his way without

help or advice. A plate once begun, he could not bring himself to leave

it--not even in the night, and at that time he always had one in hand.

Heedless of his self-imposed rules about the division of hours for

literary work and artistic work, he devoted himself almost entirely to

the pursuit of etching. This made me very uneasy, for it had become

imperative that he should make his work pay. The tenant of the coal-mine

had reiterated his decision not to pay rent any longer, and when

threatened with a law-suit answered that he would put it in Chancery. I

had been told that a suit in Chancery might last over twenty years, and

we had no means to carry it on. We were therefore obliged to abandon all

idea of redress, and were left _entirely_ dependent upon the earnings of

my husband, which were derived from his contributions to the "Fine Arts

Quarterly Review," and to a few periodicals of less importance. From

that period of overwork and anxiety dates the nervousness from which he

suffered so much throughout his life; though at that time he believed it

to be only temporary. He sought relief in outdoor exercise, especially

in canoeing, and this suggested the "Unknown River," published later,

but based on the excursions undertaken at that time, and on sketches and

etchings done on the way.

The picture painted in remembrance of the journey in Switzerland had

been finished and dispatched, and this is what Aunt Susan wrote about

it:--

"We are now in possession of our picture, which we received from Agnew

yesterday morning, and we are very much pleased with it; my impression

is that it is a very good, well-finished painting: we have not yet

concluded where to hang it for a proper and good light. We are very glad

to hear that _Mamzelle_ Mary Susan Marguerite (as Uncle Thomas called

her) is thriving and good; be sure and give her a kiss for each of us."

_Mamzelle_ Mary Susan Marguerite had been born early in the spring, and

to the general wonder of the household, seemed to have reconciled her

father to the inevitable cries and noises of babyhood. Brought up by two

maiden aunts in a large, solitary house in the country, and addicted

from early youth to study, my husband had a perfect horror of noises of

all kinds, and could not understand that they were unavoidable in some

circumstances; he used to call out from the top of the stairs to the

servants below "to stop their noise," or "to hold their tongues,"

whenever he overheard them singing to the babies or laughing to amuse

them, and if the children's crying became audible in the upper regions,

he declared that the house was not fit to live in, still less to work

in. One morning when the youngest boy was loudly expressing his distaste

for the ceremonies of the toilet, his father--no less loudly--was giving

vent to his irritation at the disturbance, and calling out to shut _all_

the doors; but he could not help being very much amused by the resolute

interference of the eldest brother--three years old--who, crossing his

little fat arms, and standing his ground firmly, delivered this oracle:

"Papa, babies _must_ cry." I suppose he had heard this wise sentence

from the nurse, but he gave it as solemnly as if it were the result of

his own reflections. Whether a few years' experience had rendered his

father more patient generally, or whether he had become alive to the

charm of babyhood--to which he had hitherto remained insensible--it was

a fact first noticed by the nurse that "Monsieur, quand la petite

criait, voulait savoir ce qu'elle avait, et la prenait même dans ses

bras pour la consoler."

A very important event now occurred: Mr. Hamerton was appointed art

critic to the "Saturday Review," where he succeeded Mr. Palgrave at his

recommendation. He did not accept the post with much pleasure, but it

afforded him the opportunity of studying works of art free of expense,

and that was a weighty consideration, besides being an opening to

intellectual and artistic intercourse of which he was greatly deprived

at Pré-Charmoy.

The visits to the London exhibitions necessitated two or three journeys

every year, and we both suffered from the separations; but I could bear

them better in my own home--surrounded by my children, visited by my

mother, sister, and brothers--than my husband, who was alone amongst

strangers, and who had to live in hotels, a thing he had a great dislike

for. In order to make these separations as short as possible, he

travelled at night by the most rapid trains; saw the exhibitions in the

day, and went to his rooms to write his articles by gas-light. For some

time he only felt fatigued; afterwards he became nervous; but he found

compensation in the society of his newly made friends, and in the

increasing marks of recognition he was now meeting everywhere.

He soon gave up hotel life, and took lodgings in St. John's Wood, where

he had many acquaintances, and from there he wrote to me:--

"I have seen Palgrave, Macmillan, Rossetti, Woolner, and Mr. Pearce

to-day. Palgrave says the 'Saturday Review' 'is most proud to have me.'

Woolner says it is not possible to succeed as an art critic more than I

have done; that Tennyson has been very much interested in my articles,

and has in consequence urged his publishers to employ Doré to illustrate

the "Idylls of the King." They have offered the job to Doré, who has

accepted.

"The best news is to come.

"The 'Painter's Camp' is a success after all. It has fully cleared its

expenses, and Macmillan is willing to venture on a second edition,

revised, and I think he will let me illustrate it; he only hesitates.

"_Macmillan has positively given me a commission for a work on Etching_.

"I am to be paid whether it succeeds or not. I cannot tell you the exact

sum, but you shall know it soon.

"It is to be made up of articles in different reviews. It is to be a

guinea work of 400 pages, beautifully got up, with 50 illustrative

etchings by different masters, and is to be called 'Etching and

Etchers.'

"Macmillan said that as to my capacity as a writer there existed no

doubt on the subject. He fully expects this work on Etching to be a

success. It is to be out for Christmas next.

"Macmillan is most favorably disposed to undertake other works, on

condition that each shall have a special character like that. One on

'Painting in France' and another on 'Painting in England' looms in the

future. He prefers this plan to the Year-book I mentioned to you.

"The great news in this letter is that I have written a book which has

paid its expenses. Is not that jolly? The idea of a second edition quite

elates me. So you see, darling, things are rather cheering. I must say,

everybody receives me pleasantly. Woodward is going to give me a whole

day at Windsor. Beresford-Hope is out of town, but called to-day at

Cook's and said 'he was most anxious to see me.'"

My husband wrote to me sometimes in French and sometimes in English;

when my mother came to keep me company during his absence, he generally

wrote in French, to enable me to read aloud some passages of his letters

that she might find interesting. The following letter was written on his

first journey to London for the "Saturday Review ":--

"CHÈRE PETITE FEMME,--Me voici installé dans un fort joli appartement

tout près de chez Mr. Mackay, à une guinée par semaine; j'y suis

tout-à-fait bien.

"Samedi dernier je suis allé d'abord chez Mr. Stephen Pearce que j'ai

trouvé chez lui; c'est un homme parfaitement comme il faut; il m'a reçu

bien cordialement et il m'a invité à dîner demain. J'ai dîné chez Mrs.

Leslie hier et j'ai passé tout le tantôt d'aujourd'hui chez Lewes qui

habite une fort belle maison à cinq minutes d'ici. J'ai beaucoup causé

avec l'auteur de 'Romola;' c'est une femme de 45 ans, pas belle du tout,

mais très distinguée, elle m'a fort bien reçu. Lewes lui-même est laid,

mais très cordial. Voilà quelque chose comme sa physionomie. [Sketch of

Lewes]. Je vais te donner George Eliot sur l'autre page. Il est très

gentil avec elle. [Sketch of George Eliot.] Ce portrait n'est pas très

ressemblant, mais il donne une bonne idée de l'expression--elle en a

énormément et parle fort bien. Son salon est un modèle de gôut et

d'élégance, et toute sa maison est aussi bien tenue que celle de

Millais, par exemple. Nous avons causé de beaucoup de choses, entre

autres précisément de cette curieuse question de prière selon Comte.

Elle soutient que c'est raisonnable dans le sens d'expression de vif

désir, de concentration de l'esprit vers son but. Son argument était

bien fortement soutenu par sa manière énergique de raisonner, mais je

lui ai tenu tête avec beaucoup d'obstination, et nous avons eu une

véritable lutte. Elle a une singulière puissance, quelque chose qui ne

se trouve jamais que chez les personnes d'un génie extraordinaire. Quand

elle a voulu me convaincre, elle y mettait tant de persuasion et de

volonté qu'il me fallait un certain effort pour garder la clarté de mes

propres idées. Je te dirai cela plus en détail quand nous nous

reverrons.

"Lewes m'a dit qu'il serait content d'avoir d'autres articles de moi

pour la 'Fortnightly Review.'"

Two days later he wrote:--

"I dined with the Mackays yesterday; Mr. Watkiss Lloyd was there, and

other friends came in the evening. I spent the day at home, writing, but

I have an engagement for every night this week--I am becoming a sort of

professional diner-out.

"I have been talking over the illustrations of the 'Painter's Camp' with

George Leslie. He has promised to do twenty etchings of figure-subjects

to illustrate it, and I shall do twenty landscapes. I have learned a

great deal from Haden here, and I feel sure now of grappling

successfully with the difficulties which plagued me before. Besides, I

am anxious to have a book with etchings in it out in time to appear with

the work on Etching. I am sure this new edition of the 'Painter's Camp'

will be something jolly. It's nice to think I shall have two beautiful

books out at Christmas. It will give my reputation a fillip. It appears

that Charles Dickens, Alfred Tennyson, and George Eliot are amongst my

most assiduous readers. Isn't it pleasant to have readers of that

class?..."

I will give here a few more extracts from his letters at that time; it

is the best way of becoming acquainted with his method of work, as well

as with the state of his mind.

"Yesterday I went to see some exhibitions and Mrs. Cameron's

photographs; they are really very fine, quite different from anything

one ever saw before. You will be very much struck with them, I am sure.

"Mr. Palgrave and I spent a delightful evening together yesterday; we

talked till midnight. I found him a pleasant companion. We had some

music; Mrs. Palgrave plays well. He has a nice collection of Greek

vases, which would delight Mariller. [A figure-painter who lived at

Autun, and who drew the figures for the 'Unknown River.']

"The more I reflect on matters, the more I rejoice to live far away from

here. Known as I am now, I am sure that if I lived in or near London I

should be exposed to frequent interruptions, and gradually our dear

little private life would be taken away from us both. Besides, this

continued excitement would kill me, I could never stand it; I really

need quiet, and I get it at Pré-Charmoy. Just now I bear up pretty well,

but I know I could not stand this for three months--out _every_ evening,

working or seeing people, or going in omnibuses. And then I need the

great refreshment of being able to talk to thee, and to hear thee talk,

and play with the children a little; all that is good for me,--in fact,

I live upon it. I want to be back again. My breakfast in the morning is

a difficulty; as you know, I never can eat an English one, and if I

don't I am not fit for much fatigue. The distances, too, are terrible.

Still, on the whole, I keep better than I expected to do. I hope the

dear little boys are both quite well, and my little daughter, who is the

apple of my eye."

About the difficulty of eating an English breakfast, it must be

explained that since Gilbert had begun to suffer from nervousness he had

given up coffee and tea; besides, he only liked a very light breakfast,

and we had tried different kinds of food for the morning meal: chocolate

he could not digest, although it was to his taste; cocoa he did not care

for; beer and dry biscuits succeeded for a time, but at last we

discovered that soup was the best breakfast for him, vegetable soup

(_soupe maigre_) especially, because it must not be too rich. At home I

always made his soup myself, for, being always the same--by his own

choice--he was particular about the flavor; it was merely onion-soup

with either cream and parsley, or onion-soup with Liebig and chervil. In

the great summer heat he took instead of it cold milk and brown bread.

It may be easily surmised that such a frugal meal could not last him far

into the day, particularly as he was a very early riser, and often had

his bowl of soup at six in the morning; then, when he felt hungry

again--at ten generally--he drank a glass of beer and ate a slice of

home-made _brioche_, which allowed him to await the twelve o'clock

_déjeuner à la fourchette_.

The following passage is extracted from a letter written a few days

after those already given:--

"J'ai dîné chez Woolner hier. Quel brave garçon! Ses manières avec moi

sont tout-à-fait affectueuses, et je me sens avec lui sur le pied de la

plus parfaite intimité. Il n'y a pas un homme a Londres qui possède un

cercle d'amis comme le sien: tout ce qu'il y a de plus distingué _en

tout_. Palgrave dit que Woolner fait un choix sérieux dans ses amitiés.

Sa femme est jolie, délicate, gracieuse, intelligente; elle me fait

l'effet d'un lys.

"J'ai reçu la visite de Haden hier, il m'a plus enseigné relativement à

l'eau-forte en une demi-heure de conversation que dix ans de pratique ne

l'auraient fait. Voici mes engagements:--

"Samedi, dîner chez Leslie.

Dimanche, tantôt chez Lewes.

Lundi, dîner chez Pearce.

Mardi, " " Mackay.

Mercredi, " " Shaw.

Jeudi, " " Woolner.

Vendredi, toute la journée avec Woodward.

Samedi, soirée chez Marks.

Lundi, dîner chez Haden.

Mardi, " " Constable fils:

"et il n'y a pas de raison pour que cela s'arrête, excepté mon depart

pour West Lodge qui sera, je crois, pour mercredi."

However, he had to postpone his departure on account of a distressing

and alarming disturbance of his nervous system. Mr. Haden recommended

him to give up all kind of work immediately, which he did, and for a few

days he only wrote short notes.

"NORTHUMBERLAND STREET. _Wednesday Morning_.

"Je suis toujours faible, mais je crois que je puis supporter le voyage

aujourd'hui. Si j'étais une fois à West Lodge je m'y reposerais bien. Si

je me sentais fatigué je m'arrêterais n'importe où. La surexcitation

cérébrale est _complètement passée_, mais je n'espère pas être remis

avant un mois."

From West Lodge he wrote, in answer to one of my letters:--

"Our present business is to look simply to the question, what will be

most economical? I have no objection to any arrangement which will save

my keeping a man, but I have a decided objection to that. [It was about

the garden, one half of which I proposed to cede on condition of having

the other half cultivated free of charge.] Any arrangement you make

_that does not involve my keeping a man_ has my approbation beforehand.

"I saw Macmillan again before leaving, and now he is for bringing out

the new edition of the 'Painter's Camp' in May. It will be a pretty

little book, but I can't get Macmillan to go to the expense about

illustrations. Colnaghi will publish etchings for me, and after all the

hints and instructions received from Haden, I feel quite sure that I

shall succeed in etching.

"I expect to be at Pré-Charmoy in a few days, when I shall be delighted

to see you all, my treasures."

Having returned to London, he writes:--

"I spent last evening with Beavington Atkinson, who was to have come to

see us in France; you remember Woodward wrote about him. He and his wife

are most agreeable people, and I like him really; there is something so

intelligent and pleasing in his manner.

"Yesterday I went through Buckingham Palace to see the pictures. There

is a fine Dutch collection. Then I went to the British Museum to see the

Rembrandt etchings, and was accompanied by a collector, Mr. Fisher. This

evening I am to spend with Haden again; he has a magnificent collection

of etchings, and will help me very much with my book. So now I am sure

of the right quantity of assistance in my work.

"I was with the editor of the 'Saturday' this afternoon; nothing could

exceed his kind, trustful way.

"Still, I wish I were back with you; but I shall hurry now and come back

fast."

Two days later:--

"Je me sens de nouveau fatigué. J'ai causé aujourd'hui avec l'aubergiste

de Walton-on-Thames, et il m'a dit qu'il nous nourrirait et nous

logerait tous les deux pour £2 par semaine. On y est très bien, il y a

un jardin, et des études à faire en quantité. Mr. Haden pense que la

peinture ne fatiguerait pas autant le cerveau que la littérature.

"Si je t'avais avec moi, et si je restais plus longtemps, je n'aurais

pas besoin l'année prochaine de revenir au mois de juillet. Voilà le

rêve que j'ai fait. Je viendrais à Londres une ou deux fois par semaine

seulement, et je t'aurais là-bas. Je ne pense pas vivre sans toi, je

meurs d'ennui."

The kind of life we led at Pré-Charmoy suited perfectly my husband's

tastes, and he was soon restored to health. He would have been entirely

happy but for pressing cares; still, thanks to his philosophical

disposition, he contrived to enjoy what was enjoyable in his life. He

was extremely fond of excursions in the country, and we often used to

set off with nurse and children in the farmer's cart, to spend the day

in some picturesque place, where he could sketch or paint. We had our

provisions with us, and both lunched and dined on the grass under the

fine chestnuts or oaks, so numerous in the Morvan, by the side of a

clear stream or rivulet; for running water had a sort of magic influence

upon Gilbert, and instinctively, when unwell from nervous exhaustion, he

sought its soothing influence. We generally rambled about the country

after each meal, and whilst he drew I read to him, leaving the children

to their play, under the charge of the nurse.

So far we had taken upon ourselves the teaching of the boys, but for

some time past I had perceived that it was becoming inadequate to their

present requirements, and I told their father that I thought they should

be sent to college,--any rate the eldest, who was nearly eight years

old; but he demurred, not seeing the necessity for it. He had a notion

that they could be much better educated at home, according to a plan of

his own: Latin and Greek would be reserved for their teens, because it

was a clear loss of time before, and they would be taught modern

languages early, together with science and literature. To this I

objected, that, if successful, it might be a very good education for

boys who were certain of an independence, but that it did not seem a

good way towards the degrees necessary for almost every one of the

liberal professions. Besides, who was to teach the boys when he was

away? and would he always find spare time to do it, and regular hours

also? I was certain he would never be punctual as to time; only he did

not like to be told so, because, being aware of this shortcoming, he

made earnest efforts to correct it, and constantly failed. It was

difficult to him to bear any kind of interruption, or any compulsory

change of work--involving loss of time--and on that score very trying to

one who wanted always to finish what he had in hand. He hardly ever came

down at meal-times without the bell being rung twice, and often when he

did come down, he used to say: "That bell was getting angry," and he was

met with this stereotyped phrase from us: "And it made you abandon the

refractory sentence at last!"

Well, he acknowledged there was some weight in my objections to home

instruction, but "he could give tasks to be done in his absence, and

correct them afterwards." I asked, who could help the young students

when they were in a fix? and would they be always inclined to apply

themselves steadily to their tasks without supervision? That was

expecting too much, but it seemed natural to him to expect it, as study

and work had ever been both a necessity and a pleasure to him. However,

he yielded, but so strong was his disapproval of public school teaching

as it was carried on, that at first he would have nothing to do with it.

I had to go to the principal of the college, and make terms and

arrangements; the only condition he made was that the boys should come

home every Saturday night, and remain till Monday morning, and the same

from Wednesday to Friday regularly, for their English lessons and for

their health. I desired nothing better, and the principal agreed to it.

Whenever the boys complained of anything about their college life

afterwards, their father used to say good-humoredly: "I have no

responsibility in the matter; _I_ did not want you to go to college, you

know--it was your mother."

Pré-Charmoy being four kilomètres distant from the town of Autun, and

five from the college, where the boys had to be in time for the eight

o'clock class, summer and winter, it became necessary to have some means

of conveying them to and fro, for they were still very young,--Stephen a

little over eight, and Richard hardly seven. The eldest boy went alone

at first, but his brother soon insisted on going too. We decided to do

like most of our country neighbors, that is, to have a little

donkey-cart, because it would have been both inconvenient and expensive

to hire the farmer's so frequently. Accordingly we bought a small,

second-hand carriage with its donkey, and I was taught to drive; my

husband would have preferred a pony, but I was nervous at the idea of

driving one, although I had been told that it was much easier to manage

than a donkey, and discovered afterwards that it was the truth.

The little cart proved a great convenience for my husband's studies, as

he could start with it at any time, and there was no trouble about the

care of the donkey, the servant-girls being accustomed to it from

infancy--almost every household in the vicinity being in possession of

this useful and inexpensive animal. There is a Morvandau song, known to

all the little shepherdesses, in illustration of the custom:--

"Mes parents s'y mariant tou

Mé j'garde l'âne (_bis_).

Mes parents s'y mariant tou

Mé j'garde l'âne taut mon saoûl!

"Mais quand mon tour viendra

Gardera l'âne (_bis_).

Mais quand mon tour viendra

Gardera l'âne qui voudra."

At first we had a swift little animal, which could not be stopped at all

when he was behind another carriage, till that carriage stopped first.

It was an advantage in some cases,--for instance, when preceded by a

good horse; but if the horse went further than our destination, one of

us had to jump out and hold back the fiery and stubborn little brute by

sheer force, till his sense of jealous emulation was appeased.

The load upon the cart, when we were all together, was found excessive

for the animal, and my husband, who was always deeply concerned about

the welfare of dumb creatures, decided to have a bigger and stronger

donkey. He bought a very fine one, strong enough to pull us all, but he

did it in such a leisurely fashion that he received the expressive name

of "Dort-debout." This led my husband to write to me sometimes from

London, after a hard day's work: "Here is a very short note, but I am

like our donkey, je dors debout."

The editor of the "Saturday Review" asked Mr. Hamerton to be present at

the opening of the Paris Exhibition of 1867, and to write a series of

articles on the works of art exhibited; then to proceed to London for a

review of the Academy. He wished me very much to go with him, and I

being nothing loth, we started together, and received in Paris the

following letter from Aunt Susan:--

"WEST LODGE. _April_ 20, 1867.

"MY DEAR NEPHEW,--I am very glad indeed to hear from you, as I now know

where to direct my long-intended epistle to you; your uncle thought you

would not like to come to the exhibition in its very unfinished state,

and I thought you would like to be at the opening of it, and so the

matter was resting quite unacted upon. I grieve very much to tell you of

the sad tidings we have of poor Anne Gould; there has been a

consultation with her medical men, and they pronounce her case very

serious,--in fact, incurable. She grows thinner and weaker almost every

week, and one lung is said to be affected. A confinement is expected in

July, and I cannot but still hope that she may possibly come round

again; but it has been sorrowful news. We shall be very glad to see you

_both_ at West Lodge when you can make it convenient, and I do hope and

trust we shall be able to enjoy the anticipated pleasure of your

company. You will have left home with comparative comfort, the boys

being both at college, and, I expect, grandmamma with the little sister.

I was very glad when you wrote 'before _we_ can be in England,' as it

assured me the little wife was not to be sent homeward from Paris,

instead of accompanying you to West Lodge, where we shall be very glad

to see her."

Nevertheless, I had to go homewards, for about three weeks after our

arrival in Paris I heard that my little daughter Mary was ill with

bronchitis, and I hastened to her whilst my husband was leaving for

London. I was doubly sorry, because he was very reluctant to go alone;

but although he felt a sort of instinctive dread of the journey he did

not attempt to detain me. He had borne the sight-seeing very well, and

the crowds, which he disliked; but it was mainly because he had been

spared hotel life, for we had lodged with a former servant of ours, who

was married at Pré-Charmoy, and now lived at La Glacière, in Paris. It

was by no means a fashionable quarter, and our lodgings left much to be

desired in the way of comfort, but it will be seen how much he regretted

it all when alone at Kew, where he had taken lodgings after much

suffering from fatigue, over-work, and depression. Still, the first news

from London was very gratifying:--

"Un mot seulement pour te dire que _toutes les huit eaux-fortes_ sont

reçues à l'Académie et bien placées. Ces Académiciens commencent à

devenir gentils.

"Ce matin je suis allé de bonne heure à l'Académie, comme d'habitude;

j'ai maintenant ma carte d'exposant dont je suis très fier."

But after a fortnight he wrote:--

"PETITE CHÉRIE,--Aujourd'hui je vais me donner le plaisir de

m'entretenir longuement avec toi. Combien je préférerais te parler de

vive voix. Je suppose que je suis très bien ici; c'est-à-dire j'ai tout

ce que j'aime matériellement: le bon air, la belle nature, un petit

appartement d'une propriété vraiment exquise, une belle rivière tout à

côté, et des canots à ma disposition. Et cependant, malgré cela je suis

d'une tristesse mortelle, et j'ai beau me raisonner là-contre. Nous

avons été si heureux ensemble à Paris, malgré notre sale petite rue que

je vois bien la vérité de ce que tu m'as dit qu'il vaudrait mieux vivre

dans n'importe quel tandis, ensemble, que dans des palais, et sépares.

Si je croyais à l'immortalité de l'âme, je regarderais avec effroi la

possibilité d'être au ciel pendant que tu resterais sur la terre. Je

crois que ma maladie est due principalement à la tristesse et je tâche

de lutter là-contre. Je vais faire quelques eaux-fortes et aquarelles

dans mes moments de loisir pour m'empêcher, autant que possible, de

penser à ma solitude.

"J'ai eu un peu de fièvre dans la nuit, et ce matin je suis calme, mais

fatigué. Il ne faut pas t'en alarmer cependant; le voyage et

l'exposition réclamaient une réaction, et elle arrive naturellement au

premier moment où j'ai la possibilité du repos. Quant au repos, je m'en

donne aujourd'hui pleinement; je ne fais rien; mais je me reposerais

mieux si tu étais ici pour me dire que tu m'aimes et pour mettre tes

douces mains sur mon front. Je deviens par trop dépendant de toi, je

voudrais être plus fort--et pourtant je crois qu'on est plus heureux

étant triste à cause d'une séparation d'avec la femme aimée que si l'on

était insensible à cette séparation. Allons! je ne voudrais pas vendre

ma tristesse pour beaucoup! elle s'en ira le jour où je te verrai; en

attendant je la garde volontiers."

Then follows a minute description of his lodgings, of Kew itself--the

gardens, the river, the different boats upon it--and he concludes:--

"Tiens, voilà que je redeviens un peu gai, ce qui est bon signe; peut-

être, quand j'aurai reçu une lettre de toi cela ira mieux. Ainsi, ta-ta,

good-bye; embrasse bien les chers enfants pour moi et dis à ma petite

Marie que je lui rapporterai une pépem [for _poupée_, which she could

not yet pronounce clearly] ou autre chose de beau."

A few days later:--

"Je suis allé aujourd'hui au musée Britannique continuer mes études. Le

système que j'ai adopté parait bon, et ça va bien. Je limite

rigoureusement mes travaux en choisissant seulement la crême de la crême

des planches.

"Je me suis promené ce soir au jardin de Kew; ces promenades me rendent

toujours triste, parce qu'à chaque bel arbre ou jolie fleur, je me

figure combien tu en jouirais si tu étais avec moi. Quand on s'est si

bien habitué à vivre à deux il est difficile de redevenir garçon. Dans

ces moments de tristesse je pense toujours à la séparation éternelle, et

au sort de celui de nous qui restera. Enfin j'apprends ici une chose qui

me servira toujours, c'est que pour moi maintenant tout est vanité sans

toi. J'ai un jardin Royal à ma disposition, des collections d'oeuvres

d'art superbes, les plus jolis canots, une belle rivière, de bons livres

à lire, du succès avec les éditeurs et une réputation en bonne voie, et

pourtant cette existence ne vaut pas la peine de vivre. Il est bon de

savoir ces choses là et de se connaître. À Paris où notre existence

matérielle était pleine d'ennuis, j'étais pourtant heureux. Il ne faut

pas de ton côté être triste parce que je le suis, du moins si tu peux

l'éviter. C'est une affaire de deux ou trois semaines, voilà tout. De

mon côté je suis si occupé que je n'ai pas le temps de penser à moi-

même, et je travaille avec la régularité d'un homme de bureau. C'est

lorsque je rentre chez moi que je souffre de ne point t'avoir.

"Quant à ma santé, elle va mieux. Je connais l'état de mon système

nerveux et l'effet que le chemin-de-fer lui produit. Aujourd'hui je n'en

ai rien ressenti du tout. Quand je suis malade, la vibration et le

mouvement des objets me font souffrir un peu."

On the following Sunday:--

"DEAR LITTLE WIFE,--Last night I passed the evening with a set of

artists, friends of George Leslie, at the house of one of them, Mr.

Hodgson. They acted charades, and as their costumes (from their own

ateliers) were numerous and rich, it was very good. Among them were

Calderon and Frederick Walker. This morning we all set out for a walk on

Hampstead Heath; I have no doubt the walk will do me good, but I am very

well now, and feel better every day.

"I called on Rossetti the painter; he lives in a magnificent house,

furnished with very great taste, but in the most extraordinary manner.

His drawing-room is very large indeed and most curious; the general

effect is very good. He was very kind in receiving me, and I saw his

pictures, which are splendid in color, and very quaint and strange in

sentiment. His own manners are singularly soft and pleasant. I called on

Mr. Barlow the engraver, and spent some time with him about the

etchings. He will lend me some; Marks will lend me some also. The worst

of the way I go on in London now is that society absorbs too much time.

I must restrict it in future very much."

After the walk to Hampstead he wrote:--

"Yesterday, Sunday, I went on a long walk to Hampstead with

several artists who live close together, and I never met seven more

agreeable and more gentlemanly men; I enjoyed our conversation

extremely. George Leslie and I got some lunch at the inn and walked back

together.

"Calderon's studio that I saw a few days ago is richly tapestried and

very lofty; it is quite as fine as that of Millais. It seems Leighton

has built himself a studio forty feet long. Mr. Barlow, the engraver,

has a fine studio attached to the one you saw him in, and far larger.

All these artists complain of nothing but the too great prosperity of

the profession in these days; they tell me an artist's life is a

princely one now. They live and dress like gentlemen, and their

daughters might be 'clothed in scarlet.'

"The reason for my staying in London longer than I intended is the time

I have spent in society--a thing I certainly shall never do again--

because I go to bed so late, _always_ after twelve, whereas if I were

not in society I should go to bed at nine or ten, and keep my strength

up easily. Another thing I am sure of is that, _on the whole_, the

advantages of being isolated, as I am at Pré-Charmoy, counterbalance and

more than counterbalance the disadvantages. I certainly would not, if I

could, have a house in London; the loss of time is awful. The only good

in it for a painter is that the dealers are always after him for

pictures as soon as he succeeds.

"Mind you have a man from the farm to sleep in the house every night. It

would be well for him to have the gun loaded, only take care the

children don't get at it. My health is still tolerably good,

sufficiently so for me to get easily through what I have to do."

But the next news was far from being so satisfactory.

"J'ai des nouvelles de West Lodge qui sont vraiment tristes. Anne est

accouchée prématurément, et l'enfant--une fille--est morte après avoir

vécu deux nuits et un jour. On l'a baptisée Annie Jane Hamerton Gould.

Anne est dans un état de faiblesse tel qu'on n'espère pas la conserver

au-delà de quelques semaines, et mon pauvre oncle est dans l'île de

Wight avec elle, où tout cela se passe. La tante Susan, de son côté, est

malade d'une fièvre gastrique--maladie bien dangereuse, comme tu sais;

elle a pu m'écrire quelques mots au crayon; elle se trouve un peu mieux,

ce qui me fait espérer que probablement sa bonne constitution triomphera

du mal. Je voudrais aller la voir de suite, mais je suis tellement

retenu par mon travail; et puis le bon arrangement de ce travail et son

heureux succès m'avaient fait regagner un peu ma sérénité d'esprit, et

maintenant je souffre de nouveau pour mon oncle et ma tante. Vraiment

c'est pénible d'être là avec son dernier enfant qui s'en va si vite. Si

encore la pauvre petite avait vécu, mon oncle aurait eu une fille peur

remplacer les siennes, car il faut bien parler d'Anne comme d'une

personne morte.

"Je me félicite des résultats de mon nouveau système: je me lève de fort

bonne heure, j'ai fini dans l'Académie à 10 h. 1/2; alors je fais une

course, et immédiatement après je me rends au Musée où je déjeune. On y

déjeune très bien et pas cher; tu comprends que c'est pour les gens de

lettres qui travaillent à la bibliothèque. Je rentre ici à six heures,

et le soir je me promène un peu au jardin, ou sur l'eau; après quoi

j'écris à la petite femme chérie et je me couche. Aujourd'hui, comme

hier, j'ai étudié et décrit dix tableaux et dix planches. Je crois que

mes notes sur les aquafortistes iront plus vite que je ne l'avais

espéré. J'ai déjà terminé Claude, Salvator, Wilkie, Geddes, Ruysdaël,

Paul Potter. J'arriverai à ma vingtaine si ma santé se maintient pendant

tout mon séjour. Je réserve le samedi et le dimanche à Kew pour écrire

ou dessiner.

"Je m'étonne _du mauvais_ de certains aqua-fortistes célèbres. Dans

toute l'oeuvre de Ruysdaël je ne trouve que deux bonnes planches, et

encore si elles étaient publiées dans l'ouvrage de la Société Française,

je les trouverais peut-être mauvaises. Dans Salvator il y en a également

deux ou trois bonnes. L'oeuvre de Claude est belle en somme, avec

plusieurs mauvaises choses toutefois.

"Adieu, petite chérie, le temps de mon exil diminue, et alors je te

reverrai, toi et les enfants."

But he was suddenly and violently seized by a mysterious illness, which

threatened not only his life but his reason, as he told me afterwards.

He longed to have me near him, yet he was so courageous that, to spare

me, he only wrote that he was suffering from fatigue:--

"CROWN INN, WALTON-ON-THAMES.

"Ça va toujours tout doucement. Je me promène tranquillement. Je reste

encore ici deux nuits pour gagner un peu de force. Je suis toujours très

faible, mais le cerveau va mieux, je n'ai point de surexcitation

cérébrale. Je ne dois pas beaucoup écrire. Ainsi tata, ma bien aimée.

"_Lundi soir._

"Puisque je sais que tu dois être inquiète je t'écris une deuxième fois

aujourd'hui pour te dire que je vais _beaucoup mieux_. La force commence

à me revenir. Je me suis bien promené, lentement, toute la journée. Je

n'ai pas osé te dire combien j'ai désiré ta chère présence ces jours-ci.

Si je l'avais dit tu aurais été capable de te mettre en route. C'est

toujours triste d'être malade, mais c'est terrible quand on est seul

dans une auberge. [He had gone to Walton-on-Thames for quiet and rest.]

"Enfin j'espère que c'est à peu près passé pour cette fois, et je me

promets bien de ne plus jamais travailler au-dessus de mes forces. Mr.

Haden dit que je n'ai point de maladie, mais que je suis incapable de

supporter tout travail excessif. Il va falloir régler tout cela."

"J'ai dû renoncer à mon travail pendant deux jours parce que j'ai besoin

de repos, et il me semble plus sage de le prendre à temps que de me

rendre malade. Lorsque je suis malade je ne puis pas me reposer, tandis

que maintenant, je suis simplement fatigué. Je dors bien, mais comme je

suis seul dans mon logement, je deviens tout triste. Je n'ose pas penser

du tout à Pré-Charmoy parce que cela me donne une telle envie de te voir

que j'en serais malade. Ah! si la force physique voulait seulement

répondre à la force morale! Moralement, je n'ai jamais été plus fort,

plus disposé à la lutte; et puis ces jours de fatigue arrivent et

m'accablent, et je souffre dix fois plus qu'un paresseux s'y

résignerait.

"Beaucoup de baisers aux enfants, et beaucoup pour toi, petite femme

trop chérie. Je n'ose penser combien ce serait gentil si tu étais ici

auprès de moi."

In answer I immediately proposed to go to him, as our little daughter

was convalescent, and her grandmother would take care of her during my

absence, but he declined.

"PETITE CHÉRIE DE MON COEUR,--Je viens de recevoir ta bonne lettre, il

n'est pas nécessaire que tu viennes; je gagne graduellement. J'ai passé

la soirée avec Mr. Pearce qui sait que je suis malade. J'ai échappé sans

doute à un grave danger, j'ai même eu peur de perdre la raison; mais

tout cela est passé; je suis calme et quoique faible encore--plus fort.

C'est surtout mentalement que je vais mieux, ce qui est le plus

essentiel: le corps suivra. Je n'ai pas osé entreprendre le voyage de

Todmorden aujourd'hui, mais j'ai l'espoir de pouvoir partir demain.

Quoique en état de convalescence, je suis obligé d'être prudent et

d'éviter les grandes fatigues. Le médecin dit qu'il faudra un changement

dans ma manière de vivre. Le fait est que je me tue en travaillant et je

sens que je n'irais pas trois ans comme cela. Enfin je me dis que

puisque ma mort ne te ferait pas de bien, je dois tâcher de me

conserver; si ma mort pouvait t'être utile je mourrais bien volontiers.

Ta chère lettre, toute pleine d'affection, m'a fait du bien. Dis à mon

bon petit Stephen que je le remercie de toute sa tendresse pour moi et

que je vais mieux. J'ai beaucoup pensé à mes chers enfants, ne sachant

pas si je les reverrais.

"Je t'ai tout dit; ça a été seulement un état d'abattement complet

accompagné d'excitation des centres nerveux."

"KEW. _Thursday_.

"Le temps est si mauvais que je n'ai pas pu faire une seule esquisse. Ma

tante Susan t'a écrit pour te dire que la pauvre Anne a cessé de

souffrir. J'ai reçu une lettre de son mari qui me dit que les derniers

jours ont été bien pénibles. Je ne vais toujours pas bien à cause de la

tristesse et de l'inquiétude que tout cela m'a causé, mais il ne faut

pas être inquiète pour moi; ça se passera dans un jour ou deux, tu sais

que je suis très impressionnable.

"Il me prend de temps en temps d'angoissantes envies de te voir. Dans

ces moments-là il me semble que je réalise chaque mètre, chaque

centimètre de l'effroyable distance qui nous sépare. Je suis obligé de

lutter fortement contre ces idées qui finiraient par me rendre malade.

"Je dois maintenant aller au train; à demain donc."

"WEST LODGE. _Vendredi_.

"Je suis bien arrivé chez ma tante que j'ai trouvée en bonne santé, mais

je suis toujours horriblement triste ici, et je me le reproche, car ma

tante est toujours si bonne. Elle nous avait destiné la belle

chambre-à-coucher, et j'ai la chambre tout seul, ce qui ne contribue pas

à diminuer ma tristesse. Une chose au moins me console: j'ai le matériel

pour mon livre sur l'eau-forte, c'est beaucoup. Je crois la publication

de ce livre si essentielle à mon avenir, comme soutien de ma réputation,

que j'aurais été vraiment désolé de ne pas pouvoir le faire maintenant.

Ayant tout le matériel dans ma tête, je ferai l'ouvrage très vite, et je

suis convaincu qu'il sera bon et tout-à-fait nouveau. J'ai bien besoin

maintenant d'un peu de bruit pour augmenter ma réputation, car ces

articles anonymes ne l'aident point.

"Dans ta tristesse, ma chérie, il faut toujours avoir la plus grande

confiance en la durée de mon amour pour toi. Je crois que mon amour et

ma loyauté sont au moins aussi forts que le sentiment de l'héroïsme

militaire. Il me semble que si les soldats peuvent supporter toutes les

privations pour leur roi ou pour leur patrie, je dois pouvoir en faire

autant pour ma femme. Compte sur ma tendresse, même dans les

circonstances les plus difficiles, tu l'auras toujours. Grâce à ton

influence, je suis beaucoup plus capable qu'autrefois de supporter les

difficultés de la vie, et si nous avions à vivre dans une pauvre

chaumière, je t'aiderais gaiement à faire les travaux du petit ménage en

y consacrant deux ou trois heures par jour, et quand tu coudrais je te

ferais un peu la lecture, et toujours je t'aimerais. Ainsi crois que,

loin de souffrir des devoirs que je me suis imposés, j'y trouve la plus

profonde satisfaction, et que je me trouve plus respectable que si je ne

faisais rien."

"WEST LODGE. Vendredi.

"J'avais l'intention de partir aujourd'hui mais la tante Susan paraît

tellement triste quand je parle de m'en aller que j'ai dû reculer mon

départ jusqu'à lundi. Du reste j'ai fait trois planches que je crois

bonnes; j'y ai bien travaillé; j'ai aussi écrit trois articles, mais mon

travail pour la Revue ne gagne pas grand'chose, et du moment où la

peinture rapportera, je quitterai la revue; je n'aime pas ce genre de

travail, quoiqu'on dise que je le fais bien. J'aimerais autant être

cocher de fiacre. Ce que j'ai toujours désiré faire c'est de la

peinture; mes efforts dans cette direction n'ont pas abouti jusqu'à

présent, mais si j'avais un peu de temps libre, je saurais mieux faire à

cause de mon expérience de critique; je vois maintenant dans quel sens

il faut travailler.

"Je vis à Londres aussi simplement que possible et pourtant mes séjours

y sont très coûteux. Quant à la réputation, en comparaison du bonheur de

vivre tranquillement avec toi, elle m'est absolument indifférente. Il me

semble que lorsque le mari et la femme sont si parfaitement d'accord sur

le but de la vie, il doit être facile d'y parvenir. Notre plus grand

désir à tous les deux c'est d'être ensemble; eh! bien, du moment où les

choses nous seront propices, nous réaliserons notre désir, et même par

la volonté nous forcerons les circonstances, c'est-à-dire que nous

supporterons des inconvénients pour y arriver. Déjà Wallis et Colnaghi

consentent à exposer mes ouvrages; mes eaux-fortes sont appréciées.

Peut-être dans un temps comparativement rapproché serai-je en position

de donner ma démission--non seulement à la Saturday, mais à la

littérature, et à me dévouer exclusivement à l'Art. Du moment où cela

arrivera il sera infiniment plus facile d'être ensemble, car je tâcherai

de faire un genre d'Art qui me permettra d'étudier chez nous, ou dans un

petit rayon. Enfin regardons la situation actuelle comme pénible, mais

pas du tout permanente. Tu peux compter que du moment où je le pourrai

je quitterai la Revue; j'y suis bien décidé."

After this letter, my husband, feeling much better, came back to London

to resume his work, and wrote about what he thought most important or

most interesting to me. I shall quote from his letters in their order

according to dates.

WATERLOO PLACE, KEW. _Lundi soir_.

"Mr. Macmillan m'a reçu parfaitement, presque affectueusement; il m'a

invité à dîner. Je suis allé voir Mr. Seeley, mon nouvel éditeur, que

j'ai trouvé intelligent, comme il faut, jeune encore, et parfaitement

cordial. Je crois que mes relations avec lui seront tout-à-fait faciles.

[Footnote: Mr. Seeley had asked him to write some notes on Contemporary

French Painters, to be illustrated with photographs.]

"L'exposition, en somme, est belle. Il y a plusieurs tableaux

remarquables, entre autres une Vénus de Leighton que je trouve superbe.

La contribution de Landseer est importante, c'est un portrait de la

Reine, à cheval, en deuil; cheval _noir_, _trois chiens noirs_, groom

_noir_, _ciel noir_.

"C'est agréable de rentrer le soir en pleine campagne; ça me fait du

bien. Je n'ose pas penser combien ce serait gentil si ma chérie était

avec moi, parceque cela me rend triste tout de suite; mais je t'écrirai

_presque_ tous les jours, quelquefois brièvement quand je serai trop

pressé. Sois gentille toi, et écris souvent; les bonnes nouvelles que tu

m'envoies de ta santé et de celle des enfants m'ont rendu mon courage

et--ce que je puis avoir de gaieté."

"_Samedi_.

"Il paraît que j'avais encore besoin de repos, car aujourd'hui je suis

très fatigué. J'espère que lundi j'irai mieux; un ou deux jours de repos

me sont nécessaires: voilà tout. _Je n'ai point de surexcitation

cérébrale_; je dors bien et je me repose pleinement, ce qui ne doit pas

tarder à rétablir mes forces. Je souffre d'être seul. Mr. Gould va venir

passer huit jours ici; je trouve amiable de sa part de bien vouloir

venir s'établir à Kew pour être près de moi; mon oncle viendra peut-être

aussi.

"Je vais me plaindre un peu, tout doucement, de la petite chérie de

Pré-Charmoy; elle n'écrit pas assez souvent à son mari qui reçoit

toujours ses lettres avec tant de plaisir. Il y a pourtant une de ces

lettres qui a donné tant de bonheur qu'elle peut compter pour une

douzaine. Pauvre chérie! comme je voudrais toujours réussir à rendre ta

vie douce et agréable! Depuis que je ne vis plus pour moi, mais pour toi

et les enfants, j'ai goûté moi-même un nouveau genre de bonheur mêlé de

nouvelles tristesses. Ces tristesses sont dues à la pensée que je fais

si peu, et que, avec plus de forces je ferais tant et si bien! Avec la

force je serais sûr maintenant de réussir pleinement. Je tiens la

réputation par un petit bout, mais je la tiens, et elle augmentera. Tout

me prouve que notre avenir serait assuré si j'avais autant de force que

de volonté."

"_Dimanche_.

"Je suis allé voir George Eliot et Lewes qui a été charmant; il est venu

s'asseoir à côté de moi où il est resté tout le temps de ma visite, et

lorsque je suis parti, il s'est beaucoup plaint de ne pas me voir

davantage. Il me traite d'une façon très affectueuse, et en même temps

avec un respect qui, venant de lui, me flatte beaucoup. Quant à George

Eliot elle est très aimable, mais elle a le défaut de rester toujours

assise an même endroit, et quand il y a du monde, la seule personne qui

puisse causer avec elle, est son voisin. Quand j'y retournerai, je

m'installerai auprès d'elle, parce que je tiens à la connaître un peu

mieux. J'y ai rencontré Mr. Ralston qui s'était assis modestement un peu

en dehors du cercle où j'étais et pendant tout le temps de sa visite, il

n'a presque rien dit et c'est à peine si on lui a parlé. J'ai trouvé ces

arrangements mauvais. Les gens qui reçoivent doivent souvent changer de

place, de façon à causer avec tous leurs visiteurs.

"Lundi dernier j'ai dîné chez Mr. Craik--le mari de l'auteur de 'John

Halifax.' Il habite un charmant cottage à Beckenham, un endroit à quatre

lieues de Londres où il vient tous les jours en chemin-de-fer. Tu sais

qu'il est l'associé de Macmillan. Nous avons passé une soirée fort

agréable; c'est un homme très cultivé, qui autrefois était auteur, et

qui a occupé une chaire de littérature à Edimbourg. Sa femme, quoique

célèbre, est simple et très aimable; elle m'a dit que quand tu

viendrais, elle désirait te connaître.

"Mardi j'ai dîné chez le Professeur Seeley, le frère de mon éditeur; il

a occupé la chaire de Latin à l'Université de Londres. C'est l'auteur

d'_Ecce Homo_. Macmillan m'ayant donné ce livre, je l'ai trouvé très

fort comme style et d'une hardiesse étonnante. L'auteur est des plus

sympathiques; il a des manières charmantes--si modestes et si

intelligentes, car les manières peuvent montrer de l'intelligence.

J'aime beaucoup les deux frères, et dans le peu de temps que je les ai

vus j'en ai fait des amis.

"Mercredi j'ai dîné chez moi, ayant un article à écrire. Jeudi chez

Stephen Pearce. Vendredi chez Mr. Wallis, le marchand de tableaux. C'est

un homme très délicat et très fin. Il avait invité Mr. Burgess, un

artiste intelligent et agréable que j'avais déjà rencontré au Salon de

l'année dernière. J'ai rencontré Tom Taylor à l'exposition. Wallis et

nous avons causé quelque temps ensemble. J'ai rencontré Clifton et dîné

avec lui à son Club."

_"Lundi matin_.

"Je suis allé hier passer le tantôt chez Lewes, on a été enchanté de mes

eaux-fortes. George Eliot s'est plainte de ne pas avoir assez causé avec

moi à ma dernière visite, et m'a invitè à prendre place à côté d'elle.

Nous avons parlé d'art, de littérature et d'elle même. Elle m'a dit que

personne n'avait eu plus d'inquiétudes et de souffrances dans le travail

qu'elle, et que le peu qu'elle fait lui coûte énormément.

"J'ai discuté avec Lewes l'idée de faire la réimpression de mes

articles, et il m'a conseillé de ne pas le faire si je puis fonder un

livre sur ces articles. J'avoue que je serais assez tenté de faire un

ouvrage sérieux sur la peinture, pour lequel mes articles serviraient de

matériel."

"_Samedi soir._

"J'ai dîné hier soir chez Mr. Macmillan, nous étions seuls d'hommes. Il

y avait sa femme, ses enfants, et une grand'mère. Il a une famille

nombreuse, de beaux enfants. Sa femme est bonne, et si simple que j'ai

rarement vu un comme-il-faut plus achevé sans être de la distinction. La

maison est très spacieuse et entourée d'arbres magnifiques. Ce qu'il y a

de particulier dans cette maison, c'est un caractère intime et d'aisance

ancienne. Macmillan a su éviter avec un tact parfait, tout ce qui

pouvait rappeler le nouveau riche. On se croirait dans une grande maison

de campagne, à cinquante lieues de Londres, et dans une ancienne famille

établie là depuis plusieurs générations.

"Nous avons passé toute la soirée ensemble. Il laisse entièrement à mon

jugement tout ce qui regarde l'illustration de mon livre. Ce que j'ai

aimé dans cette maison, comme dans toutes les personnes que j'y ai

trouvées, a été l'absence complète de toute affectation. Tout est

homogène et je n'ai encore jamais vu une maison de campagne ayant cet

aspect-là. Mon respect pour Macmillan s'est considérablement augmentée

de ce qu'on ne rencontre chez lui aucune splendeur vulgaire: rien ne

parle d'argent chez lui.

"La conversation a été très générale. Quand je suis parti, il m'a

reconduit à travers un champ pour abréger mon chemin à la station. Il a

chanté quelques vieilles chansons avec beaucoup de caractère; j'ai

chanté un peu aussi--et pourtant je ne suis guère disposé à chanter.

Anne avait montré tant de contentement quand je suis allé la voir à

Sheffield--et penser que je ne la reverrai plus. Je souffre aussi pour

mon oncle, je me mets à sa place en pensant à ma petite Mary; si je la

perdais plus tard!... et puis--et puis, tu sais comment viennent les

idées noires, et combien un malheur vous en fait craindre d'autres."

"_Dimanche_.

"Je me sens de nouveau fatigué et cette fatigue semble persister. Il est

bien possible que l'ennui et la nostalgie y soient pour quelque chose.

"Figure-toi qu'il y a une jeune _peintresse_ qui m'a été recommandée, et

dont la situation est bien précaire; j'ai eu la faiblesse de lui écrire

une petite lettre gentille et encourageante et me voilà en butte à des

éclats de désespoir ou de reconnaissance; de reproches et de

remerciements. Le plaisir de faire du bien à ceux qui souffrent est tel,

que l'on voudrait s'en donner, et le critique est souvent tenté de

manger de ce sucre-là.

"Je ne regrette pas de m'être établi à Kew; il n'y a qu'une chose contre

Kew, c'est que je n'y connais personne, tandis qu'à St. John's Wood j'ai

plusieurs amis. Mais la solitude a aussi ses avantages et quand on voit

du monde tous les jours, on peut bien passer la soirée chez soi. Si la

petite femme était seulement ici, ce serait parfait."

"_Mardi_.

"Petite femme chérie qui a été gentille puisqu'elle a écrit deux

lettres.

"Celle-ci est simplement pour te dire que mon repos a enfin produit son

effet et que je suis rentré dans mon état ordinaire. Aujourd'hui je me

rends au Musée, et j'ai pu écrire.

"Mon oncle est arrivé hier soir, il partage mon salon, mais je lui ai

loué une chambre-à-coucher dans la maison voisine. Il ne paraît pas trop

abattu; nous causons beaucoup et je tâche de l'égayer autant que sa

position le permet. Il est moins réservé qu'autrefois et me laisse voir

davantage le cours de ses pensées qui vont souvent à ses filles et à sa

femme. Je l'emmène aujourd'hui à l'Académie. Il y a une chose qui doit

te rassurer quant à l'état de ma santé, c'est que je n'ai jamais ces

sensations au cerveau dont j'ai souffert. Le cerveau n'est pas fatigué

et en me reposant à temps, je répare rapidement mes forces. Ce qui est

vraiment insupportable ce sont les séparations, et j'ai bien de la peine

à m'y résigner, et je ne m'y résignerais pas du tout si la peinture

rapportait. Mais en mettant les choses au pis pour les affaires

d'argent, j'espère que tu me verras toujours courageux et affectueux

dans l'adversité; je me figure que depuis quelque temps j'ai appris à la

supporter sans qu'elle puisse m'aigrir. Si je dois vivre de

pommes-de-terre, ou même mourir de faim, tu me verras toujours dévoué

jusqu'à la mort. Celles-ci ne sont pas de vaines paroles; je suis prêt à

les soutenir dans une pauvre cabane ou sur le lit d'un hôpital."

"_Lundi_.

"T'ai-je dit que j'avais trouvé ici-même un locataire étudiant la

botanique à 'l'herbarium' tous les jours, et qu'en nous promenant

ensemble au jardin, les soirs, il m'apprend les noms des arbres qui ne

sont pas indiqués. J'ai aussi des fleurs sur ma fenêtre: je t'en donne

une. Je ne connais pas le langage des fleurs, mais si celle-ci ne te dit

pas que je t'aime beaucoup--beaucoup--elle interprète bien mal mes

sentiments.

"J'ai lu un peu du livre de Max Müller sur l'étude _comparative_ des

langues. C'est excessivement curieux. Tu n'as aucune idée de combien

l'étymologie est intéressante quand elle est basée sur la connaissance

de tant d'idiômes; on peut tracer la parenté les mots d'une manière

étonnante; les changements dans la façon de les écrire ont pour résultat

de les dénaturer tellement que nous avons beaucoup de peine à les

reconnaître sans _retracer_ toute leur histoire dans la littérature. Mr.

Max Müller retrace ainsi, d'une manière ingénieuse, mais bien

convainçante, l'usage des mots pour arriver à leurs racines primitives,

et puis il forme des théories d'après ces comparaisons--qui sont au

moins toujours intéressantes. Ce qu'il y a de remarquable c'est qu'on

retrouve les mêmes mots dans les endroits les plus éloignés, des mots

Anglais et Français qui ont leur origine dans le Sanskrit; et de même

pour d'autres idiomes. Max Müller diffère des philologues anciens en

ceci que tandis qu'ils étudiaient seulement les langues classiques, lui

trouve la lumière et le matériel partout, même dans le Patois: ainsi le

Provençal lui a été indispensable et bien d'autres langues encore que

les amateurs des classiques négligent généralement."

This interest in languages grew with years. When at Sens, we studied

Italian together, but my increasing deafness made me abandon it on

account of the pronunciation, whilst my husband, on the contrary, made

it a point to read some pages of it every day, and even to write his

diary in that language. Later still, he used to send to Florence some

literary compositions to be corrected. After the marriage of his

daughter, he used occasionally to ask his son-in-law, M. Raillard, for

lessons in German, and had even undertaken to write, with his

collaboration, a work on philology which was to have been entitled,

"Words on their Travels, and Stay-at-Home Words," which his unexpected

death cut short. In the afternoon of the day on which he died, as he was

coming back home from the Louvre in a tram-car, he took out of his

pocket a volume of Virgil, and read it the whole way. "I furbish up my

Latin and Greek when on a steamer or in omnibuses," he said to me; "it

prevents my being annoyed by the loss of time."

"_Jeudi soir_.

"Je suis retourné chez Seeley où on m'a traité d'une façon tout-à-fait

délicate; le Professeur est un des hommes les plus sympathiques que

j'aie rencontrés. Je t'en parlerai plus longuement de vive voix, et

quant à son frère Richmond je n'ai jamais connu quelqu'un avec qui je

m'entende aussi facilement. Il y a une chose bien charmante en lui,

c'est que, bien qu'il soit à la tête d'une grande maison, il n'a jamais

l'air pressé et vous écoute avec une patience parfaite.

"Ce que tu me dis de 'mon courage au travail et à la lutte' me paye pour

bien des heures de besogne. Tout ce qui me décourage parfois, c'est ma

faible santé qui m'oblige souvent à paraître paresseux sous peine d'être

malade.

"Il me tarde tant de te revoir que je suis comme un pauvre prisonnier en

pays étranger, loin de la Dame de ses pensées. Alors, tu sais, il faut

m'écrire et embrasser les enfants pour moi."

"_Vendredi_.

"J'ai été désolé de ne pas pouvoir t'écrire aujourd'hui; il est

maintenant 1 h. du matin. Je vais _bien_, mais je suis accablé de

travaux et pourtant je veux partir bientôt; je finirai à la maison.

Aujourd'hui j'ai terminé mon article juste à temps pour l'impression.

Comme notre âne 'Je dors debout'; aujourd'hui je tombais presque de

sommeil dans les rues de Londres.

"Les travaux sur l'eau-forte sont terminés cette fois. À bientôt!"

"22 RUE DE L'OUEST PARIS. _Lundi_.

"Je suis arrivé hier à 5 h. du soir. _Je ne suis pas du tout fatigué_,

ce qui semble indiquer une augmentation de force, car tu sais que les

longs voyages me fatiguent généralement beaucoup. Je suis allé ce matin

dès 8 h. chez Delâtre oû j'ai fait tirer mes planches. On fait le tirage

de suite et les livraisons paraîtront cette semaine.

"Quant à mes pauvres enfants, je suis désolé de les savoir malades, mais

ta lettre m'encourage à espérer qu'ils sont en bonne voie de

convalescence. Tu as dû avoir un temps difficile à passer ainsi tout

seule: chère petite femme, je crois que si j'y avais été c'eût été plus

facile pour toi: les enfants de mon ami Pearce sont également malades de

la scarlatine.

"Hier soir j'ai dîné chez Froment [the artist who paints such beautiful

decorative works for Sèvres]; ce matin j'ai déjeuné chez Froment, ce

soir j'y dîne, et ainsi de suite."

M. Froment had been most hospitable to both of us during our stay in

Paris; he had given us a day at Sèvres, and had shown us the

_Manufacture_ in all its details. He was a widower, and inconsolable for

the loss of his wife, whose memory was as sacred to him as religion. His

two daughters were at home; the eldest watching maternally over the

younger sister, who, however, died a few years later. M. Froment's

feelings, perceptions, and tastes were exquisitely refined, and my

husband derived both benefit and pleasure from the friendly intercourse.

In after years Gilbert met M. Froment occasionally, and found him always

full of kindness and regard.

After nursing the children through scarlatina I caught it myself, and

when my husband knew of it, he wrote:--

"I write just to say how sorry I am not to be able to set off _at once_,

and be at your bedside. I shall certainly not be later than Saturday. I

am of course very busy, and have no time for letter-writing. I have seen

Docteur Dereims to-day, and told him of your illness. He insists on the

necessity of the greatest care during your convalescence. You must

especially avoid _cold drinks_, as highly dangerous.

"Things are going on as I wish for my book on Etching. I am getting hold

of plates which alone would make it valuable. Pray take care of

yourself. I wish I were with you."

On the following day:--

"I am very sorry to hear you had such a bad night; but from all I can

hear from Dr. Dereims you are only going through the usual course of the

illness. I will be with you on Saturday without fail. You may count upon

me as upon an attentive, though not, I fear, a very skilful nurse. But I

will try, like some other folks, to make up in talk what I lack in

professional skill. I am tolerably well, but rather upset by this news

from Pré-Charmoy. I could not sleep much last night.

"I am going to the exhibition to-day, and will be thinking of little

wife all the time. I have met with a quantity of very fine paper for

etching, of French manufacture, and have obtained Macmillan's authority

to purchase it for the _text also_. It will be a splendid publication. I

feel greater and greater hopes about that book.

"Only forty-eight hours of separation from the time I write."

The day after:--

"Enfin il y a bien peu de chose à faire à mes planches, et j'espère que

dans un jour ce sera terminé.

"J'ai beaucoup de choses à te dire mais ce sera pour nos bonnes

causeries intimes. Je voyagerai toute la nuit de vendredi afin d'arriver

samedi dans la matinée. Quand je pense à toi et aux enfants, à la petite

maison, à la petite rivière et à tous les détails de cette délicieuse

existence que nous passons ensemble, il me faut beaucoup de courage pour

rester ici seul à terminer mon travail."

When my husband reached home, I was still in bed, and unwilling to let

him come to me for fear of infection; but he would not hear of keeping

away. "I never catch anything," he said gayly, "don't be anxious on my

account;" and he insisted upon sleeping on a little iron bedstead in the

dressing-room close to our bedroom, to nurse me in the night.

He soon recovered his usual health, with occasional troubles of the

nervous system; but he had grown careful about the premonitory symptoms,

and used to grant himself a holiday whenever they occurred. Having been

told whilst in London that novel-writing paid better than any other

literary production, he now turned his thoughts towards the possibility

of using his past experience for the composition of a story. It would be

a pleasant change from criticism, he said, and would exercise different

mental faculties. Very soon the plan of "Wenderholme" was formed, and we

entertained good hopes of its success.

In the month of September, 1866, the wedding of my sister

Caroline took place quietly at our house, Mr. Hamerton being looked

upon as the head of the family since the death of my father. Although he

prized his privacy above everything else, he was ready to sacrifice it

as a token of his affection for his sister-in-law, and went through all

the necessary trouble and expense for her sake. She married a young man

who had formed an attachment for her ever since she was fifteen years

old,--M. Pelletier,--and they went to live at Algiers, where he was then

Commis d'Économat at the Lycée. It was agreed that they should spend the

long vacation with us every year.

There are a good many days of frost in a Morvandau winter, and the snow

often remains deep on the ground for several weeks together; there was

even more than usual in 1867, so my husband devised a new amusement for

the boys by showing them how to make a giant. Every time they came home,

they rolled up huge balls of snow which were left out to be frozen hard,

then sawn into large bricks to build up the monster. The delight of the

boys may be imagined. Every new limb was greeted with enthusiastic

shouts, they thought of nothing else; and, perched on ladders, their

little hands protected by woollen gloves, they worked like slaves, and

could hardly be got to eat their meals. But how should I describe the

final scene, when in the dark evening two night-lights shone out of the

giant's eyes, and flames came out of its monstrous mouth?... It was

nothing less than wild ecstasy. Their father also taught them skating;

there was very little danger except from falls, for they began in the

meadows about the house, where they skated over shallow pools left in

the hollows by rain-water or melted snow; but when they became

proficient, we used to go to the great pond at Varolles. As my husband

has said in one of his letters, all that was very good for him.

In January, 1868, he left again for London, and felt but little

inconvenience on the way and during his stay. Knowing that I should be

anxious, he formed the habit of sending me frequent short pencil notes,

to say how he was. I give here a few of them:--

"LONDRES. _Vendredi soir_.

"J'ai été très occupé aujourd'hui au musée Britannique. Demain j'irai

voir des expositions. Je compte partir dimanche pour Paris."

"_Samedi matin._