avec un Club."
"_Samedi soir._
"Je vais bien. Pauvre petit Richard! embrasse-le bien pour moi; tu as dû
être bien inquiète."
This was about a serious accident which had happened to our youngest
boy. Whilst at play with his brother on the terrace, and in my presence,
he ran his head against a low wall, and was felled senseless to the
ground by the force of the blow; the temple was cut open, and his blood
ran over my arm and dress when I lifted him up, apparently lifeless. The
farmer's cart drove us rapidly to Autun, where we found our doctor in
bed--it was ten at night. The wound was dressed and sewn up, and the
pain brought back some signs of life. I asked if I ought to take a room
at the hotel to secure the doctor's attendance at short intervals, but I
was told that blows of that kind were either fatal or of little
importance; the only thing to be done was to keep ice on the head and
renew it constantly. The poor child seemed to have relapsed into an
insensible state, and remained so all night. In the early morning,
however, he awoke without fever, and was quite well in about three
weeks.
I had asked my husband to take the opinion of an aurist about my
increasing deafness, and he tenderly answered:--
"Sérieusement je ne crois pas que ta surdité augmente. Avant de te
rendre compte combien tu étais sourde, tu ne savais pas quels bruits
restaient pour toi inaperçus. Maintenant tu fais de tristes découvertes;
moi qui suis mieux placé pour t'observer, puisque j'entends ce que tu
n'entends pas, je sais que tu es très sourde, mais je ne vois pas
d'augmentation depuis très longtemps et je crois que tu resteras à peu
près comme tu es. J'en ai parlé aujourd'hui avec Macmillan dont une amie
été comme toi pendant longtemps et qui éprouve maintenant une
amélioration graduelle, mais très sensible. Tâche surtout de ne pas trop
t'attrister, parce qu'il paraît que le chagrin a une tendance à
augmenter la surdité. Quant à parler d'aimer mieux mourir, tu oublies
que mon affection pour toi est bien au-dessus de toute infirmité
corporelle, et que nous aurons toujours beaucoup de bonheur à être
ensemble; du moins je parle pour moi. Et même si ta surdité augmentait
beaucoup, nous aurions toujours le moyen de communiquer ensemble en
parlant très haut: en France nous parlerions anglais, et en Angleterre,
français."
He sympathized so much with my trouble that, unlike many other
husbands, who would have been annoyed at having to take a deaf
wife into society, he urged me to go with him everywhere, kindly
repeated what I had not heard, and explained what I misunderstood. He
always tried his best to keep away from me the feeling of solitude, so
common to those who are deprived of hearing.
Just as I was rejoicing over the thought that my husband had
prosperously accomplished this last journey, I had a letter from him,
dated "Hôtel du Nord, Amiens," in which he said he was obliged to stop
there till he felt better, for he could eat absolutely nothing, and was
very weak. The worst was that I dared not leave my poor little Richard
yet, to go to his father: the wound on the temple was not healed, and
the doctor had forbidden all excitement, for fear of brain-fever after
the shock. I was terribly perplexed when the following letter reached
me:--
"HÔTEL DE L'AIGLE NOIR, FONTAINEBLEAU. _Mercredi_.
"Tu apprendras avec plaisir que j'ai regagné un peu d'appétit hier
soir. J'ai mangé un dîner qui m'a fait tant de bien que ce ne serait pas
cher à une centaine de francs. Cet hôtel est très propre et la cuisine y
est faite convenablement sans mélange de sauces. Toute la journée de
lundi à Amiens, j'ai vécu d'un petit morceau de pain d'épices. Le soir à
10 h. 1/2 j'ai mangé une tranche de jambon. Je suis parti à minuit pour
Paris où je suis arrivé à 4 h. du matin. Pour ne pas me rendre plus
malade, je n'ai pas voulu rester dans la grande ville que j'ai traversée
d'une gare à l'autre immédiatement. J'ai pris une tasse de chocolat et
écrit quelques lettres en attendant le train pour Fontainebleau qui est
parti de la gare à 8 h. C'était un train demi-express, mais je l'ai bien
supporté. En arrivant à Fontainebleau je n'ai pas pu déjeuner et je n'ai
rien mangé jusqu'au soir quand j'ai bien dîné. C'est très économique de
ne pas pouvoir manger. J'ai sauté plusieurs repas, qui par conséquent ne
figurent nullement dans les notes.
"Hier soir je me suis promené un peu dans les jardins du palais qui est
lui-même vaste, mais c'est un amas de constructions lourdes et de
mauvais goût, du moins en général. Cela me fait l'effet d'une caserne
ajoutée à une petite ville. Les jardins, les arbres sont magnifiques. Je
me trouve bien ce matin, mais un peu faible par suite du peu de
nourriture que j'ai pu prendre depuis quelques jours. Enfin, je suis en
train de me refaire. Je désire vivement être chez moi, et j'y arriverai
aussitôt que possible sans me rendre malade. Embrasse pour moi les
enfants et ta mère; à toi de tout coeur."
He reached home safely, but the fatigue and weakness seemed to last
longer than previously, and insomnia frequently recurred. He did his
best to insure refreshing sleep by taking more exercise in the open air,
but it became clear that he must abandon work at night, because when his
brain had been working on some particular subject, he could not quiet it
at once by going to bed, and it went on--in spite of himself--to a state
of great cerebral excitement, during which production was rapid and
felicitous--therefore tempting; but it was paid for too dearly by the
nervous exhaustion surely following it. It was a great sacrifice on his
part, because he liked nothing better than to wait till every one had
retired and the house was all quiet and silent, to sit down to his desk
under the lamp, and write undisturbed--and without fear of
disturbance--till dawn put out the stars.
He now changed his rules, and devoted the evenings to reading.
CHAPTER IX.
1868.
Studies of Animals.--A Strange Visitor.--Illness at Amiens.--
Resignation of post on the "Saturday Review."--Nervous seizure in
railway train.--Mrs. Craik.--Publication of "Etching and Etchers."--
Tennyson.--Growing reputation in America.
In the course of the years 1865-67 Mr. Hamerton had made the
acquaintance of several leading French artists,--Doré, Corot, Daubigny,
Courbet, Landelle, Lalanne, Rajon, Brunet-Debaines, Flameng, Jacquemart,
etc. The etchers he frequently met at Cadart's, where they came to see
proofs of their etchings; the painters he went to see for the
preparation of his "Contemporary French Painters" and "Painting in
France." Together with these works he had begun his first novel,
"Wenderholme," and had been contemplating for some time the possibility
of lecturing on aesthetics. I was adverse to this last plan on account
of his nervous state, which did not seem to allow so great an excitement
as that of appearing in public at stated times; I persuaded him at least
to delay the realization of the project till he had quite recovered his
health, despite the invitations he had received both from England and
America. He continued to paint from nature, with the intention of
resigning his post on the "Saturday Review" in case of success, but now
devoted more of his time to the study of animals, principally oxen, as
he liked to have models at hand without leaving home.
Desiring to be thoroughly acquainted with the anatomy of the ox, he
bought one which had died at the farm, and had it boiled in parts till
the flesh was separated from the bones, which were then exposed to dry
in the sunshine. When thoroughly dried they were kept in the garret, and
successively taken to the studio to serve for a series of drawings, of
which I still possess several. As we had a goat, and sometimes kids, he
also made numerous sketches from them, as well as from ducks, sheep and
lambs, hens and chickens. There was also a Waterloo veteran who came
weekly as a model, and who was painted in a monk's dress, which my
husband used afterwards, and for a long time, as a dressing-gown.
This habit of sketching animals whenever he had a chance gave rise to
some amusing incidents before our peasant neighbors knew that he
"painted portraits of dumb beasts, as well as of Christians." Some
farmers' wives, alarmed at the sight of odd pennies in the pockets of
their offspring, accused them of pilfering, but on being told that the
"gros sous" had been given them by "le père anglais," came to our house
to ascertain how and why; for, unlike the people of the South, they
would not have tolerated begging. They were quieted by the assurance
that the money had been honestly earned by the children for holding
their goat or donkey whilst its portrait was taken; nay, they even felt
a little proud that an animal of theirs should have been thought worthy
of such an honor.
Etching in all its forms was pursued at the same time with lithography
and photography; even a new kind of transparent etching ground was
invented by Mr. Hamerton, which made it possible for etchers to see the
work already done upon a plate after having it grounded again for
correction or additional work.
A strange incident occurred during this winter. My husband's rising
reputation had, it appears, given to many people a desire for his
personal acquaintance, or for intercourse by correspondence. The first
desire brought him many unexpected visitors, the second quite an
appreciable increase of work, as he hardly ever left a letter
unanswered. To give the reader an instance of the extraordinary notions
entertained by some people, I shall relate the true history of one
visitor amongst others. Some letters at short intervals, from England,
signed--let us say--Beamish, mentioned a mysterious project which could
not possibly be explained otherwise than by word of mouth, and which
might be both profitable and agreeable to Mr. Hamerton, if realized. He
was asked to call upon the correspondent for an explanation if he should
happen to go to London soon; if not, Mr. Beamish begged leave to come
over and see him. Of course the leave was given, and the gentleman
having written that on such a day he would be at such an hotel in Autun,
Gilbert went to fetch him in the pony-carriage--for Dort-debout had
tired out our patience, and had been replaced by a beautiful and
energetic little pony called Cocote.
When we met Mr. Beamish, we found him a most prepossessing young man, of
elegant manners and refined speech; in short, a gentleman. He begged me
to allow his portmanteau to be placed in the carriage; and as I observed
that he was not expected to dress for our family dinner, he answered
that it only contained papers that he should want.
Two other friends, understanding English, joined us at dinner. The
conversation was animated, but Mr. Beamish never hinted at the
mysterious project. In the evening, engravings and etchings were shown
to our guest, but failed to excite his interest, for he soon fell asleep
on the sofa, and let our friends go without awaking. Unwilling to
disturb him, we remained till nearly one o'clock, when I decided to
retire, whatever happened afterwards; and I was so tired that after
going to bed I never awoke till morning, when I asked my husband at what
time Mr. Beamish had gone. "Gone," he answered; "why, I don't know that
he has gone at all, for I left him after three, just where he was." I
hardly dared peep into the drawing-room; however, it was empty; but when
the breakfast-bell was rung, Mr. Beamish came in unconcernedly to have
his share of the simple meal, during which he talked pleasantly and
intelligently of his experiences in India, where he had spent the
greater part of eighteen years. Nothing was said of the project, and
after vainly waiting for some mention of it, my husband returned to his
study, after letting Mr. Beamish know that he was not to be disturbed
till eleven o'clock, for it was the time of his morning work. "Very
well," answered our guest; "meanwhile I shall put my books and papers in
order." At the same time he requested me to send rather a large table
into the room where he had slept (it was the room in which his
portmanteau had been put), and to tell the servants to be careful not to
interfere in any way with what he would leave upon it, not even to dust,
_so long as he remained with us_. I then believed that Gilbert had
invited him to stay some time, but I was undeceived in the course of the
day, and told that the mysterious project had been unfolded at last, and
was a proposition that he should undertake a journey to Palestine in the
company of Mr. Beamish, to join Holman Hunt, who was painting studies in
the Holy Land. "But what made you think I was ready to undertake such a
pilgrimage?" Mr. Hamerton had asked in great astonishment. "Because I
read that you liked camping out," was the reply; "and thought also that,
being an artist, you would be glad to meet with Holman Hunt, who, like
you in the Highlands, works directly from nature. I thought, moreover,
that, as I intend to go myself, you would be agreeable and profitable
society."
Although my husband had declined to give the slightest consideration to
this plan, Mr. Beamish still remained, and vaguely hinted that a still
more mysterious project detained him at Autun.
He went on foot, alone, to the college, on three successive afternoons,
begged to see our boys, and tipped them so generously that the principal
thought it his duty to ask their father whether he had authorized these
visits--clearly implying that he doubted the soundness of the visitor's
mind.
We had learned in the course of conversation that our guest was of a
benevolent and charitable disposition, and that he had spent much money
in India in founding hospital-beds for poor women, whose sufferings he
warmly compassionated. He was also full of sympathy for the Indian
people, and spoke of their wrongs not without a certain degree of
excitement, but still in a manner to arouse our interest. Altogether,
although he was a self-imposed guest, we had already learned to like
him, and were unwilling to remind him, with ever so little rudeness,
that he was in the way. My husband said that his conduct might be
explained by the fact that he had lived so long in India, where the
dwellings of Europeans are often at great distances from each other, and
where a visitor is always made at home and welcome; that Mr. Beamish was
only acting as he had been accustomed to do for the greater part of his
life, for he was still a young man of about thirty-six.
After about a week's stay, he began to talk of leaving us within a short
time, but did not say when--that would depend on _certain_
circumstances. However, on a bitterly cold evening, with the snow deep
on the ground, he requested to be driven to Autun, and took a friendly
leave of us all without explanation. But the principal of the college
related the following strange story to Mr. Hamerton:--
"Your friend, Mr. Beamish, whom I had met at your house, came here under
pretext of seeing your sons, but called upon me, and asked point-blank
if I would give him my help in a charitable deed of some importance.
'What is the nature of the deed?' was my first question. 'The salvation
of a soul.' 'In what form?' I did not get a direct answer, but I was
told that the idea had sprung from religious motives, and that knowing
my strong attachment to religion--though it was the Roman Catholic
religion--he hoped I should have sufficient moral courage to help him in
his deed of mercy--in fact he had resolved to reclaim a fallen woman.
Vainly did I attempt to turn him from his generous but impracticable
resolution. He threatened to act alone if I refused him the sanction of
my presence, but he hoped that the Aumônier would see his action in its
true light, and putting himself above popular suspicion, would accompany
him 'to the very den of sin to offer salvation to a lost but _repentant
sheep_.' It was useless to try to make him understand that it was
impossible for the Aumônier to risk his character, even with the hope of
doing good, and at last Mr. Beamish expressed a desire to meet him in my
presence on the morrow. Our worthy Aumônier was horrified at the idea of
the kind of sinners he would have to meet, and declined to have anything
to do with the wildly charitable scheme."
The next news was brought to Autun four days later by the woman whom
poor Mr. Beamish thought he had rescued at the cost of four hundred
francs for her liberation from debt, and about two hundred more for
decent clothing. He had taken her as far as Dijon, where he had left her
in some kind of reformatory; but after enjoying the change, and with her
purse replenished to carry her through the first difficulties of an
honest life, she hastened back to the old haunt to gibe and jeer at her
benefactor.
Another queer visitor was an English gentleman, past middle age, who
could never find his way back to our house, but invariably appeared at
meal-times in the dining-room of some neighbor, who had to escort him to
Pré-Charmoy.
The opening of the Academy exhibition had come round again, and Mr.
Hamerton had to go and criticise it as usual; but after reaching Amiens,
he felt so poorly that he resolved to send his resignation to the
"Saturday Review," and to return home as quickly as he could. Here is
his letter to me:--
"HÔTEL DU NORD, AMIENS. _Dimanche_.
"Bonne chérie.--Je suis arrivé à Amiens samedi matin de bonne heure,
ayant l'intention de me reposer un peu à l'hôtel et puis de continuer
mon voyage le tantôt, mais en me levant j'ai senti que j'avais besoin
d'un repos un peu plus prolongé après les fatigues de Paris. Le plus
ennuyeux c'est que je peux à peine manger quelque chose. Comme ce manque
d'appétit m'affaiblera inévitablement s'il continue longtemps et que
l'affaiblissement amènerait probablement un mauvais état du système
nerveux, je crois que le plus sage serait de renoncer pour cette fois au
voyage en Angleterre et de revenir au Pré-Charmoy comme un faux billet
indigne de circuler. Mon intention est donc de retourner, et pour
changer je prendrai probablement la ligne de Dijon, en m'arrêtant un
jour à Sens pour voir Challard. [An artist who had copied some drawings
of Jean Cousin for the "Fine Arts Quarterly Review."]
"Comme je te l'ai promis, je fais ce qui me semble être le plus sage. Je
reviendrai le plus vite que je pourrai sans hasarder ma santé.
"J'ai loué un petit bateau hier avec lequel j'ai exploré la rivière
d'Amiens--la Somme--en haut de la ville. Il est impossible d'imaginer
rien de plus pittoresque. Il y a une grande quantité de petites maisons
et baraques au bord de l'eau et je vais prendre là le matériel d'une
eau-forte. J'espère que cette retraite n'est pas trop ridicule. Un bon
général, dit-on, se distingue tout autant dans la retraite que dans
l'avance; et comme par le fait il y a manque de vivres--puisque je ne
peux pas manger--il me semble que la prudence conseille ce que les
Américains appelaient 'un mouvement stratégique' quand ils avaient été
battus."
"AMIENS. _Lundi matin_.
"Comme je n'avais pas encore regagné d'appétit hier j'ai pensé qu'il
serait plus sage de rester ici encore un peu et je suis allé
canoter sur la rivière.
"Mr. Cook avec une grande et charmante bonté m'a fait des remontrances:
il me dit que le ton de ma lettre l'a blessé et que mes 'menaces' lui
ont fait de la peine; qu'il n'a jamais manqué de largesse envers ses
écrivains et que l'excédent de mes dépenses en livres, voyages, etc.,
sera toujours défrayé par la Revue. J'ai été réellement touché de la
manière affectueuse dont il m'a fait ses observations auxquelles il a su
joindre des compliments, en me disant que j'avais découvert la meilleure
façon de faire la revue des expositions et que mes articles sont
précisément ce qu'il lui faut. J'ai répondu que quant à la peine que
cela avait pu lui faire, je le regrettais sincèrement, mais que les
'menaces' étaient tout simplement l'expression d'une résolution très
décidément prise, et dans un moment où j'étais à la fois trop malade et
trop pressé pour procéder avec plus de formes.
"Comme ma promenade sur l'eau m'a fait du bien hier je vais la
renouveler.
"Ton mari, qui te reverra bientôt."
I decided at once to go to him; my mother, who had come to stay with me
during his absence, approved my resolution, and undertook the management
of the house and the care of the children: so without asking for his
leave, I wrote that I was on my way to Amiens.
His joy was great when he saw me, and his progress towards recovery was
so rapid that he abandoned the idea of retracing his steps, and
encouraged by my presence, thought he could accomplish the journey to
London without danger. It was of great importance that he should keep
his post on the "Saturday Review," because it was his only _regular_
income, everything else being uncertain; and we knew that if he could
undertake the work again it would be readily entrusted to him.
We only stayed two days at Amiens, and as my husband was never seasick
or nervous on the sea, everything went on satisfactorily so far; but as
soon as we had left Dover for London, I perceived signs of uneasiness in
his behavior. He closed his eyes not to see the moving objects we
passed; he uncovered his head, which seemed burning by the flushed face;
he chafed his cold, bloodless hands, and shuffled his feet to bring back
circulation. For a long time he attempted to hide these alarming
symptoms from me, but I had detected them from the beginning; his eyes
had a far-reaching look and unusual steely brilliancy; the expression of
his countenance was hard-set, rigid, almost defiant, as if ready to
overthrow any obstacle in his way; and indeed it was the case, for
unable to control himself any longer, he got up and told me hoarsely
that he was going to jump out of the train. I took hold of his hands,
and said I would follow; only I entreated him to wait a short time, as
we were so near a station. I placed myself quite close to the door of
the railway carriage, and stood between it and him. Happily we _were_
near a station, else I don't know what might have happened; he rushed
out of carriage and station into the fields, whilst I followed like one
dazed and almost heart-broken. After half-an-hour he lessened his pace,
and turned to me to say, "I think it is going." I could not speak for
fear of bursting into tears, but I pressed his hand in mine and held it
as we continued our miserable way across the fields. We walked perhaps
two hours, at the end of which Gilbert said tenderly, in his usual
voice: "You must be terribly tired, my poor darling; I think I could
bear to rest now; we may try to sit down." We sat down upon a fallen
tree, and after some minutes he told me that if I could get him a glass
of beer somewhere it would bring him round. I went in search of an inn
and discovered a closed one, for it was Sunday and the time of afternoon
service. Nevertheless I knocked so perseveringly that a woman came
forth, incensed by my pertinacity, and peremptorily refused with
indignation any kind of drink: to obtain a bottle of beer I had to take
an oath that it was for a patient.
The glass of ale at once calmed and revived my husband, and when the
bottle had been emptied--in the course of an hour or so--he was himself
again and felt hungry.
We did not know the place,--it was Adisham; we had no luggage, and as to
resuming our journey it was out of the question, for some time at least.
So I went again to the inn, and asked the woman if she could give us a
room. "No, there was not one ready; and then it was so suspicious,
people coming like that through the fields and without luggage." I
offered to pay in advance. "But we might be runaways." My husband had
his passport, and I explained that he had been taken ill suddenly, and
that our luggage could be sent to us from London. "If the gentleman were
to die here it would be a great trouble." I had to assure her that it
was not dangerous, and that rest only was required. At last she
consented to show me into a very clean, freshly-papered room,
deprecating volubly the absence of curtains and bedstead in such an
emergency, but promising to put them up shortly if we remained some
time.
The bedding was laid upon the carpet; the mattresses had just undergone
a thorough cleaning, and the sheets and counterpane smelt sweet. When
night came we were thankful to rest our tired limbs even on the floor,
and to hope that sleep would bury in oblivion the anguish of the day, at
least for a while.
Oh, the weary, weary time spent there, without work, without books, and
with but little hope of better days. How should we get out of it, and
when?... It was now clear that these terrible attacks were due to
railway travelling. Then how should we ever get home again?...
Our luggage had been telegraphed for and returned, and the appearance of
the trunks had evidently inspired some confidence in our landlady.
Materially we were comfortable enough: a clean bedroom, a quiet, rather
large sitting-room (it was the usual public dining-room, but it being
early in the season, there were no boarders besides ourselves); and the
cookery, though simple and unvaried, was good of its kind,--alternately
ham and eggs, beef-steak and chops with boiled potatoes, rice pudding,
or gooseberry tart.
Morning after morning my husband wondered if he would feel equal to
resuming the journey; but the necessary self-reliance was found wanting
still. We walked out slowly and aimlessly, and we chose for our long
walks the most solitary lanes. Gilbert felt that the air, impregnated by
sea-salt, was gradually invigorating him, and after three weeks of this
melancholy existence made up his mind to order a carriage to take us as
far as Canterbury. The long drive and change did him good, and he was
well enough to take me to the Cathedral, and show me the town, where we
lingered two days, and then took another carriage for Croydon. At that
stage my husband told me that we were not far from Beckenham, and
proposed that we should call upon Mr. and Mrs. Craik on the following
day. I shall never forget the kindness of the reception nor the sympathy
of our hostess. I was surprised to see my husband enjoying conversation
and society so much, because when he was unwell he shrank from meeting
with any one, and required complete solitude; he only wished to feel
that I was near him, without fretting and in silence. But the charming
simplicity of the welcome in the garden, the peacefulness, not only of
the dwelling, but still more the calm and sweet aspect of the celebrated
authoress, together with her husband's friendly manner, acted soothingly
upon the nerves of their visitor. He told without reticence what had
happened, and soon changed the subject to fall into an animated and
interesting conversation.
After lunch Mrs. Craik made me walk in the garden with her, and inquired
more closely into the particulars of this strange illness; she
encouraged and comforted me greatly. She was tall, and though
white-haired, very beautiful still, I thought. As we walked she bent her
head (covered with the Highland blue bonnet) over mine, and as she
clasped my shoulders within her arm, I could see her hand laid upon my
breast, as if to soothe it; it was the loveliest hand I ever saw; the
shape so perfect, the skin so white and soft. We spoke French together;
she was interested about France, and liked talking of its people and
customs. Before we left she asked me to write to her, and offered to
render me any service I might require.
The journey to Todmorden was not to be thought of this time, and Gilbert
had begged his uncle and aunt to meet us at Kew, if they could manage
it. They answered in the affirmative, and he found lodgings for them,
not far from ours, nearly opposite to the church.
Knowing that his book must now be ready, he longed to see a copy of it,
and feeling well enough one morning, he started with me for London; but
as soon as we were in the heart of the town, its bustle, crowd, and
noise drove my husband to the comparative peace of the nearest park.
There, as usual in such cases, we had to walk till his nerves were
calmed, and then to sit down for a long time. He did not think he would
be equal to the busy streets that day, and asked me to take a cab and
see if I could bring him back a copy of his book. Reluctantly I left
him, though he assured me the attack was over; only he was afraid of
bringing it on again if he went into the street. So I was driven to Mr.
Macmillan's house of business, and immediately received by him. He was
evidently truly sorry to hear that my husband was unwell, and "Etching
and Etchers" being upon his table, he took up a copy, and with many warm
praises insisted upon placing it himself in my cab. The book was
everything that its author had desired, and taken so much pains to
ensure; he was gratified by the result, and gratefully acknowledged the
liberality of the publishers. One of the first visits paid by Mr.
Hamerton when he felt well again was to Mr. Cook, of the "Saturday
Review," who was himself out of health through overwork. He feelingly
expressed his regret that my husband could not continue to act as
regular art critic, but trusted that he would still contribute to the
"Saturday" as much as possible, and on subjects he might himself select.
Next we saw Mr. Seymour Haden, and I begged him to try and discover what
was the nature of my husband's ailment.
It was no easy matter, as the patient refused to submit to examination
and to prescriptions of any kind. Mrs. Haden, who was full of sympathy
and kindness, apprised her husband of this peculiarity and he undertook
to _passer-outre_. So the next time we called by invitation, he looked
steadily at his guest for some time, and said to him deliberately: "You
are _very_ ill; it's no use denying it to me; you must give up all
work,--not in a month, or a week, or to-morrow, but to-day, instantly."
My husband flushed, so that I trembled in fear of another seizure, and
answered angrily: "I cannot give up work; I _must_ work for my family; I
shall try to work less." ... "I say you are to give up all mental labor
immediately; I shall see, later, what amount of intellectual work you
are able to bear, according to the state you will be in. You may break
stones on the road, but I forbid you to hold a pen for literary
composition; and once back home, you must renounce railway travelling as
long as it produces uncomfortable sensations." All this was said
imperatively, and although it drove my husband almost to desperation, I
thanked Mr. Haden in my heart for his courageous and timely
interference, and Gilbert did the same after recovering from the shock.
This time he did not feel either so sad or so despondent as formerly,
when he had suffered alone; he knew now for certain that the causes of
his trouble were overwork and railway travelling, and he took the
resolution of avoiding both dangers as much as possible. Whenever he
felt nervous we remained quietly at Kew, reading or sketching or walking
in solitary places with his uncle and aunt, and when he thought himself
well enough we went to London by boat or omnibus, to the British Museum,
the National Gallery, or South Kensington Museum, and to the public or
private art exhibitions. We also paid calls, and on one of these
occasions I was introduced to George Eliot and to Mr. Lewes; the latter
sat by us on a sofa outside of the inner circle (the room was full), and
talked with wonderful vivacity and great discrimination of the state of
French literature. He judged of it like a Frenchman; his conversation
was extremely interesting and suggestive, and he appeared to derive
great pleasure from a rapid exchange of thoughts. Undeniably he was very
plain, when you had time to think of it, but it was with him as with the
celebrated advocate, M. Crémieux,--so much caricatured,--neither of
them seemed at all plain to me as soon as they spoke; both had
expressive eyes and countenance, and the interest awakened by the
varying expression of the features did not allow one to think of their
want of symmetry and shape.
The person who sat next to George Eliot seemed determined to monopolize
her attention; but as a new-comer was announced she came forward to meet
him, and kindly taking me by the hand, made me sit in the chair she had
herself occupied, and motioned to my husband to come also. He remained
standing inside the circle, whilst the Monopolizer had, at once, to
yield his seat to the mistress of the house, as well as a share of her
conversation to others than himself.
I immediately recognized the description given of her by my husband; her
face expressed at the same time great mental power and a sort of
melancholy human sympathy; her voice was full-toned, though low, and
wonderfully modulated. We were frequently interrupted by people just
coming in, and with each and all she exchanged a few phrases appropriate
to the position, pursuit, or character of her interlocutor, immediately
to revert to the subject of our conversation with the utmost apparent
ease and pleasure.
Mr. Lewes offered tea himself, because the worshippers surrounded the
Idol so closely that they kept her a prisoner within a double circle,
and they were so eager for a few words from her lips that as soon as she
moved a step or two they crowded about her in a way to make me think
that, in a small way and in her own drawing-room, she was mobbed like a
queen at some public ceremony.
The next time we called upon George Eliot she had heard of our meeting
with Mr. Tennyson, and said,--
"So you have seen the great man--and did he talk?"
"Talk?" answered my husband; "he talked the whole time, and was in high
spirits."
"Then you were most fortunate."
We understood what was implied, for Mr. Tennyson had the reputation of
not being always gracious. However, we had learned from himself that
nothing short of rudeness could keep his intrusive admirers at a
distance, so as to allow him some privacy. He told us of a man who so
dogged his steps that he was afraid of going out of his own garden
gates, for even in front of those locked gates the man would stand and
pry for hours together, till the poet's son was sent to him with a
request that he would go elsewhere.
In the case of his meeting with Mr. Hamerton it was totally different,
for he had himself expressed a wish for it to Mr. Woolner. Of course my
husband was greatly flattered when he heard of it, and readily accepted
an invitation to lunch with Mr. Woolner's family, and to meet the poet
whom he so much admired. I sat by Mr. Tennyson, and endeavored to
suppress any outward sign of the interest and admiration so distasteful
to him. Nevertheless, I was greatly impressed by the dignity of his
simple manners and by the inscrutable expression of the eyes, so keen
and yet so calm, so profound yet so serene. His was a fine and noble
face, even in merriment, and he was very merry on that day, for the
string of humorous anecdotes he told kept us all laughing, himself
included. I am sorry now not to remember them, the more so as they
generally concerned himself. Several were connected with his title of
"Lord of the Manor," but the only one I can remember in its entirety is
the following, because he was addressing himself to me--a
Frenchwoman--the scene of the story being the Hôtel du Louvre, in Paris.
Mr. Tennyson began by remarking that there were a good many stories
current about him; some of them were true, but most of them apocryphal.
"And is the one you are going to relate true?" I asked.
He smiled, and answered:--
"I think it is capital; you will have to guess. I had occasion to go to
Paris with a friend who was supposed to speak French creditably, and
who fancied himself a master of it. On the morning following our arrival
in the French capital, being somewhat knocked up by the journey, we had
a late breakfast at a small side-table of the dining-room, of which we
were soon the only occupants, under the watchful and, as I thought,
suspicious eyes of a waiter, whose attention had probably been attracted
by the conspicuous difference between our stature and garb from that of
his little dandified countrymen. Having caught a slight cold on the
passage, I felt more inclined to stay by the fire with a newspaper than
to go out, and did so, whilst my friend, who had some business in the
town, left me for some time. As I drew my chair up to the hearth I heard
the waiter answering with alacrity to some recommendation of my
friend's, 'Oh, monsieur peut être tranquille, j'y veillerai.' I thought
it was some order about our dinner, and resumed my political studies.
Was it my cold which made me dull and inattentive? It is quite possible,
for my eyes kept wandering from my paper, and, strange to say, always
met those of the French waiter riveted upon me. At first I felt annoyed:
what could be so strange about my person? Then I was irritated, for
though that queer little man was making some pretence at dusting or
replacing chairs, still his eyes never left me for a moment, and at
last, being somewhat drowsy, I had the sensation that one experiences in
a nightmare, and thought I had better resort to my room and make up for
a shortened night. No sooner, however, had I got up from my chair than
the waiter was entreating me to remain, offering to heap coals on the
fire, to bring me another paper or a pillow if I was tired, and 'Did I
wish to write a letter? he would fetch instantly what was required; or
should I like something hot for my cold?' His voice had the strange
coaxing tone that we use to pacify children, and made me stare; but I
answered angrily that I only wanted a nap, and to be let alone, and I
made for the door in spite of his objurgations. Then he ran in front of
me, and barring the door with arms outstretched, besought me to await my
friend. This unaccountable behavior had rendered me furious, and now I
was determined to force my way out, despite the mad resistance and loud
gibberish of the waiter, and I began to use my fists. It was in the
midst of this tremendous row that my astonished friend re-appeared in
the dining-room, and was greeted with this exclamation from my
adversary: 'Ah, monsieur, vous voyez, j'ai tenu ma parole: je ne l'ai
pas laissé sortir _le fou;_ mais ça n'a pas été sans peine, il était
temps que vous arriviez.'
"It turned out that my friend, anxious for my comfort, and noticing that
the fire was getting low, had said in his easy French before leaving,
'Garçon, surtout ne laissez pas sortir le fou' (_feu_)--meaning 'Don't
let the fire go out,' and the intelligent foreigner had immediately
guessed from my appearance that I was _le fou_."
Amidst general laughter I said,--
"It is cleverly invented."
"I see you do not believe it," Mr. Tennyson answered; "yet it has passed
current in society and in the newspapers."
Sitting close to Mr. Tennyson, as I did, I noticed the large size, and
somehow plebeian shape, of his hands. They did not seem to belong to the
same body as the head, indicating merely physical strength and fitness
for physical labor. His dress also struck me as peculiar: he was wearing
a shirt of coarse linen, starchless, with a large and loose turned-down
collar, very like a farmer's of former days, and shirt and hands looked
suited to each other. After remarking this I happened to look up into
Mr. Tennyson's face, which then wore its habitual expression of serious
and grand simplicity; and I thought that the rough and dull linen, with
the natural, unstiffened fall about the neck, formed a most artistic
sculpturesque setting for the handsome head well poised above it.
After lunch Mr. Woolner took the gentlemen to his studio for a smoke,
and my husband told me afterwards that Mr. Tennyson had continued as
talkative there as he had been at lunch, and was only interrupted by the
entrance of Sir Bartle Frere, who had a great deal to say on his own
account.
It was very gratifying to me to notice that whenever my husband met with
celebrities he was treated by them on a footing of equality, and
although still a young man, his opinions and views were always accepted
or discussed with evident respect, even by his seniors. His presence
invariably awoke interest and confidence, and in most cases sympathy. It
was felt that he was one of the few to be looked up to, and I have heard
people much older than himself tell me that they prized highly a private
hour spent with him, because his influence made them feel more desirous
of striving for noble aims and elevated thoughts which seemed so natural
and easy to him. It is true, indeed, that whatever he thought, said, or
did, bore the stamp of genuine uprightness, for his nature was so much
above meanness of any kind that he had great difficulty in admitting it
in others; whenever he met with it his first attitude was one of
charitable hesitation, but when he recognized it unmistakably his
indignation was as unbounded and unrestrained as in cases of cruelty.
In spite of the impediment to social intercourse caused by his
intermittent nervous state, Mr. Hamerton enjoyed rather a large share of
cultivated and intelligent society at this time. His worst moments
happened in the morning and in bright sunshine; the evening was in
general entirely free from disagreeable sensations, and a rainy day or
clouded sky most favorable. This peculiarity enabled him to accept
invitations to dinners, at which he met the persons whose acquaintance
he cared for.
Mr. Thomas Hamerton and his sister had left us at Kew to go back home,
and we wished it were as simple for us to do the same, but we could only
think of the journey with the saddest forebodings; yet we longed to be
through it, and safely restored to our peaceful rustic life and to a
sight of our children.
It was a very tedious, trying, and harassing journey; we travelled only
at night, by the slowest trains, and went but short distances at a time.
Sometimes my husband was unable to proceed for a few days; but, with
admirable courage and resolution, he managed to reach the much-desired
goal.
And now what was to be done? Mr. Haden allowed literary work only on two
consecutive days in the week, and when Gilbert was unwell on those days,
there was no remunerative production, and his anxieties became almost
intolerable. He resolved to try every day of the week if he were fit for
work, and to go on whenever he felt suitably disposed till the two days'
work had been done, and then to leave off till the next week. This
succeeded for a while, but as he naturally became anxious to produce as
much as possible during these two days, he felt driven, and suffered in
consequence. He then attempted to devote only two hours to literary
composition at a sitting, and to repeat the attempt twice a day when he
did not feel his powers overtaxed. To this new rule he adhered till the
end of his life--at least, generally speaking, for in some circumstances
he had to write throughout the day, but he was careful to avoid this
extremity as much as possible.
We waited impatiently for news of the reception of "Etching and Etchers"
by the public, and Mrs. Craik having been so kind as to offer any
service she could render, I wrote to her on the subject, and she
answered:--
"BECKENHAM. _July_ 19, 1868.
"My dear Mrs. Hamerton,--I can quite understand how _you_ care about the
book--perhaps more than your husband even, and I wish I could send you
news of it. But there have been no reviews as yet, and this being the
dull time of year, the sale is slow. Whatever reviews come out you shall
have without fail from the firm. It is so valuable and charming a book
that I do hope it may gradually make its way. I do believe it is only
the dreadful cities which make your husband ill--and no wonder; in
peaceful Autun he will flourish, I trust; and you too recover yourself,
for I am sure you were very far from well when you were here. It was so
kind of you to come to us that Sunday, and to believe that we are both
people who really mean what we say--and say what we think: which all the
world does not. If ever I can do anything for you, pray write. And some
day in future ages I shall write to you to ask advice upon our little
tour in unknown French towns and country, when we shall certainly drop
upon Autun _en route_. Not this year, however.
"With very kind remembrance to you both, believe me, dear Mrs. Hamerton,
"Yours sincerely,
"D. M. Craik."
My sister, Caroline Pelletier, had now come to Pré-Charmoy with her
baby-daughter, to escape from the drought prevailing at Algiers, and her
presence was a great pleasure to my recluse. She often read to him to
keep up her English, and accompanied him in his drives when I was
prevented, aware that he did not much like to venture away alone since
he had been ill. At his request she had brought an Algerian necklace and
bracelets made of hardened paste of roses, which were intended for Aunt
Susan, who had greatly liked the odor of mine, and who acknowledged the
little present in a very cordial letter.
My younger brother Frédéric was at that moment very ill with typhoid
fever, and I had asked my husband to let me go to help my mother in
nursing him; however, with greater wisdom and firmness he refused his
leave, and made me understand my duty to our children. "If you brought
back to them the germs of disease, and if they died of it, you never
would forgive yourself," he said. But after the fatal ending he allowed
me to attend the funeral, on condition that I should not enter the
house, but come back directly after the painful duty was accomplished.
At the same time, he kindly invited my mother to come to us, after
taking all necessary precautions against the danger of bringing
infection to her grandchildren.
The society of M. Pelletier, who used to follow his wife to Pré-Charmoy
as soon as he was free, proved quite a boon to Gilbert in his solitude,
and a solid friendship was soon formed between the two brothers-in-law.
M. Pelletier's mind was inquisitive and receptive; he had read much, and
in the family circle we called him our "Encyclopedia." He made it his
duty and pleasure to clear up any obscure point which might embarrass
any of us, and often undertook long researches to spare my husband's
time. They regularly sat up together long after the other inmates of the
house had gone to their rest, talking and smoking, or walking out in the
refreshing breeze of the summer night.
My brother Charles also joined us at times, and, being a capital
swimmer, taught his nephews all sorts of wonderful aquatic feats. We all
went daily to the pond at Varolles, and though the men and boys were all
proficient in swimming, Charles astonished them by taking a header,
preceded by a double somersault, from the top of the wall, and kindling
thereby a jealous desire to rival him, so that in a very short time my
husband, who hitherto had remained but an indifferent performer, now
trod the water, read aloud, or smoked in it, with the greatest ease. It
was very good exercise for him.
For some time past Mr. Hamerton's reputation had been growing in
America, but he did not derive the slightest profit from the sale of his
books there till Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston, proposed to pay
him a royalty upon the works that should be published by them in advance
of pirated editions. This offer was accepted with pleasure and
gratitude, and the pecuniary result, though not very important, proved a
timely help. Moreover, Roberts Brothers admired Mr. Hamerton's talent,
and in very flattering terms acknowledged it, besides doing much for the
spread of his reputation in America.
In the autumn, bad news of Aunt Susan's health reached Pré-Charmoy. The
reports soon became alarming, and her nephew was made very miserable by
the impossibility of going to her bedside. When we had taken leave of
each other at Kew, she was very despondent on account of my husband's
illness, and expressed a fear that she might die without our being near
her. No one could say when the taboo on railway travelling could be
withdrawn for him, but I gave our aunt a solemn promise that in such an
emergency as she mentioned, I at any rate would go to her when she
called me, and Gilbert had ratified the engagement. From her letters it
was easy to see that she wished very much for my companionship and
nursing, being very low in spirits and feeble in body, yet she was
reluctant to ask, with the knowledge that her nephew also frequently
required my care. At last we agreed that the proposal should come from
us, my husband, as usual, sacrificing his own comfort to the claims of
affection. The offer was gratefully accepted.
As I had never travelled much alone, and am entirely destitute of the
gift of topography, it was not without misgivings that my husband saw me
off; but he had taken the trouble of writing down for my guidance the
minutest directions, and though he told his uncle that he should not be
astonished to hear that I had turned up in New York, I reached London
safely.
He was very lonely at Pré-Charmoy, with only his little girl and a maid,
the boys being at college, but he frequently went to dine there with the
principal, M. Schmitt, from whom he needed no invitation, and who always
made him welcome. He was also cheered by my letters, which told him of
his aunt's rapid improvement in health and strength. We went out
together upon the hills as often as the weather allowed, and when
threatened with an attack of nervous dizziness--which she dreaded
unspeakably--she derived confidence from my apparent composure, and
tided over it when I firmly grasped her round the waist, and made her
take a few steps in the keener and purer air of the garden. When our
aunt was restored to her usual state of health, rather more than a month
after my arrival, I took leave of my kind relatives loaded with presents
for every one of the children, and even for their parents. Of course I
wished to spend Christmas at home, and I arrived just in time to realize
my wish. Gilbert had come to meet me at the station, and as soon as we
had exchanged greetings and news he began to tell of a plan for an
artistic periodical which had mainly occupied his thoughts during my
absence. As we were driving home he entered into all the details of the
scheme as he conceived it, and said he believed he might undertake the
management of such a periodical, even where he was situated, if Mr.
Seeley gave his valuable help. He was full of the idea, and his thoughts
were continually reverting to it.
CHAPTER X
1869-1870.
"Wenderholme."--The Mont Bouvray,--Botanical Studies--La Tuilerie.
--Commencement of the "Portfolio."--The Franco-German War.
The uncertainty of finding sufficient literary work after the
resignation of his post on the "Saturday Review" had been a cause of
great anxiety to Mr. Hamerton, though he had enough on hand at that
time, but he wondered very much if it would last. He wrote for the
"Globe" regularly; for the "Saturday Review," "Pall Mall Gazette," and
"Atlantic Monthly" occasionally, though he had a great dislike for
anonymous writing, as he bestowed as much care and labor upon it as if
it could have added to his reputation. He worked with greater pleasure
and some anticipation of success at his novel of "Wenderholme," the
first volume of which had been sent to Mr. Blackwood, who agreed to give
£200 for the copyright. Here are some passages from his letter, which of
course was very welcome. After a few criticisms:--
"The narrative is natural and taking. Your description of the drunken
habits of Shayton are _excellent_, and not a bit overdone. It reminds me
of a joke of Aytoun's when there was a report of an earthquake at a
village in Scotland notorious for its convivial habits. He remarked,
'Nonsense; the whole inhabitants are in a chronic state of D. T. that
would have shaken down the walls of Jericho.'
"The picture of poor Isaac's struggles and his final break-down at his
own home is very well done, and so is that of his old mother, with her
narrow fat forehead.
"I particularly like Colonel Stanburne. He _is_ like a gentleman, and I
hope he has a great deal to do in the remaining part of the story.
Little Jacob is very nice, and promises to make a good hero.
"The style is throughout pleasant and graceful. I shall look anxiously
for vols. 2 and 3, but I feel confident that you will not write anything
unkind or inconsistent with good taste."
Encouraged by the favorable opinion of Mr. Blackwood, the author went on
as diligently with the novel as his health allowed. From time to time I
find in his diary, "too unwell to work," or "obliged to rest," or "not
well enough to write." Still, he was remarkably free from bodily pain,
as it is generally felt and understood; he never complained of aches or
sickness, and to any ordinary observer he looked vigorous and unusually
healthy; but from me, accustomed to scrutinize the most transient
expression of his face and countenance, he could not hide the slightest
symptoms of nervousness, were it merely the bending forward of the body,
the steady gaze or unwonted cold brightness of the eyes. Whenever I
detected any of these threatening signs at home, I begged him to leave
work and to go out, and if we happened to be in an exhibition or any
crowded place, we had to resort to some secluded spot in a public
garden--to the parks if we were in London; and I believe it must be on
account of the repeated anguish I suffered there that I never wished to
visit them for my pleasure: those horribly painful hours have deprived
them of all charm for me. What my husband had to bear was a terrible
apprehension of something fearful,--he did not know what,--now
increasing, as if a fatal end were inevitable; now decreasing, only to
return--ah! how many times?--till sometimes only after hours of strife,
and sometimes suddenly, it left him calm but always weakened. At the
very time that he was most frequently subject to these attacks, the
American papers were giving numerous notices of his works, and brief
biographies in which he was invariably presented to the public as an
athlete in possession of the most robust health.
The doctors agreed in saying that this disorder was only nervous, and
not the result of any known disease; that the only remedy lay in rest
for the brain, and active exercise for the body in the open air. But it
was indeed difficult to give rest to a mind incessantly thirsting for
knowledge, and finding an inexhaustible mine of interest in the most
trivial events, in the simplest natures and the monotonous existence of
the rustics, as well as in the philosophy of Auguste Comte and John
Stuart Mill, or in the aesthetics of Ruskin and Charles Blanc. It was a
mind which turned all that came in its way into the gold of knowledge,
and which spent it generously afterwards, not only in his writings, but
in familiar conversations; his friends used to say that they always
gained something when with him, on account of the natural elevation of
mind which made him treat all questions intellectually. He had no taste
for sport or amusements or games, with the exception of boating and
chess; but chess-playing can hardly be called mental rest, and boating
is not always practicable, requiring several hours each time it is
indulged in, particularly when one is not close to a lake or river.
Riding Cocote was a pleasant relaxation to her master, as she was a
spirited little creature, and the two often went together to the Mont
Beuvray (the site of the ancient Bibracte of the Gauls), to find the
learned and venerable President of the Société Eduenne busy with his
researches among the ruins, but nevertheless always ready to receive
them hospitably. The use of one of his huts was given to his young
friend, and his four-footed companion was turned loose to browse on the
fine, short grass which grew thickly under the shade of the noble oaks
and chestnut trees of the mountain.
On these occasions, a valise containing sketching material and books was
strapped on behind the rider, on the horse's back; at other times, when
I accompanied my husband, we went in a light cart, which was left with
Cocote at a farmhouse about half-way up the hill.
My husband liked me to read to him whilst he sketched, and I see by his
diary of 1869 that some of the works he listened to in the course of
that year were: "Les Couleuvres," by Louis Veuillot; Victor Jacquemond's
"Voyage en Italie;" "l'Art en Hollande," and "La Littérature Anglaise,"
by Taine "Le Postscriptum;" George Eliot's "Silas Marner;" Sidney
Colvin's "Academy Notes;" Tennyson's "In Memoriam;" Légouvé's "l'Art de
la lecture;" "Chateaubriand et son groupe littéraire," "Béranger et de
Sénancourt," by Sainte-Beuve, whose talent as a critic he greatly
admired.
The rambles and drives which he took in quest of picturesque subjects
inclined him to botanical studies, and he began to form a herbarium; the
search for plants gave a zest to the long walks recommended by the
doctors, which might have become tedious had they been aimless. The
prettiest or most remarkable of these plants were sketched or painted
before being dried, to be used in the foregrounds of pictures. Gilbert's
mind was also inventive; the reader may have remarked in the
autobiography that he had made various models of double-boats, the
principle of which he wished to see more generally adopted on account of
their safety; but in 1869 it was not with boats that this faculty of
invention was busy,--it was with a plan for a carriage which would meet
our requirements. The little donkey-cart was so rickety now that it had
become unsafe, and the carriage-builders could not show anything
sufficiently convenient of a size and weight to suit Cocote. The elegant
curves above the fore-wheels reduced the stowage room to a mere nothing,
and we required plenty of space to carry, safely protected from rain and
dust, many things--amongst them change of garments when we went to Autun
for a wedding, a funeral, or a soirée, and plenty of wraps for the drive
back in the cold or mist of midnight. A good deal of room was also
wanted for the provisions regularly fetched from the town,--grocery,
ironmongery, etc. My husband succeeded in contriving a carriage
perfectly answering our wants: it was four-wheeled, and provided with a
double seat covering a roomy well; there was also a considerable space
behind to receive bundles and parcels, or at will a small removable
seat. Six persons could thus ride comfortably in the carriage, and as we
were expecting a visit from Mr. T. Hamerton and his sister, we wished
very much to have it ready for their use.
With the tender thoughtfulness which characterized my husband, he had
contrived a low step and a door at the back part of the carriage to
allow an aged person, like his aunt or my mother, to get inside with
ease and safety, and to get out quite as easily in case of danger.
They arrived in the middle of July, and spent a month with us. They were
both in very good health, and Aunt Susan, in spite of her seventy years,
rivalled her little grand-niece with the skipping-rope. She wrote
afterwards from West Lodge on August 20:--
"MY DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE,--We arrived at home all safe and well at five
o'clock on Monday to tea, and to-day it is a week since we left your
most kind and hospitable entertainment, and I can assure you a most
true, heartfelt pleasure and gratification it has been to me to spend a
month with you, for which you must accept our best thanks for your
kindly studied attentions and exertions to make our visit pleasant. I am
sure I am much better for my journey; I feel strong and more vigorous;
the drives in the little carriage were no doubt the very thing that
would conduce to my getting strong, as I had then fresh air and exercise
without fatigue. [There follows a description of the journey, according
to a careful itinerary prepared by her nephew.] How is little Lala, lal,
a, lala? [her little niece, who was always singing]. We often talk of
her interesting ways and doings, and I often wish I could give other
English lessons to my nephews. I think we should have made some
progress, as both sides seemed interested in their business."
Shortly after the departure of his relatives, Mr. Hamerton was informed
by his landlord that he would have to leave the little house and garden
and stream he liked so well, because it was now the intention of the
proprietor to come to it with his family to spend the vacations. He was
offered, instead, another house on the same estate, called "La
Tuilerie," larger and more convenient, but a thoroughly _banale maison
bourgeoise_, devoid of charm and picturesqueness, close to the main
road, and without a garden; moreover, in an inconceivable state of
dirtiness and dilapidation. I felt horror-struck at the notion of
removing to such a place; however, I was at last obliged to submit to
fate. My husband, though very disinclined to a move, thought that since
it could not be avoided, it was as well to make it as easy, cheap, and
rapid as possible. He could not afford to lose time, and his health
prohibited long travels in search of a new abode, since he could not
make use of railways. We went as far in the neighborhood of Pré-Charmoy
as Cocote could take us in a day in different directions, but found
nothing suitable, probably because we did not wish to be at a distance
from the college, which would prevent the boys from coming home as they
had been accustomed to do.
The greater space and conveniences offered at La Tuilerie were a
temptation to my husband. We had, besides two entrances, a large
dining-room, drawing-room, kitchen, six bedrooms, lots of closets,
cupboards, dressing-rooms, and an immense garret all over the first
floor, well lighted by two windows, and paved with bricks. In the
extensive courtyard was a set of out-buildings, consisting of a
gardener's cottage, cartshed, and stable for six horses; and as on the
ground belonging to the house there had formerly existed a tile-kiln
(_tuilerie_) with drying sheds, there was ample space for a garden after
removing the rubbish which still covered it.
The fact is that circumstances allowed of no choice, and we had to
resign ourselves to the inevitable. Gilbert saw at once that with a
certain outlay and a great deal of ingenuity he could make La Tuilerie
not only tolerable, but even convenient and pleasant--though I doubted
it--and he explained how the outbuilding might be used as laundry,
laboratory, and carpenter's shop--there being three rooms of different
sizes in it; and what a gain it would be so to have all the dirty work
done outside the house. Another attraction was the good views from all
the windows; that of the Beuvray, with the plain leading to it; the
amphitheatre of Autun, with the intervening wood of noble trees, and
beyond it the temple of Janus; the range of the Morvan hills, the fields
of golden wheat and waving corn, and the pastures which looked like
mysterious lakes in the moonlight when the white mist rose from the
marshes and spread all over their surface--endlessly as it seemed. He
promised me to plan out a garden, and there being several fine trees
about the kiln and on the border of the road--oaks, elders, elms, and
spindle trees--he said he would contrive to keep them all, so as to have
shade from the beginning, and to give the new garden an appearance of
respectable antiquity.
The workmen were set at once to their task of repairing, painting, and
papering, and though my husband deprecated both the time spent on
supervision and the unavoidable expense (for the landlord, under pretext
that the rent was low, refused to contribute to the repairs, which he
called _améliorations_), was unmistakably elated by the prospect of
having the use of a more spacious dwelling; for he very easily suffered
from a feeling of confinement, and tried to get rid of it by having two
small huts which could be moved about to different parts of the estate
according to his convenience, and to which he resorted when so inclined.
Even when they were not used, it was for him a satisfaction to know that
he had in readiness a refuge away from the house whenever he chose to
seek it. This dislike to confinement was betrayed unconsciously when he
sat down to his meals by his first movement, which pushed aside whatever
seemed _too near_ his plate--glass, wine-bottle, salt-cellars, etc. I
remember that he would not use the public baths in France, because the
cabins are small and generally locked on the outside. It was therefore a
great pleasure to devise stands and cupboards and shelves in the large
room which was to be his laboratory, and which he adorned with a cheap
frieze of white paper with gilt edges, and "Lose no Time" in
black-and-red letters, repeated upon each of the four walls, so as not
to escape notice whichever way you turned.
The carpenter's shop also had its due share of attention, and was well
provided with labelled boxes of all dimensions for nails, screws, etc.,
whilst a roomy closet, opening into the studio, was fitted up with a
piece of furniture specially designed to receive the different-sized
portfolios containing engravings, etchings, and studies of all kinds,
together with a lot of pigeon-holes to keep small things separate and in
order. All this was done at home, under his direction, and he has let
his readers into the secret of his taste when he wrote in "Wenderholme":
"For the present we must leave him (Captain Eureton) in the tranquil
happiness of devising desks and pigeon-holes with Mr. Bettison, an
intelligent joiner at Sooty thorn, _than which few occupations can be
more delightful._" About the pigeon-holes, a friend of my husband once
made a discovery which he declared astounding. "I well knew that Mr.
Hamerton was a model of order," he said to me; "but I only knew to what
extent when, having to seek for string, I was directed to these
pigeon-holes. I easily found the one labelled 'String,' but what it
contained was too coarse for my purpose. 'Look above,' said Mr.
Hamerton. I did, and sure enough I saw another label with 'String
(thin).' I thought it wonderful."
Yes, Gilbert _loved_ order, and strove to keep it; but as it generally
happened that he had to do many things in a hurry (catching the post,
for instance), he could not always find time to replace what he had
used. When this had gone on so as to produce real disorder, he gave a
day to restoring each item to its proper place--this happened generally
after a long search for a mislaid paper, the finding of which evoked the
oft-repeated confession, "I love Order better than she loves me, as
Byron said of Wisdom."
The correspondence relating to the foundation of the "Portfolio" was now
very heavy; everything had to be decided between Mr. Seeley and Mr.
Hamerton; suitable contributors had to be found, subjects discussed,
illustrations chosen. The only English art magazine of that day confined
its illustrations to line engravings and woodcuts, and its plates were
almost always engraved from pictures or statues. It was intended that
the "Portfolio" should make use of all new methods of illustration, and
should publish drawings and studies as well as finished works. But it
was the dearest wish of the editor that the revived art of Etching
should receive due appreciation in England, and that, with this object,
etched plates should be made a feature of the new magazine.
The contents of the first volume will best show the plan, which was
quite unlike that of any existing periodical. A series of articles on
"English Artists of the Present Day" was contributed by Mr. Sidney
Colvin, Mr. W. M. Rossetti, Mr. Tom Taylor, Mr. Beavington Atkinson, and
the editor. These were illustrated by drawings most willingly lent by
Mr. G. F. Watts, Mr. Poynter, Sir E. Burne-Jones, Mr. Calderon, Mr. H.
S. Marks, Mr. G. D. Leslie, and other painters; and by paintings by Lord
Leighton, Mr. Armitage, and Mr. A. P. Newton. The reproductions were
made by the autotype (or carbon) process of photography, which was then
coming into high estimation as a means of making permanent copies of
works by the great masters. Every copy of these illustrations was
printed by light, a process only possible in the infancy of a magazine
which could count at first on the interest of but a small circle, and
had to form its own public. The editor contributed a series of papers,
entitled "The Unknown River," illustrated by small etchings by his own
hand. These were printed on India paper, and mounted in the text,
another process only possible in a magazine addressed to a few. The
first volume also contained a very fine etching by M. Legros, and others
by Cucinotta and Grenaud. Articles were contributed by Mr. F. T.
Palgrave, Mr. Watkiss Lloyd, Mr. G. A. Simcox, and Mrs. Mark Pattison
(Lady Dilke). A paper on "A New Palette" of nine colors was the
forerunner of the elaborate "Technical Notes" of later years. The
imposing size of the new magazine, its bold type, fine, thick paper, and
wide margins were much admired, and prepared the way for the many
editions _de luxe_ issued in England in the next quarter of the century.
In the second year the slow autotype process had to be abandoned for the
quicker Woodburytype, by which were reproduced drawings kindly
contributed by Sir J. E. Millais, Sir John Gilbert, Mr. Holman Hunt, Mr.
Woolner, Mr. G. Mason, Mr. Hook, and others. The editor commenced a
series of "Chapters on Animals," illustrated with etchings by Veyrassat.
Other etchings by M. Martial, Mr. Chattock, Mr. J. P. Heseltine, and Mr.
Lumsden Propert appeared. Mr. Basil Champneys, Mr. W. B. Scott, and Mr.
F. G. Stephens contributed articles.
In the third year a series of "Examples of Modern Etching" was made the
chief feature. It included plates by M. L. Flameng, Sir F. Seymour
Haden, M. Legros, M. Bracquemond, M. Lalanne, M. Rajon, M. Veyrassat,
and Mr. S. Palmer. The editor wrote a note upon each, and had now the
pleasure of seeing one of his objects accomplished, and the public
appreciation of his favorite art extending every day.
In subsequent years the various methods of photo-engraving were employed
instead of the carbon processes of photography, and the "Portfolio" was
one of the first English periodicals to give reproductions of
pen-drawings.
Several of M. Amand-Durand's admirable facsimiles of etchings and
engravings by the old masters adorned its pages. In 1873 appeared one of
Mr. R. L. Stevenson's first contributions to literature,--if not his
first,--a paper on "Roads," signed "L. S. Stoneven." This was followed
by other articles in the years 1874, 1875, and 1878, bearing his own
name.
The fear of running short of work was not realized; on the contrary, my
husband had always too much on his hands; for he dreaded hurry, and
would have liked to bestow upon each of his works as much time as he
thought necessary, not only for its completion, but also for its
preparation, and that was often considerable, because he could not
slight a thing. When he was writing for the "Globe" he polished his
articles as much as a book destined to last; he always respected his
work, and the care given to it bore no relation to the price it was to
fetch. He often expressed a wish that he might labor like the monks in
the Middle Ages, without being disturbed by mercenary considerations;
that simple shelter, food, and raiment should be provided for himself
and for those dependent upon him--he did not foresee any other wants--so
that he might devote the whole of his mental energy to subjects worthy
of it. But I used to answer that if he had such liberty he never would
publish anything; for whenever he sent MS. to the printer it was
inevitably with regret at not being able to keep it longer for
improvement. Still, the second volume of "Wenderholme" had been sent to
Mr. Blackwood, who wrote on Sept. 24, 1869:--
"There is no doubt that I liked vol. 2 very much. The story is told in a
simple, matter-of-fact way, which is very effective, by giving an air of
truth to the narrative.
"The fire and the whole scene at the Hall is powerfully described. The
love at first sight is well put, and the militia quarters and the
landlord are true to the life."
My husband read to me the MS. of the novel as fast as he wrote it, and I
was afraid that some of the original characters might be recognized by
their friends, being so graphically described; however, he believed it
unlikely, people seeing and judging so differently from each other.
In the summer, as usual, we had several visitors who afforded varying
degrees of pleasure; a strange lady-artist amongst others, whose
blandishments did not succeed in making my husband acquiesce in her
desire of boarding with us, free of charge, in return for the English
lessons she would give to our children. She resented the non-acceptance
of her proposition, and having begged to look at the studies on the
easel, feigned to hesitate about their right side upwards, by turning
them up and down several times, and retiring a few steps each time as if
in doubt.
A more desirable visit was that of M. Lalanne, who besides his talent
had much amiability and very refined manners. Ever after he remained, if
not quite an intimate friend of my husband, at least more than an
acquaintance, and whenever they had a chance of meeting they made the
most of it. Gilbert, after one of these meetings,--a _déjeuner_ at M.
Lalanne's,--told me the following anecdote. Some one asked him if he
had not the "Legion d'honneur"? and being answered that it had not been
offered, went on to say that it was not "offered," but "accordée"
through the influence of some important personage, or by the pressure of
public opinion; "and I think this should be your case," M. Lalanne's
friend went on, "for you have rendered, and are still rendering, such
great service to French art and to French artists, that it ought to be
acknowledged. As you do not seem inclined to trouble yourself about it,
a deputation might be chosen among your admirers to present a petition
to that effect to the Ministre des Beaux-Arts." Mr. Hamerton having
replied that he should prize the distinction only if it were
spontaneously conferred, M. Lalanne remarked that decorations were of
small importance, and asked without the slightest pride, "Do you know
that I am one of the most _décorés_ of civilians?... No; well, then, I
will show you my decorations." Then ringing the bell, he said to the
maid who answered it, "Bring the box of decorations, please." It was a
good-sized box, and when opened showed on a velvet tray a number of
crosses, stars, rosettes, and ribbons of different sizes and hues, all
vying in brilliancy and splendor. The first tray removed, just such
another was displayed equally well filled, and M. Lalanne explained
that, having given lessons to the sons of great foreign personages, they
had generally sent him as a token of regard and gratitude some kind of
decoration--maybe in lieu of payment.
At the end of 1869 "Wenderholme" was published, and the first number of
the "Portfolio" made its appearance on January 1, 1870, and from that
date it became for the editor an undertaking of incessant interest, to
the maintenance and improvement of which he was ever ready to devote
himself, and for which he would have made important sacrifices. The
dedication of "Wenderholme" was meant for Aunt Susan, and after
receiving the book, she wrote:--
"Accept my most sincere and highly gratified thanks for the copy of your
novel, and its dedication. We have heard that the "Times" and the
"Yorkshire Post" had each favorable articles on the merits of your
novel. We have detected nearly every character, even those that take
other forms, but we do not even whisper any information in this
neighborhood. Mr. and Mrs. W---- were immediately struck with the
'hoffens' and 'hirritation' of the doctor, but I pretend to think it not
individual, but that it was the case among the people you were writing
about."
In May 1870, Mr. Hamerton removed to La Tuilerie, about five hundred
yards from Pré-Charmoy. He continued to date his letters from
Pré-Charmoy--the new house being on the estate so called; his motive was
to avoid possible confusion in the delivery of his letters. He was
greatly tickled to hear the peasants call his new abode "le château de
l'Anglais," and to see them staring admiringly from the road at the
windows, which were left open that paint and plaster might dry before we
came to live in it. Though perfectly independent of luxury, my husband
liked cleanliness and taste in the arrangement of the simplest
materials, and he contrived by a good choice of patterns and colors in
the papering of the rooms, with the help of fresh matting on the floors,
and the judicious hanging of fine engravings and etchings in his
possession, to impart quite a new and pleasant aspect to the _banale
maison bourgeoise_. Gradually I became reconciled to it, on account of
its greater convenience, and I even came to like it when the vines and
wisteria and golden nasturtiums hid the ugly bare walls, and the
fragrance of mignonette and roses and petunias was wafted into the rooms
looking over the garden, and that of wild thyme and honeysuckle into
those which looked over the fields; when the tall acacias began to shoot
upwards straight and graceful from their velvety green carpet, and
scattered upon it their perfumed moth-like flowers; while we listened to
the humming of the happy bees in the sweet-smelling lime trees and to
the wondrous song of the rival nightingales challenging each other from
bower to bower in the calm, warm nights of summer-time. And such a great
change did not take very long to realize: the ground had been well
drained and plentifully manured, and it was almost virgin soil,
unexhausted by previous vegetation, so that the elm-bower was soon
thickly leaved and with difficulty prevented from closing up, the
climbing vines became heavy with grapes, whilst the spreading branches
of the acacias speedily formed a vast parasol, and afforded a pleasant
shelter from the glare of the August sunshine. Hardy fruit trees of all
kinds had been planted all along the garden hedge, and in the third year
began to yield cherries--in moderation--but plums of different species
we had in great quantities, also quinces, sometimes apples, apricots,
and figs--the two last, however, were frequently destroyed by frost,
the spring being generally very cold in the Morvan. As to pears, we had
to wait somewhat longer for them, the pear trees requiring strict
pruning to preserve the quality of the fruit; but we used to have a
small cart-load of them when the year had been favorable. There was
nothing my husband liked better than to pick gooseberries, currants,
raspberries, cherries, or plums, and eat them fresh as we took a walk in
the garden; he was very fond of fruit, and unlike most men, he would
rather do without meat than without vegetables or dessert. His tastes in
food, as in everything else, were very simple, but he was particular
about _quality_. I never heard him complain of insufficiency, though,
situated as we were, there was sometimes only just enough; and even that
lacking which might have been considered as most necessary, namely, a
dish of meat. For Gilbert, however, it was not a privation when
occurring occasionally; nay, he even enjoyed the change, and as I
generally went to Autun on Fridays and could get fish, we made it a
_jour maigre_, though not from religious motives. It was understood that
if eggs were served they must be newly laid; if potatoes, mealy and _à
point_; if fish, fresh and palatable; he would not have tolerated the
economy of one of our lady neighbors, who abstained from buying fish at
Autun because it was too dear, she said; but who used to bring a full
hamper when she came back yearly from Hyères, where it was cheap, enough
to last for a week _after the journey_, and who considered the unsavory
hamper an ample compensation for the absence of fish from her menus
during the remainder of the year.
The removal did not hinder or interrupt Mr. Hamerton seriously in his
work, for the new house was quite ready to receive the furniture; and
the place of every piece having been decided beforehand, the farmers
merely handed them out of their carts to the workmen, who carried them
inside the rooms, according to previous directions.
The difficulty of getting proofs of the different states of his plates
whilst etching them, incited my husband to invent a press for his own
laboratory, that he might judge of his work in progress by taking proofs
for himself whenever he liked. Considering the present state of our
affairs I was not favorable to the idea, but I was overruled, as in all
cases concerning expenses deemed necessary to artistic or literary
pursuits. He had few material wants, and therefore thought himself
justified in providing for his intellectual needs--for instance, by the
gradual formation of a library. He often deprecated the necessity of
apparent extravagance in such things; "but you see," he would say, "I
cannot stand stationary in the acquirement of knowledge if I am to go on
teaching others--I must keep ahead--without mentioning the satisfaction
of my own tastes and cravings, to which I have a certain right." Indeed
it was truly wonderful that he should have been able to achieve so much
work, and work of such quality, in the intellectual solitude and
retirement of these seven years passed out of great cities where
libraries, museums, and human intercourse constantly offer help and
stimulus to a writer. Luckily for him he bore solitude well. He has said
in "The Intellectual Life": "Woe unto him that is never alone, and
cannot bear to be alone!" And again: "Only in solitude do we learn our
inmost nature and its needs." Further on: "There is, there is a strength
that comes to us in solitude from that shadowy awful Presence that
frivolous crowds repel." He often sought communion with that awful
Presence in the thick forests of the Morvan and on the highest peak of
the Mont Beuvray, and found it.
For some time our minds had been disturbed by the unsettled aspect of
French politics, and the possibility of a war with Prussia had been a
cause of great personal anxiety to my husband on account of his
nationality. He has related in "Round my House" how the news of the
declaration of war reached us on a Sunday, as we were bringing the
children home after spending the day peacefully in the fields and on the
river-banks of a picturesque little village.
It is probable that if my husband had been able to bear a long railway
journey, we might have accepted the hospitality so kindly offered in the
following letter:--
WEST LODGE. _August_ 12, 1870.
"MY VERY DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE,--I am most grievously and fearfully
concerned to hear of your sad condition in consequence of the terrible
and needless war that is now spreading misery, desolation, and perhaps
famine all over the Empire, just to gratify the unbounded ambition of
one man. We wish you and your three children could fly over to us and be
in safety. Really, if you get at all alarmed, do not hesitate to come,
all of you, with as much of your property as you can pack and bring; we
can and shall be pleased to find you refuge from any pending evil you
may be dreading. Dear P. G., you would find your articles about the
state of your country had got copied into the 'Manchester Courier,' but
we wish to caution you about what you put in them. Remember whose iron
heart could punish you, and what would become of your wife and family if
you were cast into prison.
"The little grandson and his nurse are coming here on Tuesday next for a
month; they will only occupy one bedroom, so there will still be the
best bedroom and a very good attic, and half of my bed if little Mary
Susan Marguerite dares trust herself with me"
Although Mr. Hamerton had always taken great interest in politics, he
never wished to play an active part in them; from time to time he wrote
a political article about some cause he had at heart, or some wrong
which he wished to see redressed, or again on some obscure point which
his experience of two countries might help to clear up, but he never
consented to supply regular political correspondence to any newspaper.
Having had rather a lengthened connection with the "Globe," he was
offered the post of war-correspondent, which he declined.
He has passed over many interesting incidents of this wartime in "Round
my House," although he has given a few. One of the most striking was
certainly his guiding a Garibaldian column _en reconnaissance_ across
the bed of the river Ternin, on a bitterly cold day, mounted on his
spirited little Cocote, who showed quite a martial mettle, and may well
have felt proud of leading a number of great cavalry horses. She took no
harm from her cold bath, but her master, whose legs had been in the icy
water (on account of her small height) up to the thighs, was not so
fortunate: he caught a serious chill, accompanied with fever and pains,
which confined him to the house over a week. He mentions in the book our
anxiety when the spy mania was at its height, and the workmen had almost
decided to attack us in a body, but he refrains from detailing how, day
after day, when the "hands" congregated in the village inns after dinner
in the twilight, we used to take our children by the hand and pass, with
hearts in anguish for their safety, but with as confident a countenance
as we could command, before their infuriated groups; never knowing
whether some fatal blow would not be dealt from the next group or the
one following. The men stood on the door-steps, or in the very middle of
the road, awaiting us with lowering brows and sullen looks of suspicion,
when with sinking hearts and placid faces we stopped to say a few words
to one of our _present_ enemies to whom we had formerly rendered some
help in illness or destitution. The truth is, they generally looked
somewhat ashamed on such occasions, and always answered politely, but
without the frank and pleased looks of other days, when they were proud
of our notice and interest; they would rather have done without it now,
especially in the company of their fellow-conspirators against our
safety. I dare say the innocent unconcern of our children, who laughed
and played freely in their happy ignorance of danger, proved our best
safeguard, but still every night after reaching home we could not help
thinking--"How will it be to-morrow?"
Just at the beginning of the hostilities, my husband had deprecated the
rashness of the French people, which was blinding them to the unprepared
state of their army, and to its numerical inferiority when compared with
the German force. But when he saw that, although the King of Prussia had
said that the war was not directed against the French people, he was
still carrying it on unmercifully after the fall of Napoleon III., his
sympathies with the invaded nation grew warmer every day, and he did all
that was in his power to spare from invasion that part of the country
where we lived, and which we knew so well. He put himself in
communication with General Bordone,--Garibaldi's aide-de-camp (Garibaldi
himself being very ill at that time),--and explained how Autun might be
surprised by roads which had been left totally unguarded. He made a
careful map of the country about us for Garibaldi, and shortly after,
outposts were placed according to his directions, so as to prevent the
enemy from reaching Autun by these parts, without resistance.
He used to go to Autun with Cocote almost every night for news, and met
there with Garibaldian officers whom he often drove to inspect the
outposts, and they gave him the password for the sentinels on his way
home. One night, however, he had remained even later than usual, having
taken an officer to a very distant outpost, and when he reached the road
leading to La Tuilerie, the password had been changed, and he was
detained in spite of all he could say to be allowed to proceed on his
way. He would have submitted easily to the discomfort of a few hours in
the guard-room had it not been that he realized how anxious I must be,
and when he heard the order of march given to a patrol, he asked to be
allowed to join it as it was going his way, observing that the soldiers
would have the power of shooting him if he attempted to run away.
The permission was granted, and he set off on foot, in the midst of the
patrol, followed by his dog, Cocote having been left at the inn.
It was freezing hard, and the snow lay deep on the ground; the march was
a silent one--the men having been forbidden to talk--and it was a
miracle that Gilbert's dog escaped with its life, for every time it
barked or growled it was threatened with instant death. His master,
however, artfully represented that in case enemies were hidden in the
ditches or behind the hedges bordering the road, "Tom" would soon
dislodge them and help in their capture. This seemed to pacify the men,
together with the prospect (no less artfully held out) of a glass of rum
each when they reached La Tuilerie.
It was a weary march for Gilbert and an anxious watch for me, and as
soon as I heard the joyful bark of our dog announcing his master's
return, I hastened downstairs and made a great blaze for the half-frozen
patrol and its prisoner, and served to them all some hot grog which was
duly appreciated.
I have no doubt it seemed hard to the poor soldiers to leave the seats
by the leaping flames to resume their slippery march in the creaking
snow, but they did it promptly enough, somewhat cheered by the renewed
warmth they were carrying away with them.
Mr. Hamerton has described in "Round my House" how he watched the
battle which took place at Autun, from our garret window. With the naked
eye we could only see the dark lines of soldiers without being able to
follow their strategical movements; but to my husband, with the help of
his telescope, every incident was instantly revealed, and he
communicated them to us in succession as they occurred.
It is needless to say what a relief we experienced when we heard that
the enemy was falling back--ever so slightly. Then every one of us,
women and children, wanted to look through the telescope, and for once I
_did_ see in it, and hailed with heartfelt thanksgivings, the scarcely
perceptible retreating movement of the Germans.
At that moment the light of day was fading fast, and in the twilight I
could just see my husband turning towards our awestruck children and
saying to them: "I am certain that you will never forget this day, and
what a horrible thing a war is."
And they answered, "Oh! never!"
Despite these painful preoccupations, Mr. Hamerton had prepared the
"Etcher's Handbook" and its illustrations, and was writing a series of
articles on the "Characters of Balzac" for the "Saturday Review." To
save time I read to him "Le Père Goriot," "Eugénie Grandet," "Ursule
Mirouet," "Les Parents Pauvres," "La Cousine Bette," etc. Mr. Harwood
approved of the series, but although my husband admired Balzac's talent
greatly, he disliked the choice of his subjects in general, and
complained to me of the desponding state of mind they produced in him;
he called it "withering" sometimes. In consequence he became convinced
that it was not a good study--mentally--for him, and rightly abandoned
the series, for it was of importance that he should be in the healthiest
mental condition to write the "Intellectual Life," the form of which was
giving him a great deal of trouble. He had already begun it twice over,
and each time had read to me the preliminary chapters, without giving to
my expectant interest entire satisfaction. He had had the plan of the
book in contemplation for years, and the gathered materials were rich
and ready, but the definite form had not yet been found. He was in no
way discouraged by repeated failures, and told me he "was sure to grasp
it sometime," only he grew excited in the struggle. The prudent rule
which forbade work at night had been cast aside, and it was about two
o'clock in the morning when I was awakened to listen to the first
chapters of the "Intellectual Life," as they now remain. I was very
happy to be able to praise them unreservedly: hitherto my part had been
but a sorry one. I could only say, "I don't think this is the best
possible form," without suggesting what the best form ought to be; but
now I felt sure it answered exactly to my expectations, and my husband
rejoiced that "he had hit it at last."
CHAPTER XI.
1870-1872.
Landscape-painting.--Letters of Mr. Peter Graham, R. A.--Incidents of
the war time.--"The Intellectual Life."--"The Etcher's Handbook."
An American clergyman, Mr. Powers, after reading Mr. Hamerton's works,
had become one of his most fervent admirers, and there came to be a
regular correspondence between them. Mr. Powers used to gather all the
information he could about the progress of his friend's reputation in
the United States--newspaper articles, criticisms, encomiums, notes,
etc., and to send them to Pré-Charmoy. He was a great deal more
sensitive to strictures on my husband than the victim himself; and I see
in the letter-book of 1870 this entry: "April 28. Powers. To console his
mind about the article on me."
Now Mr. Powers longed to see some pictures from the hand of Mr.
Hamerton, and had so often expressed this wish, that the artist, out of
gratitude for the constant interest shown in his work, rashly promised
to paint two landscapes as a present. It was very characteristic that he
did not promise one only, but two, and at a time when he was so
overwhelmed with work that he hardly knew how to get through the most
pressing; and still more characteristic is this other entry in the
letter-book: "February 7, 1871. Powers. Sending him measures of his
pictures, so that he may get frames for them."
It is true that one of the pictures was begun, but before it was brought
to completion several years were to elapse, though the pictures were
both--at intervals--on the easel; always undergoing some change either
of effect or of composition, even of subject, for the painter could
never be satisfied with them. He felt that he lacked the power of
expressing himself, and said to me: "These are not my pictures, I
_dream_ them differently;" whilst when he had seen Mr. Peter Graham's
"Spate in the Highlands," he exclaimed: "This is one of my
_dream_-pictures; I should like to have painted it." Entirely devoid of
the false pride which prevents learning from others, he had written to
Mr. Peter Graham about what he considered his failures, and had received
the following reply:--
"With regard to what you say of yourself in your last letter, I have
never had an opportunity of seeing a picture of yours; but I cannot
imagine any one to fail in landscape who has the high qualifications for
it which you obviously have--a sensitively impressionable nature, a
strong, loving admiration for whatever in heaven or earth is beautiful
or grand in form, color, or effect. Then you have the faculty of
observation, without which a mind, however sensitive to the impressions
of nature, will not be able to do anything, will be passive, not active.
The mechanical difficulties of our art must be to some extent overcome
before our thoughts and intentions can be realized and our impressions
conveyed to others. After all, every artist feels that his work is a
failure, the success of rendering what he wishes is so exceedingly
limited in his mind. I am talking of what you know as well as I do; but
my only reason is that you spoke of yourself as failing in landscape,
'probably from want of natural ability,' which I cannot believe. My
method of getting memoranda, which you inquire about, is to study as
closely as I can; to watch and observe and make notes and drawings, also
studies in color, and patient groping after what I wish to learn, are my
only methods. I feel unable to enter into details, so much would need be
said on the subject. I believe I am much indebted to my long education
as a figure-painter for any little ability I may have in rendering the
material of nature. I was a figure-painter many years before I touched
landscape. Continued study from the antique and painting from the nude
in a life-class give, or ought to give, an acquaintance with light and
shadow which to a landscape-painter is invaluable--nature affects our
feelings so much in landscape by light and shadow. In Edinburgh we had a
long gallery with windows from the roof at intervals, and the statues
were arranged there; a splendid collection. I shall never forget the
exquisite beauty of the middle tint, or overshadowing, which the statues
had that were placed between the windows; those which were immediately
underneath them were of course in a blaze of light, and we had all
gradations of light, middle-tint, and shadow. When I came to study
clouds and skies, I recognized the enchantment of effect to be caused by
the same old laws of light I had tried to get acquainted with at the
Academy. Of course color adds immensely to the difficulty of sky
painting, and the amount of groping in the study of gray, blue, etc., is
very disheartening. I need not longer weary you, however, on this
subject, but shall just again say that I really see no reason why you
should not succeed in landscape-painting if such be your wish, and
therefore cannot think of you as having failed."
Then, in a subsequent letter, I find this passage:--
"Since receiving your last letter I have read, and with great pleasure,
your 'Painter's Camp in the Highlands.' I am stronger than ever in the
belief that it is merely from your never having devoted the necessary
amount of time to art in the right direction that unqualified success
has not been attained by you as an artist. I think it unfortunate that
you 'learned painting with a clever landscape-painter.' You probably far
excelled him in sympathy with nature, power of observation, and all the
gifts especially required for a landscape-painter. What you really
needed, study under a figure-painter, or better still at an Academy,
would have given you. Landscape nature is too complicated to be a good
school to acquire the mastery over the mechanical difficulties in art. I
don't agree with you that you ought to have filled your notebooks with
memoranda from nature instead of painting pictures at Loch Awe. Your
experience there was very valuable. A notebook memorandum from nature is
of little or no use for a picture in oil without previous study of
similar subjects or effects in the same vehicle. You ask my opinion of
your present method of study. I think it excellent, and would make only
two suggestions. You might safely discontinue the study of botany and
dissection of plants; there is not the slightest fear of a want of truth
in your pictures, and the time might be devoted to some more pressing
work. Then I think you might paint the human figure with much profit,
even to landscape-painting and writing on art."
The reader may have remarked that Mr. Hamerton had frequently painted
from a model at Pré-Charmoy, though not from the nude, for he was of
opinion that this kind of study was no great help to him at this stage,
though it might have been earlier.
A more serious impediment than technical difficulties soon stopped all
progress with Mr. Powers' pictures. It was a recurrence of the cerebral
excitement, almost in a chronic form. My husband had made a plan for
issuing--separately--proofs of the etchings appearing in the
"Portfolio;" but he was so ill that he could not hold a pen; and to
explain the details of this plan to Mr. Seeley I acted as amanuensis
under his dictation. His aunt was very much grieved to hear of this
illness, and wrote:--
"Suppose you tried a ten or twenty miles' journey by train, in some
direction whence you could return by water or conveyance if necessary. I
assure you I can do valiant things with impunity that the very thinking
of them would have made me ill about thirteen months ago."
He did not need courage to be preached to him, he had a sufficient store
of it; indeed, his nervousness had nothing to do with fear: he used to
drive or ride Cocote after she had been running away, upsetting the
carriage and breaking the harness, till she was subdued again into
docility. Once at Dieppe, in a storm, he had volunteered to steer a
lifeboat which was making for a ship in distress, but his services had
been refused when it was known that he had a family. He rode fearlessly
one of the high, dangerous bicycles of that time, about which Aunt Susan
humorously said in one of her letters that "they often prove rather
restive, and are given to, or seized with, an inclination to butting the
walls, and also of lazily lying down on the road over which they ought
to be almost imperceptibly passing along." And during the war he kindly
received, fed, and helped several _francs-tireurs_ and stray French
soldiers, perfectly aware that he was risking his life in case the
Prussians came near; he even conveyed one of them to the Garibaldian
outposts in his carriage. Of his own accord he attempted time after time
to get the better of this peculiar nervousness, but it had lately
increased to such a point that, for a time, when we reached Autun in the
carriage and came _in sight_ of the railway bridge, he had to give me
the reins, jump down, and go back to wait for my return outside the
town; for I could not go with him, having to take our boys to the
college. I never knew how I might find him when we met again. Unlike the
majority of patients, who make the most of their ailments to excite
sympathy, he considerately let me know immediately of the slightest
improvement, and kept repeating: "It will soon be over now; don't
distress yourself."
I believe that the great excitement and anxiety of the wartime had
caused the recurrence of the ailment, and no wonder, for we knew several
cases of mental derangement in the small circle of our acquaintances,
even amongst peasants, who are far from imaginative or nervous. In
Gilbert's case there were only too many reasons for anxiety, besides the
uncertainty of his situation. His brother-in-law, M. Pelletier, then
Économe of the Lycée at Vendôme, was in the thick of the strife, and his
post was not unattended with danger--though the Lycée had become an
International Ambulance. It was sometimes hard for him to restrain his
indignation before the insolence and partiality of the victors: once,
for instance, he appealed to the general in command to obtain for the
French wounded an equal portion of the bread given to the Prussians; but
he was pushed by the shoulder to an open window, from which the French
army could be seen, and the general exclaimed--pointing to the soldiers
in the distance: "Vous n'aurez rien, rien! tant que nous ne les aurons
pas battus!... allez!..."
Another time M. Pelletier had to go to Château Renaud to fetch several
things sorely wanted at the ambulance. It was forbidden by the enemy,
under penalty of death, to carry any letters out of the city, which they
had declared in a state of siege; but M. Pelletier could not find in his
heart to refuse a few from desolate mothers and wives, and these letters
were carefully sewn up at night, by his wife, in the lining of his
overcoat. Who betrayed him?... No one knows, but just as he was about to
descend the stairs, some one rapidly brushed past, whispering hurriedly,
"Leave that coat behind." He understood, went back to his apartment,
threw the coat to his terrified wife, merely saying "Burn," and had only
time to seize another great-coat hanging in the passage and rush to the
omnibus waiting with the escort. He was, however, stopped by a Prussian
officer, who said: "You sha'n't go--you are carrying letters, and you
know that you have put yourself in the way of being shot." The coat was
taken from him _and the lining cut open_. On finding nothing, the
officer said, with a dry smile: "You have been warned; but let it be a
lesson to you,--you might not escape so easily another time."
My brother Charles, despite his being the only son of a widow and
_soutien de famille_, had been enlisted, and his letters did not always
reach their destination, though his regiment was at Chagny, not far from
Autun, and for a while Mr. Hamerton had lost all traces of his
mother-in-law. Madame Gindriez had gone to Vendôme to be near her
younger daughter, Madame Pelletier, in the hope of keeping clear of the
bloody conflict, but found herself in the very centre of it after the
occupation of Vendôme by Prince Frederick Charles, and was thus shut off
from all news of her son. After vainly attempting to get a safe-conduct
during the hostilities, she at last succeeded after the armistice, and
left the town to go to Tours, where she had friends willing to receive
her, and where she expected to hear from her son. The omnibus in which
she travelled was escorted by Bismarck's White Cuirassiers, pistol in
hand, till it reached Château Renaud. In the night, Madame Gindriez was
awakened by loud rappings at her bedroom door, and ordered to give up
her room to some Prussian sergeants who had come back from an
expedition. She dressed quickly and went to the kitchen--the only place
in the hotel free from soldiers--to await the morning as she best could.
Her breakfast was served upon a small table, apart from the long one in
the centre of the room, which was reserved for the German officers. They
were very much elated, it seemed, by the armistice, thinking that it
might lead ultimately to a peace, for which they openly expressed their
desire, ordering champagne, clinking their glasses together, and
politely offering one to Madame Gindriez with the words: "You won't
refuse to drink with us _à la paix_, Madame?" "À la paix, soit," she
courageously answered; "mais sans cession de territoire." They did not
insist.
It may be easily surmised that such tidings, reaching my husband from
time to time, kept him in an anxious state far from beneficial to his
health. After the armistice, I find a great many entries in the
letter-book of letters inquiring about friends, and how they had fared
during this terrible war-time. Despite this chronic state of anxiety,
Mr. Hamerton was writing "The Intellectual Life," and had offered it for
publication in America to Messrs. Roberts Brothers. They answered:--
"We liked the title and the plan of your new work, as outlined by you,
and presuming it will be larger than 'Thoughts about Art,' we will give
you fifty pounds outright for the early copy, or we shall allow you a
percentage on it, after the first thousand are sold, of ten per cent, on
the retail price, provided we are not interfered with by competing
editions."
The author had the satisfaction of receiving another letter from Roberts
Brothers, dated July 21, 1871, in which this passage occurs: "'Thoughts
about Art' is quite popular; you have many very dear friends in this
country, and the number is increasing."
In September of the same year Mr. Haden wrote, in reference to the
projected "Etcher's Handbook":--
"Your new processes interest me immensely, and I am glad you are going
to give us a handbook on the whole subject. Let it be concise, and even
dogmatic, for you have to speak _ex cathedrâ_ on the matter, and people
prefer to be told what to do to being reasoned into it."
Ever anxious to improve himself, my husband had asked Mr. Lewes to
advise him about his reading preparatory to the new book he had begun to
write on the Intellectual Life. Here is the answer:--
"THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, REGENT'S PARK.
"_Nov_. 2, 1871.
"MY DEAR HAMERTON,--We so often speak of you and your wife, and were so
very anxious about you during the war, that we have asked right and left
for news of you, and were delighted at last to get such good news of you
both.
"As to the books to be suggested for your work, partly the fact that no
one can really suggest food for another, partly the fact that I don't
clearly understand the nature of your work--these perhaps make a good
excuse if the following list is worthless. It is all I have been able to
gather together.
"Littré, 'Vie d'Auguste Comte.'
St. Hilaire, 'Vie et travaux de Geoffroy St. Hilaire.'
Gassendi, 'Vita Tychonis Brahei, Copernici.'
Bertrand, 'Fondateurs de l'Astronomie Moderne.'
Morley, 'Life of Palissy' (passionate devotion to research).
Morley, 'Life of Cardan.'
Berti, 'Vita di Giordano Bruno.'
Bartholmess, 'Vie de Jordano Bruno.'
Muir's 'Life of Mahomet.'
Stanley's 'Life of Arnold.'
Mazzuchelli, 'Vita di Archimede.'
Blot's 'Life of Newton.'
Drinkwater's 'Kepler and Galileo.'
"All these are first-rate, especially the two last, published by the
Society for the Promotion of Useful Knowledge, together with some
others, under the title of 'Lives of Eminent Persons.'
"The 'Biographie Universelle' will give you, no doubt, references as to
the best works under each head.
"We did not go abroad this year, but buried ourselves in absolute
solitude in Surrey--near Haslemere, if you know the lovely region; and
there I worked like a man going in for the Senior Wranglership, and Mrs.
Lewes, who was ailing most of the time, went on with her new work. This
work, by the way, is a panorama of provincial life, to be published in
eight parts, on alternative months, making four very thick vols. when
complete. It is a new experiment in publishing. While she was at her
art, I was at the higher mathematics, seduced into those regions by some
considerations affecting my personal work. The solitude and the work
together were perfectly blissful. Except Tennyson, who came twice to
read his poems to us, we saw no one.
"No sooner did we return home than Mrs. Lewes, who had been incubating
an attack, _hatched_ it--and for five weeks she was laid up, getting
horribly thin and weak. But now she is herself again (thinner self) and
at work.
"She begs me to remember her most kindly to you and to Mrs. Hamerton.
"Ever yours truly,
"G. H. LEWES."
Almost in every letter that my husband received from Mr. Lewes, he had
this confirmation of what George Eliot had told him about the heavy
penalty in health attending or following her labors.
Mr. Lewes had not mentioned his lives of Goethe and Aristotle, but they
were ordered with the other books he had recommended, and I began to
read them aloud to my husband whilst he was etching the plates for an
illustrated edition of the "Painter's Camp," that he had always hoped to
see accepted by Mr. Macmillan.
M. Pelletier had been promoted from Vendôme to Lons-le-Saunier, and
after spending a month of the vacation at our house with his wife and
three children, now invited his host and family to go back with him for
the remainder of the holidays. However, the boys only went, for their
father was incapacitated for railway travelling, and the little girl May
could not be persuaded to leave her parents, even to go with her cousins
and her Aunt Caroline, whom she so much loved.
The nervous state into which my husband had been thrown back had
produced a morbid sensitiveness to noise and to the sight of movement
which isolated him more and more, even from his nearest friends, and
during these last vacations he had seldom been able to take _déjeuner_
with us. In consequence he had a little hut erected near the river, _au
buisson Vincent_, whither he retired almost daily, and to which I took
or sent him his lunch; there he read, wrote, or sketched, surrounded
only by silent and motionless objects. This morbid sensitiveness
decreased with the light of day, and when the sun had set we generally
joined him to admire the beauty of the after-glow fading slowly into
twilight in the summer evenings. He always dined with us all, and after
dinner he either listened to music, of which he was very fond, or even
played a little himself on the violin, or walked out in company. We made
quite a little procession on the road now,--six children romping about,
my sister and her husband, my mother and my brother Charles, the master
of the house and myself; and since it had transpired that my husband was
not so well, some of his friends at Autun or in the neighborhood came as
often as they could to make him feel less out of the world. He has said
himself: "The intellectual life is sometimes a fearfully solitary one.
Unless he lives in a great capital the man devoted to that life is more
than other men liable to suffer from isolation, to feel utterly alone
beneath the deafness of space and the silence of the stars. Give him one
friend who can understand him, who will not leave him, who will always
be accessible by day and night,--one friend, one kindly listener, just
one,--and the whole universe is changed." In his case the friendly and
intelligent intercourse kept up with his wife's relatives alleviated in
a great measure the sense of isolation.