many people aloof; but he talked quite freely with my husband. Dignity
he certainly possessed in an unusual degree, and the same might be said
of Mr. Hamerton, but it was no bar to interesting intercourse nor to
brotherly sympathy, as we found afterwards in sorrowful circumstances.
This first visit certainly enhanced the high opinion which each had
formed of the other, and subsequent meetings confirmed the interest they
found in each other's views and sentiments.
I mentioned Mr. Pickering in connection with the affair of the
"Autunois," and it may now be explained that after reading "Round my
House," he had fancied he should like to see the scenery described in
the book, as it would probably afford him paintable subjects. Although
the name of the neighboring town was not given, and though great changes
had been made by the construction of a railway since the publication of
the book, Mr. Pickering lighted upon Autun as the very place he was in
search of. He soon made my husband's acquaintance, and a friendship
between them was rapidly established.
Mr. Woolner, who had kept up for some months a brisk correspondence in
behalf of Mr. Hamerton's candidature, now heard that matters were not
going so smoothly as he had expected. He was told that the income would
not come up to the sum stated at first; that the formation of an art
museum was contemplated, in which case the duties of forming and keeping
it would devolve upon the professor. There was also a desire that the
students should receive technical instruction; and, lastly, it was
rumored that forty lectures a year would be required. In fact, Mr.
Hamerton began to regret that he had offered himself for the post
without knowing exactly what he would be expected to do.
Whilst in this frame of mind he was advised to go to Edinburgh in order
to call upon each of the electors. No one acquainted with his character
could have imagined for an instant that he would comply. "The electors,"
he said to me, "must be acquainted with my works; I have sent nearly
fifty testimonials given by eminent artists, men of letters, and
publishers; I consider this as sufficient to enable the electors to
judge of the capacities for which an art professor ought to be chosen.
If these are judged insufficient, my presence could not give them more
weight."
I find this simple entry in the diary: "July 20, 1880. Got news that I
was not elected;" and though he may have regretted the time wasted in
this fruitless attempt, I am convinced that he experienced a sensation
of delightful relief when no longer dreading encroachments upon his
liberty to work as he thought fit. [Footnote: It was also Mr. R.
Seeley's opinion when he wrote: "You have felt so much doubt as to the
effect of such a change of life upon your health that the decision may
come as a relief to you."] After all, there remained to him as a lasting
compensation the tokens of flattering regard for his character and of
appreciation of his talents given in the numerous testimonials by such
eminent persons as Mr. R. Browning, Sir F. Leighton, Sir J. E. Millais,
Sir John Gilbert, Mr. T. Woolner, Mr. G. F. Watts, Professor Seeley,
Professor Sidney Colvin, Professor Oliver, Mr. Mark Pattison, Mr. S.
Palmer, Mr. Orchardson, Mr. Marks, Mr. A. W. Hunt, Mr. Herkomer, Mr.
Vicat Cole, Mr. Alma Tadema, Sir G. Reid, Mr. W. E. Lockhart, Mr. J.
MacWhirter, Professor Legros, M. Paul Rajon, M. Leopold Flameng, etc.
The testimonials are too numerous to be given here, but they all agreed
in the expressed opinion that Mr. Hamerton would be "the right man in
the right place," or "the very man."
Although the "Life of Turner" had first appeared in the "Portfolio," it
was again well received by the public in book form, and greatly praised
by the press, particularly in America. The "Boston Courier" said:--
"We have found this volume thoroughly fascinating, and think that no
open-minded reader of 'Modern Painters' should neglect to read this
life. In it he will find Turner dethroned from the pinnacle of a
demi-god on which Ruskin had set him (greatly to the artist's
disadvantage); but he will also find him placed on another reasonably
high pedestal, where one may admire him intelligently and lovingly, in
spite of the defects in drawing, the occasional lapses in coloring,
and the other peculiarities which are made clear to his observation by
Mr. Hamerton's discussion."
He had found it a difficult subject to treat because of the paucity of
incidents in Turner's life; but the painter's genius had made so deep an
impression upon him in his earlier years that he had eagerly studied his
works and sought information about his personality from the friends who
had, at some time or other, been acquainted with the marvellous artist.
I believe that my husband hardly ever went to the National Gallery
without visiting the Turner Room, and that is saying much, for during
his sojourns in London he seldom missed going every day it was open, and
sometimes he went twice,--once in the morning, and again in the
afternoon. Great as was his admiration of Turner's oil pictures, I
believe it was equalled by his delight in the same master's water-colors
and drawings. When in the lower rooms, where they are exhibited, he
could hardly be prevailed upon to go upstairs again, and I had to plead
fatigue and hunger to recall him to the realities of life. Although his
appreciation of Constable was high, it could not be compared to what he
felt for Turner, because "Turner was so wide in range that he was the
opposite of Constable, whose art was the expression of intense affection
for one locality."
CHAPTER XV.
1880-1882.
Third edition of "Etching and Etchers."--Kew.--"The Graphic
Arts."--"Human Intercourse."
Once rid of the perturbation occasioned by the affair of the election,
Mr. Hamerton was free to devote himself energetically to the preparation
of a new and splendid edition of "Etching and Etchers," for which he
spared neither thought nor pains,--being generously entrusted by Messrs.
Macmillan with the necessary funds, and given _carte blanche_ for the
arrangement. Mr. Craik had said, in a letter dated Jan. 10, 1880: "We
are disposed to make it a very fine book, and not to grudge the outlay.
We must leave all the details for you to arrange." In another, of May
29, he said again: "We are particularly anxious to make it a beautiful
book; and I think the plan of making each edition completely different
from the preceding, gives it an interest and value that will make the
book always sought after. The first edition is a scarce and valuable
book. The second will rise in value."
Being allowed to do exactly as he liked, the author of "Etching and
Etchers" set to his task with delightful anticipation of the result.
At the same time he was also giving a good deal of time to the
annotation of certain engravings and etchings presented by himself and
some friends to the Manchester Museum, in which he took great interest.
When the vacation brought the boys home in August, it was decided to
have a trial trip on the Saône in the "Morvandelle;" but after behaving
well enough on the water, she filled and sank at anchor whilst her
captain was quietly enjoying dinner with his sons at the nearest inn.
The boat being made of wood, and divided into a great many compartments
to hold stores and luggage, let the water into those compartments as the
wood dried and shrank. It became, therefore, necessary to exchange the
wooden tubes for iron ones, for it was a double boat. So the crew had to
come back home, and Mr. Hamerton sent to a periodical a relation of his
impressions and adventures in this brief voyage and shipwreck.
In the summer there was an exhibition at the Glasgow Institute of Fine
Arts, and my husband was asked to send something if possible; but being
almost overwhelmed with work, he was obliged to decline the invitation.
Mr. R. Walker, the secretary of the Institute, wrote to say how sorry he
was not to have his name in the catalogue, and added:--
"Our collection of etchings is very good, and during the short time
we have been open the people of Glasgow have learned more about
etching than ever they knew before. Your book has been a source of
infinite delight to many here. A short time ago we all hoped to have
you among us. The loss is ours. Sometimes I trust we may have the
pleasure of seeing you in Glasgow. You would find us not altogether
wanting in appreciation of what is right in art, and there is an
increasing number of people here who believe that ledgers are not the
only books worth studying."
Although the "Portfolio" was now generally acknowledged to be at the
head of artistic periodicals in England, it was the desire of both its
editor and publisher to improve it still further. In one of his letters
Mr. Craik had said: "What an important part the 'Portfolio' is playing!
I believe you are affecting the public, and compelling them to recognize
the best things in a way they never did before. I think your conduct of
the monthly admirable."
It was now proposed to add to its artistic value by giving more original
etchings. Hitherto the peculiar uncertainty of the art of etching had
hindered the realization of this desire, for there being no certainty
about the quality of an etching from a picture, the risk is immensely
increased when a commission is given for an original etching. The
celebrity of an etcher and his previous achievements can only give hopes
that he _may_ be successful once more, but these hopes are far from a
certainty. Even such artists as Rajon and Jacquemart,--to mention only
two of the most eminent,--who constantly delighted the lovers of art by
masterpieces of skill and artistic feeling,--and were, moreover,
painters themselves,--were not safe against failure, and repeated
failure, even in copying.
When a commission has been given to an artist, the stipulated price has
to be paid whether the result is a success or a failure, unless the
artist himself acknowledges the failure--a very rare occurrence; at best
he admits that some retouching is desirable, and consents to undertake
it; but too often with the result that the plate loses all freshness.
Such considerations, and many more, made it necessary for the publisher
and editor of the "Portfolio" to discuss the subject at length and
without hurry. In addition to the affairs of the "Portfolio," there was
the choice of illustrations for the book on the Graphic Arts, which was
to be published by Mr. Seeley, and for which the presence of the author
in London was almost a necessity.
It was then decided that, both our boys having situations, we would take
our daughter with us and seek for lodgings somewhere on the banks of the
Thames, probably at Kew. Mr. and Mrs. Seeley, with their usual kindness,
invited us to stay with them until we had found convenient
accommodation.
We started in October, and as soon as we reached Paris we heard from our
younger son Richard that he was far from pleased with his present
situation. Instead of having to devote only a few hours a day to
teaching English, as he had been promised, the whole of his time was
taken up by the usual drudgery which is the lot of an under-master, so
that he could not study for himself. The first thing his father did was
to set him free from that bondage, and to devise the best means to
enable him to pursue the study of painting which the boy wished to
follow as a profession. They went together to consult Jean Paul Laurens,
who said that the most efficacious way would be--not to study under one
master, but to go to one of Juan's ateliers, where students get the
benefit of sound advice from several leading artists. In conformity with
this counsel my husband saw M. Juan, and after learning from him the
names of the artists visiting the particular atelier where Richard was
to study, he got him recommended to Jules Lefebvre and to Gérôme by an
intimate friend.
Paul Rajon, as usual, did not fail to call upon us, and we were very
sorry to notice a great change for the worse in his appearance. He said
he had been very ill lately, and was still far from well; he seemed to
have lost all his buoyancy of spirits, and to look careworn. He alluded
to pecuniary difficulties resulting from the early death of his
brother-in-law, which left his sister, and a child I believe, entirely
dependent upon him. Without reckoning on adverse fortune or ill-health,
he had built himself a house with a fine studio at Auvers-sur-Oise, to
escape from the incessant interruptions to his work when in Paris. But
of course the outlay had been heavier than he had intended it to be, and
these cares made him rather anxious. Being very good friends, we had
formerly received confidences from him about the dissatisfaction created
by the loneliness of his home and the want of a strong affection--in
spite of his success in society and the flattering smiles and speeches
of renowned beauties. In answer to my suggestion that marriage would
perhaps give him what he wanted, he had answered: "No doubt; but where
shall I find the wife? The girl I introduce into society as _my_ wife
must be very beautiful, else what would society think of my taste as an
artist?... She must also be above the average in intelligence, to meet
with the _élite_ and keep her proper place; and lastly, she must also be
wealthy, for my earnings are not sufficient for the frame I desire to
show her in." He was quite serious, but I laughed and said: "I beg to
alter my opinion of your wants. The wife you describe would be the mere
satisfaction of your vanity, and if you were fortunate enough to meet
with the gifts of beauty, intelligence, and wealth in the same person it
would be very exacting to expect that in addition to all these she
should be domestic, to minister to your home comforts, and sufficiently
devoted for your need of affection."
"I told you I thought it very difficult," he sighed.
"If you take other people's opinion about the choice of a wife," my
husband said, "you are not ripe for matrimony; no man ought to get
married unless he feels that he cannot help it,--that he could not live
happily without the companionship of a particular woman."
There had been an interval of a few years between this conversation and
our present meeting; but M. Rajon had not forgotten it, for he said with
a shade of sadness: "It is now, Mrs. Hamerton, that I feel the want of a
domestic and devoted wife, such as you advised me to choose; but
marriage is out of the question. I am an invalid."
We tried to cheer him up, and my husband's serene philosophy seemed to
do him good. He repeated to Paul Rajon his usual comparison of the
events of life to a very good cup of coffee to which a pinch of salt is
always added before we are allowed to taste it. "Your reputation and
talent," he said, "make a capital cup of coffee; but your illness has
seasoned it with rather a heavy pinch of salt."
The journey to England was got through without any serious accident to
my husband's health, but we had to be very careful in adhering to our
rules of slow trains and night travelling and frequent stoppages.
It was the first visit of our daughter to England, and her father
watched her impressions with great interest. She spoke English timidly
and reluctantly; but Mrs. Seeley was so kindly encouraging that she
overcame her timidity.
Mr. Seeley received us in his pretty, newly built house at Kingston,
which, being quite in the country and very quiet, suited my husband's
tastes admirably. The proximity of a beautiful park was very tempting
for rambles, and when at leisure we much enjoyed going all together for
a stroll under its noble trees. Mr. Seeley and his friend sometimes went
off to London together in the morning, but it was more desirable for my
husband to go to town only in the afternoon, because he felt less and
less nervous as the day wore on, and was quite himself in the evening.
We left Kingston to go and stay for a few days with Mr. and Mrs.
Macmillan. The evenings after Mr. Macmillan's return from business were
very animated with conversation and music.
Sometimes Mr. Macmillan gave us some Scotch and Gaelic songs with
remarkable pathos and power; and invariably, after every one else had
retired, he remained talking intimately, often confidentially, with my
husband far into the night.
A pretty incident occurred before we left Knapdale. One afternoon we
found Mrs. Macmillan very busy putting the finishing touches to an
embroidered and be-ribboned baby's frock, intended as a present to her
husband's first grandchild, on his first visit to Knapdale, which was to
be on that very day. After dinner the little man made his appearance in
the decorated frock, and took his place upon his grandfather's
shoulders. Then we all formed a procession, headed by the still erect
form of the grandsire supporting the infant hope of the family, and
leading us--parents, relatives, and guests--to the cheerful domain of
the cook. She proudly received the company, standing ladle in hand, by
an enormous earthen vessel containing a tempting mixture, in which
candied fruits, currants, and spices seemed to predominate. We were
expected, every one, to bring this medley to greater perfection by
turning over a portion of it with the ladle. It was duly offered first
to the little stranger, whose grandsire seized and plunged it into the
savory depths, whilst the tiny baby hand was tenderly laid upon his own.
The second part of the ceremony--tasting--had likewise to be performed
by proxy, for the young scion of the house peremptorily refused to
trifle with any temptation in the form of mincemeat. We all in
succession performed the ancient rite, and my husband said to me
afterwards what a capital subject for a picture of family portraits the
scene would afford. The contrast in the attire of the cook and her maids
with the toilettes of the ladies, together with the picturesque
background of the bright kitchen utensils, made a subject in the style
of an old Dutch master, with a touch of modern sentiment.
After seeing different places on the banks of the Thames we decided
again for Kew, but this time we required larger lodgings--not only on
account of Mary, but also for Miss Susan Hamerton and our cousins, Ben
and Annie Hinde, whom we had invited to join us there. They had gladly
accepted the invitation, and our meeting was happy and cheerful. We had
been very fortunate in our lodgings, which were spacious, clean, and
with a good view of the Green. Our landlady was a very respectable and
obliging person, and she let us have, when we wished, the use of a
chaise and a fast-trotting little pony, which greatly added to Aunt
Susan's enjoyment of the country, for her nephew drove her to the
prettiest places in the neighborhood, and through Richmond Park whenever
the weather allowed it. The beautiful gardens received almost a daily
visit from us, and were a most agreeable as well as a convenient resort
for our aged aunt, as she could either walk in the open grounds when it
was mild enough, or else visit the numerous hot-houses if she found the
outside air too keen for her.
We had been fortunate in this choice of Kew for our temporary residence;
not only did we like the place in itself, but we met with so hospitable
and flattering a reception from several resident families, that they
contrived to make us feel unlike strangers among them, and ever after,
our thoughts turned back to that time with mingled feelings of regret,
pleasure, and gratitude; and whenever we came to contemplate the
possibility of moving to England, Kew was always the place named as
being preferred by both of us.
Here we again met Professor Oliver, whom my husband had known since he
came to Kew alone for the first time. Being greatly interested in
painting, and possessing a collection of fine water-colors by Mr. Alfred
Hunt, he took pleasure in showing them to Mr. Hamerton, as well as the
Herbarium, of which he was Director.
Professor Church and his wife showed themselves most friendly and
untiringly hospitable. Very interesting and distinguished people were to
be met at their house, where the master was ever willing to display
before his guests some of his valuable collections of jewels, rare
tissues, old laces, and Japanese bronzes. We often had the pleasure of
meeting at this friendly house Mr. Thiselton Dyer, now Director
of Kew Gardens, and his wife, the daughter of Sir John Hooker--a most
charming person, who reminded both of us of the lovely women
immortalized by Reynolds.
[Illustration]
The third edition of "Etching and Etchers," now on sale, had fulfilled
all expectations, and was universally admired and praised. It was a
great satisfaction to the author, who had never before enjoyed such a
complete recognition. His reputation and popularity increased rapidly,
and if he had liked he would have been a good deal lionized; but
although far from insensible to this success, he remained true to his
studious habits--going with Mr. Seeley to the National Gallery, British
or Kensington Museums, to choose illustrations for the "Graphic Arts,"
or quietly writing at his lodgings, and only accepting invitations from
his friends and publishers.
In December Mr. Macmillan gave a dinner at the Garrick Club in honor of
the author of "Etching and Etchers," who was warmly congratulated by the
other guests invited to meet him.
I have still in my possession the menu belonging to Mr. Alma Tadenia who
said to my husband: "I dare say Mrs. Hamerton would like to have a
_souvenir_ of this evening--present her with this in my name," and he
handed his menu, on the back of which he had quickly and cleverly drawn
a little likeness of himself in caricature, and the guests had signed
their names on it. A facsimile is given on the opposite page.
As he had given us an invitation to visit his curious house we did not
fail to go, and Mary was especially attracted by the famous grand piano,
inscribed inside with the signatures of the renowned musicians who had
performed upon it. Knowing that our daughter was seriously studying
music, Mrs. Alma Tadema generously expressed the hope of seeing sometime
the signature of Miss Hamerton by the side of the other names.
My husband also took Mary to Mrs. Woolner's, and she enjoyed greatly the
society of the children, who spoke French very creditably, and who were
interested in the details she could give them about French life and
ways. They took her to their father's studios, and showed her his works.
When dinner-time came, however, she was unprepared for being waited upon
by her new friends, and in consequence felt somewhat ill at ease. It was
a fancy of Mr. Woolner's to make his children wait upon his guests. They
offered bread and wine, and directed the maids, their duty consisting
chiefly in seeing that every guest received perfect attendance. It
reminded one of the pages' service in mediaeval times, and was accepted
by people of mature age as a gracious courtesy of their host, though it
proved rather embarrassing to a girl of fifteen. I don't know how long
the custom prevailed, but I did not notice it in succeeding years.
Our cousin, Ben Hinde, had joined us only for a few days, his duties as
a clergyman not allowing of a long absence, but our meeting had been
very pleasant and cordial. He had left with us his sister Annie, to whom
my husband endeavored to show what was most worthy of attention in the
metropolis. And just as we were thus enjoying our fragrant "cup of
coffee," the "pinch of salt" was thrown into it with a heavy hand--for
we heard from Richard that he was lying so dangerously ill that he could
not move in bed. He had only written a few words in pencil to let us
know that the doctor thought our presence unnecessary, because the
danger would be past, or the illness prove fatal, before we could
arrive.
Of course my first impulse was to rush to my poor boy's bedside; but
what was to become of Mary--a girl of fifteen--unused to English ways,
and speaking English still imperfectly? Perhaps our aunt, who was to
leave us in a few days, would stay a little longer, though the approach
of Christmas made it imperative for her companion to get back to the
vicarage as soon as possible. But my husband?... Could I think of
leaving him a prey to this terrible anxiety, and to all the dangers of a
return of the old nervous attacks? I saw how he dreaded the mere
possibility, though he never said a word to influence my decision, but
the threatening insomnia and restlessness had already made their
appearance, and warned me that I ought to stay near him.
I wrote to my best friend in Paris, begging her to send her own doctor
to our poor boy, and to let me know the whole truth immediately. The
answer was reassuring--the crisis was past; there was nothing to fear
now, only the patient would remain weak for some time, and would require
great care. His friends--particularly one of them, a student of
medicine--had nursed him intelligently and devotedly. As soon as he
could take a little food my friend sent him delicacies and old wines,
and when he could bear the railway he went to his grandmother's to await
our return home.
We breathed again, and Aunt Susan and Annie left us comparatively quiet
in mind.
My husband now went on with his work as fast as possible, for he longed
to see his younger son again. When his notes for the "Graphic Arts" were
completed, we made a round of visits to take leave of our friends, and
after another short stay at Knapdale, where we had the pleasure of
meeting Mr. Lockyer, and another very pleasant pilgrimage to Mr. and
Mrs. Palmer's hermitage, we set off for Paris.
Mr. Seeley wrote shortly after our arrival in the French capital about
several matters connected with the "Portfolio," and added: "How will you
be able to settle down again in that little Autun? You will feel (as
Robert Montgomery said of himself in Glasgow) like an oak in a
flower-pot."
No, the oak liked to feel the pure air of the Morvan hills blowing about
its head, and to spread its branches in unconfined space. It was in
great crowded cities that it felt the pressure of the flower-pot.
On arriving at home we found Richard well again, and gifted with an
extraordinary appetite--which was the restorative he most needed, having
grown very thin and weak through his illness.
My husband had been very desirous to present me with a _souvenir_ of the
success of "Etching and Etchers," and pressed me to choose a trinket,
either a bracelet or a brooch; but I thought what I possessed already
quite sufficient, and though very sensible of his kind thoughtfulness, I
said that if he liked to make me a present, I would choose something
useful,--a silk dress, for instance. "But that would not be a present,"
he said; "when you want a dress you buy it. I should like to offer you
some pretty object which would last."
I knew that he liked to see me--and ladies in general--wearing jewels;
not in great quantity, but simply as a touch of finish to the toilette.
When I was young, he would have liked me (had it been possible) to dress
always in white, and the fashions not being then so elaborate as they
have become, it was easy enough in summer-time and in the country to
indulge his taste. So in warm days I often wore a white muslin dress,
quite plain, relieved only by a colored sash. If the sash happened to be
green, he liked it to be matched by a set of crystal beads of the same
color, which he had brought me from Switzerland when he had gone there
with his aunt and uncle. When the ribbon was red, I was to wear corals,
and with a blue one lapis-lazuli.
At last he remembered that I had admired some plain dead-gold bracelets
of English make that we had been looking at together, not far from the
National Gallery, and said he would be glad if I would choose one of
them. I had, however, taken the same resolution about jewels as his own
about pictures, and that was, to admire what was beautiful, but never to
buy, because it was beyond our means. The resolution, once taken, left
no way open to temptation. Still, I did not mean to deny myself the
pleasure of accepting his proffered present, only I did not want it to
be expensive, and since I had a sufficiency of jewels, "would he give me
a pretty casket to put them in?" "Yes," he readily assented. And when I
opened the casket of fair olive-wood, with the delicately wrought nickel
clasps and lock, I found a folded paper laid on the dark-blue velvet
tray, and having opened it read what follows--I need not say with what
emotions.
"Here in this empty casket, instead of a diamond or pearl,
Instead of a gem I leave but a little rhyme.
She remembers the brooch and the bracelet I gave her when she was a
girl.
Deep blue from beyond the sea, not paler from lapse of time.
She will put them here in the casket, the ultramarine and the gold;
And if such a thing might be, I would give them to her twice over;
Once in my youthful hope, and now again when I'm old,
But alike in youth or in age with the heart and the soul of a lover."
This note is entered in the diary:--
"January 1, 1881. Faceva i miei doni alla sposa, alla figlia, al mio
figlio Stefano. La sposa era felicissima di ricevere la sua cassetta."
Roberts Brothers had heard that a new book was in preparation, and they
wrote in January, 1881:--
"Your third edition of 'Etching and Etchers' is really a magnificent
specimen of book-making, and we understand two hundred copies have been
sold in America. At all events, whatever the number sold, it is not to
be had. We should like to have the American edition of the 'Graphic
Arts,' and should be glad to receive the novel when it is ready."
But the novel had been put aside, the author being doubtful if it
equalled "Marmorne" in quality. The whole of his time for writing was
devoted to the "Graphic Arts," and the remainder to painting from
nature, often with Mr. Pickering, and to the consideration of the
necessary alterations to the boat in view of a summer cruise on the
Saône. The reading of Italian was resumed pretty regularly, whilst the
diary was kept in that language.
Early in the spring Mr. Seeley wrote:--
"I am afraid it is indispensable that we should meet in Paris, as the
selection of engravings for reproduction is very important, though, like
you, I grudge the loss of time. But the book is an important one, and we
must do our very best to make it a success."
It was then decided that my husband should go to Paris with Richard, and
they started on May 4, stopped a day at Sens to see the cathedral again,
and to call upon Madame Challard (who had become a widow), and arrived
in Paris at night.
The entries in the note-book (kept in Italian) record his visits to the
Salon, to the Louvre, and to various public buildings. Also to the
Bibliothèque, to study the works of the École de Fontainebleau, and to
an exhibition of paintings in imitation of tapestry, which much
interested him.
He also went with Richard to see Munkacsy's picture of "Christ before
Pilate," and notes Richard's astonishment at it. He considered it
himself as one of the finest of existing pictures. He also expresses the
great pleasure he derived from Jacquemart's water-colors, their
brilliancy and sureness of execution.
The four following days having been very busy, received only this short
note, "In Parigi con Seeley;" then the fifth has, "Seeley e partito sta
mattina."
The succeeding entries record further visits to the Salon, the Louvre,
and Bibliothèque; but on the return journey, at Chagny on the 19th, he
notes that he has received sad news of the death of M. de Saint Victor,
in a duel with M. Asselin. It was only too true, and had happened on a
day which was to have been a _fête_, for Madame de Saint Victor, whose
daughter went to the same school as ours, had invited both myself and
Mary, with a few others school-fellows and their mothers, to lunch at
the Château de Monjeu, of which her husband was Régisseur. The
unfortunate lady did not know what had passed between her husband and a
gentleman of the locality who was trespassing on the grounds of the
château. M. de Saint Victor considered himself insulted, and challenged
M. Asselin; he, moreover, insisted upon choosing the sword as a
weapon--the most dangerous of all in a serious duel--and on the morning
which should have been festive and mirthful, he fell dead in the wood
near his home, killed by a sword-thrust from his skilful adversary.
As soon as he was back home, Mr. Hamerton set to work regularly at the
"Graphic Arts." In the diary this phrase is repeated like a litany:
"Worked with great pleasure at my book, the 'Graphic Arts.'" But at
the same time there is a complaint that it prevents the mind from being
happily disposed for artistic work. I have already said how difficult it
was for him to turn from one kind of occupation to another. Here is a
confirmation of this fact:--
"I lost the whole of the day in attempting to make a drawing for an
etching. Was not in the mood. It is necessary to have a certain warmth
and interest in a subject--which I have lost, but hope to recover. For a
long time past all my thoughts have turned upon my literary work."
It is easy for readers of the "Graphic Arts" to realize what an amount
of knowledge and preparation such a book required; and to present so
much information in a palatable form was no less than a feat. Still, the
author took great delight in his work. As in the case of "Etching and
Etchers," he was encouraged by the publisher, who wrote on June, "I mean
to take a pride in the book." It was exactly the sort of work which
suited him--sufficiently important to allow the subjects to be treated
at length when necessary, and worthy of the infinite care and thought he
liked to bestow upon his studies. In this case, wonderful as it seems,
he had himself practised all the arts of which he speaks, with the
exception of fresco. As to the other branches of art, namely,
pen-and-ink, silver-point, lead-pencil, sanguine, chalk, charcoal, water
monochrome, oil monochrome, pastel, painting in oil, painting in
water-colors, wood-engraving, etching and dry-point, aquatint and
mezzotint, lithography, he had--more or less--tried every one of them.
And though he did not give sufficient practice to the burin to acquire
real skill, still he did not remain satisfied till he could use it.
The same feeling of conscientiousness led him to become acquainted with
all the different processes of reproduction so much in vogue, and he was
ever anxious to learn all their technical details.
It was hoped that the "Graphic Arts" might be published at the end of
the year, and in order to be ready, the author put aside all other work,
excepting that of the "Portfolio;" but he longed for a short holiday,
and meant to take it on the Saône. He went to Chalon to a boat-builder,
and explained the changes to be made in the "Morvandelle," set the men
to work, and returned to his book.
He had begun to suffer from insomnia, and Mr. Seeley wrote:--
"Probably you are right in saying that yachting is a necessity for you;
but for the enjoyment of it you are badly placed at Autun. You must look
after that cottage at Cowes, which I suggested some time ago; and we
must set up a yacht between us; only, unluckily, I am always seasick in
a breeze."
Certainly the situation of Autun was not favorable to yachting, the
streams about it being only fit for canoeing; but the broad Saône was
not far off, and as Chalon was my husband's headquarters when cruising,
he was not disinclined to the short journey which afforded an
opportunity for visiting my mother and my brother, who lived there.
My husband had thought that a river voyage would be charming with R. L.
Stevenson as a companion, and that they might, perhaps, produce a work
in collaboration, so he had made the proposal, and here is part of the
answer:--
"RINNAUD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE.
"MY DEAR MR. HAMMERTON,--(There goes the second M: it is a certainty.)
Thank you for your prompt and kind answer, little as I deserved it,
though I hope to show you I was less undeserving than I seemed. But just
might I delete two words in your testimonial? The two words 'and legal'
were unfortunately winged by chance against my weakest spot, and would
go far to damn me.
"It was not my bliss that I was interested in when I was married; it was
a sort of marriage _in extremis_; and if I am where I am, it is thanks
to the care of that lady who married me when I was a mere complication
of cough and bones, much fitter for an emblem of mortality than a
bridegroom.
"I had a fair experience of that kind of illness when all the women (God
bless them I) turn round upon the streets and look after you with a look
that is only too kind not to be cruel. I have had nearly two years of
more or less prostration. I have done no work whatever since the
February before last, until quite of late. To be precise, until the
beginning of the last month, exactly two essays. All last winter I was
at Davos; and indeed I am home here just now against the doctor's
orders, and must soon be back again to that unkindly haunt 'upon the
mountains visitant--there goes no angel there, but the angel of death.'
The deaths of last winter are still sore spots to me.... So you see I am
not very likely to go on a 'wild expedition,' cis-Stygian at least. The
truth is, I am scarce justified in standing for the chair, though I hope
you will not mention this; and yet my health is one of my reasons, for
the class is in summer.
"I hope this statement of my case will make my long neglect appear less
unkind. It was certainly not because I ever forgot you or your unwonted
kindness; and it was not because I was in any sense rioting in
pleasures.
"I am glad to hear the catamaran is on her legs again; you have my
warmest wishes for a good cruise down the Saône: and yet there comes
some envy to that wish; for when shall I go cruising? Here a sheer hulk,
alas! lies R. L. S. But I will continue to hope for a better time,
canoes that will sail better to the wind, and a river grander than the
Saône.
"I heard, by the way, in a letter of counsel from a well-wisher, one
reason of my town's absurdity about the chair of Art: I fear it is
characteristic of her manners. It was because you did not call upon the
electors!
"Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son? and believe me,"
etc., etc.
In September we had the pleasure of a visit from Miss Betham-Edwards,
and the acquaintance ripened into friendship.
Having brought the "Graphic Arts" satisfactorily forward, my husband
thought that he might indulge in the longed-for holiday on the Saône. He
expected to find everything ready at Chalon, and to have only to
superintend the putting together of the sections of the boat. He was,
however, sorely disappointed on finding that nothing had been done, and
that he must spend several days in pushing the workmen on, instead of
sailing pleasantly on the river. After a week of worry and irritation
the boat was launched, and the two boys having joined their father on
board, they went together as far as Tournus, after spending the first
night at Port d'Ouroux, where they had found a nice little inn, with
simple but good accommodation. In the afternoon Stephen went back to
Autun to fetch his things, for he was obliged to be at his post on the
first of October. Richard proceeded with his father down the Saône to
Mâcon. The diary says:--
"Sept. 30. A beautiful voyage it was. The loveliest weather, favorable
wind, strong, delightful play of light and color on water. I had not
enjoyed such boating since I left Loch Awe."
There are these notes in the diary:--
"Nov. 26. Corrected the last proof of the 'Graphic Arts,' and sent it
off with a new finish, as the other seemed too abrupt. Spent a good deal
of time over the finish, writing it twice."
"Nov. 27. Worked all day as hard as possible at index to 'Graphic Arts,'
and got it finished at midnight."
He was in time, but Mr. Seeley wrote:--
"Now Goupil's delay [about the illustrations] threatens to become most
serious. We have now orders for 1050 copies, large and small, so we have
already surpassed the sale of 'Etching and Etchers,' third edition."
Alas! there was a very distressing item of news in the letter dated
December 1:--
"The enclosed letter from Goupil is a complete upset. It seems that the
printing of the Louvre drawings [Footnote: Two drawings by Zucchero and
Watteau. The latter was in black, red, and white chalk. The reproduction
was printed from one plate, the different colored inks being rubbed in
by the printer. Only about ten prints could be taken in a day.] will
take five or six months.
"We must decide at once what to do. This is one plan. If we can get all
the other illustrations ready, then to publish as soon as we can,
putting these three plates in the large paper copies only, and in the
others a slip of paper explaining how tedious the printing is, and
promising that these illustrations shall be delivered in the spring to
any purchaser who produces the slip.
"This is one plan. If you prefer it, please telegraph _Yes_.
"The other plan is to postpone the publication, and bring out the
complete book in the spring. If you prefer this, please telegraph _No_.
"I leave the matter entirely in your hands. Pray decide as you judge
best."
This delay was most provoking after the hard work the author had given
to the book to have it out in good time, and also because the orders
were increasing; they had now reached 315 copies for the large edition,
and 868 of the small one. Still, there was no help for it, and the
publication must be postponed rather than give an imperfect book to the
public. Both author and publisher agreed in that decision.
On December 17, 1881, Mr. Hamerton received the following letter:--
"19 WARWICK CRESCENT.
"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--You will do me an honor indeed by the dedication
you propose, and my own little worthiness to receive it becomes of
secondary importance when taken with the exceeding importance of the
truth you insist upon in connection with it--a truth always plain to me,
however moderately I may have been able to illustrate its value.
"Thank you very much: you will add to my obligation by the visit you so
kindly promise.
"I return you the best of Christmas wishes, and am ever, dear Mr.
Hamerton,
"Yours most truly,
"ROBERT BROWNING."
I transcribe the dedication to explain Mr. Browning's letter.
"TO ROBERT BROWNING.
"I wish to dedicate this book to you as the representative of a class
which ought to be more numerous,--the class of large-minded persons who
take a lively interest in arts which are not specially their own. No one
who had not carefully observed the narrowing of men's minds by
specialities could believe to what a degree it goes. Instead of being
open, as yours has always been, to the influences of literature, in the
largest sense, as well as to the influences of the graphic arts and
music, the specialized mind shuts itself up in its own pursuit so
exclusively that it does not even know what is nearest to its own closed
doors. We meet with scholars who take no more account of the graphic
arts than if they did not exist, and with painters who never read; but
what is still more surprising, is the complete indifference with which
an art can be regarded by men who know and practise another not widely
removed from it. One may be a painter and yet know nothing whatever
about any kind of engraving; one may be a skilled engraver, and yet work
in lifelong misunderstanding of the rapid arts. If the specialists who
devote themselves to a single study had more of your interest in the
work of others, they might find, as you have done, that the quality
which may be called open-mindedness is far from being an impediment to
success, even in the highest and most arduous of artistic and
intellectual pursuits."
Mr. Hamerton was so adverse to puffing of any kind and to noise being
made about his name, that he neglected the most honest means of having
it brought forward to public notice; for instance, he had been asked in
November, 1881, for notes on his life for a book to be entitled "The
Victorian Era of English Literature," and had forgotten all about it. He
had to be reminded in 1882 that he had promised to send the notes.
I suppose that the following letter from R. L. Stevenson must have been
received about this time. It is almost impossible to ascertain, as--like
the others--it bears no date.
"VILLA AM STEIN, DAVOS PLATZ, GRISONS, SWITZERLAND.
"MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--My conscience has long been smiting me, till it
became nearly chronic. My excuses, however, are many and not pleasant.
Almost immediately after I last wrote to you, I had a hemorreage (I
can't spell it), was badly treated by a doctor in the country, and have
been a long while picking up--still, in fact, have much to desire on
that side. Next, as soon as I got here, my wife took ill; she is, I
fear, seriously so; and this combination of two invalids very much
depresses both.
"I have a volume of republished essays coming out with Chatto and
Windus; I wish they would come, that my wife might have the reviews to
divert her. Otherwise my news is nil. I am up here in a little chalet,
on the borders of a pine-wood, overlooking a great part of the Davos
Thai: a beautiful scene at night, with the moon upon the snowy mountains
and the lights warmly shining in the village. J. A. Symonds is next door
to me, just at the foot of my Hill Difficulty (this you will please
regard as the House Beautiful), and his society is my great stand-by.
"Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? 'Hardly one of us,'
said my _confrères_ at the bar.
"I was blamed by a common friend for asking you to give me a
testimonial: in the circumstances he thought it was indelicate. Lest, by
some calamity, you should ever have felt the same way, I must say in two
words how the matter appeared to me. That silly story of the election
altered in no tittle the value of your testimony: so much for that. On
the other hand, it led me to take a quite particular pleasure in asking
you to give it; and so much for the other. I trust even if you cannot
share it, you will understand my view.
"I am in treaty with Bentley for a life of Hazlitt; I hope it will not
fall through, as I love the subject, and appear to have found a
publisher who loves it also. That, I think, makes things more pleasant.
You know I am a fervent Hazlittite; I mean, regarding him as _the_
English writer who has had the scantiest justice. Besides which, I am
anxious to write biography; really, if I understand myself in quest of
profit, I think it must be good to live with another man from birth to
death. You have tried it and know.
"How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your
son, and believe me,
"Yours very sincerely,
"ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
Throughout this year the diary was kept in Italian, and the reading of
Italian books was pretty regularly kept up; among them were Olanda,
Petrarch, and Ariosto. He soon abandoned Petrarch, whom he did not value
much; here is the reason: "I prefer the clear movement of Ariosto to all
the conceits of the sonnet-maker."
"Human Intercourse" was begun, and to save time, two copies were written
simultaneously--one for England and the other for America--by inserting
a sheet of black copying paper between two sheets of thin "Field and
Tuer" paper, and writing with a hard lead pencil and sufficient pressure
to obtain a duplicate on the page placed underneath. Roberts Brothers
were very desirous of seeing this new work, and had written: "We should
like to make 'Human Intercourse' a companion volume to the 'Intellectual
Life,' and the title is so suggestive of something good that we hope you
will hasten the good time of its appearance."
The publication of the "Graphic Arts" had been fixed for March 1, but a
copy having been got ready at the end of January, it was sent as a
compliment to Mr. Sagar of the Burnley Mechanics' Institution, and Mr.
Seeley said: "The Burnley people are delighted at having had the first
sight of the 'Graphic Arts.' Mr. Sagar writes that from what he saw of
it, he has no hesitation in saying that it is the best book you have
written, and does great credit to everybody concerned in its
production."
The book was highly appreciated by those competent to judge and
understand the subjects. Mr. Haden wrote about it a letter of fourteen
pages. Though he calls it himself "an unconscionably long letter," it is
most interesting throughout, but I only quote a few passages from it.
"I have been reading the 'Graphic Arts' with great interest. It is, or
rather must have been, a formidable undertaking. I like your chapter on
'Useful and Aesthetic Drawing.' Your insistence on keeping the two
things separate, and claiming for each its value, is a great
lesson--read, too, just at the right time.
"And in your 'Drawing for Artistic Pleasure,' the great lesson there is,
that true artistic pleasure can only be excited in others by the artist
that _knows_ what he is about, though he does not express it. Did you
ever see a drawing or an etching by Victor Hugo? Hugo is a poet, and
affects to be an artist. But his knowledge of what is or should be
_organic_, in every picture, is so lamentably absent, that his poetry
(sought to be imparted in that shape) goes for nothing.
"In 'Right and Wrong in Drawing,' which is excellently written, the
concluding paragraph is admirable. The chapter on 'Etching and
Dry-Point' is charmingly written, easy and refined in diction, and set
down _con amore_."
Then came this letter from Mr. Browning:--
"19 WARWICK CRESCENT, W. _March_ 6, 1882.
"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--I thought your dedication a great honor to me, and
should have counted it such had it simply prefaced a pamphlet. To
connect it with this magnificent book is indeed engraving my name on a
jewel, instead of stone or even marble.
"Your sumptuous present reached me two days ago--and will be consigned
to 'my library,' when the best jewel I boast of is disposed of on my
dressing-table among articles proper to the place: no, indeed--it shall
be encased as a jewel should, on a desk for all to see how the author
has chosen to illustrate the [painting- and] drawing-room of the
author's admirer and (dares he add?) friend,
"ROBERT BROWNING."
Mr. Alfred Hunt also wrote: "I can see that the plan of the book is
admirable. I often want to know something about art processes which I
don't practise myself, and which I might be stimulated into trying if I
was only younger."
The sale of the book was rapid, and before six weeks had elapsed so few
copies remained that the prices were raised to fifteen guineas for the
large edition, and to seven and a half guineas for the small one. But
the author had overworked himself, and hurry had brought back the old
enemy--insomnia. Mr. Seeley, who had lately suffered from lumbago,
wrote:--
"Sleeplessness is a far worse thing than lumbago. You are right in
taking it seriously. I have little doubt, however, that by avoiding
overwork--and especially hurried work--and getting plenty of exercise,
you will overcome the tendency. If you ever do another big book, we must
take two or three years for it, and have no sort of hurry. I once
thought of the 'Landscape Painters' as a good subject for a big book."
In a subsequent letter Mr. Seeley gives a great deal of thoughtful
consideration to what might suit his friend's requirements:--
"If 'Landscape Painting' is a subject that you would thoroughly like to
take up, please tell me what travelling you would consider needful, and
as far as expense goes I will try to meet you. Perhaps for one thing we
might go to Italy together, if you are not afraid of being dragged about
in a chain.
"I thought of the Rhône book again, as likely to suit your present state
of health."
In the current year, however, it was impossible to undertake the voyage,
because "Human Intercourse" was to be the important work. As usual with
a new book, the author had had a struggle at the beginning. He
attributed the difficulty to the want of subdivisions in the chapters,
and when he had adopted a more elastic system than is usual in a
treatise, the obstacle disappeared. He has himself explained this, more
in detail, to his readers, in the preface of the book.
There is no doubt that this long struggle had increased the tendency to
sleeplessness, and a little cruise on the Saône was thought to be the
best remedy. So he left for Mâcon at the beginning of April, and after
putting the several parts of the boat together, and getting provisions
on board, he started with Stephen on a voyage down the Saône. On their
way they could see with a telescope all the details of Mont Blanc. At
Port d'Arciat they picked up a friend, and after a "good little repast
with a Good Friday _matelote_," a few sketches were made at Thoissey and
Beauregard.
The change and exercise in the open air did my husband a great deal of
good, and he had regained sleep when he returned home.
There being still a good deal of leakage in the "Morvandelle," though a
thick kind of flannel had been pressed into the interstices, it was
decided to use the wooden parts to make two small boats for the pond,
one for Stephen and the other for Richard, the old ones being rotten.
There was much pleasurable planning for my husband in the scheme, and
also some manual work for rainy weather. He was exceedingly careful and
handy in doing joiner's work, and every one in the house applied to him
for delicate repairs, and--when he had time--they were done to
perfection; only, he seldom had time, and it was a standing joke that he
must have a private museum somewhere to which the objects confided to
him found their way. In reality, he had to do a good deal of manual
labor of different kinds, on account of our country life, which placed
us at an inconvenient distance from workmen. For instance, he always
framed his etchings and engravings himself; at one time he even
undertook to re-gild all the frames which the flies so rapidly spoilt in
the country. He had also to make numerous packing-cases and boxes for
the sending of plates, pictures, and books; he invented lots of
contrivances for the arrangement of his colors, brushes, portfolios,
etc. He made different portable easels with folding stools corresponding
to their size, for working from nature, desks for large books, such as
dictionaries, to be placed by the side of his arm-chair when he was
reading; others for etchings and engravings, so that they might be
examined without fear of any object coming in contact with them. So
sensitive was he to the way in which works of art were handled, that he
allowed no one to touch his prints or illustrated books; he was always
in dread about their margins being creased or crumpled, and to avoid
this possibility he used to show them himself. A well-known aqua-fortist
told me that my husband had said to him once, "I would not trust you to
handle one of your own etchings."
Mr. Seeley had suggested that some illustrated articles about Autun
might interest the readers of the "Portfolio" on account of the Roman
and mediaeval remains, the remarkable cathedral, and the picturesque
character of the surrounding country. He thought that, as a title, "An
Old Burgundian City" would do. In a former letter he had expressed a
wish that his editor should come to England--if possible--every year in
the spring, instead of the autumn, when it was too late to discuss
arrangements for the "Portfolio" for the ensuing year. Mr. Hamerton
admitted that it would be desirable, no doubt, but he could not afford
it; the expenses of our last stay had been a warning, though we had
lived as simply as possible. To these considerations Mr. Seeley had
answered: "I am sorry you do not feel more happy about your future work.
What seems to be wanting is some public post in which you would be paid
for studying." But he had had more than enough of such schemes after his
attempt at Edinburgh, and it was the only one he was ever induced to
make. He began at once the pen-drawings which were to illustrate the
articles on Autun, and he liked his work exceedingly.
CHAPTER XVI.
1882-1884.
"Paris."--Miss Susan Hamerton's Death.--Burnley revisited.--Hellifield
Peel.--"Landscape" planned.--Voyage to Marseilles.
In May, Richard went away to Paris to study from the antique in the
Louvre, and Mary read English to her father for an hour every afternoon.
In the summer Mr. Hamerton received the decoration and title of Officier
d'Académie, but so little did he care for public marks of distinction
that the fact is barely mentioned in the diary.
In August he received the following interesting letter from Mr.
Browning:--
"HOTEL VIRARD, ST. PIERRE DE CHARTREUSE ISÈRS.
"_August_ 17, 1882.
"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--When I got, a month ago, your very pleasant letter,
I felt that, full as it was of influences from Autun, the Saône between
Chalon and Lyons, speeded by '330 square feet of canvas,' my little word
of thanks in reply would never get well under weigh from the banks of
our sluggish canal; so reserved launching it till I should reach this
point of vantage: and now, forth with it, that, wherever it may find
you, I may assure your kindness that it would indeed have gratified me
to see you, had circumstances enabled you to come my way; and that the
amends you promise for failing to do so will be duly counted upon; tho'
whether that will happen at Warwick Crescent is unlikely rather than
merely uncertain--since the Bill which is to abolish my house, among
many more notable erections, has 'passed the Lords'' a fortnight ago,
and I must look about for another lodging--much against my will. I
dropped into it with all the indifference possible, some twenty-one
years ago--meaning to slip out again soon as this happened, and that
happened--and they all did happen, and yet found me with a sufficient
reason for staying longer, till, only last year while abroad, the
extraordinary thought occurred--'what need of removing at all?'--to
which was no answer: so I took certain steps toward permanent comfort,
which never before seemed worth taking--and, on my return, was saluted
by a notice to the effect that a Railway Company wanted my 'House,
forecourt, and garden,' and wished to know if I objected--I who, a month
or two before, had painted the house and improved the garden. Go I
must--but I shall endeavor to go somewhere near, and your visit, if you
pay me one, will begin the good associations with the place. And _this_
place; you may be acquainted with it, not unlikely. It is a hamlet on a
hilltop, surrounded by mountains covered with fir--being the ancient
Cartusia whence our neighbors the monks took their name; the Great
Chartreuse lies close by, an hour's walk perhaps: this hamlet is in
their district, 'the Desert,' as they call it; their walks are confined
to it, and you meet on a certain day a procession of white-clothed
shavelings, absolved from their vow of silence, and chattering like
magpies, while vigorously engaged in butterfly-hunting. We have not a
single shop in the whole handful of houses--excepting the 'tabac et
timbres' establishment--where jalap and lollipops are sold likewise--and
one hovel, the owner of which calls himself, on its outside,
'Cordonnier': yet there is this 'Hôtel' and an auberge or two--serving
to house travellers who are dismissed from the Convent at times
inconvenient for reaching Grenoble; or so I suppose.
"The beauty and quiet of the scenery, the purity of the air, the variety
of the wild-flowers--these are incomparable in our eyes (those of my
sister and myself), and make all roughnesses smooth: we spent five weeks
here last season; will do the like now, and then are bound for Ischia,
where a friend entertains us for a month in a seaside villa he inhabits:
afterwards to London, with what appetite we may, though London has its
abundant worth too. Utterly peaceful as this country appears--and you
may walk in its main roads for hours without meeting any one but a
herdsman or wood-cutter--I shall tell you a little experience I have had
of its possibilities. On the last day of our sojourn last year, we took
a final look at and leave of a valley, a few miles off; and as I stood
thinking of the utter _innocency_ of the little spot and its
surroundings, the odd fancy entered my head, 'Suppose you discovered a
corpse in this solitude, would you think it your duty to go and apprise
the authorities, incurring all the risks and certain hindrance to to-
morrow's departure which such an act entails in France--or would you
simply hold your tongue?' And I concluded, 'I ought to run those risks.'
Well, that night a man was found murdered, just there where I had been
looking down, and the owner of the field was at once arrested and shut
up in the _Mairie_ of the village of St. Pierre d'Entremont, close by.
The victim was an Italian mason, had received seven mortal wounds, and
lay in a potato-patch with a sack containing potatoes: 'he had probably
been caught stealing these by the owner, who had killed him,'--so, the
owner was taken into custody. We heard this--and were inconvenienced
enough by it next day, for our journey was delayed by the Judge
(d'Instruction) from Grenoble possessing himself of the mule which was
to carry our luggage, in order to report on the spot; but we got away at
last. On returning, last week, I inquired about the result. 'The accused
man, who was plainly innocent, being altogether _boulversé_ by the
charge coming upon him just in his distress at losing a daughter a
fortnight before, had taken advantage of the negligence of the gendarmes
to throw himself from the window. He survived three hours, protesting
his innocence to the last, which was confirmed by good evidence: the
likelihood being that the murder had been committed by the Italian's
companions at a little distance, and the body carried thro' the woods
and laid there to divert suspicions.' Well might my genius warn me of
the danger of being a victim's neighbor. But how I have victimized
_you_, if you have borne with me! Forgive, and believe me ever,
"Yours truly,
"ROBERT BROWNING."
Mr. Seeley had thought that a series of articles on Paris might be
suitable for the "Portfolio," if they were written by the editor, who
knew the beautiful city so well, and accordingly my husband had decided
to go there for a month, in order to take notes and to choose subjects
for the illustrations. He never could have been reconciled to the idea
of remaining a month in Paris alone, and I bethought myself of a plan,
which seemed both economical and pleasant, and which he readily adopted.
It was to take Mary with us, and to rent a small apartment in our quiet
Hôtel de la Muette; having our meals prepared in our private kitchen
(for each apartment was complete), and the cleaning done with the help
of a _femme de ménage_. It would be a sort of life-at-home on a very
small scale.
The apartments were like English lodgings without attendance. Moreover,
no one belonging to the hotel, not even a servant, had a right to enter
the apartments: they were entirely private. One might order the most
costly repasts from the luxurious restaurants close at hand, or keep a
_cordon bleu_, or live on bread-and-water like an anchorite, just as one
pleased, without anybody noticing it. This liberty was exactly what my
husband liked.
We left home on October 9 with Richard, who was to continue his artistic
studies in England now, and Mary, whom her father wanted to become
acquainted with the different museums, beautiful buildings, and
treasures of art, under his direction, for which there could have been
no better opportunity.
We all looked forward to this change as to a _partie de plaisir_, the
young people especially, and on our arrival in Paris, M. Mas and his
wife received us with great cordiality. They had nothing in common with
the ordinary type of hotel-keepers, and welcomed their _habitués_ with a
simple, hearty friendliness--such as servants, who had been all their
lives in a family, might show to their masters--which pleased my husband
much. They showed us, with visible satisfaction, our little apartment,
saying that it had been reserved for us on account of "Mademoiselle,"
because her room would be just close to her mamma's, and the door
leading from one to the other might be left open at night. We were told
that the kitchen was particularly nice, because Monsieur Paul Baudry,
"un artiste aussi," had fitted it up "à neuf" for the three months he
had been spending in our present apartment. Early in the morning I went
out to order provisions--groceries, fuel, wine, etc., for the month we
were to remain at the hotel. We had afterwards an excellent and cheerful
_déjeuner_ prepared in our own kitchen. My husband was amused by the
contrivances of what he called "the doll's house," and said he did not
mind spending a month in that way. In the afternoon we went with the
children to see the Hôtel de Ville, Notre Dame, and La Cour de
Cassation: in each of these buildings my husband gave us a short
explanatory lesson in architecture.
The second day he had already made rules for the division of his time,
according to which the mornings would be reserved for writing and
correspondence; déjeuner was to be ready at eleven, so as to leave the
afternoon free for the work in Paris.
As on the previous day, we were breakfasting together, talking of
Richard's prospects in London, when there came a telegram, saying that
our dear Aunt Susan thought herself to be sinking, and desired to see
us. It was a sudden and a painful blow; my husband had not a moment of
hesitation about what he would do. He told us to pack up immediately,
whilst he went to look at the railway-guide, and find the first slow
night-train for England: Richard and Mary were to go with us--it would
be a last satisfaction for their aunt if we arrived in time.
I was full of apprehension for my husband, but, of course, refrained
from mentioning my fears.
There was no slow train after four o'clock, so we had to start when it
was still daylight, but he kept his eyes closed till darkness rendered
invisible the objects we passed on our way. He bore the journey very
well on the whole, and on reaching Calais we went on board the steamer
immediately. It was midnight, the sea was splendidly phosphorescent, and
Richard and Mary took great delight in throwing things into it, to see
the sparkles flash about. I had no fear so long as we remained on the
water, for Gilbert always enjoyed it, whatever the weather might be, and
felt utterly free from nervousness.
Arrived at Dover at four in the morning, we went to bed for a little
rest, and after breakfast went out for a walk on the seashore under the
cliffs. Richard had never seen the sea before, and he received a
profound impression from it. The wind was high, and the big green,
crested waves came dashing their foam on to the very rocks at our feet.
The alternate effects of sunshine and masses of clouds, violently driven
and torn by the squalls, were magnificent; and Richard, more than ever,
was fired with the wish to become a painter. His sister, very sensitive
to natural beauty, shared his enthusiasm.
The train for London started at three, and on arriving at Charing Cross
we found a more reassuring telegram, stating that our aunt was somewhat
better. Thus cheered by the hope of seeing her again, Gilbert was able
to eat his supper with us before going to bed. I was greatly alarmed by
his decision to start early in the morning and to travel throughout the
day; but having made such a sacrifice of money in abandoning our
apartment and provisions, and in taking the children with us in the hope
of giving a last satisfaction to his aunt, I understood that he would on
no account run the risk of arriving too late.
It proved a most painful day to us all. Very soon he gave signs of
distress and nervousness in spite of all his efforts to hide them; but
this time he would not leave the train, though I besought him to do so.
We had some provisions in our bags, but, weak as he felt, he could not
swallow a morsel of anything; he could not even drink. Still, at one
time he thought that a little brandy might do him good; unfortunately we
had not any with us, and it being Sunday all the refreshment-rooms were
closed on the line. He strove desperately against the growing cerebral
excitement, now by lying down at full length on the cushions with the
curtains drawn, and his eyes closed (most mercifully we were alone in
our compartment); now by stamping his feet in the narrow space and
rubbing his hands vigorously to bring back circulation. In these
alternate fits of excitement and prostration we reached Doncaster at
five. Luckily there was a stoppage of about forty minutes before we
could proceed to Featherstone, and we turned it to the best advantage by
leaving the railway station and going in search of a quiet hotel, where
we ordered something to eat. Darkness had now set in. We had had a
little walk out of sight of the railway, in the open air, and there
seemed to be not a soul, besides ourselves and the landlord, in the
hotel; so that by the time our dinner made its appearance my husband had
so far recovered that he was able to take both food and drink, which did
him much good.
We arrived at Featherstone station after ten, and as the time of our
arrival had been uncertain, there was nobody to meet us. We left our
luggage, and only taking our handbags, we set off for the vicarage on
foot in the dark and in a deluge of rain. At eleven we were all standing
by the bed of our dear aunt, who knew us perfectly in spite of her weak
state, and whose satisfaction at the sight of Richard and Mary was as
great as unhoped for. The diary says: "Oct. 15, 1882. Our poor aunt
recognized us, but it is only too plain that she cannot live more than
three or four days." The doctor, whom we saw on the following morning,
said that Miss Hamerton was dying of no disease; it was merely the
breaking up of the constitution. She was kept up artificially by
medicine and stimulants, very frequently administered, for which she had
neither taste nor desire. Now she said to the doctor: "I have been very
submissive because I wanted to retain my flickering life until I should
see my nephew and his family; this great happiness has been granted to
me, and now I only desire to go to my final rest." After this the
doctor's prescription was to give her only what she might ask for. We
remained at her bedside throughout the day, with the exception of a
visit to the old church, now restored with care and taste, to my
husband's satisfaction.
We watched our aunt part of the night, and she spoke very often, with
her usual clearness of mind; towards three in the morning our cousins
Emma and Annie came to relieve us. On the morrow there was a change for
the worse with greater weakness, and we determined--my husband and
myself--to watch all night.
Aunt Susan concerned herself about our comfort to the last; she reminded
her nephew to keep up a good fire that I might not get cold; she
insisted upon my making some tea for myself, and upon my husband having
a glass of beer. About two in the morning she asked for a little
champagne; her mind was so clear that, after exchanging a few sentences
with her nephew in the Lancashire dialect and drinking her small glass
of champagne, she said with a smile, "It's good sleck," and lay still
for a while. At three she wanted to be turned on her side, which my
husband did with tender care, happy to be able to do something for her
better than any one else could do it, as she said. I believe she liked
to feel herself in his arms. Then she wished Ben to come up to read the
last prayers. I went to call him, also Annie and Emma, Richard and Mary,
and we all surrounded her bed whilst Ben was reading the prayers
according to her desire, and my husband holding one of her hands all the
time. She rested her eyes upon each of us in turn, closed them never to
open them again, and breathed more and more feebly till she breathed no
more. It was five o'clock in the morning. Her death had been a peaceful
one, without a struggle, without pain,--the death we may desire for all
that we love. Nevertheless, it proved a sore trial for my husband, who
was losing the oldest affection of his life. It was even more severe
than such losses are in most cases, however great may have been the
affection, for it was like complete severance from the past to which
both he and his aunt were so much attached. When they were together the
reminiscences of the old days at Hollins, of the old friends and
relations, of the quaint old customs still prevailing in the youthful
days of the Misses Hamerton, and the great change since, were frequent
topics of conversation. Aunt Susan was extremely intelligent, and her
conversation was full of humor; she also wrote capital letters, and kept
her nephew _au courant_ of all that happened to their common friends.
She shared in his great love and admiration for the beauties of nature,
and her enjoyment of them was intense. When walking out she noticed all
the changes of effect, and her interest never palled.
Great respect to her memory was manifested by the inhabitants of
Featherstone, high and low, who filled the church on the day of the
funeral and on the following Sunday, and who had put on mourning almost
without exception.
On the Sunday night my husband went alone to the cemetery by moonlight,
and remained long at the grave.
Our cousins, Ben and Annie Hinde, both showed great sympathy, and were
also sorrowful on their own account; but Ben thought it bad for Mary and
Richard to be shut up in unrelieved sadness, and was so kind as to take
them to Leeds, Pontefract, Wakefield, and York in turn.
Aunt Susan had left a little legacy to each of her nephews and nieces,
and the rest of her savings to my husband (she had not the disposition
of the capital, which had been left in trust).
She had carefully prepared and addressed little parcels of _souvenirs_
to myself and to each of my children--jewels, seals, silver
pencil-cases, as well as some ancient and curious objects which had been
preserved as relics in the family, and which she knew we should value
and respect.
The day came when we had to leave our dear cousins and the old vicarage,
so full of associations both pleasant and painful. We proceeded towards
Burnley, where a telegram from Mr. Handsley was handed to my husband at
the station. It said that Mr. Handsley was prevented from coming
himself, but that his carriage was in readiness to take us to Reedley
Lodge, where his wife was awaiting us.
We were made very welcome, and Gilbert was happy to see his friends
again after so long a separation. Thursday--our former servant in the
Highlands--came to see us in the evening, and our children, who had
heard a great deal about him, were glad of the meeting.
Mrs. Handsley was a distant relation of my husband, and the relationship
had always been acknowledged. She showed herself eager to divine how her
guests would like to spend the short time at their disposal, and to
fulfil their wishes. She was aware of my husband's faithful attachment
to old associations, both with persons and with places, and she drove us
to see his former friends who were still alive, and also the Hollins.
The children, who had heard so much about it, were greatly interested,
particularly in the room which had been their father's study. Note in
the diary: "October 26, 1882. Went to see the Brun, that I had not seen
since my marriage. Drank some of its water."
Mrs. Handsley said she had it on good authority that Mr. John Hamerton
of Hellifield Peel had expressed on several occasions his regret for the
division existing between the two branches of the family, and his wish
to become acquainted with my husband, whose works he knew and admired.
Now it had been a lifelong desire of his to visit Hellifield Peel--the
ancient tower with the romantic history, and the seat of the elder
branch of the Hamertons. There could be no better opportunity, Mrs.
Handsley suggested. At last he decided for the attempt, and on the
following morning we set out with the children.
It was Gilbert's intention merely to send his card, and beg leave to see
the tower without putting forward a claim of any kind, but on receipt of
the card we were immediately shown into the drawing-room and most
cordially received by Mr. John Hamerton and his sister. I was at once
struck--and so were Richard and Mary--by the likeness between the two
men, though they belonged to different branches of the family. My
husband might have been easily taken for a younger brother of Mr. John
Hamerton. They were both tall and spare, the elder man especially; both
were straight and of somewhat proud bearing; their eyes were blue, with
a straightforward and fearless expression. The lightness of the beard
and hair, together with the development of the forehead, completed the
resemblance, though the whole aspect of Mr. John Hamerton was that of a
country gentleman, whilst hard intellectual work had left its stamp on
the younger man's countenance. They got on very amicably together, and
we were invited to lunch. My husband eagerly desired to go over the
house, but alas for his dreams! it had been transformed according to
modern wants, and the absence of all relics from so many generations was
very striking.
We walked in the park, where we admired the noble trees, the pond, and,
at some distance from the Peel, the beautiful Ribble valley, the subject
of one of Turner's landscapes.
It was now time to go to our train after our long and charming visit;
and when Mr. John Hamerton had given some photographs of Hellifield Peel
to my husband, and we had taken a friendly leave of his sister, he
accompanied us to the station, and invited us to the Peel whenever we
might come that way.
So the long breach in the family now belonged to the past, and was
replaced by mutual goodwill and friendliness. Gilbert wrote in his
diary: "October 27, 1882. One of the most delightful days of my life."
The day after, he went to Burnley with Mr. Handsley and saw the new
school before going to the Council Chamber, where a public reception had
been organized in his honor, and where he delivered an oration in
acknowledgment of many flattering speeches. The formal part of the
reception over, he shook hands with every one who came forward to speak
to him--among whom he still remembered a few.
The afternoon ended with a visit to the Mechanics' Institution, in which
he had never ceased to take great interest. He had been much moved and
gratified by the welcome offered him at Burnley, and never forgot it.
The journey to London was very trying on account of the cold, fog, and
snow. The train ploughed its way slowly and cautiously amidst the
explosive signals, which did not add to our comfort. We felt very sorry
for Mr. and Mrs. Seeley, who were sitting up for us so late into the
night.
On the days following our arrival, my husband introduced Richard to his
friends, took him about London, and chose lodgings for him.
He also saw Mr. F. G. Stephens, who wished him to become a candidate for
the post of Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford; but he did not feel
tempted.
He called upon Mr. Browning, who was unfortunately out; but as he was on
the point of closing the door, he felt a resistance, and saw a
lady--"the sister of Robert Browning," she explained--to whom his card
had been handed, and who, by mistake, had read the name as Hamilton. It
was only after looking at it more attentively that she had rushed down
the stairs to detain the visitor. He went up with her to the
drawing-room, where he found Mrs. Orr, the sister of Sir Frederick
Leighton, and they had a long and pleasant talk together. Some days
later he had the pleasure of meeting with Mr. Browning.
It was lucky that Gilbert had good health just then, and Richard to go
about with him in London, for I was laid up with a bad cold--the result
of having walked a whole day in the snow making calls, without an
opportunity of drying my boots or of warming my feet. Mrs. Seeley was my
kind and thoughtful nurse, and thanks to her care I gradually recovered.
Richard came to say good-bye, and we left Nutfield House for France.
This time we did not go through Paris, but visited everything of
interest at Rouen, Dreux, Orléans, and Bourges. The diary says:
"November 27. In the evening we reached home, very happy to be back
again."
On the 29th of the same month be received a letter from Mr. Sagar, from
which I quote the following passage:--
"Sufficient time has not yet elapsed, I hope, for you to forget us in
Burnley here, and the pleasure we had in seeing you in the Council
Chamber on that, to us, memorable Saturday.
"Next year will be the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the
Institute, and we are going to celebrate this and the general success we
have had by a week's jubilee--the whole of New Year's week. The jubilee
will take the form of a conversazione, a banquet, and a general
exhibition, occupying every room of the place except two. South
Kensington authorities are sending us six cases of examples of fabrics,
pottery, etc., and about sixty frames of pictures, drawings, etc. Can
you use your influence for us in obtaining a representative
exhibition--say of etchings, or anything else of a suitable character
that might suggest itself to you--together, if possible (and this would
delight us all), with your presence, or in the absence of this, if you
can't be here, a short letter for me to read, as on the opening of the
Art-school?"
The letter was sent in due time, and acknowledged with grateful thanks.
Mr. Seeley was so kind as to send us news of Richard from time to time;
he wrote in March: "Richard has shown me some of his drawings; I think
he is making progress. One of his last drawings seemed to me excellent;
very tender and subtle. He was down at Kinsgton with us the other day."
This opinion of Mr. Seeley's gave great pleasure to my husband, who had
always entertained doubts about the range of his son's artistic talent.
In the same month he was asked to send a biographical note for "Men of
the Time," a proof that his reputation was on the increase, and Mr.
Haden, who had just come back from America, said that his works were
held there in the highest esteem.
The book on Paris necessitated another journey, and my husband made the
time of it to coincide with the opening of the Salon. This time we
stopped at Auxerre, and visited the four churches, the museum, and the
room in which are exhibited the relics of Marshal Davoust.
The diary says: "April 30. Began this morning another diary in English,
to record the impressions which may serve for my literary work."
On May 1 we had a carriage accident which might have been serious. Our
horse took fright at sight of a steam tram, and ran away on the footpath
at a furious rate, dashing the carriage against the trees and lamp-posts
until he slipped and fell at full length on the asphalt. My husband had
been able to jump out, but a sudden jerk had prevented me from following
him at the moment, and then there was danger of being hurt between the
side of the carriage and the banging door. Gilbert had been running,
hatless, after the carriage to hold the door and enable me to jump out,
and he just succeeded as the horse slipped down and upset the carriage.
I was out in time to escape being hurt, but of course we were both a
good deal shaken, and went back to rest at our hotel.
We had hardly been a week in Paris when my husband began to suffer from
nervousness. A tramway had been laid in front of the hotel, and the
vibration prevented him from sleeping. Then spring was always trying to
him; and above all, he wished himself in the country. Mr. Seeley wrote:
"Nature evidently intended you for a savage; how in the world did you
come to be a literary man? What must Frenchmen think of you, in Paris
and miserable? Even Mrs. Hamerton must feel ashamed of you." He
acknowledged that he was more happy in a primitive sort of existence
than in one too perfectly civilized; still, he could not endure the
privation of books, and he would have felt keenly the absence of works
of art; but he was in deeper sympathy with the beauty of nature than
with artistic beauty--to be denied the last would have been a great
privation, but in the absence of the first he really could not live.
We had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Mr. Howard-Tripp, who
had recently married Mr. Wyld's daughter, and who, being a
picture-dealer, invited us to go and see his gallery in the Rue St.
Georges. There were a great many fine works that my husband greatly
admired, particularly those by Corot, Daubigny, and Troyon, and the
scheme for the book on "Landscape" having been settled with Mr. Seeley,
he begged Mr. Howard-Tripp to allow reproductions of some of the
pictures to appear in his future work. It was readily granted.
This selection of pictures for the book on "Landscape" gave the author
much additional labor; but it was better to do it now that he was in
Paris than have to come again on purpose. Mr. Seeley had offered to run
over and help with the arrangements, but was prevented by a slight
accident. He then proposed that photographs of the pictures chosen
should be sent to him, that he might have a vote.
We were very near the end of our stay in Paris, and Gilbert wanted to go
to the office of "L'Art," having some business there, and wishing to say
farewell to the manager. He had also invited the sons of M. Schmitt (who
were now in Paris) to meet us in the Square Richelieu and to dine
afterwards at a restaurant. He thought that he could manage both things
on the same day. However, we were hardly out of the omnibus when I
perceived he was unwell; but I had not time to propose anything before
he started off at such a rate that I was obliged to run to follow him:
the worst symptoms were betrayed by his gait, by the congestion of face
and neck, and by the hard stare of the eyes. It was too late to take a
carriage; he could not stop, and could not be spoken to. I saw that a
sure instinct was guiding him out of the crowded street to the by-ways
and least frequented places, and I strove to remain by his side. In the
course of about twenty minutes, I noticed a slackening in his pace, and
as I had been looking about for some refuge, I remarked, through the
open doors of a small café, an empty back-room, and motioned to him to
follow me there. It was almost dark, and there was a divan running along
three sides of the wall; I made him lie down upon it, and went to tell
the _dame-de-comptoir_ (who happened to be the mistress of the house)
that my husband had felt suddenly unwell and required a little rest. She
made no fuss, did not press me to send for a doctor or to administer
anything; she merely promised to prevent any one from going into that
back room, and said we might remain there undisturbed as long as was
needed. After half-an-hour my husband asked for a little brandy and
water, and gradually became himself again. We remained about two hours
in the little room, reading--or pretending to read--the newspapers, and
such was Gilbert's courage and resolution, that he went to keep the
appointment with the young men he had invited. I knew I was not to
breathe a word of what had happened, and I was miserably anxious about
the effect that a dinner in a restaurant _en vogue_ might have upon the
nerves of my poor patient. Strange to say, he bore it very well, and
played his part as entertainer quite merrily. But after dinner I longed
to get him away, and proposed to take an open carriage for a drive in
the Champs Élysées. This was accepted, and I believe he really enjoyed
it.
We agreed to leave Paris the following evening, and I went to town alone
in the afternoon for a few things which had been postponed to the last
moment. We reached Autun on May 26, at which date the diary says: "I am
very happy to be in my home, which I prefer to all the finest palaces in
Paris."
In the spring he had suffered repeatedly from great pain in one of his
legs, and had attributed it to rheumatism; now he began to feel the pain
again in the left foot, and it soon became so acute that the doctor was
sent for. He said it was an attack of gout, but gave hope of an ultimate
cure, because the patient's constitution was not a gouty one. The cause
of the attack was insufficient exercise in the open air. He prescribed a
severe regimen, less sedentary work, and as much walking and riding as
possible.
For twenty-one nights my husband could not go to bed, but remained
stretched on a couch or sitting in an arm-chair; when the pain was less
severe he laid himself down upon the bed for a short time, but he hardly
ever got to sleep. His fortitude and patience were incredible, and he
bore the almost intolerable sufferings with admirable resignation. He
tried to read, and even to write upon a desk placed on his knees, and
talked much about his plan for the book on "Landscape."
Mr. Seeley wrote:--
"I am heartily sorry to hear of your attack of gout. But I am relieved
to hear that it is not erysipelas, which must have been alarming.
Possibly the discomfort you suffered in Paris may have been a
premonitory symptom of this attack, and you may look forward to the
enjoyment of better health when it has passed away."
Mr. Haden declared that he felt "delighted" by this attack, as
indicative of a change for the better in the constitution; he hoped that
the tendency to nervousness and insomnia would disappear, or at any rate
greatly diminish.
We were now daily expecting Richard, and Mr. Seeley had said on June 25:
"Richard was with us on Saturday, his farewell visit. We like him more
and more every time we see him." He was coming back--at my request--to
pass an examination in English, the same that his brother had passed
successfully two years ago for the _Certificat d'aptitude_, after which
he got his post of professor at Mâcon. I had thought that if Richard
failed as an artist he might be glad to fall back upon a professorship,
and it turned out so. His father was pleased to notice how much better
and more fluently he spoke English on his return from London; but at the
same time, after seeing the drawings done in England, he was confirmed
in the opinion that originality and invention were lacking to make a
real artist of his younger son. What ought to be said was very
perplexing: the drawings were good enough in their way, the progress
undeniable--but they were only copies, even when done from the living
model--the creative spark, the individual artistic stamp, were absent.
My husband allowed himself some time for consideration before warning
Richard that he thought him mistaken in his choice of a career.
However, after having passed a successful examination it was Richard
who, of his own accord, told his father that he felt very doubtful about
the ultimate result of his artistic studies. He believed they were begun
too late, and that his chances against students who had several years'
start were very small--they had been drawing and painting since the age
of thirteen or fourteen, whilst he was preparing himself for his
degrees. The ease with which he had carried off the _Certificat
d'aptitude_ made him sanguine about being ready for the _Agrégation_ in
the course of a year, after which he would be entitled to a post in the
University. He would not abandon art, he said, but would not follow it
as a profession.
It was a great relief that the resolution should have been his own; but
it surprised Mr. Seeley considerably, and he wrote to my husband:--
"From what you tell me of his want of enjoyment in the practice of art,
the determination seems wise. I suppose we take it for granted that a
man must take pleasure in doing whatever he can do well; but there is no
reason in the world why ability and inclination should always go
together. A man with a good eye and that general ability and power of
application which make a good student may easily be a draughtsman above
the average, but it is quite intelligible that he should take more
pleasure in other studies."
At the end of August Gilbert went with Stephen and his eldest nephew,
Maurice Pelletier, for a cruise of ten days on the Saône. They were on
the new catamaran "L'Arar," and enjoyed their voyage thoroughly.
On October 2, Richard left us to go to Paris to have the benefit of _les
Cours de la Sorbonne_, as a preparation for _L'Agrégation d'Anglais_;
and in December Stephen asked for a year's leave of absence from his
post, in order to pursue his English studies in London. It is therefore
conceivable that the father's health should have been impaired by
anxiety and his brain overtaxed by the numerous works he had undertaken
to meet his responsibilities. He was at the same time writing "Human
Intercourse" for Messrs. Macmillan, "Paris" for the "Portfolio," and the
book on "Landscape" was begun.
In November he had written a very long letter to Miss Betham-Edwards,
mainly in explanation of the word "sheer" used for boats, then about our
doings, and he says:--
"We have had the house upset by workpeople, but we are settled again
after a great bother, which I dreaded before, as Montaigne used to dread
similar disturbances; but now it is over I feel myself much more
comfortable and orderly, though the reform has cost me a considerable
loss of time. The rooms look prettier and are less crammed.
"I got the other day a letter of twenty pages from a cousin in New
Zealand who had never written to me for thirty years. It was the most
interesting biography of struggle, adventure, danger, hard work, and
final success. It is a great pity that the men who go through such lives
have not the literary talent to make autobiographies that can be
published. I have another cousin whose history is _quite_ as good as
'Robinson Crusoe,' and I have engaged him to write it, but he never
will. If I lived near him I could gradually get the material out of him;
but at a distance I cannot get him even to write rough notes. On the
other hand, we literary people are quite humdrum people in our ways of
life, and our autobiographies would generally be of little interest.
"I have been reading Ariosto lately in Italian, and am struck both by
his qualities and deficiencies. He is all on the surface; but what a
wealth of inventive power, and what a well-sustained, unflagging energy
and cheerfulness! The descriptions are frequently superb, and there is a
go in the style generally that is very stimulating. It is like watching
the flow of a bright, rapid, brimming river. I don't think we have any
English poet of the same kind. Spenser is rather like, but heavier, and
just lacking that brightness in combination with movement. Spenser and
Byron together contain many of the qualities of Ariosto."
The first note in the diary for 1884 says: "I must try to economize time
in all little things where economy is possible without injury to the
quality of work. I cannot economize it very much in the work itself
without risk of lowering quality."
It was a pleasure for my husband to see that his articles on the
architecture of Paris had been so favorably noticed as to bring requests
for contributions from "The Builder" and "L'Architecte." Mr. Seeley
wrote to him: "I think it is a feather in your cap that your
architectural notes should have brought you invitations to write for
professional journals."
My brother-in-law, M. Pelletier, had left Algiers, and was now Économe
at the Lycée at Marseilles. He had suggested that, it being possible to
go from Chalon to Marseilles by water, we might pay him a visit and see
the course of the Rhône at the same time. My husband felt greatly
tempted to accept, for more than one reason: he would be able at the
same time to take notes and to make observations on the way for the book
on "Landscape," and to come to a conclusion about the possibility of the
Rhône scheme. We might divide the places of interest into two series,
and see one of them in going and the other in coming back, with a
pleasant time of rest at our friend's in the interval.
The itinerary was carefully prepared to miss nothing on the way, and on
April 8 we left my mother in charge of the house, whilst my husband,
myself, and Mary started from Chalon, where we went on board the steamer
for Mâcon. My husband having often seen the town, was left to his
writing whilst I took Mary to see the church of Brou. From Mâcon to
Lyons we enjoyed the landscape from the deck of the steamer,
particularly Trévoux, and L'Ile Barbe as we neared Lyons.
Note in the diary: "We passed through some lovely scenery, but I came to
the conclusion never to boat with the 'Arar' below Courzon."
So long as he remained on the water or in little out-of-the-way places,
Gilbert was well enough and enjoyed himself exceedingly, but as soon as
we were obliged to stay in large towns he began to suffer; at Lyons,
having attempted to go to the Museum when it was crowded, he had to
hurry out, and it is a miracle how he managed to reach the hotel, where
he went through one of the worst attacks of nervousness in his life. It
did not last very long, and when he was well again I took Mary to
Fourvières.
By rail we proceeded to Vienne, then to Valence and Pierre-latte,
where it was pitch dark as we got out, and raining heavily. To our
dismay we saw no sign of either omnibus or carriage. However, a man was
coming up to us in a leisurely way with a broken lantern, and he
explained that the "'bus had not come because it was raining." He led us
to a very queer--apparently deserted--hotel, where the getting of sheets
for the narrow beds seemed to be an almost insurmountable difficulty;
and as to cases for the pillows, in sheer despair of ever getting any,
we had to use clean towels out of our bags in their stead. The
double-bedded room was adorned with a gallery of pastel portraits so wan
and faded that they looked by the faint gleam of moonlight through the
shutters like a procession of ghosts; and there were so many chairs in
Mary's room, and such an immensely long table, that it must surely have
been used by the ghosts as a dining-hall. Nevertheless, we slept
soundly, had a charming excursion in the morning, and a good, though
late, _déjeuner_ afterwards, for it chanced to be the drawing of lots
for the conscription, and the hotel was crowded by famished
officials--Mayor, _adjoints_, gendarmes, officers, etc. Of course there
was nothing for unofficial people like us but to wait and catch the
dishes as they left the important table, and appropriate what might
remain upon them. There was enough for us, and the wine was
excellent,--so good indeed that we thought of having a cask sent to La
Tuilerie. The great people having departed, we were able to talk at our
leisure with the landlady, but all of a sudden we became aware that it
was getting time to go, and asked for the bill. "Oh! there was no need
for a bill, she could reckon in her head--but there was no hurry." We
explained that there was some hurry, as the carriage we had ordered
would be at the door presently.
"Mais pourquoi? pourquoi vous en aller?" exclaimed the simple woman,
with an air of consternation; "est-ce que vous n'êtes pas bien ici?"
Bourg St. Andéol, where we stopped next, is a very interesting place. My
husband was particularly pleased with the little town and the Hôtel
Nicolai. Our arrival created quite a stir in the sleepy, regular routine
of the little bourg, and the doors and windows it can boast of became
alive with curious eyes as we passed along the deserted streets. In an
open carriage we were driven to Pont St. Esprit, and noticed the long
lines of mulberry trees on each side of the roads; the driver explained
that they are planted to feed the silkworms, and that in two months they
would be leafless. We took the steamer again at Pont St. Esprit, late in
the following day, for Avignon. In the morning of Sunday we all went to
hear High Mass in the Cathedral, then to the Palace of the Popes, and
round the walls. In the afternoon we visited the tomb of John Stuart
Mill, and my husband left his card at the house of Miss Taylor. We then
heard music in the open air, and saw the old bridge.
It was a very pleasant fortnight that we spent at Marseilles with our
relations, the only drawback being Gilbert's uncertain health, which
prevented him from going out much; though close to the expanse of the
Mediterranean, I suppose he had the feeling expressed in the preface to
"Landscape" in these words: "The lover of wilderness always feels
confined among the evidences of a minutely careful civilization."
Towards the end of the day, when the blinding glare of sunshine was
softened, we generally went to the Vieux Port, where there was an
uninterrupted succession of picturesque scenes among sailors of all
nations and ships of every description; or to La Joliette, to watch the
arrival or departure of the Chinese vessels and other curious craft. At
other times we walked in the Pare Borelli or on the Corniche.
A novel feature in our life was the frequent visits to the theatre with
our friends. It was most remarkable that my husband should take such a
sudden fancy to the Opera; he could not account for it himself, except
by noticing that "he felt at home in it." We invariably took _fauteuils
d'orchestre_, so that he only saw the musicians, actors, and
scenery--hardly any of the occupants of the theatre, except those in the
stage-boxes. It is a curious fact that in the space of a fortnight he
heard more operas than in all the rest of his life.
He wrote the greater part of the day in a very quiet room, which M.
Pelletier, who was well acquainted with his tastes, had fitted up
accordingly at the very beginning of our visit.
On our return we stopped to see Tarascon and Beaucaire, where we had
still some friends. In the last place the director of the gas-works
obligingly showed us through the house which had been my father's. We
also visited Nîmes, Orange, and Montélimart, giving a whole day to each
place. It was already very hot in the south, and the perfume of the
acacias in full bloom everywhere was almost more than we could bear,
especially at Montélimart. At Orange, after seeing the noble Roman
remains, we partly ascended the hill to see the Ventoux range of
mountains; then went on to Valence for the night. We were on board the
steamer at five in the morning, and had a delightful voyage to Lyons,
during which Gilbert took copious notes in the map-book he had prepared
on purpose. After resting a day, we went straight on to Chalon by boat,
and had a pleasant day with the captain, who invited us to _déjeuner_
with him on board.
On the whole, we were satisfied with our journey; but the information my
husband had collected on the way convinced him that the Rhône project,
as he had planned it, was utterly impracticable.
We were soon in great anxiety about our relatives at Marseilles, for we
learned that cholera had broken out there early in July. Gilbert,
without the least hesitation, immediately wrote to M. Pelletier,
inviting him and his children to La Tuilerie, where they would be safe
from the terrible scourge. Our brother-in-law readily availed himself of
the invitation for his children; but thought it his duty to remain at
his post, and set an example to the panic-stricken population.
The arrival of our nephews and niece from the very centre of
contamination did not tend to augment our popularity in the
neighborhood, and we were made to understand--very plainly--that the
house was tabooed, along with ourselves. Our milk from the farm just
opposite to our house was brought to us half-way, and deposited in the
middle of the road, where our servant had to go and fetch it--no one
amongst the inmates of the farm being sufficiently courageous either to
bring it within our walls, or to deliver it to a servant who had
approached "les Marseillais."
Ever since Richard had come home he had been steadily preparing himself
for his examination, with the help of his father. Every day they read
English poetry together, and Gilbert gave him all the necessary
information as to the meaning, rhythm, and structure.
In moments of relaxation he joined the family circle, frequently
enlivened by the presence of a young couple, M. and Mme. Pochon, who had
recently come to live at the schist-works, where the husband was
managing engineer. The lady had a charming voice, and used to sing in
the church with Mary, who played the harmonium. This led to an intimacy,
and with an additional singer and pianist in the person of my niece we
often organized private concerts, in which my husband took great
pleasure. There was nothing he enjoyed more than such private
recreation, except perhaps the satisfaction of taking trouble to make
things agreeable to others. Here is an instance among many.
On a fearfully hot day in August he overheard a _cantinière_ who,
talking to her husband from the top of a wagon which had just stopped
near La Tuilerie, was lamenting her inability to find a shady place for
the _déjeuner_ of the officers, who would shortly arrive. He saw at once
that he might offer these hot and weary warriors the unexpected pleasure
of a cool resting-place. So he went to the _cantinière_, and proposed to
have the officers' table set upon the lawn, under the shady elder trees.
The woman could hardly credit such a charitable offer, and warned him
that the fresh-looking grass would certainly suffer from it; but he only
smiled, saying that it could not be helped, but that he hoped to induce
the grass to grow again with copious watering.
The table was set, chairs were brought from the house, also live
charcoal for the portable stove, and we witnessed a very entertaining
scene from behind the shutters when the regiment halted.
The Colonel began to swear and scold at sight of the white, dusty,
sultry road where the _cantinière_ had stopped, and for a few moments
refused to listen to her explanations; but when he saw Mr. Hamerton
coming out of the garden gate to invite him inside with his brother
officers, he dismounted to salute him, and stood fixed in a state of
ecstacy before the inviting white table-cloth, looking so fresh and cool
between the green grass of the lawn and the green leaves of the trees.
The other officers shared this pleasant impression, and were profuse in
their thanks. After a short talk with the master of the house--who was
called away to his own _déjeuner_ by the bell--they drank his health,
and sat down with unfeigned satisfaction to their meal.
It was not only the lawn which was thus invaded; for there being in the
courtyard a deep well of deliciously cold water, the soldiers were not
slow to find their way to it, and after quenching their thirst and
filling up their _bidons_, they stretched themselves at full length upon
the ground wherever there was shade, either from tree or wall.
This general enjoyment of an hour's delicious rest amply compensated my
husband for the havoc done in the garden.
We were rather a numerous household then, at meal-times, with the
addition of my mother, M. Pelletier and his three children, my brother,
his wife and two little girls, so that when the youngest officer entered
the dining-room--as spokesman--to reiterate the thanks of his brother
officers, he felt abashed by so many eyes fixed upon him; still, he
managed to get through his duty--somewhat hurriedly--and soon after the
regiment was marching off; the men, now rested and refreshed, singing
lustily at the top of their voices, and waving their _képis_ towards La
Tuilerie.