were soon discouraged by the prevailing dirtiness and slovenliness of the people, and by what we heard of the disastrous inundations. We were also afraid of our children catching the horrid accent of the country. So we thought of the Saone district, Gilbert being unable to bear the idea of being at a remote distance from an expanse of water of some kind.
Here again the landscape was appreciated, though for charms different from those of the Rhone. Unluckily we could not find a suitable house in a good situation, and we also learned that intermittent fevers were very prevalent, on account of the periodical overflows of the Saone.
We tried after that the vine-land of Burgundy, where Gilbert told me what he has repeated in “Round my House”: “There is no water, with its pleasant life and changefulness, here.” I also agreed with him in thinking the renowned vineyards of the Cote d’Or most monotonous, except during a very short time indeed, when they are clothed in the splendor of gold and purple, just before a cruel night of frost strips them bare, and only leaves the blackened _paisceaux_ visible, for more than six months at a time. Then we turned to the beautiful valley of the Doubs, and discovered the very dwelling of our dreams, in which were found all the conditions that we thought desirable. However, we were doomed to a new disappointment, for the owner, when we offered to take it, changed her mind and coolly declined to let.
Fortunately, some time later, a friend directed us to quite another region, that of the Autunois, to see a very similar house, offering about the same advantages. There were a few points of difference; for instance, the little river encircling the garden was only a trout-stream, instead of the broad and placid Doubs; the building was also of more modest appearance. As compensations, however, there were picturesque and extensive views from every window; the situation was more private, and the solitude of the small wild park with its beautiful trees at once enchanted Gilbert. So we decided to take Pre-Charmoy.
CHAPTER VIII.
1863-1868.
Canoeing on the Ternin.–Visit of relatives.–Tour in Switzerland.– Experiments in etching.–The “Saturday Review.”–Journeys to London.–Plan of “Etching and Etchers.”–New friends in London. –Etchings exhibited at the Royal Academy.–Serious illness in London.–George Eliot.–Professor Seeley.
NOT to waste his time in the work of removal and fitting up, Mr. Hamerton remained behind at Sens, to finish the copying of a window by Jean Cousin in the cathedral and some other drawings, begun to illustrate an article on this artist. We had all gone forward to Pre-Charmoy, and when he arrived there, everything being already in order, he continued his work without interruption. He was delighted with the unpretentious little house, and with its views from every window; with the silent, shady, wild garden, and its group of tall poplars by the clear, cool, winding river which divided it from the pastures on the other side, and he often repeated to us with a smile, “Pre-Charmoy charme moi.” Although the house was small, there were a good many rooms in it, and the master had for himself alone a studio (an ordinary-sized room), a study, and a carpenter’s shop–for he was fond of carpentry in his leisure hours, and far from unskilful. He liked to make experimental boats with his own hands, and moreover he found out that some kind of physical exercise was necessary to him as a relief from brain-work, for if the weather was bad and he took no exercise he began to feel liable to a sort of uncomfortable giddiness. I wished him to consult a doctor about it, but he believed that it would go away after a while, for it had come on quite lately while painting on an open scaffolding inside the cathedral at Sens, when he could see through the planks and all round far below him, and this had produced, at times, a kind of vertigo.
The pretty little boat bought at Asnieres was all very well for the Arroux which flows by Autun, but for the narrow, shallow, winding Ternin and the Vesure, some other kind of craft had to be devised, and paper boats were built upon basket-work skeletons, and tried with more or less success. My eldest brother Charles, who had finished his classical studies and was now preparing to become an architect, used to come from Macon for the holidays, sometimes bringing a friend with him, and together with Gilbert they went exploring the “Unknown Rivers.” They generally came home dripping wet, having abandoned their canoes in the entanglement of roots and weeds after a sudden upset, and having to go and fetch them back with a cart, unless the shipwreck was caused by an unsuspected branch under water, or by the swift rush of a current catching the frail concern and carrying it away altogether, whilst the venturesome navigator was gathering his wits on the pebbles of the river-bed.
Towards the end of August, Mr. Thomas Hamerton and his sister Susan came to visit us. They liked the Autunois–at least what they saw of it– exceedingly, but they suffered much from the heat, particularly our uncle, who had remained true to his youthful style of dress: high shirt- collar sawing the ears and stiffened by a white, starched choker, rolled several times about the neck; black cloth trousers, long black waistcoat, and ample riding-coat of the same color and material. He was also careful never to put aside either flannel undergarments or woollen socks. Our kind uncle was a pattern of propriety in everything, but the fierce heat of a French August on a plain surrounded by a circle of hills was too much even for Mr. T. Hamerton’s propriety, and he had to beg leave to remove his coat and to sit in his shirt-sleeves. There was a stone table under a group of fine horse-chestnuts in the garden, not far from the little river, to which we used to resort after dinner with our work and books in search of coolness, and there even my husband did his writing. One afternoon, when we were sitting as usual in this shady arbor, all silent, uncle dozing behind the newspaper, and his nephew intent on literary composition, what was our astonishment at the sight of sedate Aunt Susan suddenly jumping upon the table and remaining like a marble statue upon its stone pedestal, and quite as white. We all looked up, and uncle pushed his spectacles high on his forehead to have a better sight of so strange an attitude for his sister to take. At last Aunt Susan pointed to something gliding away in the grass, and gasped: “A serpent! oh, dear, oh, dear, a serpent!” Vainly did my husband try to calm her fright by explaining that it was only an adder going to seek the moisture of the river-bank and never intending to attack any one, that they were plentiful and frequently to be met with, when their first care was to pass unnoticed; our poor aunt would not be persuaded to descend from her pedestal for some time, and not before she was provided with a long and stout stick to beat the grass about her as she went back to the house.
Mr. T. Hamerton’s intention, as well as his sister’s, was to go to Chamouni and the Mer de Glace, and to ask their nephew to act as guide. He was glad enough to avail himself of the opportunity for studying mountain scenery, but felt somewhat disappointed that I declined being one of the party, from economical motives.
The letters I received during their tour bore witness to a fervent appreciation of the landscape, of which a memento was desired, and Gilbert undertook to paint for his relatives a small picture of Mont Blanc after reaching home; meanwhile, he took several sketches to help him. As he was relating to me afterwards the incidents of the journey, he remembered a rather amusing one. At Bourg, where they had stopped to see the church of Brou, he came down to the dining-room of the hotel and found his uncle and aunt seated at their frugal English breakfast of tea and eggs, which he did not share because tea did not agree with him, but took up a newspaper and waited for the _table d’hote_.
“My word!” exclaimed his uncle, when _dejeuner_ was over, “but you do not stint yourself. I counted the dishes: omelette, beef-steak and potatoes, cray-fish and trout, roasted pigeons and salad, cheese, grapes, and biscuits, without mentioning a full bottle of wine. Excuse my curiosity, but I should like to know how much you will have to pay for such a repast?”
“Exactly two francs and fifty centimes,” answered his nephew; “and I dare say your tea, toast, butter, and eggs will come to pretty near the same amount, for here tea is an out-of-the-way luxury, and also you had a separate table to yourselves, whilst the _table d’hote_ is a democratic institution.”
“Then let us be democrats as long as we remain in France, if the thing does not imply being deprived of tea.”
From London, on her way back, Aunt Susan wrote:–
“We went to the Bedford Hotel, Covent Garden, and bespoke beds, got something to eat, and then set out. Our first visit was to 196 Piccadilly, where Thursday was glad to see us, and where we stayed a long time, well pleased to look at your pictures. I like them all exceedingly, and could not decide on a choice; they each had in them something I liked particularly. When we had been gone away some time, we remembered we had not paid our admission, so we went back; this afforded us another looking at the pictures and also a pleasing return of a small etching; our choice was ‘Le four et la terrasse de Pre-Charmoy!’ We were well contented with what we got, but I did think the proofs beautiful.”
Mr. Hamerton’s strong love of etching had now led him to the practice of it, and for several hours every day he struggled against its technical difficulties. Full of hope and trust in a final success, he turned from a spoilt plate to a fresh one without discouragement, always eager and relentless. His main fault, as I thought, was attempting too much finish and effect, and I used to tell him so. He acknowledged that I was right, and when taking up a new plate he used to say playfully: “Now _this_ is going to be a good etching; you don’t believe it because you are a little sceptic, but you’ll see–I mean not to carry it far.” Then before biting he showed it me with “Look at it before it is spoilt.” It was rarely spoilt in the biting, but by subsequent work. Many charming proofs I greatly admired. “Oh! this is only a sketch; you will see the improvement when I have darkened this mass.” Then I begged hard that it should be left as it was, and I was met by arguments that I could not discuss,–“the effect was not true so,” “the lights were too strong,” or “the darks too heavy;” “but _very little_ retouching was necessary,” and it ended in the pretty sketch being destroyed after having been re-varnished and re-bitten two or three times. When it was no longer shown to me, I was aware of its fate. The amount of labor bestowed upon etching by my husband was stupendous, as he had to seek his way without help or advice. A plate once begun, he could not bring himself to leave it–not even in the night, and at that time he always had one in hand. Heedless of his self-imposed rules about the division of hours for literary work and artistic work, he devoted himself almost entirely to the pursuit of etching. This made me very uneasy, for it had become imperative that he should make his work pay. The tenant of the coal-mine had reiterated his decision not to pay rent any longer, and when threatened with a law-suit answered that he would put it in Chancery. I had been told that a suit in Chancery might last over twenty years, and we had no means to carry it on. We were therefore obliged to abandon all idea of redress, and were left _entirely_ dependent upon the earnings of my husband, which were derived from his contributions to the “Fine Arts Quarterly Review,” and to a few periodicals of less importance. From that period of overwork and anxiety dates the nervousness from which he suffered so much throughout his life; though at that time he believed it to be only temporary. He sought relief in outdoor exercise, especially in canoeing, and this suggested the “Unknown River,” published later, but based on the excursions undertaken at that time, and on sketches and etchings done on the way.
The picture painted in remembrance of the journey in Switzerland had been finished and dispatched, and this is what Aunt Susan wrote about it:–
“We are now in possession of our picture, which we received from Agnew yesterday morning, and we are very much pleased with it; my impression is that it is a very good, well-finished painting: we have not yet concluded where to hang it for a proper and good light. We are very glad to hear that _Mamzelle_ Mary Susan Marguerite (as Uncle Thomas called her) is thriving and good; be sure and give her a kiss for each of us.”
_Mamzelle_ Mary Susan Marguerite had been born early in the spring, and to the general wonder of the household, seemed to have reconciled her father to the inevitable cries and noises of babyhood. Brought up by two maiden aunts in a large, solitary house in the country, and addicted from early youth to study, my husband had a perfect horror of noises of all kinds, and could not understand that they were unavoidable in some circumstances; he used to call out from the top of the stairs to the servants below “to stop their noise,” or “to hold their tongues,” whenever he overheard them singing to the babies or laughing to amuse them, and if the children’s crying became audible in the upper regions, he declared that the house was not fit to live in, still less to work in. One morning when the youngest boy was loudly expressing his distaste for the ceremonies of the toilet, his father–no less loudly–was giving vent to his irritation at the disturbance, and calling out to shut _all_ the doors; but he could not help being very much amused by the resolute interference of the eldest brother–three years old–who, crossing his little fat arms, and standing his ground firmly, delivered this oracle: “Papa, babies _must_ cry.” I suppose he had heard this wise sentence from the nurse, but he gave it as solemnly as if it were the result of his own reflections. Whether a few years’ experience had rendered his father more patient generally, or whether he had become alive to the charm of babyhood–to which he had hitherto remained insensible–it was a fact first noticed by the nurse that “Monsieur, quand la petite criait, voulait savoir ce qu’elle avait, et la prenait meme dans ses bras pour la consoler.”
A very important event now occurred: Mr. Hamerton was appointed art critic to the “Saturday Review,” where he succeeded Mr. Palgrave at his recommendation. He did not accept the post with much pleasure, but it afforded him the opportunity of studying works of art free of expense, and that was a weighty consideration, besides being an opening to intellectual and artistic intercourse of which he was greatly deprived at Pre-Charmoy.
The visits to the London exhibitions necessitated two or three journeys every year, and we both suffered from the separations; but I could bear them better in my own home–surrounded by my children, visited by my mother, sister, and brothers–than my husband, who was alone amongst strangers, and who had to live in hotels, a thing he had a great dislike for. In order to make these separations as short as possible, he travelled at night by the most rapid trains; saw the exhibitions in the day, and went to his rooms to write his articles by gas-light. For some time he only felt fatigued; afterwards he became nervous; but he found compensation in the society of his newly made friends, and in the increasing marks of recognition he was now meeting everywhere.
He soon gave up hotel life, and took lodgings in St. John’s Wood, where he had many acquaintances, and from there he wrote to me:–
“I have seen Palgrave, Macmillan, Rossetti, Woolner, and Mr. Pearce to-day. Palgrave says the ‘Saturday Review’ ‘is most proud to have me.’ Woolner says it is not possible to succeed as an art critic more than I have done; that Tennyson has been very much interested in my articles, and has in consequence urged his publishers to employ Dore to illustrate the “Idylls of the King.” They have offered the job to Dore, who has accepted.
“The best news is to come.
“The ‘Painter’s Camp’ is a success after all. It has fully cleared its expenses, and Macmillan is willing to venture on a second edition, revised, and I think he will let me illustrate it; he only hesitates.
“_Macmillan has positively given me a commission for a work on Etching_.
“I am to be paid whether it succeeds or not. I cannot tell you the exact sum, but you shall know it soon.
“It is to be made up of articles in different reviews. It is to be a guinea work of 400 pages, beautifully got up, with 50 illustrative etchings by different masters, and is to be called ‘Etching and Etchers.’
“Macmillan said that as to my capacity as a writer there existed no doubt on the subject. He fully expects this work on Etching to be a success. It is to be out for Christmas next.
“Macmillan is most favorably disposed to undertake other works, on condition that each shall have a special character like that. One on ‘Painting in France’ and another on ‘Painting in England’ looms in the future. He prefers this plan to the Year-book I mentioned to you.
“The great news in this letter is that I have written a book which has paid its expenses. Is not that jolly? The idea of a second edition quite elates me. So you see, darling, things are rather cheering. I must say, everybody receives me pleasantly. Woodward is going to give me a whole day at Windsor. Beresford-Hope is out of town, but called to-day at Cook’s and said ‘he was most anxious to see me.'”
My husband wrote to me sometimes in French and sometimes in English; when my mother came to keep me company during his absence, he generally wrote in French, to enable me to read aloud some passages of his letters that she might find interesting. The following letter was written on his first journey to London for the “Saturday Review “:–
“CHERE PETITE FEMME,–Me voici installe dans un fort joli appartement tout pres de chez Mr. Mackay, a une guinee par semaine; j’y suis tout-a-fait bien.
“Samedi dernier je suis alle d’abord chez Mr. Stephen Pearce que j’ai trouve chez lui; c’est un homme parfaitement comme il faut; il m’a recu bien cordialement et il m’a invite a diner demain. J’ai dine chez Mrs. Leslie hier et j’ai passe tout le tantot d’aujourd’hui chez Lewes qui habite une fort belle maison a cinq minutes d’ici. J’ai beaucoup cause avec l’auteur de ‘Romola;’ c’est une femme de 45 ans, pas belle du tout, mais tres distinguee, elle m’a fort bien recu. Lewes lui-meme est laid, mais tres cordial. Voila quelque chose comme sa physionomie. [Sketch of Lewes]. Je vais te donner George Eliot sur l’autre page. Il est tres gentil avec elle. [Sketch of George Eliot.] Ce portrait n’est pas tres ressemblant, mais il donne une bonne idee de l’expression–elle en a enormement et parle fort bien. Son salon est un modele de gout et d’elegance, et toute sa maison est aussi bien tenue que celle de Millais, par exemple. Nous avons cause de beaucoup de choses, entre autres precisement de cette curieuse question de priere selon Comte. Elle soutient que c’est raisonnable dans le sens d’expression de vif desir, de concentration de l’esprit vers son but. Son argument etait bien fortement soutenu par sa maniere energique de raisonner, mais je lui ai tenu tete avec beaucoup d’obstination, et nous avons eu une veritable lutte. Elle a une singuliere puissance, quelque chose qui ne se trouve jamais que chez les personnes d’un genie extraordinaire. Quand elle a voulu me convaincre, elle y mettait tant de persuasion et de volonte qu’il me fallait un certain effort pour garder la clarte de mes propres idees. Je te dirai cela plus en detail quand nous nous reverrons.
“Lewes m’a dit qu’il serait content d’avoir d’autres articles de moi pour la ‘Fortnightly Review.'”
Two days later he wrote:–
“I dined with the Mackays yesterday; Mr. Watkiss Lloyd was there, and other friends came in the evening. I spent the day at home, writing, but I have an engagement for every night this week–I am becoming a sort of professional diner-out.
“I have been talking over the illustrations of the ‘Painter’s Camp’ with George Leslie. He has promised to do twenty etchings of figure-subjects to illustrate it, and I shall do twenty landscapes. I have learned a great deal from Haden here, and I feel sure now of grappling successfully with the difficulties which plagued me before. Besides, I am anxious to have a book with etchings in it out in time to appear with the work on Etching. I am sure this new edition of the ‘Painter’s Camp’ will be something jolly. It’s nice to think I shall have two beautiful books out at Christmas. It will give my reputation a fillip. It appears that Charles Dickens, Alfred Tennyson, and George Eliot are amongst my most assiduous readers. Isn’t it pleasant to have readers of that class?…”
I will give here a few more extracts from his letters at that time; it is the best way of becoming acquainted with his method of work, as well as with the state of his mind.
“Yesterday I went to see some exhibitions and Mrs. Cameron’s photographs; they are really very fine, quite different from anything one ever saw before. You will be very much struck with them, I am sure.
“Mr. Palgrave and I spent a delightful evening together yesterday; we talked till midnight. I found him a pleasant companion. We had some music; Mrs. Palgrave plays well. He has a nice collection of Greek vases, which would delight Mariller. [A figure-painter who lived at Autun, and who drew the figures for the ‘Unknown River.’]
“The more I reflect on matters, the more I rejoice to live far away from here. Known as I am now, I am sure that if I lived in or near London I should be exposed to frequent interruptions, and gradually our dear little private life would be taken away from us both. Besides, this continued excitement would kill me, I could never stand it; I really need quiet, and I get it at Pre-Charmoy. Just now I bear up pretty well, but I know I could not stand this for three months–out _every_ evening, working or seeing people, or going in omnibuses. And then I need the great refreshment of being able to talk to thee, and to hear thee talk, and play with the children a little; all that is good for me,–in fact, I live upon it. I want to be back again. My breakfast in the morning is a difficulty; as you know, I never can eat an English one, and if I don’t I am not fit for much fatigue. The distances, too, are terrible. Still, on the whole, I keep better than I expected to do. I hope the dear little boys are both quite well, and my little daughter, who is the apple of my eye.”
About the difficulty of eating an English breakfast, it must be explained that since Gilbert had begun to suffer from nervousness he had given up coffee and tea; besides, he only liked a very light breakfast, and we had tried different kinds of food for the morning meal: chocolate he could not digest, although it was to his taste; cocoa he did not care for; beer and dry biscuits succeeded for a time, but at last we discovered that soup was the best breakfast for him, vegetable soup (_soupe maigre_) especially, because it must not be too rich. At home I always made his soup myself, for, being always the same–by his own choice–he was particular about the flavor; it was merely onion-soup with either cream and parsley, or onion-soup with Liebig and chervil. In the great summer heat he took instead of it cold milk and brown bread. It may be easily surmised that such a frugal meal could not last him far into the day, particularly as he was a very early riser, and often had his bowl of soup at six in the morning; then, when he felt hungry again–at ten generally–he drank a glass of beer and ate a slice of home-made _brioche_, which allowed him to await the twelve o’clock _dejeuner a la fourchette_.
The following passage is extracted from a letter written a few days after those already given:–
“J’ai dine chez Woolner hier. Quel brave garcon! Ses manieres avec moi sont tout-a-fait affectueuses, et je me sens avec lui sur le pied de la plus parfaite intimite. Il n’y a pas un homme a Londres qui possede un cercle d’amis comme le sien: tout ce qu’il y a de plus distingue _en tout_. Palgrave dit que Woolner fait un choix serieux dans ses amities. Sa femme est jolie, delicate, gracieuse, intelligente; elle me fait l’effet d’un lys.
“J’ai recu la visite de Haden hier, il m’a plus enseigne relativement a l’eau-forte en une demi-heure de conversation que dix ans de pratique ne l’auraient fait. Voici mes engagements:–
“Samedi, diner chez Leslie.
Dimanche, tantot chez Lewes.
Lundi, diner chez Pearce.
Mardi, ” ” Mackay.
Mercredi, ” ” Shaw.
Jeudi, ” ” Woolner.
Vendredi, toute la journee avec Woodward. Samedi, soiree chez Marks.
Lundi, diner chez Haden.
Mardi, ” ” Constable fils:
“et il n’y a pas de raison pour que cela s’arrete, excepte mon depart pour West Lodge qui sera, je crois, pour mercredi.”
However, he had to postpone his departure on account of a distressing and alarming disturbance of his nervous system. Mr. Haden recommended him to give up all kind of work immediately, which he did, and for a few days he only wrote short notes.
“NORTHUMBERLAND STREET. _Wednesday Morning_.
“Je suis toujours faible, mais je crois que je puis supporter le voyage aujourd’hui. Si j’etais une fois a West Lodge je m’y reposerais bien. Si je me sentais fatigue je m’arreterais n’importe ou. La surexcitation cerebrale est _completement passee_, mais je n’espere pas etre remis avant un mois.”
From West Lodge he wrote, in answer to one of my letters:–
“Our present business is to look simply to the question, what will be most economical? I have no objection to any arrangement which will save my keeping a man, but I have a decided objection to that. [It was about the garden, one half of which I proposed to cede on condition of having the other half cultivated free of charge.] Any arrangement you make _that does not involve my keeping a man_ has my approbation beforehand.
“I saw Macmillan again before leaving, and now he is for bringing out the new edition of the ‘Painter’s Camp’ in May. It will be a pretty little book, but I can’t get Macmillan to go to the expense about illustrations. Colnaghi will publish etchings for me, and after all the hints and instructions received from Haden, I feel quite sure that I shall succeed in etching.
“I expect to be at Pre-Charmoy in a few days, when I shall be delighted to see you all, my treasures.”
Having returned to London, he writes:–
“I spent last evening with Beavington Atkinson, who was to have come to see us in France; you remember Woodward wrote about him. He and his wife are most agreeable people, and I like him really; there is something so intelligent and pleasing in his manner.
“Yesterday I went through Buckingham Palace to see the pictures. There is a fine Dutch collection. Then I went to the British Museum to see the Rembrandt etchings, and was accompanied by a collector, Mr. Fisher. This evening I am to spend with Haden again; he has a magnificent collection of etchings, and will help me very much with my book. So now I am sure of the right quantity of assistance in my work.
“I was with the editor of the ‘Saturday’ this afternoon; nothing could exceed his kind, trustful way.
“Still, I wish I were back with you; but I shall hurry now and come back fast.”
Two days later:–
“Je me sens de nouveau fatigue. J’ai cause aujourd’hui avec l’aubergiste de Walton-on-Thames, et il m’a dit qu’il nous nourrirait et nous logerait tous les deux pour L2 par semaine. On y est tres bien, il y a un jardin, et des etudes a faire en quantite. Mr. Haden pense que la peinture ne fatiguerait pas autant le cerveau que la litterature.
“Si je t’avais avec moi, et si je restais plus longtemps, je n’aurais pas besoin l’annee prochaine de revenir au mois de juillet. Voila le reve que j’ai fait. Je viendrais a Londres une ou deux fois par semaine seulement, et je t’aurais la-bas. Je ne pense pas vivre sans toi, je meurs d’ennui.”
The kind of life we led at Pre-Charmoy suited perfectly my husband’s tastes, and he was soon restored to health. He would have been entirely happy but for pressing cares; still, thanks to his philosophical disposition, he contrived to enjoy what was enjoyable in his life. He was extremely fond of excursions in the country, and we often used to set off with nurse and children in the farmer’s cart, to spend the day in some picturesque place, where he could sketch or paint. We had our provisions with us, and both lunched and dined on the grass under the fine chestnuts or oaks, so numerous in the Morvan, by the side of a clear stream or rivulet; for running water had a sort of magic influence upon Gilbert, and instinctively, when unwell from nervous exhaustion, he sought its soothing influence. We generally rambled about the country after each meal, and whilst he drew I read to him, leaving the children to their play, under the charge of the nurse.
So far we had taken upon ourselves the teaching of the boys, but for some time past I had perceived that it was becoming inadequate to their present requirements, and I told their father that I thought they should be sent to college,–any rate the eldest, who was nearly eight years old; but he demurred, not seeing the necessity for it. He had a notion that they could be much better educated at home, according to a plan of his own: Latin and Greek would be reserved for their teens, because it was a clear loss of time before, and they would be taught modern languages early, together with science and literature. To this I objected, that, if successful, it might be a very good education for boys who were certain of an independence, but that it did not seem a good way towards the degrees necessary for almost every one of the liberal professions. Besides, who was to teach the boys when he was away? and would he always find spare time to do it, and regular hours also? I was certain he would never be punctual as to time; only he did not like to be told so, because, being aware of this shortcoming, he made earnest efforts to correct it, and constantly failed. It was difficult to him to bear any kind of interruption, or any compulsory change of work–involving loss of time–and on that score very trying to one who wanted always to finish what he had in hand. He hardly ever came down at meal-times without the bell being rung twice, and often when he did come down, he used to say: “That bell was getting angry,” and he was met with this stereotyped phrase from us: “And it made you abandon the refractory sentence at last!”
Well, he acknowledged there was some weight in my objections to home instruction, but “he could give tasks to be done in his absence, and correct them afterwards.” I asked, who could help the young students when they were in a fix? and would they be always inclined to apply themselves steadily to their tasks without supervision? That was expecting too much, but it seemed natural to him to expect it, as study and work had ever been both a necessity and a pleasure to him. However, he yielded, but so strong was his disapproval of public school teaching as it was carried on, that at first he would have nothing to do with it. I had to go to the principal of the college, and make terms and arrangements; the only condition he made was that the boys should come home every Saturday night, and remain till Monday morning, and the same from Wednesday to Friday regularly, for their English lessons and for their health. I desired nothing better, and the principal agreed to it. Whenever the boys complained of anything about their college life afterwards, their father used to say good-humoredly: “I have no responsibility in the matter; _I_ did not want you to go to college, you know–it was your mother.”
Pre-Charmoy being four kilometres distant from the town of Autun, and five from the college, where the boys had to be in time for the eight o’clock class, summer and winter, it became necessary to have some means of conveying them to and fro, for they were still very young,–Stephen a little over eight, and Richard hardly seven. The eldest boy went alone at first, but his brother soon insisted on going too. We decided to do like most of our country neighbors, that is, to have a little donkey-cart, because it would have been both inconvenient and expensive to hire the farmer’s so frequently. Accordingly we bought a small, second-hand carriage with its donkey, and I was taught to drive; my husband would have preferred a pony, but I was nervous at the idea of driving one, although I had been told that it was much easier to manage than a donkey, and discovered afterwards that it was the truth.
The little cart proved a great convenience for my husband’s studies, as he could start with it at any time, and there was no trouble about the care of the donkey, the servant-girls being accustomed to it from infancy–almost every household in the vicinity being in possession of this useful and inexpensive animal. There is a Morvandau song, known to all the little shepherdesses, in illustration of the custom:–
“Mes parents s’y mariant tou
Me j’garde l’ane (_bis_).
Mes parents s’y mariant tou
Me j’garde l’ane taut mon saoul!
“Mais quand mon tour viendra
Gardera l’ane (_bis_).
Mais quand mon tour viendra
Gardera l’ane qui voudra.”
At first we had a swift little animal, which could not be stopped at all when he was behind another carriage, till that carriage stopped first. It was an advantage in some cases,–for instance, when preceded by a good horse; but if the horse went further than our destination, one of us had to jump out and hold back the fiery and stubborn little brute by sheer force, till his sense of jealous emulation was appeased.
The load upon the cart, when we were all together, was found excessive for the animal, and my husband, who was always deeply concerned about the welfare of dumb creatures, decided to have a bigger and stronger donkey. He bought a very fine one, strong enough to pull us all, but he did it in such a leisurely fashion that he received the expressive name of “Dort-debout.” This led my husband to write to me sometimes from London, after a hard day’s work: “Here is a very short note, but I am like our donkey, je dors debout.”
The editor of the “Saturday Review” asked Mr. Hamerton to be present at the opening of the Paris Exhibition of 1867, and to write a series of articles on the works of art exhibited; then to proceed to London for a review of the Academy. He wished me very much to go with him, and I being nothing loth, we started together, and received in Paris the following letter from Aunt Susan:–
“WEST LODGE. _April_ 20, 1867.
“MY DEAR NEPHEW,–I am very glad indeed to hear from you, as I now know where to direct my long-intended epistle to you; your uncle thought you would not like to come to the exhibition in its very unfinished state, and I thought you would like to be at the opening of it, and so the matter was resting quite unacted upon. I grieve very much to tell you of the sad tidings we have of poor Anne Gould; there has been a consultation with her medical men, and they pronounce her case very serious,–in fact, incurable. She grows thinner and weaker almost every week, and one lung is said to be affected. A confinement is expected in July, and I cannot but still hope that she may possibly come round again; but it has been sorrowful news. We shall be very glad to see you _both_ at West Lodge when you can make it convenient, and I do hope and trust we shall be able to enjoy the anticipated pleasure of your company. You will have left home with comparative comfort, the boys being both at college, and, I expect, grandmamma with the little sister. I was very glad when you wrote ‘before _we_ can be in England,’ as it assured me the little wife was not to be sent homeward from Paris, instead of accompanying you to West Lodge, where we shall be very glad to see her.”
Nevertheless, I had to go homewards, for about three weeks after our arrival in Paris I heard that my little daughter Mary was ill with bronchitis, and I hastened to her whilst my husband was leaving for London. I was doubly sorry, because he was very reluctant to go alone; but although he felt a sort of instinctive dread of the journey he did not attempt to detain me. He had borne the sight-seeing very well, and the crowds, which he disliked; but it was mainly because he had been spared hotel life, for we had lodged with a former servant of ours, who was married at Pre-Charmoy, and now lived at La Glaciere, in Paris. It was by no means a fashionable quarter, and our lodgings left much to be desired in the way of comfort, but it will be seen how much he regretted it all when alone at Kew, where he had taken lodgings after much suffering from fatigue, over-work, and depression. Still, the first news from London was very gratifying:–
“Un mot seulement pour te dire que _toutes les huit eaux-fortes_ sont recues a l’Academie et bien placees. Ces Academiciens commencent a devenir gentils.
“Ce matin je suis alle de bonne heure a l’Academie, comme d’habitude; j’ai maintenant ma carte d’exposant dont je suis tres fier.”
But after a fortnight he wrote:–
“PETITE CHERIE,–Aujourd’hui je vais me donner le plaisir de m’entretenir longuement avec toi. Combien je prefererais te parler de vive voix. Je suppose que je suis tres bien ici; c’est-a-dire j’ai tout ce que j’aime materiellement: le bon air, la belle nature, un petit appartement d’une propriete vraiment exquise, une belle riviere tout a cote, et des canots a ma disposition. Et cependant, malgre cela je suis d’une tristesse mortelle, et j’ai beau me raisonner la-contre. Nous avons ete si heureux ensemble a Paris, malgre notre sale petite rue que je vois bien la verite de ce que tu m’as dit qu’il vaudrait mieux vivre dans n’importe quel tandis, ensemble, que dans des palais, et separes. Si je croyais a l’immortalite de l’ame, je regarderais avec effroi la possibilite d’etre au ciel pendant que tu resterais sur la terre. Je crois que ma maladie est due principalement a la tristesse et je tache de lutter la-contre. Je vais faire quelques eaux-fortes et aquarelles dans mes moments de loisir pour m’empecher, autant que possible, de penser a ma solitude.
“J’ai eu un peu de fievre dans la nuit, et ce matin je suis calme, mais fatigue. Il ne faut pas t’en alarmer cependant; le voyage et l’exposition reclamaient une reaction, et elle arrive naturellement au premier moment ou j’ai la possibilite du repos. Quant au repos, je m’en donne aujourd’hui pleinement; je ne fais rien; mais je me reposerais mieux si tu etais ici pour me dire que tu m’aimes et pour mettre tes douces mains sur mon front. Je deviens par trop dependant de toi, je voudrais etre plus fort–et pourtant je crois qu’on est plus heureux etant triste a cause d’une separation d’avec la femme aimee que si l’on etait insensible a cette separation. Allons! je ne voudrais pas vendre ma tristesse pour beaucoup! elle s’en ira le jour ou je te verrai; en attendant je la garde volontiers.”
Then follows a minute description of his lodgings, of Kew itself–the gardens, the river, the different boats upon it–and he concludes:–
“Tiens, voila que je redeviens un peu gai, ce qui est bon signe; peut- etre, quand j’aurai recu une lettre de toi cela ira mieux. Ainsi, ta-ta, good-bye; embrasse bien les chers enfants pour moi et dis a ma petite Marie que je lui rapporterai une pepem [for _poupee_, which she could not yet pronounce clearly] ou autre chose de beau.”
A few days later:–
“Je suis alle aujourd’hui au musee Britannique continuer mes etudes. Le systeme que j’ai adopte parait bon, et ca va bien. Je limite rigoureusement mes travaux en choisissant seulement la creme de la creme des planches.
“Je me suis promene ce soir au jardin de Kew; ces promenades me rendent toujours triste, parce qu’a chaque bel arbre ou jolie fleur, je me figure combien tu en jouirais si tu etais avec moi. Quand on s’est si bien habitue a vivre a deux il est difficile de redevenir garcon. Dans ces moments de tristesse je pense toujours a la separation eternelle, et au sort de celui de nous qui restera. Enfin j’apprends ici une chose qui me servira toujours, c’est que pour moi maintenant tout est vanite sans toi. J’ai un jardin Royal a ma disposition, des collections d’oeuvres d’art superbes, les plus jolis canots, une belle riviere, de bons livres a lire, du succes avec les editeurs et une reputation en bonne voie, et pourtant cette existence ne vaut pas la peine de vivre. Il est bon de savoir ces choses la et de se connaitre. A Paris ou notre existence materielle etait pleine d’ennuis, j’etais pourtant heureux. Il ne faut pas de ton cote etre triste parce que je le suis, du moins si tu peux l’eviter. C’est une affaire de deux ou trois semaines, voila tout. De mon cote je suis si occupe que je n’ai pas le temps de penser a moi- meme, et je travaille avec la regularite d’un homme de bureau. C’est lorsque je rentre chez moi que je souffre de ne point t’avoir.
“Quant a ma sante, elle va mieux. Je connais l’etat de mon systeme nerveux et l’effet que le chemin-de-fer lui produit. Aujourd’hui je n’en ai rien ressenti du tout. Quand je suis malade, la vibration et le mouvement des objets me font souffrir un peu.”
On the following Sunday:–
“DEAR LITTLE WIFE,–Last night I passed the evening with a set of artists, friends of George Leslie, at the house of one of them, Mr. Hodgson. They acted charades, and as their costumes (from their own ateliers) were numerous and rich, it was very good. Among them were Calderon and Frederick Walker. This morning we all set out for a walk on Hampstead Heath; I have no doubt the walk will do me good, but I am very well now, and feel better every day.
“I called on Rossetti the painter; he lives in a magnificent house, furnished with very great taste, but in the most extraordinary manner. His drawing-room is very large indeed and most curious; the general effect is very good. He was very kind in receiving me, and I saw his pictures, which are splendid in color, and very quaint and strange in sentiment. His own manners are singularly soft and pleasant. I called on Mr. Barlow the engraver, and spent some time with him about the etchings. He will lend me some; Marks will lend me some also. The worst of the way I go on in London now is that society absorbs too much time. I must restrict it in future very much.”
After the walk to Hampstead he wrote:–
“Yesterday, Sunday, I went on a long walk to Hampstead with several artists who live close together, and I never met seven more agreeable and more gentlemanly men; I enjoyed our conversation extremely. George Leslie and I got some lunch at the inn and walked back together.
“Calderon’s studio that I saw a few days ago is richly tapestried and very lofty; it is quite as fine as that of Millais. It seems Leighton has built himself a studio forty feet long. Mr. Barlow, the engraver, has a fine studio attached to the one you saw him in, and far larger. All these artists complain of nothing but the too great prosperity of the profession in these days; they tell me an artist’s life is a princely one now. They live and dress like gentlemen, and their daughters might be ‘clothed in scarlet.’
“The reason for my staying in London longer than I intended is the time I have spent in society–a thing I certainly shall never do again– because I go to bed so late, _always_ after twelve, whereas if I were not in society I should go to bed at nine or ten, and keep my strength up easily. Another thing I am sure of is that, _on the whole_, the advantages of being isolated, as I am at Pre-Charmoy, counterbalance and more than counterbalance the disadvantages. I certainly would not, if I could, have a house in London; the loss of time is awful. The only good in it for a painter is that the dealers are always after him for pictures as soon as he succeeds.
“Mind you have a man from the farm to sleep in the house every night. It would be well for him to have the gun loaded, only take care the children don’t get at it. My health is still tolerably good, sufficiently so for me to get easily through what I have to do.”
But the next news was far from being so satisfactory.
“J’ai des nouvelles de West Lodge qui sont vraiment tristes. Anne est accouchee prematurement, et l’enfant–une fille–est morte apres avoir vecu deux nuits et un jour. On l’a baptisee Annie Jane Hamerton Gould. Anne est dans un etat de faiblesse tel qu’on n’espere pas la conserver au-dela de quelques semaines, et mon pauvre oncle est dans l’ile de Wight avec elle, ou tout cela se passe. La tante Susan, de son cote, est malade d’une fievre gastrique–maladie bien dangereuse, comme tu sais; elle a pu m’ecrire quelques mots au crayon; elle se trouve un peu mieux, ce qui me fait esperer que probablement sa bonne constitution triomphera du mal. Je voudrais aller la voir de suite, mais je suis tellement retenu par mon travail; et puis le bon arrangement de ce travail et son heureux succes m’avaient fait regagner un peu ma serenite d’esprit, et maintenant je souffre de nouveau pour mon oncle et ma tante. Vraiment c’est penible d’etre la avec son dernier enfant qui s’en va si vite. Si encore la pauvre petite avait vecu, mon oncle aurait eu une fille peur remplacer les siennes, car il faut bien parler d’Anne comme d’une personne morte.
“Je me felicite des resultats de mon nouveau systeme: je me leve de fort bonne heure, j’ai fini dans l’Academie a 10 h. 1/2; alors je fais une course, et immediatement apres je me rends au Musee ou je dejeune. On y dejeune tres bien et pas cher; tu comprends que c’est pour les gens de lettres qui travaillent a la bibliotheque. Je rentre ici a six heures, et le soir je me promene un peu au jardin, ou sur l’eau; apres quoi j’ecris a la petite femme cherie et je me couche. Aujourd’hui, comme hier, j’ai etudie et decrit dix tableaux et dix planches. Je crois que mes notes sur les aquafortistes iront plus vite que je ne l’avais espere. J’ai deja termine Claude, Salvator, Wilkie, Geddes, Ruysdael, Paul Potter. J’arriverai a ma vingtaine si ma sante se maintient pendant tout mon sejour. Je reserve le samedi et le dimanche a Kew pour ecrire ou dessiner.
“Je m’etonne _du mauvais_ de certains aqua-fortistes celebres. Dans toute l’oeuvre de Ruysdael je ne trouve que deux bonnes planches, et encore si elles etaient publiees dans l’ouvrage de la Societe Francaise, je les trouverais peut-etre mauvaises. Dans Salvator il y en a egalement deux ou trois bonnes. L’oeuvre de Claude est belle en somme, avec plusieurs mauvaises choses toutefois.
“Adieu, petite cherie, le temps de mon exil diminue, et alors je te reverrai, toi et les enfants.”
But he was suddenly and violently seized by a mysterious illness, which threatened not only his life but his reason, as he told me afterwards. He longed to have me near him, yet he was so courageous that, to spare me, he only wrote that he was suffering from fatigue:–
“CROWN INN, WALTON-ON-THAMES.
“Ca va toujours tout doucement. Je me promene tranquillement. Je reste encore ici deux nuits pour gagner un peu de force. Je suis toujours tres faible, mais le cerveau va mieux, je n’ai point de surexcitation cerebrale. Je ne dois pas beaucoup ecrire. Ainsi tata, ma bien aimee.
“_Lundi soir._
“Puisque je sais que tu dois etre inquiete je t’ecris une deuxieme fois aujourd’hui pour te dire que je vais _beaucoup mieux_. La force commence a me revenir. Je me suis bien promene, lentement, toute la journee. Je n’ai pas ose te dire combien j’ai desire ta chere presence ces jours-ci. Si je l’avais dit tu aurais ete capable de te mettre en route. C’est toujours triste d’etre malade, mais c’est terrible quand on est seul dans une auberge. [He had gone to Walton-on-Thames for quiet and rest.]
“Enfin j’espere que c’est a peu pres passe pour cette fois, et je me promets bien de ne plus jamais travailler au-dessus de mes forces. Mr. Haden dit que je n’ai point de maladie, mais que je suis incapable de supporter tout travail excessif. Il va falloir regler tout cela.”
“J’ai du renoncer a mon travail pendant deux jours parce que j’ai besoin de repos, et il me semble plus sage de le prendre a temps que de me rendre malade. Lorsque je suis malade je ne puis pas me reposer, tandis que maintenant, je suis simplement fatigue. Je dors bien, mais comme je suis seul dans mon logement, je deviens tout triste. Je n’ose pas penser du tout a Pre-Charmoy parce que cela me donne une telle envie de te voir que j’en serais malade. Ah! si la force physique voulait seulement repondre a la force morale! Moralement, je n’ai jamais ete plus fort, plus dispose a la lutte; et puis ces jours de fatigue arrivent et m’accablent, et je souffre dix fois plus qu’un paresseux s’y resignerait.
“Beaucoup de baisers aux enfants, et beaucoup pour toi, petite femme trop cherie. Je n’ose penser combien ce serait gentil si tu etais ici aupres de moi.”
In answer I immediately proposed to go to him, as our little daughter was convalescent, and her grandmother would take care of her during my absence, but he declined.
“PETITE CHERIE DE MON COEUR,–Je viens de recevoir ta bonne lettre, il n’est pas necessaire que tu viennes; je gagne graduellement. J’ai passe la soiree avec Mr. Pearce qui sait que je suis malade. J’ai echappe sans doute a un grave danger, j’ai meme eu peur de perdre la raison; mais tout cela est passe; je suis calme et quoique faible encore–plus fort. C’est surtout mentalement que je vais mieux, ce qui est le plus essentiel: le corps suivra. Je n’ai pas ose entreprendre le voyage de Todmorden aujourd’hui, mais j’ai l’espoir de pouvoir partir demain. Quoique en etat de convalescence, je suis oblige d’etre prudent et d’eviter les grandes fatigues. Le medecin dit qu’il faudra un changement dans ma maniere de vivre. Le fait est que je me tue en travaillant et je sens que je n’irais pas trois ans comme cela. Enfin je me dis que puisque ma mort ne te ferait pas de bien, je dois tacher de me conserver; si ma mort pouvait t’etre utile je mourrais bien volontiers. Ta chere lettre, toute pleine d’affection, m’a fait du bien. Dis a mon bon petit Stephen que je le remercie de toute sa tendresse pour moi et que je vais mieux. J’ai beaucoup pense a mes chers enfants, ne sachant pas si je les reverrais.
“Je t’ai tout dit; ca a ete seulement un etat d’abattement complet accompagne d’excitation des centres nerveux.”
“KEW. _Thursday_.
“Le temps est si mauvais que je n’ai pas pu faire une seule esquisse. Ma tante Susan t’a ecrit pour te dire que la pauvre Anne a cesse de souffrir. J’ai recu une lettre de son mari qui me dit que les derniers jours ont ete bien penibles. Je ne vais toujours pas bien a cause de la tristesse et de l’inquietude que tout cela m’a cause, mais il ne faut pas etre inquiete pour moi; ca se passera dans un jour ou deux, tu sais que je suis tres impressionnable.
“Il me prend de temps en temps d’angoissantes envies de te voir. Dans ces moments-la il me semble que je realise chaque metre, chaque centimetre de l’effroyable distance qui nous separe. Je suis oblige de lutter fortement contre ces idees qui finiraient par me rendre malade.
“Je dois maintenant aller au train; a demain donc.”
“WEST LODGE. _Vendredi_.
“Je suis bien arrive chez ma tante que j’ai trouvee en bonne sante, mais je suis toujours horriblement triste ici, et je me le reproche, car ma tante est toujours si bonne. Elle nous avait destine la belle chambre-a-coucher, et j’ai la chambre tout seul, ce qui ne contribue pas a diminuer ma tristesse. Une chose au moins me console: j’ai le materiel pour mon livre sur l’eau-forte, c’est beaucoup. Je crois la publication de ce livre si essentielle a mon avenir, comme soutien de ma reputation, que j’aurais ete vraiment desole de ne pas pouvoir le faire maintenant. Ayant tout le materiel dans ma tete, je ferai l’ouvrage tres vite, et je suis convaincu qu’il sera bon et tout-a-fait nouveau. J’ai bien besoin maintenant d’un peu de bruit pour augmenter ma reputation, car ces articles anonymes ne l’aident point.
“Dans ta tristesse, ma cherie, il faut toujours avoir la plus grande confiance en la duree de mon amour pour toi. Je crois que mon amour et ma loyaute sont au moins aussi forts que le sentiment de l’heroisme militaire. Il me semble que si les soldats peuvent supporter toutes les privations pour leur roi ou pour leur patrie, je dois pouvoir en faire autant pour ma femme. Compte sur ma tendresse, meme dans les circonstances les plus difficiles, tu l’auras toujours. Grace a ton influence, je suis beaucoup plus capable qu’autrefois de supporter les difficultes de la vie, et si nous avions a vivre dans une pauvre chaumiere, je t’aiderais gaiement a faire les travaux du petit menage en y consacrant deux ou trois heures par jour, et quand tu coudrais je te ferais un peu la lecture, et toujours je t’aimerais. Ainsi crois que, loin de souffrir des devoirs que je me suis imposes, j’y trouve la plus profonde satisfaction, et que je me trouve plus respectable que si je ne faisais rien.”
“WEST LODGE. Vendredi.
“J’avais l’intention de partir aujourd’hui mais la tante Susan parait tellement triste quand je parle de m’en aller que j’ai du reculer mon depart jusqu’a lundi. Du reste j’ai fait trois planches que je crois bonnes; j’y ai bien travaille; j’ai aussi ecrit trois articles, mais mon travail pour la Revue ne gagne pas grand’chose, et du moment ou la peinture rapportera, je quitterai la revue; je n’aime pas ce genre de travail, quoiqu’on dise que je le fais bien. J’aimerais autant etre cocher de fiacre. Ce que j’ai toujours desire faire c’est de la peinture; mes efforts dans cette direction n’ont pas abouti jusqu’a present, mais si j’avais un peu de temps libre, je saurais mieux faire a cause de mon experience de critique; je vois maintenant dans quel sens il faut travailler.
“Je vis a Londres aussi simplement que possible et pourtant mes sejours y sont tres couteux. Quant a la reputation, en comparaison du bonheur de vivre tranquillement avec toi, elle m’est absolument indifferente. Il me semble que lorsque le mari et la femme sont si parfaitement d’accord sur le but de la vie, il doit etre facile d’y parvenir. Notre plus grand desir a tous les deux c’est d’etre ensemble; eh! bien, du moment ou les choses nous seront propices, nous realiserons notre desir, et meme par la volonte nous forcerons les circonstances, c’est-a-dire que nous supporterons des inconvenients pour y arriver. Deja Wallis et Colnaghi consentent a exposer mes ouvrages; mes eaux-fortes sont appreciees. Peut-etre dans un temps comparativement rapproche serai-je en position de donner ma demission–non seulement a la Saturday, mais a la litterature, et a me devouer exclusivement a l’Art. Du moment ou cela arrivera il sera infiniment plus facile d’etre ensemble, car je tacherai de faire un genre d’Art qui me permettra d’etudier chez nous, ou dans un petit rayon. Enfin regardons la situation actuelle comme penible, mais pas du tout permanente. Tu peux compter que du moment ou je le pourrai je quitterai la Revue; j’y suis bien decide.”
After this letter, my husband, feeling much better, came back to London to resume his work, and wrote about what he thought most important or most interesting to me. I shall quote from his letters in their order according to dates.
WATERLOO PLACE, KEW. _Lundi soir_.
“Mr. Macmillan m’a recu parfaitement, presque affectueusement; il m’a invite a diner. Je suis alle voir Mr. Seeley, mon nouvel editeur, que j’ai trouve intelligent, comme il faut, jeune encore, et parfaitement cordial. Je crois que mes relations avec lui seront tout-a-fait faciles. [Footnote: Mr. Seeley had asked him to write some notes on Contemporary French Painters, to be illustrated with photographs.]
“L’exposition, en somme, est belle. Il y a plusieurs tableaux remarquables, entre autres une Venus de Leighton que je trouve superbe. La contribution de Landseer est importante, c’est un portrait de la Reine, a cheval, en deuil; cheval _noir_, _trois chiens noirs_, groom _noir_, _ciel noir_.
“C’est agreable de rentrer le soir en pleine campagne; ca me fait du bien. Je n’ose pas penser combien ce serait gentil si ma cherie etait avec moi, parceque cela me rend triste tout de suite; mais je t’ecrirai _presque_ tous les jours, quelquefois brievement quand je serai trop presse. Sois gentille toi, et ecris souvent; les bonnes nouvelles que tu m’envoies de ta sante et de celle des enfants m’ont rendu mon courage et–ce que je puis avoir de gaiete.”
“_Samedi_.
“Il parait que j’avais encore besoin de repos, car aujourd’hui je suis tres fatigue. J’espere que lundi j’irai mieux; un ou deux jours de repos me sont necessaires: voila tout. _Je n’ai point de surexcitation cerebrale_; je dors bien et je me repose pleinement, ce qui ne doit pas tarder a retablir mes forces. Je souffre d’etre seul. Mr. Gould va venir passer huit jours ici; je trouve amiable de sa part de bien vouloir venir s’etablir a Kew pour etre pres de moi; mon oncle viendra peut-etre aussi.
“Je vais me plaindre un peu, tout doucement, de la petite cherie de Pre-Charmoy; elle n’ecrit pas assez souvent a son mari qui recoit toujours ses lettres avec tant de plaisir. Il y a pourtant une de ces lettres qui a donne tant de bonheur qu’elle peut compter pour une douzaine. Pauvre cherie! comme je voudrais toujours reussir a rendre ta vie douce et agreable! Depuis que je ne vis plus pour moi, mais pour toi et les enfants, j’ai goute moi-meme un nouveau genre de bonheur mele de nouvelles tristesses. Ces tristesses sont dues a la pensee que je fais si peu, et que, avec plus de forces je ferais tant et si bien! Avec la force je serais sur maintenant de reussir pleinement. Je tiens la reputation par un petit bout, mais je la tiens, et elle augmentera. Tout me prouve que notre avenir serait assure si j’avais autant de force que de volonte.”
“_Dimanche_.
“Je suis alle voir George Eliot et Lewes qui a ete charmant; il est venu s’asseoir a cote de moi ou il est reste tout le temps de ma visite, et lorsque je suis parti, il s’est beaucoup plaint de ne pas me voir davantage. Il me traite d’une facon tres affectueuse, et en meme temps avec un respect qui, venant de lui, me flatte beaucoup. Quant a George Eliot elle est tres aimable, mais elle a le defaut de rester toujours assise an meme endroit, et quand il y a du monde, la seule personne qui puisse causer avec elle, est son voisin. Quand j’y retournerai, je m’installerai aupres d’elle, parce que je tiens a la connaitre un peu mieux. J’y ai rencontre Mr. Ralston qui s’etait assis modestement un peu en dehors du cercle ou j’etais et pendant tout le temps de sa visite, il n’a presque rien dit et c’est a peine si on lui a parle. J’ai trouve ces arrangements mauvais. Les gens qui recoivent doivent souvent changer de place, de facon a causer avec tous leurs visiteurs.
“Lundi dernier j’ai dine chez Mr. Craik–le mari de l’auteur de ‘John Halifax.’ Il habite un charmant cottage a Beckenham, un endroit a quatre lieues de Londres ou il vient tous les jours en chemin-de-fer. Tu sais qu’il est l’associe de Macmillan. Nous avons passe une soiree fort agreable; c’est un homme tres cultive, qui autrefois etait auteur, et qui a occupe une chaire de litterature a Edimbourg. Sa femme, quoique celebre, est simple et tres aimable; elle m’a dit que quand tu viendrais, elle desirait te connaitre.
“Mardi j’ai dine chez le Professeur Seeley, le frere de mon editeur; il a occupe la chaire de Latin a l’Universite de Londres. C’est l’auteur d’_Ecce Homo_. Macmillan m’ayant donne ce livre, je l’ai trouve tres fort comme style et d’une hardiesse etonnante. L’auteur est des plus sympathiques; il a des manieres charmantes–si modestes et si intelligentes, car les manieres peuvent montrer de l’intelligence. J’aime beaucoup les deux freres, et dans le peu de temps que je les ai vus j’en ai fait des amis.
“Mercredi j’ai dine chez moi, ayant un article a ecrire. Jeudi chez Stephen Pearce. Vendredi chez Mr. Wallis, le marchand de tableaux. C’est un homme tres delicat et tres fin. Il avait invite Mr. Burgess, un artiste intelligent et agreable que j’avais deja rencontre au Salon de l’annee derniere. J’ai rencontre Tom Taylor a l’exposition. Wallis et nous avons cause quelque temps ensemble. J’ai rencontre Clifton et dine avec lui a son Club.”
_”Lundi matin_.
“Je suis alle hier passer le tantot chez Lewes, on a ete enchante de mes eaux-fortes. George Eliot s’est plainte de ne pas avoir assez cause avec moi a ma derniere visite, et m’a invite a prendre place a cote d’elle. Nous avons parle d’art, de litterature et d’elle meme. Elle m’a dit que personne n’avait eu plus d’inquietudes et de souffrances dans le travail qu’elle, et que le peu qu’elle fait lui coute enormement.
“J’ai discute avec Lewes l’idee de faire la reimpression de mes articles, et il m’a conseille de ne pas le faire si je puis fonder un livre sur ces articles. J’avoue que je serais assez tente de faire un ouvrage serieux sur la peinture, pour lequel mes articles serviraient de materiel.”
“_Samedi soir._
“J’ai dine hier soir chez Mr. Macmillan, nous etions seuls d’hommes. Il y avait sa femme, ses enfants, et une grand’mere. Il a une famille nombreuse, de beaux enfants. Sa femme est bonne, et si simple que j’ai rarement vu un comme-il-faut plus acheve sans etre de la distinction. La maison est tres spacieuse et entouree d’arbres magnifiques. Ce qu’il y a de particulier dans cette maison, c’est un caractere intime et d’aisance ancienne. Macmillan a su eviter avec un tact parfait, tout ce qui pouvait rappeler le nouveau riche. On se croirait dans une grande maison de campagne, a cinquante lieues de Londres, et dans une ancienne famille etablie la depuis plusieurs generations.
“Nous avons passe toute la soiree ensemble. Il laisse entierement a mon jugement tout ce qui regarde l’illustration de mon livre. Ce que j’ai aime dans cette maison, comme dans toutes les personnes que j’y ai trouvees, a ete l’absence complete de toute affectation. Tout est homogene et je n’ai encore jamais vu une maison de campagne ayant cet aspect-la. Mon respect pour Macmillan s’est considerablement augmentee de ce qu’on ne rencontre chez lui aucune splendeur vulgaire: rien ne parle d’argent chez lui.
“La conversation a ete tres generale. Quand je suis parti, il m’a reconduit a travers un champ pour abreger mon chemin a la station. Il a chante quelques vieilles chansons avec beaucoup de caractere; j’ai chante un peu aussi–et pourtant je ne suis guere dispose a chanter. Anne avait montre tant de contentement quand je suis alle la voir a Sheffield–et penser que je ne la reverrai plus. Je souffre aussi pour mon oncle, je me mets a sa place en pensant a ma petite Mary; si je la perdais plus tard!… et puis–et puis, tu sais comment viennent les idees noires, et combien un malheur vous en fait craindre d’autres.”
“_Dimanche_.
“Je me sens de nouveau fatigue et cette fatigue semble persister. Il est bien possible que l’ennui et la nostalgie y soient pour quelque chose.
“Figure-toi qu’il y a une jeune _peintresse_ qui m’a ete recommandee, et dont la situation est bien precaire; j’ai eu la faiblesse de lui ecrire une petite lettre gentille et encourageante et me voila en butte a des eclats de desespoir ou de reconnaissance; de reproches et de remerciements. Le plaisir de faire du bien a ceux qui souffrent est tel, que l’on voudrait s’en donner, et le critique est souvent tente de manger de ce sucre-la.
“Je ne regrette pas de m’etre etabli a Kew; il n’y a qu’une chose contre Kew, c’est que je n’y connais personne, tandis qu’a St. John’s Wood j’ai plusieurs amis. Mais la solitude a aussi ses avantages et quand on voit du monde tous les jours, on peut bien passer la soiree chez soi. Si la petite femme etait seulement ici, ce serait parfait.”
“_Mardi_.
“Petite femme cherie qui a ete gentille puisqu’elle a ecrit deux lettres.
“Celle-ci est simplement pour te dire que mon repos a enfin produit son effet et que je suis rentre dans mon etat ordinaire. Aujourd’hui je me rends au Musee, et j’ai pu ecrire.
“Mon oncle est arrive hier soir, il partage mon salon, mais je lui ai loue une chambre-a-coucher dans la maison voisine. Il ne parait pas trop abattu; nous causons beaucoup et je tache de l’egayer autant que sa position le permet. Il est moins reserve qu’autrefois et me laisse voir davantage le cours de ses pensees qui vont souvent a ses filles et a sa femme. Je l’emmene aujourd’hui a l’Academie. Il y a une chose qui doit te rassurer quant a l’etat de ma sante, c’est que je n’ai jamais ces sensations au cerveau dont j’ai souffert. Le cerveau n’est pas fatigue et en me reposant a temps, je repare rapidement mes forces. Ce qui est vraiment insupportable ce sont les separations, et j’ai bien de la peine a m’y resigner, et je ne m’y resignerais pas du tout si la peinture rapportait. Mais en mettant les choses au pis pour les affaires d’argent, j’espere que tu me verras toujours courageux et affectueux dans l’adversite; je me figure que depuis quelque temps j’ai appris a la supporter sans qu’elle puisse m’aigrir. Si je dois vivre de pommes-de-terre, ou meme mourir de faim, tu me verras toujours devoue jusqu’a la mort. Celles-ci ne sont pas de vaines paroles; je suis pret a les soutenir dans une pauvre cabane ou sur le lit d’un hopital.”
“_Lundi_.
“T’ai-je dit que j’avais trouve ici-meme un locataire etudiant la botanique a ‘l’herbarium’ tous les jours, et qu’en nous promenant ensemble au jardin, les soirs, il m’apprend les noms des arbres qui ne sont pas indiques. J’ai aussi des fleurs sur ma fenetre: je t’en donne une. Je ne connais pas le langage des fleurs, mais si celle-ci ne te dit pas que je t’aime beaucoup–beaucoup–elle interprete bien mal mes sentiments.
“J’ai lu un peu du livre de Max Mueller sur l’etude _comparative_ des langues. C’est excessivement curieux. Tu n’as aucune idee de combien l’etymologie est interessante quand elle est basee sur la connaissance de tant d’idiomes; on peut tracer la parente les mots d’une maniere etonnante; les changements dans la facon de les ecrire ont pour resultat de les denaturer tellement que nous avons beaucoup de peine a les reconnaitre sans _retracer_ toute leur histoire dans la litterature. Mr. Max Mueller retrace ainsi, d’une maniere ingenieuse, mais bien convaincante, l’usage des mots pour arriver a leurs racines primitives, et puis il forme des theories d’apres ces comparaisons–qui sont au moins toujours interessantes. Ce qu’il y a de remarquable c’est qu’on retrouve les memes mots dans les endroits les plus eloignes, des mots Anglais et Francais qui ont leur origine dans le Sanskrit; et de meme pour d’autres idiomes. Max Mueller differe des philologues anciens en ceci que tandis qu’ils etudiaient seulement les langues classiques, lui trouve la lumiere et le materiel partout, meme dans le Patois: ainsi le Provencal lui a ete indispensable et bien d’autres langues encore que les amateurs des classiques negligent generalement.”
This interest in languages grew with years. When at Sens, we studied Italian together, but my increasing deafness made me abandon it on account of the pronunciation, whilst my husband, on the contrary, made it a point to read some pages of it every day, and even to write his diary in that language. Later still, he used to send to Florence some literary compositions to be corrected. After the marriage of his daughter, he used occasionally to ask his son-in-law, M. Raillard, for lessons in German, and had even undertaken to write, with his collaboration, a work on philology which was to have been entitled, “Words on their Travels, and Stay-at-Home Words,” which his unexpected death cut short. In the afternoon of the day on which he died, as he was coming back home from the Louvre in a tram-car, he took out of his pocket a volume of Virgil, and read it the whole way. “I furbish up my Latin and Greek when on a steamer or in omnibuses,” he said to me; “it prevents my being annoyed by the loss of time.”
“_Jeudi soir_.
“Je suis retourne chez Seeley ou on m’a traite d’une facon tout-a-fait delicate; le Professeur est un des hommes les plus sympathiques que j’aie rencontres. Je t’en parlerai plus longuement de vive voix, et quant a son frere Richmond je n’ai jamais connu quelqu’un avec qui je m’entende aussi facilement. Il y a une chose bien charmante en lui, c’est que, bien qu’il soit a la tete d’une grande maison, il n’a jamais l’air presse et vous ecoute avec une patience parfaite.
“Ce que tu me dis de ‘mon courage au travail et a la lutte’ me paye pour bien des heures de besogne. Tout ce qui me decourage parfois, c’est ma faible sante qui m’oblige souvent a paraitre paresseux sous peine d’etre malade.
“Il me tarde tant de te revoir que je suis comme un pauvre prisonnier en pays etranger, loin de la Dame de ses pensees. Alors, tu sais, il faut m’ecrire et embrasser les enfants pour moi.”
“_Vendredi_.
“J’ai ete desole de ne pas pouvoir t’ecrire aujourd’hui; il est maintenant 1 h. du matin. Je vais _bien_, mais je suis accable de travaux et pourtant je veux partir bientot; je finirai a la maison. Aujourd’hui j’ai termine mon article juste a temps pour l’impression. Comme notre ane ‘Je dors debout’; aujourd’hui je tombais presque de sommeil dans les rues de Londres.
“Les travaux sur l’eau-forte sont termines cette fois. A bientot!”
“22 RUE DE L’OUEST PARIS. _Lundi_.
“Je suis arrive hier a 5 h. du soir. _Je ne suis pas du tout fatigue_, ce qui semble indiquer une augmentation de force, car tu sais que les longs voyages me fatiguent generalement beaucoup. Je suis alle ce matin des 8 h. chez Delatre ou j’ai fait tirer mes planches. On fait le tirage de suite et les livraisons paraitront cette semaine.
“Quant a mes pauvres enfants, je suis desole de les savoir malades, mais ta lettre m’encourage a esperer qu’ils sont en bonne voie de convalescence. Tu as du avoir un temps difficile a passer ainsi tout seule: chere petite femme, je crois que si j’y avais ete c’eut ete plus facile pour toi: les enfants de mon ami Pearce sont egalement malades de la scarlatine.
“Hier soir j’ai dine chez Froment [the artist who paints such beautiful decorative works for Sevres]; ce matin j’ai dejeune chez Froment, ce soir j’y dine, et ainsi de suite.”
M. Froment had been most hospitable to both of us during our stay in Paris; he had given us a day at Sevres, and had shown us the _Manufacture_ in all its details. He was a widower, and inconsolable for the loss of his wife, whose memory was as sacred to him as religion. His two daughters were at home; the eldest watching maternally over the younger sister, who, however, died a few years later. M. Froment’s feelings, perceptions, and tastes were exquisitely refined, and my husband derived both benefit and pleasure from the friendly intercourse. In after years Gilbert met M. Froment occasionally, and found him always full of kindness and regard.
After nursing the children through scarlatina I caught it myself, and when my husband knew of it, he wrote:–
“I write just to say how sorry I am not to be able to set off _at once_, and be at your bedside. I shall certainly not be later than Saturday. I am of course very busy, and have no time for letter-writing. I have seen Docteur Dereims to-day, and told him of your illness. He insists on the necessity of the greatest care during your convalescence. You must especially avoid _cold drinks_, as highly dangerous.
“Things are going on as I wish for my book on Etching. I am getting hold of plates which alone would make it valuable. Pray take care of yourself. I wish I were with you.”
On the following day:–
“I am very sorry to hear you had such a bad night; but from all I can hear from Dr. Dereims you are only going through the usual course of the illness. I will be with you on Saturday without fail. You may count upon me as upon an attentive, though not, I fear, a very skilful nurse. But I will try, like some other folks, to make up in talk what I lack in professional skill. I am tolerably well, but rather upset by this news from Pre-Charmoy. I could not sleep much last night.
“I am going to the exhibition to-day, and will be thinking of little wife all the time. I have met with a quantity of very fine paper for etching, of French manufacture, and have obtained Macmillan’s authority to purchase it for the _text also_. It will be a splendid publication. I feel greater and greater hopes about that book.
“Only forty-eight hours of separation from the time I write.”
The day after:–
“Enfin il y a bien peu de chose a faire a mes planches, et j’espere que dans un jour ce sera termine.
“J’ai beaucoup de choses a te dire mais ce sera pour nos bonnes causeries intimes. Je voyagerai toute la nuit de vendredi afin d’arriver samedi dans la matinee. Quand je pense a toi et aux enfants, a la petite maison, a la petite riviere et a tous les details de cette delicieuse existence que nous passons ensemble, il me faut beaucoup de courage pour rester ici seul a terminer mon travail.”
When my husband reached home, I was still in bed, and unwilling to let him come to me for fear of infection; but he would not hear of keeping away. “I never catch anything,” he said gayly, “don’t be anxious on my account;” and he insisted upon sleeping on a little iron bedstead in the dressing-room close to our bedroom, to nurse me in the night.
He soon recovered his usual health, with occasional troubles of the nervous system; but he had grown careful about the premonitory symptoms, and used to grant himself a holiday whenever they occurred. Having been told whilst in London that novel-writing paid better than any other literary production, he now turned his thoughts towards the possibility of using his past experience for the composition of a story. It would be a pleasant change from criticism, he said, and would exercise different mental faculties. Very soon the plan of “Wenderholme” was formed, and we entertained good hopes of its success.
In the month of September, 1866, the wedding of my sister Caroline took place quietly at our house, Mr. Hamerton being looked upon as the head of the family since the death of my father. Although he prized his privacy above everything else, he was ready to sacrifice it as a token of his affection for his sister-in-law, and went through all the necessary trouble and expense for her sake. She married a young man who had formed an attachment for her ever since she was fifteen years old,–M. Pelletier,–and they went to live at Algiers, where he was then Commis d’Economat at the Lycee. It was agreed that they should spend the long vacation with us every year.
There are a good many days of frost in a Morvandau winter, and the snow often remains deep on the ground for several weeks together; there was even more than usual in 1867, so my husband devised a new amusement for the boys by showing them how to make a giant. Every time they came home, they rolled up huge balls of snow which were left out to be frozen hard, then sawn into large bricks to build up the monster. The delight of the boys may be imagined. Every new limb was greeted with enthusiastic shouts, they thought of nothing else; and, perched on ladders, their little hands protected by woollen gloves, they worked like slaves, and could hardly be got to eat their meals. But how should I describe the final scene, when in the dark evening two night-lights shone out of the giant’s eyes, and flames came out of its monstrous mouth?… It was nothing less than wild ecstasy. Their father also taught them skating; there was very little danger except from falls, for they began in the meadows about the house, where they skated over shallow pools left in the hollows by rain-water or melted snow; but when they became proficient, we used to go to the great pond at Varolles. As my husband has said in one of his letters, all that was very good for him.
In January, 1868, he left again for London, and felt but little inconvenience on the way and during his stay. Knowing that I should be anxious, he formed the habit of sending me frequent short pencil notes, to say how he was. I give here a few of them:–
“LONDRES. _Vendredi soir_.
“J’ai ete tres occupe aujourd’hui au musee Britannique. Demain j’irai voir des expositions. Je compte partir dimanche pour Paris.”
“_Samedi matin._
“J’ecris dans une boutique. Je vais bien. Je dine au Palais de Cristal avec un Club.”
“_Samedi soir._
“Je vais bien. Pauvre petit Richard! embrasse-le bien pour moi; tu as du etre bien inquiete.”
This was about a serious accident which had happened to our youngest boy. Whilst at play with his brother on the terrace, and in my presence, he ran his head against a low wall, and was felled senseless to the ground by the force of the blow; the temple was cut open, and his blood ran over my arm and dress when I lifted him up, apparently lifeless. The farmer’s cart drove us rapidly to Autun, where we found our doctor in bed–it was ten at night. The wound was dressed and sewn up, and the pain brought back some signs of life. I asked if I ought to take a room at the hotel to secure the doctor’s attendance at short intervals, but I was told that blows of that kind were either fatal or of little importance; the only thing to be done was to keep ice on the head and renew it constantly. The poor child seemed to have relapsed into an insensible state, and remained so all night. In the early morning, however, he awoke without fever, and was quite well in about three weeks.
I had asked my husband to take the opinion of an aurist about my increasing deafness, and he tenderly answered:–
“Serieusement je ne crois pas que ta surdite augmente. Avant de te rendre compte combien tu etais sourde, tu ne savais pas quels bruits restaient pour toi inapercus. Maintenant tu fais de tristes decouvertes; moi qui suis mieux place pour t’observer, puisque j’entends ce que tu n’entends pas, je sais que tu es tres sourde, mais je ne vois pas d’augmentation depuis tres longtemps et je crois que tu resteras a peu pres comme tu es. J’en ai parle aujourd’hui avec Macmillan dont une amie ete comme toi pendant longtemps et qui eprouve maintenant une amelioration graduelle, mais tres sensible. Tache surtout de ne pas trop t’attrister, parce qu’il parait que le chagrin a une tendance a augmenter la surdite. Quant a parler d’aimer mieux mourir, tu oublies que mon affection pour toi est bien au-dessus de toute infirmite corporelle, et que nous aurons toujours beaucoup de bonheur a etre ensemble; du moins je parle pour moi. Et meme si ta surdite augmentait beaucoup, nous aurions toujours le moyen de communiquer ensemble en parlant tres haut: en France nous parlerions anglais, et en Angleterre, francais.”
He sympathized so much with my trouble that, unlike many other husbands, who would have been annoyed at having to take a deaf wife into society, he urged me to go with him everywhere, kindly repeated what I had not heard, and explained what I misunderstood. He always tried his best to keep away from me the feeling of solitude, so common to those who are deprived of hearing.
Just as I was rejoicing over the thought that my husband had prosperously accomplished this last journey, I had a letter from him, dated “Hotel du Nord, Amiens,” in which he said he was obliged to stop there till he felt better, for he could eat absolutely nothing, and was very weak. The worst was that I dared not leave my poor little Richard yet, to go to his father: the wound on the temple was not healed, and the doctor had forbidden all excitement, for fear of brain-fever after the shock. I was terribly perplexed when the following letter reached me:–
“HOTEL DE L’AIGLE NOIR, FONTAINEBLEAU. _Mercredi_.
“Tu apprendras avec plaisir que j’ai regagne un peu d’appetit hier soir. J’ai mange un diner qui m’a fait tant de bien que ce ne serait pas cher a une centaine de francs. Cet hotel est tres propre et la cuisine y est faite convenablement sans melange de sauces. Toute la journee de lundi a Amiens, j’ai vecu d’un petit morceau de pain d’epices. Le soir a 10 h. 1/2 j’ai mange une tranche de jambon. Je suis parti a minuit pour Paris ou je suis arrive a 4 h. du matin. Pour ne pas me rendre plus malade, je n’ai pas voulu rester dans la grande ville que j’ai traversee d’une gare a l’autre immediatement. J’ai pris une tasse de chocolat et ecrit quelques lettres en attendant le train pour Fontainebleau qui est parti de la gare a 8 h. C’etait un train demi-express, mais je l’ai bien supporte. En arrivant a Fontainebleau je n’ai pas pu dejeuner et je n’ai rien mange jusqu’au soir quand j’ai bien dine. C’est tres economique de ne pas pouvoir manger. J’ai saute plusieurs repas, qui par consequent ne figurent nullement dans les notes.
“Hier soir je me suis promene un peu dans les jardins du palais qui est lui-meme vaste, mais c’est un amas de constructions lourdes et de mauvais gout, du moins en general. Cela me fait l’effet d’une caserne ajoutee a une petite ville. Les jardins, les arbres sont magnifiques. Je me trouve bien ce matin, mais un peu faible par suite du peu de nourriture que j’ai pu prendre depuis quelques jours. Enfin, je suis en train de me refaire. Je desire vivement etre chez moi, et j’y arriverai aussitot que possible sans me rendre malade. Embrasse pour moi les enfants et ta mere; a toi de tout coeur.”
He reached home safely, but the fatigue and weakness seemed to last longer than previously, and insomnia frequently recurred. He did his best to insure refreshing sleep by taking more exercise in the open air, but it became clear that he must abandon work at night, because when his brain had been working on some particular subject, he could not quiet it at once by going to bed, and it went on–in spite of himself–to a state of great cerebral excitement, during which production was rapid and felicitous–therefore tempting; but it was paid for too dearly by the nervous exhaustion surely following it. It was a great sacrifice on his part, because he liked nothing better than to wait till every one had retired and the house was all quiet and silent, to sit down to his desk under the lamp, and write undisturbed–and without fear of disturbance–till dawn put out the stars.
He now changed his rules, and devoted the evenings to reading.
CHAPTER IX.
1868.
Studies of Animals.–A Strange Visitor.–Illness at Amiens.– Resignation of post on the “Saturday Review.”–Nervous seizure in railway train.–Mrs. Craik.–Publication of “Etching and Etchers.”– Tennyson.–Growing reputation in America.
In the course of the years 1865-67 Mr. Hamerton had made the acquaintance of several leading French artists,–Dore, Corot, Daubigny, Courbet, Landelle, Lalanne, Rajon, Brunet-Debaines, Flameng, Jacquemart, etc. The etchers he frequently met at Cadart’s, where they came to see proofs of their etchings; the painters he went to see for the preparation of his “Contemporary French Painters” and “Painting in France.” Together with these works he had begun his first novel, “Wenderholme,” and had been contemplating for some time the possibility of lecturing on aesthetics. I was adverse to this last plan on account of his nervous state, which did not seem to allow so great an excitement as that of appearing in public at stated times; I persuaded him at least to delay the realization of the project till he had quite recovered his health, despite the invitations he had received both from England and America. He continued to paint from nature, with the intention of resigning his post on the “Saturday Review” in case of success, but now devoted more of his time to the study of animals, principally oxen, as he liked to have models at hand without leaving home.
Desiring to be thoroughly acquainted with the anatomy of the ox, he bought one which had died at the farm, and had it boiled in parts till the flesh was separated from the bones, which were then exposed to dry in the sunshine. When thoroughly dried they were kept in the garret, and successively taken to the studio to serve for a series of drawings, of which I still possess several. As we had a goat, and sometimes kids, he also made numerous sketches from them, as well as from ducks, sheep and lambs, hens and chickens. There was also a Waterloo veteran who came weekly as a model, and who was painted in a monk’s dress, which my husband used afterwards, and for a long time, as a dressing-gown.
This habit of sketching animals whenever he had a chance gave rise to some amusing incidents before our peasant neighbors knew that he “painted portraits of dumb beasts, as well as of Christians.” Some farmers’ wives, alarmed at the sight of odd pennies in the pockets of their offspring, accused them of pilfering, but on being told that the “gros sous” had been given them by “le pere anglais,” came to our house to ascertain how and why; for, unlike the people of the South, they would not have tolerated begging. They were quieted by the assurance that the money had been honestly earned by the children for holding their goat or donkey whilst its portrait was taken; nay, they even felt a little proud that an animal of theirs should have been thought worthy of such an honor.
Etching in all its forms was pursued at the same time with lithography and photography; even a new kind of transparent etching ground was invented by Mr. Hamerton, which made it possible for etchers to see the work already done upon a plate after having it grounded again for correction or additional work.
A strange incident occurred during this winter. My husband’s rising reputation had, it appears, given to many people a desire for his personal acquaintance, or for intercourse by correspondence. The first desire brought him many unexpected visitors, the second quite an appreciable increase of work, as he hardly ever left a letter unanswered. To give the reader an instance of the extraordinary notions entertained by some people, I shall relate the true history of one visitor amongst others. Some letters at short intervals, from England, signed–let us say–Beamish, mentioned a mysterious project which could not possibly be explained otherwise than by word of mouth, and which might be both profitable and agreeable to Mr. Hamerton, if realized. He was asked to call upon the correspondent for an explanation if he should happen to go to London soon; if not, Mr. Beamish begged leave to come over and see him. Of course the leave was given, and the gentleman having written that on such a day he would be at such an hotel in Autun, Gilbert went to fetch him in the pony-carriage–for Dort-debout had tired out our patience, and had been replaced by a beautiful and energetic little pony called Cocote.
When we met Mr. Beamish, we found him a most prepossessing young man, of elegant manners and refined speech; in short, a gentleman. He begged me to allow his portmanteau to be placed in the carriage; and as I observed that he was not expected to dress for our family dinner, he answered that it only contained papers that he should want.
Two other friends, understanding English, joined us at dinner. The conversation was animated, but Mr. Beamish never hinted at the mysterious project. In the evening, engravings and etchings were shown to our guest, but failed to excite his interest, for he soon fell asleep on the sofa, and let our friends go without awaking. Unwilling to disturb him, we remained till nearly one o’clock, when I decided to retire, whatever happened afterwards; and I was so tired that after going to bed I never awoke till morning, when I asked my husband at what time Mr. Beamish had gone. “Gone,” he answered; “why, I don’t know that he has gone at all, for I left him after three, just where he was.” I hardly dared peep into the drawing-room; however, it was empty; but when the breakfast-bell was rung, Mr. Beamish came in unconcernedly to have his share of the simple meal, during which he talked pleasantly and intelligently of his experiences in India, where he had spent the greater part of eighteen years. Nothing was said of the project, and after vainly waiting for some mention of it, my husband returned to his study, after letting Mr. Beamish know that he was not to be disturbed till eleven o’clock, for it was the time of his morning work. “Very well,” answered our guest; “meanwhile I shall put my books and papers in order.” At the same time he requested me to send rather a large table into the room where he had slept (it was the room in which his portmanteau had been put), and to tell the servants to be careful not to interfere in any way with what he would leave upon it, not even to dust, _so long as he remained with us_. I then believed that Gilbert had invited him to stay some time, but I was undeceived in the course of the day, and told that the mysterious project had been unfolded at last, and was a proposition that he should undertake a journey to Palestine in the company of Mr. Beamish, to join Holman Hunt, who was painting studies in the Holy Land. “But what made you think I was ready to undertake such a pilgrimage?” Mr. Hamerton had asked in great astonishment. “Because I read that you liked camping out,” was the reply; “and thought also that, being an artist, you would be glad to meet with Holman Hunt, who, like you in the Highlands, works directly from nature. I thought, moreover, that, as I intend to go myself, you would be agreeable and profitable society.”
Although my husband had declined to give the slightest consideration to this plan, Mr. Beamish still remained, and vaguely hinted that a still more mysterious project detained him at Autun.
He went on foot, alone, to the college, on three successive afternoons, begged to see our boys, and tipped them so generously that the principal thought it his duty to ask their father whether he had authorized these visits–clearly implying that he doubted the soundness of the visitor’s mind.
We had learned in the course of conversation that our guest was of a benevolent and charitable disposition, and that he had spent much money in India in founding hospital-beds for poor women, whose sufferings he warmly compassionated. He was also full of sympathy for the Indian people, and spoke of their wrongs not without a certain degree of excitement, but still in a manner to arouse our interest. Altogether, although he was a self-imposed guest, we had already learned to like him, and were unwilling to remind him, with ever so little rudeness, that he was in the way. My husband said that his conduct might be explained by the fact that he had lived so long in India, where the dwellings of Europeans are often at great distances from each other, and where a visitor is always made at home and welcome; that Mr. Beamish was only acting as he had been accustomed to do for the greater part of his life, for he was still a young man of about thirty-six.
After about a week’s stay, he began to talk of leaving us within a short time, but did not say when–that would depend on _certain_ circumstances. However, on a bitterly cold evening, with the snow deep on the ground, he requested to be driven to Autun, and took a friendly leave of us all without explanation. But the principal of the college related the following strange story to Mr. Hamerton:–
“Your friend, Mr. Beamish, whom I had met at your house, came here under pretext of seeing your sons, but called upon me, and asked point-blank if I would give him my help in a charitable deed of some importance. ‘What is the nature of the deed?’ was my first question. ‘The salvation of a soul.’ ‘In what form?’ I did not get a direct answer, but I was told that the idea had sprung from religious motives, and that knowing my strong attachment to religion–though it was the Roman Catholic religion–he hoped I should have sufficient moral courage to help him in his deed of mercy–in fact he had resolved to reclaim a fallen woman. Vainly did I attempt to turn him from his generous but impracticable resolution. He threatened to act alone if I refused him the sanction of my presence, but he hoped that the Aumonier would see his action in its true light, and putting himself above popular suspicion, would accompany him ‘to the very den of sin to offer salvation to a lost but _repentant sheep_.’ It was useless to try to make him understand that it was impossible for the Aumonier to risk his character, even with the hope of doing good, and at last Mr. Beamish expressed a desire to meet him in my presence on the morrow. Our worthy Aumonier was horrified at the idea of the kind of sinners he would have to meet, and declined to have anything to do with the wildly charitable scheme.”
The next news was brought to Autun four days later by the woman whom poor Mr. Beamish thought he had rescued at the cost of four hundred francs for her liberation from debt, and about two hundred more for decent clothing. He had taken her as far as Dijon, where he had left her in some kind of reformatory; but after enjoying the change, and with her purse replenished to carry her through the first difficulties of an honest life, she hastened back to the old haunt to gibe and jeer at her benefactor.
Another queer visitor was an English gentleman, past middle age, who could never find his way back to our house, but invariably appeared at meal-times in the dining-room of some neighbor, who had to escort him to Pre-Charmoy.
The opening of the Academy exhibition had come round again, and Mr. Hamerton had to go and criticise it as usual; but after reaching Amiens, he felt so poorly that he resolved to send his resignation to the “Saturday Review,” and to return home as quickly as he could. Here is his letter to me:–
“HOTEL DU NORD, AMIENS. _Dimanche_.
“Bonne cherie.–Je suis arrive a Amiens samedi matin de bonne heure, ayant l’intention de me reposer un peu a l’hotel et puis de continuer mon voyage le tantot, mais en me levant j’ai senti que j’avais besoin d’un repos un peu plus prolonge apres les fatigues de Paris. Le plus ennuyeux c’est que je peux a peine manger quelque chose. Comme ce manque d’appetit m’affaiblera inevitablement s’il continue longtemps et que l’affaiblissement amenerait probablement un mauvais etat du systeme nerveux, je crois que le plus sage serait de renoncer pour cette fois au voyage en Angleterre et de revenir au Pre-Charmoy comme un faux billet indigne de circuler. Mon intention est donc de retourner, et pour changer je prendrai probablement la ligne de Dijon, en m’arretant un jour a Sens pour voir Challard. [An artist who had copied some drawings of Jean Cousin for the “Fine Arts Quarterly Review.”]
“Comme je te l’ai promis, je fais ce qui me semble etre le plus sage. Je reviendrai le plus vite que je pourrai sans hasarder ma sante.
“J’ai loue un petit bateau hier avec lequel j’ai explore la riviere d’Amiens–la Somme–en haut de la ville. Il est impossible d’imaginer rien de plus pittoresque. Il y a une grande quantite de petites maisons et baraques au bord de l’eau et je vais prendre la le materiel d’une eau-forte. J’espere que cette retraite n’est pas trop ridicule. Un bon general, dit-on, se distingue tout autant dans la retraite que dans l’avance; et comme par le fait il y a manque de vivres–puisque je ne peux pas manger–il me semble que la prudence conseille ce que les Americains appelaient ‘un mouvement strategique’ quand ils avaient ete battus.”
“AMIENS. _Lundi matin_.
“Comme je n’avais pas encore regagne d’appetit hier j’ai pense qu’il serait plus sage de rester ici encore un peu et je suis alle canoter sur la riviere.
“Mr. Cook avec une grande et charmante bonte m’a fait des remontrances: il me dit que le ton de ma lettre l’a blesse et que mes ‘menaces’ lui ont fait de la peine; qu’il n’a jamais manque de largesse envers ses ecrivains et que l’excedent de mes depenses en livres, voyages, etc., sera toujours defraye par la Revue. J’ai ete reellement touche de la maniere affectueuse dont il m’a fait ses observations auxquelles il a su joindre des compliments, en me disant que j’avais decouvert la meilleure facon de faire la revue des expositions et que mes articles sont precisement ce qu’il lui faut. J’ai repondu que quant a la peine que cela avait pu lui faire, je le regrettais sincerement, mais que les ‘menaces’ etaient tout simplement l’expression d’une resolution tres decidement prise, et dans un moment ou j’etais a la fois trop malade et trop presse pour proceder avec plus de formes.
“Comme ma promenade sur l’eau m’a fait du bien hier je vais la renouveler.
“Ton mari, qui te reverra bientot.”
I decided at once to go to him; my mother, who had come to stay with me during his absence, approved my resolution, and undertook the management of the house and the care of the children: so without asking for his leave, I wrote that I was on my way to Amiens.
His joy was great when he saw me, and his progress towards recovery was so rapid that he abandoned the idea of retracing his steps, and encouraged by my presence, thought he could accomplish the journey to London without danger. It was of great importance that he should keep his post on the “Saturday Review,” because it was his only _regular_ income, everything else being uncertain; and we knew that if he could undertake the work again it would be readily entrusted to him.
We only stayed two days at Amiens, and as my husband was never seasick or nervous on the sea, everything went on satisfactorily so far; but as soon as we had left Dover for London, I perceived signs of uneasiness in his behavior. He closed his eyes not to see the moving objects we passed; he uncovered his head, which seemed burning by the flushed face; he chafed his cold, bloodless hands, and shuffled his feet to bring back circulation. For a long time he attempted to hide these alarming symptoms from me, but I had detected them from the beginning; his eyes had a far-reaching look and unusual steely brilliancy; the expression of his countenance was hard-set, rigid, almost defiant, as if ready to overthrow any obstacle in his way; and indeed it was the case, for unable to control himself any longer, he got up and told me hoarsely that he was going to jump out of the train. I took hold of his hands, and said I would follow; only I entreated him to wait a short time, as we were so near a station. I placed myself quite close to the door of the railway carriage, and stood between it and him. Happily we _were_ near a station, else I don’t know what might have happened; he rushed out of carriage and station into the fields, whilst I followed like one dazed and almost heart-broken. After half-an-hour he lessened his pace, and turned to me to say, “I think it is going.” I could not speak for fear of bursting into tears, but I pressed his hand in mine and held it as we continued our miserable way across the fields. We walked perhaps two hours, at the end of which Gilbert said tenderly, in his usual voice: “You must be terribly tired, my poor darling; I think I could bear to rest now; we may try to sit down.” We sat down upon a fallen tree, and after some minutes he told me that if I could get him a glass of beer somewhere it would bring him round. I went in search of an inn and discovered a closed one, for it was Sunday and the time of afternoon service. Nevertheless I knocked so perseveringly that a woman came forth, incensed by my pertinacity, and peremptorily refused with indignation any kind of drink: to obtain a bottle of beer I had to take an oath that it was for a patient.
The glass of ale at once calmed and revived my husband, and when the bottle had been emptied–in the course of an hour or so–he was himself again and felt hungry.
We did not know the place,–it was Adisham; we had no luggage, and as to resuming our journey it was out of the question, for some time at least. So I went again to the inn, and asked the woman if she could give us a room. “No, there was not one ready; and then it was so suspicious, people coming like that through the fields and without luggage.” I offered to pay in advance. “But we might be runaways.” My husband had his passport, and I explained that he had been taken ill suddenly, and that our luggage could be sent to us from London. “If the gentleman were to die here it would be a great trouble.” I had to assure her that it was not dangerous, and that rest only was required. At last she consented to show me into a very clean, freshly-papered room, deprecating volubly the absence of curtains and bedstead in such an emergency, but promising to put them up shortly if we remained some time.
The bedding was laid upon the carpet; the mattresses had just undergone a thorough cleaning, and the sheets and counterpane smelt sweet. When night came we were thankful to rest our tired limbs even on the floor, and to hope that sleep would bury in oblivion the anguish of the day, at least for a while.
Oh, the weary, weary time spent there, without work, without books, and with but little hope of better days. How should we get out of it, and when?… It was now clear that these terrible attacks were due to railway travelling. Then how should we ever get home again?…
Our luggage had been telegraphed for and returned, and the appearance of the trunks had evidently inspired some confidence in our landlady. Materially we were comfortable enough: a clean bedroom, a quiet, rather large sitting-room (it was the usual public dining-room, but it being early in the season, there were no boarders besides ourselves); and the cookery, though simple and unvaried, was good of its kind,–alternately ham and eggs, beef-steak and chops with boiled potatoes, rice pudding, or gooseberry tart.
Morning after morning my husband wondered if he would feel equal to resuming the journey; but the necessary self-reliance was found wanting still. We walked out slowly and aimlessly, and we chose for our long walks the most solitary lanes. Gilbert felt that the air, impregnated by sea-salt, was gradually invigorating him, and after three weeks of this melancholy existence made up his mind to order a carriage to take us as far as Canterbury. The long drive and change did him good, and he was well enough to take me to the Cathedral, and show me the town, where we lingered two days, and then took another carriage for Croydon. At that stage my husband told me that we were not far from Beckenham, and proposed that we should call upon Mr. and Mrs. Craik on the following day. I shall never forget the kindness of the reception nor the sympathy of our hostess. I was surprised to see my husband enjoying conversation and society so much, because when he was unwell he shrank from meeting with any one, and required complete solitude; he only wished to feel that I was near him, without fretting and in silence. But the charming simplicity of the welcome in the garden, the peacefulness, not only of the dwelling, but still more the calm and sweet aspect of the celebrated authoress, together with her husband’s friendly manner, acted soothingly upon the nerves of their visitor. He told without reticence what had happened, and soon changed the subject to fall into an animated and interesting conversation.
After lunch Mrs. Craik made me walk in the garden with her, and inquired more closely into the particulars of this strange illness; she encouraged and comforted me greatly. She was tall, and though white-haired, very beautiful still, I thought. As we walked she bent her head (covered with the Highland blue bonnet) over mine, and as she clasped my shoulders within her arm, I could see her hand laid upon my breast, as if to soothe it; it was the loveliest hand I ever saw; the shape so perfect, the skin so white and soft. We spoke French together; she was interested about France, and liked talking of its people and customs. Before we left she asked me to write to her, and offered to render me any service I might require.
The journey to Todmorden was not to be thought of this time, and Gilbert had begged his uncle and aunt to meet us at Kew, if they could manage it. They answered in the affirmative, and he found lodgings for them, not far from ours, nearly opposite to the church.
Knowing that his book must now be ready, he longed to see a copy of it, and feeling well enough one morning, he started with me for London; but as soon as we were in the heart of the town, its bustle, crowd, and noise drove my husband to the comparative peace of the nearest park. There, as usual in such cases, we had to walk till his nerves were calmed, and then to sit down for a long time. He did not think he would be equal to the busy streets that day, and asked me to take a cab and see if I could bring him back a copy of his book. Reluctantly I left him, though he assured me the attack was over; only he was afraid of bringing it on again if he went into the street. So I was driven to Mr. Macmillan’s house of business, and immediately received by him. He was evidently truly sorry to hear that my husband was unwell, and “Etching and Etchers” being upon his table, he took up a copy, and with many warm praises insisted upon placing it himself in my cab. The book was everything that its author had desired, and taken so much pains to ensure; he was gratified by the result, and gratefully acknowledged the liberality of the publishers. One of the first visits paid by Mr. Hamerton when he felt well again was to Mr. Cook, of the “Saturday Review,” who was himself out of health through overwork. He feelingly expressed his regret that my husband could not continue to act as regular art critic, but trusted that he would still contribute to the “Saturday” as much as possible, and on subjects he might himself select.
Next we saw Mr. Seymour Haden, and I begged him to try and discover what was the nature of my husband’s ailment.
It was no easy matter, as the patient refused to submit to examination and to prescriptions of any kind. Mrs. Haden, who was full of sympathy and kindness, apprised her husband of this peculiarity and he undertook to _passer-outre_. So the next time we called by invitation, he looked steadily at his guest for some time, and said to him deliberately: “You are _very_ ill; it’s no use denying it to me; you must give up all work,–not in a month, or a week, or to-morrow, but to-day, instantly.” My husband flushed, so that I trembled in fear of another seizure, and answered angrily: “I cannot give up work; I _must_ work for my family; I shall try to work less.” … “I say you are to give up all mental labor immediately; I shall see, later, what amount of intellectual work you are able to bear, according to the state you will be in. You may break stones on the road, but I forbid you to hold a pen for literary composition; and once back home, you must renounce railway travelling as long as it produces uncomfortable sensations.” All this was said imperatively, and although it drove my husband almost to desperation, I thanked Mr. Haden in my heart for his courageous and timely interference, and Gilbert did the same after recovering from the shock.
This time he did not feel either so sad or so despondent as formerly, when he had suffered alone; he knew now for certain that the causes of his trouble were overwork and railway travelling, and he took the resolution of avoiding both dangers as much as possible. Whenever he felt nervous we remained quietly at Kew, reading or sketching or walking in solitary places with his uncle and aunt, and when he thought himself well enough we went to London by boat or omnibus, to the British Museum, the National Gallery, or South Kensington Museum, and to the public or private art exhibitions. We also paid calls, and on one of these occasions I was introduced to George Eliot and to Mr. Lewes; the latter sat by us on a sofa outside of the inner circle (the room was full), and talked with wonderful vivacity and great discrimination of the state of French literature. He judged of it like a Frenchman; his conversation was extremely interesting and suggestive, and he appeared to derive great pleasure from a rapid exchange of thoughts. Undeniably he was very plain, when you had time to think of it, but it was with him as with the celebrated advocate, M. Cremieux,–so much caricatured,–neither of them seemed at all plain to me as soon as they spoke; both had expressive eyes and countenance, and the interest awakened by the varying expression of the features did not allow one to think of their want of symmetry and shape.
The person who sat next to George Eliot seemed determined to monopolize her attention; but as a new-comer was announced she came forward to meet him, and kindly taking me by the hand, made me sit in the chair she had herself occupied, and motioned to my husband to come also. He remained standing inside the circle, whilst the Monopolizer had, at once, to yield his seat to the mistress of the house, as well as a share of her conversation to others than himself.
I immediately recognized the description given of her by my husband; her face expressed at the same time great mental power and a sort of melancholy human sympathy; her voice was full-toned, though low, and wonderfully modulated. We were frequently interrupted by people just coming in, and with each and all she exchanged a few phrases appropriate to the position, pursuit, or character of her interlocutor, immediately to revert to the subject of our conversation with the utmost apparent ease and pleasure.
Mr. Lewes offered tea himself, because the worshippers surrounded the Idol so closely that they kept her a prisoner within a double circle, and they were so eager for a few words from her lips that as soon as she moved a step or two they crowded about her in a way to make me think that, in a small way and in her own drawing-room, she was mobbed like a queen at some public ceremony.
The next time we called upon George Eliot she had heard of our meeting with Mr. Tennyson, and said,–
“So you have seen the great man–and did he talk?”
“Talk?” answered my husband; “he talked the whole time, and was in high spirits.”
“Then you were most fortunate.”
We understood what was implied, for Mr. Tennyson had the reputation of not being always gracious. However, we had learned from himself that nothing short of rudeness could keep his intrusive admirers at a distance, so as to allow him some privacy. He told us of a man who so dogged his steps that he was afraid of going out of his own garden gates, for even in front of those locked gates the man would stand and pry for hours together, till the poet’s son was sent to him with a request that he would go elsewhere.
In the case of his meeting with Mr. Hamerton it was totally different, for he had himself expressed a wish for it to Mr. Woolner. Of course my husband was greatly flattered when he heard of it, and readily accepted an invitation to lunch with Mr. Woolner’s family, and to meet the poet whom he so much admired. I sat by Mr. Tennyson, and endeavored to suppress any outward sign of the interest and admiration so distasteful to him. Nevertheless, I was greatly impressed by the dignity of his simple manners and by the inscrutable expression of the eyes, so keen and yet so calm, so profound yet so serene. His was a fine and noble face, even in merriment, and he was very merry on that day, for the string of humorous anecdotes he told kept us all laughing, himself included. I am sorry now not to remember them, the more so as they generally concerned himself. Several were connected with his title of “Lord of the Manor,” but the only one I can remember in its entirety is the following, because he was addressing himself to me–a Frenchwoman–the scene of the story being the Hotel du Louvre, in Paris.
Mr. Tennyson began by remarking that there were a good many stories current about him; some of them were true, but most of them apocryphal.
“And is the one you are going to relate true?” I asked.
He smiled, and answered:–