Philip Gilbert Hamerton Part 31

The idea of an abridged "Wenderholme" had been accepted by the author, who had written to Messrs. Blackwood about it, and who received the satisfactory answer that, "though they had sustained a loss with the first publication, they thought that the reputation and popularity of the writer having considerably increased, 'Wenderholme' would sell well in their 'Library Series of Novels.'" In consequence the revision was begun at once, for Roberts Brothers had also written, "Whenever you feel inclined to take up 'Wenderholme,' we shall be glad to comply with your demand." And there followed a new proposition in the same letter:--

"Since writing you about a new novel, we have had an inspiration, and have already acted upon it--a series of novelettes, to be published anonymously, the secret of authors.h.i.+p, for a period, to rest entirely with the author and publisher. We shall call it the 'No Name Series,'

and issue it in neat, square 18mo volumes of about 250 pages, to sell for one dollar.

"Those to whom we have suggested the idea are mightily pleased, and we are even tickled with the great fun we expect to have--something like a new experience of the 'Great Unknown' days of Sir Walter Scott. We have several promises from well-known authors, and we all agree that you must write one of them. Take your own time to do so, and when you send us the 'copy' we will advance 50 towards the copyright. People say it will be impossible to keep the secret, for an author's style cannot be hidden; but though it may be easy enough to say, 'Oh! this is Hamerton; anybody can tell his style,' _if it is not admitted_, there will be uncertainty enough to make it exciting, and create a demand--we hope a large one."

Although my husband had not been so well in the spring (it was the worst time of the year for him), he decided to start for England early in June to see the Paris Salon and the English Academy. He did not ask me to go with him, for our daughter had had quite recently a bad attack of bronchitis--at one time we had even feared inflammation of the lungs--and the greatest care against the possibility of colds had been recommended. However, he thought he would be equal to the journey, and gave me a promise to stop whenever he felt unwell. He reached Paris all right, did his work there, and had a kind letter from Mr. Seeley, who said:--

"I was greatly pleased to receive your card this morning, and learn that you had had a successful journey. Now you will certainly come and see me, won't you? Brunet-Debaines is here, and will remain till the end of next week. If you are with us then, we will get him to Kingston, and have a day on the Thames together, and all of us shall make sketches."

It was very tempting. But the next news was not so good, and Mr. Seeley wrote again:--

"If you have lost your appet.i.te in a big town the remedy is plain. Come to Kingston at once. You will not be much troubled with noise there, and you can paddle about on the river and get hungry, or go flying madly about on a bicycle, if you have kept up the practice. There is a big bedroom empty, and waiting for you."

The journey was resumed as far as Amiens, but the enemy proved too strong to be overcome by courage and resolution, and after resting two days my husband came back home by easy stages, having only told me the truth after leaving Amiens, to prevent my going to him at any cost. He reached La Tuilerie on the first of July, and I see in the diary: "Rested at home. Very glad to be there." The attempt was not attended by any lasting bad effects; he immediately regained his appet.i.te and usual health; but his Aunt Susan was sorely disappointed. He tried to soothe her by explaining what he believed to be the combined causes of his breakdown: first the intense heat, which had made his stay in Paris very trying; the fatigue he had undergone there; and lastly the weakness supervening after the loss of appet.i.te, also due to the abnormal heat, which was causing several sunstrokes every day, even in England. He announced his intention of making another attempt with me in the autumn, when the chances would be more in his favor.

Since the beginning of the year the study of painting had become predominant, and had necessitated rather a heavy outlay, because Gilbert's schemes were always so elaborate and complex--drawing-boards of different sizes, every one of them with a tin cover painted and varnished; some for water-colors, others for charcoals; canvases for oils and monochromes, wooden and porcelain palettes, pastilles, tubes, portable easels, sunshades, knapsacks, stools, brushes, block-books, papers for water-colors and chalk studies, tinted and white, numberless portfolios to cla.s.s the studies, and--a gig, to carry the paraphernalia to greater distances and in less time than the four-wheeled carriage required. I was against the gig, but the boys were of course delighted, and declared with their father that it had become "absolutely necessary."

I see in the diary: "July 30, 1876. In the evening went to Autun on Cocote; enjoyed the ride considerably. Brought back the gig. Wife sulky." The expenses of the year had been very heavy, owing to several causes; first some house repairs had become inevitable, and the landlord offering us only the option of doing them at our own cost or leaving the house, we had to order them. The roofs were in such a state that in stormy weather we had our ceilings and wall-papers drenched with rain-water, and indeed it had even begun to make its way _through_ the ceilings into the inhabited rooms. The diary for March 12, 1876, says: "A very stormy day, the wildest of the whole year. We arranged the tents (Stephen and I) in the attic, to prevent the rain from coming into our bedroom." Then there had been boats made for the boys (cheap boats, it is true, made by common joiners). They were well deserved, I acknowledge; the boys had had each an accessit at the "Concours Academique," and both were mentioned with praise by the Sous-Prefet at the public distribution of prizes. Besides, what was still more important, Stephen had successfully pa.s.sed his examination for the "Baccalaureat." Lastly, there had been an expensive and unproductive journey, and there was the prospect of another. All this in the same year somewhat alarmed me. The gig was not an important concern, being made, like the four-wheeled carriage, from designs of my husband's, by ordinary wheelwrights and blacksmiths; but though admitting its usefulness, and even desirableness, I thought we might have done without it.

In the beginning of August my husband told me the plan of "Marmorne"

(for the "No Name Series"), and I had been afraid that it would be too melodramatic; however, I was charmed when he read me the beginning, and my fears were soon dispelled by the strength and simplicity of the narrative.

On October 4 we started for England, leaving my mother in charge of the house and children; we stopped at Fontainebleau in the morning, and after _dejeuner_ visited the forest pretty thoroughly in a carriage.

After dinner we went on to Paris, where we stayed only four days for fear of its effects, and proceeded to Calais by a night-train. Luckily for Gilbert, he could sleep very well in a railway carriage, and sea-sickness was unknown to him. We crossed in the "Castalia," in very rough weather indeed, the waves jumping over the deck, and covering everything there with foam; at one time there came a huge one das.h.i.+ng just against my husband's block as he was sketching, and drenched him from head to foot. However, he took a warm bath at Dover, changed his clothes, and felt only the better for the pa.s.sage.

Mr. Seeley's house was reached at midnight, and very happy was Mr.

Hamerton to meet his friend again, and to be once more in England after an enforced absence of seven years. On the morrow our kind host and hostess took us to Hampton Court Palace, thence to Richmond Park by Twickenham, and altogether made us pa.s.s a most pleasant day. The following day was reserved for the National Gallery, and I find this note in the diary: "I was delighted to see the Turner collection again, and greatly struck by the luminous quality of the late works. This could not possibly have been got without the white grounds."

On the Sunday we went to Balham to dine early with Mr. and Mrs.

Macmillan, and met Mr. Ralston and Mr. Green, the historian. It was noted as a very interesting day by my husband.

On the sixth day we took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Seeley, and took a night-train for Peterborough, where we visited the cathedral and town to await the dusk; then on to Doncaster and Knottingly. From Knottingly we did not see clearly how to reach Featherstone, and were greatly embarra.s.sed, when a coachman, who had just driven his master to the station, foresaw the possibility of a handsome tip, and offered to take us--without luggage--in his trap. It was pitch dark, he had no lamps, the road was all ruts, and the horse flew along like mad. We only held to our seats--or rather kept resuming them, in a succession of b.u.mps, now on one side, now on the other, and up in the air--by grasping the sides of the trap with all our might, till a sudden stop nearly threw us all out; at any rate it did throw us in a heap over each other at the bottom of the trap--unhurt. It was with a sense of immense relief that we plodded the rest of our way to the vicarage, where we arrived at eleven. The diary says: "October 17, 1876. Saw my Aunt Susan again for the first time since 1869, at which time I hardly hoped ever to see her again."

It was a great comfort to Gilbert to witness the affectionate care taken of his aunt by her niece, Annie Hinde, and her brother Ben, with whom she lived. He had always entertained a great liking for these cousins, but it was increased during his stay at the vicarage by their hospitable and friendly ways, and by his grat.i.tude for their having given to his dear relative as much of peaceful satisfaction as it was in their power to do. Miss Susan Hamerton was aged, no doubt, but she was still able to do everything for herself, and to occupy her time usefully in housekeeping, sewing, reading, writing, and going out. She still retained her strong will, and manifested it in a way which nearly destroyed all the pleasure of the meeting with her nephew--and would have done so, had he not yielded to it by consenting to a transfer of bank-shares (in his favor) which involved great liabilities. She would not listen to an explanation of the risk, and considered it ungracious to look the gift-horse in the mouth. "It had been a capital investment,"

she said, and she remained absolutely opposed to the sale of the shares.

Her nephew had to accept the gift as it was--so that instead of relieving anxiety it created a new one. However, having come to give her a little of the suns.h.i.+ne of happiness, he decided not to let it be clouded over. We stayed a month in happy and cordial intercourse, my husband spending the intervals of work in long talks and walks with his aunt, and when the time for our departure arrived, the sadness of parting was soothed by the hope of meeting again, now that Gilbert seemed to have recovered the power of travelling.

On our return to London we lunched with Mr. Seymour Haden, who took my husband to the room in which he kept his collections, where they had a long talk on art matters, and where he gave him a proof of the "Agamemnon," whilst I was having a chat over family interests, children, and music with Mrs. Haden.

In the afternoon we called upon George Eliot and Mr. Lewes, who were very friendly indeed. I was greatly struck by George Eliot's memory, for she remembered everything I had told her--seven years ago--about our rustic life, and her first question was, "Are your children well, and do you still drive them to college in a donkey-chaise?" She was gravely sympathetic in alluding to the cause of our long absence from London, and when I said how great was my husband's satisfaction in being there again, she seized both of my hands softly in hers, and asked in the low modulations of her rich voice, "Is there no gap?" ... "Thank G.o.d!" I answered, "there is none." Then she let go my hands, and smiling as if relieved she said, "Let us talk over the past years since you came;" and then she told me of the growing interest manifested by the "thinking world" in the works of my husband. "We are all marvelling at the _maturity_ of talent in one so young still, and look forward hopefully for what he may achieve."

The day after we saw Mr. Calderon in his studio, painting two beautiful decorative pictures; there was a garland of flowers in one of them--the freshness of their coloring was admirable. We missed Mr. Woolner, who was out, and thence went to Mr. Macmillan's place of business, and with him to Knapdale, where we dined and stayed all night.

As soon as dessert had been put on the table, Mrs. Macmillan begged to be excused for a short time, as she wished to see that Mr. Freeman (who was on a visit, but not well enough to come down) had been made comfortable. On hearing of Mr. Freeman's presence at Knapdale, my husband expressed his regrets at not being able to see him, and these regrets were kindly conveyed to the invalid by Mrs. Macmillan, who brought back his request to Mr. Hamerton for a visit in his bedroom.

I heard with satisfaction that Mr. Freeman had been very cordial, and had shown no trace of resentment at what had pa.s.sed at a former meeting at Mr. Macmillan's house. The conversation had then turned on Ireland, and Mr. Macmillan was, like my husband, for granting autonomy. This set Mr. Freeman growling at the use of a Greek word, and he exclaimed, "Why can't you speak English and say Home Rule, instead of using Greek, which you don't know!" My husband flushed with anger, and recalled the irritable historian--not without severity--to a proper sense of the respect due to their host, at the same time paying a tribute to Mr.

Macmillan's remarkable abilities. Later in the evening the word "gout"

was mentioned. "There again," Mr. Freeman exclaimed, "why can't we call it toe-woe!" But this was said in a joke, and accompanied with a laugh.

Wherever we went, we heard praises of the "Portfolio." Throughout his life Mr. Hamerton remained, not only on good terms, but on friendly terms with every one of his publishers; and whenever he went to London he looked forward with great pleasure to meeting them in succession.

There were, of course, different degrees of intimacy, but the intercourse was never other than agreeable.

For many years he had wished to know Mr. Samuel Palmer personally, and the wish was reciprocated. Now an opportunity presented itself, and one afternoon saw us climbing Redhill in pleasant antic.i.p.ation; but when after admiring the view we rang the bell of the artist's secluded abode, we were told that Mr. Palmer had been very ill lately, was still keeping his bed, and could see no one. It was a great disappointment, and some words to this effect were written on a card and sent up to the invalid.

Soon after Mrs. Palmer came down and feelingly expressed her husband's sincere regrets; she told us of his illness, which had left him very weak and liable to relapses, and of the pleasure he would have derived from a long talk with Mr. Hamerton on artistic topics. We had been shown into the dining-room, which evidently, for the present, was not used, though it was warmed by a good fire, but darkened by the blinds being down and the curtains drawn. The rays of a golden sunset diffused through the apertures a strange and mysterious glow, which suddenly seemed to surround and envelope an apparition, standing half visible on the threshold of the noiselessly opened door. A remarkably expressive head emerged from a bundle of shawls, which moved forward with feeble and tottering steps--it was Mr. Palmer. His wife could not trust her eyes, but as soon as she became convinced of the reality of his presence, she hastened to make him comfortable in an arm-chair by the fire, and to arrange the shawls over his head and knees with the most touching solicitude. "I could not resist it," he pleaded; "I have looked forward to this meeting with so much longing." His eyes sparkled, his countenance became animated, and regardless of his wraps, he accompanied his fluent talk with eloquent gestures--to the despair of his wife, who had enough to do in replacing cap and rugs. He put all his soul and energy (and now there was no lack of it) into his speech. The art-talk kindled all the fire of enthusiasm within him, and he told us anecdotes of Turner and Blake, and held us for a long time fascinated with the charm of his conversation. He could listen too, and with so vivid an interest and sympathy that his mere looks were an encouragement. My husband was afraid of detaining him, but he declared he felt quite well and strong--"the visiting angels had put to flight the lurking enemy;"

he had even an appet.i.te, which he would satisfy in our company. Nothing loath, we sat down to an excellent tea with delicious b.u.t.ter and new-laid eggs, with the impression of sharing the life of elves, and of being entertained by a genie at the head of the table and served by a kind fairy. This feeling originated no doubt in the small stature of Mr.

and Mrs. Palmer; in the strange effect of light under which our host first appeared to us, and lastly in the noiseless prompt.i.tude with which the repast was spread on the table, whilst the darkness of the room gave way to brightness, just as happens in fairytales.

It is curious that my husband and myself should have received exactly the same impression, and a lasting one.

The journey to Paris was resumed by slow night-trains without disturbance to his health, and the day after his arrival he had a long talk about etching with M. Leopold Flameng, who encouraged my husband's attempts, and even offered to correct his defective plates rather than see them destroyed; but this was declined, though the valuable advice was gratefully accepted. M. Flameng looked very happy; he was in full success, very industrious, and fond of his art; married to a devoted wife of simple tastes, and already able to discern and foster in his son the artistic tendencies which have made him celebrated since. They were a very cheerful and united family. Two days after we had _dejeuner_ with M. Rajon. Of all the French etchers who, from time to time, went to London for the "Portfolio," I believe M. Rajon was the one best known in English society, where his liveliness and amiability, as well as his great talent, found appreciators.

Like almost every other artist, he did not attach so much importance to what he could do well, as to what he could never master. His ambition was to become a celebrated painter, but his pictures gave little hope of it; they were heavy and dull in color, and entirely devoid of the charm he lent to his etchings. He showed himself very grateful for what Mr.

Hamerton had done for his reputation. Accidentally, as he was admiring the design of some very simple earrings I wore, I said that I did not care so much for jewels as for lace, on which he answered he was extremely fond of both--on women--and invited me to go and see a collection of old laces he was forming. I was obliged to decline, for our time was running short; but he made us promise to pay a long visit to his studio during our next sojourn in Paris.

We reached home safely, and found my mother and the children all well.

There had been a great step made in the possibility of travelling this year, though it had been attended by many returns of anxiety and nervousness; still, it was a not inconsiderable gain to know that in case a journey became absolutely necessary it might be achieved, and our stay in London and Paris had been of importance in allowing my husband to study seriously in the public galleries.

Mr. Powers had been delighted to receive his long-delayed pictures, and wrote his thanks in terms of enthusiasm; he said that many people had been admiring them, and that a well-known painter had exclaimed, "Now I swear by Hamerton." About the growing popularity he wrote: "As I said before, you win the hearts of men, and your name is now a household word in many quarters of this country." It was exactly, in almost identical words, what Roberts Brothers had already written. And this was true not only in America, for many English letters echoed it.

"Round my House" was very well received. There was an important and favorable review in the "Times," and one in the "Debats" by Taine.

In the beginning of the year Gilbert had undertaken the painting and decoration of the staircase and lobby, which occasioned a great amount of labor and fatigue, and interfered with his other work. He gave it up at my entreaty, and only directed the painter, being thus enabled to devote more time to the articles on "Drawing" in preparation for Messrs.

Black's new edition of the "Encyclopaedia Britannica," which were finished in February.

Soon after he told me of a plan for a new book, the t.i.tle of which he meant to be "Human Intercourse," and which would require a large number of memoranda. We all liked the idea in the family circle when it was explained, and he began immediately to gather materials. At the same time he continued his readings for the biographies of remarkable Frenchmen, and he contemplated the task with deep interest and earnestness. The year 1877, which had begun so auspiciously, had in store for my husband one of the lasting sorrows of his life. On the morning of March 11 he received a telegram announcing the death of his beloved sister-in-law, Caroline Pelletier, who had died at Algiers of meningitis, leaving three young children to the care of their desolate.

father. It was a heavy blow, an irreparable loss. She had been like both a daughter and sister, and her affection had always been very sweet to him. The shock was so great that his health suffered in consequence, and the nervousness reappeared. It was of Caroline he was thinking when he wrote in "Human Intercourse" this pa.s.sage about a wife's relatives: "They may even in course of time win such a place in one's affection that if they are taken away by Death they will leave a great void and an enduring sorrow. I write these lines from a sweet and sad experience.

Only a poet can write of these sorrows. In prose one cannot sing,--

"'A dirge for her the doubly dead, in that she died so young.'"

M. Pelletier still continued with his children to spend the vacations at La Tuilerie, but the joy fulness of these holidays was now replaced by sorrow and regrets; the evenings were particularly trying, for of late years they had been very merry. Our children having taken a great fancy to acting charades, we all took part in them by turns. Their Aunt Caroline and their father were the stars of the company, and to this day they recollect her irresistible sprightliness as a coquettish French kitchen-maid attempting the conquest of their father, in the character of the typical Englishman of French caricatures. She smiled, curtsied, and whirled about him, handling her bra.s.s pans so daintily, tossing them so dexterously, that the bewildered and dazzled islander could not resist the enchantress, and joined enthusiastically in the chorus of the song she had improvised,--

"La femme que l'on prefere C'est toujours la cuisiniere,"

while she played the accompaniment with a wooden spoon upon the lids of the pans.

Her brother-in-law achieved unqualified success in the part of the Englishman. He had kept on purpose an immense chimney-pot hat and a tartan plaid which he used to perfection, and his "Oh's!" and "Ah's!"

were of such ludicrous prolongation, and his gait so stiff, and his comical blunders delivered with so much of haughty a.s.surance, that he "brought down the house."

It was seldom that my husband consented to take an active part in games: he generally preferred being a spectator; but whether acting or listening, charades were one of the few pastimes for which he had a taste,--it seems the more strange since he did not care for the theatre, though he liked plays to be read to him. I suppose that the feeling of being penned in a crowded place was insupportable to him.

After the death of my sister, some years had to elapse before we could bear to see charades again.

On May 25 my husband had the pleasure of bringing home from the railway station Mr. Appleton, editor of the "Academy," for whom he had a great regard. His notes say:--

"We pa.s.sed a very pleasant evening, and did not go to bed till after twelve.