Philip Gilbert Hamerton Part 48

"In afternoon rode as far as Argenteuil, and saw Texier's boat-building establishment there, and the fleet of pleasure-boats."

"Went to Asnieres on tricycle by the Rond-Point of Courbevoie. Some difficult pa.s.sages on road. Return easier by riverside, right bank.

Beautiful hazy distances."

"Found out boat-house of the Bilancourt boat-club. s.p.a.cious and rather nice. Keeper boat-builder. Came back by riverside, Auteuil and Bois.

Charming harmony of grays in the sky--silvery, bluish, rose-tinted, and lavender."

"In afternoon rode to St. Cloud with a view to comparison with Turner.

In coming back met a steam-carriage on the road, managed, I believe, by Caran d'Ache," etc., etc.

When he had regained the elasticity of his mind, his thoughts were turned again to his important work.

Note in the diary on March 3: "Tried to recover command of 'Man in Art,'

putting the MS. in order. Read the chapters over again to recover materials and spirit of work."

From that date "Man in Art" was steadily resumed till its completion.

There was a good deal of trouble and disappointment with the ill.u.s.trations, some of which were found unworthy of insertion; but having been ordered, they would have to be paid for. The author was ready to bear the cost rather than see them inserted, but Messrs.

Macmillan very kindly and generously refused to allow this, and proposed that he should send a bill for any money that he should find it necessary to expend on unsatisfactory ill.u.s.trations.

My husband was now in far better spirits, and, apparently, in very good health. A friend, Mr. Oliver, who had named his son Hamerton out of admiration for the author, wrote in answer to one of his letters: "I was pleased to hear that you find the later period of life not unattended with deep satisfaction and pleasure."

Among those pleasures were the friendly or interesting visits that the remoteness of Autun from great centres would have effectually prevented.

In the spring we saw Mrs. Macmillan and her son; in the autumn we had the pleasure of becoming personally acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Adam Black, who were pa.s.sing through Paris, and with whom we spent an afternoon visiting the gardens and ruins of St. Cloud.

Roberts Brothers, to whom many applications for letters of introduction were addressed, and who managed to give only a few, sent some of their friends to Mr. Hamerton now and then. They said in one of their letters: "Since you will not come to America and see for yourself, we want to show you that our aborigines are as good specimens of the _genus h.o.m.o_ as they make anywhere."

In the Parc des Princes lives a great artist, Urrabieta Vierge, whose house and studio were only a few minutes distant from Clematis. Mr.

Hamerton's admiration of this artist's talent was great, and his liking for him as a man became great also. He often expressed the opinion that, in his best pen-drawings, Urrabieta Vierge was--and would remain--without a rival. He used to spend hours over the original ill.u.s.trations to Pablo de Segovie, and other drawings in the possession of the artist. Hardly ever did a day pa.s.s without seeing my husband in M. Vierge's studio once at least. He had opportunities of rendering him a service sometimes, as the artist had dealings with English and American publishers, but was ignorant of their language, and in token of grat.i.tude M. Vierge painted his new friend's portrait, and also that of his mother-in-law, Madame Gindriez.

The idea of a book on the study of words, to be written in collaboration with M. Raillard, had not been abandoned by my husband, who submitted the t.i.tle for Mr. Seeley's approval. It was to be: "Words on their Travels, and some Stay-at-home Words." It was p.r.o.nounced lively and interesting. His own share had been delayed; but his son-in-law was working at it, and they carefully planned together the composition and form of the book, the separate parts of which were to be linked together by essays from my husband's pen.

Much time was devoted to the exhibitions in 1892. The Salons, of course, had many visits, but they did not give so much pleasure to Gilbert as "Les Cent Chefs-d'oeuvre," or the Pelouse Exhibition; he was also greatly interested by Raffet's works.

Our children spent with us a month of the long vacation, as they used to do at Pre-Charmoy, and our excursions to the most picturesque places in the neighborhood of Paris became more frequent. We had formed a project for going to Pierre-fonds and Compiegne; but my husband, being now most anxious to finish "Man in Art" before Christmas, regretfully put off the excursions to the ensuing year. Now that he had regained the buoyancy of his spirits, he was fully alive to the peculiar charms of the country about Paris, and even intended to write a series of small books on the most noteworthy and remarkable places--something in the way of exhaustive guides. He thought of beginning with those that he knew thoroughly well already, and to acquaint himself gradually with the others.

In September our son-in-law, with his wife, went to stay with his parents for the remainder of the vacation; but Mary left them a few days before her husband to see her relatives at Chalon, and in the way of consolation, her father sent the following to Raoul:--

"BEATUS ILLE.

"Blest is the man whose wife is gone away!

From cares exempt, he dwells in perfect peace.

His heart is light as boy's on holiday.

He walks abroad and joys in his release.

The cat is gone, the frisky mouse doth play.

The fox remote, walk forth the wandering geese.

So he, delivered, thinks his troubles past, O halcyon days!--if they could only last.

"P. G. H. to R. R.

"_Sept_. 11, 1892."

Ever since he had heard of Lord Tennyson's illness, my husband had been greatly concerned, and never missed going every evening to the Auteuil railway station for the latest news. After the death of the poet he wrote to Mr. Seeley:--

"One must die some time; but it is still rather saddening to know that Tennyson is no longer a living poet. I have always enjoyed his verse very much; the art is so perfect, so superior to that of Browning or Wordsworth, even to that of Byron. I know of no poet to equal Tennyson in finish except Sh.e.l.ley, Keats, and Horace, and those three only in gems."

In a letter to Miss Betham-Edwards he had said once: "Have you observed how _very_ careful Tennyson has always been never to publish prose? That was capital policy in his case; he seems so much more the poet to the world outside."

Mr. Seeley was anxious to confer with the editor of the "Portfolio"

about plans for the following year; but he had considerately refrained from mentioning it, so long as the large book was not announced for publication. In the beginning of October, however, he wrote: "I see that Macmillans announce your big book; so I suppose that labor is off your hands." Then he went on to propose that the editor should write a series of articles on the "Humorous Art of the Present Day," and my husband took time to think about the subject.

The last sheets of "Man in Art" were sent off on October 20, and after acknowledging their receipt, Mr. F. Macmillan said:--

"With regard to the drawings on gla.s.s, I write to say that we are perfectly willing that, as you suggest, you should make a present of them to the Art School of Burnley, in Lancas.h.i.+re.

"The same applies to the original wood-block engraved by Pierre Gusman."

Our November journey to London was unattended with troubles to my husband's health, and it was with unalloyed pleasure that we met Mr. and Mrs. Seeley again. Our stay was to be a short one, for it had been decided that, in the future, we would come over at least once every year, and more probably twice.

Here is the first letter after our arrival:--

"LONDON. _November_ 26, 1892.

"MY DEAR MARY,--I have some good news to tell you. My new book is not out yet, but soon will be. It is in two editions, one large paper, and dear, the other smaller paper and much lower in price. The first is exhausted before publication, and the second without being exhausted yet, is still going off well. I dined last night with Messrs. Macmillan, and they seemed quite satisfied.

"Mr. Seeley has just offered to publish my next novel.

"I was glad to get a post-card from Raoul. It will be a great pleasure to me to work with him. Perhaps, however, we shall quarrel over our book, and never speak to each other again. But his mother-in-law will love him still, whatever happens.

"Your very affectionate old father,

"P. G. HAMERTON."

The work that my husband had to do was easily gone through, and his nervous system had so much improved that he went alone about London without any forebodings, without even thinking about it, except to remark to me sometimes that he had never expected such an improvement.

Had it not been for a very slight and short attack of gout, he would have been perfectly well all the time.

Mr. and Mrs. Seeley were then, living in Kensington, and it was very convenient for my husband, the situation being quiet and within easy reach of the museums. Although the season was not favorable for going to the country, our friends knew that their visitor would be pleased to escape from London--were it only for a day or two, and they were so kind as to take us to their pretty cottage at Sh.o.r.eham, in Kent, and to show us the country surrounding it. Gilbert was out walking most of the time, and there being hills and water, wished he had time for sketching, though he told me he would not like to live there permanently, the country not being sufficiently open for his tastes.

The new arrangements for the "Portfolio" having been decided upon, my husband wrote to tell Mary of our near arrival. In this letter he said:--

"In spite of the great kindness we meet with here, I don't feel any desire to live in or near London, it is so gloomy and dirty, besides being so expensive, at least according to present customs of living. We are better where we are, near you.

"I am very glad that Raoul likes the idea of our book. I believe we can work out together something decidedly new and valuable."

In the course of a visit to Mrs. A. Black, she gave us good and interesting news of her cousin, R. L. Stevenson, and showed us a photograph taken inside his house at Samoa, in which he was seen surrounded by his mother, his wife, his wife's children, and his native servants. It was very pleasant to see him looking happy, and so much stronger than he used to be.

Mr. Macmillan, though very feeble, was so kind as to receive us. We were for leaving him soon, fearing that he would be fatigued; but he insisted upon our remaining, and brightened wonderfully as he talked with my husband. He ordered gla.s.ses and wine, and drank to our healths with such hearty good-will, and pressed our hands at parting so affectionately, that we were quite moved. He had been such a strong and active man, and there was still such an expression of power and will in his countenance, that to see him an invalid, unable to walk without help, was inexpressibly pitiful. He had said--not without sadness--that he had grown resigned to this trying bodily weakness, but at the same time that he had a great dread of the weakness reaching the seat of thought some day. It was the last time we saw him, though he lived some years longer, and we liked ever after to recall his last kind greeting, as warm as those of former days.

M. Raillard and his wife received us joyfully on our arrival in Paris; we were all greatly cheered by the fact that my husband could now travel like everybody else, and this feeling of security gave a great stimulus to his energies. We were often planning journeys to places of interest that it might be useful for him to visit, either for his artistic studies or for literary work. The Countess Martinengo Cesaresco, with whom he had long been in correspondence, had invited us to go to see her on the Lake of Garda, and this was a great temptation to which he hoped to yield some day.