1891-1894.
Removal to Paris.—Interest in the Bois de Boulogne.—M. Vierge.—"Man
in Art."—Contributions to "Scribner's Magazine."—New form of "The
Portfolio."—Honorary degree.—Last Journey to London.—Society of
Illustrators.—Illness and death.
We were no sooner home again than the transformation of my husband's
study and laboratory furniture began. He had carefully taken all the
necessary measurements, and he now set two joiners to work under his
direction.
Of course we had some months of discomfort and fatigue, with the packing
up and the sale which preceded our departure. At one time I was almost
in despair of ever getting through, Gilbert being so very exacting about
the packing that we had to wrap up each single book separately, and to
fold up carefully every sheet or bit of paper without creases. It was
one of his characteristics, this respectful care he took of books and
papers; it went so far that he could hardly bring himself to destroy
waste-paper; and when he had not quite filled a page with his writing,
he would cut off the white piece and lay it aside in a drawer for
further use; nay more, after making use of these fragments of paper for
notes which had been copied out, he drew a line of red or blue pencil
across the writing, and returned the paper to another drawer to be used
on the other side. And it was not for the sake of economy, for he was
frequently indulging in the purchase of note-books, pocket-books,
memorandum-books, etc. No; it was a sort of instinctive respect. If any
one held a book carelessly, or let it fall, he was absolutely miserable,
and could not refrain from remonstrating. When we unpacked, he directed
a man to fold up the papers which had been used as wrappers, and when I
told him that the papers were not worth the man's wages and had better
be thrown into the street, he looked surprised, and reluctantly allowed
them to be stuffed into the empty boxes; but be could not bring himself
to remain while it was being done.
It was hard to break away from the associations of so many years, and
the last meal we took tête-à-tête in the dining-room, emptied of all
its furniture except a small table and two chairs, was a melancholy one.
I swallowed many a tear, and Gilbert's voice was somewhat tremulous when
he attempted to talk.
Roberts Brothers had inquired early in the year if Mr. Hamerton had
decided about a new book, and had been answered in the affirmative. They
now said: "We hasten to reply to your query. Yes, we think 'The Quest of
Happiness' an admirable title for a book destined for the popular
heart—so happy that it will of itself sell it. Don't meditate about
doing it too long."
Messrs. A. and C. Black had also proposed that Mr. Hamerton's articles
for the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" should be revised and enlarged so as
to make an interesting and valuable "Hand-book to Drawing and
Engraving," and the author had agreed to undertake the work. They were
so considerate as to send a copy of the "Encyclopaedia" to the writer,
who had long desired to possess it, and who valued it as a treasure. He
had a special bookcase made for it, with many divisions, to preserve the
volumes from too much rubbing, and was pleased with their handsome
appearance in his library.
A letter received in the autumn may offer some interest to the reader.
It tells of a rather curious occurrence. The writer had been
occasionally in correspondence with the author of "Wenderholme," and,
living in Lancashire, had greatly appreciated the accuracy of the
descriptions and characters in that locality. Two years before he had
discovered "Thursday," and under his guidance had visited the site of
the first camp at Widdup, and noted the changes; now he wrote again,
giving an account of his experiences during a little visit to the Brontë
country, and explaining at some length that he was "driven by bad
weather to the 'house' (you will remember the sense in which the word is
used in the district) occupied by the wrangling drunkard. The talk
turning upon a hut which had been erected by a mon through Halifax for
the grouse-shooting, evoked a reminiscence from the only (relatively)
sober member of the party, of another mon—a hartist—who, aboon thirty
year sin', built a hut at Widdup, and hed a gurt big dog, and young
Helliwell, ower at Jerusalem, wor then a lad, and used to bring him (the
mon) milk, and in the end gat ta'en on as sarvant, and went wi' him to
Scotland and all ower—you may imagine my delight….
"I was sorry to hear that Thursday was not in very good health. He is,
however, married, and the proud father of a little girl—Mary Alice. He
seems very comfortable, and has promised me a photograph of himself by
way of a frontispiece to my copy of the 'Painter's Camp.'
"I trust I am not boring you; but I thought that you might like to know
that you and your encampment are still remembered in the district."
It always pleased Gilbert to have news of the people and places
associated in his mind and affections with his youth, and his interest
in them never grew cold with years.
Our new installation at Clématis was much simplified by the fact that
everything from La Tuilerie had been sent in advance.
In order not to keep Gilbert too long from his work, the study was first
arranged, and he was well pleased with it; indeed, he said he had never
been so conveniently or comfortably established "for his work" before;
but still I saw, with pain, that he looked depressed in spite of
himself.
New Year's Day saw us established in the new house, and regular habits
of work resumed.
Having two spare bedrooms, our children came to use them during the
Christmas holidays, and we had some pleasant meetings with M. Pelletier
and his family. It was by a sort of tacit understanding that almost
every Sunday we lunched, in turn, at each other's houses,—once at
Clématis, then at Madame Halliard's, and afterwards at M. Pelletier's.
After lunch we had a long walk either in the Bois de Boulogne, Parc de
St. Cloud, Jardin du Luxembourg, or Jardin des Plantes; but although
Gilbert enjoyed these strolls, they did not make up for the loss of the
country; neither did the Seine replace the Saône, and Mr. Seeley said:
"I am sorry the Seine is not what it ought to be. You will miss your old
amusement of sailing, for which steaming will be a poor substitute."
We all tried to find something that might take his fancy, and we went to
see the Marne. He said it afforded refreshing and pretty scenes; but he
was not enthusiastic about its character. I plainly saw that what I had
feared had come to pass—namely, that this new way of life did not suit
him so well as the old, and that, despite the greater facilities, he did
not seem to work to his own satisfaction, and felt dull. This lasted for
some time. Mr. Seeley humorously teased him about it, and suggested that
he should write for an American magazine an article on "The Dulness of
Paris." He went on: "If you could only run over here to roam about our
Kentish hills, you would soon be all right again. They are covered with
millions of wood anemones, violets, primroses, cuckoo flowers, and
blue-bells; and the low ground is gay with marsh-marigolds." Alas! the
Bois offered all this in profusion, but for flowers Gilbert never really
cared; he merely appreciated their valeur in the harmony of a
landscape. He thus explained his feelings, in answer to Mr. Seeley:—
"My complaints about the dulness of Paris refer to the peculiar state of
mind the place always induces in myself, that is, ennui. Now, the
ennuyé state of mind is the worst possible for a writer, because his
interest in things ought always to remain keen and lively; he ought to
have the intelligence of a man with the interest of a child. I believe
Paris to be, on the whole, the most endurable of great cities, that in
which the disagreeables of such places are most successfully palliated.
For instance, I can go from here to the Louvre in magnificent avenues
all the way. But, for a writer, it is not enough to find life endurable;
he ought to be keenly interested. My life at Autun was pleasant and
refreshing; at Loch Awe it was an enchantment. However, I did not come
here for my pleasure."
And work was crowding upon him; besides "Man in Art," which had been put
aside since the interruption necessitated by the removal, the editor of
the "Forum," Mr. Walter H. Page, asked for an article on the "Effects on
Popular Education of Great Art Collections." He said: "I am glad to be
able to tell you that some of the best American newspapers have
discussed your article on the 'Learning of Languages,' and that I have
many evidences of the appreciation of a large number of our most
cultivated people."
The editor of the "Illustrated London News" also wished for a series of
articles on "French Life," and was very sorry that Mr. Hamerton could
not undertake them for want of time, and the publisher of the
"Portfolio" would have been pleased to get reviews of the annual Salons
from the editor's pen.
Early in the spring, as soon as the weather permitted it, we began to go
regularly with M. and Mme. Raillard to the prettiest places in the
neighborhood of Paris to spend the Thursdays and Sundays. We were
frequently joined by the Pelletier family, and had picnics together in
sheltered nooks. We started early in the morning, carried our provisions
with the exception of beer, wine, and bread, which could always be
bought anywhere, and roamed about or rested till the end of the day. In
this pleasant and independent manner we saw St. Germain,—the forest and
château,—by which my husband was much impressed; the lakes and Bois de
Vincennes; the park at Marly, L'Yvette; the mills of Meaux, St. Rémy:
the Château de Chevreuse, Bougival, Ville d'Avray, La Celle St. Cloud,
La Terrasse de Meudon, Le Vésinet, Nogent-sur-Marne; the ponds at
Garches, L'Abbaye des Vaux-de-Cernay, Mareuil-Marly, Melun, and L'Etang
de St. Cucufa, with its surroundings of luxuriant vegetation and noble
trees.
These walks in the country—much more of the real country than my
husband had ever expected to find so near Paris—began to reconcile him
to his new life; but what helped most towards this reconciliation was
the Bois de Boulogne, with its hidden charms and beauties, which he had
the pleasure of discovering for himself, never having heard of them. For
the parts of the Bois best known and always offered to admiration are
the most artificial, and the resorts of fashion, equipages, and crowds;
the cascade, the lakes, the Allée des Acacias, the Pré-Catelan, and La
Grande Pelouse, while there are enough solitary nooks and unfrequented
alleys, thick underwoods, open vistas, and groups of graceful and
handsome trees to interest a lover of landscape for miles and miles,
without any other disturbance than a chance meeting with a timid rabbit
or a curious deer.
No sooner had Gilbert found out that there existed in the Bois real and
extensive woodland scenery—almost untrodden and unexplored, than it
became a pleasure to start on his tricycle, followed by his dog, for an
early ride under the dewy branches, in the light and fragrant mist
rising from the moist mosses and wild-flowers under the first rays of
the sun. From these healthy rides he returned to his first déjeuner
much exhilarated, having breathed fresh air without the sensation of
confinement so painful to him. Gradually he came across various scenes
which he felt attracted to paint, and then his liking for the Bois was
formed. There were among others, La Mare d'Auteuil, the incomparable
group of grand old oaks, a single branch of which would have made a fine
tree; the ponds of Boulogne; the varied views of the Seine, with the gay
and sunny slopes from the walks running parallel to the river. Then the
mill and its surrounding fields, quiet at times with browsing cows
knee-deep in the rich grass, or at other times alive with merry mowers
and hay-makers. Several views of Mont Valérien, looming in the haze of
the after-glow, or in dark contrast with the splendor of the afternoon
sunshine, also caught my husband's attention; as well as numberless
other places without a name, which pleased him for one sort of beauty or
another. After each new discovery, he wanted me to go with him to see,
and whenever it was possible, and at a walking distance from the house,
I took a book with me and read to him as he sketched. By a few notes in
the diary it will be seen that his explorations extended to rather long
distances from the house:—
"Went to L'Alma on the tricycle. Found capital place for studying boats
not far from the Pont d'Iéna."
"Went round by Bois to Rothschild's, till I came to bridge of St. Cloud
and to the house—lovely play of lights on the water and upon the
heights."
"In afternoon rode as far as Argenteuil, and saw Texier's boat-building
establishment there, and the fleet of pleasure-boats."
"Went to Asnières on tricycle by the Rond-Point of Courbevoie. Some
difficult passages on road. Return easier by riverside, right bank.
Beautiful hazy distances."
"Found out boat-house of the Bilancourt boat-club. Spacious 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
illustrations, 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 illustrations.
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 passing 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 homo
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 Clématis. 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
illustrations to Pablo de Segovie, and other drawings in the possession
of the artist. Hardly ever did a day pass 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
gratitude 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 title for Mr. Seeley's approval. It was to be: "Words on their
Travels, and some Stay-at-home Words." It was pronounced 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 Pré-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 Compiègne; 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 Shelley, 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 glass, 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 Lancashire.
"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 Shoreham, 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 glasses 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.
Meanwhile, we planned for the autumn a visit to Lucerne, in which our
son and daughter and her husband would join, and we often talked about
it. I knew perfectly well that very few of our schemes could ever be
carried out, but I encouraged the discussion of them—for even that gave
pleasure to Gilbert, who had been kept sedentary so long. He told us
what he would do, and what he would attempt in such and such a place;
and his desire for beautiful natural scenes was so intense that he often
dreamt he was flying towards them, and afterwards described his
sensations. The recurrence of this sensation of flying over space
caused him some slight alarm, for he explained that doctors considered
it as a symptom of disturbed equilibrium in the system, which they
called levitation. Still, he was now almost in perfect health, indeed he
did not remember the time when he had been so well, so ready for work,
or enjoying it more—he said he was almost afraid, it seemed so strange.
In a letter from Roberts Brothers, dated March 10, 1893, I read: "We are
indeed pleased to hear that 'The Quest of Happiness' is likely to be
ready for this autumn, and the title is so promising that we should not
wonder if it made your 'cheques' larger."
This book, however, was laid aside for more pressing work. The
Meissonier Exhibition was opened, and my husband, who delighted in the
talent of the artist, had already gone there several times when he
received a letter from Mr. Seeley asking him to notice it for the
"Portfolio," and he assented.
Then Mr. Burlingame, of the house of Scribner's Sons of New York, came
over from London for the special purpose of becoming personally
acquainted with Mr. Hamerton, and of proposing to him to write a series
of twelve articles on modern representative painters for "Scribner's
Magazine." The proposal was flattering in itself, but the pleasure it
gave was singularly enhanced by the visitor's friendly courtesy and
cultured appreciation. After two meetings only, Mr. Burlingame had to
leave Paris, and my husband spoke regretfully of the shortness of a
visit he had so much enjoyed, and expressed a wish that an opportunity
for more prolonged intercourse might present itself before long.
Judging from Mr. Burlingame's letter, the pleasure had been mutual. I
quote a passage out of it:—
"I use my earliest opportunity to jot down a note for our better
remembrance of the main points of the arrangement for 'Scribner's
Magazine,' by assenting to which you gave me such pleasure in Paris.
"I sail on Saturday, and assure you I shall carry home no pleasanter
recollection than that of the two days which you made very enjoyable for
me at Paris and Boulogne."
The scheme did not require much literary labor, but it involved careful
researches for the choice of subjects, delicate negotiations with the
owners of the pictures chosen, to obtain the right of reproduction, and
moreover a superintendence of these reproductions as to quality.
After giving due consideration to the subject of "Humor in Painting" for
the "Portfolio," the editor did not feel inclined to undertake it. But
in his frequent walks about Paris his attention had been forcibly
attracted by the invention and fancy shown in the designs of modern
houses, and that was a study quite congenial to his tastes, and a
subject on which he was thoroughly competent to write. It was proposed
to Mr. Seeley, who accepted it, and from that moment we haunted the
quarters in which new buildings were rising, as if by magic, in the
purity of the white stone used in Paris, and in the richness or delicacy
of their carvings and mosaics.
Besides these various preparations for future work, Mr. Hamerton had
been much occupied by annotating a collection of different things
intended as a present to the Mechanics' Institution of Burnley. Shortly
after sending it off, he received the warm thanks of the Council through
its secretary.
The search after suitable subjects for "Scribner's Magazine" had only
yielded an insufficient number, and my husband decided to go to London
in July to complete his list. He felt so well that the idea of
undertaking the journey alone did not make him apprehensive in the
least. Not so with me, and my anxiety was only calmed after receiving
the assurance that he had felt perfectly comfortable the whole way.
His daughter wrote to him:—
"MON CHER PAPA,—Nous avons été bien heureux d'apprendre que tu as été
'si grand garçon' comme dit Bonne-maman. Ta témérité nous a tous étonnés
et nous a fait plaisir en même temps. Ce changement ne pourra que te
faire du bien puisque tu l'as supporté d'une façon aussi parfaite."
Here is a part of the answer:—
"ARUNDEL HOTEL, VICTORIA EMBANKMENT, LONDON,
"July 22, 1893.
"I am extremely pleased with my hotel, which is just what I wanted, both
as to convenience of situation, beauty, and charges. From the window
where I am writing I can see the river and a garden with trees, and some
fine architecture on the Embankment (Quai), yet I am close to the
busiest part of London.
"I was in the Academy yesterday, and enjoyed it very much. I feel
perfectly well, and not in the least fatigued by my journey, from which
I experienced no inconvenience whatever, except an increased appetite,
which has remained with me ever since."
Shortly after my husband's return from London, Mr. Jaccaci, an American
artist and author, and a devoted friend of M. Vierge, came to see us,
and Gilbert's interest in him was quickly awakened. I was told that he
had travelled much, and, though still young, could speak eight
languages. There was a first bond between them in their admiration of M.
Vierge's talent, and in their sympathy for his individuality. They met
several times at his studio. Unfortunately Mr. Jaccaci's stay was of
short duration, and he was extremely busy, so much so indeed that he
could not accept an invitation, but promised to do so next time he came
to Paris. His departure did not put an end to the friendly intercourse,
which was carried on by correspondence.
At the first appearance of the "Portfolio" it had taken an entirely new
line among English periodicals, but now there were two other art
magazines similar in character and style of illustration, and both its
editor and publisher were desirous of an alteration which would once
more distinguish it from similar periodicals.
They considered how it might be remodelled, so as to give it a new
character of its own, and at last, taking into consideration the
prejudice which had set in against big books, they decided to reduce its
size and to increase the letterpress considerably. Each number was to be
devoted to one subject, and written by the same author, so as to be
complete in itself. The new second title, "Monographs on Artistic
Subjects," was liked by many critics, and one of them said: "Monographs!
I wonder whose idea that was. What an admirable plan! Strange that no
one ever thought of it before!"
The editor undertook to write the first number, on "The Etchings of
Rembrandt;" but in spite of his enthusiasm for the subject, and his
thorough knowledge of it, he felt painfully hurried, for the decision
had been taken somewhat late in the year. He told me he would have liked
to devote six months to its preparation. Still, the new plan gave him
much pleasant anticipation of carefully prepared work, as he disliked
devoting his time to subjects of minor importance. A number of the
"Portfolio" now allowed of a worthy subject being worthily treated, and
that was in accordance with my husband's preferred method of work.
With the ordinary autumnal remittance Roberts Brothers wrote:—
"We have just bought a copy of 'The Isles of Loch Awe, and Other Poems,'
by P. G. Hamerton, Esq. 1859. Second thousand.
"We have had a good many years a copy of the first edition, 1855, which
we once loaned to Mr. Longfellow, who made from it selections for his
collection of 'Poems of Places,' and in it we have placed his letter of
thanks for the loan."
Some time in the spring my husband had made the acquaintance of M.
Darmesteter, and had hoped that it might grow into closer intimacy, M.
Darmesteter and his wife having promised to call; but we learned that
they had been mistaken as to the situation of our house, and in November
Mr. Hamerton received this reply to one of his letters:—
"Novembre 18.
"CHER MONSIEUR,—Excusez mon retard à vous remercier de votre aimable
lettre du 16 courant. Nous rentrons à peine et vous savez ce que c'est
qu'une rentrée en ville.
"Hafiz malheureusement n'est pas traduit que je sache en français. Il en
existe une traduction allemande en 3 vol….
"Nous avons bien regretté de ne pouvoir, avant de quitter Paris, faire
un tour au Parc-des-Princes et présenter nos hommages à Madame Hamerton.
Ce sera pour l'année qui vient j'espère.
"Croyez moi, cher Monsieur,
"Votre bien dévoué,
"J. DARMESTETER."
Death, alas! prevented another meeting, for M. Darmesteter, who was
already in weak health, did not live very long after.
Mr. Seeley thought the monograph on Rembrandt "lively, charmingly
written, and betraying no sign of hurry." This opinion was shared by the
public, for the sale of the "Portfolio" increased largely. Indeed, the
new scheme was generally applauded, and many letters were sent both to
the editor and to the publisher in token of appreciation. Sir F. Burton,
to whom my husband had applied for a monograph on Velasquez, said in his
reply: "I have seen the 'Portfolio' in its new form, and I think the
alterations you have made in the plan and scope of the work most happily
inspired."
Sir George Reid also wrote:—
"I have seen the 'Portfolio' in its new form, and I think the change a
wise one in many ways. It recalls the 'Revue des deux Mondes.' It will
be a far handier shape for the book-shelves; but I feel a—well perhaps
sentimental regret for the old 'Portfolio.' It seems like the
disappearance of on old familiar friend—although we know he is still
alive and well.
"I wish it all prosperity in its new form, and its editor many years of
happy and useful labor in the service of art."
Mrs. Henry Ady was to write on Bastien Lepage for the "Portfolio," but
she had not all the documents she wanted, and my husband undertook to
procure them. A talented French marine-painter, M. Jobert, with whom Mr.
Hamerton was acquainted, introduced him to M. Emile Bastien Lepage,
brother of the artist. Note in the diary about it:—
"January 11, 1894. Was much pleased with my visit. Saw many things by
the painter—many not published; portraits of father and mother, of
grandfather, of brother Emile, etc., and sketches for girl's funeral
which he saw; also etchings and a bust of his father. After that he
showed us a fine structure in carved wood from the church of St. Mark at
Venice."
My brother, his wife, and their two little girls arrived in Paris to be
present at the wedding of our niece, Jeanne Pelletier. Stephen also
came, and on the appointed day we all went to the Lycée Henri IV., where
the ceremony took place, on January 29. We were much interested, on
account of the great affection we bore to the bride.
My husband put this note in the diary: "Wedding passed off very well.
Beautiful ceremony in chapel. I had a talk with L'Abbé Loyson (brother
of Hyacinthe Loyson). Great numbers of people to congratulate."
Gilbert had long talks on architecture with his brother-in-law, to whom
he showed several of the new buildings he had been studying for his
"Parisian Houses," particularly in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne,
Avenue Bugeaud, and Rue de Longchamp.
When M. Gindriez left, Gilbert tried to resume the "Quest of Happiness,"
but told me he had determined to remodel the Prologue on positive and
negative happiness, because he had thought out a scheme of alteration. I
was very sorry to hear of it, because the work was already so far
advanced, and the alterations would require so much trouble and time.
But such considerations had no weight with him when he thought his work
could be improved, so I kept my disappointment to myself.
Some time in February my husband had received a letter from Sir G. Reid,
from which I quote the following passage: "I have little doubt that
before the month of March comes you will be P. G. Hamerton, LL.D. Your
claims to such recognition have long been beyond all questioning."
This was confirmed by the Secretary of the University of Aberdeen on
March 3, 1894, in these terms:—
"DEAR SIR,—I have the pleasure of informing you that the Senatus of the
University at its meeting to-day conferred upon you the Honorary Degree
of Doctor of Laws (LL. D.).
"I am,
"Yours faithfully,
"ALEXANDER STEWART,
"Secretary of the Senatus."
Three days later Lady Reid wrote:—
"DEAR DR. HAMERTON,—We are delighted to see in this morning's newspaper
the announcement of your LL.D.-ship. Though we have never had the
pleasure of meeting, I feel almost as if I had known you for many years,
your writings having given me such real pleasure ever since I first made
your acquaintance in 'A Painter's Camp in the Highlands' in 1863.
"I hope you will kindly accept from me your Aberdeen LL.D.-hood, which
is the outward visible sign of your new academic rank.
"My husband says it is 'a chromatic discord of the 1st Order,' but over
the arrangements of such things the present generation has no control,
their form and colors having been settled long ago.
"Sir George unites with me in kindest regards, and in the hope that you
may long live to enjoy your most well-earned honors.
"Believe me,
"Yours very truly,
"MIA REID."
Shortly after Sir George Reid wrote: "You have done so much for the
literature of art that the only wonder is your services have not been
acknowledged by one or other of our Universities long ago. I am very
glad that the honor has come to you from the University of Aberdeen."
Although my husband cared little for honors, this recognition—freely
and spontaneously conferred by the University of Aberdeen, without any
solicitation on his part—gave him real pleasure. He had never expected
anything in this way from Oxford or Cambridge, because he had never been
a student of either, and he fancied that this would always be against
him. It reminds me of what he wrote to Mr. Seeley soon after our arrival
in Paris, when he suffered from dulness:—
"I never was at Oxford. I always had a boyish dread of being sent there,
and put into one of the colleges. I think I was marked for Balliol.
After my escape I felt towards the place much as a sound Protestant
feels towards the Vatican. Here is a reflection that has sometimes
occurred to me since my imprisonment here began: 'Dear me! why, if I can
endure Paris, I might possibly have endured Oxford.'"
After congratulating the editor of the "Portfolio" on his new title, Mr.
Seeley said: "My brother at Cambridge has been made a Knight Commander
of St. Michael and St. George. What an extraordinary title for a
Professor! And you are now a Doctor of Laws. Will you kindly allow us to
consult you in any legal difficulty?"
The new Doctor [Footnote: Mr. Hamerton and Professor Seeley were born on
the same day, and there was an interval of only a few weeks between
their deaths.] answered:—
"I congratulate you on having a brother who is a Knight Commander of St.
Michael and St. George too. They were both very valiant saints,
dangerous to dragons and demons. The image that rose to my mind's eye
when I read your letter was that of your brother in shining golden armor
riding full tilt with spear in rest against a terrible dragon. I wish
Lord Shaftesbury had lived to hear of it, for one reason, and your
father for another.
"Thank you for your congratulations about my LL.D.-ship. In answer to
your question, I beg to say that whilst the degree is but a just tribute
to my legal knowledge, it does not confer the right to practise, so that
you would do better to consult some professional man, such as a
barrister or an attorney, even though his legal attainments might be far
inferior to mine."
In the same year Mr. Hamerton was invited by the Society of Illustrators
to accept a Vice-Presidency along with Sir J. E. Millais, Sir F. Seymour
Haden, and Mr. Holman Hunt.
Messrs. Scribner having planned a work on American wood-cuts, wrote to
ascertain if my husband would undertake it. Mr. Burlingame's letter
explains the scheme.
"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,—In the course of the publication of the Magazine,
we have printed from time to time what we believe to be some of the best
American wood-engravings. We are going to make a selection of about
forty of them, thoroughly representative of the best men and subjects
(though we have not tried, of course, to have the representation
complete), and issue it as soon as we can in the form of India proofs,
in a portfolio in a very limited edition—probably of less than 100
copies, made with the utmost care and all possible accessories to render
the collection a standard one. Meaning to make it represent the highest
point of wood-engraving (which is now fast yielding to the mechanical
processes, so that the moment is perhaps the best we shall have), we
want to accompany the publication with a short essay on the subject, to
go with the portfolio in a little book, and afterwards to be bound up
with the popular edition should we make one."
It was just one of those schemes that my husband could set his heart
upon—requiring much knowledge and condensed writing. So he gladly
accepted the task, and applied himself to it as soon as the engravings
reached him.
On receiving the manuscript Mr. Burlingame wrote: "The paper on the
engravers so thoroughly fulfilled our expectations, that we were more
than ever glad that we asked your help in this (to us) important
matter."
In the spring, before the opening of the Salons, there are always a good
many minor exhibitions, and these we went to see, in order to judge of
the prevailing artistic tendencies. I find this note in the diary:—
"March 17, 1894. Went with wife in the afternoon to see some pictures by
the 'Eclectics' at Petit's. Most of them horribly bad, especially the
Impressionists, but several by Boudot were excellent. These were
landscapes, all in perfectly true tone and good color, with a great deal
of sound, modest drawing. I wish I could paint like him. His work is
evidently founded on painted studies from nature; indeed, much of it
must have been painted directly from nature.
"Made a new plan for work, doing two tasks on alternate days: one the
current book, the other some minor task—an article, for example. In
this way both would get on, and the interval would not be long enough to
lose hold of either."
He wrote about it to Mr. Seeley, and explained:—
"I don't know how it will answer yet, but have hopes. My great
difficulty has always been (and it only increases with age) a certain
want of readiness and flexibility in turning from one thing to another.
When I have a book in hand (and I always have one), it is most
disagreeable to me to turn from it and write an article; and when the
article is finished I lose always at least a day, and often several
days, before I get well into swing with the book again. My natural
tendency is to take up one task, and peg away at it till it is done."
At Roberts Brothers' request, Mr. Hamerton had agreed to write a
translation of Renan's notice of his sister Henriette. However, he had
to give it up, not being able to get answers to his letters from M. Ary
Renan.
As he greatly appreciated the spirit and usefulness of the Institution
of the Franco-English Guild, founded by Miss Williams, he wrote for its
"Review" an article on "Languages and Peace," and intended to write
others. There are some notes in the diary at this time which prove that
he could find some effects to enjoy in Paris:—
"March 13th. Went with Stephen to see Mr. Barker. We went on a walk to
the terrace at Meudon, where we joined wife and daughter and Raoul.
Thence to a pond in the wood. Came back in the evening. Beautiful
effects on the river."
"April 1st. Went to the Mont Valérien, and greatly enjoyed the views
about it over Paris on one side, and the country on the other."
The best proof that my husband's nervous system was now strong and
healthy, is that for the first time in his life he proposed that we
should go together to the private view of the Champ de Mars to meet the
President of the Republic. We had a card of invitation, and I was so
happy to see him well, and to mark the respectful greetings which met
him from all quarters, that I enjoyed the day thoroughly. He was
perfectly calm the whole time, in contrast with the excitement surging
around him, and at night he wrote in the diary:—
"We went, wife and I, to the Champ de Mars, and saw the President of the
Republic arrive, and all the artistic notabilities who received him.
After the lunch, saw the exhibition well, and selected two pictures for
Scribner. Was much impressed by Tissot's 'Life of Christ.'
"We were much amused by the extravagance of the toilettes, particularly
the feminine."
In April he called upon MM. Louis Deschamps and Checa for notes of a
biographical kind. There was an instantaneous sympathy between him and
M. Checa, who was very cordial and communicative, and who soon returned
his visit. After the publication of the article concerning him, M. Checa
wrote: "Je vous remercie très vivement de cet article, sûrement le plus
exact que l'on ait fait sur moi."
In the studio of M. Checa my husband had met an American artist, Mr. R.
J. Wickenden, who lived at Auvers, and who, being well acquainted with
his works, wished to paint a portrait of the author. During the sittings
a friendship was formed between model and painter. The portrait was
exhibited in America at Mr. Keppel's.
Mr. Hamerton having been invited to preside at a meeting and dinner of
the Society of Illustrators, and to deliver a lecture on the history of
their art, fixed an earlier date than he had intended for his proposed
visit to London, to comply with their wishes.
He started alone on May 4, going by way of Dieppe, and wrote in the
diary: "Capital passage. Enjoyed sea and color very much indeed."
On the 6th he wrote to M. Raillard that he was well enough, but that on
arriving at Charing Cross the trunk containing his clothes was missing.
He ended by saying: "And I have to preside over a dinner to-morrow! At
all events I cannot do it in a flannel shirt!… I am in a pretty mess!"
He had almost decided to buy a ready-made suit in this emergency, when
he recovered the lost trunk. After the dinner he wrote me a long account
of it in French. The reception given him by the Illustrators had been
most cordial. His speech had been delivered without nervousness or
hesitation, and with the curious illusion that he was listening to
somebody else.
There had been an animated debate on the grievances of the Illustrators,
who complained of the small space allotted to the exhibition of their
works in the Academy. They seemed disposed to sign a protest, when he
had offered to go and see Sir Frederick Leighton, and to talk the
subject over with him, as president of the meeting. He ended his letter
with a promise to have his photograph taken on the morrow by Messrs.
Elliott and Fry.
I was very glad of this decision about his portrait, for I had not a
good likeness of him, except the fine photograph taken by Mr. Palmer;
and of course since that time his features had altered. They retained
their expression of intellectuality and dignity, softened, as it were,
by the discipline and experience of years. Hitherto he had always
resisted any attempt to publish his portrait among a series of
celebrities; but this time he yielded to my entreaties; and he was
afterwards satisfied to have done so, for the three photographs taken on
the same day were all good likenesses. From the best of them was
engraved—later—through the care and sympathy of Messrs. Scribner, the
fine and striking portrait which appeared in their Magazine of February,
1895.
It was, I believe, a sort of unconscious presentiment which prompted my
husband to see all his friends during this last visit to England.
Knowing that he had so much pressing work on hand, I had been surprised
by his decision to go to London so soon after his last journey, and
still more to hear that he intended to go to Holmwood to make the
acquaintance of Mr. C. Gould, the son of his cousin Anne; to Dorking, to
see Mrs. Hamerton, of Hellifield Peel, and her married daughter; to
Alresford, to stay a couple of days with Sir Seymour Haden and his wife;
and then to Southampton, to call upon Mr. R. Leslie. All these
arrangements surprised me exceedingly; but I came to the conclusion that
my husband's health must be excellent, since he volunteered to
undertake, with evident pleasure, what he would have dreaded to do some
time ago.
Indeed, his letters expressed nothing but enjoyment from all these
visits, and the keen interest he took in the Academy exhibition.
He was made very welcome by Sir Frederick Leighton, to whom he explained
the grievances of the Illustrators, and who gave him a promise to do his
best for them; and Mr. Hamerton was glad to think he might have been of
use.
A singular occurrence happened shortly after his return. Friends, more
particularly those who came from abroad, were often debarred from
accepting his invitations on account of the distance between Paris and
the Parc des Princes, and the consequent lateness of the hour when they
could reach their home or hotel after dining at Clématis. Gilbert,
therefore, had adopted a plan—much in use in the French capital—which
consists in inviting friends to a conveniently situated restaurant,
where the goodness of the cookery and attendance may be relied upon. It
occurred to my husband to try the Terminus Hotel at the Gare du Havre,
from which many travellers start for England; and he invited M. Raillard
to test the place with him. They were both pleased with it, and left at
about ten p.m. It was most fortunate that they did not remain much
longer, for at eleven an explosion, caused by a dynamite bomb, wrecked
the room in which they had dined, and wounded several people.
A long-deferred meeting with Mr. Frederick Harrison took place in June,
and the day was spent in visiting the Louvre, Tuileries, Notre Dame, and
the Hôtel de Ville.
We had also been expecting with pleasant anticipations the visit of Mr.
Niles, when we received the sad news of his death at Perugia, and
learned that he had been in failing health for some years, and had
decided to come to Europe for rest. My husband's regrets were very
sincere. From time to time we had news of R. L. Stevenson; those
received in a letter from Mr. R. A.M. Stevenson, in the course of the
same mouth, were very pleasing.
"I heard from R. L. Stevenson a few weeks ago. He said: 'If you saw me
here you would no longer question my wisdom in staying; you would not
wonder at my preferring this life to that of Bournemouth.' In England he
passed half his time in bed, the whole winter in the house, and he could
never walk half-a-mile. Now he is out by six in the morning, sometimes
bathes, and occasionally spends the whole day in the saddle. He was
always fond of the open air, and though never strong, was a good walker,
and, as you know, able to do a little boating. He often spoke to me of
his visit to you at Autun."
The assassination of President Carnot, which occurred in June, grieved
and horrified my husband as much as if he had been a Frenchman. He had
the greatest respect for the scrupulous manner in which M. Carnot
discharged all his duties, and admired the simple dignity with which he
held the rank of First Citizen of a great nation. Being himself a
Liberal—but a Moderate one—it had given him hopes for the stability of
a Moderate-Liberal Republic, to see at the head of it the
personification of unsuspected honesty and wise patriotism.
On the whole, he was satisfied with the choice of his successor, and
amused by this phrase about M. Casimir-Périer in one of Mr. Seeley's
letters: "I saw a portrait of the new French President lately. He looks
a man not to be trifled with." The remark has been curiously justified
since.
Having to go out so frequently now in the afternoons in order to see
artists and pictures, my husband altered his rules of work, and devoted
the whole of the mornings to literary composition, and the heat being
very oppressive this summer, he worked better in the cooler time of day;
yet I was rather afraid of the consequences when I saw him start for
Paris with the thermometer standing at 88° or 90° almost every
afternoon, but he maintained that it did him no harm.
On July 14—the Fête Nationale—Mr. Jaccaci having called with M.
Vierge, Gilbert went back to dine with him in Paris and to see the
fireworks. They were both struck by the extraordinary quietness of the
great town, generally so merry and noisy at that date, but now subdued
by respectful sympathy for the death of its late President.
Note in the diary: "Never saw streets of Paris so quiet before. Could
cross easily anywhere. In Avenue de l'Opéra could count people."
We had heard from M. Raillard that the reputation of his father-in-law
was penetrating into Germany. He had seen some notices and reviews of
his works, and in August a professor at the Zurich University sent this
flattering letter:—
"Monsieur,—Je vais publier une petite bibliothèque française à l'usage
des écoles allemandes, avec des notes en français. Le premier volume
contiendra une forte partie du fameux livre de Tocqueville sur l'ancien
régime et la révolution. Le second sera, si vous le permettez, composé
d'extraits de votre excellent livre, 'Français et Anglais,' traduction
de M. Labouchère.
"Auriez-vous la bonté de me fournir quelques dates sur votre vie et sur
vos autres ouvrages, que je pourrais utiliser pour l'introduction?"
Just at the time, when my husband was making extensive plans of work,
justified as it seemed by the great improvement in his health, he was
suddenly attacked by a new malady, which he believed to be asthma. There
were no premonitory symptoms; he was as well as usual in the daytime,
and even after going to bed, where he always read before going to sleep;
but directly he fell asleep, he was suddenly aroused again by
suffocation. In describing his sensations to me, he said it seemed as if
breathing required—while in a waking state—a slight effort, which he
made unconsciously, and this being discontinued when sleep arrived,
produced suffocation. I attributed this painful state to a change in the
working of his nervous system, and pressed him to see a doctor; but he
was convinced that he was becoming asthmatic, and that there was no help
for it.
Although he told me that if he had his choice in the matter, he would
rather die than be condemned to a life of impotence, with perpetual
cares and precautions, he bore his sufferings, or rather forebodings,
with his accustomed courage and patience, and attempted to calm my
apprehensions by affirming that, though his nights were disturbed, he
could still get sleep out of bed, in an arm-chair, and now and then in
the day-time when overpowered by fatigue. The various means of relief
used by asthmatic people and recommended by different friends
proving—without exception—utterly inefficacious for him, I attempted
to console him by pointing out that asthma often manifested itself at
very long intervals, and that, in general, the worst attacks were hardly
more painful than those of gout. He answered that he could bear the pain
of these attacks, but what he dreaded most was chronic asthma, which, by
lowering his general health, would reduce him to an invalid state.
However, the worst symptoms soon subsided, and about three weeks after
the first disturbance he was writing to Mr. Seeley: "I am much better,
though my nights are still frequently interrupted. I require a great
deal of exercise, more than I can find time for; the more exercise I
take the better I am." And yet when, shortly afterwards, a specialist
had to be called in, he declared that his patient "was completely
overworked mentally and physically," and he ordered him to give up the
velocipede altogether, and to restrict his walks to short distances and
a leisurely pace.
I have never been able to understand how it was that physical exercise
being so hurtful to Gilbert, he should invariably have felt benefited by
it, so far as his sensations went.
The vacation had come round again, and the impossibility of realizing
the pleasant plans we had formed obliged our children to alter theirs.
Stephen went to London, and M. Raillard took his wife through
Switzerland to Germany. They had frequently written on their way, and
now told of their impressions of Freiburg, where they decided to remain
three weeks.
I mentioned before that my husband's knowledge of places which he had
never seen was surprising. In this instance he could induce Mary and her
husband to believe that he had actually stayed where they were. The
attempt amused him, and he read me the following letter before posting
it:—
"19 août 1894.
"Ma Chère et bonne fille,—Je t'aurais écrit plus tôt pour te souhaiter
ta fête, qui est aujourd'hui, mais je n'espérais pas que ma lettre pût
te parvenir, comme tu étais en route. Je n'ai jamais pu savoir ce que
souhaiter une fête voulait dire, mais si c'est quelque bien,—comme la
santé, par exemple,—tu sais quels sont mes voeux; enfin je voudrais te
savoir aussi heureuse que possible:
"Je ne trouve pas que la couleur de la cathédrale de Freiburg soit
désagréable. Il est vrai que je préfère un gris argenté, mais le ton
chaud de Freiburg fait bien et il a gagné une certaine patine avec les
années. On m'a dit quand j'y étais que celle de Strasbourg a la même
couleur, mais je ne l'ai jamais vue. Quel bonheur pour Freiburg d'avoir
tous ces petits ruisseaux qui nettoient les rues et qui viennent de la
rivière Dreisam! Je n'admire pas plus que toi la tendance polychrome
qu'on voit dans certains détails de la ville.
"Avez-vous vu le château de Zahringen? Il est au nordest de Freiburg, à
trois kilomètres environ; c'est une promenade très facile.
"Je me suis demandé si à Baie vous vous étiez arrêtés à l'hôtel des
Trois-Rois. Il y a là un long balcon d'où l'on voit le fort courant du
Rhin qui passe sous l'ancien pont. Je me rappelle qu'à l'extrémité de ce
pont, du côté opposé, il y avait une brasserie où, en buvant son verre
de bière, on pouvait regarder l'eau qui coulait toujours, et si vite.
"À Lucerne, j'ai vu également couler la Reuss sous l'ancien pont où l'on
voit la Danse de la Mort. Mr. Macgregor a osé descendre cette rivière
(qui est un torrent très dangereux plus bas) en périssoire. Ce n'est pas
moi qui essaierai.
"Je continue à mieux aller, je puis maintenant m'endormir assez
facilement, et je reste généralement dans mon lit toute la nuit, mais
pas toujours. Mon sommeil est souvent interrompu, mais vite repris. En
somme grand progrès.
"Bonne-maman va beaucoup mieux aussi, elle prend de la Kola qui lui
fait, paraît-il, grand bien.
"Stephen a regagné l'appétit et part vendredi pour Londres.
"Mes meilleures amitiés à Raoul, et tous mes souhaits pour un bon séjour
à Lucerne, cet endroit si ravissant!
"Vieux Papa."
To the infinite amusement of "Vieux Papa," his daughter answered
immediately, "We never knew that you had been at Freiburg," etc., etc.
In the course of August my husband had the pleasure of becoming
personally acquainted with Mr. Scribner, who called upon him in the
company of Mr. Jaccaci.
The improvement in Gilbert's state did not last. We renewed our
entreaties about having a doctor's advice, and he yielded.
The great physician whom we called in declared it was weakness of the
heart—due to overwork—that his patient was suffering from, and not
asthma. He promised to set him up again in four months with his
prescriptions.
Strange to say, Gilbert was greatly relieved to hear that his case was
hypertrophy of the heart rather than asthma—for me it was the dreaded
confirmation of fears that had long haunted me; still, we both derived
hope and encouragement from the doctor's assurance of an ultimate cure.
I cannot say that we really believed in a total cure, but we thought it
possible to recover the former state of health which had preceded the
attacks of suffocation. "I have not felt old, hitherto," my husband
said, "certainly not more than if I had been only fifty; but the fact
is, I am now sixty, and therefore must be prepared to face the advent of
old age. I will submit to any privation for the sake of health, though
it seems hard to be deprived of exercise. It is singular that my mental
state should be clearer and more vigorous than ever before, and that my
work should be easier and more enjoyable than at any former time."
Mr. Seeley had written:—
"What a good thing you called in this Parisian doctor! It might have
been serious if you had gone on taking strong exercise in your present
state of health.
"I can quite understand your feeling of relief that at any rate it is
not asthma. Perhaps when you take less exercise the gout may return, and
the heart be relieved at once. That the doctor confidently promises a
cure in a few months is a great satisfaction to us."
The good results of the prescribed regimen were soon experienced, and I
hailed—not unhopefully—the return of an attack of gout, predicted by
Mr. Seeley, which I feared less for Gilbert than the heart troubles. The
doctor had said, after hearing that the gout had almost entirely
disappeared, "You have made a bad bargain in exchanging gout for
hypertrophy."
This is what my husband himself wrote to his friend:—
"The worst of me just now for making inquiries, is that on getting up
this morning I found I had an attack of gout in my right knee. Hitherto
it is only slight (I write at two p.m.), but I cannot bend it without
considerable pain, so I must wait till to-morrow at any rate, before
trying to go to Paris. It is quite possible that the attack may be very
slight, but it is also possible that I may be laid up by it. However
this may be, I will of course keep your letter, and do all in my power
to help in the present emergency.
"Many thanks for your very kind letter about my doctor's visit. I wish I
had known him ten years sooner. He is most scrupulously observant of
things as they really are, and does not set off, as doctors often do,
from a preconceived notion of his own. The results of the regimen are
already beneficial. My nights have been gradually improving since it
began. Last night I slept perfectly till about two in the morning, and
then awoke without any suffocation, and soon fell asleep again,
remaining quiet with good breathing till half-past six. About a week
since I could not sleep at all, being immediately awakened by
suffocation every time I began to drop off.
"Please thank Mrs. Seeley on my part and my wife's for her kind
sympathy, which we know is most sincere. Tell her I regret to have
called you her teetotal husband, as I am no better myself. Nay, it is
you who have the advantage of me with your two glasses of claret, which
I call downright intemperance." (He was allowed to drink nothing but
milk.)
Our children feeling uneasy still, and anxious about the state of their
father, cut their journey rather short to be back again with him. M.
Raillard wished to see Sens in coming back, and the house we had lived
in there. So his father-in-law sent him some information about the
place, and added:—
"Ne manquez pas surtout de voir l'intérieur de la Salle Synodale qui est
peut-être la plus belle salle gothique du monde après celle de
Westminster. Le trésor de la Cathédrale est intéressant.
"Je continue à me porter beaucoup mieux. Les nuits sont bonnes.
"À bientôt, puisque vous avez la bonne pensée de revenir.
"Bien cordialement à vous."
The rules of work had been, perforce, relaxed lately, and almost all the
working time had been devoted to writing the "Quest of Happiness," and
an article on "Formative Influences" for the "Forum," besides the
concluding articles for "Scribner's Magazine."
A decided and rapid improvement in health had taken place, and when, at
the beginning of October, Miss Betham-Edwards came to see us, she found
my husband much as usual—though looking older—as she told me
afterwards.
A few days after she had come to déjeuner at Clématis we went to lunch
with her at her hotel, and spent the whole day together, visiting the
Musée Carnavalet, and having a long walk the whole way back to the Rue
d'Alger. We crossed the Cour du Louvre, where my husband explained in
detail the various transformations and changes in the architecture of
the palace at different periods of time. Then, in the fading twilight,
we had a look at the magnificent and poetical vista opened by the
removal of the Tuileries, before saying goodbye; and when we reached
Clématis for a late dinner, Gilbert told my mother that he had enjoyed
the day and did not feel tired in the least.
On the following Sunday we had a long walk in the Avenue du Bois de
Boulogne with some friends, and near the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile we
happened to espy the doctor, when my husband remarked cheerfully,
"Doctor B——, who was to see me again in two months, would be surprised
to hear that I am cured already."
On October 17, a fire was lighted for the first time this autumn in
Gilbert's study, and before the flue became heated and a good draught
produced, the smoke was considerable. I warned him not to remain in the
room, the air being so bad; he answered that as soon as the work he had
begun allowed of it, he would go out. I left the door open on purpose,
and begged him not to close it; but when I went up again with the
letters—two hours after—I found him still at work, in an atmosphere of
dense yellow smoke, without possible escape, the door having been closed
again. As usual, when writing, my husband became so wrapt in his work
that he was not conscious of anything outside of it.
I became alarmed for him, as I could hardly breathe, but he felt no
inconvenience just then.
In the afternoon he had a walk, but in the evening he went up again to
the study, and remained there over an hour, giving a lesson in English
pronunciation to one of his nephews. The smoke had, however, subsided,
and the fire burned steadily.
At half-past one I was awakened by a sensation of chill on the
forehead—it came from my husband's lips—he was giving me, as he
thought, a last kiss, for he murmured faintly, "J'ai voulu te dire que
je t'ai bien aimée, car je crois que je vais mourir."
He was deadly pale, but quite collected. I helped him to dress, and we
managed to reach the garden for purer air. He wrote afterwards in his
diary that his sufferings had been horrible, and lasted in full two
hours and a half. I tried to encourage him in the struggle for life, by
saying that it was asthma, and that I had witnessed a dear relation of
ours struggling successfully through several similar attacks. I felt
certain now that it was asthma, and I said so to the doctor on the
following day. He answered, "It is cardiac asthma, then."
It was freezing hard outside, and as soon as he recovered breathing
power, I led my husband to the drawing-room sofa, which I wheeled in
front of the chimney, and the wood being piled up ready for a fire, I
made a great blaze, and opened the windows wide at the same time. Once
stretched on the couch and wrapped up in blankets, facing the leaping
flames, he soon regained vital warmth, and his breathing became more
regular.
Altogether the crisis had lasted five hours, during which I had remained
alone with him without even calling a maid, for fear of making him worse
through annoyance. I affected entire freedom from anxiety as to the end,
merely expressing sympathy with his momentary sufferings, and I was
thankful to succeed in deceiving him.
As soon as he felt well enough to be left for a short time, I hastened
to the doctor's, but went first to tell Mary and her husband of the sad
occurrence, that they might go to their father while I should be away.
The doctor attributed the attack entirely to the effect of the smoke,
and said it had nothing to do with my husband's malady—"he had been
asphyxiated;" it would have no lasting effects, except as to retarding
the cure; the ground gained since the beginning of the regimen had been
lost, and it was all to begin over again.
I did not attempt to disguise from him my anxious fears nor my feelings
when I had witnessed my husband's tortures without any means or hopes of
alleviating them; "for," I added, "I have been told there is no help in
cases of acute asthma." "There was not," he answered, "till a quite
recent discovery; but now immediate relief may be given by injections of
serum."
Though he assured me that there would be no other attack of the same
kind if we took care to have only wood fires and no smoke, I insisted
upon being recommended to a reliable doctor, not far from our house, who
would promise to come at any time of night if we needed him, and who
would always have serum in his possession—the great specialist being
himself at too great a distance from us to be fetched in an emergency.
The very doctor I wanted happened to be this very day sharing, as he
often did, the labors and studies of the specialist. He was called in,
and, after listening to an explanation, gave me the promise I desired,
and said he would follow me immediately to Clématis to see the patient;
and if he should see the necessity for it, would ask his friend to join
him at our house for a consultation.
As he noticed the distress under which I was laboring, the physician
kindly said before I left him: "I repeat, that I do not apprehend a
recurrence of what happened last night—but, si par impossible une
autre crise semblable survenait, rappelez-vous bien que, même suivie de
syncope, elle ne serait jamais mortelle."
I believed him, though my heart was still heavy at the thoughts of the
sufferings that the future might bring to my husband. I felt greatly
relieved in being able to give him the doctor's assurance that there was
no danger for his life.
I was happy on entering the drawing-room to see him quietly talking with
Mary and Raoul, and eating grapes. He said that, with the exception of
fatigue, he felt very well indeed. He had taken some broth, and partook
of a light dinner with pleasure.
The doctor delegated by the physician, after an examination, merely
confirmed what had been said to me, and saw no necessity for a
consultation with his friend.
On the morrow we arranged a temporary study to avoid fresh troubles with
the stove, and kept up good ventilation with a bright wood fire and
frequent opening of windows looking out on the garden.
Gilbert resumed his ordinary work with great moderation, taking care to
interrupt whatever he was doing every hour by a short walk in the open
air, according to medical advice. Four days later I find this entry in
the note-book: "October 24. Walked in the Bois de Boulogne towards
evening in an enchantment of color and light; beautiful autumnal color
on trees."
One of my husband's last satisfactions in life was a letter for Mr.
Burlingame, about the work lately done for Messrs. Scribner. Here is a
passage out of it:—
"I have long had in mind to say, à propos of the conclusion of the
series, how much of a success I think our last plan proved, and how
cordially we all appreciate the very valuable and punctual fulfilment
which you kindly gave to it. All our relations during its progress were
a great pleasure to me; and I hope it will not be long before the
Magazine may have the benefit of your help again. It will always gratify
us very much to know of any suggestion or papers that occur to you which
you might be inclined to send our way.
"Mr. Scribner and Mr. Jaccaci are back again; and we all often speak of
you with pleasant recollections of your kindness in Paris."
Although Messrs. Scribner's pecuniary arrangements were very liberal, my
husband's satisfaction in his dealings with them was mostly derived from
their courtesy; for though he was obliged to take money into
consideration, it was almost the least weighty of considerations with
him. He often said he did not like money; he looked upon it as the
indispensable means of providing necessaries, and thereby affording the
mind sufficient peace to apply itself to study in freedom from anxious
cares. He never desired riches or luxury, and hated to have to think
about money matters or to talk about them, even to me; and aware that
the subject was more than disagreeable,—painful,—I avoided it as much
as possible.
After the first terrible attack of suffocation, Mr. Seeley had been
reluctant to ask for my husband's help; still, as he had recovered so
soon, and had resumed his ordinary avocations, he was willing and able
to do several urgent things for the "Portfolio," and Mr. Seeley wrote:—
"You have done, before receiving my last letter, exactly what it asked
you to do. What a good thing when editor and publisher are in such
perfect rapport.
"I hope you have not had any more attacks."
No, he had not; and his nights were quiet again, though he got up very
early, at four or five in the morning, and had a nap in the afternoon.
The only thing he complained of was a sensation of weakness unknown to
him before. It was not sufficient to be called painful, but still he
felt it to be there, and hoped to get rid of it when allowed a little
beer or claret. He so much disliked drinking milk at meal-times that it
quite spoilt his appetite, until the doctor said he might have water
during his repasts, and milk in the intervals.
On account of the diminution in strength, I was afraid of the effects
that fatigue might produce, and did not like to see him go so often to
Paris as he had lately done, especially to the exhibitions; but when it
could not be avoided, I managed to go with him, under the pretext that I
was interested in them myself.
On November 4 he asked me if I should like to go with him to the Louvre,
where he had to see the Salle des Primitifs. I said yes. He spent an
hour there, enjoying heartily the best pictures, and extolling their
merits as we were coming back. According to his habit, he was reading in
the tram-car on his way home, and I noticed that it was a volume of
"Virgil," and in looking up from the book to his face, I observed that
he looked paler than usual. I inquired if he felt tired. He answered,
"Not in the least." And when we reached home he went up straight to his
study, and wrote till the bell called him to dinner. We had a pleasant
talk about the pictures he had just studied, while he was eating with a
good appetite.
After dinner, as usual, he took up his newspaper and read for about ten
minutes, when he suddenly threw it aside and told me the action of the
heart was unsatisfactory. I proposed at once to go to the garden, but
the suddenness and violence of the attack did not allow him to reach it.
When in the open air, just above the few stone steps, he had to stop and
grasp the railing till the last anguish deprived him of breath and of
life, long before the arrival of the doctors, whom I had sent for as
soon as he had felt oppressed.
He had never feared death, whatever might await him after—conscious of
a useful and blameless life. He died as he had desired to die, standing
alone with me under the moonlit sky, unconfined, escaping from the
decrepitude of old age, still in the full possession and maturity of his
talents, and in the active use of them.
Two hours before his death he had been writing these last words for the
"Quest of Happiness":—
"If I indulge my imagination in dreaming about a country where justice
and right would always surely prevail, where the weak would never be
oppressed, nor an honest man incur any penalty for his honesty—a
country where no animal would ever be ill-treated or killed, otherwise
than in mercy—that is truly ideal dreaming, because, however far I
travel, I shall not find such a country in the world, and there is not
any record of such a country in the authentic history of mankind."
Let us hope he may have found this ideal country in the unknown world.