CHAPTER V.
1859.
Visits from friends and relatives.—A Frenchman in the Highlands.—
Project of buying the island of Innistrynich.
When we arrived at Innistrynich from the Continent, all our neighbors had left Loch Awe, and we had only as occasional visitors the doctor and our landlord—the rare and far-between calls of the minister ceasing with the fine days; but we were not afraid of our solitude à deux, and we had the pleasant prospect of entertaining Aunt Mary and Anne Hamerton early in the summer, as well as the husband of my godmother, M. Souverain, a well-known Parisian publisher, whose acquaintance Mr. Hamerton had made through my father, and who had promised to come to see us. Meanwhile, we resumed our usual rules of work, and my husband began several oil pictures at once, so as to lose no time in having to wait for the drying of the colors.
As he had made great progress in his French, he proposed that we should change our parts, and that nothing but English should be spoken, read, or written by me, except my letters to French correspondents. I delayed my submission a while, for it seemed that if I could not speak—even to him—confidentially and with perfect ease, that indeed would be solitude. At last I yielded to his entreaties, strengthened by my father's remonstrances, and some months of constantly renewed endeavors not always successful, and sometimes accompanied by weariness, discouragement, and tears—began for me, my teacher never swerving from his rule, not even when, despairing of making myself understood, I used a French word or expression. On such occasions he invariably shook his head and said: "I do not understand French; speak English," at the same time helping me out of my difficulty as much as he could.
Aunt Mary and Anne Hamerton had promised to come to see us during the summer, and we had repeated our invitation in the beginning of the spring of 1859, but Aunt Mary wrote to her nephew: "I am looking forward with great pleasure to my visit to you and Eugénie, but I think I had better NOT come till the little cherub has come, because anybody would know better what to do than I should."
She wrote again on June 6, 1859: "I am very glad indeed that Eugénie and the dear little boy are doing well; give my very best love to Eugénie, and tell her that now Anne and I are looking forward with great pleasure to visiting you as soon as we can."
They came in July, and Aunt Mary was delighted with the beauty of the scenery, with the strong and healthy appearance of her little grand-nephew, whom she held in her arms as much and as long as her strength allowed, but especially by the recovered affectionate intimacy with my husband, and also by the certainty of our domestic happiness.
Anne Hamerton greatly enjoyed the excursions on land and water, and so the days passed pleasantly. When my husband was painting, either in his studio or out-of-doors, we sat near him and read aloud by turns. Aunt Mary was very fond of Moore's poetry, and read it well and feelingly, though her voice was rather tremulous and weak. To Anne were given passages of "Modern Painters" as examples of style, and Lamartine's "Jocelyn" for French pronunciation. I fear that Aunt Mary's appreciation of it was more imaginary than real. "The Newcomes" fell to my lot, being easier than poetry, and gave rise to many a debate about its superiority or inferiority to Thackeray's other works. As an author he was not justly appreciated by Aunt Mary, who, on account of her aristocratic loyalty, did not forgive him for "The Four Georges."
We had also a good deal of music; my husband, having been accustomed to play duets with his cousin, soon resumed the practice, and though I had not encouraged him as a solo-player, I liked well enough to listen to his violin with a piano accompaniment. Anne's playing was only mediocre, but as she did not attempt anything above her skill, it was pleasant enough; she accompanied all the French songs I had brought with me, and they were numerous, for at that time there was no soirée in Paris—homely or fashionable—without romances; the public taste was not so fastidious as it has since become, and did not expect from a school-girl the performance of an operatic prima donna. When out in the boat on a peaceful and serene night, my husband rowing us slowly on the glassy water, it seemed that the melodies which rose and spread in the hazy atmosphere were the natural complement to these enchanted hours. Anne often sang "Beautiful Star" or "Long Time Ago," and I was always asked for "Le Lac" or "La Chanson de Fortunio."
The arrival of Monsieur Souverain added a new element of cheerfulness to our little party: he was so thoroughly French—that is, so ignorant of other habits than French ones, so naïvely persuaded of their superiority to all others, so keenly alive to any point of difference, and so openly astonished when he discovered any, always wondering at the reason for this want of similarity—that he was a perpetual source of interest to our lady visitors. He could not speak English, but he always addressed Aunt Mary in his voluble and rapid Parisian French, and she was all smiles, and appeared to enjoy extremely his run of anecdotes about French celebrities she had never heard of. Now and then she let fall a word or sometimes a phrase totally irrelevant to what he had been saying, but which in his turn he politely pretended to appreciate, although he had not understood a single syllable of it. It was most amusing to see them walking side by side, evidently enjoying each other's society and animated conversation; only we remarked that they were careful to remain well out of profane hearing by keeping a good deal in front of us, or else loitering behind.
We had been awaiting M. Souverain for some days, no date having been fixed, when one morning our attention was aroused by loud and prolonged shouts coming from that part of the road which affords a view of Innistrynich, before descending to the bay. With the help of his telescope, my husband soon discovered a small, spare human form, now waving a pocket-handkerchief, and now making a speaking-trumpet of both hands to carry its appeal as far as the island. "It must be M. Souverain," Gilbert said, as he sent a shout of welcome, and ran to the pier to loosen the boat and row it across the bay.
He had scarcely landed our visitor when enthusiastic ejaculations met our ears: "Mais c'est le Paradis terrestre ici!" "Quel pays de rêve!" "Quel séjour enchanteur!" Then, with a change of tone habitual to him, and a little sarcastic: "Yes, but as difficult to find as dream-land; I thought I should have to turn back to France without meeting with you, for no one seemed to be aware of the existence of the 'lac Ave' any more than of 'Ineestreeneeche,' and I was beginning to suspect your descriptions to have been purely imaginary, when un trait de lumière illuminated my brain. I bought a map of Scotland, and without troubling myself any longer with the impossible pronunciation of impossible names, I stuck a pin on the spot of the map that I wanted to reach and showed it either to a railway employé or to a matelot, and I was sure to hear 'All right,'—I have learnt that at least. But upon my life, to this day I can't explain why no one seemed to understand me, even at Inverary, at the hotel. I asked: 'Quel chemin doit on prendre pour aller chez Monsieur Amertone, dans l'île d'Ineestreeneeche sur le lac Ave?' That was quite plain, was not it?… Well, they only shook their heads till I gave them the address you had written for me, then of course they came out with 'All right,' and a good deal besides which was of no consequence to me, and at last I am here 'all right.' But why on earth do they spell Londres, London; Glascow, Glasgow; and Cantorbéry, Canterbury? It is exceedingly puzzling to strangers." My husband was greatly tickled, and rather encouraged this flow of impressions; he thought it extremely interesting in a cultivated and intelligent man who was far from untravelled, for he had been in Spain, Belgium, Germany, Italy, and Algeria, and who still evinced a childlike wonder at every unfamiliar object. For instance, he would say: "Now, Mr. Hamerton, I am sure you can't justify this queer custom in English hotels, of putting on the table a roast of eight pounds' weight, at least, or a whole cheese. I can't eat all that, then why serve it me?… And why also those immense washing-basins? They are so cumbersome and heavy that it is almost as much as I can achieve to empty them: I don't take a bath in them, I take it in a baignoire, and I have not to empty it."
The conversation, however, often ran on serious subjects, and M. Souverain heard with deep interest from my husband an account of his plans, both literary and artistic, and said once: "If you intend to devote your life to painting Highland scenery, and since your wife loves this admirable island as much as you do, why should not you buy it and secure the benefit of the improvements you are carrying on? It is somewhat solitary at times, no doubt, but as you will be obliged to go to London and Paris every year at least, you might arrange to do so in winter and enjoy society there, and a change at the same time. You tell me that your property yields at present but a very poor income,—why not sell it, or part of it, since it has no attraction for you, and live here, on your own property, free of rent?"
Gilbert himself had entertained the idea, and had developed it to me with flattering possibilities and speculations, but I was already beginning to fear that our present existence was too exquisite to last. We had received bad news from Uncle Thomas about the rents; the mill was not let, and would require a heavy outlay before it could find a tenant; the machinery was old, out-of-date, and would have to be replaced by new with the modern improvements, and the cottages surrounding the mill were likely to remain tenantless so long as the mill did not work, or the rents be but irregularly forthcoming. In fact, our income was already insufficient, and my husband was seriously considering whether he ought to borrow in order to set up the mill again, or whether it would be more profitable to sell the property and draw upon the capital as we required it, till he could sell his pictures. At last he decided to consult his uncle, who was a prudent man of business, and had a long experience as landed proprietor. After due consideration Mr. T. Hamerton advised him to go to the necessary expense for repairs to the mill.
Meanwhile M. Souverain was growing more enchanted with Loch Awe day by day, and could not bear the idea that we might be turned out of Innistrynich some day by a new owner (for the present one was getting old, and had said that at the end of our lease he would put it up for sale), so he tempted my husband by the almost irresistible offer of a third of the purchase money, in consideration of having two rooms reserved for himself and his wife—my godmother—during two of the summer months. But Aunt Mary's secret desire—and perhaps hope—of seeing us established at a future time nearer to herself, suggested some very weighty considerations against the project. "When your child or maybe children grow up and have to attend school, will you resign yourselves to send them so far as will be inevitable if you are still here?" she said; "and will your healths be able to stand the severity of the climate when you are no longer so young? The distance from a doctor is another serious affair in case of sickness, and I myself, as well as Eugénie's parents, am on the downward course, and may soon be deprived of the possibility of undertaking so fatiguing a journey." All this had been foreseen by her nephew, of course, but his attachment to the place was such that he found ready answers to all objections. "Our children would be educated at home—the climate, though damp, was not more severe or unhealthy than the average—doctors were of no good, generally speaking—and we might visit our relations more frequently in case they were unable to come to us."
So the question remained open.
Gilbert, thinking it desirable to give his guests a more extensive acquaintance with the surrounding country than his boats could afford, proposed to take a carriage, which would be ferried from Port Sonachan to the other side of the lake, after which we might drive as much as possible along the shores till we reached Ardhonnel Castle. If we arrived early we would visit the ruins and the island; if too late, it would be reserved for the following morning, as we intended to spend the night at the inn, and to resume our drive in time to be back at Innistrynich for dinner.
We started merrily,—Aunt Mary, Anne Hamerton, M. Souverain, my husband, myself, and baby; for our guests kindly insisted upon my being one of the party, in spite of my small encumbrance, which I could not leave behind. I did my best to be excused, but they were unanimous in declaring that they would not go if I stayed.
"You need not walk unless you like," they said, "for there will always be the carriage, the boat, or the inn for you."
It was a splendid day of bright sunshine in a tenderly blue sky, with a pure, soft breeze hardly rippling the lake. We all took our seats inside the roomy, open carriage, my husband leaving the management of the horses to the driver that he might be free to enjoy the scenery. M. Souverain remarked that if the Highlanders were a strong race, their horses hardly deserved the same epithet; and indeed the pair harnessed to our carriage appeared very lean and somewhat shaky, but the driver affirmed that they were capital for hill-work, though he would not swear to their swiftness, and as we did not want to go fast, it was again "all right" from M. Souverain when the explanation had been translated to him.
Fast we certainly did not go, and, moreover, we often stopped to admire the changing views, but the poor starved beasts did not pick up any more spirit during their frequent rests; they painfully resumed their dull jog-trot for a short time, which soon dwindled to slow, weary paces that even the whip in no way hastened. However, with plenty of time before us, we only turned it into a joke, pretending to be terrified by the ardor of our steeds.
My husband had to tell M. Souverain all the legends of the places we were passing, and as he himself "courtisait la Muse," he listened with rapt attention, so as to be able to treat the subjects in French verse. "This country is a mine for a poet!" he frequently exclaimed.
Luckily we had packed some provisions in the carriage, for the sun was already declining,—like the pace of the horses,—and we were not yet at the end of the drive by a good distance.
The fresh air had sharpened our appetites, and Gilbert proposed that we should have something to eat whilst the horses were taken out of harness and given a feed to refresh them and give them a little more vigor for the rest of the journey.
By the time we had finished our collation the air had freshened, and it was twilight; we agreed that now it was desirable to get within shelter as soon as possible, although the charm of the hour was indescribable; but the thin white mist was beginning to float over the lake, and the last remnants of the afterglow had entirely died out. What was our dismay when we found that all my husband's efforts, joined to those of the driver, to make the horses get up were ineffectual; there they lay on the grass, and neither expostulations, pulls, cracks of the whip, or even kicks, I am sorry to say, seemed to produce the slightest effect upon their determination to remain stretched at full length on the ground. What were we to do? The driver vociferated in Gaelic, but the poor brutes did not mind, and they would have been cruelly maltreated if we had not interfered to protect them. Gilbert said to the man: "You see well enough that they have no strength to work, therefore allow them to rest till they are able to go back. I leave you here, and as I have ladies with me I must try to find some sort of shelter for the night." The man was almost frantic when he saw us go, but we all agreed with my husband, and in the hope of finding a cottage set forth resolutely on foot.
It was now almost dark, but our spirits were not damped yet, and, as M. Souverain remarked, it was "une véritable aventure." Still, I was beginning to find my baby somewhat heavy after walking for three-quarters of an hour, when the gentlemen in front of us cheerily encouraged our exertions by calling out, "A cottage, a cottage!" and when we came up to them they were loudly knocking at the door, unable to obtain a sign of life from within; however, the smell of burning peat clearly indicated that the cottage was inhabited, and my husband shouted our story, begging that the door might be opened and the ladies allowed to rest. Then on the other side of the door, which remained closed, a voice answered in Gaelic we knew not what, except that the tone of it was unmistakably angry, and unbroken silence ensued.
There was nothing left to us but to resume our walk, enlivened by M. Souverain singing the celebrated song, "Chez les montagnards Écossais l'hospitalité se donne," etc. Every one in turn offered to hold the baby; but Aunt Mary, I knew, had enough to do for herself, Anne was not strong, and my confidence in the fitness of the gentlemen for the function of nurse was very limited. My husband kept up our courage by affirming that we were not far from Ardhonnel, and consequently within a short distance of the inn; indeed, he called us to the side of the road, from which we could see the noble ruin with our own eyes, now that the new moon had risen and was peeping between the clouds occasionally. It was a welcome sight, for by this time we were really weary; but alas! the inn was on the other side of the lake, and we had no boat; still, Gilbert felt sure there must be one not very far off, to take the people across, and after surveying the shore for a while he discovered a little pier, with a rowing-boat chained to it, and a very small cottage almost close to where we stood; so he went to knock at the door, and again Gaelic was given in answer. But this time the door was opened by a woman who had only taken time to put on a short petticoat, and to throw a small shawl over her head; her feet, legs, and arms were bare, and she looked strong and placid; her English was scanty, but she understood pretty well what we wanted, and declared herself willing to row our party to the other side if any one could steer, for her "man" was asleep in bed and too tired for work; so my husband took a pair of oars, the woman another, and I steered from indications frequently given. At last we stood in front of the inn, and it was past midnight. Not a light was visible, not a sound was heard, and there was no sign of life except a faint blue wreath of peat-smoke; but it was enough to revive our energies and hopes. In response to our united appeals a dishevelled head of red hair cautiously looked down from a half-opened window, and our story had to be told again. Well, this time we were let in and allowed to sit down, whilst the ostler's wife was being roused as well as the servant, for we were told that the tourists' season, being already over, the inn was no longer in trim for customers. This was bad news, for the good effects of the luncheon had passed off, and as soon as we could rest and forget our fatigue we became sensible of ravenous hunger. The good innkeeper and his wife were so obliging and good-hearted that they kept deprecating the absence of all the comforts they would have liked to give us. However, my husband had brought a large basket of dry peat, and M. Souverain heaped it up dexterously, and blew upon what remained of red ashes under his pile, whilst a kettle was placed upon the glowing embers. "I am afraid I can't offer you the same cheer that you would give me at the maison Dorée," Gilbert said to his friend. "Ça serait gâter la couleur locale; oh! some bread-and-cheese, with a bottle of beer, will do very well for me." But there was neither bread nor cheese nor beer; and no kind of abode, however miserable, had M. Souverain ever known to be without bread. "What do they live upon then?" he asked. "Porridge, and they occasionally make scones," was the reply. Luckily for us there happened to be an ample supply of them, freshly made, and with these, boiled eggs, and fried bacon, we had one of the best appreciated meals we ever tasted. It was followed by hot whiskey-toddy and cigars for the gentlemen, by tea and clotted cream for the ladies, and for a while we quite revived; but sleep would have its way, and there being only two beds, occupied by the owners of the inn, they charitably yielded them to us; and when the sheets had been changed, Aunt Mary and Anne shared one, whilst I thankfully retired to the other with baby. The gentlemen remained near the fire in the dining-room, one of them stretched on the sofa, and the other using its cushions as a mattress.
On the following morning I learned the meaning of the word "smart" for the first time, it being so frequently repeated by our good hostess, who had made room for me by the kitchen fire to dress my child. "How smart is the sweet baby!" she constantly exclaimed with honest admiration, as she made him laugh by tickling his little feet or chucking his chin.
Our breakfast was a repetition of the supper in every detail, and our enjoyment of it more limited. My husband soon went out to hire a boat and a couple of men to row us back again. They took us first to Ardhonnel, of which he has given a description in "The Isles of Loch Awe,"—
"A gray, tall fortress, on a wooded isle,
Not buried, but adorned by foliage."
The day was fine again, and the return home ideal; Gilbert steered and relieved each rower in turn, while they sang their Scotch melodies with voices strong and clear, and we all joined in the chorus. When we reached Port Sonachan we heard that our driver had only arrived towards mid-day, and that his horses not being strong enough to stop the carriage on the slope to the ferry, had fallen into the lake, from which they were rescued with great difficulty. We saw the carriage still dripping wet, which had been left out to dry, and for the repairs of which Gilbert later on received a bill that he indignantly refused to pay.
This "romantic excursion," as M. Souverain called it, had so much developed his fancy for Loch Awe that, before taking leave of us, he offered to go halves with my husband in the purchase of Innistrynich; but there was plenty of time for reflection, as the lease had four years to run, so no decision was taken then.
A fortnight after the departure of our Parisian guest, Aunt Mary and Anne left us regretfully,—the former especially, who was going back reluctantly to the jealous remarks of her sister, and did not feel disposed to listen patiently to criticisms on her nephew's character and conduct or on mine. From her letters afterwards she had not a pleasant time of it, but relieved the painfulness of it as much as possible by accepting at intervals several invitations from her friends in the neighborhood. This state of affairs made my husband very miserable, for he would have done anything to secure his Aunt Mary's happiness and tranquillity of mind; and to help him in his endeavors, I proposed that she should come to live with us. This is part of her answer:—
"I hope to return with you in May next. Give my very best love to dear Eugénie, and tell her that I thank her very much for proposing to gratify your affection to me by proposing that I should live with her and you; but Susan and I have taken each other for better and worse, unless some deserving person of the other sex should propose, and the one he proposes to should say, Yes, if you please. But I think we shall never separate."
It is with regret that I have to recall Miss Susan Hamerton's unamiable temper at that time; one thing comes in mitigation, but I only knew of it years afterwards: she was suffering much from unavowed nervousness. Her nephew told me that when living in the same house with her he had sometimes noticed that she ate hardly anything and looked unwell; but to his affectionate inquiries she used to answer: "My health is good enough, thank you; and I know what you imply when you pretend to be anxious about it—you mean that I am cross and ill-tempered." She made it a point never to plead guilty to any physical ailment, as if it were a weakness unworthy of her, and also to discourage all attempts at sympathy.
Another thing I learned too late was her jealous disposition, which explained her attitude towards her nephew at the time of his marriage; it was love turned sour, and although we tried to discover the cause of her bitterness in her worldly disappointment, we became convinced that she would have felt as bitter had the bride been wealthy and of noble lineage, because her jealousy would have tortured her as much, if not more. She became jealous of her sister when we invited her; and long afterwards, when her brother became a widower, and she went to live with him, he confided to his nephew that he had had to bear frequent outbursts of jealousy. It was merely the exaggeration of a tender sentiment which could not brook a rival.
CHAPTER VI.
1859-1860.
Financial complications.—Summer visitors.—Boats and boating.—Visit to
Paris.—W. Wyld.—Project of a farm in France.—Partnership with M.
Gindriez.
While the "Painter's Camp" was progressing, which was to be the foundation of my husband's success, three pictures had been sent to the Academy and rejected; but after the first feeling of disappointment he was cheered up again by a favorable opinion from Millais about those pictures—one of them in particular, a sailing-boat on Loch Awe in the twilight, which was pronounced true in effect and color. Aunt Mary wrote to him soon after: "I am so very glad of the account you give of your pictures, and of Millais' opinion of them; it is very encouraging. I do hope truly that they will attract gain, good-will, and success for you."
As it would have been very expensive to have the pictures sent to and fro, with the deterioration of the frames, packing, etc., Mr. Hamerton begged a friend who lived in London to keep them in one of his empty rooms (he had a whole floor unfurnished) till there were a sufficient number of them for a private exhibition, in which he intended to give lectures on artistic subjects.
The mill, after thorough and expensive repairs, had been let, but there was bad news from the tenant of the coal-mine, who refused to pay the rent any longer, under pretext that the mine was exhausted. This looked very serious, as, after referring the matter to his uncle, who was a solicitor, my husband learned that the lease made during his minority did not specify the quantity of coal that the tenant was allowed to extract from the mine, and, of course, as much as possible had been taken out of it. Still, as there was an agreement to pay the rent during twelve more years, the tenant's right to withdraw from the signed agreement might be contested, and the affair had to be put into the hands of a lawyer. This was a cause of great anxiety, and it was not the only one. The health of my father had become very unsatisfactory of late, and his situation was no longer secure. He had been on most excellent terms with the English gentlemen who were at the head of the firm in which he was cashier, but they were retiring from business, and my father did not know what was coming next. He wrote on October 9, 1859:—
"Enfin je commence à respirer; depuis bientôt six semaines je ne savais pas vraiment où donner de la tête. Nous avons eu transformation de société, inventaire, assemblée d'actionnaires, tout cela m'a donné un effrayant surcroit de besogne et de fatigue, et je n'avais pas le courage de reprendre la plume lorsque je rentrais au logis, harassé et souffrant. Aujourd'hui nos affaires commencent à reprendre leur cours normal."
On the 28th of the same month I find this phrase in one of his letters: "Ma position est plus tendue que jamais et les changements survenus dans notre administration me donnent des craintes sérieuses pour l'avenir." Then we learned that a project for lighting Bucharest with gas was on foot, and that my father was to go there to ascertain the chances of success. Some outlay was necessary, and my husband, who had heard of it through a friend, generously offered to defray the preliminary expenses; his offer, however, was declined for the time, there being as yet no certainty of profit.
Early in 1860 Gilbert had to leave Innistrynich to visit his property and receive the rents. He always felt reluctant to go there, because of the painful reminiscences of his early youth, and of the dreariness of the scenery. There was also another reason, still more powerful,—he was not made to be a landlord, being too tender-hearted. How often did it happen that, instead of insisting on getting his rent from a poor operative, he left some of his own money in the hand of wife or child?—frequently enough in hard times, I know.
He was staying at "The Jumps," and went from there to Shaw, Burnley, and Manchester; he never missed writing to me every day, either a short note or a long letter, according to his spare time. In one of them he says:—
"Ma tante Marie est bien bonne, mais nous ne parlons jamais de choses sérieuses—toujours des riens. Comme la vie est étrange! à quoi bon aller loin pour voir ses amis quand ils vous disent simplement qu'il fait froid!… ma tante Susan est assez gracieuse, mais j'ai vu des nuages. Je suis allé hier à Manchester où j'avais à faire; j'y ai vu quelques tableaux et je suis de plus en plus convaincu que la meilleure chose pour moi est de peindre plutôt dans le genre des vrais peintres Français que dans celui de nos Pré-Raphaelites, ces réalistes impitoyables qui ne nous épargnent pas un brin de gazon."
This letter contains a strong proof of his mind's artistic evolution.
In the course of the summer we had several unexpected visitors, among them Mr. and Mrs. Mackay, Mr. Pettie the artist, and the gentleman described in the "Painter's Camp" as Gordon, who frequently called,—sometimes with his son, sometimes alone, and on such occasions generally remained for the night. Being an early riser, and indisposed to remain idle till breakfast time, he was found in the morning knitting an immense woollen stocking, which he afterwards took into use, and found most comfortable wear for grouse-shooting, as he took care to inform me.
We had once another visitor, who had come to paint from nature, and was staying at the Dalmally inn; his name I will not mention on account of a little adventure which made him so miserable that he left our house breakfastless, rather than face me after it. He had been offered a bedroom, and had slept soundly till about five in the morning, when his attention was attracted by a small phrenological bust on the chimney-piece, which he took into his bed, with the intention of studying it at leisure. As he lay back on the pillow, however, holding up the bust and turning it sideways to read the indications, he became aware of a black dribble rapidly staining the sheets and counterpane. Horrified at such a sight, he sprang out of bed, and discovered—too late—that he had totally emptied the inkstand.
About the same time we had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Captain Clifton and his wife, Lady Bertha Clifton, who had rented a large house on the other side of the lake, and proved very friendly neighbors. Lady Bertha was extremely handsome; her voice was splendid, and she sang readily when she was asked. Our neighbors had speculated a good deal about her probable appearance, ways, and disposition, and the news that a lady in her own right was coming had created quite a commotion. I asked to be enlightened on so important a subject, and soon heard all the details from very willing lips. She was very simple in dress, and often came to call upon us in a fresh cotton-print gown and straw hat, with only the feather of a heron or a woodcock in it. Her husband, Captain Clifton, retired from the army, spoke French fairly well, and although he had little in common with Gilbert—being an enthusiastic sportsman—soon became his most constant visitor. Both of them liked the country and were fond of boating, and they both took an interest in politics.
A very pleasant feature had been added to the lake by the appearance of a small steamer belonging to a proprietor beyond Port Sonachan, who came with his wife to Loch Awe every summer. They invited us from time to time to join a fishing party, and we had either lunch or supper on board. There was a cabin for shelter, and the ladies, being thus protected against the almost unavoidable showers, readily joined the salmon-fishers.
In this summer of 1860 Aunt Mary came with our cousin Jane, whose sweet disposition and charm of manner greatly disturbed the peace of mind of a bachelor visitor, a distant relation of my husband, who was looking about for a shooting. Everything in his behavior seemed pointing to a not distant offer; but Gilbert, who was already a good judge of character, strongly doubted the final step. He said to me: "If Henry is too sorely tempted, he will run away rather than expose his wealth to the perils of matrimony; he does not spend his money, he is constantly earning more and accumulating, but he has told me that no amount of conjugal happiness could be a compensation to him if, at the end of the year, he found out that he had spent a thousand pounds more than what he was accustomed to spend regularly." And it happened that he left abruptly, just as my husband had foretold, but not without promising a future commission for two pictures when his billiard-room should be finished.
The love of boating was very strong in Gilbert, but the love of planning new boats with improvements was still stronger; in fact, he always had in a portfolio plans more or less advanced for some kind of boat, and he very often made models with his own hands. I was in constant fear of the realization of these plans, of which I heard a great deal more than I could understand. He was well aware of it, and sometimes stopped short to say with a smile: "Now, don't go away; I won't bother you any longer with boats." Unable to resist the temptation of devising improvements, even when he resisted that of testing them for his own use, he gave the benefit of his thoughts to his friends when they seemed likely to prove useful. In the course of the spring, however, he had been at work planning a much larger boat than those he already possessed; one which might, when needful, carry a cart-load of goods across the bay, or the whole camp to any part of the lake. I offered some timid remonstrances about the probable cost, but he met them by affirming that it would be an economy in the end, by saving labor. So two carpenters were fetched from Greenock, and began to work under his direction.
The building of the boat, which of course took more time than had been expected, delayed our departure for France, but at last we set off to introduce our baby-boy to his relations.
Once in Paris, Mr. Hamerton saw a great deal of his kind friend, William Wyld, whose advice he was better able to appreciate now that his ideas about art were no longer topographic. He began at this stage of artistic culture to enjoy composition and harmony of color; and though he still thought that his friend's compositions were rather too obviously artificial, he did not remain blind to their merit. He also saw more of Alexandre Bixio, brother of the celebrated Garibaldian general, at whose house he met renowned artists, men of letters, and politicians. Alexandre Bixio had been one of the founders of the "Revue des Deux Mondes," with Bulwer Lytton. He had acted as Vice-President of the Assemblée Nationale, and had been sent to the Court of Victor Emmanuel as Minister Plenipotentiary, and was an intimate friend of Cavour. One evening, after dinner at his house, he took Mr. Hamerton aside, and pointing to a young man engaged in an animated conversation with several other guests, he said: "I am very much mistaken if that is not a future Minister of State." "He looks very young," answered my husband, very much astonished. "He is young, he was born in 1827; but remember his name, and in a few years you will see if I am right: it is Signor Sella." Four years later Signor Sella was Minister of Finance.
As my husband has told in his autobiography, I had a sister younger than myself by seven years, very pretty and winning, about whose future we were very anxious, on account of the recurring interruptions in her studies, owing to my mother's distressing state of health. When periods of illness came on, the whole duty of attendance upon her devolved on my sister, disastrous as such breaks in her education might prove as the girl grew up. During the intervals of sickness my mother yielded to our entreaties, and Caroline was sent to school; but as a day-scholar she often missed classes for one reason or another, being so often wanted, and after becoming a boarder she never remained in the same institution for more than a few months at a time. My mother kept hoping that the trouble would not return, and tried to persuade us that now Caroline's studies would be regular, and that being very intelligent, she would soon be on a par with girls of her own age; but this state of things had lasted ever since I was married, and I could not foresee the end of it. We often talked about it, my husband and myself, and he soon guessed that I wished to have her with us, but that knowing how much he liked having our home to ourselves I would not ask him to bring another into it, even though it were my sister. He was, however, with his usual generosity, the first to offer it. Aware of how much it cost him I accepted nevertheless, for we were both of one mind, and considered it as a duty to be done. I looked upon my sister as my child, for my mother's illness had begun when Caroline was so young that almost all motherly cares had devolved upon me, who was the eldest. We kept our project secret to the last, not to disturb the family peace, and being sure of my father's acquiescence and of Caroline's delight. When the day came, my husband's persuasion prevailed, and my sister was entrusted to our care.
This time, while staying at "The Jumps," we noticed a great change in Aunt Susan's behavior towards us; it was decidedly friendly, with now and then an almost affectionate touch, and I was told privately that she had thrown out hints about the pleasure that an invitation to Innistrynich would give her, so the invitation was given before we left.
My husband applied to Caroline's teaching the system which had proved effective with me, and made her read English aloud to him whilst he was painting; I undertook the French and musical part of her education, and her progress was rapid. For my sake Gilbert was very glad that I had Caroline with me, because in the course of that year he camped out a great deal, and it had become impossible for me to accompany him, another little boy having been born in the beginning of February, and his delicate health requiring constant care.
Our pecuniary troubles were increasing. The American war having broken out, the mill, which had been repaired at great cost, was stopped in consequence, and of course we got no rent either from it or from the cottages, whilst the expenses of the little farm were heavy—hay being at an extravagant price, because of the persistent rains, which in the previous summer had rotted all the cut grass, and made it necessary to bring hay from England. Although we kept two cows, our supply of milk and cream was insufficient, and my husband made the calculation that each cow consumed daily seven shillings' worth of hay in this spring, though put on short rations. In fact, the state of our affairs greatly alarmed us, for we did not see any prospect of speedy earnings, and we began to think of a total change in our way of living which would materially reduce our expenses. My husband would have been inclined to remove to the English Lake District, but remembered in time that it was nearly as wet as the Highlands, and what he wanted as a compensation, if we left Scotland, was a dry climate which would allow much more time for out-of-door work.
It so happened that my father, who was now Directeur de l'Usine à Gaz at Beaucaire, had suffered in health, catching frequent colds through having to get out of bed to look after the puddlers, to stand before the fires whilst they were replenished, and to cross a cold, draughty courtyard in coming back. He had never complained, but my mother thought it extremely dangerous, and wished that he had a more healthy occupation.
On the other hand, I had diligently applied myself to our small farm and garden, with the help of a most valuable and simple guide, "La Maison Rustique des Dames," by Madame Millet-Robinet, which had been sent to me as a present by M. Bixio, and I had often thought that if my efforts were not always thwarted by the inclemency of the weather, I might count upon a fair return. All this led me to fancy that if we were to buy a farm in France it might prove a profitable investment, and I talked the project over with Gilbert. This is the conclusion he arrived at. He would sell his property, rent a farm in France, which I should manage with my father, himself remaining entirely faithful to his artistic and literary studies. If my mother were strong enough, and my sister willing, they would have a share in the direction, and even my brothers, later on, if it were to their taste. There were now many gentlemen-farmers who did not neglect either their work on the land or their own culture—M. and Madame Millet-Robinet might be cited as examples.
When the project was communicated to my father, he was very happy at the idea of living near us, and grateful for the delicate thoughtfulness which had devised this means of coming to his help under pretext of asking help from him. Here is part of his answer:—
"MON CHER FUTUR ASSOCIÉ,—Ah ça! pensez-vous donc que j'aie tout à fait la berlue pour n'avoir pas découvert de prime abord tout l'insidieux de votre proposition? Il vous faudrait, dites-vous naïvement, pour associé, un homme actif, exercé, connaissant bien les affaires, la culture, pour exploiter votre ferme et, plus heureux que Diogène, vous braquez votre lanterne sur un homme qui dans trois ans sera un quasi vieillard, dejà valétudinaire aujourd'hui et sachant à peine distinguer le seigle du froment! Oh! l'admirable cultivateur modèle que vous aurez là! Soyez franc, mon cher Gendre, vous avez ruminé ce prétexte avec ma fille pour m'assurer des invalides et donner à ma vieillesse un repos et un abri que mon labeur n'a pas voulu conquérir au prix de mon honnêteté. [Footnote: My father had been offered a very important post in the government of Napoleon III., on condition of accepting his policy, after the Coup d'État.] Je vous vois venir et j'ai beau être un âne en agriculture, tout ce qui reussira me sera attribué; mon incapacité sera couverte d'un manteau de profonde habileté et vous me persuaderez que, livrés à vos propres lumières, vous ne feriez rien de bon, tandis qu'en me confiant le soc, c'est à moi que le sillon devra sa richesse."
My mother and my brothers also wrote warmly and gratefully, whilst all the details of the project were discussed at length in every successive letter. My father inclined for the purchase of a farm, but Gilbert was afraid of a possible confiscation of property in case of a war between England and France.
Meanwhile, Aunt Susan had entered into a regular and friendly correspondence with me and her nephew, and she wrote on June 27, 1861;—
"MY DEAR NIECE,—My sister and myself are quite annoyed to seem so dilatory in fixing our time for visiting you; however, we hope (D. V.) to be with you on Saturday, the sixth of July. I hope your little olive branches are both quite well, and also your sister; we shall be glad to renew and make fresh acquaintance amongst the young ones. I suppose Philip Gilbert will ere this be returned from his long camping expedition, and I hope he has had a most satisfactory outing. Will you all accept our united love, and believe me
"Your affectionate aunt,
"SUSAN HAMERTON."
My husband was at home to receive his aunts, and pleased to notice how amicably we got on together, but he was not prepared for what took place shortly before their departure. One morning I was gathering strawberries in the garden, and it was slow work because they were very small, being the wild species, which had been transplanted for their delicious flavor. Aunt Susan came up, and offered to help me. Never shall I forget the scene when we both rose from the strawberry-beds, with our fragrant little baskets well filled. We turned towards the lake, whose soft, hazy glamour matched that of the tender sky; the air was still, and there reigned a serene silence, as if a single sound might have desecrated the almost religious peace of earth and heaven; yet a smothered sob was heard as I felt myself caught in a close embrace, my head laid upon a heaving bosom, my hair moist with warm tears, a broken voice murmuring: "My child, how I have wronged you!… and I love you so—" "Oh! Aunt Susan," I said, "don't cry; I will love you too; my husband will be so happy." We kissed each other, and said no more, and from that time Aunt Susan became my most faithful friend.
The farm project having been seriously considered by my father, he at last declared it too hazardous for him to undertake the direction of it. From the first he had felt unequal to it, for want of the proper knowledge and preparation; and so much would depend upon its success—the future of two families. But having had formerly a long experience in the wine trade, and being a particularly reliable authority on the qualities and values of Burgundy wines (he was able to name the cru—that is, the place where the grapes were cultivated—of any wine he tasted, as well as the cuvée, namely the year in which it had been made); and having been in his youth the representative of an important wine firm in Burgundy, he was more inclined to undertake the management of a wine business than anything else. He said so to my husband, adding that the relatives and acquaintances we had in England might form the beginning of a good connection, and that his own name as head of the firm would secure a good many customers both in France and Belgium. His son-in-law was soon convinced of the wisdom of these reasons, and it was decided that towards the end of the year we would go to France to choose a new residence, suited to the requirements of the wine business, and situated in a part sufficiently picturesque to lend itself to artistic representation. It was stipulated that the name of Hamerton should not be used; the title of the firm was to be "Gindriez et Cie.," my husband being sleeping partner only.
CHAPTER VII.
1861-1863.
Effects of the Highland climate.—Farewell to Loch Awe.—Journey to the
South of France.—Death of Miss Mary Hamerton.—Settlement at
Sens.—Death of M. Gindriez.—Publication of the "Painter's
Camp."—Removal to Pré-Charmoy.
Very few people can stand the climate of the Highlands without suffering from it; it is so damp and so depressing in winter-time, when the wind howls so piteously in the twisted branches of the Scotch firs, and when the rain imprisons one for weeks within liquid walls of unrelieved grayness. Mr. Hamerton, since he came to Innistrynich, had repeatedly suffered from what he believed to be toothache, although his teeth were all perfectly sound, and the pain being always attended by insomnia, was a cause of weakness and fatigue detrimental to his general health. The doctor said it was congestion of the gums, due to the excess of moisture in the climate, which had not been favorable to either of us; for I had also discovered that my hearing was becoming impaired, and these were weighty additional reasons for removing elsewhere. I had been somewhat anxious at times, when I saw him fall suddenly into a state of listlessness and prostration, but as he always recovered his energy and resumed his usual avocations after a short sleep, I thought it must be the result of temporary exhaustion, for which nature kindly sent the best remedy—restoring sleep; and as he had told me he had always experienced the greatest difficulty in getting to sleep before midnight or at regular hours, and especially in getting a sufficiency of sleep in the course of the night, it seemed a natural compensation for the system, that an occasional nap should now and then become irrepressible,—the more so on account of his customary nocturnal rides, sails, or walks. To the end of his life the hours of the night seemed to him quite as fit for any sort of occupation as those of the day, and it made little difference to him whether it was dark or light; indeed at one time, years later, when at Pré-Charmoy, he began, to the stupefaction of his country neighbors, to call upon them at nine or ten in the summer evenings, and then to propose a row on the pond or a walk by moonlight; but it happened not unfrequently that he could get no admittance, rural habits having sent the inhabitants to their early beds; or else if they were still found in a state of wakefulness, they did not evince the slightest desire to be out with a noctambule, and even hinted that it might look objectionable and vagabondish in case they were seen. He was greatly astonished at this new point of view; for it was merely to spare the working hours of the day that he took his relaxation in the night.
A good many more pictures had been painted in the course of the year, and had suggested many "Thoughts about Art," which had been duly consigned to the manuscript of the "Painter's Camp." Aunt Mary, who was kept au courant, wrote: "How can you, dear Philip Gilbert, find time to paint so much, and to write so much?" It was now necessary to be more industrious than ever, in order to have a sufficient number of works to cover the walls of the exhibition room, the project being near its realization and matured in all its details. My husband was to take me, our children, and Caroline to my parents at Beaucaire, and leave us there while he went in search of a house, then back again to the Highlands for the removal, and before joining me again he was to organize the exhibition in London with the help of Thursday, and leave him in charge of it.
About the middle of October, 1861, we started for our long journey southwards, with mingled feelings of deep regret for what we left behind,—the country we still loved so much, the associations with the births of our children and the laborious and hopeful beginnings of an artistic and literary career, as well as the tender memories of the growth of our union, which solitude had tested and strengthened and made so perfect and complete; then if we looked forward, it was with joyful feelings for the lasting reunion of the family, for the peace and happiness we were going to give to my father's old age, and also for future success and easier circumstances.
We stopped at Todmorden to say farewell to our relations, and also paid farewell visits to some friends, amongst them Mrs. Butler and her husband—Mr. Hamerton's Burnley schoolmaster; to Mr. Handsley, for whom he had as much esteem as affection, and to his half-cousins Abram and Henry Milne, who had agreed to purchase his property, and had given him a commission for the two pictures already spoken of at Loch Awe, and destined for the billiard-room, which had been built in the meantime, and was now used daily.
On arriving at Beaucaire, we found my mother in much better health than formerly, but my father looked aged, we thought; however, he was much cheered by our prospects, and entered heartily into every detail concerning them.
My husband had not much time to spare, and he made the most of it; together we saw Arles, Nîmes, the Pont du Gard, and Montmajour, and called upon Roumieu, the Provençal poet, to whom we were introduced by friends. We used to roam along the shores of the Rhône in the twilight, the noble river affording us a perpetual source of admiration, and one evening, when we were bending over one of its bridges looking at the swollen and tumultuous waves after a storm, we became spellbound by the tones of a superb voice, coming as it seemed from the sky, and singing with happy ease and unconcern, one after the other, some of the most difficult parts in the opera of "William Tell." We dared not speak for fear of losing a few notes, for the rich, full voice hardly paused between two songs, never betraying the slightest effort or fatigue; half-an-hour later it ceased altogether, and we went to my father's full of our discovery.
"Oh! it's Villaret of the brewery; yes, a splendid tenor, but he has long been discovered; only he has no musical education, and his relatives won't hear of his going on the stage. Alexandre Dumas, after listening to him, offered to pay all necessary expenses to enable him to attend the Conservatoire, but it was of no use: they are very religious in the family, and have an insurmountable horror of theatres. He is, himself, a very simple, good-natured fellow, and does not require much pressing to sing whenever he is asked. I know some of his friends, and the lady organist of the church particularly; and if you wish to hear him at her house, I dare say she would give a soirée to that end."
Two days later we were invited by the lady to meet him, and with evident pleasure, but without vanity, he sang several pieces, with very great power and feeling. At last, when the company were leaving, the lady of the house took Gilbert aside to beg him to remain a little longer with Villaret, and when everybody else had left, she said: "Now, Monsieur Villaret, I count upon the pleasure of listening to my favorite piece in 'La Muette de Portici.' I am going to play the accompaniment." "I would if I could, to oblige you," he answered; "but you are aware of my weakness. I never can do justice to it, because I can't master my emotion." "Never mind; you must fancy we are alone together. Mr. Hamerton and his wife will remain at the other end of the salon, behind your back; and what then if you break down?… no one will be any the worse for it." She sat down and began the accompaniment of that most exquisitely tender song,—
"De ton coeur bannis les alarmes,
Qu'un songe heureux sèche les larmes
Qui coulent encore de tes yeux."
The words were hardly audible; but we were so moved by the marvellous purity of the pathetic voice that tears stood in our eyes. As for the singer, tears rolled down his face. It was one of those rare and perfect pleasures that are never forgotten. A few years later Villaret made his début as first tenor at the Opéra in Paris with great success. He was very generous with tickets to his early friends and fellow-citizens; some of his most intolerant relatives had died, and he had yielded at last to the general wish.
Now came for my husband and myself the longest separation in our married life. It lasted two months, and seemed at least two years, so sad and wearied did we grow. He wrote every night succinctly what had been done in the course of the day, and sent me his letters three times a week.
When beds had been packed up or sold, our kind neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Whitney, offered him hospitality, which he gratefully accepted, till everything was cleared out of Innistrynich and on its way to Sens, in the department of the Yonne, where our new residence was to be.
On his way to Sens, Gilbert stayed a few days with his aunts, but left them for a short time, and concluded the sale of his property to Henry Milne. It was but a poor bargain, the times being bad for the cotton district on account of the American war; but he had no alternative, having engaged to find capital for the wine business, and even needing money for daily expenses, for as yet he earned nothing.
What he had been in dread of for so many years, on account of his Aunt Mary's state of health, happened just as he was returning to "The Jumps," and when he saw his uncle Thomas awaiting him at the station he had a foreboding of the truth. "Aunt Mary is dead?" … "Not dead yet, but unconscious, and there is no hope. This morning when Susan was in the breakfast-room, waiting for her sister, she heard a stamping overhead, followed by a dull, heavy thud, and on rushing upstairs found Mary stretched on the floor and moaning, but unconscious. She has been put to bed and attended by doctors; but there is nothing to be done, and they say that she does not suffer." Mournfully my husband ascended alone, in the dark night, the steep hill up which he had so often walked gayly to see his beloved guardian; tenderly he watched at her bedside for forty-eight hours, till she breathed no more, and at last reverently accompanied her remains to the chosen place, which he never omitted to visit afterwards, every time he came to Todmorden. He wrote to say what a satisfaction it was to think that his aunt had seen him only a few hours before the attack, and when it came she must have felt him so near to her.
I remember an incident which took place on the day we took leave of Aunt Mary to go to Innistrynich; she had invited two of her nieces to lunch with us at "The Jumps." When we left the house, some time in the afternoon, I went first with my cousins, leaving nephew and aunt together for more intimate communing, and when my husband reached us, his eyes were still moist and his voice tremulous. The girls thoughtlessly teased him about it, and twitted him with his weakness; but he did not allow them to amuse themselves long, he cowed them with a violence of contempt which terrified me, whilst I could not help admiring it. "Yes," he said, "I have shed tears—not unmanly tears—and if you are not capable of entering into the feelings of grateful love and regret which wring these tears out of my heart, I despise you for your heartlessness." His voice had recovered its firmness and rang loud, his eyes shot flames, he looked more than human. These startling outbursts of generous or honest passion were one of his most marked characteristics; they occurred but rarely, but when they did occur nothing could abate their terrific violence; a single word in mitigation would have acted like oil on the flames. It must be explained that they were always justified by the cause, and it was impossible not to admire such genuine and high-minded resentment against meanness or dishonesty, or in some cases against what he considered insulting to his sense of honor. For instance, on one occasion a very important sale of works of art was to take place abroad, and he was asked to contribute some notes to the catalogue. It was hinted—clearly enough—that any words of praise would be handsomely acknowledged. He resented the offer like a blow on the face, blushed crimson with ardent indignation, and almost staggered to the writing-table; there he seized a postcard, and in large, clear, print-like letters threw back the insult with cutting contempt. The sense of having cleared his honor somewhat relieved him, and after waiting for a propitious moment I tried to persuade him, before the card was posted, that the offence was not so heinous as it looked, the writer not knowing him personally, and merely imagining himself to be acting in conformity with a prevalent custom, which some critics were far from resenting. All I could obtain, however, was an envelope for the terrible postcard.
Now to resume the narrative. I left Beaucaire to join my husband at Havre on his return, and after visiting the town together we hastened to our new house at Sens, which I longed to see, for it had been chosen in my absence, and though I had received minute descriptions of it, I was not able to realize its appearance or surroundings. It was one of the large, roomy maisons bourgeoises, so numerous in French provincial towns at that time, built for the convenience of the owner, and not in order to be let as an investment. It was perfectly suitable for the double purpose Gilbert had in view—with a spacious carriage entrance, courtyard, cellars, barns, and stable for the wine trade, and large, commodious, well-lighted rooms for residence. But to my regret there was no garden,—a great privation for me; however, my husband told me that our landlord had promised to make one if I cared so much for it. I did care very much, as the only view from the house was that of other houses and walls on the other side of the street; but when asked to fulfil his promise, the landlord said it was a misunderstanding, he had merely given leave for us to make a garden in the courtyard if we liked, or else he would let us have one for a moderate rent, outside of the town, a common habit at Sens. However, as I did not appreciate the pleasure of an hour's walk every time I wished to smell a flower in my garden, we declined the offer, and my husband kindly planned a narrow flower-bed all along the base of the walls in the courtyard, which looked gay enough when the plants were in full bloom, and the walls were hidden by convolvulus, nasturtiums, and Virginia creepers.
Even before the house was furnished and in order, Gilbert was eager to begin his commission pictures; but he soon found that even our large rooms were too small for a studio, and the light was not good for painting; but at the same time, I believe he was not really sorry, because it gave him a plausible excuse for turning one of the barns into a capital studio.
This outbuilding offered great and tempting advantages; it was isolated from the house, therefore silent and private; it might be lighted from the north, and was sufficiently spacious to allow a part to be divided off for a laboratory. Being greatly interested in architecture and building, my husband derived great pleasure from the execution of his own plans, even in such a small matter. I vainly attempted to reconcile him to the idea of using one of the large rooms, standing in fear of the expense; but I could not help admitting that with his propensity for large canvases, which I deprecated all my life, a studio was indispensable; and, after all, as it seemed almost certain that we should stay there a great many years, it was not of much importance, especially after having lived in terror of seeing him undertake the building of a tower, or the restoration of an old castle like Kilchurn,—a dream that he often indulged, as numerous designs bore testimony.
The first thing considered by Gilbert when he settled at Sens was the choice of subjects for his commission pictures, which he intended to paint directly from nature; and he soon selected panoramic landscape views from the top of a small vine-clad hill, called St. Bon, which commands an extensive prospect of the river Yonne, and of the plains about it. On the summit of this eminence there is a kiosk belonging to the archbishop, who readily granted the use of it to the artist for sheltering his pictures, brushes, colors, etc. But the artist was not one who could bear confinement, and the kiosk was but a tiny affair, and not movable, so two of the tents were set up at its foot, and formed a painter's camp, which attracted so many curious visitors that it was thought unsafe to leave it at their mercy; and when Gilbert went back home for the night a watchman, well armed with pistols and a gun, took his place. Every day, when the great summer heat had abated, I used to set off with the children to go and meet my husband at the foot of the hill, and we returned together to the house, attempting on the way to make the boys speak English, but without success, for the eldest, who spoke nothing but English when I had left him two months before at Beaucaire, now chose to gabble in Provençal, which he had picked up from his nurse, regardless of his Aunt Caroline's efforts to make him talk in his native tongue. Subsequently, when he perceived that no one understood him, he quickly dropped his Provençal and replaced it by French, but would not trouble himself to speak two different languages together.
By the care and thoughtfulness of Gilbert, a pretty little house and garden had been prepared for his father-in-law and family, at a short distance from our own dwelling, where the office of the business was now ready on the ground-floor, completely fitted up, and separated from the private dwelling.
My mother had come first with my brothers and sister, whilst my father remained a little longer to put his successor au courant. But it seemed to me that the delay was longer than we had foreseen, and I began to grow anxious on account of my letters remaining unanswered; then I was told that my father was very busy, not very well, and that he could not write. About a month later he wrote that he was now well enough to undertake the journey, and with great rejoicings we prepared to receive him; but when I noticed how altered he was, how thin, how weak, all my joy forsook me, and it was almost beyond my power not to let him read it in my face. Courageous as ever, he tried to be and to look happy, and talked of setting to work immediately. I learned now that he had been dangerously ill, but that his malady had been kept secret to spare me.
A few trying months followed, during which we passed alternately from hope to fear, the most distressing feature of this sorrowful time being my poor father's desperate struggle for life. "I must and I will live to work; it is my duty to get well; I have a heavy debt and responsibility now that you are involved in this business," he used to say to his son-in-law. He had the greatest confidence in his friend, Alphonse Guérin, the celebrated discoverer of the antiseptic method of dressing wounds, and thought that if any one could cure him it was A. Guérin, who had prescribed for him throughout his life in Paris. Accordingly to Paris he went, and died there shortly after, notwithstanding the devoted care of his doctor.
Everything seemed to turn against my husband's wisest plans, but nothing daunted by this last fearful blow, he at once offered his mother-in-law a pension sufficient to enable her children to carry on their education; this pension would gradually be diminished as the children became able to earn money for themselves and to take their share in the maintenance of their mother. The fact was, that from that time he had two families to keep.
Besides the studies at St. Bon, he had begun two pictures of large dimensions in his studio, and worked at them steadily. As he could not sit down, this excess of fatigue brought on a very serious illness, which kept him in bed for nearly a fortnight, and it was the only instance of his submission to such an order from a physician during the whole course of our married life, but it was rendered imperative by the nature of the disorder. He hated remaining in bed when awake, at all times, and he could not stand it at all in the hours of day; later on he had the measles, and still later he suffered from gout, but he would not stay in bed in either case, and during the first attack of gout, which was as severe as unexpected, he remained for twenty-one nights without going to bed.
This illness prevented him from attending the marriage of his eldest cousin Anne Hamerton, about which her sister wrote on July 22, 1862, that it was to take place on August 6, and after giving a good many details she observed: "You may be above such vanities, but I think Eugénie may be a little interested; poor Eugénie, how anxious she must have been, having you in your room so long! How are your pictures progressing? It must decidedly be a punishment to you to be limited to time at your easel, particularly now, when you must feel so wishful to get on with your commissions."
After his recovery, my husband arranged his work in a manner which divided the hours into sitting ones and standing ones, to avoid a return of the late inflammatory symptoms; and there never was a recurrence of them.
The pictures were in a fairly advanced stage when Mr. William Wyld came on a visit of a few days and gave him valuable advice about them. His Aunt Susan said in a subsequent letter: "I am very glad Mr. Wyld has been to see your pictures, and though you may be a little dissatisfied that your present works will be 'dirt cheap,' still the cheering opinion of them will give you great courage, I hope. I shall certainly go to see them as soon as they get to Agnew's."
So much for the art department. For the literary one the "Painter's Camp" had been accepted by Mr. Macmillan, and we were in a fever of excitement awaiting its publication. As to the wine business, after remaining irresolute for some time, Gilbert had accepted the proposition of a friend to assume what should have been my father's part,—with this alteration, however, that he would pay interest on the funds confided to him, and share the clear profits with the sleeping partner.
This episode in my husband's life was so bitter, and involved him in such difficulties, that I will cut it short. Suffice it to say, that though the partnership was continued for a few years, during which the interest of the money came but irregularly, the capital was entirely and irremediably lost in the end.
When autumn came, the commission pictures were sent to Manchester for exhibition, and shortly after Mr. Milne declined to accept them, on the plea that he did not care for the subjects: the real reason being that his sensitive heart had been again impressed—this time by a young governess, of whom he had bought two copies after Greuze, which were now occupying the place formerly destined for his cousin's works. However, another friend soon became their purchaser, but for the artist the disappointment remained.
Sadness for the loss of his aunt, Mrs. Thomas Hamerton, which happened just at that time, and sympathy with his uncle in these trying moments, spoilt the pleasure Gilbert had anticipated from the visit to his relations which we made that year. We were to go back to France with return tickets; and the time allowed being nearly over, we went to take leave of our friends at West Lodge, when we learned that Mrs. T. Hamerton, who had lately been suffering from an attack of gout, had succumbed to its weakening effects. Regardless of the pecuniary loss, my husband immediately expressed his determination to stay as long as he could be of any help to his uncle. We therefore sacrificed our tickets, and went back to "The Jumps," whence he came down every day to spare his uncle all the painful formalities of a funeral. We only left when the run of ordinary habits had been re-established at West Lodge, but even then we felt that a new misfortune was lurking in the silent house, for the health of Jane Hamerton, who had never been very strong, now began to disquiet her friends, particularly my husband, whose affection for her was very true and tender. Aunt Susan, who was her devoted but clear-sighted nurse, wrote to us in the course of the summer that her case was very serious, notwithstanding the short periods of improvement occurring at intervals. The poor girl had grown very weak and lost her appetite; almost constantly feverish, she longed for fruit to refresh her parched mouth and quench her thirst. As soon as he became aware of this longing, Gilbert began to plan how he might gratify it, and it appeared easy enough, as we were in a land of plenty; but the time required for the transport of such delicacies as grapes and peaches threatened ominously their safe arrival. However, we would run the risk to give a little relief to our dear invalid, and we would take the greatest precautions in the packing. So we went to a fruit-grower, taking with us a large box filled with dry bran and divided into compartments: one was filled with melons, another with grapes, the last with peaches, every one taken from the tree, vine, or plant with our own hands, then wrapped in tissue-paper and protected all round with bran. The result will be seen in the following letter from Jane:—
"MY DEAR EUGENIE AND P. G.—A thousand thanks for the enormous box of fruit, which arrived here to-day about noon: it is quite a honey-fall to the inhabitants of West Lodge, more especially to me. I am very happy to tell you that the grapes have arrived in perfect condition, and that the melons seem to have suffered only outwardly, as the one cut into is quite luscious and good. The sausage (saucisson de Lyon) also appears to have borne the journey well, but has not yet been tasted, so the next letter from Todmorden must give the opinion upon it, but it certainly looks to me a most comical affair; and to tell last the only disagreeable thing, it is about the peaches, which were all in a dreadful mess, and quite mixed up with the bran and scarcely fit to touch, though Aunt Susan did take out one or two to see the extent of the decay. How very provoking for you both when you heard of the detention at Havre, particularly when P. G. had taken such precautions with regard to the outside directions."
If I have given such apparently trivial details at length, it was to show how generous of his time and thought was my husband in everything concerning affection or pity; his sympathy was always ready and active, and he never begrudged his exertions to give relief or comfort to those in need of either.
It had been most fortunate for the young author of the "Painter's Camp in the Highlands" that the MS. of the book happened to come under the eyes of Mr. Macmillan himself, who, being in want of rest, and attracted by the title, had taken it with him in the country and had read it with great delight. Being a Scotchman, he was in immediate sympathy with so fervent an admirer of the Highlands as my husband, and had at once agreed to publish the book.
From the first it was a success: the freshness of the narrative, the novelty of the subject, the truthfulness and charm of the descriptions were duly appreciated, together with the earnest (if still immature) expressions of the "Thoughts about Art." The book soon found its way to America, where it attracted the notice of Roberts Brothers' publishing house. They were charmed with it, and published an edition in America. The "Painter's Camp" was well received by the Press of both nations, and the reviews were numerous. It was compared to "Robinson Crusoe" and called "unique." The author was very much amused to hear that "Punch" had given an illustrated notice of it under the title of "A Painter Scamp in the Highlands."