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Philip Gilbert Hamerton

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Of course my husband had often talked to me about his aunts; not much
was said of Miss Susan, but a great deal of his dear guardian, who had
been like a mother to him, and who now wrote encouragingly to me from
time to time about my English, and my new life. He praised both his
aunts for their good management of a small income, for the position they
had been able to retain in society, and particularly for their lady-like
manners and good breeding; explaining sometimes that I should probably
find it different in some respects from French _comme-il-faut_, and
mentioning in what particulars. I felt that he would be very sensitive
about the opinions his aunts would form of me, and I dreaded that of
Miss Susan Hamerton. He had put me on my guard on some points; for
instance, about the French custom of always addressing people as
Monsieur or Madame, which was hard for me to relinquish, as it seemed
rude; and I was also told not to be always thanking servants for their
services (as we do in France), if I wished to be considered well-bred.
But besides what was pointed out to me, I noticed many other things
which ought to be toned down in my nature and habits, if I meant to
acquire what I heard called lady-like manners. I was at that time very
vivacious, merry, and impulsive, and so long as I had lived in France
this natural disposition had been looked upon as a happy one, and rather
pleasant than otherwise; but I did not notice anything resembling it in
our visitors, who were said to be real ladies, or lady-like. They looked
to my French eyes somewhat indifferent and unconcerned: it is true that
they were all my seniors by at least half-a-score of years, but the fact
did not put me more at ease. However, as they showed great kindness, and
frequently renewed their visits and invitations, I was led to think that
their judgment had not gone against me, and this gave me some courage
for the day of my meeting with my Aunt Susan. And that day was drawing
near, my husband having promised his relations that we should visit them
after six months, which was the delay granted to me to learn a little
English; and although I could not and dared not speak it at the end of
the allotted time, no respite was allowed.

It was arranged that after our stay in Lancashire we should go on to
Paris. This news was received with great joy and thankfulness in my
family, where we had not been expected so soon, and where the sorrow for
my absence was still so keen that my father wrote to my husband: "Chaque
fois que je rentre je m'attends à la voir accourir au devant de moi et
chaque désillusion est suivie de tristesse. Il n'est pas jusqu'au piano
dont le mutisme me fait mal. J'ai beau me dire que ces impatiences, ces
chagrins sont de la faiblesse: je le sais, je le sens, et je n'en suis
pas plus fort."

The love of improvements, which was one of Gilbert's characteristics,
had led him to plan a road on the island, which should go from the house
to the lowest part of the shore, where the lake dried up in summer, so
as to facilitate the conveyance of goods, which could then be carted
without unloading from Inverary to the barn or kitchen-door. He gave
very minute directions to Thursday and Dugald, and set them to their
work just before we left for France, telling them that he expected to
find the road finished on our return.

We started in November, and arrived at Todmorden on a wet day; and just
before leaving the railway carriage we were much amused by a gentleman
who answered the query "Is this Todmorden?" by letting down the window
and thrusting his hand out, after which he gravely said: "It is raining;
it must be Todmorden."

My husband's uncle, Thomas Hamerton, with his two daughters, was
awaiting us at the station to welcome us and take us to his house, where
we found Mrs. Hamerton, who received us very kindly, but called me Mrs.
Philip Gilbert, because she despaired of ever pronouncing my Christian
name rightly. I begged her to call me "niece," and her husband gave the
example by calling me "my niece Eugeneï." Our cousins Anne and Jane
spoke French very creditably, although they had never been in France,
and we were soon on friendly terms. When my husband was away, they
translated my answers to their mother's numerous questions about our
life in the Highlands, my occupations, tastes, French habits, and what
not. Although my powers of expression in English were very limited, I
understood the greater part of what was said, and Mrs. Hamerton and my
cousins being so encouraging, I did not feel so timid, and if I had
stayed longer I should most certainly have made rapid progress. On that
score my husband--P. G., as they called him in the family circle--was
taken to task and scolded for having been too severe with "his poor
little foreign wife." His cousins, with whom he was on brotherly terms,
were much pleased with the soft French pronunciation of the name
Gilbert, and dropped the P. G. decisively, to the great wonder of their
mamma.

The following day was fixed by my husband as the day of our trial,--that
is, for our visit to his aunts, who lived on a steep eminence above
Todmorden, in a pleasant house, "The Jumps." Aunt Mary, in order to
spare me, had offered to come down to meet us at her brother's; but as
she suffered from some kind of heart complaint (the knowledge of which
kept her loving nephew in constant alarm) we were afraid of the effect
that fatigue and emotion might have, and preferred to encounter Miss
Susan Hamerton.

The reception was typical of the different dispositions towards us. Aunt
Mary was standing at the door, straining her eyes to see us sooner, and
came forward to embrace me and to receive the kisses of her beloved
nephew; then she whispered that "she had hoped Susan would have gone
away on a visit to her friends; but she had remained obdurate to all
hints and entreaties." So there was nothing for it but to meet her,
since she would have it so; and with a beating heart I was led to the
drawing-room by my husband. That the reader may not be misled into
believing that a life-long estrangement resulted from the following
scene, I will quote a passage from the preface to "Human Intercourse,"
which gives the unforeseen result of my acquaintance with Miss Susan
Hamerton.

"A certain English lady, influenced by the received ideas about human
intercourse which define the conditions of it in a hard and sharp
manner, was strongly convinced that it would be impossible for her to
have friendly relations with another lady whom she had never seen, but
was likely to see frequently. All her reasons would be considered
excellent reasons by those who believe in maxims and rules. It was plain
that there could be nothing in common. The other lady was neither of the
same country, nor of the same religious and political parties, nor of
the same generation. These facts were known, and the inference deduced
from them was that intercourse would be impossible. After some time the
English lady began to perceive that the case did not bear out the
supposed rules; she discovered that the younger lady might be an
acceptable friend.

"At last the full, strange truth became apparent--that she was
singularly well adapted, better adapted than any other human being, to
take a filial relation to the elder, especially in times of sickness,
when her presence was a wonderful support. Then the warmest affection
sprang up between the two, lasting till separation by death, and still
cherished by the survivor."

But the first meeting held out no such promise. There, on the couch, was
an elderly lady, sitting stiff and straight, with a book in her hands,
from which her eyes were never raised, even when she acknowledged our
entrance by a studiously slow, chilling, and almost imperceptible bend
of the head. I saw my husband's face flush with anger as we bowed to my
new relation; but I pressed his hand entreatingly, and we sat down,
attempting to ignore the hostile presence, and to talk as if we found
ourselves in ordinary circumstances. Poor Aunt Mary, thinking it must be
unendurable to me, soon proposed that we should go to the dining-room
for refreshments, and her proposition was accepted with alacrity. We
left the dining-room with the same ceremonial which had followed our
entrance, and were rewarded by the same frigid and distant movement of
the silent figure on the sofa. We remained some time with Aunt Mary, and
took an affectionate leave of her, my husband giving a promise that on
our return journey we would stay a few days at "The Jumps," whether her
sister chose to be at home or away.

I have related this episode at some length, although it seems to concern
me more than my husband, because the influence it had on his life was so
important. It is almost certain that if Miss Susan Hamerton had behaved
towards us like her sister, my husband would never have thought of going
to live in France. At the end of our lease at Innistrynich, he would
have chosen a residence in some picturesque part of England, and would
have easily induced his aunts to settle as near as possible to us. Their
example and advice in household matters would have been invaluable to
me, whilst the affectionate intercourse would have grown closer and
dearer as we came to know each other better. However, this was not to
be.

We soon left Todmorden after our visit to "The Jumps," and when we
reached Paris there were great rejoicings in my family, where my husband
was fully appreciated. He liked to talk of politics, literature, and art
with my father, whose experience was extensive, and whose taste was
refined and discriminating; he awoke in his son-in-law an interest in
sculpture which hitherto had not been developed, but which grew with
years. As to my mother, brothers, and sister, they loved him for his
kindness, and also because he had made a life of happiness for me.

In Paris we went to see everything of artistic interest, but especially
of architectural interest. I knew nothing of architecture myself, but
was naturally attracted by beauty, and my husband guided my opinions
with his knowledge. I noticed with surprise his indifference to most of
the pictures in the Museum of the Louvre, and he explained, later, that
he could not appreciate them at that period in the development of his
artistic taste, which was at that time retarded by the Pre-Raphaelite
influence. There was certainly a great evolution of mind between this
state of quasi-indifference and the fervid enthusiasm which made him say
to me when we came to live in Paris: "At any rate there is for me, as a
compensation for the beauty of natural scenery, an inexhaustible source
of interest and study in the Louvre."

The Museum of the Luxembourg containing several pictures by modern
artists, whose merits he recognized, was frequently visited by us--and
he admired heartily among others, Rosa Bonheur, Daubigny, Charles
Jacque, and especially Troyon, whose works went far to shake his faith
in topographic painting, and sowed the first seeds of the French
school's influence on his mind.

At the expiration of the month we returned to London, and stayed with
friends; my husband introduced me to Mr. and Mrs. Mackay, to Mrs. Leslie
and her family, to the sons and daughters of Constable, of whom he
speaks in his autobiography, and they all received me very kindly, and
told me what hopeful views they entertained of his future career. We
also called upon Millais, for whose talent my husband had a great
admiration. He received us quite informally, and we had a long talk in
French, which he pronounced remarkably well; he explained it to me by
saying that he belonged to a Jersey family.

It was also during this London visit that Mr. Hamerton made the
acquaintance of Mr. Calderon, who also spoke French admirably,--an
acquaintance which was to ripen into friendship, and last to the end of
my husband's life. He also went to all the winter exhibitions, public or
private, where he stood rooted before all the works which could teach
him something of his difficult art; and when we left he was certain of
having acquired new knowledge.

Miss Susan Hamerton having said to Aunt Mary that she had no objection
to our being her sister's guests, we went straight to "The Jumps" after
leaving London. This time she received us with polite coldness,--like
perfect strangers,--but she was not insulting, only at times somewhat
ungenerously sarcastic with me, who was not armed to parry her thrusts.
I felt quite miserable, for I did not wish to widen the gap between her
and her nephew, and on the other hand I did not see how our intercourse
could be made more pleasant by any endeavors of mine, for I was ignorant
of the art of ingratiating myself with persons whom I felt adverse to
me, and I must avow that I had also a certain degree of pride which
prevented me from making advances when unfairly treated. I had always
lived in an atmosphere of confidence, love, and goodwill,--perhaps I had
been a little spoilt by the kindness of my friends, and now it seemed
hard to be a butt for ill-natured sarcasms. These shafts, however, were
seldom, if ever, let loose in the presence of my husband, who would not
have tolerated it; the want of welcome being as much as he could bear.
Still, there was no doubt that matters had slightly mended since our
first visit, and an undeniable token of this was the fact of Miss Susan
Hamerton extending her hand to each of us at parting. Had I been told
then that this reluctant hand would become a firm support for me; that
these cold eyes would he filled with warm tears of love, and that I
should be tenderly pressed to this apparently unsympathizing bosom, I
could not have believed it. Yet the day came when Aunt Susan proved my
dearest friend, and when Mr. Thomas Hamerton said to his nephew, "Susan
loves you much, no doubt, but Eugénie is A1 for her."




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."

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