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Philip Gilbert Hamerton

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

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

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

On October 4 we started for England, leaving my mother in charge of the
house and children; we stopped at Fontainebleau in the morning, and
after _déjeuner_ visited the forest pretty thoroughly in a carriage.
After dinner we went on to Paris, where we stayed only four days for
fear of its effects, and proceeded to Calais by a night-train. Luckily
for Gilbert, he could sleep very well in a railway carriage, and
sea-sickness was unknown to him. We crossed in the "Castalia," in very
rough weather indeed, the waves jumping over the deck, and covering
everything there with foam; at one time there came a huge one dashing
just against my husband's block as he was sketching, and drenched him
from head to foot. However, he took a warm bath at Dover, changed his
clothes, and felt only the better for the passage.

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

On the Sunday we went to Balham to dine early with Mr. and Mrs.
Macmillan, and met Mr. Ralston and Mr. Green, the historian. It was
noted as a very interesting day by my husband.

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

It was a great comfort to Gilbert to witness the affectionate care taken
of his aunt by her niece, Annie Hinde, and her brother Ben, with whom
she lived. He had always entertained a great liking for these cousins,
but it was increased during his stay at the vicarage by their hospitable
and friendly ways, and by his gratitude for their having given to his
dear relative as much of peaceful satisfaction as it was in their power
to do. Miss Susan Hamerton was aged, no doubt, but she was still able to
do everything for herself, and to occupy her time usefully in
housekeeping, sewing, reading, writing, and going out. She still
retained her strong will, and manifested it in a way which nearly
destroyed all the pleasure of the meeting with her nephew--and would
have done so, had he not yielded to it by consenting to a transfer of
bank-shares (in his favor) which involved great liabilities. She would
not listen to an explanation of the risk, and considered it ungracious
to look the gift-horse in the mouth. "It had been a capital investment,"
she said, and she remained absolutely opposed to the sale of the shares.
Her nephew had to accept the gift as it was--so that instead of
relieving anxiety it created a new one. However, having come to give her
a little of the sunshine of happiness, he decided not to let it be
clouded over. We stayed a month in happy and cordial intercourse, my
husband spending the intervals of work in long talks and walks with his
aunt, and when the time for our departure arrived, the sadness of
parting was soothed by the hope of meeting again, now that Gilbert
seemed to have recovered the power of travelling.

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

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

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

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

I heard with satisfaction that Mr. Freeman had been very cordial, and
had shown no trace of resentment at what had passed at a former meeting
at Mr. Macmillan's house. The conversation had then turned on Ireland,
and Mr. Macmillan was, like my husband, for granting autonomy. This set
Mr. Freeman growling at the use of a Greek word, and he exclaimed, "Why
can't you speak English and say Home Rule, instead of using Greek, which
you don't know!" My husband flushed with anger, and recalled the
irritable historian--not without severity--to a proper sense of the
respect due to their host, at the same time paying a tribute to Mr.
Macmillan's remarkable abilities. Later in the evening the word "gout"
was mentioned. "There again," Mr. Freeman exclaimed, "why can't we call
it toe-woe!" But this was said in a joke, and accompanied with a laugh.

Wherever we went, we heard praises of the "Portfolio." Throughout his
life Mr. Hamerton remained, not only on good terms, but on friendly
terms with every one of his publishers; and whenever he went to London
he looked forward with great pleasure to meeting them in succession.
There were, of course, different degrees of intimacy, but the
intercourse was never other than agreeable.

For many years he had wished to know Mr. Samuel Palmer personally, and
the wish was reciprocated. Now an opportunity presented itself, and one
afternoon saw us climbing Redhill in pleasant anticipation; but when
after admiring the view we rang the bell of the artist's secluded abode,
we were told that Mr. Palmer had been very ill lately, was still keeping
his bed, and could see no one. It was a great disappointment, and some
words to this effect were written on a card and sent up to the invalid.
Soon after Mrs. Palmer came down and feelingly expressed her husband's
sincere regrets; she told us of his illness, which had left him very
weak and liable to relapses, and of the pleasure he would have derived
from a long talk with Mr. Hamerton on artistic topics. We had been shown
into the dining-room, which evidently, for the present, was not used,
though it was warmed by a good fire, but darkened by the blinds being
down and the curtains drawn. The rays of a golden sunset diffused
through the apertures a strange and mysterious glow, which suddenly
seemed to surround and envelope an apparition, standing half visible on
the threshold of the noiselessly opened door. A remarkably expressive
head emerged from a bundle of shawls, which moved forward with feeble
and tottering steps--it was Mr. Palmer. His wife could not trust her
eyes, but as soon as she became convinced of the reality of his
presence, she hastened to make him comfortable in an arm-chair by the
fire, and to arrange the shawls over his head and knees with the most
touching solicitude. "I could not resist it," he pleaded; "I have looked
forward to this meeting with so much longing." His eyes sparkled, his
countenance became animated, and regardless of his wraps, he accompanied
his fluent talk with eloquent gestures--to the despair of his wife, who
had enough to do in replacing cap and rugs. He put all his soul and
energy (and now there was no lack of it) into his speech. The art-talk
kindled all the fire of enthusiasm within him, and he told us anecdotes
of Turner and Blake, and held us for a long time fascinated with the
charm of his conversation. He could listen too, and with so vivid an
interest and sympathy that his mere looks were an encouragement. My
husband was afraid of detaining him, but he declared he felt quite well
and strong--"the visiting angels had put to flight the lurking enemy;"
he had even an appetite, which he would satisfy in our company. Nothing
loath, we sat down to an excellent tea with delicious butter and
new-laid eggs, with the impression of sharing the life of elves, and of
being entertained by a genie at the head of the table and served by a
kind fairy. This feeling originated no doubt in the small stature of Mr.
and Mrs. Palmer; in the strange effect of light under which our host
first appeared to us, and lastly in the noiseless promptitude with which
the repast was spread on the table, whilst the darkness of the room gave
way to brightness, just as happens in fairytales.

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

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

Like almost every other artist, he did not attach so much importance to
what he could do well, as to what he could never master. His ambition
was to become a celebrated painter, but his pictures gave little hope of
it; they were heavy and dull in color, and entirely devoid of the charm
he lent to his etchings. He showed himself very grateful for what Mr.
Hamerton had done for his reputation. Accidentally, as he was admiring
the design of some very simple earrings I wore, I said that I did not
care so much for jewels as for lace, on which he answered he was
extremely fond of both--on women--and invited me to go and see a
collection of old laces he was forming. I was obliged to decline, for
our time was running short; but he made us promise to pay a long visit
to his studio during our next sojourn in Paris.

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

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

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

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

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

Soon after he told me of a plan for a new book, the title of which he
meant to be "Human Intercourse," and which would require a large number
of memoranda. We all liked the idea in the family circle when it was
explained, and he began immediately to gather materials. At the same
time he continued his readings for the biographies of remarkable
Frenchmen, and he contemplated the task with deep interest and
earnestness. The year 1877, which had begun so auspiciously, had in
store for my husband one of the lasting sorrows of his life. On the
morning of March 11 he received a telegram announcing the death of his
beloved sister-in-law, Caroline Pelletier, who had died at Algiers of
meningitis, leaving three young children to the care of their desolate.
father. It was a heavy blow, an irreparable loss. She had been like both
a daughter and sister, and her affection had always been very sweet to
him. The shock was so great that his health suffered in consequence, and
the nervousness reappeared. It was of Caroline he was thinking when he
wrote in "Human Intercourse" this passage about a wife's relatives:
"They may even in course of time win such a place in one's affection
that if they are taken away by Death they will leave a great void and an
enduring sorrow. I write these lines from a sweet and sad experience.
Only a poet can write of these sorrows. In prose one cannot sing,--

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

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

"La femme que l'on préfére
C'est toujours la cuisiniére,"

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

Her brother-in-law achieved unqualified success in the part of the
Englishman. He had kept on purpose an immense chimney-pot hat and a
tartan plaid which he used to perfection, and his "Oh's!" and "Ah's!"
were of such ludicrous prolongation, and his gait so stiff, and his
comical blunders delivered with so much of haughty assurance, that he
"brought down the house."

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

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

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

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

"26th. Walked with Mr. Appleton to Pré-Charmoy in the morning. In the
afternoon took him to Autun and showed him the Roman arches, the Gothic
walls, the cathedral, the Chemin des Tours, etc., etc. A very pleasant
day. We got home in time for dinner, found the boys at home, and talked
till one in the morning.

"27th. Took Mr. Appleton to the railway in the morning, with regrets,
and a certain sadness on account of his health."

Mr. Appleton was on his way to Egypt by his doctor's advice. He was
singularly amiable and sympathetic. He thought, and said simply, that
very likely he had not long to live, and dared not marry on that
account, though he often felt solitary. He suffered from asthma, and
could only sleep with the windows of his bedroom wide open, and a bright
wood fire burning in the chimney.

He had promised to pay us another visit if he were spared, but alas! we
never saw him again.

As the biographies advanced, the author grew uncertain about the title
he would give them. It could not be "Celebrated Frenchmen," because some
of them would not exactly answer to the qualification. He had thought of
"Earnest Frenchmen," but Mr. Seeley objected, and said, "The word
'earnest' has got spoilt. It was used over and over again till it got to
sound like cant, and then people began to laugh at it. How would 'Modern
Frenchmen' do?" It was deemed a perfectly suitable title, and given to
the book.

At the end of the summer Mr. Seeley and his wife paid us a flying visit
on their way back from Switzerland. It was a great pleasure to see them
again.

Shortly after them M. Brunet-Debaines came, and I could not help
directing my husband's attention to the simplicity of his arrangements
for working from nature; a small stool, upon which was fixed a canvas or
a drawing-board, and a color-box, were all he required; however, I was
told that "wants varied with individuals."

Hitherto Mr. Hamerton's plan about painting had been to begin several
pictures at once, to allow them to dry; but now he was sick of remaining
so long over the same pieces of work, and he decided to paint only two
pictures at a time, and to use drying materials.

He had succeeded in mastering the technicality of charcoal drawing, and
had made an arrangement with the Autotype Company for the reproduction
of some drawings in this medium.




CHAPTER XIV.


1878-1880.

"Marmorne."--Paris International Exhibition.--"Modern Frenchmen."
--Candidature to the Watson Gordon Chair of Fine Arts.--The Bishop of
Antun.--The "Life of Turner."


The important literary works undertaken by Mr. Hamerton in the year 1878
were "Modern Frenchmen" and a "Life of Turner."

The artistic work remained unsatisfactory to the severe self-criticism
of the artist, who kept destroying picture after picture,
notwithstanding his serious studies and experiments in various modes and
methods of painting. He succeeded better with charcoals and monochromes,
and sent several finished subjects to be reproduced by the Autotype
Company. Mr. S. Palmer wrote about it: "If I had twenty years before me,
I should like to spend them on monochromes and _etching_."

In the same letter he went on:--

"Life being spared, your 'Marmorne,' the fame of which had already
arrived, is the next reading treat on my list. You call it your 'little
book,' a recommendation to me, for, with few exceptions, I have found
small books and small pictures the most beautiful, and I doubt not that
you know better than myself how much almost all three-volume novels
(including Scott's) would be improved, _as works of art_, by
condensation into one.

"Both yourself and Mrs. Hamerton are often mentally present with us
here: the evening of our first, and, alas! only meeting is among the
vivid pleasures of memory, and a repetition is a cherished pleasure of
_hope_. I will only add that I fear you are killing yourself with
overwork, and that you should put yourself under a repressive domestic
police."

Some time before, my husband had received from G. H. Lewes a letter with
this address: "Mr. Adolphus Segrave, care of P. G. Hamerton, Esq.,
Pré-Charmoy, Autun." George Eliot and Mr. Lewes had been reading
"Marmorne," and had never entertained the slightest doubt about the
authorship, though the book was published under the assumed name of
Adolphus Segrave. The story had been greatly appreciated by both of
them, and especially the style in which it was told. Such high praise
was in accordance with what Mr. Palmer had previously said to Mr.
Seeley; namely, that "he considered Mr. Hamerton as the first
prose-writer of his time."

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