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Philip Gilbert Hamerton

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Being obliged to take Mary to her last music-lesson, I asked Richard
when I should see him again?... He gave me a kiss, and said "To-morrow."
There was to be no morrow for him.

* * * * *

When, after vainly waiting for him, the cruel news of his tragic end was
broken to us by M. Pelletier, when we learned that the poor boy had
committed suicide, my sorrow was rendered almost unbearable by
apprehension for my husband. I had long feared that there might be
something wrong with his heart, and now I became a prey to the most
torturing forebodings. My daughter and brother-in-law shared in them,
and M. Pelletier approved my resolution to leave Paris immediately and
endeavor to be with Gilbert before the delivery of the newspapers.

Mary and I left by the first train we could take, and arrived at La
Tuilerie shortly before eleven at night. My husband divined at once that
there was some great calamity, but his fears were for M. Pelletier. When
he knew the truth, he silently wrapped me in his arms, pressing me to
his bosom, within which I felt the laboring heart beating with such
violence that I thought it could but break....

* * * * *

The courage of which my husband gave proofs in this bitter trial was
mainly derived from his pitiful sympathy for those whose weakness he
supported. He sought relief in work, but did not easily find it. There
is the same plaintive entry in the diary for some weeks: "Tried to work;
not fit for it." "Tried to do something; not very well." "Not fit for
much; succeeded in reading a little" "Attempted to write a few letters.
Rather unwell." Then he gave up the diary for some time.

More than ever I felt reluctant to tell him of what had happened to
Mary, and of the probability of her marriage; however, she had been so
sorely tried by the loss of her brother, that it was imperative to turn
her thoughts from it, as much as possible, to other prospects. This
conviction decided me to tell her father everything, and it was a great
relief to hear that he shared my views entirely. Although I had learned
long since how little he considered his own comfort in comparison with
that of those dear to him, how unselfish he was--in affection as in
other matters--I must avow that I was unprepared for the readiness of
his self-sacrifice in this case. We were both of opinion that if all
went well, the marriage should take place as early as possible, so as to
bring a thorough change in the clouded existence of our daughter.

Note in the diary: "Monsieur Raillard this morning asked Mary to marry
him, with my consent, and she accepted him. Day passed pleasantly. I
drove Raillard and his mother to the station."

It now became necessary to make preparations for the wedding, which was
to take place in the beginning of September. For the choice of an
apartment and its furniture my husband himself considerately suggested
my going again to Paris with Mary, where we would meet M. Raillard and
consult his tastes. Accordingly I left La Tuilerie very reluctantly
after the great and recent shock my husband had experienced. I am
convinced it was due to the manful effort he made not to increase my
distress by the sight of his own that he conquered his nervousness from
that time, and was even able to strengthen and support me on my too
frequent breakdowns. He attributed Richard's desperate action partly to
depression arising from the effects of an accident, confided only to his
brother, but partly also to the influence of unhealthy and pessimist
literature on a mind already diseased, and he had said so to Mr. Seeley,
who answered:--

"I am sure that poor Richard came under the influence of pure and noble
examples. It may be that there was actual brain disease, though of a
nature that no surgeon at present has skill to detect. I suppose it is
possible that disease in the organ of thought may be accelerated or
retarded by the nature of the thoughts suggested in daily life or
conversation; and I suppose every one believes that in such disorders
there may come a time when the will, without blame, is overmastered.

"As to the bad literature of the day, I believe our feelings are quite
in unison. What an awful responsibility for the happiness of families
rests upon successful authors--and upon publishers too!"

The letters of condolence and sympathy were numerous and heartfelt; some
came late, for the friends who had known Richard in his bright and merry
days refused to believe that it was the same Richard who had come to so
tragic an end; they thought it was a coincidence of name. I only give
Mr. Beljame's letter to show how the poor boy had endeared himself to
every one, and in what esteem he was generally held. All the other
letters expressed the same sentiments in different words.

"8 _juillet_ 1889.

"Je suis bien sensible, Monsieur, à votre lettre, où vous m'associez, en
des termes qui me touchent profondément, au souvenir de votre fils
Richard, mon cher et excellent élève.

"C'était pour moi, non seulement un disciple dont je me faisais honneur,
mais aussi un véritable ami, et depuis son installation à Paris, j'avais
eu grand plaisir à l'accueillir dans ma famille. Les détails que vous
voulez bien me donner, m'expliquent pourquoi, dans ces derniers mois,
ses visites étaient, à mon grand regret, devenues de plus en plus rares.

"Sa fin si inattendue, alors que la vie semblait de tous côtés lui
sourire, a été pour moi une douloureuse surprise; j'ai refusé d'abord
d'y croire; c'est pourquoi je ne vous ai pas tout de suite écrit.

"J'ai tenu à me joindre à ceux qui lui ont rendu les derniers devoirs;
et j'ai chargé alors votre fils aîné et votre beau-frère d'être mes
interprètes auprès de vous.

"À des malheurs comme celui qui vient de vous frapper il n'y a pas de
consolation possible. Si c'est au moins un adoucissement de savoir que
celui qui n'est plus laisse derrière lui de souvenir d'un esprit
d'élite, d'une nature aimante et aimable, soyez assuré que tels sont
bien les sentiments que votre fils a inspirés à tous ceux qui l'ont
connu, à ses camarades de la Sorbonne, qui l'avaient en affection
particulière, à ses collègues--mais à nul plus qu'à son ancien maître
qui vous envoie aujourd'hui, ainsi qu'à Madame Hamerton, l'expression de
sa triste et respectueuse sympathie.

"A. BELJAME."

When Mr. Seeley was told of Mary's engagement, he wrote: "We are very
glad to hear of Mary's engagement, and we wish her all possible
happiness. But because you and I are so nearly of an age, I cannot help
thinking most of you, and thinking what the loss to you and to Mrs.
Hamerton will be."

In preceding years Mary's brothers and cousins had often made projects
in expectation of her marriage, but under the present painful
circumstances it was understood that only relations would he invited.
Still the disturbance in our habits could not be avoided, as we had to
provide lodgings for twenty people. My husband gave up his laboratory
and his studio and with the help of the boys transformed the hay-loft
into working premises. He got carpenters to fit up the big laundry as a
dining-room, under his directions, and when fresh-looking mats covered
the tiles, and when the huge chimney-piece, the walls, and the doors
were ornamented with tall ferns, shiny hollies, and blooming heather, of
which Stephen and his cousins had gathered a cartful, the effect was
very charming.

My husband had to be reminded several times to order new clothes for the
ceremony,--a visit to his tailor being one of the things he most
disliked,--and being indisposed to give a thought to the fit, he used to
decline all responsibility in the matter by making _me_ a judge of it.
His fancy had been once tickled by hearing a market-woman say that,
though she did not know my name, she identified me as "la petite Dame
difficile," and he called me so when I found fault with his attire.

A few days before the wedding he had gone to Autun, to fetch different
things in the carriage, among them his dress-coat and frock-coat, and
after putting on the last, came for my verdict. "It fits badly; it is
far too large." ... Then I was interrupted by--"I was sure of it; now
_what_ is wrong with it?" "Wrong? why everything is wrong; the cloth
itself is not black--it looks faded and rusty--why, it can't be new!"
"Not new!... and I bring it straight from the tailor's. Really, your
inclination to criticism is beyond--" He was getting somewhat impatient,
for the time given to trying on was, in his estimate, so much time lost.
"It _is_ an old coat," I nevertheless said decisively. "Your tailor has
made a mistake, that's all." "I am certain it is _my_ coat," he
answered, quite angrily this time. "I feel at ease in it; the pockets
are just in their right place;" and as he plunged his hands deliberately
in the convenient pockets, he drew out of one an old "Daily News," and
from the other a worn-out pair of gloves. His amazement was
indescribable, but he soon joined in the general merriment at his
expense--for Mary and Jeanne, the cousins, and even M. Pelletier, had
been called as umpires to decide the case between us. The new coat had
been left in the dressing-room, and it was the old one, given as a
pattern to the tailor, which had been tried on. The best of it was that
on the day of the ceremony Gilbert committed the same mistake; luckily I
perceived it when he had still time to change.

He attached so little importance to his toilet that he never knew when
he was in want of anything, yet his appearance was never untidy, in
spite of his omissions. I remember a little typical incident about this
disinclination to give a thought to needful though prosaic details.
Before leaving for England on one occasion, I had repeatedly called his
attention to what he required--in particular a warm winter suit and an
overcoat. He had promised several times to order them, but when the day
of our departure arrived he had forgotten all about it. "It's no
matter," he said; "I shall get them ready-made in London, and with the
_chic anglais_ too." In England we found the temperature already severe,
and I urged him to make his purchases. On the very same day, he
announced complacently that he had made them, and they were to be sent
on the morrow. He was quite proud of having got through the business,
particularly because he had bought _two_ suits, though he needed only
one. "The other would turn out useful some time," he said. And lo! when
the box was opened, I discovered that instead of clothes fit for visits,
he had been persuaded to accept a sort of shooting-jacket of coarse gray
tweed, waistcoat and trousers to match, with a pair of boots only fit
for mountaineering. When I told him my opinion, he acknowledged it to be
right, but said the tailor had assured him that "they would be lasting."
And he added: "I was in a hurry, having to go to the National Gallery,
and I felt confident the man would know what I wanted, after telling
him."

Mary was married on September 3, and she was so much loved in the
village that every cottage sent at least one of its members to the
ceremony; the children whom she had taught, and in whom she had always
taken so much interest, came in numbers, and the evident respectful
affection of these simple people quite moved and impressed the parents
of M. Raillard. Her father was also pleased with the presence of all our
neighbors and friends, and he went through the trying day with entire
self-command. But when the birds had flown away the nest seemed empty
and silent indeed, and to fill up the time till their return, I thought
a little cruise on wheels would be the best diversion.

The weather was still fine and warm enough for working from nature, and
preparations were made for a sketching tour, in which M. Pelletier would
accompany his brother-in-law while the house was put to rights again.

They started with Cadette, and went successively to Etang,
Toulon-sur-Arroux, St. Nizier, Charbonnat, Luzy, La Roche-Millay, St.
Léger, l'Etang-des-Poissons, and La Grande-Verrière,--a most picturesque
excursion, from which my husband brought back several interesting
studies.

The day after the return, M. Pelletier and his family left us, my
brother, his wife and daughters, who had been bridesmaids, having
preceded them.

At the end of a fortnight Raoul Raillard and his wife came back to spend
with us the rest of the vacation. The day they went away the diary said,
"We bore the separation pretty well." Yes, we bore it pretty well this
time, because it was not to be very long. It had been decided that as
soon as the young couple were settled in their apartments, we should
become their guests,--my husband hoping, in this way, to see the great
Exhibition at leisure and without fatigue.

We arrived at M. Raillard's on October 13, and the very next day saw us
in the English Fine Arts department of the Exhibition. Our daughter
lived in the Rue de la Tour, at Passy, an easy walking distance to the
Champ de Mars, and her father made it a rule to go there on foot with me
every morning between the first breakfast and _déjeuner à la
fourchette_. The plan answered very well. We were almost alone in the
rooms, and could see the pictures at our leisure. My husband took his
notes with ease and comfort, without nervousness. After a two hours'
study, we went back to the family lunch, and such was Gilbert's
improvement in health that he often took us again to the Exhibition in
the afternoon merely for pleasure.

He enjoyed the works of art immensely, and said that he felt like a
ravenous man to whom a splendid banquet was offered.

Being also greatly interested in the progress of the various sciences,
he liked to become acquainted with all new inventions, and often
resorted to the Galerie des Machines.

Mr. Seeley had been told of our intended visit to England, in case my
husband did not feel any bad effects from the stay in Paris, and he
wrote: "It is fortunate that you are coming just now, when we want to
start the 'Portfolio' on a new career; it will be delightful to consult
over it with you. Do not exhaust your energy in Paris, and find you have
none left to bring you over to England."

Although he worked unremittingly, he felt no fatigue; his nervous system
was quiet and allowed him to seek diligently for promises of new talent
among the mass of painters and engravers, and to feast his artistic
sense in the Exposition du Centenaire. He also gave more than his usual
attention to sculpture, and was of opinion that France remained
unrivalled in that branch of art.

On our way to England we stopped at Chantilly, and slept at Calais in
the Hôtel Maritime, on the new pier. I almost believe that we happened
to be the first travellers asking for a bedroom, for the waiters offered
excuses for the still incomplete furnishing, and for the service not
being yet properly organized. After a good night's rest, we visited
Calais Maritime and the important engineering works there, for which my
husband expressed great admiration. On arriving in London we went
straight to Mr. and Mrs. Seeley's, who had kindly invited us to stay
with them till we found comfortable lodgings.

It was not Gilbert's intention to stay long in England this time; he had
come mainly to discuss with Mr. Seeley the improvements they both
desired to introduce in the "Portfolio," and to choose the illustrations
for "Man in Art." In order not to lose time, he decided to take lodgings
in a central part, as near to the National Gallery as possible; but he
wished the street not to be noisy. He found what he wanted in Craven
Street.

This time he had to pay calls alone, and to beg our friends to excuse
me, for I had not yet been able to master my sorrow sufficiently to
allow of my resuming social intercourse without fear of breaking down.
With her tender sympathy, Mrs. Seeley bore with me, and strove to
console me when my resignation failed; but I could but feel that I was a
saddening guest.

While we were still at Nutfield, Mr. A. H. Palmer, the son of Samuel
Palmer, who had a warm admiration for Mr. Hamerton, had been invited to
meet him, and he brought his camera with him, proposing to take our
photographs. The portraits of the ladies were failures; Mr. Seeley's was
fairly successful; but my husband's was the best portrait we had ever
seen of him, very fine and characteristic.

We had intended to spend only two or three days with M. and Madame
Raillard on our return, but our son-in-law being obliged to leave
suddenly on account of his grandmother's illness, and unwilling to
expose his wife to contagion, we offered to remain with her till he
should come back.

We soon received the sad news of the deaths, at an interval of two days
only, of the grandmother and an aunt; also of the dangerous illness of
Madame Raillard senior, which happily did not prove fatal, the disease
having apparently spent its virulence on the two first victims.

During our enforced stay in Paris Gilbert wrote an article for the
"Photographic Quarterly" on Photogravure and Héliogravure, and for the
"Portfolio" a review of Mr. Pennell's book on Pen-and-Ink Drawing. We
went by boat to Suresnes, to see the banks of the Seine, for Mary was
trying to draw us to live nearer to her. With her husband she had
already visited several pretty places in the neighborhood of Paris, and
had given us some very tempting descriptions. As for me, I should have
desired nothing better than to live near to my daughter, but I never
expected my husband to reconcile himself to town life.

There was a marked and decided improvement in his ability to travel, for
he did not suffer at all on the way home; it is true that we strictly
adhered to the rule of slow and night trains.

The pleasant exercise of riding had to be reluctantly given up because
Cadette, who had betrayed from the beginning a slight weakness in the
knees, now stumbled often and badly, especially out of harness. The
veterinary surgeon who had examined her before we bought her, had said
that it was of no consequence, only the result of poor feeding, and
would disappear after a course of prolonged river-baths. Instead of
disappearing, the tendency had so much increased that it was deemed
safer not to trust Cadette even in the two-wheeled carriage, at least
for a while. This mishap was the beginning of my husband's real
appreciation of velocipedes. He had liked them well enough from the
first, and used to hire one now and then, but it was only after he had
become possessed of a good tricycle that the taste for the kind of
exercise it affords developed itself apace. M. Raillard had made him a
present of one for which he had little use in Paris, and this present
having been made just after Mary's betrothal, her father playfully said
that "he had sold his daughter for a velocipede."

As soon as he had adopted the machine as his ordinary steed, he began to
consider how to make it carry his sketching apparatus. He invented
various straps, boxes, holders, rings, etc., fitting in different places
according to the bulk and nature of the things he wished to have with
him: a sketching umbrella, a stool, and all that was needful for
water-color, etching, or oil-painting. He also devised a zinc box,
easily adapted to the tricycle, to take his letters, manuscripts, and
parcels to the post, and found it very convenient.

At the end of January he was seized with an attack of gout which lasted
a week, and took him quite by surprise, for he had not neglected
physical exercise; the doctor, however, said that an attack of gout
might be brought on by a mere change of locality--and we had just
returned from Paris.

He strove to do some work in spite of pain and bad nights, and succeeded
now and then, and as soon as he could manage--with help--to get into the
carriage, he drove out for change of air.

In March he received from Mr. Watts the permission he had asked, to have
his portrait of Lord Lawrence engraved.

I transcribe Mr. Watts's letters, with two others which had preceded it,
to show in what esteem he held his correspondent's opinions.

"MONKSHATCH, GUILDFORD, SURREY. _November_ 23, 1889.

"MY DEAR SIR,--Our short talk was very interesting to me, and I should
like to have an opportunity of explaining my views on art and the
practice of it, which opportunity I hope you will give me at some future
time. I have asked Mr. F. Hollyer of 9 Pembroke Square, Kensington, to
let you have prints of Lord Lawrence and Mr. Peabody. On the other side
of the sheet I send the permission you require."

"MONKSHATCH, GUILDFORD, SURREY. _December_ 4, 1889.

"MY DEAR SIR,--I have just seen the December number of the 'Magazine of
Art,' in which I find an engraving of my portrait of Peabody. I did not
know that it would be there, but I have given Mr. Spielman a sort of
general permission to use certain of the photographs. I do not know
whether the appearance of the head will vitiate the interest of your
proposed publication, but I hope not, as the use of it will be of a very
different nature.

"I am much gratified by what you said of my works in your letter to me.
However limited may be the result of my efforts, I have worked from the
very beginning with sincerity of aim, certainly never regarding the
_profession_ as a trade; and for some years not considering my avocation
as a profession, declining to paint portraits professionally or to take
commissions.

"Such wares as I may have of an unimportant aim and character, I am not
unwilling to sell, as Lord Derby is not unwilling to sell his coals; for
I am not wealthy, and find many good ways of using money, but I do not
regard my art as a source of income any longer. I hope some day to have
the pleasure of discussing certain artistic questions with you."

"MONKSHATCH, GUILDFORD, SURREY. _March_ 14, 1890.

"MY DEAR SIR,--The picture of Lord Lawrence is in my possession, and the
engraver may have it for two weeks in May or June. Of course he is
trustworthy! The picture being one of those I have made over to the
nation, I lend it with a certain hesitation, as I do not consider it
belongs to me. I am flattered by the opinion of the young men,
especially as I think I may hope it becomes more favorable with time.

"The portrait of Tennyson is at South Kensington, and no doubt I can
easily manage that Mr. Frank Short should have access to it.

"I do not expect to be in town for good before the end of April, but
here I am within an hour and a half of London."

Although a great amount of labor had been bestowed upon "Man in Art,"
the author thought it advanced but slowly, and became anxious as the
year wore on. In July he wrote a long explanatory letter to Mr. Craik,
and received this answer:--

"I am much interested in your report of what has been done towards the
new book. You have done a good bit of work, and I think you have made a
thoroughly interesting selection of pictures. You have an almost endless
field to choose from.

"_It is quite impossible to publish this year_, but you ought to have
plenty of time to prepare for next autumn. It is strange how long a book
with illustrations takes to get ready; but the disappointment when many
artists are at work is proverbial.

"I look forward with sanguine interest to the publication next year."

Note in the diary: "I feel much relieved by this letter, altogether a
day of _détente_."

Although he had taken an immense quantity of notes both in London and
Paris, my husband was sometimes greatly perplexed by the want of
references, and said almost desperately: "No one has any idea of the
difficulty of doing my work in my situation,--far from picture
galleries, museums, and libraries. It is so arduous that, at times, I
feel as if I could not go on. It is too much for the brain to carry so
many images, to remember so many things, without the possibility of
refreshing my memory, of settling a doubt, of filling up a gap." He was
not the only one to wonder at the extraordinary feats of literary
production which he was compelled to accomplish under such unfavorable
circumstances. AH those who knew of it said that his store of
accumulated knowledge must be marvellous indeed. And yet, the only
remedy was hardly to be hinted at; I felt so certain that he would be
miserable in a great capital that I never mentioned the possibility of
living in one of them; he was sufficiently aware of its desirability.

Early in the summer, as I had suffered much from rheumatism, our doctor
insisted upon my being sent to Bourbon-Lancy for a course of baths. I
was most unwilling to leave my husband now that Mary was married and
away, but he said the hope that the treatment would do me good was
enough to make him bear his temporary loneliness cheerfully, and then my
mother would come to stay with him. As I was very down-hearted myself,
he promised to make a break in our separation by coming to see me.

When the first half of my season at the baths was over, I saw him arrive
in the little gig with M. Bulliot, who had come on an antiquarian quest.
They went together, to see the curious, simple church of St. Nazaire
(eleventh century), of which my husband made a drawing. He also sketched
a view of the Loire, which may be seen from the height above
Bourbon-Lancy, for a great length of its sleepy course.

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