1858.

Money matters.--Difficulties about servants.--Expensiveness of our mode of life.

My husband had a little fortune, sufficient for his wants as a bachelor, which were modest; it would have been larger had his father nursed it instead of diminishing it as he did by his reckless ways, and especially by entrusting its management during his son's minority to a very kind but incapable guardian in business matters, and to another competent but dishonest trustee, who squandered, unchecked, many important sums of money, and made agreements and leases profitable to himself, but almost ruinous to his ward. As to the other trustee, he never troubled himself so far as to read a deed or a doc.u.ment before signing it. Still, what remained when my husband came of age was amply sufficient for the kind of life he soon chose, that of an artist; and he hoped, moreover, to increase it by the sale of his works.

He was, however, aware of the future risks of the situation when he asked in marriage a girl without fortune, and he told me without reserve what we had to expect.

An important portion of his income was to cease after fourteen years--the end of the lease of a coal-mine; but he felt certain that he would be able by that time to replace it by his own earnings, and meanwhile we were to live so economically and so simply that, as we thought, there was no need for anxiety; so we convinced my parents--with the persuasion that love lent us--that after all we should not be badly off.

Soon after the completion of our household organization, however, I began to fear that a very simple way of living might, under peculiar conditions, become expensive. A breakfast consisting of ham and eggs is not extravagantly luxurious, but if the ham comes to thrice the original price when carriage and spoilage are allowed for, and if to the sixpence paid for half-a-dozen eggs you add the wages of a man for as many hours, you find to your dismay that though your repast was simple, it was not particularly cheap. Whichever way we turned we met with unavoidable and unlooked-for expenses. Perhaps an English lady, accustomed to the possibilities of such a place, and to the habits of the servants and the customs of the country, might have managed better--though even to-day I don't see clearly what she could have done; as for me, though I had been brought up in the belief that Paris was one of the most expensive places to live in, and though I was perfectly aware of its prices,--having kept my father's house for some years, on account of my mother's weak state of health,--I was entirely taken by surprise, and rather afraid of the reckoning at the end of the year. No one who has not attempted that kind of primitive existence has any idea of its complications. A mere change of servant was expensive--and such changes were rather frequent, on account of their disgust at the breach of orthodox habits, and the lack of followers; or their dismissal was rendered inevitable by their incapacity or unwillingness, or their contempt for everything out of their own country. We had a capital instance of this characteristic in a nurse who came from Greenock, and who thoroughly despised everything in the Highlands. One night, my husband and myself were out of doors admiring a splendid full moon, by the light of which it was quite easy to read. The nurse Katharine was standing by us, holding baby in her arms, and she heard me express my admiration: unable to put up with praises of a Highland moon, she exclaimed deliberately, "Sure, ma'am, then, you should see the Greenock moon; this is nothing to it."

This change of servants was of serious moment to us, both in the way of time and money, for we had to go to Glasgow or Greenock to fetch new ones, besides paying for their journeys to and fro, and a month's wages if they did not give satisfaction, which was but too often the case.

Once it happened that a steamer, bringing over a small cargo of much-needed provisions, foundered, and we were in consequence nearly reduced to a state of starvation.

Also, after paying princely prices for laying hens, we only found empty sh.e.l.ls in the hen-coop, the rats having sucked the eggs before us.

Gilbert, to save our eggs, bought a vivacious little terrier, who killed more fowls than rats; and as to the few little chickens that were hatched--despite the cold and damp--they gradually disappeared, devoured by the birds of prey, falcons and eagles, which carried them off under my eyes, even whilst I was feeding them.

Another very important item of expense lay in the different materials required for my husband's work of various kinds, and of which he ordered such quant.i.ties that their remnants are still to be found in his laboratory as I write. Papers of all sorts of quality and size--for pen-and-ink, crayons, pastel, water-color, etching, tracing; colors dry and moist, brushes, canvases, frames, boards, panels; also the requisites for photography. It was one of my husband's lasting peculiarities that, in his desire to do a great quant.i.ty of work, and in the fear of running short of something, he always gave orders far exceeding what he could possibly use. He also invariably allowed himself, for the completion of any given work, an insufficiency of time, because he did not, beforehand, take into account the numerous corrections that he was sure to make; for he was constantly trying to do better.

Our journeys also contributed to swell considerably the total of our expenditure. Before we were married he promised my parents that he would bring me over once a year, for about a month; for it was a great sacrifice on their part to let their eldest child go so far away, and, even as it was, to remain separated for so long at a time. My husband's relations had also to be considered, and he decided that every time we went to France we would stay a week at least with his maiden aunts, who had brought him up, and a few days with the family of his kind uncle, Thomas Hamerton of Todmorden; then a short time in London to see the Exhibitions and his friends. The same itinerary was to be followed on our return.

My parents living then in Paris, where even at that time rents were high and s.p.a.ce restricted, my husband's dislike to confinement did not allow him to remain satisfied with the single room they could put at our disposal; moreover, in order to work effectively, peace and perfect quiet were absolutely indispensable to him; so he took lodgings close to my parents', and whilst I spent as much of my time with them as I could spare, he wrote or read in the noiseless rooms we had taken _entre cour et jardin_. Of course the rent of the lodgings was an additional expense. Altogether, when we summed up the accounts after the first year, we were dismayed to see what was the cost of such an unpretentious existence; but with youthful hope we counted upon the income that art could not fail to bring shortly.

CHAPTER III.

1858.

Painting from nature.--Project of an exhibition.--Photography.--Plan of the "Painter's Camp."--Topographic Art.--Charm of our life in the Highlands.

Mr. Hamerton has himself explained in his autobiography what were his artistic tendencies and aims: he meant to be topographically true in his rendering of nature, and was unluckily greatly influenced by the Pre-Raphaelites, who were, at the time of our marriage, attracting great attention. I was totally unprepared for that kind of art, and the most famous specimens of it which my husband took me to see in London only awoke an apprehension as to what I might think of his own pictures when they were shown to me. The old masters in the Louvre, even the yearly Salons, where, under my father's guidance, I had learned to admire Troyon, Corot, and Millet, had given me an education which fell short of enabling me to recognize the merits of the new school. It was in vain that my husband pointed out the veracity of the minutest detail, in vain that he attempted to interest me in the subjects or praised the scheme of color; I did not understand it as art, and I received an impression, perfectly remembered to this day, and which I hardly hope to convey to others in words: it was for my eyes what unripe fruit is for the teeth.

It was a long time before my husband completed a picture at Innistrynich, because he had resolved, at first, to paint only from nature, and was constantly interrupted by changes of effect. After many attempts, he came to the conclusion that he would only paint local color out-of-doors, and in order to study effects rapidly, he made hasty sketches with copious notes written in pencil. Still, he was not satisfied, the sketch, however quickly traced, r.e.t.a.r.ding the taking of notes, so that the effect had vanished before they were completed. After giving mature consideration to another scheme of study, he decided to make careful pen-and-ink topographical drawings of the most striking features of the scenery, such as Ben Cruachan, Glen Etive, Ben Vorlich, Glencoe, etc., and to have them reproduced in large quant.i.ties, so that, when upon the scene represented by any of them, he would only have to note the most impressive effects, the sketch having become unnecessary.

I wished him to take these memoranda in water-colors or pastels, for it seemed to me very difficult, when the effect was out of the memory, to revive it in its entirety by hundreds of minute observations covering the whole sheet of paper. I had another reason for wishing to see him work more in colors--it was his want of dexterity with them, which I thought practice only could give; but he said it was too slow for out-of-door study, and should be reserved for winter-time and bad weather. Another point upon which we could not agree was the amount of truth to which an artist ought to bind himself; he said "nothing less than topographic truth," and he took infinite pains in the measurement of mountain peaks, breadth of heather-patches, and length of running streams. To his grievous disappointment, when the conscientious and labored study was shown to me, I could not but repeat that if it were true it did not look so to me, since it produced none of the sensations of the natural scene. "You would like me to exaggerate, then?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, "if that is the way to make it _look_ true." But he persevered in his system. He used to camp out a week, sometimes a fortnight, wherever he made choice of a subject, and returned to the same spot several times afterwards, with his printed studies of outlines to take notes of effects.

He was fond of elaborating schemes, and I told him sometimes that I wished he would allow things to go on more simply, that he would paint his pictures straightforwardly, and try for their reception in the Academy; but he answered that most certainly they would be rejected if painted with so little care, and that he thought the best plan was to go on patiently during the summer as he had begun, then to paint in winter from his studies, and produce, not an odd picture now and then, but a series of pictures ill.u.s.trating the most remarkable characteristics of Highland scenery, which he would put before the public in a private exhibition of his own, under the t.i.tle of "Pictures from the Highlands, by P. G. Hamerton." And before one of the pictures was begun, he had made the model of a die bearing this inscription, to be stamped on the frames of the pictures, as well as on the studies. Mr. Hamerton had taken lessons from a photographer in Paris, at the time of his first visit there, thinking it might be a help in the prosecution of his scheme, and now he was always trying to get some photographs of the scenes among which he camped. They were generally very poor and feeble, the weather being so often unpropitious, and the process (paper process) so imperfect and tedious. Still, it was the means of giving pleasure to our relations and friends by acquainting them with our surroundings.

Here is a pa.s.sage from one of my father's letters in acknowledgment of the photograph of our house: "J'ai recu avec infiniment de plaisir votre lettre et la photographie qui l'accompagnait. Cette pet.i.te image nous met en communication plus directe, en nous identifiant pour ainsi dire, a votre vie interieure. Merci donc, et de bon coeur."

Although my husband firmly believed that nature had meant him to be an artist, and helped nature as much as he could by his own exertions, the literary talent which was in him would not be stifled altogether, and under pretext of preparing a way for his artistic reputation, made him undertake the "Painter's Camp."

It may be easily realized that with his elaborate system of study, which required journeys and camping out, the taking of photographs, painting indoors in wet weather, together with a course of reading for culture and pleasure, and in addition literary composition, Gilbert's time was fully occupied; still he was dissatisfied by the meagre result, and fretted about it. He had, at the cost of much thought and money, organized a perfect establishment, with wagons, tents, and boats, to go and stay wherever he pleased; but wherever he went or stopped he almost invariably met with rain and mist, and though he could draw or paint inside the tent, he still required to see his subject, and how could he possibly when the heavy rain-clouds enveloped the mountains as if in a shroud, or when the mist threw a veil over all the landscape? I remember going with him to camp out in Glencoe in delightful weather, which lasted (for a wonder) throughout the journey and the day following it, after which we were shut inside the tents by pouring or drizzling rain for six consecutive days, when the only possible occupation was reading, so that at last we were beaten back home with a few bad photographs and incomplete sketches as the fruits of a week's expedition.

At first we did not attach much importance to the weather, even if it wasted time. My husband had taken the island on a lease of four years, and it seemed to us that almost anything might be achieved in the course of four years; we were so young, both of us--he twenty-four, and I nineteen--that we had not yet realized how rapidly time flows--and it flowed so delightfully with us as to make everything promising in our eyes. The rain might be troublesome and interfere with work, but were not the splendid colors of the landscape due to it? The lake might be stormy, and the white foam of its waves dash even upon the panes of our windows, but the clouds, driven wildly over the crests of the hills, and rent by peaks and crags, cast ever-hanging shadows along their swift course, and the shafts of the sun darting between them clothed the s.p.a.ces between in dazzling splendor. Our enjoyment of natural beauty was not marred by considerations about the elements which produced it: whether the rich color of the shrivelled ferns on the hillside had been given by the fierce heat of a sun which, at the same time, had dried up the streams and parched the meadows, we did not inquire; and if the grandeur of the stormy lake on a dark night, with the moaning of the breakers on the rocky sh.o.r.e, and the piercing shrieks of the blast, involved the fall and ruin of many a poor man's cottage and the destruction of hundreds of uprooted trees, we were so entranced in admiration as to give no thought to the consequences. We derived pleasure from everything, study or contemplation, fair weather or foul; a twilight ramble on the island by the magnificent northern lights, or a quiet sail on the solitary lake perfumed with the fragrance of the honeysuckle or of the blue hyacinths growing so profusely on Inishail and the Black Isles.

Well, we were happy; we did not stop to consider if we were _perfectly_ happy; but it was, without a doubt, the happiest time of our lives, for we have always turned back to it with deep regret, and, as my husband has expressed it in the "Painter's Camp"--"It is so full of a.s.sociations and memories which are so infinitely dear and sweet and sacred, that the very word 'Highlands' will lay a sudden charm on my heart forever."

Although we made no dissection of our happiness to know what it was made of, there was a powerful element in it which I discern clearly now: we were satisfied with ourselves, thinking we were fulfilling our duty to the best of our understanding; if we erred, it was unconsciously. Since then we have not been so positive, and sometimes have questioned the wisdom of those days. But who can tell?... If my husband had not lived those four years of Highland life he would not have been the man he became, and his literary gift, though perhaps developed in some other way, would never have acquired the charm which influenced afterwards so many minds and hearts.

CHAPTER IV.

1858.

English and French manners.--My husband's relatives.--First journey to France after our marriage.--Friends in London.--Miss Susan Hamerton.

The summer of 1858 had been unusually warm and pleasant in the Highlands, and my husband had put many a study in his portfolios, in spite of the interruptions to his work caused by a series of boils, which, though of no importance, were exceedingly painful and irritating, being accompanied by fever and sleeplessness: they were the result of a regimen of salted meat and an insufficiency of fresh vegetables; for of course those we succeeded in growing the first year were only fit for the table towards the end of summer.

We had not been so solitary as I had expected, for with the warm weather a few families had come back to their residences on the sh.o.r.es of the lake, and had called upon us. I had felt rather timid and awkward, as I could not speak English; but the ladies being kindly disposed, and generally knowing a little French, we managed to get on friendly terms, particularly when left to ourselves, for I was very much afraid of Gilbert's strictures--I will explain for what reasons in particular. He was, as I have said before, a very good and competent teacher, but very exacting, and he had repeatedly said that he could put up better with my faults were they the usual recognized mistakes of a foreigner, but that unluckily mine were vulgarisms. This was very humiliating, as I must confess I took a little pride in my French, which had been often praised as elegant and pure, and this had fostered in me a taste for conversation such as was still to be enjoyed in intelligent French society at that time, and of which I had never been deprived at home, my father being an excellent conversationalist, and receiving political friends of great talent as orators and debaters, such as Michel de Bourges, Baudin, Madier-de-Montjau, Boysset, and many others, as well as literary people.

On the other hand, it must be explained that I was unknown to my husband's relations, and aware of some prejudices against me among them, particularly on the part of his Aunt Susan,--the younger of the two sisters who had brought him up. She only knew that I was French, a Roman Catholic, and without fortune; all these defects were the very opposite of what she had dreamt of for her nephew, and her disappointment had been so bitter when she had heard of his engagement that, to excuse it in her own eyes, she had convinced herself that a French girl could only be flippant, extravagantly fond of amus.e.m.e.nt, and neglectful of homely duties; a Roman Catholic must of necessity be narrow-minded and bigoted, and the want of fortune betrayed low birth and lack of education. These views had been expressed at length to my betrothed, together with severe reproaches and admonitions, and it was in vain that he had attempted to justify his choice; his aunt persisted in attributing it solely to a pa.s.sion he had been too weak to master. At last our marriage drawing near, Gilbert wrote to his aunt that if her next letter contained anything disrespectful to me he would return it, and do the same for the following ones, without opening them; and the correspondence had ceased.

It was quite different with his aunt Mary, who must also have been disappointed by his marriage, for with her aristocratic tastes and notions she had desired for her nephew a bride of rank, and an heiress to put him again in the station befitting the family name, to which his education and talents seemed to ent.i.tle him. But she had confidence in his judgment, and loved him with so generous a love that she congratulated him warmly when he was accepted, and wrote me an affectionate letter of thanks, and a welcome as a new member of the family.

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 a la voir accourir au devant de moi et chaque desillusion 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 p.r.o.nouncing my Christian name rightly. I begged her to call me "niece," and her husband gave the example by calling me "my niece Eugene." 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 pa.s.sage 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 circ.u.mstances. 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.