I decided at once to go to him; my mother, who had come to stay with me during his absence, approved my resolution, and undertook the management of the house and the care of the children: so without asking for his leave, I wrote that I was on my way to Amiens.

His joy was great when he saw me, and his progress towards recovery was so rapid that he abandoned the idea of retracing his steps, and encouraged by my presence, thought he could accomplish the journey to London without danger. It was of great importance that he should keep his post on the "Sat.u.r.day Review," because it was his only _regular_ income, everything else being uncertain; and we knew that if he could undertake the work again it would be readily entrusted to him.

We only stayed two days at Amiens, and as my husband was never seasick or nervous on the sea, everything went on satisfactorily so far; but as soon as we had left Dover for London, I perceived signs of uneasiness in his behavior. He closed his eyes not to see the moving objects we pa.s.sed; he uncovered his head, which seemed burning by the flushed face; he chafed his cold, bloodless hands, and shuffled his feet to bring back circulation. For a long time he attempted to hide these alarming symptoms from me, but I had detected them from the beginning; his eyes had a far-reaching look and unusual steely brilliancy; the expression of his countenance was hard-set, rigid, almost defiant, as if ready to overthrow any obstacle in his way; and indeed it was the case, for unable to control himself any longer, he got up and told me hoa.r.s.ely that he was going to jump out of the train. I took hold of his hands, and said I would follow; only I entreated him to wait a short time, as we were so near a station. I placed myself quite close to the door of the railway carriage, and stood between it and him. Happily we _were_ near a station, else I don't know what might have happened; he rushed out of carriage and station into the fields, whilst I followed like one dazed and almost heart-broken. After half-an-hour he lessened his pace, and turned to me to say, "I think it is going." I could not speak for fear of bursting into tears, but I pressed his hand in mine and held it as we continued our miserable way across the fields. We walked perhaps two hours, at the end of which Gilbert said tenderly, in his usual voice: "You must be terribly tired, my poor darling; I think I could bear to rest now; we may try to sit down." We sat down upon a fallen tree, and after some minutes he told me that if I could get him a gla.s.s of beer somewhere it would bring him round. I went in search of an inn and discovered a closed one, for it was Sunday and the time of afternoon service. Nevertheless I knocked so perseveringly that a woman came forth, incensed by my pertinacity, and peremptorily refused with indignation any kind of drink: to obtain a bottle of beer I had to take an oath that it was for a patient.

The gla.s.s of ale at once calmed and revived my husband, and when the bottle had been emptied--in the course of an hour or so--he was himself again and felt hungry.

We did not know the place,--it was Adisham; we had no luggage, and as to resuming our journey it was out of the question, for some time at least.

So I went again to the inn, and asked the woman if she could give us a room. "No, there was not one ready; and then it was so suspicious, people coming like that through the fields and without luggage." I offered to pay in advance. "But we might be runaways." My husband had his pa.s.sport, and I explained that he had been taken ill suddenly, and that our luggage could be sent to us from London. "If the gentleman were to die here it would be a great trouble." I had to a.s.sure her that it was not dangerous, and that rest only was required. At last she consented to show me into a very clean, freshly-papered room, deprecating volubly the absence of curtains and bedstead in such an emergency, but promising to put them up shortly if we remained some time.

The bedding was laid upon the carpet; the mattresses had just undergone a thorough cleaning, and the sheets and counterpane smelt sweet. When night came we were thankful to rest our tired limbs even on the floor, and to hope that sleep would bury in oblivion the anguish of the day, at least for a while.

Oh, the weary, weary time spent there, without work, without books, and with but little hope of better days. How should we get out of it, and when?... It was now clear that these terrible attacks were due to railway travelling. Then how should we ever get home again?...

Our luggage had been telegraphed for and returned, and the appearance of the trunks had evidently inspired some confidence in our landlady.

Materially we were comfortable enough: a clean bedroom, a quiet, rather large sitting-room (it was the usual public dining-room, but it being early in the season, there were no boarders besides ourselves); and the cookery, though simple and unvaried, was good of its kind,--alternately ham and eggs, beef-steak and chops with boiled potatoes, rice pudding, or gooseberry tart.

Morning after morning my husband wondered if he would feel equal to resuming the journey; but the necessary self-reliance was found wanting still. We walked out slowly and aimlessly, and we chose for our long walks the most solitary lanes. Gilbert felt that the air, impregnated by sea-salt, was gradually invigorating him, and after three weeks of this melancholy existence made up his mind to order a carriage to take us as far as Canterbury. The long drive and change did him good, and he was well enough to take me to the Cathedral, and show me the town, where we lingered two days, and then took another carriage for Croydon. At that stage my husband told me that we were not far from Beckenham, and proposed that we should call upon Mr. and Mrs. Craik on the following day. I shall never forget the kindness of the reception nor the sympathy of our hostess. I was surprised to see my husband enjoying conversation and society so much, because when he was unwell he shrank from meeting with any one, and required complete solitude; he only wished to feel that I was near him, without fretting and in silence. But the charming simplicity of the welcome in the garden, the peacefulness, not only of the dwelling, but still more the calm and sweet aspect of the celebrated auth.o.r.ess, together with her husband's friendly manner, acted soothingly upon the nerves of their visitor. He told without reticence what had happened, and soon changed the subject to fall into an animated and interesting conversation.

After lunch Mrs. Craik made me walk in the garden with her, and inquired more closely into the particulars of this strange illness; she encouraged and comforted me greatly. She was tall, and though white-haired, very beautiful still, I thought. As we walked she bent her head (covered with the Highland blue bonnet) over mine, and as she clasped my shoulders within her arm, I could see her hand laid upon my breast, as if to soothe it; it was the loveliest hand I ever saw; the shape so perfect, the skin so white and soft. We spoke French together; she was interested about France, and liked talking of its people and customs. Before we left she asked me to write to her, and offered to render me any service I might require.

The journey to Todmorden was not to be thought of this time, and Gilbert had begged his uncle and aunt to meet us at Kew, if they could manage it. They answered in the affirmative, and he found lodgings for them, not far from ours, nearly opposite to the church.

Knowing that his book must now be ready, he longed to see a copy of it, and feeling well enough one morning, he started with me for London; but as soon as we were in the heart of the town, its bustle, crowd, and noise drove my husband to the comparative peace of the nearest park.

There, as usual in such cases, we had to walk till his nerves were calmed, and then to sit down for a long time. He did not think he would be equal to the busy streets that day, and asked me to take a cab and see if I could bring him back a copy of his book. Reluctantly I left him, though he a.s.sured me the attack was over; only he was afraid of bringing it on again if he went into the street. So I was driven to Mr.

Macmillan's house of business, and immediately received by him. He was evidently truly sorry to hear that my husband was unwell, and "Etching and Etchers" being upon his table, he took up a copy, and with many warm praises insisted upon placing it himself in my cab. The book was everything that its author had desired, and taken so much pains to ensure; he was gratified by the result, and gratefully acknowledged the liberality of the publishers. One of the first visits paid by Mr.

Hamerton when he felt well again was to Mr. Cook, of the "Sat.u.r.day Review," who was himself out of health through overwork. He feelingly expressed his regret that my husband could not continue to act as regular art critic, but trusted that he would still contribute to the "Sat.u.r.day" as much as possible, and on subjects he might himself select.

Next we saw Mr. Seymour Haden, and I begged him to try and discover what was the nature of my husband's ailment.

It was no easy matter, as the patient refused to submit to examination and to prescriptions of any kind. Mrs. Haden, who was full of sympathy and kindness, apprised her husband of this peculiarity and he undertook to _pa.s.ser-outre_. So the next time we called by invitation, he looked steadily at his guest for some time, and said to him deliberately: "You are _very_ ill; it's no use denying it to me; you must give up all work,--not in a month, or a week, or to-morrow, but to-day, instantly."

My husband flushed, so that I trembled in fear of another seizure, and answered angrily: "I cannot give up work; I _must_ work for my family; I shall try to work less." ... "I say you are to give up all mental labor immediately; I shall see, later, what amount of intellectual work you are able to bear, according to the state you will be in. You may break stones on the road, but I forbid you to hold a pen for literary composition; and once back home, you must renounce railway travelling as long as it produces uncomfortable sensations." All this was said imperatively, and although it drove my husband almost to desperation, I thanked Mr. Haden in my heart for his courageous and timely interference, and Gilbert did the same after recovering from the shock.

This time he did not feel either so sad or so despondent as formerly, when he had suffered alone; he knew now for certain that the causes of his trouble were overwork and railway travelling, and he took the resolution of avoiding both dangers as much as possible. Whenever he felt nervous we remained quietly at Kew, reading or sketching or walking in solitary places with his uncle and aunt, and when he thought himself well enough we went to London by boat or omnibus, to the British Museum, the National Gallery, or South Kensington Museum, and to the public or private art exhibitions. We also paid calls, and on one of these occasions I was introduced to George Eliot and to Mr. Lewes; the latter sat by us on a sofa outside of the inner circle (the room was full), and talked with wonderful vivacity and great discrimination of the state of French literature. He judged of it like a Frenchman; his conversation was extremely interesting and suggestive, and he appeared to derive great pleasure from a rapid exchange of thoughts. Undeniably he was very plain, when you had time to think of it, but it was with him as with the celebrated advocate, M. Cremieux,--so much caricatured,--neither of them seemed at all plain to me as soon as they spoke; both had expressive eyes and countenance, and the interest awakened by the varying expression of the features did not allow one to think of their want of symmetry and shape.

The person who sat next to George Eliot seemed determined to monopolize her attention; but as a new-comer was announced she came forward to meet him, and kindly taking me by the hand, made me sit in the chair she had herself occupied, and motioned to my husband to come also. He remained standing inside the circle, whilst the Monopolizer had, at once, to yield his seat to the mistress of the house, as well as a share of her conversation to others than himself.

I immediately recognized the description given of her by my husband; her face expressed at the same time great mental power and a sort of melancholy human sympathy; her voice was full-toned, though low, and wonderfully modulated. We were frequently interrupted by people just coming in, and with each and all she exchanged a few phrases appropriate to the position, pursuit, or character of her interlocutor, immediately to revert to the subject of our conversation with the utmost apparent ease and pleasure.

Mr. Lewes offered tea himself, because the worshippers surrounded the Idol so closely that they kept her a prisoner within a double circle, and they were so eager for a few words from her lips that as soon as she moved a step or two they crowded about her in a way to make me think that, in a small way and in her own drawing-room, she was mobbed like a queen at some public ceremony.

The next time we called upon George Eliot she had heard of our meeting with Mr. Tennyson, and said,--

"So you have seen the great man--and did he talk?"

"Talk?" answered my husband; "he talked the whole time, and was in high spirits."

"Then you were most fortunate."

We understood what was implied, for Mr. Tennyson had the reputation of not being always gracious. However, we had learned from himself that nothing short of rudeness could keep his intrusive admirers at a distance, so as to allow him some privacy. He told us of a man who so dogged his steps that he was afraid of going out of his own garden gates, for even in front of those locked gates the man would stand and pry for hours together, till the poet's son was sent to him with a request that he would go elsewhere.

In the case of his meeting with Mr. Hamerton it was totally different, for he had himself expressed a wish for it to Mr. Woolner. Of course my husband was greatly flattered when he heard of it, and readily accepted an invitation to lunch with Mr. Woolner's family, and to meet the poet whom he so much admired. I sat by Mr. Tennyson, and endeavored to suppress any outward sign of the interest and admiration so distasteful to him. Nevertheless, I was greatly impressed by the dignity of his simple manners and by the inscrutable expression of the eyes, so keen and yet so calm, so profound yet so serene. His was a fine and n.o.ble face, even in merriment, and he was very merry on that day, for the string of humorous anecdotes he told kept us all laughing, himself included. I am sorry now not to remember them, the more so as they generally concerned himself. Several were connected with his t.i.tle of "Lord of the Manor," but the only one I can remember in its entirety is the following, because he was addressing himself to me--a Frenchwoman--the scene of the story being the Hotel du Louvre, in Paris.

Mr. Tennyson began by remarking that there were a good many stories current about him; some of them were true, but most of them apocryphal.

"And is the one you are going to relate true?" I asked.

He smiled, and answered:--

"I think it is capital; you will have to guess. I had occasion to go to Paris with a friend who was supposed to speak French creditably, and who fancied himself a master of it. On the morning following our arrival in the French capital, being somewhat knocked up by the journey, we had a late breakfast at a small side-table of the dining-room, of which we were soon the only occupants, under the watchful and, as I thought, suspicious eyes of a waiter, whose attention had probably been attracted by the conspicuous difference between our stature and garb from that of his little dandified countrymen. Having caught a slight cold on the pa.s.sage, I felt more inclined to stay by the fire with a newspaper than to go out, and did so, whilst my friend, who had some business in the town, left me for some time. As I drew my chair up to the hearth I heard the waiter answering with alacrity to some recommendation of my friend's, 'Oh, monsieur peut etre tranquille, j'y veillerai.' I thought it was some order about our dinner, and resumed my political studies.

Was it my cold which made me dull and inattentive? It is quite possible, for my eyes kept wandering from my paper, and, strange to say, always met those of the French waiter riveted upon me. At first I felt annoyed: what could be so strange about my person? Then I was irritated, for though that queer little man was making some pretence at dusting or replacing chairs, still his eyes never left me for a moment, and at last, being somewhat drowsy, I had the sensation that one experiences in a nightmare, and thought I had better resort to my room and make up for a shortened night. No sooner, however, had I got up from my chair than the waiter was entreating me to remain, offering to heap coals on the fire, to bring me another paper or a pillow if I was tired, and 'Did I wish to write a letter? he would fetch instantly what was required; or should I like something hot for my cold?' His voice had the strange coaxing tone that we use to pacify children, and made me stare; but I answered angrily that I only wanted a nap, and to be let alone, and I made for the door in spite of his objurgations. Then he ran in front of me, and barring the door with arms outstretched, besought me to await my friend. This unaccountable behavior had rendered me furious, and now I was determined to force my way out, despite the mad resistance and loud gibberish of the waiter, and I began to use my fists. It was in the midst of this tremendous row that my astonished friend re-appeared in the dining-room, and was greeted with this exclamation from my adversary: 'Ah, monsieur, vous voyez, j'ai tenu ma parole: je ne l'ai pas laisse sortir _le fou;_ mais ca n'a pas ete sans peine, il etait temps que vous arriviez.'

"It turned out that my friend, anxious for my comfort, and noticing that the fire was getting low, had said in his easy French before leaving, 'Garcon, surtout ne laissez pas sortir le fou' (_feu_)--meaning 'Don't let the fire go out,' and the intelligent foreigner had immediately guessed from my appearance that I was _le fou_."

Amidst general laughter I said,--

"It is cleverly invented."

"I see you do not believe it," Mr. Tennyson answered; "yet it has pa.s.sed current in society and in the newspapers."

Sitting close to Mr. Tennyson, as I did, I noticed the large size, and somehow plebeian shape, of his hands. They did not seem to belong to the same body as the head, indicating merely physical strength and fitness for physical labor. His dress also struck me as peculiar: he was wearing a shirt of coa.r.s.e linen, starchless, with a large and loose turned-down collar, very like a farmer's of former days, and shirt and hands looked suited to each other. After remarking this I happened to look up into Mr. Tennyson's face, which then wore its habitual expression of serious and grand simplicity; and I thought that the rough and dull linen, with the natural, unstiffened fall about the neck, formed a most artistic sculpturesque setting for the handsome head well poised above it.

After lunch Mr. Woolner took the gentlemen to his studio for a smoke, and my husband told me afterwards that Mr. Tennyson had continued as talkative there as he had been at lunch, and was only interrupted by the entrance of Sir Bartle Frere, who had a great deal to say on his own account.

It was very gratifying to me to notice that whenever my husband met with celebrities he was treated by them on a footing of equality, and although still a young man, his opinions and views were always accepted or discussed with evident respect, even by his seniors. His presence invariably awoke interest and confidence, and in most cases sympathy. It was felt that he was one of the few to be looked up to, and I have heard people much older than himself tell me that they prized highly a private hour spent with him, because his influence made them feel more desirous of striving for n.o.ble aims and elevated thoughts which seemed so natural and easy to him. It is true, indeed, that whatever he thought, said, or did, bore the stamp of genuine uprightness, for his nature was so much above meanness of any kind that he had great difficulty in admitting it in others; whenever he met with it his first att.i.tude was one of charitable hesitation, but when he recognized it unmistakably his indignation was as unbounded and unrestrained as in cases of cruelty.

In spite of the impediment to social intercourse caused by his intermittent nervous state, Mr. Hamerton enjoyed rather a large share of cultivated and intelligent society at this time. His worst moments happened in the morning and in bright sunshine; the evening was in general entirely free from disagreeable sensations, and a rainy day or clouded sky most favorable. This peculiarity enabled him to accept invitations to dinners, at which he met the persons whose acquaintance he cared for.

Mr. Thomas Hamerton and his sister had left us at Kew to go back home, and we wished it were as simple for us to do the same, but we could only think of the journey with the saddest forebodings; yet we longed to be through it, and safely restored to our peaceful rustic life and to a sight of our children.

It was a very tedious, trying, and hara.s.sing journey; we travelled only at night, by the slowest trains, and went but short distances at a time.

Sometimes my husband was unable to proceed for a few days; but, with admirable courage and resolution, he managed to reach the much-desired goal.

And now what was to be done? Mr. Haden allowed literary work only on two consecutive days in the week, and when Gilbert was unwell on those days, there was no remunerative production, and his anxieties became almost intolerable. He resolved to try every day of the week if he were fit for work, and to go on whenever he felt suitably disposed till the two days'

work had been done, and then to leave off till the next week. This succeeded for a while, but as he naturally became anxious to produce as much as possible during these two days, he felt driven, and suffered in consequence. He then attempted to devote only two hours to literary composition at a sitting, and to repeat the attempt twice a day when he did not feel his powers overtaxed. To this new rule he adhered till the end of his life--at least, generally speaking, for in some circ.u.mstances he had to write throughout the day, but he was careful to avoid this extremity as much as possible.

We waited impatiently for news of the reception of "Etching and Etchers"

by the public, and Mrs. Craik having been so kind as to offer any service she could render, I wrote to her on the subject, and she answered:--

"BECKENHAM. _July_ 19, 1868.

"My dear Mrs. Hamerton,--I can quite understand how _you_ care about the book--perhaps more than your husband even, and I wish I could send you news of it. But there have been no reviews as yet, and this being the dull time of year, the sale is slow. Whatever reviews come out you shall have without fail from the firm. It is so valuable and charming a book that I do hope it may gradually make its way. I do believe it is only the dreadful cities which make your husband ill--and no wonder; in peaceful Autun he will flourish, I trust; and you too recover yourself, for I am sure you were very far from well when you were here. It was so kind of you to come to us that Sunday, and to believe that we are both people who really mean what we say--and say what we think: which all the world does not. If ever I can do anything for you, pray write. And some day in future ages I shall write to you to ask advice upon our little tour in unknown French towns and country, when we shall certainly drop upon Autun _en route_. Not this year, however.

"With very kind remembrance to you both, believe me, dear Mrs. Hamerton,

"Yours sincerely,

"D. M. Craik."