"If 'Landscape Painting' is a subject that you would thoroughly like to take up, please tell me what travelling you would consider needful, and as far as expense goes I will try to meet you. Perhaps for one thing we might go to Italy together, if you are not afraid of being dragged about in a chain.

"I thought of the Rhone book again, as likely to suit your present state of health."

In the current year, however, it was impossible to undertake the voyage, because "Human Intercourse" was to be the important work. As usual with a new book, the author had had a struggle at the beginning. He attributed the difficulty to the want of subdivisions in the chapters, and when he had adopted a more elastic system than is usual in a treatise, the obstacle disappeared. He has himself explained this, more in detail, to his readers, in the preface of the book.

There is no doubt that this long struggle had increased the tendency to sleeplessness, and a little cruise on the Saone was thought to be the best remedy. So he left for Macon at the beginning of April, and after putting the several parts of the boat together, and getting provisions on board, he started with Stephen on a voyage down the Saone. On their way they could see with a telescope all the details of Mont Blanc. At Port d'Arciat they picked up a friend, and after a "good little repast with a Good Friday _matelote_," a few sketches were made at Thoissey and Beauregard.

The change and exercise in the open air did my husband a great deal of good, and he had regained sleep when he returned home.

There being still a good deal of leakage in the "Morvandelle," though a thick kind of flannel had been pressed into the interstices, it was decided to use the wooden parts to make two small boats for the pond, one for Stephen and the other for Richard, the old ones being rotten.

There was much pleasurable planning for my husband in the scheme, and also some manual work for rainy weather. He was exceedingly careful and handy in doing joiner's work, and every one in the house applied to him for delicate repairs, and--when he had time--they were done to perfection; only, he seldom had time, and it was a standing joke that he must have a private museum somewhere to which the objects confided to him found their way. In reality, he had to do a good deal of manual labor of different kinds, on account of our country life, which placed us at an inconvenient distance from workmen. For instance, he always framed his etchings and engravings himself; at one time he even undertook to re-gild all the frames which the flies so rapidly spoilt in the country. He had also to make numerous packing-cases and boxes for the sending of plates, pictures, and books; he invented lots of contrivances for the arrangement of his colors, brushes, portfolios, etc. He made different portable easels with folding stools corresponding to their size, for working from nature, desks for large books, such as dictionaries, to be placed by the side of his arm-chair when he was reading; others for etchings and engravings, so that they might be examined without fear of any object coming in contact with them. So sensitive was he to the way in which works of art were handled, that he allowed no one to touch his prints or ill.u.s.trated books; he was always in dread about their margins being creased or crumpled, and to avoid this possibility he used to show them himself. A well-known aqua-fortist told me that my husband had said to him once, "I would not trust you to handle one of your own etchings."

Mr. Seeley had suggested that some ill.u.s.trated articles about Autun might interest the readers of the "Portfolio" on account of the Roman and mediaeval remains, the remarkable cathedral, and the picturesque character of the surrounding country. He thought that, as a t.i.tle, "An Old Burgundian City" would do. In a former letter he had expressed a wish that his editor should come to England--if possible--every year in the spring, instead of the autumn, when it was too late to discuss arrangements for the "Portfolio" for the ensuing year. Mr. Hamerton admitted that it would be desirable, no doubt, but he could not afford it; the expenses of our last stay had been a warning, though we had lived as simply as possible. To these considerations Mr. Seeley had answered: "I am sorry you do not feel more happy about your future work.

What seems to be wanting is some public post in which you would be paid for studying." But he had had more than enough of such schemes after his attempt at Edinburgh, and it was the only one he was ever induced to make. He began at once the pen-drawings which were to ill.u.s.trate the articles on Autun, and he liked his work exceedingly.

CHAPTER XVI.

1882-1884.

"Paris."--Miss Susan Hamerton's Death.--Burnley revisited.--h.e.l.lifield Peel.--"Landscape" planned.--Voyage to Ma.r.s.eilles.

In May, Richard went away to Paris to study from the antique in the Louvre, and Mary read English to her father for an hour every afternoon.

In the summer Mr. Hamerton received the decoration and t.i.tle of Officier d'Academie, but so little did he care for public marks of distinction that the fact is barely mentioned in the diary.

In August he received the following interesting letter from Mr.

Browning:--

"HOTEL VIRARD, ST. PIERRE DE CHARTREUSE ISeRS.

"_August_ 17, 1882.

"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--When I got, a month ago, your very pleasant letter, I felt that, full as it was of influences from Autun, the Saone between Chalon and Lyons, speeded by '330 square feet of canvas,' my little word of thanks in reply would never get well under weigh from the banks of our sluggish ca.n.a.l; so reserved launching it till I should reach this point of vantage: and now, forth with it, that, wherever it may find you, I may a.s.sure your kindness that it would indeed have gratified me to see you, had circ.u.mstances enabled you to come my way; and that the amends you promise for failing to do so will be duly counted upon; tho'

whether that will happen at Warwick Crescent is unlikely rather than merely uncertain--since the Bill which is to abolish my house, among many more notable erections, has 'pa.s.sed the Lords'' a fortnight ago, and I must look about for another lodging--much against my will. I dropped into it with all the indifference possible, some twenty-one years ago--meaning to slip out again soon as this happened, and that happened--and they all did happen, and yet found me with a sufficient reason for staying longer, till, only last year while abroad, the extraordinary thought occurred--'what need of removing at all?'--to which was no answer: so I took certain steps toward permanent comfort, which never before seemed worth taking--and, on my return, was saluted by a notice to the effect that a Railway Company wanted my 'House, forecourt, and garden,' and wished to know if I objected--I who, a month or two before, had painted the house and improved the garden. Go I must--but I shall endeavor to go somewhere near, and your visit, if you pay me one, will begin the good a.s.sociations with the place. And _this_ place; you may be acquainted with it, not unlikely. It is a hamlet on a hilltop, surrounded by mountains covered with fir--being the ancient Cartusia whence our neighbors the monks took their name; the Great Chartreuse lies close by, an hour's walk perhaps: this hamlet is in their district, 'the Desert,' as they call it; their walks are confined to it, and you meet on a certain day a procession of white-clothed shavelings, absolved from their vow of silence, and chattering like magpies, while vigorously engaged in b.u.t.terfly-hunting. We have not a single shop in the whole handful of houses--excepting the 'tabac et timbres' establishment--where jalap and lollipops are sold likewise--and one hovel, the owner of which calls himself, on its outside, 'Cordonnier': yet there is this 'Hotel' and an auberge or two--serving to house travellers who are dismissed from the Convent at times inconvenient for reaching Gren.o.ble; or so I suppose.

"The beauty and quiet of the scenery, the purity of the air, the variety of the wild-flowers--these are incomparable in our eyes (those of my sister and myself), and make all roughnesses smooth: we spent five weeks here last season; will do the like now, and then are bound for Ischia, where a friend entertains us for a month in a seaside villa he inhabits: afterwards to London, with what appet.i.te we may, though London has its abundant worth too. Utterly peaceful as this country appears--and you may walk in its main roads for hours without meeting any one but a herdsman or wood-cutter--I shall tell you a little experience I have had of its possibilities. On the last day of our sojourn last year, we took a final look at and leave of a valley, a few miles off; and as I stood thinking of the utter _innocency_ of the little spot and its surroundings, the odd fancy entered my head, 'Suppose you discovered a corpse in this solitude, would you think it your duty to go and apprise the authorities, incurring all the risks and certain hindrance to to- morrow's departure which such an act entails in France--or would you simply hold your tongue?' And I concluded, 'I ought to run those risks.'

Well, that night a man was found murdered, just there where I had been looking down, and the owner of the field was at once arrested and shut up in the _Mairie_ of the village of St. Pierre d'Entremont, close by.

The victim was an Italian mason, had received seven mortal wounds, and lay in a potato-patch with a sack containing potatoes: 'he had probably been caught stealing these by the owner, who had killed him,'--so, the owner was taken into custody. We heard this--and were inconvenienced enough by it next day, for our journey was delayed by the Judge (d'Instruction) from Gren.o.ble possessing himself of the mule which was to carry our luggage, in order to report on the spot; but we got away at last. On returning, last week, I inquired about the result. 'The accused man, who was plainly innocent, being altogether _boulverse_ by the charge coming upon him just in his distress at losing a daughter a fortnight before, had taken advantage of the negligence of the gendarmes to throw himself from the window. He survived three hours, protesting his innocence to the last, which was confirmed by good evidence: the likelihood being that the murder had been committed by the Italian's companions at a little distance, and the body carried thro' the woods and laid there to divert suspicions.' Well might my genius warn me of the danger of being a victim's neighbor. But how I have victimized _you_, if you have borne with me! Forgive, and believe me ever,

"Yours truly,

"ROBERT BROWNING."

Mr. Seeley had thought that a series of articles on Paris might be suitable for the "Portfolio," if they were written by the editor, who knew the beautiful city so well, and accordingly my husband had decided to go there for a month, in order to take notes and to choose subjects for the ill.u.s.trations. He never could have been reconciled to the idea of remaining a month in Paris alone, and I bethought myself of a plan, which seemed both economical and pleasant, and which he readily adopted.

It was to take Mary with us, and to rent a small apartment in our quiet Hotel de la Muette; having our meals prepared in our private kitchen (for each apartment was complete), and the cleaning done with the help of a _femme de menage_. It would be a sort of life-at-home on a very small scale.

The apartments were like English lodgings without attendance. Moreover, no one belonging to the hotel, not even a servant, had a right to enter the apartments: they were entirely private. One might order the most costly repasts from the luxurious restaurants close at hand, or keep a _cordon bleu_, or live on bread-and-water like an anchorite, just as one pleased, without anybody noticing it. This liberty was exactly what my husband liked.

We left home on October 9 with Richard, who was to continue his artistic studies in England now, and Mary, whom her father wanted to become acquainted with the different museums, beautiful buildings, and treasures of art, under his direction, for which there could have been no better opportunity.

We all looked forward to this change as to a _partie de plaisir_, the young people especially, and on our arrival in Paris, M. Mas and his wife received us with great cordiality. They had nothing in common with the ordinary type of hotel-keepers, and welcomed their _habitues_ with a simple, hearty friendliness--such as servants, who had been all their lives in a family, might show to their masters--which pleased my husband much. They showed us, with visible satisfaction, our little apartment, saying that it had been reserved for us on account of "Mademoiselle,"

because her room would be just close to her mamma's, and the door leading from one to the other might be left open at night. We were told that the kitchen was particularly nice, because Monsieur Paul Baudry, "un artiste aussi," had fitted it up "a neuf" for the three months he had been spending in our present apartment. Early in the morning I went out to order provisions--groceries, fuel, wine, etc., for the month we were to remain at the hotel. We had afterwards an excellent and cheerful _dejeuner_ prepared in our own kitchen. My husband was amused by the contrivances of what he called "the doll's house," and said he did not mind spending a month in that way. In the afternoon we went with the children to see the Hotel de Ville, Notre Dame, and La Cour de Ca.s.sation: in each of these buildings my husband gave us a short explanatory lesson in architecture.

The second day he had already made rules for the division of his time, according to which the mornings would be reserved for writing and correspondence; dejeuner was to be ready at eleven, so as to leave the afternoon free for the work in Paris.

As on the previous day, we were breakfasting together, talking of Richard's prospects in London, when there came a telegram, saying that our dear Aunt Susan thought herself to be sinking, and desired to see us. It was a sudden and a painful blow; my husband had not a moment of hesitation about what he would do. He told us to pack up immediately, whilst he went to look at the railway-guide, and find the first slow night-train for England: Richard and Mary were to go with us--it would be a last satisfaction for their aunt if we arrived in time.

I was full of apprehension for my husband, but, of course, refrained from mentioning my fears.

There was no slow train after four o'clock, so we had to start when it was still daylight, but he kept his eyes closed till darkness rendered invisible the objects we pa.s.sed on our way. He bore the journey very well on the whole, and on reaching Calais we went on board the steamer immediately. It was midnight, the sea was splendidly phosph.o.r.escent, and Richard and Mary took great delight in throwing things into it, to see the sparkles flash about. I had no fear so long as we remained on the water, for Gilbert always enjoyed it, whatever the weather might be, and felt utterly free from nervousness.

Arrived at Dover at four in the morning, we went to bed for a little rest, and after breakfast went out for a walk on the seash.o.r.e under the cliffs. Richard had never seen the sea before, and he received a profound impression from it. The wind was high, and the big green, crested waves came dashing their foam on to the very rocks at our feet.

The alternate effects of sunshine and ma.s.ses of clouds, violently driven and torn by the squalls, were magnificent; and Richard, more than ever, was fired with the wish to become a painter. His sister, very sensitive to natural beauty, shared his enthusiasm.

The train for London started at three, and on arriving at Charing Cross we found a more rea.s.suring telegram, stating that our aunt was somewhat better. Thus cheered by the hope of seeing her again, Gilbert was able to eat his supper with us before going to bed. I was greatly alarmed by his decision to start early in the morning and to travel throughout the day; but having made such a sacrifice of money in abandoning our apartment and provisions, and in taking the children with us in the hope of giving a last satisfaction to his aunt, I understood that he would on no account run the risk of arriving too late.

It proved a most painful day to us all. Very soon he gave signs of distress and nervousness in spite of all his efforts to hide them; but this time he would not leave the train, though I besought him to do so.

We had some provisions in our bags, but, weak as he felt, he could not swallow a morsel of anything; he could not even drink. Still, at one time he thought that a little brandy might do him good; unfortunately we had not any with us, and it being Sunday all the refreshment-rooms were closed on the line. He strove desperately against the growing cerebral excitement, now by lying down at full length on the cushions with the curtains drawn, and his eyes closed (most mercifully we were alone in our compartment); now by stamping his feet in the narrow s.p.a.ce and rubbing his hands vigorously to bring back circulation. In these alternate fits of excitement and prostration we reached Doncaster at five. Luckily there was a stoppage of about forty minutes before we could proceed to Featherstone, and we turned it to the best advantage by leaving the railway station and going in search of a quiet hotel, where we ordered something to eat. Darkness had now set in. We had had a little walk out of sight of the railway, in the open air, and there seemed to be not a soul, besides ourselves and the landlord, in the hotel; so that by the time our dinner made its appearance my husband had so far recovered that he was able to take both food and drink, which did him much good.

We arrived at Featherstone station after ten, and as the time of our arrival had been uncertain, there was n.o.body to meet us. We left our luggage, and only taking our handbags, we set off for the vicarage on foot in the dark and in a deluge of rain. At eleven we were all standing by the bed of our dear aunt, who knew us perfectly in spite of her weak state, and whose satisfaction at the sight of Richard and Mary was as great as unhoped for. The diary says: "Oct. 15, 1882. Our poor aunt recognized us, but it is only too plain that she cannot live more than three or four days." The doctor, whom we saw on the following morning, said that Miss Hamerton was dying of no disease; it was merely the breaking up of the const.i.tution. She was kept up artificially by medicine and stimulants, very frequently administered, for which she had neither taste nor desire. Now she said to the doctor: "I have been very submissive because I wanted to retain my flickering life until I should see my nephew and his family; this great happiness has been granted to me, and now I only desire to go to my final rest." After this the doctor's prescription was to give her only what she might ask for. We remained at her bedside throughout the day, with the exception of a visit to the old church, now restored with care and taste, to my husband's satisfaction.

We watched our aunt part of the night, and she spoke very often, with her usual clearness of mind; towards three in the morning our cousins Emma and Annie came to relieve us. On the morrow there was a change for the worse with greater weakness, and we determined--my husband and myself--to watch all night.

Aunt Susan concerned herself about our comfort to the last; she reminded her nephew to keep up a good fire that I might not get cold; she insisted upon my making some tea for myself, and upon my husband having a gla.s.s of beer. About two in the morning she asked for a little champagne; her mind was so clear that, after exchanging a few sentences with her nephew in the Lancashire dialect and drinking her small gla.s.s of champagne, she said with a smile, "It's good sleck," and lay still for a while. At three she wanted to be turned on her side, which my husband did with tender care, happy to be able to do something for her better than any one else could do it, as she said. I believe she liked to feel herself in his arms. Then she wished Ben to come up to read the last prayers. I went to call him, also Annie and Emma, Richard and Mary, and we all surrounded her bed whilst Ben was reading the prayers according to her desire, and my husband holding one of her hands all the time. She rested her eyes upon each of us in turn, closed them never to open them again, and breathed more and more feebly till she breathed no more. It was five o'clock in the morning. Her death had been a peaceful one, without a struggle, without pain,--the death we may desire for all that we love. Nevertheless, it proved a sore trial for my husband, who was losing the oldest affection of his life. It was even more severe than such losses are in most cases, however great may have been the affection, for it was like complete severance from the past to which both he and his aunt were so much attached. When they were together the reminiscences of the old days at Hollins, of the old friends and relations, of the quaint old customs still prevailing in the youthful days of the Misses Hamerton, and the great change since, were frequent topics of conversation. Aunt Susan was extremely intelligent, and her conversation was full of humor; she also wrote capital letters, and kept her nephew _au courant_ of all that happened to their common friends.

She shared in his great love and admiration for the beauties of nature, and her enjoyment of them was intense. When walking out she noticed all the changes of effect, and her interest never palled.

Great respect to her memory was manifested by the inhabitants of Featherstone, high and low, who filled the church on the day of the funeral and on the following Sunday, and who had put on mourning almost without exception.

On the Sunday night my husband went alone to the cemetery by moonlight, and remained long at the grave.

Our cousins, Ben and Annie Hinde, both showed great sympathy, and were also sorrowful on their own account; but Ben thought it bad for Mary and Richard to be shut up in unrelieved sadness, and was so kind as to take them to Leeds, Pontefract, Wakefield, and York in turn.

Aunt Susan had left a little legacy to each of her nephews and nieces, and the rest of her savings to my husband (she had not the disposition of the capital, which had been left in trust).

She had carefully prepared and addressed little parcels of _souvenirs_ to myself and to each of my children--jewels, seals, silver pencil-cases, as well as some ancient and curious objects which had been preserved as relics in the family, and which she knew we should value and respect.

The day came when we had to leave our dear cousins and the old vicarage, so full of a.s.sociations both pleasant and painful. We proceeded towards Burnley, where a telegram from Mr. Handsley was handed to my husband at the station. It said that Mr. Handsley was prevented from coming himself, but that his carriage was in readiness to take us to Reedley Lodge, where his wife was awaiting us.

We were made very welcome, and Gilbert was happy to see his friends again after so long a separation. Thursday--our former servant in the Highlands--came to see us in the evening, and our children, who had heard a great deal about him, were glad of the meeting.

Mrs. Handsley was a distant relation of my husband, and the relationship had always been acknowledged. She showed herself eager to divine how her guests would like to spend the short time at their disposal, and to fulfil their wishes. She was aware of my husband's faithful attachment to old a.s.sociations, both with persons and with places, and she drove us to see his former friends who were still alive, and also the Hollins.

The children, who had heard so much about it, were greatly interested, particularly in the room which had been their father's study. Note in the diary: "October 26, 1882. Went to see the Brun, that I had not seen since my marriage. Drank some of its water."

Mrs. Handsley said she had it on good authority that Mr. John Hamerton of h.e.l.lifield Peel had expressed on several occasions his regret for the division existing between the two branches of the family, and his wish to become acquainted with my husband, whose works he knew and admired.