A more desirable visit was that of M. Lalanne, who besides his talent had much amiability and very refined manners. Ever after he remained, if not quite an intimate friend of my husband, at least more than an acquaintance, and whenever they had a chance of meeting they made the most of it. Gilbert, after one of these meetings,—a déjeuner at M. Lalanne's,—told me the following anecdote. Some one asked him if he had not the "Legion d'honneur"? and being answered that it had not been offered, went on to say that it was not "offered," but "accordée" through the influence of some important personage, or by the pressure of public opinion; "and I think this should be your case," M. Lalanne's friend went on, "for you have rendered, and are still rendering, such great service to French art and to French artists, that it ought to be acknowledged. As you do not seem inclined to trouble yourself about it, a deputation might be chosen among your admirers to present a petition to that effect to the Ministre des Beaux-Arts." Mr. Hamerton having replied that he should prize the distinction only if it were spontaneously conferred, M. Lalanne remarked that decorations were of small importance, and asked without the slightest pride, "Do you know that I am one of the most décorés of civilians?… No; well, then, I will show you my decorations." Then ringing the bell, he said to the maid who answered it, "Bring the box of decorations, please." It was a good-sized box, and when opened showed on a velvet tray a number of crosses, stars, rosettes, and ribbons of different sizes and hues, all vying in brilliancy and splendor. The first tray removed, just such another was displayed equally well filled, and M. Lalanne explained that, having given lessons to the sons of great foreign personages, they had generally sent him as a token of regard and gratitude some kind of decoration—maybe in lieu of payment.
At the end of 1869 "Wenderholme" was published, and the first number of the "Portfolio" made its appearance on January 1, 1870, and from that date it became for the editor an undertaking of incessant interest, to the maintenance and improvement of which he was ever ready to devote himself, and for which he would have made important sacrifices. The dedication of "Wenderholme" was meant for Aunt Susan, and after receiving the book, she wrote:—
"Accept my most sincere and highly gratified thanks for the copy of your novel, and its dedication. We have heard that the "Times" and the "Yorkshire Post" had each favorable articles on the merits of your novel. We have detected nearly every character, even those that take other forms, but we do not even whisper any information in this neighborhood. Mr. and Mrs. W—— were immediately struck with the 'hoffens' and 'hirritation' of the doctor, but I pretend to think it not individual, but that it was the case among the people you were writing about."
In May 1870, Mr. Hamerton removed to La Tuilerie, about five hundred yards from Pré-Charmoy. He continued to date his letters from Pré-Charmoy—the new house being on the estate so called; his motive was to avoid possible confusion in the delivery of his letters. He was greatly tickled to hear the peasants call his new abode "le château de l'Anglais," and to see them staring admiringly from the road at the windows, which were left open that paint and plaster might dry before we came to live in it. Though perfectly independent of luxury, my husband liked cleanliness and taste in the arrangement of the simplest materials, and he contrived by a good choice of patterns and colors in the papering of the rooms, with the help of fresh matting on the floors, and the judicious hanging of fine engravings and etchings in his possession, to impart quite a new and pleasant aspect to the banale maison bourgeoise. Gradually I became reconciled to it, on account of its greater convenience, and I even came to like it when the vines and wisteria and golden nasturtiums hid the ugly bare walls, and the fragrance of mignonette and roses and petunias was wafted into the rooms looking over the garden, and that of wild thyme and honeysuckle into those which looked over the fields; when the tall acacias began to shoot upwards straight and graceful from their velvety green carpet, and scattered upon it their perfumed moth-like flowers; while we listened to the humming of the happy bees in the sweet-smelling lime trees and to the wondrous song of the rival nightingales challenging each other from bower to bower in the calm, warm nights of summer-time. And such a great change did not take very long to realize: the ground had been well drained and plentifully manured, and it was almost virgin soil, unexhausted by previous vegetation, so that the elm-bower was soon thickly leaved and with difficulty prevented from closing up, the climbing vines became heavy with grapes, whilst the spreading branches of the acacias speedily formed a vast parasol, and afforded a pleasant shelter from the glare of the August sunshine. Hardy fruit trees of all kinds had been planted all along the garden hedge, and in the third year began to yield cherries—in moderation—but plums of different species we had in great quantities, also quinces, sometimes apples, apricots, and figs—the two last, however, were frequently destroyed by frost, the spring being generally very cold in the Morvan. As to pears, we had to wait somewhat longer for them, the pear trees requiring strict pruning to preserve the quality of the fruit; but we used to have a small cart-load of them when the year had been favorable. There was nothing my husband liked better than to pick gooseberries, currants, raspberries, cherries, or plums, and eat them fresh as we took a walk in the garden; he was very fond of fruit, and unlike most men, he would rather do without meat than without vegetables or dessert. His tastes in food, as in everything else, were very simple, but he was particular about quality. I never heard him complain of insufficiency, though, situated as we were, there was sometimes only just enough; and even that lacking which might have been considered as most necessary, namely, a dish of meat. For Gilbert, however, it was not a privation when occurring occasionally; nay, he even enjoyed the change, and as I generally went to Autun on Fridays and could get fish, we made it a jour maigre, though not from religious motives. It was understood that if eggs were served they must be newly laid; if potatoes, mealy and à point; if fish, fresh and palatable; he would not have tolerated the economy of one of our lady neighbors, who abstained from buying fish at Autun because it was too dear, she said; but who used to bring a full hamper when she came back yearly from Hyères, where it was cheap, enough to last for a week after the journey, and who considered the unsavory hamper an ample compensation for the absence of fish from her menus during the remainder of the year.
The removal did not hinder or interrupt Mr. Hamerton seriously in his work, for the new house was quite ready to receive the furniture; and the place of every piece having been decided beforehand, the farmers merely handed them out of their carts to the workmen, who carried them inside the rooms, according to previous directions.
The difficulty of getting proofs of the different states of his plates whilst etching them, incited my husband to invent a press for his own laboratory, that he might judge of his work in progress by taking proofs for himself whenever he liked. Considering the present state of our affairs I was not favorable to the idea, but I was overruled, as in all cases concerning expenses deemed necessary to artistic or literary pursuits. He had few material wants, and therefore thought himself justified in providing for his intellectual needs—for instance, by the gradual formation of a library. He often deprecated the necessity of apparent extravagance in such things; "but you see," he would say, "I cannot stand stationary in the acquirement of knowledge if I am to go on teaching others—I must keep ahead—without mentioning the satisfaction of my own tastes and cravings, to which I have a certain right." Indeed it was truly wonderful that he should have been able to achieve so much work, and work of such quality, in the intellectual solitude and retirement of these seven years passed out of great cities where libraries, museums, and human intercourse constantly offer help and stimulus to a writer. Luckily for him he bore solitude well. He has said in "The Intellectual Life": "Woe unto him that is never alone, and cannot bear to be alone!" And again: "Only in solitude do we learn our inmost nature and its needs." Further on: "There is, there is a strength that comes to us in solitude from that shadowy awful Presence that frivolous crowds repel." He often sought communion with that awful Presence in the thick forests of the Morvan and on the highest peak of the Mont Beuvray, and found it.
For some time our minds had been disturbed by the unsettled aspect of French politics, and the possibility of a war with Prussia had been a cause of great personal anxiety to my husband on account of his nationality. He has related in "Round my House" how the news of the declaration of war reached us on a Sunday, as we were bringing the children home after spending the day peacefully in the fields and on the river-banks of a picturesque little village.
It is probable that if my husband had been able to bear a long railway journey, we might have accepted the hospitality so kindly offered in the following letter:—
WEST LODGE. August 12, 1870.
"MY VERY DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE,—I am most grievously and fearfully concerned to hear of your sad condition in consequence of the terrible and needless war that is now spreading misery, desolation, and perhaps famine all over the Empire, just to gratify the unbounded ambition of one man. We wish you and your three children could fly over to us and be in safety. Really, if you get at all alarmed, do not hesitate to come, all of you, with as much of your property as you can pack and bring; we can and shall be pleased to find you refuge from any pending evil you may be dreading. Dear P. G., you would find your articles about the state of your country had got copied into the 'Manchester Courier,' but we wish to caution you about what you put in them. Remember whose iron heart could punish you, and what would become of your wife and family if you were cast into prison.