"I can assure you that it is very pleasing to me to know that your career has been so successful as to enable you to give your sons an education to fit them to grapple with the difficulties people have to meet with nowadays to make them comfortable, and to do so is all the more satisfactory when accomplished by their own exertions. My mother [the lady who served as model and suggestion for Mrs. Ogden in 'Marmorne'] still retains unimpaired all her faculties, and looks much the same as when you were here. We shall celebrate her eighty-sixth birthday on March 15. She really is wonderful, and a marvel to every one, and particularly so to her doctor, who on no occasion has ever prevailed on her to take one drop of medicine, notwithstanding he persists in coming to see her twice a week—for what reasons seems quite past my mother's comprehension."
The pecuniary situation had certainly improved, which was a relief to my husband, for his children were growing up, and losses due to non- remunerative work and ill-health had to be gradually made good. There seemed to be a fate adverse to his making money, even by his most successful works. Here is "Marmorne" as an example, published in America, in England, in France, both in Hachette's "Bibliothèque des meilleurs Romans Étrangers," and as a feuilleton in the "Temps," also in the Tauchnitz collection, unanimously well received by the press; said to be "le roman de l'année" by the "Revue des Deux Mondes," and still bringing considerably less than £200 to the author's purse. It was a great disappointment to the publishers also. Roberts Brothers wrote: "Of 'Marmorne' we have only sold 2,000 copies; there ought to have been 10,000 sold;" and Mr. Blackwood said: "The sales have been rather disappointing to us after the attention and favorable impression the work attracted; we had looked for a larger and more remunerative demand."
The character of the scenery in the Autunois pleased Mr. Hamerton more and more, though it lacked the grandeur of real mountains. He was particularly sensitive to the beauty of its color, which reminded him sometimes of the Scotch Highlands, and was said to be very like that of the Roman Campagna in summer-time. Such notes as the following are frequent in his diary:—
"January 11, 1878. Went to Fontaine la Mère; beautiful drive the whole way. Was delighted with the Titian-like quality of the landscape. Much of the sylvan scenery reminded me of Ruysdaël. Took five sketches."
Throughout this year my husband gave a great deal of his time to his aunt's affairs, which were in a deplorable state, owing to the dishonesty of her lawyers; accounts for several years past had to be gone over, cleared up, and settled, and at so great a distance the proceedings involved a heavy correspondence. However, the help given was efficacious, and Miss Hamerton's independence was secured in the end. In the summer Gilbert had to relinquish the river-baths that he enjoyed so much. In the two preceding years he had remarked that he was often unwell and agitated after a swim, but had kept hoping that the effect might be transitory; it was, however, now renewed with growing intensity every time he took a cold bath, so that, with much regret, he had to give them up. He used to say with a shade of melancholy, that we must resign ourselves to the gradual deprivation of all the little pleasures of existence,—even of the most innocent ones,—but that the hardest for him to renounce would be work.
Having borne the journey to England in 1877 without bad results to his health, he now decided to attempt a visit to the Paris International Exhibition. He was very anxious to ascertain the present state of the fine arts all over the globe, and if possible to make the best of this opportunity. On the day appointed for starting, and whilst he was packing up, Mr. R. L. Stevenson just happened to call without previous notice. What a bright, winning youth he was! what a delightful talker! there was positively a sort of radiance about him, as if emanating from his genius. We had never seen him before; we only knew his works, but he seemed like a friend immediately. Listening to his fluent, felicitous talk, his clear and energetic elocution, his original ideas and veins of thought, was a rare treat, and his keen enjoyment of recovered health and active life was really infectious. He could not remain seated, but walked and smoked the whole of the afternoon he remained with us. Knowing that he had lately been dangerously ill, I ventured to express my fear that the smoking of endless cigarettes might prove injurious. "Oh, I don't know," he said; "and yet I dare say it is; but you see, Mrs. Hamerton, as there are only a very limited number of things enjoyable to an individual in this world, these must be enjoyed to the utmost; and if I knew that smoking would kill me, still I would not give it up, for I shall surely die of something, very likely not so pleasant." Although the shutters were closed in all the rooms that were not to be used in our absence, they were opened again to let him see the etchings on the walls; for he had a fine taste, not only for the beauties of nature, but also for artistic achievements. We felt it most vexatious to be obliged to leave that very evening, but my husband managed to remain with Mr. Stevenson till the last available minute, by asking me to pack up his things for him. I remember that after reading the "Inland Voyage" I had told my husband how I had been charmed by it, and had begged to be given everything which came from the same pen; but at that time we were afraid that such a delicate and refined talent would not bring popularity to the author; happily we were mistaken,—perhaps only to a certain extent, however,—as his most successful works belong to a later and quite different genre.
At the recommendation of M. Rajon, we went to a quaint little hotel in Paris, near La Muette, well known to artists and men of letters, and patronized, for its quietness, by some of the most famous, being usually let in apartments to persons who brought their own servants with them. Its situation, close to the Bois de Boulogne, made our returns from the exhibition easy and pleasant—so easy, indeed, that when we had to spend the evening in Paris, and could find no carriage to take us there, we merely went back to our headquarters, where we had the choice of railway, tramways, and omnibuses for every part of Paris.
According to our promise we went to meet M. Rajon at his studio, and amongst other things saw a beautiful portrait of him, which, however, was so much flattered that for some time I hesitated about the likeness. He was represented on horseback, with a long flowing cloak, and a sombrero casting a strong shadow over one of his eyes, which was afflicted with a weakness of the eyelid, which kept dropping down so frequently that the pupil was seldom seen for any time; the horse was a thoroughbred; two magnificent greyhounds (the originals we could admire, at rest upon a raised platform of carved oak and red cushions) ran alongside of him, and this tall-looking, dignified, romantic rider was—little, spare, merry M. Rajon. Gossip whispered that he had been somewhat intoxicated by his sudden fame, and had been, for a while, desirous of showing off, so that he had brought back from England the thoroughbred and the greyhounds to be noticed in the "Allée des Cavaliers," but that not having been accustomed to sit a horse before, his thoroughbred had flung him against a tree so severely that the taste for equitation had gone out of him for ever. Be this as it may, M. Rajon was far from being vainglorious; he knew his value as an artist, frankly and openly enjoyed his success, but remained simple, urbane, and courteous. He told us that he could only give two hours a day to original work, and that his mother (a simple woman for whom art remained an incomprehensible mystery) could not admit this limitation. At that time he was spending money rather lavishly—giving fêtes in his studio to celebrated actors and actresses, musicians, singers, poets, and artists, and the expenses were sometimes a cause of momentary embarrassment; then his simple mother would say: "Why need you trouble yourself about it? You work very little—then work twice as much, which won't tire you, and you'll have twice as much money." She could not, he said, be made to understand that this prolonged labor would be worthless, because the inspiring flame would be burned out.
Mr. Woolner arrived in Paris a few days after Mr. Hamerton, and they spent a whole day together in the sculpture galleries of the Louvre. Mr. Woolner remembered that old Madame Mohl, having read my husband's works, had expressed a wish to renew the acquaintance of former days, and would be glad to see us both at tea-time—any day that might suit us.
A week later we called upon the wonderfully preserved old lady, who was delighted to receive a visit from a rising celebrity—though a host of celebrities had passed through her drawing-room. She complained of being délaisée by the young generation. Still, she remained lively and gracious; her quick intelligence and ready memory were unimpaired by her great age, and it was with eagerness that she seized upon another opportunity for narrating her treasured-up stories of renowned people, particularly of the two Ampères, whom she had known intimately. She was still living in the same house that they had inhabited together, when Mr. Mohl kindly gave them the benefit of his more practical sense in household management. Madame Mohl was rather severe about Jean Jacques Ampère, whom she called a "young coxcomb," and "an egotist." She was not sentimental, and had no sympathy with or pity for the love so long faithful to Madame Récamier; nay, I thought I could detect in her strictures the unconscious feminine jealousy of a lady whose salon had been forsaken by one of its "lions" for a more attractive one, and who had resented it bitterly. But André Marie Ampère she praised unreservedly, with the warmth of most exalted admiration.