We were very near the end of our stay in Paris, and Gilbert wanted to go to the office of "L'Art," having some business there, and wishing to say farewell to the manager. He had also invited the sons of M. Schmitt (who were now in Paris) to meet us in the Square Richelieu and to dine afterwards at a restaurant. He thought that he could manage both things on the same day. However, we were hardly out of the omnibus when I perceived he was unwell; but I had not time to propose anything before he started off at such a rate that I was obliged to run to follow him: the worst symptoms were betrayed by his gait, by the congestion of face and neck, and by the hard stare of the eyes. It was too late to take a carriage; he could not stop, and could not be spoken to. I saw that a sure instinct was guiding him out of the crowded street to the by-ways and least frequented places, and I strove to remain by his side. In the course of about twenty minutes, I noticed a slackening in his pace, and as I had been looking about for some refuge, I remarked, through the open doors of a small café, an empty back-room, and motioned to him to follow me there. It was almost dark, and there was a divan running along three sides of the wall; I made him lie down upon it, and went to tell the dame-de-comptoir (who happened to be the mistress of the house) that my husband had felt suddenly unwell and required a little rest. She made no fuss, did not press me to send for a doctor or to administer anything; she merely promised to prevent any one from going into that back room, and said we might remain there undisturbed as long as was needed. After half-an-hour my husband asked for a little brandy and water, and gradually became himself again. We remained about two hours in the little room, reading—or pretending to read—the newspapers, and such was Gilbert's courage and resolution, that he went to keep the appointment with the young men he had invited. I knew I was not to breathe a word of what had happened, and I was miserably anxious about the effect that a dinner in a restaurant en vogue might have upon the nerves of my poor patient. Strange to say, he bore it very well, and played his part as entertainer quite merrily. But after dinner I longed to get him away, and proposed to take an open carriage for a drive in the Champs Élysées. This was accepted, and I believe he really enjoyed it.
We agreed to leave Paris the following evening, and I went to town alone in the afternoon for a few things which had been postponed to the last moment. We reached Autun on May 26, at which date the diary says: "I am very happy to be in my home, which I prefer to all the finest palaces in Paris."
In the spring he had suffered repeatedly from great pain in one of his legs, and had attributed it to rheumatism; now he began to feel the pain again in the left foot, and it soon became so acute that the doctor was sent for. He said it was an attack of gout, but gave hope of an ultimate cure, because the patient's constitution was not a gouty one. The cause of the attack was insufficient exercise in the open air. He prescribed a severe regimen, less sedentary work, and as much walking and riding as possible.
For twenty-one nights my husband could not go to bed, but remained stretched on a couch or sitting in an arm-chair; when the pain was less severe he laid himself down upon the bed for a short time, but he hardly ever got to sleep. His fortitude and patience were incredible, and he bore the almost intolerable sufferings with admirable resignation. He tried to read, and even to write upon a desk placed on his knees, and talked much about his plan for the book on "Landscape."
Mr. Seeley wrote:—
"I am heartily sorry to hear of your attack of gout. But I am relieved to hear that it is not erysipelas, which must have been alarming. Possibly the discomfort you suffered in Paris may have been a premonitory symptom of this attack, and you may look forward to the enjoyment of better health when it has passed away."
Mr. Haden declared that he felt "delighted" by this attack, as indicative of a change for the better in the constitution; he hoped that the tendency to nervousness and insomnia would disappear, or at any rate greatly diminish.
We were now daily expecting Richard, and Mr. Seeley had said on June 25: "Richard was with us on Saturday, his farewell visit. We like him more and more every time we see him." He was coming back—at my request—to pass an examination in English, the same that his brother had passed successfully two years ago for the Certificat d'aptitude, after which he got his post of professor at Mâcon. I had thought that if Richard failed as an artist he might be glad to fall back upon a professorship, and it turned out so. His father was pleased to notice how much better and more fluently he spoke English on his return from London; but at the same time, after seeing the drawings done in England, he was confirmed in the opinion that originality and invention were lacking to make a real artist of his younger son. What ought to be said was very perplexing: the drawings were good enough in their way, the progress undeniable—but they were only copies, even when done from the living model—the creative spark, the individual artistic stamp, were absent. My husband allowed himself some time for consideration before warning Richard that he thought him mistaken in his choice of a career.
However, after having passed a successful examination it was Richard who, of his own accord, told his father that he felt very doubtful about the ultimate result of his artistic studies. He believed they were begun too late, and that his chances against students who had several years' start were very small—they had been drawing and painting since the age of thirteen or fourteen, whilst he was preparing himself for his degrees. The ease with which he had carried off the Certificat d'aptitude made him sanguine about being ready for the Agrégation in the course of a year, after which he would be entitled to a post in the University. He would not abandon art, he said, but would not follow it as a profession.
It was a great relief that the resolution should have been his own; but it surprised Mr. Seeley considerably, and he wrote to my husband:—