The little garden looked very pretty now in June, with the pillars of the veranda all blue with flowers of the climbing clematis, and the cornice loaded with the pink and white bouquets of roses. The wild clematis, Virginia creeper, and honeysuckle clothed the trunks of every tree, whilst their roots were hidden by flowers and ferns of various kinds.
Another pleasant feature of the park was the quantity of singing birds; there were larks, blackcaps, white-throats, and blackbirds, no doubt attracted by the security and peace they enjoyed all the year round—no shooting being allowed either in the park or in the Bois de Boulogne.
My husband wished to appropriate all the upper story of Clématis to his work, so as to have within easy reach everything he wanted for it, and at the same time to escape from all household noises. The large middle room with the balcony would be his study and atelier, only he required more light for painting, and a tall window was made for him. One of the small rooms was to be a laboratory, the other a sort of storeroom for papers, panels, frames, canvases, colors, etc., and one of the garrets a joiner's shop. Bookcases were to be placed against all the walls of the studio, which would serve as a library at the same time.
CHAPTER XX.
1891-1894.
Removal to Paris.—Interest in the Bois de Boulogne.—M. Vierge.—"Man
in Art."—Contributions to "Scribner's Magazine."—New form of "The
Portfolio."—Honorary degree.—Last Journey to London.—Society of
Illustrators.—Illness and death.
We were no sooner home again than the transformation of my husband's study and laboratory furniture began. He had carefully taken all the necessary measurements, and he now set two joiners to work under his direction.
Of course we had some months of discomfort and fatigue, with the packing up and the sale which preceded our departure. At one time I was almost in despair of ever getting through, Gilbert being so very exacting about the packing that we had to wrap up each single book separately, and to fold up carefully every sheet or bit of paper without creases. It was one of his characteristics, this respectful care he took of books and papers; it went so far that he could hardly bring himself to destroy waste-paper; and when he had not quite filled a page with his writing, he would cut off the white piece and lay it aside in a drawer for further use; nay more, after making use of these fragments of paper for notes which had been copied out, he drew a line of red or blue pencil across the writing, and returned the paper to another drawer to be used on the other side. And it was not for the sake of economy, for he was frequently indulging in the purchase of note-books, pocket-books, memorandum-books, etc. No; it was a sort of instinctive respect. If any one held a book carelessly, or let it fall, he was absolutely miserable, and could not refrain from remonstrating. When we unpacked, he directed a man to fold up the papers which had been used as wrappers, and when I told him that the papers were not worth the man's wages and had better be thrown into the street, he looked surprised, and reluctantly allowed them to be stuffed into the empty boxes; but be could not bring himself to remain while it was being done.
It was hard to break away from the associations of so many years, and the last meal we took tête-à-tête in the dining-room, emptied of all its furniture except a small table and two chairs, was a melancholy one. I swallowed many a tear, and Gilbert's voice was somewhat tremulous when he attempted to talk.
Roberts Brothers had inquired early in the year if Mr. Hamerton had decided about a new book, and had been answered in the affirmative. They now said: "We hasten to reply to your query. Yes, we think 'The Quest of Happiness' an admirable title for a book destined for the popular heart—so happy that it will of itself sell it. Don't meditate about doing it too long."