Much time was devoted to the exhibitions in 1892. The Salons, of course, had many visits, but they did not give so much pleasure to Gilbert as "Les Cent Chefs-d'oeuvre," or the Pelouse Exhibition; he was also greatly interested by Raffet's works.
Our children spent with us a month of the long vacation, as they used to do at Pré-Charmoy, and our excursions to the most picturesque places in the neighborhood of Paris became more frequent. We had formed a project for going to Pierre-fonds and Compiègne; but my husband, being now most anxious to finish "Man in Art" before Christmas, regretfully put off the excursions to the ensuing year. Now that he had regained the buoyancy of his spirits, he was fully alive to the peculiar charms of the country about Paris, and even intended to write a series of small books on the most noteworthy and remarkable places—something in the way of exhaustive guides. He thought of beginning with those that he knew thoroughly well already, and to acquaint himself gradually with the others.
In September our son-in-law, with his wife, went to stay with his parents for the remainder of the vacation; but Mary left them a few days before her husband to see her relatives at Chalon, and in the way of consolation, her father sent the following to Raoul:—
"BEATUS ILLE.
"Blest is the man whose wife is gone away!
From cares exempt, he dwells in perfect peace.
His heart is light as boy's on holiday.
He walks abroad and joys in his release.
The cat is gone, the frisky mouse doth play.
The fox remote, walk forth the wandering geese.
So he, delivered, thinks his troubles past,
O halcyon days!—if they could only last.
"P. G. H. to R. R.
"Sept. 11, 1892."
Ever since he had heard of Lord Tennyson's illness, my husband had been greatly concerned, and never missed going every evening to the Auteuil railway station for the latest news. After the death of the poet he wrote to Mr. Seeley:—
"One must die some time; but it is still rather saddening to know that Tennyson is no longer a living poet. I have always enjoyed his verse very much; the art is so perfect, so superior to that of Browning or Wordsworth, even to that of Byron. I know of no poet to equal Tennyson in finish except Shelley, Keats, and Horace, and those three only in gems."
In a letter to Miss Betham-Edwards he had said once: "Have you observed how very careful Tennyson has always been never to publish prose? That was capital policy in his case; he seems so much more the poet to the world outside."