I was very glad of this decision about his portrait, for I had not a good likeness of him, except the fine photograph taken by Mr. Palmer; and of course since that time his features had altered. They retained their expression of intellectuality and dignity, softened, as it were, by the discipline and experience of years. Hitherto he had always resisted any attempt to publish his portrait among a series of celebrities; but this time he yielded to my entreaties; and he was afterwards satisfied to have done so, for the three photographs taken on the same day were all good likenesses. From the best of them was engraved—later—through the care and sympathy of Messrs. Scribner, the fine and striking portrait which appeared in their Magazine of February, 1895.
It was, I believe, a sort of unconscious presentiment which prompted my husband to see all his friends during this last visit to England. Knowing that he had so much pressing work on hand, I had been surprised by his decision to go to London so soon after his last journey, and still more to hear that he intended to go to Holmwood to make the acquaintance of Mr. C. Gould, the son of his cousin Anne; to Dorking, to see Mrs. Hamerton, of Hellifield Peel, and her married daughter; to Alresford, to stay a couple of days with Sir Seymour Haden and his wife; and then to Southampton, to call upon Mr. R. Leslie. All these arrangements surprised me exceedingly; but I came to the conclusion that my husband's health must be excellent, since he volunteered to undertake, with evident pleasure, what he would have dreaded to do some time ago.
Indeed, his letters expressed nothing but enjoyment from all these visits, and the keen interest he took in the Academy exhibition.
He was made very welcome by Sir Frederick Leighton, to whom he explained the grievances of the Illustrators, and who gave him a promise to do his best for them; and Mr. Hamerton was glad to think he might have been of use.
A singular occurrence happened shortly after his return. Friends, more particularly those who came from abroad, were often debarred from accepting his invitations on account of the distance between Paris and the Parc des Princes, and the consequent lateness of the hour when they could reach their home or hotel after dining at Clématis. Gilbert, therefore, had adopted a plan—much in use in the French capital—which consists in inviting friends to a conveniently situated restaurant, where the goodness of the cookery and attendance may be relied upon. It occurred to my husband to try the Terminus Hotel at the Gare du Havre, from which many travellers start for England; and he invited M. Raillard to test the place with him. They were both pleased with it, and left at about ten p.m. It was most fortunate that they did not remain much longer, for at eleven an explosion, caused by a dynamite bomb, wrecked the room in which they had dined, and wounded several people.
A long-deferred meeting with Mr. Frederick Harrison took place in June, and the day was spent in visiting the Louvre, Tuileries, Notre Dame, and the Hôtel de Ville.
We had also been expecting with pleasant anticipations the visit of Mr. Niles, when we received the sad news of his death at Perugia, and learned that he had been in failing health for some years, and had decided to come to Europe for rest. My husband's regrets were very sincere. From time to time we had news of R. L. Stevenson; those received in a letter from Mr. R. A.M. Stevenson, in the course of the same mouth, were very pleasing.
"I heard from R. L. Stevenson a few weeks ago. He said: 'If you saw me here you would no longer question my wisdom in staying; you would not wonder at my preferring this life to that of Bournemouth.' In England he passed half his time in bed, the whole winter in the house, and he could never walk half-a-mile. Now he is out by six in the morning, sometimes bathes, and occasionally spends the whole day in the saddle. He was always fond of the open air, and though never strong, was a good walker, and, as you know, able to do a little boating. He often spoke to me of his visit to you at Autun."
The assassination of President Carnot, which occurred in June, grieved and horrified my husband as much as if he had been a Frenchman. He had the greatest respect for the scrupulous manner in which M. Carnot discharged all his duties, and admired the simple dignity with which he held the rank of First Citizen of a great nation. Being himself a Liberal—but a Moderate one—it had given him hopes for the stability of a Moderate-Liberal Republic, to see at the head of it the personification of unsuspected honesty and wise patriotism.
On the whole, he was satisfied with the choice of his successor, and amused by this phrase about M. Casimir-Périer in one of Mr. Seeley's letters: "I saw a portrait of the new French President lately. He looks a man not to be trifled with." The remark has been curiously justified since.