This success—almost unexpected—led my husband to accept proposals for other literary productions, the most important at that time being contributed to the "Fine Arts Quarterly Review," and beginning with an elaborate criticism of the Salon of 1863. He also began to write for the "Cornhill" and "Macmillan's Magazine," much against his wish, merely because painting was a source of expense without a return.
Although, my husband had himself chosen Sens for his residence, his choice had been dictated by necessity, to a great extent, rather than by preference. It was a combination of conveniences for different purposes, but the kind of scenery was so far from giving entire satisfaction to his artistic tastes that he began to suffer seriously from mountain nostalgia. He admired the river, and had upon it a lovely rowing-boat, bought of the best boat-builder at Asnières, and he used it often, but without finding river landscape a compensation for mountain scenery. In fear of a serious illness, we thought it better to gratify the longing, and devised a plan for a journey to Switzerland which would greatly reduce the expense without spoiling the pleasure. It was this: The new line of railway from Neufchâtel to Pontarlier had just been opened, and passed through the most beautiful scenery. Gilbert offered the company an article in an English paper in return for two travelling tickets, for himself and his wife, and the offer was accepted.
It was a charming holiday. We stayed a few days at Neufchâtel with friends, and visited at our leisure Geneva, Lausanne, Lucerne, Bâle, and Berne, and after feasting his eyes on Mont Pilatus, the Jungfrau, and Mont Blanc, my husband came back cured. He had sometimes spoken of the possibility of a removal to Geneva (before we had been there), on account of the lake and Mont Blanc; but I objected that we did not know the place. To this objection he had a very characteristic answer: "You don't know the place, but I know it as well as if I had dwelt there, after reading so many descriptions of it, and being aware of its geographical situation." When I remarked that it was quite different from what I had anticipated, he said: "It is exactly what I had imagined." He often used to tell us that he had no need of going to Rome, or Vienna, or to any other celebrated town, to know its general aspect, for he had studied their monuments in detail, the prevailing character of their architecture, that of the inhabitants with their costumes and manners, and he was even acquainted with the names and directions of the principal streets.
At the end of the year, our sweet cousin Jane died with great resignation, thankful to be delivered from her long, wearying, consumptive pains. Aunt Susan had volunteered to be her bed-fellow from the month of June, in order to move her gently, and to support the poor wasted frame upon her own, to relieve the bed-sores by a change of posture; her devotion had been indefatigable and unrelieved, for her invalid niece would accept attendance from no one else.
This loss was keenly felt by my husband, whose little playfellow she had been; the threatening symptoms of the disease had prevented her coming to us, together with her father and aunt, as it was proposed they should do in the summer, and now grief did not allow her bereaved relatives to entertain the idea of a change.
It is likely enough that the series of sorrows and disappointments we had experienced since we came to Sens prevented our growing attached to the place; it may be also that our roomy but thoroughly commonplace house, being one of a row in a street devoid of interest, never answered in the least to our need of poetry or even of privacy, particularly with our minds and hearts still full of dear Innistrynich; but certain it is that we did not feel the slightest regret at the idea of leaving it forever; nay, we even longed to be away from it. This feeling was common to both of us, yet we both refrained from mentioning it to each other for some time, thinking it unreasonable, till we came to discuss it together, and to agree that it would not be unreasonable to exchange a house too large for our wants for a smaller one at a lower rent, and a town life that neither of us enjoyed for a simpler mode of living in some picturesque country-place more suitable for my husband's artistic taste.
It must be explained that our partner had decided to take a house in the very heart of Burgundy to carry on the business, on the plea that the name of the renowned vineyards surrounding it, being on the address, were likely to inspire confidence in the customers. He added that the situation would also be more favorable for his purchases, sales, and business journeys, and of course, being the only working partner, he acted as he liked. Then what was the use now of those empty cellars, dreary paved courtyard, and formal office? We had no pleasant associations there, having made no friends on account of our mourning—why should we remain against our inclination?
We decided to remove as soon as we had discovered something for which we might form a real liking, and the result of our experience has been given at length by Mr. Hamerton in "Round my House," to which I refer the reader for details which could not find place in the following brief account of our search.
It was begun on the shores of the Rhône, whose noble landscape my husband so much admired. But although the scenery was very tempting to an artist, that was not the only condition to be considered, and we were soon discouraged by the prevailing dirtiness and slovenliness of the people, and by what we heard of the disastrous inundations. We were also afraid of our children catching the horrid accent of the country. So we thought of the Saône district, Gilbert being unable to bear the idea of being at a remote distance from an expanse of water of some kind.
Here again the landscape was appreciated, though for charms different from those of the Rhône. Unluckily we could not find a suitable house in a good situation, and we also learned that intermittent fevers were very prevalent, on account of the periodical overflows of the Saône.