The Marquis of Breadalbane (the first Marquis) granted me in the kindest way permission to pitch my camp wherever I liked on his extensive estate, and at the same time gave me an invitation to Taymouth Castle.
The Duke of Argyll gave me leave to encamp on an island in Loch Awe that belonged to him, and Mr. Campbell of Monzie granted leave to encamp on his property on the Cladich side of the lake. I ought to have gone to Taymouth to thank Lord Breadalbane and accept the hospitality he had offered, but it happened that he had not fixed a date, so I avoided Taymouth. This was wrong, but young men are generally either forward or backward. The Marquis afterwards expressed himself, to a third person, as rather hurt that I had not been to see him.
My advice to any young man who reads this book is always to _show_ that he appreciates kindness when it is offered. There is not very much of it in the world, but there is some, and it is not enough merely to feel grateful; we ought to accept kindness with visible satisfaction. One of my regrets now is to have sometimes failed in this, usually out of mere shyness, particularly where great people were concerned. Here is another instance. When going to Inverary on the steamer, I made the acquaintance of a very pleasant Scotchman, who turned out to be the Laird of Lamont, on Loch Fyne side. He took an interest in my artistic projects, and very kindly invited me to go and see him. Nothing would have been easier,--I was as free as a fish, and might have sailed down Loch Fyne any day on my own boat,--yet I never went.
The book called "A Painter"s Camp" gave a sufficient account of my first summer in the Highlands, which was not distinguished by much variety, as I remained almost exclusively at Loch Awe; but the novelty of camp life _by choice_ seems to have interested many readers, though they must have been already perfectly familiar with camp life _by necessity_ in the practice of armies and the experience of African travellers. The true explanation of my proceedings is the intense and peculiar charm that there is about encamping in a wild and picturesque country. I had tasted this on the Lancashire moors, and I wanted to taste it again. Just now, whilst writing, I have on my table a letter from an English official in Africa, who tells me of his camp life. He says: "The wagon was generally my sleeping quarter. I had two tents and a riding horse, and very seldom slept in a house or put the horse in a stable. _Such a life was ever, and is now, to me the acme of bliss. No man can be said to have really lived who has not camped out in some such way, and I know well that you especially will say Amen! to this sentiment._ Since 1848, I have lived altogether for about six years in the open, and have never caught a cold. Only, through imprudent uncovering of the head, once in 1855, whilst drawing the topography of a mountain, I was struck down by sunstroke."
The reasons for this intense attraction in camp life are probably complex. One certainly is that it brings us nearer to nature, but a still deeper reason may be that _it revives obscure a.s.sociations that belong to the memory of the race, and not to that of the individual_.
Camping is in the same category with yachting, fishing, and the chase,--a thing practised by civilized man for his amus.e.m.e.nt, because it permits him to resume the habits of less civilized generations. The delight of encamping, for a young man in vigorous health, is the enforced activity in the open air that is inseparably connected with it.
I had only one servant, a young man from the moorland country on the borders of Lancashire and Yorkshire, perfectly well adapted to life in the Highlands. He had excellent health, and was physically a good specimen of our north-English race. It was a pleasure to see his tall straight figure going over the roughest ground with no appearance of hurry, but in fact with such unostentatious swiftness that few sportsmen could follow him. I was myself active enough then, and accustomed to wild places, but he always restrained himself when we did any mountain work together. He afterwards became well known as the "Thursday" of the "Painter"s Camp," but I may give his real name here, which was Young h.e.l.liwell. Temperate, hardy, and extremely prudent, not to be caught by any allurements of vulgar pleasure, he lived wisely in youth, and will probably have fewer regrets than most people in his old age.
Young had studied the art of simple cookery at Hollins, so he was able to keep me tolerably well when we happened to have anything to eat, which was not always. There were no provision shops on Lochaweside; Inverary was at some distance in one direction and Oban in the other, and as I had never given a thought to feeding before, I was an utterly incompetent provider. The consequence was that we fasted like monks, except that our abstinence was not on any regular principle; in fact, sometimes we had so little to eat for days together that we began to feel quite weak. This gave us no anxiety, and we only laughed at it, undereating being always more conducive to good spirits than its opposite, provided that it is not carried too far.
The camp consisted of three structures,--my hut, which was made of wooden panels with plate-gla.s.s windows; a tent for Young, with a wooden floor, and wooden sides to the height of three feet; lastly, a military bell-tent that served for storing things. My hut was both painting-room and habitation, but it would have been better to have had a separate painting-room on rather a larger scale. Mr. Herkomer afterwards imitated the hut for painting from nature in Wales, and he introduced a clever improvement by erecting his hut on a circular platform with a ring-rail, so that it could be turned at will to any point of the compa.s.s. Young"s tent was, in fact, also a kind of hut with a square tent for a roof.
In a climate like that of the West Highlands, wooden floors at least are almost indispensable; but a camp so arranged ceases to be a travelling camp unless you have men and horses in your daily service like a Shah of Persia. It may be moved two or three times in a summer.
I have always had a fancy for double-hulled boats (now generally called catamarans), and had two of them on Loch Awe. This eccentricity was perhaps fortunate, as my boats were extremely safe, each hull being decked from stem to stern and divided internally into water-tight compartments. They could therefore ship a sea with perfect impunity, and although often exposed to sudden and violent squalls, we were never in any real danger. One of my catamarans would beat to windward tolerably well, but she did not tack quickly, and occasionally missed stays.
However, these defects were of slight importance in a boat not intended for racing, and small enough to be always quite manageable with oars.
Since those days I have much improved the construction of catamarans, so that their evolutions are now quicker and more certain. They are absolutely the only sailing-boats that combine lightness with safety and speed.
As to the practice of landscape-painting, I very soon found that the West Highlands were not favorable to painting from nature on account of the rapid changes of effect. Those changes are so revolutionary that they often metamorphose all the oppositions in a natural picture in the course of a single minute. I began by planting my hut on the island called Inishail, in the middle of Loch Awe, with the intention of painting Ben Cruachan from nature, but soon discovered that there were fifty Cruachans a day, each effacing its predecessor, so my picture got on badly. If I painted what was before me, the result was like playing successfully a bar or two from each of several different musical compositions in the vain hope of harmonizing them into one. If I tried to paint my first impression, it became increasingly difficult to do that when the mountain itself presented novel and striking aspects.
Every artist who reads this will now consider the above remarks no better than a commonplace, but in the year 1857 English landscape-painting was going through a peculiar phase. There was, in some of the younger artists, a feeling of dissatisfaction with the slight and superficial work too often produced from hasty water-color sketches, and there was an honest desire for more substantial truth coupled with the hope of attaining it by working directly from nature.
My critical master, Mr. Ruskin, saw in working from nature the only hope for the regeneration of art, and my practical master, Mr. Pett.i.tt, considered it the height of artistic virtue to sit down before nature and work on the details of a large picture for eight or ten weeks together. I was eagerly anxious to do what was considered most right, and quite willing to undergo any degree of inconvenience. The truth is, perhaps, that (like other devotees) I rather enjoyed the sacrifice of convenience for what seemed to me, at that time, the sacred cause of veracity in art.
The Highlands of Scotland were intensely attractive to me, as being a kind of sublimation of the wild northern landscape that I had already loved in my native Lancashire; but the Highlands were not well chosen as a field for self-improvement in the art of painting. A student ought not to choose the most changeful of landscapes, but the least changeful; not the Highlands or the English Lake District, but the dullest landscape he can find in the south or the east of England. Norfolk would have been a better country for me, as a student, than Argyllshire. If, however, any prudent adviser had told me to go to dull scenery in those days, it would have been like telling a pa.s.sionate lover of great capitals to go and live in a narrow little provincial town. I hated dull, unromantic scenery, and at the same time had the pa.s.sion for mountains, lakes, wild moorland, and everything that was rough and uncultivated,--a pa.s.sion so predominant that it resembled rather the natural instinct of an animal for its own habitat than the choice of a reasonable being. I loved everything in the Highlands, even the bad weather; I delighted in clouds and storms, and have never experienced any natural influences more in harmony with the inmost feelings of my own nature than those of a great lake"s dark waters when they dashed in spray on the rocks of some lonely islet and my boat flew past in the gray and dreary gloaming.
"Le paysage," says a French critic, "est un etat d"ame." He meant that _what we seek_ in nature is that which answers to the state of our own souls. What is called dreary, wild, and melancholy scenery afforded me, at that time, a kind of satisfaction more profound than that which is given by any of the human arts. I loved painting, but all the collections in Europe attracted me less than the barren northern end of our own island, in which there are no pictures; I loved architecture, and chose a country that is utterly dest.i.tute of it; I delighted in music, and pitched my tent where there was no music but that of the winds and the waves.
The Loch Awe of those days was not the Loch Awe of the present. There was no railway; there was not a steamer on the lake, either public or private; there was no hotel by the waterside, only one or two small inns, imperceptible in the vastness of the almost uninhabited landscape.
The lake was therefore almost a solitude, and this, added to the wildness of the climate and the peculiarly simple and temporary character of my habitation, made nature much more profoundly impressive than it ever is amidst the powerful rivalry of the works of man. The effect on my mind was, on the whole, saddening, but not in the least depressing. It was a kind of poetic sadness that had nothing to do with low spirits. I have never been either merry or melancholy, but have kept an equable cheerfulness that maintains itself serenely enough even in solitude and amidst the desolate aspects of stony and barren lands. As life advances, it is wise, however, to seek the more cheering influences of the external world, and those are rather to be found in the brightest and sunniest landscape, with abundant evidence of happy human habitation; some southern land of the vine where the chestnut grows high on the hills, and the peach and the pear ripen richly in innumerable gardens.
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
1857-1858.
Small immediate results of the expedition to the Highlands.--Unsuitable system of work.--Loss of time.--I rent the house and island of Innistrynich.--My dread of marriage and the reasons for it.--Notwithstanding this I make an offer and am refused.--Two young ladies of my acquaintance.--Idea of a foreign marriage.--Its inconveniences.--Decision to ask for the hand of Mdlle. Gindriez.--I go to Paris and am accepted.--Elective affinities.
The immediate artistic results of the expedition to the Highlands were very small. I had gone there to paint detailed work from nature, when I ought to have gone to sketch, and so adapt my work to the peculiar character of the climate.
The tendency then was to detail, and the merit and value of good sketching were not properly understood. There has been a complete revolution, both in public and in artistic opinion, since those days.
The revival of etching, which in its liveliest and most spontaneous form is only sketching on copper, the study of sketches by the great masters, the publication of sketches by modern artists of eminence in the artistic magazines, have all led to a far better appreciation of vitality in art, and consequently have tended to raise good sketching both in popular and in professional estimation. At the Paris Exhibition of 1889 the Grand Prizes for engraving were given to an English sketching etcher, Haden, and to two French etchers, Boilvin and Chauvel.
In 1857, I and many others looked upon sketching as defective work, excusable only on the plea of want of time to do better. The omissions in a sketch, which when intelligent are merits, seemed to me, on the contrary, so many faults. In a word, I knew nothing about sketching. My way was to draw very carefully and accurately, and then fill in the color and detail in the most painstaking fashion from nature. I went by line and detail, n.o.body having ever taught me anything about ma.s.s and tonic values, still less about the difference between art and nature, and the necessity for transposing nature into the keys of art. The consequence was a great waste of time, and of only too earnest efforts with hardly anything to show for them.
Here I leave this subject of art for the present, as it will be necessary to recur to it later.
My guardian, like all women, had an objection to what was not customary, and as my camp was considered a piece of eccentricity, she wanted me to take a house on Lochaweside. The island called Innistrynich, which is near the sh.o.r.e, where the road from Inverary to Dalmally comes nearest to the lake, had a house upon it that happened to be untenanted. There were twelve small rooms, and the camping experience had made me very easy to please. It was possible to have the whole island (about thirty acres) as a home farm, so I took it on a lease. This turned out a misfortune afterwards, as I got tied to the place, not only by the lease, but by a binding affection which was extremely inconvenient, and led to very unfortunate consequences.
My dear guardian had another idea. Though she had prudently avoided marriage on her own account, she thought it very desirable for me, and sometimes recurred to the subject. Her heart complaint made her own life extremely precarious, and she wished me to have the stay and anchorage of a second affection that might make the world less dreary for me after she had left it. At the same time it may be suspected that she looked to marriage as the best chance of converting me to her own religious opinions, or at least of obtaining outward conformity. To confess the plain truth, I had a great dread of marriage, and not at all from any aversion to feminine society, or from any insensibility to love.
My two reasons were these, and all subsequent observation and experience have confirmed them. For a person given up to intellectual and artistic pursuits there is a special value in mental and pecuniary independence.
So far as I could observe married men in England, they enjoyed very little mental independence, being obliged, on the most important questions, to succ.u.mb to the opinions of their wives, because what is called "the opinion of Society" is essentially feminine opinion. In our cla.s.s the ladies were all strong Churchwomen and Tories, and the men I most admired for the combination of splendid talents with high principle, were to them (so far as they knew anything about such men) objects of reprobation and abhorrence. No mother was ever loved by a son more devotedly than my guardian was by me, and yet her intolerance would have been hard to bear in a wife. Kind as she always was in manner, the theological injustice which had been instilled into her mind from infancy made her look upon me as bad company for my friends, as a heretic likely to contaminate their orthodoxy. I could bear that, or anything, from her, but I determined that if I married at all it should not be to live under perpetual theological disapprobation.
The other grave objection to marriage was the dread of losing pecuniary independence. I cared nothing for luxury and display, having an unaffected preference for plain living, and being easily bored by the elaborate observances of fine society, so that comparative poverty had no terrors for me on that account; but there was another side to the matter. A student clings to his studies, and dreads the interference that may take him away from them. An independent bachelor can afford to follow unremunerative study; a married man, unless he is rich, must lay out his time to the best pecuniary advantage. His hours are at the disposal of the highest bidder.
There was a young lady in Burnley for whom I had had a boyish attachment long before, and whom I saw very frequently at her father"s house in the years preceding 1858. He was a banker in very good circ.u.mstances, and a kind friend of mine, as intimate, perhaps, as was possible considering the difference of years. He had been a Wrangler at Cambridge, and now employed his forcible and fully matured intellect freely on all subjects that came in his way, without deference to the popular opinions of the hour. These qualities, rare enough in the upper middle cla.s.s of those days, made him very interesting to me, and I liked my place in an easy-chair opposite to his, when he was in the humor for talking. He had three handsome daughters, and his eldest son had been my school-fellow, and was still, occasionally at least, one of my companions. Their mother was a remarkably handsome and amiable lady, so that the house was as pleasant as any house could be. We had music and played quintets, and the eldest daughter sometimes played a duet with me. She was a good amateur musician, well educated in other ways, and with a great charm of voice and manner. Under these circ.u.mstances it is not surprising that the old boyish attachment revived on my side, though there was nothing answering to it on hers.
My good friend, her father, sometimes talked to me about marriage, and expressed the regret that in a state of civilization like ours, and in our cla.s.s, a family of children should be a cause of weakness instead of strength. In a primitive agricultural community, sons are of great value, they are an increase of the family force; in a highly-civilized condition, they only weaken the father by draining away his income.
"Daughters," said my friend, "are of use in primitive societies and in the English middle cla.s.s, because they do the work of the house, and spare servants; but our young ladies do nothing of the least use, and require to be first expensively educated, and afterwards expensively amused." My friend then went into details about the cost of his own family, which was heavy without extravagance or ostentation. All this was intended to warn me, but I asked if he had any objection to me personally as a son-in-law. He answered, with all the kindness I expected, that there was no objection to make (he was too intelligent to see anything criminal in my philosophical opinions), and that in what he had said about the costliness of marriage he had spoken merely as a friend, thinking of the weight of the burden I might be taking upon myself, and the inconvenience to my own life in the future.
One afternoon his daughter and I were alone together, playing a duet, when I asked her if she would have me, and she laughingly declined. I remember being so little hurt by the refusal that I said: "That is not the proper way to refuse an, offer; you ought to express a little regret--you might say, at least, that you are sorry." Then the young lady laughed again, and said: "Very well, I will say that I am sorry, if you wish it." And so we parted, without any further expression of sentiment on either side.
I never could understand why men make themselves wretched after a refusal. It only proves that the young lady does not care very much for one, and it is infinitely better that she should let him know that before marriage than after. It was soon quite clear to me that, in this case, the young lady"s decision had been the wise one. We were not really suited for each other, and we should never have been happy, both of us, in the same kind of existence. Perhaps she was rather difficult to please, or indifferent to marriage, for she never accepted anybody, and is living still (1889) in happy independence as an old maid, within a short distance of h.e.l.lifield Peel. I had a little indirect evidence, thirty years afterwards, that she had not forgotten me. Most likely she will survive me and read this. If she does, let the page convey a complete acknowledgment of her good sense.
This was the only offer of marriage I ever made in England. There was a certain very wealthy heiress whose uncle was extremely kind to me, and he pushed his kindness so far as to wish me to marry her. She was well-bred, her manners were quite equal to her fortune, and she had a good appearance, but the idea of marriage did not occur to either of us.
Some time afterwards, her uncle said to a friend of mine: "I cannot understand Hamerton; I wanted him to marry my niece, and he has gone and married a French woman." "Oh!" said the other, "that was only to improve his French!"
There was another case that I would have pa.s.sed in silence, had not people in Lancashire persistently circulated a story of an offer and a refusal. A young lady, also a rich heiress, though not quite so rich as the other, had a property a few miles distant from mine. She was a very attractive girl, very pretty, and extremely intelligent, and we were very good friends. To say, in this case, that the idea of marriage never occurred would he untrue; but when I first knew her she was hardly more than a child, and afterwards it became apparent to me that to live happily in her house I should have to stifle all my opinions on important subjects, so I never made the offer that our friends and perhaps she herself expected. Whether she would have accepted me or not is quite another question. Had I made any proposal I should have accompanied it by a very plain statement of my obnoxious opinions on religion and politics, and these would almost certainly have produced a rupture. After my marriage, and before hers, we met again in the old friendly way. I was paying a call with my wife, in a country house in Lancashire, when a carriage came up the drive--_her_ carriage--and the lady of the house, extremely fluttered, asked me if I had no objection to meet Miss ----. "On the contrary," I said, "I like to meet old friends." The young lady visibly enjoyed the humor of the situation, and the embarra.s.sment of our hostess. We talked easily in the old way, and afterwards my wife and I left on foot, and _her_ carriage pa.s.sed us, rather stately, with servants in livery. "There goes your most dangerous rival," I said to my wife, and told her what story there was to tell.
"She is much prettier than I am," was the modest answer, "and evidently a good deal richer; and she is a charming person." In due time Miss ---- married very suitably. Her husband is a good Churchman and Conservative, who takes a proper interest in the pursuits belonging to his station.
My guardian was of opinion that with my philosophical convictions, which were at that time not only unpopular, but odious and execrated in our own cla.s.s in England, I should have to remain an old bachelor. She herself would certainly never have married an unbeliever, and although her great personal affection for me made her glad to have me in the house, she must have felt that it was like sheltering a pariah. Her sister once heard some rumor or suggestion, connecting my name with that of a pious young lady, and looked upon it as a sort of sacrilege. Under these circ.u.mstances I came at last to the conclusion that, being under a ban, I would at least enjoy my liberty, either by living my own life as a bachelor, or else by marrying purely and simply according to inclination, without any reference to the opinion of other people.
It was at this time that the idea of a foreign marriage first occurred to me as a possibility. I had never thought of it before, and if such an idea had entered my head, the clear foresight of the enormous inconveniences would have immediately expelled it. A foreign marriage is, in fact, quite an acc.u.mulation of inconveniences. One of the two parties must always be living in a foreign country, and in all their intercourse together one of the two must always be speaking a foreign language. The families of the two parties will never know each other or understand each other properly; there will be either estrangement or misunderstanding. And unless there is great largeness of mind in the parties themselves, the difference of national customs is sure to produce quarrels.
All this was plain enough, and yet one morning, when I was writing on my desk (a tall oak desk that I used to stand up to), the idea suddenly came, as if somebody had uttered these words in my ear: "Why should you remain lonely all your days? Eugenie Gindriez would be an affectionate and faithful wife to you. She is not rich, but you would work and fight your way."
I pushed aside the sheet of ma.n.u.script and took a sheet of note-paper instead. I then wrote, in French, a letter to a lady in Paris who knew the Gindriez family, and asked her if Mademoiselle Eugenie was engaged to be married. The answer came that she was well, and that there had been no engagement. Soon afterwards I was in Paris.
I called on M. Gindriez, but his daughter was not at home. I asked permission to call in the evening, and she was out again. This was repeated two or three times, and my wife told me afterwards that the absences had not been accidental. At last we met, and there was nothing in her manner but a certain gravity, as if serious resolutions were impending. Her sister showed no such reserve, but greeted me gayly and frankly. After a few days, I was accepted on the condition of an annual visit to France.
From a worldly point of view, this engagement was what is called in French _une folie_, on my part, and hardly less so on the part of the young lady. We had, however, a kind of inward a.s.surance that in spite of the difference of nationality and other differences, we were, in truth, nearer to each other than most people who contract matrimonial engagements. The "elective affinities" act in spite of all appearances and of many realities.
We have often talked over that time since, and have confessed that we really knew hardly anything of each other, that our union was but an instinctive choice. However, in 1858 I had neither doubt nor anxiety, and in 1889 I have neither anxiety nor doubt.
CHAPTER x.x.xII.
1858.
Reception at home after engagement.--Preparations at Innistrynich.--I arrive alone in Paris.--My marriage.--The religious ceremony.--An uncomfortable wedding.--The sea from Dieppe.--London.--The Academy Exhibition of 1858.--Impressions of a French woman.--The Turner collection.--The town.--Loch Awe.--The element wanting to happiness.