without their painting supplies, and as they grew older, both became deeply serious about their art, Beatrix in watercolor, Bertram in oils. And both were nature artists: Bertram painted large landscapes, while Beatrix thought of herself as a miniaturist, painting plants and the small animals she loved to collect: rabbits, mice, guinea pigs, frogs, and more.
Bertram was small for his age, and delicate. But the Potters packed him off to school at the age of eleven, while Beatrix stayed behind to continue her studies at home. Beatrix always felt that she got much the better of the bargain, for Bertram was miserable at school. He could never stand up for himself against bullies, and seemed to have few friends. He had little direction, preferring painting to Latin, Euclid, and most especially to rugby. The headmaster’s reports made Mr. Potter mutter and scowl furiously, while Mrs. Potter dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes and refused to distress herself by discussing the matter.
Very little changed as Bertram grew older, the Potters continuing to be disappointed in his lack of interest in anything they thought suitable for him. At twenty, with a great family fanfare, he went off to Oxford. But he didn’t stay long, and when he came back to London, he was desperately unhappy and far too fond of the bottle. Bertram’s drinking might have been caused by the family failing that seems to have hastened the end of poor Uncle William Leech (“The story is so shocking I cannot write it,” Beatrix once confessed to her journal). More likely, it was his way of rebelling against his eternally disappointed mother and the carping, critical father whom he could never please. Beatrix, always intensely aware of the emotional climate in the family and continually feeling that she ought to be able to do something to make things happier for all of them, did what she could to shield Bertram from the worst of their parents’ displeasure.
After the failure at Oxford, Bertram simply stayed away. First, he went abroad. Then he began taking long sketching trips to the Scottish border country where he and Beatrix had spent so many happy weeks and months as children. And finally, about the same time that Peter Rabbit became popular and Beatrix began escaping into her little books, Bertram escaped, too. He bought a small north country farm called Ashyburn, where he could spend most of his time painting.
As the years went on, Bertram saw less and less of the family, joining them only at the holiday, and then for only a few days. Mr. and Mrs. Potter loudly lamented his neglect, but Beatrix understood, all too well. If she had been their son, instead of their daughter, she might have done just what Bertram did. In fact, in one important way she had. Bertram defied their displeasure by buying Ashyburn and going there to live. Beatrix bought Hill Top, and spent as much time there as she possibly could.
Bertram cast an approving look around the room. “For one who is such a disappointment to her parents,” he said lightly, “you seem to have done quite well by yourself. I like it, Bea. I like it very much.”
“Thank you,” Beatrix replied modestly. “Shall we have a cup of tea?”
“I had rather have the grand tour of your farm, starting with this marvelous old house.”
“You were here when Mama and Papa were at Lakefield a few years ago, weren’t you?” Beatrix asked, hanging his cap and umbrella on a peg. The Potters had taken a holiday house on Esthwaite Water and had boarded their coachman (Mrs. Potter liked to take the carriage out in the afternoon) at Hill Top Farm.
“Yes, I was here,” Bertram said with a chuckle. “Remember the day we found Hortense and heard all about those blasted fairies?”
“Of course,” Beatrix laughed, too, remembering. Mrs. Allen, who lived at Willow Bank Cottage on Graythwaite Farm, kept exotic pets, among whom was a pair of tortoises named Hortense and Horatio. Hortense had escaped to the lake,
Bertram was small for his age, and delicate. But the Potters packed him off to school at the age of eleven, while Beatrix stayed behind to continue her studies at home. Beatrix always felt that she got much the better of the bargain, for Bertram was miserable at school. He could never stand up for himself against bullies, and seemed to have few friends. He had little direction, preferring painting to Latin, Euclid, and most especially to rugby. The headmaster’s reports made Mr. Potter mutter and scowl furiously, while Mrs. Potter dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes and refused to distress herself by discussing the matter.
Very little changed as Bertram grew older, the Potters continuing to be disappointed in his lack of interest in anything they thought suitable for him. At twenty, with a great family fanfare, he went off to Oxford. But he didn’t stay long, and when he came back to London, he was desperately unhappy and far too fond of the bottle. Bertram’s drinking might have been caused by the family failing that seems to have hastened the end of poor Uncle William Leech (“The story is so shocking I cannot write it,” Beatrix once confessed to her journal). More likely, it was his way of rebelling against his eternally disappointed mother and the carping, critical father whom he could never please. Beatrix, always intensely aware of the emotional climate in the family and continually feeling that she ought to be able to do something to make things happier for all of them, did what she could to shield Bertram from the worst of their parents’ displeasure.
After the failure at Oxford, Bertram simply stayed away. First, he went abroad. Then he began taking long sketching trips to the Scottish border country where he and Beatrix had spent so many happy weeks and months as children. And finally, about the same time that Peter Rabbit became popular and Beatrix began escaping into her little books, Bertram escaped, too. He bought a small north country farm called Ashyburn, where he could spend most of his time painting.
As the years went on, Bertram saw less and less of the family, joining them only at the holiday, and then for only a few days. Mr. and Mrs. Potter loudly lamented his neglect, but Beatrix understood, all too well. If she had been their son, instead of their daughter, she might have done just what Bertram did. In fact, in one important way she had. Bertram defied their displeasure by buying Ashyburn and going there to live. Beatrix bought Hill Top, and spent as much time there as she possibly could.
Bertram cast an approving look around the room. “For one who is such a disappointment to her parents,” he said lightly, “you seem to have done quite well by yourself. I like it, Bea. I like it very much.”
“Thank you,” Beatrix replied modestly. “Shall we have a cup of tea?”
“I had rather have the grand tour of your farm, starting with this marvelous old house.”
“You were here when Mama and Papa were at Lakefield a few years ago, weren’t you?” Beatrix asked, hanging his cap and umbrella on a peg. The Potters had taken a holiday house on Esthwaite Water and had boarded their coachman (Mrs. Potter liked to take the carriage out in the afternoon) at Hill Top Farm.
“Yes, I was here,” Bertram said with a chuckle. “Remember the day we found Hortense and heard all about those blasted fairies?”
“Of course,” Beatrix laughed, too, remembering. Mrs. Allen, who lived at Willow Bank Cottage on Graythwaite Farm, kept exotic pets, among whom was a pair of tortoises named Hortense and Horatio. Hortense had escaped to the lake,
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