I must be back in England by the 1st October, and by the 10th shall be
myself ready to start for Brantwood, but may perhaps stay, if Joanie
is not ready, till she can come too. Anyway, I trust very earnestly to
be safe in the shelter of my own woodside by the end of October. I
wonder what you will say of my account of the Five Lovers of Nature[29]
and seclusion in the last _Nineteenth Century_?
I am a little ashamed to find that in spite of my sublimely savage
temperament, I take a good deal more pleasure in Paris than of old,
and am even going back there on Friday for three more days.
We find the people here very amiable, and the French old character
unchanged. The perfect cleanliness and unruffledness of white cap, is
always a marvel, and the market groups exquisite, but our enjoyment of
the fair is subdued by pity for a dutiful dog, who turns a large
wheel (by walking up it inside) the whole afternoon, producing awful
sounds out of a huge grinding organ, of which his wheel and he are the
unfortunate instruments. Him we love, his wheel we hate! and in
general all French musical instruments. I have become quite sure of
one thing on this journey, that the French of to-day have no sense of
harmony, but only of more or less lively tune, and even, for a time,
will be content with any kind of clash or din produced in time.
The Cathedral service is, however, still impressive.
[Footnote 29: Rousseau, Shelley, Byron, Turner, and John Ruskin.]
* * * * *
PARIS, _18th September_, 1880.
What a _very_ sad little letter, and how very naughty of my little
Susie to be sad because there are still six weeks to the end of
October! How thankful should we both be to have six weeks still before
us of the blessed bright autumn days, with their quiet mildnesses in
the midst of northern winds; and that these six weeks are of the year
1880--instead of '81 or '82--and that we both can read, and think, and
see flowers and skies, and be happy in making each other happy. _What_
a naughty little Susie, to want to throw any of her six weeks away!
I've just sealed in its envelope for post the most important Fors I
have yet written, addressed to the Trades Unions,[30] and their
committees are to have as many copies as they like free, for
distribution, free (dainty packets of Dynamite). I suspect I shall get
into hot water with _some_ people for it. Also I've been afraid
myself, to set it all down, for once! But down it is, and out it shall
come! and there's a nice new bit of article for the _Nineteenth
Century_, besides anyhow I keep you in reading, Susie--do you know
it's a very bad compliment to me that you find time pass so slowly!
I wonder why you gave me that little lecture about being "a city on a
hill." I don't want to be anything of the sort, and I'm going to-night
to see the Fille du Tambour-Major at the Folies Dramatiques.
[Footnote 30: "Fors," vol. viii., Letter 5.]
* * * * *
BRANTWOOD, _16th February, 1881_.
I've much to tell you "to-day"[31] of answer to those prayers you
prayed for me. But you must be told it by our good angels, for your
eyes must not be worn. God willing, you shall see men as trees walking
in the garden of God, on this pretty Coniston earth of ours. Don't be
afraid, and please be happy, for I can't be, if you are not. Love to
Mary, to Miss Rigbye, and my own St. Ursula,[32] and mind you give the
messages _to all three, heartily_.
[Footnote 31: The motto on Mr. Ruskin's seal. See "Praeterita", vol. ii.,]
[Footnote 32: Photograph of Carpaccio's.]
* * * * *
BRANTWOOD, _22d April, 1881_.
I'm not able to scratch or fight to-day, or I wouldn't let you cover
me up with this heap of gold; but I've got a rheumatic creak in my
neck, which makes me physically stiff and morally supple and
unprincipled, so I've put two pounds sixteen in my own "till," where
it just fills up some lowering of the tide lately by German bands and
the like, and I've put ten pounds aside for Sheffield Museum, now in
instant mendicity, and I've put ten pounds aside till you and I can
have a talk and you be made reasonable, after being scolded and
scratched, after which, on your promise to keep to our old bargain and
enjoy spending your little "Frondes" income, I'll be your lovingest
again. And for the two pounds ten, and the ten, I am really most
heartily grateful, meaning as they do so much that is delightful for
both of us in the good done by this work of yours.
I send you Spenser; perhaps you had better begin with the Hymn to
Beauty, page 39, and then go on to the Tears; but you'll see how you
like it. It's better than Longfellow; see line 52--
"The house of blessed gods which men call skye."
Now I'm going to look out Dr. Kendall's crystal. It _must_ be
crystal,[33] for having brought back the light to your eyes.
[Footnote 33: For a present to Dr. Kendall.]
* * * * *
BRANTWOOD, _12th July, 1881_.
How delightful that you have that nice Mrs. Howard to hear you say
"The Ode to Beauty," and how nice that you can learn it and enjoy
saying it![34] I do not know it myself. I only know that it should be
known and said and heard and loved.
I _am_ often near you in thought, but can't get over the lake somehow.
There's always somebody to be looked after here, now. I've to rout the
gardeners out of the greenhouse, or I should never have a strawberry
or a pink, but only nasty gloxinias and glaring fuchsias, and I've
been giving lessons to dozens of people and writing charming sermons
in the "Bible of Amiens"; but I get so sleepy in the afternoon I can't
pull myself over it.
I was looking at your notes on birds yesterday. How sweet they are!
But I can't forgive that young blackbird for getting wild again.[35]
[Footnote 34: I learnt the whole of it by heart, and could then say it
without a break. I have always loved it, and in return it has helped
me through many a long and sleepless night.--S. B.]
[Footnote 35: Pages 101 _et seqq._]
* * * * *
_Last Day of 1881. And the last letter
I write on it, with new pen._
I've lunched on _your_ oysters, and am feasting eyes and mind on
_your_ birds.
What birds?
Woodcock? Yes, I suppose, and never before noticed the _sheath_ of his
bill going over the front of the lower mandible that he may dig
comfortably! But the others! the glory of velvet and silk and cloud
and light, and black and tan and gold, and golden sand, and dark
tresses, and purple shadows and moors and mists and night and
starlight, and woods and wilds and dells and deeps, and every mystery
of heaven and its finger work, is in those little birds' backs and
wings. I am so grateful. All love and joy to you, and wings to fly
with and birds' hearts to comfort, and mine, be to you in the coming
year.
* * * * *
_Easter Day_, 1882.
I have had a happy Easter morning, entirely bright in its sun and
clear in sky; and with renewed strength enough to begin again the
piece of St. Benedict's life where I broke off, to lose these four
weeks in London,--weeks not wholly lost neither, for I have learned
more and more of what I should have known without lessoning; but I
_have_ learnt it, from these repeated dreams and fantasies, that we
walk in a vain shadow and disquiet ourselves in vain. So I am for the
present, everybody says, quite good, and give as little trouble as
possible; but people _will_ take it, you know, sometimes, even when I
don't give it, and there's a great fuss about me yet. But _you_ must
not be anxious any more, Susie, for really there is no more occasion
at one time than another. All the doctors say I needn't be ill unless
I like, and I don't mean to like any more; and as far as chances of
ordinary danger, I think one runs more risks in a single railway
journey, than in the sicknesses of a whole year.
* * * * *
HERNE HILL, _8th June_ (1882).
You write as well as ever, and the eyes must surely be better, and it
was a joyful amazement to me to hear that Mary was able to read and
could enjoy my child's botany. You always have things before other
people; will you please send me some rosemary and lavender as soon as
any are out? I am busy on the Labiatae, and a good deal bothered. Also
St. Benedict, whom I shall get done with long before I've made out the
nettles he rolled in.
I'm sure I ought to roll myself in nettles, burdocks, and blackthorn,
for here in London I can't really think now of anything but flirting,
and I'm only much the worse for it afterwards.
And I'm generally wicked and weary, like the people who ought to be
put to rest. But you'd miss me, and so would Joanie; so I suppose I
shall be let stay a little while longer.
* * * * *
SALLANCHES, SAVOY, _13th September_ (1882).
I saw Mont Blanc again to-day, unseen since 1877; and was very
thankful. It is a sight that always redeems me to what I am capable of
at my poor little best, and to what loves and memories are most
precious to me. So I write to _you_, one of the few true loves left.
The snow has fallen fresh on the hills, and it makes me feel that I
must soon be seeking shelter at Brantwood and the Thwaite.
* * * * *
GENOA, _Sunday, 24th September_ (1882).
I got your delightful note yesterday at Turin, and it made me wish to
run back through the tunnel directly instead of coming on here. But I
had a wonderful day, the Alps clear all the morning all round
Italy--two hundred miles of them; and then in the afternoon blue waves
of the Gulf of Genoa breaking like blue clouds, thunderclouds, under
groves of olive and palm. But I wished they were my sparkling waves of
Coniston instead, when I read your letter again.
What a gay Susie, receiving all the world, like a Queen Susan (how odd
one has never heard of a Queen Susan!), only you _are_ so naughty, and
you never do tell me of any of those nice girls when they're _coming_,
but only when they're gone, and I never shall get glimpse of them as
long as I live.
But you know you really represent the entire Ruskin school of the Lake
Country, and I think these _levees_ of yours must be very amusing and
enchanting; but it's very dear and good of you to let the people come
and enjoy themselves, and how really well and strong you must be to be
able for it.
I am very glad to hear of those sweet, shy girls, poor things.[36] I
suppose the sister they are now anxious about is the one that would
live by herself on the other side of the Lake, and study Emerson and
aspire to Buddhism.
I'm trying to put my own poor little fragmentary Ism into a rather
more connected form of imagery. I've never quite set myself up enough
to impress _some_ people; and I've written so much that I can't quite
make out what I am myself, nor what it all comes to.
[Footnote 36: Florence, Alice, and May Bennett. Florence is gone. Alice
and May still sometimes at Coniston, D.G. (March 1887).--J. R.
"One Companion, ours no more, sends you I doubt not Christmas greeting
from her Home,--Florence Bennett. Of her help to us during her pure
brief life, and afterwards, by her father's fulfillment of her last
wishes, you shall hear at another time."--_Fors Clavigera_, vol.
viii.]
* * * * *