What _can_ you mean about your ignorance--or my astonishment at it?
Indeed you are a naughty little Susie to think such things. I never
come to the Thwaite but you and your sister tell me all kinds of
things I didn't know, and am so glad to know.
I send a book of architect's drawings of Pisa, which I think will
interest you--only you must understand that the miserable Frenchman
who did it, could not see the expression of face in any of the old
sculptures, nor draw anything but hard mechanical outlines--and the
charm of all these buildings is this almost _natural_ grace of free
line and color.
The little tiny sketch of mine, smallest in the sheet of 4 (the other
sheet only sent to keep its face from rubbing) will show you what the
things really are like--the whole front of the dome, plate XI. (the
wretch can't even have his numbers made legibly) is of arches of this
sweet variable color.
Please can your sister or you plant a grain or grains of corn for me,
and watch them into various stages of germination.[42] I want to study
the mode of root and blade development. And I am sure you two will
know best how to show it me.
[Footnote 42: "Proserpina,"]
* * * * *
BRANTWOOD, _30th December, 1883_.
I heard with extreme sorrow yesterday of your mischance, and with the
greater, that I felt the discomfort and alarm of it would be increased
to you--in their depressing power by a sense of unkindness to you on
my part in not having been to see you--nor even read the letter which
would have warned me of your accident. But you must remember that
Christmas is to me a most oppressive and harmful time--the friends of
the last thirty years of life all trying to give what they cannot
give--of pleasure, or receive what--from me, they can no more
receive--the younger ones especially thinking they can amuse me by
telling me of their happy times--which I am so mean as to envy and am
doubly distressed by the sense of my meanness in doing so.
And my only resource is the quiet of my own work, to which--these last
days--I have nearly given myself altogether. Yet I _had_ read your
letter as far as the place where you said you wanted one and then,
began to think what I should say--and "read no further"[43] that
day--and now here is this harm that had befallen you--which I trust,
nevertheless, is of no real consequence, and this one thing I must say
once for all, that whatever may be my feelings to you--you must
_never_ more let yourself imagine for an instant they can come of any
manner of offense? _That_ thought is real injustice to me. I have
never, and never can have, any other feeling towards you than that of
the deepest gratitude, respect, and affection--too sorrowfully
inexpressible and ineffectual--but never changing. I will drive, walk,
or row, over to see you on New Year's day--if I am fairly well--be the
weather what it will. I hope the bearer will bring me back a
comforting report as to the effects of your accident and that you will
never let yourself again be discomforted by mistrust of me, for I am
and shall ever be
Your faithful and loving servant,
JOHN RUSKIN.
[Footnote 43: Dante, "Inferno," v. 144.]
* * * * *
I never heard the like--my writing good! and just now!! If you only
saw the wretched notes on the back of lecture leaves!
But I am so very glad you think it endurable, and it is so nice to be
able to give you a moment's pleasure by such a thing. I'm better
to-day, but still extremely languid. I believe that there is often
something in the spring which weakens one by its very tenderness; the
violets in the wood send one home sorrowful that one isn't worthy to
see them, or else, that one isn't one of them.
It is mere Midsummer dream in the wood to-day.
You could not possibly have sent me a more delightful present than
this Lychnis; it is the kind of flower that gives me pleasure and
health and memory and hope and everything that Alpine meadows and air
can. I'm getting better generally, too. The sun _did_ take one by
surprise at first.
How blessedly happy Joanie and the children were yesterday at the
Thwaite! I'm coming to be happy myself there to-morrow (D.V.).
Here are the two bits of study I did in Malham Cove; the small couples
of leaves are different portraits of the first shoots of the two
geraniums. I don't find in any botany an account of their little round
side leaves, or of the definite central one above the branching of
them.
Here's your lovely note just come. I am very thankful that the
"Venice" gives you so much pleasure.
I _have_, at least, one certainty, which few authors could hold so
surely, that no one was ever harmed by a book of mine; they may have
been offended, but have never been discouraged or discomforted, still
less corrupted.
_There's_ a saucy speech for Susie's friend. You won't like me any
more if I begin to talk like that.
* * * * *
A sapphire is the same stone as a ruby; both are the pure earth of
clay crystallized. No one knows why one is red and the other blue.
A diamond is pure _coal_ crystallized.
An opal, pure flint--in a state of fixed _jelly_.
I'm in a great passion with the horrid people who write letters to
tease my good little Susie. _I won't have it._ She shall have some
more stones to-morrow.
I must have a walk to-day, and can't give account of them, but I've
looked them out. It's so very nice that you like stones. If my father,
when I was a little boy, would only have given me stones for bread,
how I should have thanked him.
What infinite power and treasure you have in being able thus to enjoy
the least things, yet having at the same time all the fastidiousness
of taste and imagination which lays hold of what is greatest in the
least, and best in all things!
Never hurt your eyes by writing; keep them wholly for admiration and
wonder. I hope to write little more myself of books, and to join with
you in joy over crystals and flowers in the way we used to do when we
were both more children than we are.
* * * * *