DORA. Cardinal, indeed! If only Beatrice were here with her seven
handmaids, that she might see what a fine eighth we had found for
her!
MARY. And the interpretation? What does "cooking" mean?
L. It means the knowledge of Medea, and of Circe, and of Calypso,
and of Helen, and of Rebekah, and of the Queen of Sheba. It means
the knowledge of all herbs, and fruits, and balms, and spices; and
of all that is healing and sweet in fields and groves, and savory
in meats, it means carefulness, and inventiveness, and
watchfulness, and willingness, and readiness of appliance, it
means the economy of your great-grandmothers, and the science of
modern chemists; it means much tasting, and no wasting, it means
English thoroughness, and French art, and Arabian hospitality, and
it means, in fine, that you are to be perfectly and always
"ladies"--"loaf-givers;" and, as you are to see, imperatively,
that everybody has something pretty to put on,--so you are to see,
yet more imperatively, that everybody has something nice to eat.
(Another pause, and long drawn breath.)
DORA (slowly recovering herself) to EGYPT. We had better have let
him go to sleep, I think, after all!
L. You had better let the younger ones go to sleep now: for I
haven't half done.
ISABEL (panic-struck). Oh! please, please! just one quarter of an
hour.
L. No, Isabel, I cannot say what I've got to say in a quarter of
an hour; and it is too hard for you, besides:--you would be lying
awake, and trying to make it out, half the night. That will never
do.
ISABEL. Oh, please!
L. It would please me exceedingly, mousie: but there are times
when we must both be displeased; more's the pity. Lily may stay
for half an hour, if she likes.
LILY. I can't, because Isey never goes to sleep, if she is waiting
for me to come.
ISABEL. Oh, yes, Lily, I'll go to sleep to-night. I will, indeed.
LILY. Yes, it's very likely, Isey, with those fine round eyes! (To
L.) You'll tell me something of what you we been saying, to-
morrow, won't you?
L. No, I won't, Lily. You must choose. It's only in Miss
Edgeworth's novels that one can do right, and have one's cake and
sugar afterwards as well (not that I consider the dilemma, to-
night, so grave).
(LILY, sighing, takes ISABEL'S hand.)
Yes, Lily dear, it will be better, in the outcome of it, so, than
if you were to hear all the talks that eer were talked, and all
the stories that ever were told. Good-night.
(The door leading to the condemned cells of the Dormitory closes
on LILY, ISABEL, FLORRIE, and other diminutive and submissive
victims.)
JESSIE (after a pause). Why, I thought you were so fond of Miss
Edgeworth.
L. So I am, and so you ought all to be. I can read her over and
over again, without ever tiring; there's no one whose every page
is so full, and so delightful, no one who brings you into the
company of pleasanter or wiser people; no one who tells you more
truly how to do right. And it is very nice, in the midst of a wild
world, to have the very ideal of poetical justice done always to
one's hand:--to have everybody found out, who tells lies; and
everybody decorated with a red riband, who doesn't; and to see the
good Laura, who gave away her half sovereign, receiving a grand
ovation from an entire dinner party disturbed for the purpose; and
poor, dear, little Rosamond, who chooses purple jars instead of
new shoes, left at last without either her shoes or her bottle.
But it isn't life: and, in the way children might easily
understand it, it isn't morals.
JESSIE. How do you mean we might understand it?
L. You might think Miss Edgeworth meant that the right was to be
done mainly because one was always rewarded for doing it. It is an
injustice to her to say that: her heroines always do right simply
for its own sake, as they should; and her examples of conduct and
motive are wholly admirable. But her representation of events is
false and misleading. Her good characters never are brought into
the deadly trial of goodness,--the doing right, and suffering for
it, quite finally. And that is life, as God arranges it. "Taking
up one's cross" does not at all mean having ovations at dinner
parties, and being put over everybody else's head.
DORA. But what does it mean then? That is just what we couldn't
understand, when you were telling us about not sacrificing
ourselves, yesterday.
L. My dear, it means simply that you are to go the road which you
see to be the straight one; carrying whatever you find is given
you to carry, as well and stoutly as you can; without making
faces, or calling people to come and look at you. Above all, you
are neither to load, nor unload, yourself; nor cut your cross to
your own liking. Some people think it would be better for them to
have it large; and many, that they could carry it much faster if
it were small; and even those who like it largest are usually very
particular about its being ornamental, and made of the best ebony.
But all that you have really to do is to keep your back as
straight as you can; and not think about what is upon it--above
all, not to boast of what is upon it. The real and essential
meaning of "virtue" is in that straightness of back. Yes; you may
laugh, children, but it is. You know I was to tell you about the
words that began with V. Sibyl, what does "virtue" mean literally?
SIBYL. Does it mean courage?
L. Yes; but a particular kind of courage. It means courage of the
nerve; vital courage. That first syllable of it, if you look in
Max Muller, you will find really means "nerve," and from it come
"vis," and "vir," and "virgin" (through vireo), and the connected
word "virga"--"a rod;"--the green rod, or springing bough of a
tree, being the type of perfect human strength, both in the use
of. it in the Mosaic story, when it becomes a serpent, or strikes
the rock; or when Aaron's bears its almonds; and in the
metaphorical expressions, the "Rod out of the stem of Jesse," and
the "Man whose name is the Branch," and so on. And the essential
idea of real virtue is that of a vital human strength, which
instinctively, constantly, and without motive, does what is right.
You must train men to this by habit, as you would the branch of a
tree; and give them instincts and manners (or morals) of purity,
justice, kindness, and courage. Once rightly trained, they act as
they should, irrespectively of all motive, of fear, or of reward.
It is the blackest sign of putrescence in a national religion,
when men speak as if it were the only safeguard of conduct; and
assume that, but for the fear of being burned, or for the hope of
being rewarded, everybody would pass their lives in lying,
stealing, and murdering. I think quite one of the notablest
historical events of this century (perhaps the very notablest),
was that council of clergymen, horror-struck at the idea of any
diminution in our dread of hell, at which the last of English
clergymen whom one would have expected to see in such a function,
rose as the devil's advocate; to tell us how impossible it was we
could get on without him.
VIOLET (after a pause). But, surely, if people weren't afraid--
(hesitates again).
L. They should be afraid of doing wrong, and of that only, my
dear. Otherwise, if they only don't do wrong for fear of being
punished, they HAVE done wrong in their hearts already.
VIOLET. Well, but surely, at least one ought to be afraid of
displeasing God; and one's desire to please Him should be one's
first motive?
L. He never would be pleased with us, if it were, my dear. When a
father sends his son out into the world--suppose as an apprentice
--fancy the boy's coming home at night, and saying, "Father, I
could have robbed the till to-day; but I didn't, because I thought
you wouldn't like it." Do you think the father would be
particularly pleased?
(VIOLET is silent.)
He would answer, would he not, if he were wise and good, "My boy,
though you had no father, you must not rob tills"? And nothing is
ever done so as really to please our Great Father, unless we would
also have done it, though we had had no Father to know of it.
VIOLET (after long pause). But, then, what continual threatenings,
and promises of reward there are!
L. And how vain both! with the Jews, and with all of us. But the
fact is, that the threat and promise are simply statements of the
Divine law, and of its consequences. The fact is truly told you,--
make what use you may of it: and as collateral warning, or
encouragement, or comfort, the knowledge of future consequences
may often be helpful to us; but helpful chiefly to the better
state when we can act without reference to them. And there's no
measuring the poisoned influence of that notion of future reward
on the mind of Christian Europe, in the early ages. Half the
monastic system rose out of that, acting on the occult pride and
ambition of good people (as the other half of it came of their
follies and misfortunes). There is always a considerable quantity
of pride, to begin with, in what is called "giving one's self to
God." As if one had ever belonged to anybody else!
DORA. But, surely, great good has come out of the monastic system
--our books,--our sciences--all saved by the monks?
L. Saved from what, my dear? From the abyss of misery and ruin
which that false Christianity allowed the whole active world to
live in. When it had become the principal amusement, and the most
admired art of Christian men, to cut one another's throats, and
burn one another's towns; of course the few feeble or reasonable
persons left, who desired quiet, safety, and kind fellowship, got
into cloisters; and the gentlest, thoughtfullest, noblest men and
women shut themselves up, precisely where they could be of least
use. They are very fine things, for us painters, now--the towers
and white arches upon the tops of the rocks; always in places
where it takes a day's climbing to get at them; but the intense
tragi-comedy of the thing, when one thinks of it, is unspeakable.
All the good people of the world getting themselves hung up out of
the way of mischief, like Bailie Nicol Jarvie;--poor little lambs,
as it were, dangling there for the sign of the Golden Fleece; or
like Socrates in his basket in the "Clouds"! (I must read you that
bit of Aristophanes again, by the way.) And believe me, children,
I am no warped witness, as far as regards monasteries; or if I am,
it is in their favor. I have always had a strong leaning that way;
and have pensively shivered with Augustines at St. Bernard; and
happily made hay with Franciscans at Fesole; and sat silent with
Carthusians in their little gardens, south of Florence; and
mourned through many a day-dream, at Melrose and Bolton. But the
wonder is always to me, not how much, but how little, the monks
have, on the whole, done, with all that leisure, and all that
good-will! What nonsense monks characteristically wrote;--what
little progress they made in the sciences to which they devoted
themselves as a duty,--medicine especially;--and, last and worst,
what depths of degradation they can sometimes see one another, and
the population round them, sink into; without either doubting
their system, or reforming it!
(Seeing questions rising to lips.) Hold your little tongues,
children; it's very late, and you'll make me forget what I've to
say. Fancy yourselves in pews, for five minutes. There's one point
of possible good in the conventual system, which is always
attractive to young girls; and the idea is a very dangerous one;--
0the notion of a merit, or exalting virtue, consisting in a habit
of meditation on the "things above," or things of the next world.
Now it is quite true, that a person of beautiful mind, dwelling on
whatever appears to them most desirable and lovely in a possible
future, will not only pass their time pleasantly, but will even
acquire, at last, a vague and wildly gentle charm of manner and
feature, which will give them an air of peculiar sanctity in the
eyes of others. Whatever real or apparent good there may be in
this result, I want you to observe, children, that we have no real
authority for the reveries to which it is owing. We are told
nothing distinctly of the heavenly world; except that it will be
free from sorrow, and pure from sin. What is said of pearl gates,
golden floors, and the like, is accepted as merely figurative by
religious enthusiasts themselves; and whatever they pass their
time in conceiving, whether of the happiness of risen souls, of
their intercourse, or of the appearance and employment of the
heavenly powers, is entirely the product of their own imagination;
and as completely and distinctly a work of fiction, or romantic
invention, as any novel of Sir Walter Scott's. That the romance is
founded on religious theory or doctrine;--that no disagreeable or
wicked persons are admitted into the story;--and that the inventor
fervently hopes that some portion of it may hereafter come true,
does not in the least alter the real nature of the effort or
enjoyment.
Now, whatever indulgence may be granted to amiable people for
pleasing themselves in this innocent way, it is beyond question,
that to seclude themselves from the rough duties of life, merely
to write religious romances, or, as in most cases, merely to dream
them, without taking so much trouble as is implied in writing,
ought not to be received as an act of heroic virtue. But, observe,
even in admitting thus much, I have assumed that the fancies are
just and beautiful, though fictitious. Now, what right have any of
us to assume that our own fancies will assuredly be either the one
or the other? That they delight us, and appear lovely to us, is no
real proof of its not being wasted time to form them: and we may
surely be led somewhat to distrust our judgment of them by
observing what ignoble imaginations have sometimes sufficiently,
or even enthusiastically, occupied the hearts of others. The
principal source of the spirit of religious contemplation is the
East; now I have here in my hand a Byzantine image of Christ,
which, if you will look at it seriously, may, I think, at once and
forever render you cautious in the indulgence of a merely
contemplative habit of mind. Observe, it is the fashion to look at
such a thing only as a piece of barbarous art; that is the
smallest part of its interest. What I want you to see, is the
baseness and falseness of a religious state of enthusiasm, in
which such a work could be dwelt upon with pious pleasure. That a
figure, with two small round black beads for eyes; a gilded face,
deep cut into horrible wrinkles; an open gash for a mouth, and a
distorted skeleton for a body, wrapped about, to make it fine,
with striped enamel of blue and gold;--that such a figure, I say,
should ever have been thought helpful towards the conception of a
Redeeming Deity, may make you, I think, very doubtful, even of the
Divine approval,--much more of the Divine inspiration,--of
religious reverie in general. You feel, doubtless, that your own
idea of Christ would be something very different from this; but in
what does the difference consist? Not in any more divine authority
in your imagination; but in the intellectual work of six
intervening centuries; which, simply, by artistic discipline, has
refined this crude conception for you, and filled you, partly with
an innate sensation, partly with an acquired knowledge, of higher
forms,--which render this Byzantine crucifix as horrible to you,
as it was pleasing to its maker. More is required to excite your
fancy; but your fancy is of no more authority than his was: and a
point of national art-skill is quite conceivable, in which the
best we can do now will be as offensive to the religious dreamers
of the more highly cultivated time, as this Byzantine crucifix is
to you.
MARY. But surely, Angelico will always retain his power over
everybody?
L. Yes, I should think, always; as the gentle words of a child
will: but you would be much surprised, Mary, if you thoroughly
took the pains to analyze, and had the perfect means of analyzing,
that power of Angelico,--to discover its real sources. Of course
it is natural, at first, to attribute it to the pure religious
fervor by which he was inspired; but do you suppose Angelico was
really the only monk, in all the Christian world of the middle
ages, who labored, in art, with a sincere religious enthusiasm?
MARY. No, certainly not.
L. Anything more frightful, more destructive of all religious
faith whatever, than such a supposition, could not be. And yet,
what other monk ever produced such work? I have myself examined
carefully upwards of two thousand illuminated missals, with
especial view to the discovery of any evidence of a similar result
upon the art, from the monkish devotion; and utterly in vain.
MARY. But then, was not Fra Angelico a man of entirely separate
and exalted genius?
L. Unquestionably; and granting him to be that, the peculiar
phenomenon in his art is, to me, not its loveliness, but its
weakness. The effect of "inspiration," had it been real, on a man
of consummate genius, should have been, one would have thought, to
make everything that he did faultless and strong, no less than
lovely. But of all men, deserving to be called "great," Fra
Angelico permits to himself the least pardonable faults, and the
most palpable follies. There is evidently within him a sense of
grace, and power of invention, as great as Ghiberti's:--we are in
the habit of attributing those high qualities to his religious
enthusiasm; but, if they were produced by that enthusiasm in him,
they ought to be produced by the same feelings in others; and we
see they are not. Whereas, comparing him with contemporary great
artists, of equal grace and invention, one peculiar character
remains notable in him,--which, logically, we ought therefore to
attribute to the religious fervor;--and that distinctive character
is, the contented indulgence of his own weaknesses, and
perseverance in his own ignorances.
MARY. But that's dreadful! And what is the source of the peculiar
charm which we all feel in his work?
L. There are many sources of it, Mary; united and seeming like
one. You would never feel that charm but in the work of an
entirely good man; be sure of that; but the goodness is only the
recipient and modifying element, not the creative one. Consider
carefully what delights you in any original picture of Angelico's.
You will find, for one minor thing, an exquisite variety and
brightness of ornamental work. That is not Angelico's inspiration.
It is the final result of the labor and thought of millions of
artists, of all nations; from the earliest Egyptian potters
downwards--Greeks, Byzantines, Hindoos, Arabs, Gauls, and
Northmen--all joining in the toil; and consummating it in
Florence, in that century, with such embroidery of robe and
inlaying of armor as had never been seen till then; nor probably,
ever will be seen more. Angelico merely takes his share of this
inheritance, and applies it in the tenderest way to subjects which
are peculiarly acceptant of it. But the inspiration, if it exist
anywhere, flashes on the knight's shield quite as radiantly as on
the monk's picture. Examining farther into the sources of your
emotion in the Angelico work, you will find much of the impression
of sanctity dependent on a singular repose and grace of gesture,
consummating itself in the floating, flying, and above all, in the
dancing groups. That is not Angelico's inspiration. It is only a
peculiarly tender use of systems of grouping which had been long
before developed by Giotto, Memmi, and Orcagna; and the real root
of it all is simply--What do you think, children? The beautiful
dancing of the Florentine maidens!
DORA (indignant again). Now, I wonder what next! Why not say it
all depended on Herodias' daughter, at once?
L. Yes; it is certainly a great argument against singing that
there were once sirens.
DORA. Well, it may be all very fine and philosophical, but
shouldn't I just like to read you the end of the second volume of
"Modern Painters"!
L. My dear, do you think any teacher could be worth your listening
to, or anybody else's listening to, who had learned nothing, and
altered his mind in nothing, from seven and twenty to seven and
forty? But that second volume is very good for you as far as it
goes. It is a great advance, and a thoroughly straight and swift
one, to be led, as it is the main business of that second volume
to lead you, from Dutch cattle-pieces, and ruffian-pieces, to Fra
Angelico. And it is right for you also, as you grow older, to be
strengthened in the general sense and judgment which may enable
you to distinguish the weaknesses from the virtues of what you
love, else you might come to love both alike; or even the
weaknesses without the virtues. You might end by liking Overbeck
and Cornelius as well as Angelico. However, I have perhaps been
leaning a little too much to the merely practical side of things,
in to-night's talk; and you are always to remember, children, that
I do not deny, though I cannot affirm, the spiritual advantages
resulting, in certain cases, from enthusiastic religious reverie,
and from the other practices of saints and anchorites. The
evidence respecting them has never yet been honestly collected,
much less dispassionately examined: but assuredly, there is in
that direction a probability, and more than a probability, of
dangerous error, while there is none whatever in the practice of
an active, cheerful, and benevolent life. The hope of attaining a
higher religious position, which induces us to encounter, for its
exalted alternative, the risk of unhealthy error, is often, as I
said, founded more on pride than piety; and those who, in modest
usefulness, have accepted what seemed to them here the lowliest
place in the kingdom of their Father, are not, I believe, the
least likely to receive hereafter the command, then unmistakable,
"Friend, go up higher."