In the world of pictorial recollection there are many territories, the
natives of which you may recognise by their characteristics as surely as
Ophelia recognises her true-love by his cockle-hat and sandal shoon.
There is the land of grave gestures and courteous inclinations, of
dignified leave-takings and decorous greetings; where the ladies (like
Richardson's Pamela) don the most charming round-eared caps and frilled
_négligés_; where the gentlemen sport ruffles and bag-wigs and spotless
silk stockings, and invariably exhibit shapely calves above their silver
shoe-buckles; where you may come in St. James's Park upon a portly
personage with a star, taking an alfresco pinch of snuff after that
leisurely style in which a pinch of snuff should be taken, so as not to
endanger a lace cravat or a canary-coloured vest; where you may seat
yourself on a bench by Rosamond's Pond in company with a tremulous mask
who is evidently expecting the arrival of a "pretty fellow"; or happen
suddenly, in a secluded side-walk, upon a damsel in muslin and a dark
hat, who is hurriedly scrawling a _poulet_, not without obvious signs of
perturbation. But whatever the denizens of this country are doing, they
are always elegant and always graceful, always appropriately grouped
against their fitting background of high-ceiled rooms and striped
hangings, or among the urns and fish-tanks of their sombre-shrubbed
gardens. This is the land of STOTHARD.
In the adjoining country there is a larger sense of colour--a fuller
pulse of life. This is the region of delightful dogs and horses and
domestic animals of all sorts; of crimson-faced hosts and buxom
ale-wives; of the most winsome and black-eyed milkmaids and the most
devoted lovers and their lasses; of the most headlong and horn-blowing
huntsmen--a land where Madam Blaize forgathers with the impeccable
worthy who caused the death of the Mad Dog; where John Gilpin takes the
Babes in the Wood _en croupe_; and the bewitchingest Queen of Hearts
coquets the Great Panjandrum himself "with the little round button at
top"--a land, in short, of the most kindly and light-hearted fancies, of
the freshest and breeziest and healthiest types--which is the land of
CALDECOTT.
Finally, there is a third country, a country inhabited almost
exclusively by the sweetest little child-figures that have ever been
invented, in the quaintest and prettiest costumes, always happy, always
gravely playful,--and nearly always playing; always set in the most
attractive framework of flower-knots, or blossoming orchards, or
red-roofed cottages with dormer windows. Everywhere there are green
fields, and daisies, and daffodils, and pearly skies of spring, in which
a kite is often flying. No children are quite like the dwellers in this
land; they are so gentle, so unaffected in their affectation, so easily
pleased, so trustful and so confiding. And this is GREENAWAY-land.
It is sixty years since Thomas Stothard died, and only fifteen since
Randolph Caldecott closed his too brief career.[26] And now Kate
Greenaway, who loved the art of both, and in her own gentle way
possessed something of the qualities of each, has herself passed away.
It will rest with other pens to record her personal characteristics, and
to relate the story of her life. I who write this was privileged to know
her a little, and to receive from her frequent presents of her books;
but I should shrink from anything approaching a description of the
quiet, unpretentious, almost homely little lady, whom it was always a
pleasure to meet and to talk with. If I here permit myself to recall one
or two incidents of our intercourse, it is solely because they bear
either upon her amiable disposition or her art. I remember that once,
during a country walk in Sussex, she gave me a long account of her
childhood, which I wish I could repeat in detail. But I know that she
told me that she had been brought up in just such a neighbourhood of
thatched roofs and "grey old gardens" as she depicts in her drawings;
and that in some of the houses, it was her particular and unfailing
delight to turn over ancient chests and wardrobes filled with the
flowered frocks and capes of the Jane Austen period. As is well known,
she corresponded frequently with Ruskin, and possessed numbers of his
letters. In his latter years, it had been her practice to write to him
periodically--I believe she said once a week. He had long ceased,
probably from ill-health, to answer her letters; but she continued to
write punctually lest he should miss the little budget of chit-chat to
which he had grown accustomed. At another time--in a pleasant
country-house which contained many examples of her art--and where she
was putting the last touches to a delicately tinted child-angel in the
margin of a Bible--I ventured to say, "Why do your children always ...?"
But it is needless to complete the query; the answer alone is important.
She looked at me reflectively, and said, after a pause, "Because I
see it so."
Note:
[26] This was written in 1902.
Answers not dissimilar have been given before by other artists in like
case. But it was this rigid fidelity to her individual vision and
personal conviction which constituted her strength. There are always
stupid, well-meaning busybodies in the world, who go about making
question of the sonneteer why he does not attempt something epic and
homicidal, or worrying the carver of cherry-stones to try his hand at a
Colossus; but though they disturb and discompose, they luckily do no
material harm. They did no material harm to Kate Greenaway. She yielded,
no doubt, to pressure put upon her to try figures on a larger scale; to
illustrate books, which was not her strong point, as it only put fetters
upon her fancy; but, in the main, she courageously preserved the even
tenor of her way, which was to people the artistic demesne she
administered with the tiny figures which no one else could make more
captivating, or clothe more adroitly. It may be doubted whether the
collector will set much store by Bret Harte's _Queen of the Pirate Isle_
or the _Pied Piper of Hamelin_, suitable at first sight as is the
latter, with its child-element, to her inventive idiosyncrasy. But he
will revel in the dainty scenes of "Almanacks" (1883 to 1895, and 1897);
in the charming Birthday Book of 1880; in _Mother Goose, A Day in a
Child's Life, Little Ann, Marigold Garden_ and the rest, of which the
grace is perennial, though the popularity for the moment may have waned.
I have an idea that _Mother Goose; or, the Old Nursery Rhymes_, 1881,
was one of Miss Greenaway's favourites, although it may have been
displaced in her own mind by subsequent successes. Nothing can certainly
be more deftly-tinted than the design of the "old woman who lived under
a hill," and peeled apples; nothing more seductive, in infantile
attitude, than the little boy and girl, who, with their arms around each
other, stand watching the black-cat in the plum-tree. Then there is
Daffy-down-dilly, who has come up to town, with "a yellow petticoat and
a green gown," in which attire, aided by a straw hat tied under her
chin, she manages to look exceedingly attractive, as she passes in front
of the white house with the pink roof and the red shutters and the green
palings. One of the most beautiful pictures in this gallery is the dear
little "Ten-o'-clock Scholar" in his worked smock, as, trailing his
blue-and-white school-bag behind him, he creeps unwillingly to his
lessons at the most picturesque timbered cottage you can imagine.
Another absolutely delightful portrait is that of "Little Tom Tucker,"
in sky-blue suit and frilled collar, singing, with his hands behind him,
as if he never could grow old. And there is not one of these little
compositions that is without its charm of colour and accessory--blue
plates on the dresser in the background, the parterres of a formal
garden with old-fashioned flowers, quaint dwellings with their gates and
grass-work, odd corners of countryside and village street, and all,
generally, in the clear air or sunlight. For in this favoured
Greenaway-realm, as in the island-valley of Avilion there
falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns.
To _Mother Goose_ followed _A Day in a Child's Life_, also 1881, and
_Little Ann_, 1883. The former of these contained various songs set to
music by Mr. Myles B. Foster, the organist of the Foundling Hospital,
and accompanied by designs on rather a larger scale than those in
_Mother Goose_. It also included a larger proportion of the floral
decorations which were among the artist's chief gifts. Foxgloves and
buttercups, tulips and roses, are flung about the pages of the book; and
there are many pictures, notably one of a little green-coated figure
perched upon a five-barred gate, which repeat the triumphs of its
predecessor. In _Little Ann and other Poems_, which is dedicated to the
four children of the artist's friend, the late Frederick Locker-Lampson,
she illustrated a selection from the verses for "Infant Minds" of Jane
and Ann Taylor, daughters of that Isaac Taylor of Ongar, who was first a
line engraver and afterwards an Independent Minister.[27] The
dedication contains a charming row of tiny portraits of the
Locker-Lampson family. These illustrations may seem to contradict what
has been said as to Miss Greenaway's ability to interpret the
conceptions of others. But this particular task left her perfectly free
to "go her own gait," and to embroider the text which, in this case, was
little more than a pretext for her pencil.
Note:
[27] Since this paper was written, the _Original Poems and Others_, of Ann
and Jane Taylor, with illustrations by F.D. Bedford, and a most interesting
"Introduction" by Mr. E.V. Lucas, have been issued by Messrs. Wells,
Gardner, Darton and Co.
In _Marigold Garden_, 1885, Miss Greenaway became her own poet; and next
to _Mother Goose_, this is probably her most important effort. The
flowers are as entrancing as ever; and the verse makes one wish that the
writer had written more. The "Genteel Family" and "Little Phillis" are
excellent nursery pieces; and there is almost a Blake-like note about
"The Sun Door."
They saw it rise in the morning,
They saw it set at night,
And they longed to go and see it,
Ah! if they only might.
The little soft white clouds heard them,
And stepped from out of the blue;
And each laid a little child softly
Upon its bosom of dew.
And they carried them higher and higher,
And they nothing knew any more,
Until they were standing waiting,
In front of the round gold door.
And they knocked, and called, and entreated
Whoever should be within;
But all to no purpose, for no one
Would hearken to let them in.
"_La rime n'est pas riche_" nor is the technique thoroughly assured; but
the thought is poetical. Here is another, "In an Apple-Tree," which
reads like a child variation of that haunting "Mimnermus in Church" of
the author of Ionica:--
In September, when the apples are red,
To Belinda I said,
"Would you like to go away
To Heaven, or stay
Here in this orchard full of trees
All your life? "And she said," If you please
I'll stay here--where I know,
And the flowers grow."