1891-1895
MISS GREENAWAY’S FIRST EXHIBITION—THE HON. GERALD
PONSONBY—‘ALMANACKS’—CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION,
CHICAGO—BOOK-PLATES—LADY MARIA PONSONBY—WORKS SOLD—‘THE LADIES’ HOME
JOURNAL’—DEATH OF MRS. GREENAWAY—LADY MAYO—BRANTWOOD AGAIN—K. G.’S
CRITICISM OF MODERN ART—MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF—FRIENDSHIP WITH MISS VIOLET
DICKINSON—RELIGIOUS OPINIONS—RUSKIN—VIEWS ON MR. GEORGE MEREDITH, ETC.
[Illustration: On a letter to Ruskin.]
For the last year or two Kate Greenaway had shown unmistakable signs of
failing energy, and in 1891 her friend Mr. Anderson of the Orient Line
sought to persuade her to take a sea-voyage on the steamship _Garonne_:
it must not be supposed, however, that she was yet showing the first
symptoms of the illness which was to terminate ten years later in her
death. She published no work this year except the _Almanack_ and,
though scarcely worthy of repeated mention, the title-page designed
for _The Orient Guide_, as a graceful acknowledgment of Mr. Anderson’s
kindly friendship. At the Royal Academy, she was represented by a
‘Girl’s Head,’ and at the Royal Institute by ‘An Old Farm House’ and ‘A
Cottage in Surrey.’
But the year was far from being uneventful, for now for the first time
she determined to hold a ‘one-man’ exhibition of her water-colour
drawings at the Gallery of the Fine Art Society, at 148, New Bond
Street. The exhibition was highly successful. The town flocked to see
the originals of the designs which had charmed it for so many years in
the reproductions, and greatly was the world surprised at the infinite
tenderness, delicacy, and grace of her execution, and the wealth of
her invention. Sir Frederick Leighton purchased two of her pictures
and others followed suit to the amount of more than £1,350. (The net
sum which came to her was £964.) For the first time the general public
and the critics had the opportunity of assigning to Kate Greenaway
her rightful place amongst contemporary artists. She had appeared in
most of the important exhibitions in London and the provinces, and her
pictures had almost invariably found purchasers, but these occasional
exhibits had been comparatively few. Now her work could be gauged in
bulk and there was a chorus of approval. Not that too much stress must
be laid upon that. Even now, some years after her death, there is some
contention as to exactly where she stands. As Mr. Lionel Robinson asked
at the time—did she found a school or did she only start a fashion?
was hers but a passing _ad captandum_ popularity or does her art
contain the true elements of immortality?
The following letters of this year exhibit her perennial love of spring
flowers, with which Lady Mayo now constantly supplied her, in return
for which on this occasion she sent a drawing of St. John’s wort,
bluebell, and apple-blossom; and we recognise once more her fastidious
terror lest she should receive payment for what was not precisely to
the taste of her clients.
KATE GREENAWAY TO LADY MAYO
Dear Lady Mayo—Your lovely flowers have just come. It is too good of
you to have such kind thought and remembrance of me. I thank you very
much. I think nothing gives me such joy and delight as spring flowers,
and after this long, long winter how delightful it is to have them back
again. The springs always come late to us here; it is such a cold place.
I am just now going into Surrey to paint primroses.
I feel I must send you a flower also. I wish it could be as lovely as
yours!—With kind regards and again thanks, yours very sincerely,
KATE GREENAWAY.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF A LADY.
_In pencil and water-colour—an experimental drawing. In the possession
of the Hon. Gerald Ponsonby._]
The following letter probably refers to the first of a set of tiny
water-colour portraits of children executed for Mr. Ponsonby which show
what she might have accomplished if she had set herself seriously to
the painting of miniatures:—
KATE GREENAWAY TO MR. PONSONBY
50, FROGNAL, HAMPSTEAD, N.W.,
_5th October 1891_.
Dear Mr. Ponsonby—I am long in sending you the drawing, and now I do
send it, I am afraid you will feel it very unsatisfactory; I feel it
so myself—it is so much more difficult to me—doing a Portrait than a
purely fancy drawing. Now I can’t make up my mind if it requires more
darks or not. If you feel that let me have it back and I will put them
in. I am rather afraid to do more. I have puzzled over it until I don’t
know what it wants really. But one thing is certain, you must not have
it if you do not care for it. I should be so sorry if you did,—it would
really pain me and you know it would not matter in the least. I should
be the gainer—having had such a pleasant time with you and a pretty
little girl to draw—so please be very sure you don’t keep it if it is
not what you wish.
The African marigolds are still beautiful—the memories of Christchurch
and Poole are still vivid—I did so very much like seeing them. I
believe seeing old towns and villages _are_ my greatest enjoyments,—if
only I did not make such abject sketches. I saw the salmon-coloured
house on my way home.—With kind regards, yours sincerely,
KATE GREENAWAY.
For the next nine years (1892-1900) there were no new publications
with Kate Greenaway’s name on the title-page with the exception of
the Almanacks. These were published in 1892, 3, 4, and 5 by George
Routledge & Sons as heretofore. In 1896 there was none: perhaps, as we
have said, because that for 1895 had been ‘made up’—much against K.
G.’s will—from old and comparatively unsuccessful work; still, as we
see later, an application was made to Miss Greenaway for an almanack,
but she was indisposed to do it. In 1897 the last was published by J.
M. Dent & Co. Of these charming booklets complete sets are now not easy
to obtain, and readily fetch four or five times their original cost.
In 1892 there was a small exhibition of twenty of her water-colours by
Messrs. Van Baerle in Glasgow, and an important commission executed for
the Dowager Lady Ashburton.
In 1893 five of her drawings were sold at the Columbian Exhibition,
Chicago, for forty-five guineas. These were the title-page to
_Marigold Garden_, ‘The Mulberry Bush,’ ‘Girl drawing a Chaise,’
‘Little Girlie,’ and ‘Little Phyllis.’ The Almanack drawings of this
year were disposed of through Messrs. Palmer, Howe & Co. of Manchester
to Mr. David Walker of Middleton in the neighbourhood of that city,
with special and exclusive permission to reproduce them as designs for
‘sanitary wall-papers.’ Kate was delighted with the results and many a
nursery is now gay with these charming productions.[56]
The modern passion for book-plate collecting was at this time at its
height and Kate came in for her meed of praise at the hands of Mr.
Egerton Castle in his _English Book-plates_ of this year, and at the
hands, too, of Miss Norna Labouchere in her _Ladies’ Book-plates_, of
two years later. In the former are reproduced those designed by Miss
Greenaway for ‘Frederick Locker’ and his son ‘Godfrey Locker-Lampson,’
and in the latter for ‘Dorothy Locker-Lampson’ and ‘Sarah Nickson.’
Amongst others for whom she designed book-plates may be mentioned
Lady Victoria Herbert, Miss Vera Samuel (a child’s book-plate), Mrs.
J. Black, and Mr. Stuart M. Samuel. Most of those mentioned are here
reproduced.
Although the publications of these closing years of her life were
scanty it must not be supposed that K. G. allowed her pencil and brush
to be idle. This was far from the case. It is true that her work done
for reproduction was nearly at an end, but she was devoting herself
with unabated enthusiasm, so far as her health would allow, to the more
congenial task of painting small easel pictures in water-colour in view
of future exhibitions at the Fine Art Society’s gallery.
[Illustration: JOAN PONSONBY, 1891.
_From a miniature in the possession of the Hon. Gerald Ponsonby._]
The following letter shows her hard at work for her next public
appearance, and the entry of this year, the only entry in her long
range of laconic diaries of an introspective nature—‘To remember to
keep resolution firmly and to think how much can be made of Art and
Life,’—demonstrates the spirit in which she was working.
KATE GREENAWAY TO MR. PONSONBY
50, FROGNAL, HAMPSTEAD, N.W.,
_29th Dec. 1893_.
Dear Mr. Ponsonby—I believe the Exhibition is finally settled at
LAST—drawings to be sent in on the 15th, and Private View to take
place on the 20th.... And it is nice weather to get on in! Black night
here the last three days.... MR. HUISH OF COURSE changes the date about
nine times. First they couldn’t, then they could. First the small room
and then the big one. HE suggested Palms to fill up the corners. Think
of my poor little works floating about in that big room. I wrote a
beautiful letter, suggesting that a considerable amount of Palms seemed
inevitable—but the letter was not allowed to be sent, my brother
considered it FLIPPANT and unbusiness-like. I thought this rather hard,
as I had abstained from remarking that a few apple trees or roses might
be more in accordance with the sentiment of my drawings than plants of
an Oriental character. However I am going to have the small room. Shall
you be still in London? Nothing will get finished if this fog lasts.
I was desperately [sorry] not to see the tree—but there was no help. I
wrote to Lady Maria in so much of a hurry—I hope I explained clearly,
and that I am hoping to come to tea when a leisure afternoon comes to
Lady Maria to have me.
I wish you and Lady Maria a very happy New Year.—Yours sincerely,
KATE GREENAWAY.
I’m too delighted that the shops are once more open—and that the Post
comes and goes.
The exhibition opened on January 22, and the gross proceeds were
£1,067: 16s. (net £799). The most important works were ‘The Green Seat’
(40 guineas), ‘The Stick Fire’ (35 guineas), ‘The Cherry Woman’ (40
guineas), ‘The little Go-Cart’ (36 guineas), ‘Cottages’ (45 guineas),
‘Jack and Jill’ (20 guineas), ‘The Fable of the Girl and her Milk Pail’
(40 guineas), ‘Lucy Locket’ (30 guineas), ‘Standing for her Picture’
(25 guineas), ‘Two Little Sisters’ (25 guineas), ‘The Toy Horse’ (25
guineas), ‘Belinda’ (25 guineas), ‘Down the Steps’ (25 guineas), ‘Apple
Trees’ (55 guineas), ‘Over the Tea’ (35 guineas), ‘A Spring Copse’
(40 guineas), ‘The Old Steps’ (35 guineas), ‘Under the Rose Tree’ (25
guineas), ‘At a Garden Door’ (35 guineas), and ‘A Buttercup Field’
(£30).
This year she began her connection with _The Ladies’ Home Journal_,
published in Philadelphia, which, with its circulation of 700,000,
did much to enlarge her circle of American admirers. The connection
lasted through four numbers and proved highly remunerative. Thirty
pounds was paid her per page for the serial rights only of seven or
eight beautiful little pen-and-ink drawings illustrating delightful
verses by Miss Laura E. Richards. They were executed in her happiest
vein and they not only show no falling off either in invention or
execution but an absolute advance in the free use of the pen. The
only other published work of this year which calls for mention is the
coloured drawing ‘A Sailor’s Wife’ reproduced in the December number of
_The English Illustrated Magazine_. It is ambitious in treatment, but
illustrates the artist’s limitations, although much of its failure is
due to the crudeness of the colour-printing.
The fact is that her genius for drawing for the press had now grown
fitful, and that she felt this herself is proved by her refusal at this
time to undertake the illustration of Messrs. Longman’s Reading Books
for elementary schools, which a few years earlier would have made a
very strong appeal to her. Doubtless, too, her health had much to do
with it and disinclined her to bind herself to the dates and exactions
which it is incumbent on publishers to set.
After two years’ absence from the walls of the Royal Institute she
was now again represented by the portrait of ‘A Girl,’ which was the
forerunner of an unbroken series of exhibits until 1897.
On February the 2nd, the little circle at Frognal was further sadly
reduced by the deeply-mourned death of Mrs. Greenaway, of whose fine
and sterling character the reader has caught glimpses in the earlier
chapters. The strain of this sorrow coming immediately after the
exhaustion consequent upon the exhibition of her pictures, resulted
in some months of broken health, and it was not until May that Miss
Greenaway found herself again fit for work.
Soon after her mother’s death she wrote:—
KATE GREENAWAY TO MR. PONSONBY
50, FROGNAL, HAMPSTEAD, N.W.,
_10th Feb. 1894_.
Dear Mr. Ponsonby—Thank you so much for your kind letter. You and Lady
Maria have been so KIND. I can’t tell you HOW much it has been to me to
feel I have such friends as you always are to me. We certainly do feel
desolate and strange, but I know in time the very dreadful feeling will
pass off, though I also know life must be for ever a different feeling,
for I have never felt the same since my father died....
I am sorry you also have had a sad loss—I have seen many notices of it
in the Papers. The longer I live the less I understand the scheme of
life that comprises so much sadness in it. I wish we could understand
more. Will you tell Lady Maria I am so looking forward to seeing her?
I feel like Lady Dorothy, who once, when you had gone abroad, said
she was glad you had rainy weather because you should have stayed in
London.—Yours sincerely,
KATE GREENAWAY.
[Illustration: MABEL PONSONBY.
_Pencil and Tint. In the possession of the Hon. Gerald Ponsonby._]
After a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Locker-Lampson at Rowfant to recuperate
her health she wrote:—
KATE GREENAWAY TO LADY MARIA PONSONBY
39, FROGNAL, _9 May 1894_.
Dear Lady Maria Ponsonby—I have had you and Mr. Ponsonby so much in my
mind for the last two weeks—and I feel so much I would like to write to
you, but don’t you trouble to write to me, if you are too busy. It is a
pleasure to write to you—anyhow.
I think I feel to my real friends as I do to my favourite books—they
get into my mind after a separation and I am impelled to write to them
or read them as the case may be.
I think of one of Mr. Locker-Lampson’s favourite stories of Carlyle, who
said to Mr. Allingham—‘Have a care, Allingham, have a care—there’s a
danger of your making yourself a bit of a bore.’
These are not quite the words—the original ones are better put.—I fear
that danger as regards myself.
I came home from Rowfant last week. I had a nice time. I think I am
feeling stronger, but sometimes I do not feel very well, but of course
it is rather a slow process, and it requires patience, which quality I
don’t possess.
Are you coming to Green Street this month? will you allow the bore to
come and see you, as soon as you do, one afternoon? _It will be nice to
see you again._ I think about you so often.
The Pictures are not much this year—I mean at the New Gallery and
the Academy, but I’ve only seen both in a dense crowd so it is hardly
fair to say—but the Modern Art strikes me as very FUNNY. I would like
to go with Mr. Ponsonby to the R.A. I’d like to see the effect on him
of certain Productions—I am sure you would feel the same (shall I
call it _lovely_ delight) as I do—in viewing these works of art.—I
suppose I’ve grown old and old-fashioned—but really you never saw such
creatures as disport themselves on these canvases. You go and look, and
let me go with you.
Will you tell Mr. Ponsonby the garden has been made so _tidy_ that I
shall venture to take him round it when he next comes to Hampstead? The
woodbine and carnations are alive and look as if they will do well.
I am at work again now—my ideas are coming back to me. I feel as if
I’d been in the earth for the winter and was beginning to wake up.
We have such gloomy skies every day, it spoils the lovely spring look;
if only it would rain and be done with it! You see I grumble. It does me
good.
I do hope you will soon be in town, and _do let me come to tea
soon_.—With kind regards to Mr. Ponsonby, your affectionate
KATE GREENAWAY.
And to Lady Mayo, who had again sent her some spring flowers:—
KATE GREENAWAY TO LADY MAYO
Dear Lady Mayo—What lovely flowers! I thank you so much. There are two
of my dearest loves—tulips and that beautiful double white narcissus.
But I have entirely succumbed to the fascinations of a new beauty, the
lovely greeny white ranunculus, the pale lilac anemones also. But they
are all so lovely and are an immense delight to me. I always rejoice
over a new flower. I wish I had time to paint them all, but I have not
just now for I am doing a river scene from my studio window. You will
say you do not remember a river there. Perhaps, but I will show you the
drawing if I have the pleasure of seeing you some time. The spring trees
change so quickly, but I am going to put your tulips into this very
drawing, where a little girl carries a large bunch of them.
The striped ones are so wonderful, the real old-fashioned ones. They
are one of my earliest recollections. I remember walking up a path in
my aunt’s garden that was two long lines of them, and I was so small
that I remember bending them _down to me_ to look at their wonderful
centres. Again thank you very much for the joy you have given me.—Yours
sincerely,
KATE GREENAWAY.
[Illustration: EILEEN PONSONBY.
_Pencil and Tint. In the possession of the Hon. Gerald Ponsonby._]
In the latter part of July she paid a visit to Mr. Ruskin and wrote of
it:—
KATE GREENAWAY TO MR. PONSONBY
39, FROGNAL, HAMPSTEAD, N.W.,
_9th August 1894_.
Dear Mr. Ponsonby—I am only just home from Coniston; it has been
quite beautiful. I found Mr. Ruskin so much better than I expected,
of course not his old self, yet even at times there really seemed no
difference—it has been great happiness—and the country there—as you
know—is lovely beyond words. I went to see Wordsworth’s country and
his two houses, Rydal Mount and Dove Cottage—the Cottage is so pretty
and they are getting back all the old furniture—(protected by strings
from the enthusiastic Americans). I sent you the little plants from
the Brantwood Garden. I thought it would be of interest to you to have
them—that is the pink and the white. The other is a little bit from our
garden, you said you would like to have—I can give you plenty more if
it does not live.
Will you please give my love to Lady Maria—I meant to have written to
her before this, but I really had _no moments_ while I was away, but
I shall write to her in a day or two before I go to Cromer, where I
think I am going next week. I am looking forward to Bournemouth, it is
always such a happy time for me—it is very close and warm here. I hoped
I should by now have felt stronger than I do—but I daresay it takes
time.—Yours sincerely,
KATE GREENAWAY.
On October 16th, she writes to Lady Maria Ponsonby:—
Tell Mr. Ponsonby I HATE Beardsley more than ever. It is the Private
View of the Portrait Painters at the New Gallery to-morrow.
_21st Oct._
All these days ago and no letter finished—not a moment of time have
I had. Some of the Portrait Painters have been slightly up to games.
Indeed I’m rather inclined to think a Portrait Exhibition is slightly
trying. The different expressions give rather the feeling of what
children call making faces. And then there are the different schools.
Some you look at through a hazy mist. Others confront you in deadly
black and ugliness. I can’t somehow help feeling a great deal of
Funniness whenever I now visit an exhibition of Pictures.
By November 1st she is again at work and writes to Ruskin:—
I have been drawing a baby six months old this morning. I wished for the
back of its head, but I proved so fascinating, it _would_ only gaze at
me, with a stony stare. The drawing did not prosper—but the baby was a
dear.
And on Nov. 29 this child of forty-eight writes of the ‘precocious
woman of thirteen’ (as quaintly alleged) of whom all the world was then
talking:[57]—
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
I finished the first volume of Marie Bashkirtseff. Have you ever read
it? I think her odious—simply—but the book is wonderful in a way,
so vivid, and though you—or rather I—hate her you feel she must be
clever. You ought to read it if you have never done so. Johnny won’t see
it is clever because he hates her, but I dislike her but feel she is
clever. It is a study of supreme vanity, making yourself the centre of
all things. It is queer to be ambitious in that way. You can’t feel it a
noble ambition—very much the reverse.
She is grown up at thirteen when she ought to be having the most
beautiful child’s thoughts. I feel it quite dreadful to miss that happy
time out of your life. Perhaps one prefers one thing, one another. I
hated to be grown-up, and cried when I had my first long dress, but I
know many long to be grown-up, but even that longing is childish—but
this unfortunate girl was grown-up without knowing it.
Still, her history does affect me, I keep thinking about her. She is so
strange—so desperately worldly, and I think so cruel—because she was
so vain. I wonder if you have ever read it.
The year 1894, which had begun so sadly with the death of Mrs.
Greenaway, had happily in store for Kate the beginning of one of her
rare and highly valued intimacies. The acquaintanceship, which soon
ripened into friendship and then into warm affection, began with a
written request in May for the loan of some of her pictures for an
Exhibition in Southwark. The writer was Miss Violet Dickinson, to whom
a little later on she was personally introduced by a common friend.
From that time forward the two ladies, the old and the young, were
much in each other’s company at ‘private views’ and other ceremonies,
and the fact that her friend was tall and slim beyond the average and
Kate as noticeably short and stout, not only drew attention to their
companionship but served as a constant text for the exercise of Kate’s
humorous invention. Their correspondence by letter was incessant and
Miss Greenaway’s pencil was generally requisitioned to give an added
note of piquancy and fancy to her written communications. Many of
these little thumb-nail sketches, through Miss Dickinson’s kindness,
are reproduced in this volume, together with numerous extracts from
the letters. One note there is upon which Kate is for ever harping,
an underlying fear which is for ever haunting her. As we know she was
slow at making friendships, but when they were made they became an
essential feature of her existence, and she was in constant terror lest
they should be lost. ‘_Don’t_ begin to find me very dull—don’t begin
not to want me. Yet you can’t help it if you do. I suppose I am so slow
and you are so quick’—is but one amongst innumerable examples of the
little panics into which she would causelessly fall.
[Illustration: BROTHER AND SISTER.
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of Charles P. Johnson,
Esq._]
Into one other essential characteristic of hers we obtain some
insight in these letters. That Kate held no very definite or orthodox
religious opinions, although she had a strong religious instinct, is
hinted at in many of her letters to Ruskin and others. But it is only
from her letters to Miss Dickinson that we are able to gather anything
positive on a subject upon which in conversation her natural reserve
restrained her from enlarging.
On this last matter she writes:—‘I am such a reserved person. You tell
everything to everybody and I can’t. There’s numbers of things I often
long to say to you but I do not dare—and yet you are the one person in
the world I’d like to talk about them with.’
To a friend she said one day:—‘I am very religious though people may
not think it, but it is in my own way,’ and the following extracts from
letters to Miss Dickinson give us some idea of what that way was:—
_March 22, 1896._
You can go into a beautiful new country if you stand under a large apple
tree and look up to the blue sky through the white flowers—to go to
this scented land is an experience.
I suppose I went to it very young before I could really remember
and that is why I have such a wild delight in cowslips and
apple-blossom—they always give me the same strange feeling of trying
_to remember_, as if I had known them in a former world.
I always feel Wordsworth must have felt that a little too—when he wrote
the ‘Intimations of Immortality’—I mean the trying to remember.
It’s such a beautiful world, especially in the spring. It’s a pity it’s
so sad also. I often reproach the plan of it. It seems as if some less
painful and repulsive end could have been found for its poor helpless
inhabitants—considering the wonderfulness of it all.—WELL, it isn’t
the least use troubling.
_April 29, 1897._
I think Death is the one thing I can’t reconcile with a God. After such
wonderful life, it seems such a miserable ending—to go out of life with
pain. Why need it be?
_July 8, 1896._
You think, I know, that people are well off when they leave this world,
but then there’s the uncertain other—or nothing—it is a mystery I wish
we had known more about.
It feels to me so strange beyond anything I can think, to be able to
believe in _any_ of the known religions. Yet how beautiful if you but
could. Fancy feeling yourself saved—as they say, set apart to have a
great reward. For what? Those poor little bits of sacrifice—while many
and many an unregenerate one is making such big ones—but isn’t to go to
heaven?
_July 10, 1896._
Did you ever believe at all in religion, I mean did you ever believe it
as the Bible gives it? I never did—it’s so queer.—_Why_, one tries
to be good simply because you must—are so unhappy if you don’t.—A
conscience is a troublesome thing at times. I woke up at 4 o’clock this
morning and I spent the time feeling what a nothing I was, and wishing I
was so very different. Then the morning’s post brought me a letter from
a friend, saying I was so this, so that—it made me really cry, I was so
grateful.
_Dec. 13, 1896._
I could never believe as long as I can remember—yet I went through all
sorts of religious phases of my own—times when I used to write down yes
or no in a little book each night as to whether I had done all I thought
right in the day or not—oh, and lots of things—but I have never
believed—in that religion—though I do in my own. A woman once said to
me, ‘Any religion that is to be any good to one must be one they make
for themselves,’—_and it is so_. She, curiously, was a clergyman’s wife.
_June 14, 1897._
I wish there was no death. It’s so horrible, things having to be killed
for us to eat them—it feels so wicked. Yet we have to do it—or die
ourselves. These are the sort of things that make you doubt of a future
life. There’s some people would say animals have no souls—but they
have—some sort....
Don’t you wish you knew if you had got an eternal soul or not? People
believe half things in such a funny way, and mix up right and wrong—so
that I am so often nearly thinking, _is_ there a right and wrong—only
I know there is—but I would like it decided once for all what is right
and what is wrong.
_Nov. 3, 1897._
I’m depressed too by the horrid tales about people. You don’t know how
miserable it makes me—I’m so sorry—it takes all the joy out of things.
Goodness is so beautiful and so much best. I hate narrow people who
would take all the beauty and gaiety from the world. I love all that,
but I hate wickedness. Oh, it is such a pity—and the things people say
are horrid. I wish they would not tell me.
In her correspondence with Miss Violet Dickinson, Kate’s spirits would
sometimes overflow into sketches of a character more broadly comic than
the public generally has had any example of. Thus, during the hot July
of 1896, she dashes off a sketch of herself enjoying the ‘bliss’ of a
shower from a watering-can, and writes:—
What are you doing in this tropical heat—I’m so hot. I’m crimson when
I set out—and purple when I get there—oh, everywhere. Out in the
garden—the sun blazes on me....
On the 10th December she accounts for her temporary seclusion by a
sketch of herself as a solitary hermit withdrawn from the far-off
world; and a month later, still in the comic mood, she pictures herself
in the throes of composition, and writes in answer to her friend’s
remark upon her verses: ‘Dear’ (her method of addressing well-loved
intimates, omitting their names):—
KATE GREENAWAY TO MISS VIOLET DICKINSON
Dear.
Yes it is a fine thing to have a friend who writes lovely poems ...?
Across the lonely desert grand,
Across the yellow ridged sand
The lurid sunset filled the land
With desolate despair.
And after a vigorous thumb-nail sketch of the said desert, she adds:—
_You_ can’t do as good as that—besides _you_ can’t make a picter.
The year 1895, which marks Kate’s last appearance in the Royal
Academy exhibitions, with a ‘Baby Boy,’ also found her represented
at the Liverpool Exhibition, and at the Royal Institute of Painters
in Water-Colours by ‘Gleaners going Home,’ ‘Girl and Two Children,’
‘Little Girl in Red,’ and ‘Taking a Nosegay.’ Otherwise the year was
uneventful save for her now one-sided correspondence with Ruskin, from
which we take the following letters and extracts. They present us with
intimate glimpses of her artistic and literary tastes; her hatred of
change and the confusion of life; her discontent with her work and
her determination to do better in the future; her love of space; her
artistic methods; her views upon the Impressionist tendency of art;
and last, but not in her eyes less important, extracts from Rover’s
biography.
[Illustration: On a Letter to Miss Violet Dickinson
(showing ‘K. G.’ in a comic vein).]
[Illustration: On a Letter to Miss Violet Dickinson
(showing ‘K. G.’ in a humorous mood).]
[Illustration: On a Letter to Miss Violet Dickinson.
(An example of ‘K. G.’s’ spirit of caricature.)]
[Illustration: THE BRACKEN GATHERERS.
_From the water-colour drawing in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. W. Le
Poer Trench._]
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
39, FROGNAL,
_The New Year, 1895_.
... I have been to the Venetian Exhibition[58]—but I have not seen it
well yet. The crowds of people prevented.
... There are some beautiful Ladies’ Portraits in such lovely dresses
and their hair done into those big rolls all round their faces. I was so
impressed by two heads by Giorgione—one a Shepherd with a Flute,[59]
so lovely, and Portrait of a Lady Professor of Bologna—the colour is
so beautiful (and the way they are painted). I think I will tell you
about the beautiful Ladies next time—because I have forgotten entirely
the most beautiful Lady’s name[60]—though I remember her so well. She
is dark and looks at you rather timidly and rather frightened—she has
a curious rolled thing round her head, I can’t tell what it is made
of—little curls of ribbon perhaps and here and there little white bows.
She has a background of white flowers, but I will tell you more of her
next time.
And Christmas is over and it is nearly the New Year—I fear I am glad
Christmas _is_ over for I want some lighter days. I don’t like getting
up in the morning when the moon is shining—and the stars are still
about. I see the sun rise as I have my breakfast, pale and cold—but it
is very nice to see the daylight come.
I am finishing General Marbot: It is a truly wonderful book, it seems
hardly possible people could be so brave—as they are—and most
certainly as I could not be—I certainly hope England may never be
invaded in my time—too fearful.
How I wish I could have come in to tea with you on New Year’s Day.
Suppose there was a little tap at your study door—and I came in
carrying a lovely Hot Muffin—would you turn me out, or allow me to sit
down by your fire and enjoy myself?
Did I tell you Eddie had come home (from Plauen in Germany) for
Christmas—so all my time is taken up in making it a merry time. I had
them all to tea and he danced and sang Nursery Rhymes and Looby Loo. Do
you know that? it is so pretty.
And then I think you would have liked to have seen my sister’s little
girl and little boy dance the Barn Dance—I would like to paint it—she
is very pretty, and so is the little boy. To-morrow we all go to
Olympia—and on Wednesday to Drury Lane—on Thursday I have another tea
with more children—Saturday is the sad day he has to go back again. All
the little Correggio curls are gone now.
New Year’s Day was my Mother’s Birthday, so I shall be with no one on
that day—except I shall think of the study and you at 5 o’clock, and
think I am coming to tea there.
It is shivery—ice everywhere—How much I wish things would not change
so much—so soon—so often—I can never understand the _plan_ of life at
all, it is all so strange—try which way you will to think it out—it
all seems of no use—yet you go on trying for this—for that—really for
some mysterious end—you don’t know.
... I hope you will have a very very Happy Year, and have beautiful
days, and lots of sunshine—and for myself I will wish that I may see
you again before it is ended.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Feb. 10, 1895._
Did you ever in your life read one of George Meredith’s novels? it
requires you to be in an angelic frame of mind or else it is that sort
of worry—trying to make out what he means—for it isn’t encouraging
while he describes all his people laughing at a brilliant joke, for you
to be _unable_ to see the drift of it.
Whatever you do don’t read _Lord Ormont and his Aminta_. It all comes of
my being sentimental and romantic. The title was so lovely, but don’t
you be induced by any means to begin it.
But if you do want to read something that is uncommonly nice get
_Passages from some Memoirs_ by Mrs. Ritchie and read about the
children’s party at Charles Dickens’, about Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle,
about her recollections of her childish days in Paris, her remembrance
of Leech, of Charlotte Brontë—it is all so nice, so kind, so clever.
I hear from Mr. Locker-Lampson that there is a real new poet, brand
new; he says his name is Davidson and he has written a poem called _The
Ballad of a Nun_. That’s all I know of it for I have not read it yet.
Perhaps I shan’t think him a poet. I fear I like them of the sort:—
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And all the shepherd swains shall sing
For thy delight each May morning.
How the beautiful words come into your mind—and then it is spring and
you forget it is snowing outside and the wind whirling the wreaths of
snow about. It is very Arctic snow, I never saw such lovely little
crystals....
Do you know, I had made up my mind to send you a real valentine—and I
invented all, just how it was all to go—then I had a horrid cold and
could only think how nice to go to sleep, so the poor valentine never
got done. I was very sorry but it could not be helped. And I had also a
good deal to do to my Institute drawings, which are very bad. So perhaps
it is as well I had the cold, only it was all so nicely ready.
I have got five bad drawings—‘Gleaners going Home,’ ‘A Little Girl in
Red,’ ‘A Girl nursing a Baby,’ ‘Another Little Girl and a Green Cradle,’
and ‘A Girl walking with two Little Children.’
The ‘Gleaners’ is, I think, the best—I fear you would say _of a bad
lot_.
Never mind, I’m going to begin beautiful things directly I can get rid
of these—which is next Tuesday—but I always think they are going to be
beautiful when I begin, then I generally get to hate them before they
are done.
[Illustration: On a Letter to Ruskin.]
_Nov. 11, 1895._
I am still in a state of great perplexity as to what work to do and
as to what to agree to about books. There is no Almanack this year.
Now they want to do it again and I find it hard to decide if I will or
not—partly because I do not make up my mind about what I want to do in
other ways. But often when I feel like this I wait, and an inspiration
comes.
Some beautiful picture or drawing will make me long to do something. The
worst of it is, I ought always to do everything the moment it suggests
itself, or very likely by the time I go to do it the spirit of it has
vanished.
I do the technical part of painting so badly, and every one else seems
to do it so well. I have no settled way of working—I am always trying
this or that. That is why I get on better when I am doing a cottage
because I naturally do just what I see and do not think of the way to do
it at all.
Does this all bore you or interest you? I _am_ so sorry I can’t draw
when I am with you and can’t do drawings you like much now. One reason
is I am never as strong as I was and I can’t bear the strain. It is a
considerable one to do a large pencil drawing of that sort. It wants to
be so fresh and spontaneous—if it is rubbed out at all it is spoiled.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Nov. 30th, 1895._
You will be grieved to hear that Rover yesterday had a fearful fight
with his always enemy, the yellow dog, a truly amiable deer-hound; why
Rover’s enemy we can’t tell. The fight resulted in a real black eye
for Rover, who could not see out of it all yesterday. This morning it
is better and he has been standing on his hind legs looking out of the
window the last half-hour—liking to look, as he can see again this
morning, but also I fear hoping his enemy may pass by and he may renew
the fight. The yellow dog has sometimes made overtures of friendship but
Rover remains obdurate. I fear he likes an enemy—it offers an agreeable
excitement....
The truth of Rover’s enmity for the great yellow dog is that one day
his tail got caught in the gate, which was a sight not to be resisted
by the previously friendly and amiable yellow dog, who at once set
teeth in it. Rover was deeply offended at the time, and after brooding
awhile over his grievance determined on action. Thus the strained
relations of a few days developed into hostilities, thereafter
constantly renewed.
_Dec. 3._
Some cows have come into the field opposite which have now entirely
absorbed Rover’s interest. He remains fixed at the dining-room window
gazing upon them with a fixed gaze, as much as to say, ‘What are these
extraordinary large quiet animals, who don’t run about and bark?’
[Illustration: A SURREY COTTAGE.
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of Alfred Emmott, Esq.,
M.P._]
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Dec. 9, 1895._
I am still doing all sorts of drawing—pencil ones with colour—I think
them rather pretty. I wish you would like a new sort—a little—I seem
to want to put in shade so much more than I used to. I have got to love
the making out of form by shade—the softness of it. I love things soft
and beautiful—not angular and hard as it is the fashion to like them
now. To be an impressionist opens a good wide space for leaving a good
deal that is difficult to do _undone_—at least so it seems to me. It is
so easy to begin, so difficult to finish.
[Illustration: A SKETCH OF KATE GREENAWAY’S MODEL, MARY.
On a Letter to Ruskin.]
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Dec. 9, 1895._
I have been reading Mrs. Thrale’s letters, which have interested me very
much. It must have been a mixed pleasure having Johnson for a friend.
Yet, how every one liked him though he was so troublesome! I must say
I should have found it hard work to sit up till four o’clock in the
morning, talking and pouring out tea! Think of the hours! and they had
their dinner at four o’clock in the afternoon. Mrs. Thrale must have
been the most good-natured person in the world, indeed I can’t help
feeling people were not very grateful to her.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Dec. 16, 1895._
I am reading a horrid book by a man with a horrid face. I once saw the
author, and I said, ‘Who is that loathsome man?’—Well, I read no more
of his books—that’s settled.