1896-1897
THE LAST OF THE ALMANACKS—OPINIONS ON BOOKS, PICTURES, THE NEW WOMAN,
AND ETERNAL MAN—HER DEFENCE OF RUSKIN.
By way of accentuating the uneventfulness of Miss Greenaway’s quiet
life apart from her art, it is perhaps worthy of notice that the year
1896 found her staying at a hotel for only the second time in her life,
the occasion being a visit to Miss Dorothy Stanley at Southwold shortly
before that lady’s marriage to Mr. Allhusen, M.P.
To Kate the most noteworthy events of this year were her presence at
Lord Leighton’s funeral at St. Paul’s on February 2nd; the purchase of
one of her drawings by Lady Dorothy Nevill as a wedding present for
the Princess Maud of Wales; a single exhibit, ‘Little Bo-Peep,’ at
the Royal Institute; and one of her rare public appearances to give
away Mr. Ruskin’s gold cross and chain to the May Queen of the year
(by reason of her popularity among her fellow-pupils) at the May-day
celebration at Whitelands College, Chelsea.
He had asked her once before, through Mrs. Severn, but she had begged
hard to be excused:—
50, FROGNAL, HAMPSTEAD, N.W.,
_Wednesday_.
My dearest Joanie—I’m afraid—and feel I ought not to say yes. First
place, I have been so unwell and get so tired.... I’m afraid it would
be exciting to me. Also I can’t or ought not to spare the _morning_. If
it were the afternoon it would make a difference. I don’t like saying
_no_, as you and he [Mr. Ruskin] wish it—but if you could find a nice
somebody else, I’d go next year if I were in London. You know I’m not
fitted for Public Posts.... So do be dear—get some one else to give the
cross....
Good-bye, dear Joanie, _don’t_ think me hateful or anything horrid—and
do _do go_ to the R.A. and look out for—Your very loving,
KATIE.
Beyond these incidents the interest of the year is confined to her
letters. She always had on hand for Ruskin one epistle, to which she
would sit down at any odd moment between meals, exercise, and work,
despatching it as soon as the end of the sheet was reached.
[Illustration: GOING TO THE POST.
On a Letter to Ruskin.]
As usual these letters are full of references to what she is painting
and reading, of her views of life and religion, of her likes and
dislikes in art, of her love of flowers, of Rover, and of little
touches of self-revelation. Here and there we find a bit of keen
observation, and once a half-humorous, half-wistful protest against the
comparative homeliness of her appearance.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Jan. 5, 1896._
I have been reading a curious book called _The Wonderful Visit_.[61]
A man goes out to shoot a strange bird, and shoots instead—an
Angel!—Somehow the author does manage to make you feel the angel very
beautiful and superior to all about him, but of course it is all unreal,
and his idea of heaven doesn’t fit in with mine. I say with mine, and I
haven’t an idea. I have often tried to think out what I would like it to
be like, and I never can, for there is always something does not fit in.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Jan. 22, 1896._
Do you like the sound of things in the streets? They want to get up a
society to suppress the noises—they asked me to belong and seemed to
think it very funny when I said I liked them; what do you think?
I feel so cheerful when I hear an organ playing nice lively tunes. I
love a band. I like seeing the Salvation Army (though I should, I fear,
be angry if I lived near the sound of their preaching) marching along
and singing. I like the sound of the muffin bell, for I seem again a
little girl coming home from school in the winter afternoons. I don’t
like the beggars because I feel too much pain to think of them so
destitute, but if I could believe they got pennies enough I could like
them. I like the flower-sellers, and the fruit stalls, and the sound of
church bells.
So what could I say? I should not like silence always. It is often when
I have had enough silence I go into the cheerful streets and find it a
rest.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
39, FROGNAL, _29 Jan. 1896_.
... I am so very sorry Leighton is dead—I did not know him, I never
talked to him—yet I am _so sorry_. He seemed always to me one of the
few who cared for real Beauty. Now it is all something new—something
startling, but if it is beautiful does not matter. All the same there
seems some real sorrow that Leighton is dead....
I have got a very interesting book about Mrs. Montague—Mrs. Thrale’s
Mrs. Montague, I mean. I seem to have known her slightly so long, but
not to have known anything really as to who she was and what she did. I
think she must have been quite delightful.
What a lovely thing a purple crocus is. I told you about a book, the
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, illustrated by Anning Bell.[62] He has done
little crocuses all over the grass and I think them so pretty. I shall
draw some when they come up—but the unkind little sparrows peck them to
bits in our garden directly they open. Don’t you call that a bad return
for giving them bread all their lives?—If I were talking to you, you’d
say NO to tease me—I know you would.
But they ARE bad sparrows truly—because they peck the almond blossoms
in just the same way. Johnny is so indignant and comes to me and
says—‘_Look_ what _your sparrows_ are doing!’—My sparrows?
There was a bad thrush once lived in the garden, a robber thrush, who
came to a bad end.
Now if there are no dreadful frosts there will be a great bank of
wallflowers by and by. Only once since we have lived here have they
succeeded in living well through the winter. Mrs. Docksey sent me such
pretty flowers yesterday and a dear little pot to hold them, violets and
snowdrops—wasn’t it very kind of her?
[Here comes a little sketch of a fairy flying across the moon.]
That’s because I have been looking at the old _Midsummer Night’s
Dream_ with Kenny Meadows’ drawings. I DO like them, for they are
really fairylike. As a very little child they were my Sunday evenings’
amusement whilst my mother and father read. My eldest sister played and
sang. I got to know all the plays when I was very little indeed from the
pictures. I think the names of the Italian towns got their great charm
in my mind from this time, mixed up with so much of the moonlight he
puts into them.
The sound of Verona—Padua—Venice—what beautiful sounding names he
got for his plays, didn’t he?—but then, he makes that charm over
everything. The spring flowers in his hands are nearly as beautiful as
themselves, and the girls’ names—Viola—Olivia—Perdita.
Oh dear! Things _are so_ beautiful and wonderful, you feel there must be
another life where you will see more—hear more—and _know_ more. All of
it cannot die.
I hope you get out every day for nice walks. Though I do not wish time
away I am glad this is February, the first spring month. I wonder what
you read now.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Feb. 18, 1896._
Did you ever read _Peter Ibbetson_, the first book Mr. du Maurier wrote?
I am reading it now. _I think it absolutely beautiful_—it affects me
so much. I have always liked Mr. du Maurier, but to think there was all
_this_, and one didn’t know it. I feel as if I had all this time been
doing him a great injustice—not to know.
It is such a wonderful thing to have thought of it all—it is so
_unworldly_—such a beautiful idea—an exquisite fancy. I long to tell
him how much I love it.
[Illustration: THE PINK SASH.
‘A baby with pink sash and pink ribbons.’
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of Stuart M. Samuel,
Esq., M.P._]
Miss Greenaway was also a great admirer of du Maurier as a
black-and-white artist, and after his death she wrote to Miss
Dickinson:—
All the du Maurier drawings are now at the Fine Art [Society]—I am
very sorry to think there will be no more—no more Mrs. Ponsonby de
Tomkins. He told me he got so fond of her in the end, he could not let
the retribution fall upon her that he intended to finish her up with. I
doubt if _Punch_ ever gets his like again; and he was such a nice man.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Feb. 25, 1896._
I wonder if you ever see any illustrations of Aubrey Beardsley’s and
what do you think of them? I would like to know. A great many people are
now what they call modern. When I state _my_ likes and dislikes they
tell me I am _not_ modern, so I suppose I’m not—advanced. That is why,
I suppose, I see some of the new pictures as looking so very funny.
You must not like Leighton now, or Millais, and I don’t know how much
longer I’m to be allowed to like Burne-Jones. Oh dear! I believe I shall
ever think a face should look like a face, and a beautiful arm like a
beautiful arm—not that I can do it—the great pity I can’t. Why, if I
could, they should have _visions_. Sometimes I almost wish I were shut
up by myself with nothing to do but to paint—only I’m so dependent on
people’s affection. I’m not lonely by myself but I want the people I
like very much sometimes. I feel I shall not do anything of what I could
wish in my life. Isn’t it hard sometimes when you have felt the beauty
of something in a certain way and have done it so and _no one_ you show
it to seems to see it at all. But I suppose if it is really a good thing
you have done that, after years, some one does feel it, while if it
is not worth finding out it goes into oblivion—so Time sifts it all
out. Such is not my fate, for I unfortunately can only think of all the
beautiful things and have not the skill to do them.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_March 2, 1896._
The almond buds are all pink, but I don’t want them out till there are
some nice little white daisies beneath them.
Do you remember the little poem on the daisy by Jane or Ann Taylor? It
is one of the earliest remembrances with me; my mother used to say it to
us so much.
Little lady, as you pass
Lightly o’er the tender grass,
Step about but do not tread
On my meek and lowly head;
For I always seem to say,
Surely, Winter’s gone away.
Now, after saying I remember it, I find I don’t, for that is the last
verse—and I know part of it goes:—
For my head is covered flat
With a white and yellow hat.
Her letters to Miss Dickinson too are full of her garden. Two or three
extracts must suffice. In February:—
I’ve had a deep disappointment to-day. Some one told me of a nice old
gardener who wanted a little more work. I thought he would just do for
us so I wrote, and when he called, instead of the old man there stood a
gorgeous young one in a gorgeous white tie. My heart sank.—He began:—
‘Path wants gravelling,
Grass wants seeding,
Roses want pruning,
Trees want cutting,
_Everything_ wants rolling,
Everything wants nailing up.’
A nice idea! my cherished garden made the exact facsimile of every one
in Frognal. I found myself _composing_ the _note_ that should dismiss
him later on. Nothing should induce me to consent to such desecration.
A month later she returns to the subject:—
I can really boast with truth that we have larger and more varied weeds
in our garden than you have in yours—in fact, our garden has forgotten
that it is a garden and is trying to be a field again.
And on April 1:—
It _is_ a Fool’s Day—this year snowing so hard—making such a mistake
in the time of year—All the poor flowers wondering what’s up. How I
hate it.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_March 11, 1896._
I do not have much to tell you about dear Rover. He has not been very
funny lately. He can’t fight—in the muzzle. He tries to but the other
dogs don’t see it.
Johnny always insists the cause of the fights is that Rover _boasts_ of
all the superior things he gets here, and the other dogs can’t stand
it. He says, ‘_I_ have a mutton chop for _my_ dinner’—and what can the
other dog say? except that perhaps he partakes of the bone of one, or a
paltry dog-biscuit, while Rover revels in beefsteak—beefsteak pie, pork
pie, and rabbit.
[Illustration: ‘K. G.’ WORRIED BY A STRAY PUPPY.
On a Letter to Ruskin.]
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_March 1896._
How funny it is, the different ways different people feel you ought to
work! and people who, you feel, should know. One man said, ‘Now, what I
would like to see is all these things done _life size_!’ Another comes
back as if he had quite a weight on his mind to say he feels he must
tell me how much he feels I ought to etch, so that my own original work
was kept. Some one else wants me always to do small things; some one
else, landscapes,—so it goes on. The man with the donkey who tried to
please everybody is nothing to it!
KATE GREENAWAY TO HON. MRS. SUTTON NELTHORPE
_Good Friday, 1896._
I was given quite the wrong sort of body to live in, I am sure. I ought
to have been taller, slimmer, and at any rate passably good-looking, so
that my soul might have taken flights, my fancy might have expanded.
Now, if I make a lovely hat with artistic turns and twists in it, see
what I look like! I see myself then as I see others in the trains and
omnibuses with things sticking up over one eye. I say, Ah, there goes
me! I do laugh often, as I look.
In something of the same strain she writes to Miss Violet Dickinson:—
The beautiful Lady looked too lovely for anything yesterday in a pale
green bonnet, a purple velvet and sable cloak and a black satin dress.
I _do_ in a way envy their riches—I could have such beautiful things,
you would not know 39, Frognal. You’d come into such a dream of beauty,
and the garden too, such a sight would meet your eyes, pots and tubs of
lovely flowers all over.
In respect of Miss Greenaway’s indifference to fine clothes for herself
Mrs. Loftie points out how curious it was ‘that with her delicate taste
in dressing her subjects she did not know how or did not take the
trouble to make the best of herself.’
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_July 9, 1896._
I saw two little children in an omnibus yesterday—two little girls. I
was so much taken with their faces—they had such small eyes but exactly
the shape of some Italian ones. I seemed to know every line as I had
seen it in carved Italian faces—it was so beautifully formed, all the
eyelid round the eye.... I did long to ask their mother to let me draw
them. I could have done them with such joy.
KATE GREENAWAY TO LADY MARIA PONSONBY
_July 12, 1896._
I can never define what art really is—in painting, I mean. It isn’t
realism, it isn’t all imagination, it’s a queer giving something to
nature that is possible for nature to have, but always has not—at least
that’s my idea. It’s what Burne-Jones does when he twists those roses
all about his people in the Briar Rose. They don’t often grow like that,
but they could, and it’s a great comfort to like such things, at least I
find it so.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Aug. 13, 1896._
I have not had a nice book this week. I read George Fox, the Quaker,
the other day. He was very wonderful, but some things they make a stand
for seem hardly worth it, like keeping their hats on. But perhaps that
is me in fault, for I don’t think I am at all regulated by Forms; they
don’t ever feel to me to matter: I don’t feel my life gets much shaped
by them—but then perhaps it would be better for me if it did!
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Oct. 21, 1896._
The colours are beautiful this year. Here, the Heath looks wonderful,
it is all so brilliant—red orange, emerald green, Rossetti’s green;
it always makes me think of Rossetti. I see the colour he _tried_ for,
and how difficult it is! You can’t think what colours to paint it with
because it always looks so cold when it is done—not a bit like the real
colour. I despair over grass, I can’t do it! I don’t know what it is;
I don’t know what blue to use—or what yellow. I’m so longing to try
more body-colour. It’s a curious thing everybody runs it down—yet—all
the great water-colour people (the modern ones) have used it—W. Hunt,
Walker, Pinwell, Rossetti, Burne-Jones, Herkomer.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Oct. 28, 1896._
I have not seen any one or been anywhere so there is nothing to tell
you about. Yes, I did go out to lunch last Sunday and sat next to an
unenthusiastic young architect. I thought this—Am I so dull, or is he
dull? It felt very depressing. I don’t mind shy persons if they will
only kindle up when you talk to them—often at first I do not get on
with people (especially men), but in a little while generally things
take a turn. I suppose I am very shy, really, yet when they are quite
the right people I meet I am not so at all. I don’t think you thought me
so, did you? I know I did not feel so, though before you came I thought
so much of your coming it got to be really a pain, and I said I almost
wish he was not coming. But then the first moment I saw you, I was
glad—so glad.
How different everything is when you are with the right people! When
they are wrong they make me so tired. Some people think this so
arrogant—I never can see why—I should never mind it at all, or never
do mind if people don’t find me to their taste, and leave me alone. I
think it’s far more simple and right, and better so. I don’t feel what I
think is _best_ or _right_, at least of course I _do_ think so.
A lady said to me the other day, ‘We all do so many things we know are
wrong.’ Do we? That seems to me a cowardly way to live. Surely we do
what _we think_ right however mistaken we may be. Why go through those
struggles with your conscience? why accept the sacrifice for yourself,
the denial of your wishes, and yet think yourself a sinner? No, I
can’t see it! though I’ve often tried, because people have, as I said,
seemed to think it arrogant—but I have never been able to see it, it
don’t seem to me to be true. If you did what you thought right, you did
right—and there’s an end of it; I can’t think myself wrong but I can
thank what great Power there is that I am led to do what I consider
right.
There! there’s a dull long talk! What put all that into my head to talk
about, to you? Is it rather like Harry and Lucy grown up?
[Illustration: On a Letter to Miss Violet Dickinson.]
The year 1897 saw the last of the Almanacks. The later issues had
been so unsuccessful that Routledge & Sons had discontinued their
publication. This year, as has been said, another publisher attempted
their revival, but the demand had ceased and the series was abandoned
for good and all.
[Illustration: THE PEACOCK GIRL.
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of John Greenaway,
Esq._]
Mr. Edmund Evans was still the middleman between her and the public,
that is to say, he was the engraver and the responsible man in the
enterprise, and it is impossible to estimate even approximately by
how much her popularity had been enhanced by his excellent engraving
and his usually excellent printing. Some idea of the extent of their
partnership may be gathered from the fact that in the twenty years
since 1878 there had issued from the press in book form alone 932,100
copies of their joint productions. How far this enormous number might
be increased by Christmas cards and independent designs for magazines
it would be useless even to hazard a guess.
This year Miss Greenaway contributed for the last time to the Royal
Institute; she sent ‘Girl in Hat and Feathers’ and ‘Two Little Girls in
a Garden,’ but her most important work consisted of commissions from
Mr. Stuart M. Samuel, M.P., to paint a portrait of his little daughter
Vera, and to design ‘processions’ for the decoration of his nurseries.
Mr. Samuel is also the possessor, besides many other drawings, of her
original designs for _A Day in a Child’s Life_.
KATE GREENAWAY TO MR. STUART M. SAMUEL
_13 Ap. 1896._
I cannot tell how much a drawing of your little girl would be. It
depends on the sort of drawing you want. A small water-colour would be
£25—a little girl like a book drawing £10. I can only do certain kinds
of book-plates, nothing heraldic. I do not think I could do a book-plate
to be sure it was a portrait. An ordinary book-plate is £5 or £6. I
could only undertake to do a portrait _here_—the little girl would have
to be brought to me.
This was done, and what was considered a successful result was obtained
by January of the following year. The drawing is reproduced in this
volume.
Her personal popularity showed no signs of waning, and she wrote to
Ruskin:—
Every one seems possessed with the desire of writing articles upon me
and sends me long lists of all I am to say. Then America worries me
to give drawings, to give dolls— and I have at last had to give up
answering their letters, for the time it wastes is too much to expect
wasted.
But though her name was still one to conjure with, there is little
doubt that her work was not as acceptable as it had been. Her reign
had been a long one and a new generation was knocking at the door. She
writes thus of her failing grip upon the public taste:—
KATE GREENAWAY TO LADY MARIA PONSONBY
_April 22, 1897._
My mind is in a very perplexed state and I feel very depressed also.
I seem not to do things well, and whatever I do falls so flat. It is
rather unhappy to feel that you have had your day. Yet if I had just
enough money to live on I could be so very happy, painting just what I
liked and no thought of profit. It’s there comes the bother, but it’s
rather difficult to make enough money in a few years to last for your
life. Yet now every one is so soon tired of things—that is what it
comes to.
And on the same date to Ruskin:—
I have been all the morning painting a yellow necklace and touching up a
black chair. I _do_ take a time—far too much—they would look better if
I did them in less. I’m going to do some quite new sorts of paintings.
When I have finished this lot, I will please myself. I’m so tired
of these and nothing I do pleases any one else now. Every one wants
something different so I will please myself now.
Other letters of the year set forth amongst other things how little
sympathy she had with the ‘Shrieking Sisterhood’ and the ‘New Woman,’
how generous was her appreciation of new and honest artistic endeavour,
how she saw through the hollow pretence of what was new and dishonest,
and how educative she found her own painting. It will also be seen that
she was always on the look-out for a good story with which to amuse the
‘Professor.’
[Illustration: VERA EVELYN SAMUEL.
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of Stuart M. Samuel,
Esq., M.P._]
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Feb. 2nd, 1897._
People are rather excited over the Woman’s Suffrage Bill, but I hope it
won’t pass next time. I don’t want a vote myself and I do not want it
at all. Some, of course, might vote well but others would follow their
feelings too much, I am sure—and get up excitements over things best
left alone. For my part I do feel the men can do it best and so hope it
may remain.
There’s nothing but women’s everything this year because of the Queen
and the festivities, so now there’s a chance for them. They always
feel they are not done justice to. I must say, I in my experience have
not found it so. I have been fairly treated and I have never had any
influence to help me. So I can’t join in with the things they so often
say. And then it is generally the second-rate ones who feel they should
be the first if it were not for unfair treatment, and all the while it
is want of enough talent. Somehow I have always found, the bigger the
man the greater his admiration for talent in others. I suppose his own
genius makes him feel the genius in others and rejoice in it. Not one of
them can do a picture like a fine Leighton—yet they can’t even look at
him. I did admire Poynter’s speech—and how he went for them.
[Illustration: On a Letter to Miss Violet Dickinson.]
KATE GREENAWAY TO MISS VIOLET DICKINSON
_Feb. 11, 1897._
Then there are the strong-minded women, who hold up to my vision
the hatefulness and shortcomings of MAN—How they are going to have
exhibitions in this Victoria year, and crush MAN beneath their feet by
having everything to themselves and showing how much better they can do
it—???? Worm as I am, my friend, oh what a worm they would think me
if I dared write and say my true views, that having been always fairly
and justly treated by those odious men that I would far rather exhibit
my things with them and take my true place, which must be lower than so
many of theirs. For I fear we can only _hope_ to do—what men _can_ do.
It is sad but I fear it is so. They _have_ more ability.
KATE GREENAWAY TO LADY MARIA PONSONBY
_Feb. 21, 1897._
My mind is tired out by wretched letters and circulars about various
exhibitions—the Victorian and others. I am at special enmity with the
Victoria one because they do _go on_ so.... _Man is such a vile worm._
Women are going to blaze forth at this show, I can tell you—at least
that is what they say—not impeded by the _usual fiasco_. Heaven knows
what that means, but I suppose it has to do with the guileful doings of
_Man_.
Have you ever been to the Exhibition of Lady Artists? You see, _I’m_
cross—well, this is what they’ve done—got the people [_i.e._ the
organisers] to say all the women’s pictures may be in the women’s work
part. They agreed at once—no wonder, they must have smiled with joy.
Now _why_ can’t we just take our places fairly—get just our right
amount of credit and no more. Of course we shouldn’t get the first
places—for the very simple and just reason—that we don’t deserve them.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Feb. 25, 1897._
I am reading a curious book called _The New Republic_, by Mr. Mallock.
I don’t know yet what it means, but so far it seems so different to its
author. Some are, and some are not like their books. You are like your
books. I never understand how they can be two things, yet how often
they are. I would rather never see the authors if they are different,
for I feel then it isn’t what they really _feel_ that they write about,
and that is not a pleasant feeling at all.
When writing this letter she does not seem to have recognised the
identity of Mr. Ruskin with the ‘Mr. Herbert’ of _The New Republic_.
Had she done so she would hardly, we may suppose, have alluded to the
book at all. Within a day or two, however, the thing seems to have
dawned upon her, for she wrote on Feb. 28:—
KATE GREENAWAY TO MISS VIOLET DICKINSON
_Feb. 28, 1897._
Did you ever read _The New Republic_, by Mr. Mallock? It is certainly
clever, so much so I feel rather sorry he has written it. I should very
much like to know who all the people are meant for—we cannot decide. I
suppose Mr. Ruskin is one.[63] Mr. Miller told me they were all people
he met at Sir Henry Acland’s—I can’t remember if his name is spelt Ac
or Ack—and that he was furious at Mr. Mallock taking them off in that
way. Anyhow it is very amusing and funny, but if the one is Mr. Ruskin
he might have done better—but evidently he did not know him well....
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_March 3, 1897._
I’ve got a curious book about the adventures of a young man and a girl
on bicycles—it is called _The Wheels of Chance_.[64] It’s very funny.
The young man is a draper’s assistant who is described as weak and
vulgar (only in the way he talks) and he turns out so nice. I don’t
see why he should be supposed to be vulgar because he is a draper’s
assistant. He could be quite as noble and good being that as having any
other trade, as far as I can see. I never can see things that way, and
people never seem to me to be vulgar because they don’t speak correctly
or know quite what is done in a society a little above them. I think
it is vulgar to think them so, if they are nice and do and think nice
things. But the book has nice feeling, and it would amuse you very much
to read it.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_April 15, 1897._
Isn’t it a funny thing I can’t copy? All the morning I have been
blundering over a baby’s face from a little study. I can’t do it a bit;
it is odd. I can’t get it a bit like the original. I put it in and take
it out, and so it goes on getting worse and worse. And I wish I could
do it so much but I never have been able, and it don’t matter what it
is—it is everything—the most trifling thing. I never do it well except
direct from the object or my own mind, but I can’t copy a flat thing—it
really is curious....
The gentleman[65] who has his nursery hung round with my drawings has
seen those I did for you and is very much taken with them. He wanted me
to copy the two big ones, but I told him that was perfectly impossible.
So I’m going to do him a procession later on. Also I should not like him
to have drawings the same as yours.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_April 22, 1897._
I am very fond of _Nicholas Nickleby_. No one has liked Dickens for so
long, but I think I begin to see a little turn coming now. Of course in
time it would be sure to come, but it is a certain fate to every one
after a time, and then another thing sets in and they take their rank
for ever....
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_April 27, 1897._
I went to the R.A. yesterday. Every one has turned portrait
painter—Briton Riviere does ladies and their pet animals—Orchardson
all portraits—Herkomer also. There is one picture I think beautiful.
It is ‘Hylas and the Water Nymphs’[66]—the water is covered with
water-lilies and the girls’ heads above the water suggest larger
water-lilies, somehow. They are beautiful, so is Hylas, so is the green
water shaded with green trees—it is a beautiful picture—I forget
the legend. Then there’s one other that impressed me so much—I can’t
remember the man’s name[67] but I should think he’s young and new. I
think it is called ‘Love’s Baubles.’ A boy goes along, his hair stuck
full of butterflies and carrying a basket of fruits, followed by a train
of girls trying to get them; some apples are dropped which the girls
are picking up. The colour LOVELY—strong Rossetti; it’s colour to its
highest pitch, and to my mind it is splendid. There’s a girl in front
smiling—in a green dress lined with purple shot silk; she has red hair.
Her dress is so beautifully painted. The ground is covered with daisies.
I shall go on Monday and look again. _There_—it’s all true.
[Illustration: TWO GIRLS IN A GARDEN.
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of John Riley, Esq._]
[Illustration: On a Letter to Ruskin.]
KATE GREENAWAY TO MISS VIOLET DICKINSON
_29 April 1897._
I am reading George Moore’s _Modern Painting_ and I feel my
cheeks burn. And I long, oh I long—if only I could do it, to write
a reply. The answers come surging up while I read—so much of it
seems to me a distorted criticism of distorted things. But sometimes
he writes well. I am intensely interested in it, though of course I
look on Art from an entirely different view. I think it sacrilege to
compare Velasquez and Whistler, and when he says the world never
repeats itself, we have had a Velasquez now we’ll have a funny
Whistler. Would the world say that if there was a remote chance
even of another? Wouldn’t we all say we’ll take the Velasquez,
please?—Not that I don’t like Whistler—I do—but it is nonsense
putting him at that level. It seems to have aroused feelings in its
readers for there are various pencil notes on the margins beginning
_shame_.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_May 27, 1897._
I often think, just for the pleasure of thinking, that a little door
leads out of the garden wall into a real old flowering garden, full
of deep shades and deep colours. Did you always plan out delightful
places just close and unexpected, when you were very young? I did. My
bedroom window used to look out over red roofs and chimney-pots, and
I made steps up to a lovely garden up there with nasturtiums growing
and brilliant flowers so near to the sky. There were some old houses
joined ours at the side, and I made a secret door into long lines of old
rooms, all so delightful, leading into an old garden. I imagined it so
often that I knew its look so well; it got to be very real. And now I’d
like somehow to express all this in painting, especially my love of old
gardens with that richness of colour and depth of shade.
[Illustration: THE DANCING OF THE FELSPAR FAIRIES.
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of Mrs. Arthur
Severn._]
KATE GREENAWAY TO MR. PONSONBY
I went the other day to the Guildhall[68]—there are beautiful things
there, but not so interesting to me as the last exhibition—that seemed
to me the finest collection I had ever seen.
I can’t think why, but the Rossettis never seem to go with other
pictures, while the Millais’ tower above all things. They have the
Drummer-boy[69] there, just wonderful, and the early one of the
Royalist[70]—but put in the narrow passage, where you can’t see it.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_July 14, 1897._
There was a Millais—three Millais’—‘The Huguenots,’ ‘The Gambler’s
Wife,’ and ‘The Blind Girl.’ Every time I see any of the early Millais’
I like them more and more, if possible. ‘The Huguenots’ is so wonderful,
isn’t it? Her face! it seems to move and quiver as you look at it—it
is a divine picture. I do only wish he had not made the colour in the
girl’s sleeves yellow, or that yellow. Then the wall and the campanulas
and nasturtiums—her hands and his!—
I know you do not always like Tadema, but there is one here I think you
would like—both the painting and the subject, but very likely you have
seen it. I never have before. It is called ‘The Women of Amphissa.’ Do
you know it? Some women have gone on a pilgrimage and have strayed into
an enemy’s city and are taken care of and given food by the women of the
city. The _food_ is so wonderful. There is some honey in the comb, and
cucumbers and figs and bread. There are two fair women who are marvels
of painting.
Then there’s a Holman Hunt—‘The Boys Singing on May Morning,’[71]—but
the reflections are so exaggerated it cuts it up too much. But well
do I love the early one, ‘The Two Gentlemen of Verona.’ I have often
seen this before and I love it. It really is so beautiful to see such
pictures.
Then there’s a Lewis—such painting, such colour! What a wonderful
collection of men they were!
And what will this generation who run them down have to show? For them,
_nothing_ that I can see at present. There are two Turners, but by the
time I got to those I was feeling too tired to stand. I fear I shan’t go
again for I think it closes to-day.
There, it is all pictures this time, but I feel so much better for
seeing them. I always do, if I can see a beautiful thing.
KATE GREENAWAY TO LADY MARIA PONSONBY
_July 26, 1897._
An American and his wife came to-day and bought some drawings, and the
lady asked me _how much they were a dozen_!
Her American visitors were perhaps scarcely to be blamed; for Miss
Greenaway, alike innocent of the simple strategy of the prudent
salesman and incapable of the subtle skill of the accomplished
dealer, would make no attempt to ‘nurse’ her drawings. If she were
asked by an intending purchaser what she had for disposal, she would
bring out everything she had, partly in order that her client might
make the freest choice, partly in a spirit of pure but impolitic
self-abnegation. And when her friends remonstrated with her on the
imprudence of the proceeding, she would laugh and reply gaily that she
evidently was not cut out for a business woman. No wonder that American
collector thought that the matter might be approached on a ‘wholesale’
footing.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_July 28, 1897._
Did I tell you I was now reading a very fascinating book about gardens,
only it is conducted on more scientific principles than my gardening
and would take much longer. Mine consists in putting something into
the ground. When once there it has to see after itself, and can’t
come up to see after its root, or go to another spot for change of
air—perseverance does it! There’s an alstrœmeria that has had quite
a desperate struggle for three or four years when it’s never grown
up—never flowered—But this year there has been a victory, a great bush
of lovely orange flowers.
I saw such a great bee in the garden the other day—as large as the
Coniston ones that kick so furiously. I thought of the Coniston bees
when I saw him, and then—of the Coniston Moor, and the Coniston Lake,
and the Coniston Mountains. Ah, well, I shall come and see it again some
time—won’t you like to see me again, some time?
[Illustration: On a Letter to Miss Violet Dickinson.]
KATE GREENAWAY TO MISS VIOLET DICKINSON
_Nov. 12, 1897._
I’ve now finished _St. Ives_. I don’t like the other man’s
ending—I—don’t think it is up to Stevenson’s usual mark. There are too
many adventures—too many hairbreadth escapes—it wants some spaces of
repose. I don’t like all dangers, it becomes painful to me to read. You
no sooner begin to breathe, feeling he is safe, than there he is again
worse than before.
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Nov. 18, 1897._
Oh, I went to the New English Art Club yesterday—_such_ productions!
I just think it all mere pretence. They are to my mind mostly all very
ugly rough sketches, and they think nothing of leaving out the head or
body of any one if that isn’t where they want it—— I’d like you to see
some of the _clouds_—solid—absolutely—and to think of Turner! The
place was thronged with students which is sad—but I believe it won’t be
for long. I was told the _Times_ said the movement began to be popular
and so was bad and dangerous. I believe it will soon all crumble away,
for there isn’t anything in it except sketches; none of the good artists
would exhibit—the tide will turn.
[Illustration: On a Letter to Ruskin.]
KATE GREENAWAY TO RUSKIN
_Nov. 24, 1897._
What do you think I have been drawing to-day? I got so interested it
has made me very tired. I am doing a band of little child angels each
carrying a lily coming along a hilltop against a green (summer) sunset
sky. May-trees are in flower, and they are (one or two of the angels)
gathering daisies. The lilies are heavenly lilies, so it doesn’t matter
their being out at the same time as the May. I have not yet finished the
starry sky, but I was constrained to do the angels.
This chapter may fitly be brought to a close by the following handsome
defence of Ruskin, inspired by a conversation with Miss Violet
Dickinson, and written twelve months before the last letter.
KATE GREENAWAY TO MISS VIOLET DICKINSON
_Nov. 2, 1896._
I have been thinking very much about what you said, of the way people
talk against him in Venice—I hope you will try a little not to quite
believe it all. For believe me it is sure not to be all true, and even
if he has been very inaccurate the world owes him so much that one may
well and justly (I think) forget his faults.
[Illustration: A BABY IN WHITE.
_From a water-colour drawing in the possession of Stuart M. Samuel,
Esq., M.P._]
The world _is_ very ungrateful like all nature is, and takes all the
good it can get and then flings the giver of it away. That is our way
and it is a cruel one. And there’s another reason also—a reason that
once I used not to believe in—but I do now, and that is that so many
of the second-rate authors and artists seem to have a most bitter
jealousy of the great ones. It is very curious to me but they do. They
love to find a fault. Look how delighted they were to think Carlyle was
unkind to Mrs. Carlyle, while really I suppose he never was. When Mr.
du Maurier died the other day such unfair notices of both his books and
drawings!—I feel red-hot angry at lots of the things said about the
big ones, and we ought to be so grateful to them instead for what they
make the world for us. Nearly always the criticisms are from the lesser
man on the great one. How should he know?—If he did he would be the
great one, but he isn’t and can’t be, and nothing shows more how little
and below he is. More than that, he can’t reverence and venerate those
wonderful souls who shower down so freely for everybody the greatness
that is in them. I feel I can say all this to you for you _are_ a
feeling soul, and I know you’ll go with me. Not that I mean for one
moment that it is right not to be accurate, and I know in Mr. Ruskin’s
case he is too ready to believe all he hears, but I think it should be
forgiven—that the beautiful things he tells you—and the new life of
Art you enter into—compensate.
Never shall I forget what I felt in reading _Fors Clavigera_ for the
first time, and it was the first book of his I had ever read. I longed
for each evening to come that I might lose myself in that new wonderful
world.