  1887-1890 KATE GREENAWAY AS A CORRESPONDENT—HER LETTERS TO RUSKIN—HER FRIENDS—LEARNING PERSPECTIVE—RUSKIN’S LAST LETTERS—‘THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN’—MRS. ALLINGHAM, R.W.S.—THE ‘BOOK OF GAMES’—ELECTED TO THE ROYAL INSTITUTE OF PAINTERS IN WATER-COLOURS—PARIS EXHIBITION—DEATH OF MR. JOHN GREENAWAY, SR. On a Letter to Ruskin. The most important publications of the year 1887 were The Queen of the Pirate Isle (Chatto), already mentioned; the Almanack, oblong instead of upright as were all the others, of which over 37,000 copies were sold; and Queen Victoria’s Jubilee Garland, made up of illustrations collected from earlier books. From this year forward Ruskin made it a practice to preserve at any rate the majority of Miss Greenaway’s letters. The earliest of these letters do not lend themselves to extended quotation. It is only later, when Kate made it part of her day’s work to take her share in relieving the tedium of the aged Professor’s unoccupied days, that they assume any real importance to the reader. The key-note of these epistles is their artlessness. She has a child’s heart at forty and ‘lives with her girlhood as with a little sister.’ As we read them the words ‘How naÏf’ are for ever on our lips. From time to time we come upon a luminous point and a touch of bright humour, but for the most part the letters are lacking in grip and verve. Languid too, they often are, the consequence doubtless of the conscientiousness with which she spent herself in her work, especially when her health during the last ten years of her life was far from robust. And yet with all their shortcomings they have a very real interest and are redolent of her strong personality. They are instinct, too, with the scent of flowers, the love of trees, the fascinations of her garden, of sunsets and beauties of earth and sky; full, too, of her dog Rover, whom her friends the Allhusens twit her with calling ‘Wover’—indeed hardly a letter goes without a chapter, or at least a verse, of Rover’s biography, from which a book entitled The Diary of a Dog might easily be compiled. They are full of what she is reading (as we might expect, she is always inveighing against the unhappy endings of books)—and tell in detail what she is working at; full of pictures she has seen which wanted ‘a Ruskin for their proper criticism’; full of her favourite model ‘Mary’—‘we always have a merry time, I think we are both made to laugh a good deal’; full of her love of nature—‘the garden is full of pictures but I can’t get time to do them’; and again, ‘when the sun shines I can smell the grass growing’; full of the seasons—‘they have got mixed up this year; poor spring has got badly treated or else had an aspiring mind and tried to take too much of the year for her own property—anyhow here is winter again’; full of her friends, the Locker-Lampsons, the du Mauriers, Lady Jeune, ‘one of the kindest people in all the world,’ and her daughter, now Mrs. Allhusen, the Tennysons, and the beautiful Mrs. Stuart Samuel, ‘spring personified dressed in blue and violet—a real Beauty she is and very nice’; full of playful allusions to the pedantic conversations of Miss Edgeworth’s Harry and Lucy, which she and Ruskin had read and laughed over together. And they are full of the summer and winter exhibitions—‘no one now says a good word for the Academy though they all want to be made R.A.’s’; full of the pictures she intends to paint—‘I have often wished lately to paint a picture of Night—it looks so beautiful out of my window—the yellow lights in the windows—the stars in the sky. I think I shall do a little angel rushing along in it, I want to do it as a background to something. If I could but do a della Robbia angel—with that look—those curls’; and again, ‘Don’t you love a market, a real country one, where the stalls are so pretty with pears and plums and little sage cheeses and long rolls of butter? For years I have been going to paint such a market stall. One day—I suppose—one day I shall.’ And yet again they describe lovely gardens which she has visited; full of old houses to which she has made pilgrimages. “ROVER.” MR. JOHN GREENAWAY’S RETRIEVER. For ten years Kate Greenaway’s faithful companion. One day there is a touch of sensitiveness:—‘I am often amused at the women who sell the violets—they so often smell them before presenting them to the purchaser—this is not always an attraction.’ Another day she touches off a portrait:—‘My sister’s little girl is good to contemplate. Her profile is like a cheerful Burne-Jones.’ Now she airs a prejudice:—‘I wish there were no worms in the garden. I am so frightened when I sow things to see them turn up. I know they are useful but they are not nice-looking. I do not dislike many things, but a worm I have a repulsion for.’ ‘Violets, sir?’ And now she pays one of her rare visits to the theatre—a great event in her quiet life:—‘I went to see Rebellious Susan—not a deep play—very interesting—very cleverly acted. But I like going deeper into things, I think I like deeper motives for things than what Society thinks.’ Then she tells of the trouble she takes over her pictures:—‘I am doing Cinderella carrying in the Pumpkin to her fairy godmother—you don’t see the godmother. I have put a row of scarlet beans as a background. That is the kind of letter she writes—dwelling but a moment on this or that point, irresponsible, sportive, sometimes gay, less often grave, delightful to the receiver but rarely with sufficient ‘body’ for the unsympathetic coldness of printer’s ink. The drawings which embellished them are charming in their spontaneity, and who can wonder at the half-heartedness of Ruskin’s protest when he writes:— —In trying to prevent you wasting your time on me I have never told you how much I do enjoy these little drawings. They are an immense addition to the best pleasures of my life and give me continual interest and new thought. Little marvel that such a protest prompted her to become even more lavish than before. What a delight these letters were to him when ill-health made any written response impracticable may be gathered from Mrs. Severn’s reiterated announcements:— ‘The Professor is absorbed with delight in your letter.’—‘Your letters are always so interesting and a real pleasure to him.’—‘How grateful I ever am for your untiring goodness to him. Your letters really are one of the great pleasures of his life.’—‘Your lovely letter with the sweet little people looking from the ridge of the hill at the rising sun so delighted Di Pa. These letters were full of passing allusions to her friends, of whom she now had many amongst persons distinguished in art and society. She was slow at forming intimacies but she was tenacious of them when made. As she wrote to her friend of many years’ standing, the Hon. Mrs. Sutton Nelthorpe, in 1896: I’m sorry now that I can see you so seldom.—That’s me, so slow at getting to want a person and then wanting them so much. THE GARDEN SEAT. From a water-colour drawing in the possession of Harry J. Veitch, Esq. To mention only a few of her friends, there were Mrs. Miller, Miss Violet Dickinson, the Stuart Samuels, Lady Dorothy Nevill, Lady Jeune, Lady Victoria Herbert, Rev. W. J. Loftie, Stacy Marks, the du Mauriers, Mrs. Allhusen, Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, the Edmund Evans’, Mr. Norman Shaw, Mr. Austin Dobson, the Locker-Lampsons, Lady Mayo, the Hon. Gerald and Lady Maria Ponsonby, the Hon. Mrs. Sutton Nelthorpe, Mrs. Allingham, the Duchess of St. Albans, Lady Ashburton, the Tennysons, Mrs. Arthur Severn, her daughters, the Misses Lily and Violet Severn, and her husband, Mr. Arthur Severn, R.I., Miss Vyvyan, and Miss Fripp. Miss Vyvyan, like Mrs. Basil Martineau and Mrs. Ridley Corbet (wife of the distinguished painter, the late M. Ridley Corbet, A.R.A.), was a fellow-student of Kate’s; Miss Fripp was niece of the well-known member of the Royal Water-Colour Society. With Mrs. Garrett Anderson, M.D., for some years from 1887 her medical adviser, she was very friendly. With Mr. Anderson, too; and also with Miss Mary Anderson, Kate was on the most intimate terms during her life at Hampstead. In March of this year Ruskin set himself the task of teaching her perspective in about a dozen consecutive letters. He had often alluded to the matter, but now he fills his letters with diagrams of cubes and gables and arches, sparing no pains to make things plain to her and setting her tasks which she most faithfully performed. The technical parts of these letters would here be out of place but some of the side issues suggested by them will bear quotation. To tell the truth, the perspective in her drawings is often very deficient, and the calm violation of its laws in some of her earlier work was due, not to quaintness as people thought, but to real inability to master it. She would innocently make independent sketches of pretty cottages, real or imagined, and then calmly group them together, with little or no correction or bringing into harmony, as a background for a composition of playing children. In her earlier years her father would often put these portions of her design into proper perspective, and later on her brother John. Indeed, at her first exhibition a critic was examining a drawing from Under the Window, and as he looked it over, he exclaimed to a friend, first in amazement and then in anger, ‘She has one point of sight here, and another here! and here! and here!! Why, she has five distinct points of sight! Thereupon, on March 8, Ruskin writes: ‘I like Johnnie’s sticking himself up to teach you perspective! I never believed you’d learn it, or I’d have taught it to you here, and been done with it. Anyhow—don’t you let him teaze you any more and just mind this to begin with.’ Here, follow diagrams and explanation, and he goes on ‘That’s enough for to-day. Three more scribbles will teach you all you’ll ever need to know.’ Two days later he returns to the subject:—‘There’s no fear of your forgetting perspective, any more than forgetting how to dance. One can’t help it when one knows. The next rule you have to learn is more than half way. One never uses the rules, one only feels them—and defies if one likes—like John Bellini. But we should first know and enjoy them.’ The last words refer to the following passage which he had written the day before, when sending her a copy he had had made for her of Bellini’s picture:— ‘The Globe picture is one of a series done by John Bellini of the Gods and Goddesses of good and evil to man. On March 12 he says, apropos of her work on the Pied Piper, ‘Finished the rats, have you! but you ought to do dozens of rats in perspective with radiating tails.’ Here he draws a rough example of what he means and continues:—‘I believe the perfection of perspective is only recent. It was first applied to Italian Art by Paul Uccello (Paul the Bird—because he drew birds so well and many). He went off his head with his love of perfection—and Leonardo and Raphael spoiled a lot of pictures with it, to show they knew it. Now the next thing you have to be clear Not unnaturally, perhaps, Miss Greenaway claims for herself the same licence or privilege of abstention as Bellini was allowed, so on March 17th Ruskin replies:—‘I didn’t answer your question “Why may not I defy Perspective as well as John Bellini?” Not because you are less—but because defying is a quite different thing from running against. Perspective won’t put up with you—if you tread on her toes—but will concede half her power to you if you can look her in the eyes. I won’t tell you more till you’re across that river.’ Two other extracts from Ruskin’s letters, and the record of this year is complete. Ruskin to Kate Greenaway Brantwood, Monday 23 [Jan. 1887]. I’m still quite well thank God, and as prudent as can be—and have been enjoying my own drawings! and think I shan’t mind much if there’s a fault or two in your’s![typo for yours?] But we will have it out about suns and moons like straw hats! and shoes like butter boats—and lilies crumpled like pocket-handkerchiefs, and frocks chopped up instead of folded. I’ve got a whole cupboard full of dolls for lay figures and five hundred plates of costume—to be Kate Greenawayed. Ruskin to Kate Greenaway Brantwood [April 4, 1887]. The anemones are here—and quite lovely, but you know they’re not like those wild ones of Italy and wither ever so much sooner. I’m enjoying my botany again—but on the whole I think it’s very absurd of flowers not to be prettier! How they might all grow up into lovely trees—and pinks grow like almond blossom, and violets everywhere like daisies, tulips climb about like Virginian creeper—and not stand staring just as if they’d been just stuck into the ground.—Fancy a house all in a mantle of tulips.—And how many new shapes they might invent!... And why aren’t there Water Roses as well as Water Lilies? In the early part of the year Kate Greenaway seems to have designed a cover for The Peace of Polissena, by Miss Francesca Alexander, a ‘Part’ of Christ’s Folk in the Apennine, edited and partly written by Ruskin—a graceful reply to her supposed but of course entirely imaginary jealousy of that lady’s work—but it does not appear to have been used. This may have been a result of the return of the Master’s illness which again laid him low in the spring of 1887. In January of 1888 we find him sufficiently recovered to write the following pathetic letters from Sandgate, whither he had gone to recuperate. In other letters of this period he complains that he has hardly strength to answer hers, and that he is sadly oppressed by the cold which oppresses her. He praises her for her appreciation of Donatello, and says that Donatello would have appreciated Kate Greenaway. But he qualifies his praise by telling her that she would do far more beautiful things if she would not allow herself to be hurried away by the new thoughts which crowd upon her and hinder her from fully realising any. Then he falls foul of modern novels, of which he is having a surfeit through the circulating library. Some of the books for girls he finds passably good but deplores the fashion, which began with Misunderstood, of breaking children’s backs, so that one never knows what is going to happen to them when they go out walking! Ruskin to Kate Greenaway [Sandgate] 27 Jan. 88. You cannot conceive how in my present state, I envy—that is to say only in the strongest way, long for—the least vestige of imagination, such as yours. When nothing shows itself to me—all day long—but the dull room or the wild sea and I think what it must be to you to have far sight into dreamlands of truth—and to be able to see such scenes of the most exquisite grace and life and quaint vivacity—whether you draw them or not, what a blessing to have them there—at your call. And then I stopped and have been lying back in my chair the last quarter of an hour,—thinking—If I could only let you feel for only a quarter of an hour what it is to have no imagination—no power of calling up lovely things—no guidance of pencil point along the visionary line—Oh how thankful you would be to find your mind again. And what lovely work you have spent—where no one will ever see it but poor me—on the lightest of your messages. Do you remember the invitation sent by the girl holding the muffin high on her toasting fork? You never did a more careful or perfect profile. And the clusters of beauty in those festival or farewell ones? Well, I had joy out of them—such as you meant—and more than ever I could tell you, nor do I ever cease to rejoice at and wonder at them,—but with such sorrow that they are not all in a great lovely book, for all the world’s New Years and Easter days. You might do a book of Festas, one of these days—with such processions! HAPPY RETURNS OF THE DAY. From a water-colour drawing made by Kate Greenaway for John Ruskin upon his birthday. In the possession of Stuart M. Samuel, Esq., M.P. By ‘processions’ are meant the long drawings with a bevy of following maids, and sometimes of boys too, of which one or two examples are included in this book. They contain some of Miss Greenaway’s most careful and dainty work in drawing, colour, and composition, but, unfortunately, are so large that they have suffered great reduction. Ruskin to Kate Greenaway [Sandgate] 17 Feb. 88. It’s just as bad here as everywhere else—there are no birds but seagulls and sparrows—there is snow everywhere—and north-east wind on the hills,—but none on the sea—which is as dull as the Regent’s Canal. But I was very glad of the flower letter yesterday,—and the chicken-broth one to-day, only I can’t remember that cat whom I had to teach to like cream. I believe it is an acquired taste—and that most cats can conceive nothing better than milk. I am puzzled by Jim’s inattention to drops left on the tablecloth—he cleans his saucer scrupulously, but I’ve never seen him lap up, or touch up, a spilt drop. He is an extremely graceful grey striped fat cushion of a cat,—with extremely winning ways of lying on his back on my knee, with his head anywhere and his paws everywhere. But he hasn’t much conversation and our best times are I believe when we both fall asleep. He says he yearns for ‘Pipers,’ alluding, of course, to drawings for ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin, by Robert Browning, with 35 Illustrations by Kate Greenaway. Engraved and printed in colours by Edmund Evans,’ which George Routledge & Sons were just publishing. The book, which was charming throughout, save for a poor drawing on page 31 and a curious solecism on page 39, met with immediate and gratifying success. Stacy On Feb. 23 Ruskin writes:— The Piper came by the 11 post—ten minutes after my note left this morning. I only expected outline proofs, so you may judge how pleased I was. It is all as good and nice as it can be, and you really have got through your rats with credit—and the Piper is sublime-and the children lovely. But I am more disappointed in the ‘Paradise’ than I expected to be—a real view of Hampstead ponds in spring would have been more celestial to me than this customary flat of yours with the trees stuck into it at regular distances—And not a Peacock!—nor a flying horse!! The only other publications of the year were the sixth Almanack, of which 20,000 out of 37,500 copies went to America and 6,500 to France, and a contribution to The American Queen. There were also private commissions executed for Lady Dorothy Nevill, Lady Northcote, and Mr. Ponsonby. COTTAGES. From a large water-colour drawing in the possession of Harry J. Veitch, Esq. But the crowning event of 1888 was the friendship which she now formed with Mrs. Allingham. Sixteen years before they had worked side by side as students, but since then their paths had diverged. The account of their intimacy will best be told in that delightful artist’s own words:— It must have been in 1872 or 1873 that I first met Kate Greenaway at an evening class at the Slade School (which I only attended for three months). I had given up my student work at the R.A. schools—(she doubtless had then left Kensington) for drawing on the wood in my own studio. I was not formally introduced to her till several years after I was married, when I met her at an evening party at Tennyson’s—in Belgrave Square, I think. Mr. Frederick Locker presented me to her, and we had a pleasant talk, I remember. In 1881, we went to live at Witley in Surrey, and among our kindest neighbours were Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Evans, with whom Kate often came to stay. For several years we (K. and I) had merely pleasant friendly meetings without in any way becoming intimate. I think it was in the spring of 1888 that we went out painting together in the copses near Witley and became really friends. In the autumn of that year we removed to Hampstead, and it was always a pleasure to visit Kate in her beautiful home and to sit and chat with her by the hour in her cosy little tea-room or in the great studio full of interesting things. When the time came for saying good-night, she would always come down to the hall-door and generally put on a hat hanging in the hall and come as far as the gate for more friendly last words. One day in the autumn of 1889 we went to Pinner together on an exploring expedition for subjects, and were delighted with some of the old cottages we saw there. I had been pressing her ever since our spring time together at Witley to share with me some of the joys of painting out of doors. Another day we went farther afield—to Chesham and Amersham. She was delighted with the beauty of the country and the picturesque old towns—especially with the ‘backs’ at Amersham and the river with its border of willows and little cottage gardens and back yards. As evening drew on and black clouds warned us that a storm was imminent, we hailed a baker’s cart that was going towards our station and we agreed that it gave us a capital view of the country over the high hedges. In the spring of 1890 I took my children to Freshwater, Isle of Wight, and found rooms near us for Kate. She and I went out painting together daily, either to some of the pretty old thatched cottages around Farringford or to the old dairy in the grounds, when we often had a friendly visit from the great poet himself, or from Mr. Hallam Tennyson, with an invitation to come up to tea. During the summer of that year (1890) we continued our out-door work together, generally taking an early train from Finchley Road to Pinner, for the day. She was always scrupulously thoughtful for the convenience and feelings of the owners of the farm or cottage we wished to paint, with the consequence that we were made welcome to sit in the garden or orchard where others were refused admittance. I am afraid that her short sight must have greatly added to the difficulty of out-door painting for her. I remember her exclaiming one day at Pinner, ‘What am I to do? When I look at the roof it is all a red blur—when I put on my spectacles I see every crack in the tiles.’ Though we often sat side by side, painting the same object (generally silently—for she was a very earnest, hard worker—and perhaps I was, too), it seemed to me that there was little likeness between our drawings—especially after the completion in the studio. But she was one of the most sensitive of creatures and I think she felt that it might be wiser for both of us to discontinue the practice of working from the same subjects, so, after that summer of 1890, we did The last time I saw her was Feb. 28, 1901, at the Fine Art Society. I thought she looked fairly well, and seemed so, though she spoke of having felt tired sometimes. But she said nothing of the serious illness of the year before. It was not possible to have much talk then. I became exceedingly busy just after that time, and in May went abroad—and when later on in the year I called at her house, I was told she was not well enough to see friends. Her work remains for all to see and enjoy. Of herself, I can truly say that she was one of the most honest, straightforward, and kindly of women: a sympathetic, true, and steadfast friend. The year 1889 produced, besides the Almanack, which by now had become an institution, Kate Greenaway’s Book of Games—with, as a matter of course, Mr. Evans as engraver and printer, and G. Routledge & Sons as publishers—and ‘The Royal Progress of King Pepito, written by Beatrice F. Cresswell, illustrated by Kate Greenaway,’ and published by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. Of each of these books nearly ten thousand copies were issued. The Book of Games, in which she could choose her own subjects and follow her own bent, found K. G., if not at her best, at least happy and unrestrained, while with King Pepito it was otherwise. As was usually the case with her, she found it hard to assimilate another’s ideas. The inelasticity of story-book illustrating seemed to paralyse her pencil and she became mannered and conventional. PENCIL AND TINT DRAWING. In the possession of B. Elkin Mocatta, Esq. This year she was elected a member of the Royal Institute of Painters in Water-Colours, and was moreover represented by thirteen frames of drawings in the British Section of the International Exhibition at Paris. Son genre a ÉtÉ une innovation et une preuve de bravoure, comme tous les actes d’indÉpendance dans l’ordre moral et artistique. Lancer au milieu d’une sociÉtÉ blasÉe, ces ÉchappÉs de nurseries, vÊtus À la mode bizarre et charmante qu’on appelle maintenant ‘la Greenaway,’ Était À coup sÛr original.... Les oeuvres de l’aquarelliste anglaise jettent-elles lÀ une note fraÎche et gaie, et font-elles l’effet d’un enfant dans un intÉrieur de vieux, d’un oiseau ÉgarÉ dans un cloÎtre.... L’usateur des Almanachs semble avoir une prÉfÉrence marquÉe pour certaines couleurs: elle excelle dans l’usage du blanc, du rose, et du vert. Avec leur emploi, elle arrive À des teintes effacÉes d’un effet charmant. Ses tons Évoquent l’image des pendules À fleurs et des soies anciennes, des vieilles faÏences À paysages et des cÉladonnades À la Watteau, toutes ces choses, comme elles nous arrivent maintenant, mangÉes de soleil, vieilles d’un siÈcle et pourtant encore dÉlicieusement jolies, ainsi que les aquarelles qui en rÉveillent le souvenir. Since the spring of 1888 there had been no letters from Ruskin, who had made his last foreign tour to France, Switzerland, and Italy in the vain hope of renewing his health. Now in the spring of 1889 he was back at Brantwood with ten pathetic years before him of growing infirmity. In May he was well enough to write to Miss Greenaway the following letters, which were to be the last he was ever to send. In the course of the following month he produced a chapter of PrÆterita and then his literary career was closed. Ruskin to Kate Greenaway Brantwood May-day 1889. I’ve been a-maying with you all day,—coming upon one beautiful thing after another in my drawer, so long unopened—most thankfully to-day unlocked again—and sending balm and rose and lily sweetness all through the old study. What exquisite drawings those were you did just before I fell so ill,—the children passing under the flower arch—&c.! and Joan tells me you are doing such lovely things now with such backgrounds,—grander than ever, and of course the Piper is the best book you ever did—the Piper himself unsurpassable—and I feel as if he had piped me back out of the hill again, and would give some spring times yet to rejoice in your lovely work and its witness to them. I do hope much, now—the change is greater and deeper for good than it has ever been before, but I have to watch almost every breath lest I should fall back again. I wonder if you would care to come down in the wild rose time—and draw a branch or two, with the blue hills seen through them, and perhaps study a little falling water—or running—in the green shadows. I wouldn’t set you to horrid work in the study, you should even draw any quantity of those things that you liked—in the forenoon—and have Brantwood, 3 May, 1889. I am so very thankful that you can come—and still care to come—! I was so afraid you might have some work on hand that would hinder you—but now, I do trust that you will be quite happy, for indeed you will find here, when you are at liberty to do what you like best,—the exact things that become most tractable in their infinite beauty. You are doing great work already—some of the pages of the Piper are magnificent pictures, though with a white background—you will be led by the blue mountains and in the green glens to a deeper colour-melody—and—to how much else—there is no calculating. Please bring the primrose picture!—it will be the intensest delight to me and in looking over your drawings again, (how many do you think there are in my Kate drawer, now—besides those in the cabinets?) I feel more than ever—I might almost say twice as much as I used to, their altogether unrivalled loveliness. And I think, as soon as you have seen all the exhibitions, and feel able to pack your country dresses and sacrifice London gaieties for monastic peace in art and nature, that you should really come; the roses will soon be here—and the gentians and hyacinths will certainly be here before you—and it is best, while all things bid fair for us, to take Fortune at her word. I trust that my health will go on improving—but I might take cold, or Joanie might—or the children. At present we’re all right and I want you to come as soon as may be. Brantwood Sunday 12 May, 1889. I am so sorry you can’t come sooner, to see the gentians—but I suppose they contrive ways of growing them now even in London. But I have a cluster of nine,—in a little glass in the study bow window—you know where that is?!—three little roses pretending to be peach blossoms in another little glass on my table, and beside them a cluster of ‘myrtilla cara’—if you don’t know what that is, it’s just jealousy and I’ll make you paint some—where your easel shan’t tumble, nor your colours be overflown—I don’t a bit know what’s the right word—Shakespeare’s no authority, is he nowadays?—and next the Myrtilla Cara who is in her sweetest pride and humility of fruit-like blossom, there’s a cluster of the most beautiful pyrus I ever saw—it is almost white, I Well, if you can’t come yet you can’t—but you must read a little bit of me every day—to keep you steady against the horrible mob of animals calling themselves painters, nowadays (—I could paint better than they by merely throwing my ink bottle at them—if I thought them worth the ink). But take my Ariadne Florentina—and read for to-morrow the 112th paragraph, p. 94—and in the appendix, the 244th page down to ‘steam whistle.’—Post’s going—and I must not begin any special appendix to Katie—except that she must not plague herself with endeavours to realise the impossible—Her first, and easy duty is to catch the beautiful expressions of real children. Brantwood, 14 May, 1889. I am so very happy you are teaching yourself French. It is the greatest addition you can give to the happiness of your life,—some day I hope—old as I am—to see you drawing French children—and listening to them! And you must learn a little Latin too! only to enjoy the nomenclature of Proserpina. Please take it down and read pages 227, 228, about Myrtilla cara—and just look at my type of all perfection, the Angel Raphael’s left hand in the great Perugino,—it will refresh you and contrast, ever more brightly and richly, with modern mud and pewter.—But— ... the idea of asking why a hand is so difficult! Why it’s ever so much harder than even a foot—and for an arm—nobody ever could paint a girl’s arm yet—from elbow to wrist.—It’s not quite fair to show you these two tries of yours—but yet, the moral of them is that you must cure yourself of thinking so much of hair and hats and parasols—and attend first, (for some time to come) to toes—fingers—and wrists. Thus ended, so far as Ruskin was concerned, a correspondence which had not only been one of the greatest pleasures of Kate Greenaway’s life, but had been above all a healthy stimulus and a liberal education. The following year, 1890, which saw no publication calling for notice other than the Almanack, was clouded by the death of her father, Mr. Greenaway, on August 26th. He was one of those honourable, hard-working, competent servants of the public who, content to do their work quietly, look for no fame and no reward beyond the right to live and earn an honest livelihood for I have known Mr. Greenaway so long and admired his sterling qualities so much that I feel I have lost another of my valued friends. His family will have the satisfaction of feeling that he has left behind him an unblemished character and a respected name. Ever ready to help in charitable undertakings, although almost driven to her wits’ end to get through work which had to be done, Kate this year designed a cover for the album of the Bazaar held in aid of the ‘New Hospital for Women’; such contributions she felt due to a public from whom she had received so handsome a recognition. Very different, however, were the feelings she expressed towards the methods of certain journals of getting something for nothing, and over these she would wax exceedingly indignant. There were those who solicited her for an (unremunerated) opinion ‘as a representative woman on the servant question,’ or for a few lines on ‘why I like painting for children,’ or for ‘the briefest message to our readers in a series of timely words or messages from men and women distinguished in politics, literature, and art’; or for a ‘gratuitous product of your skill—which would give you a magnificent advertisement and result materially to your renown and prosperity’! To signalise her election she contributed to the Royal Institute of Painters in Water-Colours four exhibits—‘A Portrait of a Little Boy,’ ‘An Angel visited the Green Earth,’ ‘Boy with Basket of Apples,’ and ‘Head of a Boy’; and she exhibited also a portrait of a little lad at the Royal Academy. KATE GREENAWAY IN HER STUDIO, 1895. From a private photograph by Mrs. William Miller. |
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