In a description of a gathering at the Working Men’s College she says: “I was much interested in an earnest young countryman of the name of Cooke, who had presented a collection of butterflies and moths, etc., to the College. As every scrap of natural history is eagerly learnt by me, to be repeated wherever I go, and lovingly remembered, I got him to tell me some of their names and habits....
“I was delighted to hear Mr. Dickinson (whose portrait of Mr. Maurice you may remember) praising Mr. Ward’s drawings.... It was very nice to see old faces back again and to feel as if I never should have done shaking hands ... its joy consisted so much in the momentary grasp of a hand, in the sudden sight of a face which owed all its preciousness to the thought of natures I had learnt to know in sad moments or hard-working days.... Does it not seem to you one of the main things we long for in heaven that every strong affection for visible things will have some answer?... I often feel so sure that the love of places, employments, books, as well as people, is not to perish, but to be justified.”
Yesterday I saw Ruskin. “Do you come by appointment?” the servant asked me, “because Mr. Ruskin said he would see no one.” “Mr. Ruskin fixed the day, I named the hour; but if he is busy——.” The servant, however, seemed sure that I was to be admitted, and I was shown into the study, where Ruskin greeted me with the words, “I’m very glad to see you.” I saw he was ill, and found he had been suffering from toothache, and awake all night. I begged him, therefore, not to attend to my work. However he would do it. I shall not readily forget the afternoon. He was not busy, and showed me the loveliest things, exquisite copies of illuminations, wonderful sketches by Mr. Bunney (one of his College pupils), sketches which Ruskin said he had seen nothing like them except Turner.... And then Ruskin showed me two of Turner’s loveliest small drawings, one of Solomon’s pools, and beyond their square basins, and the battlements, amidst which the light gleamed, the sun was setting; and clouds gathered about him, because, Ruskin said, the clouds gathered about Solomon’s wisdom. Oh that sky palpitating with colour, changing on every thousandth inch!
Ruskin asked me if I’d been reading anything lately; and we talked about Tennyson. I said he was so very sad. He said, “You see far more to make you sad than I do; but I don’t think Tennyson a bit too sad. I haven’t found that he sees far enough.” “He knows, however,” Ruskin said, “how far he does see, and that is more than other people do.” I told him how years ago Tennyson’s words had distressed me, because I believed that good was then and always, and that we it is who mar it all; I forgot that what had distressed me most of all was Tennyson’s apparent uncertainty about the fact at all. “So runs my dream,” etc.
Ruskin said, “Do you think that good is coming now to bad people?” “Yes,” I replied, “and that their greatest sin is in refusing it.” “But how much more that is than most people see,” he went on. “Oh, yes, I see that now,” I agreed, smiling; “I am amused now that I did not know that then.”
We spoke about the wickedness of rich and poor people. Ruskin spoke of the little children like angels he saw running about the dirty streets, and thought how they were to be made wicked. I spoke about the frightful want of feeling in all classes; but added that I thought rich people were now waking up to a sense of their duties. “Yes,” he said, “I’m glad that you and I have probably a good deal of life still to come. I think we may live to see some great changes in society.” “I hope at least,” I said, “to see some great changes in individuals before I die.” “Oh, no,” he said, “that’s quite hopeless; people are always the same. You can’t alter natures.”
We talked a good deal about it; but not quite decisively. I see we quite agree that you can only call out and make living that which is in a nature. Ruskin meant a great truth when he said, “I can never alter myself. I think I had better make the best of myself as I am.” When I said, “I am very much altered during the last few years,” he laughed very kindly, saying, “Oh, no, you’re not; you’re just the same as ever; only you know more.”
But it does make all the difference in the world whether we are fully developing all that we are meant to be, conquering all bad passions, or not.
I am afraid that it is long since I wrote to you; but of course I am always thinking of you both, dears, and longing to have you home again, that you may really know all our doings and lives. Mine lately you would assuredly consider rather of the dissipated kind. I’ve been giving some book-keeping lessons to Miss J. B. She is a bright, spirited, brave, generous young lady living alone in true bachelor style. It took me three nights to teach her, and she begged me to come to dinner each time.... She has a friend, who is killing herself by hard work to support her younger sisters.... I gather she would gladly give her friend help, for she speaks most sadly of the “modern fallacy” “that the money must be earned.” She thinks it might be given when people are dear friends; she says they’ve given the most precious thing; and what difference can a little money make? I am so very happy about my work, now that I’ve finished nine drawings altogether for the “Modern Painters.” Oh, you old Mirry, what a person you are for a joke! I’ve found you out! How came you to write that I’d received 6d. from Lord Palmerston, and spent 6d. in seven birds’ nests! Impertinent old thing! I came upon the entries in looking thro’ my cash book; and I think Mama will never forget it.
Gertrude, Octavia and Minnie went to a party at Mrs. Shaw’s. Gertrude and Minnie say Octavia looked “perfectly lovely.” She had a high white dress, a grand scarlet sash and scarlet net.... Ockey, tho’ looking so ill, is unusually nice, genial and merry. She has met with some amusing people lately, and it is as good as a play to hear her relate her dealings with them. She attracts an unusual share of confidence. Even strangers go to her for advice. Ladies at S. Kensington[44] read their letters to her—tell her their history. She could not help laughing one day; she said a lady, a perfect stranger, told her all about herself, even to the time she went to bed.
As to those old days—I owe more to those visits than I can ever express. I remember now that strange imagination of yours that peopled the world for us with wonderful and beautiful beings, and I am sure we always went on happily together.
(She also speaks of the impression of Mrs. Howitt’s loving, cheerful look.)
Yesterday we took Miss Baumgartner to see Ruskin’s Turners.... Ruskin says he does not mean to write any more for ten years, but to teach more.... He said he did not want to write any letters to people. He wanted Ockey’s advice, as to what excuse he should make. She said he should think what was the truth, and try if he could not say that. Then he began talking about truth, saying it was difficult to speak the truth; but to convey a truthful impression was almost impossible. That those who speak the truth are often the most misunderstood. O. asked him if he had read Mrs. Browning’s new poems. He called them beautiful but absurd. O. said, “Why absurd? Because she trusts Louis Napoleon?” “No,” he said; “I hold it is right to trust a man till he does something which proves him wrong. But mind, you’re not to say I’m wrong if he turns out treacherous.” Ruskin said that the taking of Savoy did not implicate Napoleon’s character, because it was no pecuniary advantage to him, “not much larger than my garden and very poor.” Do you think an ambitious man would spend thousands of men and money for that? He takes it just to pacify the French, who want some substantial proof that they were conquerors. To me personally it was a great blow, because it was so nice and dirty and tumble-down, and those wretched French will go and put it all to rights. It will be much better for the people, but I shall get no more sketching.
At last I’ve returned to my old proper habit of writing once a fortnight to you, I hope. I’ve been gadding about in the idlest way possible, and yet with my time quite full. You ask me about Good Friday. My dear sister, I’m far more afraid of your plaguing and torturing your conscience than of your doing wrong.
Mr. Maurice and Mr. Davies seem to me decidedly to think it a mistake to treat going to church as always a duty; of course you must do whatever you think right. I shouldn’t hesitate to give up going to church on one day, or even fifty, for one of you. You dear old thing, I wish I had you here to give you a thorough good rest, and rousing, and refreshing. How I should enjoy it! I’m as merry as a grig. I greatly enjoyed Miss Baumgartner’s visit. Miss J. B. and I are great companions. I’m always doing things with her. You know she’s teaching me Euclid. We went to see Holman Hunt’s picture. It is very wonderful, in some respects extremely beautiful, exquisitely beautiful as to colour. But I don’t feel as if the picture had thrown much light on the subject for me. I have taken a class in the night-school for girls here for three weeks, during the absence of Miss C. S. I am so glad at last to get into parish work. Miss Sterling and Miss J. B. give me almost unlimited money help for poor people; the only question is how to use it wisely....
We have been twice to Spitalfields and seen much poverty there among the weavers, besides making the acquaintance of a most nice Ragged School master there. He went round with us to the people’s houses quite gladly, after his hard day’s work; and it was so very nice to see the welcome all the people gave him, but especially the children. He told us such an interesting story about a pupil of his, a very desperate bad character, about 16, who gambled in school, and only came with the avowed intention of having “a lark,” i.e., pouring out the ink, and upsetting the forms. At last this schoolmaster spoke to him, told him he had no children of his own, and that he should be one to him, if he would. The boy was deeply touched. He always sat by the master and studied hard. To quote Mr. S., “I assure you, and I’m not ashamed to own it, he distanced me out and out. He was a first-rate mathematician; he solved some of the greatest problems of the age (?). ‘There, old ’un,’ he used to say, showing me his slate in triumph, ‘do you know anything about that?’”
“And what became of him at last?” we asked. “He died at twenty-one,” Mr. S. answered, his eyes filling with tears as he went on. “He died a peaceful and triumphant Christian. My wife and I never left his bed for three days and nights. That’s his portrait; he’d long promised it to me, and on the Thursday (he died on Tuesday) he said, ‘Old fellow, if you don’t have it now, you’ll never have it.’ I never could break him of his rough way of speaking. He’d come in here to the last and say, ‘Well, old ’un, have you got anything to eat?’ He wanted to come over from his father’s house, and die in my easy chair; and the little wife and I would have given him his wish. But the doctor forbade it. Yes, I do miss him.”
Maggie Yarnall is now on her voyage to England, which gives me the faintest most precious hope that Mary Harris may possibly come to London.
Your sweet and kind letter gave me a great deal of pleasure. I have written to Florence, as you will probably see. I am glad that you asked me to do so. I have a great deal to tell you. I do not know how you think or feel about Portman Hall school. You know that I do not think the omission of all religious teaching a sufficient reason, for disapproval to counterbalance the immense good which I consider they are doing there, especially as the teacher and three of the monitors are earnest believers in our Lord; and I do believe more is taught indirectly than directly. I teach my drawing class there, and heartily wish the school success; tho’ I confess I look to a day when we shall have as liberal views about education carried out by members of the Church. I would not give my whole or main strength to the school unless I were obliged; but I would and do very willingly help. You will wonder why I write all this. It is because they are trying to find a lady to help there; and I have mentioned you to them. They could not meet with what they wanted, and had just made arrangements for extra lessons instead until spring, when my note proposing your taking the work next spring arrived. I mentioned Mrs. Malleson as able to say what she thought of your fitness for the post; and, since communicating with her, Mme. Bodichon is very anxious to arrange it in the spring when she again returns from Algiers. They first wanted a person’s entire time for £100; but now they have resolved to divide their fund, and would probably like to have you for about two or three hours daily except Saturday. I do think that a permanent work of this sort, and among that class of children, would be deeply interesting; that it would make a nice change from private pupils; that you would find Mme. Bodichon and Mrs. Malleson delightful people to work under; you would have such power to carry out what you thought best;—and, dearest Andy, it is not the least part of the pleasure of the thought to me that it does seem to me it would make it so safe for you both to return, so certain that you would, if you had the prospect of this daily work. I must tell you that Miss Sterling appears, from the short talk we have had, to think that it is not a good thing to do, only a nice thing to have a certainty; but she herself confesses, and I am sure it is true, she does not know about it. Nothing has to be, or can be, settled yet, but I should like to know how you feel about it. I mean to learn what Mr. Maurice thinks. Oh, darling, you must come home in spring somehow. We are on Mr. Davies’ side of the street, two doors nearer to the New Road. I am doing such a glorious illumination round a photograph of Raphael’s Madonna della Seggiola, with the words, “For unto us a child is born, etc.” It reminds me of the glorious chorus.
Yes, I am really back again, and so hard at work that our glorious tour[45] only comes to me at moments as a precious bright possession that nothing can take away, and interpreting splendidly one passage after another in this glorious volume of Ruskin (which I have at last obtained to read)....
If you had any notion of my state of mind just now! Everything I want to do seems delayed. One girl, a darling protegée of mine, says her mistress starves her, will not try another place, insists upon going home. Oh such a home! irreligious, dirty, cruel, impoverished; and the girl has just had two years’ training. Well! she must just try her home, and God bring her safe out of it.... We hope to have my dearest sisters home next spring. I have been offered some delicious teaching for Andy, in a school near here, just the kind of work, and among the class of children that she would enjoy; and the supporters of the school are earnest generous people. There is, however, no religious teaching given in the school; wherefore, say many wise people to me, you as a Christian should not accept it at all. So I have not thought; but I suppose I hardly feel sure enough about whether I ought to give my sister advice, however strong my conviction may be, when wise good people think differently.... I never have stopped, I hope I never shall stop, to consider what set or sect of people are at work, if I thoroughly and entirely approve of the work. I may think the work incomplete; but, if it comes in my way, and I think it good, as far as it goes, I do help it with the little power I have. Above all I would not, in this age, refuse help to a society because it did not state that it was working in Christ’s cause. I do believe we want all generous and good work recognised as Christ’s, whether conscious or unconscious. I think the tendency is very much for doubters to think the best work is done by benevolent unbelievers; to think our faith cramps our labours and narrows our hearts. I would like, so far as in me lies, to show them we care for men as men, we care for good as good. I never would deny faith. I care very little to express it anywhere but in life.... How much these people lose by their omission I believe they will one day know. I think the time will come when all this round world will seem to them mainly precious, because it was made by a Father and redeemed by His Son.
In these days, when so many conscientious people seem to be seeking over the whole world for some new good work, and cannot see the holiness of that which lies near them, it is very delicious to find people owning their home work as first and most blessed. At the same time, I cannot feel that I should join your Society further than I have joined it already. It feels to me that all people who are obeying the best part of the nature that has been given them, do, more or less, belong to it;—that those, who know from Whom the light proceeds “that lighteth every man that cometh into the world,” know themselves to be bound into a society by that gift, by being children of God and heirs of Christ.
Do, dear Maggie, believe that I feel it the greatest honour to have been asked to join your Society, and have great sympathy with you about it.
How the real bond of family re-asserts itself, dominant over fancy, attraction, yes even perhaps, in a measure, over friendship itself! as tho’ it would teach us how tremendous is the bond of duty. Certainly we have duties to our friends too; but they seem to have more relation to what we feel instinctive longing to do, innate capacity for doing,—to stand more by virtue of relations we have chosen for ourselves, than solely, wholly on the command of God. I suppose it must be because He is our Father.
I have spoken to Mr. Maurice about Portman Hall; and he decidedly thinks you ought not to undertake it. He says, what one sees at once, that you could not bind yourself not to speak to the children in any way that seemed best to you. He said that he believes those who are acting up to all they know will learn more; but those who habitually ignore what they know, lose it. He was so good, and took a great interest in all our plans.
I begin not to wonder that men of business look forward to leaving off work, when they get old. I think it would be very delicious to have done with the bustle, and be able to see people one loves, and think a little in peace. However, I daresay it’s all right; and it certainly is a glorious life; but lists of things one has to do, and machinery to keep things going, never can be as interesting as writing to my darling sister.
Account of the taking of the lease of 14, Nottingham Place.
All has been arranged about the house at last. I am very thankful indeed about it; and we are all thoroughly pleased with the house.... Ruskin was very kind indeed about it.
We had a delicious talk afterwards about my life and life in general, and cultivated affection, its duties, practicability; whether or not the cultivation of it deteriorated natures and how.
Ruskin spoke of his own father and mother. He quite willingly wrote what he imagined would satisfy Mr. Harlowe,[46] and so did Mr. Maurice; but in the meantime Miss Wodehouse had most kindly offered a guarantee. She was perfectly convinced of the success of the plan, and was anxious that Miss Jex Blake should have her rooms.
I had such a glorious talk with Ruskin, stayed till 2.20; had to take a cab, and to drive furiously to College, where I was ten minutes late, and recovered from shame and remorse for it, by finding everyone in a state of alarm about me; only so thankful I was safe, my unpunctuality being unprecedented. I was a little proud, and vastly amused.