Part 5 (1/2)

In the world of pictorial recollection there are many territories, the natives of which you may recognise by their characteristics as surely as Ophelia recognises her true-love by his c.o.c.kle-hat and sandal shoon.

There is the land of grave gestures and courteous inclinations, of dignified leave-takings and decorous greetings; where the ladies (like Richardson's Pamela) don the most charming round-eared caps and frilled _negliges_; where the gentlemen sport ruffles and bag-wigs and spotless silk stockings, and invariably exhibit shapely calves above their silver shoe-buckles; where you may come in St. James's Park upon a portly personage with a star, taking an alfresco pinch of snuff after that leisurely style in which a pinch of snuff should be taken, so as not to endanger a lace cravat or a canary-coloured vest; where you may seat yourself on a bench by Rosamond's Pond in company with a tremulous mask who is evidently expecting the arrival of a ”pretty fellow”; or happen suddenly, in a secluded side-walk, upon a damsel in muslin and a dark hat, who is hurriedly scrawling a _poulet_, not without obvious signs of perturbation. But whatever the denizens of this country are doing, they are always elegant and always graceful, always appropriately grouped against their fitting background of high-ceiled rooms and striped hangings, or among the urns and fish-tanks of their sombre-shrubbed gardens. This is the land of STOTHARD.

In the adjoining country there is a larger sense of colour--a fuller pulse of life. This is the region of delightful dogs and horses and domestic animals of all sorts; of crimson-faced hosts and buxom ale-wives; of the most winsome and black-eyed milkmaids and the most devoted lovers and their la.s.ses; of the most headlong and horn-blowing huntsmen--a land where Madam Blaize forgathers with the impeccable worthy who caused the death of the Mad Dog; where John Gilpin takes the Babes in the Wood _en croupe_; and the bewitchingest Queen of Hearts coquets the Great Panjandrum himself ”with the little round b.u.t.ton at top”--a land, in short, of the most kindly and light-hearted fancies, of the freshest and breeziest and healthiest types--which is the land of CALDECOTT.

Finally, there is a third country, a country inhabited almost exclusively by the sweetest little child-figures that have ever been invented, in the quaintest and prettiest costumes, always happy, always gravely playful,--and nearly always playing; always set in the most attractive framework of flower-knots, or blossoming orchards, or red-roofed cottages with dormer windows. Everywhere there are green fields, and daisies, and daffodils, and pearly skies of spring, in which a kite is often flying. No children are quite like the dwellers in this land; they are so gentle, so unaffected in their affectation, so easily pleased, so trustful and so confiding. And this is GREENAWAY-land.

It is sixty years since Thomas Stothard died, and only fifteen since Randolph Caldecott closed his too brief career.[26] And now Kate Greenaway, who loved the art of both, and in her own gentle way possessed something of the qualities of each, has herself pa.s.sed away.

It will rest with other pens to record her personal characteristics, and to relate the story of her life. I who write this was privileged to know her a little, and to receive from her frequent presents of her books; but I should shrink from anything approaching a description of the quiet, unpretentious, almost homely little lady, whom it was always a pleasure to meet and to talk with. If I here permit myself to recall one or two incidents of our intercourse, it is solely because they bear either upon her amiable disposition or her art. I remember that once, during a country walk in Suss.e.x, she gave me a long account of her childhood, which I wish I could repeat in detail. But I know that she told me that she had been brought up in just such a neighbourhood of thatched roofs and ”grey old gardens” as she depicts in her drawings; and that in some of the houses, it was her particular and unfailing delight to turn over ancient chests and wardrobes filled with the flowered frocks and capes of the Jane Austen period. As is well known, she corresponded frequently with Ruskin, and possessed numbers of his letters. In his latter years, it had been her practice to write to him periodically--I believe she said once a week. He had long ceased, probably from ill-health, to answer her letters; but she continued to write punctually lest he should miss the little budget of chit-chat to which he had grown accustomed. At another time--in a pleasant country-house which contained many examples of her art--and where she was putting the last touches to a delicately tinted child-angel in the margin of a Bible--I ventured to say, ”Why do your children always ...?”

But it is needless to complete the query; the answer alone is important.

She looked at me reflectively, and said, after a pause, ”Because I see it so.”

Note:

[26] This was written in 1902.

Answers not dissimilar have been given before by other artists in like case. But it was this rigid fidelity to her individual vision and personal conviction which const.i.tuted her strength. There are always stupid, well-meaning busybodies in the world, who go about making question of the sonneteer why he does not attempt something epic and homicidal, or worrying the carver of cherry-stones to try his hand at a Colossus; but though they disturb and discompose, they luckily do no material harm. They did no material harm to Kate Greenaway. She yielded, no doubt, to pressure put upon her to try figures on a larger scale; to ill.u.s.trate books, which was not her strong point, as it only put fetters upon her fancy; but, in the main, she courageously preserved the even tenor of her way, which was to people the artistic demesne she administered with the tiny figures which no one else could make more captivating, or clothe more adroitly. It may be doubted whether the collector will set much store by Bret Harte's _Queen of the Pirate Isle_ or the _Pied Piper of Hamelin_, suitable at first sight as is the latter, with its child-element, to her inventive idiosyncrasy. But he will revel in the dainty scenes of ”Almanacks” (1883 to 1895, and 1897); in the charming Birthday Book of 1880; in _Mother Goose, A Day in a Child's Life, Little Ann, Marigold Garden_ and the rest, of which the grace is perennial, though the popularity for the moment may have waned.

I have an idea that _Mother Goose; or, the Old Nursery Rhymes_, 1881, was one of Miss Greenaway's favourites, although it may have been displaced in her own mind by subsequent successes. Nothing can certainly be more deftly-tinted than the design of the ”old woman who lived under a hill,” and peeled apples; nothing more seductive, in infantile att.i.tude, than the little boy and girl, who, with their arms around each other, stand watching the black-cat in the plum-tree. Then there is Daffy-down-dilly, who has come up to town, with ”a yellow petticoat and a green gown,” in which attire, aided by a straw hat tied under her chin, she manages to look exceedingly attractive, as she pa.s.ses in front of the white house with the pink roof and the red shutters and the green palings. One of the most beautiful pictures in this gallery is the dear little ”Ten-o'-clock Scholar” in his worked smock, as, trailing his blue-and-white school-bag behind him, he creeps unwillingly to his lessons at the most picturesque timbered cottage you can imagine.

Another absolutely delightful portrait is that of ”Little Tom Tucker,”

in sky-blue suit and frilled collar, singing, with his hands behind him, as if he never could grow old. And there is not one of these little compositions that is without its charm of colour and accessory--blue plates on the dresser in the background, the parterres of a formal garden with old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers, quaint dwellings with their gates and gra.s.s-work, odd corners of countryside and village street, and all, generally, in the clear air or sunlight. For in this favoured Greenaway-realm, as in the island-valley of Avilion there

falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns.

To _Mother Goose_ followed _A Day in a Child's Life_, also 1881, and _Little Ann_, 1883. The former of these contained various songs set to music by Mr. Myles B. Foster, the organist of the Foundling Hospital, and accompanied by designs on rather a larger scale than those in _Mother Goose_. It also included a larger proportion of the floral decorations which were among the artist's chief gifts. Foxgloves and b.u.t.tercups, tulips and roses, are flung about the pages of the book; and there are many pictures, notably one of a little green-coated figure perched upon a five-barred gate, which repeat the triumphs of its predecessor. In _Little Ann and other Poems_, which is dedicated to the four children of the artist's friend, the late Frederick Locker-Lampson, she ill.u.s.trated a selection from the verses for ”Infant Minds” of Jane and Ann Taylor, daughters of that Isaac Taylor of Ongar, who was first a line engraver and afterwards an Independent Minister.[27] The dedication contains a charming row of tiny portraits of the Locker-Lampson family. These ill.u.s.trations may seem to contradict what has been said as to Miss Greenaway's ability to interpret the conceptions of others. But this particular task left her perfectly free to ”go her own gait,” and to embroider the text which, in this case, was little more than a pretext for her pencil.

Note:

[27] Since this paper was written, the _Original Poems and Others_, of Ann and Jane Taylor, with ill.u.s.trations by F.D. Bedford, and a most interesting ”Introduction” by Mr. E.V. Lucas, have been issued by Messrs. Wells, Gardner, Darton and Co.

In _Marigold Garden_, 1885, Miss Greenaway became her own poet; and next to _Mother Goose_, this is probably her most important effort. The flowers are as entrancing as ever; and the verse makes one wish that the writer had written more. The ”Genteel Family” and ”Little Phillis” are excellent nursery pieces; and there is almost a Blake-like note about ”The Sun Door.”

They saw it rise in the morning, They saw it set at night, And they longed to go and see it, Ah! if they only might.

The little soft white clouds heard them, And stepped from out of the blue; And each laid a little child softly Upon its bosom of dew.

And they carried them higher and higher, And they nothing knew any more, Until they were standing waiting, In front of the round gold door.

And they knocked, and called, and entreated Whoever should be within; But all to no purpose, for no one Would hearken to let them in.

”_La rime n'est pas riche_” nor is the technique thoroughly a.s.sured; but the thought is poetical. Here is another, ”In an Apple-Tree,” which reads like a child variation of that haunting ”Mimnermus in Church” of the author of Ionica:--

In September, when the apples are red, To Belinda I said, ”Would you like to go away To Heaven, or stay Here in this orchard full of trees All your life? ”And she said,” If you please I'll stay here--where I know, And the flowers grow.”