Part 13 (2/2)

I feel so piggish and rabbitish in eating you out of all your vegetables, that I'm afraid to speak lest it should turn out grunting, and to shake my head for fear of feeling flappy at the ears.

But--please--Is the bread as brown as it used to be? I think you're cosseting me up altogether and I don't like the white bread so well!

BRANTWOOD.

What _can_ you mean about your ignorance--or my astonishment at it?

Indeed you are a naughty little Susie to think such things. I never come to the Thwaite but you and your sister tell me all kinds of things I didn't know, and am so glad to know.

I send a book of architect's drawings of Pisa, which I think will interest you--only you must understand that the miserable Frenchman who did it, could not see the expression of face in any of the old sculptures, nor draw anything but hard mechanical outlines--and the charm of all these buildings is this almost _natural_ grace of free line and color.

The little tiny sketch of mine, smallest in the sheet of 4 (the other sheet only sent to keep its face from rubbing) will show you what the things really are like--the whole front of the dome, plate XI. (the wretch can't even have his numbers made legibly) is of arches of this sweet variable color.

Please can your sister or you plant a grain or grains of corn for me, and watch them into various stages of germination.[42] I want to study the mode of root and blade development. And I am sure you two will know best how to show it me.

[Footnote 42: ”Proserpina,”]

BRANTWOOD, _30th December, 1883_.

I heard with extreme sorrow yesterday of your mischance, and with the greater, that I felt the discomfort and alarm of it would be increased to you--in their depressing power by a sense of unkindness to you on my part in not having been to see you--nor even read the letter which would have warned me of your accident. But you must remember that Christmas is to me a most oppressive and harmful time--the friends of the last thirty years of life all trying to give what they cannot give--of pleasure, or receive what--from me, they can no more receive--the younger ones especially thinking they can amuse me by telling me of their happy times--which I am so mean as to envy and am doubly distressed by the sense of my meanness in doing so.

And my only resource is the quiet of my own work, to which--these last days--I have nearly given myself altogether. Yet I _had_ read your letter as far as the place where you said you wanted one and then, began to think what I should say--and ”read no further”[43] that day--and now here is this harm that had befallen you--which I trust, nevertheless, is of no real consequence, and this one thing I must say once for all, that whatever may be my feelings to you--you must _never_ more let yourself imagine for an instant they can come of any manner of offense? _That_ thought is real injustice to me. I have never, and never can have, any other feeling towards you than that of the deepest grat.i.tude, respect, and affection--too sorrowfully inexpressible and ineffectual--but never changing. I will drive, walk, or row, over to see you on New Year's day--if I am fairly well--be the weather what it will. I hope the bearer will bring me back a comforting report as to the effects of your accident and that you will never let yourself again be discomforted by mistrust of me, for I am and shall ever be

Your faithful and loving servant, JOHN RUSKIN.

[Footnote 43: Dante, ”Inferno,” v. 144.]

I never heard the like--my writing good! and just now!! If you only saw the wretched notes on the back of lecture leaves!

But I am so very glad you think it endurable, and it is so nice to be able to give you a moment's pleasure by such a thing. I'm better to-day, but still extremely languid. I believe that there is often something in the spring which weakens one by its very tenderness; the violets in the wood send one home sorrowful that one isn't worthy to see them, or else, that one isn't one of them.

It is mere Midsummer dream in the wood to-day.

You could not possibly have sent me a more delightful present than this Lychnis; it is the kind of flower that gives me pleasure and health and memory and hope and everything that Alpine meadows and air can. I'm getting better generally, too. The sun _did_ take one by surprise at first.

How blessedly happy Joanie and the children were yesterday at the Thwaite! I'm coming to be happy myself there to-morrow (D.V.).

Here are the two bits of study I did in Malham Cove; the small couples of leaves are different portraits of the first shoots of the two geraniums. I don't find in any botany an account of their little round side leaves, or of the definite central one above the branching of them.

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