Chapter IX

1884-1885

‘LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS’—‘MAVOR’S SPELLING-BOOK’—‘DAME WIGGINS
OF LEE’—RUSKIN CORRESPONDENCE—HIS TUITION AND PLANS FOR
CO-OPERATION—INTIMACY WITH MRS. SEVERN AND HER CHILDREN.

The industry of Kate Greenaway during the years 1884 and 1885 added considerably to the growing list of her works. First there were the two _Almanacks_, which, save for the enlarged _format_ of that of 1884—an experiment not repeated—showed a distinct advance on the first.

That for 1884 certainly did not please Ruskin, for he wrote:—

I find Baxter[34] thinks the almanack beautiful! if that’s any
consolation to you—but _I_ divide the figures of it simply into the
Hobblers and the Kickers, see August, March, June, and November for the
hobblers (or shamblers) and the rest for kickers with the one variety of
Straddler in October.

But the public was otherwise-minded and bought over 90,000 of the combined issues! Then a new experiment was tried in the shape of four calendars, all for 1884; but these proved a financial failure and had no successors, and the designs were afterwards for the most part adapted to Christmas cards and issued by Goodall & Sons. They are only mentioned here for the sake of completeness, and although they contain some of Miss Greenaway’s most charming work, they are but trifles by the side of the more ambitious publications of these two prolific years.

Of these the _Language of Flowers_ first claims attention with an edition of 19,500 copies. Half of these went to America, which country henceforth was to prove to K. G. a client even better than England. This, like the Almanack, failed to please Ruskin, who wrote on Oct. 8th with his usual directness:—

You are working at present wholly in vain. There is _no_ joy and very,
very little interest in any of these Flower book subjects, and they look
as if you had nothing to paint them with but starch and camomile tea.

The fact is that the book was printed on unsuitable paper and much effect was thereby lost; still the illustrations, although not always very apposite, include some of the daintiest and most exquisitely drawn figures and flowers she ever produced.

Undeterred by Ruskin’s denunciation Miss Greenaway sent a copy of it to Mrs. Severn with the following pathetic little note:—

KATE GREENAWAY TO MRS. ARTHUR SEVERN

11 PEMBERTON GARDENS, HOLLOWAY, N.,
_9th Nov. 1884_.

I’ve been thinking of you so often for days past. I send you my little
book. Mr. Ruskin thinks it very bad. He says he’s ashamed to show it to
any one—I hope it won’t affect you so fearfully. I am very disgusted
myself—_only_ I _don’t_ feel _I am_ so much to blame as the printers,
who have literally blotted every picture out.

But, anyhow, you’ll think I mean well in sending it you, don’t you? And
you—do you feel quite strong and well again now?... Remember, when
there is a chance I might see you, I’d be _very very very_ glad and
delighted.—Yours affectionately,

K. G.

Then came _Kate Greenaway’s Painting-Book_ which, although it consisted of blocks brought together from _Under the Window_, _Kate Greenaway’s Birthday Book_, _A Day in a Child’s Life_, _Marigold Garden_, and _Mother Goose_, had nevertheless a great and deserved success, and set at least forty thousand children painting away at her delightful designs.

This was followed by _Mavor’s Spelling-Book_, surely, as now illustrated by K. G., one of the most inspiring school-books ever published for children, with the beautifully engraved cuts printed in brown in the text. Ruskin wrote of it: ‘Spelling Book ever so nice—But do children really learn to spell like that? I never did.’ To which it may be added that his own experience is given in _Præterita_, vol. viii. p. 20 (1900 ed.).

Oddly enough the success of the venture was comparatively small, only 5,000 copies being called for. But when, seeing that there was no great demand, the publishers issued the capital letters alone in a tiny square 48mo volume entitled _Kate Greenaway’s Alphabet_, the vagaries of book-buying were curiously exemplified by the fact that the circulation reached the more than respectable total of 24,500 copies.[35] Mr. Evans, with whom the idea of illustrating _Mavor_ originated, proposed that Caldecott should be associated with Kate Greenaway in the work, but to this, in spite of her great admiration for her friend, she would on no account consent.

Half the number of the illustrations were engraved on wood as usual by Mr. Evans. The rest were reproduced by process and, says Mr. Evans, with characteristic fair-mindedness, neither K. G. nor Caldecott could at the time say which they considered the more satisfactory. Kate was much amused and gratified by the notice in the _Athenæum_, which waxed eloquent, and even facetious, over the book. After comparing the little designs to those of Stothard, and declaring that under Miss Greenaway’s guidance three-syllable words become quite easy, it proceeds:

It is quite evident that the artist is not yet equal to four
syllables—at least she has left the section which is devoted to
those monsters without an illustration of any kind. Perhaps she, like
ourselves, believes no boy ever gets to four syllables in _Mavor_, and
thinks it useless to illustrate that stage of learning.

The drawings to _Mavor_ had a further destiny; for several of them were used, with the addition of colour and in reduced size, to provide illustrations to the _Almanack_ of 1889, while the _Almanack_ of 1895 (much against Miss Greenaway’s desire) was entirely made up of them. Very beautiful they looked; but it is more than probable that the public detected the employment of ‘old matter’ and that the commercial failure which attended the publication that year was at least the partial cause for the annual issue of the little work being suspended.

But the most important addition to the output of these years, that which added largely to the artist’s reputation, was _Marigold Garden_, in which she was once more author and illustrator in one. For an expensive book the sales were very large, England taking 6,500, America 7,500, and France 3,500 copies. The charm of the book lies in itself, in spite of halting verse or summary perspective. Any description of it here would be inadequate: it must be seen to be fully appreciated.

The year 1885 also saw the publication of _Dame Wiggins of Lea and her Seven Wonderful Cats. A Humorous Tale. Written principally by a Lady of Ninety_, edited with additional verses by Ruskin, and with some new illustrations by Kate Greenaway. These nursery rhymes had first seen the light in 1823 with the woodcuts coloured by hand. In the present edition these were facsimiled in outline and left, as Ruskin says in the preface, for ‘clever children ... to colour in their own way.’ Of his and K. G.’s part in the republication he says:

I have added the rhymes on the third, fourth, eighth and ninth
pages—the kindness of Miss Greenaway supplying the needful
illustrations. But my rhymes do not ring like the real ones; and I would
not allow Miss Greenaway to subdue the grace of her first sketches to
the formality of the earlier work.

A further edition of the little book was published in 1897 by Mr. George Allen.

In the letters preceding the publication of _Dame Wiggins_, which by the way in _Præterita_ Ruskin designates his ‘calf-milk of books on the lighter side,’ we find several references to K. G.’s illustrations.

In May he writes: ‘Don’t bother yourself with Dame Wiggins—it’s the cats you’ll break down in.’ But his prophecy proved wrong, for on July 5 he confesses ‘you never shewed such sense in anything as in doing those cats’; and again on the 11th, ‘The cats are gone to be wood-cutted just as they are—they can’t be better’; and again on the 29th, alluding to a further proposed collaboration: ‘We’ll do that book together of course—I’ll write a story about perpetual spring—but—however are you to learn what a lamb’s like? However after those D. W. cats I feel that nothing’s impossible.’

About this time Miss Greenaway for the first and we believe the only time listened to the voice of the journalist for the purposes of an article on her art in an American magazine entitled _The Continent_. Her hatred of publicity was not in any way overcome, but she felt that as the article was inevitable ‘facts were preferable to fiction.’ Moreover, by reason of her consent, she was in a position to impose restrictions, and she made it a cardinal condition that such particulars as ‘what she takes to eat before sitting down to her work,’ and personalities of every sort, should be rigorously excluded. She may have been influenced to give certain authoritative information in consequence of a former experience, when a ‘lady interviewer’ of an American journal—a lady whom she had declined to receive—published an ‘interview’ that was an invention from beginning to end. Later on Miss Greenaway met the Editor of the publication and seized the opportunity to state the facts, when he professed, and doubtless felt, much indignation at the imposition which had been practised upon him and the public.

Then also occurred the fishing episode to which allusion has been made in an early chapter. It is a curious commentary on the fable of the man and his ass that even Kate Greenaway’s tender and humane designs could not escape fault-finding on ethical grounds from a hypercritical admirer of her art.

‘How is it,’ he wrote, ‘that there are several lovely publications
of yours that I am prevented from treating my little friends to on
account of the fascination of the angling scenes which so often occur
in them?... Do you not think there is no necessity for _encouraging_
children to take pleasure in killing animals?’

He had been foolish enough to object to some such innocent illustration as that of the little boy fishing, on October 14 of the _Birthday Book_, whereto is appended a verse for which, by the way, Kate was not responsible:

What is this boy fishing for?
What does he hope to get?
He hopes to get a very fine fish,
But I think he will get wet.

To this remonstrance she replied to the effect that Providence had ordained a state of war between man and the lower animals and that we must take a good many things as we find them.

The Ruskin letters of 1884 are full of interest. Criticism, appreciation, good-humoured chaff, and sadness, jostle one another at every turn. A standing joke is K. G.’s supposed jealousy of Miss Alexander and her exquisite work. In April she had asked for her autograph, and he writes in fun, for he could not have been serious in his criticism:—

Much you’d care for one of Miss Alexander’s letters—on ‘principles of
chiaroscuro’ and the like. She’s drawing very badly just now—there’s a
little bonne-bouche for you.

In several letters he returns to the old charge and rallies her:—

Thanks—more than usual—and _much_ more, for the little drawing—an
_effort_ in the right direction! But quite seriously, and all _my_
wishes out of the court, you MUST learn to draw something more of girls
than their necks and arms!! You must go to the seaside, and be resolved
that—if nothing else be pretty—at least the ankles shall be.

Anon he mixes judicious praise and blame, rarely giving her jam without a pinch of medicine in it.

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

BRANTWOOD [_Jan. 7th, 1884_].

It’s not ‘horrid bad’ but it is not at all good.

When ARE YOU going to be GOOD and send me a study of anything from
nature—the coalscuttle or the dustpan—or a towel on a clothes
screen—or the hearthrug on the back of a chair.

I’m very cruel, but here’s half a year I’ve been waiting for a bit of
Common sense—!

And I’ve nothing but rain and storm all day—I never saw the place so
dreadful,—but if you’ll only paint me the coalscuttle or the towel it
will be a solace.—Don’t you think you ought to know when you do well
or ill without asking me?—I am very glad to hear of that instinct for
greater things, though.

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

BRANTWOOD [_April 20th, 1884_].

Yes, I am really very sorry about the sore throat. You had better
take it fairly in hand at once, lie by, and foment and otherwise get
yourself to rights at once. You can’t work while you are ill like this.
But this cloud lady is very lovely, and you really MUST draw _her_
again for me without any clothes, because you’ve suggested a perfect
coalheaver’s leg, which I can’t think you meant! and you _must_ draw
your figures now undraped for a while—Nobody wants anatomy,—but you
can’t get on without Form.

I’ll send her back to have her gown taken off as soon as you’re
able to work again, meantime I’ve sent you two photographs from
Francesca[36]—only don’t show them about, because I want them not to be
seen till my text is ready.

Again on May 1st, he writes:—

Indeed the drawing is lovely, beyond all thanks or believableness or
conceivableness and gives me boundless pleasure, and all sorts of hope
of a wonderful future for you. But it is of no use to ask me how things
are to stand out. You never had any trouble in making them do so when
you had power of colour enough—but you can’t make these tender lines
stand out, unless you finished the whole in that key, and that ought
only to be done of the real size. What you ABSOLUTELY need is a quantity
of practice from things as they _are_—and hitherto you have ABSOLUTELY
refused ever to draw any of them so.

On July 6th, referring to an illustration she is engaged on for _Marigold Garden_, he adds instruction to praise:

You’re a good girl to draw that leaf. The four princesses in green
tower[37] will be delightful but the _first thing_ you have to do in
this leafy world is to learn to paint a leaf green, of its full size, at
one blow, as a fresco painter does it on a background, with the loaded
brush opening by pressure to the leaf’s full breadth and closing to its
point.

Again on the 9th:—

I knew you could do it, if you only would. That’s been what’s making me
so what you call angry lately. This is as good as well can be. Only,
remember brown is only to be used for actual earth, and where plants
grow close to it or for brown dark leaves etc., not as shadow. And
there’s already more delineation than I at present want you to spend
time in.

And on the 25th he continues his instruction:—

The ivy is very beautiful and you have taken no end of useful trouble
with it, but the colour is vapid and the leaves too shiny. Shine is
always vulgar except on hair and water—it spoils leaves as much as it
does flesh—and even jewels are better without it. I shall return you
this study which you will find very useful and I’ve sent you two more
sods to-day, more to be enjoyed than painted—if you like to do a bit of
one, well and good.

I am glad to hear of the oil work—but it is winter work not summer. I
can’t think how you can bear to spoil summer air with it.

On October 18, he says:—

You must like Turner as soon as you see landscape completely. His
affectations—or prejudices, I do not wish or expect you to like—any
more than I should have expected him to like roses drawn like truffles.

Then he finds that he has been expecting too much, counting on physical powers with which Kate has not been endowed.

I have not enough allowed for your being nearsighted but shall like to
see what you do see. At any rate near or far off, study of the relation
of moss[38] is indispensable.

Those hot colours of flowers are very lovely—you can do as many as you
like—only not dull things mixed with Naples yellow.

Look well at the foot of Correggio’s Venus, and at the weeds in
Mantegna’s foreground.

For the same reason Ruskin has more ‘sods’ cut and packed off to her to paint.

Not to tease you—but they’ll go on growing and being pleasant
companions. As regards colour, no one of course sees it quite rightly.
We have all our flaws and prejudices of sight, only, be convinced there
is a RIGHT, mathematically commensurable with nature, and you will soon
get to care for no ‘opinions,’ but feel that you have become daily more
true.

So she promptly sets to work to paint one of the sods, and he is so delighted that he flashes off a telegram—

The sod is quite lovely, the best bit of groundwork I ever got done, so
many thanks, but don’t tire yourself so again.

On great occasions, he gives her unqualified praise, which unqualified praise it may be noted not infrequently coincides with an improved condition in his health.

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

_11th. Feb., 84._

I did not answer your question which of the girlies I liked best because
it was unanswerable, yet something is to be said anent it.

Of course the Queen of them all is the little one in front—but she’s
just a month or six weeks too young for _me_. Then there’s the staff
bearer on the right (—the left, as they come) turning round!!!—but
she’s just three days and a minute or two too _old_ for me. Then
there’s the divine one with the dark hair, and the beatific one with
the brown,—but I think _they_’ve both got lovers already and have only
come to please the rest, and wouldn’t be mine if I prayed them ever
so. Then there is the little led beauty who is ruby and diamond in
one,—but—but,—not quite tall enough, again—I think the wisest choice
will be the pale one between the beatific and the divine!

But they’re all ineffable!—I think you never did a more marvellous
piece of beauty and it’s a treasure to me like a caught dream.

I wonder how you can bear to think of drawing _me_—and how you mean to
do it!

Sitting always tires me a good deal, but perhaps John will let me lie
down in his room for a quarter of an hour before tea.

Of this portrait he writes later in an undated letter of the same year:—

I was with some saucy girls yesterday and I was saying how proud I was
to have my portrait drawn by you—but only I had been so sleepy!

If the portrait was ever done, there is now no trace of it.

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

BRANTWOOD, _20th, July_ [_1884_]

(an entirely cloudless morning and I wonderfully well).

I am more cheered and helped by your success in this drawing than by
anything that has happened to me for years;—it is what I have been
praying and preaching to everybody and _never_ could get done!

I was nearly certain the power was in you, but never thought it would
come out at a single true effort!

—The idea of your not seeing chiaroscuro!—the ins and outs of these
leaves are the most rightly intricate and deep I ever saw—and the fern
drawing at the one stroke is marvellous.

It’s a short post this morning and I’ve a lot to get ready for it—but
I’ve such lovely plans in my head for all you say in your last two
letters—And I’ll forgive you the pig!—but we must draw dogs a little
better. And we must learn just the rudiments of perspective—and
draw feet and ankles,—and,—a little above,—and purple and
blue things—and—the Sun not like a drop of sealing wax,—and
then—Well,—we’ll do all that first, won’t we?

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

BRANTWOOD [_July 22nd, 1884_].

The little hippopotamus with the curly tail _is_ lovely, and the
explosive sun promises a lovely day, and it is so _very_ joyful news to
me that you like doing trees and see them all leaves and are going to do
feet and ankles and be so good. There’s no saying what wonderful things
you may do, all in an instant, when once you’ve fought your way through
the strait gate. And you will have the joy of delighting many more
people beside me; and of doing more good than any English artist ever
yet did. And I’ll put _you_ in some of my books soon, as well as Miss A.
and very thankfully.

But you must have a few more sods, you know.

One of the ‘lovely plans’ he has in his head is ‘a book on botany for you and me to do together—you do the plates and I the text—a hand-book of field botany. It will be such a rest for you and such a help for—everybody!—chiefly me.’

But it comes to nothing, for he finds that some one has taken the wind out of their sails and writes on Easter Day of the following year:—

Something less strong than the Lamp-post. But I am ever so much more
strong....

But oh, we’re both cut out with our flower book—Here’s a perfect
primrose of a clergyman brought out such a book of flowers! beats us all
to sticks—buds and roots. I’ve got to write to him instantly and it’s
short post.

Another plan is to paint with her ‘some things at Brantwood like Luca and the Old Masters—and cut out those dab and dash people. I felt when I came out of the Academy as if my coat must be all over splashes.’

If the Academy did not please, the Grosvenor of that year had no better fortune, for on May 3 he writes:—

I was so curious to see those Grosvenor pictures that I went in with
Joan yesterday and got a glimpse.—The only picture there worth looking
at is Millais’ Lorne,[39] and his straddling girl is a fright,[40] and
his Lady Campbell[41] a horror.—As for that somebody in the sea,[42]
what did I tell you about model drawing?—People are getting absolutely
brutified by it. There’s another nearly as bad in the Suffolk St.[43]
In the great mediæval times, painters could draw people dressed or
undressed just as they chose—without the smallest weakness, shame, or
conceit. Now, there is scarcely a foolish or bad feeling in one’s head
or body, that isn’t made worse in the model-room. I scratched nearly
every picture through in my catalogue yesterday.

Another plan was that they should both set to work to paint ‘a purple kingfisher.’

Couldn’t you go to Mr. Fletcher and ask him to introduce you to Dr.
Gunther, and ask Dr. Gunther to show you an Abyssinian kingfisher, and
give you any one you like to draw out in a good light?

Sometimes Ruskin is betrayed into writing about himself. For example on March 20th, from Brantwood, when for the time being not only all the world seems wrong but in Professor Clifford’s poignant words even ‘The Great Companion’ seems dead:

I didn’t tell you if I was well—I’m not: nor have I been for some
time,—a very steady gloom on me; not stomach depression but the
sadness of deliberately preparing for the close of life—drawing in, or
giving up, all one’s plans—thinking of one’s beloved places, I shall
never be there again—and so on. A great deal of the time I _have_
lost in the mere friction of life—scarcely any sense of Peace,—And
no hope of any life to come. I forget it all more in the theatre than
anywhere—cathedrals are no good any more!

Mind you go and see Claudian![44]

And on Dec. 1st, from Oxford:—

I’ve been in a hard battle here these eight weeks,—the atheistic
scientists all against me, and the young men careless and everything
going wrong—so that I have had to fight with sadness and anger in
all my work. My last lecture is to be given to-morrow but I have been
feeling more tired in this cold weather, and the correspondence is
terrible. I have never a moment to draw or do anything I like—except
throw myself on my bed and rest, or listen to any good music if I can
get it quietly.

From among his more general and less didactic epistles three may be given as examples.

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

BRANTWOOD, _23 Jan. /84_.

... You must try to like the Alexanders—for they are Heaven’s own
doing—as much as Heaven ever allows to be seen of it.

I ought to be ‘good’ about everything, for good people love me,—and
have loved.

Here is the strangest thing has come to me to-day.

L——[45] was—I have told you have not I—a saint in her way,—and was
constant in the habit of prayer.

One evening—I may have told you this before, but it is better to have
it in writing,—being out at a friend’s house where there were a good
many people—more or less known to her and to each other—one coming in
told suddenly that L—— ‘s chief girl friend (she knew before of her
illness) was at the point of death.

There was a clergyman at the party and L—— asked him to pray for her
friend—but he was taken aback being among all the young people, said he
could not.—‘Then’—said L——, (only 18 at that time) ‘_I_ must.’—She
made the whole company kneel down—and prayed so that they _could_ not
but join with her.

And the girl was saved. Afterwards I used to see her, often enough. She
married, to L—— ‘s great delight—a Highland religious squire—and she
with her husband came to see me here, with their two children, boy and
girl,—three years ago. Since then the children have remembered me, and
sent me a card, for themselves at Christmas, this last year, to which
I returned a letter of thanks addressed to D—— and F——. My letter
found little F—— on her death-bed. Her Father writes to me—yesterday,
‘I think you will be pleased to know that your letter addressed to D——
and F—— gave my darling in her pain a bright smile.’—And he encloses
to me an _envelope_ which F—— had addressed to me in return. But
the letter—never, and yet—she has written one she knew not. For the
envelope is written in L—— ‘s hand! I could not tell the difference
except in the letter J. of the beginning.

Is not this a pretty little story?

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

BRANTWOOD [_March 3rd, 1884_].

No wonder I couldn’t understand about the letters—here’s one enclosed
which ought to have been at Witley almost in time to receive you and has
lain in my unanswered letter heap till an hour ago!

I’m so delighted about your beginning to like purple and blue flowers,
though it’s only for my sake. Not that I’m not proud of being able to
make you like things!...

I think flowers in _my_ order of liking would come nearly like this,

Wild rose
Alpine rose
Alpine gentian
White Lily
Purple Flag
Purple convolvulus
Carnation—all the tribe
Pansy, all the tribe
Thistle—all the tribe
Daisy and Hyacinth
Snowdrop and Crocus

I only put the last so low because they have such an unfair advantage
over all the rest in coming first,—and of course I’ve some out of the
way pets like the oxalis and anagallis but then _they_ have an unfair
advantage in always growing in pretty places. The wood anemone should
go with the daisy, and the ‘Blossoms’ apple and almond—hawthorn and
cherry, have of course a separate queendom.

I must really go and look for that lovely girl you gave me with basket
of pansies!

RUSKIN TO KATE GREENAWAY

BRANTWOOD [_March 22nd, 1884_].

What a nice letter—and I’m so pleased that your Father was surprised,
and that Johnnie liked ‘Unto This Last’—and that you think you’ll
like some more. I think I tired myself with trying to draw your little
girlie yesterday—she’s _so_ hard, and I’m as lazy to-day as ever I
can be, and don’t care for anything but a French Novel, about police!
And I’m ashamed to read it at 3 in the afternoon—and it’s wet—and
I can’t do St. George’s accounts—and I should like some tea and
muffins—and—there are no muffins in Coniston.... I feel so listless
because there’s no time left now to do anything.

Oh dear, think how happy you are with all that power of drawing—and
ages to come to work in and paint Floras and Norahs and Fairies and
Mary’s and Goddesses and—bodices—oh me, when will you do me one
without any?

I must take to my French novel, there’s no help for it—Mercy on us, and
it’s two hours to tea-time! and the room so quiet, and all my books and
things about me—and I can’t do a thing—

Wouldn’t you like a photograph of me like that?

No doubt, it is difficult to help feeling at times that Ruskin’s admiration for K. G. partakes too much of hyperbole. And yet we cannot but confess that as he was honest in welcoming the Pre-Raphaelites so was he honest in his greeting of her. He was weary of the artificial pedantry of those who had elaborated an artistic code ‘with titles and sub-titles applicable to every form of [art] and tyrannous over every mode of sentiment,’ and he acclaimed an exquisite small voice, which sang its little song in its own sweet tone of purity and in its own tender unconventional way. What he meant was in no wise that she was cleverer than other people. He over and over again tells her one way or another that she was no great executant. But she had that rarer gift of seeing old things through new eyes and giving artistic expression with curious and delightful success to these newer and fresher views. And as Ruskin was by nature vehement and by practice a controversialist, he could scarcely resist being led from time to time into italicizing his words and emphasizing his verdicts.

In the meanwhile the warmest affection had ripened between Mr. Ruskin’s cousin and adopted daughter, Mrs. Arthur Severn, and Kate Greenaway. Like most others, Kate had been fascinated by the charm, goodness, and ability of Mrs. Severn; and so enlisted her sympathy that when her friend fell ill, Kate opened her heart to her, like a child:—

11 PEMBERTON GARDENS, HOLLOWAY, N.,

Wednesday [_10 Dec. 1884_].

Dearest Mrs. Severn,—

Poor Dear. I’m so sorry. I hope it will be as short in staying as it
seems severe.

I’m so sorry.

I think I will put off coming till next week, for then, I hope, I’ll be
stronger. I am very unwell again to-day—so absurdly weak.

And you, too, would not be well enough to see me this week. It is such
hard work, isn’t it, talking when you don’t feel well. Not that I can or
will say I felt that with regard to you, you always seem so cheerful and
comforting—that you’d do me good at any time. Poor Dear.

But I will write again, and I’ll hope to see you quite recovered. My
mother is very ill, too, with a bad cold and cough.

Good-bye. How sweet of you to write to me at all, feeling so ill. I hope
you’re feeling better this morning. With, Dearest, lots of love, Your
affectionate, K. G.

I’m _very, very, very sorry_.

Poor Dear.

A little later on when Mrs. Severn’s young sons were about to be sent to their first boarding school, Kate sent a characteristic note of sympathy:—

My dearest Mrs. Severn— ... I wonder if I shall see you to-morrow at
the R. A. I shall be there till nearly 4—but I remember. Your boys
are going to-morrow. I hope you won’t feel it dreadfully. But I should
think they will be happy there. It is so much nicer than quite a strange
school and strange people. Please feel they will be very happy.... Your
very affectionate

K. G.

And for Mrs. Severn’s little daughter, Violet, Kate Greenaway composed the doleful history of a naughty girl, such as most delights the mind of a tiny child. That characteristic booklet, delightfully sketched in pencil and colour, Miss Violet Severn has kindly allowed to be reproduced here.