HER PUPILS IN DRAWING
March 27th, 1859.
To Miranda.
I really could not write last Sunday. I am now writing in the lovely early morning, before setting off to go to the eight o’clock Communion service at Lincoln’s Inn. We shall think of you both.... I have nearly finished the cloud I have been copying at Dulwich, and am anxiously expecting Ruskin’s criticism on it. You know I am going to Normandy on or about the 16th; fortunately I do not yet realise it, except as a point before which certain works must be done and preparations made; but when I am fairly off I suppose I shall believe it; and not until then. I think you would be very much interested in some of my drawing pupils. One little boy, James, is my great favourite. He is ten years old, and tells me he has lived in Worcestershire until last September; but he is not like a country child, he is so intelligent. He has bright beautiful eyes, and I like to see his queer little figure in his pretty white blouse waiting for me at the door. He is so earnest and interested in his drawing, and works so very hard at it, it is quite delightful to teach him. Then there is a little girl, Annie, who is now so good and attentive. I like to see her dear pretty little head, bent down over her drawing. She has a beautifully fair skin, and when I find fault with her, all her face colours; and she has large blue eyes with long lashes and soft fair hair. She hasn’t special talent for drawing like James, but I like her personally so much. My women are progressing surely and steadily. They’re getting the right spirit and aims. I take them leaves and sprays to show them their beauties and teach them their names.... I am reading the first volume of “Modern Painters.” I thought you would like to look at these pictures in the light of his words.... I am so very much wrapped up in my drawing I seem to think of little else; and yet I do manage somehow to remember and dwell on a great deal besides. I often think of you both.
103, Milton Street,
April 3rd, 1859.
To Miranda.
I have been suffering with severe pains in my back, but else I am quite well and I hope Normandy will set me up in health. It will seem very strange to you, but I dread it. I have been working so long, I don’t feel as if I knew how to stop. I am afraid I shall be in everyone’s way, and do everything awkwardly and ill. Mary[[35]] will forgive me however. Dear Mary! Mrs. Harrison writes that she is looking forward to my visit most eagerly; and she thinks it will do her a great deal of good.
You will know how thankful I am that we shall stay in this dear little home. I need not tell you how kind everyone is, you know they always were, but it seems to me as if people even increased in kindness wherever I go, from the old man who takes care of the pictures at Dulwich, and brings me his first wallflowers and spray of sweet-briar, to Mr. Maurice’s ready advice; poor and rich, learned and unlearned, old foe and new friend seem to help us; when I am good and humble and walk home watching the sunset or rooks’ nests against the night sky, I often repeat the Magnificat and think thankfully of all people’s kindness. Sometimes I look back thro’ the strange long years and trace the growth of things and people. Then, dears, I think of you both.
ITALIAN WAR OF LIBERATION