The Crown of Wild Olive by John Ruskin (audio ebook reader txt) 📖
- Author: John Ruskin
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And so we come back to your sorrowful question, Lucilla, which I put aside a little ago. You would be afraid to answer that your heart was pure and true, would not you?
Lucilla. Yes, indeed, sir.
L. Because you have been taught that it is all evil—'only evil continually.' Somehow, often as people say that, they never seem, to me, to believe it? Do you really believe it?
Lucilla. Yes, sir; I hope so.
L. That you have an entirely bad heart?
Lucilla (a little uncomfortable at the substitution of the monosyllable for the dissyllable, nevertheless persisting in her orthodoxy). Yes, sir.
L. Florrie, I am sure you are tired; I never like you to stay when you are tired; but, you know, you must not play with the kitten while we're talking.
Florrie. Oh! but I'm not tired; and I'm only nursing her. She'll be asleep in my lap directly.
L. Stop! that puts me in mind of something I had to show you, about minerals that are like hair. I want a hair out of Tittie's tail.
Florrie (quite rude, in her surprise, even to the point of repeating expressions). Out of Tittie's tail!
L. Yes; a brown one: Lucilla, you can get at the tip of it nicely, under Florrie's arm; just pull one out for me.
Lucilla. Oh! but, sir, it will hurt her so!
L. Never mind; she can't scratch you while Florrie is holding her. Now that I think of it, you had better pull out two.
Lucilla. But then she may scratch Florrie! and it will hurt her so, sir! if you only want brown hairs, wouldn't two of mine do?
L. Would you really rather pull out your own than Tittie's?
Lucilla. Oh, of course, if mine will do.
L. But that's very wicked, Lucilla!
Lucilla. Wicked, sir?
L. Yes; if your heart was not so bad, you would much rather pull all the cat's hairs out, than one of your own.
Lucilla. Oh! but sir, I didn't mean bad, like that.
L. I believe, if the truth were told, Lucilla, you would like to tie a kettle to Tittie's tail, and hunt her round the playground.
Lucilla. Indeed, I should not, sir.
L. That's not true, Lucilla; you know it cannot be.
Lucilla. Sir?
L. Certainly it is not;—how can you possibly speak any truth out of such a heart as you have? It is wholly deceitful.
Lucilla. Oh! no, no; I don't mean that way; I don't mean that it makes me tell lies, quite out.
L. Only that it tells lies within you?
Lucilla. Yes.
L. Then, outside of it, you know what is true, and say so; and I may trust the outside of your heart; but within, it is all foul and false. Is that the way?
Lucilla. I suppose so: I don't understand it, quite.
L. There is no occasion for understanding it; but do you feel it? Are you sure that your heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked?
Lucilla (much relieved by finding herself among phrases with which she is acquainted). Yes, sir. I'm sure of that.
L. (pensively). I'm sorry for it, Lucilla.
Lucilla. So am I, indeed.
L. What are you sorry with, Lucilla?
Lucilla. Sorry with, sir?
L. Yes; I mean, where do you feel sorry? in your feet?
Lucilla (laughing a little). No, sir, of course.
L. In your shoulders, then?
Lucilla. No, sir.
L. You are sure of that? Because, I fear, sorrow in the shoulders would not be worth much.
Lucilla. I suppose I feel it in my heart, if I really am sorry.
L. If you really are! Do you mean to say that you are sure you are utterly wicked, and yet do not care?
Lucilla. No, indeed; I have cried about it often.
L. Well, then, you are sorry in your heart?
Lucilla. Yes, when the sorrow is worth anything.
L. Even if it be not, it cannot be anywhere else but there. It is not the crystalline lens of your eyes which is sorry, when you cry?
Lucilla. No, sir, of course.
L. Then, have you two hearts; one of which is wicked, and the other grieved? or is one side of it sorry for the other side?
Lucilla (weary of cross-examination, and a little vexed). Indeed, sir, you know I can't understand it; but you know how it is written—'another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind.'
L. Yes, Lucilla, I know how it is written; but I do not see that it will help us to know that, if we neither understand what is written, nor feel it. And you will not get nearer to the meaning of one verse, if, as soon as you are puzzled by it, you escape to another, introducing three new words—'law,' 'members,' and 'mind'; not one of which you at present know the meaning of; and respecting which, you probably never will be much wiser; since men like Montesquieu and Locke have spent great part of their lives in endeavouring to explain two of them.
Lucilla. Oh! please, sir, ask somebody else.
L. If I thought anyone else could answer better than you, Lucilla, I would; but suppose I try, instead, myself, to explain your feelings to you?
Lucilla. Oh, yes; please do.
L. Mind, I say your 'feelings,' not your 'belief.' For I cannot undertake to explain anybody's beliefs. Still I must try a little, first, to explain the belief also, because I want to draw it to some issue. As far as I understand what you say, or any one else, taught as you have been taught, says, on this matter,—you think that there is an external goodness, a whited-sepulchre kind of goodness, which appears beautiful outwardly, but is within full of uncleanness: a deep secret guilt, of which we ourselves are not sensible; and which can only be seen by the Maker of us all. (Approving murmurs from audience.)
L. Is it not so with the body as well as the soul?
(Looked notes of interrogation.)
L. A skull, for instance, is not a beautiful thing?
(Grave faces, signifying 'Certainly not,' and 'What next?')
L. And if you all could see in each other, with clear eyes, whatever God sees beneath those fair faces of yours, you would not like it?
(Murmured 'No's.')
L. Nor would it be good for you?
(Silence.)
L. The probability being that what God does not allow you to see, He does not wish you to see; nor even to think of?
(Silence prolonged.)
L. It would not at all be good for you, for instance, whenever you were washing your faces, and braiding your hair, to be thinking of the shapes of the jawbones, and of the cartilage of the nose, and of the jagged sutures of the scalp?
(Resolutely whispered No's.)
L. Still less, to see through a clear glass the daily processes of nourishment and decay?
(No.)
L. Still less if instead of merely inferior and preparatory conditions of structure, as in the skeleton,—or inferior offices of structure, as in operations of life and death,—there were actual disease in the body; ghastly and dreadful. You would try to cure it; but having taken such measures as were necessary, you would not think the cure likely to be promoted by perpetually watching the wounds, or thinking of them. On the contrary, you would be thankful for every moment of forgetfulness: as, in daily health, you must be thankful that your Maker has veiled whatever is fearful in your frame under a sweet and manifest beauty; and has made it your duty, and your only safety, to rejoice in that, both in yourself and in others:—not indeed concealing, or refusing to believe in sickness, if it come; but never dwelling on it.
Now, your wisdom and duty touching soul-sickness are just the same. Ascertain clearly what is wrong with you; and so far as you know any means of mending it, take those means, and have done: when you are examining yourself, never call yourself merely a 'sinner,' that is very cheap abuse; and utterly useless. You may even get to like it, and be proud of it. But call yourself a liar, a coward, a sluggard, a glutton, or an evil-eyed jealous wretch, if you indeed find yourself to be in any wise any of these. Take steady means to check yourself in whatever fault you have ascertained, and justly accused yourself of. And as soon as you are in active way of mending, you will be no more inclined to moan over an undefined corruption. For the rest, you will find it less easy to uproot faults, than to choke them by gaining virtues. Do not think of your faults; still less of others' faults: in every person who comes near you, look for what is good and strong: honour that; rejoice in it; and, as you can, try to imitate it: and your faults will drop off, like dead leaves, when their time comes. If, on looking back, your whole life should seem rugged as a palm tree stem; still, never mind, so long as it has been growing; and has its grand green shade of leaves, and weight of honied fruit, at top. And even if you cannot find much good in yourself at last, think that it does not much matter to the universe either what you were, or are; think how many people are noble, if you cannot be; and rejoice in their nobleness. An immense quantity of modern confession of sin, even when honest, is merely a sickly egotism; which will rather gloat over its own evil, than lose the centralisation of its interest in itself.
Mary. But then, if we ought to forget ourselves so much, how did the old Greek proverb 'Know thyself' come to be so highly esteemed?
L. My dear, it is the proverb of proverbs; Apollo's proverb, and the sun's;—but do you think you can know yourself by looking into yourself? Never. You can know what you are, only by looking out of yourself. Measure your own powers with those of others; compare your own interests with those of others; try to understand what you appear to them, as well as what they appear to you; and judge of yourselves, in all things, relatively and subordinately; not positively: starting always with a wholesome conviction of the probability that there is nothing particular about you. For instance, some of you perhaps think you can write poetry. Dwell on your own feelings and doings:—and you will soon think yourselves Tenth Muses; but forget your own feelings; and try, instead, to understand a line or two of Chaucer or Dante: and you will soon begin to feel yourselves very foolish girls—which is much like the fact.
So, something which befalls you may seem a great misfortune;—you meditate over its effects on you personally; and begin to think that it is a chastisement, or a warning, or a this or that or the other of profound significance; and that all the angels in heaven have left their
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