by John Ruskin
LECTURE V.
_CRYSTAL VIRTUES._
_A quiet talk, in the afternoon, by the sunniest window of the Drawing-room. Present_, FLORRIE, ISABEL, MAY, LUCILLA, KATHLEEN, DORA, MARY, _and some others, who have saved time for the bye-Lecture._
L. So you have really come, like good girls, to be made ashamed ofyourselves?
DORA (_very meekly_). No, we needn't be made so; we always are.
L. Well, I believe that's truer than most pretty speeches: but you know,you saucy girl, some people have more reason to be so than others. Areyou sure everybody is, as well as you?
THE GENERAL VOICE. Yes, yes; everybody.
L. What! Florrie ashamed of herself?
(FLORRIE _hides behind the curtain._)
L. And Isabel?
(ISABEL _hides under the table._)
L. And May?
(MAY _runs into the corner behind the piano._)
L. And Lucilla?
(LUCILLA _hides her face in her hands._)
L. Dear, dear; but this will never do. I shall have to tell you of thefaults of the crystals, instead of virtues, to put you in heart again.
MAY (_coming out of her corner_). Oh! have the crystals faults, like us?
L. Certainly, May. Their best virtues are shown in fighting theirfaults. And some have a great many faults; and some are very naughtycrystals indeed.
FLORRIE (_from behind her curtain_). As naughty as me?
ISABEL (_peeping from under the table cloth_). Or me?
L. Well, I don't know. They never forget their syntax, children, whenonce they've been taught it. But I think some of them are, on the whole,worse than any of you. Not that it's amiable of you to look so radiant,all in a minute, on that account.
DORA. Oh! but it's so much more comfortable.
(_Everybody seems to recover their spirits. Eclipse of_ FLORRIE _and_ ISABEL _terminates._)
L. What kindly creatures girls are, after all, to their neighbours'failings! I think you may be ashamed of yourselves indeed, now,children! I can tell you, you shall hear of the highest crystallinemerits that I can think of, to-day: and I wish there were more of them;but crystals have a limited, though a stern, code of morals; and theiressential virtues are but two;--the first is to be pure, and the secondto be well shaped.
MARY. Pure! Does that mean clear--transparent?
L. No; unless in the case of a transparent substance. You cannot have atransparent crystal of gold; but you may have a perfectly pure one.
ISABEL. But you said it was the shape that made things be crystals;therefore, oughtn't their shape to be their first virtue, not theirsecond?
L. Right, you troublesome mousie. But I call their shape only theirsecond virtue, because it depends on time and accident, and things whichthe crystal cannot help. If it is cooled too quickly, or shaken, it musttake what shape it can; but it seems as if, even then, it had in itselfthe power of rejecting impurity, if it has crystalline life enough. Hereis a crystal of quartz, well enough shaped in its way; but it seems tohave been languid and sick at heart; and some white milky substance hasgot into it, and mixed itself up with it, all through. It makes thequartz quite yellow, if you hold it up to the light, and milky blue onthe surface. Here is another, broken into a thousand separate facets,and out of all traceable shape; but as pure as a mountain spring. I likethis one best.
THE AUDIENCE. So do I--and I--and I.
MARY. Would a crystallographer?
L. I think so. He would find many more laws curiously exemplified in theirregularly grouped but pure crystal. But it is a futile question, thisof first or second. Purity is in most cases a prior, if not a nobler,virtue; at all events it is most convenient to think about it first.
MARY. But what ought we to think about it? Is there much to bethought--I mean, much to puzzle one?
L. I don't know what you call 'much.' It is a long time since I met withanything in which there was little. There's not much in this, perhaps.The crystal must be either dirty or clean,--and there's an end. So it iswith one's hands, and with one's heart--only you can wash your handswithout changing them, but not hearts, nor crystals. On the whole, whileyou are young, it will be as well to take care that your hearts don'twant much washing; for they may perhaps need wringing also, when theydo.
(_Audience doubtful and uncomfortable._ LUCILLA _at last takes courage._)
LUCILLA. Oh! but surely, sir, we cannot make our hearts clean?
L. Not easily, Lucilla; so you had better keep them so when they are.
LUCILLA. When they are! But, sir--
L. Well?
LUCILLA. Sir--surely--are we not told that they are all evil?
L. Wait a little, Lucilla; that is difficult ground you are gettingupon; and we must keep to our crystals, till at least we understand what_their_ good and evil consist in; they may help us afterwards to someuseful hints about our own. I said that their goodness consisted chieflyin purity of substance, and perfectness of form: but those are ratherthe _effects_ of their goodness, than the goodness itself. The inherentvirtues of the crystals, resulting in these outer conditions, mightreally seem to be best described in the words we should use respectingliving creatures--'force of heart' and steadiness of purpose.' Thereseem to be in some crystals, from the beginning, an unconquerable purityof vital power, and strength of crystal spirit. Whatever dead substance,unacceptant of this energy, comes in their way, is either rejected, orforced to take some beautiful subordinate form; the purity of thecrystal remains unsullied, and every atom of it bright with coherentenergy. Then the second condition is, that from the beginning of itswhole structure, a fine crystal seems to have determined that it will beof a certain size and of a certain shape; it persists in this plan, andcompletes it. Here is a perfect crystal of quartz for you. It is of anunusual form, and one which it might seem very difficult to build--apyramid with convex sides, composed of other minor pyramids. But thereis not a flaw in its contour throughout; not one of its myriads ofcomponent sides but is as bright as a jeweller's facetted work (and farfiner, if you saw it close). The crystal points are as sharp asjavelins; their edges will cut glass with a touch. Anything moreresolute, consummate, determinate in form, cannot be conceived. Here, onthe other hand, is a crystal of the same substance, in a perfectlysimple type of form--a plain six-sided prism; but from its base to itspoint,--and it is nine inches long,--it has never for one instant madeup its mind what thickness it will have. It seems to have begun bymaking itself as thick as it thought possible with the quantity ofmaterial at command. Still not being as thick as it would like to be, ithas clumsily glued on more substance at one of its sides. Then it hasthinned itself, in a panic of economy; then puffed itself out again;then starved one side to enlarge another; then warped itself quite outof its first line. Opaque, rough-surfaced, jagged on the edge, distortedin the spine, it exhibits a quite human image of decrepitude anddishonour; but the worst of all the signs of its decay and helplessness,is that half-way up, a parasite crystal, smaller, but just as sickly,has rooted itself in the side of the larger one, eating out a cavityround its root, and then growing backwards, or downwards, contrary tothe direction of the main crystal. Yet I cannot trace the leastdifference in purity of substance between the first most noble stone,and this ignoble and dissolute one. The impurity of the last is in itswill, or want of will.
MARY. Oh, if we could but understand the meaning of it all!
L. We can understand all that is good for us. It is just as true for us,as for the crystal, that the nobleness of life depends on itsconsistency,--clearness of purpose,--quiet and ceaseless energy. Alldoubt, and repenting, and botching, and retouching, and wondering whatit will be best to do next, are vice, as well as misery.
MARY (_much wondering_). But must not one repent when one does wrong,and hesitate when one can't see one's way?
L. You have no business at all to do wrong; nor to get into any way thatyou cannot see. Your intelligence should always be far in adva
nce ofyour act. Whenever you do not know what you are about, you are sure tobe doing wrong.
KATHLEEN. Oh, dear, but I never know what I am about!
L. Very true, Katie, but it is a great deal to know, if you know that.And you find that you have done wrong afterwards; and perhaps some dayyou may begin to know, or at least, think, what you are about.
ISABEL. But surely people can't do very wrong if they don't know, canthey? I mean, they can't be very naughty. They can be wrong, likeKathleen or me, when we make mistakes; but not wrong in the dreadfulway. I can't express what I mean; but there are two sorts of wrong arethere not?
L. Yes, Isabel; but you will find that the great difference is betweenkind and unkind wrongs, not between meant and unmeant wrong. Very fewpeople really mean to do wrong,--in a deep sense, none. They only don'tknow what they are about. Cain did not mean to do wrong when he killedAbel.
(ISABEL _draws a deep breath, and opens her eyes very wide._)
L. No, Isabel; and there are countless Cains among us now, who killtheir brothers by the score a day, not only for less provocation thanCain had, but for _no_ provocation,--and merely for what they can makeof their bones,--yet do not think they are doing wrong in the least.Then sometimes you have the business reversed, as over in America theselast years, where you have seen Abel resolutely killing Cain, and notthinking he is doing wrong. The great difficulty is always to openpeople's eyes: to touch their feelings, and break their hearts, is easy;the difficult thing is to break their heads. What does it matter, aslong as they remain stupid, whether you change their feelings or not?You cannot be always at their elbow to tell them what is right: and theymay just do as wrong as before, or worse; and their best intentionsmerely make the road smooth for them,--you know where, children. For itis not the place itself that is paved with them, as people say so often.You can't pave the bottomless pit; but you may the road to it.
MAY. Well, but if people do as well as they can see how, surely that isthe right for them, isn't it?
L. No, May, not a bit of it; right is right, and wrong is wrong. It isonly the fool who does wrong, and says he 'did it for the best.' And ifthere's one sort of person in the world that the Bible speaks harder ofthan another, it is fools. Their particular and chief way of saying'There is no God' is this, of declaring that whatever their 'publicopinion' may be, is right: and that God's opinion is of no consequence.
MAY. But surely nobody can always know what is right?
L. Yes, you always can, for to-day; and if you do what you see of itto-day, you will see more of it, and more clearly, to-morrow. Here, forinstance, you children are at school, and have to learn French, andarithmetic, and music, and several other such things. That is your'right' for the present; the 'right' for us, your teachers, is to seethat you learn as much as you can, without spoiling your dinner, yoursleep, or your play; and that what you do learn, you learn well. You allknow when you learn with a will, and when you dawdle. There's no doubtof conscience about that, I suppose?
VIOLET. No; but if one wants to read an amusing book, instead oflearning one's lesson?
L. You don't call that a 'question,' seriously, Violet? You are thenmerely deciding whether you will resolutely do wrong or not.
MARY. But, in after life, how many fearful difficulties may arise,however one tries to know or to do what is right!
L. You are much too sensible a girl, Mary, to have felt that, whateveryou may have seen. A great many of young ladies' difficulties arise fromtheir falling in love with a wrong person: but they have no business tolet themselves fall in love, till they know he is the right one.
DORA. How many thousands ought he to have a year?
L. (_disdaining reply_). There are, of course, certain crises of fortunewhen one has to take care of oneself, and mind shrewdly what one isabout. There is never any real doubt about the path, but you may have towalk very slowly.
MARY. And if one is forced to do a wrong thing by some one who hasauthority over you?
L. My dear, no one can be forced to do a wrong thing, for the guilt isin the will: but you may any day be forced to do a fatal thing, as youmight be forced to take poison; the remarkable law of nature in suchcases being, that it is always unfortunate _you_ who are poisoned, andnot the person who gives you the dose. It is a very strange law, but it_is_ a law. Nature merely sees to the carrying out of the normaloperation of arsenic. She never troubles herself to ask who gave it you.So also you may be starved to death, morally as well as physically, byother people's faults. You are, on the whole, very good children sittinghere to-day;--do you think that your goodness comes all by your owncontriving? or that you are gentle and kind because your dispositionsare naturally more angelic than those of the poor girls who are playing,with wild eyes, on the dustheaps in the alleys of our great towns; andwho will one day fill their prisons,--or, better, their graves? Heavenonly knows where they, and we who have cast them there, shall stand atlast. But the main judgment question will be, I suppose, for all of us,'Did you keep a good heart through it?' What you were, others may answerfor;--what you tried to be, you must answer for, yourself. Was the heartpure and true--tell us that?
And so we come back to your sorrowful question, Lucilla, which I putaside 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 evilcontinually.' 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 monosyllablefor the dissyllable, nevertheless persisting in her orthodoxy_). Yes,sir.
L. Florrie, I am sure you are tired; I never like you to stay when youare tired; but, you know, you must not play with the kitten while we'retalking.
FLORRIE. Oh! but I'm not tired; and I'm only nursing her. She'll beasleep in my lap directly.
L. Stop! that puts me in mind of something I had to show you, aboutminerals that are like hair. I want a hair out of Tittie's tail.
FLORRIE (_quite rude, in her surprise, even to the point of repeatingexpressions_). Out of Tittie's tail!
L. Yes; a brown one: Lucilla, you can get at the tip of it nicely, underFlorrie'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. Nowthat 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 thecat'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 akettle 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 ofsuch 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 makesme 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 maytrust 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? Areyou sure that your heart is deceitful above all th
ings, and desperatelywicked?
LUCILLA (_much relieved by finding herself among phrases with which sheis 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 wouldnot 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 areutterly 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 notthe 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 othergrieved? 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--'anotherlaw 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 willhelp us to know that, if we neither understand what is written, nor feelit. And you will not get nearer to the meaning of one verse, if, as soonas you are puzzled by it, you escape to another, introducing three newwords--'law,' 'members,' and 'mind'; not one of which you at presentknow the meaning of; and respecting which, you probably never will bemuch wiser; since men like Montesquieu and Locke have spent great partof 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, Iwould; but suppose I try, instead, myself, to explain your feelings toyou?
LUCILLA. Oh, yes; please do.
L. Mind, I say your 'feelings,' not your 'belief.' For I cannotundertake to explain anybody's beliefs. Still I must try a little,first, to explain the belief also, because I want to draw it to someissue. As far as I understand what you say, or any one else, taught asyou have been taught, says, on this matter,--you think that there is anexternal goodness, a whited-sepulchre kind of goodness, which appearsbeautiful outwardly, but is within full of uncleanness: a deep secretguilt, of which we ourselves are not sensible; and which can only beseen 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 Godsees 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, Hedoes 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 werewashing your faces, and braiding your hair, to be thinking of the shapesof the jawbones, and of the cartilage of the nose, and of the jaggedsutures of the scalp?
(_Resolutely whispered No's._)
L. Still less, to see through a clear glass the daily processes ofnourishment and decay?
(_No._)
L. Still less if instead of merely inferior and preparatory conditionsof structure, as in the skeleton,--or inferior offices of structure, asin operations of life and death,--there were actual disease in the body;ghastly and dreadful. You would try to cure it; but having taken suchmeasures as were necessary, you would not think the cure likely to bepromoted by perpetually watching the wounds, or thinking of them. On thecontrary, you would be thankful for every moment of forgetfulness: as,in daily health, you must be thankful that your Maker has veiledwhatever is fearful in your frame under a sweet and manifest beauty; andhas made it your duty, and your only safety, to rejoice in that, both inyourself and in others:--not indeed concealing, or refusing to believein 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 anymeans of mending it, take those means, and have done: when you areexamining yourself, never call yourself merely a 'sinner,' that is verycheap abuse; and utterly useless. You may even get to like it, and beproud 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 anywise any of these. Take steady means to check yourself in whatever faultyou have ascertained, and justly accused yourself of. And as soon as youare in active way of mending, you will be no more inclined to moan overan undefined corruption. For the rest, you will find it less easy touproot faults, than to choke them by gaining virtues. Do not think ofyour faults; still less of others' faults: in every person who comesnear 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, likedead leaves, when their time comes. If, on looking back, your whole lifeshould seem rugged as a palm tree stem; still, never mind, so long as ithas been growing; and has its grand green shade of leaves, and weight ofhonied fruit, at top. And even if you cannot find much good in yourselfat last, think that it does not much matter to the universe either whatyou were, or are; think how many people are noble, if you cannot be; andrejoice in _their_ nobleness. An immense quantity of modern confessionof sin, even when honest, is merely a sickly egotism; which will rathergloat over its own evil, than lose the centralisation of its interest initself.
MARY. But then, if we ought to forget ourselves so much, how did the oldGreek proverb 'Know thyself' come to be so highly esteemed?
L. My dear, it is the proverb of proverbs; Apollo's proverb, and thesun's;--but do you think you can know yourself by looking _into_yourself? Never. You can know what you are, only by looking _out_ ofyourself. Measure your own powers with those of others; compare your owninterests with those of others; try to understand what you appear tothem, as well as what they appear to you; and judge of yourselves, inall things, relatively and subordinately; not positively: startingalways with a wholesome conviction of the probability that there isnothing particular about you. For instance, some of you perhaps thinkyou can write poetry. Dwell on your own feelings and doings:--and youwill soon think yourselves Tenth Muses; but forget your own feelings;and try, instead, to understand a line or two of Chaucer or Dante: andyou will soon begin to feel yourselves very foolish girls--which is muchlike the fact.
So, something which befalls you may seem a great misfortune;--youmeditate over its effects on you personally; and begin to think that itis a chastisement, or a warning, or a this or that or the other ofprofound significance; and that all the angels in heaven have left theirbusiness for a little while, that they may watch its effects on yourmind. But give up this egotistic indulgence of your fancy; examine alittle what misfortunes, greater a thousandfold, are happening, everysecond, to twenty times worthier persons: and your self-consciousnesswill change into pity and humility; and you will know yourself, so faras to understand that 'there hath nothing taken thee but what is commonto man.'
Now, Lucilla, these are the practical conclusions which any person ofsense would arrive at, supposing the texts which relate to the innerevil of the heart were as many, and as prominent, as they are oftensupposed to be by careless readers. But the way in which common peoplerea
d their Bibles is just like the way that the old monks thoughthedgehogs ate grapes. They rolled themselves (it was said), over andover, where the grapes lay on the ground. What fruit stuck to theirspines, they carried off, and ate. So your hedgehoggy readers rollthemselves over and over their Bibles, and declare that whatever sticksto their own spines is Scripture; and that nothing else is. But you canonly get the skins of the texts that way. If you want their juice, youmust press them in cluster. Now, the clustered texts about the humanheart, insist, as a body, not on any inherent corruption in all hearts,but on the terrific distinction between the bad and the good ones. 'Agood man, out of the good treasure of his heart, bringeth forth thatwhich is good; and an evil man, out of the evil treasure, bringethforth that which is evil.' 'They on the rock are they which, in anhonest and good heart, having heard the word, keep it.' 'Delight thyselfin the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.' 'Thewicked have bent their bow, that they may privily shoot at him that isupright in heart.' And so on; they are countless, to the same effect.And, for all of us, the question is not at all to ascertain how much orhow little corruption there is in human nature; but to ascertainwhether, out of all the mass of that nature, we are of the sheep or thegoat breed; whether we are people of upright heart, being shot at, orpeople of crooked heart, shooting. And, of all the texts bearing on thesubject, this, which is a quite simple and practical order, is the oneyou have chiefly to hold in mind. 'Keep thy heart with all diligence,for out of it are the issues of life.'
LUCILLA. And yet, how inconsistent the texts seem!
L. Nonsense, Lucilla! do you think the universe is bound to lookconsistent to a girl of fifteen? Look up at your own room window;--youcan just see it from where you sit. I'm glad that it is left open, as itought to be, in so fine a day. But do you see what a black spot itlooks, in the sunlighted wall?
LUCILLA. Yes, it looks as black as ink.
L. Yet you know it is a very bright room when you are inside of it;quite as bright as there is any occasion for it to be, that its littlelady may see to keep it tidy. Well, it is very probable, also, that ifyou could look into your heart from the sun's point of view, it mightappear a very black hole indeed; nay, the sun may sometimes think goodto tell you that it looks so to Him; but He will come into it, and makeit very cheerful for you, for all that, if you don't put the shuttersup. And the one question for _you_, remember, is not 'dark or light?'but 'tidy or untidy?' Look well to your sweeping and garnishing; and besure it is only the banished spirit, or some of the seven wickeder onesat his back, who will still whisper to you that it is all black.