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could be reconfigured on the principle of dedicated service, taking as a model the learned professions and the military. The soldier, however unrefined, is more highly regarded by society than the capitalist, Ruskin said, 'for the soldier's trade .. . is not slaying, but being slain.' Although his position was essentially conservative in the proper sense of the word (he styled himself 'a violent Tory of the old school;?Walter Scott's school'), he was regarded as a radical eccentric. It was many years before his social criticism gained a following among writers as diverse as William Morris, Bernard Shaw, and D. H. Lawrence; and in particular among the founders of the British Labour Party, his influence was to be profound and lasting.
Buskin's realization, after 1860, that despite his fame he was becoming isolated and that the world was continuing to move in directions opposite from those to which he pointed may have contributed to the recurrent mental breakdowns from which he suffered between 1870 and 1900. As he reports in Fors Clavigera (1880): 'The doctors said I went mad, this time two years ago, from overwork,' but he had not then been working harder than usual. 'I went mad because nothing came of my work . . . because after I got [my manuscripts] published, nobody believed a word of them.' Also contributing to his breakdowns may have been his unhappiness in his relations with women. His marriage to Effie Gray in 1848 was a disaster. After six years of living together, an annulment was arranged on the grounds that the marriage had not been consummated. Buskin testified that he had not found his wife's person physically attractive, although by others she was considered a great beauty. One of these admirers was the Pre-Baphaelite painter John Millais, who fell in love with her at a time when he was painting her husband's portrait; shortly after the annulment he married her. (Given the spectacular failure of Buskin's marriage and subsequent romantic relationships, it is ironic that he was to produce a highly influential, and frequently reprinted, description of the ideal characters of man and woman, husband and wife, in an 1864 lecture, 'Of Queens' Gardens.' See 'The 'Woman Question'' below,
p. 1581.) In later years Buskin fell in love with a young Irish girl, Bose La Touche, whom he first met when he was nearly forty and she was a child of nine. They were divided not only by the gap of age but by religious differences. She was an intensely pious believer; and for several years after Ruskin proposed marriage to her, when she was eighteen, she tried unsuccessfully to persuade him to return to the Evangelical faith that he had abandoned. In 1875, after herself suffering attacks of mental illness, La Touche died at the age of twenty-five. In his autobiography Ruskin commented: 'I wonder mightily what sort of creature I should have turned out, if instead of the distracting and useless pain, I had had the joy of approved love, and the untellable, incalculable motive of its sympathy and praise. It seems to me such things are not allowed in the world. The men capable of the highest imaginative passion are always tossed on fiery waves by it.' Despite both the despair that he suffered following La Touche's death and the recurring attacks of mental illness that blighted the last thirty-five years of his life, Ruskin remained active and productive up until his final silent decade of the 1890s. His publications during his active period included six volumes of his lectures on art that he had delivered as Slade Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford and his letters to laborers, Fors Clavigera (1871?84). One topic that becomes especially prominent in these later writings is pollution of air and water?an ideal subject for Ruskin's eloquence. In discussing it he combines his lifelong love for beautiful landscape and landscape painting with his later acquired conviction that modern industrial leadership was woefully irresponsible. A letter of A. E. Housman, who was an undergraduate at Oxford in 1877, provides a vivid record of how effective Ruskin could be:
This afternoon Ruskin gave us a great outburst against modern times. He had got a picture of Turner's, framed and glassed, representing Leicester and the Abbey in the distance at sunset, over a river. He read the account of Wolsey's death out of Henry VIII. Then he pointed to the picture as representing Leicester
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when Turner had drawn it. Then he said, 'You, if you like, may go to Leicester to see what it is like now. I never shall. But I can make a pretty good guess.' Then he caught up a paintbrush. 'These stepping-stones of course have been done away with, and are replaced by a be-au-ti-ful iron bridge.' Then he dashed in the iron bridge on the glass of the picture. 'The color of the stream is supplied on one side by the indigo factory.' Forthwith one side of the stream became indigo. 'On the other side by the soap factory.' Soap dashed in. 'They mix in the middle?like curds,' he said, working them together with a sort of malicious deliberation. 'This field, over which you see the sun setting behind the abbey, is now occupied in a proper manner.' Then there went a flame of scarlet across the picture, which developed itself into windows and roofs and red brick, and rushed up into a chimney. 'The atmosphere is supplied?thus!' A puff and cloud of smoke all over Turner's sky: and then the brush thrown down, and Ruskin confronting modern civilization amidst a tempest of applause, which he always elicits now, as he has this term become immensely popular, his lectures being crowded, whereas of old he used to prophesy to empty benches.
From Modern Painters
[A DEFINITION OF GREATNESS IN ART]1
Painting, or art generally, as such, with all its technicalities, difficulties, and
particular ends, is nothing but a noble and expressive language, invaluable as
the vehicle of thought, but by itself nothing. He who has learned what is
commonly considered the whole art of painting, that is, the art of representing
any natural object faithfully, has as yet only learned the language by which
his thoughts are to be expressed. He has done just as much towards being that
which we ought to respect as a great painter, as a man who has learnt how to
express himself grammatically and melodiously has towards being a great poet.
The language is, indeed, more difficult of acquirement in the one case than
in the other, and possesses more power of delighting the sense, while it speaks
to the intellect; but it is, nevertheless, nothing more than language, and all
those excellences which are peculiar to the painter as such, are merely what
rhythm, melody, precision, and force are in the words of the orator and the
poet, necessary to their greatness, but not the tests of their greatness. It is not
by the mode of representing and saying, but by what is represented and said,
