never return.
My first surprise came even before I had met him, for 163 Dennmark Hill turns out to be a tall, rambling old house which â far from shrinking into the shadows â announces its presence with the beefy self-importance of a provincial lord mayor. It has its own porterâs lodge (where I was obliged to state my business to a burly man with suspicious eyes and licorice breath, who said: âThatâs Mr.
John
Ruskin, is it?â and then, before I was able to reply, peered at me through the window of the cab, and answered his own question: âYes, itâll be Mr. Johnâ); and a carriage sweep; and walls furred with ivy; and a front door approached by railed steps, and almost hidden in the recesses of a heavy portico. From its size, in short, and its John Bull posture â feet splayed, elbows out â it looked more like the house of one of our fox-hunting neighbours in Cumberland than the home of the worldâs most celebrated art critic, on the fringes of the worldâs greatest city.
The footman who opened the door seemed ordinary enough; but for a fleeting moment I had the odd impression that the dim square hall behind him was filled with pale, elderly faces (it was difficult to be sure, for my eyes had not yet adjusted to the gloom), which promptly scattered, as soon as they saw me, like rabbits startled by a walker.
âIs Mr. Ruskin at home?â I asked.
âMr.
John
Ruskin?â replied the man, in a stiff parody of the lodge-keeper.
âYes,â I said, wondering secretly how many others there might be, and whether they all had opinions on Art.
He went upstairs; and, as soon as he had gone, two of the rabbits (as I supposed) reappeared. One was an old woman in a bonnet and a black dress; the other, a stocky man with ragged white hair and thick whiskers, wearing a dark jacket and a speckled twill waistcoat. Neither looked exactly like a servant, and there was something proprietorial in their manner; yet they hovered at the margins of the hall, as if they feared to take full possession of it, smiling uneasily at me, and looking away againâ like prosperous innkeepers, perhaps, whose house is their own, but who must defer to others within its walls.
âMr. Hartright,â said a soft, gracious voice; and, looking up, I saw a man descending the stairs towards me. At first glance he seemed immensely tall; but as he reached the hall, and stood level with me, I saw that in fact he was merely extremely thin, with a long, close-fitting blue coat that hugged his slender frame and emphasized all the vertical lines in his appearance. He was about my own age, or a little older, with a bright complexion, thick yellow hair and whiskers, and beetling eyebrows. There was something almost foppish â even feminine â in the way he moved, and in the evident care he had taken in arranging his watch-chain and tying his cravat; but it was entirely contradicted by his sharp nose and deep-set blue eyes, which gave him the wary, petulant look of a beast disturbed in its lair.
âHow very pleasant to meet you,â he said, taking both my hands in his. His lower lip, I noticed, was slightly deformed; but his smile more than atoned for it, transforming his expression, in an instant, from bad temper to sweetness. He turned to the old people and said, with a courtly air:
âPapa, Mama, this is Mr. Hartright. Heâs here to talk about Turner.â
I had heard, of course, of the poor manâs marital difficulties; but the idea that in his middle years, and at the height of his eminence, he should have abandoned the part of a husband only to resume that of a son was strange indeed. I thought of what Davenant had told me of Turner and his father, and Marian had learnt from Mrs. Booth; and wondered if it was a mark of genius to be incapable of normal domestic arrangements.
âHow dâye do?â said the old man; and, as he and his wife stepped forward
My first surprise came even before I had met him, for 163 Dennmark Hill turns out to be a tall, rambling old house which â far from shrinking into the shadows â announces its presence with the beefy self-importance of a provincial lord mayor. It has its own porterâs lodge (where I was obliged to state my business to a burly man with suspicious eyes and licorice breath, who said: âThatâs Mr.
John
Ruskin, is it?â and then, before I was able to reply, peered at me through the window of the cab, and answered his own question: âYes, itâll be Mr. Johnâ); and a carriage sweep; and walls furred with ivy; and a front door approached by railed steps, and almost hidden in the recesses of a heavy portico. From its size, in short, and its John Bull posture â feet splayed, elbows out â it looked more like the house of one of our fox-hunting neighbours in Cumberland than the home of the worldâs most celebrated art critic, on the fringes of the worldâs greatest city.
The footman who opened the door seemed ordinary enough; but for a fleeting moment I had the odd impression that the dim square hall behind him was filled with pale, elderly faces (it was difficult to be sure, for my eyes had not yet adjusted to the gloom), which promptly scattered, as soon as they saw me, like rabbits startled by a walker.
âIs Mr. Ruskin at home?â I asked.
âMr.
John
Ruskin?â replied the man, in a stiff parody of the lodge-keeper.
âYes,â I said, wondering secretly how many others there might be, and whether they all had opinions on Art.
He went upstairs; and, as soon as he had gone, two of the rabbits (as I supposed) reappeared. One was an old woman in a bonnet and a black dress; the other, a stocky man with ragged white hair and thick whiskers, wearing a dark jacket and a speckled twill waistcoat. Neither looked exactly like a servant, and there was something proprietorial in their manner; yet they hovered at the margins of the hall, as if they feared to take full possession of it, smiling uneasily at me, and looking away againâ like prosperous innkeepers, perhaps, whose house is their own, but who must defer to others within its walls.
âMr. Hartright,â said a soft, gracious voice; and, looking up, I saw a man descending the stairs towards me. At first glance he seemed immensely tall; but as he reached the hall, and stood level with me, I saw that in fact he was merely extremely thin, with a long, close-fitting blue coat that hugged his slender frame and emphasized all the vertical lines in his appearance. He was about my own age, or a little older, with a bright complexion, thick yellow hair and whiskers, and beetling eyebrows. There was something almost foppish â even feminine â in the way he moved, and in the evident care he had taken in arranging his watch-chain and tying his cravat; but it was entirely contradicted by his sharp nose and deep-set blue eyes, which gave him the wary, petulant look of a beast disturbed in its lair.
âHow very pleasant to meet you,â he said, taking both my hands in his. His lower lip, I noticed, was slightly deformed; but his smile more than atoned for it, transforming his expression, in an instant, from bad temper to sweetness. He turned to the old people and said, with a courtly air:
âPapa, Mama, this is Mr. Hartright. Heâs here to talk about Turner.â
I had heard, of course, of the poor manâs marital difficulties; but the idea that in his middle years, and at the height of his eminence, he should have abandoned the part of a husband only to resume that of a son was strange indeed. I thought of what Davenant had told me of Turner and his father, and Marian had learnt from Mrs. Booth; and wondered if it was a mark of genius to be incapable of normal domestic arrangements.
âHow dâye do?â said the old man; and, as he and his wife stepped forward
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