—Deucalion
At Windermere, a good friend, told me that I must abandon all hope of seeing Mr. Ruskin; for I had no special business with him, no letters of introduction, and then the fact that I am an American made it final. Americans in England are supposed to pick flowers in private gardens, cut their names on trees, laugh boisterously4 at trifles, and often to make invidious comparisons. Very properly, Mr. Ruskin does not admire these things.
Then Mr. Ruskin is a very busy man. Occasionally he issues a printed manifesto5 to his friends requesting them to give him peace. A copy of one such circular was shown to me. It runs, "Mr. J. Ruskin is about to begin a work of great importance, and therefore begs that in reference to calls and correspondence you will consider him dead for the next two months." A similar notice is reproduced in "Arrows of the Chace," and this one thing, I think, illustrates6 as forcibly as anything in Mr. Ruskin's work the self-contained characteristics of the man himself.
Surely if a man is pleased to be considered "dead" occasionally, even to his kinsmen7 and friends, he should not be expected to receive with open arms an enemy to steal away his time. This is assuming, of course, that all individuals who pick flowers in other folks' gardens, cut their names on trees, and laugh boisterously at trifles, are enemies. I therefore decided8 that I would simply walk over to Brantwood, view it from a distance, tramp over its hills, row across the lake, and at nightfall take a swim in its waters. Then I would rest at the Inn for a space and go my way.
Lake Coniston is ten miles from Grasmere, and even alone the walk is not long. If, however, you are delightfully9 attended by "King's Daughters" with whom you sit and commune now and then on the bankside, the distance will seem to be much less. Then there is a pleasant little break in the journey at Hawkshead. Here one may see the quaint10 old schoolhouse where Wordsworth when a boy dangled11 his feet from a bench and proved his humanity by carving12 his initials on the seat.
The Inn at the head of Coniston Water appeared very inviting13 and restful when I saw it that afternoon. Built in sections from generation to generation, half-covered with ivy14 and embowered in climbing roses, it is an institution entirely15 different from the "Grand Palace Hotel" at Oshkosh. In America we have gongs that are fiercely beaten at stated times by gentlemen of color, just as they are supposed to do in their native Congo jungles. This din16 proclaims to the "guests" and to the public at large that it is time to come in and be fed. But this refinement17 of civilization is not yet in Coniston, and the Inn is quiet and homelike. You may go to bed when you are tired, get up when you choose, and eat when you are hungry.
There were no visitors about when I arrived, and I thought I would have the coffeeroom all to myself at luncheon-time; but presently there came in a pleasant-faced old gentleman in knickerbockers. He bowed to me and then took a place at the table. He said that it was a fine day and I agreed with him, adding that the mountains were very beautiful. He assented19, putting in a codicil20 to the effect that the lake was very pretty.
Then the waiter came for our orders.
"Together, I s'pose?" remarked Thomas, inquiringly, as he halted at the door and balanced the tray on his finger-tips.
"Yes, serve lunch for us together," said the ruddy old gentleman as he looked at me and smiled; "to eat alone is bad for the digestion21."
I nodded assent18.
"Can you tell me how far it is to Brantwood?" I asked.
"Oh, not far—just across the lake."
He arose and flung the shutter22 open so I could see the old, yellow house about a mile across the water, nestling in its wealth of green on the hillside. Soon the waiter brought our lunch, and while we discussed the chops and new potatoes we talked Ruskiniana.
The old gentleman knew a deal more of "Stones of Venice" and "Modern Painters" than I; but I told him how Thoreau introduced Ruskin to America and how Concord23 was the first place in the New World to recognize this star in the East. And upon my saying this, the old gentleman brought his knife-handle down on the table, declaring that Thoreau and Whitman were the only two men of genius that America had produced. I begged him to make it three and include Emerson, which he finally consented to do.
By and by the waiter cleared the table preparatory to bringing in the coffee. The old gentleman pushed his chair back, took the napkin from under his double chin, brushed the crumbs24 from his goodly front, and remarked:
"I'm going over to Brantwood this afternoon to call on Mr. Ruskin—just to pay my respects to him, as I always do when I come here. Can't you go with me?"
I think this was about the most pleasing question I ever had asked me. I was going to request him to "come again" just for the joy of hearing the words, but I pulled my dignity together, straightened up, swallowed my coffee red-hot, pushed my chair back, flourished my napkin, and said, "I shall be very pleased to go."
So we went—we two—he in his knickerbockers and I in my checks and outing-shirt. I congratulated myself on looking no worse than he, and as for him, he never seemed to think that our costumes were not exactly what they should be; and after all it matters little how you dress when you call on one of Nature's noblemen—they demand no livery.
We walked around the northern end of Coniston Water, along the eastern edge, past Tent House, where Tennyson once lived (and found it "outrageous25 quiet"), and a mile farther on we came to Brantwood.
The road curves in to the back of the house—which, by the way, is the front—and the driveway is lined with great trees that form a complete archway. There is no lodge-keeper, no flowerbeds laid out with square and compass, no trees trimmed to appear like elephants, no cast-iron dogs, nor terra-cotta deer, and, strangest of all, no sign of the lawn-mower. There is nothing, in fact, to give forth26 a sign that the great Apostle of Beauty lives in this very old-fashioned spot. Big boulders27 are to be seen here and there where Nature left them, tangles28 of vines running over old stumps29, part of the meadow cut close with a scythe30, and part growing up as if the owner knew the price of hay. Then there are flowerbeds, where grow clusters of poppies and hollyhocks (purple, and scarlet, and white), prosaic31 gooseberry-bushes, plain Yankee pieplant (from which the English make tarts), rue32 and sweet marjoram, with patches of fennel, sage33, thyme and catnip, all lined off with boxwood, making me think of my grandmother's garden at Roxbury.
On the hillside above the garden we saw the entrance to the cave that Mr. Ruskin once filled with ice, just to show the world how to keep its head cool at small expense. He even wrote a letter to the papers giving the bright idea to humanity—that the way to utilize34 caves was to fill them with ice. Then he forgot all about the matter. But the following June, when the cook, wishing to make some ice-cream as a glad surprise for the Sunday dinner, opened the natural ice-chest, she found only a pool of muddy water, and exclaimed, "Botheration!" Then they had custard instead of ice-cream.
We walked up the steps, and my friend let the brass35 knocker drop just once, for only Americans give a rat-a-tat-tat, and the door was opened by a white-whiskered butler, who took our cards and ushered36 us into the library. My heart beat a trifle fast as I took inventory37 of the room; for I never before had called on a man who was believed to have refused the poet-laureateship. A dimly lighted room was this library—walls painted brown, running up to mellow38 yellow at the ceiling, high bookshelves, with a stepladder, and only five pictures on the walls, and of these three were etchings, and two water-colors of a very simple sort; leather-covered chairs; a long table in the center, on which were strewn sundry39 magazines and papers, also several photographs; and at one end of the room a big fireplace, where a yew40 log smoldered41. Here my inventory was cut short by a cheery voice behind:
"Ah! now, gentlemen, I am glad to see you."
There was no time nor necessity for a formal introduction. The great man took my hand as if he had always known me, as perhaps he thought he had. Then he greeted my friend in the same way, stirred up the fire, for it was a North of England summer day, and took a seat by the table. We were all silent for a space—a silence without embarrassment42.
"You are looking at the etching over the fireplace—it was sent to me by a young lady in America," said Mr. Ruskin, "and I placed it there to get acquainted with it. I like it more and more. Do you know the scene?" I knew the scene and explained somewhat about it.
Mr. Ruskin has the faculty43 of making his interviewer do most of the talking. He is a rare listener, and leans forward, putting a hand behind his right ear to get each word you say. He was particularly interested in the industrial conditions of America, and I soon found myself "occupying the time," while an occasional word of interrogation from Mr. Ruskin gave me no chance to stop. I came to hear him, not to defend our "republican experiment," as he was pleased to call the United States of America. Yet Mr. Ruskin was so gentle and respectful in his manner, and so complimentary44 in his attitude of listener, that my impatience45 at his want of sympathy for our "experiment" only caused me to feel a little heated.
"The fact of women being elected to mayoralties in Kansas makes me think of certain African tribes that exalt47 their women into warriors—you want your women to fight your political battles!"
"You evidently hold the same opinion on the subject of equal rights that you expressed some years ago," interposed my companion.
"What did I say—really I have forgotten?"
"You replied to a correspondent, saying: 'You are certainly right as to my views respecting the female franchise48. So far from wishing to give votes to women, I would fain take them away from most men.'"
"Surely that was a sensible answer. My respect for woman is too great to force on her increased responsibilities. Then as for restricting the franchise with men, I am of the firm conviction that no man should be allowed to vote who does not own property, or who can not do considerably49 more than read and write. The voter makes the laws, and why should the laws regulating the holding of property be made by a man who has no interest in property beyond a covetous50 desire; or why should he legislate51 on education when he possesses none! Then again, women do not bear arms to protect the State."
"But what do you say to Mrs. Carlock, who answers that inasmuch as men do not bear children, they have no right to vote: going to war possibly being necessary and possibly not, but the perpetuity of the State demanding that some one bear children?"
"The lady's argument is ingenious, but lacks force when we consider that the bearing of arms is a matter relating to statecraft, while the baby question is Dame52 Nature's own, and is not to be regulated even by the sovereign."
Then Mr. Ruskin talked for nearly fifteen minutes on the duty of the State to the individual—talked very deliberately53, but with the clearness and force of a man who believes what he says and says what he believes.
Thus, my friend, by a gentle thrust under the fifth rib46 of Mr. Ruskin's logic54, caused him to come to the rescue of his previously55 expressed opinions, and we had the satisfaction of hearing him discourse56 earnestly and eloquently57.
Maiden58 ladies usually have an opinion ready on the subject of masculine methods, and, conversely, much of the world's logic on the "woman question" has come from the bachelor brain.
Mr. Ruskin went quite out of his way on several occasions in times past to attack John Stuart Mill for heresy59 "in opening up careers for women other than that of wife and mother."
When Mill did not answer Mr. Ruskin's newspaper letters, the author of "Sesame and Lilies" called him a "cretinous wretch60" and referred to him as "the man of no imagination." Mr. Mill may have been a cretinous wretch (I do not exactly understand the phrase), but the preface to "On Liberty" is at once the tenderest, highest and most sincere compliment paid to a woman, of which I know.
The life of Mr. and Mrs. John Stuart Mill shows that perfect mating is possible; yet Mr. Ruskin has only scorn for the opinions of Mr. Mill on a subject which Mill came as near personally solving in a matrimonial "experiment" as any other public man of modern times, not excepting even Robert Browning. Therefore we might suppose Mr. Mill entitled to speak on the woman question, and I intimated as much to Mr. Ruskin.
"He might know all about one woman, and if he should regard her as a sample of all womankind, would he not make a great mistake?"
I was silenced.
In "Fors Clavigera," Letter LIX, the author says: "I never wrote a letter in my life which all the world is not welcome to read." From this one might imagine that Mr. Ruskin never loved—no pressed flowers in books; no passages of poetry double-marked and scored; no bundles of letters faded and yellow, sacred for his own eye, tied with white or dainty blue ribbon; no little nothings hidden away in the bottom of a trunk. And yet Mr. Ruskin has his ideas on the woman question, and very positive ideas they are too—often sweetly sympathetic and wisely helpful.
I see that one of the encyclopedias61 mentions Ruskin as a bachelor, which is giving rather an extended meaning to the word, for although Mr. Ruskin married, he was not mated. According to Collingwood's account, this marriage was a quiet arrangement between parents. Anyway, the genius is like the profligate62 in this: when he marries he generally makes a woman miserable63. And misery64 is reactionary65 as well as infectious. Ruskin is a genius.
Genius is unique. No satisfactory analysis of it has yet been given. We know a few of its indications—that's all. First among these is ability to concentrate.
No seed can sow genius; no soil can grow it: its quality is inborn66 and defies both cultivation67 and extermination68. To be surpassed is never pleasant; to feel your inferiority is to feel a pang69. Seldom is there a person great enough to find satisfaction in the success of a friend. The pleasure that excellence70 gives is oft tainted71 by resentment72; and so the woman who marries a genius is usually unhappy.
Genius is excess: it is obstructive to little plans. It is difficult to warm yourself at a conflagration73; the tempest may blow you away; the sun dazzles; lightning seldom strikes gently; the Nile overflows74. Genius has its times of straying off into the infinite—and then what is the good wife to do for companionship? Does she protest, and find fault? It could not be otherwise, for genius is dictatorial75 without knowing it, obstructive without wishing to be, intolerant unawares, and unsocial because it can not help it.
The wife of a genius sometimes takes his fits of abstraction for stupidity, and having the man's interests at heart she endeavors to arouse him from his lethargy by chiding76 him. Occasionally he arouses enough to chide77 back; and so it has become an axiom that genius is not domestic.
A short period of mismated life told the wife of Ruskin their mistake, and she told him. But Mrs. Grundy was at the keyhole, ready to tell the world, and so Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin sought to deceive society by pretending to live together. They kept up this appearance for six sorrowful years, and then the lady simplified the situation by packing her trunks and deliberately leaving her genius to his chimeras78; her soul doubtless softened79 by the knowledge that she was bestowing80 a benefit on him by going away. The lady afterwards became the happy wife and helpmeet of a great artist.
Ruskin's father was a prosperous importer of wines. He left his son a fortune equal to a little more than one million dollars. But that vast fortune has gone—-principal and interest—gone in bequests81, gifts and experiments; and today Mr. Ruskin has no income save that derived82 from the sale of his books. Talk about "Distribution of Wealth"! Here we have it.
The bread-and-butter question has never troubled John Ruskin except in his ever-ardent desire that others should be fed. His days have been given to study and writing from his very boyhood; he has made money, but he has had no time to save it.
He has expressed himself on every theme that interests mankind, except perhaps "housemaid's knee." He has written more letters to the newspapers than "Old Subscriber," "Fiat83 Justitia," "Indignant Reader" and "Veritas" combined. His opinions have carried much weight and directed attention into necessary lines; but perhaps his success as an inspirer of thought lies in the fact that his sense of humor exists only as a trace, as the chemist might say. Men who perceive the ridiculous would never have voiced many of the things which he has said.
Surely those Sioux Indians who stretched a hay lariat84 across the union Pacific Railroad in order to stop the running of trains had small sense of the ridiculous. But it looks as if they were apostles of Ruskin, every one.
Some one has said that no man can appreciate the beautiful who has not a keen sense of humor. For the beautiful is the harmonious85, and the laughable is the absence of fit adjustment.
Mr. Ruskin disproves the maxim86.
But let no hasty soul imagine that John Ruskin's opinions on practical themes are not useful. He brings to bear an energy on every subject he touches (and what subject has he not touched?) that is sure to make the sparks of thought fly. His independent and fearless attitude awakens87 from slumber88 a deal of dozing89 intellect, and out of this strife90 of opinion comes truth.
On account of Mr. Ruskin's refusing at times to see visitors, reports have gone abroad that his mind was giving way. Not so, for although he is seventy-four he is as serenely91 stubborn as he ever was. His opposition92 to new inventions in machinery93 has not relaxed a single pulley's turn. You grant his premises94 and in his conclusions you will find that his belt never slips, and that his logic never jumps a cog. His life is as regular and exact as the trains on the Great Western, and his days are more peaceful than ever before. He has regular hours for writing, study, walking, reading, eating, and working out of doors, superintending the cultivation of his hundred acres. He told me that he had not varied95 a half-hour in two years from a certain time of going to bed or getting up in the morning. Although his form is bowed, this regularity96 of life has borne fruit in the rich russet of his complexion97, the mild, clear eye, and the pleasure in living in spite of occasional pain, which you know the man feels. His hair is thick and nearly white; the beard is now worn quite long and gives a patriarchal appearance to the fine face.
When we arose to take our leave, Mr. Ruskin took a white felt hat from the elk-antlers in the hallway and a stout98 stick from the corner, and offered to show us a nearer way back to the village. We walked down a footpath99 through the tall grass to the lake, where he called our attention to various varieties of ferns that he had transplanted there.
We shook hands with the old gentleman and thanked him for the pleasure he had given us. He was still examining the ferns when we lifted our hats and bade him good-day.
He evidently did not hear us, for I heard him mutter: "I verily believe those miserable Cook's tourists that were down here yesterday picked some of my ferns."
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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smoldered
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的过去式 ) | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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51
legislate
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| vt.制定法律；n.法规，律例；立法 | |
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52
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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53
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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54
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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55
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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encyclopedias
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| n.百科全书， （某一学科的）专科全书( encyclopedia的名词复数 ) | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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lariat
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| n.系绳，套索；v.用套索套捕 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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99
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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