# Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his Circle/Chapter 2

Chapter II.
My appointment took me, for the first time since I had been in London, to Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, in one of the most picturesque houses of which Rossetti lived. Entering by the fine old gateway of seventeenth century ironwork, before ascending the flight of stone steps leading to the street door, I paused for a moment to look at the house itself. A profusion of jasmine in full bloom spread over the lower part of its walls, and it gave me the impression that at one time it must have formed the central portion of a much larger and statelier mansion. A large old-fashioned knocker in the shape of a dragon adorned the street door. I found, however, it was not a very easy dragon to perform a respectable rat-tat upon, by reason of the awkwardness of its shape (I did not quite know whether to take it by its head or tail) and the stiffness in its joints which age had rendered.
On gaining admission, I was ushered into one of the prettiest, and one of the most curiously-furnished and old-fashioned sitting-rooms that it had ever been my lot to see. Mirrors of all shapes, sizes and designs, lined the ​walls, so that whichever way I gazed I saw myself looking at myself. What space remained was occupied by pictures, chiefly old, and all of an interesting character. The mantelpiece was a most original compound of Chinese black-laquered panels, bearing designs of birds, animals, flowers and fruit in gold relief, which had a very good effect, and on either side of the grate a series of old blue Dutch tiles, mostly displaying Biblical subjects treated in the serio-comic fashion that existed at the period, were inlaid. The fire-grate itself was a beautifully-wrought example of eighteenth century design and workmanship in brass, and had fire-irons and fender to match. And in one corner of the room stood an old English china cupboard, inside of which was displayed a quantity of Spode ware. I sat down on a cosy little sofa, with landscapes and figures of the Cipriani period painted on the panels, and whilst admiring this curious collection of things the door opened behind me, and, turning round, I found myself face to face with Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
It was in the month of June, 1863, that this, my first meeting with Rossetti, took place. He must have been then about 35 years of age. His face conveyed to me the existence of underlying currents of strong passions impregnated with melancholy. His eyes were dark grey, and deeply set; the eyebrows dark, thick, and well arched; the forehead large and well rounded, and the strongly-formed brows produced a remarkable fulness ​at the ridge of the nose, such as I have often noticed in men possessed of great individuality. A thick, but not heavy moustache partly concealed a well-formed and somewhat sensuous mouth, and at this time he wore a trimmed beard of a deep chestnut brown, with the cheeks shaven; his hair was much darker in colour, curly, and inclined to thinness. He was about 5 feet 71/2 inches in height—his drawing-room door was a faithful recorder not only of his own stature but that of most of his intimate friends. Although there was a tendency to a rather too extensive form with him, this was not particularly noticeable, owing to his shapely figure and easy carriage. He possessed a voice which was peculiarly rich and musical in tone; and when, later, I had opportunities of hearing him read his poems, which he did from time to time to some of his intimate friends, it was delightful to listen to him. His hands were small and very white. Of jewellery he made no display; all that he wore was an old-fashioned gold chain attached to his watch. He was equally unassuming in dress. For studio use he generally wore a loose overcoat, with capacious pockets into which he could easily thrust a good-sized memorandum book, which was indispensable to him, as it was his custom to jot down his thoughts either for poetry or painting as they arose in his mind.
Rossetti invited me into his studio, a large and roomy apartment, well lighted, and liberally stocked with Chippendale chairs and lounges, and various other inviting ​rests whereon one might sit at ease and enjoy a survey of his pictures, which stood about on easels. Several cabinets of old English and Spanish design and workmanship filled up the odd nooks and corners that were left.
Inviting me to look at what he was then engaged upon, Rossetti drew my attention to his painting of Lady Lilith. It was the portrayal of a beautiful woman, sumptuously seated in some mediæval kind of chair, combing out a cataract of golden hair that fell in masses over her shoulders. By her side was a mirror of curious form, in which was reflected the greenery of the forest glade, through which the glinting sunlight pierced here and there, lighting up the densely-leaved branches of the trees, and a large red double poppy in a goblet of old Venetian glass stood near her. The dreamy beauty of the woman, and the rich colour in which the whole picture was steeped excited my admiration. I desired to know its meaning, and in answer to my enquiry he told me it was suggested by Lilith.
"Who was she?" I asked.
Rossetti then told me the Talmudic legend concerning her, and then I understood the allusion to her in Faust, where Goethe introduces Lilith into the witch scene on the Hartzbrocken, and makes Faust ask the same question in almost the same words that I had used. I am sorry to say Rossetti repainted the face some years later, for what reason I could never divine, and to my thinking he by no means improved upon the original. ​Generally speaking, I hold it a dangerous experiment to alter a first conception; the charm, the quality of colour, and the inspiration are so apt to be lost.
Other works, both in oil and water-colour, were about the studio. One of them that attracted my attention very much was the touching picture, Beata Beatrix, which was presented to the National Gallery by Lady Mount Temple after the death of Rossetti. I afterwards learnt from my friend Howell that the face of Beatrice was painted from Mrs. Rossetti, who had died some time in the previous year.
There was yet another of his works that incited my interest. He called it The Loving Cup, Rossetti wanted a replica made in water-colours, and it was on this that he wished me to make my first essay.
Although I was in considerable doubt as to whether I could do it or not—his water-colour work was so different in method of execution to anything I had yet seen—I was delighted with the opportunity afforded me, and said that I would try, so arrangements were made there and then for me to come and make a beginning. The beginning, I am happy to say, came to a good ending. Rossetti liked my replica so well, that when it was completed he set me to work upon something else.