Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect.

The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream.

Even if the people were not "artists," the whole was nevertheless artistic.

That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face--that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.

That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat--that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others.
That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed.
He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself?
Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art.