He was modest and proud,
and never spoke of his domestic matters. He was evidently poor; yet he
must have had some slender independence, since he could afford to make so
merry over the fact that his culture of ideal beauty had never brought
him a penny. His poverty, I supposed, was his motive for neither
inviting me to his lodging nor mentioning its whereabouts. We met either
in some public place or at my hotel, where I entertained him as freely as
I might without appearing to be prompted by charity. He seemed always
hungry, and this was his nearest approach to human grossness. I made a
point of asking no impertinent questions, but, each time we met, I
ventured to make some respectful allusion to the _magnum opus_, to
inquire, as it were, as to its health and progress. "We are getting on,
with the Lord's help," he would say, with a grave smile. "We are doing
well. You see, I have the grand advantage that I lose no time. These
hours I spend with you are pure profit. They are _suggestive_! Just as
the truly religious soul is always at worship, the genuine artist is
always in labour.
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