Advancing into the room I perceived that his
face vividly corresponded with his attitude. He was pale, haggard, and
unshaven, and his dull and sunken eye gazed at me without a spark of
recognition. I had been afraid that he would greet me with fierce
reproaches, as the cruelly officious patron who had turned his
contentment to bitterness, and I was relieved to find that my appearance
awakened no visible resentment. "Don't you know me?" I asked, as I put
out my hand. "Have you already forgotten me?"
He made no response, kept his position stupidly, and left me staring
about the room. It spoke most plaintively for itself. Shabby, sordid,
naked, it contained, beyond the wretched bed, but the scantiest provision
for personal comfort. It was bedroom at once and studio--a grim ghost of
a studio. A few dusty casts and prints on the walls, three or four old
canvases turned face inward, and a rusty-looking colour-box, formed, with
the easel at the window, the sum of its appurtenances. The place
savoured horribly of poverty. Its only wealth was the picture on the
easel, presumably the famous Madonna.
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