Theobald, ushered me in with a mumbled blessing and an expression of
relief at the poor gentleman having a friend. His lodging seemed to
consist of a single room at the top of the house. On getting no answer
to my knock, I opened the door, supposing that he was absent, so that it
gave me a certain shock to find him sitting there helpless and dumb. He
was seated near the single window, facing an easel which supported a
large canvas. On my entering he looked up at me blankly, without
changing his position, which was that of absolute lassitude and
dejection, his arms loosely folded, his legs stretched before him, his
head hanging on his breast. 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. Averted as this was from the door,
I was unable to see its face; but at last, sickened by the vacant misery
of the spot, I passed behind Theobald, eagerly and tenderly. I can
hardly say that I was surprised at what I found--a canvas that was a mere