studio for about a year. He had a curious and almost childlike
disposition, and his lack of all serious education, combined with
a certain weakness of character, had made him choose a career in
which he was destined, in spite of all his talent, to fail
hopelessly. I had every opportunity of recognising this, as I saw
a great deal of him. At the time, however, the simple-hearted
devotion and kindness of this young man were very welcome both to
myself and my wife, who often felt lonely, and his friendship was
a real source of help in our darkest hours of adversity. He
became almost a member of the family, and joined our home circle
every night, providing a strange contrast to nervous old Anders
and the grave-faced Lehrs. His good-nature and his quaint remarks
soon made him indispensable to us; he amused us tremendously with
his French, into which he would launch with the greatest
confidence, although he could not put together two consecutive
sentences properly, in spite of having lived in Paris for twenty
years. With Delaroche he studied oil-painting, and had obviously
considerable talent in this direction, although it was the very
rock on which he stranded. The mixing of the colours on his
palette, and especially the cleaning of his brushes, took up so
much of his time that he rarely came to the actual painting. As
the days were very short in midwinter, he never had time to do
any work after he had finished washing his palette and brushes,
and, as far as I can remember, he never completed a single
portrait. Strangers to whom he had been introduced, and who had
given him orders to paint their portraits, were obliged to leave
Paris without seeing them even half done, and at last he even
complained because some of his sitters died before their
portraits were completed. His landlord, to whom he was always in
debt for rent, was the only creature who succeeded in getting a