Wladlislaw's Advent
I
WHEN I first saw Wladislaw he was sitting on a high tabouret near a hot iron sheet that partially surrounded the tall coke stove; the arches of his feet were curved over the top bar, toes and heels both bent down, suggestive of a bird clasping its perch. This position brought the shiny knees of his old blue serge trousers close up to his chest—for he was bending far forward towards his easel and the charcoal dust on the knee over which he occasionally sharpened his fusain was making a dull smear upon the grey flannel shirt which his half-opened waistcoat exposed.
He wore no coat: it was hanging on the edge of the iron screen, and his right shirt-sleeve, rolled up for freedom in his work, left a strong, rather smooth arm bare.
He always chose a corner near the stove; the coke fumes never gave him a headache, it seemed. It was supposed that he felt the cold of Paris severely; but this can hardly have been the case, considering the toughening winters of his youth away in Poland there. My observation led me to believe that the proximity was courted on account of the facilities it afforded for lighting his
