"The picture," he said, "shows you an almost empty room, bare of everything save an easel, on which stands a picture. At the foot of the easel lies a woman, stretched on the bare floor—dead. It is called 'Not a model.' As far as I know, this is the story of it.
"When I was young and unknown, and fame was still a dream, I was staying in Paris with a friend, a countryman of my own, and a member of my own profession. We were young, we were enthusiasts, we were very poor, we worked hard, and I think we were very happy. It so easy to be happy when one has youth, and strength, and hope; when life is full of dreams, and all is innocent and beautiful, and its mysteries have no menace, and its hopes no disillusion. Such a time is very brief. The gods perchance envy us, and soon draw the veil aside and show us that happiness is a myth, and innocence a dream, and love but an illusion, and fame the breath of envy forced to distil its gold, and only valuing what it purchases by weight of the world's coinage. And in that world there seems no truth, and no honour, only corruption and vileness. Men's lives and days are spent in greed and selfishness, and all noble dreams, and high endeavours, and all loveliness and purity and simplicity of life are of no account. But in the days I speak of we two dreamers and enthusiasts believed still in such things as honesty and purity, in unsullied fame and noble aims that the world must acknowledge and reverence. We were fools, you say; no doubt. But we did not know it then, and so were happy, though poor, and often even hungry and shelterless. But we always dreamed that dream of the world's acknowledgment, of the triumphs of success. We did not know that success meant the chicanery of knaves, the puff and clamour and brazen advertisement that gold alone could command, the endless subterfuge and tricks by which man outwitted man in the race, the prostitution of the highest gifts for the base wages of popularity. No, we did not know that then, and we were so unwise as to labour still in the cause of all that is divine and beautiful and God-given in art, believing the world would accept such teaching. We were rightly served. We starved. For myself I cared but little for hardships and troubles. I was strong, and had been reared by a hardy race; but he, my friend, was different. Less robust of frame, less capable of endurance; and, as money grew scarce and winter approached, I grew uneasy and fearful for his strength. To make matters worse, he fell in love. The girl was certainly lovely enough to make any folly excusable. She was an actress, playing small parts in a small theatre—a shallow, soulless thing, but beautiful as a dream; and my friend believed in her, and worshipped her with all the ardour of his nineteen years. Just when his love fever was at its height a sudden stroke of luck befel him. Some wealthy aristocrat saw a picture he had sold to a Jew dealer for a few francs. Struck by its merit, he took the trouble of tracing out the artist. He gave him a commission, and promised more, if satisfied. The ardent and enthusiastic nature of the youth leaped, in fancy, to the most impossible heights of success. The gold he touched seemed as an inexhaustible mine, and he clenched his madness by marrying the actress, and taking rooms furnished and fitted up in far too luxurious a style for their joint income. I remained in the old garret, painting as I had always painted—hoping as I had always hoped. I felt somewhat lonely at first, for I missed Christian terribly. I knew he would drift away from me, it could not be otherwise. Women's friendships seem rather cemented than interfered with by marriage; but a man loses his friend when that friend becomes a husband. I did not like the girl, and I felt she did not care for Christian as he did for her. But I said nothing, I only kept apart and waited. I had not long to wait. Christian took to dropping into the garret as of old; he seemed to need sympathy and companionship. His gay spirits were gone, a settled melancholy was visible in face and manners. His work was neglected, the commission which his wealthy patron had given him was still unfinished, and all the ardour and excitement he had been wont to bring to the design and execution of any work seemed lost and forgotten. I grew seriously uneasy, the more so as the usual frank confidence between us had changed to reserve and sullenness on his part, and he would tell me nothing of his troubles. Well, I won't dwell upon this part of the story. The end came to his love dream. He woke up one day to find he had been tricked and deceived. The girl whom he loved so madly repaid him by forsaking him at the first breath of poverty. She went off one day with the wealthy patron, leaving him no word of farewell, asking no forgiveness—flitting like
