By Beatrice Harraden
It was one o'clock, and many of the students in the National Gallery had left off
work and were refreshing themselves with lunch and conversation. There was
one old worker who had not stirred from his place, but he had put down his
brush, and had taken from his pocket a small book, which was like its owner—
thin and shabby of covering. He seemed to find pleasure in reading it, for he
turned over its pages with all the tenderness characteristic of one who loves what
he reads. Now and again he glanced at his unfinished copy of the beautiful
portrait of Andrea del Sarto, and once his eyes rested on another copy next to
his, better and truer than his, and once he stopped to pick up a girl's prune-
coloured tie, which had fallen from the neighbouring easel. After this he seemed
to become unconscious of his surroundings, as unconscious, indeed, as any one
of the pictures near him. Any one might have been justified in mistaking him for
the portrait of a man, but that his lips moved; for it was his custom to read softly
to himself.
The students passed back to their places, not troubling to notice him, because
they knew from experience that he never noticed them, and that all greetings
were wasted on him and all words were wanton expenditure of breath. They had
come to regard him very much in the same way as many of us regard the
wonders of nature, without astonishment, without any questionings, and often
without any interest. One girl, a new-comer, did chance to say to her companion:
"How ill that old man looks!"
"Oh, he always looks like that," was the answer. "You will soon get accustomed
to him. Come along! I must finish my 'Blind Beggar' this afternoon."
In a few minutes most of the workers were busy again, although there were some
who continued to chat quietly, and several young men who seemed reluctant to
leave their girl friends, and who were by no means encouraged to go! One young
man came to claim his book and pipe, which he had left in the charge of a bright-
eyed girl, who was copying Sir Joshua's "Angels." She gave him his treasures,
and received in exchange a dark-red rose, which she fastened in her belt; and
then he returned to his portrait of Mrs. Siddons. But there was something in his
disconsolate manner which made one suspect that he thought less of Mrs.
Siddons's beauty than of the beauty of the girl who was wearing the dark-red
rose! The strangers, strolling through the rooms, stopped now and again to peer
curiously at the students' work. They were stared at indignantly by the students
themselves, but they made no attempt to move away, and even ventured
sometimes to pass criticisms of no tender character on some of the copies. The
fierce-looking man who was copying "The Horse Fair" deliberately put down his
brushes, folded his arms, and waited defiantly until they had gone by; but others,
wiser in their generation, went on painting calmly. Several workers were painting
the new Raphael; one of them was a white-haired old gentlewoman, whose hand
was trembling, and yet skilful still. More than once she turned to give a few hints
