The Poor Artist by Marcus Clarke — Read

"THERE is a follow who has been painting some picture,' my editor had said, handing me a note written in a woman's handwriting. 'I wish you would go down and have a look at it. He wants a notice, or something. ' "Mr. Bell, artist, the studio, 3005 Bourke-street," was on the printed card, and I called the next day. The studio was difficult to approach, for the building in Bourke-street was one of those overgrown places in which a dozen trades are carried on under one roof. The ground floor (bisected by the staircase) was occupied by a hairdressing tobacconist on the one side, and an umbrella-maker on the other. On the second floor, Messrs. Gripe and Squezem, solicitors and proctors, had established their offices. On the third floor, two working jewellers, an engraver, and a myall-wood pipe-maker burrowed together, and on the top of the fourth flight of stairs lived Mr. Bell. A glass door with the word'studio' on it gave token of his artistic claims, and a sort of aerial conservatory strongly smelling of collodion, and littered with photographic portraits, betrayed his profession.

"Getting no reply to a knock at the studio door, I turned into the photographic-room, and, with an unpleasant feeling that someone was inspecting me from the purblind window of the'dark-house,' sat upon a chair, and awaited the advent of somebody connected with the establishment. There is to me nothing more depressing to contemplate than the photographs of common-place people; for such folk -- worthy citizens in ordinary working days -- indulge, on such occasions, in such monstrosities of costume, and in such sadly ludicrous assumption of ease and wealth, that the tender-hearted spectator cannot but sigh at the horrible evidences of the prevalence of "Sham. " A "group" (Father, Mother, Mary, Jane, Tommy, Sukey, Jacky, and Baby) which, gorgeously painted, and framed in stamped leather-work to imitate oak, had attracted my attention by reason of the amount of gold leaf expended on the family electro-plate, caused me to wonder what artist could endure life among such vulgarities, when the door opened, and a middle-aged lady entered. She was dressed in greasy black, was busily rubbing her hands as though she had but just washed them, and from certain sucking noises made by the twitching of her lips, I concluded that I had disturbed her at an early dinner. When she saw that I was alone, a certain heartiness of welcome, which had marked her hasty entrance, vanished.