The Argosy — page 300: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Martonettes. 279 which have all jalousies before them, now tightly closed. Inside, in a large bare looking studio, there is comparative coolness. <A sort of twilight reigns. One makes out, after a moment’s considera- tion, leaning against the wall, some large half-finished pictures. Close to one of the windows is an easel, and on it a canvas with roses —white, yellow, pink, and dark red—exquisitely painted. Looking at it stands the artist; while, leaning against the corner of the wall, is a young man with a cigar in his mouth. MHe takes it from between his lips, and turns to speak. “Very well, mio Caro, you are as obstinate as a mule, and if you will have it so, nothing can move you. For my part, I tell you again, those roses are magnificent ; but there is not enough repose in your picture this time. ‘Too much incident——but listen. What is that ; surely no visitor would come at this hour?” There is a faint sound, a tinkle of a bell, then some slow, dragging steps up the wooden stairs—one, two, three, four—they stop, and there is a feeble knock. The artist goes forward and opens the door. Upon the threshold stands a man, say rathera spectre, as he stands there in the half light. His large eyes, gleaming out of the pale, thin face, are made all the brighter by the deep blue lines round them. His figure is emaciated, his thin hands look almost like the hands of a skeleton, while great drops of weakness stand on his forehead. A pitiful figure; and both the men gaze at it with curiosity and compassion. He comes forward and speaks. ‘‘ Ah, Signori, for the love of Heaven, help me. My wife, my little Chiara, is dying, and I have nothing to give her. For days and days she has been lying in a fever. Have pity, and help my wife and my little ones, for we are starving. Oh, Signori, as you hope for Heaven yourselves, turn not away from my despair.” He stopped, fixing his eyes on the artist, with an agony of entreaty in his face. Signor Cessi put aside his palette, came forward, and gently pushed Luigi into a chair. “Now,” he said, ‘‘ my poor fellow, tell us what has happened, and if we can we will help you.” And then the sorrowful little tale was told. How failure had been followed by sickness, and sickness well nigh by despair; how one after the other all their small belongings had found their way to the Monte di Pieta. Every stick of furniture, except the bed on which Chiara lay. And now that everything that they possessed had been pawned for bread, except the Marionettes, Luigi had come forth to see if, in this great city, there existed one kind soul who would help them. Fate, or, rather let us say, a Power much greater than Fate, led him into that quarter of the city. As he was crossing the great burning COM ) JOOKSHEO