The morning call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1878-1895, 1893-06-28
Market, Taylor and Golden Gate AVeGue.

except as local coltr. Here, quick, you
must do something. Hand the turpentine.
lie applies it. The sitting is resumed
There is long pause). say. I'm coming
down to have a look. Richard.
The Painter-For heavens sake, don't!
I am just stating" your nosel
The Painters Wife (pteOusly)-I must,
Rich ard. l simply ache all over.
The Painter with the brutality of the
creative frenZy)-I can't help it'll Just q
minute paints furlousiy for five minutes,
then looks round). My poor child. how
can l be such brute? You are quite
white! Come and lie down a little. Qnter-
strokes her cheek.) And you
used to be such good sitter-before we
were married.
The Painters Wife-Yes, then. but now
it seems such waste of time"
The Painter-H0w now, dearl
The Painters Wife (shyly)-Well, then,
you know, it was the only way l could be
with you.
The Painter Qaughingly)-Ah. you we're
certainly the best chaperoned girl in Lou
don. And vet | think dear old Aunt Mary
had an inking.
The Painters Wife-And used to be so
kind and drop her knitting pins with clat-
ter when-when you were-posing-me
The Painter-And smiled on those In
genious little pink scented notes you used
to send me by tall fOOtman to say when
you would spare me half an hour from
your arduous social duties? You never
came within an hour of when you said,
but that was a detail. You mad no notion
hat work was.
The Painters Wife-I was very amateur
ish and silly.
The Painter-You were simply fashion
able young LADY to whom work was a de-
grading myth aud an artist only one re-
move from the Great UnwaShed. / won
der now how | dared raise my eyes to any,
thing so dainty and refined, | was a
rough sort of fellow then, fresh from the
Partisan atelierS and
The Painters Wife-Yes; your clothes
always smelt of tobacco, and you were
rather shaggy and uncouth-but so hand
some! You knew nobody, and didn't care
to. Bnt | have got you on, haven't |? |
think l am model wife. That was only
three years ago, and now you're fashion
able painter. and an X. A, and Celeb
rlty at home y.
The Painter-Worse luck!
The Painters Wife-What do you mean
The Painter-Well, dear, do you think
you feel strong enough to sit again now?
It's scarcely ones ideall One has an ideal,
or ought 10 have. Ny ideal used to be art
and you. Observe. | put even you secoDd
in those days. But now it seems to be
you anu society.
The Painters Wife-Wel. society buys
your pictures!
The Painter-It is the least 1t can 90, Ia
exchange for my immortal SOUL.
The Painters Wife-Oh, dear!
The Painter-Yes. know you hate that
kind of talk. I'll smut up (oegins
to work very hard).
The Painters Wife-But all. what have
you done so dreadful, Richard? You are
a very good man.
The Painier-Oh, no doubt. I pay my
rates regularly. don't bully you desper-
ately. or VIGOROUSLY cheat my fellow
men. But as an artist Well, dear. II
YOU want to know. paint what are vul-
carly called ''potboilers." portraits of peo-
pie that | know from the beginning that
| can never make anything of. ] make
replicas-Dad artistic form! let picture
go out of my hands when I know in nv
heart of hearts that they are susceptible
Of an Infinite deal more work than | have
time to give them, and that the people will
be willing TO go without for the sake of
my name III the corner. The worst is, l
am quite indifferent. Every artist-who
has the soul OF an artist-cherishes the
hone that be will paint at least one good
picture before he dies. l don't even try
| haven't time.
The Painters Wife-Something CLASH
cal, suppose you mean. Well, darling,
you shall paint one dull, ugly, good picture
before you die. You shall make it your