'And why do you wish to know?' he replied, answering, as I had already found was the Jewish way, one question by another.
'I thought I could find you some,' I said.
'Have you scrolls of the Law for me to write?' he replied incredulously. 'You are not even a Jew.'
'Still, there may be something,' I replied. 'Let us walk along.'
I felt that the beadle's eye was at last drawn to us both, and I hurried my model down a side-street. I noticed he hobbled as if footsore. He did not understand what I wanted, but he understood a pound a week, for he was starving, and when I said he must leave Brighton for London, he replied, awe-struck: 'It is the finger of God.' For in London were his wife and children.
His name was Israel Quarriar, his country Russia.
The picture was begun on Monday morning. Israel Quarriar's presence dignified the studio. It was thrilling and stimulating to see his noble figure and tragic face, the head drooped humbly, the beard like a prophet's.
'It is the finger of God,' I, too, murmured, and fell to work, exalted.
I worked, for the most part, in rapt silence—perhaps the model's silence was contagious—but gradually through the days I grew to communion with his shy soul, and piecemeal I learnt his sufferings. I give his story, so far as I can, in his own words, which I often paused to take down, when they were characteristic.