CHAPTER IX.
It was a year since the young artist had deserted his home and the dear ones who nestled there. Twelve weary months had passed. He had been in Paris, Dresden, Rome, Florence, and now he was in Venice; wasted almost to a shadow; but still he sat with pencil or pallet in hand, striving to catch the wonderful grace, or to attain the masterly effect of color that he almost worshiped in those whose names were synonymous with all that was grand and beautiful in art. But all that he had yet achieved was so far below what was around him, that he was in despair.
He had thrown his brushes and pallet upon the floor, and was sitting in an attitude of despondency before his easel, upon which was a half-finished head after Raphael, when a young English artist, with whom he had made an acquaintance, entered his studio.
“You are ill, Marston,” (it was by this name that Ellison passed in Italy,) said the visiter, in a voice of concern.
“I am in despair,” replied Ellison.
“At what?”
“I cannot paint.”
“If I could produce flesh like that on the canvas before you, I would go home to-morrow.”
“It looks like any thing but flesh to me.”
“Come, Marston,” said the other, taking the hand of the young man, “an hour upon the water will give your eyes a better vision. But how your hand burns! And there is a flush in your cheeks. You have fever!”