"John Wentworth" by George Healy |
A trifle will give an idea of our early married life. We had moved to a rather better place on the other side of the river. The studio was larger, more fitted to receive distinguished sitters. We still did not yet possess a kitchen and a cook - such luxuries, in our eyes, belonged to very rich people indeed. But our big stove boasted of something which might pass for an oven, and Mrs. Healy one day made up her mind to utilize this oven. She bought a goose, and we rejoiced at the thought of escaping that day from the monotonous meal in an ill-ventilated room, overcrowded with famished mortals. In due time the goose was shut up in the oven.
The bell rang, and a gentleman entered. He was an important personage, very rich, a possible sitter, one to be well received by a struggling young artist. I forgot all about the goose and showed my work to this amateur, who seemed interested in it. He was a prolix talker, and liked the sound of his own voice. I insidiously encouraged this weakness, and soon we were launched in an interminable discussion on art - art in general, art in the past, art in America, art everywhere. Our conversation was accompanied soon by a low singing sound, which soon became a sizzle, then a veritable sputtering. The goose had burst in upon the artistic talk. When at last the visitor left, we both rushed to the stove. The singing had ceased, the goose was little more than a cinder!"
To be continued
(Excerpts from "Reminiscences of a Portrait Painter" by G. P. A. Healy.)
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