Eighteen years of what is called 'tuition' had relieved him of the
dangerous knowledge. His artist lodgers would sometimes reason with him;
they would point out to him how impossible it was to paint by gaslight,
or to sculpture life-sized nymphs without a model.
'I know that,' he would reply. 'No one in Norfolk Street knows it
better; and if I were rich I should certainly employ the best models
in London; but, being poor, I have taught myself to do without them. An
occasional model would only disturb my ideal conception of the figure,
and be a positive impediment in my career. As for painting by an
artificial light,' he would continue, 'that is simply a knack I have
found it necessary to acquire, my days being engrossed in the work of
tuition.'
At the moment when we must present him to our readers, Pitman was in his
studio alone, by the dying light of the October day. He sat (sure enough
with 'unaffected simplicity') in a Windsor chair, his low-crowned black
felt hat by his side; a dark, weak, harmless, pathetic little man, clad
in the hue of mourning, his coat longer than is usual with the laity,
his neck enclosed in a collar without a parting, his neckcloth pale in
hue and simply tied; the whole outward man, except for a pointed beard,
tentatively clerical.
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