“Go on,” she said.

“I stayed at Meran two years, till I’d learnt all I could there, then a brother of my mother’s helped me to get to Vienna; I was lucky enough to find work with a man who used to decorate churches.  We went about the country together.  Once when he was ill I painted the roof of a church entirely by myself; I lay on my back on the scaffold boards all day for a week—­I was proud of that roof.”  He paused.

“When did you begin painting pictures?”

“A friend asked me why I didn’t try for the Academie.  That started me going to the night schools; I worked every minute—­I had to get my living as well, of course, so I worked at night.

“Then when the examination came, I thought I could do nothing—­it was just as if I had never had a brush or pencil in my hand.  But the second day a professor in passing me said, ‘Good!  Quite good!’ That gave me courage.  I was sure I had failed though; but I was second out of sixty.”

Christian nodded.

“To work in the schools after that I had to give up my business, of course.  There was only one teacher who ever taught me anything; the others all seemed fools.  This man would come and rub out what you’d done with his sleeve.  I used to cry with rage—­but I told him I could only learn from him, and he was so astonished that he got me into his class.”

“But how did you live without money?” asked Christian.

His face burned with a dark flush.  “I don’t know how I lived; you must have been through these things to know, you would never understand.”

“But I want to understand, please.”

“What do you want me to tell you?  How I went twice a week to eat free dinners!  How I took charity!  How I was hungry!  There was a rich cousin of my mother’s—­I used to go to him.  I didn’t like it.  But if you’re starving in the winter”

Christian put out her hand.

“I used to borrow apronsful of coals from other students who were as poor—­but I never went to the rich students.”

The flush had died out of his face.

“That sort of thing makes you hate the world!  You work till you stagger; you’re cold and hungry; you see rich people in their carriages, wrapped in furs, and all the time you want to do something great.  You pray for a chance, any chance; nothing comes to the poor!  It makes you hate the world.”

Christian’s eyes filled with tears.  He went on: 

“But I wasn’t the only one in that condition; we used to meet.  Garin, a Russian with a brown beard and patches of cheek showing through, and yellow teeth, who always looked hungry.  Paunitz, who came from sympathy!  He had fat cheeks and little eyes, and a big gold chain—­the swine!  And little Misek.  It was in his room we met, with the paper peeling off the walls, and two doors with cracks in them, so that there was always a draught.  We used to sit on his bed, and pull the dirty blankets