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am not an artist'. The man smiled. 'This is my only painting. After some time I shall return for it. One warning. Do not alter the canvas in any way. Good day, sir.'
'I do not understand? Why would I alter it...' but the young man had departed.
Colonessi stood in front of the portrait.
'How is it possible that he could produce such a masterpiece? Am I not the artist?...I need a drink!'

He threw an old cape about his shoulders, locked the door to the room, and descended a flight of stairs to the mudded street, below.

Michael wandered aimlessly along narrow streets and alleyways. He felt dejected and humbled by the young man's portrait.
It was bitter cold, and fog enveloped everything in it's path. A thick, suffocating fog that clawed at skin and stung his eyes. He was unable to see more than a step in any direction. Even the lamplighters had forgotten his miserable neighbourhood, that morning. Colonessi wondered what could have possessed his parents to abandon their ancestral birthplace and warmer climes of Naples, to immigrate to such a place? In recent years he had often asked that very question, but would never know the answer. It had not occurred to him, while they lived, for those were happier times and it seemed the sun always shone.
Street vendors went about their business, undaunted by the demonic darkness that engulfed their world. He found momentarily relief as he passed by a chestnut-seller's oven, and felt a surge of heat from fiery coals.
Michael's spirits were raised somewhat once he beheld the welcoming lights of The Anchor and Hope tavern, ahead.
Inside he was greeted by the usual scene.
In a corner of the room, men played cards as a young girl sat on the dealer's lap and pick-pocketed his money; Drunks danced with harlots to noisy, harsh music; Two women fought over a sailor who was passed out on a table; In the darkness of a booth an elderly couple crudely embraced.
Colonessi sat at a table and drank. That day he was nothing more than a spectator. As he watched the dramas being played out, his thoughts went to the young man. Michael had never seen such a face. He imagined the man's fate if he had accompanied him to the tavern. For sure, it would not be a happy ending. 'Where did he come from', he wondered? 'Was he the answer to my pray?'
Later, he returned to his studio determined to put envy aside and to learn from the young man's portrait.

The artist painted over his own inferior attempt, set the portrait next to the empty canvas and tried to emulate

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