“Dear me,” quoth I, as the old fellow’s white beard shook through the emotion that he felt. Then I added: “Why are they applauded?”
“Why, say you?” responded he. “Simply because the laws of our country are made by the elected of forty million fools, fools that make laws that allow the enemies of art to rob the children of art. We artists toil for many years endeavouring to express the truth in art. With what result? Lo! he whom Nature has mentally equipped so that he might paint our boots makes some monstrous imitation in vulgar perspective and colour of our sublimest conceptions. These quacks rush forth and sell their daubs as works of art.”
“Why, that which you say applies to all the arts: men rob——”
Ere I could proceed further the old man gave such a stern look at this interruption of his pet theme that I at once stifled my assertive voice and, shrinking up ashamed into my shell, once more listened as he continued:
“What is the result of this robbery of our inherited dreams? Why, we come forward, and though we offer true art, no one wants it, nor will they pay according to its merits or in proportion to the labour that we have expended. The walls of the homesteads in our country are covered with these spurious works that have been painted by the hands that should not have aspired higher than to paint the boots of Art.”
At saying this, and a good deal more, the sad old artist looked up over the giant bread-fruit trees, as a flock of parrots swept across the sky, stroked his massive beard, and went on in this wise:
“Ah! young friend, I could no longer stand being robbed by liars and hypocrites and fools, so I bade farewell to my brother artists. Yes, I gazed for the last time into their sunken eyes and on their hollow cheeks and sailed away for the isles of these Southern Seas. Indeed the clamouring of my creditors, the fingers of Scorn pointing at my shabby garments, left nothing else for me to do. Here in these kindly isles I hope to prolong my days by getting regular nourishment.”
So saying, the strange old fellow took from his capacious pocket half a ripe coco-nut, bit off a large piece of the white substance and chewed for a moment in silence. Swallowing the nutritious morsel, he proceeded, to my delight—for the satire of his delivery was truly exquisite—
“I know of two other artists who, like myself, have emigrated to these parts.”
“Do you?” quoth I eagerly, intensely interested in so strange, so wise an old man.