Tales out of school

by Frank R. Stockton

Certainly it was not a beautiful home that made the artist happy.

He had the misfortune to be married to a woman who would have made most men miserable. She scolded from morning to night. The artist never could please her. No matter what he did, it was sure to be wrong in her eyes. She would stop while stirring the pot, and rail at him, shaking her greasy spoon to give emphasis to what she was saying. But the artist answered her never a word. He was so absorbed in his work that it is probable he did not hear her, half the time.

And so it was not pleasant companionship, and loving words that made him happy.

He could not even procure the proper materials for the work he loved so much. There were no shops in all that region where such things were sold. In our cities there are shops in which an artist can buy everything he needs. But our happy man could only pick up a few colors from the apothecary—the others he got himself from earths and stones he found among the mountains. From the grocer he obtained oil. The smoke of his candle furnished him with black, and his brushes he manufactured himself from the hair of the dogs killed in the city. Instead of canvas he used white cotton cloth, which he prepared in some sort of fashion; and then stretched, and tacked to a board.

With these materials, and under such disadvantages did our artist work. And he painted very good pictures too. Some of them were taken to Europe, and to the United States, and sold for twenty times more than was paid to our artist for them. But he did not know this; and the small sums he received sufficed for his simple wants.

He was always happy because his painting was to him a perpetual delight. His business was his pleasure.

THE SCULPTOR AT WORK.

The other happy man was also an artist. He was a sculptor. His statues were very singular-looking; and to our eyes, very ugly. But the people in that Peruvian town admired them greatly, and the sculptor himself thought them beautiful, and so it was all the same, as far as he was concerned, as if they really had been beautiful.

Clothed in rags and tatters, he worked faithfully in his studio, piecing together legs, and arms, and bodies, and heads, until he had an image of a man, woman, or child, that satisfied him. His room was a little better than the painter’s, but the walls were of rough stone; and, as for furniture, he would have laughed at the idea of having any.