“No,” answered S—— “What makes you ask?”
“Lame! Good gracious, no!”
“You hain’t ’ad a misfortune in any way? The sciatics or lumbager, that’s kind o’ laid yer by?”
“No, I’m as well as I have always been.”
“An’ yer call yerself a man and can sit theer a doin’ o’ that. Well, I’m d—— d!”
I never go out sketching without feeling this silent contempt, for it is only rarely that it finds expression. The remarks made by villagers show how utterly unable they are to grasp the idea of anyone valuing an artist’s efforts. The old story of the painter who was asked by the farmer whose cow he had been drawing, what the said picture might be worth when finished, is typical.
“Oh, I hope to get thirty pounds for it if it is well hung,” explained the artist.
“Thutty pound for the mere picture!” cried the old fellow in astonishment. “Why, I’d sell you the old cow itself for ten.”