A Service Of Love

When you love your Art, no task seems too hard.

That’s our starting point. This story will draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the starting point is wrong. That will be a new thing in logic, and a kind of storytelling that’s older than the Great Wall of China.

• draw a conclusion (phrase) – To decide something based on the information you have.

Joe Larrabee came from the flat post-oak lands of the Middle West, filled with a talent for drawing. At six, he drew a picture of the town pump with a notable citizen passing it quickly. This work was framed and hung in the window of the drug store next to an ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty, he left for New York with a flowing tie and money that was tied up a bit more tightly.

• notable (adjective) – Worthy of attention or notice; important.
• tightly (adverb) – In a way that is close or secure.

Delia Caruthers was so talented at singing in her little village in the South that her relatives collected enough money for her to go “North” and “finish” her training. They couldn’t see her finish, but that’s our story.

• talented (adjective) – Having a natural ability to do something well.

Joe and Delia met in a place where a group of art and music students were talking about art techniques, music, famous artists and composers, pictures, wallpapers and tea.

Joe and Delia fell in love with each other, and soon they got married. Because when you love your Art, no task seems too hard.

Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee started living in a flat. It was a lonely flat, like the low A sharp note on the far left of the piano. But they were happy because they had their Art and they had each other. If I could give advice to a rich young man, I would say—sell everything you have and give the money to the poor. Pay the janitor to live in a flat with your Art and your Delia.

• flat (noun) – An apartment or a set of rooms for living in.
• far left (phrase) – The side or part furthest to the left.
• janitor (noun) – A person whose job is to take care of a building.

People who live in flats will agree with me that they are the only truly happy people. If a home is happy, it doesn’t matter if it’s small. Even if your furniture has to serve multiple purposes and your walls feel like they’re closing in, as long as you and your Delia are together, you’ll be happy. But if your home isn’t happy, let it be big and wide.

• serve multiple purposes (phrase) – To be used in different ways for different tasks.
• walls feel like they’re closing in (phrase) – Feeling as though the space around you is getting smaller, often due to stress or anxiety.

Joe was learning to paint from a famous teacher. His lessons were expensive but good. Delia was learning piano from a famous teacher known for his intense style.

They were very happy as long as they had money. Their goals were clear. Joe was going to paint pictures that rich old men would fight to buy. Delia was going to become so good at music that she could refuse to perform if she wanted to.

But the best part, in my opinion, was their life in the little flat. The passionate conversations after a day of study; the cozy dinners and light breakfasts; the sharing of dreams; and late-night snacks of stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches.

• passionate (adjective) – Having strong feelings or emotions about something.

But after a while, their love for Art began to fade. It sometimes does. They were spending a lot of money on lessons, but not making any. Money was needed to pay their teachers. So, Delia decided to give music lessons to make some money.

• fade (verb) – To lose strength or disappear gradually.

For a few days, she looked for students. One evening, she came home very happy.

“Joe, dear,” she said, excitedly, “I’ve got a student. And they’re such lovely people! General A. B. Pinkney’s daughter—on Seventy-first street. You should see their house, Joe. It’s beautiful.

“My student is his daughter Clementina. I really like her already. She’s a gentle girl, always wears white and has the nicest manners! She’s only eighteen years old. I’ll give her three lessons a week; and, guess what, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don’t mind at all; because when I get a few more students I can go back to my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, let’s have a nice supper.”

“That’s okay for you, Dele,” said Joe, as he tried to open a can of peas with a knife and a small axe, “but what about me? Do you think I’m going to let you work for money while I just focus on my art? No way! I can sell newspapers or fix roads, and bring in some money.”

Delia walked over to him and gave him a hug.

“Joe, dear, you’re being silly. You need to keep studying. It’s not like I’ve stopped my music to do something else. When I teach, I learn. I’m always with my music. And we can live happily on $15 a week. You mustn’t think of leaving Mr. Magister.”

“Okay,” said Joe, as he reached for a dish of vegetables. “But I don’t like you having to give lessons. It’s not really Art. But you’re a good person for doing it.”

• reach for (phrasal verb) – To extend your hand to get something.

“When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard,” said Delia.

“Magister liked the sky in that drawing I made in the park,” said Joe. “And Tinkle let me put two of them in his shop window. I might sell one if someone with money who likes them sees them.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Delia, with a smile. “And now let’s be thankful for Gen. Pinkney and this roast.”

During the next week, the Larrabees had breakfast early. Joe was excited about some morning sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia sent him off after breakfast, feeling loved and appreciated, at 7 o’clock. Art is a demanding love. Most days, it was 7 o’clock when he came home in the evening.

At the end of the week, Delia, looking proud but tired, happily put three five-dollar bills on the small table in the living room.

“Sometimes, sometimes,” she said, a bit tired, “Clementina tires me. I don’t think she practices enough, and I have to repeat the same things too often. And she always wears white, which can be boring. But Gen. Pinkney is such a nice old man! I wish you could meet him, Joe. He sometimes comes in when I’m teaching Clementina at the piano—he’s a widower, you know—and stands there, pulling on his white beard. He always asks, ‘And how are the short notes and the very short notes progressing?’

“I wish you could see the wooden panels in their drawing-room, Joe! And the fur curtains. And Clementina has a strange little cough. I hope she’s healthier than she looks. I’m starting to like her, she’s so gentle and well-mannered. Gen. Pinkney’s brother was once an ambassador to Bolivia.”

And then Joe, looking very pleased with himself, took out a ten-dollar bill, a five-dollar bill, a two-dollar bill and a one-dollar bill—all real money—and put them next to Delia’s money.

“Sold that watercolour painting of the tall, narrow monument to a man from Peoria,” he said, looking very proud.

“Don’t joke with me,” said Delia, “not from Peoria!”

“From Peoria. I wish you could see him, Dele. Big man with a wool scarf and a feather toothpick. He saw the painting in Tinkle’s window and at first thought it was a windmill. But he was brave, and bought it anyway. He also asked for another—a painting of the freight depot—to take back with him. Music lessons! I think Art is still important.”

• freight depot (noun) – A place where goods are stored before being shipped.

“I’m so glad you’ve kept at it,” said Delia, happily.“You’re sure to succeed, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We’ve never had so much to spend. We’ll have fancy seafood tonight.”

“And a tasty steak with mushrooms,” said Joe. “Where is the fork for the olives?”

The following Saturday evening, Joe got home first. He put his $18 on the living room table and cleaned what looked like a lot of dark paint from his hands.

About thirty minutes later, Delia arrived, her right hand wrapped up in a big bundle of cloths and bandages.

• bundle of cloths (noun) – A group of cloth pieces tied or wrapped together.

“What happened?” asked Joe after they said hello. Delia laughed, but it didn’t sound very happy.

“Clementina,” she explained, “wanted a cheese toastie after her lesson. She’s such an odd girl. Cheese toasties at 5 in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the cooking dish, Joe, as if there wasn’t a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn’t very well; she’s so nervous. While serving the toastie, she spilled a lot of it, boiling hot, on my hand and wrist. It hurt terribly, Joe. And the poor girl was so sorry! But Gen. Pinkney!—Joe, that old man was so upset. He rushed downstairs and sent someone—they said the man who looks after the heating or someone in the basement—out to a drug store for some oil and things to wrap it up with. It doesn’t hurt so much now.”

“What’s this?” asked Joe, gently taking the hand and pulling at some white material under the bandages.

“It’s something soft,” said Delia, “that had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?” She had seen the money on the table.

“Did I?” said Joe; “just ask the man from Peoria. He got his picture today, and he isn’t sure but he thinks he wants another park picture and a view of the Hudson River. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dele?”

“Five o’clock, I think,” said Dele, sadly. “The iron—I mean the toastie was taken off the stove about that time. You should have seen Gen. Pinkney, Joe, when—”

“Sit down here for a moment, Dele,” said Joe. He guided her to the sofa, sat beside her and put his arm around her shoulders.

“What have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?” he asked.

She tried to be brave for a little while, with a look of love and determination, and even mentioned Gen. Pinkney a couple of times; but finally her head dropped and she started crying as she told the truth.

“I couldn’t get any students,” she confessed. “And I couldn’t stand to see you stop your lessons; and I got a job ironing shirts in that big laundry on Twenty-fourth street. And I think I did very well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina, don’t you, Joe? And when a girl in the laundry put a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was on the way home making up that story about the cheese toastie. You’re not angry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn’t got the job you might not have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria.”

• confessed (past verb) – Admitted to something, usually something wrong.

“He wasn’t from Peoria,” said Joe, slowly.

“Well, it doesn’t matter where he was from. How clever you are, Joe—and—kiss me, Joe—and what made you ever suspect that I wasn’t giving music lessons to Clementina?”

• suspect (verb) – To think that something might be true or likely.

“I didn’t,” said Joe, “until tonight. And I wouldn’t have then, only I sent up this soft material and oil from the engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with an iron. I’ve been working the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks.”

• engine-room (noun) – The part of a building where machines are operated.

“And then you didn’t—”

“My customer from Peoria,” said Joe, “and Gen. Pinkney are both made up by the same creativity—but you wouldn’t call it painting or music.”

• made up (phrasal verb) – Created or invented a story or excuse.

And then they both laughed, and Joe started:

“When you love your Art, it feels like you’re not even working—”

But Delia stopped him by putting her hand on his lips. “No,” she said—”just ‘When you love.'”

THE END