When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard.
That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusionfrom it， and show at the same time that the premise isincorrect. That will be a new thing in logic， and a feat instory-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.
Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of theMiddle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At sixhe drew a picture of the town pump with a prominentcitizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hungin the drug store window by the side of the ear of cornwith an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left forNew York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied upsomewhat closer.
Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisinglyin a pine-tree village in the South that her relativeschipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go “North”
and “finish.” They could not see her f—， but that is ourstory.
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of artand music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro，Wagner， music， Rembrandt’s works， pictures， Waldteufel，wall paper， Chopin and Oolong.
Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other， oreach of the other， as you please， and in a short time weremarried—for （see above）， when one loves one’s Art noservice seems too hard.
Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat.
It was a lonesome flat—something like the A sharp waydown at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they werehappy； for they had their Art， and they had each other.
And my advice to the rich young man would be—sell allthou hast， and give it to the poor—janitor for the privilegeof living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.
Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is theonly true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit tooclose—let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table；let the mantel turn to a rowing machine， the escritoire toa spare bedchamber， the washstand to an upright piano；let the four walls come together， if they will， so you andyour Delia are between. But if home be the other kind， letit be wide and long—enter you at the Golden Gate， hangyour hat on Hatteras， your cape on Cape Horn and go outby the Labrador.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister—youknow his fame. His fees are high； his lessons are light—hishigh-lights have brought him renown. Delia was studyingunder Rosenstock—you know his repute as a disturber ofthe piano keys.
They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted.
So is every—but I will not be cynical. Their aims werevery clear and defined. Joe was to become capable verysoon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thinside-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag oneanother in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia wasto become familiar and then contemptuous with Music，so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsoldshe could have sore throat and lobster in a private diningroomand refuse to go on the stage.
But the best， in my opinion， was the home life inthe little flat—the ardent， voluble chats after the day’sstudy； the cozy dinners and fresh， light breakfasts； theinterchange of ambitions—ambitions interwoven eachwith the other’s or else inconsiderable—the mutual helpand inspiration； and—overlook my artlessness—stuffedolives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.
But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does， evenif some switchman doesn’t flag it. Everything going outand nothing coming in， as the vulgarians say. Money waslacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock theirprices. When one loves one’s Art no service seems toohard. So， Delia said she must give music lessons to keepthe chafing dish bubbling.
For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils.
One evening she came home elated.
“Joe， dear，” she said， gleefully， “I’ve a pupil. And， oh，the loveliest people！ General—General A. B. Pinkney’sdaughter—on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house，Joe—you ought to see the front door！ Byzantine I thinkyou would call it. And inside！ Oh， Joe， I never saw anythinglike it before.”
“My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love heralready. She’s a delicate thing—dresses always in white；and the sweetest， simplest manners！ Only eighteen yearsold. I’m to give three lessons a week； and， just think， Joe！
5 a lesson. I don’t mind it a bit； for when I get two orthree more pupils I can resume my lessons with HerrRosenstock. Now， smooth out that wrinkle between yourbrows， dear， and let’s have a nice supper.”
“That’s all right for you， Dele，” said Joe， attacking a canof peas with a carving knife and a hatchet， “but how aboutme？ Do you think I’m going to let you hustle for wageswhile I philander in the regions of high art？ Not by thebones of Benvenuto Cellini！ I guess I can sell papers or laycobblestones， and bring in a dollar or two.”
Delia came and hung about his neck.
“Joe， dear， you are silly. You must keep on at yourstudies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone towork at something else. While I teach I learn. I am alwayswith my music. And we can live as happily as millionaireson 15 a week. You mustn’t think of leaving Mr. Magister.”
“All right，” said Joe， reaching for the blue scallopedvegetable dish. “But I hate for you to be giving lessons. Itisn’t Art. But you’re a trump and a dear to do it.”
“When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard，”
said Delia.
“Magister praised the sky in that sketch I made in thepark，” said Joe. “And Tinkle gave me permission to hangtwo of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kindof a moneyed idiot sees them.”
