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Page 13
Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops and light rolls and jam and
tea she would sigh, and wish that the gentle-mannered artist might share
her tasty meal instead of eating his dry crust in that draughty attic.
Miss Martha's heart, as you have been told, was a sympathetic one.
In order to test her theory as to his occupation, she brought from her
room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale, and set it against
the shelves behind the bread counter.
It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio (so it said on the
picture) stood in the foreground -- or rather forewater. For the rest
there were gondolas (with the lady trailing her hand in the water),
clouds, sky, and chiaro-oscuro in plenty. No artist could fail to notice
it.
Two days afterward the customer came in.
"Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease.
"You haf here a fine bicture, madame," he said while she was wrapping up
the bread.
"Yes?" says Miss Martha, reveling in her own cunning. "I do so admire art
and" (no, it would not do to say "artists" thus early) "and paintings,"
she substituted. "You think it is a good picture?"
"Der balance," said the customer, is not in good drawing. Der
bairspective of it is not true. Goot morning, madame."
He took his bread, bowed, and hurried out.
Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the picture back to her room.
How gentle and kindly his eyes shone behind his spectacles! What a broad
brow he had! To be able to judge perspective at a glance -- and to live on
stale bread! But genius often has to struggle before it is recognized.
What a thing it would be for art and perspective if genius were backed by
two thousand dollars in bank, a bakery, and a sympathetic heart to -- But
these were day-dreams, Miss Martha.
Often now when he came he would chat for a while across the showcase. He
seemed to crave Miss Martha's cheerful words.
He kept on buying stale bread. Never a cake, never a pie, never one of
her delicious Sally Lunns.
She thought he began to look thinner and discouraged. Her heart ached to
add something good to eat to his meagre purchase, but her courage failed
at the act. She did not dare affront him. She knew the pride of artists.
Miss Martha took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind the
counter. In the back room she cooked a mysterious compound of quince
seeds and borax. Ever so many people use it for the complexion.
One day the customer came in as usual, laid his nickel on the showcase,
and called for his stale loaves. While Miss Martha was reaching for them
there was a great tooting and clanging, and a fire-engine came lumbering
past.
The customer hurried to the door to look, as any one will. Suddenly
inspired, Miss Martha seized the opportunity.
On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter that
the dairyman had left ten minutes before. With a bread knife Miss Martha
made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserted a generous
quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again.
When the customer turned once more she was tying the paper around them.
When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Martha
smiled to herself, but not without a slight fluttering of the heart.
Had she been too bold? Would he take offense? But surely not. There was
no language of edibles. Butter was no emblem of unmaidenly forwardness.
For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the subject. She imagined the
scene when he should discover her little deception.
He would lay down his brushes and palette. There would stand his easel
with the picture he was painting in which the perspective was beyond
criticism.
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