George sheffield

A Sad Story*

«You are the doctor, I suppose,» said Augustus Pokewhistle, smiling from his bed at the immense man who had arrived secretly while he slept. «It is kind of you to come, but I fear you cannot help me. However, as you are here, I will tell you, very shortly, what is wrong with me. I am an artist I paint pictures and I draw drawings…»

«But…».

«You are going to tell me that you are not interested in the story of my life,» Augustus laughed bitterly. «You are one of the soulless public, and it is of no importance to you if a clever young man should take to his bed in the height of his youth, never to rise again. But I suppose you have been sent here by some interfering so-called friend of mine to save me from the Silent Grave, and I must therefore explain my illness. And you cannot understand my illness unless I tell you the story of my life…»

«But...»

«I was delicately brought up, and it soon became clear that I was not an ordinary boy. At the age of seven I won a prize for a drawing of an animal. We will forget the fact that I had intended my drawing to represent Sunset over London. After that my proud parents provided me with plenty of pencils and paper and gave me the opportunity of studying under Great Painters. At the age of twenty-one I started business as a painter of people, and painted eleven pictures of my own face. Nobody seemed to want them, and if you will go into my sitting-room, you will see them hanging sadly on the wall, looking down at the Empty Chair which I will never sit in again. For I am certain that I shall never rise from this bed...»

«But...»

«Nobody came to have their pictures painted, and I had no heart to paint any more of myself. Although it may seem impossible I could no longer get any real pleasure out of it after I had finished the eleventh, and this proves that one can get tired of even the most heavenly beauty...»

«But…»

«May I mention that there is a certain sameness in your remarks? Let me finish, and then you can say “but” as often as you like. I turned from painting people to painting the country. Nine times I painted the view from the back window, and seven times I painted the view from the front window. But could I sell the seven pictures of the view from the front window, or the nine of the view from the back window? I could not. I had little money left, and I decided, after a severe struggle with myself, to forget my soul and paint for money. I determined to draw funny pictures for the newspapers. Remember that I was without hope and almost hungry, and do not think of me too severely...»

«But...»

«I know what you are going to say - if I had had the soul of a true artist, I would have died rather than do such a thing. But remember that my wife and children were crying for bread -or would have been crying for bread if I had had a wife and children. And was it my fault that I hadn't a wife and little children? So I made thirty or forty funny drawings every day and sent them to the papers. I soon found that selling one's soul for money is not so easy as it sounds. Believe it or not, I got no money. I just got my drawings back…»

«But…»

«You may well ask why they were sent back. I cannot tell you. I tested them on the cat I had often heard the expression, funny enough to make a cat laugh! And so I placed them in a line and carried the cat along in front of them. He laughed until he was sick... in any case he was sick.

«Then I sank lower and lower. I tried drawing for advertisements. Clothes, pianos, bottles. Immensely tall ladies with foolish smiles. I sent them off by the hundred, and all I received was a sample bottle or two, and a Sample card of wool. I rather expected to get a Sample tall lady with a foolish smile, but probably she got lost in the post …»

«But...»

«So I gave up the struggle. My heart was broken, and I determined to take to my bed, never to rise again. You cannot help me, doctor. No skill of yours can help me feel it in my bones that I shall never rise from this bed…»

«And I feel it in my bones that you will,» said stranger, carefully placing Augustus Pokewhistle on the carpet, «because I've come to take it away. I’m from furniture shop, and the bed isn't paid for.»

* Shevtsova S.V. Modern Reading. Moscow, 1972, pp. 14-16.