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Robert W Service - The Pencil Seller
Work rating: Low

A pencil, sir; a penny — won`t you buy?
I`m cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don`t turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven`t made a single sale to-night.
Oh, thank you, sir; but take the pencil too;
I`m not a beggar, I`m a business man.
Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue;
It`s hard, but still I do the best I can.
Most days I make enough to pay for bread,
A cup o` coffee, stretching room at night.
One needs so little — to be warm and fed,
A hole to kennel in — oh, one`s all right . . .

Excuse me, you`re a painter, are you not?
I saw you looking at that dealer`s show,
The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot —
What do I know of Art? What do I know . . .
Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed,
"White Sorcery" it`s called, all gossamer,
And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid
(You like the little elfin face of her?) —
That`s good; but still, the picture as a whole,
The values, — Pah! He never painted worse;
Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal,
His cupboard bare, no money in his purse.
Perhaps . . . they say he labored hard and long,
And see now, in the harvest of his fame,
When round his pictures people gape and throng,
A scurvy dealer sells this on his name.
A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe;
A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit,
Unworthy of his art. . . . How should I know?
How should I know? I`m Strong — I painted it.

There now, I didn`t mean to let that out.
It came in spite of me — aye, stare and stare.
You think I`m lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt —
Think what you like, it`s neither here nor there.
It`s hard to tell so terrible a truth,
To gain to glory, yet be such as I.
It`s true; that picture`s mine, done in my youth,
Up in a garret near the Paris sky.
The child`s my daughter; aye, she posed for me.
That`s why I come and sit here every night.
The painting`s bad, but still — oh, still I see
Her little face all laughing in the light.
So now you understand. — I live in fear
Lest one like you should carry it away;
A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear!
"Don`t let them buy it, pitying God!" I pray!
And hark ye, sir — sometimes my brain`s awhirl.
Some night I`ll crash into that window pane
And snatch my picture back, my little girl,
And run and run. . . .
                               
I`m talking wild again;
A crab can`t run. I`m crippled, withered, lame,
Palsied, as good as dead all down one side.
No warning had I when the evil came:
It struck me down in all my strength and pride.
Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power;
Honor was mine, Fame`s laurel touched my brow;
Glory was mine — within a little hour
I was a god and . . . what you find me now.

My child, that little, laughing girl you see,
She was my nurse for all ten weary years;
Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me;
Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears.
And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare,
Lost, lost to me — what could my heart but break!
Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair,
I would have killed myself but for her sake. . . .

By luck I had some pictures I could sell,
And so we fought the wolf back from the door;
She painted too, aye, wonderfully well.
We often dreamed of brighter days in store.
And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail;
I saw the shadows darken round her eyes.
So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale,
And oh, there came a day she could not rise.
The doctor looked at her; he shook his head,
And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air:
"If you can get her out of this," he said,
"She`ll have a fighting chance with proper care."

"With proper care!" When he had gone away,
I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief.
Under my old and ragged coat she lay,
Our room was bare and cold beyond belief.
"Maybe," I thought, "I still can paint a bit,
Some lilies, landscape, anything at all."
Alas! My brush, I could not steady it.
Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall.
"With proper care" — how could I give her that,
Half of me dead? . . . I crawled down to the street.
Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat
And begged of every one I chanced to meet.
I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread,
And so I fought to keep the Doom away;
And yet I saw with agony of dread
My dear one sinking, sinking day by day.
And then I was awakened in the night:
"Please take my hands, I`m cold," I heard her sigh;
And soft she whispered, as she held me tight:
"Oh daddy, we`ve been happy, you and I!"
I do not think she suffered any pain,
She breathed so quietly . . . but though I tried,
I could not warm her little hands again:
And so there in the icy dark she died. . . .
The dawn came groping in with fingers gray
And touched me, sitting silent as a stone;
I kissed those piteous lips, as cold as clay —
I did not cry, I did not even moan.
At last I rose, groped down the narrow stair;
An evil fog was oozing from the sky;
Half-crazed I stumbled on, I knew not where,
Like phantoms were the folks that passed me by.
How long I wandered thus I do not know,
But suddenly I halted, stood stock-still —
Beside a door that spilled a golden glow
I saw a name, my name, upon a bill.
"A Sale of Famous Pictures," so it read,
"A Notable Collection, each a gem,
Distinguished Works of Art by painters dead."
The folks were going in, I followed them.
I stood upon the outskirts of the crowd,
I only hoped that none might notice me.
Soon, soon I heard them call my name aloud:
"A `David Strong`, his Fete in Brittany."
(A brave big picture that, the best I`ve done,
It glowed and kindled half the hall away,
With all its memories of sea and sun,
Of pipe and bowl, of joyous work and play.
I saw the sardine nets blue as the sky,
I saw the nut-brown fisher-boats put out.)
"Five hundred pounds!" rapped out a voice near by;
"Six hundred!" "Seven!" "Eight!" And then a shout:
"A thousand pounds!" Oh, how I thrilled to hear!
Oh, how the bids went up by leaps, by bounds!
And then a silence; then the auctioneer:
"It`s going! Going! Gone! Three thousand pounds!"
Three thousand pounds! A frenzy leapt in me.
"That picture`s mine," I cried; "I`m David Strong.
I painted it, this famished wretch you see;
I did it, I, and sold it for a song.
And in a garret three small hours ago
My daughter died for want of Christian care.
Look, look at me! . . . Is it to mock my woe
You pay three thousand for my picture there?" . . .

O God! I stumbled blindly from the hall;
The city crashed on me, the fiendish sounds
Of cruelty and strife, but over all
"Three thousand pounds!" I heard; "Three thousand pounds!"

There, that`s my story, sir; it isn`t gay.
Tales of the Poor are never very bright . . .
You`ll look for me next time you pass this way . . .
I hope you`ll find me, sir; good-night, good-night.
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