When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.

That is our premise¹. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic², and a feat³ in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.

Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial⁴ art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven⁵ number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.

Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly⁶ in a pine- tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go "North" and "finish." They could not see her f--, but that is our story.

Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro⁷, Wagner, music, Rembrandt's works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong.

Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married--for (see above), when one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.

Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat--something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be--sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor--janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.

Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close--let the dresser collapse⁸ and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long--enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape⁹ on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.

Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister--you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light--his high-lights have brought him renown¹⁰. Delia was studying under Rosenstock--you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.

They were mighty¹²" target="_blank">mighty¹¹ happy as long as their money lasted. So is every-- but I will not be cynical¹³. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster¹⁴ in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.

But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat-- the ardent¹⁵, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy¹⁶ dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions--ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable--the mutual¹⁷ help and inspiration; and--overlook my artlessness--stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.

But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn't flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing¹⁸ dish bubbling.

For two or three days she went out canvassing¹⁹ 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's daughter--on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house, Joe--you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.

"My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She's a delicate thing-dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. 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 or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let's have a nice supper."

"That's all right for you, Dele," said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving²⁰ knife and a hatchet²¹, "but how about me? Do you think I'm going to let you hustle²² for wages while I philander²³ in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two."

Delia came and hung about his neck.

"Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn't think of leaving Mr. Magister."

"All right," said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. "But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn't Art. But you're a trump²⁴ 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 sketch²⁵ I made in the park," said Joe. "And Tinkle²⁶ gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them."

"I'm sure you will," said Delia, sweetly. "And now let's be thankful for Gen. Pinkney and this veal²⁷ roast."

During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast. Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches²⁸ he was doing in Central Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised and kissed at 7 o'clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times 7 o'clock when he returned in the evening.

At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly²⁹ tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8x10 (inches) centre table of the 8x10 (feet) flat parlour.

Sometimes," she said, a little wearily, "Clementina tries me. I'm afraid she doesn't practise enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely³⁰ in white, and that does get monotonous³¹. But Gen. Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano--he is a widower³², you know--and stands there pulling his white goatee. 'And how are the semiquavers and the demisemiquavers progressing?'

he always asks.

"I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe! And those Astrakhan rug portieres. And Clementina has such a funny little cough. I hope she is stronger

than she looks. Oh, I really am getting attached to her, she is so gentle and high bred. Gen. Pinkney's brother was once Minister to Bolivia."

And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth³³ a ten, a five, a two and a one--all legal tender notes--and laid them beside Delia's earnings³⁴.

"Sold that watercolour of the obelisk³⁵ to a man from Peoria," he announced overwhelmingly.

"Don't joke with me," said Delia, "not from Peoria!"

"All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen muffler and a quill³⁶ toothpick. He saw the sketch in Tinkle's window and thought it was a windmill at first, he was game, though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another--an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot³⁷--to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it."

"I'm so glad you've kept on," said Delia, heartily³⁸. "You're bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We'll have oysters³⁹ to-night."

"And filet⁴⁰ mignon with champignons," said Joe. "Were is the olive fork?"

On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands.

Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages.

"How is this?" asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but not very joyously⁴¹.

Clementina," she explained, "insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson. She is such a queer girl. Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing dish, Joe, just as if there wasn't a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn't in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and wrist. It hurt awfully⁴², Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But Gen. Pinkney!--Joe, that old man nearly went distracted. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody--they said the furnace man or somebody in the basement--out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind⁴³ it up with. It doesn't hurt so much now."

"What's this?" asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some white strands⁴⁴ beneath 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 depot to-day, and he isn't sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dele?"

"Five o'clock, I think," said Dele, plaintively⁴⁵. "The iron--I mean the rabbit came off the fire about that time. You ought to have seen Gen. Pinkney, Joe, when--"

"Sit down here a moment, Dele," said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat beside her and put his arm across her shoulders.

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

She braved it for a moment or two with an eye full of love and stubbornness, and murmured a phrase or two vaguely⁴⁶ of Gen. Pinkney; but at length down went her head and out came the truth and tears.

"I couldn't get any pupils," she confessed. "And I couldn't bear to have you give up your lessons; and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twentyfourth street laundry. 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 set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit. You're not angry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn't got the work you mightn't have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria.

"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?"

"I didn't," said Joe, "until to-night. And I wouldn't have then, only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing-iron. I've been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks."

"And then you didn't--"

"My purchaser from Peoria," said Joe, "and Gen. Pinkney are both creations of the same art--but you wouldn't call it either painting or music.

And then they both laughed, and Joe began:

"When one loves one's Art no service seems--"

But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. "No," she said-- "just 'When one loves.'"

当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的。

那是我们的前提。这篇故事将从它那里得出一个结论，同时证明那个前提的不正确。从逻辑学的观点来说，这固然是一件新鲜事，可是从文学的观点来说，却是一件比中国的万里长城还要古老的艺术。

乔·拉雷毕来自中西部槲树参天的平原，浑身散发着绘画艺术的天才。他还只六岁的时候就画了一幅镇上抽水机的风景，抽水机旁边画了一个匆匆走过去的、有声望的居民。这件作品给配上架子，挂在药房的橱窗里，挨着一只留有几排参差不齐的玉米的穗轴。二十岁的时候，他背井离乡到了纽约，束着一条飘垂的领带，带着一个更为飘垂的荷包。

德丽雅·加鲁塞斯生长在南方一个松林小村里，她把六音阶之类的玩意儿搞得那样出色，以致她的亲戚们给她凑了一笔数目很小的款子，让她到北方去"深造"。他们没有看到她成——，那就是我们要讲的故事。

乔和德丽雅在一个画室里见了面，那儿有许多研究美术和音乐的人经常聚会，讨论明暗对照法、瓦格纳、音乐、伦勃朗的作品、绘画、瓦尔特杜弗、糊墙纸、萧邦、奥朗。

乔和德丽雅互相——或者彼此，随你高兴怎么说——一见倾心，短期内就结了婚——当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的。

拉雷毕夫妇租了一层公寓，开始组织家庭。那是一个寂静的地方——单调得像是钢琴键盘左端的Ａ高半音。可是他们很幸福；因为他们有了各自的艺术，又有了对方。我对有钱的年轻人的劝告是——为了争取和你的艺术以及你的德丽雅住在公寓里的权利，赶快把你所有的东西都卖掉，施舍给穷苦的看门人吧。

公寓生活是唯一真正的快乐，住公寓的人一定都赞成我的论断。家庭只要幸福，房间小又何妨——让梳妆台坍下来作为弹子桌；让火炉架改作练习划船的机器；让写字桌充当临时的卧榻，洗脸架充当竖式钢琴；如果可能的话，让四堵墙壁挤拢来，你和你的德丽雅仍旧在里面，可是假若家庭不幸福，随它怎么宽敞——你从金门进去，把帽子挂在哈得拉斯，把披肩挂在合恩角，然后穿过拉布拉多出去，到头还是枉然。

乔在伟大的马杰斯脱那儿学画——各位都知道他的声望。他取费高昂；课程轻松——他的高昂轻松给他带来了声望。德丽雅在罗森斯托克那儿学习，各位也知道他是一个出名的专跟钢琴键盘找麻烦的家伙。

只要他们的钱没用完，他们的生活是非常幸福的。谁都是这样——算了吧，我不愿意说愤世嫉俗的话。他们的目标非常清楚明确。乔很快就能有画问世，那些鬓须稀朗而钱袋厚实的老先生，就要争先恐后地挤到他的画室里来抢购他的作品。德丽雅要把音乐搞好，然后对它满不在乎，如果她看到音乐厅里的位置和包厢不满座的话，她可以推托喉痛，拒绝登台，在专用的餐室里吃龙虾。

但是依我说，最美满的还是那小公寓里的家庭生活：学习了一天之后的情话絮语；舒适的晚饭和新鲜、清淡的早餐；关于志向的交谈——他们不但关心自己的，也关心对方的志向，否则就没有意义了——互助和灵感；还有——恕我直率——晚上十一点钟吃的菜裹肉片和奶酪三明治。

可是没多久，艺术动摇了。即使没有人去摇动它，有时它自己也会动摇的。俗语说得好，坐吃山空，应该付给马杰斯脱和罗森斯托克两位先生的学费也没着落了。当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的。于是，德丽雅说，她得教授音乐，以免断炊。

她在外面奔走了两三天，兜揽学生。一天晚上，她兴高采烈地回家来。

"乔，亲爱的，"她快活地说，"我有一个学生啦。哟，那家人可真好。一位将军——爱·皮·品克奈将军的小姐，住在第七十一街。多么漂亮的房子，乔——你该看看那扇大门！我想就是你所说的拜占廷式。还有屋子里面！喔，乔，我从没见过那样豪华的摆设。

"我的学生是他的女儿克蕾门蒂娜。我见了她就喜欢极啦。她是个柔弱的小东西——老是穿白的；态度又多么朴实可爱！她只有十八岁。我一星期教三次课；你想想看，乔！每课五块钱。

数目固然不大，可是我一点也不在乎；等我再找到两三个学生，我又可以到罗森斯托克先生那儿去学习了。现在，别皱眉头啦，亲爱的，让我们好好吃一顿晚饭吧。"

"你倒不错，德丽，"乔说，一面用斧子和切肉刀在开一听青豆，"可是我怎么办呢？你认为我能让你忙着挣钱，我自己却在艺术的领域里追逐吗？我以般范纽都·切利尼的骨头赌咒，决不能够！我想我以卖卖报纸，搬石子铺马路，多少也挣一两块钱回来。"

德丽雅走过来，勾住他的脖子。

"乔，亲爱的，你真傻。你一定得坚持学习。我并不是放弃了音乐去干别的事情。我一面教授，一面也能学一些。我永远跟我的音乐在一起。何况我们一星期有十五钱，可以过得像百万富翁那般快乐。你绝不要打算脱离马杰斯脱先生。"

"好吧，"乔说，一面去拿那只贝壳形的蓝菜碟。可是我不愿意让你去教课，那不是艺术。你这样牺牲真了不起，真叫人佩服。"

"当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的，"德丽雅说。

"我在公园里画的那张素描，马杰斯脱说上面的天空很好。"乔说。"丁克尔答应我在他的橱窗里挂上两张。如果碰上一个合适的有钱的傻瓜，可能卖掉一张。"

"我相信一定卖得掉的，"德丽雅亲切地说。"现在让我们先来感谢品克奈将军和这烤羊肉吧。"

下一个星期，拉雷毕夫妇每天一早就吃早饭。乔很起劲地要到中央公园里去在晨光下画几张速写，七点钟的时候，德丽雅给了他早饭、拥抱、赞美、接吻之后，把他送出门。艺术是个迷人的情妇。他回家时，多半已是晚上七点钟了。

周末，愉快自豪、可是疲血不堪的德丽雅，得意扬扬地掏出三张五块钱的钞票，扔在那八呎阔十呎长的公寓客厅里的八吋阔十吋长的桌子上。

"有时候，"她有些厌倦地说，"克蕾门蒂娜真叫我费劲。我想她大概练习得不充分，我得三翻四复地教她。而且她老是浑身穿白，也叫人觉得单调。不过品克奈将军倒是一个顶可爱的老头儿！我希望你能认识他，乔，我和克蕾门蒂娜练钢琴的时候，他偶尔走进来——他是个鳏夫，你知道——站在那儿捋他的白胡子。""十六分音符和三十二分音符教得怎么样啦？"他老是这样问道。

"我希望你能看到客厅里的护壁板，乔！还有那些阿斯特拉罕的呢门帘。克蕾门蒂娜老是有点咳嗽。我希望她的身体比她的外表强健些。喔，我实在越来越喜欢她了，她多么温柔，多么有教养。品克奈将军的弟弟一度做过驻波利维亚的公使。"

接着，乔带着基度山伯爵的神气，掏出一张十元、一张五元、一张两元和一张一元的钞票——全是合法的纸币——把它们放在德丽雅挣来的钱旁边。

"那幅方尖碑的水彩画卖给了一个从庇奥利亚来的人，"他郑重其事地宣布说。

"别跟我开玩笑啦，"德丽雅——"不会是从庇奥利亚来的吧！"

"确实是那儿来的。我希望你能见到他，德丽。一个胖子，围着羊毛围巾，啣着一根翮管牙签。他在丁克尔的橱窗里看到了那幅画，起先还以为是座风车呢。他倒很气派，不管三七二十一的，把它买下了。他另外预定了一幅——勒加黄那货运车站的油画——准备带回家去。我的画，加上你的音乐课！呵，我想艺术还是有前途的。"

"你坚持下去，真使我高兴，"德丽雅热切地说。"你一定会成功的，亲爱的。三十三块钱！我们从来没有这么多可以花的钱。今晚我们买牡蛎吃。"

"加上炸嫩牛排和香菌，"乔说，"肉叉在哪儿？"

下一个星期六的晚上，乔先回家。他把他的十八块钱摊在客厅的桌子上，然后把手上许多似乎是黑色颜料的东西洗掉。

半个钟头以后，德丽雅来了，她的右手用绷带包成一团，简直不像样了。

"这是怎么搞的？"乔照例地招呼了之后，问道。德丽雅笑了，可是笑得并不十分快活。

"克蕾门蒂娜，"她解释说，"上了课之后一定要吃奶酪面包。她真是个古怪姑娘，下午五点钟还要吃奶酪面包。将军也在场，你该看看他奔去拿烘锅的样子，乔，好像家里没有佣人似的，我知道克蕾门蒂娜身体不好；神经多么过敏。她浇奶酪的时候泼翻了许多，滚烫的，溅在手腕上。痛得要命，乔。那可爱的姑娘难过极了！还有品克奈将军！——乔，那老头儿差点要发狂了。

他冲下楼去叫人——他们说是烧炉子的或是地下室里的什么人——到药房里去买一些油和别的东西来，替我包扎。现在倒不十分痛了。"

"这是什么？"乔轻轻地握住那只手，扯扯绷带下面的几根白线，问道。

"那是涂了油的软纱。"德丽雅说，"喔，乔，你又卖掉了一幅素描吗？"她看到了桌子上的钱。

"可不是吗？"乔说，"只消问问那个从庇奥利亚来的人。他今天把他要的车站图取去了，他没有确定，可能还要一幅公园的景致和一幅哈得逊河的风景。你今天下午什么时候烫痛手的，德丽？"

"大概是五点钟，"德丽雅可怜巴巴的说。"熨斗——我是说奶酪，大概在那个时候烧好。你真该看到品克奈将军，乔，他——"

"先坐一会儿吧，德丽，"乔说，他把她拉到卧榻上，在她身边坐下，用胳臂围住了她的肩膀。

"这两个星期来，你到底在干什么。德丽？"他问道。

她带着充满了爱情和固执的眼色熬了一两分钟，含含混混地说着品克奈将军；但终于垂下头，一边哭，一边说出实话来了。

"我找不到学生，"她供认说，"我又不忍眼看你放弃你的课程，所以在第二十四街那家大洗衣作里找了一个烫衬衣的活儿。我以为我把品克奈将军和克蕾门蒂娜两个人编造得很好呢，可不是吗，乔？今天下午，洗衣作里一个姑娘的热熨斗烫了我的手，我一路上就编出那个烘奶酪的故事。你不会生我的气吧，乔？如果我不去做工，你也许不可能把你的画卖给那个庇奥利亚来的人。"

"他不是从庇奥利亚来的，"乔慢慢吞吞地说。

"他打哪儿来都一样。你真行，乔——吻我吧，乔——你怎么会疑心我不在教克蕾门蒂娜的音乐课呢？"

"到今晚为止，我始终没有起疑。"乔说，"本来今晚也不会起疑的，可是今天下午，我把机器间的油和废纱头送给楼上一个给熨斗烫了手的姑娘。两星期来，我就在那家洗衣作的炉子房烧火。"

"那你并没有——"

"我的庇奥利亚来的主顾，"乔说，"和品克奈将军都是同一艺术的产物——只是你不会管那门艺术叫做绘画或音乐罢了。"

他们两个都笑了，乔开口说：

"当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是——"可是德丽雅用手掩住了他的嘴。"别说下去啦，"她说——"只消说'当你爱的时候'。"