The Painter Who Could Cook

A Disillusioned Narrative of Artistic Success

BERTRAM BLOCH

ONCE there was a man who went to the theater a great deal and therefore was well informed alxiut life, His name was J. Patterson Hendricks, and he believed in all the homely virtues —for did not the drama definitely teach that, by the exercise of them, happiness was won?

On a certain day he was to sail for Europe, there to remain a long time, On the night before, his friends gave him an informal, intimate farewell party. Among Hendricks' friends there was one, Robert Kimberly, who possessed a peculiar talent for devising pleasing salads and other delectable dishes. It was ironic—the possession of this gift— for Kimberly was a painter who seldom sold a painting, and most of his meals were potatoes or beans. But whenever there was a party, "poor Bob Kimberly" was called in to delight the palates of the guests—and incidentally get a full meal for himself.

He was busy this night in Hendricks' kitchen, and he endeavored to be cheerful, as betokened a guest at the farewell party of a successful friend. But he couldn't forget that ui>on that day he had been evicted from his shabby, leak}studio, and that he had about reached the end of his string. J. Patterson noted Kimberly's long face and learned the cause. Generously, he offered a substantial loan; but Kimberly refused the money he knew he could never repay. Hendricks patted him on the back. He had been taught to believe that this cheered a man up.

"There is no such word as failure, Bob, my boy," said Hendricks. "Given a certain amount of ability, which you undoubtedly have, only hard work and patient industry is necessary to win the proper rewards. It's the man who keeps plugging away, who is bound to win." Then he added, smiling, "Success may be a long time coming, but don't forget that sometime before the middle of the third act, it always arrives. Be of good courage, and God bless you."

THE hearty optimism of Hendricks' words did cheer Kimberly considerably, but even the best of good cheer is a weak buckler against the onslaughts of landlords and starvation.

The end came when Kimberly, who was susceptible to feminine charm, met a dazzling beauty from "up-town", He didn't fall in love with her, not really in love; but for the fifteen or twenty minutes he talked to her, his heart beat rather more quickly than usual. Then a thin, scrubby, weak-voiced little man came up and took her away. Kimberly was told that they were engaged. He was horrified. That gorgeous creature to be given to so grotesque and impotent a thing! He was the vice-president of a railroad, they told Kimberly. Then Kimberly revolted. .

"That settles it! I'm done!" lie cried. " Why the Devil should I waste my years and my strength struggling to produce Art that no one cares a hang about? It's money the world worships; it's the man who makes money it admires. He gets the rewards." His eyes shone with determination. "It's time for me to get sonic of the material things of life, a Henceforth I shall not touch a brush; the future shall behold me, not a painter, but a rich man!"

His indignation did not cool. The beauty of the girl who was to marry the railroad man had dramatized his failure for him. He threw away his brushes and looked for a job.

But a painter, even if he can cook, hasn't much to offer the world, and fortune did not come so readily as Kimberly had hoped it might. In fact, it didn't come at all. He drifted from one job to another, losing hope and courage with each change, dropping lower and lower in the social scale, until at last he settled down as a cook for a construction gang that was blasting a roadway through a towering mountain.

Here at least was peace. No echoes of his former world came here to mar the serenity of his life. It was oblivion, but it was pleasant. Occasionally he thought of Hendricks' parting injunction: "It's the man who keeps pegging away who is bound to win in the end ", and he grew sad as he reflected that he had thrown away the little chance of success he had once possessed. But these moods were fleeting. He slept well, ate well, and was on the whole happy,

There was a girl in the neighborhood, a dark-haired farmer's daughter, a strong, firm-bosomed, oval-faced, mountainy sort of girl. Her name was Judith. The men

of the gang were roused by her beauty, and several of them fell somberly in love with her. They wooed her in the manner of schoolboys, by "showing-off",

KIMBERLY smiled tolerantly at the strutting of these men, and marveled that the mating tactics of the male of the human species should be so little subtler than a buck's or a peacock's. Then lie, too, fell in love with Judith; and lie stopped smiling.

He painted her portrait in a deserted barn. She adored it. She asked him to paint her again. He did, this time as a goddess, wearing more clothes than goddesses are reputed to have worn, but still considerably less than the daughters of farmers are accustomed to. He made her promise to tell no one of the painting; but so tremendous a secret could not be kept. She was too proud of it. She brought a friend to see the goddess picture. The friend was shocked and told her mother, who in turn told Judith's father. He scented mischief, and appealed to the engineer in charge of construction, who, growling at being drawn away from his hammock, nevertheless went with Judith's father to inspect the picture, The engineer had studied painting in his youth, and he was astounded at his discovery. That picture painted by the camp cook! Incredible! There is but little chance for excitement in the life of a civil engineer hidden away in the backwoods. Here was the unexpected, the miraculous! He had discovered a native talent that would startle the world of art. He guarded Kimberly like a jewel, while he sent the pictures East to be appraised,

A reporter quickly got the story, Kimberly, as a painter who could cook, was of no interest to the newspapers; but Kimberly, as a cook who could paint, was a first-page story. Great stuff! In a week, Kimberly was famous.

Of course it eventually came out that he was not a self-taught artist of the woods; but this meant only more news stories, for the experts who had hailed him as a fresh, rare genius had to trim their sails. By the time the opinion of the last critic was tucked away on an obscure page, Kimberly was firmly established as a portrait painter.

Our last picture of him is on the eve of his eighteenth voyage to Europe, His friends have given him an intimate, farewell party. One of them is a discouraged painter, who, complaining of his ill luck, is considering more lucrative employment.

"Don't do it, my boy," says Kimberly, patting him on the back. "There is no such thing as luck. Just keep plugging, and you're bound to win."