TWO HAPPY MEN.
When we have our minds set upon some pursuit in which we are resolved to excel, we are likely to forget any little disagreeable thing that troubles us at other times, and we are happy in our work. What pleasure a boy takes in fashioning his kite! What delight is it to a girl to put together ends of silks, ribbons and laces into a pretty bonnet for her doll! There is even pleasure in learning a Latin lesson, or in working out a difficult problem when we are interested, and are determined to do it well. The reason why so many grown persons are unhappy is because they have no occupation at all, or because they are engaged in some business which they do not like.
The best cure for this is to take up some business, and make up your mind youwilllike it, and try to do your very best.
When a man’s business is in any branch of what we call Art he is, perhaps, happier than he could be at anything else; for, besides the satisfaction of doing the work, it is a pleasure to see beautiful things grow under our hands.
I am going to tell you about two very happy men, who both lived in the same place—a small city in Peru. One was an artist, who spent all his time painting pictures. Let me introduce you into his home, that you may see in what kind of place this happy mortal passed his days.
THE ARTIST AT WORK.
THE ARTIST AT WORK.
THE ARTIST AT WORK.
The room in which he painted—his studio—was below the level of the ground. To reach it from the street you went down three broken stone steps. Pretty much all the light the artist had came from the ever-open doorway. The floor was covered with straw, and scraps of vegetables, among which chickens and guinea-pigs picked up a living. His two best friends, a dog and a cat, usually shared the room withhim. The cat had lost its ears and its tail, but was not the less liked by her master on that account. She was very fond of getting on his shoulder as he bent over his work, and sometimes would take a quite comfortable nap there.
Certainly it was not a beautiful home that made the artist happy.
He had the misfortune to be married to a woman who would have made most men miserable. She scolded from morning to night. The artist never could please her. No matter what he did, it was sure to be wrong in her eyes. She would stop while stirring the pot, and rail at him, shaking her greasy spoon to give emphasis to what she was saying. But the artist answered her never a word. He was so absorbed in his work that it is probable he did not hear her, half the time.
And so it was not pleasant companionship, and loving words that made him happy.
He could not even procure the proper materials for the work he loved so much. There were no shops in all that region where such things were sold. In our cities there are shops in which an artist can buy everything he needs. But our happy man could only pick up a few colors from the apothecary—the others he got himself from earths and stones he found among the mountains. From the grocer he obtained oil. The smoke of his candle furnished him with black, and his brushes he manufactured himself from the hair of the dogs killed in the city. Instead of canvas he used white cotton cloth, which he prepared in some sort of fashion; and then stretched, and tacked to a board.
With these materials, and under such disadvantages did our artist work. And he painted very good pictures too. Some of them were taken to Europe, and to the United States, and sold for twenty times more than was paid to our artist for them. But he did not know this; and the small sums he received sufficed for his simple wants.
He was always happy because his painting was to him a perpetual delight. His business was his pleasure.
THE SCULPTOR AT WORK.
THE SCULPTOR AT WORK.
THE SCULPTOR AT WORK.
The other happy man was also an artist. He was a sculptor. His statues were very singular-looking; and to our eyes, very ugly. But the people in that Peruvian town admired them greatly, and the sculptor himself thought them beautiful, and so it was all the same, as far as he was concerned, as if they really had been beautiful.
Clothed in rags and tatters, he worked faithfully in his studio, piecing together legs, and arms, and bodies, and heads, until he had an image of a man, woman, or child, that satisfied him. His room was a little better than the painter’s, but the walls were of rough stone; and, as for furniture, he would have laughed at the idea of having any.
He had such strongly marked Indian features that his face was not pleasant at first sight, but he was always in such a good humor that one soon forgot he was not handsome.
This sculptor worked in plaster. He moulded different parts of the body, and hung them up on his walls. The legs, arms, &c. were provided with wooden pegs, so that they could be properly fastened together. When he wanted to make an image he would take down the different members he required, and put them together. If they did not fit properly he would cut out blocks of plaster, and patch them up.
These statues were all colored, and the sculptor had as much difficulty in getting his colors as the painter, only he did not require so many.
One of the queer things about his statues was that they all had glass eyes! And this is the way he made them. He put fragments of window glass, cut in the shape of eyes, into a frying pan pierced with holes about an inch in diameter. As soon as the heat softened the glass sufficiently he would press the pieces down into the holes with a metal stick, and thus they would be rounded like eyes.
He procured his tools how and where he could. Old nails, old brushes, worn-out knife blades, and even sheep bones, furnished him materials.
But he took great pleasure in making these images that he thought so lovely, and which charmed his neighbors. And, occupied in this fascinating business, he had no time to think of his poverty, and troubles. He was as happy as the day is long.