"
Whatever talent or genius the Pomeranian artist might possess, it
certainly failed to receive commercial sanction. The portfolio remained
bulky with unsold sketches, and the "Euston Siesta," as the wits of the
Nuremberg nicknamed the large canvas, was still in the market. The
outward and visible signs of financial embarrassment began to be
noticeable; the half-bottle of cheap claret at dinner-time gave way to a
small glass of lager, and this in turn was displaced by water. The one-
and-sixpenny set dinner receded from an everyday event to a Sunday
extravagance; on ordinary days the artist contented himself with a
sevenpenny omelette and some bread and cheese, and there were evenings
when he did not put in an appearance at all. On the rare occasions when
he spoke of his own affairs it was observed that he began to talk more
about Pomerania and less about the great world of art.
"It is a busy time there now with us," he said wistfully; "the schwines
are driven out into the fields after harvest, and must be looked after. I
could be helping to look after if I was there. Here it is difficult to
live; art is not appreciate."
"Why don't you go home on a visit?" some one asked tactfully.
"Ah, it cost money! There is the ship passage to Stolpmunde, and there
is money that I owe at my lodgings. Even here I owe a few schillings. If
I could sell some of my sketches--"
"Perhaps," suggested Mrs. Nougat-Jones, "if you were to offer them for a
little less, some of us would be glad to buy a few.
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