digibutter.nerr

[Joshamuffin]

I'm actually not sure if he wanted me to post it. But oh well.







The Artist and the Beggar

The Renaissance was a time of artistic ability and skill. A man was not dignified by the money in his wallet; but instead by the paintings on his walls. An artist, a poet, a writer, an architect... if you worked in any form of art, you were considered to be above those who did not do so well with their hands and tools. This does not go to say that those who were considered artists looked down upon those who were not. True, some may have, but not all; and this is a story about one kind man, and his fateful meeting with a beggar that changed both their lives.
One day a poor man was wandering around in the rain near a famous artist's house. He was wet, tired, and hungry, but he had no place to stay. In turn, he had nowhere else that would have been more worthwhile for him to bum around. The artist was known for his kindness, and perhaps he would let the beggar inside if he saw his suffering. The beggar made quite a show of himself; he shivered, grabbed his stomach as if he were having hunger pains, and even went so far as to chase a small animal in the attempt that the artist would think he was hunting for food.
Eventually the artist opened his door and shouted to the beggar, "Come in, my friend!"
"Oh, no, sir," replied the beggar, "I could not possibly walk in your famous house!"
"Yes, yes, you can, sir," replied the artist with a laugh, "I do not restrict my house from those who are poor! My doorstep is open for any man to walk upon it!"
"Oh what kindness, sir," replied the beggar as he walked into the house.
"Do you enjoy the scenery?" queried the artist.
"My god, your paintings are beautiful," remarked the beggar as he reached out for one.
"There are no gods here, my friend," said the artist as he gently pulled the beggar's hand away from his art, "just me and my art. If it is god you are wishing to see, I advise you visit a church instead." The artist walked into his kitchen, then leaned back out and said "Come into the kitchen, my friend, and we shall have a meal."
The beggar entered his kitchen, and, saw that on the artist's table was a fully prepared meal. It was a feast! There was savory watermelon, fresh slices of ham, warm bread, and the finest wine the beggar had ever seen. He was about to reach for a slice of ham before he realized what he was doing.
"Is there not another meal prepared for me, sir?" he asked, "something more fit for a beggar?"
"No, my friend, this meal is ours," replied the artist, "and after we have our fill, if you are tired you may sleep on my bed."
"Such kindness!" Exclaimed the beggar, "I had never thought that a man such as I would have a meal this great!" The beggar ate as much as he could, knowing that this kindness was rare, and his next meal might be farther ahead than an empty stomach could bear. The artist left the room, and went immediately to his canvas, where he began to paint an image of the beggar. The beggar noticed that the artist was painting him, and asked him why.
"Well, my friend," said the artist, "you inspired me!"
"How so?" asked the beggar.
"No other painter," stated the artist, "paints pictures of those who have no money. They paint for greed, not for art. You, my beggar friend, are not a man with full pockets. Indeed, you are a man without pockets, if all you have to wear are those rags." The beggar just nodded, and allowed the artist to continue talking.
"I do not paint out of the want for money, my friend, I paint out of inspiration. Many a day do I walk down the streets where I see beggars, but never have I seen a beggar in my own home." The beggar frowned, and scratched his head. He was uncomfortable with the conversation, and the artist quickly noticed this.
"But I do not mean to make less of you, my friend. You are brave, braver than I," said the artist to the beggar, "because you have taken my offerings. Every other beggar I saw at my doorstep declined my offers, and never stepped past my porch." The beggar gave a half smile, still not talking.
"But is it bravery that brought you here, or hunger?" questioned the artist. The beggar began to speak, but the artist quickly began speaking, himself. "No, my friend, that is not a question for you to answer." They went on with the rest of the night in silence, the beggar watching the artist, the artist painting the beggar. That night, the beggar slept in the artist's bed, and the artist on the floor. When the artist awoke, however, the beggar was gone, and he had left a note on the table.
"Thank you, my friend," the note read, "for you have done me a great good. You see, I was once an artist like you, but I gave up my art because all I saw in the others was greed and the hunger for power. I put down my brush, and vowed to never paint for money again. I quickly became poor, and a beggar as well. I have seen now that you do not have to give up art to be kind. I will pursue art again, and I will write a poem in your honor."
The artist put the note down, and walked to the doorway and looked to see if the beggar was still there. He was not.
"A strange man, that was," he said to himself. "Quiet as could be. Never conversed, merely apologized and asked questions." The artist looked out the window and thought on this for a while.
"Perhaps," the artist said, after a time, "this entire endeavor would have been worthwhile," he continued, "if we had exchanged names."

End