Miss Martha Beeecham owned the little bakery on the corner. One where you go up three steps and a little bell tinkles when you open the door.
Miss Martha was forty, her bankbook showed the savings of two thousand dollars, and she had two false teeth and a kind heart. Over the years Miss Martha had many opportunities to get married but she never did.
Two or three times a week a man came into her bakery. She began to take an interest in him. He was middle-aged, wore glasses, and spoke with a strong German accent. His clothes were a little worn and wrinkled but he looked neat and had very good manners.
He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five cents a loaf. Stale ones were two for five. He never bought anything but stale bread.
Once Miss Martha noticed a red and brown stain on his fingers. She decided he must be an artist and very poor. He probably lived in a small rented room, where he painted pictures, ate stale bread and dreamed of the good food in Miss Martha’s bakery.
Often when miss Martha sat down th eat her dinner she would sigh. She felt sorry for the artist. She wished that he would share her delicious meal instead of eating his stale bread in his cold little room. Miss Martha’s heart, as you have been told, was kind.
One day she decided to test her theory that he was an artist. She bought a painting at a sale and hung it on the wall behind the bread counter.
It was a painting of Venice. There ware beautiful marble buildings, water with boats in it, and a lady sitting in one of the boats admiring the sunset. An artist would certainly notice it.
Two days later the customer came in.
“Two loafs of stale bread, please,” he said in his strong accent. “You have a fine picture here madam,” he said while she was putting the bread in a bag.
“Yes?” said Miss Martha, smiling to herself. “I do admire art and…” No, she thought. It was too early to say “artists”… “and… paintings,” she said instead. “Do you think it’s a good picture?”
“That palace has not been drawn correctly,” said the customer. “The perspective is not accurate. Have a good morning, madam.”
He took his bread, bowed and hurried out.
Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha put the picture in her room.
How kind and gentle his eyes shone behind his glasses! He had such an intelligent mind! He could judge perspective in a second – and he lived on stale bread! But great artists often have to struggle before they become famous.
What a great thing it would be for the art world if a talent like his was helped by two thousand dollars, a bakery and a kind heart. These were Miss Martha’s daydreams.
He began to stop for a chat when he came into the bakery. He seemed to enjoy Miss Martha’s company.
He continued buying stale bread. He never bought a cake or pie or any of the other delicious food.
She thought he began to look thinner and a little sad. She desperately wanted to give him something good to eat, but she couldn’t. She knew that artists were proud people, and she didn’t want to hurt his pride.
Miss Martha began to wear her favorite blue dress in the bakery. She also bought a special face cream to improve her complexion.
One day the customer came in as usual, put his five cents on the counter, and asked for two loaves of stale bread. While miss Martha was reaching to get them a fire truck went past.It was tooting its horn and ringing its bell. The customer hurried to the door to look, as anyone would.
At that moment Miss Martha had an idea. She quickly made a deep cut in both the loaves, and put in a big piece of fresh butter in each one. Then she pressed the loaves tightly together again.
When the customer turned around she was putting the loaves in a bag. Then they had a very pleasant little chat. After he had gone Miss Martha smiled to herself, and felt her heart beating faster.
She wondered if she had been too bold. Would he be offended? But surely it was all right for a baker to give some butter to a customer.
For a long time that day she thought about her gift. She imagined what would happen when he discovered the butter.
He would put down his paintbrush and paints. The picture he was painting would have perfect perspective. He would be hungry. He would slice into his stale loaf and – ah!
Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed the butter there while he ate it? Would he…
The front door bell rung loudly. Somebody was coming in making a lot of noise. Miss Martha hurried to the front.
Two men were there. One was a young man she had never seen before. The other was her artist. His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head and his hair was messy. He shook both his fists furiously at Miss Martha.
“You idiot!” he shouted very loudly. And then he shouted some other words in German which she didn’t understand.
The young man tried to lead him out of the bakery.
“I will not go!” he said angrily, “until I have told her.” He hit the top of Miss Martha’s counter with his fist.
“You have ruined my life,” he cried, his blue eye burning behind his glasses. “I will tell you how, you silly old cat!”
Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves. The young man took him by the collar.
“Come on,” the young man said, “you’ve said enough.” He dragged his angry companion out the door to the street, and then came back.
“I guess I should tell you, madam, what the problem is,” he said. “That’s Mr.Blumberger. He’s an architect. We work in the same office.
“He’s been working for three months on a plan for the new city hall. It was a prize competition. He finished drawing the lines in ink yesterday. You know that a draughtsman always draws his lines in pencil first. When the drawing’s finished he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale breadcrumbes. It works better than any eraser.
“Blumberger’s been buying the bread here. Well, today – well, you know, madam, that butter… Blumberger’s drawing has been ruined.”
Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off her favorite blue dress and put on the old brown one that she used to wear. Then she picked up her special face cream and dropped it out the window.
