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19.01.2022 17:30

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, чень нужна с сочинением на тему Augustus forgets his soul and paints for money. По этому тексту

You are the doctor, I suppose,” said Augustus Pokewhistle1, smiling from his bed at the immense man who had arrived secretly while he slept. “It is kind of you to come, but I fear you cannot help me. However, as you are here, I will tell you, very shortly, what is wrong with me. I am an artist. I paint pictures and I draw drawings . You are going to tell me that you are not interested in the story of my life,” Augustus laughed bitterly. But I suppose you have been sent here by some interfering socalled friend of mine, and I must therefore explain my illness. And you cannot understand my illness unless I tell you the story of my life...”
“But...”
“I was delicately brought up, and it soon became clear that I was not an
ordinary boy. At the age of seven I won a prize for a drawing of an animal. We will forget the fact that I had intended my drawing to represent Sunset over London. After that my proud parents provided me with plenty of pencils and paper and gave me the opportunity of studying under Great Painters. At the age of twentyone I started business as a painter of people, and painted eleven pictures of my own face. If you go into my sittingroom, you will see them hanging sadly on the wall...”
“But...”
“Nobody came to have their pictures painted, and I had no heart to paint any more of myself...”
“But...”
“Let me finish, and then you can say “but” as often as you like. I turned from painting people to painting the country. Nine times I painted the view from the back window, and seven times I painted the view from the front window. But could I sell the seven pictures of the view from the front window, or the nine of the view from the back window? I could not. I had little money left, and I decided, after a severe struggle with myself, to forget my soul and paint for money. I determined to draw funny pictures for the newspapers...”
“But...”

know what you are going to say – if I had had the soul of a true artist, I would have died rather than do such a thing. But remember that my wife and children were crying for bread – or would have been crying for bread if I had had a wife and children. And was it my fault that I hadn’t a wife and little сhildren? So I made thirty or forty funny drawings every day and sent them to the papers. I soon found that selling one’s soul for money is not so easy as it sounds. Believe it or not, I got no money. I just got my drawings back...”
“But...”
“You may well ask why they were sent back. I cannot tell you. Then I sank lower and lower. I tried drawing for advertisements. Clothes, pianos, bottles. I sent them off by the hundred.
“But...”
“So I gave up the struggle. My heart was broken, and I determined to take to my bed, never to rise again. You cannot help me, doctor. I feel it in my bones that I shall never rise from this bed...”
“And I feel it in my bones that you will,” said the stranger, carefully placing Augustus Pokewhistle on the carpet, “because I’ve come to take it away. I’m from the furniture shop, and the bed isn’t paid for.”