'The Pencil Seller' by Robert Service


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A pencil, sir; a penny -- won't you buy?
I'm cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don't turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven't made a single sale to-night.
Oh, thank you, sir; but take the pencil too;
I'm not a beggar, I'm a business man.
Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue;
It's hard, but still I do the best I can.
Most days I make enough to pay for bread,
A cup o' coffee, stretching room at night.
One needs so little -- to be warm and fed,
A hole to kennel in -- oh, one's all right . . .

Excuse me, you're a painter, are you not?
I saw you looking at that dealer's show,
The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot --
What do I know of Art? What do I know . . .
Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed,
"White Sorcery" it's called, all gossamer,
And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid
(You like the little elfin face of her?) --
That's good; but still, the picture as a whole,
The values, -- Pah! He never painted worse;
Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal,
His cupboard bare, no money in his purse.
Perhaps . . . they say he labored hard and long,
And see now, in the harvest of his fame,
When round his pictures people gape and throng,
A scurvy dealer sells this on his name.
A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe;
A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit,
Unworthy of his art. . . . How should I know?
How should I know? I'm Strong -- I painted it.

There now, I didn't mean to let that out.
It came in spite of me -- aye, stare and stare.
You think I'm lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt --
Think what you like, it's neither here nor there.
It's hard to tell so terrible a truth,
To gain to glory, yet be such as I.
It's true; that picture's mine, done in my youth,
Up in a garret near the Paris sky.
The child's my daughter; aye, she posed for me.
That's why I come and sit here every night.
The painting's bad, but still -- oh, still I see
Her little face all laughing in the light.
So now you understand. -- I live in fear
Lest one like you should carry it away;
A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear!
"Don't let them buy it, pitying God!" I pray!
And hark ye, sir -- sometimes my brain's awhirl.
Some night I'll crash into that window pane
And snatch my picture back, my little girl,
And run and run. . . .

I'm talking wild again;
A crab can't run. I'm crippled, withered, lame,
Palsied, as good as dead all down one side.
No warning had I when the evil came:
It struck me down in all my strength and pride.
Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power;
Honor was mine, Fame's laurel touched my brow;
Glory was mine -- within a little hour
I was a god and . . . what you find me now.

My child, that little, laughing girl you see,
She was my nurse for all ten weary years;
Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me;
Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears.
And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare,
Lost, lost to me -- what could my heart but break!
Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair,
I would have killed myself but for her sake. . . .

By luck I had some pictures I could sell,
And so we fought the wolf back from the door;
She painted too, aye, wonderfully well.
We often dreamed of brighter days in store.
And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail;
I saw the shadows darken round her eyes.
So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale,
And oh, there came a day she could not rise.
The doctor looked at her; he shook his head,
And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air:
"If you can get her out of this," he said,
"She'll have a fighting chance with proper care."

"With proper care!" When he had gone away,
I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief.
Under my old and ragged coat she lay,
Our room was bare and cold beyond belief.
"Maybe," I thought, "I still can paint a bit,
Some lilies, landscape, anything at all."
Alas! My brush, I could not steady it.
Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall.
"With proper care" -- how could I give her that,
Half of me dead? . . . I crawled down to the street.
Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat
And begged of every one I chanced to meet.
I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread,
And so I fought to keep the Doom away;
And yet I saw with agony of dread
My dear one sinking, sinking day by day.
And then I was awakened in the night:
"Please take my hands, I'm cold," I heard her sigh;
And soft she whispered, as she held me tight:
"Oh daddy, we've been happy, you and I!"
I do not think she suffered any pain,
She breathed so quietly . . . but though I tried,
I could not warm her little hands again:
And so there in the icy dark she died. . . .
The dawn came groping in with fingers gray
And touched me, sitting silent as a stone;
I kissed those piteous lips, as cold as clay --
I did not cry, I did not even moan.
At last I rose, groped down the narrow stair;
An evil fog was oozing from the sky;
Half-crazed I stumbled on, I knew not where,
Like phantoms were the folks that passed me by.
How long I wandered thus I do not know,
But suddenly I halted, stood stock-still --
Beside a door that spilled a golden glow
I saw a name, my name, upon a bill.
"A Sale of Famous Pictures," so it read,
"A Notable Collection, each a gem,
Distinguished Works of Art by painters dead."
The folks were going in, I followed them.
I stood upon the outskirts of the crowd,
I only hoped that none might notice me.
Soon, soon I heard them call my name aloud:
"A `David Strong', his Fete in Brittany."
(A brave big picture that, the best I've done,
It glowed and kindled half the hall away,
With all its memories of sea and sun,
Of pipe and bowl, of joyous work and play.
I saw the sardine nets blue as the sky,
I saw the nut-brown fisher-boats put out.)
"Five hundred pounds!" rapped out a voice near by;
"Six hundred!" "Seven!" "Eight!" And then a shout:
"A thousand pounds!" Oh, how I thrilled to hear!
Oh, how the bids went up by leaps, by bounds!
And then a silence; then the auctioneer:
"It's going! Going! Gone! Three thousand pounds!"
Three thousand pounds! A frenzy leapt in me.
"That picture's mine," I cried; "I'm David Strong.
I painted it, this famished wretch you see;
I did it, I, and sold it for a song.
And in a garret three small hours ago
My daughter died for want of Christian care.
Look, look at me! . . . Is it to mock my woe
You pay three thousand for my picture there?" . . .

O God! I stumbled blindly from the hall;
The city crashed on me, the fiendish sounds
Of cruelty and strife, but over all
"Three thousand pounds!" I heard; "Three thousand pounds!"

There, that's my story, sir; it isn't gay.
Tales of the Poor are never very bright . . .
You'll look for me next time you pass this way . . .
I hope you'll find me, sir; good-night, good-night.

Editor 1 Interpretation

The Pencil Seller by Robert Service: A Literary Criticism and Interpretation

Oh, what a delight it is to read The Pencil Seller by Robert Service! This classic poem, written in the early 20th century, is a masterpiece of storytelling and imagery. In these few stanzas, Service captures the essence of human struggle, the pursuit of dreams, and the bittersweet reality of life. As a literary critic and interpreter, I am thrilled to share my thoughts and insights on this timeless work of art.

Background and Context

Robert Service was a Scottish poet and writer who lived from 1874 to 1958. He is best known for his poems and stories set in the Canadian wilderness, which he experienced firsthand as a bank clerk and later as a writer for a mining company. Service's works often deal with themes of adventure, hardship, and the human spirit.

The Pencil Seller was first published in Service's book, Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, which was released in 1916 during World War I. The book was a huge success and established Service as a leading poet of his time. The Pencil Seller is one of the most popular poems in the book and has since become a classic in its own right.

The poem tells the story of a poor man who sells pencils on the street. Despite his humble occupation, the man has dreams of a better life and keeps a penny in his pocket as a symbol of hope. As the day goes on, the man encounters various people, some of whom are kind and generous, while others are cruel and dismissive. In the end, the man's hopes are dashed, but he remains resilient and determined to keep moving forward.

Themes and Motifs

The Pencil Seller is a rich and complex poem that explores a variety of themes and motifs. One of the most prominent themes is the struggle of the working class. The man in the poem is a symbol of the millions of people around the world who work hard every day just to make ends meet. He is a reminder that poverty and hardship are not choices, but circumstances that many people are born into and cannot easily escape.

Another theme in the poem is the power of hope. Despite his difficult situation, the man in the poem maintains a sense of optimism and faith in the future. His penny represents not just a small amount of money, but a symbol of his dreams and aspirations. The fact that he keeps it with him at all times shows that he is committed to realizing his goals, no matter how distant they may seem.

The poem also explores the dynamics of human interaction. The man encounters a variety of people throughout his day, some of whom are kind and generous, while others are callous and dismissive. This reflects the reality of life, where people can be both cruel and compassionate, often in equal measure. The man's experiences show that even small acts of kindness can make a huge difference in someone's life, while thoughtless words and actions can cause pain and suffering.

Finally, the poem touches on the themes of resilience and determination. Despite the setbacks and disappointments he faces, the man in the poem never gives up. He continues to sell his pencils and keep his hopes alive, even when it seems like all is lost. This is a powerful reminder that no matter how difficult life may be, we can always choose to keep going and never give up on our dreams.

Imagery and Symbolism

One of the most striking features of The Pencil Seller is its vivid imagery and powerful symbolism. Service uses language to create a rich and evocative world, populated by a variety of characters and settings.

The man's pencils, for example, are a symbol of his trade and his dreams. They represent not just a means of making a living, but also a gateway to a better life. The fact that the man carries them with him everywhere he goes shows just how important they are to him.

The penny in the man's pocket is another powerful symbol. It represents his hopes and aspirations, as well as his determination to never give up. The fact that it is just a small amount of money highlights the man's humble origins and his struggle to make a better life for himself.

The poem also uses imagery to create a sense of place and atmosphere. The bustling city streets, the harsh winter weather, and the various people the man encounters all combine to create a vivid and immersive world. Service's use of sensory language, such as the sound of the man's pencils scratching on paper or the cold wind blowing through the streets, adds to the poem's realism and emotional impact.

Interpretation and Analysis

So, what does The Pencil Seller mean? As with any great work of literature, there are many potential interpretations and analyses. Here are a few of my thoughts on the poem:

Conclusion

In conclusion, The Pencil Seller by Robert Service is a masterful work of literature that continues to resonate with readers today. Through its vivid imagery, powerful symbolism, and complex themes, the poem offers a compelling meditation on the human struggle and the pursuit of hope and happiness. As a literary critic and interpreter, I am thrilled to have had the opportunity to delve into its rich and rewarding depths.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The Pencil Seller: A Classic Poem by Robert Service

The Pencil Seller is a classic poem written by Robert Service, a renowned poet and writer known for his works that capture the essence of human emotions and experiences. This poem, in particular, is a beautiful portrayal of the struggles of a pencil seller who tries to make a living by selling pencils on the streets. In this article, we will take a closer look at the poem and analyze its themes, imagery, and language.

The poem begins with the introduction of the pencil seller, who is described as a man with a "weary smile" and a "threadbare coat." He carries a basket of pencils on his arm and walks the streets, trying to sell his wares to passersby. The opening lines of the poem immediately set the tone for what is to come - a story of hardship and perseverance.

As the poem progresses, we see the pencil seller's struggles in more detail. He is ignored by most people, who walk past him without a second glance. He is mocked by children, who taunt him with cries of "Pencils, pencils, two for a penny!" He is even threatened by a group of toughs, who demand that he leave their street. Despite all of this, the pencil seller remains determined to make a sale.

One of the most striking aspects of The Pencil Seller is its use of imagery. Service paints a vivid picture of the pencil seller's world, using language that is both beautiful and poignant. For example, he describes the pencil seller's basket as "a rainbow of color" and his pencils as "a magic wand." These descriptions serve to elevate the humble pencil seller and his wares, making them seem almost magical in their own right.

Another powerful image in the poem is that of the pencil seller's smile. Despite his weariness and the hardships he faces, he continues to smile at those who pass him by. This smile is described as "a ray of sunshine" and "a beacon of hope." It is a symbol of the pencil seller's resilience and his refusal to give up in the face of adversity.

The language used in The Pencil Seller is also worth noting. Service's use of rhyme and meter gives the poem a musical quality that is both pleasing to the ear and effective in conveying its message. The repetition of phrases like "Pencils, pencils, two for a penny!" and "Buy a pencil, sir?" serves to emphasize the pencil seller's persistence and his unwavering commitment to his trade.

At its core, The Pencil Seller is a poem about the human spirit. It is a tribute to those who work hard and persevere in the face of adversity, even when the odds are stacked against them. The pencil seller is a symbol of this spirit, and his struggles are a reminder that even the smallest of victories can be cause for celebration.

In conclusion, The Pencil Seller is a classic poem that has stood the test of time. Its themes of perseverance, resilience, and hope are as relevant today as they were when the poem was first written. Service's use of imagery and language is masterful, and his portrayal of the pencil seller is both moving and inspiring. This poem is a testament to the power of poetry to capture the essence of the human experience and to touch the hearts of readers everywhere.

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