in paris, at the beginning of the industrial revolution...

many years ago, in paris, at the beginning of the industrial revolution, two artists were born. one was a poor child whose parents couldn't afford to buy him materials. he did odd jobs to buy paints and canvas. the other was wealthy and always had everything he needed. despite this, they were very close friends. the wealthy one would give the poorer one supplies whenever he could. they grew up, and the wealthy friend was apprenticed to a painter, who considered his talent mediocre. disappointed, the young aristocrat went to a university and studied to become a doctor. the poor child could no longer work odd jobs or beg, so he started washing dishes at an inn. the two lost contact, separated by distance and social class. in his spare time, the poor painter would sketch on the back of thrown away flyers and news papers, because he could no longer afford paint or canvas. his sketches showed that he was a genius, but they all ended up in a locked drawer in his nightstand, in the servant's quarters of the inn.

after many years, the two met by chance. the doctor, on a visit to a patient, ended up at the inn where the painter worked. they recognized each other and sat down for a glass of wine. as they were drinking and making small talk, the painter grabbed the doctor's hand. -look, brother,- he said, -how beautiful your hands are. one can see that you care for them well, wearing fine gloves, washing them with cold water, and rubbing them with oils and lotions. you have the hands of a painter.- the doctor sat quietly, seeing that his friend was close to tears. -and i, - continued the painter, -have the hands of a dishwasher. i have spent many years handling rough soap and sponges. my hands are dry and cracked, my knuckles bleed, and if i touched a canvas it would be stained with cooking grease and soot. how fortunate, then, that one of us can still follow our art.- of course, the painter had no idea his friend had changed professions; they hadn't spoken in many years. the doctor excused himself and went to check on his patient. the painter drew a sketch of his friend sitting in a straight-backed chair, his long, delicate fingers holding a wine glass by the stem. they never saw each other again.

the doctor went upstairs and gave his patient a dose of laudanum, to ease his pain, and help him sleep. as was common at the time, the dose was inexact, and the patient suffered a fatal overdose. the doctor lost his reputation and his practice. one night, he sat down with a bottle of wine and a pipe of opium, loaded his pistol, and blew his brains out. his body was found several days later, his hands covered with gunpowder, blood, and small bits of his own skull. the painter never heard of his death, continued washing dishes, and died in anonymity.

when the innkeeper cleaned out the painter's nightstand, he found the sketches, which he sold to a wealthy patron. the patron recognized their value and sold them to a gallery. the gallery sold them to aristocrats and business tycoons, who, upon their deaths, donated them to museums. the museums exposed them to the artists and people of paris. they were recognized as works of genius, praised in social circles, copied in artistic movements, broken down to their last nuance in university courses, to their last detail in a hundred fashionable critiques, and then forgotten.