A group of tourists were on a guided tour through an ancient castle in Europe.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the guide said. “This castle is over 700 years old. Nothing has been altered or touched in all those years.”
“Sounds like they have the same cheap landlord I have!” exclaimed one of the tourists.
A big, burly man visited the pastor’s home and asked to see the minister’s wife, a woman well known for her charitable impulses.
“Madam,” he said in a broken voice. “I wish to draw your attention to the terrible plight of a poor family in this district. The father is dead, the mother is too ill to work, and the nine children are starving. They are about to be turned out onto the cold, empty streets unless someone pays their rent, which amounts to $400.”
“How terrible!” exclaimed the preacher’s wife. “May I ask who you are?”
They sympathetic visitor applied his handkerchief to his eyes. “I’m the landlord,” he sobbed.
Walpole had lived in his loft for six months, and by now it was filled with the paintings he had created. He worked day and night, stopping only occasionally for something to eat. He thought little about food and less about sleep. But what he thought about least of all was his rent.
As a result, his landlord now stood before him, demanding the three months’ rent Walpole owed on the loft.
“Give me a couple of weeks,” Walpole pleaded. “I know I’m on the verge of making some sales.”
“Absolutely not,” the landlord said. “You gave me that story last month. You won’t get another day’s credit from me.”
“Look,” Walpole said. “Think of it as an investment. Someday this loft will be famous, and you’ll be able to charge a fortune for it. In a few years, people will come into this disgusting loft and whisper, ‘Walpole used to paint here.'”
“Pay your rent now,” the landlord said. “Or they’ll be able to say it tomorrow morning.”