"That woman's art-jargon tires me," said Clovis to his journalist
friend. "She's so fond of talking of certain pictures as 'growing on
one,' as though they were a sort of fungus."
"That reminds me," said the journalist, "of the story of Henri Deplis.
Have I ever told it you?"
Clovis shook his head.
"Henri Deplis was by birth a native of the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg.
On maturer reflection he became a commercial traveller. His business
activities frequently took him beyond the limits of the Grand Duchy,
and he was stopping in a small town of Northern Italy when news reached
him from home that a legacy from a distant and deceased relative had
fallen to his share.
"It was not a large legacy, even from the modest standpoint of Henri
Deplis, but it impelled him towards some seemingly harmless
extravagances. In particular it led him to patronize local art as
represented by the tattoo-needles of Signor Andreas Pincini. Signor
Pincini was, perhaps, the most brilliant master of tattoo craft that
Italy had ever known, but his circumstances were decidedly
impoverished, and for the sum of six hundred francs he gladly undertook
to cover his client's back, from the collar-bone down to the waistline,
with a glowing representation of the Fall of Icarus. The design, when
finally developed, was a slight disappointment to Monsieur Deplis, who
had suspected Icarus of being a fortress taken by Wallenstein in the
Thirty Years' War, but he was more than satisfied with the execution of
the work, which was acclaimed by all who had the privilege of seeing it
as Pincini's masterpiece.
"It was his greatest effort, and his last. Without even waiting to be
paid, the illustrious craftsman departed this life, and was buried
under an ornate tombstone, whose winged cherubs would have afforded
singularly little scope for the exercise of his favourite art. There
remained, however, the widow Pincini, to whom the six hundred francs
were due. And thereupon arose the great crisis in the life of Henri
Deplis, traveller of commerce. The legacy, under the stress of
numerous little calls on its substance, had dwindled to very
insignificant proportions, and when a pressing wine bill and sundry
other current accounts had been paid, there remained little more than
430 francs to offer to the widow. The lady was properly indignant, not
wholly, as she volubly explained, on account of the suggested
writing-off of 170 francs, but also at the attempt to depreciate the
value of her late husband's acknowledged masterpiece. In a week's time
Deplis was obliged to reduce his offer to 405 francs, which
circumstance fanned the widow's indignation into a fury. She cancelled
the sale of the work of art, and a few days later Deplis learned with a
sense of consternation that she had presented it to the municipality of
Bergamo, which had gratefully accepted it. He left the neighbourhood
as unobtrusively as possible, and was genuinely relieved when his
business commands took him to Rome, where he hoped his identity and
that of the famous picture might be lost sight of.
"But he bore on his back the burden of the dead man's genius. On
presenting himself one day in the steaming corridor of a vapour bath,
he was at once hustled back into his clothes by the proprietor, who was
a North Italian, and who emphatically refused to allow the celebrated
Fall of Icarus to be publicly on view without the permission of the
municipality of Bergamo. Public interest and official vigilance
increased as the matter became more widely known, and Deplis was unable
to take a simple dip in the sea or river on the hottest afternoon
unless clothed up to the collarbone in a substantial bathing garment.
Later on the authorities of Bergamo conceived the idea that salt water
might be injurious to the masterpiece, and a perpetual injunction was
obtained which debarred the muchly harassed commercial traveller from
sea bathing under any circumstances. Altogether, he was fervently
thankful when his firm of employers found him a new range of activities
in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux. His thankfulness, however, ceased
abruptly at the Franco-Italian frontier. An imposing array of official
force barred his departure, and he was sternly reminded of the
stringent law which forbids the exportation of Italian works of art.
"A diplomatic parley ensued between the Luxemburgian and Italian
Governments, and at one time the European situation became overcast
with the possibilities of trouble. But the Italian Government stood
firm; it declined to concern itself in the least with the fortunes or
even the existence of Henri Deplis, commercial traveller, but was
immovable in its decision that the Fall of Icarus (by the late Pincini,
Andreas) at present the property of the municipality of Bergamo, should
not leave the country.
"The excitement died down in time, but the unfortunate Deplis, who was
of a constitutionally retiring disposition, found himself a few months
later, once more the storm-centre of a furious controversy. A certain
German art expert, who had obtained from the municipality of Bergamo
permission to inspect the famous masterpiece, declared it to be a
spurious Pincini, probably the work of some pupil whom he had employed
in his declining years. The evidence of Deplis on the subject was
obviously worthless, as he had been under the influence of the
customary narcotics during the long process of pricking in the design.
The editor of an Italian art journal refuted the contentions of the
German expert and undertook to prove that his private life did not
conform to any modern standard of decency. The whole of Italy and
Germany were drawn into the dispute, and the rest of Europe was soon
involved in the quarrel. There were stormy scenes in the Spanish
Parliament, and the University of Copenhagen bestowed a gold medal on
the German expert (afterwards sending a commission to examine his
proofs on the spot), while two Polish schoolboys in Paris committed
suicide to show what THEY thought of the matter.
"Meanwhile, the unhappy human background fared no better than before,
and it was not surprising that he drifted into the ranks of Italian
anarchists. Four times at least he was escorted to the frontier as a
dangerous and undesirable foreigner, but he was always brought back as
the Fall of Icarus (attributed to Pincini, Andreas, early Twentieth
Century). And then one day, at an anarchist congress at Genoa, a
fellow-worker, in the heat of debate, broke a phial full of corrosive
liquid over his back. The red shirt that he was wearing mitigated the
effects, but the Icarus was ruined beyond recognition. His assailant
was severely reprimanded for assaulting a fellow-anarchist and received
seven years' imprisonment for defacing a national art treasure. As
soon as he was able to leave the hospital Henri Deplis was put across
the frontier as an undesirable alien.
"In the quieter streets of Paris, especially in the neighbourhood of
the Ministry of Fine Arts, you may sometimes meet a depressed,
anxious-looking man, who, if you pass him the time of day, will answer
you with a slight Luxemburgian accent. He nurses the illusion that he
is one of the lost arms of the Venus de Milo, and hopes that the French
Government may be persuaded to buy him. On all other subjects I
believe he is tolerably sane."