An auctioneer must have a compelling manner. He must be gabby and
stentorian, witheringly sarcastic and plaintively cajoling. He must be
able to detect the faintest symptoms of avarice and desire in the blink of
an eyelid, in the tilt of a head. Behind his sing-song of patter as he
knocks down a piece of useless bric-a-brac he must be able to remain cool,
remain calculating, remain like a hawk prepared to pounce upon his prey.
Passion for him must be no more than a mask; anger, sorrow, despair,
ecstasy no more than the devices of salesmanship.
But more than all this, an auctioneer must know the magic password into
the heart of the professional or amateur collector. He must know the
glittering phrases that are the keys to their hobbies. The words that
bring a gleam to the eye of the Oriental rug collector. The words that
fire the china collector. The stamp collector. The period furniture
collector. The tapestry enthusiast. The first edition fan. And so on.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I desire your expert attention for a moment. I have
here a curious little thing of exquisite workmanship said to be from the
famous collection of Count Valentine of Florence. This delicately molded,
beautifully painted candelabra has illuminated the feasts of the old
Florentines, twinkled amid the gay, courtly rioting of a time that is no
more. Before the bidding for this priceless souvenir is opened I desire,
ladies and gentlemen, to state briefly----"
* * * * *
Nathan Ludlow is an auctioneer who knows all the things an auctioneer must
know. His eye is piercing. His tongue can roll and rattle for twelve hours
at a stretch. His voice is the voice of the tempter, myriad-toned and
irresistible.
It was evening. An auspicious evening. It was the evening of Mr. Ludlow's
divorce. And Mr. Ludlow sat in his room at the Morrison Hotel, a decanter
of juniper juice at his elbow. And while he sat he talked. The subjects
varied. There were tales of Ming vases and Satsuma bargains, of porcelains
and rugs. And finally Mr. Ludlow arrived at the subject of audiences. And
from this subject he progressed with the aid of the juniper juice to the
subject of wives. And from the subject of wives he stepped casually into
the sad story of his life.
"I'll tell you," said Mr. Ludlow. "Tonight I'm a free man. Judge Pam gave
me, or gave her, rather, the divorce. I guess he did well. Maybe she was
entitled to it. Desertion and cruelty were the charges. But they don't
mean anything. The chief complaint she had against me was that I was an
auctioneer."
Mr. Ludlow sighed and ran his long, artist's fingers over his eagle
features and brushed back a Byronic lock of hair from his forehead.
"It was four years ago we met," he resumed, "in the Wabash Avenue place. I
noticed her when the bidding on a rocking chair started. A pretty girl.
And as is often the case among women who attend auctions--a bug, a fan, a
fish. You know, the kind that stiffen up when they get excited. The kind
that hang on your words and breathe hard while you cut loose with the
patter, and lose their heads when you swing into the going-going-gone
finale.
"Well, she didn't get the rocking chair. But she was game and came back on
a Chinese rug. I began to notice her considerably. My words seemed to have
an unusual effect on her. Then I could see that she was not only the kind
of fish that lose their heads at auctions, but the terrible kind that
believe everything the auctioneer says. You know, they believe that the
Oriental rugs really came from the harem of the caliph and that the
antique bed really was the one in which DuBarry slept and that the
Elizabethan tablecloth really was an Elizabethan tablecloth. They are kind
of goofily romantic and they fall hard for everything and they spend their
last penny on a lot of truck, you know. Not bad stuff and probably a good
deal more useful and lasting than the originals would have been."
* * * * *
Mr. Ludlow smiled a bit apologetically. "I'm not confessing anything you
don't know, I hope," he said. "Well, to go on about the missus. I knew I
had her from that first day. I wasn't vitally interested, but when she
returned six days in succession it got kind of flattering. And the way she
looked at me and listened to me when I pulled my stuff--say, I could have
knocked down a bouquet of paper roses for the original wreath worn by
Venus, I felt so good. That's how I began to think that she was an
inspiration to me and how I figured that if I could have somebody like her
around I'd soon have them all pocketed as auctioneers.
"I forget just how it was we met, but we did. And I swear, the way she
flattered me would have been enough to turn the head of a guy ten times
smarter than me and forty times as old. So we got married. That's skipping
a lot. But, you know, what's it all amount to, the courting and the things
you say and do before you get married? So we got married and then the fun
started.
"At first I could hardly believe what the drift of it was. But I hope to
die if she wasn't sincere in her ideas about me as an auctioneer. I didn't
get it, as I say, and that's where I made my big mistake. I let her come
to the auctions and told her not to bid. But when I'd start my patter on
some useless piece of 5-and l0-cent store bric-a-brac and give it an
identity and hint at Count Rudolph's collection and so on, she was off
like a two-year-old down a morning track.
"I didn't know how to fix it or how to head her out of it. For a month I
didn't have the heart to disillusion her. I let her buy. Damn it, I never
saw such an absolute boob as she was. She'd pick out the most worthless
junk I was knocking down and go mad over it and buy it with my good money.
It got so that I realized I was slipping. I'd get a promise from her that
she wouldn't come into the auction, but I never could be sure. And if I
felt like cutting loose on some piece of junk and knocking it down with a
lot of flourishes I knew sure as fate that the missus would be there and
that she would be the fish that caught fire first and most and that I'd be
selling the thing to myself.
"Well, after the first two months of my married life I realized that I'd
have to talk turkey to the missus. She was costing me my last nickel at
these auctions and the better auctioneer I was the more money I lost, on
account of her being so susceptible to my line of stuff. It sounds funny,
but it's a fact. So I told her. I made a clean breast. I told her what a
liar I was and how all the stuff I pulled from the auction stand was the
bunk and how she was a boob for falling for it. And so on and so on. Say,
I sold myself to her as the world's greatest, all around, low down,
hideous liar that ever walked in shoe leather. And that's how it started.
This divorce today is kind of an anti-climax. We ain't had much to do with
each other ever since that confession."
Mr. Ludlow stared sorrowfully into the remains of a glass of juniper
juice.
"I'll never marry again," he moaned. "I ain't the kind that makes a good
husband. A good husband is a man who is just an ordinary liar. And me?
Well, I'm an auctioneer."