OF THE APPROVED METHOD OF DOING BUSINESS WITH AN ITALIAN DEALER—OF
THE ARTISTIC DECEPTION OF THE CUSTOMER—OF THE MASTERFUL PROFANITY
AND THE UNCONVINCING ASSEVERATIONS OF THE DEALER—AND OF THE
ULTIMATE SATISFACTION OF BOTH PARTIES
The purchase of antiques in Italy, in order to be successful, must be
attended with enormous amounts of subtlety, gesticulation, swearing,
lying, and passion. The proceeding is, or should be somewhat as follows:
The antiquer first locates an antique-shop, which he does by walking
along a street until he is struck in the nose by a peculiarly fusty
odor, faintly resembling recently disinterred boots, and finds
the proprietor sitting in a gloomy corner of the shop writing,
or pretending to write, in a ledger and giving an excellent but
unconscious imitation of a large spider observing the approach of a
juicy bluebottle fly.
The customer greets the proprietor simply but elegantly, and the
proprietor, going on with his writing, replies in an apparently
perfunctory and preoccupied manner. Then the customer proceeds to
look about. He notes without interest the worm-eaten sideboards and
chests, the paintings of anæmic bunches of flowers, the bronze mortars
and pestles made in Florence, the Venetian mirrors that make the face
look as though it had been run through a clothes-wringer, the venerable
priests’ vestments and coatments and pantments, and the hanging silver
lamps made out of superb tin; and finally his eye lights on, say, a
marble plaque of a Pope’s head from a monastery wall.
It has an air, that plaque. He examines it carefully while pretending
to scrutinize a small but offensive painting of Saint Mark’s by
Moonlight. The buying fever seizes him, and he prepares for action.
“Have you not a pair of beaten-iron candlesticks in the Venetian
manner, projecting straight out from the wall?” he asks the proprietor,
making gestures like a candlestick. He asks this question in order to
provide a smoke-screen for his future movements.
“No, signore,” replies the proprietor gloomily. “We had them, but they
were sold yesterday.”
“Ah,” says the customer in disappointment. He starts as though to go;
and then, as an afterthought, he picks up a bronze mortar and weighs
it meditatively. “This little thing, now,” he ventures. “The price
unquestionably is prohibitive, eh?”
“A very fine thing, very old and very fine,” says the dealer, examining
it appreciatively. “And very cheap, signore; very cheap. Four hundred
lire only, signore.”
The signore laughs loudly and bitterly and turns away with a shudder.
“Cheap!” he ejaculates in scornful tones, “Cheap! You mistake me for
two millionaires. Madonna! What a price! For such a thing as that
good-for-nothing imitation in the corner, that pretended Pope’s head,
you would probably charge such an impossible price as one hundred lire!”
“Hah!” says the dealer, staring carefully at the customer. “Hah!” Then
he goes over to the corner and looks at the Pope’s head as though he
were seeing it for the first time.
“Signore,” he says solemnly, “this is a very fine and very rare piece.
It is an historical piece. I will sell it for one tenth of its value.”
“Ah, true?” asks the customer sarcastically. “And what is that,
signore?”
“Six hundred lire, signore,” replies the dealer calmly.
“Body of Bacchus!” gasps the customer, as though he had been mortally
wounded. “Six hundred lire! Are you mad, signore? It is robbery! The
thing is good for nothing! It would be dear at sixty lire!”
“Signore,” declares the dealer earnestly, “your words are an insult.
That Pope is worthy of a museum. Look at it, signore! In the large
establishments you would pay six thousand lire for it. Signore, I am
experienced in the buying and selling of antiques. In selling it at six
hundred lire, I am giving it away.”
The customer shakes his head pityingly. “Poor little one,” says he,
“that Pope’s head is a forgery. It probably cost six lire. In buying it
at all you must have fallen among thieves.”
“Signore, it is not true,” says the dealer indignantly. “It is a gift
at six hundred lire.”
“Pah!” says the customer, wagging his extended thumb and forefinger at
the level of his ear to signify utter contempt and disbelief.
“Then what will you give, signore?” demands the proprietor in
exasperation. “Name me a fair price and let us speak about it.”
“No,” says the customer, “I do not want it. Your prices, signore, would
make a cow weep.”
“Then name me a price,” insists the proprietor. “Come, name it and let
me hear.”
“Sixty lire!” shouts the customer defiantly.
“Sixty lire!” wails the proprietor. “Presence of the Devil, signore, I
paid five hundred lire for that object. I am a poor man, signore, and
the thief of a Government takes everything away in taxes—the luxury tax
and the tax for the wounded and the export tax. One must live. Come,
signore, give me five hundred and fifty lire and take it.”
“Madonna!” cries the customer in a rage. “I would not pay five hundred
and fifty lire for a dozen of them. I will give you one hundred lire
and not another soldo.”
“Ah, Madonna!” shrieks the proprietor. “You are stealing the bread from
the mouths of my children. Ah, my God, but this business is ruining me.
No, I will not do it! Come, signore, take it for five hundred and let
us weary ourselves no longer with fruitless talk.”
“It is useless, signore,” declares the customer firmly. “I will not pay
your price. Come, now: here is my last word: wrap it up and take three
hundred lire for it.”
“Body of Bacchus,” moans the proprietor. “We cannot deal together, you
and I. Go to a cheap shop, signore. I—I am not a noted dealer, signore.
I cannot do those things. Farewell, signore.”
“Three hundred lire,” says the customer firmly.
“Three hundred and fifty,” counters the proprietor.
“Three hundred,” insists the customer hoarsely, starting toward the
door.
The proprietor gives his shoulders the tremendous shrug which, in
Italy, signifies that the shrugger can do nothing more to prevent you
from utterly wrecking yourself by your colossal idiocy. He reseats
himself at his desk and paws around among his papers with sudden and
complete absorption.
“Three hundred and twenty-five,” says the customer, holding the door
half open and making what the modern school of diplomacy would call a
gesture of departure.
[Illustration: PLATE IX
COLOGNE CATHEDRAL AS IT IS TO-DAY
]
[Illustration: PLATE X