“Pictures,” said Mr. Bigger; “you want to see some pictures? Well,
we have a very interesting mixed exhibition of modern stuff in our
galleries at the moment. French and English, you know.”
The customer held up his hand, shook his head. “No, no. Nothing modern
for me,” he declared, in his pleasant northern English. “I want real
pictures, old pictures. Rembrandt and Sir Joshua Reynolds and that sort
of thing.”
“Perfectly.” Mr. Bigger nodded. “Old Masters. Oh, of course we deal in
the old as well as the modern.”
“The fact is,” said the other, “that I’ve just bought a rather large
house--a Manor House,” he added, in impressive tones.
Mr. Bigger smiled; there was an ingenuousness about this simple-minded
fellow which was most engaging. He wondered how the man had made his
money. “A Manor House.” The way he had said it was really charming.
Here was a man who had worked his way up from serfdom to the
lordship of a manor, from the broad base of the feudal pyramid to the
narrow summit. His own history and all the history of classes had
been implicit in that awed proud emphasis on the “Manor.” But the
stranger was running on; Mr. Bigger could not allow his thoughts to
wander farther. “In a house of this style,” he was saying, “and with
a position like mine to keep up, one must have a few pictures. Old
Masters, you know; Rembrandts and What’s-his-names.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Bigger, “an Old Master is a symbol of social
superiority.”
“That’s just it,” cried the other, beaming; “you’ve said just what I
wanted to say.”
Mr. Bigger bowed and smiled. It was delightful to find some one who
took one’s little ironies as sober seriousness.
“Of course, we should only need Old Masters downstairs, in the
reception-room. It would be too much of a good thing to have them in
the bedrooms too.”
“Altogether too much of a good thing,” Mr. Bigger assented.
“As a matter of fact,” the Lord of the Manor went on, “my daughter--she
does a bit of sketching. And very pretty it is. I’m having some of her
things framed to hang in the bedrooms. It’s useful having an artist in
the family. Saves you buying pictures. But, of course, we must have
something old downstairs.”
“I think I have exactly what you want.” Mr. Bigger got up and rang
the bell. “My daughter does a little sketching”--he pictured a large,
blonde, barmaidish personage, thirty-one and not yet married, running a
bit to seed. His secretary appeared at the door. “Bring me the Venetian
portrait, Miss Pratt, the one in the back room. You know which I mean.”
“You’re very snug in here,” said the Lord of the Manor. “Business good,
I hope.”
Mr. Bigger sighed. “The slump,” he said. “We art dealers feel it worse
than any one.”
“Ah, the slump.” The Lord of the Manor chuckled. “I foresaw it all the
time. Some people seemed to think the good times were going to last for
ever. What fools! I sold out of everything at the crest of the wave.
That’s why I can buy pictures now.”
Mr. Bigger laughed too. This was the right sort of customer. “Wish I’d
had anything to sell out during the boom,” he said.
The Lord of the Manor laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. He
was still laughing when Miss Pratt re-entered the room. She carried a
picture, shieldwise, in her two hands, before her.
“Put it on the easel, Miss Pratt,” said Mr. Bigger. “Now,” he turned to
the Lord of the Manor, “what do you think of that?”
The picture that stood on the easel before them was a half-length
portrait. Plump-faced, white-skinned, high-bosomed in her deeply
scalloped dress of blue silk, the subject of the picture seemed a
typical Italian lady of the middle eighteenth century. A little
complacent smile curved the pouting lips, and in one hand she held a
black mask, as though she had just taken it off after a day of carnival.
“Very nice,” said the Lord of the Manor; but he added doubtfully,
“It isn’t very like Rembrandt, is it? It’s all so clear and bright.
Generally in Old Masters you can never see anything at all, they’re so
dark and foggy.”
“Very true,” said Mr. Bigger. “But not all Old Masters are like
Rembrandt.”
“I suppose not.” The Lord of the Manor seemed hardly to be convinced.
“This is eighteenth-century Venetian. Their colour was always luminous.
Giangolini was the painter. He died young, you know. Not more than half
a dozen of his pictures are known. And this is one.”
The Lord of the Manor nodded. He could appreciate the value of rarity.
“One notices at a first glance the influence of Longhi,” Mr. Bigger
went on airily. “And there is something of the morbidezza of Rosalba in
the painting of the face.”
The Lord of the Manor was looking uncomfortably from Mr. Bigger to
the picture and from the picture to Mr. Bigger. There is nothing so
embarrassing as to be talked at by some one possessing more knowledge
than you do. Mr. Bigger pressed his advantage.
“Curious,” he went on, “that one sees nothing of Tiepolo’s manner in
this. Don’t you think so?”
The Lord of the Manor nodded. His face wore a gloomy expression. The
corners of his baby’s mouth drooped. One almost expected him to burst
into tears.
“It’s pleasant,” said Mr. Bigger, relenting at last, “to talk to
somebody who really knows about painting. So few people do.”
“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever gone into the subject very deeply,” said
the Lord of the Manor modestly. “But I know what I like when I see it.”
His face brightened again, as he felt himself on safer ground.
“A natural instinct,” said Mr. Bigger. “That’s a very precious gift. I
could see by your face that you had it; I could see that the moment you
came into the gallery.”
The Lord of the Manor was delighted. “Really, now,” he said. He felt
himself growing larger, more important. “Really.” He cocked his head
critically on one side. “Yes. I must say I think that’s a very fine bit
of painting. Very fine. But the fact is, I should rather have liked
a more historical piece, if you know what I mean. Something more
ancestor-like, you know. A portrait of somebody with a story--like Anne
Boleyn, or Nell Gwynn, or the Duke of Wellington, or some one like
that.”
“But, my dear sir, I was just going to tell you. This picture has a
story.” Mr. Bigger leaned forward and tapped the Lord of the Manor on
the knee. His eyes twinkled with benevolent and amused brightness under
his bushy eyebrows. There was a knowing kindliness in his smile. “A
most remarkable story is connected with the painting of that picture.”
“You don’t say so?” The Lord of the Manor raised his eyebrows.
Mr. Bigger leaned back in his chair. “The lady you see there,” he
said, indicating the portrait with a wave of the hand, “was the wife
of the fourth Earl Hurtmore. The family is now extinct. The ninth
Earl died only last year. I got this picture when the house was sold
up. It’s sad to see the passing of these old ancestral homes.” Mr.
Bigger sighed. The Lord of the Manor looked solemn, as though he were
in church. There was a moment’s silence; then Mr. Bigger went on in a
changed tone. “From his portraits, which I have seen, the fourth Earl
seems to have been a long-faced, gloomy, grey-looking fellow. One can
never imagine him young; he was the sort of man who looks permanently
fifty. His chief interests in life were music and Roman antiquities.
There’s one portrait of him holding an ivory flute in one hand and
resting the other on a fragment of Roman carving. He spent at least
half his life travelling in Italy, looking for antiques and listening
to music. When he was about fifty-five, he suddenly decided that it
was about time to get married. This was the lady of his choice.” Mr.
Bigger pointed to the picture. “His money and his title must have made
up for many deficiencies. One can’t imagine, from her appearance, that
Lady Hurtmore took a great deal of interest in Roman antiquities.
Nor, I should think, did she care much for the science and history
of music. She liked clothes, she liked society, she liked gambling,
she liked flirting, she liked enjoying herself. It doesn’t seem that
the newly wedded couple got on too well. But still, they avoided an
open breach. A year after the marriage Lord Hurtmore decided to pay
another visit to Italy. They reached Venice in the early autumn. For
Lord Hurtmore, Venice meant unlimited music. It meant Galuppi’s daily
concerts at the orphanage of the Misericordia. It meant Piccini at
Santa Maria. It meant new operas at the San Moise; it meant delicious
cantatas at a hundred churches. It meant private concerts of amateurs;
it meant Porpora and the finest singers in Europe; it meant Tartini
and the greatest violinists. For Lady Hurtmore, Venice meant something
rather different. It meant gambling at the Ridotto, masked balls, gay
supper-parties--all the delights of the most amusing city in the world.
Living their separate lives, both might have been happy here in Venice
almost indefinitely. But one day Lord Hurtmore had the disastrous idea
of having his wife’s portrait painted. Young Giangolini was recommended
to him as the promising, the coming painter. Lady Hurtmore began her
sittings. Giangolini was handsome and dashing, Giangolini was young.
He had an amorous technique as perfect as his artistic technique. Lady
Hurtmore would have been more than human if she had been able to
resist him. She was not more than human.”
“None of us are, eh?” The Lord of the Manor dug his finger into Mr.
Bigger’s ribs and laughed.
Politely, Mr. Bigger joined in his mirth; when it had subsided, he went
on. “In the end they decided to run away together across the border.
They would live at Vienna--live on the Hurtmore family jewels, which
the lady would be careful to pack in her suit-case. They were worth
upwards of twenty thousand, the Hurtmore jewels; and in Vienna, under
Maria-Theresa, one could live handsomely on the interest of twenty
thousand.
“The arrangements were easily made. Giangolini had a friend who did
everything for them--got them passports under an assumed name, hired
horses to be in waiting on the mainland, placed his gondola at their
disposal. They decided to flee on the day of the last sitting. The day
came. Lord Hurtmore, according to his usual custom, brought his wife
to Giangolini’s studio in a gondola, left her there, perched on the
high-backed model’s throne, and went off again to listen to Galuppi’s
concert at the Misericordia. It was the time of full carnival. Even
in broad daylight people went about in masks. Lady Hurtmore wore
one of black silk--you see her holding it, there, in the portrait.
Her husband, though he was no reveller and disapproved of carnival
junketings, preferred to conform to the grotesque fashion of his
neighbours rather than attract attention to himself by not conforming.
“The long black cloak, the huge three-cornered black hat, the
long-nosed mask of white paper were the ordinary attire of every
Venetian gentleman in these carnival weeks. Lord Hurtmore did not care
to be conspicuous; he wore the same. There must have been something
richly absurd and incongruous in the spectacle of this grave and
solemn-faced English milord dressed in the clown’s uniform of a gay
Venetian masker. ‘Pantaloon in the clothes of Pulcinella,’ was how the
lovers described him to one another; the old dotard of the eternal
comedy dressed up as the clown. Well, this morning, as I have said,
Lord Hurtmore came as usual in his hired gondola, bringing his lady
with him. And she in her turn was bringing, under the folds of her
capacious cloak, a little leather box wherein, snug on their silken
bed, reposed the Hurtmore jewels. Seated in the dark little cabin of
the gondola they watched the churches, the richly fretted palazzi, the
high mean houses gliding past them. From under his Punch’s mask Lord
Hurtmore’s voice spoke gravely, slowly, imperturbably.
“‘The learned Father Martini,’ he said, ‘has promised to do me the
honour of coming to dine with us to-morrow. I doubt if any man knows
more of musical history than he. I will ask you to be at pains to do
him special honour.’
“‘You may be sure I will, my lord.’ She could hardly contain the
laughing excitement that bubbled up within her. To-morrow at
dinner-time she would be far away--over the frontier, beyond Gorizia,
galloping along the Vienna road. Poor old Pantaloon! But no, she
wasn’t in the least sorry for him. After all, he had his music, he had
his odds and ends of broken marble. Under her cloak she clutched the
jewel-case more tightly. How intoxicatingly amusing her secret was!”
Mr. Bigger clasped his hands and pressed them dramatically over his
heart. He was enjoying himself. He turned his long, foxy nose towards
the Lord of the Manor, and smiled benevolently. The Lord of the Manor
for his part was all attention.
“Well?” he inquired.
Mr. Bigger unclasped his hands, and let them fall on to his knees.
“Well,” he said, “the gondola draws up at Giangolini’s door, Lord
Hurtmore helps his wife out, leads her up to the painter’s great room
on the first floor, commits her into his charge with his usual polite
formula, and then goes off to hear Galuppi’s morning concert at the
Misericordia. The lovers have a good two hours to make their final
preparations.
“Old Pantaloon safely out of sight, up pops the painter’s useful
friend, masked and cloaked like every one else in the streets and
on the canals of this carnival Venice. There follow embracements
and handshakings and laughter all round; everything has been so
marvellously successful, not a suspicion roused. From under Lady
Hurtmore’s cloak comes the jewel-case. She opens it, and there are loud
Italian exclamations of astonishment and admiration. The brilliants,
the pearls, the great Hurtmore emeralds, the ruby clasps, the diamond
ear-rings--all these bright, glittering things are lovingly examined,
knowingly handled. Fifty thousand sequins at the least is the estimate
of the useful friend. The two lovers throw themselves ecstatically into
one another’s arms.
“The useful friend interrupts them; there are still a few last things
to be done. They must go and sign for their passports at the Ministry
of Police. Oh, a mere formality; but still it has to be done. He will
go out at the same time and sell one of the lady’s diamonds to provide
the necessary funds for the journey.”
Mr. Bigger paused to light a cigarette. He blew a cloud of smoke, and
went on.
“So they set out, all in their masks and capes, the useful friend in
one direction, the painter and his mistress in another. Ah, love in
Venice!” Mr. Bigger turned up his eyes in ecstasy. “Have you ever been
in Venice and in love, sir?” he inquired of the Lord of the Manor.
“Never farther than Dieppe,” said the Lord of the Manor, shaking his
head.
“Ah, then you’ve missed one of life’s great experiences. You can never
fully and completely understand what must have been the sensations
of little Lady Hurtmore and the artist as they glided down the long
canals, gazing at one another through the eyeholes of their masks.
Sometimes, perhaps, they kissed--though it would have been difficult
to do that without unmasking, and there was always the danger that
some one might have recognised their naked faces through the windows
of their little cabin. No, on the whole,” Mr. Bigger concluded
reflectively, “I expect they confined themselves to looking at one
another. But in Venice, drowsing along the canals, one can almost be
satisfied with looking--just looking.”
He caressed the air with his hand and let his voice droop away into
silence. He took two or three puffs at his cigarette without saying
anything. When he went on, his voice was very quiet and even.
“About half an hour after they had gone, a gondola drew up at
Giangolini’s door and a man in a paper mask, wrapped in a black cloak
and wearing on his head the inevitable three-cornered hat, got out and
went upstairs to the painter’s room. It was empty. The portrait smiled
sweetly and a little fatuously from the easel. But no painter stood
before it and the model’s throne was untenanted. The long-nosed mask
looked about the room with an expressionless curiosity. The wandering
glance came to rest at last on the jewel-case that stood where the
lovers had carelessly left it, open on the table. Deep-set and darkly
shadowed behind the grotesque mask, the eyes dwelt long and fixedly on
this object. Long-nosed Pulcinella seemed to be wrapped in meditation.
“A few minutes later there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, of
two voices laughing together. The masker turned away to look out of the
window. Behind him the door opened noisily; drunk with excitement, with
gay, laughable irresponsibility, the lovers burst in.
“‘Aha, _caro amico_! Back already. What luck with the diamond?’
“The cloaked figure at the window did not stir; Giangolini rattled
gaily on. There had been no trouble whatever about the signatures, no
questions asked; he had the passports in his pocket. They could start
at once.
“Lady Hurtmore suddenly began to laugh uncontrollably; she couldn’t
stop.
“‘What’s the matter?’ asked Giangolini, laughing too.
“‘I was thinking,’ she gasped between the paroxysms of her mirth, ‘I
was thinking of old Pantalone sitting at the Misericordia, solemn as
an owl, listening’--she almost choked, and the words came out shrill
and forced as though she were speaking through tears--‘listening to old
Galuppi’s boring old cantatas.’
“The man at the window turned round. ‘Unfortunately, madam,’ he
said, ‘the learned maestro was indisposed this morning. There was no
concert.’ He took off his mask. ‘And so I took the liberty of returning
earlier than usual.’ The long, grey, unsmiling face of Lord Hurtmore
confronted them.
“The lovers stared at him for a moment speechlessly. Lady Hurtmore
put her hand to her heart; it had given a fearful jump, and she felt
a horrible sensation in the pit of her stomach. Poor Giangolini had
gone as white as his paper mask. Even in these days of _cicisbei_, of
official gentlemen friends, there were cases on record of outraged
and jealous husbands resorting to homicide. He was unarmed, but
goodness only knew what weapons of destruction were concealed under
that enigmatic black cloak. But Lord Hurtmore did nothing brutal or
undignified. Gravely and calmly, as he did everything, he walked over
to the table, picked up the jewel-case, closed it with the greatest
care, and saying, ‘My box, I think,’ put it in his pocket and walked
out of the room. The lovers were left looking questioningly at one
another.”
There was a silence.
“What happened then?” asked the Lord of the Manor.
“The anti-climax,” Mr. Bigger replied, shaking his head mournfully.
“Giangolini had bargained to elope with fifty thousand sequins. Lady
Hurtmore didn’t, on reflection, much relish the idea of love in a
cottage. Woman’s place, she decided at last, is in the home--with the
family jewels. But would Lord Hurtmore see the matter in precisely the
same light? That was the question, the alarming, disquieting question.
She decided to go and see for herself.
“She got back just in time for dinner. ‘His Illustrissimous Excellency
is waiting in the dining-room,’ said the majordomo. The tall doors were
flung open before her; she swam in majestically, chin held high--but
with what a terror in her soul! Her husband was standing by the
fireplace. He advanced to meet her.
“‘I was expecting you, madam,’ he said, and led her to her place.
“That was the only reference he ever made to the incident. In the
afternoon he sent a servant to fetch the portrait from the painter’s
studio. It formed part of their baggage when, a month later, they set
out for England. The story has been passed down with the picture from
one generation to the next. I had it from an old friend of the family
when I bought the portrait last year.”
Mr. Bigger threw his cigarette end into the grate. He flattered himself
that he had told that tale very well.
“Very interesting,” said the Lord of the Manor, “very interesting
indeed. Quite historical, isn’t it? One could hardly do better with
Nell Gwynn or Anne Boleyn, could one?”
Mr. Bigger smiled vaguely, distantly. He was thinking of Venice--the
Russian countess staying in his pension, the tufted tree in the
courtyard outside his bedroom, that strong, hot scent she used (it
made you catch your breath when you first smelt it), and there was
the bathing on the Lido, and the gondola, and the dome of the Salute
against the hazy sky, looking just as it looked when Guardi painted it.
How enormously long ago and far away it all seemed now! He was hardly
more than a boy then; it had been his first great adventure. He woke up
with a start from his reverie.
The Lord of the Manor was speaking. “How much, now, would you want for
that picture?” he asked. His tone was detached, off-hand; he was a rare
one for bargaining.
“Well,” said Mr. Bigger, quitting with reluctance the Russian countess,
the paradisaical Venice of five-and-twenty years ago, “I’ve asked as
much as a thousand for less important works than this. But I don’t mind
letting this go to you for seven-fifty.”
The Lord of the Manor whistled. “Seven-fifty?” he repeated. “It’s too
much.”
“But, my dear sir,” Mr. Bigger protested, “think what you’d have to pay
for a Rembrandt of this size and quality--twenty thousand at least.
Seven hundred and fifty isn’t at all too much. On the contrary, it’s
very little considering the importance of the picture you’re getting.
You have a good enough judgment to see that this is a very fine work of
art.”
“Oh, I’m not denying that,” said the Lord of the Manor. “All I say is
that seven-fifty’s a lot of money. Whe-ew! I’m glad my daughter does
sketching. Think if I’d had to furnish the bedrooms with pictures at
seven-fifty a time!” He laughed.
Mr. Bigger smiled. “You must also remember,” he said, “that you’re
making a very good investment. Late Venetians are going up. If I had
any capital to spare----” The door opened and Miss Pratt’s blonde and
frizzy head popped in.
“Mr. Crowley wants to know if he can see you, Mr. Bigger.”
Mr. Bigger frowned. “Tell him to wait,” he said irritably. He coughed
and turned back to the Lord of the Manor. “If I had any capital to
spare, I’d put it all into late Venetians. Every penny.”
He wondered, as he said the words, how often he had told people that
he’d put all his capital, if he had any, into primitives, cubism,
nigger sculpture, Japanese prints....
In the end the Lord of the Manor wrote him a cheque for six hundred and
eighty.
“You might let me have a typewritten copy of the story,” he said, as
he put on his hat. “It would be a good tale to tell one’s guests at
dinner, don’t you think? I’d like to have the details quite correct.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” said Mr. Bigger, “the details are most
important.”
He ushered the little round man to the door. “Good morning. Good
morning.” He was gone.
A tall, pale youth with side whiskers appeared in the doorway. His eyes
were dark and melancholy; his expression, his general appearance, were
romantic and at the same time a little pitiable. It was young Crowley,
the painter.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Mr. Bigger. “What did you want
to see me for?”
Mr. Crowley looked embarrassed, he hesitated. How he hated having to
do this sort of thing! “The fact is,” he said at last, “I’m horribly
short of money. I wondered if perhaps you wouldn’t mind--if it would
be convenient to you--to pay me for that thing I did for you the other
day. I’m awfully sorry to bother you like this.”
“Not at all, my dear fellow.” Mr. Bigger felt sorry for this wretched
creature who didn’t know how to look after himself. Poor young Crowley
was as helpless as a baby. “How much did we settle it was to be?”
“Twenty pounds, I think it was,” said Mr. Crowley timidly.
Mr. Bigger took out his pocket-book. “We’ll make it twenty-five,” he
said.
“Oh no, really, I couldn’t. Thanks very much.” Mr. Crowley blushed
like a girl. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to have a show of some of my
landscapes, would you?” he asked, emboldened by Mr. Bigger’s air of
benevolence.
“No, no. Nothing of your own.” Mr. Bigger shook his head inexorably.
“There’s no money in modern stuff. But I’ll take any number of those
sham Old Masters of yours.” He drummed with his fingers on Lady
Hurtmore’s sleekly painted shoulder. “Try another Venetian,” he added.
“This one was a great success.”