I was once present at a picture sale in a mansion some miles from a
country town in which I lived. There were, I think, three full-length
Gainsboroughs, five Reynoldses, a few Hoppners, two by Peters, and
three or four by Northcote. I was standing in front of a man by the
first-named painter, and was lost in admiration of the firm way in which
the figure was placed on the floor in the picture, when a local dealer
approached me, saying--
“Might I have a word with you, sir?”
Of course I told him to talk away. I knew the man very well. He was one
of those useful dealers of the variety known as “general,” from whom one
may occasionally buy a Spode plate worth ten shillings for three, or an
odd ormolu mount for sixpence.
“We want to know if you believe these to be genuine pictures, sir,” said
he.
“Genuine pictures!” I repeated, being rather puzzled to know just what
he meant; but then I remembered that he was accustomed to attend sales
where pictures labelled “Reynolds,” “Gainsborough,” “Murillo,” “Moroni,”
and so forth were sold for whatever they might fetch--usually from
fifteen shillings to a pound, the word “genuine” never being so much as
breathed by anyone. When I recollected this I laughed and said--“Make
your mind easy. If these are not genuine pictures you will never see any
come under the hammer.”
“And what do you think they will fetch?” he inquired.
“I could not give you the slightest idea,” I replied; “but if you can
get me that one in front of us for five hundred pounds I'll give you
twenty-five per cent, commission.”
He was staggered.
“Five hundred!” he cried. “You must be joking, sir.”
“I admit it,” said I. “I should have said a thousand.”
“But really, sir, how far would we be safe to go for them all? There are
four of us here, and we are ready to make a dash for them if we had your
opinion about them.”
“Look here, my good man,” said I. “You may reckon on my giving you five
hundred pounds for any picture in this room that is knocked down to you.
I'll put that in writing for you if you wish.”
“It's not necessary, sir,” he repeated. “We'll buy the lot of them for
you for less money.”
“Do, and I shall be a rich man afterwards,” said I.
He went away chuckling.
The next day the auctioneer, who was an Irishman, after disposing of
several lots of ordinary things, reached the pictures.
“I needn't say anything about them,” he remarked. “They speak for
themselves: I think you'll all agree with me that there's not one of
them that isn't a speaking likeness. What shall we say for this one--No.
137 in the catalogue, “Lady Betty--------,” by Sir Joshua Reynolds? Look
at her, ladies and gentlemen, and tell me if you think there are many
artists in this county who could do anything better than this--all hand
painted, and guaranteed. What shall we say?”
“A pound,” suggested my dealer quite boldly. The auctioneer turned a
cold eye upon him for a moment, and then I saw that there was a twinkle
on its glossy surface.
“Very well, sir,” he said. “A pound is bid for the picture--twenty-five
shillings, thirty shillings, thirty-five, two pounds--thank you, sir;
we're getting on--two-ten; I'm obliged to you, ma'am--three pounds
ten--three pounds ten--three pounds ten bid for the portrait of Lady
Betty. Oh, ladies and gentlemen, wouldn't it be a shame if such a
picture was to be knocked down for seventy shillings and it worth nearly
as many pounds. Four pounds--thank you, sir. The bidding is against you,
ma'am. Well, if there's no advance----”
It was my dealer who had made the last bid, and I must confess that for
some seconds I actually fancied that I was to be placed in possession of
a Reynolds for four pounds!
[Illustration: 0317]
“Four pounds--going at four pounds,” came the voice of the auctioneer.
“If there's no advance--going at four pounds--going--for the last
time--five hundred--six hundred--seven hundred--a thousand--fifteen
hundred--two thousand--guineas--five hundred--guineas--three
thousand--guineas--going for three thousand guineas, ladies and
gentle-men, it's giving the picture away that I am; but still the times
are bad. Going at three thousand guineas--going--going--Mr. Agnew.”
The hammer fell, and everyone was laughing except the Irish auctioneer
and my dealer.
“Perhaps our dashing friend will give me an advance of thirty shillings
on the next lot--Ralph, first Earl of--------,” said the former,
glancing toward the latter with an insinuating smile.
The latter forced his way toward the nearest door, leaving Lot 132 to be
started by a London dealer at a thousand pounds.
My disappointed friend had never been at a great sale in his life, and
he had certainly not suspected that the gentlemen wearing the silk
hats were like himself, dealers--only on perhaps a somewhat more heroic
scale.