Those who have done me the distinguished honour of reading the
story of my find of a genuine VON BÖOTZ (in my agitation last week I
referred erroneously to the great master as Old BOOTS) will remember
that I had got to the point where the picture I now so deeply prized
had been removed by the handy-man to be sold, no doubt, at a crushing
sacrifice. When put to it (as all my friends know) I am a man of an
iron will and a steel determination. There is no sacrifice I will not
make to carry a fixed plan into execution. It was this iron will and
steel determination that enabled me (somewhat late in life) to conquer
the apparently adamant intention of the Examiners at Lincoln's Inn and
get called to the Bar. At this crisis in my life's history the reserve
forces of my nature came to my assistance, and inspired me to hurry
without a moment's delay to the dwelling-place of WILKINS.
Before discovering that the VON BÖOTZ had been removed I had assumed
(as it is my wont after returning from Pump-Handle Court) my slippers.
Without waiting to amend my costume, without lingering to recover my
umbrella (now reclining in its stand, seemingly exchanging confidences
with my walking-stick), I started for Panorama Place, Nine Sisters
Road, Rixton Rise. The lady who has honoured me by accepting my
name had furnished me with this address--the abode of the
unconsciously-fugitive WILKINS. Without a moment's hesitation I hailed
and entered a four-wheeler.
"Panorama Place, Nine Sisters Road, Rixton Rise," I said in the tone
of the late Duke of WELLINGTON ordering the advance of the Guards at
Waterloo.
The cabman shook his head, then seemingly pondered, then looked at me.
"Is it near the 'Green Compasses'?" he asked, after a pause of intense
thought.
I have always considered Mr. WILKINS a model of sobriety. But then I
have only known him in the hours devoted to duty, to the sweeping
of kitchen chimneys, to the re-building of wash-houses, to the
re-papering of studies, to the removal of grand pianos from basement
to attic, and other little domestic offices. In his moments of
relaxation he may be a genial _viveur_, and in this character was more
likely than not to live in close proximity to the no doubt hospitable
tavern to which the driver had referred. So I answered my Jehu that
I thought it exceedingly possible that Mr. WILKINS did dwell near
the "Green Compasses." We started, and after a drive for which I was
charged (and in my opinion rightly charged) five-and-sixpence, arrived
safely at Panorama Place, Nine Sisters Road, Rixton Rise.
The shadow of anxiety that had followed me through what I may be
permitted to term my hackney peregrinations had passed away. I had
feared that when I had successfully tracked out Mr. WILKINS to his
suburban nest I should find him flown. But no, the eagle had not
lost the child, the handy man was still the possessor of my pictorial
treasure. At least so I presumed, as he smiled when I put to him the
all-important question, "Where is my VON BÖOTZ?"
"This is what I have done with him, Sir," said my house-renovator,
leading me gently into what I take must have been his study. The
apartment was furnished with two spades, a saw, two hammers, a pot of
glue, a model of a fire-engine, a couple of stools, and a sideboard.
"Look at this little lot, Sir," cried Mr. WILKINS, whipping off a
cloth, and exposing to view two earthenware flower-vases, and a small
model (in chalk) of an easily illuminated (there was a receptacle in
the interior large enough to contain a taper) cathedral.
"What are these?" I demanded, in a voice more or less suggestive of
thunder.
"That's what he gave me for the picture, and, asking your pardon,
Sir, I think I have done well with him. It was one of those Italian
image-men, who took a fancy to it. He offered at first only those
vases. Then he sprang to a statuette of GARIBALDI. But, after a deal
of discussion, I got him to chuck in Westminster Abbey, Sir, which, as
you see, can be lighted up magnificent."
For a moment I was struck speechless with sorrow and indignation. No
doubt the foreign hawker, having received an art education in Italy
(the renowned dwelling-place of the Muses), had recognised the value
of my picture, and had----. I paused in my train of thought, and
jumped from despair to joy. There, resting on a newly-renovated
perambulator, was my Old Master. I almost wept as I recognised my
nearly lost VON BÖOTZ.
"But there it is!" I hoarsely whispered, pointing to the picture.
"The canvas, yes Sir--the Italian chap only wanted the frame. He
called the donkey lot rubbish."
Again my iron will and steel determination came to the front. To
secure the canvas, charter another four-wheeler, and deposit myself
and my prize within the cab's depths was the work of not more than
five-and-twenty minutes. I drove as hurriedly as the congested traffic
would permit to the house of a well-known connoisseur. I sent up
my card, and was immediately admitted. The celebrated critic was a
perfect stranger to me.
"This must serve as an introduction," I said, and exposed my VON BÖOTZ
to view. The connoisseur inspected the canvas, the leaden sky, and
the villagers with languid interest. At last his gaze fell upon the
presentment of the donkey. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed with
excitement; and although he was evidently attempting to master his
emotion, he almost shouted "Magnificent!"
"Are not the ears splendid?" I asked.
"Splendid? Glorious! Immortal!"
"Have you seen anything to equal the mane?"
"Never! Emphatically, never!"
And then the art connoisseur shook me by both hands. Then we once
more inspected the donkey's ears, and in our delight nearly rose and
floated from the floor in a sort of medieval saint-like ecstasy.
"You see it has one fault," my conscience made me say; "it has no
signature."
"A proof that it is a genuine VON BÖOTZ. The grand old forger never
signed anything except copies. As you know, he was scarcely ever
sober, and in his drunken moods used to write his name on any kind of
canvas at the rate of a tumbler of port a signature."
"And it is only right to add," I continued, in my character of Devil's
Advocate, and using a piece of information I had picked up from
APPLEBLOSSOM, Q.C., "that it is not in the least like a print which is
supposed to be a contemporaneous engraving."
"The best possible proof that it is an original. Old VON
BÖOTZ--glorious old scoundrel--never painted anything that was really
reproduced. He preferred to betray his public by signing the works of
subordinates. That's the reason why he is so scarce. Oh, those ears!"
And the art connoisseur and I returned to our medieval saint-like
ecstasy. I am almost certain that, carried away by our enthusiasm, we
floated from the carpet. After a while I thought it time to return
to what the Philistine (by the way, all things considered, a very
reasonable fellow) would call "business." I suggested that it was for
sale.
"No, my dear Sir," corrected the critic; "not for sale. The VON BÖOTZ
must be mine. You will not be so cruel as to deny me. I am the master
of tens of thousands--nay, I might say without exaggeration--hundreds
of thousands. If you will leave yourself in my hands, I think you will
find that I am a man of honour."
He sat down at a desk which I now noticed was made of ebony and
decorated with old gold and diamonds, and other precious stones. He
drew a cheque. Then he rose to give it to me. But as he passed the
picture it once more attracted his attention. He resumed his medieval
saint-like ecstasy for a second, and then returned to his desk.
"I must be honest," he murmured as he filled in the figures of another
cheque. Then he turned to me. "You must pardon me for giving you the
purchase-money in two drafts; but my first cheque exhausted my account
at one bank, and I had to draw upon my balance at another to supply
the necessary residue."