Book II
Chapter X Bludgeonings
I
London exercised the influence that might be expected upon such a character as Quinney’s. The soot, so to speak, brought out the chlorophyl. As he put it to Susan, with grim humour:
“Makes us feel a bit green, hey?”
He had supposed that the big dealers would ignore him; he had not expected what he found—active hostility. His first fight, for example, opened his eyes by closing one of them. A brief account of it must be chronicled. He had kept out of the auction rooms, like Christopher’s, but he frequented small sales, and became a menace to a ring of Hebrew dealers, who, hitherto, had managed such affairs with great executive ability entirely in their own interests. Quinney was well aware of their methods. At the sale proper prices were kept at the lowest possible level. The real buying and selling took place afterwards in a private room at some neighbouring tavern. Quinney, who was invited to join the “ring,” knew all about “knock-outs,” and decided that he would not identify himself with such an unsavoury crowd. Tomlin warned him.
“Leave those swine alone, Joe.”
“I mean to, old man.”
“But remember this, they won’t leave you alone, the dirty dogs!”
They didn’t.
Upon the eve of a small sale in the suburbs, held at the house of a bankrupt merchant, who had bought, in the days of his prosperity, some good bits of furniture, Quinney was “nosing round,” as he called it, by himself, jotting down in a notebook the prices he was prepared to pay on the morrow. Suddenly there entered a truculent-looking young man of the type that may be seen boxing at Wonderland, which is just off the Whitechapel Road. He swaggered up to Quinney and said drawlingly:
“Buyin’ against my crowd, you was, las’ week?”
Quinney eyed him nervously, as he answered with spirit:
“Your crowd, hey?”
“I said my crowd. Want to join us?”
“No, my lad, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m rather careful about the company I keep, see?”
The young man glanced round. They were quite alone. Then he hit Quinney hard. Our hero ducked ineffectively, and caught the blow on his left eye. Instantly he realized that his antagonist was what is called a “workman.” Nevertheless he “set about him.” In less than a minute the fine old adage which sets forth that right is greater than might was lamentably perverted. Quinney was left half senseless on a Turkey carpet which bore stains of the encounter, and his aggressor fled. Next day, Quinney remained at home, tended by Susan, who admitted that she felt like Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite.
“Can’t you prosecute?” she asked indignantly.
“Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him again. Hired for the job, he was—earned his money, too.”
After this experience he kept out of third-class London sales, buying as before from provincial dealers, making it worth their while to come to him first. Your provincial man is not omniscient, and is prepared to accept a small profit upon every article that passes through his hands. Quinney secured some bargains, but he could not sell them, because he had no customers.
His next experience was more serious. He had gone to Melshire to buy a certain satin-wood commode with panels painted by Angelica Kauffman. The owner of the commode, a fox-hunting squire, knew nothing of its value, but he happened to know Quinney, and he offered the commode to Quinney for fifty pounds. This incident illustrates nicely the sense of honour which prevails among dealers in antiques. The commode had been advertised as part of the contents of an ancient manor house. Other Melshire dealers, many of them Quinney’s friends, were attending the sale. Immensely to the fox-hunting squire’s surprise, Quinney pointed out that it would not be fair to the other dealers to buy before-hand a valuable bit of furniture already advertised in a printed catalogue. He concluded:
“It’ll fetch more than fifty pounds.”
At the sale it fetched ninety-seven pounds. At the “knock-out” afterwards, bidding against the other dealers, Quinney paid nine hundred pounds for this “gem,” and told himself, with many chucklings, that he would double his money within a few weeks. He returned to London with his prize, and recited the facts to Susan, whose sympathy ranged itself upon the side of the Melchester squire.
“Seems to me that poor man was robbed. Ninety-seven pounds for a thing that you say is worth two thousand. It’s awful.”
“Is it? Now, look ye here, Susie, I’m going to put you right on this for ever and ever, see? I’m not in this business for my health. Like every other merchant, I buy in the cheapest market, and sell in the dearest. It’s not my business to educate country gentlemen, who’ve had twice my advantages. If the owners of good stuff don’t take the trouble to find out the value of what they’ve got, so much the worse for them, the blooming idiots! I play the game, my girl. I might have bought that commode for a level fifty. Think of it! Why didn’t I? Because I’m an honourable man. Because it wouldn’t have been straight with the others who were after that commode. Has it soaked in? I’ll just add this: It’s we dealers who create values. Never thought o’ that, did you? Nor anyone else outside the profession. But it’s gospel truth. Dealers create the big prices, not the silly owners, who don’t know enough to keep their pictures in decent condition. I remember a country parson who kept his umbrella in a big famille verte jar. Tomlin bought that jar for a few pounds, and sold it at Christopher’s for fifteen hundred. The parson made a fine hullabaloo, but it served him jolly well right. We do the work, and we’re entitled to the big profits.”
Susan felt crushed, but a leaven of her mother in her constrained her to reply:
“I hope that commode is worth nine hundred pounds.”
“It’s worth a damn sight more than that, Susie!”
Tomlin came to see it next day. He examined it carefully, with his sharp nose cocked at a critical angle. Finally, he said hesitatingly:
“Are you quite sure, Joe, that Angelica Kauffman painted them panels?”
“Just as sure, old man, as if I’d seen her at it.”
Nevertheless, Tomlin’s question rankled.
II
With many apologies, we present the reader to Messrs. Lark and Bundy, of Oxford Street. Gustavus Lark is probably the best known of the London art dealers. He is now an old man, and his sons and Bundy’s sons manage an immense business. Ten years ago he had not retired. Criticism of him or his methods are irrelevant to this chronicle, but a side-light is thrown upon them when we consider how he treated Joe Quinney, a young man against whom he had no grudge whatever. Gustavus Lark heard, of course, that a Melchester dealer, newly settled in Soho Square, had bought a commode said to be painted by Angelica Kauffman for nine hundred pounds. Immediately he sent for his eldest son, a true chip of the old block.
“Why did we not hear of this?”
The son answered curtly:
“Because we can’t hear of everything. There wasn’t one big London dealer at the sale; and the only thing worth having was this commode.”
“Is it the goods?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you know?”
“Well, yes—I know.”
“I must send for Pressland.”
Pressland deserves some little attention. England honours him as a connoisseur of Old Masters. Upon pictures his word is often the first and the last. We know that he “boomed” certain painters, long dead. To quote Quinney, he “created” values. And he worked hand in hand with just such men as Gustavus Lark. In appearance he might have been a successful dentist. He wore a frock-coat and small side-whiskers. He said “Please” in an ingratiating tone. His hands were scrupulously clean, as if he had washed them often after dirty jobs. Out of a pale, sallow face shone two small grey eyes, set too close together. He contradicted other experts with an inimitable effrontery. “What is this?” he would say, laying a lean forefinger upon a doubtful signature. “A Velasquez? I think not. Why? Because, my dear sir, I know!”
Admittedly, he did know about Velasquez; and this knowledge was, so to speak, on tap, at the service of anybody willing to pay a reasonable fee. But his knowledge of furniture and porcelain was placed with reserve at the disposition of dealers. He told many persons that he made mistakes, and the public never guessed that such mistakes were paid for munificently.
Gustavus Lark sent for Pressland. The men met in Lark’s sanctum, an austere little room, simply furnished. There is another room next to it, and when Gustavus sends for a very particular visitor nobody enters that ante-chamber except a member of the firm.
“Do you know this Soho Square man, Quinney?”
“I have met him.”
“Has he come to stay?”
“Um! I think so.”
Gustavus Lark stroked his beard. He looked very handsome and prosperous, not unlike a genial monarch whom he was said by his clerks to understudy.
“I want you,” he said slowly, “to go to Soho Square this morning, and if by any chance Quinney should ask your opinion of the commode, why”—he laughed pleasantly—“in that case I shouldn’t mind betting quite a considerable sum that you would discover it to be—er—a clever reproduction.”
Pressland smiled.
“Probably.”
“I mean to have a look at it myself later.”
Pressland went his way. Part of his success in life may be assigned to a praiseworthy habit of executing small and big commissions with becoming promptitude. He strolled into Quinney’s shop as if he were the most idle man in town.
“Anything to show me?” he asked languidly.
Quinney was delighted to see him. He recognized Pressland at once.
“Happy and honoured to see you, sir.”
Presently, he took him upstairs into the drawing-room, already spoken of as the “sanctuary.” In it were all his beloved treasures. He had done up the room “regardless.” Here stood his Chippendale cabinet, filled with Early Worcester and Chelsea; here were his cherished prints in colour, his finest specimens of Waterford glass, two or three beautiful miniatures, and many other things. Pressland was astonished, but he said little, nodding his head from time to time, and listening attentively to Quinney. As soon as he entered the room he perceived the satin-wood commode standing in the place of honour.
Pressland praised the Chippendale cabinet, and ignored the commode. Quinney frowned. Finally he jerked out:
“What do you think of that, sir?”
“What?”
“That commode. Pedigree bit, out of an old Melshire manor house. Good stuff, hey?”
Pressland adjusted his pince-nez, and stared hard and long at the panels. Quinney began to fidget.
“Bit of all right—um?”
Pressland said slowly:
“I hope you didn’t pay very much for it, Mr. Quinney.”
“I paid a thumping big cheque for it. Never paid so much before for a single bit.”
Pressland murmured pensively:
“I thought you knew your furniture.”
“Ain’t it all right? There’s no secret about what I paid. It’s been paragraphed—nine hundred pounds.”
A soft whistle escaped from Pressland’s thin lips. He said depressingly:
“I dare say you know more about those panels than I do.”
Quinney protested vigorously:
“Don’t play that on me, Mr. Pressland. If I knew one quarter of what you know about pictures I’d be a proud man.”
“A pedigree bit? What do you mean by that?”
“Owner said it had been in his family for more than a hundred years. He said that the panels were painted by Angelica Kauffman.”
“Are you quite sure he didn’t say after Angelica Kauffman?”
Quinney shook his head. From every pore in his skin confidence was oozing.
“Did he know the value of it?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Ah! He must have been pleased with your cheque.”
Quinney explained matters. Pressland’s expression became acutely melancholy; and his silence, as he turned away, was eloquent of a commiseration too deep for words.
“Isn’t it right, Mr. Pressland?”
“My opinion is worth little, Mr. Quinney.”
“I’m prepared to pay for it if necessary.”
“No, no, no! Not from you. Well, then, I am afraid you have been had. Did the dealers at the ’knock-out’ suspect that you wanted it badly?”
“Perhaps they did. I kept on bidding.”
“Just so. It’s a little way they have. Very, very jealous, some of them. You have been successful. Success makes enemies. I have enemies. There are men in London who accuse me of abominable, unmentionable things.” He smiled modestly, spreading out his hands.
“You can afford to laugh at ’em, Mr. Pressland.”
“I do.”
“Am I to take it from you, sir, that Angelica did not paint those panels?”
Pressland shrugged his shoulders.
“I am of opinion, and I may well be mistaken, that those panels were painted after Angelica Kauffman’s death, probably by a clever pupil. But please ask somebody else.”
He drifted away, promising to call again, assuring Quinney that he would send him customers.
III
Susan had the story red-hot from his trembling lips about ten minutes later.
“I’ve been done—cooked to a crisp!” he wailed.
She kissed and consoled him tenderly, but he refused to be comforted. She had applied raw steak to his injured eye. What balm could she pour upon a bruised and bleeding heart?
“That man knows. He felt sorry for me. He hated to tell me. He promised that he would tell nobody else—a good sort! What did your mother say—Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty. There you are!”
She kissed him again and stroked his face.
“I was so sure of my own judgment, Susie. The loss of the money is bad enough, but everybody will find out that I’ve been had. That’s what tears me!”
“He may be mistaken.”
“Not he. He knows. I’ve a mind to go outside and hire a strong man to kick me.”
Next morning there was a wholesome reaction. Susan and he stood in front of the commode. The sun streamed upon it.
“By Gum! I do believe it’s all right. If it isn’t, I’d better go back to Melchester and stay there.” He caressed the lovely wood so tenderly that Susan felt jealous. “Oh, you beauty!” he exclaimed passionately. “I believe in you; yes, I do. An artist created you. An artist painted those panels.”
He recovered his cheerfulness, and assured Susan that he was prepared to back his opinion against Tomlin, Pressland, and all other pessimists.
Upon the following Monday Gustavus presented himself. For a dizzy moment our hero believed that the most illustrious male in the kingdom had dropped in incognito. Gustavus wore a grey cut-away coat, with an orchid in the lapel of it, and he was smoking an imposing cigar.
“I am Gustavus Lark,” he said.
“Pleased to see you, Mr. Lark.”
No man in England could make himself more agreeable than the great dealer. Gossip had it that he had begun life as a “rapper.” A rapper, as the name signifies, is one who raps at all doors, seeking what he may find behind them—a bit of porcelain, a valuable print, an old chair—anything. A successful rapper must combine in one ingratiating personality the qualities of a diplomat, a leader of forlorn hopes, a high-class burglar, and an American book agent. When the door upon which he has rapped opens, he must enter, and refuse to budge till he has satisfied himself that there is nothing in his line worth the buying.
Tomlin had the following story to tell of Gustavus, as a rapper. You must take it for what it’s worth. Tomlin, we know, was a bit of a rascal, and a liar of the first magnitude, but he affirmed solemnly that the tale is true.
Behold Gustavus in the good old days of long ago, when prints in colours were still to be found in cottages, rapping at the door of some humble house. A widow opens it, and asks a good-looking young man what his business may be. He enters audaciously, and states it. He is seeking board and lodging. He is seeking, also, a set of the London “Cries.” But he does not mention that. He has heard—it is his business to hear such gossip—that the widow possesses the complete set in colour, the full baker’s dozen. He arranges for a week’s board and lodging, and he satisfies himself that the prints are genuine specimens. In his satchel he carries thirteen bogus prints, excellent reproductions. At dead of night he takes from the frames the genuine prints and substitutes the false ones. Three days afterwards he goes to London, and, later, sells the prints for a sum sufficient to start him in business. But he does not rest there, as a lesser man might well do. A rapper’s hands, be it noted, are against all men. He robs cheerfully the men of his own trade—the small dealers. Gustavus, then, proceeds to pile Pelion upon Ossa. He next visits a dealer of his acquaintance and tells him that he has discovered a genuine set of “Cries,” which can be bought cheap in their original frames. The dealer, who is not an expert in colour prints, is deceived by the frames and by the authentic yarn which the widow spins. He does buy the prints cheap, and sells them as genuine to one of the innumerable collectors with more money than brains. Gustavus gets his commission and nets a double profit!
Quinney had heard this story from Tomlin and others, but the benevolent appearance of his visitor put suspicion to flight, as it had done scores of times before. It was quite impossible to believe that an old gentleman, who bore such an amazing resemblance to one venerated as the Lord’s anointed, could have begun his career as a rapper!
“Anything of interest to show me?” asked Gustavus blandly. He treated everybody, except his own understrappers, with distinguished courtesy. He spoke to Quinney, whom he despised, exactly as he would have spoken to a Grand Duke.
“Glad to take you round, Mr. Lark.”
“I am told that you do not sell to dealers.”
“That’s as may be. I want to build up a business with private customers.”
“Quite right. My own methods.”
He glanced round the shop, which was divided roughly into sections. In the first were genuine bits; in the second were the best reproductions conspicuously labelled as such. The reproductions were so superlatively good that Lark recognized at once the character of the man who had so audaciously exposed them. Then and there he made up his mind that Quinney was to be reckoned with. He smiled as he waved a white hand protestingly at a piece of tapestry which might have challenged the interest of an expert. He had sold such tapestry as old Gobelins, and he knew that the maker of it only dealt with a chosen few.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” said Quinney.
“You mean to sell first-class copies as such?”
“Yes. I guarantee what I sell, Mr. Lark, as—as you do.”
“I don’t sell fakes.”
“Not necessary in your case. Will you come upstairs?”
“With pleasure.”
Quinney was trembling with excitement. Gustavus noticed this, and went on smiling. Pressland had prepared him. He praised and appraised many things in the sanctuary, but he merely glanced at the commode.
“I want you to look at this, Mr. Lark.”
“Bless me! Is that the commode which you bought in Melshire?”
“It is. What do you think of it?”
Gustavus protruded a large lower lip; his eyebrows, strongly marked, expressed surprise, a twinkle in his left eye indicated discreet amusement.
“Why isn’t it downstairs with the others?”
“The others?”
“By the side of that piece of tapestry.”
“It’s the best bit I have,” said Quinney defiantly.
“Surely not. I have bought such tapestry as yours before. I will admit that I paid a big figure for it. We dealers are sadly done sometimes. This commode is quite as good in its way as the Gobelins, but it ought not to be next that cabinet.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lark, that you call it a fake?”
“A fake—no. A copy admirably executed—yes.”
“Oh, Lord!”
He made no attempt to conceal his distress. Gustavus patted his shoulder encouragingly.
“I may be mistaken. I am often mistaken.”
“You?”
“Even I. Come, come, I see that I have upset you. But, as a friend, as a brother dealer, I say this: Get rid of it. You are taking up a line of your own. You mean to sell honest copies as such, and to guarantee the genuine bits. A capital idea. Only don’t mix up the two. To succeed in London it is necessary to establish a reputation. My eldest son tells me that you built up a substantial business in Melchester—that your reputation there was above reproach. Excellent! I rejoiced to hear it. In our business we want men like you. But, no compromise! Sell that commode for what it is, a fine copy executed at the end of the eighteenth century. As such it has a considerable value. I have a customer, an American gentleman, who would buy it to-morrow for what it is, and pay a handsome figure.”
The unhappy Quinney moistened his lips with a feverish tongue.
“What do you call a handsome figure, Mr. Lark?”
“Five or six hundred.”
“And I paid nine!”
“Well, well!”
Gustavus turned his broad back upon the commode, and examined the Early Worcester in the Chippendale cabinet. There was a tea-set of the Dr. Wall period, bearing the much-prized square mark, some thirty pieces of scale-blue with flowers delicately painted in richly-gilded panels.
“Is that scale-blue for sale?”
“At a price, Mr. Lark. I have had it for three years. I’m waiting for a customer who will give me two hundred pounds, not a penny less.”
“Two hundred pounds? And you won’t sell to the dealers who have customers who write such big cheques. Now, look here, Mr. Quinney, I am sorry for you. I know how you feel, because I have made, I repeat, sad and costly blunders myself. You don’t ask enough for that scale-blue.”
“Not enough?”
“I could sell that set for three hundred this afternoon. To prove that I am not boasting I will offer you two hundred guineas, cash on the nail.”
“Done!” said Quinney. He added excitedly: “I’m much obliged, Mr. Lark. I wish you could send me the American gentleman.”
Gustavus laughed. He looked at Quinney with quite a paternal air.
“Come, come, isn’t that asking too much?”
“I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do about that commode?”
“I repeat—sell it.”
“You know that I haven’t a dog’s chance of selling it now. Don’t flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You’re too big a man, too good a sort. You’ve treated me handsomely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this hole, if you can.”
Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the commode, and examined it meticulously, opening and shutting the doors, looking at the back, scraping the paint of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the oracle spoke portentously:
“I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I don’t want that commode; but, to oblige you, I’ll give you five hundred for it, and chance making a hundred profit.”
“Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark.”
“I repeat—I never haggle.”
“Damn it! I must cut a loss.”
“Always the wise thing to do. My offer holds good for twenty-four hours. Isn’t Tomlin a friend of yours?”
“We’ve had many dealings together.”
“He might pay more.”
“Not he. I’ll accept your offer, Mr. Lark, with many thanks. I’ll not forget this.”
Gustavus returned to Oxford Street. He sold the commode to an American millionaire for two thousand five hundred pounds, but Quinney, fortunately for his peace of mind, never discovered this till some years had passed.
He told Tom Tomlin that Lark was a perfect gentleman, and that the story of the Rapper and the London “Cries” was a malicious lie on the face of it.
Tomlin sniffed.