HE led the way into the street
as he spoke. I felt the irresistible
force of his logic. I sympathized
with the ardent philanthropy
of his motives. I burned with
a noble ambition to extend the
sphere of the Old Masters. In
short, I took the tide at the
flood, and followed Dick.
We plunged
into some by-streets, struck
off sharp into a court,
and entered a house by a back
door. A little old gentleman
in a black velvet dressing-gown
met us in the passage. Dick instantly
presented me: "Mr. Frank Softly--Mr.
Ishmael Pickup." The little old
gentleman stared at me distrustfully.
I bowed to him with that inexorable
politeness which I first learned
under the instructive fist of
Gentleman Jones, and which no
force of adverse circumstances
has ever availed to mitigate
in after life. Mr. Ishmael Pickup
followed my lead. There is not
the least need to describe him--he
was a Jew.
"Go into the front show-room,
and look at the pictures, while
I speak to Mr. Pickup," said
Dick, familiarly throwing open
a door, and pushing me into a
kind of gallery beyond. I found
myself quite alone, surrounded
by modern-antique pictures of
all schools and sizes, of all
degrees of dirt and dullness,
with all the names of all the
famous Old Masters, from Titian
to Teniers, inscribed on their
frames. A "pearly little gem," by
Claude, with a ticket marked "Sold" stuck
into the frame, particularly
attracted my attention. It was
Dick's last ten-pound job; and
it did credit to the youthful
master's abilities as a workman-like
maker of Claudes.
I have been informed that,
since the time of which I am
writing, the business of gentlemen
of Mr. Pickup's class has rather
fallen off, and that there are
dealers in pictures, nowadays,
who are as just and honorable
men as can be found in any profession
or calling, anywhere under the
sun. This change, which I report
with sincerity and reflect on
with amazement, is, as I suspect,
mainly the result of certain
wholesale modern improvements
in the position of contemporary
Art, which have necessitated
improvements and alterations
in the business of picture-dealing.
In my time, the encouragers
of modern painting were limited
in number to a few noblemen and
gentlemen of ancient lineage,
who, in matters of taste, at
least, never presumed to think
for themselves. They either inherited
or bought a gallery more or less
full of old pictures. It was
as much a part of their education
to put their faith in these on
hearsay evidence, as to put their
faith in King, Lords and Commons.
It was an article of their creed
to believe that the dead painters
were the great men, and that
the more the living painters
imitated the dead, the better
was their chance of becoming
at some future day, and in a
minor degree, great also. At
certain times and seasons, these
noblemen and gentlemen self-distrustfully
strayed into the painting-room
of a modern artist, self-distrustfully
allowed themselves to be rather
attracted by his pictures, self-distrustfully
bought one or two of them at
prices which would appear so
incredibly low, in these days,
that I really cannot venture
to quote them. The picture was
sent home; the nobleman or gentleman
(almost always an amiable and
a hospitable man) would ask the
artist to his house and introduce
him to the distinguished individuals
who frequented it; but would
never admit his picture, on terms
of equality, into the society
even of the second-rate Old Masters.
His work was hung up in any out-of-the-way
corner of the gallery that could
be found; it had been bought
under protest; it was admitted
by sufferance; its freshness
and brightness damaged it terribly
by contrast with the dirtiness
and the dinginess of its elderly
predecessors; and its only points
selected for praise were those
in which it most nearly resembled
the peculiar mannerism of some
Old Master, not those in which
it resembled the characteristics
of the old mistress--Nature.
The unfortunate artist had
no court of appeal that he could
turn to. Nobody beneath the nobleman,
or the gentleman of ancient lineage,
so much as thought of buying
a modern picture. Nobody dared
to whisper that the Art of painting
had in anywise been improved
or worthily enlarged in its sphere
by any modern professors. For
one nobleman who was ready to
buy one genuine modern picture
at a small price, there were
twenty noblemen ready to buy
twenty more than doubtful old
pictures at great prices. The
consequence was, that some of
the most famous artists of the
English school, whose pictures
are now bought at auction sales
for fabulous sums, were then
hardly able to make an income.
They were a scrupulously patient
and conscientious body of men,
who would as soon have thought
of breaking into a house, or
equalizing the distribution of
wealth, on the highway, by the
simple machinery of a horse and
pistol, as of making Old Masters
to order. They sat resignedly
in their lonely studios, surrounded
by unsold pictures which have
since been covered again and
again with gold and bank-notes
by eager buyers at auctions and
show-rooms, whose money has gone
into other than the painter's
pockets---who have never dreamed
that the painter had the smallest
moral right to a farthing of
it. Year after year, these martyrs
of the brush stood, palette in
hand, fighting the old battle
of individual merit against contemporary
dullness--fighting bravely, patiently,
independently; and leaving to
Mr. Pickup and his pupils a complete
monopoly of all the profit which
could be extracted, in their
line of business, from the feebly-buttoned
pocket of the patron, and the
inexhaustible credulity of the
connoisseur.
Now all this is changed. Traders
and makers of all kinds of commodities
have effected a revolution in
the picture-world, never dreamed
of by the noblemen and gentlemen
of ancient lineage, and consistently
protested against to this day
by the very few of them who still
remain alive.
The daring innovators started
with the new notion of buying
a picture which they themselves
could admire and appreciate,
and for the genuineness of which
the artist was still living to
vouch. These rough and ready
customers were not to be led
by rules or frightened by precedents;
they were not to be easily imposed
upon, for the article they wanted
was not to be easily counterfeited.
Sturdily holding to their own
opinions, they thought incessant
repetitions of Saints, Martyrs,
and Holy Families, monotonous
and uninteresting--and said so.
They thought little pictures
of ugly Dutch women scouring
pots, and drunken Dutchmen playing
cards, dirty and dear at the
price--and said so. They saw
that trees were green in nature,
and brown in the Old Masters,
and they thought the latter color
not an improvement on the former--and
said so. They wanted interesting
subjects; variety, resemblance
to nature; genuineness of the
article, and fresh paint; they
had no ancestors whose feelings,
as founders of galleries, it
was necessary to consult; no
critical gentlemen and writers
of valuable works to snub them
when they were in spirits; nothing
to lead them by the nose but
their own shrewdness, their own
interests, and their own tastes--so
they turned their backs valiantly
on the Old Masters, and marched
off in a body to the living men.
From that time good modern
pictures have risen in the scale.
Even as articles of commerce
and safe investments for money,
they have now (as some disinterested
collectors who dine at certain
annual dinners I know of, can
testify) distanced the old pictures
in the race. The modern painters
who have survived the brunt of
the battle, have lived to see
pictures for which they once
asked hundreds, selling for thousands,
and the young generation making
incomes by the brush in one year,
which it would have cost the
old heroes of the easel ten to
accumulate. The posterity of
Mr. Pickup still do a tolerable
stroke of business (making bright
modern masters for the market
which is glutted with the dingy
old material), and will, probably,
continue to thrive and multiply
in the future: the one venerable
institution of this world which
we can safely count upon as likely
to last, being the institution
of human folly. Nevertheless,
if a wise man of the reformed
taste wants a modern picture,
there are places for him to go
to now where he may be sure of
getting it genuine; where, if
the artist is not alive to vouch
for his work, the facts at any
rate have not had time to die
which vouch for the dealer who
sells it. In my time matters
were rather different. The painters we throve
by had died long enough ago for
pedigrees to get confused, and
identities disputable; and if
I had been desirous of really
purchasing a genuine Old Master
for myself--speaking as a practical
man--I don't know where I should
have gone to ask for one, or
whose judgment I could have safely
relied on to guard me from being
cheated, before I bought it.
We are stopping a long time
in the picture-gallery, you will
say. I am very sorry--but we
must stay a little longer, for
the sake of a living picture,
the gem of the collection.
I was still admiring Mr. Pickup's
Old Masters, when a dirty little
boy opened the door of the gallery,
and introduced a young lady.
My heart--fancy my having a
heart!--gave one great bound
in me. I recognized the charming
person whom I had followed in
the street.
Her veil was not down this
time. All the beauty of her large,
soft, melancholy, brown eyes
beamed on me. Her delicate complexion
became suddenly suffused with
a lovely rosy flush. Her glorious
black hair--no! I will make an
effort, I will suppress my ecstasies.
Let me only say that she evidently
recognized me. Will you believe
it?--I felt myself coloring as
I bowed to her. I never blushed
before in my life. What a very
curious sensation it is!
The horrid boy claimed her
attention with a grin.
"Master's engaged," he said. "Please
to wait here."
"I don't wish to disturb Mr.
Pickup," she answered.
What a voice! No! I am drifting
back into ecstasies: her voice
was worthy of her--I say no more.
"If you will be so kind as
to show him this," she proceeded; "he
knows what it is. And please
say, my father is very ill and
very anxious. It will be quite
enough if Mr. Pickup will only
send me word by you--Yes or No."
She gave the boy an oblong
slip of stamped paper. Evidently
a promissory note. An angel on
earth, sent by an inhuman father,
to ask a Jew for discount! Monstrous!
The boy disappeared with the
message.
I seized my opportunity of
speaking to her. Don't ask me
what I said! Never before (or
since) have I talked such utter
nonsense, with such intense earnestness
of purpose and such immeasurable
depth of feeling. Do pray remember
what you said yourself, the first
time you had the chance of opening
your heart to your young
lady. The boy returned before
I had half done, and gave her
back the odious document.
"Mr. Pickup's
very sorry, miss. The answer
is, No."
She lost all her lovely color,
and sighed, and turned away.
As she pulled down her veil,
I saw the tears in her eyes.
Did that piteous spectacle partially
deprive me of my senses? I actually
entreated her to let me be of
some use--as if I had been an
old friend, with money enough
in my pocket to discount the
note myself. She brought me back
to my senses with the utmost
gentleness.
"I am afraid
you forget, sir, that we are
strangers. Good-morning."
I followed her to the door.
I asked leave to call on her
father, and satisfy him about
myself and my family connections.
She only answered that her father
was too ill to see visitors.
I went out with her on to the
landing. She turned on me sharply
for the first time.
"You can see
for yourself, sir, that I am
in great distress.
I appeal to you, as a gentleman,
to spare me."
If you still doubt whether
I was really in love, let the
facts speak for themselves. I
hung my head, and let her go.
When I returned alone to the
picture-gallery--when I remembered
that I had not even had the wit
to improve my opportunity by
discovering her name and address--I
did really and seriously ask
myself if these were the first
symptoms of softening of the
brain. I got up, and sat down
again. I, the most audacious
man of my age in London, had
behaved like a bashful boy! Once
more I had lost her--and this
time, also, I had nobody but
myself to blame for it.
These melancholy meditations
were interrupted by the appearance
of my friend, the artist, in
the picture-gallery. He approached
me confidentially, and spoke
in a mysterious whisper.
"Pickup is suspicious," he
said; "and I have had all the
difficulty in the world to pave
your way smoothly for you at
the outset. However, if you can
contrive to make a small Rembrandt,
as a specimen, you may consider
yourself employed here until
further notice. I am obliged
to particularize Rembrandt, because
he is the only Old Master disengaged
at present. The professional
gentleman who used to do him
died the other day in the Fleet--he
had a turn for Rembrandts, and
can't be easily replaced. Do
you think you could step into
his shoes? It's a peculiar gift,
like an ear for music, or a turn
for mathematics. Of course you
will be put up to the simple
elementary rules, and will have
the professional gentleman's
last Rembrandt as a guide; the
rest depends, my dear friend,
on your powers of imitation.
Don't be discouraged by failures,
but try again and again; and
mind you are dirty and dark enough.
You have heard a great deal about
the light and shade of Rembrandt--
Remember always that, in your
case, light means dusky yellow,
and shade dense black; remember
that, and--"
"No pay," said the voice of
Mr. Pickup behind me; "no pay,
my dear, unlesh your Rembrandt
ish good enough to take me in--even
me, Ishmael, who dealsh in pictersh
and knowsh what'sh what."
What did I
care about Rembrandt at that
moment? I was thinking
of my lost young lady; and I
should probably have taken no
notice of Mr. Pickup, if it had
not occurred to me that the old
wretch must know her father's
name and address. I at once put
the question. The Jew grinned,
and shook his grisly head. "Her
father'sh in difficultiesh, and
mum's the word, my dear." To
that answer he adhered, in spite
of all that I could say to him.
With equal obstinacy I determined,
sooner or later, to get my information.
I took service under Mr. Pickup,
purposing to make myself essential
to his prosperity, in a commercial
sense--and then to threaten him
with offering my services to
a rival manufacturer of Old Masters,
unless he trusted me with the
secret of the name and address.
My plan looked promising enough
at the time. But, as some wise
person has said, Man is the sport
of circumstances. Mr. Pickup
and I parted company unexpectedly,
on compulsion. And, of all the
people in the world, my grandmother,
Lady Malkinshaw, was the unconscious
first cause of the events which
brought me and the beloved object
together again, for the third
time!
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