THE COLLECTORS Being Cases mostly under the Ninth and Tenth Commandments by FRANK JEWETT MATHER, Junr. 1912 Comprising a _Ballade_, wherein the Wrongfulness of Art Collecting isconceded, and as well Certain Stories: _Campbell Corot_, which recountsthe career of an able and candid Picture Forger. _The del PuenteGiorgione_, which tells of an artful Great Lady and an Artless Expert. _The Lombard Runes_, a mere interlude, but revealing a certain duplicityin Professional Seekers for Truth. _Their Cross_, so called from aninanimate Object of Price which wrought Woe to a well meaning New YorkCouple. _The Missing St Michael_, a tale of Italianate Americans which isfull of Vanities and, though alluring to the Sophisticated, quite unfitfor the Simple Reader. _The Lustred Pots_, again a mere interlude, but ofa grim sort, as it grazes the Sixth Commandment and _The BalaklavaCoronal_, which, notwithstanding its exotic title, is mostly of our ownPeople, showing the Triumph of a resourceful Dealer over two Critics anda Captain of Industry. To which seven stories are added some _Reflectionsupon Art Collecting_, setting forth Excuses and Palliations for aPractice usually regarded as Pernicious. FOREWORD Of the seven stories of art collecting that make up this book "CampbellCorot" and the "Missing St. Michael" first appeared under the pseudonymof Francis Cotton, in "Scribner's Magazine, " and are now reprinted by itscourteous permission. Similar acknowledgment is due the "Nation" forallowing the sketch on art collecting to be republished. Many readerswill note the similarity between the story "The del Puente Giorgione" andPaul Bourget's brilliant novelette, "La Dame qui a perdu son Peintre. " Mystory was written in the winter of 1907, and it was not until the summerof 1911 that M. Bourget's delightful tale came under my eye. Clearly thesame incident has served us both as raw material, and the noteworthydifferences between the two versions should sufficiently advise thereader how little either is to be taken as a literal record of facts orestimate of personalities. CONTENTS A Ballade of Art Collectors Campbell Corot The del Puente Giorgione The Lombard Runes Their Cross The Missing St. Michael The Lustred Pots The Balaklava Coronal On Art Collecting A BALLADE OF ART COLLECTORS Oh Lord! We are the covetous. Our neighbours' goods afflict us sore. From Frisco to the Bosphorus All sightly stuff, the less the more, We want it in our hoard and store. Nor sacrilege doth us appal--Egyptian vault--fane at Cawnpore-- Collector folk are sinners all. Our envoys plot _in partibus_. They've small regard for chancel door, Or Buddhist bolts contiguous To lustrous jade or gold galoreAdorning idol squat or tall-- These be strange gods that we adore--Collector folk are sinners all. Of Romulus Augustulus The signet ring I proudly wore. Some rummaging _in ossibus_ I most repentantly deplore. My taste has changed; I now explore The sepulchres of SenegalAnd seek the pots of Singapore-- Collector folk are sinners all. Lord! Crave my neighbour's wife! What for? I much prefer his crystal ballFrom far Cathay. Then, Lord, ignore Collector folk who're sinners all. CAMPBELL COROT The Academy reception was approaching a perspiring and vociferous closewhen the Antiquary whispered an invitation to the Painter, the Patron, and the Critic. A Scotch woodcock at "Dick's" weighs heavily, evenagainst the more solid pleasures of the mind, so terminating fourconferences on as many tendencies in modern art, and abandoning fourhungry souls, four hungry bodies bore down an avenue toward "Dick's"smoky realm, where they found a quiet corner apart from the crowd. It isa place where one may talk freely or even foolishly--one of those rareoases in which an artist, for example, may venture to read a lesson to anavowed patron of art. All the way down the Patron had bored us with hisnew Corot, which he described at tedious length. Now the Antiquary barelytolerated anything this side of the eighteenth century, the Painter wasof Courbet's sturdy following, the Critic had been writing for a seasonthat the only hope in art for the rich was to emancipate themselves fromthe exclusive idolatry of Barbizon. Accordingly the Patron's rhapsodiesfell on impatient ears, and when he continued his importunities over theScotch woodcock and ale, the Painter was impelled to express the sense ofthe meeting. "Speaking of Corot, " he began genially, "there are certainmisapprehensions about him which I am fortunately able to clear up. People imagine, for instance, that he haunted the woods about Villed'Avray. Not at all. He frequented the gin-mills in Cedar Street. We aretold he wore a peasant's blouse and sabots; on the contrary, he sported afrock-coat and congress gaiters. His long clay pipe has passed intolegend, whereas he actually smoked a tilted Pittsburg stogy. We speak ofhim by the operatic name of Camille; he was prosaically called Campbell. You think he worked out of doors at rosy dawn; he painted habitually inan air-tight attic by lamplight. " As the Painter paused for the sensation to sink in, the Antiquarymurmured soothingly, "Get it off your mind quickly, Old Man, " the Criticremarked that the Campbells were surely coming, and the Patron asked withnettled dignity how the Painter knew. "Know?" he resumed, having had the necessary fillip. "Because I knew him, smelled his stogy, and drank with him in Cedar Street. It was some timein the early '70s, when a passion for Corot's opalescences (with theCritic's permission) was the latest and most knowing fad. As a realist Ihalf mistrusted the fascination, but I felt it with the rest, andwhenever any of the besotted dealers of that rude age got in an 'EarlyMorning' or a 'Dance of Nymphs, ' I was there among the first. For anotherreason, my friend Rosenheim, then in his modest beginnings as amarchand-amateur, was likely to appear at such private views. With hisinfallible tact for future salability, he was already unloading theInstitute, and laying in Barbizon. Find what he's buying now, and I'lltell you the next fad. " The Critic nodded sagaciously, knowing that Rosenheim, who now poses ascollecting only for his pleasure, has already begun to affect the drasticproductions of certain clever young Spanish realists. "Rosenheim, " the Painter pursued, "really loved his Corot quite apartfrom prospective values. I fancy the pink silkiness of the manner alwaysappeals to Jews, recalling their most authentic taste, theeighteenth-century Frenchman. Anyhow, Rosenheim took his new loveseriously, followed up the smallest examples religiously, learned to knowthe forgeries that were already afloat--in short, was the best informedCorotist in the city. It was appropriate, then, that my first relationswith the poet-painter should have the sanction of Rosenheim's presence. " Lingering upon the reminiscence, the Painter sopped up the last bit ofanchovy paste, drained his toby, and pushed it away. The rest of ussettled back comfortably for a long session, as he persisted. "Rosenheimwrote me one day that he had got wind of a Corot in a Cedar Streetauction room. It might be, so his news went, the pendant to the one hehad recently bought at the Bolton sale. He suggested we should go downtogether and see. So we joggled down Broadway in the 'bus, on what lookedrather like a wild-goose chase. But it paid to keep the run of CedarStreet in those days; one might find anything. The gilded black walnutwas pushing the old mahogany out of good houses; Wyant and Homer Martinwere occasionally raising the wind by ventures in omnibus sales; thenthere were old masters which one cannot mention because nobody wouldbelieve. But that particular morning the Corot had no real competitor;its radiance fairly filled the entire junk-room. Rosenheim was inraptures. As luck would have it, it was indeed the companion-piece tohis, and his it should be at all costs. In Cedar Street, he reasonablyfelt, one might even hope to get it cheap. Then began our _duo_ on thetheme of atmosphere, vibrancy, etc. --brand new phrases, mind you, inthose innocent days. As Rosenheim for a moment carried the burden alone, I stepped up to the canvas and saw, with a shock, that the paint wasabout two days old. Under what conditions I wondered--for did I not knowthe ways of paint--could a real Corot have come over so fresh? I morethan scented trickery. A sketch overpainted---or it seemed above thequality of a sheer forgery--or was the case worse than that? Meanwhilenot a shade of doubt was in Rosenheim's mind. As I canvassed thepossibilities his _sotto-voce_ ecstasies continued, to the vastamusement, as I perceived, of a sardonic stranger who hovered unsteadilyin the background. This ill-omened person was clad in a statesmanlikeblack frock-coat with trousers of similar funereal shade. A white lawntie, much soiled, and congress gaiters, much frayed, were appropriatedetails of a costume inevitably topped off with an army slouch hat thathad long lacked the brush. He was immensely long and sallow, wore adrooping moustache vaguely blonde, between the unkempt curtains of whicha thin cheroot pointed heavenward. As he walked nervously up and down, with a suspiciously stilted gait, he observed Rosenheim with evidentscorn and the picture with a strange pride. He was not merely odd, butalso offensive, for as Rosenheim whispered _'Comme c'est beau_!' therewas an unmistakable snort; when he continued, _'Mais c'est exquis_!' thesnort broadened into a mighty chuckle; while as he concluded 'Mostluminous!' the chuckle became articulate, in an 'Oh, shucks!' that couldnot be ignored. "'You seem to be interested, sir, ' Rosenheim remarked. 'You bet!' was theterse response. 'May I inquire the cause of your concern?' Rosenheimcontinued placidly. With a most exasperating air of willingness toplease, the stranger rejoined: 'Why, I jest took a simple pleasure, sir, in seeing an amachoor like you talking French about a little thing Ipainted here in Cedar Street. ' For a moment Rosenheim was too indignantto speak, then he burst out with: 'It's an infernal lie; you could nomore paint that picture than you could fly. ' 'I did paint it, jest thesame, ' pursued the stranger imperturbably, as Rosenheim, to make an endof the insufferable wag, snapped out sarcastically, 'Perhaps you paintedits mate, then, the Bolton Corot. ' 'The one that sold for three thousanddollars last week? Of course I painted it; it's the best nymph scene Iever done. Don't get mad, mister; I paint most of the Corots. I'm gladyou like 'em. ' "For a moment I feared that little Rosenheim would smite the lank annoyerdead in his tracks. 'For heaven's sake be careful!' I cried. 'The man isdrunk or crazy or he may even be right; the paint on this picture isn'ttwo days old. ' 'Correct, ' declared the stranger. 'I finished it daybefore yesterday for this sale. ' Then a marked change came overRosenheim's manner. He grew positively deferential. It delighted him tomeet an artist of talent; they must know each other better. Cards wereexchanged, and Rosenheim read with amazement the grimy inscription'_Campbell Corot, Landscape Artist_. ' 'Yes, that's my painting name, 'Campbell Corot said modestly; 'and my pictures are almost equally as goodas his'n, but not quite. They do for ordinary household purposes. Ireally hate to see one get into a big sale like the Bolton; it don't seemhonest, but I can't help it; nobody'd believe me if I told. ' Rosenheim'sdemeanour was courtly to a fault as he pleaded an engagement and bade usfarewell. Already apparently he divined a certain importance in soremarkable a gift of mimicry. I stayed behind, resolved on making thenearer acquaintance of Campbell Corot. " * * * * * "Rosenheim clearly understands the art of business, " interrupted theAntiquary. "And the business of art, " added the Critic. "Could yourseedy friend have painted my Corot?" said the Patron in real distress. "Why not?" continued the Painter remorselessly. "Only hear me out, andyou may judge for yourself. Anyhow, let's drop your Corot; we werespeaking of mine. " "To make Campbell Corot's acquaintance proved more difficult than I hadexpected. He confided to me immediately that he had been a durn fool togive himself away to my friend, but talk was cheap, and people neverbelieved him, anyway. Then gloom descended, and my professions ofconfidence received only the most surly responses. He unbent again for amoment with, 'Painter feller, you knowed the pesky ways of paint, didn'tyer?' but when I followed up this promising lead and claimed him as anassociate, he repulsed me with, 'Stuck up, ain't yer? Parley French likeyour friend? S'pose you've showed in the Saloon at Paris. ' Giving it up, I replied simply: 'I have; I'm a landscape painter, too, but I'd like tosay before I go that I should be glad to be able to paint a picture likethat. ' Looking me in the eye and seeing I meant it, 'Shake!' he repliedcordially. As we shook, his breath met me fair: it was such a breath aswas not uncommon in old-time Cedar Street. Gentlemen who affect thisaroma are, I have noticed, seldom indifferent to one sort of invitation, so I ventured hardily: 'You know Nickerson's Glengyle, sir; perhaps youwill do me the favour to drink a glass with me while we chat. ' Here Icould tell you a lot about Nickerson's. " "Don't, " begged the Critic, whois abstemious. "I will only say, then, that Nickerson's, once anall-night refuge, closes now at three--desecration has made it the yellowmarble office of a teetotaler in the banking line--and the Glengyle, thatblessed essence of the barley, heather, peat, and mist of Old Scotland, has been taken over by an exporting company, limited. Sometimes I think Idetect a little of it in the poisons that the grocers of Glasgow andEdinburgh send over here, or perhaps I only dream of the old taste. Thenit was itself, and by the second glass Campbell Corot was quite ready tosoliloquise. You shall have his story about as he told it, but abridged alittle in view of your tender ages and the hour. * * * * * "John Campbell had grown up contentedly on the old farm under MountEverett until one summer when a landscape painter took board with thefamily. At first the lad despised the gentle art as unmanly, but as hewatched the mysterious processes he longed to try his hand. Thegood-natured Düsseldorfian willingly lent brushes and bits of millboardupon which John proceeded to make the most lurid confections. The formsof things were, of course, an obstacle to him, as they are to everybody. 'I never could drore, ' he told me, 'and I never wanted to drore like thatpainter chap. Why he'd fill a big canvas with little trees and rocks andponds till it all seemed no bigger than a Noah's ark show. I used to askhim, "Why don't you wait till evening when you can't see so much todrore?"' To such criticism the painter naturally paid no attention, whileJohn devoted himself to sunsets and the tube of crimson lake. Frombabyhood he had loved the purple hour, and his results, while withoutform and void, were apparently not wholly unpleasing, for his master paidhim the compliment of using one or two such sketches as backgrounds, adding merely the requisite hills, houses, fences, and cows. Thesecollaborations were mentioned not unworthily beside the sunsets ofKensett and Cropsey next winter at the Academy. From that summer John wasfor better or worse a painter. "His first local success was, curiously enough, an historicalcomposition, in which the village hose company, almost swallowed up bythe smoke, held in check a conflagration of Vesuvian magnitude. The fewvisible figures and Smith's turning-mill, which had heroically been savedin part from the flames, were jotted in from photographs. Happily thiswork, for which the Alert Hose Company subscribed no less thantwenty-five dollars, providing also a fifty-dollar frame, fell under theappreciative eye of the insurance adjuster who visited the very ruinsdepicted. Recognising immediately an uncommonly available form ofartistic talent, this gentleman procured John a commission as painter inordinary to the Vulcan, with orders to come at once to town at excellentwages. By his twentieth year, then, John was established in an atticchamber near the North River with a public that, barring change in theadvertising policy of the Vulcan, must inevitably become national. Forthe lithographers he designed all manner of holocausts; at times he madetours through the counties and fixed the incandescent mouth of Vulcan'sforge, the figures within being merely indicated, on the face of ahundred ledges. That was a shame, he freely admitted to me; the rockslooked better without. In fact, John Campbell's first manner soon came tobe a humiliation and an intolerable bondage. He felt the insincerity ofit deeply. 'You see, it's this way, ' he explained to me, 'you don't seethe shapes by firelight or at sunset, but you have seen them all day andyou know they're there. Nobody that don't have those shapes in his brushcan make you feel them in a picture. Everybody puts too little droringinto sunsets. Nobody paints good ones, not even Inness [we must rememberit was in the early '70s], except a Frenchman called Roosoo. He takes 'emvery late, which is best, and he can drore some too. '" "A very decent critic, your alcoholic friend, " the Critic remarked. "Hewas full of good ideas, as you shall see, " the story-teller replied. "Iquite agree with you, if the bad whisky could have been kept away fromhim he might have shone in your profession. Anyhow, he had the makings ofan honest man in him, and when the Vulcan enlarged its cliff-paintingprogramme, he cut loose bravely. Then followed ten lean years of oddjobs, with landscape painting as a recreation, and the occasional sale ofa canvas on a street corner as a great event. When his need was greatesthe consented to earn good wages composing symbolical door designs for theMeteor Coach Company, but that again he could not endure for long. Laterin the intervals of colouring photographs, illuminating window-shades, orwhatever came to hand, he worked out the theory which finally led him tothe feet of Corot. It was, in short, that the proper subject for anartist deficient in linear design is sunrise. "He explained the matter to me with zest. 'By morning you've halfforgotten the look of things. All night you've seen only dreams thatdon't have any true form, and when the first light comes, nothing showssolid for what it is. The mist uncovers a little here and there, and youwonder what's beneath. It's all guesswork and nothing sure. Take anymorning early when I look out of my attic window to the North River. There's nothing but a heap of fog, grey or pink, as there's more or lesssun behind. It gets a little thick over toward Jersey, and that may bethe shore, or again it mayn't. Then a solid bit of vi'let shows high up, and I guess it's Castle Stevens, but perhaps it ain't. Then a pale-yellowstreak shoots across the river farther up and I take it to be thePalisades, but again it may be jest a ray of sunshine. You see therereally ain't no earth; it's all air and light. That's what a man thatcan't drore ought to paint; that's what my namesake, Cameel Corot, didpaint better than any one that ever lived. ' "At this point of his confession John Campbell glared savagely at me forassent, and set down a sadly frayed and noxious stogy on Nickerson'sblack walnut. I hastened to agree, though much of the doctrine was heresyto a realist, only objecting: 'But one really has to draw a scene such asyou describe just like any other. In fact, the drawing of atmosphere isthe most difficult branch of our art. Many very good painters, like mymaster, Courbet, have given it up. ' 'Corbet!' he replied contemptuously;'he didn't give it up; he never even seen it. But don't I know it's hard, sir? For years I tried to paint it, and I never got nothing but the fog;when I put in more I lost that. They're pretty, those sketches--likewatered silk or the scum in the docks with the sun on it; but, Lord, there ain't nothing into 'em, and that's the truth. At last, afterfumbling around for years, I happened to walk into Vogler's gallery oneday and saw my first Corot. Ther' it was--all I had been trying for. Itwas the kind of droring I knew ought to be, where a man sets down morewhat he feels than what he knows. I knew I was beginning too late, but Iloved that way of working. I saw all the Corots I could, and began topaint as much as I could his way. I got almost to have his eye, but ofcourse I never got his hand. Nobody could, I guess, not even an educatedartist like you, or they'd all a don' it. ' * * * * * "After this awakening John Campbell began the artist's life afresh withhigh hopes. His first picture in the sweet new style was honestly called'Sunrise in Berkshire, ' though he had interwoven with his ownreminiscences of the farm several motives from various compositions ofhis great exemplar. He signed the canvas Campbell Corot, in the familiarcapital letters, because he didn't want to take all the credit; becausehe desired to mark emphatically the change in his manner, and because itstruck him as a good painting name justified by the resemblance betweenhis surname and the master's Christian name. It was a heartfelt homage inintention. If the disciple had been familiar with Renaissance usages, hewould undoubtedly have signed himself John of Camille. "'Sunrise in Berkshire' fetched sixty dollars in a downtown auction room, the highest price John had ever received; but this was only the beginningof a bewildering rise in values. When John next saw the picture, Campbellhad been deftly removed, and the landscape, being favourably noticed inthe press, brought seven hundred dollars in an uptown salesroom. Johnhappened on it again in Beilstein's gallery, where the price had risen tothirteen hundred dollars--a tidy sum for a small Corot in those earlydays. At that figure it fell to a noted collector whose walls it stilladorns. Here Campbell Corot's New England conscience asserted itself. Heinsisted on seeing Beilstein in person and told him the facts. Beilsteintreated the visitor as an impostor and showed him the door, taking hisaddress, however, and scornfully bidding him make good his story bypainting a similar picture, unsigned. For this, if it was worth anything, the dealer promised he should be liberally paid. Naturally CampbellCorot's professional dander was up, and he produced in a week a Corotish'Dance of Nymphs, ' if anything, more specious than the last. For thisBeilstein gave him twenty-five dollars, and within a month you might haveseen it under the skylight of a country museum, where it is stillreverently explained to successive generations of school-children. "If Campbell Corot had been a stronger character, he might have madesome stand against the fraudulent success his second manner wasachieving. But, unhappily, in those experimental years he had acquiredan experimental knowledge of the whisky of Cedar Street. His irregularand spend-thrift ways had put him out of all lines of employment. Besides, he was consumed by an artist's desire to create a kind ofpicture that he could not hope to sell as his own. Nor did the voice ofthe tempter, Beilstein, fail to make itself heard. He offered anunfailing market for the little canvases at twenty-five and fiftydollars, according to size. There was a patron to supply unlimitedcolours and stretchers, a pocket that never refused to advance a smallbill when thirst or lesser need found Campbell Corot penniless. Almostinevitably he passed from occasional to habitual forgery, consolinghimself with the thought that he never signed the pictures and, beforethe law at least, was blameless. But signed they all were somewherebetween their furtive entrance at Beilstein's basement and theirappearance on his walls or in the auction rooms. Of course it wasn't theblackguard Beilstein who forged the five magic letters; he would nevertake the risk, 'Blast his dirty soul!' cried Campbell Corot aloud, as heseethed with the memory of his shame. He rose as if for summaryvengeance, to the amazement of the quiet topers in the room. For sometime his utterance had been getting both excited and thick, and now Isaw with a certain chagrin that the Glengyle had done its work only toowell. It was a question not of hearing his story out, but of getting himhome before worse befell. By mingled threats and blandishments I got himaway from Nickerson's, and after an adventurous passage down CedarStreet, I deposited him before his attic door, in a doubtful frame ofmind, being alternately possessed by the desire to send Beilstein tohell and to pray for the eternal welfare of the only genuine Corot. " "You certainly make queer acquaintances, " ejaculated the Patron uneasily. "Hurry up and tell us the rest; it's growing late, " insisted theAntiquary, as he beckoned for the bill. "I saw Campbell Corot only once more, but occasionally I saw his work, and it told a sad tale of deterioration. The sunrises and nymphals nolonger deceived anybody, having fallen nearly to the average level ofauction-room impressionism. I was not surprised, then, when running intohim near Nickerson's one day I felt that drink and poverty were speedingtheir work. He tried to pass me unrecognised, but I stopped him, andonce more the invitation to a nip proved irresistible. My curiosity waskeen to learn his attitude toward his own work and that of his master, and I attempted to draw him out with a crass compliment. He denied megently. 'The best things I do, or rather did, young feller, are jest alittle poorer than his worst. Between ourselves, he painted some prettybum things. Some I suppose he did, like me, by lamplight. Some hesketched with one hand while he was lighting that there long pipe withthe other. Sometimes, I guess, he was in a hurry for the money. Now, when I'm painting my level best, like I used to could, mine are aboutlike that. But people don't know the difference about him or about me;and mine, as I told your Jew friend, are plenty good enough forevery-day purposes. Used to be, anyway. Nobody can paint like his best. Think of it, young feller, you and me is painters and know what itmeans--jest a little dirty paint on white canvas, and you see thecreeping of the sunrise over the land, the breathing of the mist fromthe fields, and the twinkling of the dew in the young leaves. Nobody buthim could paint that, and I guess he never knowed how he done it; hejest felt it in his brush, it seems to me. ' "After this outburst little more was to be got from him. In a word, hehad gone to pieces and knew it. Beilstein had cast him off; the works inthe third manner hung heavy in the auction places. Leaning over thetable, he asked me, 'Who was the gent that said, "My God, what a genius Ihad when I done that!"?' I told him that the phrase was given to many, but that I believed Swift was the gent. 'Jest so, ' Campbell Corotresponded; 'that's the way I felt the last time I saw Beilstein. He'dbeen sending back my things and, for a joke, I suppose, he wrote me tocome up and see a real Corot, and take the measure of the job I wastackling. So up to the avenue I went, and Beilstein first gave me mydressing down and then asked me into the red-plush private room where hetakes the big oil and wheat men when they want a little art. There on theeasel was a picture. He drew the cloth away and said: "Now, Campbell, that's what we want in our business. " As sure as you're born, sir, it wasa "Dance of Nymphs" that I done out of photographs eight years ago. But Ican't paint like that no more. I know the way your friend Swift felt;only I guess my case is worse than his. ' "The mention of photographs gave me a clue to Campbell Corot's artisticmethods. It appeared that Beilstein had kept him in the bestreproductions of the master. But on this point the disciple was reticent, evading my questions by a motion to go. 'I'm not for long probably, ' hesaid, as he refused a second glass. 'You've been patient while I'vetalked--I can't to most--and I don't want you to remember me drunk. Takegood care of yourself, and, generally speaking, don't start your whiskytill your day's painting is done. ' I stood for some minutes on the cornerof Broadway as his gaunt form merged into the glow that fell full intoCedar Street from the setting sun. I wondered if the hour recalled theold days on the farm and the formation of his first manner. "However that may be, his premonition was right enough. The next winter Iread one morning that the body of Campbell Corot had been taken from theriver at the foot of Cedar Street. It was known that his habits wereintemperate, and it was probable that returning from a saloon he hadwalked past his door and off the dock. His cards declared him to be alandscape painter, but he was unknown in the artistic circles of thecity. I wrote to the authorities that he was indeed a landscape painterand that the fact should be recorded on his slab in Potter's Field. I waspoor and that was the only service I could do to his memory. " The Painter ceased. We all rose to go and were parting at the doorwaywith sundry hems and haws when the Patron piped up anxiously, "Do yousuppose he painted my Corot?" "I don't know and I don't care, " said thePainter shortly. "Damn it, man, can't you see it's a human not apicture-dealing proposition?" sputtered the Antiquary. "That's right, "echoed the Critic, as the three locked arms for the stroll downtown, leaving the bewildered Patron to find his way alone to the Park East. THE DEL PUENTE GIORGIONE The train swung down a tawny New England river towards Prestonville as Ireviewed the stages of a great curiosity. At last I was to see the DelPuente Giorgione. Long before, when the old pictures first began to speakto me, I had learned that the critic Mantovani, the master of us all, owned an early Giorgione, unfinished but of marvellous beauty. At hisdeath, strangely enough, it was not found among his pictures, which werebequeathed as every one knows to the San Marcello Museum. The next word Ihad of it was when Anitchkoff, Mantovani's disciple and successor, reported it in the Del Puente Castle in the Basque mountains. He added aword on its importance though avowedly knowing it only from a photograph. It appeared that Mantovani in his last days had given the portrait to hisold friend the Carlist Marquesa del Puente, in whose cause--picturesquebut irrelevant detail--he had once drawn sword. Anitchkoff's fullenthusiasm was handsomely recorded after he had made the pilgrimage tothe Marquesa's crag. One may still read in that worthy but short-livedorgan of sublimity, "Le Mihrab, " his appreciation of the Del PuenteGiorgione, which he describes as a Giambellino blossoming into a Titian, with just the added exquisiteness that the world has only felt since BigGeorge of Castelfranco took up the brush. How the panel exchanged thePyrenees for the North Shore passed dimly through my mind as barely worthrecalling. It was the usual story of the rich and enterprising Americancollector. Hanson Brooks had bought it and hung it in "The Curlews, "where it bid fair to become legendary once more, but at last had lent itwith his other pictures to the Prestonville Museum of Science and theFine Arts, the goal of my present quest. While the picture lay _perdu_ atBrooks's, there had been disquieting gossip; the Pretorian Club, which isoften terribly right in such matters, agreed that he had been badly sold. None of this I believed for an instant. What could one doubt in a pictureowned by Mantovani and certified by Anitchkoff? Upon this point ofrumination the train stopped at Prestonville. My approach to the masterpiece was reverently deliberate. At theAmerican House I actually lingered over the fried steak and dallied longwith the not impossible mince pie. Thus fortified, I followed MainStreet to the Museum--one of those depressingly correct new-Greekbuildings with which the country is being filled. Skirting with a shiverthe bleak casts from the antique in the atrium and mounting an absurdlyspacious staircase, I reached a doorway through which the _chefd'oeuvre_ of my dreams confronted me cheerlessly. Its nullity wasappalling; from afar I felt the physical uneasiness that an equivocalpicture will usually produce in a devotee. To approach and study it wasa civility I paid not to itself but to its worshipful _provenance_. Aslight inspection told all there was to tell. The paint was palpablymodern; the surface would not have resisted a pin. In style it was adistant echo of the Giorgione at Berlin. Yet, as I gazed and wonderedsadly, I perceived it was not a vulgar forgery--indeed not a forgery atall. It had been done to amuse some painter of antiquarian bent. I eventhought, too rashly, that I recognised the touch of the youthful Watts, and I could imagine the studio revel at which he or another hadvaliantly laid in a Giorgione before the punch, as his contribution tothe evening's merriment. The picture upon the pie wrought a blackdepression that some excellent Japanese paintings were powerless todispel. As my train crawled up the tawny river, now inky, my thoughtsmoved helplessly about the dark enigma--How could Mantovani havepossessed such rubbish? How could Anitchkoff, enjoying the use of hiseyes and mind, have credited it for a moment? My reflectionspreposterously failed to rest upon the obvious clue, the mysteriousMarquesa del Puente, and it was not until I met Anitchkoff, some yearslater, that I began to divine the woman in the case. After ten years of absence he had come back to America on something likea triumphal tour. I had promptly paid my respects and now through adiscreet persistency was to have a long evening with him at thePretorian. As I studied the dinner card, guessing at his gastronomictastes, my mind was naturally on his remarkable career. Anitchkoff, brought from Russia in childhood, had grown up in decent poverty in asmall New England city. Very early he showed the intellectual ambitionthat distinguished all the family. Our excellent public schools made hisway to the nearest country college easy and inevitable. There began thestruggle the traces of which might be read in an almost melancholygravity quite unnatural in a man become famous at thirty-five. With thefacility of his race he learned all the languages in the curriculum andread ferociously in many literatures. In his junior year the appearanceof a great and genial work on psychology made him the metaphysician hehas remained through all digressions in the connoisseurship and criticismof art. How his search for ultimate principles involved a mastery of theminutiae of the Venetian school I could only guess. But one could imaginethe process. Seeking to ground his personal preferences in a generalesthetic, he would have found his data absolutely untrustworthy. Howcould he presume to interpret a Giorgione or a Titian when what theypainted was undetermined? Upon these shifting sands he declined to rearhis tabernacle. To the work of classifying the Venetians, accordingly, heset himself with dogged honesty. As a matter of course Mantovani becamehis chief preceptor--Mantovani who first discovered that the highlycomplex organism we call a work of art has a morphology as definite asthat of a trilobite; that the artist may no more transcend his own formsthan a crustacean may become a vertebrate. For a matter of ten yearsAnitchkoff, espousing a fairly Franciscan poverty, gave himself to thisungrateful task. How he contrived to live in the shadow of the greatgalleries was a mystery the solution of which one suspected to be bitterand heroic. Gradually recognition as an expert came to him and with it anirksome success. His fame had developed duties, and while his studies inesthetics remained fragmentary, he was persistently consulted on allmanner of trivialities. From Piedmont to the confine of Dalmatia he knewevery little master that ever made or marred panel or plaster, and hepaid the penalty of such knowledge. Surmising the tragedy of his careerand its essential nobility I had discounted the ugly rumours connectinghim with the sale of the Del Puente Giorgione. When every fool learnedthat the Giorgione at "The Curlews" was false, many inferred thatAnitchkoff, having praised it, must have a hand in Brooks's badbargain--a conclusion sedulously put about and finally hinted in coldtype by certain rival critics. Personally I knew that Brooks had baggedhis find under quite other advice, but while I would always have sworn toAnitchkoff's complete integrity in the whole Del Puente matter, my wonderalso grew at so hideous a lapse of judgment. I hopelessly fell back uponsuch banalities as the errability of mankind, being conscious all thetime that some special and most curious infatuation must underlie thisparticular error. Anitchkoff's card interrupted some such train ofthought. He came in quietly as sunshine after fog. His face between thecurtains reminded me strangely of the awful moment in the PrestonvilleMuseum--paradoxically, for he was as genuine and reassuring as the DelPuente Giorgione had been baffling and false. We began dinner with the stiffness of men between whom much is unsaid. As the oystershells departed, however, we had found common memories. Herecalled delightfully those little northern towns in the debatableregion which from a critic's point of view may be considered Lombard orVenetian, with a tendency to be neither but rather a TransalpineBavaria. To me also the glow of the Burgundy on the tablecloth broughtback strange provincial altarpieces in this territory--marvels incrimson and gold, and a riddle for the connoisseur. Then the talkreached higher latitudes. He mused aloud about that very simple reactionwhich we call the sense of beauty and have resolutely sophisticated eversince criticism existed--I intent meanwhile and eating most of a mallardas sanguine as a decollation of the Baptist. By the cheese Anitchkoffseemed confident of my sympathy, and I, having found nothing amiss inhim except an imperfect enjoyment of the pleasures of the table, wasplanning how least imprudently might be raised the topic of the DelPuente Giorgione. But it was he who spoke first. At the coffee he askedme with admirable simplicity what people said about the affair, and Ianswered with equal candour. "You too have wondered, " he continued. "Of course, but nothing worse, " I replied. Then with the hesitancy of a man approaching a dire chagrin, and yet witha rueful appreciation of the humour of the predicament that I despair ofreproducing, he began: "It happened about this way. When I first came to Italy and began to meetthe friends of Mantovani, they told me of an early Giorgione he owned butrarely showed. He used to speak of it affectionately as 'il mio Zorzi, 'to distinguish it perhaps from the more important example he had sold toone of our dilettante iron-masters. The little unfinished portrait Iheard of, from those whose opinion is sought, as a superlatively lovelything. It was mentioned with a certain awe; to have seen it was adistinction. For years I hoped my time would come, but the opportunitywas provokingly delayed. How should you feel if Mrs. Warrener should showyou all her things but the great Botticelli?" I nodded understandingly. Mrs. Warrener, for a two minutes' delay in an appointment, had debarredme her Whistlers for a year. "That's the way Mantovani treated me, " Anitchkoff continued. "Whenever Idared I asked for the 'Zorzi, ' and he always put me off with a smile. That mystified me, for I knew he took a paternal pride in my studies, butI never got any more satisfactory answer from him than that the 'Zorzi'was strong meat for the young; one must grow up to it, like S---- andP---- and C---- (naming some of his closest disciples). These allusionshe made repeatedly and with a queer sardonic zest. Occasionally he wouldvolunteer the encouragement--for I had long ago dropped thesubject--'Cheer up, my boy; your turn will come. ' When he so Quixoticallygave the picture to the Marquesa del Puente, it seemed, though, as if myturn could never come, but I noted that he had been true to his doctrinethat the 'Zorzi' was only for the mature; the Del Puente was said to besome years his senior. One knew exasperatingly little about her. It wassaid vaguely that Mantovani entertained a tender friendship for her, having been her husband's comrade in arms in half a dozen Carlistrevolts. That seemed enough to explain the gift. " At this point Anitchkoff must have caught my raised eyebrows, for headded contritely, "It was odd for Mantovani to give away a Giorgione. You're quite right. I was ridiculously young. " "You may imagine, " hepursued, "that the flight of the Giorgione to the Pyrenees onlyembittered my curiosity. For years I might have seen it--shabbily to besure--by merely opening a door when Mantovani was occupied, now it haddeparted to another planet. Remember those were my 'prentice days when Ilived obscurely and absolutely without acquaintance in the Marquesa'sworld. She seemed as inaccessible as the Grand Lama. But you know howthings will come about in least expected ways: Jane Morrison, quite theonly human being who could possibly have known both the Marquesa and me, actually gave me a very good letter of introduction. Then almostoppressive good luck, came a note from her mountain Castle, telling thatthe Chatelaine would be glad to receive me whenever my travels led me herway. She mentioned our common enthusiasm for the Venetians and graciouslywanted my opinion on the Giorgione, which the enemies of Mantovani, herfriend and my spiritual father, as she called him, had spitefullyslandered. Such slanders had never happened to reach my ears but I wasalready eager to refute them. "It was two years later that I made the visit on the way to the Prado. All day long the diligence rattled up hill away from the railroad, and itwas dusk before I saw the Del Puente stronghold on its crag, evidently ahalf hour's walk from the miserable _fonda_ where the diligence droppedme. It was no hour to present an introduction, but I bribed a boy to takethe letter up that night. He returned, disappointingly, without ananswer. The next morning wore on intolerably amid a noisy squalor that Icould not escape until my summons came. It was early afternoon before anequerry arrived on muleback bearing the Marquesa's note. She wasenchanted to meet me but desolated at the unlucky time of my arrival. Tomorrow she crossed the Pyrenees for Paris and hoped my route might liethat way. Meanwhile her home was wholly dismantled for the winter, andthe ordinary hospitalities were denied her. But she counted on thepleasure of seeing me at four; we might at least chat, drink a cup oftea, and pay our homage to Mantovani's 'Zorzi. ' Nothing could have beenmore charming or more tantalising. As I toiled up towards the Del Puentebarbican I could feel the precious afternoon light dwindling. BreathlessI set the castle bell a-jangling with something like despair. "Heavy doors opened in front of me as I passed the sallyport and thegrassgrown courtyard. At the entrance a majordomo in shabby but fairlyregal livery greeted me and conducted me through empty corridors and upa massive staircase. The castle was indeed dismantled--apparently hadbeen in that condition from all time. As my superb guide halted before adoor which, exceptionally, was curtained, and knocked, my heart failedme. I dreaded meeting this strange noblewoman, almost regretted thenearness of the 'Zorzi, ' knowing the actual colours could hardly surpassthose of my fancy. The little speeches I had been rehearsing resolvedthemselves into silence again as I saw her by a tiny fire; a compellingapparition, erect, with snowy hair waving high over burning black eyes. To-day when I coldly analyse her fascination I recall nothing but thesesimple elements. She permitted not a moment of the shyness that hasalways plagued me. What our words were I do not now know, but I knowthat I kissed the two hands she held out to me as she called meMantovani's son and her friend. Then I talked as never before or since, told her of my struggles and ambitions, and from time to time I was muteso that I might hear the deep contralto of the French she spokeperfectly but with Spanish resonance. There was probably tea. Anyhow thelight went away from the deep casements unnoticed, and it was she who, with a chiding finger, recalled me to duty and the Giorgione. 'Wretch, 'said she, 'you are here to see it not me. The light is going and yourdevoirs yet unpaid. ' "As she took my arm and led me through the gallery, I had an oddpresentiment of going towards a doom. While I followed her up a windingstair, the misgiving increased. Did venerable lemurs inhabit the Basquemountains? Could so magnificent; an old age be of this earth? Anancestral shudder from the Steppes came over me. It was her ruddy trainrustling round the turns ahead that aroused these atavisticsuperstitions. But when we stood together on the landing all doubts fellaway; a broad ray of sunlight that struck through an open doorway showedher spectral beauty to be after all reassuringly corporeal. Over thethreshold she fairly pushed me with the warning, 'The place is holy, wemust be silent. ' For a moment I was staggered by the wide pencil of lightthat shot through a porthole and cut the room in two. The little octagon, a tower chamber I took it to be, was a prism of shadow enclosing a shaftof flying golddust. Outside it must have been full sunset. Near theborder line of light and darkness I faintly saw the 'Zorzi, ' whichborrowed a glory from the moment and from her. I felt her hand on myshoulder and knelt, it seemed for minutes, it probably was for secondsonly. The picture, which I had not seen, much less examined, swam in thetwilight and became the most gracious that had ever met my eyes. The duskgrew as the disc of light climbed up the wall and faded. She whispered inmy ear, 'It is enough for now. You shall come again many times. ' I recallnothing more except the Marquesa's silvery hair and the long line of hercrimson gown as she bade me 'Au revoir' at the head of the great stairs. That night in the miserable _fonda_ below I wrote out feverishly thenotes which you have doubtless read in the 'Mihrab, ' and I would give myright hand to be able to forget. " There was a long pause, during which Anitchkoff sipped his cognacnervously, waiting for my comment. I pressed him ruthlessly for thebitter end of the tale. "Your hypnotism I grant, but what about Mantovani and Brooks?" Iasked bluntly. "For Mantovani I have no right to speak, " Anitchkoff replied withdignity. "He was my master and I can admit no imputation on his memory. Besides, your guess is as good as mine. Whether he bought the picturein his precritical days, keeping it as a warning and imposing it uponhis followers as a hoax--this I can merely conjecture. As for Brooks, the case is simple; he couldn't resist a Giorgione at a bargain. Butsince you will, you may as well hear the rest of the story--at least mypart of it. "Three years later I wintered in Paris. I had run into Bing's for a chatand a look at the Hokusais, when who should come in but Hanson Brooks ina high state of elation. An important purchase had just arrived. He urgedus both to dine and inspect it. Bing was engaged; I glad to accept. Atdinner Brooks teased me to the top of his bent. I was to imagineabsolutely the most important old master in private possession, his for abeggarly price. I declined to humour him by guessing, and we slurred hissweets and coffee to hasten to the apartment. On a dressing table facedto the wall was a little panel which he slowly turned into view. For amoment I gasped for joy, it was the Del Puente Giorgione; and then anawful misgiving overcame me--I saw it as it was. Brooks marked myamazement and, misreading the cause, slapped me on the back and askedwhat I thought of that for a hundred thousand pesetas. The figure againbowled me over. For the picture as it stood it was a thousand times toomuch, while a mere tithe of the value of the name the panel bore. Iblurted out that the price was suspiciously wrong, and added that I mustsee the portrait by daylight before venturing an opinion. The thoughtthat Mantovani had owned it for twenty years and more made a sleeplessnight hideous; at sunrise my loyalty reasserted itself by a lamecompromise. "I daresay you will not blame me for hoping against hope, as I did thenext day and for some months after, that somewhere under that modernpaint there was indeed a sketch by Giorgione's hand. You must rememberthat I could as little doubt my own existence as Mantovani's judgment onsuch a point. In the sequel it seemed as if no humiliation were to bespared me. It was Mantovani's chief rival and favourite victim, Merck, who after a torturing correspondence had the pleasure of telling me hehad seen the 'Zorzi' painted by the amateur Ricard; it was Campbell who, after recommending it to Brooks, publicly accused me of dishonestbrokerage. That's all I can tell you about the Del Puente Giorgione. " I seized his hand impulsively, and clumsily offered him, in a breath, whisky, shuffleboard, or cowboy pool--sound Pretorian remedies for allhuman woes. These consolations he refused and took his leave. Midnightfound me in the same chair, thinking less of Anitchkoff, whose case nowlay clear, than of Mantovani and the Marquesa del Puente, about whom itseemed there still might be something to say. The chances of a roving life have brought some slight addition to theevidence. Stopping over a boat at Dieppe, a few summers ago, I happenedto see my good friend Mme. Vezin registered at the Casino, where Irecognised an acquaintance or two. That decided me to spend the night andcall at her villa. Her salon never failed to divert me, for, drawingtogether the most disparate people, she handled them with easygeneralship. Under her chandelier ardent art students from the MiddleWest and the poor relations of royalty might be heard exchangingconfidences and foreign tongues. So, as I climbed the hill at the vergeof the chalk and pasture, I felt sure of the unexpected, nor was Idisappointed. Shrill voices from my fellow countrywomen came down thegarden path and assured me that art had accompanied Mme. Vezin in herannual retreat from the Luxembourg Gardens. Entering I found the sameperfect hostess and much the old dear, queer scene. I was bracing myselffor a polyglot evening--being with all my travel quite incapable oflanguages--when the little maid announced importantly Mme. La Marquisedel Puente. All rose instinctively as there entered an erect white-hairedwoman simply dressed in a black gown along which hung a notable crimsonscarf. Murmuring the indispensable banalities I bowed distantly, meaningto observe her impersonally before an encounter. But she disarmed me bythrowing herself on my mercy. She knew me already through dear Mr. HansonBrooks. It was her first visit here; I, she saw, was of the household. Would I not show her the curiosities and protect her from the bores?Sullenly I followed her while she discussed the bijoux that littered theshelves, and the deep modulations of her voice insensibly mollified me. Ihad intended in Anitchkoff's behalf to count every wrinkle of herseventy-five unhallowed years, but found myself instead admiring hercloud of silver hair, avoiding the gaze of her black eyes, and notingwith a kind of fascination the precise gestures of her fine hand as shetook up or set down Mme. Vezin's poor little things. At last she settled into an armchair, beckoning me to a footstool, and Ibegan to talk unconscionably, she urging me on. She professed to know mywritings--it was of course impossible that she should have seen thoserare anonymous letters to the most ladylike of Boston newspapers: shetouched my dearest hobby, that republics and governments generally mustbe judged not by their politics but by the amenity of the social lifethey foster. Feeling that this was witchcraft or divination even morequestionable, and dreading she had another Giorgione to sell, I made alast futile effort for freedom, proposing introductions. With a phraseshe subdued me, and my halting French began to be eloquent. I confessedmy innermost ambition, the creation of a criticism learned and judicialin substance but impressionistic in form. She dwelt upon the beauties ofher eyrie in the Basque mountains which I must one day see. As we chattedon obliviously an audience of marvelling art students and baigneursformed about us quietly. Their serried faces suddenly revealed to me myignominious surrender. I started as from a dream and, as she bade me notforget to call, I kissed her long hand and fled with only a curt farewellto my hostess. The channel breeze and the scent of the clover sobered me up. My pitywent out to Anitchkoff and then I remembered that I had seen Fouquartat the Casino. It seemed too good to be true. Here at Dieppe were boththis enigmatic Marquesa and the prime repository of all authenticscandal of our times. For the old dandy Fouquart had lived not wiselybut too well through three generations of cosmopolitan gallantry. Hadthe censorship and his literary parts permitted, he could have writtena chronicle of famous ladies that would put the Sieur de Brantôme'smodest attempt to shame. I found him among the rabble, moodily playingthe little horses for five-franc pieces, but at the mention of theMarquesa del Puente he kindled. "A grand woman, " he said emphatically, as he dragged me to a safe corner, "a true model to the anemic and neurotic sex of the day. " When asked tospecify he told me how the energy and passion of twenty generations ofrobber noblefolk had flowered in her. Scruples or fears she had neverknown. From childhood attached to the Carlist cause, she had become thesoul of that movement in the Pyrenees. It was she who haggled withBritish armourers, traced routes, planned commissariats, and most of alldrew from far and near soldiers of fortune to captain a hopeless cause. In such recruiting, Fouquart implied, her loyalty had not flinched at themost personal tests. What seemed to mystify Fouquart was that none ofthese whilom champions ever attained the grace of forgetfulness. Everyyear many of these tottering old gentlemen still reported at Castle delPuente, and there she held court as of old. He himself, although theirrelations had been not military but civil, occasionally made so idle apilgrimage. "To the shrine of our Lady of the crimson teagown, " Iventured. "You too, _mon vieux_!" he chuckled with ironicalcongratulations. Ignoring the impertinence, I interposed the name ofMantovani. "Our respected colleague, " Fouquart exclaimed delightedly. Before Mantovani fuddled his head about pictures he had been a goodblade, taking anyone's pay. For ten years and through half as many littlewars he had been the Marquesa's titular chief of staff. Her husband?Well, her husband was a good Carlist--and a true philosopher. As I toremyself away from the impending flow of scandal, Fouquart murmuredregretfully. "Must you go? It is a pity. We have only begun, _à demain_. "But we had really ended, for the next morning, shaking off a nightmare ofa red-robed Lilith who tried to sell me a questionable Zeuxis, I took theearly steamer. Of the Marquesa del Puente, whom I believe to be still ather castle, I have seen or heard nothing since. * * * * * After some reflection in the corner of the Pretorian where Anitchkoffonce told me his story, I have come measurably into the clear about thewhole matter. Mantovani's position is plain up to a certain point. Eitherthe 'Zorzi' was given to him or else he bought it in his hopeful youth. In either case he surely kept it merely as a solemn hoax on his learnedcontemporaries. He may have withheld it from Anitchkoff maliciously, oragain out of simple considerateness for a trusting disciple. WhenMantovani came to set his worldly affairs in order, however, it must havestruck him that the joke could not be perpetuated on the walls of the SanMarcello gallery, while the panel was one that a great connoisseur wouldnot willingly have inventoried by his executors. It was at this time thathe bestowed the 'Zorzi' upon the Marquesa del Puente, as a final tokenbetween them. It may fairly be assumed that he knew her to be incapableof believing the precious souvenir to be a veritable Giorgione. Suchsimplicity as that gift and credulity presuppose lay neither in hisnature nor in hers. Beyond this point certitudes fail us lamentably, andwe are reduced to an exasperating balance of possibilities. Did he sendthe picture as an elaborate and unavoidable slight? or was it essentiallya delicate alms, in view of the Marquesa's known poverty and provedresourcefulness? or, again, did he with a deeper perversity set the thingafloat to trouble the critical world after he was gone, foreseeingperhaps some such international comedy as was actually played with the'Zorzi' as leading gentleman? All these things must remain problematicalfor Mantovani cannot tell, and the Marquesa del Puente will not if indeedshe knows. THE LOMBARD RUNES Professor Hauptmann dropped wearily into his chair at the noisy Milanese_table d'hôte_ and snarled out a surly "_Mahlzeit_" to the assembledfeasters. It was echoed sweetly from his left with a languishing"_Mahlzeit, Herr Professor_. " The advance disconcerted him. Resolvingupon a policy of complete indifference to the fluffy and amiable visionbeside him, he devoted himself singly to the food. The _risotto_diminished as his knife travelled rhythmically between the plate and hisbearded lips. Conceding only the inevitable, nay the exacted courtesiesto his neighbour, he performed still greater prodigies with the greenpeas, and it was not until he leaned back for a deft operation with apocket comb, that the vivacious, blue-eyed one got her chance to ask ifit were not the Herr Professor Hauptmann, the great authority on theLombard tongue. The query floored him; he could not deny that it was, andas curlylocks began to evince an intelligent interest in Lombard matters, his stiffness melted like wax under a burning glass. He was soon if notthe protagonist at least the object of an animated, yes fairly intimateconversation. To non-German eyes the pair were worth looking at. He was clad intightfitting sage-green felt, so it appeared, with a superfluity ofstraps, buttons, lacings, and harness of all sorts. A conical Tyrol hatgarnished with a cock's plume and faded violets was crushed between hisback and that of the chair. As his large nervous feet reached for thechairlegs below, one could see an expanse of moss-green stockings, onlyhalf concealed at the extremities by resplendent yellow sandals. Beardedand moustached after the military fashion, nothing betrayed the professorexcept the myopic droop of the head. As for Fraülein Linda Göritz, nomere man may adequately describe her. A German new woman of the artisticstamp, she was pastelling through Lombardy where the Professor wasarcheologising. Short, crisp curls gathered about her boyish head. Hergeneral effect was of a plump bonniness that might yield agreeably to anaudacious arm. She cultivated an aggressive pertness that would haveseemed vulgar, had it not been redeemed by something merely frank andGerman. Shortskirted, she wore a high-strapped variant of the prevalentsandals. The sides of her blue bolero were adorned with stilted yellowlilies in the top of the Viennese new-art mode. In front her shirtwaistappeared cool and white, at the sleeves it flowered alarmingly intosomething like an India shawl. A string of massive amethysts completed adiscord as elaborate as a harmony of Richard Strauss. Her wholeimpression was almost as inviting as it was grotesque. One could not chatwith her without liking her, and it is to be suspected that only a veryguileless or austere male could like her without proceeding to manifestattentions. By the cheese, she had captured her amazed professor, and then shecarried him off bodily for coffee in the Arcade. He talked little, but itdidn't matter, for she talked much and well. Nor could a provincial Saxonscholar be quite indifferent at finding himself known to an intelligentand much travelled Viennese. A cousin, it appeared, had followed hislectures and had highly extolled the ingenuity of his phonology of theLombard tongue, a language which was, she must remember--a hesitatingpause--yes, surely East--"East Germanic, Ja wohl!" responded theProfessor thunderously, though idiots had written to the contrary. Andthen he told her at length the reasons why, until she pleaded her earlymorning sketching and firmly bound him to accompany her the nextafternoon to the Certosa of Pavia. The Herr Professor rarely paid muchattention to hands, but as he held Fraülein Göritz's for Good Night hecould not but note that it was soft and filled his big grip so well thathe was sorry when it was gone. He dismissed the observation, however, asunworthy a philologer and went to sleep pondering a new destruction forthe knaves who held the Lombard tongue to be not East but West Germanic. And here, to appreciate the weight and importance of Linda's fish, alittle explanation is necessary. Hauptmann was not merely a philologer, which is a formidable thing in itself, but he belonged to the esotericgroup that deals with languages which have no literature. As he had oftenremarked, any fool could compile a grammar of a language that has leftextensive documents; the process was almost mechanical, but toreconstruct a grammar of a language that has left practically no remains, that required acumen. Hauptmann did not belong, however, to thetranscendental school that creates purely inferential languages--EastGermanic and West, General Teutonic, Original Slavic, Indo-European andthe like. These are the _Dii majores_ and their inventions are ascomplete as if one should detect, say, the relation of the little to thebig fleas not by the cunning use of the microscope but by sheerinference. This larger game Hauptmann sagaciously left to others, ranginghimself with those who piece together the scanty and uncertain fragmentsof languages that have existed but have failed to perpetuate themselvesin documents and inscriptions. Vandalic had powerfully allured him, andso had Old Burgundian: he had had designs also upon Visigothic, and hadfinally chosen Lombard rather than the others because the material wasnot merely defective but also delightfully vague, affording a wideopportunity for genuine philological insight. And indeed to classify alanguage on the basis of a phrase scratched on a brooch, themisquotations of alien chroniclers, the shifting forms of misspelledproper names, is a task compared with which the fabled reconstruction ofleviathan from a single bone is mere child's play. From the mere scraps and hints of Lombard words in Paul the Deacon andother historians anybody but a German would have declined to draw anyconclusion whatever. But just as every German citizen however humble, becomes eventually a privy counsellor, a knight of various eagles ofdiverse classes, an overstationmaster, or a royal postman, so Germanscience for the past hundred years has permitted no fact to languish inits native insignificance. All have been promoted to be the sponsors ofimposing theories. And Hauptmann's theory, which got him the degree ofPh. D. , _maxima cum laude_, was that Lombard is an East Germanic tongue. This he simple intuited, needing the degree, for the fifty mangledLombard words displayed none of those consonants which tending to doubleor of those vowels which still vexing us as umlauts, mark a language asbelonging to the great Eastern or Western group. But Hauptmann was firstin the field, and if it was impossible for him to demonstrate that he wasright, it was equally impossible for anybody else to prove that he waswrong. So he stood his ground and by dint of continually hitting the samenail on the same head he had so greatly flourished that he was mentionedrespectfully as far as the Lombard tongue was known, and at thirty-fourhad passed from the honourable but unpaid condition of Privat-dozent tothat of Professor Extraordinarius. Now if the Lombards, having ignominiously taken to Latin after theirdescent upon Italy, had had to wait for Hauptmann to provide them with alanguage, they had left certain more substantial traces of themselves inthe valley of the Po. They died and were buried in state with their armsand utensils for the other world. So that, while one might well be indoubt whether an inscription was Lombard or not, an antiquary will tellyou without fail whether a clasp, a spearhead or a sword is or is not thework of this conquering but too adaptable race. In these archaeologicalmatters Hauptmann took a forced and languid interest. During nightmarishhours, when the beer and cheese had not mingled aright, he was haunted bylines of Lombard runes. Sometimes they were East Germanic, and that was agrief, taking, as it were, the bloom from the guess that had made himgreat; and again they were West Germanic, and that was awful, thehallucination ending in a mortal struggle with the feather bed underwhich German science is incubated, and passing off with an anguished"Donnerwetter! It cannot be Lombard. It is not possible. " His notinfrequent Italian trips had, then, an archaeological pretext, and thishad been more or less the purpose of the pilgrimage in which FraüleinLinda had become by main force an alluring if disquieting incident. If there is anywhere in the world a more satisfactory sight than thePavian Certosa, certainly neither Hauptmann nor his chance acquaintancehad ever seen it. And indeed is there anywhere else such spaciousness ofcloisters, such profusion of minutely cut marble, such incrustation, forbetter or worse, of semiprecious stones. Surely nothing in a sightseeingway approaches it as a money's worth. Fraülein Linda, a superior personwho had begun to entertain doubts as to the externals of modern Austrianpalaces and the internals of new German liners, reserved her enthusiasmsfor the pale Borgonones so strangely misplaced amid all that splendour. Hauptmann, on the contrary, admired it all impartially. The sense of bulkand inordinate expensiveness made him for a moment almost regret thatthese later Lombards who reared this pile were not of the same race-stockwith himself. There was a moment in which he could have claimed them, hadprinciple permitted, as West Germans. Rather he soon forgot the Lombardsin the alternate rapture and dismay aroused by the petulant yet strangelywinning personality beside him. Professor Hauptmann was used neither tobeing contradicted nor managed by mere women folk, and this afternoon hewas undergoing both experiences simultaneously. It was with a feeling ofrelief that he left the Certosa, which seemed in a way her territory, andstarted out with her upon the neutral highroad that led to the station. They lingered, for the hour was propitious, and their plan was to kill anhour or so before the evening train. As the glow came over the lowlyingfields, the weary forms of the labourers began to fill the road. At adistance Hauptmann perceived one who importunately offered a small objectto the sightseers and was as regularly repulsed. Without waiting for theprofessor, who stood at attention while Fraülein Linda sketched, thisbeggar or pedlar approached and prayed to be allowed to show a rare andveritable object of antiquity. A gruff refusal had already been givenwhen she pleaded that they hear the peasant talk, and inspect histreasure. "Who knows, Herr Professor, but it might be Lombard?" "Wohlan, "he replied, and sullenly took the proffered spearhead. It was of iron, patined rather than rusted, Lombard in form, and of evident antiquity. Hauptmann gave it a nearsighted look and was about to return itcontemptuously when the peasant urged, "But look again, sir, there areletters, a rarity. " "I dare you to read them, " cried Fraülein Linda, andthe Professor read painfully and copied roughly in his notebook a shortinscription in some Runic alphabet. A scowl followed the reading and theabrupt challenge "Where did you find this piece?" "In the fields, digging, Padrone, " was the answer, "where I dug up also this, " displayinga bronze clasp of unquestionable Lombard workmanship. "Bravo, " exclaimedLinda, "now perhaps we shall know more about your dear Lombards. Icongratulate you, Herr Professor, from the heart. " "Aber nein, " hegrowled back, "there were monuments enough already, and this is only abore, for I must buy and publish it. Others too may be found in the samefield, and Lombard will become a popular pastime. It is disgusting;compassionate me. It was the single language that permitted trulya-priori approach. It would be almost a duty to suppress these accursedrunes for the sake of scientific method. But no; the harm is done. Wemust be patient. " What the Herr Professor said and continued to say as he drove a hardbargain with the peasant was but half the story. A glance at the runeshad shown an awful double consonant, and, as if that were not enough, anappalling modified vowel. By a single word scratched by the untutoredhand of a rude warrior the most ingenious linguistic hypothesis of ourtimes was shattered beyond hope of repair. The spearhead was Lombard, and Lombard, dire reflection to one who had gained fame by maintainingthe contrary, belonged to the West Germanic group of the Teutonictongues. Wild thoughts went through his head. He recalled that Paris hadseemed worth a mass, and considered a plenary retraction with afacsimile publication of the runes. But as he pondered this course theinexpediency of sacrificing so fair a theory to this mere brute factseemed indisputable. He thought also of ascribing the doubled consonantand the modified vowel to the illiterate blundering of the spearman whochiselled the letters. But as his fingers traced the sharp andpurposeful strokes he realised that such a contention would be laughedout of the philological court. For a mad moment he thought of destroyingthe miserable bit of iron, but in the first place that was in itselfdifficult, and then the chattering lady at his side knew that he was inpossession of a Runic inscription, probably Lombard. She was widelyconnected and would certainly babble in the very city where his bitterrival Professor Anlaut had maintained that Lombard was West Germanic. AsHauptmann noticed that the road had become deserted, that the dusk hadincreased, and that Fraülein Linda's observations on the luckiness ofthe "find" were interminable, a homicidal fancy just grazed the borderof his agitated consciousness. But no, that would not do either; thescientific conscience forbade the destruction of any datum howeverembarrassing. Destroy the spearhead he could not, and with a flash ofintuition it came over him that it must simply be lost as promptly andhopelessly as possible. But this too was by no means easy. As they strolled down the road, ditchafter ditch in the lower fields presented itself as apt for the purpose, but never the favourable moment. In fact Fraülein Linda's talk came backto the accursed runes with exasperating persistency. They would confirmhis theory. She was happy in being present at this auspicious discovery. It would be a cause wherefore she should not wholly be forgotten. It wasthis sentimental hint that gave a reasonable hope of taking her mind offthe runes, and the harassed philologer set himself resolutely to thetask. For her slight advances he found bolder responses, and stillscanning the irrigating ditches closely for an especially oozy bottom, heexpatiated on the loveliness of the afterglow and confirmed therecollection of last evening that Fraülein Linda's dimpled hand might bean eminently pleasant thing to hold. Thus gradually she was won from theLombard runes to more personal interests, and as in the slow progresstowards the station they neared a bridge, Hauptmann divined the spotwhere the East Germanic hypothesis lately in peril of death might receivean indefinite reprieve. He found Linda, as he now called her, neither disinclined to sit on theparapet nor to receive the support of his arm. Her chatter had dwindledto sighs and exclamations. He felt the need of a competing sound as thechug of the spearhead in the ditch should announce the discomfiture ofthe West Germans. But before committing the telltale runes to thisditch, Hauptmann scanned it carefully over Linda's curly head, andconsidered thoughtfully its worthiness to receive so important adeposit. The survey could not have been more reassuring. Like so many ofthe main irrigating ditches that carry the water of Father Po and histributaries to the lower fields, the sluggish stream consisted equallyof water, weeds, and ooze. No Lombard or other object held in thatmixture was likely soon to be found. There was a moment of tense silenceand then a single plucking sound which various eavesdroppers might havelocated at the surface of the ditch or near Linda's plump left cheek. Neither guess would have been wrong, for if she sighed once more it wasnot for the vanishing Lombard runes. Fraülein Linda Göritz is, if something of a sentimentalist, also a bit ofan analyst, and when, in the train, she learned that the spearhead waslost she accepted Hauptmann's cheerful comment with a certain scepticism. He insisted with a suspicious vivacity that it didn't matter, that indeedhe preferred to have the merely professional reminiscence eliminated froman experience that had personally moved him so deeply. To this reading ofthe affair she naturally could not object, but as she gave him her handquite formally for farewell, she said: "To-night you have forgotten therunes, tomorrow you forget me, nicht wahr? You are wrong. Them you willnot find again: there are many of me. You should have forgotten mefirst. " She escaped while a protest was on his lips. Since that evening Fraülein Göritz has followed Professor Hauptmann'sbrilliant career with a certain interest and perplexity. He has ceased tobe an Extraordinarius, but his promotion was based on his ingeniousresearches in Vandalic. After that trip to the Certosa he discontinuedall Lombard studies, and, it is said, actually withdrew from publicationa scathing article in which the West Germanic contingent were handledaccording to their deserts. She has a vague and not wholly comfortablefeeling of having counted for something as a deterrent, and she has beenheard to hint that his strange distaste for his favourite Lombardinvestigations, is due to a deep and intimates cause--an unfortunateaffair of the heart associated with that historic region. THEIR CROSS How their cross reached Fourth Avenue one may only surmise, but theresurely was knavery at some point of its transit. It was too splendid inits enamelling, too subtle in the chiselling of its gilded silver to haveslipped into the byways of the antiquary's trade with the consent of theTuscan bishop who controlled or should have controlled its sale. For thematter of that, it still contained one of St. Lucy's knuckles, which incase of a regular transaction would have been transferred to a lessprecious reliquary. No, there must have been a pilfering sacristan, orworse, a faithless priest, to explain its translation from the Chiantihills to Novelli's shop in Fourth Avenue. Once there it was certain that one day or another John Baxter must findit. How he became infected with the collector's greed and acquired theoccult knowledge that feeds that malady it would take too long to tell. Yet it may be said that the yearning amateur was about the only potentingredient in the mild composite that was John Baxter. His eyes, skin, hair, and raiment had never seemed of any particular colour, nor did heas a whole seem of any especial size. His parents, who were neither richnor poor, cultured nor the contrary, had sent him to an indifferentschool and college. In the latter he had joined a middling chapter of apoorish fraternity, and, was graduated with a rank that was neither highnor low. During those four easy going years he had played halfheartedbaseball and football, and had all but made the "Literary Monthly. " On entering the world, as the phrase goes, he came into possession of asmall patrimony and accepted a minor editorial position on a feeblereligious monthly. For the ensuing fifteen years John Baxter overtly readmanuscripts, composed headlines for edifying extracts, even wrotedidactic little articles on his own account. Secretly, meanwhile, thelust of the eye was claiming him, and he was becoming surcharged with asingle great passion. His ascent through books, prints, Colonial furniture, miniatures, rugs, and European porcelain to the dizzy heights of Chinese porcelain andJapanese pottery and painting, it would be tedious and unprofitable tofollow. It is enough to say that all along the course his dull grey eyeemphatically proved itself the one thing not mediocre about him. Itgrasped the quality of a fine thing unerringly; it sensed a stray goodporcelain from the back row of the auction room. How he knew withoutknowing why was a mystery to his fellows and even to himself. For if hefrequented the museums of New York, and had made one memorable pilgrimageto the Oriental collections of Boston, he was quite without travel, andhis education had been chiefly that of the shops and salesrooms. Thus hisfinds represented less knowledge than an active faith which served aswell. A Gubbio lustre jug of museum rank had been bought before he knewthe definition of majolica. Before he had learned the peril of such ahazard he had fearlessly rescued a real Kirman mat from an omnibus sale. His scraps of old Chinese bronze and stoneware represented the promptingsof a demon who had yet to discover the difference between Sung andYungching. These achievements gave John Baxter a certain notoriety in his world andthe unusual luxury of self esteem. What brought him the scorn of blunterassociates, who openly derided him as a crank, assured him a certaindeference from the _cognoscenti_. The small dealers respected him as anauthority; the auctioneers greeted him by name as he slipped into hischair, and appealed to him personally when a fine lot hung shamefully. Hehad the entrée at two or three of the more discerning among the greatdealers, who occasionally asked his opinion or gave him a bargain. Inshort a really impressive John as he sees himself was growing up withinthe skin of poor John Baxter, feeble scribbler for the weak-kneedreligious press. As he looked about his cluttered room of an evening hecould whisper proudly, "No, it's not a collection, but I can wait. Andthere is meanwhile nothing in this room that is not good, very good ofits type. " Sometimes in more expansive musings he would take out of itsbrocaded bag a wooden tobacco box artfully incrusted with lacquer, pewter, and mother of pearl, the work of the great Kôrin, and woulddeclare aloud, "Nobody has anything better than this, no museum, certainly no mere millionaire. " Such days and nights had fed an already inordinate craving. He burnedfor the beautiful things just beyond his grasp, suffered for them amidhis morning moralisings, dreamt of them at night. His was never thedisinterested love of the beautiful that certain lucky collectors retainthrough all the sordidness of the quest. Had you observed John in theauction room you would have felt something concentratedly feline in hisattitude and would hardly have been surprised had he pounced bodily upona fine object as it passed near him down the aisle. No other ghost ofthe auction rooms--and strange enthusiasts they are, had an eye thatgleamed with so ominous a fire. There is peril in turning even a weakwill into a narrow channel. It may exert amazing pressures--like theslender column of mere water that lifts a loaded car to, or with baddirection, through, the roof. * * * * * Whether we should call John Baxter's courtship and marriage a digressionor the culmination of his career as a collector might have remaineddoubtful were it not for the cross in Fourth Avenue. When he found it, hardly a week before he met Miriam Trent, he naturally did not take itfor a touchstone. That it was in a manner such, may be inferred from thefact that the anxious morning before the wedding, he stopped at Novelli'sfor a last look, a ceremony strangely parodying the bachelor supper ofmore ordinary bridegrooms. After a lingering survey of its deeptranslucent enamels penned within crisply chiselled silver, like tinylakes rimmed by ledges, he handed the cross back to the reverent Novelli. It had never looked more desirable, he barely heard Novelli's genialcongratulation on the coming of the great day, as he wondered how sosplendid a rarity had stayed in that little shop for two years. Onreflection the reason was simple. The price, six hundred dollars, was ashade high for another dealer to pay, while the cross itself was so finean object as merely to excite the distrust of Novelli's averagecustomers. "Fools, " muttered John, "how little they know, " and hurriedtowards the florist's. As he made his way back towards an impressivefrock-coat, his first, he found himself recalling with a certainsatisfaction that even if this were not his wedding day, he really nevercould have hoped to buy the cross. What Miriam Trent would have thought had she learned that her bridegroomwaived all comparison between herself and the cross only because it wasunattainable, one may hardly surmise. But as a sensible person whoalready knew John's foible and was accustomed to making allowances, shepossibly would have been amused and just a bit relieved. She waseverything that he was not. Where one passion absorbed him, she gaveherself gladly to many interests and duties. A second mother to hernumerous small brothers and sisters, and to her amiable inefficientfather as well, she had somehow managed school and college for herself, and in accepting John and his worldly goods she gave up a decently paidlibrary position. The insides of books were also familiar to her, inimpersonal concerns she had a shrewd sense of people, in general shefaced the world with a brave and delicate assurance. Finally she believedwith fervour the creed and ethics that John happened to inculcate everyweek, and it is to be feared that she took him for a prophet ofrighteousness. Armed at all points that did not involve her personalinterests, there was she peculiarly vulnerable. She must have acceptedJohn, aside from the glamour of his edifying articles, simply because ofhis evident and plaintively reasserted need of her. Yet they were very happy together, as people who marry on this unequalbasis often are. After their panoramic week at Niagara, along the St. Lawrence, and home by the two lakes and the Hudson, they settled down inJohn's room, which by the addition of two more had been promoted to beingthe living room of an apartment. Her few personal possessions made atimid, tolerated appearance between his gilt Buddhas and pewter jugs. Butshe herself queened it easily over the bizarre possessions now becomehers. Had you seen her of an evening, alert, fragile, golden under thelamp, and had you seen John's vague glance turn from a moongrey row ofKorean bowls to her deeper eyes, you would have been convinced not merelythat he regarded her as the finest object in his collection, but alsothat he was right. It would be intrusive to dwell upon the joys andsorrows of light housekeeping in New York on a small income. Enough tosay that the joys preponderated in this case. They read much together, hegradually cultivated an awkward acquaintance with her friends--he hadpractically none, and at times she made the rounds of the curiosity shopsand auctions with him. Here, she explained, her part was that ofdiscourager of enthusiasm, but repression was never practised in a moresympathetic and discerning spirit. Her taste became hardly inferior tohis, and their barren quests together established a new comradeshipbetween them. It was probably, then, merely an accident that he neverincluded Novelli's in these aimless rounds, and so never showed her theenamelled cross. In the long run their imaginary foraging, always a recreation to her, became a sore trial to him. With the demonstration that two really cannotlive cheaper than one, the old covetousness smouldering for want of anoutlet once more burned hotly within. It expressed itself outwardly in ageneral uneasiness and irritability. The little fund, her money and his, that lay in savings bank began to spend itself fantastically. One day hereckoned that two-thirds of the cross had been put by, and banished thedisloyal thought with difficulty. Visionary plans of selling somethingand making the collection pay for itself were entertained, but when itcame to the point nothing could be spared. Perhaps the gnawings of thishunger might have been controlled, had he thought to confide in Miriam. More likely yet, a system of rare and strictly limited indulgence mighthave banked the fires between times. However that be, the thwartedcollector was to be sunk for a time in the devoted husband. Miriam layill of a wasting fever. After a two days' trial of the rooms, the doctor and the trained nurse, who scornfully slept amid the collection, regarding it as a permanentcentre of infection, declared the situation impossible, and with theslightest preliminary consultation of bewildered John, white-coated menwere sent for, who carried Miriam to the hospital. About her door Johnhung like a miserable debarred ghost, for after the first few days hermind wandered painfully, and his presence excited her dangerously. Forweeks he vacillated between perfunctory work at the office, unsatisfactory talks with busy doctors and impatient nurses, and longapprehensive hours in what had been home. In "Little Venice, " in the bestpowder-blue jar and the rest, he found no solace, on the contrary, theoccasion of revolting suggestions. There was an imp that whispered thatshe must die and that he should resume collecting. With horror he fledthe evil place, and spent an endless night on tolerance within hearing ofher moanings. Fevers have this of merciful, that a term is set for them. Her maladythough it often maims cruelly rarely kills. The temperature line on thechart, which for days had described a Himalaya, dwindled suddenly to aSierra, as quickly to an Appalachian, and then became a level plain. Terribly wracked by the ordeal but safe they pronounced her. The visitingphysician occasionally omitted her in his daily round. But convalescencewas more trying than the struggle with the fever. The lethargic hoursseldom brought either sleep or rest. Beset by nervous fears, thecollective suffering of the giant building weighed upon her, and shebegged to be taken home. It was a pathetic triumphal entry that she made among their householdgods. The sheer grotesqueness of her home struck her painfully for thefirst time, as she was helped to an ancient chair that stood before thesuspended Kirman rug--her throne John had always called it. As she oncemore occupied it, there came a curious revulsion against her gorgeouslyshabby domain. Other women, she reflected, had neat places, cool expansesof wallpaper, furniture seemly set apart. She resented the stuffiness ofit all, the air of musty preciousness that pervaded the room. And whenJohn took both her hands and said: "Now the collection is itself again;the queen has come home, " she broke down and cried. She did much of thatin the weeks that followed. You would have supposed her another personthan plucky Miriam Baxter. But the situation hardly made forcheerfulness. Light housekeeping being no longer practicable, theydepended on the unwilling ministrations of a slovenly maid. John, who, todo him justice, had never boasted much surplus vitality, felt vaguelythat something was now due from him that he could not supply. To escapean inadequacy that was painful he drifted back to the exhibitions andsales, this time alone. He never bought anything, for he was savingmanfully for a purpose that daily increased in his mind. He would paywith his pocketbook what with his person he could not. His always modest luncheon reduced itself to a sandwich, he walked tosave carfares, cut off two Sunday newspapers, wore a threadbare springovercoat into the winter. Then one day he took Miriam to a famousspecialist from whom they learned very much what they already knew, butwith the advantage of working orders. The great man told John in briefthat it was a bad recovery which might readily become worse. A change andopen air life were imperative; a sea voyage would be best. If such achange were not made, and soon, he would not be answerable for theconsequences. All this John retold in softened form to Miriam in the waiting room. "Wemight as well give it up, " she said resignedly. "Of course we can'ttravel. We haven't the money, and you can't get away. " With the nearestapproach to pride he had ever shown in a nonaesthetic matter Johnprotested that he could get away, and better yet that there was money, five hundred good dollars, more than enough for a glimpse at the Azoresand Gibraltar, a hint of rocky Sardinia, a day at Naples, a quietfortnight on the sunny Genoese Riviera, and then home again by the longsea route. His thin voice rose as he pictured the voyage. Even shecaught something of his spirits, and as they got off the car nearNovelli's, by a sudden inspiration John said, "Now for being a goodgirl, and doing what the doctor says, you shall see the most beautifulthing in New York. " In a minute Novelli was carefully taking the precious thing from itsdrawer and solemnly unfolding the square of ruby velvet in which it lay. Miriam saw the rigid Christ, at the left Mary Mother in azure enamel, atthe right the Beloved Apostle in Crimson. From the top God Father sentdown the pearly dove through the blue. Below, a stately pelican offeredits bleeding breast to the eager bills of its young. And it all glowedtranslucently within its sharp Gothic mouldings. Behind, the design wassimpler--in enamelled discs the symbols of the evangelists. St. Lucy'sknuckle lay visible under a crystal lens at the crossing, and surelyrelic of a saint was seldom encased more splendidly. Even pathetic Miriamkindled to it. "Yes, it is the most beautiful thing in New York, " sheadmitted. "I suppose it costs a fortune, Mr. Novelli. " "No, a merenothing, for it, six hundred dollars. " "Why, we might almost buy it, " shecried. "It's lucky you haven't saved more, John. I really believe youwould buy it. " "I'd like to sell it to Mr. Baxter, " said Novelli, "heunderstands it, " only to be cut short with a brusque, "No, it's out ofour class, but I wanted Mrs. Baxter to see it, and I wanted you to knowthat she appreciates a fine object as much as I do. " "Evidently, " saidNovelli as they parted. "I hope she will do me the honour of coming inoften; there are few who understand, and whether they buy or not I amalways glad to have them in my place. " About a week later John Baxter closed and locked his office desk, hurrieddown to the savings bank, and drew five hundred dollars. Most of it wasto go into steamer tickets forthwith, a little balance was to be changedinto Italian money. As he meditated a route downtown, he recalled theonly adieu still left unpaid. To be sure the cross had remained for threeyears at Novelli's but it might go forever any day, and with it a greatresource for a weary moralist. Farewells were plainly in order, and withno other thought he walked back to the shop and greeted Novelli, whowithout waiting to be asked produced the crimson parcel that containedthe precious relic. As John looked it over from panel to panel, as if tostamp every composition upon his memory, Novelli watched him, reflected, hesitated, smiled benevolently, and spoke. "Mr. Baxter, I am in greatneed of money and must sacrifice the cross. I want you to take it. Vogelstein has offered me four hundred and fifty dollars for it but heshall not have it if I can sell it to anybody who deserves it better andwill value it. It is yours at that price. What do you say?" John tried for words that failed to come. "It's a bargain, Mr. Baxter, " pursued Novelli, "but of course if youdon't happen to have the money there's nothing more to say. " "But I have it right here, " retorted John in perplexity, "only it's forquite a different purpose. " "You know your own business, of course, and I don't urge you, but if youhave the money and don't take it, you make a great mistake. You know thatwell enough, and then remember how Mrs. Baxter admired it the other day. " "Yes-s, " faltered John dubiously. "Then why do you hesitate? You know what it is, and what it is worth, asan investment, I mean. By taking your time and selling it right you cansurely double your money. " "But"-- "No, there it is. I am honestly doing you a favour, " and Novelli thrustthe swathed cross into the hands of his fairly hypnotised customer. John's left hand clutched it instinctively, while with the frightenedfingers of his right he counted off nine fifty dollar bills. "Thank you, Mr. Baxter, neither you nor your wife will ever regret it. Nobody in America has anything finer, and that you know. " These words pounded terribly in John's brain as he found his way home, stumbled up stairs, and boggled with the latchkey. All the way down, unheeded passersby had wondered at the crimson burden (he had not waitedfor a parcel to be made) hugged closely to the shabby black cutaway. Thedanger signal smote Miriam in the eyes as she rose to be kissed. Standingaway from her, he placed the shrouded cross on the table and tried forthe confession that would not say itself. "Why, it's our cross, " she cried wonderingly. "Mr. Novelli has lent it tous for a last look before we go where the lovely thing was made. But, John, what's the matter? How you do look! Has something awful happened?" "Yes, " and the pale nondescript head sunk into his hands. "I have boughtit. I don't know how. I had the money, I was there, and I bought it. " She repressed the word that was on her lips, and the harder thought thatwas in her mind, looked long at his humiliation until the pity of amother came over her tired face. She had mercifully escaped scorning him. Then she spoke. "It was a bad time to buy it, wasn't it, Dear, but it is a beautifulthing, almost worth a real trip to Italy. " She added with a curious airof a suppliant, "And then perhaps we can sell it. " "Yes, that's so, perhaps we can sell it, " echoed John listlessly, wrapping the cross closely in its crimson cover and laying it in his mosttreasured lacquer box. "Yes, perhaps we can sell it, " he repeated, andthere was a long silence between them. THE MISSING ST. MICHAEL Dennis, our Epicurean sage, addressed us all as we lolled on his terrace, drank his tea, and divided our attention between his fluent wisdom andhis spacious view of the Valdarno. "The question is, " he repeated, "what will Emma do? Will she be brave, or, rather ordinary enough, to act for herself and him, or will sherefuse him because of what she thinks we shall think of them both? As wecalmly sit here she may be deciding. That is if you are sure, Harwood, that Crocker was really bound for Emma's when you saw him. " "How could anybody mistake his beaming Emma face?" growled Harwood. "Hewas marching like a squad of Bersaglieri. " "And she knows that Crockerwants it terribly?" added the Sage's wife. "She does, indeed, " sighed Frau Stern repentantly, "for that demon(pointing to Harwood) did tell me and I haf, babylike, told her. " "Here is the case, then, " resumed Dennis: "She knows we know Crockerwants her and it, but she doesn't know he doesn't know she has it. " "Precisely, most clearly and gracefully put, my dear, " laughedMrs. Dennis. "And she knows, too, " he pursued imperturbably, "that we may think hewants her merely for it. " "Bravo!" puffed Harwood smokily from his camp-stool. "She is too cleverto expect any weak generosity from any of us. She believes we will thinkthe worst. And won't we? Viva Nietzsche, and perish pity!" "Shame upon us, then, " cried Frau Stern. "She will gif up that fine youngman for fear of our talk? Never!" "She will send him away, dear Frau Stern, the moment he gives her thechance, " declared Dennis. "What else can she do? She can never take thechance of our surmises. Behold us, the destroyers! The victims areprepared. " "Can't we do something about it?" Harwood chuckled. "Repent? Be asharmless as doves? Let's write a roundrobin solemnly stating that, tothe best of our knowledge and belief, he wants her for herself andnot for it. " "Gently, " exclaimed Mrs. Dennis, as she blew out Harwood's poised andlighted match. "You surely don't imagine Crocker will propose the veryday she shows it to him. " "My dear, " protested Dennis, "don't we all know him well enough tounderstand that any shock will produce that effect? If his mother died orhis horse, his vines got the scale, his Ghirlandaio sprung a crack, hisuniversity gave him an honorary degree--these would all be reasons forproposing to Emma. Dear old Crocker is like that; any jolt would affecthim that way. " "Has it occurred to anybody that Emma may have foreseen just thiscomplication and quietly got rid of it first?" suggested Mrs. Dennis, thereally practical member of our group, adding, "That's how I'd have servedyou if I'd wanted him. " "Never, " responded Dennis. "She loves it too well, and then she wouldfeel we felt she had spirited it away on purpose. " "Besides, " continued Harwood, whose buried aspirations Emmawards had longago flowered into a minute analysis of her moods, "she is true blue, youknow. She will never serve us like that. She may immolate the mightyCrocker upon the altar of our collective curiosity, but she will neverdodge us. " "Cannot we all go back to our own countries and leave them alone, "suggested Frau Stern almost tearfully; "but no; we no longer hafcountries. Here we belong; elsewhere the air is too strong for our littlelungs. I pity us, and I pity more those poor young people. If only theywill but haf the sense to trample on our talk. " "That, too, would be a sensation, " Dennis added cheerfully, and we wentour ways, as usual, without having reached anything so vulgar as aconclusion. * * * * * Meanwhile Emma Verplanck stood in the _loggia_ of her tiny villa andwinced in the focus of the curiosities she despised. She scanned thewhite road that rimmed her valley before descending sharply to Florencebeyond the hill, and especially the crescent of dust where an approachingfigure would first appear. Now and then, as if for a rest, her eye tracedthe line of flaming willows down toward the plunge of her brook into thelarger valley, or the file of spectral poplars that led into thevineyards hanging on the declivity of Fiesole. Above all, the gaunt andgashed bulk of Monte Ceceri glistened hotly against a pale blue sky, forif it was a backward April, the first stirring of summer was already inthe air. She thrilled with disgust as she asked herself why she dreadedthis call. Why should she fear lest an elementary test, a very simpleexplanation such as she planned for that afternoon, should compromise anestablished friendship? Interrupting this self-examination the mighty but unwieldy form of MortonCrocker loomed in the white dust crescent, and his premature panamaswiftly followed the curve of the low grey wall towards her gate. As hissteps were heard, her mind flew to the forbidding St. Michael on his goldbackground in her den and she could fairly hear Harwood saying to all ofus, "Three to one on the Saint, who takes me?" The jangling of the bellrecalled her to Crocker, and she braced herself in the full sunlight toreceive him. For a moment, as he loomed in the archway, she indulged thatespecial pride which we reserve for that which we might possess butausterely deny ourselves. Her mingled moods produced an unusual softness. Crocker felt it andwondered as she gave him her hand and had him sit for a prudent momentoutside. All the hot way up the valley he had had a sense of a crisis. Itwas odd to be summoned whither he had been drifting for four years, andnow the sight of Emma disarmed, perplexed him. It seemed ominous. Onefinds such transparent kindness in clever people generally at parting, when one would be remembered for one's self and not for a phrase. ThenCrocker for an instant glimpsed the wilder hope that the softening wasfor him and not for an occasion. Emma had never seemed more desirablethan to-day. A white strand or two in her yellow hair, the tiny wrinklesat the corners of her steady grey eyes, and the untimely thinness of herlong white fingers made him eager to ward off the advancing years at herside, to keep unchanged, as it were, these precious evidences that shehad lived. Some sense of his tenderness she must have had, for as she chattedgravely about his farming, about the lateness of the almond blossoms, about everything except people, who always tempted her sharp tongue, hermanner became almost maternally solicitous. "To-day you shall have yourfirst tea in my den, Crocker" (so much she presumed on her two years'seniority), she said at last, "and you are commanded to like my things. ""What has thy servitor done to deserve this grace?" he managed to reply. "Nothing, " she said, "graces never are for deserts. Or, rather, you poorfellow, you have been asked to tramp out here in this glare and reallydeserve to sit where it is cool. " As they walked through the hall and thelittle drawing-room Crocker still felt uneasily that no road with EmmaVerplanck could be quite as smooth as it seemed. The den deserved its name, being a tiny brown room with a single archedwindow that looked askance at the cypresses and bell towers of Fiesole. Beside a couch, an Empire desk, and solid shelves of books, the dencontained only a couple of chairs and the handful of things that Emmalaughingly called her collection. As Crocker took in vaguely bits ofHispano-Moresque and mellow ivories, a broad medal or so and awell-poised Renaissance bronze, a Japanese painting on the lighted wall, and one or two drawings by great contemporaries, Emma's friends, he wasamazed at the quality of everything. A sense of extreme fastidiousnessrebuked, in a way, his more indiscriminate zeal as a collector. Uncomfortably near him on the dark wall he began to be aware of somethingmarvellous on old gold when tea interrupted his observations. Tea withEmma was always engrossing. The mere practice and etiquette of it broughtthe gentlewoman in her into a lovely salience. Her hands and eyes becamemagical, her talk light and constant without insistency. A symbolistmight imagine eternal correspondence between the amber brew and her sunnyhair. It was easy to adore Emma at tea, and generally she did not resenta discreetly pronounced homage. But this afternoon she grew almostpetulant with Crocker as they talked at random, and finally laughed outimpatiently: "I really can't bear your ignoring my St Michael, especiallyas you have never seen him before and may never see him again. St. Michael, Mr. Morton Crocker. " "My respects, " smiled Crocker, as he turned lazily toward the gildedpanel. There was the warrior saint, his lines stiff, expressive andhieratic, his armour glistening in grey-blue fastened with embossedgilded clasps; here and there gorgeous hints of a crimson doublet--theunmistakable enamel, the grave and delicate tension of a masterpiece bythe rare Venetian, Carlo Crivelli. Crocker gasped and started from hisseat, losing at once his cup, his muffin, and his manners. "By Jove, MissVerplanck, Emma, it's my missing St. Michael. Where did you ever find it?I must have it. " His toasted muffin rolled unconsidered beside the spoonat his feet. Emma retrieved the cup--one of a precious six in oldMeissen--he retained the saucer painfully gripped in both hands. "I was afraid it was, " she answered, "but look well and be sure. " "Of course we must be sure. You'll let me measure it, won't you? It's theonly way. " Assuming his permission he climbed awkwardly upon the chair, happily a stout Italian construction, and as she watched him with astrange pity, he read off from a pocket rule: "One metre thirty-seven. Ashade taller than mine, but there is no frame. Thirty-one centimetres;the same thing. Yes, it is my missing St. Michael, " and as he climbeddown excitedly he hurried on: "How strange to find it here. I nevertalked to you about it, did I? That's odd, too. I've been hunting for itfor years. You didn't know, I suppose. I want it awfully. What can we doabout it?" For Crocker, this fairly amounted to a speech, and beforereplying Emma gave him time to sit down, and thrust another cup of teainto his unwilling hands. Having thus occupied and calmed him, she said, "I'm very sorry, I hoped it would turn out to be something else. I onlylearned last week that you wanted it. You have seldom talked about yourcollecting to me. There's nothing to do about it. I wish there were. Youwant it so much. But I can't give it to you. That wouldn't do. And Iwon't sell it to you. I wouldn't to anybody, and then that wouldn't do, either. So there we are. Only think of their talk, and you'll see thesituation is impossible. " Crocker's eyes flashed. "There's a lot we might do about it if you will, Emma. Damn the St. Michael. If his case is so complicated, and I don'tsee it, leave him out of the reckoning between us. Can't you see what Ineed and want?" "They wouldn't see it, and I'm shamefully afraid of them, " she saidsimply, and then she added indignantly, "How could you dare, to-day? Ican't trust you for any perception, can I?" Not perceiving that her scruple was belated, Crocker blurted outruefully. "I'm an ass, and I'm sorry and I'm not. It's what I have wantedto say these many days, and perhaps it might as well be so. But I'vewounded you and for that I'm more than sorry. " "Let's not talk about it, " Emma said gently. "Of course I'll forgive anold friend for saying a little more than he should. Only you must stophere. You'll forgive me, too, for owning your St. Michael. I'm honestlysorry it happened so. I would dismiss him if I could, for he is likely tocost me a good friend. But he creates a kind of impossibility between us, doesn't he, and for a while it's best you shouldn't come, not till thingschange with you. It's kindest so, isn't it, Crocker?" There was more debate to this effect before the impassive St. Michael, until at last Crocker agreed impatiently, "You're right, Emma, or atleast you have me at a disadvantage, which comes to the same thing. And yet it's all wrong. You are putting a painted saint between yourselfand a friend who wants to be more. It's logical, but it isn't human. Asfor their talk, they'll talk, anyhow, and we might as well stand ittogether. I'm probably off for a long time, Emma. I hope you'll find yourSt. Michael companionable. When you decide to throw him out of thewindow, let me know. Forgive me again. Good-by. " She gave him her handsilently and followed him out into the _loggia_. As she watched himstriding angrily down the valley and away, she had the air of a woman whowould have cried if she were not Emma Verplanck. * * * * * Crocker was right, we all did talk. And naturally, for had we not allbeen eagerly awaiting the collision announced by the cessation of hisvisits and the rumour that he was bound north. In council on Dennis'sterrace, however, we came to no unanimous reading of the affair. Generally, we felt that even if Emma wanted a way out, which we guessedto be the fact, she would never expose herself to our batteries, and withregret we opined that there was no way, had we wished, to divestourselves of our collective formidableness. On all sides we divined adeadlock, with Dennis the only dissenting voice. He insisted scornfullythat we none of us knew Emma, that we underestimated both her emotionalcapacity and her resourcefulness, and, finally, in a burst of rashclairvoyancy he declared that she would give away both the St. Michaeland herself, but in her own time and manner, and with some odd personalreservation that would content us all. We should see. Given the rare mixture of the conventional and instinctive that was EmmaVerplanck, something of the sort did indeed seem probable. For ten yearsshe had inhabited her nook, becoming as much of a fixture among us as theCampanile below. She came, like so many, for the cheapness and dignity ofit primarily. Here her little patrimony meant independence, safety fromperfunctory and uncongenial contacts at home, and more positively allthose purtenances of the gentlewoman that she required. But, unlike themerely thrifty Italianates, she never became blunted by our incessant teagiving and receiving. With familiarity, the ineffable sweetness of thecountry penetrated her with ever-new impressions. She loved theoverlapping blue hills that stretched away endlessly from the rim of hervalley, and the scarred crag that closed it from behind. She loved theclimbing white roads, her chalky brook--sung as a river by the earlypoets--with its bordering poplars and willows and its processionaldisplay of violets, anemones, primroses, blueflags, and roses. She lovedeven better that constant passing trickle of fine intelligences whichfeeds the Arno valley as her brook refreshed its vineyard. The best ofthese came gladly to her, for she was an open and a disillusioned spirit, with something of a man's downrightness under her sensitive appreciation. Hers was the calm of a temperament fined but not dulled by conformity andexperience. Mrs. Dennis, whose sources of information were excellent, said it was rather an unhappy girlish affair with an unworthy cousin. Within the limits of the possible, the Verplancks always married cousins, and Emma, it was thought, had in her 'teens paid sentimental homage tothe family tradition. In any case she remained surprisingly youthfulunder her nearly forty years. Her capacity for intellectual adventureseemed only to increase as she passed from the first glow to provedimpressions of books, art, persons, and the all-inclusive Tuscan nature. Her Stuyvesant Square aunts, who were authorities on self-sacrifice, agreed that the only sacrifice Emma had made in a thoroughly selfish lifewas the purchase of the St. Michael. She had found it, on a visit inRomagna, in the hands of a noble family who knew its value and needed tosell it, but dreaded the vulgarity of a transaction through theantiquaries. To Emma, accordingly, whom they assumed to be rich, theyoffered it at a price staggering for her, though still cheap for it. Fromthe first she had adored it. There had been a swift exchange ofdespatches with New York, and the St. Michael went home with her toFlorence. After that adventure the small victoria, the stocky pony, andthe solemn coachman had never reappeared. Emma walked to teas or, whenshe must, suffered the promiscuity of the trams. To those of us who knewthe store she set by her equipage its exchange for the St. Michaelindicated a fairly fanatical devotion. To her aunts it meant that she hadspent her principal, which, in their eyes, was an approximation to themysterious "sin against the Holy Ghost. " It was Dennis who speculated most audaciously, and perhaps truly, aboutthe St. Michael. When he learned that Emma secreted it in her den, whereshe rarely admitted anyone, he maintained that it had become herincorporeal spouse. The daintiness with which it fingered a goldensword-hilt, as if fearing contamination, symbolised the aloofness of herspirit. The solitary enjoyment of a great impression of art made her dena sanctuary, absolving her from commoner or shared pleasures. And in amanner the Saint was the type of the ultra-virginal quality she hadretained through much contact with books and life. For her to sell theSt. Michael, Dennis felt, would be a sort of vending of her soul, to giveit away in the present instance would imply, he insisted, an instinctiveself-surrender of which he judged her incapable. To Crocker's side of the affair we gave very little thought, consideringthat he, after all, had created the thrilling importance of the St. Michael. But our general attitude toward the unwonted was one ofindifference, and Crocker was too unlike us to permit his orbit to becalculated. The element of foible in him was almost null. None of ourguesses ever stuck to him, and we had grown weary of rediscovering thatanything so simple could also be so impermeable to our ingenuity. In aword, Crocker's case was as much plainer than Emma's as noonday is thantwilight. When one says that he was born in Boston and from birthdedicated to the Harvard nine, eleven, or crew--as it might befall; thathe was graduated a candidate for the right clubs, that he took to stocksso naturally that he quickly and safely increased an ample inheritedfortune, and this without neglecting horse, or rod, or gun; finally thathe carried into maturity a fine boyish ease--when this has been said allhas been told about Morton Crocker except the whimsical chance that madehim an Italianate. Some reminiscence of his grand tour had beguiled a tedious convalescenceand, following the gleam for want of more serious occupation, he had setsail for Naples with a motor-car in the hold. At thirty-three he broughtthe keenness of a girl to the galleries, the towns, and the ineffablewhole thing. It was Tuscany that completed his capture. He bought a villaand, as his strength came back, began to add new vineyards and orchardsto his estate. But this was his play; his serious work became collectingand more particularly, as has been hinted, the quest of the missing St. Michael. When he learned, as a man of means soon must, that good picturesmay still be bought in Italy, he promptly succumbed to the covetousnessof the collector, and the motor-car became predatory. Its tonneau hadcontained surreptitious Lottos and Carpaccios. Its gyrations became anobject of interest to the Ministry of Public Instruction. Once oncrossing the Alps it had been searched to the linings. While Crocker hadhis ups and downs as a collector, from the first his sense of realitystood him in stead. Being a Bostonian he naturally studied, but evenbefore he at all knew why, he disregarded the pastiches and forgeries, and made unhesitatingly for the good panel in an array of rubbish. It was this sense for reality that impelled him to settle where the restof us merely perched. Fifty _contadini_ tilled his domain and actuallybegan to earn out the costly improvements he had introduced. His wine andoil were sought by those who knew and were willing to pay. In theintervals of the major passion Crocker walked up and down the grassyroads superintending the larger operations. His muscular and hulkingblondness--he had rowed four years--towered above the dark little men whoserved, feared, and worshipped him. Unlike the rest of us who preferredto live in a delightful Cloud Cuckoo Town, which happened to be Florencealso, he had chosen to take root in Tuscany. First he purged his castellated villa of the international abuses it hadundergone for a century. It had hardly regained its fifteenth centuryspaciousness and simplicity before it began to fill up again, but thistime with pictures and fittings of the time. In all directions he boughtwith enthusiasm, but his real vocation, after the cultivation of Emma'ssociety, soon came to be the completion of his great and growingaltar-piece by Carlo Crivelli. What is usually a frigid exercise, a mereascertainment that the parts of a scattered ancona are at London, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Boston, etc. --a patient compilation of measurements, documents and probabilities; what is generally a mere pretext for a solidarticle in a heavy journal--or at best a question of pasting photographstogether in the order the artist intended--Crocker converted into aneager and most practical pursuit. Bit by bit he gradually reconstitutedhis Crivelli in its ancient glory of enamel on gold within its ornatemouldings. The quest prospered capitally until he stuck hopelessly at themissing St. Michael. As it stood for a couple of years complete exceptfor the void where the St. Michael should be, the altar-piece representedless Crocker's abundant resources than his tireless patience and energy. He had picked up the first fragment, a slender St. Catherine ofAlexandria demurely leaning upon her spiked wheel, at a provincialantiquary's in Romagna, not far from where the ancona had been impiouslydismembered. Fortunately the original Gothic frame remained to give aclue to other panels. Next, word of a Crivelli Madonna with Donors atChristie's took him posthaste to London. Frame, period and measurementsproved that it was the central panel, and the tiny donors, a husband andwife with a boy and girl, indicated that the wings had contained twofemale and two male saints. Between the St. Lucy (which turned up morethan a year later in an un-heard-of Swedish collection, and was had onlyby a hard exchange for a rare Lorenzo Monaco and a plausible FraAngelico) and the sumptuous St. Augustine, which was brought to the villain a barrow by a little dealer, there was a longer interval. Meanwhilethe frame had been reconstructed, and a niche for the missing saint rosein melancholy emptiness. A little before the sensational _rencontre_ inEmma's den, the chance of finding a rude pilgrim woodcut on the QuaiVoltaire revealed the saint's identity. This ugly print informed thefaithful that the "prodigious image" of Our Lady existed in the Church ofthe Carmelites at Borgo San Liberale. One might distinguish at theextreme right of the five compartments a willowy St. Michael in armour, like Chaucer's Squire in a black-letter folio, or if the identificationhad been doubtful, there was the name below in all letters. When the print was shown to the scheming Harwood over the afternoonvermouth, he suspended a long discourse on the contemptible fate of beingborn an Anglo-Saxon, and it came over him with a blessed shock that Emmahad the missing St. Michael. Penetrated by the joy of the situation, hehesitated for a moment whether to give the initiative to the man or thewoman. A glance at Crocker's uncompromising sturdiness convinced him thaton that side the situation might be quickly exhausted. Emma he couldtrust to do it full justice. Excusing himself abruptly, he made for FrauStern's lodgings, and with the taste of Crocker's vermouth still in hisfaithless mouth, told her that Emma's Crivelli was no other than themissing St. Michael. To make matters sure he solemnly bound Frau Stern tosecrecy. That accomplished, he strode whistling down through the purpletwilight to his well-earned _fritto_ at Paoli's. The next day began ourwondering what Emma would do. She did, as is known, a thing that hersimple Knickerbocker ancestresses would have approved--presented Crockerto the St. Michael and left the decision modestly to the men. Behind thefrankness of her procedure lay, perhaps, a curiosity to see how Crockerwould bear himself in a delicate emergency. It was to be in some fashionhis ordeal. Thus she might at least shake the appalling equanimity withwhich he had passed from the stage of comrade to that of suppliant. Notthat she doubted him; nobody did that, but she resented a little inretrospect his silence on the subject of the great quest. Was it possiblethat for these five years he had chatted only about his college pranks, his fishing trips, his orchards and vineyards, and the views? As shereviewed their countless walks and teas, it really seemed as if he hadnever paid her the compliment of being impersonal. Well, that was endednow at any rate. A little misgiving filled her that she had neverrevealed the presence of the St. Michael to so good a play-fellow. Adelicacy, knowing his incorrigible zeal as a collector, had restrainedher, and then, as Dennis had guessed, her den was her sanctuary, admission to which implied an intimacy difficult to concede. Whatever themerits of the case, the rupture had produced in a milieu consumed by thedesire to guess what Emma would do, at least one person who was solelyinterested in what Crocker's next move might be. For the first time in asingularly calculable life he had become an object of genuine curiosity. He acted with his usual simplicity. To Emma he wrote a brief noteupbraiding her for fearing the voices of the valley, professing hiseagerness to return when the St. Michael had been put out of thereckoning, and declaring that if it were not soon, he would willy-nillycome back and see how things were between them. It was a letter thatwounded Emma, yet somehow warmed her, too, and from its reception wefound her in an unwonted attitude of nonconformity to the verdicts of thevalley. She began to speak up in behalf of this or that human specimenunder our diminishing lenses with the unsubtle and disconcertingbluntness of Morton Crocker himself. The phenomenon kept alive our waninginterest during nearly a year of waiting. As for Crocker he gave it outostentatiously that he was bound for a wonderful Cima in Northumbria andafterward was to try dry-fly fishing on the Itchen. Beyond that he had noplans. All this was characteristically the truth; he bought the Cima, wrote of his baskets to Harwood, but stayed away past his melons, hisgrapes and his olives. By early winter we heard of him shooting the moosein New Brunswick, and later planning a system of art education in theMassachusetts schools, and it was not till the brisk days of March thatwe learned the west wind was bringing him our way again. Meanwhile Emma had acquired a few more grey hairs and had resolutelydeclined to dispossess herself of the St. Michael. A couple of monthsafter Crocker's leave-taking, a note had come to her from Crespi, theunfrocked priest and consummate antiquarian, who, to the point ofimprovising a _chef d'oeuvre_, will furnish anything that this gildedage demands. Crespi most respectfully begged to represent an urgentclient, a Russian prince, who desired a fine Crivelli. Would the mostgentle Miss Verplanck haply part with hers? The price should be what shechose to name. It was no question of money, but of obliging a clientwhom Crespi could ill afford to disappoint. Emma curtly declined theoffer. The St. Michael was valued for personal reasons and was not forsale. Six weeks later came a more insidious suggestion. The Director ofthe Uffizi, learning that she possessed a masterpiece of a schoolsparsely represented in the first Italian gallery, pleading that such anobject should not pass from Italy, and representing a number of generousart-lovers who desired to add it to the collections under his care, madethe following offer, trusting, however, not to any pecuniary inducementbut to her loyalty as an honorary citizen of Florence. The price namedwas something less than the London value, but its acceptance would haveperpetually endowed the victoria, and perhaps--. If the maliciousHarwood had not passed the word that the offer was a ruse of the wilyCrocker, we all believed that she would have accepted. Indeed, weregretted her obduracy. It would have been such a capital way out, withno sacrifice of her scruples nor waiver of our collectiveimpressiveness. So Harwood came in for mild reprehension, the SageDennis remarking with some asperity that when the gods have provided uswith farces, comedies, and tragedies in from one to five acts it isunseemly to string them out to six or seven. Early March, then, saw the deadlock unbroken. The St. Michael had notbeen dislodged. Emma still was unwavering so far as we knew. We wereunable, had we willed, to divest ourselves of our deterrent attributes. But the situation had changed to this extent that Crocker was said to beon his way down to oversee a new system of spring tillage in person. Emma took his approach with something between terror and an unwontedresignation. From the day when he had planted himself firmly beside herfireplace with a boyish wonder at finding himself so much at home, he hadrepresented the incalculable in her carefully planned life. Declining toaccept the attitude of other people toward her, he had almost upset herattitude toward herself. He was the first man since the scapegrace cousinwho had neither feared nor yet provoked her sharp tongue. While herelished her wit, it had always been with an unspoken deprecation of itscutting edge. He gave her a queer feeling of having allowances made forher--a condescension that in anybody but this big, likable boy she wouldhave requited with sarcasm. But against him the _cheveux de frise_ shesuccessfully presented to the world seemed of no avail. He knew it wasnot timber but twigs, and that at worst one was scratched and notimpaled. Day by day she watched the cropping of the long line of flamingwillow plumes that escorted her brook toward the level. The line dwindledas the shorn pollards gave up their withes to bind the vines to the dwarfmaples. She felt the miles between herself and Crocker lessening, and (atrare moments) her scruples ready to be garnered for some sweet andill-defined but surely serviceable use. But she would not have been EmmaVerplanck if the manner of her not impossible surrender had not troubledher more than the act itself. Any lack of tact on the part of thehusbandman might still spoil things. She had a whimsical sense that anyone of the flaming willows might refuse its contribution to the vineyardshould the pruner approach with anything short of a persuasive "_conpermesso_. " Crocker's "by your leave" was so far from persuasive that it left herwith a panicky desire to run away--again a new sensation. He wrote: "DEAR EMMA-- "We have had an endless year to think it over, and the only change on myside is that I need you more than ever. I will go away for real reasons, for your reasons, but for no others. If it is only their talk thatseparates us, their talk has had twelve good months and shall have nomore. I must see you. May I come tomorrow at the old hour? "As always yours, "MORTON CROCKER. " Something between wrath and dismay was the result of this challenge. Shesat down to answer him according to his impudence, and the words wouldnot come. The greatness of the required sacrifice came over her andtherewith the desire to temporise. The voice of many Knickerbockerancestresses spoke in her, and between herself and a real emergency sheinterposed the impenetrable buckler of a conventionality. She wrote: "PENSIOIN SCHALCK, Bad Weisstein, Austrian Tyrol. "MY DEAR CROCKER-- "It would be pleasant to see you and talk over your trip, but you see bythis address it is for the present impossible. As always, "Cordially yours, "EMMA VERPLANCK. " When Crocker found Emma's valley as effectually barred as if a batteryguarded the approaches, he gave way to a deep resentment. Instinctivelyhating anything like a trick, to be tricked by Emma at this point wasintolerable. His gloom was such that he confided to the malicious Harwooda profound disgust with the irreality of the life Italianate. The_podere_ should be sold as soon as it could be put in order. Suchpictures as the Italian Government coveted, it should keep, the restshould go to the Museum at Boston. He himself would grow orange trees inNorth Cuba where there were things to shoot and, thank heaven, nocivilisation. Harwood came breathlessly to Dennis's with the tale, gloating openly that there was to be a seventh act if not an eighth. A long hard day with his bailiff and the peasants restored Crocker'spoise. He looked for the hundredth time over into Emma's valley anddivined her attitude. Dreading an interview, she had left the way open toparley. She virtually pleaded for a delay. It was a new and, in a way, delightful sensation to be feared. For the first time in any humanrelation he exploited a personal advantage and wrote, addressing BadWeisstein: "DEAREST EMMA-- "You have wanted a delay. Well, you have it--probably a week already. Make the most of it, for two weeks from this date--I give you time torecover from your journey--I am coming for tea in the old way. Meanwhileyou can hardly imagine the impatience of "Yours more than ever, "MORTON CROCKER. " Whether Crocker or Emma was more miserable during the fortnight evenDennis could not have told. But there was in his woe something of thesublime stolidity of the man who is going to stand up to be shot orreprieved, whereas she suffered the uncertainty of the soldier who hasbeen drawn to make up the "firing party" for a comrade. She feared thatshe would not have courage enough to despatch him, and then she fearedshe would. Meantime the days passed, and she woke up one morning with anodd little shiver reminding her that it was no longer possible to get anote to him by way of Bad Weisstein. Nor had she the heart to move to anearer coign of constructive absence. Of half measures she was, afterall, a foe. Her determination to send Crocker away daily increased, andthe implacable St. Michael seemed to command that course. "You are notfor him. You represent a whole artificial world in which he cannotbreathe. I, the finest incarnation of the most exquisite mannerism of abygone time, am your spiritual spouse, and you may not lightly renounceme. You have devoted yourself to graceful irrealities and must now abideby your choice. " Thus the St. Michael had spoken in a dream in thetroubled hours before daybreak, and when Emma went to her den late thenext morning she confronted him and admitted, "You are right, St. Michael. It's all true. " That afternoon Crocker was coming for tea, andif her New York aunts could have known, even they would have grantedthat, for the second time in a thoroughly selfish life, Emma wasdisplaying capacities for self-sacrifice. As Emma and Crocker shook hands that afternoon, one might see that bothhad aged a little, but he most. Something of the appealing boyishnesshad gone out of his eyes. He had become her contemporary. A certainmoral advantage, too, had passed to his side and she, whose prerogativeit had been to take the leading part, now waited for him to begin. Asif on honour to do nothing abruptly, he sketched his year for her--hissports and committees, his kinsfolk and hers; their fresh, invigorating, half-made land. She listened almost in silence until heturned to her and said: "With me, Emma, it is and always will be the same. You know that. Hasanything changed with you?" "I don't think so, Crocker. How can I tell? I'm glad you're here, inspite of the shabby trick I've played you. Let me say just that I'mheartily glad to see an old friend. " "No, I must have more than that or less. I want much more than that. " "You want too much. You want more than I can give to anybody. O! Whycan't you see it all? You are alive, even here in Florence but, I, I amno longer a real person that can love or be loved. Can't you see that Iam only a sensibility that absorbs the sweetness of this valley, a merebundle of scruples and fears, a weather-cock veering with the talk ofthe rest of them? Think of that and take back what you have thoughtabout me. " "Emma, you admit a need, and that is very sweet to me. You want some oneto strengthen you against all this that you call the valley. Mightn'tthat helper be I?" "You shan't be committed to anything so hopeless. " "It isn't as hopeless as it seems. The strength of the valley is only inits weakness, and we shall be strong together. " "I have forgotten how to be strong, for years I have only been clever. " "You'd be dull enough with me as you well know. I can do that forboth. But don't talk as if there were some fate between us. There canbe none except your indifference, and I believe you do care a littleand will more. " "Of course, I care, Crocker, but not as you wish. You have refreshed mein this opiate air. You have represented the real country I haveexchanged for this illusion, the real life I might have lived had I beenbraver or more fortunate. But you can have no part in what I have come tobe. Go, for both our sakes. " "Not for any such reason. I can't surrender my happiness for a phrase; Ican't leave you to these delusions about yourself. " "It is no delusion; I wish it were. It's in my blood and breeding. Forgenerations my people have lived the unreal life. I am the fine flower ofmy race, and in coming to this valley of dreams and this no-life I ammerely fulfilling a destiny--a fate, as you say--and coming to my own. " "But Emma, the worthy Verplancks?" "No, listen to me. For generations the Verplancks have been what peopleexpected them to be, incarnate formulas of etiquette and timid living. They took their colour from the gossiping society in which they seemed tolive. They prudently married other Verplancks, cousins or cousins'cousins. They hoarded their little fortunes without increasing them, andif what they called the rabble had not peopled New York and raised theprice of land, which my people were merely too stolid to sell, we shouldlong ago have gone under in penury. We have led nobody and made nothing, but have been maintained by stronger forces and persons, toward whom wehave always taken the air of doing a favour. That mistake at least Ishall not make with you, Crocker. I want you to feel the full nullity ofme. As I see you now I have a twinge because my great grandfather, whowas a small banker, would have called yours, who was a farmer--you see Ihave looked you up--not 'Mister' but 'My Good Man. '" For a moment she paused, and Crocker groped for a reply. "All this may betrue, Emma, " he said at last, "and yet mean very little to you and me. Besides, I'm quite willing you should call me your Good Man. In fact, I'drather like it. " "You must take me seriously--you shall. I cannot marry. I'm marriedalready. Dennis says I am. Come and see my bridegroom. " And she fairlydragged the bewildered Crocker into her den and set him once more beforethe missing St. Michael. "There he is, an incarnated weakness and fastidiousness. His hand is toodelicate to draw his own sword. If he really cast out Satan, it must havebeen by merely staring him down. His helmet rests with no weight upon hiscurled and perfumed locks--his buckles are soft gold where iron shouldbe. He represents the dull, collective, aristocratic intolerance ofHeaven for the only individualist it ever managed to produce. He pretendsto be a warrior and is as feminine as your St. Catherine. He is theimperturbable champion of celestial good form, and Dennis, who seesthrough things, says he is my spiritual husband. He is the weakest of theweak and is too strong for you, Crocker. " For a space that seemed minutes they faced each other, Emma excited, witha diffused indignation that defied impartially the missing St. Michaeland the puzzled man before her; Crocker with a perplexity that renewedthe old boyish expression in his eyes. He seemed to be thinking, and, ashe thought, the tension of Emma's attitude relaxed, she forgot to look atthe St. Michael and wondered at the even, steady patience of the biglikable boy she was dismissing. She pitied him in advance for the futileargument he must be revolving. She had despatched him as in duty boundand was both sorry and glad. But his counterplea when it came was of a disconcerting briefness andpotency. He said very slowly, "Yes, I see it all. There is your spiritualhusband; there are they" (indicating the valley with a sweep of a bighand), "and there are you, Emma, caught in a web of baffling and falseideas; and here am I, a real man who loves you, fearing neither the St. Michael nor them" (another gesture) "nor your doubts. I set myself, Morton Crocker, your lover, against them all and take my own so. " There was a frightened second in which his sturdy arms closed about her. There was a little shudder, as the same big hand that had defied thevalley sought her head and pressed it to his shoulder. When Emma at lastlooked up the mockery she always carried in her eyes had given place to anew serenity, and her hand reached up timidly for his. Crocker and Emma--we now instinctively gave him the precedence--wereinconsiderate enough to remove themselves without making clear the fateof the no longer missing St. Michael. We still speculated indolently asto the nature of the afterpiece in which we assumed this ex-hero of ourcomedy might yet appear. Then we learned that Emma was to be marriedwithout delay from the stone manor house under the Taconics where herpeople had dwelt since patroon days. Only a handful of friends withCrocker's nearest kin and her inevitable New York aunts were to bepresent. These venerable ladies had admitted that in marrying, evenopulently, out of the family, Emma had once more shown velleities ofself-sacrifice. Then we heard of Crocker and Emma on his boat along thecoast "Down East. " Later we were shocked by rumours of a canoe tripthrough Canadian waterways. Hereupon the usually benevolent Dennisprotested as he glanced approvingly at the well-kept Tuscan landscape. "Crocker needn't rub it in, " he opined. "Why, it's the same scrubbyspruce tree from the Plains of Abraham to James's Bay-and Emma, who hatedbeing bored! Why, it's marriage by capture; it's barbaric. " "It's worse;it's rheumatic, " shuddered Harwood as he declined Marsala and tookwhisky. "But he'll have to bring her back to civilisation some time, ifonly to hospital. We shall have her again. " "He will bring her back, butwe shall never have her again, " said Dennis solemnly. "She has renouncedus and all our works. " "Renouncing our works isn't so difficult, " smiledMrs. Dennis, and then the talk drifted elsewhere, to new Emmas who werejust beginning to eat the Tuscan lotus. Before the year had turned to June again we had nearly forgotten ourrunaways, when a quite unusual activity about her villa and Crocker'swarned us that they were coming back. Harwood had seen in transit a boxwhich he thought corresponded to the St. Michael's stature, but was notsure. In a few days came a circular note from Crocker through Dennissaying that they were fairly settled and he glad to see any or all ofus. She, however, was still fatigued by the journey and must for a timekeep her room. Harwood straightway volunteered to undertake the preliminaryreconnaissance, while Frau Stern engaged to penetrate to Emma herself. On a beatific afternoon we sat in council on Dennis's terrace awaitingthe envoys. Below, the misty plain rose on and on till it gathered intoan amber surge in Monte Morello and rippled away again through theFiesolan hills. Nearer, torrid bell-towers pierced the shimmering reek, like stakes in a sweltering lagoon. In the centre of all, the great domeswam lightly, a gigantic celestial buoy in a vaporous sea. The spell thatbound us all was doubly potent that day. The sense of a continuous lifethat had made the dome and the belfries an inevitable emanation from theclean crumbling earth, lulled us all, and we hardly stirred when Harwoodbustled in, saying, "Cheer up. I have seen Crocker, and it isn't there. ""You mean, " said the cautious Dennis, "that Crocker still possesses onlythe hole, aperture, frame, or niche that the missing St. Michael may yetadorn. " "I only know that it isn't there now, " growled Harwood. "I dealmerely in facts, but you may get theories, if you must have them, fromFrau Stern, who heroically forced her way to Emma over Crocker'sprostrate form. " As he spoke we heard Frau Stern's timid, well-meaning ring, and in amoment her smile filled the archway. "We don't need to ask if you have news, " cried Mrs. Dennis from afar. "If I haf news. Guess what it is. It is too lovely. You cannot think?Well, there will be a baby next autumn, what you call it?" "Michaelmas, Isuppose, " grunted Harwood through his pipe-smoke and subsided intoindifference. "All this is most charming and interesting, Frau Stern, " expostulatedDennis, "but, as our enthusiastic friend Harwood delicately hints, what we really let you go for was to locate the Missing St. Michael. ""I haf almost forgot that, " she apologised as she nibbled her_brioche_, "Emma was so happy. But for the bothersome St. Michaelthere is no change. I saw it in what she calls her new den. Shelaughed to me and said, 'I cannot let him have it, you see, you wouldall say he married me for it. '" "Bravo!" shouted Dennis and Harwood in unison, and the Sage added withunction, "So she has not been able to renounce us utterly. " "It is not now for long, " rejoined Frau Stern, "it is only to the time wehaf said. " "Michaelmas, " repeated Harwood disgustedly. "Yes, that is it, " she pursued tranquilly, "Emma told me in confidence, 'To Crocker I cannot give it because of you all, but to our child I may, and it shall do with it what it will. ' Now do you prevail, Misters Dennisand Harwood?" "We are a bit downcast but not discomfited, " acknowledged Dennis, while Harwood remained glumly within his smoke. "Emma has escaped us, but she still pays us the tribute of a subterfuge. It is enough, wewill forgive her, even if her way lies from us dozers here. For to-daythe same sunshine drenches her and us. It is a bond. Let us enjoy itwhile we may. " THE LUSTRED POTS "Haul away, Sam. This is the real thing" came from the depths of thewell. Sam Cleghorn stumbled in the gloom towards the windlass, avoidingon the way a rude handpump and two heaps of dirt and broken pottery thatsloped threateningly upon the low curb, where balanced a perforated discof marble, the great bottom-stone of the well. All these propertiescaught a little light from a beam that came through a slit in the wall, casting most of its uncertain bloom up into a low groined vault, theheavy round arches of which were separated from squat piers by clumsybrackets. Outside at the level of the reticulated stone floor one couldhear the rushing of a river. As Cleghorn leaned over the well-mouthbefore seizing the crank, a glimmer of yellow light flooded his face andagain came up the hollow impatient cry, "Haul away, Sam. This lot's agood one, and it's mine. " Replying "All right, Dick, " Cleghorn bent tothe crank. With much creaking the coils crept along the spindle and thelight burden began to rise jerkily. * * * * * Although neither the well nor the vaulted cellar chamber belonged to SamCleghorn or to Dick Webb, their presence and actions there were notsurreptitious. Stanton Mayhew, who ignorantly owned the well, had giventhem plenary permission to pump and dig, mildly pitying their apparentlunacy. The palace above was his in virtue of his sensible preference forliving twice as well on the Arno for half the cost on the Hudson. Thisrule of two, like so many foreign residents of Florence, heunquestioningly obeyed, and it constituted practically the whole of hisphilosophy and maxims. Hence he was not the man to prize a Tuscan welldug in the fourteenth century, cleaned perhaps never, and graduallyfilled to the brim with what the forwardlooking past benightedly took forrubbish. So when Cleghorn and Webb made him an overture for the right toclean the well, he had genially replied, "Why, go ahead, boys, and enjoyyourselves. It's you who ought to be paid, but for your healths' sake youreally ought to wait till I've punched some decent windows through thatdamp cellar wall and let the air in. " If neither Sam nor Dick waited even a day, it was because each was a bitafraid that the other would begin alone. College mates, collectors both, they were fast friends in a way and rivals beyond dispute. Their commontaste for antiquity and adequacy of means had made their graduate coursechiefly one of travel. And when travel wore out its novelty theynaturally settled in the easiest, as the least exacting, European city, occupying two halves of one floor in the same palace. Their apartmentsstarted full, and quickly overflowed with objects of curiosity andart--all old, for their knowledge was considerable; some fine, forneither was without taste. But taste neither had in any austere sense, for they collected art much as a dredge collects marine specimens. Nothing came amiss to them. Wood, ivory, silver, bronze, marble, plaster--they repudiated no material or period. Stuffs, glass, pictures, porcelains, potteries--it was all one to them so the object were old andrare. Inevitably, then, they had come to primitive pots, andsimultaneously, for they not only watched each other closely, but almostread each other's minds. And when they came to primitive pots it wascertain that they would beg, borrow, or steal a well, since in old wells, and cisterns, besides less mentionable places, primitive pots abide. Manypots were there, as we shall see, from the first, and the maids andchildren of the centuries, by way of concealing breakages, have usuallymade notable secondary contributions. So when amiable Stanton Mayhewfreely conceded a most ancient well to Cleghorn and Webb, it was likereceiving Pandora's box, with the difference that the well might safelybe opened. Here had ensued a most delicate negotiation concerning the division ofthe spoil. A mathematical partition of the fragmentary material that anold Italian well contains is extremely difficult if at all possible. After much debate it was agreed that after they struck pay dirt, eachshould dig in turn, each to have the bucketful that came under his trowelor fingers. Scattered fragments of the same pot and other complicationswere to be adjudicated by Mayhew, whose ignorance and disinterestednesswere safe to assume. But the well gave up quantities of noncontentiousmatter before Mayhew's services were required. The first five feet hadrevealed nothing but fragments of kitchen pottery of our time and afairly perfect hoopskirt of Garibaldian date. A little lower had emergedthe skeleton of a cat. Similar tragedies were in evidence, on an average, at every quarter century of depth. Between the second and third cat, layGinori imitations of Sevres and Wedgewood, scraps too of gildedglass--the earnest of better things below. Five cats down, someeighteenth-century apothecary pots, damaged but amenable to repair, hadinaugurated the alternation of buckets under the agreement. It weretedious to follow the ascending scale of excellence as the digging wentdeeper. Enough to say that below the mixed ingredients and the nethermostcat they found a homogeneous layer of beautiful fourteenth-centuryshards, affording many buckets full, and promising delicate adjudicationto the referee. Before the lustred pots themselves shed a baleful gleam over thisnarrative, something should obviously be said about Italian wells and whythey contain pots. Beyond those casually acquired from careless orsecretive servants, there is, if the well be old and of good make, acertain number of intact pieces put in to serve as a filter. Often agroup of pitchers or similar crocks is imprisoned between the twobottom-stones. Sometimes there are two such layers. After this filter hadbeen made there was frequently scattered a bushel or more of small shardsabove. From these by careful sorting complete or nearly complete piecesmay be recovered. Through all this mass of whole or broken pottery thewater had to find its way up, for the cement sides of an Italian well arewatertight. Thus, barring the indiscretions of housemaids and cats, theearly Italians drank pure water. Naturally Cleghorn and Webb were conversant with these refinements ofmediaeval hydraulics. In fact when Webb, the sturdier of the two, hauledup the bottom-stone all dripping, Cleghorn promptly declared that in thesense of the contract it was a bucketful; hence his first go at the nowuncovered pots. So heated grew the debate, that finally the grimyexcavators climbed to the upper air and appealed to Mayhew, who promptlydenied the quibble, deciding that stones and pots were notinterchangeable. The diversion drew attention from the great perforateddisc itself, and as the sullen Cleghorn let the exultant Webb down uponthe ancient pots, it lay badly bestowed near the curb on the crumblingslope of a rubbish heap. And now Cleghorn with bitterness of heart wasreeling up Webb's find. As the coils broadened on the windlass a smalliron bucket rose above the parapet, brimming with something that glintedmetallically under the dirt. Beside the bucket flapped the rude swing inwhich the entrances and exits of the partners were made. As Cleghorngrasped the bail and swung the precious cargo clear of the well, came uponce more the voice of Webb: "Hustle, Old Man, I'm keen to see them, theyfeel good. " Good they were indeed. Cleghorn, who for fifteen years had haunted shopsand museums had never seen the like in equal compass. As he took themcautiously one by one and held them high in the uncertain light, eachrevealed a desirable point. Here was a coat of arms, a date, the initialof an owner. There were grotesque birds and beasts. Differing in form andcolour, the entire lot agreed in possessing that dull early Italianlustre, which perhaps accidental and less distinguished than that ofSpain, is even dearer in a collector's eyes. They hinted of all enamelledthings that come out of the East--of the peacock reflections of the tilesof Damascus and Cordova, of the franker polychromy of Rhodian kilns, ofthe subtler bloom of the dishes of Moorish Spain, of the brassier glazesof Minorca and Sicily--all these things lay enticingly in epitome inthese lustred Italian pots, as they glimmered with a furtive splendour. Yes, they were a good lot, thought Cleghorn as he placed them reverentlyon the flagging. It was the find of a lifetime. A man with nothing elsein his cupboard must be mentioned respectfully among collectors from Danto Beersheba. Again the impatient voice of Webb below: "Hurry up, I say. It's gettingcold: the water is gaining. " "All right, " called Cleghorn, giving a few strokes of the pump, but nevertaking his eyes from the lustred pots. Then as if by a sudden inspirationhe asked, "Any more in that lot, Dick?" "Not a one, " cried Webb jubilantly, "there was just a bucketful and asqueeze at that. But there may be others beneath. There's anotherbottom-stone, and it's your next turn. But why don't you hurry up?" A scowl passed over Cleghorn's thin face set unswervingly towards thepots. They glimmered in the shadow with an unholy phosphorescence--green, blue, carmine, strange purplish browns. So the glittering coils of theserpent may have bewildered our first Mother. There were other potsbelow, reflected Cleghorn, yes, but there never could be again such abatch as these. And then his dazed eye for a second left the fascinatingpots, and mechanically searched the vaulted chamber. To his excited gazethe rubbish heaps centring about the curb seemed already in movement. Themassive bottom-stone overhung the parapet, resting only on loose dirt andshards. With horror he noted that a breath might send it down. If itslipped, whose were the lustred pots? Against his will the phrase saiditself over and over again throbbingly behind his eyes, and again heforgot everything in the vision of the lustred pots. "Damn it, hurry up, " came thunderously from below. Cleghorn stumbled witha curious hesitation between the crank and the poised bottom-stone. Theclumsy movement loosened a handful of shards which went clattering down;the great stone slid, caught on the parapet, and hung once more inuncertain oscillation. Profanity unrestrained transpired from the mouthof the well. It was a tremulous Cleghorn that sent down the bucket and reeled up anirate and vociferous Webb. Words abounded without explanations, and blowsseemed possible, when Cleghorn, as it were apologetically raised apitcher and a bowl into the shaft of light that came through theoubliette. "They're all like that, Dick, " he protested. "It's your luckyday. I congratulate you. " It was a silenced and mollified Webb thatclutched at the pots, and noted wisely that every one had been brushed bythe peacock's tail. With a kind of pity at last he turned to thedeprecating Cleghorn and said, "That was an awkward business of yoursabout the shards, and the bottom-stone there is a pretty sight for a manwho left it so and went down to work under it, but one couldn't wait forsuch pots as these. On my soul, Old Man, if you had dumped it all down onme I could hardly have blamed you. " Welcomed with a loud laugh by its maker, the joke jarred on Cleghorn, whomerely answered, "It's very good of you, Dick, to say so. " "But there may be quite as good ones below, " pursued Webb genially. "We'll rest up a bit and then you have your go and finish the job. " "If you don't mind, Dick, I'd rather not, " was the embarrassed answer. "The fact is I'm too nervous and absentminded for this work. " He lookeddown into the blackness with a shudder and said. "No, I don't want to godown there again. One can't tell what might happen there. " "Then you've dropped your nerve. Sorry for it, " came from a baffled anddisgusted partner, but as he spoke a smile drew across the broad, amiableface, and he added insinuatingly, "Then the rest are mine, Old Man?" "Yes they're yours fast enough. " "It's mighty good of you, Sam. I won't forget it. I'll share sometime ona good thing like this. I'm all ready to go down again when you've had asmoke. Only we'll set that stone right and you'll be more careful aboutthe shards. " "If you'll excuse me, Dick, I'd rather not. " Cleghorn looked at hiswatch. "You see I ought to be out of these duds already. I have a veryparticular tea outside. Didn't I tell you about it? I'll send Mayhewdown to help. " "All right, just as you please, " was the indifferent reply. But asCleghorn turned up the narrow steps, Webb muttered perplexedly, "To funkat this point and for a tea! The man is touched or in love. " * * * * * Webb with Mayhew's dispassionate aid made a considerable haul below thesecond stone, though in truth there was nothing there to compare with thefirst lot. The batch of lustred pots is the pride of his eye, and when itis suggested that he values them highly he answers, "Well rather, they'repretty good, you know, and then they nearly cost me a broken head. I wasso keen for them that I set a big stone where it might easily havetumbled on me. " Then the rest of the anecdote, which Cleghorn, in whosepresence it frequently is told, never hears with complete equanimity. Thecauses of his uneasiness I do not engage to analyse, for, unlike Webb, Cleghorn is imaginative and difficult. THE BALAKLAVA CORONAL As the dinner wore on endlessly, I consoled myself by the thought of theBalaklava Coronal. There in the toastmaster's seat was Morrison who hadbought it, at my right loomed Vogelstein who had sold it, far across, towards the foot of the board, sat the critic Brush in whose presence Iunderstood the infamous sale had been made. I missed only Sarafoff, themarvellous peasant-silversmith, who wrought the coronal in his prisonworkshop in the Viennese ghetto. Now there was nothing strange aboutVogelstein's selling it, nor yet about Morrison's buying it; only themaking of it by the illiterate Sarafoff and the silence of Brush when itwas sold required explanation. Vogelstein, who breathed heavily besideme, undoubtedly held the secret. I felt so hopeful that time and thechampagne which we were drinking for the sake of art would give him to methat I took no pains meanwhile to disturb his elaborate indifference tomy presence. Between him and me little love was lost. As the editor of a moneylosingart magazine in the interior, it was my duty occasionally to visit hisgalleries. After such visits the remnant of my New England conscienceusually forced me to diminish or actually to spoil many a sale of thedubious or merely fashionable antiquities in which he dealt. But in themain my power to harm him was slight. He held in a knowing grip thestrings of his patrons' vanity and taste. So he regarded me withsomething between scorn and uneasiness--as a pachyderm might take apredatory bee. For the sake of my steady production of the honey of freeadvertising he forgave a sting from which he was after all immune. At thebeginning of the dinner he had greeted me with what was meant for acivility and then had relapsed into silence. To escape the loquacity ofmy other neighbour I gave myself to parallel observation of Vogelsteinand Morrison--the great dealer and his greater customer. Both plainly belonged to the same species and it pleased my whim tosymbolise them as a mastodon and a rogue elephant. Morrison, the dreadedagent and operator, was unquestionably the finer creature. He moved moreprecisely and with a sense of wieldy power. His phrases cut whereVogelstein's merely smote. His bigness had something genial about it. Helooked the amateur, and indeed does not the rogue elephant trample downvillages chiefly for the joy of the affray? One felt that something morethan Morrison's preposterous winnings had been involved in the clashes ofrailroads and cataclysms on the exchange which had for years past beenhis major recreation. Vogelstein, though evidently of coarser fibre, belonged to the same formidable breed. The mastodon, we must suppose, lacked much of the finesse of the rogue elephant of later evolution. AndVogelstein's Semitism was of the archaic, potent, monumental type. Hisabundant fat looked hard. For all the sagging double chin, his jawretained the character of a clamp. Among the strong race of art dealershe was feared. Whole collections not single objects were his quarry. Hepaid lavishly, foolishly, counting as confidently on the ignorance andvanity of his clients, as ever Morrison upon the brute expansion of thenational wealth. But Vogelstein looked and was as completely theprofessional as Morrison the amateur. There remained this essentialdifference that if nothing could be too big to stagger Vogelstein, nothing likewise could be too small to deter him. I knew his shop, orrather his palace, and had observed the relish with which he could shamea timorous art student into giving three prices for a print. It affordedhim no more pleasure, one could surmise, to impose a false Rembrandt atsix figures upon a wavering iron-master, or, indeed to unload an historicbut rather worthless collection upon Morrison himself. For Vogelstein wasafter all of primitive stamp, to wit the militant publican. So he tooktoll and plenty, it mattered little where or whence. To Morrison and Vogelstein no better foil could be imagined than Brush. If they recalled the tusked monsters that charged in the van of Asiaticarmies, his analogue was the desert horse. Small, spare, sensitive, shy, his every posture suggested race, training, spirit, and docility. His_flair_ for classical art had become proverbial. By mere touch hedetected those remarkable counterfeits of Syracusan coins. It was he whosegregated the Renaissance intaglios at Bloomsbury only the winter beforehe exposed the composite figurines at Berlin. To him the BalaklavaCoronal must have proclaimed its nullity as far as its red gold could beseen. For that matter the coronal was a bye-word, and why not? The samedealers who had landed the more famous Tiara in the Louvre had theselling of it. The greater museums in Europe and America had refused itat a bargain. On Fifth Avenue and the Rue Lafitte all the dealers werejoking about the Balaklava Coronal. The name of Sarafoff, its maker, hadeven become accepted slang. For a season we "Sarafoffed" our intimatesinstead of hoaxing them. And in the face of all this Vogelstein had soldthe Coronal to Morrison under Brush's very nose. It seemed so whollyincredible that I began counting Vogelstein's heavy respirations, to makesure I was really awake. Then the pale, tense mask of Brush--so isolated in the apoplectic rowacross the table--calmed me. That he was Vogelstein's or anyone's toolwas unthinkable. Mercenary suspicions, to be sure, had been put about, but those who knew him merely laughed at such a notion. Vogelstein alsolaughed, shaking volcanically within, whenever the Coronal, thegenuineness of which he still maintained, was mentioned. And he alwaystreated Brush with a curious and almost tender condescension, much infact as the mastodon might have regarded that fragile ancestor of thehorse, the five-toed protohippos. I have neglected to explain that the occasion which brought me at onetable with such major celebrities as Morrison, Vogelstein, and Brush wasa public dinner in behalf of civic art. For just as we find the celestialcompromised by the naughty Aphrodite, so we distinguish two antitheticalsorts of art. There is a bad private art which is produced for dealersand millionaires and takes care of itself, and there is a virtuous publicart which we hope to have some day and meanwhile has to be taken care ofby special societies. It was one of these that was now dining for thegood of the cause. Under the benevolent eye of Morrison, our actingpresident, we had put pompano upon a soup underlaid with oysters, andthen a larded fillet upon some casual tidbit of terrapins. Whereupon afrozen punch. Thus courage was gained, the consecrated sequence ofsherry, hock, claret and champagne being absolved, for the properdiscussion of woodcock in the red with a famous old burgundy--Morrison'spersonal compliment to the apostolate of civic art. At the dessert, Morrison himself spoke a few words. The little speechcame brusquely from him, and no one who knew his rapacity for thebeautiful could doubt his faith in the universal superlatives he nowadvocated. Our art, he held, must weigh with our mills and railroads, else our life is out of balance. We never grudged millions to burrowbeneath New York for light, or for drink or speed, why then should wegrudge them for the beautiful inutilities that might make the surface ofthe city splendid. A craving for fine objects was his own dearestemotion, he wanted to see cities, states, and the nation ready to spendwith equal fervour. It all came apparently to a matter of spending. Morrison entertained no doubt that an imperious demand would create anabundant supply of what he called the best art. Whether we were totransport bodily the great monuments of Europe to America, or merely wereto supply beauty off our indigenous bat, was not clear from Morrison'saddress, and possibly was not wholly so in his own mind. But the talk wassolid and forceful, and I could hear Vogelstein grunt with inward joywhen he contemplated the city, the state, and the nation in theirpredicted rôle as customers. I too felt that a real if an incoherentvoice had spoken, and that if civic art were indeed to come, it would bethrough such neo-Roman visionaries as Morrison. Then the mood changed and a willowy, hirsute, and earnest reviver oftapestry weaving rose and pleaded for the "City Beautiful, " castigatingthe Philistine the while, and looking forward to a time when "the pomp, and chronicle of our time should be splendidly committed to illuminedwindow and pictured wall, " with some slight allusion to "those ancientwebs through which the Middle Ages still speak glowingly to us. " About midway in the speech Morrison, who had another public dinner downthe avenue slipped away. As he nodded "See you later perhaps" I markedthe adoring eye and smile of Vogelstein, and then the great folds settledback into their places about his mouth and my neighbour once more gave anuneasy attention to the weaver of beautiful phrases, meanwhile drinkingrepeated glasses of burgundy. Soon his huge form heaved with aninarticulate discontent, and as the speaker sat down amid perfunctoryapplause Vogelstein snorted twice into the air. "It is rather absurd, as you say, " I ventured. "It's sickening, " wheezed Vogelstein. "Why can't he sell his tapestrieswithout all that talk?" "Oh, he enjoys the talk and probably believes it, and you and I do betterafter all to hear his talk than to see his tapestries. " A mastodonicchuckle welcomed this mild sally. The burgundy was taking effect. As the diners rose stiffly or alertly, according to their several gradesof repletion, Vogelstein attached himself to me almost affectionately. "Do stop in the café and talk to me, " he urged. "It's queer, here are alot of my customers, some of my artists, besides you literary chaps, andexcept Morrison, nobody wants to talk to me. Morrison and I, weunderstand each other. It's early yet. Come along with me and talk. I'vewanted to talk to you for a long time, but always was too busy in myplace. You see you writers don't buy, in fact those that know almostnever do. It's really queer. " Knowing the might of burgundy when a due foundation of champagne has beenlaid, I hardly took this effusion as personal to myself, but I also sawno reason, too, why I should not profit by the occasion. "I'll gladlychat with you, Mr. Vogelstein, " I answered, "but you must let me choosethe subject. We will talk about the Balaklava Coronal. " As he led me into the elevator by the arm he whispered "All right, OldMan, but why? You know just as much as I about it. " There was no chance to reply until he had selected his table and orderedtwo Scotches and soda. "Yes, I know something about it, " I said at last;"everyone does apparently except Morrison. I know that Sarafoff made theCoronal, but I don't know who taught him how to make it, nor yet howMorrison was idiot enough to buy it, when anybody could have told himwhat it was, nor yet how Brush came to let it be sold. These are theinteresting parts of the story, and I'll drink no drink of yours unlessyou tell. " At the mention of idiocy in connection with Morrison Vogelstein shudderedand raised a massive deprecating hand. The gesture was arrested by theentrance of Brush, who with a slight nod to us passed to a distantcorner. Suddenly Vogelstein's expression had become one beaming, condescending paternalism. "Good man but impracticable, " he muttered. "Thinks knowing it is everything. Knowing it is something, but selling itis the real thing. Now I hardly know at all, not a tenth as much asBrush, not a half as much as you even, but so long as I can sell, I don'treally care to know. What's the use?" "But you did know about the Balaklava Coronal and you sold it too, " Iinterrupted. "How did you dare?" "That's my secret--but here are our drinks. A bargain's a bargain. Howfunny it is to be talking truth. Why, much of it would make even your jobdifficult. " "And yours impossible, but we're not getting to the Coronal, " I insisted. "As for that, " responded Vogelstein obligingly, "the first thing was ofcourse the making. You know all about Sarafoff yourself. Well, he onlydid the work. It was Schönfeld who put in the brains. You don't know him?Few do. Great man though. University professor of archaeology, troublewith a woman, next trouble with money, now one of us. Yes Schönfeldthought it out and saw it through. " "And certainly made a good job of it, " I admitted. "As you see, we wanted something unique--something that could not becompared with anything in the museums. " "Precisely, " I interposed, "Product of the local, semi-barbaric school ofthe Crimea. " "You've hit it, " grinned Vogelstein. "Scythian influence, to take theprofessors. Schönfeld said we must have that. And that's why it had to befound at Balaklava. " "But it had to look Scythian too. How did you manage that?" "Oh, that was Sarafoff's business. He had been a servant and then anovice at one of the monasteries of Mount Athos. Could make beautifultenth-century Byzantine madonnas. I've sold some. Then he carved ikonsin wood, ivory, silver, or what came. His things really looked Scythianenough to those who didn't know their modern Greece and Russia. So weset him to work in a back alley of Vienna at three kroners a day--doublepay for him--and Schönfeld ran down from Petersburg now and then tocoach him. " "You could trust him?" I inquired, recalling how Sarafoff hadsubsequently won fame by confessing to his most famous forgery. "As much as one can anybody. You see he doesn't speak any civilisedlanguage, and at that time we couldn't tell that the Tiara would spoilhim as it did the entire deal. " "But Schönfeld's coaching?" I suggested. Vogelstein here winked solemnlyand drank deeply from his tall glass. "First I want to tell you all aboutSarafoff, " he persisted, "of course we had him watched all the same, andwhenever he got an evening off, which was seldom, we had him filled upwith schnapps. He was a quiet drunk which is an excellent thing, Sir. " AsI nodded assent to this great truth, he continued: "Yes Schönfeld, as Iwas saying, managed everything. Wonderful scholar. You would respect himI'm sure. Why, every bit of the pattern of the Coronal was taken fromsome real antique, every word of the inscription too. " "Wasn't that a bitdangerous?" "With Schönfeld in charge, not so very. Everything was takenfrom little Russian museums that even you critics don't visit. Almost nopublished thing was used, you see. " "Then there was Sarafoff"-- "To give it all that quaint Scythian look, " Vogelstein added joyously. "Yes, we had just the best brains and the best hands for the job, and itwas beautiful. " "Better than the Tiara?" "Yes, far better. The Tiara was all a mistake, as I told Schönfeld; itwas too big and too good to be true. Except for Steinbach, who fell inlove with its queerness and chipped in some money, we never could havesold it to a museum. And it was a bad thing to have it there, it arousedopposition, it was bound to be exposed. I was always against it, and sureenough it spoiled the game for us. But the Balaklava Coronal that wasjust right. It had a sort of well-bred modest beauty. We should havebegun instead of ending with it. Yes, Sir, there never was a morebeautiful thing, a more plausible thing, a finer object to sell than theBalaklava Coronal. " As he bellowed the word and beat the table in confirmation, Brush lookedover from his corner apprehensively. "Quietly, Mr. Vogelstein, " I hinted, "this is between ourselves, and we might be overheard. " "That's right, " he admitted, and moodily lit another cigar. "Where werewe?" he asked uneasily. "Oh yes, we were at the Tiara. Now the Coronaland what we could have sold on the strength of it was worth ten of theTiara, and if it hadn't been for the cursed thing, we could have landedthe Coronal as a starter in any one of half a dozen museums. " "As a matter of fact they were all shy of it. " "Of course. Once the Tiara was being looked into, the museum game was up, and there was only Morrison left. " Vogelstein lurched around nervously. "He may drop in soon, " he explained. "I'd like to make you acquainted. " Ignoring the offer, I persisted, "You've got to the interesting pointat last. Tell me why there was only Morrison left. To begin withMorrison knows something about such matters, and next he can have thebest advice for the asking. And yet you tell me that Morrison was theonly great collector in the world to whom that notoriously false baublecould be sold. " Vogelstein swayed uncomfortably in his chair, puffed, swallowed, clearedhis throat, and said, "There are some things one can't say right out; youknow that as well as I, but I can say this: there are many great andenterprising collectors in America, and Morrison is the only one whonever doubts anything he has once bought. " "An ideal client then. " "Quite so. You see the others get worried by the critics. That meansexchanging, refunding--all sorts of trouble. " "But Morrison never?" "Never; he's a true sport. He never squeals. " "Doesn't have to because he doesn't know he's hurt. " "That's right, " concluded Vogelstein, his face corrugating into oneample, contented smile. "Then the big game reduces itself into selling to Morrison. " "That's more or less it, Sir. For a critic you have a business head. " "You will excuse a rather personal question, but how do you feel aboutselling your best customer at enormous prices objects which you know tobe false?" "It's a fair question since we are talking between ourselves, and youshall have a straight answer. First my business isn't just a nice one. Inthe nature of the case it wouldn't do for sensitive people. I suppose youand Brush, for instance, couldn't and wouldn't make much out of it. Thenas regards Morrison, I'm not so sure he could complain if he knew. I givehim the things he likes and the treatment he likes at the prices helikes. What more can any merchant do?" I saw the subject rapidly exhausting itself and tried one more tack. "Yes, it's simpler than I supposed, " I admitted, "but it doesn't seemquite an every-day thing to sell the Balaklava Coronal to anybody underBrush's nose. " "It's easier than you think, " echoed Vogelstein. "You don't knowMorrison. Hope he'll look in to-night. You ought to meet him. " My last bolt was shot. It was my turn to sit silent and drink. What couldbe this strange infatuation of the hardheaded Morrison, this avowedlysimple magic of the grossly cunning Vogelstein? As I pondered the case Inoticed Brush give a startled glance towards the entrance, heard heavysteps behind us, and then a deep voice saying, "Hallo again, Vogelstein, I'm lucky not to be too late to catch you. " Vogelstein lumbered to his feet and muttered an introduction. We all tookour seats, as the headwaiter bustled obsequiously up to take Morrison'sorder of champagne. As if also obeying Morrison's nod, but reluctantly, Brush crawled over from his corner, a scarcely deferential attendanttransporting his lemonade. While casual greetings and some random talk went on I tried to picturethe scene we must present. Neither Brush nor myself is contemptiblephysically or in other ways, yet we both seemed curiously the inferiorsof these troglodytic giants. Our scruples, the voluntary complication ofour lives, seemed to constitute at least a disadvantage when measuredagainst the primitiveness, perhaps the rather brutal simplicity, of ourcompanions. It was Morrison who cut these reflections short. "You will excuse me, gentlemen, " he said, "for introducing a matter of business here, but thecase is pressing and it may even interest you as critics of art. " Wenodded permission and he continued, "It's about the Bleichrode Raphael, as of course you know, Vogelstein. I like it, I want it, but I hear allsorts of things about it, and frankly it strikes me as dear at the price. How do you feel about it?" At the mention of the Bleichrode Raphael, Brush and I started. Theforgery was more than notorious. The Bleichrode panel had begun lifepoorly but honestly as a Franciabigio--a portrait of an unknownFlorentine lad with a beretta, the type of which Raphael's portrait ofhimself is the most famous example. The picture hung long in a privategallery at Rome and was duly listed in the handbooks. One day itdisappeared and when it once more came to light it had become theBleichrode Raphael. Its Raphaelisation had been effected, as many of usknew, by the consummate restorer Vilgard of Ghent, and for him the taskhad been an easy one. It had needed only slight eliminations and discreetadditions to produce a portrait of Raphael by himself far more obviouslycaptivating than any of the genuine series. Soon the picture vanishedfrom Schloss Bleichrode, and it became anybody's guess what amateur hadbeen elected to become its possessor. The museums naturally wereforewarned. While this came into Brush's memory and mine, Vogelstein'scountenance had become severe, almost sinister, and he was answeringMorrison as follows: "Mr. Morrison, I have offered you the Bleichrode Raphael for half amillion dollars. You will hear all sorts of gossip about it. Doubtlessthese gentlemen (indicating us) believe it is false and will tell youso (we nodded feebly). But I offer it not to their judgment but toyours. You and I know it is a beautiful thing and worth the money. Imake no claims, offer no guarantee for the picture. You have seen it, and that's enough. If you don't want it, it makes no difference to me, I can sell it to Theiss (the great Parisian amateur, Morrison's onlyreal rival), or I will gladly keep it myself, for I shall never haveanything as fine again. " Morrison sat impassively while Vogelstein watched him narrowly. Brush andI felt for something that ought to be said yet would not come. At the endof his speech, or challenge, Vogelstein's expression had softened intoone of the most courtly ingenuousness, now it hardened again into astrange arrogance. His eyes snapped as he continued with affectedindifference, "Since you have raised the question, Mr. Morrison, theBleichrode Raphael is yours to take or leave--to-night. " There was a pause as the two giants faced each other. Then Morrisonsmiled beamingly, as one who loved a good fighter, and said, "Send itround tomorrow, of course I want it. Well, that's settled, and if thesegentlemen will spare you, I'll give you a lift down town. " Vogelstein's arrogance melted once more into fulsomeness as he said, almost forgetting his Goodnight to us, "I'm sure it's very good of you, Mr. Morrison. " The forms of Morrison and Vogelstein almost blocked the generousintercolumnar space as shoulder to shoulder they moved away between theyellow marble pillars and under the green and gold ceiling. The brownleather doors swung silently behind them, and we were left together withour amazement. "Never mind, Old Fellow, " said Brush at last. "It's the first time foryou. You'll get used to it. It's my second time; I happened to be there, you know, when the Balaklava Coronal was sold. " SOME REFLECTIONS ON ART COLLECTING Morally considered, the art collector is tainted with the fourth deadlysin; pathologically, he is often afflicted by a degree of mania. Hisdistinguished kinsman, the connoisseur, scorns him as a kind ofmercenary, or at least a manner of renegade. I shall never forget theexpression with which a great connoisseur--who possesses one of thefinest private collections in the Val d'Arno--in speaking of a famouscolleague, declared, "Oh, X----! Why, X---- is merely a collector. " Theimplication is, of course, that the one who loves art truly and knows itthoroughly will find full satisfaction in an enjoyment devoid alike ofenvy or the desire of possession He is to adore all beautiful objectswith a Platonic fervour to which the idea of acquisition anddomestication is repugnant. Before going into this lofty argument, Ishould perhaps explain the collection of my scornful friend. He wouldhave said: "I see that as I put X---- in his proper place, you look at mypictures and smile. You have rightly divined that they are of somerarity, of a sort, in fact, for which X---- and his kind would sell theirimmortal souls. But I beg you to note that these pictures and bits ofsculpture have been bought not at all for their rarity, nor even fortheir beauty as such, but simply because of their appropriateness asdecorations for this particular villa. They represent not my energy as acollector, nor even my zeal as a connoisseur, but simply my normalactivity as a man of taste. In this villa it happens that Italian oldmasters seem the proper material for decoration. In another house or inanother land you might find me employing, again solely for decorativepurposes, the prints of Japan, the landscapes of the modernimpressionists, the rugs of the East, or the blankets of the Arizonadesert. Free me, then, from the reproach implied in that covert leer atmy Early Sienese. " Yes, we must, I think, exclude from the ranks of thetrue zealots all who in any plausible fashion utilise the objects of artthey buy. Excess, the craving to possess what he apparently does notneed, is the mark of your true collector. Now these visionaries--at leastthe true ones--honour each other according to the degree of "eye" thateach possesses. By "eye" the collector means a faculty of discerning afine object quickly and instinctively. And, in fact, the trained eyebecomes a magically fine instrument. It detects the fractions of amillimetre by which a copy belies its original. In colours itdistinguishes nuances that a moderately trained vision will declarenon-existent. Nor is the trained collector bound by the evidence of theeye alone. Of certain things he knows the taste or adhesiveness. His eargrasps the true ring of certain potteries, porcelains, or qualities ofbeaten metal. I know an expert on Japanese pottery who, when a sixthsense tells him that two pots apparently identical come really fromdifferent kilns, puts them behind his back and refers the matter from hisretina to his finger-tips. Thus alternately challenged and trusted, theeye should become extraordinarily expert. A Florentine collector once sawin a junk-shop a marble head of beautiful workmanship. Ninety-nineamateurs out of a hundred would have said. "What a beautiful copy!" forthe same head is exhibited in a famous museum and is reproduced inpasteboard, clay, metal, and stone _ad nauseam_. But this collector gavethe apparent copy a second look and a third. He reflected that theexample in the museum was itself no original, but a school-piece, and ashe gazed the conviction grew that here was the original. Since it wasclosing time, and the marble heavy, a bargain was struck for the morrow. After an anxious night, this fortunate amateur returned in a cab to bringhome what criticism now admits is a superb Desiderio da Settignano. Theincident illustrates capitally the combination of keenness and patiencethat goes to make the collector's eye. We may divide collectors into those who play the game and those who donot. The wealthy gentleman who gives _carte blanche_ to his dealers andagents is merely a spoilsport. He makes what should be a matter ofadroitness simply an issue of brute force. He robs of all delicacy whatfrom the first glow of discovery to actual possession should be a finetransaction. Not only does he lose the real pleasures of the chase, buthe raises up a special clan of sycophants to part him and his money. Amere handful of such--amassers, let us say--have demoralised the artmarket. According to the length of their purses, collectors may also bedivided into those who seek and those who are sought. Wisdom lies inmaking the most of either condition. The seekers unquestionably get morepleasure; the sought achieve the more imposing results. The seekersdepend chiefly on their own judgment, buying preferably of those who knowless than themselves; the sought depend upon the judgment of those whoknow more than themselves, and, naturally, must pay for such vicariousexpertise. And, rightly, they pay dear. Let no one who buys of a greatdealer imagine that he pays simply the cost of an object plus a generouspercentage of profit. No, much-sought amateur, you pay the rent of thatpalace in Bond Street or Fifth Avenue; you pay the salary of thegentlemanly assistant or partner whose time is at your disposal duringyour too rare visits; you pay the commissions of an army of agentsthroughout the world; you pay, alas! too often the cost of securing false"sale records" in classic auction rooms; and, finally, it is only tooprobable that you pay also a heavy secret commission to the disinterestedfriend who happened to remark there was an uncommonly fine object inY----'s gallery. By a cheerful acquiescence in the suggestions that aredaily made to you, you may accumulate old masters as impersonally, asgenteelly, let me say, as you do railway bonds. But, of course, underthese circumstances you must not expect bargains. Now, in objects that are out of the fashion--a category including alwaysmany of the best things--and if approached in slack times, the greatdealers will occasionally afford bargains, but in general theeconomically minded collector, who is not necessarily the poor one, mustintercept his prey before it reaches the capitals. That it makes all thedifference from whom and where you buy, let a recent example attest. Afew years ago a fine Giorgionesque portrait was offered to an Americanamateur by a famous London dealer. At $60, 000 the refusal was granted fora few days only, subject to cable response. The photograph was tempting, but the besought amateur, knowing that the authenticity of the averageGiorgione is somewhat less certain than, say, the period of the Book ofJob, let the opportunity pass. A few months after learning of thisincident, I had the pleasure of meeting in Florence an English amateurwho expatiated upon the beauty of a Giorgione that he had just acquiredat the very reasonable price of $15, 000. For particulars he referred meto one of the great dealers of Florence. The portrait, as I alreadysuspected, was the one I had heard of in America. Forty-five thousanddollars represented the difference between buying it of a Florentinerather than a London dealer. Of course, the picture itself had never leftFlorence at all, the limited refusal and the rest were merely part of theusual comedy played between the great dealer and his client. On the otherhand, if the lucky English collector had had the additional good fortuneto make his find in an Italian auction room or at a small dealer's, hewould probably have paid little more than $5, 000, while the same purchasemade of a wholly ignorant dealer or direct from the reduced family whosold this ancestor might have been made for a few hundred francs. Withthe seekers obviously lie all the mystery and romance of the pursuit. Therest surely need not be envied to the sought. One thinks of Consul J. J. Jarves gradually getting together that little collection of Italianprimitives, at New Haven, which, scorned in his lifetime and actuallyforeclosed for a trifling debt, is now an object of pilgrimage forEuropean amateurs and experts. One recalls the mouse-like activities ofthe Brothers Dutuit, unearthing here a gorgeous enamel, retrieving therea Rembrandt drawing, fetching out a Gothic ivory from a junk-shop. Onesighs for those days, and declares that they are forever past. Does notthe sage M. Eudel warn us that there are no more finds--_"Surtout necomptez plus sur les trouvailles. "_ Yet not so long ago I mildly chid aseeker, him of the Desiderio, for not having one of his rare picturesphotographed for the use of students. He smiled and admitted that I wasperfectly right, but added pleadingly, "You know a negative costs abouttwenty francs, and for that one may often get an original. " Why, even Iwho write--but I have promised that this essay shall not exceedreasonable bounds. For the poor collector, however, the money consideration remains a sourceof manifold embarrassment, morally and otherwise. How many an enthusiasthas justified an extravagant purchase by a flattering prevision ofprofits accruing to his widow and orphans? Let the recording angel reply. And such hopes are at times justified. There have been instances of menrefused by the life insurance companies who have deliberately adopted thealternative of collecting for investment, and have done so successfully. Obviously, such persons fall into the class which the French callcharitably the _marchand-amateur_. Note, however, that the merchant comesfirst. Now, to be a poor yet reasonably successful collector withoutbecoming a _marchand-amateur_ requires moral tact and resolution. Theseeker of the short purse naturally becomes a sort of expert in prices. As he prowls he sees many fine things which he neither covets nor couldafford to keep, but which are offered at prices temptingly below theirvalue in the great shops. The temptation is strong to buy and resell. Naturally, one profitable transaction of this sort leads to another, andsoon the amateur is in the attitude of "making the collection pay foritself. " The inducement is so insidious that I presume there are ratherfew persistent collectors not wealthy who are not in a measure dealers. Now, to deal or not to deal might seem purely a matter of social andbusiness expediency. But the issue really lies deeper. The difficulty isthat of not letting your left hand know what your right hand does. Amorally ambidextrous person may do what he pleases. He keeps the dealerand collector apart, and subject to his will one or the other emerges. The feat is too difficult for average humanity. In nearly every case aprolonged struggle will end in favour of the commercial self. I havefollowed the course of many collector-dealers, and I know very fewinstances in which the collection has not averaged down to the level of ashop--a fine shop, perhaps, but still a shop. I blame no man forfollowing the wide road, but I feel more kinship with him who walksscrupulously in the narrow path of strict amateurism. Let me hasten toadd that there are times when everybody must sell. Collections mustperiodically be weeded out; one may be hard up and sell his pictures asanother in similar case his horses; artists will naturally draw intotheir studios beautiful objects which, occasion offering, they properlysell. With these obvious exceptions the line is absolutely sharp. Did youbuy a thing to keep? Then you are an amateur, though later yourconvenience or necessity dictates a sale. Did you buy it to sell? Thenyou are a dealer. The safety of the little collector lies in specialisation, and there, too, lies his surest satisfaction. To have a well-defined specialtyimmediately simplifies the quest. There are many places where one neednever go. Moreover, where nature has provided fair intelligence, one mustdie very young in order not to die an expert. As I write I think ofD----, one of the last surviving philosophers. Born with the instincts ofa man of letters, he declined to give himself to the gentler pursuituntil he had made a little competence at the law. As he followed hisdisinterested course of writing and travel, his enthusiasm centred uponthe antiquities of Greece and Rome. In the engraved gems of that time hefound a beautiful epitome of his favourite studies. For ten years studyand collecting have gone patiently hand in hand. He possesses some fiftyclassical gems, many of the best Greek period, all rare and interestingfrom material, subject, or workmanship, and he may have spent as manydollars in the process, but I rather doubt it. He knows his subject aswell as he loves it. Naturally he is writing a book on intaglios, and itwill be a good one. Meanwhile, if the fancy takes him to visit the siteof the Bactrian Empire, he has only to put his collection in his pocketand enjoy it _en route_. I cannot too highly commend his example, and yethis course is too austere for many of us. Has untrammelled curiosity nocharms? Would I, for example, forego my casual kakemonos, my ignorantlyacquired majolica, some trifling accumulation of Greek coins, thathandful of Eastern rugs? Could I prune away certain excrescent minorWhistlers? those bits of ivory cutting from old Italy and Japan? thosetarnished Tuscan panels?--in truth, I could and would not. Yet had Istuck to my first love, prints, I should by this time be mentionedrespectfully among the initiated, my name would be found in thecard-catalogues of the great dealers, my decease would be looked forwardto with resignation by my junior colleagues. As it is, after twenty yearsof collecting, and an expenditure shameful in one of my fiscal estate, Ihave nothing that even courtesy itself could call a collection. Inapology, I may plead only the sting of unchartered curiosity, theadventurous thrill of buying on half or no knowledge, the joy of aninstinctive sympathy that, irrespective of boundaries, knows its own whenit sees it. And you austerely single-minded amateurs, you experts thatsurely shall be, I revere if I may not follow you. We have left dangling from the first paragraph the morally importantquestion, Is collecting merely an habitual contravention of the tenthcommandment? Now, I am far from denying that collecting has itspathology, even its criminology, if you will. The mere lust ofacquisition may take the ugly form of coveting what one neither loves norunderstands. This pit is digged for the rich collector. Poor collectors, on the other hand, have at times forgotten where enterprise ends andkleptomania begins. But these excesses are, after all, rare, and for thatmatter they are merely those that attach to all exaggerations oflegitimate passion. As for the notion that one should love beautifulthings without desiring them, it seems to me to lie perilously near asort of pseudo-Platonism, which, wherever it recurs, is the enemy of lifeitself. As I write, my eye falls upon a Japanese sword-guard. I have seenit a thousand times, but I never fail to feel the same thrill. Out of thedisc of blued steel the artisan has worked the soaring form of a birdwith upraised wings. It is indicated in skeleton fashion by barsextraordinarily energetic, yet suavely modulated. There must have beenfeeling and intelligence in every touch of the chisel and file thatwrought it. Could that same object seen occasionally in a museum showcaseafford me any comparable pleasure? Is not the education of the eye, likethe education of the sentiments, dependent upon stable associations thatcan be many times repeated? Shall I seem merely covetous because I cravebesides the casual and adventurous contact with beauty in the world, agratification which is sure and ever waiting for me? But let me citerather a certain collector and man of great affairs, who perforce spendshis days in adjusting business interests that extend from the arcticsnows to the tropics. His evenings belong generally to his friends, forhe possesses in a rare degree the art of companionship. The small hoursare his own, and frequently he spends them in painting beautiful copiesof his Japanese potteries. It is his homage to the artisans who contrivedthose strange forms and imagined those gorgeous glazes. In the end hewill have a catalogue illustrated from his own designs. Meanwhile, heknows his potteries as the shepherd knows his flock. What casuist willfind the heart to deny him so innocent a pleasure? And he merelyrepresents in a very high degree the sort of priestliness that the truecollector feels towards his temporary possessions. And this sense of the high, nay, supreme value of beautiful things, hasits evident uses. That the beauty of art has not largely perished fromthe earth is due chiefly to the collector. He interposes hissensitiveness between the insensibility of the average man and the alwaysexiled thing of beauty. If we have in a fractional measure the arttreasures of the past, it has been because the collector has given themasylum. Museums, all manner of overt public activities, derive ultimatelyfrom his initiative. It is he who asserts the continuity of art andillustrates its dignity. The stewardship of art is manifold, but no onehas a clearer right to that honourable title. "Private vices, publicvirtues, " I hear a cynical reader murmur. So be it. I am ready to standwith the latitudinarian Mandeville. The view makes for charity. I onlyplead that he who covets his neighbour's tea-jar--I assume a desirableone, say, in old brown Kioto--shall be judged less harshly than he whocovets his neighbour's ox.