THE THREE TREES
In the famous cabinet of John Bull Stevens was a superb impression of Rembrandt's celebrated etching, "The Three Trees." It was the only copy known in what print collectors chose to term "the first state." This exquisite work of art had only recently been discovered in Amsterdam by a world-renowned critic, and promptly sold at a fabulous price to the American enthusiast. It had several lines from right to left in the middle tree that had never been noticed in any other copy; the etching, according to the earlier authorities, had existed in but one state.
To the uninitiated all this disturbance about a few lines on the trunk of a tree seemed unintelligible and ridiculous, but to the print collectors it was considered a magnificent "find," ranking with the discovery of electricity or the Roentgen rays. Periodicals devoted to the fine arts published many profound articles about the unique "Three Trees," and one of them suggested that such an extraordinary treasure should repose in a museum, where the art-loving public would have an opportunity to enjoy its marvelous beauty; it was a crime that it should be locked away forever in a private residence.
Robert Hooker was reading this one evening in the "Art Journal" when a thought came to him. Why not add this immortal work of Rembrandt's to his museum, which at that time existed only in his mind? Why not appropriate this etching and place it securely under lock and key, awaiting the time when it would be freely offered to the gaze of the public in an institution to be proudly called after his name?
He had already some tangible things to put therein,—the famous "Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel from the Fenn collection; the "Kann" rug; and a few other wonderful curiosities that he had "borrowed" from celebrated amateurs as the nucleus of a loan collection in his mythical museum. The "Three Trees" should, by right, bloom in his own fair garden.
John Bull Stevens was unapproachable. He did not show his things. He gloated over them alone, in the most selfish, wicked manner, in his dark old mansion on lower Fifth Avenue. Admission was denied to everyone, except a few intimate friends; no one could see the originals of some of the world's masterpieces.
Art institutes pestered him with requests to examine this or that; celebrated students everywhere clamored for a view of Whistler's portrait of John Bull himself, or Gilbert Stuart's more celebrated portrait of John Bull's grandfather. When curtly refused admission to his galleries, extraordinary letters were written him, full of caustic and delightful epithets, which had not the slightest effect upon him. It was said he had no conception of the universality of art, which includes kings and paupers,—wicked, rich collectors and virtuous, poor students!
To make himself appear more human, John Bull Stevens at last determined to publish a catalogue raisonné of his pictures, his drawings, his etchings and his engravings. He thought a beautiful reproduction or facsimile would be as satisfying to the critics as a view of the original.
Robert Hooker, for one, did not agree with him.
The catalogue was duly announced, to be published within the year and presented to the museums and libraries of this country and Europe. Photographers and printers, art writers and reviewers were employed to get up the sumptuous work.
Hooker suddenly became imbued with a passion for photography; he became intimate with the distinguished artist who was to take the pictures of the Stevens collection.
Hooker became so much interested in his new work that he offered his services as an assistant, without pay of course. It was just for the experience. Nothing more.... Hooker spent one whole morning in the Stevens' residence helping the celebrated photographer. They were to take negatives that day of the portfolio of seventeenth century etchings. John Bull was there of course, suspicious and watchful. The photograph of the "Three Trees" was made the exact size of the superb original.
When this had been successfully accomplished, Hooker, the careless assistant, seemingly nervous in the presence of the great collector, let fall the frame that held the great etching; the glass was shattered and Stevens swore as many picturesque and artistic curses as there were fragments upon the floor. The assistant was properly rebuked and as quickly dismissed; the unfortunate Hooker offered sixty cents to pay for the shattered glass,—which was promptly accepted! He departed, covered with ignominy under the glances of the angry Stevens.
That evening a plate was made from the negative by a new intaglio process. All that night on the top floor of a dingy building on Thirty-ninth Street engravers worked on the copper, bringing out the excellencies of a famous etching; old paper with the watermark of 1631 had been procured and all that remained to be done was the printing. By noon the next day a facsimile had been made, beautiful as the original itself, as poetic and as glorious as the veritable "Three Trees."
But what was to be done with it, now that it had been created, a true brother of the original? The fertile brain of Robert Hooker had long before conceived the answer. The clumsy photographer's assistant had deftly dropped the frame with practiced skill, leaving the etching untouched, the glass alone being injured. There is even an art in dropping a picture!
But before the disgraced apprentice departed he had heard Stevens give directions to a faithful servant: "Take that carefully to Kemble's. See that a new glass is put on it and returned to me to-morrow, without fail!"
The next morning Hooker happened to stroll into the picture galleries, known everywhere as "Kemble's," and actually purchased something, paying for it with real money. It came hard with him, for he no longer liked to buy things in what he termed "the ordinary way."
He purchased for sixty dollars a little etching by D. Y. Cameron, and, strange to say, not a frame in that great establishment suited him. One was too brown or too "antique," or not the right width; the salesman, who was a good fellow, became irritated. A whole hour wasted over a three dollar frame. He gave vent to his pent-up feelings by being excruciatingly polite, which is rude. He suggested that as Mr. Hooker did not see anything to suit his fastidious taste among the thousands of mouldings already shown, perhaps he would like to look through the samples in the workshop? Hooker reluctantly consented, and there among the old and new frames, in the company of gilders, fitters and mat-makers he carefully made a suitable selection.
Of course the "Three Trees" was there. Its light could not be concealed—its beauty spoke to Hooker from a far corner. This masterpiece of the etcher's art was lying on a table awaiting the glass that was to guard and watch over it. The substitution was quickly and quietly made. The little Rembrandt was carefully, nay tenderly, placed in a commodious side-pocket of Hooker's coat; the treacherous younger brother was left upon the work-table, where it would shine by a false light—the light of the faithless, the reflected brilliancy of the wicked.
When the great museum was founded some years later, when it was acclaimed as one of the art institutes of the world, when great scholars extolled it, and poets sang of it, a list of its treasures was published which amazed the critics of two continents. Collectors in England, in France, in New York, were astounded!
Mr. Stevens read with envy that it contained the only copy known of the first state of Rembrandt's "Three Trees." "Another newspaper canard! An infernal lie! A senseless fabrication!" he exclaimed. His was the only one; he did not believe another would ever come to light.
He would examine his own again. He took the etching carefully from the wall. What was the faint blur—was it a line at the bottom? It seemed strange, for he had not noticed it before. He would get his magnifying glass. He read, in microscopic letters: "Facsimile from the unique original in the Hooker Museum."