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