‘Why should there be any objection?’ I demanded, slightly nettled. ‘People must see them before they buy them.’
‘Buy them!’ Kauffer’s tone was distinctly exasperated. ‘Who will buy these pictures? Nobody. They are all, every one of them to REfuse.’
‘If you know Mr. Armour well enough,’ I said, ‘you should advise him to exhibit some of his local studies and sketches here. They might sell better.’
My words seemed unfortunately chosen. Mr. Kauffer turned an honest angry red.
‘Do I not know Mr. Armour well enough—und better!’ he exclaimed. ‘What this man wass doing when I in Paris find him oudt? Shtarving, mein Gott! I see his work. I see he paint a very goot horse, very goot animal subject. I bring him oudt on contract, five hundred rupees the monnth to paint for me, for my firm. Sir, it is now nine monnth. I am yoost four tousand five hundred rupees out of my pocket by this gentleman!’
To enable me to cope with this astonishing tale I asked Mr. Kauffer for a chair, which he obligingly gave me, and begged that he also would be seated. The files at my office were my business, and this was not, but no matter of Imperial concern seemed at the moment half so urgently to require probing. ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘that is an unusual piece of enterprise for a photographic firm to employ an artist to paint on a salary. I don’t know even a regular dealer who does it.’
Mr. Kauffer at once and frankly explained. It was unusual and entirely out of the regular line of business. It was, in fact, one of the exceptional forms of enterprise inspired in this country by the native prince. We who had to treat with the native prince solely on lofty political lines were hardly likely to remember how largely he bulked in the humbler relations of trade; but there was more than one Calcutta establishment, Mr. Kauffer declared, that would be obliged to put up its shutters without this inconstant and difficult, but liberal customer. I waited with impatience. I could not for the life of me see Armour’s connection with the native prince, who is seldom a patron of the arts for their own sakes.
‘Surely,’ I said, ‘you could not depend on the Indian nobility to buy landscapes. They never do. I know of only one distinguished exception, and he lives a thousand miles from here, in Bengal.’
‘No, not landscape,’ returned Mr. Kauffer; ‘but that Indian nobleman will buy his portrait. We send our own man—photographic artist—to his State, and he photograph the Chief and his arab, the Chief and his Prime Minister, the Chief in his durbar, palace, gardens, stables—everything. Presently the Chief goes on a big shoot. He says he will not have a plain photograph—besides, it is difficult. He will have a painting, and he will pay.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I begin to see.’