The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 198: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ee THE MYSTERIES. Made of glass; and the wily old fellow knew that his custotner was one of those self-sufficient, con- ceited, and purse-proud individuals who affect to be connoisseurs in an art of which they are utterly ig- norant. “That masterpiece,” continued Shrubsole, “ was painted by Vandyke for the Cathedral at Genoa. There it remained until three years ago, when a new altar was erected; and the picture was sold for a thousand guineas to a Genoese nobleman. The no- bleman sent it as a present to King George III; but his Majesty not admiring Catholic subjects, gave it to my Lord Skimmington. His lordship gave it to his mistress, Signora Borlini, the famous smger ; and she, being in want of cash the other day, sold it to me. I can let it go for five hundred—and that is dirt cheap.” | * T¢ is not dear, Mr. Shrabsole, I admit,” said the elderly gentieman, at last broeaktag silence and turn ing slowly round with a very knowing air. ‘‘No— it is not dear. It's a real Vandyke—you couldn't deesive me if it wasn't, Ican tell you. It’scertainlya splendid thing. The Saint, as you say, in the fore- ground is admirable: he seems to be absolutely walk- ing into the background. Ah! you perceive Pm rather a good judge of pictures—eh?” added the elderly gentleman, with a knowing wink of the left “J was certain of that, sir, the very first moment you began to look at my Vandyke,” said Mr. Shrub- sole. “You surveyed it with the air and manner of ® connoisseur.” “ Well—JI think I de know a good picture when I eee one,” returned the elderly gentleman, highly de- lighted at the compliment paid him. “Come—I don’t mind saying four hundred guineas for the Van- dy ke—cheque at sight.” “T couldn't do it, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Shrubeole : then, in a milder tone, he added, “ No—I couldn't do it, really—much as [ like dealing with any gen- tieman who knows how to value and appreciate fine paintings—as you do, sir.” “ Well, well—I see I must net beat you down too much,” resumed the customer, still more highly flat- tered by this last appeal to his vanity. “ Let us say four hundred and fifty—and then, perhaps, I may be induced to purchase another pictare before I leave the shop.” “On those conditions we can agree,” said Mr. Shrab- sole. : * Good f” ejaculated the pragmatical gentleman, while the feruie of his stick again rang sharply on the floor. * Now let me examine some more of this really fine collection. Have you a good Rem- brandt f” “Behold!” said the picture-dealer, pointing to a portrait of a Delilah, which was almost a mass of black, with a vivid streak of light stretching from the upper corner on the left hand, and ceasing at | the lady’s nose, one side of which it perfectly irra- diated, while the other was as dark as if it had never been painted at all. “Fine—very fine—splendid effect I” exclaimed the elderly gentleman, after a long scratiny and an equally protracted silence. “ Wonderful conception —stiblime creation! But I have heard—in fact I know that there are Rembrandts in which the light is not 80 vividly pourtrayed. For sy opinion is, Mr. Shrubsole,” he added, with a remarkably knowing air, “that the dark pictures are the finest spoci- 187 mens of the old masters, I mcan, you understand,” he continued pompously, “those magnificent works in which the colours are—ahem !—so deep and the shades so—so—ahem!—so solemn and imposing in their obscurity, that to the inexperienced eye the whole picture seems nothing more or leas than a black mass,— whereas we, Mr. Shrubsole—we, who are connoisseurs, can scan distinguish the fine portrait like an angelic countenance peeping forth from the midst of a night intensely dark.” “Ah! my dear sir,” exclaimed the picture-dealer, throwing into his hatchet-face as warm an expression af rapture as such mummy-features could possibly assume; “ you do indeed enjoy an intimate acquaint- ance with the peculiarities of style and the sublime characteristics which distinguished the old masters. You are an enthusiast—like me! Come, then, my dear sir—come—and feast your eyes upon the most magnificent specimen of the art which the im- mortal Rembrandt has left behind him !” “ Te it possible that you possess such a speciinen f° exclaimed the elderly gentleman, working himself up into a perfect fit of enthusiasm. “I do indeed, sir,” responded Shrubsole: and, lighting a miserable candle, he led the way to the extremity of the shop. “ There, sir—there, brotts” connoisseur |” he ejaculated, in a tone of triumpa, and pointing to the canvass which we have already described as being painted all over a very dark and dingy brown, and not having the slightest trace of any picture at all. The elderly gentleman planted himself at what he conceived to be a proper distance in order to view the magnificent work of art; and a feeling of profound respect and veneration came over him as he fixed his eyes on the canvass. His countenance assumed a very solemn expregsion; and he gazed long—intently—and silently. As a matter of course he could distinguish nothing: all was a dark and obsoure void ;—but not for worlds would he have compromised his reputation as a connoisseur by turning round to the picture-dealer and frankly ex- claiming, “ May I be hanged if I can trace a single thing or discover a single outline!” | “You have placed yourself in an admirable posl- tion to see it to advantage,” said Mr. Shrubsole, taking his own stand near the frame which enolosed the daub, and holding the candle high up. “Theret now you catch the light upon the countenanos. Does it not appear gradually to reveal itself to you, | like a person emerging slowly from the mouth of a dark cavern? Now you begin to see the richness | of the colouring—mark the life-like effect with which the cheeks are painted— behold the expres~ | sion of those speaking eyes! Ah! now the light falls om the nose—and you catch the perfect out- line of the profile! Some people—clever men, too —have declared that the picture is a trifle more sombre than it ought to be: but you and J, sir, know better. You at least can appreciate the beauty —the excellence—the magnificence of this inimi- table painting.” “ Yes—it is indeed wonderful! observed the | elderly gentleman, shaking his head solemoly, but at the same time fruitlessly straining his eyes to catoh even the remotest glimpse of a single one of al) the features which the picture-dealer had enume- rated: and, for the life of him, he could not con- ceive what on earth the subject of the painting might be. ECOMnuiclooolkks co