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A Rogue's Life-Part5_WILKIE COLLINS (1824-1899)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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of the exhibition-rooms; nobody comes to sit to me; I can't make

a farthing; and I must try another line in the Arts, or leave



your studio. We are old friends now. I've paid you honestly week

by week; and if you can oblige me, I think you ought. You earn



money somehow. Why can't I?"

"Are you at all particular?" asked Dick.



"Not in the least," I answered.

Dick nodded, and looked pleased; handed me my hat, and put on his



own.

"You are just the sort of man I like," he remarked, "and I would



sooner trust you than any one else I know. You ask how I contrive

to earn money, seeing that all my pictures are still in my own



possession. My dear fellow, whenever my pockets are empty, and I

want a ten-pound note to put into them, I make an Old Master."



I stared hard at him, not at first quite understanding what he

meant.



"The Old Master I can make best," continued Dick, "is Claude

Lorraine, whom you may have heard of occasionally as a famous



painter of classical landscapes. I don't exactly know (he has

been dead so long) how many pictures he turned out, from first to



last; but we will say, for the sake of argument, five hundred.

Not five of these are offered for sale, perhaps, in the course of



five years. Enlightened collectors of old pictures pour into the

market by fifties, while genuine specimens of Claude, or of any



other Old Master you like to mention, only dribble in by ones and

twos. Under these circumstances, what is to be done? Are



unoffending owners of galleries to be subjected to

disappointment? Or are the works of Claude, and the other



fellows, to be benevolently increased in number, to supply the

wants of persons of taste and quality? No man of humanity but



must lean to the latter alternative. The collectors, observe,

don't know anything about it--they buy Claude (to take an



instance from my own practice) as they buy all the other Old

Masters, because of his reputation, not because of the pleasure



they get from his works. Give them a picture with a good large

ruin, fancy trees, prancing nymphs, and a watery sky; dirty it



down dexterously to the right pitch; put it in an old frame; call

it a Claude; and the sphere of the Old Master is enlarged, the



collector is delighted, the picture-dealer is enriched, and the

neglected modern artist claps a joyful hand on a well-filled



pocket. Some men have a knack at making Rembrandts, others have a

turn for Raphaels, Titians, Cuyps, Watteaus, and the rest of



them. Anyhow, we are all made happy--all pleased with each

other--all benefited alike. Kindness is propagated and money is



dispersed. Come along, my boy, and make an Old Master!"

CHAPTER V.



HE led the way into the street as he spoke. I felt the

irresistible force of his logic. I sympathized with the ardent



philanthropy of his motives. I burned with a noble ambition to

extend the sphere of the Old Masters. In short, I took the tide



at the flood, and followed Dick.

We plunged into some by-streets, struck off sharp into a court,



and entered a house by a back door. A little old gentleman in a

black velvet dressing-gown met us in the passage. Dick instantly



presented me: "Mr. Frank Softly--Mr. Ishmael Pickup." The little

old gentleman stared at me distrustfully. I bowed to him with



that inexorable politeness which I first learned under the

instructive fist of Gentleman Jones, and which no force of



adverse circumstances has ever availed to mitigate in after life.

Mr. Ishmael Pickup followed my lead. There is not the least need



to describe him--he was a Jew.

"Go into the front show-room, and look at the pictures, while I



speak to Mr. Pickup," said Dick, familiarly throwing open a door,

and pushing me into a kind of gallery beyond. I found myself



quite alone, surrounded by modern-antique pictures of all schools

and sizes, of all degrees of dirt and dullness, with all the



names of all the famous Old Masters, from Titian to Teniers,

inscribed on their frames. A "pearly little gem," by Claude, with



a ticket marked "Sold" stuck into the frame, particularly

attracted my attention. It was Dick's last ten-pound job; and it






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