Delphi Complete Works of Booth Tarkington (Illustrated), page 552
The street door opened; their employer came in dramatically. Upon his large and plastic face there was a tensity, and, like an actor who completes a good entrance before speaking, he strode to Georgina’s table; then halted abruptly.
“Georchie, it’s Rumbin’s Rubicon!” he said. “To-morrow afternoon I’m Chulius Caesar, commence swimming, come out Emperor or — or only little gas bubblings spits up to the top from where Rumbin’s laying drownt!”
Georgina showed excitement. “To-morrow afternoon, Mr. Rumbin?”
“To-morrow afternoon four o’clock, Georchie. The picture’s out the custom house to-day; I just seen it.”
“It’s the Rembrandt, Mr. Rumbin?”
“It’s the Rembrandt,” the dealer said solemnly. “What elst should I offer the greatest collector but the greatest Master? Fits in pyootiful because in Mr. Halbert’s Dutch Room, Miss Raines tells me last week he’s got there two blenk spaces and—”
“One, sir,” Howard Cattlet interrupted timidly. “He did have two blank spaces; but one of them was where he used to have a picture that was an awful mistake and so he’s decided to—”
“Cattlet!” Mr. Rumbin turned on him haggardly. “You’re talking again, Cattlet?”
“Sir? I only thought I ought to mention—”
“Mention!” the exasperated dealer cried. “Cattlet, you can’t speak t’ree worts I ain’t scared you get my nerfs upset you nextly mention Sir Thomas Lawrence! Cattlet, it’s come so I can’t hear the sound your woice unless all I got inside my waist turns over twice on me on account what you done to me with that Lawrence! Cattlet, I ain’t got time for my insides upside down, so quit speaking.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t!” Mr. Rumbin cried. “Don’t say even ‘sir’. Here’s the piggest deal of my life and if I got to listen to you even once till it’s over, Cattlet, I’m going to collepse down on the floor. Until to-morrow fife o’clock don’t speak to me one single wort; don’t speak at all, Cattlet. I ask you do you understand me? Don’t answer out loud!”
The unfortunate young man bowed his head.
Mr. Rumbin groaned at him, “Good! Keep bowing for answers yes. Shake your head if it’s no.” He turned again to Georgina. “A such brochure comes with the painting, Georchie! Splendid experts’ opinions it’s a great Rembrandt. Brochures sometimes only shows how many smart people got fooled; but not when the picture speaks for itself like this one does. Orcas sends it to us to-morrow afternoon t’ree o’clock, Georchie.”
“Orcas,” Georgina said. “I can’t help wishing Orcas weren’t in it.”
“On the odda hand, Georchie, can’t be denied Orcas sometimes gets holt vonderful pieces. Look at the archaic Greek head he last year sold Berlin and the Geraerd David to the coast. Besides look, Orcas and the foreign syndicate that owns the Rembrandt with him stands me a pig percentage if I make the right sale immediate; it’s good.”
“Mr. Rumbin, Orcas doesn’t know who you’re—”
“Who I’m showing it to? Natchly not, Georchie. If he did, might try sneak to Mr. Halbert behind my beck, leaf me out. Orcas thinks I’m showing it to a prominence lady, and it’s true, too, because I said so and ain’t Miss Raines coming with Mr. Halbert to-morrow four o’clock? Beings you’re now got to be kind of a friends with her, Georchie, you can sit with her and Mr. Halbert to look at the great picture and maybe work in some good whisperings to Miss Raines. You understand, Georchie?”
“Yes — I will if I can, Mr. Rumbin.”
“Good.” The dealer looked again at his assistant, not with pleasure. “Cattlet. To-morrow after your lunch time put them t’ree Louis Quinze fauteuils in the galleries in front the easel. Half past t’ree put on your cutaway and Escot tie. Odda instructions you get then, Cattlet. Understand me? Make signs yes or no, Cattlet!”
Again Howard plaintively bowed.
“Overalls, Cattlet!” Mr. Rumbin commanded promptly, upon that. “Must you stand there where I can see what you’re still thinking? Don’t I know what’s in your mind — it’s obstinance from Sir Thomas Lawrence? Doesn’t no furniture needs polishing nor no windows washing, Cattlet?”
“Ye—” Howard began impulsively; but, upon a bellow, “Cattlet!” cut himself short and forthwith set about the semi-menial tasks that were a part of his duty.
They kept him busy for the rest of that afternoon and also for the whole of the next morning, during all of which time he said not a word to Mr. Rumbin and very little to Georgina. Returning from a late lunch, he placed the three fauteuils before the easel in the galleries; then, having dressed himself as Mr. Rumbin had instructed, he was brushing his hair when he heard Georgina’s voice, in the stock room, outside the cubicle.
“Tremendous, Mr. Rumbin! It takes my breath every time I look at it!”
Howard came out of the cubicle. Georgina had gone back into the shop, and Mr. Rumbin with reverent care had just placed a picture upon a cushioned chair. The assistant had little more than a glance at the painting, caught but a brief impression of a grand tragic old woman in dark dress, white cap and white ruff, with a dim red rose on her breast, and all revealed in Rembrandtesque chiaroscuro.
“Eyes on me!” Mr. Rumbin exclaimed. “Cattlet, is it me or Rembrandt Van Rijn you gets your instructions from? Don’t answer; listen! Go in the galleries, see all’s right and stand there until after Mr. Halbert and Miss Raines and Georchie comes in, gets seated, I talk some and then give you the wort bring the picture. Then come beck here for it; but wait. Don’t bring it quick into the galleries; make it t’ree minutes. T’ree minutes! Got it, Cattlet?”
“Ye—” Again Howard checked himself, and bowed; then, obeying the sweeping gesture of an imperious but trembling fat hand, he walked out of the stock room, across the shop and into the galleries. He made sure that the light of the reflector fell properly upon the easel, and after that stood waiting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
PRESENTLY HE HEARD Mr. Rumbin, in the shop, calling to Georgina. “Georchie, get them pieces pressed glass off that shelf, hide ’em in a commode. That pig silver epergne, too. Antiques but not good enough — makes a bum impression on Mr. Halbert. We walk him through the shop quick’s we can polite; but he’s got a terrible Eye. Where’s that carafe water, Georchie? Outside I’m wet, yet inside I’m dried up again like spilt on a hot stove. Does my woice sound like my stomach’s feeling, Georchie? How much shaking can you see my hands doing?”
Her reply was inaudible to Howard; but a few moments later she came into the room where he waited and spoke to him anxiously. “He wants to know if you’re sure you understand what you’re to do.”
“Yes, I am.”
“He told me to repeat it,” she said. “You see, he wants to do the little he can to build up the right mood in Mr. Halbert; we haven’t let him, or Miss Raines either, know anything about the picture — not even that it’s a Rembrandt. Mr. Rumbin wants to lead up to a climax at the very last minute. That is, after you’ve been sent for the picture, Mr. Rumbin means to make a little talk ending with the surprise announcement that he’s offering Mr. Halbert a great Rembrandt called The Old Woman With The Rose. You must allow him three minutes for this before you come back and set the picture on the easel. Please, please don’t make any mistake, Howard.”
He looked at her wistfully. “Thank you for using my name again when you speak to me, Georgina.”
“What? Under the circumstances it’s absolutely necessary,” she explained.
She returned to the shop, leaving him to comprehend three things: first, that Georgina wasn’t ever going to care to hear any more about the history of Hackertown and the long friendship between the Apthorn and Cattlet families; second, that when tutor and pupil differ about art the pupil isn’t forgiven in a day, especially when the tutor’s opinions are backed up by those of a distinguished young museum director; third, that the pupil’s intelligence had again been unfavorably discussed.
“Think I’m so dumb they have to tell me everything two or three times?” Much too plainly that was what they thought.
Howard sighed; then stood at attention. Outside in the shop, there was a light commotion; voices were heard commingling, and then the group of four appeared near the doorway. Mr. Rumbin, stepping aside, made a solemn bow, deeper than was convenient, while Miss Raines, Georgina and Mr. Halbert preceded him into the galleries. As they did so, and were seating themselves before the vacant easel, the resourceful dealer improved two hurried opportunities to wipe his brow, unnoticed, with a cambric handkerchief. He wasn’t helped much; he was moist again by the time he reached the spot near the easel where he’d decided to stand and formally address his visitors.
“Mr. Halbert and also Miss Raines,” he began, in a voice that seemed adolescent, changing pitch inadvertently. “Many pig honors has frequence been pinned on Rumbin Galleries; but, frangkly speaking, Mr. Halbert and also Miss Raines, to-day at last I am feeling such deep feelings—”
“Oh, hello there,” Mr. Halbert said, observing Howard. “Remember you. You were at my house the other day. Yes; assistant here, of course. I remember.”
Mr. Rumbin persevered. “Frangkly speaking, Mr. Halbert and also Miss Raines,” he said, “to-day at last I am feeling such deep—”
“Remember what we were talking about?” Mr. Halbert asked, continuing to address himself affably to Howard. “That space I decided to leave blank?”
“Yes, Mr. Halbert.”
“You might be interested,” the great collector said. “Coincidence. Think I told you I’ve had people trying to trace that thing. Finally did; agent brought me definite news of it only two days ago — hardly an hour after I was talking to you about it. Seems it’s come back to New York again. Agent says he’s learned a shady dealer I never heard of’s got hold of it; but thinks he can bring pressure on him presently so it won’t cost me too much to get the damned thing burned up at last.” Mr. Halbert turned inquiringly toward Rumbin. “Ever hear of a rather questionable dealer named Orcas, Mr. Rumbin?”
“Orcas?” Mr. Rumbin, possessed by stage fright and upset by the interruptions to his prepared speech of welcome, was disturbed by the name; but his impulse was to dispose of it hastily. “Orcas? I might heard o’ the feller; but if I was you I wouldn’t never have no dealings with him, Mr. Halbert.” He coughed loudly at Georgina for silence — she was responding to something Miss Raines had been murmuring about the weather — and then hurriedly resumed his address. That is to say, he began it again. “Mr. Halbert and also Miss Raines, many pig honors has frequence been pinned—”
“What about this picture we’re supposed to be looking at?” Mr. Halbert asked. “Don’t show me any brochure first. Brochures are good enough if they go with the right things; but anybody can make a brochure as elaborate as you please, and some of ’em only prove how many collectors, and perhaps even experts, have gone wrong.” He spoke peremptorily. “Where is the picture? I’ll see it at once, if you please.”
Mr. Rumbin wisely abandoned his address of welcome. “My Head Assistant brings the masterpiece straight in front you, Mr. Halbert. Cattlet!” Howard, who had become pallid, was staring open-mouthed at Mr. Halbert’s aquiline profile and didn’t seem to hear until Mr. Rumbin indignantly spoke louder. “Cattlet!”
“Sir?” The assistant recovered himself enough to move. “Ye — yes, sir,” he said in a strangled voice, and walked dazedly out of the room.
The moment for Mr. Rumbin’s climax had arrived, and, though badly flustered, he tried to be equal to it. “Mr. Halbert and also Miss Raines,” he began. “Not a wort I ain’t yet says what masterpiece comes now in front your gazes, knowing it’s Mr. Halbert’s wish a picture ain’t boosted to him, and won’t listen anyways if it is. So I wouldn’t. On the odda hand, while the picture’s on the way here and ain’t come in yet, we got time I should simple make the announcement the Master’s name which created this macknificent chef d’œuvre d’art and the title of the painting, because, frangkly speaking, in all the years I been a successful art dealer I ain’t never before acquired no such a—”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Rumbin,” the collector said, and turned conversationally to Georgina Horne. “Miss — um — Miss Horne, rather interesting what our young friend, the assistant, and I were just now speaking of. No doubt he thought me pretty eccentric the other day when I told him of my ignorance and dishonesty?”
“Him?” the confused Mr. Rumbin said hurriedly. “No, Cattlet’s ignorant but ain’t dishonest. Mr. Halbert and also Miss Raines, in all my years as a successful art dealer I ain’t never—”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Rumbin!” Mr. Halbert said again, and Georgina, trembling, saw that the great collector began to be annoyed; he didn’t intend to be talked to at all. The time had come to protect Mr. Rumbin from himself.
“What was your ignorance and dishonesty all about, Mr. Halbert?” she asked. “Not about a work of art, was it?”
“A filthy one!” he said with abrupt vehemence; then laughed. “My first Rembrandt — one of those grand, heart-wringing old women in cap and ruff. I adored it for years, then was struck with hideous doubt; finally ran it down with the help of Professor Prince. The point is that I consciencelessly sent it away to be sold without explanation, though I knew it to be that most detestable thing, a wonderful copy turned into a rascality by a forged signature. Probably it would delude the keenest eye now extant, for a time at least. You see my wickedness, Miss Horne?”
Georgina looked at him with widening eyes. “A Rembrandt? An old woman in a ruff and cap and—”
“Yes, one of those; but something’s been added to it since then, Miss Horne. It went to Europe and my agent tells me some extremely shrewd person over there must have recognized it — added a touch of disguise so that it wouldn’t easily be known as the Rembrandt discarded from my collection. Stuck a flower on the old woman! I learn that the picture now bears the charming title, The Old Woman With The Rose. Imagine Rembrandt doing that!” The collector laughed angrily; then looked at his watch. “Has your young man gone to sleep, Mr. Rumbin?”
Mr. Rumbin didn’t reply. Utterly stricken, he could only look at Georgina, who was already upon her feet. “I’ll go see!” she said in a stifled voice, and fluttered toward the door. Disaster hung poised as she thus rushed to stop Howard Cattlet from entering the room.
Mr. Rumbin, whirling in space, had grotesque thoughts. The most practical one was that he could fall crashing to the floor, feigning sudden dreadful illness, and gasp heroically, “Come beck next week, Mr. Halbert and also Miss Raines. I ain’t well enough to show you the picture to-day.”
Georgina didn’t reach the door.
Howard Cattlet, even paler than he’d been, entered the room carrying a picture. His expression was not that of a person who stubbornly risks everything upon a great stroke to establish the rightness of his opinions on art; no, his look was that of one who in fright performs a deed of daring directed by all the brains he has. These, in tumult, had been borne out of the room in Howard’s head aware that the picture in all the world most abhorrent to the sensitive Halbert had lately arrived in New York consigned to the dealer Orcas. More, these same brains remembered that the eloquent vacancy in Mr. Halbert’s Dutch Room was next to a Rembrandt.
Yesterday Mr. Rumbin had announced his crossing of the Rubicon; Howard Cattlet now crossed his own. What he desperately set upon the easel before Mr. Halbert and Miss Raines was the portrait of Edward Morris, Esqre by Sir Thomas Lawrence.
There was an astounding silence. That is, it was a silence astounding to Howard, who had almost hopelessly prepared himself to whisper, “I’ll explain later!” in response to an expected bellow from Mr. Rumbin.
Mr. Rumbin uttered no bellow, uttered nothing. He wiped his forehead, then the back of his neck, then the front of it, then his forehead again. Georgina, near the door, stood rigid. Mr. Halbert and Miss Raines, in their fine chairs, sat looking at the picture, and their expressions were those of persons occupied in scrutiny. It was Miss Raines who spoke first.
“I know this portrait,” she said. “Edward Morris was a Regency wit and playwright, Mr. Halbert. It’s the Brookford Museum Lawrence I once spoke to you about. You got it from Brookford, Mr. Rumbin?”
Mr. Rumbin, who so often made miraculous recoveries of his poise at a critical moment, was unable to rise to this one. “Yes — yes, ma’am—” was all he said.
“I hadn’t any idea they’d let it go,” Miss Raines murmured to Mr. Halbert.
“Seems they have,” the collector said, not moving his gaze from the portrait. “I’m rather pleased with you, Mr. Rumbin, for not trying to knock my eye out with some terrific prodigy — a Bellini or a Rembrandt or a Hals, perhaps. Half of Lawrence’s pictures I wouldn’t look at, though it’s always hard to beat his craftsmanship. When he painted character instead of an insipid prettiness he was Somebody! Rather got character into this one, don’t you think, Miss Raines?”
“Yes, quite a little. Aliveness, too, Mr. Halbert.”
“Yes, rather a happy aliveness,” he said. “Been looking a long time for the right Lawrence for my English Room, Mr. Rumbin. Very nice. He hasn’t even made the neck too long.” Mr. Halbert rose abruptly and strode toward the door. “Well, Miss Raines, shall we be on our way?”
Upon that, Miss Raines rose, too; murmured polite words of parting and offered Georgina her hand. Rumbin spoke feebly.
“Mr. Halbert, you — you says you like my — my — my great Lawrence? You—”
The collector turned back to him. “Like it? All depends. I might like it if it’s understood that I always fix my own price, yes or no. I think this ought to be twenty-two thousand dollars. Right?”
“Right!” whispered Mr. Rumbin.
All at once, Mr. Halbert looked excited, egregiously pleased; in spite of himself, his voice rang with triumph. “It’s ours, Miss Raines! It’s a great portrait. We’ll hang it this afternoon. The assistant can bring it right out to my car. Doesn’t need any wrapping. When I get a picture I want, I want it! Come along, please, Miss Raines!”
