“Well, I have, at poor prices certainly, I must admit. But what can I do? He comes here, and talks, and stands at the back of me, and says, ‘Well, that is a poor little thing you’re painting there—that is—and no mistake—a very poor little thing. What do you expect you’ll ever do with that? You’ll never sell it, you know, never,’ and so on, and a cold shiver seems to come over me, and I begin to think it is rather a twopenny sort of thing I’m at work on, and then he gets rattling his money about in his pockets ever so much—and then he says, ‘A crown. I wouldn’t mind giving a crown, though it’s more than it’s worth, and I shall never get my money again, never,’ and then he brings out half-crowns, and flings them up in the air, and catches them, and chinks them together, and drops them on the floor, and they roll over my feet and settle down right before me; and I begin to think I do want a few shillings rather badly—and—and it ends in his taking off the picture at his own price.”
“And his selling it for fifty times as much.”
“Do you think so, really? Well, he says not.”
A burly red-cheeked gentleman strode into the studio. He looked more like a farmer than an artist; still he was one.
“How are you two fellows?” He had a grand, loud, hearty, healthy voice, full-flavoured, and with plenty of body in it, as some merchants say of port. Eminently a strong, stout man’s voice.
“Hullo, Crickson. Did you meet Bokes?”
“Bokes? Connais pas Bokes (Crickson had studied in French ateliers evidently), and don’t want to. I’ve heard of him, though: a dealer? of course. No. We’ve got our own vampire at Camden Town. I should like to see Bokes come on his beat.”
Painters are always gregarious. They all love to establish distinct quartiers of their own. Wherever you find one you may be sure there are plenty more not far off. They don’t live as single figures, but compose themselves into groups. Hence art colonies are established in various parts of the town; one at Camden Town; one at Pimlico; one at Bayswater; with always the old parent stock near Fitzroy Square; to say nothing of a snug little branch settlement near Langham Church. Crickson was of the Camden Town migration.
“What are you painting, Lup? Lord Leicester and Miss Robsart? or the Earl of Surrey and the Fair Geraldine? or Shakspere and Ann Hathaway before they were married?”
“Thank you, Crickson, those are very good names. I’m sure I don’t know which to choose. Do you like it? It’s a mere sketch, you know, and I’ve had very little nature for it at present.”
“Yes, it’s very nice. I think there’s rather shaky drawing about that knee, though, old fellow, and you have got some queer colour in the girl’s hair.”
“What do you think I ought to ask for it?”
“Ask anything you like, and you’re sure to get it. All that’s wanted in these matters is confidence—or cheek, if you think that’s a better word. And I’m not at all sure that it isn’t. Why, I was twelve hours the other day wrangling about price with a fellow down Camden Town way. And then at last we stood ten shillings off each other. I offered to fight him for the difference, or to wrestle him for it, or to walk him for it, or run, or hop, or swim, or row him for it. Still we couldn’t come to terms. Then I lost my temper and threatened to throw him out of window, and the sneak, would you believe it? he gave in. I haven’t done a stroke of work since, and shan’t till the money’s all gone. It has nearly.”
Crickson was rather like that pupil of Berghem’s named Theodore Visscher, who we are told disdained to carry his stock of money in his pockets, but always walked about with it in his hands, notifying his possession of it thus simply to his companions, and carousing with them until all was expended.
We told him about Bokes.
“Five shillings for that lovely little study. My eyes! what a shame. Why, Lup, you are the dearest old flat that ever lived, I do believe! I tell you what I was thinking of doing with our Camden Town vampire the next time I have a deal with him. I was reading the other day—was it Roman or Grecian history? Have you got a Pinnock, Lup?”
“Yes, I think I have somewhere, a geography.”
“Ah, that won’t do. Well you know what I mean—about that old woman the Sybil, you know, who offered the books to the fellow to buy, and when he wouldn’t trade with her, went home and burnt some of them, and then offered to sell him the rest at the same price—or was it double? I forget which; and went on burning and offering to sell the rest, until the fellow bought them of her at her own figure. You know what I mean. Well, I intend to pursue the same course with my next picture.”
“What! Burn half of it?” cried Lupthorpe, alarmedly.
“Well, no, not that so much as asking double for it, every day, until the dealer buys it at last. And he’s sure to, you mark my words. Name your price and don’t flinch from it—rather increase than decrease—and you’ll get it, you’re sure to. These men mean buying, sir, it’s their trade; they must buy—they can’t help it—and you can get out of them any price you like if you only know how to set about it. Ask a hundred of Bokes for that, and you’ll get it—you see if you don’t; only persist in it, stick to the hundred, threaten to make it a hundred and fifty if he’s obstinate; tell him you’d sooner put your foot through it, or put it on the fire, than let it go for less, and you’ll get your price at last—only see if you don’t. When does Bokes come here again?”
“He generally looks in on Mondays.”
“He’s made a good thing out of you, Lup. It’s time you should make something out of him. Mind now you don’t go selling him anything more without letting me know. Promise it.”
“Well, I’ll try not to,” said Lupthorpe, with much self-distrust.
A fortnight and great progress had been made with the picture. Hugo and Parasina it was finally named. I believe there were a few anachronisms in the matter of costume, but then these are usual in paintings. Mobbs (late of the