“What would you advise us to do, Budder? Do tell us. Do help a fellow in his trouble!” cried Lupthorpe.
“Give back the money. Make peace with Bokes. Give him double the money if need be.”
“Where’s one to get double the money from?” growled Crickson.
“Won’t that be compounding a felony?” I asked, with a dim notion that I had heard of some such thing before.
“That’s Bokes’s look-out,” replied Budder, trenchantly.
For ten days poor Lupthorpe endured an agony which can be better imagined than described. The phrase is not original, I admit; but it is appropriate. If I knew the name of its author, I would frankly give it—but I do not know it.
He grew thin and pale, and intensely miserable. He was always putting problematical inquiries to his friends.
“I say, old fellow, suppose you’re transported; they give you a ticket-of-leave, don’t they, if you know your catechism and that? And you can come back to your friends, can’t you, after a short time, and when your hair’s grown all right again, you know? And, I say, do you think, supposing you were a returned convict, that people would come to you for their portraits? and could you sell your pictures, do you think? and would the Academy let you exhibit? Do you think if I were to cut off my moustache that the police would recognise me, and could I not dispute my identity and get off somehow that way?” and so on. Poor Lupthorpe!
We were comforting him as well as we could.—“There’s been a dead schvindle here,” said a well-known voice; “a dead schvindle.”
We looked up. Moss Bokes stood before us, frowning grimly.
“How about Mr. Smith, of Manchester, and his London agent?” and he fixed his green eyes on Crickson. “There’s been a dead schvindle here.”
“There have been a good many swindles here altogether, Mr. Bokes,” said Crickson, with a calmness that might be callousness, but which was anyhow enviable.
“Tom,” said the Jew, pathetically, and he screwed up his face, trying, I fancy, to press a tear out of his green eyes, but he could not quite manage it; “I didn’t think it of you. You knew how veak I vas, and you’ve used me cruel! But I’ve got a peeler below?” This could have been only to frighten us.
“Oh, Mr. Bokes, please don’t!” cried Lupthorpe.
“Vill you give me back my money? Vill you deal with me fair in future? May I call you Tom?”
Lupthorpe shrieked affirmative replies to these inquiries.
“Vill you sell me Jael and Sisera—dirt cheap?” the Jew asked, eagerly. Before Lupthorpe could answer, the servant entered with a letter. It bore the Manchester post-mark. It ran thus:
Dear Sir,—I have bought of Mr. Bokes, a dealer, a picture painted by you—Hugo and Parisina—at the price of 150 guineas. He tells me you have a companion work of Jael and Sisera, and of this he speaks highly. I am willing to act upon his judgment, coupled with what I myself know of your works. Are you disposed to sell me the second picture at the same price I paid to Mr. Bokes for the first? An early answer will oblige,
Yours tJohn Smith.
“Is this really true,” said Lupthorpe, wiping his face; “is it really Smith, of Manchester, this time?”
“It’s quite true,” said Crickson, after he had glanced at the letter. “I’ve sold to him, and know his handwriting: Jael and Sisera, a companion to Hugo and Parisina. Hurrah! how I love people who buy pendant pictures.”
“Then you von’t sell it to me now, I suppose?” said the Jew, humbly. “Ah, how you’ve trifled with my veakness.”
“You didn’t make a bad thing out of it though, Bokes,” remarked Crickson. “Fifty guineas, that’s a tidy profit on a hundred, I fancy.”
“But you vill have another deal with me some day—von’t you, Tom?” and Mr. Bokes writhed insinuatingly before him. Tom said he would, and the Jew took care he should act up to his word. In fact, he had dealings with us all afterwards. The system of waving about bank-notes and chinking gold disturbs the equanimity of the artist mind terribly.
“The Jew had a good cause of action,” Budder sententiously commented upon the case, for as we had triumphed we were rather inclined to undervalue our friend’s legal opinions; “if he chose to let it go, why of course that was his look-out. Well—thank you—I will, as you’re so pressing. Yes, whiskey please—two lumps—thank you—and hot water. It’s delicious. Your health, Lup, old boy, and good luck to your next picture.”
We joined him in the sentiment, and in the drinking of it.
The Russian as a Shopkeeper.—Trade is the proper element of the Russian; it is his favourite pursuit, and should his trade even be confined to hazel nuts, he will devote his time and energy to it, with the same zeal as if he were engaged in commerce on a large scale. He is indefatigable in displaying all his goods before his customers, and is never offended even at the lowest offer. I once entered a hatter’s shop at St. Petersburg, and asked the master to show me a hat. He took up one, turned it round and round on his hand, ejaculating: “Votibi sladitshka na twoya galovitshka,” (here is a pretty neat hat for your pretty neat head), “and you would not mind to give 20 roubles banco (about 16s.) for it.” I offered him 5 roubles, and was about to leave, when he detained me, saying: “Do not run away, we are not so very far asunder. Take a seat, and say really what you mean to give.” I bought it at last, after much amicable bargaining, for half the price asked for. When the Dutch Jews once asked of Peter the Great permission to carry on their trade in Russia, for which privilege they offered him a considerable sum of money, he refused, saying, smilingly: “Keep your money, my friends, you won’t find your account in Russia. One Russian is as cunning as four Jews.”
