On Approval

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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Of all the genuine Bohemians who strayed from timeto time into the would-be Bohemian circle of theRestaurant Nuremberg, Owl Street, Soho, none was moreinteresting and more elusive than Gebhard Knopfschrank.He had no friends, and though he treated all therestaurant frequenters as acquaintances he never seemedto wish to carry the acquaintanceship beyond the doorthat led into Owl Street and the outer world. He dealtwith them all rather as a market woman might deal withchance passers-by, exhibiting her wares and chatteringabout the weather and the slackness of business,occasionally about rheumatism, but never showing a desireto penetrate into their daily lives or to dissect theirambitions.He was understood to belong to a family of peasantfarmers, somewhere in Pomerania; some two years ago,according to all that was known of him, he had abandonedthe labours and responsibilities of swine tending andgoose rearing to try his fortune as an artist in London."Why London and not Paris or Munich?" he had beenasked by the curious.Well, there was a ship that left Stolpmunde forLondon twice a month, that carried few passengers, butcarried them cheaply; the railway fares to Munich orParis were not cheap. Thus it was that he came to selectLondon as the scene of his great adventure.The question that had long and seriously agitatedthe frequenters of the Nuremberg was whether this goose-boy migrant was really a soul-driven genius, spreadinghis wings to the light, or merely an enterprising youngman who fancied he could paint and was pardonably anxiousto escape from the monotony of rye bread diet and thesandy, swine-bestrewn plains of Pomerania. There wasreasonable ground for doubt and caution; the artisticgroups that foregathered at the little restaurantcontained so many young women with short hair and so manyyoung men with long hair, who supposed themselves to beabnormally gifted in the domain of music, poetry,painting, or stagecraft, with little or nothing tosupport the supposition, that a self-announced genius ofany sort in their midst was inevitably suspect. On theother hand, there was the ever-imminent danger ofentertaining, and snubbing, an angel unawares. There hadbeen the lamentable case of Sledonti, the dramatic poet,who had been belittled and cold-shouldered in the OwlStreet hall of judgment, and had been afterwards hailedas a master singer by the Grand Duke ConstantineConstantinovitch - "the most educated of the Romanoffs,"according to Sylvia Strubble, who spoke rather as one whoknew every individual member of the Russian imperialfamily; as a matter of fact, she knew a newspapercorrespondent, a young man who ate bortsch with the airof having invented it. Sledonti's "Poems of Death andPassion" were now being sold by the thousand in sevenEuropean languages, and were about to be translated intoSyrian, a circumstance which made the discerning criticsof the Nuremberg rather shy of maturing their futurejudgments too rapidly and too irrevocably.As regards Knopfschrank's work, they did not lackopportunity for inspecting and appraising it. Howeverresolutely he might hold himself aloof from the sociallife of his restaurant acquaintances, he was not mindedto hide his artistic performances from their inquiringgaze. Every evening, or nearly every evening, at aboutseven o'clock, he would make his appearance, sit himselfdown at his accustomed table, throw a bulky blackportfolio on to the chair opposite him, nod roundindiscriminately at his fellow-guests, and commence theserious business of eating and drinking. When the coffeestage was reached he would light a cigarette, draw theportfolio over to him, and begin to rummage among itscontents. With slow deliberation he would select a fewof his more recent studies and sketches, and silentlypass them round from table to table, paying especialattention to any new diners who might be present. On theback of each sketch was marked in plain figures theannouncement "Price ten shillings."If his work was not obviously stamped with the hall-mark of genius, at any rate it was remarkable for itschoice of an unusual and unvarying theme. His picturesalways represented some well-known street or public placein London, fallen into decay and denuded of its humanpopulation, in the place of which there roamed a wildfauna, which, from its wealth of exotic species, musthave originally escaped from Zoological Gardens andtravelling beast shows. "Giraffes drinking at thefountain pools, Trafalgar Square," was one of the mostnotable and characteristic of his studies, while evenmore sensational was the gruesome picture of "Vulturesattacking dying camel in Upper Berkeley Street." Therewere also photographs of the large canvas on which he hadbeen engaged for some months, and which he was nowendeavouring to sell to some enterprising dealer oradventurous amateur. The subject was "Hyaenas asleep inEuston Station," a composition that left nothing to bedesired in the way of suggesting unfathomed depths ofdesolation."Of course it may be immensely clever, it may besomething epoch-making in the realm of art," said SylviaStrubble to her own particular circle of listeners, "but,on the other hand, it may be merely mad. One mustn't paytoo much attention to the commercial aspect of the case,of course, but still, if some dealer would make a bid forthat hyaena picture, or even for some of the sketches, weshould know better how to place the man and his work.""We may all be cursing ourselves one of these days,"said Mrs. Nougat-Jones, "for not having bought up hisentire portfolio of sketches. At the same time, whenthere is so much real talent going about, one does notfeel like planking down ten shillings for what looks likea bit of whimsical oddity. Now that picture that heshowed us last week, 'Sand-grouse roosting on the AlbertMemorial,' was very impressive, and of course I could seethere was good workmanship in it and breadth oftreatment; but it didn't in the least convey the AlbertMemorial to me, and Sir James Beanquest tells me thatsand-grouse don't roost, they sleep on the ground."Whatever talent or genius the Pomeranian artistmight possess, it certainly failed to receive commercialsanction. The portfolio remained bulky with unsoldsketches, and the "Euston Siesta," as the wits of theNuremberg nicknamed the large canvas, was still in themarket. The outward and visible signs of financialembarrassment began to be noticeable; the half-bottle ofcheap claret at dinner-time gave way to a small glass oflager, and this in turn was displaced by water. The one-and-sixpenny set dinner receded from an everyday event toa Sunday extravagance; on ordinary days the artistcontented himself with a sevenpenny omelette and somebread and cheese, and there were evenings when he did notput in an appearance at all. On the rare occasions whenhe spoke of his own affairs it was observed that he beganto talk more about Pomerania and less about the greatworld of art."It is a busy time there now with us," he saidwistfully; "the schwines are driven out into the fieldsafter harvest, and must be looked after. I could behelping to look after if I was there. Here it isdifficult to live; art is not appreciate.""Why don't you go home on a visit?" some one askedtactfully."Ah, it cost money! There is the ship passage toStolpmunde, and there is money that I owe at my lodgings.Even here I owe a few schillings. If I could sell someof my sketches - ""Perhaps," suggested Mrs. Nougat-Jones, "if you wereto offer them for a little less, some of us would be gladto buy a few. Ten shillings is always a consideration,you know, to people who are not over well off. Perhapsif you were to ask six or seven shillings - "Once a peasant, always a peasant. The meresuggestion of a bargain to be struck brought a twinkle ofawakened alertness into the artist's eyes, and hardenedthe lines of his mouth."Nine schilling nine pence each," he snapped, andseemed disappointed that Mrs. Nougat-Jones did not pursuethe subject further. He had evidently expected her tooffer seven and fourpence.The weeks sped by, and Knopfschrank came more rarelyto the restaurant in Owl Street, while his meals on thoseoccasions became more and more meagre. And then came atriumphal day, when he appeared early in the evening in ahigh state of elation, and ordered an elaborate meal thatscarcely stopped short of being a banquet. The ordinaryresources of the kitchen were supplemented by an importeddish of smoked goosebreast, a Pomeranian delicacy thatwas luckily procurable at a firm of delikatessenmerchants in Coventry Street, while a long-necked bottleof Rhine wine gave a finishing touch of festivity andgood cheer to the crowded table."He has evidently sold his masterpiece," whisperedSylvia Strubble to Mrs. Nougat-Jones, who had come inlate."Who has bought it?" she whispered back."Don't know; he hasn't said anything yet, but itmust be some American. Do you see, he has got a littleAmerican flag on the dessert dish, and he has put penniesin the music box three times, once to play the 'Star-spangled Banner,' then a Sousa march, and then the 'Star-spangled Banner' again. It must be an Americanmillionaire, and he's evidently got a very big price forit; he's just beaming and chuckling with satisfaction.""We must ask him who has bought it," said Mrs.Nougat-Jones."Hush! no, don't. Let's buy some of his sketches,quick, before we are supposed to know that he's famous;otherwise he'll be doubling the prices. I am so gladhe's had a success at last. I always believed in him,you know."For the sum of ten shillings each Miss Strubbleacquired the drawings of the camel dying in UpperBerkeley Street and of the giraffes quenching theirthirst in Trafalgar Square; at the same price Mrs.Nougat-Jones secured the study of roosting sand-grouse.A more ambitious picture, "Wolves and wapiti fighting onthe steps of the Athenaeum Club," found a purchaser atfifteen shillings."And now what are your plans?" asked a young man whocontributed occasional paragraphs to an artistic weekly."I go back to Stolpmunde as soon as the ship sails,"said the artist, "and I do not return. Never.""But your work? Your career as painter?""Ah, there is nossing in it. One starves. Till to-day I have sold not one of my sketches. To-night youhave bought a few, because I am going away from you, butat other times, not one.""But has not some American - ?""Ah, the rich American," chuckled the artist. "Godbe thanked. He dash his car right into our herd ofschwines as they were being driven out to the fields.Many of our best schwines he killed, but he paid alldamages. He paid perhaps more than they were worth, manytimes more than they would have fetched in the marketafter a month of fattening, but he was in a hurry to geton to Dantzig.When one is in a hurry one must pay what one isasked. God be thanked for rich Americans, who are alwaysin a hurry to get somewhere else. My father and mother,they have now so plenty of money; they send me some topay my debts and come home. I start on Monday forStolpmunde and I do not come back. Never.""But your picture, the hyaenas?""No good. It is too big to carry to Stolpmunde. Iburn it."In time he will be forgotten, but at presentKnopfschrank is almost as sore a subject as Sledonti withsome of the frequenters of the Nuremberg Restaurant, OwlStreet, Soho.

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