Edmund, forty-seventh Baron3 Badgery, was a lineal descendant of that Edmund, surnamed Le Blayreau, who landed on English soil in the train of William the Conqueror4. Ennobled by William Rufus, the Badgerys had been one of the very few baronial families to survive the Wars of the Roses and all the other changes and chances of English history. They were a sensible and philoprogenitive race. No Badgery had ever fought in any war, no Badgery had ever engaged in any kind of politics. They had been content to live and quietly to propagate their species in a huge machicolated Norman castle, surrounded by a triple moat, only sallying forth6 to cultivate their property and to collect their rents. In the eighteenth century, when life had become relatively7 secure, the Badgerys began to venture forth into civilised society. From boorish8 squires9 they blossomed into grands seigneurs, patrons of the arts, virtuosi. Their property was large, they were rich; and with the growth of industrialism their riches also grew. Villages on their estate turned into manufacturing towns, unsuspected coal was discovered beneath the surface of their barren moorlands. By the middle of the nineteenth century the Badgerys were among the richest of English noble families. The forty-seventh baron disposed of an income of at least two hundred thousand pounds a year. Following the great Badgery tradition, he had refused to have anything to do with politics or war. He occupied himself by collecting pictures; he took an interest in theatrical10 productions; he was the friend and patron of men of letters, of painters, and musician. A personage, in a word, of considerable consequence in that particular world in which young Spode had elected to make his success.
Spode had only recently left the university. Simon Gollamy, the editor of the World's Review (the "Best of all possible Worlds"), had got to know him—he was always on the look out for youthful talent—had seen possibilities in the young man, and appointed him art critic of his paper. Gollamy liked to have young and teachable people about him. The possession of disciples11 flattered his vanity, and he found it easier, moreover, to run his paper with docile12 collaborators than with men grown obstinate13 and case-hardened with age. Spode had not done badly at his new job. At any rate, his articles had been intelligent enough to arouse the interest of Lord Badgery. It was, ultimately, to them that he owed the honour of sitting to night in the dining-room of Badgery House.
Fortified14 by several varieties of wine and a glass of aged5 brandy, Spode felt more confident and at ease than he had done the whole evening. Badgery was rather a disquieting15 host. He had an alarming habit of changing the subject of any conversation that had lasted for more than two minutes. Spode had found it, for example, horribly mortifying16 when his host, cutting across what was, he prided himself, a particularly subtle and illuminating17 disquisition on baroque art, had turned a wandering eye about the room and asked him abruptly18 whether he liked parrots. He had flushed and glanced suspiciously towards him, fancying that the man was trying to be offensive. But no; Badgery's white, fleshy, Hanoverian face wore an expression of perfect good faith. There was no malice19 in his small greenish eyes. He evidently did genuinely want to know if Spode liked parrots. The young man swallowed his irritation20 and replied that he did. Badgery then told a good story about parrots. Spode was on the point of capping it with a better story, when his host began to talk about Beethoven. And so the game went on. Spode cut his conversation to suit his host's requirements. In the course of ten minutes he had made a more or less witty21 epigram on Benvenuto Cellini, Queen Victoria, sport, God, Stephen Phillips, and Moorish22 architecture. Lord Badgery thought him the most charming young man, and so intelligent.
"If you've quite finished your coffee," he said, rising to his feet as he spoke23, "we'll go and look at the pictures."
Spode jumped up with alacrity24, and only then realised that he had drunk just ever so little too much. He would have to be careful, talk deliberately25, plant his feet consciously, one after the other.
"This house is quite cluttered26 up with pictures," Lord Badgery complained. "I had a whole wagon-load taken away to the country last week; but there are still far too many. My ancestors would have their portraits painted by Romney. Such a shocking artist, don't you think? Why couldn't they have chosen Gainsborough, or even Reynolds? I've had all the Romneys hung in the servants' hall now. It's such a comfort to know that one can never possibly see them again. I suppose you know all about the ancient Hittites?"
"Look at that, then." He indicated a large stone head which stood in a case near the dining-room door. "It's not Greek, or Egyptian, or Persian, or anything else; so if it isn't ancient Hittite, I don't know what it is. And that reminds me of that story about Lord George Sanger, the Circus King...." and, without giving Spode time to examine the Hittite relic28, he led the way up the huge staircase, pausing every now and then in his anecdote29 to point out some new object of curiosity or beauty.
"I suppose you know Deburau's pantomimes?" Spode rapped out as soon as the story was over. He was in an itch30 to let out his information about Deburau. Badgery had given him a perfect opening with his ridiculous Sanger. "What a perfect man, isn't he? He used to...."
"This is my main gallery," said Lord Badgery, throwing open one leaf of a tall folding door. "I must apologise for it. It looks like a roller-skating rink." He fumbled31 with the electric switches and there was suddenly light—light that revealed an enormous gallery, duly receding32 into distance according to all the laws of perspective. "I dare say you've heard of my poor father," Lord Badgery continued. "A little insane, you know; sort of mechanical genius with a screw loose. He used to have a toy railway in this room. No end of fun he had, crawling about the floor after his trains. And all the pictures were stacked in the cellars. I can't tell you what they were like when I found them: mushrooms growing out of the Botticellis. Now I'm rather proud of this Poussin; he painted it for Scarron."
"Exquisite33!" Spode exclaimed, making with his hand a gesture as though he were modelling a pure form in the air. "How splendid the onrush of those trees and leaning figures is! And the way they re caught up, as it were, and stemmed by that single godlike form opposing them with his contrary movement! And the draperies...."
But Lord Badgery had moved on, and was standing34 in front of a little fifteenth-century Virgin35 of carved wood.
"School of Rheims," he explained.
They "did" the gallery at high speed. Badgery never permitted his guest to halt for more than forty seconds before any work of art. Spode would have liked to spend a few moments of recollection and tranquillity36 in front of some of these lovely things. But it was not permitted.
The gallery done, they passed into a little room leading out of it. At the sight of what the lights revealed, Spode gasped37.
"It's like something out of Balzac," he exclaimed. "Un de ces salons38 dorés où se déploie un luxe insolent39. You know."
"My nineteenth-century chamber," Badgery explained. "The best thing of its kind, I flatter myself, outside the State Apartments at Windsor."
Spode tiptoed round the room, peering with astonishment40 at all the objects in glass, in gilded41 bronze, in china, in leathers, in embroidered42 and painted silk, in beads43, in wax, objects of the most fantastic shapes and colours, all the queer products of a decadent44 tradition, with which the room was crowded. There were paintings on the walls—a Martin, a Wilkie, an early Landseer, several Ettys, a big Haydon, a slight pretty water-colour of a girl by Wainewright, the pupil of Blake and arsenic45 poisoner, a score of others. But the picture which arrested Spode's attention was a medium sized canvas representing Troilus riding into Troy among the flowers and plaudits of an admiring crowd, and oblivious46 (you could see from his expression) of everything but the eyes of Cressida, who looked down at him from a window, with Pandarus smiling over her shoulder.
"What an absurd and enchanting47 picture!" Spode exclaimed.
"What bright harmonious49 colours! Like Etty's, only stronger, not so obviously pretty. And there's an energy about it that reminds one of Haydon. Only Haydon could never have done anything so impeccable in taste. Who is it by?" Spode turned to his host inquiringly.
"You were right in detecting Haydon," Lord Badgery answered, "It's by his pupil, Tillotson. I wish I could get hold of more of his work. But nobody seems to know anything about him. And he seems to have done so little."
This time it was the younger man who interrupted.
"Tillotson, Tillotson...." He put his hand to his forehead. A frown incongruously distorted his round, floridly curved face. No ... yes, I have it. He looked up triumphantly50 with serene51 and childish brows. "Tillotson, Walter Tillotson—the man's still alive."
Badgery smiled. "This picture was painted in 1846, you know."
"Well, that's all right. Say he was born in 1820, painted his masterpiece when he was twenty-six, and it's 1913 now; that's to say he's only ninety-three. Not as old as Titian yet."
"But he's not been heard of since 1860," Lord Badgery protested.
"Precisely52. Your mention of his name reminded me of the discovery I made the other day when I was looking through the obituary53 notices in the archives of the World's Review.(One has to bring them up to date every year or so for fear of being caught napping if one of these t old birds chooses to shuffle54 off suddenly.) Well, there, among them—I remember my astonishment at the time—there I found Walter Tillotson's biography. Pretty full to 1860, and then a blank, except for a pencil note in the early nineteen hundreds to the effect that he had returned from the East. The obituary has never been used or added to. I draw the obvious conclusion: the old chap isn't dead yet. He's just been overlooked somehow."
"But this is extraordinary," Lord Badgery exclaimed. "You must find him, Spode—you must find him. I'll commission him to paint frescoes55 round this room. It's just what I've always vainly longed for a real nineteenth-century artist to decorate this place for me. Oh, we must find him at once—at once."
Lord Badgery strode up and down in a state of great excitement.
"I can see how this room could be made quite perfect," he went on. "We'd clear away all these cases and have the whole of that wall filled by a heroic fresco56 of Hector and Andromache, or 'Distraining for Rent', or Fanny Kemble as Belvidera in 'Venice Preserved' anything like that, provided it's in the grand manner of the 'thirties and 'forties. And here I'd have a landscape with lovely receding perspectives, or else something architectural and grand in the style of Belshazzar's feast. Then we'll have this Adam fireplace taken down and replaced by something Mauro-Gothic. And on these walls I'll have mirrors, or no! let me see...."
He sank into meditative57 silence, from which he finally roused himself to shout:
"The old man, the old man! Spode, we must find this astonishing old creature. And don't breathe a word to anybody. Tillotson shall be our secret. Oh, it's too perfect, it's incredible! Think of the frescoes."
Lord Badgery's face had become positively58 animated59. He had talked of a single subject for nearly a quarter of an hour.
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1
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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52
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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54
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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55
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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