Collectors

[Sandro]

Not able to overcome the desire to lay out on our forum story with neighboring
(thanks to antique-salon):

At the second stop after the Dresden in our compartment came an elderly gentleman. Greeted all, he stared at me and nodded to me once again emphasized, as a good friend. At first I did not recognize him, but no sooner had he uttered with a slight smile, his name, I immediately thought: it was one of the largest antique dealers in Berlin, where I in peacetime often viewed and bought old books and autographs. We talked a bit about that, about this. And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he exclaimed:

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- I positively must tell you where I'm going. For my entire tridtsatisemiletnyuyu work to me, an old art dealer, has never led to experience anything like this. You know, of course, what is happening now in the antique business; since, like the light gases to volatilize was value for money, newly-made rich men conceived a passion for the Gothic Madonna, old books, to paintings and prints by old masters, to satisfy them there is no way that and look rastaschat all households. Give them free rein - they disconnected you from the cufflinks cuff and carry the lamp with the desk.
So razdobyvat product is becoming harder and harder. Excuse me, what I call the goods so sacred to us with you the treasures of art, but it is an evil tribe prior to bringing that engravings of ancient Venetian masters begin to be regarded as equivalent to a certain number of dollars, and Guercino drawing as a kind of incarnation of a few hundred thousand francs. From those afflicted with manic acquisitiveness people there is no salvation. So, one morning I saw that my shop again devastated, and my time was to close the shutters on the windows, so ashamed and sad to see the old shop, inherited my father inherited from his grandfather, the pathetic remnant of a rubbish which in former times, even junk dealer would not put on his cart.
Among these sad reflection it occurred to me to view the old trade books in the hope of finding someone from our previous buyers who have, perhaps, be able to lure a couple or two duplicates. But the list of old customers are generally, but especially in our time, something like a cemetery, so I borrowed from them is not very much: most of the previous customers had died or were forced to put their property up for auction, from the same few to stand, it was impossible to expect anything to pull. Suddenly I found a whole bunch of letters one of the oldest of our clients. I completely forgot about him, because since 1914, ie from the very beginning of World War II, he never turned to us with your order or request. His correspondence with our company has started - I'm not exaggerating - sixty years ago! He bought more for my father and grandfather, but since I started working independently, he has never visited our shop. All indications were that it was highly original, old-fashioned people, one of those immortalized with a brush and Menzel Spitzweg types, copies of which are rare and in these times can be found in small towns provitsialnyh Germany. His letters were written in calligraphic hand and very accurate, the amount of the line highlighted in red ink and to avoid any misunderstanding, repeated twice, and he used his letters, old envelopes turned inside out and wrote on the remaining letters from strangers clean sheets. All this, together with evidence of extreme pettiness and downright fanatical avarice hopeless provincial. Signed in these specific documents contain, besides the name, his full title: "Counselor of the forest and economic department, retired lieutenant, retired Commander of the Order of the Iron Cross first degree." It can be concluded that if he is still alive, then he, as a veteran of the Franco-Prussian War, now at least eighty years. But this absurdly strange miser showed truly outstanding intellect, excellent knowledge of the subject and the fine taste when it came to collecting. By counting one by one all of his purchases for nearly sixty years, the first of which was paid more silbergroschen old, I became convinced that this little provincial at the time when a thaler could buy a whole stack of prints of the best German masters, quietly formed a collection of prints that would take pride of place in a number of acclaimed collections of our newly made rich. For even what he had in half a century to buy on the cheap only for us, now represented great value, and yet I suppose, he never missed an opportunity to profit, and other antique dealers and auctions. However, since 1914 we have received from him a single order, but I know too well what happens in our business, so I could escape from the sale of such a large collection. So, either this strange man was still alive, or the collection is in the hands of his heirs, I decided.
It is so interested me that the very next day, that is, last night, I'm not thinking long, he went into one obnoxious provincial towns of Saxony, and when I dragged a small station on the main street, it seemed to me incredible. that somewhere here, among these vulgar little houses with their middle-class junk, could live person with impeccable complete collection of Rembrandt's finest etchings, engravings by Durer and Mantegna.
At the post office, where I went this morning to know whether living in this town Advisor Retired such and such, I, to his surprise, learned that the old man is still alive, and then, frankly, a bit nervously, went to see him. I easily found his apartment, she was placed on the second floor of one of those nemudrenyh provincial houses, which in the sixties hastily fashioned architects speculators. The first floor was occupied by a tailor, the second well on the door on the left, glistening metallic plate with the name of the postmaster, and the right - porcelain named Adviser of the forest and economic department. In my timid call immediately opened the door to a very old gray-haired woman in a neat black bonnet. I handed her my business card and asked if he could see Mr. adviser. Surprised, the apparent disbelief at first she looked at me, then at the card, in this wilderness, in this old-fashioned provincial parish house of a stranger was, apparently, the whole event. Nevertheless, the old lady kindly asked me to wait and went with the card in the room at first until I heard her whisper out, and suddenly there was a powerful, rumbling bass voice: "Ah!" Mr. R. from Berlin! .. From a large antiques firm .. . ... I'm very glad I ask. " And immediately the old zasemenila in the hall and invited me to enter.
I took off my coat and went. In the middle of the room was modestly furnished, standing at full height, the old, but still quite sturdy man, with thick, bristly mustache, trimmed in a cord jacket paramilitary home design, and happily stretched out my hands. But this gesture of genuine cordiality contradicted some strange stiffness of his pose. He did not take a step toward me, and to shake his outstretched hand, I am somewhat confused at this reception, had to come to him. And then, when I was about to touch his hand, I suddenly noticed that she stood motionless in the air and not seeking my own, but only waits. And I immediately all became clear: this man is blind.
Since my childhood I can not get rid of the strange feeling of embarrassment when they are face to face with the blind, and I feel shame and embarrassment at the thought that here before me a living person who sees me as something quite different than I did. So now, looking at staring into the void lifeless gray eyes under the shaggy eyebrows, I was forced to make an effort to suppress my fear was gripping. However, the blind man did not give me time to indulge in this feeling, just my hand touched his hand, he forcefully shook it and resumed his loud, tumultuous welcome.
- This is truly a rare visitor - a smile on his face, he roared, - in fact, is not it a miracle that wandered into our lair of such an important gentleman from Berlin ... However, if one of the gentlemen antiquarians embarks on a trip, you should keep a sharp lookout. We say: "They came Gypsies - Locked gates ..." I guess, why did you come for ... In our poor, poor Germany did not become buyers, so gentlemen antiquarians and remembered his old customer and went in search of strayed sheep. I am afraid only that I will not have the luck. We, the poor old pensioners are happy now too and so, if we have a piece of bread. We can not afford the current prices are crazy ... No, my song is sung ...
I hastened to reassure the old man that he had misunderstood the purpose of my visit and that I have not come then, to offer him my product, but simply turned out in these places and did not want to miss a chance to pay their respects to the old client of our firm and one of the largest German collectors.
As soon as I uttered the words "one of the largest German collectors," as old man's face miraculously transformed. He still stood upright in the middle of the room, but the whole somehow brightened, and the features of his face expressed the greatest pride, he turned in the direction where he supposed was his wife, as if to say: "You see!" - and gently, almost tenderly, in a voice which no trace of the boorishness of the old warriors, just words in it, but heard only the pure joy, turned to me:
- Really, it's very, very kind. ... Your side but you will not regret that come to me ... I'll show you some of these gizmos, which not every day something happens to see even in your presumptuous Berlin ... no more beautiful in the museum "Albertine", nor in this damned Paris ... Yes, sir, if the entire sixty years engaged in collecting, already bound to dig up such that not lying under their feet. Louise, give me the key to the cabinet.
But then something unexpected happened: the old lady still stood silently beside her husband, with a friendly smile while listening to our conversation, he suddenly reached out pleadingly to my hands and shook her head negatively, at first I did not understand what that meant.
Then she went to her husband, and gently took him by the shoulders and said:
- Hervartov, you have not even asked the guest, whether he has now is the time to inspect the collection, soon after noon. And after dinner you need to rest for an hour, the doctor insists on it. Could not it be better if you'll show engravings after dinner? And then we drink coffee together. Yes, and Anna-Marie will come to this time, but it is much better than I would be able to help you.
And again, over the head of an unsuspecting old man, she repeated her strongly-deprecatory gesture. Now I understood: the old lady wanted me to be evaded immediate inspection, and I immediately invented an excuse, saying that it was very flattered and would be happy to see the collection, but I was waiting for dinner, and I am unlikely to be free up to three hours.
The old man turned angrily away, as the offended child whose favorite toy taken away.

- Of course - he muttered, - "Gentlemen Berliners forever have no time! But be that as it may, but today you have to have patience, it is surely is not about some three or five, but the entire twenty-seven folders, and all polnehonki. So, in three hours, but look do not be late, or not have time.
Again, his hand is stretched out into the void in my expectation.
- And you'll see, - he added - you will find something to enjoy, and maybe tease a little, and the more you get angry, the more I will rejoice. Nothing can be done, since we are such, collectors: all for myself - nothing for the other n! - And he again strongly shook my hand.
The old woman went to take me to the door, I have already noticed that she was not alone; her face showed fear and confusion. And now at the door, she subdued and barely audibly murmured:
- Maybe ... Perhaps you will allow me to follow you gone, my daughter, Anna-Marie? .. So it would be better, because ... After all, you probably dine at the hotel?
- Please, I will be very glad ...-- I replied.
And indeed, an hour later, when I had finished dinner, a small restaurant at the hotel on Market Square came in, looking from side to side, middle-aged, simply dressed girl. I approached her, introduced himself and said he was ready to go to inspect the collection. She blushed, and suddenly, just as confused as her mother, asked me to first listen to a few words. It was clear that it is very difficult. When trying to overcome her embarrassment, she did attempt to speak, the color brighter poured down her face, his fingers nervously fiddling with a button on her dress. But finally it is still early, faltering at every word, and more and more confused:
- I sent you mother ... She told me everything, and we ... we ... we have a great request ... we want to warn you before you go to your father ... Father, of course, will show you his collection, but she ... You see ... it has not quite complete. Some prints are no longer ... and, unfortunately, very many ...
The girl caught her breath and suddenly, looking me straight in the eye, said quickly:
- I'll be quite frank with you. You know what now is the time, you'll understand. When the war started, his father went blind. He has in the past so often the case with bad eyes, and anxiety, he lost his sight completely. The fact that, despite his seventy-six years old, he is in no matter what was desired to participate in the campaign against France, and then when it turned out that the army is not moving as fast as in 1870, he was simply out of a went out and had lost his sight completely ... He is still very alert and has recently able to walk for hours and even went hunting. But he will now be deprived of that pleasure, and the collection - the only remaining in his life happy. Every day he looks at her ... that is, he can not see it, of course - he does not see anything - but every day after lunch, gets all the folders n gropes one after the other prints in the same invariable order, which he remembers by heart ... Nothing else interests him, he makes me read aloud to him all the newspaper reports about the auction, and the higher the prices listed there, the more he Rada-etsya ... because ... You see ... and in this horror ... father does not understand what time and what is happening with the money. He did not know that we are all lost and that his monthly pension can not live now and two days ... And then my sister's husband died at the front and she was left with four kids ... He said nothing, knows nothing about our financial difficulties. First, we save on what only can save even more than before, but it did not help. Then they began to sell things. His collection of course we did not touch ... They sold their jewelry, but, my God, it was such nonsense ... entire sixty years after the father of saved every penny spent only on the prints. And then came the day when we had nothing else to sell., We just do not know what to do ... and then ... Then my mother ... we decided to sell one woodcut ... He himself, of course, would never be allowed, but he does not know how hard it is to live, and he has no idea how hard it is to get out from under the floor at least some provisions, he does not know and what we lost war and gave the French Alsace and Lorraine, and we do not read him so that he is not worried.
The thing that we sold, was very valuable: it was engraved on copper by Rembrandt. We have been given for her knogo thousand marks, and we thought that this money will last us for several years. But you know how to melt away money now ... We put them in the bank, and after two months of them have nothing left. Had to sell another woodcut, and then another, and each time the vendor would send us the money only when they lose their value. We tried, we sell at auction, but here, despite the vast price, we managed to hold ... In the time it reached the millions of us, they turned into worthless paper. It gradually went away for a song all the best engraving, only a few pieces. And all in order not to starve to death, and his father did not know.
Because a mother now so frightened when you were with us ... Worth to his father to show you the folder - all at once to light ... In the old mat - he recognizes them in touch - we have invested instead of sold copies of prints or similar to them in the form of sheets of paper, so that touching them, the father of nothing guesses. This feeling and the roll of prints (he remembers them all in a row) gives him the same joy, as he used when he saw them sighted eyes. Moreover GG in our town there is not one man, whom his father would consider it worthy to see his treasure ... He was so passionately fond of each engraving that he probably would have ruptured the heart of grief, if he knew that they had long since sailed out of his hands. Since the dead head of the department of engravings on copper Dresden gallery, you - first, to whom he wished to show his collection. And I ask you ...
Suddenly she stretched out her hand to me, and her eyes filled with tears:
- We are very ... you ask! .. very! .. pity him ... pity on us ... not destroy the illusion of his ... help us to support his belief that all the engravings, which he will describe to you, there ... one suspect that they are not, would have killed him. Maybe we did wrong with him, but nothing we have not left. He had to somehow live ... and perhaps lives, perhaps no more than four orphans images ... Moreover, so far we have no way marred his happiness. Every day after lunch he was three hours of bliss, going through his prints and talking with them as human beings. And today ... this day could be the happiest of his life, because he had so many years waiting for an opportunity to show his treasures to someone who can appreciate them. Please ... beg ... not deprive him of that joy!
I just can not tell you, with what grief it was said. Lord, how many times I had as an antiquary to face with the most brazen deception, when using the mean inflation, the accident just a piece of bread were selected rare heirlooms - but this fate has played a particularly bad joke, which was particularly badly shocked me. Of course, I promised to keep quiet and do my best to hide the truth.
We departed on the way, I am painfully listened to her story about how, by what tricks have been fooled by the unfortunate woman, and this has further strengthened my intention to keep his promise. Before we ascend the stairs and take the door handle from inside the room came the thundering voice of joy the old man: - Come on in! "- Must be blind, with characteristic acuteness of hearing, he caught the sound of footsteps when we had climbed the stairs.
- Hervartov not even dozed off today, so he can not wait to show you their treasures - with a smile, "said the old woman. A single glance daughter was enough to reassure her about my behavior. On the table were already laid out piles of folders, and barely felt the touch of my hand, blind without unnecessary ceremonies grabbed me by the elbow and sat in a chair.
- So, I'll start without delay - see the 'need very much, and yet the gentlemen Berliners always busy. In this folder I Durer, quite full, as you now see, and a engraving better than another. Anyway, see for yourself, look! "- And he opened the first folder: - This is his" Big Horse ".
Carefully, barely touching the tips of his fingers, as is usually taken very fragile items, he took out a mat from a folder into which was inserted into an empty, yellowed by time, a sheet of paper and held it before his eyes in his outstretched hand. For a moment he enthusiastically and silently stared at him, saying he saw nothing, but, as if by magic, the old man's face assumed an expression of seeing. And his eyes are just completely lifeless, with fixed pupils, suddenly enlightened, they broke thought. Was it simply a reflection paper, or the light came from within?
- Well, how? - Proudly he asked .-- Sometimes you see something beautiful, this impression? See how delicately and clearly stands out every detail! I compared his copy with Dresden, and he seemed kind of vague, dull. And what is the pedigree! That's it! - He turned the page and the nail of his index finger so confidently began to drive to a blank paper, noting the places where they were to be tagging that I involuntarily looked, whether they really there to reality .-- This stamp collector, Nagler, and here Remi and Esdaylya, well, how could my famous predecessors assume that their property ever gets into a little room!
Chill ran down my skin, when it was unaware of his loss of the old man poured into fervent praise of completely blank sheet of paper; unspeakably terrifying it look like it with scrupulous precision fingertip led by an invisible, existing only in his imagination signs of previous owners of engraving . From the excitement in my throat and I could not utter a word in reply, but glanced casually at women, and seeing me tenderly outstretched hands trembling from fear of old women, I rallied and began to play a role .-- Wonderful! -- - I muttered .-- wonderful impression.
And immediately the old man's face beamed with pride.
- What's that! - He exulted .-- And you look at his "Melancholy" and "The Passion" in the paint - the second such instance in the world. " You take a look just what freshness, what are soft, juicy colors! - Once again, his finger lovingly ran on an imaginary figure .-- All Berlin, with all its art historians and antique dealers would turn upside down in envy if they saw it woodcut !
Loud, triumphant flow of his words flowed for two hours. No! I do not undertake to describe the truly mysterious horror that I experienced while watched with him a hundred or two blank pieces of paper and pathetic reproductions. An invisible, long since flown apart on all four sides of the collection continues with this amazing reality to live in the imagination of an old man that he is, without a moment's hesitation in strict sequence and in detail described and praised one another for all the engravings for the blind, deceived and such touching in their ignorance, man, it remained unchanged, and the passionate force of his vision was so great that even I began to instinctively resist this illusion. Only once did a terrible danger of awakening violated somnambular rest of his inspired contemplation. In extolling the embossing Rembrandt "Antiope" (it was about truly priceless printer's proofs), and lovingly leading her nerve, visions of imaginary lines with his finger, he found a smooth piece of paper so he knew recessions. Old man's face suddenly darkened, the voice became a hollow and uncertain .-- Yes "Antiope" Is it? "- He muttered in embarrassment. I immediately got down to business and, snatching it from his hands mat with a blank sheet, and began eagerly, and perhaps more to describe the imaginary woodcut, which itself perfectly remembered. Pale blind again smoothed, softened. And as I said, the face of the gruff old soldier brighter and brighter shone with ingenuous, sincere joy.

- Finally I met a man understands! - Triumphantly, turning toward women, he exulted .-- And finally, finally you can see how valuable my prints. You would not believe, grumbled at me that I squander on his collection of all the money: it is true, for sixty years, I did not know wine, or beer, no tobacco, no theater, no travel, no books, but all the accumulated and saved to buy these engravings. But wait, you will still be rich and when I am gone, you'll be as rich as the greatest riches in Dresden, richer than any in our city, and then that you remember his good word, my extravagance. But as long as I live, no engraving will come out of this house: first vynesut me, and only then my collection.
And he gently, like a living being stroked emptied the folder, I was terrified to look at him, but nevertheless it is encouraging, because for all the years of war, I never saw a German expression on his face is so complete, so pure bliss. Beside him stood his wife and daughter, and it was the mysterious similarities between them and the figures of women in the engraving of the great German master, who came to the tomb of the Savior and seeing that the stone was removed and the coffin was empty, stopped at the entrance to the joyous ecstasy confronted with a miracle with an expression of pious horror on their faces. And just as in an engraving followers of Christ, smiling through her tears, struck a premonition of the phenomenon of the savior, the same way this poor, crushed the life of an old woman and her aging daughter smiled, lit up by bright childish glee blind old man - that was a fantastic picture, like me did not lead seen in my life.
Old collector reveled in my praise, he eagerly caught every word, again and again, opening and closing folders, so I sighed with relief when at last he had to clear the table for coffee and lzhekollektsiya was removed. But how insignificant was my guilty sigh of relief as compared with overflowing joy and a cheerful defiance that seemed to thirty years rejuvenated the old man! He seemed drunk with wine: sprinkled with anecdotes about their purchases and successful discoveries, and kept jumping up from the table and dragged to the touch, refusing assistance to their folders, to once again pull out some engraving. And when I said that I must go, he was downright scared, pout and stamp upon, as a stubborn child, with his foot, he said that this was not the case, chgo I watched and half of all prints. A lot of pains to persuade the women did not keep me saying that I miss the train.
But when, after a desperate wrangling, the old man was forced to agree and came the moment of farewell, he's touched. Taking my hand, he gently, with all the eloquence in which your fingers can blind, held them up to the wrists, as if trying to learn so more about me and express my love is stronger than we could have done any words.
- You brought me great joy to their arrival, great! "- He said with a deep, emerging from the very depths of his being an excitement which touched me very deeply .-- It is a pleasure for me now, that finally, after such a long, long wait, I again was able to see from an expert on my favorite prints. But know that you are not in vain visited by a blind old man. I give you my word, my wife is a witness that will add to their legacy one more point that the right to a sale of my collection will belong to your esteemed company. On your lot falls the honor of being the keeper of nobody slave treasure - an old man lovingly stroked his devastated folders - as long as it does not dissipate in the wide world. Promise me only to make this collection a good catalog: let him be my gravestone - I'd rather not.
I looked at the women: they were standing, huddled close to each other, and at times nervously twitching, and trembling passed from one to another, as if both were single, shaken by the same sentient beings. Yes, and I myself was once an unusually solemn heart, when this pathetic in their ignorance, people handed over my care, as a great value, its invisible and has long been dispersed collection. I excitedly promised him that perform was not able to, and again in the dead pupils flashed his life, and I felt a passionate desire, he vividly imagine my face: he felt on the gentle, almost loving clasp of his fingers when his hand was clenched I was in a sign of farewell and gratitude
Both women led me to the door. Fearing the sensitivity of hearing the blind, they did not dare utter a word, but a warm gratitude shone with their tear-filled eyes! As in a dream, I went down the stairs. In truth, I was ashamed. I was suddenly something like an angel from a fairy tale, and went to the miserable abode of the poor, returned an hour blind, returned just that, contributing to saving the deception, all the while shamelessly lied to, whereas in fact I am pathetic huckster, came to this house to steal some valuable prints. November whisked out something far more valuable: in our dim, dreary time I re-flashed the living spark of pure inspiration, spiritual light of the ecstasy for ever the art of the soul, to which my contemporaries had long since lost the ability. I felt awe - other way to describe this feeling - and at the same time I was ashamed of something, what exactly, I do not know.
When I was on the street, upstairs window creaked and someone called me by my name: it was an old man, his unseeing eyes, he looked to where he thought I was supposed to be. So far leaning out of windows, that women had to carefully grab it with both sides, he waved a handkerchief and cheerful, youthful-ringing voice shouted: "Good luck!"
I shall never forget this scene: there, high up in the box, joyful face gray-haired old man, as if floating above the sullen, always bustling and concerned about pedestrians; face of a man and ascended into a white cloud their beautiful illusions of our sad reality. And I remembered a wise old saying - it seems that Goethe said: "Collectors - the happiest of men".