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Authors: Michael Innes
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Braunkopf’s far from slender neck hung a small silver bell.
Becoming aware of Appleby, Mr Braunkopf rang the little bell with vigour. He then advanced with arms raised in a gesture combining astonishment, welcome, and a hint of priestly benediction.
‘The goot Sir John!’ Mr Braunkopf said. ‘Vot happinesses – yes, no? You come in the van?’
‘I’ve simply walked–’
‘And my other goot freund patron Lady Abbleby parking her limousine, puttikler difficult this distrik now on account of all these nobles gentry and other carriage persons’ – Mr Braunkopf gestured confidently at his largely untenanted rooms – ‘eagersomely frequenting this prestigious manifestation the Da Vinci Gallery?’
‘My dear Braunkopf – I don’t, to begin with, keep a van in London, and–’
‘You come in the van, yes, and Lady Abbleby in the rearguard, no?’
‘Oh, I see. No, my wife is in the country. She’ll be sorry to have missed your show.’ Thus masking his evil intentions from the innocent Braunkopf, Appleby glanced round the exhibition. It ran, he saw, to Op as well as Pop. There were some three-dimensional contraptions so delicately exploiting the principle of parallax that they appeared to be in ceaseless movement merely because it is impossible to maintain the organs of human vision perfectly immobile in space. Others, of grosser motion, required to be plugged into the Da Vinci’s electricity supply; they were a kind of aesthetic sophistication, Appleby reflected, of those coin-operated automata which had rendered glamorous the railway platforms and seaside piers of his childhood; one or two were constructed, by a perverse ingenuity, out of cheap plastic materials which would have contrived to be sensuously repellent even in the mere unworked sheet or slab. Most of the pictures on the walls operated – rather more successfully – on similar lines. The spectator was looking at a wilderness of hypertrophied advertisements and strip-cartoons, and in doing so he was also looking at designs of great formal precision and purity. Appleby found these disguisings and collidings disconcerting. They also made him aware of his umbrella and bowler hat. And Mr Braunkopf – a perceptive man in certain limited professional relations – appeared to read the signs and act on them.
‘For you and me, Sir John, it is not so goot, no? Our vorlt is vorlt of puttikler prestigious Old Masters Mantegna Martini Masaccio Masolino Magnasco Michelangelo Michelozzo, yes?’ Having thus – and as it were by means of some interior consultation of a Dictionary of Art – achieved this roll-call of the great, Mr Braunkopf paused impressively. He seemed to have forgotten the surprisingly trendy character of his present attire. ‘But for the yunk, Sir John, there is differences. For the yunk all this ephemerious art’ – Mr Braunkopf’s gesture round his gallery was now indulgent and patronizing – ‘is inciting, yes? Say for the enthusiastical but incriminating children of my goot freunds Sir John and Lady Abbleby. I keep one two three four special pieces this inciting art for birthday presents the incriminating children my goot freunds. Not expensive. Quite some not so expensive as the yunk would guess.’ Mr Braunkopf lingered appealingly on this last consideration. It was a favourite with him when the purchase of a present appeared to be in prospect. ‘You buy, Sir John, leaving me choose special bargains account our long cordial dissociation?’
‘Well, no, Braunkopf. I’m afraid not. Nothing quite of that sort today. I’m looking for something rather different, as a matter of fact.’ Appleby contrived to glance round about him in a cautious and even furtive fashion. ‘I have an uncle, you see, who is a very old man, and uncommonly rich. Fond of pictures, as it happens, and I thought it might be nice to make him a little present.’ Appleby lowered his voice significantly. ‘But what he likes are – well, pictures of
Becoming aware of Appleby, Mr Braunkopf rang the little bell with vigour. He then advanced with arms raised in a gesture combining astonishment, welcome, and a hint of priestly benediction.
‘The goot Sir John!’ Mr Braunkopf said. ‘Vot happinesses – yes, no? You come in the van?’
‘I’ve simply walked–’
‘And my other goot freund patron Lady Abbleby parking her limousine, puttikler difficult this distrik now on account of all these nobles gentry and other carriage persons’ – Mr Braunkopf gestured confidently at his largely untenanted rooms – ‘eagersomely frequenting this prestigious manifestation the Da Vinci Gallery?’
‘My dear Braunkopf – I don’t, to begin with, keep a van in London, and–’
‘You come in the van, yes, and Lady Abbleby in the rearguard, no?’
‘Oh, I see. No, my wife is in the country. She’ll be sorry to have missed your show.’ Thus masking his evil intentions from the innocent Braunkopf, Appleby glanced round the exhibition. It ran, he saw, to Op as well as Pop. There were some three-dimensional contraptions so delicately exploiting the principle of parallax that they appeared to be in ceaseless movement merely because it is impossible to maintain the organs of human vision perfectly immobile in space. Others, of grosser motion, required to be plugged into the Da Vinci’s electricity supply; they were a kind of aesthetic sophistication, Appleby reflected, of those coin-operated automata which had rendered glamorous the railway platforms and seaside piers of his childhood; one or two were constructed, by a perverse ingenuity, out of cheap plastic materials which would have contrived to be sensuously repellent even in the mere unworked sheet or slab. Most of the pictures on the walls operated – rather more successfully – on similar lines. The spectator was looking at a wilderness of hypertrophied advertisements and strip-cartoons, and in doing so he was also looking at designs of great formal precision and purity. Appleby found these disguisings and collidings disconcerting. They also made him aware of his umbrella and bowler hat. And Mr Braunkopf – a perceptive man in certain limited professional relations – appeared to read the signs and act on them.
‘For you and me, Sir John, it is not so goot, no? Our vorlt is vorlt of puttikler prestigious Old Masters Mantegna Martini Masaccio Masolino Magnasco Michelangelo Michelozzo, yes?’ Having thus – and as it were by means of some interior consultation of a Dictionary of Art – achieved this roll-call of the great, Mr Braunkopf paused impressively. He seemed to have forgotten the surprisingly trendy character of his present attire. ‘But for the yunk, Sir John, there is differences. For the yunk all this ephemerious art’ – Mr Braunkopf’s gesture round his gallery was now indulgent and patronizing – ‘is inciting, yes? Say for the enthusiastical but incriminating children of my goot freunds Sir John and Lady Abbleby. I keep one two three four special pieces this inciting art for birthday presents the incriminating children my goot freunds. Not expensive. Quite some not so expensive as the yunk would guess.’ Mr Braunkopf lingered appealingly on this last consideration. It was a favourite with him when the purchase of a present appeared to be in prospect. ‘You buy, Sir John, leaving me choose special bargains account our long cordial dissociation?’
‘Well, no, Braunkopf. I’m afraid not. Nothing quite of that sort today. I’m looking for something rather different, as a matter of fact.’ Appleby contrived to glance round about him in a cautious and even furtive fashion. ‘I have an uncle, you see, who is a very old man, and uncommonly rich. Fond of pictures, as it happens, and I thought it might be nice to make him a little present.’ Appleby lowered his voice significantly. ‘But what he likes are – well, pictures of
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