Cézannes here. I viewed 'em yesterday with the proper reverence and, I might add, unconcern, for Kessler was watching me; and I've marked the ones I want you to buy for me as soon as the Gallery opens this morning."
He handed me a small catalogue he had been using as a book-mark.
"A beastly assignment, I know," he added, with an indolent smile. "These delicate little smudges with all their blank paper will prob'bly be meaningless to your legal mind—they're so unlike a neatly-typed brief, don't y' know. And you'll no doubt think some of 'em are hung upside-down,—one of 'em is, in fact, and even Kessler doesn't know it. But don't fret, Van old dear. They're very beautiful and valuable little knickknacks, and rather inexpensive when one considers what they'll be bringing in a few years. Really an excellent investment for some money-loving soul, y' know—inf'nitely better than that Lawyer's Equity Stock over which you grew so eloquent at the time of my dear Aunt Agatha's death."[1]
Vance's one passion (if a purely intellectual enthusiasm may be called a passion) was art—not art in its narrow, personal aspects, but in its broader, more universal significance. And art was not only his dominating interest, but his chief diversion. He was something of an authority on Japanese and Chinese prints; he knew tapestries and ceramics; and once I heard him give an impromptu causerie to a few guests on Tanagra figurines, which, had it
- ↑ As a matter of fact, the same water-colors that Vance obtained for $250 and $300, were bringing three times as much four years later.
