He was at once suspicious, and supposed it would be very expensive.
I assured him—if I went with him he would get a special price.
He tried to escape, but I would not let him go, explaining that if he really were so fond of his wife, it oughtn't to be too much.
At last he consented.
I called up Ferdinand and primed him for the encounter, then drove with the baker to his house to get the photographs of his wife.
The dark person dashed out of the shop to meet us.
She circled round the Ford.
"Red would have been nicer, Puppi.
But, you would have your own silly way." "That'll do," said Puppi vexedly.
We went up to the parlour, the dark person following.
Her quick eyes were everywhere.
The baker was losing his nerve.
He did not intend to look for the photographs under those eyes.
"Now leave us," said he bluntly, at last.
She pouted. "A pretty gallant you are!" Defiant, her breasts wagging beneath her tight-fitting jumper, she flounced out of the room.
From a green plush album the baker now produced a couple of pictures and showed them to me.
His wife as bride, himself beside her, with tilted, waxed moustaches—there she stood, laughing; then another, in which, thin, worn-out with work, with frightened eyes, she sat on the extreme edge of a chair.
Two little pictures—one whole life.
Ferdinand Grau received us in a frock coat.
He looked grave and dignified.
That was part of his trade.
He recognised that, for many mourners, respect for their grief was more important than the grief itself.
On the walls of the studio in gilt frames hung several imposing portraits in oil, and beneath them the tiny photographs from which they had been done, so that a customer might see at a glance what could be made of even the most faded snapshot.
Ferdinand showed the baker around, inquiring which style he preferred.
The baker in his turn asked if the prices were not according to size.
Ferdinand explained that it was not so much a matter of superficial measurement as of treatment.
Whereupon the baker at once expressed a preference for the biggest.
"You have very good taste," commented Ferdinand. "That is a portrait of the Princess Borghese.
Eight hundred marks.
Framed."
The baker's jaw dropped.
"And unframed?"
"Seven hundred and twenty."
The baker offered four hundred.
Ferdinand shook his lion's head.
"For four hundred marks the most you could have would be a head in profile.
Not a half length and full face.
It's double the work, you see."
The baker thought that, after all, a profile head would do quite well.
Ferninand drew his attention to the fact that both photos were full face.
"Not Titian could paint a profile from them," said he.
The baker was sweating; he was annoyed he had not foreseen this when the photographs were taken.
But he had to admit that Ferdinand was right—full face was one half-face more than profile; a higher price was clearly warranted.
The baker could not bring himself to it.
So far Ferdinand had been quite restrained; now he began to persuade.
His powerful bass resounded through the big studio.
As an expert, I must admit it was a fine piece of work.
The baker was soon ripe—expecially when Ferdinand conjured up the disconcerting effect so grand a picture would have on ill-disposed neighbours.
"Very well," said he at last. "But ten per cent, for cash, mind."
"Agreed," replied Ferdinand; "ten per cent off—but an advance for expenses: colours, canvas—three hundred marks."