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THE WISDOM OF THE AGES
Last year, we ran an extract from Thomas Rohan’s book Confessions of a Dealer, published in 1924. In that volume he talked about the exploits of rogue antiques dealers and ‘rappers’– those people who con valuable antiques from the houses of the old and the vulnerable and whom we now know better as ‘knockers’. One of GAN’s subscribers – a relative of Mr Rohan – kindly sent me the sequel to Confessions of a Dealer, a volume entitled Old Beauty, and suggested that the following stories may be of interest.
In one respect, at least, the new dealers are as enterprising as the old are. They have clever ‘rappers’, who nose out good pieces for them. A client of mine came in one day in a state of great excitement.
“You know Morrison?” he asked, mentioning a small dealer in the town. I said I did.
“Well, of all the cheek I ever heard of! This man came to my front door and asked if I had an old marquetry chest of drawers for sale, describing in every detail one that I had in a bedroom. I told him I had such a chest of drawers, but did not want to sell it. He said he had a rich collector for this early English marquetry furniture, and would give a very good price. I told him I did not want to sell at any price – and so he went. Now, Mr Rohan, can you explain to me how this man knew I had such a piece of furniture in my bedroom? I asked my servants if they had talked about my furniture, and they were quite indignant at such a question. I am utterly at a loss to know how this man obtained his knowledge of the piece he mentioned, even the brass drop handles.”
I said to this gentleman, “Have you had any painting done to your house?” He said, “Yes, I had the outside all painted some two months back.”
“That explains it,” said I. “Morrison has a brother, a painter, with a small knowledge of old furniture, and he uses his eyes. When he sees an old bit, he tells his brother. Then his brother uses his best endeavours to get the owner to sell.”
Painters are not the only touts for dealers; the rapper man who knocks on your door may be an insurance agent, chimney sweep, undertaker or a grocer’s man calling for orders. I knew one of the latter, quite a knowledgeable young man. He used to say how interested he was in old glass, or old furniture, and how he loved to look at nice things; he was such a pleasant young man that the housekeeper used sometimes to show him things, and then he offered enormous prices. Then the housekeeper would tell her mistress. By that means, the charming young grocer man was able to pick up really good bits and sell them to the dealers at a profit.
One of the cleverest of this type of rapper was a very small man not more than five feet high, with a small voice in keeping with his height; but he had the gift of the gab. His modus operandi was to make up a concoction called ‘Worm-killer! A Special Preparation For Destroying Woodworm In Old Furniture’ and put it into bottles with a printed label of directions. He would then go to private houses and ask whether they had any old furniture. If so, had it any wormholes, because, if it did, he had an invaluable cure for the pest. He would, by this means, inveigle himself into the house and look at all the old furniture. If he saw anything rare and valuable, which happened to be showing a wormhole or two, he would suggest to the owners that they should get rid of it. He knew a man who would buy it; it was better to get rid of this piece, he said, because all the furniture in time would get into the same worm-eaten state. He would so terrorise the owner of the piece of furniture by explaining the devastation that would be caused by the piece staying in the room (it was too far gone for his worm-killer to be of any use, of course) that they would consider it a favour if he would get someone to come and buy it and take it away. He was only the junior partner, of course. The principal came the next day and bought the piece of furniture at his own price, and then gave his little accomplice a few scraps that he obtained in the reselling. I know of one charming miniature walnut Queen Anne bureau, obtained by this means, which was sold to a dealer more than twelve times the price the owner obtained for it.
The dealers of old were as astute as the dealers of today are, which reminds me of how one of them got rid of a picture.
He had bought it in a London saleroom. It was a huge thing, about eight feet by four feet, and was the portrait of a young woman reclining on a sofa. It cost about ten pounds. He had a big wall space in his shop that it just fitted and so put it there, and there it stayed for months. One day, a friend of his came in and said, “Can’t you shift that picture?”
“No, my friend. I can’t give it away.”
“Of course, you can’t: it’s a married woman! Get someone to paint out that wedding ring, then you’ll sell it.”
So he got an artist to paint out the wedding ring, and his friend suggested he should put it into the window; in fact, it filled his window.
The picture had been there about two days when two ladies and a gentleman walked in and said: “How is it that you are exhibiting our aunt without her wedding ring?”
He retorted, “You can buy the picture, and put it back again if you like. I gave a tenner for it, and I will take that for it.” They said they did not want the picture; if they had, they could have bought it at the sale, but it was too big for them; still, they considered it very reprehensible of him to have obliterated the wedding ring. Then they walked out.
His friend and adviser came in some days after and said: “No luck with the picture then?”
“No, it is only bringing rows and trouble.”
“Well,” said his friend, “give it a name.”
“What name?” said the dealer.
“Florence Nightingale,” said the adviser. No sooner said than done: it was labelled ‘Florence Nightingale’. It had been on display with its title for a day or so when a cab drew up to the shop, a gentleman alighted, came in and said eagerly:
“How much for that picture?” The dealer said, “I have hardly considered the price yet…”
“Well,” said the gentleman, “I will give you £150 now for it, if you will undertake to deliver it to a certain establishment this morning.”
“Well, well,” said the dealer, “I made up my mind to ask £200 for that picture, but if you make it £175 I will have the picture delivered for you.” The gentleman paid in banknotes and left the dealer in the seventh heaven of content.
Some ten days after, the gentleman came in and said: “Are you sure that picture was of Florence Nightingale?”
The dealer replied, “I was told so.”
“I had better tell you my story,” the gentleman said. “The establishment to which I had the picture sent was giving a dinner in honour of Florence Nightingale, and the Duke of Cambridge was to preside. I considered her portrait was a fitting ornament for such an occasion. We had the picture veiled behind the Duke, and after dinner he was asked to unveil the picture of great and glorious Nurse Florence Nightingale. The Duke did so, and then, to our consternation, he turned round and said: ‘This is not Florence Nightingale; I knew her well.’ We hurriedly veiled the picture again. I have since offered it to galleries and museums, and they won’t have it. What am I to do with it?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the dealer politely but carefully avoiding his eye.
“It will have to go into my bathroom…” said the client gloomily.
Thomas Rohan, Old Beauty, 1926