by A. A. Milne
THE COLLECTOR
When Peter Plimsoll, the Glue King, died, his parting advice to his sonsto stick to the business was followed only by John, the elder. Adrian,the younger, had a soul above adhesion. He disposed of his share in theconcern and settled down to follow the life of a gentleman of taste andculture and (more particularly) patron of the arts. He began in a modestway to collect ink-pots. His range at first was catholic, and it was notuntil he had acquired a hundred and forty-seven ink-pots of variousdesigns that he decided to make a speciality of historic ones. Thisdecision was hastened by the discovery that one of Queen Elizabeth'sinkstands--supposed (by the owner) to be the identical one with whoseaid she wrote her last letter to Raleigh--was about to be put on themarket. At some expense Adrian obtained an introduction, through a thirdparty, to the owner; at more expense the owner obtained, through thesame gentleman, an introduction to Adrian; and in less than a month thegreat Elizabeth Ink-pot was safely established in Adrian's house. It wasthe beginning of the "Plimsoll Collection."
This was twenty years ago. Let us to-day take a walk through thegalleries of Mr. Adrian Plimsoll's charming residence, which, as theworld knows, overlooks the park. Any friend of mine is always welcome atNumber Fifteen. We will start with the North Gallery; I fear that Ishall only have time to point out a few of the choicest gems.
This is a Pontesiori sword of the thirteenth century--the only exampleof the master's art without any notches.
On the left is a Capricci comfit-box. If you have never heard ofCapricci, you oughtn't to come to a house like this.
Here we have before us the historic de Montigny topaz. Ask your littleboy to tell you about it.
In the East Gallery, of course, the chief treasure is the Santo di Santoamulet, described so minutely in his _Vindiciae Veritatis_ by John ofFlanders. The original MS. of this book is in the South Gallery. Youmust glance at it when we get there. It will save you the trouble ofordering a copy from your library; they would be sure to keep youwaiting....
With some such words as these I lead my friends round Number Fifteen.The many treasures in the private parts of the house I may not show, ofcourse; the bathroom, for instance, in which hangs the finest collectionof portraits of philatelists that Europe can boast. You must spend anight with Adrian to be admitted to their company; and, as one of theelect, I can assure you that nothing can be more stimulating on awinter's morning than to catch the eye of Frisby Dranger, F.Ph.S.,behind the taps as your head first emerges from the icy waters.
. . . . .
Adrian Plimsoll sat at breakfast, sipping his hot water and crumbling adry biscuit. A light was in his eye, a flush upon his pallidcountenance. He had just heard from a trusty agent that the Scutoribreast-plate had been seen in Devonshire. His car was ready to take himto the station.
But alas! a disappointment awaited him. On close examination thebreast-plate turned out to be a common Risoldo of inferior working.Adrian left the house in disgust and started on his seven-mile walkback to the station. To complete his misery a sudden storm came on.Cursing alternately his agent and Risoldo, he made his way to a cottageand asked for shelter.
An old woman greeted him civilly and bade him come in.
"If I may just wait till the storm is over," said Adrian, and he satdown in her parlour and looked appraisingly (as was his habit) round theroom. The grandfather clock in the corner was genuine, but he was beyondgrandfather clocks. There was nothing else of any value: three chinadogs and some odd trinkets on the chimney-piece; a print or two----
Stay! What was that behind the youngest dog?
"May I look at that old bracelet?" he asked, his voice trembling alittle; and without waiting for permission he walked over and took upthe circle of tarnished metal in his hands. As he examined it his colourcame and went, his heart seemed to stop beating. With a tremendouseffort he composed himself and returned to his chair.
_It was the Emperor's Bracelet!_
Of course you know the history of this most famous of all bracelets.Made by Spurius Quintus of Rome in 47 B.C., it was given by Caesar toCleopatra, who tried without success to dissolve it in vinegar.Returning to Rome by way of Antony, it was worn at a minor conflagrationby Nero, after which it was lost sight of for many centuries. It waseventually heard of during the reign of Canute (or Knut, as his admirerscalled him); and John is known to have lost it in the Wash, whence itwas recovered a century afterwards. It must have travelled thence toFrance, for it was seen once in the possession of Louis XI; and fromthere to Spain, for Philip the Handsome presented it to Joanna on herwedding day. Columbus took it to America, but fortunately brought itback again; Peter the Great threw it at an indifferent musician; on oneof its later visits to England Pope wrote a couplet to it. And the mostastonishing thing in its whole history was that now for more than ahundred years it had vanished completely. To turn up again in a littleDevonshire cottage! Verily, truth is stranger than fiction.
"That's rather a curious bracelet of yours," said Adrian casually."My--er--wife has one just like it, which she asked me to match. Is itan old friend, or would you care to sell it?"
"My mother gave it me," said the old woman, "and she had it from hers. Idon't know no further than that. I didn't mean to sell it, but----"
"Quite right," said Adrian, "and, after all, I can easily get another."
"But I won't say a bit of money wouldn't be useful. What would you thinka fair price, sir? Five shillings?"
Adrian's heart jumped. To get the Emperor's bracelet for five shillings!
But the spirit of the collector rose up strong within him. He laughedkindly.
"My good woman," he said, "they turn out bracelets like that inBirmingham at two shillings apiece. And quite new. I'll give youtenpence."
"Make it one-and-sixpence," she pleaded. "Times are hard."
Adrian reflected. He was not, strictly speaking, impoverished. He couldafford one-and-sixpence.
"One-and-tuppence," he said.
"No, no, one-and-sixpence," she repeated obstinately.
Adrian reflected again. After all, he could always sell it for tenthousand pounds, if the worst came to the worst.
"Well, well," he sighed. "One-and-sixpence let it be."
He counted out the money carefully. Then, putting the precious braceletin his pocket, he rose to go.
. . . . .
Adrian has no relations living now. When he dies he proposes to leavethe Plimsoll Collection to the nation, having--as far as he canforesee--no particular use for it in the next world. This is really verygenerous of him, and no doubt, when the time comes, the papers will sayso. But it is a pity that he cannot be appreciated properly in hislifetime. Personally I should like to see him knighted.