After Dark

by Wilkie Collins

  PROLOGUE TO THE SECOND STORY.

  The beginning of an excellent connection which I succeeded inestablishing in and around that respectable watering-place,Tidbury-on-the-Marsh, was an order for a life-size oil portrait of agreat local celebrity--one Mr. Boxsious, a solicitor, who was understoodto do the most thriving business of any lawyer in the town.

  The portrait was intended as a testimonial "expressive (to use thelanguage of the circular forwarded to me at the time) of the eminentservices of Mr. Boxsious in promoting and securing the prosperity ofthe town." It had been subscribed for by the "Municipal Authoritiesand Resident Inhabitants" of Tidbury-on-the-Marsh; and it was tobe presented, when done, to Mrs. Boxsious, "as a slight but sinceretoken"--and so forth. A timely recommendation from one of my kindestfriends and patrons placed the commission for painting the likeness inmy lucky hands; and I was instructed to attend on a certain day at Mr.Boxsious's private residence, with all my materials ready for taking afirst sitting.

  On arriving at the house, I was shown into a very prettily furnishedmorning-room. The bow-window looked out on a large inclosed meadow,which represented the principal square in Tidbury. On the opposite sideof the meadow I could see the new hotel (with a wing lately added), andclose by, the old hotel obstinately unchanged since it had first beenbuilt. Then, further down the street, the doctor's house, with a coloredlamp and a small door-plate, and the banker's office, with a plain lampand a big door-plate--then some dreary private lodging-houses--then,at right angles to these, a street of shops; the cheese-monger's verysmall, the chemist's very smart, the pastry-cook's very dowdy, andthe green-grocer's very dark, I was still looking out at the view thuspresented, when I was suddenly apostrophized by a glib, disputatiousvoice behind me.

  "Now, then, Mr. Artist," cried the voice, "do you call that gettingready for work? Where are your paints and brushes, and all the rest ofit? My name's Boxsious, and I'm here to sit for my picture."

  I turned round, and confronted a little man with his legs astraddle,and his hands in his pockets. He had light-gray eyes, red all round thelids, bristling pepper-colored hair, an unnaturally rosy complexion, andan eager, impudent, clever look. I made two discoveries in one glanceat him: First, that he was a wretched subject for a portrait; secondly,that, whatever he might do or say, it would not be of the least use forme to stand on my dignity with him.

  "I shall be ready directly, sir," said I.

  "Ready directly?" repeated my new sitter. "What do you mean, Mr. Artist,by ready directly? I'm ready now. What was your contract with the TownCouncil, who have subscribed for this picture? To paint the portrait.And what was my contract? To sit for it. Here am I ready to sit, andthere are you not ready to paint me. According to all the rules of lawand logic, you are committing a breach of contract already. Stop! let'shave a look at your paints. Are they the best quality? If not, I warnyou, sir, there's a second breach of contract! Brushes, too? Why,they're old brushes, by the Lord Harry! The Town Council pays you well,Mr. Artist; why don't you work for them with new brushes? What? you workbest with old? I contend, sir, that you can't. Does my housemaid cleanbest with an old broom? Do my clerks write best with old pens? Don'tcolor up, and don't look as if you were going to quarrel with me! Youcan't quarrel with me. If you were fifty times as irritable a man asyou look, you couldn't quarrel with me. I'm not young, and I'm nottouchy--I'm Boxsious, the lawyer; the only man in the world who can't beinsulted, try it how you like!"

  He chuckled as he said this, and walked away to the window. It was quiteuseless to take anything he said seriously, so I finished preparingmy palette for the morning's work with the utmost serenity of look andmanner that I could possibly assume.

  "There!" he went on, looking out of the window; "do you see that fatman slouching along the Parade, with a snuffy nose? That's my favoriteenemy, Dunball. He tried to quarrel with me ten years ago, and he hasdone nothing but bring out the hidden benevolence of my character eversince. Look at him! look how he frowns as he turns this way. And nowlook at me! I can smile and nod to him. I make a point of always smilingand nodding to him--it keeps my hand in for other enemies. Good-morning!(I've cast him twice in heavy damages) good-morning, Mr. Dunball.He bears malice, you see; he won't speak; he's short in the neck,passionate, and four times as fat as he ought to be; he has foughtagainst my amiability for ten mortal years; when he can't fight anylonger, he'll die suddenly, and I shall be the innocent cause of it."

  Mr. Boxsious uttered this fatal prophecy with extraordinary complacency,nodding and smiling out of the window all the time at the unfortunateman who had rashly tried to provoke him. When his favorite enemy was outof sight, he turned away, and indulged himself in a brisk turn or two upand down the room. Meanwhile I lifted my canvas on the easel, and was onthe point of asking him to sit down, when he assailed me again.

  "Now, Mr. Artist," he cried, quickening his walk impatiently, "in theinterests of the Town Council, your employers, allow me to ask you forthe last time when you are going to begin?"

  "And allow me, Mr. Boxsious, in the interest of the Town Council also,"said I, "to ask you if your notion of the proper way of sitting for yourportrait is to walk about the room!"

  "Aha! well put--devilish well put!" returned Mr. Boxsious; "that's theonly sensible thing you have said since you entered my house; I beginto like you already." With these words he nodded at me approvingly, andjumped into the high chair that I had placed for him with the alacrityof a young man.

  "I say, Mr. Artist," he went on, when I had put him into the rightposition (he insisted on the front view of his face being taken, becausethe Town Council would get the most for their money in that way), "youdon't have many such good jobs as this, do you?"

  "Not many," I said. "I should not be a poor man if commissions forlife-size portraits often fell in my way."

  "You poor!" exclaimed Mr. Boxsious, contemptuously. "I dispute thatpoint with you at the outset. Why, you've got a good cloth coat, a cleanshirt, and a smooth-shaved chin. You've got the sleek look of a manwho has slept between sheets and had his breakfast. You can't humbugme about poverty, for I know what it is. Poverty means looking likea scarecrow, feeling like a scarecrow, and getting treated like ascarecrow. That was _my_ luck, let me tell you, when I first thought oftrying the law. Poverty, indeed! Do you shake in your shoes, Mr. Artist,when you think what you were at twenty? I do, I can promise you."

  He began to shift about so irritably in his chair, that, in theinterests of my work, I was obliged to make an effort to calm him.

  "It must be a pleasant occupation for you in your present prosperity,"said I, "to look back sometimes at the gradual processes by which youpassed from poverty to competence, and from that to the wealth you nowenjoy."

  "Gradual, did you say?" cried Mr. Boxsious; "it wasn't gradual at all. Iwas sharp--damned sharp, and I jumped at my first start in business slapinto five hundred pounds in one day."

  "That was an extraordinary step in advance," I rejoined. "I suppose youcontrived to make some profitable investment--"

  "Not a bit of it! I hadn't a spare sixpence to invest with. I won themoney by my brains, my hands, and my pluck; and, what's more, I'm proudof having done it. That was rather a curious case, Mr. Artist. Some menmight be shy of mentioning it; I never was shy in my life and I mentionit right and left everywhere--the whole case, just as it happened,except the names. Catch me ever committing myself to mentioning names!Mum's the word, sir, with yours to command, Thomas Boxsious."

  "As you mention 'the case' everywhere," said I, "perhaps you would notbe offended with me if I told you I should like to hear it?"

  "Man alive! haven't I told you already that I can't be offended? Anddidn't I say a moment ago that I was proud of the case? I'll tell you,Mr. Artist--but stop! I've got the interests of the Town Council to lookafter in this business. Can you paint as well when I'm talking as whenI'm not? Don't sneer, sir; you're not wanted to sneer--you're wanted togive an answer--yes or no?"

  "Yes, then," I replied, in
his own sharp way. "I can always paint thebetter when I am hearing an interesting story."

  "What do you mean by talking about a story? I'm not going to tell you astory; I'm going to make a statement. A statement is a matter of fact,therefore the exact opposite of a story, which is a matter of fiction.What I am now going to tell you really happened to me."

  I was glad to see that he settled himself quietly in his chair before hebegan. His odd manners and language made such an impression on me atthe time, that I think I can repeat his "statement" now, almost word forword as he addressed it to me.