“You think you have found it?”
He smiled at my enthusiasm. “My dear Miss Jane, four times I have hoped I found her. I have discovered the most beautiful Kuan Yins and when I have handled them I have said to myself: ‘This is she. There could not be another so beautiful.’ But each time I have been proved wrong. That piece you have seen is indeed a fine specimen. That is why I have kept it. But it is, alas, not the Kuan Yin for which we all search.”
“How shall you know her when you find her?”
“When I find her! I should be the most fortunate man in my profession if I ever did so.”
“And this new one…?”
“I dare not hope too much, for my disappointment would be so great. So I try to calm myself.”
“How will anyone recognize this image if you who are so knowledgeable cannot be sure?”
“The creator engraved somewhere on the wood of the image the word Sung, but that could be copied and was. First we must ascertain that the piece is truly of the Sung Dynasty. Then we are halfway there. But there were several copies even at that time. The artist when he had engraved the letters painted them with a paint which he alone could mix. There is a subtle difference in this paint—a faint luminosity which never fades. Many tests are necessary to ascertain whether this is the true piece. And those of course which date back to the Sung period are very valuable in themselves. But it is this particular one which every collector seeks.”
“When the others are as beautiful why should one be so much more valuable?”
“You could say it is due to the legend which attaches to it. The man who finds this piece and treasures it has given refuge to the goddess—so the story goes. She will listen to his cries of distress; she will never fail to pay heed to his pleas and as she has unlimited power she will look after him for as long as she is his. You see that man will have good fortune and he will know contentment all the days of his life.”
“It seems to me that it is the legend that made it valuable.”
“It’s true, but it is a work of great artistry as well.”
“Do you really think that you have this piece?”
He smiled at me and shook his head. “Deep down in my heart no, for I have an idea that it would never be allowed to leave China. I found this in a sale in a country mansion here. No one there seemed to realize what it was. It was listed as ‘Chinese Figure.’ There was other chinoiserie there—mostly of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It’s an acquisition though and I shall test it.”
Soon after Mr. Sylvester Milner had brought home the Kuan Yin which now stood in the showroom, he heard of two important sales somewhere in the Midlands and he decided to visit them both. He would be away for about a week he told me, and smilingly he added, “This is one of the occasions when I am pleased to have an assistant to take care of my affairs while I am away.”
Ling Fu traveled with him as he often did and I had heard from some of the merchants who came to the house that Mr. Sylvester Milner’s Chinese servant was becoming well known in Art circles.
I was delighted to be in charge and several times a day looked into the little sandalwood box, which I kept at the back of one of my drawers, for in this box was the key of the showroom, so fearful was I of losing it.
My greatest recreation was riding and walking, and the forest never failed to delight me. I had always loved trees—the rustle of their leaves in summer, the shifting shapes their shadows threw on the ground when the sun was shining, their arms stretching up to the sky in winter making a lacy pattern against the cold blue. But I think what fascinated me most was the history of this forest which had been made by William the Conqueror in the eleventh century and I liked to sit under a tree or on a fallen log and let myself imagine that I saw the hunters of centuries ago with their bows and arrows hunting the deer and wild boar. There was one favorite spot of mine. It was an old ruin and it must have stood thus for hundreds of years; ivy now grew over the ancient stones. The whole of one wall was still standing and part of a parapet jutted out from it. I had often used it as a shelter when I was caught in sudden rain.
This was what happened to me on this day. I had gone for my afternoon walk in the forest. The trees were thick with leaves, and it was pleasant to walk in their shade for it was a hot and sultry day. I was struck by the stillness; all the usual murmurs of the forest were silent on this day—there was a hushed heavy atmosphere. I wondered if on such a day as this William Rufus had ridden out to the hunt and had he had any premonition that he would never ride back? One account said that his body had been found inside the crumbling walls of a building from which no doubt his father had turned out the owners that it might be part of his forest, though others believed that the body of the King was found under an oak tree and that this was a ritual killing. There he had lain with the arrow in his chest—and that was the mysterious end of the man known as the Red King.
What fancies I had in the forest! I used to wonder how much of life was predestined. I remembered that even Mr. Sylvester Milner had studied the yarrow sticks. Had what he saw there made him decide to offer me the position which I had accepted? If I had not picked up those sticks at precisely the right moment would my mother and I now be asking ourselves what sort of way of earning a living I should find? Could a man such as Mr. Sylvester Milner really believe in such things?
I was thinking today about the Sung Kuan Yin and how wonderful it would be if I could be the one to discover this much sought after piece.
The stillness of the forest was unearthly. The sky was rapidly darkening. Then the forest was suddenly illuminated and away in the distance I heard the clap of thunder.
A heavy storm was about to break. Mrs. Couch was always terrified of thunder. She used to hide herself in the cupboard under the stairs which led from the servants’ hall to the ground floor. She used to say: “My old granny told me it was God’s anger. It was His way of showing us we’d done wrong.” I tried to give her the scientific explanation but she scorned it. “That’s come out of books,” she said. “All very well but I prefer to believe my granny. ‘Never shelter under trees/ she told me once. Trees is terrible things for getting struck.’”
My mother joined her voice to that. “Get wet,” she would say, “but never stand under trees when there’s thunder and lightning about.”
The darkness made it eerie. I was aware that the storm was coming closer and I knew that it would break overhead in a few minutes and I should not have time to get out of the forest. I was, however, close to my ruin and the jutting parapet would provide some shelter until the storm was over.
I ran to it and was just in time, for the deluge had begun. While I was congratulating myself on having got to shelter in time, a man came running towards me.
A voice said: “What a storm! May I share your shelter?” His jacket was soaked and when he took off his hat a stream of water fell from it.
I noticed at once how pleasant he was to look at. As he looked up at the sky and laughed, I saw strong-looking white teeth but his most startling feature was his eyes because they were a dark blue—and his brows and short thick lashes were as black as his hair. But it was not the contrast of blue and black which was arresting, it was something in his expression. I could not analyze it in a few moments but I was definitely aware of it. For the rest he was tall and rather lean.