The Circle of Illusion
By Lottie Lesh
A peculiar story was that told by the Collector of Antiques—a tale of the Unfinished Buddha and the love of a Japanese priest for the daughter of the emperor
As Hammersmith opened the low door of shop number seven, the clear-throated tinkle of a bell above the lintel announced his arrival. Presently a thin, stoop-shouldered man wearing an ill-fitting coat appeared through a curtain at the far end of the dimly lighted room, hesitated a moment, peering through the gloom at his visitor, then laying down the book he was holding, came timidly forward.
He had nothing of the suavity of the efficient salesman. Even Hammersmith noted the contrast between his dignified, scholarly bearing and the obsequious eagerness of the hook-nosed hagglers who sold antiques in the same street. Bowing gravely, he regarded Hammersmith with a searching expression which seemed to indicate that he wished this visitor to announce his business at once and be gone. His pallid skin, his dark, melancholy eyes and the thin graying mustache which accentuated the lines of his drooping, sorrowful mouth gave his face a venerable, world-weary expression. He had the drawn, soul-starved features of a man who has spent all his days within the confines of a gloomy house, poring over musty manuscripts of long-forgotten dead men.
"I have bought a house in Madison Row," said his visitor portentously, looking down to see how the collector took this significant announcement. "My wife wishes to fill it with antiques—antiques of the best kind. She don't want to be outdone by anybody when it comes to class. Something real ancient is what she wants."
The collector cast a doubtful glance at the dusty shelves of his shop, littered with plate and pottery of uncertain age.
"Nothing I have would suit you, I fear," he murmured, more to himself than to his visitor. "Yonder on the third shelf are some Egyptian vases but they are rather common. I had a rare Ming vase, a beauty," he added, "but yesterday an Englishman who had sought it for years offered me a price which I dared not refuse. I sold it. You see," he explained in a gentle tone in which humor and humility mingled, "I have been a victim of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. When young, I collected as did my ancestors, for the love of possessing beautiful things. My family disdained those who commerced in art. We did not seek treasures at the ends of the earth in order to sell them for gold."
"But see here," urged Hammersmith aggressively, "if you had such a rare treasure yesterday, surely you have others equally rare. Something ancient is what we want. My wife would like to own something that a dead queen had possessed if she could get it. You see how particular she is; she won't be outdone by none, now she can afford fine things."
The collector shuddered slightly.
"I have nothing that would suit you, I fear—short of the family treasure." He hesitated, waiting for the stranger to go, then bowed gravely. "I bid you good-day."
