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Taken By Surprise
by
‘I–I have done so in my time,’ he admitted; ‘not very lately.’
‘Then,’ I continued, watching his countenance with secret amusement for the spasm I find this announcement invariably produces upon persons of any education, ‘it may possibly call up some associations in your mind if I tell you that I am perhaps better known by my self-conferred sobriquet of “Vitriol.”‘
Evidently I had to do with a man of some intelligence–I obtained an even more electrical effect than usual. ‘”Vitriol!”‘ he cried, ‘not surely Vitriol, the great critic?’
‘The same,’ I said carelessly. ‘I thought I had better mention it.’
‘You did well,’ he rejoined, ‘very well! Pardon my emotion–may I wring that hand?’
It is not my practice to shake hands with a photographer, but I was touched and gratified by his boyish enthusiasm, and he seemed a gentlemanly young fellow too, so I made an exception in his favour; and he did wring my hand–hard.
‘So you are Vitriol?’ he repeated in a kind of daze, ‘and you have sought me out–me, of all people in the world–to have the honour of taking your photograph!’
‘That is so,’ I said, ‘but pardon me if I warn you that you must not allow your head to be turned by what is, in truth, due to the merest accident.’
‘But what an accident!’ he cried; ‘after what I have learnt I really could not think of making any charge for this privilege!’
That was a creditable and not unnatural impulse, and I did not check it. ‘You shall take me as often as you please,’ I said, ‘and for nothing.’
‘And may I,’ he said, a little timidly–‘would you give me permission to exhibit the results?’
‘If I followed my own inclinations,’ I replied, ‘I should answer “certainly not.” But perhaps I have no right to deprive you of the advertisement, and still less to withhold my unworthy features from public comment. I may, for private reasons,’ I added, thinking of Iris, ‘find it advisable to make some show of displeasure, but you need not fear my taking any proceedings to restrain you.’
‘We struggling photographers must be so careful,’ he sighed. ‘Suppose the case of your lamented demise–it would be a protection if I had some written authority under your hand to show your legal representatives.’
‘Actio personalis moritur cum persona,’ I replied; ‘if my executors brought an action, they would find themselves non-suited.’ (I had studied for the Bar at one period of my life.)
‘Quite so,’ he said, ‘but they might drag me into court, nevertheless. I should really prefer to be on the safe side.’
It did not seem unreasonable, particularly as I had not the remotest intention either of bringing an action or dying; so I wrote him a hasty memorandum to the effect that, in consideration of his photographing me free of charge (I took care to put that in), I undertook to hold him free from all molestation or hindrance whatever in respect of the sale and circulation of all copies resulting from such photographing as aforesaid.
‘Will that do?’ I said as I handed it to him.
His eyes gleamed as he took the document. ‘It is just what I wanted,’ he said gratefully; ‘and now, if you will excuse me, I will go and bring in a few accessories, and then we will get to work.’
He withdrew in a state of positive exultation, leaving me to congratulate myself upon the happy chance which had led me to his door. One does not discover a true artist every day, capable of approaching his task in a proper spirit of reverence and enthusiasm; and I had hardly expected, after my previous failures, to be spared all personal outlay. My sole regret, indeed, was that I had not stipulated for a share in the profits arising from the sale–which would be doubtless a large one; but meanness is not one of my vices, and I decided not to press this point.