The Fraud (34 page)

Then Filipo rushed off to view the paintings before the Auction; he insisted Claudio attend him and his sister was walking almost ahead of him, so anxious was she to view the paintings, but then Isabella cried quite loudly, ‘I am so
bored
.’

‘Stay together with her, Francesca,’ instructed Filipo, ‘you can wander about and look at pretty things.’ And no-one saw the impatience and almost a look of rage in the aunt’s eyes.

‘We will of course join you for the actual Auction,’ she said firmly as the men hurried off.

Because it was such a soft, warm Amsterdam day the two women sat on a bench beside one of the canals in the sunshine, their straw hats keeping the sun from their faces. Francesca thought of
The Night Watch
; Isabella sighed loudly and sulked. The Finishing School had made her petulant, and the aunt, hearing a particularly theatrical sigh beside her, was reminded suddenly of her sisters in Bristol, and how they frowned. Finally Isabella could stand the silence no longer.

‘It is all your fault, Aunt Fran! You
made
me come on this tedious Journey! You did not tell me it would take
months
to reach Amsterdam and that we would have to stop and visit
every
dreary church along the way! And you promised me there would be beautiful Jewels here, diamonds from the Indies you said, that my Father might purchase for me, and interesting Gentlemen - and instead we have had to travel in smelly coaches over terrible roads and every time we stopped we had to go into yet another old Church in case it held Art - I am sure we have entered every Church between London and Amsterdam, no matter the Religion! And even I know Protestant churches do not hold real Art. Let him take me to Florence if he wants Art, and we can find our Relations!’ (All her life Isabella had imagined elegant, mysterious foreign women in beautiful gowns in beautiful houses in Florence, with whom she might dwell.)

She threw her head back dramatically. ‘When are we returning to London?’ This was about the tenth time she had asked her aunt the question since they had set sail from Dover and Isabella had experienced her first sea-sickness; she had then been jumbled and tumbled and suffocated in rattling coaches for many days and overcome by the smell of all manner of foreigners all speaking in foreign tongues to each other, ignoring English people. It had been too much to bear. And in a final cry now she added, ‘I miss Roberto!’

‘But
Isabellabella
,’ (the aunt used the name from their childhood) ‘we have only just arrived! Look how beautiful it is, the water sparkling in the sunshine. And
The Night Watch
is a very famous and well-known painting, many people will be most interested and indeed impressed to hear you have seen it. And this afternoon you shall attend an important Art Auction.’

‘Oh yes,’ the girl answered hurriedly, ‘it is all most Educational, of course. But look, all the Dutch women are ugly, with funny hats, there is nothing fashionable here. And where are the Jewels?’

‘Dear girl, I promise you we will look for Jewels. Your Father is much taken with the Auction today, but after that we will find you Jewels.’ And as Isabella had only just turned seventeen and her mother had recently died, and as she had - indeed she had - let herself be persuaded that she must come on this journey by her aunt making much mention of Jewels and Gentlemen, Francesca moved slightly and put her arm about the girl as she occasionally had when the children were young. Isabella looked surprised, for her aunt seldom made such gestures. But she stayed there in the bend of the arm and there was the scent of flowers and the water did sparkle and Isabella gave a little sigh, not unhappily, and after some time she said to her aunt in a little, enquiring voice,

‘I will be, won’t I, as you told me, such an
interesting
young Lady when we get back to London?’

‘You will be, Isabella! You will be much sought after - as long as, if I might just say this, you do not sulk.’

The girl did not seem to hear, suddenly spoke breathlessly, ‘Did you notice Mr Georgie Bounds at the Royal Academy Exhibition again this year? The man who paid me much gratifying Attention?’

‘Is that the Gentleman with the - modern - hair?’

‘Yes! I am sure I love him, Aunt Francesca.’

Francesca had not understood her niece’s thoughts on the subject to be so dramatic. ‘And what makes you so sure, Isabella? That you love Mr - Mr Bounds?’

‘I told him we were to travel to Amsterdam and he was so very impressed, and told me he had never met a young Lady who had made that Journey and that I was to tell him all about it upon my return - and he is seriously interested in what I might have to say, really, for he is the son of a Picture Framer who frames many of the Paintings for the Royal Academy Exhibitions. Did you notice how very handsome his Features were?’ The aunt’s heart sank: Philip would never consent to an entanglement with the son of a
Picture Framer
. ‘Do you think he will love me?’ asked Isabella. ‘For I will be so Knowledgeable.’ And Francesca hugged her niece to her without answering and sent up a little prayer of gratitude to Mr Bounds the Frame-maker’s son, who had, unbeknown, assisted her to travel to Amsterdam to see the pictures of Rembrandt van Rijn.

Before two o’clock, hungry - they had consumed only hot chocolate since morning in this foreign place - the whole family were nevertheless to be seen in the very crowded room of the auctioneer. Filipo di Vecellio frowned - there were many foreign buyers besides himself, people were pushing rudely for a better look, consulting their catalogues and whispering to one another: were the paintings real or fake, were they worth a hundred guilders, or only one?

And there were more works by Rembrandt van Rijn than Signore di Vecellio, or his sister, had ever seen. There were a number of drawings: they seemed to be done with a quill, with ink, and sometimes brushwork added, the faces full of life: young women, old men and women, a beggar. The sister thought:
he shows beauty in the faces of old people: something inside their eyes.
There was a painting of a young woman in a hat. There was a large religious painting: a dark, disturbing Judas. And there were several self-portraits: Francesca closed her eyes suddenly, almost dizzy, opened them again, stared for a long time at the man from whom she had learned so much, and might gain so much, she felt her heart beating fast in her chest. His face, half-shadowed, looked travailed and worn in one of the paintings, as if to say
it is not easy: it is not supposed to be easy.
Just as the Auctioneer was gathering his papers and his gavel, Francesca caught sight of another smaller painting of a young woman:
I know her
. The young woman stood with the light from a window catching that face, the gown shadowy, yet rich with reds and yellows and browns, beautifully embroidered. Francesca pushed through other people until she came close. The woman in the painting was not doing anything at all. Just being. And thinking.

A Frenchman in the crowd (a
Marquis
had she but known, might indeed have guessed from the gold on his lace) observed the woman standing in front of the painting; something in her face took his attention: it was as if her eyes bored into the picture as she stood there. She turned her attention to him most reluctantly as he spoke.

‘
Cette un Rembrandt.
That is, of course, a Rembrandt Portrait,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she answered, hardly looking at him.

‘We are led to believe the subject is Hendrickje Stoffels, the last Mistress. Perhaps you know of her.’

She had not known this was Rembrandt’s mistress: but it was the face in Sir Joshua Reynolds’ painting of the woman bathing. Perhaps she should have guessed. ‘She is beautiful.’

‘She is loved,’ said the
marquis
, ‘that is perhaps different.’ And the woman standing before the painting turned to him at last, surprised.

‘Yes,’ she said.

At that moment the Auctioneer called loudly and as the Frenchman disappeared she was not sure if he had said to her,
I shall have it
. Her brother was beside her.

‘The same woman, surely, the woman bathing, in the painting that Joshua Reynolds owns!’ he said in excitement. ‘This is a real find.’

His sister could not find the words as she stared: the woman, how the light caught her gentle eyes and the shaded curve of her cheek, and her hair.

‘It could be a Fake of course,’ said Filipo.

Francesca stared up at the woman. ‘I believe it is not,’ she said.

‘A clever Copy perhaps?’

‘I believe it is not.’

He glanced at her. It was she who had persuaded him to buy the other small Rembrandt, years ago: it was now one of his most valuable possessions. He looked at the painting again. It was stunning: he wanted to own it:
I shall have it
: he would pay whatever was required.

The brother turned to find a good seat. The spinster sister breathed in suddenly, an observer might think she was breathing the painting into herself.

It was the first painting to be auctioned. Because there were so many foreigners present it was agreed finally that the bidding should be in guineas. A Dutchman caused a gasp of surprise when he started off the offers: two hundred guineas (there were immediate angry murmurs that he was probably in league with the Auctioneer, trying to make the price artificially high). When the frantic bidding reached
three hundred guineas
the crowded auction room which had been noisy and excited was suddenly so quiet as to seem to be empty. At last there were only two bidders left: Filipo di Vecellio and the French
Marquis
.

‘Three hundred and twenty-five guineas.’

‘Three hundred and forty.’

‘Three hundred and forty-five.’

Somebody in the room coughed, tried to muffle the sound.

The woman stood there, waiting; a pale hand, a beautiful rich red embroidered sleeve. Francesca actually heard her brother beside her swallow.

‘Three hundred and fifty,’ he called.

There was an excited silence.

And then, extraordinarily, the Frenchman said in a quiet, bored voice, as if he wanted this tedious business over, ‘I bid four hundred.’

Four hundred? Did he actually say four hundred - fifty guineas more with one throw?
Was this what a small Rembrandt had come to be valued at?

Filipo di Vecellio bowed his head. It was over.

His sister bowed her head also:
this
is what James Burke had meant.

And then the thrilled crowd moved, and voices rose excitedly, and laughter, and then the next painting was brought forward.

Signore Filipo di Vecellio bought several paintings, but his heart was not in it.

He made several more appointments over the next few days to meet sellers and merchants but somehow Amsterdam was disappointing, after the Auction. They saw many tulips and met many art collectors. On the last evening Filipo had an appointment to meet one more dealer. Isabella drooped, no suitable jewel had been found. Filipo di Vecellio insisted that his sister and his daughter not go out alone: Claudio would escort them if they wished to venture. Before the sun set they looked for Claudio for one last hunt for a beautiful diamond perhaps, but Claudio had disappeared.

‘He will have found some Netherlandish gambling friends,’ said Isabella crossly. ‘He can smell them.’

Francesca could not bear her niece’s disappointed face: Amsterdam was such a safe place, surely they could go out on an Adventure on their own. They wrapped their cloaks about them, the streets were deserted - until they turned into some alleys behind the Dam Square. It seemed to be a night-market of some kind, people everywhere, they were jostled but unmolested in the crowds; at last they found several stalls of jewellery with their mysterious flickering candle-lamps and both women caught sight of the most beautiful gold pendant, sparkling in the night and the lamplight, and a small red ruby shining in the middle. Isabella was transfixed, speechless. ‘It is from the Indies,’ said the trader.

‘Please,
Zia Francesca
!’ Isabella turned at last to her aunt. ‘
Please
make Father buy this for me. I do not want diamonds, I want this Pendant - everything will be worthwhile, this whole tedious journey, if I can wear such a piece as this in London, and’ (looking at her aunt) ‘I heard you, really: I will not sulk!’

They found Filipo returning from his bargain-searching: he was very disapproving of their night-walk, asked his sister how she could be so foolhardy - but Isabella tugged and pulled at his waistcoat in her prettiest manner and finally he called a carriage and returned with them to Dam Square and the crowds and the Jewellery stalls, and Isabella did acquire her pendant and hugged and kissed her Father and told him she would love him for ever.

When they got back to the
Herengracht
, a crowd of youths were shouting in the distance; they were about to enter their own
stadspaleis
when Isabella suddenly cried out, ‘It is Claudio!’

They peered along the canal as the youths got nearer. It was Claudio and he was being followed and harassed as he tried to return to the big house: the youths shouted at him in another language and Filipo di Vecellio had to brandish his sword-stick in a very dramatic manner before they finally turned away, still swaggering. Their foreign voices argued in the darkness and then one of them called in English, ‘Cheat! You are a Cheat, English boy!’ as they disappeared into one of the side alleys. Claudio’s face was cut and he was finding it hard to catch his breath.

‘They attacked me - I did not know them,’ he said nervously to his Father, but they had all heard the word
Cheat
and Filipo sent his sister and his daughter away to their room. But they heard his raised voice.

When her niece fell asleep, still clutching her precious pendant, Francesca di Vecellio, on the last night in Amsterdam, finally opened the letter from James Burke. The beautiful canal lay below her, a boat passed trailing lights, a tree leaned over the water. Candle-lamps flickered in the tall houses on the other side of the canal. Her first small taste of what they all talked of: the Grand Tour. She looked at last at the paper there in her hands and wondered what she would feel if it said now, as he had so often said those days,
Amazing Grace.