The Fraud (45 page)

‘I wonder they do not auction such a painting at Mr Christie’s rooms here in Pall Mall,’ said Isabella, wishing to be part of the conversation around the dinner-table.

‘Mr Valiant is long established,’ explained her father. He turned to the others as the mutton appeared and the wine flowed. ‘But you cannot always be certain of Authenticity at his rooms - or Christie’s rooms for that matter, or any other.’

‘In the end we must judge for ourselves,’ said Mr Hartley Pond (meaning of course that he himself would judge) ‘for what does James Burke know after all? He is only a Dealer.’

But there was obvious excitement around the table as there always was when an important Auction was to take place. ‘I and my dealer Mr Minnow will be present of course,’ said Filipo. ‘And I absolutely insist you must come with me, my boy,’ he said to the sullen figure of Claudio, and nobody took notice of the inscrutable face of the Signorina Francesca, as she observed her brother across the dining-table.

When the Catalogue of Items was perused it was seen that, once again, despite the new Patriotism, there was not a single British Painting being auctioned.

 

The weather, those days before the auction, was appalling: wind and rain. But it made no difference. Big crowds viewed the collection of paintings, and the Rembrandt painting in particular, for as long as Mr Valiant would keep his doors in Poland-street open; he was too much of a businessman to close when there was such public interest, even though there was so much mud and rain and rubbish trampled into his rooms that he was almost in despair, hurrying and harrying his boy to sweep up after everybody, as the smell of dubious mud became more and more unbearable. Sir Joshua Reynolds came, and Signore Filipo di Vecellio, and the author Miss Fanny Burney with her father, and indeed the Dukes of Bedford and Bridgewater who were always looking to add to their collections. Day and night people came with magnifying glasses and opinions on the genuineness or otherwise of the unknown picture; ‘This is a
Rembrandt
picture,’ said the crowds of people to each other, most never having had the chance to see one before in their lives. They looked intently at the face of the girl. Gloved fingers had curiously rubbed at the old frame, Mr Valiant had to be quite severe; however one well-known, very rich, connoisseur was given permission to scratch very very slightly at the varnish, which he observed minutely upon his fingernail and then declared himself satisfied. The day before the auction a gold coach stopped briefly in the narrow street, blocked the traffic completely, and the Prince of Wales was seen to enter the auction-room also, his magnifying glass in hand. Mr Valiant, astonished, thrilled, and anxious that his rooms smelled of sewers, bowed very low. But some more lowly person in the street had recognised the figure of the heir to the throne who was always asking Parliament for money, to spend - so said scurrilous newspapers and cartoonists and patter-men - on ladies and clothes and perfumes and curling tongs. One stone was thrown at the gold coach, and then another. A small muttering crowd gathered outside the auction-rooms, it might have become ugly and Mr Valiant feared for his windows, his reputation, his paintings: luckily one of the Prince’s escorting gentlemen persuaded the Royal personage away from the Rembrandt painting before real violence was done. Mr Valiant found that he was perspiring so profusely at the honour, and the terror, and the smell that His Royal Highness might have noticed, and the disaster averted, that he had to send home for a dry shirt.

People praised the beautiful colours of the girl’s gown; the luxurious rich dark reds, so beloved of the Dutch artist; the recognisable use of light and shade, so profound and so telling; and the wonderful, bright-eyed face: admiration for the painting
Girl Reading
danced about London.

Mr Valiant prayed it would not rain again on the day of the auction but alas his prayers were not answered: the heavens opened again and remained open, mud and filth lay in Poland-street and sewers overflowed and he saw turds floating down towards Broad-street, accompanied by cabbage leaves and oranges and chop bones and, of all unpleasant things, a dead dog. Nevertheless at eleven a.m. sharp, as Mr Valiant himself had insisted, he was ready at his box: his auction-rooms by now could not have fitted a single other person inside and by now rivulets of mud and water ran freely along the floor. Paintings to be auctioned, big and small, hung together closely on every wall; the crowds pressed by the Rembrandt painting where it hung in the place of honour; they stared at the girl, at the way her face was raised away from her book, a private, off-guard moment of remembering something, something that amused her, made her eyes so bright. Almost, the girl regarded the spectators with some interest, but not quite. They all spoke of the warmth and grace of the Portrait, the way the sleeve seemed almost to move. By all it was agreed a thing of beauty; everybody seemed to ignore the smell of hot, wet bodies and congealed mud; and nobody gave a moment’s thought to the footmen shivering wetly outside the auction-room doors beside the lines of carriages: Poland-street was now completely blocked.

Signorina Francesca di Vecellio attended with her brother and her niece and nephew. Claudio’s father had absolutely insisted that the Old Master must be viewed by his son. The boy was almost physically man-handled into the family carriage and then from the carriage into the auction rooms (Poland-street being far too near to Broad-street and the cock-fighting alleys for his liking), he was almost forcibly led by his father towards the Rembrandt painting. And there the boy Claudio seemed, quite suddenly, absolutely dumbstruck. He turned a strange shade of red: his father, believing him to be suffering from a surfeit of cowardice, admonished him through clenched lips to be a man. They had obtained seats upon wooden benches in the third row: Filipo di Vecellio and his son, Thomas Gainsborough, John Palmer. The Italian painter’s sister was separated from her brother by the presence of the Lady Dorothea Bray in a large, flower-strewn hat, to the detriment of the view of the people who sat behind. Everybody kept shifting uncomfortably, trying to observe proceedings over other hats and high wigs and ornamental head-pieces, trying to work out which nobles were there on their own account, which had sent a representative, who would be bidding for Royalty.

At first Mr Valiant auctioned minor works: another Spanish card player; a
Portrait of a Lady
by an unknown painter but likely from the Flemish school; an odd, large Roman bust lately from Malta. Bidding was brisk but the sums offered small; the attention of everybody wandered; it became clear that some of the nobility whose carriages caused such confusion in the mud outside were not wanting to have their time wasted by Maltese monuments. Boots themselves seemed to steam; rain rumbled at windows: it was all most unfortunate.

Mr Valiant was an old hand, his dais was tall, his voice was loud, his hammer was precise and his eyes were sharp. He knew he could not hold off the moment, called now for the Rembrandt painting to be brought to the easel beside his lectern. The room came at once to attention. Although the painting was not large it was carried forward very carefully, almost religiously, by two of the assistants and placed where it could be seen by everybody in the room.

The door blew open over and over; finally it was locked against any late-comers, although no other single person could have fitted now into the auction-rooms anyhow. Filipo di Vecellio, glancing across at the recalcitrant door, saw his old dealer leaning against a wall; they caught each other’s eye, each bowed slightly. It was known that it was Mr James Burke who had finally arranged this painting for auction: he would indeed make a pretty penny. Filipo di Vecellio remembered the shocked silence in Amsterdam when the Rembrandt painting had fetched four hundred guineas. Here in Poland-street his heart beat fast: he had examined this painting very carefully as had other painters, he thought it superior to the one in Amsterdam. Thomas Gainsborough and John Palmer did not collect paintings in the same way but enjoyed these mêlées immensely. Claudio di Vecellio continued to sit next to his father with the same peculiar red face.

The dealer James Burke looked at Signorina Francesca di Vecellio: she had been engaged in conversation by Lady Dorothea earlier but now she stared at the painting that was on show; such intensity was almost naked as she stared upwards. He was embarrassed in some way, looked away.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen!’ The auction of the painting by Rembrandt van Rijn began.

Mr Valiant explained the antecedents of the painting: it was clear from its customs certificates that it had come from the Netherlands to France in the last fifty years. The stamps of authentication on the back, the seals of several collectors over the last hundred years gave its history better than Mr Valiant could. The seller was an anonymous member of the French aristocracy who (it was merely hinted) was in some financial disarray (a small snigger in Poland-street at the foolish French); a French dealer had been delegated to sell it in Amsterdam but the family had been persuaded to move the sale to England where Rembrandt was held now in as least as high - if not higher - esteem as he was by his own countrymen. There was, however, a reserve price on the painting, for a Dutch buyer would acquire it if the reserve was not bettered.

‘The Reserve! The Reserve!’ The crowd required the relevant information.

‘The Reserve is known to me and to the Dealer, Mr Burke. But I will give you a clue. It is a little more than three hundred and ninety-nine guineas!’

There were outraged shouts, followed by indignant murmurs: it was known that Rembrandt’s
Adoration of the Kings
, a much bigger painting, had been sold in London less than five years ago for three hundred and ninety guineas. The Duke of Luxmore was heard to say most heatedly that twenty years ago he had acquired a better Rembrandt painting than this - in fact a self-portrait of the artist - for nineteen pounds, nineteen shillings and sixpence. But he looked most longingly at the painting. And most knew that four hundred guineas was exorbitant, yet not that exorbitant, not now, for a painting by the Old Master.

When the muttering died down the bidding began: one of the be-hatted ladies in the very front row quickly raised her gloved hand and offered four hundred and five guineas. It rose quickly to four hundred and thirty.

The Duke of Bridgewater offered four hundred and forty.

After a little tense lull, a spokesman for the Duke of Portland suddenly offered five hundred guineas. There was a gasp in the auction room.

The Lady Dorothea Bray was too involved in the sport to notice that the Signorina Francesca was literally quivering beside her, gloved hands clasped tightly together. On the Lady Dorothea’s other side her dear friend Filipo was showing signs of stress that she did notice. The bidding had reached five hundred and fifty guineas very quickly and then he, for the first time, put up his hand.

‘Five hundred and seventy,’ said Filipo di Vecellio.

His sister gasped aloud, looked across at her brother, then looked across the room to the dealer Mr James Burke where he stood by the far wall. The dealer caught her eye for a split second, looked away with an impassive face, stared at Mr Valiant.

‘Five hundred and seventy guineas,’ repeated Mr Valiant. ‘Am I offered anything further than five hundred and seventy guineas?’ and in the Dukely silence they assumed he would bring his hammer down, but the be-hatted woman in the front row again raised her gloved hand.

‘Six hundred guineas,’ she said clearly. The whole room gasped louder. This was outrageous. Lady Dorothea Bray was seen to be looking at the Italian artist Filipo di Vecellio in great anticipation, and something else -
Of course, she is his mistress
, the unspoken thought went quickly around the room - but Filipo di Vecellio did not notice, he only had eyes for his adversaries: the envoy from the Duke of Portland and the woman in the front row whom he did not know.

‘Six hundred and ten,’ said Filipo di Vecellio.

The silence in the room was like a roar, people hardly dared breathe. Mr Valiant looked at the other two bidders left in the game. The Duke’s envoy shook his head. The woman in the front row put up her gloved hand very, very slowly.

‘Six hundred and fifty,’ she said but her voice was less sure than it had been.

Filipo knew it was his. ‘Six hundred and fifty-five,’ he called joyously.

Just as the hammer was to fall the woman in the front row raised her hand one more time.

‘Six hundred and seventy,’ she said and Mr Valiant had to lean forward and ask her to repeat the figure, so quiet now was her voice.

‘I am bid six hundred and seventy guineas,’ he said, his hammer raised.

And perhaps it was the Wiltshire Marshalls’ gambling blood, something reckless anyway, that dealt the last throw.

‘I bid seven hundred guineas!’ cried the dashing Signore Filipo di Vecellio.

The muddy, perspiring rooms exploded; Mr Valiant’s hammer was still held in the air; history was being made in Poland-street. Mr Valiant’s loud, loud voice called for silence and then all eyes turned to the woman in the hat. She turned slightly and gave a mock bow in Filipo di Vecellio’s direction.

The hammer fell.

The Rembrandt painting
Girl Reading
had been sold to the well-known (although slightly unfashionable) portrait painter from Italy, Signore Filipo di Vecellio, for seven hundred guineas.

His sister, the Signorina Francesca di Vecellio, fainted, straight into the arms of her nephew, the red-faced Claudio di Vecellio who, in the uproar after his father’s victory, had violently pushed past his father, towards his aunt.