The Fraud (49 page)

‘You speak to him, Mr Gainsborough,’ she said and her manner was quite sulky.

‘Come, come my friend, Filipo, it is some Jape!’ said Thomas Gainsborough, ‘Set about by some jealous Collector. The Painting is beautiful, and will surely be the more worthy after!’

Filipo said, ‘D’you think so, Sir?’ and Miss Ffoulks (who could have lived for ten years on what her old friend, whom she had not seen for so long, had paid for the picture) nevertheless smiled at him, and nodded encouragingly. The Italian’s face brightened for a moment, that perhaps this was true, and the wine flowed and as always the painter’s calm sister was there in the background, to be sure that all was comfortable.

‘Where is Isabella?’ the host suddenly enquired furiously to his sister. ‘I require her at the table, not sulking in her room over a frame-maker!’

‘She is unwell, Filipo.’ The housekeeper said nothing more, did not say that she had promised Isabella a little tray and sympathy when the guests had gone; she had advised her niece this very morning to wait until the matter of the painting was decided before either she or Mr Bounds further pursued their suit.

The apprentice Mr Swallow, with his grandiose plans for biography, made himself as small as possible at the far end of the dinner table, for here was a story indeed, and here he was, part of it, but his Master was so volatile and so Italian that if Mr Swallow drew attention to himself in the slightest manner he might be dismissed from the company. On the whole it was a tense afternoon and conversation was stilted. However, the wine flowed.

‘After all,’ said John Palmer at last, ‘it was at this very table that Sir Joshua made the comment that there can be no Plagiarism in Art. It is indeed a beautiful Picture, that has already given us much pleasure. So what does it matter?’

‘Of course it matters!’ said Filipo, angry again at once.

‘But why? We all liked it so very much last week. Are we to dislike it today?’ Filipo glanced at John Palmer in open displeasure.

‘I will only pay seven hundred guineas if the painting is by Rembrandt himself. Anything else is worthless to me, as is your foolish opinion.’

‘But you were so fond, only yesterday.’

Signore di Vecellio suddenly smashed his fist on the table and shouted, ‘I am sick of you at my table, John Palmer!’ His sister stared at him in horror. ‘You have been coming here, day in day out, like a leech, for a hundred years, so do not try my Patience further!’ There was a terrible silence in the shadowy flickering light of the candles in the dining-room, and then the sound of a chair scraping against the boards of the floor. John Palmer’s old face was pale as he made for the door, holding his wig in his hand; of course everybody thought Filipo would finally call him back, but he did not, and Lady Dorothea Bray’s hand lay approvingly upon his.

As he reached the door, John Palmer turned. ‘I thank you, old friend, for your great hospitality over the years.’

Francesca di Vecellio made to stand.

‘Leave him!’ shouted her brother wildly.

And then John Palmer was gone, they heard his heavy footsteps, and then the big heavy front door opening, and then closing again.

‘That damned scoundrel Burke! I am sure he was party to this Scandal,’ was all Filipo di Vecellio would say to break the embarrassed silence, and he drank more wine and did not apologise to the ladies for his language: seven hundred guineas, and his reputation, were at stake.

Throughout the art world powerful people discussed this matter urgently (including Sir Joshua Reynolds, the President of the Royal Academy, who was in France but who quickly sent a letter, making his thoughts known): it was decided the present state of affairs, where artists could be laughed at in such a way, and openly mocked in the newspapers and the streets, must not be allowed to continue a moment longer: it would indeed affect reputations (and sales and prices). It was clear there would be a court case if Signore Filipo di Vecellio thought he had been cheated, but the rumour had come from nowhere and was likely malicious; surely it would be proper to first have the picture examined, in private, by experts and artists and critics. Sir Joshua’s message said the matter must be dealt with hurriedly and conclusively.

‘We are private Men,’ boomed one of the Academicians. ‘We should deal with such a matter in a private Manner,’ (as if the gentlemen of the press would not be waiting outside the Royal Academy with poised notebook if they were not allowed inside). For indeed the Academicians, relying on the Academy and its Exhibitions for their reputation and their sales, were only private men when it suited them.

And what better place for this inspection to take place than at the Royal Academy of Arts in Somerset House? Such elegant premises and sober judges would surely give the affair more dignity. Art experts with the knowledge of old methods would be called. And the eminent critic Mr Hartley Pond, of course. As luck would have it an eminent French critic was already in the country on other business (an affair of the heart the rumours said - but as he was a Frenchman it may only have been a racist slur): he sent word he would speed to London at once.

It was early morning, when the natural light would be at its best.

The press-men, some of them shady-looking fellows, were there first, taking notes. A large group of Royal Academicians, all artists in their own right and proud, arrived under the porticos of Somerset House. Then the Art Experts, five of them, arrived. Then the carriage of the eminent French critic happened to arrive at the same moment as the carriage of Mr Hartley Pond: unfortunately these two eminent gentlemen had fallen out in the past. Each was jealous of his reputation: they had agreed to work together on this matter because of its importance but each was determined to outshine the other. They alighted on to the cobbles, bowed stiffly while yawning behind their hands at the perhaps unreasonable earliness of the hour. Interested spectators and passing drapers and bakers and vintners stared at the group of men; some of the press-men stamped their feet in the morning chill and horse dung steamed on the Strand.

The press-men were made to wait downstairs with the Porter. It was well-known that some of the newspapers would like to give the Royal Academy - and what was seen by many as their ludicrous pretensions - a bloody nose. It was imperative therefore that all was seen to be done methodically and with decorum: the Porter, a large red-faced bluff person, was to make sure the press-men stayed where they should be; however a spokesman would come to the press-men immediately at the end of deliberations and a statement would be given. All the newspaper men would then be invited upstairs to see the painting for themselves.

Finally the Academicians and the Experts and the Critics, many respected and respectable men, were led up the infamous, steep, narrow staircase to the first floor and into the big-windowed Council Room of the Royal Academy. King George and Queen Charlotte stared sternly down; portraits of the Academicians themselves also hung all along the walls there (several glanced up to observe their own likenesses as they entered) and fires had been lit in the fireplaces at each end of the room. On one of the tables used for meetings, quills and paper and ink were set, with which the Experts might take notes if required. Candles flickered in the darker corners but the best light, the main light, came in from the large windows.

An easel had been set up by the windows: there sat
Girl Reading
.

It was extremely odd to the Academicians as they entered the Council Room to see a pale figure, a woman in a grey gown and small lace cap, already standing there alone in the long room, staring at the picture. The reason for her unlikely presence was quickly ascertained (for no women should be here unless they were one of the two female Academicians and even they knew better than to attend uninvited): this woman was the sister of Signore Filipo di Vecellio, the now-owner of the Rembrandt in question. The woman was standing absolutely motionless, staring at the painting: just the one painting on an easel in the Royal Academy in Somerset House, and all the experts in London present, and daylight slanting through the long windows. The woman seemed in the morning light so fragile that several of the assembled gentlemen felt she may faint at any moment (indeed several artists present remembered her fainting at the auction of the painting); they looked impatient, did not want to be worried with womanly vapours just because her brother may have been cheated. However, the pale old
signorina
, the artist’s sister, could hardly now be ordered from the premises, although it was felt it should be a matter for men only and the Porter should have kept her out. In fact, it was odd that she had gained admission in the first place (none of them knew, except her brother who had forgotten, how Grace Marshall of Bristol could always, all her life, find a way to gain entrance to a place she wished to be). Finally it seemed (although there was much muttering) that there was nothing to be done but to begin the examination. The Italian himself was seen to be irritated by the presence of his sister, took more comfort from the fact that his son was by his side. The dealer James Burke who had been responsible for the sale of the painting suddenly appeared at the doorway, insisted on being present also at the proceedings in the illustrious room, and he could hardly be turned away either: he was representing the anonymous French seller, of course, but he was also a very well-known dealer in Art and he made it clear he felt his honourable reputation impugned by these proceedings and he would stay.

There were perhaps twenty-five men present in total.

Mr Burke and Signore di Vecellio did not speak to each other; Signorina Francesca di Vecellio did not even look in Mr Burke’s direction; he was most extremely surprised when he realised she was in the room, cast several quick - furtive almost - glances at her, at the pale dark face and the dark expressionless eyes.

At first all the be-wigged and un-wigged heads pored over the painting, pushing a little to get a better view: they stared at the thickness of the paint in certain areas, at the colours, at the light and shade, at the luxuriance of the gown. At the girl. Large magnifying glasses were brought forth from many embroidered waistcoats.

Then it was agreed that the Artists themselves should properly examine the painting.

It looked small, and rather lonely; that is until they stood there, each man, examining with great interest this thing that had called such commotion. Then it caught them, something: the beauty of the painting moved people in ways that surprised them. A silence.

 

Nobody wanted to speak first, in case they were wrong, until Mr Thomas Gainsborough, Royal Academician, who came seldom to the premises, said simply at last, ‘It is a fine, fine Painting.’ And then others nodded and murmured, ‘It is beautiful, certainly.’ Finally the Artists, who were there of course to give an opinion but were not experts in fakery, stood back, lit cigars; some walked up and down the long room talking quietly together.

Now the five Experts came forward: now small palette knives were brought forth. Out of deference to the Experts the Academicians brushed the cigar smoke away from the easel by the windows. Out of deference to the woman they used the chamberpot in the Antiques Academy next door (where students were sent to draw life from statues), but resented it rather. Slants of sunshine suddenly shone in for a few moments, making the room even lighter; soon clouds gathered again and the brief sunlight was gone.

Again heads pored over the painting. All the Experts held up to their eyes their own special magnifying glasses of different shapes and sizes: everything must be noted most carefully. The frame was examined, the varnish, the paint, the board itself: the picture was turned over and over, the old certificates of customs on the back examined again and again. The experts murmured together, some took notes on the provided paper, with the quills and the ink.

Very fine, infinitely careful, gentle scrapings of varnish and paint were acquired from a small corner of the painting and studied under the magnifying glasses. The huge clock in the library ticked and tocked, the pendulum swung calmly.

The huge clock struck another hour.

The old, cracked gilding on the frame was observed minutely.

Much time passed.

Finally perhaps it was felt that the painting
itself
was not being examined properly by the Experts, for at last the conclave of expert gentlemen stood together in front of the picture and stared at it for a very long time. Murmurs arose:
Fine, very fine
, said the voices over and over,
Very much of his early period
. The colours were authentic, the frame was authentic, the work was very similar to other paintings by Rembrandt at that time: these men knew very much of these things, and were satisfied.

And also: the painting was beautiful.

At last the two Critics, Mr Hartley Pond and his French counterpart, came forward portentously: they studied the painting in silence for some time and then conferred briefly. Most unusually the eminent French critic and the eminent English critic agreed in this case (and it was, at last, the dinner hour also). Mr Hartley Pond finally (annoying his French colleague immensely) chose this moment to address the Academicians as if he was the only real Critic whose opinion was worth listening to.

‘Gentlemen.’ He looked at them almost in disdain. ‘The Experts are about to speak of technical matters, but I would like to contribute a word first. After all the tests are completed, after Science is assured, there is still the ‘Soul’ of the Painting to be considered. A real Artist does not just paint a face: there is something else, something mere Mortals can only aspire to. A real Old Master paints a
Soul
, and this painting by Rembrandt van Rijn has such a
Soul
. I am only a humble Critic’ (a small powerful smile upon his lips) ‘but I will stake my Reputation here. This painting is by Rembrandt. It is genuine.’ And he bowed his head. The French Critic did not wish to be outdone, stepped forward, clearing his throat.