The Fraud (7 page)

So great was her confusion at his words that now she did not speak, not a word.

‘And I made money and I charmed the ladies and I was invited to Italian
conversazziones
where cultivated ladies and gentlemen speak together of the World in a sophisticated manner that our noble family could never even dream of.’ And she saw how proud of himself he was. ‘I learned to converse in the manner of Italian gentlemen, just as I learned about Art! And then, when I was completely confident, I came back to London and presented myself up as an Italian Painter - Filipo di Vecellio - there are a few foreign Painters and Sculptors and Engravers in London, so it was easy! Nobody in London had ever heard of me, of course, so I could become anybody I wished. I said I was from Florence, always just hinting that my Father was a Florentine Nobleman about whom I did not wish to speak.’

Her dark, fifteen-year-old eyes were wider now, like saucers. But suddenly out of the blue she cried, ‘Wait! Philip, stop!’ And she leaned out of the coach and shouted, ‘Stop!’ with such loudness and authority that the driver did so.

‘What is it?’ Philip was astonished.

‘We have forgot Tobias! He will come back to Bristol! He will not know where we have gone!’

‘Has he ever returned?’

‘No, but one day he will.’

Philip gave her an odd look. ‘Drive on, man!’ he shouted and the coach rattled off again. ‘Tobias can look after himself, he is a man now with his own Life, he will not be running back to Bristol.’

‘But we are all he has.’

‘Nonsense. He is a thief and a ragamuffin and he has the World now. That is quite enough.’ And then Philip went on talking as if he had not been interrupted, ‘Grace you cannot imagine the money in London, London is
rich
! I paint Portraits and my Clients are
rich
! Rich in a way you cannot begin to imagine. I am making Money, Money,
Money
! You have to understand,
bella mia
, that London is now the centre of the World, it is flowing with money - and money, for an Artist, is in Portraits. I soon presented myself to the newly-rich tradespeople in London; they are just like the fellows I painted in Bristol.’

He hardly paused for breath, the words poured out of him now as if they had been dammed up, waiting for a chance to be told. ‘These people want to look sophisticated, all these tradespeople, they want -’ he was grabbing now for words, ‘- the Style and the Sensibilities that they are trying to cultivate in their lives to
show in their Portraits
. My Portraits create them as Cultured People. And most of all they are impressed that I am a Foreigner, whom, they assume, has some spiritual connection to the Old Masters, and who therefore will make them look wonderful!’ On and on, the words tumbled out over the little sister he had found again. The little sister herself sat, stunned.

‘First I took rooms in Brook Street with a woman I was told of, Miss Ann Ffoulks. I chose her carefully as my landlady because I knew she was acquainted with other Artists in London: she had a brother who was an Artist but he died. I suppose the other Artists kept up a Friendship with her out of pity. Miss Ffoulks is that sort of English lady who could never tell a Lie, so if she thought I was Italian others would believe I was an Italian because Miss Ffoulks said so! She knows nothing of my real past, of course (even though she is a vain old Personage who thinks she knows everything!), and she has been of much use to me. Through her I obtained my first introductions into the Art World, I met other Painters, English Painters and they accepted me for what Miss Ffoulks introduced me as - an Italian Painter from Florence,
Filipo di Vecellio!
’ And he clapped his hands together in the coach suddenly and bowed to her, as if he had just performed a magic trick.

‘So, I had already begun to find Clients but I required an Art Dealer to speak of me in the World, to get me more and more Commissions, and again it was Miss Ffoulks who introduced me. My Dealer is rich and powerful, James Burke, he knows nothing of my past either; they all believe I am Italian, and - listen to me, Grace - some of my sitters are now from further up the social scale. Noblemen begin to hear of my skills thanks to James Burke, my prices are rising, and now we have begun to receive
very large sums
for anything I paint. Indeed one day I hope to manage without a Dealer - for why should he obtain much of my money? I am become a Hero in London,
cara mia
, as you will soon see! They all want beautiful, flattering Portraits for their Birthdays, Portraits for their Weddings, even Portraits for their Funerals sometimes! They all yearn to be painted looking Cultured. The man Canaletto understood: he came from Venice and painted the Thames to look not like London but like Venice and they loved him! Most of the other Face-Painters are common men, and English - listen to me Grace, listen - the whole point is I am become one of the most successful Portraitists in London! Mr Hogarth is furious, he calls me a “phizzmonger”.’

‘Mr Hogarth?’

Her brother lay back, gleeful, on the carriage seat. ‘Phizzmonger! That is his dismissive word for Face-Painter. Let him be dismissive then! You will not have heard of him of course . . .
Dio Mio!
There will be much for you to learn if you are to join an Artist’s Household,
bella mia
. And—’

‘But Mr Hogarth—’

‘William Hogarth is an English Painter, and he is well-known, certainly, but more for his caricatures than his Portraits:
A Rake’s Progress
indeed!
Gin Lane
! You would not think we were painting in the same city, he and I! And his actual Portraits are bad: they are real in the
wrong
way, for there is a way of painting a Face and Mr Hogarth does not understand that. His skill is to paint an exact Likeness - anyone can do that, I say. It is to make people look
noble
that is the Art.’

‘But Philip, Mr Hogarth—’

‘He is a Painter falling and I am a Painter rising in the London Art World. All my sitters emerge from my Studio with a kind of nobility about them - even should they be merely an Apothecary.
That is why I earn so much Money
. Mr Hogarth is a fool: he paints an Apothecary to look like an Apothecary. And he is fractious to boot, and involves himself in Politics; he is forever suggesting a Society of Artists should be formed where all Artists are equal! Ha! I certainly do not want to be ‘equal’ to all the unsuccessful Artists of England, after all my strenuous activities! And who would want to be painted by the rancorous, argumentative Mr Hogarth when they can be painted by the accomplished nobleman from the European tradition, Filipo di Vecellio? I am already earning guineas beyond my wildest Dreams and I would never have received all the Commissions - believe me, Grace - if I came from Bristol.’

‘You do come from Bristol.’ The coach veered dangerously, a wheel caught in a rut. The brother and sister, falling sideways, hardly noticed.

‘No,
bella mia
. I am Filipo di Vecellio from Florence and, I repeat, both the Nobility and the Apothecaries - for I do not discern, I will paint anybody who can afford me - think their Portraits are being painted by an elegant, talented, noble Italian soaked in the Classical Tradition!’ And Philip’s eyes danced again with laughter and he sat back again in the coach, a satisfied man who had found his destiny - and incidentally his sister also. Grace felt dizzy: the rattling, swaying coach, or so much conversation, or so many emotions in half a day. ‘But, Philip - you do come from Bristol,’ she insistently repeated, for he was denying their past; she saw him in her head declaiming in the Bristol Public Library, and the words came out, right there in the coach, almost without her meaning them to: ‘Cry
God for Harry! England and St George!
’

He looked at her for a moment, and then his expression changed completely.

‘Listen, Grace,’ he said coldly, ‘I see that you have no idea what I am talking of.’ Quite suddenly his eyes were very hard, a new look that at once jolted her. ‘I know a man who paints sky and clouds by the yard. He sits in his attic in London and that is what he does - day in, day out - and people buy his sky, by the yard, to place about their chimneys as Decoration. He is not a bad Painter but he comes from Newcastle. If it was known I came from Bristol I might be painting sky by the yard also. I understand what my Sitters want because
it is what I want
: to rise upwards.
That
is why I am so successful. And that is why you must realise how infinitely lucky you are.’ The eyes were hard and the voice was hard. She stared at this stranger; it was as if her brother had disappeared and she sat before a stranger in a jolting, swaying carriage. She abruptly remembered his sudden, long-ago rages.

‘Mr Joshua Reynolds, an Englishman, cannot command custom in the way I can; one day soon I expect to paint Royalty.’

She felt another question was expected. ‘Who is Mr Joshua Reynolds?’

He shrugged dismissively. ‘He is one of the Painters of the day to whom Miss Ffoulks introduced me. He returned to London from his Grand Tour long before I did, talking of nothing but Michelangelo! Ever since he painted a
shipwreck
in a Portrait he was spoken of - hah! - but I earn more money. He is not exactly a gentleman, there I have it over him.’ Again she stared across the clattering coach at this new Philip. ‘And he is a fool: forever speaking of the importance of Historical Art and Epic Art and Michelangelo. He speaks of painting Religious stories and Historical stories - Noble Visions, he calls them - but Noble Visions are not seen in Guineas
.
People want to look at
themselves
hanging on their walls, not an embodiment of Virtue, or Courage, or our Lord! And believe me, it is not always so simple to make them look cultured: I often have to paint common men who have hair in their noses and in their ears, and ladies who stink, with pimples on their faces! And horrible, ugly, spoilt little children. But I make them all look so fine - that is what I am paid for. As I say, be aware, Grace, how lucky you are.’

But she did not speak. She did not thank him. He leaned forward.

‘Grace. This is not a game. You are not joining me in some jovial Prank. I will tell it to you plain just once more.’ And here it was still, something sharp and cold and different. ‘I have completely changed my Life and my Expectations. I am a very, very successful Artist in London, and I have come back for you, as I promised, and you too will have to change. You are to be my housekeeper and my hostess. I have just now taken a house in St Martin’s Lane, a decent-sized house to set me above other Artists, larger than William Hogarth’s house nearby and Joshua Reynolds’ house nearby. I must have the most elegant Establishment - for the irony of my story is, as I told you, that I am now beginning to paint the real Nobility, as well as those who strive for Nobility, and I cannot ask the real Nobility to visit a Studio in the slums.

‘And the other important matter is: I now wish to entertain, for a successful Artist must entertain. You will be charming to my guests. I want people sitting at my dinner table talking of the latest developments in Art and I am ready to pay for it. There are two people to whom I wish you to give particular Attention. One is the Dealer, James Burke, whom I have mentioned. The other is in his way even more important: Mr Hartley Pond. He is a very, very powerful Art Critic in London, steeped in Classical Knowledge and Old Masters, and he knows more about European Art than anybody else in this country. He supports me because he thinks I am Italian and I need his support absolutely. If he knew I was from Bristol he would cut me dead.’

Large, dark eyes stared at him across the coach.

And then: then it was as if he suddenly caught himself, heard his own tone. And his eyes softened at last, and he laughed again in his old charming way and again he sat back in the carriage, delighted with the world - and indeed with seeing his little sister after so long, for he remembered her fondly with her enquiring eyes and quickness to learn and her eternal questions! ‘Oh London, London!’ His enthusiasm burst forth once more and his own dark eyes that she remembered so well sparkled, no sign of hardness there now, and suddenly (reminding her of their father) he dropped his Italian accent completely for a moment and began to sing.

‘Are they?’ said Grace in alarm, finding her voice again at last.

‘But when we begin our entertaining
we
will be the witty ones: The fascinating Foreigners! London is ours! We shall have a wonderful life, Grace. We shall take a Golden Coach across London Bridge! People will clamour to dine with us. We shall be rich beyond our wildest Dreams!’ And he laughed aloud, at life, at his own cleverness, at the world. ‘Oh Grace, London is a place where, if you seize Life by the throat, there is Fame to be acquired and there are Fortunes to be made and I have already started to make mine. And now you are free to assist me, do you not realise?’ And then at last Philip Marshall looked at his little sister very carefully, just for a moment, gave her his whole attention for the very first time: the thin face and body, the figure of a child not yet a woman, the shabby clothes. He had expected perhaps more immediate gratitude for his actions.

And Grace Marshall in that same exact moment looked at her brother carefully; many, many thoughts raced through her head as she teetered on the brink of her new life. Her beloved brother was alive; she could learn so much from him, he could teach her, as he taught her to read long ago. She clutched her bag that held her precious drawings as she stared at him in his modern wig and his wonderful waistcoat. She would talk of his ludicrous ideas about housekeepers and hostesses later - anyone could do that, but not just anyone could paint. There would be so much that she could learn: she was to join the world of the artist after all, her greatest, greatest dream. She saw herself and Mr Hogarth in the church, her talk of studios and Shining - and here was Philip, shining indeed. Her thoughts twirled and danced and then, at last, exploded.