The Fraud (9 page)

She must not make a mistake: she must sound right. This was the rich, important art dealer, her brother’s art dealer, Mr James Burke: a tall handsome gentleman with a direct gaze and beautiful grey eyes. Mr James Burke did not wear a wig but wore his own hair tied back, in the fashion of sailors, so lightly powdered as to be almost its own colour. ‘He may look like a Highwayman,’ said her brother, ‘but he is the most powerful person in my life! He arranges for me to meet all sorts of interesting and wealthy people - and he explains to them that I am the best Portrait Painter in the Town. He is one of the most important men in London and I do assure you that he makes more money than I do!’

‘I am, after all, merely a Dealer in Art,
Signorina
,’ said Mr Burke dryly. ‘It is your Brother who is the Artist,’ and he smiled at her again with the direct grey eyes.

Her brother laughed. ‘I tell you he is powerful,
bella
! Dealers are the rich men, they are the Treasure Hunters - it is we, the Artists, who are the Workers.’ Mr James Burke, although a little older perhaps than her brother, seemed young still to be the rich and powerful man her brother described. But she saw very quickly that the two were great friends: two charming, handsome men whose heads were often close together in business discussions, the short white fashionable wig and the soft, tied-back, dark hair.
I wonder if one day I could draw them, sitting together like that and talking?
She wondered if they knew how beautiful they looked.
I would name the Painting ‘Friends’.
Mr Burke was continually at the house: looking at portraits, counting commissions and money as his grey eyes flashed, taking some of the paintings away, bringing new clients to the studio in St Martin’s Lane.

But when James Burke had gone Philip said, ‘In truth, he is the
second
most powerful person in my life. Soon you will meet Mr Hartley Pond, the Critic, of whom I have spoken. You will be silent, and curtsey to him, and listen to his Opinions, for he is a terrifyingly influential man indeed, and can make or break a Painter’s career!’

On her third day in London an elegant young man addressed her in the hallway for some time, in only Italian; she blushed scarlet, managed
Arrivederci Signore
, curtseyed and smiled, blushed - and ran. The elegant young man was charmed and her brother made it known that his sister, newly-arrived in England, was most painfully reserved.

‘I am not reserved, Philip, I am terrified!’ she cried to her brother as soon as they were alone. ‘They will
know
! How could they not know?’

‘They are not Italian,
cara mia
,’ he answered her patiently. ‘He was not an Italian, he was showing off. I am careful to arrange that we do not mix socially with any Italians. And you must not be so loud,
bella
, Ladies are never loud.’ Yet he could not help smiling at his earnest little sister. ‘And you must refrain at all times from calling me Philip. Ever again. Remember that I am Signore Filipo di Vecellio, from Florence, Italy.’

She took his arms with both her hands. ‘But I am not Italian! You know very well I have never been to Italy - I fear I will betray you.’

‘Listen to me,’ he commanded. ‘Copy me! I speak Italian like a native - it is absolutely necessary to our plans that you speak very much as I do. And your English must be accented also, as mine is. I am relying on you.’

Immediately then she repeated after him Italian words and English words, over and over and over. Hour after hour she practised, following him about the house in St Martin’s Lane, sitting in a corner of his studio, talking more and more, faster and faster, at last enjoying it, enjoying the music of the sounds. ‘
Buongiorno Signore
,’ she cried when they were alone, waving her arms, dancing about him, ‘
doce vita, pardona
.’ ‘
Buona notte, Filipo mio
.’ ‘
Francesca di Vecellio
.
Si! Si, si!
I can do it! I can do it!
Si
. I am Grace Marshall from Bristol and I can even speak English like an Italian!’

He was pleased with her, for who would not be charmed by all that enthusiasm and anxiety and curiosity and laughter? But he also shook his head. ‘As I have already informed you, Francesca
mia
,’ he said, ‘Ladies do not laugh loudly, or make as much noise as you! As you well know. I do not need to remind you of the teachings of your Mother.’ She looked at him quickly, he never spoke of their mother, but he was turned away from her, pouring from a bottle of new Spanish sherry.

‘Our Mother would indeed be proud of you!’ said Grace, smiling at his back, and she knew they both remembered Betty then, that languorous petulance, and her frenetic, wife-chasing love for her oldest, dearest boy. ‘She would think all of her Dreams had come true and she would speak of you from morning till night, fanning herself upon the
chaise longue
in the drawing-room, and Tobias and Ezekiel running about and fighting!’

Still his back to her: the bottle motionless for a moment in his hand. Then he turned slowly.

‘Francesca. I have put everything into this new Life and I will not see it lost. There are few Rules in my house but this is one of them: I do not want Bristol, or our Past, spoken of again, ever. You will anger me if you speak of those times.’

‘But, Philip - Tobias might find us one day. He is our brother!’

‘Once and for all: there is no room for Tobias in this new Life, Francesca. We are Italians from Florence.’

‘But, Philip - you could not turn him away.’

‘Yes, I could. You would have to choose. Between me and Tobias. And my name is Filipo.’ And it was there again: the new, hard coldness.

 

Sometimes the grey mist over the city would not lift, smoke from the seacoal blotted out the sun and the light was so bad that Philip could not paint; her fashionable brother would then leave his studio and take his little sister, in one of her new gowns, to make observation of her new home: London Town.

Further down St Martin’s Lane, a madwoman (Philip told Grace she was a madwoman) stood at her own special corner and sang. It was hard to know her age, or whether she had been pretty once, but she had the most beautiful high voice.

and there was a kind of yearning, pure sound that caught the breath: people dropped half-pennies or farthings into an old hat that lay in the mud, and as they walked on her voice drifted after them still, catching at their dreams.

First Grace and her brother would promenade in the fashionable St James’s Park; she learned to rest her hand, most gracefully, upon his arm. Ladies with much more luxurious hairstyles and gowns than her own walked: some ladies had unlikely pale faces and rose cheeks (
What is upon their faces?
whispered Grace to her brother). The women swept into carriages or walked haughtily past as Grace looked about her, and it seemed to her that even the trees were elegant.

Philip then took her to the Sardinian Chapel in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Beggars congregated (not necessarily Italian it was clear), just beggars hoping for Christian charity, asking halfpence in the name of God. Philip ignored them.

‘We will ourselves go inside just once, as I used to in Rome,’ Philip said, looking about him to make sure they were not observed. ‘But we must not be Italian Catholics: we do not wish to be thought of as Popish even though we are Italians, that is our only danger here. On Sundays if we are to attend any religiosity we will be seen entering Protestant Churches.’

She had no idea what he was talking about.

Inside the chapel, Italians knelt, some ordinary-looking people as well as the more noble, better-dressed communicants. A priest waved incense at the congregation continually: to Grace it seemed as if he wished to keep away the smell of his flock. There was an extremely long, scented and incomprehensible service which Philip whispered to her was in Latin; there was chanting and singing: he knew the responses, knelt, Grace followed him in some bewilderment. The priests continued to wave incense at them, the strange smell made her feel slightly ill.

‘What is the point of
this
!’ Grace whispered back. ‘This is not Italian!’

‘Ssssh. Do what I do. Look at the
people.
Watch the
people
.’ She did watch the people through the long service, their dark servitude towards the priest and the altar. And she saw she and her brother
did
merge with the Italians: their dark eyes and dark hair.

Then from the chapel her brother took her straightway to Temple Bar at the entrance to the City of London. He told her to look up. There above her on top of the arches, on spikes, were two skulls.

‘They are Catholics,’ he said. ‘We are Italians, but we are not Catholics.’ The girl stared up in horror: afternoon light shone through holes where eyes had once been.

He took her to the Print Shops in St Pauls - to her surprise there were huge numbers of old paintings in piles, or hanging on walls in rows: one shilling each.

‘These are either copies made from an engraving, or Painters who can get no other work paint hundreds of these - they are all very bad copies of what people call so reverently The Old Masters - paintings by Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci and Titian and Rubens and Rembrandt and Raphael.’ He flicked through the prints dismissively. ‘Look at this -
Annunciazione: The Annunciation by Leonardo da Vinci
indeed. I,’ and she saw his shoulders roll back in pride, ‘I have stood for many hours in front of the original in Florence, and copied it many times.’ All about them were piles of copied pictures: Holy Families, Crucifixions, Self-Portraits, Portraits of Nobles, scenes of busy Cities, pictures telling stories from the Bible where men and women kneeled and looked up adoringly, or fell dramatically, stabbed with daggers, so that blood flowed.

‘Oh look!’ cried a young woman in a large hat near by to Grace, to her gentleman companion. ‘Look at this dear little Holy Family, oh and this Venus - I am sure it is Venus, it is rather daring!’ And she looked up saucily at the man who put a hand proprietorially and roguishly (Grace saw) upon her back. The Venus was rather undressed and draped with scarves: whatever would Betty have said of this Venus? ‘It would decorate so tastefully,’ said the woman, ‘the same colours as my room!’ and Philip stared at the prints and at the young woman, his sister saw, with a supercilious smile. But Grace understood she was seeing copies at least of these things she had only heard of: Old Masters. And then to her delight she came across
Gin Lane
that she had got to know so well at Mrs Falls’ house, with the baby falling from the woman’s bosom, because Gin was Evil.

‘Look Filipo!’ she cried (already now always using his Italian name). ‘Mr Hogarth!’ And then she stopped. She had not yet told him of Mr Hogarth. Philip gave the cheap copy of
Gin Lane
barely a glance and left the Print Shop.

Then he took her through Covent Garden. Here, all over the big square, the
piazza
, a noisy, bustling, dangerous screaming market was held every day selling, it seemed, all that anybody might require: animals, tin, fruit, vegetables, pies, nails, fish, gin, patent medicines, meat, flowers. Servants and street-girls and sailors and soldiers and gentlemen all pushed against and past one another. Small kiosks sold things Grace would never have guessed the use for without her Christmas Steps education, but she had learned very many things living on Christmas Steps: those pouches of sheep’s guts with red ribbons were for gentlemen to wear upon their private parts when they met with the street-girls. There were emollients for certain dangerous sicknesses; she saw a long line of women queuing for something that was very brightly labelled DO NOT TAKE THIS MEDICINE IF WITH CHILD: WILL CAUSE LOSS and the women pushed and shoved to buy a bottle as if they could not wait.

Milkmaids carried pitchers of milk on their heads and shouted their wares:
Buy my fresh Milk! Buy my fresh Milk!
(‘It is not fresh,’ murmured Philip, ‘they add water. Do not buy milk from the
piazza
.’) Street patterers sang songs about the news of the day, each one its own story:

And Philip murmured to his young sister that a lesson from the poet Mr Shakespeare might be useful. Pickpockets loitered; black-faced chimney-sweeps ran with long brushes; filthy women actually lay in gutters and some of them looked as if they were dead, but nobody stopped. Dirty, scabby, thin children ran everywhere: street children who played in warm, fresh horses’ dung and picked the pockets of those who did not notice. There was rubbish piled in every corner, in every doorway, gin bottles rolled across the cobbles, glass smashed. Footmen on the back of moving carriages leaned precariously and rudely pushed people out of the way of nobility as jingling, decorated horses threw up filth into the crowds, and everything so wild and loud.