The Fraud (50 page)

But the Experts had already elected a spokesman and he now, ignoring the Frenchman, began to address the Academicians. Signore Filipo di Vecellio felt his heart beating.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the Expert. ‘My eminent Colleagues, and the finest Critics of the day’, (he bowed at the Englishman and the Frenchman with equal respect) ‘concur. We have examined this Painting for many hours as you have seen; we are agreed that this is an authentic Painting by Rembrandt van Rijn. We feel that Signore di Vecellio might rest assured. We are willing to put our valuable Reputations at risk and to advise the gentlemen of the press who are waiting below that we are certain of the authenticity of
Girl Reading
. We hope thereby that the matter will be closed.’

A great shout of triumph went up that could very likely have been heard downstairs where the press-men waited. Everywhere huge sighs of relief and words of congratulation; Claudio di Vecellio kept saying delightedly to his father, ‘See! See Father!’ so nobody heard the almost inaudible sigh from the pale woman. But suddenly the voice was loud and clear.

‘
No!
’

It was because it was a woman’s voice in this male company that her voice was heard. What an extraordinary surprise it was that the woman should speak at all. They turned to her in amazement. James Burke in particular looked shaken, he stepped towards her but she put up her hand and the room went silent, more in shock than in obedience to her oddly forceful small gesture.

‘I painted this Picture,’ she said simply. The explosion in the room was not amazement or anger: it was simply laughter, loud raucous laughter and, clearly heard, the supercilious neigh of Mr Hartley Pond. And then general hurrumphs of embarrassment for poor Filipo di Vecellio: first the authenticity of his painting was called into question and now his sister had run mad.

People had even begun leaving the Council Room and the Antiques Room, for it was a family matter and would be no doubt dealt with, and it was time for dinner; the door to the anteroom to the staircase was actually opened. But the woman spoke again and her voice was firm.

‘I painted this Picture.’ There were now exasperated sighs as well as laughter and somebody was heard hoiking into the spittoon in disgust: it was realised that nobody could leave for their awaited dinner just at this moment because they knew that the journalists from the
Morning Chronicle
and the
St James’s Press
waited below for the result of the deliberations, and to be shown the picture - they could not have a madwoman running amok from the Royal Academy premises. The door of the anteroom was quickly closed again; the gentlemen gathered back in the room with the painting and the madwoman. Claudio di Vecellio stared at his aunt in disbelief and anguish.
What is she thinking of?
He would lose everything
again
.

Signore Filipo di Vecellio took command at once. ‘I do beg your pardon, Gentlemen. This has of course been a great strain upon our Family. My Sister has been unwell before, and we will see to it. I would wish to thank you for your meticulous attention to the Rembrandt Painting, and if you will allow us to leave I will detain my Sister in another room until the Journalists have admired the Painting. Then perhaps we can all meet at the Turks Head for a dinner that I will be very happy to invite all present to share with me as my Guests.’

‘I painted this Picture,’ said the woman for the third time, and this time she looked straight at her brother. There was great embarrassment in the room, again mainly for Signore di Vecellio who should be so unfortunate as to have a mad sister. Now the spokesman for the Experts himself came towards her kindly, clearly used to dealing with unfortunates.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this has no doubt been a most worrying time for your Family and we understand you will all have been under a great deal of strain. Why not wait with your Brother until it is easier for you to leave the Academy? This is a story, after all, with a happy ending.’

‘Not yet,’ said the woman clearly. It was not clear whether she meant she should not leave yet, or whether the happy ending was not yet. She walked towards the painting in a perfectly dignified manner, and nobody stopped her which was most peculiarly odd for she could have damaged it of course: it was as if they were bewitched by her madness. She stood beside the painting and stared at it. She pointed to the rich gown with all its glowing colours, ‘I painted that gown.’ And then she pointed to the girl with the wonderful eyes. ‘I painted that Girl,’ she said. ‘Much has been done to the Painting to age it - but it was painted by me.’ She looked as if she would say more but Signore di Vecellio interrupted.

‘She is not a Painter,’ he said, ‘of course she is not a Painter. She is my housekeeper!’ He was so incensed, so embarrassed, so angry that he took his sister very harshly by the arm but she shook him free; he then perhaps used more violence than he intended, but he was angry beyond words to be humiliated and shamed in his hour of triumph. She was then half-dragged, half-carried away from the painting by several of the gentlemen including her brother. She began to scream as she was hustled and carried. It was absolutely imperative the screams were not heard downstairs for this was to be a day of celebration of Art and Art’s Reputation, and was not to be sullied, so a hand was put across her mouth, which she bit; someone then hit her across the face. James Burke stood as if nailed to the ground: the look on his face might have revealed many things, but nobody was looking at James Burke. The door of the anteroom to the staircase was shut firmly so that sound was muffled.

In the Council Room, while a hand still was held over the mouth of his sister, Filipo di Vecellio explained to several of the Experts that his sister had spent some time in Bedlam, so that this behaviour was not altogether new. ‘Then the Porter will fetch her away to the Asylum,’ said one of the Academicians, and already someone quickly opened and closed the door of the anteroom and hurried downstairs, ‘for he knows what to do, for occasionally a Person has gone mad at an Exhibition. I request your patience for just a little moment longer, Gentlemen,’ he said then to the gathering. ‘Everything is being dealt with and we shall descend to the press-men with our Statement, as arranged. They will be invited to see this Rembrandt for themselves, and we shall repair to the Turks Head in a very short time.’ And the gentlemen hurrumphed again and spat and longed for a drink, and the somewhat farcical situation might have continued had not the strangest thing happened.

The woman who was being held had heard the word:
Bedlam.

With an almost superhuman strength she pulled free for a moment from her tormentors. She stood before them, dishevelled now and breathing in great gulps, with her hair undone and her lace cap awry. For a moment nobody approached her, although they were ready for the slightest sign of danger. And in that moment she looked at James Burke, and then she turned her head to look once more at the painting as it sat there, beautiful and Rembrandt-like in the early afternoon light. Nothing in the world seemed more unlikely than that this hysterical, aging woman had painted such a beautiful thing.

And then she turned back to the assembled gentlemen.

‘I will speak to the Journalists downstairs if you do not allow me to speak to you,’ she said. ‘I will shout to them as you bundle me past, or I will send a message to them if you choose to lock me away.’ She saw the disbelieving, disapproving, angry faces, felt the stillness of James Burke, Art Dealer. ‘Surely you Gentlemen must know that there are anonymous, knowledgeable men in dark alleys all over the world who have the skills to authenticate paintings as Old Masters. It was’, she did not look at James Burke, ‘my own idea. I took my Painting to some such as I have described and’ - she gave an odd little smile, and those near heard an odd little sigh - ‘I asked them to authenticate me.’

Then she took a deep breath.

‘I can prove it,’ she said.

 

—for I was from Gambling Stock, after all. I was not certain, but I was
almost
certain, that I could prove it.

Of course I had not intended any Violence in the Royal Academy, I regretted the screaming, I regretted my brother’s harshness towards me, I would rather have done it with Dignity but they had grabbed me and pulled me and silenced me and spoken of me as some mad thing and the reason in particular why I bit the hand that was held over my mouth was not because I was insane but because of the stink of it: the smell of meat and shit and cigars covering my mouth and my nose.

Now they all stared at me; the faces are burned in my memory forever, all the Academicians that I had wanted to be part of: anger, dis-belief, red faces, embarrassment, one or two amused faces for this would make such a fine story to relate over dinner-tables ; my brother’s steely rage; and Claudio’s shocked, thin face, like Tobias.

‘Do not let her touch the Painting!’ someone called in alarm, and they moved again as if to take me away.

And then the strangest thing happened. It was James Burke who saved me. ‘Let her prove it,’ he said. ‘For if I, as the Dealer, have been duped I wish to know of it,’ as if to say to me,
go ahead
,
go on
,
you have already cleared me
,
let me see you prove it
.

There was a loud chorus of disagreement and disapproval: why were they even listening to a madwoman? ‘Take her away,’ was the general cry. ‘Hide her in one of the other rooms upstairs, lock her in the Grand Room, until the press-men have gone!’ but Thomas Gainsborough forcibly held several Academicians back. ‘Let her at least speak!’ said Thomas Gainsborough who was observing everything , I was dimly aware, with intense interest.

‘Let her prove it,’ said James again. ‘It is my Reputation as an honest Dealer at stake here,’ and his grey eyes said to me again,
Prove it
, and the eyes were wild and glittering; he looked almost mad himself.

‘But I tell you she is not even a Painter!’ shouted my brother, almost uncontrollably but now people were holding his arms, as if he might kill me else. ‘Why are you listening to her for even a moment!’ he cried. ‘Have you all taken leave of your senses?’

I had placed my basket in one of the dim corners of the room. —I walked to it, shielded the contents with my body and removed a cloth and a small bottle, and walked back towards the Painting, there was a small gasp of silence and then Philip shouted again, although some still held him, ‘I beg you gentlemen to stop this Farce immediately!’ and someone else called in anger, ‘Do not let that Madwoman touch the Painting!’ and I knew I would be dragged away again any moment if there was further delay.

‘I shall touch a small part of the gown,’ I said calmly. ‘Or perhaps if you would rather, one of the Experts might follow my Instructions.’ Intakes of breath: the
effrontery
of the Madwoman. Then: not Mr Hartley Pond, not an Expert, but the French critic moved towards me quietly. I think he had been insulted enough by Mr Hartley Pond and the Experts ignoring him, to do it.

‘What have you in the bottle,
Madame
?’ he said, bowing slightly as he approached me.

‘It is Turpentine,
Monsieur
.’ And as I removed the cork from the bottle the sharp fumes caught me, and a flash of memory - Turpentine dripping through my hair so long ago when Philip had so violently thrown me to the ground of his Studio and torn up my Drawings. ‘I shall remove a small part of the Varnish, and a little paint from the gown.’

‘This is a very, very valuable Painting,
Madame
. You will damage it if you touch it with Turpentine.’

I could not help it, I laughed (another sign that I was mad of course, but it really was not madness, except that everything about this occurrence was madness: just a small pleasant laugh). ‘I think you yourself will be grateful,
Monsieur
, if you allow me to damage it in small measure.’

I saw him catch my meaning: he understood I spoke of his Reputation, it was not he who had spoken so portentously of the Soul of Rembrandt. I saw him measure me - I may have looked dishevelled but now that I was not being pulled about the premises I am sure I looked and sounded perfectly calm: I
felt
perfectly calm for it was All or Nothing now. I saw his look: either I was mad. Or I was sure.

Philip’s loud, hoarse voice. ‘I forbid you to touch my Painting! It is mine! I forbid you!’ The French Critic turned very, very Frenchly, and very slowly, towards my brother. ‘
Monsieur
, I have been asked to verify this Painting and—’

Mr Hartley Pond broke in, his voice shaking with anger, ‘I know this Woman well! This Woman is a
housekeeper
!’ and I saw Thomas Gainsborough looking at me intently.

The French critic repeated his words, ‘I have been asked to verify this Painting and—’

‘—you have already verified it!’

‘—and if I wish to further verify before I
sign my name
to anything , I must do so.’

A tiny whisper in the room, ‘Damnable Frenchies!’

And after a moment or two the Frenchman turned back to me and bowed again. There were angry intakes of breath in the long room. ‘Very well,
Madame.
‘Instruct me exactly.’ I moved to him, and whispered something into his ear that the others could not hear. He looked at me, startled.

But one of the Experts then came forward. ‘Allow me,
Monsieur
. I, after all, am the Expert.’ And, with the look of one of Leonardo da Vinci’s martyrs upon his face, he put a small dab of Turpentine upon the cloth and rubbed gently at the bottom of the Picture where I showed him. It was a meticulous hand he laid to my Painting: careful, slow, methodical. But before he went further, the French Critic went to him and whispered something into his ear that the others could not hear. The Expert looked at me startled also: I knew he thought I was insane, but after a brief look of confusion he went ahead. The paint of the skirt under the Varnish, began to come away. ‘Be careful now, at this moment,’ I said
.
‘There will be a mark’ and in my head I said,
God in heaven I hope there will be a mark: the palette knife
,
did I scratch lightly or deeply? lightly or deeply? I tried to see myself doing it that mad night
,
but I could not
. I heard the breathing of the French Critic beside me, he smelled slightly of roses,
I cannot be sure
,
I cannot be sure
, I hoped the thickness of my paint on the red-brown gown had not obliterated the mark for ever, my heart was pounding in my chest: Everything in one, last, throw of the Dice.