The Rembrandt Secret (19 page)

‘Fat over lean,’ Samuel replied. ‘With every layer, you use more oil, or the painting will dry out and crack.’

‘OK, then what?’

‘The layers of glazes would glow against the lighter base, acting as a refractive index, so that the colours seemed to radiate. That’s what took the time, waiting for each layer to dry before applying another. It took months, not weeks. When the ground was grey, Rembrandt taught his pupils how to intensify the shadows with warm colours, so that the greyness underneath gave cool half tones. If he used a yellow ground, half tones were added over. But he also used scumbling and glazing too, as I said.’

‘But Rembrandt laid the paint on thickly sometimes,’

Marshall said. ‘I remember the picture my father sold, there were chunks of cream highlights.’

‘And that’s what gave a three-dimensional effect. The contrast made the painting seem more real. But there were no ready-made paints in those days; every colour had to be ground up with a pestle and mortar for a long time, until it was smooth. No shortcuts. And then it would have to be mixed with more oil. Think about it – the smell of the ground paints, the linseed and the turpentine would have been overwhelming. In the summer, they left the windows open, but there wasn’t much air because there was no proper ventilation. In winter it was cold, and the house would reek of the materials they were making – and using – every day.’ Samuel paused, thinking back to his old lectures. ‘Rembrandt didn’t go in for training his students to draw much. But we know he used to get them to copy his preparatory paintings in order to learn.
Proeven van zyn Konst
.’

‘What?’

‘It means “put his skills to the test”.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, sometimes Rembrandt would do a painting of a theme he liked, say for example, the Head of Christ – and the pupils would create their own versions.’

‘So there would be numerous versions?’

Samuel nodded. ‘Varying in quality, of course.’

‘How long would it take a student to learn all this?’

‘Depends on the student. A good pupil might learn fast. Another might take three years. Three years was the usual time for an apprenticeship. Remember, some of Rembrandt’s pupils had already been partly trained by other artists before they came to him. Ferdinand Bol, for instance. There’s some evidence that he had been tutored by Jacob Gerritsz, Culp or Abraham Bloemaert.’ Flicking over the pages quickly, Samuel passed Marshall a book, open at a page showing a
Portrait of Elisabeth Jacobs dr. Bas.
’

‘But this is by Rembrandt, surely.’

‘No, that’s by Ferdinand Bol,’ Samuel said, smiling knowingly. ‘See how closely he mimicked Rembrandt. When Bredius – some say the most important art historian of the last century – declared this work to be by Ferdinand Bol and
not
by Rembrandt there was an outcry. It was owned by the Rijksmuseum and was one of their prize exhibits; they didn’t take kindly to it being demoted.’

‘Because it lost value?’

‘A lot of value – and because they were trying to build up a collection of Rembrandts at the time.’

Marshall thought for a moment. ‘Tobar Manners said that my father’s Rembrandt was actually by Ferdinand Bol.’

‘Many works have been attributed to Bol that were previously called Rembrandts,’ Samuel replied, ‘but that painting of your father’s was genuine, and Manners knew it. He knew its worth from the first time he saw it – and he wanted it.’

‘So why didn’t
he
buy it?’

‘That’s where the luck comes in. It was a
sleeper
. A valuable painting no one else had spotted. Your father found it at an auction in The Hague, bought it, and it made his name. At the time Manners was also building his career and had made a few lucky buys. He spotted a Gerrit Dou in France and bought a Pieter de Hoogh from an American dealer. Both big names, but not
the
big name. He’d never owned a Rembrandt. Brokered them, yes. Dealt in them, but never owned one. That stuck in his craw.’ Samuel laced his hands together. ‘Manners has a very sound reputation in Dutch art, but what he wants most is a Rembrandt. He needs it now, needs a good sale to prop up his business—’

‘
Manners
is struggling?’

Samuel shrugged.

‘Everyone is struggling now. There isn’t a dealer in New York or London who would want to see their stock lose value. But as for Manners, if he could handle a big Rembrandt sale, it would propel him back into the limelight. I told you, Rembrandts keep their value, increase it every day – that’s why the letters would be lethal.’

‘OK. Tell me more about Rembrandt.’

‘He was a greedy man. Ambitious, quick to make money, a voracious collector. He was successful from the off, and that meant that he never had to struggle for recognition. He was the painter people wanted to commission; the favourite of the authorities and of the merchant classes. Remember, the merchants had suddenly been promoted in Holland. They were the ones with the money now, and they wanted to show it off. You remember the tulip trading?’

Marshall nodded. ‘A fortune was paid for the bulbs.’

‘Well, that was one way they showed their wealth. Other ways consisted of collecting silver ware, newly imported fabrics and furniture, but most of all, if you were anybody in seventeenth-century Holland, you had your portrait painted. And you had it painted by the best, the most expensive, the most sought after. That was Rembrandt van Rijn. He knew he could ask big prices because he would get them, and he became avaricious. You have to recall that Saskia, his late wife, had been rich, and she came with a good dowry. I don’t doubt that Rembrandt loved her, but the money would have been a definite bonus.’

‘So people would buy pretty much anything Rembrandt painted?’

‘Yes,’ Samuel agreed. ‘And as everyone wanted work in the manner of Rembrandt, that was how his pupils painted. They wanted to be successful, after all. Especially someone like Govert Flinck, one of the best pupils. He realised early on that by adopting Rembrandt’s style he would never be short of work.’ Samuel passed Marshall another book, showing him a painting by Flinck of a man in a plumed hat. ‘In fact, in 1675, Sandrart commented that Flinck’s portraits were “
judged to be more felicitous in the exactness and in the pleasing quality of the portrayal
”.’

Marshall raised an eyebrow. ‘He was thought to be better than Rembrandt?’

‘By some then, not now,’ Samuel replied. ‘In fact in the first half of the 1630s, when Flinck was working closely with Rembrandt, a great number of Rembrandtesque portraits and tronies – head only studies – were turned out.’

‘Which they were
both
painting?’

‘Yes. And which benefited them all, I imagine, particularly Rembrandt and his dealer, Hendrick van Uylenburgh.’

‘So the dealers haven’t changed much over the years,’ Marshall commented drily. ‘I suppose Van Uylenburgh knew these Rembrandts were actually by Govert Flinck?’

Samuel shrugged. ‘How do I know? I imagine he guessed. There was a lot of money to be made. Rembrandt wasn’t above getting colleagues to bid up one of his paintings at auction—’

‘To make more money?’

Samuel shrugged. ‘Rembrandt had expensive tastes. He loved to collect paintings, silver, armour, furniture, china. In fact anything. Many of his valuable antiques he used in his pictures, but it seems that he just loved to spend.’

Thoughtful, Marshall stared at the Flinck portrait, then asked, ‘But if Rembrandt had people queuing round the block, how did he have time to undertake every commission?’

‘And there you have it!’ Samuel replied, leaning back in his wheelchair. ‘Rembrandt trained his pupils in his manner. Nothing wrong there – Rubens did the same – but where Rembrandt differed was that he would allow the work of the best pupils to be passed off as his own.’

‘You’re joking,’ Marshall said, feigning ignorance.

‘No, there’s evidence from the period. Houbroken, a friend of Govert Flinck’s son, says that Flinck’s paintings were accepted as authentic Rembrandts – and sold as such.’ Samuel replied. ‘But we don’t have any evidence which says conclusively that such and such a painting was by
Bol
or
Flinck
or
Fabritius
.’

‘What about Fabritius?’

‘He was Rembrandt’s best pupil,’ Samuel replied, showing Marshall Carel Fabritius’s self-portrait of a young man. The face was strong, with a firm mouth and steady, level gaze. Intelligence shimmered around the features, but it wasn’t painted like a Rembrandt and had a look which was unique.

Surprised, Marshall stared at the image. ‘Fabritius didn’t paint like his father.’

‘No. Not when he was satisfying his own taste. Then he chose cooler colours, muted tones, like
The Goldfinch
, which is a masterpiece.’

‘But Geertje Dircx says that Carel Fabritius was Rembrandt’s monkey. That not only was Carel his son, but he was the chief assistant to Rembrandt—’

‘His main
jonggezel
.’

‘His what?’

‘His collaborator.’

‘His forger, you mean.’

‘And how clever it was,’ Samuel replied thoughtfully, ‘to pick the pupil with the greatest talent – but the one least influenced by the Master. People would easily suspect Bol or Flinck, but not Fabritius. Besides, Carel Fabritius didn’t stay in Amsterdam, he moved to Delft, away from the studio, apparently well away from his mentor’s influence. To all intents and purposes, he studied with Rembrandt in the early 1640s and then left to run his own studio.’

‘So if we hadn’t read Geertje Dircx’s letters we would never have known about any of it?’

‘We wouldn’t have known that Fabritius was Rembrandt’s bastard, but over time there have been a few interesting attributions which have been reversed,’ Samuel said. ‘In Pasadena there’s a
Bust of Rembrandt
which has now been attributed to Fabritius, and in the collection of the Duke of Wellington is a pair of portraits, a man and his wife, which were long considered to be by the master. But not now.’

‘So people have suspicions?’

‘There have
always
been suspicions, but without proof. As I said, Rembrandt wanted to turn out as much work as possible. Over the centuries his works have been attributed and reattributed, but as most of them are considered to be authentic the value of Rembrandts have held worldwide.’

‘So the letter which name the paintings?’

Shaken, Samuel Hemmings stared at Marshall, his voice hardly more than a murmur.

‘The letter which
name
the paintings?’ He was alert in his chair, his eyes glistening, his expression shrewd. ‘Do you mean to tell me that there’s a list of the pictures Carel Fabritius painted for his father? A list of works which everyone thinks are Rembrandts but were actually created by his bastard son?
A list of fakes?
’

Marshall took in a breath. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘No, I didn’t bloody know! The list was in the last letter?’

Marshall nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘The one your father didn’t let me see.’

‘You didn’t see that one?’

‘No, and I always wondered
why
Owen didn’t let me see it – but now I know,’ Samuel replied, smiling ironically. ‘That last letter is the key to the whole fraud, isn’t it? Without it, it’s just Geertje Dircx’s word. The evidence of a mad woman.’ Sighing, he wheeled himself over to the corner of the room, his cane extended and poked at the empty dog bed.

Baffled, Marshall watched him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Come over here, will you?’

As Marshall did so, Samuel looked at him, then gestured to the basket. ‘Turn it over.’

‘Turn it over?’

‘Please.’

Nodding, Marshall flipped over the dog bed, and saw a faded brown package taped underneath. Without looking at Samuel, he pulled the parcel free and weighed it in his palm.

‘The letters?’

‘A copy.’ Samuel wheeled back to the fire, shivering although the temperature had not fallen. ‘This is a greedy business, the art business. We’re all ravenous for success, money, reputation. Reputation above everything. We want to make our names, so that people will remember us and our intellectual detective exposés.’ He laughed sourly, his hands folded on the tartan rug over his legs. ‘This copy was supposed to be my guarantee.’

‘Of what?’

‘My part in history,’ Samuel replied. ‘My guarantee that I knew about the letters, that I was in on it. That this incredible information
I
was privy to. When people talked about the Rembrandt letters in the future they would remember Owen Zeigler
and
Samuel Hemmings, because I would write about them. I would be in on it.’