Portrait of a not so dashing fellow
There goes another Virgin – or was it a Venus? Between us, I tire a little of both. The former are either inconsolable or rapt in adoration, and the latter require an exhaustion of compliments. Both are completely absorbed in their children; in fact, they often look very similar. Forgive me: perhaps you are very pious. I speak too freely; it is the agitation of being up for auction again. That, and the unpleasant knowledge that my value has declined, along with that of Mr Frans Hals. Count Pourtalès, God rest his soul, bought me for 700 florins in 1822, and so for 1865 we must add 43 years, convert to francs and…
I am so distracted I cannot calculate. And my description in the catalogue – so dull! ‘Portrait of a man, seen three-quarters.’ Then lengthy details of my attire, as if to make up for my lack of name, fat belly, red hair, etcetera. Had I ever belonged to a prince or royal mistress I would feel safer, for then I would lend a noble connection to any wall, but without strong provenance, many of us are haunted by the spectre of storage.
Imagine, please, the company: a rejection of miserable martyrs, tedious seascapes and unpopular relatives, all crowded together in the dark. When once I presided over my own descendants, who ignored me as they ate and squabbled. But six sales and just over two centuries later, I hope only to be hung where I may watch some life.
Where are we now? Still the dawdling Italians – come on! Then comes my group – the Flemish, Dutch and Germans. Keep an ear out for me, Lot 158, after the Brueghels and Dürers.
Down comes Monsieur Pillet’s gavel – he only does the grandest sales. Look at the room; have you ever seen such a collection of wealth? More titles than you can shake a Cellini cruet at, and if Baron Seillière took the young Medici prince by del Piombo that can only mean neither Baron Rothschild nor the Marquess of Hertford desired him, for they are richer than governments.
I knew that painting would go quickly; a handsome young figure with a grand lineage. It was my envious longing for his sort of confidence that took me to Mr Hals in the first place. One tripped over artists in Haarlem, but I had seen one example of Hals’s work, and the louche charm he lent that subject (who I knew in real life to be a very plodding fellow). My venture was a secret, for though I was good at business, in matters of the heart I was not only a fool, but a fat, shy, ginger one, and it would tax any artist to make something of me. But it was fashionable to give a betrothal portrait, so I felt I must do it.
You see how the dealers scribble in their catalogues? They dress like those they would sell to – that is Mr Phillips from London, waiting for Lord Rothschild to notice him – but nothing in this world confers more virtue than high birth. Unless, of course, it is Art.
Take my hair, which Mr Hals was kind enough to darken to auburn. He refused to reduce my portliness, however. In fact, he laughed in my face and said he would make me fatter if I requested such nonsense again, and it showed I liked a good dinner, which made him trust me.
His boldness in speech was quite astonishing, despite his modest circumstances and the fact that I held the purse. For instance, he refused to begin the commission until he was ready, and instead asked me most impertinent questions as if it were his right. When I reminded him this was a business transaction, he retorted that if all I wanted was my wealth on canvas, I should run and fetch my ledger and he would paint that instead. I was about to rebuke him when my stomach growled so loudly that he laughed, and said a sad and hungry man must sit down and eat and drink before trying to argue, and so we did.
It was just ale and bread and ham, but very good. Soon I was confiding about my forthcoming marriage and the satisfaction of both our families, but his comment that I was sad had struck a dart into me. I will say it was the ale that was strong, or never would I have told him of the lack I saw in my beloved’s eyes when she looked at me. Her hand was firmly contracted, but I heard myself declare I wanted her heart as well, and a marriage that was more than a business merger with children. I wanted to see the look in her eyes, I shouted, that I had seen maids give to men who made them laugh and blush. I wished to be dashing so that she would love me, but a pig might sooner fly.
‘Passion!’ Hals cried. ‘You have it for your merchandise; why confine it? You will be the man you dare.’
And with that he dismissed me, not a stroke painted, but with instructions to return with my finest clothes, a hat, a rapier, and under no circumstances to trim my whiskers. You will understand that I woke that next morning with both a headache and the thought he was a complete charlatan.
Speaking of fine beards, do you see in the fifth row, that tall man? That is Prince Demidoff, and he has bought so much over the last two days that he jokes he will build a new chateau to hang them in. And there, that man in the fine cravat is Sir Charles Eastlake of the National Gallery in London, who has excellent taste but a flat purse. A great shame, for in his care one would be sure of being kept alive with plentiful attention. He spoke with the Marquess of Hertford, as they looked at me in the early viewing. The marquess is surely not interested in me, though many are in him, for there is so much gossip. He is a recluse, yet now we see him; he is the respected confidant of the Emperor, he is a libertine who spent one million francs on a night of pleasure with Madame Castiglione, then in the morning asked her for a receipt!
The ways of the aristocracy are scandalous to me: a good solid merchant’s life is what I wanted – but also to be a gallant to a happy wife. Hals’s words stuck in my mind every time I stood before my glass with my scissors, and saw that timid man stare back. I did not understand what he meant by ‘dare’, but nor did I touch my whiskers.
A week later I went back, and this time Mr Hals treated me with great respect – except for when he tipped my hat back in a rakish way I disliked, then told me if I touched it again he would cancel the whole commission, because he must see all my face. And when I had changed into the excessive finery, he had me sit down, threw a heavy, clean canvas over me so that I was almost bound by its weight, and called out that we were ready.
A young woman entered, whom he introduced as his assistant. Before I could say anything, she came to stand before me so close I could breathe the smell of her skin, and something else – and she lifted then the source to my face: hot curling irons! She stood so close I felt the pressure of her knee against mine through the canvas, and without so much as permission, stroked my face and bid me stay very still. Then she grasped my whiskers and tonged them so that I felt the heat without burning. When both sides were done, she and Hals stood back and looked at me. He was pleased, and by her slow smile, she even more so. Never before had a woman looked at me in that way!
Lot 157, the van der Goes! I am next; they are calling me out: ‘Portrait Of A Man by François Hals, 1624, possibly a soldier…’
A soldier? It is the rapier, of course – not that I ever did more than admire the hilt – but the mistake is most flattering. As, I must confess, is the great warm beam of attention upon me, as the bidding opens.
On the left, the heavy, powerful head of Baron Rothschild, still in his dark coat, even though the room has warmed. He lifts his chin a fraction, and M Pillet nods.
‘Ten thousand francs, for Portrait Of A Man…’
Thank goodness. I have made my reserve price. The Baron will take me to the Château de Ferrières to live in splendour, and I shall watch grand parties in good company.
‘Fifteen thousand.’
Ah. Perhaps not. Pillet nods to the other side of the room, where the Marquess of Hertford sits in saturnine elegance, gazing straight ahead. The only way I know the bid came from him is the faint smile that warms the face of the clerk at his side.
All rustling stops. Pillet looks back to Baron Rothschild, and everyone now knows that the Marquess of Hertford has just joined with him in open combat. Necks crane to see these fantastic financial beasts, but both appear entirely unconcerned with proceedings. But someone else must be bidding, for Pillet calls out higher and faster…
‘Twenty thousand at the back,
Twenty-one to the right,
Twenty-two to my left…’
Sir Charles in his silk cravat slumps back in his chair, vanquished at twenty thousand. Even so, I am pleased he valued me. Everyone wants to be desired.
‘Twenty-five to my right,
Twenty-eight,
Thirty thousand francs for Portrait Of A Man with guipure lace sleeves…’
Though I felt ridiculous to wear such sumptuous clothes, everyone remarks on them, so Hals advised me well. Who bid last? Such a long pause… I think it was the Baron. And then the Marquess lifts an eyebrow and Pillet is off again…
‘Thirty-two thousand…’
How I wish Hals were here; he too would be astonished…
‘Thirty-five…
Thirty-six thousand, five hundred…’
Those who could not gain seats in the salon now crowd into the big double doors, pulled by the smell of money. I feel the eyes roving all over me, from my finely painted face to the casual flicks and bold dashes of paint I once thought crude…
‘I have thirty-eight. Thirty-eight thousand francs…’
Pillet holds himself still. This is where it will stop. Baron Rothschild relaxes his massive shoulders, and those around him seem to ripple in reaction, like a school of fish moving to his current. Across the salon, the Marquess’s eyes glow brighter…
‘Forty thousand francs!’
Pillet barely keeps the surprise from his voice as he looks back to Baron Rothschild, who returns the gaze with pressure.
‘Forty-one,’ nods Pillet, and there are gasps. ‘I have forty-one thousand, for Portrait Of A Man by Frans Hals…’
‘Forty-five,’ says the Marquess of Hertford out loud. Everyone stares in amazement that he has actually spoken, then all eyes turn back to Baron Rothschild, a panther to the Marquess’s bird of prey. The barest shrug is a flag to Pillet.
‘To the left,’ exclaims our auctioneer, decorum slipping, ‘I have fifty thousand francs to the left, for Portrait Of A Man by Frans Hals…’
To the right, the Marquess of Hertford half-rises from his seat and bows to the Baron. For a moment, the Baron appears not to see. A blackbird sings outside.
‘Fifty-one?’ the Marquess suggests to Pillet, as if offering him a glass of claret. The room holds its breath. Baron Rothschild pauses… then arranges his muscles into a smile, lifts a dismissive hand at Pillet and sits back. The auctioneer clears his throat.
‘On my right: fifty-one thousand francs for Portrait Of A Man by François Hals, going once, going twice…’
Down strikes the gavel and I am sold. The room bursts into brightness and sound as people repeat the price, incredulous. Hals’s name echoes in the salon, for he is now a greater artist, and I a finer painting, than five minutes ago.
I watch my new owner, the Marquess of Hertford, gazing at Baron Rothschild, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge defeat. Then I see no more, for white-gloved hands are carefully, tenderly, lifting me out of my past life, and up into realms unknown.
Laline Paull is the author of The Bees (Fourth Estate, £14.99). More information at www.lalinepaull.com
The Wallace Collection is open daily from 10am to 5pm, entrance free: www.wallacecollection.org
I am so distracted I cannot calculate. And my description in the catalogue – so dull! ‘Portrait of a man, seen three-quarters.’ Then lengthy details of my attire, as if to make up for my lack of name, fat belly, red hair, etcetera. Had I ever belonged to a prince or royal mistress I would feel safer, for then I would lend a noble connection to any wall, but without strong provenance, many of us are haunted by the spectre of storage.
Imagine, please, the company: a rejection of miserable martyrs, tedious seascapes and unpopular relatives, all crowded together in the dark. When once I presided over my own descendants, who ignored me as they ate and squabbled. But six sales and just over two centuries later, I hope only to be hung where I may watch some life.
Where are we now? Still the dawdling Italians – come on! Then comes my group – the Flemish, Dutch and Germans. Keep an ear out for me, Lot 158, after the Brueghels and Dürers.
Down comes Monsieur Pillet’s gavel – he only does the grandest sales. Look at the room; have you ever seen such a collection of wealth? More titles than you can shake a Cellini cruet at, and if Baron Seillière took the young Medici prince by del Piombo that can only mean neither Baron Rothschild nor the Marquess of Hertford desired him, for they are richer than governments.
I knew that painting would go quickly; a handsome young figure with a grand lineage. It was my envious longing for his sort of confidence that took me to Mr Hals in the first place. One tripped over artists in Haarlem, but I had seen one example of Hals’s work, and the louche charm he lent that subject (who I knew in real life to be a very plodding fellow). My venture was a secret, for though I was good at business, in matters of the heart I was not only a fool, but a fat, shy, ginger one, and it would tax any artist to make something of me. But it was fashionable to give a betrothal portrait, so I felt I must do it.
You see how the dealers scribble in their catalogues? They dress like those they would sell to – that is Mr Phillips from London, waiting for Lord Rothschild to notice him – but nothing in this world confers more virtue than high birth. Unless, of course, it is Art.
Take my hair, which Mr Hals was kind enough to darken to auburn. He refused to reduce my portliness, however. In fact, he laughed in my face and said he would make me fatter if I requested such nonsense again, and it showed I liked a good dinner, which made him trust me.
His boldness in speech was quite astonishing, despite his modest circumstances and the fact that I held the purse. For instance, he refused to begin the commission until he was ready, and instead asked me most impertinent questions as if it were his right. When I reminded him this was a business transaction, he retorted that if all I wanted was my wealth on canvas, I should run and fetch my ledger and he would paint that instead. I was about to rebuke him when my stomach growled so loudly that he laughed, and said a sad and hungry man must sit down and eat and drink before trying to argue, and so we did.
It was just ale and bread and ham, but very good. Soon I was confiding about my forthcoming marriage and the satisfaction of both our families, but his comment that I was sad had struck a dart into me. I will say it was the ale that was strong, or never would I have told him of the lack I saw in my beloved’s eyes when she looked at me. Her hand was firmly contracted, but I heard myself declare I wanted her heart as well, and a marriage that was more than a business merger with children. I wanted to see the look in her eyes, I shouted, that I had seen maids give to men who made them laugh and blush. I wished to be dashing so that she would love me, but a pig might sooner fly.
‘Passion!’ Hals cried. ‘You have it for your merchandise; why confine it? You will be the man you dare.’
And with that he dismissed me, not a stroke painted, but with instructions to return with my finest clothes, a hat, a rapier, and under no circumstances to trim my whiskers. You will understand that I woke that next morning with both a headache and the thought he was a complete charlatan.
Speaking of fine beards, do you see in the fifth row, that tall man? That is Prince Demidoff, and he has bought so much over the last two days that he jokes he will build a new chateau to hang them in. And there, that man in the fine cravat is Sir Charles Eastlake of the National Gallery in London, who has excellent taste but a flat purse. A great shame, for in his care one would be sure of being kept alive with plentiful attention. He spoke with the Marquess of Hertford, as they looked at me in the early viewing. The marquess is surely not interested in me, though many are in him, for there is so much gossip. He is a recluse, yet now we see him; he is the respected confidant of the Emperor, he is a libertine who spent one million francs on a night of pleasure with Madame Castiglione, then in the morning asked her for a receipt!
The ways of the aristocracy are scandalous to me: a good solid merchant’s life is what I wanted – but also to be a gallant to a happy wife. Hals’s words stuck in my mind every time I stood before my glass with my scissors, and saw that timid man stare back. I did not understand what he meant by ‘dare’, but nor did I touch my whiskers.
A week later I went back, and this time Mr Hals treated me with great respect – except for when he tipped my hat back in a rakish way I disliked, then told me if I touched it again he would cancel the whole commission, because he must see all my face. And when I had changed into the excessive finery, he had me sit down, threw a heavy, clean canvas over me so that I was almost bound by its weight, and called out that we were ready.
A young woman entered, whom he introduced as his assistant. Before I could say anything, she came to stand before me so close I could breathe the smell of her skin, and something else – and she lifted then the source to my face: hot curling irons! She stood so close I felt the pressure of her knee against mine through the canvas, and without so much as permission, stroked my face and bid me stay very still. Then she grasped my whiskers and tonged them so that I felt the heat without burning. When both sides were done, she and Hals stood back and looked at me. He was pleased, and by her slow smile, she even more so. Never before had a woman looked at me in that way!
Lot 157, the van der Goes! I am next; they are calling me out: ‘Portrait Of A Man by François Hals, 1624, possibly a soldier…’
A soldier? It is the rapier, of course – not that I ever did more than admire the hilt – but the mistake is most flattering. As, I must confess, is the great warm beam of attention upon me, as the bidding opens.
On the left, the heavy, powerful head of Baron Rothschild, still in his dark coat, even though the room has warmed. He lifts his chin a fraction, and M Pillet nods.
‘Ten thousand francs, for Portrait Of A Man…’
Thank goodness. I have made my reserve price. The Baron will take me to the Château de Ferrières to live in splendour, and I shall watch grand parties in good company.
‘Fifteen thousand.’
Ah. Perhaps not. Pillet nods to the other side of the room, where the Marquess of Hertford sits in saturnine elegance, gazing straight ahead. The only way I know the bid came from him is the faint smile that warms the face of the clerk at his side.
All rustling stops. Pillet looks back to Baron Rothschild, and everyone now knows that the Marquess of Hertford has just joined with him in open combat. Necks crane to see these fantastic financial beasts, but both appear entirely unconcerned with proceedings. But someone else must be bidding, for Pillet calls out higher and faster…
‘Twenty thousand at the back,
Twenty-one to the right,
Twenty-two to my left…’
Sir Charles in his silk cravat slumps back in his chair, vanquished at twenty thousand. Even so, I am pleased he valued me. Everyone wants to be desired.
‘Twenty-five to my right,
Twenty-eight,
Thirty thousand francs for Portrait Of A Man with guipure lace sleeves…’
Though I felt ridiculous to wear such sumptuous clothes, everyone remarks on them, so Hals advised me well. Who bid last? Such a long pause… I think it was the Baron. And then the Marquess lifts an eyebrow and Pillet is off again…
‘Thirty-two thousand…’
How I wish Hals were here; he too would be astonished…
‘Thirty-five…
Thirty-six thousand, five hundred…’
Those who could not gain seats in the salon now crowd into the big double doors, pulled by the smell of money. I feel the eyes roving all over me, from my finely painted face to the casual flicks and bold dashes of paint I once thought crude…
‘I have thirty-eight. Thirty-eight thousand francs…’
Pillet holds himself still. This is where it will stop. Baron Rothschild relaxes his massive shoulders, and those around him seem to ripple in reaction, like a school of fish moving to his current. Across the salon, the Marquess’s eyes glow brighter…
‘Forty thousand francs!’
Pillet barely keeps the surprise from his voice as he looks back to Baron Rothschild, who returns the gaze with pressure.
‘Forty-one,’ nods Pillet, and there are gasps. ‘I have forty-one thousand, for Portrait Of A Man by Frans Hals…’
‘Forty-five,’ says the Marquess of Hertford out loud. Everyone stares in amazement that he has actually spoken, then all eyes turn back to Baron Rothschild, a panther to the Marquess’s bird of prey. The barest shrug is a flag to Pillet.
‘To the left,’ exclaims our auctioneer, decorum slipping, ‘I have fifty thousand francs to the left, for Portrait Of A Man by Frans Hals…’
To the right, the Marquess of Hertford half-rises from his seat and bows to the Baron. For a moment, the Baron appears not to see. A blackbird sings outside.
‘Fifty-one?’ the Marquess suggests to Pillet, as if offering him a glass of claret. The room holds its breath. Baron Rothschild pauses… then arranges his muscles into a smile, lifts a dismissive hand at Pillet and sits back. The auctioneer clears his throat.
‘On my right: fifty-one thousand francs for Portrait Of A Man by François Hals, going once, going twice…’
Down strikes the gavel and I am sold. The room bursts into brightness and sound as people repeat the price, incredulous. Hals’s name echoes in the salon, for he is now a greater artist, and I a finer painting, than five minutes ago.
I watch my new owner, the Marquess of Hertford, gazing at Baron Rothschild, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge defeat. Then I see no more, for white-gloved hands are carefully, tenderly, lifting me out of my past life, and up into realms unknown.
Laline Paull is the author of The Bees (Fourth Estate, £14.99). More information at www.lalinepaull.com
The Wallace Collection is open daily from 10am to 5pm, entrance free: www.wallacecollection.org