The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  It was several minutes before he spoke again. ‘I can let your father have ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Oh God, no,’ Marshall said, startled. ‘I wasn’t coming to you for money. I just wanted you to talk to Dad. He couldn’t and wouldn’t take money, but he’s very low, Samuel, and he listens to you.’

  ‘Not lately, or he wouldn’t be in this mess.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘I’m worried about him. And I’d be less worried if you were in touch with him. I’m staying at the country house and he’s joining me at the weekend, but if you could ring him in the meantime … Just talk to him, calm him down. I can’t do it. I’m his son, he won’t listen to me.’

  ‘What about Tobar Manners?’

  ‘What can I tell you?’ Marshall said bitterly. ‘He says that he sold my father’s painting on, and that the purchaser said it was by Bol and therefore paid Manners for one of Rembrandt’s pupils. Manners is insisting that he was the one who was cheated.’

  ‘Liar. Always was and always will be,’ Samuel said coldly. ‘I can’t imagine why your father believed anything he said.’

  ‘They were friends.’

  ‘There are no friends in business,’ Samuel retorted sharply. ‘Your father panicked, that’s what happened. He wasn’t thinking clearly.’

  ‘So talk to him. Please,’ Marshall urged. ‘He needs to talk to someone he respects.’

  Nodding, Samuel sipped at his tea, staring at the fire. The logs shifted and dropped, sparks flirting up the drowsy chimney in front of them.

  ‘Did your father ever tell you about his theory?’

  ‘Which theory?’ Marshall asked, finishing his tea and settling back into the armchair. The house was welcoming and outside the day was cold and uninviting. He felt suddenly like a boy again, listening to one of Samuel’s stories and waiting for the sudden flurry of sweets to come his way.

  ‘His theory about Rembrandt’s monkey.’

  ‘Rembrandt’s monkey? No.’

  ‘Perhaps he knew you wouldn’t be interested,’ Samuel said simply, glancing at Marshall and knowing that he had scored a direct hit. ‘You never were interested in the gallery, were you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was a shame for your father, but then again, we can’t force our children into our shoes. It only gives them bad feet. Can even cripple them, or so I hear,’ Samuel continued. ‘Your father’s very proud of your work. You do know that, don’t you? He wonders how you managed to have such a talent for languages and translation.’

  ‘I’ve got a good memory and besides, my mother spoke three languages,’ Marshall said quietly. ‘I suppose I inherited it from her.’

  ‘But it takes more than just a skill to translate literature in another language. It takes passion and creativity.’

  ‘Which I could have put into the gallery and the art world?’ Marshall countered, reading the old man’s thoughts. ‘You’re being unusually obscure, Samuel, why don’t you just come out with what you’re thinking?’

  Samuel smiled, obviously amused, then reverted to his previous topic.

  ‘Your father has a theory about Rembrandt. He did some research and checked his facts and dates, and then he came to see me to talk about it. Oh, this is a while ago, not long after he bought the gallery and we became friends. You were all living in Albemarle Street then, in the flat. All very cramped for a family of three.’

  ‘Especially with that bloody ghost.’

  Samuel laughed again. ‘No one ever found out who killed the poor soldier, did they? But then again, there are ghosts and ghosts. Some who stay around the place where they were killed, some who stay around places they loved. Some ghosts can’t leave, because of their tie to the earth. And then there are the living ghosts …’ He paused, folding his hands across his narrow stomach. ‘People who are in the background. Always hovering, always out of reach.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Marshall said carefully, watching his father’s mentor.

  ‘Rembrandt was not at all as we think of him now. He wasn’t well thought of in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, his work was found to be too dark and dismal. Other painters could run rings around him. Rubens, for example, could paint a rhinoceros without blinking, and a whole pageant of people in broad sunlight. No cheating shadows, no Brown Windsor soup backgrounds. And yet, over the years, we fell in love with Rembrandt van Rijn. We took his darkness as our own. Perhaps in the twentieth century there was too much Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung; people who made us look inside our heads and psyches, who talked about our dark sides, and made us believe that the soul was as accessible as a National Trust castle. We were taught to embrace our shadows. And shadows live without sun … Caravaggio was the first who made a career out of lighting, but his brute strength and violence were too much for him to have many apologists, and so we came to Rembrandt …’

  Despite himself, Marshall’s attention was caught. It was cold outside and he had no wish to leave. In the soft, dry nest of the old house, he found comfort in Samuel’s voice, the story drawing him in.

  ‘But we forget the facts. We forget that Rembrandt was a miller’s son, as brash, ambitious and boorish a man as possible. He came to Amsterdam thinking that he knew it all and was soon successful. But success swelled his head. You can see it in the self portraits. Rembrandt dressed up like a cavalier or some turbaned Eastern potentate, but whatever he wore, the same potato face looks out at us. Clothes could not make this man anything other than a boor.’ Samuel paused, smiling wickedly. ‘All this has nothing to do with his ability as a painter. He was supremely gifted, but where we’ve gone wrong for so long is in how we have chosen to think of Rembrandt. Your father found the true Rembrandt.’

  Leaning forward, Marshall stared at the old man. ‘What d’you mean? The true Rembrandt?’

  ‘After Rembrandt’s wife died he hired a housekeeper, a youngish, childless widow called Geertje Dircx. Before long they were lovers and he gave her one of his late wife’s rings. But then another maid came into the house and Rembrandt switched his affections.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Geertje was forced out, but she took Rembrandt to court for breach of promise. She said that he had promised to marry her – something which was taken very seriously in Holland at the time – and said that the ring proved his intention. Rembrandt denied it. He claimed that in the terms of his late wife’s will, he would be virtually ruined if he married again and so – because of that – he would never marry anyone. He offered to buy Geertje off, tried to wriggle of out his responsibilities, but when Geertje wouldn’t agree to his terms in court, Rembrandt retaliated in one of the cruellest ways ever recorded. He had her committed to an asylum.’

  Surprised, Marshall frowned. ‘People don’t talk about this.’

  ‘Of course not. How would it fit with the image of Rembrandt the humanitarian? If we had known that he got Geertje’s neighbours, and her own brother and nephew to testify against her, how would we have judged Rembrandt then?’

  ‘As a bastard,’ Marshall replied simply. ‘So what was my father’s theory?’

  ‘That Rembrandt had a son by Geertje.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Marshall exclaimed, astonished.

  ‘There’s some evidence that Geertje could have met Rembrandt before either were married, and that they had a brief affair when they were very young. We know that Rembrandt knew Geertje’s brother, and that the families were acquainted. But after the affair Rembrandt went on to marry Saskia and Geertje married a ship’s carpenter.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  Samuel gave Marshall a slow look.

  ‘Bear with me. Your father believed that Geertje gave birth to a son – Rembrandt’s child – in 1622, when she was only fifteen and Rembrandt fourteen.’

  ‘That’s a bit young, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only the other day there was a boy in the paper who fathered a child at twelve,’ Samuel replied. ‘Anyway, because Rembrandt and Geertje were kids and the whole matter was an
embarrassing mistake, the birth was kept a secret and the child was adopted by a couple in Beemster. The adoptive father was in the town council and his wife was the local midwife, Barbertje. This is a very important fact—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because a midwife could easily bring an unwanted child into her own family. Who could be better placed?’

  ‘But why would she?’

  ‘Your father has a theory about that too,’ Samuel replied, pleased to see Marshall’s growing interest. ‘Apparently, Pieter Fabritius, the adoptive father who worked for the town council, had regular increases in salary. After a decade or so, the couple were earning a substantial sum annually. Owen believes that the Fabritius couple were paid to keep quiet.’

  ‘And this adopted child—’

  ‘Carel Fabritius.’

  ‘—was the illegitimate son of Rembrandt and Geertje Dircx?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Blowing out his cheeks, Marshall leaned back in his seat. Outside the wind was getting spiteful, the day dowdy with rain.

  ‘But how would Rembrandt get them to agree to taking on the child?’

  ‘Rembrandt didn’t. You forget that Rembrandt was only a boy himself at this time. His parents were desperate to cover up the scandal and, although not rich, they paid to have the illegitimate child adopted. Remember, it would be worth it to them. They knew their son was prodigiously talented, that a great future awaited him, and they weren’t prepared to let that opportunity slip. It was probably sorted out between the two sets of parents, and then forgotten.’

  ‘But if that’s true, what happened to Geertje?’

  ‘She went on with her life, worked in a tavern, and then married a ship’s carpenter.’

  ‘And never said a word to anyone?’

  Samuel paused, throwing a log on the fire. Within a few moments the smell of applewood uncurled from the flames.

  ‘But what if she did tell someone? Her husband, for example? Couples talk and exchange confidences all the time. Perhaps she confided in Abraham Claesz when it turned out that they couldn’t have children. Perhaps they argued and he told her that it was her fault that she was barren. Wouldn’t she have retaliated? What pleasure would it have given her to brag about the now famous father of her illegitimate child? Or what if – when she was firmly ensconced in his home and life – she told Rembrandt himself?’

  Intrigued, Marshall reached out to warm his hands.

  ‘Where was Carel Fabritius by this time?’

  ‘Being raised in Beemster. By judicious planning, Pieter Fabritius was an amateur painter, so Carel’s talent wouldn’t have seemed out of place. And when he reached his teens his father, seeing a perfect opportunity for advancement, entered Carel into Rembrandt’s studio as a pupil. All very neat.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Early 1640s. Geertje entered Rembrandt house in 1643.’

  Curious, Marshall considered the facts. ‘Did she know who Carel was?’

  ‘Your father believes that she did,’ Samuel replied. ‘Your father thinks that Geertje knew only too well that Carel Fabritius was her son. And that when Rembrandt’s wife died, it was the perfect opportunity for her to re-enter the painter’s life.’

  ‘But if Rembrandt knew about Carel—’

  ‘Ah, but your father doesn’t think he did know that Carel was his illegitimate child. Not at first, anyway. He’d probably never even seen his illegitimate son. He would have thought the whole matter was over and done with long ago. Rembrandt was on a high – famous, ambitious and arrogant. He might be very pleased to see Geertje again, and fall back into their old love affair whilst she nursed his young son, but did Rembrandt know that his pupil was the bastard he had with his girl lover? Unlikely. He’d hardly have risked such a scandal by taking Geertje in, would he? To have his own bastard as a pupil? While he slept with the mother? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But if Geertje knew,’ Marshall said carefully, ‘God, what a hold she’d have over Rembrandt … Of course, there’s one other big question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Did Carel Fabritius know who his real parents were?’ Sighing, Samuel sank back into his seat, his spindly legs stretched out on the Long John in front of the fire, his old slippers curling upwards at the toes.

  ‘Has your father never told you about any of this?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask him.’

  ‘You tell me,’ Marshall urged him. ‘You can’t stop now, it’s too good a story. Did Carel Fabritius know he was Rembrandt’s son?’

  ‘Your father doesn’t think so. He thinks that Carel found out later.’

  Marshall frowned. ‘So what’s Rembrandt’s monkey?’

  ‘Not what, who. Apparently there were some letters, written by Geertje Dircx, which corroborated the whole story,’ Samuel replied, smiling enigmatically. ‘Your grandfather left them to your father.’

  Stunned, Marshall leaned towards the old man.

  ‘So why hasn’t he gone public? Why hasn’t he sold them? They’d make a fortune—’

  ‘And create a scandal. Undermine the whole art market, especially in a recession,’ Samuel said quietly. ‘Your father loves everything about the art world, and he’s not the kind of man to set out to destroy the reputation of one of the greatest painters who ever lived.’

  Marshall’s eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t finished the story. You still haven’t told me who Rembrandt’s monkey is.’

  ‘It’s not my place to tell you.’

  ‘So you just told me enough to whet my appetite?’

  Samuel nodded, his eyes cunning. ‘Ask Owen for the rest. Let him have the triumph of telling you, it might help you both. You said you were staying with your father at the weekend? Well, ask him then. It would take his mind off his worries and he’d love to think you were interested in his pet theory.’

  Smiling, Marshall studied the old man in front of him. ‘Have you seen these letters?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, have you or not?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way,’ Samuel said earnestly. ‘I don’t have your father’s noble nature. I’d love to set the cat among the pigeons.’

  ‘Just as I would,’ Marshall said, ‘which makes me wonder why you told me about them. You know how much I dislike the business, and now this trouble with Manners has made me despise it more than I ever did.’ He remembered Owen’s panic. ‘If my father loses the gallery …’

  ‘Is it really that bad?’

  ‘He says so. If he lost the gallery, he’d be ruined. I don’t just mean financially, his whole world would collapse. Albemarle Street and the streets around it, the galleries, the dealers, the auction houses – they’re his life’s blood. Dealing is his passion. I think my father could even take the loss of his reputation – but not the loss of his gallery.’

  ‘Your father has many friends, myself included. Honestly, Marshall, I’m sure when he calms down he’ll realise he can save the business. He might have to sell the stock and pull in a few favours, but he can do it. And remember, there’s ten thousand pounds with your father’s name on it.’ The old man sighed. ‘If you ask me, what Owen needs now is a break. Do what you said you were going to do. Stay with him at the weekend, let him talk. And ask him about the Rembrandt letters. Those deadly, secret letters.’

  Getting to his feet, Marshall looked down at the historian. ‘And Rembrandt’s monkey?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ask him about the monkey too.’ Samuel laughed. ‘Make him tell you what Rembrandt was really like.’

  5

  The rain was coming down in platinum sheets by the time Marshall reached the outskirts of London. Peering into the darkening suburbs, he swerved to avoid a motorcycle and then skidded to a halt at the side of the road. Unnerved, he stopped the engine, the windscreen wipers keeping up their mechanised droning. Reaching for his mobile, he called his father, but there was no answer at the gallery. Surprised, Marshall tried the coun
try house, but again, no reply.

  Then he realised that if Owen was in the cellars of the Zeigler Gallery he wouldn’t hear the phone ringing in the gallery above. And it was more than likely he was downstairs, going through the stock, taking an inventory, trying to make some order out of the chaos … For a moment Marshall was tempted to drive to Tobar Manners’ house in Barnes. After all, he knew the place well: an old house studded with paintings, Manners an effusive host, his regal Italian wife often away. She was, some wit once said, the Good Manners. Certainly she seemed to have little involvement with her husband’s work or colleagues, only present for the Christmas party they threw every year. Marshall could picture her without trying – taller than her husband, broad shouldered, with a long Venetian nose and black hair – formidable, and yet inherently kind. And with an impressive lineage.

  Many people wondered why she had married the small, homosexual Tobar Manners, with his aggressive feral ways in business and his pungent social charm. But the marriage had lasted, the Venetian grande dame as reserved as the Sphinx. Not that she missed anything. Rosella might not remark upon it, but nothing her husband did went unnoticed. Once, many years earlier, she had seen Tobar teasing Marshall and had caught the boy’s eye, glancing at her husband and lifting her brows as if to say, what a fool. And we both know it.

  Incensed, Marshall thought of Tobar Manners and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. Why shouldn’t he go and have it out with him? Confront him, accuse him of cheating his father? Why not …? Marshall knew only too well. Manners would have his story crafted to perfection. He would insist that he had been cheated, and no doubt have some tame accomplice on hand to back up his version of events. He would shake his head and act flustered – embarrassed by what had happened – assuring Marshall that he would never, never have done anything to injure Owen. His hand would shake very slightly as he poured them a sherry, and he would avoid eye contact, his white lashes feathering the sly eyes.

  Turning the engine back on, Marshall knew that any visit to Tobar Manners would be pointless. He had got away with it. For now. But if Marshall had anything to do with it, one day he would get his own back on his childhood tormentor and his father’s Janus friend.