The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  ‘My problem isn’t so much trusting, as knowing who to trust,’ Marshall replied, holding the older man’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you before, Samuel, I should have known you’d never do anything to hurt my father. And I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

  ‘I don’t want anything to happen to me,’ Samuel joked, but his expression was serious.

  ‘I really do need your help, Samuel,’ Marshall repeated. ‘You’re the only person who can tell me what I need to know.’

  ‘All right,’ Samuel agreed, finishing his tea and setting down the cup. ‘I haven’t lectured for a long time, Marshall; you’ll have to bear with me until I get in my stride again. Now, let me see. You want to know about Rembrandt?’

  ‘Yes. I want you fill in the gaps.’

  ‘Then you’ll need some background … Like other artists of his time, Rembrandt took in students. He was very successful when he was young, so he had a studio early in his career. And pupils.’

  ‘He taught them how to paint?’

  Samuel blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, it wasn’t quite that simple, they were first taught the basics then trained up. An important artist would take in students to live on the premises, if there was room. And there was, because Rembrandt’s house was plenty big enough.’

  He scooted over to the round table and came back with two volumes, slapping one down on the low table in front of the fire, and opening the other at an illustration of Rembrandt’s studio. ‘This is a good example – Interior of an Artist’s Studio, possibly Rembrandt – drawn by the artist himself. You see him looking over the work his pupil has done? See the apprentice at the easel and the others in the background, and all the paraphernalia that Rembrandt collected for his paintings – spears, costumes, caskets, helmets? And look at the sitter, a woman in traditional Dutch costume of the period—’

  ‘Who could be Geertje Dircx. She wrote that she sat for Rembrandt’s pupils,’ Marshall said, staring at the drawing avidly. ‘Could be her.’

  Samuel nodded.

  ‘Could be, or could be a number of other women. The artists paid some models to sit to them, others they found almost destitute and fed them instead. It was pretty low work – or that’s how it was perceived anyway. Prostitutes often sat for painters, or relatives of the artists were sometimes used as models.’

  ‘Did Rembrandt have any female relatives?’

  ‘His wife was dead, his sister didn’t live in Amsterdam, and at that time he didn’t have a daughter. So no, if Rembrandt wanted to use someone close to hand, he might have had to use his housekeeper. After all, he wouldn’t have had to pay her.’

  ‘And he taught the pupils to draw first?’

  Samuel nodded. ‘To draw, and to mix paints, prepare the ground of an oil painting. The under-painting of Rembrandt’s pictures was usually grey, or warm brown, or a yellow.’

  ‘So why were they so dark?’

  ‘If he had painted them on a dark background the colours would have faded back. Painting them over a lighter background meant that the lightness of the base came through. Especially if he was using glazes—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A transparent colour mixed with oil. Linseed oil, or Venetian turpentine sometimes. There could be up to ten glazes laid one over the other transparently, each one with more oil than the preceding one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Only if my father revealed them.’

  ‘But he would have done, in time!’ Samuel snorted. ‘Not now. I understood that, it would have been wrong for the truth to come out now. But in a couple of years, when the economy’s recovered, when New York and London are back to their old greedy ways – then he could have published them. Blown the whole art market up. Boom!’ He made a sound with his lips, his hands raised, palms upwards. Then he let them drop back into his lap. ‘I was living for it, Marshall. It kept me alive. I could hold on, knowing that I had something to hold on for. I used to look over to that dog bed and smile, thinking about the packet taped underneath and know that I knew the truth.’

  ‘You never felt tempted to expose them yourself?’

  There was a pause. ‘The time wasn’t right.’

  ‘And besides, you didn’t have all of them, did you?’

  The historian’s head shot up, his expression defiant. ‘Implying that if I had got them all, I’d have gone behind your father’s back? Had them published and taken the credit for myself?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that!’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Samuel hurled back. ‘You’re not that different from your father, after all, are you, Marshall?’

  ‘Think what you like—’

  ‘I’ll do just that!’ he snapped. ‘You come here, wanting to pick my brains, wanting to get a potted history of Rembrandt so you can understand the business. Well, you can’t, Marshall,’ he said fiercely, ‘you can’t – not until you’ve spent years and decades reading and looking, and caring. You can’t learn a few facts and think you can go up against experts. You want the easy way and there isn’t one. Your father knew that, he knew how much effort had to go into making a reputation.’

  ‘I don’t want a reputation in the art world—’

  ‘No! And you never did!’ Samuel replied, wheeling himself away towards the window and looking out. His face was white, and on his cheeks were two bright spots of colour which revealed how angry he really was. ‘And you have the temerity to suspect me. To doubt me!’