The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  Every Tuesday night they drive into Philadelphia in his Pierce-Arrow convertible roadster and dine in fine restaurants. Although not the famous ones. He knows of these hidden gems, which would be puzzling, given his relative newcomer status, if he weren’t George. And this fits Vivienne’s needs. She doesn’t want anyone telling Edwin that she’s been seen dining with a strange man.

  The worst part about being with George is that she actually enjoys his company. When she’s with him, she can loosen up in a way she can’t with anyone else. George knows her past and her present, so it isn’t necessary to be on guard, worrying about saying the wrong thing, tripping herself up. Often she finds herself laughing with him or absorbed in an interesting conversation about art, which she had no idea he knew so much about. And he’s the only one with whom she can speak openly about the state of Edwin’s health.

  One night they go to a tiny bistro, which appears to be the parlor of the chef’s house. There are only eight tables, each discretely separated from the others by latticed room dividers and potted plants. Over salad, George says, “Tell me about Matisse.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks. Could he be reading her mail? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  His expression is guileless. “I mean, what’s he like in person? You must have had a lot of contact with him when you were writing your book.”

  “Why this sudden interest in Matisse?”

  “I’ve been thinking about The Music Lesson since we looked at it the other night. He’s one of my favorite living painters.”

  Sure he has. Sure he is.

  Vivienne wonders what George knows about her relationship with Henri, and says, “Henri Matisse the man is almost as fascinating as Henri Matisse the artist.”

  They discuss Matisse and his work through most of dinner. Then to Vivienne’s regret, George switches to Picasso over dessert. “You know that Henri and Pablo hated each other’s work at the beginning?” she says, not wanting to let go of Henri.

  “I get the impression they still do,” George says. “That they don’t like each other much either.”

  “Partially true, partially playacting. Pablo once told me that no one has looked at Henri’s paintings more carefully than he—and that no one has looked at his paintings more carefully than Henri.”

  “Really?” George is clearly surprised. “I was at Gertrude’s one night, looking at Henri’s Blue Nude, and Pablo came over and asked if it interested me. I told him I didn’t really understand what Henri was doing. Pablo agreed and said something like, ‘If he wants to make a woman, let him make a woman. If he wants to make a design, let him make a design. This is a muddle somewhere between the two.’”

  Vivienne laughs. “They’re two ambitious men competing to be the one to make the cleanest break with the past. To take the biggest step beyond what other artists are doing. Beyond what he himself is doing.”

  “Allied in the fight against the status quo,” George says. “Comrades and opponents both.”

  “Exactly,” Vivienne agrees, noting the similarity between the artists’ relationship and hers with George. They continue to trade inside stories, and she’s impressed with how much he’s been privy to during his short stint as Ashton. Once again, she finds she’s enjoying herself.

  When George drops her off after dinner, he holds her hand a moment longer than usual. “Do you think that someday you might speak of me with as much admiration and affection as you do of Henri Matisse?” he asks wistfully.

  She searches his face for signs of disingenuousness. Finding none but knowing that means nothing, she says lightly, “Perhaps when you produce a painting as grand as The Music Lesson.”

  His laugh is full of mirth and warmth, and for a moment she wants to stay in the car with him.

  Quinton’s close friend Ralph Knight, the director of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, lobs the first broadside in Vivienne and George’s war on the Bradley trust. Knight requests the loan of The Joy of Life for an upcoming show, and as expected, Edwin informs him that under no circumstances will he lend The Joy of Life or any other piece he owns to the museum.

  Then suddenly, as if out of nowhere, rumors begin to spread about the Bradley’s financial problems—and Edwin’s inability to adequately maintain the artwork because of it. These are followed by an editorial in Quinton’s Investigator in which the “wretched state” of the Bradley is described, citing the precise location of leaks, buckling floorboards, and crumbling stairs as well as “an appalling lack of conservatorship and preservation of the priceless artworks, which belong to all of mankind.”

  The thrust of Quinton’s argument is that if Dr. Bradley is unable to maintain the collection, the state must take it over because it’s a public treasure. Therefore the Investigator, in conjunction with the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the University of Pennsylvania’s School of Fine Arts, has asked the attorney general’s office to do just that.

  Edwin strikes back with a letter to the editor, that is, to Thomas Quinton, reminding him that only a couple of years ago—it’s actually over five, but Edwin is not one to be overly concerned with the facts—Quinton stated, in reference to the exact painting the PMA is now requesting, that Matisse “shouldn’t be allowed to call himself an artist if he doesn’t know the difference between foreground and background.”

  Which, as Edwin put it, “proves that Thomas Quinton is both a fool and a hypocrite.” He also accuses Quinton or one of his staff of breaking into the Bradley. “How else would his paper know the exact location of the leaks? The specific damage?” How indeed.

  As is Edwin’s custom, he sends copies of his letter to all the newspapers in town, and many publish it. This, predictably, sparks an onslaught of negative Bradley articles, op-ed pieces, and letters to the editor. Edwin is irate, apoplectic actually. His coughing and wheezing increase.

  As Vivienne and George planned, she’s at Edwin’s side throughout the onslaught, encouraging his anger, supporting him in his savaging, salting his wounds. She’s eager to move ahead, but George cautions patience. Finally they agree she can take the next step.

  She sits down in the chair across from Edwin’s desk. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but as long as the Bradley claims a tax exemption—”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Please, Edwin, please just think about it. It may be the only way out of this mess. If you terminate the trust, all the property reverts to you personally, and neither Quinton nor Knight nor the state will have the right to tell you what to do with it. You told me Jacob said that as things are now, the state could contend it has a compelling interest in how the facility is maintained. So it makes—”

  “If I don’t have the money to fix the roof,” he roars, “how the hell am I going to find the money to pay the damn taxes?”

  “You can easily get a loan based on the value of a few of the paintings, and—”

  “Great idea,” Edwin says sarcastically. “Then I’ll have to take out a new loan every April. Year after year. Not a good long-term financial plan.”

  She tries to keep her voice low and reasonable. “Once you do the necessary repairs and restorations, you can pay the loan back by lending out some of the paintings or—”

  “I refuse to break up the collection—even temporarily.”

  Vivienne bursts into tears, which is easy, given the precarious state of her nerves. “We’ve got a potentially calamitous situation on our hands,” she sobs, pulling her handkerchief from her pocket. “And I’m afraid if you pretend we don’t, it’s going to make it worse. You could lose it all,” she wails.

  “I’m not paying all that money for nothing,” he says through clenched teeth, although he’s clearly upset by her tears.

  “It’s not for nothing,” she tells him, wiping her eyes. “It’s for everything.”

  A lawsuit is filed within a month arguing that “in order to protect one of the state’s greatest cultural assets,” it is necessary for the Commonwealth o
f Pennsylvania to place the operations of the Bradley School of Art Appreciation in receivership. Although Jacob Gusdorff warned him this was likely, Edwin is hit hard by the news.

  “I’m worried that this time it’s not going to turn out the way the last suit did,” Vivienne tells him.

  “They’re not going to win.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  They’re standing in the Bradley’s main room and Edwin says, “These are my possessions. Bought and paid for by an American citizen—and as such the government cannot take them. No judge is going to rule against me on this,” he adds. “Private property. The United States of America.”

  His intractability is so blinding that she pushes her fists into her armpits to keep from screaming. Then she hears George in her head: You’re an actress in a play, speaking a character’s lines, a playwright’s lines, not your own.

  “Edwin, please,” she says, “please listen to me. The Bradley isn’t your private property until you make it private. If you leave things the way they are, you could jeopardize it all.”

  But again he refuses. “We’ll see how it plays out.”

  She begs Jacob Gusdorff to talk some sense into him. Jacob tries, explaining that the state’s argument has validity and that he can’t guarantee a positive outcome. In fact, if he were to predict, he’d predict defeat. Edwin is unmoved.

  She’s stunned when George remains optimistic. They strategize, and a few days later Edwin receives a letter.

  My dear Edwin:

  It is my understanding that the Bradley is currently suffering financial difficulties, and that these difficulties are the underpinnings of a lawsuit to place it into state receivership. I am also aware of the majesty of the Bradley’s art collection, so I feel it is my duty, and also my honor, to offer to assist you in this extremely grave matter.

  As a fellow art lover, I cannot bear the thought that those who share neither your passion nor your expertise will be placed in charge of the handling and potential deaccessioning of these precious paintings and sculptures. Therefore, my proposal is this: I am willing to fund all necessary restoration of the artwork in the collection, which would cause the state to drop its lawsuit. In exchange, the collection will be moved in its entirety, without deaccessioning, to Philadelphia and installed in a new building to be erected for this purpose, or perhaps in a new wing of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

  The details of such a structure have yet to be determined, but I have no issue with creating an exact replica of your current galleries in which the remarkable ensembles you have created would be duplicated in precisely the manner in which they are currently displayed in Merion.

  I look forward to working with you to ensure that the priceless artifacts you have collected are properly maintained and protected and that the fine citizens of Philadelphia will be able to appreciate them for generations to come.

  Your friend,

  Thomas

  “My friend Thomas!” Edwin explodes as he strides into Vivienne’s office and thrusts the letter at her. “What horseshit!” He continues to rant as she reads it. “ ‘The fine citizens of Philadelphia,’ my ass,” he rails, struggling to breathe. “ ‘A fellow art lover’? The bastard has one hell of a nerve!”

  “Don’t forget about Ralph Knight,” she eggs him on. “Both of them have finally figured out a way to move your collection to Philadelphia. To turn it into a museum!”

  “Steal my collection is more like it!” he wheezes. “And that is never, ever going to happen!”

  Vivienne waits.

  “I’ll get him to give me the restoration money, and then I’ll arrange it so nothing can be moved.”

  “Quinton is no fool,” she argues. “He’s not going to pay you anything without a written contract allowing him to move the collection.”

  Edwin rips the letter into little pieces and throws them in the trash can. “I’ll make it work. I’ll find a way.”

  “Don’t do it,” she implores him. “It’s a bad idea and it’s not going to work.”

  “And you’ve got a better one?”

  She just looks at him.

  “I’m not taking out a loan to pay taxes I don’t have to pay.”

  “So then what?”

  He doesn’t yell at her, which is what she expects. He just stares off into the distance. “You really think we might lose?”

  “And so does Jacob.”

  “Damn fucker’s got me over a barrel.” Edwin has never spoken that word in her presence, which is a clue to the depth of his despair.

  “I’m sorry,” she lies.

  Edwin raps his knuckles on her desk. “I’ll have Jacob get started on the paperwork this afternoon.”

  “Paperwork?” she repeats to make sure he’s talking about what she hopes he’s talking about. After all their years together, she shouldn’t be surprised at the swiftness of his decision, but she is.

  “Quinton is not getting his hands on my ensembles,” Edwin growls. “No matter how remarkable he says they are.”

  The Trial, 1928

  I despaired at the beginning of the trial because Ronald refused to give his opening statement until after the government rested its case. Well, I was wrong. It was an excellent move, and he did a commendable job.

  He rebutted almost every argument Pratt made against me over the past week. And as far as I’m concerned, he nullified more than enough of them to establish reasonable doubt. He started with motive and named all the people—aside from me—who might have had reason to want you dead. I’m sorry to say that the list was long and included Ada. Cruel but effective.

  So what if I’d once signed a receipt presented to me by the truck driver who hit your car? I’d signed thousands of receipts in the years I worked for you. And said driver had presented receipts to thousands of other people during the years he worked for Empire State Transport. How was I supposed to remember his name?

  Ronald pointed out that, at various times, you’d appointed Ada, the University of Pennsylvania, and the Philadelphia Museum of Art as your beneficiaries, insinuating that each of them might have had reason to believe they were the current heritors to “one of the greatest private art collections on earth—a feather in the cap of any college or museum.”

  “And you must remember,” Ronald said, “that Ada Bradley also had knowledge of precisely when her husband would be leaving their country home for the city. As did the cleaning woman, Blossom Sinclair. And it was a universally known fact that Dr. Bradley never obeyed that stop sign.”

  He went on to explain to the jury that you and I had been working together closely for years. That we had traveled together, written books together, purchased artwork together, taught together, and that together we’d made the Bradley and the educational curriculum what they are today. He emphasized that there were many more projects lined up to further expand our vision—projects that I needed you to help complete, including a half-finished manuscript on Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

  But this wasn’t the only reason I wanted you alive. Ronald hesitated, appeared to be reconsidering what he planned to say next, then plowed ahead, admitting that we had been having a longtime affair—and pointing out that many others, including Ada, were aware of this fact. That I was very much in love with you—and you with me. He told me that it didn’t matter if this wasn’t true. It served our purposes.

  And then there was my character, the lies I’d been forced to tell to put Paulien Mertens behind me. “A youthful transgression,” he assured the jury. “A teenage girl taken advantage of by a much older and seasoned con man, exiled from her parental home at nineteen, penniless and left to find her way alone in the world.”

  Ronald shook his head with great sadness. “I hope none of you thought, for even a minute, to hold this against Miss Gregsby. I say the fact that she has created such a successful life for herself indicates her character is strong—and that she should be admired rather than denigrated for all she has accomplished.”


  Take that, Ada. Take that, Pratt. Take that, Quinton.

  And as for opportunity, well, Ronald pointed out that anyone could pay a truck driver to crash into a car, couldn’t they?

  But here is where Ronald really excelled. He approached the jury box and asked, “If you wanted to hire someone to kill your wife, your husband, your father, or your lover, how would you suggest the hit man go about doing this?” Then he answered his question with more questions. “A gun? A knife? Poison, perhaps?”

  Ronald’s voice was laden with sarcasm. “No, those are all too simple, too straightforward, too certain to be successful. I say there’s got to be a better way.”

  He paused as if he were thinking what that way might be, then brightened. “How about getting a great big truck to wait at a stop sign, hope your potential victim won’t stop at the sign, and then have the truck driver ram his car if he doesn’t! Yes, that’s it. That’s what we’ll do. It’s clearly the best and surest way to get rid of someone!”

  The jury remained stoic, but there were chuckles from the spectators. Ronald had warned me against it, but I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Under no circumstances does this make any sense,” he continued. “No one, especially a woman as accomplished and intelligent as Miss Gregsby, would be this stupid. Moreover, there’s no doubt in my mind, and there shouldn’t be in anyone else’s, that Edwin Bradley was not murdered. That he was the unfortunate victim of an accident. Pure and simple. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  Ronald turned to the judge. “Although I have promised to present witnesses who will corroborate my assertions, I hope this will not be necessary. Instead, I offer a motion to dismiss, based on the fact that the prosecution has failed to produce any real evidence in support of a guilty verdict against my client.”