by Peter Watson
David sat back and refilled his glass. ‘What do you think?’
‘How much does the Pope hope for this time?’ Pringle believed in getting straight down to basics.
‘The figure I suggested he might expect was twenty million dollars. Fifteen certainly. I’ve agreed to advance them ten.’
Pringle sucked the end of his pen. ‘It’s great business—and wonderful theatre. I love every minute of it. But if this sale catches on, sir, if we make a lot of money for the Vatican and if selling your art for a good cause becomes the smart thing to do, where will it end? I have a feeling these are deep waters, Mr Colwyn, very deep waters.’
3
David looked down from the rostrum at the faces in front of him. Sir Roland Lavery was there, in the first row where he couldn’t be missed. Sir Alaistair Brown, his opposite number at the National Gallery and normally an ally, sat three rows back, his mane of silver hair framing his ruddy face and black velvet bow tie. The Americans, for some reason, all liked to sit at the back: Smallbone from the Getty, Holmes from Houston, Jakobson from the Metropolitan, Villiers from Boston, McGinty from Chicago. Von Hohenburg had a whole team over from Berlin with him: he sat in the auction hall now at the end of his row where David could see him easily. The French, the Italians, the Australians, the Japanese were all here. There was even a Russian from the Hermitage, an almost unprecedented visit and one which underlined, if it needed underlining, the sensational impact of the Vatican sale.
For David, for Elizabeth Lisle and for the entire Hamilton staff the past few days had been unbelievably hectic. The announcement of the Gauguin sale had left people stunned. An Italian government spokesman again attacked the Pope’s policy of selling off treasures, but in the face of the scale of the damage in the Marquesas Isles, his were graceless words. Most people applauded the Pope’s compassion, his imagination and, above all, his will to act. Newspapers the world over despatched reporters to the scenes of devastation and their reports, first of the damage, then of the Vatican aid arriving, provided the sale with the best kind of publicity. When the Gauguin went on show at the Hamilton gallery, the lines swelled further. Many people, interviewed in the queues, told reporters that they were coming for the second time.
David’s ambition to make the sale the event of the season succeeded magnificently. He was aware of the bitter irony that helping the poor required so much glitter but, as he wrote in a specially commissioned article for the New York Times which appeared on the morning of the sale, he honestly could see no better way. Of those invited to the sale, almost no one refused and extra public rooms had to be prepared, linked to the main hall by closed circuit television.
The arrival of the communist mayor of Foligno, Sandro Sirianni, on the day before the sale was heavily covered in the British press, and his introduction in the catalogue, praising the Pope for what he was doing, was reprinted in abridged form in the London Times on the same day as David’s New York piece.
Elizabeth Lisle had arrived at the saleroom early, but David had seen very little of her by the time he mounted the rostrum to begin the sale. They exchanged a word during the reception, when they had wished each other luck, but no more.
Jasper Hale, the apostolic delegate, had also arrived early, ready to receive the guests with Afton. ‘So, Mr Colwyn,’ he murmured as they stood together at the top of the great staircase at Hamilton’s, ‘it looks like the mystery will have a happy ending after all.’
David smiled. The old fox had the memory of an elephant. He held up crossed fingers. They had then bowed and smiled and shaken many hands as the room filled up.
Amid such glitter, the communist mayor of Foligno might have been expected to look out of place. Except of course that, as an Italian communist, Sirianni arrived in black tie, his grey hair immaculately groomed—and with a gift for David and for Hamilton’s.
He was introduced by the Italian ambassador, who acted as interpreter. ‘Foligno is not a rich town, Mr Colwyn,’ he said. ‘But we are proud and not ungrateful.’ What he then held out moved David very much. It was a mounted fragment of the marvellous mosaic, the vivid gold and blue picture of Christ being worshipped by the earlier Pope that had once adorned the main facade of Foligno Cathedral, which had crashed to the ground near Enzo’s bar on that fateful Sunday. It was very beautiful and very appropriate.
‘As you can see, Mr Colwyn, it has been framed by local carpenters in Foligno, men who survived the earthquake and have been helped by the Pope’s funds. It is a—well, a kind of memorial to this whole episode. I hope you will accept it, with our thanks.’
Elizabeth Lisle was standing beside the Italian ambassador and Sirianni and David could see that she was as touched as he was.
‘I am honoured, Signor Sirianni. And I am delighted to accept it on behalf of Hamilton’s. We shall display it prominently, I assure you.’
By then it was a quarter past seven and David hastily excused himself and disappeared up to his office on the fourth floor. He needed to comb his hair, straighten his tie and to collect his own copy of the sale catalogue. For an ordinary sale, with many paintings to be auctioned, it would have been marked in his own private code, with reserves, bids, details of those lots which, although spread throughout the catalogue, actually belonged to the same buyer—all the details that went into a successful sale but which also made being an auctioneer a rather more difficult job than it might appear to an outsider.
For this sale, however, preparation of that kind was not necessary. To begin with, of course, there were just the two lots, the Gauguin, which was to be sold first, and the ‘Madonna’. But this sale was also exceptional in that Hamilton’s had received no telephone bids whatsoever. Quite simply, everyone had been determined to come themselves, wanting to be present at what was so obviously an historic occasion. He knew, because the publicity department had made a count for a diary item in that morning’s newspapers, that twenty-three directors of national galleries around the world were here, all forty-seven of the top Old Master dealers and all sixty-six of the top modern French dealers except Louis von Lutitz who, he knew, was ill in hospital in Paris. And even he had sent a deputy. David also knew that there were, perhaps, no more than twenty or thirty private collectors in the entire world who could afford the prices likely to be seen tonight, and ninety per cent of them were taking their seats in the main hall at that very moment.
During the reception Jasper Hale had been in his element. He knew everyone and, David could see, he obviously adored Elizabeth Lisle, introducing her flamboyantly to every guest. Though there was a serious side to the evening, the reception had very soon taken on the flavour of a party. Photographers from the press, who David had also insisted wear black tie so as not to spoil the mood, moved among the guests, their lights flashing like fireworks.
In his office, as he scooped up the catalogue and one or two other items he would need on the rostrum, David realized that, despite his nearly twenty years in the business, and despite the fact that everything had gone so well so far, he was horribly nervous. At the end of the day the paintings had to sell. If, for some unanticipated, dreadful reason the pictures failed to reach the millions he had advanced to the Pope, it would be the biggest embarrassment, and the most expensive disaster the art world had ever known. He, David Colwyn, would certainly be out of a job—but worse, the Holy Father’s ambitions for his Church would be severely crippled.
Firmly dismissing such thoughts, he went down to the main hall. He had timed his entry well. It was a matter of pride at Hamilton’s that auctions started punctually. On this occasion, however, David judged that a three or four minute delay would underline the sale’s importance and add to the drama. The main saleroom was packed, men and women representing millions of pounds in nearly every seat. As David appeared, nodding to acquaintances, giving last-minute instructions to his staff and mounting in a leisurely way the steps to the rostrum, the buzz in the room died away. He spread his papers on the desk before him, took his gavel from
his pocket and settled into his chair. He looked down to check that all the Hamilton staff dotted about the room were in place. They were there to spot any bids he missed.
The huge saleroom suddenly brightened as the television lights were turned on. Well, thought David, this is it. The greatest sale of my career, of anybody’s career. The greatest auction ever. It was time to begin.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hamilton’s. Before we begin the main business of the evening I have two announcements.’ He looked down and to his left. A blue-coated porter placed the Foligno gift, the blue and gold mosaic, on the display easel. David beamed. ‘This, I hasten to say, is not for sale. For those of you who don’t recognize it, this is an exquisite fragment of a work of art from Foligno Cathedral. As you can see it has been framed by carpenters in the town, men aided by Pope Thomas’s efforts. Earlier this evening it was presented to Hamilton’s as a thank-you gift by Signor Sirianni here’—and David indicated with a nod of the head where the mayor was sitting. ‘Since one of you here tonight is actually going to buy the “Madonna” I think you deserve his thanks far more than we.’
A burst of chatter broke out and a ripple of applause. David indicated to the porter to take away the mosaic. Then he spoke again, to quieten the hubbub. ‘My second announcement …’—he allowed the murmurs to die away completely—‘My second announcement is equally pleasant.’ He held aloft a slip of paper, obviously a cheque. ‘As you know, in connection with tonight’s sale, and as a way of raising more money to help the disaster victims, Hamilton’s took the unusual step of requesting payment at public viewings of the Raphael “Madonna” and then, after the Marquesas Isles disaster, the Gauguin. I am happy, therefore, to present this cheque now to Monsignor Jasper Hale, the apostolic delegate in London.’
Hale got to his feet, the cameras trained on him and David.
‘The amount, incidentally,’ said David, pausing with a fine sense of the dramatic, ‘the amount from the voluntary admission charges, together with the sale of the special catalogue, comes to £613,176.’
This time the applause was heavier. David leaned down and handed the cheque to an astounded Hale who took it, kissed it, and pushed his way between the packed rows of chairs to shake Sirianni’s hand enthusiastically. David had deliberately not told the delegate about the cheque: he had wanted to catch him off-balance. Some television networks were carrying the auction live and this was too good an opportunity to miss. Now, while the chatter about the cheque continued, David nodded to the senior porter to put up the Gauguin. Immediately the noise died away to stillness: faces and cameras turned to the easel.
‘And now, without further delay, the main business of the evening. The first lot in the sale tonight is Paul Gauguin’s “Nativity”, painted in the South Seas in 1898. This painting is being sold on the authority of His Holiness Pope Thomas, the proceeds to benefit the survivors of the Marquesas Isles tidal wave disaster. I shall start the bidding at five million pounds—any more? Five million?… five million pounds … Any more …?’ This was the moment David always hated. Quite often, between the opening statement by the auctioneer and the first bid from the floor there was a ghostly silence, a dead time when it seemed as if nothing further would happen. David looked around the room: all faces were on him now but no one moved. No one spoke. Then a man removed his glasses, waved them briefly. It was a dealer from New York.
‘Five million. Five million is bid,’ said David. The sale was on and he breathed again.
As often happens, once the ice was broken, an avalanche started. Dozens of people—Americans, Europeans, and the Australians particularly—were raising their hands, or nodding their heads, or waving their catalogues in David’s direction. The bidding rose to ten, twelve, fifteen million pounds. Eighteen million. Then it slowed as people reached their limits and dropped out of the bidding. David breathed more easily as the bidding crested eighteen million. In common, seemingly, with most of the trade, he had set the picture’s value at between eighteen and nineteen million, and had told Elizabeth Lisle as much over the phone. He would have felt he had let the Pope down if the Gauguin had not made eighteen million pounds.
But it had and now, as the figure approached nineteen million, only three bidders appeared to be left: the National Gallery of Tokyo, the Houston gallery and a dealer who, David thought, was bidding for either the National Gallery in London, or the Tate. At twenty Houston dropped out. The bidders were more reflective now, taking as much as thirty seconds to make up their minds on each offer. The three Japanese from Tokyo even had mini-conferences among themselves.
At twenty-one million, just when both sides seemed to be exhausted, a new bidder entered: the New York Metropolitan Museum. David admired the skill and experience of Norman Jakobson who had sat there patiently, letting the others wear each other out, then entering at just the right psychological moment. At twenty-two million Tokyo dropped out. Most surprising the Met, having come in at twenty-one million pounds, dropped out immediately after. An interesting tactic, thought David. Jakobson had done nothing to drive the price up, was willing to pay slightly over the odds for the picture, but no more than that. Very professional.
And so David found himself saying: ‘twenty-three million … twenty-three million pounds … any more?… any more?… twenty-three million pounds … fair warning … twenty-three million pounds …’ His gaze searched the room. ‘… Any more?… twenty-three million … twenty-three million … Any more?… twenty-three million … all done at twenty-three million pounds …’ He banged his gavel. As another wave of excited chatter began to break, he looked at the winning dealer, ready to call out his name. But this man, an old acquaintance of Hamilton’s, looked across to where Sir Alaistair Brown, director of the National Gallery of London was smiling happily. Sir Alaistair nodded to David, meaning his identity could now be revealed. Delighted, David banged his gavel again and said in a loud clear voice, ‘The National Gallery, London.’ You old rogue, he thought. Hiding behind a dealer was not exactly a new ploy but it had paid off gloriously this time. The Gauguin was a great catch for the National.
David had expected to move straight on to the Raphael but the hubbub was such that a short break was obviously needed. He realized that no one wanted to rush the occasion and that for some of the people in the hall, the two sales were related. The National Gallery was presumably cleaned out and wouldn’t be bidding any more tonight, whereas other galleries, having failed to spend money so far, might go higher to get the ‘Madonna’.
So, for a minute or two, David sat sipping water from the carafe on his desk and patiently surveying the room. Then, after what he judged a suitable interval, he said loudly to the head porter, ‘Put up the Raphael.’
The ‘Madonna’ was lifted onto the easel. Whereas the Gauguin had seemed to David somewhat unassuming in the vast dimensions of the auction room, the Raphael was more obviously imposing, its reds and blues losing none of their vividness in the bright television lights. The room was reverently hushed now, totally silent, as if these art lovers realized they were seeing a picture the quality of which would never be repeated at auction. David hardly had to raise his voice to make himself heard. ‘Raphael’s “Madonna of Foligno”, painted between 1511 and 1512 for Sigismondi dei Conti, originally at the church of Aracoeli in Rome, and then later at Sant’ Anna in Foligno. It was looted by Napoleon’s troops in 1797 and transferred onto the canvas in Paris. Since it was returned to Italy this picture has been in the Vatican and is now sold on the authority of His Holiness Pope Thomas, the proceeds to benefit the victims of the earthquake which struck Foligno earlier this year.’
David picked up his gavel, double-checked again that all his aides were in place, and began. ‘This time, ladies and gentlemen, I shall start the bidding at ten million pounds … ten million … ten million pounds …?’
Again the dead seconds. No one in the room moved.
The five hands went up together and the next three minutes were the most exhilara
ting in David’s life. He had never known so many bidders. There was activity in all parts of the room and his assistants were calling out bids he didn’t even see. It seemed at times that everyone wanted to bid, perhaps just to say they had taken part in this historic auction. Quickly the bidding climbed to twenty-eight million pounds. By then the competition was down to six: Berlin, Sydney, the Getty, Tokyo, the Louvre, and the Metropolitan in New York. David held his breath as thirty million pounds approached. When he had first discussed numbers with the Holy Father he had known the picture would break all records—but now, as the magic figure of thirty million approached, he still couldn’t quite believe it.
But the figure was reached. And still the drama wasn’t over. At thirty million pounds Tokyo and Sydney dropped out but—sensation—the Hermitage came in!
Where Ivan Shirikin had got the money from David didn’t know but there he was, lifting his catalogue in an unmistakeable bid. At thirty-two million pounds Berlin and the Louvre gave up but Shirikin’s presence only seemed a challenge to the Americans. Thirty-five million was reached. Then the Russian, as suddenly as he had entered, dropped out. That left just the Getty and the Met.
Or did it? Sitting slightly apart from the other Americans was a small, spare man, who now raised a well-manicured, rather bony finger. David recognized him as Douglas Fillimore, director of the Frick Collection in New York, a wholly private collection which many people in the know regarded as the greatest collection in the world, certainly in America. Founded by Henry Clay Frick, the coke and steel millionaire, the Frick made very few acquisitions but, when it did, they were always the very best. Fillimore’s intervention was a masterstroke, and brilliantly-timed psychologically. By coming in now he had signalled to the other two, the Getty and the Met, that he would fight to the end. The Frick had the funds and did not have other acquisitions to make as they did. The price was already in the stratosphere. Quickly, Jakobson, for the Met, and Smallbone for the Getty, realized that a prolonged battle would be ruinous for all concerned. The Met dropped out first, at thirty-six million, with the Getty following one bid later.