SECRETS OF AN
ART DEALER
JAMES HENRY DUVEEN
T O
THAT BEING WHICH OCCURS
ONLY ONCE IN LIFE
A MOTHER
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
SECRETS OF AN ART DEALER
SECRETS OF AN ART DEALER
CHAPTER I
REMAKING A RELIQUARY FOR 30,000
T HE Combes law which, at a stroke, converted all the ecclesiastical treasures of France into State property, was one of those upheavals which, like the War, brought objects into the art markets of the world which had long been thought quite safe from any chance of dispersal. Thirty odd years ago no one dreamed that such wonderful goldsmiths work, pictures and other treasures, would ever be freed from the dead hand, and the result was startling. The Loi Combes taught me that even the Church would steal its own property rather than allow it to fall into the hands of the State despoilers. Priests, devout citizens, not quite so devout or so respectable ladies and a host of hangers-on intrigued and conspired one against the other, linked only by the common trait of feverish greed.
As I was motoring with an artist friend on the Continent I happened to be amongst the first to be caught up into this maelstrom: I say motoring, for although we were aiming for the Riviera we had only got one third of the way in ten days! We could have walked it faster, but those were the days when tyres were only guaranteed for about 500 miles and the motorist spent more time under his car than in it.
Near Auxerre Sydney Watson, my companion, sat down on a roadside bank and hitched up his elegant trousers. He paid no attention at all to a small crowd of loafers and children who goggled alternately at him and me.
My dear Duveen, he exclaimed, the more I see of motor cars the more I congratulate myself I know nothing about them! Especially in this tropical heat.
Kneeling in the dust with the sweat trickling down my face, and wrestling with a burst tyre, I only just avoided losing my temper. I must have looked a Harry Tate figure, clad inI regret to saya suit of dark purple leather. Before I could reply a large open car arrived in a cloud of dust, passed us and stopped.
Any help? exclaimed a slim and very sleek-looking dark-haired man who got out. In those days you always proffered assistance to motorists in trouble. As I got to my feet, the stranger said, Cest toi , Duveen! But how fortunate: the very man I could have wished for!
Removing his goggles, he wrung my hand and then, whispered: Your friendhe is in business with you?
No, I replied, mopping my face. He is not. What is more, he doesnt talk much French.
It was M. Gaspard, a dealer in a very small way whom I had known some time, but not intimately enough for him to thou me so impertinently! He looked greatly relieved.
A question of big business, very big, he muttered mysteriously. In a church on the other side of Auxerre there is a wonderful ninth century old reliquary with lovely enamelling. Ah, superb, my friend! I think it is gold, but it may be silver gilt. That is of no account, as you know. The priest to whom it belongs wants to find a rich American buyer, so that his influential relativesand the Statedont get to hear about it.
I felt a decided twinge of interest. This sort of thing was occurring everywhere and, as it happened, a short while earlier a London collector had asked me to try and get him a really fine mediaeval reliquary.
What does the fellow want? I asked.
Gaspard hesitated for a moment: his dark eyes glanced away from me and instinctively I knew he was going to fence. But his next words surprised me, for France was (and is) the paradise of secret-commission hunters and I imagined he would bargain with me for the price of his introduction.
The priest wont mention any sum, he replied. And hes sharp, too. He wants me to interest several people and hopes to get them to bid against each other.
Funny way of keeping the deal secret! I exclaimed.
Well, he is an old fool, really, and Im going to put one over on him. I had an idea of faking an auction with a few of my pals and getting the reliquary cheap for myself. Nom dun chien! His eyes lighted up and he caught me by the lapel. Duveen! The idea! Why not lets all go right away? Ill introduce you as a great English buyer and my friends herehe waved an arm at the carcan chip in with a bid or two? The old chap knows none of them.
All this seemed very sudden, but then in art-dealing things do happen like that, and the dealer who seizes his opportunity often reaps a rich reward.
And the ladies? I asked, already half convinced.
Allow me to introduce you, he said, leading me forward. This is the great Jack Duveenhere is Toinette and this is Yvonne. M. Calbert and M. Rochin, two of my oldest friends.
At once I placed ladies who were introduced by Christian names only, but it wasnt my affair. When they removed goggles and motor veils I was surprised to find how young and extraordinarily good-looking they were! Snappy is the modern and very apt word. Calbert was a deputy and Rochin a notary. Sydney Watson was also introduced, the puncture was mended and a few miles up the road Gaspard insisted we should join them in a picnic lunch which only a Frenchwoman could have produced. He outlined the priests characteristics, went into raptures over the reliquary and then said, slyly:
If he is as fond of his wines as he is of the ladies, we should have an easy job with him. Trust me, Duveen, either you or I are going to get that reliquary at the right price!
Soit! said I. Im with you. At any rate we should have a very pleasant time.
We arranged that, in order to avoid suspicion, we should stay the night in Auxerre at different hotels. I was to figure as the very great buyer, but Watson refused to have anything to do with the business.
Antiques dont interest me, he explained, and it is really far too hot for motoring. Ill laze about in Auxerre while you attend to your affairs.
It was just as well, because at about eleven oclock next day the Cur arrived, accompanied by Gaspard. After a ceremonious introduction and a great deal of talk I was invited to lunch: it appeared that Calbert, Rochin and their wives would also be there! Gaspard drove me to the Presbytery which was almost in sight of the famous little town of Chablis that gives its name to the prince of white wines. The Vicarage lay at the foot of a gentle hillside against which acres of vines, with their grapes already ripe, formed a soft tapestry of green. The Cur was on the steps to receive us, and behind him I caught a glimpse of a forbidding-looking housekeeper of the peasant type. The rest of the party had already arrived, and we were formally introduced, and I was impressed by Gaspards knowledge of psychology when I watched the old mans pleasure and his witty conversation with the two girls.
Before we sit down to table, he exclaimed, you must do me the honour of trying my own special apritif . It is made from a recipe, mes amis , which has been in our family since the fifteenth century! As we sipped the velvety wine, he added with a twinkle in his eye: A liqueur for a virgin!
Judging from the taste that it was fairly harmless, I drank another glass and presently our host led the way into a long and deliciously cool dining-room containing a table laid with one of those rare and valuable damask cloths on which the design stands out like silk. The dinner set was in white and gold; charming early nineteenth century porcelain, and the cut glass, silver and flowers delighted the eye. In the whole and in detail, the result spoke well for the good taste of this interesting old bon-vivant .
