was not long after he had invited me to inspect and evaluate the art he had amassed that he hired me as a regular consultant. It proved a giant step in my career and led directly to my establishing an international reputation as an art connoisseur. I had become Dunlop's regular companion on his foreign excursions in search of new treasure.
I can see now that the first crack in our unity came in Constantinople, where we were examining the recently excavated sacramental vessels of a fifth-century Christian church. I did not, however, recognize it at the time. We were seated in the dark back parlor of a famous Turkish dealer while he brought out the pieces one by one, placing them, silently and almost reverently, on the velvet-covered stand before us: the golden reliquaries, patens, and communion cups of that early Christian service. But what particularly dazzled my eyes was his final offering: a set of huge silver plates on which were enchased scenes of the battle between David and Goliath. It was the finest and most impressive silver work I had yet seen of the Byzantine Empire.
If it
was
of the Byzantine Empire. Dunlop suddenly turned to the dealer and asked him, with his customary gruffhess, to please leave the room. "I wish to talk to Mr. Luchesi alone," he deigned to explain. When the dealer had promptly vanished, he explained to me that a servant at the hotel where we were staying had tipped him off that the David plates were modern work introduced into the treasure by the crooked dealer.
"Take me to the man who made them," I promptly exclaimed, "and I'll buy everything he's got!"
"Even if they're fakes?"
"Why are they fakes? There they are, right in front of you, in all their beauty!
They
are not saying what they are or aren't."
"You think I should buy them?
Knowing
I'm being hoodwinked!"
"How can you be hoodwinked when you know exactly what you're buying? You're buying
those
plates."
Well, my client did buy them, and they turned out to be a genuine part of the early treasure, and to this day they are proudly exhibited in the Dunlop gallery. The hotel servant was found to have been working for a rival dealer who hoped to destroy his competitor's credit. But unbeknown to me, Dunlop's faith in his consultant had been seriously undermined by this exhibition of a preference for beauty over provenance. Had the plates been modern work, their value would have been a small fraction of what it is today.
My break with the great man came only a year later and was caused by his having relied on my attribution to Jean-Marc Nattier of a portrait he had purchased of a daughter of Louis XV. The picture, perfect in every respect, was a smaller version of one hanging in the Salle des Madames in Versailles, representing Madame Infante, as she was known after marrying an infante of Spain,
en costume de chasse.
Trouble came when a French scholar and the greatest authority on Nattier let it be known that there was no record of Nattier's having ever done a replica of any of his portraits of the royal family other than that of the queen, and that Dunlop's painting was presumably the work of one of the four painters who worked for Nattier in the royal atelier.
"Well, if it's not by Nattier, it's by a better painter!" was my indignant response when my client confronted me with this new evidence. "You've got a perfect thing. Shouldn't that be enough?"
Dunlop smiled. I had already learned that when he smiled, he was at his most ominous. "That doesn't alter the fact that I've spent a considerable sum on a picture I now couldn't even give away," he said softly.
"How can anyone assert it wasn't painted by Nattier?" I demanded hotly. "It came out of his atelier. He and his assistants presumably used the same materials. If the king of Spain had asked for a copy, do you think Nattier wouldn't have done it himself? And your lady, Mr. Dunlop, was the king of Spain's daughter-in-law!"
But it did me no good. Erastus Dunlop allowed a man not even
I can see now that the first crack in our unity came in Constantinople, where we were examining the recently excavated sacramental vessels of a fifth-century Christian church. I did not, however, recognize it at the time. We were seated in the dark back parlor of a famous Turkish dealer while he brought out the pieces one by one, placing them, silently and almost reverently, on the velvet-covered stand before us: the golden reliquaries, patens, and communion cups of that early Christian service. But what particularly dazzled my eyes was his final offering: a set of huge silver plates on which were enchased scenes of the battle between David and Goliath. It was the finest and most impressive silver work I had yet seen of the Byzantine Empire.
If it
was
of the Byzantine Empire. Dunlop suddenly turned to the dealer and asked him, with his customary gruffhess, to please leave the room. "I wish to talk to Mr. Luchesi alone," he deigned to explain. When the dealer had promptly vanished, he explained to me that a servant at the hotel where we were staying had tipped him off that the David plates were modern work introduced into the treasure by the crooked dealer.
"Take me to the man who made them," I promptly exclaimed, "and I'll buy everything he's got!"
"Even if they're fakes?"
"Why are they fakes? There they are, right in front of you, in all their beauty!
They
are not saying what they are or aren't."
"You think I should buy them?
Knowing
I'm being hoodwinked!"
"How can you be hoodwinked when you know exactly what you're buying? You're buying
those
plates."
Well, my client did buy them, and they turned out to be a genuine part of the early treasure, and to this day they are proudly exhibited in the Dunlop gallery. The hotel servant was found to have been working for a rival dealer who hoped to destroy his competitor's credit. But unbeknown to me, Dunlop's faith in his consultant had been seriously undermined by this exhibition of a preference for beauty over provenance. Had the plates been modern work, their value would have been a small fraction of what it is today.
My break with the great man came only a year later and was caused by his having relied on my attribution to Jean-Marc Nattier of a portrait he had purchased of a daughter of Louis XV. The picture, perfect in every respect, was a smaller version of one hanging in the Salle des Madames in Versailles, representing Madame Infante, as she was known after marrying an infante of Spain,
en costume de chasse.
Trouble came when a French scholar and the greatest authority on Nattier let it be known that there was no record of Nattier's having ever done a replica of any of his portraits of the royal family other than that of the queen, and that Dunlop's painting was presumably the work of one of the four painters who worked for Nattier in the royal atelier.
"Well, if it's not by Nattier, it's by a better painter!" was my indignant response when my client confronted me with this new evidence. "You've got a perfect thing. Shouldn't that be enough?"
Dunlop smiled. I had already learned that when he smiled, he was at his most ominous. "That doesn't alter the fact that I've spent a considerable sum on a picture I now couldn't even give away," he said softly.
"How can anyone assert it wasn't painted by Nattier?" I demanded hotly. "It came out of his atelier. He and his assistants presumably used the same materials. If the king of Spain had asked for a copy, do you think Nattier wouldn't have done it himself? And your lady, Mr. Dunlop, was the king of Spain's daughter-in-law!"
But it did me no good. Erastus Dunlop allowed a man not even
Similar Books
