by Antal Szerb
A young man in black trousers and a knitted sweater had appeared, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a knowing, cheerful, thoroughly untrustworthy look on his face. He spoke French, taking it for granted that every painter knew the language, a common assumption in those years before the war, when Paris dictated the tone. He addressed Sandoval as tu, in the popular Parisian manner.
“So here you are, me old dauber,” he began, and held out his hand, smiling. Then he looked him closely up and down, frowned and turned to the Major. “What sort of toff have you brought here, old chum? Can he paint?”
“Of course. He’s a very good painter. Had an exhibition in Munich. They bought three of his pictures, he tells me. What’s so toffish about him? What do you mean by this … Sandoval, why are you all dressed up?”
“An inheritance,” he replied bashfully. “I got two suits and a trunk.”
“Ah, well … ” said Honoré. “I’m sure Meyer has already told you what this is about, though his explanations … The fact is, we need a Titian. It doesn’t have to be as really swanky as if Titian had done it himself, but a good, solid piece of work, my lad. The boss knows a thing or two about pictures and he’ll beat you over the head if you paint us a whole lot of trash. And don’t put anything modern in it! None of this atmosphere, or contour, or vanishing point, or I dunno what! Well, you know more about that than I do. The sort of picture that a bloke, let’s say some American guy, might think that one of the big dogs had painted in the old days.”
“And are there any instructions about what I put in the picture?”
“Of course, I nearly forgot. A woman, holding a sort of dish. Because, you know, Titian has a famous picture of a woman with a bowl, er … a bowl of salad.”
“Fruit salad,” the Major added.
“That’s it, old man. Everyone knows that picture. People think all he ever painted was women. You must know the one of the woman with the dish.”
“Of course.”
“So that’s why it mustn’t be the same. She must hold the dish on the other side.”
“Fine. That’s easily done. What about the dough?”
“Ja, good point. The boss says five hundred is a lot of money for a woman with a dish. Two hundred is more than enough.”
“Two hundred?” yelled Sandoval, in a show of indignation. “What are you thinking? For a name like mine!”
“What name? Sandoval? Never heard of it. Anyway, this picture isn’t one of yours. It’s a Titian.”
“But it’s my work.”
“Well, to show you what sort of people you’re dealing with, you can have three hundred. Will that do?”
“It certainly won’t. But I’m doing this for my good friend Meyer, and because I’m here on holiday and I’ve nothing else on at the moment. So, what’s the advance?”
“My, you brought a real fussy one here, Meyer! I knew straight away you were too well dressed. My dear maestro, in our line of business there are no advances. We work in the tourist trade. We fleece foreigners who turn up in Venice. You mean to say that Meyer—such a fine, capable gent—hasn’t told you why we need this picture?”
“No, not a word.”
Honoré grew serious.
“I’m beginning to wonder about you, Meyer.”
He drew the Major to one side and whispered a long rigmarole in his ear.
“Now, come, come,” said the Major, with a loud laugh that strove for cheerful informality. “I’ll put my hand in the fire for Sandoval. We can trust him absolutely. The only reason I didn’t tell him is because I thought it better if you people did.”
“You know what, the best thing would be if the boss saw him and talked to him direct. I can’t take the responsibility, and nor can you. He’ll be here any minute. Come on, Sandoval. And watch how you speak to him. The boss, you know, isn’t just trash like you and me, or this Meyer. He’s a genuine toff, a real gent. You have to call him Count. Count St Germain.”
They found Count St Germain in one of the rooms on the first floor. He was sitting in a large armchair reading a newspaper. Seeing Sandoval, he rose and took a few steps forward, then halted ceremoniously and waited. He was a large-faced man, of powerful build running a little to fat, with clean-shaven, rather ugly, but wonderfully expressive features. He reminded Sandoval of a cardinal, a cardinal as represented on the stage of the Comédie Française. When he began to speak the impression grew steadily stronger: he spoke the pure, magniloquent French of the actors of that great theatre. From the very first moment Sandoval felt that he was in the presence of a distinguished person.
“This is the painter, Count,” said Honoré. “Would you please have a word with him? The fact is, this Meyer hasn’t told him what it’s all about. It would be better if you could explain it yourself.”
St Germain offered Sandoval a seat and the others withdrew. For some time he chatted politely about Venice, listening with interest to Sandoval’s ideas about what mattered in art, and approached the real subject only gradually. He seemed to have been making up his own mind first, and speaking openly only when he had become persuaded of Sandoval’s trustworthiness. Sandoval realised he had been weighed in the balance, and found insubstantial.
“My dear young friend,” the Count observed, “you seem to be a remarkably sympathetic and straightforward sort of man. My unerring instinct tells me that we have nothing to fear from you and can admit you to our plans with confidence. We’ve just begun a major project whose fate will depend on certain crucial factors. We are in fact carrying out a patriotic duty. A patriotic duty to the home of every true art-lover, to Italy, or indeed, if you like, to old Europe itself.”
Sandoval waited in suspense to see what might follow this splendid preamble.
“As a painter, you will surely be aware of the danger hanging over our ancient, our most venerable, part of the world. You must be aware of it, and you must also feel sincerely concerned about it.
“I refer to the threat from America. This threat is very direct—and I’m now thinking specifically about the way it affects us art-lovers personally. What I mean is, within a decade or two, the Americans, the nouveaux-riches of that brash new culture, will reach the point where they have amassed unimaginable sums of money, and with it they will want to lay their hands on timeless treasures of art. As you know, over the last couple of decades a new and in every way more dangerous type, the American art collector, has been popping up all over Europe. These people scour the most beautiful countries of our continent, and wherever they find old pictures for sale they pounce on them, snap them up and take them home on huge ships, to a country where they will decorate restaurants and other such vulgar establishments. Those pictures, in our opinion, are lost forever, as far as Europe is concerned. It isn’t just one Guido Reni, Velázquez or Murillo going astray. That wouldn’t bother me at all. But what would be much more painful would be the great Italian and German primitives. And now they want to get their hands on the Holy of Holies, Titian. Fate has led one of these pirates to us, a certain Viking by the name of Eisenstein. He’s made his fortune buying and selling shirt collars, or some such item of domestic utility, and now he’s here in Venice, prowling around with the intention of grabbing a Titian. Now, our clear duty is to pluck Titian from the grubby claws of this American. In us he has met his match. The moment we realised that he was the sort of American who could never be talked out of wanting the great master—who would stop at nothing to achieve his vile purpose, but was prepared to rob and plunder to get it—we decided to mislead him in the interests of our sacred cause, as Dante did, when he threw sand down the throat of Cerberus: we dedicated ourselves to throwing a spurious Titian down the throat of this particular Cerberus to save the real thing from him. Do you take my meaning, young man?”
“Perfectly,” Sandoval replied, with a smile.
“I knew you would. Now, I’m sorry I can’t give you an advance for your part in the business. Just at the moment I don’t have sufficient funds with me. The high
calling in which I labour has made serious inroads on my fortune. You understand me of course, young man?”
“Perfectly,” Sandoval answered, with a smile.
“I knew you would. And I can pay you only if our plans succeed, that is to say, if the American hands over the cash. But in that case I won’t in the least grudge your two hundred lire, since you seem such a thoroughly sympathetic young man.”
“Excuse me, it was three hundred lire!” Sandoval shouted furiously. He was now fully into his role.
“So, let’s say three hundred, then. The reason I’m being so generous is that I want to keep you interested should any future projects arise. And, now that we have understood one another so splendidly, I must ask you to make a start on the work. I don’t wish to press you, young man, but I’d be obliged if you could complete the masterpiece within three days.”
Sandoval felt like a man into whose hand God had placed the trumpet of Joshua. He knew that by doing the picture he would sooner or later gain a full insight into the plans of the fugitive, self-banished king, which at present remained so totally obscure. He set about his task, and worked away diligently at his Titian masterpiece, without anything particularly memorable happening in the gloom of the bogus palazzo. He encountered no one but Honoré, and from him he learnt nothing of interest.
But as night fell on the evening of the second day, he packed up his things and, quite ‘by chance’, did not go back down the way he had come but got himself lost in the complicated layout of the house. He ended up in an unlit room, and was just about to open the door into the next when he heard the sound of conversation coming from it. The speakers’ voices were very familiar. One he recognised as belonging to Mawiras-Tendal, and the other … the other speaker, beyond the shadow of a doubt, could only have been the ex-King.
Sandoval’s heart was beating wildly. This was a chance he could not let slip. He instantly sank down into an armchair and closed his eyes. Anyone opening the door would think he had been sleeping there for some time. But the room was dark, and he reckoned he wouldn’t be seen.
“I beg you, my dear Milán,” the King was saying, “it really is about time you gave up this aide-de-camp manner. You’ve stopped calling me ‘Your Royal Highness’ half the time, thank God, but that’s precisely why now, when you say ‘old chap’, it sounds as if you were piling every one of my titles back onto me. Don’t forget, I am simple Oscar now.”
“In that case, old man,” the Major replied, audibly suffering, like a man forced to swallow some bitter mouthful, “permit me to voice a few concerns.”
“Let’s hear them,” the King answered reluctantly. “All I ask is that you don’t talk to me about the situation in Alturia. I’ve had it up to the neck. I don’t dare to pick up a newspaper any more. These poor revolutionaries! That poor Delorme! But what can any of us do without money? It’s terrible.”
“That not what I want to talk about.”
“All right, then. What?”
“I would like to draw your attention to the fact that Count Antas is on holiday here in Venice.”
“Ah, the old idiot! Luckily he’s no concern of ours any more.”
“Not entirely. Tell me, er … old chap,” he enunciated painfully, “what would happen if he, or anyone else, were to recognise you in your present—in our present—situation?”
“In the first place, they wouldn’t recognise me, because I’ve cut off my moustache and side whiskers—they really made me stand out—and now I look like someone else; in fact, just like anyone else. And what, pray, is your objection to our present situation?”
“Well, you know … ”
“I don’t know! We’re South American planters. Perhaps that’s not a good enough occupation?”
“A good occupation? Thank you very much. It was a real idiot who gave Your High … you … that idea, my dear fellow. The moment we said we were planters people became suspicious. It’s why St Germain’s lot decided straight away that we were con men.”
“So then?”
“Well, so there was no point, if I might express myself freely, old fellow” (in his mind’s eye Sandoval could see Mawiras-Tendal making a bow each time he mouthed “old fellow”) “in your making up that long story … ”
“What ‘long story’?”
“Well, how you diddled twenty-four locomotives out of that American railroad king.”
“Look, my dear Milán, everyone shows off when he finally gets to meet the girl he’s been skulking after for days. When I realised what line of trade Marcelle’s lot were in, I thought a story like that might be just the thing to help establish a good working relationship with them.”
“I was just amazed that that old fox St Germain actually believed we were, er … in the same line of business.”
“It’s really strange; but you see, he did believe me. And that’s the thing. For once in my crummy life something came off.”
“But that’s precisely why we shouldn’t form that sort of casual connection with these people. I mean, the fact is, we have ended up as … members of a gang.”
“And so? At least that way I’ll really get to see life from below. That’s what I’ve always wanted … and besides, I’ll be able to be with Marcelle all the time.”
“But I’m sorry, that situation has certain practical consequences, which do you no credit and could easily put you in danger. While I fully acknowledge Mlle Marcelle’s feminine charms, and respect the intimate relationship between you two, I really can’t approve, for example, of the fact that we have accepted money from St Germain. It’s awkward, to put it mildly.”
“You can rest assured that I’ll give him all his money back, down to the last centesimo. But until then, we do have to take it, or Marcelle will become suspicious.”
“We really must get away from Venice, before some really serious danger arises, some huge scandal that will hit the whole of Europe. Just think what would happen if word got out that the former monarch of Alturia had become a … con-man.”
“Now please, Milán, you always look on the dark side of things. You know perfectly well I have managed so far to steer clear of anything that might be called confidence trickery. But every woman calls for some small sacrifice.”
For a while nothing more was said. Sandoval could hear the sound of footsteps. It seemed the King was striding up and down the room. Finally, he spoke again.
“No, my dear Milán, there’s no question of my leaving, now that I’m at last beginning to enjoy myself. You won’t understand this, because you were never a king. If I don’t keep all that firmly behind me, I will never get to know life.”
“Your Highness … I mean, my dear fellow … I can to some extent understand what you’re saying, though for my own part I have never wanted to get to know ‘life’ better. I always had too much to do. What I don’t understand is why you insist on this particular version of it. What makes you think that the Lido, and its idlers roasting themselves black in the sun, and this ancient Venice—something that escaped from a museum in an unguarded moment—and above all, this particular bunch of swindlers, are its true representatives?”
“Why? I’ve never given it thought, it all seems so natural to me. What would you consider real life, Milán?”
“Only something that would involve serious work. The military life, if that were at all possible. In your situation … our situation … I would propose serving in the Turkish army … where a chap can still find things to do.”
“Perhaps. I think of life quite differently. Somehow I have always believed that the real test of life was uncertainty. Perhaps that is why I have always been so deeply drawn to Venice. Here, the whole city is like a theatrical backdrop: at times it even seems to wobble, and you never feel quite sure that the whole thing won’t have been whisked away by the morning. Believe me, Milán, this is life. The life of St Germain. This is real uncertainty, from one day to the next. Maybe tomorrow we’ll be rolling in money; and maybe we won’t have enough to eat. With
out that level of uncertainty … you might as well be a king. But that sort of certainty I absolutely do not want. Holy God! To put that appalling marshal’s greatcoat on again! My worthy cousin Clodia can rule in my place, to the very end.”
Sandoval’s instinct whispered to him that the dialogue was coming to an end. Besides, he had learnt quite enough. He got up and tiptoed out. But he wrote no report to Princess Clodia about what he had heard, not that day or the next. Some feeling, very hard to define, held him back. Perhaps it was the solidarity of artistic minds.
Two days later the painting was ready. Sandoval made his way down to the ground floor and there, in the great room facing out onto the street, he found Mawiras-Tendal and Honoré. He told them he had finished, and that it needed only to dry.
“You don’t say—finished already?” Honoré gloated. “God knows what sort of rubbish you’ve painted.”
“What do you expect, for what you’ve paid me so far … ”
“Ja, ja, just you be quiet. I’ll go and call the old man.”
Sandoval and the Major were left alone. The Major suddenly bent over to catch the painter’s ear.
“St Germain is just now with a mutual acquaintance of ours, His Highness King Oliver VII … you met him one memorable evening in Lara. The King is living under the strictest incognito. Certain higher purposes have induced him to form a connection with St Germain, strange as that may sound. In the interest of those purposes—which I’m sorry I’m not in a position to disclose—it’s very important that we don’t give the secret away in front of St Germain, who has no idea of the King’s true identity. I already know, from experience back home, that we can trust you absolutely. So, don’t show you recognise him.”
The next moment the King entered. St Germain greeted the painter affably and introduced him to the King, whom he referred to simply as Monsieur Oscar. He appeared not to consider him anyone special. The King seemed to know who Sandoval was and half-closed an eye, with ironic significance, in his direction. Then they all went up together to look at the painting.
