The Forgotten Painting by Gabriel Farago (readnow .TXT) 📕

walked across to the easel standing next to him and carefully lifted the blue silk cover off the painting. ‘I give you Little Sparrow in the Garden: a masterpiece!’ The crowd gasped. Discreetly lit by subdued lighting from above, the brilliant colours of the spectacular painting dazzled and beguiled even the most critical eye.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the painting has been carefully examined by several highly regarded experts. You will have seen their reports in the catalogue. Suffice it to say, they all agree that this is a genuine Monet, painted by the master towards the end of his long life, most likely around 1920, but before his cataracts were removed in 1923, which had a profound impact on how he saw colour and light. It would therefore appear that authenticity is beyond doubt.’ The auctioneer paused, letting this critically important statement find its mark. He adjusted his bowtie again, a nervous habit that helped him focus, and then continued.

‘This brings me to the next most important subject—provenance—always a somewhat delicate topic that is rarely clear-cut and precise, yet it is of great significance to potential buyers. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a “fortunate” painting. Why? Because it can tell you all about its extraordinary journey from the moment it left the hands that created it, until it ended up right here in front of you, for sale. You will have read all about that in your catalogues too. Yet, as you will soon see, there is more; much, much more.’

A master of creating anticipation and excitement, the auctioneer knew exactly how to appeal to potential bidders and how to hold their attention. He also knew that every gesture and every word counted, and one mistake could lift the curtain of fascination and burst the attention-bubble.

‘It isn’t often the case, ladies and gentlemen, that the true legal owner of a painting that has been lost for such a long time, and the person who found it and then returned it to its owner, can both provide a detailed account of all the relevant facts and circumstances that brought about this extraordinary reunion, and prove them. Yet, this is precisely the case here, ladies and gentlemen. The owner of the painting, Mr Benjamin Krakowski, and Mr Jack Rogan, who found it, are both present today and ready to answer any questions you may have. You will have noticed in your catalogues that as part of the painting’s provenance, an important document is also included in the sale: a diary.’

The auctioneer pointed to an elderly, well-dressed man sitting in the front row. ‘I would now like to invite Mr Krakowski to say a few words about the painting and its colourful—forgive the pun—history.’

All eyes were now upon the tall man with a striking shock of white hair who walked slowly up to the microphone. Benjamin Krakowski had presence. To most people attending the auction, he was no stranger; his fame preceded him. As a celebrated composer and violin virtuoso, he was well-known to most, which made his presence even more exciting and intriguing.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is a very important day for me,’ began Krakowski. ‘It brings back many memories; happy ones, but also very painful ones. As this painting belonged to my father and is about to be sold, I would like to share some of those memories with you, if I may. I believe that the painting’s story has to be told, not only because it forms part of that all-important provenance the auctioneer was talking about, but also out of respect for an extraordinary man who I loved.’

Krakowski paused, as memories of a painful past came flooding back with alarming clarity, and looked at something in the distance only he could see. ‘The best way to begin,’ he continued after a while, ‘is at the beginning. I will tell you why and when the painting was created, why it is called Little Sparrow in the Garden, and how it ended up with my father. I will also tell you when and where I saw it for the last time, before Mr Rogan returned it to me last year.’

Krakowski walked over to the painting and looked at it for a long moment, a distant, dreamy look clouding his face. Then, pointing to the painting, he said, ‘The young man here in the picture playing the violin at the edge of the lily pond is my father, Berenger Krakowski.’

Monet’s Garden, Giverny: 1920

Monet loved the outdoors. Enjoying the warm sun of a spring afternoon, he was painting in his garden as usual. The light reflected by the lily pond was perfect, and the flowers in full bloom, a delight to behold. Facing the pond, Monet stood back from his easel, closed one eye, and then applied some more blue paint to the brilliant sky in the picture.

‘He has arrived’, said the housekeeper, walking up to her master.

‘Already? Please bring him here; I’m almost finished for the afternoon.’ Monet put down his paintbrush, wiped his fingers with a linen cloth and watched a young man walking slowly towards him out of the shadows the trees cast across the flowerbeds. It was a delightful scene. Movement and light playing with shadows; Monet’s trained eye noticed such things and stored them away for later.

Berenger Krakowski looked at the old man with the long grey beard and straw hat standing at the edge of the pond. The invitation he received after his concert in Paris two days before had been a complete surprise. Claude Monet, the legendary artist, had invited him to afternoon tea in his garden. The invitation, however, had come with a request attached: Krakowski was to bring his famous violin with him.

‘Thank you for humouring an old man’, said Monet, extending his hand. ‘You look much younger than I imagined.’

‘It is an honour’, replied Berenger, shaking Monet’s hand.

‘I wanted to meet you for a long time. Ever since 1905, when you gave that extraordinary concert in Vienna everybody was talking about. I think you were about fourteen at the time, playing Paganini, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Count Esterhazy presented you with a famous violin, a Stradivarius, because yours had been stolen by gypsies the day before the concert, and because no one else in the empire could play Paganini like you. The papers were full of it.’

‘You have a good memory.’

Monet pointed to the violin case. ‘Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I see it?’

‘Of course.’ Berenger opened the violin case, took out his precious violin and held it up.

‘A thing of true beauty’, said Monet, admiring the instrument.

‘Its real beauty is in the sound’, replied Berenger.

‘Of course. You had a nickname.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘I remember. They called you Little Sparrow.’

‘That’s right’, replied Berenger, laughing. ‘I haven’t heard that mentioned for a long time. So much has happened since... the war...’

‘The violin has a name, I believe?’ said Monet.

‘Yes. It’s called die Kaiserin: the Empress.’

‘How curious; why?’

Berenger ran his fingers gently along the smooth curves of the magnificent instrument, almost caressing it. ‘It was named after Kaiser Franz Joseph’s wife, Elisabeth, in 1867, the year of her coronation in Hungary’, he said. ‘She was a great beauty—very popular and much loved by her subjects. The violin belonged to a Hungarian noble family, the Esterhazys.’

‘What a wonderful story’, said Monet.

‘Yes, it is, but it has a sad ending.’

‘How come?’

‘Kaiserin Elisabeth was stabbed to death by an anarchist in Geneva in 1898. Beauty is fragile and fleeting. It is said that since then, the violin has been weeping. It’s all in the sound ...’

Monet looked at the young man’s face, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. Sad eyes, he thought. He knows suffering. ‘Would you mind playing something for me?’

‘Not at all. What would you like to hear?’

‘I leave it up to you.’

‘Paganini?’

‘Yes, please!’

Berenger lifted the violin to his chin, closed his eyes and began to play.

Transported by Paganini’s stunning violin concerto, which showed off Berenger’s virtuosity to perfection, Monet reached for his paintbrush and looked at the young man standing at the edge of the lily pond. It was a bitter-sweet moment of irresistible beauty he wanted to capture. With a few bold strokes, he inserted Berenger and his violin into the painting, immortalising both with his art.

Berenger continued to play and Monet continued to paint until the sun went down, and the light faded. Satisfied, Monet stepped back, lifted the painting off the easel and turned to his guest. ‘This is for you: Little Sparrow in the Garden’, he said. ‘I’ll have it framed and sent to you as soon as it’s dry.’

 

* * *

 

‘This is how the painting got its name: Little Sparrow in the Garden,’ Krakowski told his spellbound audience, ‘and became one of my father’s two most treasured possessions. The other was the violin in the painting, the Empress. Looking back, I can see they were important reminders of a carefree, happier time. Little Sparrow in the Garden always had pride of place in our home, and on occasion, my mother would affectionately call my father Little Sparrow. ’Krakowski paused, steeling himself for what was to come.

He then talked about the Warsaw Ghetto uprising of 1943, the arrest, and the family’s deportation to Auschwitz. ‘I saw the painting for the last time as we left the ruins of our home in the ghetto and were taken by the SS to the train station; final destination, Auschwitz. After that, my life changed forever. The unspeakable horror that followed blurred all of my memories of the past, and I forgot all about the painting and our life in Warsaw. It all seemed distant and irrelevant.’

Krakowski paused, collecting his thoughts, and then, his voice barely audible as if he could only whisper what he was about to reveal, ‘My mother and sister were sent to the gas chamber first. My father followed sometime later. My brother David was killed during an unsuccessful escape attempt. I survived...’

Krakowski turned towards the painting and looked at it as if to reassure himself that it was really there, and not just something haunting his imagination. Then, banishing the memories of that painful past, he faced his audience again and continued.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not telling you all this only to establish the provenance of the painting. There is another, far more compelling reason, and it has to do with Dr Rosen here.’ Krakowski pointed to an elegant lady sitting in the front row. ‘I’m sure Dr Rosen and her foundation are well-known to most of you. Her outstanding work in the Third World to help the destitute and the sick, the forgotten and the weak with no voice, has only recently made headlines again around the world. She almost lost her life in Somalia after uncovering a human catastrophe. The entire proceeds of this sale will be donated to the Rosen Foundation in memory of my family. 'Then he added quietly, ‘Something good and noble can rise out of tragedy and the callous brutality of man.’

Spontaneous applause erupted, and many in the audience rose to their feet, honouring a courageous man unafraid to face a painful past and share it with strangers.

The auctioneer was delighted. Tonight, celebrities were doing the heavy lifting, and all he had to do was introduce them, and then step back and give them a free hand. Krakowski had been a hit, just as he had expected. The response from the audience had surpassed expectations, and a new element had just entered the bidding about to start: philanthropy. This would further loosen the purse strings, as bidders were less reluctant to pay a premium when a charitable cause was involved. And there was still more to come. It was time to introduce the