The Hidden Rooms
THE HIDDEN ROOMS
(composed in 2002; self-published in 2010)
1. An Extraordinary Catalogue
As the aeroplane steadied on its westward course,
I started to
skim through the papers
respecting the legal entanglement
that required my presence in London. Conscience and professional
integrity dictated that I peruse the bundle
meticulously. I owed this to the friendly
law firm that was paying
handsomely for my services and for the comfortable seat in
the business class
section of British
Airways’ direct flight
from Singapore.
Usually I should
have started to work. I have the stamina and the alertness needed for the
perusal of a bulky set of documents. Many a client had benefited from
my perseverance. On this occasion, though, I was not up to the task. To start with, I
was distracted by the hum of the engines and by the garrulous loudspeaker.
In addition, my
thoughts kept straying back to Yuan Ming. She had promised to fly to
I was aware that
my fears were largely unfounded. Bill Riggs, a former colleague of our Law
Faculty in
For a while I tried to distract myself by reverting
to the bundle of depositions, of
illegible photocopies of
muddled letters and
of the other party’s expert report.
Then, with a shrug of my shoulders, I gave up the
uneven struggle. Replacing the papers in my briefcase I took out the
item I had been looking forward to
examining during the flight: the catalogue of a forthcoming Christie’s auction
of the contents of an elegant residence near
Within a short while I became immersed in the catalogue.
Although my own collection comprises mainly mid-European ceramics and prints, I
have a genuine love for all antiques. The reason is not a wish to travel
back in time. I have no illusions about
the quality of life
in
The instant
catalogue lent support to my sentiment. Every room in the
stately home was filled with fine
antiques. My admiration was invoked by an elegant 19th
century arm chair. The desk, too, was
exciting, with beautifully shaped legs and a delightful leather covered
centre. The mahogany display cabinet, in the drawing room, made my
mouth water. It would constitute an
excellent home for my
For a while, I remained
captivated by the ambience of the rooms. Would it not be exciting to own a property
like this estate? Then, unexpectedly, an inner voice – the voice
of my
sceptic Viennese alter ego – broke the spell by raising a basic question.
Had this
splendid house been a real home, in which a person had lived
and worked, loved
and hated, or was it a show piece: a mere front or sparkling façade?
Once again my eyes
traversed the photographs of the
individual rooms. Somehow,
everything appeared too tidy, too neat, to be real. I had to concede that,
to an extent, this effect was produced by the conscientious efforts of Christie’s
cleaners and polishers. But the ephemeral air was not entirely of their
making. To me, each room appeared too perfect to be genuine. The broad double bed with its muslin curtains was too
fine to be slept in regularly. The library, which had
only two sparsely stacked bookcases, had a number of period chairs and a
sofa; but there were
no library steps. The most remarkable room,
though, was the bathroom.
The huge tub in its midst
reminded me of a small Roman spa I had
seen in Trier, and the 18th century porcelain basin and
pitcher, placed beside the modern
hand basin, struck me as out of place in a modern house.
By the time the steward approached my seat with the
evening meal, I had reached my conclusions. I had traversed a stylish mausoleum, occupied by
an owner who stayed there without dwelling in it. Did he regard
himself a caretaker, like the uniformed
attendants who guide a group of tourists through the rooms of palaces of kings and princes of times past.
As soon as
I finished consuming the plain evening meal, I turned back to the bundle of
documents related to my forthcoming appearance as an expert witness in London.
After a
concentrated effort on a number of pages drawn to my attention in my
instructions, I noted some damaging
inconsistencies in the other party’s
correspondence. Shortly
thereafter I discovered to my chagrin that our case rested
on an equally shaky
foundation. I knew,
of course, that
the two financial institutions, locked
in the instant battle, adhered to a well
known business philosophy, based on taking advantage of each available
loophole and technicality in a bargain gone sour. It did not elate me to be of
assistance to one of them. I even knew that
my own policy of
accepting remunerative banking
cases without regard
to my principals’ mercantile
morality tarnished me with the very brush I applied to them.
These thoughts had, frequently, induced me to vow that a
particularly unmeritorious
bundle was the last one to
be handled by me. Up to now,
though, my resolve had failed as soon
as I discovered yet another
exciting piece of
This established
principle of ethics, and the covetous glances
I kept bestowing on a
yellow-ground milk jug produced and decorated in Meissen
in 1735, kept spurring me for
the next
three hours of the flight. By the
time the information chart,
displayed on the digital screen,
showed that we were approaching
I had discussed
the yellow milk jug, that had caught my eye
during my initial perusal of the
catalogue in
My last call to
her had taken place on the day preceding my
flight to
“Did I wake
you up?” I had asked anxiously, when she picked up the receiver.
“You know
you haven’t; I’ve been waiting for your call for the last hour; what were you
up to, Uncle?”
Yuan Ming – presently an attractive woman in her thirties
– had dubbed me her ‘special uncle’ when she was a little girl. It had been a
mark of her affection: there was no family
tie between us. I had been her father’s
closest friend – not his brother
or brother-in-law. Out of habit, though, she
kept addressing me in the same
manner even after she had grown up. She
knew also that I
cherished my title.
“Sitting
at your Dad’s desk with my new Christie’s catalogue; I didn’t want to ring you
before
“And what
did you discover in your new catalogue?”
“I just
looked at a few pieces; one is a lovely
“I can get that crack fixed for you. If you
still don’t want it, bid for me; you can
go up to £4,000. But why didn’t you look at all the pieces; you always do?”
“I just
couldn’t concentrate!”
“Why?”
“I was counting the days to your next visit. And
I kept thinking of our last
afternoon at the pool. You swim
beautifully but – even so – I caught
you in the end; and I’m waiting
to challenge you again!”
I had blurted the
words out despite a desperate attempt to
control my tongue. Yuan
Ming was busy with
the preparations for
her forthcoming exhibition. I knew that two of her pieces required final touches
and yet a
third was incomplete. My seriously minded alter
ego upbraided me
for the pressure I was
bringing on her.
The truth, though, was that I yearned to see her again.
To my relief,
I heard her peels of
laughter, the merry
chimes I remembered so well from the gone bye days when an nine
years old Yuan Ming, sitting
on my lap in her father’s shop, was amused by my attempts to address her
in Mandarin.
“You only caught me because you cornered me when I
tried to dive under you; and you pretended not to see I was
turning!”
“Not the
way to talk to your old swimming instructor; you may be faster than me
now; but I can still outmanoeuvre
you any
time!” I bragged, stung to the
quick.
“So you
say, Uncle; so you keep telling to yourself,” she teased me. "Well,
we’ll see in four weeks time, Mr Swimming Instructor; I’ll
sure give you a run for your money!”
“We’ll see,”
I conceded, and then, much more sedately and once again in control of my
emotions: “But, look, are you all set for your exhibition? Everything under
control?”
“The two sketches are OK now; I have tarted them up nicely. But I can’t finish the last oil; I just can’t!” she said
in a changed voice.
“Why not?
It’s brilliant; honestly – one of your very best!”
“I’ll finish it in Singapore,” she said after a
long pause.
“But then
you won’t be able to exhibit the painting this time?” I said, trying to conceal
my disappointment.
“Never mind;
it’ll be in my next show” she said, adding with a
shrug: “My admirers will have to
wait for another six months!”
Once again, there
was a pause. I had nothing to say. Yuan
Ming had the ability and the talent. She was a fine artist. From time to time,
though, she lacked the zeal. To my relief, she broke the silence before it
became oppressive:
“And look,
Uncle, you’ll see the initial sketch when we meet.”
“In
another four weeks!” I sighed, cursing myself for the anxious cord that crept into my voice.
“They’ll pass
soon, with you rushing about in
busy
“It’s the court
appearance” I admitted. “Bill Riggs assures me the case will be over in two weeks;
but what if it drags on?”
“So that’s it” I could hear her laughter. “What
an ace you are, Uncle! Then I’ll simply fly to
“But you
told me you had to make a stop in
I was now alluding
to Yuan Ming’s second occupation. Even prior to
the onset of her father’s fatal illness, she had taken the antiques business into her own
hands. Unlike him, she was prepared to take risks and, from time to time, flew
to China to clinch deals involving the smuggling out of rare pieces.
“So in the
worst case we’ll meet two or three days later than expected; and so I’ll stay longer; and if I come to
“That would
be superb” I confirmed enthusiastically.
I was now overcome by elation. The prospect of a trip
to my old home town was
exciting. Although my family had
had to flee to
In recent years,
Yuan Ming and I had wonderful breaks in
“That’s
settled then,” she said happily. “But, honestly, is the case likely to drag on? Bill Riggs is a pretty reliable
chap, isn’t he?”
“I suppose I’m getting over anxious” I
confessed. “It’s just that I hate the
very thought of missing my niece even for a single day.”
“It won’t happen. So don’t you worry. And, Uncle,
you better take the catalogue with you to steady your nerves during the flight.
And I forgot to ask, when is your flight?”
“Tomorrow
evening; I’ll ring you from the plane!” I promised.
“That will
be lovely” she replied. Then, instantly, she changed her mind: “No, you better ring me from the hotel in
“They have”
I told her. “See you soon then; and take care.”
“You too,
Uncle; and don’t you forget to ring your wife as soon as you get to the hotel. She too deserves
attention.” Her merry laughter echoed
pleasantly in my ears even after she had
replaced the receiver.
For a while, and in plain defiance of new torrent
of information emanating from the aeroplane’s
loudspeakers, I kept relishing the recollection
of this short conversation of the
previous day. Then, as I stretched
myself against my seat, I realised I was exhausted. Switching off the light
above my head, I closed my eyes.
2. A Leading
When I woke up,
the stewardess was handing out steaming towels. As I wiped my face, I saw that the catalogue,
which I
had dropped on the vacant seat next to mine, had fallen open at a page
setting out the history of the house
near Woodstock and a short biography of
its owner. Glancing at it with curiosity, I sat up with a jerk.
The owner - Sir Arthur Smithies - was
a man I had known well in my days as a
research student in
For the remaining two hours of the flight my thoughts
focused on Sir Arthur Smithies. Our paths had crossed for the first time shortly after I embarked on my research of
the law respecting a banking facility known as
the documentary letter of credit.
Work I had carried out two years earlier on
in the course of banking litigation in Tel-Aviv had revealed that my
facility was already in use during the first half of the 19th century. But where and when was this commercial technique initiated?
Whose brainchild was it? To provide a conclusive answer, I needed access to
bank archives. Attaching recommendations of my supervisor and of the Head of my
All in all
I received only two helpful letters. One,
from a private bank, Brownlow
Bros., enclosed a bulky tome
covering the House’s history. My attention was drawn to a
passage describing how the partners had resolved, on
In 1959, Crawford
& Co. had their premises in
My dejected mood
lightened when I entered the
bank. As
soon as I mentioned
my name to the aging Chief
Porter, he ordered one of his subordinates
to escort me to
a waiting room. When we
arrived, a young gentleman, of about my own age,
approached us and held out his hand: “I’m
Brian Davies; Mr Smithies has asked me to show you around before I take you to his office.”
Leaving my wet top coat and hat in the cloak room, I
followed my guide. We stopped
for a while in the well, where a few customers transacted
their business at the counters.
Looking around me, I realised that Crawford & Co. were a cut above the
large retail banks in the City. The aura of
spaciousness conjured by the elegantly furbished well contrasted pleasantly
with the claustrophobic atmosphere, produced in the City branches of
Barclays and of Lloyds Bank by the urge to utilise every square inch. The sense of rush and
pressure, created by the shuffling of impatient feet in a
queue, was equally absent. As I raised my head, I admired
the terraced mezzanine floor,
with the protruding offices, that broke
the monotony of the high wall separating
the marble floor of the well from the ornate ceiling.
“Quite impressive, isn’t it?” asked Brian Davies.
“Splendid, I
should say” I answered.
“Wait till
you see our boardroom,” he said with a smile, adding: “And there, on the north
east side of the mezzanine, are the rooms of the international trade
department; there – where the two fellows are peeping down at us. These chaps do
like to see a customer’s face
before he takes the lift to their
little offices. Makes it easier to brave a storm.”
I grinned politely at the flat joke. After a short tour
of the mezzanine floor we took
the lift to the second
floor. The boardroom
was, indeed, grandiose. A plush carpet covered the floor, the chandeliers sparkled with
their candle shaped bulbs and the
solid, beautifully carved, rosewood table surpassed any piece of furniture I had seen
in
“It does
look like wood, doesn’t it,” said Brian Davies, with a satisfied grin.
“First time
I see a terrazzo wall,” I conceded; “it’s beautiful.”
“It’s also very expensive; time honoured secret
process of a firm in
I had by then concluded that Brian Davies was an
“King's,
Brian Davies showed me few smaller meeting rooms – all
neatly even if less lavishly furnished
and decorated than the boardroom. We then
proceeded to the broad
staircase leading to the third floor. For a few seconds I glanced with appreciation at the neat
“Do you like
Toulouse-Lautrec?” I heard Brian Davies’ voice.
“Very much.
He was unique,” I told him.
“You may be right,” he said; “although, for
myself, I prefer some later artists like Picasso and Matisse. We have a few in the
Library and some others in our smaller reception rooms. Our French
clients appreciate them.” Glancing at
his watch, he added: “We must proceed to Mr Smithies’ room now, but I may be able to show them to
you some other time.”
Arthur Smithies
turned out to be a man in his mid forties.
His auburn hair had
started to recede but his tall, sparse, figure was not frail. His neat
grey suit, carefully pressed business shirt and discreet
tie went well with his reserved
mannerism and precise mode
of speech. His keen brown eyes, though, projected warmth. I sensed, as
soon as we shook hands, that he was a pleasant and friendly man.
“Glad you could make it, Mr Berger” he said. “I’m
only sorry we weren’t able to arrange
better weather for you.”
“Oh, I’m getting used to it,” I told him. “And
many thanks for asking me for lunch.” Hesitating for a moment, I added:
“It was good of you to ask Mr Davies to show me around. You do have splendid
rooms.”
“What did
you think of our boardroom?”
“Magnificent! But I should really congratulate you on the
Lautrec lithograph. It’s the first time I have come across this piece outside a
museum; and I haven’t seen it in any recent catalogue.”
“Are you a
collector, then?” he asked with genuine interest.
“In a modest
way,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
Noticing his own resulting unease, I hurried to explain: “At present,
I restrict myself to porcelain; mainly to Meissen
and Vienna figurines; but I
like the atmosphere of auction rooms and, of
course, good catalogues provide
a glimpse; some are available at
half price after
the sale.”
“I too
like Meissen,” he told me, with a smile; “but mainly small
vases, ewers and plates: cabinet pieces. What attracts you to
figurines?”
“Some of them - like Kändler’s Harlequins - are
really sculptures; and great ones at
that.”
“I think I get your point,” he replied,
thoughtfully. “You like the figurines
for their own sake – for what they
convey to you, don’t you?” Seeing me
nod, he proceeded: “Well, I like my pieces to blend with
their setting.
At that point,
our conversation lost its impetus.
My host was too tactful to ask for further details
about the collection of a person
in my position. I, in turn,
was too shy too persevere; I was
also apprehensive of
appearing eager to impress.
To my relief,
Arthur Smithies broke the short silence. Indicating that we
ought to proceed to lunch, he inquired whether I observed
any dietary rules. Reassured by
my response, he led the way to the private room of what he called “our modest
in-house restaurant.”
It was over an excellent English lunch – smoked
salmon, pumpkin soup
and a steak and kidney pie – that Arthur Smithies turned to my enquiry.
“You seem quite certain that documentary letters
of credit originated in the
Anglo-American trade. You realise that, traditionally, our house
has been engaged in trade with
the Continent?”
“I do; but it occurred to me that some
Continental merchants might have used
Crawford, Fairbairn, Miles & Co. as
intermediaries for financing their trade
with
He had broken into
an appreciative smile when I referred to
the style used by his firm during the
last quarter of the 18th century.
“Quite possible;
it will be interesting to have our
records searched; and there
is another possibility. Occasionally our house entered
into joint ventures with banks active on the American scene,
mainly Brownlow Bros. You see, one of
our partners married a Miss Brownlow in 1765. So we may be able to provide some information. But tell me please, why are you so interested
in the history of letters of
credit? With your background in modern bank
litigation, I should have expected you to be concerned mainly with
the current legal problems?”
He listened attentively to my explanation of the
connection between the historical background and the relevant modern practical
problems. As I proceeded, I noticed that
Arthur Smithies recognised some of the
18th and early 19th century
court decisions which I
discussed. Was he a lawyer
by training? For
the moment, however, my curiosity
had to be suppressed. My immediate task was
to secure my host’s assistance. To get it, I had to convince him of the merit of my quest. Encouraged by his
supportive demeanour, I went on with my
discourse. When I finished, he nodded.
“Quite a
neat analysis, Berger. So you are studying the historical background mainly in order to support your
practical arguments?”
“Precisely,” I
confirmed. “My object is to
ensure that my points won’t
be faulted!”
“The lawyer’s
need to dot the I’s and cross the t’s. His urge to cover
his flanks even before
a broadside is fired at him;
just as
you do in the
preparation of a
complex case for trial.” He
had spoken slowly,
even guardedly; but his expression manifested approbation. “Your
experience in court must have
stood you in good stead when you developed your theories.”
“It has,
rather,” I affirmed. “But, if I may ask,
you are, obviously, very familiar with
legal work?”
“I was called to the Bar before the War; for a
while I practised, mainly in copyright and patents. But then the Bank
needed my services. Sometimes I still miss the drama of the courtroom.”
“But surely,
the City must offer its own challenges?”
“It does,”
he conceded. “Generally, though, the atmosphere is more relaxed than in our courts. And you don’t
have to work against the clock all the time. Still, the work at the Bar was
exciting.”
For a few moments he remained lost in his thoughts.
I, in
turn, was watching him with
interest. Arthur Smithies had, I sensed,
been less reserved with me than he would have been with a fellow Englishman. He
was a friendly and sincere man but, all
the same, constrained by the conventions
of his class and society. With an
outsider like myself, though, the
strict norms could be relaxed.
“And look,” I heard him say, “I do believe you
have a worthwhile project. So does
Jack Roberts of
Brownlows, from whom, I
believe, you got
some information. He mentioned your enquiry when we met in the Club. I’ll
see what I can do. But it may take me a
few weeks. I’ll see what documents are
left in the archives of some friendly banks.”
“That’s really good of you; thanks,” I told him, “but
a number of banks wrote to tell me that
their archives were no longer in existence.”
“Very likely,”
he responded; “but some of the
partners and their families
have private stacks of
documents, kept in case somebody
wants to compile
a biography. I expect we’ll find some interesting documents there.”
We kept talking about other subjects for a
while. Then Brian
Davies entered the room. He had,
obviously, been asked to join us for coffee with a view to escorting me back through the
winding corridors to the main entrance.
As I expressed my thanks, Arthur Smithies made a helpful suggestion: “I should
be interested to know how your work progresses.”
“Would you,
perhaps, be prepared to see the drafts of my chapters?” I asked eagerly.
“I shall be
delighted; and I may draw your attention to points respecting our current banking practice.”
My trip
into the remote past – to my Oxford days – was interrupted
by the stewardess’ request that I fasten my seat belt and put the back
of my seat in the upright
position. Realising that I had missed
the chief steward’s announcement,
I hastened to comply.
II.
PAST PERFECT
3. A Confused
Day
Bill
Riggs was waiting for me at the arrival hall of Terminal
3 at
“So you think that both sides have a shaky case?” Bill asked.
“I think so. The outcome depends on the Judge’s assessment of the truthfulness of the witnesses. If he
accepts our version of the facts, my
Report is bound to convince him that we acted in the manner of reasonable and well informed bankers.”
“And if he accepts their version?”
“We are sunk; but, then, their
case is as uncertain as ours. Their
Expert is bound to make a comparable concession.”
Pausing for a moment,
I added anxiously: “Do you
agree?”
“I do. Actually, we’ve arranged a meeting
with the other party in our office at
“I slept on the ‘plane; so I should be alright.”
After I had
unpacked my suitcase, I dropped onto the
bed and stared apprehensively at
the ivory coloured
telephone. Closing my
eyes in resignation, I picked up
the receiver and dialled my home number. For a
while the telephone kept ringing.
I was about to replace the receiver when I
heard the click.
“I was sleeping!” As always, Pat’s complaining voice irritated my ears.
“You told me to ring you as soon as I reached the hotel.”
“You didn’t tell me you will get there so early! Here it is after
As always, Pat’s nagging voice was pushing me into a corner. She
was an intelligent woman but,
unfortunately, quite incapable of looking beyond the horizon imposed by her background. A
professional man’s commitment to matters entrusted to him had remained
incomprehensible to her.
“Oh, all right then; ring me when you have news”. The click of the receiver dropping back
into its cradle was music to my ears.
When
I had recovered, I picked the receiver, smiling with anticipation. “So you have arrived safe and sound in your
hotel, Uncle? Do you have a nice room?”
“A suite; and a nice one at that; but something is remiss: You are not in
“We’ll soon put this right.” she was laughing happily now.
“The sooner the better; and you know I was tempted to ring you from the ‘plane. But got confused”
“That’s not like you – I mean, when you’re on a case.”
“Not the case; the catalogue we
talked about when we last spoke; you see, the house near
“Of course it does; you kept
telling ‘her’ about him again and
again.” Yuan Ming invariably
referred to herself in days past – to the little girl of my early days in
“You even drew his sketch, without
having ever seen him!” I reminded her.
“I still have it; you called it: ‘Uncle’s friend Mr Arthur’.”
For a moment both of us were silent.
Then, unexpectedly, she asked: “The yellow milk jug; have you really seen it
before?”
“I have; it was in a catalogue he showed me when we met in 1981 in the Athenaeum.”
“No wonder it looked familiar to you;
so you came face to face with your past during the flight. I want to know all about it. But
look, Uncle, before you start telling me, have you had something
to eat; and aren’t you tired?”
“We had breakfast on the ‘plane; but, yes, I’m tired.”
“You sound it; so have a shower and go to bed; and when are you going up to
“Tomorrow, if I can get away from the case; we have a meeting this afternoon; a last minute attempt to settle, I
suspect.”
“Then you must have a good rest
now. Ring me again when you are
back from
As I had anticipated, the meeting in Bill
Riggs’ office failed to produce a settlement. Shortly after it started, all of
us realised that the conflict was not between the two companies, which had to
continue trading with each other, but the two executives who had
negotiated the contract: Philip Whitehead
and Tony Blackburn. All attempt
to reason with the two fighting cocks
failed. After some three
exasperating hours, in which they traded thinly veiled insults,
they brought the meeting to a stormy end.
Notwithstanding their
exasperation, Bill and his counterpart
in the other camp had a confidential exchange, in which each agreed
to explore the possibility of
a sensible settlement with people
at the top. Another meeting was,
accordingly, scheduled for the
next day. I could not hide my relief
when Bill said, with a twinkle in his
eye, that the presence of experts would not be required.
I went to bed early but, as was to be expected, woke up in the early hours of
the morning. Feeling too
comfortable to get
up, I kept musing about the role of
chance in a man’s life. Meandering through my life story, I recalled Fortuna’s intervention in my early childhood, when we
were refugees in
Later on, in my teens, chance induced me to dash my
mother’s hopes of seeing
her only son studying medicine. A
spell in the Courts of Law in Tel Aviv, during a break between two
examinations conducted on the premises of the neighbouring Department of
Education, roused my interest. Some further
visits during the long vacation convinced me that my future was in
the Law. It amused me to think that, if the examinations had been held
in a different part of town,
I might have ended up as yet
another physician who lacked a genuine desire to cure the sick.
Even my unexpected decision to
abandon my legal practice and read for a
doctorate in
I
knew that some good law firms
would gladly offer me an appropriate
backroom position. But I was too young and too
ambitious to compromise and, in consequence, felt my world was caving
in. When a former classmate returned to
Tel Aviv with enthusiastic accounts of
his two
years in
My
two years in
“Coincidence” I deliberated. “You think
you are in charge and assert proudly that you make
your own decisions; but
where would you be if Fortuna
had turned her back on you?”
4.
Reflections on the
Later in the morning, I took the express train to
As the express train sped out of
Arthur Smithies
assistance did not end there. A hand
written letter, accompanying the
parcel, encouraged me to call on
him when I came to London. During the succeeding months,
we had many a lunch in Crawford &
Co.’s cafeteria or in a nearby
restaurant.
Later in the year, I started to send him the drafts
of the chapters of my thesis.
Naturally, I did so only after they had
been perused by my
supervisors. By then, most blemishes had been
eliminated. Frequently, though,
Arthur Smithies, drew
my attention to some remaining
inconsistencies of language and
of textual analysis and added, in
the margin, remarks
which assisted me to further polish up my plain style.
Another indication of his goodwill
was my constant receipt of catalogues of different auction houses in
On some occasions, my eye caught
Arthur Smithies. I recall how, in an auction in
I
saw Arthur Smithies less regularly during the months following
this episode. The thesis was nearing
completion. My main task during the
period was to verify
citations, to ensure I had not
overlooked any major
legal decision and, generally, to get on with the menial tasks of
preparing the indices, tables of cases, a bibliography and an abstract. This
type of work was best carried out in my
own room off Oxford’s Abingdon Road. But even
so, I went up to
What had impressed me most during
the entire period was Arthur Smithies
ingrained dignity and self-control. The
only occasion on which I found
him out of humour took place on a bleak
November day. I was reading The Times in the waiting
room, when a loudly dressed gentleman, smirking victoriously, was escorted to the lift by Brian Davies,
whose face was set. As I entered Arthur Smithies room, I was startled
to see he was ruffled.
“Is something the matter, Mr Smithies?” I asked as he invited me to sit
down.
“Not really” he said, after a pause. “But some customers can get under
your skin.”
“May I possibly ask what happened? Is it an unpleasant default
situation?”
“Nothing like it. If
a customer gets
into difficulties without fault,
we seek to accommodate. This
is why we’re
so careful when we accept new customers. No; that fellow, whom you must
have seen leaving my room, was haggling with me about the rate of interest on
his firm’s overdraft!”
“Is this uncommon?” I asked, surprised.
“No; of course not; and, again, if a customer is
decent when he raises the matter, we bend backward to help him. It
was the way he went about it.”
His eyes projected
indignation. I, in turn, feared to intrude. It seemed best to keep mum.
In the event, Arthur Smithies went on
without any prompting on my part.
“I think I told you about
Timberflashings in
“Are they unpleasant when they do?”
“Plain rude is the word. That
fellow told me that Chase offered
them a line of credit at ½ per cent below ours; and
when I said we provide a different
service, including the investigation of ventures with new
potential clients, he said they
didn’t need our help. And the way he put it: ‘All we want is a
cheap line of credit; and we can look after ourselves; so if your bank can’t give
us a better rate of interest,
we’ll take our business elsewhere’.”
“What did you say?” I could not help asking.
“I needed time to control my temper; so I kept studying the file. In the
end I agreed to reduce our rate by ¼ of a per cent. When he continued to haggle, I told
him that I couldn’t cut our profit margin any further. He said he would think it over.”
“I believe he’ll accept” I said.
“I think you are right” he said,
regaining his composure as people do
when they have given vent to their feelings. Then, with a
ghost of
his usual smile, he added with a mental shrug: “I suppose
he was bluffing. Chase
may have offered him a better rate than
ours but probably tagged on some extra charges. Still,
this round goes to him. So be it. What I
can’t stand is his downright rudeness. Let
him take his business elsewhere if he wishes; he’ll soon find out
which bank furnishes the better service; we are proud of our record!”
To my relief, Arthur Smithies
dismissed the unpleasant incident from his mind
over a pleasant lunch in a nearby pub. As I took my leave,
he asked whether I had given some thought to what I wanted to
do after the completion of my research
work.
“Not really” I told him; “I've been too busy with the thesis.”
“In its final form it is fine.”
“Thanks,” was all I could bring out, adding “and thanks for all you
help.”
“It has been a pleasure,” he said with his usual warm smile.
Some
five weeks after this conversation, I handed my thesis in at the
University’s Registry. Dreading
the wait whilst it was being
read by the examiners, I decided to spend the
Christmas break with my father in
Two days later, I was on my way back
to
When
the examination was over,
I got ready to leave
“So all is well with your thesis,” he said as soon as
I entered his office. “But, of course, I have been
confident all along; and what are your plans now?”
“I had been thinking of returning
to Tel Aviv. But there has
been an
unexpected development. The
“
“A chap who used to work in the Bodleian Law Reading
Room went there last
year. A few months ago he urged me to apply for a newly
created Assistant Lectureship.
They took so long about it that I assumed they
turned me down. Then, out of the blue, came the letter with the offer.”
“Have you accepted?”
“I have. I thought a few years in the East would be interesting and the tropical climate ought to be good for my asthma.”
“What a strange coincidence,” he observed after a
pause. “We have been planning to ask whether you may wish to join the Bank as
a cadet. I thought it best to wait until you finished your thesis.”
“I wish I had known,” I said, crestfallen.
“It’s alright; don’t you worry
about it. Spending some time in
“They have given me a three years contract.”
“We’ll keep our offer open for that period. And we’ll take your new
experience into account when we work out the details of an
arrangement, that is, if you remain interested to join us in ...”.
At
that point I was, suddenly,
jolted back into the real world surrounding me. A
man in uniform, who had just entered
the carriage, requested all passengers to have their ticket ready for inspection. Looking out of
the window, I realised we had already
passed
5. Surprise
at the Preview
For a few moments I stood undecided
outside the Station. A glance at my
watch told me it was 12 noon. After a
brisk walk, I boarded the double Decker
to
As
planned, I started with the
porcelain. The yellow-ground cream jug looked even more attractive on
the shelf of a
mahogany display cabinet than in the photograph and, despite
a meticulous examination, I spotted no hairline crack to its handle. It
was only when I completed my inspection of the wares that it dawned on me that
one item was missing. There was no trace of the cabinet cup and saucer I had brought to my late friend from
“Excuse me; I’d like to know: are there any other porcelain pieces here?”
“Only what you see in the cabinets” she said, surprised.
“Is there no
For
a few moments she skimmed quickly, professionally, through
the catalogue. When she finished, she shook her head: “No; there’s
no such piece.”
Where was my
gift? I remembered vividly
how pleased he had looked when he examined the
cup and saucer. “It is a lovely set, Berger. I really like it. Thanks.”
His delight had been genuine. Why,
then, did my gift not figure in the
auction? Although I had never
joined the ranks of his bank and
had met him only once after our
last conversation in his office, we had kept in
touch for years. His short letters had been marked by their warmth and
by his interest in my career. He had, I
was confident, remained a friend to the
end. Dismissing my initial nagging
doubts, I concluded that Arthur Smithies would not
have parted with the cup and saucer.
Had they, by sheer bad luck, been broken or stolen?
After some time, I turned back to the rooms and
started to inspect the furniture. Once
again I experienced the
sensation of unreality
that had overcome me on the flight to London. The rooms looked too
grand, too impersonal, to
have constituted a
home. They created an ambience
different from Arthur Smithies’ old office in
In
an attempt to solve the riddle, I had a close look at the paintings on
the walls. Most were English hunting scenes and galleons braving stormy seas. Then, as I cast my eye on
three frames mounted one above the other on a narrow wall,
I froze in my steps. Sandwiched irreverently
between two common hunting scenes, hung an art work I had good reason to
recognise. The small abstract
study in colours entitled ‘Dawn’ was singed ‘Yuan-Ming, S’ore 1981’.” I
had stood by her side when she had put the
finishing touches to it.
For a while, the world kept spinning
around me. When it steadied, I had
another close look at the drawing to
ensure I had not experienced a mirage. A
light touch of the fine rice paper with
my finger tips settled any remaining
doubt. I had come face to face with a
work executed by Yuan Ming .
My friendship with young Yuan Ming and
her brilliant father, the
antiques dealer Tay Fang-Shuo alias Dr
Alfred Cheng, M.A., Ph.D. (Cantab), is a saga of its own. I had met them
by chance in 1962, when my
feet led me to their shop in
the heart of Singapore’s old China Town. The tasteful display of
artefacts in their show window
had prompted me to cross the threshold although, at that time, I had
not developed an interest in Chinese
antiques.
Within a few
months I had become a close friend of the
father, whose profound understanding
of both Chinese
and European art
amazed me. I had also become Yuan Ming’s favourite uncle. I used to help her with her home work, taught
her to swim and, occasionally, when
It
was at about
that time that I discovered Yuan
Ming’s artistic talents. Even
before then, I had been aware of her preoccupation with colours and of her ability to recall the very
finest shades of paintings on ceramics.
On one occasion, when I challenged her,
she drew an exact replica of a polychrome vase I had
purchased on my first visit to their
shop.
Later on, she showed me a small sketchbook with her drawings, insisting
that I tell no one about it. In the event, it had taken me ten months to
persuade Yuan Ming to share our secret
with
We remained close even after I
married a local Chinese girl in 1963. For a reason I have never managed to work
out, I kept my friendship with the Tays to myself. Still, my stand was right.
To forestall a storm that would have followed her discovery of this friendship, I reduced my trips to
Years later, I stumbled into their
new shop during a year I spent as Visiting Professor in the old institution, by
then renamed ‘the National University of
Singapore’. To my relief, our friendship
had stood the test of the lengthy period
of separation. Soon I was, once
again, making my pilgrimage to their shop two or three
times a week.
By then, Yuan Ming, whom I recalled as a young teenager,
had bloomed into
an attractive self assured woman.
She was just as lively and as active as
my little friend used to be but had
learned to hide her nerves behind a calm
and dignified front. Although she was
too small to be considered a beauty,
she still had her
big black eyes, her luscious long hair and, above
all, the directness of manner
that had captivated my heart in days gone bye.
As I had expected, she remained
devoted to art. After a short spell in
Cambridge, she moved to Los Angeles. By
the time I rediscovered them, she had become a reasonably
well known artist, shuttling between California and Singapore and spending her breaks in the PRC, where she mastered the finer details
of Chinese painting.
Conceptually, her
work manifested maturity. To my
disappointment, though, her brushes had
lost some of
their original freshness: gone
was her rare ability to create shapes by a
skilful manipulation of the finer shades of their colours. She was, instead, using a
technique involving the execution
of clear
lines outlining each individual subject.
With the exception of occasional pieces,
in which she employed
her earlier skills, I thought the
work of the adolescent girl had been superior to the
work of the mature young
artist. Undoubtedly, the
latter’s stroke and handling
of the brush had reached new
heights; so did
the composition of her drawings and paintings. All the same, something
was remiss.
Yuan Ming spotted my misgivings
straightaway. After a while, she
came up with a suggestion.
“You say your wife is going to
spend a few weeks with her church
friends in
“She is; so we can go to Changi Point a few extra times; and how about a
quick trip to
“I can’t leave Dad alone; not at the moment. But how about a full day
painting safari? There is a lovely spot in the Bukit Timah Reserve. Why
don’t I pick you up in
‘Dawn’ was
drawn that Sunday,
by a brook
on the slope of a hill. Yuan Ming had
used her Chinese brush, dipping
it in the ink-pots and executing each stroke with a single confident movement
of her hand.
She kept working spontaneously,
without a pause, just as she used to do
in the old days. Then, after what appeared to me an eon but was in reality but
a short
span of some thirty minutes, she nodded her head
and said with satisfaction: “That’s that; let’s see
what you think of it.”
Turning my head, I took in my breath
in. The liquid shapes, outlined by the colours
alone, sparkled in the gentle
morning sun. She had captured the very moment of dawn, with the
sun emerging in the horizon, with the
rays of soft light engulfing the branches of the trees
and caressing the transparent water in the brook. A man and a small
girl, sitting on his lap with her arm
around his shoulders, were displayed in
silhouette in the background. The
masterfully executed drawing
created an atmosphere of
lightness and harmony.
“What do you think of it?”
“It’s beautiful; just
plain beautiful” I told her. The
perfection of her stroke and of the composition compensated
for the one and only shortcoming of the
brilliant work: the colours were not as effervescent and as imaginatively employed as in her works of
days gone bye. I knew, however, that she was
once again on the right track.
To my relief, she did not ask any
questions. Having signed the sheet of
rice paper, she stamped
it with her ‘chop’ – the
classic Chinese artist’s seal – and wrote “Dawn” in the
margin.
Later in the day, after she had
rested, Yuan Ming went back to her easel.
The finished work showed a middle aged man and a young woman, admiring
a small brook fermenting in the hot sun. In the background,
a girl in her early teens and a young man were smiling at them.
“Yuan Ming” I begged; “please, let me have it. I know what you are
telling us.”
“It’s yours” she affirmed with a smile; “shall I name it ‘Ablaze at
“Of course” I assured her; “an is it part of set?”
“It’s meant to be; but I’m too tired to draw the other
two today; they are ‘Dusk’ and ‘Stormy Night’. I’ll have a go
next week.”
Yuan Ming displayed the full set in
her next exhibition in
So ‘Dawn’ had been acquired by Arthur Smithies. He was an art
connoisseur. But, then, why was this masterpiece hanging on this ridiculous wall,
sandwiched between two dull
oils? Trying hard to hide my wrath, I proceeded resolutely to the
shuttle bus.
Back in the hotel, I dropped on the
bed for a nap before dinner. When I
woke up, the room was pitch dark: I had
slept some six hours. Realising Yuan
Ming was waiting, I grabbed the receiver:
“I’ve been waiting for your call. You alright, Uncle? Where have you
been?”
“Asleep on the bed; I just dozed
off when I came back from
“Dozed off with all your clothes on?”
“Well, yes. Sorry to have given you a fright.”
“Something wrong?” she asked anxiously.
“No” I told her; “but the house in
“Let’s hear about it.”
Suppressing my
discovery of ‘Dawn’, I dwelt on
the missing cup
and saucer and the incongruity of the rooms.
“So you think this was not Arthur Smithies’ type of house?”
“It wasn’t; and he wouldn’t have parted with my gift.”
“But people change.”
“I know; but I didn’t think it would happen to him.
Still, I suppose I am
making too much of it: a storm in a tea cup.”
“I wouldn’t say that; but is this all, Uncle?”
“Well ... just about it,” I prevaricated. “But look, when will you be
here?”
“Soon; I’ll call your when I’m in
6.
Next morning I put in my appearance in Bill Riggs’ office. As
expected, neither camp had assumed
the courage to cross swords with its own fighting cock. Disgusted, I
spent the day polishing up my Expert’s Report, incorporating in it references
to yet another bundle of documents that had materialised from nowhere.
When I finished, I took
a train to Knightsbridge, to make some purchases. After dinner, I prepared
myself for the meeting with Counsel.
This
meeting took almost the entire day. When it was
over, I went back to the hotel. A voice message conveyed that Yuan Ming
had arrived in her flat. She had taken
the long flight from
Instantly, I felt a pang – not the
reaction of a suitor, but the quiet ache of a father, who fears that his
daughter may grow old and alone after
he’s gone. I then concluded that Yuan Ming was still dreaming about a
perfect spouse. A dependable, considerate and charming man, who would give her
interests a higher priority than his own: an ideal man and perfect spouse. I
suspected such paragons of virtue could be found in literature but not in real
life. Still,
It seemed best to change the
subject. For a while, we recalled anecdotes of the old days in
“So everything is alright now” I
concluded.
“With my exhibition – yes, Uncle,
it is. But I do want to know what went
wrong when you went to
“There is something; but, please, please, let me tell you later.”
“When?”
“After your exhibition!”
“After my exhibition?
But I’m coming with you to
the next preview
in Woodstock; so I’ll sure see
for myself. So why not tell me now?”
She
was, of course, right. My design of steering her away from the undignified wall
was now bound to fail; perhaps it had been unsound at its
inception. Without waiting for my reply, she sped on: “I thought it had
something to do with the house; so I went through that silly catalogue of
yours till I got a splitting headache. But I couldn’t
find a thing. And look here, Uncle; I don’t see how
furniture or ceramics can have anything to do with me. So it must be a
drawing.”
“So that’s it,” she said when she had taken in the change in my
expression. “You came across one of my drawings. But what’s so terrible about that?”
“It’s they way they treated it” I said bitterly, and without further
prompting told her what had taken place
in the preview, keeping from her only that
the painting was ‘Dawn’.
“Uncle,” she said when I had finished, “don’t you see you
are being unreasonable?”
“Unreasonable?” I spluttered angrily. “They placed your work of art between two ludicrous 19th century paintings,
executed by a Philistine of an
unskilled amateur.”
“But who arranged the preview items?”
“Some nincompoop!”
“So that’s it, Uncle. Somebody insulted your Yuan Ming
by keeping her work in the shadow. Somebody
you don’t even know. And off you go, hitting the roof.”
“I did not hit the roof! I remained
as cool as cucumber.”
“With flashing eyes? I
can just imagine the scene.
Remind me to have a good look at the cucumbers when we next shop in Harrods’
Food Stalls!”
“They don’t sell them there,” I
said weakly. “But, honestly, I don’t
see how you can take this
bullshit so calmly.”
"But, Uncle, if you had kept
your cool, you could have offered them more than the upper estimate and walked away with it.”
“It never occurred to me.”
“No, you were too angry, Uncle. And to think that Dad and I tried to
teach you to take things easy! But, it doesn’t matter. Only next
time don’t you hide things from me and don’t give me a fright.”
7. A Rising Young Banker
Back in my hotel room,
my mind reverted to my days as a research student. Banking practice entailed
field research, which drove me to
In all my spells n Lodon, a call on
the building in
Initially, it was a formal
acquaintanceship. True, I knew that, like myself, Brian was interested in art.
We talked about famous painters and draftsmen when he led me to Arthur
Smithies’ office or to the adjacent waiting room. I knew, further, that Arthur
Smithies trusted Brian Davies implicitly. All the same, he was in my eyes an
appendage – something in the nature of a personal assistant or of body guard –
to Arthur Smithies, the head of Crawfords.
This impersonal link turned into a
much closer relationship after I ran into him one day over lunch. I was looking
for a table in Lyons Corner House when Brian Davies – who had spotted me before
my eye fell on him – asked me to join his table. He was lunching with a plain
looking and conservatively dressed girl, a few years younger than himself.
Following the introduction, Ruth
Brown observed that Brian had told her a lot about me. From the brief exchange
that followed, I gathered that Ruth was aware of my background and that Brian
had referred to my research topic as
well as to my interest in porcelain and in prints.
“A largely academic interest at this stage,” I confided. “Good pieces are
well beyond my reach.”
“But I’m sure the right day will come,” she responded. “And, like Brian,
you are getting ready for it.”
We went on chatting. Ruth, I
realised, was not the flamboyant type of girl a man would date in anticipation
of a good time or a casual affair. She was a homely girl with a traditional
outlook on life. Her strength was in her character. She had the makings of a
steady wife and a good mother. She would
be proud to look after her husband, to bring up a solid family and to run
a good home.
“Where have the two of you met?” I took the courage to ask.
“In a Christmas party given by Crawfords,” she told me willingly. “One of
the secretaries asked me over.”
Ruth was curious about my
background. She wanted to find out as much as possible about
I saw more of Brian and Ruth in the
course of the ensuing months. Occasionally we lunched together in one of the
inexpensive eateries in the City. Some other times we had afternoon tea
together. Usually, Brian led the conversation to art. His interest was mainly
in modern prints of French based artists. He disliked the German expressionist I admired and found ceramics uninspiring.
Ruth, invariably, kept out of the conversations but did her best to feign
interest. She came to life when the
three of us went to a matinee or an
early evening show in Piccadilly.
I had no doubt these two would get married before long. They would – I
sensed – enjoy a happy marriage and bring up a large family. What baffled me was that they kept postponing
their day. Did one of the families raise objections?
The real reason for the waiting
period emerged one day, when I spotted them in a Wimpy Bar in Holborn. To my
surprise, both looked out of countenance. Brian tried to clear his expression
as soon as he spotted me but Ruth remained overtly distressed. Initially, I thought it
best to ignore the clouds and appear at ease. But I had come to know them too
well to prevaricate.
“Is something the matter?” I asked.
“Not really” said Brian, whilst Ruth’s face remained set. “We have
been making our plans for the future but
always come up against a snag.”
“What is it?”
“We want to have a place of our own,” Ruth came to life. “But we can’t
afford something suitable and comfy! We have enough for a nice house way out
“A Hobson’s Choice,” agreed Brian. “I hate the idea of commuting –
wasting some two or three hours on the train day in and day out; and I know all
about lousy accommodation!”
“I understand,” I pressed on. “But look, you’re Arthur Smithies right
hand man. Can’t you …”
“ … I’ve been telling Brian to have a chat with him,” interposed Ruth.
“But Crawfords does not grant housing loans. Arthur Smithies might make
an exception, but he won’t think the better of me,” Brian had spoken firmly.
“But couldn’t he introduce you to a building society?”
“We can approach one of them directly,” explained Brian; “but, Peter, we
don’t have enough for a deposit.”
The subject of housing continued to
crop up in many later conversations. In the end, Fortuna came to their aid. One of Brian’s colleagues was granted a fellowship
by an
The memory of that delightful
occasion remained fresh in my mind over the years. Stretched comfortably on my
bed in the hotel following my evening with Yuan Ming, I kept meandering about
what I knew of Brian’s later career. I
had been out of touch with him for a long time. But the snippets that had
trickled through, suggested he had done well.
8. ‘Dawn’ and
Mr Smithies
Next morning I called on Bill Riggs
in order to discuss some aspects of our case. Just before lunch I went over to
“Uncle, my drawing in
“Well ... yes, it is. I was going to tell you on the way to the preview.”
“No wonder you imploded; you loved it and wanted to have it.”
“I did; still do: but you have to exhibit and sell your best pieces.”
“Yes, I know.”
Opening her sketchbook, she went
on: “Is this
Arthur Smithies?”
It was an excellent portrait of my
late friend. Looking older than when
I had seen him last, in the Athenaeum,
he appeared slightly stooped and his shoulders
sagged more pronouncedly than I
recalled. What impressed me most, though, was his expression. Although it registered his usual composure
and benevolence, Yuan Ming’s
sketch brought to the front
an aura of independence verging on lonesomeness. She had portrayed a
self-assured man, whose pride
saved him from any manifestation – perhaps even
the inner admission – of failure.
He appeared too proud, too constant, to feel sorry
for himself or to become
disenchanted with life; but his face
reflected no inner happiness.
“It’s him alright” I told her. “But it’s not the way I saw him.”
“Where do we differ?”
“First, I thought there was something grand about him; you don’t display this. Secondly, I didn’t sense
his loneliness, although I recognised
that he was very much his own man.”
“You knew him when he was considerably younger and, I suspect, when he
was at his peak. I, Uncle, saw an aging
man, determined to retain his self-assurance and dignity. I think you told me that his bank
was taken over by an American
multinational; perhaps this brought his heyday to an end.”
“And there is one
other point,” I told her. “You sketched a confirmed old
bachelor. I used to think he had
a wife
and children. The biography in the catalogue came as a
surprise!”
“What on earth made you think he was married, Uncle? I
knew he was single.”
“To start with, something in his mannerism projected the airs of a
family man. And, in any event, a dependable and warm hearted man like him
was bound to attract women who wanted to
set up a steady home and enjoy a good family life.”
“I spotted the latter element; not
the former. But, of course, not every man who attracts women gets hooked.
And, Uncle, you saw him in his bank, which he
must have treated as his family. No wonder
you confused the issues. But, then, did he ever mention a wife or
family?”
“Coming to think of it, he didn’t. All I knew was that,
in those
days, he lived in
“Perhaps this was what he wanted you to think! No, Uncle, the element
of self-sufficiency, of loneliness, portrayed in my sketch told its own tale.
I knew he was a nice and kindly man; but he wasn’t
prepared to give up one single shred of
his personal freedom.”
“Did anything he say reinforce your conclusion?”
“Not what he said, but what he
didn’t say. Most men who buy a piece
tell me their wife would love it or that
it’s just what she wants for their
sitting room. Some even
say they’ll come back to have a
second look with ‘the
missis’; others talk about their daughter or son, and tell me proudly
how talented they are and how they, too, like to draw; but not Arthur Smithies.
He spoke like an art critic or a connoisseur. He understood what I was
trying to do; and he appreciated it; but he remained detached.
So I knew.”
“Please, tell me all about your encounter with Arthur Smithies.”
“He turned up on the last day of the exhibition, in
the late
afternoon. I suspect he
didn’t plan to visit us but dropped in by chance. He
stopped at the entrance like someone who hadn’t made up his mind; for a
while he looked around him and only then stepped in. Most viewers were already
gone, so
I watched him. You see, Uncle, we don’t get
many patrons from
“What did you do?”
“I kept watching him. He was not
impressed with the mainstream of my works. But he showed interest when he
looked at the other paintings, where I used ‘her’ old technique. When
he reached the set we drew in the Bukit Timah Reserve,
his expression changed altogether: it became animated and, Uncle, he broke into
an appreciative smile. He moved closer to see the title of
the drawings, took a few steps back to
look at each drawing from a distance,
came closer again and then turned around like somebody requiring attention. So
I walked over and asked if I could help him.”
“Did you tell him you were the artist?”
“No, I didn’t; but he knew straight away; don’t ask
me how. He first asked where I had drawn these pieces. He
then raised questions about the technique and, very
discreetly, inquired where I got my training. He was not
surprised when I told him I used
a Chinese technique but Western concepts.
I suspect he had worked that out for himself.”
“How do you know he grasped the subjects and the ideas behind them?”
“I asked if he wanted me to
explain. He said he thought he understood what
I was aiming at and, rather shyly, ran through the four drawings and
said he would like to get any piece still available.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told him that ‘Dawn’ was available. He jumped at it and – you know – declined the 15% discount I
offered him.”
So Arthur Smithies had not changed
his benign life philosophy. Even years after he became my mentor, he was
willing to spend time or money on what appeared supportable in his eyes.
“Did he contact you again?”
“He did. First I got a Christmas
card, in which he told me
‘Dawn’ graced his sitting room.
A few
months later, he sent me a handwritten note, saying that a well known
“Did you reply?”
“He never gave
an address; so I assumed he intended to keep it a
one way correspondence. But,
Uncle, that show had an effect on my career! You remember I told you I had been invited to send drawings
and sketches to a well known gallery in
“Of course.”
“Well, the owners of the two
galleries got interested in my work when they saw ‘Dawn’.”
So cause and effect had played their
role. Still, chance – my beloved Fortuna
– had directed Arthur Smithies’ feet to the exhibition in
“Was ‘Dawn’ his first preference?”
“He said so. When I asked ‘why’, he answered: ‘I
admire the harmony in the composition and the blending of the
scenery with the dreams of the little girl and the man’s aspirations for her.’
I had the feeling, Uncle, that, for just a moment, he lost his detachment and, perhaps, was
talking to himself. But look, Uncle, I must really go ahead with that call to
Yuan
Ming used her handphone. At first she
spoke in Cantonese but soon
switched to Mandarin. I concluded that she was
negotiating with two parties: a
To
calm my nerves, I tried to concentrate on Yuan Ming’s
sketch of Arthur Smithies. A
closer scrutiny convinced me that it was satirical. She had
contrasted his declining physique with his urge to maintain the pose
of days past.
Like
all her other portraits, Yuan
Ming’s sketch of Arthur
Smithies reflected her wit and
objectivity. It was not malicious.
My image of him differed because I had hero worshipped him.
My tinted glasses
had obliterated the dents
in Arthur Smithies’ armour – the
flaws that had been discerned
by Yuan Ming’s impartial eye.
Her
diagnosis of Arthur Smithies in
his later years was borne out by what
I had gleaned
from other sources. My own communications with
him, following my departure from
Fixing my
eyes on Yuan Ming’s sketch, I
asked myself whether Arthur Smithies had always been as she saw him or whether a
subtle change, produced by the ravages of time, had turned the man I knew
into the replica portrayed by her?
Seeking to find
an answer, I
commenced to rove
through our communications
following my departure from England.
Shortly after
my arrival in Singapore I had sent him
a number of postcards with scenes of the town. He, in
turn, kept sending me cuttings from
catalogues. Later on, during my second
year in
Toward the end of the same year, I
went for a short spell to
I
made my next attempt to see him
during my study leave. A fortnight after our arrival in London. I was
about to enter the building n Birchin Lane when,
to my amazement, I saw
that the old and elegant placard had been replaced by the
insignia of the First National City Trust Co. Inc., a
well known American multinational bank.
For a while I stared at it
dumbfounded. Then, hidden beneath the
large letters of the new owners’ name, I spotted a small
brass table. It read: ‘Formerly Crawford & Co. – founded 1756.’
When I recovered, I stepped in. The
new Head Porter, who used to be the
second in command, recognised me instantly.
“We haven’t seen you here for a while, Sir.”
“I’ve been away, in
“Thank you, Sir; thank you. You
look well, if I may say so. Must be nice
and warm out there in the East.”
“It is indeed. But tell me please, is Mr Smithies available?”
“I am afraid he is no longer with us, Sir.”
“Do you know whether he is in
“I believe he is in
“Is he still with the bank?”
“He is indeed. Shall I let him know you are here?”
Brian Davies had put on weight and projected the
image of a successful executive on his way up. After a drink in his office,
we went for lunch. Over the first course, we
exchanged our personal news. I
was delighted to learn that Brian had been appointed the Head of the Overseas
Department – a fine achievement for a
man in his mid thirties. Brian, though, did not tell me much about his post. He
was, rather, eager to talk about his
domestic life.
“Mary Jane arrived over two years ago,” he said proudly. “She talks quite
a bit already. And we are told our next one will be a boy. He is due soon.”
“Congratulations,” I said warmly; “do you intend to have a large family?”
“Jonathan will have to be the last; Ruth is having a tough
time. I wish we were living closer to the City so that I
could go home for lunch.”
“I thought you had intended to buy a house in Bayswater when your
landlord came back from the States?”
“We still couldn’t afford a good house in inner
“Where exactly is Stanmore?”
“I keep forgetting you are not from these pArt, Peter,” he chuckled.
“Stanmore is on the outskirts, just
within greater
“That’s a long ride.”
“Some of my colleagues commute from as far as
As before, Brian enjoyed his food.
Still, when the waiter had served the
main course, Brian turned,
at long last, to the subject I was most interested in.
“You must wonder what has happened
to the old bank? Did Arthur Smithies
tell you about the takeover?”
“I received his last letter about half a year ago; and
‘no’, he didn’t say anything about a takeover.”
“They were still negotiating at that time; I suspect he thought
the deal would fall through.”
“What actually happened?”
“You could call it a ‘palace
revolution’, although a ‘family
skirmish’ is more to the point.”
“I am not sure I understand.”
“You knew that Crawford & Co.
was a partnership, didn’t you?” Without waiting for my
reply, he went on. “Arthur Smithies had the biggest share.
All the other partners
were members of the two
families: the Smithies
and the Crawfords. Well,
some of them started to get concerned
about the drop
in profits.”
“I thought the bank was doing well?”
“In some ways it did. New clients from
“So what went wrong?”
“The family partners became too impatient; and too
greedy. All they saw was
the periodic fall in profits.
Some asked Arthur Smithies to buy them out but,
of course, demanded too much. When he refused, one of them
approached First National. It was common knowledge that they were looking
for a
target in
“He would not have appreciated that!”
said I.
“He hated it! Some eighteen years ago, when Crawfords went through a
post War crisis, Arthur Smithies gave up his practice at the Bar and
took over the management of the Bank. He salvaged it.
I am
told that nobody said: ‘thank you’. This may not have mattered to him
then; perhaps he didn’t expect a show of
gratitude. But he took a dim view of the
family’s conduct during the last
few years. In the end, he made his own deal with our new
masters. Being an honest man he
looked also after the interests of the rest:
but he made his own decision and put the remaining partners before
a fait accompli.”
“How did they take it?”
“With varying degrees of ill
grace. Although Arthur Smithies secured
a fair deal, they felt slighted because he had not
consulted them. I believe their resentment was the real cause of an
ugly scene, made by the son of one of
one partners and the daughter of another.”
“What happened?”
“The two – who I think are engaged to be married – turned
up one morning. The young man,
who was in a foul
mood, started by voicing
his unhappiness with the deal and
then accused Arthur Smithies of
making an unfair profit out of
it. You
see, Arthur Smithies bargained for a termination bonus
based on the loss of the salary paid to
him as the bank’s managing
partner. The young man argued that this sum was
taken out of the price payable for the assets so that its payment
reduced the amount due to each partner for his share.”
“What did Arthur Smithies say?”
“I could see he was taken aback. But, even so, he
tried to explain to them that it was a severance payment, to
remunerate him for his years of service to the bank – a golden handshake. I believe the girl
accepted this. She must have realised
how deeply Arthur Smithies had been offended and wanted to avoid
a family quarrel. Unfortunately, the young man wouldn’t be
silenced. He told Arthur
Smithies that he had
taken legal advice and, on
its basis, was satisfied
that the payment was in the nature of a bribe! He
concluded by saying: ‘This is not
something the family expected from you, our upright uncle Arthur!’.”
“The bloody cheek! What did Arthur Smithies do?”
“You should have seen his face.
For just a moment I feared he would lose
his temper and yell
at them. Then, within a matter of seconds, he
managed to control himself and just kept staring at them in
silence. When he had cooled down, he said in a measured tone: ‘As you have
already consulted your legal advisers, the
matter has to be settled through
them. I shall refer
their letter to my
own solicitors. And now I have to get
ready for my
next appointment; so please excuse me. Mr Davies will show you out’.”
“You must have felt very awkward to be in the middle?”
“I was too absorbed in what was going on to think of myself.”
“And so did you just see them out?”
“Not immediately. The
girl said they
were only repeating the lawyer’s
opinion. Arthur Smithies did not bother to reply. Then the
young man asked if there was any message for his father. Arthur Smithies replied: ‘So he is a party to this
affront. Very well, then. You can tell
him that I shall sign the
take-over agreement on the appointed day. Under
clause 17, the agreement
comes into operation only if it
is signed by all the partners
within the immediately following
ten days. If they do not sign, I shall
take the necessary steps to
dissolve the partnership. And now I must really
ask you to leave.’ The young man said: ‘As you wish.’ The girl
tried again to salvage the
situation. She mentioned the high
esteem in which Arthur Smithies
was held by the family and said he had
always been her favourite uncle. When she finished,
Arthur Smithies said: ‘What a pity it has all come to end in this way.’
He then picked up the file lying in front of him and immersed
himself in it. They then left.”
“Was there a sequel?” I wanted to know.
“Not that I know of. By the end of
the ten days period, all the partners
had signed on the dotted line.”
“What I can’t
understand is how any responsible solicitor could
tell his client that a ‘golden handshake’ constituted a bribe? That young ass must have consulted an octogenarian!”
“No, Peter: he consulted a law student!” Noting my
amazement, Brian Davies went
on: “When I saw them out of the
building the girl chided her fiancé for
his rudeness. He had been asked to
reason with uncle Arthur, with the
object of convincing him to pay a
percentage of his ‘golden handshake’ over
to the family. Nobody had asked
him to stage a confrontation. Well, her words cut no ice with that chap. Appearing quite
unruffled, he told her that he was certain a
‘nice old stick’ like their worthy
uncle Arthur would do the right thing after
thinking the matter over. He would be scared by the
damage to his ‘bloody
reputation’. She retorted that uncle Arthur hadn’t looked frightened to
her. She then scolded the young man for alleging
they had
consulted a lawyer, when
all he did was to discuss the matter with a law student in
“And they had this row in front of you, Brian?”
“Quite so. You see, Peter, these young rich upstArt, with their arrogance
and bloody airs, regard somebody in my position as a sort of a butler. So they take no notice of my presence. Still,
I didn’t repeat what I had heard
to Arthur Smithies: he would not have wanted to know and, in any
event, it would have made no difference. He had decided to sever his ties with
the family there and then; and I don’t blame him.”
“What happened to Arthur Smithies
after the completion of the take-over.
The porter told me he was in
“He declined an offer for a
non-executive directorship of First National
but considered an offer to join another bank – an emerging investment bank with a background
similar to Crawfords’.” He hesitated for a moment and then added, slightly embarrassed: “I think you can guess who they
are. Then came the offer to
put him in
charge of the restructuring of CBC Corporation...”
“Who are they?”
“A substantial industrial firm;
the main shareholder is the Crown. About
one year ago the Annual General
Meeting resolved to relocate the headquarters
to
“Did he look after the interests of his old
employees?” I asked, wondering what would have been my fate had I
joined Crawford & Co.
“He did us proud! You realise all
of us had been handpicked by him.
He knew some would not fit in
with the new management. So he interviewed each employee to see
if he wanted to remain in the bank or preferred
to make a move.
Quite a few of the old guard got excellent jobs in other banks in the
City through him. I could have moved to
Brownlows but decided to stay put. If you had joined us, he
would have secured
you an opening in one of the
established foreign investment
banks.”
“So, by and large, it was a painless take-over.”
“For everybody, except, I think, for Arthur Smithies himself,”
concluded Brian Davies.
A
few days after
that lunch with Brian Davies, I wrote
to Arthur Smithies at his new
address in
My
impressions of Arthur Smithies’ Odyssey during these years were, in consequence, based entirely on his letters and postcards.
Unlike mine, which provided an
outline of my life and career, his communiqués told
me little about himself. Usually he started by commenting on
the latest offprint of an article I had sent him or expressed his thanks
for the copy of a new
book. Frequently, he included an appendix with comments and notes and,
occasionally, incorporated observations
respecting banking practice.
He also used to refer to
interesting auctions or exhibitions he had attended or to his main news as,
for instance, that
he had completed his assignment
in
Shortly after his return to
Later still – a few weeks after
we had missed one
another in 1974 – he told me he
had resigned his appointment in that
public corporation and set
himself up as an arbitrator in
commercial disputes. A passage in
the relevant letter was revealing. “My room in my old chambers in the
As my mind skimmed through the
letters we had exchanged over the years, it
dawned on me that, in more than one way, they had
remained formal. I continued to address him as “Dear Mr
Smithies” (or ‘Sir Arthur’) whilst his letters opened with “My Dear Berger”. Neither of us had ever
referred in our correspondence to the mishaps,
to the disappointments and to the
occasional upheavals that close friends
discuss with one another. He had, for instance, not referred to his
split with the
rest of his family. I, in turn, had
never adverted to my
matrimonial problems.
We
had also been
careful in commenting on
each other’s personal decisions. I recalled that, when I advised
him of my appointment to the Chair
in Wellington, he had observed: “I only hope you will be able
to pursue your interest in porcelain from out there.” Notably, the
very same letter included
one of the only two comments he had ever
made about my personal
life. “From all I hear,” he had
written, “Wellington is a nice
place; hopefully your
wife, who is accustomed to
life in
a hustling and bustling
town like Singapore, will find it
congenial.” The other
comment, written when I told him
I had been appointed to a Chair at
As Yuan Ming kept discussing her
forthcoming deal with the overseas parties, I continued to reflect on my correspondence with
Arthur Smithies. Then, just as she ended the call, the waiter placed the meal I had ordered in
front of us. They chef had taken his time but, then, the dishes were freshly
cooked.
“And you were thinking of Arthur Smithies whilst poor me was busy negotiating the grand deal,” she said with a
twinkle in her eye.
“I have indeed; and I like your sketch.”
“Thanks; but you better snap back into the present; or I’ll
gobble up all the food: I’m as hungry as a horse!”
"As a mare, surely?"
“Sure, Uncle, sure,” she burst out laughing; “when you get fed up with
the law, you may
devote yourself to teaching bright school children the sequence
of tenses, the declination of verbs and ancient grammar.”
“All right,” I replied. “And so your deal is all settled?”
“We’ll see; I’ll know for sure tomorrow. And I may not
have to go to
9. A Grand Deal
Next morning I
took the underground to Bank
Station. When I embarked at the
He, too, had aged. Streaks of salt
and pepper interlaced his previously
light hair and his face was wrinkled all
over. But his ruddy appearance and his army bearing continued to give him an
aura of robustness.
“It is a long time since you called last, Sir.”
“Some twenty years or so. And how
have you been keeping?”
“Can’t complain, Sir, can’t complain; and how are you? You look well, if
I may say so.”
“Thank
you” I said. “And I see the old building has new owners.”
“They bought it some five years
ago. It became too small for First
National.”
“The premises are no longer sort of open to customers.”
“No, they aren’t; but would you like to have a look?”
As I followed him, I noticed that
his right knee was stiff. Despite his
effort to hide his impediment, he was limping.
“A touch of the gout,” he said without bitterness.
“Knee is painful in the
morning but gets better later in the day.”
“Are you undergoing treatment?”
“Not really; it’ll come right sooner or later,” he
answered as he let me in.
The
well was gone. So was the elegant
mezzanine floor. Rows of small cubby box offices, set apart by thin
partitions, occupied what had once been a spacious interior. Even the staircase
looked narrower and the modernised lifts lacked in charm.
“I think I have seen enough. But tell me, the old board room – is
it still the same?”
“The room is still there; but I am afraid the panelling is gone. The
polishing process became
too expensive, what with the cost
of flying the workmen over from
“What a pity” I said as he closed the door behind us.
“And tell me, is Mr
Brian Davies around?”
“I am afraid not, Sir. He left First National years ago. I hear he went
out to the Gulf to set up their banking system. But he
may be back in
“I was sorry to hear of his demise. Actually, I went
to the preview of his estate earlier this week.”
“I am going next week, Sir. I hope to get the painting of the galleon
battling the storm off Yarmouth I like this painting. It used to hang in the
Partners Room. It sort of reminded me of home.”
“I think it’s there. So are you
from Yarmouth?” I told him.
“We are; and my wife is looking
forward to going back when I finish
here.”
“All the best luck in the world to
you then” I said, touched by his
show of loyalty to his home town.
“And take care of yourself ...”
“ … Bates” he
interceded with a grin. “Roger Bates.”
When I got to Bill Rigg’s office, I discovered
that the trial had been postponed
because the judge had come down with a bout of ‘flu. To avoid a series of
delays a new date had been set some two weeks after the vacated day. Shrugging
my shoulders, I took a taxi to
As soon as I entered the flat, Yuan Ming showed me a few ceramics pieces,
mainly T’ang and Song. The purchasers had demanded a second opinion. She wanted
me to examine the ones in front of us. On this occasions, my work with her late
father stood me in good stead. Following a careful perusal, I concluded they
were genuine.
“These pieces are perfect: best T’ang and Song items I’ve seen for years”
I told her.
“They are,” she agreed. “Once they are out of
For
a while, I kept staring at her. Strange thoughts raced through
my mind. Why was she implicated in such a shady deal, involving the smuggling of a national treasure out its home country?
“You wonder why I’m doing it?”
“Well, yes. Shouldn’t
this find remain in
“No, of course, not. I have enough;
not that my 3 per cent cut
is to
be sneezed at. But, no, money is sure not my motive.
Like the two principals, I want to help get these
pieces to a safe place, where there are no political lunatics who
destroy works of art out of
ideological zeal. That, Uncle, is the main
motive. When the dust has settled, the treasure will be bequeathed to
a suitable museum. ”
“I understand,” I assured her. “But I hope you can clinch the deal from
here: if you get caught in something
like this in
“Some of the people involved are right at the top; so the risk is negligible” she said with a smile. “But you are right – it’s
dangerous because they may look for a scapegoat if somebody blows
the whistle. So I better try to settle
it now.”
I
sat beside her as she made her call to the
“And so you clinched the deal?” I asked when she ended the call with a
satisfied grin.
“I have. But I had to reduce my
commission to 2 per cent.”
“But you don’t have to travel to
“No, I don’t! And, Uncle, you can keep the pieces we
examined. They are a
bonus – for a long suffering uncle.”
“They are worth at least £10,000.00; perhaps more!”
“But you are not going to sell
them, are you? I’m sure you’ll place
them on the shelves of Dad’s
cabinets.” She was referring to the ceramics collection, including
“True” I said. “He would have
liked them! Also, such works of art should
not be sold to a rich ignoramus, who might smash them in a fit of rage
when his next currency speculation misfires or when his latest mistress elopes
with his chauffeur!”
“What language” she laughed. “The way you
talk, Uncle, I might forget you are a sedate lawyer charging
resolutely for every minute of your precious time!”
“It all goes for a good cause,” I protested.
“Like buying extravagant gifts for your niece?”
“Coming to think of that,” I told
her, “I might as well show you what
I have bought for your birthday.
I’d rather give it to you now than in six days.”
“Don’t tell me it’s another piece of jewellery!”
“No, it isn’t: just you have a look!”
An animated expression crept over
her face when she picked up the Harlequin. He was gracefully dancing away from
the small scent bottle, shaped as the
trunk of an oak, against which he had been leaning. Like me, she was captivated
by the dynamic movement of his right arm and his left leg, by his
beckoning hand which invited an unseen Columbine to join him and by
his enigmatic smile. Although he was less than two inches tall, he
had all
the attributes of a rococo sculpture.
“He is adorable” she said after a pause. “And I love his costume. Yes,
Uncle, he’s cute: I’d like to dance with him!”
“Do you like him better than the Chinese pieces you just gave me?”
“Yes, I do”
she said readily; “the porcelain is almost as good
as Chinese porcelain; and the colours are just as fresh and project the
same harmony...”
“Why, then, do you prefer him?”
“Because he is a real man – with
his own dreams. He talks to me and, yes,
I should like to dance with him.
Thanks Uncle.” Placing him caressingly beside the larger, imposing yet perfect Chinese pieces, she
concluded: “Look, Uncle, he dwarves these pieces.”
“They have their own elegance” I said with unease, thinking of her
father.
“They do; but my Harlequin is the
real thing.” Looking
at me searchingly, she added:
“Dad, too, knew it; but was loath to admit it.”
It was raining hard that evening. So
we ordered a pizza and prepared a few dishes. I proved my ability as a chef by
baking a soufflé. Over this dinner
we planned our next day trip to
“Uncle, when you first came to
Dad’s shop in
“You could say that; but I liked the tastefully arranged show window.”
“Suppose you had walked bye with your
head in the clouds; or suppose you hadn’t lost your way at all that
day?”
“Well?” said I.
“We might have never met. What do you think would my life have been like,
Uncle? Do you think I would have become an artist?”
“And why not? You had the talent all along.”
“But what were Dad’s plans for me?”
“He wanted you to
become a scholar like himself.”
“But was I born to be a scholar?
Did I have the desire to search for knowledge?”
“Perhaps not; but your Dad tried to get you there.”
“But can you change
a child’s orientation altogether? Come, come, Uncle
, you spent hours teaching ‘her’ to
write ...”
“And you always got the top marks in school for your essays!”
“Because ‘she’ wrote them under
your vigilant eye. But did she have a natural gift?”
“Perhaps not. Still, under your
Dad’s guidance you became skilled in
writing Chinese!”
“Because I loved the beauty of the
script. So I worked hard to perfect my
technique; and Dad was proud of me: sometime he couldn’t resist bragging. But he
knew I was no scholar.”
“Still, you could have become a great traditional
Chinese artist? Even
as things stand, you have been recognised by some of the best masters of
“So I have – but my work would
have been sterile. Yet another Chinese
artist labouring for years to
perfect her stroke; and could I have produced
‘Dawn’ or ‘Ablaze at
“You would not have conceived the idea; I’m not sure why.”
“I’ll tell you
why, Uncle. Someone had to draw
me away
from the narrow constraints of my own culture and early upbringing. ‘She’ needed somebody to assure her that she had the right to think for herself; and so you stepped
into our
shop; and helped ‘her’ to open her eyes!”
“But your Dad was as much of an individualist as me. He, too, made a fetish of your independence.”
“He did, Uncle; and he was an individualist. Still, he was plagued by a desperate need to cling
to the image of a traditional Chinese scholar: detached from life, patient
even if open eyed, and imperturbable.”
“And when he delivered his sparkling lectures in English?”
“For these he turned himself into
his image of a
“What are you telling me, Yuan Ming?” I asked bewildered.
“In his heart of heArt Dad
remained a traditional Chinese. As you
know, he understood the
West and its ideals. He liked much of what the West
offered him. But his core remained untouched.”
“And you, Yuan Ming – aren’t you still a Chinese girl?”
“In appearance only. But when all
is said and done, Uncle, I am a bit like
you. You, Uncle, are
no longer a
real Viennese or
Israeli. Today, you
think, speak and write in English
– not in one of your two mother tongues. So you’ve become a cross cultural
person ...”
“A mongrel?”
“ ... quite. But remember, thoroughbreds are dull; mongrels are cute.”
“And you, Yuan Ming, what are you?”
“In many ways, I’m still Chinese.
But like you, I have travelled far away from home.”
“But how – in which direction?”
“I went for a
search for myself: a search for
individuality. This, Uncle, is the fetish
of the West: the ideal which separates West from East. Even if Dad had
conceived the idea of
‘Dawn’, the topic would have
disturbed him. In his eyes, it would
be untraditional and vulgar.”
“He never tried to stop you,” I protested lamely.
“True; he didn’t.
He was a fair minded man. Perhaps he also realised that the old order
had to give way. But he didn’t approve.
No, Uncle, you had to bring out ‘her’
talents.”
Once
again, there was a lull in our conversation. Both
of us were recalling the
old days affectionately. They had
been happy. Seen through a
kaleidoscope, the bright colours had moved into the centre.
After a short lull, Yuan Ming resumed her discourse: “Let me tell you, Uncle, what my life would have
been like if we hadn’t met. No doubt,
‘she’ would have taken over Dad’s shop ...”
“ ... you did in any event.”
“So I did,” she agreed, “and ‘she’
would have made just as good a job
of it even if
you hadn’t stepped into her life.
‘She’ had the ability
and the business acumen. The shop would have become her
career. ‘She’ would not have become a
scholar: ‘she’ was too pragmatic. So your
grown up Yuan Ming
would have ended
up as one of
the leading Chinese
art dealers ...”
“ ... you are now!” I interceded firmly.
“Now I’m one of the top twenty or
so; if ‘she’ had grown up without
meeting you, the sky would have been the limit! I could have been in the
top three!”
“Do you have regrets?”
“Of course not. You see, ‘her’ dreams would have been quenched at source
and I should have missed
out on my real vocation.
Also, I
should probably be unhappily
married to a successful Chinese businessman, with
a degree in
‘systems engineering’ or some such other frightful
subject.” Pausing for a minute, she went on: “And if I had
come across my Dancing
Harlequin, I should have thought he was cute; but the wish to dance with him would have
never crossed my mind.”
Back in my lonely hotel room, I kept
thinking of what Yuan Ming had told me. Initially, I was disturbed by her
harsh judgment of her late father. Then,
as I meandered through my own experiences
with him, I realised she had hit
the nail on its head. In many ways,
Naturally, I was
aware of the demarcation between
Tay and my
nephews and nieces in Singapore. It was the same gap
that separated Arthur Smithies from Roger Bates, the ageing
porter at the building in
“Yes, Yuan Ming,” I whispered
although I knew my thoughts could not be transmitted to her flat in Chelsea, “eons ago
our paths had crossed due to Fortuna’s
whim. But that chance meeting had its
own lasting effect on both of us.”
10. Last
meeting with a friend
We
made our way to
For
a while I continued to admire the progress made
by her. Then, compulsively, my mind strayed back to Arthur Smithies.
Although Yuan Ming’s sketch
and searching assessment of his personality had revealed
the dents in his
armour, I continued
to recall him with my
usual affection and gratitude. As
Yuan Ming entered the M4, adroitly overtaking in the
process another woman driver who
screamed an obscenity at her, my mind focused on my very last meeting with my late friend: our
conversation in the Athenaeum in 1981.
It
had taken place during a week which I spent in
His hair had gone grey and he had
lost some weight; but he did not
look as frail as in Yuan Ming’s sketch. I sensed that
he had retained his presence and had aged with dignity.
Offering my excuses to my host, I
stepped over and joined Arthur Smithies.
“It has been a long time since we last met, Mr Smithies”.
“Too long, Berger, far too long.”
“And how are you keeping? You look well, if I may say so.”
“Thank you; I do look after myself; except that I take on more cases than I ought to.”
“Surely, you do continue to enjoy your role in the City?”
“I suppose I do; it’s the life to which I’m accustomed; occasionally, though, I feel the need to have more time for myself:
for my collection mainly. But, tell me, Berger, how are you getting on? And
thanks again for the books and offprints you send me from time to time.
I enjoy reading them.”
“Thanks” I said, touched “and, actually, I’m fine. As I mentioned to you
in my last letter, I’m spending one year of sabbatical
leave in
“And has she accompanied you to
“I’m afraid not. I’ve come out for
just a few days – to give evidence
as an expert witness on banking practice.”
“And how is it going?”
“No too badly.”
“I’m glad it’s going smoothly,” he said with approbation. “I told them you were the right man for the
job when the subject cropped up in a recent conversation.”
“I’ve wondered who
had mentioned my name to Paine and
Pine, Mr Smithies. It was most kind of you to think of
me.”
“Oh, I just
mentioned your name; I’m sure
they decided to call
you in reliance on your
publications.”
“But I’m sure your support was
essential, and thanks again. But
please tell me, Mr Smithies, how
do you find Epping? Do you commute to
“Not really, just about two or three times a week. When we have an
arbitration going, I stay in the club. And, yes, I do like Epping.
A small town with a life of its own but with easy access to the
City.”
“And how is your collection?”
“It has grown,” he responded with a smile. “I find good furniture and
pieces of porcelain irresistible. Soon my house will become
too small to
contain them. The rooms begin to
look cluttered. And how is your collection?”
“Getting quite substantial!” I told him proudly.
“Which shows that both of us are
hooked on collecting,” he said. Then,
as if
embarrassed by his joke, he added in haste: “And have a look, I just
received a catalogue of a forthcoming
sale of the estate of a keen collector
from Torquay.”
Opening the catalogue at the pages displaying the
porcelain items, he drew my attention to the yellow milk jug.
“Isn’t it lovely?” he asked.
“Exquisite,” I confirmed. “You’ll bid for it, no doubt?”
“There are a few other good pieces in the sale; but I think this is the
best. Have a look for yourself.”
For
a few moments both of us were engrossed in the
“Oh, I suppose they are really
discussing some other forthcoming case,”
then, realising that our conversation had gone on for quite a while,
I conceded resignedly, “but you
are, of course, right. Still, I am delighted we have, at long last, met again.”
Getting ready
to rise and take my leave, I was
overcome by profound sense of gratitude. Settling back into my chair and trying
hard to control my voice, I turned back to him: “But before we part, Mr
Smithies, there is just one more thing I
have got to say to you. I do want to
thank you for all you have done for me and for all your concern and assistance
over the years. In more than one manner, you have set me on my way. I
am – and will always remain – deeply
grateful to you.”
Even
as I spoke, I experienced a sense
unease. I had used the
words of a young man at the outset of his career expressing
his thanks to his
teacher. Coming from myself, an
academic in mid life with a
sound track record, they sounded out of place. Had I made a fool of
myself? My fears were allayed by the
change in Arthur Smithies’ expression. It told me I had
not spoken in vain and that my outburst
had fallen on receptive ears. He had
understood what I meant and was moved.
For a few moments he remained
lost for words. Then, in his usual, even, voice, he replied:
“I think you give me too much credit, Berger. There
were, of
course, your supervisors in
Oxford and don’t
you underrate your
research and perseverance. But I do appreciate what you have just said;
and believe me it has always been a
pleasure.”
He
was about to add a few words in the same vein but, after a
hurried glimpse at the other
table, cut himself short: “Once again, thanks
for what you have just told me. But I really think you
ought to return to your table.
Otherwise, old Bailey might conclude I’ve kidnapped his guest.”
Having rejoined my host, I used a
lull in the conversation to glance in
Arthur Smithies’ direction. Outwardly, he appeared immersed in his catalogue; but a
satisfied expression brightened his face. Shortly thereafter, when I
looked over again,
his table was
vacant; Arthur Smithies
had left unobtrusively.
11.
Re-estimate
“You have been in a far away
country, Uncle,” said Yuan Ming as I turned
back to her. “Do you always neglect your lady friends when they act as
chauffeurs?”
“Sorry,” I said contritely, “just for a moment I was thinking of ...”
“Arthur Smithies” she broke in “your last encounter with him, ‘me
think’!”
“Spot on. But how did you know?”
“I know you. And that encounter, Uncle, it took place shortly before you
found Dad and me?”
“So it did. I
stumbled into your shop some ten days after I
had returned to Singapore.”
“Yes, Uncle; and you told me about
that episode two or three days
before we drew ‘Dawn’; it was
interesting to listen to you: it confirmed that you hadn’t changed at all; just
as I thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“You, Uncle, have always been constant in your affiliations; once you
accepted a person, he could do no wrong.”
“You are probably right” I acknowledged.
“I believe I am; but there is something I’ve never fully understood. You
see, you have always been grateful to
your two supervisors and also
to those of your Deans who helped
you on your way. But, somehow, you
felt much more deeply indebted to Arthur Smithies. It was
the type of relationship you had with
Dad. I think I know the reason, but why don’t you tell me.”
“All right,” I nodded. “You see, my two supervisors and my Deans belong
to one and the same world: to the
Universities. Academia is an open ended society, in which able students can race ahead regardless of
their background or station in life. I have benefited greatly from my two
years in Oxford, have remained grateful
to those who gave me their support and, in turn, have endeavoured to render
the same assistance
to my own gifted students
and also to
young colleagues. As you know, I’m proud of those who are presently
overtaking me in my own field.”
“And Arthur Smithies?” she asked.
“He represented a different world.
The aristocratic English banks are
closed shops, opening their
ranks mainly to
young Englishmen from
the right professional background.
It helps if an applicant has
a good University degree; but the pedigree is just
as important.”
“And you were flattered by the
interest which a member of this class
showed in your work and by his offer to appoint you to his staff?”
“Yes, Yuan Ming; but it wasn’t just the assistance which he
gave me and the offer. It went much
deeper than that. You see, I had, really, no right to make any demands
on him or on his bank. There was no
social or professional norm that
required him to be at my service.
I was
touched by his generosity.”
“It boosted your confidence as well, didn’t it?” she probed.
“It did indeed. It was good to know that my work was well thought of by
one of London’s leading bankers, just as it was good to know later on, in Singapore, that your
Dad approved of my progress in
the study of
Chinese porcelain. And, Yuan Ming, he too encouraged me out of sheer
kindness.”
“And because he
liked you; which – I’m certain –
also motivated Arthur Smithies. But then, Uncle, why did you
look so sad just now: not just sad but deflated.”
“It’s the cup and saucer which I gave him. I still can’t understand
why they have vanished
without a trace. Also, he told
you ‘Dawn’ graced his sitting room; so why is it displayed on
that ridiculous wall?”
“I see; but, remember, he wrote that letter to me when he was still
living in Epping; and, oddly enough, the house in
“True,” I said; “but, of course, he could have hung ‘Dawn’ on the main
wall of any one of the living rooms!”
“So he could,” she countered; “but don’t you think
that a man, who likes to relax in
a comfy sitting room, would arranges to have such a place
when he renovates his new house?”
“It didn’t occur to me,” I said bewildered; “still, I roamed about
in the rooms and none answers the
description. So what is your explanation?”
“I haven’t got one at present,” she smiled at me; “but I won’t be
surprised if we find a simple answer to
our big questions when we have had a closer look at the house.”
When
we alighted from the shuttle bus, which conveyed
us from the car park to the house, Yuan Ming pulled
my arm gently.
“Let the others go in first, Uncle. The pieces won’t
run away. I’d like to have a good look at the grounds.”
The
shrubs of the garden at the back
of the house had been carefully trimmed and
the lawns neatly mowed. The beds of flowers had been meticulously weeded. Yuan Ming’s eyes savoured them. Her
glance, though, kept sweeping back to the house. When we had completed our
round, she turned to me: “Well, what do you think of the house? It’s quite
big?”
“Isn't it?”
“And how many rooms of it have you seen?”
“Seven or eight – on the first and second floors.”
“But there are three stories?”
“I assumed the remaining rooms were the servants’ quarters.”
“But how many rooms are there altogether?”
“Twenty or so, I suspect. Actually, I only saw the
rooms facing the
front garden. We had no access to the other rooms.”
“They can’t all be servants’ quarters! Let’s try to find out what is in
them” she suggested, leading the way to
the main entrance.
A Christie’s employee, identified by
his tag as Alan Jones, came over to meet us shortly after we had entered the
house. He had noticed my reaction when I had seen ‘Dawn’ on the wall near the
entrance to the hall. Concerned about my patent displeasure, he had asked a
specialist from their Chinese art department to have a look. Based on his
assessment they had revised their assessment.
“The artist’s full name, I gather,
is Cheng Yuan Ming” he told us.
‘Cheng’ was the Mandarin pronunciation
of Yuan Ming’s surname. Like her father before her, she used the
Hokkien version –
“Do you know her well?” asked Alan Jones.
“Rather,” said Yuan Ming, unperturbed, “I don’t always approve of her
work, though.”
“Let me then show you the one we have,” he volunteered, adding for my
benefit “we have found a more prominent place for it.”
‘Dawn’ was now displayed on the main wall of the
library. For a few minutes the
three of us concentrated on it. I could feel Yuan
Ming’s hand clutching mine.
“And do you approve of this piece?” asked Alan Jones.
“I’ve got to agree with Uncle; I think it’s OK,” she conceded.
“You may have some firm
competition when you bid for it,” Alan Jones
said to me. “We
have sent details of it to a number of American dealers
and three have cabled for photographs.”
“So you won’t have a chance for a
steal, Uncle; what a pity” said
Yuan Ming sweetly.
“Oh, I don’t mind that: this painting deserves to go to the highest bidder.”
“Quite so” said Alan Jones, whose
eyes had moved surreptitiously from
Yuan Ming to me and back to her. “Well, and can I show you
any other item, Miss Tay?”
“Uncle tells me there is a nice oil by Tissot.”
“Let me show it to you,” he said approvingly.
Alan Jones took us for a tour of the
European paintings. When he was done, Yuan Ming observed: “The late Sir Arthur must have been
a man of
taste and Uncle tells me he was
also a discriminating collector. Why then all
this cluttering? These rooms look like art galleries!”
“The paintings were not displayed
simultaneously,” he explained readily.
“The bulk was kept
in one room. I gather Sir
Arthur rotated them periodically
on the walls of the living areas.” Turning to me he added: “And so you
knew the late Sir Arthur? And have you have been
to this house before?”
“I knew him when he was the
Managing Partner of Crawfords,” I
confirmed. “He was a fine banker.
But I have not visited him here in
“Unfortunately, he did not
complete the renovation of the
house” advised Alan Jones.
“It is a rather large house,” interceded Yuan Ming.
“It is indeed; and in an excellent location.”
“I agree,” she said. “And may I ask: what is going to happen to it?”
“The executors have asked us to auction it.”
“I wonder if Uncle and I could see the remaining rooms; we have been
searching for a house in the
Alan
Jones' expression did not change: his face displayed no surprise. He was, patently, far more
sophisticated than I had thought.
“I'm afraid the rest of the house has been sealed off for the time
being. But I can arrange for a viewing some time next
week. We should have appointed an agent
by then.”
“We travel to the Continent tomorrow,” she answered. “But we’ll be back
for the auction.”
“Then I’ll try to arrange something for that day – after
the auction. But, you know, this is a
rather big house: probably too big
for a holiday home. Would you
like me to ask the agent to show you some other
properties as well?”
“That would be splendid” she agreed readily.
After a perusal of the porcelain pieces, Yuan Ming
and I made our way back
to the shuttle
bus. Soon we were again in
the car park. As soon as we were on the way, Yuan Ming
turned back to our search.
“Did you have a good look at the frames of the paintings?”
“Can’t say I did; why?”
“The pressure marks
suggest that they were placed
on the floor,
leaning against each other.
So Arthur Smithies did rotate
the mainstream of his
paintings: but not ‘Dawn’.”
“How do you know? Because there are no pressure marks on its frame?”
“That’s one reason; and did you
notice the stains along the left side of
the frame?”
“I didn’t; I simply couldn’t take my eyes off the drawing itself.”
“I know; your friend Alan Jones noticed it too; he gave you a perplexed
look!”
“Oh well; but what is the
significance of these stains on the frame?”
“ ‘Dawn’ had not been placed on the floor, Uncle. The
stains were caused by dampness. So ‘Dawn’ was hanging on a wall with
damp spots. There are no signs of dampness in any of the rooms we have seen!”
“So ‘Dawn’ was displayed on a wall in a room of the
sealed off part of the house?”
“Yes, Uncle; and I wonder what else we’ll find there when we get in.”
III.
ALONG THE RHINE
12. ‘Her
Loreley’
A
classy BMW, booked by Yuan Ming in
Early in the afternoon, we started our trip up the
Next
morning we visited Burg Rheinfels. Standing by a window in the tower, we
admired the
“But is there no bridge across the
“We’d have to drive all the way back to
Yuan Ming looked at me with renewed
anxiety when I drove the car up the
steep narrow slip road to
Yuan Ming’s expression brightened
when she looked down at the
“Have you stayed here before?” she wanted to know.
“No, I haven’t. Pat refused to
come with me when I drove up; she remained
in the hotel by the river. But I spent some time on my own on the
terrace; and I kept thinking of you.”
“Of me or of ‘her’”?
“I was still looking for you then; and thinking of you as you were then;
but I knew you would like it up here.”
“I do” she agreed, “it’s the top of world. But these silly and clumsy
barges on the
“Try to imagine they are medieval merchantmen, flying their flag.”
“I shall; and tell me, are we near Loreley?”
“I think it’s the third hilltop down
the River” I said, with some uncertainty. “You know the story?”
“I do; you told it to ‘her’ –
remember? It’s an uncanny story. And I don’t know why the creatures that
lured the poor sailors up in order to slay them had to be females. They could be sexless goblins!
Your Western folklore was dreamt up by a bunch of MCPs.”
“Sure; but, then, all the
minstrels and ballad singers were men; and quite a pack of rowdies at that.”
After dinner, Yuan Ming assembled her easel on our
balcony and started to draw. The steady rhythm of her right hand told me she
had planned her painting beforehand and was executing it with her usual
confidence and precision. She did
not, however, display the excitement I had detected when she had a
breakthrough or was drawing an entirely
new piece transcending her earlier works. When she finished, she turned
me: “Come over and have a look, Uncle.”
She had drawn an eerie replica of
the castle. On a nearby spooky Loreley a flock of goblins
was tempting sailors, who had jumped overboard or had fallen off
fighting vessels, to climb up and partake in a nocturnal feast. On the terrace of our castle, two women, adorned in colourful
medieval apparel, were trying to warn
them off.
“What do you think of it?”
“You caught the atmosphere of the place,” I assured her.
“It ain’t a breakthrough, Uncle.”
“Perhaps not; but you have fine
tuned the colours. It will be snapped
up in your exhibition.”
“It might,” she agreed. Having
carried the easel with the still wet
drawing back to the sitting room, she added: “But look, Uncle, for a
while I’ve been looking for completely
new ideas. As you know I tried ...”
“In the painting you haven’t completed for your forthcoming exhibition?”
“Yes, Uncle. And I destroyed it before I left LA; you guessed, didn’t
you?”
“I knew something was wrong; you
see, you didn’t refer to it since
you came over.”
“It was a
refinement of my earlier works; I
am looking for
an added dimension.”
“I believe you are getting there.”
“What makes you think so? This drawing – I’m calling it ‘Her Loreley’ –
isn’t in the same class as ‘Dawn’ or ‘Ablaze at Noon”.
“True,” I conceded. “Your new piece doesn’t display the same
spontaneous outburst of emotions
and doesn’t have the same
compelling effect. But
there is something special about
its colours; you have used them in a different manner; as if they had a message
of their own.”
Nodding her head, she placed the
easel in a corner. She then came over to the sofa and sat next to me.
“So you think I’m on my way?”
“I do; although I’m not certain what you are aiming at.”
“How, then, can you be optimistic?”
“Because you are searching; just as you did previously.”
“But aren’t you swayed by your
emotions when you discuss my work.”
“I don’t think so. But why not tell me what you are looking for?”
“I wish I knew myself; all I know
is that I want to find a new
dimension. I don’t want to use
the same old style and technique for the next twenty years.”
“Then you are bound to find what you’re after; good artists always do
if they persevere; as long as they have
the zest.”
After a good
night’s rest, Yuan Ming was, again, her
exuberant self. Sliding into the
driver’s seat, she turned to me: “It’s a long way to Breisach, Uncle; so I
better drive!”
For
most of the time,
she fell in line with the cars in the fast lane of the
Autobahn. Occasionally,
though, I had to suppress my
anxiety when she overtook
more leisurely moving vehicles. She, in turn, got furious when some drivers refused to give way.
The
car continued its steady progress southward. As we circumnavigated Mainz, my
thoughts strayed from the young
woman, who handled the
car so dexterously, to little Yuan Ming of my youth in Singapore.
She too had been temperamental, gliding from one mood to another. Occasionally,
her little girl’s outbursts had
been hard to take. Still, she had
never angered me and, as soon as a storm was over, I dismissed
it from my mind. My recollections had
always focused on our delightful outings: the
occasional trips to Kota Tinggi, the afternoons we spent together in the
Chinese Swimming Club and on the beach,
her visits to my study in the
University and the sketches she
had drawn when she had been with me.
“You are thinking of ‘her’, Uncle”.
“Well, yes: you are really still the same: full of beans and good to be
with.”
“And quite as likely to throw a tantrum,” she supplemented
“But you really weren’t a problem: not as far as I was concerned.”
“Not as far as
you were concerned!” she mimicked. “Great
wonder. ‘She’ doted on you. So
once Uncle looked at her sadly or contritely, not daring to stroke her hair for
fear of a rebuff, she melted. And then ‘she’ climbed on your lap and let you
pacify her, after which all was well again.”
“But you – I mean ‘she’ – always responded to reason!”
A lull in our conversation enabled
me to venture, once again, back into the
past. I kept thinking of her drawings,
her first attempt to use oils and her
decision to confine herself to Chinese ink and aquarelle. She
had to review her decision in her
adult life, when she became a sought after
artist in
As our car continued its
progress in the direction
of Mannheim, I
let Yuan Ming’s
early paintings and
drawing materialise in front of
my eyes. Many of them were superb and
each of
them had brought me joy, even the caricatures of her Dad and of myself.
Over the years, she had gone from strength to strength; but was she going to
make the next leap forward?
“We have to concentrate on
the road, Uncle” Yuan Ming
interrupted my thoughts. “Which route
to take
after we by-pass
“The main route to Basle; we exit
the Autobahn just before
“Just a bit; and how long is it from here to Breisach?”
“At your speed, probably three hours. But it’s high time we stop for
lunch.”
Yuan
Ming was considerably more tired than I had appreciated. After a hurried
meal in the next Autobahn resort, she let me take the driver’s seat.
As soon our BMW joined the traffic, she closed her eyes.
Yuan Ming slept soundly during the
last stretch of our lengthy trip. I,
in turn,
had to concentrate on the road, proceeding steadily on the
middle lane of the Autobahn. Despite the tedious road and
the abusive gestures of overtaking
drivers, I felt elated. Yuan Ming’s
words confirmed that she
was getting close to her target. She
had been equally restless and subject to bouts of
insomnia before she had executed her
earlier major works.
Our ride got bumpy, after I left
the Autobahn. Soon Yuan Ming opened her eyes: “Is this the Kaiserstuhl, Uncle?”
“
“Where is the
“A few kilometres to the West. We’ll greet her again at Breisach.”
“It’s lovely here,” she said as we went through picturesque
villages. “The houses are
so cute. Not as grand as up
North, but homely.
When we reached our destination, we
decided to avoid the luxury hotel by the
“And, Uncle, you do get a glimpse of the
“Splendid; and what does your young Ladyship wish to do now?”
“Your young Ladyship wants to have a shower and a
decent rest. When do they serve dinner?”
“From about
6.30; but the restaurant remains open till 9.30.”
13. The
Breakthrough
We had cocktails before dinner. Relaxing in the small bar adjacent to the dining
room, I
experiencing the happiness
and fulfilment which overcame me when I was with her. It was – had always been – a Platonic
friendship and bound to remain so. It was, at the same time, more constant and
more deeply ingrained than a relationship cemented by a physical bond. True,
‘out of bounds’ had been defined. But the territory within the region was
fertile and comforting.
“Uncle,” she said after a while,
“sometime, when we are together, I feel
sorry for your wife. You never loved her.”
“True,” I admitted. “But I don’t
think she felt much for me either. For
years she kept hankering after that Chinese chap who jilted her when
she contracted TB.”
“She might have forgotten him if you had given her a chance.”
“Possibly; but it
wasn’t in me; and she kept
aggravating me by
sticking stubbornly to the values
of her home. Up to this very day, she
has remained closer to her
brothers and sisters than to me.”
“So you miscalculated when you thought a few years in
“She knew I kept thinking of somebody.”
“It must have been tough on her.”
Yuan Ming had put her finger on the
rot. Throughout my unhappy marriage I
managed to find outlets: a small group of bridge players in
“I’m sure it was tough on her,” I admitted. “She could
have made things easier for herself if
she had learned to accept, or at
least to understand, our Western world. But she didn’t adjust; even today she judges
everything by the yardstick of her Eastern family.”
“But, then, haven’t you remained a Westerner?”
“ I have; but, in the very least, I can manage in my Eastern society,
including Pat’s family.”
“But Eastern society has always been tolerant to European and other
barbarians; we ‘forgive’ their ‘mistakes’.
Also, Uncle, your background made you adaptable. Your family fled from
“And I was dead wrong when I thought I could change her.”
“I’m afraid you
were, Uncle Pygmalion.
If ‘she’ had appreciated the risks involved, she would
have tried to stop you; but in many ways
‘she’ was still a child.”
“Still,”
I turned to the bright side, “here we are together on the
“But what will happen when you return to
“We’ll see. At the moment Pat is in
“Why don’t you send her a postcard?”
“I didn’t tell her I was going to spend some time on the Continent;
I’ll send her one when we’re back in
“And buy her a nice gift; you may ward off the storm!”
We
stayed in the Kaiserstuhl for the next few days. Yuan Ming admired the cobblestone paths, the charming vineyards basking in the sun and the
fine cellars stocked with large fragrant wooden barrels filled with
maturing wine. She kept drawing and
sketching incessantly during our last day
in the Kaiserstuhl.
She remained as animated during our
drive to
“Uncle,” she said whilst we proceeded at a slow pace in the direction
of Schafhausen; “the
“It is: the cedar trees look
majestic when they’re covered in white. But
you have to be careful. One
afternoon I lost my clutch when I drove
through the snow; lucky for me, a truck with a kindly driver
passed bye. He towed me all the way to a
garage.”
“I can imagine how you felt,” she
said, adding spontaneously; “but
look, why don’t we stop for a
while and go for a walk in the forest.”
“Good idea!”
To
her disappointment, we found
no strawberries. Soon, though, she spotted a squirrel climbing a tree. Halting
on one of the upper branches, it brushed its
moustache with its forepaws. It then waived its bushy tail, and descended into a hole in the trunk.
To my delight, Yuan Ming sketched it as an elf, dancing gracefully in
front of a snow covered tree.
I
made another stop at Rheinfall, with the imposing waterfalls feeding the
“They’re not as
imposing as the Niagara’s; but there is more life to them, life and rhythm; and look at the reflection of the light when
the water roars past us.”
After lunch, we continued our journey
along the Swiss shore
of
“So we are in a pretty
cosmopolitan part of
“If you want to call it that; but, yes, we are on an Alpine cross roads;
and don’t forget that
Later in the
afternoon, we reached Bregenz and proceeded to
upper Lochau. A warm, appreciative, smile descended on Yuan Ming’s
face when the maid opened the door of our suite, with its
dark stained cathedral beams and the
wide sliding glass doors opening to the veranda. It deepened as she stepped out
and let her eyes wander from the
attractive whitewashed farm houses, spread on the meadows down the steep hill,
to the expanse of the deep blue Lake Constance right beneath us.
“So you had your a plan all along,
Uncle?”
“I knew you would like it here,” I
affirmed. “It’s the sort of place we
used to talk about long ago ...”
“When ‘she’ was watching you with her big black eyes?”
A
splendid Austrian dinner,
preceded by a stroll through the compact village square and main road, brought our wanderings
for that day to their end. The ebullient
even if inward looking expression
that dwelt on Yuan Ming’s face,
made my heart leap with joy.
It was a mien I had good reason to recall. Her elation
deepened as we stepped out, once again, onto our veranda. I
watched keenly as her glance fastened for a while on the lights of the small
German island city of Lindau, just a short drive away
from us, and then travelled further
into the distance,
to Friedrichshafen, onward to the
border city of Constance and then back
to Bregenz. Suddenly, a shooting
star brightened the clear night sky,
ascending proudly above us. For a moment it hovered over a ship sailing
on the
lake, its sparkle
merged with the lights of the upper deck. It
then descended, appearing to fall into the lake.
“This is exciting, Uncle,” she said. “I only hope this ship isn’t another
stupid barge.”
“It’s a tourist boat,” I assured her. “Tomorrow, we can take a night
cruise and have dinner on board. But it’s really nicer up here.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said, adding with a smile: “and now, Uncle, it’s
time for Yuan Ming’s beauty sleep. It’s been a splendid day; but
now it’s
time for bed.”
A
draft from the window, which I
had left slightly ajar, woke me up early
next morning. To my surprise,
Yuan was not in her room. For a few
moments I panicked. Had it all been a
mirage? Was I, in
reality, back in my own barren bedroom in
To
my relief, she
was standing by her
easel, looking fresh and resolute. I was
about to withdraw noiselessly to my bedroom, when
– without turning her head – she said: “No,
don’t go back; come over here, Uncle.”
“How long have you been working?”
“For quite a while; I watched dawn; it was lovely.”
“Is all going well?”
“I had a good start; but I’ve come up against a snag.”
Two
discarded sheets of rice paper, lying crumbled on the floor,
bore witness to her frustration. Trying to comfort her, I stroked her hair.
After a short while, she turned to me.
“I was about to call it a day; but perhaps I’ll have another go.”
“What’s the problem? I observed how you planned it yesterday, during
dinner.”
“I did; and
the idea is fine; it’s just one detail; I just can’t get it
right.”
“Not the lighting or the colours?”
“No; of course not: they’re the mainstream ...” she was about to continue
when I realised where she had gone astray.
“Don’t tell me,” I said; “it must have something to do with the image of
one of us!”
“So it does, Uncle Know-All,” she said, her jest flattened by the strain
in her voice “it’s ‘her’!”
“Don’t tell me you are trying to draw your - I mean ‘her’ - portrait?”
“But I am; I’m portraying ‘her’ with you. You are easy, except that I
haven’t decided if I you are to look cute, funny or wistful. But” she wailed
“I can’t get ‘her’ right!”
“But, for heaven’s
sake, Yuan Ming,” I lost my cool;
“to portray yourself as a child
without even a photograph to look at – that’s a mammoth task.”
“But it’s not as if I can’t
remember ‘her’ face; I stared at it often
enough in the mirror.
Still; something about
‘her’ countenance eludes me now.”
“Why not let me have a look;not at the whole painting:
just your – I mean ‘her’ – portrait.”
“You know I’m not supposed to!”
She was alluding to the unwritten
traditions of the X’ian School that had
elected her a
“Master Artist”, an honour rarely conferred on
an overseas Chinese. Mystified as I had remained by the School’s firm edict against the showing of an incomplete work, I had paid
due respect to the Code. At present, though,
we were facing
a crisis. I was still
searching for persuasive arguments justifying an exception,
when Yuan Ming made up her mind.
“But I suppose even these rules
can be bent when needed,” she said, tearing
a small piece off one of the
discarded drawings. Noting my apprehensive
start, she told me: “Once discarded, it’s only a piece of wastepaper,
Uncle.”
“Well,” she asked after I had been examining the delicate portrait for a
few minutes, “where did I go wrong?”
“It’s ‘her’ alright; but, to start with, there’s something wrong with the nose.”
“Don’t tell me ‘she’ had a snub nose; Chinese girls don’t have them.”
“No, ‘she’ didn’t have a snub nose; but it wasn’t as flat as you’ve drawn
it.”
“Let’s see how to change it,” she
said, overtly encouraged. Putting her
brush aside, she sketched the face again with a light blue crayon.
“Better?” she asked.
“Just about right now; but there is also something wrong with the cheekbones; your face was a bit more round
then.”
“And how is this?” she asked after a further attempt.
“It will do” I said.
“Anything still bothering you” she asked searchingly.
“ ‘Her’ eyes.”
“Don’t tell me they were even bigger?”
“No, they weren’t; but you are portraying us together, aren’t you?”
“I am indeed!”
“You - I mean
‘she’ - used to look at me more
directly!” I said.
“Spot on,” I
told her happily when she completed the next
sketch. “And can I have the
sketch?”
“You’ve
earned it,” she consented magnanimously; “but now I must go ahead with the
final version!”
Standing by her
side, I admired the rhythm of her steady movements. Occasionally, she stepped
closer to the easel or bent slightly
forward to dip her brush in one
of the coloured ink pads. Once or twice
she stopped for a few seconds, changed her brush and looked critically at
her work. I had by then discerned
that it comprised individual subjects rendered in fine detail and larger abstract forms
executed in deeper colours and lose
shapes.
A lull in her steady beat brought me back to
the world around me. From the corner of
my eye, I saw the Dancing Harlequin, smiling at me from the top of a nearby chest of drawers.
“Are you bringing him in?” I asked.
“Yes, of course; right at the top;
but I’m not certain in which direction
he ought to look.”
“Yours, naturally?”
“And why?”
“Because his is the spirit of creativity, of inspiration, of dreams.”
“Then he ought to look at both of us” she concluded softly.
Selecting a fine brush, she moved
closer to the easel. For once, her hand
moved slowly, delicately, occasionally just allowing the brush to touch the fine rice paper. I, in turn,
was holding my breath.
“That’s it” she said at long last;
“you can breathe again normally now and
have a look.”
The large drawing – entitled “Harlequinade” – differed from all her previous works. Scenes from
our journeys through life,
portrayed in fine detail, were overshadowed by amorphous, intertwined, shapes creating
a dynamic atmosphere. What struck me most, though, was
the innovative application of the
colours. Scenes from early years were drawn
in light, harmonious, shades. The waterfalls of Kota Tinggi, the
beach in
the
The
magnificent drawing was further
enhanced by the coloured shapes, which created a sense of motion, as
if the work kept rotating. In her previous works she
had, occasionally, achieved the
same effect by an
interplay of the
shapes, bringing to mind the
steps of a
dance. This impression was
now deepened by the manipulations
of the colours, which appeared to gain a life of
their own.
“I can see and hear the colours,”
I told her in an emotionally charged
voice. “It is as if you have added a tune – some music – to the scenes. And they are fresher and deeper than ever before.”
“So you think I have made it?”
“I do!”
For a moment she remained by the
easel looking fulfilled, happy but, at the same time, exhausted. She fell
asleep as soon as she got back to her bed. When she woke up – some two hours
later on – she smiled at me warmly: “You must be hungry, Uncle?”
“A bit; how
about you?”
“I’d like
stay in bed a bit longer; why don’t you go down and have your
breakfast. You can bring me back
a coffee and some rolls and jam.”
Yuan
Ming enjoyed the strongly brewed coffee and
then spread the homemade
strawberry jam on
the two rolls.
When she finished, I placed the
tray outside the door of the suite and attached the “Do not Disturb” tag to the handle.
“Uncle,” she said when I stepped
back into her room, “mind telling
me again what you think of the
‘Harlequinade’?”
“It surpasses everything you have done before; it’s a masterpiece.”
“Which scene did you like best?”
“The one where we sit together in my old study, with you ...”
“You mean ‘her’ …” she
interjected.
“Very well then,
with ‘her’ giving me that
special, wistful, look.”
“Alright then, Uncle,” she said after a short lull; “but is it better
than all the stuff ‘she’ drew?”
“It is; ‘she’ could not have conceived anything as complex and as
elaborate.”
“But how about the execution? I
still want to know why you have never let
me see ‘her’ drawings and sketches. And you have quite a few, don’t
you?”
“Two hundred and thirteen, to be accurate!”
“Why did you hide them from me?”
“ ‘She’ had a special trick with her colours; they were fresh and
expressive. I thought it best to let you get there again without showing you
‘her’ works.”
“Am I there now?”
“You are! Perhaps even more so than ever before.”
She
was, again, relaxing. I was too
happy to break the harmony, too elated to disrupt the sense
of peace
and bliss. I knew she had
continued to draw consistently during the many years we had been out of touch.
Her eyes had remained sharp and observant; her brushes had retained their
dexterity; but her colours had lost their lustre. Something had been missing;
but, at long last, she had found her way
back.
We
lunched on the premises. In the afternoon, we drove down to Lindau.
During dinner in a restaurant by the boat quay, Yuan Ming suggested that, instead
of proceeding to Vienna,
we spend the
remaining days of our trip
in the region.
Smiling happily, I agreed.
We stayed an extra day in Lochau and
then proceeded to
Yuan
Ming’s enthusiasm manifested itself again as she watched
the scenery along the winding mountain road to Canazei in the heart of
the Dolomites. To my delight, she took the easel out of the boot of the car.
During
our first two days in Canazei, Yuan Ming sketched frantically. On the third day
she left her easel behind.
“I need a rest, Uncle,” she said. “I’ve done more drawings on our trip
than in the previous six months. So it’s
right to leave the easel and sketchbook
behind.”
It
was during that last day, on our way back from our afternoon
walk, that Yuan Ming came up with a question that had crossed my own
mind from time to time. We had just finished a steep descent
through a forest path and were resting
on a tree trunk.
“Uncle,” she said, “we’ve been to some of the cutest spots in
“We have indeed,” I agreed.
“The scenery is lovely and each place has an atmosphere of its own.”
“It has; but what are you driving at, Yuan Ming?”
“Tell me, Uncle, how many famous
artists lived and created in these places; how many composers and how many
novelists and poets?”
“The only artist I can think of is that Egger-Lienz
fellow; but he
wasn’t really top class; and I
can’t think of any composers or novelists.”
“I suppose the really talented ones went to the bigger centres? I suspect
that the big cities had their
magnetic effect, the limelight,
the action; and the nobility offered its patronage to penniless young
artists and musicians.”
“The nobility and later on the wealthy bourgeoisie,” I
corrected. “Any other reasons?”
“And those who weren’t ambitious
remained behind and ended up like our
Egger-Lienz.”
“Quite,” I agreed, “and, of course, they failed to develop. An artist
needs to understudy his master; he needs
to slave in a studio; and a musician has to be trained. He
usually learns from his maestro and from the
response of a sophisticated audience.”
“How about novelists?”
“They’re different: a talented writer can develop from reading
alone. He needn’t be
attached, or have direct access, to a literary circle. Think
of Jane Austin, the Brontés and, possibly, Herman Hesse. They
made it mainly because they had the
gift, the perseverance and - Yuan Ming - luck.”
“Luck?” she burst out laughing. “You are again on your hobby horse,
Uncle.”
“Guilty as charged; but remember, Yuan Ming, every
author needs to find a
publisher. The Brontés might have missed out if they hadn’t hit on the idea of
using male pseudonyms; and Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver would have never
seen light if the manuscript, which he threw out of his carriage into
the publisher’s window, had been picked
up from the floor by the charwoman.”
“And how about artists and musicians?”
“Think about Johann Strauss the Elder: how far would he have gone without
the initial patronage of Joseph Lada? He couldn’t even read notes when he
arrived in
“Alright, Uncle Solomon” she
laughed as I recovered my breath;
“you’ve made your point!”
Later on, over a pizza in a
small tavern in one of the meandering lanes of
Canazei, she opened up again,
reverting to a subject we had covered before.
“Uncle, you are, of course, right when you say that talent alone, even if
coupled with perseverance, is not an automatic ticket to success.”
“Well,” I prompted.
“I’m thinking of ‘her’. ‘She’ had the talent and, even before ‘she’
showed you ‘her’ drawings; and ‘she’ had ‘her’ motivation: ‘she’ loved
to see
her classmates giggling at the
silliness of our teachers. So ‘she’
caricatured them. Then you came
into ‘her’ little sheltered world and, out of
the blue, started to talk about
art, about the Harlequin, about aspirations. For a long time
‘she’ didn’t dare to show you a thing: her courage failed ‘her’;
‘she’ thought you might be
amused! Then, when ‘she’ realised how much you doted on ‘her’, she drew the little vase. The rest
was plain sailing. So, as I told you before, your influence turned my tide.”
“Well then, do you concede the role of chance?”
“Not as an independent force,
Uncle” she said gently; “to me, chance
is the hand of fate. It drives
many of us to fulfilment. We discover a dormant gift. One day you will accept
my view.”
“Perhaps,” I said; “after all I
may be moved to this conclusion by chance!”
We
left the hotel shortly after daybreak. Despite
a short delay at the Austrian customs point at the
Brenner Pass, we
reached Innsbruck well in
time for our flight back to
London. Late in the afternoon, we were back in the metropolis.
IV.
SETTLEMENTS
14.
Exciting Auction
“You look refreshed,” said Bill Riggs when I arrived next morning in his
office.
“Thanks. And how does the case stand?”
“Our Judge is
back in action. In the pre-trial conference, he urged the parties to settle!”
“And have you?”
“Whitehead and
“What’s the matter
with those two?”
“They had a quarrel – a shouting match – over the Wine Stewardship of their club. Since then
they are not on speaking terms.”
“How stupid! And this childish
nonsense might cost the
two companies a fortune in legal expenses?"
“It might; but I won’t call it childish nonsense!” said Bill.
“You wouldn’t?” I asked stunned.
“You, Peter, overlook the place of
a club in an Englishman’s life,” said
Bill with mock severity.
“I thought his castle is his home?” I protested
“So it is, so it is. But the club is often a Briton’s social life
centre. It’s a haven: his escape from his ... noisy home; it’s where he
has his peaceful dinner or a drink with his friends.”
“So a quarrel over a club matter can be a serious matter? I understand;
but what are you going to do? Surely,
you can’t allow this quarrel to determine the handling of our case?”
“No, of course we can’t,” agreed Bill. He then went
on to explain that
the Chairmen of the two companies
had approached a well known
“What is so special about Sir Osbert?” I wanted to know. “Is he by
any chance a major shareholder in the
two companies?”
“His merchant bank is, rather” answered Bill. “But this,
Peter, is not the main
point. Sir Osbert is also the President of the very club which has
the honour of counting
“Good grief,” I expostulated. “So,
in the end, it is the old boys net all over again!”
“So it is, old boy, so it is! Quite a lucky break, wouldn’t you say?”
For
the next forty minutes, I took my
instructions for our
forthcoming meeting. When business
was finished, Bill asked unexpectedly: “Peter, have you met
Sir Osbert Davies?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“When we briefed him, I mentioned
that you were our expert witness. From
his reaction, I gathered that your name rang a bell.”
“He might have read ‘Modern Banking
Law’.”
“Could be” said Bill. “Generally, though, Sir Osbert is more interested
in the Art than in the Law.”
Next morning Yuan Ming and I made our way to
The
porcelain pieces were next to fall under the hammer.
I had an easy
time with the yellow-ground
milk jug. The
auctioneer’s erroneous
announcement of a hair crack to
the handle drove away the German dealers, who were bidding over the
telephone.
A change of auctioneers took place
after the last piece of porcelain had been
knocked down to a
Most English paintings fetched
reasonable rather than high prices. Few of them appealed to more than two or
three bidders. ‘Galleon off
Initially, Roger Bates’ bids were countered by a
portly gentleman, of about
my own age, whose discreet method of bidding
reminded me of Arthur
Smithies’ tactics. For a few minutes he kept pressing on
but, with a quick
shake of his head, gave up.
Roger Bates smiled happily. Then, whilst
the next painting was placed on the
large easel, he rose to collect his acquisition. It was only then that I
perceived the motherly and plainly dressed woman, who had
been sitting quietly beside
him. As they walked together in
harmony to the
collection corner, she bestowed on him a proud smile. It dawned on
me that, more often than not, the Roger
Bateses of this world enjoyed a
pleasant existence. Their ready
acceptance of the norms and values of their society shielded them from the
disillusions, the frustrations and
the upheavals bred by broad horizons,
by sophistication and by great
expectations.
The
auction continued to progress smoothly and uneventfully.
Tissot’s oil painting was
knocked down to Yuan Ming for
a reasonable price,
the only opposition coming from
the portly gentleman who had challenged Roger Bates. To my surprise, he glanced at us surreptitiously a
few minutes later on. Then, whilst
a few hunting scenes went
speedily under the auctioneer’s effective hammer, I started to feel mounting excitement. Soon
‘Dawn’ was going to take her turn.
Before she
called for bids, the
auctioneer read out
the revised catalogue entry. Yuan
Ming was described as a “well known Chinese
artist, born in
“You mustn’t go on biddin, Uncle”
murmured Yuan Ming anxiously when the
auctioneer called for £4,000.00. “He’s Jack Levine, an art
dealer from LA. He
knows me well; and he mustn’t think I’m bidding
on my own drawing.”
“But it’s worth
much more than this; let me press
on, just for a bit;
please.”
Jack
Levine nodded when the auctioneer solicited a bid of
£5,000.00. Raising the stops between the bids to ten per cent of the
new offer, she called
out, somewhat impatiently, for £5,500.00. As soon
as I nodded, Yuan Ming whispered
resolutely: “That’s as far as you go, Uncle.”
“Six thousand I am bid; six
thousand I am bid,” the auctioneer called when
my opponent raised his hand without any change in his expression; “any
bid of six thousand five hundred?”
Seeing me shake my head in resignation, she went on: “Any further bid? None? Then for six
thousand pounds I sell ...”
A
sharp snap of fingers drew the
attention of all us to a small, pot bellied, informally dressed man, whose
loud tie matched his flushed face with
its beaky nose. Up to that moment, he had been standing unobtrusively near the
entrance door without showing an interest in any of the preceding items.
“Six thousand five hundred from a new bidder,” chanted the
auctioneer; “do I hear £7,000?”
“Uncle,” Yuan Ming was unable to contain her excitement; “Uncle, this
new chap is David Schwarz, a famous art dealer from
“Have you met him before?”
“I have indeed; he bought ‘Dusk’ and ‘Stormy Night’.”
“Oh well, so you have two Jewish experts fighting over
your masterpiece” I said, watching keenly as the bidding
continued at a breath taking speed. By the time they reached £10,000 the
auctioneer, who had retained her cool exterior, started to
raise each bid by £1,000. Unperturbed,
the two
pressed on. Then, abruptly, it was all over: Jack Levine shook
his head lightly and, to my surprise,
saluted his adversary. As ‘Dawn’ went under the hammer for £19,000, Schwarz, whose expression
had not changed during the tussle,
responded with an apologetic smile.
To me the rest of the auction was an
anticlimax. My interest was roused
again only when the a small landscape by
a leading English artist became the subject of the last skirmish. The bidding, though, was
swift. The auctioneer called for an
amount close to the estimate so that only two interested patrons
responded. After some forty seconds, the
painting was knocked down for
£25,000 to the portly
gentleman, who, on this occasion, kept pressing on adamantly.
I concluded that, on the previous rounds, he had but flexed his muscles.
“So this is your great day,” I said to Yuan Ming as we joined the crowd
milling to the exit door.
“It was
exciting, Uncle,” she conceded; “it really was!”
On the way out, we were joined
by Jack Levine. For a while, he talked
to me, enquiring about Yuan Min’s
background. Unexpectedly, we were interrupted
by David Schwarz’s shrill voice: “Need a lift back to
“Didn’t you come on the shuttle bus?” asked Jack Levine.
“Too slow, too slow. I’ve the
hotel’s limousine waiting outside the gate.
So what d’you say?”
As the two proceeded to the front
door, with David Schwarz in the lead,
Jack Levine turned back and, to my surprise, winked.
“You had quite a chat with Jack Levine, Uncle,” said Yuan Ming.
“He seems a nice chap; and he admires your work!”
“What you mean, Uncle, is that he is a nice chap because he speaks well
of my work. But, yes, Jack Levine is
alright. And so is David Schwarz, despite
his manner.”
“I suppose so,” I said grudgingly;
“but how good is he? They way he talks
and dresses doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“You are prejudiced, Uncle. I
know, he isn’t as smooth as a
“I suppose his father was grocer in Brooklyn or a tailor on the
“His father was a famous attorney.”
“And our friend?” I asked bewildered.
“Young David wanted to be an artist; so he defied Dad and
went to
an Art
“The Midas touch?”
“That too; but he has an excellent
appreciation of art and a discerning
eye. He has backed
some of the leading artists of today:
some Americans, some Israelis
and, more recently, a handful of Chinese and Burmese.”
“Oh very well,” I gave in, “it takes all kinds to make the world.”
“Yes, Uncle: even
the world of art. But we better look
for Alan Jones. Remember we want to see the other
rooms of this house.”
15. A
Remarkable Suite
Alan Jones was waiting for us in the
foyer. As the Real Estate Agent had to keep another appointment,
he volunteered to take us through the house on his own.
“I’m sorry you missed out on
‘Dawn’, Sir,” he said to me.
“I’m glad it fetched such an
excellent price. I’m sure this will
boost the artist’s morale.”
“So it should," he agreed.
There had been no change in his tone or expression; but
his swift glance in Yuan Ming’s direction told me that Alan Jones was
both smart and discreet.
As soon as the last patron left the
building, Alan Jones led the way to
a corridor hidden behind a heavy curtain. It took him a
while to
find the right key but,
eventually, he unlocked the door leading to the inner rooms of the house.
We started our tour in the huge
modernised kitchen, separated by a swinging
door from a dining alcove. The
brass and glass table
and four matching chairs contrasted pleasantly with the heavy rosewood furniture in the elegant yet impersonal dining room in the public part of the house. We then went through a set of
unfurnished and poorly carpeted rooms. They
were in a shabby condition,
requiring a general upgrading following years of neglect. A
few broken picture frames leaning against the walls, told me
that these rooms had been used to store paintings.
The staircase to the second story
was another eyesore. The carpet was in tatters
and the varnish on the rail had perished. Only the servant
quarters had been refurbished.
“I won’t take you to the third
floor,” said Alan Jones. “I suspect nobody
has climbed up for years.”
“Bringing this house up to scratch would be a challenge,” mused Yuan
Ming.
“It could also be extremely expensive,” said Alan Jones. “Our tradesmen
say the entire plumbing and wirings are in need of repair or replacement.”
Back at the ground floor, after a
slow and wary descent down the ramshackle staircase, Yuan Ming pointed
to a corridor we had bypassed when we entered.
“And what sort of rooms are these?” she asked.
“They were Sir Arthur’s living quarters,” confided Alan
Jones. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in.”
“Could we perhaps have a peep” she asked, smiling at him ingratiatingly.
For
just a moment, Alan Jones hesitated. Then, with
a shrug
of his shoulders, he produced his key ring. “I can’t see why
not; but we better be quick about it.”
A
wing of the house had been
converted into a self-contained
suite. The small entrance
hall, with an umbrella stand and
a coat cupboard, led
to a spacious sitting
room: well furnished, comfortable
but lacking in pomp. I could
visualise the late Sir Arthur Smithies relaxing in the large
armchair with its worn leather
upholstery, his feet resting on the stool
and the remote control gadget in
his hand. Had he watched the daily television programmes or old films stored on
video cassettes? A perusal of the cabinet
brought a smile to my face. On
its middle shelf, two Tony
Hancock cassettes rubbed shoulders with Jacques Tati’s films.
A high fidelity set was placed
against another wall. It had both a turn-table
and a compact disk player. Few records were placed on the stand but
the compact disks cabinet was full to its brims with choice performances
of classical and modern pieces. Obviously, Arthur Smithies had discarded most of his records, replacing them with the better sounding and
more durable compact disks.
Raising my
head from the musical corner, my
eye rested on
a large discoloured space on the slightly damp wall.
“Was ‘Dawn’ hanging here?” I asked.
“I believe it was” confirmed Alan Jones.
The same
homely, relaxed, atmosphere reigned in the study. The desk and chair
turned out to be old
acquaintances. Both came from
Arthur Smithies’ office in Birchin Lane. As in a trance, I walked over to the large book case and
the collapsible library steps placed in front it. My own books were resting
on a shelf devoted
to law. A large cardboard box,
stationed beside them, was
labelled “Berger’s offprints”. Right beneath them, amongst works on copyright
and patents, I came
across a thin unfamiliar tome.
The title imprinted on its back
read: “Introduction to the Law of Patents” by
Arthur Smithies, BA MA (Cantab.), of the
A splendid array of old master and
modern prints and lithographs decorated the walls. Yuan Ming and Alan
Jones became immersed in
William Blake’s ‘The
Three Friends Accusing Job’.
“Isn’t it profound, Uncle?” asked
Yuan Ming. “The way each of the ‘friends’ points his finger at the stricken
patriarch.”
“Quite a devastating indictment
of human nature,” I consented. “And
what do you think of it, Mr
Jones?”
“It is brilliant,”
he agreed; “but I
couldn’t live with
it. It’s too depressing. Coming to think of it, so are
the other prints in this room.”
“Is it because they are so candid
about human frailties?” asked Yuan Ming. She had been staring, fascinated, at Rembrandt’s Eve tempting Adam by pressing
the forbidden apple possessively against
her bare bosom whilst the snake was smiling malevolently.
“Perhaps,” said Alan Jones. “The truth be told: I do find the scenes of the
hunt and of the stormy seas more pleasing.”
“Coming to think of it,” I changed
the subject rather abruptly, “are there
no traditional English paintings in the suite?”
“Wait till you see the bedroom” said Alan Jones, breaking into a smile.
The comfortable double bed had a
traditional brass frame and headboard.
On the wall above hung a large
rural scene mounted in a simple wooden frame.
“Constable?” I asked assertively.
“It is: an unrecorded Constable; and he left it to the National
Gallery,” replied Alan Jones with
an unexpected display of emotion.
Yuan
Ming was captivated by the fine landscape. My less interested eye started
to rove around the room. A sliding door opened to the bathroom. Its modern basin, tub
and fittings were of
the finest quality.
But there was
no trace of
the extravagant splendour of the
bathroom in the public part of the house.
Alan
Jones’ discreet cough reminded us that our visit was supposed to be
brief. At the
very same moment, though, I caught
sight of a
small rectangular show case in one of the corners of the room.
“Uncle,” asked Yuan Ming whose glance had followed mine, “are these the
cup and saucer?”
“They are indeed,” I responded in a voice turned inaudible.
Apart from my own gift, the show
case contained a few enamel snuff
boxes and some silver cups and tankards
which, I felt certain,
were gifts from staff and from satisfied clients. I then spotted
a small brocade box housing a
locket. One miniature photograph
was of Arthur Smithies in his
twenties; the other
depicted a girl with a stylish coiffure,
an aquiline nose and Nordic features. A
full calf bound edition of “Great Expectations” occupied the lowest shelf.
“Were you looking for this cup and
saucer in the first preview?” asked Alan Jones in a voice that allayed my fears
of testing his patience. “Diane told me you asked if we had such a piece in the
auction.”
“It’s
“So you did know him quite well?”
“I thought I did,” I heard myself
say; “but I’m not so sure any
longer: this suite – it is full
of surprises.”
“Is it the contrast between this
suite and the other rooms?” asked Alan Jones.
“That too, although,
even before I saw this
suite, I
found it hard
to associate those showy rooms with the man I knew.”
“What is it then?” asked Yuan Ming.
“The decor. I didn’t know and
would have never guessed that
Arthur Smithies collected prints
and had an interest in modern art.”
“But you knew about ‘Dawn’?” she pointed out.
“I thought it was a one off; but alright then: perhaps I should have expected to find some other modern paintings.
But how about the prints? He knew I was a collector. Occasionally, I talked to
him about prints I had seen in auctions.
But he never referred to his own interest!”
“He was quite secretive about it,” said Alan Jones. “He got most of
his prints from dealers in
“How about his English paintings” I asked “did he get them at
Christie’s?”
“Quite a few of them; when he couldn’t attend, Diane took his telephone
bids. And he got his porcelain in
“How do you explain this secrecy about the prints?” I asked.
“We have no idea. But I can tell you this much: he did everything he
could to cover his
tracks. Apart from some three or four prints which he left
to a friend in the City, the collection is to be sold in
our next sale of prints
as ‘the property of a Gentleman’.
His will precluded their inclusion
in the sale of his household!”
“I
can’t make head or tails of this scenario,” I said after a pause.
“Neither can we,” confessed Alan Jones.
“I take it
that he did not admit guests into these rooms,” I
added as an afterthought.
“He didn’t,” said Alan Jones emphatically. “The servants say he received
all his guests in the open part of the house. But he didn’t really have
many callers. During the last few years, he led the life of
a recluse.”
I could sense that Yuan Ming wanted
to get out of the orphaned suite. I, too,
craved for a breath of fresh air.
When we were back in the open rooms, Yuan Ming said to Alan Jones: “Thanks for
showing us the house; but it’s too big and the renovations are bound to
be expensive.”
“I understand,” smiled Alan Jones. “Well, our agent might have something more suitable in Banbury or in
Iffley. I’ve got his card with me.”
Handing it to Yuan Ming, he added: “I believe one of the houses in Iffley
has a
loft, which could be easily converted into a nice
studio with an excellent view.”
We
returned to the car park on the last shuttle bus. Most of the
other passengers were Christie’s employees. The snippets of
their conversation, which reached
my ears, centred on ‘Dawn”. They, too, had found the
bidding exciting.
“I think I better drive us back to
“I am, rather,” I confessed. “I still find a great deal of what
we’ve seen in these rooms incomprehensible!”
“I’m sure we’ll find the right answers sooner or later,
Uncle,” she replied, patting my shoulder.
16. A Solomon
Judgment
Next morning, my taxi stopped in front of Bill Riggs’ office
block at 8.55 a.m. The solicitors, their assistants, the other party’s expert
and the two fighting cocks were already seated around the conference
table. Two elderly gentleman
came in shortly thereafter. These, whispered Bill
Riggs, were the Chairmen of the
Boards of the two companies. They
had, apparently, held a brief preliminary
meeting in an adjacent room.
Sir
Osbert Davies kept us waiting for 15 minutes. I had my
first surprise when he arrived: he was none other than the portly
gentleman of the auction at
Thereafter business was brisk. Within a few minutes Sir
Osbert made it clear that he failed to comprehend why the
dispute had not been settled amicably. The two firms had enjoyed an excellent
business relationship for years and had to
continue trading with each other. Small disagreements and disputes
had to be sorted
out without fuss. If the two
companies destroyed their joint operations by petty mindedness, foreign
competitors would eagerly pick up the business.
“It’s a matter of principle” said Whitehead.
“What principle?” asked Sir Osbert.
“Of honesty in dealings!” Pointing
his finger at
“How dare you, you ...” started
“I am not going to tolerate any
abusive language in this meeting – and
this goes for both of you: Philip
Whitehead and Tony Blackburn. I just won’t
have it!” He had raised his voice but his eyes, I noticed, remained
cold.
“But surely, I have the right to express my views,” said Whitehead
defensively.
“As long as you
express them civilly,” answered Sir
Osbert severely. “Our object today is to sort things out – not
to perpetuate a petty personal feud.”
“I resent that,” exclaimed Whitehead, raising his voice in a vain attempt
to regain his previous
position of strength; “you have no right to bring club
gossip to ...”.
“I have the right to control this meeting and I intend
to exercise it. You better get that straight, Philip!”
“How dare you speak to me like that” yelled Whitehead; “who do you think
...”
“Shut up, Philip, shut up!” interrupted Sir Osbert in a tone
that brought a flush to Whitehead’s
face.
For the next half hour, Sir Osbert
went through the documents pertaining to
the dispute, including the
depositions of the witnesses of fact
and the experts’ reports.
His analysis, I thought, was lucid and well balanced.
He concluded – as had all of us before him – that the outcome of the
case depended on the
Judge's assessment of the reliability
of the two
main witnesses: Whitehead and Blackburn. His reasoning, he added, was based on the useful reports of the two
expert witnesses.
“But Professor Berger concludes that we are in the right,” insisted
Whitehead.
“Care to comment, Professor?” asked Sir Osbert.
“What I say is that, if the Judge
accepts Mr Whitehead’s testimony, we
ought to win the case,” I explained.
“But you show that the documents support what I say!” persisted
Whitehead.
“I show in my Report that some
documents do; but I have had to
concede that other documents go against
us.”
“But that’s double Dutch,” exclaimed Whitehead.
“No, it isn’t,” intervened Sir Osbert. “Mr Barlow for
the other side had to make
similar concessions. Professor Berger, am I right in concluding that in this
type of situation the Judge has
to base his decision on his
personal assessment of the witnesses?”
“Precisely,” I agreed.
“But how could he possibly believe
“It does – much more so than your confused letters!” countered
“Only the Judge
will decide which version makes
sense,” said Sir
Osbert. “Professor Berger, could you please tell us how a Judge
makes up
his mind in this type of case?”
“When the facts are neatly balanced,” I said readily,
“the Judge can use only
one criterion: his own subjective
assessment of the witnesses. So the
outcome is bound to depend on whether he believes A or B. Most judges hate this type of situation and
try to persuade the parties to settle.
But if the parties don’t reach an agreement, the Judge has to decide.”
“But I’m positive
he’ll believe me,”
Whitehead's voice was
charged with emotion; “it’s a
matter of simple justice.”
“Famous last words,” said Sir
Osbert Davies contemptuously. “As the
Professor has just indicated, the Judge has to rely on his
impressions and, of course, the Judge is human. I consider it impossible to predict
the outcome. I gather Professor Berger
and Mr Barlow are, basically, of the same view. Can we have the views of the legal advisers?”
“We are of the same view,” said Bill Riggs, whilst his counterpart simply
said: “I Agree.”
“In the circumstances,” said Sir Osbert, “I consider
it imperative that the case
be settled forthwith. I have studied the draft agreement dated 29 April and
consider it a fair and just solution. I urge both parties to accept it
as is!”
“And if we don’t?” asked Whitehead, trying to sound defiant.
“Then I shall recommend to my bank that we withdraw the facilities
granted to both firms.” Sir Osbert did not raise his voice,
but the reaction of all the
businessmen in the room left no doubt about the impact
left by
his words. Unperturbed, he
continued: “As you well know, both
companies experienced certain
financial setbacks during the last few years. Acting as the lead bank, we took a substantial risk when we arranged the
syndicated loan facilities I am
referring to. We went ahead despite this risk because we concluded that the
operations of both companies were of considerable importance to British trade.
But I
am not prepared to assume any further risks, or to throw
good money after bad, when the two companies indulge
themselves in the pursuit of petty
quarrels.”
“We can get our funding elsewhere,”
countered Whitehead in a new fit of
rage; “you are pointing a pistol at our heads.”
“I am indeed,” affirmed Sir Osbert. “And you better
cool down before you make me pull the trigger. Once again, I
urge each company to place the proposed
settlement forthwith before a meeting of its Board of Directors.”
“Perhaps I should mention that, following a short meeting of the two Chairmen earlier this morning,
such meetings have already been called;
I understand each Board is to
meet this afternoon,” volunteered Bill
Riggs.
“Quite so,” said the two Chairmen in unison.
“Without consulting me?” asked Whitehead; turning to his own Chairman he
added with a touch of bitterness: “I thought I was the General Manager.”
“So you are,” replied his
Chairman. “But this case has gone out of hand and I have
felt for some time that a settlement is desirable. As Sir Osbert has
explained at the outset, our two companies have to go on cooperating
in our trading activities. Our
Board’s meeting is scheduled for 4.00 p.m.
in our Convention Room. Your
presence, Philip, will, of course, be
appreciated.”
“I do not propose to come,” said Whitehead, who had turned pale.
“As you wish,” answered his
Chairman; “still, in your own interest, you
ought to be there. Why don’t you think the matter over during lunch.”
For a moment, I thought Whitehead was going to reply. Then,
to everyone’s relief, he rose from his seat and left the room.
“How about you, Tony?” asked the other company’s Chairman.
“Do you think I should attend?” asked
“You should attend, especially if you feel you are able to accept the proposed settlement.”
“On final
reflection,” said
All
in attendance started to collect their documents. Before we
rose, Bill Riggs thanked Sir
Osbert Davies. He, in turn,
asked the parties to contact him if they felt that he
could be of further assistance. I was getting ready to
take my leave but was pre-empted by Sir
Osbert: “Can I give you a lift,
Professor Berger?”
17.
Recognising an Old Friend
On our way to the carpark, we talked
about the case. To my surprise, Sir Osbert made a number of favourable comments
about Philip Whitehead. He praised the policies Whitehead had pursued during
his five years with his company and described his conduct in the instant dispute
as out of character. Then, as I fastened
the safety belt, Sir Osbert said without a change in his voice:
“Hopefully, Philip Whitehead will
soon be back to normal. But, be this as
it may, I only hope you didn’t find our stormy meeting too trying,
Peter!”
“Not at all” I replied mechanically; then, as the gist of his address
sank in, I looked at him in poorly disguised amazement.
“You are somewhat slow to recognise an old friend” he said with a smile.
For a few seconds I stared at him
searchingly. Then, at long last, the
smoke lifted itself. Camouflaged behind
the double chin, the receding hair,
the thick glasses and the wrinkled face,
I recognised my acquaintance of days
long gone bye:
“Brian ...?”
“Have I really changed that much?” he asked sadly and, whilst I was searching for words, went on: “I suppose it’s the effect of
all these expense account luncheons, the sumptuous dinners, the
endless drinks and, between you and me,
my not exercising enough.”
“It’s not your appearance” I told him truthfully. “It
is, rather, your
proper name, although I should
have really known: I knew your initials
were B.R.O. But, you
see, although I’ve lived in Anglo-Saxon societies for
years, I’m still ...”
“Occasionally perplexed by our impervious ways?”
“You could put it like that, Brian ... I mean, Sir Osbert.”
“I’m still ‘Brian’ to my old friends!”
“Let me congratulate you, belatedly, on your Knighthood. Was it for your
work in the Gulf?”
“That, and my contributions to certain Committees. Some people thought it
came earlier than deserved.”
“I’m sure that’s nonsense,” I
said, once again myself. “But, I hope you
don’t mind if I ask: what made you prefer ‘Osbert’ to ‘Brian’?"
“But I didn’t,"
he burst out laughing. “It was,
rather, Ruth’s idea.
She thought that ‘Sir Osbert Davies’ sounded better than
‘Sir Brian Davies’.”
Noting my perplexed glance, he
added: “Not that Ruth has become a snob;
she’s still the same old girl. But she had always liked the sound of
‘Osbert’.”
“And what did
Mary Jane and Jonathan have to
say – I take it
they were consulted?”
“So you have a better memory for
names than for faces,” said Brian,
gratified. “And, yes, they were consulted. Mary Jane agreed with Mom.
She said the ‘Nobs’ had no monopoly over
‘fine’ English names. Jonathan was neutral: he said that to him I’ll always be Dad.”
“I see; but tell me: what are Mary Jane and Jonathan doing?”
“Mary Jane is a vet – one of the
few women in the profession. She practises although she is married and has two
kids. Jonathan did electronic engineering but,
some two years ago, joined a business firm. He says he’ll make his first million before he’s thirty
five!”
“Good luck to him,” I said, slightly amused. “And is he married?”
“Not formally. But he has been
living with the same girl since his
University days. She rules him just as firmly
as his Mom rules
his Dad! They say they’ll get married if they decide to have children. At
first Ruth urged them to do the right thing presently; but later on she accepted the
situation. She has become very fond of
Rosalind and treats her like a daughter.”
“And where do
you live now? I remember
you bought a property in Stanmore.”
“We’re still living there. I wanted to move to an Edwardian house in
“I’m delighted, Brian.”
“And how are things with you,
Peter? You have done very well
professionally: Arthur Smithies
used to tell me about your work. But how is everything else? Did you move back to
“Partly,” I told him truthfully. “It was the best thing I could do for
her. But there were other attractions like the salary and, frankly
speaking, something personal. You see, my
marriage has not been a great success. Still, Pat and I are
still together; but during the last few years, Brian, ... a ray of light has
entered into my life.”
“The young woman who was with you at the auction?”
“Her name is Yuan Ming. I told you a great deal about her the last time
we met!”
“But that was ages ago!” Brian gave a start. “Hold on,” he proceeded, “so
she is the little girl you talked about
over our lunch, isn’t she?”
“She is, rather. We had lost touch when I left
“What a strange coincidence!” His voice remained even but, for just a
flicker, his expression changed
perceptibly. “I recall our conversation
clearly. You appeared engrossed
in your work and steered back to it when I asked about your personal life. But your face lit up when you told me
about little Yuan Ming: you became
animated. And I assume ‘Dawn’ is her work, isn’t it?”
“It is” I
said and kept talking about
Yuan Ming and her art until we reached Marble Arch.
“I’m glad to
see you are happy, Peter, I
really am. And, Peter, are you free
for lunch?”
“I am: only it’s my turn really.”
“Nonsense. You’ll take me out when I visit you in
18. Lunch
Down
After some fifteen minutes we
stopped in front of a smart restaurant
in
As
was to be expected, we spent some time exchanging news about common friends in the English banking and business world,
savouring the success of some
and the untimely retirement or demise of others. Eventually, under
the influence of the
excellent wine, Brian started to talk
happily about his grandchildren.
A
short lull in our conversation
took place when a waiter uncorked the second bottle. When he departed, I
steered the conversation to Sir Arthur Smithies. I was not surprised to learn that Brian had, occasionally, called on
him in Epping and that, more recently, he had dinner with him in Woodstock.
“We had a drink in the library followed by a formal dinner in that huge
dining room.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Quite. It gave me an uncanny feeling.”
“Didn’t you find the entire house weird, Brian?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t put it that strongly; but, yes, I was puzzled.”
“Because it was out of character?”
“Not really; it struck me was as a place suitable for housing Arthur
Smithies’ collection. I was, rather, surprised not to find certain things in
it.”
“Such as?”
"His old desk, for instance.
Roger Bates told me that Arthur Smithies had personally supervised the removal
of his desk and chair from
his old office. Later on, I spotted them
in his study
in Epping. Their replacement
by the grand desk and
elegant chair in the
“Anything else, in the house or, perhaps, at the auction?” I wanted to
know.
“Well,” he said after an inner struggle, “I think it’s
alright to tell
you about it now: Arthur Smithies
had a fine collection of prints. I still wonder why there was no trace of them
at the auction.”
“The answer is simple, Brian” I told him. “The prints as well as the
desk and office chair are in a self
contained suite, or bachelor’s flat, on the
ground floor. This was Arthur Smithies’ real abode.”
“How on earth did you find out?” Brian looked thunderstruck.
“Yuan Ming and I gained access to it yesterday, after the auction.”
Brian Davies listened attentively to
my description of Arthur Smithies’
hidden rooms. He interrupted me for the first time when I
described the books I saw in the
study.
“Did you have a good look at the shelves with the English novels?”
“I’m afraid not,” I had to admit. “Do you have a specific book in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s ‘Great Expectations’.”
“A fine full calf bound edition?”
“Precisely,” he said eagerly.
“It’s not on the shelves. It is,
rather, in a cabinet in which he kept
gifts and trophies. A
“I know them. He showed them to me
shortly after you went to Singapore,”
said Brian, overtly moved. “The book is from me. I presented it to him
when he left Crawfords. Can you recall any other items you saw in the cabinet?”
Brian was able to identify some
snuff boxes. He then turned, somewhat uneasily, to the locket.
“During his early years at the Bar, Arthur Smithies was
often seen in the
company of Vivian Armstrong, a successful Chancery Junior from the Chambers in
11-12, Grey’s
“What a pity they
didn’t get married.”
“I am not sure I agree with you. Arthur
Smithies was very much his
own man. He
might have found it hard to
accept the everyday compromises dictated by marriage.”
Brian was equally interested in my
description of the remaining rooms in the
suite. He wanted details about
the prints. I was impressed when he identified a number of them from my description. Some turned out to
be rare and valuable.
“Brian,” I asked when I had completed my description of
the suite, “why,
on earth, did Arthur Smithies
lead such a schizophrenic existence? I
mean, why did he need both the
opulent open rooms and the hidden suite. I have no doubt that he felt at home in the suite. So
why did he need the façade of the other
rooms. I am satisfied that Arthur Smithies was not a show-off.”
“Of course not,” confirmed Brian. “What bothers you about the two separate pArt of the house?”
“They are incompatible with each other!”
“Viewed as two homes, they are,”
he answered readily. “But the open rooms were not meant to be Arthur Smithies’
home. They were the rooms of a grand
mansion, housing his collection of
artefacts. He wanted his guests to enjoy them. The suite was his living
quarters: the place in which he dressed informally, discarding his suit and
putting on a pullover or cardigan and a
comfortable pair of trousers: the place in which he relaxed and felt at home.”
“But why did he keep its existence in the dark. You
were, I believe, close
to him. But even you were never told, let alone
invited to enter these rooms?”
“As you well
know, Peter, Arthur Smithies was
a very
reserved man, who cherished
his privacy. Perhaps he felt that the existence of these ‘hidden
rooms’ was no one else’s business.”
“Isn’t this an extreme example of the privacy fetish; doesn’t it verge on
the absurd?”
“Perhaps it does, Peter,” conceded
Brian; “but, then, Arthur Smithies was
an unusual man.”
“And why this secrecy about the prints? He never mentioned them in his
letters to me although he knew I was a fellow collector. He was, at the same
time, communicative about his
“Perhaps I was; and, as a matter of fact, I found out by chance.”
“How?”
“I met him in a dealer’s shop in
“This still doesn’t explain why he
was so secretive about them. And, Brian, how can one man have an interest in
both these prints and in the paintings
we have seen on the walls of the
house?”
“I quite agree with your assessment of these paintings. I made those bids for ‘Galleons off
“I see; and you are a very kindly man, Brian.”
“Oh, come off it,” said Brian suddenly all flustered. “It was just a
supportive gesture.”
“But how about the contrast between the prints in the ‘hidden rooms’ and
the paintings?”
“I can’t be certain,” said Brian, after having pondered for a while; “but
let’s see if we can come up with a good hunch. Basically,
how would you describe these prints?”
“All of them
deal with human
emotions: Eve’s insatiable
curiosity; Man’s cruelty in war; the horror inspired by the
apocalypse and so and so on.”
“And the paintings?”
“They are expressions of harmony
and grandeur: of Man’s achievements.”
“These, of course, suit the elegant furniture, the fine
porcelain with its quaint paintings, and they are in harmony with the
atmosphere Arthur Smithies’ grand
house.”
“Quite so,” I agreed.
“Perhaps,” said Brian reflectively, “these paintings – and the open rooms
as a whole – represent the solidity toward which, Arthur Smithies felt, we ought to strive. The prints reflect the
controversies of life, the emotions
and obsessions which drive us,
every now and then, to
irrational actions.”
“Like Philip Whitehead’s behaviour,” it was my turn to reflect.
“Precisely,” agreed Brian readily.
“I believe that, in his own way, Arthur
Smithies was both aware of the effects of inner turmoil and was mesmerised by them.”
“That,” I said “would also explain
what attracted him to ‘Dawn’ and the
other modern, abstract but
highly emotive, paintings
displayed in his
‘hidden rooms’.
“Spot on,” said Brian.
“How very strange,”
I said after a pause. “How very strange that a
man of Arthur Smithies’
background would reflect on these aspects of life. I knew, of course,
that he was a sensitive and sophisticated man. But I had
not realised that he had stepped so far out into the ... twilight zone.”
“But, Peter, how much do you
really know about Arthur Smithies background?”
“Not much; I assumed that – like
yourself – he came from the ranks
of the professional middle classes.”
“Wrong on both points," said
Brian, who, to my relief, was amused rather
than annoyed by what had, obviously, been a gaff.
"How?" I asked.
“Well, my father was a businessman
in
“But your accent,” I said
bewildered. “To me it didn’t - and still
doesn’t - sound ‘
“So I’ve fooled you about my
accent, haven’t I?” said Brian in such
a heavy
“You rather have! When did you change over?”
“Just before I went up to Cambridge. It was really mom’s idea. She doted
on me and did everything she could to ensure my ‘future’. One of
her best ideas was to persuade me to ‘learn to speak English like a real
gentleman’. It helped me in my interview at King’s and
opened the doors to Crawfords.” Smiling at me, he added: “
‘Osbert’, too, was her idea. She thought that such a fine proper name would
stand me in good stead at the right time.”
“Alright, then,” I came back to my main point; “but you said I was wrong
twice. So what was Arthur Smithies background? He appeared
the epitome of an executive in an English aristocratic bank.”
“He was; and he had the necessary credentials and the appropriate upbringing,” agreed
Brian. “But the full story is considerably more
complex than what meets the eye. You see, Peter, Arthur Smithies’ great
grandfather was a successful businessman in
“A migrant from
“He was, I am told, born in
“Quite a man!” I broke in. “And, obviously, his financial gamble paid
off.”
“Didn’t it ever!” affirmed Brian. “Within ten years
the bank
regained its prominent position
and established excellent relations with some Dutch and German banks. It soon
became an intermediary for trade between
the East Coast of the
“And the bank remained a sort of family business.”
“It did. The partners consolidated
the bank’s standing by marrying into the families of successful lawyers
and of wealthy businessmen and industrialists in
“How did Arthur Smithies get into the lead. I though he had opted for a
career at the Bar?”
“He did, rather. But circumstances dictated his final move. Originally,
his older brother, Archibald,
was considered more suitable for
the job. Archie was a an easy going, affable, man
with all the social graces.
People liked to deal
with him. Arthur, in contrast,
was a reserved and shy young man. But he had his ancestors’ sharp
mind. A career at the Bar appeared
just right for him.”
“I believe I can put the rest of the jigsaw together.” I
nodded. “He had a
successful start at the Bar and,
eventually, chose to specialise in a
newly developing field: copyright
and patents. I suspect that – in
due course – Archibald proved himself
unable to handle the affairs of the Bank during times of turbulence. So the sedate and resourceful
Arthur had to take over. Was it a family decision?”
“It was.”
“So, all in all,” I mused, “far from being the scion of a pure old
English family, Arthur Smithies came from a somewhat ... mixed background?”
“You are surprised, aren’t you?” grinned Brian.
“I am: to me he appeared a typical upper middle class Englishmen.”
“He left that impression on most people he met; and I
don’t think it was a mere façade. In most ways, he was just
that.”
“But, at the same time, there were some other inner forces pulling him in
very different directions.”
“I think so,” said Brian, “but we can’t be certain.”
“True,” I had to agree; “but what you’ve just told me
sheds new light on the public
section of the house and on the
‘hidden room’. Their coexistence no longer
appears incompatible with his character.
Like Arthur Smithies’ background
and outlook they were moulded by chance!”
“Chance,” replied Brian vigorously, “or, as I prefer to put it, a series
of events each triggered off by another,
like the ripples created by a pebble
thrown into a clear pool.” Breaking into a smile, he went on: “And now, Peter,
you know as much about Arthur Smithies’ background as myself!”
“Thanks for telling me” I said.
“Anything else you like to know?” he asked, still smiling.
“As a matter of fact there is: do you know what became of Vivian
Armstrong?”
“She died of an attack of
pneumonia, just a few years after Arthur
Smithies joined Crawfords. I was
told he appeared subdued during that period
and dressed even more sombrely than usually. And, Peter, I
know for
sure that Vivian Armstrong
remained single.”
Taking advantage of the lull in our conversation,
the waiter came over to fill our coffee
cups and to remove our dessert plates. Having found out all I wanted to know about my late friend, I
thought it appropriate to steer the
conversation back to Brian’s own affairs. He told me,
willingly, about his position
in his merchant bank and his general role
in London’s thriving banking community. He was, obviously, pleased to talk
about his achievements but, at the same time, his tone remained sober. He
became more enthusiastic when I asked about his collection of prints.
“My collection has been growing steadily over the years. You may recall
that I prefer modern prints to the old masters. I have prints of all
the modern leading artists, excellent prints! To tell you the truth, Peter, I
am giving serious thought to early retirement from
the bank. If I do, I shall turn my
hobby into a lucrative business.”
“But, surely, you cannot possibly open an art gallery, can you?”
“As ‘Brian Davies’ I could; but, as you imply, not as
‘Sir Osbert Davies’;
and, even if I wanted to defy convention, Ruth won’t let me. Still,
one of Mary Jane’s friends has
just finished her BA and aspires
to become an Art dealer. I have had a chat with her. I would, of course,
remain in remote control.”
“But why do you want to retire from the City. You are at the very peek of
your career, Brian!”
“And that, Peter, is not a bad time to quit. I’d rather go whilst I’m
riding high than when I sense the tide has turned and I’ve
outlived my usefulness; and,
quite apart from that, I am
beginning to lose interest. I’ve
been at the helm for far too long.”
“I understand. Sometime I, too, feel fed up with what I’m doing. I’ve
been teaching law and writing
legal monographs and articles for years.
I am getting sick and tired of it.”
“What do you propose to do?"
“As soon as I’ve sorted things
out, I intend to devote myself to Yuan
Ming’s career; and I want to try my hand at some short stories and
perhaps a novel.”
“I’m glad you have made your plans,” said Brian warmly. “You know,
Peter, time has not stood still for either of us; but you,
too, contemplate a new start: you
haven’t lost your aspirations.”
“I haven’t” I
confirmed. “I continue to look forward to the future. But how about Arthur
Smithies, Brian, had he lost heart?”
“I don’t think so” said Brian with conviction. “I believe that in those
hidden rooms, the rooms which you have
been privileged to see, he was the man both of us knew at Crawfords.”
Discreetly, the waiter placed a
silver plate with the neatly folded bill next
to Brian’s side plate. He settled it in cash and, I noticed,
left a generous tip.
Although I should have preferred to
walk to Marble Arch Station, I felt
obliged to accept
Brian’s offer to drop me in front
of my hotel.
Having exhausted both our personal news and
the subject of
Arthur Smithies, Brian turned
back to the legal proceedings that had brought
me to London. It
soon emerged that, like myself, he had been
moved by Philip Whitehead’s bitterness and was inclined to accept his
version of the facts. Both of us, though, were convinced
that most judges would come down on the
side of the more sedate and dignified Tony Blackburn.
“In effect,” I told Brian “we delivered
a Solomon’s judgment. Being unable
to discover conclusive evidence in support of either party we divided
the loss in equal shares. ‘A’ didn’t win but ‘B’ didn’t lose. I only
hope the episode has not ruined the
careers of
“Time will tell,” replied Brian.
Shortly thereafter we arrived at the
hotel. Shaking his hand warmly, I thanked him for his hospitality. I
watched his car until it disappeared around the corner. It was only then
that I realised I had been driven in a Bentley.
19. Rerouting
a Flight
Back in my room, I kept musing about
Brian – now Sir Osbert – Davies,
comparing his decisive progress with the
slow downhill trend in Arthur
Smithies’ career. Was it possible that in our fast moving age a rough diamond
had brighter prospects than a polished one? After all, even the finest of
diamonds had, in the very least, one flaw.
My
reverie was disrupted
by the four chimes
of a nearby
clock. Instantly, my mind swung
to Yuan Ming. Why had she not rung? Did she
go for some shopping?
Despite my persistent calls, the receiver in her flat was not picked
up. Had there been an unfavourable development respecting
her deal? Had some of the pieces proved to be fakes? The purchasers
were, undoubtedly, ruthless people. Was
she in danger? Anxiously, I started to pace the floor with my arms pressed
tightly to my sides. Then, as if in response to a prayer, the telephone rang.
“So you are back, Uncle!”
“Yes; but where have you been? It’s nearly four thirty?”
“Don’t tell me you worried about me? I’m not a ‘little
Yuan Ming’ any longer, you know.”
“It’s just because of the deal; I feared something went wrong!”
“And the nasty men kidnapped me” she burst out laughing. “They haven’t
paid yet: remember! So if they aren’t pleased
they can call the deal off. So what would they want with me?”
“Sorry,” I conceded contritely; “I am getting rather edgy, and it is
getting late.”
“I understand, you Old Silly. I’m
late because we went to see the
expert on bronzes in the
“Sir Osbert Davies took me out for lunch!”
“So you are climbing up in the world, Respected Uncle: rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty; soon you’ll rise above
the standard of your plain Yuan Ming. Don’t tell me you had been
driven in a Silver Hawk?”
“In a Bentley, rather. But Sir Osbert isn’t really Sir Osbert...”
“Uncle, are you reciting ‘The Hunting of the Snark’?”
“I am not! And Sir Osbert isn’t a
Bojum. He is, rather, the portly
gentleman who started the bidding on ‘Dawn’ yesterday.”
“The fat chap who kept staring at us?”
“The very same. You see, he turned out to be an old
friend about whom I’ve told you – I mean ‘her’ – long ago.”
“Don’t tell me
he’s your old friend Brian Davies,” she
burst out laughing merrily. “You told ‘her’ he was an elegant, athletic and suave upper
middle class young Englishmen! No
wonder he tried to attract your
attention by bidding for ‘Dawn’. When did you
recognise him?”
“Only on the
way to lunch” I admitted; “and
look, shall I come over to the flat?”
“Do. I’ll be there in 20
minutes.”
Yuan Ming greeted me when I arrived.
She looked pleased; but I could sense her fatigue.
“Is all well with your deal, Yuan Ming; and I hope
you don’t have to travel to
“Right; the deal is all set and everything is fine.”
“Thank goodness.”
Despite my relief, a lump was forming in
my chest and throat.
In just about twenty four hours, Yuan would be on her
way to Heathrow. Shortly
thereafter I would be taking my flight to
“Tell me about your lunch, Uncle”
she asked. “You talked about Arthur Smithies, didn’t you?”
“We did; but do you really want
me tell
you about it now?”
“Oh, yes; I’m
sure Brian Davies – I mean your Sir Osbert – knew a lot about him.”
I
knew that her main object was to steer my mind away from
her imminent return to Los
Angeles. All the same, I went ahead.
She listened without interruption, except an occasional
snicker as I related the funnier aspects of my recent encounter. When I finished, she said with conviction:
“So your friend Brian – I mean ‘the Honourable Sir Osbert Davies’ –
was not altogether surprised to hear
about the hidden rooms? He took what you told him in his stride and came up
with a ready explanation.”
“Do you think he is right?”
“Offhand, and bearing in mind
Arthur Smithies’ real background, his view
is plausible.”
“It probably is,” I said, trying to keep my doubts out of my voice.
Neither of us felt inclined to go on
talking. Outwardly, we tried to prolong
the discussion of my meeting with Brian
Davies and of Arthur Smithies’ mystery. These were the topics of the day. Our
thoughts, though, were focusing on our imminent parting. Some six or perhaps
even eight months would pass before we met again; and life – alas – was full of
uncertainties. We appreciated that an eventual
return to our respective bases was unavoidable. Yuan Ming had her art
and exhibitions; I had my post at the University. But was there no way to
extend our spell of harmony and happiness?
Then, through the clouds of gloom, I
caught sight of the benign face of my late friend, Yuan Ming’s father, the
antiques dealer Tay Fang-Shou. In one of our last conversations, he had urged
me not to ignore my insights. People like us taught ourselves to be guided by
reason. In the process, we lost the ability to act on instincts, although these
alone were dictated by the inner self. Man,
“Yuan Ming,” I told her when I was certain the time was right; “Yuan
Ming: tomorrow I shall fly with you to LA. I know I’ve got to return to
Slowly a smile crept over her face.
“Do you have a visa, Uncle; and can you spare the time?”
“The old visa is still valid; and, yes, I have the time.”
“When does your next teaching session begin?”
“Not until the first week of July!”
“And how about your consultancy?”
“I cleared my table before I went to
"But what will you do when my exhibition is on? You can’t be there
all the time; and I can’t bear the thought of your sitting around doing
nothing.”
“I’ll have a good rest and, if I feel like it, I’ll go
to some matinees in your
theatres. Also, I’d like to spend some time in your museums. There must
be some museums in LA?”
“There are. We even have a
“So it’s all settled,” I let my delight show. “And it’s sure to be a
lovely week, Yuan Ming.”
“It will be; and you are welcome to my opening and closing sessions.”
“Splendid” I told her; “and can’t
I be of any use to you whilst the exhibition is on?”
“You can,” she said after a pause.
“You can do some of my packing.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’ve really just made up my mind,
Uncle. When the exhibition is over, I’ve got to fly to
“So we can go together” I said eagerly.
“Yes, Uncle; and after that I’m
flying over to
“So we’ll be able to spend plenty of time together!” I said gleefully.
20. The
Impenetrable Mask
We had dinner in a Viennese
restaurant in Queensway. Left to myself,
I should have spent the next morning in the vicinity of the hotel, possibly
strolling down Kensington Church Street for a browse in the antique
shops. Yuan Ming was more adventurous. Pointing out that the sky was clear,
with only an occasional friendly white cloud
floating past, she proposed a
trip up the
It
was a hot May day but a mild breeze, blowing from the East,
kept refreshing us on the boat
and during our hike in
Back
at my hotel, where Yuan Ming and I
intended to have our dinner at the Law Firm’s expense, I discovered that Bill Riggs had set me a
cumbersome, even if pleasant, task. The settlement agreement had
been executed without demur
by both companies and, shortly before lunch, was given the effect
of a decree by a much relieved Judge.
With the exception of Philip Whitehead,
everybody was smiling. True to form, the two law firms
found this an opportune moment for the submission of
their accounts. It was, accordingly, imperative that my own fee note
be ready before I left
“Well, Uncle” said Yuan Ming enthusiastically; “let’s do it together.”
She
waited patiently whilst I collected
my time-sheets and reconciled
them with the entries in my diary. Then, as I started to put
the fee note together, she
checked my amateurish calculations.
Soon it dawned
on me that
she had a
vivid recollection of the fine tuning my little Yuan Ming had
introduced long ago – in Singapore
– into my bookkeeping and bills. Now and
then, she rounded up taxi fares and
restaurant bills so
as to include the tips and
corrected all my
wrong additions with an amused grin. The only time she got incensed
was when I sought to charge a nominal fee for the
period we had spent on the Continent.
“Come on, Uncle,” she said firmly. “You used to tell ‘her’ that it was customary to charge a waiting-fee
of 50% for days a lawyer had made himself available but was not called upon to
act.”
“True” I said; “but we had such a marvellous time
during these days. Do you really think I ought to charge a
waiting-fee?”
“But if we had remained in
“I suppose so,” I conceded.
“So, if your
conscience bugs you, why don’t you charge them 33% instead of 50% per day?”
“Fair enough,” I accepted her verdict.
When the fee note, neatly typed out
in the hotel’s Business Centre, had been sent out, we had coffee in the hotel’s
lounge . For a while we talked about our European trip and planned a trip
through the
“But, in truth, our answer begs the question,” Yuan Ming told me. “If a
man really loves a woman, he’ll go ahead in any event; and he’ll usually be
glad to fall in with her wishes and will accept her plans. And, frequently,
she’ll accept his. This is not a loss of independence. It is the willingness to
compromise necessitated where the spouse’s happiness is the first priority.”
“How very true,” I told her. “It means that each
party to a happy marriage –
a fellowship – has to give up some independence. If one
party insists on having his or her way all the time, the fellowship is
bound to turn sour. I am sure a man as sensitive and as sophisticated as
Arthur Smithies knew this; he wasn’t blind.”
“But suppose he had another impediment that compounded the
first?”
“Such as?”
She was about to tell me but,
mercurially, changed her mind. “Uncle,” she said, “let me give you a clue;
we’ll see if you find out on your own.”
“ ‘She’ loved to set me riddles,” I grinned. “So even a young lady
doesn’t change her spots? Well, go ahead then.”
“Let’s start with Dad,” she said. “How many faces did he have?”
“I knew two:
Tay Fang-Shou’s and Dr Alfred
Cheng’s: two very
different countenances. And, yes, I observed him once leaving the Odeon
Cinema with ‘her’ and your Mom. His
mannerism was so different that, for a while, I couldn’t be certain it was
him.”
“I’m not surprised. On all family occasions he turned himself into a
Chinese family man.”
“But what has this got to do with Arthur Smithies?”
“Not so fast, Uncle. How about you? Are you the same
with close friends like me, with students, with clients and on formal
occasions?”
“Not really,” I consented, still bewildered.
“And how about your friend Brian?
In this morning’s meeting he was
the Hon. Sir Osbert
Davies, blah, blah blah; with you he became, once
again, Brian; and I won’t be surprised to see our fat Sir Osbert,
dressed informally at home, hopping on all fours and braying like a horse, with
the two grandchildren riding on his back and shrieking happily! And to the
them he is neither Sir
Osbert nor Brian Davies: he is Grampa. I’m sure he loves it, but - what is more important - he doesn’t worry about his appearance, or
about his ‘mask’!”
“True,” I said “but I still
don’t see...”
“So the penny has dropped” she said, taking in the change in my
expression as I cut myself short.
“You are hinting that Arthur
Smithies was never seen with his mask off?” I asked.
“More accurately, Uncle: Arthur
Smithies was unable to open up and
drop his ‘mask’. It had become
part of him!”
“And that is not something a woman would tolerate in
her man – not if she loves him?”
“Precisely, Uncle. A woman cannot love a man who, even when they are on
their own, remains the very person he is in the boardroom.”
“But suppose he doesn’t have another ‘face’ or ‘alter ego?”
“I don’t know if there are such men,” she said solemnly. “But even if
there are some around, Arthur Smithies wasn’t one of them.”
“How do you know?”
“When Alan Jones and you looked at the trophies cabinet
I peeked
into the wardrobe. What I saw was
a give away! His neat business suits were hanging on one
side. On the other I saw an old V neck pullover,
with the
elbows all frayed, an old
comfortable jacket, a few pairs of
corduroy trousers and a worn out track suit.
And, Uncle, the cuffs of some of the trouser legs were covered with dry
mud.”
“So he did some gardening,” I said thoughtfully. “I should have never
guessed!”
“And, Uncle, when
you went through his
professional books, I took
in the
other shelves. Well, he
had quite a
collection of books
on gardening and horticulture as well as ‘Teach yourself’ and ‘Do it
Yourself’ books on such diverse
topics as ‘French
Cuisine’ and ‘Carve Your Own Clock
Cases and Mantelpieces’.”
“So he was
a man of many hobbies; and,
perhaps, he had a
well equipped workshop, hidden
away in another part of the house. What is so strange is that he never
mentioned these hobbies or occupations to anybody!”
“Just as he didn’t talk about his prints,” she
agreed. “Outside his own ‘hidden rooms’ he remained – day in and day out – the ...”
“...
“Precisely; and he took off his
mask only when he was alone, usually
in his suite, the existence of
which was known only to the servants.”
“The ‘hidden rooms’, in which he created a
world of his own: a
sanctuary not to
be disrupted by any other person.”
“Well put, Uncle; so now you are with me.”
“All the way,” I confirmed; “but I
should still like to know what gave
Arthur Smithies the strength to
reject Vivian Armstrong and give marriage a miss. He was, after all, a normal
young man, with a deep affection for her?”
“He was a realist, Uncle. He must have appreciated
that, to enjoy a
happy marriage, he had to change his outlook and his approach to life
but felt both unable and unwilling to do
so.”
“What a pity,” I said sadly.
“No, I don’t agree with you there, Uncle! Happy marriages are rare: you
know this. And nobody can tell if
Arthur Smithies and Vivian
Armstrong would have hit it off,
even if he had opened up to her.”
“How very true.”
“So perhaps Arthur Smithies made the right decision. He may not have
been the happiest of men; but we know he
took life as it came and was ‘satisfied with his lot’.”
“You are right,” I admitted. “But tell me just one more thing: did Arthur Smithies
appreciate that he was ‘the man with impenetrable mask’?”
“I can’t tell; we may never know,” she conceded.
“And
we may not find out why he became like that. Maybe it had something
to do with his background or home or, maybe,
he was ragged so badly in his public school
that he
had to teach himself to button up.”
“Or it might have been – as you
would normally preach, Uncle – the outcome
of pure chance!”
21. The
prints
Yuan Ming returned to
When I had finished packing, I
watched two programmes on BBC. Then, before I retired, my mind strayed once
again back to Arthur Smithies. We had found the answers to most of our
questions about him. Just one issue remained obscure. Why had he been so secretive
about his hobby of collecting prints. There was nothing untoward – let alone
shameful – about them. Each was a collectors’ item, bound to fetch a
substantial price in an established
auction house.
In an attempt to find the answer, I
let my mind dwell on the prints in the ‘hidden rooms’. Unlike the colourful
painting in the public section of the house, most prints were black and white; there were only two
colour lithographs. Yet another feature was that the prints highlighted man’s gruesome,
untoward, weak and dark side. They also emphasised his blindness and
limitations. They were parodies of human nature.
Was it possible that the Late Sir Arthur did not want anyone to suspect
that, behind his benign and imperturbable mask, he was deeply interested in and
even moved by human frailties? But, if this was the case, Sir Arthur Smithies’
mask was emblematic of an escape. He was not prepared to give anyone the
opportunity to peep through it; and the knowledge of the very existence of the
prints might have provided a clue. So it was best to keep it in the dark.
Was my analysis sound? Unable to
come up with a definite answer, I switched off the lights. I wanted to have a
good night’s rest prior to the long flight to
EPILOGUE
The
penultimate draft of The Hidden Rooms
was completed when I was in my sixties. In
2010 I self-published it as part of The
Scales of Fortuna. Nowadays, when I am in my nineties, I have revised it with
a view to uploading in my blog.
Much
has happened in the decades that had elapsed. Following my return to
Yuan Ming kept
shuttling between
When the
documents respecting the sale of the flat had been executed, Yuan Ming had to
fly to
Notwithstanding
my deteriorating condition, I flew over to attend the mass funeral of the
deceased passengers. I cannot bear to write about the experience. My only relic
is the Dancing Harlequin. Yuan Ming had asked
me to keep him for her and it continues
to grace my European porcelain cabinet.
Yuan Ming’s
memory dominates my heart and mind.
Occasionally, I talk to her. All the same, I have come to realise that
throughout her lifetime I viewed her work with the eye of a loving uncle, failing
to wear the glasses of an art critic. I have no doubt that Yuan Ming had the
talent and ability to reach the top. But, with the exception of a few works
such as the ‘Dawn’ cycle and those executed during our European trip, her work
did not meet the final test. Her failure, I believe, is not a consequence of her
untimely demise. Her role as an art dealer marred her development. In a sense,
that commercialised alter ego, stood in her way.
Sir Arthur
Smithies’ memory, too, is fresh in my
mind. I continue to admire him. He had been head above shoulders of all modern bankers I
know. All the same, I do not feel inclined to talk to him. He had been too
remote.
As I am taking
stock of the situation it appears to me that two forces define an individual’s life: luck and the
hidden alter ego. That duplicity is often concealed behind the projected
façade. But even in the case of a man ruled by conventional wisdom – like Roger
Bates – that alter may take over if Fortuna displays her hidden hand
during developments such as war or financial collapse. In some other cases, as
in Arthur Smithies’, she steps in and tears of the mask off at an early, often
undisclosed moment. In still other cases, as in Yuan Ming’s, she leads a third
party, like myself, so as to invoke her alter ego, even if in the end it is not
victorious.
I, too, have
such an alter ago. Did it manifest itself due to the after effects of World War
II or did Fortuna release him when she directed me to Tay’s shop in
China Town? The answer alludes me. But does this matter?
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