Piper was about to launch himself on another of his panegyrics. Afterwards he thanked God he had waited, as he said to himself, for the beauty of the painting to sink in.
William P. McCracken turned rather red. He moved away from the picture and strode back into the other room. ‘Mr Piper,’ he said, ‘I am deeply shocked. I am, I would have you know, the senior elder of the Third Presbyterian Church on Lincoln Street in Concord, Massachusetts. Yes, sir. I cannot tell you what the reaction of my fellow elders would be if they knew I was the possessor of such a painting. The Third Presbyterian would not like it at all. And Mrs McCracken and the Misses McCracken, why sir, they would be shocked to the centre of their being. The Good Lord did not make woman to lie about the countryside without a stitch on.’
Privately William Alaric Piper was appalled at the hypocrisy of these American millionaires. He felt sure that they broke at least three of the Ten Commandments every day of their working lives. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor his railroad lines, nor his steel plant nor his banks, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s. He wanted to tell McCracken that the same artist who painted the Sleeping Venus had painted some of the most beautiful Madonnas in the world. But he did not. He knew he had no choice but to abase himself before the false gods of the Third Presbyterian of Lincoln Street in Concord, Massachusetts.
‘Forgive me, Mr McCracken, please forgive me. I have no wish, no wish at all, to offend your religious beliefs or those of your family and friends in Concord. Perhaps I should have warned you beforehand that sometimes these Renaissance artists painted people in the nude. Your customs are different from ours. Your view of what is acceptable is different from ours. We must respect that. Please forgive me.’
McCracken smiled. ‘No need to apologize, my friend. We shall agree to differ. Maybe times will change and my fellow countrymen will come to adopt the different values of Europe. We shall see. But come, you have something else to show me on the top floor, I believe.’
‘Of course.’ Piper felt relieved. His eternal optimism returned as he led McCracken up to the private viewing room on the top floor. Piper took a large bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door. The room was almost completely dark. Deep red velvet curtains were drawn tightly against the morning sun of Old Bond Street. Piper pressed a switch. It was like a shrine. Placed at the far end of the room on a large easel draped with velvet was the Hammond-Burke Holy Family. The lights played delicately on the curves and the colours of Raphael’s masterpiece, originally meant to hang on the walls of an Italian church, now waiting patiently in the top floor of a London gallery to captivate American tycoons and separate them from their dollars.
‘Isn’t it beautiful! Isn’t it divine!’ whispered Piper, praying that the elders of the Third Presbyterian didn’t believe in the commandment about not making any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath. The Madonna looked down with a practical, maternal love at the child beneath her. The sheep had a contemplative air, looking steadily out of the picture to the world outside. Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. The waters of the lake behind the Holy Family were calm, the trees around the edge casting long shadows across the surface. The horrors of the Agony in the Garden, the hill of Golgotha, the nails being driven into the Cross were far in the future. Piper waited to see what McCracken would say.
‘Mr Piper,’ he began, ‘you said you had something special up here. Boy, you certainly have. Is this for sale?’
Piper shook his head slowly. He knew he could get a splendid price right here and now. But he needed McCracken to want the painting so much that it hurt. He wanted him to lie in his bed at night aching to own it, to possess it, to take this European glory back across the Atlantic. It couldn’t be made easy for him. But once he had felt the lure, almost the disease of collecting, he would come back for more.
‘I am bound to offer it to another,’ said Piper sadly. ‘Believe me, Mr McCracken, if there was any way I could let you have this picture, particularly after the offence I caused you downstairs, I would do so.’
‘Eighty thousand pounds, Mr Piper. That’s my offer. Eighty thousand pounds. Cash, not stock. You said that Raphael in the National Gallery went for seventy thousand pounds. Let nobody say that William P. McCracken doesn’t offer a fair price.’
‘All I can do,’ said Piper, wringing his hands, ‘ – how difficult this is, how much I hate to disappoint you – is to speak to the other party and get back to you.’
‘Can you do that this afternoon?’ Piper shook his head. ‘Tomorrow?’ Piper still shook his head. ‘Two or three days?’ Again William Alaric Piper shook his head. The longer William P. McCracken was left to wait, the greater would be his desire to possess the Raphael, the greater the possibility of future sales.
‘I shall get back to you as fast as I can. I cannot say when that might be. But I shall make it as quick as I can.’
Piper turned off the lights and led the way downstairs. The lights faded quite slowly. For a long time the Madonna’s features glowed out of the frame. Then her face and her halo slowly vanished from sight. Raphael’s Holy Family waited in the darkness for more pilgrims to pay tribute to their beauty.
7
Thomas Jenkins of Emmanuel College was waiting for Powerscourt at Oxford railway station. ‘I hope you’re wearing a stout pair of boots, Lord Powerscourt,’ he said cheerfully, ‘we’re going for a walk.’
Powerscourt remembered Jenkins saying he would take him to Christopher Montague’s favourite place in Oxford. He wondered if he was in for a full tour of the more ancient quadrangles, or an inspection of some of the spectacular gardens or some old and dusty library.
But Jenkins led him away from the town. They crossed over a railway bridge and there in front of them was a huge open space. Jenkins pointed dramatically to his right towards the buildings of the city.
‘Over there, Lord Powerscourt, are the walls of Jericho. Here in front of us is Port Meadow, one of the oldest places in Oxford.’
Powerscourt heard no trumpets. But he saw a vast open space of empty land with wild horses and cows roaming about the rich pasture. Two hundred yards away to his left the river snaked its way beneath the hanging trees.
‘This was Christopher’s favourite place in Oxford, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Jenkins, pointing across Port Meadow. ‘We used to walk along here, over the river there and along the towpath to an old inn called the Trout for lunch.’
‘Let us do the same,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But why is it still wild? Why has nobody built on it?’ Powerscourt’s historical curiosity had temporarily won out over the interests of his investigation. A couple of wild horses drew near to the two men. The horses looked at them carefully and trotted off into the meadow.
‘The freemen of Oxford have had the right to graze their animals on this stretch of land since the tenth century,’ said Jenkins proudly. ‘They’ve held on to it ever since. The right is recorded in the Domesday Book. Before that they say that Bronze Age people used to bury their dead here.’
Jenkins and Powerscourt were crossing the river on an ancient bridge. Small sailing boats were lined up in neat rows, waiting for their masters.
‘In a couple of months,’ Jenkins went on, ‘when winter really sets in, almost all of the meadow is flooded. It’s like a huge marsh or bog.’
‘Mr Jenkins,’ said Powerscourt, stepping smartly out of the way of an approaching trio of cyclists, ‘I do not believe you told me the whole truth when we spoke the other day in London.’ He looked at his companion severely. Jenkins blushed slightly and stared down at his feet.