That Wild Lie (The Gollantz Family Saga Book 2) Read online

  That Wild Lie

  The Gollantz Family Saga Book 2

  Naomi Jacob

  ‘That wild lie men call pride …’

  William Morris

  Copyright © The Estate of Naomi Jacob 2015

  This edition published 2018 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1930

  www.wyndhambooks.com/naomi-jacob

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for the enjoyment of the purchaser only. To share this ebook you must purchase an additional copy per recipient. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  The Gollantz Family Saga series

  by Naomi Jacob

  published by Wyndham Books

  The Founder of the House

  That Wild Lie …

  Young Emmanuel

  Four Generations

  Private Gollantz

  Gollantz: London, Paris, Milan

  Gollantz and Partners

  Wyndham Books: Timeless bestsellers for today’s readers

  Wyndham Books publishes the first ebook editions of bestselling works by some of the most popular authors of the twentieth century, including Lucilla Andrews, Ursula Bloom, Catherine Gaskin and Naomi Jacob. Enjoy our Historical, Family Saga, Regency, Romance and Medical fiction and non-fiction.

  Join our free mailing list for news, exclusives and special deals:

  www.wyndhambooks.com

  For

  OLIVIA ETHERINGTON SMITH

  With my love and gratitude

  to remind her of Salo, Malcesine,

  Gardone and Lake Garda

  Contents

  Book 1: Emmanuel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Book 2: Emmanuel and Algernon

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Book 3: Max and Angela

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Book 4: The House of Gollantz

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Preview: Sara Dane by Catherine Gaskin

  Preview: Lily’s Daughter by Diana Raymond

  Preview: Hardacre by C. L. Skelton

  Book One

  Emmanuel

  Chapter 1

  Hermann Gollantz came to Vienna ‒ from Heaven only knows where ‒ in 1838. He brought with him a considerable amount of money, some excellent pictures, and a small, but admirable collection of old furniture. He also brought several introductions to persons of quality from old Fernando Meldola of Paris, whose reputation, both for integrity and knowledge in the world of connoisseurs of art, was unassailable. Hermann Gollantz always asserted that his father, Abraham, was an even greater expert than Meldola, and that he was well known in Paris; but when Emmanuel visited that city in 1864 he was unable to trace his grandfather or to find anyone who had known him.

  Hermann Gollantz, a moderately handsome Jew with a good manner, was a man of considerable education, and exquisite taste. Not only did he buy to sell, but, when any piece of furniture, any picture, any piece of china made a special appeal to him, he bought it for his own collection.

  He was both popular and successful, he invested his money, sold his wares and married in 1840 Rachel Hirsch, the daughter of a well-to-do wool merchant. They had two sons, Marcus, born in 1842, who was drowned in a skating accident, and Emmanuel, born in 1844.

  Emmanuel was barely twenty when his father died; a week later his mother followed her husband. Her death was regarded as the final proof of wifely affection and devotion by her friends and relations. When young Emmanuel came to wind up his father’s affairs he found that, contrary to expectation, they were in the worst possible state. He investigated further and discovered that for the past twenty years his father had been steadily bled by his mother’s family. Ishmael Hirsch, his uncle, had speculated and lost; Hermann Gollantz had made good his losses. Money had been lent and given to the whole Hirsch family, and Emmanuel found that his father had left him little but debts, and the furniture and pictures which the huge Viennese house contained. True, there was still sufficient money in the bank, from various investments which could be realized, and from outstanding debts to pay what was actually owing, but Emmanuel knew that after such debts were paid he would be left practically penniless.

  Two things were outstanding in young Emmanuel Gollantz, his pride and his good looks. He was, at twenty, undeniably the most handsome Jew in Vienna. It was said that when he entered a ballroom, women had been known to swoon for love of him; and it was further stated that these ladies were not only the daughters of Israel, but women of the ruling Gentile.

  His manners were perfect, perhaps just a shade too perfect, his gestures a shade too flamboyant; but his figure, his clear-cut features, his dark, wide eyes, his small feet and beautiful hands were things of which the young womanhood of Vienna might, and assuredly did, dream. His pride equalled his looks. His first thought when he realized his deplorable financial position was one of dismay. His second emotion was fear; fear that anyone might pity him.

  He spent days with the lawyers in order to ascertain his position. He refused, quite firmly, but with perfect courtesy, the offers of extended credit from people who had liked Hermann Gollantz and trusted his son.

  He paid all his father’s debts, all his own ‒ which included an immense tailor’s bill, for he was the complete dandy ‒ and arranged for the sale of his father’s house. The furniture, the pictures, the china, the tapestry, the brocades, and the beautiful carpets he decided should be the foundation of his own fortunes.

  He never saw any of his mother’s family again. Years afterwards they wrote to him that his grandfather was dead, and Emmanuel sent money for prayers for his soul. A month later, when he felt that decency permitted, he wrote, coldly and unemotionally, that he refused to answer any further communications from his mother’s family.

  When his business was conducted, Emmanuel took farewell of his closest friends ‒ four women and one elderly man. It was said that one of the women, a Countess, went into a decline after his departure; that another contemplated entering a convent, only to discover that she lacked a vocation before it was too late. The absolute truth of these statements cannot be vouched for, but it is certain that Emmanuel entered one great house to make his farewell by the balcony, which he reached by the aid of the festoons of ancient ivy which covered the house. That he left hurriedly is probable, for in descending he slipped and fell, and left Vienna two days later with his arm in a sling and with a dislocated collar bone.

  The one man whom he visited was his father’s old friend, Marcus Breal, the banker
.

  ‘I have come to say good-bye,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Tomorrow I leave for England.’

  The old man blinked at him from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Why England?’ he said. ‘And why have you your arm in a sling?’

  ‘To answer the last question first,’ Emmanuel said, ‘because I was forced to ‒ run away. A meeting with pistols for two and coffee for one might have delayed my departure and my plans were already made. The second question ‒ why am I going to England? Because I have seen pictures of English houses. They are quite unbearably ugly. I cannot believe that the English can bear to live in the middle of such horrors for very long, there must ‒ sooner or later, and I trust sooner ‒ be a revulsion of feeling. Presently they will begin to invest their money in objects of beauty, which I shall sell them. I shall call myself a dealer in furniture, pictures, and antiques. I shall offer them my taste in house decoration in exchange for money.’

  Breal blinked his eyes again. ‘What do you know of these things?’

  ‘I have lived with them all my life. I have listened to my father speaking of them, I have learnt to recognize good from bad. I speak English quite well ‒ thanks again to my father ‒ may his soul rest in peace. I speak French very badly, and, as you can hear, German exceedingly well. My father’s furniture, pictures, and so forth are sufficient to start me in business. Oh, I shall do very well.’

  The old man took snuff from an old gold snuff-box and dusted the grains from his white waistcoat. ‘It is the trade, Emmanuel bar Hermann, which has bred more rogues and tricksters than any other. You are neither a rogue nor a trickster ‒’

  ‘I shall be unique, and my success will be unique also.’

  Marcus Breal nodded. ‘It may be. I am going to make you an offer, and tell you what will be the outcome if you accept it. Listen. I have no sons ‒ I have always hated women, they bore me. I am very rich. If you will stay here, in Vienna, I will make you my heir. You shall be free to come and go as you please. You will mix in society ‒ oh yes, even in exclusive Vienna it can be arranged if a Jew is sufficiently rich. You will hear this and that which affect the money market. Wars and hints of wars, disagreements here, friendships there. You will report them to me. I shall act upon them. Women like you ‒’ he nodded, his eyes dancing, ‘I hear many things, Emmanuel bar Hermann, many things. Women tell the secrets of their husbands to their ‒ friends. Now, what do you say?’

  Emmanuel stood upright. He struck an attitude, throwing back his head, conscious that he looked both noble and indignant, and indeed he felt the latter and ‒ in a lesser degree ‒ the former.

  ‘I thought,’ he said slowly, ‘that you told me that selling pictures and furniture bred more rogues than any other business in the world?’

  ‘I did. It does.’

  ‘And banking ‒?’

  Marcus Breal chuckled. ‘Banking has bred one, to my knowledge ‒ myself. I, too, like to think that I am unique, but,’ he shook his head, ‘I am dreadfully afraid that there may be others. Well, you won’t accept my offer? Don’t make a speech about it, I only want “Yes” or “No”.’ Emmanuel swallowed the speech which he wished to make, hid his disappointment and said ‘No’ with decision and firmness.

  ‘All right, that is closed,’ Breal said. ‘Now I shall give you a small piece of advice. The Englishman is a strange creature. In his heart he always keeps a dislike and fear of the Jew. Jews remember, English forget. They forget that their God was a Jew, and when the unpleasant thought comes into their minds, they pray that next time he will have the good taste to come as an Englishman. But,’ he held up a pale hand, ‘even though they dislike Jews, they dislike still more the Jew who is ashamed of being a Jew. An English lord came to do business with me the other day. He said, “Be Gad” ‒ they all say “Be Gad!” He said, “You’re a Jew, Breal, but, damn me, if I wouldn’t rather do business with you than with half a dozen Englishmen I could name.” He went on, “I always say that when a Jew deals straight, when he’s honest, be Gad, damn me, if he isn’t the straightest and honestest man alive!” Now that, Gollantz, is rubbish. An honest man is an honest man, no more and no less whatever his race. But once get an Englishman to believe in a Jew ‒ and they aren’t fools, oh, dear me, no ‒ and he’ll trust you with every penny in the Bank of England. They may fear you, they may dislike you ‒ but once they trust you, you’re a made man. Good-bye, come and see me when you are in Vienna, and should I hear of any good pictures ‒ I do hear of these things ‒ I will buy them and sell them to you at a commission of five per cent, which as you know is only nominal. I, too, profited by your father’s ‒ may my last end be like his ‒ dissertations on art.’

  Emmanuel never failed to call and see the old man when he went to Vienna. He frequently found that he had bought goods on his behalf which were of great value, and when he died in 1870, he left the greater part of his fortune to Emmanuel Gollantz. The remainder was left to various Catholic churches to purchase candles, stating that as no one now went about with candles ‒ looking for honest men ‒ they might well be localized and serve as a reminder from the altar, that honest men need finding. The will was much disputed, as was Marcus Breal’s sanity, but the Church was victorious and the altars were brightly lit in consequence.

  Emmanuel arrived in London on March 9th, 1865. He thought London the most gloomy, miserable, and depressing place he had ever seen. As he drove to his hotel in the Strand he could have wept, and only when he was alone in his room did his courage begin to return. He unpacked, ordered a bath to be made ready, and dressed with great care. As he stood before the foggy, insufficient looking-glass, his courage rose completely. He had come to conquer London, and looked every inch a conqueror. His fine black cloth suit was exquisitely cut, his high collar with its projecting points, his white tie, his linen, his jewellery could not have been improved. His hair, his small moustache, his carefully trimmed side whiskers looked unbelievably dark against his pale skin. His cloak swung elegantly from his shoulders and gave a touch of romance to his appearance. Even the black silk sling for his arm seemed to add to, rather than detract from, his appearance. He took his gold-headed cane and descended the gloomy hotel staircase conscious that every man and woman turned their heads to look at him twice.

  Within a month, he had established himself. What money he had was safe in the Bank of England; his beautiful pictures, his furniture, his carpets, brocades, and tapestries, his china were shown to the best possible advantage in the dignified house which he had taken, on a long lease, upon Campden Hill. He had rejected the idea of a shop as being unsuitable for the class of business which he desired, and as ‒ to the English mind ‒ ticketing him too definitely as a tradesman. He visited all the antique dealers of standing, introduced himself, mentioned his father’s name, and behaved with such modesty, offered such deference, yet withal spoke with such authority upon matters of his business, that he gained respect and good-feeling.

  Old Gelbe in St. James’s was so taken with the good-looking young fellow that he wrote, tentatively, offering to take him into partnership along with his stock. James Marchant, whose sale rooms were world famous, came to Campden Hill and offered to buy three pictures for a client at a figure which was very little less than the one which Gollantz asked. Later, he offered to buy the whole stock, sell it on commission, and send the young man travelling in search of new treasures. Gollantz smiled, bowed from the waist, thanked them ‒ and declined.

  He did not sell a single article for six weeks after his arrival in England. He was not disheartened, he knew that his goods ‒ like his knowledge ‒ were excellent. He could wait ‒ patiently and with serenity, for deep in his heart was the belief, which he never lost, that ultimately Fate, Destiny, God ‒ call it what you might ‒ was on the side of the Children of Israel.

  At the end of April, a sunny morning, Emmanuel stood in Hammet’s Sale Rooms, carefully noting prices and at the same time the credulity of the buyers who were not actually in the trade. He presented a notice
able figure in his tight brown frock-coat, his brown and white check trousers tightly strapped under his patent leather boots, his cravat of brown satin decorated with two scarf pins joined by a slender gold chain. He realized that two very small, very bright blue eyes were watching him, and half turning discovered that they belonged to a man rather older than himself, a man whose face was burnt to a brick red, and whose hands ‒ one of which held a catalogue ‒ were the colour of mahogany. Cautiously, Emmanuel, suddenly curious as to what this obvious country dweller was doing in Hammet’s Rooms, edged nearer. Presently he could read the catalogue in the man’s hand, and noticed that ‘Lot 137’ was marked with a cross. ‘Four occasional chairs. Queen Anne. Original needlework seats.’ Emmanuel grimaced. He had seen the chairs. The auctioneer was ready to sell them, he was eulogizing them at length. The man with the blue eyes stood to attention suddenly. Once again his eyes met those of Emmanuel. They smiled as if to say, ‘Watch me, I’m a knowing one.’ The auctioneer’s voice boomed out. ‘Four Queen Anne occasional chairs, original needlework seats. Unique ‒ quite unique. What shall I say, gentlemen, for these very fine, very remarkable chairs?’

  Emmanuel listened for the dealers to open the bidding. From somewhere near the rostrum came a Cockney voice, ‘A fiver the lot!’ and a smothered giggle from a group of Jews. The auctioneer raised his eyebrows, looked round the sale room, his face pained and surprised. Emmanuel glanced at the man with the blue eyes, saw him stand more erect than ever, he was preparing to bid. Carefully Emmanuel edged nearer, he resented that this obviously country lamb should be shorn for the benefit of Messrs. Hammet.

  He caught the man’s eyes, lifted his finger and whispered, ‘No.’

  The blue eyes ceased to twinkle, the man came nearer. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Emmanuel whispered again, ‘they are no good at all. Leave them alone, please.’