The Founder of The House (The Gollantz Family Saga Book 1) Read online

  The Founder of the House

  The Gollantz Family Saga Book 1

  Naomi Jacob

  Copyright © The Estate of Naomi Jacob 2014

  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

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  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.

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  To

  WINNIE AND HERBERT CORIN

  with my love

  MICKIE

  Sirmione 1934

  Merano 1935

  Contents

  Book 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Book 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Book 3

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Book 4

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Preview: Sara Dane by Catherine Gaskin

  Preview: Lily’s Daughter by Diana Raymond

  Book One

  1

  I

  Fernando Meldola shivered and drew his fur cloak more closely round his massive shoulders. He had lived in Paris for twenty years, and each year it seemed to him that he regretted the suns of his own country more acutely. He walked to the window, and drew back the heavy, gold brocade curtains, so that he could view the street more easily. Once more he shivered, for the outlook was grey and unfriendly. Worse, it was dull! The French might make great protestations of gaiety, but to Fernando they remained fundamentally serious, lacking that ability to smile at life which he had come to regard as the peculiar prerogative of his own countrymen.

  He shrugged his shoulders under their covering of warm fur and turned impatiently from the window.

  ‘Bah!’ he ejaculated, addressing himself to no one in particular, for the room was empty, and his only possible listeners were two marble statues of Venus and Apollo, and a figure of the Madonna which stood under a carved golden canopy. ‘Bah! These people! Always they must be fighting, breaking down and building up again. Perhaps I have lived in France too long, seen too many changes. It might be better if I left here and went back to Milan. There, at least, men can bargain without becoming hucksters and losing their tempers over the discussion.’

  He moved to the figure of the Madonna, and touched the gold embroidery of her robe with an appreciative forefinger. ‘You, they will never buy!’ he chuckled. ‘You would cost too much. They are amused because Meldola, the Jew, should like to have you in his private room. They think because I am a Jew that I cannot be an artist. That is so like them.’ Speaking in an assumed voice, he mocked one of his clients. ‘But, Meldola, why should you – a Jew – value this statue so much? It can mean nothing to you!’

  ‘Per Bacco! Can beauty mean nothing to me? Can the mellow loveliness of age say nothing to a Jew? Can form, colour, dignity find no place in his heart? No, no, my beautiful! You are not for them. For them I will find white marble statues, monuments of nakedness. The men will buy all the goddesses, and the women will get their lovers to buy the gods. He laid his hand almost affectionately on the outstretched foot of the figure. ‘There is one word which the Catholics apply to you which will prevent any Frenchman taking a real interest in your loveliness. He would never be able to forget that you were – Immaculate.’

  The door, over which hung a heavy curtain matching those at the window, opened slowly, and a girl of nineteen entered, carrying a little china tray upon which stood a tiny coffee-pot and a small cup and saucer. Meldola turned to greet her, smiling. He flung off his cloak, and sat down in a great armchair which stood close to a fine porcelain stove of the German type.

  ‘My coffee!’ he exclaimed. ‘Miriam, it has arrived in the nick of time. In another moment I should have died of cold – and boredom.’

  The girl looked at him, grave and sympathetic. ‘Ah, this is one of your bad days, Uncle! This is one of the days when you forget how cold Italy can be, and only remember the blue skies. Exiles are often like that, I think. Their own country is always perfect – at a distance.’

  Meldola nodded. ‘It may be that you’re right. Perhaps that is why Frenchmen have mistresses, so that they may love their wives – at a distance, eh? Yes, pour it out for me, Miriam. I like to have a pretty woman to pour out coffee for me. It enhances the flavour.’ He laughed. ‘You are rapidly becoming a very pretty woman, you know. Soon I shall have these corseted jackanapes clicking their heels and begging that they may pay their addresses to you. My answer will surprise them!’

  ‘Mine might surprise them too!’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. Remember that you have two things, Miriam my dear, which few families can quarter on their coats of arms. Not that anyone has a coat of arms in these days. They are all busy forgetting them – they are all good citizens! Per Bacco! Citizen This, Citizen That! How utterly silly it all is. You have an unbroken descent from the real aristocrats of the world, an aristocracy which is not national but international. More, you come of a family which is noted – I use that word advisedly – as having kept its integrity, its honesty unblemished not for two, three, four generations, but for centuries and centuries. And’ – his gesture was wide, eloquent, and beautiful – ‘to what has it brought us. Look! Is there another room like this in Paris? Where else will you find such carpets, such furniture, such china as this from which I am drinking? We – you and I – what is left of the House of Meldola – are jewels, set in a unique setting.’

  His words were boastful, but they were delivered with such conviction that they were robbed of pretence. Fernando Meldola, the dealer in antiques, in
precious stones, in carpets, laces, ivories, old silver and gold, pictures and statuary, could make good all that he claimed. He was known to be honest, and the fact that this knowledge was public property was his chief pride.

  He had lived in Paris for twenty years, and had watched changes, seen kings come and go, heard terrible things, listened to stories which made his warm blood run suddenly cold. He had been interrogated, pestered with questions, begged to declare himself as on this side or that, but he had remained aloof and untouched.

  ‘I am neither Aristocrat nor Republican!’ he declared. ‘I have no political opinions. I have many acquaintances, and no intimate friends. I neither seek nor avoid confidences, but’ – and his beautiful mouth would curve into a very kindly smile – ‘when confidences are bestowed upon me they remain confidences. I buy and sell, I give good prices and I expect prices, when I sell, to be a little better than when I buy. I name my price, and so it remains. To my friends, when they honour me by purchasing from me, I perhaps offer a little additional present; but when I do – that is my business, and when I do not – that is my business, too.’

  His house was a store of wonderful things, for he felt no interest in anything which did not conform to his ideas of beauty or perfection. In his house nothing which was cheap, ordinary, or of the taste of the moment was to be found. He lived with dignity, eating well, drinking with taste, and spending his days in an atmosphere of luxury.

  Two years before the afternoon when he sat sipping his coffee, with his lovely niece, Miriam Lousada, opposite to him, he had decided that his life was lonely; and in the June of 1794 he had sent to his brother-in-law, Lorenzo Lousada, to beg that Miriam might join him in Paris. Lorenzo had died of fever six months after his daughter came to Paris, and Fernando had formally adopted her and declared that he intended to make her his heiress. She conformed to all that he believed necessary in women – she was beautiful, intelligent, possessed social charm, and was able to manage his large staff of servants without permitting those hitches and vibrations in the domestic machinery which are so distressing to men who love comfort and perfect attention.

  Fernando’s generosity towards Miriam Lousada was unbounded, and it was his delight to give her jewels, old lace, and perfect clothes in profusion. He possessed that content in giving which is so typical of the Jew.

  They sat talking, while Meldola sipped his coffee, watching Miriam with dark, wide eyes full of affection. How well she understood him. How admirably she pandered a little to his weaknesses, and how gently she led his mind back from the melancholy paths down which it wandered, to brighter and happier roads.

  She, in her turn, loved her handsome uncle wholeheartedly. She loved his fine figure, his magnificent head with its dark, close curls, his beard and moustache which always smelt faintly of some rare scent. She admired his clothes, which were always a little more elaborate than fashion dictated, his rings, his seals, and his gold-topped canes. Watching him now, she sighed involuntarily.

  Meldola set down his coffee cup and looked at her, his eyebrows a little raised.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What is it? You want something? A new dress?’

  She shook her head, so that the long ringlets swung against her cheeks.

  ‘No, indeed. I sighed because I was so happy.’

  ‘Living alone with an old man!’

  It was one of his small affectations to pretend to regard himself as old. She knew that if she disregarded the statement he would enlarge upon it, and almost convince himself that he was drawing near to the grave.

  ‘Old,’ She laughed softly. ‘Old, you? The most handsome man in Paris. What are you? Forty-two, and you look twenty-five. People think that you are my brother!’

  He pursed his lips, and began to protest that he felt very old, when the sound of a bell ringing in the distance made him sit upright, his eyes suddenly very bright.

  ‘Listen! Is that Cambouchier returned for the picture? No, no, don’t go; you like him and, if I am not mistaken, he likes you.’

  ‘I like him?’ Miriam shrugged her shoulders. ‘Sufficiently, nothing more. He is like all the officers of Bonaparte’s new army, polished on the top, but underneath – oh, a contadino!’

  A manservant in a plain but dignified livery entered; he carried a letter on a silver salver.

  ‘The gentleman waits below, monsieur.’

  Meldola tore open the envelope, and a moment later sprang to his feet.

  ‘This is marvellous!’ he cried. ‘Here is a letter from my oldest friend, and his father was the oldest friend of my father! It is from Nathaniel Gollantz of Rotterdam. He sends to me his son, Abraham. Oh where is he? François, go quickly and bring the gentleman here. No, no, I will go myself.’

  The servant turned and was passing out of the door when Meldola pushed him aside and ran down the wide stairs, calling his greetings as he ran. Miriam rose, carried the little coffee-tray to a side-table, then turned to a great mirror which hung in a heavy, carved golden frame, to arrange the curls on either side of her face.

  Her uncle entered, holding a young man by the hand.

  ‘Miriam, here is the son of my dearest friend, Abraham Gollantz. My dear boy, this is my niece, Miriam Lousada – I say my niece, but in reality she is my daughter, if love counts for anything. Miriam, call for coffee and wine – or will you have brandy?’

  Young Gollantz considered for a moment, then said: ‘Perhaps – coffee and brandy, if you will be so kind.’

  He was a tall young man, with fine dark eyes set a trifle too closely. His skin was clear and pale, his mouth a little too full and self-indulgent. His jaw and chin were firm and well cut, denoting firmness which might on occasion degenerate into obstinacy. His clothes were simple, well made, and elegant. His hands, long, slim, and well kept. Meldola decided that he was distinctly personable.

  ‘Now, tell me. Your father – how is he?’

  ‘When I left him he was tolerably well,’ the young man replied. ‘I admit, Fernando Meldola, I had expected to find you older. Surely you are much younger than my father. He was fifty last birthday.’

  Meldola’s opinion of the young man mounted. Nothing pleased him more than to be complimented upon his youthful appearance.

  ‘Your father is eight years my senior. I was always a little old for my years, and he young for his. But tell me more about him. He prospers?’

  Abraham nodded. ‘Yes, he prospers – moderately. He wished that I should enter his business, but’ – he wrinkled his fine nose – ‘hides and skins do not appeal to me. Art, furniture, pictures – do. So I persuaded him to let me come to you and beg that you would, if possible, find a niche for me in your business which has so great a reputation. I shall do my best to learn; all I ask is that you will tell me of a place where I may lodge; somewhere simple, for I have not a great deal of money. My father did what he could for me, but I am afraid that I have been extravagant.’ He spread his hands as if begging forgiveness for his former follies. ‘And there were debts to be paid.’

  ‘And those debts are paid!’ Meldola cried. ‘I know your family. I know that their outlook on life is at one with my own. They are paid, and you are willing to live simply, with strict economy, until you can begin to earn money, eh?’

  For a second Abraham hesitated, his bright eyes on his host’s eager face; then he said with some emphasis: ‘Paid, of course! I am content to live on bread and cheese if need be – until, as you say, I begin to earn money.’

  ‘Splendid! Miriam’ – to his niece who had entered the room a moment before, ‘Miriam, tell me that this house is too big for you and one old man. Tell me that we can find an attic, some place with a hard bed, a straw mattress, perhaps a chair and table, and a few nails on which he may hang his clothes, for an honest young man!’

  Miriam, busy pouring out more coffee, smiled without raising her eyes.

  ‘If we had such a room he could have it.’ She looked up, met Abraham’s eyes, and her smile widened. ‘But as we have not, he w
ill have to make do with one slightly more comfortable.’

  So it came about that Abraham Gollantz was installed in one of the rooms of Fernando Meldola’s big house in the rue Castiglione, a room which satisfied even the luxury-loving nature of its occupant. The two large windows were draped in blue brocade shot with gold thread, the bed was of carved wood picked out with gold, the carpet was Aubusson, and the rest of the furniture was in keeping with the general magnificence.

  Fernando’s house was not only his domicile, it was also his place of business, and from time to time various pieces of furniture were sold, but they were immediately replaced by something else which was in harmony with the scheme of decoration.

  Abraham Gollantz made a tentative offer to pay for his board and lodging. These offers were greeted with roars of laughter; they were refused but remained in Fernando’s memory as additional proofs that young Gollantz resembled his father in honesty and straight dealing. He was quick and intelligent, there seemed nothing that he could not remember with ease, and his flair for furniture and objets d’art of real value was astonishing. After a very short time he was able to report to Fernando where some fine picture was for sale, or where a particularly beautiful specimen of furniture might be bought cheaply. The goods he mentioned were always worth consideration, and gradually Fernando grew to rely on Abraham to make all the discoveries for the business.

  His attitude towards Miriam pleased Fernando. It was friendly without being familiar. It was attentive without becoming fulsome, and he was so delightfully grateful for all the small things which she did for him.

  Clients liked him, and it seemed that wherever he went in Paris he made friends. Gradually he began to bring in clients, men he had come to know while he was out on business. Elderly politicians came to look over the cases of jewels, to choose bracelets or rings for their mistresses. Gollantz was the soul of discretion. While he allowed it to be obvious that he realized for whom the gift was intended, he never permitted the fact to make him less decorous in his behaviour towards the customer. Young officers, in the gorgeous uniforms which Napoleon was already having made to attract the younger generation of soldiers, came, laughed and joked, paid Miriam extravagant compliments, and wasted a great deal of time in the house, but never went away without some trifle in their pockets for which they had paid an appreciable amount of money.