Bonfire of the Vanderbilts

Prologue

Prologue

The Paris Herald is run on the theory that most society people, and Americans generally, would much rather see their names in print and those of their friends than read any amount of news.

— Albert Stevens Crockett

Mr. Julius Stewart is at present engaged upon a large work, the subject of which is a fashionable christening in a private parlor. He might not possibly care to have the scheme made public, and it is sufficient to say that he has treated his subject in an original manner. —”Art Notes,” New York Herald (Paris), March 31, 1892

Tuesday, May 31, 1892, Paris

Julius Stewart laid his brush down. He’d just signed The Baptism, adding “Paris 1892” after his name. He had indeed painted the enormous work in his own studio on rue Copernic, and several of the figures in it had modeled for him there.

The annotation was literally true, but not entirely honest. His identifying the locale was accurate to a point.

But in another sense it was a deliberate lie.

He did not habitually note the city unless it had something to do with the work’s subject, such as when the scene or the place of execution or both were someplace other than home.

The event depicted here had taken place across the ocean — six years ago in Newport, Rhode Island. And even though the faces of some of the figures were recognizable as his professional models or friends and relatives who took the time to stand in, several of the most distinctive among them were faithful likenesses of people Jules had never met. These were people who, if this picture ever went on public display, might well deny being there in that place on that day.

The event seemed innocent enough — mundane as milk. Who would care enough to be annoyed by a subject little more momentous than a birthday party? Paintings aren’t photographs, hardly proof of anything. Stewart had simply changed some facts, as artists do.

After all, only a handful of people in the world would see the scandal in it. But those powerful, famous few would be furious. And formidable as their reputations were, their images would be forever tarnished. The irony was, the more publicly angry they became, the worse it would be for them.

Stewart coveted fame — no, public recognition — much more than he feared reprisal. He’d changed enough details, he thought, so the sources and origins would be deniable. But he’d left enough of the truth in there for any careful observer to find.

After the last coat dried, he’d turn the canvas around and obliterate the notations he’d made on the verso. But he would stop short of doing a proper job of it, as one might do, for example, by painting over his charcoal scrawls with more charcoal ground in oil.

His crime would be no more than a hurried scratching out of several clues, leaving just enough for close inspection to uncover and guess at the truth.