bas-relief is not as crisp and sure as in the original . . .’ Bah, humbug. The best of the experts have been fooled.
Take the case of Van Meegeren, who was probably the most famous and most successful art forger the world has ever known. If he hadn’t confessed, his fake Vermeers would still be featured in museums. His was a rare and lovely case of poetic justice, because he had to confess in order to save himself from a far more serious charge. During the German occupation of Holland, Van Meegeren sold one of his paintings to that clod Goering, who thought he was a connoisseur. Goering believed he was buying a genuine Vermeer, of course. Unfortunately, so did the Dutch government, and after the war, when they were catching up with traitors and quislings, they arrested Van Meegeren on a charge of collaborating with the Nazis – specifically, for selling national art treasures. The really amusing thing about the case was that when Van Meegeren confessed to faking dozens of Vermeers, the art world refused to believe him. What – the great ‘Supper at Emmaus’ a fraud? Nonsense. It was obviously by Vermeer; in fact, it was his masterpiece! Not until Van Meegeren painted a new Vermeer, in his cell in the city jail, were the sceptics convinced. Then – such is human nature – they all started picking flaws in the paintings they had once hailed as treasures.
I knew something about how paintings are faked. I also knew that the only sure way of detecting a good forgery is by means of chemical and physical tests. For instance, a careless modern forger might use paints such as synthetic cobalts, ultramarine, or zinc white, which weren’t manufactured until the nineteenth century. But a good forger would avoid such sloppy errors. Van Meegeren was careful to use only the pigments obtainable in Vermeer’s day. They are still available; there are no ‘mystery pigments’ or unknown techniques. Most forgers know enough to use old canvases, and they are skilled at imitating things like cracks and wormholes and patinas. There are all kinds of tricks. I’m sure – and any honest art historian will admit it, after a drink or two – that there are still lots of forgeries adorning the sacred halls of the world’s great museums. As for private collectors, they are hopelessly outclassed, especially if they buy things of questionable origin. They daren’t consult appraisers or scholars if they suspect the objects are stolen.
I felt sure that a great deal of antique jewellery had been faked, too, but the only piece I could remember reading about was the Saitaphernes tiara. A tiara is not necessarily a delicate half crown like the ones worn by fairy princesses. This piece was shaped like a tall pointed hat made of thin gold and covered with embossed scenes and inscriptions. The inscriptions had been copied from genuine Greek texts, so they sounded authentic, and the workmanship was good enough to fool the boys at the Louvre, who bought it for that great collection! The jeweller was a Russian named Rouchomowsky. Like Van Meegeren, he had a hard time making the art world accept his confession when he finally broke down. Again let me repeat – there are no lost techniques. Rouchomowsky had learned how to perform the ancient art of granulation – designs formed by tiny beads of gold, no bigger than grains of coarse sand, each one of which is individually welded into its place. Some of his forgeries were excellent copies of ancient Etruscan goldwork.
If Rouchomowsky could do it, so could someone else. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this gang had an undetectable racket. The only certain method of detecting fakes is by scientific tests, and if you use authentic materials, there is no way in the world they can test wrong. Gold is gold. It varies in purity, of course, but a careful faker would make sure he used the same type normally employed by the Greek or Renaissance craftsmen he was copying. Imitation jewels used to be easy to spot, but nowadays, since the discovery of synthetic jewels, a well-made piece can virtually defy laboratory tests. I wondered why Schmidt was so sure he had the genuine Charlemagne talisman. If I had been in his shoes, I would have taken good care of both of them.
I put on my one long dress – black jersey, very slinky – and took out my own personal jewellery collection. I must say it looked rather tacky.
THE MEN WERE wearing dinner jackets; and if I had not felt less than kindly towards ‘Sir John Smythe,’ I would have had to admit that formal wear suited his slim build and fair hair. His cummerbund was nice and flat. Poor Pietro looked like a melon with a purple ribbon tied around it.
The dowager was sitting by the drawing-room windows, in a tall carved chair like a throne. Her presence subdued her son slightly. He had to confine his amorous proclivities to Helena, since the old countess beckoned me to her side and kept me engaged in conversation.
She was cute. She reminded me of my grandmother. Not that they looked alike; Granny Andersen was a typical Swede, big-boned and blonde even in her seventies, with eyes like blue steel chisels. But they were both matriarchs. The dowager had a passion for fashionable scandal. She wanted to know all the latest celebrity gossip. I wasn’t up to date on that subject, but I was a good listener. We both agreed, regretfully, that while recent American presidential wives might be very nice ladies, they had not contributed much to the world of glamour.
Before long, young Luigi wandered in. He looked vaguely around the room, as if he had forgotten what he came for; then he caught his grandmother’s eye and ambled over to her. She put out her thin, veined hand and drew him down to a seat on a low stool at her side. They made a pretty picture sitting there – sweet old age and attentive youth.
‘My darling, you have not greeted Doctor Bliss,’ said the dowager fondly.
Luigi looked up at me. I felt a slight shock. He might look dreamy and disconnected, but his eyes were furiously alive – black, blazing, intent.
‘
I returned the greeting, and then silence fell. Luigi continued to fondle his grandmother’s hand, running a delicate thumb over her bony fingers, almost in the manner of a lover.
‘You look tired, my treasure,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing? You must conserve your strength, you are growing.’
‘I am well, Grandmother.’ He smiled at her. ‘You know that to work is for me the highest pleasure.’
She shook her head anxiously.
‘You work too hard, my angel.’
He didn’t look overworked to me. He’d have been a howling success as a pop-music star, setting the little girls shrieking, if he hadn’t been so clean.
‘What sort of work do you do, Luigi?’ I asked. Then, as he held out those expressive, stained young hands, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot. What sort of painting do you do?’
It was badly phrased. Most young painters imitate one style or another, but none of them like to be reminded of that; they all think they are innovators. Before I could repair my blunder, Pietro let out a sneering laugh.
‘His style, do you mean? It is of the most modern school, Vicky. Totally without form or sense. Blobs of colour smeared on a canvas.’
The boy’s eyes flashed.
‘I am still experimenting.’ He spoke directly to me, ignoring his father. ‘To me art is a very personal experience; it must flow directly from the unconscious onto the canvas, do you not agree, signorina?’
‘How could she agree?’ Pietro demanded. ‘She is a scholar, a student of art. Did Raphael allow his unconscious to overflow onto the canvas?’
‘Well, now,’ I said, remembering the etchings, ‘that might not be so far off as – ’
‘No,’ shouted Pietro. ‘Form, technique, the most meticulous study of anatomy . . . Vicky, do you not agree with me?’
I was about to give some light, joking answer when the tension in the room caught me. They all stared at me with fierce, hungry eyes – the boy, his father, the old woman. I realized that we weren’t talking about art at all. This was an old feud, a basic struggle between father and son. I also realized that I would be an idiot to commit myself to one side or the other. Looking around for help, I caught John Smythe’s ironical eye. Get yourself out of this one, he seemed to be saying.
‘I’m not a critic,’ I said modestly. ‘As a medieval scholar I appreciate form, naturally, but I do feel that one’s approach to art must be basically visceral. I couldn’t comment on your work without seeing it, Luigi.’
It wasn’t a bad answer; it could be interpreted according to the predilections of the hearer. Luigi’s face lit up. Goodness, but he was a handsome boy!
