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THE GENTLE ART OF FAKING




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[Illustration:

    _Photo_]      [_Alinari_

SUPPOSED PORTRAIT OF THE POET BASTIANINI BENIVIENI.

A direct cast from the original now in Paris and formerly kept in the
Louvre Museum.]




    THE GENTLE ART
    OF
    FAKING

    A HISTORY OF THE METHODS OF PRODUCING
    IMITATIONS & SPURIOUS WORKS OF ART
    FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES UP
    TO THE PRESENT DAY

    BY
    RICCARDO NOBILI
    AUTHOR OF “A MODERN ANTIQUE”


    “Le dernier mot de l’art je le trouve dans la contrefaçon”
    SAINTE-BEUVE


    WITH 31 ILLUSTRATIONS


    LONDON
    SEELEY SERVICE & CO. LTD.
    38 GREAT RUSSELL STREET
    1922




    TO

    MRS. MARY S. SHEPARD

    WITH THE DEVOTED AFFECTION OF A SON

    THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED




PREFACE


“Collectomania” may with some reason be looked upon as a comedy in
which the leading parts are taken by the Collector, the Dealer, and the
Faker, supported by minor but not less interesting characters, such
as imitators, restorers, middlemen, _et hoc genus omne_, each of whom
could tell more than one attractive tale.

In analysing the Faker one must dissociate him from the common forger;
his semi-artistic vocation places him quite apart from the ordinary
counterfeiter; he must be studied amid his proper surroundings, and
with the correct local colouring, so to speak, and his critic may
perchance find some slight modicum of excuse for him. Beside him stand
the Imitator, from whom the faker often originates, the tempter who
turns the clever imitator into a faker, and the middleman who lures on
the unwary collector with plausible tales.

It is not the object of this volume to study the Faker by himself, but
to trace his career through the ages in his appropriate surroundings,
and compare the methods adopted by him at various periods of history,
so far as they may be obtained.

Ethically, there is a strict line drawn between the imitator and the
forger, but in practice this line is by no means rigid. Many imitators
place their goods before the public _as_ imitations; others tacitly
permit their work to be sold as genuinely antique, influenced no doubt
by the fact that though possibly the imitation and the original may
possess equal merit, the one is handicapped by modernity, the other
is hallowed by age. The inexperienced and unwary collector is in most
cases the innocent originator of fraud; if there were no buyer there
would be no seller. Too often fashion leads folly, and so fictitious
values are created, and as demand increases so, too, do the sources of
supply, but unhappily they are frequently not legitimate.

    RICCARDO NOBILI.

    VILLE MARIE,
    VIA DANTE DA CASTIGLIONE 3,
    FLORENCE.




CONTENTS


    PART I

    THE BIRTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF FAKING

    CHAPTER                                                         PAGE

        I. GREEKS AND ROMANS AS ART COLLECTORS                        17

       II. COLLECTOMANIA IN ROME                                      24

      III. RAPACIOUS ROMAN COLLECTORS                                 36

       IV. ROME AS AN ART EMPORIUM                                    44

        V. INCREASE OF FAKING IN ROME                                 57

       VI. DECADENCE OF ART AND CONSEQUENT CHANGES                    63

      VII. THE RENAISSANCE PERIOD                                     68

     VIII. IMITATION, PLAGIARISM, AND FAKING                          83

       IX. COLLECTORS OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY                       101

        X. COLLECTING IN FRANCE AND ENGLAND                          107

       XI. MAZARIN AS A COLLECTOR                                    114

      XII. SOME NOTABLE FRENCH COLLECTORS                            129


    PART II

    THE COLLECTOR AND THE FAKER

     XIII. COLLECTORS AND COLLECTIONS                                135

      XIV. THE COLLECTOR’S FRIENDS AND ENEMIES                       150

       XV. IMITATORS AND FAKERS                                      165

      XVI. THE ARTISTIC QUALITIES OF IMITATORS                       181

     XVII. FAKERS, FORGERS AND THE LAW                               194

    XVIII. THE FAKED ATMOSPHERE AND PUBLIC SALES                     207


    PART III

    THE FAKED ARTICLE

      XIX. THE MAKE-UP OF FAKED ANTIQUES                             225

       XX. FAKED SCULPTURE, BAS-RELIEFS AND BRONZES                  234

      XXI. FAKED POTTERY                                             246

     XXII. METAL FAKES                                               263

    XXIII. WOOD WORK AND MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS                         279

     XXIV. VELVETS, TAPESTRIES AND BOOKS                             287

      XXV. SUMMING UP                                                301


           INDEX                                                     311




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


    Supposed Portrait of the Poet Bastianini Benivieni    _Frontispiece_

                                                             FACING PAGE
    Marcus Aurelius                                                   48

    Diomedes with the Palladium                                       72

    Imitations of the Antique                                         88

    Marsyas                                                           96

    The Spinario                                                     120

    A Child. By Ferrante Lampini                                     136

    San Giovanni                                                     136

    Athlete                                                          144

    The Battesimo                                                    152

    Bacchus                                                          152

    The Resurrection                                                 184

    Pietà                                                            184

    A Portrait                                                       192

    A Child. By Donatello                                            200

    An Imitation of Roman Work                                       240

    An Imitation of Sixteenth-century Work                           240

    A Mantelpiece                                                    266

    A Lamp                                                           266

    Plaquettes by Various Artists                                    272

    Europa on the Bull                                               288




THE GENTLE ART OF FAKING




PART I

THE BIRTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF FAKING




CHAPTER I

GREEKS AND ROMANS AS ART COLLECTORS

  Why the Greeks by not being collectors in the modern sense were
      spared faking in art--How the Romans became interested in art
      --Genesis of their art collections--The first collectors
      and their methods--Noted citizen’s indictment against art
      plundering of Roman conquerors--Attitude of noted writers
      towards art, and art collecting.


The collector, the chief patron of fakery, being somewhat of a selfish
lover of art, it is quite natural that the Greeks, who saw in art a
grand means of public education and enjoyment, cannot be called art
collectors in the modern sense of the word. Consequently there was
hardly room for sham art in a country where art as the direct emanation
of public spirit was rigorously maintained for the sake of the people.
It was the temples that became art emporiums--museums that everyone
was allowed to enjoy--or free institutions, like the pinacotheca of
the Acropolis, the collection of carved stone at the Parthenon, the
gymnasium of the Areopagus, containing a collection of busts of the
most celebrated philosophers. With this public spirit in the enjoyment
of art Delphi gathered a famous picture gallery in the oracular temple
and, according to Pliny, possessed no fewer than three thousand
statues, one of them being the famous golden Apollo. From this temple
Nero carried off five hundred bronze statues, and later on Constantine
removed many of the remaining works of art to Constantinople. An
identical spirit of public enjoyment of art had turned the temples
of Juno in Olympia, of Minerva in Platæa and Syracuse into veritable
museums of art and--curiosities also. The temple of Minerva at Lyndon
in the island of Rhodes, for instance, contained a cup of _electrum_
(amber) offered by Helen of Troy, which was said to have a cavity cut
to the exact shape of the bosom of the beautiful wife of Paris (Pliny,
XXXIII, 23).

That the Greeks at their highest historical level did not indulge in
the private and artistic delights of the collector may also be gathered
from the poor construction of their usual dwelling-houses. It is well
known that thieves, more especially in Athens, were called “wall
breakers,” and obtained this odd nickname from their peculiar method
of entering houses, namely, by making a hole through the wall rather
than troubling to unlock the door. Such flimsy dwellings can hardly
have sheltered the treasures of an art collection. Thus simplicity of
customs and a clearly defined manner of enjoying art, saved the Greeks
to a great extent from a regular trade in antiques with all its strange
and deplorable etceteras.

As a matter of fact, we have no information as to anything that
might be called a private art collection in Athens, though quite
consistently, considering their extreme passion for knowledge, the
Greeks had fine private libraries, such as those of Aristotle and
Theophrastus. But even these, though containing the rarest and most
precious works, were true libraries, not collections of elaborate
volumes. The mania for fine bindings of costly materials was later on
the caprice of the learned Roman, not of the Greek.

The home of the “collector,” and consequently of his faithful
companion, the faker, was Rome.

The Roman was not a born lover of art. In fact during the early and
primitive period of its existence Rome had not only been somewhat
negative as regards art, but was even rather averse from its enjoyment.
It took centuries for the Roman to overcome the belief that matters
of art were trifling amusements that might be left as toys to their
conquered people. Thus for a long time Romans saw in the enjoyment
of art the chief source of the weakening and degeneration of the
enemies they had subjugated. Springing from a progeny of soldiers and
agriculturists, born to conquer the world, the Roman citizen assumed as
an aphorism the Virgilian saying that his sole duty was to subjugate
enemies, by granting them pardon or humiliating their pride.

Thus the early Romans not only show great ignorance as to marvels of
art, but even contempt for them. When art treasures were brought to
Rome as booty for the first time by Marcellus from conquered Sicily the
Senate censured such an innovation. Fabius Maximus, called the “shield
of Rome,” rose among others in protest, saying that after the siege of
Tarentum, he, unlike Marcellus, had brought home only gold and valuable
plunder. As for statues, more especially images, he had preferred to
leave to the conquered people “their enraged gods.” In fact the only
statue Fabius took away from Tarentum was the Hercules of Lysippus, a
bronze colossus which must have appealed to him either for its heroic
size or the large quantity of material.

A type of the early ignorant Roman art collector is given by Lucius
Mummius, the general who destroyed Corinth, and of whom Velleius
Paterculus tells (I, 13) that in sending to Rome what might be styled
the artistic booty of the destroyed city he consigned the statues and
paintings to those in charge of the transport with the warning that
should the goods be lost they would be held responsible and would have
to reproduce them all at their own expense.

Even when with the progress of time art was finally appreciated in
Rome, the old contempt for it was transferred in a way from the
product to the maker. Thus with the feeling that seems to characterize
the parvenu in art, and with inexplicable inconsistency, the Roman
lover of art persisted in seeing in the artist either a slave or a
good-for-nothing, and never for a moment regarded the artist as worth
the consideration he granted to art. Notwithstanding his belief of
being a lover of art and an intelligent connoisseur, Cicero calls
statues and paintings toys to amuse children (_oblectamenta puerorum_).
In his fourth oration, _In Verrem_, he candidly confesses that he fails
to understand the importance attached by Greeks to those arts which the
Romans most rightly despise.

Valerius Maximus, who lived at the time of Tiberius, that is to
say when Rome had fully completed its education in art, calls the
profession of the painter a vile occupation (_sordidum studium_), and
wonders how Fabius, a Roman and patrician, can bring himself to sign
his painting with full name and qualification, “Fabius Pictor” (VIII,
14, 6).

In one of his letters (No. 88) Seneca, the contemporary of Nero, states
that sculpture and painting are unworthy to be classified as liberal
arts. Petronius, the _magister elegantiorum_ of Rome, two hundred years
after the destruction of Corinth, that is to say when Rome had reached
its maturity in the understanding of art, calls Apelles, Phidias and
other famous artists of Greece, crack-brained (_græculi delirantes_).

With such an innately negative sense of art and strong racial
prejudice, it is not surprising that when brought to an appreciation
of art by circumstances, the Romans, though willing and fully prepared
to pay extravagant prices for works of art, should still retain their
old contempt for artists, those _græculi delirantes_ who had come to
beautify the Capital as slaves or tempted by gain.

As a result of this peculiar feeling and in full contrast with the
Greek sentiment which has handed down to posterity a great deal about
the artists who lived in Athens and the honours they received, Rome has
preserved for us hardly a name of painter, sculptor or architect. And
they must have been legion if we consider the magnitude of the work
accomplished. Vitruvius (VII, 15) informs us that Damophilus, Gorgas,
Agesilas, Pasiteles and other artists were called to Rome by Julius
Cæsar, and that so many Greek artists were in Rome that when the temple
of Jupiter Olympicus was to be finished in Athens the citizens were
obliged to send to Rome, as none of their architects were to be found
in Greece.

It is interesting to trace how the Romans gradually became collectors
of art, and how there gradually developed in Rome a whole world of
lovers of art with all its true and fictitious enthusiasms, furnishing
a group of varied types of collectors not altogether dissimilar from
those of our modern society of lovers of art.

As we have said, conquest and booty furnished the first articles of
virtu. At first statues and objects of art of all kinds were brought
to Rome without discrimination, then education gradually progressed,
taste developed and plunder became more enlightened. Fulvius Nobilior,
to quote one of the many conquerors who brought artistic war booty
to Rome, enriched it with 285 bronze statues, 230 marble ones, and
112 pounds of gold ornaments. Following the custom of the Greeks, the
Romans at first presented statues and paintings to various temples as
ornaments.

Later on, with more discrimination and less greed, Roman officials
proceeded to a systematic spoliation of Greece and the Orient of their
treasures of art. Statues and paintings followed in the triumphs
of Roman generals as did slaves and prisoners of war. Occasionally
returning officials brought home with them pillaged artistic mementoes
of the place they had been ruling in the name of mighty Rome. Thus
Fulvius, consul in Ambracia, brought home the finest statues of that
country. One of these mementoes was excavated in the year 1867; it bore
the naive and candid confession of the consul:--

    Marcus Fulvius Marci Filius
    Servii Nepos Nobilior
    Consul Ambracia
    Cepit

Having carried off the statues of the Nine Muses in his conquest of
Ambracia, this same Fulvius Nobilior placed them in the temple of
Hercules. At this time Roman conquerors had progressed, and they
already travelled with experts and advisers. Fulvius Nobilior was
accompanied by the poet Ennius (Strabo, B. X, 5), whose suggestion it
may have been to place Hercules in the midst of the Nine Muses playing
the lyre like an Apollo, a metamorphosis of the god showing that the
Roman had finally harmonized “Strength,” his chief and most cherished
quality, with the gentler feelings of an understanding of art. This
“Hercules Musagetes” seems to symbolize a first conquest of art over
the rude, sturdy Roman character.

Departing from the established rule of presenting their artistic
plunder to the temples after it had followed in their triumphs to
enhance the importance of their conquest, in time the generals began to
keep part of the spoil themselves. In this way were the first private
collections in Rome formed.

The real artistic education of the Romans dates from this time. The
passion and ambition to enrich and embellish private houses helped to
teach what was worth consideration. Sulla, who plundered Greece and
Asia Minor, is said to have acquired a sure eye for valuable _objets de
virtu_; Verres, who with an excellent eye had robbed and collected all
that came within his reach, was perhaps Rome’s best connoisseur of art.
He and Sulla were practically the first to organize that enlightened
manner of plundering subjugated countries that finally made Rome the
first emporium of art in the world.

Naturally, these early Roman collectors rarely bought their articles of
virtu. When they could not obtain by pillage they had ready to hand a
speedy and coercive means of gratifying their artistic craving. Sulla
placed on the proscription list the names of all possessors of artistic
objects who were so unwise as to refuse to give them up to him. Mark
Antony did the same to Verres. The latter paid with his life his
refusal to offer the despotic Triumvir some famous vases of Corinthian
bronze which he sorely longed to have in his collection.

It was, we repeat, in Sulla’s time that the passion for collecting
arose among the Romans, not only guided by an artistic sense of
discrimination, but with all the peculiar characteristics that seem to
attend the development of this passion.

Sulla’s collection--to which the spoils of the temple of Apollo
in Delphi and of the temples of Jupiter in Elis and Æsculapius in
Epidaurus, considered the richest emporium of art in Greece, had
contributed--must have been magnificent and without an equal--except,
perhaps, that of Verres, Sulla’s pupil, who surpassed his master in the
art of plundering, and sacked Sicily of all the island possessed of art.




CHAPTER II

COLLECTOMANIA IN ROME

  Collectomania develops--Rampant parvenuism in Rome--Extravagant
      prices paid for art and curio--Faking arrives--Good and
      foolish collectors as seen by writers and satirists of the time
      --Art dealing--The _septæ_, shops and auction rooms.


Such was the earliest type of the real collector of art in Rome,
a first phase in a city where the passion for art was, generally
speaking, rarely genuine. This phase led first to the acquisition of
what might be styled something between ambition and love of display.
Then the trade in objects of art eventually appeared, and as a logical
consequence, imitation and fraudulent art finally had their scope.
Fictitious masterpieces of painting and sculpture, often signed, as in
modern times, with the forged names of noted artists, were already on
the market before Cicero’s time. “_Odi falsas inscriptiones statuarum
alienarum_” (I hate the forged inscriptions on statues not one’s own),
remarks Cicero, who although somewhat of a collector himself never
missed a chance to ridicule the pretentious amateur lost in hysterical
ecstasy before imitations supposed to be original works, or of fanning
the art lover’s pseudo-enthusiasm for the work of Polycletus, which was
extremely fashionable at one time among art collectors.

Thus forgery received a great impulse when art reached its climax in
Rome and multiplied the number of collectors, dragging after it in
its triumphal march wealth and all the fickle forces of wealth. Taste
in art, then, became apparently more exclusive, or rather, according
to Quintilian, more unstable in its standards. “Nowadays,” says the
Latin rhetorician and critic, “they prefer the childish monochrome
works of Polycletus and Aglæphon to the more expressive and more
recent artists.” Yet, very likely not understanding this not unusual
love for the archaic and the odd, so common in collectors of all ages,
Quintilian cannot explain the preference for work he considers gross,
except by fashion or what we should call to-day a snobbish sentiment.
Criticizing the art in vogue, he adds, in fact: “I should call this
art childish compared to that of most illustrious artists who came
afterwards, but in my judgment it is, of course, only pretension” (XII,
10).

It is evident that with the Romans as with us--the times are not
entirely dissimilar; indeed but for art critics, the new modern fad,
they might be called identical--prices paid for works of art, or
simple curiosities, became freakish and fabulous, going up or down in
a single period according to fickle fashion. The momentary passion
for _murrhines_, for instance, tempted a collector to pay for one of
these cups of fluor-spar a sum approximating to £14,200. Another mania
succeeded, that of tables made of _citrus_, a species of rare wood,
possibly Thuja, grown on the slopes of Mount Athos. Cathegus invested
in one of these fashionable tables a sum equivalent to twelve thousand
pounds. Then at another time wrought silver becomes the rage, and
prices for this article soon reached absurd figures. When Chrysogon,
Sulla’s wealthy freedman, was bidding at an auction for a silver
_autepsa_ (a plate warmer), people standing outside the auction room
imagined he was buying a farm from the high sum he offered.

As might be expected, high prices tempted brainless parvenus. There
were many in Rome like that Demasippus of whom Horace said, “_Insanit
veteres statuas Demasippus emendo_” (_Sat._, 3), the type of a snobbish
visionary and sham art-seeker who bought roughly carved statues,
supplying their defects with his fancy, and who, in speaking of his
historical pieces, stated that to be admitted into his very choicest
collection a basin must at least have served Sisyphus, son of Æolus, as
a foot-bath!

Next to this foolish type of collector of art Rome possessed a great
many other characters, who, like those of to-day, might be classified
as odd specimens of art lovers.

“Isn’t Euctus a bore with his historical silver?” asks Martial, adding
that he would rather eat off the common earthenware of Saguntus than
hear all the gabble concerning Euctus’ table-silver. “Think of it! His
cups belonged to Laomedon, king of Troy. And, mind, to obtain these
rarities Apollo played upon his lyre and destroyed the wall of the city
by inducing the stones to follow him by his music.” But concerning this
odd type of collector Martial merits quotation. “Now, what do you think
of this vase?” asks Euctus of his table companions. “Well, it belonged
to old Nestor himself. Do you see that part all worn away, there where
the dove is? It was reduced to that state by the hand of the king of
Pylos.” Then showing one of those mixing bowls that Latins called
_crater_, “This was the cause of the battle between the ferocious
Rheucus and the Lapithæ.” Naturally every cup has its particular
history. “This is the very cup used by the sons of Eacus when offering
most generous wine to their friend--That is the cup from which Dido
drank to the health of Bythias when she offered him that supper in
Phrygia.” Finally, when he has bored his guests to death, Euctus offers
them, in the cup from which Pyramus used to drink, “wine as young as
Astyanax.”

Trimalcho is so well known that we are dispensed from a detailed
illustration. Petronius must have drawn from life this capital
character of his _Satyricon_. Like Euctus, Trimalcho extols the
historical merits of his articles of virtu; he has the same mania for
inviting people to his table and forcing them to admire his rarities.
He talks very much in the same manner as the type quoted by Martial.
Thus he informs his guests that his Corinthian vases are the best and
most genuine in existence, because they were made at his order by a
workman named Corinth. As a side explanation of this remark, fearing
that the guest might suppose he did not know the historical origin of
the metal, he adds: “Yes, yes, I know all about it. Don’t take me for
an ignoramus. I know the origin of this metal perfectly well. It was at
the capture of Troy, when Hannibal, a shrewd brigand by the way, threw
on to a burning pyre all the statues of gold and silver and bronze. The
mixture of the metals produced the alloy from which goldsmiths have
made plates, vases and figures. From this, of course, comes the name
of Corinth to designate this mix-up of three metals, which, of course,
is no more any of the three!” Trimalcho also possesses a cup with a
bas-relief representing Cassandra cutting her children’s throats. Not
content with this gorgeous historical blunder, and forgetting that he
is talking of the bas-relief of a cup, Trimalcho adds as an artistic
comment that the bodies of Cassandra’s children are so life-like that
one might suspect they had been cast from nature.

Continuing our comparison with Euctus we may add that Trimalcho also
possesses a rare pitcher with a bas-relief representing Dædalus putting
Niobe inside the wooden horse of Troy! When he has finished maiming
history, and the guests have patiently listened to his fantastic tales,
like a true parvenu, Trimalcho never fails to add, “Mind, it is all
massive precious metal, it is all my very own as you see, and not to be
sold at any price.”

Except for the wording, a trifling difference--the word “expensive”
would play a conspicuous part with the Trimalcho of to-day, decorated,
be it understood, with “precious,” “rare,” “unique” and all the rest of
the arch-superlatives of modern idioms--such collectors have not been
lost to our day.

But there are other types worth quoting. They will certainly help us
to understand the part played by art imitations and forgery among the
Romans, and how the existence of fraud was in some way justified, that
in the end the one chiefly responsible for the existence of faking was
the collector himself. This understanding will be greatly aided by a
glimpse at the _septæ_, antiquity or simple bric-à-brac shops, that
were grouped together in certain streets of ancient Rome like they are
nowadays.

Like to-day, too, sales of art were effected by auctions or by private
dealing, the latter in shops or through the usual go-between, the
so-called _courtier_ of our time.

Public auctions were announced by placards or a simple writing on the
walls. An idea of what these announcements were like is given by the
following one from Plautus’ Menœchme:

“Within seven days, in the morning, sale of Menœchme. There will be
sold slaves, furniture, houses, farms. Every article bought must be
paid for at the time of buying.”

As in our days, an exhibition of the goods preceded the auction. These
shows were held in appropriate rooms adorned with porticos, called
_atria auctionaria_. In speaking of such exhibitions and commenting
upon some special one, Cicero remarks, _Auctionis vero miserabilis
adspectus_ (Phil., II, 29).

Curiously enough the auction sales of the Urbs were provided with an
employé whose function seems to have survived in the public sales
of Paris. The Latin _præco_ is something like the French _crieur_
whose office it is at public auctions to extol and praise the objects
offered for sale. It must be said that the _præco_, however, was not
only a simple _crieur_ but at times a sort of director of the sale,
thus combining the functions of _commissaire priseur_, _expert_ and
_crieur_, but it was certainly in the latter function that his ability
best contributed to the success of the sale. Some of these employés
must have enriched themselves like regular _commissaires priseurs_.
Horace (I. Ep., 7) describes one of these _crieurs_ as indulging in
luxury, making money easily and scattering it like water, allowing
himself every kind of pleasure and yielding tremendously to fashion. A
curious description, suggesting that this Vulteius Menas of Horace must
have had the lucky career of some of the Parisian auction employés and
cannot have been indifferent to that form of gay self-indulgence that
Parisians call: _Faire la bombe_.

Speaking of auctions and the way Romans disposed of their goods to the
highest bidder, it is worth while to refer to what Suetonius tells us
happened at the sale held by Caligula, who being short of money thought
fit one day to put up to auction everything in the royal palace that
was either useless or considered out of fashion, _quidquid instrumenti
veteris aulæ erat_. According to Suetonius not only was the Emperor
himself present at the auction, but he put prices on the various
objects, bidding on them as well. An old prætor, Aponius Saturninus,
became sleepy during the sale, and in dozing kept on nodding his head.
Caligula noticed it, and told the auctioneer not to lose sight of that
buyer and to put up the price each time Saturninus nodded. When the old
man finally awoke he realized that without knowing it he had bought at
the Imperial auction about £80,000 worth of goods (Cal., 39).

Pliny relates an amusing story, which shows that then, as now, the
auctioneer was allowed to group objects.

“At a sale,” he says, “Theonius, the _crieur_, made a single lot of
a fine bronze candelabra, and a slave named Clesippus, humpbacked
and extremely ugly. The courtesan Gegania bought the lot for 50,000
sesterces (about £400). The same night at supper she showed her
acquisitions, exhibiting the naked slave to the gibes of the guests.
Then yielding to a freakish passion, made of him her lover and heir.
Clesippus thus became extremely wealthy and worshipped the candelabra
with a devotion as though it were his god” (XXXIV, 6).

As stated above, other sales generally took place in various parts of
Rome where antiquaries and bric-à-brac dealers had assembled their
shops. A great many of these merchants had gathered in the Via Sacra or
the _Septa_ of the _Villa Publica_, or _Septa Julia_.

Those parts of Roman streets called _Septæ_, where antiquaries and
bric-à-brac dealers had their dens, were the amateur’s fool’s paradise
and trap, and very likely they were as inviting and picturesque as
similar places in modern European towns to-day.

These shops and shows, it is said, offered real rarities at times, such
as bronzes of Ægina by Myron, Delos bronzes by Polycletus, genuine
rarities in Corinthian bronze, marvels in chiselling signed by Boethus
or Mys. The _septæ_ not only exhibited artistic pieces but also sham
rarities that had won public appreciation in a moment of fashion. Among
these was a certain kind of candelabra shaped like a tree with one or
more branches. Concerning these candelabras which were almost made to
supplant the more artistic ones by a fad, Pliny remarks, “_Arborum
mala ferentium modo lucentes_” (like trees bearing shining apples),
and states with caustic humour that although their name bore a common
etymology with the word _candela_ (candle), a cheap means of lighting,
they were sold at prices equivalent to the yearly appointment of a
military tribune (Plin., XXXIV, 8).

Speaking of candelabras, it may be stated that the finest ever seen
in Rome belonged to Verres, being part of the vast plunder of Sicily
he accumulated when stationed there by Rome as proconsul. This fact
prompted the sarcastic remark in Cicero’s indictment of the proconsul,
that Verres had in his _triclinium_ a candelabra casting light where
darkness would have been more appropriate. This rich candelabra must
have been of a statuesque style, the kind Lucretius describes:--

      Si non aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per ædes
      Lampadas igniferas manibus retinentia dextris (II, 24).
      (Figures of youths holding lighted lamps in their right hands.)

Naturally it was not only a single speciality, valued through fashion
or fad, that was to be found on the market, it was a regular emporium
of antiquities in art, and of all kinds of bric-à-brac. Besides
murrhines, tables of citrus and other specialities there were paintings
of all schools and sizes, down to miniatures, an art not unknown to the
Romans. There were also sculpture, ceramics, fine pieces of Rhegium
and Cumæ, Maltese tapestries, Oriental embroideries, etc. In fact,
mixed with a good deal that was dubious, these places also offered fine
treasures, as Martial says:--

      Hic ubi Roma suas aurea vexit opes.
      (Here where golden Rome brought her treasure.)

It is easy to understand that the people moving in this _milieu_ were
not dissimilar from those who indulge in articles of virtu in our
enlightened times, or who are somewhat of a victim to the collector
passion. Such a _milieu_, not to be found in Athens where the passion
for art was genuine and essential, was quite consistent in Rome where
improvised Crœsuses and rich parvenus abounded; parvenus who, like
many of the collectors of our times, took to buying objects of art as
a fad or hobby. This type of collector is easily recognized and in its
grotesqueness is not essentially different from some of our modern
society.

It is true that Rome also produced many genuine lovers of art, many
first-rate connoisseurs and collectors such as Agrippa, magnificent
collectors of the calibre of Cæsar, keen, intelligent, lovers of art,
as greedy as unscrupulous, such as Sulla, Verres and Mark Antony, but
as in America to-day, the magnitude of quickly-made fortunes, the
impetus of a passion suddenly aroused without any previous preparation,
produced only a few types of the true collector. As in America now, for
one Quincy Shaw, how many a--Trimalcho and Euctus.

Needless to say, the art market generally follows the inclination of
the client, it tries to meet his taste, whims and fads, it may be
scrupulous or unscrupulous according to circumstances and, particularly
in art and antiques, these circumstances chiefly depend upon the great
despotic ruler of all markets, the client.

Thus in the _septæ_, side by side with Firminius, Clodius and
Gratianus, dealers enjoying an undisputed reputation in the
_sigillaria_ (image market) and other quarters where antiquary shops
were gathered, there were to be noted types like the Milonius of whom
Martial says:--

“Rare stuffs, chiselled silver, cloaks, togas, precious stones, there
is nothing you don’t sell, Milo, and your clients invariably carry
their acquisitions away with them! After all your wife is the best
article in your emporium, always bought and never taken away from your
shop” (VII-XII, 102).

The whole gamut of oddities with which the collecting mania abounds
were really to be found in the _septæ_.

There was the particular collector who has no eyes but for one certain
thing, no enthusiasm but for the objects specializing his particular
hobby, as Horace remarks in his “Satires” about people who have either
the passion for silver pieces or bronzes:

      Hunc capit argenti splendor, stupet Albius are.
      (This one the glitter of silver holds, Albius stands dumb before
      bronze.)

Seneca informs us that in his time there was an amateur with the hobby
of collecting rusty fragments, another who had gone so crazy over small
vases of Corinthian bronze that he spent his days handling the pieces
of his collection, taking them down from the shelves, putting them back
again and continually arranging and rearranging them (De Brev. Vit.,
XII).

Martial tells us of a man who made a collection of pieces of amber
containing fossilized insects, and of another collector who boasted
that he had a fragment of the ship _Argo_ among the rare pieces of his
collection. There was also Clarinus, a debauchee, according to Martial,
who vaunted himself upon possessing samples of all the goldsmith’s art
of his time. “But,” remarks Martial, “this man’s silver cannot be pure!”

Another type noted by Martial makes one realize that there is a species
of collector that will never die. Of “Paullus” Martial, observes: “...
his friends, like his paintings and his antiques: all for show” (XII,
69).

_Codrus_, quoted by Juvenal, is the needy collector. He keeps his
books “in an old basket where mice allow themselves the luxury of
nibbling the works of divine Greece.” He sleeps “on a pallet shorter
than his little wife.” His collection and furniture are all in
his bedroom, the only room he has for living and sleeping in, and
conspicuous are six cups, a small _cantarium_ on a console with a
figure of Chiron the Centaur below it (III).

_Eros_ is another type, that of the mournful collector. This is the way
Martial describes this not unusual type:--

“Eros weeps every time he comes across some fine murrhine of jasper or
a finely marked table of citrus. He sighs and sighs from the bottom
of his heart, for he is not rich enough to buy all the objects of the
_septa_.” And here Martial comments, “How many are like Eros without
showing it, and how many banter him for his tears and sighs and yet in
their hearts feel like him!” (X, 80).

_Mamurra_, another type handed down to us by the inexhaustible Martial,
never misses a day without visiting the _septa_. “Spends hours in
gadding about, reviews the rows of young slaves which he devours
with the eye of a critic, not, if you please, the common ones but
the choicest samples, those that are not on show to every one, not
to common people like us,” adds Martial. “When he has had enough of
this show, he goes to examine the furniture; there he discovers some
rich tables (_orbes_, round tables) hidden under some covering; then
he orders that some pieces of ivory furniture he wishes to examine be
taken down from the highest spot; afterwards he passes on to examine
a _hexaclinon_, a couch used in the _triclinium_, with six places,
veneered with tortoise-shell, and measures it four times. What a pity
it is not big enough to match his citrus table! A minute later he goes
to smell a bronze: Does it really smell of the Corinthian alloy? Of
course he is ready to criticize even your statues, O Polycletus! Then
those two rock crystals are not pure, some are a trifle nebulous,
others are marred by slight imperfections. Ah! here’s a murrhine. He
orders about a dozen to be put aside. He goes to handle some old
cups as if he would weigh the merit of each one, more especially that
of Mentor. He goes to count the emeralds on a golden vase, and the
enormous pearls we see dangling together on the ears of our elegant
ladies. Afterwards he goes to look everywhere on every side for real
sardonyx; his speciality is to collect large and rare pieces of jasper.
Finally, about the eleventh hour of the day, Mamurra is completely
exhausted, he must go home. He buys for an _as_ (less than three
farthings) two bowls and takes them with him” (IX, 59).

_Tongilius_ is the ponderous, important collector. He goes through the
places where the antiques are sold in an over-sized palanquin and with
his cortège and train of followers upsets everybody and everything.
Juvenal, by whom his character is handed down to us, remarks rather
sarcastically:

      Spondet enim Tyrio stlataria purpura filo,
      Et tamen est illis hoc utile (_Sat._ VII).

_Licinius_ is the type of the lunatic lover of art. He has a fine
collection, is wealthy and can buy the most expensive objects of virtu,
but he is far from happy. His mania is the fear that his rarities
may be stolen or become the prey of fire. He keeps hoards of slaves
watching his precious curios, night and day. “At night,” says Juvenal,
“a cohort of guardians sits up with buckets of water ready to hand in
case of emergencies; the poor man is in continual fear for his statues,
his amber figures, his ivory and tortoise-shell veneered furniture.”

Naturally, in contrast to the foolish type of collector who seems to
have kindled the verve of Roman satirists, the true amateur was to be
found, and most select collections of art were known in Rome. Among
these also the city afforded all the types of the true collector, the
selfish one who never showed his collection to anyone, and the man who
gathered objects of art chiefly to share the enjoyment of them with
others. Some of these latter wished the public to have the benefit of
their purchases, and adorned porticoes and public places with their
collections.

According to Statius, _Vindex_ is the real connoisseur. “Who can
compete with him,” remarks the poet in his _Silvæ_, lib. IV, “who
possesses so sober an eye? He is deeply versed in the technical
procedure of all the artists of antiquity, and when a work bears no
signature he can decide at sight to which master it belongs. He will
point you out a bronze that has cost the learned Myron many a day’s
and night’s work, the marble to which Praxiteles’ untiring chisel has
given life, the ivory polished by the hand of Phidias, the bronzes of
Polycletus which seem to breathe life on coming out of the furnace, he
can see the artistic line, the true mark of all authentic Apelles.”




CHAPTER III

RAPACIOUS ROMAN COLLECTORS

  Some collectors’ hobbies--Sulla idolized statuette--Verres the
      most rapacious of Roman art collectors--Mark Antony and his
      speedy methods--Cicero as an art lover--Pompey the unselfish
      art lover--Julius Cæsar.


Shrewd and impassive connoisseurs like Sulla also had their hobbies
and fancies. Sulla’s particular fancy was a little statue of Apollo he
had pillaged from the temple of Delphi. This statue was more to him
than all the rest of the precious things forming his unique collection.
From this little god, called by Winckelmann “Sulla’s private travelling
god,” he never separated. He used to kiss it devoutly and seems to have
consulted it in great emergencies. At times he used to carry it in his
breast, says Plutarch. We may note by the way that this Apollo was
not considered by connoisseurs the best piece of Sulla’s collection,
the real gem was his Hercules, a work by Lysippus. The story of this
Hercules is told by Martial and Statius, who inform us that it measured
a little less than a Roman foot, about nine inches. Notwithstanding its
modest dimensions the statuette was modelled with such grandeur and
majestic sentiment as to cause Statius to comment, “_parvusque videri,
sentirique ingens_” (small in appearance, but immense in effect). It
represented Hercules in a smilingly serene attitude, seated on a rock,
holding a club in his right hand and in the other a cup. It was in
fact one of those statuettes which Romans called by the Greek word
_epitrapezios_, and which were placed on dining-tables as the _genius
loci_ of the repast.

The history of this gem of Sulla’s collection is uncommon, and its
vicissitudes most remarkable. The statue was originally a gift made
by Lysippus to Alexander the Great. This sovereign and conqueror was
so attached to Lysippus’ present that he carried the statue with him
wherever he went. When dying he indulged in a touching adieu to the
cherished statuette.

After Alexander, the little Hercules fell into the hands of another
conqueror, Hannibal. It is not known how he came to be the possessor
of Lysippus’ work, but it may be explained by the fact that Hannibal,
being a collector of art and somewhat of a connoisseur and, above
all, as Cornelius Nepos states, a great admirer of Greek art, was a
keen-eyed hunter after rarities in art. However, be that as it may,
Hannibal seems to have been possessed by the same fancy as Alexander,
for he carried the little statue with him on all his peregrinations,
and even took it to Bithynia, where, as history informs us, he
destroyed himself by poison. At his death the Hercules passed, in all
probability, into the hands of Prusias at whose court Hannibal died.

A century later the statue reappeared in Sulla’s collection. Very
likely it came into Sulla’s possession as a present from King
Nicomedes, who owed gratitude to Sulla for the restitution of the
throne of Bithynia.

After Sulla’s death it is difficult to locate this precious statue
of his famous collection. Presumably it passed from one collector to
another, and never left Rome. “Perhaps,” says Statius, “it found its
place in more than one Imperial collection.” The statue reappears
officially, however, under Domitian. At this time it is in the
possession of the above-quoted Vindex, a Gaul living in Rome, a friend
of Martial and Statius and one of the best art connoisseurs of his time.

At Vindex’s death the statuette disappears again, and no mention of it
has ever been made since by any writer. What may the fate have been of
this _chef-d’œuvre_ of Lysippus which passed from one collection to
another for more than four centuries?

Among greedy lovers of art, with a connoisseur’s eye as good as his
soul was unscrupulous, Verres takes the prize. He had learned the
rapacious trade of art looting under Sulla. Later on, not being
powerful enough nor daring to go to the length of the Dictator by
placing reluctant amateurs on the list of proscribed, he studiously
sought to gain his end by all forms of violence and vexatious methods.
When in Sicily as proconsul, he actually despoiled and denuded every
temple in the island.

“I defy you,” says Cicero in his indictment of Verres, “to find now in
Sicily, this rich province, so old, with opulent families and cities, a
single silver vase, a bronze of Corinth or Delos, one single precious
stone or pearl, a single work in gold or ivory, a single bronze, marble
or ivory statue; I defy you to find a single painting, a tapestry, that
Verres has not been after, examined and, if pleasing to him, pillaged.”

As for private property, when he heard of a citizen possessing some
object that excited his cupidity, to Verres all means of extortion
seemed good, including torture and fustigation. His passion was of
such an uncontrollable nature that even when invited to dinner by
his friends he could not resist scraping with his knife the fine
bas-reliefs of the silver plates and hiding them in the folds of his
toga. Yet this greedy, unscrupulous amateur, whom Cicero mercilessly
indicted in his _In Verrem_, was such a lover of the objects of his
collection that he faced death rather than give up some fine vases of
Corinthian bronze which Mark Antony had demanded from him as a forced
gift.

Mark Antony, who followed Sulla’s methods in forming one of the finest
of collections, was, like his violent predecessors, a type of collector
which finds no counterpart in our times. His fine library had cost many
victims, his taste being rather eclectic, there seems to have been no
security in Rome for any kind of amateur who happened to possess rare
and interesting curios. Nonius was proscribed because he refused to
part with a rare opal, a precious stone of the size of a hazelnut.
“What an obstinate man, that Nonius,” remarks Pliny (XXXVII, 21) most
candidly, “to be so attached to an object for which he was proscribed!
Animals are certainly wiser when they abandon to the hunter that part
of their body for which they are being chased.”

Mark Antony was not so good a connoisseur as Verres, but having no less
a passion for collecting art and being no less unscrupulous and more in
a position to use violence without the risk of being accused before the
Roman citizens, as happened to Verres in the end, there was no limit
to his schemes. After the battle of Pharsalia he managed to seize all
Pompey’s artistic property, as well as his furniture and gardens, and
after Cæsar’s murder Antony, to whom we owe one of the finest orations
ever conceived, the one he delivered before the dead body of his
friend, lost no time in plundering Cæsar’s property and transporting
to his gardens all the objects of art Cæsar had left to the people of
Rome. The information comes from Cicero with these words: “The statues
and pictures which with his gardens Cæsar bequeathed to the people, he
(Antony) carried off partly to his garden at Pompeii, partly to his
country-house.”

Speaking of this collection, it is believed that the colossal Jupiter
now in the Louvre Museum not only belonged to Mark Antony, but was the
work of Myron which the Triumvir had stolen from Samos. Should this be
so, the pedigree of this statue is one of the few that can be actually
traced through the centuries. Brought to Rome by Mark Antony, this
Jupiter was later placed in the Capitol by Augustus. The fine statue
was then passed from one emperor to another, to sink into the general
oblivion of art at the end of the Roman Empire. It reappears in Rome
in the sixteenth century. It was then in the possession of Marguerite
of Antioch, Duchess of Camerino. The statue was greatly mutilated,
having lost both legs and arms. The Duchess presented what remained of
this famous Jupiter to Perronet de Granvelle. Subsequently cardinal
and minister of Charles V, on his retirement to his native country,
Perronet de Granvelle took the Jupiter to Besançon and placed it in the
garden of his castle. When Louis XIV took Besançon, the magistrates
of the city offered the French monarch what he might otherwise have
taken, the statue of Jupiter. Transferred from Besançon to Versailles,
this magnificent statue which by rare chance had escaped serious damage
during the barbarian ages finally met two authentic barbarians in the
artists charged with its restoration. To clean off the old patina from
the statue--think of it--Girardon had a layer of marble taken off
with the chisel, and Drouilly, not perceiving that the god had been
formerly in a sitting posture, or more probably not choosing to notice
the fact as not appealing to his artistic conception, made the Jupiter
a standing statue by adjusting and cutting the parts otherwise in the
way for this kind of adaptation. The only part of the statue that does
not seem to have suffered any damage is the head.

Even Brutus and Cassius appear not to have been indifferent to
the collector passion. Brutus, more especially, used to devote to
the collecting of art the less agitated moments of his troubled
life. The gem of his collection was considered to be a bronze by
Strongylion. Pliny tells us that this statue of Brutus was called
“the young Philippian,” _Strongylion fecit puerum, quem amando Brutus
Philippiensis cognomine suo illustravit_ (XXXIV, 19).

Cicero may be quoted as a type of the inconsistent art collector. A man
of dubious artistic taste and snobbish tendencies but who becomes a
true art lover when he specializes in that part of art collecting more
closely in keeping with his studies. Thus in his letter to Atticus he
reveals his love of books and old Greek works, and how fond he was of
good bindings, etc. As a collector of art Cicero leaves one doubtful as
to his taste and connoisseurship, qualities to which he seems to lay
claim in more than one of his speeches. When he writes to his friend
Atticus, his good counsellor, the man charged to buy art for him, he
does not express himself either as a real lover of art or a genuine
connoisseur. “Buy me anything that is suited for the decoration of my
Tusculum,” he writes to Atticus. “_Hermathena_ might be an excellent
ornament for my Academy, _Hermes_ are placed now in all Gymnasia.... I
have built exedras according to the latest fashion. I should like to
put paintings there as an ornament,” etc.

In _Paradoxa_, a collection of philosophical thoughts called Socratic
in style by Cicero, in which he says he has called a spade a spade,
_Socratica longeque verissima_, Cicero has the courage to write the
following paragraph in defence of Carneades, who maintained that a head
of a Faun had been found in the raw marble of a quarry at Chios:--

“One calls the thing imaginary, a freak of chance, just as if marble
could not contain the forms of all kinds of heads, even those of
Praxiteles. It is a fact that these heads are made by taking away the
superfluous marble, and in modelling them even a Praxiteles does not
add anything of his own, because when much marble has been taken away
one reaches the real form, and we see the accomplished work which was
there before. This is what may have happened in the quarry of Chios.”

The gamut of art collectors would not be complete without quoting a
few samples of worthy art lovers who either understood art, like the
Greeks, as a means of public enjoyment, or in some way showed genuine
and most praiseworthy qualities as true collectors of art.

It is doubtful whether the great Pompey really felt any pleasure in
collecting art pieces, or whether he simply did it to ingratiate
himself with the public. But as a matter of fact his attitude towards
the enjoyment of art was certainly of a most unselfish character.
Though he very sumptuously embellished his gardens on the Janiculum,
this was nothing compared with the public buildings he enriched with
rare statues, paintings, etc. His theatre was a magnificent emporium of
art of which we possess some samples in the colossal Melpomene of the
Louvre Museum and the bronze Hercules excavated under Pius IX, now one
of the finest pieces of the Vatican collection. Both these statues were
found buried on the spot where once the monumental theatre of Pompey
had stood.

But the artistic glories of this theatre were perhaps even surpassed
by the interminable portico Pompey constructed and adorned for the
benefit of the public. This spot, which was called the Promenade of
Pompeius, became one of the fashionable walks of Rome.

“You disdain,” asks Propertius of his lady love, “the shady colonnades
of Pompey’s portico, its magnificent tapestries and the fine avenue of
leafy plane-trees?” (IV, 8). And in another place Cynthia forbids her
paramour this promenade with the words: “I prohibit you ever to strut
in your best fineries in that promenade.”

Pliny (XXXV, 9), says that Pompey had some famous paintings in his
galleries and seems to have been more especially struck by a work
by Polygnotus, representing “a man on a ladder,” and a landscape
by Pausias. Curiously enough the characteristics that seem to have
attracted Pliny in the two works do not point to the noted writer as
a great art critic. He says that the remarkable side of Polygnotus’
painting was that the beholder could not tell whether the man on the
ladder was ascending or descending, and that the main characteristic of
Pausias’ work consisted in two black oxen outlined on a dark landscape.

Cæsar, who showed himself to be a better connoisseur than his rival
Pompey, and who, being of a more refined nature, would not, as did
Pompey, have indulged in the gratification of parading the chlamys of
Alexander the Great in a triumphal car drawn by four elephants, spent
considerable sums on the embellishment of Rome with art. He also, like
many collectors of art, had his hobbies, carrying with him through his
various campaigns an endless number of precious mosaic tables, and
always keeping in his tent a fine work of a Greek artist, a statue of
Venus, with whom he claimed relationship. Though he showed eclectic
taste in his gifts to the town and temples, he was in private, like a
true connoisseur and refined lover of art, somewhat of a specialist,
being extremely fond of cameos and cut stones. Of these he had six
distinct collections that held the admiration of all the connoisseurs
of the city.

He was, however, not only a passionate seeker after antiques, most
boldly acquiring precious stones, curiosities, statues, pictures by
old masters (_gemmas_, _tereumata_, _signa_, _tabulas operis antiqui
animosissime comparasse_), as Suetonius tells us, but also the
ever-ready patron of modern art. In this character he paid 80 talents
(about £16,000) for a painting by Timonacus. Damophilus and Gorgas,
painters, sculptors and decorators, worked for him to embellish the
Arena he built in Rome, an edifice capable of holding 2500 spectators.
Many artists worked at his Forum, a monument to his name for which he
paid a sum equivalent to twenty million liras for the ground alone.
Meanwhile he was also busy embellishing other cities of Italy, Gaul,
Spain, Greece, and even Asia. Suetonius states that Cæsar sent a
company of artists and workers to rebuild destroyed Corinth and to
replace its statues on their pedestals.

Being a most unselfish kind of lover of art, Cæsar was one of the few
who did not yield to the momentary fashion that led patricians to send
their art pieces out of Rome, to embellish and decorate their country
houses and magnificent villas.

This peculiar fashion that exiled so many fine statues from Rome, leads
us to speak of another noble type of collector, Marcus Agrippa, who,
like Cæsar, not only set a good example by keeping all his treasures
of art in Rome, mostly for the enjoyment of the public, but protested
against the new custom, and held meetings and lectures to dissuade
wealthy Romans from sending away from the city their _chef-d’œuvres_.

Such was the spirit characterizing Agrippa as a lover of art.




CHAPTER IV

ROME AS AN ART EMPORIUM

  Rome an art emporium--Every rich man is more or less a collector--
      Chrysogon, Sulla’s freedman, competes with patricians--Scaurus’
      extravagant display--The type of a crack collector as described
      by Petronius Arbiter--The Roman palaces have special rooms for
      art gatherings--The Pinacotheca, the Library, the Exhedra,
      etc., according to the rules of Vitruvius--Fashion creates new
      distinctions in the appreciation of art and curios--The craze
      for Corinthian bronze and the classification of bronze “patine”
      --The hobby of murrhines and citrus tables.


We do not know how many private collections there were in Rome when
the collectomania finally took the city by storm. A list of Roman
collectors in the fashion of the modern work (_Ritz-Pacot_) would
be most interesting and enlightening. However, judging from the
statues and the public buildings we know to have been replete with
objects of art, we gather that as an emporium of art Rome must have
attained a magnitude unequalled in past or present times. Why this
great collection of art did not transform the Romans into the most
artistic people the world has ever seen, is a mystery only to be
solved by hypothesis. Either the Romans were innately refractory to
the refinements of true art, or, like to all _nouveaux riches_, the
field of art merely afforded room for faddists, hobbyists and fashion
seekers, and, only as sporadic cases, a few real lovers of good art.
However this may be, without discussing the causes, the effect was
certainly gigantic: art from every land found its way to Rome, which
by force of circumstances thus became a monumental synthesis of art.
Even at the time of Constantine, Rome counted 10 basilicas, 11 forums,
11 thermes, 18 aqueducts, 8 bridges, 37 city gates, 29 military roads
leading to all parts of the known world, 2 arenas, 8 theatres, 2
circuses, 37 triumphal arches, 5 obelisks, 2 colossal statues, 22
equestrian statues, 423 temples with statues of the gods--eighty of
these being in solid gold and seventy-seven in ivory.

It is easy to understand that the above statistics only give a faint
idea of the magnificence of Rome, for the 423 streets and 1790 private
palaces noted in the same statistics as existing in Rome at the time
of Constantine were in a measure respectively open-air museums and
repositories of private collections of art, as no patrician mansion,
according to Vitruvius, was complete without a place where paintings
and objects of art could be exhibited with advantage.

Cicero allows us a peep at the collections and gorgeous palaces owned
by notable Romans as well as their style of living. In his oratio (_Pro
Roscio Amerino_) he speaks of Chrysogon in these words:

“Look at Chrysogon when he comes down from his fine mansion on the
Palatine! He owns a charming villa, where he goes to rest, just at the
gates of Rome. He also owns extensive domains, all magnificent and all
near the city. His palace overflows with vases of Delos and Corinthian
bronze. He keeps there the famous _authepsa_ bought by him some time
ago at such a price that on hearing the auctioneer’s voice repeat
the bid, the passers-by imagined a farm was being offered for sale.
What shall we say of his chiselled silver? his precious stuffs? his
paintings? statues? marbles? How many of such things do you think he
owns? Just imagine what has been pillaged from so many opulent families
in times of trouble and rapine; and all for the repletion of one single
palace.”

When one thinks that this Chrysogon, Sulla’s freedman, had the chance
to amass such an accumulation of art, it is not difficult to imagine
the artistic wealth that must have been acquired by Scaurus, the
terrible Sulla’s unscrupulous son-in-law, the embezzler, the deplored
and deplorable Roman Ædile whom Cicero defended before the tribunal
with the inconsistency of his easy eloquence.

According to Pliny (XXXVI), Scaurus not only owned one of the most
magnificent palaces on the Palatine, but had his mansion crowded with
rare things in true Roman fashion. With a Sulla for father-in-law, a
Metella, the purchaser of proscribed citizens’ goods, for mother, a
Scaurus, the _magna pars_ of the Senate and Marius’ former friend and
helper in the spoliation of provinces, for father, he can have had no
difficulty, as Pliny informs us, in gathering the unequalled treasures
that were stored in his palace. The wonders of the treasures of his
art emporium are all the more easily explained, too, when we consider
that he not only inherited a large fortune, but more than doubled it by
speculations.

To give some idea of his fatuous munificence, we may state that
this Roman multi-millionaire built, for one month’s performance, a
theatre in the city, to hold eighty thousand spectators, and adorned
the edifice with three thousand statues and three hundred and sixty
columns. Among the precious things of Scaurus’ collection were a great
number of paintings by Pausias, works intended by the artist for
his native town of Sycione, if the Romans had had milder methods of
collecting art.

Even those Romans, and they were many, who were not considered
collectors in the proper sense, owned fine works of art. The Servilius,
who had large gardens on the Palatine near the present Porta San
Paolo, had what a modern connoisseur might call a few extra pieces.
There was a Triptolemus, a Flora and a Ceres by Praxiteles, a fine
Vesta with two Vestals by Scopas and an Apollo by Calamis. It may be
mentioned, by the way, that it was to this famous garden Nero retired
on the day preceding his death, it was here in the Servilian mansion
that he was abandoned by his servants, parasites and courtiers, here
that he wandered desolate and despondent before resorting to flight.
On the spot formerly occupied by the Servilian gardens a mosaic was
discovered, now in San Giovanni in Laterano, representing an unswept
floor with the remains of a luxurious dinner. One might fancy this
mosaic to have belonged to one of those Roman Triclinia and their
noted orgies, or, having the imagination of Ampere, the historian,
to the place where Servilia had supped with her lover, Julius Cæsar.
History tells us that this matron, the mother of Brutus, was of the
pure blood--one might use the modern expression, blue blood--of the
_gens_ Servilia.

For the sake of the colour, we cannot refrain from giving the
description of a true collector of art as related in all its suggestive
reality in the _Satyricon_, the only known fiction of Roman times, a
work which, though fiction, seems close to nature and a most faithful
interpretation of the artistic merits and oddities of Roman life.

“I entered the Pinacotheca, where marvels of all kinds were gathered.
There were works by Zeuxis which seemed to have triumphed over all
the affronts of age, sketches by Prothogenes that appeared to dispute
merits with nature herself, works that I did not dare to touch but with
a sort of religious fear. There were some monochromes by Apelles which
moved me to holy reverence. What delicacy of touch and what precision
of drawing in the figures! Ah! the painter of the very soul of things.
Here on the wings of an eagle a god raising himself higher than the
air; there innocent Hylas repulsing a lascivious Naiad; further on
Apollo cursing his murderous hand....”

At a certain moment the owner of the collection, apparently, arrives.
He is of a type not yet extinct: the man who lives for his collection,
the man so engrossed in his cherished objects as to forget and neglect
other pleasures in life, social obligations, etc.

“A white-haired old man arrived,” the author of the _Satyricon_ goes
on to relate, “his tormented expression seemed to herald grandeur. His
garments were of that neglected character which is often distinctive of
literary people who have not been spoilt by wealth....

“I thought of questioning him. He was more of a connoisseur than myself
in the epochs of the paintings and their subjects; some of the latter
incomprehensible to me. ‘What is the reason,’ I asked him while we
were speaking of painting, ‘for the weakening, the great decadence of
the fine arts nowadays; more especially of painting which seems to have
disappeared and to have left no trace of past glory?’ He answered, ‘The
passion for money, that is the cause of the great change. Years ago
when merit, though left to starve, was glorified and appreciated, art
flourished.... Then, only to mention sculpture, Lysippus was perishing
of hunger at the feet of the very statue he was intent upon perfecting;
Myron, that marvellous artist who could cast in bronze the life of men
and animals, Myron was so poor that at his death no one was to be found
to accept his inheritance. We of our time, given over to orgies, wine
and women, have no energy left to study the fine art pieces under our
very eyes. We prefer to abuse and slander antiquity. Only vice nowadays
finds great masters and pupils!... Do you believe that in our day any
go to the temple to pray for the health of their body? Before all else,
even before reaching the threshold of the temple, the one will promise
an offering to the gods if his rich relation dies and makes him his
heir, the other, if he discovers a treasure, and another if he shall
achieve the dispersal of his third million in health and safety....
And are you surprised that painting languishes, when in the eyes of
every man an ingot of gold is a masterpiece that cannot be equalled by
anything that Apelles, Phidias and all the crack-brained Greeks have
been able to produce.’”

[Illustration:

    Photo]      [Alinari

MARCUS AURELIUS.

A XVIth Century copy by L. Del Duca of the equestrian statue in Rome
(Campidoglio).]

With the growth of fashion, a collection of art became the necessary
complement of a wealthy mansion. The need then arose to give this
collection the noblest place in the palace, a room apart to enhance
its importance. This new view brought about a new architectural
distribution of the Roman patrician mansion, not only on account of the
family life and obligations of a wealthy class of citizens, but because
the well-to-do Roman had obligations towards art and antiquity. In the
Roman mansion we thus find first the _atrium_, a large hall open to
friends, clients and visitors at large. The _peristyle_ is the second
courtyard, and is reserved for the family. In the _atrium_ the
domestic gods were generally placed and records concerning the family,
including genealogical trees (_stemmata_).

With time these _atria_ became regular museums, as they were excellent
places for decoration and the display of art, being the open central
part of the house girded by a colonnade.

An idea of the importance of these _atria_ may be gathered from that
of Scaurus’ palace, which had thirty-eight columns 12½ yards high,
made of the same kinds of rare marble that faced the walls--Egyptian
green, old yellow or Oriental alabaster, African marble and other rare
kinds brought from Syria and Numidia. Scaurus’ _atrium_ appears to have
been hung round with tapestries, embroidered with gold, illustrating
mythological scenes. Alternating with these rare tapestries were
_panopliæ_ and family portraits.

Though perhaps the favourite spot, the _atrium_ was not the only
place for the artistic display of the Romans. Their palaces also
contained _Oeci_, magnificent galleries used for receptions, and the
_Exhedræ_, which were rooms for conversation, generally of a more sober
decoration. In the _Triclinia_ there were kept works in precious metals
and the finest pieces of furniture. There was also the _Sacrarium_, a
private shrine where precious pieces of art were often hidden. Verres
found his famous _canephoros_ (basket-bearers) by Polycletus, the Cupid
of Praxiteles and the Hercules of Myron in the _sacrarium_ of Heius of
Messina.

There was also a room in Roman mansions set apart for the library, and
some had special nooks for such collections as gems and cameos. The
place where the best paintings were shown was called the _Pinacotheca_,
and was always built towards the north so that the light from the
windows should be without much variation, and above all because a
northern exposure left no chance for the sun’s rays to enter and spoil
the effect of the painting.

The Roman collector of books very often went in for elegant bindings
and all the showy and decorative side of a library. Seneca deplores
the fact that while every elegant house in Rome contained a library,
many of these collections of books were simply for show. Too many
collectors, not dissimilar in this from our bibliomaniacs of to-day,
had quantities of works they did not care to read. “What is the use
of having so many thousand volumes,” cries Seneca, “the lifetime of
their owners would hardly suffice to read the titles of the works....
There is a man with scarcely the literary knowledge of a serf, and
he is buying volumes, not to read them, but as an ornament for his
dining-room! There is another who is proud of his library only because
it is in cedar and ivory; he has the mania of buying books that no one
looks for. He is always gaping among his volumes, which he has bought
solely for their titles. Lazy people, who never read, are likely to be
found with complete collections of the works of orators or historians,
books upon books. One could really forgive this mania if it had
originated in a real passion for reading, but all these fine works, the
great creations of divine genius, works ornamented with the portraits
of their authors, do but serve to decorate the walls” (Tranq., IX).

A large library was the desire of Horace. He wrote to Lellius:

“Do you know my daily prayer?--Great Gods! let me keep the little I
own, less if it is your pleasure; let me live according to my choice
the days your indulgence has granted me; let me have plenty of books,
one year’s income in advance that I may not be obliged to live day by
day from hand to mouth.... As regards the peace of my heart and my
happiness, that is my affair” (_Sat._, II, 6).

Such contrarieties have a genuine echo in our society where the
bibliomaniac is rarely a literary man or even slightly interested in
literature. Bibliomaniacs collected volumes for the most part either
because some of them were considered rare, and therefore advertised
the high price paid for them, or because they might serve as a
decorative show, but the collecting of general art and curios, with
a few exceptions, appears to have been vacuous and freakish. Even
specialization, which is held to be progress in modern times, but as a
matter of fact more often merely represents the triumph of erudition
over art and taste, exercised in Rome the momentary tyranny of fashion.

An example of this specialization is given us by the craze in Rome for
Corinthian bronze. Without entering into a discussion about the legend
of its origin, and simply hinting that there are strong proofs that the
alloy existed long before the siege of Corinth, we are safe in saying
that the craze in Rome for Corinthian bronze was one of those freaks
of fashion that has had, perhaps, no echo in all the after-history of
“collectomania.” Every amateur was at that time bound to have at least
one vase of the coveted metal. According to Pliny (XXXIV, 1, 2, 3) in
his time this metal was equal to gold in value. In order to obtain two
vases of this precious metal Mark Antony ordered the assassination of
the owner, and it must be borne in mind that Mark Antony was accused
of using golden vessels for the lowest services of his household.
Octavianus, supposed to be a collector of mild passions and a man who
certainly did give up all such hobbies on becoming emperor, was also
very fond of the fashionable metal--_corinthiorum præcupidus_--and did
not scruple to adopt the methods of Sulla and Mark Antony to gratify
his ultra-fashionable taste.

Times were then ripe for all forms of degeneration. Connoisseurs,
like those of to-day, began to discuss _patina_. As it required years
for Corinthian bronze to assume the proper patina--_Nobilis ærugo_,
Horace calls it--it was natural that this alloy should have the
preference over all other kinds of bronze. But there were gradations
of colour even in this metal and value was discriminated according to
the quality of the _patina_. Of these _patinæ_ the Roman collector
recognized five different kinds. Apart from these varying degrees of
merit, the connoisseur, Pliny tells us, could tell the quality of the
alloy from its weight and determine the excellency of the _patina_ by
its smell.

Another craze in Rome that greatly fostered imitation and forgery was
that of murrhines, cups of a mysterious material which was more valued
than any other rare stone or rock crystal, though a cup of the latter,
according to Pliny (XXXVII), easily fetched 150,000 sesterces, an
amount equivalent to £1200. As a rule, always according to Pliny, for
one of these cups a bigger price was paid than for a slave.

If the Romans, unlike the Americans, had no detectives at festivals and
banquets, they certainly took precautions to guarantee the safety of
the treasures displayed and to guard against the possible greed of some
guest.

“Whereas Virro drinks from pateras of beryl,” remarks Juvenal, speaking
to a parasite, “no one would trust you with even a simple golden cup,
or, if perchance they do let you use one, be sure a guardian near you
has previously counted the precious stones studding it and follows with
his eye the movements of your fingers and your sharp nails.”

One can really not refrain from giving this gorgeous patch of Roman
colour as Juvenal himself puts it:--

                        ... Ipse capaces
      Heliadum crustas et inæquales beryllo
      Virro tenet phialas: tibi non committitur aurum;
      Vel, si quando datur, custos affixus ibidem,
      Qui numeret gemmas unguesque observet acutos (V. 38).

One may be sure that the man charged with watching was likely to do
his duty with the utmost solicitude. Carelessness in handling these
precious pieces that were used to decorate Roman tables was not easily
overlooked. An anecdote will illustrate this. Vedius Pollio, a Roman
nobleman, possessed one of the most esteemed collections of these
crystals. One day when Augustus was dining at this favourite’s house,
a slave broke one of the precious crystal cups. Vedius immediately
ordered the slave to be thrown alive into the pond of lampreys.
Disgusted at such an order, Augustus not only made a freedman of the
slave but ordered that Vedius’ whole collection of crystals should be
broken before his eyes and thrown into the pond of lampreys.

But as we have said above, the craze for murrhines surpassed the craze
for the precious crystal, though comparing the two, we are bound to
add, with no artistic justification.

What these murrhines were made of is not exactly known. Some of the
scholars of our day believe they were artificial, a mixture of clay
with myrrh, hence, perhaps, the name. Winkelmann is inclined to
think they were made of a kind of agate, and Mariette and de Caylus
respectively believe them to have been mother-of-pearl, or fluor-spar,
or porcelain.

In further illustration of the peculiar substance of the murrhines we
quote from Pliny:

“The material of the murrhines is in blocks no larger than an ordinary
glass, and a stratum no thicker than the marble of a small console.
There is no real splendour in this material, but instead of splendour
what one might call brilliancy. What gives the murrhines their price is
the variety of their tints, the colour of the veining, either purple
or pure white, sometimes shading off into nuances, reaching in some
species the hue of blazing purple. The white samples shade into roseate
or milky tones. Some amateurs are fond of freakish accidentalities
or reflex iridescent changes like the rainbow, others prefer opaque
effects. Transparency and pale hues are considered defects, as also
opaque grains inside even if they do not alter the surface, like
tumours, spreading in the human body. The quality of the odour helps to
set the price on the stuff” (XXXVII, 8).

It is to be noted that while this rather vague description of Pliny’s
would seem on the one hand to point to the agate or any fluor-spar, the
addition of the odour tends to destroy this hypothesis.

In any case murrhines became the rage of the Roman collector, and the
fashion being, as usual, imperative, no one was considered elegant or
correct who did not own at least one sample of the precious cups. One
of these cups which, according to Pliny’s estimate, could not contain
more than a measure of liquid, less than half a gallon, had cost the
large sum of 70 talents (£15,400). Adding that the cup had belonged to
a consul, and that the edge of it was nibbled, Pliny remarks that “such
damage is the reason of the increased price, there is not in all Rome a
murrhine which can boast of a more illustrious origin” (XXXVII, 7).

This consul, who loved his cup so much as to nibble it on putting it to
his lips, this collector, whose name is unknown to us, used up all his
patrimony on his hobby of collecting murrhines. He possessed so many
of them, Pliny adds, that “one might have filled with them the private
theatre that Nero had constructed in his gardens on the other bank of
the Tiber.”

Perhaps one of the most esteemed murrhines was that which was
considered the gem of Petronius’ collection. He had paid 300 talents
(£66,000) for it. Knowing how much Nero coveted this precious cup
and wishing to baffle his plans, before destroying himself Petronius
ordered his slaves to break it to pieces, so that it should not fall
into the hands of the man he detested.

A rival craze in Rome to that of murrhines was the passion for tables
of _citrus_. Here too there is uncertainty as to the nature of this
rare wood called _citrus_. Apparently it grew at the foot of Mount
Atlas in Africa, and was in all probability a _thuja_. To obtain the
proper grain it was felled at the root and cut into planks of a length
to furnish the board of the table.

Pliny seems to think that Cicero--the snob collector--set the
example of extravagance in these tables. The one he bought at the fancy
price of 4000 English sovereigns was still in existence in Pliny’s time
and went under the name of the _Ciceroniana_. Cicero’s price, however,
was surpassed by Asinius Gallus and Cethegus, the former paying
1,100,000 sesterces for his citrus table and the latter 1,400,000
sesterces. Yet according to Cicero, the citrus table that Verres had
placed in his triclinium was the finest and most valuable Rome had ever
seen.

Needless to add that in this article, too, collectors had their
preferences, that there was citrus and citrus, that the precious tables
were valued according to the grain of the wood and the _patina_. There
were four qualities among the most appreciated. The _tigrines_, the
_pantherines_ and the _pavonines_ were those tables of which the grain
and knots of the wood resembled the coats of the two animals in the
case of the two first, whereas the wood of the last showed knots like
the eyes of a peacock’s tail. The fourth quality was called _apiates_,
for in these tables the wood looked like a mass of dark seeds, or more
accurately a swarm of bees--hence the name.

The collectomania and thirst for display must have not only favoured
the trade in spurious pieces of cheap imitation but, have caused in
the chaos of tastes at times an equal confusion in general reasoning.
Thus wise men and philosophers appear to have indulged in--what shall
we say?--rather amateurish considerations, indicating the reasoning
powers of a dilettante. Cicero at one time gibes at collectors and at
another boasts of being a collector himself. Seneca, the wise Seneca,
the cool-headed philosopher, was no better. Forgetting that his
triclinium was adorned with five hundred fine, tripod-like tables with
ivory feet, he writes as a comment:

“I like a simple table with nothing remarkable about its grain, one
that is not celebrated in the city for having belonged to a succession
of lovers of fashion.” And then “... material considerations to which a
pure soul mindful of its origin should give no weight.”

At one time fashion demanded that citrus should be used in veneering,
an art in which the Romans were extremely skilful, using all kinds
of rare woods, ivory and tortoise-shell. Furniture veneered with
tortoise-shell, especially, fetched an extremely high price and was
in considerable vogue for a time. The fact was sufficient to prompt
Seneca to this odd comment: “Is it possible that people are so ready to
pay most extravagant prices for the shell of such an unclean and lazy
animal!”

The prices paid for art were only too often created by fashion, as
shown by the artistic _milieu_ of Rome we have been trying to outline,
and yet the characters we have passed in review in our reconstruction
of the past do not seem altogether dissimilar from some of our
present-day lovers of art.




CHAPTER V

INCREASE OF FAKING IN ROME

  Increase of Faking--Imitation precious stones--Cameos--Restorers
      and copyists.


It is evident that in a society like that of Rome and an artistic
_milieu_ such as we have tried to depict, comprising a few good
collectors among a whole hoard of fools setting up as full-fledged
connoisseurs, deception and fakery must have been rampant. The large
profits promised by a trade in sham art must have helped to perfect
those enslaved Greeks in methods of taking an artistic revenge upon
their oppressors. Romans, especially in art matters, must have
seemed to them mere parvenus. The practised eclectic qualities and
adaptability of those _græculi delirantes_ (crazy paltry Greeks), so
active in Rome, must have helped matters. In time there was nothing
they could not produce for the benefit of their patrons, and often
to such perfection as to deceive even keen-eyed connoisseurs. As a
consequence, already in Rome the imitation of art and curios produced
a certain perplexed feeling even among people who claimed to be
acquainted with the business of buying art and antiques. Pliny, who
was somewhat of a connoisseur, more especially in bronzes, writes
to a friend that he has bought a charming statuette of Corinthian
bronze, and in confessing that he likes it, “no matter whether modern
or antique,” seems to reveal the cautious attitude of a man who does
not wish to be caught in error, a fear and uncertainty that very able
forgers had created in Rome.

Beyond a few hints and gibes about certain collectors and art lovers
and a few comments of Pliny and others we have no detailed account
of the part that imitation and faking played in Rome, but it is to
be presumed that the latter especially found numerous and ever-ready
clients, and that it was able and prosperous beyond the dreams of
modern art duping.

According to Pliny the favourite article, the one to which fakers and
forgers gave their utmost care and attention, was the article that was
in vogue at the moment and therefore promised the biggest return. Thus
murrhines did not escape this fate, they were imitated with obsidian.
Pliny also adds that all kinds of precious stones were imitated in
Rome, not only by coloured glass but also by a selection of stones
that, though rare, were of less value comparatively than the types they
imitated.

The most esteemed kinds of sardonyx were counterfeited by joining
various pieces of the cheaper jaspers or onyx, cleverly alternating
red, white and black, and joining the pieces in such a manner that
it was most difficult, Pliny tells us, for a connoisseur to detect a
fraud. The same writer, who gives valuable hints on the imitation of
precious stones, says that in his time there were even books from which
one could learn the art of counterfeiting precious stones, that all of
them could be imitated, topaz, lapis lazuli, and amethyst; that amber
could be coloured, obsidian used to counterfeit hyacinths, sapphires,
etc. Speaking of the sardonyx, more especially, Pliny says, “no fraud
brings so much money as this.”

In this line there were also other kinds of fraud. One of the most
profitable was the imitation of precious stones with paste ones. There
are some imitation cameos that are a puzzle even to-day. Commenting
upon this fraud, Winkelmann benevolently points out that we owe to
this unscrupulous commerce of false cameos the preservation of the
casts of some precious originals now lost. The marvellous part of these
imitation cameos is that the faker was not only able to imitate the
plain stone of the original but all its characteristic veining and
peculiarities.

With regard to bronzes and other metal works it is to be presumed that
not only could the _Nobilis ærugo_ of Horace be easily counterfeited,
as it is to-day, but the work as well. Pliny the Younger gives us
valuable hints about the perplexity that fakery had generated among the
connoisseurs of his time.

The Greek artists in particular showed themselves most versatile,
they reproduced in Rome the most esteemed originals and could to a
certain extent imitate the most appreciated types of art. Zenodorus,
for example, copied for Germanicus a cup by Calamis in such perfect
imitation of the chiselling that the copy could not be told from the
original.

Fraudulent masterpieces of painting and sculpture, often with the
forged signature of some great artist, as at present times, were
already on the market in Cicero’s time. His “_Odi falsas inscriptiones
statuarum alienarum_” is eloquent enough.

Phœdrus seems to complete Cicero’s information about Roman art faking.

“It is in this way,” he says, speaking of faked paintings and
sculpture, “that some of our artists can realize better prices for
their work: by carving the name of Praxiteles on a modern marble, the
name of Scopas on a bronze statue, that of Myron on a silver-piece, and
by putting the signature of Zeuxis to a modern painting.”

We do not intend to confound fakers with honest restorers of works
of art, but in Roman times, as is often the case in our own, faking
learned no small lesson from the deft hand of the restorer. The same
may be said for imitators and copyists who even in ancient Rome
followed their trade openly with no intention of cheating. Copyists in
particular were very active and their work was certainly appreciated by
a certain class of citizens. The fact is proved by the numerous copies
of Greek masterpieces that have been unearthed in Rome and elsewhere.
When an original was not to be had, a copy was often ordered. Lucullus
sent an artist expressly to Athens to make a copy for him of a work by
Pausias, the portrait of Glycera, the artist’s lady love.

Restorers of works of art were, in Rome as elsewhere, the nearest
relatives of fakers; their ability to imitate antiquity must have
proved a great temptation, and the enormous sums paid for certain
objects, and the gross ignorance of some of the buyers, must have paved
the way to more than one passage from honesty to dishonesty.

There were many restorers’ workshops in Rome, and one has been
discovered near the Forum, where apparently new limbs and heads were
provided for damaged statues. Many an antique statue has come down to
us already repaired. Evander Aulanius, says Pliny (XXXVI, 5), restored
the head of Diana, in the temple of Apollo, on the Palatine. Like
modern restorers, their forefathers of Rome had not always the delicate
hand needed for such operations. When the Prætor Julius ordered the
cleaning of the paintings in the temple of Apollo it was done in such a
rough manner that all the charm of the works disappeared. A fact that
may have induced some good connoisseur to advise leaving untouched the
Venus Anadyomene of Apelles, the masterpiece placed by Cæsar in the
temple of that goddess, and to let it be damaged by age rather than
allow the sacrilegious hand of a restorer to maim the divine painting
of the Greek artist.

From what we have been perusing we may conclude that the Roman
artistic world was not entirely different from the artistic world of
to-day. Certainly the city must have been of a magnificence of which
no conception is given by its grandiose ruins. But the artistic life,
and the narrow path of the collector, were somewhat similar to those
of to-day. Some of the characters we have quoted would seem to be
alive to-day, a change of name and a _milieu_ of more modern colouring
and they would provide ground for an action for libel. We feel quite
familiar, in fact, with the characters described by Seneca. Even to-day
the world possesses collectors of rusty nails and other worthless
objects--mere cult of fetishism. We feel no less acquainted with
some of the other types to whom Martial pays his attention. The man
who gathers ants fossilized in amber, the collector of relics who
glories in owning a fragment of the Argonauts’ ship, might both be
alive to-day. So might Lycinius the demented, Codrus the penurious and
dissatisfied, Eros the enthusiast and dreamer. They still exist and
are well represented in their various shades of foolishness down to
that Mamurra who used to upset all the shops of the Roman antiquaries
without buying a single thing. Would you resuscitate Tongilius to our
modern society just substitute a bright motor-car for his rich and
cumbersome _lectica_ and, for a certainty, the name of some modern
collector of art, some up-to-date Mæcenas, will come to your mind.

Of course, though Mr. Cook had not yet alighted to relieve itinerant
humanity from many troubles, tourists existed even at the time when
Rome did not possess the modern type of traveller. According to Titus
Livius many foreigners used to visit the temples of _Porta Capena_,
regular museums of art. The tourists of that time followed a routine,
as we can gather from Pliny and other writers. They were taken to
the Palatine, to the Via Sacra to admire the temple of Apollo with
its peristyle of fifty-two columns, adorned by the simulacra of the
Danaides and fifty equestrian statues, one of the finest sights in Rome
and which inspired Horace with an ode. This temple of Luni marble with
ivory doors, surmounted by a quadriga in gilded bronze carrying the
god, was also a museum, containing among other things a fine collection
of gems, and a room lined with silver in which the Sibylline Books were
kept. The _Domus Aurea_, the paintings of Apelles exhibited in the
Forum of Augustus, the temple of Venus, one of the finest emporiums
of art, that of Ceres which contained the celebrated “Bacchus” of
Aristides of Thebes, the “Marsias” in the temple of Concord, and in the
Capitol the “Theseus” of Zeuxis, in Pompey’s portico the “Soldier” by
Polygnotus, in the temple of Peace the “Hero” by Timante and another
famous work by Protogenes.

There were of course foolish tourists who, like to-day, insisted
on being fed with more or less authentic anecdotes of relics of an
impossible character, who believed the unbelievable. Thus, according
to Procopius, who evidently believed the genuineness of the relic,
many tourists went to see the boat, still moored in the river, from
which Æneas had landed in Italy, etc. This kind of tourist must have
inspired Lucian with the comment that Greek guides in Rome might have
starved but for the nonsense and legends with which they enriched their
descriptions of the city. “But what of that,” remarks Lucian, “visitors
like to hear such things, and do not seem interested in the truth even
if offered to them free of charge.”

The revival of the past needed this slight touch to show that the
artistic world of two thousand years ago was not, after all, dissimilar
to that of our enlightened days.

Need we repeat that the phenomenon of art faking for the benefit of
foolish lovers of art generally appears when the passion for collecting
takes that Byzantine attitude which makes it ripe for decay and
degeneration, when mania, fashion and snobbery chiefly hold the ground
instead of taste and genuine love of art, in fact when the parvenus or
the lunatic submerge the intelligent collector. It follows consequently
that the decline of Collectomania heralds the decline of Forgery. The
latter, its errand over with the cessation of the demand for antiques
and curios, disappears to await a fresh chance. But the fake-festival
and carnival will revive, phœnix-like, with the awakening of a new
artistic world--just as though faking at certain moments answered to
a sore need of society.




CHAPTER VI

DECADENCE OF ART AND CONSEQUENT CHANGES

  Decadence of art and consequent change in the artistic _milieu_--
      Byzantine art--Its new views do not seem to favour old ways--
      Art patronage and collectomania tend to disappear--The medieval
      period--Character of the collections--No imitators but a few
      forgers.


The change affecting the world with the decadence of the Roman Empire
was logically bound to stamp the successive course of art with the
inevitable downfall of past glory. With the Christian era a new society
had arisen and also a new art, entirely symbolic, no more satisfied
with the early plagarisms, apparently lisping a new tongue but ready to
dispel all pagan sentiment in art, to establish the elements of a new
expression and purpose more in harmony with the reborn civilization.
With an art that Taine considers “after five centuries to be unable
to represent man except seated or standing erect,” symbolic and
calligraphic at the same time, there seemed to be no room for amateurs
and collectors of the old type.

There may have been sporadic cases, though Constantine’s severe censure
of all the cults of the past doubtlessly made it a daring act at that
time to profess worship for old traditions in art. Collectomania very
likely became a thing of the past. There must have been dealers in
art and antiques, as we can gather from the Digest, and transactions
between artists and clients, as can be seen from a clause of the
Justinian laws, but nothing like there were in the ancient Roman world
that had been dispersed by the new civilization.

This clause Justinian was forced to add to a law on artistic property,
as judges had so lost all sense of art appreciation that in a dispute
between a painter and the man who had furnished the board on which the
work was painted, they decided that the painting belonged to the one
who owned the board. Justinian was forced to do justice by stating that
if a quarrel arose between the artist and the one who furnished the
board the owner of the work was the artist, as the value of the board
could not be compared with the artistic one. “Think,” he concludes, “of
comparing the value of the work of Apelles or Parrhasius with the price
of a board of very small value.”

The time for lovers of art, for private speculations and the all but
consequent faking, and all the characteristic figures of an art market
had disappeared.

In the early medieval period there seems to have been no scope for
faking and forgery. The collector, if the type then existing is
entitled to the name, was like nothing that had been seen before or
has since appeared. The objects treasured generally had more intrinsic
value than real artistic merit. A collection represented a simple form
of banking, a sound and good investment taking the place of what the
French call “personal property.”

With such views, goldsmiths’ work, studded and ornamented with precious
stones, or rich embroideries in gold, naturally had the preference.
Articles of virtu then had a solid value, and while suitable for
princely display, could be turned into money at any moment. The craze
for manuscripts, rare penmanship, and early illuminated parchments may
represent an exception, but only, apparently, as such objects--apart
from their rarity, skill and supreme patience in miniature work--were
of such an established value as to be regarded like precious gems.

The medieval collections of art and precious things give a true
expression of those unsafe and uncertain times and were in harmony
with the erratic career of the monarchs and potentates whose peculiar
mode of life often necessitated the packing of the whole museum into
a coffer and dragging it with them in their pilgrimages, wars, etc.
This not only in some way explains the preference given to goldsmiths’
work but the fact that the dimensions of sculpture had to be reduced,
and painting, when not for church decoration, was mostly restricted to
miniatures, illumination, and designs for tapestries and embroideries.

Clovis, the “Most Christian King,” as Pope Anastasius called him, is
supposed to have been an eager collector of rare and precious objects.
Tradition claims that a saint one day broke one of his rarest cups of
jasper all studded with precious stones, and seeing Clovis’ sorrow at
such a loss, picked up the fragments and praying over them, performed
a miracle, handing to the monarch the cup restored to one piece as
before. Clotaire, the son of Clovis, had in his mansion at Braine a
secret room with chests full of jewellery and precious vases.

Chilperic had a real ambition to collect rare objects of virtu. For
this purpose he sent everywhere for all that might be worthy of his
collection. Gregory of Tours tells us that he had a Jew as adviser, a
man called Priseus.

It is said that when Chilperic exhibited at Nogent-sur-Marne the
presents offered him by the Emperor Tiberius II, to show that they
did not surpass in splendour the best pieces of his own treasure,
he exhibited close to them one of his precious cups, a golden vase
studded with rare stones and weighing fifty pounds. Twenty years
later, between 560 and 580, Saint Radegond, the daughter of the king
of Thuringia, received the poet and canon Fortunatus in her convent
of Poitiers and gave him a dinner with the table covered in roses and
the richest ornamented silver plates and precious jasper cups. Such a
treat inspired the poet with one of his fine Latin poems. Dagobert was
not only an enlightened collector of precious things but so extremely
fond of artistic “vaisselle” that when Sisinande, a Gothic king, wished
to induce the Frankish monarch to join him in his political schemes he
promised Dagobert a fine gold plate weighing five pounds “and more
precious still for the beauty of the workmanship.”

After a long lapse of time, in which the only museums of the art of
the time seem to have been the churches, under Charlemagne and his
successors private collections of treasures, art and fine pieces of
work again seem to acquire importance. The Bibliothèque Nationale of
Paris owns an _Évangéliaire_ of rare artistic value, illuminated by a
monk named Godescal of the year 781.

The Bible and Psalter of Charles the Bald are said to have been the
work of the monks of Saint-Martin de Tours, and are considered a marvel
of illumination. Together with these books, now kept in the Librairie
Nationale of Paris, Charles presented to the Church of Saint Denis a
famous cup known in his time as Ptolemy’s cup, a fine work carved from
a piece of precious sardonyx. In the will of this monarch’s brother,
the Marquis of Friuli, a document dated 870, there is, among other
legacies, the enumeration of arms studded with precious stones, clothes
in silk and gold embroideries, silver vases and ivory cups, finely
chiselled, and a library in which among other notable works are the
writings of Saint Basil, Saint Isidore and Saint Cyprian. From this
time forward a collection of rare things and precious jewels is quite a
necessary apanage of kings and princes, but as we have said, it mostly
consisted of small objects in which art almost invariably seems to
have played a secondary rôle, and in considering the art it is often
hard to know whether to admire more the miniaturist’s patience or his
workmanship.

Later on the cult of pagan art seems to have been revived by the
Emperor Frederick II, the son of Barbarossa, but even at this time the
case is somewhat of an exception.

Under patrons of art who were as a rule absolute monarchs or iron
rulers and all-powerful princes, fakery would have played a dangerous
and most sorrowful part, nor was there any inducement to indulge in
any of the trickery that had characterized the world of lovers of art
during the Roman decadence. A risky game at any time, it might have
entailed one of those exemplary punishments which characterized the
ferocious Middle Ages.

Coin counterfeiting was naturally the least artistic form of deceit,
and being a less hazardous venture seems to have tempted ability in
all ages. It represents a link between more proficient periods of art
swindling.

Some of these early fakers certainly planted the seed from which sprang
the arch-deceivers and clever medallists of the Renaissance.

      There lies Romena, where I falsified
      The alloy that is with the Baptist stamped
      For which on earth I left my body burned.

These words Dante puts into the mouth of Mastro Adamo da Brescia, a
skilful counterfeiter of coins whom he met in hell. Adamo was burned at
the stake near the castle of Romena in the Casentino, for having cast,
by order of the Count of Romena, the golden florin of the Florentine
Republic.

About this time counterfeit coining tempted the most diverse classes of
people. It had a long list of devotees, including even a king of France
who honoured the Republic of Florence with not a few of his swindling
specimens of the golden florin. Marostica, a village in the Venetian
domains, challenged and defeated the powerful Republic of the lagoon by
flooding the Venetian market with the most deceptive samples of false
coinage.




CHAPTER VII

THE RENAISSANCE PERIOD

  Initiation of the Renaissance period--Newly born passion for
      the antique--The Mæcenas and the collector--Plagiarians,
      imitators and fakers--Cola di Rienzi, archæologist--A
      collection of the fourteenth century--Artists, writers and
      travellers hunting for antiques--Niccoli, the Medicis, Cardinal
      Scarampi and others--The Medici collection dispersed by the
      Florentine mob.


The Renaissance fakers of art have a somewhat nobler pedigree when
compared with those of other epochs. The early artists from whom they
sprang were not actual imitators of the Greeks and Romans, but were
inspired by them to reproduce that pagan expression which had deeply
affected their artistic temperament. Were these artists doing it purely
for art’s sake, or had they the hope that their work might pass as
antique? The answer to this is perhaps to be deduced from the character
of the age not yet fully ripe for artistic deception. The sentiment
for, and cult of, the antique were certainly growing during this early
part of the Renaissance; they did not come in a sudden burst, but had
been gradually developing in the previous years.

As a matter of fact, already in the transitional period which prepared
the highest artistic accomplishment of the Renaissance, collections and
collectors were becoming not only eclectic in taste, but seem to have
been guided by a real artistic fondness for the art of the past. It
is no more a question of solid silver and jewels, but of statues and
paintings. Catalogues no longer read like that of Charles VI of France:
“Inventoire des joyaux, vaiselle d’or et d’argent estant au Louvre et
en la Bastille à Paris appartenent à feu le roy Charles,” followed by
a monotonous enumeration of jewels, _vaiselle_, etc., but are like that
of the Medici collection, and include all the most varied expressions
of art--sculpture, paintings, medals, carving, cameos, rare jewels,
etc.

In the early part of the 14th century we know that Cola di Rienzi, the
Roman Tribune, collected inscriptions. One of his biographers tells
us that Cola “occupied himself every day with inscriptions cut into
marble, which were to be found round Rome. No one could decipher the
ancient epitaphs like him. He translated all the ancient writings
and gave the right interpretation to these marbles.” It was between
the years 1344-47 that Cola compiled a work on Roman inscriptions,
re-edited a century later by Signorili in his _Descriptio urbis Romæ_.

Oliver Forza, or Forzetta, who flourished about the year 1335,
seems to have owned the first complete collection of which we have
notice. Forzetta was a wealthy citizen of Treviso. We know that in
the above year of 1335 he came to Venice to buy several pieces for
his collection, manuscripts of the works of Seneca, Ovid, Sallust,
Cicero, Titus, Livius, etc., goldsmiths’ work, fifty medals that had
been promised him by a certain Simon, crystals, bronzes, four statues
in marble, others representing lions, horses, nude figures, etc. The
latter seem to have belonged to an earlier collector named Perenzolo.

To point out that even outside Italy taste had changed at the beginning
of the 15th century, we may quote the following description handed down
to us by Guillebert de Metz. It gives a full account of the collection
of Jacques Duchie, a Parisian, and indicates that at this early time
Paris must have possessed more than one of these collections of art and
curios.

“The house of master Duchie in the rue des Prouvelles,” says Guillebert
de Metz, “the door of which is carved with marvellous artistry; in the
courtyard there were peacocks and diverse fancy birds. The first hall
is adorned with diverse pictures and instructive texts fixed to and
hung on the walls. Another hall filled with all manner of instruments,
harps, organs, viols, guitars, psalters, and others, upon all of which
the said master Jacques knew how to play. Another hall was furnished
with chess tables and other diverse kinds of games, great in number.
_Item_, a beautiful chapel where there were stands to place books
upon, marvellously wrought, which had been sent from diverse places
far and near, to the right and to the left. _Item_, a study the walls
of which were covered with precious stones and with spices of sweet
odour. _Item_, several other rooms richly furnished with beds and with
ingeniously carved tables and adorned with rich hangings and cloth of
gold. _Item_, in another lofty room were a great number of cross-bows,
some of which were painted with beautiful figures. Here were standards,
banners, pennons, bows, pikes, swords, lances, battle-axes, iron and
lead armour, _pavais_, shields, bucklers, cannon and other engines,
with arms in abundance, and, briefly, there were also all manner of
war implements. _Item_, there was a window of wonderful workmanship,
through which you put a hollow iron mask through which you could look
out and speak to those outside, if occasion arose, without making
yourself known. _Item_, above the whole house was a square room with
windows on every side from which one could overlook the town. And when
it came to eating, food and drink were sent up by a pulley, because
it would have been too high up to carry. And above the pinnacles of
the house were beautiful gilt figures. This master Jacques Duchie was
a handsome man ‘_de honneste hebit_’ and very distinguished; he kept
well-mannered and well-trained servants of pleasing countenance, among
whom was a master carpenter who was constantly at work at the mansion.”

But Italy at the early part of this century was far more advanced.
There was no question here of collectors of dubious taste or odd fancy
for the simply curious; on the contrary we are confronted by real
connoisseurs and genuine lovers of art, intelligent and eager hunters
after all sorts of articles of virtu of past art; and also enlightened
art patrons who were munificent toward their contemporary painters,
sculptors and literary men.

Taste had changed, and some tendencies merely outlined at the time when
religion seemed to absorb all the activities of art, were now in full
growth. That which in the art of the Cosmati appeared to be a Byzantine
aping Roman art, all that seemed plagiarism of this classic art in
Nicola Pisano, takes an interestingly different course with Donatello,
Brunellesco, and all of those artists whom a wrong convention calls
the forerunners of the Renaissance instead of calling them the real
creators of that great artistic movement.

The passion for the antique was reviving. It was no longer a question
of sporadic cases but rather of a wide-spreading taste. Roman art was
in the air. Besides Rienzi, this cult of antique memories had already
claimed his friend Petrarch and the learned Dondi, a physician from
Padua, who visited Rome in the year 1375 to crown a long course of
study devoted to the antique. In a letter addressed to his friend
Guglielmo da Cremona, Giovanni proclaims the superiority of antique art
and is certain that modern artists will be the first to recognize the
fact and learn from it. Poor and hard-working, Dondi regrets that his
profession, his ailing patients, take so much of his time. But for the
profession, “I would rise as high as the stars,” he naively declares.

Ciriaco d’Ancona, another great eager collector and intelligent
hunter after fine things, visits the Orient and Greece in search of
manuscripts and relics of art; Francesco Squarcione comes from the
East, bringing to his native Padua fine Greek works, and is perhaps the
first artist to devote himself to antiques, just as Niccolo Niccoli, a
Florentine lover of art, represents at this time the learned amateur of
taste.

[Illustration:

    _Photo:_      _Alinari_

DIOMEDES WITH THE PALLADIUM.

An imitation of the antique by Donatello’s School (?) and a free copy
of Niccoli’s cameo, a Greek work. Palazzo Riccordi, Florence.]

Niccoli is really one of the finest types of collectors. Born at a time
when Florence demanded that each citizen should belong to one or other
of the factions that kept civil war alive in the city, he nevertheless
managed to keep free from all civil strife. His house was the temple
of art and of neutrality. A friend of the powerful and wealthy Medicis,
who by the way trusted to his infallible eye as a connoisseur whenever
rare things were offered, Niccoli never took advantage of this unusual
position, but kept himself far from all ambition and was possessed
by the sole desire to collect art, study old manuscripts, and be an
ever-obliging helper to students. The friends and admirers who came in
flocks for advice, to borrow his rare manuscripts, or to visit his fine
emporium of art, were always well received. Niccolo Niccoli was born in
the year 1363. The son of a rich Florentine merchant he was forced in
his youth to give all his activities to commerce. Liberated from the
tie of a profession for which he had no call, he finally gave himself
to his cherished study of art and literature, attending the lessons
of Luigi Marsigli and Emanuele Chrysoloras. His studies were thus the
stepping-stone to the collecting of antiquities. In the year 1414 his
fame had already extended beyond the city walls. The Chancellor of the
city of Padua addressed him in a letter as “_clarissimus vetustatis
cultor_.” Notwithstanding his great wealth, such was his passion that
but for the discreet help of the Medici, the powerful Cosimo and his
brother Lorenzo, who became Niccoli’s benevolent bankers, on more
than one occasion this enlightened amateur might have been forced
to sell his precious collection, or at least do that which is most
hateful to the true lover of art, sell the best that years of patient
work had gathered together. What is most surprising is the fact that
Niccoli managed to make one of the finest collections of art of his
day almost without leaving his native city. We know of him as going
once to Padua to secure a rare manuscript of Petrarch, and later on
as accompanying his friend and protector, Cosimo Medici, to Verona,
a trip the latter undertook in the year 1420. With Cosimo again he
visited Rome, to be horrified at the mutilation inflicted upon the
Eternal City by barbarians of all ages and denominations. Yet without
moving from his native city, keen-eyed Niccoli managed to search the
world with the help of agents and friends--some of them, no doubt,
the practised servants of the Medicis. There was hardly a rare thing
discovered, no matter where, but the fact came to Niccoli’s ears, and
the “find” generally found its way to this enlightened Florentine’s
collection. Once he even had the fortune to discover a fine sample
of Greek art in Florence, a few steps from the door of his house. It
was the well-known cameo which he attributed to Polycletus and which
was afterwards so often reproduced by the artists of the Renaissance.
Niccoli discovered this rare piece of chalcedony hanging round the
neck of a street urchin. He asked him who his father was and found him
to be a poor workman. He went to see him, and to the man’s surprise
offered for the stone the round sum of 5 golden ducats. It is curious
to trace the migrations of Niccoli’s “calcedonio,” as the piece was
called later. When Cardinal Scarampi--the Patriarch of Aquileia and
the most passionate collector of his time--came to Florence, he went
to visit Niccoli and his collection. There he became so enamoured of
the “calcedonio” that he proposed to buy it. Niccoli, who could hardly
refuse the favour to the powerful and influential Cardinal, consented
to part with the rare piece for 200 ducats. Later on the “calcedonio”
entered the collection of Pope Paul II, to pass finally to that of
Lorenzo il Magnifico. In an inventory belonging to the Medici family
the gem is valued at 1500 golden florins.

Not dissimilar from certain modern and older types of collectors,
Niccoli was what might be called a strange character. While spending
large sums of money on his articles of virtu, he was almost
parsimonious in his household, although he liked to drink from rare
cups and set his table most richly with all sorts of precious vases.
One of his peculiarities was always to be dressed in pink. He had an
endless wardrobe of these rosy-hued garments and was as preoccupied
with them as he was with the rare objects of his collection. These
and other oddities were naturally the subject of gibes and sarcasm
from friends and unfriendly humanists, but Niccoli never answered
one written line, content to retaliate with his witty and cutting
tongue. He certainly had the best of it in this curious duel, for he
forced Aurispa and Filelfe to leave the town, and also, perhaps not
through his sarcastic tongue alone but through some Medicean intrigue,
compelled his enemies, Emanuel Chrysoloras, his former teacher, and
Guarino to make themselves very scarce in the city.

Niccolo Niccoli’s name brings us straight to that of his protectors,
the Medicis, the family who as collectors of art and fosterers of
literature and philosophy surpassed every one of their age.

Cardinal Scarampi’s collection, that of Pietro Barbe, afterwards Paul
II, and even the most complete of all, that of Niccoli, become rather
minor stars when compared with the artistic treasures gathered by the
Medicis for generations. This illustrious Florentine family seems to
have been for centuries nothing but a succession of patrons of the fine
arts.

“No art collection,” says Eugene Müntz in his _Les Collections des
Médicis_, “has more deeply influenced the art of the Renaissance, no
collection has passed through more trials than the one of this family.
Ten generations of enthusiastic amateurs have given themselves to its
enrichment; the greatest artists, Donatello, Ghiberti, Verrocchio, the
two Lippi, Ghirlandaio, Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo and
Raphael have sought inspiration and models in the Medici collection.
This while, by an unaccountable contradiction, all the revolutions that
troubled the city of Florence seem to have continually threatened the
existence of such an inestimable gathering.”

To be convinced of the extreme importance of the Medici collection
one has but to reflect that what now remains of it in the Florentine
museums or in well-known private hands is only the smallest part of
those past treasures, which has managed to survive the pillage of the
collection in the year 1494, when Piero Medici fled and the Medici
palace was sacked by the populace and the remaining effects sold
and dispersed by order of the Commune. What was later recovered by
the family was only a small part of the collection. An idea of the
magnitude of the Medici museum of art can be gained by perusing the
accurate inventories still remaining in the Florentine archives, the
list of the objects left by Cosimo the Elder to his son Piero and the
catalogue of the collection belonging to Lorenzo il Magnifico, and
finally the account of their money.

A brief study of the character of the two most important collectors of
the Medici family, Cosimo and Lorenzo il Magnifico, will enable us to
judge of the quality and tendencies of the amateur of the Renaissance.

The characteristics of the time in which Cosimo lived and the fact that
he had spent a long period in exile, a misfortune brought upon him by
jealousy, gave his inclinations as an amateur a different course from
what they might otherwise have had. Thus, while on the one hand Cosimo
never lost a chance to help artists and to acquire fine works of art,
he was shrewd enough to do so without ostentation, to avoid arousing
enmity from adversaries. But for this peculiar feeling Cosimo’s palace,
the present Palazzo Riccardi, one of the most sumptuous monuments of
Florence, might have been still more imposing, displaying greater
architectural wealth. It is known that Brunelleschi’s project was
privately preferred by Cosimo, but he did not dare to arouse old
jealousies by too sumptuous a display. Michelozzo’s design was chosen
as the more modest of the two and thus better fitted for the “bourgeois
prince” of Florence. Notwithstanding the necessity for caution even in
liberality, Cosimo encouraged Poggio Bracciolini and many others in
their intelligent search for manuscripts and rare parchments. He had
Niccoli as an invaluable adviser and helper, and left to his son Piero
one of the finest collections of antiques.

His grandson, Lorenzo il Magnifico, was more free-handed. Times had
changed, the Medici family, though without heraldic title, was now
master of the city, and the splendours of a man of taste, such as
Lorenzo, and his prodigal inclinations, knew no restraint whatever.
The difference between Cosimo and Lorenzo lay perhaps in the fact
that the former could not do half what he might have done. Comparing
Niccoli and Lorenzo, one might say that the former tallied more with
the modern interpretation of the word collector, while the latter, as
being far too eclectic a lover of all sorts of artistic expression, was
more cut out for the part of an enlightened Mæcenas, a prince-amateur
and a generous patron of art and literature. One can hardly even
imagine the Magnifico classifying his cameos as did Niccoli, or giving
a semi-scientific and rational order to his objects of virtu, but,
running on the same lines as Cosimo, Lorenzo invested in the rôle
of patron of art and lover of the antique, in which he displayed
such magnificence as to fully deserve his appellation. Such was the
character of these two Medicis, stated by contemporaries as being more
greedy for fame than money. An estimation fully justified, especially
in the case of Lorenzo, who in his _Ricordi_ notes that his father
and grandfather spent 663,755 florins in the space of thirty years
and rejoices in the fact. The sum quoted amounts to rather more than
a million francs; how many modern heirs would feel like Lorenzo il
Magnifico?

Like Niccoli and Cosimo, Lorenzo possessed the excellent quality, most
uncommon in a collector, of letting friends and admirers have full
benefit of his collection. More than the gratification of an egotistic
desire to possess rare and beautiful things, he saw in his artistic
pursuits a great means of education and a help to the artists of his
time.

According to the taste of his age, Lorenzo was very partial to Greek
and Roman art, to all that concerned past civilization. A page of
Plato or the beautiful form of a Greek marble aroused in him feelings
of emotion more than any modern expression. Not only did he fill his
palace with fine pieces of sculpture but his villas also appear to have
been replete with them.

“He was bursting with joy,” Valori, one of his contemporaries tells us,
“when he received the bust of Plato sent him by Girolamo Roscio.”

This passion for the antique, however, did not prevent Lorenzo from
encouraging the artists of his own time or from taking a deep interest
in their art. Eclectic in taste, as a collector he nevertheless had
some preferences. In a letter to his son Giulio, the future Leo X, on
his promotion to the Cardinalate, he gives advice as to the kind of art
which is most in keeping with ecclesiastical taste, but as a matter
of fact epitomizes his own penchant as a collector of art. Urging his
son to give preference to antique statuary, he discourages him from
becoming a collector of jewels, tapestries and embroideries. “Love in
preference,” he recommends, “fine antique things and books”--_qualche
gentilezza di cose antiche_.

Lorenzo the Magnificent seems to stand apart from the lovers of art
of his time not only on account of his culture and intelligence, his
broad eclectic views and genuine cult of every expression of beauty,
but as being a rare type of the grand seigneur, æsthete and humanist.
Paul II is a passionate collector of art, but more a scholar than an
artist, with him knowledge is supreme; Cardinal Scarampi is, as Ciriaco
D’Ancona calls him, an archæologist, and Niccoli, as an eager and
intelligent searcher of objects, would make a good type of antiquary of
our day, but Lorenzo displays interest in every kind of elevated human
expression; his character seems to conform to his noble motto, _Nul ne
sait qui n’essaye_ (nobody knows who does not try).

His reputation as a connoisseur and expert in art spread afar. Princes
and monarchs asked his advice. Lorenzo is not only prodigal in this
respect, but also in the artistic things of his collection which he
sends as presents. To Mathias Corvinus he sent a bust by Verrocchio, to
the Count of Madaloni of Naples a fine horse’s head--now in the museum
of that city--a rare piece of work which until lately was taken for
Greek but is now attributed to Donatello. The Duke of Calabria asks
him for an architect, and he sends him one; in the year 1488 he sends
to Ferdinand, king of Naples, a fine plan of a palace by Giuliano da
Sangallo, and later he introduces Leonardo da Vinci to Lodovico il
Moro, Filippino Lippi to Cardinal Carafa, Sansovino to the king of
Portugal. In connection with odd requests that came to Lorenzo from
princes and monarchs there is a queer one from Louis XI. The French
king asks the Magnificent to lend him for a while the miraculous ring
of the Florentine patron saint, San Zanobi, pledging himself to restore
the ring to the owners--very likely the Girolami of Florence--and
begging Lorenzo to tell him how and in what way it must be worn to
perform the miracle, cure his gout and restore him to health.

Through his love of art and his munificence towards artists Lorenzo
became practically bankrupt, and certainly had no scruples about using
public funds for his private purposes. Not that he was fond of personal
display, on the contrary he detested outlays that had no public utility
or did not foster some progress.

Rinuccini, another of his contemporaries, tells us of Lorenzo’s
indifference to personal luxury and of his dislike for society
functions. “All the things that in olden days,” says Rinuccini, “gave
grace and reputation to the citizens; like weddings, dances and fêtes
and handsome clothes, he condemned them all and did away with them
through his example and his words.”

A detailed description of his character as a collector and the quality
of his passion is not so eloquent of Lorenzo’s particular penchant as
his _Ricordi_. Take, for instance, these words concerning his mission
to Rome at the elevation to the Holy See of Cardinal Della Rovere. “In
the month of September, 1471, I was sent as ambassador to attend the
coronation of Pope Sixtus. I was the recipient of many honours in Rome
and brought back from the city two antique busts, the portraits of
Augustus and Agrippa, given to me by the Pope. I also brought with me
the carved cup of chalcedony and many cameos and medals.”

It must be said that in forming his collection the Magnifico never lost
sight of Rome and its treasures. He had many agents in the Eternal
City excavating and looking for antiques to add to his collection.
His intercourse with these accomplices, the ruses employed, the adroit
management of influential prelates opposed to Lorenzo’s schemes, and
grieved that rare things should leave Rome, form an interesting chapter
of diplomacy.

Glyptography was given preference in Lorenzo’s collection. Some of
his cameos and engraved precious stones are now the rarest things in
our modern museums. Then came a fine collection of coins and medals,
23,000 pieces in all, and another of Etruscan vases. His statues, which
Verrocchio and other artists were often charged to repair, filled to
overflowing his palazzo in Florence and his villas.

To his assistance came not only special agents, but friends as well.
A magnificent vase was obtained by Lorenzo from Venice, and it was
through the mediation of his literary friend Politiano that the rare
find got into the Magnifico’s collection. Politiano writes from Venice
to his friend and patron on June 20th, 1491, that Messer Zaccharia has
just received from Greece _una terra cotta antiquissima_ and that he
believes it to be worthy of Lorenzo’s collection. Antonio Yvane writing
to Donato Acciaioli says that a little statue of Hercules has been
found at Luni, and that it and other antiques excavated are to be sent
to Lorenzo.

One of his agents sent him a marble statue with an Etruscan
inscription; from Siena, Lorenzo receives a bust that sends him into
raptures, and he immediately wishes to buy it. To give an idea of his
appreciation and willingness to pay whatever it might be worth, we
quote part of his letter dated May 15th, 1490, addressed to Andrea
da Foiano then at Siena. “Ser Andrea, I received your letter last
night, and with it the head which you sent me and which, on account
of its being fine and having much of the antique beauty, I would most
willingly buy from him who owns it, if he will part with it for what it
is worth.”

Though there is no document to support the fact, this bust is possibly
the one that P. della Valle says was sent from Siena to Lorenzo,
representing a head of Jupiter, of such a character that beheld from
one side it had a benign expression, and from the other a terrifying
one. Naples also contributed its share to the Medicean collection,
from whence arrive the portraits of Faustina and Scipio Africanus, a
fine bust of Hadrian and a sleeping Cupid. These last two statues were
conveyed to him by Giuliano da Sangallo, who under Lorenzo’s directions
had asked them of the king of Naples.

As a collector and type of antiquary not disdaining a good bargain,
and perhaps influenced by the lineage of shrewd bankers, from which
he sprang, Lorenzo made more than one good stroke of business. From
Pope Sixtus IV he managed to buy the artistic treasure of the Holy See
at such a ridiculous price as to arouse protests from the Pontifical
accountants. The deal, which was carried through by Lorenzo’s uncle,
Giovanni Tornabuoni, caused a scandal that only the Pope’s authority
managed to silence, and the Medici collection became enriched by many
fine pieces. Among them, the so-called “Tazza Farnese,” now one of
the finest pieces of the Naples Museum, to which the inventory of the
collection gives a value of 10,000 ducats, and the rare Greek work
known as the “Rape of the Palladium,” rated by the same inventory at
the sum of 1500 ducats. This celebrated cameo had formerly belonged to
Niccoli. Donatello copied it for one of his medallions of the Medici
palace. There were other dealings between the Medici and the Holy See,
but we fail to know how advantageous they may have been for either
side. In the year 1460 the Medici sold a piece of tapestry to Pope Pius
II for the not inconsiderable sum of 1200 golden ducats, and later on,
through the above-quoted agent, Giovanni Tornabuoni, in the year 1484
several yards of common tapestry were sold to the Pope by the Medicis.

We have spoken at greater length of Lorenzo il Magnifico as he appears
to us to symbolize the type of Mæcenas and collector of his epoch,
but all Italian princes were more or less art lovers and collectors
at that time, as well as being shrewd bargain drivers on occasion.
As an example of this, one is led straight to Isabella d’Este and
her hard dealings with Mantegna. Intelligent, keen-eyed and a good
connoisseur, Isabella had set her heart on a _Faustina antica_ in the
possession of the Paduan painter, but did not wish to pay the price
demanded by the artist. Negotiations were carried on for quite a time.
Knowing Mantegna’s straightened circumstances, Isabella coolly and
almost cruelly waited the favourable moment to take best advantage of
the artist’s distressing situation. Pressed by all sorts of needs,
the aged artist finally decides to part with his best antique, the
portrait of Faustina, a work of art he adored. Conscious of having
served the house of Gonzaga most faithfully and knowing Isabella’s
intelligence and admiration for his bust of “Faustina antica,” as he
calls it, he determined to offer her the work for a hundred ducats. In
his letter dated from Mantua, January 13th, 1506, he tells Isabella
all his troubles and how hard it is for him to part with his cherished
bust, but also how glad he would be if she will take it, or as he says:
“Since I have to deprive myself of it, I would rather you had it than
any other Lord or Lady in the world.” To this pitiful letter, ending
with the touching appeal: “I recommend myself to your Excellency many
and many times,” Isabella replies later by sending one of her agents,
whose letter to her is full of an astute spirit of bargaining and runs
as follows:

“In compliance with what your Signoria writes me, I will call to-morrow
morning on Messer Andrea Mantegna and will act as shrewdly as possible
about the Faustina (_farò l’opera con più destro e acconcio modo
saperò_) and will inform your Excellency of the result at once.
Giovanni Calandra Mantua, July 14th, 1506.”

A second letter from Giovanni Calandra informs Isabella that the artist
is obdurate as to the price. That though he is in extreme need he hates
to part with his _Faustina di marmo antica_ and asks pardon for the
refusal, that he hopes to find his price with Monsignor Vescovo di
Gonzaga, who has the reputation, Calandra states, to be keen on these
things. Dealings through the agent go on, till one day the latter
announces to the Marchesa Isabella Gonzaga that she has become the
possessor of the _Faustina antica_, which is already shipped to her
(_Mando per burchiello a posta la Faustina a S.V._), provided she
agrees to the price; if not the agent begs that the bust may be sent
back, in accordance with his promise given to the painter, should the
price not be agreed upon (_acciò possi disobbligar la fede data a
M. Andrea Mantegna_). Negotiations between Isabella Gonzaga and the
penurious artist who had covered with glory the prince he had served
and had decorated with magnificent frescoes the room of Isabella’s
mansion, lasted from January 13th, 1506, to August 2nd of the same year.

These are but a few incidents of the day. All Italy was collecting.
Excitement over antiques had now become a mania, and this is perhaps
the best justification for imitators to have turned into fakers.

At this period art collecting ranged from its highest votaries, Lorenzo
Medici, the Duke of Urbino, Este, Gonzaga, Sforza, Arragona, down to
common citizens who were earnest and intelligent collectors.

One thing to be noted in this epoch is the total absence of the
parvenu collector so fully represented in the Roman period. There
may be an occasional case of snobbery, like that of Cardinal di San
Giorgio, who refused to keep in his house an excellent imitation of
Michelangelo, because, though having deceived him and many others, it
was not actually genuine, although far better than some of the rubbish
of his collection which contained indiscriminatingly anything that had
been unearthed in Rome, but a Tongilius, a Euctus, and above all a
Trimalcho, do not seem to have existed in the Renaissance period. If
they did, they were surely minor characters and quite outside the world
of real amateurs.




CHAPTER VIII

IMITATION, PLAGIARISM AND FAKING

  The artists’ passion for the antique--Brunelleschi, Donatello and
      their followers--Florence, the School of Padua, Venice--
      Imitation, plagiarism and faking--The plaquettes and their
      curious transformations of some Greek and Roman originals--The
      character of the imitations and that of the intended victims.


There is no occasion here to lose oneself in arguments as to whether
the artist was the primal cause of the awakening of the taste for the
antique, or whether it was a mere synthetic translation of a sentiment
already awakened through complex causes, the main one being, perhaps,
classic literature. Classicism, lately developed into an entirely pagan
æsthetic sentiment, a combination of Philhellenic and Latin tendencies,
may as well have influenced art as life in general--a sentiment
that at the moment of its maturity aroused anathematic protest from
Savonarola and a momentary reaction of pietism. However, the preaching
of the friar and his colossal bonfire of art treasures in Piazza della
Signoria were mere incidents in the course of Florentine tendencies of
art. The _Piagnoni_ in Florence may have converted Botticelli and a
few other artists, but the pagan sentiment was not dispelled. For the
artist of the last part of the XVth century San Giorgio and Perseus
were, if not identical, to be treated with the same artistic sentiment.

The real evolution, in our opinion, begins with Brunelleschi and
Donatello. In the year 1404 these two artists undertook a journey
to Rome. For the progress of art this is a memorable date. The real
influence of Greek and Roman art on the artistic movement immediately
preceding the Renaissance begins at that date. It is undeniable that
even before this time mythological subjects had become familiar to both
painters and sculptors, artists preceding Donatello and Brunelleschi,
such as Piero di Giovanni Tedesco, Nicolo di Piero Lamberti (called
_il Pela_) and even Nanni and Antonio di Banco, show slight traces of
Roman art at times--even to the way of working the marble, as in
the ornaments of the north door of the Duomo in Florence, by Giovanni
Tedesco--but they are faint and uncertain traits, leaving one
undecided whether they be attributable to Roman influence or a mere
inheritance from the Romanesque blunt-edged way of working marble.

The years spent in Rome by Donatello and Brunelleschi seem to have
moulded the style of these two artists entirely anew, particularly
that of the former. The citizens of Rome were more or less surprised
at the persistency with which the two artists endeavoured to unearth
fragments of old statues, and supposing them to be animated by a mere
mercenary hope, that of finding some treasure, they called the two
students _quelli del tesoro_ (treasure-seekers). It is undeniably true
that however profitable their search for old coins and marble relics,
their copies and study of ancient art were in their sum total more
valuable than the solid gold they brought back with them to Florence.
The results are plainly visible in Brunelleschi’s architecture and
Donatello’s sculpture, and the influence that their art exercised over
their contemporaries and followers.

As we have said, after his sojourn in Rome, Donatello, particularly,
seems to have immersed his art in a bath of past paganism. His art is
no fakery, nor is it sheer plagiarism of the antique, but it is all
permeated with Greek and Roman reminiscences, and comes at times so
close to the Græco-Roman art that it misleads connoisseurs. Speaking
of Donatello’s art Louis Courajod, a well-known connoisseur, observes:
“He entered so deeply into the spirit of antiquity, that some of his
restorations of statues are very puzzling, and it is difficult to
distinguish his handiwork from that of the original.”

In fact the famous horse’s head of the Naples Museum was catalogued
as a Greek bronze before it was recently attributed to Donatello or
his school. No one can fail to draw a comparison between Donatello’s
_puttino_ and the “Infant with the Goose,” a typical example of
Græco-Roman art.

One of the first to be affected by the new sentiment in art was Lorenzo
Ghiberti. As a matter of fact Ghiberti not only became enamoured of the
antique, but was seized by the passion of collecting the best antiques
in marble and bronze. You may be sure that collectors of this calibre,
unlike the Roman samples, talked very little of patina and a great
deal of form, that their enthusiasm was of a higher alloy even than
that of present-day collectors, who are rarely artists or even real
lovers of art. Polycletus and Lysippus were Ghiberti’s idols, and Greek
art his worship; for the era of Imperial Rome he had no enthusiasm.
His cult for the Greek went so far as to induce him to reckon time by
the Olympiads in his chronology. Instead of telling us that a certain
artist died when Martin V was pope, or in the year so and so, Ghiberti
states amazingly that the event took place in the 438th Olympiad! It
is not surprising that an artist like Ghiberti, and such a lover of
Greek art as he was, should be able to classify Greek art at sight, to
discriminate it from dubious Roman products and all the art that so
closely resembles certain Greek periods.

That the worship of pagan art was practised by artists with no risk
to themselves may be explained by the circumstance that the time of
religious intolerance had passed. Intolerance, comprehensible perhaps
in the early times of Constantine, when it was a crime for an artist to
go to the forms of the past, had gradually sunk into tradition by the
dawn of the new era which paved the way to the Renaissance in art and
to humanistic tendencies, the most tolerant and unprejudiced period of
past civilization.

Lovers of art in this period appear to possess a certain refinement of
feeling that the Romans did not have, they stand more as friends to
the artist, esteem him more, and thus their pursuit has a wider scope.
Even Ghiberti, with all the restrictions placed on his taste by his
infatuation for the antique, was, according to Vasari who describes his
collection, no narrow specialist in the so much praised modern meaning
of the word, namely, a collector who may be useful to the history of
art and to knowledge at large, but who does not as a rule possess a
spark of love for art or artistic feeling.

As is often the case to-day, the heirs of these old collectors were
at times more greedy for money than a reputation for art. Many fine
collections were scattered to the four winds, which was also the
fate meted out to Ghiberti’s collection by his relatives and heirs.
Fortunately a few pieces of this stupendous collection have been saved:
a fine torso of a Satyr can now be seen in the Uffizi. There are other
pieces too that have come down to us, but the finest works, those
attributed to Polycletus, among them a rare ornamented vase, are now
lost.

The new artistic feeling perpetuated itself in architecture from
Brunelleschi to Alberti. The latter built for Malatesta what purported
to be a church, but which is in fact nothing but a temple to Love,
which the tyrant of Rimini erected and dedicated to the memory of
his lady-love, Isotta Atti. The revolution in sculpture effected
by Donatello seems to be felt in Padua and Venice. Imitations of
all sorts, and probably faked antiques, date from this time. It is
difficult to decide whether Donatello’s genuine pagan sentiment, his
second artistic nature, was solely due to his passion or to a desire
to accommodate the general taste for the antique; Italian artists are
far too versatile. However that may be, he was no faker; the art of
the faker flourished when imitators had lost all artistic personality,
becoming mere craftsmen catering as usual to a momentary mania. Then
was the time one saw Filarete indulging in most absurd medals and
portraits of dubious, very dubious, historical correctness; Riccio in
Padua fabricating and flooding the market with charming little bronzes
in which the imitation is so evident that it brings up the question as
to what the art of Andrea Briesco (called _il Riccio_) might have been,
had he chanced to be born at another epoch. Vellano also alternates
fine pieces of work with little bronzes that must have been in great
vogue with collectors of antiques. It is to be noted that the mania
is not confined to Italy, it takes that country by storm because of
its tremendous artistic activity and the fact that in art it is the
foremost country of the time; but others were affected too. France
is the first as being the nearest tributary to Italian supremacy in
art. There are many examples of what we have said, but perhaps one of
the most eloquent is the decoration of the castle of Gaillon, where
there are some medallions with portraits of Roman emperors of a most
mystifying character. Though the work of Italians of the end of the
Quattrocento they were classified as antique (_antiqualles_) only a few
years later, at the beginning of the sixteenth century.

An evident proof that Quattrocento imitations were not always directed
by artistic fancy, but rather by the love of gain by means of fraud and
fakery, is given by the fact that some of the statuettes imitating the
antique were cast with broken limbs.

The Ambras collection of Vienna has one of these curious specimens--a
charming figure, a female nude. This piece has evidently been cast
without arms, the clay model having been mutilated before the form
was taken for the cast. In the Prado of Madrid there is also a bronze
statue of the Renaissance, possibly a cast from the antique, the
peculiarity of which is that the arms have been added afterwards, as
though in restoration. The metal of the arms is of a different alloy
and the modelling of these parts purports to be of a much later date
than the rest of the statue.

The first pieces to show a positive character of fakery are imitations
of old coins and medals. Then small bronzes called _plaquettes_, often
_pastiches_ of antique models, when not actually reproductions from old
cameos.

The Renaissance has also produced many bronze statuettes that seem to
have had no other purpose than to take in the amateur--to gratify his
demand for antiques by launching spurious products upon the market.
The artists responsible for them represent what might be styled the
aristocracy of fakers; there is nothing banal about them, their work is
generally good, so much so that these imitations have now acquired a
value _per se_.

Antonio Pollaiolo, the Florentine sculptor, is one of the most charming
imitators of the antique. The Flute Player of the National Museum
of Florence is perhaps one of the most convincing examples of this
statement. Hercules and Antæus is also a remarkable work by this
artist, though the other is superior on account of its simplicity.
Of the Flute Player there are copies of the same period in the Cluny
Museum and at Avignon. Curiously enough this statuette tempted even the
pencil of Raphael, who reproduced it in a sketch-book now kept in the
Academy of Venice.

As soon as he had left the goldsmith’s shop, Andrea del Verrocchio
started the early period of his activity in his new career as a
sculptor, and made his way, according to Vasari, by casting small
figures in bronze. We know very little of these small statuettes of
Verrocchio’s, beyond attribution, but, Vasari says, Verrocchio was
tempted to make them while in Rome, because he saw how appreciated
were antique statuettes, so much so that even fragments fetched fancy
prices. Being an excellent craftsman with the chisel, and skilled
in the casting of metals, Verrocchio would seem to have been fully
equipped for catering to the demand of the amateurs of his time.

Vellano, in his imitations of the antique, seems at times to have even
been tempted to counterfeit Egyptian art. His art in imitating is
eclectic and most versatile.

[Illustration: IMITATIONS OF THE ANTIQUE.

By Moderno, XVIth Century.]

Andrea Briesco seems to possess the brusque touch of some antique
sculptors combined with the mania of Roman foppishness in
over-draping his statuettes. They are invariably arrayed in gorgeous
consular armour, elaborate togas, imperial sandals, and have, as a
remarkable contrast, wild, vulgar faces in complete disharmony with
the rich decoration of the costumes. However, when this artist models
horses or simple nude figures he gets closer to the originals and is
evidently an excellent and dangerous imitator. The bronzes of the
Paduan school that may, with more or less certainty, be attributed to
Riccio, are endless and in some of them the intention of faking is
evident.

Jacopo Sansovino, the presumed author of the bronze statuette of
Meleager of the Pourtales collection in Berlin, does not seem to take
the trouble to disguise the origin of his plagium.

Michelangelo was too great a personality as an artist and too highly
gifted to be tempted to hide his genius and waste his fine energies on
imitation of the antique. Yet the story of his Sleeping Cupid, sold in
Rome as an antique, is very instructive. Though well known it serves
admirably to illustrate the character of the amateurs contemporary to
the great sculptor. The anecdote casts a certain justified suspicion
that the collectors of the Renaissance and early sixteenth century must
have been duped on a larger scale than we are led to suppose from the
scanty information we possess on the subject.

Vasari informs us that Michelangelo sculptured from a piece of marble
a life-sized sleeping Cupid, that in this work he had imitated the
antique to a surprising extent; so much so that when the work was shown
to Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici the latter advised the sculptor
to send the work to Rome and sell it as an antique, as “by this means
he could obtain a far better price.” According to Vasari, the Cupid,
marvellously arranged and coloured like an old piece of sculpture, was
taken to Rome, buried in a vineyard and then “discovered” and sold as
an antique to Cardinal San Giorgio, who paid 200 ducats for the work (a
ducat was worth about 9s.). Vasari adds that the person who had acted
as go-between in the affair tried to cheat Michelangelo by saying
that the Cardinal had only paid him 30 _scudi_ (a scudi was worth
about 4s.), and he then comments on the Cardinal’s poor taste in not
giving the Cupid due consideration after he had discovered that it was
modern. He says: “Not recognizing the merit of the work, which consists
in perfection, wherein the moderns are as good as the ancients,”
the Cardinal did not know how lucky he was to own a genuine work by
Michelangelo in the place of heaven knows what poor product of some
modest master of antiquity.

Condivi repeats the story, which has given ample food for popular fancy
and folklore, adding that the irate Cardinal caused the man to be
arrested and, giving him back the Cupid, claimed and received the sum
paid for it.

The fact that Michelangelo, who went to Rome in the year 1496, wrote
in July, 1496, to Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici that he had paid
a visit to the Cardinal di San Giorgio, shows that the prelate did not
bear the artist a grudge for the joke. In this letter Michelangelo
tells Lorenzo Medici that he has tried in vain to get the Cupid back
from Baldassarre Milanese, the dealer and go-between in the affair of
the Cardinal, but seeing that the man is obstinate in his refusal to
give back the statue he has been advised to use Cardinal San Giorgio’s
authority.

Condivi says that in some unknown way this statue passed into the hands
of Duke Valentino, and finally became the property of the Marchioness
of Mantua, who owned it at the time Condivi, the historian and
Michelangelo’s pupil, was writing.

After the small statuettes, Roman busts are a source of some excellent
imitations. Of these works, both in marble and bronze, many museums
possess good examples. The Uffizi Gallery has two or three good ones;
besides these the many restored busts and statues of this same Gallery
speak of the characteristic pliability and plagiarism in art of the
Renaissance. A fine bust in bronze of a hypothetical Roman emperor,
formerly in the collection of Baron Davillier, is now in the Louvre
Museum. It is evidently the work of an artist of the versatile and
prolific Paduan school.

This very school of Padua, strengthened by the advent of Vittore
Camelio, Cavino, de Bassiano, and other capable fakers of art--we
feel we need not scruple to use the word in association with these
names--is chiefly responsible for those coins, medals and small
bronzes that it would be naive to say were made solely for the sake of
imitating.

The imitations of bas-reliefs prepared perhaps the popularity of those
small bronze bas-reliefs called _plaquettes_ which seem to have meant
so much to the collector of the time. We even find the angelic Mino,
the last Renaissance artist who should have attempted to paganize
his sweetly ascetic art, trying his hand at these marble bas-reliefs
of Roman emperors, re-edited for the benefit of amateurs. These
bas-reliefs already seem to have inveigled artists into palming them
off with fantastic tales, giving them what might be called a shampoo
of history. In the Brunswick Museum there is a bas-relief in marble,
evidently aping antique art, representing an Aristotle in an absurd
pointed headgear and with the following inscription:--

    ΑΡΙΣΤΟΤΕΛΗΣ
    Ο ΑΡΙΣΤΟΣ ΤΟΝ (sic)
    ΦΙΛΟΣΟΦΩΝ

A replica of this bronze belonged to Charles Timbal’s collection, and
is now in the possession of Monsieur Gustave Dreyfus; a third, with an
identical inscription, is kept in the Modena Museum; a fourth is in the
Correr Museum of Venice; and, finally, a fifth sample of this fantastic
Aristotle is in the National Museum, the Bargello of Florence.

It is certain that there was a companion-piece to this Aristotle, the
portrait of Plato, which has come down to us in material other than
bronze, but which must have once been the pendant of the Aristotle, as
there are clay reproductions of both portraits, the Aristotle being
identical to the ones already quoted. Of Plato there are several
bas-reliefs in marble, one in the Bavarian Museum of Munich, another in
the Museum of Arezzo, and another in the Prado. In the latter museum
there is also an Aristotle in marble with its freakish head-covering,
long hair and a long beard; of Plato there are two marble bas-reliefs,
two medallions. In the larger one there is the inscription:--

    ΠΛΑΤΩΝΟΣ ΑΘΗΝΑΙΟΥ

A curious fact to be noticed is that of these two portraits Aristotle’s
must have caught public fancy more than that of his philosophical
companion. Not only because of the numerous reproductions of the one
original but because it must have been popular already in the time of
Louis XII, being reproduced in clay in a medallion of the castle of
Alluye at Blois. In this race for popularity in a foreign country and
from a spurious origin, Plato seems to have lost nearly half a century,
as we find a reproduction in the castle of Ecouen about the middle of
the sixteenth century, which landed finally in the Museum of French
Monuments, where Baltard renamed it as the portrait of Jean Bullant. No
strange transition when one considers that a cast of the original Plato
was, for quite a long time, shown in the Louvre as the portrait of
Philibert Delorme.

The Louvre has a queer marble medallion, a work of the beginning of the
sixteenth century, of a Roman _Imperator Caldusius_, and a medallion of
Cato is now in the Museum of Beauvais.

When Vespasiano da Bisticci tells us that Niccoli “had in his house
an infinite number of medals in bronze and silver and gold, and many
antique brass figures, and many marble heads, and other valuable
things,” we can believe that they were genuine, but when it is a
question of a later collection of old marble heads, bas-reliefs and
medals, we wonder how many an Emperor Caldusius it contained.

This curious trade in and mania for _pastiche_ was assisted, it must
be added, by the tremendous skill that the artists of all periods of
the Renaissance seem to have possessed in moulding, recasting, and
composing one piece from two or three originals.

We know that Verrocchio used to make plaster casts of living people,
and the custom of making bust portraits and medallions from death
masks was quite common in the Quattrocento and later. Such post-mortem
reproductions were often ably disguised by the modelling stick, while
at other times they showed only too plainly their ghastly origin.

A regular riot of fakery, combined with the most fantastic
metamorphoses of Greek and Roman originals, existed for the benefit
of crazy numismatists, greedy collectors of medals and amateurs with
a fancy for small bronze bas-reliefs. In the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries the imitation of coins was most varied; some are quite
excellent reproductions of the antique ones, others again show the art
and style of the artist and his period but faintly disguised. Some of
these latter are at any rate charming works of art. The coins, medals
and small bronzes seem to emphasize the Renaissance mania for the
antique. Now, for instance, after giving the portrait of Adam, Eve,
Noah and Ham, Shem and Japhet, the _Promptuarium iconum insigniorum
a seculo hominum_, published in Lyons by Guillaume Reville (1553),
gives other engravings purporting to be authentic portraits of various
personages of antiquity. As a matter of fact many of these portraits
are copied from old medals that were circulating at the time, the work
of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Mr. Courajod, the former
curator of the Louvre Museum, was able to prove this by finding some
of the medals from which the portraits of the _Promptuarium iconum_
had been copied. These portray Antigone, the lieutenant of Alexander
the Great, the king of Phrygia, Lysimachus, king of Thrace. The first,
an Italian bronze of the fifteenth century, is characteristic for the
effort made by the artist to counterfeit the Oriental style he may have
noticed, perhaps, in other coins of the time.

But, as we have said, where the fancy of the faker really ran riot
was in those small bronzes of various origin and still more various
purpose, nowadays called _plaquettes_. These bronzes were sometimes
cast from the form of an old cameo, at others they imitated or aped a
like origin, and whether they may have been used as buttons, pommels
of the hilts of swords, or simply been demanded by collectors, they
were for the most part imitations of the antique. In these works the
metamorphoses of the original are at times so numerous and so absurd as
to puzzle the modern collector and cause him to speculate on the acumen
of some of the connoisseurs of the past. With some of these small
bronzes the metamorphosis is not in the form but in the inscription
that sometimes accompanies the _plaquette_, but on other occasions the
subject and the figures are considerably altered. As an example of
the former we may quote the supposed portrait of Julius Cæsar of the
Courajod collection. In this case the _plaquette_ bears the inscription
“IVLLIVS C. . PP . PM.”, which has caused the wrong naming of this
bas-relief, for an identical _plaquette_, formerly in the collection of
Mr. Bardini of Florence, seems to indicate that it must be a question
of Cicero. The second inscription runs thus, “M. TVLLIVS .C.P.P.P.M.”

As for the second method, the alteration of the form and subject of
a _plaquette_, the fancy displayed by the makers borders upon the
grotesque.

To begin with a mild form of metamorphosis, let us follow the subject
of Apollo and Marsyas in its transformation from the original cameo
that was in the collection of Lorenzo il Magnifico and, according to
Muntz, is now in the Naples Museum, together with many others from the
same collection. In this cameo the god is on the right, playing the
lyre held in his left hand, Marsyas to the left has his hands tied
behind him, between the two figures kneels Olympus (a pupil of Marsyas)
interceding for his doomed master.

The supposed original in the Naples Museum bears but one inscription,
“LAVR MED.,” evidently standing for Lorenzo Medici, but Ghiberti tells
us that on this cornelian “around the said figures were _antique_
letters spelling the name of Nero.” There is nothing strange in this,
nor in the presupposition that the cameo had been Nero’s private seal,
as one knows he was fond of playing the lyre, but what casts some doubt
on the authenticity of the Naples cornelian stone is the fact that the
Berlin Museum possesses a bronze _plaquette_, evidently a reproduction
from some antique cameo, with the inscription to which Ghiberti
alludes, “NERO-AVGVSTVS-GERMANICVS-P-M-TR-P-IMP-PP-.” The cornelian
stone kept in the Naples Museum has no inscription and for this reason
is supposed by some to be a reproduction from the original ordered by
Lorenzo Medici. The _plaquette_ of the Berlin collection is thought to
be cast from the original Greek cornelian stone, though there are other
reproductions in various museums, one for instance in the Louvre very
similar to the one of Berlin, another in the collection of Courajod,
with the inscription, “PRUDENTIA. PURITAS. TERTIOM. QVOD. IGNORO.”
Mr. Courajod also owned two more copies of this subject, one similar
to the one of the Louvre with the addition of a border, the other of
larger dimensions with the figure resting on a ground in the form of
a crescent. A bas-relief of this subject, used as an ornament of the
pommel of a sword hilt and very similar to the other _plaquettes_ was
in the Davillier collection. N. Schlifer and Giovanni Boldu (1457)
treated the favourite subject with a certain plagiarism of the Greek
model. In Boldu’s bas-relief Apollo is in the usual attitude, but the
other figure has disappeared.

There are many other _plaquettes_, with small variations, in private
collections. There is also a _plaquette_ of this subject in the Dreyfus
collection, in which Apollo has become a woman and Marsyas is playing
the flute.

Evidently the subject must not only have been popular among collectors
but must have caught the fancy of artists as the composition of Apollo
and Marsyas is reproduced in a bas-relief of a fine door formerly in
Cremona and now in the Louvre Museum. The one at Naples is repeated
almost identically in a cornelian of the _Cabinet des Medailles_, in
a portrait of a young girl, attributed to Botticelli, in the Staedel
Museum of Frankfurt; on the frontispiece of a work executed for Mathias
Corvinus; on a frontispiece of the Sforziade, that rare work kept in
the library of the Riccardi in Florence; on a majolica dish of the
fifteenth century, now in the Correr Museum in Venice. There is a
plagiarism of this subject in a work by Raphael in the Vatican.

The following examples, however, are perhaps more typical of an
intentional transformation, a somewhat reversed case and an exception
to the rule in this sort of faking, namely a Christian subject turned
into a pagan one for the benefit of the fifteenth-century amateurs.
There still exist in San Pietro in Vincoli in Rome, two bas-reliefs
representing two incidents in the life of the saint who has given the
church its name, one when he is arrested and put to prison, the other
when he is chained in his cell and liberated by the angels. The two
bas-reliefs, wrongly attributed to Pollaiolo, were ordered from some
Roman artist in the year 1477 by Sixtus IV, then a simple cardinal.
Of each of these bas-reliefs there is a modified reproduction, one in
the Louvre and the other in the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the
modifications of both are such as to make people believe them to be
pagan subjects and antique work. In the reproduction kept in the Louvre
the transformation of the subject without much alteration of the work
is so evident that we can see how easily old collectors were taken in
by these curious pieces of _truquage_. Of a more naive, but no less
efficient character is the transformation inflicted upon the bas-relief
of Kensington. Here in order to transform the miraculous liberation of
Saint Peter into the freeing of a Roman senator it has sufficed to clip
the angel’s wings, both inside the prison--the work being divided
into two different moments of the action--and where the saints usher
the apostle into the street.

[Illustration:

    _Photo_:      _Alinari_

MARSYAS

An excellent work by Pollajolo after the antique.]

There is no reason to disbelieve the supposition that this piece of
faking was perpetrated to cater for the mania of the art lover of
the time. As a matter of fact the Louvre bas-relief was considered
an antique till but recently, and that of the Victoria and Albert
Museum, which entered the collection wrongly labelled as the work
of Ghiberti, was believed, before 1863, when it was acquired by the
Museum, to be a work of the classic Græco-Roman period. As for over
three centuries they have passed as genuine work of the Roman Empire,
it is not reasonable to suppose that the amateurs of the time were
wiser than the succeeding generations of connoisseurs who believed the
work to be antique. This fact is eloquently brought out in the case of
the work preserved in the Louvre, as this bas-relief was not hidden but
has quite a long and well-established pedigree. Among other migrations
we can trace it to Malmaison in a sort of select collection of objects
coming from Italy. Edme Durand bought it as an antique and in the
belief that it was antique kept it in his collection. The Louvre Museum
also bought it for an antique and for quite a long time classified it
in the catalogue (N. 280) as an Etruscan bronze.

It would take too long to trace all the transformations of small
bronzes made for the benefit of the fifteenth and sixteenth-century
amateurs, the many reproductions with changes. Of the metamorphoses to
which _plaquettes_ were subject we can mention another curious example
in which a Crucifixion has become a Rape of the Sabines, and as a case
in which a popular subject has caused many reproductions, we quote
the Palladium of the Niccoli collection which has been reproduced by
Donatello, Nicolo Florentino, etc. The statue of Marcus Aurelius also
seems to have been a cherished subject for small statuettes from that
by Filarete given to Piero Medici in the year 1465 to reproductions of
the seventeenth century.

Of all the workmen of that fertile period running between the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries, Moderno was the most active and versatile.
There is hardly a mythological subject that has not been treated by
him. His imitation of the antique is at times quite convincing, more
especially that belonging to the early period of his career. Later on
when he enters into what might be styled his matured sixteenth-century
temperament, he seems to suffer from the same trouble as the imitators
of the first third of the said century, namely, over-polish and
mannerism, which must in fact have been considered an improvement in
imitation. Valerio Belli, a sculptor and famous cutter of precious
stones and rock crystal, was quite justified in reproducing the subject
of his own carving in the small bronze bas-reliefs that now play such
an important part in modern collections of _plaquettes_, and which in
times gone by must have been the delight also of past collectors. They
often bore his signature, which speaks eloquently for the fact that
there was no intention to dupe anyone.

There were also other artists who evidently had a hand in faking
antiques. They belong more or less to various schools, but chiefly
to those of Padua and Venice. The Paduan school is in this respect
fortified by the names of Vittore Camelio, Cavino, Bassiano. Almost
every bronze founder is associated with an imitator of the antique,
either a maker of statuettes, inkstands, perfume vases, or _plaquettes_
of various sizes and use. Thus for a second time Italy became a
gorgeous market of imitation, very often in itself such good art as
to be worthier than the art counterfeited. One of the last of these
imitators was Tiziano Aspetti, to whom, rightly or wrongly, small
bronzes of private collections are attributed.

From the Anonimo Morelliano one gathers that there was a period in
which a gentleman could hardly afford to do without a little collection
of antiques. “The bronze figurines are modern by various masters and
are derived from the antique,” remarks this Anonimo of Morelli, as
though explaining that there were some collectors perfectly satisfied
with this and perhaps the silent accomplices of a fine piece of
faking. The Anonimo tells us that there were many such pieces in
the collections of either ignorant or accommodating collectors and
art lovers, in the house of Marco Bonavido of Padua, and that of a
rich merchant of the same city, the sculptor Alviso; in Venice, in
the collections of Odoni and Zuanno Ram. They are often mingled with
genuine antiques, which fact causes the Anonimo, who evidently thinks
himself either a connoisseur or a well-informed chronicler, to say
here and there, “the many bronze figurines are modern,” or “the many
medals are of modern bronze,” or “the medals are most of them antique.”
Precious confessions, as one can see.

We know but vaguely of imitations in painting, but an assembly of such
versatile artists can hardly have refrained from imitating the work
of some master. Besides, the very teacher at the head of a school did
not seem to resent it even if a pupil signed the name of his master.
But as regards imitating the antique, there were hardly any samples to
imitate. The grotesques of the old Roman ruins may have suggested to
more than one artist a new type of decoration; but this plagiarism,
if it can be called so, though not without influence on fifteenth and
sixteenth-century art, found no practical issue with fakers.

There is, however, an incident in which a piece of faking saved to
Florence a masterpiece of Raphael. It is related by Vasari in Andrea
del Sarto’s life. According to Vasari when Frederick II, Duke of
Mantua, came to Florence he greatly admired the portrait of Pope Leo
X, the magnificent painting now hanging in the Gallery of the Pitti
Palace in Florence. His admiration turned to such greedy desire of
possession that when he reached Rome he begged the then all-powerful
Clement VII to procure it for him. The Pope agreed to the Duke’s
request and ordered Ottaviano Medici, then residing in Florence,
to have the painting packed and sent to Mantua to Duke Frederick.
Ottaviano Medici, a lover of art and a Florentine, hating to deprive
his city of such a work, was yet not inclined to resist the wish of the
Pope and resorted to a ruse. He informed the Pope that the painting
should be sent to the Duke, according to His Holiness’ orders, as
soon as the frame had been repaired. The Duke of Mantua was also
informed that the frame needed regilding and that the painting should
be shipped as soon as the repairs were finished. With this excuse
Ottaviano Medici gained the necessary time and ordered from Andrea
del Sarto an exact copy of Raphael’s work, a copy that all experts
would mistake for the original. The work was done to such perfection
that even Ottaviano Medici, who was an art connoisseur, could not tell
the original from the copy: the pseudo-Raphael was sent off, the Duke
was duped and one of the finest portraits by Raphael was saved to
Florence. In Vasari there are comments here and there which lead us to
think that many others may have been duped by the versatility of the
fifteenth and sixteenth-century painters. We know that Bellini’s pupils
finished three-quarters of some of the great Venetian master’s works,
that Calchar imitated Titian so closely as to be taken for the great
Vecelli, but we do not know to what extent lovers of art of the time
may have been duped.

As for sculpture, we may close this study by quoting what Vasari writes
in the life of Vellano. “So great is the power of counterfeiting with
love and care any object, that, more often than not, if the style of
one of these arts of ours be well imitated by those who delight in the
work of whoever it be, the thing that imitates so closely resembles the
thing imitated, that no difference can be detected, except by the most
experienced eye.”

Of Ghiberti, a collector and versatile sculptor, Vasari tells that “he
took much pleasure in imitating the dies of ancient coins and medals.”
Which comment amply justifies the observation that the learned Milanesi
adds to the life of Valerio Belli, who at times, according to Vasari,
forgot to add his signature, and was extremely clever in counterfeiting
antiques, from which ability “he derived very great benefit.”

“Antique medals,” says Milanesi, “were very much in demand about this
time, consequently forgers and imitators abounded; they had in fact
multiplied to great numbers and fostered the art of counterfeiting to
its highest perfection.”




CHAPTER IX

COLLECTORS OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY

  Collectors of the sixteenth century--Character of the time and the
      artist’s attitude towards the antique--Cellini restores antique
      statues--New Roman masterpiece discovered in Rome--Decadence
      of art--A protest of Raphael against daily destructions of
      Roman relics--First laws prohibiting exportation of Roman finds
      --Barbaric attitude of a Barberini--First law against the
      exportation of painting masterpieces.


As we have already observed, centuries in art cannot be separated
like horses in stable-boxes. There are periods between one change and
another, transitional times that make it impossible to fix any date
whatsoever. Thus we may say, without stating a date, that the sixteenth
century not only felt the benefit of the Quattrocento for a certain
time, but was itself actually Quattrocento for a score of years or
more. The men of the past had not vanished; Riccio, for instance, one
of the most active imitators of the antique, died in 1533. But when
the sixteenth century began to outline its own character, the cult of
art, art patronage and the passion for collecting fine things are seen
to have taken another turn. The Cinquecento has of course magnificent
patrons of art, and almost every prince collects something or other.
Life is still imbued with partiality for the antique.

Lorenzino Medici in playing Brutus and actually killing his cousin,
Duke Alexander Medici, is reconstructing an old heroic attitude in
his learned, pagan mind; Filippo Strozzi--or whoever planned his
suicide--makes one think of some hero of Plutarch when he is found
dead, apparently by his own hand, with a line of Virgil, _Exoriare
aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultur_ (may an avenger arise from my
bones), written in his own blood at his side. Painting still deals
with subjects from Roman history and so does sculpture, but artists
have lost all comprehension of them, a fact still more evident
with regard to Biblical subjects. In support of this statement it
is sufficient to quote the painting of Paolo Veronese, now in the
Academy at Venice, representing Jesus in the house of Levi, one of the
artist’s masterpieces, in which Christ is in the company of--Venetian
gentlemen of the sixteenth century; but if in this painting disregard
for the Oriental side of the scene is carried to an extreme, it must
be said that Titian and Tintoretto, and a great many other painters
of the time, were no better. This trait, which certainly originated
in the good period of the Renaissance and which we now find in its
full development, indicates that in its more significant and ripest
expression the Cinquecento is the logical decline of a past triumph in
art, the victim, as it were, of tradition--of tradition and a few
artistic personalities, such as Raphael and Michelangelo, who turned
a new leaf in art, awakened a new feeling, a new overpowering school.
Michelangelo, especially, with his fascinating and inimitable style
draws a legion of followers, fostering an art that during the great
sculptor’s life already is ripe for decadence.

Enlightened collectors abound in this period, their collections
increase daily, but are they really lovers of art as their predecessors
were, are they worshippers of the antique like the bygone collectors?
This is what we ask. In the sixteenth century when art is a tradition
of the far past, on the one hand, and on the other, almost a tradition
of the recent past, life seems to have taken the selfsame attitude:
people are not real lovers of art, but are so merely by tradition.
Every well-bred gentleman of the Cinquecento was obliged to have
the air of understanding art. Machiavelli might have added an
interesting chapter to his _Principe_ to demonstrate how important
it was for a prince to be interested in art, even though, perchance,
utterly indifferent to it in reality. When giving instructions in
his _Cortegiano_, as to what a gentleman of his time ought to know,
Castiglione adds that he must learn to paint. “Even if this art affords
you no pleasure,” advises Castiglione, “it will give you a better
understanding of things, and a clearer appreciation of the excellency
of ancient and modern statues, vases, monuments, medals, cameos,
carvings, and other such objects.”

In a word, ably or otherwise, with natural disposition or not, it
was part of good breeding for a gentleman of the sixteenth century
to be interested in art and play the connoisseur. It is from this
that the Cinquecento suffers. The patent prince-patron of art, the
stock gentleman-collector abounds, the genuine lover of art is rare.
A prince’s house or that of a simple person of good standing was
considered incomplete if without a collection of some sort. Yet while
the artists of the sixteenth century had certainly derived no small
benefit from their predecessors’ passion for the antique, they had
become far too individual, far too engrossed in their own art to be
susceptible to the art of the past. Michelangelo, the artist who
lived practically through both centuries, the sculptor whose genius,
tremendous and over-individual, was nevertheless responsible for the
decadence of sculpture, is a good example of this. He can, like many
another Italian artist, show his versatility and skill by imitating an
art other than his own, as he did with the Sleeping Cupid that deceived
Cardinal San Giorgio, but when the artist is genuine and gives his
own artistic temperament full play, craft and virtuosity disappear,
reminiscence is impossible. Even when the subject and peculiar quality
of the work suggest imitation and turn thought to the antique,
Michelangelo remains true to his own grand soul. His Brutus exemplifies
the point. It was a Roman subject of classical times, and Michelangelo
might easily have been infected by the history of the past and the
forms he had admired when interested in the excavation of ancient
statues in Rome. Yet his Brutus is more Dantesque in its tragic lines
than Roman.

Cellini, to illustrate another aspect, is a different case. He can
repair antiquities for his patron, Cosimo Medici, fairly well, but
he, also, is too highly individual to make an excellent imitation of
the antique. He tells us that he consented to repair his illustrious
patron’s Ganymede because it was a fine Greek work, and, prone as he
is to self-praise, he tells how stupendously he can do it; but he does
not like such work, he calls it _arte da Ciabattini_ (cobbler-work).
The fact, however, is that he is too much alive to his time, has too
strong an expression of his own art to be skilful in imitations. In
fact it happened that he had to try his hand at a portrait of Cosimo
I, in the guise of a Roman emperor. The portrait of the Grand Duke of
Tuscany will never deceive any art simpleton, in spite of its elaborate
cuirass fit for Augustus. Cellini is too delightfully cinquecentesque.
The same may be said of him as a medallist. Yet in some of Cellini’s
work, especially his medals, the idea of imitating the Romans must have
been in his mind, and no doubt he was convinced of his success. Yet he
belonged to the group that by their personality influenced others, and
when trying his hand at imitation quite congenial to his own artistic
temperament he makes something that is at least three-quarters Cellini.

These artists nevertheless admire the art of the past, though with
no danger of infection. Michelangelo is entranced when the _Laocoön_
is discovered in a vineyard near the Thermæ of Titus, and goes with
his friend Sangallo to see that the precious statue be carefully
unearthed. Partly for the sake of gain, and partly, maybe, for the love
of art, Cellini often goes to the Roman Campagna to see what “certain
Lombard yokels” have uncovered in their daily spading of the soil.
Raphael protests, in a famous document addressed to Leo X, against the
continual destruction of Roman relics. His words are worth repeating.
After declaring that the Goths and Vandals have not done so much damage
to Rome as his contemporaries, Raphael concludes by saying that far
too many popes have allowed Roman edifices to be ruined simply by
permitting the excavation of _pozzolana_ (clay) from the ground upon
which their foundations rest, that statues and marble ornaments are
daily burned in ovens and turned into mortar, that Rome, in fact--the
Rome of Raphael’s time--is built with naught but mortar made from old
statues, the sacred marbles of past glories.

Characteristic also is the fact that this country sees the first
protective laws against the exportation of antique art. This would seem
to indicate the consideration in which relics of past art were held in
Rome. Judging by the way it was applied, however, even this act serves
to show that there was no more genuine a passion for old and precious
antiques in the Cinquecento than in the century before. The Roman
laws of the sixteenth century are severe, meting out punishments to
all and sundry daring to carry the produce of excavations beyond the
Papal domains; but otherwise destruction goes on gaily, there seems
to be no discrimination as to what ought to be saved from the doom of
destruction and what is not worth keeping. So while edict after edict
is promulgated in order to safeguard the excavation of statues in
Rome and elsewhere, edicts often full of old-fashioned magniloquence,
“Prohibition concerning the exportation of marble or metal statues,
figures, antiquities and suchlike,” the best buildings in Rome were
allowed to fall into utter ruin without a protest. This state of
things reached the climax of absurdity in the seventeenth century when
Urban VIII, of the Barberini family, declared the Coliseum a public
quarry, where the citizens might go for the stones they needed for new
constructions--an act still commemorated in the protest of all lovers
of art with the proverbial pun, _Quod non fecerunt barbari fecerunt
Barberini_ (What barbarians did not do, the Barberini did).

From this curious inconsistency in the appreciation of art even
Tuscany, the cradle of the Renaissance, is not immune. A Medicean
law intended, like the Roman one, to prevent the exportation of
masterpieces and rare works of art, makes no mention of precious relics
of Roman or Etruscan origin, nor even of the fine pieces of sculpture
that were often excavated, but considers only the paintings of certain
artists of the past school of the Renaissance and those of other
contemporary artists, as being worth keeping, so the law declares,
for the glory and dignity of Florence. The regulations are given in a
second decree, along with a list of the names of the artists concerned,
dead and living. Their work must not be taken out of Tuscany. The list
is very instructive, for it passes over some of the best artists,
such as Botticelli, Credi, the Pollaiolos and others, and prohibits
the export of the work of artists that are either unknown to us or
are of such mediocrity that it is surprising their work should have
been esteemed above the average of their day. The following is one
of these lists, the first that was made. 1. Michelangelo Buonarroti.
2. Raffaelo da Urbino. 3. Andrea del Sarto. 4. Mecherino (?). 5. Il
Rosso Fiorentino. 6. Leonardo da Vinci. 7. Il Franciabigio. 8. Perino
del Vaga. 9. Jacopo da Puntormo. 10. Tiziano. 11. Francesco Salviati.
12. Angelo Bronzino. 13. Daniello da Volterra. 14. Fra Bartolommeo di
San Marco (Della Porta). 15. Fra Bast. Del Piombo. 16. Filippo di Fra
Filippo. 17. Antonio da Correggio. 18. Il Parmigianino.

Without insisting upon a comment that might appear paradoxical, what
kind of collectors of art can be expected from people who place in
the same list of merit Leonardo, Michelangelo, Titian, with Cecchin
Salviati, Perino del Vaga, to say nothing of the now forgotten
Mecherino, a painter whose well-deserved oblivion saves us from judging
his poor work. In another list other names are added. They are no less
grotesque--Santi di Tito Ligozzi, Jacopo da Empoli, etc, in far too
good company.




CHAPTER X

COLLECTING IN FRANCE AND ENGLAND

  Passion for collecting art travels to France--The Florentine
      Republic and the fate of a statuette by Michelangelo--Italy
      supplies antiques to France and other countries--The fair
      of Frankfurt--A famous sale--In England the passion for
      collecting art and curios may have originated in France.


While the passion in Italy for collections of art still goes on
enriching museums more through the impetus of the past than from a
genuine cult, and produces occasionally, together with many illustrious
patrons of contemporary art, some old type of collector fond of the
antique with the characteristic greed for all kinds of rarities,
France, and later almost every other nation of Europe, awakens to the
passion for art and curios. It is no longer a question of monarchs
and princes, as was the case in Italy, nobles and the bourgeois as
well come to the fore. Even at the beginning of the sixteenth century,
France may quote the names of Grolier and Robertet, both financiers
employed at Court, both lovers of fine things. The former is a
specialist in rare editions and fine bindings, the latter a keen-eyed,
eclectic collector, as may be gathered from the inventory of his
excellent collection kept in his castle of Bury.

It must be said, however, that Italy still remains a sort of El Dorado
of fine art and the inexhaustible mine to which collectors come for
their finds. The French had discovered this fact from the time they
came to Italy with Charles VIII. Later on Grolier visits Italy and
takes back with him some of its treasures. When he has no opportunity
to come to Italy himself, his friends and agents continue the search
for him; they know his taste and his speciality and are very alert
in the hunt for fine and rare editions. Robertet bargained with the
Florentine Republic to exchange his political influence for a statuette
by Michelangelo. The Republic had great interest in remaining friends
with the French monarch and accepted the bargain, and as the statuette
had been left unfinished by Michelangelo, who had moved to Rome by
this time, Benedetto da Rovezzano is charged to finish the work and
cast it. This statuette of a David was placed by Robertet in the _cour
d’honneur_ of his castle and afterwards, in the year 1633, removed
to the castle of Villeroy, and it is now lost. Only a design of this
statue, by the great Michelangelo, is now in the Louvre Museum, and
from this we can gather how the statue looked.

What was not bought was carried away from Italy after the fashion of
the old Roman conquerors. In the year 1527 a ship arrived at Valencia
loaded with artistic and valuable booty from the famous “Sack of
Rome.” Curiously enough, considering the age, the Spanish municipal
authorities of Valencia did not grant the vessel permission to unload
her cargo. This fact, quoted by Baron Davillier in his _Histoire des
faïences hispano-moresques_, is commented on by Edmond Bonnaffé, a
French collector of our times, thus: “I love to think that the captain
changed his course and found more hospitable municipalities on the
French coast.”

The rich artistic booty promised by Italy made it almost obligatory
for an orthodox French amateur to undertake a journey to Italy. It is
surprising that the _Voyages de Montaigne en Allemande et en Italie_,
1580-81, makes no allusion to this fad and contains very few comments
on art. However rich Montaigne’s work may be in valuable observations
on the life of the time, we should nevertheless have desired him to
have a touch of the art lover in him, a leaning to the artistic and
beautiful, and we would willingly have exchanged a few words with him
on the art and collections of art in the Italy of his day, instead of
his long, detailed descriptions of his cures and his eternal search for
medicinal springs, etc.

An important annual meeting, one that the true collector was likely
to visit, was the fair of Frankfurt. According to H. Estienne this
must have been one of the most frequented art markets of Europe.
Italy, says Estienne, contributed all kinds of antiques, faiences, old
medals, books and brocades; Germany furnished wrought iron and artistic
prints, Flanders sent tapestry, Milan its fine arms, Venice goods from
the East. Estienne also states that Spain used to send to this fair
American products, weapons, costumes, shells and silver-work.

It was not a market exclusively for the genuine, as copies and
imitations were to be found there for the economical or the foolish,
easily duped amateur. Above all there were those deplorable casts from
fine originals that have ever since deceived so many collectors and
which so enraged the good Palissy, who laments the fact and stigmatizes
it with the saying that it cheapens and offends sculpture, “_mespris en
la sculpture à cause de la meulerie_.”

This glimpse of the creation of a market of antique art and
bric-à-bracs of high quality would not be complete without some typical
sale of a famous collection. Among others that took place towards the
end of the sixteenth century, we may quote a notable one, the sale of
Claude Gouffier (“Seigneir de Boisy,” duc de Reannes and Grand-Écuyer
de France), an intelligent gentleman who, with his mother Hélène de
Hargest-Genlis, is responsible for one of the finest types of French
pottery, the faience d’Oiron. Besides spending considerable sums of
money on the factory of this ware, Gouffier was such a liberal patron
of art and artists that he ruined himself in the gratification of
his noble passion. At his death the creditors seized upon his rare
collections and _objets de virtu_ and put them up to auction. This
sale was not only the artistic event of the day but, perhaps, the
most important sale of the second half of the sixteenth century. All
Paris of the time seems to have been there. Plates, paintings, works
of art, bibelots, _toute la curiosité_, passed mercilessly under the
hammer of the auctioneer--which by the way was not a hammer, a
usage originating in England, but as a rule a _barguette_, a small
rod, with which the auctioneer struck a metal bowl. Nothing was spared
by the creditors, even the wearing apparel and furs of the deceased
were offered to the highest bidder. Of these, strange to say, the Duke
d’Aumule (Claude de Lorrain, third son of Claude, first Duc de Guise)
bought a second-hand _manteau de cerimonie_ with the evident intention
of wearing it at Court. By a curious coincidence, this sale took
place only twenty-five days after the tragic night of St. Bartholomew
(September, 18th, 1572), an event that did not prevent Catherine de
Médicis from appearing at the sale with her ladies-in-waiting, to
dispute with other buyers the spoils of the deceased gentleman.

One of the conspicuous buyers at this auction was a Florentine living
in Paris, Luigi Ghiacceti, called by the Frenchmen _le seigneur
d’Adjacet_ or _d’Adjoute_. Beside “_ung harnois d’homme d’armes
complect, gravé et dorré à moresque_” he bought many other things, the
portrait of Henry II and also “sixty pictures painted in oils.” This
Florentine was not only an esteemed collector of his time, but a man
of taste who had built one of the finest mansions in Paris, which he
showed to visitors, together with his fine museum, “for a sou,” so says
Sauval, the chronicler quoted above.

While France appears to have been the first country to follow Italy
in the artistic movement, about this time, as we have said, all
European nations had more or less perfected their taste and acquired
the love for art collecting. The English invasion of France is perhaps
responsible for the awakening of this passion in England. Warton
(_Hist. of Poetry_, II, 254) is of the opinion that after the battle
of Cressy (1346) the victorious army brought home such treasures that
there was not a family in England, modest though it might be, that did
not own some part of the precious booty, furniture, furs, silk stuffs,
tapestries, silver and gold works, etc., the pillage of the French
cities.

More than two centuries later, part of this artistic booty may have
come back to France. Gilles Corrozet tells us that on the Mégisserie,
the quay constructed by Francis I, where artistic sales usually took
place, “in the year one thousand five hundred and fifty, in the month
of August, there were publicly sold in the Mégisserie several images,
altar-pieces, paintings and other church ornaments, which had been
brought and saved from the churches of England.”

Imitation and faking do not seem to find suitable patrons at this time.
Collectors are cold and methodical, and a well-established commerce
in antiques, an abundance of objects offered for sale, seem to have
precluded a demand for other fakes than those of the past, and a few
clumsy imitations. The imitations of this period are hardly convincing.
Restorers of the antique were without skill, which fact plainly tells
that their patrons were not excessively particular. They were satisfied
with a Roman bust, repaired by a sculptor who does not give himself the
trouble to disguise his own art.

About the time of which we are speaking, that is to say when the merits
and demerits of the sixteenth century had delineated themselves and had
reached the summit of the curve that anticipates decline, the work of
Michelangelo, Raphael and a few others--if there were any others of
that calibre--produced their natural effect. To be a sculptor meant
to copy all the defects of Michelangelo, to indulge in over-ripe forms,
turgid muscles and exuberance in general; to be a painter did not
mean so much servility because Raphael’s influence was less extended,
but very few escaped imitating or recalling the painting of the fine
master of Urbino, more especially as the public was naturally attached
to Raphaelite traditions. This was so much the case that not only was
Giulio Romano accepted, and a legion of other painters who aimed more
or less successfully to imitate Raphael, but later the honour that
should have belonged to Raphael was given to Sogliani simply because he
had deceived the public by his craft and virtuosity, winning the name
of Raphael reincarnated. In our opinion, part of the energy that was
keenly given in olden times to the imitation of the antique was now
bestowed on “faking.”

It is true that France was coming to the fore about the middle of
the sixteenth century with indisputable superiority in art, while
Italy turns to inevitable decadence. France had had a “school of
Fontainebleau” disposed to exercise the tyranny of genius, but Rosso
was not Raphael, and the Italian influence, though of great benefit
to the French school, was, after all, a mere passing incident in
the course of art in that country. Yet it is surprising that even
in France, at a moment when the mania for collecting art was on the
increase, the collector does not seem to have been either victimized or
annoyed by faking.

It must be said though, with Edmond Bonnaffé, that “the French buyers
were regarded somewhat as novices, and everyone did his best to exploit
them.”

The French art lover, with all his progress and enlightenment, was
at this time naive, and easily exploited by trickery. It is easy to
imagine that if faking did not become as rampant as before, it must
have been because it did not pay as formerly.

Yet H. Estienne remarks on this subject:

“To-day the world is full of buyers of old lumber (_antiquailles_), at
whose expense many rogues are prospering. For so little do they know
how to distinguish the antique from the modern, that no sooner do they
hear the word which so often makes them dip their fingers into their
purse, etc.”

By this remark, even without other documents, one is entitled to
conclude that even at this period, which seems to have been less
given than the others to imitation and faking, victims existed and
were ready, like the novice or the unwise to-day, to pay fancy prices
supported by a name.

Although ranking second in the movement of art--France, England
and Germany have risen up and improved their taste, indulging in the
true patronage of art--Italy is still the inexhaustible source of
antiques, in spite of the fact that the decadence afflicting the
country had destroyed the real love of art in the collector. Italian
villas and palaces are replete with paintings, the best often in
garrets, the bad art of the time in full honour in the important
rooms. The Barocco, with its gorgeous errors and few merits, is about
to prepare the funeral of Italian art. The seventeenth century is
approaching.




CHAPTER XI

MAZARIN AS A COLLECTOR

  Collectors of the seventeenth century in France--Louis XIII
      --Richelieu--Mazarin and his advisers--Louis XIV as an
      art lover--Vaillant’s strange case--Sanson, the hangman,
      collecting pictures--The second collection of Cardinal Mazarin
      --Its partial destruction through the Cardinal’s nephew--The
      _medailles insolentes_ under Louis XIV--Epigrams on collectors
      --Duke of Orleans’ ill-fated collection.


We must now give our attention to France as the most prominent country
in all that concerns collections of art, because the same conditions
appear here that are vanishing from Italy. In the seventeenth century
Paris had a well-established market of antiquities, authentic and
spurious masterpieces, articles of virtu, etc.; there were also
collectors of all types, dealers and the whole assemblage of wise and
foolish, honest and dishonest, peculiar to the commerce when it finds
its proper market.

Broadly speaking, in the seventeenth century every Parisian seems to
have been a collector of something or other. Painting as a rule is
given the preference.

It is about this time that Italy, however rich through the daily
excavation of antique works of sculpture, no longer seemed to suffice
to the greedy demand of France. Peiresse sent his emissaries to Mount
Athos, Syria and Africa in search of finds, Tavernier, Thévenet,
Lucas, Chardin and Gallant scoured the world in quest of antiquities
and rarities both for themselves and for the King of France. Vaillant,
one of the most efficient of these hunters, went to the East, sent by
Louis XIV, who too has joined the ring of collectors and in a kingly
way played the rôle of art amateur. On his return journey Vaillant was
caught by pirates, but managing to escape embarked for Europe. On the
way to France the vessel for the second time met the corsairs. They
were seen in the distance and were expected to attack at any moment.
The ship was able to escape, but fearing to be caught again and of
losing the valuable collection of coins and medals he was bringing to
Europe, Vaillant swallowed twenty of the best pieces in order to save
them from any possible danger of being taken. This odd story, with
its consequences, is related in detail by M. Weiss in his _Biographie
Universelle_, with such French frankness as to forbid any attempt at
translation.

Besides monarchs, the princes, noblemen and simple middle class of
all conditions seemed to be collectors at this period. The passion
for collecting numbers names such as Richelieu and Mazarin, among
antiquaries, amateurs and dealers were Jabach and others. The number
and importance of art collections, as well as of intelligent art
lovers in France during the seventeenth century, can be gathered from
the many publications on this century. They are many, and most of the
contemporary ones are quite documentary and important for the number
of collectors they mention. We may quote among them the _Itinerarium
Galliæ_, 1612, by Just Zinzerling, a German signing himself Jodocus
Sincerus, Abraham Golnitz’s _Ulysses Belgico-Gallico_, a work written
in 1631 dealing with the collections of medals and painting that
the author found in France during his journey. There is also the
_Voyage pour l’instruction et la commodité tant des François que des
Étrangers_, printed in 1639 and reprinted by Verdier, with interesting
additions, in the year 1687. John Evelyn, the English diarist, visited
France in the year 1643 and gave an account of many collections of art
and their cabinets, which was partially republished in the _Voyage de
Lister_, in an edition of the year 1878. We can enumerate further the
_Traité des plus belles bibliothèques_, published for the first time
in 1644 by Père Louis-Jacob, the librarian of Cardinal de Retz and
of President Du Harlay; the _Liste anonyme des curieux des diverses
villes_, etc.

In these works thousands of names of collectors of art, whether
specialists or not, are mentioned, not only those residing in Paris but
in all towns of the provinces.

Collectomania was becoming epidemic!

The list of seventeenth-century collectors of art has the odd honour
of including the name of Charles Sanson, the hangman of Paris, and
great-grandfather of the celebrated Sanson, the executioner of the
_hautes œuvres_ at the time of the French Revolution. According
to information given by Grammont, who related to the French king
his adventure with Sanson, the man who had been nominated public
executioner in Paris by a decision of Parliament dated August 11th,
1688, possibly the first Sanson to enter the undesirable profession,
this man was not only a collector of paintings but also a specialist;
and logically so. Grammont relates how he was one day hunting for
paintings at the fair of Saint Germain, when he came across Sanson with
Forest, a painter and art dealer. The hangman was haggling over the
price of a few works he wished to add to his collection. One of the
canvasses represented a wife mercilessly scourging her husband, another
was the portrait of M. Tardieu, the deceased “Lieutenant Criminel,” a
man Sanson had known very well and to whom he owed a certain gratitude,
because, as he remarked to Grammont, when living he had made him hang
and torture so many people that his skill and efficiency were gained
through the work done in M. Tardieu’s time. A third painting he finally
decided to buy represented Japanese torturing several missionaries to
death. He candidly declared that “spectacles of this kind appeared
charming to him” and that he intended to hang the painting in his
bedroom.

A characteristic of the latter part of the seventeenth century is
not only the many sales of collections of art in France, England and
elsewhere, but the appearance for the first time of printed catalogues,
prepared either for the sale or as a simple illustrative document of
certain collections. The first printed catalogue of France bears the
title, _Roole des medailles et autre antiquitez du cabinet de Monsieur
Duperier, gentilhomme d’Aix_, and after this many collectors follow the
example. Even the learned Marolles is tempted to give to the public his
_Catalogue de livres d’estampes et de figures de taille douce_.

To complete the characteristics of the revived market of antiques and
articles of virtu in France, now exuberant in its various expressions,
we may note the advent of the so-called _amateur marchand_. The
“private dealer,” a gentleman with a collection who deals secretly
in antiques and at the same time plays the grand seigneur scorning
commerce, has been perfected since, and the modern one is perhaps more
intelligent, shrewder, more the grand seigneur, but less frank and
far more dangerous. It may be said, by the way, that the art critic
has not yet put in an appearance as a disguised dealer, the wardrobe
of the ambiguous trade not having yet supplied the mask. There was no
representative at this time of the type of Pietro Aretino--why not
call him one of this species--who in the sixteenth century extolled
paintings for artists in exchange for paintings and sold his literary
eulogies to princes and monarchs.

One of the most characteristic collectors of the epoch is, perhaps,
Mazarin, a merchant and intriguer on the one side, and on the other a
passionate collector and an epic type of the lover of art.

A brief sketch of his life and of the vicissitudes of his collections
of art are worth giving. Mazarin, in a way, so thoroughly impersonates
his time, that to portray him as a collector helps to throw light on
the _milieu_ in which he lived. History handed Mazarin down to us as a
politician and capital intriguer, etc., but only few know of him as a
lover of art.

As a collector Mazarin recalls the shrewdest kind of the old Roman
type. The times are changed and the old ways of Sulla and Mark Antony
no longer possible. Violence and proscription lists would not be
tolerated, but without the extreme methods of a Roman proconsul,
Mazarin possesses the cunning of a Verres. Like the latter he also
finds things by instinct and has the unbounded passion of a true
collector. We are uncertain at times whether Mazarin, who was without
doubt one of the most appreciative collectors of his day, possessed
that rare sixth sense that goes under the name of the collector’s
touch, but he was nevertheless a man of taste and an art lover of
unusual promptitude in the use of the ability of others. Like many a
genuine and greedy collector of Roman times, Mazarin was persistent and
obdurate in the carrying through of the most complex and discouraging
plans in order to secure objects for his collection. In Rome once he
saw a painting of Correggio, the _Sposalizio_. It belonged to Cardinal
Barberini, who had made up his mind never to part with the masterpiece.
To become possessed of it Mazarin made use of a ruse. He asked Anne of
Austria to demand the painting from Cardinal Barberini, knowing that
stubborn as the Cardinal might be he would not refuse a favour to the
Queen of France. In fact, Barberini came to Paris himself to present
the painting to Anne of Austria. The epilogue of this _mazarinade_
is related by Brienne as follows: “To do proper honour to the gift,
the Queen hung the picture in her bedroom in the presence of Cardinal
Barberini, but hardly had he left (_il n’eut pas le dos tourné_) than
she took the painting and gave it to Mazarin.” Brienne ends his account
with the observation that Mazarin “had conducted this lengthy intrigue
to get possession of a picture.” Considering that intriguing was second
nature with Mazarin we must say that Correggio’s _Sposalizio_ was worth
the trouble of such a _mazarinade_.

As a collector of art, bric-à-brac and precious things generally,
Cardinal Mazarin had an unusually lucky career. Contrary to the rule
that exacts a very high price for experience in collecting, Mazarin
seems to have been favoured by fortune from the very first; as for
scruples, if they are known to a few connoisseurs he knew none.

He was scarcely known. His profession--if his occupation may be so
called--was to move between Rome and Paris, to play to a certain
extent the part of a courier between the two cities, the _navette_
(weaver’s shuttle) between the Roman State and its intriguers in Paris.
During this period of his life Mazarin used to land in the French
capital at the house of the Chavignys, where he often arrived “covered
all over with dirt” (_tout crotté_).

Passing Monferrato on one of his journeys he bought a rosary, the beads
of which were supposed to be glass, but were in fact precious stones,
emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds. The rosary Mazarin bought for
a mere song was sold in Paris for ten thousand ducats.

His reputation as an excellent bric-à-brac hunter, with a fine eye
for works of art, reached Richelieu and this secured to Mazarin the
protection of the omnipotent Cardinal; the rest is known.

Mazarin really remained a “private dealer” all his life, a fact that
his opponents could not forget. More than one _mazarinade_ alludes to
the Cardinal’s dealings.

Even when writing to potentates or diplomats on the most important
political schemes, Mazarin never lost sight of his hobby. In his letter
to Cardinal Grimaldi on the importance of watching our “affairs in
Italy” he reminds him, by the way, to be on the look out for good books
and good paintings, etc.

Through a well-organized network of agents and political friends he
received objects for his collection almost daily. Chiefly from Rome,
Florence and other cities of Italy, statues, paintings, furniture
arrived in a continual stream at the Cardinal’s palace. His library
numbered twelve thousand volumes in a very short time.

The _Fronde_, however, is no longer satisfied with gibing the Cardinal
with _mazarinades_ on his buying of books without being able to read
them. His opponents, antagonistic to the Cardinal’s policy, finally
rose up boldly against him. Mazarin was obliged to fly from Paris. By a
decree of Parliament his goods were seized and sold. Whatever criticism
may be passed on the Cardinal’s shady policy, the destruction of his
collection and library is an unpardonable sin and an artistic loss.

Mazarin does not seem to have been discouraged by this unexpected
_contretemps_. Learning that Jabach was going to London to be present
at the sale of the collection of Charles I, he asked him to buy
paintings for him, and through this friend was able to secure for a new
gallery the Venus by Titian, the Antiope and the Marsyas by Correggio,
the Deluge by Carracci, as well as tapestries of inestimable value.

Two years later Mazarin triumphantly entered Paris again, was
reinstated in his former power, and started a new library, while
reconstituting his dispersed gallery; and when he died his collection
contained, according to an inventory of the year 1661, 546 pictures,
of which 283 were of the Italian school, 77 German or Dutch, 77 French
and 109 of various schools. The Italian school included names such
as Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Tintoretto, Solario, Guido Reni, the
Carracci, Domenichino, Bassano, Albani, etc.

Many of these works are now in the Louvre Museum and nearly all his
statues, 350 in number, have also passed to the Louvre and are now kept
in the _Galérie des Antiques_.

The inventory also informs us that the Cardinal left twenty-one
cabinets, some in ebony, others veneered with tortoise-shell and ivory,
and a large quantity of marble tables and Venetian glass, chandeliers
in rock crystal, and irons in silver or gilded.

The precious stones were valued at 387,014 francs, the silver of the
chapel at 25,995, the plates in silver, gold or gilded (761 pieces) at
347,972, etc. The same inventory also notes 411 fine pieces of tapestry
estimated at 632,000, perhaps what a single piece of the best would
cost nowadays, but an enormous sum considering the time. There were
also 46 Persian rugs of unusual length, 21 complete “ameublements” in
velvet, satin, gold embroidered silk, etc.

The library included 50,000 volumes and 400 manuscripts.

[Illustration:

    _Photo]_      _[Alinari_

THE SPINARIO.

A cherished Roman subject of the imitators of the XVth and XVIth
Centuries. Several museums have similar imitations. There is a fine
original in Naples Museum.]

Brienne, who was a collector himself on a smaller scale, and who filled
at the time the position of secretary to the Cardinal, relates
with a certain pathos the last moments of this frantic art collector,
and how during his last illness he grieved to leave his cherished
masterpieces.

“I was walking,” says Brienne, “in the small gallery in which is the
woollen tapestry representing Scipio--the Cardinal did not possess a
finer one. By the noise of his slippers I heard him coming, shuffling
along like a suffering man or a convalescent. I hid myself behind
the tapestry and heard him say, ‘I must leave all this!’ Being very
weak he stopped at every step, leaning first to one side and then to
the other; gazing at the various objects of his collection, and in a
voice that came from his heart, he kept on repeating ‘I must leave all
this!’ Then turning his head to another side--‘and also that! What
trouble I had to buy all these things. How can I leave them without
regret?--I shall not be able to see them where I am going.’ I gave
a sigh, I could not help it, and he heard me. ‘Who is there?’ ‘It is
I, Monseigneur----’ ‘Come here,’ he said to me in a doleful tone. He
was nude, only covered with his _robe de chambre de camelot_ lined
with _petit-gris_. He said, ‘Give me your hand, I am so weak; I can
hardly bear it----’ Then returning to his first idea, ‘Do you see,
my friend, that fine painting by Correggio, that Venus by Titian and
that incomparable Deluge by Carracci--I know that you too love and
understand painting. Alas, my dear friend, I must leave all this.
Good-bye, dear paintings that I have loved so much, that have cost me
so high a price!’” (Brienne, _Memoires_, II, XIV).

These three paintings, Correggio’s Sposalizio, Titian’s Venus, and
Carracci’s work, are now in the Louvre Museum.

“_Que j’ai tant aimés et qui m’ont tant couté!_” The second part of the
sad exclamation would indeed seem to belong to this shrewd adventurer,
but those not knowing to what lengths the passion for collecting can
go, would hardly imagine that a man of Mazarin’s temperament could
love, really love, anything on earth but power and intrigue.

As a most remarkable contrast to this passionate love for beautiful
things, Destiny ordained that the greater part of the Cardinal’s
statues and paintings should fall into the hands of his nephew and
heir, Armand-Charles de la Porte, Duc de la Meilleraye, the husband
of Mazarin’s niece, Hortense Mancini. This nephew, who on becoming
the Cardinal’s heir was allowed to take his uncle’s name and titles,
was bigoted to the last degree. Idiotically deprived of all artistic
sense he thought it his duty to destroy the art collection, to purge
the world of the offence offered to morality by nude sculpture, to rid
society of the Cardinal’s paintings with their shocking mythological
subjects. Saint-Evremont relates how this fanatic iconoclast left his
mansion at Vincennes one day with the deliberate intention to destroy
the fine gallery left to him by the Cardinal, and how on his arrival in
Paris he entered the place where it was kept and taking a hammer out
of a mason’s hand proceeded to smash statue after statue and destroy
paintings. But the statues and works of art were altogether too many
to be destroyed single-handed, so he armed half a dozen servants with
hammers and ordered them to help him in his artistic hecatomb. It was
indeed fortunate that upon the Cardinal’s death Louis XIV made up his
mind to buy some of the best paintings, and that some of the statues
had also been taken away from this strange curator of Mazarin’s museum,
or there would be very little left to-day of one of the most famous
collections of Paris. Some of the statues now in the Louvre still show
this fanatic nobleman’s abuse of the hammer, more especially the one
bearing the title “Le Génie du repos eternel.”

The monarchs of this time bought paintings, statues and fine things,
sharing enthusiasm with private citizens. However, they played their
part well and the attitude of the art lover gave them a finishing
touch. Yet in less dangerous and despotic an age the pen of a Molière
might have tried its caustic ability on some of these types. Louis XIII
is, after all, but a mild art lover, at least so he appears by the side
of Marie de Médicis who learned the part of Mæcenas at the court of
Tuscany. He collects arms and had a _cabinet_ of choice weapons, among
other curios, his _grosse Vitri_, a carbine of rare merit left him by
Vitri. We know of this collection of Louis XIII because it is recorded
that when Concini, the Florentine intriguer whom Marie de Médicis
had created Maréchal d’Ancre, was killed in the court of the Louvre,
“the king, who was in his _cabinet des armes_, heard the noise of the
pistols.” Anne of Austria, his wife, one of the few women to detest
roses and who could not even bear to see this magnificent Queen of
Flowers painted in a picture, had a passion for fine book-bindings, and
Monsieur Gaston d’Orléans sported medals and also rare books.

As for Louis XIV, the best-staged king of his time, he was apparently
ready to buy anything that would add magnificence to his court and be
in keeping with his rôle of Roi Soleil.

Notwithstanding his more or less decorative magnificence, however,
this monarch was at times a hard bargainer, and like Isabella d’Este,
knew how to take advantage of needy or impecunious clients. His
transactions with Jabach to buy from him the finest art collection in
France are scandalous, nor can these transactions be solely attributed
to Colbert, who was for a long time the go-between in this affair.
Jabach was a German by birth and Parisian by election, a rich banker,
the director of the _Compagnie des Indes Orientales_, intelligent and a
most passioned art collector. With great care and expense he had formed
the finest collection of his time. Later, through business reverses,
his unbounded liberality to artists and the extravagant prices he paid
for his masterpieces, Jabach finally found himself forced to part
with his collection, and entered into negotiations with Louis XIV
who knew its immense value. Dealings dragged on for a long time, and
every day Jabach was more pressed by his creditors. Notwithstanding
his necessitous condition he rebelled at the absurd price offered and
wrote to Colbert to beg the king to treat him “as a Christian, and
not as a Moor.” Finally Louis XIV, the Roi Soleil, though in this
affair a planet certainly that did not shine in generosity, gained his
point and for the absurdly paltry sum of 200,000 livres became the
owner of the renowned Jabach collection, composed of no fewer than 101
paintings, a great many of them masterpieces, and 5542 drawings. It is
sufficient to say that in this Jabach collection were works by Leonardo
da Vinci, the Saint John, the “Concert champêtre” by Giorgione--one
of the few authentic works of this master--the Entombment of Christ,
the Pilgrims of Emmaus and the Mistress of Titian by Titian, all of
which now belong to the Louvre Museum.

With a king who played the connoisseur and collected objects of art and
virtu, no gentleman of the French court would acknowledge indifference
towards art, or be without a certain hobby of his own, collecting some
one thing in particular, being in fact what is generally defined as a
specialist.

Speaking of “La Mode” in his _Les Charactères_, La Bruyère lashes the
collecting craze of his time without mercy. His Chapter XIII treats
of fads and fashions, and in it he tells of the ridiculous freaks of
collectors and cleverly points out how utterly deprived of genuine
meaning were the artistic pursuits of such amateurs.

Nevertheless, with its good sides and its bad, the epidemic spread, and
not only in France, but in other countries as well. We will, however,
confine our study of this epoch to France as for the purposes of this
brief résumé of the collecting craze France was ahead of the other
countries, and thus by the side of the wise and genuine lover of art,
possessed all the other degrees of Collectomania.

Though conforming to fashion, every one has his own views on the
matter, so that there are dreamers and speculators on all kinds of
antiques, but painting is given the preference.

“Pictures are bullion,” writes the fat Coulanges to his cold-blooded
and well-behaved cousin, Mme. de Sévigné, “you can sell them at twice
their price whenever you like.” In fact during one of his journeys
to Italy, Coulanges, who had caught the collecting fever, made a
considerable sum of money in buying and selling pictures, so much money
that it spoilt his taste for, as a chroniclist says, “The treasure,
which he saw piled up at the Hotel de Guise awoke in him more expensive
tastes.” His wife, Marie-Angelique du Gue-Bagnol, collected _raretés
curieuses_. Mme. de Sévigné tells us of her delight when she saw in her
cousin’s house a looking-glass that had been owned by Queen Marguerite.

At this epoch the art and curio market comprised all sorts of odd
characters and, as might be expected, the subject gave ample food to
writers and chroniclers for skits. La Bruyère is not alone in making
sport of the obsessed art collector and crazy curio-hunter. From
Molière to the Italian Goldoni the antiquary and his victim are capital
subjects. Poetry also contributes its sarcasm. In France some of the
minor and justly obscure poets are very useful in the reconstruction of
our _milieu_. There are even chronicles written in verse.

For instance, Marie-Thérèse, the wife of Louis XIV, goes to see
Caterine Henriette Bellier de Beauvais, the first lady of the
bedchamber of the queen dowager Anne of Austria, a lady who is
evidently collecting art. The poetical chronicle at once informs the
public that:--

      Mercredi, notre auguste Reine
      Fut chez madame de Beauvais
      Pour de son aimable palais
      Voir les merveilles étonnantes
      Et raretés surprenantes....

We will spare the reader the description of the collection given in a
sort of litany of praise, a sequence of lines like the following:--

      Tant de belles orfevreries
      Tant d’éclatantes pierreries

             *       *       *       *       *

      Tant de vases si précieux,
      Tant de bustes et tant d’images, etc.

Le Maisel Prieur des Roches is crazy for books, and like a true
bibliomaniac he never reads his books, which are generally bought for
the title, etc. This of course is more than enough for his introduction
into one of these rhyming chronicles, called _Rymaille_:--

      Les livres Des Roches en belle couverture,
      Mais leur Maistre n’en donne Science ny Lecture.

Paintings being given the preference, they are also the cherished
subject for verse. Impassioned specialists who collect the works of a
single artist and spend a lifetime in doing it are a capital subject.
There is also an Arcadia among art collectors, worthy of the eighteenth
century, a regular Arcadia with pseudo-names, etc. One of these rhymed
chronicles records the various names assumed by the collectors and
amateurs of the Arcadia. As we have said, many of these collectors of
paintings are specialists possessed of the hobby of collecting the
works of a single master. Poussin is at one time the most fashionable,
and while the Poussinists are among the most impassioned in proclaiming
the merits of their artist, there are also other “ists.” Gamarre, Sieur
de Creze, lieutenant des chasses, is apparently at the head of the
Poussinists. His Arcadian name is Pantolme.

The widow of Lescot--the jeweller who was one of Mazarin’s advisers and
was sent by the Cardinal to Spain in search of fine things--collects
paintings, but happens to be a Rubenist. However, in due time she
is converted by Pantolme (Gamarre) to the Poussinist persuasion and
deserts the Flemish art of Rubens and starts a new collection as a
Poussinist. She is called Irene in the _Banquet des Curieux_.

It would take long to go over all the pleasantries of the curio-hunters
of this time. Bizot, named Lubin in the _Banquet des Curieux_, is a
type of collector we have already introduced:--

      Lubin, amateur d’antiquailles,
      De livres anciens et de vielles médailles,
      Philosophe sans jugement,
      Curieux sans raisonnement,...

             *       *       *       *       *


Other odd characters have escaped record in rhyme. A Sieur Basin de
Limeville of Blois is a well-known collector of medals. He spent his
whole life in buying nothing but medals. Yet no one ever saw his
collection; as soon as they were bought the medals were put away in his
cabinet, declares an informant of the time. His cabinet is provided
with an iron door and a lock with a key of most complex make. At his
death the heir tried to open the door but the key refused to open,
there being some special handling beside the difficulty of the lock.
The man who had made the key was dead and the case was so hopeless that
the heir was forced to enter Sieur de Limeville’s cabinet through an
opening in the wall. Inside the cabinet there was found among a mass of
cobwebs a dirty sack filled with the precious medals, the collection to
which the deceased had given his whole life.

La Bruyère tells of a man who spent all his years hunting for a bad
etching of Callot. He knew the work was the poorest ever done by the
artist, that it was not worth the trouble, but he nevertheless gave his
whole time and activity to the search for that etching because it was
the only work of Callot that he did not possess.

Jacob Spoon, a doctor of medicine and an intelligent but odd individual
who died in the year 1685, declares that in his native city of Lyons
every one is collecting something or other. Then, and perhaps as a
physician he was in a position to know, he says that collecting is a
disease, contagious though not fatal.

There is no need of special documents to say that faking must have
worked with a certain ease in such a world. Brienne tells us that when
Cardinal Mazarin received objects from Italy, Jabach and Magnard were
charged to examine them and very often more than one piece of faking
was discovered, very successful counterfeits (_Memoires de Brienne_,
Chap. IX).

There is no instance to my knowledge of any sentence passed by tribunal
upon fakers at this time when everything seems to have been decided by
the almighty, power of Louis XIV or the ever-ready Parliament.

Yet the police of Louis XIV seem to have one interest in the collecting
of art. They must watch that the books, prints and paintings,
etc., offered for sale contain nothing immoral or what we should
call nowadays subversive. By this duty the police of Louis XIV
become specialists, going in chiefly for medals. In the year 1696
Pontchartrain wrote to M. de la Reynie “to send a man to watch the sale
of Abbé Bizot and be on the look out for the _médailles insolentes_ of
the said _cabinet_.” After other injunctions, he then adds: “It is His
Majesty’s wish that the medals incurring suppression should be put into
a sack, this to be sealed and taken to the mint....”

It is clear from this that over and above interest in bad coins and
faked medals the police of the _Roi Soleil_ were on the look out for a
particular historical coin bearing some unfriendly allusion to the King
of France, and their earnest efforts to suppress it had naturally made
it so rare that it kindled the ambition of numismatists and collectors
at large.

The eighteenth century might be called the period of sales of art
collections. Everywhere auctions were held of well-known collections;
in Holland alone we can register 185 catalogues of art sales from 1700
to 1750. This may be called a sort of record, however, as France in the
same period of time counts only thirty catalogues. Following the art
sales in Paris we find that from 1751 to 1760 an average of four sale
catalogues a year is reached. From 1761 to 1770 the average increases
to thirteen; from 1771 to 1775 to twenty-eight, and from 1776 to 1785
to forty-two each year. This is the climax; at this point art sales
were social functions and the auction room a place where society met.
Collections are dispersed and new ones formed, and the transference of
masterpieces from one collection to another through the auction room
acquires unusual rapidity. Such a state of affairs inspires Thibaudeau
with the following reflection. (Thibaudeau. _Préface du Trésor de la
Curiosité._)

“It is like a game of shuttlecock in which the bourgeoisie and nobility
throw masterpieces to each other and with such swiftness that one
really does not know to whom they belong.”

The eighteenth century, from the very beginning, numbers collectors
such as Crozat, who had a palace in Rue Richelieu and a collection
of 19,000 drawings, 400 paintings and 1400 cameos, etc., Comtesse
de Verrue and Baudelet. The Duke of Orleans’ gallery includes 478
paintings, of which three were by Leonardo da Vinci, 15 by Raphael, 31
by Titian, 19 by Paul Veronese, 10 by Correggio, 12 by Poussin, and
many others of the Dutch, Spanish and other schools.

This collection of the Duke of Orleans, one of the finest in France
after that of Cardinal Mazarin, seems to have been pursued by the
same ill-luck as the latter. The Regent’s son, with deplorable
prudery, destroyed all the paintings with nude figures; as for the
rest of the collection, it was sold later to some English amateurs by
Philippe-Egalité.




CHAPTER XII

SOME NOTABLE FRENCH COLLECTORS

  Speculation, financial disasters--Many collections change hands--
      Fakers busy for newly-enriched collectors--Voltaire plays the
      silent partner to art and curio dealers--Wonderful unearthings
      of Dr. Huber--Collectors of the time: Mme. Pompadour, Cardinal
      Soubise, Malesherbes and others--Interspace of the Revolution
      --Napoleon revives some of the speedy methods of the Romans--
      Italian museums and galleries plundered by his Imperial agents.


From this early period we enter that of the art sales, which, as we
have already said, seem characteristic of the eighteenth century.
Financial disasters and speculations disperse more than one fortune
and usher new-comers into the world of finance. This is the time when
masterpieces begin to change hands so rapidly. The spirit of collecting
is superceded by that of commerce, and faking appears under new forms,
those with no other trickery beyond what commerce with its intrigue and
deceit can supply.

“All amateurs,” writes a contemporary in the _Chronique Scandaleuse_,
“are now mixed up with _brocantage_ (bric-à-brac). There is not a
collector who does not sell or exchange (_troque_), either on account
of unstable taste, or for the sake of gain, or to retaliate his own bad
bargain upon some one greener than himself.”

Even Voltaire, between an epigram and a satire, found himself
implicated in _brocantage_, only, more shrewd than Cicero, he saved
appearances by an associate, the Abbé Moussinot, he remaining the
sleeping partner.

Voltaire’s name and his banter over natural history and explanations
of geological phenomena--Buffon, the author of a Natural History
that Voltaire called “not at all natural,” was one of his victims,
he having replied to Buffon’s learned hypothesis with regard to some
sea-shells found on the summit of the Alps that the shells might have
been lost by pilgrims on their way to Rome--recalls to our mind
an eighteenth-century successful piece of faking and practical joke
played on an erudite collector, Dr. Louis Huber of Würtzburg. In the
year 1727 two doctors of the town prepared a surprise for Huber, a
surprise by which his collection of fossils was to be enriched by some
extraordinary specimens. Speculating on the enthusiasm and good faith
of the learned doctor and impassioned collector, the two accomplices
fabricated fossils of fantastic animals and the most impossible shells.
The imitations were generally modelled in clay with the addition
of a hardening substance. Incredible as it may sound, some of them
represented ants and bees of the most heroic proportions, crabs of new
line and shape, etc. These were carefully buried in ground of suitable
character where Prof. Huber had been seen to excavate.

The rest is easily divined. What is not easy to understand, however,
is the fact that after having made several of these most incredible
discoveries Dr. Huber thought fit to publish a work, consisting of
a hundred folios, written in Latin and issued under the auspices of
Professor Béranger. The book, which was dedicated to the Bishop of
Franconia, had twenty-two illustrations reproducing with extreme
exactitude Dr. Louis Huber’s fantastic antediluvian find.

But this is not all. The learned Faculty of Science of Würtzburg
assembled to honour Dr. Huber and the doyen of the Faculty pronounced a
speech in praise of his discovery.

What followed can be easily deduced. Only his good faith saved
the deceived collector from the sore experiences of a modern sham
discoverer of the North Pole.

The curio world, however, still counts some good art lovers and serious
collectors, such as Gersaint, Basant, whom the Duc de Choiseul used to
call _le marechal de Saxe de la curiosité_ on account of his daring and
successful inroads on the art market, where, by the way, though no
blood is shed no less strategy is needed than on the battlefield. There
are other names worth quoting in this century of decadence, Gloomy
and his friend Remy, painter and dealer in pictures and other curios,
Julliot, Langlier, Paillet, Regnault-Delalande, Pierre Lebrun and his
son, J. B. Lebrun, who married the famous artist Mlle. Vigëe, and owned
the well-known _Salle Lebrun_, often used for celebrated sales.

Other names might be quoted, La Marquise de Pompadour, Cardinal
Soubise, Girardot de Prefond, Fontette, Malesherbes, Marquis de Paulmy,
etc.--then, the Revolution comes, the _ancien régime_ disappears and
with it the dainty furniture, foppish dress, and the supremacy of an
art market which with all its oddities were such perhaps as had never
been seen since the time of the orgy of curio-hunting of Ancient Rome.
This supremacy, deprived of many of its idiosyncrasies, temporarily
crossed the Channel and went to England accompanied by many of the
treasures that dealers and refugees managed to save from the cataclysm
of 1779.

Napoleon may be quoted as an exceptional art collector--if ever such
a name can belong to a man utterly deprived of a sense of art but
shrewd enough to understand the mighty support given to sovereigns by
art--for in the process of time the man formed more than one art
collection by methods that in their drastic character greatly resembled
those adopted by Roman generals and proconsuls.

This statement is eloquently supported by facts and numbers. Here is a
laconic writing of Napoleon in which he informs the Directory of his
first artistic “finds” in Italy. Speaking of his agents, he states:

“They have already seized: fifteen paintings from Parma, twenty from
Modena, twenty-five from Milan, forty from Bologna, ten from Ferrara.”

This is, of course, his first experiment as a novice collector. Other
things were to follow, the Medici Venus from Florence, the Roman
Horses from Venice, and all the best works of art from the Italian
museums, and these but foster more eclectic desires in this strange
art lover, who while preoccupied with the problem of transporting
heavy statues from Rome and harvesting antiques and Renaissance work,
indiscriminately orders to be taken to France with the artistic booty
the votive pen that Justus Lipsius left to the sanctuary of Loretto and
the votive image left by Montaigne to the same sanctuary. The anecdote
of Lucius Mummius of ignorant memory is here repeated in a way, for
the officials acting under Napoleon’s orders have nothing to say about
Montaigne’s ex-voto, but when it comes to the pen of Lipsius these
worthies gleefully remark: “_La plume de Juste Lipse qui avoit été
estimée cinq huitièmes, c’est trouvée peser six huitièmes_” (the pen of
Juste Lipse which was supposed to weigh five-eighths, has been found to
weigh six-eighths).

From the Revolution to the time of Napoleon’s dominion is the period in
which the passion for art collecting is least felt. Faking, of course,
is an art that does not pay and thus has no _raison d’être_. Yet faking
passes from the field of art to that of real life, the new Republic
apes Roman customs. David the artist is faked into a Tribune while
busy painting Romans that seem to have been brought out of a hot-house
and he sketches semi-Roman costumes for the new officials of the
Republic, garments that with all the foppishness of the “old regime”
had Roman Consular swords, Imperial chlamys (mantle), faked buskins or
ornamented cothurnus (boots worn by tragedians). It is this faking of
life that feels the need even to alter the calendar, changing the Roman
etymology of the names of the months into more resounding Latinesque
appellations. At home in this staged drama of life, Napoleon, the
friend of Talma and David, continues the grandiose faking with a sort
of complex etiquette and a veneer of aristocracy, which makes one
sadly think of the truth of the words pronounced by Courier on General
Bonaparte’s elevation to the throne: He aspires to descend.

Yet even in this peculiar and rather negative world the chronicle of
the _curieux_ may contain some glorious names, and these no doubt
prepared at the beginning of the nineteenth century the return of
the cult of art in France, the reappearance of devoted collectors and
enlightened amateurs. We may then name successively art lovers and
intelligent collectors such as Lenoir, Du Sommerville and Sauvageot,
Revoil Willemin. And after them artists, collectors and dealers of the
calibre of Mlle. Delaunay, Escudier, Montfort, Roussel, Beurdeley,
Henry Grandjean, Mannheim, the first of a dynasty of honest and
intelligent dealers; then almost in our own times Baron Davilliers,
Bonnaffé, Emile Peyre and others. But art collecting is now no longer
an accentuated characteristic of France nor of England, Germany and
other European countries which have a tradition and have come to the
fore, but other new and powerful States have joined the contest, cast
new types of collectors and created a new psychology in the art world
which will form the second part of this book.




PART II

THE COLLECTOR AND THE FAKER




CHAPTER XIII

COLLECTORS AND COLLECTIONS

  Collectors and collections--Various kinds--Meaning of the
      word _curieux_--Various types of collectors: the artist,
      the scholar, the eclectic and the specialist--A large class
      of collectors as defined by La Bruyère--The ultra-modern
      collector--The art and curio market--The three stages of the
      collector’s career--The collector’s touch--The elasticity of
      prices and an opinion of C. T. Yerkes--Gersaint’s advice and
      Schlegel’s opinion--A Latin saying re-edited by Edmond Bonnaffé.


“_La collection c’est l’homme_,” a well-known French lover of art and
first-rate connoisseur used to say. Nowadays this transformation of
Buffon’s threadbare saying is only partially true. It would, perhaps,
be more correct to put it in the past tense, as a new type of virtuoso
has arisen. A collector of the most recent brand prefers to buy
collections “ready-made.” Such collections all gathered in good order
in the houses of these new collectors speak very eloquently of the
owner’s financial power, but say nothing of his taste, ability, or love
for the artistically fine and beautiful.

However, this being somewhat of a recent change brought about by casual
circumstances with hardly any claim as an artistic phenomenon, this
study can be confined for the present to that normal period, barely
past, when the art and curio collector was really a “collector” and
above all a lover of art as well as a passionate hunter after fine
things. From the study of this semi-past world of art it will be easy
to proceed to a comparative analysis of the up-to-date one, to the
new species of collector who in no way comes under the definition “_La
collection c’est l’homme_.”

In the foregoing review of collectors and collections, it has mostly
been a question of art collectors, with only incidental reference to
other kinds of art lovers. Curios, however, imply many other things.
The French word _curieux_, which has often been used for lack of a
better expression, has a wider meaning. The word _curieux_, which
might be translated by the English word “curious,” without losing
much of its meaning, may have originated in the Latin _curiosis_,
though it is doubtful whether the Romans ever applied this word to
connoisseurs of art or other collectors. The fact that the artistic
world was then divided into lovers of the beautiful and faddists or
fools, that erudites had not yet appeared, may have rendered new words
of definitions useless. When speaking of his friend Statius as a
connoisseur and virtuoso, Pliny uses the Greek word φιλόαλος (friend of
the beautiful), a word that might really be used to define the true and
genuine collector.

The French word _curieux_ appears for the first time in a dictionary
by Robert Estienne (1531) and is defined _ung homme curieux d’avoir ou
sçavoir choses antiques_ but later on, presumably from its probable
Italian origin, the word acquires a wider sense, a sense that
even finds an echo in Shakespeare, and so also the old meaning of
_gentilezza_ as used by Lorenzo Medici has a resonance, according to
Lacroix du Maine, in the French _gentillesses ou gentilles curiositez_.

[Illustration: A CHILD.

By Ferrante Zampini.]

[Illustration: SAN GIOVANNI.

By Ferrante Zampini.]

Notwithstanding this limitation, for many the word _curieux_ has
the widest meaning and includes all kinds of collectors. Trevoux’
definition “_res singulares, eximiæ raræ_” with Millin’s broadening
comment “_tout ce qui peut piquer la curiosité par la singularité des
formes ou des usages_” (all that may excite curiosity in strangeness
of form or use), is the proper one, regardless of Mme. de Genlis,
who as late as 1818 goes back to the old meaning and includes under
_curiosité_ the entirely scientific Natural History collections.

It must be said that the distinction between scientific and artistic
pursuits is not always clearly defined. Science mingles with art with
undisputed right, and scientific pursuits at times have artistic
interest. The two seem either to alternate their rights or share them
in the fields that lie between.

In the artistic field, or rather in that which tallies with Millin’s
definition of _la curiosité_ there are two quite typical classes even
though they cannot be separated by a sharp line of delimitation on
account of linking subdivisions. The one includes the art collector
alone and the searcher for the beautiful, the other those gathering the
rest, things which for “strangeness of form or use” present a certain
interest to the collector.

There is no doubt that those of the first class possess the
impulsiveness that generally characterizes intuitive and non-learned
experience in art, and those of the second combine artistic and
scientific interests. The one has a tendency to consider and value
objects in a different manner from the other: the artistic temperament
has a penchant for synthesis, the scientific is inclined towards
analytic methods.

While the collector of the first class has a direct purpose--the
search for what is artistically fine, the other is less absolute,
and for him objects have what may be called a relative value, the
value of the series. In collecting coins or medals, the latter more
especially, art plays an undisputed part, but science claims the right
of classification, thus placing a relative value of no secondary
importance. As a consequence, for instance, a medallist is likely to
speak of the rare in place of the fine, or at times use one word for
the other. It may be that in the eyes of a numismatist a sample of
inferior art acquires great value through its rarity and through the
place that it may occupy in the series of his collection.

There are some collections consequently in which the best artistic
samples are forced to play a secondary part, the object of the
collection being classification, just as shells, minerals and other
purely scientific gatherings would be arranged.

This peculiar tyranny of science may even find scope for action in
expressions of art, where science and erudition should have no claim.
In museums of painting and sculpture the history of art demands that
the objects should be classified according to epochs, schools, etc.
The man intent upon such classification often becomes so engrossed
in this one scientific side as to grow indifferent to those artistic
considerations which give the painter and the real lover of art the
joy art is intended to give. Even connoisseurship is often too tainted
by erudition, and the curators of museums are very rarely æsthetes. At
the sight of a fine work of art, a connoisseur is very often so intent
upon discovering the name of its author, the probable school and the
epoch--all forms of classification--that he forgets he is before a
work of art, that is to say, an expression of human sentiment, which
whether good or bad was created solely to arouse artistic emotion in
the beholder. The artist, while creating it, had certainly not in mind
the history of art and all its erudite paraphernalia.

There are two other distinctions in art collecting, distinctions so
closely allied to the above classes that they share the respective
characteristics in a very similar manner. They are represented by the
eclectic collector and the specialist, two distinct orders both useful
in a way, both belonging to the artistic sphere. The eclectic is well
defined by Gersaint as “an amateur whose passion presupposes taste
and sentiment”; the other, the specialist--generally regarded as
having perfected his taste by dropping his initial eclecticism--is a
collector who has restricted the field of his activity by grafting, so
to speak, the purity of his artistic penchant on something that tends
to diminish the broad outlook of an eclectic lover of art, and this in
order to enlarge the possibilities of research and information. Thus
although the specialist has very often passed through an initial period
of eclectic wandering, when he becomes a specialist he is very apt
to forget his past enthusiasm for anything but his chosen speciality.
Show a fine Limoges enamel to a collector of medals or a medal to a
collector of enamels and you will realize the truth of the statement.
Of course he will understand the beauty of the work--though not
invariably--but he will take no interest in it. While having
perfected his taste in some single branch of art, the specialist has
unquestionably atrophied all artistic qualities in other directions.
This theory naturally becomes more or less elastic according to the
genre and the character of the art lover. A man who is a specialist on
certain epochs is hardly a specialist in the true sense, but rather
an eclectic who has restricted his pursuits so as to reconstruct in
his mind the whole artistic expression of a certain age: the medallist
and such like collectors have not such a wide scope and their pursuits
generally come to be characterized by method, order and a whole Indian
file of historic and erudite considerations. The _tout ensemble_ of an
eclectic’s house presents a very decorative appearance, that of the
specialist does not always, being mostly encumbered with glass cabinets
or pieces of furniture with shelves adapted to his speciality. The
eclectic collector will often speak of the beauty of a certain find
from a purely artistic point of view, the specialist will grow poetic
over the perfect cast, patina, etc. The specialist in medals will often
show you two or three specimens of the same medal only distinguished
by the colour of the patina or differences of no artistic value, and
chronological considerations weigh with numismatists. The specialist
must therefore frequently recur to scientific methods.

In Paris there is a loose belief that an art lover who is an eclectic
reveals a somewhat provincial sentiment, and that to be characterized
as a true Parisian one must be a specialist in some one thing. This
belief naturally implies that the specialist has refined his taste
and acquired distinction from the grossness and obtuseness with
which eclecticism is libelled. Yet this is hardly true, the best
French collectors, such as Davilliers, Piot and others, were always
enlightened eclectics in their various pursuits though having a bent
towards specialization.

Nevertheless, we repeat that distinctions cannot be made with
mathematical precision. The difference between artist and erudite,
eclectic and specialist would seem to have been well defined only by
Bonnaffé in his characteristic saying: “The first throws himself upon
his knees before Beauty; the other asks her for her passports.”

Neither of the two methods ensures infallibility. The artistic
collector, a lover at first sight, may be deceived by an imitation
possessing character and general effect sufficient to pass in his
eyes for an original; the erudite with his brain in the place of his
heart, who demands “passports” before making up his mind, may be duped
by a forged “passport,” by an imitation, that is to say, in which the
details are respected even to the sacrifice of the totality which so
greatly appeals to artists.

There is one more kind of art and curio collector, perhaps the most
numerous of all. They have been well defined by La Bruyère more than
two hundred years ago. This particular type of art lover is on the
look out not for what he really loves but for that which affords him
gratifications other than those art is intended to give.

“It is not an amusement,” says the author of _Les Caractères_ in his
chapter on Fashion, “but a passion often so violent that it lags behind
love and ambition only as regards the paltriness of its object.”

Passing then from the description of the effect to the cause, La
Bruyère proceeds:

“_La curiosité_ is a taste for what one possesses and what others do
not possess, an attachment to whatever is the vogue or the fashion; it
is not a passion felt generally for rare and fashionable things, but
only for some special thing that is rare and above all in fashion.”

To this last category, with a few slight modifications, belongs the
type of collector who might be called ultra-modern to distinguish
him from his modern confrères of yesterday, a type that can lay no
claim whatever to the definition “_La collection c’est l’homme_,”
because he never troubles himself to hunt for works of art or curios,
never experiences the joys of discovery, experiences nothing perhaps,
but being cheated by dealers, friends and experts. The ultra-modern
collector is, of course, amply supplied with money, and relies chiefly
on his cheque-book. He is always far from the spot where he might learn
wisdom, yet not so far as to be beyond the pale of the deceit and
trickery of the market of _la curiosité_.

This latest variation carries one direct to the modern American type
of collector. Not because the type does not exist in other countries,
but because America has furnished the champion specimens who through
the magnitude of their speculations in art- and curio-hunting have
stamped the type. Yet even in America, where art lovers like the late
Quincy Shaw, Stanford White, H. Walters, etc., have been known, the
ultra-modern type represents a very recent and astonishing novelty.

One conversation on art with this modern collector is generally
sufficient to reveal all absence of real passion. These greedy buyers
of works of art and curios have often hardly the time to give even
a glance at their glamorous purchases. They have certainly not the
enjoyment that other collectors have. When they show their collections,
a common way of soliciting admiration is to recount the unreasonable
and extravagant prices paid.

What are they after? What is their main object in ransacking old Europe
for artistic masterpieces to be carried off by the sheer force of money?

Lovesque says one is a connoisseur by study, an art lover by taste, and
a _curieux_ by vanity, to which Imbert wisely adds: “or speculation.”

Making every possible exception, vanity and speculation still appear to
rule alternately the ultra-modern collector.

We do not deny that many of them may be animated by the noble desire
to leave their collections to their countries, but yet on closer
study the attraction for the greater number of them seems to be
either a modification of their financial interests, namely, sport
and speculation combined, or an inclination to spend money lavishly,
everything being too easily possible by reason of their great money
power. In a humorous toast at an American dinner, Stanley, the
explorer, said that a citizen of the United States is never at rest
till he has found something that he actually cannot afford to buy. The
definition fits the millionaire art collector with more correctness and
exactitude. In this field he shows himself a regular blasé of buying
possibilities--and his passion for art and curios may to some extent
bring him out of his torpidity by the extra magnitude of the investment.

As Bernard Shaw says, a millionaire can buy fifty motor-cars but can
only drive one at a time. He can buy food for a whole city but has
only one stomach to digest it, secure all the seats in the theatre
but can only occupy one, etc. But to own a work by Michelangelo or
Raphael is a different tale; it affords one the sensation of owning and
driving a hundred or more motor-cars all at the same time in a sort
of modern--ultra-modern--triumphal march of glory to the up-to-date
Olympus of the privileged, where fame is highly seasoned with
self-advertisement, and superlatives the daily ingredient of reputation.

For others the modern whim of collecting works of art may represent a
diversion from business, or a way in which “to astonish the natives.”
From this type we come to the old forms of foolishness, the Trimalchos,
Euctuses and Paulluses, etc., who have changed the ancient palanquin
carried by slaves for a brightly coloured motor of sixty or ninety
horse-power.

One reason why this modern type of collector is so commonly deceived
is because he generally lives in a sort of fool’s paradise of art
trumpery separated from the real art market by a little understood
feeling of aristocratic pride. The art collector of olden times used
to mingle with dealers, learn from them where and what to buy, tramping
from place to place, the former El Dorado of the “find.” The modern
species would consider it beneath him to have anything to do with
common dealers or to attend a public sale even for the sake of interest
in art. How can they gain experience? They may engage an expert. No
doubt a good expert can assist them, but the real collector carries his
experience in his pocket, for the expert, like the gendarmes of the
well-known French operetta, arrives always too late.

Sometimes a legion of experts are not able to save one from deception.
A well-known American collector on a visit to Italy with his small
court of experts was once offered in Florence a crystal cup supposed
to have been cut by Valerio Vicentino. With the full approval of the
experts the cup was bought for the not inconsiderable sum of four
thousand dollars. The handsome find turned out to be the work of a
faker practising in the North of Italy and the whole scheme planned by
a non-Florentine dealer.

The fancy prices paid for antiques to-day and the peculiar
idiosyncrasies of this new species of collector have quite logically
somewhat changed the character of the commerce, have given another
tonality to the _milieu_ in which the art lover moves. It must be
admitted that the trade in antiques and curios is now far less
interesting than formerly. The antiquary and dealer of yore were most
interesting and characteristic. Their business could be defined by the
Horatian adage, _Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci_ (he wins
the praise of all who mingles the useful with the pleasant), for while
they had a keen eye to business, they also possessed the passion and
intelligent understanding of art. The real antiquary hardly exists
to-day, at best he is represented by some old champion, the solitary
survivor of a past generation. The modern variety, even the most
enlightened, is nothing but an ordinary dealer. It is no exaggeration
to say that traders and antiquaries like old Manheim and the rest
whose intelligent criticism and learning was of such assistance to the
collector are no more. The vulgar jobbery of the dealer of to-day may
eventually find its justification in the commonplace, unintelligent
and gross clientele upon which it practises. With few exceptions, the
ability of this pseudo-antiquary of to-day is more the ability of a
common jobber than of an intelligent man. The trade has lost to a great
extent the old artistic savour, bluff has succeeded capability. The
new strategy is based upon knowing before others when some new Crœsus
has become a votary of art, upon getting in touch with him before he
has lost his money or his illusions; it relies also upon what the
French call “puffing what he has to sell,” and a keen insight into the
client’s weak side, the ability to fan his pride and ambition.

Of course, as stated above, there are happy exceptions, merchants still
honouring the trade who deal with absolute rectitude, and would be
ashamed to resort to the aforesaid indirect methods to conclude a sale,
but nevertheless “the gods are departing” and the erstwhile dealer plus
antiquary, this interesting figure once afforded by the art and curio
market, has vanished.

To whatever order a collector may belong--exception being made for
the ultra-modern type who, generally speaking, has in our opinion
hardly any claim to the title of art collector or even simple
curio-hunter--there generally exists a preparatory stage in his
career. No matter how the mania or passion has been caught, there are
three stages in its course that can very rarely be suppressed.

The genesis of the passion is seldom spontaneous, there is generally an
infective cause that helps the development of the fever for antiques
and curios.

[Illustration:

    _Photo_]      [_Alinari_

ATHLETE.

Imitation of Roman Work by an unknown artist of the 15th Century. It is
attributed to Pollajolo.]

“I believe,” says Major H. Bing Hall in his book _The Adventures of a
Bric-à-brac Hunter_, “my friend Mrs. Haggleton’s taste for collecting
the plate of Queen Anne’s era originated in the fact of her aunt
having left her a teapot of that admirable period of the goldsmith’s
art in England. The teapot inspired an ardent desire to possess
other articles of the same style. The lady mildly commenced with
salt-spoons, and became in due course the proud owner of mustard-pots,
salt-cellars, and one large piece of sideboard plate, which from the
day she purchased it to that of her death every night faithfully
accompanied her to her bedroom. My old bachelor friend Croker, again,
began collecting Wedgwood because some one had told him he possessed a
very fine specimen; while to my certain knowledge he was as ignorant of
its value and exquisite design as his own footman could have been.”

There are naturally worthier causes, far higher and more pleasing
motives to lead a man of refined taste to become a real practical
collector--or dreamer according to circumstances--but the genesis
above-quoted, to which might be added the having of a collector among
friends or relations, is the most common.

One thing is certain, when the passion is genuine and consequently
gives proof of being of a character that promises success and
satisfaction, there is no cure for it, it becomes chronic almost
invariably.

The first stage upon which the collector or simple bric-à-brac hunter
is likely to enter might be called the rosy period of his career. He is
generally inclined to optimism, he dreams of nothing but masterpieces
and astonishing finds, to such an extent that he sees _chefs-d’œuvre_
everywhere. If he owns capital, this is of course his most perilous
period; if he has no capital, everything depends upon his wisdom, his
credit, or the possibility of borrowing money. Naturally we are only
referring to the most acute cases, temperaments vary, and the infection
may be more or less dangerous according to the disposition of the
individual.

Curiously enough, in this Collectomania fever, the first time what
might be called a chill is taken, improvement sets in, convalescence
perhaps. Chills in the purchasing of curios and antiques often mean an
awakening of suspicion of being cheated.

A very bad chill, ague in fact, is usually experienced with the first
bad bargain, when, ignorant of possible dangers, one considers oneself
a full-fledged connoisseur and adds to one’s private collection
a pseudo-masterpiece, realizing too late that the purse has been
considerably lightened by a round sum paid for--rubbish. There is
hardly a more sudden and effectual method of learning wisdom. Some
learn at once, others are obdurate and need a whole sequence of
misadventures before realizing that they have been cheated, or becoming
aware that they themselves are chiefly responsible for being cheated.

These latter over-cheated ones, more especially, either abandon the
amusement in a moment of despondency or, if they persist, enter upon
the second stage of preparatory training, a stage mostly characterized
by scepticism and distrust. At this moment you might offer the neophyte
a genuine Titian for a mere song and, blinded by fear, he is likely to
believe it a copy; offer him the most authentic medal by Pisanello,
the very one he desired, and he will hesitate. Hesitation and
colour-blindness are metaphorically the main characteristics at this
time.

There is, however, a good-natured type who oscillates, pendulum-like,
between one stage and another, from enthusiasm to depression.

Emerging from this second stage of semi-despondency, the neophyte is
in all probability regaining a certain equilibrium and realizes above
all that the buying of antiquities and curios is no easy matter to be
handled by the first new-comer, even though well-stocked with money.
This is a salient point in real progress, and from this time each year
will add experience and connoisseurship. If the art lover possesses the
so-called collector’s touch, it is at this particular stage he will
discover that such a gift without study and practice does not lead to
infallibility.

Speaking of this quality which every beginner believes himself to
possess, it cannot be denied that there are people who do have a
certain happy intuition of things, an almost miraculous sixth sense,
fully testifying to the existence of what the English call the
collector’s touch and the French name _le flair_, but, alas! it is so
very rare. Think of it, rhabdomancy in art!

An amateur’s education is in most cases slow and by no means an easy
conquest. There are no books that can teach him the practical side, the
safe and important side. Book-learning is certainly of great assistance
as secondary matter and completely subordinated to the education of the
eye. Some of the best art connoisseurs, those of the surest touch, come
from an ignorant class of workers, such as the celebrated Couvreur of
Paris or the Milanese Basilini, a former carter who was often consulted
by Morelli, the Italian art critic and inventor of the analytical
method, a connoisseur of undisputed merit.

An antiquary of repute and art dealer of the old school claims that
the perfecting of the eye resembles the focussing of a photographic
apparatus, with the difference that in photography one can learn how to
focus with almost mathematical precision, whereas in connoisseurship it
is a continual focussing for when what looks like a supreme conquest is
reached, the eye becomes still more perfect and exacting.

Similar progress characterizes the proper valuation of prices, the most
elastic side of the trade.

It must be remembered that as soon as an object leaves the shop to
enter the collection of a collector of repute, it increases in value,
because it is presumed to be genuine and choice, having been selected
by an art lover of cultivated taste. Then, too, away from the chaos of
the shop and in a good light a work of art shows at its best.

In every branch of commerce there are shops and shops, Piccadilly and
Cheapside mean the same also in the world of curio and bric-à-brac.

In conclusion, apart from the pleasure afforded by the pursuit of fine
objects, there is hardly a better way for a collector to invest his
money, provided he knows how to do it; and there is no worse business,
none so unreliable and hastily ruinous as curio hunting if one is not
a true and real hunter.

What to buy as safe investments is told by Gersaint, a dealer and
connoisseur of the eighteenth century. He says that “by sticking to
what is beautiful and fine one has the satisfaction of becoming the
possessor of things that are always valuable and pleasing. I dare say
that going in for the _beautiful_ diminishes the probabilities of being
duped, as often happens to those who are content with the mediocre or
are tempted by low prices. It is very rare that a first-rate work of
art does not realize at least the price paid for it. The mediocre is
likely to lead to a loss.”

This advice, however, tacitly presupposes the collector to be able to
tell the fine from the mediocre, to be, in a word, either an artist or
a connoisseur.

With this part of connoisseurship we propose to deal in another chapter
at the end of this work. At present we would state that the safest
thing for an art and curio collector to do, whatever his ambition, is
to become acquainted with the various ways of the peculiar _milieu_
into which he is about to enter, to train his eye as much as possible,
to be diffident at first and to have a passionate love for his
interesting pursuit.

It will then be for the collector a source of no common enjoyment and
a most pleasing occupation, an occupation somewhat justifying the
following lyricism of Schlegel:

“There is no more potent antidote to low sensuality than the adoration
of the beautiful.

“All the higher arts of design are essentially chaste without respect
to the object.

“They purify the thoughts as tragedy purifies the passions. Their
accidental effects are not worth consideration; there are souls to whom
even a vestal body is not holy.”

As the reverse to the ideal side let us warn the neophyte that the
supreme joy of art-hunting is often embittered by the jealousy of
colleagues, and that benevolence in the environment in which the
collector moves is as rare as the ceramics of Henry II and the
painting of Michelangelo; so much so that Edmond Bonnaffé was fully
justified in re-editing an old Latin saying into:--

“_Homo homini lupus, fæmina fæminæ lupior, curiosus curioso
lupissimus_” (A man against man is like a wolf, woman against woman
still more so, but most of all is curio-hunter against curio-hunter.)




CHAPTER XIV

THE COLLECTOR’S FRIENDS AND ENEMIES

  Curio-trading--The collector’s friends, semi-friends and enemies
      --The antiquary, the so-called private dealer, the dealer,
      bric-à-brac vendor and others of the species--Art critics and
      experts--_Courtiers_ and other go-betweens.


Madame Rolland writes in her famous _Memoirs_ that one of her greatest
objections to a certain suitor was the fact that he was a trader. “In
commerce,” said this brilliant victim of the French Revolution, “one
is supposed to buy at a low figure and sell at an exaggerated price, a
scheme usually demanding the aid of lies.”

Leaving with Mme Rolland the responsibility of such an assertion,
it is quite safe to say that the trade in antiques, the flourishing
commerce in curios, is a trade, if ever there was one, in which objects
are bought cheap and sold at a high price, with a stock of lies as a
necessary asset.

Naturally the statement does not imply that every dealer is a confirmed
liar, ready to take advantage of the incautious and unskilled novice
through misrepresentation. Yet even at its best the character of
the trade in our day is such that it is difficult to score success
without--what shall we say?--flavouring opportunity with fantastic
tales, without firing the client’s enthusiasm with some form of
mirage, namely, tricking his good faith to entice him within the orbit
of--faith.

Point out to a buyer, for instance, the different parts of an object
that have been skilfully restored, and nine times out of ten the
customer will drop the whole business.

It is incredible the amount of stuff even a good art lover will
swallow, if properly offered by a person he trusts, just as it is
incredible to see how the enhancing of merits with--grey lies, will
help the conclusion of a good round piece of business. One must have
had a glimpse at the make-up, have taken a peep behind the scenes to
become aware that the more imposing the transaction, the more diverting
and genial is the comedy played before the customer, who, at first a
spectator, in due time will be called in most cases to take his part in
the play, the part of the duped.

There are methods to work up public enthusiasm greatly resembling those
adopted by the scheming capitalist in the Stock Exchange.

An English curio dealer of unquestionably high repute realized large
profits on Dresden china by the artful way he put before the public an
article apparently out of fashion with collectors of ceramics. For two
or three years he bought all the Meissen ware within reach until he had
accumulated a large quantity at extremely low figures. Then he began
sending pieces to noted auction sales, where he invariably sent agents
to buy them in after running the objects up to an extravagant price.
This trick gradually built up a reputation for Meissen china, some
noted collector began to take an interest in it, others followed in his
wake. When Meissen ware became the rage and prices were accordingly
high, the shrewd dealer got rid of his stock at an astonishing profit.

Nothing absolutely dishonest, one may observe. Yet without stopping
to ask whether the action comes within Mme. Rolland’s hyperbolic
conception of honesty, it cannot be denied that in the fine art and
curio trade what might be defined as the staging part is the most
important, even if it finds its greatest justification in clients who
follow one another in taste like so many sheep.

The trade in curios may be more specifically outlined by the study of
the dramatis personæ taking part in it. It will then be seen that the
artifice practised by the London antiquary of good repute is rather an
anodyne form of misrepresentation. Such trade tricks differ from the
commonplace ones characterizing unclean dealing in other branches of
commerce; there is a smack of genius about them which might at times
plead for the pardon that Draconian laws accorded to well-thought-out
and talented forms of theft. A picture of the clever plots and amusing
intrigues planned to the detriment of the modern collector would demand
the pen of a Molière. Only the illustrator of Monsieur Tartuffe could
give the proper colouring to such inconceivable plays.

These plays are hardly new, however. They have been constantly acted
and re-acted with creditable success and enlivening innovations.
Formerly fools alone were the victims, rarely real collectors. To-day
it is different, with the advent of the new type old distinctions have
disappeared.

Some among the many art collectors are intelligent in their work,
and far from being beginners. They are outsiders, however. Let them
look within the penetralia, into the mysteries, the hidden secrets of
the trade so carefully concealed from them, and they will learn how
little exaggeration there is in the saying that a large portion of the
business in antiques and curios is tainted with fraud, charlatanism,
etc., and that even some of the best collectors of our time have been
deceived to such an extent that they live surrounded by their objects
of virtu as in a sham El Dorado.

One of the late Rothschilds, a man known traditionally and _de facto_
as a connoisseur, a type of genuine collector, used to say that all the
objects of his collection were, like Cæsar’s wife, above suspicion.
Yet by the side of the finest masterpieces there were some in that
collection which were, metaphorically speaking, wives that Cæsar would
certainly have repudiated.

[Illustration:

    _Photo_]      [_Reali_

THE BATTESIMO.

A Bas-relief by Sig. Natali, of Florence, bought by the Louvre as work
of Verrocchio. Sig. Natali, a fine imitator of the Quattrocento, like
Sig. Zampini, sells his products as genuine modern work even if the
connoisseurs decide to believe them antique.]

[Illustration:

    _Photo_]      [_Alinari_

BACCHUS.

By DONATELLO.]

“I would no more admit forgeries to my collection than I would allow my
wife to wear paste diamonds,” was the boast of a well-known collector
of bronzes in Paris to a party of connoisseurs lunching with him. “But
excuse me,” retorted a moralizing friend who was dying to reveal
the truth to the “great specialist,” “no one is safe nowadays. There,”
pointing to a bronze figure, “that is, what shall I say? a paste
diamond! That object is a fake. I can tell you where it was cast. It
was offered me very likely by the same fellow that must have palmed it
off on you....” There was no trial, however, because the great bronze
specialist recovered his money from the dealer--but, alas! not his
unblemished reputation.

Such stories are not strange when it is considered that museums are
regularly infested by forgeries and spurious objects and that these
have been admitted to public collections with the full approbation of
learned curators and clever specialists. It is easy to estimate how
rampant and keen faking must be now that incredible prices are paid for
articles of virtu.

How the antiquary, the dealer, the go-between and other characters in
this world of deception may prove to be, according to circumstances,
the friend or the enemy of the curio collectors, is readily understood.
Discrimination, sometimes too late, will teach who is a helper and who
not.

The antiquary is generally a dealer who has no shop, but keeps objects
of art in his tastefully furnished house, allowing his private show to
be visited only by whom he chooses. He is as it were the aristocrat of
the trade, the one who is presumed to ask and get the highest prices.
This select dealer’s success is according to his ability, integrity
or the reputation for trustworthiness he enjoys among collectors. We
would repeat that the “private dealer” belongs to this high branch of
the trade without any definite division. Very often he is a disguised
trader with the grand air of a gentleman--an air that has to be paid
for by the client, who is less likely in such a sphere to attempt to
drive the hard bargain that is peculiar to the humble bric-à-brac shops.

The best and most reliable antiquaries and private dealers must
logically be reckoned among the friends of the art lover. The latter is
likely to pay them astonishing prices, but he also pays for security.
He knows that the dealer’s experience is absolutely at his service, and
that if by mischance an object is not what it has been represented to
be, the honest dealer will make it good.

To end with a brief classification, it may be noted that there are
dealers whose shops have private rooms in the rear where trade can be
carried on in the same way as with a dealer who has no shop. From this
double-faced form we pass to the real shopkeeper, the vaster class
ranging from the vendor who can afford to fill his window with the
choicest samples down to the modest curio shop, the benevolent harbour
of the humbler modes of expressing art.

With the exception of the unassuming curio shop, which is still
unchanged though less replete with interesting things and quite
denuded of tempting “finds,” the disappearance in the dealer of his
former artistic sentiment has fomented in the trade the spirit of
association. Trusts and alliances have been formed by big firms, though
the advantage to the amateur is to be doubted. At one time such a thing
was very uncommon, if not impossible, being apparently prevented by the
dealer’s originality and artistic temperament.

“_Monsieur, je ne suis pas le gendarme de la curiosité_,” old Manheim
used to say to the novice showing him objects not purchased from his
gallery. This was the old attitude of the trade. We do not mean that
all behaved like Manheim in refusing to play the part of “policeman of
curio-dealing,” others may have taken the opportunity to run down an
article sold by a neighbour, but there was no probability of an object
passing from one firm to another in search of better success, or going
from Paris to London and vice versa to find the proper atmosphere
or the suitable kind of knavery. Psychologically speaking this is
speculating on a faddism similar to that which induces the Parisian
dandy to send his shirts to London to be ironed, and at the same time
suggests an inverted game to the London snob who may believe that
Parisian starch is without an equal for shirt fronts.

The spirit of association and a perfected knowledge of the
idiosyncrasies of the modern buyer have led to the discovery that
some objects show to better advantage in Paris and that others gain
in the sombre grey atmosphere of London, that each background has
its peculiar value and may be turned to account respectively in the
realization of higher figures. There are even special cases when to
fetch the best price an object must be sent to its birthplace where
the freakish or immature client’s fancy may be tickled to advantage.
The whole of this complex game in modern curio-dealing may be summed
up in the single maxim: “Find the vulnerable spot, the Achilles’ heel
of your client, and you are safe.” It must be added that the Achilles’
heel of the modern collector may be of a more complex anatomy but is
of more extended proportions than that of the Greek hero. As soon as
a star of first magnitude bursts forth upon the financial sky to rise
upon the artistic one, all the forces of the latter quickly learn
dynamic precision, the extent of possibilities. Whether erratic or not,
the orbit of the new star will be studied throughout its course with
astronomical exactitude. To continue the metaphorical image it may be
added that should the new star prove to be of solar magnitude a whole
planetary system of cupidity and greedy desire will soon be formed
within its golden rays.

From now forward it is of this shady brilliancy of the planetary system
of the curio world that we intend to speak. The honest dealer needs
neither our praise nor defence, he can take care of himself, and the
esteem he enjoys plainly divides him from the sphere upon which we are
entering, the precinct of an art and curio inferno which might bear
Dante’s superscription: “Through me is the way to the city dolent.”

As the main principle of curio-dealing is to buy at a low figure and
sell at the highest price possible, it is evident that when this
apophthegm falls into the hands of the unscrupulous, the art of buying
and selling takes on most Machiavellian hues.

The infrequency of good bargains, which are becoming rarer every
day, has lately fostered the activity of competition, making the art
of buying a shrewd, unscrupulous game, in which the dealer, with his
numerous emissaries, is prepared, Proteus-like, to invest himself with
every imaginable part.

If an object cannot be secured in a direct manner, the dealer will
indulge in side-play, called in the Italian argot of the trade, _di
mattonella_. When dealers are not admitted and it is important that
the object should be inspected before the conclusion of a business
transaction, the antiquary or shopkeeper, namely the buyer, is
generally careful to hide his professional quality. He is often
introduced as a foreign casual visitor interested in art.

If the pretended foreigner does not succeed in obtaining the object
because the owner, perhaps a gentleman, has demanded a big price, then
other characters, the decoys in the play, may be put upon the stage to
say that the object is not worth the price, that it has been injured in
restoration, etc. Sometimes the pseudo-foreigner assumes the part of a
novice naively confessing that he is not versed in antiques, but should
Professor So-and-so give a favourable opinion he would willingly remit
the price. The rest is left to the sham professor.

Of the self-disguising tendency of a noted Italian antiquary when in
search for the ever-rarer good bargains, the following amusing story is
told.

A noble family of Pisa were induced, by financial circumstances, to
part with some of their valuable works of art and made the condition
that no antiquary or dealer was to be mixed up in the transaction.
A certain Florentine antiquary noted for craft and trickery, in
particular, was to be excluded.

The said antiquary got wind of the unusual opportunity and managed to
visit the palace in the guise of a stranger. He saw a certain work of
art and a bargain was struck with Count Z., the head of the family,
to the satisfaction of them both. As the antiquary was about to leave
the nobleman said, confidentially, “Don’t let anyone know about this
affair, nor that I am selling things. I have a particular objection to
dealers, above all to a certain intriguer and thief----” Here he named
the very man he was addressing.

When bargains are made on the plan of exchanging one object for
another, they are no less disastrous for the unwary and ignorant owner.
There are Madonnas by good Renaissance artists that countrymen and
villagers have gladly bartered for cheap modern chromo-like paintings
worth only a few francs, old artistic stuccos and bas-reliefs secured
for some cheap piece of plaster-cast, pieces of old damask exchanged by
ignorant priests for a few yards of brand-new shining satinette.

Even such exchanges necessitate at times certain wiles, such as stories
by “go-betweens,” garbed as monks or priests, posing as benevolent
friends of the church or some other meek character.

A philodramatic society, owning a small theatre, once used a piece
of fine Flemish tapestry as a drop curtain. Dark and unattractive
to the untrained eye, the curtain was hung for lack of a better. It
was objectionably heavy to raise or lower. To make things easier and
lighter, a Mæcenas of the dramatic art offered to exchange the old
clumsy curtain for a new one painted in the most approved style. The
proposal was accepted with enthusiasm, and after some time it was
casually found out by one of the actors that their former curtain had
been sold in Paris to a French collector for a sum that would have
built the needy society a palatial theatre.

If a dealer does not succeed in securing a work of art he is apt
to spoil all chances for others by what is known as _mettere il
bavaglino_, that is, metaphorically, to tie a bib round the neck of the
object. The game is played by enthusiastically praising the article
that it has not been possible to acquire.

When a certain kind of dealer finds that his offer has not been
accepted he becomes artful, admitting that he has tendered all he is
able to give, but that he honestly recognizes the article to be worth
more. Proceedings now evolve much as follows: “How much do you think
it is really worth?” asks the owner with legitimate curiosity. “A
dealer richer than myself might pay so and so, but then an outsider, of
course....” Here the trickster is not likely to estimate the work but
will vaguely convey an idea of its immense value by telling of recent
sales where millions have been paid for works of art. The result is
that the owner loses all balance as regards the value of his object,
and in all probability will never sell it for the simple reason that
he raises the price every time the sum demanded is reached. A doctor
in Lucca who possessed a passable Maestro Giorgio, a ceramic piece
that may have been worth ten thousand francs, was unacquainted with
its value and would have been willing to sell it for five francs. He
received an offer of fifty francs for it, and thinking it generous
for a cracked bit of earthenware, became suspicious. Very soon the
dealer bid a thousand francs, then gradually worked up to three
thousand, the price he had made up his mind not to pass. Then when the
“bib” was properly bound round the article he boldly offered fifty
thousand--naturally intending to turn it all into a joke should the
offer be accepted in good faith. The castle-builder died dreaming of
millions, of course before having parted with his dish. The heir sold
it for a moderate sum, so moderate a one that it might have raised a
posthumous protest from the dead doctor.

In like manner, but this time by way of a joke, an antiquary persuaded
a countryman that a brass dish he owned, for which he had refused the
few francs that it was worth, was priceless, that there was gold in the
alloy and that the chiselling was a lost process in the art of working
brass. The specimen was _rarissimo_, he said. As a finishing touch and
to give it a flavour of Boccaccio-like humour, he occasionally sent
friends to play the part of anxious buyers, offering higher and higher
sums. Gradually dealers entered into the spirit of the joke and on
passing the village never failed to offer a few hundred francs more for
the now celebrated dish.

This trick is also called _inchiodare un oggetto_ (to nail down an
object), and is variously denominated in the different provinces of
Italy, the curio-dealers’ argot varying according to district. The
slang peculiar to the trade has not a wide vocabulary, but comprises
a few phrases and words by which the initiated can express an opinion
upon some special thing or the artistic value of a certain object
without being understood by the outsider. For instance, the word
_musica_ is indicative of faked objects, not as a single word but
set in a colloquial phrase. A dealer who wants his aide-de-camp or
go-between to know that the object in question is modern and not worth
wasting time over, yet would convey this opinion in the presence of
the proprietor without letting him understand, is likely to warn his
colleague in some such a way as this, “Before I forget it, remind me
to buy that piece of music,” or any other phrase in which music comes
in naturally. To state that a price is too high, that there is no
margin for business, or maybe even risk, the dealer will use the word
_bagnarsi_ (to get wet). It may also be merely hinted as, for instance,
“Have you your umbrella?” if it should be raining, or in good weather,
“No need for umbrellas.” Rather than containing a wealth of words the
jargon is fanciful and pliable, forming a sort of summary esperanto
which with a few words furnish the freemasonry of the trade with
multiform expressions.

The complementary characters to which we have alluded in our bird’s-eye
view of the curio market are liable to exchange their functions
according to the moral principles directing their actions, and in
this peculiar chameleon-like attitude change colour and hide, from
friendship to enmity, assisting the collector in his pursuit, namely,
of helping the dealer to dupe him. In broad terms they include art
critics, experts, go-betweens and many metamorphoses of the most
variegated agents. To these forces must be added the silent help
that is generally operative in favour of the dealer. These are drawn
from the multiform and numerous guilds of the restorer, and from
the questionable side of the trade, namely, fakers, assumed owners,
noblemen or pseudo-noblemen willing to lend paternity and pedigree
to works of art, smugglers and other degenerate forms of criminal and
semi-criminal activity.

Speaking of the friends and enemies of the collector whose co-operation
is more or less openly apparent and of a less mysterious character,
it may be said that the art critic and expert once represented two
entirely distinct forms of interest in art. A certain recent evolution
of the art critic tends to intermingle the two groups.

The art critic of years ago was, as a rule, either a literary man
who had a notion that he knew all about art by simple instinct, or a
scholar who, having studied the historical part of art, imagined that
this knowledge was more than sufficient to label him a connoisseur.

The victims of this misunderstanding were not only the art critics
themselves but museums and public institutions trusting to their
knowledge of art and giving them posts as curators or advisers, thus
throwing their gates wide open to faking--as erudition without eye or
experience seems to possess that deceitful form of suggestion which so
rarely affects the cold, keen intuition of the real connoisseur.

That scientists fall an easy prey to suggestion and are prone to daring
or misleading hypotheses in art or archæology is beyond question. It is
perhaps in the nature of their analytical work to tend to remain purely
and simply analytical.

Numerous and interesting anecdotes could be repeated.

A case of archæological suggestive fancy is told by Paul Eudel.
A piece of pottery was brought to a member of the _Académie des
Inscriptions_ as it bore a rather cryptic sequence of letters that
had proved puzzling to other authorities. The pot with the letters in
question, M. J. D. D., had been excavated near Dijon. As soon as the
_Academicien_ saw the letters he had no hesitation in pronouncing it to
be a Roman vase, a small amphora used as an ex-voto. The letters, he
said, represented the initials of the Latin invocation:--

    MAGNO JOVE DEORUM DEO.

Being a question of a votive offering, nothing would be more consistent
than the words, “To the great Jupiter, the god of gods.” Unfortunately
such a splendid piece of inductive learning was shattered when an
ordinary art dealer examined the jar and declared it to be anything but
ancient, a mustard-pot in fact, the initials meaning

    MOUTARDE JAUNE DE DIJON.

For a considerable time an inscription found on a worm-eaten piece of
a sign-board puzzled the world of erudites. The inscription, evidently
the work of a jester, ran thus:--

    I.C.I.................E.........S.
    T.L..............E..C.H.........E.
    M...................I.N......D..E.
    S.A................N..E.........S.

Needless to say many explanations of the obliterated letters were
prompted by the learned suggestive fancy of professors, and many
interesting reconstructions of the ancient inscription were given. The
riddle, however, was not solved till some one perfectly unacquainted
with the art of reading old inscriptions happened to read the letters
straight off without regard to spacing, furnishing the following true
explanation:--

    ICI EST LE CHEMIN DES ANES.

This is the way for asses! has since become a byword in lampooning
blind erudition.

Though art was not in question here, the anecdote nevertheless
illustrates a tendency of inductive science, a mania, namely, for
hypothesis and explanations which in the case of art often encourages
the blunders of auto-suggestion. A great distinction between practical
and learned opinion is that the former rarely gives at first sight
the name of the author of a painting or statuary, whereas the latter
almost invariably baptizes works of art. Hardly has a learned art
critic cast his eye upon a work and out pops the name of the artist,
the school, etc. Let him talk and you will soon discover that his
conclusions are not based chiefly on the perfected comparative work of
his eye, but upon notions that book-reading has massed in his head. He
will refer to the now almost prohibited and threadbare authority of
Vasari--what would an art critic do without Vasari either to abuse
or quote--saying that such and such an artist painted so and so, and
speak of the influences of masters and schools, go through a list of
quotations from Crowe and Cavalcaselle down to more modern writers,
display any amount of borrowed wisdom but no originality; finally,
through lack of a trained eye, he will grow poetic and enthusiastic
impartially before a genuine work or a faked masterpiece.

Were not curio dealers a rather close-mouthed guild, they might divulge
some interesting incidents with regard to this subject, and prove that
though the case is uncommon there are in this trade not only fakers of
great masters but master fakers of public opinion as well.

Of the expert, Henry Rochefort says:

“At first this name _expert_ appears to awake in us the majestic idea
of science and authority. A dangerous opinion to entertain.”

As a matter of fact there is no control, for, as Rochefort goes on to
remark: “Who can prevent a citizen from calling himself, for instance,
an expert in pictures?”

The dangerous vagueness of the profession, the facility with which the
title is acquired, together with the multitudinous offices it fills,
make of the expert a perilous companion at times.

There is no doubt that when the magniloquence of the title is
justified, through unquestionable ability, supported by a reputation of
untainted honesty, the expert may be of the greatest and most valuable
assistance a collector can desire. His ability must then be paid for
at what it is worth. But even when highly paid it is cheap compared
with the blunders the expert is likely to save the collector--those
costly blunders that are so often an integral part of the commencement
of the career.

On the other hand, what an ignorant expert, in his supreme disdain
for learning, is capable of saying when tendering information, is
incredible.

Rochefort has made an amusing collection of blunders by experts when
called upon to pronounce an opinion on matters in which practice
counts for nothing. The anecdotes were gathered by the French writer
in the public auction rooms of Paris where the expert has an official
function. Here he is prepared to furnish details and useful hints
regarding the objects put up for sale, to enhance their importance.

A collector confided to the care of an expert, Monsieur F----,
a painting of a religious subject representing a scene from the
Apocalypse. Giving this information, the owner asked the expert to put
the painting up to auction at the first important sale.

According to arrangement, Monsieur F---- included the work among
other canvasses at a public sale and printed in the catalogue as a
description of the subject: _Tableau de sainteté d’après l’Apocalypse_
(Sacred picture after Apocalypse).

“_D’après l’Apocalypse?!_” questioned some one when the work was
offered for sale. To which the unabashed expert promptly replied:

“Yes, sir, Apocalypse; a German painter not very well known in Paris
but highly esteemed abroad.”

Another such catalogue, the product of a no less imaginative expert,
announced a canvas on sale to be the portrait of Louis XV by Velasquez!
A figure of a woman washing dishes, attributed by the expert to Rubens
on account of the exuberant rotundity of the model, needed perhaps a
further justification for this daring attribution, for it was decorated
with the following astonishing comment: “Portrait of Rubens’ wife.” (It
is generally known that Rubens married his cook.)

The recent mania of the collector to possess masterpieces has turned
the expert to a most versatile form of activity in order to please
this exacting fancy of the buyer. A painting becomes “of the school”
of this or that artist when it is really too bad to bear even the
uncompromising qualification, “attributed to so-and-so.”

It is difficult to tell when a man ceases to be an expert and becomes
invested with the part of _courtier_, because in keeping with the
general character of the various functions of the curio world, there
is no definite and plain delineation between the one capacity and the
other. The _courtier_ is naturally supposed to know all about the
trade, to possess the necessary elements for appreciation of artistic
value and to make others appreciate it. His chief mission, however,
is to smooth over business difficulties that might arise between the
seller and the buyer. As may be logically expected, the metamorphoses
of this personage are infinite and may be useful or not to the
collector according to circumstances. In conclusion, the go-between is
not only often a necessary complement but may at times be used to great
advantage. The difficulty lies in knowing how to choose the right sort.




CHAPTER XV

IMITATORS AND FAKERS

  The dealer’s silent partners--The important and interesting guild
      of restorers--The imitator an unwilling accomplice--On the
      shady side of silent activity--Again the faker--The patrician
      who supplies the pedigrees--The smuggler and his ways--The
      “black band”--Wise tactics.


We now enter the department of the curio dealer’s silent helpers, the
manifold activities assembled under the broad if not indefinite name
of restorer. A brief glimpse into this part of the trade will lead us
to another artistic division, that of the imitator, and these two last
classes of an unquestionable character will serve admirably to herald
and usher into that deeper, darker stratum of the commerce in which the
faker represents the principal character.

That the restorer should be called the curio dealer’s silent partner
is quite correct as a true definition. The day one of these mute
confidants should feel inclined to boast, he would find no mercy from
the dealer and no gratitude from the duped or disappointed collector
whose eyes he had opened by revealing the truth.

This was fully exemplified by a clever restorer of paintings, employed
by an Italian antiquary at forty francs a day--no mean pay--on
account of his unusual ability in the imitation and restoration of
works by Botticelli more especially, as well as for other _pastiches_.
Thinking to start a profitable business of his own as an art restorer
and that his merits would be valued _per se_, he disclosed the secret
of the made-up Botticellis to a rich collector and let out that he
himself to all practical purposes had painted the gem of the gallery.
He was promptly discharged by his employer and the collector to whom
he had told the truth became his worst enemy.

The activity of the restorer is naturally multifarious, many-sided as
is the trade in curios. His methods will be better explained when art
faking is described. The procedure in imitating, restoring and faking
is more or less identical, though in faking it is more synthetically
perfect than when limited to restoring various articles of virtu. There
are people who consider restoration a blessing, others the reverse,
a regular curse; particularly in the case of works of art of no mean
merit.

Without doubt the restoring of works of art has at times greatly
contributed to their preservation, and more than one masterpiece has
come down to us, thanks solely to some clever restorer who at the
right time prevented its complete ruin. This is the good side of the
profession, but as for its reverse, the art of restoring has, through
the ignorance of workers, greatly damaged well-known works of art
by the repainting or obliterating of different parts, often helping
deception by embellishing bad art into deceitful good art. In this way
the art of restoring has proved a bridge to fakery.

Restoration at its best and in the true artistic spirit never consents
to falsify any part of the work. Lies, even in art, no matter how well
they may be told, remain lies.

Artistically and ethically speaking the operations of the restorer
should be confined to work intended to save a work of art from the
ravages of time. These operations are many, most varied and not
at all easy. They demand long practice, a deft hand, patience and
skill as well. The process of restoration may mean, for instance,
the transference of the layer of paint from a rotted panel to a new
one or to canvas, the consolidation of a ceiling painting or other
deteriorating forms, revarnishing and, to a certain extent, cleaning.

In sculpture orthodox restorations appear to be of a more limited
character, being chiefly confined to collecting broken pieces and
surface cleaning. Of course the repairing of limbs and missing parts
has its importance if done with great artistic discrimination.

According to responsible art critics the restoration of paintings may
consist of repainting the missing and obliterated parts and that of
sculpture in the replacing of lost fragments only when decorative parts
are concerned, important for the better comprehension of the whole but
not expressing any marked characteristic of the artist.

When in the service of the antiquary, the art of restoring has no such
scruples or limitations. As a matter of fact its limits then rest with
such restrictions as the dealer’s conscience may impose, and it must
be confessed that this is rather a narrow and at the same time very
elastic boundary. The different views as to restoration are epitomized
by the curious distinction made by connoisseurs and dealers, when
judging between the two cleverest restorers of Italy. The upshot is: If
you have a painting that needs repairing and you wish to restore it to
its former state go to Cavenaghi, but if perchance you are interested
to sell it go to--the other one.

Disproportion and overdoing in restoration turns this very legitimate
art at times into sheer faking. A bust of a Roman emperor, for example,
that may have been found headless and which the restorer completes into
a Julius Cæsar by copying the head of the great Roman dictator from
another statue, represents a form of faking. Yet, were our programme
one of disclosing the names of saints and sinners instead of that of
pointing out sins, we could designate more than one dealer of good
repute who sincerely thinks, we may assume, that his form of daring and
attractive restoration cannot be called faking.

Another rather questionable form of restoration is that of composing,
say furniture or any other ornamental goods, from old bits or fragments
taken from various rotten objects. There is no doubt that a tasteful
artificer can do effective work by composing a table out of two or
three broken ones, but nowadays such is the abuse of the method that
we are only surprised that the trick is not more easily discovered.
Some of these gross and hastily put together compositions of uneducated
dealers must count upon clients not only ignorant, but utterly deprived
of good taste. The faking qualities of this method are proved, for as
soon as the buyer knows of the admixture he refuses to buy the object.
Yet such trickery is generally admitted in the trade.

There is, perhaps, a justification for this method of restoring
antiques when the character of the article is decorative, as in certain
pieces of furniture, marble or stone work, such as chimney-pieces,
ornamented doors and so forth. Yet even in such cases honesty would
seem to claim that the buyer be warned as to the extent of the
restoration.

Nevertheless the temptation to keep the secret must be great,
considering how rarely such patchwork is discovered even by experts,
and how easily it calls forth the praise and enthusiasm of art critics.

Another form of restoration of a most questionable character, as the
decorative nature of the object cannot be claimed as an excuse, is
that, by which a painting is transformed or embellished by repainting
large missing portions more or less fantastically, or by supplying the
artistic quality that is wanting. Such work is either done by totally
repainting the missing parts, or by veiling and repainting here and
there, so as to give the work the attractiveness of a masterpiece.

Naturally in the vast field covered by the questionable genius of this
deceptive art, limits are set by the greater or lesser capacity of the
restorer, just as the quality of the restoration determines whether he
is to be called a professional repairer of paintings or a faker.

It is incredible what an amount of work is executed nowadays intended
to give a coquettish character to a daub, or to enhance the value of a
fairly good painting. Even many masterpieces sold in recent times have
been to our knowledge decorated with fantastic backgrounds of castles
and quaint landscapes, and mottoes and coats-of-arms have been added to
portraits. A barrel of alcohol--spirit, it is known, dissolves fresh
varnish and modern retouching--would accomplish wonders with famous
masterpieces of recent acquisition and cause many a disillusionment to
the curators of museums.

As regards the juggling of poor or deficient works of what is generally
called a school, into a _trompe-l’œil_, making one believe it to be
a painting by the master of the said school, should Italian export
officials be inclined to make public what is intended to remain
private, many an astonishing _coup de théâtre_ would reveal the true
nature of supposed masterpieces bought by unwary collectors as genuine
_chefs-d’œuvre_.

A member of the board of exportation explained to the author, how it
happens, that the officials are frequently led into the penetralia
of the make-up of a pseudo-masterpiece. Sometimes the work is done
so well that it would deceive the very officials and experts of the
export bureau. In this case the antiquary, who has sold the painting
and is desirous that it should reach its destination without hindrance
from the export office, pays a visit to the inspector and shows him
a photograph of the supposed masterpiece, as it appeared before its
coquettish restoration. After this graphic proof the office has nothing
more to say and permission to export is granted. The members of the
Commission do not consider themselves to be responsible to collectors.
But they do demand documents as guarantees, and two photos, one taken
before restoration and one after, are generally exacted and kept in
the office. One of the Commission showed us some of these photographs,
two in number for each object, before and after the restoration. One
could hardly believe the miracles accomplished in this line. Botticini
easily becomes a Botticelli after a few caresses by a clever hand,
and we know cases in which a mediocre work by Ridolfo Ghirlandaio
has been turned into a Raphael. These photographs are exacted by the
inspectors as a protection from any possible accusation from the
central department located in Rome. When the Press gives an elaborate
account of some American having captured a masterpiece, giving facts
and details and the reproduction of the _chef-d’œuvre_, adding that
it comes from Italy, when London art magazines go into ecstasies over
some newly-acquired find, and wonder how the Italian Government came to
allow such a magnificent “find” to slip through its fingers and cross
the frontier, the Central Office in Rome naturally becomes alarmed
and demands an explanation from the local office responsible for the
exportation permit. As a convincing answer the two photographs are then
sent to Rome, with the consequence that the case is dismissed. The
various export offices, whose chief duty it is to impede the exodus of
fine works of art, do not consider themselves under any obligation to
prevent sham masterpieces from leaving Italy.

The imitator, a type to figure later as a help to the better
understanding of the faker, occasionally becomes an involuntary or
accidental accomplice in deception. His complete equipment, his
excellent work, which but for his rectitude and scruples might turn him
into a formidable faker, are frequently exploited by others, who, on
coming into possession of some of his good imitations launch them upon
the collector world, just as they might any species of faked works of
art. Many of the noted bastard masterpieces in museums are the work
of imitators that have been palmed off by tricky dealers without the
consent or knowledge of the artist, and it has often been the latter
who has helped in the discovery of the fraud.

There are also cases when simple plagiarism or chance similarity has
been turned to advantage by shrewd people. The fact that Trouillebert’s
painting greatly resembled Corot, was sufficient to give corrupt
dealers the chance to pass off Trouillebert’s landscapes as works
by the famous French master. This was done, of course, in spite of
Trouillebert’s protests, who never thought of imitating Corot.

It is curious when some work of a clever imitator or genial faker
falls in the course of time into the hands of the restorer to be
repaired--there are circumstances in which modern paintings may
need repair. Something still more extraordinary happened to a clever
restorer and imitator living in Siena who received from England one of
his own paintings--one of his first imitations of Lorenzetti--obviously
damaged and entrusted to him for restoration.

There are other characters which will form the subject of a more
particular study. These individuals belong to the shady side of the
commerce and have no redeeming points whatever. They comprise fakers,
forgers, smugglers, deceivers at large, and the whole clan included in
the vague and broad term “the black band,” as some collectors call them.

The faker is the _Deus ex machina_ in the most varied kinds of
deception. Fakers are not only those who furnish spurious works of
art and well-imitated articles of virtu, but also those who help in
any form or manner to dispose of sham objects. Thus the parts played
by masquerading aristocrats, lending their names and swearing to
heirlooms, the debased patricians helping to build the reputation of an
artistic product, are forms of faking, as well as others which aim at
cheating or deflecting public opinion or a genuine appreciation--forms
of faking that will be more clearly outlined when degenerate varieties
of art sales are described.

One of the most clandestine helpers of art and curio-dealing and one
who is in close contact with the dark side of the commerce is the
smuggler, a genuine specialist not resembling other smugglers but with
characteristics of his own worth notice.

Needless to say smuggling has no _raison d’être_ in such countries
as have no custom laws to regulate the export of artistic goods nor
put duty upon their entrance within the precinct of the State. It is
also obvious that the dual form of such legislation, laws to prevent
exportation, and importation dues, has produced two corresponding kinds
of smuggling, the one aiming to baffle prohibitive laws on exportation,
and the other trying to undervalue artistic goods generally taxed _ad
valorem_.

Italy being the classical country of art treasures which have been
exploited for centuries, and the first to issue laws and penalties on
the subject, it is naturally ahead in the cryptic art of smuggling.
The high tariff of the United States, but recently abolished, and the
incredible prices paid by the citizens for antiques and works of art in
general, make it the country best adapted to illustrate the branch of
smuggling which aims at avoiding Custom House dues.

When reading old and modern laws promulgated against illicit
exportation of works of art, one cannot help wondering how such daring
still exists, and how there should still be people willing to brave
the severity of these laws. The Medicis, it is known, prescribed
punishments in the second half of the sixteenth century; the Papal laws
that followed were if anything even more Draconian, to say nothing of
the iron laws of the former kingdom of the Two Sicilies, the severest
of them all. Modern governments may not impose prison and galley so
freely upon the culprit, but they are no less hard on the transgressor.
Money fines are certainly exceedingly heavy, they amount at times to
large fortunes.

The present laws on the export of art from Italy have a preventive
character which the old regulations had not. Every owner of a work of
art is himself eventually responsible, and is bound to bring it before
the inspectors of the Export Office, who after close examination give
or withhold permission to pass the frontier. When permission is granted
there is a tax to be paid averaging between 5 per cent and 20 per cent
_ad valorem_, according to the inspector’s estimate, and should the
object leave the country after permission has been refused, the owner
is held responsible and may be called before the tribunal to answer for
his action and to pay damages.

An Italian adage runs: _Fatta la legge trovato l’inganno_, which in a
free translation may be rendered: Make a law and the means of evasion
are found.

This is somewhat the fate of the protective laws regarding art in
Italy, the more stringent and circumspect they are the law-breaker
apparently becomes correspondingly bolder and more astute.

The way in which Italian authorities have been hoodwinked at times,
points to the magnitude attained by the shrewd activity of the
law-breakers, and to how their art has almost been turned into a
science, even calling in the aid of psychology--in this case a deep
study of the faulty idiosyncrasies of the officials.

A few skirmishes between the two parties concerned will serve to
demonstrate the variety of the _modus operandi_ adopted by the
law-breakers and their final success over an easily conquered opponent.

In the case of a painting of unusual artistic value, a work that has
not been put upon the prohibited list of the official catalogue, and
the reproduction of which is unknown to the authorities, but which
might, nevertheless, by its good qualities catch even the generally
inexperienced eye of the inspectors--mostly art critics of the
literary species--the work is transformed into a daub without
damage to the painting or change to any essential part. The process
is exactly the reverse of that helping a poor painting by clever
restoration and additions. Here it is a question of reducing a good
work to an apparently bad one, obtainable chiefly by veiling the good
qualities of the work, altering good drawing by cleverly introducing
offensive disproportion of limbs, etc. There is a difference, however,
between the work intended to embellish a painting and that aiming to
do the reverse. The former, with the idea of facilitating the sale,
is permanent, the latter is only temporary, just to get permission to
export. This latter work must be executed in such a way that it can be
washed out without damage to the work after the painting has safely
crossed the frontier. For this operation a coat of glue is generally
given as a preparation, then the modifications are painted in with
tempera on the layer of glue, which is easily dissolved in water,
together with the retouching when the work is to be restored to its
original state.

Similar treatment is also given to statues, busts and bas-reliefs, more
especially when of material that allows the addition of parts that can
be removed afterwards without damage to the original. How well the work
is done and how successful it proves is hardly credible. Security lies
in the fact that should a question be raised afterwards when the work
has been sold to some noted collector outside the country, nothing
can be said or done, as permission has been granted and there is no
pictorial proof that the work had been done for the occasion.

Naturally this method is not of daily or common occurrence, nor, as we
have stated, can it be applied to well-known works the photographs of
which could be obtained to contradict evidence.

Sometimes more is undertaken than retouching or apparently maiming the
artistic qualities of a work. One antiquary who intended to send off
a painting that might be detained at the Export Office, pasted paper
over the picture, and then after the usual coat of glue painted in
tempera a very mediocre landscape. With this he obtained the export
permit and packed his work as prescribed by law before the eyes of the
authorities, after which the case was sealed by them and safely sent on
its way to the frontier.

Leaving the endless tricks which might be grouped more or less with
the above we will take up other curious ways of eliciting permission,
methods showing the deceiver to be as good an observer of human nature
as he is a true psychologist.

A noted bric-à-brac dealer entered the Export Office bringing a Della
Robbia with him. According to custom when official inspection is
sought, the bas-relief was packed ready for the permit and seal of the
office. Taking off the lid of the case, the dealer handed the documents
to the inspector to be signed.

“You must take us for fools,” said the latter, struck by the beauty
of the work. “Do you really think we allow such works to leave the
country?”

“Well, don’t say anything and I’ll explain things--look here.”

The bas-relief was taken from the case and with a pocketknife the
dealer scraped a piece of plaster from the apparently aged back,
showing not only freshly baked clay but the mark of a well-known modern
factory of ceramics.

“Modern! I confess I should never have thought it.”

“Keep our secret,” pleaded the bric-à-brac dealer. “You see they go to
America.”

Satisfied that his professional honour was safe with the dealer, who
would naturally not expose the blunder, and not considering it within
the sphere of his activity to see that Americans were not fooled as
he himself had been, the inspector granted permission, provided the
documents should be honestly endorsed by the declaration “modern.”

Later on the dealer presented himself with a similar work. The case was
hardly opened when the same inspector exclaimed, “Oh these Americans!
Another cuckoo.”

“Well, as you stop the genuine we have to content ourselves with
sending off imitations,” observed the dealer with intentional flattery.

“They seem to prosper,” laughed the inspector, signing the papers and
sealing the case for expedition.

Needless to explain, this time it was a genuine Della Robbia, sent off
with all the requisite legal papers, and labelled by the man of law as
a modern work.

Some years ago an antiquary of Rome, the owner of a statue of fine
Greek workmanship, knew that if the work should be presented to the
Export Office, permission would be refused. The statue had been
excavated in three separate parts and subsequently recomposed, and it
was thought wise to take it apart again and send it off in that state.
The head, the finest piece, was taken across the frontier as luggage by
a tourist, the torso was sent out of Rome to get the permission from
the office of another city, and the legs were the only part to leave
the capital with free and unsuspecting permission from the Central
Office.

A marble statue, now in the Museum of Art in Berlin, a work of heroic
proportions, passed the frontier in two parts, each piece packed in
separate trunks such as are used by ladies. The statue had been sawn
in two along the line of the drapery in such a way that when the two
parts were united the join could hardly attract attention. That the
great weight should not arouse suspicion the two marble blocks were
hollowed out and thus considerably lightened. The two parts of the
statue were first conveyed to Paris, that haven of smuggled goods,
where they were reunited and the reconstructed statue was finally
sent to its destination. Though cleverly put together the joint is
noticeable to an experienced eye upon close inspection. One wonders
whether the authorities of the Museum ever discovered that their fine
specimen of Roman Renaissance, which had been bought in a single piece
in Italy, with the assurance that it was the dealer’s affair to get it
to Berlin, had been delivered in two patched pieces almost as hollow as
a plaster-cast.

Another curious form of smuggling, which must be classed among the
suggestive methods, consists of perturbing and influencing the opinion
of the Export Office employé or, if necessary, that of his immediate
superior, very often the curator of a museum or the highest authority
on artistic matters in the province.

This sort of innuendo is accomplished in several ways. Sometimes a
confrère will drop into the office as if by accident when the case is
there ready for examination, and on seeing the object will exclaim,
“That awful thing, sold at last!”

He will naturally be asked to explain what he knows about it. He may
say that it was offered to him, but that he had refused it because
repainted and restored by so-and-so. He is likely to conclude by
saying, “Ask the man who restored ----” of course, another confederate.

Though it may appear naïve and clumsy to the outsider, this latter
method has been known to work extremely well. It is only to be
expected, too, when the depth and calibre of Italian official wisdom
on art matters is taken into consideration, the post of inspector
being filled chiefly by scribblers or art critics, seeking Government
employment; or perhaps they may be students fresh from a recently
instituted university course on art, their main equipment being
historical studies. There is no question but that they are excellently
informed, so far as art erudition is concerned, but they lack
experience, and the trouble is that the chief requisite in an office
such as the Export Office is a long experienced and sure eye, with a
thorough knowledge of the trade in curios, and its peculiar resources
in deceit. One word of doubt let fall at the right moment works wonders
when dealing with people whose lack of practical knowledge is so
appalling.

We recall the case of an inspector who felt uncertain as to the
artistic value of a painting and finally resorted to the experience
of his immediate superior, the curator of a museum and a well-known
art writer. On examining the work the latter pronounced it to be a
good specimen of the Ferrara school, and declared that permission
could not be granted. The owner and would-be exporter, an antiquary
in great favour, called on the curator, who had had the painting
transferred to his own private room with a view to making a careful
examination. He directed the curator’s attention to the repainted and
repaired condition of the work. Persuaded finally that the painting was
nothing but a shocking piece of modern restoration the curator granted
permission. A friend who was present and noticed the dealer’s satisfied
smile, asked him afterwards whether the work was really so bad as he
had represented to the curator.

“Not a single retouch,” was the answer, “most genuine.”

“But you convinced him. You pointed out the restored parts.”

“Yes, suggestion is one of our most formidable weapons,” assented the
antiquary, doubling his crafty smile. “Yes. Suggestion is one of our
best accomplices.”

Although recognizing that many of the employés of the Export Office
are quite unfitted for their difficult task, through their particular
form of education, we are ready to admit that to decide almost at
sight, what may safely leave the country and what must be retained, is
no easy affair. Imitations at times are so perfect that even the most
experienced eye, without mature and well-pondered examination of the
object, is apt to be duped.

Some years ago one of the sons of Professor Costantini, a well-informed
antiquary of Florence, made a copy of an Antonello de Messina that
was in his father’s collection. The copy was undertaken to oblige an
English friend, and being painted on an old worm-eaten panel of wood,
so cleverly imitated the original as to be mistaken for it. When the
work was to be exported the official refused his permission on the
ground that it was by a great master and must consequently remain in
Italy. However, as the young artist insisted in his declaration that
it was a copy made by himself, appeal was made to the curator of the
Uffizi Gallery of Florence, Professor Ridolfi. The latter confirmed the
inspector’s verdict, reiterating the prohibiting injunction, and a sort
of consultation was held, with the aid of Professor Supino, curator of
the National Museum, Professor Elia Volpi, a highly esteemed antiquary
of Florence, and a German artist, acting restorer of paintings at the
Uffizi Gallery. They unanimously declared the work to be old. Some
attributed it to Antonello himself, others to his school, there was no
suspicion of modernism. The whole affair was afterwards settled as it
should have been from the first. Professor Costantini invited Professor
Ridolfi and the others to see the original painting at his house.

When the high tariff on imported works of art and curios was still in
force in the United States, smugglers relied chiefly on undervaluation,
as orthodox smuggling, namely introduction into the country without any
payment of duty, was hardly possible under the vigilance of Argus-eyed
Custom House officials. Thus the grand art of smuggling works of art
and antiques of repute, always pliable to circumstances, relied mainly
upon the ignorance of the so-called appraisers. At first a legal
estimate enclosed with the documents accompanying the goods from their
place of departure was sufficient and very rarely discussed. Gradually
the United States Custom House agents grew suspicious, and to support
the low valuation it became necessary to adjust the objects, in very
much the same way as was done to obtain export permission, from the
Italian office.

One of the tricks practised in the case of furniture is to take off all
ornamental and carved parts by disjointing or sawing and then polishing
or in some way adjusting the place left bare. The ornaments are sent
separately to be replaced when the piece of furniture is safely beyond
the reach of the Custom House laws.

Custom House officials all the world over are generally reckoned by
trained smugglers to be very poor judges of art. They consider them
capable of making a great fuss over the wrong article and letting
the dutiable ones slip through their fingers. Something of this kind
happened at the Custom House of Bercy, Paris, where, with no intention
of smuggling or deceiving the officials, Dazzi, an Italian dealer, came
to pay duty in a sort of topsy-turvy way. Together with other things,
Dazzi was importing into France a box of modern bronzes, imitating
objects of Pompeiian excavation and coated with an indecent patina,
green as a lizard’s skin, and a piece of seventeenth-century silk
damask, which according to French law should have been duty free as
only antique goods of the eighteenth century and onwards pay. After
a long confabulation the appraiser of the Custom House decided that
being, as he thought, of modern fabric, the damask must pay duty
and that the bronzes, supposed by him to be two thousand years old,
might enter free of duty. Dazzi saw that this queer exchange was to
his advantage and submitted to the strange verdict without further
observation.

In Italy, the law on exportation, intended to prevent the exodus of
fine works of art, is often turned to advantage by sharp dealers who
manage to have their mediocre goods detained at the Export Office, and
when exportation has been finally permitted make use of the momentary
detention to enhance the merits of the object exported.

This trick has been practised to such an extent that, particularly in
America, it is not unusual to hear an amateur extol some bit of rubbish
with the remark, “It was stopped by the Italian inspectors, but my man
managed to get it through by greasing the paw----”

An imitation of the work of Bellano, a bas-relief in clay, was in
custody at the Export Office and afterwards allowed to pass, being
recognized as modern. This was quite enough to advertise the work as
excellent, so excellent that it was held up at the Italian Export
Office. The bas-relief is now shown in the collection of a New York
amateur, and the romantic tale of the refused permit adds flavour and
draws particular attention to the masterpiece, and yet----!

This is more or less the dark side of the traffic in curios and the
various questionable forces that many collectors call “the black band.”
As will be shown later, the “black band” is a Parisian expression,
denoting a more restricted field of activity.

How is the beginner to cope with such odds? To become acquainted
with the peculiar _milieu_ to be avoided in the commerce of antiques
requires time, to learn to detect restorations and repairs, we mean
undue repairs, is an art in itself that demands considerable experience.

To sum up, while striving daily to become more efficient, relying as
little as possible on the help of others, or knowing how to choose the
right sort of aid, it is most important to be circumspect, to assume in
principle that the beginner is likely to be duped at the start, and to
believe that there is more wisdom than people are ready to think in the
advice of Paul Eudel, _Soyez athées en objets d’art_ (Be sceptical in
art objects!).




CHAPTER XVI

THE ARTISTIC QUALITIES OF IMITATORS

  Sculptors--A few notable examples--Bastianini’s art and the
      adventures of his Girolamo Benivieni--A modern imitation of
      Renaissance art entered at a Munich museum as a genuine antique
      --The sculptor’s art and method--The Verrocchio, Robbia and
      Co., Ltd.--Signor Natali’s art and Signor Bonafedi’s patina--
      Various methods of would-be makers of old masters--Painting
      --The Sienese imitative school--Mr. Salting’s experience--
      Professor Ezio Marzi’s imitation of the Flemish school--Stone
      and ornamental work--Professor Orlandini’s art--Iron work--
      Weapons, etc.


From the point of view of art, the creator of “finds,” the imitator of
masterpieces, and faker of sham “_chefs-d’œuvre_” are not attractive
personalities. The value of their art--if it deserves so noble a
title--is likely to vanish as soon as the scheme is detected and to
leave us with something of the disillusionment experienced when viewing
a set of stage scenery by broad daylight.

The simple imitator, the man who honestly declares his work to be
modern, though of a higher moral standard than his comrade the forger,
is no more likely to win our admiration. The difference between the
two, artistically speaking, is that the one is apt to irritate us
from the first, the other only after we have been “taken in,” the
first cheats himself alone when he believes his patchwork to be good
art, the second is ready to deceive any and everyone who credits his
artistic lies. High above these two classes, however, stand a few
gifted beings who seem to have actually imbibed the artistic qualities
of Renaissance art to such an extent as to have attained a new and
genuine personality--modern in date but old and faithful to the past in
creative conception. In this case, imitation becoming creative, as we
have said, it rises to the rank of real art.

Up to the present, since Bastianini’s excellent work was first
launched, many of the imitators who followed and who have successfully
duped museums and art lovers, belong to the commonplace order. Their
success is chiefly due to the deficiency and lack of practice among
curators, collectors and connoisseurs at large.

The more recent imitations that have deceived some of the most
experienced eyes in Florence, Munich and Paris have revealed the names
of two sculptors, Zampini and Natali, who apart from their imitative
ability may, like Bastianini, be studied and admired _per se_.

Both these artists have some points in common with the sculptor who
puzzled all the French connoisseurs of the Second Empire. Both, like
Bastianini and other good and honest imitators, have made the fortunes
of others, not their own; like him, too, have sold their products as
modern, only to realize that as soon as believed antique they reached
fabulous figures.

The portrait bust of Girolamo Benivieni--for which Bastianini
received 350 francs--was finally sold to the Louvre for 14,000
francs. Before landing in the Paris Museum it had passed through the
hands of Freppa--a Florentine antiquary--Nolives, a connoisseur who
travelled in Italy in search of “finds,” and Nieuwerkerque, Princess
Mathilde Bonaparte’s all-powerful protégé, who was responsible for its
acquisition by the Museum.

This classic piece of fakery is worth recalling in all its details,
together with the stir succeeding Bastianini’s declaration of himself
as the author of the Benivieni bust and the humiliating figure cut
by the officially recognized connoisseurs and art critics after the
_dénouement_.

Contrary to the general mode adopted by imitators and fakers of copying
the various parts here and there from Renaissance work, welding them
into a would-be _tout ensemble_ of originality, Bastianini had so
imbibed the character of the fifteenth century that he was able to
work without immediate suggestions other than the influence of the
recollections and skill he had acquired by copying from good old models
in his preparatory period. Thus the work was done straight from nature,
the model chosen being an old man nicknamed the _Priore_, employed in
a cigar factory. When the clay was still fresh, struck by the unusual
Renaissance style of the bust, someone suggested the name by which it
was finally christened, and Bastianini inscribed the words: HIER^{MUS}
BENIVIENI.

The name of Girolamo Benivieni, Savonarola’s poet friend, was in
keeping with the austere features of the portrait, and the modest
employé of the Florentine cigar factory well represented one of the
most illustrious types of Republican Florence.

When Nolives exhibited Bastianini’s work in 1867 as a specimen of
Renaissance sculpture at the Retrospective Art Show of the Palais des
Champs Élysées, an influential art critic wrote:

“We have not known Benivieni, but are prepared to swear that this
portrait must be extremely like him. Who is the artist that modelled
it? We are almost tempted to label the work with a string of names from
the glorious period of Florentine art.”

Noting, incidentally, that the art critic’s temptation to go through
a long litany of names by way of attribution is simply delightful, we
may state that the illustrious writer was not the only one to be caught
and duped by Bastianini’s capital work. The supposititious Girolamo
Benivieni had turned the heads of all the art intellectuals of Paris.

Later on, when Nolive’s collection was put up to auction the bust was
acquired, as we have already stated, by Nieuwerkerque for the sum of
13,600 francs and was finally placed in the Louvre Museum.

It is said that, believing the bust to be antique, Nolives wrote
to Bastianini bantering him upon his gross error in letting such a
stupendous “find” slip from his hands.

Finally the name of Bastianini as the author of the bust leaked out.
Admiration began to cool, opinions as to the genuineness of the work
were divided and a long polemic over the case ensued.

When Bastianini, up to then an obscure Florentine artist, finally
declared in a letter sent to the _Diritto_, an Italian newspaper, that
he himself was the author of the Benivieni, he was supposed to be an
imposter.

Among others to contest Bastianini’s assertion was the talented
sculptor Lequesne, who went so far as to call the Florentine artist a
liar, maintaining that the men who could mould clay into such forms
as that of the bust were no more of this world, having long since
disappeared. At the end of his invective against the Florentine
sculptor, M. Lequesne swore that should Bastianini be able to prove
himself to be the sculptor of the Benivieni, he himself would be
willing to serve such a sculptor, if only to mix his clay.

It would be tedious to follow the long and spicy polemic from which
Bastianini was perforce to issue triumphantly. Pamphlets and articles
were written on both sides, Bastianini himself taking part in the
controversy and showing himself to be a wit worthy of those old
Florentines whom Dante designates as having a “_spirito bizzarro_.”

Irrefutable proofs--the first plaster-cast of the head which had
been kept by the sculptor, witnesses who had seen Bastianini at
work, the assurance of the model and his true resemblance to the
pseudo-Benivieni--cut short all possibility of further discussion. The
actual author of the Renaissance bust that had puzzled the learned
public of the French capital, was beyond all doubt Bastianini.

Naturally this was not Bastianini’s first essay. In the year 1864 a
bust by him, an effigy of Savonarola, had been exhibited at the Palazzo
Riccardi in Florence. This work, too, was taken for antique. Vincenzo
Capponi, a Florentine dealer, secured it for 640 francs and sold it for
ten thousand. Another work, a charming type of Florentine youth, a girl
singing, was sold to M. Édouard André of Paris.

[Illustration: RESURRECTION.

By Signor Ferrante Zampini, bought at Munich as work of the XVth
Century. Zampini was a clever Italian artist, who possessed the rare
gift of imitating Renaissance work. He never deceived anyone with his
imitations, but his work passing through several hands eventually
deceived the connoisseurs of the Munich Gallery.]

[Illustration: PIETÀ.

By Sig. Ferrante Zampini.]

Bastianini’s imitations are of such excellency that they are now held
in high esteem by collectors and are bought by museums at extremely
handsome prices. The Victoria and Albert Museum has one of the most
complete collections of Bastianini’s art, where the whole range of this
genial imitator of the Renaissance can be seen almost _au complet_.

Signor Ferrante Zampini, whose imitations deceived the museum of Munich
and many good connoisseurs and specialists, worked with different
methods.

The Pietà--the large lunette which together with other works deceived
the art authorities of Munich so completely--had passed in Florence
from the studio of Ferrante Zampini to the well-known atelier of Signor
Bonafedi, a painter of uncommon talent whose ability in colouring
and in giving a proper patina to clay is unrivalled. This work was
afterwards sold (for the sum of 1200 francs), as modern, to Professor
Paolini, a violinist, who also sold it for modern to a German, and
finally, through a string of collectors, the Pietà landed in the Munich
Museum for 14,000 francs.

It is said that the discovery of its modern authorship was due to a
successful antiquary of Florence, a collector who has sharpened his
natural alertness after a sad experience when he bought a bronze by a
living German artist as Quattrocento work, and who is in a position to
know more than one _histoire_ through a regular network of informants.
On this occasion his informant, it seems, was close to hand in the
person of his packer.

As for other antiquaries who had had no forewarning from kind
informants, they have been more or less taken in by Signor Zampini’s
works which have appeared now and then on the market since the year
1904. Less exception seems to have been taken to the work of the other
modern imitator, Signor Natali. His imitations, made previously to
his best one, bought by the Louvre Museum, appear to have travelled
very far; some of them are still in undisturbed enjoyment of honour as
Renaissance work in private collections.

Ferrante Zampini’s first work was a portrait of a lady, a finely
executed head evidently made under the direct impression of those busts
attributed to Laurana, those that Courajod insisted upon calling death
masks. This piece, however, had no fortune in the world of antiques,
it travelled from place to place, and finally, as faithful as a
carrier-pigeon, returned to the man who had bought it from the sculptor.

A strikingly fine clay head followed. It closely resembled the portrait
of Colleoni, though giving the general of the Venetian Republic a more
aged appearance than that of the equestrian statue in Venice: it was
readily bought as a Verrocchio.

Since then Zampini has produced several works of his peculiar art.
Although they have realized large sums of money his own gains were but
small.

A curious proof of Zampini’s excellence in imitating the Quattrocento
is given by the following incident. A French collector bought from
a Florentine dealer a genuine piece of Renaissance, and a work by
Zampini. After taking the two purchases to Paris the collector sent
back the _real_ article as a fake, keeping the Zampini bust as a
recognized authentic object of art. A Munich princess possesses one of
the finest works of our sculptor which still defies all evidence--even
now after the Munich disclosures have enlightened the Bavarian
connoisseurs.

Professor X. of Florence, a connoisseur whose ability is beyond
question and whose experience is highly esteemed among art lovers,
bought a clay bust by Zampini, believing it to be work of the
fourteenth century. Some time after he had transferred the object
to his collection the clay began to peel off and show signs of the
progressive scaling usually called _sbullettare_.[1]

    [1] “Sbullettare” signifies the scaling of terra-cotta by
        which it becomes full of little holes, as though pitted by
        small-pox. The word is derived from _bulletta_ (a nail or
        tack), the poor victim looking as though nails had been
        roughly drawn out.

Zampini, it must be said, often uses Impruneta clay (that used by della
Robbia), and he was not aware that to prevent scaling--a phenomenon
that may set in months after the work is baked--this peculiar earth
must be moistened as soon as it leaves the oven. Had this been done the
work would have been saved that curious scaling which in the end told
the truth about the bust. But for this unforeseen circumstance the work
might still be playing its part in the world of antiques.

Professor X., however, knew that antique busts are not liable to
suffer from this peculiar kind of small-pox and called the go-between
who had helped in the conclusion of the business and a friend who had
shared his admiration and to them he confided his suspicions. The
bust then disappeared for some time. Later, however, the same friend
of Professor X. who had admired the bust before it began to scale,
was called in to admire it again in the collection of Professor Y.,
another noted connoisseur, who had bought it as antique. For reasons
of his own, possibly so as not to spoil the new owner’s pleasure, the
friend did not reveal the secret of the make-up. But Impruneta clay
seemed determined the truth should become manifest to all, in spite
of circumstances. Within a few days the work that had already been
attributed to Verrocchio by the new owner, began to peel once more, and
the secret of its modern date was revealed a second time. Professor Y.,
who is an honest dealer and a connoisseur of such ability as to be able
to afford a blunder without loss of a well-deserved reputation, laughed
at the clever joke played upon him and buried the Verrocchio in his
cellar--the Erebus to which all honest antiquaries relegate their bad
bargains.

The bas-relief which has been bought by the Louvre at a larger figure
than any other recent acquisition of this nature, is the work of a
young sculptor, Natali, a Florentine who has lately emerged as a clever
imitator of the Renaissance. The newspapers have already spoken of the
last part played by the supposed Verrocchio in the Museum, and the
magnificent sum paid for it. What is not generally known is that the
curator’s eyes were opened--wisdom and knowledge are often wakened
in this way!--by an anonymous letter written from an aggrieved
would-be partner in the affair who had been, as it were, “cut off with
a shilling” in the handsome transaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

Though Bastianini, Zampini and Natali seem to exploit a common field
and to work with identical aims, they so essentially differ in the
quality and character of their work as to deserve a brief comparison.

Bastianini, who flourished when connoisseurship was yet without the
powerful aid of photography, appears in some way at a disadvantage when
compared with the others, and this although his qualities as a modern
sculptor, even though academic, were perhaps of a more solid character
than theirs.

Apart from his Benivieni, his Savonarola bust and a few heads of aged
people in which the sculptor reveals his best and strongest qualities
as an imitator of the Quattrocento, his work is of a perplexed and,
consequently, weaker nature. We very much doubt whether some of his
female heads now in the Victoria and Albert Museum could deceive in
these days even a mediocre connoisseur.

In Bastianini’s minor works one is likely to find the explanation
of this curious artistic temperament--he was a lover of modern life
and prided himself upon cooking macaroni fit to make a Neapolitan
blush, he claimed to be the best ball player (_giocatore di pallone_)
of his day and could pass from modern art to antique imitations
with a facility that astonishes us. In his less important works an
oscillating mind is evident, swinging like a pendulum between modern
and antique art. It is clear that the two artistic personalities
worked alternately in Bastianini’s mind, leaving no deep or permanent
impression. This artist’s imitations, consequently, bear every symptom
of immediate suggestion--fugitive impressions cleverly caught and
blended into a surprisingly harmonious whole, thanks to his uncommon
skill in modelling. It is this happy _tout ensemble_ (summing up of
qualities and circumstances) that raised the artist above the level
of the obvious imitator, more especially when modelling certain
heads the character of which would seem to tally with the original
impression--some early souvenir or first work in copying maybe--he had
received from the masters of the Renaissance.

With Ferrante Zampini the artistic evolution is somewhat reversed.
A man of taciturn disposition, inclined to dream and of mystic
tendencies, he must have cogitated, loved and longingly caressed his
idea before giving it form. Rebelling against any academic yoke it was
not long before he began an intercourse of sentiment with the work of
the past, questioning those old masters as to the reason why their
sentiment should clash with scholastic tuition. He must have actually
saturated his mind with old forms before taking up the modelling stick.
To see him working without a model, without a suggestion even to aid
his creation, made one almost believe that through some mesmeric power
the soul of an old master had passed into his own, and that he was
enjoying at the moment all the glorious freedom of irresponsibility.

Thus while Bastianini worked in a well-lighted studio, filled with
plaster-casts of the creations of Verrocchio, Pollajuolo and other
great masters, Zampini models in a small room, working in the faintest
of lights, surrounded by bare grey walls. With blinds almost drawn,
this sculptor holds that he can dominate the masses with security and
be in closer touch with his vision. Perhaps the great unity of his work
really is due in part to this unusual method of modelling, a method
which, while it permits him to detect errors of mass, and to correct
the general lines of composition, at the same time harmonizes into a
happy ensemble the characteristics of the older style he imitates.

It may be said also that while Bastianini rarely attempted compositions
in bas-relief, confining his main work of imitation to heads, Zampini
boldly attacks the difficulties of large bas-reliefs and grouped
figures. Though Zampini’s works vaguely suggest reminiscences--either
in composition or in form--this sculptor must be credited with an
unusual power of synthesis, and we are not surprised that the Munich
authorities were deceived by his art.

Natali’s workmanship is of a different nature. This young artist--the
author of the Baptism, the lunette bought by the Louvre as a work of
Verrocchio--shows great versatility even when not imitating the old
masters, and he is, above all, a virtuoso--a true product of Latin
facility.

But it must be added that while the lunette of the Louvre shows
happy composition, with charming details here and there in its
interpretation, it does not possess the intimate qualities, the
essential unity, of Zampini’s work. The latter may be taken for
Verrocchio or not, according to the ability or appreciation of the
critic; but Natali’s lunette might be modernized as “Verrocchio and
Co.,” or (since in the angels the manner of Andrea Robbia alternates
with Verrocchio) we might even go a step further and describe the
composite result as “Verrocchio, Robbia and Co., Ltd.”

Not only because Natali occupies a room in Bonafedi’s studio, and
appears to work under this artist’s supervision--at least it was so
when we had occasion to study the work of this excellent imitator--but
direct from the work in the lunette of the Baptism one feels inclined
to look on this young artist as endowed with the defects and good
qualities of a painter indulging in plastic work. The composition, for
instance, harmonious and rich, with a happy suggestion of light and
shade, lacks the directness of form peculiar to sculptors, and the
modelling shows here and there--and this even considering the task the
artist has imposed upon himself of imitating Quattrocento work--the
flatness and dryness of a painter who models without plastic insight or
preoccupation. These characteristics, these pictorial qualities which
are not to be seen in Signor Natali’s modern work, are perhaps the
disguise with which he sometimes veils his touch--the touch of a modern
sculptor. Though admiring this excellent imitation, we must say we are
surprised at the fact that it was not sooner detected as modern work.

From Bonafedi, a painter possessing great facility in execution and
uncommon versatility as an imitator, the mere association of ideas
easily leads one to the Siena imitators who have for years held the
privilege of being the strongest imitators of early Quattrocento work.
Joni and others have, unwittingly, deceived more than one connoisseur.
One of these Sienese products was bought by Mr. Salting for twenty
thousand lire.

There is no doubt that the imitation bought by Mr. Salting as work of
the old Sienese school is one of the best that modern Siena has ever
produced. Yet anyone already acquainted with that kind of work, and who
had seen at least one specimen out of the many that have met with good
success among unguarded collectors, would not have found it difficult
to detect the first-rate imitation that so triumphantly entered the
Salting collection. It is said that Mr. Salting got his money back, and
the painting was returned to the dealer; a remarkable occurrence and a
proof of good faith, as usually when the collector finds he has been
duped and is not disposed to keep it quiet, the vendor is either not to
be found or he has taken prudent measures and good care to be on the
safe side legally.

In our opinion the drawing of the Sienese imitator is too caligraphic,
it reproduces too closely, namely, the forms of well-known originals,
and this while the composition is not always free from plagiarisms that
are too easily recognizable. Some of the later artists of Florence, and
elsewhere, have broadened the technique, appearing less servile because
better versed in the qualities of the old masters, and through this
deeper insight their work is more convincing and synthetic.

One of these characteristic workers is Professor Ezio Marzi of
Florence, an imitator of the Dutch school, who has never sold his
panels as antique, but whose work, it is said, through others, has
penetrated into more than one collection, where it is held to be
genuine and above suspicion. His Teniers, now honoured as such, are
many, and if Marzi instead of being stationary in Florence like most of
his compatriots who, generally speaking, never travel, should indulge
in one of those erratic trips of which Americans are so fond, visiting
collections here and there, he would have good cause to laugh in his
sleeve.

Like many of his Italian brothers of the brush, Ezio Marzi has eclectic
tendencies and a most versatile workmanship. But what places him apart
from his confrères who also imitate the art of the past, is the fact
that when he chooses to be Ezio Marzi in his painting, that is to
say to paint something of his own, giving a true expression of his
own personality, he can do so without infection from reminiscences
of his workmanship as an imitator. In a word, Marzi is a painter of
mark, extremely original and fully temperamental--a rare thing
among imitators of other people’s art. As regards his plagiaristic
indulgences, he has tried the most varied and dissimilar schools of the
past, successfully too. His preference, however, for Dutch or Flemish
art has finally prevailed. Possibly at his first essays Marzi was
the obvious sort of imitator, servile to direct suggestion of form,
disguising artistic thefts from old masters by the usual well-matched
mosaic, but now this inevitable preparatory period is dismissed and
surpassed. When imitating Teniers this artist is really composing Dutch
scenes without a scrap of suggestion in his studio.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT.

An imitation of Dutch School by Prof. Ezio Marzi an Italian artist,
who does his work with no apparent sense of plagiarism, but who is so
versatile in Dutch School that but for his honest dealing he might
prove a danger to amateurs.]

While Marzi affords us a good type of the imitator in painting and
Bastianini and Zampini show us the best possibilities of assumed
characters in sculpture, Professor Orlandini of Florence imitates
Quattrocento ornamental sculpture with capital results. We can repeat
here the same comment passed on Marzi’s art: his works, too, are sold
as modern, but, alas, how many ornamental chimneypieces and would-be
aged _lavabos_ now decorating rooms, are Orlandini’s work, although
ostentatiously shown as pure productions of the Renaissance. Not so
pure, though, always, for Professor Orlandini is at times forced to
fall in with the customer’s ambition and thus allows himself to give
full play to over-ornamentation, producing a sort of Quattrocento _usus
Americanus_.

Still, when left to his own artistic bent we know of no one who can
turn out of the Fiesole stone an aristocratic-looking chimneypiece more
closely resembling the work of Desiderio da Settignano.

As a brief observation it may be added that Professor Orlandini is a
sculptor of the old school who deals chiefly with hard materials. This
fact greatly contributes to give his art that stern sobriety of line
that is a characteristic mark of the Renaissance artist.

In the present flood of imitations it has been urged that honest
artists should put their signatures to their modern antiques, thus
preventing the danger represented by imitations when launched on
the market by able imposters. There are a few who do sign their
productions, but we must say such an act does not win the deserved
success. The buyer seems to demand a certain amount of illusion which
would inevitably be destroyed by a signature in full sight. Besides,
supposing that to prevent any possible fakery all imitators should
decide to sign their work, what guarantee would such a movement
represent? Nothing is easier to erase than a signature on a painting,
and so far as a sculptor is concerned it is a baby trick to cover the
artist’s mark.

Commerce has its risks, risks placing an elective stigma on any
enterprise, rendering it more difficult and eliminating the incapable.
In our artistic _milieu_ such risks are doubled, thus while
“imitation,” and its black sister “faking,” represent a formidable
danger, they also, through the said magnified risk, confer upon the
elect ones, the true connoisseurs, the exclusiveness of an aristocratic
caste.

And yet, unlike the beginner, these superior beings who have in a way
learned through experience how to cope with dangerous odds repeat with
Bonnaffé:

“Do not trust the collector who never makes a mistake. The strongest is
he who makes the fewest mistakes.”




CHAPTER XVII

FAKERS, FORGERS AND THE LAW

  Faking and fakers--Views of art forgers--Too great a
      productiveness aids the exposure of fakers--The chink in
      the armour of silence and mystery--Collector’s view of the
      dangerous trade in counterfeited objects--Laws and tribunals--
      Grotesque cases in court--M. Chasles’ autographs--A collector
      who lacks a Rameses--The faker for gain and the one for fun--
      Some moral considerations on fabricators of modern antiques.


Moral considerations apart, the faker of objects for collections is
far more interesting a personage than some of his duped victims.
His artistic personality separates him from the commoner class, the
peculiarity of his trade, while not redeeming the disreputableness of
his conduct, confers upon him the poetical nimbus of art and mystery,
just as an undefined feeling of heroism or chivalry may, to an
imaginative mind, turn an old-fashioned brigand into a classical type
of buccaneer.

These mute workers, who actually earn their money by false pretences,
deluding and deceiving with callous energy in what a commercial mind
might call “their line of business,” are not infrequently people of
scruples and probity in all other respects, men to whom credit might be
given with safety.

As we have stated before, the collector is partially responsible if
excellent imitators sometimes turn into fakers. Ask the forger how it
was that he became such, and nine times out of ten you will either
hear that he was tired of seeing others make indecent profits out of
his work, or that he was prompted by the consideration that there were
fools ready to pay ten times the value of his work, provided he did not
claim authorship, and would pretend his work was antique. Curiously
enough, when questioned about the beginning of their fraudulent
profession, some will speak of their transition from honesty to
dishonesty with the reticence of a woman gone astray; others, perhaps
the larger number, are boastful and inclined to glory in the success
accorded to their fakes.

La Rochefoucauld has written in his _Maximes_ that it is easier
to deceive oneself than others. The vaunting class of fakers have
somewhat reversed the terms of this saying, their common tenet being
that it is easier to cheat others than to cheat oneself. This maxim,
however, gives the faker undue confidence and a too prolific activity
in creating sham masterpieces, and eventually contributes to the
exposure of his fraud and the final ruin of what he considers, and what
has proved to be, a most remunerative business. Many discoveries of
falsified _chefs-d’œuvre_ are due to over-productiveness of the faker.
His self-confidence augmenting his activity to alarming proportions, it
naturally increases the probability of discovery.

However, the faker is perforce a close-mouthed fellow, always on
his guard and very rarely taken, as one might say, by surprise.
Nevertheless he too possesses what might be called in fanciful metaphor
the Achilles’ vulnerable spot where his silence may be attacked: it is
his pride that must be tickled.

It was an aim of mine in the past to trace forgery in art to its
origin. Not exactly as a hobby but in the belief that in these days it
is important to know how works of art are imitated and faked, that it
is part of modern connoisseurship in fact. To-day one must learn how to
detect forgeries just as one must learn how to admire genuine art.

Forgery museums, intelligently organized, would be far more
interesting--and more original--to-day than the various galleries of
fine arts.

On more than one occasion after having traced the forger, the above
system of flattering his vanity has extorted an unexpected confidence.
To give an instance: some time ago the Italian market began to be
infested by good imitations of bronze figures of the type of the Paduan
school. An antiquary, from whom I have the story, traced the forger
to Modena and called upon the fellow whom he held in suspicion. At
first he had no clue, but finally, becoming friendly, he happened to
surprise a confession from him under the following circumstances. It
must be noted that a faker will talk freely on the subject of forgery,
never presuming to be discovered and always as an outsider. Speaking of
imitations, the antiquary expressed his surprise at the sure modelling
and most convincing patina of some recent imitations he had seen.
He explained that the imitation was really so good that he himself
had been deceived by a small group representing a nymph and satyr.
Circumstances alone had saved him at the last moment from being taken
in and giving his opinion by attributing the bronze to Andrea Briosco.
The piece to be sure was convincing enough to pass for one of the best
works Briosco ever conceived. It was really worth the extravagant sums
collectors are willing to pay for Briosco’s piece, called _il Riccio_,
even though it was modern.

“Perhaps it was worth it,” remarked the artist with the characteristic
rebellious accent peculiar to successful fakers.

This first burst of self-pride, properly nourished by the other with
eulogies of the great artist who had modelled the group, drew forth the
desired disclosure. When the antiquary remarked:

“That group ought to bring a big price. If collectors were not,
generally speaking, so utterly deprived of true artistic sense, if they
were not----”

“Such a pack of fools and snobs,” interrupted the artist.

The chink in the armour of silence was now discovered. Though
without giving a hint as to his craft or the recipe of his wonderful
patina, upon promise of silence with regard to his name, he proudly
acknowledged authorship of the bronze group supposed to be of the
school of Padua, and finally offered to show other pieces ready to
enter the world of fakes, finished and ready to go and play the part
of masterpieces of the Renaissance.

When the artist was asked how he managed to dispose of his faked goods,
he averred that that part of the business belonged to the dealer. A
specialist like himself, he said, had nothing to do with that side. The
only compact he had made was with his own conscience, being perfectly
aware that he was handsomely paid and that his agent realized three
times as much.

According to him, even museums were buying spurious works of art, and
labelling them with pompous attributions, knowing all the while that
they were not authentic.

We quote this as a mere incident to show the view and supercilious
attitude taken by the faker with regard to his art.

Incidentally and from the same source came the information that
some well-imitated octagonal tables that had fetched high prices in
the antique furniture market as real Quattrocento work were made in
Bologna, and that the old patina and blunt corners were acquired by
real use, the tables being lent for a time to cheap restaurants and
the shops of sausage-dealers. The bronze faker of Modena possessed
one of these tables which showed a casual knife cut and the abuse of
age. To make the piece more handsomely suggestive, upon the top of the
table there had been roughly scratched with a nail a square of the
geometrical lines of the old game of “Filetto.” One could easily work
up one’s fancy before that perpetrated abuse and imagine crowds of
lansquesnets or inveterate dice-throwers.

When asked why he did not put his signature to such excellent work as
his, that it would certainly be valued on its own merits, he shook
his head and repeated the refrain so often heard from successful
fakers that the time of the old-fashioned intelligent and art-loving
collectors had passed, that collecting was nowadays nothing but a
fad, that the modern collector is only a pretender. In proof of his
assertion he referred to the then recent incident.

“See what happened to Donatello’s _puttino_ in London.”

For those who may have forgotten the incident, we will recall how a
little bronze statue by Donatello was vainly offered for sale to the
London dealers. This statue was missing from the baptistery of San
Francesco of Siena. The statuette represented a _puttino_ (boy) and,
hardly a foot high, had been stolen from the church at Siena in the
beginning of the nineteenth century. It mysteriously found its way to
London, where it was in all probability buried and forgotten in some
private collection for three-score years or more. When the forgotten
statue suddenly emerged from its nook of oblivion it was offered for
sale simply as an old bronze, but being taken for a modern imitation
it fetched no decent price. A Bond Street specialist refused it at two
thousand francs. The Donatello was finally bought for 12,000 francs by
the Berlin Museum, this being about the fiftieth part of its present
value.

It is curious to hear the various opinions entertained by collectors
and art lovers concerning faking and its alarming and increasing
success. An old collector who had, no doubt like so many of his
colleagues, learned his lesson through being duped, unhesitatingly
declared that faking is a grand art with a reason for existence as it
seems to meet a real need of society, the need of being, as it were,
deluded and cheated by elegance. Queer ethics answering to the Latin
saying: _Vulgus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur_ (The crowd likes to be
deceived, let it be deceived!).

A former curator of the Victoria and Albert Museum used to pay due
tribute to the art of good imitators and fakers, who had succeeded in
deceiving the vigilant eye of the guardians of museums, by stating
that imitations are really too good to be mistaken for antiques, much
better, indeed, than some of the examples of the art they would falsify.

The really experienced collector is inclined to look upon faking as
a huge joke to be played on greenhorns and the inexperienced, even
although some of the silent torpedoes of faking do triumphantly succeed
in hitting people who are iron-clad with knowledge.

Novices take two opposite views of the matter. One class is positively
ashamed of having been “taken in,” and hides the fact by concealing
the proof of his ignorance in a dark corner of the house; the other,
viewing the deception in a more business-like way, has recourse to the
courts with more or less happy results. The latter class is naturally
inclined to favour the greatest possible severity of the law.

In some of the cases in which the tribunals are called upon to pass
judgment, one is inclined to wonder whether in pronouncing a severe
sentence on the culprit, the magistrates do not feel like laughing up
their sleeve at the supine foolishness of the plaintiff.

The case of M. Chasles, a celebrated and highly esteemed mathematician
and member of the Paris _Institut_, furnishes us with proof of how a
man can be great in his own speciality, yet likely to be taken in under
peculiar and rather astonishing circumstances.

Monsieur Chasles had apparently taken to autograph-hunting, one of the
most dangerous pursuits a mere _dilettante_ can dream of. His career at
the beginning was perhaps that of any other neophyte, and except for
the astonishing sequence, might belong to the trite record of daily
happenings on the unsafe side of curio-hunting.

The celebrated mathematician had hardly gathered his first autographs
when to his misfortune he met with a certain Vrain-Lucas, an imposter
whose talent fitted to perfection the over-trusting mathematician.

But for the documentary evidence of the trial (quoted by Paul Eudel
in his book, _Le Truquage_), it would be utterly incredible that
anyone, particularly a learned man, could be gulled to such an extent.
Yet on the 16th of February, 1869, Monsieur Chasles appeared before
the Paris Court of Justice as a plaintiff, and the public discussion
of the case--which ended in the condemnation of the defendant,
Vrain-Lucas, to two years’ imprisonment and a fine of 500 francs with
costs--clearly divulged how the eminent professor had been the victim
of _le sieur_ Vrain-Lucas, a semi-learned man of unquestionable talent
and a stupendous and fertile power of invention. For the total sum of
140,000 francs he had sold to his client would-be authentic autographs
and pretended indisputable original manuscripts--really the most
extraordinary pieces a collector ever dreamt of!

Among other things there was included: a private letter of Alexander
the Great addressed to Aristotle; a letter of Cleopatra to Julius
Cæsar, informing the Roman Dictator that their son “Cesarion” was
getting on very well; a missive of Lazarus to St. Peter; also a lengthy
epistle addressed to Lazarus by Mary Magdalen. It should be added
that the letters were written in French and in what might be styled
an eighteenth-century jargon, that Alexander addressed Aristotle as
_Mon Ami_ and Cleopatra scribbled to Cæsar: _Notre fils Cesarion va
bien_. Lazarus, no less a scholar in the Gallic idiom, and to whom,
maybe, a miraculous resurrection had prompted a new personality, writes
to St. Peter in the spirit of a rhetorician and a prig, speaking of
Cicero’s oratory and Cæsar’s writings, getting excited and anathematic
on Druidic rites and their cruel habit _de sacrifier des hommes
saulœvaiges_.

Mary Magdalen, who begins her letter with a _mon très aimé frère
Lazarus, ce que me mandez de Petrus l’apostre de notre doux Jesus_,
is supposed to be writing from Marseilles and thus would appear to be
the only one out of the many who can logically indulge in French, the
_jargon-bouillabaisse_ that Vrain-Lucas lent to the gallant array of
his personages.

[Illustration:

    _Photo_]      [_Alinari_

CHILD.

By Donatello, whose taste in statuary was chiefly formed in Rome.]

After such a practical joke played on the excellent good faith of
M. Chasles, some of the other autographs seem tame. The package,
however, also contained scraps jotted down by Alcibiades and Pericles,
a full confession of Judas Iscariot’s crime written by himself to
Mary Magdalen before passing the rope round his neck; a letter of
Pontius Pilate addressed to Tiberius expressing his sorrow for the
death of Christ. Other astounding pieces of this now famous collection
were: a passport signed by Vercingetorix, a poem of Abelard and some
love-letters addressed by Laura to Petrarch, as well as many other
historical documents down to a manuscript of Pascal and an exchange
of letters between the French scientist and Newton on the laws of
gravitation, the Frenchman claiming the discovery as his own.

The latter manuscript caused a memorable polemic between the savants
of London and Paris, a regular tournament of clever arguing among the
scholars of the two countries, which finally led to the discovery of
the huge fraud of which M. Chasles was the assigned but unresigned
victim.

The chance way the imposture was exposed makes one wonder how it
was possible for the case to have the honour of serious discussion
among scientists. Among other historical blunders is the supposition
that Newton could have exchanged letters with Pascal on the laws of
gravitation. The former being but nine years old when Pascal died, he
had certainly not yet given his mind to the observations bringing about
his marvellous discovery. Further, as an example of gravitation, Pascal
relates that he has noticed how in a cup of coffee the bubbles are
attracted toward the edge of the receptacle. It is known that coffee
was imported into France some nine years after the death of the great
French philosopher and mathematician.

Leaving the man who does really artistic work we are now introduced to
the majority of the class, mere fabricators of artistic _pastiches_,
which notwithstanding complete absence of meritorious qualities are
nevertheless effective decoys for unwary art lovers.

To this legion belong, of course, the most mediocre painters and
sculptors, those whose chief cunning lies in the transference of age
to their modern fabrications. They are guided in their work mostly by
a considerable amount of practice in restoring old paintings, marbles,
stuccoes, and so forth.

There is also a peculiar type of impostor who plays his tricks solely
for the fun of it, a curious type who for the joy of having cheated
some one, will deny himself the pleasure of revealing his name and
glory in his success.

To this stamp must have belonged M. A. Maillet, a distinguished
chemist who in 1864 took the trouble to publish a book on antediluvian
excavations, for no other purpose evidently than to fool scholars
given to that particular study. Needless to say the volume met with
astonishing success. Among reproductions of genuine antediluvian
relics, the eminent chemist interspersed his writing with spurious and
fantastic illustrations of pretended finds of his own invention. They
consisted of carved bones with figures, symbols and mysterious writings.

To say that no polemic or learned appreciation of the volume followed
its publication would be to slander the too easily kindled enthusiasm
of learned specialists. As usual the polemic revealed the true
character of the volume, but before reaching its conclusion there was
more than one reputation sullied and more than one scientist who lost
caste. The perplexity and chaotic confusion caused by the publication
was felt by M. A. Maillet to be ample recompense for his labour and
expense.

The jovial faker, who is out solely for the fun of making game of
some one, is no modern invention. Notably in Italy it is not uncommon
to find a Greek or Latin inscription, traced centuries ago, with no
apparent purpose than that of puzzling posterity, or putting historians
off the scent. This would seem to be a still more remarkable form of
faking, as the author not only derives no profit whatever from his
trouble, but is not at all likely to be present to enjoy the result of
his dupery.

Even among these mysterious helpers of the trade in curios--those who
work for their living--they are rarely deprived of that facetious
spirit that gives them a relish for some brilliant case of deception.
Their joy is not wholly permeated by venal considerations.

There is no question but that some fakers go to work like true
sportsmen. Hearing them boast, or describe some of their successful
comedies in which they have been author, actor and manager all in one,
it is not difficult to deduce that the only genuine thing to spur their
imagination and activity is the desire to cheat any and everybody
willing to be convinced by them or their work.

The chief characteristics of some of these comedies, which often
necessitate the help of the faker’s bosom friend, the dealer or
go-between, are pluck and an uncommon knowledge of the psychology of
collectors. In more than one instance psychology would appear to have
actually made the impossible become possible.

The story of the forged Rameses is still floating as a tradition in the
gossipy world of antiquities in Paris. In his work, _Le Truquage_, Paul
Eudel relates the anecdote in all its amusing detail.

A Parisian collector was, it seems, the happy owner of the most
complete collection of Egyptian fine art objects. Not a specimen was
missing apparently. But, as Eudel observes, “Is a collector ever ready
to call his collection complete?” A collection is like a literary work
which never seems to go beyond the “preface,” and there is no limit to
it.

The collector in question had, however, set his limit, deciding that
his collection might be considered complete as soon as he had secured
one of those serene-looking, colossal Egyptian statues with which
to ornament and complete the courtyard of the mansion housing his
collection.

To be rich, to have a fixed desire and to blazen forth one’s particular
hobby is a dangerous combination of ingredients in the world of
curio-dealing, especially with the ever-ready and active faker close to
hand.

To gratify this collector’s hobby an informant turned up one day to
report that near Thebes a splendid statue of heroic proportions had
been discovered. It was said to be the effigy of a Rameses in all its
impassive beauty. Having knowledge of the collector’s penchant the
informant’s agent in Egypt had kept back the secret of the discovery.
In this way the collector was given the first refusal, the statue was
all ready to be shipped, the whole at the reasonable price of a hundred
thousand francs.

As usual the proposal was accompanied with convincing documents,
stamped letters, descriptive memoranda and so forth. Within view of a
long-desired ornament, the collector was easily induced to take part
in the transaction to be carried on with the usual secrecy, upon the
condition that the statue should be taken straight to his house on its
arrival, and in such a way as to preclude all knowledge on the part of
others.

Anyone unacquainted with the psychology of collectors--something
that never happens to fakers--might be inclined to imagine that
the schemer would try to hasten the conclusion of the business so
elaborately planned, for fear the buyer might change his mind or have
his eyes opened in some way. But our man knew that the collector
would speak to no one, lest he might lose the rare chance offered
him, and also that the longer the delay, the more obstacles met with
or surmounted, the keener would he become to possess the exceptional
“find.”

Finally, when the arrival of the statue was announced and it reached
the Paris railway station in due time, the collector, suspicious and
afraid like all true art lovers, insisted that it should be conveyed to
his house by night.

After so much picturesque mystery the _dénouement_ came, as usual, too
late and in the most banal manner. The fraud was exposed on the very
day of the exhibition, and the enraged collector started an energetic
search for the culprits, but the birds had flown--he only found the
empty cage, namely the atelier in a neighbouring street where his
Rameses had been given birth. The debris of the would-be Oriental
granite still strewed the floor.

“_Sic transit_----”

The faker and the forger are not prone to repentance. Vrain-Lucas, who
had made himself notorious by cheating M. Chasles, had hardly regained
his liberty after serving his term before he was again called to answer
for another fraud. For a poor provincial priest he had falsified a
whole genealogical tree.

Paul Eudel relates of one Oriental faker who proved himself as
impenitent as resourceful. Clever and gifted with the peculiar
shrewdness of the Oriental, he made his first _coup_ by selling to the
German Emperor some Moabite pottery which had certainly never been on
the shores of the Jordan nor on the coast of the Dead Sea. This clever
piece of trickery was recently discovered by the eminent Orientalist M.
Clermont-Ganneau.

Back in Jerusalem and silent for a time, he next appeared in Europe
offering the savants a most astonishing relic. Quite unabashed by the
exposure of the Moabite pottery, he went straight to Berlin to offer
some old passages of the Bible of most authentic character. They were
written on narrow strips of leather supposed to have been found on a
mummy.

Scholars examined the precious relics with care and silently concluded
to decline to enter into the bargain. The precious document, though
evidently forged, had been falsified on a piece of very old leather,
the only part unquestionably aged.

The surprising part was that the culprit was not at all discouraged by
the first collapse of his scheme but went to London, where he offered
his Biblical find to the British Museum for the trifling sum of a
million pounds sterling.

The plan very nearly succeeded. Daily papers became excited over the
discovery of the rare Moabite manuscript, a document dating from at
least the eighth or ninth century before Christ.

The learned Dr. Ginsburg, who set himself to the task of deciphering
the obscure and indistinct characters of the worn-out leather strips,
recognized in them a fragment of the fifth book of the Pentateuch. When
M. Clermont-Ganneau came to examine the document he declared it for
many reasons to be a daring forgery.

Apart from the fact that the strips could not have enwrapped a
mummy, as neither Hebrews nor Phœnicians had the custom of embalming
their dead, the leather said to have been found in Palestine could
hardly have withstood for so long the action of a damp climate. Such
preservation would only be possible in the dry climate of the desert
or some one of the favoured parts of Egypt.

It was discovered at the same time that the strips of the famous
manuscript had been cut from a piece of leather some two centuries
old--the erased original characters still being traceable--upon which
the Biblical fragments had been copied in the Moabite alphabet.

The artist with a vaster range and wider scope for duping is, without
doubt, the one working on artistic frauds, as the proportion stands
at one collector of manuscripts to a thousand art collectors. It is
immaterial to him whether he meets specialists or eclectics in this
large field--they are all good game. The facility with which he is
thus able to dispose of his wares makes him still more refractory
to reform. Silent, often obscure, always mysterious, he claims for
his activity what must appear to him a noble justification: he
paradoxically believes himself to be a real factor of his client’s
happiness. But for him some of the collectors would find it
tremendously difficult to possess masterpieces, and if they die happy
without realizing that they have been fooled, where is the difference?

After all, in this fool’s paradise they are happy and undisturbed--so
very few realize either that they have been totally duped by a fake or
partially cheated by over-restoration. Most of the modern collectors
too often resemble that type of art lover:

      ... Qui croit tenir les pommes d’Hesperides
      Et presse tendrement un navet sur son coeur.[2]

    [2]

      .. : Who thinks he holds the apples of the Hesperides
      Whilst pressing tenderly a turnip to his heart.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE FAKED ATMOSPHERE AND PUBLIC SALES

  The art of producing a faked atmosphere--Private sales of faked
      objects of art--Real and spurious noblemen as elements in
      creating the desired atmosphere for an antique--The various
      and endless possibilities in private dealing--Public sales--
      Auction sales--Various characters among frequenters of public
      sales--_La Bande Noire_--The trick of the sale catalogue as a
      proof of authenticity, etc.--The part played in public sales by
      Peter Funk and the transformations of this helpful personage.


In most cases the art forger is provided with an indispensable
accessory in the person of a co-worker who helps to dispose of the
artist’s questionable product advantageously. This may be done by one
agent or by many, according to circumstances, but the spirit of the
mission is always the same, to steep faking, namely, in another kind
of fakery, no less illusive and delusive, the deception that serves
to misguide judgment through false information about some particular
object of art, or to create a misleading suggestion around the work
of art offered for sale. The trick might be termed “producing a faked
atmosphere,” in plain words the creation of a false atmosphere of
genuineness is an additional fakery to the success of a faked object
of art or curio, and it is a most multiform species of imposture and a
very dangerous adjunct to the already deceptive trade. So multifarious
is the deception practised that an attempt to classify it in its
diversity would probably fail to illustrate in full the metamorphoses
of this supplement to the art of faking.

As this support to faking is chiefly concerned with the sale of objects
of art, our investigation can be broadly divided according to the kind
of sale, private or public, the latter generally taking the form of an
auction.

In private sales the limit is not so much set by the seller’s
conscience as his inventive powers, and his more or less fertile
imagination. His method relies mainly on the power of suggestion
brought about by false information or, as we have said, by the
silent misleading glamour of a pseudo-environment. The former works
principally with the decoy of invented documents calculated to lend
certain objects an appearance of historical worth, or wrongly to
magnify their artistic importance. It is not always the documents that
are fitted to the faked art, sometimes the case is reversed and the
artist creates work to fit a genuine document. The same is done with
signatures, more especially in painting and sculpture.

There are all kinds of specialists in the world of faking who can
imitate artists’ signatures, marks and so forth, but, alas, it is
not said that to a genuine signature our versatile and imaginative
artist cannot supply a genial piece of fraud the only genuine part
of which is represented by the signature. This is often performed
by painting over works that have been defaced, either partially or
completely, and yet by some chance still bear the artist’s signature in
one corner--generally the least abused spot of a painting whether on
canvas or panel. The same trick is carried out with equal facility in
sculpture. To illustrate what at first sight would seem more complex
than fitting a painting to a signature, it is sufficient to recall the
false Clodion group, sold in perfectly good faith by M. Maillet du
Boullay to Mme. Boiss, also a dealer, whose experience, like that of
many others, had a noisy sequel in Court.

M. Maillet du Boullay had bought the clay group some years previously.
The subject, a satyr with a nymph, was of the kind that the French
call _un peu leste_. For five years Mme. Boiss found no buyer. It was
after this long period of actual possession that she discovered the
clay statuette to be not by Clodion but in all probability the work
of a noted faker of Clodions, Lebroc, and that a small bit bearing
the signature and date, both by the hand of Clodion, had been cleverly
inserted at the side of the group. The line of the join had been
concealed by colour and patina.

The purchase money, however, was not refunded as the Court accepted the
theory advanced by M. Senard, acting for M. Boullay, that Mme. Boiss
had after all enjoyed the possession of the group for five years and
had perhaps put forward her claim because she had not been able to sell
it on account of its objectionable character.

In the cases when the documents are the original ones and the work of
art is not, the artist naturally creates his work in accordance with
the indications given in the documents. The occurrence is not common,
but it has nevertheless taken place. We have heard of a man ordering
a portrait to be painted to fit a detailed description of one of his
ancestors given in an old letter. The Florentine “Prioristi” and old
diaries can well be used for the purposes of such suggestion. An old
family chronicle recorded a marriage with some detail, sufficient at
any rate to inspire an art counterfeiter to model a small bas-relief
representing the scene. When the work was suitably coated with old
patina, put into a sixteenth-century frame and an old worm-eaten board
fastened to the back, the authentic document was carefully pasted on as
proof of genuineness.

Possible combinations of this sort of scheme are endless and can be
applied to almost every expression of curio-dealing.

What we have styled “faking the _milieu_,” in order to enhance
the value of a genuine article or to give additional effect to a
falsified one, trades upon the fact that a collector prefers to buy
from a private house rather than a shop. This often appeals to him as
convincing proof that the article is genuine, and it also appears to
confer a higher value by comparison with the surroundings in a shop.

To humour this peculiar trait in the collector, environments have
been faked as well as objects of art, and in the evil grand art we
are illustrating they furnish to-day more often than not the proper
dignity which aids highly profitable sales effected through private
transaction.

When a work leaves the faker’s hands there are many ways in which
to give birth to the false and illusive dignity designed to lend
importance and an air of genuineness. One of the simplest methods is
to provide the work with a respectable passport in the person of a
patrician, real or faked, according to opportunities. This decoy is
prepared, of course, to swear that the object has been in his family
for centuries. When the mansion is really old and the family of ancient
lineage, success is practically assured. How a man of noble birth can
lend his name to such deception can only be explained by a form of
degeneracy which, unfortunately, is not extremely rare in our times. It
is known to be practised with both genuine works and with forgeries.
In the former case it helps the command of an extravagant price, that
would never be reached in a shop or through the hands of a dealer;
in the latter, working through suggestion, it serves to dispel any
lingering doubt from the buyer’s mind. When it appears difficult to
bring off the deal, in the case of forgery, the object is taken to the
country by preference and placed in some old villa or mansion with
the connivance of a genuine nobleman, who will receive a secret visit
from the purchaser--all acts in the antiquarian world, it must be
remembered, savour of mystery and secrecy--and play the dignified
part of a member of a time-honoured family who collected works of art
in years past. A sham nobleman may also give himself out as Count
So-and-so and safely act the part for a day or even a few hours. It
must be borne in mind that this course of working by suggestion is very
dangerous to the purchaser; by its silent and convincing method art
antiquaries of skill and veteran connoisseurs have been deceived.

Another application of this deceptive scheme, that relies on a
favourable environment to help fraud, is the sending of counterfeit
objects to remote country places supposed to be unexplored. This also
is based upon a psychological peculiarity of some collectors, who still
hope and believe that there are yet unsearched regions in the world of
antiques, oases that have escaped the ever-vigilant eye of the trader.
As a matter of fact if anything like neglected corners exist where
one may hope for a “find,” they are in large cities, such as Paris or
London, particularly the latter, where even Italian antiquaries go
at times to hunt for what it would be hopeless to seek in their own
country.

Be it understood, the above two ways of disposing in private of
pretended genuine antiquities are likely to be combined. The nobleman
who charitably houses the masterpiece that the amateur is after,
completes the stage-like effect of the hatched environment, with sham
documents, etc.

Among public sales it is, as we have said, the auction sale that
offers the greatest possibilities to those who falsify an “atmosphere”
to put the client on the wrong track so profitable to the faker. As
may readily be seen, a false environment and any tampering with the
elements that go to the formation of a right opinion as regards an
_objet d’art_, invariably lead not only to the acquisition of the wrong
thing but to the payment of an exorbitant price for its worthlessness.

Much that is amusing and that would bring home this point could be
written on public sales. Enough to fill a bulky volume could be culled
from what has taken place at the _atrium auctionarium_ to the modern
Hotel Drouot or the historical sale-room still extant and busy in
London.

Cicero tells us that one of the first auctions to be held in Rome was
the sale of property that Sulla had seized from proscribed Romans. He
also tells us with his usual rhetorical emphasis that all Pompey’s
property was put up to auction and disposed of to the highest bidder
by “the _præco’s_ lacerating voice.” This great sale included a large
portion of Mithradates’ treasure, the catalogue of which cost thirty
days’ work to the Roman officials who took the objects in charge. “At
this sale,” adds Cicero with redoubled emphasis, “Rome forgot her state
of slavery and freely broke into tears.” It may be, but Mark Antony, to
be sure, took advantage of this supposed public emotion and had all
the valuable lots knocked down to himself at ridiculously low figures.
Some of them, it is said, were never paid for at all by this audacious
triumvir.

Another famous auction sale in Rome was that of Juba, king of Numidia,
who left his treasure to Rome in the time of Tiberius. Caligula was his
own auctioneer, and in this way disposed of furniture in his imperial
palace that he considered out of fashion. His example was followed by
Marcus Aurelius who sold in the public square dedicated to Trajan the
jewels and other precious objects forming part of Hadrian’s private
effects. In order to pay his troops, Pertinax put up to public auction
all Commodus’ property, a most confused medley of imperial effects,
an _omnium gatherum_ ranging from the deceased emperor’s gorgeous
robes to the gladitorial array he used in the circus, and from his
court jester to his slaves. Perhaps the most remarkable part of the
sale was Commodus’ original and interesting collection of coaches, an
odd assemblage that should have been capable of stirring even Julius
Cæsar’s blasé mind, who, it is said used to attend sales in quest
of emotion. They afforded him a certain stimulation, for Suetonius
speaks of him as rather a rash and unwise bidder. Caligula’s coaches
were of all kinds and shapes, there were some for summer with complex
contrivances to shelter from the sun and cool the air by means of
ventilators, and some for winter devised in such a way as to give
protection from cold winds. Others were fitted with a device that would
now be called a speedometer, a contrivance for measuring the distance
covered by the vehicle.

The mania for sales went so far with the Romans that at the death of
Pertinax, the empire itself was put up to auction and knocked down to
the highest bidder, Didius Julianus.

Although not so complex as the modern houses of public sale, the Roman
_atrium auctionarium_ was not simplicity itself. The original auction
sales of the Romans consisted of the disposal of war spoils to the
highest bidder, in the open air on the battlefield or in a square of
some conquered city. In order to indicate the spot where the sale was
to take place a lance was driven into the ground. The name of _sub
hasta_ was therefore given to these rudimentary auction sales, which is
the etymology of the Italian word _asta_, still used for auctions. The
_tabulæ auctionariæ_, giving daily notice of the number and description
of objects offered for sale, were in some way the forerunners of
the modern catalogue, just as the _præco_ must be considered as the
ancestor of the auctioneer or, maybe, the _crieur_. There were also
amanuenses who wrote down prices and purchaser’s name as each lot was
sold.

Martial tells of a curious incident at an auction in which a girl
slave was offered for sale. When the bidding failed to elicit a higher
offer, Gellianus, the celebrated auctioneer, ended his eulogy of the
beauty of the human merchandize by giving the young slave a couple of
kisses. “What happened?” says Martial in conclusion. “A buyer who had
just made a bid of 600 sesterces on the girl, immediately withdrew his
offer.” Times are changed. It is no longer a question of selling slaves
in our modern _atrium auctionarium_, but the auction room itself has
nevertheless remained about the same, a great place of interest, an
assemblage of types such as old Tongilius, Licinius and Paullus who,
revived and modernized, gather in our sale-rooms, elbowing the crowds
of bidders, among whom are shrewd, clever buyers, true, impassioned
collectors, cool and self-possessed customers.

The auction room is no less freakish than in olden times. There may be,
in fact, reason in the refusal to bid for young slaves that the buyer
considers defiled by the kisses of the auctioneer, even if he were a
Gellianus, the man _à la mode_; but we can find none, for instance, in
what happened some years ago at the celebrated Castellani sale in Rome.
On account of Castellani’s high reputation among collectors and the
fine things offered, this sale gathered to Rome a cosmopolitan crowd of
connoisseurs. While a fine Cafaggiolo vase was under the hammer, the
employé who was exhibiting it to the public dropped it and it broke to
pieces. At the moment of the accident the object had just been sold
to the last bidder, who naturally enough, immediately declared his
offer cancelled, as he had made a bid on a sound vase and not a heap of
debris. The auctioneer then proposed to put the fragments of the vase
up to auction and a fresh start was made. Strange to say the second
bidding reached a higher figure than the vase had fetched when offered
to the public intact and in all its faultless beauty. But for the
consideration that the second sale may have tempted some who regretted
that they had let slip the chance to bid on the fine Cafaggiolo, one
would be inclined to deduce that in the world of curios an object
acquires more worth the more it is damaged.

It is true that while a broken china vase is practically worthless, a
piece of faience does not lose value by being broken and put together
again, if it does not actually rise in value, as in the case of the
Castellani Cafaggiolo.

Though to an outsider, the auction room may doubtlessly appear very
simple in mechanism, it is rather a complex affair; its atmosphere has
engendered any amount of side speculation. This is the more marked in
such sale-rooms as have, by reason of the importance of the sales held
in them, in a way fertilized, as it were, every kind of speculation.
Rochefort, whose passion for bric-à-brac took him to the Hotel Drouot
almost daily, has a good deal to say on this subject. In his amusing
book on auction sales in the celebrated Parisian sale-room--a book,
by the way, which is now almost out of print--the witty Frenchman
deals at length with the odd characters and silent speculations that
have, all unnoticed and unmolested, grafted themselves upon the popular
institution of the Rue Drouot and other auction sale rooms.

As for the types of frequenters, they are of all kinds and the most
nondescript character. First comes the collector in all his most
interesting and amusing personifications. Rochefort divides the
amateurs hanging about auction rooms into three distinct classes, which
he subdivides into _genres_ and _sous-genres_, to use the writer’s own
terms.

According to Rochefort’s classification, the first class consists,
broadly speaking, of persons who pay more for an object than it is
worth; the second is composed of collectors who generally buy a thing
for what it is worth; the third and last comprises those who pay less
for a thing than it is worth. Rochefort aptly observes that the three
divisions resemble the classes of a school, the students passing from
the lowest to each of the more advanced classes.

The collectors of the first group, all freshmen without exception,
are separated by Rochefort into sincere art lovers and mere
_poseurs_. Speaking of the sincerity of collectors and premising that
sincerity does not always imply an intelligent knowledge of art,
Rochefort wittily remarks: “There are people who with the greatest
self-confidence buy a daub for a Titian.”

“Suffice it to say,” adds the writer, “that at the sale of M.
Patureau’s collection, a Virgin of the Flemish school, possibly a
Eckhout or Govært Flinck, was sold for a Murillo at the price of
45,500 francs.” In this foolish acquisition insincerity is out of the
question, _poseurs_, snobs and the like rarely carry their foppishly
garbed insincerity to the length of paying such high prices for mere
parade.

In reference to real connoisseurs, to quote Rochefort again, who was
certainly most well informed on the subject, he says that they are so
rare that it is scarcely worth while to speak of them.

The most genuine living exponent of the species is already a fake among
faking: becoming, namely, the owner of expensive curios not for art’s
sake but chiefly in order to be able to ask his friends: “By the way,
have you seen my collection?” or “the last masterpiece I have bought,”
etc.

The _poseur_, however, in his flippant and manifold attitudes, may be
certain that schemes of deception are multiform and always a match for
any incarnation of this type. He is the prey, and there are all kinds
of snares waiting for him, just as there are many ways of catching
birds.

A collector who does not belong to the general class of collectors
is the private dealer, who all too often joins forces with the “black
band” of the sale-rooms.

Among the buyers at the Hotel Drouot, there are to be found, says
Rochefort, all manner of originals. Take for instance the _maquilleur_,
who is a regular godsend to restorers of paintings. The _maquilleur_
is a purchaser of paintings who can never bring himself to leave a
canvas in the state he bought it. If it is the portrait of an old
woman, he is sure to take the work to a restorer to see if the wrinkles
can possibly be smoothed out, if it is a landscape he invariably has
changes to suggest. When the canvas has been duly _maquillé_ he often
takes it back to the auction room to try his chances with some novice.
By the side of this character is the “cleaner,” the man who insists
upon cleaning every painting that falls into his hands. On coming into
his possession the work may be as bright and fresh as the varnish of a
newly painted motor-car, it makes no difference, he will clean it all
the same.

“Cleaning spells death to pictures, just as spinach spells death to
butter,” wisely says the French writer in conclusion, laying down a
humorous aphorism implying that to clean paintings practically means to
ruin them.

The very antithesis of the cleaner is the defiler of pictures.
Diametrically opposed to the former, who worships soap, dye and other
cleansing materials, he no sooner becomes the owner of a painting than
he proceeds, as he says, to confer the proper age upon the work, by a
coat of dirt, the would-be patina of age, which he ennobles and honours
with various names: harmonizing, toning, etc.

Curious as it may sound, from among all the queer legion of auction
room questionables, this member is less dangerous to art than many
others, especially his pendant, the cleaner. This is readily understood
when one considers that a skilled hand may remove any artificial
patina, which is frequently separated from the pigment of the painting
by a hard layer of old varnish, without any serious damage to the work
of art, while the cleaning of an old painting proves more or less
ruinous to its artistic qualities. In fact, the use of strong chemical
means either to remove aged dirt or centennial varnish brings away
some of the colour as well. The damage done by cleaning with spirits,
or other strong methods, is exceedingly great to some of the Dutch
paintings, finished to a great extent by veiling with delicate layers
of transparent pigment diluted in varnish. Venetian works, the colours
of which do not always withstand the dissolvent properties of reagents,
suffer irreparably from cleaning.

According to the author of _Les Petits Mystères de l’Hôtel des Ventes_
it is by no means impossible that the manipulations of these two art
fiends may bring it about that a work be bought and cleaned by the
cleaner, then put on sale again and bought by a defiler, to reappear at
the auction room covered with fresh but soiled and old-looking patina.

These two characters, like the _maquilleur_, are chiefly hobbyists
and rarely associate. There are other oddities, such as restorers,
providers of documents, simple intriguers and unscrupulous business
men who club together. One of their common schemes is to create
pseudo-collections, supposed to have belonged to some noted person.
Such collections are often composed only a few days before the auction
sale and labelled as the property of Conte X. or Baron D., or styled
anonymously, as having belonged to a “well-known collector,” or more
often uncompromising initials designate the pseudo-owner of the works
of art put up to auction.

The profits to be gained by commending one’s own goods and running
down those in competition with them is accountable for other strange
professions that flourish in the stuffy atmosphere of auction rooms.
The competition between genuine collections belonging to genuine
collectors and these faked ones impels the schemer to extol the
importance of the latter, which has doubled and disciplined the
activities of many strange helpers and queer professions.

One of the most important personages of this unnumbered company of
frauds is the _ereinteur_. He is, as the French word indicates, a
man whose part in the business is to hang about auction rooms, and
run down works from which he has nothing to gain, or, impersonating
the character of a disinterested outsider, to praise works the sale
of which will bring him profit, whether directly or indirectly. This
defamer or praiser of works of art according to orders, puts himself
in the way of possible clients, makes their acquaintance, and cleverly
manages to influence their opinion as though incidentally. He may pass
himself off as a simple art lover, a dealer, or any other suitable
character. It must be added that the _ereinteur_ is not always so venal
as to sell his praises or defamation, he is not always what might be
called professional. There exist a number of people who slander merely
for its own sake, urged either by jealousy, evil disposition or a
tendency to gossip.

At important auction sales this over-courteous personage is far more
dangerous than the man who does his work systematically and as a
profession, likely to be spotted by the public.

One of these art slanderers came very near inflicting a deadly blow to
the successful sale of a Donatello bronze put up to auction in London
at a well-known art sale-room. On the day the objects were on view, the
work--which by the way belonged to an Italian antiquary who enjoys the
reputation of being one of the best of connoisseurs--was much admired
by English art lovers and possible buyers. A French art writer and
connoisseur posed before the bronze and remarked that it was a clever
fake, possibly an imitation of the eighteenth century. The comment
passed from mouth to mouth, and as the French critic was known to
understand the Italian Renaissance, those present expressed doubts as
to its authenticity. To counteract this unexpected check the antiquary
hurriedly threw himself into a cab and visited the most serious
frequenters of the auction room during the few hours preceding the sale
and thus had time to convince them. A new atmosphere soon prevailed
and the Donatello reached the record price of £6000. It was afterwards
discovered that the French critic had had a quarrel with the Italian
antiquary, hence the spiteful comment.

Some of these misrepresenters are not content with going about the
sale-room in search of opportunities to injure by running down a work
or praising rubbish to the disadvantage of good things. They pass
judgment, favourable or the reverse, at the very moment a certain
object is offered for sale, an act which, strictly speaking, is against
the law--but the hidden practices of auction room intriguers are more
or less baffling to protective laws, like all the worthy members of
the “black band,” whose chief purpose in attending auction sales is to
promote what is called the “knock-out.” This is a scheme of combined
forces to hamper the natural course of bidding and to oblige the unwary
to renounce competition or to pay an exaggerated price.

In its simplest and most schematic form the knock-out works as follows.
A certain number of dealers, go-betweens or other promiscuous plotters,
band together in a secret society for the purpose of discouraging
buyers not belonging to their set. Though secret because of the law,
the society is in fact notorious among many of the regular frequenters
of auction rooms as being both imperious and obnoxious.

This is not only carried on in Paris but in other cities too, where
auction sale parasites manage to evade regulations and escape the
vigilant eye of the law.

By this system the way is opened to any member of the society to “cure”
an outsider of ambition or hope to buy advantageously at a sale. If
X., a new-comer, offers for some object its value, or even a trifle
more, he will nevertheless lose the object or be forced to bid to a
foolish figure, as one of the conspirators will bid against him and if
he happens to be obstinate he will pay dearly, but if by mischance the
object is left to his opponent after the fever of bidding has inflated
the price, the society makes good the loss sustained by its member.

Dividing the money losses among the members of the society,
considerably lessens the loss of the bidder who has run the price up
to an extravagant figure, in order to “punish” some one they consider
an invader.

The division of “damages” is generally effected as follows: After the
sale all the objects bought by the partners are put up to auction a
second time among the members of the society. At this second sale the
goods are likely to be disposed of at their real commercial value. If,
as is sometimes the case, the total returns of this second sale are
inferior to those of the auction room, the difference, paid to keep in
force the rule of “punishing,” is jointly borne by the co-operators,
and thus the cost of this “chastisement” game amounts to a small tax
that each partner of the “black band” very willingly pays. The “black
band,” as it is called in Paris, is so powerful that many not belonging
to the society often consent to deal with the members. Sometimes they
ask one of them to buy on their behalf. There may, of course, be a
trifling commission to pay, a certain percentage, but in the end it
comes considerably cheaper. Such transactions are naturally against
the disposition of the laws on auction sales, and are invariably made
without the consent or knowledge of the directors of the sale-room,
and it must be understood that if discovered there may be repression
and an unexpected and brusque recall to the strict observance of the
law. Hence the fluctuating success of such societies, which, however,
notwithstanding the trammels of regulations, appear to prosper.

One way of faking reputations, as it might be called, by which an
object is sold at a higher price than it would reach under ordinary
conditions, is to list it in the catalogue of a forthcoming sale of
some noted collection. The “faked reputation” here consists in the
fact that the name and reputation of the collector who had formed the
collection bestows lustre upon the object inserted in the sale. This
illegal proceeding, which well-known and reputable sale-rooms will not
countenance, has occasioned endless lawsuits with the usual uncertain
results, as the illegitimacy of the object is not always easy to prove.

Another method of faking the reputation of a certain work of art is
the following. Suppose a dealer possesses a very mediocre picture of
little value and wishes to have documentary proof that the work has
cost him a good price, instead of a low sum, he has only to send the
painting to the auction room and ask his comrades to run the bidding
up to a certain figure, then by buying in his own property and paying
the percentage due to the auctioneer he withdraws the picture with the
receipt, the document he desired. By this trick, when an opportunity
presents itself to sell the work, he is able to produce what looks like
a convincing proof of his honesty and square dealing. “You see, sir,
I am going to be very candid and sincere with you. Here, let me show
you what I myself paid for this painting,” he will say, and show the
receipt of the public auction sale.

Not infrequently the responsibility of the attribution is left to the
owner of the work of art, by which means _objets d’art_ are often
christened with names of a most fantastic paternity. This is easily
done; take for instance a canvas that might or might not be righteously
baptized “School of Leonardo.” The work is presented by the owner to
be sold by auction and declared as a Leonardo da Vinci, and in the
catalogue it will naturally be put down to Leonardo. When the owner
goes to buy in his own canvas, he has, of course, no interest to run
the price up to a fancy figure, his sole aim is to be able to show to
some future buyer a catalogue with the attribution printed--and,
curiously enough, printed attributions would appear to carry undisputed
weight! It is nevertheless a bait only for greenhorns, with whom its
effect rarely fails.

To prevent objects put up to auction from being knocked down at an
unreasonably low figure it is an accepted system to place a reserve
price upon them, to write down when consigning the goods, namely, a
certain sum representing the lowest figure at which the object may be
sold. The auctioneer keeps this price _in pectore_, on his private
list, that is to say. When the article is put up for sale it is either
offered straight away for the price quoted or the latter is led up to
by by-bidding. If this proves to be impossible, the object is bought in
and the owner has merely a slight percentage to pay on the last bid and
can withdraw his property. Thus while an auction sale always presents
hazards, the reserve price is a guarantee against the risks of flagging
moments. The room may chance to be deserted of its best public through
unforeseen circumstances, enthusiasm may suddenly cool unaccountably,
and for these and other reasons a reserve price is therefore a
legitimate defence.

Strange to say, even this honest and recognized safeguard has been
turned to cunning abuse. The principle of the reserve price, at least,
has brought into being that questionable personage nicknamed in English
auction rooms Peter Funk, a most undesirable “faker of situations.”

The fact that the reserve price given to the auctioneer is often
disclosed to interested collectors, and that it may be divulged by
auction-room clerks and so become known, induced collectors with
_objets de virtu_ on sale to send friends or agents secretly, in order
to run up the bidding to a certain figure. The name long since given to
this complacent, secret partner shamming the art buyer is Peter Funk.

“Funkism,” if one may be allowed to coin a neologism, certainly has
its right to existence and originated in the legitimate desire to
protect objects from falling at ridiculous prices in depressed moments
of the sale, but it has now become a regular curse, especially at
first-class auctions, where by reason of the great interests at stake,
the system can be worked to its full magnitude and no expense spared.
As an example--and one that to our knowledge worked greatly to the
advantage of the seller and not at all to that of the buyer, from
whom “funkism” robs all chance of the “fair play” which should be
the dominant note in auctions--we may quote the sale of an Italian
collection at Christie’s at which, certainly without the knowledge or
even suspicion of the auctioneers, Peter Funk played havoc under every
form and guise. To make sure that the keen-eyed collectors should not
discover the pseudo-collectors, the latter were all imported from the
Continent and given strict injunctions to buy at the stated price,
to bid without comment and to indulge in none but commonplaces in
conversation with the public, the dealer employing them knowing how
impossible it is for a non-collector or a feigned art lover to say
three words about a work of art, without giving himself away. A good
appearance, natural bidding without emphasis or theatrical pose, an
occasional “yes” or “may-be” or “hem” when questioned, and a whole
string of uncompromising banalities, these are the stock-in-trade of an
improvised Peter Funk, who may not be so capable as the professional
one but has the advantage of being less easily detected.

A clever Peter Funk knows the right moment to run up a price, judging
from his competitor’s enthusiasm up to what sum he can safely bid
before abandoning the game, and by counting on his opponent’s rashness
and impulsiveness runs him up to bids which he afterwards regrets.
Risky as it is, rarely does an object remain in the hands of Peter
Funk, and if it does, the owner will supply him with the money and
withdraw the article, paying the auctioneer’s dues, a comparatively
modest percentage.

These combined forces in the auction room secretly working as a
sequence of traps caused a well-known French collector to propose as
an inscription to be put over the door of one of these dangerous dens:
“_Ici il y a des pièges à loups_.”

It is not meant by this that all auction rooms are infested by
brigands, who leave no chance for fair-play, and that all who ever
enter them come out regretting the attempt to buy by a system that
appeals to the public for its square dealing. Not at all, the best
artistic investments are often made at public sales, but rarely, alas,
by the inexperienced novice who has but a limited knowledge of art, and
is besides wholly unfamiliar with the ways of auction rooms.

This double form of ignorance needs the warning that there are traps,
so that coolness and wisdom may enter the brain of the enthusiastic
beginner, two necessary items in gaining experience at a reasonable
price.




PART III

THE FAKED ARTICLE




CHAPTER XIX

THE MAKE-UP OF FAKED ANTIQUES

  Paintings, drawings, etchings, etc.--How the art of faking
      necessarily borrows technique and experience from the restorer--
      Old and modern ways of imitating the technique of painting--New
      pictures on old canvases and old paintings repainted and doctored
      --Suggestions for imitating the preparation of panel or canvas
      --Imitating characteristic paintings in impasto--Veiling and
      varnishing--Imitating the cracking of varnish--Old drawings
      --Technique of the proper abuse to give an appearance of age to
      drawings--Etchings--Fresh margins to old prints, etc.


Opinions as to the restoration of objects of art are of a most varied
character; more especially in the case of painting, an art of rather
complex technique. The various opinions about the restoration of
paintings may, however, be classified into three distinct categories.
One might be said to be entirely in favour of the process, one entirely
discountenancing it, and between them one which is permissible as it
has to do only with mechanical methods calculated to reinforce pigment,
or the canvas or panel, and is not concerned with what might be called
the artistic side of the art, such as retouching or filling in the
missing parts of a painting.

Speaking of certain restorations of his time, even Vasari remarks
in the Life of Luca Signorelli, that “it would be far better for
a masterpiece to remain ruined by time than to have it ruined by
retouching by an inferior hand.”

Baldinucci tells us how Guido Reni objected to the retouching of old
paintings, more especially the work of good masters, and that he
invariably refused to do it himself, no matter how much a client was
disposed to offer for the work.

Milizia, the architect and writer, says that to retouch an old
painting, particularly a fine work of art, is to pave the way for
future and wider destruction, as in the course of time the retouching
will show itself and then another act of barbarity will have to be
perpetrated.

According to the opinion of a well-known Florentine antiquary and
famous restorer of paintings for the American market, a picture has
nothing to gain from the hand of the restorer. On the contrary, his
opinion is that: “As soon as a restorer lays hands on a painting he
ruins it.”

The class we have placed between the two extremes, the one using a
certain discrimination, accepting such methods as are intended merely
to preserve the work without encroaching upon its artistic merits,
such as furnishing a fresh panel or canvas to a painting, removing
old and deteriorated varnish, etc., being the wise one is, of course,
represented by the minority.

Needless to say, the main forces of the class supporting restoration in
its extreme form are drawn from the ranks of restorers or authors of
works teaching the grand art of resuscitating masterpieces, such men as
Merimée, Vergnaud, Prange, Deon, Forni and Secco Suardo. The latter, in
fact, does not hesitate to call restoration a magic art and depicts the
restorer as a regular miracle-worker.

We do not propose in this chapter to follow the various methods of
restoring paintings according to the character of the work, fresco,
tempera or oil, but simply to indicate some of the restoration
processes that are useful to fakers in deceiving inexperienced
collectors.

In the case of faking up an old painting of weak or defective
character, into the delusive suggestion of a work of good quality, the
process consists principally of bringing the form into proper shape by
veiling and toning the crude parts of the colouring. This work, the
success of which chiefly depends upon the skill and versatility of the
forger, is generally effected by first removing the old varnish with a
solvent. There are many kinds of solvents which can be used, according
to the quality of the varnish, the most common, however, is alcohol. It
must be very pure, containing the minimum of water. Ordinary alcohol
is likely to produce opaque, white patches, a phenomenon called by the
French restorer _chanci_, and very difficult to obliterate once it has
appeared. Being one of the strongest solvents and of dangerous and too
rapid action at times, the alcohol is generally mixed with turpentine
to the proportion of half-and-half to start with. Then, according to
the greater or lesser solubility of the varnish, the proportion of
alcohol is gradually increased. This mixture, called _la mista_ by
Italian antiquaries, may be substituted, as we have said, by various
solvents--potash, soda, ammonia, etc.--according to the nature or
hardness of the varnish to be dissolved. Some restorers also resort
to mechanical methods to remove old varnish. These methods, too, are
various. If the varnish is hard it can be cracked by pressure from
the thumb, a long operation requiring no small amount of patience
and skill. If it possesses sufficient elasticity to withstand this
process, it is generally removed with a steel blade in the form of an
eraser. The latter operation is not only very difficult but very slow,
particularly when the painting possesses artistic qualities that must
not be impaired by the removal of the varnish.

This first operation successfully accomplished, the artist steps in and
proceeds to help the work, say of such and such a school, to resemble
the painting of the master of this school as much as possible. The
process is naturally executed by the aid of a more or less complete
collection of photographs of the work of the master the faker intends
to imitate. The retouching may follow the most varied methods. To
take the most common case, that of oil painting, the new work can be
carried out with oil colours previously kept on blotting-paper to
drain off the oil which is then substituted with turpentine to give
the colours their lost fluidity; it may also be effected with tempera
colours or with colours the fluid element of which consists only of
varnish. The use of tempera is preferred by restorers because, although
it presents the extreme difficulty of changing hue when varnished and
consequently demands no little experience to judge the requisite hue
or tone, still once laid down it is not likely to change with time as
oil retouching on old paintings generally does. The mixing of colour
with varnish alone has the advantage of keeping the proper tone from
beginning to end. This method is extremely useful not only in the
painting of missing parts but also to veil and tone what has been
painted in tempera if this is not entirely harmonious with the rest
after varnishing. Needless to add, those colours the fluid part of
which is supplied by varnish are unalterable as they do not contain any
oil whatever. One of the difficulties in handling these pigments is the
lack of fluidity, hence turpentine may be added with advantage.

However, as the above methods of retouching are not proof against
chemical tests, alcohol being the proper solvent with which to do away
with added touches to old paintings which have been done with either
oil or varnish colours, the shrewder fakers either mix amber varnish
with the colours or give the fresh touches a solid coating of this
varnish, which when well prepared is supposed to be insoluble and not
easily acted upon by solvents. Although more than one special work on
the art of restoring gives recipes for the preparation of this varnish,
in practice very few know how to prepare it in the proper way.

We have here presupposed that the picture was in good order, that
there were no missing parts of importance, or rather that, with panel
or canvas unimpaired, the work only required to be retouched by the
artist, a rare case, as when the paint has vanished the preparation of
the panel or canvas has generally vanished with it, on account of its
adhesiveness.

We do not propose to give the various recipes for the plaster dressing
forming the preparation of the panel or canvas. They are different
according to time and country and can be found in special works on
painting. Under ordinary conditions it is very easy to substitute the
missing preparation, just as it is easy to give it the proper surface
either by pumice or skilled coating with the brush, but in the case of
a painting on canvas it is very seldom that there are not big holes
right through it. The first operation in such cases is to recanvas the
work, to line it, namely, with another canvas which is pasted to the
old one and flattened with an iron till perfectly dry. The missing part
must then be filled in, imitating the weave of the canvas on which
the work is painted. No easy matter this, as the different weaves of
canvases are as characteristic as signatures: no two are ever alike.
The new canvas showing through the hole is therefore either covered
with a patch of canvas taken from some comer of the painting to be
restored, or it is given the same appearance by pressing a piece of
the old canvas upon the fresh preparation of the part missing, thus
moulding the texture of the threads. This must be done skilfully in
such a way that the parallel lines of the threads match. There are
some clever fakers who imitate the old canvas by strokes of a hard
brush upon the fresh preparation of the new pieces, reproducing the
characteristics of the canvas by actually copying from the original
part.

When a painting is finished there are various methods by which an
appearance of age may be given or restored to it. From asphalt to
liquorice hundreds of things are used, either dissolved in turpentine
or water, glue, albumen, etc. Veiling with varnish, coloured with the
proper pigment, generally gives the finishing touch.

The imitation of old and cracked varnish is simple enough. First one
must give the canvas a coat of diluted glue, then varnish before the
glue is quite dry. As the underlayer of glue dries quickly and has
a shrinking capacity disproportionate to that of the varnish, it is
easy to understand that the result will be a cracking of the varnish.
A close or a coarse network of cracks is obtained by increasing or
decreasing the inequality of shrinkage between the two layers, or by
hastening or retarding the drying of the upper layer by artificial
means. Although comparatively easy, these operations nevertheless
demand no little experience to be crowned with due success.

If a painting has been repainted only in the parts that were missing,
and the old varnish has not been removed from the rest of the picture,
it is a question of not only giving the varnish of the new spots cracks
like the old varnish, but these must imitate as closely as possible
those of the original part of the painting. In such cases a needle is
used to make the cracks on the newly varnished parts. When the grooves
have been made in the varnish they are filled in with water and colour
or soot to give them the desired appearance of age.

Such, roughly, is the method mostly in use for oil paintings. With
the necessary variations, and the use of the proper medium, the same
method also answers for tempera. It is rare that frescoes are imitated
or retouched, but in such cases fresh cheese is used as the vehicle
for the colour, and when dry it not only acquires the quality of
insolubility but also the opaque hue of the fresco.

As far as technique is concerned, the imitator does not find it easy to
imitate the work of those artists who paint in impasto, that is to say
with a thick layer of pigment, the consequent characteristic strokes
of the brush requiring no little experience for reproduction in all
their force, character and characteristics. Through long study and
practice some finally succeed in imitating the work of such painters as
Rembrandt or Frans Hals, but such cases are extremely rare. Forni, who
has written a work on the restoration of paintings, suggests a method
of imitating impasto painting with its characteristic brush strokes
which, in our view, can only be applied in the case of repairing a
part missing in some old painting. Forni’s method consists of first
reproducing the peculiarities of the brush strokes in a plaster
composition closely resembling that of the preparation of the canvas,
and then giving the proper colouring. According to Forni this method
has the advantage of giving the impression of a frank and vigorous
style of painting such as is usual with the impasto technique, and yet
it has been achieved slowly and patiently.

One of the side-businesses of picture faking is the providing of
suitable signatures. When one considers that paintings generally bear
the artist’s signature, more especially in recent times, it would be
strange if this branch of the shady trade did not number specialists
who can imitate signatures to perfection, as well as reproduce artists’
special monograms.

It is easy to understand how old drawings and sketches may be imitated.
Just as in the case of faking a painting, the artist tries first to
become familiar with the work he wishes to imitate. It is then usually
executed on old paper and when finished soaked in dirty water, dried
and scoured with pumice to give it the apparent abuse of age. Some
imitators, however, do not give themselves the trouble to find the
proper paper, and it is not unusual to see imitations on modern paper,
or would-be sixteenth-century, work on paper bearing the mill-mark
of two or three centuries later. But these of course are the gross
imitations only intended to dupe the most naïve of beginners.

Prints are also imitated, and nowadays to perfection with the help of
mechanical aids, when they have to reproduce an excellent original.
The ageing process is the same as that used for drawings. There is one
difference between them to be noted, it is that in the case of old
prints or etchings the presence or absence of the margin counts for
much. An etching with its original paper margin is far more valuable
than one that has been cut to fit a frame or for any other purpose.
Hence one particular branch of faking of the prints is to refurnish
paper margins to those specimens that have lost them. The work is more
or less successful according to the skill of the faker, but is usually
effected in the following manner: The etching is cut all round the edge
reasonably near the printed part, then a large piece of old paper is
cut to fit the etching as a frame and the two edges are brought and
held together for some time by a paper lining at the back. The crack
of the join between the old etching and the new margin is filled in
with paste of the same composition as the paper and smoothed even by a
mechanical process. It is of course needless to add that such a method
is not likely to take in a true collector, but the faker knows that
foolish clients are sometimes numerous and his best supporters.

Miniature work is easy to imitate, not only on account of its
technique, in which originality has a comparatively small rôle to play,
but because it needs hardly any patina or ageing.

Pastels and water colours, more especially the latter, appear to be
a little out of the forger’s line. Yet pastel, with its peculiar
technique, affords possibilities for faking.

Copies of noted originals have not escaped the speculative spirit of
the counterfeiter. They are generally sold as contemporary copies or
antique copies, and they seem to command higher prices, even if an old
copy is at times far inferior to a modern one.

In the faking of modern, or semi-modern art, the technique intended to
confer age and venerability to the work finds no place. In such cases,
it is easy to understand, the main craft lies in imitating the style of
the master counterfeited.

Speaking of such imitations, we may note that fakers contemporary with
the artist are perhaps the most dangerous to the neophyte, and as
imitations have always existed more or less, and are by no means only
the product of the greed of modern fakers and dealers, a collector
is often taken in by a false Corot or a false Rousseau, in which the
only legitimate thing is perhaps the date, the forgery having been
perpetrated during the master’s lifetime.

Naturally, the imitation is not always made for the purpose of
cheating, but almost always with the hope of becoming as popular as a
certain master by imitating his style. It is very often the work of
pupils, as in the case of the Watteau imitations by Lancret and Pater.

It is known that the work of Paul Potter has been imitated by Klomp,
that Jacob van Huysum has counterfeited the work of Breughel and of
Wouwermans, that Constantin Netscher made plenty of money copying
Vandyke Charles I portraits, and that Teniers the Younger sold false
Titians.

To go back to prints and etchings before closing this chapter one must
make a distinction between old imitations and modern ones. A good
connoisseur is never at a loss to detect signs of counterfeit, but
there is an essential difference of criterion needed in judging old
imitations of etchings and modern imitations. In old prints involuntary
discrepancies are sure to occur as they have been reproduced by hand,
and the connoisseur must therefore be acquainted with them. These
variations are more or less known to experts, whereas in the case of a
modern purely mechanical reproduction, a magnifying glass and technical
experience are the chief requirements. Marco Dente’s reproduction of
Marcantonio’s work and the copies of Callot’s etchings by some of his
pupils are examples of the imperfections of old imitations, details
having been omitted.




CHAPTER XX

FAKED SCULPTURE, BAS-RELIEFS AND BRONZES

  Faked sculpture--Clay work--The false Tanagras--Imitation of
      Renaissance work--Bas-reliefs and busts--Baked clay and
      _stucco-duro_--The Clodions--Bronzes--The importance of
      patina--The patina of Pompeiian bronzes and excavated bronzes
      --Renaissance patina and that of later times--Gilded bronzes
      --Marble work and its general colouring--Sculpture in wood and
      ivory--The Ceroplastica.


We must repeat that in sculpture also, faking borrows largely from the
art of restoring. Indeed it is no exaggeration to say that nearly all
branches of the faker’s art turn for help to the restorer’s methods.
And here again, as in painting, we are also immediately confronted
by two forms of trickery; one is the creation of a modern object in
imitation of the antique so as to deceive the collector, and the other
the reconstruction of some fantastic piece of forgery from an inferior
object, or one greatly damaged by over-restoration. To speak of
over-restoration is in such cases to use a euphemism. We can offer an
example showing how this over-restoration of objects is nothing but a
form of faking highly flavoured with different varieties of deception.
A rich American bought a marble statue some years ago representing a
famous Roman empress. It was bought not only because the Roman art
appealed to him but as the portrait of that particular Roman empress.
As a matter of fact, the whole statue had been faked by the addition
of new portions to a headless, limbless torso, which was the only
genuinely antique part. We must say, however, that the new head given
to the half-faked statue was extremely well done. It had been copied
from a well-known model and except that the patina of the marble was
not so perfect as might have been expected from a great master in
trickery, the most experienced collector might have been deceived.

Clay work is perhaps the most popular form of plastic art among the
fakers of antiques. As it has the special advantage of being made from
casts of originals, it does not present any real technical difficulty,
and it demands no expensive additions and may be given colour and
patina with comparative ease. Of course many of these advantages are
also shared by bronzes, stucco, and all productions worked from an
original model in clay or any other plastic substance, such as wax,
pastiline, etc.

Tanagra figurines undoubtedly hold the first place in the large class
of faked clay work. There has been an uninterrupted succession of
forgers in this line from the time Tanagra work first came into fashion
with collectors, to the stock imitations now sold in Paris and still
bought for genuine Tanagras by over-naïve collectors. The old Baron
Rothschild, who had a fine collection of Tanagra figurines and no small
experience as a connoisseur, used to say that when it is a question of
a Tanagra one must see it excavated, and even that nowadays is hardly a
guarantee of genuineness.

The imitations are generally cast from good originals, and as the clay
shrinks considerably in drying and baking, the imitation is usually
smaller than the original and can therefore easily be detected when
confronted with a genuine piece.

Some of the more advanced imitators have somewhat obviated this
difference of dimension by mechanical methods of expanding moulds,
but the work in such cases is not so perfect as otherwise and what is
gained on the one hand, namely, a dimension identical to that of the
original, is lost on the other, as methods of taking over-sized moulds
from originals are generally imperfect.

A flourishing product of the Italian market are bas-reliefs and clay
busts in imitation of Renaissance work.

When not the work of clever artists who model direct from the clay,
having studied and mastered the old style, it is the product of
miserable mechanical deception aided by ability to disguise its
patchwork nature, the trickery and general sleight-of-hand of the wily
art of faking.

In the case of bas-reliefs they are often composed of different parts
belonging to different originals, sometimes originals unknown to
connoisseurs and art critics. This method has been applied to the
imitation of Renaissance terra-cotta busts. A bust bought at a high
figure from a Venetian antiquary many years ago and believed to be
genuine Quattrocento work was afterwards discovered to have been made
from the cast taken from the face of a recumbent figure on a tomb in
the church of San Pietro e Paolo, to which had been added the back
part of another bust, the whole finally set upon a pair of shoulders
cast from another original of the period. The monument from which the
face had been moulded was so high up on the wall of the church of San
Pietro e Paolo that no one knew of the existence of this original and
the other parts of the faked object had also been taken from little
known originals. The fraud was discovered in Paris some time after the
bust had entered a noted collection, a lawsuit ensued and the collector
eventually recovered the money he had paid.

Italian art of the fifteenth century has produced many clay
bas-reliefs, apparently from one and the same original and yet
presenting slight differences, additions and modifications evidently
made after the clay had left the mould but when it was still fresh.
This fact has greatly incited the fancy of Italian forgers and largely
contributed to the confusion of art critics and the duping of more
than one collector. These bas-reliefs represent sacred subjects for
the most part, and sometimes it is not merely a question of putting a
rose in the Madonna’s hand or a little bird into those of the Infant
Jesus, in order to lay claim to due originality, but the modifications
are so radical that the whole appearance of the work is changed. It
is generally done as follows. A good plaster-mould is made from a
good original, and a clay reproduction formed from this mould, which
is then modified and changed while still fresh. Should the work to be
divested of its original character represent, say, a Madonna and Child,
the artist may proceed to alter its size by modifying the border;
then, to transform the subject, he may make an addition on one side,
of the heads of the ox and ass, taken of course from another original.
To change the pose of the Madonna the clay is generally cut behind
the head and neck with a fine wire and then the position of the head
can be altered at pleasure; from being erect, for instance, it can be
inclined, or vice versa. By the same method, and no small amount of
skill, arms and hands can be given new attitudes, etc. The final result
is a work which passes as an original among foolish art lovers who
collect series.

_Stucco duro_ imitations are produced by almost identical methods.
These compositions are generally made of plaster, which hardens as
it dries after being poured into a mould. When the original is to be
modified a first model of clay or some other soft modelling material is
indispensable, of course, and from this a mould is then taken for the
casting of the _stucco duro_.

To colour and give a patina either to baked clay or stucco is
comparatively easy. The colouring is given with tempera colours, the
patina with tinted water, for which tobacco, soot, etc., may be used,
applied with smoky and greasy hands. A coat of benzine in which a small
quantity of wax has been dissolved is finally laid on with a brush and
the whole polished with a brush or wool.

As we have said, however, fakers are especially partial to clay work.
It requires little outlay, the finished work can be fired at small
expense, the colouring and patina can be given “at home,” not needing
the special light of a studio, etc. Not only in the case of Renaissance
work has this method been the favoured one but in other types of
art forgery, the eighteenth-century terra-cottas, for instance, the
lovely work of Clodion, Falconnet, Marin, etc. Paris is glutted with
imitations of Clodion’s clay groups. Some of them are sufficiently good
to puzzle the best connoisseurs. As we have seen, a pseudo-Clodion sold
years ago in perfect good faith by M. Du Boullay to Mme. Boiss caused a
complicated lawsuit and many inconclusive discussions among art critics
and connoisseurs of the calibre of Eugène Guillaume, Chapu, Millet,
Carrier Belleuse, and specialists on Clodion’s work such as Thiacourt.
It was finally established that the bit bearing Clodion’s name was
authentic and had been inset in a group of much later date, a spurious
original, but even this was not absolutely proved and simply offered as
the most acceptable hypothesis. As Paul Eudel remarks, to decide the
matter, “Clodion would have to raise the stone of his sepulchre and to
rise from his tomb in order to supply an irrefutable solution.”

The initial process for faking antique bronzes is very similar to
that used in clay and stucco forgeries. By initial process we mean,
of course, the way the mould is made for casting the bronze. When
the pseudo original has been modelled in clay, the form of it is
naturally taken to obtain a matrix of some harder material, and from
this matrix is taken the mould that is used for the cast. There is
also another system of casting bronzes greatly in vogue among fakers,
more especially for small objects, which is called _cire perdu_. It is
a simplified method, consisting of modelling the object in wax, then
taking its mould, which is emptied by melting the wax. The details of
these two methods of casting bronze, the ordinary casting and the _cire
perdu_ process, can be found in any technical work on bronze casting
and need not be repeated here.

The patina of bronzes presents a difficulty in addition to the artistic
difficulties of creating a convincing pseudo-original, difficulties
common to clay, stucco, and, in fact, all faked sculpture. Patina, the
_nobilis ærugo_ of Horace, is the peculiar oxidization acquired by
bronze with age. For the connoisseur, the patina is not only a part of
the artistic _tout ensemble_ of a bronze object--so much so that
there are collectors more impressed by the beauty of the patina than by
the artistic value of the piece--but it is the chief indication of
the authenticity of the work.

According to Pliny, great importance was attached to the _nobilis
ærugo_ by the Roman connoisseurs also, especially in the case of the
famous Corinthian bronze. This metal was classified into five qualities
by the Roman amateur according to five different hues or patinas
depending upon the proportion of gold and silver in the alloy. Roman
art lovers made a regular study of bronze patina and of the composition
of the bronze of art objects. The components of this knowledge were
not only gathered from the appearance of a certain bronze, but by its
relative weight and the odour of the metal. That the odour of an alloy
should have been made a test to judge of its component parts is very
possible as the smell of bronze and brass is essentially different,
and there is no reason why a practised Roman nose should not have
distinguished slight differences according to the proportion of the
various metals in the alloy.

One reason, apart from artistic motives, why the collector gives the
patina so much consideration is, as we have said, because the patina
nowadays is one of the safest guides in buying antique bronzes. Whilst
the artistic qualities of certain objects may be reproduced with
skill or trickery, patina of a really genuine and entirely convincing
appearance is supposed to be beyond the faker’s art. Our own and other
people’s experience leads us to doubt this, but such, as a matter of
fact, is the common belief among collectors. Faked patina, it is true,
is less transparent and duller than the genuine, and it can easily be
detected by shininess at the points and sharp edges of a bronze where
it is difficult to fix the imitation patina, but, we would repeat,
there are bronzes in Naples and some of the cities of Northern Italy
that have deceived the best connoisseurs, and samples may be seen in
nearly all the important museums of Europe and America. Almost all
works treating specially of metal casting give various methods for
obtaining a proper patina according to the different hues one may
wish to give the bronze. Yet modern methods of colouring and oxidizing
bronze do not seem to satisfy the antiquary and, in consequence, the
faker of antique bronzes. All modern mechanical methods produce fine
colouring without brilliancy, colouring that does not seem to possess
the vibrant quality of old patina, oxidation that appears to be too
superficial to show the depth of colouring peculiar to patina obtained
by the slow process of age. To obtain such an effect the faker resorts
to the most varied and out-of-the-way methods, and when possible tries
to hasten the slow oxidation of age by greasing and smoking the object,
putting it in damp places and treating it with acids. Often the most
varied methods are used in conjunction or alternately with a patience
and persistence worthy of a more honourable cause, but practised with
ever-greater keenness, alas, with the promise of much gain. Some of the
most successful patinas are obtained not only by duly working at the
colouring and oxidation of the metal, but by composing the alloy in
such a way as to favour the production of a convincing patina later on.

Naturally, the differences of the patina of old bronzes depend not
only upon the various conditions to which the work may have been
exposed through age, but also upon the colouring or kind of artificial
oxidation that may have been given it upon leaving the foundry.

[Illustration:

    _Photo_      _Alinari_

AN IMITATION OF ROMAN WORK.

Latest part of XIVth Century]

[Illustration:

    _Photo_      _Alinari_

AN IMITATION OF 16TH CENTURY WORK.]

Thus whilst an antique bronze brought up from the bottom of the sea may
have the peculiar patina of age acquired under these special conditions
and another statue exposed only to atmospheric oxidation may show
the different hue belonging to the effect of air, there are bronzes
which have been coloured upon leaving the foundry, and even when age
has given brilliance to the patina they bear the characteristics
differentiating the school or artist. The most difficult to imitate are
the excavated Greek, Roman or Etruscan bronzes, especially when the
humidity of the soil or some peculiar condition has produced a kind of
patina possessing the appearance of enamel. Among the artificial
hues of Renaissance bronze, the brownish tint of the Paduan school is
characteristic, and worthy of note are some of the blackish specimens
of Venetian bronze, as well as the whole emporium of samples of the
versatile Florentine school. Some of these patinæ are reproduced
fairly well, and now that Gianbologna and his school are beginning to
be appreciated, we would state that faking is successfully studied to
produce the reddish patina of some of the not always exquisite but yet
invariably interesting little bronzes of Tacca Susini Francavilla and
others.

It was once believed by some collectors that gilded bronze could not
be imitated, that the galvanoplastic method was as recognizable as any
false and badly made coin. We doubt this, for we fail to see why the
old system of gilding with mercury could not be applied to imitations.
It is somewhat slower and more expensive, but the profit, as usual,
makes it worth while in the eyes of the faker. Gilding is certainly
imitated to perfection on modern pieces purporting to be the work of
French artists of the eighteenth century and some of the counterfeits
of Gutierrez’ and Caffieri’s work have even the varnish that was at one
time considered inimitable.

The great progress made in imitating patina, has rendered the
collecting of bronzes one of the most dangerous branches the collector
can choose.

In the case of marble, stone or other hard material that has to be
chiselled, the faker generally starts his work along the lines of
the sculptor, that is to say, he models the original in clay, casts
it in plaster and transfers it to the marble by the usual methods.
Then when this artistic part has been accomplished successfully, the
marble or stone must be given the appearance of antiquity and the
patina belonging to age. This is generally effected by two distinct
operations, one relating to the form, the other to the colour and
the whole peculiar harmonization of tone and polish called patina.
As regards the form, modern sculpture being somewhat too precise
and sharp-edged, the chief aim of the operation is to destroy these
qualities, as well as to confer upon the object the abuse that is
supposed to be traced upon an antique during its long pilgrimage
through the ages. The marble is therefore skilfully chipped here
and there with mallet and chisel, sand and acid are applied to dull
the over-sharp tooling, and sometimes to cause corrosion, etc. The
principle accepted, it is easy to understand that ways of ageing
sculpture are multiplied, and vary according to the illusion the faker
intends to convey. The fact that old Greek and Roman work is not
identical with Renaissance productions in appearance, as the former
are generally excavated while the latter come down to us through a
long succession of owners, is sufficient to show that there are slight
differences which must be taken into consideration.

For colouring marble and stone, a general tone is usually given at
first which is intended to destroy the crudeness of the new material,
especially in the case of marble. One of the most common ways is to
wash the object with water containing a certain quantity of green
vitriol. When applied before the stone has lost its permeability, this
solution penetrates deeply, particularly in marble, and the colouring
is not easily destroyed or washed out by long exposure to atmospheric
action. Some use nitrate of silver also when a different hue is to be
given, but the solution mentioned first, which confers the proper ivory
tone to the marble, is the most common. Naturally, a tone given by
these means is too uniform and monotonous to be taken for the colouring
of old age, so the artist calls his talent and experience into play to
produce the desired variation; there is, in fact, no other teaching but
experience and taste. It is to be noted that in the colouring of stone,
and particularly marble, the artist has an almost complete palette at
his disposal, for in this branch chemistry supplies nearly every hue
possible.

We may remark by the way that the art of colouring marble was already
well understood in the days of ancient Greece, and it is a fact
that more than one statue of that period shows signs of colouring
wonderfully preserved through the ages. In Italy, where marble
dyeing is still a flourishing art, it is done with very few colours:
verdigris, gamboge, dragon’s-blood, cochineal, redwood and logwood.

Nearly all vegetable dyes are suitable, and many coal-tar colours,
if properly used, give a very fast and beautiful colour to marble.
It is essential for the solution of all dyes to be made with alcohol
or ether, and only such anilines may be employed as are soluble in
fat. Some solutions may be applied direct to the marble, whatever its
temperature; others require the heating of the marble, to increase its
permeability and consequent faculty of imbibing the colouring solution.
The quality and condition of the marble must also be taken into
consideration. If the marble has not been polished properly, or has
been touched with greasy hands, a patchy effect or stains will result.

Rubbing with flannel and the moderate use of encaustic, give the
finishing touches, when the character of the patina requires the shiny
effect so often seen in old marbles.

Objects sculptured in wood represent no change of technique for the
forger of antiques as far as the carving is concerned. The forger’s
ability to imitate the work of an old master is purely artistic, and
cannot, of course, be achieved by any special method; but the art of
giving the object a convincing appearance of age is fairly mechanical,
depending upon the use of alkali, permanganate of potash and other
substances. The process being somewhat complex and common, as a matter
of fact, to all kinds of wood carving, it will be given in detail
when imitation antique furniture and the methods of producing it are
described; faked furniture being, perhaps, one of the most productive
branches of the obscure trade of counterfeit antiques. Sometimes
artistic figures or bas-reliefs in wood are either coloured or gilded.
In the case of polychromatic work, the wood is generally coated with a
plaster preparation to receive the colour, and the technique for ageing
or giving a patina is that already described for stucco or clay work;
in the case of gilding, the appearance of age is given to the new gold
by colour veiling, also liquorice juice and burnt paper are used with
advantage applied to the gold with a soft brush.

Ivory work too, which represents one of the most dangerous fields to
neophytic enterprise, requires no special technique in counterfeiting
as far as the artistic creation is concerned. It must also be tempting
to the carver as a material, for certain naïve effects of primitive
art seem aided by the essential qualities of the ivory, its fibrous
constitution in particular. One may safely say that there is nowadays
hardly a single genuine Byzantine Christ; there are, however, plenty on
the market of course.

The old cracks of antique ivory are very easily imitated. There is
more than one method for producing them, the most common is to plunge
the piece into boiling water and then dry quickly before a fire.
The operation can of course be repeated until the desired effect is
attained. Here also smoke and tobacco-juice can perform miracles.
Sometimes ivory pieces are placed in a fermenting heap of fertilizer or
wet hay. The methods are, in fact, most varied, and an inventive spirit
seems of great assistance to the faker in devising new schemes every
day.

We now come to the last class of this chapter, ceroplastics, which
includes all forms of modelled wax, small bas-reliefs supposed to have
been the originals of _plaquettes_, little family portraits in coloured
wax, etc. In this branch, patina and complicated methods to attain an
appearance of age hardly come into consideration, a mere touch of the
hand is at times sufficient to stain the wax, and work of this kind
takes the colouring so readily after it is modelled that no craft
is needed in imitating old wax work, provided the artist is able to
imitate the antique handiwork. Besides, wax portraits have been for the
most part kept under glass and have come down to us as fresh as though
made yesterday, not only those of a century or two ago but also those
that have reached a most respectable centennial age. Wax work is one of
the easiest to imitate and one of the most difficult to detect when
imitated. We are therefore inclined to advise the freshman collector to
abstain from buying this kind of work, unless irrefutable documentary
evidence is offered in the shape of a well-authenticated pedigree of
the work.




CHAPTER XXI

FAKED POTTERY

  Faked pottery--Old unglazed types--Artistic and scientific
      interest in pottery--Oriental glazed pottery--Greek and
      Etruscan half-glazed vases--Faience and its various types--
      Italian factories, Cafaggiolo, Urbino, etc.--Iridescent glazes,
      Hispano-Moresque, Deruta and Gubbio--French pottery--Faked
      Palissy and imitations of Henri II--Other types of French
      faience--China, the old and modern composition of china--
      Various ways of faking china of good marks--Half-faked pieces
      --Blunders in marks--Glasses and enamels.


Pottery presents one of the richest and most varied fields for
imitation and faking. The endless types and specialities of this class
seem to have spurred the versatile genius of the imitator.

Broadly speaking, and age apart, pottery may be divided into two
classes: one in which glazing does not appear, and one in which this
important element of ceramics lends an entirely different character to
the product.

The first class more especially, if not exclusively, may be grouped
into two types according to character: those that interest the
scientist in particular, and those that come more into the domain of
the artist and art lover. It is of course understood that there is no
definite line of demarcation between the two.

Faking, however, with a great spirit of impartiality, makes no
distinctions and is ready to meet its clients on the scientific or
artistic field, and fully prepared to accommodate the scientist with an
artistic bent or the artist possessing the learned propensities of the
historian.

Thus Mexican idols and Peruvian pottery, as well as the productions
of savage tribes, are imitated and copied with the same interest as
the unglazed vases of Samos, Greek clay urns and Roman lamps. What
regulates the increase of the forger’s activities and spurs his genius
is, as we have said, the demand for an article and its price.

There is nothing surprising then in the fact that some rather
indifferent types of pottery of savage tribes, or incomplete aboriginal
specimens, should have been faked as though they presented the interest
of a _chef-d’œuvre_. Not altogether of this class, but certainly of
limited interest so far as art is concerned, are the Mexican articles
which have been among the most exploited by those who know that these
kinds of relics are in great demand by scientists as well as collectors
who have a passion for specialities.

In the Exhibition of 1878, a group of scientists put the incautious
upon their guard by exhibiting a whole series of faked Mexican idols,
pottery and so forth. But as the articles, especially at that time,
were in great vogue, the warning was not sufficient for specialists and
collectors, and the show of faked Mexican art proved such a success
that it stirred the honesty or cynicism, we hardly know which, of
a Parisian dealer who conceived the notion to advertise his wares:
“Forgeries of Mexican idols, 5-25 francs.”

Unglazed Oriental and Græco-Roman pottery, with its fine forms and
decorative character, has not only proved an attraction to the
collector but very tempting to the faker who finds no great difficulty
in imitating it. The way to render such pottery antique-looking is
easy. Acids may play their part here too, but they are hardly necessary
as the porous nature of the clay makes it able to absorb any kind of
hue, tone and dirt if buried in specially prepared ground or in a bed
of fertilizer.

Curiously enough from one point of view, the imitation of this early
art generally flourishes on the very spot where the originals are
excavated, and still more odd is it that on more than one occasion
those duped were the very ones supposed to be good connoisseurs and
who took direct interest in the excavations. Thus it is that there
is an abundance of faked Samos, Rhodes and other specimens, in
collections now housed in museums. A superficial inspection of the
Cesnola collection in the Metropolitan Museum of New York, ought to be
sufficient to prove that even connoisseurs as good as Cesnola, are not
quite safe in this speciality against the trickery of modern imitators.

With Greek, Campanian or Etruscan pottery that bears a peculiar polish
or glazing the nature of which is still a mystery to ceramists the
case is somewhat different; good imitations are rare. Naturally there
cannot be included among convincing imitations those upon which a lead
glaze has been used, as such imitations are covered with a thick layer
of shining glaze and are only intended for veriest neophytes who have
presumably never seen an original. Successful imitations are either
finished with a very thin and non-shining glaze or an encaustic polish.
To ascertain whether encaustic has been used, one has only to rub the
piece with a cloth soaked in benzine, which will soon turn it opaque.

In the pottery museum of Sèvres there is an interesting series of
faked Greek and Etruscan vases, urns, etc. It comprises some good
specimens of the work of Touchard, an imitator flourishing about the
year 1835, other pieces by the Giustiniani of Naples, and some of the
most successful fakes of this particular kind of pottery, the pieces
by Krieg from the Rheinzabern factory. These pieces were sold to the
Sèvres Museum as genuine, by a Bavarian, in the year 1837.

We are told that a good method in imitating Etruscan pottery is to work
with _engobe_, adding a well-ground _frit_ to the _barbotine_ that
contains the elements of a glaze. To our knowledge all imitations of
this kind are wanting in appearance and it is safe to assert that they
could hardly receive serious consideration from a true connoisseur.

As regards glazed Oriental ceramics, there are to be noted some
good imitations of Persian work and, above all, imitations of the
characteristic pottery of Rhodes. Factories for these ceramics are
almost everywhere. Perhaps the best imitations come from a factory in
Paris. Imitations from this factory have succeeded in deceiving more
than one connoisseur. A well-known curator of a Berlin museum bought
one of these samples as genuine, paying eighty pounds for it, and an
antiquary of Florence, quite a specialist in ceramics, very nearly
committed the same mistake, but by good luck he was warned by a friend
who had been taught by hard experience that this Oriental pottery is a
product of very Western origin. Curiously enough the manufacturers do
not sell their produce for anything but imitations; however, through
the usual frauds in which the market in antiques abounds, these pieces
are evidently palmed off on unwary collectors outside France. Oriental
pottery is usually so well preserved, thanks to its hard glaze, that
the faker is spared all complicated processes to give the piece an
appearance of age.

The glazed work of Hispano-Moresque pottery presents a more or less
successful field to imitators. The lustrous glaze of various hues does
not seem to offer difficulties to the modern ceramist, who has learned
how to use the mysterious co-operation of smoke in the so-called muffle
glaze. Yet when confronted with originals, which are becoming rarer and
rarer in the market every day, the best of imitations leaves room for
meditation as the genuine is usually a very uncomfortable neighbour to
the counterfeit.

The Italian Renaissance with its various and interesting types has
yielded a fine crop of imitations. In fact plagiarism was already
rampant when the old factories, now extinct, were in full activity.
Thus on more than one occasion Faenza has copied Cafaggiolo, and the
models of Urbino, Pesaro and Casteldurante are often interchanged,
while the factory of Savona seems to have blended its unmistakable
individuality with the models of all the most successful factories.
Cafaggiolo, Gubbio and Derutha are perhaps the types of old Italian
pottery to which the faker has given preference. There are some modern
imitations of Cafaggiolo made by a ceramist of Florence so well done
that they have deceived the best connoisseurs of Paris and Berlin. But
for the fact that we have pledged ourselves to point out the sins
and not the sinners or their victims, we could enumerate a rather
interesting list of illustrious victims to this clever imitator of
Cafaggiolo, who is still at work in Florence and more dangerous every
day by reason of the perfecting of his deceitful art.

There are also old imitations of Cafaggiolo, made by the Sicilian
factory of Caltagirone, and if one thing surprises us more than another
it is that good collectors should buy this type freely as genuine. They
are apparently blind to the grossness of the imitation and above all
to its dark, dirty blue which has nothing in common with the beautiful
colour of a genuine Cafaggiolo.

Another cherished type offering great enticement to the Italian faker,
even though not imitated successfully enough to take in the real
expert, is the work of Della Robbia. Imitations of this work, copies
from good originals and honestly sold as such, are to be seen at one of
the most important potteries of Florence, Cantagalli, a firm of almost
historical reputation. Being intended to be sold as reproductions,
copies or imitations, no patina is given to these.

It is not only in Italy that Italian faience has been freely imitated
but also in other countries, particularly France. Among the successful
imitators we may quote Joseph Devers, who made such good imitations of
Italian faience that he had the honour to sell some of his specimens
to the Sèvres Museum in 1851. Looking now at these imitations of Della
Robbia, made so successfully by Devers in 1851, one wonders how they
could have been taken for genuine by experienced connoisseurs.

The lustre work of Maestro Giorgio Andreoli and Derutha has been
imitated by many factories, but, notwithstanding the efforts put forth
and the progress made in discovering the secret of lustrous glazing,
the imitations, especially of Maestro Giorgio, are deficient. In the
Gubbio work of the best epoch a special firing must have been used,
especially for the red hue, which is so original and characteristic
that it seems to defy imitation. That the Maestro Giorgios must have
been glazed at a low temperature, at any rate for the production of the
iridescent effect of the colours, may be concluded from an incident
that occurred in Gubbio years ago. On the spot where Maestro Giorgio
is supposed to have had his furnace for firing his masterpieces, some
debris of fine Gubbio work was found. By chance a woman put one of
these pieces that had apparently not received the last firing for the
iridescent hue into the warming pan with which she was warming her
hands, and the moderate heat of the ashes was sufficient to produce the
iridescent effect. Imitators of this kind of work use various methods,
but one of the most common is muffled glaze, specially prepared and
aided by smoke which envelopes the piece when incandescent and the
glaze about to melt.

In France the hard-glazed work of Palissy was naturally an incentive to
the imitator’s versatile aptitude, and later on to the faker’s. Being
as esteemed for his work, as ill-treated for his religious convictions,
Palissy had many imitators in his own time, mostly among his pupils or
enthusiastic followers. However, Palissy died in the Bastille without
revealing the secret of his glaze or the composition of his clay, so
even his followers could only grope in the dark, to use the expression
by which Palissy defined his long and arduous research, before he
discovered the secret of his marvellous pottery. Perhaps because
plagiarists are, after all, always plagiarists, the fact remains that
none of the sixteenth and seventeenth-century imitators reached the
level of the master.

However, false Palissys are legion now. They are of all kinds and the
originals being now practically off the market, museums, as usual,
abounding in pseudo-Palissys, so a comparison with an original is not
always possible.

Apart from his immediate followers, Palissy was copied and imitated
at Avon near Fontainebleau in the seventeenth century during Louis
XIII reign. Demmin, a real authority on Palissy ceramics, mentions
many false Palissys now in museums, some of them regular _pastiches_,
suggested from well-known prints of a later date than Palissy.
According to Demmin, some of these pieces are in the Victoria and
Albert Museum, the motives of the composition, old-fashioned gardens,
being taken from engravings in the style of Lenotre, possibly dating
between 1603 and 1638.

In modern times there are to be noted imitations by Alfred Corplet,
a restorer of pottery who filled the market after the year 1852 with
passable imitations, sold as such, of Palissy work. For a long time
he had been a restorer of broken and damaged Palissy work and thus he
had had opportunity to study the work of the master closely, and at
one time his imitations fetched high prices. A. M. Pull also imitated
Palissy work about the year 1878, as well as Barbizet Brothers, of
whom a _plat à reptiles_ is kept in the Sèvres Museum. Some firms even
reproduce sea-fish which are never found on genuine Palissys, as the
master only moulded such animals and fish as he found in the environs
of Paris.

There are many fakers who still love to imitate the work of Palissy,
and if we may give advice to the inexperienced collector we would say:
“Don’t go after Palissys nowadays, as a find in this line is almost an
impossibility; good originals are either kept in well-known collections
or jealously guarded in museums.”

Henry II faience, the technique of which is as much a mystery as
Bernard Palissy’s glaze, has also been imitated, but, with the
exception of a few specimens, the imitations are so coarse that they
could hardly be dangerous even to the neophyte who had perchance some
slight acquaintance with originals. As in the case of Palissy, however,
Henry II ceramics do not abound on the market and such a thing as a
find is not to be hoped for.

More common are the imitations of Rouen, Moustiers, down to the
ceramics of the Revolution. The latter were at one time in such demand
that a very commercial type was produced which can be imitated, of
course, with ease. In this field also, therefore, do not get excited
too quickly over some truculent subject with the conspicuous date
of the Terror. Naturally among these subjects, the _assiettes au
confesseur_ and _à la guillotine_, depicting the execution of Louis
XVI, are too tempting to forgers not to be given a certain preference
among the faked pottery of the Revolution.

We would point out, further, that the pottery of all parts of the world
has invariably been faked or imitated, as soon as a promise of success
was presented to the imitator and of gain to the faker, but it is not
the purpose of this work to make a long exposition of the countless
types of faking, which would considerably increase its bulk and risk
monotony by an endless list of names and almost identical facts with
the usual dramatis personæ--the cheater and the cheated.

To give an appearance of age to pottery, especially glazed pottery,
there are various methods, as we have already said.

Sometimes it is not only a question of determining whether an object is
genuine or not, but as pottery is apt to be one of the most restored
articles of antiquity offered to the collector, the art lover must
be acquainted with the means of detecting which parts of a piece of
pottery have been restored, often over-restored. There are two ways of
restoring pottery where parts are missing. One is to make the missing
part in clay, bake it, and glaze and colour it to imitate the genuine
part of the object. When this is done the new part is cemented to the
old, and the piece is supposed to have been only broken and mended, a
fact which does not lessen the value of the object in the eyes of the
collector so much as incompleteness would. As this operation is an
extremely difficult one which only a few specialists can perform--there
is a Florentine ceramist who does it to perfection--and very expensive
as well, only really fine pieces of pottery are restored in this way as
a rule. Ordinary pieces are repaired as follows. The fragments of the
object are carefully cemented together and the missing parts are then
supplied with plaster. Some use plaster mixed with glue, others some
similar composition, in fact any soft substance will do if it will
harden after it has been modelled and properly shaped. When the missing
parts have been filled in and carefully polished with sand-paper, they
are prepared for oil paint with a light coating of a weak solution of
glue. After this the artist paints in the missing pattern with oil
colours and a brush, copying from the original parts of the object.
This finished, the glaze is imitated by a coat of varnish.

Incredible as it may sound, in the hands of a clever artist this rather
clumsy method produces an almost complete illusion. It is, however,
easy to ascertain what parts have been repaired. The new parts are
warmer to the touch than the glazed pottery, and they will also smell
of turpentine or oil paint. Should an old mending have lost all smell,
the heat of the hand is sufficient to revive it. Place your finger for
a time on the part you suspect, and then smell it and you will be able
to detect whether the part has been repainted with oil colours. A piece
repaired by the other method is naturally more difficult to detect; an
experienced eye, however, will notice some slight differences in colour
and form between the old and the new parts, and sometimes the join is
not quite perfect, a defect that is often remedied by filling in the
crack with a mastic imitating the glazed ground of the piece. This
rarely occurs, however, as a good repairer can generally calculate to a
nicety the shrinkage of the part to be added and makes such a neat and
perfect fit that only an experienced eye can detect it.

In the case of a purely modern imitation, the faker’s art consists,
as usual, in giving the piece a convincing appearance of age, once
the actual making has been performed. This is generally effected by
exposure to apparent ill-usage, by greasing and smoking the object,
then cleaning it and repeating the operation over and over again till
the dirt has penetrated into all the cracks, or by burying it in a
manure-heap and letting it remain till it has lost all freshness. There
are also chemical ways by which the glaze is eaten and its composition
altered. It is a fact that fluoric acid readily eats the glaze just
as it dissolves glass, and under certain circumstances the lead in
the glaze under the form of silicate changes under the action of
hydrosulphuric acid.

Cracks or a regular network of _craquelage_ are generally produced
on new ceramics by the same principle as they are obtained on oil
paintings, namely, by producing artificially a difference in the
shrinkage capacity of two superimposed layers. In oil painting it is
the layer of pigment and of varnish, in the case of pottery the two
layers are represented by the baked clay and the glaze. If the clay
has a smaller shrinkage than the glaze, in the second firing of the
piece to melt the glaze, the latter will dry in a network of cracks
like those on Chinese or Japanese vases, which are reproduced by this
method. Reversing the game, the glaze peels off here and there in
drying and produces the imperfections sometimes desired on imitations
of old and damaged pottery.

An artificial disproportion between the shrinkage of the clay and
the glaze is usually obtained by modifying the quality of either the
one or the other. Does the clay shrink more in the firing than is
desired, the ceramist generally mixes it with non-shrinking elements
such as powdered brick, or even another kind of clay which he knows
must shrink less on account of its composition, although it may not
be suitable in colour and quality. By this same modification of the
composition the shrinkage of the glaze is increased or diminished.
Glazes are generally composed of a combination of silex, furnished by
sand, and oxide of lead with the addition of some flux such as borax.
With an increased quantity of silex in the composition of the glaze the
shrinkage capacity is diminished. Consequently a predominance of the
other elements, lead, flux, etc., produces the opposite effect, namely,
giving the glaze a greater shrinkage capacity. Some workmen prefer to
modify the quality of the clay to obtain the desired _craquelage_,
others find it more practical to modify the glaze.

A full account of faked china would probably fill a bulky volume. It
may be taken for granted that every kind of artistic china worth
imitating has tempted the faker, with disastrous results to the unwary
collector. We have mentioned some of the most noted forgeries of
faience, merely to show what a happy hunting-ground ceramics have been
to the faker of all times, and with china this is doubly the case. From
the early attempts of Bottger, those rare specimens of rare china, down
to almost modern samples of Sèvres there has been a long succession of
types that have kept generations of fakers and imitators incessantly
busy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Curiously enough and with no intention of cheating, as far as china
is concerned, noted factories have themselves greatly added to
the confusion between originals and copies by becoming their own
plagiarists, as it were, by imitating old kinds. Thus the Meissen
factory now puts upon the market types of old Dresden very satisfactory
to people not intimately familiar with the fine old models of
the factory. The same has been done at Sèvres, Doccia and other
factories. Then, too, in some cases the plagiarism is furnished with
distinguishing marks that have increased the confusion--for the
neophyte collector, be it understood.

It is well known, for instance, that before closing its doors towards
the end of the eighteenth century, the Capodimonte factory sold all
the models of the factory to Ginori’s noted china works at Doccia, and
together with the models the right to use the N surmounted by a crown
which was the Capodimonte factory mark. Ginori’s factory has ever since
reproduced imitation Capodimonte with the mark of the Royal Neapolitan
factory. Of course the pieces may be sold by the firm as Ginori ware
and not as Capodimonte, but once on the market they are sure to come
into the possession of some unscrupulous dealer who will palm them off
as Capodimonte.

A good connoisseur, however, can tell, almost at sight, the real
Capodimonte from the ones Ginori’s factory has been turning out for
more than a century. The latter are not so fine in form or colour,
and although made from the same mould are not so well finished and
retouched as the real Capodimonte.

Apart from this, a large contribution to imitations of highly reputed
china is made by smaller factories that find it convenient and
profitable to copy pieces of celebrated marks. Some of these factories
even go so far as to imitate the mark, rendering the deception perfect.

There is another form of deceit in the market for artistic china,
peculiar to this particular branch. Many factories are in the habit
of disposing of such artistic pieces as are not considered altogether
up to the reputation of the factory. These pieces are often bought by
clever workmen who embellish them with skill and patience, and then
sell them profitably. If the mark is missing it is added with muffled
colours. To obviate this irregularity some of the best factories either
erase the mark on the wheel, or cut certain lines in the glaze which
indicate that the piece is genuine but not recognized by the factory
as up to its standard of artistic value. Of course even a moderately
expert collector knows the indelible sign made over the genuine mark,
but there, nevertheless, seem to be people who buy such pieces under
the impression that they are genuine first-rate Dresden, whereas no
other claim can be made than that the white background and the mark are
authentic, both baked _a gran fuoco_ as the decoration is generally
muffled work and can be executed by any skilled workman who has built
a muffle in his own house. Nowadays defective pieces are destroyed by
reputable firms; but years ago they were not only sold off, but even
given to the very factory men, who took them home, decorated them and
put them on the market as genuine pieces. Some of these curious fakes
are naturally almost as good as the genuine article, being at times
the work of the same artist and the defect of the first firing is not
always visible as a slight curve in a dish, or a tiny speck in the
glaze of a vase, is a sufficient blemish for the piece to be thrown
aside by the factory.

Where the faker does not always display his usual sharpness is in
the falsification of marks of noted factories. He is apt to make
gross mistakes by copying a mark from an original without knowing the
historical characteristics of the marks of certain factories, their
peculiarities and eventual changes. Take, for instance, the Sèvres
mark. It is known that instead of dating the pieces in figures, the
Sèvres factory began in the year 1753 to mark the pieces with an
A between the entwined initials of the King’s name, and that each
successive year was marked by the French alphabet till the letter Z was
reached in 1776, after which the alphabet was repeated again, doubling
each letter, thus:--

    1753    A
    1776    Z
    1777    AA
    1793    ZZ

It is, however, not unusual to see a faked piece of Sèvres imitating
the work of the end of the eighteenth century wrongly marked as to
date, the faker having evidently copied the mark from an original,
unaware that it represented a date as well. This incredible ignorance
can only be explained by the fact that many of these clever imitators,
are artists altogether unacquainted with any information outside their
imitative art. There are also other difficulties in the imitation of
Sèvres and its marks, more especially the pieces of the above series,
of which the faker appears to be unaware. Beside the factory mark, in
the alphabet series particularly, there is always the special mark of
the artist who did the decoration. These marks are generally not very
conspicuous, initials, dots, lines, etc., and belong to specialists,
miniature portrait painters, landscapists or simple decorators. By
copying the old marks mechanically without knowing the information
carried by the artist’s initials or marks, the faker is liable to
attribute a piece of faked landscape painting to a portraitist and vice
versa. Errors of this kind are more common than is generally supposed.

In faked china there is no question of patina or devices by which to
confer an appearance of age to the piece, nor of artificial breakages
for, by a freak of connoisseurship and contrary to faience, repaired
china has lost in a great many cases all artistic and monetary value.

We now turn to glassware and enamels as bearing a certain affinity in
the domain of faked art and antiquities with the glazed pottery already
illustrated.

The museum of Saint-Germain contains specimens of faked Roman glass
with iridescent effect produced by the queer scheme of sticking fish
scales to one side, which as every one knows are iridescent. A most
naïve form of faking to which later progress in the grand and artistic
profession of duping unwise collectors hardly renders it necessary for
imitators to have recourse.

Phœnician glass, the little scent bottles, the so-called lachrymatories
or tear-bottles, furnish a large source of profit to the faker. They
do not command high prices, and appeal to the less fastidious class of
collectors, tourists, and are sure of finding purchasers. Interment in
earth or manure gives the desired iridescent quality to the glass in
time.

From these antique types we will proceed to others of more recent times
which demand more care and skill to imitate, not so much on account
of the art as the peculiar defects of certain kinds. While Cologne
distinguishes herself with imitations of specimens of old glass, the
so-called product of excavation, and other cities of Germany reproduce
old national types, Italy has revived old Murano with a certain amount
of success, as well as various kinds of Quattrocento and later samples.

These imitations are not always made with the intention to deceive and
their success depends upon the class of collector. He who has perfected
his taste finds that although they may approximate to the old originals
materially, artistically they are wanting. The excess of precision that
belongs to modern reproductions somewhat lessens the artistic effect
and forms one of the salient differences between old and new.

But these after all are not dangerous, they represent the cabotage on
the sea of deceit; there are also fine pieces of real artistic value
that are imitated by artists of every nation such as old Bohemian
_chefs-d’œuvre_, Murano chandeliers, the latter sometimes composed of
old and modern parts.

Cut glass is another branch in which the skilful imitator has
triumphed. The work of Valerio Belli and others is so well imitated
that even the best connoisseurs are deceived.

With regard to enamels we would repeat the usual refrain, do not buy
them until you know whence they come, and until you have traced at
least two or three centuries of well-authenticated pedigree.

There are ordinary imitations in the antique market which are quite
easily distinguished, but there are others, regular _chefs-d’œuvre_
of art and craft, that defy and have, in fact, defied experience and
knowledge.

Not all imitations are by Laudin or Noailher, whose work may be of
interest to the accommodating taste of lovers of imitations, but there
are products of a higher grade, unfortunately for collectors and
museums, and these are not sold as imitations, but good round sums have
been paid for them and they have, in a way, ruined the reputation of
more than one collector and expert.

The technique of the work is identical with that of the past, and
the process for giving an appearance of age very much resembles that
already described in this chapter, though there are some fakers
who claim to have found a patina that cannot be dissolved, being
incorporated with the enamel as a glaze obtained in the second firing.
The many lawsuits and summonses at the Courts with respect to the
buying and selling of counterfeit enamels, are ample proof that faking
is rampant also, in this interesting branch of art collecting.

It suffices to say that among the illustrious victims of faked enamels
there is to be included the elder Baron Rothschild, or _le Baron
Alphonse_ as he was briefly called among antiquaries.

The first of his bad experiences in faked enamel was revealed to the
wealthy Baron by Mr. Mannheim, one of the finest and most honest
connoisseurs of Paris, then taking his first steps in the traffic
with antiques. From the first, Mannheim had an excellent eye and he
discovered that a place of honour was being given to a false piece in
Baron Alphonse’s rare series of choicest enamels. At first he did not
dare to reveal the secret, but after having gained the certitude that
not only the one piece, but others also, of the collection were more or
less clever fakes, he took the opportunity to speak that was offered
one day by the Baron’s praise of this fine piece of enamel.

At first the Baron was of course obstinate in his unbelief, but upon
a final test and the opinion of other experts, Mannheim’s good eye
finally triumphed. The _chef-d’œuvre_ and other spurious pieces for
which the multi-millionaire had paid a fortune disappeared from the
collection.

Long after the above experience with which Mannheim’s name was
connected, Rothschild bought an altar-piece of immense value and great
artistic merit. This fine enamel had been sold to the Baron by a London
dealer, who had evidently bought the piece as an antique and did not
scruple to sell the rarity to his best client for one million lire.

Having been told by his dealer that the enamel had originally come
from Vienna, Baron Rothschild one day pointed it out to an Austrian
attaché, his guest, commenting upon its beauty and his own good fortune
in having it in his possession. He concluded by expressing his surprise
that Austria should let such a fine work of art cross the frontier.
The attaché said nothing in the presence of the other guests, and only
whispered to his host “I will come to-morrow to tell you what I think
of your find!” The next day, in fact, he returned and revealed to the
Baron how he had been deceived in what he thought to be a precious
original, as it was nothing but a copy of a well-known altar-piece
preserved in Vienna. He was even able to name the man who had made the
copy of the precious enamel, a certain Werninger who had secretly made
a reproduction while restoring the original.

The Baron claimed and obtained his million from the London dealer,
whose good faith in this affair was beyond question, and a warrant was
issued against Mr. Werninger. The dealer did not recover the price he
had paid but Mr. Werninger was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment,
ample time in which to meditate upon the reprehensible side of his
alluring art.

As usual we must conclude the illustration of this particular branch
of the trade with a warning, for if Baron Rothschild had to regret the
acquisition of expensive enamels, and he is not the only conspicuous
connoisseur to do so, what is the fate likely to overtake the first
exploits of a neophyte in the field! If not assisted by a first-rate
expert, the freshman had better not meddle with enamels for a long
time, but assuage his passion by going and admiring well-known and
authentic pieces in famous museums.




CHAPTER XXII

METAL FAKES

  Metal work--The bronze family: brass, copper, and their various
      colours and patinæ--Beaten iron work--Arms and armour--
      Artificial rust and chemical oxidation--When the imitators of
      arms and armour used steel and when iron--Cast iron pieces--
      Chemical tests--Difficulties in the connoisseurship of arms
      and the story of three shields--Old and modern imitations--
      Silver work--Its colour and oxidization--Why artistic pieces
      in precious metal are in danger of being destroyed--Fashion one
      of the dangers of silver plate--How far reliance may be placed
      in marks--Gold work--The tiara of Saitafernes--Jewels and
      their extreme rarity--Imitations and forgeries of all ages--
      Advice to the non-initiated in the art of buying jewels.


When speaking in another part of this work about the methods of
conferring an appearance of age to newly cast bronze, we remarked that
the faker’s best accomplice in the ageing process was chemistry. The
colouring and bronzing of metals in fact is usually accomplished by one
of two methods, by the action of chemicals or by the application of
bronze powders rendered impalpable and used as a pigment.

The latter method is mostly used in modern industrial art, but has,
nevertheless, been applied in imitating antiques and in disguising
mended parts, etc. It is often used with success in the case of
imitations of excavated objects which generally have a bluish-green
patina. This may be imitated to deceive the eye of the beginner only,
by the application of green-bronze lacquer of a dull lustre, or of
green varnish. The green of the bronze colour is best prepared by
mixing Frankfort black with chrome yellow.

These are, however, but cheap and not always convincing expedients,
the real way to give tone and colour to bronze and other metals is by
resort to chemistry.

A brown colour on bronze, for instance, may be obtained by preparing a
sand bath large enough to contain the article to be bronzed. When the
object has been cleansed from all grease by dipping in boiling potash
lye, it is treated with white vinegar. After this preliminary operation
the object is wiped thoroughly dry and then rubbed with a linen rag
moistened with hydrochloric acid. When this coating is perfectly dry--a
quarter of an hour is sufficient--the article must be heated in the
sand bath until it has acquired a bluish tint, and a final rubbing with
a linen rag soaked in olive oil will change the blue colour to brown.

Recipes and processes are endless and so rich in hues that almost any
tone may be obtained. To any interested in this branch of imitating old
metals we can but suggest the excellent book, _The Metal Worker’s Handy
Book_, edited by William T. Brannt.

As we have said, there are many methods by which to give the proper
patina to metals, and a good deal of mystery, some fakers and imitators
claiming to be in possession of unrevealed secrets.

When exposed to the air for a long time, copper and bronze acquire a
fine brown or green patina which, as every collector knows, greatly
enhances the merits of an artistic piece in these two metals. A perfect
imitation of the result of a long process of time is not an easy
matter, in fact an almost impossible task.

Formerly the patina of a bronze was in a way the final test of
authenticity, but nowadays there are modern imitations of so deceptive
a character that the best connoisseurs are taken in.

One of the best known methods by which old patina is imitated on
copper and bronze, is to follow as closely as possible the process
by which the genuine patina is produced. Thus the action of rain,
interment, immersion in some permeating substance that will generate
hydrosulphuric acid are called into service by those willing to wait
a comparatively long time for the desired effects. Others accelerate
the above process by increasing the proportion of the natural conducive
elements. The objects are also treated with water containing ammonia,
carbonic acid, etc., exposed to the intense and direct action of vapour
or vaporized acid in order to produce those basic salts that form a
certain patina.

To obtain the malachite kind of patina that generally characterizes
objects found in the ground, the imitator generally brushes the metal
over with a very weak solution of cupric nitrate to which a small
quantity of common salt in solution may be added. When completely dry
it is again brushed over with a liquid consisting of one hundred parts
of weak vinegar, five of sal-ammoniac and one of oxalic acid, and the
application is repeated after the first has dried. In about a week’s
time the metal will have acquired a green-brown colour that may be
polished with encaustic if the patina is to have a shiny appearance.

Such is the leitmotiv, more or less, of the processes for obtaining
the green or brown-green patinæ. Some dip the object in cupric acid
and then place it in a room in which an excess of carbonic acid is
produced, by others preference is given to one or the other element
according to the tone and colour desired.

Brass articles are coated with green patina by a solution containing
150 parts of vinegar to which has been added ten parts of copper
dissolved in twenty of nitric acid. An application of this liquid is
generally made on the object.

The brown patina usually characterizing old medals is obtained in many
ways. One is by heating the medal at the flame of a spirit lamp and
then brushing it with graphite. To colour a number of medals at the
same time, some imitators dissolve thirty parts of verdigris and thirty
parts of sal-ammoniac in ten of water, adding water to the solution
till a precipitate is no longer formed. Then the medals are placed in a
shallow dish without touching one another and the boiling solution is
poured over them. The medals are allowed to remain in the solution till
they have acquired the desired tint, which should be a fine brown.

Green or bluish patinæ may also be given to bronze or copper by
triturated copper carbonate used as a paint with a pale spirit varnish,
shellac or sandarac, and applied with a brush.

Verdigris generally gives a bluish tint and crystallized verdigris a
pale green tint. The two tones can be mingled to obtain some special
hue.

Iron work is perhaps one of the easiest to imitate and give an
appearance of antiquity. As far as the actual work is concerned,
it rests entirely upon the skill and artistic taste of the worker.
Patina on iron is either caused simply by rust or by a slow process
of oxidation which confers a rich, dark tone to iron. There is also a
special patina seen on iron that has been under water for a long time,
but this is rare in imitations and very difficult to obtain.

The rusty coating on iron can be produced by almost any preparation
capable of oxidizing the surface or transforming it into basic salt
provided a red colour results, as with nitric or hydrochloric acid, for
instance.

The brown patina is often obtained by oiling the piece and exposing it
to the direct action of flame. The two methods may be alternated and
the corrosion of the acid here and there adds character to the piece.
Methods are so various, however, that the way to obtain a convincing
patina is perhaps contained in the dictum of an Italian antiquary: “To
inflict upon the object that is to be turned into an antique every
possible indignity and abuse.”

The patina in imitations of old iron work is so well reproduced
nowadays that even experts are unable to distinguish the real from the
unreal with certainty, so much so that more than one has had recourse
to an analysis of the composition of the iron in order to decide
whether the object were modern or antique.

[Illustration: LAMP DESIGNED BY PROFESSOR ORLANDINI, Jun.]

[Illustration: MANTEL-PIECE.

By Prof. Orlandini, an honest imitator of the Renaissance, who is
responsible for many fine pieces of ornamental work and many good
restorations of antique works.]

This justifies the verdict of Moreau, an expert and celebrated artist
in iron, who when called upon to decide whether a certain artistic key
exhibited at the Paris World Exhibition of 1878 were really of ancient
workmanship, replied that he could not tell unless he were allowed
to break the key and examine the grain of iron.

Italy is one of the countries where the imitation of old iron is
traditional. In olden times it was the work of Caparra and other
artists of the Renaissance that were imitated, nowadays old models are
reproduced for the benefit of the tourist, and some are conceived in
the old style with extreme perfection for those collectors who go in
for originals and who buy this modern work as genuine _chefs-d’œuvre_
of the Quattrocento and Cinquecento.

Florence, Venice, and the town of Urbino furnish the Italian market
with the best imitations of old candelabra, andirons, gates, lamps,
and keys; in fact everything that is likely to attract the tourist or
please the collector.

Nearly every country possesses good imitators of artistic old iron,
which is perhaps due to the fact that such imitations do not require
any great artistic ability, nor is the coat of rust on modern iron a
matter incurring expense or complicated methods. The most difficult in
this field are the imitations of arms of all kinds, which require a
skilful workman and often a finished artist in iron work.

In this particular branch of faking it is not only a question of
reproducing old weapons of a national character, but the forger
frequently turns his attention to imitating arms of exotic type. We all
know that Constantinople is the place _par excellence_ for imitations
of old Oriental arms and armour, but very few are aware that when
they buy an Oriental poignard or Turkish gun ornamented with passages
from the Koran in Africa, for instance, they are buying goods made
in Germany. As a matter of fact, however, German factories supply
Oriental maritime markets with all their fine arms. We still recollect
the amazement of an American tourist who on returning from a fair near
Tangiers showed the hotel-keeper his find, a fine Morocco knife with
a carved scabbard in brass, and was told that it was German. As he
persisted in his incredulity, the hotel-keeper showed him the mate of
his bargain, which had been presented to him by the German commercial
traveller who had lodged in his hotel.

As usual, collectors of the genre being diverse as to taste and calibre
as connoisseurs, the accommodating faker has goods to suit the varied
scale of his clients, or rather there are fakers of arms and armour
like the Venetian rubbish which is for easily pleased greenhorns, and
others producing fine goods for the man of exquisite taste such as
the product of Vienna, Belgium, France, and sundry Italian artists of
forged steel. We have purposely made a distinction by saying sundry
Italian artists, because while the imitation of arms in other countries
assumes the character of factory work of extremely good quality, in
Italy the artist who forges steel, chisels it and imitates old weapons,
is usually a solitary worker in his own home, a fact that makes him
far more dangerous to the collector. These artists are often simply
imitators of the old style whose work is sold by others as antique.
One of them used to live in Lucca whose imitations of old daggers
_cinquedee_ or _lingue di bove_ have become famous. Another in a town
of Northern Italy, imitates Negroli and Milanese work with uncommon
success.

Many of these artists, who imitated and copied old damascened work
to perfection, with no thought of cheating, have executed fine work
that can stand upon its own merits so to say. Such, for instance, is
the work of Zuloaga, the father of the painter of that name, and of
another Spaniard of repute in the artistic world, Mariano Fortuny.
This excellent painter was also a first-rate chiseller and good artist
in damascened work. He imitated the Moresque style to perfection. At
the sale that took place after his death, one of his productions, a
damascened sword, fetched the price of 15,000 francs, and was sold with
no other recommendation than that of being a modern imitation of the
antique by Mariano Fortuny.

In a letter written to the well-known amateur Baron Davillier, Fortuny
speaks of a flourishing factory near his studio in which excellent
imitations of armour were made, chiefly repoussé shields. It may be
taken for granted that if such a judge as Fortuny called the imitation
of this Roman work excellent, some of them are at present enriching
well-known collections.

There is a scarcity of genuine pieces on the market, in fact hardly a
single fine Cinquecento sword or halberd is to be seen in shops now or
is for sale. The few still obtainable are poor specimens as a rule, and
this fact ought to put the neophyte on his guard when he is offered
some gorgeously ornamented sword, pike, ranseur or partisan lavishly
chased and gilded.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some years ago an elegant lady was asked why the fair sex preferred to
dress elaborately rather than in the stylish simplicity of tailor-made
gowns, to which she replied, “Perhaps because it is less expensive.” In
a way the fine plain swords and unornamented pieces of armour are more
difficult to fake; they would seem to demand the same eye for form as
a perfectly cut, well-fitting, simple tailor-made gown. This combined
with the collector’s cheap taste in arms may be the reason why the
faker gives preference to imitations loaded with chased or damascened
ornamentation, and enriched with gilding and elaborate arabesques.

The rarity of imitations of fine weapons characterized by elegant
lines, simplicity and sobriety of ornament, suggested to the author
some years ago the solution to a difficult problem propounded by Baron
Nathaniel Rothschild.

When called to Baron Rothschild’s magnificent mansion in Vienna, I
found this rich and sagacious collector had received two fine swords
that were being offered for sale. One was simplicity itself, the other
over-ornamented and lavishly gilded on blade and hilt.

“Which do you advise me to buy? I must decide between the two.”

To be frank, they both looked genuine to me, but the Baron’s question
roused a suspicion in my mind that one of the two swords was a forgery.

“I should buy this one,” I answered, pointing to the sword almost
deprived of ornament.

“You have a good eye,” complimented the Baron. “The other sword is an
imitation, one of the most admirable I have ever seen.”

My discernment, however, was merely based on the accepted aphorism that
the combination in art of simplicity and extreme elegance is difficult
to imitate, otherwise who knows but what I might not have selected the
faked sword.

It must be added here, that an imitation can very rarely bear close
comparison with a genuine piece. The proximity of the genuine article
is always rather disastrous to the fake, and never more so than in the
case of arms and armour. This may be accounted for by the difference in
the modern methods of working and ornamenting steel. These methods not
only produce a difference in the raw and worked steel that connoisseurs
claim to distinguish, but the ornamentation itself is wrought by other
means. Engraved ornaments, especially on pieces that do not aim to
deceive first-rate connoisseurs, are rarely done by the old method but
preferably by acids.

Damascening, such as is rarely done now even in the East, was a skilful
and complicated operation by which steel blades and armour were inlaid
with gold or silver ornamentations. The designs were first cut deep
into the steel with a burin, then the gold or silver was beaten in
with a hammer, not only until the surface was smooth, but until the
inset was securely worked into and held by all the irregularities of
the groove. Such work is now imitated by gilding over a rather shallow
groove obtained by the action of nitric acid. The sombre shine of old
steel is generally reproduced by a thin coat of _encaustic_. The sum
total of these differences, together with a certain loss of artistic
sense in the art, are the causes perhaps of the disastrous effect upon
fakery of a close proximity with genuineness, as above noted.

This, of course, is in common cases, for, as we have said, there are
sporadic workers in steel who produce pieces that baffle the best
connoisseurs--as an artistic object cannot always be tested by
breaking it and examining the texture of the metal, which would be the
safest method at present.

Here again we are forced to advise the new-comer in the field of
connoisseurship during his search for arms in his first enthusiastic
stage, to use more than one grain of salt with what he hears, and
several pounds of scepticism when he comes across what would seem to be
a real find. For over thirty years arms, we mean fine specimens, have
practically disappeared from the market. Pistols, guns and weapons of
a late epoch may still be seen, but not swords of the Quattrocento and
early Cinquecento.

Also in this field the semi-faked article has the usual luck of
fetching a good price with the majority of collectors. Plain old
pistols are often embellished with all kinds of most seductive
additions. Mottoes are engraved or inlaid in silver on blades
originally simple but deprived of the elegant simplicity to which we
have already alluded.

These, however, are the cheap articles of the trade; but the story
of three shields, a well-known incident still recounted among Paris
collectors, offers ample proof that there are also in this field
imitations that defy the best connoisseurs, as we have already said,
and gladly repeat, in order to render our warning to the novice all the
more emphatic.

One of these skilled imitators flourished several years ago in Italy’s
chief rival in antiquities and faking. We refer, of course, to Spain.

The first of the three identical shields, all of which came to Paris,
was palmed off on Mr. Didier-Petit, an excellent connoisseur, who
paid the good round sum of £400 for this fine piece of imitation. It
was repoussé work with a mythological subject in the centre, “Jove
fulminating the Titans.” The person to be struck down really, however,
was poor Mr. Didier-Petit, rather than the Titans, for on realizing
that he had been fooled he died of grief or apoplexy, brought on
by his disillusion, and wounded pride as a connoisseur. Under the
auctioneer’s hammer at a subsequent sale, the famous shield fetched £20.

The second, of identical make, was very nearly passed off on Baron
Davillier, perhaps the most esteemed connoisseur of his time. Baron
Davillier was offered the rare piece in Spain. He was struck at first
by its beauty and appearance of authenticity as well as the plausible
story by which the owner explained his possession of such a valuable
object. The bargain was struck at £320 and, happy over his piece of
good luck, Baron Davillier, like a true collector, hastened to convey
his find safely to his home in Paris. Noticing at the Custom House
that the official treated his precious find with indifference, he
became suspicious, and his suspicion of having been cheated grew to
certainty before the end of the journey. It would take long to recount
the circumstances by which Baron Davillier recovered his £320, suffice
it to say that he did recover them and the Spaniard replaced the faked
shield in the panoply from whence the Baron had taken it down, swearing
all the time that it was genuine even though the Baron had seen another
like it, that there might be twins among articles of virtu, etc.

But there was still the third of the shield triplet fated to come to
Paris, bought by the well-known expert called, or rather nicknamed,
Couvreur. Curiously enough, this third expert from one and the same
city was also a specialist in arms, as Baron Davillier might have
been considered, had his immense knowledge not conferred upon him the
character of a specialist in almost every branch of connoisseurship.

[Illustration: PLAQUETTES OF VARIOUS ARTISTS.

Imitations of Roman work.]

Where did Couvreur buy this third shield? From the very man who tried
to cheat Baron Davillier. It appears it was not the same shield as
the Baron’s, though of identical workmanship, for there were trifling
differences between it and the fake No. 2 to reach Paris. Couvreur had
paid a fine price for his find, £800. He never recovered his money and
created a scandal by presenting the piece for exhibition at the World’s
Show of 1878, insulting the judges upon their refusal to place it among
the genuine pieces. Thus he lived and died maintaining that all who
believed the piece to be a fake were fools.

This story only goes to prove that in every branch of imitation or
faking there exist some artists of unusual talent able almost to
attain perfection. Those who remember the story of the famous Gladius
Rogieri quoted by Paul Eudel in his amusing book, _Le Truquage_, and
all the discussion held in Court over this supposed sword of the
valiant King Robert of Sicily, are aware how a good connoisseur such
as M. Basilewski and a well-informed dealer like M. Nolivos can be
taken in by a fine piece of faking, and how a legion of experts may
give contrary evidence as to the authenticity of an object. And if
this could happen in Paris, one of the most enlightened cities as to
connoisseurship, and among a coterie of specialists, it may be imagined
what possibilities for deception are offered by America, that El Dorado
of fakers.

While speaking of first-rate imitations by fakers conscientious enough
to use steel, we may add that there are successful imitations in which
iron and cast iron have been substituted for the orthodox metal for
weapons.

The learned Demmin declares that “the casting which forgery has made
it very difficult to recognize” is a source of no little embarrassment
to collectors. He suggests that when there is a suspicion that a piece
is cast, an unimportant part of it should be filed and, as usual, the
texture of the material be examined. If under the magnifying glass the
grain appears coarser and very shiny, the piece has been cast. To tell
iron from steel Demmin suggests that a drop of sulphuric acid diluted
with water should be applied. If the action of this liquid turns the
metal black it is steel, if a greenish mark is made that can be easily
washed away with water, then it is iron. The black stain is produced on
steel because the acid eats into the iron and not the carbon contained
in the composition of steel.

Before closing the topic of arms and armour, we may observe that
marks on these pieces, whether engraved or impressed, are hardly a
guarantee, as marks can be as easily imitated on these articles as
on any other kind of artistic imitation. In the case of weapons they
have even been imitated by workers contemporary with the artist they
fraudently copy, in order to take advantage of the high reputation of
certain marks. The work of a Missaglia, Domenico or Filippo Negroli,
however, is not only attested by the stamped name or _sigla_ but by the
inimitable sum total of their art. Many imitators have made a great
study of copying impressed marks, but have neglected or failed to copy
the individual characteristics that bear witness to an artist as much
as his signature.

In the imitation and faking of ancient art in its various branches,
the methods and the results all differ so little that we fear to grow
monotonous in this brief sketch of the questionable trade when now
entering another class of metal work, that of silver and gold.

The precious metals require no recipe for patinæ, as patinæ play
no part. This is especially so in the case of gold, but as naïve
collectors of all branches of art present the same idiosyncrasies,
it is evident that the general trend of trickery in the human comedy
is more or less identical, when allowance is made for the different
materials peculiar to each particular art. Indeed the whole matter
might be reduced to a simple equation with no unknown quantity, namely
a fool on one side and on the other a fraud which works out to a
positive and disastrous result for the former.

In the case of silver, although there is not exactly a question of
patina properly so-called, there is certainly a question of colouring
or oxidizing, for old silver, as everyone knows, never keeps the
brightly shining appearance of a new piece. It rather improves with
time by the acquisition of a low, pleasing tonality which has a most
favourable effect, a sort of pleasing light and shade, which the flat
negative shininess of a new piece rarely possesses.

In England the conservatism of the upper classes has preserved some
really genuine silver articles with duly authenticated pedigree. In
France the spirit of the Revolution may be responsible to a certain
extent for the scarcity of rich pieces of artistic silver, only long
before the _ruit hora_ of the Revolution various circumstances had
rendered the life of artistic silver precarious, risks to which all
artistic objects in precious metals are liable. Many fine pieces of
silver, in fact, were coined into money during Louis XIV’s time, when
the State became a financial wreck under the glorious reign of the
_Roi Soleil_. Changing fashion and taste also, combined with the fact
that the silver was for use and not collections, contributed to the
destruction of old types of silver-plate to make way for new ones more
in keeping with the new forms dictated by fashion or altered taste.
To the combined effect of financial distress and changing taste Italy
also owes the destruction of old silver that would otherwise have come
down to us intact, just as nowadays plated silver is likely to pass
undisturbed from one generation to another.

It is not uncommon in Italy, to hear that some aristocratic family had
ancient silver melted down a few years ago, to make new and commonplace
table spoons and forks. A lady from Siena who did this for a whim, kept
one piece of the old silver service and was much astonished to learn
later that this one piece alone would have fetched a sum sufficient to
buy the coveted new set of table silver. In Italy, and more especially
in Tuscany, the heavy taxes levied by Napoleon during the occupation
forced many Florentine families to get rid of their silver-plate. As
a matter of fact in Italy and elsewhere fine pieces are very rare
nowadays. Yet a few years ago fickle fashion helped several people of
good taste to form excellent collections, gatherings of artistic pieces
that the art lover would seek in vain to-day. That was the happy time,
when old-fashioned and yet artistic silver was hardly reckoned above
the intrinsic value of the metal it contained. Fifty or so years ago
it was not uncommon for one of the few collectors of artistic silver
to come across some artistic beauty offered at so much a gramme,
generally a very moderate figure slightly above the current price of
the metal or at times at the actual value of the silver. To quote one
instance out of many. In 1855, at the sale held after the death of
Mlle. Mazencourt, some particularly fine flambeaux and other pieces of
silver were sold at the price of 20 centimes a gramme. Such conditions
explain how Baron Pichon, a collector of taste, was able to buy for the
moderate sum of 300 francs an artistic bowl which was sold at his death
for 14,000 francs, a price that could easily be surpassed nowadays.

Unfortunately for the true collector, not only has old silver become
fashionable, but it has become fashionable to be a collector of
artistic silver, and thus real connoisseurship and ignorant greedy
wealth have started the usual competition that inevitably creates an
artificial standard of values, all too apt to generate faking. Faked
silver, in fact, came at once triumphantly to the front in forms of all
kinds, entirely new pieces successfully parading as old, were launched
upon the market as well as plain old pieces decked out with the heavy
ornamentation likely to suit the taste of the parvenu. There was also
the usual piecemeal of different authentic parts, joined together more
or less harmoniously by modern work, in fact all that the faker’s
genius and versatility is able to produce.

Silver marks, which on genuine pieces guarantee the quality of the
metal and the authenticity of the piece as the work of a certain
artist, factory or mint, can, unfortunately, be imitated with success.
In fact the faker who is a good psychologist and knows that the
neophyte amateur relies largely upon his knowledge of marks, generally
expends great care upon the imitation of the various hall-marks.

Though, as we have already said, silver has no patina properly
so-called, there is the tone and colour which has to be imitated. To
dull silver--to give it, we mean, the leaden-brownish colour acquired
by age--a mixture with sulphur or chlorine is used. A solution of
pentasulphide of potassium--the liver of sulphur of the shops--is
generally used. Liver of sulphur is prepared by thoroughly mixing and
heating together two parts of well-dried potash and one of sulphur
powder. This mixture also takes effect on cupriferous silver, but the
result is not so fine. A velvety black is obtained by dipping the
article into a solution of mercurous nitrate previous to oxidization.
This method is used when a half polish is to be given to the silver,
leaving the dark tones in the grooves. Another method consists of
dipping the article into chlorine water, a solution of chloride of
lime, or into _eau de Javelle_. Special works on metals also give many
other methods and it is for the imitator to chose the best adapted
for the particular case and to use his artistic criterion to obtain a
convincing effect.

Passing on to gold, more especially in jewellery, we may say that
imitators and fakers have wrought havoc by filling the market with
spurious products. Imitation in this branch ranges from copying the
old art of working gold, of which the famous tiara of Saitaphernes,
bought by the Louvre, is one of the most striking examples, to the
small piece of jewellery with imitated enamels or more or less genuine
stones. In this line there is something to suit all tastes, from the
eager connoisseur, difficult to please, still on the look out for
the marvellous jewellery of the Rennaissance and early sixteenth
century, to the less exclusive, satisfied with later epochs down to the
eighteenth century.

There is no way of helping the neophyte to collect jewellery, not only
because fine old pieces are extremely rare, but because no advice or
theoretical hints can help the discernment of the genuine article, only
sound and well-tested experience, gained often at great cost, is of any
real avail.

In this branch also there are imitations that are entirely new and
others, like the above-said tiara, that have become such by the
preponderance of restored parts, or because the latter are the most
important artistically speaking. In the tiara of Saitaphernes the
genuine part, if genuine, is the upper portion of the domed tiara,
which is said to have been an ancient drinking cup reversed and placed
at the top of the tiara.

Many well-imitated rings are really old worn-out rings used for the
circle, to show that they have been used, on which the artistic setting
of the jewel or other ornamental part has been soldered.

In conclusion, when you would buy old jewellery buy as if it were
modern and pay the price of imitations, then if by some rare chance you
are mistaken you will experience the unique pleasure of possessing a
“find,” but never reverse the process, for if you buy an ancient piece
of jewellery you will certainly realize in due time that it is really
modern.




CHAPTER XXIII

MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS

  Carved wood--Artistic furniture--Wood staining and patina--
      The merits of elbow-grease--Painted and lacquered furniture
      --Veneer and inlaid work--Musical instruments--Imitations
      and fakers of musical instruments--Connoisseurship of musical
      instruments twofold--Attribution and labels--Some good
      imitators--The violin as example--The restoration and odd
      adventures of well-known musical instruments--Legends and
      anecdotes that help--Analysis of form and of sound--Rossini’s
      saying.


The finest pieces of faked furniture are very rarely entirely new,
sometimes they are old pieces to which rich ornaments have been added;
at other times, and this is the most common occurrence, they are put
together from fragments belonging to two, three, or even four different
pieces, the parts and debris, in fact, of old broken furniture. There
is also the entirely new fake imitating old furniture, but this is
rarely as convincing as the other which is the really dangerous type
even for an experienced collector.

Impressed by the great amount of faked furniture glutting the Paris
market, Paul Eudel says, “in principle there is no more such a thing as
antique furniture. All that is sold is false or terribly repaired.”

In Italy, that inexhaustible mine of past art, it is still possible to
find genuine pieces, provided, of course, that the collector does not
insist upon having those first-rate pieces now belonging to museums or
collections formed several years ago. There are, however, in Italy, as
in every other country, modern productions of antique furniture for the
novices in the collector’s career. This furniture may be carved out
of old pieces of wood or ordinary wood. In both cases it is generally
necessary to give an old colouring to the wood, for which there are a
variety of methods according to the desired effect, tone, colour, etc.
Many use walnut-juice, others permanganate of potash, and still others
the more drastic system of burning the surface of the wood with acid.
The old way of imitating worm-holes was to use buckshot, a ridiculous
method which nevertheless had its vogue and apparently satisfied the
gross eye of some collectors. Nowadays worm-holes are made with an
instrument that imitates them to perfection, although they do not go so
deep as the genuine ones, and this difference, by the way, is one of
the tests to tell real worm-holes from spurious ones. As new furniture
that imitates old is generally too sharp-edged and neatly finished,
it is usually subjected to a regular course of ill-treatment. French
dealers call this process “_aviler un meuble_,” and it consists of
pounding with heavy sticks, rubbing with sand-paper, pumice, etc.

The finishing touch, that peculiar polished surface characterizing
ancient furniture, is usually given by friction with wool after a
slight coating of benzine in which a little wax has been dissolved.
The less wax used and the more elbow-grease, the more will the polish
resemble that of real old furniture and the more difficult does it
become to detect the deceit. If much wax has been used the scratch of
a needle is sufficient to reveal even the thinnest layer, but if it is
so imperceptible as to stand this test it is very difficult to tell
the real from the imitation. The polished parts of an old piece of
furniture are not casual but the result of long use. Prominent parts
are naturally, therefore, the ones to get so polished rather than other
parts.

I remember witnessing a curious sight one day when admitted to the
sanctum of a well-known antiquary. Half a dozen stools had been
repaired, most generously repaired, a new patina had been given and
now they were to receive the last touches, the polished parts that add
such charm to old furniture. The workman who had half finished the job
kept passing and repassing close to the stools which he had arranged in
a row, rubbing his legs against each one. I asked him the meaning of
the performance and he answered that as there were no sharp edges on
the lower part of those sixteenth-century walnut stools, he wanted to
find out where and to what extent they would be most polished by use.
Not having a genuine stool from which to copy, he had resorted to this
means so as to make no mistake. I very nearly asked him if he thought
everyone was the same height and had the same length of leg. But as
the work proceeded I gathered from the practical application of his
method, better than I could have done from any explanation, that he was
endeavouring to get a mere hint, where to begin to rub with his pad, in
order to produce that vague patch of hollows one notices sometimes in
church benches.

The same patience is necessary in making imitation worm-holes, which
are so cunningly distributed, so convincingly worked in their erratic
manner of piercing wood as to suggest to Edmond Bonnaffé the fine bit
of sarcasm: “_Des vers savants chargés de fouiller le bois neuf à la
demande_.”

That piecemeal kind of furniture, the parts of which are unquestionably
antique but of various origins, being the remains of more than one
piece of furniture--_l’assemblage_, as the French call it--may
prove a danger to the best connoisseurs if done well and with taste. In
certain respects the piece is genuinely antique, but not exactly as the
collector understands the word, hence its fraudulency entitles it to be
classified among fakes. It is incredible what an industrious antiquary
is able to do in the way of piecing furniture together. This consists
not merely of finding a top for table-legs, or legs for a table-top,
but there is no limit to the invention of this piecemeal furniture.
A wooden door may furnish the back of a throne when well matched
with a rich old coffer; the gilded ornamentation of an altar may be
transformed into the head of a Louis XV bed, and so on. In the same way
a simple piece of furniture may be enriched by attaching ornaments,
coats of arms, etc. The whole is invariably toned and harmonized by
means of one of the above-mentioned methods.

Naturally, ignorance of style sometimes leads some fakers to extremely
amusing blunders, but it must be confessed the cases are rare, and
this piecemeal furniture has been palmed off on too many connoisseurs,
and graces too many well-reputed collections to be dismissed with a
smile of incredulity. Were antiquaries more disposed to talk or less
indulgent towards the conceit of collectors, it might be learnt that
all the rich furniture sold during the last twenty years to museums and
collectors belongs to this composite order.

A special branch of the imitation of antique furniture is inlaid work,
the French _marqueterie_ and Italian _tarsia_, by which designs are
traced upon the surface by inlaying wood, ivory or metal. There are
various epochs and styles of inlaid furniture. One may begin with the
geometrical patterns of the Trecento or the _cappuccino_ of about the
same time and later, and gradually pass through the many styles and
methods to the complex ornamentation of Buhl’s work.

The early work, including the _cappuccino_, a peculiar inlaid ivory
work with geometric patterns, is very well imitated in Italy where
restorers of this kind of furniture generally turn into good imitators,
and become at times impenitent fakers of the most fantastic would-be
old style. Skill in inlaying wood and ivory according to different
epochs and the ordinary collector’s love of ornamented furniture have
suggested to some imitators the most absurd combinations of styles, a
riot of incongruity and incompatibility. It is not rare to see fine
chairs that would otherwise be tasteful but for the heavy ornamentation
of inlaid wood or ivory arabesques, grotesques, etc. The outrage of
having a fifteenth-century, inlaid after the style and designs of at
least a century later, is not uncommonly excused by the explanation
that it appeals to the tawdry taste of customers and that the article
commands a higher price by the addition of the heavy incongruous
ornamentation.

This peculiar form of degeneration in taste, the passion for excessive
ornamentation, is also what often mars the imitations of seventeenth-
and eighteenth-century painted furniture, imitations of the Venetian
style especially being generally very carelessly finished but
overcharged with gilding and cheap bits of painted ornamentation.

French imitations in this line are not so debased as some Italian, but
like them they are not very convincing, as it is almost impossible to
imitate the French eighteenth-century gilding, and the carving of this
epoch shows such neatness and is so clean cut that the gilded parts
assume an appearance of metal, a quality that the modern industry of
antiques does not find convenient or is unable to imitate. The French
Buhl also is often imitated with celluloid instead of tortoise-shell
and can only succeed in attracting the very easily satisfied collector.
This is the case with some other cheap imitations overcharged with
ordinary gilded bronze. By the side of these specimens, however, French
art also counts some excellent imitations done by real artists, which
if not successful in deceiving experienced collectors are nevertheless
regular _chefs-d’œuvre_ in the art of imitating the finest and richest
pieces of the Louis XV and Louis XVI styles.

The simplicity and purity of line that characterized English styles
from the end of the seventeenth century to the best period of the next,
helped to keep the imitators of this country within bounds. Their fancy
in any case was less inventive and less disastrously enterprising than
that of the cheap imitators of Italian furniture.

Before leaving the subject, we may say that many of the walnut panels
in furniture, which appear to be so elaborately carved, are not carved
at all but burnt into the desired patterns. The process consists of
making a good cast iron matrix from a fine bas-relief, then heating
it and pressing it upon the wood by a special procedure by which all
the superfluous wood is burnt away and the rest takes the shape of the
mould. This method not only gives the wood the desired form in perfect
imitation of carving, but the burning stains it to a fine brown tone
very much resembling old wood, after which an application of oil or
encaustic is sufficient to give it a semblance of patina.

In another part of this book we have noted that in Bologna more
especially imitations of old tables are placed for a time in cheap
restaurants where, through grease, dirt and rough wear and tear, they
acquire that fine patina so highly esteemed in ancient wood. Such
pieces are not only found in towns but are housed here and there about
the country, sometimes in old palaces and villas, or else in out of the
way nooks. The former system gives the alluring sensation of buying
something really worth while, and at first hand, from its historical
owner; the latter that a real find has been discovered, that find which
is the eternal _fata Morgana_ of freshman collectors.

Imitations of musical instruments vary according to the style of the
instrument and its musical quality. In some fakes the musical quality
is of minor importance to a certain extent, the artistic properties
and ornamentation being the chief consideration with the collector. In
other instruments the quality of the tone is of importance, so that
though the form may not be neglected, the faker must bear in mind that
his imitation will have to stand a double test: it must satisfy the ear
and stand the examination of an experienced eye.

The first class includes collectively such instruments as are no longer
in use and are highly ornamented with carving, inlaid work or gilding
such as lutes, archilutes, harps, virginals, spinets, etc.; the second
comprises instruments still in use such as violins, ’cellos, etc. The
ornamental, strange and obsolete instruments are the ones that fakers
chiefly furnish to the ordinary trade.

Naturally the trade in imitating instruments for the mere curio hunter
and non-musical collector, is not so remunerative as other branches of
the shady art of faking. The number of collectors in this branch is
comparatively restricted, many of them talented and not easily duped as
is the case in all branches not enjoying popularity. The tourist would
rather go home with a painting or faked bronze of Naples or elsewhere,
than carry an instrument he cannot play, which will probably be an
encumbrance and dust-catcher in the small rooms of big cities. On the
other hand, however, there is nothing complicated about this branch of
faking. It is usually an easy matter for a guitar or mandoline maker
to invest in the small amount of material needed, and to turn his hand
to the work. It must also be taken into account that these workers
are very often repairers of ancient instruments whereby they learn to
make their imitations technically correct, though this is by no means
always the case. We have, indeed, seen appalling exceptions, pianos
of an early period transformed into spinets, lutes with grotesque and
impossible finger-boards, etc. Some careless and certainly unmusical
imitators go so far as to make instruments that could never be played,
and even put common wire instead of gut strings, which makes one wonder
what kind of collector it can be who delights in such delusions.

Our intention is to deal only with the artistic side of musical
instruments, so we lay no claim to real connoisseurship of musical
instruments, more especially as regards the family of stringed
instruments which finds its best and most complete expression in the
violin. Yet the fact that the great discoveries have generally been
made by ignorant men like Tarisio, not necessarily fine musicians,
goes to show that connoisseurship of form has its importance, greatly
resembling after all, the connoisseurship of other branches in its
summing up of various analyses into a final synthesis of form and
character. True, in a good violin there is rarely any ornamentation, or
if there is, it still more rarely furnishes a clue; but although all
is entrusted to simplicity of line and form in its most aristocratic
and elemental expression, there still seems to be enough to tell of the
“touch of a vanished hand.”

“How interesting,” justly remarks Olga Racster, “it is to observe an
expert spelling out the name of an old fiddle by the aid of this ‘touch
of a vanished hand.’ How eagerly he seeks it and finds it with the help
of that alphabet which lies concealed in the colour, shape, height and
curves of an old violin.”

Together with the difficulty of faking instruments the synthesis of
connoisseurship in this line could not be better expressed. As for
the quality of the tone, the expert relies purely and simply upon
his ear, no book or hints of a practical character can assist the
expert to perfect his ear. All depends upon natural disposition and
the experience of a well-trained organ in this most important part of
connoisseurship of musical instruments.

When Rossini was asked what is required to make a good singer, he
said: “Three things, voice, voice, voice.” The quotation fits here for
the chief requirement of a good connoisseur of musical instruments as
regards their musical quality consists of a triply good ear.




CHAPTER XXIV

VELVETS, TAPESTRIES AND BOOKS

  Olla Podrida: Genuine and faked antique stuffs--The peculiar
      knowledge necessary to an expert on stuffs--The difficulty
      in imitating Renaissance velvet--Collectors of costumes--
      Collections of dolls--Tapestries--Repairs and faked parts
      or qualities--Book collecting--Two kinds of book collectors
      --The faking of editions and rare bindings--The extended and
      ambitious activity of the art of faking--Faked aerolites!


Assembling in this chapter a variety of objects under the title of
minor branches of art collecting, we do not use the term artistically,
but merely because these branches apparently attract fewer art lovers
than the others, and the activity of the faker is more restricted in
their case. In many of these branches, too, the art of collecting
and connoisseurship is reduced to technical knowledge and artistic
sentiment plays a very secondary part.

If there is any one branch of collecting in which it is necessary
to be a specialist to ensure success, that branch is unquestionably
antique stuffs. Artistic sentiment and good taste are of comparatively
slight assistance compared with technical knowledge, and they may even
at times produce two dangerous psychological elements only too often
responsible for collectors’ blunders: enthusiasm and suggestion. The
technician with knowledge of the different qualities of materials,
with an eye for the various peculiarities of the weave and colour,
and sound information as to the character of the various patterns,
etc., is doubtlessly the best equipped as a connoisseur of stuffs.
This may sound absurd to the outsider, especially to artists, whom
we have ourselves found to be over-confident as to their qualities,
their pictorial eye, their full acquaintance with form. Yet too many
of these artists, not being collectors or experts, have bought modern
goods as antique, old furniture re-covered with modern brocade that no
expert would for a moment have taken as being of the same date as the
furniture. We refer, of course, to those modern imitations generally
the easiest to detect, however artfully they have been coloured and
aged to give them the appearance of genuine antiquity.

The detection of modern products offers no difficulty to the expert.
They may look extremely convincing to the uninitiated or beginner, as
they possess what may be termed a general impression of antiquity,
but to the trained eye of the expert there are too many essential
differences; and they lack, above all, a character that in the case of
a large quantity of stuff and not a mere sample, is inimitable. For
the Jaquard machine is not the old weaving loom, the material used
is produced with greater care and precision which gives the fabric a
different look even when the coarseness of ancient textiles has been
imitated, the colours are different and so is the chemical process for
dyeing the thread, etc. The sum total of these elementary differences
with which the art of imitation cannot cope, is what reveals to the
expert almost at sight the antiquity or modernity of the product. In
conclusion, with the exception of some rare samples of small pieces,
the modern imitation of ancient stuffs is but a successful optical
illusion.

Imitations that count at least a century of age, on the contrary, prove
dangerous puzzles to experts and connoisseurs of this speciality,
these imitations having been made in almost exactly the same way as
the originals, before weaving machines were invented, and when the
thread was spun and dyed in the simple old way before aniline dyes had
furnished beautiful but most unstable colours.

[Illustration:

    _Photo_]      [_Alinari_

EUROPA ON THE BULL.

By Andrea Brioschi called “Il Riccio.” Imitation of the Antique, Padua
School.]

In France, under Louis XIII, Renaissance patterns were admirably
copied, as well as those of the sixteenth century. The reproduction of
old designs is not confined to Italy and France alone. In nearly every
country there have been imitators of the best samples of ancient
stuffs, damasks, brocades and velvets.

As regards imitation, the more complex the pattern in design and
colouring, the easier it can be reproduced with success. In fact plain
velvet is the most difficult to imitate. No one, not even in the past,
has ever reproduced the fine velvets of the Quattrocento and early
Cinquecento with complete success.

Methods of ageing modern stuffs which have not the advantage of the
genuine hues of age of old imitations, greatly resemble in general
lines those adopted to give an appearance of age to other objects.
If the colouring is crude and too new looking, the stuff is exposed
to atmospheric action, rain, dew and sunshine. Needless to add, this
treatment must be followed with care and discrimination otherwise the
fabric may be reduced to a rag as well as to an appearance of age.
To harmonize the colours and give them a more faded look, some put
the goods into a bath of slightly tinted liquid, thus obtaining on
the fabric what in painting is termed velatura. Others put the liquid
into an atomizer and steam it on to the stuff. This process has the
advantage of giving alternate hues without any sharp delimitation
between them.

These methods, however, by which the artist can display variation, are
not convenient or possible in the case of large quantities of fabric,
nor is the result convincing in the proximity of the original. One does
not need to be an expert, in fact, to see the difference between the
old and the new on a piece of furniture or in a room where imitations
have been used to supply what was lacking.

To make imitations more convincing, more especially in the case of
small pieces, some antiquaries stitch on bands before discolouring
the stuff, which are afterwards taken off leaving parts with fresher
colours, as often happens in really antique pieces that have belonged
to ecclesiastical copes, etc.

Strict order having been dispensed with in this chapter, and as, after
all, fabrics are involved, we may here touch upon the subject of dress
and past costumes. The rarity of such collections depends not only
upon the fact that the roomy space of a museum is indispensable for
their display but largely upon the scarcity of past century costumes.
This branch of collecting is very useful to the history of fashion and
national costumes, but it must be considered that to be of interest to
the collector a dress must be at least forty years old, and very few
garments attain that age nowadays. Either they are altered to conform
to fashion, or unpicked or given away until they have run through the
scale of society and end in rags. The rarity of the genuine article
appears to correspond with the rarity of collectors of this line,
and there is therefore no question of fakes, unless one should take
seriously certain comic incidents and consider as a collector the
simpleton who buys the cast-off costumes of an elegant fancy dress ball
as genuine articles, those poor imitations, with no pretence at being
anything else, of Henry IV, Marie Antoinette, and other historical
garments.

Having mentioned the subject of costumes, we may speak of another
kind of collection that is also very useful to the history of past
usages and fashions, that of dolls and toys of past centuries. Dolls
and children’s toys are not an invention of to-day. It is safe to say
that their existence can be traced almost as far as the history of
civilization. The Romans used to bury dolls and toys with the bodies of
their little ones or place them in the funereal urn, a usage that has
preserved for us specimens of these tiny objects that have drawn smiles
from young lips closed and sealed centuries ago. Together with these
relics are other images that illustrate the history of costumes like
the dolls, the statuettes offered to temples and churches as ex-votos
and those used in the construction of the old _presepio_ (birth of
Christ scene), the Christmas Eve representations of the Bethlehem
scene. These wooden dolls and statuettes are not only artistic in
themselves, but are dressed in stuffs of their epoch very often cut in
the fashion of the time.

Some of these collections have really been excellent commentaries on
the history of fashion and domestic customs of past ages. Among the few
important collections we may quote as an example that of Mme. Agar,
exhibited by this celebrated French artist several years ago in the
Palais de l’Industrie now demolished. Mme. Agar’s collection was very
complete and illustrative of fashion and life in Holland centuries ago.
The collection had originally belonged to the infant princess, the
daughter of William of Orange and Nassau. Not only was it extremely
artistic, containing several interiors of Dutch houses with inmates
and accurate details suggesting a painting by Terburg or Teniers, but
it represented all kinds of expression of seventeenth-century Dutch
life. Mme. Agar came into possession of this fine collection under the
following circumstances. Returning from one of her artistic tours in
Belgium she visited the city of Ghent and found the collection in the
hands of a gentleman to whom she had been introduced upon her arrival.
She offered to buy it, but the owner refused all offers declaring that
he did not wish to part with the precious collection. However, after
having heard Mme. Agar at the theatre one evening, he was so taken by
her art that he wrote to the actress the very same night, “Come to
fetch my toys. I offer them to you, they are yours.”

There is no question of fakes in this branch either. The difficulty
in finding old stuffs and linen with which to garb the figures is
sufficient to discourage the trade, especially when one remembers how
few customers the imitator could hope to attract.

The art of tapestry weaving is the most complete of the class. Although
technique may play its part in constituting expert knowledge, it is
certainly subordinate to the artistic qualities necessary to perfect
connoisseurship.

Faking plays no part in this field, at least not the conspicuous
part that it plays in painting and other artistic products likely to
attract rich amateurs. This is easily understood when one takes into
consideration the time, patience and money needful to the making of
tapestry; it costs something like eighty pounds a square yard. The
imitator also knows that it would be a waste of time and money to
fake old tapestries as any expert can tell modern work from old. The
apparatus has hardly undergone any essential change it is true, but
the materials are so different from formerly that fairly tolerable
imitations can only be given in the case of repairs to old pieces. On
account of the great cost of modern tapestry the few existing factories
either belong to the State or potentates, or they are supported by
the lavish encouragement of some modern Mæcenas. As we have said, the
difference between the work of modern and ancient tapestry does not lie
in a difference of process, unchanged in essentials since the Egyptian
dynasties, but rather in the impossibility of obtaining materials like
the old ones.

Although some unscrupulous dealers do palm off over-repaired pieces of
tapestry on foolish novices, the repair of tapestry is no faking after
all, for the decorative character of the fabric fully justifies the
mending and restoration of missing parts and, unlike painting, the work
does not bear an individual imprint. It is our duty, however, to warn
the neophyte that repairs are very seldom pointed out by dealers and
that it is absolutely necessary for the collector to train his eye in
order to be able to detect the modern parts from the old and to know
how much must be bought as antique and how much as modern. This is not
so difficult as it may appear. The modern parts are worked in with the
needle and although the threads have generally been specially dyed,
as the usual colours now on sale are very rarely suitable, there is a
slight difference in the final effect. Nothing to offend the eye, even
when closely examined, but enough to warn the expert of the size of
the repaired piece. Sometimes the repairer of tapestries uses a method
which in our opinion comes under the head of faking. This consists of
re-colouring faded parts with water-colours or tempera. Some of this
touching up is really cleverly done, at other times it is so clumsy
that one wonders how even a novice can be taken in. If there is any
suspicion that the tapestry has been coloured, a practical test is the
displacement of the threads with a needle as the fresh colours are
generally laid on with a brush and never penetrate between the threads
where the old faded colour is visible. Incredible as it may seem, some
tapestries are touched up with pastel. This was sometimes done even in
the eighteenth century to disguise defects and crudeness of tone and
now it is practised to deceive the eye by making a better match between
the old and the new parts. Of course pastel work is easily detected
if one is allowed to rub the part, but this is not always feasible,
especially at public sales where the tapestry is hung on the wall,
sometimes very high up, on purpose to defy close inspection. There
is also a method of fixing the pastel retouch with an atomizer and a
certain liquid sold in Paris, but even these means are not so effective
as milk and tempera, and hard rubbing with a white cloth will always
reveal the deception when pastel has been used.

Rugs, particularly Oriental rugs, belong in a way to the same family
as tapestry and may be classified with it. There is this difference,
however: being less complicated in character and for the most part
adorned only with geometrical patterns and rudimentary arabesques,
rugs are imitated with greater facility. Things do not change so
quickly in the East as in Western countries, and there the old weaving
apparatus is still in use and materials are only just beginning to be
imported from Europe. A large field is thus opened up to imitation,
and to a certain extent to faking also. It is nevertheless hard
to deceive experts and specialists. Keen-eyed and accustomed to
distinguish between different kinds, and to judge of age, they are
also able to detect modern frauds. But, alas, good experts are rare
and conceited collectors abound, and for this reason fraud is rampant
and remunerative, even in this field. Those buying rugs for the
sake of having a collection and not to furnish their houses with a
comfortable and highly artistic luxury are advised to place themselves
in the hands of an expert. It will save time and trouble. An eclectic
collector, however gifted, will rarely consent to go deeply into this
branch, as the mastery of it implies great sacrifice of time and the
boredom of learning a difficult language, things that prove no obstacle
to the passionate lover of the speciality, but tedious and irksome to
the general art lover.

Following an erratic course in this chapter, we will now pass on to
books, manuscripts and autographs, a branch with many devotees and
all kinds of collectors, in which trickery and faking find an almost
incredibly large sphere of action.

Book collectors are of two kinds, the one who prizes the work for the
rarity of the edition, and the other who is attracted by the binding.
The former is the true book collector, the latter is really only a
collector of rare and artistic bindings. The two preferences do not
mutually exclude one another, of course, and when found together offer
the most complete kind of book collector.

It might be imagined that imitations in this branch would be confined
to such pieces as only require the faker’s shrewdness and imitative
skill and not the great amount of work and money demanded by the
reproduction of a whole edition, but this is not the case. As soon as
fashion--sovereign and despotic in this department also, taste and
art being secondary--sets a value on what is called a rare edition,
false ones find that the work pays and imitations are thrown upon the
market at once. About the end of the eighteenth century a speciality
was made in Lyons of reproducing all the rare editions of Racine’s
works, while Rouen acquired a certain notoriety in faking old volumes
of Molière with every detail carefully and accurately copied--quality
of the paper, the type, decorative initials, tailpieces, etc. That the
labour was worth the trouble and expense is amply proved by the high
prices that some original editions have fetched. The first edition of
Molière’s works, dated 1669, was sold in Paris for 15,000 francs. At M.
Guy Pellion’s sale separate works bearing various dates were sold--_Le
Tartufe_, 1669, for 2200 francs, _Le Misanthrope_ for 1220 francs,
and few volumes below this price. Fashion having set extravagant
prices--the original edition of Molière’s works was sold at 70 to 100
francs apiece at Bertin’s sale, 1885--old incomplete editions have been
completed, and for the late-comers not in time for this half-genuine
article, full and first-class imitations are provided.

Missing pages of rare volumes, incunabula or precious, highly prized
editions, are often supplied by the most skilful pen and ink work.
It is surprising to see how well the clever calligraphic artist can
imitate the printed characters, and how carefully and faithfully the
missing pages are copied from some complete edition. In a damaged
edition it is generally the frontispiece that is missing or the
ornamental title on the first page. Some of the latter are true works
of art and require most artistic penmanship for their reproduction.
The illusion is, nevertheless, often complete. Paul Eudel tells an
amusing story of an expert who had not noticed that one of the pages
of a certain work was a clever piece of penmanship added later, but to
whom the secret was revealed by circumstantial evidence which saved him
from being cheated. The work was so admirably done that the expert had
not detected it to be pen work, till he happened to notice a worm-hole
in the parchment of that page whereas the preceding and following pages
bore no hole. As it was impossible for a worm to reach a page in the
middle of the book without boring through the others, he surmised that
the hole must have been there when the page was done, that the page was
a later addition in fact. Once suspicious, it is easy to ascertain the
truth. A closer examination showed M. Pourquet, such was the name of
the expert, that the page in question was hand work, and not print.

It is true that nowadays, by means of photo-mechanical reproductions
old books, characters and illustrations can be imitated to perfection,
and there are also mills that can supply all sorts of old-fashioned
paper to order, as near as possible to a given sample. Experts claim,
however, that such fakes are only dangerous for the inexperienced
collector, that a magnifying glass reveals the action of the acid in
a sort of scalloped edge to the ink lines, and that, although well
imitated, the paper has a different grain when closely examined, etc.
But it is, of course, understood that fakes are not as a rule intended
to baffle the skill of the expert but rather to take advantage of the
inexperienced.

The expert who gives his attention chiefly to the bindings of the books
needs to be more of an artist than the other. We know that editions,
too, have their elegancy, forms and tasteful simplicity needing, as it
were, an artistically trained eye to enjoy their beauty and appreciate
their value, but compared with bookbinding their artistic quality
seems to be of a more restricted kind. In bookbinding, art in all its
decorative eloquence appears to claim full rights. There are bindings
of past centuries--more especially in Paris, where bookbinding has
always been a grand art--that are really _chefs-d’œuvre_. As usual
it is the unwary who in this branch also pays the highest tribute to
fakery.

From the Grolier bindings down to the last specimens of the eighteenth
century, imitation has a wide field of action for its versatility, but
according to experts the most exploited period is that running from the
early years of the seventeenth century to the end of the eighteenth,
one of the most difficult to imitate and yet one of the most
profitable. There are, of course, various ways of faking old bindings.
Many have tried to fake the whole, beginning with the fabrication of
the ornaments cut in iron which are used to stamp the gilt ornaments
on leather or parchment. In the opinion of the connoisseurs of Paris,
where these imitations appear to find their best market, they are
far from convincing, being only intended for such as seek a certain
decorative quality without pretending to be experts or collectors.
Specialists say there are imitations of a far more dangerous character,
those composed of various genuinely antique parts, those relying upon
some authentic element in the process of making, and original bindings
fitted to other books which thus embellished and enriched fetch higher
prices. The first of the above operations knows no limits but those
set by the material, it may be a question of using old leather or
aged parchment, or of using old labels, or of taking advantage of the
characteristic coloured lining papers that modern industry reproduces
fairly well. Here we have, in fact, the usual composite style with
which a fanciful binding is made or a book put together out of various
elements that are perfectly genuine, but belong to different sources.

The second manner of faking in decorating the cover of a book is to use
some old iron stamps for the impress on the leather of the binding.
Some of these old implements that have escaped destruction are now used
to advantage, especially to stamp decorative coats of arms on imitation
antique bindings, so that the buyer should think the books have come
straight from the former library of a nobleman. The faker has used this
trick successfully with Americans particularly. In this way the stamps
of the _Sacré de Louis XV_, which are, apparently, still in existence,
have been used as a decoy on fine bindings, as well as that of the
Rohan-Chabot family coat of arms perpetuating the supposition that
books belonging to that illustrious family are still on the market. The
third method is called in French _rembotage_ and consists, as we have
said, of transferring covers from one book to another. There are some
good editions that have lost their covers and some worthless books with
fine bindings--fakery repairs this injustice of fate by transferring
the good binding to the more meritorious book, a simple act of justice
invariably rewarded in the world of fakery by the large sum that can be
asked for the edition thus treated.

There are naturally many ways to discover the bindings that have in
one way or other received the paternal and not at all disinterested
caress of the faker, but the best and safest way--shall we ever tire
of repeating it--is to train one’s eye to that helpful synthesis
of judgment called experience. Newly coloured and patinated leather
does not stand rubbing with a damp cloth like the old does, modern
gilding and modern stamping imitating antique designs are heavier and
less clean cut as well as not so rich--qualities best understood by
comparing modern work with the old, for although the differences are
slight they are, nevertheless, plain to the experienced eye accustomed
to comparing old and new. Even _rembotage_, the most difficult to
detect, may be found out by examining the way one part is joined
to the other, the peculiarities of the work, etc. All that can be
said, however, to put the neophyte on his guard who may imagine that
hints from books or special works on the subject are sufficient to
assist him, is: Go slow, and if you are really anxious to have a good
collection and prepared to pay good prices, in the beginning ask the
man who knows for his help--_Experto crede_.

It is obvious that no artistic temperament, taste or knowledge of
art is necessary in order to become a collector of autographs. This
class of collector, who may boast an uninterrupted line from scholars
to specialists, has neither the assistance nor complicity of art.
Consequently the faker, who inevitably follows suit, must have a
knowledge of history in order to avoid historical blunders, he must
be acquainted with particulars connected with the personage whose
autograph is to be forged, and above all must be an expert imitator
of other people’s hand-writing, in fact in him the art of forging
signatures must be brought to the highest perfection, for here
documents are to be forged, a succession of calligraphic characters and
idiosyncrasies far more difficult of execution than a mere signature on
a false cheque.

The aptitude of a bank clerk gives promise of a good expert in this
subject. Studies of various papers according to epoch is not of such
assistance here to the expert as in the case of books, for there is
still plenty of old-fashioned paper on the market, enough of it at
least to bear a few lines from a celebrated man, the chief quality
needed is experience gained by comparing originals with forgeries, or
better still such familiarity with a given man’s hand-writing that
its genuineness can be judged at sight, as a bank clerk does with a
signature.

There are some artists also in this class, but not only is it rarer,
but their work deals less with autographs properly so-called than old
documents mostly on parchment with illuminations, etc.

Stamp-collecting hardly comes within our sphere, and represents
rather a minor department of connoisseurship. Several books have been
written on the subject, many with valuable hints as to prices and with
reproductions of the best samples, etc. We would warn our readers who
may perchance be interested, that every stamp of value has been faked,
that, strange to say, some of these fifty-year-old fakes fetch handsome
prices and flourishing factories have been established to supply not
only the rare specimens already acknowledged as such, but to produce
at a few hours’ notice any sample despotic fashion may suddenly raise
to the rank of a rarity. Art plays so small a part that the way to
become an expert on the subject is to become an--expert. Beyond this,
which is only in appearance an _idem per idem_, there is very little
to be done. Experience consists of being familiar with the original,
the kind of paper used, the colours, peculiarities and also defects,
particularly the defects, as when the stamps were printed that are now
rare, the art of printing was in its infancy compared with our times.

There is no occasion to speak of minor fancy collections that, as
usual, form links between the true collector and the man with a mania.
Even in these minor branches there may be more than one interesting
collection, such, for instance, as that of General Vandamme who left
his relatives no fewer than sixty thousand pipes, and Baron Oscar
de Watterville’s and others. Art plays no great part in these minor
expressions of curio-collecting and science also occupies but a limited
field. One axiom may be given, however, which holds good for all
classes of collecting, whether artistic, scientific, or anything else,
and that is that as soon as the prices of certain articles come under
the nomenclature of fancy prices, through fashion or merit, the faker
is ready to hand.

In the Paris world of fakers, a larger world than the outsider may
imagine, an amusing anecdote is told. Learning the high prices paid by
astronomers for bolides, an inveterate faker called upon a well-known
chemist to propose a partnership for the production of imitations of
meteorites. Even if an invention, the anecdote gives the full size of
the faker’s spirit of enterprise.




CHAPTER XXV

SUMMING UP


With some show of reason Swift affirmed that all sublunary happiness
consists in being _well deceived_.

We are perfectly aware that this book does not support Swift’s ethics
of happiness, for while agreeing that the English satirist’s theory
may hold good on a great many occasions, we claim an exception for
collectors as a class. In the world of art, art lovers and collectors,
to be well deceived means to be living in a fool’s paradise, a most
costly dwelling which promises no eternal joy. On the contrary, the
happiness derived from being well deceived in this case is generally
not only of very short duration but inflicts smarting wounds to pride
and pocket.

In the world at large there seems to exist a certain benevolence
towards deluded ones, which makes it at times possible for the well
deceived to be the only one of his entourage unaware that he has
been duped. In the world of collectors such a thing is almost an
impossibility for, to quote a well-known French art lover: “After
pictures by Michelangelo and specimens of Medici ware, the rarest thing
to find with collectors is kindliness.”

The same art lover assures us that in this peculiar world not only
is kindliness (_bienveillance_) rare, but the opposite sentiment has
been developed almost to the point of genius. Collectors, especially
first-rate collectors who have finally emerged into fame through the
complex resultant of a good eye, shrewdness and extreme skill in
fencing with strong competitors, have a regular talent for flavouring
bitter pills for deceived friends and comrades with troublesome
innuendoes and smarting disclosures, for, as the above-quoted
connoisseur declares, they have a way of praising with “praise that
exasperates and with homicidal compliments,” and there is a type of
collector who knows his repertory by heart, a man who is a “_toreador
raffiné--il massacre artistement_.”

What the neophyte can do to avoid being “artistically” massacred, as
the French connoisseur puts it semi-euphemistically, is difficult to
say. Books and special treatises may explain the nature of the deceit,
point out the dangers awaiting him and show how traps are laid and how
they work, but to pretend to become a truly safe buyer on the security
of knowledge gathered from books and manuals would be like attempting
the ascent of some dangerous peak on the strength of wisdom drawn from
works on Alpine climbing.

The rudiments of the art do not concern so much the knowledge of how
to buy as of how not to buy, how to resist, namely, the first impulse,
which in an inexperienced art lover proves to be one of the worst
dangers. The slow, prudent method must be learnt of not listening to
first impulses till the first impulses are supported by something
better than the innate conceit of a beginner. We know, of course, that
there may be occasions when even a beginner may have cause to regret
not having listened to a first impulse, but such a thing is further
from the general rule than the beginner claims, and in any case it pays
in the long run to let a good chance slip rather than risk becoming the
possessor of some expensive would-be _chef-d’œuvre_.

In addition, during the early stages in particular, a certain amount
of scepticism must temper a too ready belief in what the dealer has to
say or show, in support of his assertion. There will come a time when
experience will help the collector to detect more easily than at first
alluring, suggestive information, etc.

Naturally it is not all dealers who are on the watch to take advantage
of the beginner. On the contrary, there are more honest dealers in
the antique market than one would think, but the trouble is that the
dishonest ones seem to be to the fore, to be ever there ready to
confront the inexperienced novice, and their noisy deceits become
far more known than good, honest dealing, causing perplexity in some
collectors so that it may be they disbelieve the man who is telling the
truth and give credence to the liar, who being a perfect master in the
art of misrepresentation, seems to be honesty itself.

Here, too, the determination to be rather sceptical as to documents,
letters, pedigrees and mercantile evidence may lead the beginner to
miss some good opportunity, but the case is rare and such losses
are as a rule amply covered in the summing up of the total cost of
apprenticeship, through not having paid for experience the extravagant
price usually demanded. In due time the art lover’s ability to discern
between dealing and dealing will be sharpened, and he will be able to
defend himself better.

This merely concerns dealing and experience in distinguishing the
genuine from the fake. But even supposing perfection has been attained
in this part, the fact does not necessarily imply qualification as
a connoisseur, collector, expert or even simple lover of art. A
collection may be composed of genuine articles and yet be a poor
one, utterly devoid of artistic merit or even commercial value of
importance. To have paid a high price is no guarantee of merit. There
are, as a matter of fact, perfectly genuine paintings for which
extravagant fancy prices have been paid, but which in the eyes of a
true connoisseur are not worth the nail they hang on.

It is almost impossible to conceive that experience in distinguishing
the genuine from the false should be acquired without the attainment of
some artistic progress prompting discrimination between poor art and
mediocre, and mediocre art and fine art, yet this artistic side is the
most difficult to develop to that perfection and semi-intuition of the
beautiful, so necessary to the real and first-rate connoisseur.

By what method this artistic side may be perfected in the collector
is still more difficult to tell, for in this direction experience
only counts to a certain extent. In fact as regards this artistic
education of the connoisseur we are inclined to repeat with Taine, in
his _Philosophie de l’Art_: “Precepts? Well, two might be given: first
to be born with genius--that is your parents’ affair, not mine;
second to work a good deal to bring it out, and that is not my business
either.”

Here too, then, actual methods are out of the question. They are,
perforce, of such a general character as to be no more use than telling
a blind man to keep in the middle of the road because there are ditches
on either side. It is, further, not uncommon for contrary systems to
lead to equally happy results according to the person employing them.
One antiquary when undecided as to the genuineness of a painting used
to have a photograph of it taken, for, he said, he could easily detect
the traits of forgery on seeing the work in black and white with all
colours eliminated, or, to put it in his own words: The faked side
sweats out. Another connoisseur held exactly the contrary theory,
declaring that he could tell nothing from photos but needed the colours
to help to detect the genuineness or fraud of the painting. Perhaps the
former had an artistic temperament based chiefly upon the charm of form
while the latter was what in art is termed a colourist.

In addition, at times another misleading cause may be added which comes
under the form of intervening suggestion and may put even a highly
gifted artistic temperament off the scent.

Perhaps an example will best illustrate this peculiar interference,
which is not only of a circumstantial order, as we have seen in another
part of this book, but may be the result of an unconscious _parti pris_.

Some years ago when Mr. Stanford White imported works of art and
antiques for his millionaire patrons, a Mr. X., who owned a fine
mansion on Fifth Avenue, very much admired an early fifteenth century
single andiron that was among the imported goods. He wished, however,
to have a pair. The suggestion that a modern copy should be made from
the only remaining original at first disgusted him, for everyone knows
how easily American collectors buy imitations for originals and how
disgusted they are if the dealer honestly says that a certain work is
an imitation. On being assured that the imitation should be perfect,
the new piece was finally ordered and the antiquary arranged for an
artistically exact copy of the ancient andiron to be made in Italy.
However, possibly because not wishing to be suspected of concocting
“modern antiques,” or for some other reason, the Italian firm sent
a perfect copy of the original in a brand new condition, suggesting
that a certain Italian artist living in New York should give it the
proper patina as he was fully initiated in the cryptic art of making
new objects look as old as might be desired. The art critic chosen to
come and judge of the final result of the work was, as the artist knew,
rather distrustful of Italians and their tricks, as he put it.

The Italian artist did the work as well as it could be done, and
knowing that it was going to be judged side by side with the original,
the hardest test that can be inflicted upon an imitation, he managed
to cheat the art critic by being excessively frank and honest, taking
advantage of his prejudice against Italians and a probable momentary
mental attitude. The two pieces were shown in the artist’s atelier, the
imitation being placed by the artist in the full light and the original
in the most benevolent corner, far from the window in a half-shade. The
first thought that passed through the art critic’s brain as he entered
the studio was that the “tricky Italian” had put the imitation where
the light was less strong and the shade more benevolently helpful.

“Very good,” he remarked, “but of course even when not in the full
light an imitation is always an imitation.”

“But that is the original,” replied the artist, for to make his
positive assertion the more definite the critic had been pointing to
the wrong piece.

A stony silence followed.

The story ends here and we do not know whether the critic ever forgave
the artist his honest trick. Knowing that the art critic was a real
connoisseur, a good exception to the class, we are quite sure that his
judgment was perverted by the preconceived notion that the Italian had
placed the imitation in the shade and thus had hardly let his artistic
temperament and knowledge of art come into play in forming an opinion,
or rather the opinion was already formed, and too quickly expressed,
by a semi-subconscious process of reasoning that had nothing in common
with art judgment.

So many are the special cases, and so little the assistance generally
given to new-comers, that the safest method in conclusion is to have
no actual method, to watch and study one’s own temperament, value the
first results objectively, to be ready to learn as much as possible
from experience under whatever form it comes and finally, like in so
many cases of human life and possibilities, to work out one’s own
salvation.

In this way, even if not called to the Olympus of the elect, the art
lover will certainly reduce his bad bargains to a minimum--bad bargains
in the way of buying the wrong things as far as the genuineness of the
article is concerned as well as with regard to its artistic worth. With
this he must rest satisfied for, as we gladly repeat once more with the
Nestor of French connoisseurs: “Beware of the collector who never makes
a mistake; the strongest is he who makes the fewest mistakes.”

       *       *       *       *       *

As we have seen, the genus _curieux_ (curio-hunter) comprises a most
complex and multiform assembly of types. From the distant ages of Roman
dominion down to our times, collectomania has produced characters
graduated in originality from the grotesque to the tragic, the false to
the genuine, the sordid or wicked like Mark Antony and Verres to noble
representatives like Julius Cæsar, Augustus and Agrippa.

Curiously enough the noble type of collector and the usefulness of
his mission have generally escaped the observation of writers of all
ages. They seem to have been quicker to see the grotesque side of
collectomania than its utility. Martial, Juvenal, Pliny, Seneca and
others are not dissimilar in their remarks from--say, Molière and La
Bruyère.

So strong is the inclination to place the types in a grotesque setting,
to make them the target of witty sallies, that they very often mistake
oddities for signs of idiocy, idiosyncrasies and peculiarities for
craziness, and, carrying their analysis no further, they let loose the
vein of their satire on people whose passion for collecting has been of
extreme use to the intellectual world, greatly assisting progress and
the civilization of humanity.

“Just like a donkey beholding a lyre,” gibes an old Greek epigram
in allusion to collectors who, while buying eagerly, give so little
time, or none at all, to the enjoyment of the artistic merits of their
acquisitions. Addressing one of his contemporaries who had a passion
for collecting manuscripts and volumes but no inclination to read
them, Lucian remarks: “Why so many literary works? Do you collect them
in order to lie on the learned thoughts of others, or to paste the
parchment of the volumes to your skin? With it all you will not become
a jot more learned; a monkey is always a monkey, even though covered
with gilded garments.”

To follow up the special case of book-collecting to which Lucian’s
remark casually leads us, the same sentiment as that of the Greek
writer was entertained centuries later by Petrarch and Robert Estienne.
The former was a poet and bibliophile, the latter a famous printer,
author of the _Thesauros linguæ latinæ_. The two did not spare satires
on the mere collector of books.

A like attitude is taken towards Mazarin by a mediocre poet of La
Fronde, who reproaches the Cardinal with collecting books without
reading them; the same reproach that contemporary writers make to
Magliabechi, a passionate collector of rare editions who never went
further in a book than the title-page. Yet, to confine ourselves
to these alone, to Mazarin is due one of the finest libraries of
Paris which still bears his name, and by his careful, patient work,
Magliabechi was the founder of the Magliabechiana, now the National
Library of Florence, a marvel and model of historical character to
other more modern institutions of the kind. These two persistent and
passionate book collectors have certainly contributed more to science
and its progress than many of those scholars who made fun of their
hobby.

It must be taken into consideration that collecting, after all, is a
passion, at times a deep and firmly rooted one, and that passion, like
love, in its most exalted expression does not represent normality, but
while on the one hand presenting qualities of an intuitive character,
can be coupled with oddities and idiosyncrasies, frequently the
inevitable heritage of originality.

Hannibal who stored his money in the hollow of the bronze statues of
his collection, Sulla who put to death citizens to seize their rare
pieces of art, and Julius Cæsar who travelled with his cherished
objects of virtu, are known to us as collectors mostly through their
peculiarities, the amusing anecdotal side of a passion, certain to be
exploited by a writer, be he chronicler or historian.

Yet, to go back to the unjustified and indiscriminating spirit of
satirists, both of ancient and more recent times, which tends to
consider the collector a maniac or fool, many a Greek and Roman
_chef-d’œuvre_ of art has nevertheless been spared to our admiration by
the patient persistence and art-loving care of collectors.

It would, indeed, be interesting to follow the passage of some of the
most noted specimens of past art. If one could trace the true history
of each one of these objects in all its details, it would perhaps give
us the history of the collecting passion together with tangible proof
of its merits and utility.

It would, indeed, not only be interesting but also instructive to know
the vicissitudes of some of the works of art that have come down to
us. The few hints existing as to the lineage of owners of some of the
most famous pieces of Greek and Roman art, certainly promise interest
even though marred at times by the fact that much of the information
rests upon the vague authority of tradition, or is strongly doubted by
modern criticism.

“We owe, it is more than possible, the Venus of the Hermitage to
Cæsar; the well-known ‘Whetter’ has almost certainly been saved to
our admiration by Lucullus, just as Cicero may be thanked for the
‘Demosthenes’ and the collecting passion of Sallust has handed down
to us the ‘Faun,’ the ‘Hermaphrodite’ and the ‘Vase’ of the Villa
Borghese.”

These remarks of a well-known French collector who mainly notes
works contained in the Louvre Museum might be extended to many other
collections, especially those of Rome, where several of the works of
art have old historical records of undisputed character.

From the Renaissance down to our own days the pedigrees of celebrated
works of art are not only surer, but present at times a less
interrupted line of descent. With such it is not uncommon to find a
rare object pass from one collector to another, receiving the same care
and consideration as though passing from father to son as a cherished
heirloom--and it is, in fact, passing from one to another member of
the same family, the family bound by an identical burning passion, that
of collecting.

As to the essence of this passion, so often confounded with mania--a
mistake calling forth the following comment from a French collector:
“... _confondre la ‘manie’ avec la curiosité, c’est prendre l’hysterie
pour l’amour, ‘la Belle Helenè’ pour l’Iliade_”--we should like to
quote Gersaint, one of the few men who as art dealer and collector in
one, what might be styled private dealer in modern phrase, impersonated
the passion, as we have said, in its highest expression among the many
collectors of the eighteenth century. It must be understood, of course,
that Gersaint, one of these maniacs in, say, La Bruyère’s opinion,
was a representative of those passionate collectors who subordinate
every other passion of mankind to the one they have made the sole aim
of their lives. “... A _curieux_,” says this unilateral lover but not
hobbyist collector, “has the advantage of not falling an easy prey to
the many passions so familiar to the human family: the _curiosité_
fills all the empty spaces of his leisure moments. Entertained by his
cherished possessions, he has time only for working at the advance
of his _curiosité_, and his cabinet becomes the centre of all his
pleasures, and the seat of all his passions.”

The outsider and half-way-insider will agree that this is a trifle too
much; but, after all, the great collectors who have left to the museums
of their countries fortunes that would have been lost but for their
intense passion--treasures of art left by the ignorant to the doom
of decay--have all felt, more or less, the burning passion described
by Gersaint, in the passage quoted which goes on to assert that a true
paradise awaits the perfect collector, who is never bored, and never
the prey of spleen.

Without discussing the promises held out by Gersaint, as the perfect
collector is, to our knowledge, rare, let us state that our book
does not hope to urge any reader on to the perfection that ushers
into Gersaint’s bliss, but if the brief glimpse we have given of
Collectomania with its pleasures and dangers should convince some
really passionate lover of art that collecting has a nobler aim than
that of mere pleasure, if we should discourage a Tongilius or Paullus,
or if this work should scare some modern Clarinus and do away with a
noisy, useless up-to-date Trimalchus, we shall feel that the purpose of
the book has been justified to some extent.




INDEX.


    Adamo da Brescia, counterfeiter of coins, 67

    _Adventures of a Bric-à-brac Hunter_,
    144

    Agar’s, Mme., collection of dolls, 291

    Agesilas, 21

    Aglæphon, 25

    Agrippa as an art lover, 31

    Alberti, 86

    Alcohol as a solvent, 227

    Alexander the Great, 37

    Alluye, castle of, 92

    Altar piece, Rothschild’s faked, 262

    _Amateur marchand_, the, 117

    Amber varnish, 228

    Ambras collection, the, 87

    American collector, the, 141

    Andirons, story of the, 305

    Andrea da Foiano, 79

    Andrea del Sarto, 99

    Andreoli, Maestro Giorgio, 250

    Anne of Austria, 123

    Anonimo Morelliano, the, 98

    Antiquary, old and modern, the, 143, 153

    Antique, passion for the, 71

    Antiques, the collection of, in Italy, 82

    Apelles, 20

    Apollo and Marsyas, 94

    Apollo, Sulla’s statue of, 36

    Apollo, temple of, at Delphi, 23, 61

    Apollo, the golden, 18

    Aponius Saturninus, prætor, 29

    Archæological suggestion, 160

    Aretino, Pietro, 117

    Aristotle, 18

    Aristotle, bas-relief of, 91

    Armour, faked, 269

    Arms, the imitation of, 267

    Art collecting, spread of, in Europe, 110

    Art critic, the, 160

    Art, influence of Greek and Roman, 83

    Art in Rome, 20

    Art museums in Rome, 61

    Art sales, 128

    Artist and erudite, 140

    Artistic war booty, 21

    Artists as connoisseurs, 288

    Artists at Rome, status of, 20

    Aspetti, Tiziano, 98

    Athens, 18

    _Atria auctionaria_, 28, 212

    _Atrium_, the, 48

    Atticus, 40

    Auction room, atmosphere of the, 214

    Augustus and Vedius Pollio, 52

    Autographs, forged, 200, 298


    Baldinucci, 225

    Barberini, Cardinal, 118

    Barbizet Brothers, 252

    _Barguette_, la, 110

    Barocco, the, 113

    Bas-reliefs, bronze, 91, 235

    Basant, 131

    Basilini, 147

    Bastianini, 182, 188

    Belli, Valerio, 98, 100

    Bellini, 100

    Beniviene, Girolamo, Bastianini’s bust of, 183

    Biblical subjects, 102

    Bibliomaniacs, Roman, 50

    _Biographie Universelle_ of M. Weiss, 115

    Bisticci, V. da, 92

    “Black Band,” the, 171, 180, 219

    Boethus, 30

    Boiss, Mme., 209

    Bolides, faking, 300

    Bonafedi, Signor, 185

    Bonnaffé, Edmond, 108, 112, 149, 193

    Bookbindings, 296

    Book collectors, Roman, 49

    Books, 294

    Bracciolini, Poggio, 75

    Brass articles, patina for, 265

    Bric-à-brac, 130

    Bric-à-brac shops in Rome, 29

    Brienne, 119

    Briesco, Andrea, 87, 88

    Bronze and other metals, to give tone and colour to, 264

    Bronzes, 30, 89, 238

    Brunelleschi, 75, 83

    Brunellesco, 71

    Brunswick Museum, the, 91

    Brutus as a collector, 40

    Brutus of Michelangelo, 103

    Buffon, 131

    Bullant, Jean, 92


    Cafaggiolo, 249

    Calamis, 46, 59

    “Calcedonio,” Niccoli’s, 73

    Calchar, 100

    Caligula, 29

    Caligula as an auctioneer, 212

    Callot’s bad etching, 127

    Camelio, Vittore, 91

    Cameos, counterfeit, 58

    Candelabras, 30

    Canvas for restoring paintings, 229

    Capodimonte factory, the, 256

    _Cappuccino_, 282

    Cardinal di San Giorgio, 82, 89

    Carncades, 41

    Carracci, “The Deluge” by, 120

    Castellani sale, the, 213

    Castiglione, 103

    Catalogues, first printed, 116

    Cathegus, 25

    Catherine de Medici, 110

    Cavenaghi, 167

    Cavino, 91

    Cellini, 103

    Ceroplastics, 244

    Cesnola collection, 248

    Charles the Bald, Bible and Psalter of, 66

    Charles VI, catalogue of, 68

    Chasles, M., 199

    Cheese as a vehicle for colour, 230

    Chemistry’s aid to faking, 263

    Chilperic, a collector, 65

    Christian and pagan subjects, 96

    Christianity and art, 63

    _Chronique Scandaleuse_, 130

    Chrysogon, 25

    Chrysoloras, Emanuele, 72

    Claywork fakes, 235

    Cicero and Art, 19;
      imitation and fraud, 24;
      pubilc auctions, 28;
      a collector of doubtful taste, 40, 41;
      Chrysogon, 45;
      _citrus_ tables, 54;
      public sales, 211

    Cinquecento art, 102; velvet, 289

    Cinquecento collectors, 102

    Ciriaco d’Ancona, 71

    _Citrus_ or _thuja_, 54;
      qualities, 55

    _Citrus_ tables, craze for, 25, 54

    Clarinus, 32

    Classification, 138

    “Cleaning,” 216

    Client and art market, 31

    Clodion’s clay groups, 208, 238

    Clodius, 31

    Clotaire, a collector, 65

    Clovis, a collector, 65

    _Craquelage_, on pottery, 255

    Cressy, influence of the battle of, 110

    _Crieur_, the, 28

    Crozat, 129

    Coaches, Commodus’ collection of, 212

    Codrus, the needy collector, 32

    Coin counterfeiting, 67, 92

    Cola di Rienzi, 69

    Collection, a form of banking, 64

    Collector, the: the home of the, 18;
      and satirists, 32;
      types of, 34;
      rapacious, 37, 38;
      ultra-modern, 141

    Collectors and collections, 135

    Collector’s touch, the, 146

    Colouring marble, 242

    Commerce and art collecting, 130

    Commodus’ effects, sale of, 212

    Concini, 123

    Condivi, 90

    Connoisseurship and erudition, 138

    Conquerors as collectors of art treasures, 22

    Constantine, 18, 63

    Constantinople and Oriental arms, 267

    Copyists in Rome, 59; Greek, 59

    Corinthian bronze, 30, 51, 239

    Cornelius Nepos’ statuette of Hercules, 37

    Corplet, Alfred, 252

    Correggio, the Marsyas and the Antiope by, 119

    Correr Museum, 91

    Corvinus, Mathias, 96

    Cosimo I, 104

    Costantini, Prof., 178

    Costumes and dress, 290

    Coulanges, 124

    Counterfeit coining, 67

    Counterfeiting, imitation, and forgery in Rome, 58

    Courajod, Louis, 84, 92

    Courtier, the, in Rome, 28; modern, 164

    Couvreur, 147

    _Curieux_, meaning of, 136

    Custom House officials, 179

    Cut glass, 260


    Dagobert, 65

    Damascening, 270

    Damophilus, 21, 43

    David, statuette by Michelangelo, 108

    Davillier collection, the, 90, 95, 108, 140

    Dazzi, the Italian dealer, 179

    d’Aunale, Duc, 110

    de Bassiano, 91

    d’Este, Isabella, 80

    de Genlis, Mme., 136

    de la Porte, Armand-Charles, 120

    de Limeville, Sieur, 127

    de Sévigné, Mme., 125

    d’Oiron, faience, 109

    Dealers, traders and shopkeepers, 154

    Death masks, 92

    Deceptive surroundings, 210

    Della Robbia, imitations of, 250

    Delorme, Philibert, 92

    Delphi, 17

    Demasippus, 25

    Demmin, 251, 273

    Derutha, 249

    Devers, Joseph, 250

    di Banco, Antonio, 84

    _di mattonella_, 156

    Didius Julianus, 212

    Dolls and toys, 290

    Donatello, 71, 83, 84, 86

    Donatello’s _puttino_, 197

    Dondi, 71

    Dreyfus, G., 91

    Drouot, Hotel, 214

    Duchie, Jacques, collection of, 69

    Dyes for marble, 243


    Eclectic and specialist, 138, 140

    Ecouen, castle of, 92

    _Electrum_, Helen’s cup of, 18

    Enamels, faked, 259, 260

    England, rise of the passion for collecting in, 110

    English furniture, 283

    Ennius, 22

    _Epitrapezios_, the, 36

    _Ereinteur_, the, 217

    Eros, the tearful collector, 33

    Estienne, H., 109, 112

    Estienne, R., dictionary of, 136

    Etchings, margins for, 232

    Etruscan pottery, 248

    Eudel, Paul, 180, 199, 203, 238, 273, 278, 295

    Evander Aulanius, 60

    _Évangéliaire_, a rare, 66

    Evelyn, John, 115

    Ex-voto objects, 290

    _Exhedra_, 49

    Expert, the, 162


    Fabius Maximus, 19

    “Fabius Pictor,” 20

    Faked atmosphere, the, 207

    Faked reputation, the, 220

    Faker, the, 194

    Faker, the jovial, 202

    Fakers, the aristocracy of, 88

    “Faking the _milieu_,” 209

    Faking in Rome, 27, 57

    “Faustina antica,” Mantegna’s, 81

    Filarete, 86

    Firminius, 31

    Florence, National Museum, 91

    Flute player, the, 88

    Fontainebleau, school of, 112

    Forgeries, 153

    Forni, 230

    Fortunatus, 65

    Fortuny, Mariano, 268

    Forzetta, Oliver, 69

    France and art collecting, 107

    France, art in, 112

    France, seventeenth-century art in, 114

    Frankfurt, fair of, 109

    Frederick II, Duke of Mantua, 66, 99

    Freppa, 182

    Friuli, Marquis of, 66

    _Fronde_, the, 119

    Fulvius Nobilior, 21

    Furniture, faking, 167, 279


    Gaillon, castle of, 87

    Gegania and Clesippus, 29

    Gellianus the auctioneer, 213

    German-made arms, 267

    Gersaint, 131, 148, 309

    Ghiacceti, Luigi, 110

    Ghiberti, Lorenzo, 85, 94, 100

    Gilded bronze, 241

    Gilles Corrozet, 111

    Ginori’s china works, 256

    Ginsburg, Dr., 205

    Giovanni Tornabuoni, 80

    Girardon, 40

    Giuliano da Sangallo, 80

    Giustiniani, 248

    Gladius Rogieri, the, 273

    Glass, faked, 259

    Glazes for pottery, 255

    Glyptography, 79

    Go-between, the, 164

    Godescal, monk, 66

    Gold products, spurious, 277

    Gorgas, 21, 43

    Gouffier, Claude, 109

    Græco-Roman pottery, 247

    _Græeculi delirantes_, 20

    Gratianus, 31

    Greek copyists, 59

    Greeks, the, as art collectors, 17

    Green-bronze lacquer for metal, 263

    Green or brown-green patina, 265

    Green patina, 266

    Grolier, 107

    Gubbio, 249

    Guillebert de Metz, 69

    Gymnasium of the Areopagus, 17


    Hall, Major H. Bing, 144

    Hannibal, 37

    Hercules and Antæus, 88

    Hercules of Lysippus, 19

    “Hercules Musagetes,” 22

    Hercules, statuette of, 36

    Heius of Messina, 49

    Henry II faience, 252

    Hispano-Moresque pottery, 249

    Holland, collections in, 128

    Horace, 25;
      the _crieur_, 28, 32;
      book collecting, 50;
      patina, 51

    Huber, Dr. L., 131


    Imbert, 141

    Imitation and fraud in Rome, 24

    Imitations, contemporaneous, 232

    Imitations by noted factories, 256

    Imitator, the, 170

    Imitators and copyists, 59

    Impasto painting, 230

    _Imperator Caldusius_, 92

    Impruneta clay, 187

    Inlaid work on furniture, 282

    Inscriptions, 93

    Iron work, 266

    Isotta Atti, 86

    Italian artists, versatility of, 86

    Italy, collections in, in the fifteenth century, 70

    Italy, exportation laws, 179

    Italian faience, imitations of, 250

    _Itinerarium Galliæ_, by Just Zinzerling, 115

    Ivory work, 244


    Jabach, the dealer, 115, 123

    Jests, 160

    Jewellery, old, 278

    Juba, King of Numidia, 212

    Julius Cæsar, 21, 31;
      a specialist, 42

    Julius, Prætor, 60

    Jupiter, colossal statue of, in the Louvre, 39

    Jupiter, head of, 79

    Jupiter Olympicus, temple of, 21

    Jupiter, temple of, in Elis, 23

    Justinian, digest of, 63

    Juvenal, Codrus, 33;
      Tongilius, 34;
      Licinius, 34;
      precious goblets, 52


    Krieg, 248


    La Bruyère, 124, 140

    La Rochefoucauld, 195

    Lamberti, Nicolo di Piero, 84

    _Laocoön_, the, 104

    Laws against exportation, 172

    Lebroc, 209

    Lequesne, M., 184

    _Les Collections des Medicis_, 74

    Lescot, 126

    Libraries at Athens, 18

    Licinius the nervous collector, 34

    _Liste anonyme des curieux_, 115

    Livy, 61

    Lorenzo, il Magnifico, 75, 77, 78

    Louis XI and the miraculous ring, 78

    Louis XIII as a collector, 122

    Louis XIV as a collector, 39, 123

    Louvre, the, 40, 41, 92, 96, 120, 122, 187

    Lovesque, 141

    Lucian, on Roman tourist guides, 62, 307

    Lucretius, candelabra, 30

    Lucullus, 60

    Lustre work, 250

    Lyndon, Minerva’s temple at, 18

    Lysippus, statue of Hercules, by, 36


    Machiavelli, 102

    Magliabechi, 307

    Maillet, M. A., 201

    Malachite, kind of patina, 265

    Malatesta’s temple of love, 86

    Manheim, connoisseur, 54, 261

    Mantegna and Isabella d’Este, 81

    _Maquilleur_, the, 216

    Marcellus, 19

    Marcus Agrippa, 43

    Marcus Aurelius as an auctioneer, 212

    Marcus Aurelius, statuette of, 97

    Marguerite of Antioch, 39

    Mark Antony as a collector, 22, 31;
      rapacity, 38, 39;
      Corinthian bronze, 51

    Marks of noted pottery factories, 258

    Marks on steel, 274

    Marostica, 67

    Marsigli, Luigi, 72

    Martial, 26;
      the _septæ_, 31;
      Milonius, 32;
      Clarinus and Paullus, 32;
      Eros and Mamurra, 33;
      statuette of Hercules, 36, 213

    Marzi, Ezio, Prof., 191

    Mazarin as a collector, 115, 117, 120

    Mecherino, 106

    _Médailles insolentes_, 128

    Medals, forgers and imitators of antique, 100

    Medals, patina for old, 265

    Medici collection, fate of the, 74

    Medicis, the, 72;
      Piero, 75;
      Cosimo, 75, 104;
      Giulio, 77;
      Ottaviano, 99;
      Alexander, 101;
      Lorenzino, 101

    Mediæval collections, 64

    Mégisserie, the, 111

    Meissen china, booming, 151

    Meleager, statuette of, 89

    Melpomene, colossal, in the Louvre, 41

    _Memoires de Brienne_, 127

    _Mettere il bavaglino_, 157

    Mexican idols, 246

    Michelangelo, 89, 102, 103, 111

    Michelangelo’s David, 108

    Michelozzo, 75

    Milanesi, 100

    Milizia, 226

    Millin, 136

    Milonius, 32

    Miniature work, 232

    Miniatures in Rome, 30

    Mino, 91

    Minor collections, 299

    Moabite pottery, forged, 205

    Modena Museum, 91

    Moderno, 97

    Molière’s works, 294

    Montaigne, 108

    Moreau, artist in iron, 266

    Morelli, 147

    Mosaic, a Roman, 46

    Muffled glaze, 251

    Mummius, L., 19

    Munich Museum, the, 185

    Murrhines, 52

    Murrhines, prices paid for, 25

    Museum of Arezzo, 92

    Museum of French monuments, 92

    Museum of Munich, 92

    Museums and forgeries, 153

    Musical instruments, 284

    Mustard pot, find of a, 161

    Myron, 39

    Mys, bronzes of, 30


    Napoleon as an art collector, 132

    Natali’s imitations, 182, 185, 190

    National Museum, Florence, 91

    Nero, 18, 46

    Newton and Pascal, 201

    Niccoli, Niccolo, 71, 92

    Nicomedes, King, 37

    Nieuwerkerque, 182

    Nolives, 182

    Nonius, 38

    Numismatists, 92


    Octavianus, a collector of Corinthian bronze, 51

    _Oeci_, 49

    Orlandini, Prof., 192

    Orleans, Duke of, 129

    Oriental pottery, 247, 249

    Oriental weapons, 267

    Over-restoration, 234


    Paduan School, 91, 196

    Pagan art, the worship of, 85

    Painting, imitations in, 99

    Painting, transformed, 168

    Paintings, restoring, 225

    Palazzo, Riccardi, the, 75

    Palissy, 251

    Palladium, Niccoli’s, 97

    Paolo Veronese, 102

    Paris, art sales in, 128

    Parvenu collector, the, 82

    Pascal and Newton, 201

    Pasiteles, 21

    Pastels and water colours, 232

    Patinæ, 51;
      bronze, 238;
      marble, 241

    Paul Potter, 232

    Paullus, 32

    Pausias, 42

    Perenzolo, 69

    Peristyle, the, 48

    Perronet de Granvelle, 39

    Pertinax, public auction by, 212

    Peruvian pottery, 246, 248

    “Peter Funk,” 222

    Petrarch, 71

    Petronius’ collection of Murrhines, 54

    Petronius and art, 20, 26

    Phœdrus, on faking, 59

    Phidias, 20

    Philippe-Egalité, 129

    Photographing pseudo-masterpieces, 169

    Pietà, Zampini’s, 185

    Pinacotheca of the Acropolis, the, 49, 71

    Piot, 140

    _Plaquettes_, 88, 91, 93

    Plato, portrait of, 91

    Plautus (“Menœchme”), 28

    Pliny, 18;
      Gegania and Clesippus, 29;
      candelabra, 30;
      Nonius, 38;
      the “Young Philippian,” 40;
      Polygnotus and Pausias, 42;
      Scaurus, 46;
      Corinthian bronze, 51;
      patina, 51;
      Murrhines, 52;
      _citrus_ tables, 54;
      as a connoisseur in bronze, 57;
      counterfeit Sardonyx, 58;
      Evander Aulanius, 60;
      Pliny, the younger, on faking, 59

    Plutarch, “Sulla’s private travelling god,” 36

    Police of Louis XIV, 128

    Polish of faked furniture, the, 280

    Politiano, 79

    Pollaiodo, Antonio, 88

    Polycletus, 24;
      bronzes, 30;
      cameo, 73

    Polygnotus, 42

    Pompey, a generous collector, 41

    Pontchartrain, 128

    Pope Leo X, portrait of, 99

    Pope Sixtus IV and the Medicis, 80

    Pottery, faked, 247, 253, 254

    Pourquet, M., 295

    Poustales collection, the, 89

    _Præco_, the, 28, 213

    Prado of Madrid, the, 87, 92

    Praxiteles, 46

    Precious stones, imitation of, 58

    Prices and values, 147

    Prints and drawings, faking old, 231

    “Prioristi,” Florentine, 209

    Private collections at Rome, beginning of, 22

    Procopius, 62

    Promenade of Pompey, 42

    Propertius and Cynthia, 42

    Protective laws, 105, 172

    Psychology of collectors, the, 203

    Ptolemy’s cup, 66

    Public auctions in Rome, 28

    Public sales, 211


    Quattrocento imitations, 87;
      velvets, 289

    Quintilian, 24


    Racine’s works, 294

    Radegond, St., 65

    Raester, Olga, 285

    Rameses, the forged, 203

    Renaissance fakers of art, 68

    Restorers and fakers, 59, 165

    Restorers’ workshops in Rome, 60

    Restoring paintings, 226

    Retouching, 225

    Reville’s _Promptuarium_, 92

    Revolution, ceramics of the French, 252

    Revolution, French, influence of the, 132

    Rhodes’ pottery, 248

    Riccio, bronzes of, 87, 101

    Richelieu as a collector, 115

    _Ricordi_ of Lorenzo Medici, 78

    Ridolfi, Prof., 178

    Rienzi, 71

    Rinuccini, 78

    Rochefort, Henri, 162, 214

    Rolland, Mme., 150

    Roman busts, imitations of, 90

    Roman house, the, 48, 49

    Roman, the, not a lover of art, 18

    Romano, Giulio, 111

    Rome: the home of the collectors, 18;
      development of art, 21;
      beginnings of private collection, 22;
      fictitious art and fraud, 24;
      freakish prices, 25;
      _septæ_, 28;
      public auctions, 28;
      an emporium of art, 44;
      Roman house, 48;
      faking and copying, 59;
      artistic life, 60

    Rosary, Mazarin’s valuable, 119

    Rossini, 286

    Rothschilds, the, 152, 235, 260, 269

    Rovertet, 107

    Rugs, Oriental, 293


    _Sacrarium_, the, 49

    St. Martin de Tours, monk of, 66

    Saitaphernes, tiara of, 277

    Sales of art collections, 128

    Sales and auctions, 208

    _Salle Lebrun_, the, 132

    Salting collection, the, 191

    Sanson, Charles, the executioner, a collector, 116

    Sansovino, Jacopo, 89

    Sardonyx, counterfeited, 58

    Satire, on collecting, 125

    _Satyricon_, the, 47

    Sauval, 110

    Savonarola, 83

    _Sbullettare_, 186n.

    Scaling of terra-cotta, 186

    Scarampi, Cardinal, 73, 74

    Scaurus, 45;
      his atrium, 49

    Scientific and artistic pursuits, 137

    Scopas, 46

    Seneca and art, 20;
      collectors, 32;
      bibliomaniacs, 50;
      veneered furniture, 55

    _Septæ_, the, 28, 29

    Servilia, 47

    Servilius, 46

    Sèvres, museum at, 248

    Shaw, Bernard, 142

    Shaw, Quincy, 31, 141

    Shields, story of the three, 271

    Siena imitators, 191

    _Sigillaria_, the, 31

    Signatures and monograms, 193, 208, 231

    Signorili, _Descriptio urbia Romæ_ of, 69

    Silver, artistic, during the French Revolution, 275

    Silver, colour and tone of, 276

    Silver marks, 276

    Silver work, 274

    Silver, wrought, rage for, in Rome, 25

    Sisinande, 56

    Sixteenth-century art, 101

    Slang, art dealers’, 159

    Sleeping Cupid, the, 89

    Smuggler, the, 171

    Sogliani, 111

    Solvents used in restoring pictures, 227

    Specialist, the, 138

    Spoon, Jacob, 127

    _Sposalizio_, Correggio’s, 118

    Squarcione, Francesco, 71

    Staedel Museum, the, 96

    Stamp-collecting, 299

    Stanley, H. M., 142

    Statues, 35, 36, 37

    _Stemmata_, 49

    Strongylion, bronze by, 40

    Strozzi, Filippo, 101

    _Stucco duro_ imitations, 237

    Suetonius, 29;
      Cæsar, 43, 212

    Suggestion, influence of, 177

    Sulla, 22, 31, 36

    Supino, Prof., 178

    Symbolic art, 63


    _Tabulæ auctionariæ_, 213

    Tanagras, faked, 235

    Tane’s _Philosophie de l’Art_, 304

    Tapestries, 49, 291

    Tardieu and Sanson, 116

    “Tazza Famese,” the, 80

    Tedesco, Piero di Giovanni, 84

    Tempera, use of, in restoring, 228

    Temples as museums of art treasures, 18

    Textile material, antique and modern, 288

    Theophrastus, 18

    Thibaudau, _Trésor de la Curiosité_, 128

    Tiberius, II, 65

    Timonacus, 43

    Tintoretto, 102

    Titian, 102, 120

    Tongilius, the important collector, 34

    Tortoise-shell as veneer, 55

    Touchard, 248

    Tourists in ancient Rome, 61

    Trade and art, 150

    _Traité des plus belles bibliothèques_, 115

    Transferring bookbindings, 297

    Trevoux, 136

    Trimalcho, 26

    _Triclinia_, 49

    Trouillebert, 170

    Tuscany, protective laws in, 106


    Uffizi Gallery, the, 90

    _Ulysses Belgico-Gallico_, Golnitz’s, 115

    Urban VIII and the Coliseum, 105


    Vaillant, 114

    Valentino, Duke, 90

    Valerius Maximus, 20

    Varnish, imitating old and cracked, 229

    Vasari, 86, 88, 89, 99, 225

    Vedius Pollio and Augustus, 52

    Vellano, bronzes of, 87, 88

    Vellano, Vasari’s life of, 100

    Velleius Paterculus, 19

    Velvets, quattrocento and cinquecento, 289

    Veneering in Rome, 55

    Venetian works, effect of cleaning on, 217

    Venus Anadyomene of Apelles, 60

    Verres, the greedy collector, 22, 30, 31, 37

    Verrocchio, Andrea del, 88-92

    “Verrocchio and Co.,” 190

    Vicentino, Valerio, 143

    Victoria and Albert Museum, 96, 185, 188

    Vindex, the real connoisseur, 35, 37

    Virgil, 101

    Vitruvius, 20;
      private palaces, 45

    Volpi, Elia, Prof., 178

    Voltaire, 130

    _Voyage pour l’Instruction_, Verdier’s, 115

    _Voyage de Lister_, 115

    _Voyage de Montaigne_, 108

    Vrain-Lucas, 199

    Vulteius Medas, 28


    “Wall breakers” at Athens, 18

    Walters, H., 141

    Warton, 110

    Weapons, faked, 267

    Wax work, 244

    “Way for Asses, The,” 161

    White, Stanford, 141, 304

    Winckelmann, 36, 53, 58

    Wood carving, colouring, 243

    Worm-holes in furniture, imitation, 281


    “Young Philippian,” the, 40


    Zampini, Ferrante, 182, 185, 198

    Zenodonis, a copyist, 59


    Printed in Great Britain at
    _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth_. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.

    1921




Transcriber’s Notes


Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not
changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced
quotation marks retained.

Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.

The spelling and accent marks in non-English text were not checked for
accuracy.

Index not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references.

Page 26: Missing opening quotation marks added before “Think of it!”
and before “Well, it belonged to”.

Page 110: “Duke d’Aumule” is listed on page 313 of the Index as
“d’Aunale, Duc”. The common spelling today is “d’Aumale”.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Gentle Art of Faking, by Riccardo Nobili