ART DEALER’S SECRETS

Evening Star, Issue 22069, 1 July 1935, Page 14

ART DEALER’S SECRETS

BAREFACED, AUDACIOUS "SALE”

An example of barefaced audacity that would bo hard to beat was the “selling” of Tragan’s Column, one of Rome’s most precious historical monuments, to a rich and gullible American. The story of this astonishing exploit is told in the memoirs of Mr Jarhes Duveen, a member of the famous family of art dealers. The “ seller ” was a smooth-tongued young man named Kopp, and he met the “ sold ’’ casually in an hotel. The American, Gardner, had that morning been to visit the column. “ Did you ever sco a finer monument,” ho said. Kopp, knowing that a fool could soon he parted from his money, decided to lead him up the garden path. “ Yes,” he smiled, “it certainly is fine. 'l’ve just bought the darned thing and am thinking of having it put up on my estate in Normandy.” The American swallowed once, blinked, and fell for the bait. “You don’t say? That’s tremendous! Do you really mean to say they have sold you that monument?” “ Yes. The municipality wanted to change the dirty, unsightly pit for homeless cats in which it stands into a decent square. Also I happened to know they were hard up for cash. It will look fine on the headland beyond my house.”

CLAIMING HIS “ PROPERTY.”

The American was vastly impressed. Next day ho offered to buy the column from Kopp at his own figure. So for twenty thousand dollars he became its new owner 1 Kopp produced some official-looking documents, drawn up on the paper used by the Rome Municipality, which purported to consent to the transference of the monument to “Mr Gardner, of New York.” Then, when the American went on a short yachting cruise, Kopp set out for Greece—where there are no extradition treaties.

A month later Gardner returned, add immediately made arrangements to claim his “ property.” The contractor thought he was mad, but did not mind making an honest lira or two. Early next morning, armed _ with hoardings and other paraphernalia, they reached the cat-infested square where the column stood. Trouble soon began with the swarms of stray cats, a crowd'collected, and finally the police arrived. The wretched American failed to make himself understood, and was seized and i in out of the sunken pit, and with him went the builder and his men, protesting volubly that they had really nothing to do with the business. At the local police station things were straightened out, and Gardener’s face became a study when one of the American Embassy officials came down to explain the position. He was persuaded not to make a fool of himself by instituting legal proceedings; and to add insult to injury he had to pay fines for transgressing a dozen by-laws! Meanwhile, Kopp was busily spending the dollars in Greece.

But, judging from Mr Duveen’s book, there is plenty of comedy to be found in the art-dealing world—that rather frightening world where nobody seems to think in anything less than thousands. Mr Duveen tells us that he was once staying with the first Lord Leverhulme, who spent on art the money he made out of' soap. Leverhulme said that beauty was the only thing that mattered, and mentioned that he had bought a ginger jar from a West-end fruiterer for thirty-five shillings that was quite as beautiful as ones that had cost' thousands. And he suggested that even Mr Duveen could not tell the difference between them in artificial light:— Whereat he leaped- up and dashed from the room, returning in a couple of minutes carrying a hawthorne pot in either hand. But as he passed a sidetable the edge of a pot touched the marble; there was a terrible crash, followed by a shower of a hundred fragments. One pot lay in irretrievable ruin. Lever looked at me, tragedy in every lino of his face. Then he came forward and thrust the remaining pot under my nose. “ Well I can’t tell the difference now!” he said. “Which one have 1 broken*?” Fortunately he had broken the imitation one. But he was so upset that he immediately went to bed! THE SAINT’S HEAD. Mr Duveen caps this with an even more fantastic mix-up story. The art treasure concerned was the “ Chef de St. Martin,” a mediaeval silver reliquary in the shape of a portrait head of the Saint. It had been sold to Duveen Brothers, he tells us, on condition that a perfect copy should be made for the owner. A bargain w r as struck, and the reliquary, with the relics of the Saint inside it, was sent to London to bo copied by the “Chelsea Wizard,” the greatest artist in this kind of thing, who has ever been known. As a result,’ the copy was so marvellously executed that it was absolutely impossible to find any difference between the two! In fact, only the presence of the reliquary bones inside the original portrait head could decide the issue.

Mr Duveen’s uncle, Henry Duveen, arrived from Now York just when the copy was ready, and his young nephews decided to play a joke on him. They placed the copy and the original together and bet him five pounds that ho could not tell which was which. He picked them both up, listened for the rattling of the bones inside, and. so made his decision. But he had been tricked, for his mischievous nephews, had moved the relics to the copy! He then agreed to pay up on condition that the nephews could spot the copy after leaving the room for a minute. He not only changed the relics but also scraped off the tiny fragment of paper which had been pasted on the bottom of the original. The nephews lost their money—but in the middle of the game an important client arrived; and when later during the day they tried to remember which was which, nobody could tell. There had been too much confusion and joking after tho decision of the bets. No one remembered in which head the bones had finally been placed, and there was now no paper on the original to guide them. Henry decided against calling in the man who had made the copy as it was better that there should bo no scandal, so matters were left as they were.

The climax would be almost incredible if the case had not been through the French Criminal Courts. The elder John Pierpont Morgan, the great American financier, bought the head for a large sura and placed it in his collection. The former owner was so struck by the copy sent to him that he told his friends that ho could hardly believe it was not the original. Then somebody had the brilliant idea of repeating the performance of selling another “ real ” head! This was successfully :ccomplishcd, so successfully that the selling of the “ real ” Hoad of St,.Martin became an industry. For years a number of these

transactions were carried _ through, always with the same ritual—the strictest secrecy to be observed by the buyer. THE«SECRET LEAKS OUT. Naturally the secret could not be kept for ever, and when two proud owners started talking to each other, the cat was out of the bag. The police discovered that the saint had a miraculous number of heads! When Morgan was approached by the authorities ha said that he had bought the reliquary in good faith—and it to the Louvre Museum; an offer which the French Government gratefluly accepted and acknowledged by the bestowal of the Legion d’Honneur oh this generous citizen of the great sister republic. Now' a famous “ Chef de St. Martin ” containing the re.'d relics occupies a place of honour in the Sanctum Sanctorum of the Louvre Museum, the Gallerie d’Apollon (Gallery of Apollo). •’Where the real head is no ono will over know'!

Morgan could well afford to make these magnanimous gifts. On his art collections, Mr Duveen reckons, he spent something like £10.000,000! In making his colossal purchases he was always terse and to the point. “ How much for the stack,” he would ask, or “ I’ll have it,” or “ Too much ” —that was enough. And his manners, wo are told, were infinitely superior to those of most American plutocrats. Queen Alexandra, then Princess of Wales, once visited the galleries of Mr Duveen’s uncle, Joel Duveen. Templed by the appearance of a Louis the Fifteenth sofa covered with _ Gobelins tapestry, she sat down on it:— “ What a lovely thing, and how comfortable,” she sighed in pleasure. “ I wonder how much it costs?” “ I sold it this morning for fifteen thousand pounds, Your Koyal Highness,” answered Joel Duveen. “ Goodness! I daren’t sit on so much wealth!” exclaimed the Princess, and hastily got up.