Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

‘So you told Tommaso he’d done it again, did you? I wish I’d been there. Preferably with a tape recorder for the amusement of my colleagues afterwards,’ Spello said gleefully.

‘I did not tell him he’d done it again,’ Bottando replied testily. ‘I merely mentioned, in passing and during a routine check over security precautions, that someone might begin casting doubt over the authenticity of his picture.’

‘Was this entirely wise?’ the Etruscan specialist enquired, unable to keep a broad grin off his face, despite Bottando’s evident discomfort.

‘No, it wasn’t. In fact I told my assistant to keep it to herself. On the other hand, I don’t know who Argyll knows, or who else he might talk to. I thought it best for the department — and for the museum — if Tommaso knew it might be coming, that’s all.’

‘And like all messengers bearing bad news, you got precious little thanks for the information?’

‘Mount Vesuvius in full form was nothing in comparison,’ Bottando said, shaking his head as he remembered the director’s face turning puce and the accompanying bellow of rage. ‘I thought for a moment he was going to hit me. Extraordinary performance. Such a little man, as well. Who would have thought he could have made such a noise? The only time I have ever felt the slightest liking for that man Ferraro was when he intervened and tried to change the subject. Quite courageous of him, especially as I’m sure he would rather not have been there at all.’

‘So our Tommaso was not receptive to the idea?’ prompted Spello, who would clearly have loved to hear the entire story again, for the simple pleasure of it all.

‘No. Although, to give him his due, he calmed down pretty quickly, and even apologised. And told me why he was so sensitive about the matter. Although his version of the dispute over the Correggio is different from yours. In his account, he was a scapegoat slaughtered by the machinations of the dealer and the weakness of his director.’

Spello sniffed. ‘You expected him to take full responsibility for his mistakes?’

‘No. Anyway, that was a long time ago and not especially important. More significant is the fact that he’s convinced that he hasn’t made a mistake this time. Even gave me a huge pile of scientific tests done on the Raphael after the sale to prove it was genuine.’

‘You read them?’

‘Not me. I’ll give them to Flavia. It’ll be her punishment for bringing the matter up in the first place. But Tommaso seems very confident, and he should know what he’s talking about. After all, the thing has got a better pedigree than most paintings. If it came through all the tests as well, there can’t be much wrong with it.’

‘Oh, what a pity,’ Spello said sadly. ‘You quite got my hopes up for a moment there. Still,’ he said, visibly brightening at the thought, ‘it makes a good story. Or will do,’ he added with a touch of malice.

‘It will not. If I ever hear a word, a single breath, of this from anyone else and trace it back to you I will personally ram your finest Etruscan figurine up your nostril and glue it in place. I’m telling you for information purposes only, not so you can have a good laugh with your colleagues.’

Spello looked mournful. ‘Oh. All right then,’ he said with evident reluctance. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to hope it will turn out to be a fake. Which it will, if it is.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Forgeries always reveal themselves eventually, that’s the one great consolation about aesthetics. Or at least it’s what connoisseurs convince themselves to justify the outrageously high prices of originals. What people find beautiful changes over time; you only have to look at the pale, flabby women painted by Rubens to realise that. They were reckoned to be the peak of sensuality in the seventeenth century, now they’re overweight matrons; the modern age prefers the skinny Botticelli types. Even if someone paints a mock Raphael that is perfect in every detail, there will be some trace in it of the twentieth-century mind of its creator. That’s the theory, anyway. As preferences change, a genuine Raphael will still look genuine, even if people see different things in it, but a modern copy will begin to show its modern origins more and more. Someone will notice. Have you ever seen those banks of Victorian fakes that most museums put on display?’

Bottando nodded.

‘And what do most of the nineteenth-century hoaxes look like? Like nineteenth-century paintings, that’s what. They’re obviously copies to us. But to people in the nineteenth century they were beautiful examples of early Renaissance, Mannerist, Baroque art, or whatever. Do you see what I mean?’

‘You seem to know a great deal about this,’ Bottando said.

‘I’m a museum curator. Surrounded by fakes all the time. You remember those pieces in my office?’ He was referring to a glass display-cabinet that Bottando had often admired. It was full of delicate, filigreed bronze figures, all Etruscan work of simple beauty and power. ‘Beautiful, no?’ the old curator continued. Bottando nodded in agreement. ‘Every one a bum. Probably made in the 1930s for sale to the US. Some ended up in the museum, which wanted to melt them down when they discovered what they’d bought. I recovered them and kept them.

‘I think they’re wonderful. I’m an expert, so-called, and I can’t tell. Only laboratory analysis proved they weren’t genuine.’

Bottando sniffed. ‘Laboratory analysis proved the Raphael was genuine,’ he noted.

‘So, there’s nothing to it. Tests are highly sophisticated these days. I must say, if I were you, I’d forget about it. Then everyone will go on enjoying the painting. Sow the tiniest seed of doubt and its popularity will wane, even if it is original. Why stir up trouble? Who has lost out anyway? As long as the museum thinks it’s real, and the visitors agree, everyone’s happy. And it’ll take a great deal to convince our friend Tommaso, considering all the very good reasons he has to think otherwise.’

Bottando laughed, turned the conversation, and put the idea from his mind. But he was uncomfortable, and his thoughts kept on returning to the subject as he walked slowly home.

The next time Bottando saw Flavia he handed Tommaso’s report to her. ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’ll teach you. Some bedside reading for you. Photocopy it and send a copy to your mad friend in London as well, if you like. It might rein in his imagination a little.’

‘I’ll do better. I’ll give it to him this evening. He arrived in Rome yesterday, I think,’ she replied.

It lay on her desk for several hours as she piled her way through a host of boring chores which she always liked to get out of the way in the morning, quickly and before she was wide enough awake to resent them. When they were all done and resting contentedly in the ‘out’ tray, she settled back into her chair, opened the report, and tried to concentrate on the harsh, technical data that was presented. A good deal of it was in the form of tables, surrounded by chemical signs which meant nothing to her. Evidently they detailed a series of tests that had been carried out.

Fortunately, there was a written introduction and conclusion, couched in the cautious language that marks both the scientist, not wanting to go beyond the limits that the evidence permits, and the bureaucrat, not wishing to stick his neck out. But the summary was clear enough.

The report began by formally detailing the project. The team, the permanent employees of the Museo Nazionale, had been sent to London to examine a painting, ‘supposed to be by Raphael’, and determine its authenticity. They had been given free use of the apparatus at the National Gallery in London, as well as assistance from employees at the Tate. The tests had lasted a week which, they said, was more than enough time to make all the experiments they thought necessary. They noted, cautiously, that their work was of limited utility. They did not intend to comment on the aesthetic merits or otherwise of the painting.