by Frank Wynne
The prosecutor asked what had persuaded him that the Head of Christ was genuine.
‘I walked into a trap,’ Hoogendijk admitted, shamefaced. ‘When I saw the painting, I immediately thought of the Emmausgängers. Without the Emmaus, I would never have seen Vermeer’s hand in it, but the most prominent Dutch experts had acclaimed the Emmaus as an extraordinary work; as a simple art dealer, what was I supposed to think . . .?’
‘And it did not strike you as strange that so many Vermeers were suddenly coming to light?’
‘Not at all. Most art historians agree that there should be more. I sold the Head of Christ to Mr van Beuningen. That was in 1941, in Rotterdam. It was a much finer painting then than it is now.’
Judge Boll turned to look at the painting and asked Han if he agreed that it had deteriorated in the six years since it had been sold.
Han nodded. ‘I’m afraid the dull, lack-lustre appearance of the painting now gives little indication of how it looked when I put it on the market in Vermeer’s name.’
‘You have to remember,’ Hoogendijk explained, ‘that the Emmaus had been authenticated by world-renowned experts. The subsequent forgeries were links in the same chain. That’s why they were more easily sold. Besides, there was a war on, the buyers were in a hurry. No one wanted these paintings to fall into the hands of the Germans.’
For the first time in the trial, Han’s lawyer, Maître Helding, rose to his feet.
‘What about the supposed provenance of these paintings?’ he asked. ‘Was it not said that they were the property of a countess who had inherited them as a family heirloom?’
‘No, there was no mention of a countess, only some old Dutch family. I inquired about the provenance but I got no answer, or at least the answer I got did not seem to me to be suspicious. In my profession, such things are not uncommon.’
‘Not even . . .’ Heldring asked, ‘. . . when there are millions of guilders at stake?’
‘When I sold The Last Supper to van Beuningen, my first impression was that it was an extraordinary painting, and my first impression is often the best.’ He paused and smiled feebly. ‘But again I was allowing myself to be influenced by the Emmausgängers. It seems inconceivable now, but at the time it was completely logical. After the Supper, I sold two more, including the strange one.’ He nodded to Isaac Blessing Jacob which hung above van Meegeren’s head.
‘And yet you accepted it as genuine?’
‘It’s hard to explain.’ Hoogendijk shrugged. ‘It’s unbelievable that it fooled me. But we all slid downward – from the Emmaus to Isaac, from Isaac to The Footwashing: a psychologist could explain it better than I.’
Doctor van der Horst, the psychologist who concluded the morning session, was not asked to explain the credulity of the victims, merely to offer his analysis of the accused based on his interviews.
‘The defendant’s character leads him to be sensitive to criticism, which in turn fuels a revenge complex that explains his anti-social attitudes. I would describe him as disturbed, certainly, but fully responsible for his actions. A man of his personality would be greatly hurt by isolation; I would strongly advise against a custodial sentence.’
After the lunch recess, Han seemed tired and weak, but he gamely quipped with the media as the seven remaining witnesses filed in, waiting for their hour of mortification. Most were spared embarrassment, the prosecution rattling through their evidence in less than an hour. The dealer who had sold The Footwashing, P. de Boer, was first to take the stand.
Asked how he had come by the painting, he replied: ‘In 1943, he [Jan Kok] came to offer me an old painting, The Washing of Christ’s Feet, asking for more than a million guilders.’
‘Did he say who painted it?’ the prosecutor prompted.
‘He did not, but he told me I would know who had painted it the moment I set eyes on it. As soon as he showed it to me I said it was by the same master who had painted the Emmaus. I added that it was probably not signed, but when I examined the painting closely, I discovered Vermeer’s signature.’
‘Did you ever doubt for a moment that the painting was genuine?’
‘Absolutely not,’ the dealer replied emphatically.
Perhaps fearing that the prosecutor was about to challenge the witness with A.M. de Wild’s testimony that he had refused the purchasing committee’s request to X-ray the painting, Han spoke from the dock: ‘If I may, Your Honour, I know the witness well and I can vouch for the fact that he is an honest man. I believe he acted in good faith.’
‘Very well,’ Judge Boll nodded, ‘though it is highly unusual to find a defendant coming to the aid of a prosecution witness.’
Han intervened again on behalf of the next witness, his childhood friend Jan Kok. Though the former civil servant limited himself to a short, factual account of his role in the selling of The Footwashing, Han was clearly moved by his testimony, especially when Kok was forced to admit that, before the sale, he had never heard of Vermeer. His voice quavering, Han said, ‘This is the most honourable man of those who have been called to give evidence.’
The remaining witnesses said as little as possible. Dirk Hannema, the director of the Boijmans, sought to justify his errors. Daniël van Beuningen, the proud owner of three of Han’s forgeries, seemed dumbfounded, unable to believe even now that the paintings for which he had built a gallery in his country home were fakes. He even intimated that perhaps the Emmaus and The Last Supper were genuine. When the prosecution brusquely challenged the suggestion, he turned desperately to Judge Boll and cried, ‘But, just look at them, my Lord!’
The only entertainment to be had in the afternoon’s proceedings came from Dr J.G. van Gelder, the university professor who had argued so forcefully for the state to purchase The Footwashing. Though he offered the opinion that it was ‘ugly’, he confessed he had thought the painting genuine, before launching into a tale of duplicity and conspiracy worthy of Han himself.
‘During the war,’ he confided almost in a whisper, ‘I was visited by two men claiming to be tax consultants. I had never met these men before, but they claimed to represent a client, an artist, who wished to sell a number of old masters.’
The prosecutor, blindsided, murmured something.
‘Somehow,’ van Gelder continued, ‘I had the presentiment that these supposed old masters were the work of the accused. In fact I told these tax consultants that I suspected they were acting for Han van Meegeren and invited them to return the following day. I never saw them again. After that, I had the gut feeling that Mijnheer van Meegeren was not quite trustworthy.’
Han struggled unsteadily to his feet. ‘You had a feeling?’
‘I did,’ van Gelder glared at Han, ‘and it seems my misgivings were entirely justified.’
A ripple of laughter spread through the court.
‘And when did you first have this feeling?’
‘In 1942.’
Han smiled, turning to Judge Boll. ‘Might I remind the court that The Footwashing had not been offered for sale in 1942 – in fact I had not even painted it.’ He turned back to van Gelder. ‘And yet in spite of your feeling, a year later you would accept it as a genuine Vermeer?’
When the public prosecutor rested his case, Judge Boll, as is the procedure in the inquisitorial system, questioned van Meegeren himself.
‘You still claim to have created all of these forgeries?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘And sold them for exorbitant prices?’
‘What choice did I have?’ van Meegeren sighed. ‘If I had sold them cheaply, that in itself would have been proof that they were forgeries.’
‘Why did you continue to forge paintings after the Emmaus?’
‘I found the process I had devised so satisfying, that it was as if I was no longer in control of myself. I had no willpower, I was helpless, forced to continue.’
‘That’s as may be,’ the judge harrumphed, ‘but you made a tidy little profit from your work.’
‘I had no choice, Your Honour, I had been so slandered by the critics that I couldn’t exhibit my own work any longer. Critics who didn’t know the first thing about art had systematically, spitefully destroyed me.’
‘But perhaps money had some bearing on your decision to continue?’
‘It made no difference,’ Han said quietly. ‘The millions I earned from the later forgeries piled up with the millions I already had. I didn’t do it for the money – money brought me nothing but worry and misery.’
‘So you acted entirely without thought for financial gain?’ Judge Boll’s voice scoured the depths of incredulity.
‘I did what I did only out of a desire to go on painting,’ Han replied. ‘I decided to carry on, not because I wanted to paint forgeries, but simply to make the best use of the technique I had discovered. I hope to use it again, it’s a very fine technique, but I will never again age my paintings or present them as old masters.’
‘Thank you, Mijnheer. Is the prosecution ready to offer closing arguments?’
Maître Wassenbergh moved to the podium and, gripping the handrail, gestured theatrically around the courtroom.
‘Court Number Four, which is normally so dreary, is rather more colourful this afternoon. These paintings were once thought to be “old masters”. Now it seems clear that they are anything but. Even The Supper at Emmaus, the oldest of them, is barely ten years old.
‘The defendant hoped to prove to the world that he was an artist of genius, but by resorting to forgery, he has proved himself a lesser artist. The art world is reeling, and experts are beginning to doubt the very basis of artistic attribution. This was precisely what the defendant was trying to achieve.
‘The primary function of art is to rouse emotion in the viewer,’ the prosecutor stepped back to his bench and grasped a sheaf of papers, ‘such emotion as may be attested in these reviews of the Emmaus when it was first exhibited in 1937.’ Wassenbergh read excerpts from the glowing reviews. ‘The greatest proof of which is that he has failed to achieve that aim, the reverence accorded his work has faded – though I admit the false signatures are excellent, indeed almost indistinguishable from Vermeer’s own – and he is left only with the money.
‘Whether or not he is a genius,’ Wassenbergh mocked, ‘this court has yet to decide.
‘I maintain,’ he concluded finally, ‘that both charges have been proven. The maximum sentence set down by the Penal Code is four years’ imprisonment; however, taking into consideration the defendant’s ill-health and the report made by the psychologist, I ask that the court sentence him to no more than half the maximum term. In addition, I propose that the forgeries be returned to their owners, even though it is entirely within the purview of this court to have them destroyed.’
Maître Heldring took the speaker’s podium, scanning the faces of magistrates and spectators. In a summation that was erudite, witty and persuasive he regaled his audience with tales of his client, whom he cast in the role of a jester, ‘a man of considerable intelligence and great charm who can be childishly generous, often naïve, and putty in the hands of parasites.’ He brought down the house with his account of Han’s visit to the Boijmans where a security guard was forced to restrain him from getting too close to the priceless Emmaus. The substance of his argument, however, was that Han had perpetrated no fraud.
‘The defendant never claimed that he was offering a genuine Vermeer or Pieter de Hooch. It was the experts who declared that these were Vermeers and de Hoochs – where is the fraud in that?
‘It seems strange,’ Heldring went on, ‘that so far, none of the “victims” has been willing to sell their forgeries – this is hardly what one would expect of a person who feels deceived. One of the victims has even admitted to me that he was offered the full purchase price, and refused. So where is the injured party?’
As to the second charge, that of appending false signatures to paintings with intent to deceive in contravention of article 326b of the Dutch Penal Code, Heldring maintained this was a trifling matter.
‘Whether or not a painting has a forged signature means very little. There are thousands, probably tens of thousands of paintings in galleries with forged signatures. It is commonplace in the art world. Even Rembrandt’s The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild bears a forged signature next to the real one – although the Rijksmuseum does not know which is which. If paintings are to be bought and sold purely on whether or not they bear a false signature, then the entire art world is done for.’
Han was asked if he had anything further to add and, after a long moment’s thought, declined the opportunity. Suddenly, it was all over. Judge Boll reserved judgement until a later date and the proceedings were adjourned. Han, with Jo on his arm and his children by his side, stepped out into the chill autumnal afternoon sun. Around the curve of the Prinsengracht, the distant spire of the Westerkerk towered over the skeletal trees. Together, they walked home, steering a course through the dizzying eddies of the world’s media.
On 12 November, Judge W.G.A. Boll found Henricus Antonius van Meegeren guilty of obtaining money by deception and of appending false names and signatures with the intent to deceive in breach of articles 326 and 326b of the Dutch Penal Code. The sentence was the most lenient it was within his power to impose – one year’s imprisonment.
In accordance with the prosecutor’s recommendation, the forgeries were not destroyed, but returned to their owners. Christ with the Woman Taken in Adultery became the property of the Dutch state and was later sold to the Nederlands Kunstbezit. The four unsold forgeries found in Nice, together with The Young Christ Teaching in the Temple* were deemed to be the property of van Meegeren and were returned to his estate while the long slow process of bankruptcy was played out.
The judge offered the defendant two weeks to appeal the verdict and once more released Han on bail, though, having conferred with Heldring, Han made no application for an appeal. Unbeknownst to Han, but with the support of Judge Boll, a petition was prepared seeking a royal pardon. Wassenbergh indicated that he would not contest this. It is doubtful that with the concerted backing of defence, prosecution and the judiciary, Queen Wilhelmina would have refused a pardon to one of the most admired rogues in the Netherlands. As it happened, it would not be necessary. On Wednesday 26 November, the last day on which Han might lodge an appeal, he collapsed and was admitted to the Valeriuskliniek, where he rallied briefly. On 29 December, having not served a day of his sentence, he suffered a massive cardiac arrest and died.
Almost half a century later, in The Democratic Muse, Edward C. Banfield, professor emeritus at Harvard, would write: ‘. . . had van Meegeren not seen fit to confess, thereby bringing great numbers of works into the laboratories, the paintings of this supremely gifted forger would still be giving pleasure to countless museum-goers all over the world.’
But perhaps all is not lost. There are ghosts that haunt the catalogue still. Six works known to have been painted by Jan Vermeer of Delft and described in detail in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries have never been found and are waiting only for the keen eye of the critic or the forger’s brush to resurrect them.
EPILOGUE
LONDON, 7 JULY 2004
Any fool can paint a
picture, but it takes
a wise man to be
able to sell it.
Samuel Butler
From the media scrum milling on the pavement of London’s elegant New Bond Street, it is impossible to tell whether a glitzy première or a serious crime is in progress. Some might claim that it is both.
In the confusion of boom microphones and hand-held cameras, reporters frantically search for a spot to stand and give their first grave bulletin of the evening. An eighth TV crew arrives late, frustrated and angry, delayed not by the usual snarl of traffic, but by another publicity stunt. Tonight, the customary London soundtrack – the honking of black cabs and the farting of old Routemaster buses – has been silenced. The city has been closed off to all
ow eight Formula 1 drivers – among them David Coulthard and Nigel Mansell – to careen through the city streets, the powerful throb of their engines echoing through John Nash’s elegant Regent Street arcades.
English summer, ever fickle, has lurched from the glorious sunshine and sweltering heat of yesterday to torrential rain. Lowering clouds frame the graceful eighteenth-century buildings and the ominous rattle of thunder adds a little drama to the first night of Sotheby’s old masters sale. The last TV crew, somewhat bedraggled, press inside. Tonight, in the world’s oldest and most venerable auction house, Lot number eight, the world’s most famous ‘forgery’, is to go under the hammer.
Inside, platoons of dour security guards flank the crowds that spill out of the auction room into the hallways. Shortly after 7 p.m. the auctioneer begins.
‘Lot number one: A village scene with figures shooting the popinjay and dancing around a maypole by Pieter Gysels. Property from the estate of the late Mrs Patricia Rosamund Landon Lee’ . . .
Only the serious bidders are paying any attention. This is the first of three nights of Sotheby’s auction of old masters, but the usually hushed atmosphere has given way to a whispered clamour. The halls are thronged with media pundits, sightseers and cultural tourists: they are not here to bid, they are here to gawp. In one corner of the auction room, the international press corps, a knot of eighteen journalists, is taking bets on how much Lot number eight will fetch; because it is no ordinary old master, it is the rarest of rare objects: a painting by Johannes Vermeer van Delft.
Only thirty-five paintings are generally attributed to Vermeer, two of which are disputed. Only two Vermeer paintings are in private hands – one because it is owned by Her Majesty the Queen, the other because it was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in 1990. It is unlikely that a Vermeer will ever come to auction again. The painting to be sold tonight is listed in the catalogue as A Young Woman Seated at a Virginal, but the press have dubbed it Girl with a Yellow Shawl, a deliberate echo of the master’s most famous painting, Girl with a Pearl Earring.
