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We met Jean in the Savoy bar, on schedule. We filled him in on our interview with
Diego. He elaborated on his meeting with Marika. "She could be any place," he continued. People were displaced during the war. Many disappeared. I'm sure she survived. People often pop up in unusual places and with her artist friends all over the world, one never knows." Bruce
drained his glass. "For now, we'll have to concentrate on Caresse. Any theories
based on what you now know?" And what a Dream It Was! "Yes,"
I replied, but it was just a dream." We collected our things and loaded the black Lancia. The precision auto responded as I knew it would. Once we got through the crippling traffic of the city, we headed east past Tivoli. Just beyond, through rolling farmland we turned north towards Monte Totondo. The countryside showed signs of growth after the wet winter. There were hues of burnt sienna and browns mixed with a mauve wash in the hills. The sun cast its hand over the fortress hill towns, relics of a passed age. There was a gentle peacefulness about the region as we headed into the Sabine Hills. We were an army of three about to launch our mini attack on distant Rocca Sinibalda.
(The imposing entrance of Rocaca Sinibalda) We headed for the castle in the clouds and the calm of the verdant hills of central Italy. Approaching the Hamlet of Colle di Tora The road wound south along the Velino River as we approached the hamlet of Colle di Tora, showing the ravages of time. Sad houses perched on the hillside with cracked mismatched hulls almost forgotten as they strained towards a peaceful sky, just beyond the reach of modernity. And where the river turned east again, we could look down and see the sparkling waters of Lago di Turano. As we rose from this lovely spot, we could see the formal castle entranceway. It was bigger than I had imagined. At the top of the hill the ancient building, robed in dusty gold, stared down at us behind an inviting garden and hundreds of lilies. There, at the gate, at the end of the road, a woman clad entirely in bright red robes, waved gently. This was our welcome to a castle that was now home to my friend, Caresse Crosby. Tears Ran Down Her Face Tears ran down her face as we embraced. We held each other for a long time. There was no need for words. Even through her watery eyes she displayed a fading but captivating beauty. Hers was a beauty that might fade but never die. There was only one Caresse. Later,
she welcomed my friends. We were just three friends on a holiday in Italy. There
was no talk of a missing painting. Below it, a cross of gold made up of vertical and horizontal letters spelled out the names Caresse.
There Will Only Be Sunshine... Welcome to my humble home, she said. Then, she added,"There will be only sunshine while you are here with me." We were shown to our palatial rooms. They were freshly redone with new ceiling beams, decorated by a local artist and shining new hard wood floors. Tapestries and paintings filled the room and the four poster canopied bed was covered on bright red. Much
of the house was still under construction. With seventy two rooms, it would be
a daunting task to complete. There were places where there were no window frames
and no glass. But in the section where Caresse lived, there were books, glass
chandeliers and luxury everywhere. Without turning, she almost whispered, "Life has a way of finding what's lost." After a moment, she turned to me. "Oh, Bobby dearest," she said, "I composed a letter to you in my mind a hundred times. There were so many things I wanted to share with you. By the time I left Paris, I began to understand who I was and who Harry was. He was my one and only love, besides you. I can explain my love for Harry, but I cannot explain my love for you. I missed you so, all these years. "I was in Montreal, painting and teaching. I might have given it all up for you." There Was Nothing to Say, Not Just Yet We sat facing a lovely stone fireplace, I watched the fiery fingers dance before my eyes, turning orange to red to blue. The music was by Eric Satie. There was nothing I could say. Not just yet. "If only you had stayed," she began. "I thought I had the strength to continue alone. I really didn't and I fled to a place where Harry once lived. For the first time, I struck out alone. At Le Moulin, I wrote poetry and continued publishing.
(The author, Arnie Greenberg, at the actual Rocca Sinibalda road sign) "The poetry flowed, swift and spontaneous, almost as though some urgent personal ghosts were guiding me through those impossible times. Poetry became my religion as it was once Harry's. Now I am cursed with those memories. Yet, passionate memories are the purest gold. He believed that a person was what he thought, inside. He thought himself eternal. Harry was a beautiful man." After a pause, she continued. "He had rare gifts. He was an explorer, as soldier, a revolutionary. But these are the qualities fatal to a poet. Life stopped after Harry died. The memories alone kept me from dying. I left France soon afterwards. It was a city we never belonged to. Paris and Harry were both marked for death. I always sensed that." Unfolding the Events of Her Life She told me of the events of her life. "I was married to Bert for three years; years of frustration and fascination. He was younger and he drank constantly. At the time, Hampton Manor and Virginia seemed like a good idea. I hold many tender memories, some sad, some even funny. We were visited by Dali. We became good friends. I helped him. He needed help. No… I have few regrets about doing what I had to do. But there is still so much to learn. I left Bert. I was trying to regain a lap or two on life."
She put her head on my shoulder. She rubbed my arm, tenderly. She squeezed my hand. "I've
missed you Bobby. I missed you terribly. She turned away. "I guess I always knew that you would show up one day…and you did." Jean and Bruce found us sitting quietly, admiring the view. They poured for glasses of Cognac and we began to talk about the castle. We talked about the mountains, the serenity and the isolation. We eventually got to the war years and Virginia. Drinks were replenished and the conversation turned to art. Bruce broke the ice.
"Bob may have told you," he
started, "that Jean and I are investigators. We work for the Metropolitan
Museum in New York." When Gertrude Died, the Painting Was Left to the Museum Bruce continued. He told her about Picasso's portrait of Gertrude and all the trouble we had gone through to try to authenticate the original painting. Jean explained that when Gertrude died, the painting was left to the museum. Since the museum was sure they had only a copy, a search began.
(Gertrude Stein's grave at the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris) "We knew that there was a copy in Culoz where Gertrude lived during the war. We actually found it nearby in the home first lived in not far from there. Actually, it was my grandmother, who gave, what she thought was a copy to the owners of that old house. At one point, we brought both paintings to Picasso but he said they were both copies. We continued to search and even tried to find the original artist." Caresse Crosby smiled. "I met her once." Bruce picked up the story. " We couldn't find her so we flew to Mexico and talked to Diego Rivera. He couldn't help us either. He explained that we concluded that Caresse herself might be able to cast light on the subject. He even mentioned my dream and asked if Harry, in some mystical way might be reaching out to us. "Caresse agreed that with Harry, anything was possible. She took pleasure in thinking that Harry could put ideas in people's minds even from the grave. Bruce finally put the question to her directly. Is there anything that you could tell us that might help us solve this mystery after all these year?" Caresse put down her glass, lit a cigarette, then turned and smiled. "I remarried," she said, exhaling. "It was a terrible mistake. I should never have married again. At first, I was the merry widow looking prettier than ever with scores of beautiful gentlemen lined up on my doorstep. But I drove them all away. Seeking to Perpetuate Harry's Name "I wanted only to perpetuate Harry's name. I traveled, like Harry, on an express train into the sun. What Harry did, I did. I neither condone it nor apologize for it. I don't care a fig for any precious painting. Life is the only prized work of art. I am finally satisfied' at peace with myself and the world. I have found a home and a place to die. I worship this place and all it gives me and it gives me all I worship for. I was thunderstruck the first time I happened on this place. I knew I had to have it." The huge dining room doors opened, as though on cue. Four liveried waiters stood behind the high-backed brocaded chairs and an ornate dining room table set with candles. The crystal chandelier was casting a soft low light on the table. The rest of the room was almost dark. Caresse took my arm. The others followed behind. We paused before we sat down. Caresse savored the moment. She looked at the three of us and smiled. "You only upset yourself with your sins, but you upset other people with your confessions." She reached for a light switch. Before our eyes, on a far wall, under a golden light, the original Picasso portrait of Gertrude Stein looked down on us. My
friends stared at the painting in silence. I walked to the window. I was stunned.
I stood there without talking.
The story Caresse told has sifted through my brain a thousand times. Poor, unsuspecting, Caresse, always eager to say "yes". She believed everything Harry told her. So blind was her love.
(Dr. Robert Bartlett Haas) "I saw Marevna doing the copy," she began. "I knew that Harry was enthralled with it; obsessed. But they were discussing an extra copy, especially for us. Marevna said it was impossible to do, but Harry offered her twice Gertrude's price. She wavered. He upped his price. Harry could do that. Finally they came to a sum that Marevna could live with; couldn't live without. She agreed. Harry would have a copy of his own. It wasn't illegal. Marevna felt it was like doing a copy in a museum. Why would the owner mind. It was actually a compliment.
(Arnie Greenberg, right, with Robert Bartlett Haas in 1992) "She did another copy and informed us when it was completed. Harry and Goops went to retrieve it. Marevna was not home. But Goops had experience with locks. They broke in, undetected. The original and the copy were switched." Marevna, now with two copies, confronted Harry. He dazzled her with 800 more francs. They argued. She told him how much the commission had meant to her. She cried and screamed. She threatened. Picasso Probably Would Never See the Two Paintings Together Finally, Harry offered to buy some of her works for much more than they were worth. Gertrude wouldn't know the difference, he suggested. Picasso would probably never see the two paintings together. They finally struck an agreement. Harry would buy all Marevna's work that she would do for a year. Marevna left his apartment with more money than she had ever seen and a verbal contract that would make her rich. "Everyone has his price," Harry boasted. Yet, he had bought a painting for more than it was then worth. "He did it because he wanted it and Harry always got what he wanted," she told us. I asked Caresse why she didn't return it to its rightful owner, after Harry died. "Because,
she said, "it wasn't mine to return." The painting was returned to the Museum. It is being treated with kindness. Robert Owens decided it would be better not to tell the directors what had happened. They cleaned it and hung it where it is today. Nothing was mentioned in the newspapers. We had done our work. Finding the Original Work Bruce, Jean and I had found the original. What the Museum did now was their business. The issue was closed.
(The real Bruce Kellner) A year or so later I received a large container from my friend Bruce. The accompanying letter explained that he appreciated the help I had been during the investigation. He further explained that the portrait could be seen on the main floor of the Met. The copy taken on loan from Mrs. Buts had been returned to her. The second copy was of no use to the museum who offered it to Bruce. "You enjoy it," he wrote. "I was paid for my work. You weren't." I often sit in my comfortable Westmount livingroom and stare at that wonderful likeness of Gertrude. Even though it is a copy, it was done by a friend and the subject was a wonderful woman who opened doors for me. My success as a painter was due to her generosity. Forgiving Marevna, Poor, Love-Sick, Heartbroken I forgave Marevna. She was poor, love-sick, and heart-broken. Besides, she was no match for Harry. Perhaps she's happy today, in the arms of her maker. She died some years ago in Kew, not far from where Marika lived. I knew she'd never leave the daughter she loved. She had never left England at all. As for Caresse, she lived out her years in that enormous castle. She just went on being Caresse. She was too rich and filled with Harry to know what it meant to care. Like Fitzgerald's Tom and Daisy, they …"let other people clean up their mess." I never heard from her again. I don't paint much any more. I think about those "Glory Years" when I was young and free and all the talented people I befriended in Paris. I remember well that first Thursday I visited Gertrude on the rue de Fleurus. She changed my life. Placing a Rose on Her Grave in Paris During
my yearly pilgrimage to Paris, a always place a rose on her grave. I stood there
in the rain, one year, and told her the whole story. Yes. I think she heard me. That's all in the past now. Very few, if any, of Gertrude's friends, are still alive. The painting hangs where school children can visit, but very few know about the intrigue, the mystery, the double deception that surrounded that wonderful piece of art history. People are really more interested in the present then they are in the past. People
without memories are poor and bereft of happiness. If that is true, I'm the happiest,
richest man in the world. Getrude
Stein died in 1946 and is buried at the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris. Now that you have finished reading Double Deception, Arnie would like to hear from you. Did you expect the ending to be this way? What was your favorite part of the story? Write to Arnie Greenberg at ultours@gmail.com.
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