The Chrysalis (9 page)

Before they crossed the threshold, Lillian turned back to Mara. “The documents we have in here are unique. Some are priceless, some highly private, and some so old they must be stored in certain conditions in highly controlled temperatures.”

Mara noted that the air seemed cooler, thinner, and she felt that she had entered a treasured room. The single entrance belied the vast space within. Nearly twice as big as the library, the room mimicked the library's décor, with arched ceilings glistening with murals, richly paneled walls, and glossy wooden floors. In place of the long worktables in the room's center stood numerous rosewood cabinets to hold the valuable documents. The delicate appearance of the cabinets masked their functional purposes. Mara saw that they were hardly ordinary: Inside, they resembled storage units for scientific materials rather than bookshelves.

Lillian scurried around the room, gathering book after book, paper after paper, and assembling them on one of the few desks. Lillian explained their unique coding system and showed Mara critical references to
The Chrysalis
in each of the documents, some of them yellow with age.

“We'll take these materials, seal them in airtight bags, marking on the bag the pages to be copied, and insert them in that slot.” Lillian gestured to a wide opening in the far corner of a paneled wall. “Copies will be ready in the morning.” She hastened toward the door.

Mara interjected, “Why are such elaborate duplication measures necessary?”

“The condition of the documents means that they must be copied very gingerly and with special equipment. The confidential nature of some means we need to have security measures surrounding the copying.”

“What about the fact that, in discovery, we're going to have to produce the documents you just copied to Hilda Baum?”

“As long as we subject the copies to a confidentiality agreement, so they can be used only for this case, we will give you the necessary copies. With the current owner's name redacted, of course.”

Mara assured her that this was possible.

Lillian's posture slackened a touch. “Wonderful.” She motioned for their departure. “Shall we? We still have to run through the rest of the provenance.”

As they returned to the main library, Lillian explained further the process of assembling all references to the artwork in the scholarly publications and the exhibitions presenting the piece. Mara recognized that the exercise would prove indispensable for her
DeClerck
argument that Hilda was obliged to search for her lost painting. If Mara could prove that the whereabouts of
The Chrysalis
were easily ascertainable, then Hilda's failure to hunt for the painting would become obvious. The developments began to banish the ghosts of Alphonse Schwarz, Eva Blumer, Otto Stern, and the many others like them, which had been haunting Mara's conscience. After all, how could
The Chrysalis
's title be anything but flawless with Lillian at the helm? Still, she suspected that the defendants in all those other replevin cases had believed their titles were impeccable, too.

At day's end, the two women retired to Lillian's office. As the warm glow of the sunset filtered through the window, Mara sipped a cup of tea.

“Ms. Joyce, it's amazing that you know
The Chrysalis
's history by heart, given all the artwork you deal with every day.”

Lillian puffed up at the flattery. “Please, call me Lillian.”

“Thanks, Lillian. And please, call me Mara.”

“I-I guess the painting does hold a special place for me. As does Johannes Miereveld,” Lillian continued, but her speech faltered a bit—with embarrassment or some other emotion, Mara couldn't quite tell. “
The Chrysalis
was the first painting for which I prepared a provenance, among other reasons.”

Mentally calculating Lillian's age, Mara's jaw dropped. “Really? You were working here in 1944?”

Lillian chuckled. “Yes. I was nineteen years old and right out of finishing school. I had studied art history, and so Beazley's hired me.”

Mara contemplated whether she should raise the question with which she'd been privately struggling. In all her reading, Mara hadn't come across a satisfying discussion of the painting's symbolism, though she'd formulated some theories. She asked, “What do you think
The Chrysalis
means?”

Lillian invited Mara over to her side of the desk and paged through the Dutch auction catalog to the picture of
The Chrysalis.
The photograph of the ethereal woman encircled by sacred objects was breathtaking but did not compare to the splendor of the actual painting that Michael had shared with her. “Here,” she pointed. “I believe that these limpid rays of light penetrating the beautifully rendered oval window over the woman's right shoulder were meant to be the rays of God's light piercing the woman's symbolic womanhood: her virginity.”

“So the woman is the Virgin Mary?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The blue and red cloak, the lily…It seemed fairly obvious, even to an art history college minor who hasn't studied her iconography for years.”

Lillian smiled. “Well, you're right. The woman irradiated by the light of God is the Virgin Mary. The blue and red cloak, the halo of hair, the lilies lying at her feet: They are Mary's hallmarks. As God passes through Mary, God gives the gift of Jesus, of rebirth through death, of resurrection, as symbolized by the chrysalis—or pupa—in her left hand. But the God of
The Chrysalis
is a specific God: the God of the Catholics. The crucifix, the chalice, and the terrestrial globe in the darkened left corner of the room tell us this, as does the single illuminated candle, an attribute of faith personified. The vanquished serpent under her foot represents the defeat of false religions, such as Calvinism.” Her turquoise eyes turned to Mara. “I believe
The Chrysalis
tells the story of the power of resurrection, the possibility of redemption for us all, but only through the Catholic faith.”

The door flew open, and the women jumped. Michael sauntered in, smiling at the snug scene. “Can I take my two favorite ladies to dinner?”

CLUTCHING HER SIDE IN LAUGHTER, LILLIAN GAVE MICHAEL A
playful slap on the arm. “Stop, stop. You're giving an old woman a stomachache with all those impersonations. And all this wine.” She drained her sparkling glass. An air of camaraderie had descended over the three during the long, formal French meal; they were the last remaining patrons at the only Michelin-ranked restaurant in the city. With Michael as a buffer, any vestige of edginess between the two women disappeared. Mara felt particularly relaxed and, with a smile, asked, “Should I tell you guys my latest theory for the Baum case?”

“Do tell.” Lillian tilted toward her.

Michael caressed her thigh under the table. “Yes, Mara, please do.”

Despite a hazy sense of hesitation whose origin she couldn't define, Mara explained to Michael how she could use the documents that Lillian had recently uncovered, particularly Hilda Baum's agreement with the German Art Restitution Commission. The agreement's language, she pointed out, could be used as a release from all further actions to recoup
The Chrysalis,
including
Baum v. Beazley's.

Lillian and Michael beamed across the table. As she downed the remainder of her port, she caught Lillian nodding in Michael's direction, almost maternally. Mara gave a small shake of her head, dismissing it. Surely she was mistaken. Lillian didn't know about their very new personal relationship. The wine must have made her cloudy.

twelve

HAARLEM, 1652

J
OHANNES HOLDS A SECRET TIGHT TO HIS CHEST. ONE HE
dare not utter aloud, for fear of hurting Pieter Steenwyck or, worse, committing the deadly sin of pride. Only at night, when the loneliness descends, does he unwrap his secret like a present, like a salve: He is the master's best student.

The boys—young men, really—rise while evening still holds sway. In the pitch dark, they race to the studio along a path they know even without daylight's guidance. The first to arrive gets to mix the paints, the prized daily task. Johannes prevails.

After they light candles, Johannes gazes at the paint table, long and gleaming with lustrous pigments like the jewelry cabinet of a great lady. He checks to ensure that his staging area has the proper tools. With the mortar and pestle, he grinds the pigments to a fine powder: lapis lazuli, ruby shellac, gum arabic, wineskin, and malachite. Measuring out the ideal amount of linseed oil from its flask, he blends it with the precious colors, liquefying the gems. The boys do not speak until Johannes finishes the crucial chore.

Dawn arrives, revealing the cavernous studio in measures. Windows of leaded glass to the north, designed to admit even light, are unveiled. Contrasting flooring, paint-splattered wood planks for work and black-and-white tiles for the honored subject, is exposed. A table is uncovered, groaning with the weight of portrait objects: a leather-bound Bible to proclaim the subject's devotion, a globe to announce the expanse of his holdings, a medal to declare his valor. An immense easel, cradling an unfinished canvas shrouded in linen, makes a final, dramatic appearance.

They hear the clip of boots and scramble to their other chores before the master's assistant, Lukens, enters. The boys clean surfaces, sharpen metalpoints, lace canvases onto stretchers, bind brushes, and prepare copper plates for etching. To displease Lukens is to forfeit the chance to paint that day, so they hurry.

Lukens runs a gloved hand along the surfaces and rearranges every item according to his own private plan before giving leave for the master's two journeymen, Leonaert and Hendrick, to enter. Gifted painters, the journeymen stay on with the master only because they have no funds for their own studios. They begrudge the boys' daily instruction; moments away from painting the finery and landscapes of the master's portraits are money lost. Yet the position demands it, as the master has not the time to train.

The long day ends like every one before. Weighed down with leaden pork dumplings and the day's exertions, the boys crawl up to the attic and get ready for bed. Eyes heavy, they cast their petitions to the heavens. Pieter prays that the master might procure a mystical camera obscura, a darkened box admitting one focused ray of light through a convex lens that projects a detailed image of the scene in front and lets the painter see an image the naked eye alone cannot. Johannes once asked God for visits with his parents beyond the allotted Easter and Christmas, but now, as his parents seem more and more like distant memories, he prays for more of the master's time. He longs for schooling from the master's own hands, not the hands of the journeymen.

Having cleared the hurdles set by the artists' Guild of Saint Luke for progression in their craft—rigorous instruction in drawing, endless repetition of brushwork, constant tutoring on Calvinist religious texts, particularly those needed for symbolic effect in portraits—the boys enjoy the privilege of copying the master's own works as practice. Pieter, however, is temporarily denied this dispensation, for he has recently displeased Lukens. So, in the anteroom off the studio, Johannes struggles alone in the dying light, wrestling to re-create a pendant, a pair of paintings of the husband and wife Van Dalen. The dynamic magistrate and his much younger, graceful spouse taunt him from the master's canvases.

“Why is the brushstroke so different on each pendant?” a voice commands from the back of the anteroom.

Johannes turns round. It is the master, and he is studying Johannes's reproductions of his work. Having never seen him so close, so still, Johannes stares at the intricate web of lace that flops over his inky silk overcoat, at the tremendous brim of his hat. Words refuse to come to his mouth.

“I was told you speak. Was Hendrick wrong?”

“No, Master.”

“Then did Hendrick err in telling me that the time had come for me to see your paintings? To weigh your readiness for the master test?”

“Hendrick said that, Master?” Johannes blurts out, unable to imagine a single compliment issuing from Hendrick's tongue. Perhaps Hendrick hopes that premature evaluation will ensure Johannes's ejection from the studio.

A tiny smile emerges on the corner of the master's mouth. “You seem surprised, Johannes. The time must come for all artists to stand and be judged, whether by a master, the guild, or God.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then perhaps you should answer my question. Why is the brushstroke so different on each pendant?”

“Master, I am not sure how to explain.”

“Not sure? How is that possible? You chose the
nette
brushstrokes for the magistrate's wife's lace collar and gold earrings, even her skin. I can barely discern those strokes, you've blended them so completely. Yet you used such bold,
schilderachtig
strokes for the magistrate himself. You've not mixed them at all; I can differentiate the layers of glazes and opaque paint, even the lines of color. It is curious, Johannes. Most painters have one style, one stroke. As I have.”

Johannes cast his eyes down; he knows the master will not like his response. “The subject tells me what brushstroke to use,” he says.

“The subject tells you?”

“Yes, Master.” Johannes does not lift his eyes.

“Well, it seems as though Hendrick was wrong about one thing—failing to inform me that one of my students is a half-wit.” He pivots toward the heavy curtain guarding the exit.

Johannes rushes to the door, blocking it. “Master, please don't leave. I can explain.”

The master turns, arms crossed.

Johannes tries to describe what he intuits. “You see, the wife, she seems so genteel, so serene. She calls out for a gentle touch, a refined hand. But the magistrate appears so physical a presence, delicacy will not do. He cries out for a brushstroke to match his vigor. This is how the subjects speak to me, Master.”

Johannes realizes that the master has grown still. He stops.

“Who taught you this? Leonaert? Your childhood instructors?”

“No, Master.” Johannes stutters, “I-I have always known this.”

The master's brow furrows. “Johannes, where do your allegiances lie?”

“Master, I don't understand.”

“You sound as though you believe God empowers the paintings through you, as some sort of medium. That's a dangerously Catholic sentiment.”

Johannes rushes to reassure him. “No, Master, that is not what I meant.”

“I hope not, Johannes. Remember verse 5:8 of our Lord's disciple Pieter: ‘Like a roaring lion your enemy the devil prowls looking for someone to devour. Resist him, steadfast in your faith.' Be careful, Johannes. I do not want to lose your talent to the enemy.”

THE MASTER IS WORKING ON A FAMILY PORTRAIT COMMISSION
much envied by his fellow guild members: the new burgomaster Claesz and his brood. The burgomaster is dependent on the province's upper-class regents for the longevity of his position. He strives to impress them with their choice by planning lavish festivities where the portrait will be shown.

The studio casts aside all other projects to complete the work. The burgomaster plans on unveiling the painting at his celebration, and it must be well received, for both the burgomaster and the master. The death of the prior burgomaster, long the master's patron and advocate, jeopardizes the master's standing and endangers his future stream of commissions. This painting could change the situation.

Johannes sits by the master's side as he outlines the family members with his metalpoint. The master insists that Johannes see firsthand the interplay of light from the subjects' skin with their lush clothing and jewels, if he is to capture those accessories. Hendrick and Leonaert protest Johannes's assignment, one more fitting to artists of their stature and experience, but the master dismisses their remonstrations and points to Johannes's skill in calming the burgomaster's restless lot of six children during the long hours of posing—a task the journeymen abhor.

Johannes regrets his newfound elevation. Each time Pieter enters the room to deliver a freshly mixed paint or a newly assembled brush, he keeps his eyes down, and Johannes sees that his position pains his friend as well. The boys are no longer compatriots, no longer racing to the studio, no longer chatting in solidarity, no longer flinging prayers to the Lord like coins into a fountain. The nights are silent, each drifting off to sleep with the other nearby, yet completely alone.

Halfway through the painting, illness strikes the master's house, incapacitating his wife and infant son and necessitating his attendance. He leaves off completing the faces and hands of the burgomaster's children and instructs the three to finish their parts: Hendrick, the curtain draping behind the family; Leonaert, the black-and-white tile floor; Johannes, the coveted pearls and lace handiwork. During the long days of jostling for a place at the canvas, Johannes withstands upturned paints, missing brushes, and malignant mutterings from Hendrick.

One day, Lukens bursts into the studio, breathless. Disease has taken the master's wife and son, leaving an afflicted master in its wake. What shall they do? It is a tragedy, of course, but only three days remain until the burgomaster's celebration.

Johannes knows what must happen. He alone has studied the children's faces; he alone has formed a kinship with them. He makes his proposal.

Hendrick erupts at Johannes's audacity, at his disregard for the master's reputation. Painters of the master's ilk did not pass off the work of a lowly apprentice as their own, never mind the guild repercussions to Johannes for painting portrait likenesses before qualifying for the master test or the inevitable blow to the master's guild standing.

Lukens disagrees. Perhaps Johannes has a point, and there is more at stake than this painting alone. After all, what are the alternatives?

Lukens leads the children and nursemaid into the studio. Johannes greets the gaggle as usual, tickling the youngest two and playing sleight-of-hand tricks for distraction. Johannes informs them that the master will arrive shortly, and Lukens queries as to whether Gertruyd, the nursemaid, would care to view some of the master's other works in the main house while they wait.

She declines, though her eyes signal acceptance. “Mistress would never like the children to be out of my sight.”

Lukens clucks. “Too bad. You would be one of a very few to have regarded them.”