The Chrysalis

by Heather Terrell

  “In any event, we think that Miereveld finished The Chrysalis in the early 1660s, although this is only an educated guess based on scientific dating techniques and the evolution of his style: Virtually no contemporary documentary evidence of The Chrysalis exists. Then, in about 1662 or 1663, Miereveld painted a group portrait for the Brechts, an established political family in the region. Afterward, he seems to have disappeared, not painting again before his death three years later, in 1665.”

  “Why didn’t he paint again?”

  “We really don’t know. I have my own theory, though. The iconography of The Chrysalis is very Catholic; whether this reflects Miereveld’s sentiments or a client’s, I don’t know. While Catholicism was tolerated in the seventeenth-century Netherlands, it was frowned upon, even scorned, in the devoutly Calvinist upper-class circles in which Miereveld traveled. If his patrons learned of The Chrysalis, perhaps they ostracized him because they couldn’t fathom his painting their portraits by day and religious Catholic paintings—banned by their own religion—by night. If so, they might have lodged grievances with the artists’ Guild of Saint Luke, which controlled all art commissions and could have prohibited him from working. But so little documentation from the artists’ guild survives,” Lillian confessed, “that we don’t have any specific evidence supporting my theory.”

  Lillian returned to the provenance. “After Miereveld’s death, many of his paintings languished for hundreds of years in the attic of the ancestral home of the Steenwyck family of Delft. It seems as though one of the Steenwyck ancestors went about the region purchasing the portraits in the years after Miereveld’s death. This explains why most of his paintings survived. When the few extant portraits began to surface and gain in popularity in the late 1800s, the Steenwycks unearthed their cache of moldy paintings and held a large auction in 1908. Not surprisingly, at this time, The Chrysalis was rediscovered. Interestingly, it was found not in the attic of the Steenwyck family home but in that of the Van Dinters, an old Calvinist Haarlem family.” Lillian pointed to the printout.

  “Do you think the Van Dinters commissioned The Chrysalis?”

  “While I can’t say for certain, I think it’s unlikely. The Van Dinters were a prominent Calvinist family, so The Chrysalis would have been anathema to them. But while it’s a mystery as to why the Van Dinters had The Chrysalis in their possession, it’s certain that the painting was in their custody for hundreds of years. The Chrysalis is listed on the 1675 death inventory of the Van Dinter family patriarch, Jacob.”

  “And the Van Dinters put up The Chrysalis for sale along with all the other Miereveld portraits in the 1908 auction?”

  “Yes. It seems our Erich Baum bought it at that auction, often referred to as the Steenwyck auction. The Chrysalis found a home—for a while, at least.”

  The two women deliberated the critical wartime journey of The Chrysalis, starting with Hilda Baum’s version. According to Hilda, as the war escalated, her father’s painting sailed to Nice, France, in early 1940 to the safekeeping of a now-deceased family member, as evidenced by a cryptic note from her father. Somehow, she claimed, after the Nazis reigned victorious over France in the summer of 1940, the ERR stole The Chrysalis from her family’s care, trading it as currency until it ended up in the hands of Swiss art dealer Albert Boettcher. In Hilda’s tale of The Chrysalis’s travels, it then made its illicit trip from Boettcher to Beazley’s, and then to Beazley’s anonymous client in the American art market.

  Lillian shared her opinion that Hilda’s account of The Chrysalis’s World War II expedition was pure confection. It was gossamer spun sugar that dissolved under the weight of related provenance evidence uncovered by Lillian—namely, that Erich Baum sent the painting to Nice not to family but to his longtime art dealer Henri Rochlitz. Lillian maintained that Baum must have authorized Rochlitz to sell The Chrysalis to Boettcher, a rare-art dealer with a squeaky-clean reputation, making Beazley’s title, and therefore its current owner’s title, clear. Mara grew more and more enthused about the strength of the Baum case, even on the title issue, which she had previously perceived as a possible weak point.

  “Is the provenance finished?” Mara asked, believing the lesson had reached its end.

  Lillian brimmed with superior knowledge. “Yes, the provenance is complete. However, there is some additional documentation I uncovered in a box of recently declassified reports that isn’t useful for the provenance per se but that you might find interesting.” She typed with great alacrity, screens flying through the Postwar Art Restitution category.

  Lillian read aloud from the screen. “In a statutory declaration, Hilda agreed to the following:

  I have submitted no other applications for compensation for the artistic works which are the subject of the reimbursement proceedings before the Restitution Offices of Berlin, be it on my own behalf or through any institution, organization, or authorized agent, nor will I do so in the future against this entity or any other.

  You see, Mara, in the late 1940s, Hilda filed applications with the Dutch and German art restitution commissions, seeking the whereabouts of her family’s collection. As it did with many of the applicants, the German commission proposed that the parties enter into an agreement to ‘completely settle’ the claims for fifty percent of the artwork’s stated value. Hilda agreed.”

  Mara was stunned. Her success with this case was beginning to seem inevitable, and she began to devise ways to use this new information.

  Mara needed the papers for discovery, so Lillian led her toward the blockade at the back of the library. She input a code into the security panel, then pulled from her inside blazer pocket a set of keys of varying shapes and sizes, some of which looked medieval in their design and weight. Lock by lock, she unsealed the heavy door.

  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

  JOHANNES 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, b
ut 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.”