The Collected Stories of Amanda Cross (17 page)

But Sister Monica was warmth itself, taking Kate’s bag and leading her to the car, all the while expressing her gratitude. “The convent is not too far as distance is reckoned in these parts,” she said. “I thought we might take the scenic route.”

Looking with amazement from the car window, Kate wondered what the nonscenic route could possibly be like. Except for the very occasional tree, slight ups and downs on the road, a few curves, there was nothing scenic: all was fields, or plains, or prairie, or whatever they called it, with swirling dust and other evidence of wind. “The wind is not
too bad this time of year,” Sister Monica said. “Other months, it can blow you off the road.”

Kate could not imagine that one might choose to live in such a place. But Sister Monica, questioned, said that she had chosen to come here, that she loved this country. Suddenly Kate thought of Alexandra, in Willa Cather’s novel
O Pioneers!
: “For the first time, perhaps, since that land emerged from the waters of geologic ages, a human face was set toward it with love and yearning.” Kate doubted that Sister Monica was, like Alexandra, the first to look on this land with love, but there could not, Kate thought, have been many others. Apart from ranchers and builders of nuclear warheads, why had anyone chosen to come here? Perhaps the sisters found God more accessible in this bleak place.

“There’s been a new wrinkle since we last spoke,” Sister Monica said. “For a time it looked as though the priest had taken the picture.”

“What priest?” Kate asked.

“They come on their rounds, the few priests left in these parts, to hear confessions and give absolution. There are fewer and fewer priests, and those that are here are hardworking.”

“That hardly explains one stealing a painting.”

“Well,” Sister Monica said, saluting a lone tree as she passed it, “he has long been fascinated with the picture; his fascination took the form of his insisting on its inappropriateness for a company of religious women. We, of course, considered it a highly religious painting. The argument has been going on for years. But now the sisters are wondering if the priest may not have taken matters into his own hands.”

“You can hardly expect me to get it back from him,” Kate said with asperity. She was tired, and felt on a fool’s
mission. Reed, who had tried to dissuade her, was certainly right. She ought to listen to him more, and not to her strange impulses on behalf of old acquaintances.

“It wasn’t him,” Sister Monica said. “That turned out to be a mare’s nest. I’ll spare you the details. The mystery is as deep as ever. Ah, here we are.”

“Here” turned out to resemble not only an adobe but Kate’s idea of an adobe, which was surprising of it. Sister Monica showed Kate to the guest room, cell-like as befitted a convent, but with its own bath, for which Kate thanked whatever gods there be. Later Kate met the other sisters, including the one in charge of the convent, and was soon led to the place where the picture had been. It had hung in the refectory, in the middle of the longest wall on one side of the oblong hall. The wall opposite was filled with windows looking out on a courtyard–windows admitting light, but gazing away from the world.

Kate studied the now empty wall with some puzzlement. “How big was the picture?” she asked.

Small, they told her: about a foot high and three-quarters of a foot wide. Kate was amazed. The color plate in the book had somehow given her the impression of a large painting–inevitable, of course, with one color plate to a page, each reproduced to the same size.

“No doubt someone simply cut out the canvas and rolled it up, perhaps during the night,” Kate said. “It would fit nicely up a sleeve or under a long skirt. Anyone could have taken it.”

“It wasn’t a canvas,” Sister Monica said. “I should have mentioned that. The picture had been painted on a wooden panel. And while it was small for so impressive a picture, it was rather too large to conceal even under the fullest skirt. No, it had to be taken away directly when it was removed from the wall. There wasn’t even any likely
hiding place for it; what places there are have been thoroughly searched, I promise you.”

“Are there any other facts you’ve omitted?” Kate asked, rather more sharply than she intended. “Anything else I ought to know,” she added in kinder tones.

But Sister Monica was not offended, only interested in answering the question fully. “There is only one other fact that interests me,” she said, “but I’m sure it can’t have anything to do with our problem. Judith Leyster was unique in another way: she was the only woman artist whose father had not been an artist. He was, in fact, a brewer.”

“Well, that’s interesting, if not exactly helpful under the circumstances,” Kate said, smiling. “I’ll think I’ll turn in for now. As they used to say in the fairy stories, ‘morning is wiser than evening.’ ”

THE NEXT DAY
Kate asked to be taken on a tour of the region, but nothing indicative of art theft appeared. Kate could now well understand that a stolen picture could hardly be hidden anywhere about. The sisters were in and out of houses, they talked to everyone, Catholic or not, they knew all their neighbors. That one of these should suddenly have turned into a kleptomaniac or an art thief was beyond belief. The picture had been stolen, as all such pictures are stolen, either to be treasured in secret by some rich misanthropic collector for whom possession was its own, and the only, reward, or to be held for ransom.

“It’s always been difficult to understand the theft of famous paintings,” Kate said, as she and Sister Monica rode along. “They can’t be sold; one can’t even admit possession of them, as with a kidnapped person.”

“What usually happens?” Sister Monica asked. “Do the pictures eventually turn up?”

“Mostly they do, I think,” Kate said. “They’re dumped somewhere, and returned to the museum–it’s usually a museum–whence they came. But there are some mysteries remaining. The most recent theft, at least that I know of, was from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. Their Vermeer, ‘The Concert,’ an immensely valuable painting, was simply gone one morning when the curators came in, along with several other paintings, I think. The mystery has yet to be solved. The favorite guess is that it was given as ransom in some drug deal, but don’t ask me how that works exactly. I suppose there is always an underground market for famous paintings. And Vermeer is particularly valuable because he painted so few.”

Kate was glad to renew her friendship with Sister Monica, and found the few days spent with her strangely rewarding. They agreed now, as in their youth, on practically nothing. Sister Monica had, however, a lasting affection for Kate, and Kate found that she felt profound respect, not easily accounted for, toward Sister Monica. No decision in Sister Monica’s life seemed comprehensible to Kate; nor could Kate understand for a minute why anyone would want to live in this desolate, windswept place. And yet, she had not a moment’s doubt that Sister Monica’s commitment was sincere and heartfelt. Kate wished she could help her to get her painting back.

But after some peaceful, refreshing days in the sisters’ adobe home, Kate returned to New York having failed in her mission.

YET EVEN AS
Kate took up her wholly different, far more harried life in New York City, the problem of the vanished Judith Leyster painting would not fade away. She found
herself reading books on art and art collectors that she would never before have found intriguing. It was one of these books that first gave Kate the glimmer of an idea.

Being a New Yorker she did not, with Sister Monica’s sweet patience, sit down and write a letter. She immediately grabbed the telephone and demanded of the startled Texas operator the number of the convent. After a certain number of false trails, Kate was given, by a mechanical voice, the number of the adobe house in Litany. Kate dialed it, and was answered by the mother superior or whatever she was, who curtly informed Kate that sisters could not be summoned to the telephone except in emergencies. Kate, slowing down, identified herself and explained what it was she wished to speak to Sister Monica about. Sister Monica, she was finally told, would be available to speak to “Miss” Fansler at seven that evening.

And so at nine, her time, Kate was able to question Sister Monica. “Tell me about the man who built the building for your order,” Kate asked, she hoped not too peremptorily.

“I don’t know much about him” came the answer. “He was born here, went away and grew rich. He wanted to do something for his birthplace, and built this building for the Church. In time, the priest who was then in charge in these parts gave it to our order, having nothing else to do with it. At least we have tried to keep it from collapsing entirely.”

“Where is he now?”

“Who? The priest? He retired and has not been replaced.”

“I meant the man who gave the building to the Church,” Kate said. Be patient, she admonished herself, take it easy.

“I don’t know where he is. Do you want me to try to find out?”

“If you can,” Kate said. “Do you know his name?”

“Yes,” said Sister Monica, giving it. “Why, Kate?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve followed out this idea, if it leads to anything. If it doesn’t, there’s no point. Just one more question, Monica–Sister Monica.”

“Yes?”

“Would it be hard or easy for someone, a stranger, to steal the painting? I mean, are there times when no one is about, when, say, a car or a person coming or going might not be observed?”

“I suppose so,” Sister Monica said. “One or more sisters are usually about. But we have so much to do, there are so many people who need us, that if someone were to watch and wait–yes, I suppose a car or person would not be observed. Everyone around here has a car; we have several. There’s no other way to get about.”

“Thank you,” Kate said. “I’ll be in touch. I’ll write, in fact, since telephoning seems an intrusion. I’ll either tell you what I think happened to your painting, or I’ll tell you that I have not the least idea what happened to your painting; I’ll write in either case.”

“Good-bye, dear Kate,” Sister Monica said. “God bless.”

Kate, hanging up at her end, found herself pleased by the blessing. Odd, she thought.

THE DONOR OF
Sister Monica’s adobe convent was not hard to find. He was, indeed, famous in many circles, not least as an art collector. Kate found out a great deal about him–which took several months of intermittent questions by her and someone hired by her–including his recent travels and acquisitions. Certainly he was not known to have any painting by Judith Leyster, or indeed from that period. He specialized rather in French and Italian paintings.

In the end, Kate turned back to her books, back to
where she had begun: with Harris and Nochlin. She knew by now that “The Proposition” had been acquired by the Mauritshuis Museum in 1892 as the work of an unknown artist. No recent study of the painting had been published, at least by the date of the Harris-Nochlin book. It was while reading a book by Aline B. Saarinen sometime later that Kate solved the mystery. At least, she was able to tell Sister Monica where the painting was, but it was up to Sister Monica to get it back, or to request help from the authorities to get it back.

But Sister Monica retrieved the painting alone, by her own efforts. She found out where the donor of the sisters’ building was living, and went to see him. What she said to him, how she managed, before that, to be shown into his presence, she told no one, then or later, not even Kate. Her gratitude to Kate was eagerly expressed: the sisters prayed for her and blessed her as they stood in the refectory, admiring their recovered painting, as mysteriously returned to them as it had been mysteriously abducted.

Sister Monica not only prayed for Kate, and blessed her, she wrote her to thank her more formally. “I wish there were some manner by which I could repay you,” she wrote, “but I know such are not the ways of God. You honored our youthful friendship, and I shall always be grateful and marvelously moved by that. I know that friendship to you means something of what holiness means to me, and although you will not call your commitment from God, I am, of course, free to call it what I will. Was it God or you who led me to the picture, who arranged its return to us? I shall never know. And of course, dear Kate, if you do not care to tell me, I shall never know how you managed to guide me to the recovery of the painting, for which we are all eternally grateful.”

•
•
•

KATE DID IN
the end write to Sister Monica to explain what she had extrapolated from her reading. Kate did so because she felt she owed it to what Sister Monica no doubt thought of as her, Kate’s, secular humanism. If God exists, and operates, and affects events, Kate–never one to abandon a debate–argued, He or She has to work through human beings, and therefore His or Her existence must remain forever in question.

“As for what I guessed, dear Sister Monica,” Kate wrote, “it was inspired by an essay Aline Saarinen wrote on Isabella Stewart Gardner, whose Vermeer we spoke of, although that theft took place long after Saarinen’s book.
^*
Saarinen pointed out that Italian families, at the time of the great American art collectors like Isabella Stewart Gardner, hated selling their pictures, hated looking at bare places on their walls, hated admitting that they were in straitened circumstances: ‘When these proud aristocrats sold paintings, they usually demanded a copy to serve as a permanent “stand-in.” ’ These ersatz pictures have ‘created a certain amount of confusion in the art world,’ Saarinen notes.

“Well, dear Monica, I put this information, which might, I thought, apply to others besides the Italians, together with the fact that when the Mauritshuis acquired your Leyster painting, they put it in the basement, since it was by an unknown painter. Sometime, who knows when, a copy–or so I suspect–was made and placed in the storeroom. When women’s paintings became more interesting to the art world, or perhaps earlier, ‘The Proposition’ moved up to a gallery. But was it the real painting, or an excellent copy made most carefully on an old wood panel of the same size, with paints that would have been available in the seventeenth century?