indeed the rest of the congregation, sit through the two services on Sacrament Sunday, through long sermons or when the Litany was said or sung? Was it perhaps usual to have a chamber pot tucked away under the wooden seat?
And now they were walking up the aisle towards the altar. Father Martin moved to a pillar behind the pulpit and put up his hand to a switch. Immediately the gloom of the church seemed to deepen into a darkness as, with dramatic suddenness, the painting glowed into life and colour. The figures of the Virgin and St. Joseph, fixed in their silent adoration for over five hundred years, seemed for a moment to float away from the wood on which they were painted to hang like a trembling vision on the still air. The Virgin had been painted against a background of intricate brocade in gold and brown which in its richness emphasized her simplicity and vulnerability. She was seated on a low stool with the naked Christ child resting on a white cloth on her lap. Her face was a pale and perfect oval, the mouthtender under a narrow nose, the heavily lidded eyes under thinly arched brows fixed on the child with an expression of resigned wonder. From a high smooth forehead the strands of crimped auburn hair fell over her blue mantle to the delicate hands and fingers barely touching in prayer. The child gazed up at her with both arms raised, as if foreshadowing the crucifixion. St. Joseph, red-coated, was seated to the right in the painting, a prematurely aged, half-sleeping custodian, heavily leaning on a stick.
For a moment Dalgliesh and Father Martin stood in silence. Father Martin didn’t speak until he had turned off the light. Dalgliesh wondered whether he had been inhibited from mundane conversation while the painting was working its magic.
Now he said, “The experts seem to agree that it’s a genuine Rogier van der Weyden, probably painted between 1440 and 1445. The other two panels probably showed saints with portraits of the donor and his family.”
Dalgliesh asked, “What is its provenance?”
“Miss Arbuthnot gave it to the college the year after we were founded. She intended it as an altar-piece and we have never considered having it anywhere else. It was my predecessor, Father Nicholas Warburg, who called in the experts. He was very interested in paintings, particularly Netherlands Renaissance, and had a natural curiosity to know whether it was genuine. In the document which accompanied the gift, Miss Arbuthnot merely described it as part of an altar triptych showing St. Mary and St. Joseph, possibly attributable to Rogier van der Weyden. I can’t help feeling that it would be better if we’d left it like that. We could just enjoy the painting without being obsessed with its safety.”
“How did Miss Arbuthnot acquire it?”
“Oh, by purchase. A landed family was disposing of some of its art treasures to help keep the estate going. That kind of thing. I don’t think Miss Arbuthnot paid very highly for it. There was the doubt about the attribution and, even if genuine, this particular painter wasn’t as well known or as highly regarded in the 1860s as he is today. It’s a responsibility, of course. I know that the Archdeacon feels very strongly that it ought to be moved.”
“Moved where?”
“To a cathedral, perhaps, where greater security would be possible. Perhaps even to a gallery or a museum. I believe he has even suggested to Father Sebastian that it should be sold.”
Dalgliesh said, “And the money given to the poor?”
“Well, to the Church. His other argument is that more people should have a chance to enjoy it. Why should a small remote theological college add this to our other privileges?”
There was a note of bitterness in Father Martin’s voice. Dalgliesh didn’t speak, and after a pause his companion, as if feeling that he may have gone too far, went on.
“These are valid arguments. Perhaps we ought to take account of them, but it’s difficult to visualize the
And now they were walking up the aisle towards the altar. Father Martin moved to a pillar behind the pulpit and put up his hand to a switch. Immediately the gloom of the church seemed to deepen into a darkness as, with dramatic suddenness, the painting glowed into life and colour. The figures of the Virgin and St. Joseph, fixed in their silent adoration for over five hundred years, seemed for a moment to float away from the wood on which they were painted to hang like a trembling vision on the still air. The Virgin had been painted against a background of intricate brocade in gold and brown which in its richness emphasized her simplicity and vulnerability. She was seated on a low stool with the naked Christ child resting on a white cloth on her lap. Her face was a pale and perfect oval, the mouthtender under a narrow nose, the heavily lidded eyes under thinly arched brows fixed on the child with an expression of resigned wonder. From a high smooth forehead the strands of crimped auburn hair fell over her blue mantle to the delicate hands and fingers barely touching in prayer. The child gazed up at her with both arms raised, as if foreshadowing the crucifixion. St. Joseph, red-coated, was seated to the right in the painting, a prematurely aged, half-sleeping custodian, heavily leaning on a stick.
For a moment Dalgliesh and Father Martin stood in silence. Father Martin didn’t speak until he had turned off the light. Dalgliesh wondered whether he had been inhibited from mundane conversation while the painting was working its magic.
Now he said, “The experts seem to agree that it’s a genuine Rogier van der Weyden, probably painted between 1440 and 1445. The other two panels probably showed saints with portraits of the donor and his family.”
Dalgliesh asked, “What is its provenance?”
“Miss Arbuthnot gave it to the college the year after we were founded. She intended it as an altar-piece and we have never considered having it anywhere else. It was my predecessor, Father Nicholas Warburg, who called in the experts. He was very interested in paintings, particularly Netherlands Renaissance, and had a natural curiosity to know whether it was genuine. In the document which accompanied the gift, Miss Arbuthnot merely described it as part of an altar triptych showing St. Mary and St. Joseph, possibly attributable to Rogier van der Weyden. I can’t help feeling that it would be better if we’d left it like that. We could just enjoy the painting without being obsessed with its safety.”
“How did Miss Arbuthnot acquire it?”
“Oh, by purchase. A landed family was disposing of some of its art treasures to help keep the estate going. That kind of thing. I don’t think Miss Arbuthnot paid very highly for it. There was the doubt about the attribution and, even if genuine, this particular painter wasn’t as well known or as highly regarded in the 1860s as he is today. It’s a responsibility, of course. I know that the Archdeacon feels very strongly that it ought to be moved.”
“Moved where?”
“To a cathedral, perhaps, where greater security would be possible. Perhaps even to a gallery or a museum. I believe he has even suggested to Father Sebastian that it should be sold.”
Dalgliesh said, “And the money given to the poor?”
“Well, to the Church. His other argument is that more people should have a chance to enjoy it. Why should a small remote theological college add this to our other privileges?”
There was a note of bitterness in Father Martin’s voice. Dalgliesh didn’t speak, and after a pause his companion, as if feeling that he may have gone too far, went on.
“These are valid arguments. Perhaps we ought to take account of them, but it’s difficult to visualize the
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