Authors: Susan Conant
Steve smiled. “She got another dog, and he died of apoplexy?”
“Actually, I don’t know what he died of. I guess it could’ve been apoplexy.” I paused to eat some salad. “What is apoplexy, anyway?”
“A stroke.”
“Well, I can’t imagine that another dog would’ve bothered him. He must’ve been used to it by then. Besides, they lived in separate houses. As far as I know, they were both perfectly happy with the arrangement. I mean, I do sort of assume that he was driven out by her dogs, but after that, I think maybe they had quite a happy marriage. I’ve wondered whether the death of their son might not have brought them together. He was their only child. It must have been a terrible loss for both of them. They donated lots of things in his memory. He went to Princeton. There’s a gateway in his memory there, a great big monumental arch, and I think they both gave that. And the Madison, New Jersey, town hall. The entire building.”
“What did she look like?”
“The
Times
called her ‘outdoorsy.’ Or something like that. Big. Heavy by today’s standards. When I first saw her pictures, I thought she was homely, but the more I know about her, the more I see her as imposing. She looked powerful. And gracious.”
To hear each other over the din of the crowded café, Steve and I had been leaning over our plates. Since we hadn’t been discussing anything private, at least for a while, we hadn’t been paying attention to whether we were overheard. Consequently, when I finished my lunch and casually looked around, I was surprised to find the art student at the next table regarding me with a piercing look I couldn’t read. Anger? Suspicion? Something unpleasant. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to arouse his attention.
After we left the café, we went to the museum shop. There Steve bought me a beautiful guide to the treasures of Fenway Court. The covert message was, I guess, that I should read about museums instead of dragging him to them, but I was
still grateful. I insisted that before we left, we had to go up to the third floor to see the museum’s most famous painting, Titian’s
Europa.
For some mysterious reason, the robbers had left it. Maybe it was too big for them. The canvas alone must be at least five feet by six feet. Or maybe no one had ordered it: One of the many hypotheses about the heist was that the robbers had arrived with a shopping list dictated by a nefarious mastermind who arranged to have particular works stolen on commission for wealthy collectors.
“If so,” I said to Steve as we stood before the grand canvas, “you’d think that this would’ve topped the list.”
What it shows is a plump nude woman riding a bull through the sea. The full title is
The Rape of Europa.
As my brand-new book informed me, Zeus, the father of the gods, stumbled across the beautiful Europa while she was strolling by the sea. To seduce her, he transformed himself into a gorgeous, tame white bull, and in that guise, lured her onto his back and then took off with her to Crete. Archaic date rape. As I recalled, Zeus was always running around with young women. You could hardly blame him, really. His wife, Hera, was a shrew, wasn’t she? Also, wasn’t she his sister? Anyway, the big painting was lush and, despite the rape theme, joyful. It actually got to Steve, who studied it for a few minutes and then suggested that I might want to gain a pound or two.
Since we found ourselves on the third floor, we wandered around, leaned over the open gallery to get a high view of the courtyard, then meandered into the room that contains the best-known portrait of Isabella Stewart Gardner. According to my guidebook, it was painted by John Singer Sargent in 1888, when Mr. Gardner was still alive. Although his wife was forty-seven at the time, the painting made her look about twenty years younger, and her husband apparently didn’t like the halo around her head, the plunging neckline, or the loving portrayal of her alluring body, so he decided that the painting shouldn’t be exhibited in public.
Maybe Mr. Gardner was right. On his knees before the John Singer Sargent portrait was the art student from the
café. His head was tilted upward. His face wore an expression of unabashed adoration. He was kneeling not to examine the brushwork or the technique. He wasn’t worshiping John Singer Sargent. No, he knelt in worshipful prayer before, perhaps even to, Saint Isabella Stewart Gardner.
I
FOLLOWED THE NORMAL
morning routine of a hardworking freelance writer by drinking coffee and reading the paper. Among the death notices was the name MOTHERWAY—C
HRISTINA
(H
EINCK
), beloved wife of B. Robert, as the paper called her. She had died at home after a long illness. Funeral services and interment would take place at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. Christina Motherway’s death came as no surprise; Mr. Motherway had made it clear that his wife was dying. He’d been determined to keep her out of an institution. His desire had been granted; she had died at home.
Mount Auburn Cemetery was no surprise, either. It’s so beautiful and so upper-crust that it almost seems a shame its permanent inhabitants are in no position to enjoy the verdant gentility of their surroundings, not to mention what would undoubtedly be the stimulating company of such famous and diverse neighbors as Mary Baker Eddy, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, B. F. Skinner, Winslow Homer, and Isabella Stewart Gardner. It is also the final resting place of Rowdy’s previous owner, Dr. Frank Stanton, whose grave I visit occasionally to deliver updates on Rowdy’s accomplishments. When I take Rowdy to visit his former owner, I have to sneak him in, because Mount Auburn prohibits dogs. Live dogs, that is. Remains, too, I believe. Art, however, has achieved a
symbolic triumph over the ban by populating the garden cemetery with splendid representations in stone of mastiffs, sheepdogs, and other noble canines, as illustrated in photographs and described in words by yours truly in a
Dog’s Life
article people still compliment me on. Mount Auburn also forbids bicycling, skating, and picnicking, but actively encourages what Rita informs me is properly termed “birding” rather than “bird watching.” To my initial astonishment—Rita is anything but outdoorsy—she had recently enrolled in an introductory course on the subject. My amazement faded when I discovered, first, that she was going on guided walks at Mount Auburn rather than plunging through wilderness and, second, that she found it impossible to do so much as glance at a house sparrow, never mind identify one, unless she was attired in one of a variety of fashionable new earth-toned outfits chosen, I suspected, more to attract the human male members of her birding group than to fool the avian population of Mount Auburn into mistaking a psychotherapist for a tree, a shrub, or some other natural entity.
So Christina Motherway had been close to death, and the move from the Motherways’ aristocratic colonial house to the equally elite grounds of Mount Auburn was about as minimal a discontinuity as such transitions ever are. The surprise was this: According to the death notice, Christina Heinck Motherway, beloved wife of B. Robert, was also survived by her devoted son and daughter-in-law, Peter B. and Jocelyn Motherway, and a grandson, Christopher Motherway. The sullen kennel help? Peter. The silent maid? Jocelyn. Maybe I should have guessed. After all, Mr. Motherway hadn’t said of Jocelyn, as employers do of maids, that she was just like one of the family.
Christina Motherway’s funeral was scheduled for Wednesday. I had an appointment with her husband on Friday afternoon. He certainly wouldn’t want to keep it; indeed, he’d probably forgotten it. Even so, soon after reading the death notice, I decided to call Mr. Motherway to cancel our meeting as well as to express my sympathy. Yet I found myself postponing the phone call.
The reason for my procrastination was clear: I felt as if I
should send flowers, but because I was working on the book about the Morris and Essex shows instead of generating income-producing articles, I was even more broke than usual. The kind of cheesy floral arrangement I could afford would be worse than no flowers at all, wouldn’t it? Feeling like a tightwad, I wished that the death notice had requested donations in Mrs. Motherway’s memory be sent to some charity that would inform her husband I had sent a check and would tactfully refrain from specifying that it had been for a measly amount. A phone call followed by a tasteful letter of condolence would be preferable to a shoddy little basket of dyed carnations and cheap ferns, wouldn’t it? Putting off the call, I reminded myself that I had met Mr. Motherway only once, his late wife, never; there was no obligation to send flowers. Still, I felt ashamed of having no choice in the matter.
Having firmly reminded myself that Mr. Motherway was not going to cross-question me about whether I was sending an expensive wreath of rosebuds, I finally dialed his number. He answered himself. I’d somehow expected to hear Jocelyn’s voice. I began by saying that I was very sorry to hear about his wife. As soon as I spoke, I felt foolish. I hadn’t heard about her death; I’d read about it. The distinction was trivial. My self-consciousness gave it undue importance. Mr. Motherway didn’t embarrass me by asking, for example, who had told me. He just thanked me.
Talking to the recently bereaved always makes me feel as if every word I utter should sound mournful. “We had an appointment on Friday.” I spoke as if the world were coming to an end on Thursday night.
“We still do,” Mr. Motherway said matter-of-factly. “Unless it’s inconvenient for you?” He paused. “Car trouble?”
“No.” I was suddenly more defensive than dolorous. People couldn’t fail to notice that my Bronco was a disaster, but they should have the grace to keep their impressions to themselves. Recapturing my funereal tone, I said, “No, I just didn’t want to intrude.”
“Not at all!” That’s not exactly what he said. He ran the
at all
together:
a-tall!
“Not a-tall!” he repeated. “It would be a pleasure. And I’ve come across a few snapshots that
might be of minor interest to you. Nothing of Mrs. Dodge, I’m sorry to say. Still, they are from Morris and Essex, and they’ve revived a few old memories. One is of a dog of my stepfather’s. There’s another with a judge you might have heard of, Forstmeister Marquandt.”
“I
have
heard of him! He was from Germany.” Again, I felt foolish. Where else would someone named Forstmeister Marquandt have come from, for heaven’s sake? Italy? Well, Austria, maybe. France. Lots of other countries. Still, I tried to redeem myself. “He was the president of the Dachshunde Club of Germany. That must have been in 1937.”
Just as Isabella Stewart Gardner had brought European art to America, Mrs. Dodge had imported European dogs and European judges. In those days, it seemed to me, everything foreign had been more alluringly exotic than it was now. The names of some dog breeds had yet to be anglicized. Today’s
samoyeds
had an extra
e
at the end:
samoyedes. Dachshunds
ended in an
e
, too:
dachshunde.
It was easy to imagine that those long-ago dogs had recognized themselves as other than ordinary American canines, and had flaunted their foreign-ness by barking in exotic tongues and gaiting across show rings with a stylishly international flair. In 1937, the Dachshunde Club of America held its national specialty, its annual all-dachshund show, in conjunction with Morris and Essex. The specialty began on the day before Morris and Essex, and continued on the day of the grand show. The dachshund had a bigger entry than any other breed.
“Marquandt. Delightful fellow,” Mr. Motherway commented.
I was suitably impressed, which is to say, impressed with myself: Here I was chatting with someone who had not merely watched Forstmeister Marquandt judge dachshunds at Morris and Essex in 1937, but who had found the famous foreign judge a delightful fellow. I couldn’t afford flowers. I drove an old car, or I did when the engine started, anyway. I hadn’t even entered Rowdy in any of the upcoming summer shows because I couldn’t swing the fee for his handler, and I couldn’t count on the Bronco to transport him. So what? I was a step away from modestly declaring Forstmeister Marquandt
a delightful fellow. Glory, glory. I could hardly wait to keep the Friday appointment.
I should have spent the intervening days working on the book and writing freelance articles. I might even have drafted my next column for
Dog’s Life.
Instead, I devoted myself to what I rationalized as research. I surfed the Web and exchanged e-mail. Searching the Web for references to Geraldine R. Dodge produced an overwhelming number of Web sites that thanked the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation for supporting activities Mrs. Dodge had cared nothing about. In 1955, Mrs. Dodge drafted a will leaving the bulk of her fortune to St. Hubert’s Giralda, an animal shelter she had founded in 1938. In October of 1962, she signed a will stipulating that most of her estate be used to establish the Foundation, a charity with broad goals that have little to do with dogs. Seven months after signing that will, she was declared mentally incompetent. She was, too. If she’d been in her right mind, she’d have made sure that her money went where her heart had always been. A court battle raged after her death. Eventually, the second will was recognized as the valid one. Outrageous! A perversion of justice. Here was a woman who had devoted a long lifetime to worshiping dogs. Then, in a burst of dementia, she suddenly got the crazy idea of funding this ridiculous foundation. And did the court dismiss that second will as the product of a mind gone mad? No, it did not. Thus the zillions of Web sites thanking the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation for supporting environmental causes, education, public television, National Public Radio, and other worthwhile endeavors about which she didn’t give a damn.
That’s not quite true. She did give a damn about some of the causes, and she didn’t entirely disinherit animals. St. Hubert’s Giralda ended up with a fair chunk of money. And during her lifetime, Mrs. Dodge collected art, supported the arts, and donated generously to civic and charitable activities in New Jersey. She collected both dog art and … I’m at a loss for words here. Normal art? In about 1931, she bought a marble bust of Benjamin Franklin by Jean-Antoine Houdon. After her death, the British Rail Pension Fund paid $310,000 for it. It subsequently cost the Philadelphia Museum of Art a
whopping three million. And it wasn’t a bust of a
dog
named Benjamin Franklin, either. In 1935, Mrs. Dodge presented Madison, New Jersey, with what is still its town hall, the Hartley Dodge Memorial Building, given, of course, in memory of her son. The original estimate of the cost of the town hall was $500,000. It ended up costing $800,000. Mrs. Dodge apparently didn’t balk at coming up with an extra $300,000, and she paid for all the equipment and furnishings as well.