THE LONG ROAD
1
It all started three years ago on a lazy Saturday in the middle of summer. Why my friends wanted to visit the Dallas Museum of Art remained a mystery. Sure it had some interesting pieces among its permanent collection, but the warm sun was shining after several days of rain. We could have gone swimming, biking, hiking, or any number of fun outdoor activities. Maybe even a day trip or weekend getaway. But no, my best friend insisted the time had come for us to expand our knowledge, despite the fact that we had visited a museum the previous week. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to go, but the majority won with a 4-2 decision.
We first headed to the contemporary section, then climbed a stairway to the European galleries on the second floor. As always, we took the left passage because it led to all the old paintings and sculptures, starting with Ancient Greece and Rome. We made a right turn and entered a room filled with Baroque and Rococo artwork. While everyone else was examining a golden clock and making jokes about it, I turned my attention elsewhere. Although there were several artworks hanging on the wall, one particular painting caught my eye. It was bright, soft, and colorful, as though it had been done with pastels rather than oil paint. It showed a garden party taking place while workers harvested fruit in the background. And near the center of all the frivolity taking place, a man was leaning over a woman, his lips clamped onto her neck. She seemed to be struggling to maintain her balance to keep herself from falling off a bale of hay while the man bit into her flesh. He looked like a vampire feeding upon his new victim, completely oblivious to the surroundings. Maybe the others didn’t mind because they too were vampires.
I laughed at the absurdity and looked at the label. Made sometime between 1730 and 1733, A Fête Champêtre During the Grape Harvest was painted by Jean-Baptiste Pater, a French artist who specialized in the Rococo style as a result of being influenced by his teacher Jean-Antoine Watteau. I could not attain much else from the description. For the vast majority read like a collegiate thesis. Nevertheless, I felt a desire to learn more about this painter of vampires once I got home from the trip.
After the uneventful visit, I headed home and collapsed on my couch, intending to get some rest before dinner. As it turned out, my dinner turned into a small lunch. For I decided to ingest two ham sandwiches and a glass of apple juice. I turned my attention to doing my usual rounds on the internet. Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, and a few news feeds were on the menu. Then I remembered the vampire painter. I entered the name Jean-Baptiste Pater into the Google search engine and began my research.
For someone who was supposed to have had a big influence on his peers, there sure wasn’t a whole lot written about him. Most articles had the content of a two-page essay written on notebook paper. And this is being generous because the length usually amounted to three or four paragraphs. Those pieces which did exceed the self-imposed quota focused on the paintings rather than the artist himself. Filled with padding designed to impress college professors with vocabulary and jargon, the articles proved themselves to be useless. The findings of my research were interesting, but not particularly memorable.
Born in the northern French city of Valenciennes, Jean-Baptiste Pater enjoyed the privilege of learning how to make sculptures from his father Antoine. He obtained further training from a painter named Jean-Baptist Guidé. Around 1710, he moved to Paris and met Jean-Antoine Watteau three years later.
Watteau was also raised in Valenciennes, but his father was a roof tiler and not an artist. Thus, he had to get his training by serving as an apprentice. Jean-Antoine eventually moved to Paris, taking with him very few possessions. He survived during his early years by producing copies of famous works painted by artists Paolo Veronese and Tiziano Vecellio. Watteau found employment serving as an assistant to painter Claude Gillot. He adopted the Rococo style, then expanded it by depicting large scenes of the upper class enjoying the outdoors. This new genre of the style was called fête galante.
Jean-Antoine decided to make Pater his pupil, then proceeded to teach him what he knew. However, Watteau’s temperament made the relationship difficult, often resulting in arguments and ultimately leading to a breakup. This brief period of time had a large impact on Pater’s artwork.
Pater returned to his hometown around 1716, but he remained there for only two years because he was not a member of the Guild of Saint Luke. He moved back to Paris and reconciled with Watteau in 1721. Once again, he took on the role of student, but it would not last very long. For Watteau was approaching death, having contracted a deadly case of tuberculous laryngitis that left him completely mute near the end. It was during this time, more than any other, that had the most influence regarding his career.
After Jean-Antoine’s death, Pater worked on completing his teacher’s commissions, and involved himself with a project to produce prints of the artist’s previous paintings. The Académie Royale admitted him into its fold in 1728, providing him with more prestige as he continued focusing on the fêtes galantes genre.
And so ends the story of the vampire painter. To say that I was highly disappointed would be an understatement. Pater was just a standard artist of the time, specializing in the Rococo style. The scholars claimed that his works impacted a large number of people, yet in the same sentence they say that he was barely mentioned in the writings of those living during the time period. This was something I did not expect. Regardless, I decided to move forward and explore the artwork he had made throughout his career.
As I sifted through the myriad of photographs, one of them caught my attention because it depicted a drawing instead of the usual oil painting. It depicted a middle-aged woman sitting on an invisible object while wearing traditional attire from head to toe. Called Study of a Seated Woman, the sketch was drawn using red chalk and a sheet of tan paper. The caption underneath the photograph revealed that Jean-Baptiste adopted the practice of drawing figures in a notebook so they could later be used in the composition of future paintings. The sketch I viewed was one of them. Pater planned to use it for a painting which was called The Halting Place of the Troops. Completed in 1732, the artwork depicted a group of soldiers relaxing in an outdoor setting. What made it unique among the other paintings Jean-Baptiste completed was the fact that its current whereabouts remained a mystery. Upon learning this, I started the long journey to find its location.
We first headed to the contemporary section, then climbed a stairway to the European galleries on the second floor. As always, we took the left passage because it led to all the old paintings and sculptures, starting with Ancient Greece and Rome. We made a right turn and entered a room filled with Baroque and Rococo artwork. While everyone else was examining a golden clock and making jokes about it, I turned my attention elsewhere. Although there were several artworks hanging on the wall, one particular painting caught my eye. It was bright, soft, and colorful, as though it had been done with pastels rather than oil paint. It showed a garden party taking place while workers harvested fruit in the background. And near the center of all the frivolity taking place, a man was leaning over a woman, his lips clamped onto her neck. She seemed to be struggling to maintain her balance to keep herself from falling off a bale of hay while the man bit into her flesh. He looked like a vampire feeding upon his new victim, completely oblivious to the surroundings. Maybe the others didn’t mind because they too were vampires.
I laughed at the absurdity and looked at the label. Made sometime between 1730 and 1733, A Fête Champêtre During the Grape Harvest was painted by Jean-Baptiste Pater, a French artist who specialized in the Rococo style as a result of being influenced by his teacher Jean-Antoine Watteau. I could not attain much else from the description. For the vast majority read like a collegiate thesis. Nevertheless, I felt a desire to learn more about this painter of vampires once I got home from the trip.
After the uneventful visit, I headed home and collapsed on my couch, intending to get some rest before dinner. As it turned out, my dinner turned into a small lunch. For I decided to ingest two ham sandwiches and a glass of apple juice. I turned my attention to doing my usual rounds on the internet. Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, and a few news feeds were on the menu. Then I remembered the vampire painter. I entered the name Jean-Baptiste Pater into the Google search engine and began my research.
For someone who was supposed to have had a big influence on his peers, there sure wasn’t a whole lot written about him. Most articles had the content of a two-page essay written on notebook paper. And this is being generous because the length usually amounted to three or four paragraphs. Those pieces which did exceed the self-imposed quota focused on the paintings rather than the artist himself. Filled with padding designed to impress college professors with vocabulary and jargon, the articles proved themselves to be useless. The findings of my research were interesting, but not particularly memorable.
Born in the northern French city of Valenciennes, Jean-Baptiste Pater enjoyed the privilege of learning how to make sculptures from his father Antoine. He obtained further training from a painter named Jean-Baptist Guidé. Around 1710, he moved to Paris and met Jean-Antoine Watteau three years later.
Watteau was also raised in Valenciennes, but his father was a roof tiler and not an artist. Thus, he had to get his training by serving as an apprentice. Jean-Antoine eventually moved to Paris, taking with him very few possessions. He survived during his early years by producing copies of famous works painted by artists Paolo Veronese and Tiziano Vecellio. Watteau found employment serving as an assistant to painter Claude Gillot. He adopted the Rococo style, then expanded it by depicting large scenes of the upper class enjoying the outdoors. This new genre of the style was called fête galante.
Jean-Antoine decided to make Pater his pupil, then proceeded to teach him what he knew. However, Watteau’s temperament made the relationship difficult, often resulting in arguments and ultimately leading to a breakup. This brief period of time had a large impact on Pater’s artwork.
Pater returned to his hometown around 1716, but he remained there for only two years because he was not a member of the Guild of Saint Luke. He moved back to Paris and reconciled with Watteau in 1721. Once again, he took on the role of student, but it would not last very long. For Watteau was approaching death, having contracted a deadly case of tuberculous laryngitis that left him completely mute near the end. It was during this time, more than any other, that had the most influence regarding his career.
After Jean-Antoine’s death, Pater worked on completing his teacher’s commissions, and involved himself with a project to produce prints of the artist’s previous paintings. The Académie Royale admitted him into its fold in 1728, providing him with more prestige as he continued focusing on the fêtes galantes genre.
And so ends the story of the vampire painter. To say that I was highly disappointed would be an understatement. Pater was just a standard artist of the time, specializing in the Rococo style. The scholars claimed that his works impacted a large number of people, yet in the same sentence they say that he was barely mentioned in the writings of those living during the time period. This was something I did not expect. Regardless, I decided to move forward and explore the artwork he had made throughout his career.
As I sifted through the myriad of photographs, one of them caught my attention because it depicted a drawing instead of the usual oil painting. It depicted a middle-aged woman sitting on an invisible object while wearing traditional attire from head to toe. Called Study of a Seated Woman, the sketch was drawn using red chalk and a sheet of tan paper. The caption underneath the photograph revealed that Jean-Baptiste adopted the practice of drawing figures in a notebook so they could later be used in the composition of future paintings. The sketch I viewed was one of them. Pater planned to use it for a painting which was called The Halting Place of the Troops. Completed in 1732, the artwork depicted a group of soldiers relaxing in an outdoor setting. What made it unique among the other paintings Jean-Baptiste completed was the fact that its current whereabouts remained a mystery. Upon learning this, I started the long journey to find its location.
2
I wanted to learn about the story around painting’s disappearance out of curiosity, at least that’s what I told myself in the beginning. In the back of my mind, images of wealth and prestige manifested themselves, feeding fantasies of what would happen if I found the artwork. Even if such a thing were not possible, the pursuit would help fill the long hours afforded by the luxury of early retirement.
Researching Jean-Baptiste Pater was a cakewalk compared to the trials and tribulation of finding information on his lost painting. I would have thought that since the artwork was missing there would be at least one article or essay speculating upon its current whereabouts. Instead, I found nothing. Not even a paragraph. I couldn’t even locate more than one sentence. When I did come across something, it usually ended up being nothing more than a declaration that the painting existed.
From the outer edges of the internet, I delved into the depths of the research databases found at the Dallas Public Library. The problem here wasn’t the lack of potential resources, but the overwhelming abundance of them. I had at least fifty different databases to choose from, and each possessed thousands, if not millions, of sources ready to be explored. Making matters worse, I could not simply enter the title of the painting because doing so would only multiply the results, most of them having nothing to do with the painting, the artist, or even the subject of art history. And so I was stuck with the tedious task of entering Pater’s full name and going through the results. It felt like an eternity, reading each summary and determining if the source in question was worth pursuing. Indeed, the only thing that kept me going was the promise of prestige if I found the missing painting.
I eventually completed the hunt for materials, thankful the ordeal was over. I took the list with me to the library and spent a small fortune using the loan service. While waiting for the articles, essays, and books to arrive, I posted questions on various forums and message boards in addition to reading those items which were available in the periodical section. I also visited college professors for advice on how to proceed if I could not obtain the information I needed from my research. Unfortunately, I already knew most of things they told me.
A period of inactivity soon followed, but it did not last for long. I found myself buried in a steady flow of books, documents, journals, and magazines. In addition to my large desk, they could be found on the dining room table and all over the floor. To make matters worse it seemed as though every time I finished reading one source, I would receive a notification that two more were ready to be picked up. I was thankful that I didn’t have a pet, or I would have completely lost my sanity after the first two weeks.
When I had finished all the reading, an accomplishment that necessitated a large celebration, I took a look at all my notes. It did not take long. For the results of my research were similar to those relating to my internet escapades. Once again, the vast majority of articles either provided a vague outline of Pater’s life and his accomplishments or examined various characteristics of the paintings. And once again, I was left shaking my head in disgust. I had about half a page of useful notes. But half a page was better than nothing, I told myself as I started the long task of throwing away the wasted piles of printing paper, often wondering if it was worth all the trouble. Then Bissera Troy contacted me.
Bissera was an assistant professor of Art History who specialized in the study of the Old Masters, artists who produced paintings before the 1800s. I had previously visited her office at Southern Methodist University to learn more about Jean-Baptiste and gain insight on locating missing artwork. Although discussion of the latter subject proved interesting, it ultimately did not help much, mostly because I lacked the time, money, and resources. This disappointment was offset by her willingness to do some researching of her own. So I was delighted when she asked me to come to her office.
Upon my arrival, Bissera handed me a thin, green binder which had three typed pages inside it. I briefly glanced over them as she told me that I was looking in the wrong direction by focusing on the artist instead of the customers. Using the information I had given her, she was able to narrow down the possible suspects to three people, though one of them seemed too far-fetched. If I wanted to make any progress, it would be in my best interest to contact Emilia Schneider at Ludwig-Maximilian University of Munich. Emilia taught European art from the sixteenth century to the eighteenth, specializing in the study of the Baroque period. She also had a gift for identifying paintings, spotting fakes, and procuring artwork. After writing down the phone number, I thanked Bissera for all her help, especially considering the fact that she didn’t charge me for her time and effort. She smiled when I mentioned this and said that it was the first real challenge she had faced in a long time. I then left the office, confident that the final pieces would soon fall into place.
I called Amelia the following morning, having decided that it would be best to digest Bissera’s findings before contacting her friend in Munich. Speaking with a heavy German accent, she enthusiastically told me about rococo paintings, Watteau, and Pater before arriving at the heart of the matter. She knew quite a lot about the painting and its fate. Amelia finished the discussion by referring me to Jonathon Smythe, a Cambridge law professor she had contacted to help her tie up a few loose ends.
He did indeed tie up the loose ends, but provided some devastating news in the process. I saw why the painting could not be found, and yet I wondered if maybe it was a simple case of overlooking a small detail. I spent hour after hour, fruitlessly looking for a clue which would eventually lead to the prize. I found none. Not even a single hint. So I decided to take a break and focus on other things. At the very least, I had learned the circumstances of the disappearance.
Researching Jean-Baptiste Pater was a cakewalk compared to the trials and tribulation of finding information on his lost painting. I would have thought that since the artwork was missing there would be at least one article or essay speculating upon its current whereabouts. Instead, I found nothing. Not even a paragraph. I couldn’t even locate more than one sentence. When I did come across something, it usually ended up being nothing more than a declaration that the painting existed.
From the outer edges of the internet, I delved into the depths of the research databases found at the Dallas Public Library. The problem here wasn’t the lack of potential resources, but the overwhelming abundance of them. I had at least fifty different databases to choose from, and each possessed thousands, if not millions, of sources ready to be explored. Making matters worse, I could not simply enter the title of the painting because doing so would only multiply the results, most of them having nothing to do with the painting, the artist, or even the subject of art history. And so I was stuck with the tedious task of entering Pater’s full name and going through the results. It felt like an eternity, reading each summary and determining if the source in question was worth pursuing. Indeed, the only thing that kept me going was the promise of prestige if I found the missing painting.
I eventually completed the hunt for materials, thankful the ordeal was over. I took the list with me to the library and spent a small fortune using the loan service. While waiting for the articles, essays, and books to arrive, I posted questions on various forums and message boards in addition to reading those items which were available in the periodical section. I also visited college professors for advice on how to proceed if I could not obtain the information I needed from my research. Unfortunately, I already knew most of things they told me.
A period of inactivity soon followed, but it did not last for long. I found myself buried in a steady flow of books, documents, journals, and magazines. In addition to my large desk, they could be found on the dining room table and all over the floor. To make matters worse it seemed as though every time I finished reading one source, I would receive a notification that two more were ready to be picked up. I was thankful that I didn’t have a pet, or I would have completely lost my sanity after the first two weeks.
When I had finished all the reading, an accomplishment that necessitated a large celebration, I took a look at all my notes. It did not take long. For the results of my research were similar to those relating to my internet escapades. Once again, the vast majority of articles either provided a vague outline of Pater’s life and his accomplishments or examined various characteristics of the paintings. And once again, I was left shaking my head in disgust. I had about half a page of useful notes. But half a page was better than nothing, I told myself as I started the long task of throwing away the wasted piles of printing paper, often wondering if it was worth all the trouble. Then Bissera Troy contacted me.
Bissera was an assistant professor of Art History who specialized in the study of the Old Masters, artists who produced paintings before the 1800s. I had previously visited her office at Southern Methodist University to learn more about Jean-Baptiste and gain insight on locating missing artwork. Although discussion of the latter subject proved interesting, it ultimately did not help much, mostly because I lacked the time, money, and resources. This disappointment was offset by her willingness to do some researching of her own. So I was delighted when she asked me to come to her office.
Upon my arrival, Bissera handed me a thin, green binder which had three typed pages inside it. I briefly glanced over them as she told me that I was looking in the wrong direction by focusing on the artist instead of the customers. Using the information I had given her, she was able to narrow down the possible suspects to three people, though one of them seemed too far-fetched. If I wanted to make any progress, it would be in my best interest to contact Emilia Schneider at Ludwig-Maximilian University of Munich. Emilia taught European art from the sixteenth century to the eighteenth, specializing in the study of the Baroque period. She also had a gift for identifying paintings, spotting fakes, and procuring artwork. After writing down the phone number, I thanked Bissera for all her help, especially considering the fact that she didn’t charge me for her time and effort. She smiled when I mentioned this and said that it was the first real challenge she had faced in a long time. I then left the office, confident that the final pieces would soon fall into place.
I called Amelia the following morning, having decided that it would be best to digest Bissera’s findings before contacting her friend in Munich. Speaking with a heavy German accent, she enthusiastically told me about rococo paintings, Watteau, and Pater before arriving at the heart of the matter. She knew quite a lot about the painting and its fate. Amelia finished the discussion by referring me to Jonathon Smythe, a Cambridge law professor she had contacted to help her tie up a few loose ends.
He did indeed tie up the loose ends, but provided some devastating news in the process. I saw why the painting could not be found, and yet I wondered if maybe it was a simple case of overlooking a small detail. I spent hour after hour, fruitlessly looking for a clue which would eventually lead to the prize. I found none. Not even a single hint. So I decided to take a break and focus on other things. At the very least, I had learned the circumstances of the disappearance.
3
The story began with Frederick II, more commonly known as Frederick the Great. He ruled the Kingdom of Prussia from 1740 to 1786. As a member of the Hohenzollern Dynasty, he served for forty-six years, longer than any other king of the royal family. He gained popularity and fame by achieving military victories, expanding territory, reforming the court system, promoting the arts and sciences, and making the government bureaucracy more modern and efficient. Under his reign, Prussia became a powerful player on the world stage.
During his early years as a young prince, Frederick showed great interest in the arts with a strong emphasis on French culture, much to the consternation of a father who wanted him to focus on military matters. It was this love for the arts which led him to hire Jean-Baptiste Pater to paint two portraits for him. Pater had the prince sit and pose for both paintings, each depicting the subject as a Turkish king. The artist finished Le Sultan au Harem first, then completed Le Sultan au Jardin in 1730. Upon receiving the second portrait, Frederick secretly commissioned a third painting as a gift for a Prussian officer named Hans Hermann Von Katte.
Hans served as one of Frederick’s tutors and became close friends with him. This relationship turned into an affair, one which led Frederick to plan a one-way trip to England with Katte and a few other officers. One of the party members, however, had second thoughts along the way and told the king everything, resulting in the arrest of Frederick and Katte. The two were imprisoned inside a fortress in the town of Küstrin while waiting for their sentence. Frederick William considered executing his son, weighed the option of making his brother Augustus the new heir, then forced Frederick to watch the executioner remove Katte’s head. His son received a pardon in November 1731, but he had to intensively study the field of governmental administration until February 1732.
During this time, Frederick sent a message to Jean-Baptiste telling him to continue the painting. His friend may have been dead, but the artwork could serve as an excellent wedding gift for his bride-to-be. He had no specific plans to get married. Yet he suspected that his relatives were already putting into motion plans to ensure that he would have a wife. Such was the case when Frederick returned to Berlin.
The Prussian king tried to arrange a marriage with Elisabeth of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, the niece of Empress Anna Ioannovna of Russia, but Prince Eugene of Savoy stepped in and opposed the matching. Frederick then suggested proposing to Maria Theresa of Austria, but Eugene interfered once more and got someone to persuade the king that Frederick should marry Elisabeth Christine of Brunswick-Bevern, a member of the Austrian Habsburgs. And so, the wedding took place on June 12, 1733 despite a lack of love and affection from the couple.
Jean Baptiste completed The Halting Place of the Troops just in time for the wedding, presented to the bride by his colleague Jean de Jullienne. Depicting a group of soldiers relaxing in the countryside, the painting did not appeal to Elisabeth, who only glanced at it briefly before giving a polite response. After all the festivities, she handed the painting to an acquaintance named Emma Stoufer. Emma’s husband Heinrich took the painting and hung it in the living room until he passed away. Researchers wanting to find the artwork learned that it was handed down from father to son, starting with Heinrich Stoufer and possibly ending with Friedrich Stoufer.
After the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815, the Congress of Vienna convened, resulting in the formation of the German Confederation. This conglomeration of thirty-nine independent states worried Friedrich, who feared that this would eventually bring conflict and instability to the region. Not wanting to be around if it happened, he moved to England in 1816 and changed his name to Fred Stoffer. For reasons unknown, he moved to the United States in 1820, settling down in Philadelphia after a brief stay in New York City. He worked as a merchant and farmer for the next four years before moving yet again. This time, he chose Richmond, Virginia to be his home. Fred lived the remainder of his life farming on the outskirts of the city until he passed away at the age of forty-five.
And this is the place where the trail goes cold. No one has been able to locate the final will and testament and his descendants claim they don’t have the painting. When asked if they know who might have it, the answer is always in the negative. To make matters worse, Fred could have easily broken tradition and sold the painting at any time, from his stay in England to his final home of Richmond. This left one question. Where exactly was the painting? It seemed like a mystery which would remain unsolved forever.
During his early years as a young prince, Frederick showed great interest in the arts with a strong emphasis on French culture, much to the consternation of a father who wanted him to focus on military matters. It was this love for the arts which led him to hire Jean-Baptiste Pater to paint two portraits for him. Pater had the prince sit and pose for both paintings, each depicting the subject as a Turkish king. The artist finished Le Sultan au Harem first, then completed Le Sultan au Jardin in 1730. Upon receiving the second portrait, Frederick secretly commissioned a third painting as a gift for a Prussian officer named Hans Hermann Von Katte.
Hans served as one of Frederick’s tutors and became close friends with him. This relationship turned into an affair, one which led Frederick to plan a one-way trip to England with Katte and a few other officers. One of the party members, however, had second thoughts along the way and told the king everything, resulting in the arrest of Frederick and Katte. The two were imprisoned inside a fortress in the town of Küstrin while waiting for their sentence. Frederick William considered executing his son, weighed the option of making his brother Augustus the new heir, then forced Frederick to watch the executioner remove Katte’s head. His son received a pardon in November 1731, but he had to intensively study the field of governmental administration until February 1732.
During this time, Frederick sent a message to Jean-Baptiste telling him to continue the painting. His friend may have been dead, but the artwork could serve as an excellent wedding gift for his bride-to-be. He had no specific plans to get married. Yet he suspected that his relatives were already putting into motion plans to ensure that he would have a wife. Such was the case when Frederick returned to Berlin.
The Prussian king tried to arrange a marriage with Elisabeth of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, the niece of Empress Anna Ioannovna of Russia, but Prince Eugene of Savoy stepped in and opposed the matching. Frederick then suggested proposing to Maria Theresa of Austria, but Eugene interfered once more and got someone to persuade the king that Frederick should marry Elisabeth Christine of Brunswick-Bevern, a member of the Austrian Habsburgs. And so, the wedding took place on June 12, 1733 despite a lack of love and affection from the couple.
Jean Baptiste completed The Halting Place of the Troops just in time for the wedding, presented to the bride by his colleague Jean de Jullienne. Depicting a group of soldiers relaxing in the countryside, the painting did not appeal to Elisabeth, who only glanced at it briefly before giving a polite response. After all the festivities, she handed the painting to an acquaintance named Emma Stoufer. Emma’s husband Heinrich took the painting and hung it in the living room until he passed away. Researchers wanting to find the artwork learned that it was handed down from father to son, starting with Heinrich Stoufer and possibly ending with Friedrich Stoufer.
After the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815, the Congress of Vienna convened, resulting in the formation of the German Confederation. This conglomeration of thirty-nine independent states worried Friedrich, who feared that this would eventually bring conflict and instability to the region. Not wanting to be around if it happened, he moved to England in 1816 and changed his name to Fred Stoffer. For reasons unknown, he moved to the United States in 1820, settling down in Philadelphia after a brief stay in New York City. He worked as a merchant and farmer for the next four years before moving yet again. This time, he chose Richmond, Virginia to be his home. Fred lived the remainder of his life farming on the outskirts of the city until he passed away at the age of forty-five.
And this is the place where the trail goes cold. No one has been able to locate the final will and testament and his descendants claim they don’t have the painting. When asked if they know who might have it, the answer is always in the negative. To make matters worse, Fred could have easily broken tradition and sold the painting at any time, from his stay in England to his final home of Richmond. This left one question. Where exactly was the painting? It seemed like a mystery which would remain unsolved forever.
4
I spent the next few weeks brooding over the disappointment of not locating the lost painting. I had been so sure I could find it. It would just be a matter of uncovering an overlooked clue. I was wrong. Yet I did not completely let go of the possibility of some serendipitous discovery. I often went over the facts, only to reprimand myself for wasting valuable time over nothing. The search was over. Forget about it. But then a question entered my mind.
Why would the owner sell a painting which had been in the family for over a hundred years, given as a gift from the wife of Frederick the Great? Sure, it would solve a lot of economic problems or pay for an expensive journey, but such reasoning does not take into account the personal value of a family heirloom. The historical significance must also be taken into account. For how many people can boast that they have a painting which was made as a wedding gift for a Prussian queen? This brought up another question.
If the painting had been sold, why were there no advertisements of its availability or records of its sale because of its historical significance. It could have been a private transaction, but I did not think that was the case. Maybe he could have given it away, but that just led back to the original question. Why? Perhaps I was being too naive or presumptuous, but I could not see how anyone would want to part with such a priceless artwork. The more I thought about the matter, the more I became convinced that Fred had passed the painting down to his son. Even if I was later proven wrong, at least I would have the satisfaction of knowing that I tried to succeed where others had failed.
It didn’t take me very long to uncover the identity of Fred’s son because I only had to use a few genealogy websites to get the name. Instead of researching information about John Stoffer, I contacted the Office of the City Clerk in Richmond, Virginia to request a copy of his will, suspecting it wasn’t there because John probably left the area to declare his independence. My intuition proved correct three days later when I started researching his name, something I should have done before spending my money on the inquiry. There were plenty of articles, blogs, and essays, each providing the same highlights of his life without going into much detail. In addition, I looked through various library sources, all of which produced similar results.
According to the sources, John Stoffer was born on February 8, 1828 and died from a heart attack on February 14, 1869. He stayed in his home town of Richmond until 1858 after Abraham Lincoln had lost his bid for Illinois Senator against Stephen A. Douglas. Although the Republican candidate had failed to get the seat, John feared that a successful presidential campaign focusing on the end of slavery would tear the nation apart and result in a bloody civil war. Wanting no part in it, he started looking for an affordable place as far away from the conflict as possible.
John purchased a small plot of land south of Fayetteville, Arkansas on July 18, 1858. He worked part-time for a dry goods store and the local post office, enjoying a peaceful life until the Battle of Pea Ridge on March 5, 1862. Not wanting to stick around to see who would win the engagement, Stoffer fled southeast to Russellville and bought a small house on the outer border, chosen because its location provided a fast escape route if Federal forces appeared on the scene. In an effort to avoid the draft, he started working at a telegraph office in the hope that Confederate officials would conclude he was more useful behind a desk than on the front line of battle.
A year after the Civil War ended, John bought one hundred acres north of Russellville for 320 dollars on Groundhog Day. He explained where he got the money two months later, claiming that he had discovered silver at a creek while searching for a new place to live. Upon this announcement, he offered to rent land along the already-named Stoffer Creek.
A large wave of people flocked to the site, hoping to get rich but almost always leaving empty-handed. It took two years for the prospectors to abandon their pursuit of untold riches, tired of wasting their time just for a few scraps of metal. The rush officially ended on October 13, 1868 when John terminated all rental contracts, feeling there was nothing more to discover. After he died a year later on Valentine’s Day, his children Mark and Matthew sold most of their inherited land and helped establish the town of Stoffer Creek. I had heard the name before, but could not remember anything about it. So I looked it up and found a few bits of useful information on the subject.
The story of Stoffer Creek began on March 23, 1869 after a two-year silver rush which promised much but yielded little. Most had left the area when John ended the contracts. Yet some lingered on the property, either because they refused to give up or because they did not have the money to move elsewhere. Mark and Matthew resolved the situation in March by providing them free land and selling the rest to those who were looking for a new home.
By 1871, Mark was the only member of the Stoffer family still living in the region. James had been murdered in his sleep by an unknown assailant, Jessica had gotten married and moved to San Antonio, and Matthew had died from syphilis. Yet Mark was not completely alone because he had a wife named Margaret Bennet, a young woman destined to give birth to three children.
The settlers held a meeting on May 7, 1871 and decided to improve the town. This involved the construction of a school, a post office, and a new cemetery. Although the additions did not seem like much, the community was thankful for them, especially considering the poor state of the local economy. An exact year later. the town of Stoffer Creek was incorporated and chose Mark Stoffer to be the first mayor. His first act in office was the implementation of a publicity campaign which helped increase the population to seventy-five.
On January 23, 1893, Mark Stoffer died from natural causes and his son Bryan inherited the family fortune. Bryan married Susan Banks, a widow with a child named Joseph, five months after the tragic event. He then spent the rest of his time in seclusion, preferring a quiet life outside the spotlight of politics.
Stoffer Creek had a population of 120 by 1917. In addition to the three structures already mentioned, there was a general store, a police station, a bar, a grocery store, a clinic, and a dentist office. But none of this mattered. The people started abandoning the town the following year in search for a better life, prompted by the depletion of suitable farming soil. By the end of the decade, nobody lived there.
Why would the owner sell a painting which had been in the family for over a hundred years, given as a gift from the wife of Frederick the Great? Sure, it would solve a lot of economic problems or pay for an expensive journey, but such reasoning does not take into account the personal value of a family heirloom. The historical significance must also be taken into account. For how many people can boast that they have a painting which was made as a wedding gift for a Prussian queen? This brought up another question.
If the painting had been sold, why were there no advertisements of its availability or records of its sale because of its historical significance. It could have been a private transaction, but I did not think that was the case. Maybe he could have given it away, but that just led back to the original question. Why? Perhaps I was being too naive or presumptuous, but I could not see how anyone would want to part with such a priceless artwork. The more I thought about the matter, the more I became convinced that Fred had passed the painting down to his son. Even if I was later proven wrong, at least I would have the satisfaction of knowing that I tried to succeed where others had failed.
It didn’t take me very long to uncover the identity of Fred’s son because I only had to use a few genealogy websites to get the name. Instead of researching information about John Stoffer, I contacted the Office of the City Clerk in Richmond, Virginia to request a copy of his will, suspecting it wasn’t there because John probably left the area to declare his independence. My intuition proved correct three days later when I started researching his name, something I should have done before spending my money on the inquiry. There were plenty of articles, blogs, and essays, each providing the same highlights of his life without going into much detail. In addition, I looked through various library sources, all of which produced similar results.
According to the sources, John Stoffer was born on February 8, 1828 and died from a heart attack on February 14, 1869. He stayed in his home town of Richmond until 1858 after Abraham Lincoln had lost his bid for Illinois Senator against Stephen A. Douglas. Although the Republican candidate had failed to get the seat, John feared that a successful presidential campaign focusing on the end of slavery would tear the nation apart and result in a bloody civil war. Wanting no part in it, he started looking for an affordable place as far away from the conflict as possible.
John purchased a small plot of land south of Fayetteville, Arkansas on July 18, 1858. He worked part-time for a dry goods store and the local post office, enjoying a peaceful life until the Battle of Pea Ridge on March 5, 1862. Not wanting to stick around to see who would win the engagement, Stoffer fled southeast to Russellville and bought a small house on the outer border, chosen because its location provided a fast escape route if Federal forces appeared on the scene. In an effort to avoid the draft, he started working at a telegraph office in the hope that Confederate officials would conclude he was more useful behind a desk than on the front line of battle.
A year after the Civil War ended, John bought one hundred acres north of Russellville for 320 dollars on Groundhog Day. He explained where he got the money two months later, claiming that he had discovered silver at a creek while searching for a new place to live. Upon this announcement, he offered to rent land along the already-named Stoffer Creek.
A large wave of people flocked to the site, hoping to get rich but almost always leaving empty-handed. It took two years for the prospectors to abandon their pursuit of untold riches, tired of wasting their time just for a few scraps of metal. The rush officially ended on October 13, 1868 when John terminated all rental contracts, feeling there was nothing more to discover. After he died a year later on Valentine’s Day, his children Mark and Matthew sold most of their inherited land and helped establish the town of Stoffer Creek. I had heard the name before, but could not remember anything about it. So I looked it up and found a few bits of useful information on the subject.
The story of Stoffer Creek began on March 23, 1869 after a two-year silver rush which promised much but yielded little. Most had left the area when John ended the contracts. Yet some lingered on the property, either because they refused to give up or because they did not have the money to move elsewhere. Mark and Matthew resolved the situation in March by providing them free land and selling the rest to those who were looking for a new home.
By 1871, Mark was the only member of the Stoffer family still living in the region. James had been murdered in his sleep by an unknown assailant, Jessica had gotten married and moved to San Antonio, and Matthew had died from syphilis. Yet Mark was not completely alone because he had a wife named Margaret Bennet, a young woman destined to give birth to three children.
The settlers held a meeting on May 7, 1871 and decided to improve the town. This involved the construction of a school, a post office, and a new cemetery. Although the additions did not seem like much, the community was thankful for them, especially considering the poor state of the local economy. An exact year later. the town of Stoffer Creek was incorporated and chose Mark Stoffer to be the first mayor. His first act in office was the implementation of a publicity campaign which helped increase the population to seventy-five.
On January 23, 1893, Mark Stoffer died from natural causes and his son Bryan inherited the family fortune. Bryan married Susan Banks, a widow with a child named Joseph, five months after the tragic event. He then spent the rest of his time in seclusion, preferring a quiet life outside the spotlight of politics.
Stoffer Creek had a population of 120 by 1917. In addition to the three structures already mentioned, there was a general store, a police station, a bar, a grocery store, a clinic, and a dentist office. But none of this mattered. The people started abandoning the town the following year in search for a better life, prompted by the depletion of suitable farming soil. By the end of the decade, nobody lived there.
5
Upon studying all my notes, I almost gave up on my quest. For John Stoffer had moved around more than his father and had died in the Ozark wilderness. I saw no way how I could possibly find any records pertaining to John which would help locate the painting. Then I remembered Jessica Stoffer. Maybe the researchers had chosen not to investigate her lineage because she had left Stoffer Creek six months after John died, not to mention the fact that Matthew and Mark were more likely to inherit the family heirloom. It was a long shot, but I had nothing to lose.
I spent a considerable amount of time going through genealogical records, the details of which I will spare the reader. To make a long story short, I found Jessica’s descendants and called them one by one. Halfway through the list, my hard work paid off, but not in the way I thought it would.
Martha Hudgins, an elderly woman from San Antonio, cautiously answered the phone. I told her about myself and the search for Pater’s artwork. After I finished talking, she told me that the painting had been destroyed in a fire during the early 1900s. She couldn’t be sure of the exact year because it had been such a long time since she had tried to recall it. As soon as I ended the call, I collapsed in my chair. Although I was depressed about the outcome, I felt relieved and thankful that the journey had finally come to an end.
I spent a considerable amount of time going through genealogical records, the details of which I will spare the reader. To make a long story short, I found Jessica’s descendants and called them one by one. Halfway through the list, my hard work paid off, but not in the way I thought it would.
Martha Hudgins, an elderly woman from San Antonio, cautiously answered the phone. I told her about myself and the search for Pater’s artwork. After I finished talking, she told me that the painting had been destroyed in a fire during the early 1900s. She couldn’t be sure of the exact year because it had been such a long time since she had tried to recall it. As soon as I ended the call, I collapsed in my chair. Although I was depressed about the outcome, I felt relieved and thankful that the journey had finally come to an end.