And Thereby Hangs a Tale

Grebenar visited the artist’s home from time to time, not to study any unfinished canvases, but to check that Bloch was in his studio, working. If he discovered the artist was not at his easel, the weekly stipend was suspended until the lawyer was convinced Bloch had returned to work.

The portrait of St. Peter was presented to Herr Grebenar a year later, and the prosecutor made no complaint about its cost, or the amount of time it had taken. He simply rejoiced in his good fortune.

St. Peter was followed by Matthew sitting at the seat of Custom, extracting Roman coins from the Jews; another year. John followed, a painting that some critics consider Bloch’s finest work: indeed, three centuries later Sir Kenneth Clark has compared the brushwork to Luini’s. However, no scholar at the time was able to offer an opinion, as Bloch’s works were only seen by one man, so the artist grew neither in fame nor reputation—a problem Matisse was to face two hundred years later.

This lack of recognition didn’t seem to worry Bloch so long as he continued to receive a weekly income, which allowed him to spend his evenings in the alehouse surrounded by his friends. In turn, Grebenar never complained about Bloch’s nocturnal activities, as long as the artist was sober enough to work the next day.

Ten months later, James followed his brother John, and Grebenar thanked God that he had been chosen to be the artist’s patron. Doubting Thomas staring in disbelief as he placed a finger in Christ’s wound took the maestro only seven months. Grebenar was puzzled by the artist’s sudden industry, until he discovered that Bloch had fallen for a steatopygous barmaid from a local tavern and had asked her to marry him.

James the son of Alphaeus appeared just weeks before their first child was born, and Andrew, the fisher of men, followed soon after their second.

After Bloch, his wife, and their two children moved into a small house on the outskirts of Hertzendorf, Philip of Galilee and Simon the Zealot followed within months, as the rent collector needed to be paid. What pleased Grebenar most was that the quality of each new canvas remained consistent, whatever travails or joys its creator was going through at the time.

There was then an interval of nearly two years when no work was forthcoming. Then, without warning, Thaddaeus and Bartholomew followed in quick succession. Some critics have suggested that each new canvas coincided with the appearance of the latest mistress in Bloch’s life, although there is little or no historical evidence to back up their claims.

Herr Grebenar was well aware that Bloch had deserted his wife, returned to his old lodgings, and was once again frequenting the alehouses at night. He feared that the next time he came across his protégé it would be in court.

Grebenar only needed one more disciple to complete the twelve, but when no new canvas had appeared for over a year and Bloch was never to be found in his studio during the day, the lawyer decided the time had come to withhold his weekly allowance. But it was not until every alehouse in Hertzendorf had refused to serve him before his slate had been cleared that Bloch reluctantly returned to work.

Five months later he produced a dark, forbidding image of Judas Iscariot, thirty pieces of silver scattered on the floor round his feet. Historians have suggested the portrait mirrored the artist’s own mood at the time, as the face is thought to be in the image of his patron. Grebenar was amused by Bloch’s final effort, and bequeathed the twelve portraits of Christ’s disciples to the town’s recently built museum, so that they could be enjoyed by the local citizens long after both the artist and his patron had departed this world.

It was over a game of chess with his friend Dr. Müller that Grebenar learned his protégé had contracted syphilis and had only months to live—a year at the most.

“Such a waste of a truly remarkable talent,” said

Dr. Müller.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” retorted Grebenar, as he removed the doctor’s queen from the board.

The following morning Herr Grebenar visited Bloch in his rooms and was horrified to discover the state the artist was in. He was lying flat on his back, fully clothed, stinking of ale, his arms and legs covered in raw, pustulous scabs.

The lawyer perched on the end of the bed. “It’s Herr Grebenar,” he said softly. “I’m distressed to find you in this sorry state, old friend,” he added to a man who was only thirty-four. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Bloch turned to face the wall, like an animal who knows death approaches.

“Dr. Müller tells me you’re unable to pay his bills, and it’s no secret you’ve been running up debts all over town and no one will grant you anymore credit.”

Not even the usual cursory grunt followed this observation. Grebenar began to wonder if Bloch could hear him. The lawyer leaned over and whispered in his ear, “If you paint one last picture for me, I’ll clear all your debts and make sure the doctor supplies you with any drugs you need.”

Bloch still didn’t move.

Grebenar saved his trump card until last, and when he’d played it, the artist turned over and smiled for the first time in weeks.

It took Bloch nearly a month to recover enough strength to pick up a paintbrush, but when he finally managed it, he was like a man possessed. No drink, no women, no debts. Just hour after hour spent working on the canvas that he knew would be his final work.

He completed the painting on March 17, 1679, a few days before he died, drunk, in a whore’s bed.

When Grebenar first set eyes on The Last Supper he recalled the final words he had spoken to the artist: “If you achieve what you are capable of, Friedrich, unlike me you will be guaranteed immortality.”

Grebenar couldn’t take his eyes off the haunting image. The twelve disciples were seated round a table, with Christ at the center breaking the communion bread. Although each one of the Apostles sat in different poses and leaned at different angles, they were unmistakably the same twelve men whose portraits Bloch had painted during the past decade. Grebenar marveled at how Bloch had achieved such a feat since once they had left his studio, the artist had never set eyes on them again. Grebenar decided there was only one place worthy of such a masterpiece.

Herr Grebenar fulfilled the Maker’s contract of three score years and ten. As he approached death, he had only one interest left in life: to ensure that his protégé’s works would remain on permanent display in the town museum, so that in time everyone would acknowledge Friedrich Bloch’s genius, and he himself would at least be guaranteed a footnote in history.

Two hundred and ninety-eight years later . . .

It all began when a drop of rain fell on the chief sidesman’s forehead during Monsignor Grebenar’s Sunday morning sermon. Several members of the congregation looked up at the roof and one of the choirboys pointed to a small crack.

Once Monsignor Grebenar had delivered his final blessing and the congregation began to depart, he approached an elder of the church to seek his advice. The master builder promised the priest he would climb up onto the roof and inspect the timbers the following morning.