The Weird Picture

by John R. Carling

"Remember, Leslie," he said a day or two later, "you are not to spend Christmas at your London house. The place and the time of the year would only serve to recall your daughter's grief on the very day when she should be most happy. You must come to the Abbey and help me to burn the Yule log. There will be more than fifty guests, so you will hardly be dull. My niece, Florrie, will be just the companion for Miss Daphne, so you must make no excuses."

And he parted from us at Cologne on the understanding that we were to pass our Christmas-tide at Silverdale Abbey.

Once removed from Rivoli and its weird associations Daphne rapidly recovered her health and spirits, and we spent the summer exploring the beauties of the Rhineland.

When we returned to London, my first care was to obtain a copy of the Standard of July the 2nd, and I turned eagerly to the remainder of the article relating to Vasari's picture, and found the passage referring to the Anglo-Indian office to be as follows:—

"Mr. Vasari's explanation of his success is to the effect that he has rediscovered a secret known only to the ancient Greek artists, a statement that must be taken with a grain of salt. A few days ago a strange incident happened in connection with the picture. A gentleman in uniform—an Anglo-Indian officer, to judge by a description given of him—who had paid the fee for admission, was proceeding leisurely along the gallery, and had arrived at the room containing the masterpiece, when his further progress was barred by Vasari, who would not allow him to enter, but in an authoritative voice ordered him to withdraw, without, however, assigning any reason for this behaviour. The officer declined to withdraw, and an altercation ensued between him and the artist. When at Vasari's order the attendants prepared to remove the officer the latter drew his sword, but the timely intervention of the gendarmes prevented serious consequences. The gentleman, whose name we are unable to give, was ejected and his money returned. It is said that he intends to take legal proceedings against the artist. A curious point of law will thus be raised: Whether the proprietor of a gallery open to the public has a right, on purely personal grounds, to refuse admission to whomsoever he will? In an interview with a reporter, Vasari stated that the officer in question was drunk, that he was hostilely disposed towards the artist, and that he had sworn to destroy the famous picture with his sword. On the other hand, it is alleged that the officer was quiet and sober, and that he contemplated no such act of vandalism."

That was all concerning the Anglo-Indian officer, and what Angelo's real reason was for withholding the picture from the eyes of this man, and why he had been desirous of concealing this part of the critique from me, were insoluble questions adding fresh elements to the atmosphere of mystery in which it seemed his delight to walk.

I determined to have an interview with the Italian for the purpose of obtaining a little light on the matter. I was anxious, also, to question him on another point—namely, the whereabouts of my brother. George had evidently been living in seclusion at Rivoli, and Angelo must have been aware of the fact, otherwise his words to Daphne on parting from her—"You are nearer to him now than you have been for months"—would have had no meaning. So I called at the artist's London residence, but was told by his servant that he was in some distant part of the country, engaged in the production of a picture which it was confidently affirmed would be superior even to "The Fall of Cæsar."

Then I took a hasty trip to Paris, to the Rue de Sévres, to find, as I had expected, that the Vasari Gallery no longer existed. I visited the offices of the Temps, the Gaulois, and other newspapers, and studied whole files of journals in order to learn the details of the law-suit between Vasari and the officer, but could discover no mention of it. I found on enquiry at the law courts that the case had never been brought.

Next I tried to discover the destination of the famous picture, and learned that it had not been disposed of at public auction, but that the sale had been effected privately between the artist and the purchaser. No one could give me the name of the latter, and so, completely baffled, I returned to England, to find that Vasari was still away from town in some distant place, of which his servant either could not or would not tell me the name.

December came, and on the day before Christmas Eve Daphne, her father and myself were established at Silverdale Abbey, a fine castellated building mantled all over with ivy, and embosomed within a spacious and well wooded park. There was already a goodly company of guests present, which was expected to double its number on the morrow.