The Weird Picture

by John R. Carling

"Angelo," I cried, hammering at the door, "I want you. Something really important. I know you are inside. Open the door. I won't go away until I've seen you. Angelo, do you hear?"

It was not my fault if he didn't, for I delivered at the door a succession of kicks which not only hurt me frightfully but made a most tremendous noise. Then remembering that I had the key of the tower with me, I thrust it into the keyhole and turned the lock. I hesitated before actually opening the door, thinking that the artist might be ready on the other side to offer armed resistance to me or to anyone who should invade his sanctum by force. But I thought of the pistols, and taking one from my pocket, I softly and slowly pushed the door ajar, standing a little on one side as I did so in order that I might escape the full force of a frontal attack if one were made.

But no voice or sound of any kind greeted me, and venturing to peep inside I found to my surprise that the room was unoccupied. As soon as I was satisfied that this was really so, I slipped in and locked the door behind me in order to secure myself against the return of the artist.

The chamber, like the tower which contained it, was octagonal. The roof was beautifully vaulted. From the eight angles of the octagon eight pointed arches sprang towards a common centre, meeting in the capital of the solitary pillar that supported the roof. The walls were hidden by tapestry, and the floor was strewn with yellow sand.

A mediæval monk of the most ascetic tastes could not have found fault with the appointments of this cell. A carved oak table littered with an artist's paraphernalia, a carved oak chair, and an iron lamp affixed to the central pillar constituted all the furniture of the place. The only other conspicuous object was the easel with its canvas. No fire had been lighted that day, though materials for one were laid in the grate, and the chilling atmosphere of the room sent a shiver through me.

It was evident that the artist had been in the studio since our afternoon visit. For the lamp was alight, and the purple curtain had been taken down from the casement and now hung over the back of one of the chairs. All this I noticed at a glance, and then I eagerly approached the easel, and throwing off the sheet that covered it, I turned it so that the light from above fell full upon the canvas.

The picture was a representation of the Flavian Amphitheatre in the days of its wicked old glory, when the balconies gleamed with mosaic-work of precious stones, and clouds of purple incense rose in the air. The galleries were crowded with spectators, and in the expression of the various countenances ample scope was given for the display of the artist's skill. Every character typical of the times was represented, from Imperial Cæsar viewing with cold disdain the death of the enemy of the gods, down to the secret Christian slave shuddering at the fate of his co-religionist. A purple velarium was drawn above the amphitheatre as a shield against the sun's rays, and the painter had displayed with artistic effect every object tinged with a faint violet hue.

But the spectator of the picture felt at once that all these details were mere accessories. The arena—dotted here and there with helmet, shield, and spear, or the gilded net of the retairius—was intended to be the feature of the picture. A magnificent Libyan lion, lashing his tail on the sands, was standing proudly erect, his flaming eyes fixed on something beneath his forepaws. That something was nothing; or, to be less paradoxical, what was to be there was not yet painted. The picture was in an unfinished state, and the dying martyr was not yet outlined upon the canvas.

It was disappointing to contemplate the picture with what was evidently intended to be the central figure absent. I did not doubt that were it completed and exposed to public view it would create as great a furore as his last masterpiece.

I was puzzled to find the work in so unfinished a state, for Angelo himself had said that most of the details I now beheld had been painted before he came to the Abbey. It was clear that he was a dilatory worker, and the picture gave the lie to his assertion that since his arrival he had been engaged upon the figure of the girl-martyr, for not a trace of her was visible upon the canvas. He may, of course, have been dissatisfied with his work and have effaced it, but if that were the case there seemed no justification for his saying so late as this morning that he expected to complete the picture in a few hours. Some characters at the foot of the canvas in one corner attracted my notice, and bending low I saw that they gave the title of the picture and the name of the artist. Prompted by the appearance of the letters, I drew my forefinger heavily over them, and, as I had expected, they were immediately converted into a long smear.