The Weird Picture

by John R. Carling

The paint was wet, a proof that it had been but recently laid on. My action had completely effaced the title of the picture, but not before I had read it. That title was "Modestus, the Christian Martyr."

"Modestus!" This was singular. It was only this very morning that the artist had called it "Modesta." Why this sudden change of title? Was he going to represent a man, and not a maiden, as the martyr? Why had he abandoned his original project—abandoned it, so it would seem, within the past few hours? Was it because he had failed to delineate to his own satisfaction his ideal of beauty?

I was unable to answer this question, and turned from the easel to the table, on which lay a medley of articles. First, there was a white woollen tunic such as the antique Roman was wont to wear, a girdle, a pair of sandals, a short Roman sword, and a buckler of oblong shape. In my dulness I at first thought that these were to form Angelo's costume for the fancy-dress ball to be held at Silverdale on Twelfth Night, but they were of course the "properties" in which the model for his picture was to pose. Perhaps, on the principle of killing two birds with one stone, this costume was to unite both purposes. At any rate it furnished an additional proof that the artist had abandoned the title of "Modesta," since these articles, though suitable enough, perhaps, for an Amazon, would have been out of place as the equipment of a Christian maiden.

But who or what was to be the model? I looked around for the lay-figure of which the artist had spoken. I lifted different portions of the tapestry, thinking that the model might perhaps be in some recess behind it, but failed to discover anything suitable for the artist's purpose. Was he going to employ the human form once more? and if so, whose? Had last night's tragedy in the gallery furnished him with a ready means of completing his picture without delay? Was this the real reason of the change of title, and of this sudden preparation of artistic material? I say sudden, because it had evidently been introduced into the cell since Fruin's visit to it, otherwise the gleam of the sword and buckler would surely have attracted his attention, and have been mentioned by him. If we delayed the arrest of Angelo for a few hours in order to peer through the casement of the studio with the first gleam of daylight, should we catch him at work upon his canvas with a dead form before him, completing his picture, by a singular coincidence of dates, on the very anniversary of the day on which he had finished his last masterpiece?

A short dagger was the next object that engaged my attention, a double-edged and pointed weapon. Taking it up for closer inspection, I saw a red stain on it. Was it paint or—something else? The dagger seemed familiar to me, and I now remembered to have seen its painted image in "The Fall of Cæsar." The artist had evidently copied its antique shape in his picture; the stain on it was probably some colouring matter, and not blood, as I had supposed in my first start of surprise.

By the side of this poniard was a curious article representing a lion's paw with claws projecting out. The paw was of ivory, exquisitely carved; the claws were of bright steel. I could not help connecting this curious object with the lion in the picture on the easel, yet utterly failed to perceive the links of the connexion. The artist had not employed it in delineating the paw of the lion—such a supposition was absurd; and, besides, on glancing at the painting of the animal, I saw that its claws were curved in a manner very different from those of the model before me. As I could not conjecture what its use was, I began to examine the next object to it, a small cut-glass phial containing some dark liquid.

Removing the stopper, I applied my nostrils to the orifice. An extremely fragrant odour arose—so pungent, however, that it caused my eyes to water, and set me coughing for several seconds.

Of course it was impossible for my nostrils to detect off-hand the nature and composition of the contents of the phial; and, though not gifted, perhaps, with any large amount of wisdom, I was not quite so foolish as to attempt to gain any knowledge of the liquid by tasting it. Replacing the stopper, I put the phial in my pocket with a view to subjecting its contents to an analysis at the first convenient opportunity.

At this point I sank into a chair, for a strange drowsiness was stealing over me. I could not account for it at the time, but I know now that it was due to the volatility of the liquid, which was operating on my mind with a stupefying effect.

Scarcely knowing what I was doing, I lifted up a purple-bound volume from the table, and turning mechanically to the first page, found a fresh surprise in the title of the work, Silverdale Abbey: Its History and Antiquities.