The Weird Picture

by John R. Carling

And here the maniac flung himself backward with his arms aloft, and dropped to the floor so swiftly and naturally that I marvelled he did not hurt his head on the yellow-sanded stone. And there he lay in silence for a few seconds, with his eyes closed and his limbs rigidly extended in imitation of a dead body.

I thought of the figure in the grey cloak that Fruin had seen lying on the floor of the picture-gallery. That figure had been none other than the mad artist, whose diseased imagination gloried in the still hours of night in rehearsing the terrible drama of last Christmas Eve. His monomania, in fact, had taken the shape of a subjective reslaying of the slain, united to an objective wearing of his victim's dress. Instead of destroying that evidence of his guilt, he had retained George's clothing, and, as his subsequent ravings showed, regarded it as a memento of his own cleverness.

The artist rose to his feet, and flung himself back in his chair again, apparently exhausted by his emotion.

"Cruel?" he gasped, staring at me, and striving to palliate the deed by the example of others. "Cruel? If Giotto stabs his living model on the cross that he may paint a crucified Christ, if Parrhasius damns his slave to torture that he may produce the agony of Prometheus in all its realism, may I, too, not have my victim? Cruel? It was a sacrifice to art. Churchmen have burned each other for the glory of God. Art is my god."

And the maniac lifted his clenched hand aloft as if defying Heaven.

"My rival was lying at my feet, dead. I wanted his clothing for my purpose, so I stripped him. Gods! what a figure for an artist! But he had received only one wound as yet—Cæsar had many—so I dealt him some six strokes or more. How the red blood spouted up! Oh, those wounds! 'Poor dumb mouths!' How eloquently they will speak from the canvas! What a divine picture I shall produce! 'Il Divino' will deserve his name at last. Already I hear the voice of the public saying, 'What a genius this Vasari is!' Ah! that reminds me. You have not yet seen my noble work of art. You shall. 'Tis behind that tapestry."

Evidently the maniac did not know that the picture had been removed. I trembled lest he should rise and discover its absence.

To my mental agony was added physical suffering, due to the unnatural position of my arms. For the sake of relief I had often moved them to and fro and up and down at the back of the pillar. I was now moving them farther round than they had been before, when my wrists came in contact with something sharp. Feeling with my fingers as well as I could, I discovered that a part of the column had crumbled away with time and presented a rough, ragged edge. An idea darted into my mind. An idea? Say an inspiration rather. My wrists were not in contact—the breadth of the pillar prevented that—there was a distance of about a foot between them. The silken band that secured me was drawn in a tight slip-knot round one wrist, and, proceeding to the other, encircled it in the same manner, and then hung downwards trailing on the floor.

Now if I could but bring the band connecting my two wrists across the sharp edge of this stone, steady attrition would tear it into two portions, and I should be free. With some difficulty I worked the twisted silk into the requisite place, and then began as vigorous a friction as my cramped position would allow, dreading every moment lest the madman should perceive my motions and detect their cause.

Though bending all my energies to the task before me, I tried at the same time to give a listening ear to the artist, but I am of opinion that my further report of his utterances is far from being a faithful one.