Speaker 1: The Queer picture by Bernard Capes Raven Speaks. It was
standing with its face to the wall, in a dark
corner of the dingy old shop in Beek Street, whose
miscellaneous litter had peered at me through a window so
dirty as to make its owner appear rather to wish
to baffle custom than to court it. Nor in that
respect was its owner's manner reassuring. His eyes peered dimly
out of an unwashed face, like the pale blue oriental
saucers through the window. He seemed to regard me with
indifference and a little weariness, as if the profit of
chaffering were hardly worth its trouble. Oh yes, he said,
in a weak, hoarse voice, to my appreciations of this
or that, As I edged my way through the labyrinth
of Chippendale chairs, bureaus, coffin stools and gate legged tables,
piled with Staffordshire figures, brass door knockers, candlesticks, and genuine
antiques of every sort, description and plausibility. A little nettled
by the creature's apathy, I stooped somewhat truculently and turned
the picture round for myself. It showed a landscape pretty
dark and mellow in tone of I fancied the Chrome
or Nasmith period. A woodland road receding from the middle
foreground of the canvas, presently took a curve round some
palings to the left and disappeared into greenery. Prominent over
the near palings towered a huge oak. On the other
side was a close medley of foliage, gradually dimming into
blue distances. The whole was feelingly painted and composed, the
large oak tree quite superbly rendered, forming its predominant feature.
It all only suffered slightly to my mind as a
composition from the white emptiness of the road and the
absence of figures. I said so to the dealer. Oh yes,
he answered with a dry cough, and I shrugged my shoulders.
I have had one or two fines in my time,
enough to stimulate my adventurous nerve. This thing seemed to
me good. There was power in it and knowledge. The
time was evidently near twilight, still and darkling a lonely,
solemn place. The atmosphere was unmistakably suggested. Its canvas measurement
was some thirty four by twenty eight inches, and it
possessed a frame a little dingy and battered, but of
the right sort. Whom is it by? I said? The
dealer made as if to bend, cleared his thin old throat,
and stood up again. It's unsigned, he said. But don't
you know if you were to ask me, he answered,
I should say no more than that, mind you, that
it was Erkerte's work. Then, in response to my mute inquiry,
he was a follower of John Constable. You know, I
didn't know. I knew nothing about the man, But whoever
he was, his capacity was plain. I decided to risk it. Well,
how much, I said? Twenty pounds, said the dealer. As
a matter of principle, I protested Unsigned, of disputable origin, preposterous.
Oh yes, he said, in his indifferent way. Twenty pounds
is the price. It's a greatly admired piece. If you
change your mind, I will take it back any time
within a week less ten percent. That seemed a fair offer,
and I ended by carrying the picture home with me
in a cab. Alone. I cleared the mantel piece of
my sitting room and stood the treasure up on it.
I thought it distinctly an admirable piece of work, and
so far rejoiced in my bargain. It seemed to reflect
the very spirit of the twilight, which was even now
creeping over my room, to assimilate and conform to it.
As I gazed, I grew penetrated, possessed by what I
gazed on. I was on the wide white road, standing
or crouching somewhere down here, out of the picture, and
staring into its diminishing distances. The great oak was motionlessly alive.
There seemed a listening fear in its regard, an expectation,
an indescribable awe held me amazedly, entranced, and then my
breath caught in a quick gasp. Round by the bend
of the road far away, there occurred a minute stirring,
and something came into the picture that was not there before.
The thing came on, increasing in regular progression as it advanced,
and it was the figure of a young man in
a bygone costume, swinging airily towards me. I sat petrified, dumb, stricken,
and all in an instant there arose between me and
the illusion, blotting it out, a vague, shadowy shape that
receded quickly, shrinking as it withdrew, until it also was
the figure of a man going away from me along
the road to meet the other. The two encountered and
had passed when the second wheeled suddenly in his tracks
and struck the first on the neck, so that the
young man fell into the road. I saw something, a
running stain of red, and simultaneously broke with a cry
from my stupefaction, and leaping to the mantel piece, turned
the horror with its face to the wall. As I
did so, I saw that the canvas was empty of figures.
The old dealer made no demur. What about my returning
the picture? It always comes back, he said impassively, as
he paid me in cash eighteen pounds out of the
twenty I had given for it. It stands me in well,
you see, as an investment, it's a fine work. I
dare say. You'll be the dozen or more who's been
struck by it and carried it away with the same result.
Twilight's the time, they say, don't you know it is?
I responded warmly. Haven't you seen it yourself? No, he said,
with a thin cough. No. He had returned the picture
to its former place and position. I don't bother to look.
It wouldn't be policy, and it wouldn't be fair, you know,
for me to sell it if I had. I'm not
bound to go upon hearsay, and it doesn't trouble me
where it stands. But I turned on my heel indignantly
and came back. You said it wasn't Erkert on its
intrinsic evidences, he responded, not in the least, because it
happens that Erkert was hanged for the murder of his
wife's paramour on a country road. He was engaged in
painting at the time. He stuck him in the neck
with a palette knife. That may have been the very picture,
or it may not. Before the figures were filled in
Rkut generally used sheep and countrymen. But all that's no
concern of mine. I say it's an Irkurt because of
the style. No one but him, in my opinion, could
have painted that oak and of the queer picture.