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Speaker 1: The Queer picture by Bernard Capes Raven Speaks. It was

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standing with its face to the wall, in a dark

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corner of the dingy old shop in Beek Street, whose

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miscellaneous litter had peered at me through a window so

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dirty as to make its owner appear rather to wish

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to baffle custom than to court it. Nor in that

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respect was its owner's manner reassuring. His eyes peered dimly

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out of an unwashed face, like the pale blue oriental

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saucers through the window. He seemed to regard me with

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indifference and a little weariness, as if the profit of

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chaffering were hardly worth its trouble. Oh yes, he said,

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in a weak, hoarse voice, to my appreciations of this

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or that, As I edged my way through the labyrinth

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of Chippendale chairs, bureaus, coffin stools and gate legged tables,

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piled with Staffordshire figures, brass door knockers, candlesticks, and genuine

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antiques of every sort, description and plausibility. A little nettled

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by the creature's apathy, I stooped somewhat truculently and turned

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the picture round for myself. It showed a landscape pretty

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dark and mellow in tone of I fancied the Chrome

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or Nasmith period. A woodland road receding from the middle

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foreground of the canvas, presently took a curve round some

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palings to the left and disappeared into greenery. Prominent over

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the near palings towered a huge oak. On the other

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side was a close medley of foliage, gradually dimming into

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blue distances. The whole was feelingly painted and composed, the

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large oak tree quite superbly rendered, forming its predominant feature.

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It all only suffered slightly to my mind as a

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composition from the white emptiness of the road and the

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absence of figures. I said so to the dealer. Oh yes,

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he answered with a dry cough, and I shrugged my shoulders.

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I have had one or two fines in my time,

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enough to stimulate my adventurous nerve. This thing seemed to

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me good. There was power in it and knowledge. The

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time was evidently near twilight, still and darkling a lonely,

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solemn place. The atmosphere was unmistakably suggested. Its canvas measurement

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was some thirty four by twenty eight inches, and it

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possessed a frame a little dingy and battered, but of

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the right sort. Whom is it by? I said? The

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dealer made as if to bend, cleared his thin old throat,

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and stood up again. It's unsigned, he said. But don't

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you know if you were to ask me, he answered,

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I should say no more than that, mind you, that

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it was Erkerte's work. Then, in response to my mute inquiry,

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he was a follower of John Constable. You know, I

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didn't know. I knew nothing about the man, But whoever

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he was, his capacity was plain. I decided to risk it. Well,

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how much, I said? Twenty pounds, said the dealer. As

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a matter of principle, I protested Unsigned, of disputable origin, preposterous.

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Oh yes, he said, in his indifferent way. Twenty pounds

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is the price. It's a greatly admired piece. If you

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change your mind, I will take it back any time

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within a week less ten percent. That seemed a fair offer,

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and I ended by carrying the picture home with me

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in a cab. Alone. I cleared the mantel piece of

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my sitting room and stood the treasure up on it.

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I thought it distinctly an admirable piece of work, and

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so far rejoiced in my bargain. It seemed to reflect

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the very spirit of the twilight, which was even now

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creeping over my room, to assimilate and conform to it.

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As I gazed, I grew penetrated, possessed by what I

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gazed on. I was on the wide white road, standing

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or crouching somewhere down here, out of the picture, and

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staring into its diminishing distances. The great oak was motionlessly alive.

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There seemed a listening fear in its regard, an expectation,

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an indescribable awe held me amazedly, entranced, and then my

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breath caught in a quick gasp. Round by the bend

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of the road far away, there occurred a minute stirring,

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and something came into the picture that was not there before.

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The thing came on, increasing in regular progression as it advanced,

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and it was the figure of a young man in

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a bygone costume, swinging airily towards me. I sat petrified, dumb, stricken,

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and all in an instant there arose between me and

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the illusion, blotting it out, a vague, shadowy shape that

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receded quickly, shrinking as it withdrew, until it also was

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the figure of a man going away from me along

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the road to meet the other. The two encountered and

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had passed when the second wheeled suddenly in his tracks

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and struck the first on the neck, so that the

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young man fell into the road. I saw something, a

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running stain of red, and simultaneously broke with a cry

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from my stupefaction, and leaping to the mantel piece, turned

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the horror with its face to the wall. As I

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did so, I saw that the canvas was empty of figures.

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The old dealer made no demur. What about my returning

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the picture? It always comes back, he said impassively, as

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he paid me in cash eighteen pounds out of the

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twenty I had given for it. It stands me in well,

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you see, as an investment, it's a fine work. I

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dare say. You'll be the dozen or more who's been

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struck by it and carried it away with the same result.

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Twilight's the time, they say, don't you know it is?

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I responded warmly. Haven't you seen it yourself? No, he said,

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with a thin cough. No. He had returned the picture

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to its former place and position. I don't bother to look.

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It wouldn't be policy, and it wouldn't be fair, you know,

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for me to sell it if I had. I'm not

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bound to go upon hearsay, and it doesn't trouble me

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where it stands. But I turned on my heel indignantly

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and came back. You said it wasn't Erkert on its

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intrinsic evidences, he responded, not in the least, because it

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happens that Erkert was hanged for the murder of his

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wife's paramour on a country road. He was engaged in

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painting at the time. He stuck him in the neck

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with a palette knife. That may have been the very picture,

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or it may not. Before the figures were filled in

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Rkut generally used sheep and countrymen. But all that's no

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concern of mine. I say it's an Irkurt because of

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the style. No one but him, in my opinion, could

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have painted that oak and of the queer picture.