WHAT THE "STANDARD" SAID OF THE PICTURE
We did not return immediately to the châlet, but spent the rest of
the day in exploring the antiquities of Rivoli. Daphne, from her
resemblance to the cathedral Madonna, drew attention wherever she went.
She frequently expressed her annoyance at the staring to which she was
exposed, especially when she learned from some semi-audible remarks
that she was regarded as the artist's future bride!
For my own part, I was secretly delighted at all this, knowing that
with the increase of her displeasure came a proportional decrease in
the artist's chances of winning her. It will be readily guessed that
I did not let the grass grow beneath my feet, and in the absence of
my rival I used every opportunity of strengthening my hold upon her
affections.
Toward the close of the day, when the purple hues of twilight were
suffusing the air, and the bell of the Angelus was sounding softly from
the cathedral-tower, Daphne and I set off home. My uncle, promising to
follow us later, lingered behind, on pretence of awaiting the arrival
of the diligence from Campo (the nearest large town to Rivoli), with
its slender freight of letters and newspapers, his real object being to
keep his appointment with the cathedral attendant.
Old Ursula had prepared a dainty repast for us, and when the meal was
over Daphne lit the lamp, drew the curtains, and took her seat by the
fire.
"Read to me, Frank. There is a whole heap of newspapers over there."
I sat on a footstool at her feet, with the file of journals beside me,
in the light of the blazing fire, and wished that Angelo were looking
through the casement, to see how cosy and comfortable we were.
"Where shall I begin?"
"Anywhere you like."
"Very well. 'Theatre of Varieties, Westminster; every night, at 8:30,
Tottie Rosebud will sing "Then she wunk the other eye." Admission--'"
"O Frank! How horrid you are!"
"Am I? You told me to read anywhere, so I took the first paragraph
that my eyes fell on. However, as you don't like that, I'll turn to
something else. 'Letter from Paris.' Would you like that?"
"Yes, that will do," she replied, composing her dainty little person
comfortably in the big armchair.
So, compliant with her will, I began to read the lively letter of that
mysterious personality, "Our Own Correspondent," keeping a cautious
eye ahead, in case I should be landed before I was aware of it on some
Parisian doings whose recital might offend the susceptibilities of my
fair cousin, equally with those of that staid old lady, the British
Matron. I had not read more than half a column, when my eye lighted
upon a name that drew from me an exclamation of surprise.
"What's the matter, Frank?"
"Here's that fellow Vasari's name."
"Fellow Vasari, indeed!" returned Daphne with mock dignity. "Do you
mean the eminent artist, Signor Angelo Vasari?"
"That's it. The oil-and-colour man. Here's a notice of his famous daub.
This must be the critique he was referring to."
"O go on, Frank! Read it, read it!" she cried eagerly.
The praises of a rival are never very pleasant reading. They become
doubly unpleasant when the beloved object is a listener. Pity me, then
at having to read the following little _Vasariad_!
"'The principal topic of conversation among art-circles at present
is a very remarkable picture, called in the catalogue "The Fall of
Cæsar." The artist, who till yesterday was completely unknown to the
public, is one Angelo Vasari, an Italian by birth, who has, however,
spent the greater part of his life in the art-schools of London. He is
said to be a descendant of the sixteenth-century Vasari, the friend of
Popes and Princes, who has earned considerable fame by his _Lives of
the Painters_. Though but twenty-five years of age, this new artist
has produced a work that, without exaggeration, may be ranked with
the finest compositions of Doré or Gérome. What he may be expected
to accomplish when his genius is fully matured is shadowed forth by
his present picture. What causes great surprise is the fact that up
to the present time Vasari has never produced a work that deserved to
rank above mediocrity. Indeed, so devoid of talent have his previous
compositions been that the name "Il Divino" was bestowed upon him,
not from his likeness to Raphael, but from his unlikeness. We are
given to understand that when the artist was informed of the nickname,
he replied unconcernedly: "Ah! then I must endeavour to merit the
appellation."
"'"'Tis not in mortals to command success;" but Il Divino has both
deserved and commanded it. His toil and perseverance have enabled
him to turn the tables completely upon his critics, and from a poor,
obscure, struggling artist he has become elevated to a position of fame
and wealth, for the profits drawn from the crowds that have flocked to
view the picture have been enormous.
"'That a young man accustomed only to paint mediocrities should, as
it were, by one stroke produce a masterpiece is indeed a marvel, and
there are not wanting tongues to say that "The Fall of Cæsar" is not
the work of Vasari at all--an absurd statement, for it is not likely
that the real author of such a remarkable work of genius would be so
self-sacrificing as to give his glory to another. If there be any truth
in this rumour, it is probably founded on the fact that some one may
have collaborated with Vasari to produce a few minor points. If the
latter be not the author of "The Fall of Cæsar," then assuredly his
next work will betray him, unless indeed he has determined to rest his
fame on this one picture only. But no importance is to be attached to
the mysterious rumours current to account for the artist's success.
"'The Vasari Gallery is situated in the Rue de Sèvres, and admission is
obtained by the payment of two francs. What the visitor first sees on
entering the apartment devoted to this masterpiece is a wide doorway at
the farther end draped on each side with curtains between which can be
seen a court apparently open to the sky, since glimpses of a heavenly
blue are visible between lofty columns. By one of these columns rises
the statue of a warrior mounted on a pedestal, and at the base, with
arrowy beams of sunlight streaming over it, lies a prostrate form,
which requires no second glance to certify that it is a dead body,
especially as the bloodstained weapons that have accomplished the deed
are scattered on the pavement around.
"'The spectator (not in the secret) hurries forward, and on arriving
at the end of the apartment can hardly be persuaded that no doorway
exists, and that the whole scene is simply a picture painted on canvas.
Yet so it is. The picture is draped on each side with curtains so
disposed as to give it the appearance of a doorway. The light entering
the apartment from above strikes the picture at a certain angle, and,
aided by the marvellous perspective skill of the artist's brush, the
picture has every appearance of being an actual scene beyond the room
in which the spectator stands, and in which some terrible tragedy has
taken place. The illusion is perfect.
"'We have indicated the principal features of the picture; the fallen
Cæsar with his toga wrapped partly round him, the statue of Pompey
rising above, a tesselated pavement stained with blood, here and there
a discarded dagger, columnar architecture in the background: such
are the simple elements presented by this work of art. The fidelity
to archæological details displayed in all parts of the picture has
satisfied the judgment of every antiquary who has examined the work.
"'The picture, as we have intimated, contains but two figures--a
disappointing number, one might think; and yet it is no paradox to say
that had the picture contained more it would have revealed less. Had
the artist, for example, represented Marc Antony mourning over the dead
body, and drawing eloquence from its pitiable aspect, the eloquence
that was to excite the Forum, or had he given us the conspirators
waving their swords aloft, their faces radiant with the enthusiasm of
liberty, he would have drawn off the spectator's attention from the
point which most deserves praise. In the multiplicity of details we
should perhaps have lost sight of the marvellous manner in which the
painter has triumphed over the difficulty of his subject in regard to
the face of the dead Cæsar, expressing therein all the varying emotions
that must have agitated the great Dictator's mind at the moment of his
death.
"'How often the painter, desirous of depicting the human countenance
lit up by some sublime feeling, has had to lament the impotence of his
art!
"'Timanthes, unable to express the death-emotion on the face of
Agamemnon, conceals the head of the king in a purple robe; Da Vinci in
"The Last Supper," despairing of diffusing a ray of divinity over the
features of the Saviour, lays down his pencil, and leaves nothing but a
blank oval for the face.
"'Who shall succeed where such masters fail? Echo answers--Vasari! A
bold statement, but a true one!
"'Mr. Vasari might reasonably and with perfect fidelity to historic
truth have adopted the method of Timanthes, since, every schoolboy
knows, that Cæsar fell with his head concealed in the folds of his
toga; but, disdaining the pusillanimity of such a method, the artist
has permitted the whole of Cæsar's face to be seen, for the purpose of
delineating with ghastly realism the expression of a dead face. The
effect of the sunlight quivering on----'"
At this point I paused to look up at Daphne, whose eyes were eloquently
expressive of the interest she was taking in the subject of my reading,
and remarked quietly:
"To be continued in our next."
"Go on," she said eagerly. "Don't stop."
It was with a certain amount of malice that I replied:
"There is no more."
"No more? It doesn't end in the middle of a sentence?"
"Probably not. But some one has been kind enough to tear off the bottom
of this sheet just at the very line I have arrived at."
"Oh, how annoying! Isn't it continued at the top of the next column?"
"Fortunately--no."
"Fortunately?"
"Yes; I'm tired of it; it's the essence of dulness. I marvel that the
writer is still at large."
"Who can have torn it," she said, taking no notice of my gibe. "Not
uncle, I'm sure. Oh, I know now. It was Angelo himself that did it.
Don't you remember? This morning, when he lit his cigar."
The memory of this last event invested the newspaper article with an
interest which it did not before possess in my eyes. I recalled the
artist's uneasy manner when asking whether my uncle or myself had read
the critique on his picture, his evident satisfaction when he found
we had not, the triumphant air with which he had lit his cigar with a
piece of newspaper; and this conduct disposed me to think that he had
designedly torn off the bottom of the column containing the end of the
article.
The more I dwelt on the matter the more my opinion became strengthened.
I was as anxious now as Daphne to read the critique to the end.
"How curious that Angelo should tear the very paper referring to
himself!" remarked Daphne.
"Very!" I responded drily.
"Can't we get another copy of this _Standard_?"
"Not at Rivoli. Rome or Paris is the nearest place to send to, and then
it will be at least four days in arriving. Besides, it's an old copy,
and very likely no more are left."
"How provoking! You'll send to-morrow for another copy, won't you
Frank?"
"Most readily. I, too, wish to see the end of this article."
"Why, you said just now that it was the essence of dulness."
"Yes, but you know what a variable mortal I am."
"How well the paper speaks of him!" said Daphne, taking up the
_Standard_, and dwelling with more pleasure than I cared to see on the
flattering language bestowed on the artist. "Angelo isn't vain, that's
easy to be seen. Didn't you notice how reluctant he was this morning
to speak of his picture? One had to draw it out of him, as it were. I
am glad he has made a name at last. 'There are not wanting tongues,'"
she continued, reading from the paper, "'to say that it is not the
work of Vasari at all.' What a shame to say that!" she ejaculated with
considerable indignation. "When his pictures were not very good the
critics sneered at him and called him 'Il Divino'; and now that he
_has_ produced something good they suggest that some one else painted
it for him. Just like the critics! Fancy Angelo being a descendant of
the great Vasari, too!"
"No great honour," I returned, as eager to depreciate the artist as
Daphne was to exalt him. "His great ancestor's pictures have always
been considered daubs; and as for the famous book, _Lives of the
Painters_, it is supposed not to have been written by Vasari."
Critics will bear me out in these statements; but Daphne scorned
criticism, and would not listen to any reflections on Angelo's ancestor.
"Ah! I suppose it's the case of Shakespeare _v._ Bacon over again.
Well, for my part I believe in Shakespeare. Say good-night to papa for
me."
And she danced gaily off to bed at an earlier hour than usual. Was she
going to dream of the artist?
Now, ever since my interest had been roused in the critique of the
picture my eyes had been fixed on the fireplace, where Angelo, after
lighting his cigar, had thrown the burnt paper, and in one corner of
the fender I had fancied I could perceive a charred piece of paper.
Accordingly after Daphne had gone I pounced on this fragment. It
crumbled to black powder in my hands, save one little unburnt piece.
This piece contained six words only; yet they were sufficient to cause
my pulse to throb more quickly:
an Anglo-Indian officer to judge.
That was all; and I had some difficulty in making out even those few
words, owing to the blackened aspect of the paper. I did not doubt that
they formed a part of the critique, and that the paragraph in which
they occurred was one that the artist was anxious to conceal from us.
The memory of my lost brother had been strangely revived by the events
of the day, and the phrase "an Anglo-Indian officer" naturally and
immediately associated itself with his name. It was impossible in my
then state of ignorance to establish a connexion between my brother and
Angelo's picture, and the various hypotheses I framed to account for
the admission of his name into the art-critique would fill a chapter.
"It was a mean trick of Angelo's," I muttered, "to mutilate that
paper. I am certain it contained a reference to George. I would give
fifty pounds to know his reason for so doing. No matter; this little
mystification can't last very long, for I'll send to England for
another copy to-morrow."
From the picture my thoughts wandered to the hidalgo whom Angelo
had represented as having purchased it, and with a view to learning
something, however brief, about this grandee, I took down from the
shelf a book on the Spanish peerage, and turned over its pages. I was
still occupied thus when my uncle returned.
"Have you discovered anything?" was my first question.
"Absolutely nothing."
"Paolo had nothing to reveal?"
"Paolo was not there. I was in the cathedral square by eight, but could
see nothing of him. I looked in at the cathedral, too. It was bright
with lamps, being the eve of a festa; but he was not there; so, after
two hours' patient watching and waiting, I gave it up in disgust."
"We are sure to see him at early Mass; his duties will take him there."
"Probably," replied my uncle, sinking into the armchair lately vacated
by Daphne, and lighting a cigar. "But what ponderous tome are you
poring over so studiously?"
"The _Spanish Peerage_."
"Ah! take St. Paul's advice, 'Beware of endless genealogies,' for they
are dull reading."
"Not when one has a motive for studying them."
"A motive? Great Jupiter! what has made you take so sudden an interest
in the hidalgos?"
"You remember to whom Angelo said he had sold his picture?"
"The Spanish baron, De Argandarez. Ah! I see, you are looking him up."
"I am; and, do you know, I cannot find the name anywhere in this book."
"You haven't looked in the right place."
"Well, here is the book; examine it for yourself. Here is the list of
barons. Find De Argandarez."
"Humph! I have no wish to qualify myself for a Spanish herald. I'll
take your word for it that the name of Argandarez is not here, merely
remarking that the book is dated 1898, and that therefore the fellow
may have been created a baron since then, which will account for the
omission of his name."
"What! When Angelo called him an old hidalgo of Aragon, and spoke of
his ancestral walls, or ancestral castle, or something similar! At any
rate, he used the word ancestral."
"Ha! I remember something of the sort," my uncle said, and the alert
glance in his eye belied the indifference in his tone. "You are certain
the name does not occur in this book? Hum! Unless it be an editorial
oversight, our noble grandee would seem to have no existence, save in
the imagination of Angelo. Il Divino is slightly given to romancing."
"Il Divino must have had a motive for the--lie," I replied, with an
emphasis on the last word, as a protest against my uncle's euphemism.
"He evidently wishes the destination of his picture to remain unknown
to us."
"Why should he wish that? And even if he does, it is impossible for him
to conceal it. The sale of so notable a work of art would be mentioned
in all the papers, together with the name of the buyer."
"Not necessarily. An agent may have bought it for a client who wishes
his name to be kept secret. Or the sale may have been a private affair
between Angelo and the purchaser."
"Granted," he agreed. "To tell you the truth, Frank, there's something
about Angelo's success I can't understand. How, after his many
failures, he has contrived, by the exhibition of one picture only, to
acquire so great a name is a mystery."
"So the public seem to think. Here is the _Standard's_ account of it."
I passed the paper to my uncle, who read as far as he could, and then
exclaimed:
"The end has been torn off!"
"Yes, by Angelo this morning when he lit his cigar; designedly torn
off, I believe. This is a fragment of the burnt piece," I said, laying
it before him.
My uncle did not betray the excitement that I had expected of him.
"So you think the mutilation of this newspaper intentional?" he asked
with a half-smile.
"I am certain of it."
"How suspicious you are growing of Il Divino! A lover's jealousy, I
suppose," he said, knocking the ash of his cigar into the fender.
"There was something in that paper that Angelo did not wish us to see,"
I replied. "That something, whatever it was, was probably peculiar to
this paper, and Angelo supposes that if we are prevented from taking
note of it now, we shall never hear of it again."
My uncle regarded me with a look of good-humoured surprise before
taking a whiff again at his cigar.
"Nonsense!" he returned. "My dear Frank, whatever was in the
_Standard_ cannot be a secret. It's absurd to suppose that Angelo is
trying to keep from us that with which a large number of the reading
public is already familiar."
"Yes, but the reading public are not, like us, behind the scenes and
familiar with the artist. In a sentence they would pass over as of no
note we, who can read between the lines, might discover something."
"Well, what is this something we might discover?"
"'An Anglo-Indian officer,'" I said, tracing the words with my finger.
"George is an Anglo-Indian officer; so are his chief friends. 'The
Anglo-Indian officer' alluded to here is either George himself--and,
if so, this passage would afford a clue to his movements--or it is a
friend of his, recently returned from India, and from whom information
respecting George might be obtained."
"Granting your inference, what motive has Angelo for wishing to conceal
the fact from us?"
"Motive? His motive is pretty obvious after to-day's revelation.
He is in love with Daphne, and, being so, he is tormented by two
ideas--namely, that she still retains her love for George, and that
George himself may yet return to claim her. Therefore, do you think he
wishes her to know where George is? Not likely! His plan is to woo and
win her before George reappears to spoil his game."
"I do not think so. The tearing of that paragraph was an accident."
"An accident? Did you not notice this morning how anxious he was to
know if we had read this critique; how relieved he seemed when he
learned we had not? Singular that he should light his cigar with a bit
of newspaper, pretending he could see no matches in the room, when all
the time they were staring at him from the mantel! Singular, too, that
out of fifty newspapers he should light on the very one in which this
eulogy of himself is, and tear the very column containing it, leaving,
however, sufficient to show what a great man he has developed into. An
accident? Bah! My good uncle, give me credit for a little discernment."
"Or--a picturesque imagination. Well, well, if you think the paragraph
of such importance, by all means send to England for a copy of the
_Standard_ of July 2nd. If there were anything of consequence in it, I
feel sure that some friend would have called our attention to it before
now."
I was silent, and my uncle occupied himself in reading the article
again.
"I wonder," he remarked, "if there is any truth in the suggestion that
some one else painted the picture?"
"Can George paint?" I asked: an unnecessary question on my part, for my
uncle knew no more of the matter than I.
"Never knew him to handle the brush; though it is not unlikely he may
have studied painting a little in India, but scarcely to the extent of
being able to produce a masterpiece such as we have been reading about."
"You remember the date Angelo assigned for his arrival at Paris."
"I do. It was the day after we left."
"Exactly. And don't you think it strange that he should arrive there
the very day after we had taken our departure?"
"I see nothing strange in it."
"And then, talking of his arrival at Paris, he made use of the plural
'we.' 'We arrived,' he said, and then, suddenly checking himself, he
altered it to 'I did not arrive.' Do you remember it?"
"I can't say I do."
"But I do, though, and wondered at it. Now who are they who compose the
'we'?"
"He and his agent, probably; or he and those who were conveying the
picture."
"If he meant those persons only, why should he check himself so
sharply?"
My uncle shrugged his shoulders, as if he were growing tired of the
subject. "I think, Frank," he said, "that you are attaching too much
importance to a trivial expression."
"Possibly I may be; but I cannot help thinking that a mystery surrounds
the production of Angelo's picture, and that the mystery is in some way
connected with George."