Ghost Stories of an Antiquary -- The Mezzotint Montague Rhodes
James 1904
Exported from Wikisource on February 27, 2024
THE MEZZOTINT
Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story
of an adventure which happened to a friend of mine by the name of
Dennistoun, during his pursuit of objects of art for the museum at
Cambridge.
He did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return to
England; but they could not fail to become known to a good many of
his friends, and among others to the gentleman who at that time
presided over an art museum at another University. It was to be
expected that the story should make a considerable impression on
the mind of a man whose vocation lay in lines similar to
Dennistoun's, and that he should be eager to catch at any
explanation of the matter which tended to make it seem improbable
that he should ever be called upon to deal with so agitating
emergency. It was, indeed, somewhat consoling to him to reflect
that he was not expected to acquire ancient MSS. for his
institution; that was the business of the Shelburnian Library. The
authorities of that institution might, if they pleased, ransack
obscure corners of the Continent for such matters. He was glad to
be obliged at the moment to confine his attention to enlarging the
already unsurpassed collection of English topographical drawings
and engravings possessed by his museum. Yet, as it turned out, even
a department so homely and familiar as this may have its dark
corners and to one of these Mr. Williams was expectedly introduced.
Those who have taken even the most limited interest in the
acquisition of topographical pictures are aware that there is one
London dealer whose aid is indispensable to their
researches. Mr. J. W. Britnell publishes at short intervals very
admirable catalogues of a large and constantly changing stock of,
engravings, plans, and old sketches of mansions, churches, and
towns in England and Wales. These catalogues were, of course, the
ABC of his subject to Mr. Williams: but as his museum already
contained an enormous accumulation of topographical pictures, he
was a regular, rather than a copious, buyer; and he rather looked
to Mr. Britnell to fill up gaps in the rank and file of his
collection than to supply him with rarities.
Now, in February of last year there appeared upon Mr. Williams'
desk at the museum a catalogue in Mr. Britnell's emporium, and
accompanying it was a typewritten communication from the dealer
himself. This latter ran as follows:
'Dear Sir,
We beg to call your attention to No. 978 in our accompanying
catalogue, which we shall be glad to send on approval.
'Yours faithfully,
'J. W. Britnell.'
To turn to No. 978 in the accompanying catalogue was with
Mr. Williams (as he served to himself) the work of a moment, in the
place indicated he found the following entry;
'978.--Unknown. Interesting mezzotint: View of a manor-house, early
part of the century. 15 by 10 inches; black frame. GBP2 2s.'
It was not specially exciting, and the price seemed high. However,
as Mr. Britnell, who knew his business and his customer, seemed to
set store by it, Mr. Williams wrote a postcard asking for the
article to be sent on approval, along with some other engravings
and sketches which appeared in the same catalogue. And so he passed
without much excitement of anticipation to the ordinary labours of
the day.
A parcel of any kind always arrives a day later than you expect it,
and that of Mr. Britnell proved, as I believe the right phrase
goes, no exception to the rule. It was delivered at the museum by
the afternoon post of Saturday, after Mr. Williams had left his
work, and it was accordingly brought round his rooms in college by
the attendant, in order that he might not have to wait over Sunday
before looking through it and returning such of the contents as he
did not propose to keep. And here he found it when he came in to
tea, with a friend.
The only item with which I am concerned was the rather large,
black-framed mezzotint of which I have already quoted the short
description given in Mr. Britnell's catalogue. Some more details of
it will have to be given, though I cannot hope to put before you
the look of the picture as clearly as it is present to my own
eye. Very nearly the exact duplicate of it may be seen in a good
many old inn parlours, or in the passages of undisturbed country
mansions at the present moment. It was a rather indifferent
mezzotint, and an indifferent mezzotint is, perhaps, the worst form
of engraving known. It presented a full-face view of a not very
large manor-house of the last century, with three rows of plain
sashed windows with rusticated masonry about them, a parapet with
balls or vases at the angles, and a small portico in the centre. On
either side were trees, and in front a considerable expanse of
lawn. The legend 'A. W. F. sculpsit' was engraved on the narrow
margin; and there was no further inscription. The whole thing gave
the impression that it was the work of an amateur. What in the
world Mr. Britnell could mean by affixing the price of GBP2 2s. to
such an object was more than Mr. Williams could imagine. He turned
it over with a good deal of contempt; upon the back was a paper
label, the left-hand half of which had been torn off. All that
remained were the ends of two lines of writing: the first had the
letters --ngley Hall; the second, --ssex.
It would, perhaps, be just worth while to identify the place
represented, which he could easily do with the help of a gazetteer,
and then he would send it back to Mr. Britnell, with some remarks
reflecting upon the judgment of that gentleman.
He lighted the candles, for it was now dark, made the tea, and
supplied the friend with whom he had been playing golf (for I
believe the authorities of the University I write of indulge in
that pursuit by way of relaxation); and tea was taken to the
accompaniment of a discussion which golfing persons can imagine for
themselves, but which the conscientious writer has no right to
inflict upon any non-golfing persons.
The conclusion arrived at was that certain strokes might have been
better, and that in certain emergencies neither player had
experienced that amount of luck which a human being has a right to
expect. It was now that the friend--let us call him Professor
Binks--took up the framed engraving, and said:
'What's this place, Williams?'
'Just what I am going to try to find out,' said Williams, going to
the shelf for a gazetteer. 'Look at the back. Somethingley Hall,
either in Sussex or Essex. Half the name's gone, you see. You don't
happen to know it, I suppose?'
'It's from that man Britnell, I suppose, isn't it?' said Binks. 'Is
it for the museum? 'Well, I think I should buy it if the price was
five shillings,' said Williams; 'but for some unearthly reason he
wants two guineas for it. I can't conceive why. It's a wretched
engraving, and there aren't even any figures to give it life.'
'It's not worth two guineas, I should think,' said Biriks; 'but I
don't think it's so badly done. The moonlight seems rather good to
me; and I should have thought there were figures, or at least a
figure, just on the edge in front.'
'Let's look,' said Williams. 'Well, it's true the light is rather
cleverly given. Where's your figure? Oh yes! Just the head, in the
very front of the picture.'
And indeed there was--hardly more than a black blot on the extreme
edge of the engraving--the head of a man or woman, a good deal
muffled up, the back turned to the spectator, and looking towards
the house.
Williams had not noticed it before.
'Still,' he said, 'though it's a cleverer thing than I thought, I
can't spend two guineas of museum money on a picture of a place I
don't know.'
Professor Binks had his work to do, and soon went; and very nearly
up to Hall time Williams was engaged in a vain attempt to identify
the subject of his picture. 'If the vowel before the ng had only
been left, it would have been easy enough,' he thought; 'but as it
is, the name may be anything from Guestingley to Langley, and there
are many more names ending like this than I thought; and this
rotten book has no index of terminations.'
Hall in Mr. Williams's college was at seven. It need not be dwelt
upon; the less so as he met there colleagues who had been playing
golf during the afternoon, and words with which we have no concern
were freely bandied across the table--merely golfing words, I would
hasten to explain.
I suppose an hour or more to have been spent in what is called
common-room after dinner. Later in the evening some few retired to
Williams's room, and I have little doubt that whist was played and
tobacco smoked. During a lull in these operations Williams picked
up the mezzotint from the table without looking at it, and handed
it to a person mildly-interested in art, telling him where it had
come from, and the other particulars which we already know.
The gentleman took it carelessly, looked at it, then said, in a
tone of some interest:
'It's really a very good piece of work, Williams; it has quite a
feeling of the romantic period. The light is admirably managed, it
seems to me, and the figure, though it's rather too grotesque, is
somehow very impressive.'
'Yes, isn't it?' said Williams, who was just then busy giving
whisky-and-soda to others of the company, and was unable to come
across the room to look at the view again.
It was by this time rather late in the evening, and the visitors
were on the move. After they went Williams was obliged to write a
letter or two and clear up some odd bits of work. At last, some
time past midnight, he was disposed to turn in, and he put out his
lamp after lighting his bedroom candle. The picture lay face
upwards on the table where the last man who looked at it had put
it, and it caught his eye as he turned the lamp down. What he saw
made him very nearly drop the candle on the floor, and he declares
now that if he had been left in the dark at that moment he would
have had a fit. But, as that did not happen, he was able to put
down the light on the table and take a good look at the picture. It
was indubitable--rankly impossible, no doubt, but absolutely
certain. In the middle of the lawn in front of the unknown house
there was a figure where no figure had been at five o'clock that
afternoon. It was crawling on all-fours towards the house, and it
was muffled in a strange black garment with a white cross on the
back.
I do not know what is the ideal course to pursue in a situation of
this kind. I can only tell you what Mr. Williams did. He took the
picture by one corner and carried it across the passage to a second
set of rooms which he possessed. There he locked it up in a drawer,
sported the doors of both sets of rooms, and retired to bed; but
first he wrote out and signed an account of the extraordinary
change which the picture had undergone since it had come into his
possession.
Sleep visited him rather late; but it was consoling to reflect that
the behaviour of the picture did not depend upon his own
unsupported testimony. Evidently the man who had looked at it the
night before had seen something of the same kind as he had,
otherwise he might have been tempted to think that something
gravely wrong was happening either to his eyes or his mind. This
possibility being fortunately precluded, two matters awaited him on
the morrow. He must take stock of the picture very carefully, and
call in a witness for the purpose, and he must make a determined
effort to ascertain what house it was that was represented. He
would therefore ask his neighbour Nisbet to breakfast with him, and
he would subsequently spend a morning over the gazetteer.
Nisbet was disengaged, and arrived about 9.30. His host was not
quite dressed, I am sorry to say, even at this late hour. During
breakfast nothing was said about the mezzo-tint by Williams, save
that he had a picture on which he wished for Nisbet's opinion. But
those who are familiar with University life can picture for
themselves the wide and delightful range of subjects over which the
conversation of two Fellows of Canterbury College is likely to
extend during a Sunday morning breakfast. Hardly a topic was left
unchallenged, from golf to lawn-tennis. Yet I am bound to say that
Williams was rather distraught; for his interest naturally centred
in that very strange picture which was now reposing, face
downwards, in the drawer in the room opposite.
The morning pipe was at last lighted, and the moment had arrived
for which he looked. With very considerable--almost
tremulous--excitement, he ran across, unlocked the drawer, and,
extracting the picture--still face downwards--ran back, and put it
into Nisbet's hands.
'Now,' he said, 'Nisbet, I want you to tell me exactly what you see
in that picture. Describe it, if you don't mind, rather
minutely. I'll tell you why afterwards.'
'Well,' said Nisbet, 'I have here a view of a
country-house--English, I presume--by moonlight.'
'Moonlight? You're sure of that?'
'Certainly. The moon appears to be on the wane, if you wish for
details, and there are clouds in the sky.'
'All right. Go on. I'll swear,' added Williams in an aside, 'there
was no moon when I saw it first.'
'Well, there's not much more to be said,' Nisbet continued. 'The
house has one--two--three rows of windows, five in each row, except
at the bottom, where there's a porch instead of the middle one,
and------'
'But what about figures?' said Williams, with marked interest.
'There aren't any,' said Nisbet; 'but----'
'What! No figure on the grass in front?'
'Not a thing.'
'You'll swear to that?'
'Certainly I will. But there's just one other thing.'
'What?'
'Why, one of the windows on the ground-floor--left of the door--is
open.'
'Is it really so? My goodness! he must have got in,' said Williams,
with great excitement; and he hurried to the back of the sofa on
which Nisbet was sitting, and, catching the picture from him,
verified the matter for himself.
It was quite true. There was no figure, and there was the open
window. Williams, after a moment of speechless surprise, went to
the writing-table and scribbled for a short time. Then he brought
two papers to Nisbet, and asked him first to sign one--it was his
own description of the picture, which you have just heard--and then
to read the other, which was Williams's statement written the night
before.
'What can it all mean?' said Nisbet.
'Exactly,' said Williams. 'Well, one thing I must do--or three
things, now I think of it. I must find out from Garwood'--this was
his last night's visitor--'what he saw, and then I must get the
thing photographed before it goes further, and then I must find out
what the place is.'
'I can do the photographing myself,' said Nisbet, 'and I will. But,
you know, it looks very much as if we were assisting at the working
out of a tragedy somewhere. The question is, Has it happened
already, or is it going to come off? You must find out what the
place is. Yes,' he said, looking at the picture again, 'I expect
you're right: he has got in. And if I don't mistake there'll be the
devil to pay in one of the rooms upstairs.'
'I'll tell you what,' said Williams: 'I'll take the picture across
to old Green' (this was the senior Fellow of the College, who had
been Bursar for many years). 'It's quite likely he'll know it. We
have property in Essex and Sussex, and he must have been over the
two counties a lot in his time.'
'Quite likely he will,' said Nisbet; 'but just let me take my
photograph first. But look here, I rather think Green isn't up
to-day. He wasn't in Hall last night, and I think I heard him say
he was going down for the Sunday.'
'That's true, too,' said Williams; 'I know he's gone to
Brighton. Well, if you'll photograph it now, I'll go across to
Garwood and get his statement, and you keep an eye on it while I'm
gone. I'm beginning to think two guineas is not a very exorbitant
price for it now.'
In a short time he had returned, and brought Mr. Garwood with
him. Garwood's statement was to the effect that the figure, when he
had seen it, was clear of the edge of the picture, but had not got
far across the lawn. He remembered a white mark on the back of its
drapery, but could not have been sure it was a cross. A document to
this effect was then drawn up and signed, and Nisbet proceeded to
photograph the picture.
'Now what do you mean to do?' he said. 'Are you going to sit and
watch it all day?'
'Well, no, I think not,' said Williams. 'I rather imagine we're
meant to see the whole thing. You see, between the time I saw it
last night and this morning there was time for lots of things to
happen, but the creature only got into the house. It could easily
have got through its business in the time and gone to its own place
again; but the fact of the window being open, I think, must mean
that it's in there now. So I feel quite easy about leaving it. And,
besides, I have a kind of idea that it wouldn't change much, if at
all, in the daytime. We might go out for a walk this afternoon, and
come in to tea, or whenever it gets dark. I shall leave it out on
the table here, and sport the door. My skip can get in, but no one
else.'
The three agreed that this would be a good plan; and, further, that
if they spent the afternoon together they would be less likely to
talk about the business to other people; for any rumour of such a
transaction as was going on would bring the whole of the
Phasmatological Society about their ears.
We may give them a respite until five o'clock.
At or near that hour the three were entering Williams's
staircase. They were at first slightly annoyed to see that the door
of his rooms was unsported; but in a moment it was remembered that
on Sunday the skips came for orders an hour or so earlier than on
weekdays. However, a surprise was awaiting them. The first thing
they saw was the picture leaning up against a pile of books on the
table, as it had been left, and the next thing was Williams's skip,
seated on a chair opposite, gazing at it with undisguised
horror. How was this? Mr. Filcher (the name is not my own
invention) was a servant of considerable standing, and set the
standard of etiquette to all his own college and to several
neighbouring ones, and nothing could be more alien to his practice
than to be found sitting on his master's chair, or appearing to
take any particular notice of his master's furniture or
pictures. Indeed, he seemed to feel this himself. He started
violently when the three men were in the room, and got up with a
marked effort. Then he said:
'I ask your pardon, sir, for taking such a freedom as to set down.'
'Not at all, Robert,' interposed Mr. Williams. 'I was meaning to
ask you some time what you thought of that picture.'
'Well, sir, of course I don't set up my opinion again yours, but it
ain't the pictur I should 'ang where my little girl could see it,
sir.'
'Wouldn't you, Robert? Why not?'
'No, sir. Why, the pore child, I recollect once she see a Door
Bible, with pictures not 'alf what that is, and we 'ad to set up
with her three or four nights afterwards, if you'll believe me; and
if she was to ketch a sight of this skelinton here, or whatever it
is, carrying off the pore baby, she would be in a taking. You know
'ow it is with children; 'ow nervish they git with a little thing
and all. But what I should say, it don't seem a right pictur to be
laying about, sir, not where anyone that's liable to be startled
could come on it. Should you be wanting anything this evening, sir?
Thank you, sir.'
With these words the excellent man went to continue the round of
his masters and you may be sure the gentleman whom he left lost no
time in gathering round the engraving. There was the house, as
before under the waning moon and the drifting clouds The window
that had been open was shot, and the figure was once more on the
lawn: but not this time crawling cautiously on hands and knees. Now
it was erect and stepping swiftly, with long strides, towards the
front of the picture. The moon was behind it, and the black drapery
hung down over its face so that only hints of that could be seen,
and what was visible made the spectators profoundly thankful that
they could see no more than a white dome-like forehead and a few
straggling hairs. The head was bent down, and the arms were tightly
clasped over an object which could be dimly seen and identified as
a child, whether dead or living it was not possible to say. The
legs of the appearance alone could be plainly discerned, and they
were horribly thin.
From five to seven the three companions sat and watched the picture
by turns. But it never changed. They agreed at last that it would
be safe to leave it, and that they would return after Hall and
await further developments.
When they assembled again, at the earliest possible moment, the
engraving was there, but the figure was gone, and the house was
quiet under the moonbeams. There was nothing for it but to spend
the evening over gazetteers and guide-books. Williams was the lucky
one at last, and perhaps he deserved it. At 11.80 p.m. he read from
Murray's Guide to Essex the following lines:
'16 1/2 miles, Anningley. The church has been an interesting
building of Norman date, but was extensively classicized in the
last century. It contains the tomb of the family of Francis, whose
mansion, Anningley Hall, a solid Queen Anne house, stands
immediately beyond the churchyard in a park of about 80 acres. The
family is now extinct, the last heir having disappeared
mysteriously in infancy in the year 1802. The father, Mr. Arthur
Francis, was locally known as a talented amateur engraver in
mezzotint. After his son's disappearance he lived in complete
retirement at the Hall, and was found dead in his studio on the
third anniversary of the disaster, having just completed an
engraving of the house, impressions of which are of considerable
rarity.'
This looked like business, and, indeed, Mr. Green on his return at
once identified the house as Anningley Hall.
'Is there any kind of explanation of the figure. Green?' was the
question which Williams naturally asked.
'I don't know, I'm sure, Williams. What used to be said in the
place when I first knew it, which was before I came up here, was
just this: old Francis was always very much down on these poaching
fellows, and whenever he got a chance he used to get a man whom he
suspected of it turned off the estate, and by degrees he got rid of
them all but one. Squires could do a lot of things then that they
daren't think of now. Well, this man that was left was what you
find pretty often in that country--the last remains of a very old
family. I believe they were Lords of the Manor at one time. I
recollect just the same thing in my own parish.'
'What, like the man in Tess o' the Durbervilles?' Williams put in.
'Yes, I dare say; it's not a book I could ever read myself. But
this fellow could show a row of tombs in the church there that
belonged to his ancestors, and all that went to sour him a bit; but
Francis, they said, could never get at him--he always kept just on
the right side of the law--until one night the keepers found him at
it in a wood right at the end of the estate. I could show you the
place now; it marches with some land that used to belong to an
uncle of mine. And you can imagine there was a row; and this man
Gawdy (that was the name, to be sure--Gawdy; I thought I should get
it--Gawdy), he was unlucky enough, poor chap! to shoot a
keeper. Well, that was what Francis wanted, and grand juries--you
know what they would have been then--and poor Gawdy was strung up
in double-quick time; and I've been shown the place he was buried
in, on the north side of the church--you know the way in that part
of the world: anyone that's been hanged or made away with
themselves, they bury them that side. And the idea that there was
some friend of Gawdy's--not a relation, because he had none, poor
devil! he was the last of his line: kind of spes ultima
gentis--must have planned to get hold of Francis's boy and put an
end to his line, too. I don't know--it's rather an out-of-the-way
thing for an Essex poacher to think of--but, you know, I should say
now it looks more as if old Gawdy had managed the job
himself. Booh! I hate to think of it! have some whisky, Williams!'
The facts were communicated by Williams to Dennistoun, and by him
to a mixed company, of which I was one, and the Sadducean Professor
of Ophiology another. I am sorry to say that the latter, when asked
what he thought of it, only remarked: 'Oh, those Bridgeford people
will say anything'--a sentiment which met with the reception it
deserved I have only to add that the picture is now in the Ashleian
Museum; that it has been treated with a view to discovering whether
sympathetic ink has been used in it, but without effect; that
Mr. Britnell knew nothing of it save that he was sure it was
uncommon; and that, though carefully watched, it has never been
known to change again.
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