“He’d beat us all,” he would say, with well-affected enthusiasm, “if he’d only give full rein to his imagination. Of course he would! He’d be the wonderful Wilfrid! — Turner the Second!”
Not a word of this outburst was meant — it was all expressed as a “show” of kindness and generosity to a fellow-artist. Wilfrid Turner knew this as well as any man, and was fully aware that so long as Ambrose David remained a member of the Academy Council, so long would every picture he sent in be returned upon his hands with the usual formula— “The President and Council regret,” etc etc.
On this particular day when he stood before his easel, his attention divided between the picture set upon it and the packing-case cumbering up the floor within a few feet of him, his mind was occupied with many thoughts, chiefly retrospective. He recalled the time when he, as a small boy, used to spend some of his holidays with a relative in a remote part of Sutherlandshire — a great-uncle who lived by his own choice and pleasure so far away from the inhabited haunts of men that he was considered a sort of grim recluse with “a bee in his bonnet.” His dwelling was an ancient castle, once famous in the history of Scottish chieftains, with walls some ten feet thick wherein long slits showed where the bowmen of old time used to send forth arrows on the foe, and he had spent considerable sums in making the place habitable — even luxurious. Wilfrid in his imaginative teens loved both the castle and its surroundings, but most of all he loved the pictures which adorned every available foot of wall space in the stately hall and dining room. From them he had first imbibed his taste and finally his passion for art, and his ambition had been fired by the tales his great-uncle used to tell him of famous artists he had known and entertained years ago in the days of his youth and prime. The old man was a keen critic and fine judge of painting, and his hobby had always been the collecting of pictures, especially those by artists whom the world had not as yet entirely recognized.
And now he was dead, and his collection was being sent to Christie’s for sale; the only item excepted being named in his will as “One picture contained and fastened within its original packing-case as sent by the painter of the said work.” There followed a minute description of the packing-case, its marks and seals were described in detail, and it was bequeathed to “my grand-nephew Wilfrid Turner, by whom alone it is to be opened and examined.” There was no description of the picture, and the painter’s name was not given. But the packing-case had been duly identified and dispatched to its destination, and there it stood on end awaiting the leisure and inclination of its new possessor to display its contents. He, however, was in no hurry. He had not the least expectation of finding anything wonderful or out of the common when the case should be opened; at the most he anticipated seeing some old family portrait which, whether well or ill painted, would be entrusted to him to guard as an heirloom. And he passed another hour in adding fresh touches to his sea piece, lightening the edge of a wave here or deepening its shadows there — and playing with his brush more for the pleasure he found in the action than for any actual necessity of further work, till at last, yielding to a sudden impulse of curiosity, mingled with something of irritable impatience, he threw aside his brush, took a hammer and chisel from a shelf at hand and proceeded to open the case. Breaking the seals was a task of a few minutes — he noticed they were fairly fresh, and stamped with his relative’s crest and motto — but he had to hammer away for a considerable time before he could wrench out the nails which closed the case firmly in on all sides. Presently, however, after much vexatious effort he got it open, and found, fastened to the inside wrapping of thick brown paper, which protected the picture within, a letter addressed to himself. It ran as follows:
“DEAR WILFRID —
“Though I have not seen you for many years, and have become too old and too selfish to take interest in your life struggles, I liked you as a boy, and in remembrance of that liking and the talks on ‘art’ we had together in those early days, I leave you my greatest treasure. The accompanying picture was painted especially for my father by J. W. Turner, and was sent to him direct from the painter himself in this same packing-case where it has always remained. It is perhaps the finest thing he ever did, but no one has ever seen it or heard of it save myself. My father would never hang it on his walls lest the light should rob it of any of its wonderful colours — and I have followed my father’s example. You will therefore find the picture as fresh as if it were painted yesterday and the frame in as good condition as if it had just left the maker’s hands. I need not tell you that its value can scarcely be estimated — it is worth a small fortune, which I hope you may realize and enjoy. It should find an owner who knows how to appreciate it.”
The letter ended abruptly, with the signature of the writer, and Wilfrid Turner laid it down, drawing a long breath of wonderment. He looked at the thick brown-paper wrappings which concealed a possible marvel of art; he hardly dared touch them to uncover what, if all were true, might prove a veritable mine of gold to him who had so long scraped the earth for copper. He stood tranced for some moments in thought, then, rousing himself, bent over the packing-case and with slow caution gradually lifted the picture out and placed it, wrappings and all, on a spare easel near the one on which his own canvas was set. Then, with eager fingers and a heart beating more quickly than usual, he undid the coverings one by one till at last he came upon the picture itself, its glass protected in the usual way by strips of brown paper pasted across it. With a wet sponge he soon succeeded in removing these, and the “treasure” was revealed in all its glory. An exclamation of delight broke from his lips — his relative was not mistaken — it was a priceless gem of art — one of those wonderful effects of light and shade and sun and sea for which Turner was and is famous. Larger than any water-colour he had ever seen by the same artist it looked as though it had just come from Turner’s own hand, and as he moved it into the best possible light and examined it carefully a sudden idea leaped into his brain — a daring idea which in its first flashing light moved him to laughter.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I’ll do it! If only for the fun of the thing! Yes — I’ll do it. — and if it succeeds, the R.A. and I will cry ‘quits’ for evermore! It will be the best joke of the year!”
His eyes sparkled — his worn features brightened — hope and a sense of humorous pleasure in the situation made him feel young again. He covered his precious possession carefully from the light, and went out of his studio with a buoyant step, feeling as though he walked on air. And at a neighbouring restaurant he ordered quite a good luncheon ungrudgingly, he could afford it now, he thought, with a smile — in fact, if all went well he could afford a good many things!
One week later all the pictures for the annual Royal Academy Exhibition were “sent in” and the Council “sat on them” in the usual way, metaphorically and materially. It was a tedious business, and those concerned in it displayed more boredom than interest. Of course all works by the members of the Royal Academy itself were safe enough, and these in their grand total were more than sufficient to fill all the best positions on the walls of Burlington House. The “outsiders” who were neither R.A.’s nor A.R.A.’s had but the faintest ghost of a chance — their pictures were passed along in hasty review, and among them came two, sent by Wilfrid Turner — one a sea-scape in oils, the other a strange and brilliant water-colour drawing entitled “The Dying Day.”
There was a brief hesitation among the Council as this last picture was set before them for consideration — a pause of uncertainty. Surely there was something very striking and original about it? Ambrose David leaned forward, looking at it with a compassionate smile.
“Turner again!” he said, ironically. “Poor chap! That sunset is too bad! He’s been trying to imitate his great namesake — and a very poor imitation it is!”
“I don’t quite agree with you,” said another Academician seated next to him. “Of course it’s a pity he should imitate — but the picture looks to me good enough to be
the work of the original master!”
David laughed.
“Oh, come now! You’re a better judge than that! Look at that confusion of cloud and colour! Wilfrid all over! He has no conception of ‘tone.’”
There was still some hesitation — then, with a few more lightly mocking, seemingly kindly remarks from Ambrose David, the picture was moved on and off the scenes — rejected as hopelessly as the great sea-scape on which Wilfrid Turner had spent nearly a year of his life and thought.
In due course he received the usual civil formula: “The President and Council regret,” etc., etc., and few among the thousands of the “rejected” ever received the announcement of their doom with such joy and such hilarious peals of laughter. Not for many a long day had he enjoyed himself so thoroughly, and it was some time before he could settle himself down to the practical continuance of his “joke.”
“‘The President and Council regret’!” he soliloquized, in mirthful reverie. “Yes! I should think they will ‘regret’! To some purpose! By Jove! They’ll never cease to ‘regret’!”
And very soon all the art world was set talking. A lengthy paragraph appeared in the Press headed “Amusing Incident! An unknown work by Turner is rejected by the Royal Academy!” The whole story of the picture was fully related — when it was painted, and how it was “commissioned” — every detail of its history was explained with close accuracy, the narrative winding up with the practical joke played by its present owner on the Royal Academy Council. People laughed and gossiped — it was an art “sensation”! — hundreds of dejected painters with work thrown back on their hands perked up their heads and smiled — and presently the murmur of amusement and interest became a loud and constant buzz of excitement — where was the picture? — when could it be seen? Who was Wilfrid Turner, the fortunate possessor of the greater Turner’s work? What had he done in the way of painting? Was there any picture of his own to be seen? Oh, no! His work had also been “rejected!” Well, what of that? Perhaps, after all, his genius was unrecognized — he might be nearly as good an artist as the glorious J. W. T. himself! — who could tell? And the mirthful comments went on, running like quicksilver through every quarter where “art” matters were discussed or dealt with; members of the Academy Council heard but refused to believe, and maintained in dignified silence their private wrath and incredulity. Only one of their number could not contain his fury — this was Ambrose David, who poured himself out like a flask of vitriol wherever he went and wherever anybody would listen to him. The big “advertisement” given to Wilfrid Turner gratis, not only for the legacy of the picture bequeathed to him, but for the little comedy he had played with it, was proving far more valuable than being “hung on the line” — and the storm of chatter whirled through the brilliant commencement of the London “season,” especially during the first and second weeks in May when Burlington House threw open its doors to the fashionable crowd — a staring, criticizing, and for the most part wholly bored throng, many among them being only too delighted to have something new to talk about, so that before he himself knew or realized the position there arose a demand for pictures by Wilfrid Turner— “the man who has got the real Turner” — the would-be purchasers explained. Dealers approached him respectfully by letter and by personal application — much to his contemptuous amusement — but for the moment he refused to sell a single drawing. The excitement became intensified, and reached its culminating point when it became known that the hitherto unknown, unseen real Turner masterpiece was to be sold at Christie’s at the end of the month. The public read the news and waited open-eared and almost open-mouthed for the result.
On the appointed day never was there seen a greater crowd than that which squashed and squeezed its way into the famous sale-rooms.
“The Dying Day,” by J. W. Turner, was the chief object of interest that had gathered them all together — and a long, low murmur of astonishment and admiration rose from all assembled as the exquisite drawing, a gem of perfect colouring, was set up on view.
“Rejected by the Academy Council!” said a man near the auctioneer’s desk— “you’ve heard the story?”
A ripple of laughter answered him — everyone knew the joke. The bidding started at two thousand guineas, but rose quickly by leaps and bounds, till it reached twelve thousand.
“Twelve thousand!” cried the auctioneer, with considerable excitement. “Twelve—”
“Thirteen thousand!”
“Fourteen!” put in a well-known dealer, quietly.
“Fifteen!” exclaimed another.
“Fifteen five hundred!”
“Sixteen thousand guineas!” said the dealer who had before spoken.
The hammer fell — the picture was sold.
“Going to America, of course!” said a bystander, sotto voce.
The successful dealer looked round with a smile.
“Yes, quite right!” he said. “Going to America.”
Another picture came up for sale. It was the seascape by Wilfrid Turner. He had sent it to take its chance.
“What’s that? It’s a fine thing!”
“That’s by the man who tricked the R.A.!”
“It’s his own work. It was ‘rejected!’”
Another laugh rippled through the crowd. The bidding began, “‘A Sudden Squall’ — by Wilfrid Turner — painted for this year’s Academy and rejected. Five hundred guineas!”
“Eight hundred!”
“One thousand!”
“One thousand five hundred!”
“Two thousand!”
The bidding stopped. The purchaser, a well-known American agent, smiled.
“Good!” he said, softly, to a friend who accompanied him. “I’ve an offer of three thousand for it — not bad profit! And it’s a fine picture! He can sell anything he likes just now, while his name’s on the wind!”
The day came to an end. The excitement was over, and Wilfrid Turner was a rich man, with bright prospects for the future opening out before him. Meeting him at one of the art clubs, Ambrose David confronted him with a dark frown.
“You call yourself a man of principle!” he said. “And you ‘boom’ yourself by cheating the Academy Council!”
Wilfrid looked him over calmly and lit a cigarette.
“You have cheated yourselves,” he answered. “You hardly ever look at the work of ‘outsiders’ — something like eight thousand pictures were rejected this year. You don’t mean to tell me that the Council have conscientiously examined those eight thousand? In your unjust haste you might easily reject a masterpiece. Besides,” and he paused, “if I have played a little trick on you all, it’s not as bad as stabbing a man in the back! You know more about that than I do!”
With that he went, and shortly afterward left England for Paris. There he worked — there he still works — there his pictures are “hung” in the Salon, and receive such praise as they merit, though he is not known as Wilfrid Turner, but by a nom de guerre which he has rendered famous. In the house of a multi-millionaire on the other side of the Atlantic the wonderful Turner he once possessed has a small, perfectly lighted room all to itself, and its owner never tires of pointing out its manifold beauties to his many friends.
“Yes!” he says. “It’s the finest Turner in the world! — lost to sight for fifty or more years at least! There’s not another like it — Ruskin would have knelt down before it in adoration! And of course you know what happened when it first came to light? It was sent up as a modern picture by a modern artist — ha-ha-ha! — a good take-in! — and it was rejected! — think of it! — rejected by the Royal Academy! Curious people the British! — very curious! They hardly know a valuable thing when they see it, and when they do find out what it’s worth, they sell it to Us! Ha-ha-ha!”
And his laughter is echoed by his audience — laughter that runs away into silence — the silence that Art loves best.
SUNNY
A RED CROSS INCIDENT
SUNNY was twenty-one. He h
ad celebrated his “coming-of-age” by a big ball given at his father’s house in one of the loveliest island resorts frequented by fashionable New York society. It was a feast of flowers and fireworks. His handsome face, lithe figure, and delightfully boyish smile had won all hearts, and girls fell promptly in love with him at first sight, quite apart from his prospects as heir to a millionaire’s possessions. He had danced into his majority with a fair-haired little beauty of sixteen to whom he had whispered “soft nothings” in the pauses of the waltz-quadrille, and then, two months afterward, he had sailed for Europe with a big contingent of United States troops, to help fight the Monster-Criminal of the world — the Boche-Dragon, far worse than any legendary beast of old-time fable. He was an only child; his mother adored him, and from earliest baby days had called him her “sunshine” — a name which had easily chimed itself into “Sunny” with her and all her friends. Life had been a real boy’s “rampage” for him — full of harmless gaiety and “good times” — he was a guileless, frank, and pure-souled lad, and his conscience had no reproaches to make to him. And now? Well, now! — now he lay senseless on a rain-soaked field surrounded by dead and dying men, amid fragments of burst shell and spent bullets, his curling hair, once his mother’s pride, dank with blood — helpless and unconscious under the dark heavens. A little longer time, and the end would come — must come! — and “Sunny’s” light would be quenched in this world for ever. He had fought magnificently — so magnificently as to be positively reckless in his daring, and his last conscious words had been shouted over the top of an enemy trench— “At them, boys! No quarter! Never give in!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 955