Mr Gordon did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return, but they could not fail to become known to a good many of his acquaintances. I now acquire the following knowledge from him, including the fact that those who have taken even the most limited interest in the acquisition of early photography are aware that there is one dealer that is indispensable to it: Mr G. Brown.
He publishes the glossiest of catalogues containing a large and constantly changing stock of prints, negatives and old silver captures of landscapes, mansions, churches and old historical townscapes. These catalogues were, of course, the A to Z of the subject for Mr Gordon, but as his museum already contained an enormous accumulation itself of pictures, he was a regular, rather than a copious buyer; and he rather looked to Mr Brown to fill up the black chasm in the files of the Universities collection than to supply him with peculiar rarities.
Yet, in August of last year there appeared upon Mr Gordon's antique desk, a catalogue from Mr Brown's store, and accompanying it was a typed communication:
Dear Sir,
We call your attention to No. 617 in our accompanying catalogue, which we shall be glad to send on approval.
Yours faithfully,
Mr G. Brown.
To turn to No. 617 in the catalogue was to Mr. Gordon the capture of a moment, and in the space indicated he found the following entry:
617.--_Artist Unknown._ B&W photographic print. Night view of a manor-house, early part of 20th century. 10 by 8 inches; large ornate black painted frame: £350.
It was not extraordinary, and the price seemed high for an unknown print. However, Mr Gordon sent a letter asking for No. 617 to be sent to the University, along with other works that had captured his attention.
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The ornate black-framed print was delivered to the museum by the Friday morning post, after Mr Gordon had already left, but it was accordingly brought round to his office by the secretary only a short time later during lunch. The framed work of 617 was a rather different photograph in reality. It presented to Mr Gordon a dark view of a large low level 19th century manor-house, with rows of plain sashed windows with rusticated frames about them and a small portico in the centre. On either side were dark overgrown trees, edges like branched fingers barely visible in the moonlight and in front of it all a considerable expanse of tethered lawn wet with dew. There was no inscriptions, no signature. The whole thing gave the impression that it was the work of an amateur.
‘What in the world Brown could mean by affixing that price?’ He turned it over carefully with a good deal of contempt; upon the framed back was a yellowed 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--_ skine House_; the second,--_ess_.
Putting a the desk lamp on, the conclusion Mr Gordon arrived at was that the certain dense exposure might have been better produced, and that in certain professional circumstances been better printed, though admittedly no marks were to be found on either the glazing or the print. It was now that a colleague entered his office—Dr Anstruther— tall and demurely dressed as ever, she came to Mr Gordon’s desk and stared like him curiously at the framed print.
'What's this place?'
'Just what I’m trying to find out,' said Gordon, glancing up over his glasses, surprised by the company. 'Look at the back. Somethingskine House, 'ness? Half the name's gone.'
'It's from that man Brown, I suppose, isn't it?' said Anstruther.
'Well, I think I should buy it if the price was less than a hundred,' said Gordon; 'but for some unearthly reason he wants three fifty. I can't fathom why. It's in perfect condition but with no distinguishing features, no signature, no name. Not even any figures to give it a bit of life...'
'It's not worth three fifty, surely,' said Anstruther peering closer; 'but I don't think it's so bad. The moonlight seems rather good to me; and I think there were figures or at least an outline of one, just on the edge in front...in the darkness...' She pointed to the edge of the picture.
And indeed there was--hardly more than a black blot though 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.
Gordon had not noticed it before.
Dr Anstruther had work to do, said her goodbye and left the book on the desk Gordon had asked for this morning; and very neatly up to dinner he was engaged in a vain attempt to identify the subject of this now curious photograph. Dinner in the department was at seven. It need not be dwelt upon; as he met there those who had been drinking endless coffees during the afternoon, and words with which we have no concern with were freely bandied across over the drone of Radio Four –of course merely academic words, I hasten to add.
Later in the evening some retired to Gordon’s study that adjoined his unkempt office, and I have little doubt that whiskey was drunk and tobacco smoked. During a lull in these operations Gordon picked up the framed photo from the coffee table without looking at it, and handed it to a person mildly interested in these visual matters, telling him where it had come from, and the other particulars which we already know.
The man took it carelessly, looked at it and then said, in a tone of interest:
'It's an interesting image; it has quite a feeling of the romantic period. The light, the moon is admirably captured, it seems to me, and the figure, though it's rather too opaque and grotesque, is impressive...'
'Yes, isn't it?' said Gordon distracted pouring drinks, ‘at first I wasn’t sure...but now..’ He had changed his mind to the same conclusion earlier this evening.
It was by this time late, and the other staff members were on the move. After they went Gordon was obliged to clear up some odd bits of paper work with the aide of a whiskey or two. At last, some time past midnight, he resigned to turn in; he put out the desk lamp after turning on the light in the hall to his room. The picture lay upwards on the desk where the last man who looked at it had put it, and it caught his eye as he creaked the lamp towards it. What he saw made him very nearly drop his glass on the floor. It was unquestionable—in fact impossible, no doubt, but absolutely certain of what he saw. In the middle of the lawn in front of the house there was a figure where no figure had been the last time he looked that afternoon. It was crawling on all fours towards the house, in a strange black garment with what appeared to be a white dagger or cross shaped symbol on its back.
I do not know what the ideal course to pursue in a situation of this kind, I can only tell you what Mr Gordon did. He took the photograph and carried it across the hall to a second set of rooms in his quarters. There he wrapped it in the black cloth it came in, locked it up in a drawer and with the keys of both sets of rooms, quickly retired to bed; but first he scribbled out an account of the change which the image had undergone since it had come into his possession.
Sleep visited late; understandably it was hard to unwind, but it was consoling to reflect that the behaviour of the picture did not solely depend upon his own testament. Evidently the man who had looked at it last night in his study had seen something of the same kind as he had surely, otherwise he might have been tempted to think that something gravely was wrong with his vision or more so his mind. He decided while staring tiredly at the first breaks of dawn, to first ask his colleague Mr Osman what he thought about the curious image.
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During breakfast nothing was said about the picture. Yet I am bound to say that he was rather distraught; for his interest naturally centred in that photograph, which was now reposing, face downwards, in the drawer in the room opposite. The morning papers had now been read, and the moment had arrived for which he sought. With very considerable--almost tremulous--animation he ran across, unlocked the drawer, and, extracting the picture-- placed it into Osman's hands.
'Now,' he said putting on glasses, his own eyesight getting worse, 'I want you to tell me exactly what you see in this picture. Describe it, if you don't mind, exactly please...’
'Well,' said Osman bemused by his hosts behaviour, 'I have here a view of a manor--British, I presume--by moonlight.'
'Moonlight? You're sure of that?'
'Yes. The moon appears to be on the decline, and there are clouds in the sky.'
'All right. Go on. I'll swear,' Gordon added, 'there was no moon when I first looked...'
'Well, there's not much more really,' Osman continued. 'The house has 8--9-- windows, in one row, except for the two bay ones…it’s too dark to make out'
'But what about the figure?' said Gordon, with marked interest.
'There aren't any,' said Osman; 'but--'
'What! Wait a minute...No figures on the grass in front?'
'Not a thing.'
'You swear to that?'
'Of course I do,’ Osman said taken aback. ‘But there's just one other thing actually...'
'What?'
'It seems one of the windows –to the left --is open.'
'Is it really!? God...' said Gordon, with great disbelief; and he quickly moved to the back of the sofa on which Clarke was sitting, and, taking the frame from him, verified the opened window for himself.
‘It must have got in...’ he thought.
There was no black figure, only the open window. Gordon, after a moment of astonishment, went to his desk with the picture, to his pad and scribbled quickly for a short time. Then he brought two papers to Osman, and asked him to read them.
'What can it all mean?' Osman said glaring at Gordon. ‘It wasn’t like this when you got it!? Have you contacted Brown and asked if he knows anything?’
'I haven’t,' said Gordon staring at the open window in the picture. ‘He would think I’ve finally lost it... Well, one thing I must do though. I must find out from Beardsley'--this was his last night's visitor who mentioned the figure--'what he saw, if it was the same as what I did, then get the darn thing photographed before it changes again, and then I must find out where the hell the place is...'
'I can document it myself,' said Osman, 'but, you’re right we need to find out where the place is, it is rather peculiar, maybe it’s just a trick of the mind?’
Gordon didn’t look convinced.
‘Though I expect,’ he added, ‘if it was there, it has got in from the lawn. If what you say is true then I don't doubt you that.'
'I'll tell you what,' said Gordon staring and sipping on the last remains of a cold coffee, 'I'll take the picture across to old
'Quite likely he has,' said Osman standing up; 'but just let me take the photograph first. But, I rather think
'That's true,' said Gordon, ‘Well, if you'll photograph it now, I'll go talk to Beardsley and leave a note with Old Walker’s secretary. I'm beginning to think three fifty is not a very exorbitant price for it now.'
And with that he left.
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Beardsley's account was to the effect that the dark figure, when he had seen it last night, 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 or a dagger.
'Now what are you going to do?' Osman said, 'Are you going to sit and watch it all day?'
'Well, no,' said Gordon. 'I rather imagine we're meant to see the whole journey...don’t you think? You see, between the time I saw it last night and this morning there was time for lots of things to happen, but the figure only got into the house and the fact of the window being open, I think, must mean that it's in there now. I have a hunch that it wouldn't change much, if at all, in the daytime. I’ll go out this afternoon; it is a Sunday after all and come in for dinner, or whenever it gets dark. I can leave it on the table here, and lock the door. No one can get in accept me.’
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At dinnertime the two men were entering Gordon's staircase. They were at first slightly concerned to see that the door was opened; but then they remembered that it was on a Sunday when the cleaner came. On opening the door, the first thing they saw was the picture leaning up against a pile of books on the desk, as it had been left, but their eyes quickly moved to the blind rattling in the evening breeze.
The window had been left open. The office was freezing.
Osman duly closed it, rubbing his hands for warmth in doing so, as Gordon hanging up his jacket turned to the framed photograph distracted as to what now lay in its frame. There was the Manor, as before under the drifting moon and the sullen clouds. The window in the photo that had been open was shut, and the figure was back on the lawn: but not crawling cautiously on hands and knees. Now it was erect and stepping, with long strides, towards the front of the picture. The moon was behind it, and the black cloak hung down over its face so that only glistening hints could be seen, and what was visible made the audience deeply glad that they could see no more than a pale jaw and a few straggling hairs. The head was bent down, and the arms were tightly clasped in the blackness. The legs of its appearance alone could be plainly determined, and they were horribly thin and sallow.
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From six to nine the companions sat and watched the picture by turns while thumbing through books, newspapers and anything else that aided the search. But it never changed. Only their tiredness. They agreed at last that it would be safe to leave it, and that they would return after dinner. At the earliest possible moment, after a hearty meal and a long discussion they returned to the framed picture which was still there, but this time the figure was gone and the house quiet once more. There was nothing for them but to spend the evening searching and thumbing the now growing pile of guide-books. With what seemed to be without any luck.
Then what seemed hours later, Gordon broke the silence: ‘Wait a minute... Osman, listen to this...’ he then proceeded to read an extract from ‘The Ballard's Guide to Foyers’, the following lines:
‘_Boleskine_. The chapel has been an interesting building of Celtic date, but was extensively classicized in the last century. It contains the tomb of the family of Crowley, whose house, Boleskine, built in the late 18th century by Archibald Fraser stands in grounds of over 47 acres in the South Eastern Shore of Loch Ness. The family now extinct, the last heir having disappeared mysteriously in the year 1909. The father, Mr Crowley, was locally known as a quiet but talented writer and amateur photographer. After his wife's disappearance he lived in complete seclusion at the House, and was found dead in his studio on the 1st anniversary of the tragedy, having just completed a series of photographic documentations, of which are of considerable rarity.’
This looked like the business, it matched the label and the description, and indeed, old
'Is there any kind of explanation of the figure?' was the question which Gordon naturally asked
‘I don’t know for sure,’ he said sitting down, peering at the picture, ‘What used to be said about the place when I first knew it, ‘which was before I came here, was just this: Crowley was always very much down on these poaching and very noisy locals, he was a private man, and there were all types of rumours of the things he got up to but whenever he got a chance he used to get whom he suspected of trespassing turned away, and by degrees he got rid of them all, all but one... it was never known who that one was...'
With that said all three men stared at the picture for a moment, all in the strange hope that within its frame that that one might appear again.
(NB: These facts were communicated by Mr Gordon to a mixed company, of which I was one, and the Alexandrian Professor of Ophiology another. I am regretful to say that the latter when asked what he thought of it, only remarked: 'Oh, nonsense and those local people will say anything'--a sentiment which met with the same thoughts. I have only to add that the print of 617 is now lost in transit; it was in Mr Gordon’s possession for years and, though carefully watched, it was never known to change again.)
The copyright of ‘The Mezzotint’ by MR James is in the public domain.
