Buried Alive | Page 3

had apparently forgotten the New Gallery: which
was considered to be ungracious, if not ungrateful, on his part. Instead,
he adorned the Paris salon with a large seascape showing penguins in
the foreground. Now these penguins became the penguins of the
continental year; they made penguins the fashionable bird in Paris, and
also (twelve months later) in London. The French Government offered
to buy the picture on behalf of the Republic at its customary price of
five hundred francs, but Priam Farll sold it to the American connoisseur
Whitney C. Whitt for five thousand dollars. Shortly afterwards he sold
the policeman, whom he had kept by him, to the same connoisseur for
ten thousand dollars. Whitney C. Whitt was the expert who had paid
two hundred thousand dollars for a Madonna and St. Joseph, with
donor, of Raphael. The enterprising journal before mentioned
calculated that, counting the space actually occupied on the canvas by
the policeman, the daring connoisseur had expended two guineas per
square inch on the policeman.

At which stage the vast newspaper public suddenly woke up and
demanded with one voice:
"Who is this Priam Farll?"
Though the query remained unanswered, Priam Farll's reputation was
henceforward absolutely assured, and this in spite of the fact that he
omitted to comply with the regulations ordained by English society for
the conduct of successful painters. He ought, first, to have taken the
elementary precaution of being born in the United States. He ought,
after having refused all interviews for months, to have ultimately
granted a special one to a newspaper with the largest circulation. He
ought to have returned to England, grown a mane and a tufted tail, and
become the king of beasts; or at least to have made a speech at a
banquet about the noble and purifying mission of art. Assuredly he
ought to have painted the portrait of his father or grandfather as an
artisan, to prove that he was not a snob. But no! Not content with
making each of his pictures utterly different from all the others, he
neglected all the above formalities--and yet managed to pile triumph on
triumph. There are some men of whom it may be said that, like a punter
on a good day, they can't do wrong. Priam Farll was one such. In a few
years he had become a legend, a standing side-dish of a riddle. No one
knew him; no one saw him; no one married him. Constantly abroad, he
was ever the subject of conflicting rumours. Parfitts themselves, his
London agents, knew naught of him but his handwriting--on the backs
of cheques in four figures. They sold an average of five large and five
small pictures for him every year. These pictures arrived out of the
unknown and the cheques went into the unknown.
Young artists, mute in admiration before the masterpieces from his
brush which enriched all the national galleries of Europe (save, of
course, that in Trafalgar Square), dreamt of him, worshipped him, and
quarrelled fiercely about him, as the very symbol of glory, luxury and
flawless accomplishment, never conceiving him as a man like
themselves, with boots to lace up, a palette to clean, a beating heart,
and an instinctive fear of solitude.
Finally there came to him the paramount distinction, the last proof that

he was appreciated. The press actually fell into the habit of mentioning
his name without explanatory comment. Exactly as it does not write
"Mr. A.J. Balfour, the eminent statesman," or "Sarah Bernhardt, the
renowned actress," or "Charles Peace, the historic murderer," but
simply "Mr. A.J. Balfour," "Sarah Bernhardt" or "Charles Peace"; so it
wrote simply "Mr. Priam Farll." And no occupant of a smoker in a
morning train ever took his pipe out of his mouth to ask, "What is the
johnny?" Greater honour in England hath no man. Priam Farll was the
first English painter to enjoy this supreme social reward.
And now he was inhabiting the puce dressing-gown.
The Dreadful Secret
A bell startled the forlorn house; its loud old-fashioned jangle came
echoingly up the basement stairs and struck the ear of Priam Farll, who
half rose and then sat down again. He knew that it was an urgent
summons to the front door, and that none but he could answer it; and
yet he hesitated.
Leaving Priam Farll, the great and wealthy artist, we return to that far
more interesting person, Priam Farll the private human creature; and
come at once to the dreadful secret of his character, the trait in him
which explained the peculiar circumstances of his life.
As a private human creature, he happened to be shy.
He was quite different from you or me. We never feel secret qualms at
the prospect of meeting strangers, or of taking quarters at a grand