‘Mysterious Images’: An Exhibition of Trompe L’oeil

It is my habit to rummage in bookshops and flea markets in boxes of booklets and pamphlets. I like monographs on ancient monuments or obscure subjects, old town guides, programmes for forgotten festivals, and unexpected ephemera, the passing moments of the printed word.

It was in this way I came upon a catalogue for an exhibition devoted to the art of Trompe L’oeil from the XVIIIth century to the present day held seventy years ago at Arthur Jeffress (Pictures) of Davies Street, London W1, from 18 January-19 February 1955. Sixty one pieces were on display. The gallery had opened in 1954, so this exhibition would have been one of its earliest.

The cover design, signed by A. Groves Raines, depicts a surreal miscellany of eyeglasses, eyeballs, a green lamp and pieces of paper on a wooden shelf against a canvas background. This artist does not seem to be otherwise much known.

An introduction by the artist and art critic Robin Ironside is cool and crisp. He defends the technique: ‘The beauties of trompe l’oeil painting are seldom acknowledged by earnest minded critics without some form of introductory apologia. Though such caution may be explained, it could hardly be more misplaced.’ It may in fact be an intriguing art: ‘The contents of the cabinet, the book shelf or the letter rack are potentially rich in revealing or mysterious images and lend themselves to a diversity of elegant arrangements’; further, ‘the contents of a modern medicine cabinet, selected with imagination, might prove to be more wonderfully grotesque than anything in the curio cabinets of the seventeenth century.’

One of the qualities of trompe l’oeil is that it may sometimes seem a keen metaphor for the world we think of as real, prompting the idea that what we see is also an artifice and that there are further, stranger realms beyond, a view shared by Machen, de la Mare and Mary Butts among others in the field of fantastic literature. For some time I mulled over the notion of using the catalogue as a stepping-off point for a story along just those lines, but it has never quite cohered. 

I leafed through the descriptions of the exhibits and the occasional illustrations. Some phrases caught my attention. The catalogue listed a 1778 work by one ‘John Mallacott’, entitled ‘Where Shall Celia Fly For Shelter?’, which seems to have been a contemporary song: but I could find no further record either of the painter or the painting. The same was true for several of the earlier pieces. They seem to have disappeared.

Whoever possessed the catalogue has made a few pencil annotations. They wrote the date in pencil on the front cover, January 1955, and on an inner page the enigmatic note ‘suede shoes/black duffel’. This sounds like a brief note about someone they were to meet or who interested them there, perhaps the description of another visitor to the gallery. Boy or girl? By the Fifties, these items might be worn by either. Who were they? Did the two make contact? What, if anything, transpired?

The titles of some of the pictures make us wonder what they looked like, from Martin Battersby’s ‘Cup of Tea’, ‘Shuttlecock’, ‘Key’ and ‘Gauloise Bleue’ to ‘Torn Papers’ (Chinese School), ‘Riddle-me-Ree’ (English School, Early 19th Century), ‘The Bibliophile’s Firescreen’ (Varnished Watercolour laid on wood), and ‘A Portrait with Broken Glass’ (French School, 18th Century). Each image suggests a story of some sort.

There were three watercolours by Richard Chopping, ‘Pansies and Snails’, ‘Pears and Still Life’ and ‘Globe Artichokes’. He was soon to become known for his dustjacket designs for Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels, some of which use elements of trompe l’oeil too.

There was also one piece in egg tempera by Eliot Hodgkin, ‘Flint and Egg Shells’. He was notable for his keenly observed, highly naturalistic work. I liked this quotation from him in The Studio, 1957: ‘In so far as I have any conscious purpose, it is to show the beauty of natural objects which are normally thought uninteresting or even unattractive: such things as Brussels sprouts, turnips, onions, pebbles and flints, bulbs, dead leaves, bleached vertebrae, an old boot cast up by the tide. People sometimes tell me that they had never really ‘seen’ something before I painted it, and I should like to believe this . . .  I try to show things exactly as they are, yet with some of their mystery and poetry, and as though seen for the first time . . .’

Our visitor has bracketed the four contemporary pieces by L. Roy Hobdell, ‘Pompom Rouge’, ‘Erotica Romana’, ‘Gothick’ and ‘The Clove Ball’, and written ‘poor’: but Peter Stebbing’s ‘Camellias’ and Timothy Whidborne’s ‘Still Life’ are noted as ‘good’, the latter with the question ‘date?’

Most of the contemporary artists exhibited here went on to have careers which continued to involve aspects of trompe l’oeil, for example in murals, theatre design, still lives and commercial art (posters, packets and boxes). I enjoyed the oddities and mysteries that the catalogue suggested and have often wondered about the individual pieces of art, the visitor with the pencil, and his suede-shoed, duffel-coated stranger.

(Mark Valentine)

John Buchan and Charles Williams: A Guest Post by G. Connor Salter

John Buchan

John Buchan, best known for his spy thriller The Thirty-Nine Steps, rarely gets mentioned alongside Charles Williams. Besides Glen Cavaliero comparing the “time-fantasy” novel The Greater Trumps to Buchan’s rare science fiction novel A Gap in the Curtain in Charles Williams: Poet of Theology, few writers have seen similarities between their work. It’s not even clear that Williams read Buchan. He reviewed many thrillers in the 1930s (collected by Jared Lobdell in The Detective Fiction Reviews of Charles Williams, 1930-1935), including books by Buchan’s contemporaries like Sax Rohmer and M.P. Shiel, but Buchan never appears in these reviews.

However, the assumption that William didn’t know Buchan may be more due to timing and underexplored archives. Our knowledge of Williams’ reading comes from his letters (many still unpublished) and his published book reviews (of detective stories and thrillers). Buchan’s 1930s output was mostly military history, biographies, historical fiction, and atypical experiments like The Gap in the Curtain or his children’s book The Magic Walking Stick. He remained one of Edwardian England’s best-known thriller writers, but little he wrote would have appeared in the weekly review piles mailed to Williams.

If Williams did read Buchan, it would explain something that several Inklings researchers have mentioned in oral or written discussions: the surprising similarities between Buchan’s 1910 adventure novel Prester John and Williams’ first finished novel, Shadows of Ecstasy. As Mark Valentine has discussed in a Wormwoodiana post, this novel shows clear influence from Rohmer, so it is not a stretch to consider other Victorian-Edwardian pulp influences.

Buchan’s novel opens with young Scot David Crawfurd and his friends walking along the coast near their village and seeing something strange. A visiting African clergyman, John Laputa, appears to be performing a dark magic ritual in the moonlight. Years later in South Africa, Crawfurd discovers Laputa plotting an African revolt. Laputa recruits followers by wearing a ruby necklace called “the Great Snake” associated with Prester John, the legendary Christian king connected to the Magi and sometimes to grail legend.

The basic plot may not sound much like Shadows of Ecstasy, which features sorcerer Nigel Considine using African rebels and anti-Semitic mobs to create chaos until the British Empire gives him the African continent. Writers like Valentine and Aren Roukema have compared Considine to Rohmer’s Dr. Fu Manchu: a mysterious man whose London activities fit within a larger conspiracy threatening British superiority. But if the London setting and supervillain overtones fit Rohmer’s formula, several plot elements more strongly resemble Prester John than anything in the Fu Manchu stories.

The most obvious connection is the name Prester John. Stephen Hayes’ blog post on Prester John highlights how Williams uses this figure in his second novel War in Heaven as a mystical grail guardian. Without using Prester John as a character in Shadows of Ecstasy, Williams does use overtones that Buchan generates via the name. In Prester John, the way Laputa takes on Prester Jonh’s mantle evokes Christ as king, setting him up as Africa’s messiah, but he is also a follower of Satan. Williams uses Christ imagery to suggest Considine is a messiah with his plans to free Africa from Britain but Sørina Higgins notes on The Oddest Inkling that Considine is an inverted Christ. Williams and Buchan offer Christ associations but then complicate the Christlike overtones to make their villains appear blasphemous.

The fact Williams associates his villain with Africa also suggests a stronger influence from Buchan than Rohmer. As Roger Lockhurst discusses in his essay for Lord of Strange Deaths: The Fiendish World of Fu Manchu, Rohmer preferred exploring the East in his stories—often China, more often Egypt. Williams and Buchan both imagine Africa as the epicenter of mysterious things, using it to explore fears about reverse colonialism. While Buchan imagines this threat rising (rebels gathering in South Africa), Williams imagines its realization (Africans causing chaos in London, reports of their reinforcements landing on British shores).

Jewels as a totem driving the plot also figure strongly in both books. In Williams’ case, the jewels are a collection belonging to the recently deceased financier Simon Rosenberg. While these jewels are not connected to a saintly figure as the Great Snake is connected to Prester John, Williams gives them an otherworldly significance. One character, Bernard Travers, mentions Rosenberg collected the jewels for his wife to wear; she provided a center for their glory and Rosenberg saw no point to the jewels after her death.

Williams and Buchan both offer secondary villains reacting to the otherworldly jewels. Crawfurd seeks to undermine Laputa through Laputa’s Portuguese follower Henriques, who craves the Great Snake. Considine’s plan to exploit anti-Semites craving Rosenberg’s jewels gets undermined when his German follower Mottreux craves the jewels.

Shaka (spelled Tchaka or Chaka in older texts), the famous Zulu king who ruled from 1816 to 1828, is a background character in both stories. Crawfurd’s friend Mr. Wardlaw warns him a rebellion could happen any time: “Supposing a second Tchaka showed up, who could get the different tribes to work together.” Crawfurd concedes that “if there was some exiled prince of Tchaka’s blood, who came back like Prince Charlie to free his people, there might be danger…” In Shadows of Ecstasy, this possibility nearly comes true. Considine’s plan involves manipulating Inkmazi, a Zulu prince educated in the West who is “chief of the sons of Chaka.”

For Williams and Buchan, the reference to Shaka opens up a larger discussion about kingliness. Laputa is the villain but undisputably a leader. When Crawfurd sees Laputa at a ceremony, he thinks: “Then I knew that, to the confusion of all talk about equality, God has ordained some men to be kings and others to serve.” When Inkmazi gets rescued from a racist mob and hides at a London home, he tells his rescuers his full title and they are impressed, even unsettled, by the regal power he emanates. Neither Buchan nor Williams may offer a story in which Africans achieve independence. But by offering an African king-to-be who even enemies respect, they cut against some racist expectations and suggest that Edwardian readers should not be shocked that a black man could be a great ruler.

Nigel Considine may be inspired by Rohmer’s tales about Scotland Yard uncovering sinister conspiracies in London alleys. But the African theme in Shadows of Ecstasy, particularly the complex image of Africa as a land treated as exotic yet to be respected, reads more like something Willaims would have gotten from Buchan than anything in Rohmer.

As of this writing, more work must be done exploring Williams’ archives to see how well he knew Buchan’s work. Even if references to Prester John cannot be found, the work matters for dispelling an accidental misconception about Williams and other Inklings. Many scholars discuss Williams and his friends being influenced by canonized classic authors—writers like Chaucer, Dante, and Milton—or newly canonized Victorian fantasists such as George MacDonald. These discussions are important but may give the impression the Inklings never read popular literature from their period (Holly Ordway addresses this problem in Tolkien’s Modern Reading). Exploring how familiar the Inklings were with authors like Buchan, less reputable figures who informed Victorian-Edwardian culture in inescapable ways, shows the Inklings were well-read but not snobs.

(Much thanks to Eric E. Rauscher whose comment about Shadows of Ecstasy being similar to Prester John prompted this discussion)

 G. Connor Salter

The Centenary of 'The Rector of Maliseet': A Guest Post by John Howard

One of the most appealing ways to start a story is with a leisurely journey by train. For the author it provides the ideal opportunity to introduce the protagonist, set the scene, and hint at what might be in store; for the reader the sense of movement and progression can foster a pleasing anticipation. Useful information may be gained through casual or overheard conversation in the confined space of the railway carriage, or at the station when the destination is at last in sight. Although the journey is over, for the story it is merely the end of the beginning. Now read on… As did those who opened The Rector of Maliseet by Leslie Reid, first published one hundred years ago in February 1925.

It is late summer, a warm September. Leonard Carr has been engaged as secretary to St John Clare, an old college friend of Carr’s father. Clare is a clergyman of the Church of England and Rector of Maliseet, a quiet and remote village in ‘unvisited Raithshire’: a perfect situation for a young man recovering from illness. The sun is already low when Carr changes trains for the final part of his journey. Although there is plenty of lyrical description of the landscape under the slowly dying light, here and throughout the novel it also possesses a ‘brooding’ aspect. It is certainly beautiful to look at – yet there seems more to it, something lying just beneath or beyond what can be seen.

Apart from his liturgical obligations and duties in the parish, the Rector has spent his time ‘collecting material for a large work dealing with the lesser-known saints of early Christian times’ (36). This fills several drawers in a cabinet; Carr’s job is to arrange the notes so the Rector can make them into a coherent narrative for his book. Carr quickly warms to his task and enjoys reading the material. He finds one account particularly intriguing. Ambrose, abbot of the nearby but long-ruined Pellerin Abbey, had been pious and zealous, but fell under the influence of Satan. Ambrose had periods of remorse which did not last. He finally decided to commit suicide and throw his soul on the mercy of God – but there the document ends, incomplete, the remainder torn away.

Carr attends church on Sundays, and sometimes in the evening, when he is the only member of the congregation. He had previously observed that candles are kept continually burning on the altar: an ancient tradition. Carr slowly begins to find parallels between Ambrose and the Rector. Each has two sides, spiritual and sensual, which are at war with each other (157). The Rector continues to be reticent and mysterious; Carr explores the disused part of the Rectory and finds that his employer uses a room there, which he keeps permanently locked.

Carr had become acquainted with Forbes, the village doctor. Over dinner Forbes explains that he found some old documents, including the conclusion to the story of Ambrose. The abbot, intent on killing himself, had climbed the steps cut into a huge rock outcrop known as The Stone – and at the top had been forgiven by God. Now permanently reformed, he went on preaching tours. He was appointed Rector of Maliseet and began the custom of perpetually burning candles on the church altar.

Several weeks later, Carr asks the Rector about the missing conclusion to the story. He talks about Ambrose before he degraded himself: ‘To such men there may come a time when they are as nearly on an equal footing with God as it is possible for men to attain. […] God made his presence known in a way that had been denied to any other individuals in history. There was the utterance of a spoken compact – made between the Almighty and a human creature. The Lord made a promise to Abbot Ambrose, which, for His own good reason, he did not fulfil’ (233).

It seems the promise was that Ambrose should ‘have the privilege of seeing God’ (239). This would be granted on Midsummer Day – that same day – at The Stone, which is first place to catch the rising sun. Carr gets to The Stone just as the sun rises and sees the Rector at the top. Then the priest vanishes from sight. Carr observes that the Rector, in death, looks untroubled for the first time (270). A connection or bond between two remarkable men over some seven centuries has come to a tragic but appropriate conclusion.

Just as the initial situation of a young man travelling to stay and assist with the work of an unusual clergyman is reminiscent of Algernon Blackwood’s novel The Human Chord (1910) so Reid’s invocation of landscape and certain features within as the ‘awful loveliness of paganism’ often reaches the intensity that was such a characteristic feature of Blackwood’s best work. There are ‘secret forces in nature’ which he cannot say are evil or good, but are certainly powerful, belonging to an ‘ultimate world beyond good and evil’ (197f).

In The Rector of Maliseet the priest does not, as in The Human Chord, seek the Divine in order to harness and control it for his own purposes. Rather, it is the reverse: he wishes only to see, to be transformed. Yet both men of God are impious; they find there is a price to pay for their quests. From the outset it is clear that Carr is narrating the entire sequence of events many years later. There was one at least who emerged from that time wiser – even if not, as it would seem, sadder.