“It is finished,” said the expert.
“There’s no question in your mind about that?”
“I have said, Mr. Adams, that the painting is finished. Naturally there is no question in my mind, or I should not have said it.”
“I see. Of course,” said Ferriss Adams humbly. “But our knowledge is not on the level of yours, Mr. Casavant—”
“Please note,” interrupted Casavant, “that when I say ‘the painting is finished’ I verbally italicize the word painting. By that I mean that the creative process of applying paint to canvas is over; I do not mean that no work remains to be done. There are mechanistic aspects to art: for example, when the canvas is dry, the artist usually applies a thin lacquer retouch varnish, which not only protects the surface from dust and the deteriorative action of the air — especially where inferior pigments have been used — but also to bring out the darks. The retouch varnish has the further advantage of allowing the artist to paint over it if he wishes to make changes. On the other hand—”
“Mr. Casavant.”
“On the other hand, this thin lacquer is a temporary expedient only. Most artists allow anywhere from three to twelve months to elapse, and then they will apply a permanent varnish made from dammar resin. At this point one might say that not only is the painting finished, but its mechanistic aspects also.”
“But Mr. Casavant—”
“I might interpolate,” said Roger Casavant, “in the aforementioned connection, that Fanny Adams had strongly individualistic work habits. For example, she did not believe in applying a preliminary retouch varnish; she never used it. She claimed that it had a slightly yellowing effect — a moot point among artists. Of course, she used only the finest pigments, what we know as permanent colors, which are remarkably resistant to the action of air. She did use dammar varnish, but never sooner than ten to twelve months after she completed the painting. So you will find no varnish on this canvas—”
“Mr. Casavant,” said Ferriss Adams. “What we want to find out is: What are your reasons for making the positive assertion that this is a finished painting?”
“My reasons?” Casavant glanced at Adams as if he had said a dirty word. He placed his joined hands to his lips and studied Fanny Adams’s ceiling, seeking there the elementary language necessary to convey his meaning to the brute ears about him. “The work of Fanny Adams is above all characterized by an impression of realism, absolute realism achieved through authentic detail. The secret of her power as an artist lies precisely there... in what I might call her primitive scrupulosity to life and life-objects.”
“Please, Mr. Casavant—”
“In her quaint way, Fanny Adams expressed it thusly: ‘I paint,’ she would say, ‘what I see.’ Now, of course, regarded superficially, that’s an ingenuous statement. Every painter paints what he sees. The esthetic variety of artistic experience comes about because two painters looking at the same object see it in two different ways — one as a disoriented basic form, perhaps, the other as an arrangement of symbols. The point is that when Fanny Adams said, ‘I paint what I see,’ she meant it literally!” Casavant glared triumphantly at Ferriss Adams. “It is one of the great charms of her painting style. She never — I repeat, never — painted from imagination, and she never — I repeat, never — painted from memory. If she painted a tree, it was not any old tree, it was not the tree as she remembered having seen it in her girlhood, or even yesterday, it was the tree, the particular tree she was looking at, the particular tree she was looking at now, at that precise moment in time; in all its nowness, as it were. If Fanny Adams painted a sky, it was the sky of the instant. If she painted a barn, you may be sure it was the very barn before her eyes—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Casavant,” said Ferriss Adams with a sigh, “but I thought you told me this morning... I mean, how do you know this painting is finished?”
“My dear sir,” said Casavant with a kindly smile, “one cannot answer a question like that in a phrase. Now you will recall that a moment ago I referred to Fanny Adams’s work habits. They had one further oddity. Just as she never deviated a hair’s breadth from the now-object, so she never deviated a hair’s breadth from her work habits. I call your attention to the F.A. in the lower left-hand corner of this canvas, which is the manner in which she invariably signed her works; and I repeat for the information of the court and jury that never in the case of any canvas from Fanny Adams’s brush, in the course of her entire career, did she stroke in that F.A. until the painting part of the picture was consummated. Never! However, that’s a childishly oversimplified reason. When we deal with an artist we deal with a living, pulsing personality, not a lifeless thing under a microscope. There are esthetic reasons, there are emotional reasons if you will, for pronouncing this painting utterly, irrevocably, perfectly finished.”
“I think the oversimplified reason you’ve already given, Mr. Casavant,” murmured Judge Shinn, “will suffice.”
Ferriss Adams flung the Judge a look of sheer worship. “Now, Mr. Casavant, an analysis of the defendant’s movements indicates that he must have quit these premises at approximately the time Aunt Fanny Adams was assaulted and murdered. Also, there is a statement, now part of the court record, made by defendant on the night of his arrest. We’re interested in testing defendant’s statement for truthfulness—”
Andrew Webster opened his mouth, but he shut it again at a sign from Judge Shinn.
“—for if in any particular it can be shown that his statement lies, there will be a strong presumption that his denial of guilt is a lie, too.”
Old Andy struggled, and won.
“In his statement defendant claims, Mr. Casavant, that a moment before leaving this house he pushed the swinging door from the kitchen open a crack and looked into the studio. He says he saw Aunt Fanny at her easel, her back to him, still working on this painting. Since that was just about the time she was murdered, and since you have pronounced the painting finished, wouldn’t you say that the defendant, then, is lying when he maintains that the painting was still being worked on?”
“My God, My God,” mumbled Andy Webster.
“My dear sir,” said Roger Casavant with an elegant whimsicality, “I can’t tell who saw what or when, or who was lying or telling the truth. I can only tell you that the painting on this easel is finished. For the rest, you’ll have to work out your personal conclusions.”
“Thank you, Mr. Casavant.” Ferriss Adams wiped his streaming cheeks. “Your witness.”
Judge Webster strode up to the witness chair so determinedly that the witness recoiled slightly.
“As you’ve no doubt gathered, Mr. Casavant,” began the old lawyer, “this is a rather unusual trial. We’re allowing ourselves more latitude — to say the least — than is customary. Let’s take this in detail. A study of the relative times and certain other factors shows that the defendant must have left the Adams house at approximately the time Mrs. Adams was murdered, as Mr. Adams has stated — within two or three minutes, at most. The time of the murder is fixed as having taken place at exactly two-thirteen P.M. I ask you, sir: Isn’t it possible for the defendant to have left this house at, let us say, two-ten, and at two-ten Mrs. Fanny Adams was still working on this painting?”