midnight
I wandered through the other wings with their rows and rows of oils , their Greek and Roman sculptures , their stern ranks of medieval armors , their Oriental porcelains , their Egyptian gods . At length , by chance and not by design , I came to the head of a certain rear stairway . Other habitués of the museum will know the one I mean when I remind them that Arnold Böcklin 's _ The Isle of the Dead _ hangs on the wall of the landing . I started down , relishing in advance the impression Böcklin 's picture would make with its high brown rocks and black poplars , its midnight sky and gloomy film of sea , its single white figure erect in the bow of the beach-nosing skiff . But , as I descended , I saw that _ The Isle of the Dead _ was not in its accustomed position on the wall . In that space , arresting even in the bad light and from the up-angle of the stairs , hung a gilt-framed painting I had never seen or heard of in all my museum-haunting years . I gazed at it , one will imagine , all the way down to the landing .