I asked you (said the man in the caped coat) if you had ever seen
Tcheriapin, and you replied that you had once heard him play. Having
once heard him play you will not have forgotten him. At that time,
although war still raged, all musical London was asking where he had
come from and to what nation he belonged. Then when he disappeared it
was variously reported, you will recall, that he had been shot as a spy
and that he had escaped from England and was serving with the Austrian
army. As to his parentage I can enlighten you in a measure. He was a
Eurasian. His father was an aristocratic Chinaman, and his mother a
Polish ballet-dancer--that was his parentage; but I would scarcely
hesitate to affirm that he came from Hell; and I shall presently show
you that he has certainly returned there.
You remember the strange stories current about him. The cunning ones
said that he had a clever press agent. This was true enough. One of
the most prominent agents in London discovered him playing in a Paris
cabaret. Two months later he was playing at the Queen's Hall, and
musical London lay at his feet.
He had something of the personality of Paganini, as you remember, except
that he was a smaller man; long, gaunt, yellowish hands and the face of
a haggard Mephistopheles. The critics quarrelled about him, as critics
only quarrel about real genius, and while one school proclaimed that
Tcheriapin had discovered an entirely new technique, a revolutionary
system of violin playing, another school was equally positive in
declaring that he could not play at all, that he was a mountebank, a
trickster, whose proper place was in a variety theatre.
There were stories, too, that were never published--not only about
Tcheriapin, but concerning the Strad, upon which he played. If all this
atmosphere of mystery which surrounded the man had truly been the work
of a press agent, then the agent must have been as great a genius as
his client. But I can assure you that the stories concerning Tcheriapin,
true and absurd alike, were not inspired for business purposes; they
grew up around him like fungi.
I can see him now, a lean, almost emaciated figure with slow,
sinuous movements and a trick of glancing sideways with those dark,
unfathomable, slightly oblique eyes. He could take up his bow in such a
way as to create an atmosphere of electrical suspense.
He was loathsome, yet fascinating. One's mental attitude toward him was
one of defence, of being tensely on guard. Then he would play.
You have heard him play, and it is therefore unnecessary for me to
attempt to describe the effect of that music. The only composition which
ever bore his name--I refer to “The Black Mass”--affected me on every
occasion when I heard it, as no other composition has ever done.
Perhaps it was Tcheriapin's playing rather than the music itself which
reached down into hitherto un-plumbed depths within me and awakened dark
things which, unsuspected, lay there sleeping. I never heard “The Black
Mass” played by anyone else; indeed, I am not aware that it was ever
published. But had it been we should rarely hear it. Like Locke's music
to “Macbeth” it bears an unpleasant reputation; to include it in any
concert programme would be to court disaster. An idle superstition,
perhaps, but there is much naivete in the artistic temperament.
Men detested Tcheriapin, yet when he chose he could win over his
bitterest enemies. Women followed him as children followed the Pied
Piper; he courted none, but was courted by all. He would glance aside
with those black, slanting eyes, shrug in his insolent fashion, and
turn away. And they would follow. God knows how many of them
followed--whether through the dens of Limehouse or the more fashionable
salons of vice in the West End--they followed--perhaps down to Hell. So
much for Tcheriapin.
At the time when the episode occurred to which I have referred, Dr.
Kreener occupied a house in Regent's Park, to which, when his duties at
the munition works allowed, he would sometimes retire at week-ends.
He was a man of complex personality. I think no one ever knew him
thoroughly; indeed, I doubt if he knew himself.
He was hail-fellow-well-met with the painters, sculptors, poets, and
social reformers who have made of Soho a new Mecca. No movement in
art was so modern that Dr. Kreener was not conversant with it; no
development in Bolshevism so violent or so secret that Dr. Kreener could
not speak of it complacently and with inside knowledge.
These were his Bohemian friends, these dreamers and schemers. Of this
side of his life his scientific colleagues knew little or nothing, but
in his hours of leisure at Regent's Park it was with these dreamers
that he loved to surround himself rather than with his brethren of the
laboratory. I think if Dr. Kreener had not been a great chemist he would
have been a great painter, or perhaps a politician, or even a poet.
Triumph was his birthright, and the fruits for which lesser men reached
out in vain fell ripe into his hands.
The favourite meeting-place for these oddly assorted boon companions
was the doctor's laboratory, which was divided from the house by a
moderately large garden. Here on a Sunday evening one might meet the
very “latest” composer, the sculptor bringing a new “message,” or
the man destined to supplant with the ballet the time-worn operatic
tradition.
But while some of these would come and go, so that one could never count
with certainty upon meeting them, there was one who never failed to be
present when such an informal reception was held. Of him I must speak at
greater length, for a reason which will shortly appear.
Andrews was the name by which he was known to the circles in which he
moved. No one, from Sir John Tennier, the fashionable portrait painter,
to Kruski, of the Russian ballet, disputed Andrews's right to be counted
one of the elect. Yet it was known, nor did he trouble to hide the fact,
that Andrews was employed at a large printing works in South London,
designing advertisements. He was a great, red-bearded, unkempt Scotsman,
and only once can I remember to have seen him strictly sober; but to
hear him talk about painters and painting in his thick Caledonian accent
was to look into the soul of an artist.
He was as sour as an unripe grape-fruit, cynical, embittered, a man
savagely disappointed with life and the world; and tragedy was written
all over him. If anyone knew the secret of his wasted life it was Dr.
Kreener, and Dr. Kreener was a reliquary of so many secrets that this
one was safe as if the grave had swallowed it.
One Sunday Tcheriapin joined the party. That he would gravitate there
sooner or later was inevitable, for the laboratory in the garden was
a Kaaba to which all such spirits made at least one pilgrimage. He had
just set musical London on fire with his barbaric playing, and already
those stories to which I have referred were creeping into circulation.
Although Dr. Kreener never expected anything of his guests beyond an
interchange of ideas, it was a fact that the laboratory contained
an almost unique collection of pencil and charcoal studies by famous
artists, done upon the spot; of statuettes in wax, putty, soap and other
extemporized materials, by the newest sculptors. While often enough
from the drawing room which opened upon the other end of the garden had
issued the strains of masterly piano-playing, and it was no uncommon
thing for little groups to gather in the neighbouring road to listen,
gratis, to the voice of some great vocalist.
From the first moment of their meeting an intense antagonism sprang up
between Tcheriapin and Andrews. Neither troubled very much to veil it.
In Tcheriapin it found expression in covert sneers and sidelong glances,
while the big, lion-maned Scotsman snorted open contempt of the Eurasian
violinist. However, what I was about to say was that Tcheriapin on the
occasion of his first visit brought his violin.
It was there, amid these incongruous surroundings, that I first had my
spirit tortured by the strains of “The Black Mass.”
There were five of us present, including Tcheriapin, and not one of the
four listeners was unaffected by the music. But the influence which
it exercised upon Andrews was so extraordinary as almost to reach the
phenomenal. He literally writhed in his chair, and finally interrupted
the performance by staggering rather than walking out of the laboratory.
I remember that he upset a jar of acid in his stumbling exit. It flowed
across the floor almost to the feet of Tcheriapin, and the way in which
the little black-haired man skipped, squealing, out of the path of the
corroding fluid was curiously like that of a startled rabbit. Order
was restored in due course, but we could not induce Tcheriapin to
play again, nor did Andrews return until the violinist had taken his
departure. We found him in the dining room, a nearly empty whisky-bottle
beside him.
“I had to gang awa',” he explained thickly; “he was temptin' me
to murder him. I should ha' had to do it if I had stayed. Damn his
hell-music.”
Tcheriapin revisited Dr. Kreener on many occasions afterward, although
for a long time he did not bring his violin again. The doctor had
prevailed upon Andrews to tolerate the Eurasian's company, and I could
not help noticing how Tcheriapin skilfully and deliberately goaded the
Scotsman, seeming to take a fiendish delight in disagreeing with his
pet theories and in discussing any topic which he had found to be
distasteful to Andrews.
Chief among these was that sort of irreverent criticism of women in
which male parties so often indulge. Bitter cynic though he was, women
were sacred to Andrews. To speak disrespectfully of a woman in his
presence was like uttering blasphemy in the study of a cardinal.
Tcheriapin very quickly detected the Scotsman's weakness, and one night
he launched out into a series of amorous adventures which set Andrews
writhing as he had writhed under the torture of “The Black Mass.”
On this occasion the party was only a small one, comprising myself, Dr.
Kreener, Andrews and Tcheriapin. I could feel the storm brewing, but was
powerless to check it. How presently it was to break in tragic violence
I could not foresee. Fate had not meant that I should foresee it.
Allowing for the free play of an extravagant artistic mind, Tcheriapin's
career on his own showing had been that of a callous blackguard. I
began by being disgusted and ended by being fascinated, not by the
man's scandalous adventures, but by the scarcely human psychology of the
narrator.
From Warsaw to Budapesth, Shanghai to Paris, and Cairo to London he
passed, leaving ruin behind him with a smile--airily flicking cigarette
ash upon the floor to indicate the termination of each “episode.”
Andrews watched him in a lowering way which I did not like at all. He
had ceased to snort his scorn; indeed, for ten minutes or so he had
uttered no word or sound; but there was something in the pose of his
ungainly body which strangely suggested that of a great dog preparing
to spring. Presently the violinist recalled what he termed a “charming
idyll of Normandy.”
“There is one poor fool in the world,” he said, shrugging his slight
shoulders, “who never knew how badly he should hate me. Ha! ha! of him
I shall tell you. Do you remember, my friends, some few years ago, a
picture that was published in Paris and London? Everybody bought it;
everybody said: 'He is a made man, this fellow who can paint so fine.'”
“To what picture do you refer?” asked Dr. Kreener.
“It was called 'A Dream at Dawn.'”
As he spoke the words I saw Andrews start forward, and Dr. Kreener
exchanged a swift glance with him. But the Scotsman, unseen by the
vainglorious half-caste, shook his head fiercely.
The picture to which Tcheriapin referred will, of course, be perfectly
familiar to you. It had phenomenal popularity some eight years ago.
Nothing was known of the painter--whose name was Colquhoun--and nothing
has been seen of his work since. The original painting was never sold,
and after a time this promising new artist was, of course, forgotten.
Presently Tcheriapin continued:
“It is the figure of a slender girl--ah! angels of grace!--what a
girl!” He kissed his hand rapturously. “She is posed bending gracefully
forward, and looking down at her own lovely reflection in the water.
It is a seashore, you remember, and the little ripples play about
her ankles. The first blush of the dawn robes her white body in a
transparent mantle of light. Ah! God's mercy! it was as she stood so, in
a little cove of Normandy, that I saw her!”
He paused, rolling his dark eyes; and I could hear Andrews's heavy
breathing; then:
“It was the 'new art'--the posing of the model not in a lighted studio,
but in the scene to be depicted.
“And the fellow who painted her!--the man with the barbarous name! Bah!
he was big--as big as our Mr. Andrews--and ugly--pooh! uglier than he!
A moon-face, with cropped skull like a prize-fighter and no soul. But,
yes, he could paint. 'A Dream at Dawn' was genius--yes, some soul he
must have had.
“He could paint, dear friends, but he could not love. Him I counted
as--puff!”
He blew imaginary down into space.
“Her I sought out, and presently found. She told me, in those sweet
stolen rambles along the shore, when the moonlight made her look like a
Madonna, that she was his inspiration--his art--his life. And she wept;
she wept, and I kissed her tears away.
“To please her I waited until 'A Dream at Dawn' was finished. With the
finish of the picture, finished also his dream of dawn--the moon-faced
one's.”
Tcheriapin laughed, and lighted a fresh cigarette.
“Can you believe that a man could be so stupid? He never knew of
my existence, this big, red booby. He never knew that I existed
until--until his 'dream' had fled--with me! In a week we were in Paris,
that dream-girl and I--in a month we had quarrelled. I always end these
matters with a quarrel; it makes the complete finish. She struck me in
the face--and I laughed. She turned and went away. We were tired of one
another.
“Ah!” Again he airily kissed his hand. “There were others after I had
gone. I heard for a time. But her memory is like a rose, fresh and fair
and sweet. I am glad I can remember her so, and not as she afterward
became. That is the art of love. She killed herself with absinthe, my
friends. She died in Marseilles in the first year of the great war.”
Thus far Tcheriapin had proceeded, and was in the act of airily flicking
ash upon the floor, when, uttering a sound which I can only describe as
a roar, Andrews hurled himself upon the smiling violinist.
His great red hands clutching Tcheriapin's throat, the insane Scotsman,
for insane he was at that moment, forced the other back upon the settee
from which he had half arisen. In vain I sought to drag him away from
the writhing body, but I doubt that any man could have relaxed that
deadly grip. Tcheriapin's eyes protruded hideously and his tongue lolled
forth from his mouth. One could hear the breath whistling through his
nostrils as Andrews silently, deliberately, squeezed the life out of
him.
It all occupied only a few minutes, and then Andrews, slowly opening his
rigidly crooked fingers, stood panting and looking down at the distorted
face of the dead man.
For once in his life the Scotsman was sober, and turning to Dr. Kreener:
“I have waited seven long years for this,” he said, “and I'll hang wi'
contentment.”
I can never forget the ensuing moments, in which, amid a horrible
silence broken only by the ticking of a clock and the heavy breathing
of Colquhoun (so long known to us as Andrews) we stood watching the
contorted body on the settee.
And as we watched, slowly the rigid limbs began to relax, and Tcheriapin
slid gently on to the floor, collapsing there with a soft thud, where
he squatted like some hideous Buddha, resting back against the cushions,
one spectral yellow hand upraised, the fingers still clutching a big
gold tassel.
Andrews (for so I always think of him) was seized with a violent fit
of trembling, and he dropped into the chair, muttering to himself and
looking down wild-eyed at his twitching fingers. Then he began to laugh,
high-pitched laughter, in little short peals.
“Here!” cried the doctor sharply. “Drop that!”
Crossing to Andrews, he grasped him by the shoulders and shook him
roughly.
The laughter ceased, and:
“Send for the police,” said Andrews in a queer, shaky voice. “Dinna fear
but I'm ready. I'm only sorry it happened here.”
“You ought to be glad,” said Dr. Kreener.
There was a covert meaning in the words--a fact which penetrated even to
the dulled intelligence of the Scotsman, for he glanced up haggardly at
his friend.
“You ought to be glad,” repeated Dr. Kreener.
Turning, he walked to the laboratory door and locked it. He next lowered
all the blinds.
“I pray that we have not been observed,” he said, “but we must chance
it.”
He mixed a drink for Andrews and himself. His quiet, decisive manner had
had its effect, and Andrews was now more composed. Indeed, he seemed to
be in a half-dazed condition; but he persistently kept his back turned
to the crouching figure propped up against the settee.
“If you think you can follow me,” said Dr. Kreener abruptly, “I will
show you the result of a recent experiment.”
Unlocking a cupboard, he took out a tiny figure some two inches long by
one inch high, mounted upon a polished wooden pedestal. It was that of
a guinea-pig. The flaky fur gleamed like the finest silk, and one felt
that the coat of the minute creature would be as floss to the touch;
whereas in reality it possessed the rigidity of steel. Literally
one could have done it little damage with a hammer. Its weight was
extraordinary.
“I am learning new things about this process every day,” continued Dr.
Kreener, placing the little figure upon a table. “For instance, while
it seems to operate uniformly upon vegetable matter, there are curious
modifications when one applies it to animal and mineral substances. I
have now definitely decided that the result of this particular inquiry
must never be published. You, Colquhoun, I believe, possess an example
of the process, a tiger lily, I think? I must ask you to return it to
me. Our late friend, Tcheriapin, wears a pink rose in his coat which I
have treated in the same way. I am going to take the liberty of removing
it.”
He spoke in the hard, incisive manner which I had heard him use in
the lecture theatre, and it was evident enough that his design was to
prepare Andrews for something which he contemplated. Facing the Scotsman
where he sat hunched up in the big armchair, dully watching the speaker:
“There is one experiment,” said Dr. Kreener, speaking very deliberately,
“which I have never before had a suitable opportunity of attempting. Of
its result I am personally confident, but science always demands proof.”
His voice rang now with a note of repressed excitement. He paused for a
moment, and then:
“If you were to examine this little specimen very closely,” he said,
and rested his finger upon the tiny figure of the guinea-pig, “you would
find that in one particular it is imperfect. Although a diamond drill
would have to be employed to demonstrate the fact, the animal's organs,
despite their having undergone a chemical change quite new to science,
are intact, perfect down to the smallest detail. One part of the
creature's structure alone defied my process. In short, dental enamel is
impervious to it. This little animal, otherwise as complete as when it
lived and breathed, has no teeth. I found it necessary to extract them
before submitting the body to the reductionary process.”
He paused.
“Shall I go on?” he asked.
Andrews, to whose mind, I think, no conception of the doctor's project
had yet penetrated, shuddered, but slowly nodded his head.
Dr. Kreener glanced across the laboratory at the crouching figure of
Tcheriapin, then, resting his hands upon Andrews's shoulders, he pushed
him back in the chair and stared into his dull eyes.
“Brace yourself, Colquhoun,” he said tersely.
Turning, he crossed to a small mahogany cabinet at the farther end of
the room. Pulling out a glass tray he judicially selected a pair of
dental forceps.