It was there, amid those incongruous surroundings, that I first had my spirit tortured by the strains of "The Black Mass."
There were five of us present, including Tchériapin, 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 Tchériapin, and the way in which the little blackhaired 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 Tchériapin 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, and:
"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."
Tchériapin revisited Dr. Kreener on many occasions afterwards, 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 Tchériapin 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.
Tchériapin very quickly detected the Scotman'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 Tchériapin. 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, Tchériapin'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; everyone 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 Tchériapin 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 Tchériapin 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."
Tchériapin 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 afterwards 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 Tchériapin 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 Tchériapin'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 if any man could have relaxed that deadly grip. Tchériapin's eyes protruded hideously and his tongue lolled forth from his mouth.
One could bear 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 only broken 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 Tchériapin 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.