Part 42 (1/2)
”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. d.a.m.n his h.e.l.l-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 Ma.s.s.”
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 pa.s.sed, 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 seash.o.r.e, 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! G.o.d'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 s.p.a.ce.
”Her I sought out, and presently found. She told me, in those sweet stolen rambles along the sh.o.r.e, 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.