Haunted Castles (16 page)

Looking slowly about the salon, he then said, “The
koochka
is not what it was, sir. Do you see that pathetic creature sitting in the corner?” The gentleman indicated was indeed pathetic, a wraith who looked with glazed eye upon all who passed before him, responding feebly and mechanically to greetings, like an old man (although he was not old), then sinking back into motionless apathy. “That is, or was, the
koochka's
vital force, its spine, its heart, its tingling blood. It was in
his
apartment we were wont to meet, he who held the group together, his the hands that firmly gripped the reins, his the whip that goaded us to frenzied effort. No man was more steeped in the classical scores, no memory was so vast as his. Now look at him. A coffin. His mind blighted by a mysterious malady. There he sits. His
Tamara
languishes unfinished. Music has ceased to interest him, he who breathed exotic harmonies every minute of the day.”

We had been walking toward this pitiful wreckage, and now my guide leaned close and spoke to him: “Mily Alekseyevich! How is it with you?” The man looked up and blinked vapidly; it was quite obvious he did not recognize the speaker. “It is I, Vassily Ivanovich,” he was forced to add.

“Vas . . . sily . . . 'Van . . . ovich . . .” A small, crooked smile of recognition twisted the poor man's face for a moment, although the eyes did not kindle.

“Allow me to present an honoured guest from England, Lord Henry Stanton. Lord Stanton, ily Balakirev.”

The wretched fellow offered me a limp, dead hand, which I briefly shook; and then we left him, staring vacantly into empty air again. “Tragic,” my Virgil murmured; “and the final offense is that poor Mily, who once was the most vociferous of scoffers, now mumbles prayers and bends his knee to ikons.”

“I hope you are not an unbeliever,” I said lightly.

“I believe,” he said—a reply that would have satisfied me, had it not been for its dark colour, which seemed to imply meanings beyond the simple words.

“Surely,” I asked him, “such ruination of body or mind are not typical of your group?”

“Mussorgsky and Balakirev are possibly extreme examples,” he agreed. “But there, at the table, stuffing himself with
zakuski,”
he said, indicating a man in the uniform of a Lieutenant General of Engineers, “is Cui, who suffers from the worst disease of all: poverty of talent. And Rimsky, whose soul is corroded by his envy of Chaikovsky. As for Chaikovsky himself—he is not of our
koochka,
of course, being of the Moscow school—his sickness is so vile it scarcely can be spoken of . . .”

I trust, Bobbie, that if you read my poor scratchings to Maude, you will judiciously elide those passages that you, a man of medicine, may assimilate without discomfiture, but which would not be proper for her unworldly ears. Suffice it to say that the man whose opera so beguiled me in Moscow this past month is, in plain fact, an addict of that shameful vice for which, we are taught, Jehovah smote the cities of the plain.

This disclosure was so distasteful to me that I sought to change the subject of our conversation. The music of
Yevgeny Onyégin
still rang in my memory (though tainted now by that gross revelation) and I was therefore reminded of the poet on whose work the opera was founded.

“You spoke of Pushkin some moments ago,” I said. “I have been told he was an extraordinary poet. Why do you hold him in low esteem?”

“I do not,” he replied. “Pushkin was a genius. But suppose your English musicians persisted in setting only the plays and verses of Shakespeare, ignoring today's English writers? This preoccupation with the past is stagnating most of Russian culture, and the music itself is as dated as its subject matter. Even Mussorgsky, whose crudeness is sometimes redeemed by flashes of daring, is being obtunded and made ‘inoffensive' by Rimsky—a pedant who gets sick to the stomach at the sound of a consecutive fifth!”

Does it strike you, Bobbie, that this chap was annoyingly critical of his illustrious colleagues? It so struck me, and a little later in the evening I had an opportunity to challenge him—but at this precise moment in our conversation, we were joined by our host.

My initial “offense” regarding the music of Chaikovsky was now, happily, forgotten, and Rimsky's eyes were warm behind the blue lenses. “Ah, Lord Stanton,” he said, “I see you have met our young firebrand. Has he been telling you what old fogeys we are, the slaves of tradition, and so on? Dear boy, for shame: our English visitor will carry away a bad impression of us.”

“No, no,” I said, “his views are refreshing.”

“He is our gadfly,” Rimsky said, with a diplomatic smile. “But we must all suspend our conversations—refreshing though they may be—and turn our attention to some music a few of our friends have consented to play for us.”

We all found chairs, and a feast of sound was served. Mussorgsky provided accompaniment for a song sung by a basso they called Fyodr [
Not Chaliapin, of course, who was only six years old at the time; but possibly Fyodr Stravinsky, the singer-father of Igor
]; after which a chemist named Borodin played pungent excerpts from an uncompleted opera (“He's been at it for fifteen years,” whispered my young companion. “Keeps interrupting it to work on symphonies. A chaotic man, disorganized. Bastard son of a prince.”). Next, Rimsky-Korsakov himself played a lyrical piece I found charming, but which my self-appointed commentator deprecated as “conventional, unadventurous.”

I had, by this time, had a surfeit of his vicious carping. Taking advantage of a lull in the musical offerings, I now turned to him and, with as much courtesy as I could summon and in a voice distinct enough to be heard by all, said, “Surely a man of such austere judgement will condescend to provide an example of his ideal? Will
you
not take your place at the keyboard, sir, so that others may play at critic?”

He proffered me a strange look and an ambiguous smile. A profound hush fell upon the room. Our host cleared his throat nervously. My heart sank as I realized that somehow, in a way quite unknown to me, I had committed another and possibly more enormous
faux pas
!

But I see the dawn has begun to tint the sky, and I have not yet been to bed. I will dispatch these pages to you at once, Bobbie, and resume my little chronicle at the very next opportunity.

Your peripatetic friend,

Harry

8 April

My dear Bobbie,

I left off, if I remember rightly, at that moment in Rimsky-Korsakov's apartment when I committed some manner of gauche blunder merely by suggesting that a rather unpleasant young man, who had been so superciliously critical of his colleagues, play something of his own composition for the assembled guests. The embarrassed silence that fell upon the room thoroughly discomfited me. What had I said? In what way was my suggestion awkward or indelicate? Was the young man bitterly hated by our famous host? Unlikely, for he was a guest. Did the poor fellow have no hands? Not so: for, even now, he held wineglass and biscuit in long, slender fingers. I was bemused; I may have blushed. Only a moment passed, but it seemed an hour. Finally, the young man, still wearing the smirk with which he had greeted my challenge, replied, “Thank you, Lord Stanton. I
shall
play something of my own, if our host gives me leave?” He cocked an eyebrow toward Rimsky.

Recovering his aplomb, Rimsky said hurriedly, “My dear fellow, of course. The keyboard is yours.” And so, raking the room's occupants with an arrogant look, the young man swaggered to the piano and was seated.

He studied the keyboard for a moment, then looked up at us. “I am in the midst of composing an opera,” he said. “Its source, you may be surprised to learn, is not a poem by the indispensable Pushkin or an old Slavonic tale. It is a modern novel, a book still in the writing, a work of revolutionary brilliance. It rips the mask of pretence and hypocrisy from our decadent society, and will cause an uproar when it is published. I was privileged to see it in manuscript—the author resides here in St. Petersburg. It is called
The Brothers Karamazov.
And this,” he concluded, flexing his spidery fingers, “is the Prelude to the first act of my operatic setting.”

His hands fell upon the keys and a dissonant chord impaled our ears. Rimsky-Korsakov winced. Mussorgsky's bleared eyes went suddenly wide. Borodin's jaws, with a caviar savoury half-masticated, stopped chewing. The chord hung in the air, its life prolonged by the pedal, then, as the long fingers moved among the keys, the dissonance was resolved, an arresting modulation took place, a theme of great power was stated in octaves, and then that theme was developed, with a wealth of architectural ingenuity. The theme took wing, climbed, soared, was burnished with rich harmony, took on a glittering texture, yet not effete but with an underlying firmness and strength. The
koochka
and the other guests were transfixed, myself among them; Balakirev alone seemed unthrilled. Cascades of bracing sound poured from the piano. When the Prelude reached its magnificent conclusion and the last breathtaking chord thundered into eternity, there was an instant of profound silence—followed by a din of applause and congratulatory cries.

The composer was immediately engulfed by his colleagues, who shook his hand, slapped his shoulders, plied him with questions about the opera. If I were pressed to find one word to best describe the general feeling exuded by these men, the word would be
surprise.
It was plain to me that they were stunned not only by the vigor and beauty of the music, but by its source, the young gadfly. I wondered why.

My unvoiced question must have been written on my face, for at that moment Rimsky-Korsakov drew me aside and said, “You appear to be puzzled, Lord Stanton. Permit me to enlighten you—although, I confess, I am extremely puzzled myself. The fact is, you see, that this is the very first time young Cholodenko has shown even the dimmest glimmer of musical talent!”

“What? But that Prelude—”

“Astonishing, I agree. Daring, original, moving, soundly constructed. A little too dissonant for my taste, perhaps, but I have no hesitation in calling it a work of genius.”

“Then how . . .” Incredulous, more baffled than ever, I stammered out my disbelief: “That is to say, a man does not become a genius overnight! His gifts must ripen and grow, his masterworks must be foreshadowed by smaller but promising efforts . . .”

Rimsky nodded. “Exactly. That is why we are all so surprised. That is why I am so puzzled. And that, you see, is why we were so uncomfortable when you asked Cholodenko to play. Hitherto, his attempts have been painfully inept, devoid of any creative spark, colourless, derivative, drab. And his piano playing! The awkward thumpings of an ape!”

“You exaggerate, surely.”

“Only a little. The poor boy himself was aware of his shortcomings—shamefully aware. We tried to be polite, we tried to encourage him, we searched for compliments to pay him, but he saw through us and declined to play at these soirées.”

“Yet he attends them.”

“Yes, although his very presence has been a discomfort to himself and the rest of us. Music has a kind of insidious attraction for him; he is goaded by it as by a demon; he behaves almost as if . . .” He searched for words.

“As if possessed?” I said, for the second time that evening.

“As if it were food and drink to him. And yet, for some time now, he has been merely an observer.”

“And a critic!”

“A caustic critic. He has been an embarrassment, an annoyance, but we tolerated him, we pitied him . . .”

“And now, suddenly . . .”

“Yes,” said Rimsky. “Suddenly.” The eyes narrowed behind their cool blue panes as he gazed across the room at the triumphant Cholodenko. “Suddenly he is a keyboard virtuoso and the creator of a masterpiece. There is a mystery here, Lord Stanton.”

And, at that, I burst out laughing!

Rimsky said, “You are amused?”

“Amused and appreciative,” I replied. “It is a very good joke—you have my admiration, sir.”

“Joke?”

“You had me completely gulled. An absolutely inspired hoax!”

Rimsky's brow now creased in an Olympian frown. “I do not waste time with hoaxes,” he said with dignity, and walked stiffly away.

Determined not to be daunted by this, I pushed my way through to Cholodenko and shook his hand. “I am only a profane listener,” I said, “and have no real knowledge of music, but my congratulations are sincere.”

“Thank you, Lord Stanton. You are most kind.” His demeanour had undergone a subtle change: victory and praise had softened the prickly edges of his character. How wrong, Bobbie, is the axiom of our mutual friend, Acton [
Obviously, John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton, Eighth Baronet and First Baron, 1834–1902
]. “Power tends to corrupt;” he says, “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” This is bosh, and I've often told him so: it would be much truer to say “Lack of power corrupts; absolute lack of power corrupts absolutely.”

The soirée was nearing its end. As the guests began to leave, my curiosity impelled me to seek out Cholodenko and accompany him into the street.

The cold hit me like a cannonball. Nevertheless, I strolled at Cholodenko's side, along the banks of the frozen Neva (the embankments, of Finnish gray and pink marble, were iridescent under the moon). Both of us were buried in enormous greatcoats of fur, but I was still cold.

“Be patient but a few more days,” said my companion, “and you will see spring split open the land. Our Russian spring is sudden, like a beautiful explosion.”

“I shall try to live that long,” I said, shivering.

“You need a fire and some wine,” he laughed. “Come—my apartment is only a few more steps . . .”

I was eager to learn more about this man, although custom urged me to make a token demur: “No, no, it is late—I should be returning to my quarters.”