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.
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