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.
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