It
flowed across the floor almost to the feet of Tcheriapin, and the
way in which the little black-haired 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 Tcheriapin 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.
"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."
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.
Pages:
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266