The Devil's Mirror Read online

  ‘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 ‘offence’ regarding the music of Chaikovsky was now, happily, forgotten, and Rimsky’s eyes were warm behind the blue lenses. ‘Ah, Lord Henry,’ 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, disorganised. 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 realised 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 Himsky-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 wine glass 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 towards 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 vigour 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 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 corrupts;’ 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 grey 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.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I am wide awake from this evening’s triumph—I should not like to celebrate it alone.’

  ‘But I am a stranger. Surely your friends—’

  Cholodenko snarled bitterly. ‘Those vultures? They condescended to me when they felt me their inferior; soon they will hate me for being their superior. Here is my door—I entreat you—’

  My face felt brittle as glass from the cold. With chattering teeth, I replied, ‘Very well, for a little while.’ We went inside.

  His apartment was small. Dominating it was a huge grand piano of concert size. Scores and manuscript paper were piled everywhere. Cholodenko built a fire. ‘And now,’ he said, producing a dust-filmed bottle, ‘we will warm ourselves with comet wine.’

  His strong thumbs deftly pushed out the cork and the frothing elixir spewed out into the goblets in a curving scintillant jet, a white arc that brought to mind, indeed, a comet’s tail.

  ‘Comet wine?’ I repeated.

  He nodded. ‘A famed and heady vintage from the year of the comet, 1811. This is a very rare bottle, one of the last in the world Your health, Lord Stanton.’

  We drank. The wine was unlike any I have ever tasted—akin to champagne, but somehow spicy, richer; dry, yet with a honeyed aftertaste. I drained the goblet and he poured again. ‘A potent potation,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘It makes the mind luminous,’ he averred.

  I said, ‘That heavenly wanderer, for which it is named, imbued it with astral powers, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps. Drink, sir. And then I will tell you a little story, a flight of fancy of which I would value your opinion. If you find it strange, so much the better! For, surely, one must not tell mundane stories between draughts of comet wine?’

  Of that story, and of its effect on me, I will write soon.

  Your friend,

  Harry

  12 April

  My dear Bobbie,

  Forgive the palsied look of my handwriting—I scribble this missive on the train that carries me from St Petersburg, and the jiggling motion of the conveyance is to blame. Yes, I take my leave of this vast country, will spend some time in Budapest and will return to London in time to celebrate your birthday. Meanwhile, I have a narrative to conclude—if this confounded train will let me!

  The scene, you may recall, was the St Petersburg apartment of Vassily Ivanovich Cholodenko. The characters, that enigmatic young man and your faithful correspondent. My head was light and bright with comet wine, my perceptions sharpened, as my host lifted a thick mass of music manuscript from the piano and weighed it in his hands. ‘The score of The Brothers Karamazov,’ he said. ‘It needs but the final ensemble. When it is finished, Lord Stanton, all the impresarios in the country, in the world, will beg me for the privilege of presenting it on their stages!’

  ‘I can well believe it,’ I rejoined.

  ‘After that, other operas, symphonies, concerti...’ His voice glowed with enthusiasm. ‘There is a book that created a scandal when it was published three years ago—Anna Karenyina— what an opera I will make of it!’

  ‘My dear Yassily.’ I said, only half in jest, ‘I see a receptacle for discarded paper there in the corner, May I not take away with me one of those abandoned scraps? In a few short years, an authentic Cholodenko holograph may be priceless!’ He laughed. ‘I can do better than waste paper,’ he said handing me a double-sheet of music manuscript from a stack on the piano. It was sprinkled with black showers of notes in his bold calligraphy. ‘This is Alyosha’s aria from the second act of Karamazov. I have since transposed it to a more singable key—this is the old copy—I have no further use of it.’

  I thanked him; then said, ‘This story you wish to tell... what is it?’

  ‘No more than a notion, really. Something I may one day fashion into a libretto—it would lend itself to music, I think.

  I would like your thoughts, as a man of letters, a poet.’

  ‘A very minor poet, I fear, but I will gladly listen.’

  He poured more wine, saying, ‘I have in mind a Faustian theme. The Faust, in this case, would possibly be a painter. But it would be patently clear to the audience from the opening moments of the first act—for his canvases would be visibly deployed about his studio—that he is a painter without gift, a maker of wretched daubs. In a poignant aria—barytone, I think—he pours out his misery and his yearnings. He aspires to greatness, but a cruel Deity has let him be born bereft of greatness. He rails, curses God, the aria ends in a crashing blasphemy. Effective, yes?’

  ‘Please go on,’ I said, my curiosity quickened.

  ‘Enter Lucifer. And here I would smash tradition and make him not the usual booming basso but a lyric tenor with a seductive voice of refined gold—the Fallen Angel, you see, a tragic figure. A bargain is reached. The Adversary will grant the painter the gift of genius—for seven years, let us say, or five, or ten—and then will claim both his body and his immortal soul. The painter agrees, the curtain falls, and when it rises on the next scene, we are immediately aware of a startling transformation—the canvases in the painter’s studio are stunning, masterful! A theatrical stroke, don’t you agree?’

  I nodded, and drank avidly from my goblet, for my throat was unaccountably dry. I felt somewhat dizzy—was it only the heady wine?—and my heart was beating faster. ‘Most theatrical,’ I replied. ‘What follows?’

  Cholodenko sighed. ‘That is my dilemma. I do not know what follows. I had hoped you could offer something...’ My brain was crowded with questions, fears, wild conjectures. I
told myself that a composer was merely seeking my aid in devising an opera libretto—nothing more. I said, ‘It is a fascinating premise, but of course it cannot end there. It needs complication, development, reversal. ,Possibly, a young lady?... no, that’s banal...’

  Suddenly, a face was in my mind. The remembrance of it, and the new implications it now carried, I found disturbing. The eyes in this face were dead, as blank as the brain behind them; the smile was vacuous and vapid: it was the face of that living corpse, Balakirev. My thoughts were racing, my head swam. I set down my goblet with a hand that, I now saw, was trembling.

  ‘What?...’

  ‘You are so very pale! As if you had seen—’

  I looked up at him. I peered deep into the eyes of this man. They were not dead, those eyes! They were dark, yes, the darkest eyes I have ever seen, and deep-set in the gaunt face, but they were alive, they burned with fanatic fire. At length, I found my voice. ‘I am quite all right. A drop too much, I fear...’

  ‘Comet wine is unpredictable. Are you sure—’

  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t concern yourself.’ I inhaled deeply. ‘Now then, this opera story of yours...’

  ‘You must not feel obligated to—’

  ‘Suppose,’ I said guardedly, ‘that you invent another character. A fellow painter—but a man immensely gifted and acclaimed. You introduce him in Act One, prior to the appearance of Lucifer...’

  ‘Yes?’ said Cholodenko quickly.

  ‘As the opera progresses, we watch an uncanny transferral... we see the gifts of this great painter dim, in direct proportion to the rate with which your Faustian painter is infused with talent, until the great artist is an empty shell and his opposite number is a man of refulgent genius.’

  Cholodenko smiled sardonically. ‘The Devil robs Peter to pay Paul, is that it?’

  ‘That is precisely it. What do you think of the idea?’

  ‘It is arousing,’ he said, his dark eyes watching my face intently. ‘It is very clever.’ Then, waxing casual again, he asked, ‘But is it enough?’