The Ballet of Dr Caligari

by Reggie Oliver

  A friend of mine had once described him as ‘Mephistopheles in a frock coat’. I do not subscribe to that kind of colourful language: I only knew that I was nothing to him and it was better that way. I had barely expressed my admiration for Basil’s new work when Lord Henry broke in:

  ‘My dear Basil you have recovered your—I was going to say your youth, but that would have been to commit the sin of a double entendre, and I am a creature of paradox rather than puns. A paradox is a way of creating a new truth; a pun merely desecrates an old one. One should always strive to be original, and you have regained your originality by becoming a second Michelangelo. In you the Renaissance has been reborn. Ah, there I go again with a play upon words. It must be the effect of that dreadful Gilbert and Sullivan operetta which my wife insisted that I drag her to last night.’

  ‘But these are just sketches, Harry,’ said Basil. ‘They are only the beginning. I cannot yet say where they will lead, but they must lead somewhere.’

  ‘On the contrary, my dear Basil, you must lead and they will follow. But tell me, where did you find this miraculous model? Is he a horny-handed son of toil whom you plucked blooming from a nearby midden, or is he some innocent tennis-playing creature from the Arcadian Vales of Croydon or Peckham?’

  ‘Do you really think I would tell you, Harry?’ A look passed between them which I could not fathom.

  ‘Perhaps not. I will enquire no further. You artists who bare your souls in public are so intensely private: you like to think we know nothing about you when in fact we know nearly everything, and what we don’t is not worth knowing. This new man of yours is a creature of myth. He may come from the gutter but he belongs among the stars—Orion the Hunter, the Great Bear, and the Weeping Pleiades. You must not bring him down to earth, at least not this earth. He was born to tell us mighty truths, or, better still, beautiful untruths. Keats alas was too young to know that truth is not beauty, nor beauty truth. Beauty is only beauty: that is why we reach for it; because it is beyond our grasp.’

  ‘Harry, you know, sometimes I think you almost tell the truth yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I hope not. That would put me quite beyond the pale in society. The Duchess of Berwick’s doors would be closed to me for ever.’

  ‘The Duchess of Berwick is neither here nor there.’

  ‘Quite possibly, my dear Basil, but she does have a house in Belgrave Square which most people agree is better than either here or there. Well, since you are unable or unwilling to satisfy my curiosity, I must go and unsatisfy someone else’s. I have an important engagement to miss on the other side of town and I must not be too late.’ He rose and without so much as a nod in my direction went over to Basil and taking both his hands said: ‘Basil, whatever has happened between us in the past, I am sincerely glad that you have rediscovered your genius. Au revoir.’

  After he had gone I said: ‘Lord Henry was right. You have found something new.’

  ‘I do not need him to tell me that, Martin. Lord Henry is not really a bad man, just a bad influence. That sounds like one of his idiotic paradoxes, but it happens to be true. As a matter of fact I have started on something which may be . . . You will know why I couldn’t show it to Lord Henry. You can’t show unfinished work to someone who is not an artist, however much of a connoisseur they may be. They will never understand that it is a journey not an arrival, and that the destination has not quite been decided upon.’

  He went to a portfolio stand and drew out an octavo sheet of paper. On it he had created a composition in watercolour. It was meticulous and exquisite like all his best work and would have looked to the untutored eye completely finished, except that he had ‘squared off’ the painting in pencil so as to transfer the design to a large canvas.

  It showed a scene in most particulars identical to the Love and Death which I describe as having been shown at the Royal Academy, but there were a few significant differences.

  In the first place Love was not chained to Death. He stood where he did at the Academy and looked towards Death. But Death, robed and cowled was seated at a greater distance from Love than subsequently, among some rocks in the middle distance. Beside him on the rocks was placed an hourglass whose sands were only just beginning to trickle into its lower chamber. The expression on the face of Love had been left blank. Even at this inchoate stage, the composition and its concept struck me as immensely potent. I told Basil that he had the beginnings of a masterpiece on his hands. Basil gave me a wistful look as if he took little pleasure in my endorsement.

  ‘I am not sure I am very lucky in my masterpieces,’ he murmured. He had returned to his former remoteness, but we parted on good terms.

  As Latimer was showing me out of the front door I glanced across the street. There standing with her back to the park railings opposite was a woman wrapped against the rain in a red shawl. She was looking fixedly in the direction of Basil’s house, but her eyes registered no recognition or interest when she saw me. I glanced back at Latimer who gave a grimace of disgust and re-entered the house slamming the door behind him. I knew those heavily handsome features, those burning Southern eyes; they belonged to Signora Torrigiano. Her presence excited a momentary curiosity, no more; I had my own griefs and concerns to attend to.

  I next saw Basil about a month later at the Private View of the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. Unlike Basil I was not, of course, an Academician but I happened to have had a work accepted that year. (Entitled The Blessed Damozel, it fell victim to philanthropy, having been bought by a prominent soap manufacturer who put it on display in his art gallery for the edification of the workers who toiled at his toiletries.)

  I encountered Basil in Gallery III where the prime canvases of the Summer Exhibition are usually displayed. It was where Love and Death had been hung, flanked on one side by a Millais, on the other by a Leighton, and outshining them both. He was walking arm in arm with a man who might have been described as well dressed had the colour of his necktie not been such a virulent shade of red. It was some while before I identified his companion as Signor Torrigiano. Basil’s expression was serene and happy but Torrigiano, for all his finery, looked extremely ill at ease. They paused before Love and Death where an admiring crowd had already gathered.

  I saw a number of fashionable men and women approach Basil to express their appreciation. I drew closer to observe, though I could not hear what was said above the general murmur of the hall. The ladies and gentlemen addressed Basil with eager deference, and he responded by introducing his companion. A few awkward words were exchanged between Torrigiano and the ladies and gentlemen who smiled faintly, then drifted away. Their disdain for the Italian was undisguised. This scene was repeated, almost identically, several times. Both Basil and his model embarrassed, and finally infuriated by these encounters, moved away from their painting in my direction.

  I could not pretend I had not seen them so I came forward to greet them. Basil seemed relieved.

  I said rather formally: ‘I congratulate both you Basil and you Signor Torrigiano on Love and Death. It is unquestionably the star of the show.’

  Torrigiano looked at Basil enquiringly.

  ‘This is Martin Isaacs, the painter,’ said Basil. ‘And my friend. You will remember, Franco, he came with me to the Shoreditch Empire that night.’

  Torrigiano smiled warmly and took my hand in both of his. Despite the gentleness of his handshake I was conscious of the immense strength behind it.

  Basil said: ‘Franco and I cannot stand another minute of this fashionable bear-pit. We are going to the Café Royal. Would you care to join us, Martin?’

  I said I would be glad to. As we descended the steps into the courtyard of Burlington House, Torrigiano suddenly stopped dead. I followed his gaze and saw across the courtyard not far from the entrance to the Society of Antiquaries, a large woman in a red shawl. Her dark eyes were fixed on us.

  Torrigiano looked at Basil sheepishly. ‘You excuse me, Basil?’ Basil sighed and nodded. Then to me. �
��You excuse, signor?’ I bowed; he bowed back, then hurried towards his wife. Basil turned to me: ‘The Café Royal?’

  I knew at once that any discussion of events that had just occurred was out of bounds, but Basil needed company. He began to talk rapidly as we turned into Piccadilly and made our way towards Regent Street and the Café Royal.

  ‘Do you know someone has already bought Love and Death? I deliberately put an absurdly high price on it so that nobody would buy it, but they have. Now I am in a quandary.’

  ‘You can always paint another.’

  ‘Can I? Can I? Perhaps Rubens could, or even Raphael, but to me a painting is not simply a piece of work, it is an event. It happens and is gone and a fragment of yourself goes with it. Sometimes too much.’

  ‘But haven’t the wise men down the ages taught that what you give of yourself is always restored to you in some way?’

  ‘I used to believe that. Come, we shall drink to my success. I have become a rich man thanks to Love and Death.’

  We entered the gilded halls of the Café Royal which, for all the lavish taste of its decoration, reminded me irresistibly of the Empire Shoreditch. A waiter who evidently knew Basil bowed obsequiously and was ushering us to a table when my friend stiffened.

  ‘I am afraid, my dear Martin,’ he said in a frozen voice, ‘that I have suddenly remembered an urgent appointment. Will you forgive me? Another time, I promise you.’ And with that, he darted out of the Café Royal, leaving me and the waiter staring at each other in bewilderment.

  He had seen someone, or something, of that I am sure. I scanned the room and my eyes lighted on a group of young fashionably dressed men seated at a table where, I noticed, several bottles of champagne had been consumed. It was these gentlemen, I am sure, who had caught Basil’s eye. The men looked to be mostly in their early twenties, but there was one, scarcely older than they, but somehow more poised and mature, to whom they deferred. He was strikingly, magnetically handsome with that male beauty which, though in reality transient, seems ageless because you see it in the faces of Greek Gods and quattrocento Christs, and in every land and culture where a male divinity is worshipped. I was sure I had seen him before, but could not place him. He said something at which all the others laughed and, as they paid homage to his witticism, he looked up wearily. He saw me staring at him across the room, and something about the glance he returned made me leave the Café as precipitately as Basil had done. It was not so much the hatred as the emptiness in those eyes that pierced me.

  The following day I received a note of abject apology from Basil together with several boxes of blooms from the most expensive florist in London, a less than appropriate peace offering for a struggling and starving artist. Basil’s note also stated that he would be heavily occupied until the Summer Exhibition was over, a clear indication that a visit would not be welcomed. My own irritation with him made me content to take the hint.

  It was three days after the close of the Exhibition when I received an urgent telegram from Basil to call on him at once. I went without hesitation. When I arrived at his door, his servant Latimer showed me in and ushered me through to the studio without a word.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Basil, as if I were late for an appointment, then, turning to Latimer—‘You may go now and finish packing my things.’

  Basil was distracted and hollow eyed. I had never seen him so restless and out of sorts. He beckoned me: ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Come to the window. Look!’

  Across the street in the very same position that I had seen her before and wearing her red shawl was Signora Torrigiano.

  ‘Sometimes she stands there for hours on end staring at this window,’ said Basil. ‘Sometimes she goes away for a few days and I imagine I am rid of her, but she always returns. It has become unbearable.’

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘I have gone over and spoken to her many times, but Maddalena—that is her name—always says the same thing. Her husband cannot come. He is sick. I have made him sick. He is wasting away and it is I who have destroyed him. She says I have taken his vital spirit and put it in the painting, and that I must either give her the painting or the money which bought it. Only that can restore her husband. It is madness. I have tried reasoning with her, but she holds to her primitive peasant superstition for dear life. What can I do? I am leaving tonight for Paris by the midnight train. I can work there on a painting I have in my head, a great work, I believe. If I succeed I shall return and all will be well. If I fail I shall send word to my servant Latimer and he will give you a letter from me. You are to obey the instructions in that letter. It is nothing criminal, but it may be distasteful to you. You are the only person I can trust. Will you do this for me?’

  I could do nothing else but agree. I asked if he had yet delivered Love and Death to its buyer.

  ‘I am loath to let it go,’ he said. ‘I cannot help feeling that its perfection is yet to come.’

  ‘Perfection in art is a Chimera.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it is one we must still cultivate. Would you like to see it?’

  He drew aside a dust sheet which had been draped over the canvas. I gazed once more in wonder at Basil’s work. It was a marvel still, even more marvellous to look at out of its frame and the heavy, formal surroundings of the Academy, yet something troubled me. The painting had been subtly altered. The figure of Love was as before, but Death had moved. It was no longer, as at the Academy, in a crouched position on the ground; it had turned and was about to rise up and, if I was not mistaken, advance with menace on Love. I glanced at Basil enquiringly, but his look was far away and I dared not suggest something which may only have been my imagination. Soon he was covering the canvas again as if only a brief exposure to it were tolerable.

  He went to the window once more and looked out. Maddalena had gone, and for a brief while he became his old self again. We talked of harmless inconsequential things. He praised my Blessed Damozel and congratulated me on the soap magnate. I am glad that my last memory of him was of laughter. We embraced warmly at parting and I never saw him again.

  Personal concerns and ambitions drove him from my mind until I read in the papers of his disappearance. Then I felt paralysed: what was I to do? I would have liked to join in the search for him but I had no resources with which to do so. It was only when I was asked by Sir Joseph to find Love and Death that I could address the issue. I felt I should do my best to resolve the mystery both for Sir Joseph and Basil.

  Sir Joseph’s influence enabled me to have access to the police files on the case which were meagre enough in all conscience. Latimer had been interviewed, as he had first reported the possible disappearance when Basil had failed to wire him from Paris as he had promised to. But he gave the barest of details. Having despatched his principal luggage to Waterloo Station to await collection Latimer had seen Basil off in a hansom at about a quarter to nine. Basil, wearing an Ulster cape and carrying a Gladstone bag, was evidently planning to go somewhere before boarding his train, but Latimer had not heard the address he had given to the driver. It had been a foggy night and, despite appeals by the police, no cab driver came forward to say where Basil had gone. He had not arrived at Waterloo to board the midnight train.

  That, to all intents and purposes, was the sum total of information to be gleaned from the police enquiry, but I was sure that Latimer had more information to give. He must, after all, still be in possession of the letter that Basil had written to me. But Latimer had also disappeared from the scene, leaving no forwarding address. After several unsuccessful attempts to find him, I finally put a notice in the personal column of The Times, sensing perhaps that the man’s venal instincts might be appealed to.

  If Mr Latimer, formerly servant to Mr Basil Hallward R.A will contact this box number he will hear something to his advantage.

  Within a few days I had a response. Latimer was working at a gentleman’s club in Piccadilly, a somewhat disreputable establishment by all accounts. Thither I went to in
terview him.

  I had perhaps given a vague suggestion in our brief exchange of letters that a legacy from the (presumed) late Mr Hallward was a possibility, so it was a disappointment to Mr Latimer when he was apprised of my real mission. However, having mentioned that he would be generously rewarded by Sir Joseph if any useful information was forthcoming he became more communicative, if to little effect. He vouchsafed me only one item of possible interest.

  One night, a few days after Basil Hallward had been reported missing, his house had been broken into. Latimer was on the premises and could give no satisfactory explanation as to why he had not heard the event and raised the alarm sooner. However the way he consumed tumblers of gin and water in my presence and at my expense may go some way to solve the mystery. The police were alerted the following morning, but nothing of value would appear to have been removed. It was only when Sir Joseph’s man had called round to collect Love and Death that Latimer noticed that it was missing from the studio. To forestall further embarrassing enquiries, and because he was receiving no payment for his caretaking activities at Basil’s house he left it to find gainful employment elsewhere.

  When I asked Latimer who could have taken Love and Death he opined that ‘them Eye-Talians was at the bottom of it all,’ and that he had seen ‘the woman’—Maddalena—lurking about in the street on several occasions after Basil had gone.

  Finally, I asked Latimer about the letter that had been left for me. At this Latimer looked rather shame-faced. He said that he remembered that there had been a letter but could not say whether it was still in his possession or not. When I mentioned that a sum of money would be available to him on its discovery, he said he would endeavour to find it. I gave him my card and left.

  It was clear to me that my next task was to find the Torrigianos. I will not describe the long and tedious process by which I finally tracked them down to a miserable room in a Limehouse tenement. The stairs I climbed to get to them were treacherous and threatened to give way under me at every step; the bare brick walls were slicked with damp. The winter was on us and a moist chilliness seeped from every pore of the building.