Devils' Spawn

by Charles Birkin

  It was the early spring of 1917.

  As they were leaving the club, Louba paused in front of the great golden doorway and gazed up at the sky; she wore an evening coat of white satin, with a huge fur collar, that emphasised the delicacy of her slender neck.

  “How lovely the night is—but Serge, so short . . . and to-­morrow you return . . . to what?” Her beauty was startling, etched against the background of the night.

  Serge beckoned to a commissionaire, and in a few seconds the long low motor car that he had given Louba slid silently to the kerb. He looked at the clock. It was nearly three o’clock. The night air was cool and very sweet.

  “Louba, my darling, in five hours I shall be gone.”

  Her hand clutched his convulsively. There was silence, each questioning what the future held for them. Then Louba spoke, her voice trying to disguise the fear that filled her mind. She would not talk of the morrow.

  “Tretkoff told me that he was going to change the name of the Kasbek to The Happy Dancers.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the one oasis of real gaiety in this war-shadowed city.”

  “And when will this momentous change occur?”

  “After he’s completed the redecorations. It’s to be closed next week for that reason. On your next leave you’ll hardly recognise it!”

  His next leave . . . when would that be?

  The car stopped outside Louba’s house. Serge turned to the chauffeur.

  “Be here at half-past seven.”

  They walked slowly up the steps; and the sky grew lighter as the hours passed and the faery fingers of the dawn trailed their ragged banners over Petrograd.

  Some months later Louba sat in front of the triple mirror on her dressing-table. It would soon be time for her to start for The Happy Dancers, where she was to dance for the last time. She frowned as she rubbed a little rouge into her flawless skin. She was frightened; frightened of Petrograd and the feeling of unrest and hatred that permeated the city.

  And Boris was there, she knew; she had read that he had been one of the agitators who had been arrested that morning and later released. She prayed that he wouldn’t discover where she was; but reassured herself that there was little chance of that, for she had changed her name, and there was small likelihood of his connecting his daughter Louba with Nikakova the famous cabaret dancer. Yes—she was dancing to-night for the last time. She was excited and happy, oh so happy. For Serge. When would he come back? She couldn’t tell him in a letter. Serge’s child! Her mouth was very tender. She peered once more into her looking-glass, tracing the chiselled lines of her lips with crimson. She could see the room behind her reflected in the mirror; the thick rose carpet, the lights, the broad low bed, and the door. Her eyes widened, her hand was motionless, still clutching her lipstick, for the door was quietly opening. Gently, an inch at a time. Now she could see a man’s arm, and the toe of a highly-polished riding-boot. And then he was in the room, and a cry of joy rang out.

  “Serge!” He was at her side in three strides, and she was in his arms, his mouth pressed on hers, hard and insistent.

  “Darling!”

  “But why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” She pushed him gently away. “Let me look at you.” She put up her left hand and stroked his hair. “Serge . . . for how long?”

  “Twenty-four hours. I only knew myself six hours ago. Everything has been so unsettled. Rumours everywhere. And on the way from the station there were angry crowds. Louba, I don’t like your being here in Petrograd. To-morrow you must leave. It’s not safe.”

  “I’m all right, my dear. But come, I must go to the Club. I dance there to-night—my swan song!”

  And in the privacy of the motor car while they made their slow way through the crowd-blocked streets, she told him of their coming child. The journey was slow, and several times their way was blocked. Angry voices shouted at them, and once a stone hit the shining bonnet.

  “Serge! My father is here.”

  “I know, darling. I saw him in the street on my way to your house. He was addressing a crowd of people outside the Nicholas Theatre.”

  “And he saw you?”

  “Yes . . . I don’t know . . . what does it matter?” He pressed her hand reassuringly.

  “Oh, but it does! What will he do? . . . He means you harm. The city has gone mad. I’m frightened.”

  “It’s nothing, darling. What can he do, here, in Petrograd?”

  “But you haven’t been here the last few days. There has been rioting; and shops have been looted and smashed. The police seem quite incapable of doing anything to stop it.”

  “Or perhaps they don’t want to.”

  “What do you mean?” Louba whispered.

  Serge shrugged his shoulders, and drawing her to him kissed her very gently.

  The Happy Dancers was full. But there was a breathless frenzied quality in the gaiety that was new. And two military policemen stood by the gilded doorway. As they went in one of them saluted, and said to Serge:

  “I shouldn’t go there to-night, there might be trouble.”

  Louba overheard his warning, and said, “But we must; I dance here.”

  The incident had left a fear in the back of her mind that increased as the evening wore on. Distant shouting was heard, and once the brittle rattle of rifle-fire. A sudden silence descended on the diners, but only for a moment. As if to combat this vague menace, a hectic babble of talk and laughter broke out. But the laughter was forced and more drinks were called for. Tretkoff spoke to the leader of the orchestra. The music must be louder and with no intervals of silence.

  Boris Kerensky was drunk. His ragged beard was matted with the thick dark beer that had evaded his mouth. He peered at his companions, men and women sunk as low as himself, and all in varying stages of intoxication.

  “And you say you know where Serge Poliakoff is?” he repeated, peering into the face of his companion.

  “Yes. My brother is the bastard’s chauffeur. You’d find him at The Happy Dancers—that’s where his tart dances,” replied the man. “They’ll be dancing to a different tune soon,” he went on, “the bloody swine.” He spat on the floor in his disgust.

  Boris got uncertainly to his feet, his brain occupied with one idea. Revenge. Revenge on Serge for taking Louba—his adorable Louba. It should be easy to-night. His foot slithered in a pool of spittle. He laughed. It had been hard to wait, but now the time had come. He clambered unsteadily on to the rough wooden table and started to harangue the clients of the squalid drinking house.

  Tretkoff made a sign to the band and walked into the middle of the dancing floor. The babble of talk died down, and an expectant hush fell as they waited for him to speak. Louba had just finished her dance and had rejoined Serge.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the night-club proprietor announced, “the club will now be closed for the night. I have received information that it would be wiser for you all to go to your homes. Thank you.”

  He turned and walked off the floor.

  Immediately a stir ruffled the tables. Women struggled into their coats, collected their scattered hand-bags. Men called loudly for their bills. Serge and Louba watched the confusion.

  “Shall we go, darling?” Serge suggested.

  “In a few minutes,” she answered. “I want to have a short talk with Tretkoff and collect my things from my dressing-room. Wait until the others have gone.”

  In fifteen minutes the restaurant was empty, save for a few sullen waiters whisking away the dirty plates and glasses. Serge saw the little proprietor looking at him. He raised his hand.

  “What’s the trouble?” he asked, when Tretkoff stood beside him. “Is it serious . . . or just a scare?”

  “Who knows? The crowds are out of hand, and in an ugly mood. There has been skirmishing in many parts of the city. I am now shutting up as quickly as I can. I don’t want any trouble here.”

  One by one the lights were extinguished.

&nb
sp; “You go up, Serge,” Louba said. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. Get the car.”

  Serge walked up the staircase. The club had quite a different atmosphere when it was empty. Depressing and tawdry. The big doors into the street were shut. He rapped on them impatiently with his cane. A small door set at the side was opened by a porter, who came out of his alcove on the right.

  “Mlle. Nikakova is coming in a few minutes.”

  It was very cold in the open air, and over the roofs Serge saw a red glow, as if a building was ablaze. His car was nowhere to be seen. He heard shouts in an alley near at hand. He wondered how long Louba would be. The shouting was nearer now; a figure ran into the end of the street where Serge stood, handsome in his uniform, against the painted gold of the wooden door. Three or four men followed the first, and then more came until the street was filled. They surged towards him, singing and laughing. Several of the men were carrying bottles; others had rifles and swords.

  “Hey! there’s one of the bloody officers!” a woman shouted. Her cry directed the attention of the whole band to Serge. In a moment he was surrounded by a jeering menacing mob, drunken and bestial, lusting for cruelty. Serge looked at them. He must not show his fear. Among the brutal faces he saw one he knew. Boris Kerensky. Their eyes met, and Serge read the light of insane rage and triumph in those of his opponent. He bellowed for silence and started haranguing the crowd, telling of the Grand Duke’s treatment of his peasants; of Serge’s violation of Louba, his daughter. He called upon them to take the law into their own hands, to make Serge suffer, as he and his had made the people suffer. The attitude of the crowd was threatening, they closed round wolfishly. Then Kerensky stepped forward, his face contorted into a mask of rage, and spat in Serge’s face.

  For a moment Serge stood still, the next, his arm flew out; and Boris lay stretched on the pavement.

  And then Serge was overwhelmed. As he went down he saw the door open, caught a glimpse of Louba’s horrified face, cried “Go back!” saw a giant soldier seize her. He struggled towards her, but a terrific blow with a rifle-butt caught him on the side of the head. He fell as if pole-axed.

  Five minutes later he opened his eyes. His head felt as if it was splitting. He groaned . . . vague noises sounded in his ears. A brutal kick roused him. He was roughly pulled to his feet. Nothing seemed real. He was not fully conscious. Somewhere he heard a woman screaming; then roars of laughter and coarse mocking shouts. He wondered who the woman was and why she was screaming. And then he realised it was Louba. He staggered towards her, but was held back by muscular arms. His own were tightly tied behind his back. The stench of the men who were holding him was overpowering. The cord hurt—cutting into the flesh of his wrists. What had happened? What was Louba saying? He couldn’t hear. . . . Yes, it was clearer now . . .

  “. . . You can’t do it to me . . . I’m one of you . . . dear Lord . . . I swear it. Help . . . help . . .” Her voice rose to a scream. “Serge . . .” He strained to get to her, his chest heaving with the exertion; but the men who held him were strong. And now they were forcing her against the door—the golden door. God! what were they doing? Those great nails . . . the hammer. . . .

  When Boris Kerensky recovered consciousness the street was deserted. He lay huddled in the gutter, his eyes half closed. Dimly he heard shouts, the clatter of horses’ hoofs, the rattle of gunfire, cheers and groans. The sky was red with the blaze of burning buildings. He turned his head. To his right stood the golden door of The Happy Dancers, and nailed to it, crucified, hung Serge Poliakoff; his stripped body white against the gilt, very white, relieved only by the crimson stigmata. He was dead. By his side hung the naked body of a girl, her flesh rent by a vicious sword thrust. As he looked, her eyelids fluttered faintly, and she slowly opened her eyes, glazing with the film of death.

  Boris looked once more into the eyes of Louba.

  THE ACTOR’S STORY

  “I’m afraid I have never had any personal experience of ghosts,” the speaker apologised, “so that I can’t cap your stories with one of my own, but I was once a witness of a particularly unpleasant happening.”

  David Lang leant against the mantelpiece, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. It was eleven o’clock at night, and the six men present, mellowed after their port and cigars, sat in a semi-circle of large leather armchairs round the blazing fire. I had asked if I might bring David to our monthly gathering at which the members of our little “club” took it in turn to relate some psychic adventure or weird occurrence. Old Norman Strathers had just finished an account of an elemental that had recently caused a good deal of trouble to a friend of his in Cornwall; and, as his narrative had been short, and it was still early, David had been called upon to give us “a bed-time story.”

  His audience settled down in greater comfort to listen. Pipes were filled and lit; and the pleasant splash of soda-water spluttering into whisky-glasses increased the atmosphere of interested attention. David threw away the stub of his cigar, and sat on the arm of my chair.

  “As you may know,” he began, “by profession I am an actor. Well; about three years ago I was with Margaret Carter on tour. We were playing the bigger towns in the Midlands, and included in our repertoire was a programme of Grand Guignol plays. We were quite a small company: Margaret, her husband, John Fieldon­, Mark Hastings, myself, Philippa Burton, and three or four small-part people. On the whole the tour had been a successful one, and I think that we had all enjoyed it. Margaret is charming to work with, and I might say that we were all very good friends without any of the usual professional jealousies and spites that are unfortunately so often found among my fellow artists.

  The only discordant note was Philippa Burton. She was a very fine actress, but decidedly temperamental, and was head over heels in love with Hastings. Apparently he returned her feelings; for they were seldom apart, and the rest of us were waiting to hear that they were engaged to be married. Philippa was perfectly beautiful in a dark Spanish way, and could, when she chose, be one of the most charming and amusing women that I have ever met. But she was insanely jealous, and made the most fantastic scenes if she thought Hastings paid any attention to anyone but herself. I think, in a way, that he was rather flattered by this, and enjoyed the feeling of power over her that it gave him. At the beginning, these scenes were comparatively infrequent, but as the weeks went on they became more and more regular until the work of both of them began to suffer in consequence. There was a strong feeling of constraint, and we all felt that it would be a very good thing for all concerned when the tour finished.

  I don’t want to give the impression that Philippa was a jealous shrew. She wasn’t, by any means, and Hastings treated her very badly. He was a strikingly handsome man, utterly selfish and self-indulgent; and perhaps it was only natural that he responded to the advances made to him by women. About this time there was a girl in the company—Nora Cummings—a pretty but rather ordinary little blonde who had set her cap at him, and who was obviously much pleased by his response. To a woman of Philippa’s­ talent and nature such competition must have been galling in the extreme . . . but I’m getting away from the story.

  Our last date was a week in Lacington—at a small theatre of an intimate character, and Margaret had decided to give a play of Ibsen’s for the major part of the week, and the Grand Guignol plays on the Saturday night and matinée. We were all feeling sorry that the tour was ending, yet glad to be going back to London; and what with making our own plans for the immediate future, and the inevitable flurry of the last days, we had given less of our attention to Philippa and Hastings than we should otherwise have done.

  Ibsen’s play had done surprisingly good business, and the company was in a very cheerful frame of mind; but Margaret’s part in the play was a long and difficult one, and we were glad to finish up with the laughs and melodrama of our “horrors.” We were giving five plays; two short farces and three blood curdlers. One of the latter was a delightful little piece about a nurse who picke
d out the eyes of her ex-lover when he was lying strapped on an operating table. It had only four characters; played by Philippa, Hastings—the unfortunate victim—Fieldon, and myself; and it was one of the two big thrills of the evening.

  Well, the matinée played to a packed house, and we were much gratified by the gasps and screams from the auditorium. After the performance, since there was only two hours to wait before getting ready for the night’s show, I went to Margaret’s dressing-room to have a drink and talk over the previous week’s happenings, as was my usual custom. As it happened, Fieldon was not there on that evening, and Margaret and I were alone. We talked about our success at the matinée and our sorrow that the tour was over; and then suddenly, she said:

  “David—did you notice anything odd about Philippa this afternoon?”

  I answered that she had appeared nervous and depressed, but that I had become accustomed to that, and that Hastings had certainly done enough to annoy her by his behaviour with Nora Cummings.

  “Yes, I know,” Margaret continued, “but she looked different to-day somehow—more as if she was . . . desperate. It’s difficult to explain, but she . . . frightened me.”

  I told her that as it was our last night everything would be all right, and that Philippa and Hastings would be less on each other’s­ nerves once they got back to London; and that there was no need for Margaret to feel responsible for, in any case, they were a grown man and woman and should be perfectly capable of looking after their own affairs. Margaret didn’t seem greatly reassured by this answer, and we talked of other things until about seven, when it was time for me to go and make up, and get into the peasant clothes in which I made my first appearance.

  I had just determined to go when there was a knock on the door. Margaret raised her eyebrows in inquiry. I shrugged my shoulders. Then she called out, “Come in,” and the door opened and Hastings stood there holding Nora Cummings by the hand. They were both smiling and looking extremely embarrassed. I glanced at Margaret.