Читать книгу Guest the One-Eyed - Gunnar Gunnarsson - Страница 7

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When a youth is thrown from the realm of fancy and solitude into a world of realities, one of two things takes place: either a process of reaction sets in, and he fortifies his soul in some faith or tradition; or he clutches greedily at life, becomes intoxicated by it, and loses his foothold. Whatever happens to him depends less upon strength of character than upon chance.

In Ormarr’s case, reality fell short of his expectation in some respects, and in others exceeded it. He felt, also, as if he were born anew, entering upon an existence based on new principles.

With all that he had looked forward to most keenly he was frankly disappointed. On the other hand, he found an order of things, of people and their actions, so alien to his own mind and development that he felt himself an outsider, uncultured and inferior. It seemed to him then, that the only possible way to make up for lost time was to fling himself headlong into this human maelstrom and swim for dear life. And before he was himself aware of it, he was floating with the tide. He soon proved to have all the requisite qualifications for drifting so on the waters of life; he had means enough, and withal a pleasant manner, with a certain air of distinction, gay and yet self-possessed....

It did not occur to him to consider whither he was drifting; there was no time to think. That he saw no land ahead or to either side did not trouble him in the least. Life was pleasant enough—and since its essential aim seemed to be that of making it pleasant, why trouble one’s head about anything?

Fortunately, there was always one plank at hand to which he could turn for safety in case of need—unless he wilfully thrust it from him. And as this resource in itself possessed an extreme fascination for him—the chance of becoming a great artist, a world-famed master—Ormarr never quite lost touch of it, though he found it at times somewhat burdensome, a check upon his natural movements towards pleasure and enjoyment.

His consistency in this respect was largely due to the personality of his teacher, Abel Grahl, who had taken a kind and fatherly interest in the boy from their first meeting. On the day after his arrival at Copenhagen, Ormarr set out from his hotel at a very early hour, and went in search of Grahl. Sera Daniel had instructed him to seek out this man and not rest until he had persuaded him to become his teacher.

“Your career may depend upon it,” were the priest’s parting words.

Abel Grahl was an elderly man, and life had used him hardly. At twenty, he had stood on the threshold of fame: his first appearance as a violinist, in London, had created an unusual stir. Offers of engagements came to him in plenty, but the day before he was to start on a tour, embracing the principal cities of the world, he had managed to hurt his finger slightly while out boating with some friends. Blood-poisoning set in, and the finger had to be amputated. Then for three years he was lost to the world; his friends and relations believed him dead. Suddenly he reappeared in his native town of Copenhagen, a silent, retiring man; no one ever learned where or how he had spent the intervening years. Even his intimates refrained from asking, partly out of regard for his grief, partly for fear of reopening some trouble not yet healed. He made his living as a teacher of music especially with the violin; but his pupils were few, since he mercilessly rejected all save those who showed unusual promise.

He lived a solitary life, in a suite of rooms badly in need of repair. The landlord had given him permission to remove the inner partitions, and turn the whole place into one big studio; the kitchen he used as a bedroom.

Grahl was not in the best of tempers on being awakened at six in the morning by a continued and vigorous ringing at the bell. But at the sight of his visitor, a lad in ill-fitting homespun clothes, with a calfskin bag tucked under his arm (Grahl at once divined that it contained a violin), he found some difficulty in keeping his countenance. He looked at the boy with a faint, good-humoured smile.

Ormarr endeavoured to explain, in very imperfect Danish, the object of his visit.

The old man burst out laughing. Then, noticing the boy’s confusion, he asked him in, and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Do you mean to say you have come all the way from Iceland to learn the violin? What did you say your name was?”

“Ormarr, son of Ørlygur à Borg.”

“I see, Ormarr à Borg, then.”

“Yes, Ormarr Ørlygsson.”

“Ormarr Ørlygsson. And how did you manage to find me?”

“It was quite easy. I had the address written on a paper, and asked the way.”

“Yes, yes—but I mean, who told you to come to me?”

“Sera Daniel—the priest. I was to come to you and get you to teach me—you and no other. He said my career might depend upon it. And he said if you refused, if you sent me away once or twice or more, I was to try again.”

“H’m. Seems clear enough. And you look as if you were the sort to do it. Well, let me hear what you can do with that instrument of yours.”

Ormarr took out his violin. He was visibly nervous, and it took him some time to tune up.

Abel Grahl could not help remarking to himself that the boy seemed awkward—and perhaps he did not even know his notes. Anyhow, he refrained for the moment from further questioning.

At last Ormarr ran his bow across the strings, put down his bow and violin, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.

Grahl watched him, making no sign. He was rather surprised to find himself really interested, and waited impatiently for the boy to begin.

As Ormarr took up his instrument again, the old man asked:

“How old did you say you were?”

Ormarr hesitated. “Fifteen,” he said at length.

Grahl shook his head in despair. Then he checked himself.

“Well, well, we shall see. Go on now, if you are ready.”

Ormarr began to play, without watching the other’s face. He did not see how the man’s expression changed from mere resignation to intense feeling, that drove all the blood from his face. Now and again he frowned, and started slightly, but repressed himself, and left Ormarr to finish at his will.

Ormarr played for ten minutes. At the last stroke of the bow, Grahl leapt to his feet.

“Who wrote that?”

“It’s—it’s only about a sunset.”

“Yes, yes, but where did you get hold of it—the tune?”

“I made it up myself.”

Grahl stared at him, but the boy never flinched. No, those eyes could not lie!

“What else can you play?”

“There’s all the songs they used to sing at home. And the hymns from church.”

“Can you play at sight?”

Ormarr shook his head doubtfully.

“I mean, do you know the written notes?”

“No; I was never taught.” Ormarr felt crushed at the confession.

For fully a quarter of an hour he was kept in suspense; it was like waiting for the summons to execution.

Abel Grahl walked up and down. Now and again he stopped full in front of the boy, scrutinizing him from head to foot. Then he shook his head as if in dismissal, turned away abruptly, and stood for a while at the window, whistling softly to himself; came back and stared at Ormarr once more, looking hard into the dark, glowing eyes that seemed to have grown dim. Who could say how much it might mean to this lad if he sent him away? He felt, too, that those eyes could express something more than despair.

He felt himself drawn toward this child of nature who had been flung at him, at it were, like a ball, from hundreds of miles away—if he did not take it but threw it back, would it land safely, or would it be lost in the sea?

At last he spoke, though he had not yet made up his mind.

“It is a difficult thing to study—and it means years of work. Also, it will cost a great deal of money. Where are you to get that from?”

“From my father.”

“And what is your father?”

“A farmer.”

“Is he rich?”

“Yes.”

“What is he worth, about?”

“He owns all Borg, and....”

“I mean, how many thousand...?”

“Three thousand.”

“Three thousand—is that all?”

“Yes. No one in Iceland has more than three thousand sheep. He has more than any one else there.”

“Sheep—I see. A biggish place, then. Many horses?”

“I don’t know how many exactly. There are many—stodhross.”

“Stodhross—what’s that?”

“Horses that live out on the hills. But we’ve a hundred and twenty at home, on the place.”

“The devil you have. And how many cows?”

“About a hundred most times.”

“Do you know any one here in Copenhagen?”

“No. But the priest, he gave me a letter to a man I was to ask to keep my money for me, if you did not care to be troubled with it.”

“Have you much with you now?”

“I have a thousand Kroner in my pocket-book, and a few small notes in my purse.”

“H’m. I suppose you can look after your money all right yourself?”

“Oh yes, I have it....” He thrust a hand into his pocket.

“No—I must have left it under my pillow.”

“Under your pillow—where?”

“At the place where I slept.”

“What on earth—Here, we must go along at once. Put on your coat—no, never mind the violin. Where are you staying? What street?”

“I don’t know what street it is.”

“But good heavens, child—the name of the hotel, then?”

“Hotel H——, it is called. Sera Daniel told me to go there the first night.”

They reached the street, and Grahl hurried on ahead to where some cabs were standing. Hailing one, he gave the address, hurried the boy in, and followed himself.

In the vestibule of the hotel they were met by the porter, who advanced with a discreet smile, and handed a pocket-book to Ormarr.

“You don’t seem to care much for your money, sir. The maid found this little sum under your pillow.”

The little episode was not perhaps, in itself, the decisive factor in establishing the ultimate relationship between Ormarr and Grahl. But it certainly did much to link them closer, and from that time forth, Grahl assisted the young Icelander in many other ways, apart from merely teaching him the violin.

Ormarr succeeded from the first in winning the old man’s affection, and making him interested in his career. He was a constant source of surprise to his teacher. First and foremost, there was his sudden transformation from chrysalis to butterfly—from a peasant lad to a man-about-town.

And Ormarr caused his teacher grave anxiety during those years. But he never betrayed the confidence the old man had shown at first. And in point of musical development he surpassed all that Grahl had ever hoped for.

By the tenth winter, Grahl considered his pupil as perfect at least as he himself had been when he had first appeared in public. All that was needed now was to introduce him to an audience. The day for his début was fixed, and the large room at the Concert Hall engaged.

For some time past, whispers had been current in musical circles about Abel Grahl’s wonderful pupil. All were eager to hear him, and every seat in the big hall was taken far in advance.

Ormarr had rooms on the outskirts of the town, looking out over the Sound. In course of time, he had managed to get the apartments furnished to his taste. The walls were hung with rugs, an enormous divan occupied the centre of the room, a few small tables stood about here and there, and the four big chairs were packed with cushions. The divan served as a bed at night; in the daytime it was covered with a splendid Persian rug. Black, white, and brown sheepskins were spread on the floor, and in front of the divan was flung the pelt of a huge white bear.

Not a single picture was to be seen. But on the walls, hidden behind the hangings, Ormarr had placed large reproductions of well-known portraits of great composers. And when playing, he would uncover the picture of that particular master with whose work he was occupied for the moment.

On the day before his first concert, Ormarr was resting, fully dressed, on the divan. He was smoking; a bottle of wine and a glass stood within reach on a small table.

He had been out for his usual morning walk. But for the last three hours he had not moved. It was now drawing towards twilight. His glance moved idly from one window to the other, following the race of clouds against the background of a dull blue sky.

There was a knock at the door. Languidly Ormarr rose to open. He recognized the voice of his friend, Aage Blad.

Save for Grahl, Ormarr’s only intimate friend was the young poet, Aage Blad; the two were constant companions. Blad’s earnest love of life had endeared him to Ormarr, and though the latter, true to his adopted rôle of insincerity, often made fun of his friend’s seriousness, the poet had soon realized that it was not meant, and as a rule paid no heed to it. But if ever he found that he had gone too far, Ormarr always relapsed into silence, and his friend understood that this was his way of asking forgiveness.

Blad glanced at Ormarr’s face as he entered, and gathered at once that his friend was not in the best of spirits. He shook hands in silence.

Ormarr flung himself down on the divan once more, leaving his visitor to make himself at home. Blad moved up a chair, and the two friends smoked in silence for a while, watching each other.

“Nervous?” queried Blad at last.

“Wish I were!”

“Curious thing to wish. Thank your stars you’re as cool about it as you are. Anything wrong?”

“Oh, everything.”

“Oh, that’s no trifle, anyway.”

Silence.

“I tell you what, Ormarr, I shan’t feel comfortable myself until this concert’s over. Honestly, I’m getting quite feverish about it. I’ve never been so excited about one of my own things coming out—not even my first book.”

“No need for you to get excited that I can see.”

“No need at all—you’re right, of course. It’s bound to go off all right.”

“On the contrary—there’s everything to be anxious about. Everything—everything. Oh, well, hang it all—have another drink.”

Ormarr threw himself back and closed his eyes.

Aage Blad sat watching him; there was a dull, resigned expression about the corners of the mouth; the forehead was already deeply lined. There was strength as well as weakness in the face, he thought. “A strange fellow,” he told himself.

They smoked in silence for a while. Then, without opening his eyes, Ormarr said:

“It is a long time since I saw my home. Funny thing, not feeling home-sick all these years. Can’t understand it just now. I never longed for home till this winter. As soon as the summer comes I must go back. Like to come too?”

“H’m—I don’t know. Iceland—the very name of it makes me shiver. Anyhow, you’ll have to redeem that fur coat you gave me—extravagant person that you are.”

“But it’s not so cold at home. Not in the summer, at any rate. The coldest thing about Iceland is its name. And the nights there—so wonderfully calm and light they are in spring.... It’s a long time to wait till the spring. I wish I were back home again now. I’ve never seen a sky so blue and deep as there. Before I came to Denmark I had an idea that in a flat country one would see more of the sky than at home, with all the mountains and their shadows. But then the mountains are so far away. And once you get there... Aage, I would give all the forests in the world, all the orchards and cornfields and flower gardens, for a single mountain. But a real one, mind you, with huge rocky ridges, and green plateaus, and snow at the top. Good heavens, man, to think that I have one all to myself—yes, I own a mountain. I never thought of it before. Can you understand how I ever could stay away from it all so long? But I’m going back now—going home.”

“There’s the concert first, don’t forget—tomorrow. And you’re going to be famous.”

“Tomorrow... yes....”

Ormarr had sat up, resting on his elbow, while he spoke of his home. Now, he threw himself back once more, as if exhausted, and lay with closed eyes as before. For a few moments neither spoke.

“Aage,” said Ormarr at last, “I feel tired—deadly tired. I’ve been idling here all day. Tomorrow? I feel as if tomorrow were already a thing of the past.”

He got up, filled his glass and that of his friend.

“Drink! Aage, I’ve something to tell you. Just let me go on talking, and don’t bother about it, I only want to get it out. What do you think I’ve been seeing all the time, lying here with my eyes shut? This is no life for me. I have been counting. It is my tenth winter here now. Ten years, man—think! And today it seemed as if I had come yesterday. I have been asleep—fast asleep. But it can’t go on. There’s something hurting me, a sort of longing——Oh, I know it sounds all nonsense, but you needn’t worry about that.... No, this won’t do. I don’t go on drinking and enjoying life in this wasteful, silly fashion—and forgetting. I wasn’t made to live like that. I was made to think, and to work. And now here have I been living for ten years—yes, and working hard, I know—but all for nothing. It means nothing at all, really. Famous? If I found myself famous after tomorrow, I should be no better off than I am now. I’ve no ambition of that sort any longer—not a scrap. I never realized it before—it’s only just lately I’ve seen it. And think of dear old Abel Grahl! Do you know, honestly, I believe he’s jealous—the dear old boy! He’s fond of me, I know; and now that I’m on the eve of my ‘conquest,’ as he always says, he thinks of the time when he made his conquest—and fate overtook him after. I’m sadly afraid that old trouble’s cropped up again now with him. And after all, what is there to envy, anyway? What sort of a future if I do succeed? The life of a flunkey—a menial in gold lace, playing for money—and to whom? I’ve been studying my fellow-creatures this winter—musical people—my audience-to-be. Copenhagen’s not the world I know; but human beings are much the same everywhere, I take it, though their looks and manners may differ somewhat in detail. Grahl has been taking me about. He hates ‘society,’ I know, but he took it all up again for my sake—that’s the sort of man he is. It all helps, he says. Oh, and you should have heard their talk, their hard-and-fast opinions, and the views of the professional critics. Sometimes I feel I simply can’t go on living. Simply can’t stand it. What wretched caricatures we all are—myself included. No I’ve finished with this sort of life. There’s not a thing in the world I care for now, except to go back home. If only I could be sure that was a genuine feeling, and not another delusion. Don’t look down on me, old man—Heaven knows, I’ve no great thoughts about myself just now. You know me well enough to see that I’m not drunk. But I feel—oh, just worthless. All these years—and living like this—it’s too contemptible. I feel as if I hadn’t an atom of will-power left. Just sick and tired of everything... and longing, aching for something.... Good of you to listen so patiently. Have a drink.”

Blad was silent for some time, and when at last he spoke it was in a low voice.

“There’s something I should like to say to you,” he said quietly. “And I’m half afraid to begin. I’ve been thinking a lot, and some of it I mustn’t say at all. But I will say this: When we have been together anywhere—out in the country, or on the sea, or in the town—anywhere, I always had a feeling that we lived as it were on different levels, you and I. To me, you were always the born leader; I felt if you took it into your head to order me about, I should have to obey. Things seemed somehow to belong to you. Then at other times, I could feel as if you were a distinguished visitor—one can’t help these stray thoughts, you know—as if Nature herself put on her best and did all she could to please you—while I was just an ordinary person, not worth making a fuss about. I belonged to her, as one of her children, and could stray about unnoticed among the trees like any other creature in the forest; it never came into my head to look on her in that gay lordly way of yours. And sometimes it seemed you were the better off; sometimes that it was better to be as I was. It’s all only fancies, of course, but still it does prove one thing: that we are utterly different. I am quite content to live an ordinary uneventful life; as long as I can ramble about in Nature’s garden and cultivate the modest growths of my art, it is enough for me. I don’t care for anything that calls for greater energy than I generally give, whether it be the way of pleasure, or pain, or work. I’ve no ambition worth mentioning. I can sit in my garden, and enjoy the scent of the flowers, or go out in a boat, and watch the sunlight on the water; walk in the woods in spring and see the delicate green of the beech leaves against the sky—I am happy enough with such things. There are heaps of little trifling things of that sort that please me every day. But it’s all different with you. It may sound theatrical, perhaps, but it’s as if you had mountains—glaciers and volcanoes—in your soul. And I shouldn’t care to change with you—it’s all too big for me. But then again, if you were like me, I shouldn’t care about you. You must live and act in a different way; I see that. You could stand suffering better than I; I’m sure of that. But I’m not quite sure that you have the power of being really happy. Anyhow—well, you know I’m your friend, and always will be.”

“I know that, Blad.”

Ormarr got up, switched on the light, looked through a bundle of newspapers and found the one he was looking for. Nervously he turned the pages till he came to the shipping intelligence.

“There is a boat leaving the day after tomorrow.”

He dropped the paper, walked up and down the room several times, shaking his head defiantly, as if at his own thoughts, then threw himself down in a chair. A moment later he glanced at his watch, and rose reluctantly.

“It’s time I went round now—to Grahl. The final rehearsal....”

In the big room where, ten years before, a curious figure of a boy in ill-fitting clothes had called on him for the first time, Abel Grahl sat at the piano accompanying the later stage of that same youth—now a slender, pale-faced young man. They were playing a nocturne—the only one of Ormarr’s own compositions on the morrow’s program. The theme was that same one of the sunset with which Ormarr had introduced himself to his master, only the technique was different.

Ormarr looked out through the window as he played, seeing nothing in particular. As long as he held his violin, his soul lived only in the magic world of melody that flowed from the strings.

Grahl’s accompaniment was strangely absent and mechanical. His figure was bowed at the shoulders, and the black coat he wore accentuated his thinness. He had aged much of late, and looked haggard and worn. Now and again he turned his head towards his pupil with a searching glance.

When they had been through the whole of the programme, Grahl remained seated at the instrument, striking one chord repeatedly, his eyes fixed on nothing. The corners of his mouth dropped in a bitter smile. Then, turning to Ormarr, he said in a queer, strained voice:

“Play that Andante once more, will you? Not that you need it—it couldn’t be better. Just play it for me.”

And Ormarr played.

When he had finished, Grahl spoke, without looking up, as to himself:

“That was one of the things I played at my first concert. I did not play it as well as you—no, not half so well. I doubt if Beethoven himself ever played it better!”

For a while he sat with bowed head. Then raising himself suddenly, he ran his fingers over the keyboard, and the gay tones of the “Valse d’Espagne” danced like demons out upon the silence that had followed Beethoven’s Andante.

Ormarr, who had been standing deep in thought, looked round with a start; Grahl rose from the music-stool with a harsh laugh.

“A fancy of mine,” he said shortly, “to let Waldteufel loose on the heels of Beethoven.”

He went across to the table, lit a cigar, and slipped into an easy-chair.

Ormarr followed his movements intently. There was a strange expression in his eyes, and the lines on his forehead and face seemed deeper than usual.

Grahl paid no heed to him; he was smoking, and evidently occupied with his own reflections. When Ormarr moved, he looked up, and pointed to a chair.

“Sit down, Ormarr; not time to go home yet. Take a cigar.”

“Thanks.”

Ormarr took a cigar and lit it, covertly watching the expression of the old man’s face.

“Sit there, Ormarr, where I can see you; that’s it. I was thinking, there’s not much left of the peasant lad who came up here that morning ten years ago. The eyes are the same, yes; and a look about the face—I’ve noticed it the last few days.... Anyhow, it was as well I didn’t send you away that day after all.”

Ormarr felt his cheeks flush, and bent forward in his chair.

“My dear Grahl, I feel myself a man now in most things, but there’s one thing that has stuck to me since I was a child. I never could thank any one in words. And I don’t know how to thank you in any other way.... I’m sure no father ever did more for his son than you have done for me. I hardly know how any one could do more for a fellow-creature than you have.”

“Oh.... And what is this, if you please, if not thanking me in words?”

“You know yourself how much I owe you—you know I don’t exaggerate things as a rule....”

“There, Ormarr, that’s enough. You must have seen what it meant to me all along—the joy and delight of teaching you. No more pupils now for Abel Grahl. You are my last—and my greatest. If I could find one greater still...? I don’t think I shall live to be roused from my bed a second time at six in the morning by a lad with his fiddle in a calfskin bag and the promise of fame in his eyes.”

Ormarr laughed at the thought. A moment later he was serious once more. And Grahl went on:

“You’ll go travelling about the world, giving concerts here, there, and everywhere. I wish I were strong enough to go with you.”

Ormarr laughed again, but without heartiness.

“Grahl, my dear master, why not? Come with me! Nowadays, with trains de luxe and floating palaces, it will be pleasant as could be. And at least I should have some one to play for.”

“I... to travel... after all? It’s late in the day... and not exactly the way I had once thought....”

Ormarr sprang to his feet, but sat down again.

“Grahl, you are my friend—the best I have, I think. I must tell you something now—something that has happened to me. Listen: I do not care about the concert tomorrow—it means nothing. Fame is nothing to me now. To tell the truth, I shudder at the thought of going about playing for people I do not know, and should not care to know. Strangers—foreigners! It makes me a piece of common property; one of the artistic wonders of the world. And then to see my name, my portrait, on huge posters everywhere... read interviews with myself, criticisms of my art—Grahl, the thought of it sickens me. I won’t—I can’t—oh, if only I could get out of it now, before....”

“Why, boy... Ormarr, my dear lad, what is this? what has come over you? Surely you do not—you could not think of throwing everything away now—burning your ships? Ten years of hard work—yours and mine.... If there were any risk, I could understand perhaps your being afraid... but as it is... you have only to show yourself—one first appearance, and the thing is done. No, Ormarr, you could not draw back now. It would be madness—nothing else.”

“That may be. But none the less, that is how I feel. I have lost all desire to show myself, to appear in public. I do not care for any ‘conquest.’ I could do it, I know. But that means that in reality I have already conquered. It is satisfaction enough to me; I need not show myself on a platform to utter strangers who have paid so much for the right to hear me play this or that. Every item on the programme as a right—and extras in return for their applause. No—if you cared, I should not mind playing to you every day, for hours together—to you alone. Or to any others that I cared about. Come back with me to Iceland. I will look after you, be a son to you, take care of you, in every way. But spare me this; release me from the burden of that concert and all that should come after it.”

“Ormarr—you must be out of your senses.”

“Whether or no, I am what I am. And I can’t be otherwise. I am furious with myself too; blind fool that I have been—oh, you don’t know what I feel at this moment.”

Ormarr noticed that Grahl was feeling for his watch.

“Don’t,” he put in hastily. “I don’t want to see any one tonight. I can’t stand it. I don’t know what may happen....”

Abel Grahl rose from his seat. When he spoke, his voice was calm and earnest.

“Ormarr, remember I stand to you in a father’s stead. You cannot get away from this. Where is my son, who had grown to be a man of the world? We had grown out of stage fright, nerves and all that nonsense, surely? Tomorrow is our concert. We must not forget it, we must be there in time. But beyond that, we need not give the matter a thought. There—that’s the way to look at it. Don’t forget.”

Ormarr paled slightly.

“Very well—have it your own way.”

A car was heard hooting outside, and they went out.

Ormarr stood on the platform of the Concert Hall, playing the Andante from Beethoven’s Sonata. This was the third item on the programme. The first had been a show piece, from Tchaikowsky, which had given him an opportunity of displaying his extraordinary skill and masterly technique. After the second, his own nocturne, it seemed as if the applause would never end. The audience was delirious. The atmosphere of the nocturne, with its melancholy depths and wild heights of joy, its bewildering beauty and strange transitions, moved the dense crowd as if by magic.

The appearance of the young artist had fascinated his listeners from the outset. Despite the air of superiority and composure, there was nothing of arrogance in his bearing. At the first entry of this young man, with the pale, lean face and the half-closed eyes that yet seemed to see everything, and see through every one, the audience felt the magnetism of an extraordinary personality.

Success was certain, inevitable. From the very first, the audience had surrendered unconditionally.

As he stood there playing, Ormarr appeared quite calm and collected. Not the slightest tremor of the body, no trace of expression on his smooth face, betrayed the struggle raging within. But Ormarr himself knew that it was merely a question of time; up to a certain point he might control himself—after that, the deluge.

Two men there were, however, among those in the hall, who suspected something of the strain it cost him to keep his rebellious temperament in check: they knew that his apparent calm was but a mask. The two were Blad and Abel Grahl, sitting together in the front row.

The serene progress of the Andante was undisturbed by any sound from those in front. Ormarr felt as if his listeners were turned to stone, and his playing was caressing them like a gentle breeze.

Then suddenly there came over him an irresistible desire to jerk them back to life—to startle them, set them fluttering and cackling like a pack of frightened fowls. To tear at their sense, to render their innermost souls, to fling at them, like a fiery volcanic eruption, something unexpected and terrible—something unheard of.

In a fraction of a second it had come. A bursting of all bonds that chained his ungovernable mind: reason, duty, ambition, the fear of consequences. It was as if in a moment he flung from him the prejudices and traditions in which men are wont to dress, and stood there before them in primeval nakedness.

He saw Grahl trying to rise: trying to prevent something he knew was coming....

And half unconsciously, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world, he plunged blasphemously from Beethoven’s Andante into Waldteufel’s “Valse d’Espagne.”

Ormarr was cool and calm as ever, but pale as a ghost. The music raced away madly into the waltz, laughing and crying in complete abandon.

A feeling of something uncanny seized the audience for a second; as if icy waters had overwhelmed them in flood, depriving them of movement, suffocating all cries for help.

Grahl rose to his feet, and opened his mouth as if to cry aloud. Then he fell back in his chair, without a sound.

Suddenly Ormarr stopped playing; his arms fell to his sides, and he stood on the platform laughing—a tremulous, uneasy laugh. Then he turned and fled.

A storm of shouts and noise rose up from the audience. The silence of enraptured listeners had given place to the confusion of a disturbed ant-hill. Some questioned, others raged, a few broke down entirely.

“Scandalous!” “Mad!” sounded through the din. Several minutes passed before any thought of leaving. Then suddenly the word “dead” began to circulate. And gradually the crowd grew quiet, and dispersed, moved to forgiveness by the thought that the madman had ceased to live. Only a few were aware that it was not the player who was dead.

Ormarr reached home and let himself in—not until then did he notice that he had walked all the way without hat or overcoat, still carrying his violin.

After all, what did it matter? His mind was in a state of utter indifference to everything; completely numbed.

His shoes were muddy, his dress coat wet through; he raised his hand to his forehead and wiped the rain from his face.

His throat was parched; he felt nervous and ill. He fumbled about for whisky and a syphon, drained one glass at a draught and poured out another. Then, drenched and dirty as he was, he threw himself down on the divan, without a thought of changing his wet things.

The blood throbbed in his temples; there was not a clear thought in his mind. When he shut his eyes, he felt as if a wheel were tearing round at a furious rate inside his head.

The door bell rang—it was Blad.

“Grahl is dead!”

Blad threw down Ormarr’s hat and coat, which he had been carrying; he himself was out of breath, and overpowered with emotion.

“Grahl—dead?” Ormarr sat bowed forward, his hands clasped, his eyes staring vacantly before him. Blad stood watching him for a moment. Then he burst out:

“You—you must be mad!”

“I suppose so—yes.”

“And—you don’t care in the least?”

Ormarr made no reply.