The family of Müller the chemist nodded to them. The Münster daughters were there too. In the back rows the newcomers moved their chairs. Some laughed and cleared their throats, then suddenly, as if moved by a common spring, all the heads turned towards the platform. Then all became silent.
Anne glanced over the faces. The crowd seemed to her like an empty vessel gaping towards the piano in expectation of being filled with sounds and emotions. Her heart was full of her young distress and she felt afraid that at the first sound her sufferings would overflow through her eyes.
All of a sudden she became strangely restless, as if some one had touched her from a distance. She turned her head quickly. The blood throbbed in her veins as her look met the dark, sad eyes of Thomas Illey. And the two glances united through space.
Waves surged between them. A wild tumult of cheers broke out. The round of applause echoed like a thunderstorm from the walls.
The great artist stood on the platform, high above everybody. His long white hair waved softly round his marble brow. He inclined his wiry body before the homage.
Then the piano burst out under his hands. And the sounds sang, crept, stormed furiously, coaxed voluptuously, and dissolved in a smile. The artist with the marble brow conjured up harmonies from the piano that had not existed before him and were not to be after him.
The crowd listened with bated breath, spellbound. And the music continued like a swelling tide. Then it became tender like a dying echo. It broke forth again with superb impetuosity. Sounds wrought in fire rose and those who heard them lived the creative moments of Beethoven, Sebastian Bach and Weber over again. These sublime moments were resuscitated by the master whose playing was forever the begetting of gods.
Anne Ulwing’s soul was carried on glowing wings by Beethoven’s Appassionata to Thomas over the heads of the crowd. She felt that the waves of the music swept them together and that they became swallowed up in some boundless glittering veil.
The hall was delirious again. People stood up. Some rushed to the platform and continued to applaud there.
The artist began to play a composition of his own. And then, as if his marble countenance had been set aflame, fire shone on his brow, fire streamed from his eyes and the creative artist wandered and was alone by himself.