Now there is one thing which no Norseman can tolerate for a moment, and that is any sort of cruelty to animals. Frithiof, in his fury, did not measure his words, or speak as the employed to the employer, and from that time Mr. Horner’s hatred of him increased tenfold. To add to all this wretchedness an almost tropical heat set in, London was like a huge, overheated oven; every day Frithiof found the routine of business less bearable, every day he was less able to fight against his love for Blanche, and he rapidly sunk into the state which hard-headed people flatter themselves is a mere foolish fancy—that most real and trying form of illness which goes by the name of depression. Again and again he wrestled with the temptation that had assailed him long ago in Hyde Park, and each sight of James Horner, each incivility from those he had to serve, made the struggle harder.
He was sitting at his desk one morning adding up a column which had been twice interrupted, and which had three times come to a different result, when once again the swing-door was pushed open, and a shadow falling across his account-book warned him that the customer had come to the song-counter. Annoyed and impatient, he put down his pen and went forward, forcing up the sort of cold politeness which he assumed now, and which differed strangely from the bright, genial courtesy, that had once been part of his nature.
The customer was evidently an Italian. He was young and strikingly handsome; when he glanced at you, you felt that he had looked you through and through, yet that his look was not critical, but kindly; it penetrated yet at the same time warmed. Beside him was a bright-eyed boy who looked up curiously at the Norseman, as though wondering how on such a sunny day any one could wear such a clouded face.
Now Frithiof was quite in the humor to dislike any one, more especially a man who was young, handsome, well-dressed, and prosperous-looking; but some subtle influence crept over him the instant he heard the Italian’s voice; his hard eyes softened a little, and without being able to explain it he felt a strong desire to help this man in finding the song which he had come to inquire about, knowing only the words and the air, not the name of the composer. Frithiof, who would ordinarily have been inclined to grumble at the trouble which the search involved, now threw himself into it heart and soul, and was as pleased as his customer when after some little time he chanced to find the song.
“A thousand thanks,” said the Italian warmly. “I am delighted to get hold of this; it is for a friend who has long wanted to hear it again, but who was only able to write down the first part of the air.”
And he compared the printed song with the little bit of manuscript which he had shown to Frithiof. “Now, was it only a happy fluke that made you think of Knight’s name?”
“I know another of his songs, and thought this bore a sort of likeness to it,” said Frithiof, pleased with his success.
“You know much more of English music than I do, most likely,” said the Italian; “yet surely you, too, are a foreigner.”
“Yes,” replied Frithiof, “I am Norwegian. I have only been here for nine months, but to try and learn a little about the music is the only interesting part of this work.”
The stranger’s sympathetic insight showed him much of the weariness and discontent and Heimweh which lay beneath these words.