Yet despite the trace of something foreign in his appearance, he was at heart a true child of his country. The wistful, dreamy thoughts that burned in his dark, passionate eyes, betrayed that rich and abundant imagination peculiar to the sons of Iceland, fostered by the great solitude and desolate yet fertile grandeur of the land itself. So deeply is the sense of that grandeur rooted in their hearts, that even those who have roamed the world over, and lived most of their lives in milder and richer climes, will yet declare that Iceland is the most beautiful of all.
Another typical trait in Ormarr’s nature was the melancholy that consumed his soul—a product of youthful self-absorption without the corresponding experience.
His descent from the ancient and noble race of Borg was apparent in his chariness of words, in his credulity,—it was a thing inconceivable, that he or any of his should tell a falsehood,—in his self-reliance, and strong belief that he was in the right, as long as he followed the dictates of his own conscience. Young as he was, every look, every feature, betrayed the born chieftain in him.
This was evident most of all in his music—which consisted mainly of dreams and fantasies he had himself composed. From the first day he had learned to hold the instrument, he had thrown into his music a burning interest and an overwhelming love. It gave him the only possible outlet for the longing that filled him.
Loneliness and despair sobbed in the sweet and passionate strains; the strings vibrated with a deep desire, that yet had no conscious aim, but the sound brought relief, though never satisfying to the full.
His playing revealed his soul as a wanderer in the wilderness—as a giant whose strength is doomed to slumber under the weight of unbreakable shackles; it showed that, to him, life was a slow, consuming pain, the purpose of which he could not grasp; that he was born with a wealth of power, yet found no single thing to which he could devote it. Here he was, heir to the estate, and yet—perhaps for that very reason—born in bondage.
Despite his youth, Ormarr was alive to the danger of his changing moods, which, as he often thought, bordered on insanity. Proud as he was of being heir to Borg, he nevertheless felt a smouldering hatred of his heritage, since it fettered him from birth. With all these longings in his soul, he was conscious of being himself part and parcel of Borg; something told him that here, and here alone, was the soil in which his personality and varying moods could grow into one harmonious and united whole. He had only to follow in the steps of his fathers. But this, again, seemed too easy a solution of the riddle of life—he preferred a struggle to the death. It was as if his descent, and his natural prospects, excluded him from all the adventures he longed for; the part for which he seemed cast was beneath the level of his strength and ability.
But he realized that any outward expression of such thoughts would compromise him, and bring disgrace upon his family: he must conceal them, hide them in silence, never breathe a word of it all to any other. Only in his music, where he could speak without betraying himself by words, could he venture to ease his heart of its burden.
He felt like a galley slave, chained to the oar for life, without hope of escape. The idea of rebellion, of emancipation, had never crossed his mind. Had any one suggested such a thing, he would have risen up in arms against it at once, for, in spite of all, he felt himself so at one with his race that to desert it thus would be nothing less than to betray himself.