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.