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.