Then suddenly he realised that he had been playing for some time. The violin was warm under his chin, the bow warm between his fingers. He knew that if he stopped to think about it all, he was lost. It was always fatal for him to think of his music as so many little black signs on paper, and it was nearly as fatal for him to think of it as so many movements of his bow or positions of his fingers. Von Gleichroeder had always had to combat his pupil's tendency to play almost entirely by ear, lost meanwhile in a kind of sentimental dream—in the transports of which he swayed violently from side to side and generally looked ridiculous.
To-night he slapped into the Scriabin with tremendous vigour—the infinite pains he had spent during the last six months showing clearly in the ease with which he surmounted its technical difficulties. But the watchful ear of von Gleichroeder told him that his pupil was playing subconsciously, so to speak—from his heart, rather than his head. If anything—the slipping of a peg or a sudden noise in the hall—were to interrupt him, to wake him up, all would be lost.
But luckily nothing happened. Nigel was roused only by the last crash of his bow on the strings. The Prelude was finished, and at the same time a desperate panic seized him. He forgot to bow, and bolted headlong from the stage.
The audience applauded heartily, and his fellow-students crowded round him with congratulations.
"Well done, old man!—pulled it off splendidly," and his back was vigorously thumped.
"Worked up beautifully over the climax."
"But played G instead of B in the last bar but one," added a precise youth.
"Muddled your runs in that chromatic bit," put in some one else, encouraged.
"Go on and bow—go on and bow," blustered von Gleichroeder, hurrying up.
Nigel bowed perfunctorily and came back. The clapping did not subside.