On the Monday he was at St. James's Hall at seven o'clock, but it took him much longer than usual to climb the gallery stairs. He had to stop to get his breath several times on the way up, and when he reached his seat he could only sink down into it, close his eyes and remain in a state of half stupor till the music began. He had not even the energy to look round for Herbert, who, however, did not come.
The first notes of the Quartett roused him to his general state of keen, nervous, interest; indeed it seemed to him that his musical perceptions were more sensitive than usual, and he felt as if he were some fine instrument that was being played on, that throbbed and vibrated in response to every chord sounded by the players on the platform.
The performance of the Brahms Quintett was a magnificent one, led by that great German clarinet player Mühlfeld, who comes to England too seldom; and at its close the players received an ovation in which the Professor joined with all his old fire and energy: he felt quite strong and himself again.
It was not until he got out of his omnibus that he realised his weakness. It was a bitter night, with a strong north-east wind blowing, bringing with it blinding showers of sleet and hail, though the moon shone brightly between the storms. A furious gust almost blew the frail old man off his feet as he alighted, and the icy air made him gasp painfully for breath, and pierced through his worn clothing to his bones as he crawled slowly to the door of No. 9.
He dragged himself wearily up to his room; his body felt numbed and sluggish, but his brain was still vibrating with the music he had just heard. He threw his hat and stick on the bed and sank down into the little chair beside it: he must rest a little before undressing; no need to light the lamp, the moon would break through directly—she always shone into his room.
Ah, that Brahms Quintett! What a heavenly thing it was. He could hear it still; how haunting the Adagio with its mournful, pleading melody, and then that wild fantasia for the clarinet—why—surely they are playing it in the room beneath. Yes, there can be no mistaking the tone of the clarinet, no one but Mühlfeld can play like that. Louder and louder grows the passionate strain, like some agonised cry, with the dull wailing of the muted strings beneath it. The sound fills the whole house—louder and still louder.
“Yes, sir, the Perfesser is at 'ome, sir, though I don't rightly know if 'e's got up yet,” said a plump, kindly-faced woman in answer to Herbert Maxwell's question the next morning. “My daughter took 'is milk up at nine o'clock and he wasn't movin' then. Will you walk up, sir? Top floor on the right 'and.”
Herbert went gaily upstairs. He felt in exuberant spirits. Things had gone well with him beyond his wildest dreams. His career was pretty well assured. The great singing master had undertaken to make himself responsible for his Academy fees, to find him means of earning money during his years of study and to help him in every possible way. Professor Crowitzski's five pounds had not been needed, and Herbert had it with him to return to the old man.
He knocked softly at the door without receiving any answer, so he knocked again a little louder, and yet again; but all was still.