Guest the One-Eyed

One burning hot afternoon, late in the summer, Ormarr was sitting up on the edge of a high ridge of Borgarfjall, to the west of Borg. A great flock of sheep grazed on the plateau below.

Ormarr, as shepherd, found his task light. It was just after lambing-time, and for the first two or three days the sheep had been difficult to handle. Full of anxiety, and bleating piteously, they rushed about in all directions, vainly seeking their offspring. Now, however, they had more or less accustomed themselves to the new state of things, and kept fairly well together, so that Ormarr was free to devote most of his time to his favourite pursuits: playing the violin, and dreaming.

He made a curious picture, this fourteen-year-old peasant lad, as he sat there, clad in rough homespun, his clothes fitting clumsily, and hiding the lithe beauty of his frame. The clear-cut face, the strong chin resting on the violin, and the lean hand with its supple fingers running over the strings, contrasted strangely with the everyday coat, darned and patched in many places.

Often he fell into a reverie, his dark eyes gazing on the distant mountains, the fingers relaxing, and the slender brown hand with the bow resting on his knee. The face, too thin for a boy of his age, bore a grave and thoughtful expression, with a touch of melancholy. The black masses of curling, unruly hair, and the faint coppery tinge in the skin, suggested Celtic descent.

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.

That same afternoon an unexpected event took place at Borg. The Vicar, Sera Daniel, accompanied by Bjarni Jonsson, came to call.

Ørlygur à Borg was resting on his bed, which in the daytime was covered, like a couch, with a many-coloured rug, when news was brought him of the visit. The girl informed him that she had asked the visitors into the big hall. Ørlygur smiled when he heard their names. He had just returned from a sale of driftwood, held at the instance of one of the farmers whose lands ran down to the shore, and who yearly gathered in large stocks of washed-up timber, which was subsequently sold, either privately or by auction. He was tired, and felt too comfortable where he was to care about moving.

“Let them come in here if they have anything to say,” he told the girl.

The two men exchanged glances when the message was brought them. Each found a certain satisfaction in witnessing the humiliation of the other, which helped him to bear his own. Nevertheless, on entering Ørlygur’s room, both were visibly embarrassed.

Ørlygur himself did nothing to set them at their ease. Without rising, he took their proffered hands, answered their greetings with a murmur of something inaudible, and indicated that they might be seated.

There was but a single chair in the room, placed between the two beds. Sera Daniel would willingly have left it to Bjarni—though he considered it due to himself and his superior social position to take it in order not to be too close to his host. Bjarni, however, had a similar disinclination, and forestalled his companion by taking a seat at once on the edge of the bed, well pleased at having attained his end, while seeming to act from sheer natural modesty.

For a while no one spoke. Ørlygur stretched himself, and smiled faintly, awaiting the explanation of the visit.

Sera Daniel cleared his throat for an introduction he had prepared beforehand. But he got no further than a slight cough. And, looking at Bjarni, he perceived that the latter was in a like predicament, his usually grey face turning a fiery red.

Ørlygur was enjoying the situation, and maintained a ruthless silence.

Sera Daniel soon realized that he could look for no assistance from the trader, who apparently considered that the priest’s closer proximity to the enemy carried with it the obligation to deliver the first attack. At last he stammered out:

“Er—we have come—to tell the truth—to see you. H’m—about a matter that—er—distresses us somewhat. And we thought that—perhaps—it might be not altogether pleasant to yourself—that is to say—of course—I mean, considering....”

Ørlygur slowly rose to a sitting position. Then setting his hands firmly on his knees and leaning forward slightly, he looked straight into the other’s eyes.

“To tell the truth, Sera Daniel, I am not aware of any matter which distresses me in any way at the moment. I fancy your idea of something mutually unpleasant must be due to a misunderstanding. Your troubles are hardly mine, you know; the more so since we have seen very little of each other for quite a long time now.”

“No, no, of course not. But—you know better than any one else that it is you who set the example to all the parish.”

“If that is so, you explain yourself badly. I stay away from church, certainly—for the simple reason that I prefer to avoid meeting a clergyman whom I dislike. My affair with you will keep me away from church until it is settled—possibly as long as you conduct the service there. If the rest of your parishioners elect to do the same, it merely means that your conscience will soon forbid you to remain as spiritual guide to a flock who avoid you. If, on the other hand, your conscience should prove more accommodating in this respect, I have no doubt that the authorities will discover in a short time what you are unable to see for yourself. You take my meaning, Sera Daniel?”

“I am not sure that I do. I cannot see why a thoughtless action on my part last spring—which I deeply regret—should embitter you to such an extent that you stake the spiritual welfare of the congregation in revenge.”

“Oh, that’s rather too much. You say you regret your thoughtlessness last spring. I translate that as meaning simply that you regret having managed so badly; that you realize the failure of your clumsy conspiracy against me, with our friend the trader there—who seems worn out by the heavy business of the summer season, since he apparently can’t open his mouth. And then you haven’t even the decency to keep this sordid affair to itself, but must mix it up with the spiritual welfare of your congregation. Well, it simply shows that you are more impudent even than I had thought.”

“If it were not that my position as incumbent here forces me to set aside my personal interests—for the sake of the parish, you understand—and to avert if possible the disastrous consequences—”

“Disastrous? My dear Sera Daniel, you are a marvel. Unless you take ‘the parish’ as meaning yourself and some few others, I cannot see your argument at all. I do not regret, and see no reason to regret, what has taken place, and I am afraid ‘the parish’ takes the same view. I am not one of those men who act hastily and afterwards regret their folly. Candidly, Sera Daniel, your ideas are too vague and too complicated for me to care to discuss them further. I have had quite enough of empty talk; let us come to facts. And here I imagine that Bjarni Jonsson will be better able to speak. How very fortunate that he happened to come at the same time.”

Then, turning to Bjarni, Ørlygur went on:

“As far as I remember, we arranged last time I saw you, that you could come out here and buy my wool when you were prepared to pay a decent price.”

“Certainly—yes, of course. That is, I am ready ... to discuss....”

“Very well, then. I hope the discussion will be brief. Let me make it clear at the start that my terms are fixed, and not intended as a basis for negotiation. You can, of course, refuse them if you prefer, but I must insist on the matter being settled quickly. I need not tell you, I suppose, that I bought up all the wool I could last spring, when I realized that prices would be exceptionally high—your books have no doubt made that evident to yourself already. I am willing to let you have all my wool at a reasonable price, as I know that many of the peasants hereabout are in your debt, and that you are anxious for a settlement. I myself am not in your debt. I do not owe you money, and certainly very little consideration. My peasants, on the other hand—you must excuse my calling them ‘my peasants,’ we are linked, you know, by friendship and common interests—my peasants owe you money, and I am willing to offer my wool in clearance of their debts, or as much of their debts as it will cover. The debt will thus be transferred to a creditor who can perhaps afford to give them longer credit. You, I take it, are chiefly anxious to make money.”

Bjarni sat with downcast eyes. The word of “the King” cut him like a knife. He realized well enough that his business at Hofsfjordur would be entirely ruined. Up till now he had cherished a faint hope that Ørlygur would spare him, if only he humbled himself sufficiently. At length he realized, that though Ørlygur had mercifully saved him from absolute ruin, and reduced his loss by paying the farmers’ debts, he would never have another customer unless he could succeed in winning him over again. And the present reception did not seem to offer any great hope of re-establishing that connection.

Yet he still clung to the hope that by absolute humility he might work on Ørlygur to extend his leniency still further. Therefore, without a murmur, he agreed to Ørlygur’s terms. He could not reconcile himself to the idea of leaving the place and throwing up the excellent position he had toiled and planned so many years to gain. He could not bear to think that all was absolutely lost through his own stupidity.

His blood boiled at the thought, but he dared not show it; his fate depended now on Ørlygur’s next move. And meanwhile, his little cunning soul was on the alert for any opportunity of showing “the King” what a loyal subject he could be, and would, if only he might be forgiven this once.

Nevertheless, his heart was filled with a vindictive hatred—first and foremost hatred of Ørlygur, then of Sera Daniel and the rest of the community. Fate had been cruel to him, and was mocking him into the bargain—the one consolation about the whole affair was that things seemed as bad at least, if not worse, for Sera Daniel.

Had Bjarni, the trader, but known that Ørlygur à Borg was at that very moment filled with loathing for the servility he displayed, he would have given vent to a burst of rage on the spot—and it might have saved him, as nothing else could.

Ørlygur certainly felt sorry for the fellow; he knew how much Bjarni had at stake, and how harmless and altogether inferior he really was. He decided, therefore, to spare him, if he could, by unreasonable demands, lead him to give up his servile attitude and lose his temper in honest fashion.

“Well, then, my horses and men are at your disposal for carrying the wool, if you wish to buy it—the price of transport, of course, being in addition. I can let you have fifty horses for the work, so it will not take long. The price—well, it will simplify matters to fix one price for all wool of the same colour. That is to say: one Krone for all white, and half a Krone for the rest.”

Bjarni turned pale; for the moment he found it difficult to control his features. He looked at Ørlygur with the eyes of a wounded dog. But Ørlygur seemed not to notice his imploring gaze, and went on carelessly:

“Well, what do you say? Is that fair?”

“Yes,” stammered Bjarni in reply. Then, quickly, and with an assumption of easiness, he added:

“Well, then, that is settled. Tomorrow?” He nodded as he said the last word; he felt that the moment had come to change the tone of the conversation. This cheerful acceptance on his part of an absurd price was a friendly hand, which he expected Ørlygur would grasp at once.

The effect, however, was contrary to what he had looked for. Ørlygur seemed to take it as a personal affront; he rose quickly, and said in an angry voice:

“Very well, then!”

The two visitors also rose, and without a word all three walked from the room.

Sera Daniel also was highly dissatisfied with the result of his visit. Both he and Bjarni were in a state of painful suspense with regard to the future; they could not persuade themselves that this was Ørlygur’s last word in the matter. It was too dismal a failure for them to accept it as final. Sera Daniel had hoped that the threatening cloud of Ørlygur’s displeasure, which had darkened his work and prospects all through the summer, would be dispelled. He fretted inwardly over every word he had said, and the manner in which he had spoken. Bjarni, too, had cherished similar hopes; an amicable settlement meant even more to him than to the priest.

As if by common instinct, both men hesitated to leave; their manner showed plainly that there was more in their minds. But Ørlygur pretended not to understand their anxiety, and left it to them to make any further move.

Meantime, they had reached the stables. And here they stopped. Ørlygur seemed only waiting for them to take their leave; but the visitors still hoped for some opening—something to happen, they did not quite know what.

Then suddenly the quivering notes of a violin were heard. Here was a welcome excuse for delaying their departure. Ørlygur was listening with delight, as so often before, to his son’s playing; for a while all three stood motionless.

Ørlygur smiled; a smile that covered, perhaps, both his admiration and his aversion—the two conflicting feelings which Ormarr’s playing always seemed to awaken at the same time.

Then Sera Daniel spoke—simply and naturally:

“How beautiful!” But at the same moment he reflected that he ought to know Ørlygur’s character better than to say things like that. And by way of altering the impression of his words, he added, in an entirely different tone:

“There is the making of a fortune in that music.”

Ørlygur à Borg did not grasp his meaning. And though he knew that Sera Daniel would never dare to make fun of him, “the King,” to his face, he was on his guard. He looked at the speaker with a glance of cold inquiry.

Sera Daniel went on:

“In foreign countries there are artists who make fortunes by playing the violin. I have often wished that I were an artist like that ... it must be wonderful to travel from one great city to another and be rich. I have heard such men in Copenhagen, when I was studying there.”

When Ørlygur à Borg realized that the priest’s words pointed, not to impossible realms of fancy, but to a world of beautiful reality, the look in his eyes changed. So strange was his glance, so complete the alteration, that Sera Daniel flushed with pleasure at the effect of his words.

For a while Ørlygur stared straight before him, as if in thought. Great things were passing in his mind. Where others would deliberate at length, Ørlygur à Borg was capable of taking in a situation in a moment. He was thinking of Ormarr’s and his brother’s future, and with his wonted respect for sudden impulses, which he was almost inclined to attribute to divine influence, he made up his mind quickly.

He turned to the priest.

“While I think of it, Sera Daniel, there is a matter I have been wanting to talk over with you for some time. Are you going back home by the shorter road? Then I will go with you part of the way.”

The trader took the words as a hint to himself to disappear. Bidding good-bye to Ørlygur and the priest, he rode off with a troubled mind. This was worse than all; an understanding between Ørlygur and Sera Daniel left him utterly hopeless.

Sera Daniel, on the other hand, was delighted at the honour conferred on him by the King of Borg. Leading his horse, he walked down the road with Ørlygur, waiting for what was to come.

Ørlygur had made no mistake in calculating that the fright he had given the priest would suffice to keep him from any further attempts at revolt. After that lesson in the unwritten law of the parish, Sera Daniel would be ready to serve him to the utmost, if need should arise. And as things were turning out now, the priest might well be useful to him, in regard to the future of his sons. Ørlygur determined to make peace.

They walked on for a while in silence. Then Ørlygur spoke:

“Sera Daniel—would you undertake to teach Ormarr Danish? He knows a little, and it would be as well for him to improve on it before he goes away. He will be leaving for Copenhagen this autumn.”

Sera Daniel was almost moved.

“A pleasure indeed—a very great pleasure. I am glad to hear he is going. There is a great future in store for him—of that I feel sure. I have rarely heard any one play so well; he seems far in advance of his age. You should send him to the Conservatoire at Copenhagen—they will make a great artist of him there.”

“Yes—or to some eminent teacher.”

“At first—yes, of course.”

“From first to last,” Ørlygur corrected, with a smile. “He must have the very best teacher throughout. I am going to give him every possible chance. And with regard to his stay in Copenhagen, and matters generally, perhaps you could give him some hints....”

They discussed the matter at length. And when Sera Daniel rode home, his fickle heart swelled with love and admiration for Ørlygur the Rich, who had become his gracious patron after the long, dreary months of enmity.

That evening when Ormarr had driven the sheep into the fold, he saw his father coming slowly towards him, and realized that Ørlygur wished to speak to him.

The two sat down on the grassy wall of the paddock.

“Bjarni Jonsson has been up to buy the wool.”

Ørlygur spoke without any sign of triumph in his voice, and Ormarr evinced no excitement at the information. To both it seemed only natural and inevitable that the matter should have ended thus.

“Sera Daniel came with him.”

After this there was a pause. Then Ørlygur looked his son in the eyes. “Ormarr,” he went on, “I have something important to say to you. You are growing up now, and we must think of your future. Not yours alone, but that of your brother and the estate as well. In short, it concerns Borg. Have you any wish to take over the management of the place?”

“I don’t know....” Ormarr gazed thoughtfully before him.

“Well, I will tell you what I have been thinking of today. Sera Daniel tells me that there are men in foreign countries whose whole work in life consists in playing the violin. You understand, of course, that first of all they must learn to master it thoroughly. They are taught at schools, or by private teachers. Would you care to do the same—to learn to play properly—rules and notes and everything?”

“That means—going abroad?”

Ormarr’s voice trembled, and he turned a little pale. The golden bird of fortune and adventure flashed into the vision of his mind.

“Yes. I spoke to Sera Daniel about teaching you English as well as Danish. While you are in Copenhagen, you might find time to study other languages, without neglecting your music. Languages are always useful: if you become a great artist, you may have to travel in many countries, play your violin everywhere. Anyhow, you shall have the chance. Perhaps your liking for it may not last, or you may find you have not talent enough. If so, you can come back to Iceland again—to Borg if you care to. What do you think—would you like to try?”

“Yes, father—if you will let me. It would be wonderful.”

“I pray God I may be allowed to live a few years more. If you come back here, you will still have your birthright to the estate. But if you prefer to give up your claim, I will see that your brother is brought up to take over the place himself. The next few years will show what is best.”

Ormarr could not sleep that night. He lay weaving dreams about his future.

To him, it all appeared one bright, sunny vision. He pictured life as one grand triumphal procession. He knew that the country he was going to abounded in forests of bright-hued beech and dark pine woods; with lovely orchards, where ripe fruit hung on the trees ready for one to pick and eat. He had read of Danish gardens, where roses and lilac filled the air with their scent.

He counted the days now till he should be able to look with his own eyes on palaces he had known hitherto only from pictures in books—real palaces of kings! They would be no longer castles in the air to him, but real; grand piles of solid stone and mortar. He could walk through their halls, breathe the air of bygone centuries that hung there still; could touch with his hands the very walls that had stood there for hundreds of years.

He painted for himself a future like that of one of the old Icelandic bards. He would play to kings and nobles. There was a lust of travel in his blood, of wandering through life by the royal road of glory and fame. It was almost painful to remember that he had ever thought of living all his days at Borg, as his ancestors had done.

The great world called to him, and every fibre in him answered to the call. He knew that there, where he was going, were wonderful machines contrived to do the work of men. He had never been able to think of such machines as really inanimate things; he longed to see with his own eyes the arms, hands, and fingers they must surely possess. Yet, at the same time, the thought of it made his flesh creep.

Think—to fill a room with light by the mere turning of a switch! And to talk with people through a wire—which he imagined as hollow. And there were places where conjurers worked miracles, and acrobats performed impossible feats; clowns jested and played tricks.... And gardens filled with cages of strange beasts from countries even farther off....

All these and many other things which he had read of, and grown to consider as accessible only to a favoured few, were now to be part of his own surroundings in his daily life. He would live in a city with streets like deep chasms between unscalable cliffs—cave-hollowed cliffs peopled with human beings, instead of giants and goblins. He would go to theatres, where actors seemed to kill one another, and thunder, lightning, and snow could be brought into play within four walls. He would travel endless miles in machine-driven cars that raced along over rails of steel....

Ormarr lay in his dark room, his eyes wide open, letting his fancy paint all manner of visions in the richest colours. His mind was overwhelmed by a turmoil of new sensations.

He tried to recall, one after another, all the pictures he had seen of things in foreign lands; even to portraits of celebrities, of jockeys galloping over turf, and sordid lithographs with impossible figures in ridiculous postures, such as he had seen stuck up in the local stores.

A fever of anticipation burned in his veins. And when at last, towards morning, he dropped off into a broken sleep, he was still surrounded by a crowd of the impressions he had conjured up while awake. They vexed him now; he found himself being thrown from cars that raced away from him at full speed, losing his way in gloomy streets and labyrinthine passages, being snatched up by the steel arms of strange machines and crushed to pieces; standing with one end of a wire between his teeth and vainly trying to speak to a famous man at the other end; he switched on a light and set the house on fire, and was only saved from being burned to death by waking to find the sun shining full in his face.

When a youth is thrown from the realm of fancy and solitude into a world of realities, one of two things takes place: either a process of reaction sets in, and he fortifies his soul in some faith or tradition; or he clutches greedily at life, becomes intoxicated by it, and loses his foothold. Whatever happens to him depends less upon strength of character than upon chance.

In Ormarr’s case, reality fell short of his expectation in some respects, and in others exceeded it. He felt, also, as if he were born anew, entering upon an existence based on new principles.

With all that he had looked forward to most keenly he was frankly disappointed. On the other hand, he found an order of things, of people and their actions, so alien to his own mind and development that he felt himself an outsider, uncultured and inferior. It seemed to him then, that the only possible way to make up for lost time was to fling himself headlong into this human maelstrom and swim for dear life. And before he was himself aware of it, he was floating with the tide. He soon proved to have all the requisite qualifications for drifting so on the waters of life; he had means enough, and withal a pleasant manner, with a certain air of distinction, gay and yet self-possessed....

It did not occur to him to consider whither he was drifting; there was no time to think. That he saw no land ahead or to either side did not trouble him in the least. Life was pleasant enough—and since its essential aim seemed to be that of making it pleasant, why trouble one’s head about anything?

Fortunately, there was always one plank at hand to which he could turn for safety in case of need—unless he wilfully thrust it from him. And as this resource in itself possessed an extreme fascination for him—the chance of becoming a great artist, a world-famed master—Ormarr never quite lost touch of it, though he found it at times somewhat burdensome, a check upon his natural movements towards pleasure and enjoyment.

His consistency in this respect was largely due to the personality of his teacher, Abel Grahl, who had taken a kind and fatherly interest in the boy from their first meeting. On the day after his arrival at Copenhagen, Ormarr set out from his hotel at a very early hour, and went in search of Grahl. Sera Daniel had instructed him to seek out this man and not rest until he had persuaded him to become his teacher.

“Your career may depend upon it,” were the priest’s parting words.

Abel Grahl was an elderly man, and life had used him hardly. At twenty, he had stood on the threshold of fame: his first appearance as a violinist, in London, had created an unusual stir. Offers of engagements came to him in plenty, but the day before he was to start on a tour, embracing the principal cities of the world, he had managed to hurt his finger slightly while out boating with some friends. Blood-poisoning set in, and the finger had to be amputated. Then for three years he was lost to the world; his friends and relations believed him dead. Suddenly he reappeared in his native town of Copenhagen, a silent, retiring man; no one ever learned where or how he had spent the intervening years. Even his intimates refrained from asking, partly out of regard for his grief, partly for fear of reopening some trouble not yet healed. He made his living as a teacher of music especially with the violin; but his pupils were few, since he mercilessly rejected all save those who showed unusual promise.

He lived a solitary life, in a suite of rooms badly in need of repair. The landlord had given him permission to remove the inner partitions, and turn the whole place into one big studio; the kitchen he used as a bedroom.

Grahl was not in the best of tempers on being awakened at six in the morning by a continued and vigorous ringing at the bell. But at the sight of his visitor, a lad in ill-fitting homespun clothes, with a calfskin bag tucked under his arm (Grahl at once divined that it contained a violin), he found some difficulty in keeping his countenance. He looked at the boy with a faint, good-humoured smile.

Ormarr endeavoured to explain, in very imperfect Danish, the object of his visit.

The old man burst out laughing. Then, noticing the boy’s confusion, he asked him in, and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Do you mean to say you have come all the way from Iceland to learn the violin? What did you say your name was?”

“Ormarr, son of Ørlygur à Borg.”

“I see, Ormarr à Borg, then.”

“Yes, Ormarr Ørlygsson.”

“Ormarr Ørlygsson. And how did you manage to find me?”

“It was quite easy. I had the address written on a paper, and asked the way.”

“Yes, yes—but I mean, who told you to come to me?”

“Sera Daniel—the priest. I was to come to you and get you to teach me—you and no other. He said my career might depend upon it. And he said if you refused, if you sent me away once or twice or more, I was to try again.”

“H’m. Seems clear enough. And you look as if you were the sort to do it. Well, let me hear what you can do with that instrument of yours.”

Ormarr took out his violin. He was visibly nervous, and it took him some time to tune up.

Abel Grahl could not help remarking to himself that the boy seemed awkward—and perhaps he did not even know his notes. Anyhow, he refrained for the moment from further questioning.

At last Ormarr ran his bow across the strings, put down his bow and violin, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.

Grahl watched him, making no sign. He was rather surprised to find himself really interested, and waited impatiently for the boy to begin.

As Ormarr took up his instrument again, the old man asked:

“How old did you say you were?”

Ormarr hesitated. “Fifteen,” he said at length.

Grahl shook his head in despair. Then he checked himself.

“Well, well, we shall see. Go on now, if you are ready.”

Ormarr began to play, without watching the other’s face. He did not see how the man’s expression changed from mere resignation to intense feeling, that drove all the blood from his face. Now and again he frowned, and started slightly, but repressed himself, and left Ormarr to finish at his will.

Ormarr played for ten minutes. At the last stroke of the bow, Grahl leapt to his feet.

“Who wrote that?”

“It’s—it’s only about a sunset.”

“Yes, yes, but where did you get hold of it—the tune?”

“I made it up myself.”

Grahl stared at him, but the boy never flinched. No, those eyes could not lie!

“What else can you play?”

“There’s all the songs they used to sing at home. And the hymns from church.”

“Can you play at sight?”

Ormarr shook his head doubtfully.

“I mean, do you know the written notes?”

“No; I was never taught.” Ormarr felt crushed at the confession.

For fully a quarter of an hour he was kept in suspense; it was like waiting for the summons to execution.

Abel Grahl walked up and down. Now and again he stopped full in front of the boy, scrutinizing him from head to foot. Then he shook his head as if in dismissal, turned away abruptly, and stood for a while at the window, whistling softly to himself; came back and stared at Ormarr once more, looking hard into the dark, glowing eyes that seemed to have grown dim. Who could say how much it might mean to this lad if he sent him away? He felt, too, that those eyes could express something more than despair.

He felt himself drawn toward this child of nature who had been flung at him, at it were, like a ball, from hundreds of miles away—if he did not take it but threw it back, would it land safely, or would it be lost in the sea?

At last he spoke, though he had not yet made up his mind.

“It is a difficult thing to study—and it means years of work. Also, it will cost a great deal of money. Where are you to get that from?”

“From my father.”

“And what is your father?”

“A farmer.”

“Is he rich?”

“Yes.”

“What is he worth, about?”

“He owns all Borg, and....”

“I mean, how many thousand...?”

“Three thousand.”

“Three thousand—is that all?”

“Yes. No one in Iceland has more than three thousand sheep. He has more than any one else there.”

“Sheep—I see. A biggish place, then. Many horses?”

“I don’t know how many exactly. There are many—stodhross.”

“Stodhross—what’s that?”

“Horses that live out on the hills. But we’ve a hundred and twenty at home, on the place.”

“The devil you have. And how many cows?”

“About a hundred most times.”

“Do you know any one here in Copenhagen?”

“No. But the priest, he gave me a letter to a man I was to ask to keep my money for me, if you did not care to be troubled with it.”

“Have you much with you now?”

“I have a thousand Kroner in my pocket-book, and a few small notes in my purse.”

“H’m. I suppose you can look after your money all right yourself?”

“Oh yes, I have it....” He thrust a hand into his pocket.

“No—I must have left it under my pillow.”

“Under your pillow—where?”

“At the place where I slept.”

“What on earth—Here, we must go along at once. Put on your coat—no, never mind the violin. Where are you staying? What street?”

“I don’t know what street it is.”

“But good heavens, child—the name of the hotel, then?”

“Hotel H——, it is called. Sera Daniel told me to go there the first night.”

They reached the street, and Grahl hurried on ahead to where some cabs were standing. Hailing one, he gave the address, hurried the boy in, and followed himself.

In the vestibule of the hotel they were met by the porter, who advanced with a discreet smile, and handed a pocket-book to Ormarr.

“You don’t seem to care much for your money, sir. The maid found this little sum under your pillow.”

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.

There was a knock at the door. Languidly Ormarr rose to open. He recognized the voice of his friend, Aage Blad.

Save for Grahl, Ormarr’s only intimate friend was the young poet, Aage Blad; the two were constant companions. Blad’s earnest love of life had endeared him to Ormarr, and though the latter, true to his adopted rôle of insincerity, often made fun of his friend’s seriousness, the poet had soon realized that it was not meant, and as a rule paid no heed to it. But if ever he found that he had gone too far, Ormarr always relapsed into silence, and his friend understood that this was his way of asking forgiveness.

Blad glanced at Ormarr’s face as he entered, and gathered at once that his friend was not in the best of spirits. He shook hands in silence.

Ormarr flung himself down on the divan once more, leaving his visitor to make himself at home. Blad moved up a chair, and the two friends smoked in silence for a while, watching each other.

“Nervous?” queried Blad at last.

“Wish I were!”

“Curious thing to wish. Thank your stars you’re as cool about it as you are. Anything wrong?”

“Oh, everything.”

“Oh, that’s no trifle, anyway.”

Silence.

“I tell you what, Ormarr, I shan’t feel comfortable myself until this concert’s over. Honestly, I’m getting quite feverish about it. I’ve never been so excited about one of my own things coming out—not even my first book.”

“No need for you to get excited that I can see.”

“No need at all—you’re right, of course. It’s bound to go off all right.”

“On the contrary—there’s everything to be anxious about. Everything—everything. Oh, well, hang it all—have another drink.”

Ormarr threw himself back and closed his eyes.

Aage Blad sat watching him; there was a dull, resigned expression about the corners of the mouth; the forehead was already deeply lined. There was strength as well as weakness in the face, he thought. “A strange fellow,” he told himself.

They smoked in silence for a while. Then, without opening his eyes, Ormarr said:

“It is a long time since I saw my home. Funny thing, not feeling home-sick all these years. Can’t understand it just now. I never longed for home till this winter. As soon as the summer comes I must go back. Like to come too?”

“H’m—I don’t know. Iceland—the very name of it makes me shiver. Anyhow, you’ll have to redeem that fur coat you gave me—extravagant person that you are.”

“But it’s not so cold at home. Not in the summer, at any rate. The coldest thing about Iceland is its name. And the nights there—so wonderfully calm and light they are in spring.... It’s a long time to wait till the spring. I wish I were back home again now. I’ve never seen a sky so blue and deep as there. Before I came to Denmark I had an idea that in a flat country one would see more of the sky than at home, with all the mountains and their shadows. But then the mountains are so far away. And once you get there ... Aage, I would give all the forests in the world, all the orchards and cornfields and flower gardens, for a single mountain. But a real one, mind you, with huge rocky ridges, and green plateaus, and snow at the top. Good heavens, man, to think that I have one all to myself—yes, I own a mountain. I never thought of it before. Can you understand how I ever could stay away from it all so long? But I’m going back now—going home.”

“There’s the concert first, don’t forget—tomorrow. And you’re going to be famous.”

“Tomorrow ... yes....”

Ormarr had sat up, resting on his elbow, while he spoke of his home. Now, he threw himself back once more, as if exhausted, and lay with closed eyes as before. For a few moments neither spoke.

“Aage,” said Ormarr at last, “I feel tired—deadly tired. I’ve been idling here all day. Tomorrow? I feel as if tomorrow were already a thing of the past.”

He got up, filled his glass and that of his friend.

“Drink! Aage, I’ve something to tell you. Just let me go on talking, and don’t bother about it, I only want to get it out. What do you think I’ve been seeing all the time, lying here with my eyes shut? This is no life for me. I have been counting. It is my tenth winter here now. Ten years, man—think! And today it seemed as if I had come yesterday. I have been asleep—fast asleep. But it can’t go on. There’s something hurting me, a sort of longing——Oh, I know it sounds all nonsense, but you needn’t worry about that.... No, this won’t do. I don’t go on drinking and enjoying life in this wasteful, silly fashion—and forgetting. I wasn’t made to live like that. I was made to think, and to work. And now here have I been living for ten years—yes, and working hard, I know—but all for nothing. It means nothing at all, really. Famous? If I found myself famous after tomorrow, I should be no better off than I am now. I’ve no ambition of that sort any longer—not a scrap. I never realized it before—it’s only just lately I’ve seen it. And think of dear old Abel Grahl! Do you know, honestly, I believe he’s jealous—the dear old boy! He’s fond of me, I know; and now that I’m on the eve of my ‘conquest,’ as he always says, he thinks of the time when he made his conquest—and fate overtook him after. I’m sadly afraid that old trouble’s cropped up again now with him. And after all, what is there to envy, anyway? What sort of a future if I do succeed? The life of a flunkey—a menial in gold lace, playing for money—and to whom? I’ve been studying my fellow-creatures this winter—musical people—my audience-to-be. Copenhagen’s not the world I know; but human beings are much the same everywhere, I take it, though their looks and manners may differ somewhat in detail. Grahl has been taking me about. He hates ‘society,’ I know, but he took it all up again for my sake—that’s the sort of man he is. It all helps, he says. Oh, and you should have heard their talk, their hard-and-fast opinions, and the views of the professional critics. Sometimes I feel I simply can’t go on living. Simply can’t stand it. What wretched caricatures we all are—myself included. No I’ve finished with this sort of life. There’s not a thing in the world I care for now, except to go back home. If only I could be sure that was a genuine feeling, and not another delusion. Don’t look down on me, old man—Heaven knows, I’ve no great thoughts about myself just now. You know me well enough to see that I’m not drunk. But I feel—oh, just worthless. All these years—and living like this—it’s too contemptible. I feel as if I hadn’t an atom of will-power left. Just sick and tired of everything ... and longing, aching for something.... Good of you to listen so patiently. Have a drink.”

Blad was silent for some time, and when at last he spoke it was in a low voice.

“There’s something I should like to say to you,” he said quietly. “And I’m half afraid to begin. I’ve been thinking a lot, and some of it I mustn’t say at all. But I will say this: When we have been together anywhere—out in the country, or on the sea, or in the town—anywhere, I always had a feeling that we lived as it were on different levels, you and I. To me, you were always the born leader; I felt if you took it into your head to order me about, I should have to obey. Things seemed somehow to belong to you. Then at other times, I could feel as if you were a distinguished visitor—one can’t help these stray thoughts, you know—as if Nature herself put on her best and did all she could to please you—while I was just an ordinary person, not worth making a fuss about. I belonged to her, as one of her children, and could stray about unnoticed among the trees like any other creature in the forest; it never came into my head to look on her in that gay lordly way of yours. And sometimes it seemed you were the better off; sometimes that it was better to be as I was. It’s all only fancies, of course, but still it does prove one thing: that we are utterly different. I am quite content to live an ordinary uneventful life; as long as I can ramble about in Nature’s garden and cultivate the modest growths of my art, it is enough for me. I don’t care for anything that calls for greater energy than I generally give, whether it be the way of pleasure, or pain, or work. I’ve no ambition worth mentioning. I can sit in my garden, and enjoy the scent of the flowers, or go out in a boat, and watch the sunlight on the water; walk in the woods in spring and see the delicate green of the beech leaves against the sky—I am happy enough with such things. There are heaps of little trifling things of that sort that please me every day. But it’s all different with you. It may sound theatrical, perhaps, but it’s as if you had mountains—glaciers and volcanoes—in your soul. And I shouldn’t care to change with you—it’s all too big for me. But then again, if you were like me, I shouldn’t care about you. You must live and act in a different way; I see that. You could stand suffering better than I; I’m sure of that. But I’m not quite sure that you have the power of being really happy. Anyhow—well, you know I’m your friend, and always will be.”

“I know that, Blad.”

Ormarr got up, switched on the light, looked through a bundle of newspapers and found the one he was looking for. Nervously he turned the pages till he came to the shipping intelligence.

“There is a boat leaving the day after tomorrow.”

He dropped the paper, walked up and down the room several times, shaking his head defiantly, as if at his own thoughts, then threw himself down in a chair. A moment later he glanced at his watch, and rose reluctantly.

“It’s time I went round now—to Grahl. The final rehearsal....”

In the big room where, ten years before, a curious figure of a boy in ill-fitting clothes had called on him for the first time, Abel Grahl sat at the piano accompanying the later stage of that same youth—now a slender, pale-faced young man. They were playing a nocturne—the only one of Ormarr’s own compositions on the morrow’s program. The theme was that same one of the sunset with which Ormarr had introduced himself to his master, only the technique was different.

Ormarr looked out through the window as he played, seeing nothing in particular. As long as he held his violin, his soul lived only in the magic world of melody that flowed from the strings.

Grahl’s accompaniment was strangely absent and mechanical. His figure was bowed at the shoulders, and the black coat he wore accentuated his thinness. He had aged much of late, and looked haggard and worn. Now and again he turned his head towards his pupil with a searching glance.

When they had been through the whole of the programme, Grahl remained seated at the instrument, striking one chord repeatedly, his eyes fixed on nothing. The corners of his mouth dropped in a bitter smile. Then, turning to Ormarr, he said in a queer, strained voice:

“Play that Andante once more, will you? Not that you need it—it couldn’t be better. Just play it for me.”

And Ormarr played.

When he had finished, Grahl spoke, without looking up, as to himself:

“That was one of the things I played at my first concert. I did not play it as well as you—no, not half so well. I doubt if Beethoven himself ever played it better!”

For a while he sat with bowed head. Then raising himself suddenly, he ran his fingers over the keyboard, and the gay tones of the “Valse d’Espagne” danced like demons out upon the silence that had followed Beethoven’s Andante.

Ormarr, who had been standing deep in thought, looked round with a start; Grahl rose from the music-stool with a harsh laugh.

“A fancy of mine,” he said shortly, “to let Waldteufel loose on the heels of Beethoven.”

He went across to the table, lit a cigar, and slipped into an easy-chair.

Ormarr followed his movements intently. There was a strange expression in his eyes, and the lines on his forehead and face seemed deeper than usual.

Grahl paid no heed to him; he was smoking, and evidently occupied with his own reflections. When Ormarr moved, he looked up, and pointed to a chair.

“Sit down, Ormarr; not time to go home yet. Take a cigar.”

“Thanks.”

Ormarr took a cigar and lit it, covertly watching the expression of the old man’s face.

“Sit there, Ormarr, where I can see you; that’s it. I was thinking, there’s not much left of the peasant lad who came up here that morning ten years ago. The eyes are the same, yes; and a look about the face—I’ve noticed it the last few days.... Anyhow, it was as well I didn’t send you away that day after all.”

Ormarr felt his cheeks flush, and bent forward in his chair.

“My dear Grahl, I feel myself a man now in most things, but there’s one thing that has stuck to me since I was a child. I never could thank any one in words. And I don’t know how to thank you in any other way.... I’m sure no father ever did more for his son than you have done for me. I hardly know how any one could do more for a fellow-creature than you have.”

“Oh.... And what is this, if you please, if not thanking me in words?”

“You know yourself how much I owe you—you know I don’t exaggerate things as a rule....”

“There, Ormarr, that’s enough. You must have seen what it meant to me all along—the joy and delight of teaching you. No more pupils now for Abel Grahl. You are my last—and my greatest. If I could find one greater still...? I don’t think I shall live to be roused from my bed a second time at six in the morning by a lad with his fiddle in a calfskin bag and the promise of fame in his eyes.”

Ormarr laughed at the thought. A moment later he was serious once more. And Grahl went on:

“You’ll go travelling about the world, giving concerts here, there, and everywhere. I wish I were strong enough to go with you.”

Ormarr laughed again, but without heartiness.

“Grahl, my dear master, why not? Come with me! Nowadays, with trains de luxe and floating palaces, it will be pleasant as could be. And at least I should have some one to play for.”

“I ... to travel ... after all? It’s late in the day ... and not exactly the way I had once thought....”

Ormarr sprang to his feet, but sat down again.

“Grahl, you are my friend—the best I have, I think. I must tell you something now—something that has happened to me. Listen: I do not care about the concert tomorrow—it means nothing. Fame is nothing to me now. To tell the truth, I shudder at the thought of going about playing for people I do not know, and should not care to know. Strangers—foreigners! It makes me a piece of common property; one of the artistic wonders of the world. And then to see my name, my portrait, on huge posters everywhere ... read interviews with myself, criticisms of my art—Grahl, the thought of it sickens me. I won’t—I can’t—oh, if only I could get out of it now, before....”

“Why, boy ... Ormarr, my dear lad, what is this? what has come over you? Surely you do not—you could not think of throwing everything away now—burning your ships? Ten years of hard work—yours and mine.... If there were any risk, I could understand perhaps your being afraid ... but as it is ... you have only to show yourself—one first appearance, and the thing is done. No, Ormarr, you could not draw back now. It would be madness—nothing else.”

“That may be. But none the less, that is how I feel. I have lost all desire to show myself, to appear in public. I do not care for any ‘conquest.’ I could do it, I know. But that means that in reality I have already conquered. It is satisfaction enough to me; I need not show myself on a platform to utter strangers who have paid so much for the right to hear me play this or that. Every item on the programme as a right—and extras in return for their applause. No—if you cared, I should not mind playing to you every day, for hours together—to you alone. Or to any others that I cared about. Come back with me to Iceland. I will look after you, be a son to you, take care of you, in every way. But spare me this; release me from the burden of that concert and all that should come after it.”

“Ormarr—you must be out of your senses.”

“Whether or no, I am what I am. And I can’t be otherwise. I am furious with myself too; blind fool that I have been—oh, you don’t know what I feel at this moment.”

Ormarr noticed that Grahl was feeling for his watch.

“Don’t,” he put in hastily. “I don’t want to see any one tonight. I can’t stand it. I don’t know what may happen....”

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.

Two men there were, however, among those in the hall, who suspected something of the strain it cost him to keep his rebellious temperament in check: they knew that his apparent calm was but a mask. The two were Blad and Abel Grahl, sitting together in the front row.

The serene progress of the Andante was undisturbed by any sound from those in front. Ormarr felt as if his listeners were turned to stone, and his playing was caressing them like a gentle breeze.

Then suddenly there came over him an irresistible desire to jerk them back to life—to startle them, set them fluttering and cackling like a pack of frightened fowls. To tear at their sense, to render their innermost souls, to fling at them, like a fiery volcanic eruption, something unexpected and terrible—something unheard of.

In a fraction of a second it had come. A bursting of all bonds that chained his ungovernable mind: reason, duty, ambition, the fear of consequences. It was as if in a moment he flung from him the prejudices and traditions in which men are wont to dress, and stood there before them in primeval nakedness.

He saw Grahl trying to rise: trying to prevent something he knew was coming....

And half unconsciously, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world, he plunged blasphemously from Beethoven’s Andante into Waldteufel’s “Valse d’Espagne.”

Ormarr was cool and calm as ever, but pale as a ghost. The music raced away madly into the waltz, laughing and crying in complete abandon.

A feeling of something uncanny seized the audience for a second; as if icy waters had overwhelmed them in flood, depriving them of movement, suffocating all cries for help.

Grahl rose to his feet, and opened his mouth as if to cry aloud. Then he fell back in his chair, without a sound.

Suddenly Ormarr stopped playing; his arms fell to his sides, and he stood on the platform laughing—a tremulous, uneasy laugh. Then he turned and fled.

A storm of shouts and noise rose up from the audience. The silence of enraptured listeners had given place to the confusion of a disturbed ant-hill. Some questioned, others raged, a few broke down entirely.

“Scandalous!” “Mad!” sounded through the din. Several minutes passed before any thought of leaving. Then suddenly the word “dead” began to circulate. And gradually the crowd grew quiet, and dispersed, moved to forgiveness by the thought that the madman had ceased to live. Only a few were aware that it was not the player who was dead.

Ormarr reached home and let himself in—not until then did he notice that he had walked all the way without hat or overcoat, still carrying his violin.

After all, what did it matter? His mind was in a state of utter indifference to everything; completely numbed.

His shoes were muddy, his dress coat wet through; he raised his hand to his forehead and wiped the rain from his face.

His throat was parched; he felt nervous and ill. He fumbled about for whisky and a syphon, drained one glass at a draught and poured out another. Then, drenched and dirty as he was, he threw himself down on the divan, without a thought of changing his wet things.

The blood throbbed in his temples; there was not a clear thought in his mind. When he shut his eyes, he felt as if a wheel were tearing round at a furious rate inside his head.

The door bell rang—it was Blad.

“Grahl is dead!”

Blad threw down Ormarr’s hat and coat, which he had been carrying; he himself was out of breath, and overpowered with emotion.

“Grahl—dead?” Ormarr sat bowed forward, his hands clasped, his eyes staring vacantly before him. Blad stood watching him for a moment. Then he burst out:

“You—you must be mad!”

“I suppose so—yes.”

“And—you don’t care in the least?”

Ormarr made no reply.

“Think of the scandal of it all!”

Still Ormarr said nothing.

“And then—Grahl! That ought never to have happened.”

“I suppose not.”

“Do you mean to say it is all nothing to you—that you have ruined your own career for ever, and killed Grahl—your friend—your teacher? After that—oh, but you must be insane, there’s no other word for it.”