Norse Tales and Sketches | Page 3

carpet and up the gold borders in the tapestry; it shone
upon a gilt picture-frame, on the piano that stood opposite, and, here
and there, on a face further away in the gloom. Nothing else was visible
except the red ends of cigars and cigarettes.
The conversation died away. The silence was broken only by an
occasional whisper or the sound of a coffee-cup being put aside; each
seemed disposed to enjoy, undisturbed, his genial mood and the quiet
gladness of digestion. Even Monsieur Anatole forgot his truffles, as he
reclined in a low chair close to the sofa, on which Mademoiselle Adèle
had taken her seat.
'Is there no one who will give us a little music?' asked Senhor de Silvis
from his chair. 'You are always so kind, Mademoiselle Adèle.'
'Oh no, no!' cried Mademoiselle; 'I am too tired.'
But the foreigner--the Irishman--rose from his corner and walked
towards the instrument.
'Ah, you will play for us! A thousand thanks, Monsieur--.' Senhor de
Silvis had forgotten the name--a thing that often happened to him with
his guests.
'He is a musician,' said Mademoiselle Adèle to her friend. Anatole
grunted admiringly.
Indeed, all were similarly impressed by the mere way in which he sat
down and, without any preparation, struck a few chords here and there,
as if to wake the instrument.
Then he began to play--lightly, sportively, frivolously, as befitted the
situation. The melodies of the day were intermingled with fragments of
waltzes and ballads; all the ephemeral trifles that Paris hums over for
eight days he blended together with brilliantly fluent execution.

The ladies uttered exclamations of admiration, and sang a few bars,
keeping time with their feet. The whole party followed the music with
intense interest; the strange artist had hit their mood, and drawn them
all with him from the beginning. 'Der liebe Doctor' alone listened with
the Sedan smile on his face; the pieces were too easy for him.
But soon there came something for the German too; he nodded now
and then with a sort of appreciation.
It was a strange situation: the piquant fragrance that filled the air, the
pleasure-loving women--these people, so free and unconstrained, all
strangers to one another, hidden in the elegant, half-dark salon, each
following his most secret thoughts--thoughts born of the mysterious,
muffled music; whilst the firelight rose and fell, and made everything
that was golden glimmer in the darkness.
And there constantly came more for the doctor. From time to time he
turned and signed to De Silvis, as he heard the loved notes of 'unser
Schumann,' 'unser Beethoven,' or even of 'unser famoser Richard.'
Meanwhile the stranger played on, steadily and without apparent effort,
slightly inclined to the left, so as to give power to the bass. It sounded
as if he had twenty fingers, all of steel; he knew how to unite the
multitudinous notes in a single powerful clang. Without any pause to
mark the transition from one melody to another, he riveted the interest
of the company by constant new surprises, graceful allusions, and
genial combinations, so that even the least musical among them were
constrained to listen with eager attention.
But the character of the music imperceptibly changed. The artist bent
constantly over the instrument, inclining more to the left, and there was
a strange unrest in the bass notes. The Baptists from 'The Prophet' came
with heavy step; a rider from 'Damnation de Faust' dashed up from far
below, in a desperate, hobbling hell-gallop.
The rumbling grew stronger and stronger down in the depths, and
Monsieur Anatole again began to feel the effects of the truffles.
Mademoiselle Adèle half rose; the music would not let her lie in peace.
Here and there the firelight shone on a pair of black eyes staring at the
artist. He had lured them with him, and now they could not break loose;
downward, ever downward, he led them--downward, where was a dull
and muffled murmur as of threatenings and plaints.
'Er führt eine famose linke Hand,' said the doctor. But De Silvis did not

hear him; he sat, like the others, in breathless expectancy.
A dark, sickening dread went out from the music and spread itself over
them all. The artist's left hand seemed to be tying a knot that would
never be loosened, while his right made light little runs, like flames, up
and down in the treble. It sounded as if there was something uncanny
brewing down in the cellar, whilst those above burnt torches and made
merry.
A sigh was heard, a half-scream from one of the ladies, who felt ill; but
no one heeded it. The artist had now got quite down into the bass, and
his tireless fingers whirled the notes together, so that a cold shudder
crept down the backs