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.
"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.
"I don't allow encores," said the German, "but you're in luck, my friend, in luck."
The colour was darkening on Nigel's face. It was his hour of triumph. He wished Tony was there, and Janey and Leonard--he would let them come to his next concert.
He went on and bowed again--he had to appear several times before the demand for an encore was given up as hopeless, and the applause gradually died away.
He went to the back of the stage and sat down, holding his head in his hands. He wanted to be alone, and to read his telegrams. The future was now a flaming promise--his feet at last were set on the honourable way. He let his mind lose itself in its dream, and for a moment he was conscious of nothing but infinite hope. From the stage a plaintive, bizarre air of Moussorgski's came to him. To be Russian was to von Gleichroeder synonymous with to be modern, and Moussorgski and Rimsky Korsakov were encouraged where their French or Italian contemporaries were banned. Every now and then a little slow ripple brought an end to strange wailing dissonances; it was played without much fire--without much feeling--but it haunted.