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His shrine was no shrine. There were no pure,
beautiful tones and dreams within it, no mighty, deafening
thunder, no powerful rushing storm wind. Nothing
of the unutterable euphony which sighed through
Paradise had hidden itself there. It was but a
tinkling old piano and nothing else.
But Lady Musica gave the crafty old Colonel
a hint just then. He took Ruster with him; they
went down to the cavaliers’ wing and brought up
Lövenborg’s board with its painted keyboard.
“See here, Lövenborg,” said Beerencreutz, when
they returned; “here is your piano; play for Gösta!”
Then Lövenborg’s tears ceased, and he sat down
to play Beethoven to his suffering young friend.
Now he would certainly be comforted.
In the old man’s brain the lovely melodies rang.
He could not but believe that Gösta heard how well
they sounded. Gösta was sure to notice how easily
he played that evening. There were no more
difficulties for him to overcome. He made his runs
and shakes with the greatest ease. He performed
the most difficult feats; he could have wished the
master himself had heard them.
The longer he played, the more enthusiastic he
became. He heard every note with unnatural clearness.
“Sorrow, sorrow,” he played, “why should I
not love thee, because thy lips are cold, thy hands
withered, and thy embrace can kill, and thine eyes
paralyze?
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