408 
THE AMERICAN-SC AN DIN A VI AN REVIEW 
aging clouds had ceased to move, saturated with the newly-won warmth 
of the light, and had sunk nearer to earth. In the stealthy silence of 
the early twilight the roaring of the river grew suddenly stronger, and 
its whirlpools more suckingly mysterious. It was evident that the 
spring day had determined to show the last and most dangerous phase 
of its power. 
But Lundstrom cast loose from the ring unconcernedly. His 
craft was slung some fifty yards down with the surge, but glided neatly 
into the smooth water under the River Terrace, where it was moored 
at its usual place. 
It did not occur to Leonard to say good-bye. And yet as he went 
up the granite steps he felt that now he was passing out of the worthy 
Lundstrom’s perspective. Here ashore the fisherman’s power of 
giving certitude was no longer the same. 
No, for up on the bridge went Woman. Nothing could save one 
from her. Ah, this delicate shiver in the air, this trembling in the nerves 
of the invisible which sent its waves through coat and Sunday paper 
straight into one’s heart! The restlessness of the day had deepened to 
a livelier and more dangerous poison. That which in the morning was 
a sick longing for distant horizons—what was it towards evening but 
the erotic urge? Under the low rosy clouds too went Woman, she 
who grows with the shades so as with night to overshadow the world. 
A poor artist’s situation was again near to desperation. 
The enviable Lundstrom was to go in a back way and listen to 
Tristan and Isolde. Leonard followed him shyly and irresolutely to 
the stage entrance of the opera house. In his eyes lay a prayer not to 
be left alone in the midst of the dreadful spring evening. Lundstrom 
did not fail to see the young man’s helplessness. 
“The gentleman may surely come with me,” he said. “I’m a good 
friend of the porter from forty years back. He gets a bream or so now 
and then. Just come along!” 
Leonard passed a gray head which nodded at a rectangular peep¬ 
hole. He then went into a long dark corridor, where a squire with 
brown kilt and broadsword stood joking at a telephone. Next there 
were some steps, where Leonard continually had to stand and wait for 
the puffing Lundstrom. All was silent and empty here. They met 
only a fireman and a scene-shifter in a blue coat, who called Lundstrom 
“uncle.” 
Now a warm, dusky odor was perceptible, and a muffled buzzing 
and mumbling, which seemed to come from the very walls. That must 
be the orchestra, which was tuning up somewhere in the depths. But 
Lundstrom cautiously pushed up an iron door and they came out on 
the first gallery of the stage. Down in the great cluttered space below 
ran workmen arranging the ship’s deck for the first act, and some of 
the chorus men stood in a laughing group waiting to take their places. 
