THE STORM
To
Mary Harrison
XAVIER PETROVSKI was English in spite of his name, appearance, and his temperament.
“As for his appearance,” said Judith Lesueur to her sister, Marian, “well, it’s too ravishing for words. Eyes that melt, my dear—melt with their own fire.”
Marian laughed.
“I never like your little gods, your little tin gods; your little gods of flesh and blood. And I particularly hate the melting variety. Just like the butter you get in the Café Roma in August.”
His temperament was melancholy, for he was cursed with a hot, uneasy ambition that goaded him on to work till his body grew tired, his brain stale, and his spirit dejected. He believed himself to be a musical composer.
“I have genius: I know I have genius,” he said, over and over again in spring nights when he lay in his lodging overlooking the sea.