And then he would sleep and dream, his brain ravished by sumptuous harmonies, his very flesh soothed by sound.
For a living he played the violin in the Orient Café, for he was a member of the Ostrovsky Quartet. From three o’clock in the afternoon till midnight he played, whilst the loose men and women of Salonika danced and drank and ate. In the mornings he composed music and counted up the money he had saved. For Xavier was nothing if not practical. He was not going to miss the reward of his genius by foolish conduct or faulty management of his affairs. Already he had saved £800. Not a penny was spent that could by any contriving be added to his hoard. In a little while he would take his money to London, and then! Oh, then he would show them! The finest orchestra in the world should play his music and the critics should praise it; it should be printed and sold; his name should be on the lips of every man. Fame: money: the companionship of the great: the smiles of women: the intoxication of life lived to the full. All should be his. In a little while. He was sure of it.
At least, sometimes he was sure. In his happy moments, his moods of exaltation. But there were black moods.
“Is it possible that I have written these inanities?” he would sometimes ask himself. “I am a fool, sick with vanity, eaten up with egomania.”
In one of these unendurable moods he met Judith Lesueur, the most beautiful and most cultured demirep in all Salonika.
“Oh, Miss Lesueur,” he exclaimed, “do help me.”
“What is it?” she asked, smiling. “Has someone been horrid to you?” (She always treated him as though he were a child.)
“No: but I’m terribly depressed: my music won’t come right. I looked at my String Serenade this morning, and it is inconceivable that I should have written such ridiculous stuff. And when I was writing it I thought it was so splendid.”
“It probably is splendid,” she said, sympathetically; “everyone has moods. Come to the Café and drink with me.”