After what to the composer seemed hours of misery, the last work was reached. He knew well that if the audience were in a mood to listen, “The Storm” could not fail of its effect. In rehearsal, it had been peculiarly impressive. Not a single note was miscalculated: it was the work of a mature mind: it had all the attributes of genius.
And to-night, the very first bars gripped the tired and disappointed listeners. They forgot their disappointment in listening to this strange disturbing sound. Brooding yet passionate, the music filled the hall: it flickered like flame; it rolled, like heavy waters; it menaced, like distant, just-heard thunder. It made its listeners believe that something terrible was about to happen. And when all the black beauty of it had passed away without its threatened terrible culmination, the listeners felt an exquisite relief that expressed itself in thunderous applause.
Not until the conductor had signified with an expressive gesture that the composer was not present and could not therefore bow his acknowledgments from the platform, did the audience begin to disperse....
At the entrance of the hall Xavier Petrovski found his new friend, Geoffrey Shaw, waiting for him. The meeting of the two men was constrained; it seemed almost as though they were enemies compelled to meet on a matter of business. They began to walk towards Oxford Street.
“I wish to God I had stayed in Salonika,” said Petrovski, at length, “for it’s all been waste.”
His companion tried to comfort him.
“You have not yet had the experience that every composer needs before he can become successful—the kind of experience that you can’t get out there in Greece. You must stay in London—live here. You would learn quickly all that is required.”
“But my ‘Storm’ succeeded, didn’t it?”
For a moment Shaw made no reply. Then:
“Yes,” he said; “that work was a great success.”