“But they tell me the critics did not stop to hear it. They all left the hall long before the concert was finished. I do not blame them, but it’s a pity they did not hear my best work.... I feel like a beginner, Mr. Shaw—I have everything yet to learn. And for some years I have been flattering myself that I was a master of my art.”
“Don’t be too despondent, my dear fellow. You’ve got the stuff in you all right: it only wants bringing out and putting into proper shape.”
“Yes; but the curious thing is that my work, ‘The Storm,’ is absolutely free from all faults of inexperience. It might almost have been written by another man.”
They had now reached Shaw’s flat. His host unlocked the door and led him to his dining-room where supper was laid.
Shaw’s sympathetic kindness and, no doubt, the wine also soon put Petrovski into a more hopeful frame of mind. When they had finished supper, Shaw invited his guest into his library. The room contained nothing but books, a desk, and a couple of easy chairs.
“I have something here I want to show you,” he said, very gravely. “It is a MS. of your father’s—he gave it to me a few weeks before his death. I happen to know it is the only copy in existence; and I was present when he destroyed the preliminary sketch on which this composition is founded.”
Taking a thin volume from a cabinet, he opened it at the first page and placed it before his guest.
At the very first glance Petrovski uttered an exclamation of surprise. Then, bending over it, he examined it hurriedly and with the utmost agitation. His hands trembled so violently that he could scarcely turn over the pages.
“Good God!” he exclaimed at length; “it’s ‘The Storm'—note for note—my own work!”
He transferred his gaze from the MS. to his host.