grand piano which stood at the end of the dining-room, ready, when Stranleigh gave a bachelor dinner, for the entertainment of his guests.
"I should be delighted," said his lordship.
The Russian opened the instrument, and sat down, plunging into a weird, fantastic, rather terrible selection that Stranleigh had never heard before. Then, after a moment's pause, he made the piano sing like a nightingale.
"Heaven prosper us!" ejaculated Stranleigh, when he rose, "I have never before heard that piano. You possess all the power of Rubinstein and all the delicacy of Paderewski. Who wrote that music?"
"Mine, mine, mine!" cried Nicolaievna. "Rubinstein was a Russian, and Paderewski is a Pole, but in music both belong to the past. 'Tis not up their stairway I am climbing. Wagner is the first step in my ascent, then Strauss, with his 'Elektra'; by and by it will be Vassili Nicolaievna. I came to London to play my soul-stirring symphony of humanity; a composition to echo round the world. I expected help from my musical brethren, but such is the jealousy in the ranks of those who should most appreciate me that they turned the cold shoulder. They declare I am not to be heard, and without money I am powerless."
